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Aphelion and the Home So Far Away
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Thursday, 25 Jun 2015, 0:21 AM | Message # 1 |
 Officer
Group: Users
Messages: 41
Status: Offline
| The sky was alight with the livelihood of free enterprise.
At least, it was free insofar as free enterprise could get under the watchful eye of the Hutts. Even now, as the lanes above the Smuggler’s Moon were choked with the steady stream of trade ships, a prevailing sense of dread hung heavy over the refugee sector. It was a city that could just as equally make a man feel isolated as it could alive, a fever dream of neon and urban decay. And it was a haven, now, for a great many that were unprepared for the realities of life there. Since the destruction of the space station, the terror that had obliterated a planet, the downtrodden and unfortunate had sought the safety of non-Imperial space as a means to survive. The Empire had tightened its grip in the aftermath of that debacle. And so they had flocked to Nar Shaddaa for sanctuary, only to be met by the outstretched arms of dock managers interested in a payoff. Many, as a result, had been turned away.
Davon knew better than most the opportunity such a crisis presented.
Smuggling people, as it so happened, was a far more difficult process than smuggling spice or weapons. Ris’el Edda was a low-level gangster looking to improve his position on the moon, and he was in need of fresh hands. In exchange for safe passage into the refugee sector on those few docking bays he controlled, the Twi’lek would conscript the able bodied into his network. Having come to the moon only within the last six months, destitute and hungry, Davon had offered to forge cargo manifests to better hide Edda’s operation from the Hutts, a prospect that had delighted the gangster and had afforded Davon with a steady income, even if he was criminally underpaid. The work itself was harder to stomach, many of those people would be slaves in everything but name; but everyone had to eat, and Vanden was a many of many appetites. Chief among them: drink. The night found him in one of the Corellian Sector's many disreputable cantinas.
All about him, as he sat in silence and nursed a glass of something the bartender had dubbed 'Junker Fuel', the nightlife that made the city-planet famous teemed. Davon was seated with his back to the wall, a habit learned after many years spent in establishments even seedier than this particular haunt. Smoke trails from the cigarette between his fingers curled and danced in the dim, violet lighting. The music was loud, it assailed his ears every night, but he had learned to ignore it. He came here for the solitude, everybody here knew him well enough to leave him alone, and on this planet that was a rare thing.
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
Message edited by Davon·Vanden - Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 0:49 AM |
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| Sky_Judge | Date: Thursday, 25 Jun 2015, 11:31 PM | Message # 2 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 7
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| 'A red-haired Human' in 'a cantina in the Corellian Sector' wasn't much to go on. Any self-respecting Corellian—that is, any Corellian who could hold his liquor, which was most of damn race—would consider any cantina anywhere to be a second home. The Corellian Sector, then, probably had a higher concentration of bars than anywhere else on Nar Shaddaa. That it was known as the Smuggler's Moon, and that Corellians were also renowned for smuggling, was an additional headache for Warron Salas, the Sky Judge. That his target wasn't himself a Corellian was no help; a Human from Naboo in a room full of Humans from Corellia looked the same as anyone else. But the Sky Judge had one advantage in his search for Davon Vanden: red hair was a rare trait among Corellians.
It was still a long shot. The Sky Judge had done some unsavory work for the Anjiliacs in recent months, and become aware of an independent slaving operation on Nar Shaddaa that had enraged the Hutts. The slaver, a small-time sentient-smuggler named Ris'el Edda, was a dead man. A former Sector Ranger wouldn't weep for his passing, but Salas also overheard the name of his forger—'Justin Case,' a name he recognized as a rather memorable alias of Davon Vanden. Salas had kept that fact to himself and set out in a personal search for Vanden. He found Edda, warned the slaver that Hutt assassins would be paying him a visit soon, and placed the blame on his forger. Edda, as pale-faced with fear as he was red-faced with anger, had been happy to tell the Sky Judge where he could probably find Vanden; 'a cantina in the Corellian sector.' He was able to narrow it down slightly, knowing that his target had always favored the seedier drinking establishments where he was less likely to be noticed.
The Sky Judge, surveying the Corellian Sector through the crimson-glowing eyepieces of his tactical facemask (standard issue for Sector Rangers), might have stood out in polite company, but on Nar Shaddaa he appeared no more out of place than any Kel'dorian, Gand, or Skakoan. The only trouble he had blending into the clientele of the half-dozen bars he'd been in so far was having to buy a Corellian ale at each one. He hated the taste of Corellian drinks, but one did not simply order blue milk at a Corellian pub. An hour into his search, he was beginning to wonder how many Davon Vandens he would see if he did find him.
As it turned out, his fears were unfounded; sobriety was upon him the moment he saw the red-haired Human in a cantina he'd already forgotten the name of. He looked older than the Sky Judge remembered, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear. But weren't they all? He asked the bartender if they had anything from Naboo. Blossom wine, apparently. Salas rolled his eyes beneath his mask, but put a credit chit down on the counter nonetheless. He bought another damn glass of Corellian ale for himself, and a glass of blossom wine for Vanden to be served to him the next time he came to the bar. The Sky Judge situated himself toward the end of the counter where he'd have eyes on Vanden and be able to see his reaction.
Warron Salas
"The Sky Judge"
Bounty Hunter
Rogue Sector Ranger (rumored)
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Saturday, 27 Jun 2015, 0:32 AM | Message # 3 |
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Officer
Group: Users
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| The cantina was livelier than normal, that night. Davon had taken note of the amount of regulars that had shuffled through those doors, desperate to forget their own lives as much as he. But there were a fair few strangers whom he didn't recognize. A lifetime spent smuggling had provided him with the skills to smell out trouble, but only if the one following him was careless. It's why he always sat with his back to the wall, one of a great many things an old friend had taught him. He allowed himself a final, overlong drag of his cigarette before he tossed it into a nearby ashtray.[/size]
His blazer had torn along the left elbow. He had gone to the Corellian Sunrise to lament, he had even ordered a second drink just for the occasion. It had led to a few women of various species (and one very interested male Weequay) asking why he was drinking alone. Upon revealing the reason, they had all left with perplexed expressions. Nobody understood, how could they? His glass soon ran empty, and the redhead cursed under his breath.
"Shoulda just kept the bottle," he vocalized to no-one in particular before kicking up a leg and swinging himself out of the seat, straightening his coat on his shoulders.
It had never fit right, no matter how he tried to button it. In the dim, multi-colored light, he appeared very much a boy in man's clothing. Aside from the blazer, which was a faded black number that sat improperly on his narrow shoulders, he wore a black vest and blue shirt beneath. A simple leather belt kept his slender-fitting maroon pants at his waist, a DE-10 resting in a holster on his right hip. Were he in a quieter room, his polished black boots would have made all manner of noise as he walked. The din of patrons and music blocked out all other sound, in a place like this you practically had to shout at someone a few feet away from your head just to get a word in edgewise.
Davon ambled his way over to the bar, leaning on an elbow as he ordered a fresh glass, only to be met with most intriguing news. Slowly, the spacer turned and cast a glance down the bar at the man that had ordered for him. Nobody with any sense in their head drank blossom wine. It was an aristocrat's drink, hardly something the average spacer in a dive like this would like to drink. This man knew him, and whether or not the man was looking, Davon smirked. It'd been a while since he'd run afoul of a bounty hunter. He checked to make sure his holster was unbuckled, pistol ready at a moment's notice. He sidled his way down the bar and came to sit beside the stranger, half-turning to speak.
"Seems I have you t'thank for the free drink!" He said, louder than any sane person would, but the noise was deafening.
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
Message edited by Davon·Vanden - Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 0:49 AM |
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| Sky_Judge | Date: Monday, 29 Jun 2015, 11:24 PM | Message # 4 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 7
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| Salas regarded Vanden in silence for a moment. The red eye-pieces of his mask gave nothing away, but beneath them, there was an unseen look of disbelief in his eyes. Disbelief, in part, that he'd actually managed to find Vanden. But more to the point--"Damn, Davon," he said, shaking his head, "You're either a lot braver than you used to be, or a lot more foolish." The sound of his voice was proverbially 'more machine than man,' but there would probably be something familiar to Davon's ear about the exasperation in his tone (even for having to shout over the din), to say nothing of having been addressed by his first name. "I would have run just now, personally," he said, then pointed with two fingers to the eyepieces of his mask, "Do you not see these? I'm scary, for Force sake. What if I was an actual bounty hunter? I happen to know there's still a price on your head."
"I need this more than you do," he explained as he took Davon's glass from him and replaced it with his Corellian ale, "Here, have this." He held the glass of wine in one hand and, with the other, reached behind him to unfasten the mask, then pulled it free of his face...
Warron Salas
"The Sky Judge"
Bounty Hunter
Rogue Sector Ranger (rumored)
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| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Monday, 29 Jun 2015, 11:43 PM | Message # 5 |
 Ensign
Group: Users
Messages: 22
Status: Offline
| It took some doing, but he removed the mask without much further ado. Then he drank deeply of the blossom wine, but the only thing that blossomed was a look of disgust on his face—a face that would now be all too familiar to Davon; that of Aaron Rawls, the erstwhile captain of the good ship Aphelion and friend from long ago. "It's terrible," he grunted, "But I've had so many Corellian ales looking for you, I never want another one as long as I live. And however long that is, it'll be longer than you unless you're more careful." He might have been dimly aware that admonishing Davon as if they'd never parted might be poorly-received by the Aphelion's former navigator, but even if so, he wasn't deterred. "I'm the 'Sky Judge,' you know," he said, with mock hurt in his voice, "I've spent months on this alias. You could have at least pretended to be scared."
He took another drink of wine, despite his obvious distaste for it, then breathed deeply the cantina's stale aromas. "You can fasten your holster, by the way," he added, "Though it's good to see I taught you something."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion, sort of
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Tuesday, 30 Jun 2015, 1:04 AM | Message # 6 |
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Officer
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| "Surprised you remember how much I even hate the stuff," Davon answered, impassive, and he re-fastened his holster. He slid his empty glass down the bar and sighed, regarding the Captain with narrowed eyes. He didn't seem all that happy to see him. Last he'd seen of Rawls, he had all but spaced Vanden and the rest of the crew out an airlock, and all for some red-skinned bitch that Davon knew didn't give a damn about the man he considered a father. Rawls had followed his heart, though, and for that he'd burned quite a few bridges.
Nervously, he thumbed at the wrist of his blazer's left sleeve, poking a few fingers through a hole there.
"No self-respecting bounty hunter would ever buy a man blossom wine if they aimed t'collar him," the boy continued with a frown, his suspicions confirmed fully once Rawls had shed the mask itself. "A fresh Corellian Ale or a whiskey or some sort, sure, in a place like this that'd make more sense--" All of this was being practically shouted, and Davon winced through the din, gesturing for Rawls to follow him outside. As they neared the door, he finished his thought. "--Blossom wine speaks more like a man what aims to annoy me rather'n take me in. A decent man would've bought me a proper drink."
Already, the noise from inside was receding. "You're gettin' sloppy, in your married life." The acid in those words was palpable.
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
Message edited by Davon·Vanden - Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 5:02 PM |
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| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 0:31 AM | Message # 7 |
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Ensign
Group: Users
Messages: 22
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| Rawls hurriedly paid the full price for a bottle of blossom wine (it was only right, since the bartender had no chance anytime soon of selling blossom wine by the glass to anyone else in this establishment) and caught up to Davon outside the Corellian Sunrise, toting the crumpled-up mask of the 'Sky Judge' in his hand. He made a mental note of cantina's name, but instantly forgot it for a second time.
"'Married life,' yeah," he said, reticently. For all the time and trouble of finding Davon, Rawls hadn't decided how much to tell him, or how soon. He knew now that what he'd done to him, and to Doohan, Mara, and Ransom—the closest thing to a family he'd ever had—had been wrong. Rawls felt sharply the embarrassment and the guilt of having put himself before his crew just once, only to lose not only them, but everything else he held dear, or thought he did. Not least of which, of course, was the Aphelion itself. But apologies didn't come easily to Rawls; his father's Corellian blood, and his own ego, resisted the idea of having to apologize when Rawls himself was as much a victim as Davon and the rest. This conflict had occupied his thoughts in the small hours of the night for the past several weeks, and he had yet to resolve it.
He knew, of course, that he couldn't simply undo what he had done and will everything back the way it was. Rawls hadn't appreciated at the time the pain of rejection he had caused to his crew—except Ransom, who seemed to handle it fine once his salary was paid in full—until he himself had experienced the same thing. But Rawls was a man of the moment, and hated obsessing over the past. Especially when there was work to be done and he needed his crew to do it.
"It didn't work out," he said at length. "Look, Davon. Where are you going? I need to tell you something." His old smuggler's sense of danger impelled him to glance over his shoulder. As much as he'd enjoy the nostalgia of a pub crawl with Davon, he was very aware of the fact that he'd just gotten his navigator into a moon of trouble. That, and if he could find Davon, then so could a real bounty hunter. Nothing seemed amiss in the crowd, but he wasn't about to get complacent. "Why don't you come by the ship?" he said, "I'm close by." He neglected to mention that the ship wasn't the Aphelion, but a beaten-up, stolen Wayfarer-class transport.
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion, sort of
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 0:56 AM | Message # 8 |
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Officer
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| It didn't work out.
"Oh!" Davon exclaimed louder than he probably should have, the carefully-constructed Rim accent he'd cultivated slipping away and back into his natural Coruscanti one, as it often did when he gave in to anger. "It didn't work out, did it? Funny, that." The edge in his tone hardened, each word ended with a seeming hiss, each syllable biting. He was more livid than he allowed himself to show, and even then it was fairly obvious. "Because I seem to recall a certain someone, and I'm not gonna say who,-" he cocked a thumb back against his own chest "-telling you that the bitch didn't care a lick for you. You remember that?"
He acted much like a jilted lover, so much so that a few passers-by actually stopped for a brief moment to witness the spectacle before continuing on. Davon, for his part, either didn't notice or didn't care, he continued on his tirade. "Come by the ship, he says," he muttered, hurriedly grabbing another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it as he turned away from the Captain and leaned against the cantina wall.
"Whatever could you say to me that'd get me to go back to that ship? Now that Sena's pissed off again you need Davon again to stroke your ego?" He studied the older man with cold, hard hazel eyes, eyes that possessed a hurt far beyond their years.
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
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| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 1:28 AM | Message # 9 |
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Ensign
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| Rawls knew and accepted that he wasn't the Captain anymore, but that wasn't what bothered him at that particular moment. He also knew that he wasn't entitled to Davon's respect after what he'd done. But what bothered him was that everything Davon said, as scathing as it was, was true. Rawls knew that too, but sometimes knowing a thing and fully reckoning with it were altogether different things. "What could I say?" he sniped back at Davon, "'You have nowhere else to go.' How's that?"
He stopped himself as he felt the enormity of how in the wrong he was. It was because of him that Davon had nowhere else to go, and he didn't even know it. But Rawls had to explain himself now, bound though he was to upset Davon even further. "Look, that's what I'm trying to tell you," he said, lowering his voice. "Ri'sel Edda is gone, if he's smart. If not, he's dead. Either way, the Anjiliacs are looking for you. How else do you think I found you? I'm working for them, or was." Of course, it was a highly selective explanation. It was completely true, but it was hardly the complete truth. "You can't go back to your flat," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Do you need to hear me say that you were right?" he asked with a hardness in his voice. "You were, all right? You were right. I can explain everything, but not here. Come to the ship, hear me out. It's the least you can do for the guy who saved a poi fish-out-of-water kid from Naboo from a Rodian card shark on Tatooine all those years ago."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion, sort of
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Friday, 03 Jul 2015, 1:42 AM | Message # 10 |
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Officer
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| Davon felt a knife twist in his stomach. Ri'sel Edda is gone.
"The Corellian hell you mean, 'gone'?" Davon asked, apparently his life had crashed down around him without him even knowing. It had a habit of doing that, he really shouldn't have been so surprised. After a moment, his eyes widened, and Davon spun about to square himself up with the Captain, jabbing out an accusatory finger. In the dim light, his handsome features were unnaturally harsh, the cigarette in his mouth smoldering as he sucked in angry drags. "What did you do?"
He knew damn well what the Captain did, but he didn't know what else to say. Rawls had burned him, or rather, he had burned 'Justin Case'. And now the Anjiliacs were out to clean up Edda's operation, of which he was a crucial cog.
"Dammit..." Davon said at length, the anger waning into frustration. He plucked the cigarette from his lips and flicked it into a nearby alleyway. "Fine, fine. We're not done with this conversation."
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
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| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Monday, 06 Jul 2015, 1:06 AM | Message # 11 |
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* * *
An hour later, Davon knew everything.
Well, not everything. Rawls hadn't explained the vagaries of how, precisely, he'd found Davon. And the Chevin in the room was the room itself: the galley of the Wayfarer-class transport was a far cry from the Aphelion, but Rawls had answered Davon's understandable curiosity with a simple "Let me start from the beginning," and he had.
He explained to Davon how Sena had told him everything he'd wanted to hear, and preyed on his desire for a family that he didn't have, to make him get rid of the family he did have; namely, Davon and the rest of the crew. He had been wrong, he told him honestly. And Davon, having seen through Sena from the beginning, had been right. Rawls had dismissed Davon's concerns about her as jealousy, and ultimately he'd shared the same fate as his crew. For Sena had impressed upon him the need for a proper home for their supposed baby, and talked him into selling the Aphelion to a dealer on Etti IV named Hyrum Bask. If Davon had been there, he might have known that Bask wasn't what he seemed, but Rawls hadn't any suspicion that the man was the most recent of Sena's many lovers, and very much a participant in her scheme. Sena had kept him too busy ruminating over the choice of boy's or girl's names to notice.
When he later found himself marooned on Nar Kreeta with no ship, no money, and in a struggle for his very survival, he became immediately and necessarily a harder man. He had since developed the alter ego of bounty hunter 'Warron Salas'—an anagram of 'Aaron Rawls'—knowing it'd be impossible to find Sena or get the Aphelion back under his own name.
"As for this ship," he sat back in his chair and gestured around the underwhelming confines of the Dinty Moore, filled with smoke from Davon's cigs, "It belongs to a poor bastard who's doing a year on Kessel, so he won't be reporting it stolen anytime soon." It was clear that Rawls had lost a large measure of idealism, perhaps all of the idealism he'd once had (which, admittedly, hadn't been much to begin with). He'd had a Rancor of a time—literally, at one point—scraping for his survival in the most dismal corners of Hutt Space. Driven by revenge, Rawls had seen and done some very bad things.
But revenge hadn't been his only motivation...
"The point, Davon, is this," he said, choosing his words carefully, "I've changed, and so have you. Probably Mara and Ransom, too; I know things can't go back to the way they were. Not completely. But what I did was wrong, and this is the only way I know how to make it right. If I get the Aphelion back, I feel like maybe I can get back something important that I lost—and I don't just mean the ship. Maybe I'm right about that and maybe I'm wrong, and maybe you even feel the same way, or maybe you don't. But all I'm asking is you let me try."
"And if it doesn't work out, at least you have a place to stay here and free passage to wherever it is you need to go. I won't ask you to earn your way; I figure I already owe you a lot more than just back wages."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion, sort of
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Tuesday, 07 Jul 2015, 0:22 AM | Message # 12 |
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Officer
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| To his credit, Davon had managed to bite his tongue every time an opportunity for an 'I told you so' showed itself. Rawls' former navigator had made himself comfortable on a faded maroon couch in the Dinty Moore's galley, feet up on the armrest as he listened intently. Every so often he'd pipe up with an "Ah," or an "I see." He was invested, if disinterested, seeking an apology that never actually broke the Captain's lips. Something about that notion brought a smile to his own, however, the Captain might have changed but not as much as he would like to think.
As Rawls finished, Davon finally looked over from his position on the couch, boring into Rawls across the room with his eyes. The Captain seemed earnest enough in what he was saying, but it was a wound that wouldn't heal with a few sweet words. There was still a hurt present in his eyes. "Well..." He was silent, contemplative, before finally nodding. "You're gonna need someone t'plot jumps for you, not to mention co-pilot th'damned thing. Fine." He reached out to the nearby sabaac table and snatched the bottle of whiskey Rawls had broken out, having himself a drink.
"Mara's here, on Nar Shaddaa," the boy said after a pause, words half-muffled by the fresh cigarette in his mouth. He sucked in a drag and exhaled, letting the smoke curl and refract the dim overhead light. "Ransom too, from what I gather. Not sure what he's up to, probably merc-jobs're sommat.."
After another drag he sat up, slipping free of his worn blazer and draping it lovingly over one of the couch arms. Beneath, he wore a simple black vest and shirt, spacer's attire. "We'd have to get Ransom, at least, gonna need muscle t'get the ship back."
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
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| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Wednesday, 08 Jul 2015, 1:05 AM | Message # 13 |
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| Rawls felt a deep sense of relief when Davon came around. What he'd said hadn't come easily to him, and he didn't have much else to say for himself in the event that Davon needed any more convincing. And it was an even greater relief to know that Davon would be with him, and not against him. Not more than an hour ago, standing outside the Corellian pub, Rawls had seen a scorned look in Davon's eye that he'd only seen once before, when he'd cheated his business partner and friend, Daegar Ghalf, out of his share of the Aphelion. Rawls had good reasons for doing it, but he'd paid the price when the deranged Ghalf swore revenge on him and the rest of the Aphelion's crew. Having probably not seen the last of Daegar Ghalf, Rawls didn't need any more enemies. Certainly not Davon, who was practically a son to him. It was a further relief to see that perhaps time hadn't weakened that relationship as much as Rawls had feared.
"Wayfarer-class," he said, nodding as he glanced about the room, "Handles like a Hutt—not that I'd particularly want to find out how a Hutt handles."
Rawls hadn't known that Mara was on Nar Shaddaa, but he knew that Ransom was. Davon was right; they were going to need him to get the Aphelion back. Yes, Rawls was a harder man than he used to be, but Ransom was still worth three of him in a fight. In his months working for the Anjiliacs as 'Warron Salas,' Rawls learned that Ransom had been making enemies of powerful figures in the Cartel, and that his days in Hutt Space would soon be numbered. Hopefully he would jump at the chance to live and work among friends—if he still considered Rawls a 'friend,' that is.
"I think I know where to look for Ransom tomorrow," he said as he rose to his feet and retrieved the bottle of whiskey on his way to a kitchenette built into the wall astride the galley. "Think you can track down Mara?" he asked as he rummaged through a cabinet and emerged a moment later with the kind of durasteel cup that had once paired with a long-lost canteen, "You should be fine as long as you keep a low profile. 'Justin Case' is all the Anjiliacs have to go on, assuming Ri'sel Edda got himself safely out of Hutt Space. He should be all right—seems like the kind of man who's good at looking out for himself, from how fast he sold you out." This time it was his turn to sound jealous as he poured himself a cup of the whiskey, shaking his head. "What were you doing working for a people-mover like Edda, anyway? Thought I'd taught you better than that."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion, sort of
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| Davon·Vanden | Date: Wednesday, 08 Jul 2015, 1:51 AM | Message # 14 |
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Officer
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| "Trackin' Mara shouldn't be hard," he answered truthfully as he finished his cigarette, flicking out the cherry before he slid the remainder behind an ear. "Can usually jus' follow the trail of turned male heads, that and th'smell of knock-off perfume."
Davon was quiet for a moment, then he let out a huff, lacing his fingers behind his head as he spoke. "In all seriousness, I kept tabs, shouldn't be too hard t'track her down and see what's what." And he fell silent again; Davon having apparently learned to better control his mouth. Time was he'd have rattled on for what felt like an age, but now his words were concise. Even his jokes lacked their usual punch, they rolled off his tongue half-heartedly. "An' I was working for Edda because he needed a manifest forger," he continued, watching the Captain move about the galley, already acclimated to the place. He must have been in possession of this ship for a while yet.
"It was money in my pocket. More's can be said about what you left me with." Another accusatory jab, as he felt Rawls was due for one more, at least.
Davon Vanden
Navigator of the Aphelion
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| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Wednesday, 08 Jul 2015, 2:32 AM | Message # 15 |
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| "We always did all right for ourselves with honest work," Rawls remarked as he slid the bottle of whiskey across the sabaac table to Davon and sat himself down, apparently ignoring the jab. 'Honest work,' of course, was a curious term for smuggling, especially since Rawls had never been above smuggling spice or weapons for Hutt crime lords or Neimoidian mafiosos. But he'd never countenanced slavery, and was reasonably sure he'd never made a credit on the desperation of others. "Weren't never a passenger on the Aphlelion didn't want to be there," he explained, somewhat dubiously.
Mara and Kijari Beregal were a case in point. Mara had come to the Aphelion as Kijari's friend in need of a place to stay. She hadn't wanted to be there, at least not at first. And eventually, neither did Kijari; not after Daegar Ghalf had held her hostage to settle an old score with Rawls. Kijari had parted company with the Aphelion after that incident, but Mara had grown on the rest of the crew by then. Except for Ransom, of course—those two hated each other, and, Rawls was certain, they always would. But the crew wouldn't feel complete without both of them.
"Mara was a sight, wasn't she? Climbing the ladder in her heels," Rawls said, smiling for the first time that day, and perhaps in many days. "Probably could have had Doohan fix the turbolift, but it was too funny seeing her climb those rungs."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion, sort of
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