Private Hypnotic House Elektrodance SuperTantra

[Isar du Vain]

<<Hey. Been a minute. Let's meet on NarSh. There's a place you'll like.>>

A location drop followed, a club in the Corellian Sector of Nar Shaddaa called TekTonix.

* * *

Isar sat in a booth by himself on the third floor of the club, watching the mass of writhing bodies on the floor below as he sipped his third drink. Or maybe his fourth. Aw, shit. He'd lost count again already. Funny how that happened, eh. Already done a line of spice so his senses buzzed as he drank in the emotions heaving around him from the club, a wild carefree abandon. Like tomorrow never would come.

He wore a flashy gold spacer vest and a gauzy, semi-translucent shirt beneath. His pants on the other hand were tactical and black, just like his boots. Isar sniffed as his violet eyes stared up at the blistering array of lights sweeping the floors amid jets of smoke blasted from the floor and ceiling. The music from a floating DJ shook the entire club. Isar leaned back in the sofa, feet kicked out onto the table carelessly.

Spent a week recovering from the undercity excursion, but he didn't want to think on it. He'd "recovered" to the point that the local liquor store knew him by name. Never a good sign. Somehow, Isar always knew how to make a situation worse. That's why he'd invited Sael to this place. Corellian Sector wasn't at all like the Red Light, in most ways. And it was safe.

Well.

As safe as you could be on Nar Shaddaa.

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

<<Hey. Been a minute. Let's meet on NarSh. There's a place you'll like.>>

An understatement. Sael had been at Pomojema Academy long enough that she barely recognized herself anymore. Now on Nar Shaddaa, where her Master still reigned, the differences were impossible to miss. The hunch that once curved her shoulders had straightened into poise; timid steps became deliberate strides; fear, once loud and ever-present, had quieted into something sharper and more observant.

She'd smiled when she received the message. The last time Isar had presumed to know what she liked and wrapped that in an invitation, it had ended in bloodshed and nearly a revisit to captivity. He'd got them into a mess, and she'd got them out of it. For the most part. In the end, it had been he that had got her out of chains. But if anyone could claim to know her tastes, it was the man who'd once shared her mind.

She'd smiled when she'd messaged him back, establishing a date and time and accepting the invitation.

And she smiled as she wove through the patrons of a bar that would have overstimulated her months ago. The crowds didn't bother her anymore. If someone brushed against her, she didn't flinch or cower, if a gaze drifted her way, she met it.

The way she carried herself was different. And so too was her styling. Her hair was swept up, no longer a veil of white to hide behind. A stroke of dark kohl sharpened the glow of her eyes. Training garb had given way to a dress that moved like an oil slick—fluid, mercurial—over a body that had finally learned to take up space and shrunk less into bones that threatened to poke through red skin.

Isar was easy enough to find. She'd never lost his connection, and all she had to do was open herself up to feel the lavender haze of his discomfort and bravado and the familiar something like longing simmering just beneath. It lead her right to him and his glitz occupying space in a secluded booth.

Her nails tapped the laquer before she shrugged off her leather jacket to the seat and followed it down with a practiced fluidity.

"You got a new jacket."

Blaster-hole free.

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

“Hmm?” he eyed her through a haze of smoke, hands crossing behind his head as he leaned back, feet on the table.

“Oh yeah, you like it?”

The music thrummed so loudly he could barely hear her, but honestly he didn’t quite need to hear. More of a feeling, yeah. Like when you’d known someone long enough you could just tell by their presence whether they were happy or sad. Except he hadn’t known Sael long at all. That’s just how Zeltrons were, he thought. Effortless connection.

Until it all blew up in a mess of explosive emotions.

But wasn’t that part of the point of living? To feel? Otherwise he might as well be a droid.

Isar eyed her up and down: the makeup, the clinging dress, the muscle and above all the sense of self-confidence she radiated. Far cry from the shy escaped slave he’d met.

“You look good. Different, but good, yeah? Mercy running you through the paces?”

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

"It's free of your blood, so yes. I like it."

Patrons all around them were raising their arms to get the attention of the waitstaff. All Sael had to do was let a pathway of pheromones slip and curl out, like a silk scarf pulled taut when she met the mind she wanted attention from. They didn't even have to visit. Simply saw the order in their minds, and the red-skinned visitor who wanted to imbibe.

Elbows on the table, chin cradled by the backs of her linked hands, she smiled at his compliment. She knew she looked better but it was nice to hear it was noteworthy enough to comment on. The more she received them, the more Alcariel found she liked compliments.

"We don't always have to talk about Mercy." She tut-tut. Every single time they'd crossed paths, Mercy had been the common link between them. They had more now. They had that horrible night that had been born of good intentions.

On the coattails of her sentence, a purple, glittery drink slid down from a tray in front of her. A mirror of what Isar had been drinking appeared as well, to keep the mood slippery.

"Thank you." And then the waitress was gone, busy.

"I hope different." She revisited the sentiment prior to the welcome interruption. "It had to be different."

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

Eyebrows went up at her casual use of pheromones and mental influence to twist the minds of others and give her what she wanted. Just showing off for him or…? Nah. She was just that good already.

Isar’s lips slashed up in a smirk, which slipped at her words. He nodded.

“Yeah. I like it.”

Simple to get her drift. She couldn’t keep being the same scared girl who’d escaped a life of being someone else’s object. Had to learn what it meant to be free. Stretch her wings, so to speak.

Now she could fly.

His mind went back to their first meeting. Called her proper fit and showed her a symphony of minds. If he thought she’d looked good then, well, now she was absolutely lethal.

He uncrossed his hands and picked up the drink she’d conjured for him with just a thought and a wink.

“Cheers.”

Isar took a sip and leaned back again. Didn’t try probing about Mercy again. She’d never shot back like that before, quick and decisive in the rebuke. That took him back a step, sure. Made him feel a spark of… of what he didn’t even know. A mess of things that he didn’t feel like poking through just now.

He looked at her, elbows on the table, head cradled on the backs of her hands, and saw it in the way she watched him and in the swirl of emotions around her.

Isar chuckled low and took another sip.

“Oh you’re dangerous now, love.”

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

He liked it. "Good."

Their glasses chimed and they sipped. Fruity. Tangy.

He called her dangerous and she flashed a toothsome grin at him, running her fingers around the rim of her glass. Pretty, crystallized garnish stuck to her fingerprint. All she'd done so far were simple tricks, things Isar did in his sleep. With Spencer Varanin as her teacher, she'd gone far beyond that. She could, theoretically, take on battlefields now.

And she'd figured out how to account for the mindless non-sentients, so no more mistakes like that horrible droid ever happened again.

"You have no idea." Alcariel licked the sugar from her pointer finger and kept her level smile.

"That night could never happen again, you know. You're a catalyst of change, Mister du Vain. So I have you to thank, in a way."

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

“Uh huh.”

Distracted.

His lilac gaze followed the erasure of sugar from one carmine finger with riveted attention.

Isar swallowed dryly.

“Well you’re right welcome.”

Why did he have the sudden feeling he was now out of his depths? She couldn’t have gotten that good that fast… could she? He slammed back half the glass and it burned down his throat. He stared at the glass, then at her.

“Hm, don’t think anyone’s thanked me for a fuck up before.”

No, that wasn’t true. He’d received more than one holomessage from an ex thanking him for making them realize they needed to get their life together. That counted, right?

Funny. He’d expected her to still be rattled by the whole enterprise. Upset. Instead she’d gone and made herself some kind of Sith demon. Powerful and… upsettingly hot, as his cousin might say. Damn. He made a mental note to ensure that they never crossed paths. That would be a disaster.

“That what you been doing this whole time, Sael? Training?”

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

"No?" Her head cocked to the side. "I'm surprised to be your first."

​

Former Sael would have tripped over her words then — not that you've fucked up a lot, I'm sure. I didn't mean it like that — but Alcariel left the sentence as it was. He'd been tangled deep enough in her mind to feel her flinches or sympathies. He didn't need pity. And she hadn't any to offer. That had been a consequence of training — needing to shed that which made her weak and infantilized.

"Yes. All work, no play." Another sip, but she never took her eyes from him.

"So much so that Sael's gone." She sighed, and wrinkled her nose. "I'd never liked the name, as you know.

I'm now Alcariel." The glass set down and she wrapped her hands around it. "Echani. Prettier, means something this time, but a little long. And nobody's given me a nickname yet. I'm sure you could think of a way to shorten it." She smiled. "Don't have to answer now. Let it settle. See what happens.

What about you? How've you been?"

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

Isar snorted. His first. Funny that.

"Oh you know," he closed one eye and squinted at the remnants of his glass, "Trying to expand my horizons."

They just always ended up being the bottom of a glass.

"Try new things."

The same drugs, every night. Heh. Well. Mornings too.

"Enjoy life."

He'd want to space himself in the morning. But... she already knew part of that. Couldn't shield everything from a Zeltron mentalist. Not when you tangled in each other's minds.

Their minds collided so deeply in the thralls of a glitterstim haze that Isar wagered they knew each other far better than most in some respects. He'd seen the scared slave girl, sure. But he also saw beyond, to the wellspring of emotions that made her... her.

Sael had never been Sael. She'd been the girl who loved the way puppets danced to her music. The girl who enjoyed conducting a symphony of minds. The girl who enjoyed it because it showed her she was not powerless in a cruel galaxy. The girl who, deep down, was afraid that if she didn't learn how to control all of this, to become powerful, she might end up back in a cage.

Did people change? Maybe.

A name was just a name. Didn't matter when you'd see to the core of a person.

"Alcariel, eh." He didn't say anything at first, just nodded. "You choose that one?"

She hadn't chosen the first. Didn't blame her for changing it. Honestly, couldn't blame her for much of anything at all even if he tried. If she wanted to slap him and walk straight out the door he felt like he'd probably deserve it for putting her through that shit under the Red Light. Such was life.

He reached out, hesitant with his own thoughts, brushing the surface of hers that had once been a bit more familiar. Now they'd got walls, tall as a fortress and thicker than blast doors. Not bad.

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

“Yeah? Tell me about those new things.” Her invitation was genuine, lined with hope. She both knew him and did not know him. But she hoped for him. Because he’d given that dying spectator a peaceful vision to die with, and tried to free the slaves when she couldn’t. “I’ve been cooped up. I’d love a good story.”

Her chin was back in her hands, but palms cupped her cheeks. Her lean forward full of interest, less the coy appeal she’d dropped earlier.

“No, it was given. But that’s okay. Nobody really chooses their name, do they? You didn’t come up with Isar did you? Someone gave you that, documented it, and now it’s all yours.”

Protecting herself from unwanted intrusions had been the second thing she’d learned. The first was to cleanly isolate her thoughts from all the other noise. So when Isar knocked, she gently creaked open a crack. Why not. He’d been in there before. She’s just redecorated since his last visit.
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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

"'Lo again."

His thoughts slipped inside the crack, smoke pluming in beneath a door to swirl as their chorus of emotions resonated against and around and through, but never truly mixing - oil and water.

"Guess I've never thought of a name that way," he scratched at his mustache. "'Spose you're right."

She seemed so interested in what he had to say. Like he had answers or - no. Just how he lived. The freedom of existing without holding himself to anyone else's standards. Was that really it?

"Stories..."

The bass wailed and shook the room, drowning out his words. So he just locked eyes with her and let his thoughts play out instead.

"Let's see.." He ticked them off on his fingers, "Caught a bounty hunter infiltrating the Syndicate, helped mount the carbonite slab of a Jedi Master on an apartment wall, and -" his eyes slid away from her and to the swirl of bodies out on the dance floor below, undulating like a living sea of skin and too much cologne. "met a nice Pantoran slicer."

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

Alcariel's lips twitched up at the greeting that smoothed through the coils of her mind.

Hey. Met his salutations in kind. They'd been talking as any other patron thus far, but the volume around them seemed to get louder the later it got. The more inebriated they became.

At some point, another unseen order had been placed and another round of drinks slid from tray to table. Their empty glasses cleared.

Riveting detail. Incredible character development. Tell me about the slicer. That sounds interesting.

Would have been useful to know you-know-when.

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

Hmm yeah, she might have been. Something tells me she’d have left us hanging.

Literally.

Just some Pantoran in search of a name for herself.

He sipped his third(?) drink and rolled the taste around on his tongue.

Is that what you’re looking for, love? A name for yourself?

Strong enough now to go toe-to-toe with a Jedi. His mind circled hers, exploring the kaleidoscope of emotions that made up Alcariel.

Hmm.

Can’t call her Al.

Car. Cari? Nah.

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

You say it like it's a bad thing. Her voice was smooth, winding through the coils and spaces of his mind. It felt loose, familiar and warm. Not as high stress as the last time they'd been sharing the most intimate of worlds — their mutual inner sanctums. But aren't we all? Looking to make a name for ourselves? Be someone that people think of and remember? Whatever your preferred context?

An invisible touch brushed against the cortex of his mind that held onto his complicated emotions, the ones he skirted away from in the middle of their conversation. The reflection of the morning, the despair and desire that intermingled with wanting to space himself but resulting in inaction. It was gentle, featherlight, just enough to let him know he was seen.

Across the table, there was no pity in her amber eyes. The gaze she levelled at him maintained curious intrigue, even as she looked over the rim of her glass as she sipped.

You want to be thought of, don't you?

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

The soothing brush of her mind seeped into his thoughts and burned there with a mild euphoria. He tried to enjoy that moment, to smile, to drink. But he just knew that if he inhaled deep enough, if he let her seep into every thought, that a simple want would become a need. And a need she would use on him for whatever end she desired. Isar knew he should just take a step back mentally. Just relax and enjoy the club.

But…

“Maybe.”

Maybe he wanted to be used.

“Sure.”

Maybe she did too.

“That what you think of? Me?”

Wouldn’t have played these type of games with who she’d been before. But this one? This one was dangerous. Somethin’ in the stare of those eyes, liquid gold that pulled the viewer in and let them drown in ‘em while she watched. Somethin’ in the way she sat, utterly in control, toying with her food.

Isar threw an arm over the back of the couch and tilted his chin up, watching her like she might have fangs.

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

Alcariel laughed, the sound slipped out before she could stop it. She wasn't foolish enough to think she could turn Isar into a puppet; No matter what Mercy might have said about men, or Isar in particular. He was soft, yes, but soft in a way that made him open to hurt, not pliant. He was not someone she could, or truly wanted to, bend. Mercy had said to use him. And she had, in a way. Taken tricks from the trade, made him want to share secrets with her. Want to open up and let her in.

She hadn't understood it the first time they met: the weight behind his projection of a dying man's final wish, or how his only encouragement had been for her to feel power and live. He'd looked at her like a bud, small and wrapped tight, with only the promise of unfolding into something beautiful if tended just right. He'd wanted her to blossom.

And now, she sat across from him, petals prettily unfurled.

Maybe. She matched his slow, drawn-out tone.

Leaning back until her shoulder blades touched the booth, she tilted her head, loose strands of silver-white hair not pinned into her low bun sway with the motion.

Sure.

Beneath the table, her legs stretched out, deliberate, unhurried.

Sometimes.

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

Isar cocked his head at her laugh, then watched as she slid her legs beneath the table. A lot of synonyms crept into his mind, even as hers watched them flow by. Words like lithe. And “nice.” And other things that weren’t even words, just impressions and emotions too chaotic and messy for simple spoken language. But in his head they made a kind of sense.

He knew she’d feel them all. Knew she probably enjoyed it, this sense of connection. Of knowing.

“Guess you’re right then,” The Dark Jedi raised an eyebrow. “I do want to be thought of.”

He slid his own foot off the table, letting it rest under it. Wondering why she’d chosen to sit so far away anyway.

Isar could lie. Could say he had had better time, better dances since they met, but it just wasn’t the same without forty thousand screaming kaggath fans. There was something about her that drew him toward her like an event horizon. He didn’t really care what she and Mercy got up to, or anyone else really. It was good just to see her like this for a change… in her element.

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

One of the foremost things Spencer had taught her was to be proximally aware of her own thoughts, presence. To separate and protect from others. Every other time Isar had been interlinked with herself, she'd been a jumble — unsure where he started, and where she ended. And the drugs they'd done both times hadn't helped. This time, she kept herself clear in the little booth of unspoken words. Their lines of self extricably linked, but not melted or unidentifiable.

I know. She purred back, to all of it. To his suspicion of him knowing she'd like to know all the way to her supposition of making a name for himself so someone could think of him now and then.

You thought of me. Her mental voice seemed lighter, perked up at the memory of his message on her screen with the invitation to this place. What about this place did you think I'd like? She remained seated. His legs had dropped to keep hers company and she brushed the pointed toe of her heel against his ankle.

Meanwhile, a spectral version of herself, seen only to him, stood from her seat and reached for the imagined version of himself, assisting with the vision enough to create a fuscia hand reaching out to meet the invitation of her crimson palm.

She was showing off just a little, but if he was still nestled in her brain he'd feel giddiness with her extension — less smugness. The chance for tricks simply for trick's sake were one of the things she was looking forward to tonight. No pressure from training, just experimentation in the free space of Isar's encouragement.

Was it the dancefloor? Because of the spinning in the stands?

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Isar du Vain
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[Isar du Vain]

"'Course it was."

Amazing. Having someone read you like a book. Was this how other people felt around him? A little unnerved, yeah. Not Isar though. Nah.

That spectral version of his mind's eye didn't hesitate, clasping her carmine palm and spinning her around as the music pulsed about them with an all-consuming thrum.

Couldn't hide the spike of electricity he felt as the spur of her heel brushed against his boots. A smile slipped underneath that mustache, curving up the side of his mouth like he was trying to remember how.

"You ever feel more alive than that moment? I don't know. Maybe it was all the spice."

He watched as the ghostly versions of themselves, seen only to them, wound around and around, moving to the music.

"That's nice, that is." Kinda odd, watching themselves out of body. "You're full of new tricks now. But you know there's somethin' about the authenticity of experience. The bad cologne and the sweat and the bodies shoving against you. It's a bad time. It's a great time. It's living."

Isar glanced over the rail at the mass below them, moving to the music, even as the forms of their mind moved - seen only to themselves.

"Or you too good for that now, Sith?" he winked.

Alcariel

 

[Alcariel]

​

Too much spice.

Splitting oneself between two experiences simultaneously felt glorious, nigh-otherworldly. And she was content to keep the spectral version of herself enjoying the company and movement, while the corporeal mistress relaxed in the soft cushion of the booth.

What if I say yes, I am? She asked, and draped an arm over the back of her seat in mirror to the top half of his earlier pose. Every time you talk about living, really living, it's always got something messy attached to it. Or in this case, smelly.

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Isar du Vain
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