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Thread: C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

  1. #41
    Quote Originally Posted by Jaden Luka View Post
    "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?"
    Last edited by Gunner Rodes; Sep 7th, 2017 at 07:06:41 AM.

  2. #42
    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."

  3. #43
    "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?"

  4. #44
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    Quote Originally Posted by Gantuhar View Post
    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!"

  5. #45
    Quote Originally Posted by Kiimiti Taassaurra View Post

    "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?"

  6. #46
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    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.

  7. #47
    Quote Originally Posted by Kijirra Adhaferra View Post
    "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?"

  8. #48
    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."

  9. #49
    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?"

  10. #50
    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."

  11. #51
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    Quote Originally Posted by Vek Vek View Post
    "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.

  12. #52
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    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."

  13. #53
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    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."

  14. #54
    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?"
    Last edited by Codename: Abaddon; May 3rd, 2018 at 02:19:48 AM.

  15. #55
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    "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.

  16. #56
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    "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."

  17. #57
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    "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.

  18. #58
    Quote Originally Posted by Gunner Rodes View Post
    "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."

  19. #59
    TheHolo.Net Poster


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    Kiimiti Taassaurra's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Codename: Abaddon View Post
    "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?

  20. #60
    Quote Originally Posted by Kijirra Adhaferra View Post
    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?"

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