Nothing If Not Industrious

[Ceto Rübezahl]

Moff Rübezahl tugged down on the front of his jacket as he stepped into the Twin Star. As with most of the clothes he wore these days, it was a bespoke ensemble by Okar the Fabulous: rich and comfortable fabrics, tailored to be stylish and flattering, yet echoing enough hallmarks from an Imperial uniform to ensure that no one mistook him for a mere commoner. For now his chest was unadorned, but only because the custom Moff insignia that Okar had ordered from a jeweller acquaintance on Nubia had yet to arrive. It was beyond ostentatious, beyond exuberant, and yet it was exactly what Ceto Rübezahl needed to be. How would he ever be able to convince corporate investors to pour resources into his sector if he wasn't prepared to splash around his own credits and make the idea seem profitable?

It was that impression that was giving Ceto second thoughts about the venue he'd selected for this little lunch meeting that he had arranged. The upper levels of Cloud City were flush with fancy restaurants and plush, luxurious surroundings; but that was the Tourist District, dominated by the spas, casinos, and resorts. The woman he was here to meet was the opposite of that: from what he'd read about her, she was someone who embraced dedication and professionalism, someone whose status was earned; someone who meant business. That had been his thinking when he'd chosen this place: the Twin Star was one of a small selection of restaurants in the city's Administration Levels that catered to conferences and corporate lunches; the kind of surroundings where one could talk business and enjoy good wine and good food at the same time. It was clean, simple in an elegant way; he liked it here, because the Twin Star never felt like it was trying too hard. He only hoped that it wouldn't seem like he wasn't trying hard enough.

He glanced across at his companion, Sergeant Ixxent. As a Moff, Ceto had a small cadre of people dedicated to keeping him alive, and much to their frustration he so frequently declined to take advantage of them. The Sergeant was his one near-constant concession: not because he was the best, the most skilled, or the most qualified; but purely because he seemed about as annoyed at being an escort as Ceto was about having one.

"Relax, Terrel," he insisted quietly, flashing a smile at the maître d' as she approached. "No one is going to try and kill me until at least the third course."

[Terrel Ixxent]

It was almost comical the way people stopped and stared at Ceto, something the Moff often found amusing. Something the Sargeant found irritating, his senses so often on full alert he felt as if he could never relax.

Personal security escort to a Moff. Terrel briefly drew his hand across his features, ensuring his expression remained even and unruffled. Were Vessa in the vicinity, she'd be laughing at his discomfort over the whole situation. An exemplary military career, a clean, sparkling record, loyalty in spades, and this was his reward. To be honest, Ceto was leagues better to work for than any of the other Moffs he'd had the distinction of meeting, so that was something at least.

Fingers rose to smooth out the lapels of his tailored jacket, reminiscent of a uniform as Ceto's was, but certainly not from the same ultra-fashionable line. Money he had, enough to be comfortable, so long as he wasn't frivolous. He left that to Vessa, who couldn't bypass a boutique with shoes in the windows to save her blessed life.

Terrel found a half smile curling his mouth up on one side at Ceto's comment. "Assassination does go far better with soup than a salad, this is true." Lofting a brow at the approaching maître d', he nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. Trying, and failing, at looking perfectly at ease.

[Ceto Rübezahl]

Ceto adjusted his features into The Smile. It was an action that had become even more effortless and natural than blinking. It was The smile he'd learned to adopt whenever he was confronted with a holocam. It was the smile of red carpets, of autograph signings, of being confronted with hordes of screaming fans, or with a grown man who couldn't stop himself from that small smirk, and that salute to their childhood's Captain. It wasn't a fake smile: Ceto genuinely did enjoy connecting with his audience in that sort of way. He had become an actor with the hope of making people's lives better through entertainment; and he had carried those ideals - a little unwillingly, mind you - across to politics. The Smile was merely practised, not to prevent it from wavering, but rather to be sure that it conveyed every ounce of charm and sincerity that he wanted it to.

Not that the maître d' was necessarily a fan, of course; given the age she looked, she'd probably have been in diapers when his magnum opus had been the cultural phenomenon it was, and he'd long ago given up on hoping that anyone would recognise him for his serious work. She warranted The Smile regardless: he had no reason to be anything but pleased to meet her, and when pleasantries had become such effortless second nature, anything less than amiable was needlessly far out of his way.

"Table for -"

"- two," the woman interrupted, with an intriguing hint of an intriguing accent that Ceto couldn't quite placed buried beneath a deliberately enforced Coruscanti lilt. "Under the name Rübezahl." A hint of mischief crept onto her features, despite her efforts to keep it at bay. "It isn't every day we play host to a Moff, and you ain't exactly difficult to recognise."

He saw the subconscious flinch as ain't crept out instead of aren't; The Smile notched up an intensity level. There was a story there, a mystery in need of solving. Now wasn't the time, but curiosity alone had already ensured another return visit; not that the food and the service hadn't already ensured as much. At this rate though, his next booking would be for a table for two with a vacant seat; assuming the Sergeant would let him attend such a thing without a chaperone, of course.

"Has my guest arrived?"

The maître d' nodded, glad of Ceto's apparent ignorance of her less than high society linguistic slip. "A few moments ago. Shall I show you to your table?"

"I'm sure I can find it," Ceto assured. A glance drew his eyes in Terrel's direction. "I would appreciate it if you could keep my escort company, though. Make sure he eats something, too; he's usually too busy watching me eat to do the same himself, and an empty stomach makes him cranky."

He paused.

"Crankier."