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milliways_bar2005-11-02 09:08 am
rebel-falcon.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2005-11-02 09:08 am
[First entrance, sortakindamaybe.]
A pair of boots stride in through the front door. They're not very shiny, and they're not very well-cared-for, but in all other respects they're Imperial Navy regulation boots: long-wearing, comfortable, and designed to fit their owner. They don't pause at the door, but carry on right over to a booth, where their owner slings himself casually into a seat and waits for service, as if he thinks he's in a cantina or tapcafe.
The trousers above the boots, however, are not Imperial Navy uniform. They're scruffy and stained, and the Corellian Bloodstripe runs up the side - a military decoration, but the trousers are decidedly un-military in appearance.
There's a blaster slung low on the right hip, of course.
The open-necked shirt carries on the general scruffiness theme, as does the vest worn over it, and the tousled hair above. The face between the two wears the bland, cold-eyed expression common to all members of the species Galactica Smuggleris, although this face would have difficulty persuading anyone that it's innocent of anything. It's a face that's probably familiar to anyone who's seen a certain bartender. It's entirely unconcerned with the wide variety of shapes and types of people in the tapcafe it's just walked into; it sees stranger things on every street.
It is, of course, Han Solo, several years younger than you might expect, but no less cynical. Come say hi!
And under new mun-agement, and with no recollection of anything that might have previously happened in the bar - that's all in his future, say sorry.
The trousers above the boots, however, are not Imperial Navy uniform. They're scruffy and stained, and the Corellian Bloodstripe runs up the side - a military decoration, but the trousers are decidedly un-military in appearance.
There's a blaster slung low on the right hip, of course.
The open-necked shirt carries on the general scruffiness theme, as does the vest worn over it, and the tousled hair above. The face between the two wears the bland, cold-eyed expression common to all members of the species Galactica Smuggleris, although this face would have difficulty persuading anyone that it's innocent of anything. It's a face that's probably familiar to anyone who's seen a certain bartender. It's entirely unconcerned with the wide variety of shapes and types of people in the tapcafe it's just walked into; it sees stranger things on every street.
It is, of course, Han Solo, several years younger than you might expect, but no less cynical. Come say hi!
And under new mun-agement, and with no recollection of anything that might have previously happened in the bar - that's all in his future, say sorry.
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Peter nodded, thinking of Lenny, the former Mayor, "Most are. Some I can get along with on an individual basis, but even they get huffy at times." He shrugged at this. "At least until they beg you to save their butts from some crisis or another. And remember to pay you for the trouble."
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