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Falkenberg steps into the Motherlode and pauses for a moment in the doorway. He peers around, his eyes straining to adjust to the darkness.
Another busy night in the Motherlode, the usual suspects gathered. Well, *some* unusual suspects. Two young clean-cut men in Vanguard blues swagger in, their chins raised proudly – maybe a hint arrogantly. They walk up to the counter. One of them glowers at the bartender and says, “We’re friends of Lonnie’s.” The other adds: “Not real happy to hear what happened to him.” A hand rests on the barrel of a military-issue pulse pistol.
And Melania happens to be with him, taking up the role of security pretty amongst Falk’s little band of miscreants. Stepping insides and to his left and slightly behind the other human, she’s looking her way toward the bar, lifting a brow at the blatant show of uniforms. Already she’s tapping her captain on the shoulders, wordlessly jerking her head at the pair.
This is likely not Kaxina’s preferred choice of venue, and neither does she blend in quite as well as one might wish. She and another individual – humanoid in shape, wider but not much larger than she – occupy a small table cloaked in shadows on the far edges of the room. She is drinking lightly, her companion rather heavily, and they converse in hushed tones.
Falkenberg nods without looking directly at Melania, and tilts his head to the side slightly, away from the bar and toward a table near the back. He looks briefly at the men at the bar, but if he hears what they said, he makes no sign.
The bartender, a black-shelled Odarite, clacks his mandibles and twitches his antennae at the two offworlders and their attempt to intimidate. “Didn’t die here,” the bartender clicks and clacks. “Know nothing about it.” The taller of the two Vanguard soldiers draws his weapon and aims the barrel at the bartender: “Think about it a little more. Maybe give us a name.” The shorter soldier draws his own gun and looks around for any troublemakers, proclaiming: “Vanguard business, people. Just keep to your scum-sucking selves and everything will be just fine.”
Melania snorts at the declaration, slowly making a roll of her shoulder to bring her battle rifle positioned less on her back and more to her side. “Were we all like this?” she remarks lowly in an aside to Falk. She’ll refrain from action unless given the word from Falk or she’s shot at first. And while she might be trying to remember if they know Lonnie or not, it’s probably not her business unless it’s made their business.
Though the heightened tension and raised voices garner Dr. Nirali’s attention, she takes only a moment to take in the pertinent details of the situation before complying with the barked directive. Her companion’s stare lingers longer, and even once she has recaptured his attention, it is uncomfortably divided.
“I don’t know about you,” murmurs Falkenberg softly, “but I’m pretty sure I looked better in the uniform.” He moves toward the table he was eyeing, avoiding eye contact with the bar again, and sits down, assuming without words that Melania will follow.
The bartender raises four arms. “Got no names.” He gives a clicky shrug. The Vanguard soldier squeezes off a shot, shattering the Odarite’s head in a burst of chitin and ichor. The second soldier click-clicks the charge canister on his own weapon and informs the tavern denizens: “Maybe someone else wants to play ‘What about Lonnie’?”
“Shit, I looked hot in my old blues.” Melania chuckles in step behind the Captain, letting the standoff be just that. Until there’s an Odarite missing a head. There’s a moment, where she looks over her should, then the newest declaration of information. No move yet, just another questioning look tossed Falk’s way.
“Stop staring,” is as far as Kaxina gets, her quiet urging punctuated with the sudden finality of a gunshot. To her credit, she does not scream; but the flinch, the grimace, and the lifting of hands to ringing ears tell the tale of someone not entirely accustomed to violent encounters. Neither does she look at the resulting carnage, her eyes remaining closed long after coiled muscles have unwound.
“Sin and /scalebacks!”/ yelps the man seated across from her, pale as a corpse himself.
Falkenberg sits at the table, stretches, tugs down on his jacket with both hands, and in the same motion slides his hand down to loosen his pulse pistol in his holster. He meets Melania’s eyes for a moment, his expression suggesting he expects trouble. But he says in a lighthearted tone, “No doubt. And it seems we’ll be waiting a while for service this evening.”
The Vanguard soldiers start a route around the bar, weaving from table to table, eyeing the occupants as they go. “Sure somebody here saw something,” the taller one says. They stop at Falkenberg’s table. The shorter one points his gun at the captain. “Maybe it was you?” he asks Falkenberg.
In her seat, Melania has slid the battle rifle to sit more comfortably into her lap than on her back. And she’s more than happy to sit in her former Vanguard combat uniform, even with the patches torn off and holding Vanguard weapons. Eyeballing the one pointing the gun at Falk, she subtely thumbs the saftey on her rifle. “Kid, your military career is going to be ridiculously short if you don’t get that gun out of my Captain’s face. Suggest you go find yourself a TDY within your pay grade before coming here with a target painted on you.” That’s her only warning. Other than that, she takes a moment to gauge the distance and location between the two.
Kaxina possesses enough wherewithal to pay the soldiers a measured look when they pass her seat, though the crease in her forehead has not yet faded. When they have passed without incident, her manicured fingers rise to rub wearily at it, exasperation with the situation and her acquaintance’s reaction worn plainly on her face.
Falkenberg keeps his hands beneath the table. He eyes the Vanguard officer with the gun in his face. He looks not at the gun, but at the man’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Maybe it was,” he says calmly. “And then again maybe not. But I’m afraid you fine gentlemen may be a little unclear about just where you are and just what you’re doing. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll buy you both a drink. You can put your gun away, and my associates…” emphasizing the plural, “including the one you see next to me here, will put theirs away, and we can get to the bottom of what’s got you so upset.”
“No drinking on duty,” the taller Vanguard soldier replies. The shorter one keeps his gun trained on Falkenberg, saying, “Looks like him from Lonnie’s holos, Mode.” The taller one rolls his eyes and snaps, “No names, dimwit.” He peers at Falkenberg. “You’re right, though.” He trains his own weapon on the captain. “No doubt about it.”
With care of being quite aware of what she’s hearing, Melania isn’t about to lower her weapon hearing that. But, she also knows that Falk knows what he’s doing, and if she shoots now, not going to figure what the two know. Which isn’t her usual style. What with the leaving no witnesses and whatnot. She’s got a decent enough aim by how her rifle’s rested, but it’d be a shot from the hip at the best. Though she isn’t a fan of these Mexican standoffs, especially when she’s sitting down. Staring straight at the taller one, which is the one her rifle’s pointed at, she doesn’t flinch. “What do you think about that, Captain?” the former Lt. Commander asks.
For all her warnings against nosiness, Kaxina is quite intent on eavesdropping and does so – while maintaining the pretense of a woman recovering from a good rattling. She adjusts the collar of her jacket and straightens her posture, crossing one leg over the other and settling back down just in time for the man she’s with to climb nervously out of his seat.
“Certainly you do not expect a refill?” she asks after him, her tone approaching wariness.
He ignores her as much as he doesn’t hear her. “Oh my stars, my stars,” he breathes, approaching the bar area and craning his neck for a look at the dead Odarite. “They shot him. Oh stars, I just stepped in – I just stepped– that’s his /brains,/ oh my stars.”
“I think these two gentlemen don’t listen very well,” Falkenberg says in response to Melania. “But there’s no point in denying it. Mode, Dimwit, you are both correct. Lonnie worked for me. And if you’re going to shoot me because of that, I’d think you’d at least wait until your marine combat battalion finishes securing the landing pad, and the route between here and there. I’m sure they’ll signal you when they’re done.”
The taller Vanguard soldier – Mode – flinches at Falkenberg’s mention of the combat battalion. His companion, Dimwit, looks puzzled for a moment and then blurts at Mode: “We’ve got a Marine combat buh-?” And then he cuts himself off when Mode gives him a withering glare. “Fucking moron,” the taller soldier grumbles. His attention returns to Falkenberg, but he lowers his weapon. Dimwit does the same. “What goes around comes around,” Mode informs Falkenberg. He then starts skulking his way toward the exit, holstering his gun. The shorter soldier remains next to the table long enough to say, “Comes around for everybody.” And then he swaggers after Mode.
There’s a lot Melania would love to say at this particular moment, but for the most part, it’s all curbed. If she can refrain from wasting bullets for equally wasteful reasons, she will. She has a budget, y’know. She’ll wait for the pair to get out of sight after the door closes before she eases the tension in the finger that’s around the trigger. “Yep. Just another reason I quit.” she finally mutters.
The more her companion makes himself visible, the less Kaxina acknowledges him. She sits back in her seat with a roll of her shoulders, tipping back what must be a much-needed swallow of scotch and shaking her head in silent resignation.
Falkenberg eyes the backs of the two withdrawing soldiers as though considering something, then smirks. “Truer words were never spoken,” he says softly, though it’s not clear if he’s responding to Mode and Dimwit, or Melania. He turns his attention to Melania after a moment, and says, “Just another night on Tomin Kora.”