Wrexis Ke'dem
Jun 6th, 2012, 12:14:36 PM
Within Cloud City there are few places so distinguished – so refined – as the Well-Done Bantha. With its soft lightning and serene ambiance, it's customers receive the most discreet and timely service as they sip upon Crème D'Infame and delight their palates with morsels of glazed glucose pate and Dricklefruit pie. Often, their meals would be accompanied by the sweet-sounding music of the house band – yet on this particular night, there was something else stirring more malodious than melodious.
“Sir, I'm afraid you can't just-”
“No time to talk, mate. Got a special delivery and this one won't wait.”
The maitre d' blanched, his eyes darting about the restaurant to see that – much to his horror – many of the evenings diners were looking up from their meals, their own bewildered gazes following the figure stalking through the dining hall.
“Sir, sir! If you'll wait just one moment-” He held up a hand, but there was no stopping him. As the scruffy looking character he'd been chasing pushed his way into the restaurants toilets, the maitre d' thought he could be thankful at least that no trail of oil or grease had been left across the carpets – though he could not contain his urge to sweep serving cloth against those tablecloths who'd come within a foot or so of the vagabond's dirty overcoat.
The powers that be on Cloud City were rigorous, he had to admit, when it came to security. No stone went left unturned – in fact just above every stone was turned repeatedly and eyed with the kind of suspicion that can only be fostered by people who have themselves quibbled with the law on exactly what they are and aren't allowed to transport beneath the convenient cover of stones. Yet, though their searches were exhaustive, there was one place they did not look – one last bastion of privacy that a man could claim even against the all mighty Galactic Empire.
With his trousers around his ankles, Wrexis Ke'dem gave a long, loud groan of relief. It was not, he reflected, the most glamorous job he had ever undertaken. All the same, he had to admit - glancing up at the sign on the back of the cubicle door, which politely requested in numerous languages that customers flush and wash their hands once their business was concluded – he had to admit... there were plenty worse places he could have been doing this. There was also some solace to take in the fact that his contact had ordered something small and discreet instead of, say... a cache of automatic weapons.
Think of the credits, Ke'dem. The credits.
When he was done Ke'dem stood in front of the refresher mirror, eyeing his week-old stubble as he dried off his hands on a towel that was probably worth more than all of the clothes on his back combined. Something in his pocket began to buzz and, wincing a little as his fingertips brushed against the packet now tucked away (much more comfortably) in his breast pocket, he pulled out a small communicator. The ident-number matched up with his contact so he quickly thumbed a reply and hit send.
Got us a table at the Bantha. Be there in fifteen.
“Sir, I'm afraid you can't just-”
“No time to talk, mate. Got a special delivery and this one won't wait.”
The maitre d' blanched, his eyes darting about the restaurant to see that – much to his horror – many of the evenings diners were looking up from their meals, their own bewildered gazes following the figure stalking through the dining hall.
“Sir, sir! If you'll wait just one moment-” He held up a hand, but there was no stopping him. As the scruffy looking character he'd been chasing pushed his way into the restaurants toilets, the maitre d' thought he could be thankful at least that no trail of oil or grease had been left across the carpets – though he could not contain his urge to sweep serving cloth against those tablecloths who'd come within a foot or so of the vagabond's dirty overcoat.
The powers that be on Cloud City were rigorous, he had to admit, when it came to security. No stone went left unturned – in fact just above every stone was turned repeatedly and eyed with the kind of suspicion that can only be fostered by people who have themselves quibbled with the law on exactly what they are and aren't allowed to transport beneath the convenient cover of stones. Yet, though their searches were exhaustive, there was one place they did not look – one last bastion of privacy that a man could claim even against the all mighty Galactic Empire.
With his trousers around his ankles, Wrexis Ke'dem gave a long, loud groan of relief. It was not, he reflected, the most glamorous job he had ever undertaken. All the same, he had to admit - glancing up at the sign on the back of the cubicle door, which politely requested in numerous languages that customers flush and wash their hands once their business was concluded – he had to admit... there were plenty worse places he could have been doing this. There was also some solace to take in the fact that his contact had ordered something small and discreet instead of, say... a cache of automatic weapons.
Think of the credits, Ke'dem. The credits.
When he was done Ke'dem stood in front of the refresher mirror, eyeing his week-old stubble as he dried off his hands on a towel that was probably worth more than all of the clothes on his back combined. Something in his pocket began to buzz and, wincing a little as his fingertips brushed against the packet now tucked away (much more comfortably) in his breast pocket, he pulled out a small communicator. The ident-number matched up with his contact so he quickly thumbed a reply and hit send.
Got us a table at the Bantha. Be there in fifteen.