“You could have spared us a bit of this mess, you know,” the manager, a tall, broad man with a build like a labor droid said gruffly as he reattached another table. “But no, you just sit in the corner and watch.”
“The agreement was that I only intervene if someone is about to die,” the woman replied, utterly unperturbed. “And that I help clean the place up afterward.”
The manager grunted, then walked away to attend to other matters, muttering under his breath.
“Don't mind Feltro,” said the other bouncer from behind, a man named Roal. The woman turned to regard him with veiled eyes; she knew of his employment, but this was the first shift they had worked together since she had signed on two days prior. He was easily twenty years her junior, his lean frame hiding the fact that he could in all likelihood bench-press a Wookiee. His fiery hair was jauntily-cut, his blue eyes darted about the room with a mischievous air, and his grin was almost infectious. “Been grouchy for the last decade, ever since he inherited this little slice of paradise.”
“Inherited, you say?” the woman asked, raising a hidden brow. “I was under the impression that he'd bought the place.”
“Well, yeah he did,” Roal corrected himself as he helped the woman lift a hologame table back onto its feet. “He inherited a half-share, but he couldn't stand the other owner so much that he bought the poor Gotal out. Rumor says he even bribed a deputy to have the guy deported offworld.”
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After wandering the spacelanes for ten years, moving from place to place and job after job, a refugee of the Mandalorian Wars is confronted with elements of her past. In examining where she has been and what she has done, she comes to a critical realization.