ishotfirst | (no subject)

"Corellia."

His eyes narrow a fraction as a distant bell rings in his brain.

"Place where that damn fine whiskey's distilled?"

That's approval in his voice.

"The one and only."

A beat.

"I was born here, too, but there ain't nothing like visiting a planet just to try the booze."

There's other ship traffic, above the atmosphere. Transports. A few big shipyards building new vessels. Han doesn't go into land, just yet, because he wants to circle around once to find the right city.

"Gotta drag you out to Dodge City sometime, Solo."

Lines appear on his forehead as he surveys their current surroundings, committing the positions of other ships as fast as he can.

"We goin' down for a spell?"

"Yeah, just want to find someplace that ain't likely to be crawlin' with Imps."

The computer beeps at him and he seems to ignore it, but it registers.

"Might get a little bumpy as she goes down under the cloud cover but it's normal," he assures Ben.

The narration would like to state that the idea of Han Solo on a horse for an extended period of time is hazardous to one's health from danger of laughing too hard, and should only be considered if one is prepared to do so.

"Imps?"

Ben's eyes flick toward the sound, then he nods again.

Though his hand does curl at his knee again. Slightly.

~~The narration would like to point out that JESUS HAROLD CHRIST, said scenario must happen, if only for the lulz~~.

"Imperial forces. Bad guys. Corellia's part of the Rebellion but that doesn't mean the Empire isn't hanging around to keep an eye on things."

That and Han's...wanted in various systems for a lot of various charges.

Details, honestly.

The Falcon slowly glides down through the atmosphere and there's a bit of jostling as they break down through the clouds and into the air that's not weightless space. Ben might notice the actual real effect of gravity, again, rather than the artificial bit that the ship kept up.

They're over a large, busy city, ship traffic moving in neat lines between buildings.

Bemused, "And you're kinda at the head of that rebellion and all."

He understands, Han.

At the slight change in pressure, he frowns slightly and lifts his arm.

" -- huh. Feels a mite different."

A quick glance at Han.

"Normal, ain't it?"

But then the scene outside the ship catches his attention, and he forgets to worry.

This is busier than Dodge City and San Francisco put together.

"I think she's bigger than your Earth, so the effect'll be a bit more. Not too bad, though. Normal."

He slips into a line and they slide through the city until they reach a spaceport.

Hundreds of different ships, coming and going.

He hits a button (it transmits a signal to the spaceport itself) and then thinks for a minute, eyes closed.

"Identify." The comm crackles at him.

"Jenos Idanian of the Longshot requesting access to docking bay 7377."

He opens his eyes and eyes the control hub, waiting.

Hoping they don't have that one on their watchlist.

While Han eyes the control hub, Ben eyes Han.

"Idanian."

A beat, then he lowers his voice, just in case, his eyes on the activity outside once more.

"Guess I'll be keepin' 'general' to a minimum 'round these parts."

"I own the bay," he says quietly. "I just don't own it. Jenos Idanian does."

If you get the picture?

"Access granted. Will you be needing fuel services or repairs this afternoon?"

"Nah, I'm fine, just a short stop anyways."

"Very well. Proceed."

Han looks a little smug as he glances over at Ben. "Piece of cake."

A non-committal grunt as Ben's lips twitch.

"Somethin' to be said for throwin' your name around, y'know."

(Like striking fear into the hearts and pocketbooks of the owners of the Southern Pacific.

That's a good time.)

Han flips switches and hits buttons as they glide down into the docking bay, and once they've landed he grins again.

"True. But there's already enough written 'bout me."

The engines quiet as he stands up.

"C'mon, you can even wear your hat."

"You and me both," Ben snorts, freeing himself from his seatbelt.

Those damn dime novels.

He stands, hand going to his hat.

"Like this hat, y'know. Matches my horse."

"It's a very nice hat."

Han pats the blaster at his thigh.

"Like this blaster. Matches my ship."

They walk down the corridor to the entrance ramp and he hits the button to lower the gangplank, it does with a hiss whirr thunk before he nods his head and walks down off the ship.

Something rolls up (http://crystaltips.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/starwarsdroid.jpg) (R4-A22) and emits a series of highpitched whistles and beeps at them.

~~It's not the same, Han~~.

With a mild head-shake, Ben follows.

And promptly stops.

And stares.

Then head-tilts, just a little.

" -- wouldn't happen to know Wally, would you?"

He's talking to the metal ... thing, not Han.

The droid whistles and clicks.

Han has no idea Ben's trying to talk to the droid and not him.

"Wally? Ain't met anyone named Wally."

R4-A22 rolls off in another direction.

Ben head-tilts a little more.

Still staring at the droid, he addresses Han.

"Not you, the — "

And then it rolls away, clearly disinterested in Ben.

"Huh."

A one-shouldered shrug.

"Guess it ain't much for conversation."

"Don't take it personally. Some of 'em are like that."

Han pats Ben on the back of the shoulder as he leads the way towards the back of the bay, and a doorway that'll lead into the center corridor of the hub.

"When they don't wipe 'em clean between owners they can get a bit of a personality."

The corridor is full of...

...people.

"Just about broke my — "

Pause.

Eyeing the unexpected throng, Ben slowly, carefully, removes his hat.

" ... heart."

There are many different races here. Some with pale skin and eyes that are strange colors. Others with fur or horns growing from their bodies. Travelers dressed in robes and more of the droids rolling along behind their 'masters', whistling and beeping excitedly.

A group of...somethings...slither by.

"Grop te ban kale," one of them mutters in a deep voice.

Han narrows his eyes and turns his head to call back at the leader. "Hock ja kin!"

Off Ben's glance, Han shrugs. "I ain't one."

Ben's doing an admirable job of keeping his eyes in their sockets.

" -- how many languages you speak?"

"Four, maybe five."

Han shrugs. He's never really kept count.

"I can swear in close to twenty, though. And get outta trouble in 'bout the same. When you're runnin' spice you gotta be able to deal with all sorts...I'm better at some than others."

Wryly, "I'd offer my lot, but I got a feelin' Spanish won't do much good here."

"Might catch you a woman," he offers, with a smug little grin on his face.

"That would be a story. Talk 'bout exotic ... "

He eyes the crowd a little more closely.