fighting_mad | [Sandbox]: Medth, Ado Sector

[Sandbox]: Medth, Ado Sector

It helps, Plourr has discovered, to think of trade negotiations as a series of dogfights. Just like going head-to-head with a particularly stubborn eyeball, you juke and feint so the enemy can't figure out your true path until it's too late.

There are more formal receptions involved, though, in trade negotiations.

When the wine is as fine and the company as decent as it's been at the negotiations on Medth, Plourr can't even complain. These things tend to be stuffy and painfully polite, but Medth has been different. Two of the most influential councilors on the planet's ruling council were elected to their positions following decorated military careers in the Republic Armed Forces. Those two old battleaxes were sensible, blunt voices at the negotiating table during the day and, by night, are hungry for first-hand news from Rogue Squadron. They weren't the only guests who wanted to hear stories of Endor and Brentaal. Plourr, with a glass of Rydonnian spicewine in hand, is happy to oblige.

By the time the party breaks up for the evening, Plourr is feeling more cheerful than she has since arriving on Medth straight from a deployment with the Rogues. In record time, she exchanges her ceremonial clothes for something far less attention-grabbing, ditches her Medth honor guard, and goes in search of Rial.

She's whistling.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Plourr is whistling. Rial, on the other hand, is not.

It's not that the negotiations have been unpleasant; the planet is beautiful, the people are welcoming, and the elected councilors have been, for the most part, surprisingly less slimy than Rial is used to. No one makes pointed comments about Plourr's upbringing off-Eiattu or her status as part heir-apparent, part Republic pilot, but rather they all seem to find it fascinating. Rial's been contenting himself with safe-if-boring conversations about recent holodramas and various scenic places to visit while Plourr has been the center of a knot of fascinated faces, hanging on to her every word as her hands dance through the motions of a dogfight.

He's not jealous, of course. That would be ridiculous. It's good to see Plourr's face light up as she flies an hor d'oeuvre into her glass of spicewine. It's good to hear the laughter in her voice. It's good that she has this passion, this joy, these happy memories of friends and flying.

They will have time to make memories for themselves on Eiattu, Rial reminds himself. And happy memories of happy times start with happy trade negotiations so that fuel shortages don't get any shorter. That's probably why as soon as the party was coming to an end and his slipping away wouldn't be questioned, he headed back to his assigned quarters, changed into his most comfortable pair of sleeping pants, and settled down with a datapad, stylus, and giant stack of reports.

It's just possible he's mumbling to himself around the stylus in his mouth. "Gross domestic product of...hrmm...could offer incentives on the export tax..."

It's late enough that Plourr escapes notice as she makes her way through the citadel's residential wing. The handful of people she encounters look like they're returning from wild nights out, and the last thing they're interested in is a lone stranger determinedly stalking past them.

She punches the buzzer at Rial's door with gusto.

"Just a moment," Rial calls, although it comes out a lot more like "Juss a'momom" around the stylus he's gnawing on with determination. Mind caught up in the quote-unquote exciting vagaries of interplanetary tax protocol, he's not particularly thinking about who might be coming to call.

Which is probably why he answers the door with datapad in hand, stylus in mouth, and wearing nothing more than his pyjama bottoms.

The whistling cuts out abruptly.

"A bit underdressed, but you'll do," Plourr says cheerfully. Her face is bright with mischief.

Plourr's alcohol tolerance is legendary even among the Rogues, but as the guest of honor on a world where the beverages of choice are (1) spicewine and (2) a locally-brewed concoction that tastes like drinking snubfighter fuel, she has a rare pleasant buzz.

"Come on. We're going out."

Edited 2017-01-15 19:15 (UTC)

Rial is probably lucky that the stylus is just a little too big to inhale. As it is, the thing gets spat over his shoulder to follow the datapad, hastily tossed in order to free up arms for a) hiking the waistband up as high as it will go and b) demurely wrapping around his chest.

"Plourr," he (most certainly does not) squeaks, backing up hastily from the door. "What are you -- what are we -- we're going out?"

The color in Plourr's cheeks is almost certainly 100% alcohol, but the color in Rial's is the flame of embarrassment. He has a brief internal debate about being rude, then ignores it completely to dart into his sleeping quarters and slam a hand down on the door control.

Fumbling frantically for some slightly more appropriate clothing, "Where are we going? What's going on?"

"We," she says grandly, "are going to go see the real city." She perches on the arm of a particularly ugly armchair and calls, "Dress down."

"As opposed to the fake city?" There's a smile audible through Rial's words and the door as his heart slows to a more manageable beat. When he slips back out through the door to his main quarters a few moments later, he's about as dressed down as he can get given what he packed -- dark trousers, a green tunic with cream piping, a leather jacket.

He takes the other and slightly less ugly armchair in order to pull on his boots, grinning up at his princess. "May I take it you enjoyed the spicewine?"

"It was tolerable," she drawls.

"Do you have a blaster?"

Plourr gets a raised eyebrow. "And a vibroblade, but I can't say I was counting on needing either."

Things are more stable then before but that doesn't mean Rial hasn't gotten in the habit of carrying a holdout on him. Of course, that's with political assassins rather than potential barfights in mind...

"Are you inviting me out as a date...or a bodyguard?"

"As a person who knows you don't walk into this kind of bar without a blaster," she retorts, rising from the chair. (Plourr is wearing a blaster at her hip.)

Edited 2017-01-15 23:05 (UTC)

"...I am aflame with anticipation." But it's worth noting that not only does Rial buckle on his holster, he also slips his vibroblade into the side of his boot.

Preparations complete, he proffers an arm. He can't exactly say this was how he thought the evening would go, but. "Lead the way, my princess."

Plourr had half-expected to have to argue Rial out of the citadel, so this is going swimmingly so far.

"No, no," she says, slapping his shoulder companionably. "None of that." She points back at him as she goes out the door. "And definitely no 'princess.' We're anonymous offworlders."

It is entirely possible that Plourr is not the only one who was enjoying the local beverages.

Also, he's bored.

"Anonymous offworlders. Do we need aliases?" He lengthens his stride to draw level with her. "I could be...Gran Starkiller." Oh yeah. "Master of sabacc and the skies."

"You were ready with that," she says. She cuts an amused, mocking look at him. "Have you been planning a second life?"

During the city's night hours, the glowlamps automatically dim. The ceilings are high and vaulted, the corridor mostly open to the courtyard. Medth has a temperate climate, and flowers and trees apparently bloom year-round. There's a low-level buzz of insects.

Plourr is leading them, with confidence, toward the courtyard.

Edited 2017-01-16 02:28 (UTC)

"More like a childhood fantasy," Rial admits. "I was going to be a high-living smuggler with a gambling habit and enough disposable income for a really flashy ship that somehow managed to go unnoticed by every law enforcement droid out there. A meter-eight tall, big muscles, custom blasters," a woman at every port, he very carefully doesn't say.

Also it might be worth noting that he's well over a meter nine at this point.

"But count seems an acceptable second." Rial has dropped back half a step as they continue outside, staying at her left shoulder.

Edited 2017-01-16 03:04 (UTC)

Plourr laughs. "Do you have the sabacc skills to back up that plan?"

Medth is a peaceful world, one that has carefully maintained its neutral status. Plourr was easily able to convince her offered guards to stay behind, and most buildings are low-lying, open to the warm air, and not more than a few stories tall. It's easy enough to slip out of the citadel. They're exiting a quiet side entrance, rather than the massive atrium with soaring columns and climbing vines.

Dryly, "You've played me. I'm fairly certain you can draw your own conclusions."

The air is nearly the same temperature inside as out, warm and lightly humid without being sticky. It's a rather pleasant change from Eiattu's rainy season, and Rial turns his face to the sky for a moment, drinking in the stars.

Plourr guffaws and glances over at him. Her look holds, though. "You're going to blow our cover," she says, reaching over and tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. "Don't you have anything with some wrinkles?"

The streets are quiet; wind rustling through the trees that are growing amid all the ferrocrete. A few dark speeders parked on corners. There are rowdy voices in the distance, maybe a few blocks away.

Rial somewhat fussily tugs his sleeve right back. "I was under the impression I was on Medth for a trade summit, not a sleazy barhop." The tone is more teasing than anything else, and the smile hasn't left his face. "This is about as good as it gets."

Perhaps he is just a very well-dressed street tough?

"Rial," says Plourr seriously, shaking her head, "if you're going to travel with me, you should always be prepared for a sleazy barhop."

There are strict divides, in Eiattu's capital city, between wealthy areas and where ordinary people live; divides that Plourr wants to see break down. On Eiattu, the streets surrounding the governing buildings would be silent and pristine at this hour. It's not the same here. They'll only have to walk a block before starting to run into the city's nightlife.

It's kriffing fantastic.

Really, he should have known. Travel with Rial: be prepared for a fany dinner or unexpected art gallery exploration. Travel with Plourr: sleazy barhop or fisticuffs in the jungle.

(he rolls his eyes, a little, but there's no denying the wry pleasure on his face.)

As the streets become more active Rial picks up a sideways glance or two, but he keeps his walk confident. "Did you have a place in mind?"

They've wandered-with-purpose into a main commerce area -- closed storefronts, street vendors loudly hawking their wares (primarily some sort of meat-on-a-stick, sizzling as it cools), tattoo parlors, and, mostly, bars. Lots of bars. The scene is a riot of color and voices and music.

There are people everywhere, here. They're ducking in and out of the handful of open shops, and in and out of bars. It's primarily a young, cheerfully drunk crowd; a bizarre mix of students slumming it on a night away from the university that's located a few blocks away, and a less-reputatable looking crowd. The farther down the street they go, the more the balance tips from the former to the latter.

There are more than a few blasters.

"I got a recommendation," Plourr says, easily shouldering her way through. "The Blasted Nakereth. Decent beer and music that won't make your ears bleed." A ringing endorsement from one of her Medth-born guards, right there.

Rial is starting to be slightly more thankful for the feeling of his blaster safely holstered against his hip. He also can't help but notice that the recommendation included notes on the beer and ambiance, but nothing about safety.

His fingers twitch, but he manages to suppress the urge to check his vibroblade as well. Although -- he has to admit, there's something almost contagious about the boisterous crowds. It's been far too long since he's gotten a chance to cut loose.

"Sounds appealing." He's not actually being as sarcastic as he sounds. "I shall attempt to fit in." Now he's just plain old joking around with her, the stilted dictation of Eiattu high society he's really only just started to lose coming out thick.

Plourr snorts. "Somebody's gonna try to mug you before the night's over," she says.

She sounds like she's looking forward to it.

"Aren't I lucky I have a prin-- a lady friend to defend me from unsavory sorts, then." Not entirely necessary -- while Rial certainly can't compare to Plourr's level of combat experience, he can certainly hold his own in a fight.

Which, of course, doesn't mean he wants to get in one. The two of them have been attracting the occasional curious look already. The sooner they get to the bar, the better.

(this has nothing to do with Rial wanting to soothe residual nerves with cheap beer, nosirree)

Well, that probably marks the first time in Plourr's life that anyone has ever referred to her as their lady friend.

"Subtle," says Plourr over her shoulder, as she takes a left at a stall selling jewelry that's likely of dubious legal provenance.

Rial is the most subtle of all. Really.

He is so subtle that probably Plourr will never even notice who punches her shoulder as he scoots up to draw alongside her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Sandbox]: Medth, Ado Sector

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject