Mack the Knife

Posted on Tue Nov 13th, 2012 @ 1:16pm by Morgo Le'Shaad
Edited on on Wed Nov 14th, 2012 @ 9:03am

2,469 words; about a 12 minute read

Chapter: Chapter II: Era's Dawn
Location: The Marble Cellar, Coruscant
Timeline: Late, Day Four (Evening- Coruscant Local Time)

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Morgo didn’t bother to face the man who’d just sidled up beside her at the bar counter, instead sipping from her glass of honey-colored wine. She let it coat her tongue and slide smoothly down her throat. There was no reason to let whoever he was spoil good liquor. This place was not a cantina, nor was it a common bar. This place was clean and respectable…. and it was quiet. The lone musician in the corner clunked out single notes and tired jazz tunes. Morgo enjoyed the quiet. Casting her pale eyes about the place, she studied the neatly dressed patrons so caught up in their important discussions, pleased that no one seemed to care whether or not this man saw her somewhere before. Force knows she didn’t.

Morgo sipped from her tumbler and it burned deliciously on the way down, “You must be mistaken, my friend.” She assured, low and smooth.

“No I’m sure I know you from somewhere.” The man insisted in such a friendly voice, so obviously fake that Morgo had the foreign impulse to laugh. It brightly bubbled up in her chest before Morgo brutally pushed it back down.

She frowned. That was odd.

Carefully swirling the liquor in its glass and watching it closely, Morgo regarded it with a new suspicion. Perhaps this drink was stronger than she was led to believe.

….And still, the man’s uncomfortably hot breath puffed on the side of her face.

Irritated, Morgo set her tumbler down and swiveled around on her chair to face the man, letting her eyes travel from his disheveled brown hair, to his pleasant but scarred face, to his grease stained and wrinkled shirt, to his wooden sandals and unclipped toenails, yellowing at the tips. Morgo wrinkled her nose.

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Oh but you see, I have seen your face somewhere, missy,” he said, voice taking on a sinister edge. The man slid his hand onto the counter between them, turning his palm up to reveal a sleek little silver holopad . It blinked to life and Morgo found herself staring at her own face.

The man chuckled, leaning forward, “Did you know you have a face beautiful enough to be worth 500,000 credits?” he sneered.

If memory served her right, the holo-picture was from around two years ago, when Morgo’s cheeks were slightly little rounder and her eyes a little brighter. At 25 Morgo looked positively prey-worthy. An easy 500,000 credits.

She remembered that she’d been taken by surprise, fresh out of the lab in her white coat—hence, the blank face and slightly larger eyes. But living Force… it was a terrible picture, and Morgo cringed at the thought that this was the portrait the entire galaxy was coming to know her by. Below it circulated bright white letters in Aurebesh. Morgo didn’t need to read them to know what they said.

“It’s worth at least 50 times that, I assure you.” Morgo gave her own face a passing glance and turned her pale eyes onto the bounty hunter, gesturing to the price floating around in the hologram, “That’s just my family being stingy. You really should ask for more.”

“Shut your face and put your hands out in front of you.” The man snapped, suddenly crowding Morgo.

“Mind the drink.” She said flatly.

The barbarian sneered and swiped her tumbler clean off the counter, fine golden liquid sloshing wastefully onto his arm and onto the floor. The glass shattered brightly against the floor.

“Kriff your drink!”

Now , the bar turned to look at the two of them, more bothered than curious about the commotion. This wasn’t a cantina where such things were as normal as breathing. Morgo’s face twitched in annoyance.

“This is how it’s going to work,” the man smiled menacingly, “You’re going to stand up, put your hands out in front of you, and I’m going to cuff you. If you try to hit me, I’ll break a finger. If you try to escape, I move onto bigger bones—got it, darling?”

Morgo grimaced, “No pet names. Please.”

“Now!”

Morgo scoffed, “Force, sit down before you fall down.”

The man’s face turned to a fascinating shade of purplish-red, “Look here, you’re in no position to—”

“I’ve got a blaster aimed at you testicles right now.” She said, sounding bored with life, letting the sleeve of her cloak draw back enough for him to see the tip of the barrel, “So unless you want me to blow the little sir and the twins off right now, plop one of them into my drink and toast to your many children, never to be born ,” Morgo arched an eyebrow at him, “I suggest you sit down.”

The man stood frozen, quite possibly breaking a sweat. But as he sat in the chair beside her, watching the small palm sized blaster aimed perilously at the family jewels, he began to reach into his jacket.

Morgo pushed the safety off of the blaster, “Put away the cuffs, you kinky bastard. You’re not going to arrest me.” Turning her eyes to the bartender and nodding, the Rodian set about pouring two peach colored drinks and pushed them cautiously towards her. With her free hand, Morgo set a glass in her would-be captor’s hands and picked up her own, toasting him mockingly, “You’re way out of your jurisdiction I’m afraid.”

“How did you…” His dark hair fell into his square face as the man’s eyes widened, expression turning to stone.

“If you were a deputy from around these parts, you’d be wearing your uniform. And yes, you are a deputy. Everything you’ve done so far this evening has proven that.”

“What?” the man asked dumbly. Morgo resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“You came into this cantina after I did, approximately 10 minutes after—which I must say was very clever of you. It’s long enough for your target to not suspect you, but short enough that you wouldn’t lose them.”

Morgo gave him a smile that she often gave to children who’d just learned to count their numbers.

“But I digress. When you finally entered this bar, you came to the counter and ordered tea. Now…” Morgo leaned forward and waggled her brows, “…this told me one two things: either you were some kind of official still on duty and were therefore unable to drink alcohol—or you were here, not for the drink, but for the company. Yet considering that you did not once look around in search of an available female…or male, I could only assume the latter. That you are either an official still on duty—or you are so entrenched in the habit of not drinking on duty, Mr. Deputy, that you simply just couldn’t.” Morgo batted her lashes like an asshole, “At least not while you were on the very important job of capturing me.”

Morgo paused to look at him critically, sniffing him. The man flinched back, half embarrassed and half horrified, “But judging by the terrible state of your unsightly clothes: greasy, worn, tattered and soiled…you are in dire straits, rather than on an official job. By the stink I smell off you, I know that this ensemble is no clever disguise—your own unwashed body tells me that the clothes fit the man.”

Morgo leaned back to watch the man shrink a little, suddenly self-conscious but hiding it valiantly. Poor sap.

“And so I couldn’t help but notice that while you were over there nursing your cup of spiced tea,” Morgo paused to gesture at his previous seat, “that you repeatedly reached into your jacket to look upon a photo—a child, if my eyes serve me correctly. Am I right?”

The man stared at her, uncertain. Morgo took the liberty of reaching for the tattered lapels of his jacket, deftly slipping her fingers into the breast pocket and pulling out the primitive paper photo. The boy in the photo was a bright eyed child with golden hair and a ruddy complexion, all on a cherubic face.

A beautiful boy.

“Every time you did so, I caught a glimpse of your little hidden badge—confirming my earlier theory. This is your son, is he not?”

The man nodded, something soft passing over his face which Morgo assumed in all likelihood was parental love. She couldn’t be sure however. After all, she’d actually never seen it before. The gentle expression was closely followed by something she actually did recognize: deep regret. Morgo catalogued that piece of information away for future reference.

“Had you actually been drinking alcohol, I would have assumed that your son was either tragically dead or missing. Since you so obviously weren’t drinking, Mr. Deputy, I concluded that you were looking at him to remind yourself of something— purpose perhaps.” She mused softly before chuckling lowly, “You were mustering what you could to confront me, weren’t you?”

Morgo would have laughed if didn’t think that it would provoke the deputy in front of her, who was looking so dreadfully pathetic and panicked that Morgo refrained from mocking him.

“And so, from the haunted expression on your face right now, I can guess that my bounty will pay for whatever it is you need for your son, medication maybe…” Morgo paused, quietly considering the man, “…or perhaps even food.”

Leaning closer, Morgo noted that the man would not look at her, a shame belying his stiff expression. Morgo lowered her voice, speaking softly. In times of vulnerability, displays of sympathy work like a charm.

“Though many are, you’re not here for the glory of capturing me, are you? You’re here for the bounty it would give you. Am I wrong?”

Morgo waited as the man said nothing, her long clean nails tapping gently on the glass, enjoying the bright clinking sound it made. Looking about the small clean bar, nobody was really watching them anymore. Turning her eyes to the short little bartender cleaning individual glasses with a rag, Morgo absently wondered just what gene was responsible for a Rodian’s hobnailed skin—or what evolutionary function such pebbled skin served millennia ago. Or perhaps they still served a purpose….

“No,” the deputy finally admitted at length, “you’re right. Everything you’ve said is right.”

“I usually am.” Morgo said levelly, not boasting but simply stating a fact. Flicking a few stray strands of her blonde hair out of her eyes, Morgo snapped her long fingers, her would-be captor also snapping to attention, clearly chagrined with being treated like a dog. Morgo ignored him, her gray eyes narrowing, subtly threatening.

“Now listen to me very carefully Mr. Deputy. You’re going to leave this cantina and forget you ever saw me or ever went looking for me. You’re going to walk out that front door and never look back. You’re going to go to the hyperspace station, buy a ticket and go back to your son, who needs you right now, understand? You’re going to do all that or your son is going to end up fatherless, understand?”

The threat to his son seemed to ignite the man’s fierce courage again as he stood and drew himself to his full height, towering over Morgo’s seated figure.

“And why would I do that? You’re not the only one with a blaster, darling.”

Just for that endearment, Morgo resisted the urge to melt his face off from his skull right then and there, instead, closing her eyes and considering her options, her thick dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.

Opening her eyes again, from the moonlight from the window, the man noted that her eyes were ridiculously pale.
Without warning, Morgo grabbed the deputy’s left hand under the counter, slapping a stack of credits into his sweaty palm before he could even register what was happening, or could wonder where the hell that’d come from. When she spoke, her voice had lowered to a fierce whisper.

“That’s 250,000 credits Mr. Deputy, for you and your son. Half of my bounty and more than you make in two years—more than enough for you to forget you ever saw me, don’t you think?” Leaning back into her chair, Morgo’s eyes were half-closed, laziness betrayed by the sly watchfulness of her pupils, mere pinpoints in a sea of icy colorless crystal.

“Unless you want to gamble that you can draw your gun faster than I can pull a trigger.”

But the man look thoroughly confused, slightly dazed and maybe even amazed, his brow knitting. Morgo could tell from the crease already there on his prominent brow that the man often worried, “But…but why ? Why not just shoot me and keep your money?”

Morgo narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like it when people tried to figure her out, tried to guess her motives. It made her feel as if she was the one on the table, being dissected. Not exactly an experience she ever wanted to revisit.

“You’d make a mess on my boots.” She explained. Primly crossing her long legs, Morgo smiled like an open wound, “Now get out of my sight.”

The man scurried out the door and Morgo followed him with her eyes. When he’d disappeared entirely Morgo pushed the toe of her white boot into the seat beside her, smoothly swiveling herself around to face the bartender. Picking up the empty glass, Morgo tilted it towards the Rodian, who was eyeing his patron with some amount of trepidation. He’d quit his job at the creepy cantina for a reason….

“Another, if you don’t mind.” And Morgo smiled beautifully at the Rodian male, the corners of her painted lips kicking up. All at once, the bartender’s earlier anxiety seemed to melt away, and he confidently poured her a flute full of prized Blossom Wine from Naboo, the pale yellow liquid sloshing gently into her glass. As he watched her savor the aromatic taste, humming contentedly, sipping like she was born drinking from a flute, the Rodian absently wondered why he ever was afraid of her—even if her pearly white teeth were a little too long and a tad too sharp to be comforting.


((OOC: If you want to see the actual wanted image of Morgo, it's on her profile. Now grammatically correct (just fixed it) ))

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