The Cat and the Rat
Posted on Sun Dec 23rd, 2018 @ 11:41pm by Thane & Rusasha Djehuti-Lahan
3,319 words; about a 17 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter V: Unbound
Location: Nearby the Keynesian Arms Inn, Vlaand (Capital city of Caanus)
Timeline: Evening (local time), Immediately after "The Rundown" (Concurrent with Korriban mission)
OLD:
Ru drew the hood of her purple robe over her head noticing a few droplets of moisture having lightly tapped her on her slim feline nose and furry high-boned cheeks. Her green eyes followed Drel's departure and then she looked down as she dipped a paw under the collar of her burgundy red tunic and withdrew her bright green crystal pendant. She cupped it in her hands and it glowed faintly. She closed her eyes and focused on it, and she could almost hear the voice of her late mother speaking to her from some far off otherworldly realm tucked away deep within the impenetrable dimensions of the Force.
She tucked the pendant back underneath her shirt, started back out into the street, checked both directions, and made her way towards the Keynesian Arms where she would await the agents of Vuul.
NEW
Haschel awaited death, welcomed it even.
He was nomad his whole life, selfish to the core, a homeless refugee on a strange purple planet, and he was on death's doorstep. Normally, those of his rat-like species, the Ranat, were similar to common non-sentient rodents able to endure and carry various diseases without much trouble, but the germs on Caanus were a bit more cunning than other places he visited in the galaxy, and were able to affect him in ways he never felt on any other planet he squatted on before. His chest congestion and fever grew to the point where he was almost on the verge of giving up especially after not having enough scraps to eat and no clean water to drink for days. His little underground home he dug out for himself elsewhere in the city under an old abandoned apartment building had been lost when the foundation of the building gave out and the whole thing collapsed. It was an agonizing stroke of bad luck. Haschel lost all his money and goods, and all the frantic scratching and digging he did with his claws couldn't get him close enough to retrieve his things before he was caught by the authorities.
He had given up, ready to call it a life, when his scruffy rat behind was saved by--of all creatures in the galaxy--a well-dressed female feline. Haschel's instincts had injected him with a surge of terror when the Cathar woman knelt in front of him, but he was too weak to move or react. He saw her smile at him, strange green eyes showing no judgment and prejudice, and placed her paw on his head. Whatever she did, it was miraculous, and it didn't take long for him to feel gradual relief from his flu-like symptoms. She had given him a small leather-bound flask that had some kind of bitter liquid in it that almost made him gag, but it too offered some kind of relief that made the hunger pangs fade a bit. She had placed fifty credits in his hand, turned in the direction she had come from with a concerned look on her face, and left without a word. It was the happiest moment of his life in years. No one ever took pity on him like that before.
It wasn't long, however, that he saw a group of heavily armed goons walking past where Haschel sat in the alley adjacent to the Keynesian Arms Inn. He wondered if they were in pursuit of that caring Cathar, and so, with his strength restored, decided to follow them quietly into the tavern next to the Inn and see what was going on.
The Keynesian Arms was, in itself, an exercise in the timeless tale retold across the countless inhabited worlds of the galaxy. It was also commonly accepted that there were two classic iterations of the public house frequented by sentients of all taxonomic origins, these being the cantinas that were oft found in the lowers levels of city worlds and lining the corners of dusty and dry backwater worlds, or taverns, which were more often than not constructed from wood, decorated with fabrics and banners of various origins, and generally perceived as the less technologically-advanced of the two examples, favoured by worlds more in-tune with their historic origins.
The Keynesian Arms was of the latter category.
Carved and frosted glass, steamed up by the large number of off-duty workers and labourers within, decorated the heavy wooden doors that led into the tavern, as well as the thick walls spreading out at either side. Immediately, Haschel's sensitive rodent nose was struck by a cacophony of sounds and scents; liquor of various descriptions and sweet roasted meat slick with juices was grasped at and consumed by the gabbling patrons.
Almost exclusively, they were all Caanan Humans, and judging from their dialects, they were all Vlaand natives, happily jugging their beverages and discussing the mundane details of their daily lives. They seemed to pay no heed to the decorations around them, having long grown used to the objects dotted about.
Large wooden tables, both circular and square, were positioned oddly about the tavern, as if no attention was paid to proper order, and very few stools or seats were unclaimed. Less-than-discreet booths lined the edges by the windows, although some of the view was obscured by the lingering puffs of smoke from the locals' pipes, which were stuffed with what smelled to Haschel to be the current trend in smoking-weed: grimleaf.
The bar itself was situated at the back of the cluttered public house, manned as it was by the most obscure item within the Arms: the owner, Suob the Sullustan. So and simply named for his species, the diminutive man smiled and laughed easily with his customers, who had long-forgotten their mistrust of his alien origins after years of his proprietorship of the Arms.
Often playing off their deep-rooted prejudices and making no effort to conceal the stereotypical foreign accent they believed he should have, Suob the Sullustan was a cheerful figure, and had easily-established his business as a centre for the local community - even if that community was oft-times less-than-savoury.
Situated above the bar and Sullustan was also Suob's pride and joy; two long repeating slugthrower rifles with hugely-enlarged flared muzzles crossed one another at an off-angle, making an imperfect 'X' shape that would bother the more anally-minded observer. Although they had not been there when Suob had come to own the Arms, the small offworlder had ultimately decided it was not appropriate such an establishment go without some form of namesake, and with the patrons not being the sort to challenge or understand such details, Suob had - being a silent cynic at heart - decided to play on the tavern's name and embellish the tales told about it (which were often changeable, dependent on what night it was or mood Suob was in when asked).
Tonight, though, he was eyeing one particular customer with a pronounced wary interest, mindlessly cleaning the same tankard for five minutes longer from when it was cleaned, for he and the Ranat were not the only non-Humans in the Keynesian Arms that stormy night.
Haschel made a happy statement with a loud, obnoxious belch after enjoying a hearty pint of Suob's mead which was only slightly better than the bottom barrel house grog. "Oooh, this makes Haschel sooo skeechy. Hee hee! Good honey taste. Good times!" Meanwhile, his sensitive ears were fixed in the direction of the two men that were pretending to be casual, but were clearly eyeing where the Cathar lady was seated.
"She's a bloody Jedi," murmured one of the nervous men. "We can't take her on our own."
"Afraid of one little pussycat are ye?" muttered the other. "I got it covered. Sarge is sending in more muscle. Place is surrounded. She can swing her little magic baton around all she wants. One shot, and the cat's in the bag."
This gave the Ranat huge concern about what was about to go down. He reserved in his head three places he could instantly leap to for cover if all hell started to break loose. Nevertheless, he kept jovially playing his part as just another uninvolved silly hobo. "Haschel can pay for room tonight!" the Ranat gleefully showed his handful of credits to Suob with a toothy con artist's grin. "Lucky day! I can pay for good bed! Soft, soft pillow too, yes? You have room?"
"Hmm?" The Sullustan eyed around himself for a moment, as if he had only heard the last of the bantam patron, and then proceeded to make a big effort to not notice him, being the only other sentient in the room shorter than the landlord himself. "Little Master Haschel!" He greeted the Ranat, finally placing the over-clean tankard down. "A room, you say?" Shining black eyes filled with natural mirth examined the vagrant offworlder, whom he held an honest but discreet degree of sympathy for - not that he let his better-paying and native patrons know.
"Oh, I dunno if we have any Ranat-sized rooms available," Suob teased, before his attention was drawn behind Haschel as he mindlessly-continued speaking, although the humour and focus left his voice. "You'd have to... be paying full price..."
Haschel made a short, irritated lip-sucking sound against his long bottom incisor teeth. His ears drooped a bit and he turned away in disgust. "Okie...Haschel will just sleep at Dunmire's. Old beds. Nice roof. Better food. They don't steal from poor Ranat."
He hopped off the bar stool and resumed his performance of a drunk (he was tipsy though) little bum and sauntered over in towards the two men as they started to approach the nice rich-looking cat lady with the metal stick hanging from her belt. He wondered if the stick was some sort of blackjack for bonking people on the head. Very useful for late night burglaries. He wondered if that's how she got such nice clothes.
"Hey! Watch it ya limp mangy rat-thing-wotever-you-are," Growled one of the men that Haschel intentionally bumped into.
"Haschel so-so-sowwie...* hic *," he begged drunkenly whilst innocently waving one hand at the hired thug while keeping his other hand strategically behind his back with the pilfered prize he deftly acquired.
The man stamped a foot towards the Ranat and feigned a motion like he was going to hit him.
"Ayieee! No hurts Haschel! I go! I go!" he exclaimed in convincing fear and scurried back the other way out the front door.
"So uncivilized," Rusasha chided the approaching men with a disgusted shake of her head. "Do you pick on the homeless for fun, or is that your professional behavior?"
"A lil' from column aurek, a lil' from column besh," the lead man said with a shrug, a few greasy strands of dark hair tumbling down from beneath his oddly-perched and hole-ridden flatcap as he drew menacingly closer to the seated Jedi.
Immediately, the hubbub of the nearby patrons began to die away as the trio of armed men, supported as they were by a heavily-tattooed female with bright red hair at their rear, began pulling at their longcoats and vests to reveal a variety of blunt and sharp instruments concealed on their person. Standing behind the bar, Suob's cheeks begin wobbling in protest at the impending conflict brewing within his establishment.
"Don't you be starting any mess in here!" He shouted across to them, his accent becoming thicker as his demeanour grew more strained. "If you don't clear, I'll be calling the grimmies*!"Already, the Sullustan was looking to reach for under his bar.
"Do it, flaphead," hissed the brightly-haired woman, spitting a thick glob of chewing leaf-stained phlegm in the barman's general direction. A lopsided smile, full of avaricious malice (but very few teeth), was offered to the alien. "They ain't gonna do kriff about us, are they?" Suob, after a few moments' pause, slowly brought his hands back above the bar in response, visibly gulping as the reality of what the woman sunk back down into him with his brief smattering of courage.
The man who had first spoke to Ru gave a dry laugh, which was quickly followed by a harsh cough and a smile as toothless as his comrade's. He pulled a long metal bar from his patchwork pantaloons and let it fall on the Jedi's table with a hefty clunk. Bits of dried blood decorated the rusty weapon's many dents and grooves, and an aura of misery seemed to accompany the bar within the Force.
"So, what's it gonna be, darlin'?" He asked, leaning forward on the table, his breath flooding over towards the Cathar woman. "Nice an' easy like, or are we gonna be making a mess of these 'ere poor bastards?" The surly Caanan hoodlum threw a thumb at another table of patrons. "See, th'boss is mighty itchy to see you. Be a shame to have to have muss up that fur o' yours, what with the rain an' all."
Ru stood up slowly, traded glances at both men with narrowed eyes, and then let her lips curl into a smirk. "I don't respond well to ultimatums. But let's not waste anymore time. No need to keep all your nervous mates waiting in the cold outside. Take me to your leader."
"'Ere, hark at 'er!" The man mocked, throwing a thumb at the Jedi and turning to his friends with a toothy smile. "Take me to yer leader! Ha!"
"Yeah, yeah. Real corny," said another dismissively, pushing forwards to be the one beside Rusasha. Without any preamble, the heavy-handed goon began thrusting his hands into the Cathar's personal space, patting her down, presumably seeking out any weapons on the woman. Beside him, the first man wore a lascivious grin, clearly some backwards pleasure from the act.
Ru rolled her eyes with irritation at the pervert and cooperated with the invasive search.
There is no emotion, there is peace, she recited the Jedi Code in her head. There is no passion, there is serenity...
The last time she had been subject to a frisking was on Nar Shaddaa when she was on Zenarrah Sozo's trail as part of her first solo mission as a Jedi Shadow. Back then she had been undercover as an ordinary club-goer, was unarmed, and wore a tight spaghetti strap blue dress that felt like rubber with a high cut just below the thighs. It was an embarrassing cover that worked, and the bouncer was at least respectful with his frisking, but this Caanan was worse than the rear end of a Gamorrean when he decided to briefly grope one of her breasts much to the delight of the man eyeing her with sniveling delight. She wanted this to proceed smoothly, and present herself as a willing hostage to Lord Vuul, but that touch was the line most thoroughly crossed.
She grabbed the man's wrist with teeth barred and a vicious scowl. With a heavy Force push, her Jedi discipline went right out of one of the Keynesian Arms' windows along with the soldier that was searching her person. The smashing of glass, the harm inflicted on the man just doing his job, and not knowing the strength of her power when used out of anger immediately filled her with regret. She was already failing Master Sotah's trust in her to be the Jedi she was meant to be.
"That bitch!" Shouted the first of the goons, and beside Ru the woman reached for the slugthrower slung about her back, already cocking and priming it to fire when the little group's leader raised his hand along with his accented voice. "No! The boss wants 'er alive; no shootin'!"
The woman flashed her teeth in a wide grimace, before spitting again, only this glob was of a slightly more reduced size than the last. Although she lowered the weapon, she locked eyes with Ru, the red lines of alcohol-strained blood vessels stretching across her pale blue eyes into the irises like angry rivers.
Although the Cathar had now calmed herself, despite the sudden previous outburst, the woman was still happy to take advantage of the Jedi's good nature, and threw one solid fist straight into Ru's slight gut, causing her to double over. However, in the near distance, the sound of whistles being blown could be heard, as well as the thrumming of speeder engines and sirens growing louder, drawing away the attention of most of the group still standing.
"Less lollygagging, more work!" The group's lead henchman barked, shoving the woman out of the way and drawing a stun blaster, which he soon levelled straight at the young Jedi's delicate furry face, which was now looking back up at him from the ground, defiant yet serene. If he had any true fears about the Jedi or the incoming authorities, his grizzled features betrayed nothing as three halos of light erupted from his weapon and consumed Rusasha's consciousness.
Haschel, peeking around the corner from the alley, steepled the digits of his forepaws together as he watched the hairless Vuul monkeys in uniform carry the unconscious feline lady away to their speeder vehicle. The Ranat shook his head and walked away back down the alley to where he had lain dying a short time ago. Such was life, he figured with a shrug. Wasn't his fault she went and got stupid with her magic powers. Cats...always the same, especially the females. So crazy, even the Jedi ones too apparently. Hmm...maybe not as crazy as female Ranats. Oy yee, scary!
The Cathar people he encountered in the past always made his fur raise on end instinctively. It was the unique scent they gave off, an old vestigial pheromone that made Haschel feel like a potential snack. Better to be rid of one of their kind, especially one that could kill with the wave of a hand. And yet...she saved his life. A silly drunk homeless furball with years of adventures and theft behind him, and nothing to show for it. He had no idea that he was on the verge of total liver failure with only hours left to live, probably still needed further medical attention, but he was already starting to feel more alive than he had in weeks. A cat and a rat, two natural enemies, and now the rat was feeling torn with guilt about seeing the cat in the hands of those bad dudes.
He knew where the Vuul estate was (everyone in the city did, even the few visiting tourists and foreign diplomats), knew the ins and outs through the sewers, and probably would have to chew and dig his way through some duracrete to get to the more secure parts of the mansion. It was stupid to consider a rescue attempt, sure. Haschel was always a dummy, or at least that's what he was told his whole life, but he was a damn fine little pilferer and proud of it. He pulled from a pocket in his coat a security key card that he swiped from the belligerent Vuul guy he bumped into in the pub. From under the coat he drew a perky little hold-out blaster pistol his stole from an exposed ankle holster from the Vuul guy that got flung out the window like so much trash. It looked like one of those cheap EC scout models rehashed over and over again for civilian use for centuries. It had been a long time since Haschel held a proper gun. It felt really good. Made him feel like a young buck again. Maybe now he could be the hero that saved a Jedi.
He hoped there was a really good reward.
At least one hundred credits.
That'd be like five whole gallons of cheese soup!
TBC
*grimmy/grimmies = colloquial term for the Grimmfellows, the constabulary that polices the Caanan capital
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