"Tell you?" Quinn grinned. "Well, it's a little place called Munden's. Usually a quiet sort of place, out near the edge of the environmental dome. Not the best part of town, but the owner - a semi-retired merc named John Gaunt - ensures that the local toughs play nice." A pause. "The ones that the Black Sun doesn't keep in line, that is." He opened the speeder door for her, then walked around and climbed into the driver's seat. "I think you'll like it," he said with a smile. "There's far more to it than meets the eye." The engine purred to life, and he pulled out into traffic.
The bar was, as advertised, in a run-down part of the city. One lit with a ruddy glow from the perennial lava fields beyond the environmental dome, and strewn with the signs of lax police attention and struggling humanity. Quinn didn't seem particularly concerned as he parked the expensive speeder in front of the squat stone and concrete building with the simple sign "Munden's", however. He merely opened the door for Scarlet and locked the speeder after she stepped out. Offering her his arm, he escorted her inside.
The first thing to notice about the bar was the
pulsing beat of the music, a slow-tempo electronic thing backed by synthesizers and the occasional horn. That was the first thing, because the interior lighting was dim. The second thing to notice was the mass of different xenosentients that patronized the bar. Humans and near-humans, Togruta and Ithorians and Zabrak and Kel Dor and Bith and others too exotic to recognize easily, all mixed easily or hunkered at their tables and nursed their drinks. There was a dance floor, and a few dozen people circulated on it, but most of the action appeared to be drinking. Everyone glanced up at them, glanced a second time at 'Shadi' - she was worth glancing at, after all - and returned to their business.
"Hey, Quinn," waved the bartender, a lean brunette man wearing a button-down shirt and black vest. "And who's this?"
"Hey Gordon," Quinn answered. "This is Shadi, an... associate of mine."
"A pleasure, ma'am," Gordon responded, then looked back at Quinn. "Your regular?"
"Nah. I'm trying to impress her with my good taste. How about..."
"A little late for that," Gordon grinned. "She seems to have met you already."
"Ha. Ha." Quinn answered, deadpan. "Spiced pulkay, and a show of Corin whiskey. And whatever she's having."