As Prymax made his way through the crowds of Coruscant lowlifes toward one of the many cantinas in the undercity, he reviewed everything over in his head. Jenyin and Reyzeb were safe in the parked speeder, ready to take off at a signal from him if necessary. Prymax had left it to Jenyin to tell Reyzeb about Meraven's death; being sympathetic and comforting people were not on the list of his strong points. A brief image flashed through his mind of his friend, lying on the floor of the Jedi Temple, using the last of her dying strength to give him her lightsaber as a token of trust. He had called Meraven his vod'ika, his little sister… Thinking about Meraven brought on an aching feeling in his chest, but he quickly pushed that aside and turned instead to the task at hand.
The Snapping Septoid was one of the more famous cantinas in the Uscru district, meaning that it attracted a wide variety of customers, from uppercity diplomats to lowlife death stick dealers. As Prymax scanned the occupants of the cantina, a scantily clad female turned to wink at him and smile provocatively. Prymax ignored her; he wasn't looking for pleasure tonight - or any other night, for that matter. He was looking for a spacer.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he scanned the motley crowd for possible pilots-for-hire. He already had in mind the type he needed: someone who was not prone to being drunk (as too many spacers often were), could keep his mouth closed, asked no questions, and, above all that, didn't require much pay. Looking around, however, he realized that half of the people there didn't even fit in the first category; the majority of the beings there looked at least a little drunk. He began walking in the direction of the bar, hoping the bartender on duty would be able to recommend someone for the job.
The bar was packed with people, and Prymax saw that it would be difficult to get the busy bartender's attention unless he bought a drink. Just as he tapped the shoulder of one of the people seated at the bar to ask if she could make room for him, something whipped around and lashed him in the face.
Prymax, caught off guard, staggered back and bumped into a large hairy being who cursed and shouted roughly, "Hey, watch it!"
After muttering a quick "sorry," Prymax turned back to locate what had just hit him, hoping that the offending person was not looking for a fight.
He found, to his surprise, a very apologetic-looking human, quite unlike the hulking beast he had disturbed earlier. "Oh, I am so sorry; my hair must have whipped you when I turned around." It was the being he had tapped earlier. In the poor lighting, Prymax could make out only a few of her features. Her wild-looking hair was tied in a long ponytail – which did look rather like a many-stranded whip – but frizzy stray strands which caught the light formed almost a halo around her head. She was short, almost a full head shorter than him, and wiry-looking, even though she couldn't be any older than seventeen. Her mouth was set in a sheepish smile.
When she actually saw clearly whom she had struck, though, her expression changed quickly. Emotions flashed across her face and, Prymax felt, in the Force, as if she was trying to decide which one to use: First surprised recognition, then anger, and then a strange sly look. Her face finally settled back into the friendly smile it had worn earlier.
Prymax was slightly disconcerted at the quick emotion changing, but he sensed that now was as good a time as any to ask for information, so he asked her, "Do you know where I can find a spac-"
She obviously hadn't heard him speak in the noise of the cantina, because she cut in swiftly with "You know what? Let me buy you a drink to make it up to you for hitting you." She motioned briskly for the bartender, said quickly "Ne'tra gal," and held up two fingers. He nodded, and in a few seconds was back with two glasses of the spicy-sweet black ale that was a favorite of Mandalorians. She handed one to a rather surprised Prymax and walked to a more secluded booth in the corner, motioning for him to follow. Prymax noticed that all her motions were with mercurial speed, yet she maintained a smoothness throughout, never spilling a drop while moving through the crowd. He vaguely remembered that someone he knew had this sort of motion, but he couldn't remember who.
Once comfortably seated at the small booth, the girl took a long sip of her drink. Prymax chose to observe her face in the better light. The girl had dark eyes like his own, but, unlike his opaque mask, her eyes were alive with emotions. Prymax had a nagging thought in the back of his mind that he had seen her somewhere before…
Noticing that he hadn't touched his and was instead intently studying her face, she said with a smile, "Drink up! You know what they say: Ne'tra gal mesh'la, jat'isyc, bal, wayii, jahaal'got! Black ale looks good, tastes good, and – by golly – it does you good."
Prymax was again taken aback by this sudden burst of Mando'a, the language of his people. Was he really being that obvious? "What makes you think I'm Mando'ade?" he asked.
She shrugged. "It's pretty easy to tell. Mandalorians have this air about them that makes them different, and certain things that tip you off; you know, things like holding your chin higher than others, cold, passive looks, wary eyes…" She broke off to do an exaggerated imitation of a Mandalorian that made Prymax smile dryly.
Calming down a bit, she said, "So what can I do for you?" and then, almost as an afterthought, "The name, by the way, is Alanti. Alanti Sharpe, to be precise. What's yours?"
Prymax started to say his name, and then caught himself. "Atin," he said, giving her his surname.
Alanti frowned quizzically, and then her expression changed to one of laughter. "'Stubborn?' Your name means 'stubborn'?"
"That's not exactly what it means. Basic is so… basic."
At this, Alanti laughed again.
"More accurately, I'd say it means 'tenacious,'" he finished, though he was not really paying much attention; he was at the moment somewhat preoccupied. So, this girl not only knows Mandalorian phrases, she can also translate the language. He frowned; not many aruetiise, foreigners, could understand Mando'a. "How is it that you know Mando'a?" he asked.
Alanti shrugged, "I used to work and occasionally live with some Mando mercs," she said, using the slang term for mercenary. "I picked it up here and there. But back to the topic; what is it that you need?"
"A pilot," Prymax replied shortly. Then, realizing that it probably was not enough information for Alanti, he continued, "Three passengers, not much luggage. I need someone dependable, who can keep his mouth shut and won't ask for a lot of money."
After another quick burst of laughter (she laughed often, Prymax noted), Alanti grinned. "This must be your lucky day, because you're looking at your pilot."
Prymax felt a sense of unease. There was a whole list of reasons not to taker her on. She was too young, she knew too much, and words seem to flow from her mouth as easily as gal from a buy'ce. Still, with the meager amount of money he had to offer, she might be the only person who might be willing to take the assignment. He decided to let the Force decide.
Covering his motive by taking a long swig of his drink, he reached out to Alanti's mind with the Force. He felt nothing particularly unusual about her, and certainly no Dark Side feelings. Actually, he sensed many good things: confidence, quick-mindedness, and maturity beyond her years. But there were two things that concerned him. One, he felt an undercurrent of intent, something he could not quite place, but he assumed she had ulterior motives. At least she wasn't openly hostile. Two, he realized that she was at least somewhat Force-sensitive. Her Force presence stirred a memory, but before he could grasp it, it had slipped away again. He decided not to pay it much attention; many people he knew had similar Force presences.
Finally putting down his glass, Prymax asked, "How many credits do you want?" He winced when he heard the number. They bartered back and forth for a few minutes, until Prymax had lowered it to a price he thought he could pay. Alanti had been surprisingly easy on him; so he decided to push it farther.
"I don't have any money on me, but I do own a speeder that's worth way more than your price. Would you be willing to take that as pay?"
Alanti frowned, thinking. "I'll need to see it first, and even then, no guarantees."
"You will accept the speeder and nothing more," Prymax gestured slightly with his hand to attract her attention as he attempted a Force mind trick.
Alanti got up from her seat. "Don't try any tricks on me" - she abruptly leaned forward and whispered in his ear – "Master Jedi." Just as quickly, she returned to her former position, leaning back with the smug smile of someone who had just won a game of sabacc against impossible odds.
That was it. Her trump card was on the table. Now Prymax had to take her; she knew he was a Jedi. With Contingency Order 66 in play, the Jedi's hopes of survival dangled on a single thread, and Alanti was holding the scissors. He had only two options; he could kill her, or he could hire her and work out what to do with her later. He opted for the latter.
He feigned calmness over his defeat, and rose from his seat as well. His face was a cold mask, and his tone of speech suddenly became formal. Instead of admitting his defeat with an "Okay, you've got the job," he skipped forward.
"I'll take you to the speeder now, if you don't mind. I'd like to get this done as soon as possible."
"Certainly, I understand." As they walked out together to meet with Jenyin and Reyzeb, Alanti smiled secretly to herself. The job was secured. Soon, she would be able to achieve her own goals.