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Snippet #2703482

located in Old Republic, a part of Wrong Star War, one of the many universes on RPG.

Old Republic

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Kiersha Asso Character Portrait: Senator Thames Nuruodo Character Portrait: Bennjin Dorr Character Portrait: Myra Haren Character Portrait: Irwin Fel
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“Leg’s looking fine to me.”

She had grinned.

All throughout the speech Myra had done nothing but give their aging general a devilish grin, perhaps one of the few who did. You could argue the weight of this mission had encumbered her very little, less than the usual things she had been known to carry around the verse, just another day on the grind and pray to your mismatched socks you’d emerge victorious and breathing. And with all four limbs and a head still intact, as well, but the smuggler had counted those a bonus ever since she started dangling that thin rope she’d shamelessly dubbed her life. And what a life it had turned out to be…

Survival, betrayals, rescues, and now the rebel alliance had planned on sending her back to the rotten bit of space she’d hoped to have escape from in the first place. Joy, oh joy. Maybe she’d get to earn money as the circus equivalent of a fool, dodging blaster fire as soon as she set foot on any bit of the Outer Rim.

Honestly, she hadn’t planned to count her coppers on any of her contact still wanting anything to do with her. Let alone the rebels. Too much risk staked in that, truthfully, but it wasn’t like she’d gone and tell their dear general that fact. No, she’d rather risk dancing to some crime lords whims than spend another boring routine at this rebel base and contemplate gouging her eyes out for the want of some variety.

A break from that was as good as any, she thought.

“And may the force be with you.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” Myra piped up, an arm reaching for the token Jedi in their merry little misfit crew. “I won’t let this force out of my sight, I promise.” She spoke, arm draped over the other girl’s shoulders and a playful smile edged across the smuggler’s face. She never had much with the old words, and felt a little iffy around anyone preaching them. Faith was worth very little in her line of work, so Myra had never taken much to it. At the end of the day the money you made was your worth, not the appeasement of some nebulous entity.

Blighted sons of bitches as the Jedi were, their evil counterparts were the worst of the lot. Still, Myra wouldn’t hold that to Kiersha. Not unless the girl suddenly decided to point her little glowy stick at the smuggler’s neck.



“Bluh?”

Well, she was alive. Only not very coherent, apparently. They’d gotten themselves in quite a pickle and not even space wizardry had helped them get out of that shitting mess of a situation any better than the captain’s attempts at steering in the opposite direction of the wormhole.

And Myra? Well, one moment she was hanging onto the bars in the cargo hold specifically built for finding your footing to sprawled on the ground in some newly-invented yoga position (and spine hurting just as much) wondering what the hell happened.

*Bang*

The ship shook. In fact, it hadn’t stopped shaking ever since she had the capability to take note of her surroundings. They were- “Oh fuck!”

Well, swearing was back at full volume.

Somehow Myra had managed to untangle her knotted self and sprint for wherever the rest had misplaced themselves. Presumably just as baffled as she was. “What the-” Fuck she would’ve said if it weren’t for another rumble of the ship’s hull. “Okay, I won’t ask, but… can we get the hell out of here. Please?” She offered to no particular member.