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You catch him as he’s drinking. A light shoulder check that wouldn’t leave any permanent damage. Ma’kis sputters, spilling his canteen all over the front of his clothing. The crowd around you edges away, continuing to flow around you as the Nikto turns indignant.
“Have a care where you’re going, sir!” the Jedi growls.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” you drawl, slipping into the twang of a Mid-Rim agri-merchant. Or an exaggerated flange of Riven’s Coruscanti underlevels accent. “Honest mistake, gov. Crowd pushes and turns and goes all meanderin’…”
Ma’kis stares, briefly taken aback, before pointing to the now-empty canteen in his hands. “That cost me ten credits!”
Sithspit, what a markup for a ‘fair price’ on Kessel. You’d be angry too.
You sigh, reaching into your pocket with one hand as you wave westward with the other. “Tell you what, bud. I’ll buy ya a drink. There’s a cantina down thattaway with the best dancin’ girls this side of the Trade Corridor.”
“Reimbursement for my water will be enough,” he says coldly.
“Fine, fine…” you grumble. Fishing out the requisite credit chips from your pocket, you place them in the Jedi’s hand. “But ‘tween you and me? I’d still be up for drinks if you’re willin’ about it. Just ask for Ren at the Miner’s Missy.”
The Nikto snorts, pocketing the chips before stomping back towards the moisture farmer. That’s your cue to leave. Rejoining the crowd in the opposite direction, you let yourself go down a few blocks, all the way to the cantina in question.
The booth you’re seated in affords you a view of the entrance. The music isn’t obnoxious, but just loud enough to drown out all but the loudest conversations – just the way any enterprising smuggler, criminal or runaway Jedi would like it. You order a plate of the local equivalent of fish-and-chips, and throw a handful of credits to the dancing girls. A few try to sashay their way to earning an extra tip, but you politely refuse, opting to appreciate from afar rather than experience a hands-on enjoyment.
Force knows that Master Larid might have indulged himself. He’d done it often. But Arotta certainly wouldn’t have liked it for you to go “too deep” into any cover unless it was absolutely necessary. Now more than ever given your current relationship status.
Thirty minutes of appreciation and under-seasoned food pass before you notice a familiar face at the door. The host nods, pointing to your booth. He barely receives any thanks as Jedi Knight Ma’kis makes a beeline towards you.
“Looks like yer takin’ me up on that drink after all, eh, guv?” you joke, even as you give him a looking over. “Or was it the dancin’ girls, ‘cause you just missed ‘em…”
Clutched between the Nikto’s fingers is the piece of paper you slipped between the credit chips. His face his hard and intense, and has no room for any levity.
“Who are you?” Ma’kis demands.
(cont.)
