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01.20.2017 , 12:58 PM | #3
Mos Ila was a shavit, dirt-covered speck, on a shavit, dirt-covered rock in the middle of nowhere. But like most places that were dirt-covered rocks in the middle of nowhere, it was a nice isolated place to get a drink. If one liked isolation, of course.

Still, Meraska thought there was a certain irony in coming to a presumably public place to get isolation. Perhaps it spoke of some pathological dichotomy: proud enough to want to be seen, but insecure enough to need some distance from the nearest barcrawler.

Not that Meraska was in any place to judge, of course. She was just as guilty of it as anyone else. She liked attention... or used to, anyway. And all things considered? She was probably the last person to judge someone on mental problems. People like her were pretty renowned for their... issues. Though not without reason, she couldn't help but admit.

Maybe it wasn't inaccurate to call her some kind of crazy schutta, but at least she was self-aware about it, she mused. Of the countless faults she might possess, ignorance didn't happen to be one of them. Not that knowledge helped her change any of her faults, or made her feel any sort of regret about them. But while knowledge didn’t always bring happiness, she was determined not to let the truth (or any assassins) bring her down. There was only so much hiding she was willing to do.

As the woman strolled across the small cantina toward the bar, she lifted her goggles up and over her dark brown, medium-length hair, then dusted the sand off the overcoat she wore before pulling it off. She dangled it from the crook of her arm before deposing it on the stool next to her.

Under the sand-covered overcoat, she was in a bland, but well-made outfit, with a practically-new blaster in good condition hanging from her belt. It contrasted a little with the segmented well-worn metal tubes clipped to the back of her belt. They looked like they held some electronics in them, but they appeared to be powered down for the moment.

If one was more technical-minded, however, it didn’t appear that it would take much to snap the tubes together.

Meraska slapped a hand on the counter imperiously, and with a distinctly Imperial accent, said, “Got any good phattro?”

The bartender, used to the attitude after years on an Imperial base, replied with an easy, “It’s all good here.”

“Like hell it is,” Meraska replied with a short laugh. “Fine. Give me to me neat. Please.”

Politeness was a rare courtesy from her, but the woman understood the need to be nice to the guy serving the drinks.

It was probably a little hard of a drink for this time of day, but kark, if Meraska was going to slum it out here, she might as well go all the way. She hadn’t met a lot of challenges she couldn’t face. And it wasn’t like she could disappoint the people who knew her any further than she already had. What was the worst that could happen? Wake up hungover in a jawa junk heap?