A/N: Part two here, set right after Revan & co. meet with Canderous in the Upper City Cantina and agree to get the codes from the Sith base. The title comes from one of Mission's optional lines: "Like I used to tell my brother—fast talk and slick words don't get the job done."
I don't own KotOR or its characters.
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"Fast Talk and Slick Words" (Mission, Zaalbar, Ensemble)
Taris
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Dinner was pastebread. Again.
"Four times this week?" Mission asked dejectedly. "Not that I'm complaining, but can't we go to the cantina and get something good?"
"I'm sorry, Mission, but we've no idea how much that droid is going to cost us, or what else we might need the credits for. I'm afraid we'll have to eat as inexpensively as possible until we leave the planet," Bastila said. For once I had to agree with her—put together, the five of us had 400 credits to our names, and no way to get food but paying outrageous Tarisian prices for it. The tough thing about being a friend to the downtrodden is that the downtrodden have trouble spotting you a decent meal.
Our lives had fallen into a routine over the last couple of weeks. As soon as the food was gone, Mission issued her usual Pazaak challenge to Carth, who, if he followed their nightly M.O., would play a couple of rounds before (correctly) accusing her of cheating. Mission would inform him that he was a delusional geezer and pretend to sulk for about three standard minutes before turning to Zaalbar, who when playing her cheated just as badly as she did. After a few sets, their game would bear only a nominal resemblance to Pazaak. While all this was going on, I'd fix up our weapons and armor, which I had started to find surprisingly relaxing. Ultimately we'd settle in for the night and Mission, Carth and I would have our standard argument about who should take the beds (Carth, by virtue of being not only the most invested, but also the highest-ranking and the most inclined to sulking, invariably won, if you could call sleeping in a chair winning). Carth would fall asleep in uniform pants and a shirt, which I considered progress, and I would drift off with the goal of not having any more strange dreams about Jedi fighting people in black masks. Bastila still didn't have much to contribute to this routine other than meditating and starting endless, fruitless discussions on how to get off-world. Also, she always got one of the beds.
That night, though, she had a mission. "As charming as this is, the sooner we retrieve those codes from the Sith military base, the sooner we can escape Taris. When are we going to get that droid?" she demanded.
"I'll go right now. It's light out; the place is probably still open." I stood up and reached for my vibroblade. Another five minutes of her oh-so-obvious disapproval and the only place on Taris I'd have any inclination to go would be the cantina. "You'd better stay here so the Sith don't spot you. Want to come, Mission?"
Mission dropped her side deck halfway through the shuffle, scattering cards all over the table; as an afterthought, she pulled a few spares out of her sleeves and set them on top of the pile with a brilliant grin at Carth. Carth gave her a deliberately tolerant look and said, "Just the two of you? Just because it's not dark yet doesn't mean the Exchange and the usual packs of drunks aren't already out, you know."
"Don't get yourself in a twist, gramps," Mission shot back, obviously pleased with herself for co-opting his catchphrase. "Big Z'll come with us, won't you, Zaalbar?" Big Z didn't answer except to head for the door.
"I'd advise against this. I don't agree with it, but a Twi'lek and a Wookiee strolling around the Upper City of Taris are bound to draw unwanted attention," Bastila said. "Which, need I remind you, we can ill afford."
I was starting to get irritated. The droid shop was a ten-minute walk. We were armed to the teeth. Here I was, just trying to get the kid out for a little fresh air, and the two of them were acting like we were going to slather ourselves in rakghoul bait and go lie down in the Undercity. The recruiter never told me this was what I could look forward to in the fleet.
"Look, we're just telling you to be careful is all," Carth said in his placating-the-inexplicably-angry-woman voice. I might've been imagining it, but I thought he was also trying to plead with his eyes; he probably wanted to get a break from our Jedi lord and master as much as I did. Not a chance, flyboy. If he was going to back her up on things like this, he deserved whatever he'd have to endure for the next hour.
"Thanks for your advice," I said brightly. "You two have fun while we're gone." Try not to bother the neighbors with your power struggles, I wanted to add but didn't. Feeling proud of my developing impulse control, I made for the door before it could crack. Zaalbar was already waiting in the hall.
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"Geez!" Mission exploded as soon as we were more or less out of earshot of the apartment door. "That Bastila sure is a pain, huh? I didn't think the Jedi were supposed to be that bossy."
Personally, I was getting the feeling that bossiness was the first thing they taught their apprentices. "Maybe they mellow with age."
"Nuh-unh. You know how you're always hearing your face will freeze that way if you frown for too long? If she doesn't lighten up soon, she's gonna get stuck with a shock stick up her butt forever. And then she and that geezer will be perfect for each other."
"His trust issues plus her power trips? They'd eat each other alive," I pointed out, maybe a touch huffily.
"You're being very hard on her," Zaalbar put in. "Being taken by slavers…it's a terrible feeling. It is not surprising that she's trying to feel in charge again. To regain control." It was the first thing he'd said all evening.
Mission and I glanced at each other. Neither of us had thought of it that way before, but we both knew that had been more than an abstract point for Zaalbar. Mission frowned thoughtfully. "Well, when you put it that way, I guess it kinda makes sense. But I still say it wouldn't kill her to let us get some decent food more often."
The main doors slid open and we were out on the streets, which were awash with the pink and gold light of the beginning of the sunset. The Sith had finally gotten around to cleaning up our escape pod earlier that day, and the corner outside the apartment building looked surprisingly empty without the familiar wreckage on it. People rushed by in all directions, but none of them were in such a hurry that they couldn't make time to slow down to stare at us—some out of the corners of their eyes, some openly, with mothers hurrying their gaping children past like we might try to eat them any second. The three of us started walking, pretending by tacit agreement that we didn't notice.
"You know where we're going, right?" Mission asked me. "'Cause I don't have a clue."
"I thought you and Big Z were practically the official Taris tour guides."
"Sure, if you go down a level or two. We didn't really get up to the Upper City much, especially not since the Sith took over and put those guards by the elevators. That guy by the Undercity's a real pushover, but up here…" She shook her head. "Anyway, unless you're a human with a lot of credits, there's not much to do here but get spat on, you know? The shops are the only interesting part."
Mission trailed off, looking beyond the edge of the walkway to the vast cityscape below. "Sure is pretty, though," she said quietly.
"Are you sure you want to leave?"
"No way, you're not getting rid of me! I mean, Zaalbar's life debt's gotta be fulfilled, and where Big Z goes, I go." She started swinging her arms idly as she walked, still staring off into the distance. "But what are we gonna do when we get out of here, anyway?"
Hell if I knew. But I answered, "Well, I did sign on with the Republic fleet, even if my first and only formal assignment ended in fireworks. I guess I'll be escorting Bastila wherever she needs to go, and she or Carth or whoever's in charge this week will give me my marching orders until someone gets around to giving me new ones." Or maybe I'd get stuck forever as part of Bastila's personal entourage, joy of joys.
"So I guess that priss is pretty important, huh?"
"'The key to the whole Republic war effort,' so I hear." Which still begged the question of why she'd specifically wanted me on the Endar Spire. Surely not because of my charm and eagerness to please.
Mission looked like she was about to say something, but if so I never found out what it was, because right then a strange voice snapped, "Well, well, looks who's dirtying up the streets today. An off-worlder, an alien dancing girl and a walking carpet."
One of these days I was really going to have to ask Mission how everyone knew I was an off-worlder, I decided. Maybe I wasn't projecting the Raging Asshole Vibes most of the Upper City natives gave off like a bad smell.
And this one stank. Literally (had he been swimming in a tank of Tarisian ale?) and figuratively. A Tarisian noble, with the pricey clothes and the cultivated accent to prove it (maybe that was how everyone knew). His face—arranged in a sneer that looked like it could be his default expression—just begged to be punched, even before he opened his mouth again and said, "I'd hate to be the droid that has to clean up the street behind that thing."
Worst of all, he was directly in our way, and striding closer until we were face-to-face. Actually, since he was a head or two taller than I was, it would be more accurate to say we were face-to-expensively-clad-chest. I didn't like it either way.
"Nice night," I said, trying to brush past him. "We'll just leave you to enjoy it."
He moved to block me. "I'd enjoy it a lot more if I had a Twi'lek girl to dance with me. I like the look of your slave, off-worlder; she'll go well with the décor in my bedroom. How much?"
Zaalbar growled, low in his throat, a sound that would have made the son of a bantha beg for his live anywhere a whole troop of Sith guards on patrol hadn't just come around the corner. A dozen, maybe fifteen of them. Damn, damn, damn. Had he seen them?
"She's not a slave. Also, we're leaving. It'd be a shame for things to get ugly during such a pleasant evening stroll," I said. Just in case he was slow on the uptake, I let my hand casually skim the hilt of my vibroblade.
"Oh, I don't think you want to go anywhere until I say you can leave, and I really don't think you want to threaten me. If you try either—or in fact, if I just decide I don't like your attitude, or your face, or the color of the sky—all I have to do is yell, and every Tarisian citizen on this street, not to mention that entire patrol, will be on you in seconds. If you're lucky, they'll just shoot you right here. Anything's better than getting banished to the Undercity, don't you agree?" He smiled, nothing nice about it.
They were crossing on the other side of the street. If I could just keep him talking until they passed— "You know, I feel it's only fair to warn you that dancing slaves are so passé in the rest of the galaxy these days. If you ever went on vacation with one, you'd be laughed right off the planet! The real intergalactic movers and shakers have moved on to more sophisticated entertainments, like—"
"Nice stalling. But it won't work." Gone was the smarmy smile, replaced by a much more dangerous-looking version of the sneer. "Now leash the carpet, off-worlder, and let's talk price."
At the time I thought it actually was about Mission, but when I looked back on it later, I changed my mind. If he'd just wanted a dancing girl, there were plenty of ways to arrange that on Taris, even during the blockade. What that guy really was after was power: the power to push us around, the power to get whatever he wanted the second he decided he wanted it, the power to feel big even though nothing about him merited it. And that was when I started wishing for some power of my own—the power to crush people like that like bugs.
I hope it's not foreshadowing too much to say that this was to cause me a whole lot of problems down the line.
Mission, who'd been quiet so far, finally exploded. "Keep talking like that and you won't have to worry about what the Sith try to do to us, nerf-herder! The last guy who called Zaalbar a carpet got squashed flatter than one. And I'm nobody's slave, got that?" The stares around us ratcheted up to eleven.
"Really?" Sithspawn smiled again and said in a sing-song voice, "Oh, guards…?" That time he was just bluffing, but when I didn't react he took a deliberately deep breath and got ready to do it again, louder.
We all tensed instinctively. He was right. He wasn't carrying any obvious weapons; Zaalbar could rip his limbs off and reattach his arms where his legs were supposed to be without even breaking a sweat. With luck and an armload of medpacks, the three of us might even be able to take out the patrol. But then we'd be three undesirables covered in blood in the middle of the street when the next guard came by, and we couldn't fight the whole city. And if the Sith ever got around to the asking-questions phase of their shoot-first-ask-questions-later M.O., the answers they'd get would lead them straight back to Bastila.
But if Mission and Zaalbar ran, they might be able to make it to the safety of the Lower City while the Sith were dealing with me. I was right on the verge of launching into some kind of stab-him-and-yell plan when Mission piped up again, loud and clear: "Hey, don't you have better things to do than get on our nerves? Like getting that payment over to Davik before somebody decides to put some holes in you?"
Sithspawn, Zaalbar and I all whipped around in one motion to stare at her. Sithspawn recovered—if that was the word—first and spat, "What are you talking about, you festering little tail-headed brat?"
"We ain't stupid! Your Pazaak deck's practically falling out of your pocket, and with that many cards, you've gotta be a serious gambler. Your clothes look expensive, but that style's been out up here for at least a season, so I figure you've fallen on some pretty tough times lately. But if you've got the credits to run around buying slaves off the street, you must be pretty flush right now. My guess? You borrowed credits from Davik to cover your gambling debts, and you just won big." Mission smirked triumphantly. "And trust me, Davik already knows. That's why he sent us to collect."
What? I shot her the most discreet what-the-hell-are-you-doing look I could manage, but the look she gave me back was as clear as an elbow in the ribs: play along. "My friend here's a big-time enforcer for Davik," she continued, jerking a thumb at me. I curled my lip and tried to look the part. "You don't want to mess with her."
"Calo Nord checks under his bed for me at night," I added for effect. Calo Nord had no idea who I was and would probably rather shoot me than find out.
"You're lying! I was told to find the collection agents at Javyar's Cantina!" Sithspawn all but clapped his hands over his mouth when he realized what he'd said. He was starting to panic. I might've felt bad for him if his chest hadn't still been right in my face.
Mission scrambled for an answer. "Oh—r-right now we're just giving you a friendly warning is all. But if we don't call Davik in the next three minutes and tell him you're on the way to Javyar's with the credits, he's gonna put a bounty on your head so big even the Sith'll take a shot at you!"
"He's never going to fall for that," Zaalbar rumbled in Shyriiwook.
"You're right, Big Z. I don't think we should call either," Mission said, cheerfully ignoring what he'd actually said. "That way we'll get first crack at him."
Sithspawn was struggling to regain control of the situation and failing miserably, possibly because he was starting to shake. The Sith guards were half a block past us, and it was clear by then that nobody else on the street was going to get involved. "I'm going," he assured us. "I'm going to the cantina right now, so you can tell Davik that—please. You three—you, uh, have a nice evening." And so saying, he took off in such a hurry that he almost knocked Mission down on his way past.
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We didn't start breathing easily again until he'd disappeared in the direction of the nearest Lower City elevator. Once he was well and truly gone, I finally let my muscles untense. "You saved our backsides there, Mission. I can't believe you could tell he owed Davik money just by looking at him."
Mission preened. "Yeah, well, it's kind of an art form, I guess. I don't mean to brag, but—"
"We saw him pleading with some of Davik's collectors in the Lower City Cantina last week," Zaalbar interrupted.
"Hey, I could've figured it out on my own! Griff taught me everything there is to know about finding a good mark." She went into full-on pout mode, but after a few seconds of sulking she stopped and looked thoughtful. "Huh. I guess he was right. Maybe fast talk and slick words can get the job done once in a while."
"Any day we don't have to gut someone is a good day," I agreed sagely.
The Sith patrol was in the distance by then, and the three of us started off again toward the droid shop. None of us said anything for a few blocks. I think we'd all started watching the passers-by on the street more closely, just waiting for one of the people staring at us to try to start something. Luckily, no one did. But the silence kept getting heavier, and I felt like I needed to say something to break it—apologize on behalf of my species, maybe. "I'm sorry you two had to listen to all that," I said.
Mission waved it off. "Oh, we're not angry, right, Zaalbar? I've got a feeling that real soon, that creep is gonna get what's coming to him, and I'm fine with not being around to see it. It's enough just to know."
Wow, that was almost suspiciously mature of her. "Has Bastila been getting to you with all that 'there is no emotion' mumbo-jumbo she keeps muttering about?" I asked.
"Are you kidding?" Her face lit up with a grin so broad it was probably visible from orbit. "I got his wallet."
She opened it upside down and poured credits into her free hand until they overflowed onto the pavement.
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When we burst back into the apartment—Mission waltzing through the door with the droid to the tune of her own self-satisfied humming, and me and Zaalbar almost staggering after her under the weight of all the dessert boxes we'd bought—even Bastila had to smile.