#jack cody

It had taken some work and maneuvering to get where she was, the moment had to be rather carefully arranged. A few nights spent planning and working the steps out proper and now… well, it was time to see if it would pay off.

Potential assets and allies were difficult to come by and for a long time she thought herself capable of weathering the come and go, the highs and lows of keeping her assets clear. But things had gotten dangerous between her and Terallo. Speak of the devil. She watched as he moved through the promenade, paused to doublecheck the address she’d sent and slipped inside the building’s entrance. 

Perfect timing. Several minutes passed before the Mad Dog himself turned the corner, predatory stroll one of purposeful malice. He’d expect to find her there in the building and she could tell by the low angle of his shoulders and the sharp focus as he slipped inside that it would be blood spilled.

A shame, really. But Terallo had tipped from manageable to erratic and seemed bent on murder rather than the back and forth shift of their game and the damage it caused. 

Dropping from the balcony, she moved to the door and snapped it shut, sealed it and began to walk away. It would be too lucky if they managed to kill one another but the chances were that only one of them would emerge. There was no telling when, though. There was a plan for that as well.

Caspira lifted her wrist to her mouth, keyed the comm. “It’s your show now.” There was a glimmer of acknowledgement from the upper balcony, a glint of response from the blaster barrel. “Nobody lives.” Rax was a good hunter. And paid good money for the job… it would get done. Terallo and Jack Cody. Two with one stone.

Her fists are raw and bloodied, just like the smile on his face and she can’t seem to wipe it off. Hit him until he’s down, keep hitting him and all she gets is that wild, mad dog grin. Jack’s blue eyes are pinned to hers and one swollen down to a slice of blue caged in by blackening bruises and he’s still smiling that goddamn smile. Rolling her neck with a series of tight popping noises, she shifts her jaw and lays into him again, knuckles tearing wide on that damn grin.

(nsfw: violence)

"Ain’t nothin’ a guy can do about it. When you’re as awesome as I am, you’re bound to pick up a few enemies." Jenk swirled the shot of murky red bourbon in its little glass, sourly watching the little clouds of aromatic debris bloom within the liquid. His cyber-eye adjusted itself a dozen times in between breaths, focusing on the contents of the fluid. Known Toxins By Percentage (Visual): Ethanol 47% (94 Proof), Glitterstim 0.74%, Paraglydotoxin 1.6%, Arsenic 0.004%.

"What kills me is how I never expected to be workin’ for one of ‘em. I mean, the dude is basically my biggest buyer. I oughta be blastin’ his head off an’ turnin’ him in - there’s prolly like a hundred bounties on him, all of ‘em at least five figures. I just saw another one pop up on the ‘Net today. Ten grand for puttin’ a hole in Jack Cody." The cyborg placed one of his gauntleted fingers into the shot, curling his hand around the little glass. Known Toxins by Percentage (Physical Detection): Ethanol 47.6658% (95 Proof), Glitterstim 0.74871%, Paraglydotoxin 1.5981%, Arsenic 0.0039981%, Uruxian Orgovirus 4.556%. Neutralize Toxins? Y/N

The Rodian bartender blinked its huge eyes at him. “You don’t worry, Mr. Nendo, that your association with this Jack Cody will one day return to haunt you?”

"Jenk Goddamn Robotastic Nendo, baby! Galaxy’s greatest purveyor of ‘nix. Ya like upgrades? Wanna be a robo-man like ol’ Jenk? If you got creds, I’ll make you a real man, man. Shit, man, I ain’t never seen a dude what couldn’t use a couple hundred pounds of big-dick borg parts. ‘Specially a fightin’ man like you, big Jedi."

Jenk had no idea what dark corner of the galaxy most of his faux-urban patois even came from. A hundred holo-vids about shady stim-vendors getting paid and laid in the backs of sleek panther-like speeders with tinted window ports, perhaps? It didn’t matter. The little cyborg fell into the rapid patter-speech so quickly and easily that it didn’t even feel put on anymore. Calling people ‘dude’ and saying things like ‘I gon’ instead of ‘I am going to’ was comfortable, like a well-worn coat of linguistic armor.

Having enough money to buy food and enough firepower to protect said food had made Jenk a different man than the first few terrible months after the Fortune’s Folly disaster. Then, he was a womp rat - a crawling, mewling thing, scuttling into alleys and down drain pipes with a scrap of electronics in his bony grasp, evading detection of any kind, barely even willing to speak. And now? Now he was Jenk Nendo, and he didn’t give a fuck, and everyone should know it.

It was all bluster and bravado, all the time. In the world of credits and scammers, of slicers and dicers, and blasters everywhere you looked, there was no room for softness. No womp rats with pale bellies could be allowed to exist - they must be hardened, brightened, filled with blood and Corellian whiskey, and sent forth to face the slings and arrows.