In the end, it all comes down to this – a Zangali with a grudge and a Timonae with a streak of bad luck. But all streaks end, eventually, good or bad…
Last Call Tavern
A place like this makes a person wish every chair sat with its back to a wall.
The tavern is a dark and shadowy place, the outside glow of the nebula filtering in weakly while pale blue plasma lanterns gleam in the center of most tables (some seem to have run out of juice, but the complaints department doesn’t care and the maintenance crew doesn’t get paid enough to intrude on conversations better left in the darkness).
The room stinks of sweat, cigarette smoke, and spilled alcohol and blood.
Fifteen tables and six booths are arrayed around a central C-shaped bar counter, which has eight stools in front of it.
Knuckles sits at a corner table in the shadows.
Tixxon makes his way into the tavern, the weight of a plasma rifle slung over one shoulder. His silver gaze scans the establishment for a moment before he starts towards Knuckles table.
Knuckles huffs as he sees the softskin approaching. “Knuckles see you hair not grow back yet. Knuckles think soft furless thing amusing.”
Tixxon bites down on the comment that leaps up his throat and sits, the rifle leant against the table’s edge. “You have news of item for me?” he says simply, keeping his voice neutral.
Knuckles hrmphs. “Item?” Knuckles grumbles, patting his armor, then looking under the table, then nictating his eye membranes. “Knuckles not see item.”