Private Alors On Danse

[Beatrice Govan]

A peculiar sort of hum came from the back of her throat, sounding more like the hinges of an old haunted door than the noise of human consideration.

There came no instinctual reaction from the mercenary, no twitch in scrutinised features, no giveaway glint in those awfully familiar eyes. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It was as if Evelynn had asked the woman a question about the bloody weather.

No card games with this one then, she silently noted.

Emryc Qosta, she replied swiftly, refusing to let the moment settle.

Perhaps, as she remained in the lap of this Aver Brand, her only physical weapon currently held aloft by a brutish hand Evelynn might have stopped to consider going any further with this inquiry. She hoped that Emryc held a perfectly valid reason for neglecting to mention dangerous and predatory living relatives but the man could barely scrape a sentence longer than five words together, so why would he have brought it up?

Ah, fear was for the masses anyway.

 

[Aver Brand]

Ah. No lube and over the railing it is.

Aver wanted to close her eyes and whimper. She smiled instead, the corners of her eyes even crinkling a bit in what seemed to be a genuine gesture. At this point she couldn’t even be mad anymore. The universe seemed to be hell-bent on overcorrecting for the absence of family in her life. You’d think in a galaxy of trillions, it’d be easy enough to avoid each other.

Then again, crap always floats to the top.

“Can’t say I’ve met the man,” she said after a moment, her pensive expression fading away. “But if he owns this place, I’d very much like to. I think we’d have a lot to talk about.”

Her grin grew, sharp teeth catching the glint of pulsing neon lights.

“Qore, you said?”

Turns out her infochants wouldn’t be bored a while yet.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

“EAY?!” Evelynn suddenly said out loud, hoping that the sudden incredulous outburst of mangled, disused vowels from a tongueless maw would be startling, if not disconcerting.

She remained there, emeralds drilling into sapphires, the blonde's expression fixed in open mouth contempt as if to say, how very dare you. She refused to eat the steaming pile of bantha shit that had just been served up on a platter for her very consumption. Was it impossible for her to meet two unrelated Firrerreos with an uncanny resemblance in the vast galaxy? No.

But the Force preferred weaving contrived coincidences, not genuine ones.

Yes, Qore, she said responded matter-of-factly, stepping back into the realms of frigid mental communication as her lower jaw protruded in frustration.

A thin sheen of threat seemed to blanket over them, an implied variety of nastiness that suggested future violence. However, Evelynn was not some bleating variety of helpless prey trapped in the literal lap of the carnivore, no, she was the patron saint of vindictive loathing, willingly sat in the literal lap of a carnivore. Unabashed and unafraid.

And rather annoyed.

And you are correct, in fact, Mr Qosta has very recently purchased ownership of The Whisk, she sneered, but it was mostly because The Whisk was still a remarkably idiotic name, but I would, personally, advise him against conducting any and all business with you.

Of course, she suspected that he wouldn't want to either, well, on speculation of blood relations at least.

Because you're really rather irritating.

 

[Aver Brand]

Predators survived by dint of skill and experience and instinct. She had survived the Sith and her mercenary career and more than three decades of being an underworld kingpin. (Queenpin?) The change that came over Evelynn was a palpable one. Something that looked like a glacier sliding into place, cool and slow but final. Familiar. Aver Brand did that too.

“How rude,” she murmured, releasing the blonde’s hand. Her fingers lingered on the back of her palm, silver on grave white. “I’ve been very patient with you, wouldn’t you say?” Her lips curled into a gentle smile as she ran a caress up and down the flesh hidden by the crisp pantsuit.

“I think we can both agree that The Whisk needs some…” a brief, pained grimace passed over her beautiful, cuntly features, “help.”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh goodness! I am honoured by your graciousness, she simpered, her mental tones dripping with only the finest and most sarcastic bile, as her stare grew wide false dismay, you are so charitable and humble to have granted me your patience!

Evelynn bowed her head, fully committing to her mockery and moved to grasp Aver's grazing hand as to grant it a kiss in faux prostrate fealty.

Please, forgive my brazen insolence, Your Grace!

A flick of a switch and her face reverted to its natural state, that barely restrained venomous sneer that felt like home upon such severe features. She had to admit, being such an overly sardonic queen truly felt thrilling. Was this her new hobby? Did this count as a hobby? Show me your impatience, darling, let it all out.

The blonde sniffed, her posture reverting to normal as she resumed her verbal assault, an eyebrow raised in challenged before it settled into a state of annoyance.

Mr Qosta is more than capable of handling a refit and rebranding of The Whisk. Of course, you've never met him, so perhaps you were painfully unaware of this fact.

 

[Aver Brand]

It was in moments like these that her thoughts of retirement suddenly loomed large. Their deep shadow fell over the whole encounter, discoloring the bloody joy of the evening and the flavor of the whisky on her tongue, all in one fell swoop. It wasn’t new, but it was just as unwelcome as the first time.

Aver quirked a wry little smile at the saccharine routine, gently reclaiming her hand.

And then she stood from her seat, at once releasing the blonde from her grasp and her lap. Recovered drink in hand, the mercenary stepped over the mess on the floor and leaned on the railing to survey the mess in the arena instead.

“I’m sure he’s equipped to handle it. I’m just not sure he’s got the…” she turned around and gestured to the décor at large, “taste to make it work.”

Despite the words coming out her mouth, Aver was surprised to find out she didn’t really care to force the issue. Maybe Evelynn would give in – probably she wouldn’t. Either way, her brother was a) clearly alive and b) doing very well by the looks of things. You didn’t buy whole-ass stations if you weren’t financially comfortable.

When she’d kicked him off Nadir, the most she’d expected out of the man was survival. But damn if her recent conversations with her mother hadn’t spurred new considerations.

Sometimes, she wished she’d thrown the whole lot off that skyscraper and saved herself the trouble.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It wasn't exactly the most dignified way to exit somebody's lap, but then again dignity was an overrated crutch held by the plebeian masses. Pride: the beskar'gam of sins, such a dreadfully tedious suit of armour.

She sat upon the floor for a few seconds more, observing her dropped shard of glass that had very nearly found its way into the scant flesh of her bottom. As the blonde stared at the fragment of ruined glassware she felt a sense of contentment, the poisonous frog at the bottom of the pond, warding off predators with bright and strange colours.

Like niche escort services and face removal.

Evelynn finally stood, retrieving her discarded glove from the floor in the process before hobbling back over to her seat, where she planned to be happily nestled until the arena's evening program was over.

A bold move to assume that either of you have taste.

At last, she peeled off her right-hand glove, giving sight to the golden apparatus that so often remained hidden under black leather. Gilded fingers like ornate talons fluttered as Evelynn stared at them, drinking in their hideously ostentatious nature. A terrible over-the-top creation, she recalled the way Darth Adekos had glanced at her statement piece with something akin to approval. Now there was an arbiter of taste.

You both seem practical, function over form, neutral colours with a bright trim at most, she elaborated, although Evelynn herself had no real issue with the aforementioned aesthetic that she was about to drag, The Whisk would be fated to look like the men's section of a high street tailor no matter who purchased it first.

Suddenly she envisioned an army of ornamental staff with matching jawlines and cheekbones carved from unfeeling marble as if it was the core job requirement. Horrifying.

Does it even matter? Buy a different station, call it The Spatula and live your best monochrome life of excess.

 

[Aver Brand]

The laughter tumbled easy and free from her throat in a way it never would have ten, twenty, forty years ago. She raised her tumbler to salute the blonde, then took a generous swig of the sloshing amber liquid.

Touché.

Her gaze lingered on Evelynn’s features – the way the flickering lights animated their sharp edges into a staccato shadow-play, the way expressions deformed and pulled on the keen lines of her pale face. After long moments of unabashed appreciation those blue eyes drifted lower, settling on the gaudy gilt glittering under the sleeve of the gray evening ensemble.

How come—

A raucous roar swept over the arena, drowning out her thoughts. With a curious brow, Aver glanced over her shoulder to see one of the noghri had torn off the jaw of the other. The sand painted a wretched map of their struggle, red seeping into gold around the twitching fighter as his opponent choked out the last of his breath.

With a mental note to hire the man after the match, Aver faced the blonde again. How does a woman who’s willing to whore herself for a stranger afford an alchemized arm like that?

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It's only sex.

Evelynn scoffed and with a disapproving shake of her head continued to observe her own obscene construction. Beatrice Govan was never seen without gloves, and so the golden prosthetic more often than not remained under buried and disused. A complete and utter waste, but a blessing at the same time. Abusing potent alchemical creations fused to one's own body seemed unwise, after all.

The most mundane of pleasures.

From behind the brutish obstruction of Aver Brand she heard the telltale whisper of death creep through the back of her skull like a shiver, all the ecstasy of agony evaporating into that looming nothingness and lost to the ether. What an abhorrent waste of sensation. She may have no longer been left climbing the walls and clawing at her own flesh in rampant pain-addicted frenzy like a lunatic but it was still tragic.

Like a recovering alcoholic watching a rare vintage get poured down the drain.

I traded my tongue, if you must know, she finally conceded, feeling no need to hide these kinds of truths from the mercenary. Still, Evelynn focused upon her own hand, trickling gradual focus into the limb as spindly fingers began to slowly shift and warp as if melting from solid metal into liquid. From the wrist up it began to take the form of a clip point blade, still golden in nature but no less devastating. A worthwhile trade, she felt.

Does paying for sex make you feel powerful?

 

[Aver Brand]

Aver Brand, a brutish obstruction? Pffft. She cut a damn fucking fine figure, thank you very much. With or without the suit, though the appeal certainly catered to different tastes.

Unless you were Desdemona Shamalain.

With a private smirk, the mercenary abandoned the railing to retake her seat, folding into the plush upholstery with careful, measured movements. Mostly because her gaze was fixated on the frankly fascinating transformation of the golden hand into the golden knife.

“That’s… impressive,” Aver conceded without shame, her brows nearly hitting her hairline. Knowing what she did of alchemy practitioners, the nature of the cost was hardly surprising. Probably some emaciated lunatic gone mad with Dark side abuse, blue veins showing through paper skin, cackling hourly in his underground-lab-slash-isolated-fortress on a barren planet somewhere. It was a type.

Does paying for sex make you feel powerful?

She pursed her lips at that, giving the question actual consideration as she sipped her drink. Or as much consideration as she could, given the sponsor announcements blasting through the speakers again. Fucking Emryc fucking Qosta.

“You know, I don’t know,” she said at length, gaze panning back to the blonde. “Never done it.”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

I see.

Evelynn tilted her head, casting a quizzical look over her bladed arm as she turned it over, inspecting the flawless detail of the alchemic construction, every molecule in perfect form as intended by her, the owner.

It was only a small glimpse of the prosthetic arm's ability, but she opted to keep the rest to herself, lest it got ripped straight from her shoulder to be sent to some research and development lab to turn a future profit. It was a touch tragic that her own limb held more inherent value than she did as a person.

Internally drowning such a morose train of thought, she turned to look at the mercenary and offered her most premium nasty little smirk.

And if I'd called your bluff, would have gone through with it?

 

[Aver Brand]

Aver barked out a laugh and downed the rest of her glass with exceptional gusto.

“Oh, yes.” Her red mouth split into a pearly grin. “Never don’t mean I ain’t curious, just that it ain’t really come up.”

“And does pretending to be a weird escort make you feel powerful, Evelynn?”

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Well, I am honoured to have been your theoretical first prostitute.

She considered the question for a moment or two, face turning contemplative as she sought an answer that was surprisingly easy to find.

Yes.

Laying the flat of her gilded blade in the palm of her hand Evelynn turned attention back to that which glittered, observing the contrast between the cold shine of metal against pale and fragile flesh. There was a strange smile, almost genuine in nature which felt alien upon her regularly snide visage.

Chaotically so.

Running the edge across her palm the blade sliced with wonderful precision, cutting a layer of skin so paper cut thin that she could still see the gold beneath it. The sharpness was truly astounding. A pathetic dribbling of blood came forth from the galaxy's most superficial wound and Evelynn returned to reality with a few awkward blinks.

I must apologise, you've met me at a very strange time in my life.

 

[Aver Brand]

Snort. Who was this woman?

Aver had met her fair share of characters during her long and eventful career amid the stars, among which the father of her present company wasn’t even that high on the list. His daughter, in fact, likely earned herself a higher spot, if only for actually having a decent sense of humor and better fashion sense.

“No shet?”

She shot a raised eyebrow at the blonde as an afterthought, her toothy smirk almost emphasis enough.

Almost.

Something about this evening – and this whole place, to be honest – just screamed ‘over the top’, and who was Aver not to oblige? Especially if it was her brother doing the asking.

Ha.

“I’m guessing there ain’t been many times in your life that weren’t strange.”

Jedi calling the Sith corrupt, maybe, but at least Aver hadn’t married her Queen. And that Queen had abdicated her throne decades ago, anyway. And… she hadn’t died and been resurrected a Zambrano. Yet.

Shudder.

She topped off her glass and took a healthy sip to drown the thought.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

An idea came in a flash, both peculiar and enigmatic as she stared at the glorified paper cut upon her palm. Eyes widened, head tilted and for a couple of seconds she froze, lost in the mundane brilliance of her brain blast. Ever-so-slowly her stare traversed over to the alchemical blade as she shifted it further, altering heel, edge, point and tip one after the other as if it were a model striking a pose between flashes.

It was the ultimate kitchen knife, unlimited purpose all in one arm. Pairing one second, filleting the next. Oh, the galaxy was so focused on how to utilise everything as a weapon that they didn't stop to realise the pot-

There it was! That aforementioned strangeness. That little, bizarre voice netherbent on leading Evelynn to outlandish horizons. One with copious volumes of soup and lives spent as fake dissatisfied wives, pulling her further and further away from acerbic loathing and closer to...well, whatever this was.

Was it clone madness? Cybernetic psychosis? A mid-life crisis?

I would hardly call any of it my life, she spoke, her golden blade liquefying and forming back into a regular hand as she looked back up and out towards the arena, it belonged to my mother, then my father, then my...

Nemene Talith.

The blonde made a face, much like she had taken a bite of the proverbial shet sandwich as an array of barriers and convenient chest high-walls began to rise from the arena floor. Nobody civilised wished to watch a gunfight.

...it was never mine, as strange as it may have been, her lips pursed with faux-sadness, mocking her own cruel circumstance as she looked to the mercenary with a new simpering mental tone, nobody was safe from the blonde's disrespect, not even herself, too bad, so sad.

A deflector shield sprang to life around the pit, a necessary evil for the pleasure of watching boys with their toys.

Now it is mine, or at least I think it is. Hard to say sometimes as your cheekbone twin, Mr Qosta is a rather peculiar sort, probably bought The Whisk because Evelynn had asked him if he knew what the forecast was going to be, so as usual, he spent credits to avoid answering ANY kind of question, of course, you wouldn't know that because YoU'vE nEvEr MeT hIm.

She simply stared at Aver Brand, now equipped with a tight-lipped smile that would let the brute know that the blonde absolutely did not believe her and that, no, she was not going to drop it.

 

[Aver Brand]

it belonged to my mother, then my father, then my...

Wife? The merc would’ve helpfully supplied, once – complete with a cutting smile and glacier eyes to boot. But what point was there in expending energy on tormenting a woman who was already doing a better job of it than Aver ever could?

Feeling out of control over your own life – the weariness, frustration, and anger that came with it – that, she could understand. Old enough now to know it was that exact sentiment that drove her in her youth, Aver could do little but understand.

It bothered her less than she’d expected. What a pleasant surprise.

“Does he… own you?” A lofted brow preempted the question once again. That definitely didn’t sound like something Emryc would do. Then again, she didn’t know him.

Really.

She did not know her brother beyond the miserable facts of his life. And even those she’d dragged out of a drunk and smug Pa Qosta, not out of the man himself. Chain-smoking, coathanger-turned-marble, reticent hitman that he was. Perhaps this strange, teetering blonde was an opportunity to… understand what she’d written off as seething self-loathing and emotions so numbed he’d given Vrag a run for her money at the peak of her career.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She snorted.

Violently.

So violently, in fact, that the woman felt as if she had just deviated her septum. Evelynn took all the time in the world to recover from the question, golden fingertips delicately touching upon her own chest as if it helped keep any of her remaining composure inside.

Well.

Wide, incredulous eyes. Coughing that sense of vinegar down from her sinuses.

If you have to ask.

Was her instinct wrong? Were the pair completely unrelated in everything bar handsome, chiselled marble? Then again, who was she to be the expert on Emryc Qosta, interplanetary man of frustrating mystery? She'd spent months in apparent emotional negotiation with him and his concession to her, in the end, was that he would speak a little more...but only if she spoke less. He really was an unrelenting prick and yet that very thought reinforced her notion that this relation was through more than just looks.

Of course not, she replied, mindlessly reaching out for her own drink before realising that she had shattered her glass in that audacious display earlier, the blonde made a face, clearly annoyed at the person she had been three minutes ago. I owe Mr Qosta a great deal, but if I wished to walk then I do not doubt that he would allow it.

Walk.

F u n n y.

Why does it matter to you? Are you concerned that the Whisk will not be ethical going forward? I can assure you that all future death matches participants will be free-range.

 

[Aver Brand]

Aver shrugged one broad shoulder, her unbuttoned suit following… suit.

Why did it matter to her, though? Why was she asking? Did she care about this woman? About the man who was, by virtue of genes and blood alone, her brother? About their lot in life?

The answer should’ve been a resounding no. But it… wasn’t. And that was maybe a problem.

Turning around, Aver took the measly excuse of the match. She knew exactly what it looked like, knew the woman would read it for what it was, and still couldn’t bring herself to stop. Fucking hell.

Those majestic, chiseled shoulders sagged as she leaned forward over the railing with a heavy sigh. The sharp edge of her blue gaze dulled as she looked past the deflector shield, past the Mandos and the station. Finally, Aver closed them altogether, pinching the bridge of her nose to push back against the weight of all the thoughts she refused to host in her skull. They scraped against the bone like jagged blades, snagging against every soft and exposed part of her like little cruel pinpricks. It was maddening.

As it turned out, empathy wasn’t a beast she could tame. Once you let it into your house, it shat all over the floors, scratched up the curtains, and shed on your fucking bed.

I don’t support slavery, if you must know, she answered at length. For once, it was the truth. Nadir still had a hefty outstanding bounty for any slaver caught in their space, though nobody had come to collect in ages. Mostly because there wasn’t much to collect on. Just as well.

Wouldn’t be the first time a man repeated the patterns of his youth, though. Aver peeled off the railing with a worn smile and slid back into her seat.

“Nice to hear he hasn’t,” she tipped her tumbler to the notion and emptied the remainder of the amber straight down her throat.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, I see, she replied in a mental tone so grave and serious that it could only imply a great joke was at play, in that case, I shall cancel the Slaver's Gala that we were planning to host, just for you.

Prick.

In what seemed to be a hideously regular occurrence, Evelynn found herself once more faced with a bright-eyed, stone-sculpted and entirely frustrating premium rate wanker. Was that the only type of person that she was destined to meet from now until the end? Had she died and gone to one of the more obscure planes of the nether? What crimes had she committed that warranted this? Scratch that, no need for an answer.

The blonde stared at the mercenary as if she had just shat out a whole grain muffin and presented it onto the table as if it held a vast and important meaning.

Are you going to explain further? Or...

Evelynn's slight shoulders hunched and she held out her hands in a gesture that signified nothing but the purest exasperation. Furrowed brow, pursed lips, wide eyes. Throttling the brick shithouse might have, at the very least, soothed her.

...are we going to do this bit, where you say very little and tell me even less. You'll find that I am answering all of your questions, so I'd appreciate it if you would extend me the same fucking courtesy.

 

[Aver Brand]

Like sound underwater, the discordant chorus of gunshots drowned behind the dome of the deflector shield humming only a few paces away. Aver listened to the bolts impacting the barrier like syncopated punctuation for the crescendo of frustration the blonde was spitting at her from the right. Her mouth curled into a wry smile that would’ve looked much more at home on the face of a Shamalain.

Alas, the best Evelynn would get was Mike Hunt.

With a sigh, she bowed forward and refilled her glass in the thundering silence of the shield going off. That ugly curl of a smirk persisted in the fine planes of the marble as she glanced at the smaller woman. She lifted her brows and took a deep, long draft as the announcer blared his last call on the free-for-all bets.

Fine.

Without averting her cutting blue eyes from the angry greens, Aver turned her whole body to face the blonde in slow, measured, almost mechanical movements.

I don’t give a Drexl crap if “WHSK” is ethical or not. I’m just gonna be real disappointed if he repeats the same fucking mi— her jaw corded with durasteel as she ground her teeth, cycle.

She covered for that gap with another sip of the burning amber, eager to swallow the telling word. It was then she brought her finest people skills to bear – shifting against her skin, against the light, just so, to imitate the terse mannerisms and expressions of one Emryc Qosta.

The least my brother could fucking do is be original.