Meteora Bar, Planet Malta

[Adain]

The familiar Ravon's Talon sweeps across the viewports in the Meteora bar as Adain lands on Pad 14. The Captain walks off the pad and proceeds to the Bar, with a briefcase in hand.

A moment later the sleek, chrome doors of the Meteora hiss open to admit Adain into the nicely refurbished lounge. He sees several new-comers, at least to him, and walks up to the counter; leaning in close to Hernan.

"A soda please."

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[Narcotic]

*Lee walks into the bar, his face appears dark under his black cape's hood. He stops and let his eye wander from table to table. He shakes his head and proceeds walking towards the barkeeper. He leans forward him and whispers something in an obvious maltese accent. The barkeeper nods decided, puts a greenish cocktail on the bar table, and pulls a handwritten letter out of his bag. Lee's head turns around slowly and he takes a short view behind him. He turns back and let the letter disappear in his cape.*

"Gracias senor. And remember, no word to anyone about this, si? Here's your payment."

*The barkeeper opens his eyes widely while the man drops a bunch of credit cards into his left hand*

"For the old times' sake, amigo." Lee says.

*Lee takes his drink and walks towards a free table in the bar's corner. He takes a seat and sighs.*

"Almost five years it has been since then." he talks to himself.

*He opens the letter and reads it. He drops a tear on the letter and reads it again. Then he puts the letter back into his cape and takes out a small book, which appears to be some sort of a diary or logbook, and opens it. He takes a deep gulp from his drink and starts writing (#1).*

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Lee's Logs | Lee's Diary | Nat's Story | AI Shodan | Rogue Clyde | Braun's Logs | The Narcotic | The Pandora | Biographies | Feedback

[Narcotic]

*Four days later, Lee sits a last time as his table, writing in his diary. He has a determined look on his face, when he stands up. He tramps towards the barkeeper and nods to him.*

"Si, I'm leaving then. Was great to see you. I wished I could stay longer. But you know me. This place makes me sick... those memories - I have to leave again. Lo siento mucho. Adios mi companero."

*Lee leaves the Meteora Bar without taking a look back.
The sound of a Sabre's engines is heard.*

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Lee's Logs | Lee's Diary | Nat's Story | AI Shodan | Rogue Clyde | Braun's Logs | The Narcotic | The Pandora | Biographies | Feedback

[Anaximander]

Luis entered the Meteora bar looking slightly uncomfortable. Even in the air conditioned lounge, he was sweating noticeably.

This was not his venue, in fact he stopped frequenting bars in his youth and he made sure to never supplement his required daily dose of Cardamine. Getting high or intoxicating oneself was a sign of weakness, one he wouldn't allow himself. He kept a straight edge, except for enjoying a good cigar from time to time for flavour and not effect.

He hated Malta, this wretched hell-hole with all its greed and corruption. Fat Dons worried more about their personal income than the advance of the Maltese people, mystics revering the ancestoral spirits, forgetting that the Outcasts are still human afterall. Malta was the Sirian counterpart of the mythical Babylon of ancient Sol.

Of course he would never disclose his true feelings to anyone, afterall he was a captain of capital class naval ship and he knew not to bite the hand that feeds him. Yet his discomfort was clearly showing.

"A glass of water, please. Pure and unrefined."

As soon as the bartender served Luis the glass of water, he gulped it down. The water hitting the back of his dry throat was like a cool breeze on a sunny day.

"Another, please."

He was looking around the bar, while gently dapping his sweaty forehead with a linen handkercheif. He knew that this bar was once frequented by the 101st, and that was the reason why he had come to Malta in the first place, in the hope of establishing a relationship with someone who knew how to navigate the Maltese corridors of power.

[Anaximander]

Luis didn't stay for long. After finishing his third glass of water, he realized that the Council of Dons had received his request, he was now free to leave Malta and get back into space.

He only had one more thing to achieve before he could take off.

From his pocket he drew forward a piece of old-fashioned paper and an old-fashioned ballpen and scribbled a note, folded it over and slid it into a tight crack under the bar table. It was impossible to see the note, but he knew someone would run their hands across it and find it eventually.

Walking out of the bar he prayed that that someone would be of the right caliber.

[TFinnegan]

Tim Finnegan, wearing his dress tartan Gordon kilts, strides to an open corner booth, and sits with his back to the corner, the entire pub in view, as is his way.
Moments later Seamus Kelley, Finn's TacOps officer sidles up to the bar, and glancing at Finn, touches the side of his nose.

A nod to Seamus and a whistle for a barmaid, he lays his shotgun just within quick reach on the table, Finnegan waits for his contact to make himself known.

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[Death.RunningVerminator]

A group seated a table away from Tim had noticed the man walk in. As he took his seat, they got up and approached him. One of them was in a wheelchair, being escorted over by his right-hand-man.

"Leave us."

With a quick wave from the boss, the group behind him dispersed save one.

"I see you like the corners as well. You like to.. keep watch over things. Take in your surroundings, observe and admire all that is around you. That is always a good thing to have, omniscience.."

He glanced over at the shotgun, then back at the Junker and smiled.

"Rest assured you are safe here. I do not intend to destroy trusted relations with a friend.. Now then. Do you have what I require?"

[TFinnegan]

Finnegan beams a genuine grin at the man before him.

"Dinnae 'tink twice 'pon th' heater, lad. Oi be a Junker, aye, an Oi trusts nae man fully wha' isnae Junker 'isself, ye'z understand."

Finn leans forward, elbows on the table, his fingers steepled to his lips.

"Oi 'tink p'raps maybe Oi do hae yer bonny treasure, aye.
Only, Oi be nae daft - an Oi weren't bringin' 'at blasted 'ting anywhere bloody near Malta.
Oi've a cargo pod spaced in-system, aye, an' yon contents in stasis, lest they start t' rot."

He indicates the bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses before him on the table.

"Ye'll join me fer a wee draught o' th' water o' life an' a discussion on numbers, aye?", he asks with a wink.
"Oi be a Junker, after all, an' to a Junker, t' only 'ting free is death."

---

[Death.RunningVerminator]

Death Runner looked down at the empty glass and shook his head slightly.

"I think I'll pass for now.."

He clapped his hands and smiled at his guest.

"Anywho! Down to business now, hm?"

The man leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, mumbling something out loud then quickly silencing himself.

"Right. Firstly, what exactly did you bring me? I want to know what I'm buying before I buy it. Second, how much do you want for it? And consider the fact that the price is separate from the lovely stockpile of premium grade cardimine I have ready to be loaded onto your ship."

[TFinnegan]

Tim draws his thumb and forefinger in a circle, down the sides of his mustache, coming together again at his braided chin.
This Junker signal for careful speech is picked up by 'Gunner' Kelley at the bar, whose eyes flick about, then nods.
Assured no one nearby is listening, and that Kelley's bug detector reads clean, he leans in on his elbows to speak to Death Runner, his face grim and serious.

"Ye'z knoo damn well wha' 'tis Oi've go', boyo."
His eyes flash cold steel.

"An' ef ye'z cannae be bothered t' share a drink like a man wif a Scotsman Junker bearin' gifts, hoo can Oi be sure ye'z dinnae lure me 'ere t' pen me own bloody confession?
A wry smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes glint.
Ye be nae plottin' t' 'ang ol' Tim from a tree fer treason in some ruttin' orange field, aye?"

"But fer auld toime's sake, an' love o' Malta, Oi'll lend ye'z some trust.
But make nae mistake. Me trust, 'tis a loan lad, an' one tha's t' be payed off in koind"

Tim produces a tiny locator pad and slides it across the table, his finger still firmly upon it.
His voice drops extremely low, and his eyes bore straight into the face of Death Runner.

"Ye'll find 'yon Nomad corpse aboot sixty some-odd klicks below th' plane o' eliptical, in a stasis crate, near th' beta 'ole.
She be intact, fer th' most, an' th' lads wha' tractored 'er in tells me she were aye twitchin' when she went in.
Deed, but just barely.
Where she come from an' how Oi come t' 'ave 'er, be nae yer business - dinnae even arsk."
Just know, 'twere nae me nor moine wha' done 'er in. Me 'ands be aye clean onn'is one.
Oi be merely a cargo 'auler..."

Tim Finnegan flashes a toothy, feral smile at the man.

"...a well paid cargo 'auler, aye?"

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