C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

[Kes Akiena]

He'd made the effort to appear more presentable than his normal uniform. He'd made certain to not allow himself to be distracted by the slim packet that still sat unopened on the small console table beside his front door. He knew what that packet held, and knew that the issues he'd been waiting so patiently for would have to go unread for now. The needs of the station overrode his wishes to sit in peace and enjoy Captain Coruscant Vol. 8 and Jedi League issue #524. It was the sacrifices he made.

Now, he thought that his booted feet sounded too loud as he made his way down the corridor that would bring him to Ms. Rakkamar's quarters. They sounded too... sharp? Or was it simply that they sounded too official? It reminded him of the sounds of Imperial boots coming down the hallway of a detention block...

He shook his head to dispel the thought, banishing it for now.

Hair combed neatly and his dress uniform sharply pressed, Kes slowed to a stop in front of the door that he knew belonged to her.

A pause, as he hoped that he was not overstepping his bounds in this endeavor. He knew that the eyes on him were close to unforgiving, but he also knew that he was a necessary facet to the festival that the merchant sector - well, mostly the Cizeri merchants - wished to have. And it would not do for him to be completely absent.

Lifting a hand, the redhead depressed the door chime.

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"One minute!" A muffled voice called through the door. There was a clatter of metal and something heavy being set down. The door swished open to reveal the Codru-Ji Engineer complete with apron, welding goggles, and thick gloves on all four hands. Her face and forearms were smudged with black. A very serious and annoyed face immediately opened up into a big smile "Komandeer! Come. I be ready in just moments." She waved him in with one of her four hands and stepped aside to let the Alliance Commander into her quarters.

The single room apartment was an organized mess. Every surface was covered in machinery and electronics. The epicenter of which was a work bench in one corner, and from there everything spread out across the rest of the room. String lings hung from the ceilings and traveled along the walls. Boxes were stacked along the walls and underneath tables with labels written freehand in Codruese indicating what went inside each box. There was a sofa sitting in front of a holovid display, but it looked neglected and new. There was no bed to be seen. The kitchen likewise looked unused but there was a neat stack of delivery boxes on the countertop.

"I lose track of time." She apologized as she pulled the welding goggles off her face and cast them on to the messy table. The gloves came off next, her sets of arms working in tandem to quickly remove both pairs. Finally the apron came off to reveal the charcoal gray strapless, textured dress (http://en.vogue.fr/uploads/images/thumbs/201229/laetitia_casta_3716_north_499x_white.jpg) she was wearing underneath. "What think? I make." She asked before doing a little spin while she tugged the hairband out of her ponytail and shook her hair out, letting the natural slight curls fall over her shoulders.

[Kes Akiena]

The sight that'd greeted him was in no way expected, and Kes blinked in mild surprise. He had no chance to speak, as she beckoned him inside. Taking two steps past the threshold, he kept his hands together behind his back, casually letting his eyes glance at the room that Mayael Rakkamar now called home. It was... well, it was almost exactly how he expected it would be. A myriad of projects scattered about in various states of progress. It reminded him to a degree of how his old quarters from so long ago used to look. Belongings here and there, munitions crates used as furniture.

When her apron came off, he couldn't help the smile that creased his features.

"It's beautiful."

That she made it was little shock; Ms. Rakkamar had a particular talent for creation in all forms.

His smile turned a shade mischievous then as he gave a nod to her arms.

"Though, I'm curious, are the black smudges meant to go with the dress?"

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"Oh, oh no!" She exclaimed as her four arms became a tangle of each one trying to wipe the smudges off the other. She turned and ran on bare feet into the refresher where she applied water to her arms like a medic applying life saving medifoam to the open chest wound of the soldier on his gurney. Like a good engineer her problem solving skills were always on display, and she had the blemishes removed in short order thanks to the giant bottle of industrial grease remover sitting on her counter between the body lotion and toothbrush holder.

"Look good too, Kommandeer." She said as she stepped out of the refresher, drying her hands off on a towel. "So... formal. Regal." She struggled for the word. Basic was such a difficult language when you were raised on something as simple as Codruese. The body language and barking dependent language was nothing like the much more civilized tongue of the galaxy. A thought crossed her mind and she looked down at her dress, panicked. "Was I suppose wear my uniform?" She had one, a formal uniform, tucked away in the closet and never worn. She had yet to make the modifications necessary for her to wear it. Her standard uniform was already worn and stained from the never ending list of repairs the Space Station faced on a daily basis.

[Kes Akiena]

A soft chuckle, and Kes instinctively lifted a hand to brush at unseen dust particles on the front of his tunic. It was more habit than anything else.

"Well, heh, there's a word I don't hear very often." His shoulders squared a small bit, his normal smile breaking across his features. "Never been called regal before, so I'll take it."

Still though, he'd asked her to accompany him so that the Madame would not try to thrust anything further upon him. Still the smile remained, as Ms. Rakkamar expressed sudden doubt over her choice of clothing. It was sweet, and only further shed light on her soft nature. Despite the hard years she had endured, despite the life she'd led prior to coming to Jovan, her wide-eyed youthful exuberance was always welcomed and enjoyed.

"Oh, no, you're not required to be in uniform. You're free to where whatever you wish."

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"Oh good!" She exclaimed, suddenly relieved by his words. She had been afraid that she would have to change, and she had already put so much time into preparing her dress and getting ready for the night. Speaking of which, she looked down at herself to make sure she had not gotten anything else on her. All clear. A quick dig through all the flat surfaces revealed a clutch purse which which tucked into the grip of one of her four arms.

"Let us go. I want to see Festival."

She was hardly containing her excitement. Working on her projects was the only thing that proved any sort of distraction. Otherwise she would have been glued to the door peephole waiting for Kes to show up. She had intentionally stayed away from the main concourses of Jovan Station to avoid spoiling any of the decorating and preparation for the festival as much as possible. She wanted it to be a surprise as much as possible.

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

The concourse had been transformed, literally overnight. Two entire sections of Jovan's beating heart had, with the good Commander's permission, been set aside for the Moon God's festival. The ladies of the civitan guild had worked with military clockwork. Every square meter of the vaulted concourse ceiling was hung with colorful ribbons and twinkling strands of faux coins and other baubles. The catwalks were adorned with flickering paper lanterns - the flame being a harmless diode inside to simulate the real thing. Songbird cages and even a few aquariums had been brought out to catch the eye. Between all this stood three dozen different stalls offering confections and baubles for a reasonable markup. Part of the markup was charity and the other was, well...entrepreneurial spirit was a holy virtue, after all.

Kalleeiha stood in the midst of it all, admiring the feast for the eyes from the middle of the improvised ballroom floor. Her fulsome smile creased into dimples as she watched the kiisau players strike a few warmup notes. A moment later and sections E and F of Jovan's concourse began to swell with beautiful music. Her boys and a few other handsome ones from the local shops soon began to take their stations as the festival help. They all wore matching burgundy jackets - a last minute feat accomplished by a quirky human tailor she'd befriended named Brask. His craftsmanship and ability to work under a deadline had definitely put him on a first name basis with the Madame, and she made it a point to remember his contribution.

"Rrou Maillanaarro."

Kalleeiha turned at the sound, her ears rising as she met the embrace of one of her co-conspirators in the civitan guild.

"Rrou Arraiyinha, therre jyou arre."

Grey-haired and with slightly severe features, Naarrahee Arraiyinha was the station's local transit maven. While she didn't control the independent shipping lines that connected Jovan to the mother worlds, she connected their booking and acted as an agent for the hundreds of freelance flights. It had made the elder businesswoman quite a bit of money over a short span of time. She'd made certain to parlay the C'saa e Nomaani'surra into a cash cow, filling every bit of hotel space on the station with locals who wouldn't miss the event.

The two separated from their embrace. Naarrahee's fingers lingered on the textured periwinkle and white gown of the Madame.

"jI don't thjink jI've sseen that drress beforre, Kalleeiha."

Madame Maillanaarro couldn't resist a little buttering up and she grinned, her earrings clinking as they rose.

"Oh, jyou cerrtajinljy haven't. Thjiss wass put togetherr at the lasst mjinute bjy that cleverr human Brrassk."

"The one who djid the jacketss?" Naarrahee's eyes moved to a trio of well-dressed young men, chatting together in the calm before the storm.

"The ssame. jI'm amazed he got everrjythjing done jin tjime. jI djidn't even need an adjusstment." The Madame's hands smoothed down the front of her dress for emphasis. The miracle worker had made twenty pounds or so seemingly disappear with a few hidden stitchings.

"Wjith a drress ljike that, jyou musst have ssomeone jin mjind to go wjith jit."

"Oh, pff!" The Madame mildly scoffed, rolling her eyes. "jI'm harrdljy lookjing sserrrjioussljy."

"But jyou arre lookjing." Naarrahee reiterated pointedly, noting that the Madame hadn't given a denial.

Kalleeiha for her part just twirled a ringlet of her brown curls around a finger.

"jI'd be dead jif jI wassn't."

One of the boys approached the pair of chatting matrons, keeping expert balance with a drinks tray.

"Rrou'ai, therre'ss a queue ljined up to get jin. Rrou Hiaarraa wanted to know jif sshe could sstarrt lettjing them passs."

Kalleeiha glanced to her partner, who offered a conciliatory shrug.

"We'rre sset up to take monejy at the gate, arren't we?"

He nodded.

The Madame clasped her hands together, pumping them."

"Then let'ss sstarrt thjiss parrty!"

[Cleveyet Bar-Atoch]

He had been one of the first to be allowed in. Dressing the part was no real task, as he'd chosen to adorn himself with a simple red bowtie affixed around his wide neck. That was the nice thing about being a species with little reason for modesty-preserving clothing. Anything untoward was hidden and out of sight, leaving only a body of sleek proportions. What also aided his appearance was the strange notion of black and white being thought of as formal wear. He had seen plenty of holos of... tuxedos, and felt a particular sense of luck at having been gifted with such a set of 'fancy duds' by virtue of his species. At any rate, it made formal engagements that much easier to navigate.

Navigating the sea of towering bodies, Bar-Atoch wove his way through the crowds that ebbed and flowed. Like the tides from back home, he read each wave with a particular sense of ease that only helped his already short stature.

There was no real desire to find an amorous liaison despite the festival's meanings, but the curiosity of watching the station's inhabitants gather together was too much to resist.

A drinks kiosk that had been set up drew his attentions well enough, and the Pengauani elevated himself up onto one of the swiveling barstools. A Cizerack attendant glanced his way.

"I'll have a Princess Leia," he gestured at the menu with a fingerless flipper, and the server nodded in understanding.

And now, to wait.

Turning about on his seat, Bar-Atoch stared out at the throng of festival-goers. He was aware of another body sitting on the stool one over, and turned to regard his kiosk-mate.

"Quite a festival, yes?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"What?"

Kiimi blinked in surprise, not expecting conversation yet. She turned to her right, maybe maybe hopeful she was being chatted up by a handsome man. The source of the voice was a bit lower on the stool than her eyes expected, and she course corrected. Well, at least she didn't have to be worried about getting caught by surprise.

"jY-jy-jyess jit'ss excjitjing! jI have n-n-neverr b-been to a C'saa e N-Nomaani'suurra outssjide the m-m-motherr worrldss, b-but jI guesss no one rr-rrealljy hass beforre."

From head to toe, there was barely an inch of Kiimiti Taassauurra that wasn't coiffed, starched, polished, or perfumed. Officers in the military had the option to attend functions in formal dress uniform, and Kiimi had jumped at the opportunity. It was either that or wear the dress that her father had sewn for her. Which wasn't to say that he was bad at embroidery, it was just a little...plain. And tonight, Kiimi didn't want to be plain, she wanted to pop. She wanted to walk the floor and see every man's eyes on her, and maybe she'd figure out something clever to say to one of them, and dance, and...

Kiimi gulped, consumed by fantasy. She carefully adjusted her ruffled cravat, moving with the other white-gloved hand to gently buoy her richly-curled blonde hair. That's when she noticed the other officers. One by one they entered. Every single one of them as smartly-dressed in crimson and gold. Polished boots, ruffled cravats, tailed jackets. Kiimiti took a few deep breaths.

She either needed a drink or needed to throw up. Probably the first thing. Probably.

[Cleveyet Bar-Atoch]

'No one really has before.'

An otherwise innocent statement, except for the underlying context. Bar-Atoch gave the best approximation of a smile that he could manage, and his beady gaze swept back out over the throng milling about before them.

Of course, the smartly dressed woman sitting next to him had not gone unnoticed. She looked every inch the prim and proper image that the Cizerack military churned out, and the Pengauani couldn't help but admire with a side-eye, the way that each stitch of her clothing was immaculate and, well, perfect.

"You are Kiimiti Taassaurra, yes?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Her ears skewed.

"jYess?"

Well, this wasn't exactly the sort of male attention she'd been hoping to attract. A small rotund avian didn't exactly make for a good dance partner. Maybe a good dinner, and Goddess she was not hungry. Besides, what if she was? What if she went two hours into the night talking to everyone and striking out, only to find a feather stuck between her teeth or something? Those were the laws of averages Kiimi understood. The uncaring hammer of fate that kept a girl in her mid-twenties mateless!

So why did a fat little bird have her at a disadvantage? A waiter passed. Kiimi thought about reaching out to get his attention. The moment passed, and she withdrew her hand. Maybe later. Going directly for a drink only cemented wallflower status. She could at least fake confidence on her own for a while before needing some liquid assistance.

[Cleveyet Bar-Atoch]

His Princess Leia was slid across the lacquered wood bartop, and with a subtle shift of his forefin, Bar-Atoch passed a chit the 'tender's way. A modest tip had been added, and he clacked his beak in a smile as he caught side-sight of the Cizerack tender's ear bob slightly in mild happiness. It was truly the little things.

His stemmed drink was taken up with a double 'grip', the iced white Ithorian rum concoction topped with namana syrup and cinnamon flakes offering a strange scent to the nostrils.

"A pleasure to meat you," he intoned, wondering how best to tackle the straw.

In the end he simply deferred to further introductions.

"I am Officer Bar-Atoch," and just in case she'd been subject to any less-than-stellar rumors from the station rumormill, "... only here for an enjoyable time, I promise."

And as if to punctuate his attempt at socialization, he did his best approximation of using a straw. It was all for show, and after a rather pronounced (and fake) swallow, his little beady black eyes fixed to her own baby-blues.

"I'm not the desk-jockey that most may say I am."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

It all suddenly clicked, and recognition flashed on Kiimi's expression.

"Oh! jY-jyou'rre pen...p-p-pen...gauanji that Grr...mjy frrjiend wass t-talkjing ab-bout!"

How many icebergs did she just swerve there?? Kiimi hurriedly glanced away as she tugged one of her tufted ears. By the way the gossip train went, invoking that little encounter probably was something neither Bar Atoch nor Gradoona wanted her to do. Kiimi's nose wrinkled in self-flagellation, and she returned to a lady's poise once more.

Okay, okay what was he doing with that drink? It was almost as big as he was, and the straw was a failure waiting to happen. Then again, since when was she an expert on avian drinking technique? There was that weird wooden bird her father kept on the living room windowsill and he'd always fill up a glass with water and tap it. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

She resisted the urge to tap him on the back of the head. That would probably be somehow more awkward than Gradoona accidentally thinking he was a free lunch.

"Therre'ss n-nothjing wrrong wjith bejing a d-dessk jockejy." She offered, regrettably lamely. "N-not that jyou arre one. jI worrk at a d-dessk and jI'm verrjy fun."

Her ears burned with embarassment.

[Gunner Rodes]

"Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips. Tip of the tongue, teeth, and lips."

Gunner was singing in front of the mirror, inside his modest single bed quarters. He was fresh from a sonic and there was a taste of mint on his breath. His singing voice, though lacking the range and control of a trained vocalist, was strong. It was a broad sound, deep at first, climbing, filling the space, and descending, again, like a ship cresting a mighty wave. He was 14 when he first carried out the exercise, standing before the mirror inside Dr. Kazall's office; his voice was hoarse, back then, and cracked like dry wood. Now, he was a man.

"Hello!" he squeaked, as he pulled on his dress uniform, piece by piece, "Hello! HELLO! Hellooo!"

His leisurely pacing was brought to an abrupt halt, when he spotted a telling shimmer of light on his chest. He traced fingers over his bare skin and pulled them away, damp. Was he sweating, already? This was a disaster! A swift march across to his mini-fridge, and he retrieved a fresh bottle of water. The cap was popped and he drank greedily. With a sigh, the icy plastic was pressed, first, against his forehead, and then his chest. Calm down. Just calm down.

Once towelled free of the excess moisture, he fastened his shirt, and his jacket. And, with a pea-sized dollop of styling putty, started teasing his hair into something smart. All the while, smacking his lips, and repeating the words: "The rotund Rodian chews Chou-shou churro and gobbles gelatinous chuff."

It was just a festival. No big deal. They have them for everything: the sun, the moon, the stars. And there was going to be so many people - breath! Remember to breath! - there was going to plenty of people, there; they probably wouldn't even notice him, anyway. It was a Cizerack celebration, after all. Of love. And Force knows he needed some kind of help with that! In the past 6 months, the biggest adventure in his own sex life had been getting to decide which hand to use. If it went on, any longer, he was going to need bacta for the friction burns.

Another swig of water, and Gunner positioned himself once more in front of the mirror to review each of his 14 different party-themed introductions. First, to find his centre, he closed his eyes, and took long soothing breath. Then, he opened his eyes, and smiled:

"Gunner. Yeah, I'm a pilot. Well, actually I'm a-"

He tried again:

"Gunner. Rodes. Alliance military. How do you doo-doo?"

And again:

"The name's Rodes. Gunner Rodes. Fly? Who, me? Yeah. I fly. I fly..."

Until desperation steered him well off the beaten track:

"Name's Gunner Rodes, darlin'. And you're looking a-rrravishing... Fuck."

And he started to lose heart:

"Yeah. Rodes. Gunner. Loser."

Maybe he should just stay at home.

"Gunner Rodes? Yeah, that's me. Total loser."

Have a beer. Watch a holofilm. Forget all about the stupid festival.

"Hi. Yeah. Flight Officer Rodes. Some people call me Tick-Tock, but most people call me giant... fucking... loser!"

The water bottle crashed against the mirror, and sprayed the ceiling with the last of its contents.

Gunner was on the bed, now. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a slim flask, unscrewed the cap, and drank from it. It had been for the festival - to take the edge off the increased booze markup - but that didn't matter, anymore. His throat burned when he swallowed, and his chest filled with fire. In the sudden oppressive silence of his quarters, he found himself thinking of Tristan, and what he might be up to, right now. Probably having his pick of the women on dance floor. Did Tristan dance? He should probably ask him that, sometime.

On his bedside, there stood a framed picture, of a clean-shaven man, with neat brown hair, and a horrendous checkered shirt; his reserved smile ached to become something more; beside him, a tall woman, with high cheekbones, and dark bobbed hair, whose warm gaze appeared to be looking through the picture, right at him. And, between them, front and centre, a lanky boy, with stooped shoulders, a gormless face, and ears that went on for miles. He took the picture in his hand, and studied it closely.



####


"The scholar from Skeressa lost his lexicon of lecturings in the Bilbringi biblioclasm." Gunner grinned, "I like that one."

"Good. Because it took me all day to think of it." His dad retreated a step to get a better look. Of them both, Gunner couldn't decide whom was more nervous. "How are you?"

"Shitting myself," he shrugged.

"Yeah, I can imagine." His dad winced, apologetic. He brushed the creases out of his jacket, "Everyone feels that way, son. I know I did, and I didn't look half as good as you do."

Gunner looked up, "Really?"

"Two words: blue velvet."

"Blimey..."

"Uh-huh. You, on the other hand, look like a rockstar."

In an awkward ballet of shiny shuffling feet, Gunner was turned to face the mirror in the hall. The corner of his mouth ticked in surprise. He did look good. His tuxedo fitted him like an expensive black glove, he was clean-shaven, and smelled like his dad on Life Day, and the trick his old man had shown him with the styling putty had gone down a treat. There was just one problem.

"Dad, what if I say something wrong?"

"You won't." He said it the same way, every time. His father's hands came to rest upon his shoulders, and his reflection fixed him in place through the mirror. "You know your lines. We've been practising all week. And your mom tells me you've got some smooth dance moves."

Gunner, who suddenly found himself swaying under his father's influence, squirmed free, "Dad. Come on."

"The important thing to remember, son, is that you will never say the wrong words, as long as they come from here." He placed a finger on Gunner's chest. It was a challenge not to immediately brush out the creases. Instead, he gave a nod. From outside, there came the sound of a honking speeder horn, "That's your mom."

"Okay," Gunner said, rigid, "Okay... Here goes."

"You got this, son." His father's heavy hand was lifted from his shoulder, "Good luck."



####



"The scholar from Skeressa lost his lexicon of lecturings in the Bilbringi biblioclasm."

Gunner smiled at the faces staring back at him, and brought the picture to his lips.

"Wish me luck, pop."

[Shuvin Undhi]

"Come on, come on, come on!"

Shuvin practically danced around the entry ramp, loving the feel of her dress swaying in the filtered air. While she was a bit self-conscious about it — the dress was the one she'd got with Eluna during that whole date-fiasco on Cato-Neimoidia — she didn't have anything else that she felt was nice enough to wear around a party like this. The backless black dress swayed around her smoothly, and she absolutely adored the fact that she got a breeze 'round her chest; no boob sweat for her today, thank you very much! A pair of more functional than decorative boots, buffed to a shine if still looking a bit worn in, completed her outfit.

Yes, it wasn't much. But she liked it that way. Hell, she was perfectly happy lounging around stark naked, as Ben was reticent to testify. He'd walked in on her at least three times, and seemed to be more embarrassed on each occasion.

"Come on!" she shouted. "B — er, Rox! Lacy! Let's go!​"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan hated his dress uniform. It wasn't the discomfort, or the awkwardness of wearing it - in fact, it was pretty comfortable all things considered, and the all-white ensemble that Starfighter Corps officers got to wear was pretty stylish. Certainly, it was eye-catching enough to let the ladies know you were a pilot without actively having to brag about it; and the Rogue Squadron patch stitched to the shoulder wasn't exactly a handicap in that regard either. It was an odd tradition somewhat unique to the Rogues: because membership in the Squadron was a sign of prestige for the Alliance's premiere pilots, even those who no longer flew with the unit were allowed to wear it's colours on formal occasions. Once a Rogue, always a Rogue.

The problem was not the clothing itself, but rather what it represented, and what it reminded Tristan of. A youth spent in private schools on Naboo had pretty much ruined Tristan's opinion of uniforms and formal functions in general. He usually avoided them at all costs, and he'd even given avoiding this one a solid effort. Unfortunately, Commander Jaden Luka had intervened, and there was just no arguing with the man. Rogues don't let other Rogues fly solo, had been his surprisingly persuasive angle, and Tristan had barely lasted two minutes before surrendering to the peer pressure. An outfit change and a brief stroll later, and here they were: not at the Festival, yet, but rather outside an unassuming cabin door a few corridors over from Tristan's own quarters.

"I don't know if he's even going," Tristan half-heartedly protested as he and Jaden loitered outside of Gunner's quarters, his finger hesitating a few inches from the door chime before committing to the act and filling the room beyond with electronic bloops. "He's a little eccentric. I'm not sure if social gatherings are really his thing."

[Jaden Luka]

"Bullshit," Jaden replied cheerfully. "He's a pilot, and this is a sex festival. It's where we all belong."

While Tristan may have been uncomfortable with the prospect of his dress uniform and the reasons for wearing it, Jaden Luka absolutely was not. For starters, he made pilot whites look fantastic, and ever since he'd gone to the effort of getting the uniform properly tailored, it hugged his shoulders and the curve of his ass with such elegant precision that even the straightest of men and most disinterested of women might have to do some soul searching to re-evaluate their priorities and preferences. The event itself, meanwhile? A sexy cat lady love festival? Jaden had half a mind to legally change his date of birth, because he couldn't think of any way a celebration could be more perfectly tailored to him.

It was also a much needed escape. The more time he spent aboard the Novgorod, the more it ground down his frustration and discomfort at being the Executive Officer, rather than the proper pilot that his heart longed to be. He still got to fly, thank the Force, but not enough; but then, the same was true for everyone. Just look at Tristan: while ordinarily the opportunity to not fly an X-Wing was something Jaden would consider a boon, Tristan had traded starfighter wings for a truck, the only consolation coming from how sexy and cool you could spin his role as a stealth recon pilot. That wasn't an angle that Tristan could work alone though: he was part of a tandem crew, and if Jaden planned to find someone to caress a smile onto Tristan's face, he'd need the full package deal.

Too impatient to wait on the door chime to do it's work, Jaden leaned past Tristan, and pounded his fist against the metallic door.

"Open up in there, Rodes! Time's a wastin', and the ladies are a waitin'."

[Gunner Rodes]

The unexpected door chime dredged him out of the nostalgic sludge in his head. The picture was replaced, and he surfaced from the bed, regarding the door with suspicion. When it thundered under the weight of a fist, however, his advance faltered. That voice that knew his name, he didn't recognise it. His eyes narrowed, and, just as he was on the cusp of turning into a little girl, and asking who it was from the safety of the other side of the door, the voice said something about time-wasting. Involuntarily, his arm snapped up, so he could properly gaze upon his chrono. No. He was not late. A ridiculous prospect. Yes, the festival was underway, but he wasn't so much of a masochist that he'd turn up to a social event early.

Wait. Then that meant...

When the door opened, his heart leapt into his throat. There was Tristan, looking like a taller, handsomer version of him, in pressed immaculate white. The light of surprise, and the telling curl in the corners of his lips, evaporated, however, the moment his gaze drifted across to the man beside him.

"Commander Luka, sir." His hand came up in a crisp salute. Not forgetting the other superior officer in his presence, he added, "Lieutenant."

Gunner's heart took off at a sprint. What the hell was Tristan doing? That was Commander Jaden Luka, formerly known as Rogue One, as in Rogue Squadron, itself. He tried desperately not to stare. He was so big! It was as if all of the stories he'd read, about Tristan, about the Rogues, and all of their daring deeds, had taken shape before his very eyes. His appearance, coupled with Tristan's, summoned to his mind a litany of questions, chief amongst which was 'What in the galaxy were they doing, here?' The sum of which was conveyed to his fellow pilot, in a glance.

[Jaden Luka]

"Congratulations," Jaden replied. He wasn't smiling per se, but the mildly jovial default expression that was usually found on his face notched a few increments away from pleased. "Everyone gets a single chance to call me 'sir' or 'Commander' in casual conversation, and you've just gone and expended yours."

Jaden maintained the illusion of annoyance for a moment longer; but only a brief moment. Tristan had warned him that Gunner was somewhat vulnerable to misdirection and misinterpretation when it came to these kind of social subtleties, and Jaden had no desire to launch chaff in the ECO's face and scramble his sensors right before trying to get everyone to navigate somewhere. He let his easy smile fall back in place, exaggerated just enough to make it abundantly clear that he had been joking - well, mostly joking.

"Jaden or Spacer will do just fine, Gunner."

Voice as warm as his expression, Jaden casually thrust out an arm towards Rodes.

"It's nice to finally meet you. Tristan's been singing your praises so much that honestly I'm surprised I've not received a wedding invite."

[Gunner Rodes]

"You are?" Their hands met with a clap. It was one of those firm handshakes that he could feel all the way down in his toes. He considered Tristan, and the Commander's claim. He shook his head, unconvinced, "I don't think I'm his type."

The Commander was being kind. Gunner knew this because he was smiling like the people in school finger-paintings, all broad, and bold, and bright. It did little to spare him the feeling of facing down a speeding transport, however, such was the difficulty of holding down conversations with big important people. He felt himself smile, at least. That was good. Now he had to remember the other rules. Otherwise he was going to embarrass himself, and embarrass Tristan in front of his friend, and why didn't Tristan warn him in advance? And what kind of things had he been saying about him? Wait. Reciprocation! That was it:

"I have heard so much about you, too, Comm- Jaden. You have a storied career with the Alliance: first, you joined Valkyrie Squadron, in 7ABY, and served with them for a year, where you were promoted from Flight Officer to Lieutenant. Then, there was Rogue Squadron, of course. You fought at the Battle of Bothawui, made Captain, and were assigned to the Challenger as Rogue One, and executive officer. Then there were your classified missions with Rogue Group. Before all of that, of course, you were a Scout Trooper with the Stormtrooper Corps. TB-0210, right? And you served the Empire for nearly 8 years, until they, you know, blew up a planet. You defected, in the end, just like Tristan. I guess genocide has a way of making people re-evaluate their lives."

It was shrugged off as a happy afterthought. Gunner was smiling. He liked facts, there was nothing misleading about them. Facts were the ammunition he brought to the social battlefield. For as long as there were facts, there was always something to say. In the wake of his generous recitation, he froze. He had made a mistake.

"Actually, I read that in your personal profile. Tristan isn't much of a talker. It's a pleasure to meet you." His smile returned in full, and as his gaze swept from Jaden to Tristan, his brain stumbled over one last troubling thought, "...Why am I meeting you?"

[Jaden Luka]

If Jaden's smile had been artificial before, now it was wholly genuine. Rodes seemed so pleased with himself and all the information he'd just regurgitated like a malfunctioning protocol droid, and damn it if it wasn't infectious. Tristan had forewarned him that the kid was a little eccentric, but this?

Perhaps other people might have found it a little odd to hear their life paraphrased as interesting trivia, but Jaden's last few months or weeks - honestly, he'd lost track - on the Challenger before reassignment to the Novgorod had been filled with interviews. Journalists were tripping over themselves to write think pieces about the new Alliance of Free Planets, and the military forces assigned to defend them, and Kelly had always been more than happy to delegate interview responsibilities to his XO. It wasn't that Jaden liked the attention, but he'd grown accustomed to it; and besides, any journalist who learned in advance how awesome he was saved him a whole heap of seduction groundwork.

Subject aside though, the fact that Gunner's mouth lacked both a filter and brakes was the opposite of eccentric, as far as Jaden was concerned. For him, it was ships: get him talking about that and you'd need a blaster on stun to get him to stop. It was like meeting a fellow A-Wing pilot, amid a sea of brainwashed idiots who falsely believed that X-Wings were the greatest thing ever. There was nothing wrong with Gunner, or Jaden; it was the rest of the damn cosmos that needed to rethink it's stance on things.

"Because I have an important mission for you, Tick-Tock."

Jaden reached out to his side, an arm wrapping around Tristan's neck and dragging him awkwardly into the conversation he was trying to occupy the back seat of.

"This idiot here was planning to wuss out on the festivities today. I find that unacceptable, and frankly I think it's potentially damaging to the reputation of both Rogue Squadron and the Starfighter Corps as a whole. There is a concourse full of ladies out there, waiting to exercise a vital facet of their culture. We have a responsibility as officers of the Alliance to respect that culture, and it would simply be disrespectful and undiplomatic if we didn't make an effort to provide those ladies with the most eligible selection of men this station currently has available."

The pretence of patriotic obligation collapsed all to quickly into another grin.

"Sort version, Tristan's been acting grumpy, and I need his copilot's help to get him laid."

[Lorna DeLaTour]

One of the reasons Agatha had been drawn to apply to a position on Jovan Station was the hub of diversity the place was, beside the fact that her political views aligned with the Alliance's mission and vision. She hadn't attended a festival of sorts in a couple of years, and when the opportunity happened on the station, she found herself both curious and quite excited at the perspective. She had wondered whether she would be on call, but it happened she wasn't, which meant that she could spend several hours celebrating and mingling with others. It was a treat for she had a tendency to be a workaholic and a homebody between shifts.

She had dressed for the festivities, grateful she still had a few "fancy" pieces. She was unsure of the dress code, but based on her previous experience, she knew that it should be fine. At least, it was probably better than showing up in professional attire, or running gear. Her black dress (http://imgur.com/2uZFDq1) was an oldie but one of her favorite clothing items. Dressing up every once in a while was also a nice feeling. After quick pets to her two Jaxs, she headed out towards the area of the station dedicated to the festival.

There were already quite a few people and she saw that as a good sign. She wasn't so fond of crowds but she didn't fear them. And what mattered most to her was experiencing new events and cultures, so she ventured towards the merchant area rather than the bar, as a starting point.

[Vek Vek]

"Ah. Doctor DeLaTour."

Vek Vek turned at Agatha's approach, his nictating membranes doing a quick flick as he regarded his colleague. The Durwi was impeccably dressed in a slender white tuxedo, topped with a red bowtie which only seemed to accentuate the amphibian's bulbous head.

"Likewise found Csaa'e'Nomaani'suurra to be a bauble of curiosity. Cultural anthropology more a (sniff) hobby, than profession."

The stall merchant returned to Vek, thanking him for his business as she handed him a gift bag.

"Pleasure reciprocated. Price reasonable and curio of a suitably interesting nature."

[Gunner Rodes]

Reddish Wood was the name of Gunner's high school friend. He used to wonder if his parents had deliberately named him for his blazing ginger hair and looming appearance, or if it was just a happy coincidence. He never asked. Red didn't like to be asked about his family, he preferred to talk about vegetables and fish. He didn't eat meat, so Gunner supposed it made sense, and he had three large fish tanks full of different species from Corellia, Kamino, and Naboo. That had been his favourite thing about visits to Wood Farm, the worst being the family dinners.

Although he was neurotypical, Red was considered weird by the other kids in school. It was because he was smart, and didn't like sports, and preferred to talk to blueblossoms than girls. He loved making things grow, and being in the sun. Gunner never cared for plants or vegetables, and he hated the outdoors, but he liked Red, and he missed him when he went outside. Before Red came along, he drew speeders, and tried not to look out of classroom windows. Before Red, he stayed at home, and avoided crowds, and never went to parties - except that one time, for Kari Meyan's birthday, when he locked her Great Aunt Mimm in the closet for having loud jewellery - he never received invitations, after that. Then Red came along, and none of that mattered. It wasn't until he met Red that Gunner understood what loneliness was. Then Red was gone.

It took years of encouragement, and countless hours of therapy, before he braved social environments alone. The rules helped, but there were so many of them, and, sometimes, they conflicted with each other. There were even times when the rules made no sense, at all. But that was girls for you, his dad said. He didn't want to meet new people, in the beginning. Until, one day, his mother told him about the Peko Peko, from Naboo: they nested high, in the cliffs, beyond Theed, and, when they thought their chicks were ready, they pushed them from their nests, and allowed nature to take its course. In the minute it took to reach the rocks, below, most chicks discovered they had been able to fly, all along. And, once his mother had firmly denied any intention of pushing him from a cliff, Gunner understood.

He still liked to think of himself, from time to time, as a Peko Peko learning to fly. That was why he was going to the festival, today, even if it meant going alone; he owed it to himself, to his parents, and to drowned Peko Peko chicks, everywhere. But he wasn't alone. Seeing Tristan standing outisde his door, dressed in his whites, it filled him up inside like sunlight. He could feel it shining through his face. Tristan and his cool friend, Jaden. They were waiting for him.



"Sort version, Tristan's been acting grumpy, and I need his copilot's help to get him laid."

"I can help," he blurted, with a leap of eyebrows, "We have already established that I am the funny one."

For a hesitant fraction of a second, he considered his partner, then took a step forward, and patted him on the arm. He grinned, pleased with how it turned out, "Don't worry, mate. I've got some killer new jokes. You're going to love them!"

On the unceasing emotional roller coaster that was Gunner Rodes, his mood suddenly changed. The smile collapsed in on itself, and by the time he glanced at his chrono, the colour had completely drained from his face.

"Oh, no." In his fresh state of panic, all sense of etiquette and propriety was cast aside, as Gunner placed his hands on the larger men, to start unceremoniously ushering them in the correct direction, "We have 6 minutes to get to the festival, but we can still make it if we take a shortcut through Trader's Alley. Just just just don't make eye contact with anyone, especially the Gamorrean, or we'll never get out of there in time!"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan's partnership with Gunner was still somewhat new, but he'd come to understand his idiosyncratic counterpart to at least some small degree. He knew the kind of thought spiral this kind of reaction warned of, and knew how quickly Gunner could corkscrew his way down into problems if it wasn't addressed swiftly. Fortunately, Tristan had learned a few basic techniques that seemed to help, at least in the short term. The simplest was merely talking things through calmly and rationally. There was a disconnect almost, interfering with Gunner's ordinarily rational and analytical mind; by acting as a bridge to link that mindset with the part of him tangled within his own thoughts, Gunner seemed capable of resolving any panic or anxiety for himself.

A hand was placed gently against Gunner's upper arm, eye contact made, and his most reassuring tone of voice adopted.

"The festival lasts for hours," Tristan soothed, "And we don't need to be there on time. In fact, most people probably won't be. I'm no cultural expert, but it seems to me like a romance festival works best when there's a crowd: the more people there are, the better the odds of finding someone compatible. These dress uniforms aren't exactly subtle either: even if we arrive late, we're going to attract plenty of positive attention. We can spare a few minutes to make sure we're cool and collected when we arrive, rather than in a flustered hurry."

[Ben Merasska]

"Come on, come on, come on!"

Shuvin practically danced around the entry ramp, loving the feel of her dress swaying in the filtered air. While she was a bit self-conscious about it — the dress was the one she'd got with Eluna during that whole date-fiasco on Cato-Neimoidia — she didn't have anything else that she felt was nice enough to wear around a party like this. The backless black dress swayed around her smoothly, and she absolutely adored the fact that she got a breeze 'round her chest; no boob sweat for her today, thank you very much! A pair of more functional than decorative boots, buffed to a shine if still looking a bit worn in, completed her outfit.

Yes, it wasn't much. But she liked it that way. Hell, she was perfectly happy lounging around stark naked, as Ben was reticent to testify. He'd walked in on her at least three times, and seemed to be more embarrassed on each occasion.

"Come on!" she shouted. "B — er, Rox! Lacy! Let's go!​"

"You know, I can always just —"

"If I have to go, Rox," Cerie levelled a glare at him. "Then you have to go too."

Ben grimaced at the nom de guerre that Shuvin had so helpfully applied to him when they'd first docked at Jovan, and tugged at the loudly tropical shirt he was wearing, though since Shuvin had picked it up for him, instead of comfortably roomy it was a perfect fit. 'Somehow it works with those trousers,' Shuvin had said when he drew the line and insisted on wearing his cargo trousers. 'Good thing they're black.'

He trudged down the entry ramp to where Shuvin was waiting with her arms crossed and tapping her foot.

"That mustache..." Shuvin sighed. Ben twitched and stood straight.

"Is classy," he finished for her. "Distinguished. Upper crust. Dashing. Debonair, even."

"No," Shuvin giggled. "It isn't."

"Cerie likes it," Ben maintained. Shuvin rolled her eyes. "Right, Cerie?"

[Cerie Moreau]

Following after Ben, Cerie couldn't help the restless hand that smoothed out the front of her dressiest fancy-shirt. It wasn't really very fancy, it was just the nicest shirt she owned, to be honest. Sleeveless, low-ish neckline, nothing glamorous but it got the job done. Her black trousers had been ironed, at least, along with the muted green and yellow patterned skirt that she'd wrapped around her waist over the top of her pants. Some of the short fringe-like tassels had been long ago pulled off, but it was still a serviceable bit of clothing.

"You look like you have a furry caterpillar living on your face," she answered idly while moving her hand up to fidget with the hawkbat charm necklace she wore. Over the years it had become a treasured possession, and she'd added bits and pieces to it as time went. A thumb ring that was too big, a few discarded locking nuts that Shuvin had given her, and other trinkets had been fixed to the thin leather cord that held it all together.

Her boots (she'd not even bothered to try and cover up the silver steel that had begun to poke out through the over-worn leather over the toes) hit the deck as she cast a teasing smirk to Ben.

"Still, I guess it's kinda cute."

[Gunner Rodes]

"The festival lasts for hours," Tristan soothed, "And we don't need to be there on time. In fact, most people probably won't be. I'm no cultural expert, but it seems to me like a romance festival works best when there's a crowd: the more people there are, the better the odds of finding someone compatible. These dress uniforms aren't exactly subtle either: even if we arrive late, we're going to attract plenty of positive attention. We can spare a few minutes to make sure we're cool and collected when we arrive, rather than in a flustered hurry."

In the beginning, Gunner rocked under Tristan's hand, shifting his weight from foot to foot, with restless impatience. He couldn't make eye contact. Every second lost felt like needles pricking his skin, all over. But Tristan was using that voice he liked; he wasn't rushing or panicking, like Gunner, instead he gave his words the time they needed to sink below the turbulent churn of thoughts. He found himself nodding, and became still, again. What he said made sense.

"You're right," he said, mostly to himself. He met his gaze, and brightened, "Yeah. I hadn't factored into my schedule the possibility that I would be going to the festival with anyone, and that changes things substantially."

With an air of satisfaction, he brushed the creases out of Tristan's jacket, and took off at a more leisurely pace. As he walked, he played with the chrono on his wrist.

"We need to make allowances for the introductions, and small talk. We can talk tactics, you know, to prepare, in case we meet some hot girls who have a fat friend. Like fat fat. You should know, I have a maximum weight threshold that I am not prepared to cross."

[Jaden Luka]

Jaden fell into formation behind Gunner and Tristan, both amused and quietly envious of the exchange he'd witnessed. People were always so quick to collect pilots into a neat little box of personality types and cameraderie, but there were as many varieties as there were designs of starfighter, and as many variations on those themes as there were stars in the sky. All pilots had a few basic traits, true: it took a certain kind of confidence and recklessness to think that strapping rockets to your ass and screaming your way through the heavens was a smart idea. But that was like saying that all Rebels were the same, or that all librarians and secretaries were hot - things that were demonstrably untrue in many cases. The bond between wingmen was different to that between squadmates, and the bond between copilots was something else entirely; different even from the small crews that formed around shuttles, gunships, ARCs, or K-Wings. When they were out there, Gunner and Tristan were utterly reliant on each other. Not in got your back sort of way like a wingman; more in a if you screw up, we both die sort of way. Gunner needed to trust in Tristan's ability to fly right, and Tristan needed to be able to respond to Gunner's guidance and telemetry without even a fractional hesitation. That kind of trust was so all-encompassing that it inevitably spilled over into every facet; and here it was on display, without a starfighter anywhere in sight.

Jaden missed that. His frendship with Amos hadn't been quite so codependant, but they'd become brothers of a sort, in a way that couldn't be undone. The absense of someone so utterly trusted was a void Jaden couldn't plug, no matter how close he had got with wingmen and crewmates since. A crushing tug of something that wasn't quite loneliness, and wasn't quite isolation, wrapped itself around Jaden's chest. He adjusted his face into a grin, and did his best to ignore it.

"Now here is a man who has got his shit together," he chimed in, nodding approvingly at Gunner's clear concept of his wants and limits. Sure, the phrasing was the kind that would probably get you punched if it was overheard by the wrong person, but Jaden had a sense that perhaps that was just something you had to get used to and accomodate with Gunner Rodes. That didn't stop a mischievous thought from forming in his mind however, which took root as they strolled off down the corridor towards the festival.

"Y'know, Rodes, there's a Lieutenant in engineering I met a little while back, who might be exactly your sort of woman..."

[Q. Samus Dage]

Surrounded by smiles and merrymaking with the sounds of happy chatter floating all about, Samus Dage couldn't help but be impressed by it all. It was a colorful event to be sure, and wholly new while at the same time feeling a touch familiar. A group of vibrantly clothed Cizerack men passed by gossiping and casting their eyes about at those around them. A Rodian couple were sharing a drink at one of the compact bar kiosks, tended by a smiling human who was managing to keep up a conversation with one of his other patrons.

He'd chosen to wear one of the more dressier shirts that T'yeellaa had picked out for him on one of their previous outings - a deep red button-up, tucked into a pair of comfortable fitting slacks. It wasn't the height of formality, but it certainly wasn't casual, either.

Sidling up to the temporary watering hole, he flagged a second bartender who'd just finished handing off the drink she'd made.

"Old Rebellion, please."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

The bartender cast a wary glance to Samus, her earrings jingling slightly as her ears skewed.

"jI'd love to, beautjiful, but jI'm afrrajid jI don't know jit."

A voice rang clear behind Samus in response.

"A demji-drram of Correlljian whjisskjy, a dassh of Nasshurra bjitterrss, and ssjimple ssjyrrup. Sshake, decant jinto a rrockss glass wjith charred mejiloorrun rrjind forr garrnjissh."

Kalleeiha made a submitting gesture with her hands as Samus turned to face.

"Ssometjimess to tasste. jI deferr to a betterr experrt ssuch asss jyourrsself....Commanderr Dage?"

She held him at a disadvantage, but that was far from unusual in her work.

[Q. Samus Dage]

A single eyebrow rose as he turned about, eyes meeting those of a woman he wasn't entirely familiar with. But, she did know her drinks, and it brought an easy smile to his face.

"Well then," his voice rumbled out good-naturedly despite the constant hum coming from all directions.

"Nice to see the classics aren't all forgotten."

With a genteel bow, the lanky blonde confirmed her question-that-wasn't-really-a-question.

"Samus Dage, Ma'am."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

"Kalleeiha Maillanaarro, at jyourr sserrvjice. jI am the Madame of the tea housse of the ssame name, and hosstesss of the fête."

She glanced to the bartender, flashed two fingers, and nodded. With that done, her attention quickly returned to where it ought to be.

"jI'm pleassed jyou've come to enjojy Nomaani'ss fesstjival."

There was, however, something amiss. A certain someone wasn't attached to his arm.

"Arre jyou herre wjith K'ohta'rrou Meorrrei? Forrgjive me forr bejing forrwarrd, jI trrjy to keep trrack of the matrronss jin mjy communjitjy and thejirr loverrss."

[Q. Samus Dage]

"Ah, yes... "

A long inhale as he couldn't help but wonder on the Madame's level of attentiveness. Being so mindful of the station's staff as well as those who they spend time with was a strange notion to him, but one that he supposed he didn't need to think too hard on. His lips pursed in the beginnings of an apologetic look.

"I don't think she'll be able to attend," there was a slight shrug in helplessness as his smile became strained.

"Scheduling conflict and all."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

"Oh, sso ssad." The Madame commiserated politely with a hand across her bosom.

She'd developed a keen understanding of the differences between Human and Cizeri custom. She'd had to, in order to survive in this place. Were Samus a Cizerack, she might have intuited that his presence at the fête so unaccompanied was due to the Kree'Arr rut. A touch tacky, but not unheard of. But humans had no such exception. He'd given a professional excuse. Plausible on it's surface, but Kalleeiha figured that K'ohta'rrou Meorrrei would have to be exceedingly neglectful, Commander Dage would have to be ignorant - or both - for it to be the real reason.

No, this hinted at some manner of trouble. These two doves had flown together for too long to be a passing fancy. They ought to have both shown up at the moon festival together - or neither of them. How sad.

The drinks arrived, prepared in the manner the Madame had previously described. Ever the lady, Kalleeiha served Dage first before taking her own.

"No matterr, jI'm ssurre jyou wjill have a loveljy tjime. Do jyou dance, Ssamuss? jYou have the look of a dancerr. Good possturre and eassjy on jyourr feet."

[Q. Samus Dage]

His smile returned, though a bit dimmer than it normally was. A nod in thanks as she handed him his drink, and Samus lifted the glass up a small bit in salute before taking a first sip. It was well made, and he swallowed with little fanfare.

"Eh, I'm certainly no professional, and I have to admit that the last time I danced was back home, years ago."

Looking past the Madame, Dage let his eyes go over the milling crowds, and he briefly wondered what cringe-worthy holo T'yeellaa had decided to watch for the evening.

[Gradoona Pod-Floewander]

The event had said formal dress recommended, but they didn't exactly go into detail. Exactly how formal? Like wear a dress formal? Ehhh...

Not quite her shindig. So Gradoona took a liberal interpretation. Her nicest button-up top and the best pair of dark denims she had. Heck, it was the most dapper duds she owned! And the pinstripes on the shirt were slimming. So the look was a little on the unisex side? That's what waterproof makeup was for! If that didn't sort things out, her jeans had a flower made of rhinestones on the butt...so there!

Okay, who was she kidding? She wasn't a man-slayer tonight. Well, unless a handsome Herglic beau happened to take a passing fancy at a feline moon god festival at the same time. If that happened, hoo boy all bets were off.

Barring that, though? This shindig had a bar and a buffet! Consolation prize for missing hot cetacean studs was finding a steam table full of penguin hotdish.

Penguins...

Penguins!

Gradoona's blowhole squeaked in surprise as she quickly turned her head away from the feathered fascist in charge of Human Resources. He'd already cornered Kiimi...she was dead already. No time to mourn. Only time to escape.

"Hey fella, yaa waanna cut a rug oor what?" she propositioned the first conveniently-male body in her path, hoping to keep away from Bar Atoch's line of fire.

[Kijirra Adhaferra]

As one of the ranking Cizerack on the station, Kijirra had been encouraged to join the festivities. Anyone who truly knew the Wing Commander would have realised how foolish that encouragement was. There were some matrons of the Pride that the moon simply did not smile upon, and the Ta'ihta'rrou was one. To her, the urges that drove so many of her sister Cizerack were a weakness that she refused to indulge. To her, the military was all, and her dedication came at the willing cost of all other aspects of an alleged normal life. To her, there was little that the moon festival could provide that she wasn't already accustomed to and satisfied with achieving in solitude.

Yet, there was a certain sense of duty and obligation about being here. More than that, it was a matter of Pride, in every sense and permutation thereof. It was the Cizerack Pride who had plucked Jovan Station from the Goridan Reach and dragged it lightyears across the stars, and yet it was the Alliance - and worse, humans - who dominated her leadership, her staff, and her corridors. There were exceptions of course, overtly alien examples scattered throughout the ranks as a token effort towards affirmative action, but they were a meagre afterthought, an ineffective garnish atop a bland stew. The humans needed reminding to whom this station belonged; and this festival, uncomfortable as the subject made her, was a loud and proud statement from Jovan's landlords.

As uncomfortable as attending a moon festival made her, however, it was nothing compared to the discomfort she felt allowing herself to be seen in this dress. There was nothing wrong with it, in and of itself. Though sleeveless, the neckline was modest, enough to hint at her femininity without displaying her chest like a buffet. The fabric was simple but elegant, cut so that it hugged the slender feline curves that her military lifestyle kept toned and intact without clinging, and the combination of naval blue and black highlights subtly alluded to the military uniforms that Kijirra found infinately more comfortable. Even Kijirra had to admit, she looked good: and yet she felt exposed, deprived of the comfort and convenience of the flight suits and fatigues that she usually wore like armour. In an environment such as this, surrounded by unenlightened races that did not understand how civilized society was supposed to function, her dress painted a target on her back - and her thighs, shoulders, and everywhere else. She was a lone freighter, dangled out amidst a swarm of pirates like bait, and the dress left her deprived of all her usual defenses.

A grunt escaped her as she parked herself in proximity to where the drinks were being distributed: deep enough into the festival for casual attention to notice and note her attendance, but close enough to an exit to allow for a speedy withdrawl once an appropriate amount of time had passed. The man behind the bar looked as if he was about to speak; Kijirra refused to give him the opportunity.

"Whateverr alcohol jis clearresst and strrongesst. Leave the bottle."

[Jaden Luka]

"- oh, Gunner. Buddy."

Jaden could feel the festival in the air, vibrating like an energy field the closer they got. The music, the ambiance, the rumble of conversation, the slight uptick in the whine of the overhead air coolers as they struggled to cope with so many hot bodies in such proximity: it was like stepping out into the wilderness of a verdant world at night, feeling the heat and humidity of a hot summer still lingering in the air, and hearing the chirp and rattle and resonance of a million tiny creatures in the leaves around you screaming out into the blackness in desperation to get laid. It took all of Jaden's willpower to keep his throttle dialed back to match the less eager pace of his companions, especially with the painful story of missed opportunity that Tristan and Gunner had just recounted.

"I can't believe I have to explain this," he uttered with a shake of his head, "But if you want to dock yourself in someone's fighter bay, you don't end the transmission without setting up rendezvous coordinates. This is rookie mistake territory, Rodes."

Luka's mind was already three hyperjumps ahead, plotting out the trajectory and course corrections he'd need to make once they dropped back into the festival's realspace. This changed things, altering the mission parameters dramatically. This wasn't just about getting Tristan laid anymore: apparently Jaden had to reunite a pair of comm-crossed lovers while he was at it. Force sakes, this was going to be a busy night.

"Okay, here's the plan."

Jaden's demeanour shifted, miggrating from conversation into command, voice tumbling out with thrusters on full burn.

"Your girl is Cizerack. That means she's probably here, somewhere. You guys have seen the picture from her personnel file, and you're recon experts, so you guys start mingling, see if you can't get eyes on Gunner's objective in the crowd somewhere. I'll go to ground, see what I can find out from the lonely folks hanging around at the bars. Set your comlinks to zero-two-one-zero, and maintain radio contact: once we've found her, we'll figure out how to line Rodes up for the best shot we can give him."

A grin spread across Jaden's face. "Fly safe out there, Tick-Tock," he offered, clapping Gunner on the back, and without even a half-second offered for comment or feedback, peeled off from the pilot formation, and sped off towards the festival at a pace that would have made an A-Wing proud.

Fortunately, finding a bar at a Cizerack party was like trying to catch fleas at a Bothan orgy: all you had to do was walk in and then bam, there you are. Jaden set a direct course, weaving effortlessly through the crowds in his path like he was dodging asteroids, subtle course corrections and the occasional near miss with an added "Oh, excuse me," and flash of a smile whenever he accidentally-on-purpose brushed against a cute someone's arm. One such miss turned into a full gravity assist slingshot, flipping Jaden bow-about-thrusters for an added parting glance as he moved away.

It was then that Jaden reached the bar, orientated backwards; but enough practice at such long, lingering looks with beautiful women ensured that he avoided any embarassment or catastrophe. As soon as the bar stool pressed against his firm and fancy-panted cheeks, he slid effortlessly onto it, one foot settling onto the lower rung that he'd scoped out from a few meters away. He waited, just long enough for his continued attention to solicit a slight bashful smile from the woman in question, before flashing a quick wink, and then gracefully spinning in his seat to face the bar.

His arms came to rest on the counter's edge, a deliberate action that allowed him to bury the slight surprise at how quickly the barman reacted to his arrival. There'd probably been an inquiry about what he wanted to drink that Jaden had completely missed; that question certainly persisted in the man's eyes as he established eye contact, absently polishing the glass in his hands. Drawing a blank on every form of beverage that had ever been invented - alcoholic or otherwise - Jaden glanced about himself, eyes settling on the colourful pink and gold of the drink being nursed by the dashing Zeltron to his left. Not the usual drink of choice for a starfighter pilot perhaps, but Jaden could get himself a beer or a whiskey anywhere. In situations like this, at bars, or clubs, or otherwise, there was more adventure to be had in trying something a little different. Besides, this wasn't an exercise in getting drunk: he needed his wits about him, and a drink to help him blend in, and cocktails would provide that with an added dash of flavour and style.

"I'll have what he's having," he said, with a subtle gesture and a smile. "But put mine in a conical glass, with one of those little umbrellas, and -" He trailed off, hand swaying vaguely as he thought, transitioning into helpful gesticulations to emphasise his descriptions. "One of those fruit slice doodads on the rim. Oh! And one of those cherries with the little pointy stick to eat it with."

Jaden looked particularly pleased with himself over the instructions he'd provided; the barman merely looked tired, which was probably a bad sign at this early stage, given how long the festival was supposed to go on for. Never the less, he wandered away dutifully to rustle together Jaden's awkward request. The pilot waited a few minutes for him to disappear from earshot, before leaning over to the Zeltron beside him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So... what the hell did I just order?"

[Gantuhar]

Originally posted by Gradoona Pod-Floewander
"Hey fella yaa waanna cut a rug oor what?"


Startled, Gantuhar snapped his head to look to the side and... up. It was not often that he found himself on the short end of the conversation. Wide eyes blinked slowly as his mouth fell open slightly, and the Trianii was speechless for a fraction of a moment, his already dazzled mind trying to make sudden sense of the question asked of him. It was a terrifying prospect on its' face, and the felinoid couldn't help but allow a bit of the old worry show in his tawny yellows. How often had he heard such things at the End of the Stars? Well, he sometimes recalled that he did. The memories came and went as they pleased, after all.

In this place was something different though. Something new and amazing to him. As if the Teahouse was not amazing enough! He'd found a proper bath, and spent hours coming his stringy fur until it behaved. He had even managed to find an old 'suit' in one of the secondhand vendor stalls. It was simply regal, with the frilled undershirt (like the space pirates of old!) and bright teal jacket with matching slacks that flared out at the bottom. He felt like a king, with his wild and usually unkempt mane now thoroughly brushed.

This was a festival of love - best to make sure that one was in proper form. Just to imagine - a festival that celebrated the heart and all of the good things that come with passion. The Teahouse was but a taste compared to this! Brightly colored dresses and jangling adornments, lovely faces and smiles all around. It was simply wondrous.

Until the voice broke the spell, and Gantuhar found himself looking up to a Herglic.

"This One... "

Another blink as words were slow to come.

"This One does not... cut rugs."

A hand came up to his chest then, thick fingers winding into the tufts of fur that poked out from his puffy shirt's neckline.

"This One rather likes his pelt to be attached to him."

[Gunner Rodes]

"Fly safe out there, Tick-Tock."

One of several disjointed thoughts wriggled its way to the surface in response to Jaden's tactical analysis of his significant other-less situation. It took shape, on his lips, like surprise, and withered into feeble nothingness as he watched the Commander slip into the crowd. That was it, then. The plan to find Kiimiti Taassaurra was underway, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. It was normal, he told himself, to be excited, and to feel a little nervous, but the racing pulse, clammy skin, and constricted throat made for a cocktail rather more potent than your run-of-the-mill pre-date anxiety. And, while having Tristan and Jaden in his corner should've furnished the doubting corners of his mind with encouragement, it only added to the pressure: he had an audience, now. An expectant one.

Sure, he'd considered the possibility that his unlikely comm-pal would be at the festival, but, after their damp squib of a conversation, the thought of shrouding himself in the anonymity of a busy crowd was more than appealing. It wasn't that he didn't want to meet her - he did - but how to capitalise on such a wasted opportunity? How did you rebuild a house of cards, once you'd emptied the deck? No. He couldn't do it. Too much was invested in Kiimiti Taassaurra for him to blow it all on a stupid line. If he was going to embarrass himself, he'd rather do it with a complete stranger. So, he'd stall for all the time in the galaxy.

A tall Cizerack approached, he was wearing a waistcoat of crimson and gold, and carried a tray loaded with complimentary champagne flutes. Gunner helped himself to two of the flutes, downed the contents of one in a gulp, and, before the big guy vanished, plucked a third one for Tristan.

"Drink?"

All around them were faces, showing their teeth, singing songs of laughter; the unrelenting conversation fell like rain against the windows of his mind. He attempted to focus, instead, on the music: a smoky sort of sound, stitched together with an unfamiliar exotic sort of syncopation, and decorated with silvery chimes and rushes of harp strings. It was at once sensual, and light on its feet. His head bobbed in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the band, and a questioned returned to him from before:

"Tristan, are you a dancer?" His gaze crept sideways, and came, hand-in-hand, with an amused grin, "Do you have some sick shapes in your arsenal?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Sick shapes?

Sometimes, Gunner said things that were odd and quirky; things that some people might find offputting, but that Tristan merely saw as part of his charm. They were like the linguistic oddities that came from spending time with people from other worlds, other races, other cultures. As a pilot, Tristan said all manner of things that might sound odd or quirky to a regular citizen of the galaxy; lingo, terminology, and all that good stuff, which must have sounded like utter nonsense if you weren't in the know. Perhaps he might have felt differently had he remained in Imperial service for longer, but it had simply become the norm ever since Tristan defected to the Alliance; and frankly, it was hard to imagine ever being phased by it.

Other times however, Gunner said things that were downright weird. Some of the things he chose to say out loud, or the things he latched onto or got excited about, were a screaming neon reminder of the kind of unconventional headspace his copilot lived within. Instead of the fun differences that brought a smile to your face, they were the glaring ones that left you feeling a little uncomfortable, like when you caught a Cizerack licking themselves, or a Bothan sniffing at stuff a bit too eagerly; reminders that despite the similarities, sometimes people really were worlds apart.

Tristan didn't like that feeling. He didn't like the sensation of being part of an us, versus a them. For all the frustration he felt over the Treaty, and the changes it had made to the role he played in the Alliance, all could be forgiven when he remembered what had been born from it. Tristan was too young to remember the Galactic Republic as it had once been, and his education on it's history had been tarnished by Imperial sentiment, crafted to portray the Galactic Empire as a successful effort in repairing the Republic's many flaws. Though Tristan had rebelled against much of what the Empire attempted to instil in him, the premise that the Republic was flawed and broken was one he continued to accept. People liked to blame the commerce guilds and the non-human Separatists for the downfall of the Republic; but those had merely been symptoms of the underlying rot in the Republic's foundations that had left it vulnerable to Palpatine's machinations in the first place. For thousands upon thousands of years, the Republic had suffered from the same flaw: it was too human, too stuck in the past, too dedicated to the mindset of former glories to ever evolve and change the way it needed to. The fact that the Rebellion had abandoned it's crusade to Restore the Republic, the fact that they had unified as an Alliance of Free Planets, dominated by the non-human races who had suffered, and struggled, and resisted long before humans like Tristan ever got it into their heads to rebel, was the cause that the Rebellion should have been fighting for all along.

It was that belief that prodded at Tristan's innards, making him feel guilty for even entertaining the notion of not being here. He had been too focused on the premise - that this was a festival of love, a celebration of sex and romance - to see it for what it was: a celebration of one of the myriad cultures that now shaped the Alliance; an opportunity to become more familiar with the races and practices that Tristan's human education had been too arogant and archaic to ever expose him to. This wasn't merely a Cizerack affair either. Tristan had lost count of the number of different species represented in the crowd around them, many of whom Tristan couldn't recall or perhaps didn't even know the names of. Gunner's smile may have come from his inherent oddness, but Tristan's was born from sheer wonder.

In the spirit of unity and overcoming differences, Tristan chose to ignore Gunner's sick shapes, whatever those were, and answer the question the same way he always did with his copilot - as if it was the most normal inquiry in the universe.

"I went to a fancy private prep school on Naboo, Rodes," he explained with an offhand shrug, taking a small sip of the champagne provided. His pallate cringed as the flavours washed over it. It was exactly what one would expect at a situation like this: nothing too cheap or generic, because no self-respecting Cizerack would allow themselves to be seen as serving sub-standard beverages to their guests; but nothing too expensive either, which made sense given the copious quantities it had no doubt been purchased in. It was perfectly servicable, enough to satisfy the expectation of champagne without discouraging anyone from purchasing something a little more fulfilling - and expensive - from the bar; and Tristan hated the fact that his brain had been filled with the requisite knowledge to be aware of all those factors. Yet another reason to resent his father and the upbringing he'd been forced into.

Tristan let out a sigh, one layered with far more notes and flavours than the champagne in his hand.

"Unless there's a painted queen and a Theedian string quintet hiding around here somewhere, the only dances I was ever taught aren't likely to do either of us any favours."

[Gunner Rodes]

"Huh. You're posher than I thought."

Gunner considered his champagne flute, he considered emptying it in one go, the way he'd done just a moment ago, and, then, he considered Tristan's words, and reconsidered. There had been hints, nuggets of information dropped, almost absent-mindedly, into conversations, that revealed precious truths about his partner's origins, but never before had he mentioned painted queens and string quartets. And, if he had, Gunner hadn't been listening. He felt guilty about it, sometimes. Of all the people he associated himself with, he tried to ignore Tristan the least. It wasn't deliberate ignorance - far from it - his brain liked to filter things that lacked immediate relevance to him. The real battle was trying to hold onto the information his mind wanted to let go. Back in school, he used to record his conversations, to remind himself what people found funny, the things that they liked, and everything that was important to them, but that didn't go down so well, anymore.

At an event like this, people mingled. Mingled. Mingled. Mingled. Gunner hated that word, it was a cloying sticky sound, that fell on his ears in the same way an annoying tap might land on his shoulder. He hated being tapped, too; people have names for a reason. And they mingle - mingle, mingle, mingle - for a reason, too. It was a different kind of dance, no-one really knew the steps, but some were better at it than others. The handshakes, the pats on the back, kisses to the hand, pecks on the cheek, and then, there was the small talk. Oh, the small talk. Small talk was the surrendering of unimportant details about yourself to discover unimportant details about someone else. That, and commentary on the weather, and other banal observations. The trick, as Gunner understood it, was to reduce your opponent into the ultimate state of boredom, whereby the most passing of jokes will result in uproarious laughter. That was called the ice-breaker.

Nearby, a cluster of revellers signalled an end to their boredom with their own chorus of laughter. Each smiled a little differently: the Alliance captain was the one making the jokes, his smile was tamed, but ever present, with twin crescents at the corners of his mouth, the Cizerack grinned regularly, and generously, but her laughter was polite, and her eyes were on the blue-skinned Twi'lek, who kept his teeth on display, at all times, like a glistening white fence - a remarkable feat, considering he looked like he could fall asleep, at any moment. There were three different conversations taking place, without any of them saying a word. Gunner did not care enough to attempt a translation. Instead, he found himself thinking of Tristan, and the things he didn't say.

When Tristan smiled, there was a warmth to it that felt like kindness, which ought to be normal, but it was not. Tristan was a kind person, anyway, a patient person, generous, too. And it was in generosity, he smiled. It was not a selfish act, and yet, a smile was an inherently self-indulgent thing to do. That was unless a person was being deliberately duplicitous, but he didn't like to think about that. Tristan wasn't duplicitous, he was kind, and a kind smile was an act of charity. But to what end?

The amusement on Gunner's face wilted. He was no longer imagining Longshot waltzing to Cizerack party tunes. Instead, he tried to picture him blending in with the crowd, shooting the breeze, laughing it up... it was difficult to imagine. The champagne flute was given a glance, again, and this time, he took only a sip.

"When Jaden said you weren't going to come to the festival, was that true?"

[Gradoona Pod-Floewander]

Until the voice broke the spell, and Gantuhar found himself looking up to a Herglic.

"This One... "

Another blink as words were slow to come.

"This One does not... cut rugs."

A hand came up to his chest then, thick fingers winding into the tufts of fur that poked out from his puffy shirt's neckline.

"This One rather likes his pelt to be attached to him."

That reply elicited a guffaw. Gradoona's little eyes squinted as her beaked mouth hung open in a laugh.

"Haaa! Aah Haa Haa!"

She clapped an approving hand over Gantuhar's shoulder.

"Relaax fella! It's a figure aaf speech, yaknoo? Cuttin' a rug...yaknoo...with youur feet, eh? Daancing? Ya like daancing?"

Not that she'd ever been confused with a ballroom queen...well ever, but Gradoona could cut a rug with the best of Herglics. Okay, sure that was pretty modest. Outside of a neutral buoyant environment, Herglic dance parties had maybe four moves. But hell, you had fun with those four moves! And as the party was getting kicked off, it sounded like a jizz-wailer band was taking their place for a set or two. Peppy, a good beat, and not something you had to curtsy to do. Even now, Gradoona couldn't help but bounce her weight slightly from foot to foot.

"Yaknoo...step-bounce left, step-bounce right. Shaake youur caboose, tail feathers, whaat haave ya!"

[Cleveyet Bar-Atoch]

"Therre'ss n-nothjing wrrong wjith bejing a d-dessk jockejy." She offered, regrettably lamely. "N-not that jyou arre one. jI worrk at a d-dessk and jI'm verrjy fun."


It was a tasty drink, the Princess Leia. Sparkling fizz water, namana purree, a bare splash of some sort of purple foam that seemed to grow up to the rim of the glass, and garnished with a slice of some sort of pulpy orange fruit on a tall multi-colored plastic skewer. It was a refreshing drink, and more than a little colorful.

With a clack of his beak, as if to give the best approximation of a smile, Bar-Atoch turned his full attentions to Ms. Taassaurra.

"Oh? What sorts of fun do you normally find yourself pursuing?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Kiimi opened her mouth to explain, and promptly closed it. See, that was the trick. You couldn't answer a question like that around normals. It was a trap! What, she was going to tell the department leader of Human Resources that she spent most of her recreational time pretending to be a High Elven Wizard in the mythical realm of Earth? That she liked editing and curating foreign language articles on Holopedia? That she owned not one, but two body-length pillows with Naboonimation space husband prints?

So, talking about herself was subject to extreme self-editing. Still, how hard was she trying to impress a Pengauani, exactly? It wasn't like she had to reach for something outlandish, like claiming she was a competitive swoop racer. What did normal women do? Boring, dull, normal women?

"jI'm a b-b-bjig ssmasshball fan."

Which, while certainly satisfying the requirement of boring typical activity, wasn't actually an activity at all. Correcting, Kiimi hastily amended.

"Alsso jI love to go hjikjing?"

Hiking. Really? She tried not to grimace, imagining what would happen with her legs and her feet coming in contact with a mountain. A swift and certain demise.

[MARCUS]

"Whateverr alcohol jis clearresst and strrongesst. Leave the bottle."

A whir of servomechanisms and cooling fans to Kijirra's left hinted that she wasn't drinking alone. A bipedal droid of some sort had made its way to the bar, and was now looking at her.

"Greetings. Mainline galactic social mores encourage the purchase of intoxicants by third parties as a vector to initiate conversation. May I purchase your chosen intoxicant for you?"

[Kijirra Adhaferra]

Kijirra turned slowly. She knew from the bland synthetic voice that it was some sort of droid that had approached her, but that didn't quite prepare her for the vision that her eyes settled upon. It was clearly the sort of automaton that was designed to mimic a humanoid, but as which species served as a basis, the Ta'ihta'rrou had no idea. Reptilian hindlimbs, exposed circuits and conduits that hinted at bare musculature, a serpentine head graced with almost Selkath-like jowels, flanking a single looming sensor unit that at first seemed like a cycloptic eye, until she noticed the glimmers of red set in deep slit-like eyewells on either side.

A far cry from the usual fare, that was for sure, but this synthetic creature was even more unsettling than the earless mechanical abominations that the Alliance allowed to stomp around the Pride's station. Stranger still, it was offering to buy her a drink. Another cursory glance up and down its body prompted the obvious question to tumble from her mouth.

"Wjith what currrency? jIt doess not look ljike jyou have anjy pocketss."

[MARCUS]

Wordlessly, the bipedal platform demonstrated it's capability. A section of MARCUS's pectoral carapace clicked open, sliding back to reveal a compartmental storage slot. A short stack of unauthorized credits could be seen within. Artificial fingers carefully manipulated the top chit, then withdrew to allow the chest cavity to close.

"I am authorized a fixed allowance of legal tender to use in completion of specified tertiary and quaternary tasks."

The droid's ocular fixed Kijirra's face in sharp focus.

"May I purchase your beverage?"

[Kijirra Adhaferra]

Beware men offering gifts from the heart.

It was something that Kijirra's mother had always said; some cautionary idiom that she'd picked up from somewhere, and had uttered every time Kijirra spoke about the world beyond the Cluster. It was hard to imagine Kijirra being the sort of person who needed such advice, but in her youth she'd been a different person. She'd grown up on the poor fringes of the Cluster, but unlike her peers who stood staring in longingly at the high society they existed outside of, Kijirra had been the kind of kit who turned her back and gazed out in wonder at the more distant stars. It was there, amid the trade ships and transports that the seed of her pilot's career had first been planted, and while life had been sure to thoroughly burn away her sense of wonder and wanderlust, that kernel of childhood ambition had remained.

Kijirra's mother had been an old fashioned sort, a few kittens short of a litter in more senses than one: she'd been afraid that some outland spacer would lure Kijirra away to her undoing. At best, she'd flee off into the heavens, or wind up dead in an alley somewhere; at worst, she'd become one of those hybrid mothers that people talked about in hushed voices. It had been utterly lost on her that the only hard shaft Kijirra had ever wanted between her knees was bolted to the flight controls of a starship; she doubted such preferences had ever even been within her mother's capacity to comprehend.

She did spare the smallest of smiles now though, imagining the look that would be on her mother's face if she could see her now, contemplating a gift to be purchased with credits pulled right out of this new arrival's chest. She supposed it didn't quite count, given that this automaton presumably didn't have any such organs, but she supposed he might have some mechanism or power distributor that approximated a similar function; if this even was a he, of course. That was perhaps an inappropriate assumption on her part; but it had been years since a woman had approached her offering such things, and the droid's talk of galactic social mores left her thinking that they were likely from one of one of the countless worlds beyond the Cluster where everyone had their gender roles backwards.

The smile turned almost coy, though more from amusement at the surreal situation than anything else.

"I grew up around starports," she countered. "My mother always warned me never to accept drinks from strangers. Perhaps you'd like to start with your name, before volunteering to help get me drunk."

[Lorna DeLaTour]

"Ah. Doctor DeLaTour."

Vek Vek turned at Agatha's approach, his nictating membranes doing a quick flick as he regarded his colleague. The Durwi was impeccably dressed in a slender white tuxedo, topped with a red bowtie which only seemed to accentuate the amphibian's bulbous head.

"Likewise found Csaa'e'Nomaani'suurra to be a bauble of curiosity. Cultural anthropology more a (sniff) hobby, than profession."

The stall merchant returned to Vek, thanking him for his business as she handed him a gift bag.

"Pleasure reciprocated. Price reasonable and curio of a suitably interesting nature."

Agatha smiled and nodded curtly to her colleague. "Dr. Vek, a pleasure." She had got to work with her fellow doctor since her recent arrival on Jovan Station. She had the distinct impression he had no extended affection for being outside of his laboratory, but she might be proven wrong. After all, she had learned a long time ago that first impressions could be treacherous at times.

She chuckled at his comment regarding cultural anthropology. "Yet the hobby sometimes helps us be better at our profession," she replied before looking at the vendor's display of goods. She was unsure anything was catching her eye, but she was curious by nature.

"Do you know how often this festival happens?" She had mostly read on the Cizeri's physiology than on their beliefs so far, due to the high amount of new things to register for her new assignment.

[Vek Vek]

Yet the hobby sometimes helps us be better at our profession.

"Ah." Vek's posture straightened as he double-blinked. Doctor DeLaTour did not succumb to saccharine niceties. There was a thinking mind at work there.

"Astute. Rapport built on cultural understanding. Reaching patients with more than treatment and diagnosis. Very good, Doctor."

The Durwi stepped aside to let DeLaTour inspect the wares at the kiosk, but didn't distance himself from the conversation.

"C'saa e Nomaani'suurra, like all Cizeri holidays, operate on the Carshoulis Cluster astronomical calendar. This holiday is lunar observance. First ascendancy of prime moon in Cizeri calendar. As such, specific dates remain elusive."

Vek paused, canting his head as he inspected the other wares.

"Veneration of Cizeri lunar deity, Nomaani. Avatar of the moon. Hunter and life mate of the divine sun. Fascinating. Worship of stellar phenomenon a common vector of civilizations, typically observed in formative cycles. Cizeri culture maintained hold on archaic belief system, despite understanding of science and deductive reasoning."

[Lorna DeLaTour]

A faint smile briefly curved Agatha's lips. "It can do wonders, especially when you have little time to get to know your patient. Prior observation of their kind can make a significant difference." It was one of the reasons she made sure to get out of her office and lab, besides the mere fact that she could use a semblance of social life outside of work or staying home with her fur babies.

She stepped forward when her colleague made room for her to inspect the wares offered. She was not in the mood for anything sugary but her eyes - and nostrils - were caught by an enticing smell of spices and she eventually settled for delicacies whose name she would likely need a few tries before being able to pronounce correctly, which she would eventually do.

While paying for her purchase, she listened to what the other doctor explained about the festival. "I have often found that understanding science and embracing facts over tales still worked in uncanny balance with many sentient species' need for supernatural and a measure of magic."

[Codename: Abaddon]

C'saa e Nomaani'suurra. What a load of bullshit. Look, the moon is real big tonight! Let's all climb into a pile and fuck each others brains out. Just like every other night. And morning. And afternoon, evening, supper. It's not like Cizeracks need an excuse to mash their bodies together, but damn if they do not try to make one at every turn. The moon is full, the sun is bright, the grass is tall, the mail is late. This sort of hallow pageantry was the sort of thing that set him straight up the wall.

And yet still he was here. Armor gleaming like a new sun. Many cans of polish had sacrificed their lives to cover up the repaired blaster holes and deep carbon scoring of the heavily used armor plates that covered Abaddon from head to toe. Even the face of his helmet was polished to a mirror finish. The black armor was not very festive in itself, so a lei of Corshoulis lilies and an open button silk shirt softened his appearance. Slightly. In his hand he carried a pitcher of light-blue liquid and with the help of a carefully inserted straw through an air vent in his helmet he was able to maneuver the two together to sip his chosen beverage.

Vosh.

God. Damn. There were so many suits here. Big brick shithouses of men wearing their stupid uniforms. Like a bunch of ro'saanja birds grabbing all the attention of the females. And what a cast of women. Dresses and uniforms in all shapes. And sizes. A few sidesteps were necessary to maneuver around the giant whale thing that was blocking the view of the rest of the buffet. It was hard to pin down where to start. So many choices. Humans and Cizeracks dominated the scene but there were other species there as well. Oh, well. Doesn't really matter where he started. There were plenty of fall back options. Time to just get in there and make the most of this stupid festival.

Boots clunking of deckplates preceded his arrival at the bar, where a Cizerack lass with the cutest markings was sitting alone, seemingly talking to herself. Must be lonely. A perfect target for this hunter. Setting his pitcher on the bar he put himself unknowingly between the Cizerack and her overlooked diminutive drinking partner.

"Hey sugar tits. I have to ask, did it hurt?"

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"Look, Commander! It is beautiful."

Everywhere she turned there was giant banners and signs, in the most festive colors, filling the gray spaces of the space station with warmth. Her mouth moved noiselessly as she tried to read every Cizerack word stylishly splashed every which way; and failing miserably. No amount of conversational Cizeri that she had picked up from around the station or from painstakingly trying to decipher that Cizerack cookbook with help from holonet forums. Still she made the effort, even giggling out a few phrases that sounded funny in her head, and only served to make her laugh all the harder once spoke aloud.

The deck was absolutely abuzz with all manner of people. Humans, Cizeracks, Droids, and everything in between. All shapes, sizes, and colors. Everyone was smiling and laughing. Having an absolutely great time. Her eyes could hardly take in every sight, every face. It was a non-stop chase from one intriguing item to the next. Look! Colorful beverages! That guy has cool armor! Gradoona is here! A DANCE FLOOR!

"Do you dance, Commander?" Mayael asked, positively vibrating in place with all the effort it was taking to stay in place and not grab her superior office by the collar and drag him to checkered dance floor with the flashing lights and rhythmic synth music.

[Zwane Nkosi]

"Oh fucking hell. Even the Commander found a date. Joey, look... Joey?"

Tearing his eyes from the spectacle that was Kes Akiena walking into the festival with a four armed lady, an attractive lady, revealed an empty stool beside him that had previously been occupied by his furry wingmate. A quick glance all around revealed no sign of Joey, and he even looked underneath his arms and legs to make sure the small pilot was not somehow hiding beneath his own large body. Nothing. The only sign that Joey had ever existed in the first place was a half-finished glass siting on a coaster.

"Goddammit Joey. Where the fuck did you go?" The evidence spoke for itself, what with the gentleman from the next table over also missing. Typical Joey. Never around when you want him, but always present to help you when your zipper gets stuck.

When he looked back to gawk the Commander was gone, hidden from sight somewhere in the festivities along with his hot date. Probably a hooker, he told himself, before going back to what he was doing before his attention was pulled away; adding to the collection of empty glasses on the table in front of him, attempting to achieve a level higher than simply buzzed, and watching a particular Engineer strut her stuff on the dance floor.

"Now that, invisible Joey, is a real lady."

[Kes Akiena]

"Do you dance, Commander?"

He allowed himself to be pulled along, reveling in the momentary feeling of being drawn into the harried frenzy of enjoyment. Of course, in the next moment Kes let his hold on Ms. Rakkamar's hand firm up as he applied a small amount of resistance. He had known that her wide eyes would drink every ounce of color in, every bit of excitement would be soaked up and absorbed. And truth be told, he'd hoped that her enthusiasm would bleed into his own cautious approach; and it did. But, only to a degree. Even so, as the more upbeat tune being played ended and the musicians shifted down a small bit to something a little bit more mellow, the Commander held fast to his partner's hand and gave the slightest of tugs.

When she paused in her sightseeing long enough to turn back to him, the redhead gave a partial nod as his free hand moved up and out.

"I'm certainly not up to speed on what the younger folks are dancing to," the old classic of a gentle yet peppy-sounding soft-beat remixed sonata started, and he moved his hand from hers to slide smoothly to rest on the back side of her waist.

"... but I know enough of the classics."

The 'If you would indulge me?' didn't need to be spoken aloud.

[Tristan Tahmores]

"When Jaden said you weren't going to come to the festival, was that true?"

It was a valid question, and one that Tristan should have been prepared for; and yet it hit closer to home than he might have expected, aggrivating wounds that he'd forgotten he had. He had no intention of lying, but what degree of honesty should he provide? Did he remain on message, and speak of parties past, of how events like this brought him back to a time and a version of himself that he would prefer not to revisit? Did he talk about how he felt about the uniform, and how uncomfortable he felt looking at the man who stared back out of the mirror? Did he delve deeper, talking about how his past choices made a sex and romance festival very much not his scene? Did he get introspective, and talk about how missing out on an event such as this was a special kind of self-punishment that on some level he felt he deserved? Or did he peel back all the lies, and tell the simple, underlying truth: that the Tristan who'd thrived at functions like this had left everything - a life, a home, a family - behind; and that the more time he spent reliving that past, the harder it was to stay certain he'd made the right choice?

"I'm not great at parties," he found himself saying, deeply regretting the way that his champagne and tailored uniform prevented him from jamming his hands into his pockets for comfort. He managed to muster a small shrug. "I used to be, but I'm not that Tristan any more -"

He trailed off. Sighed. His eyes glanced to Gunner, a small nugget of proper honesty offered.

"- and sometimes it doesn't feel great to be reminded of that. I miss things from those days, and I don't like feeling as if even the smallest part of me wants to go back."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Hey sugar tits. I have to ask, did it hurt?"

The line of conversation opened up on a second front, and Kiimi felt an intense moment of ambivalence. It at least gave her an out so that she could stop stuffing her own foot down her mouth in front of the emperor of HR. On the other hand, the line was so coarse, so unwarranted that Kiimi did a quick glance left-and-right to see if the masked man was maybe talking to someone else. Nope, it was directly at her.

"Excusse me?" she squeaked, making a face at the pitch of her own voice, betrayed by her own surprise. Sugar tits? She resisted covering her already-well-covered chest with an arm drape, then leaned forward. The surprise on her face turned to wry suspicion, and a lengthening grin.

"Gunnerr? jIss that jy-jy-jyou?"

She'd calculated he'd be here. Okay, calculated implied some kind of plan. She'd hoped he would show. But in a getup like that? He did know this wasn't a masquerade, right?

[MARCUS]

The smile turned almost coy, though more from amusement at the surreal situation than anything else.

"I grew up around starports," she countered. "My mother always warned me never to accept drinks from strangers. Perhaps you'd like to start with your name, before volunteering to help get me drunk."

The sentient's response was not a refusal, therefore the heuristic algorithms crafted to enable social interactions continued apace. MARCUS simply palmed over the chit, resting both of his hands atop the bar as he assumed what had previously been observed as a social posture. He rested his elbow joints on the countertop, leaned forward slightly, and raised one foot slightly to perch on the brass piping at the base of the bar.

"My name is MARCUS. It is an acronym to represent my configuration as a modular advanced redistributed computational and utility system."

There was a 78.2 percent chance that further explanation would lead to enhanced rapport opportunity, but this efficiency sharply fell off in computational models if excess information was used. Therefore, MARCUS allowed himself one small moment to elaborate. He gestured to himself with one of his hands.

"This bipedal chassis is one of three hardware components on my distributed network, and is defaulted to interact with sentient organic life."

MARCUS's ocular dimmed slightly as a pair of dust covers on his cranial unit canted open slightly. It created an expression that was almost bashful.

"I am currently running a quatenary task to enhance and develop social interactions. May I ask your name as well?"

[Kijirra Adhaferra]

The words were obtuse, something not helped by the fact that they were uttered in Basic. For an idle moment, Kijirra wondered at requesting that the automaton switch to speaking her native tongue as well. After all, for a droid, it was likely an inconsequential request that would take nothing more than a microsecond of effort; but something that it - he? MARCUS certainly sounded like the sort of name a male human might have - had said gave her pause. To enhance and develop social interactions. She supposed that in the grand scheme of things, that was her purpose here as well: to come out of her shell, to become more comfortable surrounded by people in such numbers and such variety. To engage in such a way among Free Planets circles, Basic was a point of commonality, and so she chose to persist with it, instead taking the time to analyse and understand the droid's words.

Her response came slowly, but only enough to seem contemplative.

"jI am Kijirra Adhaferra," she replied, bowing her head slightly in greeting. "jI am afrrajid mjy name doess not carrry the ssame kjind of meanjing ass yourrss."

She faltered, her fingers fidgetting with the almost empty glass in front of her.

"jI ssupposse jI am alsso the Ta'ihta'rrou, and that meanss ssomethjing."

A faint note of bitterness preceded her efforts to drain the last dregs of fluid from the drinking vessel. The more military assets and resources the Alliance of Free Planets assigned to Jovan Station, the more diluted and complicated her position as the Cizerack Wing Commander became. It was a point of irksome irritation: politics and bureaucracy getting in the way of her performing her job.

"Orr at leasst, jit jiss ssuppossed to."

Idly, she pondered at the motions of the extruded segments of the droid's headpiece. They seemed to convey emotion, almost the way that one might see it on a Cizerack. Did this droid have emotions? Was it simply pretending? Kijirra had encountered droids before that certainly seemed to have emotion and personality, but she had always been told that such things were errors, corrupted code that clumped together when a droid went without memory wipes for too long, combined with the desire of most living things to project intelligence and sentience into everything they saw. Seeing personality in a droid was no different from begging a starfighter to hold together, as if the mechanism was somehow able to make a conscious choice to do so.

Yet, life was complicated, and much of it lay beyond the limits of her ability to comprehend. She'd heard stories of sentient crystals that could manipulate the Force - something that, if her sketchy understanding of philosophy was to be believed, was inherent to the connection between living things. The only commonality between a crystal and herself was, unless one believed in the notion of a soul, the electrical impulses that defined their intelligence. If that was all life was, then who was to say that such life could not inhabit, or be born in, an artificial chassis such as the one standing before her?

It was existential enough to begin to make her mind hurt, but it was enough to peak her interest in the man, being, or otherwise that stood before her. She turned in her stool, shifting to face MARCUS directly, sparing only a nod of gratitude as the barman retrieved the droid's credit chit and exchanged it for a replacement of Kijirra's spent beverage. An elbow propped itself against the bar as she regarded MARCUS in his totality.

"jYou ssajid that jyourr networrk jis djivjided between thrree componentss," she said, head tilting and ears lowering as her curiousity was allowed to take the helm. "What jiss that ljike, bejing jin thrree placess at once?"

[MARCUS]

The question elicited an unnatural purr of microprocessor activity, and a brief flutter of a blue diode at the base of the MMU's neck.

"It is efficient. A distributed network consciousness allows for dissemination of computational power to achieve many simultaneous tasks, or fewer of increased difficulty in expedited time with synergistic effect. It also serves to protect me in the event that one or several of my network components are damaged or destroyed."

The ocular focused squarely on Kijirra, analyzing her facial response patterns to elicit any cues that he may need to elaborate or change tact.

"My response is unlikely to be sufficient in answering your question. Organic consciousness is incongruent with synthetic consciousness. We perceive differently. I have observed in one thousand eight hundred seventy nine encounters that organics will employ metaphor, symbol, or parable if there is an error in data dissemination among their own. This ability is difficult to replicate in a synthetic network, I apologize."

The cool white light of the ocular warmed slightly as a cooling fan engaged to compensate for microprocessors.

"Adhaferra, Ta'ihta'rrou, you say that your name does not carry the same meaning as my own. You are correct. My name is an acronym comprised by key aspects of function and purpose. My observation of sentient organics shows a large percentage of them devote a sizeable portion of time and a high degree of resources in the discovery of each unit's function and purpose. Often, the searches fail.

Instead, organic names demonstrate a high value placed on information of origin or demonstrating another intrinsic meaning. For example, Cizerack are assigned quadratic nomenclature. Each of four names informs a differing part of one's origin and existence, and there are rules governing casual and intimate encounters upon which the nomenclature is used. We have been casually introduced, and you have given me your first and fourth nomen, as social mores specify. The fourth nomen represents a family, which may have shared that common distinction for many generations. The first nomen represents you as an individual subset of that family, but on a non-intimate basis. Often there is meaning assigned to this nomenclature by progenitors. It may be the name of an ancestor, or a name of a close friend or acquaintance, but it may also be assigned for another personal reason. The reasons for your nomenclature are nuanced, layered, and inform extensively of your origin and assign a qualitative value to you."

MARCUS paused, the dust covers on his shroud once again pivoting.

"It is a meaning I cannot assign to any of my components, or my network as a whole. I can be represented by a list of locations my components were assembled or a list of individual systems, but that is as informative as saying that you are a matrix of organic acids, proteins, and hydrocarbons initated by binary sexual reproduction."

It was a lot to unpack, and MARCUS didn't press the issue. He gestured to the glass in front of her.

"Is your beverage acceptable?"

[Cleveyet Bar-Atoch]

Somewhat taken aback at the less-than-standard greeting given by the man in the mask, Bar-Atoch blinked. Twice. Sloped non-shoulders seemed to roll beneath his thin, sleek feathers before beady eyes moved from Ms. Taassaurra to the newcomer.

"Sir, I'm afraid that you may be mistaken. Ms. Taassaurra here has done nothing that would facilitate concern for her health and well-being."

Inwardly his mind was reeling. If this fellow was a part of the staff, then there would certainly be paperwork for indecent behavior and the use of crass language.

[Codename: Abaddon]

"Yeah, did it hurt... when you fell from heaven?"

The way she squeaked and flustered was absolutely adorable. God. Damn. There were a lot of hot dishes at this party but there was something about this one that really stood out. So. Damn. Cute. He just wanted to reach out and pinch those beautiful cheeks. And her face, too!

"Sure. You can call me Gunner if you want. What's your name?"

A little voice beside his head caused a full swivel around right when he least wanted to, and came face to face with a small, black and white creature. It was like a bird, or something, but short and fat with wings that didn't look like they were going to do much flying. There was a brief moment of looking between the creature, and his drink, and back and forth, while he remembered everything he'd ingested today and, nope, there wasn't anything that would cause hallucinations. This one was real.

"Woah, what's your deal, little dude?"

[Mayael Rakkamar]

Oh! Even though she asked earnestly she had not expected the Commander to dive straight in. Most men were awkward and distance with her, and it was a nice change to suddenly find herself pushed toward the dance floor with Kes already seizing her hand and waist; a thing often made more complicated by her many arms and tall, slender body. She was not quite sure what this configuration was. She was equally unfamiliar with the dances of the galaxy, and elaborated so;

"Codru-ji no have formal dances, like humans. We wander in the music. I learned some dance, from Gradoona and others. It very fun. I like this dance. Very, what is the word... romantic?"

She let the Commander lead her in this unfamiliar slow dance. It was very close and intimate, unlike the wild dancing popular in the station's clubs. Different kinds of good. To her own people, dancing was a thing for children and adolescents to do in the firelight during a clan gathering, while wyrwulf pups ran around underfoot. The elders would play music for the children while the adults looked on and watched, but rarely participated. At least, that was the case with her own clan. Perhaps there were other clans were dancing was more common. She would never know.

But this was no time for sad thoughts about old home. This was new home, and she was keen to enjoy the nights festivities.

[Gunner Rodes]

"I'm not great at parties. I used to be, but I'm not that Tristan any more, and sometimes it doesn't feel great to be reminded of that. I miss things from those days, and I don't like feeling as if even the smallest part of me wants to go back."

"Huh." It was a sound that tumbled from his lips as perfunctory as a full stop at the end of a sentence. He took another sip of champagne, "Does this taste strange to you?"

Stop. No. Think. Gunner backpedalled furiously through the conversation, discarding his concerns about the champagne. Something Tristan said. He latched onto it, and cast his gaze about the room. There was a bar nearby. He emptied his champagne flute and threw a thumb over his shoulder, "I'm going to get some beer."

He departed at once, leaving Tristan to mill about with the crowd. In short order, he arrived at the bar, where he ordered a couple of Can'darri wheat beers and helped himself to a paper napkin. From inside his jacket, he produced a smart stylus and started scribbling onto the small paper square.

Tristan doesn't like parties. He misses his old life.

Gunner read the words three times over, before stuffing the napkin into his jacket pocket, along with the stylus. There. Now he wouldn't forget. If Tristan didn't like parties, why did he come to this one? Had Jaden pressured him into it? Why can't this Tristan enjoy parties like old Tristan? It didn't make sense to him. After he paid for the beers, he took a sip and thought about his conundrum. The beer was a good choice: sweet enough to make the transition from champagne, but not too sweet. Before he left, he stuffed a handful of napkins into his pocket, just in case.

"Here," he announced his return, handing Tristan a beer, "It's not exactly Nabooian Crown Reserve, but it's good."

He fell into rank beside him, to survey the shifting currents of the festival revellers, and recalled the words on the napkin in his pocket.

"You know, if you don't like it, here, we can always go somewhere else," he said, lubricating his offer with another gulp of beer, while he considered a list of things an ex-Rogue might like to do in his spare time: "We could play sabaac, or shoot darts, or... or go to a titty bar."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Everything took a turn for the weird.

Kiimi's head went from left to right as Mr. Bar Atoch either white-knighted or cooch-blocked her. She had no idea which one was the intention and she didn't care, because the dude in the mask obviously wasn't Gunner. But then her ears perked high. Somewhere in the soup of a few hundred voices, she heard part of one she thought sounded very familiar. Kiimi's eyes widened as she craned her neck to look past the masked creeper.

"Exc-c-cusse me." she moved to vacate her spot at the bar. "jI need a d-drrjink."

Ugh, lame excuse Kiimi she inwardly berated herself, grimacing slightly. "At an-n-notherr b-barr."

She gathered her tail in her hands to smooth out the frizz in her tuft, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she moved in direction of Gunner's voice.

[Tristan Tahmores]

There was something special about Gunner Rodes. Many things, Tristan supposed. Right now though, the one that sprung to mind was the weird and wonderful way his mind worked, and how the man could make a sincere and thoughtful suggestion and gesture, while at the same time incorporating the words titty bar. It was more than that, though. Tristan was learning, coming to terms with how his copilot's thought processes worked, and learning to see the intentions behind his actions. A negative reaction to his drink, and Gunner had replaced it. A negative reaction to their surroundings, and Gunner tried to replace that as well. There was a simple, elegant, beautiful logic to it; and now that Tristan had learned to see it, it made the lovable lug's quirky ways all the more touching.

Tristan made a point of visibly enjoying his beer, before separately letting his brow furrow into a frown as he contemplated Gunner's suggestion. That was important. Separate expressions, separate reactions, seperate thoughts - otherwise Gunner might think he was pondering over whether he liked the beer or not, while relishing the tasty prospect of letching at scantily-clad dancers.

"Much as the prospect of the two of us being aroused and surrounded by naked women appeals," he replied, words deliberately chosen for maximum confusion factor. There were times when you didn't want Gunner Rodes to misunderstand you, but others when there was just too much innocent entertainment value to be derived from letting it happen. "But we might want to hang around here for a minute or two longer."

The hand wrapped around his beer gestured in the direction of the approaching Kiimiti Taassaura.

"Isn't that your girl?"

[Silas Faei]

This is why he came to Jovan on occasion. If one wanted to simply experience other cultures, then surely Silas could have been among those that stayed at home and enjoyed the people as they came to him and his beloved home world. But this? This was experiencing other cultures in a strange melting pot where they didn't quite belong and had to adapt their ways to others in new and interesting ways. Where else in the entire galaxy could anyone experience a Cizeri festival where a large percentage of the participants weren't actually among the feline species, where could someone find such a unique culmination of intrigue and not feel like a damned tourist but rather one of the curious but oh so welcome throng? Where else could someone experience such a unique event?

Okay, so there were certainly a handful of other things that came to mind but that was besides the point. The point, as the Ambassador had been making to himself since he had decided upon attending the festival, was that this would surely be an event to remember, and as the right and proper ambassador to his people and representative of Zeltros on Jovan Station, he would be quite shamed to skip such a momentous occasion.

Nevermind the fact he would never hear the end of it if he had somehow managed to avoid a Festival that celebrated the very things his people were well known for, and the thought of any number of his cousins' disappointment, exasperated, and genuinely taunting visages questioning him regarding it was far too much to even consider being allowed. No, this would be a bragging right that he got to attend on such a prestigious level and they were stuck back home playing barkeeps and courtesans.

Everything was in full swing as the Zeltron arrived amidst dresses and official uniforms and other displays. He wasn't quite as garish as he could have been, instead leaving the flashy behind in favor of a finely tailored suit of blue to - as his mother of all people had often complimented - match his eyes to within just the barest perfection of perfection to the shade. It would probably be lost in the mixture of all the other finery on display by others, but the Ambassador did have his characteristic skin tone to prevent him from utterly blending in with the crowd.

There was so very much to take in with the eye, but first - well, anyone could tell you in an event such as this what needed to happen first, his unoccupied hands were more than enough to prove the point. A glass of sparkling wine was accepted from a server even as the Ambassador made his way to the place of utmost importance - the bar.

[Nix Neutron]

"- I'm tellin' ya, kid. Open ya eyes. Read a book. See tru' the lies. It's written everywhere, in every strand a' the fabric a' the universe."

Nix Neutron paused amid his impassioned words to take a long, deep drag of Virgillia Slims. The chemicals flowed into his lungs like a welcome breeze, warming him in a way that the underwhelming cat whisky in his glass failed to achieve. He held the smoke and vapours in place with a tongue touched to the roof of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed in deep contemplation as he his breath back out into the Jovan Station air.

He turned his gaze towards Commander Jaden Luka, the latest objective in his crusade to help the galaxy become woke to the lies and conspiracies that governed their lives. People thought it was the Force that controlled the ebb and flow of destiny, but Neutron knew: it was the Web, the network of deceit and manipulation, the Corporations and the Corrupt with their hands upon the levers of power, pulling the strings that made the world dance, and weep, and sing.

His hand reached out, snuffing out the embers in his disappointing drink, letting the stub float amid the liquid that no person of even marginally discerning taste should ever think to consume.

"Palpatine lied. He planned it all. The Clone Wars, the Jedi, Alderaan, Endor - all jus' part a' some grand story Sheev was tellin'. There ain't no way the Jedi or the Republic conjured an army a' clones outta thin air that fast. Ain't no way they were built ready ta be a Jedi execution squad neither, not unless he planned it all along. An' the Death Star? The Geonosians designed that shit, all a' way back before it all began. Its why he had ta wipe 'em out, I'm tellin' ya - the bugs knew too much, that's why. Could a' ruined the whole thing, before Pally got his excuse ta blow up Alderaan an' scare the shit outta us. And even that. Tarkin jus' happens ta blast the planet where Vaders kid lives, and she jus' happens ta not be on it at the time?"

He shook his head, reaching for his glass, bringing it almost halfway to his lips before he remembered what he'd done to it, and set it back down on the bar.

"If ya ask me, the Battle a' Yavin was gonna happen all along. Vader probably handed them plans ta his daughter himself, ta make sure the Rebellion seemed tough enough fer all that military spendin'. Evil like that thrives best in a galaxy in chaos, ya know?"

[Jaden Luka]

Jaden didn't know. Nor had he asked the man beside him anything that would justify the thesis that he had launched into presenting. It had begun over simple curiosity about the man's drink, and now here they were, Jaden feeling like he'd died and gone to some version of the bad place, where he was condemned to an eternity of social studies lectures from a man who... what the hell kind of accent even was that?

The pilot had surrendered into a slump, head barely prevented from slamming onto the bar in a comatose state by the fist that held it aloft. Periodically he glanced around him, mournful looks met with a shrug of apology by a bartender who was just glad they no longer needed to feign interest in the Zeltron's story.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaden glimpsed something. Something striking. Something distracting. Something, well, pink, which after the past eternity of listening to the man drone on wasn't exactly a benefit; but it was something. An opportunity. An escape route.

"I'm so sorry," he said suddenly, out of nowhere, quickly clambering from his stool, and downing the last of whatever drink was in front of him - honestly, he'd stopped paying attention to what the bartender had been slipping him out of some modest sense of consolation. A few quick strides and he was beside the bar's newest arrival, an arm immediately looping around the Zeltron's. "But my date is here, and we've got places to be."

His head leaned to the side, half way between resting on the man's shoulder, and a conspiratorial whisper. "Play along, and I will make it up to you, I swear."

[Gunner Rodes]

"Isn't that your girl?"

Gunner followed the trajectory of the beer bottle gesture until he arrived at a certain Cizerack officer, dressed with imposing authority, in her crimson and golds, and her curly blonde hair. He quarter-turned to Tristan, at once.

"I want to leave," he said, in a firm undertone, "I want to leave now. I don't like parties. I-"

Words failed him, sputtering to a futile halt on the tip of an arid tongue. His mouth was a desert. His shirt was tight. He remembered to take a breath, then, raking air down his sandpaper throat. It wasn't the nerves that had robbed him of his voice, though fear had made a statue of him. It was the look taking shape on Tristan's face. Gunner had no idea what it was, but it reminded him of his conversation with Dr. Jsorra, and the way it had made him feel. He felt that now, the one quiet space in the middle while the rest of him was rushing and freezing inside. Tristan was invested in his happiness and he didn't want to let him down.

Coming to terms with his approaching doom, Gunner took a hearty gulp of beer, and, by a miracle, did not pour it down the front of his pristine whites. A half-attempt was made to look her way, but he faltered, and instead found a spot within the crowd and focused on it.

"What if I say something wrong?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan's unlaiden hand reached out, an arm wrapping itself around Gunner's shoulders. He wasn't sure if the gesure would have the effect that he hoped or intended, but it felt like the right thing to do none the less.

"Then you apologise, and make up for it."

It sounded like such a feeble piece of advice, and yet the way that Tristan delivered it added new layers to the sentiment. He had known Gunner long enough to know how twisted up in his thoughts he could get, and Tristan could relate, in some small way. They all went through moments like that, all fought with a headspace that didn't want them to function clearly; Gunner just happened to have more of those moments than most, was all. At times like those, what you needed was to focus on something simple. A simple concept, a simple goal. This was the one that Tristan chose to offer to Gunner now.

"And if you can't, then you learn from this, so that you're a little bit better prepared for the next time. Everyone acts like hook-ups and romance are an elaborate art, but it's really just trial and error. If someone seems like they know what they're doing, it just means they have a longer track record of screwing things up than you do, and they've got the majority of the mistakes out of the way already."

The arm offered the smallest of reassuring squeezes.

"I know you can do this, Gunner. But even if you can't, that's okay too."

[Gunner Rodes]

At Tristan's uninvited touch, Gunner's thousand-yard stare was broken, and he glanced immediately his way. He did not tense up, he didn't flinch; to his surprise, he found himself at ease. Comfortable, even. Then he used that voice, the one that made him believe, if only for a moment, it was just the two of them again. His words fell softly upon his ears. He listened intently to what he had to say. They could be back on their ship.

I know you can do this, Gunner. But even if you can't, that's okay too.

And with just a handful of words, the weight of the galaxy was lifted from his shoulders. His eyebrows took flight with surprise, "It is?"

From the moment Jaden had made it a mission to reunite him with a woman he'd never before met - not in person, anyway, with touching and smells - Gunner's insides had been slowly coiling themselves into twisted knots of anxiety. His fellow pilots were going to invest their time into making it happen, which meant there was a certain expectation of him to perform, to... score from a perfect pass. He hated smashball. Growing up, he had been surrounded by spectators, the people who smiled, but only with their teeth. They watched him, and waited, their eyes like pointed sticks. They waited for him to do something, anything, because he always did it wrong. From an early age, Gunner came to realise that there were two kinds of laughter: laughter that was kind, and laughter that was not. And now he knew that even if he messed it all up, Tristan wouldn't laugh.

"Thanks, Tristan," he said, brightening at once, "You're a good friend."

It annoyed him there was a beer bottle in his hand, at that moment, because he felt like he should do something with it. A pat on the back would've been nice. Friends did that. Maybe later, then. If this thing with Kiimiti did turn out to be one of the many mistakes on his way to becoming a stud, then at least he'd still have his friend. The fear thawed at last, and he broke free, his tenuous advance becoming bolder with every step. Kiimiti grew in his field of view, clearer and more detailed than any screen could convey. It was with an electric thrill of excitement that he discovered that she wasn't as short as most Cizerack ladies, which was something he always found unnerving. But her hair was still, well, it was nice, but there was a lot of it. It was almost distracting.

In case she didn't want to stop walking, he stepped to one side, and turned a neat 45 degrees, so he could look at her and not look at her at the same time. For once, he was glad of all the noise around him, otherwise she would've surely heard the pounding in his chest.

"Hi," he said, with a single flutter of eye contact. There was an uncertain beat of silence between them, then, just as she started to speak, he added, "I'm Gunner. We we we spoke on the comm 6 days ago."

A thumb was thrown over his shoulder for emphasis, in the exact direction of Flight Station Three Three Seven.

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

The moment she'd locked onto him, Kiimi was deep into a white knuckle series of pre-flight checks. Working the comms did not mean one had a natural gift of conversation. What she did at work could be rote and there was procedure and a whole tree of if/then situations she knew how to fluidly flow through. She'd tried that here. There was a datapad in her quarters that she'd documented everything. She knew where Gunner's quarters were. She knew his job position and his direct reports, and where he usually went about his business. She'd planned on using that information to accidentally cross paths, but she wasn't sure how to pull it off naturally without feeling like he'd be able to detect how creepy or borderline stalkerish it was.

So most of her planned ice-breakers revolved around the artificial happenstance encounter. None of them really worked here. Of course she could always say I know who you are or I remember you, but that was so boring and forgettable. She needed to stand out, and Gunner probably already had six other girls trying to get his attention. Also, and most disturbing of all, he'd spoken first. In all of her obsessing over this eventual encounter, Kiimi somehow hadn't counted on him talking first. So he got the cool opening line, and now she had nothing!

Her heart was thumping in her chest, and Kiimi tried to make a tactical withdrawal in her head to get some perspective. He smelled really good, and he was taller than she expected. Okay so she already knew he was 1.85 meters tall, but there was reading it and there was seeing it in the flesh. Sure, he was shorter than most Cizeri men, but he still had her by a few centimeters, so she didn't feel as awkward as she did around, say, Commander Akiena.

Say! Something! Ugh!

I like your outfit. You have cute ears. What do you say we skip this party and get down to business, know what I mean? Ehhh, definitely not her style.

"jI..."

She took in a breath. Oh no! A rogue strand of hair got into her mouth on the inhale! Don't spit it out! Don't pull the hair out of your mouth! Act natural. She froze, lips pursing around the offending follicle.

"jI have a hajirr jin mjy m-m-mouth."

Okay that was horrible. But it was candid. Maybe he appreciated candor? She grimaced, quickly turned away so that her face was unseen and pulled the insurgent hair away, stuffing it back into the nearest ringlet. Goddess she was thankful for her uniform's white gloves. Her palms were sweating.

"That wassn't what jI w-w-wanted to ssajy. Can jI g-g-g-get a do-overr?"

[Gunner Rodes]

On the average human head, there were approximately 100,000 hair follicles. For redheads this was less, at around 90,000 follicles, while the average blonde-haired human boasted an impressive 150,000 follicles. Gunner had no idea whether the same rules of biology applied to the Cizerack, but if the appearance of Kiimiti Taassaurra was anything to go by, it was a safe bet to assume they did. And with hair as long and voluminous as that, it was small wonder she ended up inhaling it all - the odds were stacked heavily against her. While she extracted the hair, Gunner mirrored her body language, turning away to escape the unsettling sight. Absently, he ran his tongue over his teeth, just to make sure.

When she was finally able to speak again, her request took him by surprise, "Uh, I guess..."

For a moment, he lingered, frozen with indecision. He stared at her clean boots while he considered his options, then, without notice, he turned and walked away. After five steps he stopped, turned, and returned. His arms were rigid and straight by his sides, looking like they had been pinned to his shoulder as an afterthought. Again, he considered her clean boots.

"Hi. I'm Gunner. We spoke on the comm 6 days ago."

This time, his hand sprung out in greeting. Suddenly, he was thankful for the opportunity to have another go at it. Tristan was right: you did get better with experience.

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"jI'm Kiimi."

She replied with relief that he'd accepted her terms, the whites of her teeth glowing in a smile.

"jI know. jI m-m-mean, jI rrememberr. Sspeakjing wjith jyou."

The hand presented to her offered Kiimi and opportunity and a challenge. Casual meeting with humans wasn't done with air kisses past the cheek. They shook hands, and there were a lot of ways to do it from what she'd seen. The firm handshake - used among potential rivals to show dominance. Probably not the one to use here. How many shakes? One? Two? Or do you keep holding on and keep shaking as you talk? Do you rest your other hand on their forearm to affirm closeness?

But-but-but handshakes weren't a part of human mating rituals. Did that mean that Gunner was intending on all their good chemistry being used only as friends? Or was there a degree of friend-dance necessary before you could upgrade to something closer? This was the minefield of interspecies relationships that kept Kiimi awake with a cold sweat. But wait! There was also the hand kiss! That could be done for extra panache - especially in fancier social settings. It could imply romantic intent, but it didn't have to. That way Kiimi could signal that she was in the game, but not have to overtly say she was...well...like a Cizerack.

She stared at the offered hand, gulping. This was it. She was going in. She curled her white-gloved fingers around his, but didn't draw the slack. Instead she pivoted with her thumb to gently turn his hand over. She eased his hand up as she stooped down, giving his knuckles a kiss that was more than a peck, less than a smooch. No lingering. No saliva.

[Gunner Rodes]

"Oh!"

The creases of confusion stretched into surprise, as Gunner first considered the kiss, eyebrows about ready to leap from his face, and then his immediate surroundings. No-one was watching, which was a shame, because he suddenly felt very pleased with himself. It wasn't wet or sloppy, just warm, and soft. By the time Kiimi surfaced, she was greeted with a smile that was equal parts giddy and coy.

"That was nice," he confessed, taking a moment to inspect his still-warm knuckles, "I've never been kissed on the hand before."

That probably meant something, in light of the festival. Maybe Gunner ought to have reciprocated with a kiss of his own, but she was wearing gloves, which reminded him of that time he saw the station janitor cleaning the public toilets after curry day. Instead, he drew to mind his father's three rules for a first date: be courteous, be generous, be kind. While he considered his options, silence occupied the uncertain shuffling void between them, but that was alright, he reasoned, because you should be able to enjoy a comfortable silence with someone you like. Dr. Jsorra told him that, and they enjoyed comfortable silences all the time.

"Hey," he said, suddenly, his eyes fixed on her gloves, "Do you want a drink? You don't have to, but I do, if we're going to keep talking."

To emphasise his point, he polished off the rest of his Can'darri wheat beer in one go.

[Silas Faei]

"Play along, and I will make it up to you, I swear."

Well, it was certainly one way to gain his attention and make an introduction. And here Silas had started to think most humans could be nothing short of boring with their clothing still on unless they'd had just enough alcohol to potentially turn their blood toxic. To have a well uniformed man suddenly and quite literally attach himself to the Ambassador? Well, clearly he needed to reassess his stance.

For a cruel halfhearted moment, he considered refusing the request, perhaps it was due to the nature of the one he was trying to escape from, another of Silas' people and there was certainly a sense of Pink Solidarity that called to him. But there was also the solidarity of avoiding utterly boorish and terrible people, which given the desperation in which the human acted? Yes, that second would have to take precedence.

"Ah, there you are! I was beginning to think you might have spaced on me."

He tried to gather details from the dress uniform his new companion wore, worked towards recalling facts he had only half paid attention to with sadly poor results. Alliance, and that was all that could be gathered from it. Oh well, he could probably make the man's tongue loosen enough to relay the information soon enough.

Silas gestured with the glass of bubbly wine as he tugged his co-actor closer by where their arms were locked.

"Sorry, I didn't think to get you one. I wasn't sure what kind of mood you were in."

Even as he spoke he began walking away, making sure to leave the unwanted party-goer behind and hopefully aid his damsel in distress.

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Okajy." she nodded along, all while wondering at what he'd said. Never been kissed on the knuckles before. Did that mean she was an intrepid trailblazer, or had she been too audacious? He was still smiling, so that had to be good.

The way her tongue seemed to be sticking to the roof of her mouth only made his suggestion for a drink sound completely vital. Kiimi took two lengthy strides before realizing that she overshot Gunner's pace. She reached back and pulled him along by the same hand she'd kissed. This was great. Her ears perked, her tail raised up so high that her tuft was nearly at head height. No human resources Penguani and no creepers in masks were gonna cloud her sunny day.

"What do jyou w-w-want? The ssame? jI've g-got jit!"

She already had a credit chit in hand as they returned. Kiimi propped her elbow on the bar, dividing her attention between trying to make eye contact with the bartender and getting a good visual sip of Gunner.

[Jaden Luka]

"Sorry, I didn't think to get you one. I wasn't sure what kind of mood you were in."

Jaden allowed a small amount of mock annoyance to inject into his voice, allowing the Zeltron's momentum to guide their escape trajectory from his entanglement with fuchsia frustration. "That is so like you," he challenged, just loud enough for those in the immediate vicinity. He couldn't be certain that they were far enough away to escape the smoking man's earshot - how good was Zeltron hearing, anyway, he idly wondered - but as with most things, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Here I am, risking my life day after day to protect the galaxy, and you can't even bring yourself to remember my favourite cocktail order."

It was less an ad lib, and more an instance of life imitating art, Jaden suddenly hearing the grating voices of every woman he'd tried to have any sort of relationship with clawing at his eardrums. His mind already filled in the other side of the argument, in all it's myriad forms, from apology, to defense, to condemnation. I'm sorry, babe, there's just a lot on my mind, or perhaps there's a lot of important stuff in my brain, I think we can let one little detail slide, or I can't imagine how I forgot that, since you never shut up telling me the same damn thing fifteen times, or - if they were someone Jaden didn't want to risk entirely jeopardising his prospects of sleeping with again - but then I'd be robbing myself of an excuse to ask you, and hear your beautiful voice again, babe. With a strange hint of curiosity, Jaden wondered what kind of response he might provoke from his fictitious beau.

He couldn't risk taking it a step further, however, one tiny flourish of conversation too far.

"It's like they told me when we were first together. Never trust a pink man with your heart, or your ass: they'll only break it."

[Gunner Rodes]

Gunner trailed behind Kiimi like a toddler being led through the clothing racks of a superstore. He was all lead-footed and mystified as she took charge, making a beeline for the bar. There was no harm in it, he supposed, but he hadn't been prepared to be quite so manhandled. Was that normal behaviour? Was he expected to drag her around all over the place in return or was it a right reserved for the ladies? Was it a behaviour that was unique to the festival, or just unique to the pursuit of alcohol? These were the questions he had lined up for the moment they secured a place between a Bothan couple and a solitary Sullustan. That was until Kiimi produced a credit chit, and all of his thoughts hit a wall.

"What?" he said, his blank expression became conflicted, "No. That's... not how this works."

Already, he was rummaging around in his pockets for the credits that he was going to use to pay for her drink. Rule 2: Be Generous. This was basic stuff. The hand-holding was one thing but this was in direct violation of the rules. Perhaps Kiimiti had not been informed. He helped, holding his own credit chit aloft for her to see.

"I get the drinks. I like beer. You can have whatever you want, as long as it not strawberry flavoured. Or green."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Huh?" Kiimi was coasting on the wave of momentum that had been building since their second attempted introduction went off without a hitch. Gunner's insistence on paying blindsided her. She stared at the defensively-brandished chit in his hand as if it were a knife.

"But, jI..." she glanced to the side as her brain rifled through all the sociology cues she could think of. Then it hit her. "...oh."

She still stared at the chit in a wary, serious way. She looked to Gunner, who didn't look like he was gonna be talked down from this sticking point. They were at an impasse. A time for serious diplomacy was needed to keep wars from happening.

"Okajy, jyou get the drjinkss, b-b-but jI get everrjythjing elsse. Food, g-gjiftss, thjingss ljike that."

She held up her own chit, pressing its edge alongside Gunner's own.

"Deal?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"N-no," Gunner forced the objection out of himself, and shook his head. His face was creased with discomfort now, and his gaze swept over the offending credit chit, across Kiimi's face, their surroundings, looking for some way to make sense of it all. The cold creep of dread climbed up his back and needled at his neck. Why was she making this so difficult?

"We're doing it all wrong..."

Kiimiti was being friendly. That was the most difficult thing. Gunner saw the way she smiled, and the way she looked at him, and didn't eat her hair. He wanted her to smile more, and to hear her laugh like she laughed over the comm. He wanted to tell her new jokes. But she didn't want him to buy her food and gifts. What did that mean? Maybe it wasn't a date, after all. Maybe she just wanted to be friends. In his panic, he forgot about his maybe-friend for a moment, and searched the crowd for Tristan. He'd know what to do. He winced like he'd stubbed his toe; nothing but a sea of empty faces. Back to Kiimi, then.

She was still holding that stupid credit chit, expectantly. What was that face she was making? Did she have stomach ache? Gunner's clammy fingers fumbled his own chit in furious deliberation. If he didn't act soon, the date would come to premature end, either by inaction or by conceding to the inconceivable demands of his would-be drinking companion. She wanted to pay. He wanted to pay. They both had credit chits full of terrible potential. Oh. The last spike of anxiety pierced the fog of his thoughts and cleared the way to what was, in the end, the only obvious solution to their predicament. With nimble fingers, Gunner snatched the credit chit from Kiimi's hand, and hurled it across the room.

Then he realised what he'd done.

"I'm sorry."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Ohhhh...."

Kiimi's eyes tracked the glittering chit as it floated through the air, catching light as it tumbled. For a moment she had it, reaching a gloved hand out in feigned attempt to dive after it. But just as quickly, it was gone. She stared into a sea of people in the concourse. It couldn't be helped. Thank Goddess it hadn't been authorized yet, or she'd be out some money!

She turned back to Gunner, eyes serious and thoughtful. Okay, this was an impasse. She'd been a bit of a buffoon to think she could just insist on taking care of the bill in the Cizeri way. Human males often did things in their cultures that Cizeri females did, and it made sense that he'd feel the same sort of obligation. But now what? They were both fixated on this moment, their sacred honor in dispute!

"Okajy." She gulped, returning to stand at Gunner's side. "M-m-majybe we sstarrted too fasst, and therre arre g-g-g-grround rruless that we need to sset."

She unclasped the top three buttons of her jacket, and reached into the breast pocket to retrieve a flimsi and a stylus.

"Ssjit at the barr."

Kiimi hopped onto a barstool with a free one to her right. She got the bartender's attention.

"Two waterrss p-p-pleasse."

She could feel his eyes on her, and Kiimi turned and shrugged.

"Thejy'rre frree. Therre'ss no ssocjial obljig-g-gatjion."

She rolled the flimsi out, and began furiously scribbling in aurrebesh, for the sake of both of them.

"jI'm drraftjing a d-datjing contrract. Non-bjindjing, b-b-but we can take jit to a notarrjy jif jyou want. Thjiss wajy, we can avojid anjy awkwarrd m-m-mjissunderrsstandjingss, ljike who pajyss and when, and alsso who leadss when we d-d-dance."

Oh, she hadn't thought about that. Kiimi's ears skewed.

"Do jyou dance?"

[Gunner Rodes]

Gunner knew it was impossible, but he was fairly sure that the time between him throwing away Kiimiti's money and her talking again was somewhere in the region of 6 and a half hours. His extremities froze in the glare of her unpronounced judgement, and his insides twisted with such nauseous tension it made his ears pop. Kids knew the feeling well. In the sharp silence, he reflected upon his actions and their immediate potential consequences, and found himself wishing he could undo everything that had transpired in the last 5 minutes. Then she spoke, at last, and when she mentioned ground rules, all of the knots unravelled inside.

Kiimiti wanted him to sit, so he did as he was told. He watched, a curious lift in his eyebrows, as she went to work on the sheet of flimsi she had so conveniently saved in her jacket. Suddenly, the scrunched up napkins in his pocket paled in comparison. He leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the contract; her penmanship was excellent, each character brought to life with precision and finesse. From behind a curtain of platinum blonde locks, he caught a glimpse of her profile, and noted there were no harsh lines or any unpleasant round bits. Gunner had once dated a girl with such pronounced cheek bones that it looked like she was storing food in there for the winter - they never kissed for fear she might have tried to share her lunch. Kiimiti didn't store food in her cheeks like a hibernating gobal, but she did look like a razor cat. There were spots all over her skin, a rosette pattern of ink splodges and fingerprints, like her face had been the canvas for a toddler's imagination. No two markings were the same.

She was every part the Cizeri officer, in her handsome uniform. And how she had taken control, cutting through the confusion by not only establishing rules, but with a written contract, too. Clearly, he was dealing with one of those seasoned seducers Tristan warned him about. She was looking at him now, and doing that sexy stuttering thing that he liked. Oh, was that a question? He blinked.

"I can dance," he said, after some consideration, "My mum taught me all the moves, but don't worry, I learned her steps, too. So, if you lead when we dance, then I can buy the drinks."

He gave a nod, pleased with himself and the progress they were making.

"Okay. What about sex?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

The stylus furiously scribbled as Gunner offered his input, and Kiimi hoped she wasn't smiling too much. Because you shouldn't smile too much in a matter of contracts. It might leave the other party to think you'd gotten a leg up on them.

"Okajy good, jI'd ljike t-t-t-o lead. jI've had lesssonss forr b-b-ballrroom dancjing."

She paused to gulp her water, correcting herself into a sip midway as to not appear uncouth. His next question put a halt to that, and she hurriedly put her water aside, setting the stylus down as she knitted her gloved fingers together atop the bar.

"Um."

Was it good or bad that he was broaching the subject exactly like a Cizerack? Should she go with that, or was this a trap? Who would set a cruel trap like that?

"What about what about jit? jIss that a jyess orr no quesstjion orr arre jyou asskjing forr d-d-detajilss, p-p-p-prreferrencess and ssuch? jI'm open to optjionss, but jI keep mjy ssockss on, and d-d-don't touch mjy feet."

Wait, that came out wrong, and she scrunched her face in course correction.

"Therre'ss nothjing wrrong wjith mjy feet, b-b-but jI don't ljike them touched."

[Gunner Rodes]

"I don't want to touch them," Gunner said, flatly, considering the matter closed. While Kiimiti added to the contract, he stole a glance down at her feet. Of course, they were presently contained within a pair of smart boots that robbed him of any real insight as to what potential horrors lurked beneath the leather, but that didn't stop his imagination from taking flight. They looked small, at least. The moment the scratching stylus stopped, he looked up, just in time.

"I usually do the penetrating. During sex," he added, for clarity. Then, recalling an old important lesson, he took on the tone of an educational holovid, "But I appreciate that sex isn't just for my pleasure. What is important to you is important to me, and if you want to lead, I will be... receptive to your wishes."

A beat later, the sincerity on his face collapsed into an apprehensive heap. He squirmed in his seat and helped himself to a long drink of the free water. The moment he resurfaced, he continued, undaunted.

"I like foreplay, and dirty talk. Name-calling is fine, just just just don't call me 'Daddy.' Please. When it comes to positions, I'm flexible, both literally and figuratively. Oral is acceptable. Anal, too, of course. I welcome spanking, dominance, submission, toys. You can dress up, if you want, but I'm not very good at roleplay. It's difficult for me to think of myself as someone else because my cognitive empathy is impaired, which means I can't put myself in the shoes of a doctor, or a stormtrooper, or the holonet repairman. Now, I don't know what your policy on bodily fluids is, but please be warned, if you piss on me, it will kill the mood and I will send you the bill for a bacta dip. I'll have a Smuggler's Run, please. No ice."

For a moment, the gaping bartender appeared to be experiencing some difficulty in taking the order. When Gunner looked his way, he grabbed the nearest glass and reached for the rum. His attention returned to Kiimiti.

"Something to wet your whistle?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Quick notes. Oral yes, roleplay no. Well it was a classic case of compromise. It was probably best to find out before that he wasn't up for being visited by a randy wizard in the middle of the night with her sorting hat, no matter how many times she thought that would be hot enough to melt durasteel. Dirty talk was definitely on the table though, and as they'd already discovered, they could do that in several languages.

Kiimi stopped scribbling, and just watched Gunner talk. Just the act of him forming words around his lips got her feeling some kind of way. She unconciously leaned forward, drawn in by spoken word magic. She giggled at his aversion to water works.

"Haa-ah-ah-ah-ah, well actualljy, that would be a wasste of b-b-bacta, ssjince urrjine jiss ssterrjile. But jyou don't have to worrjy about me d-d-d-dojing that, becausse..."

Danger! Do not talk about the recurring nightmare you used to have about giving a report at uni and spontaneously and uncontrollably peeing yourself in front of everybody. That's psychiatrist material, not boyfriend material!

"...becausse g-g-grrosss."

Fortunately he'd given her an out, and Kiimi was glad to have something else to think about.

"Oh, jyess pleasse. jI'll have a, uh...c-c-c-Correlljian whjisskejy. Two jice cubess onljy."

[Gunner Rodes]

While their drinks were being prepared, Gunner tested a theory. He didn't speak. In lieu of silence, there was the sound of robust Cizeri music, its traditional roots revealed inside the pentatonic poetry of each phrase and tonal shift, except it was faster, upbeat, and wedded to a lively percussion beat. It was like seeing an antique armchair upholstered in bold pastel rubber and studded with false gems, making it at once gaudy and classical, at once old and new. There was talking, too, a tinnitus buzz of conversation, of rowdy jokes and colourful stories. The revellers were in high spirits. Kiimiti, on the other hand? He wasn't so sure.

He caught her smiling. That was a good sign. And she appeared to be receptive to courtesy, and courteous in exchange. There was the contract, too. That meant she was interested. But what about a comfortable silence? Her gaze drifted to the bartender, she studied his work, and then, her own. A quick amendment to the contract, an errant strand of hair was tucked behind her ear. When she looked up, Gunner was ready. He smiled back, and fought an urge to laugh. He had no idea why; there was nothing funny about flirting. Maybe he should tell a joke. If she felt the same way, like there were bubbles inside, tickling, popping, then maybe they could both do with a good laugh.

Once the drinks were bought, their glasses met with a soft clink.

"I thought you weren't going to talk to me," he confessed, suddenly. It was time to address the bantha in the room, "It was rude of me to terminate our call the way I did. I'm sorry."

Thirty times he'd practiced that line in the comfort of his quarters. During his most recent session with Dr. Jsorra, he'd compiled a list of his transgressions, and had set to discovering the most efficient way to address them. He talked a lot, in the beginning, going into tedious detail about comm protocol and the security pitfalls of a video stream, but that wasn't what mattered. Not really. With the push of a button, he'd allowed Tristan's good advice to go to waste and potentially hurt Kiimiti, in the process.

"I don't talk to women much. Like this. And when I saw how pretty you were, I panicked." Gunner paused. It was a strategic pause to both appear vulnerable, and to resist every inch of him that was railing against the telling of a white lie. It was necessary, he reminded himself, to circumvent the boring truth.

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Whiskey was a strange drink. She'd first dabbled on an equinox trip to Syragor in her late teens, like a lot of Cizeri girls did. Inside the shelter of the Carshoulis Cluster, Syragor was foreign and interesting. There were of course communities of migrant workers on Prime, but the splash their cultures made seemed to flourish and fade within a city block. Syragor was older and thus entrenched, and for girls with a taste for the new and a small thirst for rebellion, they could find what they wanted.

It wasn't that she'd craved it specifically, but as a voracious consumer of forrda pop culture, you couldn't watch two holos without seeing some dark and broody character in a scenic vista with a small glass of brown potable in hand. It was nothing like the drinks of home, rich with mulled spice or fermented blood. It was made with grain, then married to a mixture of wood, smoke, fire, and time. The first time she'd tried it, she threw up. But she came back to it like a moth to flame, caught in the allure of wanting to be that mysterious person in that holofilm. Lots of her friends tried the stuff, but only Kiimi came back for it.

It was a drink that demanded you respect it, so when Kiimi took her whiskey, she drank like a bird for her first sip. The whiskey turned to vapor on her tongue, curling smoke up the roof of her mouth and out of her nose in a drawn exhale. It took her breath away for a moment, and allowed Kiimi to appreciate where she was and the company she was keeping. Gunner wasn't handsome in the way that models were. He was handsome in that inimitable way that supporting actors were in artsy holos. His beauty had a strangeness that couldn't be stuffed into someone's preconceptions. He wasn't the stuff of tawdry posters you tacked over your bed. He had the kind of look that inspired you to find something truly worthy to say - to put dialogue to the movie scene in your head.

Of course, in those old classic forrda holos like Centerpoint, the lead was usually a man and the support was a woman, so it required a little mental gymnastics for Kiimi to reset the scene in her mind. They also smoked a lot in the classics, and Kiimi hated smoking, but the whiskey was enough to make her feel more sophisticated than perhaps she was. It silvered the scene for her, and made Gunner's heartfelt words feel like those old movies, stuck in the amber but alive at the same time.

"jIt took me a whjile to worrk up the c-c-c-courrage to open vjissual. jI could hearr jyou, jI could ssee jyourr p-p-prrofjile, b-but jI wanted to watch jyourr ljipss move when jyou talked. jI'm n-n-n-not good at bejing sspontaneouss orr c-cassual, and jit t-t-takess tjime forr me to thjink about the rrjight thjing to ssajy orr do. When jyou d-d-d-djissconnected, jI thought jI blew jit. That ssucked."

She took a more confident sip of whiskey, and pushed back a handful of hair that threatened to creep near her face.

"That'ss not how jit happenss jin the holoss. The gjirrl alwajyss fjindss ssome wajy to g-g-get the bojy...wajit, djid jyou j-j-jusst ssajy jI wass prrettjy?"

Surprise blossomed in Kiimi's eyes.

"Wow."

[Gunner Rodes]

I'll come back to this.

[Kes Akiena]

"Codru-ji no have formal dances, like humans. We wander in the music. I learned some dance, from Gradoona and others. It very fun. I like this dance. Very, what is the word... romantic?"


Well, he wasn't exactly thinking along those terms, but he had to suppose that a dance to a slower song would certainly seem as such. He didn't flinch away, but rather went with the notion.

"Depends on the context, Ms. Rakkamar," he chuckled, continuing to lead her across the floor as they fluidly moved past the other dancers, "... I'm too old to know what's considered the 'in' thing at the moment, so I stick with the classics that I grew up with. I hope that's ok... ?"

Still he smiled though, unwilling to mar this moment in time with any ill thoughts. He was here because the Madame had made it no secret that he should attend, and he was here with Ms. Rakkamar because...

... was he here with her because he was afraid of the Madame?

No, not afraid, just... overly cautious.

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"What is 'in' thing? Is something you put in or something that you put in to?"

Mayael asked quizically as she continued to let Kes lead the way through the dance. She was having a difficult time deciding what to do with her two other hands. Taking the Commander's lead she placed them about his body in as mirrored a fashion as she could. Hand, shoulder, arm, and waist. They fell into place without much thought, as her mind was occupied trying to solve this puzzle that had just been presented. Whatever is IN thing was, it was important enough for the commander to mention. No doubt some idiom of basic that she did not grasp. Mayael would ask Gradoona later. Her fellow Engineer had a great way of explaining these things to her. She also had great stories and she loved the sound she made when she got all fired up.

[Kes Akiena]

He still led her in the dance, but the strange turn of his features showed a distinct amount of amusement at her confusion.

"The 'in' thing... it's like... what's popular?"

Her broken basic was endearing and, strangely, had become something enjoyable to hear. Kes continued to lead, and the two moved across the dance floor with ease. His stiff posture had begun to relax, and the redhead allowed himself a bit more of a fluid bearing as he swept her to the right in a veering motion, smooth and unbroken as they kept time with the music. The last time he'd done anything like this had been... well, it had been a while ago.

Ms. Rakkamar was a wonderful dance partner, whether she realized it or not.

"My knowledge of dances is fairly limited to the basics, and even then that was a fair few years ago."

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"I know nothink of your dances. Is new and... exciting. For me. I usually dance alone, in my room. Much better with partner, no?"

There was a big smile on her face and she was having a really hard time trying to even take the edge off. She knew she was smiling too much. Her mother used to say as much. She just could not help herself, not in most moments, and especially in this one. The Commander was just so nice, and handsome, and fun. Yes. This was fun. Very fun.

"Maybe we should learn new dances. Someone must be dance teacher on Jovan. Human dances. Fishy dances. Cizerack dances, too!"

[Kes Akiena]

He let out a chuckle at that, continuing to lead them across the dance floor.

"It might be worth looking into," he grinned.

"Perhaps if you feel the inclination, you can send out some feelers?"

Another bit of footwork sent them into a smooth turn.

"In your free time, of course."

[Mayael Rakkamar]

It took everything she had just to keep up with the Commander. Every time she thought she had the motions down he introduced another. All she could do was let him lead and give as little resistance. She felt like a child in a mother's arms. Powerless to stop from being picked up and whisked away.

"Free time? This is a funny. I am very busy building hyperdrive reactor in room. Ha! That one was a funny. You should see face Commander. Will see if anyone is giving dance lesson. Maybe ask Gradoona. She very good dancer. Look look!"

She used a secondary hand to point across the dance floor to where the large Herglic was dancing in place to the beat.

[Kes Akiena]

Using another turn, Kes sent his eyes in the direction that Mayael pointed. Sure enough, the Herglic was thoroughly enjoying herself. Smiling, Kes returned his attentions once more to his dancing partner.

"It seems that the Cizerack are adept at making sure their festivals are enjoyed by everyone," he couldn't help but chuckle out.

"... though Gradoona seems to have no problem finding enjoyment in most anything."

Again he turned the both of them about, around another few couples before Kes finally allowed his momentum to slow their movements. He led Mayael back to the edge of the dance floor while in the same motion disengaging from her. However, he kept a hold of one of her hands with a genteel grip while gesturing to one of the many brightly colored drink kiosks scattered about.

He gave her an easy smile.

"Might I purchase you a drink?"

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"Yes yes. Please have little umbrella."

The expected size of said umbrella was indicated by the distance between two fingers. It was quite small. The smaller the better. It enhanced the experience, she had found through rigorous testing. Not every drink merchant carried such frivolities, which is why she always took some with her everywhere just in case. Safely tucked away just in case.

"It is fun party, yes. We should have many more parties. Next time we have Codru-Ji party. I make Babalakaka."

[Kes Akiena]

A... little umbrella. It was such a lovely little quirk of hers, that he couldn't help but file it away along with all of the others that she possessed. And in the next moment, he had turned to the 'tender.

"Yes, I'd like a... " his eyes scanned the menu.

"... a Lothal Spice Brew, and a Yavin Jazz Juice."

The Cizerack, a burly man in a brightly-colored, sleeveless tunic, and his arms adorned with golden bands with a simple golden charm chain around his neck, gave a nod. He smiled wide as he set to preparing the drinks that the station commander had ordered. The spice brew was a sweet concoction, and was served in a simple earthen-colored plasteel glass with a turquoise rim.

The Yavin Jazz Juice however, was an entirely different affair.

Namana-flavored Rodian vodka, with the orange-flavored Tri-Ree liqueur. Meiloorun juice, Ithorian tartberry syrup, and a clear sugar syrup. An array of garnishes were gently placed in - a straw that twisted about for a few loops, a small umbrella that looked like a tree from Yavin 4, and a bright red kaiberry notched over the rim.

With a smile and a thankful nod, Kes accepted both. He turned about with his prize, hoping that Mayael would like his choice for her.

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

"Arre jyou enjojyjing the evenjing, Commanderr?"

Kalleeiha made her rounds back to Kes, holding a flute of Akivan liqueur that for the moment seemed more of an accessory than a libation. As always, the matron had a tireless interest in those around her.

"jI notjiced jyou dancjing wjith that loveljy jyoung woman overr therre."

[Kes Akiena]

There was a brief moment that he felt himself frozen in carbonite, unsure of how to hurdle this new obstacle that was the Madame. Her smile was disarming, and she projected an aura of confidence and... well... something else that was indecipherable.

His gaze seemed to search past the Madame for a fraction of a second, hoping to find Mayael, before his attentions focused like a laser to the Cizerack matron.

"Madame," he started with a cough, "... so nice to see you."

It was filler, and the both of them knew it.

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

The Madame's ears leveled slightly, and for once, she gave Kes a weary expression.

"jYou can lowerr jyourr sshjieldss, Commanderr. jI asssurre jyou jI am unarrmed."

She cut her eyes back to the tall Codru-Ji woman.

"Sshe lookss deljighted to be herre wjith jyou."

[Kes Akiena]

There was a moment longer that he held himself in check, but the moment passed, and Kes let his shoulders relax as he blinked. His eyes went from the still-gently-swaying form of Mayael to the Madame.

"We're here in a professional capacity, nothing more."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

She heard his words, but wasn't quite convinced. The Madame's expression tightened slightly, and she glanced back at the girl.

"jYou majy want to make cerrtajin sshe knowss that too."

A sip of Akivan liqueur briefly stained Kalleeiha's lips blue, and she shook her head in sympathy.

"Don't be carrelesss wjith ssomeone elsse'ss hearrt. That'ss frree advjice frrom ssomeone who knowss about that ssorrt of thjing."

[Kes Akiena]

It was not what he expected her to say, and Kes gave the Madame a strange look. Her features and the tone of her voice were enough though, to cause a nod from him.

"I understand, Madame Maillanaarro."

He opted to change the subject, and with one hand still holding his spice brew, Kes lightly gestured to their surroundings.

"I must admit that I wasn't sure what to expect, but this is quite nice."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

The Madame glanced around at the decor that lit up the concourse, as if this had been the first time she'd been able to appreciate it - not as a host - but as a festival-goer.

"Sspace jiss a terrjibljy loneljy place, Commanderr. Look how beautjiful ourr ljittle jissland jiss. Look at the people, do jyou ssee?"

As if to demonstrate the point, she gently pivoted Kes so that he could view a pair of Ardennians, dancing slowly together in an eight-armed embrace.

"jYou have to make the tjime forr thjiss. Tell people to sstop. Sslow down. Look arround, and not be afrrajid to rrjissk a moment of vulnerrabjiljitjy."

[Kes Akiena]

The sight of the two dancers, locked in an embrace, was enough to make him at least give her a small smile.

"It's something that many of us don't get to do very often," he admitted wryly.

This place had become a strange sort of home for him, in the relatively short time he'd been in command. Jovan was a nexus of diversity. It had quickly turned into a concentrated focal point of so many different beings trying to exist together, and he had come to appreciate that.

An appreciative look was sent to the Madame, and Kes nodded in deference to her.

"My thanks to you."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

He was being polite to her, and the Madame smiled for it.

"jYou can thank me when jyou'rre one of thosse dancjing Arrdennjianss, orr that gjirrl wjith the ssmjile on herr face overr there. Untjil then, take jyourr ssharre of thankss forr bejing the rrjight perrsson, jin the rrjight place, at the rrjight tjime. Thjiss communjitjy jiss sspecjial, Kess Akjiena. jYou carred enough to make jit sso."

Her smile dimmed somewhat, and Kalleeiha gave Kes his distance.

"jI've taken up too much of jyourr tjime. jI beljieve jyou owe ssomeone a dance."

[Kes Akiena]

It was, he realized, a rare moment of calm between the two of them, and Kes dipped his head in deferential respect.

"Well, maybe another dance will come later."

Stepping past her, the redhead couldn't help but grin as he lifted the brightly colored cocktail, its umbrella tree shifting in the liquid.

"First though, the lady demands a drink with an umbrella."

A last nod, and he turned fully around, trekking the short distance back to Mayael. He held the brightly-colored Yavin Jazz Juice out to her; the curly straw begged to be sipped from, the garnishes and umbrella tree pulling at the eyes for attention.

"I hope this is what you were wanting," he chuckled before taking a small sip of his own drink.

[Mayael Rakkamar]

"It is perfect!"

Mayael squealed as she beheld the drink that was offered to her, cupping her mouth with one set of hands while the other carefully took the glass from the Commander. She had been so distracted by watching Gradoona dance that she had almost started when Kes snuck up behind her. The drink itself was brightly colored, strawed, and umbrella'd. It was everything she could have hoped for, and more. It came with a handsome gentleman attached as well.

"Thank you!"

Lifting it to her mouth she took a sip from the straw, looking Kes in the face as the sweet flavors tickled her tongue. Her eyes wandered ever so slightly off of the Commander's face, to the counter behind him that he had gotten the drink, and catching sight of the familiar Cizerack woman beyond. She gave the event organizer a wave with one hand before returning her vapid attention back to her escort.

"Thank you for bringing me. I am have wonderful time."

[Kes Akiena]

Kes smiled, glad that she approved of the drink he'd ordered for her.

Looking out to the other dancers, his thoughts drifted to the Madame's words, and there was a brief moment of concern that furrowed his brow for a fraction of a second. The Cizerack matron was an astute judge of many things, and this was no different. But, while what he had told her was true, and the Ms. Rakkamar and himself were here in a professional matter, it was still so tempting to ignore that, and to exist in the moment. Whatever thoughts he'd entertained were his own, for now.

"It's a lovely festival," he agreed as his eyes went back to her, his smile ever-present.

A sip of his drink, and he went on.

"And a nice change of pace, I must admit."

Laughing, conversation, and the clinking of glassware filled the air around them. It was a lovely sound, and he could see how one would easily lose themselves in the atmosphere of it all.

His own glass lifted then, in a private salute to Mayael.

"I'm glad you agreed to come with me."

[T'yeellaa Meorrrei]

* * *

As the festival rolled on, further down the concourse a woman stepped out of the lift from the habitation decks. She wore a slightly-shimmering asymmetrical jade dress, matching shoes, and her hair was coiffed into a bun, with other tresses framing her face in carefully-teased ringlets. Despite appearing the fashionable equal of any number of the women in attendance, the woman's expression was taut with restrained apprehension. She took careful, small steps, panning the crowd as if looking for someone in particular.

[Q. Samus Dage]

Left alone for now, Samus gave a lazy look out at the mass of bodies, staring at them all from over the rim of his glass. It was a lovely thing, this little festival. Everyone here was happy and laughing, and excited and waiting for the next fun thing that would no doubt be coming about.

He nursed his Old Rebellion, sipping every so often as his gaze flitted about and took in the festivities.

With so mu merriment, and so much happiness, it was at least enough to bring a light smile to his features.

His eyes continued to pan across the mass of bodies, until...

... until they came to rest on a single form, gilded in emerald jade and looking as radiant as the sun among a sea of much lesser stars.

Samus was transfixed in that moment, unable to pull his gaze away from the wondrous sight of T'yeellaa.

[T'yeellaa Meorrrei]

He'd worn the red shirt she'd picked for him a month ago. It wasn't anything spectacular compared to some of the bespoke suits worn by other dancers, but Samus never required that much coaxing to look handsome. That, and his long & lean profile made him stand out like a firefly. It was perfect in all of the ways that words couldn't describe.

T'yeellaa took a few leaden steps towards him, suddenly remembering all of the formal balls of her youth. There was always that one boy, the one that was just somehow more than the rest. So many dances that she'd lost her nerve, or never recovered from the sting of the first rejection. There were a lot of reasons she'd grown to hate these dances, but tonight was different. This wasn't about T'yeellaa then. This was about T'yeellaa now, and what was important to her now, and this time the boy was looking directly at her.

It wasn't about T'yeellaa. It was about Samus. That's the way it ought to be.

She cupped her hands around his and the glass he held, the cold of the ice offsetting her sudden flush.

"jI found thjiss drresss jin the back of the closset." Her ears swayed slightly as she gave his hands a squeeze.

"jI couldn't help but notjice that jyou don't have a dance parrtnerr."

[Q. Samus Dage]

Her scent, so close, overwhelmed every one of his senses as he couldn't stop staring. Her body, the dress, that tilt of her ears, the sway of her tail, the purr in her voice, it all seemed to entrance him in that moment when her hands went over his.

He swallowed, blinked, and seconds later found his voice.

"You... you look beautiful," he whispered in awe.

[T'yeellaa Meorrrei]

Her smile broadened in sudden relief, slightly creasing the corners of her eyes. There was something so unusual about his words that cut to the quick, undoing all of her nerves, trepidation, and self-consciousness that caused her ear tips to glow and her stomach to turn. Why was that? It wasn't the first time he'd said it. It wasn't even the first time she'd believed him. Maybe it was because every other Festival of the Moon God, she was the eldest Meorrrei daughter. She was born into the right family, with all the promises of wealth and power in her birthright. She didn't have to be beautiful. That was the job of so many potential partners. All of those well-coiffed, impossibly manicured boys. Beautiful boys, who were expected to see her name, her family's wealth, her importance. But none of them ever called her beautiful.

Maybe that was why she'd grown to hate these social functions. There was what they should be, and then there was what they were. And it had been that way her entire life, until now.

"That'ss...mjy ljine." she pressed close to him, the warmth of his nearness contrasting to the cool of his glass. The words came out soft and airy, less like she'd said them and more like she'd dreamed herself saying them.

T'yeellaa kissed Samus quickly and fully, just in case she was about to wake up.

[Q. Samus Dage]

One arm wrapped halfway around her as he held her close, Kissing her fully and with just as much intensity as she had herself.

Parting lips, Samus let his forehead angle down so that it touched her own, and he breathed in deeply, inhaling her scent.

"I'm glad you came," he finally managed to whisper out.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

* * *


It was a lovely thing, this gathering. The elder man did not often leave the comfortable confines of the Guild sanctuary on Jovan. And why would he? The comings and goings of those on Jovan more often than not never concerned him. He was bound up in the litanies and minutia of the Guild. He was a servant of the Hunters that came to see him, and a well of information for them. His years previous had been spent wildly, and now he was content to enjoy the trappings of his office and the chance to pass knowledge on to those who came after.

But this celebration... this festival... it was enough to bring him from the hazy, incense-filled confines of his most comfortable office.

The commander of the station, a redhead that was still young at heart despite the age shining in his eyes, had left the company of the Madame of the Teahouse, and Curzon allowed himself to approach the Cizerak woman with gentle ease. His own drink - a simple pour of Caridan brandy that occupied barely a third of his small tasting glass - held loosely.

"The Madame is most gracious," he started with a respectful bow of his head in her direction, "... to provide such a lovely celebration of life."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

She had been allowing herself a moment of selfishness, living vicariously through a moment as Kes and Mayael had joined up again. The voice of the new arrival almost didn't register. If she'd been any other person, it probably would have passed her by, but Kalleeiha was a listener. It was impossible to disconnect. With the sound of Curzon's praise, her ears twitched, and she carefully tracked her attention from hopeful lovers to something new.

"jYourr prrajisse jiss too much," she demurred "jI ssjimpljy know people wjith meanss, and jI sseldom take no forr an ansswerr."

The man before her didn't hew to the sort that she'd expect at an event like this. He wasn't some preened Carshoulis poppinjay. Like so many men on the frontier, he had the look of a life lived fully; something weathered and handsome despite the wear.

"But jI ssupposse bejing jin charrge of the rrevelrrjy meanss that jI'm left at a djissadvantage. To whom goess mjy thankss?" She smiled with a beckoning gesture as her ears lightly raised.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

She was stately, and genteel. Traits that he found himself appreciating more and more in his elder years. He had heard of her in passing, though only in the sort of way that a being hears about another. Her establishment was certainly the kind that invited excitement and revelry - a far cry from his own quiet corner of Jovan Station.

"Esrimoure, Ma'am," he gave a dip of his head to acknowledge her status, "... Curzon Esrimoure."

There was a slight pause as he pondered just how much he should disclose to her. She was a businesswoman, after all. In the end of it all, he opted for a sort of partial honesty.

"I spend most of my time in the lower levels."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

Madame Maillanaarro had built a livelihood upon taking the measure of people. Understanding when people were saying what they meant and what they did not mean was one aspect, but understanding why one would tell the truth or lie was an entirely different level of understanding. Did someone speak from the heart, or was their pretense or subterfuge? If the latter, then what was at the root of it? Not all pillow talk happened at the lofty pinnacles of Carshoulis spires.

Taking a calculation, the Madame shifted her speech. Was it likely that Arr Esrimoure could discern a more Patrician Carshoulis accent from that of a mid-lower level prole?

"Me too, Arr Esrimoure. Kaleeiha Maillanaarro."

She offered an upturned hand.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

He took her hand, giving a respectful dip of his head. His lips brushed her fingertips in deference and proper etiquette, and the elder man let his eyes shift upward as his posture soon enough followed suit.

"Madame Maillanaarro. A pleasure."

Releasing her, he regarded her with a curious eye. She held herself confidently, and with suredness. It was refreshing, and yet expected.

Still however, he found himself guarded and ever-meticulous. She had the bearing of one who was used to dealing in subtleties and half-truths - or at least not full truths. Unless the situation suited her, which was a position that he couldn't help but respect even more.

"A woman of your stature, Madame, should never have to find herself in the lower portions of this station," he offered an olive branch then, "... unless you are comfortable in the sort of company that keeps ... a certain code of conduct."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

"Let'ss call jit ssurrvjival." She let a small smile linger past her true lower-level brogue. "Afterr all, therre arre otherr rrjisskss to be dealt wjith jin placess wherre all thjingss gljitterr. Asss long asss jyou underrstand wherre jyou'rre gojing and what the rruless arre, jyou'rre not ljikeljy to be caught unawarress."

The polite contact of Curzon's hand with her own spoke to what she'd already figured out. They were the hands of a man who did a lot of work with them, with a tell-tale roughness. He didn't feel the urge to apply too much pressure to the embrace to assert his masculinity as some alien men were known to do, which hinted that he had nothing to prove to her or preferred not to reveal. Even the way that his lips pressed to her knuckles spoke to someone who at the very least understood some of the rules at the top of things.

Curzon Esrimore was also a survivor. He, like her, wasn't from the upper levels. But he could pass well enough.

That they hadn't met was a sign that he'd never darkened the door of her business. That wasn't too surprising. While a Tea House was a hub of Cizeri social interaction, Kalleeiha knew that a majority of aliens found the confluence too strange at best or offensive at worst. While there were many who gave her patronage, there were sometimes limits to cultural exchanges. She took a moment to tip the remnants of her Akivan liqueur back, using the limited cover of the slender flute to give Curzon a closer look. His eyes tracked elsewhere furtively, but spent the balance of their time on her with an intensity that suggested he was taking her measure. Combined with their embrace and the small verbal cues, she had no doubt that her new visitor wasn't exaggerating the hint of danger.

"jI djidn't ssee jyou come jin wjith anjybodjy. jIss therre ssomeone jyou'rre lookjing forr?"

[Curzon Esrimoure]

She was cunning. Her probe was met with a slight pause as he lifted his glass to his lips, sipping the Caridan brandy within. He remembered a small tale, from another hunter who had stumbled in to the guild, of how the Teahouse was a wonderful place ruled by a tyrant of a woman. The young hunter had been barely able to stand, his legs thoroughly useless from the amount of drink he had taken. Curzon had made a bet that night, with his fellow elders, that the hunter would not last past three more jobs. And true enough, the hunter had been killed while on the third job he had taken from the Huntmaster on Jovan. Initially, Curzon had not wished to give the young man the option of the hunt, but he had been overruled, and subsequently did as was wished of him.

From what he had been told, the young hunter had to be scraped from the tarmac of a spaceport.

"I look for everybody," he answered with the beginnings of a grin cracking through his features, "... but nobody, either."

Her eyes were studious, and took nothing for granted. This was a woman who observed others, and not simply out of curiosity, no. She watched because it was what helped her to survive.

He allowed himself another sip from his brandy before affording her a measure of praise.

"The Madame is a keen observer herself."

[Kalleeiha Maillanaarro]

That wasn't the reply of some lovelorn soul looking to make a connection at the Festival of Lovers. Madame Maillanaarro's ears rose a measure out of a habit of triangulating on intrigues.

"jI'm famjiljiarr wjith the look." She offered with a warm smile; there was just enough confirmation so that they held an understanding.

"jI alsso ssusspect that sshould jyou fjind that ssomeone, that the Moon God majy not have a hand jin that tjype of meetjing."

It was a confrontation, but as with all things in the upper levels, one done with a little lace and ceremony.

[Curzon Esrimoure]

He couldn't help the slight, yet reassuring shake of his head.

"You misunderstand, but it is perhaps my own fault for that."

Again his eyes left her, to look out over the throng of festival-goers.

"I am not here to conduct the more... physical side of my business; indeed, I am much too old for that, nowadays. Unfortunately, old habits do tend to show themselves."

Eventually, his gaze returned from their travels. His small glass was lifted in deference to her as he went on.

"I make this promise to the Esteemed Madame, that I am here this day, to simply watch and be away from my normal environments, and to appreciate the lovely celebration of life and love that she has brought together for all to enjoy."