Garrick Kane
Nov 21st, 2012, 03:01:27 AM
The Eldest Brother Casino and Resort - Kor Vella, Corellia
Pride was a strange thing. They called it the deadliest of sins and yet, to take pride in one's work or one's appearance was considered a virtue. When collected with joy it could be the most prized of possessions; and yet it could also be a collection itself, of ferocious and predatory beasts. Like so many of life's vices, pride was often it was enticing, encouraged, and dangerous in excess.
Garrick liked to think - or at least hope - that numerous as his flaws might be, vanity and hubris were not among them. And yet, it made him uncomfortable to think of himself as a man without pride: for every time he thought of it, the words of his father echoed in his mind.
"It doesn't matter what you do with your life, son: but whatever you do, be proud."
A sigh escaped, the heels of his hands grinding into tired eyes that strained to see in the dimly lit room. He couldn't help but wonder what his father would think of him now: would he be proud of what he'd achieved; what he'd accomplished? Would his brothers? His mother? His baby sister?
He grunted, a hand snatching the half-empty glass of now-warm Alderaanian brandy from the desk beside him, and tossing the contents down the back of his throat. Muscles on his jawline clenched into a grimace of protest at the sudden alcoholic onslaught, but he ignored it: just like he ignored the thoughts swimming around his head that the brandy helped to wash away. Thanks to the Empire, his family was long gone, and those questions would forever go unanswered: but there was no use dwelling on the opinions of ghosts.
Glass still clutched in his fingers, he waved his hand around until it found purchase on the keypad for his intercom. A helpfully colour-coded red button was pressed down determinedly. "Ruo!" he called, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to clear the haze from his vision. "He here yet?"
"He just landed," a disembodied voice replied, with the tired, sarcastic, and yet still compliant tone that made him Garrick's favourite gopher. "Shall I have him brought to your office?"
"Gods no," Garrick shot back, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. His eyes settled on the depleted bottle of brandy atop his ridiculously expensive imported wood drinks cabinet. "There's a bar in here, but no dancers. This is no place to entertain a guest: this is just tragic."
"Your words, not mine," Ruo replied, helpfully.
Garrick ignored it. "I'll meet him at the door. Keep him busy 'til I get there."
"Will do, boss."
Garrick's finger released the depressed key, not bothering with any proper radio parlance to end the transmission. Ruo loved that stuff: the only reason he wasn't still running around in a CorSec uniform yelling indecipherable strings of numbers at people was because he'd been dismissed for "conduct unbecoming" with a senior officer's wife. Of course, that was exactly why Garrick didn't do things properly: an irritated Ruo was far more enjoyable than a satisfied one.
Levering himself out of his seat, he smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, and hooked his jacket off the head-rest. As he traversed his generously-proportioned office, he allowed himself a moment to linger, staring out of the panoramic window onto the swarming mass of debauchery and avarice that was cultivated around the gambling tables below. It was escapism as it's finest: the sentients of Corellia hiding from a dangerous galaxy by risking their credits instead of their lives.
Was it moral? Most certainly not. It was practically war profiteering, though in a much more legally and socially acceptable form. But was he proud?
Arms dove into the sleeves of his jacket, and shrugged it up onto his shoulders; he tugged on the lapels to make sure it settled just so. A mirror waited for him, standing sentry beside the door; he ignored it, save for a split second spent smoothing out an undesirable tuft of hair and, triggering the door controls with a flourish, stepped out into the fray.
Pride was a strange thing. They called it the deadliest of sins and yet, to take pride in one's work or one's appearance was considered a virtue. When collected with joy it could be the most prized of possessions; and yet it could also be a collection itself, of ferocious and predatory beasts. Like so many of life's vices, pride was often it was enticing, encouraged, and dangerous in excess.
Garrick liked to think - or at least hope - that numerous as his flaws might be, vanity and hubris were not among them. And yet, it made him uncomfortable to think of himself as a man without pride: for every time he thought of it, the words of his father echoed in his mind.
"It doesn't matter what you do with your life, son: but whatever you do, be proud."
A sigh escaped, the heels of his hands grinding into tired eyes that strained to see in the dimly lit room. He couldn't help but wonder what his father would think of him now: would he be proud of what he'd achieved; what he'd accomplished? Would his brothers? His mother? His baby sister?
He grunted, a hand snatching the half-empty glass of now-warm Alderaanian brandy from the desk beside him, and tossing the contents down the back of his throat. Muscles on his jawline clenched into a grimace of protest at the sudden alcoholic onslaught, but he ignored it: just like he ignored the thoughts swimming around his head that the brandy helped to wash away. Thanks to the Empire, his family was long gone, and those questions would forever go unanswered: but there was no use dwelling on the opinions of ghosts.
Glass still clutched in his fingers, he waved his hand around until it found purchase on the keypad for his intercom. A helpfully colour-coded red button was pressed down determinedly. "Ruo!" he called, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to clear the haze from his vision. "He here yet?"
"He just landed," a disembodied voice replied, with the tired, sarcastic, and yet still compliant tone that made him Garrick's favourite gopher. "Shall I have him brought to your office?"
"Gods no," Garrick shot back, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. His eyes settled on the depleted bottle of brandy atop his ridiculously expensive imported wood drinks cabinet. "There's a bar in here, but no dancers. This is no place to entertain a guest: this is just tragic."
"Your words, not mine," Ruo replied, helpfully.
Garrick ignored it. "I'll meet him at the door. Keep him busy 'til I get there."
"Will do, boss."
Garrick's finger released the depressed key, not bothering with any proper radio parlance to end the transmission. Ruo loved that stuff: the only reason he wasn't still running around in a CorSec uniform yelling indecipherable strings of numbers at people was because he'd been dismissed for "conduct unbecoming" with a senior officer's wife. Of course, that was exactly why Garrick didn't do things properly: an irritated Ruo was far more enjoyable than a satisfied one.
Levering himself out of his seat, he smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, and hooked his jacket off the head-rest. As he traversed his generously-proportioned office, he allowed himself a moment to linger, staring out of the panoramic window onto the swarming mass of debauchery and avarice that was cultivated around the gambling tables below. It was escapism as it's finest: the sentients of Corellia hiding from a dangerous galaxy by risking their credits instead of their lives.
Was it moral? Most certainly not. It was practically war profiteering, though in a much more legally and socially acceptable form. But was he proud?
Arms dove into the sleeves of his jacket, and shrugged it up onto his shoulders; he tugged on the lapels to make sure it settled just so. A mirror waited for him, standing sentry beside the door; he ignored it, save for a split second spent smoothing out an undesirable tuft of hair and, triggering the door controls with a flourish, stepped out into the fray.