The glass clanked softly against the veneer of the bar.<br/><br/>It really was shaping up to be the same kind of day. He’d get up, scratch aimlessly at his beard and get dressed... One of dozens of blank, gray, shirts, a pair of black cargo pants and the ever-ubiquitous black boots... From there, it was off to the Cantina until they closed or he fell unconscious. He'd been here for a few hours already, slowly polishing off drinks.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“It’s a great life… Right?!”</span><br/><br/>His hoarse, scarcely used voice rang sharply in the loosely populated Cantina, but the denizens hardly stuttered, almost completely unfazed. They knew who he was, they knew the stories, they knew what this young man, Brandon Holcorr, they all knew of a small fraction of the things he had done… Most knew what that did to a person. They gave him his space; everyone gave him his space.<br/><br/>The doors to the Cantina slid open, and the hairs upon Brandon’s neck immediately stood on end. His instincts had been refined to a razor’s edge and then frayed beyond… She walked like a predator; careful, measured, near-silent, not someone he would want to casually trifle with. Memories of people best left forgotten rose to the surface, snapping him from his focus as the reverie muddled his senses. The moment soon passed, and he took another healthy swig of the blissfully mind-numbing concoction.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0080">“Hello.”</span><br/><br/>Only to snort heavily into his drink in a brief coughing spell. It took every fiber of his being not to instinctively lash out; she has seamlessly slipped through his senses… Of course, the two empty bottles of Corellian Whiskey didn’t help things. He shook his head, returning some semblance of coherent thought to his addled mind. He looked at her, and for the briefest of moments their eyes crossed upon mutual glances. A war-torn military cap of the Republic sits upon his forehead... His face is tall, almost dis-proportionally so, countered somewhat by a scraggy, obsidian beard. He visibly rises above the bar, an indicator of his height and he is obviously well maintained yet, it somehow doesn't match. His muscles while obviously dense and full of strength seem to sit uncomfortably upon his body... Various parts of his body jut out at strange angles beneath his shirt, but the right side of his collar bone is visibly metal. Finally, and perhaps most wretchedly, his eyes. A deep, warm, Chestnut brown that somehow seemed cold, unloved, broken...<span style="font-style: italic">'Been through hell would be an understatement, at this point.'</span><br/><br/>If it were possible to meet a more opposite person, he didn't think so. Her features were elegant, sharp, almost regal, yet they were softened just the slightest touch by the rose that graced her cheek. Her visage slopes downward into a powerful, yet somehow not overpoweringly so, jawline. When the corners of her lips, dark pink, upturn, dimples form; her elegant features softening into an almost angelic benevolence. An ebony waterfall flows behind her, obviously well-maintained but almost visibly shaking with an imperceptible urge to break free from the peace. Side by side, the two were not equal in stature, about half a foot in difference, yet again the two couldn't be more opposite. Her frame was mostly hidden from view, but he had seen enough in his day to know just from posture and ease of motion that she would not be one to tire, he wouldn't be surprised to see her balancing on one hand.<br/><br/>For a moment, their eyes met again, and the man was struck utterly dumb. Crystalline blue, capable of switching between the most frigid of winters and the most calming of nights... Unbeknownst to him he was enraptured for a moment, the faintest of pink heating his cheeks. He takes another sip, shifting his focus to the whiskey laying in front of him.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“You must be new… People around here don’t just DO that.”</span><br/><br/>A small sigh escaped his lips. She had to want something; they always do. People don’t just come up and talk to him without a reason. Still, it would be better than the usual rich little poodoo with too much of daddy’s money to spend…  He could tell, she held herself with grace, commanding. she was a warrior, at least to some degree. He raises his glass to his lips, one of his eyes still locked on the woman beside him.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0080">"I have a job. A mission of sorts. I need a pilot." </span><br/><br/>The corner of his lips twitched. She was direct, different from the usual swindlers, a pleasant change of pace.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0080">"It's dangerous, but it'll pay well enough. Are you interested?"</span><br/><br/>Naive or honest, he couldn’t really tell at this point, but he got the distinct impression she was confident in her strength…<br/>He says nothing for a few moments, his eyes shifting downwards into the amber liquid poured in his cup. He gingerly pushes his glass away before jolting to his feet and bumping his head on the lamp above him. The world spins, but he does not falter in the slightest, testament to a true alcoholic.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“You know.”</span>He continues, completely unfazed by the events of a moment ago.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF"> “I haven’t run a mission in two years… Not since I finished off that last karker…”</span><br/><br/>He regards her carefully, finally taking in the details of her appearance before inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. She didn’t look like anyone he knew…<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“Kark it, I’ll do it. Don’t care about the details, just tell me on the way there.”</span>