Recalling the Guild: Montegue

So: this was freedom, then. He'd started to forget what it felt like. The oppressive, searing, luminous walls had been replaced with the dark and dingy surrounds of the seediest cantina he could crawl his way into. The minimalist rags that had been draped over him were gone, replaced with thick, heavy-weave garments that itched, scratched, and chafed, that hung like lead from his shoulders: the kind of clothes that wouldn't let you forget that you were wearing them. Shoes felt strange; pants, too. There was something satisfying about the way everything nestled in there; the way they stopped him squeezing the hell out of himself whenever he sat down too quick.

One hand, covered in a thick, woolen glove that seemed to forget they were meant to cover his fingertips as well traced a lazy circle around the rim of his glass. A matching hand teased the butt of the blaster he'd bought off some pick pocket kid down the street. It was old, battered, and about as accurate as a washed-out drunk pissing up a wall, but it'd do until he found his ship, and got the rest of his stuff. Problem was, he needed to remember where it was first. He was on Nar Shaddaa, so he was getting close; just needed to work out which of the sleazy Rodian tech-bastards he'd left it with,

He sighed, disturbing the fog of leaf-smoke that was creeping its way down the bar from the couple of loud-mouthed thugs a few seats down. They thought they were funny as hell, fumes spewing from their mouths as they laughed and joked, arguing over which of them had done the best number beating the shit out of some idiot guy who'd got on the wrong side of whoever paid them. He had half a mind to go show them what a proper shit-beating was all about, but right now his drink seemed more appealing. 'sides - the damage was already done. Better to save the heroics for when the victim could see, and thank you for it. Especially the tall, curvey, femenine type - the sort who really knew how to thank a guy properly.

A shadow moved next to him; some guy stepping up to the bar, stealing his light. Hugo unleashed a silent snarl towards the bar top, gripping the glass of amber fluid and pouring the last down his throat. It thudded back down against the bar top as he turned, a grunt in his throat as he aimed his eyes towards the guy's dim-lit face.

"Want something?" he growled.

"You've looked better," he offered by way of greeting, and put the helmet down on the bar between them.

The man in front of him was a shadow of his former self, and whatever had happened to him couldn't have been pleasant. Darven had an idea just who could have happened to Montegue, going by the reports he'd read in that slug's personal files, but he wasn't going to make him talk about it if he didn't want to.

The bounty hunter had crossed paths with Hugo Montegue a couple of times before. His specialty was exotics, so they didn't get into each other's way much. On the rare occasions they did, there had always been something about the other that made Darven especially careful; Montegue's moves, his attitude and everything about the guy seemed a little too familiar to the ex-commando.

What little he'd been able to gather about him had confirmed that Hugo Montegue had once been a senate guard, having enjoyed some commando training. That had explained some things, but some others.... Darven had never been able to determine just what made him apprehensive about the guy, and he'd always stepped carefully around him, rather, than with him.

But if a person like that disappeared for over a year without leaving any kind of trace, and then later showed up out of nowhere dressed in rags that looked a lot like prison garb - then even he couldn't curb his curiosity. And it looked like he was the first to "bump" into Montegue now - hadn't been too hard to manage, after the pirates' Hutt barkeep had spilled the beans about having sent Montegue off down to the planet after the man had got into a fight with one of their own.

"We took out that pirate rabble up there... found a Hutt babbling something about a crazy old bountyhunter who couldn't remember much else besides his own name. Figured it had to be you," he offered the other man in explanation. "Also figured you might need some assistance," he added.

Something; an echo of recognition perhaps, danced through his mind. He probed it, prodded it, interrogating the sensation for a name. He was an acquaintance, he recalled; a fellow hunter. That didn't take much remembering, mind: a Mandalorian out and about rather than sneaking around in hiding usually meant bounty hunter, mercenary, or some conversation of the two.

Mention of the pirates sparked memories that he could recall completely; ones that hadn't been dredged, shredded, and twisted against him by his captor. They felt shiny, new; the mere recollection buoyed his spirits. Took care of them, did you? he mused, spinning the empty glass slowly in his finger tips. He wondered if the hunter was bragging; implying that Hugo had bailed out, rather than handling the mess in the proper way. But he'd said we; definately we. No use in bragging to a single, practically unarmed man about the exploits of you and your buddies.

The recollection surfaced, and he grabbed it with both hands. A name emerged. Elation followed. He didn't let it show, though; didn't break the mask of suspicion and distrust that held his features stern and in place. More memories came along with it, fleshing out the identity with a little more context. He remembered their first encounter; their paths had crossed, hunting the same mark. He'd been an exotic; a Clawdite; shapeshifter. Somehow, they'd wound up after the same catch; had Hugo been hired, or was he just working off intel, hunting to get the murderous bastard off the street? The memory was patchy there, but he knew the Mandalorian hadn't taken kindy to the competition. They'd killed the thing though; worked together; split the money. There was more, lingering just below the surface, but he didn't need it for now.

He kept his voice gruff. "I'm not sure I need your kind of help, Darven," he muttered, gesturing for the barkeep to refill his glass.

"Oh, you certainly don't," he replied, without a hitch. It was true - on a personal level, there wasn't much he could do to help the man, other than maybe loan him some creds to pay his tab. "I'm going to help you anyway, Montegue."

It was a lucky turn of fate that Montegue had reappeared at this point in time - the man was reknowned as being an excellent hunter of exotics, and would make a good addition to the guild. His own misgivings left aside, Montegue was good at what he did, and the guild would need him.

"I'm going to help you by telling you that we're re-forming the Guild, and asking you to head the exotics branch."

Some people would react to that. The specifics would depend on the individual of course. Some would be honoured, probably, at being recruited for such an apparently important role. They'd likely infer some kind of respect for his abilities, or his reputation; o'course, it could just be that they were a long way down a list of people that had already turned the job down.

Others might be annoyed by the tenacity. Smug bastard wanders up to you in a bar, when you're clearly not in the mood to be disturbed, and offers you a job. Some might take offense at the notion that you were being thrown a bone; offered a lifeline. Some people's pride wouldn't let them accept the fact that people might think they needed it.

Hugo had very little of his pride left by now; the menthol-eyed bitch had seen to that. He wasn't exactly swimming in warm and fuzzies about his old life, either. He'd wasted far too much time since the Clone Wars slumming around the galaxy, hunting exotics and abnormals as some sort of indiscriminate vengence for the slight their kind had committed against him. He was bitter, and regretful. All he wanted to do right now was get the hell out of here, find his boys, and actually try to string together a family again.

Thing was, he actually did need help. Maybe not a job; maybe not a lifeline; but he needed something to get out of this shithole and back out into the galaxy. Reformed guild or no, maybe this guy was the sort of person who could offer that.

He delved into his jacket, digging out the cigar that he'd managed to liberate from the posession of one of the patrons up in orbit. Gripping it in his teeth, he fumbled with the lighter; naught but a few pitiful sparks emerged from the device. He looked at it with a scowl before tossing it aside, sending the cigar along in its wake. It had been a hell of a long time since he'd smoked one of the damn things anyway; it was probably a habit he was better off not picking up again.

"What," he asked finally, at last turning to face his unsolicited conversation partner, "Makes you think that I would want a job like that?"

It took a while for the other man to respond to that. For a moment the Mandalorian wondered whether Montegue was still suffering from the amnesia that Blarga's log had talked of, but as he looked him over, it appeared that had passed - Montegue seemed almost his old self again, if not even more furiously so.

So he was just wondering how the other hunter would respond when Montegue asked his question. This was what he disliked most about talking to other people without his helmet on: keeping up a neutral face, having no way to express his natural distrust of people like Montegue.

"You've been gone for a while - much has changed. There's a female sitting on Palpatine's throne now, a lot of the power structure changing. A lot of the galaxy, too. And bountyhunting with it. You want to go on in this trade, you're going to see yourself forced to join the guild at some point, in one way or another."

He looked the other man over with a coldly appraising eye, somehow, suddenly, not caring whether the other man felt his dislike.

"It's not some shabla boon we're throwing your way, Montegue, just because you're weak now and look like you could do with a bit of support."

Montegue laughed into his refilled drink. He'd spent twenty years trucking around the galaxy killing off what needed to be killed, without tangling himself up in any of the political bullshit that the "Guild" and various other equivalent entities stirred up. It wasn't necessary for them to cross paths all that often: he picked out the jobs that weren't mainstream enough to attract attention most of the time, making up the difference in income with the occasional side job, credit scam, or whatever. That was the difference between him and the up-themselves Hunters who made up the bulk of their profession: this wasn't about money or glory to him. It was about saving lives, and killing things that didn't deserve to be alive.

He knocked back another mouthful of whiskey, sucking at his teeth while the alcoholic warmth cascaded down the back of his throat. He shook his head and sighed, not bothering with any kind of reservation or respect. "You act like you know me," he said, chuckling to himself a little at the absurdity. "If you do, then you'll know I don't give a bantha's ass about the sithspit politics you guys are offering."

He set the glass down on the bar, arms folding across his chest as his head cocked to the side, brow slightly furrowing as he regarded the Hunter with a mix of annoyance and disbelief. "You wouldn't even be talking to me if my reputation wasn't worth something. I'm one of the best at what I do; unless you can find someone better, I can't see you guys hampering my operation. And then it comes down to a price war, and trust me: I ain't in it for the money."

He shook his head again, dismissively, turning his back on Darven and his attention towards his drink. "All you can offer me is strings that'll make my life and my work harder," he muttered. "Either come up with a better offer, or find someone else."

"Talking of strings that make your life harder," the clone began in response, after a moment's hesitation. His voice had taken on a falsely friendly tone, a careful deployed tool to deliver some damage in ways more subtle than the punch into the gut he felt tempted to take.

"... do your sons know you're still alive? Last I heard, they were taking your disappearance the hard way. Bad for business - heard they weren't doing so well without you. Would you like me to let them know you're here so they can pick you up?"

He kept his eyes on the other man's face, almost cheerfully adding, "'Though they might lack the transport or funds to do that, now that I think of it."

"My boys will be fine," Hugo muttered vaguely in reply. Though he didn't allow his concern to register on his face or features, his innards twisted at what he inferred. Lack of transport and funds was his fault as much as anything else: he'd disappeared with the only ship the boys had ever had access to, and the family accounts had been in his name. He'd wanted to control everything about their 'family' business to ensure that things ran as smoothly as possible, but had wound up making it so that it couldn't function without him; all of his plans to prepare his sons for life without him suddenly seemed undermined.

He swilled the wiskey around in front of him, tossing the aroma up into his nostrils. "My ship is on-planet," he added, casually and off-hand. His brow twisted into a frown slightly as he downed another sip. "Somewhere."

"Oh I know," said the old clone, and added matter-of-factly, "I even know where somewhere is."

Smugness wasn't a very social trait, but then he'd never claimed to be that. Raising his newly filled glass, he raised it, looked through the clear brown liquid for a second as if considering whether he should really have it, then downed it without another thought.

A slight shift in Hugo's eyebrows and eyelids morphed his expression completely. A slight hint of a frustrated sigh snuck out underneath his breath as, with careful effort, he lowered his glass back to the bar. His efforts to undermine any attempt by the Mandalorian to gain the upper hand in 'negotiations' had failed it seemed, and while Hugo didn't doubt that he'd remember where his ship was eventually, the prospect of spending even longer on this Force-forsaken planet was enough to inspire a desire for haste.

He turned slowly, levelling his gaze on Darven. Despite his sour mood, a slight hint of a smile managed to creep onto his lips. "Let me guess; you're thinkin' that you can use that knowledge to leverage me in on this Guild thing of yours, huh?"

There wasn't any point in denying that. And yet -

"Would you believe me if I said I'd help you for no reason other than thinking this old shabuir could do with the help? You might try me and find we Mandalorians can be quite philanthrophic-minded, when it suits us."

It did ring true, even if he hadn't thought he meant it. No matter how much he didn't like the guy, he couldn't begrudge him the respect for what the man had achieved in their field of work, and that, in some way made them comrades.

In a very lose, not remotely close sort of way.

Hugo laughed. Philanthropy, or charity, or whatever the hell you wanted to dress it up as, was never as innocent as it seemed. Never as selfless as it was made out. Hell, even those poncy hippie types only did it for the warm and fuzzies they felt as a result; and if what Hugo knew about Darven, and Mandalorians in general was anything to go by, he certainly wouldn't be doing this out of the 'goodness of his heart'.

Maybe there was no insidious, secretive moment. Maybe it was some code of honour crap. Whatever. Frankly, Hugo didn't care. Maybe it was his own stubborn pride rather than his better judgement; but if he planned to get back on form - planned to get fighting fit - then he'd need to exercise that damn muscle between his ears; get his frelling memory to start firing in the right direction again. He closed his eyes, trying to pull out some fragment of useful knowledge: a face, a name, anything. Still blank; or at least, blank for anything relevant.

He sighed; retrieved his glass; swilled the fluid inside around for a few rotations. "I appreciate the offer," he said; he even managed to slip a genuine edge of honesty into his tone. "But I don't do hand-outs. Don't do charity. I'll pick myself up on my own."

Again. His thoughts turned dark and bitter; his mind taunted him with useless memories of all the people who had been hurt as a direct result of providing him aid: people like Amaros; Elroy; his brother Victor; or Cambria. People who had suffered in his place. Died - or nearly so - in his place.

No: charity, however well-meaning it claimed to be, just wasn't an option. It's safer that way.