He should have known that Bosco would back out, the cowardly little rat. Piett closed his commlink with more force than necessary and tucked it back into his jacket, conscious of the eyes that watched him from the shadowy corners of the bar.

This place was legendary at the Imperial Academy, legendary and notorious. The first-years talked about it in whispers while the third-years bragged about that one time when they went inside…they saw a contract killer drop a severed head on the table in front of his client. Swear to the gods. They all saw it.

Bosco was the one who suggested that they become the only second-years in their class to go. He was the one who pushed for it. "I'll meet you there," he'd said.

Piett considered leaving. But what if none of other cadets believed him? He should buy something, so he had a charge receipt for proof.

The bartender was a heavyset Dug with half-closed eyes. He didn't even look up when Piett approached. "Pardon me. Could I have-"

"You'll have to speak up."

The low, lightly accented voice caught him off guard. How exactly he'd managed to overlook a man in combat armor was unclear to Piett, but there he was. His hair was dark, his skin was tan. His nose had been broken at least once. They might be close in age, but something about his posture and the graveness of his expression spoke of a different kind of maturity.

"I'm sorry?" Piett said, more flustered than he would have liked.

"He can't hear you," the man said, laying his helmet on the bar. He reached across and waved a gloved hand in front of the bartender's face. The Dug slowly raised his head.

"Eeettt?"

"I'll have a cold Mantellian. He'll have the same."

Now Piett was really and truly uncomfortable, because even a small-word boy knew what it meant when a stranger wanted to buy him a drink. "No. Thank you."

"Suit yourself. I'll drink it if you won't."

"I'm not here for-"

"What are you here for?" The man leaned one arm on the bar, but the sharpness of his eyes betrayed the casual stance. "The view?"

Piett swallowed his discomfort and tried to sound confident. "I heard this was a place of business. Where…certain services might be acquired." He lowered his voice. "I'm sure you understand, I can't say more."

Something flickered in the man's eyes. Something light and warm. The corner of his mouth drew up just slightly and Piett realized too late that he was staring far too openly at another man's mouth. Thankfully the bartender shoved two chilled glasses at them, giving him something to do.

Ugh. Cheap whiskey. Well, he could hardly feel indebted over that.

"You heard right," the man said after taking a sip from his own glass. "Most of the barves in here are looking for work, and they have a wide range of expertise. Whatever you need. A false ID. A banned substance. Your dick sucked off."

Piett nearly choked. He quickly set his glass down and cleared his throat, still trying to play it cool. "And what about you? Are you looking for work?"

"I am."

"What kind of service do you provide?"

"I find people. People who try hard not to be found." Golden brown eyes locked onto his. "I've been known to suck dick too. Just not for credits."

It took Piett a few dizzy seconds to formulate a response to that. "I suppose, in your business, there's no such thing as being too forward."

The mercenary shrugged in response. "No room for subtext either. You want this or you don't."

Piett was beginning to suspect that he did, in fact, want this. "I wouldn't have thought I was your type."

The man took a step closer to him, his voice dropping into a near growl. "You're exactly my type. Look at you. Your kriffing shirt is starched."

His hand smoothed over his chest self-consciously. "It's…regulation."

The man gazed back at him in silence for a second or two, then he tipped his glass up, finishing off his drink. "I'm going to wrinkle it."

Piett exhaled. "I believe you. Shall we go?"