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CORELLIAN SECTOR, NAR SHADDAA, 22BBY
MARGO CAN'T HELP BUT FLINCH at every single shadow she passes on her roundabout way to the coordinates. At this time of night, far from the surface, there are only a few stragglers stumbling home from nearby bars and clubs. Shots sound every so often, followed by raised voices—the burgeoning noise of a brawl. She's quick to hurry on her way afterward.
The Force curls around her form as she walks like an unsettled lothcat pawing at her feet. It desperately wants her attention, but Margo's careful not to trip over the feeling. She's unsteady enough on her feet already—her head pounds with an impending migraine, and her eyes ache with exhaustion.
There's something cold about the Force's touch tonight, though, like the stinging burn of ice pressed to bare skin. Something ominous.
Margo tries not to dwell on it—she's already feeling pretty anxious. Instead, she keeps her eyes on her surroundings, her gaze darting across shadows and buzzing streetlamps alike. If only she wasn't so damn jumpy.
She doesn't even know what to expect. Obi-Wan Kenobi has been little more than a myth for the past ten years. A boogeyman, maybe—a story used only to scare younglings into fearful obedience. Sit still and focus; you wouldn't want to turn out like Obi-Wan Kenobi, would you?
Is that what this is? Myth turned reality? Margo scoffs at the very thought as she turns a corner, her footsteps resounding off a nearby wall. Obi-Wan Kenobi has leapt right from the page, complete with the dark eyes and wickedly sharp smile of a storybook villain, and back into Margo's life without even so much as a hello there.
"You might've taken me to dinner first," grumbles Margo at the thought. She slows her pace at the next fork in the street, glancing briefly down at the datapad clutched tightly between the fingers of her right hand for guidance.
Stars. If only this would all seem just a bit more real. Margo can't help but feel as if she's wandering through a dream, her gait slow and her vision blurring into an exhausted haze at the edges. Not to mention that Quinlan's black cloak is far too big for her smaller frame—she feels as if she's drowning in folds of fabric. A ghost of the Old Republic, maybe, belonging to an era that has long since lost the last vestiges of its former glory.
The datapad buzzes in her hand, and Margo stops short. According to the map, these mysterious coordinates are right in front of her—when she raises her gaze to look, however, she's met with the sight of another seedy establishment. The sign reads Baruk's in sharp, handwritten Basic letters, and a quick peek through the grimy windows reveals a typical shitty bar with several patrons tucked into dark corners.
