Chapter Text
It’s not everyday you run into your ex and meet a cute blonde in the same day, but, hey, who am I to complain?
###
The day starts as many have before for the past four years: waking up in a dingy room with a streak of sunlight pouring onto my face. All my attempts to swipe away the light prove unsuccessful, so I crawl out of bed and grab the piece of tarp I use for a curtain and adjust it so that it covers the hole in my wall that doubles up as a window.
If I held both my arms out at their full length and span in a circle, I could touch all the walls of this room, so, when I turn away from my ‘window’, I come face-to-face with the mirror above my bed. I take a look at the rings of darkness under my eyes and groan. Another night on Tatooine means another night with minimal sleep and plenty of time spent sweating on top of bed sheets. The Hutts should offer free plastic coverings for all beds, to be honest, because not one person is able to sleep through the night without perspiring at least a litre. Call me an exaggerator if you want, but if the blaster fits in the holster.
“Come on, Basht,” I clap my hands against my cheeks, hoping to scare away some of the drowsiness – as if that has ever worked. It’s these mornings that I actually miss being out on a job. Especially being somewhere like Chandrilla or Alderaan or Naboo. Places where they treated visitors with class so long as they paid for it. They also never asked questions about where the money I used to pay for it came from, which is always a bonus.
Another person who doesn’t ask questions is Wuher – the barman and owner of Chalmun's Spaceport Cantina in Mos Eisley. As far as he’s concerned, I work when I work and I get paid for that. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid and he doesn’t care. I started working for Wuher at the Cantina for free when I first came to Tatooine four years ago but after proving my worth at keeping Trandoshan thieves away, Wuher agreed to pay me for both my protective services and my bartending capabilities.
My favourite thing about Wuher is that he is a man of few words who does not care what I am up to for all the Imperial credits in the Galaxy.
“Time to embrace the day,” I crack my knuckles and then set about getting dressed. I put on some pants with many pockets, high boots and my holster in which my WESTAR-35 blaster pistol sits. I only have the one, but I think that’s still impressive considering I stole it from a Mandalorian. A very cute Mandalorian whose face I manage to see for… let’s call it leisure reasons, before I killed him. A job’s a job, might as well have a little fun along the way.
Lastly, I slip a white shirt on, leaving it open enough to expose some of my chest – because free drinks are always great, so long as I can pour them. Once I’m dressed, I tap on the datapad near the door and hold my breath as it opens, as I’m so accustomed to doing, as a gust of sand blows into the room. Typical Tatooine.
I slide out of the door and close it behind me. As I cross the path that leads right into the backdoor of the Cantina, I’m given some funny looks by an elderly Togruta and a Twi’lek– oh kark.
“Basht,” The Twi’lek, a twenty-year-old man with bright blue skin known all too well by me as Padra Vee. I know him all too well in the sense that I know that there’s a scar shaped like the head of a loth-cat on his inner thigh. And he’s got a blaster held up to me. “Where’d you go after Dalna?”
“Dalna?” I say, rubbing the back of my neck like I don’t remember. I totally do. We’d had quite the adventure on Dalna: robbing the rich, destroying an Imperial weapons cache and having other fun along the way. Me, him and a Togruta woman named Jaina. Oh, kark again. This old Togrutan guy was probably Jaina’s father. I sigh, “Oh yeah, Dalna .”
Padra groans and places his blaster’s barrel under my chin, “I ought to blow that pretty head right off your shoulders.”
“And rid the galaxy of these good looks?” I ask, attempting a grin but getting a jab in the chin with the blaster instead. “Alright, alright. Look, what do you want me to say?”
“Admit you left Jaina for dead on Dalna. And then you left me when the Imperials showed up,” Padra barks, backing me against the outer wall of the Cantina. The wall is hard behind me, but I do my best to stay sure-footed.
I look at the elderly Togruta man. He’s got a vibroblade sheathed at his hip. Bingo.
“We both left Jaina for dead, Padra, remember? We agreed to increase our share by letting her set up the explosives and then setting them off before she could escape. We both saw her in the wreckage afterward but you were the one who said, “Let’s go”.”
The Togruta man’s face contorts and I know I’ve hit my mark – as if I’d miss – he does exactly as I hoped and pulls the vibroblade from its holster.
It lodges in Padra’s temple, spurting bright magenta blood over my white shirt. “Damn it.” I mutter, pulling out my blaster as Padra’s body falls to the ground. The Togruta man’s look of show is immortalised as I shoot him square between the eyes. He hits the sand only a few moments later. “This was a new karking shirt.”
I shake off any blood that will come off and then holster my blaster once more. I really ought to stop sleeping with my mission partners, it only complicates matters. Don’t eat where you shit, that’s what they say, right?
The back door opens and Wuher tosses out a bag of waste – bottles, by the sound of the clanging – and it lands on top of the Togruta. He eyes the two bodies in front of him and then gives me a curt nod, “You coming in?”
“Absolutely,” I say easily, stepping over Padra and following Wuher into the dark corridor that leads to a less dark, but equally as dingy bar. I know Wuher is against paying the Hutt’s for electricity, but karabast, it’s always so ridiculous walking from the searing Tatooine dual sunshine to this dimly-lit cantina full of the widest range of dregs and nobodys that Tatooine has to offer. But that’s just the Quacta calling the Stifling slimy.
I step behind the bar and start cleaning some glasses as I scan the Cantina for familiar faces. There are some. Some of Jabba’s thugs – Greedo, along with a few Weequays; Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes are playing, as usual; and Solo and his Wookiee co-pilot are sitting together.
No one else is really that interesting, unfortunately. Most of the time there’s at least a cute Twi’lek, Mirialan or human to look at but no success today, I guess. Can’t win them all– oh, wait, maybe you can!
As I hand Kabe her drink, my eyes find some new arrivals. People I’ve not seen here in the Cantina before. An old man, two droids (Wuher’s gonna love that) and a much younger, much cuter man. Probably my age, with blonde hair and a worried expression on his little face. Kriff, I didn’t know they made them like that on Tatooine. Well, not often anyway.
“Time for me to offer my services, I think,” I grin to myself, never missing a chance to flirt with a pretty guy. I grab a platter of drinks and make my way out from behind the bar. Just in time too as the cute blonde’s friend, the old man, comes to the bar, leaving the cute blonde all on his lonesome.
Even more so when Wuher yells, “We don’t serve their kind here!” as he points at his protocol and astromech droids. The noise pollution in the Cantina grinds to a halt to listen, perhaps hoping to watch a scuffle, but after a little confusion, the blonde’s droids agree to just wait outside for him anyway.
Which gives me the perfect chance to talk to him.
“Hey,” I appear at the blonde’s side. “Need a drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks,” He says, eyeing me for a moment before turning away. He’s smart, knows the kind of characters that hang around here and wants to avoid them.
“It’s not poison. It’s not even alcohol,” I assure him, bumping my hip with his. “Watch.” I take a sip of some Riosa Punch. It’s sweet with fruity chunks in it; it’s one of my favourites, “What’s your name anyway? I’ve never seen you around here before. I’d remember a face like that.”
The blonde gives me another look, his eyes slightly narrow, like he’s not sure if I’m being serious or not. “Luke. Look, I’m just here to get off-world, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Luke,” I repeat, smiling. “I’m not here to cause any trouble. But I do have one little question for you, little Luke.” He doesn’t ask me what it is. “Can’t you just fly there yourself? You are an angel, aren’t you?”
Luke’s cheeks heat up, but before he can respond, the old man he came in with whispers something to him. The man gives me a look then takes Luke’s arm and takes him to one of the booths. The one with Solo, it seems.
Interesting.