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Thread: A Lesson in Denial

  1. #1

    Complete A Lesson in Denial

    Coruscant was a manufactured world. Whatever efforts nature had once taken to shape the planet had long ago been buried beneath five thousand levels of durasteel and duracrete, eons of habitation, and a thousand generations of history, politics, and civilization. The ecumenopolis that dominated the globe stretched from pole to pole, burying mountains, continents, lakes, and almost every other aspect of the planet that might be considered in any way natural. It was a world that was no longer alive: a cybernetic, artificial husk upon which Imperial society teemed like an infestation, bringing about the planet's slow decay.

    Yet, civilization would not simply let the world die in peace. It was not enough to have stripped away her ecosystems, paved over her geology, and plundered the natural mechanics that had allowed her to breathe and flourish in her ancient days as Notron. Civilization could not live with the murder of a world on their conscience, so they resorted to subterfuge, exploiting their technology to puppeteer Coruscant into some hollow semblance of life. Mirrors in orbit redirected the light from Coruscant Prime, spreading equal warmth to all aspects of the planet's surface. The WeatherNet, an intricate array of humidifiers, thermalizsers, cloud seeders, and other technologies manufactured weather patterns on a schedule, a timetable of rainfall after sunset, fog before dawn, winds of tailored intensity to fit a faux but mild seasonal pattern that allowed the wealthy to experience an illusion of the passage of time. There were stories of how, at its most absurd and ostentatious, the Galactic Republic had once broken regulations to schedule an afternoon shower, to better accommodate and welcome a diplomatic envoy and make them feel more at home.

    Tonight, the forecast called for light rain, and as Lúka stood before the Imperial Citadel looking out at Coruscant's lie of a horizon, he felt the first droplets begin to settle on his cheeks. Despite it, he stood firm, smart and patient, hands clasped behind his back as a gust of wind arrived as ordered, whipping the lower edges of his long jacket gently around his ankles. Perhaps it might have seemed as if discipline was what kept him present, his Jedi, Inquisition, and Knightly training providing him with the meditative calm to ignore the minor distractions of rainfall, and remain steadfast in his resolve to watch the sunset. That was not the case, however. Lúka's presence was not without purpose, and his patience would not be without reward.

    He fought the urge to glance at the chrono strapped to his wrist: they were beyond the appointed time of their arrival, of that he was sure, but nothing would be served by confirming it. They would arrive in their own time, because of reasons and factors far beyond Lúka's control, and nothing would be served by his impatience. So he waited, silent in the rain, as the minutes slowly ticked past.

    Perhaps this task was beneath him. Perhaps it was a responsibility best passed off to one of his Cadets. There certainly were those who would have obliged the request: Cadet Redsun would have done so completely without question, his trust in Lúka earned and near-absolute; Cadet Par'Vizal would have obeyed, but likely would have felt the task was beneath him as well, a fact that Lúka would surely hear about at length. But no, it had to be him. Anyone could stand and wait, but for this arrival, this precious and private delivery, it had to be him.

    More moments drifted past. Despite his calm and focus, Lúka felt the faint stab of irritation: not for his own sake, but for the sake of Doctor Anastasia Xivelle. She was the intended recipient of what was due to arrive, and its importance could not be understated. Her work, both her official obligations to the Imperial Knights, and her covert assistance to his own efforts in recent weeks and months, was invaluable. Doctor Xivelle needed this. Lúka's hands began to tighten slightly into frustrated fists, wishing there were a means for him to convey that importance to whoever was responsible for the current tardiness.

    At long last, Lúka heard it: the whine of a repulsorlift in the distance. It was faint, weak even, the distinct discordant stuttering of disrepair grating on Lúka's ears. As it came into view, the sight was even more underwhelming: a scruffy old speeder bike, in stark contrast to the scruffy young rider whose scrawny limbs clung awkwardly to the controls, wild eyes frantically searching his overwhelming surroundings for some indication of where to go. Lúka offered an almost imperceptible nod, calling upon the Force to extend an invitation to the rider, drawing him in like a lure on a line. As the swoop came to a halt, the display of absent grace as the rider dismounted was perhaps the greatest insult the grand plaza before the old Jedi Temple had ever received: an impressive feat, given how many times these stones had found themselves beneath the feet of a certain Gungan representative to the Republic Senate. A cargo container was fumbled with, a package wrapped in polyplast retrieved clumsily, and held out towards Lúka with slightly shaking hands.

    As Lúka accepted the delivery, the rider's hands failed to retract, his eyes fixed fearfully but expectantly on the Imperial Knight, voice apparently stolen from him, at least for the moment. Lúka's eyes narrowed.

    "The stated delivery time has elapsed," he warned, sternly. "I am required to pay nothing."

    A few trembling words found their way to the rider's lips, more of a squeak than anything that deserved to be called a voice.

    "Please, mistuh, you have to! If I ain't get paid one more time, my boss is gunnuh kill me, fuh sure!"

    Lúka's upper body turned ever so slightly, a glance cast over his shoulder to the towering structure behind, and the Imperial banners suspended from its walls. With equal slowness, he turned his gaze back to the delivery boy.

    "And you presume that I will not?"

    The boy let out a yelp, and perhaps a contribution from his bladder as well. A sigh escaped from Lúka, the sight too pitiful for his mild frustration to survive. One hand clutching the delivery, the other extended, fingers uncurling to reveal a credit chit, one that the Force levitated from his palm and conveyed towards the rider. Fear remained, but it was joined in the young man's eyes by awe and reverence, up until the moment that he snatched the chit from the air, and fumbled it into his data device. One brief transaction later, he held it back out towards Lúka, staring expectantly at his fingertips for the chit to move again of its own free will. Lúka obliged, brushing his coat aside for a moment to allow the chit to find its way back into his pocket.

    "If I am forced to suffer these delays again," he warned, "You will not find me nearly as forgiving."

    The rider nodded frantically, apparently possessing enough intelligence to seize his opportunity for escape, and leapt back onto his swoop, the engines screaming in dismay as he raced off towards the edge of the Imperial security perimeter.

    Lúka waited until the speeder disappeared from view before he allowed a smile to creep onto the corner of his lips.

    His return to the Citadel was not rushed, but he did move with purpose, the kind of purpose that ensured the Cadets and other Knights he passed along the causeways and corridors did not think to question why an Imperial Knight was marching past them with a polyplast carry-bag in hand. The pace was not entirely by design, however: the rider's tardiness had resulted in his own, and while his arrival at his destination was not explicitly or formally planned, he had stated an approximate time, and the prospect of being late irked him. It didn't matter, and yet it did: from others, it was acceptable, understandable, the result of different standards and priorities, but Lúka regarded his own organisation and promptness as a sign of respect, and a standard that he held himself to. His resolve wavered, and he glanced at his chrono. Eight minutes. He winced. Nine.

    As he turned the final corner, he forced himself to slow, forced a certain calmness into his stride and demeanour, and in answer to some unspecified compulsion ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. Seven more paces and he was there, standing outside Doctor Xivelle's doorway. He allowed himself a single moment of pause before he pressed the chime, letting his expression fall into a smile as the door slid open.

    "Sorry I'm late," he offered, the faintest hint of a sheepish tone in his voice. His arm raised enough to display his precious cargo. "I brought takeout. Hope you like Neimoidian."
    Last edited by Lúka Jibral; Jul 27th, 2018 at 10:55:39 PM.

  2. #2
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    Doctor Xivelle had a lot of paperwork to do. One of the joys of being the Citadel's lead Medical Consultant - they hadn't granted her the title of Director... Yet. It meant her designated work hours didn't actually end when she left the Infirmary for the day. Today had been especially taxing - several training injuries, a migraine that was causing everything to levitate within her work area - and the crowning achievement: Cadet Hoob having got his hand stuck in a cylindrical canister as he attempted to reach down to get that last crisp.

    Even the glass of emerald wine she had poured for herself as a last-ditch attempt to force relaxation upon herself was not enough to shrug off the cringe that came with that particular case.

    She had lost track of the time, despite expecting company. It wasn't that she was thoughtless, but more lost in thought, lost in the rapture and loathing of the mundane. Her time within The Empire had been mostly lost to shadow, to the areas unspoken where normal routines simply did not exist. Now here, at The Citadel? Everything felt so beautifully ordinary and yet she never forgot that she was a mere human surrounded by those gifted in ways she could never be but was endlessly fascinated by.

    So paperwork wasn't dreaded, but it was far from adored and the welcome distraction of her door chime felt so very much like what it was supposed to appear as.

    Anastasia hovered at the doorway, and the false annoyance she was supposed to feel at her guest for the evening wasn't entirely faked. Her lower lip was teased at with her teeth subtly as she eyed the Knight who stood at the threshold. Fake or not, there was no denying that the man looked damn impressive in his chosen attire. Something about the way the long black coat folded around him; well, the Doctor couldn't deny that it suited Lord Jibral on many levels.

    However much of a reaction his appearance caused to certain portions of her mind that she utterly wanted to silence, another organ took an entirely different precedence as it growled in reminder she hadn't eaten since mid afternoon.

    "Are you kidding? It's been ages since I had that. And late or not, you are the most welcome sight I've had all day."

    And with that she stepped aside and ushered him within her quarters. It struck her a bit odd how little acting she had to do in the public eye before her door closed and locked them both within, but right at the moment? Anastasia was far too tired, too busy, and too hungry to give a damn.

  3. #3
    Lúka was skilled at a number of many things. Observation was one; deception another. It had been an agreement between the two of them that they would maintain the pretence of a burgeoning romantic involvement, as a cover for the time their covert work for Khalid required them to spend together. An Imperial Knight and a Medical Consultant spending so much time together, both disappearing from the Citadel at similar times - that was suspicious. The two of them disappearing for dinner, a holomovie, or some other romantic engagement? That was easily dismissed, save for whatever rumours were rife within the Citadel at that point. The pretence needed to be preserved, however, and an evening in the privacy of Anastasia's quarters played into that perfectly.

    It should have been simple: merely a performance, for the sake of any onlookers, and no one else. Yet things had been complicated by their night at the Facility; their night aboard the Maelibus. It had meant nothing - and it didn't, he reminded himself - and yet it had blurred the lines. Actions that he might have taken without a second thought as part of the performance were now second-guessed, lest he overstep what ill-defined boundaries now existed between them.

    Case in point, his intention had been to kiss her, a course of action he had decided upon as he progressed through the corridors of the Citadel. But upon seeing her, he had hesitated, and now with the doors closed the moment had passed. As he left, perhaps, a parting kiss to fuel speculation among the Cadets. Perhaps next time. Perhaps not.

    His attention turned to her apartment, a room that he understood the layout of - security plans were readily available, and there were instances where his desire for preparedness outweighed what might have been considered polite or appropriate in normal circles - but had not witnessed in person. It had been a calculation: Anastasia was a sophisticated woman, and Lúka was plausibly so as well; a number of evening excursions to the Facility disguised as faux dates had preceded this, but this was to be his first time visiting her in her home - something else for the Cadets to speculate about, he supposed. No doubt they'd have to discuss whether the deception required him to leave later that evening, or sleep on the couch until morning to maintain the ruse.

    Unfortunately, that left him decidedly unfamiliar with his surroundings.

    "Table?" he asked, with an awkward shrug, gesturing slightly with the polyplast bag. "I don't trust the structural integrity of this thing."

  4. #4
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    She made her way from the door, a few steps taken off to the right to the sparse living area and only after retrieving the glass from the small table near the couch did she motion towards the small table near the kitchenette to the left of the door. On the whole, the suite the Doctor had been granted wasn't large, but it did command a rather impressive window overlooking Coruscant. Not that Anastasia took advantage of it often, even now the thick deep colored curtains had been drawn rather than allowing her to be distracted by the world outside.

    Not that there was much to be distracting within, either. Anastasia knew there were several very very good reasons as to why her room was devoid of anything personal save for the obvious necessities to live. But shelves where books could be placed were empty, countertops uncluttered and containing only items that she had come with the living arrangements. It felt sterile, much like most of her life.

    Not utterly devoid of signs of life, though, as the open bottle on the small island between the stove top and cabinets professed. Her glass was raised a bit again, not in gesture this time but offering.

    "Afraid I don't have much to drink aside from this and water. I think there's tea somewhere as well, but I'm sure it's in need a restock."

    As plain and unpersonalized as the room was, it still struck her as odd to have another within what was supposed to be her private space within the Citadel. It wasn't bad, just odd.

  5. #5
    Some might have said small; Lúka's mind went with modest, but perhaps that was the Coruscant in him talking. With a world as densely populated as this one, space was a premium, and while spaces of great importance like the Jedi Temple turned Imperial Citadel, or the vast plaza before the Senate Building could afford a certain openness and grandeur, that price was paid elsewhere, residential spaces squeezed into the barest minimum. As Citadel accommodations went - in Lúka's experience at least - hers was actually fairly well appointed. Lúka certainly didn't have a kitchen space; not that he would have used it, of course, to well catered for with commissaries and Imperial rations to have ever felt the need to acquire the skill for himself.

    He nodded in response to her offer of alcohol, a small smile and a "Please," added for good measure, before he set about the process of unpacking the meal that his wayward delivery rider had brought. It had been a complicated process, selecting from the expansive selection of options presented on the Holonet site for Wok Durd: an establishment that came highly recommended on the Coruscant FoodNet, despite the morally dubious use of Separatist mass murderer Lok Durd as their jovial and rotund cartoon mascot. Partly it had been a crisis of options, far too many for a reasonable sentient being to make a selection in any sort of expedient manner, unless they simply resorted to ordering the exact same options as they did every visit. Partly though, it had been a crisis of Lúka's own making, overanalysis becoming the Cad Bane of his supposedly simple and easy restaurant choice. He simply did not know Doctor Xivelle well enough to determine her preferences. He could have asked, but that undermined the gesture of showing up at her door with food, making up for the fictional meal that he had denied her on their first expedition from the Citadel. He could have researched, delving into her financial history, searching through restaurant receipts for herself and her former fiancé to profile her choices, preferences, and dislikes; but that felt like an invasion, an efficient choice, but an inappropriate one. In the end, he had simply settled for accessing her medical records to ensure that he was not inadvertently going to trigger any allergies, and then had engaged in the most uncomfortable of tasks: he had guessed.

    "Sorry," he added, extracting the plastcard boxes one by one, arraying them neatly in a specific order on the kitchenette worktop, careful to adjust them so that while not exactingly perfect, they all more or less conformed to the lines and angles of the surface. "I didn't think to look up drinks options. I should have researched which wine pairs best with Kaantay chicken and Koto-Si style sweet and sour nerf."

  6. #6
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    "The emerald works with almost anything," She countered, the surety in her tone dissipating into a half shrug and a tug at the corner of her lips. "Or, at least as best as I've ever figured."

    A separate glass was fetched from a cabinet and a generous portion of the aptly named drink was poured out for Lord Jibral before she made her way back to the table and placed the delicate stemware in front of him.

    "I've never been an aficionado myself. If you really wanted to know, however, you could probably ask your little red haired protege. He seems the sort to relish in that sort of trivia."

    Anastasia oversaw the unpacking of their meal before retreating back to the cabinets in search of appropriate dishware and cutlery. A soft hum of her voice in indecision came before she selected a few smaller plates with slightly rounded edges - best used when serving something that had gravy or a potentially expansive sauce. She was far from certain it was the best choice, but her past hobbies did serve to at least aid her better judgement.

    Upon returning to the table once more she began placing everything neatly, orderly, just as she had been taught by an aging grandmother far too keen on old world etiquette.

    "Speaking of, how was Antar 4?" Anastasia inquired as she looked up from her own set task.

    Her eyes met Lord Jibral's in a mixture of genuine curiosity and a need for - of all things - small talk.

    "Did the cadets perform to expectations?"

    She didn't dare ask towards the success of the mission that the Knights had embarked upon. After all, the Doctor knew that not every objective was so easy to define as mere success and failure.

  7. #7
    Lúka grimaced at the question, hesitating slightly part way through extracting one of the cryptically marked packages. Perhaps he could have blamed mindfulness towards security for his reaction: while Lúka was confident that the Imperial Knights were not monitoring the private accommodations of their officers and consultants - confident enough to allow their subterfuge to end at the apartment's threshold, rather than continuing further - the kind of diligence that came from a lifetime of espionage made it difficult to properly relax in unfamiliar surroundings.

    That would have been a misrepresentation, however. Lúka's hesitation came from shame. Not disappointment in his Cadets: they had performed admirably, as he knew he could trust them to. His shame was aimed at himself, his failure to succeed, his failure to adequately foresee the circumstances and factors that would challenge them when they arrived. It was one thing for a mission to be subverted by unforeseen factors, like the intervention of a rogue group of Force Wielders; but crossing paths with local crime groups? Lúka should have predicted that, or at least been prepared. Their secret facility, their secret ship, and the assistance of two trusted Cadets was all well and good, and yet with the resources at his current disposal, Lúka struggled to succeed in situations such as this: and he blamed himself, not his tools, for his failure to overcome that obstacle. The sad truth was that on Khalid's behalf, he was attempting to do the work of the Black Archives, and yet did not have the backing of the Black Archives, or anything even close to equivalent. How that gulf would be overcome, he simply did not know.

    "Redsun and Par'Vizal handled themselves well," he replied. At least that part he could answer honestly. Given the expectation of a benign and clandestine encounter with an illegal artefact sale that had led them to Antar 4, he felt a sense of pride in the part he had played in educating the two Cadets, preparing them to act and react with such efficacy under the circumstances. "They're good kids. The Knights are lucky to have them."

    Hesitation gripped him again, reluctance to continue, the faint hope that perhaps he could let that response stand and avoid addressing any more of Doctor Xivelle's question. But, he supposed, there was no reason to hide it. She was an equal part of this, and a vital part: concealing information from her served no purpose, despite the reluctance that Lúka might feel at admitting a failure to one of his peers. A lesson learned the hard way in the Inquisitorious, more than once.

    "We managed to prevent the artefact from falling into the hands of criminals, but there was a complication."

    Frustration turned his hand into a fist at first, distracting him from his efforts to align the last container; but it faded, transforming into something else instead. His head shook, slowly.

    "I had a building dropped on me by a rogue Force Wielder, using a kind of power that I had never seen before. She and her companions managed to escape with the artefact, and by the time Redsun and Par'Vizal had dug me out -"

    He sighed, knuckles of the slackened fist eliciting a faint knock as they came to rest against the kitchenette counter.

    "Two ships, two directions, and infinite possible destinations. I have Ivy monitoring, to see if we can uncover any indication of where they might have taken it; but it could be halfway to Terminus by now, or Ossus, or anywhere else; and we didn't even manage to get so much as a glimpse at what it did, so we're back to scanning the Holonet for something weird. Again."

    Unless the artefact had something to do with the mystery redhead and her reality-bending powers; but no, that had been her, of that he was certain. Not that the alternative would have done much to alleviate his frustration anyway.

  8. #8
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    It had seemed like a harmless question, an inquiry by colleges but rather than listening with the curiosity that should have presented itself in regards to a force user utilizing an ability that Lord Jibral was unaware of until that moment, her thoughts lingered on what had come just before that. I had a building dropped on me.

    Anastasia had wanted to interrupt, wanted to question why he hadn't come to her immediately upon returning for an examination. It was her right given her position within the Citadel, but it went further. Why didn't you come to me to make sure you were okay?

    No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she recoiled away from it as it were coated in venom. It wasn't her place. True, Lúka was more than just co-conspirator; she had come to terms with that. Friend was a difficult term to define but he was an ally in the very least. But to outwardly express concern, or to state that she even had the license to act upon it? No, that was crossing a line, that was firmly entrenched between them. There was more to it as well, that twinge of disappointment in his voice, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, just barely noticeable. It shouldn't have meant more than to stir a mild sense of discomfort at seeing him react but there was something far more visceral that she was having trouble shoving back down.

    The glass of wine at her hand helped and she brought it to her lips and drank deeply of the contents.

    "How frustrating," she commented finally after finding her voice and trusted it enough to finally not be swayed by the rising surge of the unexpected reaction she herself had. "At least you were not injured."

    It was a slip, she had meant to comment on the rogue Force user but somehow that had managed to sneak past. All too human of an error and one she should have been ashamed of in his presence.

    "I'm sure you'll be better prepared next time."

    It felt hollow and yet correct to comment in such a way and she followed the simple statement with another swallow of wine.

  9. #9
    As far as Lúka was aware, he hadn't been hoping for anything in terms of Anastasia's reply, and yet somehow her words managed to fail to meet some unspoken criteria, and the result was worse than judgement, worse than mockery. Was she disinterested? Or merely disappointed? It was hard to tell, and while he could perhaps have reached out with his senses, attempting to discern some degree of clarification from her thoughts, he chose not to; recoiled away from the mere notion of it, in fact. Perhaps it felt like a violation, of trust perhaps, or perhaps something that felt a little too close to previous activities they had engaged in, and would not again. Perhaps it was more caution, or concern, about what he might regret finding if he looked. Perhaps it was just that on some level he had braced himself to be chastised by his Doctor for not seeking her attention after his accident, and apparent that absence of spoken concern left him feeling an emptiness he would not have predicted. But then again, while she was a Doctor by name, she was a researcher by trade; and yet even mentions of unfamiliar Force abilities had not piqued her interest.

    It would have been easy to have assumed that she was disinterested, but his mind offered one small iota of hope. Perhaps what she sought was distance, the question asked out of courtesy but the answer not truly desired at this time. It was why Lúka had not volunteered the information, after all: there literally was a designated space for these conversations, and Anastasia's private quarters were not that locale. Perhaps his mistake had been to overshare, to provide more information about work - a taboo subject among medical professionals during downtime, potentially? - when in reality he should merely have countered the polite question with a polite answer, and left it at that.

    He turned towards her, retrieving his glass, and offered a smile before he began to match her consumption. "Perhaps," he replied, addressing her statement of faint confidence. He offered a shrug. "Or perhaps I just need to bring my Doctor with me next time. In case there are any more buildings."

    The words left him before he had truly finished considering them, and his reaction and realisation was hidden deliberately behind a sudden mouthful of wine. Why had he said that? Why attempt to provoke concern that Anastasia had not offered already?

  10. #10
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    "Your Doctor?" She retaliated, a faint smile of her own appearing that she didn't instantly bury against the glass' edge. "Well, if you insist. Buildings can be awful tricky, after all."

    It was a tease it was a flirt and Anastasia had known it the moment she had uttered them. It didn't quite sit right that she was throwing professionalism aside so quickly, but whereas they were merely to be spending time together in an elaborate rouse to further explain their disappearance from the Citadel at later times, some part of her genuinely fought against propriety in favor of an alternative. There was absolutely nothing that stated that after usual work hours the two of them couldn't genuinely at least be entertained by each other's company. If they had to make such efforts, at least it could be with the semblance of two confidants enjoying some enforced down time.

    It felt good to jest as well, as if it took an unnecessary weight from within her stomach and chest and let it be set aside. Not removed, it was far too apparent to be fully gone, but she could at least regain some small measure of control over it on her own terms.

    The casual air she had used wasn't entirely abandoned as she spoke once more, quickly so as not to let him get in his own verbal Riposte.

    "So, what have you brought? Favorites of yours?"

    The glass in her hand was now wielded as a shield, almost, disguising and averting any self satisfied smiles that wanted to appear at the game.

  11. #11
    "No, actually, I -"

    Lúka stopped himself, something that could have been a sigh, or laughter, or something else entirely provoked by the realisation that just crossed his mind. Those words, had set him at least a little at ease, and whether it was some passive perception of her emotions, or simply the side effects of that smile, he found himself all too readily slipping into the stride and rhythm of the casual conversation that she steered them towards. This felt better. This felt correct. This felt like how she wanted things to proceed, and for that Lúka was relieved.

    However, the sense of security - perhaps genuine, rather than false - that she inspired had almost lured him into speaking more freely than he otherwise would have. Perhaps that was fine, it was not as if the Maelibus had not drawn out greater honesty from him; but it was unnerving in a way, how easily she disarmed him, how readily he almost opened up with only the slightest provocation. Bedside manner, he supposed; though frankly, with a little time and training, perhaps Doctor Xivelle could make quite the spy.

    Taking a moment to consider, he decided to continue with his confession, though on his own terms.

    "I've never had it before. We didn't exactly have the best delivery coverage in the Maw, and I've always been more of a commissary or ration packs sort of guy when it comes to eating. I've never really had any -"

    He faltered. Anyone had been the next word, and perhaps it could have stood alone, but there was more to it. Anyone to share such things with. Anyone since the Maelibus with any desire to sit and eat with him. Anyone to make the process of eating anything more significant than an act in refuelling the calorie reserves of his body.

    "- cause to be adventurous," he deftly redirected. "My quarters don't even have a kitchen; not that I'd have the first idea of what to do with it if I did."

    He felt a sudden sense of sadness, and a frown tugged at his brow, unsure where it had come from. Describing the details of his existence with the Inquisitors and the Knights was factual, nothing more, and he knew his own mind: he had no emotional investment in it either way. Yet, as he explained it aloud to an outside observer, it seemed so pitiful, so empty, so devoid of the facets that made a person a person. Between the Jedi, the Purge, the Maw, and the Citadel, Lúka had gone where he had to, eaten what he was given, and had never given it a second thought. Anastasia had asked if he had selected favourites; in that moment, Lúka realised that his life up to now had not presented him with much in the way of opportunities to learn what those favourites might be.

    "No, I -"

    He turned, setting aside his glass, focusing his attention on the selection of dishes he had bought and brought.

    "I wasn't sure what you liked, and I wasn't really sure what most of it was, so I just sort of... guessed. Picked things that sounded different, and hoped I got a decent selection out of it."

  12. #12
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    Anastasia was tempted to interrupt his train of thought with a groan regarding the meals that had been available to them both when they worked for the Black Archives, but she let Lord Jibral finish, allowed Lúka to explain without judgement.

    It was another thing she had taken for granted that she couldn't help but feel a certain level of sadness that the Knight hadn't had the opportunity to experience. From his time with the Jedi, to his recovery with the Inquisitorius, to the Black Archives, and now the Knights... so many things that she had the opportunity to simply experience had been denied him. Anastasia envied him in some ways, certainly didn't pity, but there was certainly a bit of melancholy in the knowledge as well.

    "Next time," she decided to announce. "I am so going to make you a home-cooked meal."

    She honestly regretted that they had both been so busy she hadn't been able to do so now. Instead they would have to rely on whatever Wok Durd could offer. A pair of chopsticks was retrieved as one of the containers were opened and she quickly snatched a piece of nerf - or at least, she hoped it was nerf and not some poor back alley tooka - and popped the piece of meat into her mouth.

    Definitely not disappointing. Anastasia had the obvious rational thought that perhaps it simply tasted amazing because of her own restrictions these past few years but damn.

    "Though by guess or intuition, my dear Knight, this? This is perfect."
    Last edited by Anastasia Xivelle; Jun 30th, 2018 at 05:17:04 PM.

  13. #13
    He smiled at her offer, though it was an expression of concealment as much as it was genuine. The prospect of a home-cooked meal. My dear Knight. Perhaps the illusion of the two of them didn't end at the doorway for Anastasia; or perhaps it did, and this was simply how she was. Caring. Compassionate. Someone who made people feel better. His thoughts turned to a past conversation, to talk of Doctors and past encounters, to envy, and to the undeserving souls of people past, who couldn't comprehend how fortunate they were. Someone, of infinite stupidity, had spent each day in the company of Anastasia Xivelle, and decided he could do better; decided that the trivialities of other people's opinions was worth more than this.

    This is perfect.

    He drove the thought from his mind, still hiding behind his smile, an expression he allowed to adopt a slight hint of embarrassment. He understood the premise of chopsticks, the physics, the mechanics. What he didn't understand was the process, nor the point; and with no cause to the contrary, he had never trained himself in how to use them. It was an odd thing to feel ashamed about, but in that moment he did: a shortcoming hardly befitting my dear Knight, of that he was certain.

    "I don't, uh -"

    His expression mixed wince, grimace, embarrassment, and perhaps a hint of something that might solicit sympathy and protectiveness. He gestured towards the chopsticks in her hands.

    "I never actually learned how to use those."

  14. #14
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    It felt disingenuous for the playful smile to appear on her lips, not because it was there, but because she almost had to force it. Almost, as it had begun to form on it's own before she felt it shutting down not of her own accord, but of learned behaviors she had adapted to.

    It wasn't the fact it was there that was bothering her now, but more that she had to fight for it, to make sure it could take place. Her... issues shouldn't have been intruding, but they couldn't be helped and that was what bothered her. But to what end? Why now?

    "You'll have to forgive me, then," Anastasia replied, the actual time elapsed a mere second when it had seemed to endlessly stretch out in indecision. "If I indulge in showing off."

    Another piece of the meal was plucked between the two sticks and brought to her mouth as she attempted - foolhardy as it was - a wink.

    Anastasia made sure to clear her mouth of any remaining food, pallet cleansed by another drink of emerald wine.

    "After all, you get to astound me all the time."

    Her eyes remained trained on him, trying to keep the light tone apparent, to avoid any undue cruelty.
    Last edited by Anastasia Xivelle; Jul 1st, 2018 at 11:38:34 AM.

  15. #15
    Showing off, huh?

    Social graces might have been a complexity that Lúka did not fully understand, but a challenge was something he could respond to. It wasn't that Lúka was an especially competitive soul. He had been, once, long ago when these rooms and corridors had looked so different and felt so much larger; but the selfish desire to succeed for his own sake had long ago faded from him. In its place was an aversion to failure, to inefficiency, to falling short. It was a desire not to be the best, but to be his best, to realise his potential, to push his limits - and in turn, to deliver that best unto the Empire he dutifully served. Anastasia's words had been in jest, and under normal circumstances, he would not have risen to the bait of such a challenge; but something compelled him to prove himself, to counter her demonstration with one of his own.

    He waited patiently, making himself comfortable in a slight lean against a section of the countertop a little way from her, a sip of wine taken to let the brief moments pass. As Anastasia's chopsticks reached into the container again, a subtle gesture of Lúka's hand sent a ripple through the Force, a bow wave driven forward by his intent, nudging the hunk of meat subtly away from the Doctor's grasping implements. Another nudge was projected as she tried again, more exaggerated and obvious this time, a small smirk tugging at Lúka's lips. As the chopsticks finally grasped the errant nerf, Lúka waited until it was partly withdrawn from the container, before a flick of his wrist hurled it upwards in the air, Ana's chopsticks grasping at nothing.

    Hand calmly raised, the mouthful of nerf came to a graceful halt, bobbing and turning slightly as it floated in the air, subtle shifts and twitches of Lúka's fingers disturbing it just enough to slowly turn and tumble before him.

    "I astound you?" he echoed, with a playful hint of smugness colouring his words.

    The hand rotated, the nerf drifting upwards, coasting until it hovered a few inches above the Knight; the Force subsided, and the hunk dropped effortlessly into his waiting mouth. He offered a shrug as he chewed, a brief flicker of thought crossed his eyebrows, both as he considered the flavours he was experiencing, and the Doctor's choice of words.

    "I don't think I've ever been called astounding before."

  16. #16
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    "Hmm, pity. I suppose that's my error for not saying so when it was more appropriate." She knew the comment was dangerously creeping close to a line they both had created, but at the moment? Well, it couldn't be helped.

    Anastasia had long since gotten over any discomfort of seeing The Force manipulated. It was still something she could not fully grasp; all the research and observations in the galaxy could not tell her what it felt like to make use of such a thing. Lord Jibral had a way of making it all seem so effortless, however, and perhaps it was the reason that he seemed to use it as a very extension of everything else, a natural thing, that it didn't fill her with the disquiet that others who were incapable of tapping into such powers seemed to possess.

    Still, she knew when he was doing it to deliberately make her take notice. Showing off, indeed.

    It was fair, though. The challenge had been given and Ana knew very well how such things were pierced by the Knight.

    "You going to do that all night?" Ana countered as her lips tugged at one side of her mouth, resulting in a smirk that felt far too genuine. "Or would you rather I show you how to use these?"

    The chopsticks were twirled over her fingers in a needless display she had picked up in universities and had utilized countless times with various pens and even the occasional syringe. It was a foolish exhibit, but one that Anastasia was glad in indulge.

  17. #17
    For the briefest moment, Lúka suddenly became flustered, and river his thoughts might have been flowing down suddenly arriving at an abrupt waterfall that sent his thoughts elsewhere. That smile, that smirk, that playful gesture with her hands? It could have been a signal, inviting Lúka to once again oblige her needs; or it could have been nothing, merely playfulness between colleagues. Lúka lacked the frame of reference necessary to conclude either way, and it filled him with momentary discomfort.

    "They say you're supposed to learn something new every day -"

    He focused on words, and pushed the other thoughts aside. The momentary lapse had hopefully gone unnoticed, and even if it hadn't, he hoped a shrug and a casual smile would smooth over any discrepancy.

    "- and the underwhelming day that I've had is cutting it pretty close on that front, so sure."

    Lúka held out a hand, palm upwards, offering it and himself to Anastasia's tutelage.

    "Besides, I can ward off a herd of gundarks with two lightsabers and my eyes closed. How hard could wielding a couple of little wooden sticks be?"

  18. #18
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    Her words faltered, torn between asking for the story that he had begun and warning him how the little sticks might prove a worthy adversary yet. In it's place came an laugh, short and breathy; complete amusement at the fact he was tempting things so. After all, every living experience had told her that if something could go wrong, it had the highest potential to; especially if you spoke it. What's the worst that could happen? I have a bad feeling about this, Of course I know what I'm doing - they all amounted to the same tempting of fate, something Anastasia had time and time again had proven to her was a solidly bad thing to do.

    Another jest, a comment about other utensils being available if it didn't work out was considered and tossed aside. Anatastia may not have known Lúka Jibral for an overly long time, but her experience around him more than told her that he was not the type to back down from something until he had mastered it. And to think, this was just supposed to be dinner under false pretenses. But now? Well, she would never go so far as to say they were crossing the line from pretend date to actual, that was ridiculous. But she had come recently to realize that Lúka was a friend. And as such, they could get away with certain behaviors when the official eyes of the Empire were not upon them.

    "Okay so, first," She began, her tone shifting and with a small amount of horror Anastasia realized it was the same teaching tone she had used on various interns. "Try to hold them as I do."

    She held her hand up, chopsticks poised between fingers in an effortless display.

    "As far as I can tell there are some variances used to adapt to what works best, but start here."

    That traitorous smirk formed again, going against every propriety she knew was proper between them. "It's all about leverage and grip. Concepts I know you're familiar with."

  19. #19
    There it was again, another small wave of bashfulness in response to her words. Was he expecting him to respond? Was this some coded invitation? Or was Ana simply someone so at peace with herself, and so comfortable with their actions together, that she could mention it in a casual conversation between friends without even the slightest flicker of anything? If it was the latter, Lúka envied it: not because he had any regrets about their time together; he simply lacked the ability to classify it as nothing, to divorce himself from the social significance that he had been trained to associate with such activities. Don't mention it. Don't talk about it. The concept of things that were considered taboo had been one his younger self had struggled with, but now he found himself struggling to let go.

    Focusing his mind on the task at hand, he did his best to emulate what Anastasia was doing; to mirror, in fact, given Lúka's genetic predisposition to favour his left. It felt odd, like holding a datapad stylus, but holding it wrong, and then awkwardly balancing another on top of it. With careful attention he managed to get the positioning right, but as he attempted to manipulate the chopsticks, something went wrong. The points didn't align the way that they did with her, sliding awkwardly past each other rather than meeting with a satisfying click, something that was more likely to send food spinning than grasp it firmly.

    "Uh -"

    He tried again, but still failed to succeed in the way he was supposed to. He tried with more effort - perhaps it was a matter of confidence? - but no, that overzealous approach only served to dislodge the upper chopstick and send it tumbling, an awkward fumble of a catch from his other hand rescuing it before it reached the ground. His insides hurt, and he could feel Anastasia's amusement at his failures. That only intensified the internal feeling, and he wished it would reach out and grasp all of him, pulling his entire ashamed body into a collapsing singularity. Such an escape from Anastasia's smirking gaze was not possible, however. As he glanced at her, his voice was oddly quiet, carrying with it the faintest hint of defense, despite his efforts to keep things somewhat light and conversational.

    "I guess you enjoying watching me fail is the reward for my overconfidence, huh?"

  20. #20
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    "Hardly," Even as the single word left her Anastasia knew it was wrapped in far too many meanings to be taken clearly.

    It wasn't defensive, or even offended, but it wasn't nearly as playful as her tone had been - should have been. A soft sigh, far more natural than anything else she'd let transpire since Lúka had entered her Imperial-granted housing, left her as she watched him fumble awkwardly for another moment or two. That, she knew, even for just a breath, sounded far more like it carried the meaning she wanted rather than any hidden frustrations.

    "Watching you fail, Lúka Jibral, is not something I have ever found any sense of pleasure in."

    A smile drifted across her features as she paused and stole another piece of nerf for herself, the movement quick and the scrap small enough it could be finished in time to let her continue without skipping too much of a beat.

    "And considering the rarity in which that happens... Well, no undue harm done?"

    Anastasia gestured with the chopsticks her hands towards the ones in his own. "This though? This just takes practice and, clearly a better way of teaching."

    "Here," she offered, placing her utensils down on a napkin before Anastasia reached over and carefully repositioned his hold on the two stick, balancing them and securing them in a similar manner to how she found comfortable to herself.

    The touch of his hands in hers wasn't even noticed, not really, anyway. She looked at it much the same as having to manipulate any body part during an exam or when testing a patient's limits. Not that she entirely was looking at the procedure with such a sterile viewpoint, but it helped to keep her from becoming flustered by it, by the fact she had to step closer to him to do so, by the way their fingers brushing against each other threatened to drag her mind back towards other memories she simply did not want to acknowledge right then. This wasn't about that; she refused to let it be so.

    "Try it like that."

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