fighting_mad | [OOM] Eiattu - Royal Bedchambers

Plourr is in bed. That's where she is all the damn time now, besides regular trips to the 'fresher and the occasional excursion to the living room sofa. She is, as one might imagine, not well pleased.

But she feels uncomfortable; 'enormous' and 'ungainly' are two other words that immediately spring to mind, along with 'like shit.' It's reached the point where she feels better (for a given value of 'better') keeping her feet up than she does moving around, so in all honesty, she wouldn't exactly be running any marathons even if she hadn't been ordered to bed by the little old royal doctor.

That doesn't mean that she is any less cranky about the entire situation, though.

There is a stack of datacards and a reader in the bed beside her, along with a small holoprojector and another stack, this one of holos. A small stuffed bantha also sits on the Plourr-free side of the bed, a blue tie pinned to just above its mouth, the tie looking suspiciously like a set of droopy blue mustachios.

The bedroom is large and spacious, styled in golds and creams and yellows with a high ceiling, and manages to appear rich even with the simple decor, much like the rest of the apartment. There isn't much in the room; neither Plourr nor Rial are ones for clutter, besides the items in the bed. Two wardrobes, two closets, a dresser with a mirror over it, a (closed) door to the 'fresher, and the enormous four-poster bed, the bedcurtains tied back. There are a few holos scattered here and there--a group of Rogue Squadron pilots (including a bald Plourr) in orange flightsuits caught mid-laugh, one or two shots of Plourr and Rial together (and not a one of them is a proper, posed still-holo)--but few knicknacks. A painting, carried out by a hand skilled in oils, of the palace in summer.

The balcony doors are open. It is a beautiful day outside, the warm, thick air curling in through the doorway, the white roofs of the capital city laid out below the palace walls and the blue-green sea--dotted with repulsorcraft--stretching as far as the eye can see beyond.

Plourr sits in the bed, propped up by exhorbitant amounts of pillows, reading from the datapad resting on her stomach. She looks good. Very pregnant and almost as bored, but healthy, red hair loose about her face and her attention on her reading. She spends a lot of time reading. And informing the baby that if she doesn't quit rolling around and kicking her and causing her pain, things are going to go Very Badly for her.

Chances are excellent that the baby recognizes this for the empty threat that it is, because it has yet to dissuade her from driving Plourr out of her mind.

If you aren't Plourr's (admittedly well-meaning) mother- or father-in-law, chances are excellent that she is going to be thrilled to see you.

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Makita snags the hat out of the air and laughs. "You're getting good at that."

Then she complies and walks over to drop the hat onto Plourr directly. "Still alive. Didn't even get hurt, really. Couple of close calls, but that's how life goes, right?"

Plourr picks up the hat and examines it, running her thumb over the star pin. She shifts over in the bed to leave more space--not that she needs to, given the size of the bed and the size of the Gorka girl--in an unspoken invitation, though should it be ignored, there are plenty of things in the room to be examined, and a chair has been pulled up to the side of the bed and left there.

"Right," she agrees, and she glances up at Makita. "You got your special ops team, then?"

"Yeah. Good people, too. Then bar weirdness happened and I got a bunch of civilians too." She was still really pissed about that.

"You did take people with you?" she says. The civilian comment receives a frown, but will be returned to momentarily. "Good. But I meant the Red special ops team. You got 'em?"

Those eyes are no less dark and fierce for being on a woman stuck in bed in the ninth month of pregnancy.

"Oh yeah," Makita grins savagely, "They never even knew what hit them." There are still a few splashes of blood on her coat that she couldn't clean out.

Plourr grins in return, sharp and wolfish. "Good girl. And your team, they all made it back to Milliways?"

"It was close, but yeah. Mel and Goldy didn't make it through the door, but apparently Mel had another way back to the bar." Makita still frowned in memory as she thought back to those hours where her friends had been trapped on the other side with the Reds swarming everywhere.

"You're making faces, Makita," says Plourr. "That's not the face of somebody whose whole team made it back in one piece."

In short: smile, dammit.

"You," Makita rolls her eyes, "Are one cranky pregnant woman."

"You try being fat and stuck in bed all day," she says, shooting her a flat look. "See how you like it."

"No thanks," Makita laughs. Then she sobers a bit, "Besides, I don't have anywhere to raise a kid."

She swats at the girl for the laugh, not hard enough to shove her off the edge of the bed.

"No," she says, her pointed sour glare fading. "But you're working on that. Clearing the Reds out of your city, one platoon at a time."

Makita nods, "Yeah. By the time we're done," if they ever are, "I'll be too old anyway."

"Yeah," she says, not one for meaningless optimism. "Well. This whole part of it's kriffing overrated, anyway. You're not missing much. And besides," her eyes slide sideways as her mouth quirks upward a little, just a little, "I'll be on the market for babysitters soon."

Now Makita snorts in amusement, "I don't think you want me watching your kid, Plourr. Might teach her some bad habits, you know." Like killing people.

One red eyebrow rises. "Such as...?"

Remember your audience, Makita.

"Rigging your room with explosives to ward off uninvited guests?" Somehow she doesn't think that that would go down to well here.

Plourr rolls her eyes, fondly. "I meant babysitting at the bar, Makita. There'd be questions around here if there was a girl with blasters, ripped stockings, and a strange accent minding the princess of the realm."

"Yeah? There'll probably be questions when your kid shows up with unexplained grenades and starts rigging doors with them too." She's grinning at the thought.

"Makita," says Plourr. "Look at who this girl's mother is."

She says the dreaded 'm' word without so much as a hitch. Such is progress.

"There won't be any questions if she starts making things explode."

"Can't argue with that," Makita smirks.

Then she leans back, "So, really, how's it going?"

Plourr exhales quietly, and glances toward the open balcony doors and the shining sea visible through them.

"Sucks," she says frankly, after a moment. She laces her hands over her stomach. "It's almost to the point where I just want the kid out."

"Well, it's your own fault."

Makita's real bad at this sympathy thing. Who'da thunk?

Yeah, Makita gets shoved off the bed for that one.

Pregnant? Yes. Weak? Hell no.

She tumbles across the floor, then sits up rubbing at her cheek where it impacted with something hard. "Hey! What was that for?"

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