My apologies, Christmas parties and work don't mix well with updating RPGs. My bad.
If there's nothing else for you two to address, we'll push on to Nar Shaddaa, that terrible city-world that nobody likes but somehow everyone ends up there at some point in their lives. You just so happen to frequent it for work.
(I think we're good. And speaking of Christmas parties, I have my time pretty much booked from now until Christmas night. I'm sure you two have similar schedules. So since it's technically just us three in here, we might want to consider taking a break until after X-mas. But, I'll probably check in anyhow at least once a day, so just don't leave me behind.
HAppy Holidays.
Dropping out of hyperspace, the Last Laugh descends to the grimey moon known as Nar Shaddaa, the Smuggler's Moon. You get through the atmosphere with no problem, then you're forced to swerve to avoid a large transport as you dive into Vertical City. Unlike Coruscant, Nar Shaddaa has no real trafficking laws...or system. For the most part, people fly about as they please. Just another reason why Nar Shaddaa is so damned shitty.
Eventually you manage to find a place to park your ship, near your usual hangout, the Rimmer's Rest. There you do your business with the Hutts' contacts, rather than with the Hutts themselves; it's better that way. Less slime. Sometimes.
The bar is very spartan and blocky. A few large glow-orbs flood the rooms with dim lighting. Every surface is made of some beat-up metal, and the walls were given a few coats of green paint a some point within the last two centuries. The actual bar itself is opposite the doorway, where the sleepy old bartender serves drinks when pestered. Behind him, the neon lighting of the bar's mascot- a green snake with three horns breathing fire- blinks lazily.
Your contact with the Hutts should be here somewhere...it's unusually crowded tonight. The Rimmer's Rest is a lesser known but cheap and decent (for Nar Shaddaa) bar, but tonight it has quite a few paying customers. Some of them are already passed out under the tables...or on the tables. Heh.
Ah, there's your man. Retter, a shaggy fellow in a tattered and torn old banthahide jacket and black pants, managed to snag a spot at the bar. He's lucky like that.
Holding up a hand to calm Retter, kyle interjects, "Wait, we didn't nuke Naadal. The nukes we were carrying, the ones we didn't know were onboard, were blown up by the other side of the civil war your people supplying. We, along with the payment," he adds pointedly, "were almost vaporized by the blast. From now on, we want to know what we're carrying. Exactly, no more 'just weapons and stuff' or whatever you told us this time. Eerin insists." he finishes, pointing at the giant menacing bug.
"Hey, hey, alright," Retter says, uncomfortable due to Eerin's friendly glare of doom. "Whatever happens on missions ain't my fault or the Hutts, you know that. Everything is up to you to make sure things go off right. If your cargo's being shot at, you obviously did something wrong. But hey, you got the payment, right? Eh?"
He seems like he's going to try elbowing Eerin in a friendly way, but then thinks better of it.