Twit and Repartee

Cirrsseeto's ears flicked as if they'd rejected what he just heard and his mind was trying to inject a new reality into the vacuum.

"jI'm sorry Ensjign, what djid you just ask?"

It wasn't as if he hadn't heard. Oh, he'd heard alright. It was just an exceedingly unusual request. And he'd had a history of courting unusual requests from his crew during his tenure as Novgorod's Captain. This ranked right up there with the time the Felacatian Mara Tallen had requested leave to satisfy her metamorphic bloodlust. Wait, no that actually made sense. This, however?

"Djid you just rrequest a weekend pass forr leave on Jovan statjion?"

Heels together. Knees together. Chin up. Picture perfect at-attention poise. Arvel chewed at his cheek slightly, pulling at the reins of a rogue uptick at the corners of his mouth that threatened to turn smug. He was certain that the Captain had made note of his prim posture. Oh yes. That was most certainly going in his daily log.

"I did, sir. And if I may be so forward, could I be addressed as Loadmaster? There are many ensigns aboard our good ship, but aha, only one Loadmaster."

Felcher's eyes squinted with barely-contained pride. Loadmaster was certainly a prestigious title. It had Master baked right into it. No one wanted to chat up an Ensign? But a Loadmaster? Good morning, Loadmaster! Whats the status of those loads? I've come to you directly for this, because you are the master of them!

"What?"

Cirr blinked, then shook his head.

"Whateverr, fjine."

This always happened when he talked to Felcher. Goddess Below it always happened. That feeling inside his head like there was a small bloody levee about to break. Doctor Vek had told him a few years ago to watch his bad cholestorol, and Doctor Oodenplatz picked up with second verse same as the first. Maybe he should finally ease off Lyanie's home cooking after all, because he'd be damned if the push that sent him off the cliff into apoplexy was the never-ending stream of non-sequiturs and brown-nosing that was Arvel Calrissian Felcher.

"What jI meant to say," The Captain stressed, steering the course of the conversation back to his terms, "was that you've neverr taken any leave beforre."

Cirrsseeto grimaced. Why was he questioning this? Was he trying to talk the man out of getting off his ship for two glorious days? Maybe this was how the stroke happened. First, a glaring tactical error. Next, imagining you smelled burned toast. He pinned his ears back slightly. No questioning it now, it was full speed ahead.

"jI'm at a loss, err, Loadmasterr. Why now? Why Jovan?"

The tightening at Arvel's jaw signaled a mind at work. Like a steel trap, it processed all the right if-thens. How much should he say?

"Well, I figured it might behoove an up-and-coming officer candidate like myself to get the lay of the land, as it were. Shake the right hands, rub the right elbows. After all, I won't be Loadmaster Felcher for long. You know me, sir. Up, up, up the ziggurat sir! Lickety split! No better place to do that than sector command."

There, he'd done it. The smug grin crept past containment. He'd given Captain Quez a quite plausible and mostly-true reason. He rocked toe to heel slightly in contained self-satisfaction.

But he couldn't stop there.

"And if I may say so, sir, I think I ought to get to know my Captain better, and what way to do that than to walk a mile in his shoes as it were. Mingle among the Cizerack, get to my Captain's very fine people, sir."

Perhaps laid on too thick? Best to overcompensate when kissing up, so to countermand gravity.

In an absurdist way, it was worth noting the parallels between Arvel Felcher and Jaden Luka and their apparently-shared quest for peer empathy. But where Jaden's felt like a heartfelt attempt at finding commiseration and common ground, Felcher's apparent interest seemed oily and calculated. He'd say like a spider, but being a spider required delicacy and subtlety.

"You want to go to the teahouse."

A defeated grimace creased Arvel's features as his eyes squeezed shut momentarily.

"Damn! I'm undone!"

He maintained attention, but only to maintain nobility in defeat. How? How had he been found out?? It must be the cologne. It didn't seem that much, but the Captain did have a sensitive nose. Mired in his libido's disgrace, Felcher tried not to think how red his face looked at this moment.

"Alright I admit it. I wish to go forth in strange lands with loose social mores, to make conjugal relations. To form the beast with two backs, as it were."

The Captain was giving him a look one might give if he'd seen Arvel's nose suddenly fall off his face. Undaunted, the Loadmaster continued.

"I wish to have sex, sir."

And though it probably didn't need to be specified, Arvel gulped and felt compelled to hastily amend, "With a lady, sir."

At first, Cirrsseeto sat dumbfounded. His ears fell at uneven array, and he stared up at Loadmaster Felcher with his mouth nearly agape.

Then he laughed. A big giddy sound that boiled up from his belly until it filled his office with "Haaahaahaahaa....aaahahahaha!!"

Felcher tried to get a word in on him, but the Captain held out a single quavering hand as another round of laughs spilled past his lips. Cirr's shoulders shook. He tried to suck in fresh oxygen to replenish what hilarity had taken.

"Oh my Goddess, Felcherr..." he managed between another fit of giggles, "they'll eat you aljive."

Arvel chose to ignore the fact that his Captain was laughing in his face, and hung onto his last words, letting his imagination run with them rather liberally. A weaselly lascivious grin formed like spreading treacle on his face. Mmm. Yes. I bet they will. Wink wink nudge nudge.

It took his brain a beat longer to consider that perhaps that wasn't what Captain Quez meant. His grin dropped into a thin line of worry as he arched an eyebrow.

"That...was a double entendre, I assume?"

"Surre." Cirr lied, now actively trying to tamp down the mirth in his expression. It was mostly a failure, but he chewed at his lower lip enough to finally shake the feeling. In the meantime, the Captain was already pulling a data flimsi from his desk. He quickly authorized where needed, filled out the particulars, and slapped it in front of Felcher with finality.

"One weekend's ljiberrty to be spent aboarrd Jovan Statjion. Rrecejived by Ensjign, err, Loadmasterr Arrvel Felcherr. Sjigned, Cirrsseeto Quez, Captajin, et ceterra, et ceterra. Done."

He was having a hard time looking Felcher in the eye without the threat of a titter resurging, but Cirrsseeto endured.

"Therre, jit's offjicjially an orrderr. No turrnjing back now. jI orrderr you off my shjip, to go..."

His lips were starting to quaver.

"...enjoy yourrself."

Arvel's features brightened a degree as he took his orders, folded them delicately, and tucked them into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He snapped his boot heels together audibly, redoubling his stance at attention as he delivered the smartest salute in the Alliance navy.

"Djismjissed, Felcherr." Cirr uttered, giving the art of the salute a far more casual go.

With all his smug confidence restored, Felcher smartly turned one hundred eighty degrees on a heel, and marched out of the office.

* * *

Full wind in his sails and a star to steer by! There was a spring in Arvel's step as he passed by the glum and downtrodden horde of the rest of Novgorod's crew. He whistled a jaunty tune, taking up the center of the corridor as his walking space rather than deferring to a right or left lane. It was a short trip back to his quarters to retrieve his already-packed duffel, and he was off once more. But just before he committed to the airlock hatch, Felcher course corrected back to the lower decks - to the domain of the Loadmaster.

Within the kingdom he surveyed, Arvel glanced at the ship's inventory log, looking for one particular sundry he would need on his excursion. He shimmied up a stepladder, finding a carton on the top ledge to suit his purpose. Maintaining fastidious detail, the Loadmaster sat at the inventory control terminal, ensuring a match between the number on the registry and the number on the carton. He then tabbed over to the requisitions list, and created a new entry.

"Items drawn by Felcher, Arvel - Loadmaster. Military issue duraprene condom. Size..."

Felcher glanced left and right, sliding a hand off the keyboard for an appraising pat-down.

"...medium? Quantity..."

Eyes in the thick of imagining drifted up and away from the screen. Visions of steamy harems feeding him grapes. What was a reasonable request for two days?"

"...one hundred."

He counted them out exactly, forming them into groups of ten, which he plunged into every available pocket on his person. With that done, he was back on course. Arvel beelined for the exit, giving a smart salute to the guard at the door before shaking Novgorod off his boots.

His boots didn't take thirty paces into Jovan station before impacting into something truly unpleasant with an odiferous squelch. Arvel stood in place, turning his head away in disgust.

It was one of those fortuitous happenings, that her ship and Cirrsseeto's both were docked at the same time on Jovan. More often than not, they missed each other by at least two days. But now, their berthing schedules had coincided, and s'Il had decided to take advantage of that particular fact.

From her own ship's Spire, she'd made her way through the maze of corridors, lifts, and people to step foot past the normal custom's cordon for Spire 5. The officer on duty waved her through, and the Lupine continued on past traders, merchants, and other Alliance personnel.

One body in particular, apparently intent on moving away from the umbilical connecting Novgorod to the Spire, had not been paying attention to where his feet went. As he disturbed the unfortunate leavings of one of the many livestock that animal traders brought to the station, s'Il couldn't help but draw up. She'd been engrossed in a datapad, but the stench that now reached her nostrils was like a slap in the face, and the Captain drew up with a grimace.

Her eye flitted over his rank insignia.

"Ensign."

The stressed way that she spoke the word was unmistakable.

"Please. Be mindful of where you walk."

"My Itroskian cavalry boots!"

Rooted to the scene of the putrid crime, Arvel's face was a mask of horror. He feebly attempted to scrape away the offense, only to leave a tell-tale skid on the deck. A moment later, a janitorial droid hovered by, dispensing a measure of aromatic grit over the mess before vacuuming it away.

"A few seconds too late, you lackadaisical load lifter!"

The stink threatened to undo all the good work of his cologne. Arvel shrank away from the crime with one last protracted scrape, before recognizing rank standing before him. He instantly stood to attention, offering the Captain his smartest salute.

"Captain! Begging your pardon, I, uh, well. I didn't anticipate a mess."

"I'd say that you didn't," she groused unhappily.

At least the normal cleaning droids were quick.

"I would recommend that in the future, you keep your eyes as much on the deck you walk upon as... " the undernotes of his copiously applied cologne began to bleed through the dissipating stench of manure. In a way, it was just as bad. In that moment, she found herself falling back into those old rancor-in-a-Chandrilan-crystal-shop ways.

"... as the women that you apparently hope to find here."

"How does everybody know that?!"

Arvel balked, surprised at being undone yet again. He didn't so much as utter a word! Was the stink of desperation so set in him? He should've worn more cologne!

His dismay was palpable, and she could've reached out into the air and grasped it in an iron grip if she'd truly wished to. Instead, s'Il settled for edging her way past him.

"The Force tells me a lot of things, Ensign."

Who was this man, with his overpowering cologne and whining ways? Immediately the thought was banished, as she knew that such musings would only lead to a headache.

She stopped short of giving him an encouraging pat to the shoulder, her hand stopping just before making contact. Teeth bared for a fraction of a second, her hand hovered, and then she drew back. She had places to be, after all.

"I'kath sa'ma. Good luck."

"I kath which?" He asked, uncomprehending. But by then, the unnamed Captain was gone again.

"The Force, pssh! A lot of superstitious hocum if you ask me!" Arvel proclaimed to nobody, once again alone in the crowd. He gave his Itroskian cavalry boots another good skid for good measure, then proceeded on his way.

"It's no good. No good at all! I can't give away my intentions. I need to project an aura of mystery! Who is that man? He's so...mysterious. And handsome! Mysterious and handsome!"

Passing by a stall selling trinkets, Arvel caught a reflection of himself. He tried on his best devil-may-care grin, which quickly morphed into a grimace.

"Damn!"

Coming around the edge of one of the vendor stalls selling necklaces and other assorted jewelry, Gantuhar reached out to take up a particularly enticing bauble. The goldstone medallion shimmered, infused with glittering specks. The nexxubloom beads were bright and vibrant, offset by polished imitation sunburst diamonds. It was beautiful, and he was sure that the Madame would enjoy this sort of gift.

A human stopped beside him to stare at his reflection in a small mirror, but he paid the little thing no mind as a thick hand dug through the front pocket of his trousers. Producing a small handful of chits, he held it out for the attendant.

"For this," his other hand held up the necklace.

"Another gift for the Madame?"

This was not his first trip to this particular vendor, and the towering Trianii gave an emphatic nod to the question, baring his teeth in a toothy smile.

"Her teahouse is This One's favorite place, and she is This One's most favored female."

The Teahouse? The Teahouse! The words quickened into Arvel's obsessive grey matter, and he quickly traversed to view who had mentioned it, his eyes coming to rest on a tall, odiferous shag of feline alien. The eagerness tempered with a grimace, Arvel swallowed to force it into a smile.

"Excuse me there, ol boy, I couldn't help but overhear you mentioning the teahouse?"

Gantuhar blinked as he took in the words that seemed to register as though they'd come from a protocol droid in dire need of a memory wipe.

And yet when he turned to look at a speaker, it was... human?

Perhaps this thing was one of those replica droids? Such as the one employed by the late Prince Xizor? He seemed to recall her name being Gummi. Or something.

It still didn't explain the one who'd spoken to him, and suddenly cautious, the lumbering Trianii gave a test sniff to the air. No droid smell, but perhaps replica droids didn't have droid smell? He frowned, and as the vendor handed him his medallion so neatly wrapped in soft lace-paper, Gantuhar reached his free hand out to give a gentle poke to the other one's forehead.

"Whiny voice like a protocol droid," he rumbled to himself, "... but soft like human."

Another moment of confusion as he did his best to figure out this new problem. He chose to address the issue to the one in direct question.

"This One is... not sure what you are."

"What I am..." Arvel countered, his voice tensing in a testy octave as he took a half step out of prodding range before cooling again, "...is an enlistedman of the Alliance Navy, thankyouverymuch."

Arvel's pinched expression relaxed slightly and he tried a softer tact. "I just happened to hear you discussing the teahouse. I was hoping you could point me in that direction."

The droid-human-thing seemed put out, or at least being poked wasn't exactly what he or it liked, so Gantuhar brought his poking finger back, arm going to his side as his other hand stuffed the glorious Madame's gift into the waiting breast pocket of his unbuttoned shirt.

"This One is on his way to the Teahouse if you would like to join the walk."

Still somewhat skeptical, the Trianii couldn't help but continue his scrutinizing gaze.

"If one such as you is agreeable to that."

Before Arvel's lip could curl in disdain, he considered the plausible deniability of it all. This talking shag smelled faintly but insistently like old fish food. Whatever residual unpleasantness from the previous shit pile that remained on the sole of his Itroskian cavalry boots could easily be explained away by a more clear and present stink.

"It turns out that one such as myself is agreeable, I think."

Such a curious thing, Gantuhar figured. The towering felinoid hesitated for only a few scant moments before stepping back and turning on a bare heel.

"Then you will come with This One."

Moving forward then, he stepped past the Navyman and pushed into the sea of people on the main drag of the merchant's concourse. It was a bustling promenade, and always one could hear the voices of beings trying to haggle down prices, or sellers insisting on being firm in their asking costs. Others called out to potential customers, speaking of the tastiest kaadu kabobs, or the most beautiful of Chandrilan silks, the brightest gems set in goldstone, ancient relics from the old days of the earliest years of whatever civilization ever head of, intricately carved trinkets for good luck... it was a cacophony of voices all vying for attention.

A particularly lithe Twi'Lek woman appeared out of seemingly nowhere, clad in gentle silks and scarves that accentuated her curves and the light violet hue of her skin. Her lekku had been artfully wrapped in beaded strings with glittering stones and whisps of dangling charms.

"Gantuhar, my dearest le'ami," she purred while sidling up to his bulk. Slender fingers of one hand reached up to wind into the wild fur tufts of his exposed chest. She cast a half-look to the human on the side, but it wasn't long before her gaze went back to the Trianii.

"I 'ave new potions for ze lovemaking, to keep ze great one een 'ees prime for all of ze night, yes?"

For his part, Gantuhar welcomed the close contact, and he wrapped a single arm around his good friend.

"Oh Sweet Cavrasiella, This One needs no help to keep the love alive for all of the night," he rumbled happily as he swept her along on the way to a large open doorway that marked the entrance to a small part of the hospitality sector. In truth, it was a sector of the station that spanned more than one level, but butting up against the merchant sector made the most sense for the many travelers who wished to have a bit of a rest from their shopping and bargain hunting.

It was also where the teahouse was located, easily accessible and inviting to any and all.

"This One is going to the teahouse, with the Navyman, here," a gesture to the human at his left, "... perhaps he could use your potions?"

Draped over Gantuhar like one of her own fine silks, Cavrasiella La Fonte gave a second look to the human. He had... a look about him. He also had a heavy scent of cologne spilling outward, roiling over itself to announce his presence.

Cavra scrunched up her nose at the smell. She dealt with medicines and potions, and enjoyed the sort of status afforded by such wares. She sold charms as well, but her more popular sellers were the concoctions for calming sleep, sexual stamina, and a mixture that seemed to heighten a body's tactile sensations. These she made many different versions of, and there were more than a few on Jovan that paid her a decent amount of credits for her mixtures.

She at least maintained a genial demeanor when regarding the human.

"A Navyman," she spoke, as Gantuhar continued to lead the trio toward the doorway leading to the hospitality sector.

"Zere are lots of you boys here. You are perhaps on leave, zen? Or perhaps wiss ze new posting?"

At being called out, Arvel clicked his boot-heels audibly, giving a nod. That was part gilded formality, and part to deal with the sudden wrenching anxiety that came from a Twi'lek like that taking (or feigning) an active interest in him. The second-or-so of protocol would, in theory, allow cooler heads to prevail - or at least one of them. As he ascended from his nod, he prepared his reply. Well yes, beautiful. I've got a weekend pass and a mission to misbehave. It might be a difficult job. Always good to have a wing man, er - wing woman! But when he looked at her again, the suave scripting evaporated into pique. Arvel opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't form words. So to compensate, he smiled, which was more of a grimace. She...she asked a question. Nod. Nod!

Arvel nodded.

His voice seemed to leave him at the most inopportune time, and Cavra leveled a strange look to him. This Alliance officer was like some sort of tightly-wound ball of feather yarn, like the sort that her own mother often used when sewing heavy fabrics.

Still she held close to Gantuhar.

"Zen, you are on leave and posted here?"

He looked like a shivering leaf, about to be blown from a tree by the slightest of breezes. With that in mind, the Twi'Lek opted for another approach.

"Per'aps zen, since you are going to ze Tea House, you vould like one of my potions, yes?"

"She gave the man a sweet smile.

"I have one zat vill give you ze strength of a bantha."