Law and Order

[Sabinian Tellar]

Soirée was the hidden jewel of Jovan Station, like an elegant diamond ring buried beneath opulent layers of garishly dyed silk. Nestled in an out of the way detour from the station's main civilian concourse, it reminded Sabinian of the quaint little street-side bistros he'd stumbled across in Moenia the last time his employment had led him to the lush verdancy of Naboo. Scattered seating clustered around a maze of tables, large paraguas looming above like trees, that conspired with the ambient motion of the air from a strategically proximate atmosphere recycler to create the illusion of being outside. The final touch however, that finished the entire atmosphere to perfection, was the gentle ambience of birds and breezes, whispering subtly out of a concealed sound system. Though almost lost behind the soothing tones of quettara music wafting out from within the bistro itself, it was just there on the edge of perception, heard but unnoticed in the back of the mind.

Sabinian smiled once again, utterly at bliss. He had chosen his seat carefully, positioned so that the nearest parasol obscured the view of the station ceiling above. Once again his sun lenses covered his eyes, a gentle veil across his peripheral vision to deepen the effect. At this time of morning the bistro's population was sparse: the station's civilian population had not yet descended upon the concourse, and any officers who weren't already on duty were no doubt taking shrewd advantage of the opportunity to remain in their beds. It was quiet, restful, and the pleasantly bittersweet taste of warmed chocolate lingered across Sabinian's taste buds, the remainder of the mug still waiting patiently on the saucer where he'd left it, surrounded by the shattered and scattered remnants of the accompanying pastry.

Despite appearances however, Sabinian was not here for recreational purposes. Duty brought him here, both to Soirée and to Jovan Station itself. The datapad containing the pertinent information sat on the table beside him, a discarded napkin draped over it not to conceal, but at the very least to distract from immediate notice. He'd made arrangements to meet with Alliance Intelligence's representative on the station, and without a dedicated office of his own he was more than happy to take advantage of the station's other facilities. His smile turned rueful as he thought back to his visit to the Teahouse, wondering just how his colleague would have reacted if he'd attempted to schedule their meeting there. No doubt even Soirée was pushing the boundaries more than Istina Chriferre would have liked, though. These Alliance Intelligence types were all the same: for people who lived a life of adventure worthy of holodrama and prose, Intelligence Officers were in his experience remarkably dull.

Speaking of dull: the edge of Sabinian's vision grew darker, movement passing into his field of view. Sabinian's finger reached up to hook the lenses away from his eyes, peering over the edge to study the woman before him. Not the waitress from earlier, unfortunately, whose shy smile in the face of his wave of gentle compliments had been warmer than a hundred suns; but rather someone more stoic, more formally dressed, and presumably less interested in enduring his charm.

"You must be -"

He faltered, recalling the sparse file he'd familiarised himself with that morning, and the myriad attempts at pronouncing her name made in front of the mirror in his rented room. In the heat of the moment, he chose to avoid it completely.

"- Istina. I am Sabinian, and it is a pleasure to met you." He gestured towards the chair opposite. "Please. Sit. Allow me to buy you something to eat, or to drink. The selection here is muy bien."

[Istina Chriferre]

"If you insist," the redheaded woman said, sitting down opposite Sabinian. "Moff Grey, splash of whole milk and two spoonfuls of honey."

She tossed some of her hair back over her shoulder and leaned back, surveying the agent, crossing her legs (right over left), and also her arms. Her outfit was professional and utilitarian, various shades of dark blue (jacket), and white (tunic and long skirt). It was a more fitted style, but undoubtedly Chandrilan, in the vein of the more flowing and loose style popularized by the late Mon Mothma.

"I would ask why here instead of my office, but I suppose the answer is obvious," she sighed. The man obviously enjoyed his job. She fell silent as the server approached and her tea was ordered. Only after they were reasonably alone again did she continue: "Please tell me you have the access codes to the Corporate Sector datafiles."

He made to speak, but she interrupted him, her face as impassive as before, "If you don't, I will leave now."

[Sabinian Tellar]

She was as dour and uninteresting as Sabinian had feared, and more. When he had read in her sparse personnel file that she hailed from Chandrila, Sabinian had endured the briefest moment of hope. That world and it's people were often known for their elegance and beauty: not in terms of anything as pedestrian as physical apearence, but rather their fashion, their architecture, their poetry and music, the way they spoke and the words they conveyed. One could not listen to the words of Senator Mon Mothma without being enraptured: her spoken defiance of Palpatine over a decade ago had turned a fractured Rebellion into a united Alliance, and her inspiration and leadership had been the haft of the spear that plunged into the heart of the Empire. It was a crime that a world of such importance was left within the oppressive bosom of Imperial space, a leading inspiration from the Alliance of Free Planets abandoned and left to be anything but free.

On some level Sabinian expected to see the same elegant passion and beautiful resolve within every one of Chandrila's sons and daughters. Perhaps it was there, within the hearts of many, rallied homeword in counterpart to the resistance movement on Corellia, as yet unnoticed in their subtle and graceful rebellion. Not in the heart of Istina Chriferre though, it seemed. Whatever passion and grace she had ever possessed seemed to have been sapped away or buried too deep to see the light of day. She was blunt, defensive, impatient, averse to the joys of life; and worse, she was the kind of monster willing to undermine the generations of care and craft that had gone into blending the flavours of Moff Grey tea by tainting and diluting it with unnecessary milk. A slice of lemon perhaps, to help activate the the broader taste; but milk and sweetener were things one added to mask a flavour, and if you cared so little about the taste expérience then why bother with anything beyond whatever bland generic brand was available?

"I have what you want," Sabinian answered, a hand gesturing slightly towards the discarded napkin and the datapad it subtly concealed. He could feel Istina's presence weigh down upon him like storm clouds across the sunny day of his persona, sapping the colour and the warmth from everything around. Yet, duty and responsibility prevented him from simply handing her what she desired and making a bid for freedom. "We both know that I cannot simply hand them over to you, however. You are wading into the grey space that exists between the jurisdiction of your organisation and mine: it would be irresponsible to release them to you without knowing for what purpose you require them."

The sun lenses were plucked from his eyes, and set carefully on the table in front of him so Sabinian's gaze could directly meet with hers.

"The Galactic Civil War is over. Alliance Intelligence does not have the unadulterated free reign of the shadows it once did, and Alliance Security cannot in good conscience arm you with something that might potentially ignite that war anew."