Join Date: Jun 2002
Location: I think this is "imagination"
*RULES: Open thread, no godmodding8
A man walked into the familiar cantina. As the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, he looked around. A blast of cool air felt refreshing to him, in contrast with the warm, muggy outdoors.
Peering inside, he noticed something unusual: a squad of Imperial Stormtroopers.
One trooper walked near a gruff, drunken patron, who lashed out with his fist. A brawl ensued.
A trooper moved towards the man standing in the doorway, reciting a time-honored phrase:
“Hey! You there!”
The man stood there, gazing at the trooper from behind blood red eye-pieces. “How descriptive. And typical. You troopers are all the same. But anyways, what do you want?”
The trooper lowered his blaster rifle, the light from behind the man reflecting off the newly-polished white plating. “Identify yourself then answer my questions,” the Stormtrooper replied in the typical, implanted voice. He continued. “First, state your name.”
The Stormtrooper seemed lost in thought for a second or two, then looked up. “Come with me, Wesley. You can answer the questions down in the detainment center,” he said, raising his rifle again.
To which Wes replied:
“Not this time, buckethead!”
He leapt up and spin-kicked the trooper’s face, who staggered backwards into a table. The table fell over, glass shattered and spilled their contents over, and the remaining patrons were angered even more. In midst of the confusion, Wes slipped from the doorway and out into the open.
Wes walked down the busy street, his hands in his large, brown pockets. The tails of the knee-length, brown trench-coat he was wearing flowed out behind him. Darting blue eyes took in fine details in the crowd of people as his powerful stride took him along. Most were harmless, but this group had its share of criminals, thugs, and scum. And, of course, the patrolling Imperial Stormtrooper pair.
“To some, I’m scum myself,” Marrakesh reminded himself. Assassination was ugly business. But he was good at it, and it brought in the credits. He was on a break. Business wasn’t good right now, but he had enough to ride it out. But that was soon to change.
Presently, he reached what he was looking for. That happened to be a large, framed, transparisteel door that led into a high tower. To the right was a small keypad and holocam/projector unit. It chirped on and a snake-like neck emerged from a hole, the silver cam for a head.
“Name and purpose,” it ordered in a bland, electronic tone.
“Wesley Marrakesh. I’m here to see your master,” Wes replied coldly. The machine chirped again and started clicking, internal processor searching the database for a match.
The keypad lit up orange. “Enter access code,” the machine said. Wes put his bare hand out to it, long fingers quickly punching buttons. Grinding gears could be heard and the door slid open.
“Floor 42, suite 18,” the computer said, and slid back into its case. Wes stepped through into the building.
He looked around. The ceiling was high, maybe 30 meters above the floor, and was decorated with an intricate and detailed painting. The stone floor was patterned in a five-tipped star with a strange rune in the center. The design was done in oranges, reds, browns, yellows, and blacks. Running a hand through his long white hair, Wes took in the walls. Made of blue-tinted duracrete, they were polished, shiny, and round. The foyer Wes was standing on gave off a bright atmosphere, yet it was underlined with something dark and grim… like looking at a blue sky, and panning down to see the smog.
People and droids were going from door to door. Horned Zarbaks, diminutive Bothans, towering Wookies, and painted Mon Calamari were a few of the diverse patrons. Their range of dress was wide and colored, ranging from loose-fitting, dirty tunics and baggy, torn pants to formalized, clean suits and dresses to new combat fatigues and polished armor plates.
Wes started forward to the other side. The crowd was thick like molasses and difficult to get through. The task required much bumping and joggling and five minutes of his time. He reached the elevator, whose door was solid durasteel. A keypad similar to the one by the entry confronted him. In one swift movement he had entered his access code and entered the elevator.
He pushed the round button labeled 42. His hand found its way to his wallet and he pulled it out.
“Blast it!” he spat, vexed. “Some slaghead took some of my credits!” Wes sighed. “At least…”
Marrakesh was cut off by the ding of the elevator. He stepped out into the corridor and began scanning the numbers. Long paces advanced him quickly.
“15… 16… 17... Ah, here we are.”
The door he was standing in front of was of some polished wood. The label was merely ‘18’. Twisting the old-fashioned knob, he stepped inside.