Ces Bottes Sont Faites Pour Marcher
Quand tu me dis que tu n'as pas d'autres filles
The tube of midnight purple lipstick had nearly been worn to the base. It was imported from Naboo, from a premium line that had been discontinued a year ago. An endangered species of fashion that would never be replaced, capturing a mood that sat hidden behind a stormcloud, uncharted and undefined. She didn't hold out for a special occasion or quantify how many more applications she'd get out of it before the lip color was forever used up. She felt like wearing it, so she did.
Standing in front of her full-length mirror in her quarters, Mags pursed her lips, blotting them carefully on a napkin before crumpling it in her hand and dropping it on the floor. The purple of her lipstick matched the purple of the bruise blossoming to either side of her broken nose, with the darkest blooms of color puffing just below the inside corners of her eyes. The bruise faded somewhat towards the epicenter of the cleanly-set break, with a line of broken skin showing a young scab of maroon. She carefully eased a small adhesive kolto bandage over the bridge, then slid on an oversized pair of black-framed sunglasses that almost-but-not-quite disguised the scene of the crime.
It wasn't intended as a cover-up. It was an accessory. The Twi'lek smirked.
Je sais parfaitement que tu mens
The sun dress slid on with ease. It was white with a pattern of pink carnations and green leaves, with pleats that ended just above the knees and shoulder straps at the top. The neck line didn't plunge, but it also did nothing to disguise the motley array of tattoos along her arms, collar, and chest. Everything from crudely-inked and faded prison tattoos featuring barbed wire and an axe-split stormtrooper on one arm, to vivid ivy and flowers around her other arm, through which the word NAYA emerged in cursive. The tattoos faded at the wrists, leaving bare hands, save for the swollen knuckles with broken calloused skin buttressing each. Mags applied a kolto salve, then gave each set of battering rams a simple wrap of shrink bandage.
She reached to the modest open closet, snatching a handful of thin scarf from a hook on the door frame. It was cut from the same bolt of fabric as the dress, obviously to match. The Twi'lek wrapped the middle of the scarf atop her head and the base of her lekku, then carefully folded the ends away with a toss over her shoulder, so that they didn't quite obscure inked skin.
Tout le monde sait
Que tu me trompes souvent
The jacket came next. Oiled and gleaming black leather with a creamy fleece liner that ran up and over the collar. Even without the patches at each shoulder, it was the kind of jacket that couldn't be mistaken for any other. It wasn't the kind of jacket suitable for officer's bars, and that suited Mags just fine. All she needed was a simple patch across the breast that read SONDEETA adacent to the Alliance Starbird. At the other breast was a well-used pocket. Mags opened the flap, pulling out a beaten paper carton with a picture of a rugged Tatooine Bantha rancher on the front. Three short shakes confirmed to her ear cones that the carton at least had some amount of habit still remaining inside. Good enough. She returned the pack to the pocket.
Looking down to her bare feet, Mags slid down to the foot of her bed, pulling on a pair of mid-calf socks over her contemptuously-woolen legs. Her toes wiggled as all the slack was drawn out, and Mags reached for her boots. As oiled and black as the jacket, with scuffed toes to the point of exposing the steel reinforcement in places. They weren't a statement of fashion, but one of complete practicality. Boots tough enough to kick down a door, and the guy behind the door as well.
She drew one cigarette from the pack at her breast, touching it between purple lips. A match sparked as it raked across a durasteel boot toe, and she touched off the tip with a series of puffs. Satisfied with the state of things after one last look in the mirror, Mags headed for the door to leave, but not before pausing by the refresher to throw the still-lit match in the sink.
Alors méfie-toi, je t'avertis maintenant
Out in the wilds of Jovan she prowled, undaunted and aloof the way that only a Twi'lek could be.
"Hey you can't smoke in Residential!" someone balked, freezing in place as they craned their head back with incredulity. Mags' only reply was the tip of her tchun lekku switching left and up sharply, a members-only insult that not only insinuated that the offended human's parents weren't married, but that his father probably fancied livestock.
Plenty of heads turned between the apartments section and the junction leading to the concourse, but no one else had any other useless advice for her.
Ces bottes sont faites pour marcher
Two minutes worth of browsing at a cart kiosk in the pedway, and Mags found the latest copy of Blasters and Ordnance, which she purchased for two credits, but not before disposing of her spent cigarette in the tip jar. She flipped through the flimsi, activating the touch menu to change the language to Twileki.
An Ithorian prettyboy got his head nearly turned off his neck in the midst of a gawk, and he trilled out a wolf whistle in Mags' direction. She turned a page, drawing her page-turning hand out into a stiff-arm that caught the wolf-whistler under the chin. Mags pushed the prettyboy onto his heels, causing him to fall back against his friends to a chorus of "Ohhhhh!!!"s and howls of laughter.
Et tu vas le regretter
The sign up ahead read Cafe in basic, and Mags took her place in the short queue. Ahead of her, a Bothan had just got his order, leaving a Cizerack woman to be tended to next. That is, if she'd stop talking on her commstick and pay attention to the barrista. Mags allowed that breach of etiquette to exist for....about twenty seconds. She then tucked her flimsi under one arm, reached forward, and swiped the comm stick from the felinoid's hand.
"She'll call you back."
With that, the Twi'lek disconnected the line, and tossed the commstick over her shoulder, leaving a mortified Cizerack trying to figure whether to start something or to cut her losses. Discretion became the better part of valor, and the felinoid surrendered her place in line to go chasing after her discarded communicator.
Car je mettrai ces bottes
Un jour ou l'autre pour te quitter
With the barrista's undivided attention, Mags carefully eased her sunglasses off her head.
"Un cafe. Ryloth roast. And bread."
The human teenage girl in the green apron gawked at the bloom of a bruise across Mags' face. A sympathy grimace formed on her features.
"Do you want cream or frothed milk, ma'am?" she squeaked.
"No."
"Sugar or flavored syrup?"
Mags returned her sunglasses back to her eyes, her patience stretching.
"No. I am sweet enough."
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