World Tree MUSH

  Sixty thousand kilometers over the 'surface' of Bespin floats a marvel of engineering. Ostensibly a tibanna gas mine and outpost on a massive scale, the starport of Cloud City has also developed a booming tourism industry with its scenic vistas, casinos, hotels, and expensive restaurants on its upper levels. Below, it sports as gritty an underbelly as anywhere else in the galaxy: Dangerous, dog-eat-dog, and depressing.

  The Vapour Room is a bar for Cloud City's tibanna miners and maintenance workers; the rough and tumble crowd that the rich tourists up above never get an opportunity to see. It's a popular place because the bartender has selective blindness, selective apathy, and serves up just about anything as long as the customers are paying, even the stuff that might not be so legal.

  It's a place where people go to be out of sight, if not entirely forgotten. A place where nobody asks too many questions, and the Imperial presence is either light or nonexistent. That's always a good thing.

  Instead, Juno was here to deal with certain Rebel Alliance business. A contact had been anxious to pass along information, so she had met with them and gathered the information, before continuing on her way. There's time to stop off for a Corellian whisky before getting back to business, though, so...

  So, that's what Juno's doing. She's sprawled in a corner booth, brooding in smoky shadows. Although she might look more or less harmless, there's something about her aura that keeps trouble away. It also doesn't hurt that she snarls and shows her blaster to any strangers getting too close to her table.

  Occasionally she taps the earpiece in one ear, checking in with PROXY quietly and, by her expression, waving off any concerns of his. It does pay to keep a droid around that can do a Wookiee impression. It keeps the scavengers away from the ship... because the Rogue Shadow would probably be stripped and sold for parts in minutes flat in a place like this.

    The door opens and heads turn. A new and unfamiliar face makes their way into The Vapour Room, and already he's drawing eyes with the dull clink-clink of boot spurs and heavy footsteps. Silver armor reflects the room's low light like a beacon, and already the rough and tumble scum of miners and criminals are weighing the beskar in their minds.
    The Mandalorian enters, and he's not alone, considering the floating crib at his side; the wide-eyed little youngling within looking left and right at all staring faces. Ignoring the eyes all on him, the beskar-clad mercenary makes his way for the one familiar face in the whole room, pulling the floating crib at his side with him in a beeline for the table of one Juno Eclipse, he stands looming over the table for a moment.
    "This seat taken?" He asks, tone low and gruff, voice only thinly attenuated by the thickness of his helmet and its onboard speaker that helps him project.

  The door opens and heads turn. The blonde Rebel general's is one of them, listening to the clink of spurs and the clank of beskar plating. She watches the faceless mercenary approach her table, the tiny green alien all eyeballs and curiosity as the crib floats along at his side. Juno casts a cool, measured look at the crib before her eyes slide back over to the Mandalorian-styled helmet.

  She lifts her eyes. Slightly bloodshot, but still clear enough for a fight. The Child might notice that faint fight-or-flight instinct; that spike of adrenaline, but Juno apparently weighs her options and decides that the Mandaloaim is Okay People.

  She shifts in her chair; a horse-kick to the chair across from her sets it out for the Mandalorian to sit in. "It was, but not any more. Sit down."

  Somehow she manages to squirm a little further back into the shadows. Not out of any apparent fear of him, but the level of people staring at this table is becoming uncomfortable.

    The man's face is an unreadable stare behind that T-shaped visor, the Child's gaze darting back and forth between Juno and his protector. He can sense the spike in her emotions; a tiny whine burbling forth, almost lost in the din of hushed whispers and conversation.
    The chair is kicked over, and the the bounter hunter lowers humself into the seat, hunching forward and planting hands on his knees as he affixes the Rebel with that silent stare a moment longer, as the eyes finally drift away from the table, either thanks to the dusruptor rifle on the man's back or lack of further interest.
    "The Empire." He begins. "What's left of it. Is after this kid and I don't know why."

  Those blue eyes are like ice, staring the expressionless visor down. She is not invulnerable to fear, something the Child can sense, but she's good at acting like she isn't... but when it becomes clear he wants to join her instead of stuff her into a freezer, some of that tension bleeds away.

  It's not completely gone. There are too many stares directed at this table for her level of comfort. Thirty-five years of raging warfare between the Rebel Alliance and various forms of Imperial tyranny have tuned her instincts to the paranoid register.

  Juno folds her arms and leans back in her chair without sitting up too much. It looks like an awkward position, but it's a way to stretch that isn't defined by a pilot's chair. Her eyes slant sidelong to follow the Mandalorian down into his chair. Wary; wary. Always wary. She must be acting counter to her instincts to even be speaking with him.

  The disruptor rifle on his back is a powerful reminder that she wouldn't be dealing with this man at all if it weren't for that. Necessity is a powerful motivator.

  "The Empire." Her response is low, almost velvety, but instead of softness her voice is venom. There is a hate burning behind those two words with such intensity it most likely will unsettle the Child. It is, thankfully, not directed at the little tyke. Somewhat ironically, her accent is Imperial, and its dialect is very easily traced to the capital city of the planet Corulag: Clipped and neat, tidy.

  Her mouth twists. She wants to curse, but she's not going to if she can help it, not in front of the Child. "'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,' as the saying goes. I'm not so sure about that, but it sounds like neither of us has very much reason to be fond of Imperial interests."

  "Ever since I first saw him, I thought I knew him." She gestures loosely toward the Child's crib; crooks a finger towards his pointed ears. "He reminds me of a Jedi I knew of, once. When I helped form the Rebellion." Wait... form the Rebellion? "I think he was on the Jedi Council, but I'm not positive. I never remembered any of that so well." She frowns, head tilting, one hand rising to curl a finger at her upper lip in thoughtful gesture. Those bloodshot blue eyes narrow. "What was his name...? Well, I can't recall, just now, but he looks bloody familiar..."

  "It sounds like you've become something of a nomad with a scenario like that," Juno observes, straightening and resting her hands in her lap beneath the table. She leans forward, elbows braced against her knees, and stares into the impenetrable shadows that define the shape of the visor.

  "You two are welcome to travel with the Rogue Shadow for a little while, if you like. Safety in numbers, you know? I'm also happy to follow you for a time, if you'd like a little extra protection, if you've got a ship of your own." Juno thumbs at the Child. "For his sake, of course." Of course.

  Embittered scarred campaigner, battle-hardened veteran... fat chance. She's a mama wolf and there's no two ways about it.

    That tension is easy to sense. One doesn't have to be Force sensitive to feel it roiling off the olf Rebel even when she seems to 'calm'. Oh no, there's no missing that. The Child whines again, just being around Juno beginning to set the poor thing on edge. But something in what the old Rebel says makes the Mandalorian's head cant to a curious angle.
    "Form the Rebellion?" He asks, tone inquisitive. "Where I'm from the Empire was destroyed. All that are left are holdouts and remnants. You mean to tell me you helped form the group that brought them down?" He sounds mildly incredulous to say the least. Nevertheless, the enemy of my enemy is my friend indeed, and he falls silent for a long beat.
    "Nomad is one way of putting it. I'm trying to lay low. I've got my own ship; an old Razor Crest, a gunship. Pre-Imperial. I wouldn't mind someone to fly alongside who can watch my back, for a little while at least."

  "Well... yes." Juno lets her head slowly tilt to match the angle of the beskar helmet. "Galen... I mean Starkiller... we were part of the Empire, once, but we managed to give them the slip." She takes a breath to continue, stops, frowns, and then holds up a forefinger, sighing. "Actually, it's a really long story, now that I think back on it. One for the bridge of my ship or yours."

  The old general shrugs. "Short answer: Yes. I know General Leia personally. I was there when the original treaties were signed, and in fact may have signed one or two myself. I couldn't tell you. I may have been roaring drunk at the time. Corellian whisky is delightful," she adds, hooding her eyes and twirling her shotglass by the rim.

  Despite her seeming distraction, though, she's listening to him. His story is taken in carefully. "That isn't pre-Imperial," Juno says with a low whistle, "that's a bloody antique. How in the Force do you keep those engines running? You must be a virtuoso with a hydrospanner; I'm impressed." It shows in her tone. It's actually pleasing for her to meet someone who's so capable an engineer; one artisan to another.

  "I'd be happy to. It sounds like we have a common goal where the Empire is concerned." The woman offers her hand, cool and dry. Her hands are gloved, but only the palms and the pads of her fingers; covered by skin-tight plain flight gloves. "Juno Eclipse. General Juno Eclipse."

    "I wouldn't know." The Mandalorian doesn't seem to be a drinking man, and shrugs off the topic of Corellian whiskey. But he listens attentively, the shadows of that dark visor staring Juno down as she gives her reply. Whether he's impressed or skeptical is hard to tell with several millimeters of beskar mask shrouding his unreadable expression entirely.
    On the subject of the Razor Crest, silver pauldrons lift in a fint shrug. "I know my way around a ship. Just enough to keep it running at least." He says. Modesty, perhaps. Or at least he knows how to keep his ship running. "She's old, but reliable at least."
    The offered hand is regarded for a beat before he reaches out, beskar-clad gauntlet curling fingers around Juno's hand in a firm but not overpowering shake.
    "Just call me Mando. Everyone else does anyway."

  It may or may not be hard to sense through the gauntlets, but Juno has a firm grip, hand delicate but sinewy. Faint scars tell stories of accidents with sharp engineering tools over the years. At the side of her neck is the puckering of an old blaster wound scar; a grazing shot that must have burned past her neck at point-blank range.

  Scarred old campaigner, all right, but she's still got some life in her. There is some good in the woman -- enough to have rescued someone from the Dark Side, once upon a time. There are redeeming qualities. But something must have happened to break this person. Maybe it's all those years of service. The Child can sense it, even if she's good at hiding it.

  She's fiercely loyal to the cause, though. And she seems to have made a snap judgment that the Mandalorian's cause is a just one; that he's speaking the truth. Maybe it's just instinct.

  Her mouth quirks. "All right, then. Mando it is. You can call me General Eclipse or you can call me Juno. Or you can keep calling me by my callsign, 'Blackout.' Please do, when we're in Imperial territory, but on safe ground I leave the choice to you." The woman leans back in her chair, kicking her boots up on the table. She drains the shotglass; it lands back on the table with a bang, and she holds up a forefinger, reaching up to tap at the comm unit at her ear. "Excuse me a moment."

  "PROXY, I want a radar check. What does it look like out there?"

  "Clean, General Eclipse. I see no traces of Imperial presence in this star system or the next several. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No, but thanks, PROXY."

  Her hand drops, and she gives a sigh. "I actually hate this place. The smell is atrocious. But you can get just about anything you can imagine in the galaxy here, for a price. I remember when I first came here... I didn't go in. Galen did. General Rahm Kota was determined to drink himself into obscurity here in this very establishment." The woman affectionately slaps the scarred tabletop with the flat of her hand.

  "Anyway, Galen was an Imperial agent. During his first formal mission, he blinded General Kota... we never told Kota who we were after we started working together, but I'm quite sure he was able to suss that out. He always was clever." Her smile is bitter. "I think I'm a little tired of flying alone. I'll be glad for the company for a little while, Mando."

  She leans over, sidling closer to peer curiously down at the Child. She doesn't reach for him or anything, lest it be seen as a threat, but her air softens sharply to his senses. All those sharp, hard edges are dulled down. Seems the old general has a maternal streak ten miles wide, even if this little one is irritatingly' ' familiar and right on the tip of her tongue.