C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

[Kijirra Adhaferra]

The words were obtuse, something not helped by the fact that they were uttered in Basic. For an idle moment, Kijirra wondered at requesting that the automaton switch to speaking her native tongue as well. After all, for a droid, it was likely an inconsequential request that would take nothing more than a microsecond of effort; but something that it - he? MARCUS certainly sounded like the sort of name a male human might have - had said gave her pause. To enhance and develop social interactions. She supposed that in the grand scheme of things, that was her purpose here as well: to come out of her shell, to become more comfortable surrounded by people in such numbers and such variety. To engage in such a way among Free Planets circles, Basic was a point of commonality, and so she chose to persist with it, instead taking the time to analyse and understand the droid's words.

Her response came slowly, but only enough to seem contemplative.

"jI am Kijirra Adhaferra," she replied, bowing her head slightly in greeting. "jI am afrrajid mjy name doess not carrry the ssame kjind of meanjing ass yourrss."

She faltered, her fingers fidgetting with the almost empty glass in front of her.

"jI ssupposse jI am alsso the Ta'ihta'rrou, and that meanss ssomethjing."

A faint note of bitterness preceded her efforts to drain the last dregs of fluid from the drinking vessel. The more military assets and resources the Alliance of Free Planets assigned to Jovan Station, the more diluted and complicated her position as the Cizerack Wing Commander became. It was a point of irksome irritation: politics and bureaucracy getting in the way of her performing her job.

"Orr at leasst, jit jiss ssuppossed to."

Idly, she pondered at the motions of the extruded segments of the droid's headpiece. They seemed to convey emotion, almost the way that one might see it on a Cizerack. Did this droid have emotions? Was it simply pretending? Kijirra had encountered droids before that certainly seemed to have emotion and personality, but she had always been told that such things were errors, corrupted code that clumped together when a droid went without memory wipes for too long, combined with the desire of most living things to project intelligence and sentience into everything they saw. Seeing personality in a droid was no different from begging a starfighter to hold together, as if the mechanism was somehow able to make a conscious choice to do so.

Yet, life was complicated, and much of it lay beyond the limits of her ability to comprehend. She'd heard stories of sentient crystals that could manipulate the Force - something that, if her sketchy understanding of philosophy was to be believed, was inherent to the connection between living things. The only commonality between a crystal and herself was, unless one believed in the notion of a soul, the electrical impulses that defined their intelligence. If that was all life was, then who was to say that such life could not inhabit, or be born in, an artificial chassis such as the one standing before her?

It was existential enough to begin to make her mind hurt, but it was enough to peak her interest in the man, being, or otherwise that stood before her. She turned in her stool, shifting to face MARCUS directly, sparing only a nod of gratitude as the barman retrieved the droid's credit chit and exchanged it for a replacement of Kijirra's spent beverage. An elbow propped itself against the bar as she regarded MARCUS in his totality.

"jYou ssajid that jyourr networrk jis djivjided between thrree componentss," she said, head tilting and ears lowering as her curiousity was allowed to take the helm. "What jiss that ljike, bejing jin thrree placess at once?"

[MARCUS]

The question elicited an unnatural purr of microprocessor activity, and a brief flutter of a blue diode at the base of the MMU's neck.

"It is efficient. A distributed network consciousness allows for dissemination of computational power to achieve many simultaneous tasks, or fewer of increased difficulty in expedited time with synergistic effect. It also serves to protect me in the event that one or several of my network components are damaged or destroyed."

The ocular focused squarely on Kijirra, analyzing her facial response patterns to elicit any cues that he may need to elaborate or change tact.

"My response is unlikely to be sufficient in answering your question. Organic consciousness is incongruent with synthetic consciousness. We perceive differently. I have observed in one thousand eight hundred seventy nine encounters that organics will employ metaphor, symbol, or parable if there is an error in data dissemination among their own. This ability is difficult to replicate in a synthetic network, I apologize."

The cool white light of the ocular warmed slightly as a cooling fan engaged to compensate for microprocessors.

"Adhaferra, Ta'ihta'rrou, you say that your name does not carry the same meaning as my own. You are correct. My name is an acronym comprised by key aspects of function and purpose. My observation of sentient organics shows a large percentage of them devote a sizeable portion of time and a high degree of resources in the discovery of each unit's function and purpose. Often, the searches fail.

Instead, organic names demonstrate a high value placed on information of origin or demonstrating another intrinsic meaning. For example, Cizerack are assigned quadratic nomenclature. Each of four names informs a differing part of one's origin and existence, and there are rules governing casual and intimate encounters upon which the nomenclature is used. We have been casually introduced, and you have given me your first and fourth nomen, as social mores specify. The fourth nomen represents a family, which may have shared that common distinction for many generations. The first nomen represents you as an individual subset of that family, but on a non-intimate basis. Often there is meaning assigned to this nomenclature by progenitors. It may be the name of an ancestor, or a name of a close friend or acquaintance, but it may also be assigned for another personal reason. The reasons for your nomenclature are nuanced, layered, and inform extensively of your origin and assign a qualitative value to you."

MARCUS paused, the dust covers on his shroud once again pivoting.

"It is a meaning I cannot assign to any of my components, or my network as a whole. I can be represented by a list of locations my components were assembled or a list of individual systems, but that is as informative as saying that you are a matrix of organic acids, proteins, and hydrocarbons initated by binary sexual reproduction."

It was a lot to unpack, and MARCUS didn't press the issue. He gestured to the glass in front of her.

"Is your beverage acceptable?"

[Cleveyet Bar-Atoch]

Somewhat taken aback at the less-than-standard greeting given by the man in the mask, Bar-Atoch blinked. Twice. Sloped non-shoulders seemed to roll beneath his thin, sleek feathers before beady eyes moved from Ms. Taassaurra to the newcomer.

"Sir, I'm afraid that you may be mistaken. Ms. Taassaurra here has done nothing that would facilitate concern for her health and well-being."

Inwardly his mind was reeling. If this fellow was a part of the staff, then there would certainly be paperwork for indecent behavior and the use of crass language.

[Codename: Abaddon]

"Yeah, did it hurt... when you fell from heaven?"

The way she squeaked and flustered was absolutely adorable. God. Damn. There were a lot of hot dishes at this party but there was something about this one that really stood out. So. Damn. Cute. He just wanted to reach out and pinch those beautiful cheeks. And her face, too!

"Sure. You can call me Gunner if you want. What's your name?"

A little voice beside his head caused a full swivel around right when he least wanted to, and came face to face with a small, black and white creature. It was like a bird, or something, but short and fat with wings that didn't look like they were going to do much flying. There was a brief moment of looking between the creature, and his drink, and back and forth, while he remembered everything he'd ingested today and, nope, there wasn't anything that would cause hallucinations. This one was real.

"Woah, what's your deal, little dude?"

[Mayael Rakkamar]

Oh! Even though she asked earnestly she had not expected the Commander to dive straight in. Most men were awkward and distance with her, and it was a nice change to suddenly find herself pushed toward the dance floor with Kes already seizing her hand and waist; a thing often made more complicated by her many arms and tall, slender body. She was not quite sure what this configuration was. She was equally unfamiliar with the dances of the galaxy, and elaborated so;

"Codru-ji no have formal dances, like humans. We wander in the music. I learned some dance, from Gradoona and others. It very fun. I like this dance. Very, what is the word... romantic?"

She let the Commander lead her in this unfamiliar slow dance. It was very close and intimate, unlike the wild dancing popular in the station's clubs. Different kinds of good. To her own people, dancing was a thing for children and adolescents to do in the firelight during a clan gathering, while wyrwulf pups ran around underfoot. The elders would play music for the children while the adults looked on and watched, but rarely participated. At least, that was the case with her own clan. Perhaps there were other clans were dancing was more common. She would never know.

But this was no time for sad thoughts about old home. This was new home, and she was keen to enjoy the nights festivities.

[Gunner Rodes]

"I'm not great at parties. I used to be, but I'm not that Tristan any more, 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."

"Huh." It was a sound that tumbled from his lips as perfunctory as a full stop at the end of a sentence. He took another sip of champagne, "Does this taste strange to you?"

Stop. No. Think. Gunner backpedalled furiously through the conversation, discarding his concerns about the champagne. Something Tristan said. He latched onto it, and cast his gaze about the room. There was a bar nearby. He emptied his champagne flute and threw a thumb over his shoulder, "I'm going to get some beer."

He departed at once, leaving Tristan to mill about with the crowd. In short order, he arrived at the bar, where he ordered a couple of Can'darri wheat beers and helped himself to a paper napkin. From inside his jacket, he produced a smart stylus and started scribbling onto the small paper square.

Tristan doesn't like parties. He misses his old life.

Gunner read the words three times over, before stuffing the napkin into his jacket pocket, along with the stylus. There. Now he wouldn't forget. If Tristan didn't like parties, why did he come to this one? Had Jaden pressured him into it? Why can't this Tristan enjoy parties like old Tristan? It didn't make sense to him. After he paid for the beers, he took a sip and thought about his conundrum. The beer was a good choice: sweet enough to make the transition from champagne, but not too sweet. Before he left, he stuffed a handful of napkins into his pocket, just in case.

"Here," he announced his return, handing Tristan a beer, "It's not exactly Nabooian Crown Reserve, but it's good."

He fell into rank beside him, to survey the shifting currents of the festival revellers, and recalled the words on the napkin in his pocket.

"You know, if you don't like it, here, we can always go somewhere else," he said, lubricating his offer with another gulp of beer, while he considered a list of things an ex-Rogue might like to do in his spare time: "We could play sabaac, or shoot darts, or... or go to a titty bar."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Everything took a turn for the weird.

Kiimi's head went from left to right as Mr. Bar Atoch either white-knighted or cooch-blocked her. She had no idea which one was the intention and she didn't care, because the dude in the mask obviously wasn't Gunner. But then her ears perked high. Somewhere in the soup of a few hundred voices, she heard part of one she thought sounded very familiar. Kiimi's eyes widened as she craned her neck to look past the masked creeper.

"Exc-c-cusse me." she moved to vacate her spot at the bar. "jI need a d-drrjink."

Ugh, lame excuse Kiimi she inwardly berated herself, grimacing slightly. "At an-n-notherr b-barr."

She gathered her tail in her hands to smooth out the frizz in her tuft, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she moved in direction of Gunner's voice.

[Tristan Tahmores]

There was something special about Gunner Rodes. Many things, Tristan supposed. Right now though, the one that sprung to mind was the weird and wonderful way his mind worked, and how the man could make a sincere and thoughtful suggestion and gesture, while at the same time incorporating the words titty bar. It was more than that, though. Tristan was learning, coming to terms with how his copilot's thought processes worked, and learning to see the intentions behind his actions. A negative reaction to his drink, and Gunner had replaced it. A negative reaction to their surroundings, and Gunner tried to replace that as well. There was a simple, elegant, beautiful logic to it; and now that Tristan had learned to see it, it made the lovable lug's quirky ways all the more touching.

Tristan made a point of visibly enjoying his beer, before separately letting his brow furrow into a frown as he contemplated Gunner's suggestion. That was important. Separate expressions, separate reactions, seperate thoughts - otherwise Gunner might think he was pondering over whether he liked the beer or not, while relishing the tasty prospect of letching at scantily-clad dancers.

"Much as the prospect of the two of us being aroused and surrounded by naked women appeals," he replied, words deliberately chosen for maximum confusion factor. There were times when you didn't want Gunner Rodes to misunderstand you, but others when there was just too much innocent entertainment value to be derived from letting it happen. "But we might want to hang around here for a minute or two longer."

The hand wrapped around his beer gestured in the direction of the approaching Kiimiti Taassaura.

"Isn't that your girl?"

[Silas Faei]

This is why he came to Jovan on occasion. If one wanted to simply experience other cultures, then surely Silas could have been among those that stayed at home and enjoyed the people as they came to him and his beloved home world. But this? This was experiencing other cultures in a strange melting pot where they didn't quite belong and had to adapt their ways to others in new and interesting ways. Where else in the entire galaxy could anyone experience a Cizeri festival where a large percentage of the participants weren't actually among the feline species, where could someone find such a unique culmination of intrigue and not feel like a damned tourist but rather one of the curious but oh so welcome throng? Where else could someone experience such a unique event?

Okay, so there were certainly a handful of other things that came to mind but that was besides the point. The point, as the Ambassador had been making to himself since he had decided upon attending the festival, was that this would surely be an event to remember, and as the right and proper ambassador to his people and representative of Zeltros on Jovan Station, he would be quite shamed to skip such a momentous occasion.

Nevermind the fact he would never hear the end of it if he had somehow managed to avoid a Festival that celebrated the very things his people were well known for, and the thought of any number of his cousins' disappointment, exasperated, and genuinely taunting visages questioning him regarding it was far too much to even consider being allowed. No, this would be a bragging right that he got to attend on such a prestigious level and they were stuck back home playing barkeeps and courtesans.

Everything was in full swing as the Zeltron arrived amidst dresses and official uniforms and other displays. He wasn't quite as garish as he could have been, instead leaving the flashy behind in favor of a finely tailored suit of blue to - as his mother of all people had often complimented - match his eyes to within just the barest perfection of perfection to the shade. It would probably be lost in the mixture of all the other finery on display by others, but the Ambassador did have his characteristic skin tone to prevent him from utterly blending in with the crowd.

There was so very much to take in with the eye, but first - well, anyone could tell you in an event such as this what needed to happen first, his unoccupied hands were more than enough to prove the point. A glass of sparkling wine was accepted from a server even as the Ambassador made his way to the place of utmost importance - the bar.

[Nix Neutron]

"- I'm tellin' ya, kid. Open ya eyes. Read a book. See tru' the lies. It's written everywhere, in every strand a' the fabric a' the universe."

Nix Neutron paused amid his impassioned words to take a long, deep drag of Virgillia Slims. The chemicals flowed into his lungs like a welcome breeze, warming him in a way that the underwhelming cat whisky in his glass failed to achieve. He held the smoke and vapours in place with a tongue touched to the roof of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed in deep contemplation as he his breath back out into the Jovan Station air.

He turned his gaze towards Commander Jaden Luka, the latest objective in his crusade to help the galaxy become woke to the lies and conspiracies that governed their lives. People thought it was the Force that controlled the ebb and flow of destiny, but Neutron knew: it was the Web, the network of deceit and manipulation, the Corporations and the Corrupt with their hands upon the levers of power, pulling the strings that made the world dance, and weep, and sing.

His hand reached out, snuffing out the embers in his disappointing drink, letting the stub float amid the liquid that no person of even marginally discerning taste should ever think to consume.

"Palpatine lied. He planned it all. The Clone Wars, the Jedi, Alderaan, Endor - all jus' part a' some grand story Sheev was tellin'. There ain't no way the Jedi or the Republic conjured an army a' clones outta thin air that fast. Ain't no way they were built ready ta be a Jedi execution squad neither, not unless he planned it all along. An' the Death Star? The Geonosians designed that shit, all a' way back before it all began. Its why he had ta wipe 'em out, I'm tellin' ya - the bugs knew too much, that's why. Could a' ruined the whole thing, before Pally got his excuse ta blow up Alderaan an' scare the shit outta us. And even that. Tarkin jus' happens ta blast the planet where Vaders kid lives, and she jus' happens ta not be on it at the time?"

He shook his head, reaching for his glass, bringing it almost halfway to his lips before he remembered what he'd done to it, and set it back down on the bar.

"If ya ask me, the Battle a' Yavin was gonna happen all along. Vader probably handed them plans ta his daughter himself, ta make sure the Rebellion seemed tough enough fer all that military spendin'. Evil like that thrives best in a galaxy in chaos, ya know?"

[Jaden Luka]

Jaden didn't know. Nor had he asked the man beside him anything that would justify the thesis that he had launched into presenting. It had begun over simple curiosity about the man's drink, and now here they were, Jaden feeling like he'd died and gone to some version of the bad place, where he was condemned to an eternity of social studies lectures from a man who... what the hell kind of accent even was that?

The pilot had surrendered into a slump, head barely prevented from slamming onto the bar in a comatose state by the fist that held it aloft. Periodically he glanced around him, mournful looks met with a shrug of apology by a bartender who was just glad they no longer needed to feign interest in the Zeltron's story.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaden glimpsed something. Something striking. Something distracting. Something, well, pink, which after the past eternity of listening to the man drone on wasn't exactly a benefit; but it was something. An opportunity. An escape route.

"I'm so sorry," he said suddenly, out of nowhere, quickly clambering from his stool, and downing the last of whatever drink was in front of him - honestly, he'd stopped paying attention to what the bartender had been slipping him out of some modest sense of consolation. A few quick strides and he was beside the bar's newest arrival, an arm immediately looping around the Zeltron's. "But my date is here, and we've got places to be."

His head leaned to the side, half way between resting on the man's shoulder, and a conspiratorial whisper. "Play along, and I will make it up to you, I swear."

[Gunner Rodes]

"Isn't that your girl?"

Gunner followed the trajectory of the beer bottle gesture until he arrived at a certain Cizerack officer, dressed with imposing authority, in her crimson and golds, and her curly blonde hair. He quarter-turned to Tristan, at once.

"I want to leave," he said, in a firm undertone, "I want to leave now. I don't like parties. I-"

Words failed him, sputtering to a futile halt on the tip of an arid tongue. His mouth was a desert. His shirt was tight. He remembered to take a breath, then, raking air down his sandpaper throat. It wasn't the nerves that had robbed him of his voice, though fear had made a statue of him. It was the look taking shape on Tristan's face. Gunner had no idea what it was, but it reminded him of his conversation with Dr. Jsorra, and the way it had made him feel. He felt that now, the one quiet space in the middle while the rest of him was rushing and freezing inside. Tristan was invested in his happiness and he didn't want to let him down.

Coming to terms with his approaching doom, Gunner took a hearty gulp of beer, and, by a miracle, did not pour it down the front of his pristine whites. A half-attempt was made to look her way, but he faltered, and instead found a spot within the crowd and focused on it.

"What if I say something wrong?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan's unlaiden hand reached out, an arm wrapping itself around Gunner's shoulders. He wasn't sure if the gesure would have the effect that he hoped or intended, but it felt like the right thing to do none the less.

"Then you apologise, and make up for it."

It sounded like such a feeble piece of advice, and yet the way that Tristan delivered it added new layers to the sentiment. He had known Gunner long enough to know how twisted up in his thoughts he could get, and Tristan could relate, in some small way. They all went through moments like that, all fought with a headspace that didn't want them to function clearly; Gunner just happened to have more of those moments than most, was all. At times like those, what you needed was to focus on something simple. A simple concept, a simple goal. This was the one that Tristan chose to offer to Gunner now.

"And if you can't, then you learn from this, so that you're a little bit better prepared for the next time. Everyone acts like hook-ups and romance are an elaborate art, but it's really just trial and error. If someone seems like they know what they're doing, it just means they have a longer track record of screwing things up than you do, and they've got the majority of the mistakes out of the way already."

The arm offered the smallest of reassuring squeezes.

"I know you can do this, Gunner. But even if you can't, that's okay too."

[Gunner Rodes]

At Tristan's uninvited touch, Gunner's thousand-yard stare was broken, and he glanced immediately his way. He did not tense up, he didn't flinch; to his surprise, he found himself at ease. Comfortable, even. Then he used that voice, the one that made him believe, if only for a moment, it was just the two of them again. His words fell softly upon his ears. He listened intently to what he had to say. They could be back on their ship.

I know you can do this, Gunner. But even if you can't, that's okay too.

And with just a handful of words, the weight of the galaxy was lifted from his shoulders. His eyebrows took flight with surprise, "It is?"

From the moment Jaden had made it a mission to reunite him with a woman he'd never before met - not in person, anyway, with touching and smells - Gunner's insides had been slowly coiling themselves into twisted knots of anxiety. His fellow pilots were going to invest their time into making it happen, which meant there was a certain expectation of him to perform, to... score from a perfect pass. He hated smashball. Growing up, he had been surrounded by spectators, the people who smiled, but only with their teeth. They watched him, and waited, their eyes like pointed sticks. They waited for him to do something, anything, because he always did it wrong. From an early age, Gunner came to realise that there were two kinds of laughter: laughter that was kind, and laughter that was not. And now he knew that even if he messed it all up, Tristan wouldn't laugh.

"Thanks, Tristan," he said, brightening at once, "You're a good friend."

It annoyed him there was a beer bottle in his hand, at that moment, because he felt like he should do something with it. A pat on the back would've been nice. Friends did that. Maybe later, then. If this thing with Kiimiti did turn out to be one of the many mistakes on his way to becoming a stud, then at least he'd still have his friend. The fear thawed at last, and he broke free, his tenuous advance becoming bolder with every step. Kiimiti grew in his field of view, clearer and more detailed than any screen could convey. It was with an electric thrill of excitement that he discovered that she wasn't as short as most Cizerack ladies, which was something he always found unnerving. But her hair was still, well, it was nice, but there was a lot of it. It was almost distracting.

In case she didn't want to stop walking, he stepped to one side, and turned a neat 45 degrees, so he could look at her and not look at her at the same time. For once, he was glad of all the noise around him, otherwise she would've surely heard the pounding in his chest.

"Hi," he said, with a single flutter of eye contact. There was an uncertain beat of silence between them, then, just as she started to speak, he added, "I'm Gunner. We we we spoke on the comm 6 days ago."

A thumb was thrown over his shoulder for emphasis, in the exact direction of Flight Station Three Three Seven.

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

The moment she'd locked onto him, Kiimi was deep into a white knuckle series of pre-flight checks. Working the comms did not mean one had a natural gift of conversation. What she did at work could be rote and there was procedure and a whole tree of if/then situations she knew how to fluidly flow through. She'd tried that here. There was a datapad in her quarters that she'd documented everything. She knew where Gunner's quarters were. She knew his job position and his direct reports, and where he usually went about his business. She'd planned on using that information to accidentally cross paths, but she wasn't sure how to pull it off naturally without feeling like he'd be able to detect how creepy or borderline stalkerish it was.

So most of her planned ice-breakers revolved around the artificial happenstance encounter. None of them really worked here. Of course she could always say I know who you are or I remember you, but that was so boring and forgettable. She needed to stand out, and Gunner probably already had six other girls trying to get his attention. Also, and most disturbing of all, he'd spoken first. In all of her obsessing over this eventual encounter, Kiimi somehow hadn't counted on him talking first. So he got the cool opening line, and now she had nothing!

Her heart was thumping in her chest, and Kiimi tried to make a tactical withdrawal in her head to get some perspective. He smelled really good, and he was taller than she expected. Okay so she already knew he was 1.85 meters tall, but there was reading it and there was seeing it in the flesh. Sure, he was shorter than most Cizeri men, but he still had her by a few centimeters, so she didn't feel as awkward as she did around, say, Commander Akiena.

Say! Something! Ugh!

I like your outfit. You have cute ears. What do you say we skip this party and get down to business, know what I mean? Ehhh, definitely not her style.

"jI..."

She took in a breath. Oh no! A rogue strand of hair got into her mouth on the inhale! Don't spit it out! Don't pull the hair out of your mouth! Act natural. She froze, lips pursing around the offending follicle.

"jI have a hajirr jin mjy m-m-mouth."

Okay that was horrible. But it was candid. Maybe he appreciated candor? She grimaced, quickly turned away so that her face was unseen and pulled the insurgent hair away, stuffing it back into the nearest ringlet. Goddess she was thankful for her uniform's white gloves. Her palms were sweating.

"That wassn't what jI w-w-wanted to ssajy. Can jI g-g-g-get a do-overr?"

[Gunner Rodes]

On the average human head, there were approximately 100,000 hair follicles. For redheads this was less, at around 90,000 follicles, while the average blonde-haired human boasted an impressive 150,000 follicles. Gunner had no idea whether the same rules of biology applied to the Cizerack, but if the appearance of Kiimiti Taassaurra was anything to go by, it was a safe bet to assume they did. And with hair as long and voluminous as that, it was small wonder she ended up inhaling it all - the odds were stacked heavily against her. While she extracted the hair, Gunner mirrored her body language, turning away to escape the unsettling sight. Absently, he ran his tongue over his teeth, just to make sure.

When she was finally able to speak again, her request took him by surprise, "Uh, I guess..."

For a moment, he lingered, frozen with indecision. He stared at her clean boots while he considered his options, then, without notice, he turned and walked away. After five steps he stopped, turned, and returned. His arms were rigid and straight by his sides, looking like they had been pinned to his shoulder as an afterthought. Again, he considered her clean boots.

"Hi. I'm Gunner. We spoke on the comm 6 days ago."

This time, his hand sprung out in greeting. Suddenly, he was thankful for the opportunity to have another go at it. Tristan was right: you did get better with experience.

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"jI'm Kiimi."

She replied with relief that he'd accepted her terms, the whites of her teeth glowing in a smile.

"jI know. jI m-m-mean, jI rrememberr. Sspeakjing wjith jyou."

The hand presented to her offered Kiimi and opportunity and a challenge. Casual meeting with humans wasn't done with air kisses past the cheek. They shook hands, and there were a lot of ways to do it from what she'd seen. The firm handshake - used among potential rivals to show dominance. Probably not the one to use here. How many shakes? One? Two? Or do you keep holding on and keep shaking as you talk? Do you rest your other hand on their forearm to affirm closeness?

But-but-but handshakes weren't a part of human mating rituals. Did that mean that Gunner was intending on all their good chemistry being used only as friends? Or was there a degree of friend-dance necessary before you could upgrade to something closer? This was the minefield of interspecies relationships that kept Kiimi awake with a cold sweat. But wait! There was also the hand kiss! That could be done for extra panache - especially in fancier social settings. It could imply romantic intent, but it didn't have to. That way Kiimi could signal that she was in the game, but not have to overtly say she was...well...like a Cizerack.

She stared at the offered hand, gulping. This was it. She was going in. She curled her white-gloved fingers around his, but didn't draw the slack. Instead she pivoted with her thumb to gently turn his hand over. She eased his hand up as she stooped down, giving his knuckles a kiss that was more than a peck, less than a smooch. No lingering. No saliva.

[Gunner Rodes]

"Oh!"

The creases of confusion stretched into surprise, as Gunner first considered the kiss, eyebrows about ready to leap from his face, and then his immediate surroundings. No-one was watching, which was a shame, because he suddenly felt very pleased with himself. It wasn't wet or sloppy, just warm, and soft. By the time Kiimi surfaced, she was greeted with a smile that was equal parts giddy and coy.

"That was nice," he confessed, taking a moment to inspect his still-warm knuckles, "I've never been kissed on the hand before."

That probably meant something, in light of the festival. Maybe Gunner ought to have reciprocated with a kiss of his own, but she was wearing gloves, which reminded him of that time he saw the station janitor cleaning the public toilets after curry day. Instead, he drew to mind his father's three rules for a first date: be courteous, be generous, be kind. While he considered his options, silence occupied the uncertain shuffling void between them, but that was alright, he reasoned, because you should be able to enjoy a comfortable silence with someone you like. Dr. Jsorra told him that, and they enjoyed comfortable silences all the time.

"Hey," he said, suddenly, his eyes fixed on her gloves, "Do you want a drink? You don't have to, but I do, if we're going to keep talking."

To emphasise his point, he polished off the rest of his Can'darri wheat beer in one go.

[Silas Faei]

"Play along, and I will make it up to you, I swear."

Well, it was certainly one way to gain his attention and make an introduction. And here Silas had started to think most humans could be nothing short of boring with their clothing still on unless they'd had just enough alcohol to potentially turn their blood toxic. To have a well uniformed man suddenly and quite literally attach himself to the Ambassador? Well, clearly he needed to reassess his stance.

For a cruel halfhearted moment, he considered refusing the request, perhaps it was due to the nature of the one he was trying to escape from, another of Silas' people and there was certainly a sense of Pink Solidarity that called to him. But there was also the solidarity of avoiding utterly boorish and terrible people, which given the desperation in which the human acted? Yes, that second would have to take precedence.

"Ah, there you are! I was beginning to think you might have spaced on me."

He tried to gather details from the dress uniform his new companion wore, worked towards recalling facts he had only half paid attention to with sadly poor results. Alliance, and that was all that could be gathered from it. Oh well, he could probably make the man's tongue loosen enough to relay the information soon enough.

Silas gestured with the glass of bubbly wine as he tugged his co-actor closer by where their arms were locked.

"Sorry, I didn't think to get you one. I wasn't sure what kind of mood you were in."

Even as he spoke he began walking away, making sure to leave the unwanted party-goer behind and hopefully aid his damsel in distress.

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Okajy." she nodded along, all while wondering at what he'd said. Never been kissed on the knuckles before. Did that mean she was an intrepid trailblazer, or had she been too audacious? He was still smiling, so that had to be good.

The way her tongue seemed to be sticking to the roof of her mouth only made his suggestion for a drink sound completely vital. Kiimi took two lengthy strides before realizing that she overshot Gunner's pace. She reached back and pulled him along by the same hand she'd kissed. This was great. Her ears perked, her tail raised up so high that her tuft was nearly at head height. No human resources Penguani and no creepers in masks were gonna cloud her sunny day.

"What do jyou w-w-want? The ssame? jI've g-got jit!"

She already had a credit chit in hand as they returned. Kiimi propped her elbow on the bar, dividing her attention between trying to make eye contact with the bartender and getting a good visual sip of Gunner.