Fashionably Late

[Okar the Fabulous]

Tucked away from the runways and the showrooms of OKwear's impressive flagship shop was what His Fabulousness Okar called "the foundry".

Indeed, it was recessed in a basement level of the building, with a decor that was rather industrial (chic industrial, not that hoi polloi 'actual' industrial...I mean, someone could get tetanus!). The premise of the foundry was that, much like durasteel creations of industry, here was a place that raw molten fashion could be poured, molded, and beaten into shape. It was also a conveniently gently-lit abode where one could survey upcoming projects when one might be in the throes of a hangover. Not that a workaholic like Okar frequented the need to remedy this ailment, but the previous evening comprised afterparty after afterparty, and...

"Gods, this is simply excruciating."

Recessed into a pile of pillows, Okar moped with the aid of half a dozen minders. Two applied bags of ice to his head. Another dabbed a moisture-activated calalyptus-based balm just under his eyes to increase blood flow and stimulate deep breathing. Still two more attended to breakfast, which in this case involved two gallons of Bloody Amidala and a baker's dozen of poached eggs atop jamon corellia, lemon-flower aioli, and artisanal crostini. The last minder was hard at work crushing handfuls of headache tabs with a mortar and pestle.

"No tonic water with the medicine, Christobal! I am through with gin and all of her known acquaintances for at least a week! And have Jareeti peel my grapes this time! Doesn't she know that I don't agree with sulfides!"

"Your fabulousness, we have a few wardrobes to show you, if your condition permits."

Sandoros was the 'master of ceremonies' of the foundry, and one of Okar's hand-picked fashionistas in charge of creating dreams. Naturally, Okar had final say, but Sandoros and a handful of others could generally be trusted to faithfully follow his vision.

A deep sigh issued from Okar, and he responded with a flourish of a hand.

"Headaches be damned. Perhaps something lovely will do the work of medicine."

Sandoros clapped and the first model walked out on the corrugated durasteel catwalk.

"Bland."

The model was dismissed, and another one stepped from behind a curtain.

"Cliché."

She too was shooed away. A third model arrived on scene.

"The outfit? Promising. Put it on someone thinner. Darling, that caboose does not become you!"

Reaching to his snack tray for a crostini, Okar took a bite and promptly made a face. One of his minders quickly presented a napkin for him to spit into.

"Christobal! How hard can it be to poach an egg?!"

[Tony Maxwell]

The lift down into the Foundry whirled to life, marking the arrival of Tony Maxwell even before the doors parted to reveal him; bright teeth shining in a smile, hair perfectly in place, and a brand new suit worth more than most people made in a year. A pair of optic shaders was pulled free of his face and slipped into a breast pocket. Tony clapped his hands in front of himself and stepped out of the lift, the charm was turned up to a nauseating one hundred and twenty.

"Okar, you magnificent beast. I should have known you were down here. I could see your radiant light shining through the cracks." Began the current CEO of Maxwell Industries; that little upstart droid manufacturer that was now throwing in with the big leagues and challenging the markets long monopolized by just a few companies. It wasn't the only rising star showing face here on Greater Javin. Tony constantly had to worry about TaggeCo stealing away customers with it's fine products and handsome faces. Only so many credits to go around in the galaxy. It was a struggle to make sure it was all spent on droids.

"I've been trying to arrange a meeting with you but they tell me your schedule is full. Something this important requires a little face time. I'm throwing a party for all the big people here on Cloud City and I can't possibly host in something like this." He motioned to his current suit; perfectly tailored to his tall, modest frame. It was just that perfect shade of charcoal gray that accentuated the shade of his skin, leaving his brown eyes dark and brooding in contrast just the way he liked it. However, it was not, unfortunately, an OKwear product. "Trash, I know. I wanted your expert opinion on exactly what is in, and if you have any fine products you would recommend. You are invited to my party, of course. Your invitation is, as the old saying goes, in the mail."

He was trying his very best to schmooze his way into Okar's little heart. It was a bit of gamble; one that relied on Okar remembering him from the few times they've bumped into each other since Tony's arrival on Cloud City, and also just how well Okar knew of his company, or how profitable he was. Being a somebody did not always in debt people to you, and he had to admit he found Okar absolutely intimidating, and amazing. He'd already had to employ charm, and a few credits, just to grease the door and get down here in the first place. Here's hoping his luck continues.

[Okar the Fabulous]

Okar's eyes widened at the intrusion. The Foundry was his inner sanctum - his braintrust in which the raw power of fashion could be hammered and shaped into fine artisanal nuance that transcended chic into something more at the heart of expression itself. So naturally, having a potential customer walking around in a place so full of unfinished genius was unacceptable. His girth shifted as blue smoke puffed from his slitted nostrils. Christobal, ever the mindful one, moved close to Okar to whisper in his ear.

"Tony Maxwell, Your Fabulousness. CEO of Maxwell Industries."

Okar hadn't a clue who he was, but as his majordomo knew, this man no-doubt had been important enough to keep track of. A gracious smile, and Okar put on a better face than the one which had previously been sulking on hangover recovery.

"Tony, darling! Lovely of you to grace me with your presence. Come, let's get you into some better lighting so that I can see the state of things, mmm?"

The fashionista Hutt undulated forward to examine his potential workload, while furtively making a gesture to a lackey telling him to make his catwalk models disappear immediately. They were works in progress! Inwardly, Okar was still scheming. Whoever the moron was that allowed this playboy into his inner sanctum would have to be fired the moment he returned to the showroom.

Still, he was a (likely) paying customer, and one important enough that Christobal recognized, which meant that Okar would see to him.

"Turn, turn. And raise your arms now."

Okar reached forward, his stubby fingers giving the fabric of Tony's jacket cuff a feel.

"Hmm. Conventional enough. Pantoran wool exudes machismo. Good for a breezy day but a little confining."

The Hutt tapped at Tony's lapel, making a tsk-tsk noise.

"This collar is last decade though, honey. No, that won't do. You're wearing this to a party I assume and not a funeral?"

[Tony Maxwell]

There was not a word for just how hard Tony was looking at Okar. Things that inspired durability, like diamonds or metal alloys came to mind but they all failed to properly describe his gaze. He was well aware of what this place was, and how private it had to be, and for that reason he did not let his eyes, even for a gorram moment wander to one side or the other where no doubt prototypes and business plans were in the works. Seeing that kind of thing can get you killed, and he was convinced that he would go out like his father; with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a blaster in your mouth. Instead Okar's beautiful visage filled the spaces of his vision. Just a peak he told himself, but no. Not even one.

He had thought he would feel more revulsion having Okar poke and prod his outfit, but he was strangely comfortable with it. The sweat going down his neck had been a product of fear; that Okar would just snap a... flipper and an unseen gunman would transform his head into an inside out pumsquash with a hole big enough to plop a child into for a Gran's Getti's center piece. Instead the Hutt took to the situation. Potential corporate espionage and invasion of privacy was really just layman terms for successful networking. Okar seemed the type to like a challenge, but that was just the worm. It was time to bare the hook. "I wore this to the Nebula awards. It's a Belimio Sal Barka. Afterwards I watched the holonet coverage because, you know, I just can't get enough of myself, and the reporters could not stop talking about it. My friend who works for Sal Barka said their sales tripled after the broadcast. I have an interview with Men's Galactic Quarterly for their fashion article next week and I thought I could wear this again, but not if it's outdated. It simply will not do."

Now he was twitching the string, trying to entice the fish that was Okar. Brand exposure served on a silver platter. Although the idea of being scratched and scratching Okar's back made his lunch jump a little.