3-2-1
Lets Jam

Hair was everywhere. Curls coiled and stretched out his head. There was so many. They swelled into a fluffy black cloud; a beautiful mess to keep his thoughts warm. Eyes black like a teddy bear, cheeks high, built slender, even toned and skin cinnamon, he was Dai Von Jun - a testament of Vahla genetics, Sector Ranger training and a stranded musician on a planet as fluffy & troubled as his hair. Beyond the balcony, peach tinted heavens sported crepe colored clouds and Dai looked at them. His arms crossed on the railing. What leaned beside him was a suitcase. Other musical talents may travel with their instruments in a container, but he couldn't put his vocal box in a cargo hold. Not that he had to. Over the years as a face of film, music and the Empire, he was a virtuoso of the smile, nod and wave technique. Fan recognition was often humbling when not annoying - it depended on the a number of variables (their personality, his day, setting and etc) - and it was rare he wasn't worried about such matters.

This was one of those rare occasions.

All he saw was all he wanted to care about. However, his mind was elsewhere. Amidst the beauty, among Cloud City's glory, he was without credit chips, a band, a ship, contacts, a datapad and lost much more in merchandise due to one of his "friends" gambling it all when he was sleep. Lucky for them, they hitched a ride with their debt, leaving a message they'd be back within the hour. Of course, the hour became two days. Notoriety was all that kept him fed. Famous faces, with a bit of charisma, could charm a free meal out of a restaurant or two. Yet, he didn't want to become known as the Cloud City freeloader. Rumors spread quickly.

Plus, some couldn't figure out where they knew him from.

Bepsin wasn't exactly Corellia or the Imperial Center. Closer to the Outer Rim, he was more worried about being noticed for some faulty deal he'd squandered or his anti-Imperial rhetoric on his unreleased album. Which just so happened to be his only way off the planet; a bartender at the resort he cashed out on recommended him to a booker who could fund a trip if he performed those unreleased jams for his club's audience. Giving the booker exclusive treatment was problematic enough - his lyrics & Sector Ranger name weren't a good mix - but, Dai also had issues with the fact he had no band.

He shook his head staring. If he was reserving his voice for something more useful, he'd mumble, "How the frell did I get here?"