[hr][hr][center][color=silver][h1]Kabal[/h1][/color][/center][hr][hr]
The planet was cold. Not like the vast plains and rolling fields of Ubertica. The rest of the galaxy outside, it was a frigid, unwelcoming place, and Kabal despised it for that very reason. Anchorage seemed to be the poor man's Tatooine, a lawless haven for the thief, the smuggler, and the mercenary. The first and, really, only rule enforced by the enigmatic Harbormaster be that no one carry a blaster on the planet's surface. The punishment for breaking the rule was death, by those who...were allowed to carry blasters. Kabal found this rule confusing, and despite Solace's insistence, had no intention of obeying it. Indeed, the Captain was smart, and knew to lock the armory down within an hour of landing at port, keep the Ubese from hoarding any secret weapons. But even after being on the crew for a year, Kabal still had a few tricks left up his sleeve; one of them being a thermal detonator. 

The [i]Noreaster's[/i] armory was the crew's main center for whatever weapons were needed for a mission, but after invocation of the 'no explosives' rule following an incident that Kabal stubbornly insisted (and still does) was the fault of the Good Admiral Piff, he decided to make his own armory. A hollowed out floor tile in his quarters, nearly indistinct from the others, filled to the brim with high-powered weapons that would inspire awe from several of the crew-members, and several more charges of war crimes from the authorities. A TL-50 Heavy Repeater was Kabal's latest addition - and a fine addition it was - a source of pride for the weapons-obsessed Ubese. 

But, indeed, Solace [i]was[/i] smart, and even after locking down the armory demanded that Kabal relinquish all the weapons currently on his person, under the watchful eye of Five-Toes, ready to hurl his massive bulk at the poor Ubese should he resist. What followed was an at-least five-minute process of Kabal turning over any weapons, or items that could be used [i]as[/i] weapons. Wrist rocket launcher, flamethrower, grenades, vibroknife, tuning stylus taken from the droid bay, all of it amassed in a small pile at Solace's feet. Kabal believed that his shock gloves, carefully interwoven webbing into the fabric of his gauntlets would be missed, and they were! Until Five-Toes dutifully reminded the Captain with nothing short of the biggest shit-eating grin in the galaxy. Revenge for all the times he had felt the sting of the gloves, himself. And to think Kabal had been going easy on him. 

With what could only be described as a temper tantrum of swearing in his native language to a degree that would make his mother cry, Kabal stormed off to be on his own until the crew finally landed. Feeling more naked than he ever had before, Kabal was forced to think on his feet, carry light, enough that if something happened on Anchorage, he'd be able to do more than run and hide. Hiding wasn't particularly in his nature, especially when he had access to his equipment. But Solace had put him in a rough spot, and, as usual, it was up to him to clean up the mess. A thermal detonator up his sleeve, a flashbang under the folds of his clothing, and a DL-44 in his boot. It certainly wasn't an optimal loadout, but it made Kabal feel a tad less vulnerable.

Meticulously replacing the floor tile with not a seam out of place, Kabal stayed hidden inside his quarters until an audible [i]lurch[/i] signaled that the ship had landed at port. Volunteering to follow Solace, Clu, and a few choice other crew-members out into the icy armpit of the galaxy, it was a brisk, unpleasant walk to get to the Last Resort Cantina. Despite conditions, Kabal didn't utter a single complaint or even a shiver, as it seemed. The Ubese were a strong, splintered people, having endured not only near-decimation, but complete galactic erasure. Yet every time, they rose from the ashes stronger than ever. To complain about the cold was an admittance of weakness - and Kabal refused to be beaten by the weather. 

The entrance to the Last Resort was guarded by a hulking Aqualish who served as bouncer, apathetically looking each visitor up-and-down for any visible contraband before letting them through. As the Mariner and her crew approached, there was an odd glint in the creature's eye that hinted making Solace an exception to his no pat-down routine, but nothing came of it. Respect, or maybe just a lick of good-old common sense. 

As they walked past, Kabal turned his helmeted head back to stare the bouncer in the face, prompting a growl from the brutish creature; to which Kabal growled back in kind. The inside of the cantina was a crowded, dimly-lit haven for Outer Rim Scum, free from the near-omnipresent eye of the Empire. Kabal couldn't help but grin madly behind his expressionless mask. Cramped, poor visibility, one exit; one flashbang going off is all it would take to start a massacre, and Kabal was prepared to do just that should things get out-of-hand. 

But Captain Solace may as well have been in her home element. The Mariner's identity was one cultivated through years of dropped whispers, half-baked rumors, and a nudge to the underground by none other than the Fixer. But the woman, herself, dangerous as she was, favored little more than a strong drink, and a man or woman - or both - to drunkenly take back to her private quarters. Kabal didn't understand the appeal of a lot of it, but it made the Captain happy; and when the Captain was happy, the crew was happy. When the Captain wasn't happy, well, then that usually meant Airus was in 'charge,' and that [i]didn't[/i] make Kabal happy. 

Inside, it didn't take long for the first physical conflict to start. Some cockeyed smuggler with a smirk that reflexively made Kabal want to knock out a few teeth decided to pick a fight with a nearby KX-droid minding its own business. Didn't take a broker's bet to figure out how that fight would go. The smuggler immediately found himself picked up off the ground with the same ease that one would lift a glass to their lips, throttled and thrown full-force into a wall, a scream and the shattering of bone interrupting the music and ambience for only a brief moment. This was the Outer Rim, and the unwritten creed of "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes" was something of a golden rule. 

After that minor distraction, Kabal turned to look back at who Solace was speaking to: a jittery Rodian who clearly seemed out of his depth. Kabal was thankful for the helmet hiding the disgust painted clearly on his features: the bulbous eyes, flapping snout, sucker-tipped fingers, and the [i]stench.[/i] Kabal couldn't, or wouldn't, suppress a minor insult in his native tongue, knowing full-well that the Rodian wouldn't understand him. It was bad enough to be on a crew full of aliens, but at least there he could hide away in his quarters. 

What was important, however, was mention of Viron Jek. Solace was unimpressed, her confidence something of a morale-booster, if only a bit. Clu, however, wasn't having any of it. Placing down a holocom with a rather distinct wanted poster, Clu started explaining in-depth the reputation that Viron Jek had accumulated over the years as a pirate-lord willing to spit in the Empire's face. Kabal found this boring. But he did take interest in the holoprojector shifting images, finally landing on a rather grisly scene taken from the holonet by reporters. Kabal stared intently at the image, his expression unreadable through the dual-visor of his helmet. 

[color=silver]"Big."[/color] Was all he said, a word processed through what must-have-been half-a-dozen filters and speech scramblers, creating an unsettling metallic tone that was equal parts grating and off-putting, shifting in pitch from a high chirp to an almost gravelly raspiness, all tinted by that steely edge. 

Simply saying the word left a bad taste in Kabal's mouth. Even after the years spent learning and speaking Basic, he detested it. The language was not his own, its words not his own. For a time, he outright refused to speak it, but the few translator units he could get his hands on were never up-to-snuff. Might be time to broaden the search, see what spare credits he could get his hands on that didn't require asking Clu for a loan. Kabal found the idea of prostrating himself before the Muun revolting, an affront to his dignity; however-sparse the rest of the crew believed it to be. 

Saying nothing else, Kabal leaned back in his seat, resisting the urge to take out his hidden grenade and begin tinkering with it. Such work was simple, brought him at least a little amount of peace, but no, Kabal would save that for the ship. Instead, he kept watching the KX-droid in something of admiration. Perhaps that was one thing he and Clu shared.