The synth-leather booth groaned under Cohr Zyrk’s weight as he leaned back. Across the cantina, a Twi’lek dancer spun on a holostage, her lekku ribbons catching the neon glare of Coruscant’s perpetual night. Cohr’s fingers drummed the sticky tabletop—tap-tap-tap—counting beats between sips of cheap Corellian whiskey. The glass left wet rings like tiny landing pads. He didn’t feel the alcohol. Never did. His Devaronian metabolism burned it clean, a useful quirk for a man who traded in secrets.
His informant was late. By seventeen minutes. Bad sign. Cohr’s horns itched where they curved toward his temples. He’d chosen this dive—The Rusty Droid—deliberately: low ceilings, shadowed corners, and a clientele who’d stab you for your boots but wouldn’t recognize a Black Sun enforcer if one spat in their drink. Still, paranoia prickled. Xander and Roona were holed up three levels down in a smuggler’s bolt-hole, their latest data-heist fresh. If Black Sun sniffed them out here…
Cohr’s thumb traced the condensation on his glass. He’d helped Xander escape before. Loyalty? Or just bad business?
The Twi’lek dancer stumbled mid-spin, lekku ribbons tangling. A ripple of silence hit the cantina—then laughter. Cohr didn’t laugh. His informant was nineteen minutes late now. He slid a credit chip under his empty glass. *Payment for services rendered*, he thought. Or bait. Across the room, a Gran’s eyestalks swiveled toward the entrance. Cohr’s hand drifted to his blaster.
"Zyrk." The voice was gravel-dry. A cloaked figure slid into the booth opposite. Hood shadowed their face, but Cohr caught the glint of cybernetics where an ear should be. Informant? Or collector? "You’re late," Cohr said, voice flat.
"Traffic," the figure rasped. "Imperial checkpoint on Level 478." A gloved hand pushed a data crystal across the table. "Black Sun patrol routes. Updated hourly."
Cohr didn’t touch it. "And?"
A pause. The cantina’s bass thrummed through the synth-leather. "They’ve triangulated your slicer’s signal. Three-level radius." The hood tilted slightly. Cohr’s thumb stilled on his glass. Too precise. Too *easy*. Was this a warning? Or a trap laid by Black Sun? He’d fed them false leads before—but loyalty frayed when credits thinned. "Price doubled," Cohr stated. "For the risk."
The figure chuckled, a sound like grinding gears. "Always the opportunist, Zyrk." A gloved finger tapped the data crystal. "The Ortolan. Back booth. He’ll confirm… or counter." The hood shifted toward the rear corridor where the air recyclers wheezed louder. "He prefers… discretion."
Cohr didn’t move. The Ortolan? Bep Borum. "Why him?" Cohr’s voice stayed flat, but his mind raced. Was this confirmation Black Sun had penetrated his network? Or had *he* become the leak? He’d fed Xander’s comm-signal scrambler pattern to a mid-level Vigo last week—a calculated sacrifice to bury deeper ops. Loyalty *was* bad business. But credits? Credits were oxygen.
He slid from the booth. The Ortolan’s booth sat wedged between a malfunctioning coolant vent and the ‘fresher door. Bep Borum’s blue snout twitched above a bowl of fermented root mash as Cohr approached. His tiny eyes glittered like flawed obsidian chips. "Holaoey, Zyrk," Bep wheezed, his trunk-like nose wrinkling. "Sitbib. You scare the patrons." He gestured with a spoon dripping cidery-smelling sludge. "You bring trouble?"
Cohr didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall, letting the coolant vent’s stale breeze ruffle his silver chin tuft. "You and your team looking to make some creds?"
The Ortolan hoots as quietly as he can. “Majen va ts ras quee!” he adds. “Let’s talk price.”
Interlude - Friend or Foe?
Moderator: GM Fang