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Thread: C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

  1. #1
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    Star Wars C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

    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.


  2. #2
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    "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 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.

  3. #3
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    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?"

  4. #4
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    "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.

  5. #5
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    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."

  6. #6
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    "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.

  7. #7
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    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!"

  8. #8
    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?"

  9. #9
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    "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.

  10. #10
    '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?"

  11. #11
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    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.

  12. #12
    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."

  13. #13
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    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.

  14. #14
    "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."

  15. #15
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    "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!​"

  16. #16
    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."

  17. #17
    "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'."

  18. #18
    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.

  19. #19
    "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."

  20. #20
    "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?"

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