The glasses had been piling up on the bar for a couple of hours now. Emptied of the shots of Kowakian rum it seemed the Ithorian bar tender had no interest in clearing them away. Thankfully he was happy enough to keep providing more.
He knocked back the latest drink and added the empty glass to the pile in front of him. His head was starting to spin which was just the effect he’d been looking for, soon he’d have to leave and find somewhere to spend the night. If he wasn’t careful he’d pass out where he sat.
He was turning the events of the past few months over in his mind. How had he come to be here? Where it had all gone so wrong?
Felucia had been his ticket to greatness. He’d been made Moff of the sector shortly after the Battle of Yavin. Apparently his predecessor was guilty of allowing too many Alliance ships to escape and had paid with his life.
In his position as Moff he had one assignment. Manage the base for Inquisitor Typho and a glorious future in the Imperial military was guaranteed. When the base was destroyed he’d been lucky to get off with a demotion. Landing the job on Vandor as Commander of the Vault was far from perfect, but at least he was still alive.
And then they had arrived! The same crew who destroyed his career on Felucia, back to finish the job. Obviously this was personal.
A sudden pain seared through his chest as he raised his hand to order another drink. It still hurt where the stimpack needle had punctured his ribs. Why had they saved him? How much more were they hoping to take from him?
He had a choice,. His first option was to hand himself in. He didn’t favour his chances there, the Emperor wouldn’t forgive him a second time.
The other option was to track down his tormentors and take from them all that they had taken from him. He had some credits saved up and could steal a shuttle while his Imperial access was still valid.
He downed his final shot. It was hard to tell which burned the most, the Kowakian rum or his lust for revenge.