ishotfirst | (no subject)

(no subject)

Well.

That certainly ain't the lake.

The hatch shuts behind them with a solid klunk and Han stares into the cargo hold of the Falcon for a few seconds.

"Uh."

Yeah.

Definitely not the lake.

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Han chuckles under his breath and then leads them into a bar.

More different sorts of folk, but still plenty to appreciate.

"You'd be surprised what some of them can do with a tail."

" -- tail?"

A chortle and a slight shake of his head.

"Tell you what, we gotta get you to Mexico sometime. No tails, but plenty enough talent to appreciate."

"Deal."

He ducks into a booth and it's not long before a female with green skin and a few extra fingers on each hand brings a bottle of Whyren's over and two good sized glasses.

She's not bad looking either.

"Where's Mexico?"

Ben's eyes are still on her retreating (hour-glass) figure.

"Just south of the — "

He pauses and pulls his glass toward him.

"You seen a map of Earth before?"

"...like on paper or somethin'?"

"Or somethin'."

Ben pulls a small sketchbook and pencil from his back pocket and quickly outlines a rough approximation of North America.

"That," he says, pointing to the Mexico-shaped part, "is Mexico. Just south of the United States, got plenty of sun, tequila and women."

A grin.

"And I ain't wanted there."

Han peers at the map and then nods.

"Ain't bein' wanted...no better feeling than that."

He hasn't had it for awhile, though.

Ben's lips twitch as he puts down the sketchbook and reaches for his Whyren's.

"Somethin' to be said for outsmartin' the law, though."

"More fun when you're running."

Han leans back a little.

"So what do you do to get wanted, Wade?"

Lightly, "Not too much."

His smile widens into a grin.

"Few robberies here and there."

A one-shouldered shrug.

"Blew up a train or three."

"Cargo or transport?"

By 'transport' he means 'live cargo' which means 'passengers'.

Not slaves.

Han Solo does not do slavery.

"Well, there was one full of prospectors lookin' to build up the railroad."

"Impressive."

Han leans back.

"Suppose there ain't much in the way of runnin' spice in your time."

He shakes his head.

"Just a whole lotta flux. More folks're movin' out West for land."

He takes another pull from his glass.

"Gettin' too crowded for my likin'."

"Should find a planet all your own."

Then again, Ben would probably get bored.

Incredibly so.

"Don't think my horse'd make that trip."

"That's why you get a ship, Ben."

"I like my horse."

Horses don't have buttons. Or switches. Or grav-shifts. Or light-speeds.

Horses are slow. And eat. And shit. And die.

Granted, the Falcon sucks fuel, dumps trash, and occasionally has periods in which she's not running at her maximum output.

Wisely, Han just nods.

Returning the nod, "Bet Earth horses're a sight better rides'n them furry dinosaurs."

"Probably don't smell half as bad either."

Chuckling, "Can't say for sure — I ain't met one of 'em."

A thoughtful beat.

"Got stables at the bar, you know."

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