Private Alors On Danse

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, nothing.

Fan-bloody-tastic. How generous of this...this...whoever this utter prick was to have no ulterior motive other than the base knowledge. Evelynn withered, her eyes rolling as if she had just heard the words 'live, laugh, love' writ large upon the mural of her own skull.

Nothing, indeed.

Now she had to judge if this was a lie or if once again Evelynn had fallen victim to her own modern irrelevancy. Wonderful! That's just how she always longed to spend her evenings, sitting on the edge never knowing whether she meant nothing or was instead worth a blaster bolt between the eyes. Who didn't love that kind of life-threatening uncertainty!

What was she doing before the time of death?

Pretending to be a dissatisfied trophy wife, sir.

It appears you're still under the impression that this charade is going to continue, Evelynn rattled off as she turned away from the monumental wanker, sinking into the booth seating with folded arms like a petulant teenager who had been forced to attend Aunt Vivienne's sixty-third birthday meal, you really are Mike Hunt.

With her mental voice the emphasis could be laid in the correct places.

 

[Aver Brand]

Mike Hunt let out an audible bark of laughter and nearly sloshed a few hundred credits’ worth of whisky on a few thousand credits’ worth of suit.

Oh, that’s good. I need to remember that one, Aver returned as she settled again, her tumbler sat firmly on its posh granite coaster again. As for the charade – I’m paying you, ain’t I?

Sighing, the merc turned away as she fixed her cufflinks and crossed her hands in her lap. There were two noghri going at one another with a respectable variety of weapons And they weren’t hurling mental abuse at her with a rather offensive amount of decibels and spite.

Aver was honestly pretty fucking impressed that such a small package could contain so much venom and vitriol.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn returned with her own laughter, a scraping collective of rust from an abandoned voice. It was an uncomfortable sound and about as warm as a night spent alone in a freezer.

What are you going to do, sue me?

It was, in fact, a hilarious notion that the blonde felt some great contractual obligation to carry on providing the ridiculous service that had been paid for. Is that what honourable people did? How terrible for them. Evelynn felt no such need and neither the threat nor urgency to worry about it. What was the worst-case scenario? A tongue lashing? An old-fashioned kneecapping? A pair of concrete boots?

Oh no, how terrible, whatever would she do?

Through the massive internal bouts of sarcasm, Evelynn found that her enjoyment of the violence had somewhat lost its lustre. The idea of letting go and truly savouring the suffering of the combatants felt a little more honest and vulnerable now. She'd ruined everything. Ugh.

I'm still going to slap you, she stated casually, remaining wedged into the booth like an irritated turtle, I shall at least grant you that much of a courtesy.

 

[Aver Brand]

Her mouth moved first, a sideways curl that looked like it would much rather be wrapped around a cigarra than smiling, and instead settled for showing up a sharp fang to make up for it.

Ice blues followed a moment later, landing on Evelynn with the gentle weight of an Immortal-class star dreadnought.

“Promises promises,” she murmured during a lull in the wet sounds of violent entertainment. One of the noghri had stumbled back on a gashed leg, and now both fighters were catching their breath during the brief respite.

It wouldn’t last.

I have a confession to make. Cue smirk. Ain’t never met a Zambrano who wanted to be anonymous before.

Up in the VIP lodge above the arena, with two whores on every arm and a slave kneeling at their feet, sure thing. But hiding in the crowd off the side and moonlighting as a novelty escort?

Color Aver Brand surprised.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Foreboding.

How spicy. Evelynn could only respond to such ill-omen with a deliberately saccharine and toothy smile, as if she had been possessed by the ghost of smug customer service. If there was a single benefit to being the galaxy's perennial failure, it was the invulnerability that one felt to most measures of circumstance.

Well, most.

Because the blonde did not enjoy the 'confession' that followed, nor where it was leading and so decided not to respond in a timely fashion. Instead, she scooped her tumbler up from the table and held it up to her, observing the lamentable pain thresholds of the combatants through an amber lens.

I suppose you've never met one without a cape either.

She was well aware of the stereotypes that came with that half of her family, which was perhaps why she preferred the other, far more obscure half. There were fewer castles and angst.

If you were a... Zambrano, eugh, it even tasted terrible on the mind's tongue, would you not do the same?

 

[Aver Brand]

The shudder she mimed didn’t need a whole lot of exaggeration. What an abhorrent thought.

I don’t think anyone’s said something this awful to me in a while.

Aver sounded vaguely impressed when she finally replied, having replenished her cups to cope with the hypothetical reality of sharing blood with Kaine and his brood.

I’d go with option c. Cull the rest of the family and fade into obscurity until baristas butcher my name on coffee orders and people keep asking me if I know their uncle Enzo from Annaj.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It was, in all fairness, a pretty awful thing to say and another notch in the bedpost of the lifetime subscription to cruelty. It was cause enough for a self-congratulatory neck of luxurious swill which of course, brought Evelynn back down to reality, as it was impossible to seem composed when drinking without a tongue.

Cull the rest of the family? Evelynn repeated with an incredulous smirk, tipping her glass towards the woman. What, like all seven-thousand and three of them? I think father started reusing names. I swear that there's an Evaelyn...

She blinked. There was an Evaelyn.

...which is impressively passive-aggressive come to think of it.

Was shade inherited?

So, indulge me, what would be your Zambrano culling plan? It had better be spicy, these noghri are failing to rise to the occasion.

 

[Aver Brand]

What other possible response was there to learning such information but an arch, cocked brow?

Then again, having met the prodigal progenitor of the bloodline in all his self-aggrandizing, petty glory, Aver couldn’t say she was particularly surprised to learn such information either.

Suppose that a lofted brow was the best she could do, though.

Me?

She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair – and frowned when it sounded suspiciously like duraplast instead of the wood it was apparently painted to look like. Momentarily distracted, the merc turned her gaze from the fight to glare at the piece of furniture like it had personally wronged her.

Honestly, who owned this place? She made a mental note to track down the proprietor and make him a deal he couldn’t refuse. After the miserable marriage ended, of course.

I’d get rumors going among my fellow spawn that daddy dearest was only gonna let the top dog inherit… she swirled her drink and took a smug sip, then sit back and watch them do all the hard work for me.

If necessary, I’d step in to clean up the dregs afterwards. A smile, a wink. Problem solved.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It wasn't as if Evelynn had any immediate plans to attempt some out-of-the-blue family coup and avenge two lifetimes worth of trauma and lunacy, but it was somewhat cathartic to hear somebody else describe it. She'd half a mind to ask for more detail so she could get off about it later but there was something in doing so that would have been so deeply and terribly unhealthy.

Good to know.

She didn't want to be so open about getting a read on this woman, and so asking hypotheticals about familicide seemed to be the superior option. Calculating but willing to get the hands dirty, has an interest in combat but not ranged. Probably violent brute.

I shall avoid any future invitations to will readings.

For half a second the blonde pondered about her family and how the old war effort was getting on, and then firmly decided that she didn't actually care.

She glanced to the side, catching a profile shot of the other woman and paused, actually caring to truly look at the invader of her personal space. There really was something annoying about this woman's face. It bothered Evelynn on a base level and yet she just quite couldn't put her finger on it. What a ridiculous bone structure, where were all these chiselled Firrerreos coming fr-

Look at me, the diminutive woman suddenly demanded as if she were taking her turn to abuse the dim-witted service staff, square on, right in the eyes.

 

[Aver Brand]

Aver, obviously, didn’t do that.

She canted her head to the side – the only angle more obnoxious than a front-facing camera holo-conference call from a communicator in your lap.

Then she took a loooonnnng sip.

Something the matter?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Yes, Evelynn mentally hissed as the big git did the exact opposite of what she wanted, your face is the matter.

Naturally, she wasn't actually going to resort to violence, no, the blonde had learned some real, solid life lessons about grappling with much larger women. Firstly, that getting punched in the face was a surprisingly deeply personal kind of harm that she was not opposed to, and secondly, that if she ever ended up in a wheelchair again she would space herself.

If you don't let me see your stupid face, she started with a cheery variety of menace, sidling up to the woman in the booth as if she were some kind of demented skeleton looking for love, I will mount you, forcibly remove it, gaze lovingly upon it and then fashion a pair of tiny porg booties out of it.

That sounded an awful lot like it was heading towards violence but, I mean, she wasn't actually going to do that, heavens no! She was retired!

 

[Aver Brand]

“Mm.”

Aver made a sound of polite disbelief. The sort that gave the impression it would be dabbing its mouth with a napkin if this were a wine-and-dine sort of deal.

Too bad that you convinced me you’re too sensible for that kinda Zambrano edge.

With a serene smile, Aver righted her head again and remained in petty profile. She’d come here to watch people turn other people into fine red mist, dammit, and by the Force she was going to do it.

“Why don’t you move your ass and find out yourself?”

If this whole thing turned into a confrontation – eheh – she’d much rather know for sure just how crippled the cripple was.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It's true, I am rather sensible in comparison, Evelynn admitted as she tipped the remainder of her glass down her neck like a demented goose before her gloved prosthetic squeezed the crystal tumbler, the c r a c k leaving shards of fine glassware in her lap.

Plucking out the fragment with the sharpest, most suitable edge she gave a small shrug, but I am reformed.

The blonde felt a sense of annoyance that she had been called out like that. She was retired. She just wanted to sit, enjoy the evening and live vicariously through the anguish of others but no, it had to be all weird escort services and face cutting.

Evelynn limped over, her posture and gait were about as threatening as the woman's overall stature and she had equipped her finest and most acrid expression for the job.

In her awkward, crippled glory, and while emotionally blocking out any and all vulgarities that came forth in response Evelynn climbed onto the massive arsehole's lap. What a peculiar evening. Would anybody believe that this was happening? Would the combatants stop fighting and watch this play out instead? Force, she really was reformed if this was her train of thoughts.

With glass shard in hand, and in an undignified front-facing straddle (or profile facing straddle if you were a stupid dick who didn't turn their heads to look at people when they asked) she leaned forward to proceed. Evelynn's expression was a mask of grim concentration with her organic hand going to grip the woman's chin and the other to start cutting at the temple.

Don't move, I'm out of practice.

 

[Aver Brand]

Smashing a glass? How gauche. And to think the blonde had accused Aver of shitting on the staff. Seems Evelynn wasn’t as reformed as she claimed.

The merc tracked the process out of the corner of her eye – and a process it was, even though standing up and straddling her lap shouldn’t have been all that difficult. The woman was all gangly limbs and janky motor function and – pity – not an ounce of seduction in the mix.

What a shame. If either of them smiled more, they might’ve been beautiful.

The Zambrano was a slight weight when she finally settled on her thighs. Aver did look at her then, not so much to grant the demand but rather to watch what the blonde would do now that she’d actually gone and accepted the baldfaced challenge.

The shard glinted in the gaudy arena lighting as Evelynn raised her hand. But pearly whites doth also glint, sharper and hungrier still.

Aver grasped those thin wrists and slammed them down onto the fake mahogany lining her chair. The grip was bruising, doubtless leaving the sort of blooming red roses under the pale skin that had caused their faux marriage to fall apart in the first place.

On the other hand, there was nothing. Because the other hand was all aurum annihilation, alloy all-consuming, all-resistant, averting even Aver. The impromptu scalpel tumbled out of its grasp all the same, a soft tink tink tink that only she could hear over the roar of the crowd.

Mirth drained from her smile like blood from a slit throat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

So this was just going to happen now, like, they were really going to do th-

OhThankTheForce.

Mercifully, before Evelynn could get started on the public face removal procedure she was suitably restrained, with a nice touch of brutish force too. The sensation of bruised flesh and white knuckle clutches brought a warm thrum of nostalgia to her heart, oh, it had been so long and as she finally got a proper face-to-face inspection the blonde was reminded of not one, but two people.

It cannot have been coincidence.

I don't like your tone, Evelynn sneered, assuming her much more natural state of bile, loathing and pedantry, I seem to recall that you bothered me, clomping into my personal space like you were cock of the bloody walk, she leaned in as much as she could, to bring their faces into breathing distance, tête-à-fucking-tête, and then you challenged me.

Emeralds darting, now giving each granite-carved feature of the other woman's face true appraisal, or rather comparison. These handsome bastards. It was uncanny. No wonder she had felt so stand-offish from the start, the cheekbones of Emryc Qosta had come to haunt her. How had she even missed it the first time around?

And how did she keep fake marrying these people?!

If anything, I feel that you should be the one explaining what the kark you are doing here.

 

[Aver Brand]

Not only the cheekbones, but the flat expression and the dead eyes too!

Aver stared at Evelynn staring at her. It wasn’t some Tattooinan-standoff bullshit routine, though. More like trying to get a read on the blonde through all that festering spite and enough boiling hatred to make the Cauldron overflow.

It would be impressive if it weren’t aimed straight at her face.

“I don’t clomp,” the mercenary calmly corrected. Glancing away from that withering gaze, Aver turned over her grip on the prosthetic hand (arm?), tugging it higher to inspect the work. It looked and felt and felt expensive. Stank of the Dark side, too. Bother, she’d be stuck getting the smell out of her clothes for weeks.

Her lips curled back in mild disgust. She could always just burn the suit.

“And there’s nothing personal in a booth for two.” Like twin glaciers, her eyes slid back to Evelynn and stayed there. “My invitation came embossed and gilded. How could I say no?”

Her mouth split into a knife-smile as she leaned forward into the blonde’s bluff, their lips nearly brushing as they shared the same air. At least it carried Whyren’s instead of JUB. From a good enough distance and with the flickering shadows bathing their corner of the arena, they might’ve been mistaken for the real thing – two dapper monsters so enraptured by the bloodbath below they couldn’t even wait to get to their hotel room.

This is starting to sound like a setup, don’t you think?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn let the moment sit, allowing her disgust to simmer in the waft of hot breath as she came to the slow realisation of just how much she had changed.

One lifetime ago and this, whatever this was ended in absolute carnage. She could picture it, even feel it like traces of the theoretical, like fingertips brushing up the base of her spine. Wild, shameless debauchery writ large in equal measures blood, sweat and sin. No form, no function. The Silent Sister was libertine lunacy at its most base and destructive, clawing, cutting, biting, burning, fucking her way to some untold hedonistic zenith that only she could see. Others conquered planets, carved out swathes of the galaxy as their legacy but Evelynn had seized the very concept of p l e a s u r e.

No wonder she died, the stupid bitch.

She returned to the current with a sudden humorous exhale, as if the blonde had remembered some old joke from years ago, a simpering smile spreading across her face like molasses. That would explain why the table is ticking, she mocked before conceding the point and pulling her head back from such close quarters.

A setup orchestrated by whom? Why? Evelynn inquired with haughty mental tones, wriggling mechanical fingers that had only moments before been judged as disgusting by Old Clompy herself. Who even are you anyway?

She withered with pantomime dramatics, choosing to hold her hand close to her chest for the time being.

Good grief, you're not a Mandalorian, are you?

 

[Aver Brand]

Whom and why were very good questions, indeed. Aside from the blonde’s ancient history – predating a death and subsequent resurrection, apparently – Aver didn’t know much at all about her. Whatever new life she led, it was quiet enough to stay buried to the first perusals of her infochant teams. Doubtless there would be a long, multi-tab report on her desk by the end of the week—

She didn’t have a week. There was only now, with a pair of crazy green eyes too close for comfort and a clear, willful intent to carve off her face lingering in those metallic fingers.

Aver liked her face. She wanted to keep it for a while longer, thank you very much.

Good grief, you're not a Mandalorian, are you?

“I thought long convos and Mandos were a bit… mutually exclusive.” Smirk. “Not that I don’t shoot people and fight wars. I can just string a couple more words together.”

With a wink, she released the weaker of Evelynn’s arms in order to shake her hand.

“Aver Brand, The Equalizers.” Her expression faded into a wry, distant smile. “I’m a mercenary.”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Fair point, really, even with the direct threat of face removal this entire encounter had been far too civilised for either of the pair to be Mandalorian. There had been no chest-thumping, nor crayon snorting and the women hadn't felt the need to shout VODE at each other with delusions of honour and machismo.

At the least they had something they could truly agree upon now.

Her wrist was finally relinquished in the name of a civilised handshake, which proper etiquette demanded the removal of gloves and so using her teeth Evelynn bit into the soft, black leather and pulled the garment off.

And yes, her anaemic flesh was already bruising from the unyielding grip.

Evelynn Dorn, she replied, opting to use her lesser-known but much preferred maternal surname, although I do prefer Beatrice Govan these days. Still holding the glove between her front teeth, the blonde flicked her head and let go, tossing it over her shoulder. Logistics coordinator with Qore.

Was she actually a logistics coordinator? Nobody knew, because nobody actually knew what logistics coordinators did, and she lived for that sense of mundane mystery.

I'm sorry, I have to ask, she started, needing to get to the bottom of the question of the familiar face, you look remarkably similar to a... benefactor, acquaintance, friend ...nuisance of mine. You don't happen to have a... brother, nephew, cousi-

A maliciously pleasant and tight-lipped smile slipped onto gaunt features.

...a son, do you? Glowering, sullen, has never smiled a day in his life. Clenched so tightly that he probably shits diamonds. She waggled her now free hand at the woman's face. A bone structure carved by the gods of vanity. Ring any bells?

 

[Aver Brand]

Evelynn Dorn, then. No love lost for the infamous branch of her family. And the new name… Something to look into.

It was good, on the whole, that the blonde preferred drip-fed cruelty to a shotgun approach. It gave the mercenary time to settle every live wire in her body, to measure her breath and wrest control of her facial expression. Time to process the description of a man so acutely accurate it could not be anything but him.

The bassline thrummed through her blood – through their bodies where they met, thighs and hands and metal arm.

“I may be a Mike Hunt, Beatrice, but at least I’m not a mother.” Aver winked at the woman as if they shared some sort of inside joke now. “A lot of people shit diamonds in my line of work, I’m afraid,” she replied after a beat, an amused smile quirking her lips.

“A name would be most helpful.”

There was still a chance, however minuscule, that the universe wasn’t about to bend her over the railing and go to town raw.