Imposters

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"It's her job," Hal replied, doing his very best to hold in laughter. "Most people don't like their jobs, but they do them for the money. I bet she works ten hour shifts, six days a week, and rakes in better tips than those Twi'lek bikini baristas you see at stimcaff stands."

He leaned back a bit, smiling to their craggy, disinterested waitress as she returned, setting a pair of thick-walled drinking glasses on the table. "Tea and chocolate milk," she groused, then turned and trundled back toward the kitchen without allowing for any sort of word in edgewise. Hal slipped a plastic straw into his glass and took a sip, a sigh of contentment following.

"Places like this, it's not about service, it's about dependability. She does her job, no more, no less. We get what we ordered, things run smooth," he explained, then took another drink. "You're right, by the way. The only other door is through the kitchen. I looked up planning permission and building records back at the Citadel. This place is so old, it predates some modern safety code. So if people are booking off-world passage, here, this isn't the point of departure, and that does mean someone here is in on it. Maybe she's in on it, but I doubt she's alone, nor would she be primary contact with that attitude. And all that said, I've had worse waitresses."

Hal's eyes moved to scan the room as he took another drink. "When I was here last, one of the 'freshers was out of order. Wonder if they've fixed it by now. That'll be something to check out later; might be an exit in disguise. Either that or someone dropped a thermonuclear deuce and fragged the plumbing."

[Jeryd Redsun]

As Rayner spoke, Jeryd regarded their surroundings and, no matter how interesting and new they were for an upper level kid like him, he had to concede that no self-respecting person with the intellectual capacity to form whole sentences could actually find job satisfaction in a place like this. If the waitress seemed like a soulless husk in the workplace, it was in all likelihood not because she was a sinister rebel agent, but because she was, in fact, just a soulless husk. It was depressing to think about, honestly. As much as he loathed revisiting all the core lessons from basic training at the Citadel, it was never uninteresting. He always felt challenged. He always felt alive.

Not that it meant she was off the hook. Yet. If she really did work 10 hours a day, six days a week, then she had to have at least seen or heard something suspicious. She had to know something. He fueled this fresh line of thought with a sip of chocolate milk - his first in about 10 years - it was sweet, rich, and delicious. He was reminded of his school days, when he used to build model TIE fighters during recess with his first ever girlfriend, Opera Sveetlisse, who wore her blonde hair in braids and always had scuffs on her elbows and knees. They drank chocolate milk and when they got bored of holding hands, they wrestled in the park. And, for a fleeting instant, he felt strangely at ease in this scruffy watering hole.

“When we get out of here, you’re going to have to tell me more about those Twi’leks in bikinis,” he said, choosing to cast aside the memory. It brought him back to who he was.

“The sights in this place are rather lacking, after all,” he gave Rayner a knowing look, “Which is why I will leave the shitty toilet duty to you. Respectfully. Maybe you’ll uncover a secret meeting room where travel arrangements are made.”

It was said only half in jest for Rayner had captured his imagination with his talk of locked doors, clandestine meetings, and secret transports. How did it all connect, he wondered.

“If the diner is the precursor to off-world transportation, how do you suppose they first make contact? And in plain sight, no less. I mean, how would you do it?”