The bartender topped off the tumbler and Terran took a slow sip. He had been shocked to learn that his Wookiee companion Isshwarr was a close acquaintance of Chalmun. Even if the former street thug had long since retired and opened the most famous hive of scum and villainy in the galaxy, enough drug deals and human trafficking were arranged in the Tatooine waystation that it turned the Kiffar's stomach. He sighed and took another sip, letting the sweet, honey-colored fire burn its way down his throat. I'll say this for Chalmun, Terran mused, he's got the finest Whyren's Reserve this side of Corellia. Besides, he knew Isshwarr could watch out for herself. Still, with Kolot back aboard the Gentleman Bastard, the Kiffar took special care to keep his eyes peeled.
The air in the cantina was surprisingly cool by Tatooine standards and the environmental systems did a good job of filtering out the ever-present dust that marked the desert world. Nonetheless, an itch at the back of his neck kept the Arconan from truly relaxing. Instead, his cobalt gaze scanned the room constantly.
Sentients from at least three dozen species filled the cantina's many barstools and alcoves. Nearly all of them were armed, some quite heavily - but except for the spigots, there wasn't a droid in sight. Even his remote had to stay outside. He briefly wondered if the taps were a statement that droids couldn't be trusted because of their destructive potential, but given that the cantina's patrons had enough collective firepower to level a Nar Shaddaa skyscraper, he doubted it. Still, weapons or no, none of the crowd stood out as a threat. At least, not to a single Kiffar drinking alone.
Terran took another sip from his tumbler, then smiled and mimed a toast towards an anvil-headed Arconan - no relation - in a nearby alcove. The being's luminescent eyes lit the otherwise dim space, and even the Kiffar's acute vision had trouble making out details. A green, squid-like creature sat across the table from the Arconan, and though his face was obscured by the lack of light, something in his body language said he was nervous, unsure, pensive. I wonder what's got sand in your trousers, Squidboy? Terran drew lightly on the Force, and the roar of the cantina, including the obnoxious jizz band up on stage, became a muted buzz. At the same time, a slight adjustment to the sensitivity of his cochlear nerve brought the nearby conversation into focus.
"Forty grams for a pound of salt?" There was a shade of wonder in Squidboy's voice.
"Salt's hard to come by on a world like Tatooine," the Arconan replied. "Durellian dust, on the other hand…" The triangular-headed creature shrugged, his shoulders almost reaching the upper prongs of his skull in a comedic display of the galaxy's genetic diversity.
Squidboy's mottled-green hand seemed to waver, just the slightest tremble moving from his elbow down to his charcoal-colored fingers, before he grunted and stood. He turned away from the dealer, the brown-skinned desert-dweller raising a finger in protest, and froze. Terran's eyes met Squidboy's, the Nautolan's inky black depths giving away nothing, and a spark of recognition hit the Kiffar.
Kriffin' perfect. We take two days off - two karkin' days - from investigating One Sith safe houses. We're on the tail-end of nowhere. And he pops up. For half a second, the Kiffar considered ignoring the order. Princess Rainbow Sparkles wouldn't be happy if she found out. Rising hostilities made capturing those who had crossed the Lotus a necessity, and Raiju Kang's recent actions certainly qualified. Still, it wouldn't be the first time he had ignored orders. And I really deserve a day off.
The two men stood meters apart, eyes locked. The Kiffar's hesitation was plain on his face. The Nautolan's face was unreadable. Then Squidboy's hands moved to the blasters at his hips and Terran's decision was made for him.
Kang moved first, but Terran moved faster. Blasters whisked free from their holsters in unison and each man dove to the side to avoid the flurry of bolts unleashed upon them. The Kiffar's dive sent him sailing into a nearby barstool and ended in a jumble of limbs and stool legs on the cantina's permacrete floor. Before he could regain his footing, he felt the cold, metallic pressure of a blaster barrel against his temple.
"Caraya's soul", the Nautolan scoffed. "Could you be any clumsier?"
Well, at least I'm not drinking alone anymore…
