Private Careless Whispers

[Mauve du Vain]

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N A R
S H A D D A A

N E W
V E R T I C A
C I T Y

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The pulse of the music thrummed throughout all three floors of the night club. At the lowest level, on the dance floor, the beat of the bass shivered through the crush of bodies, mixing in the air with the rife smell of cologne and perfume and sweat and alcohol into an overwhelming, hot, and stifling mixture. The second floor offered some relief, separated into private lounges on a balcony overlooking the floor, but still blinded by the occasional swing of the spotlights and lasers and blast of the fog machine. Higher still, on the third floor, there was a patio in the open air - far removed from the press of people below.

Here, Mauve waited with drink in hand. She could feel the sound of the music pulsing beneath them through the building's structure and up through her heels. Mauve could also feel the swirl of emotions, heady and intoxicating as they ranged from simple lust and debauchery to heartbreak and grief to those lost in the thrill of the music and the moment. Her plum painted lips curled in a smile and she tossed back her wine dark hair.

From her position at the balcony she could see clear off the side of the floating city of New Vertica. Far down below were the jutting spires of the moonscape of Nar Shaddaa. Her home.

She took another sip of her drink and avoided checking her watch. Her contact would be here whenever she arrived. No use fretting over it.

Even though Mauve stood to make a substantial sum if she played her hand correctly.

Casting a glance over her bare shoulder, Mauve adjusted the thin strap of her sable cocktail dress and scanned the crowd with eyes of violet.

Bastila, Bastila... where are you?

Bastila Sal-Soren

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Nar Shaddaa had a way of making all the things the Republic said were bad and evil appear honest.

Bastila had noticed it the moment her ship broke through the haze and descended towards New Vertica. The Hutt’s prized moon did not pretend to be anything other than what it was, proudly displaying every flickering advertisement that promised something base, illegal or ruinously expensive, creating shadows that always seemed to contain someone willing to provide it. It was as far from the pastures of Naboo as you could get. No marble halls here to house grand senatorial speeches about duty or sacrifice. No open Jedi enclaves in which guilt could be given a more dignified name. No Nar Shadaa had one thing and only one; pure unadulterated appetite, and it was dressed in coloured neon light.

She had felt the nightclub long before she reached its doors. The music struck first, it was a dull base rhythm that travelled through the street and into her bones, but with it came something far worse. She had slightly prepared for it, but had not been ready for it; the sudden sensation of hundreds of minds pressed together beneath one roof, their emotions running hot enough to bleed into the fabric of the Force itself, filling it with expressions of lust, loneliness, euphoria and jealousy. It was the brittle desperation of those determined to enjoy themselves because the alternative was being left alone with their thoughts.

Bastila understood that last one more than she cared to admit.

Her arrival had been deliberately unremarkable. She wore no robes, nor armour. Nothing that declared her a Jedi was present, her clothing chosen deliberately to not tempt or invite anyone to ask why one had come to Nar Shaddaa alone. She wore black trousers fitted closely enough to pass among the moon’s fashionable clientele, a dark sleeveless top beneath a cropped jacket and boots that had been chosen for running rather than dancing. Her lightsaber was concealed beneath the jacket at the small of her back. It was uncomfortable, but difficult to notice unless someone knew precisely where to look.

She slipped through the crush with one hand kept close to her side, avoiding wandering fingers, spilled drinks and bodies moving with considerably more enthusiasm than coordination. Someone caught her wrist and tried to draw her into the dance. Bastila freed herself with a small turn and a look which proved more effective than any use of the Force.

The second floor was only marginally more civilised. Private booths hid deals behind gauzy curtains while silhouettes leaned intimately together, some whispering promises and others negotiating betrayals. Bastila did not look too closely. Nar Shaddaa had rules of its own, and curiosity was apparently an invitation.

By the time she reached the open-air patio, the cooler air felt almost clean. She paused just beyond the doorway, letting the crowd move around her while her gaze passed across the terrace. She did not need the description she had been given. There were plenty of dark dresses, bare shoulders and carefully painted mouths, but only one presence seemed to sit within the tide of emotion without being carried along by it.

Violet eyes found hers across the space.

Bastila approached without hurrying, though every instinct sharpened as she closed the distance. Contacts on Nar Shaddaa were rarely merely contacts. They were informants, criminals, opportunists or all three, and a meeting arranged above a nightclub was almost certainly intended to leave both parties uncertain as to which.

“Mauve.” Her voice carried beneath the muffled pulse rising through the floor. Bastila stopped beside the balcony rather than directly before the woman, turning enough to look out across the distant spires of Nar Shaddaa. It gave the appearance of casual conversation while leaving the whole terrace within the edge of her vision. “It’s been a while since the wedding.”

She rested her forearms lightly against the balcony, eyes shifting towards Mauve without fully turning her head.

“I hate to move straight to business but I’ve heard some things about you that have turned my attentions.”

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Mauve du Vain EQUIPMENT:

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[Mauve du Vain]

“Oh?”

The smile curving the corner of Mauve’s mouth moved a fraction higher.

Turning her head, violet eyes ran the length of Bastila’s frame from head to toe and back again. Stylish… for a Jedi.

But then the woman did seem to enjoy turning heads. Beneath the acidic viridian hue of judgment haloing her was an undercurrent of something else. Something blue, shimmering and sad. Aching. Lonely.

Mauve froze for a heartbeat, smile nearly slipping from the empath’s face, then it snapped back to her magenta cheeks like a mask.

“Well. Should I be worried?”

The Zeltron shifted on her heels, crossing her legs and leaning against the balcony. If the Jedi wanted Mauve was certain Bastila could shove her off of the balcony railing with just a thought.

Dangerous.

Precarious.

Sticking her head into the nexu’s mouth and seeing if it bit down. But that was when Mauve felt most alive.

Her heart beat a little quicker.

“I have information. On Sith. Information I didn’t give to the Abrantes woman or that smug fuck on Naboo. Oh that’s right, didn’t he bring you to the wedding? Sorry if he’s your beaux.” No she wasn’t. “I’m willing to part with it… for a price.”

Bastila Sal-Soren

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Bastila felt the Zeltron’s gaze travel over her and resisted the sudden, inexplicable desire to pull the edges of her jacket closer together. She had been stared at in courts, palaces and senatorial chambers since she was old enough to understand what her family name meant. The attention itself was nothing new.

This however felt different. It was almost as if Mauve was not merely looking at her. She was reaching into the places Bastila had folded closed and quietly testing the seams. Through the visual interrogation of silence Bastila’s expression remained still and calm, but something tightened behind her ribs when Mauve’s smile faltered. It was there and gone within a heartbeat, concealed beneath colour and charm so quickly that anyone else might have missed it.

One used to the intrigues of court such as her however did not.

For the briefest moment the nightclub seemed to fall away and she was standing again in that silent room upon Naboo, staring at a man who had survived everything except being saved. She remembered the emptiness in his eyes, the terrible stillness of him. The space between her hand and his before she had finally found the courage to close it.

Then Mauve mentioned the wedding and whatever sadness the Zeltron had sensed hardened instantly, pressed down beneath something colder and considerably easier to carry, she cursed herself for letting her mind wander here, where she needed to be on her guard.

A gust rolled across the terrace, stirring loose strands of brunette hair across her face. Bastila tucked them behind one ear and allowed her attention to drift across the nearby patrons. No one appeared to be watching them with any particular interest, although that meant very little on Nar Shaddaa. The best spies rarely appeared interested in anything at all.

“Worried?” Her eyes returned to Mauve, passing deliberately over the Zeltron’s crossed legs and the precarious angle at which she had settled against the balcony. “Of me? Mauve the company you keep and you are asking if you should be worried of me?” A small smile touched Bastila’s mouth, it however and rather tellingly did not reach her eyes. “If it helps, you’re safe.”

She shifted beside the railing as Mauve spoke, turning enough that the concealed lightsaber pressed against the small of her back, a near constant reminder of why she was truly here. Sith. Of course it was the Sith. It could never be stolen credits, smuggled weapons or some corrupt official whose greatest crime involved skimming from a shipping contract. Everything in Bastila’s life seemed to lead back to the blasted dark side eventually, as though its gravity had fixed upon her and refused to let go.

Mauve had kept the information from Sibylla, which troubled her more than the insult aimed towards Naboo. The Zeltron knew precisely which names to use and which relationships to prod, yet Bastila hadn’t come here expecting her to have not done her research

“You arranged this meeting with me rather than Lady Abrantes, despite already having access to her.” The amusement was ever so obvious in Bastila’s voice. “That means either you don’t trust her, you believe I’ll pay more, or your information concerns me closer than I originally anticipated.” Her eyes settled upon Mauve’s violet ones and remained there. “Or you just don’t like the King. Which is understandable. He is rather smug.”

Bastila moved slightly closer, not enough to threaten, but enough to make the conversation theirs alone. The music continued beneath them, its rhythm shivering upwards through the durasteel and into the soles of her boots.

“There are interested parties outside of the normal Republic Channels I assure you. Parties that will pay a hefty amount for the right information.” There was no judgement in the words merely the careful, controlled patience of someone who knew that everyone on Nar Shaddaa wanted something, and that credits were often the least costly thing they could ask for. “So name your price.”

Her gaze flickered once towards Mauve’s hand, then back to her eyes.

“If you’re about to suggest something theatrical, indecent or involving another wedding, I reserve the right to consider the balcony idea you were thinking about before.”

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Mauve du Vain EQUIPMENT:

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