Bargains and Bonds

[Barton Henning]

They have also lost someone. They will help you.

It was... vague, in a word. Barton re-read the message once more, keying fruitlessly at the datapad entry, to see if there was more text to be found within – but there was not. He supposed it would have been expecting too much to hope that an organization like the Rebel Alliance would provide anything more than the bare-bones of the facts, but he couldn't help but feel like a rudderless boat at sea when he read over those words.

“Well?” The Toydarian bobbed back and forth, tiny wings twitching anxiously as he looked between Barton and what lay before them. Huge heaps of scrap metal towered above them both, the smell of oil and rust hanging heavy in the air. Even if junkyard had not been many levels into the depths of the Vertical City, the noxious fog that hung over all of Nar Shaddaa would have blotted out any light that reached them. Instead of stars to frame the monolithic piles of discarded metal, there was the faint glow of hundreds of neon signs blinking and flickering in the towers above, and the ever presence after-glow of sub-light engines. Barton stared up at it all for a moment longer, thinking how different the darkness was to the feathery clouds surrounding Bespin.

“Eh?!” Suddenly the view was obscured as the Toydarian weaved into his line of vision, a pungent waft of cigarra smoke clouding Barton's senses. “What's it to be then, eh? You take it?”

'The Doctor' lowered his eyes, to the it in question. It was... a ship, that much was certain. The dealer had tried to explain, with waggling eyebrows, about all of the fantastic features the Dynamic-class freighter had (“clean new mattress in every bed bunk!”) but Barton had only wanted to hear two pieces of information: first, whether it could fly, and second, how much it cost. A tentative yes was given to the first question and to the second, another spurious looking grin.

“It's a steal,” the Toydarian sneered, rolling his cigarra from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Normally I charge thirty-thousand credits - but for you, twenty-thousand.”

Nodding absentmindedly, Henning felt around in his pockets for loose change. He counted a rough estimate and then added it onto what he reckoned he had managed to salvage from the clinic on Cloud City: one thousand credits, at most. With the emergency allowance provided by the Alliance, he had six thousands credits in total. It wasn't even enough to buy a mediocre landspeeder, let alone something that could make hyperspace. Even Barton knew that much. His eyes lingered on the scarred hull for a moment longer.

“..I need some time to think about it, Grasgo – but thanks for the help.”

The Toydarian swooped close, wrapping one stubby arm around Barton's shoulder. There was the faintest hint of desperation in his voice. “Eh, is no problem. But you get back to me soon, eh? This one is hot property... will be going fast, I think!”

With one last pat on the shoulder to send him on his way, Barton left the scrapyard for the city proper. He had a cantina to find, and strangers to meet. They have also lost someone. They will help you. Something told him it was going to be a long night.

[Ben Merasska]

"...So I says to the guy, 'I don' wanna know, but I'll ask anyway: How did you fit all that into the seat?'"

He began laughing, and then started, just as suddenly, crying, placing a hand over his eyes. "He jetted me five minutes later. I know I have a loose mouth every now and then, but come on! It was a joke! Now I'll never get to fly that beautiful, beautiful ship," he sniffled.

"Oh, Nubia!" he cried, shaking a fist at the uncaring sky (or the smoke clouded ceiling, at the least), "Your ships are always just out of my reach!"

His hand was wrapped around a dirty glass of Something-Or-Other, this bar's signature drink ("Guaranteed to be its moneys' worth!"). He wasn't all that drunk, truth be told; all the drink did was make his emotions more like a rollercoaster.

Alright, so maybe he was a bit drunk. Just a bit though. Honestly.

It didn't really matter to him that no one was listening to his story either. Well, the bar...er...thing was, but if he was reading the alien's expression correctly, it seemed to be giving him a look of incredulous disbelief (he wasn't sure, but perhaps his species default look was one of incredulous disbelief?).

He downed the glass, his second, and waved off a refill. It was a pretty good drink, but he was glad he never asked what exactly was in it. He laid the requisite credit chits on the bar counter and pulled out the datapad with his new instructions.

He gave another sniffle, and stood, grabbing his Beloved Bag. The Alliance had, in their great mercy, given him another ship to fly. Now all he had to do was wait for the Cap'n (as he had so dubbed him already in his mind) and the rest of the crew to find this grubby little cantina and him. He bought another, less alcohol intensive drink, and moved to a table that had opened up to wait for someone to keep him some company.

[Chaz de Coventina]

For a long time the inside of the office had remained a mystery. Set in the main atrium of the hospital, it gave the conflicting impression of being both mercifully welcoming and ominously foreboding; New Vertica General's residents had many theories about what really went on behind that imposing oak door. The current buzz around the nurse's station was that Chief Administrator Hart, known for his charming predatory smile, and the rep from Eos Pharmaceuticals were forging a very personal relationship.

So to say that she had been a little intimidated by the summons was a marked understatement. Chaz de Coventina resembled the drug rep in more ways than not and it was established fact that Dr. Hart always got what he wanted. She spent ten minutes in a spare room of the pediatrics ward practicing her high blocks and eye jabs. Then she plastered on a neutral expression and made her way to the stairs.

In retrospect, she wished she'd worn her good scrubs, not the tattered pair that had been with her since her first year of pre-med. It was hard to argue one's value to Nar Shaddaa's medical community while tugging at a frayed collar.

"But why?" Chaz finally snapped, her cheeks flushed. She slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other. "I've been sitting here for ten minutes and you haven't given me a valid explanation."

Dr. Hart heaved a sigh of exasperated indifference. "Perhaps you haven't been listening. This conversation is finished, Dr. de Coventina."

"The hell it is!" Chaz was nearly out of her chair. Her eyebrows drew together at a hostile angle. "You're terminating my residency and reporting me to the board! You're legally required to give me a reason, and I want one!"

"You'll receive an official statement, of course, along with your record of dismissal."

"This is bantha dren!"

"Enough." Dr. Hart leaned forward and pinned her with an artfully withering glare. "If I were you, Dr. de Coventina, I would be very grateful indeed that we are not pursuing criminal charges. We are finished here; please collect your things and leave. I will not hesitate to call security to ensure that you comply."

She stood up on legs that were trembling with fury, eyes narrowing into mere slits. Her voice had to scratch it's way out of her throat, and it was more gravel than anything when she pointed a finger at the director and said, with a sense of indignation she had no right in feeling, "You won't get away with this."

"'Won't'?" Dr. Hart smiled benignly. He looked like a pleased cat. The man clucked his tongue and steepled his hands together. "I already have."

It took two days before her residency was filled, and a month before she was brave enough to leave her apartment.

***

This was... underwhelming. She had never ventured very far outside of New Vertica (had never ventured very far within it, for that matter) but somehow Chaz had assumed it would be basically the same - overcrowded with just enough metropolitan charm to be bearable.

It wasn't. Bearable, that is. As the woman edged her way into the small cantina with nothing but a healthy dose of skepticism and a vague description, her nose wrinkled. It was like one of those sorority bars, the bad ones. She almost turned around and walked out.

Almost.

"Hey, doc!" Chaz twisted to find the source of the voice. It was coming from a table in a far corner. Bev So'osunu'u was beaming at her over a pint of dark ale and waving her over.

The Dresellian had been visiting her at the free clinic for months now. He had a warm smile, a broad sense of humor, and a congenital heart defect that was going to put him in his grave if he didn't get a transplant soon. Chaz threaded her way over with a grateful smile.

"You shouldn't be drinking that, Bev." She chided, motioning towards his drink. Bev just grinned.

"Aw, c'mon doc. It's the only pleasure I get these days, besides seein' you of course. Speaking of which, where'd you hide yourself yesterday? I waited for two hours."

Chaz winced inwardly and shook her head. "Don't change the subject, Bev, gimme the drink. This could kill you."

He snorted as she took his pint and drooped considerably. "I'm dying anyway, might as well have a little fun before I go."

"Hey. Don't think like that - you'll get your transplant, you're a shoe-in. Keep your chin up, and the alcohol away." She patted his arm and began to recede into the crowd. Bev snagged her wrist.

"What's with the vanishin' act? Don't you wanna have a seat?" He looked disappointed, though whether it was over the loss of his beer or her company she couldn't tell. It was a tough competition and Chaz had a feeling she was a very distant second. She smiled apologetically and pulled away shaking her head.

"Sorry, Bev. I'm," Chaz raked a hand through her hair and eyes through the crowd. "Meeting... someone."

[Lyanie Quez]

Nose almost completely in her drink, the pint was tipped and she was swallowing quickly, heavily - almost like it was a competition. And that's the worst part of it: It wasn't. If drinking alone was one of the worst things, she was alone in a crowd, and it was bad. She found herself wondering what exactly she was doing on Nar Shaddaa, when she could be...

...could be... doing... doing... oh, that's right...

...and the pint she removed from her face to reveal a most unhappy frown, and an obvious beerstache, which she so self-consciously wiped from her upper lip a moment later with the arm of the orange long sleeved tee-shirt, which she wore under a vest from which its once stark black colour was fading. D'Lyanettea Meresco Quez - Lyanie to those who didn't wish for a sock in the nose - nearly tipped the pint right over as it connected with the tabletop, but instead suffered only a sploshing over her hand when she heard the enthused (was it, really, at all?) shouting that drew her eyes up from feeling sorry for herself to an unmistakably familiar fist shaking in the air, as if to damn the cloud of cigarra smoke that permeated throughout the grimy establishment.

It was then, at that point, that a shock coursed through her body and her eyes widened, causing her to bolt upright from her seat - this time making sure not to spill her drink, which she fully intended to finish, and then some - and set her eyes on a tousle of somewhat red hair that confirmed she was not imagining things. Lyanie abruptly left her table, drink and duffel in tow, and made a bee-line to that hair. Within moments (after considerable almost stepping on toes, and almost being spat on several times over) she found herself face to back-of-head with that very hair.

When she tapped him on the shoulder (placing her drink on the nearest surface), and he sort-of turned around, she lit up like a casino and practically bowled him over with the most crushing hug she could muster up... which wasn't very air-depriving. A woman's strength is usually in the lower body, after all.

"Omigosh! Ben! I thought you died!" She very nearly squealed, obviously not caring that it might have the slight chance of inducing a temporary pain in the ears to the subject of her sudden turn in mood.

[Ben Merasska]

Ben liked hugs. He really did, ask him sometime, he'll tell ya. Well, he might perhaps say that he likes hugs, as he isn't dead yet, and if he is, why the heck are you bothering his afterlife? Jerk. Unless he really isn't dead and just dreaming, in that case, why aren't you a naked woman? Even bigger jerk. Unless you are a naked woman, then by all means stay in Ben's dreams, you official not-jerk.

But the chances of one meeting him are incredibly small, so we will continue on with the narrative.

He recognised at once that he was tapped on the shoulder. In his slightly inebriated state, it took him half a second to realise that the person who tapped his shoulder wasn't in front of him, but behind him. So he turned to see who it was that had tapped him on the shoulder.

And then, he was tackled by a ferocious beast with a hideous hunting call so shrill, it would blast anyone's ear-drums. Perhaps even the feared Lilaena De'Ville's ears could not withstand the assault; but he wouldn't want to be there if that would ever happen, because she might be a bit mad at having her ear drums blasted by the predator's hunting call, and he's just a pilot, and one of those rare ones who doesn't think of himself as invincible.

Well, as he was tackled by the beast, he realised that he wasn't on the floor with his insides torn out, and nor was he bleeding out the ears. And the beast was still clutching onto him. Perhaps, then, it wasn't a beast?

He opened one eye, and looked down at the creature, and realised that he knew her. "Well! If it isn't Lyanie!" he said with a cry of joy. Today was not a day cursed by the gods after all!

Ben decided to look up at that moment and see all the rather not-nice-looking people staring at him and her. So he patted her on the head, and sat her down on a seat, only then prying her arms apart. He sat down himself, slowly, so as to not garner the attention of those not-nice-people.

"Now," he said with a grin. "I might be wrong, but I think your high pitched screech was actually speaking. And that those words you said, they had meanings. And you thought I was dead."

She nodded at each of these sentences, a bright bubbly smile on her face. Her smile began to fade as Ben started laughing.

[Lyanie Quez]

'And you thought I was dead.'

The last of these comments, the one above, was responded to with another nod, the continuous grin, and: "It made me sooooo sad!"

It was at that point that Ben started laughing. And hard, too. The act caused the grin on Lyanie's face to disintegrate into an almost-frown, a slight pouting of the lower lip, and the cupping of one elbow with the other hand. Something was clearly wrong with this picture. Perhaps she didn't appreciate his choice of route in reaction to her words?

How dare he... He's not taking me seriously! After all this time and I was so worried, and I still didn't come to terms with it, and... ooh, he's going to get it real good!

"Hey! What are you laughing about?" She thumped him in the shoulder, having prepared a fist in advance, should he have decided to invoke one of the few things that earns an individual a first-class ticket to broken nose land, courtesy of Quezfist Airlines. He just wouldn't stop laughing, and she was afraid she might have to pummel him. It was something she didn't really want to do, given the fact that she had believed him dead for so long.

"Come on, Ben. Hey, cut it out, I was really worried! Cut a girl a little sympathy, would you?" Still, he laughed. Realizing (finally) that part of this outburst of joviality was likely alcohol induced, Lyanie resigned herself to a rolling of the eyes and a subtly amused smile.

"Oh, you wound me." She drawled out.

[Ben Merasska]

"Oh, you wound me."

He was still laughing, alright; even while gripping his throbbing shoulder.

"Oh!" he gasped out between guffaws, "By De'Ville's tight buttocks that hurt!"

A moment later, he forgot what he was laughing about. So he curbed his laughter, and tried to settle himself down.

Ben sighed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Sorry," he said, leaning back taking a swig of his ale in enjoyment. "It's nice to see ya again, Lyanie. What're ya doin' here though? It's been some years, but this doesn't seem like your kinda place."

[Barton Henning]

Nar Shaddaa and Cloud City weren't so different, when you got down to the details. Both were melting pots of culture, attracting sorts both savory and otherwise. Years spent in and around Port Town, Cloud City's very own smugglers haven, had hardened Barton against the anxiety that many might have felt upon entering the cantina. In truth, Henning barely paid attention to the throngs of humans and aliens that peopled the bar stools and booths. His mind was elsewhere, still back at the junkyard, trying to work out where he could find fourteen-thousand credits before Grasgo sold his bottom-of-the-line freighter on to someone else, leaving Barton in an even deeper hole.

Stepping up to the bar, he took his first glance at the main bar room, wondering who amongst the crowds was a fellow supporter of the Alliance. The brief communication he had been provided with hadn't provided many details on who he was supposed to meet. All he had was a handful of names, with no faces to go with them and no physical description beyond the oh-so-helpful 'near human'. A card game caught Barton's eye and for a moment he entertained the ridiculous thought that he might win the cost of his ship on a hand of Sabacc. It was a pipe dream at best.

“...'s'it t'be?”

Blinking, Barton pulled himself out of the ludicrous fantasy and turned towards the bartender.

“Cup of caff, black – and.. a little help, if you could? I don't suppose you have any regulars here by the name of Ben Merasska?”

[Lyanie Quez]

Lyanie retrieved the half-emptied pint of beer she'd been working on from the table in front of her, gulping down a mouthful of the cold liquid, then replacing the glass back on the table. She relaxed when Ben's outrageous laughter cooled, and he apologized. The smile, the 'happy to see you' one, returned to her face. It was good to see her old buddy. It would have been easy to slip into a reminiscence of the old days, but then the inevitable 'What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?' question - or some semblance thereof - came tumbling out of him, still carrying a bit of the energy from his long laugh. Though, it was coming from Ben, and not some letch with one thing on his or her or its mind.

Ick. Thank the Force. She shuddered at the thought, and downed the remainder of her pint, signaling instantly for a refill.

"Hey, even girls like me like a drink once in a while." Not usually in a dive like this, though, if it can be helped - She finished in her mind, not bothering to even allude to the fact that the phrase was rather unfinished. "But really, I'm here to meet someone about a job. You?"

[Ben Merasska]

The bartender knew exactly who this man was looking for. He didn't say anything or even change his expression, though a few of the patrons turned to look at him with looks of mild incredulity, as if to say, 'What? You're looking for that guy?'

He pointed. Barton turned to look, and saw an animated man staring with shock at a young woman, his mouth half open.

***

Yeah, but not in dives like this, Lyanie, he thought, unaware of the parallel lines her mind was taking.

He gasped, at the moment his future Cap'n asked for him. He stared at Lyanie with dumbfounded surprise, and then grinned. "Well, that's good news, I think?" he glanced at Lyanie for confirmation, and she nodded. He grinned wider.

He reached into a pocket on the breast of his jacket, pulling out a folded flimsy. "So'm I. I'm supposed to be looking up..." he narrowed his eyes, and looked at the flimsy in different positions, trying to make out the blurred words on it. "Bar-Barton... Hamster? No, that's a smudge." He scratched at the crust covering the letters, and tried again. "Henn... Hennen... Heen... Hennin... Henning!"

He tossed the flimsy on the table in triumph. "I figure he'll find me though. I deserve a bit of an escape." He downed more of his own ale, remembering the almost-chance at the Nubian ship.

[Atton Kira]

Elsewhere on Nar Shaddaa...

"What d'y'mean, broken?"

The Verpine mechanic chitted at him, the strange clicks and whistles eminating from his mouthparts an incomprehendable jumble for the Corellian reporter. Reluctantly, he turned his attention towards the sour-sucking face of Sleazy, his CZ protocol droid. "He has repeated his statement that the entire drive system is irreparable," the droid stated, blandly. "A replacement unit will be required."

Atton grimaced. That would be costly, and would eat into his savings. Thank the Force for his inheritance: there was no way his meager earnings would have been enough to cover his exploits. "Order in a replacement, an' charge it t'my account," Atton instructed with a sigh, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How long will the repairs take?"

More chittering; the servos in Sleazy's body twitched periodically as he ran the language translation software. "Approximately four months, Master Atton."

The journalist blinked; the news had surprised him so much that he'd forgotten to berrate his droid for referring to him so formally. "Four months?" Atton queried, not entirely sure he belived what he was saying. All other problems aside, the prospect of spending four months trapped on Nar Shaddaa of all places was as close to Atton's worst nightmare as he could ever imagine getting. Assuming he managed to survive that long without getting killed, maimed or otherwise injured, the confinement would probably have driven him insane by then. He needed to do something. Anything.

Sleazy wasn't in the mood for providing helpful suggestions, however. "Indeed, Master Atton. In fact, one of the other Technicians believes that estimate may be a little optimistic."

Atton had to grind his teeth to prevent his jaw from dropping. "How can it possibly take that long to install a new engine?"

The droid's tone, though devoid of emotion, made it seem like the answer was obvious. "Imperial Customs efforts have increased along several key supply routes, as a response to Rebel activity. Because of the limited availability of components for the Baudo-class Star Yacht, there will likely further delays."

Frell. Atton could feel the disappointment slumping his shoulders. "We're in the middle of Hutt Space," he pointed out, a little desperation creeping into his voice. "Can't you find a second-hand drive outside of Imperial space?"

The monotone of the droid, mixed with the nervous chittering of the Verpine, sounded almost pittying now. "We shall endeavour to do so of course, Master Atton."

Atton let out a grunt. "I need a drink."

[Chaz de Coventina]

As she threaded her way through the crowd and up to the bar, Chaz was reminded again of why she preferred to spend her spare time at home with GNN. The press of various limbs against the finer parts of her anatomy made her skin crawl and she was going to go into asthmatic shock from all the stim smoke that hung thickly in the close air. It wasn't a lively place, per se, in fact the majority of the clientele had a particularly lifeless list to them but there was a perpetual buzz of conversation. It hummed below the tinny beat of some experimental neo-folk ensemble band. She wanted to rip her ears off.

Instead, the woman squeezed into an open space at the bar and set the appropriated pint down. The glass thumped heavily on the scuffed surface. It drew the attention of the bartender for a split second - his eyes flickered over, registered that there was no need for a refill, and slid away just as quickly. Chaz pushed the beer aside and lifted a hand slightly, motioning the barkeep with two fingers. He grunted. She cleared her throat.

"Excuse me, may I --" The woman was abruptly drowned out by the couple to the left.

"Well, that's good news, I think?"

Chaz paused and shifted her amber eyes to the pair a few feet away. The man was using his outside voice, weaving on his stool ever so slightly. One glance at his glazed eyes was enough to make Chaz roll hers.

Raising her voice, she leaned over the bar slightly and tried again. "May I get a tonic water, please?"

"Just th'tonic?"

"That'll do it." Chaz nodded and eased back. Her drink arrived mere seconds later and she passed over the appropriate credits. Now all she had to do was find an empty seat in a quiet corner and wait. She turned, sharp features pinched together as she scanned the room for a likely spot.

"Henn... Hennen... Heen... Hennin... Henning!"

Tonic water stung something fierce when it rushed through the nasal cavity. Chaz choked and clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying liquid everywhere. She turned to stare at the inebriated fellow and his companion, still deep in conversation. Had she heard right? Surely they weren't here to meet the same...

Wiping at her eyes, she approached the pair and offered a polite smile. It felt strange on her face, the muscles stiff from disuse. Chaz had the fleeting thought that she probably looked like a stroke victim.

"Excuse me, did you say you were looking for a Barton Henning?" She asked, trying for nonchalance. The way they looked at her let Chaz know that she'd probably missed the casual mark. By about six parsecs.

[Ben Merasska]

Ben looked up (oh, another pretty lady!), and his brow furrowed slightly as he took her in for the slight moment, his brows lifted in a slightly questioning expression. There was something about the girl that sparked his mind...

"My grandfather had a stroke when I was twelve," he said as he remembered. "Your expression looks just like his did for a while after. Only prettier."

He looked at his ale. Maybe he was more drunk than he thought.

"He was pretty tough. I've heard that sometimes you need to give those people CPR. Or was that a heart attack? Doesn't matter either way, 'cause I can't give CPR. I was always kinda confused by the breast thing. Or breast bone? Diaphragam? That doesn't sound right." He shrugged. There was silence for a moment, as all three tried to process his thoughts.

"Uh...what'd you ask again?" He asked, but before anyone could reply, answered himself, "Oh yeah! Barton Henning. No, I'm not looking for him. Waitin' for him. I've done enough looking for two lifetimes." Now a bit depressed, Ben took another gulp of his ale. It was almost gone, and not wanting to get incoherent, he decided that this would be his last one for the night.

[Lyanie Quez]

Lyanie was quite pleased to find out that her old friend was waiting for the same man that she was. It'd be good to spend time with him again. Another pint (only her second) replaced the one she had just finished, and she paid up for the previous one, and the one freshly received, indicating it would be her last. She wanted to be able to understand Barton Henning, and perhaps Ben later, if he were up for a bit of catching up and reminiscing. It'd be nice, in any case. Even if there wasn't really much to talk about on her end.

While Ben replied to the woman who had suddenly appeared at their table, Lyanie tucked into the new pint of ale, downing a third of it rather quickly. Then when the opportunity arose, she spoke as well.

"Me too. I guess since you're asking, you'd be waiting for him too, then?" She directed the question at Chaz, then figured something... maybe if they were all waiting for the same man, then it'd be a good idea to get introduced?

"Oh, I'm Lyanie Quez, by the way. This here..." she gestured to the man across from her. "...is Ben. And you are...?"

[Atton Kira]

Atton slipped himself into the bar, the surge of air from the open doorway lancing a path large enough to give him a few moments' respite before the noxious atmosphere had the opportunity to envelop him. The light behind him suddenly vanished as the hatch thunked closed; even the minimal light that filtered all the way down through Nar Shaddaa's high-rises and smog clouds had been enough to brighten the bar's dim interior. With the filter of Atton's polarized lenses draped over it all, the bar seemed even more dark and forboding.

On the plus side, there wasn't a Hutt stashed away in the corner, so the odds of suddenly dropping into some sort of Rancor-infested pit were a little lower than in some of the other establishments around the place.

Making a beeline for the bar, Atton ordered a brandy. What he wound up with was a pale green and slightly viscous fluid poured into the bottom of a cloudy mug; it looked like it was some sort of slime scraped from the buildings outside, but at least it smelt alcoholic, and that was the main thing right now. The barman had even gone to the effort of chucking in a few dry ice cubes for some added sparkle, although the ominous icy cloud that had sprung up and was spilling out of the glass over his fingers was a little disconcerting. Blowing away some of the mist and risking a sip, he was surprised to find the drink slightly fruity; the tiny exploding bubbles added by the evapourating gas accented the warmth of the alcohol as the drink lingered and fizzled on his tongue.

His pleasant surprise momentarily distracted him from his reasons for being in such a gods-aweful place, and allowed his mind to put his years as an Intelligence Analyst for the Republic and as an Investigative Journalist to work, sweeping the bar for any potentially interesting patrons. His eyes were drawn towards a trio of unlikely associates. One was clearly a spacer; he had the look about him, had consumed a quantity of alcohol that only a spacer would be stupid enough to drink, and had also been talking about his business somewhat loudly. He was joined by two women; the first of them radiated a pleasant warmth, as if happiness and optimism was oozing out of her pours. Something about her reminded him of a teacher he'd had back on Ord Varee. By stark contrast, the other looked brooding, as if someone had suspended an ion storm above her head; something about her seemed a little off as well, but Atton couldn't quite place it.

There seemed to be no connection between the three, save for one thing: apparently, all three were waiting for Barton Henning. Who the man was, and why they'd be waiting for him, Atton wasn't willing to guess. However, there was no way he'd allow himself to miss finding that answer. Twisting subtly in his seat, he settled himself down to observe with covert curiosity.

[Barton Henning]

Henning, Henning, Barton Henning.

It was... unsettling hearing his name like that, so many times. On Cloud City, it had been commonplace for almost everyone to know his name and face – but to come to an entirely unfamiliar place and still find himself almost the center of attention? It wasn't exactly a good way to keep a low profile.

Still, it made finding his contacts much easier than he had anticipated. Barton's past dealings with members of the Rebel Alliance had been few and brief. As far as he could tell, there was a policy of don't ask, don't tell in effect. Everything was need-to-know, and understandably so given how far-flung and tenuously linked everyone seemed to be. This meeting was no different.

Picking up his cup of caff, Barton decided it was time. He strode towards the table where Ben and the others were sitting. When someone looked up to acknowledge his approach, he smiled slightly.

“I think.. you're all expecting me?”

[Ben Merasska]

Ben nodded his greeting with a salute of his nearly empty ale glass, and a wide grin. It didn't seem new girl was the friendly sort though. Oh well, he'd dealt with worse. He sighed, wondering why there were uptight people in the world. When Lyanie giggled and the new girl glared at him, he blinked in confusion.

"I think you weren't supposed ta say that out loud, Ben," Lyanie said with a grin. Ben nodded in solemn agreement with Lyanie's wisdom. He look up to see a guy stopping right by their table. This place was getting a bit crowded in his opinion. That wouldn't do at all.

“I think... you're all expecting me?”

"No," Ben laughed and spoke at the same time, looking at the guy. He drained his glass of ale. "'Less your name's Henning, o' course. Then we just might be."

[Chaz de Coventina]

Ben's diatribe was met with a look of stony incredulity that didn't waver until he confirmed he was looking - or waiting, rather - for this Henning fellow. At that, both her eyebrows slowly arched upward and Chaz again offered her skewed version of a smile. What possible reason could there be for the both of them to be rendezvousing with the same man?

The three of us, she quickly corrected the thought as Lyanie introduced herself. Chaz found herself a little taken aback by the woman; it was rare to find someone so genuinely bubbly and indiscriminantly hopeful. Yet Lyanie appeared to be unwavering in her cheerfulness, enough of it packed into her little frame to buck up the entire cantina and then some.

"I'm..." de Coventina hesitated. "I'm Chaz. This is a rather serendipitous encounter, isn't it? All of us here for the same reason."

It was at that moment that said reason approached their table. Chaz visibly startled at the unexpected voice, and twisted in her chair to scrutinize the man behind her. Though there was a smile on his weary face, one couldn't miss the thin line of tension that coloured his stance. She silently sipped her tonic. Ben seemed more than able (and willing) to handle any conversation at this point.

[Lyanie Quez]

"I think you weren't supposed ta say that out loud, Ben."

The new girl, the third member to join the table, certainly wasn't of the friendly sort. She had an acidic quality to her but despite that, Lyanie knew she would still try to be friendly with her. To that end, she just offered a smile.

“I think... you're all expecting me?”

Lyanie's expression brightened more (if it were even possible) when Barton showed up at their table. Part of it was because it was good to meet the person you were going to be working for and the other was... well, the fact of the matter was he wasn't too bad looking either. Handsome, even. She stood up, pint in one hand, other offered forward in greeting.

"I'm Lyanie. Don't mind Ben's jokes. That's just... Ben." She offered the explanation, as women sometimes feel the need to explain everything. "And I think..." She paused, glancing from Ben, to Chaz, then back to Barton with her usual smile. "...yeah, I think we're all waitin' for ya."

[Barton Henning]

For what felt like a long moment, Barton didn't move, didn't say anything. How was one supposed to begin something like this? It was like being handed a grocery bag full of mystery ingredients and told that you had to turn what was inside into a three-course gourmet meal. He accepted the handshake from Lyanie and his smile grew a little, feeling encouraged by her cheery disposition.

There was a chair free at the table, so Barton lowered himself into it.

“Thank you.. all.. for coming today ,” he began. It was not the most rousing of beginnings. Then again, they weren't meeting under the most optimistic of conditions. The setting spoke volumes of the poverty that Barton, and perhaps the others too, were facing.

“Each of you came here.. to join a ships crew.. is that right?”