Turel had to steady himself against the bar for a moment as he waited for his drink order. He hadn’t gone out for a hard night of drinking since New Tython fell over a year ago. His tolerance isn’t what it used to be, a combination of work and married life. Edgar’s promotion to Quaestor had proved to be the perfect excuse for the two friends to take leave of their Clan duties and let loose. It had been so long for Turel; he had almost forgotten how.
The Jedi collected the drinks and gave a suggestive wink to the male Pantoran bartender as he slid a generous tip across the counter. The cerulean-skinned young man seemed out of place in a Hutt ran club, but Turel had been around the block a few times to know that looks were often deceiving.
The Pantoran blew the Sentinel a kiss. “I put a little something extra in those, enjoy.”
Still got it. Turel thought to himself as he turned and began to very carefully cross the crowded club floor. He had also been around the block enough times to know that “something extra” could be any number of things from a heavy-handed pour to a dash of illegal spice. He made a note to sniff the drinks before giving Edgar his.
The lights pulsed in time to the club music booming on the dancefloor. The bass was so loud that Turel could see the vibrations in the drinks as he walked back to the VIP booth he and Edgar had secured with their gambling winnings. As he approached, he noticed his longtime friend lounging with a crimson-skinned Twi’lek female under one arm and a long haired Mirialan under the other. The High Councilor shook his head, some things never changed. The two females had their own colorful drinks in tall glasses with umbrellas. The two Odanites had been sipping top shelf Corellian whiskey the whole night.
Turel sat Edgar’s drink in front of him before taking a seat on the opposite side of the booth. A casual whiff from the drinks failed to detect anything amiss; he had likely flirted his way to a healthy pour.
“Took you long enough,” Edgar jokingly chided as he picked up the drink. “I was just telling our new friends here about the time you dropped a bag of spice on a guard’s head.”
Turel shook his head. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
The Quaestor stroked his chin in a mock gesture of thought, “I will when it stops being hilarious...so never.” The two females giggled in response.
“In my defense, I had no idea a guard was standing under that vent. I was just as surprised as he was.”
The Twi’lek shifted to look directly in the eyes, “However did you finish that job?”
Before either man could answer a Toydarian wearing a vest and bowtie fluttered up to them with a quartet of Hutt muscle behind him: two Weequay, a Gamorrean and a Wookie. The thugs all had blaster pistols out except the Wookie who brandished a bowcaster in a menacing manner.
Turel cocked an eyebrow. “Can we help you, gentlemen?”
The Toydarian pointed straight at Edgar, “There he is! That’s the filthy Human who cheated me at Pazaak!” The thugs pointed their weapons at the two Odanites as the females cowered under the table. Turel noticed a smirk coming over the Hoth Quaestor’s face; he had seen that look before. Edgar wanted a fight to happen.
The Jedi subtly waived his left hand at Edgar’s accuser, reaching out with the Force. “My friend here didn’t cheat you; there’s no need to get upset. Let me buy you and your crew a drink.”
The Toydarian looked at Turel with a mixture of confusion and indignance. “Yes he did. What are you waving your hands like that? You think you’re some kind of Jedi?”
Edgar started cackling, and Turel shot him a glare that very clearly said ‘you aren’t helping.' The glare was a flimsy cover for the extreme embarrassment the Sentinel felt for forgetting about Tordarians' natural resistance to mind tricks.
The High Councilor stood up with both hands clearly visible. “Look, there’s been a mistake here.”
Edgar slowly disentangled himself from the females, “I’ll be right back ladies.” He stood next to his friend in front of the booth.
The two Weequay started to move behind the Odanites when Edgar leaned over to Turel and whispered, “You know they are going to take us out back and kill us right?”
Turel nodded.
“I think we can take em.” Drachen's smirk shifted into a look of determination.
Turel took stock of the situation. Both men were noticeably inebriated, their weapons and gear were locked up near the entrance, and they were facing four heavily armed Hutt thugs. He almost felt bad for the poor ruffians. A Jedi is never unarmed; the Force is his ally.
The High Councilor made one last attempt to talk his way out of the situation. He switched to his best Basadaii district Huttese, "Don't you know who we are? We're with the Tincles cartel! You'll regret this!" He reached through the currents of the Force to touch the mind of the Weequay closest to him, moving his hand slightly as a focus.
The thug began to lower his weapon. "I don't know boss; I don't want to get in trouble with another cartel."
The Toydarian slammed his right palm into his face with an audible slap. "There isn't a Tincles cartel on Nar Shaddaa you moron!"
It was worth a try, Turel thought to himself as he prepared for Edgar to take advantage of the momentary confusion. He didn't have to wait long.
While the High Councilor had been talking, the Quaestor had called upon the Force to prepare his opening blow. Edgar spun around and stuck out his right palm toward the Weequay guarding him, striking the gangster directly in the chest with an invisible surge of Force energy. He fell backward into the Wookie. Both Odanites took advantage of the chaos to take cover behind a nearby leather sofa.
Screams erupted from the club patrons as the Gamorrean opened fire on the innocent piece of furniture caught up in this mess. The smell of burnt leather filled the air as Turel turned to Edgar between incoming blaster bolts.
"Well this feels familiar."
