Aftercare [ft. Daniella Tur'ilian]

[Injah Bas]

Aftercare
Aftercare

O, how the Force didn't give a damn.

Look, there, at the spaceport lounge's bar, see how the muscle woman Mirialan guzzles ninosas? (On her seventh one to be exact.) A night ago she found her belongings in two suitcases at the girlfriend's doorstep with a message reading "I moved on". You can hear the woman muttering "that schutta" between gulps and after the bartender asks do you want another. Surely, the Dark Side was to blame for why the bar tab was skyrocketing, right? If she'd just meditate, then she could achieve tranquility and a Tolaris Shim's approved stamped of atonement.

Eight months of security detail on Spira's beachfronts equaled 3 standard weeks of paid vacation. She downed another. There was a little less than 480 more hours to go.

Before Empress Tarkin, Coruscant would've been a stupid vacation spot for her kind. Now, the animated signage over her shoulder of a Selonian and Twi'lek as the faces for Imperial Knight recruitment was the norm. The Imperial City's Invisec (Alien Protection Zone) was opened up - wasn't always this way. It used to be not an alien burped at a street corner without troopers chatter. About shutting them up. They conducted broad day light street strip searches on dignified aliens commuting from science labs. They heehawed after dealing massive head traumas. Face fractures. Tentacle tears. A boys night out and beers to wash down spleen lacerations or perforation.

Now, every week had a parade or theme:

"Intergalactic Mikkian Day Parade"

Or: "Falleen Resurgence Festival"

Picture going to an underdog upset after-party every week for the rest of your days. Every few nights, another stage set made of Neimoidian cut flower patches and gazillion lights. Wooden sculptures and jungle juice fountains and bands with black sleek jackets playing some Zabraki cheer. Every stage set to flaunt Offworlder royalty and alien beauties. Too many fleshy faced rich folk kids. These people who never linger long on planetside before venturing to another to "explore" and provide "assistance". These people with no creativity, they drag up Old Galactic Market and say:

Gimme that.

These kind were always on comms at ports. Loud conversations comparing Kashyyyk canopies to their hair peppered with mocked laughter. Spira was a resort planet and filled with those types' parents. And, like their parents they waited in seats by windows chatting near the lounge and chit-chatted on links. The furry and tentacle faces crowded the bar. On the holo-feed above reported multiple Diversity Confederation protests within the Alliance's borders. A planet the Mirialan didn't recognize, in a system she couldn't care about, was having trouble with her people (and other aliens alike) & it sounded violent.

Head down, she lifted two fingers, ordered another glass.

A Mirialan chick, a young star-hopper, appeared beside her. The girl dressed in clothes you might find in a grunge club DJ's closet. Who was discharged from the military. The space-girl had on combat boots, thigh holster and a midriff crop top. Half her head was shaved, other side to her shoulder to match her belly & eyebrow piercings with body art look. The shaved head whispered filled that ear: "Slow down, baby, will ya?"

She didn't turn to look. "Don't you have someone else to bother, Leyna Antee."

"Why do you say our family name like that?" She'd always add a stink to Antee.

She sighed. "Ya, ya - why are you back? Why are you buggin' me. Give me my time to greive my girlf--"

"Oh, shuttup, Seff--" their parents wanted a boy. "--I found somebody." Seff eyes cut lazily about. "Where?

The answer was a man who sauntered. Emerging from the crowd, he was brown, looked 20, slim, face of a baby, dreads like a sage, decked in an Outer Rim smuggler's get up, with a lawyer's smirk. Leyna nudged and the two sisters turned. "There," She murmured. His arms were wide, he gazed on them like he was ready to tease both about their secret grade school crushes. If you listened close enough, you could probably hear his own theme music playing in his head as his words skipped off his tongue like some snake oil salesman.

"Wassup, munchkins. I'm In-jah." He tipped his hat - apparently it was invisible. "As in in-jah-ry"

Seff looked him up and down. "Injury?" She noted what looked like a lightsaber at his waist. "How'd you get tha--" A yell "to get back here" came from behind the cluster circling the bar. It was loud enough for all to hear, the cautious to turn and some to part. Injah seemed to be none of the above, as he didn't turn a tad, only held his gaze and ambulance chaser face.

"Yes. Injury, which is what we'll all have if we stick around here. So, shall we?" Palm up, he reached out for Leyna's hand. Seff's face said she had questions, but her mouth was fit to garble expletives before being snatched into a full dash. Leyna tugged both along and led the sprint. Pointed fingers followed them, as did orders to follow them, while they ran and ran out toward the docking bays.

Pilots at landing dock entrances and durasteel alike watched as the chase flashed by. Astromech and maintenance droids swerved out the way. Troopers called and shot blaster bolts. The chased ducked, and weaved. Injah's dreads flapped like a cape. He laughed as he vaulted around shots. "This way!" Leyna pointed right as the path forked. All three bolted in unison, a blast shot nearly hitting them. Instead, it marked the wall.

Docking Bay 3207 read above the hangar doors. Leyna clicked a code and the doors sled open. What awaited them was a Ghtroc Industries 720 Class freighter with the ramp down. It looked heavily modified. None of the trio hesitated. Leyna lead. Her long legs went into full stride. The other two dashed to and up the ramp. Then, into the galley. A smell of engine fuel and cleaner filled their noses. Legs got twisted. Injah toppled on top Seff as her sister continued her run to the cabin & turn the engines on.

The two went down.

Injah smirked it off. She grumbled. Their faces inches apart. "My bad," he teased, standing up, putting out his hand. She slapped it and stumbled to her feet. The ship rocked. Blasts were shot and the engine roared blue hue.

At the cockpit window, Leyna sat and stared down at the assailants. They looked back. Their bucket helmets hid their glares, but she knew they were there; it was obvious by the continued shots they kept firing. Shields went up. She wasn't impressed. A few clicks and the ship hovered. Lever pulled, the 720 light freighter rose and rear turned to the troopers.

The engine's burst sent them flying.

The sky welcomed the ship, as it tore from the hangar through the Coruscanti skyline. Sky-lanes, sky-scrapers and spacecrafts descending from the sky went by as Leyna sent them soaring above. Inside, Injah jested a welcome to Seff (to her own ship), as they both got to a full stand. He bowed, flourished an arm, and began: "Welcome to our humbl--"

"Shuttup, what is that on your arm?"

He froze, arm out, back bent over, and looked at the mark on his bicep: "Aha, this ol' thing?"

[Injah Bas]

Time is relative: a week is old for a fly, but barely a moment to a stardust or a flyboy on stardust. Injah was 3077 weeks old - the son of Bas, scion of the Jeddesh Je'daii clan (don't ask), survivor of the Old Republic Jedi Order Purge, Lykus follower and believer in all things irreverent & fun - 1 week could be a blink or an eternity - depending. So, the age of a tattoo on his arm encapsulating all such excellence was an "ol' thing" only after four days, police annoyances & a bantha-shack burger.

Less than a week before, he walked the Coruscant streets. The sun was low and he still had his Metro Pass from the spaceport in his back pocket. A dog would be able to smell Tython ruin's dust on his clothes. Under the skyscrapers and speeders, many walked by him by neon signs. Festive cheers began. University classes released their privileged problems and they were free to roam the bars with firefighters and failed models alike. Unlike the bunch, Injah actually had mission as he walked this district that didn't end with spilling your guts on the side of the road with your friends laughing or sleeping in a randos bed by next daybreak.

See, he was looking for a parlor. And, with his hands in his pockets - eyes minding his own business - he'd find this sparkly, new Underworld Ink he'd heard about.

Well, not necessarily heard - more so directory searched, researched, pointed and laughed at the sample people who got stupid body art at, enjoyed the artistry, digressed into another databank file, got distracted by a girl walking by, ate a snack and forgot the coordinates - about. Hearing about something required conversation, and there was only the occasional small talk as he passed gates, ports, and levels in his stay in the Core Sector. Much like he walked the streets, he traveled under the radar.

Anyone stalking could pinpoint his focus amidst the cesspool of street performances, crowds, clamor, bar scramble and barbershop talk spilling into the streets. Arcades were even in this district. Faces from beyond the system's stars and expanded regions plotted the walkways alongside Coruscant commoners in a unity bounded by flashing lights, girly joyish shrills and thrown beads.

It had been years since Injah walked amongst such chaos.

He liked it.

Little turned him on like entropy & cheer.

[Daniella Tur'ilian]

"You don't need any damn ice. Just bite down on this, you'll be fine."

There were several moments of silence, followed by a blood curdling roar that shook the tinted windows of the newly minted tattoo parlor. The bellow came from none other than a Wookiee, a very large and considerably foul tempered one that barely fit in the chair of the piercing room she'd only recently set up. Daniella, resident artist and owner of Underworld Ink, moved away from the surly alien long enough to grab a hand mirror.

"See, not so bad. And it looks grrreat, Chuva." She crooned in a Felacatian purr, stroking the grumbling Wookiee's mop of head hair while holding up the mirror; allowing the giant creature to admire his new nose hoop. Anger dissolved into begrudging admiration at her incredibly symmetrical work and she backed away as he stood, smiling to herself as he removed the mirror from her grasp to continue staring at himself.

"You're all settled up and I've put together a bag of aftercare products. Make sure you follow the instructions on the bottle." She advised him smoothly, chewing on her own centralized lip ring while returning to a sketch sprawled across her desk in the foyer. Thick-framed black glasses perched on her nose, assisting her with her eyesight that had grown too accustomed to the dark environment of her cell in Orvax. Tattoos, mostly tributes to holo-gaming characters and mythological creatures, were scrawled across her skin in excess. She had promised herself as soon as she was capable of setting up shop, her first project would be to cover up some scars she had earned in the arena. It all seemed like a bad dream now. Underworld Ink was far from paradise but it was a little slice of heaven compared to her prison cell.

Chuva growled his approval one last time before dropping an extra credit stick in the open-pate skull bowl sitting on her desk, picking up the small white bag of aftercare products and shuffling his way out of her small shop. She grinned after him, thinking he looked so damn cute with that little bag, her store logo scrawled on the front, clutched in his large, fuzzy fingers. The chunk of charcoal she was drawing with was discarded and she wiped her hand on her frayed shorts. Someone loitered outside. Customer? Stars, she hoped so. Rent wasn't cheap and she could really use the walking advertisements.

[Injah Bas]

The last tad of sunlight bounced from the horizon off the badass furrball's nose ring. He came out a shop by a bar. He was a Wookie behemoth. He had an iditty bitty bag in hand with the words Underworld Ink scribed on it.* Injah stood at the sidewalk's corner. His head turned. His sniper eyes found the bag like a target: "There," he leered.

A crowd cut his gaze.

Alien heads, wild hair and limbs moved like a wave. All in the way. He tried to pry through the crowd, and get to the bag. Through the cluster's crack he could see it turning. Then, it disappeared. Too many people.

When Injah escaped in a stumble out from the foot traffic the bag and it's badass were gone. What remained was a Ryn with a kloo horn. He didn't have it to his lips. But, he did have a hat, filled with credit chips. Thick brows and a thicker stache poked out the side of the Ryn's skinny crow nosed face. Earrings hung from his ears; another bohemian punk from the look of his gear. The street musician stood out front the shop - loitering.

Our favorite former Jedi restrained a laugh with a muffled half laugh. It came out as a snort. Injah strolled up to the funny-faced music-man: "Kind sir," Injah raised a hand - no wave - simply reaching for the loiterer's attention. The Ryn turned and his earrings jingled. "Yes, you, sir"

Injah smiled. And, not for the polite introductory purposes, but who would know the difference?

"Know where this Underworld Ink is?"

[Injah Bas]

Pretentiousness isn't just the tone in a nobleman's flailed open palm when talking about Spira vacations to a bar-back. It's also in a slow blink, lip smacking and delayed response. As if to process how much they have to speak down to their audience. All three were packaged in this Ryn musician, with an added roll of the eyes as he pointed his thumb behind him at the shop.

Injah held his shit grin as he looked up at the signage. Without another word, the former Jedi shifted his brows up, nodded, and oh so quietly sauntered by the money hat & into the shop.

He came in shaking his head, rolling his own eyes, muttering something about a dummy. And, he wasn't talking about himself. Self-deprecation was one of his many social weapons. Yet, the pompous unarmed his charm. Weaponless, he lifted his head to see his final destination: Underworld Ink. The place smelled clinical; tattooist trade mandated ointments and cleaned environments. A sense of air freshener kept the air fair. The walls were close. It was small. Comfortable seats fit for cruiser pilots plotted the room's rear beyond the shop's counter. There was no customers, but plenty on the wall.

Artwork kept the room warm & welcoming. Moreso, there was a gal to grab his eyes.

Her long hair swooped. It was a black waterfall along her face. Tattoos told a story on her neck, arm and elsewhere. He tried not to goggle her. It was hard. Luckily, she had tiger eyes. He stared. High cheek bones, full lips, small nose, all defined like she was half-cat. Injah decided she was near-human; he couldn't figure the specifics, but he more than curious. There, he stopped, at the door, one brow raised. His posture changed.

He stood straight. His hands in his pocket.

[Daniella Tur'ilian]

Long, pearly white incisors flashed in the bright light of the parlor and her willowy black tail flicked excitedly behind her before wrapping around her left thigh. The Felacatian was clad in short shorts, grunge in hue and frayed at the hem, and a faded, sleeveless band tee completed the top; scuffed black boots of ankle height covered her feet, leaving plenty of heavily tattooed skin available for wandering eyes. The spliced pupils of her eyes widened as she took in the prospective customer thoroughly, slowly wandering closer to him like a predator stalking prey. When she was mere inches away, given that he had yet to say anything, she gave him a firm poke right in the center of his chest.

"Hullo. I'm Dani, prrroprrrietor. Have a design in mind or would you like to look around?" She asked, gesturing behind her to the art laden walls. "Firrrst tattoo?"

[Injah Bas]

Accelerated heart beats pulsated through his torso whilst his face muscles barely twitched for fluttering blinks. Appearances would say he was unbothered. Tusk cat pupils shaped like knives stared back at him.

Injah’s gaze captured her gait and grace, boots tapping the polish tile creating an echo he took in with the long, controlled inhales to quiet his impulse. The more near she came the wider his eyes dilated. When her finger finally poked his chest, there was no more restraint -- he smirked.

And, it stayed for her throaty, tongue rolling accent, only broadening when he open his yap to speak, "Yea," he didn't look beyond her to the wall. His eyes were on her.

He knew what he wanted. "First, ya, and got the design here." Injah patted his pockets.

"By the way, I'm In-jah."

Yeah, like injury. Hopefully he wouldn't end up with any dealing with this Felactian. But, no pain no gain, right?

[Daniella Tur'ilian]

"Nice to meet you, In-jah." She grinned cheekily, sharp incisors flashing in the bright lighting of the parlor. Her eyes wandered down, starting where she had initially met his eyes and ending in the vicinity of the pockets he patted. Her hands lifted somewhat, fingers twitching with the barely restrained urge to go fishing for the design from his pockets.

Her bright green eyes flicked back up to meet his and she canted her head toward the large room where she applied the tattoos. She spun on her heel and clasped her hands behind her, just beneath her merrily swaying tail. Around the counter and into her palace, she motioned for him to take a seat. "Can I see now? And... where are you thinking?"

[Injah Bas]

Curiosity killed the cat, but Injah was alive. And, in front of a curious cat. She moved like one. Few realize their furry friends are lethal killers. They're too adorable. Even after they give you a scratch, owners do not see it. Injah could. When her eyes wandered, his mind did. This was not safe. Risk have to be taken though, in the name of art. After he followed, listened, he pulled a fossil rock out, put it on the counter and plopped into the seat.

He sprawled out -- spread his knees and legs all out.

No way he sat like a dignified Jedi; elbow up on the chair's back end, lounging (it was a look he'd adopted from hanging with smugglers on Great Jovan), casual enough to shroud his depth of knowledge. There on the fossil rock imprinted a symbol. It was a circle connected by eight even spokes -- too many spokes to be Imperial. Yet, most would not recognize that and there in lied the genius. More of that "hiding in plain sight" tactic because who was an expert on the holy Order of Dai Bendu? Who knew of ancient monks who went goo-goo for mystic puffs and peace? Injah did. And, hopefully somebody on Ossus if his planned trip ended up a success.

But, first he had to make this a forever thing: "I'm thinking here," he rubbed his upper arm.

"Like, a sleeve. Got any cyberink?" Now, cyber-ink is code. Everyone is not hip. Not exactly novel tech yet the craze of animated tattoos & data-chip ink jobs had resurfaced as a trend from the Outer Rim Territories. Out there in the Wild West of Hydian Way & Hutt space folks liked to watched their naked lady tattoos prance on their arms without flexing. Cyberink made that possible. Plus, you could sync it with data & skip datapads.

[Daniella Tur'ilian]

Neatly manicured, pointed fingernails tapped along the counter as the fossilized rock was picked up and inspected. Her enhanced, feline eyes roving over the porous texture of the stone and the familiar insignia emblazoned upon its surface. Similar enough to be mistaken for something it wasn't but different enough for one with an artist's eye, such as herself, to entertain a subtle wondering regarding its origin. She sliced a glance toward him and then set the stone back upon the counter, moving toward the drain equipped wash basin. A fair bit of anti-bacterial solution was dumped into her nimble hands, cleansing crevices with practiced entwining of fingers and scrubbing motions.

Daniella had an appreciation for his casual air, it was refreshing when compared against the usual first timers she saw come through her doors. She pulled out some drawers in the large cabinets near the sink and extracted some sealed packages from within them. She paused before prying them open, her gaze flicking up to meet his. "Good place, not too painful but eye catching as a location. As far as cyber-ink goes, I've got source codes as simple as updating your social media on the go or if you'd like to get real fancy, I've got a few injectors that have the algorithmic complexity of a data spike. Of course, that all depends on how many credits you've got to spend.." She snapped a pair of latex gloves on her newly cleaned and dried hands. She plopped down on the stool next to the chair where he sprawled, nudging a switch with her elbow so the ink-lasers emerged from the underside of the seat. A mechanical whirring filled the room temporarily as she tested the power supply. "...you're not a Sector Ranger, right?" She asked calmly, her gaze remaining on level with his own while she tore one of the packets open with her very sharp teeth.

[Injah Bas]

Old habits die hard.

Jedi were trained to observe. Deductive skills was his thing. Back in the day Injah was an Jedi Investigator like Master Sinube. The boy would roam Level 1313. He'd fish Coruscanti markets. He'd eye customers, workers and analyze & see connections. Under those dreadlocks on his head was a brain swirling with theories on all the world's had to offer. When he lounged and watched Dani he saw how she cleaned. He eyed her paws. She looked capable, strong -- a fighter? It wouldn't be a surprise. Tattoos were linked to the nightlife and bar fights. Tattooist came from all sorts of lifestyles. Illustrators who passed on paper for skin or designers who saw the body as the final frontier and more trade skills streamlined into the creativity of tattoo art. However, the running theme among all these creatives was a pain threshold. Such a fair generalization led Injah to wonder how much she had taken.

But, he did not think aloud.

He stayed quiet, for once, and let her move around her room. He was calm. She was calm. She had done this plenty times before, but how many times? He nodded as she brought up credits. Money, surprisingly, was not an issue. Life back home on Jeddesh blessed him with funds. They wanted him to be a liaison, so they gave him all the bells & whistles to make things happen.

"Do I look like a ranger?" Injah bat his eyes and gave his best innocent look. Then, a smile, "You get a lot of troopers coming through that door or something?"

[Daniella Tur'ilian]

That innocent smile provoked another toothy grin from the Felacatian, her hand reaching out to drag a rolling side table closer to her location.

"There's no telling rrrreally. I've had a few Trrroopers come thrrrough, they are usually looking for someone else, though." That was a lie but it rolled off the tongue so nicely. They were probably look her for Nikolai and her, seeing as how they'd been hitting Imperial shipments in nearby sectors since they'd set up shop here.

A container of saniderm cloths was already stored on it, along with various tools to tweak the grade of the coded ink. Several cylindrical vials sat in a small terminal, which she powered on; causing the dense glass of the containers to illuminate in various hues.

"Got the insignia in my mind's eye. Going to get starrrted on the line worrrk. Let me know if you want any color pops added. I'll need to know prrrretty soon what cyberink prrofile you'll want, if you're looking to go that rrroute." A gloved hand deftly swiped one of the sanitary wipes over his arm, sweeping away any lingering, microscopic bacteria and cilia that would interfere with the process.

[Injah Bas]

The fresh wet whiff snaked all up Injah's nose. That sanitary smell was always odd. Most were reminded of hospitals. Only doctors & survivors loved those places. Injah was the latter but don't blame a medic. No bacta was involved in his survival. It was that youthful skin of his, which was about to be torn open in the name of art & convenience. Young in the face, thick in the times wasted, he knew exactly what sort of encryption in his arm would make his life easy and be purposeful.

"Well, I'm a lil fancy." He started, looking up, mocking thought by rubbing his chin. "You know, I'd like to skip the whole datapad in hand thing." Injah looked down at his hand and watched his fingers wiggle. "Throw it in the bicep."

His hand made a fist. Small veins ran up from his wrist as the blood pumped. Little did she knew, he was not a fan of needles. Medical facilities did not only have a bad smell but annoying memories. Those irritating medics pricked him every time. Whether it was in the arm, finger or some stranger location, he rather avoided the whole damn thing. This time at least the needle would be his choice. He looked over at her, "Think you can do that?"

That question would be just the start. Curiosity was language to him. Throughout this needling he'd be doing his own pricking away -- just to get his mind off the pain? He was not all too sure how it'd feel. But, the first cut is always the deepest.