Private I Don't Wanna Be Me

[Beatrice Govan]

The Golden Credit Luxury Spa and Resort, De-Purteen, Ord Cantrell

Who did this for fun?

The air of the swimming pool was stifling, it clouded the nostrils with the overwhelming scent of chlorine and the general public. Every shout bounced across the walls several times over in what was an unbearable racket, and there weren't even any children there! Just people.

Dreadful.

Awful.

People.

Evelynn sat poolside in the confines of her wheelchair, emerald eyes flitting over the fit and able bodies that swam back and forth, each lap an affront to her own current, miserable existence. The woman tried to contain her malicious frown but ultimately only ended up staring with some form of constipated disgruntlement instead.

This sensation of being humbled had long worn out its welcome in the blonde's eyes as fun as it was being a destitute cripple, laying low in complete obscurity. Oh yes, I shall become a Sith of merit, and I shall do it on my terms. Hadn't that just turned out oh-so-well?

Just peachy.

As she waited for her perpetually late physical therapist, Barbara, there was very little that Evelynn could do other than sit, wait and steep in a realm of hideous emotion. Her frail form was clad in some ridiculous navy (and Force forbid borrowed) wetsuit that was entirely necessary to disguise her ostentatious golden prosthetic arm from the eyes of whoever might have been watching.

Caution was still important, even if it felt like things couldn't get worse because Evelynn Dorn knew better than anybody that things could ALWAYS get worse.

So she sat.

And waited.

And despaired.

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

There was a certain clarity that came with the silence of a voice compressed beneath silver knuckles and chlorinated water. The line of forearm brawn glinting beneath a fresh slick of pool water, a torrent of bubbles surging up to mingle with locks of long, auburn hair on the surface. The churning of the water in the tumult of the struggle.

In his ears his heart pounding like the drum of battle.

Thrum, thrum. The war against a lifetime of luxury and lying.

Thrum, thrum. The tremor of struggle against the inevitable.

Thrum, thrum. The dissipating promises of a business exchange gone wrong.


Emryc surfaced at the deep end of the pool between two lines of buoys that marked a bobbing lane for vindication. Penance. Self-righteous justification. Wiping away the sheen of water from his face and the feeling of eyes watching him, two hands grappled the rim of the pool to hoist himself out. The picture of chiseled brawn that would make a Greek God weep, as he'd been described by previous onlookers, reached for his towel. Somewhere behind him, at the opposite end of the pool, a dishonest person glubbed their last breath in the wee hours of twilight before the pool boys checked in for their shift.

So much cleaner than a bullet through the skull. There truly was nothing worse than cleaning brain matter off textured duracrete.

He stepped over to a poolside table where another man was lounging in a business suit, pressed jacket hanging from the back of his chair.

"Is it done," Emryc murmured as he towel-dried his hair.

"Long done," replied the other man, "Vezio will be here in three days."

That got him a look, brows furrowed.

"I know, I know," said the man, waving it off, "couldn't get him here any quicker. You can take a vacation maybe, eh?" he cackled as he lit up a cigarette.

A vacation. What a novel fething idea. The taste of disgust at the prospect of being trapped with the common people slid down his throat and Emryc immediately wished he had a drink to cleanse it from his palate.

"Now that is a wonder," said the man, mildly gesturing over at the woman in the wheelchair, "think she got some jet propulsion on that ride?"

Emryc looked and immediately recognized the sting of the woman's expression as one he often felt himself wearing. The sort of face you wore when you'd rather be languishing in the belly of a sarlaac than doing whatever it was you were doing at the time. A part of him empathized with her apparent physical prison, even if it was a mobile one. Feth, she looked like she needed a drink about as bad as he did.

He stopped an attendant walking by and decided to take some of her misery away.

A moment later the attendant walked up to Beatrice Govan and bent lightly at the waist to get her attention, "Miss, this gentleman over here would like to buy you a drink," she indicated Emryc who was presently engrossed in listening to the report details from his partner, "what would you like?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Steeped in silent seething, Evelynn attempted to reason herself out of growing contempt for her physical therapist. Could she really be so furious with the perpetually late woman when this was all done for free? Well, free was generous. A small mind trick here, and there. Oh, yes. I've already paid for this session, Barbara. Still, free or not, the woman's constant tardiness was completely unacceptable for a supposed professional.

Not to mention that the blonde was not accustomed to being kept waiting. On the contrary, she had ruined people for less.

Before Dorn could delve into fantasies regarding the woman strapped to an interrogation chair she was interrupted, a solitary eyebrow suddenly leaping at the attendant who disturbed such delicious, potential considerations.

A drink?

A gentleman?

This inferred that people had been looking, seeing and witnessing her pitiful hubris in action. A part of the woman wanted to dissolve into an insidious puddle of acid and disappear entirely, and such a thought gave cause for her jaw to clench, her severe bone structure casting frustrated shadows across her ghostly visage.

Who would dare look upon the tragic cripple and acknowledge that they had done so?

Her attentions were diverted to the gentleman in question, and the eyebrow remained firmly lodged upwards but now accompanied by a widened stare as the woman appraised the disgustingly handsome individual that would dare offend her so. Was this a joke? If some sterling Adonis thought that he could just...

With a suddenness that startled the attendant Evelynn whipped out her datapad, fingers clacking upon the screen of the device with furious precision.

“Domaine de la Maison sur le Lac,” the device spoke in dead-robotic tones, absolutely butchering the name of the expensive Nabooian wine in what was the cherry atop a perfect situation.

The attendant waited for a few moments as if expecting some kind of message to be passed back in return, or for some form of thankfulness, but it never came. In fact, in her affronted defiance, Evelynn wheeled herself around, so that her back was now facing the man in question.

That would show him.

Of what exactly, she wasn't quite sure.

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

He hadn't made an effort to follow up on his initial intention of offering the woman some small reprieve in her day. Emryc took his seat at the small poolside table to the right of his associate and accepted an offered cigarette from him. Zib, as he was called, continued speaking in a low tone, "Ryger will be at the rendez vous point tomorrow to pick up the cases, and when he gets back to StratCon we'll be able to-"

“Domaine de la Maison sur le Lac,”

"-oh," the man made a face as if he had been the one personally stung by this slight.

Emryc stared at him with an expression that just about every other person would mistaken for patience. Zib knew better, but he couldn't pry his eyes off the shitshow on wheels who had very abruptly spun herself around. The man cringed, "Oof, Doc. That's a cactus."

Cactus.

Emryc's right eye twitched just slightly as the visage of a red-haired, blade-sneered, icy-eyed mercenary came to mind. Zib had no fething idea what a cactus was, but Emryc decided to take the bait and shifted his expression to something of terminated patience.

"Maybe giving her back is a sign of thanks? I don't know, Doc," Zib gestured vaguely toward the woman whose robotic voice had garnered her quite a bit more attention. Emryc twisted just enough to look over his shoulder and see what the man was fussing about. Prideful one. Didn't like handouts maybe? He supposed he could respect that. Where he came from, handouts never came free and the weight of a boon on your shoulders was sometimes enough to kill you.

"Your drink, Mr. Qosta," the attendant returned, "Whyrens, straight up, and a Dark Ale for you Sir." She set a tumbler down in front of Emryc and a bottle for Zib, "and for the Lady," she presented the bottle of wine to Emryc so the man could see her selection. Haute couture if ever he knew it. Wine wasn't really his thing - though if he went by stages of gaining rank through visceral advancement then he probably aught to be getting acquainted with wine. Still, he preferred his whisky and Whyrens was arguably the only whisky worth preferring.

The attendant opened the bottle and poured a glass but was stopped by Emryc's hand on her arm before she could take it over to Evelynn. The man gestured for the glass and stood, then walked it silently over to the woman-on-wheels. He stopped just off her right, right inside her peripheral, and offered her the glass. There was a pause before she reached to take it and he held it in his grasp just long enough to get the words, "Have dinner with me," out before releasing it to her.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

This was Barbara's moment to shine, she would come scurrying in with a poor excuse rehearsed in her mind and an apologetic smile slapped upon her overly-optimistic face and with it, she would rescue the Sith from this entire scenario, but the wine would already be poured and need to be paid for.

How tragic that a minor monetary inconvenience was the greatest revenge that Evelynn could muster at that moment.

The physical therapist, however, did not come swooping in to retrieve the cripple much to her chagrin. No, instead stood a man at the edge of her vision wielding a glass of over-priced plonk as if to spit in the face of her frigid demeanour.

Her head didn't budge an inch, expression very much still painted in annoyance as only her arm reaching out to take her drink.

As she took the glass Dorn pondered whether the man was entirely oblivious or if her cold-shoulder had imposed some form of challenge that he felt entirely obligated to meet. Such considerations were disturbed by his words. Have dinner? The now-destitute hole in her heart warmed to the concept of eating something other than cheap street-vendor slop, but the rest of her wanted to know of his motivations.

Not being one to beat around the bush, three blunt letters were typed in response.

“Why?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

An appropriate ask, considering the circumstances. Were he in her position he'd likely be asking the same. But he wasn't - no manner of man or woman would have ever been let to live in the state she was in on Point Nadir. No matter the genetics he enjoyed that would gift him a lifetime of waking up from near death instead of giving in to it.

Was it pity he felt for her? No, Emryc was certain he'd never become acquainted with that emotion. Perhaps it was just interest.

She was, after all, the most interesting person here at the resort. Clearly.

"Why not," the man replied, as if the point were everclear and tangible as the glass in her hand, "Maison Blanc, 7pm."

Shouldn't be difficult for her to get to the 5-Star restaurant connected to the resort. He left her at that, returning to his table to take up his drink and taking his leave of the pool area with Zib in tow.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evidently, it was too much to ask for a coherent reason for the man's sudden intrusion into her day. Oh no, that would be far too easy. Why not instead breed curiosity and force her hand into attending such a dinner to find out? Clever silver sausage.

Her response came only in flared nostrils and a sudden exhale, acceptance of his invitation left entirely up in the air as was only fair in this apparent game of patience and frustration.

As the chiselled nuisance walked away Evelynn was left stewing in her prison, a bitter sneer left painted across her lip. Would she attend? Why? What was there to gain besides from answers and fine dining? More importantly, what was there to lose? Ah, a question that only bred further questions.

Not just why, but who and even beyond that, did he know who she was? Or was she just some tragic yet intriguing neoprene clad cripple to indulge with affluent cruelty, or worse, genuine pity?

“Beatrice!”

Right on cue rang out the bright yet apologetic tones of Barbara, who naturally had missed everything and was (as usual) of very little help, well, aside from aiding in the Sith's rehabilitation, “I'm so so so sorry I'm late, hun! There was a- is that wine? One of those days, I get you, gurl,” the ever-encouraging physical therapist was used to dominating their conversations, talking through a computer was tiring at times, and frankly, the blonde had nothing to say to the functioning idiot, “anyway, I just passed the hottest gu-”

Evelynn scoffed.

---

In the end, it appeared as if her curiosity had won. Perhaps, if nothing more the Emperor's disgrace of a daughter could reap some kind of benefit out of this puzzling scenario. The man evidently held wealth, and if he felt so inclined to waste it upon her, who was she to stop him?

And it had been so long since she had eaten from the plate of a real chef.

Her arrival was fashionably late, and as if the chair didn't draw enough attention, her attire certainly would. In a restaurant full of black chic and designer labels, there she sat clad in the high street's finest, which could only be described as the Ord Cantrell's vision of 'jeans and a nice top'. So common, so cheap, so necessary if one was to fit the role of Beatrice Govan, the struggling victim of an unfortunate speeder crash.

The one benefit of the wheelchair was that nobody questioned it, the restaurant staff that greeted her and guided her to the table spoke not a single word of a dress code and remained with that sympathetic smile fixed upon their faces as if this dinner was the work of some foundation for the sick and dying.

And there he was, true to his word.

Evelynn's face remained impassive as her chair rolled up the table, her frigid stare examining the ridiculous bone structure of her would-be pest. Barbara was right, he really was quite attractive and it only proved to frustrate the Sith, as if to say, 'how dare you possess such fortunate genetics in my presence'.

“Well,” the device in her lap suddenly erupted, its volume set to a more appropriate level for the current environment, “shall you grace me with an explanation now?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

She was guided through the main dining area of the restaurant and back into a private room with a curtained doorway. The man sat in a booth seat that encompassed one half of the intimate round table while the other side had been cleared to allow room for her wheelchair. He already had a drink and was halfway through a cigarette, which meant he'd been there for a time. Despite that, the lines of his face spoke of a calm presence. That he'd been fully prepared to dine alone and, perhaps, would not have minded the lack of company.

He didn't stand at her arrival nor make any sweeping chivalrous gesture. Didn't ask if she minded the smoke nor if she had any trouble finding the place. What he did do was signal to a server waiting off to the side with a gesture of one hand before picking up his drink to take a sip.

A brow faintly lifted at the electronic voice. This aspect of the woman might've been seen as a hindrance to her company, or perhaps an annoyance. On the contrary, Emryc Qosta saw it as a boon. She was not likely to expend a great deal of time or effort on superfluous words. It behooved her to speak plainly, and he gathered that she wasn't the sort to mince words anyway, vocalized or typed.

Emryc was the sort of man that could respect and appreciate that, for that was his way as well. Quiet type, asocial. Barbara maybe would have described him as the strong, mysterious, silent type. The truth of the matter was that he'd learned early in life that words could get you killed and to always choose his with the greatest of consideration and care.

The man took a pull from his cigarette and sat, smoldering silently in the smoke for a moment.

"I like to meet people," but not just any people, the ones that pique curiosity, his tone implied what he left unspoken, "why did you concede?"

As if curiosity wasn't also her reasoning. The servant swept forward between them to deposit the same bottle of wine from the pool, chilled in a silver ice bucket, and a freshly poured glass for Evelynn. The waterglasses came next, then the menus. There were no prices listed next to the menu options - it was that kind of restaurant.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Barbara did, in fact, describe him as the strong, mysterious, silent type and then she proceeded to ramble on about what his star sign was and how he was probably emotionally damaged but still of good heart which is why he volunteered every night at the cat shelter. Quite remarkable how she had come to such conclusions, given that her interaction with him was five seconds of wide-eyed lecherous staring at his abdominal region.

Sometimes as Evelynn sat there she pondered why she was subjecting herself to such an empty chasm of noise and trivial thoughts, but really, when they cast pointless chatter aside, the woman was quite good at her job.

Better than that, the physical therapist was also so gullible that the notion of the Sith's true identity never even broached her inconsequential mind.

His answer came ever unsatisfying in the privacy of the room and Evelynn couldn't help but disagree with such a notion, but with no tongue to hold she merely offered the man a sceptical expression. Who in the galaxy likes meeting people? Intriguing or otherwise.

The woman allowed his question to sit in the air as the drinks were set around them, her unimpressed stare studying his presence with visible scrutiny, the green of her eyes flitting from drink to cigarette before finally settling upon the general nonchalance of his sculpted features. It was quite amusing, really. He may not have sat in a wheelchair or spoke through a datapad, but he was just as much of a curiosity as she was.

Finally, her response came as her gloved hand came to tap upon the screen of the datapad with little hesitation.

“It's leftover night.”

Her stare then travelled down to the menu, which clearly held only the finest in pretentious haute cuisine. Strange really, Dorn had never held a particular attachment to the finer things in life when they had been at her fingertips, but now that she lacked them there was this certain longing. Such a hideously pedestrian outlook to want what you cannot have, perhaps Barbara had been rubbing off on her.

How horrendous.

“The Artrisian Cornucopia,” the datapad spoke after very little deliberation on her part as Evelynn briefly wondered how a meal could contain the essence of an ingredient. Would it be presented on a plate? Or some kind of freeze-dried orb of endangered vegetation? One could never tell with these kinds of establishments.

Now, it was time to cut to the chase.

“Now, tell me who you are, preferably with more than six words.”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

He had put in his own order prior to her arrival, indicating they were to wait until either she placed her own order or, on the chance she didn't show, when he was ready.

Leftover night.

Two words that meant very little to the man. A good majority of his life had been spent so poor that meal wasn't even a word used in his daily lexicon. He remembered scraping for everything he could and it wasn't until he bought-in to the Qosta Clan that he made enough to eat regularly. As in, eat something once a day.

Now? Emryc wasn't one to let a plate of food go to waste. Leftovers weren't a thing.

Eyes of inclement grey gave the woman a look of level consideration. More than six words...

"My name is Emryc Qosta. You are?"

Seven words.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

A withering expression and a roll of the eyes met the man's words, his answer being succinct on a mere technicality which was neither satisfying nor humorous. However, if the sacrifice for fine dining was to be subject to scant snippets of conversation then that was more than negotiable, after all, it was a refreshing break from Barbara.

Fingers tapped at the screen, her annoyed gaze now taking out its fury upon the keyboard instead of Emryc Qosta's frustratingly fortunate features.

“Beatrice Govan.”

The golden mechanical digits hidden beneath her gloved carried on tapping on autopilot, for whenever the woman provided her false identity it usually came accompanied with the answer to the question that curious stares were known to ask.

“It was a speeder crash.”

Enough said about herself, the better. Lying only birthed new lies, and tangled webs to get caught upon.

The man had time to steel himself for a new round of fruitless interrogation as Evelynn continued to type. What small collection of words would it garner this time?

“Indulge me. What do you do for a living?”

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

"Beatric Govan. It was a speeder crash."

Given his career and the skills that went along with it, Emryc wasn't easily fooled with such baldface lies. The fact that it was spoken by a datapad added a level of disparity to the wool she pulled over the eyes of the galaxy. Emryc narrowed his own, watching her micro-expressions and posture.

Full on lies.

He found he didn't care so much, though it did make him curious as to why. Perhaps she was simply being careful around a stranger who could do her harm. Or perhaps she valued her privacy to such a degree that made her paranoia outweigh her desire to socialize. Or, perhaps more likely than either, she didn't like socializing at all and she was merely here for the food.

That was fine. He took another pull on his cigarette.

"I run a trade and investment group," Emryc replied, smoke falling in fat plumes from his lips with every word, "specializing in private acquisitions and sales."

Money, in lamen's terms. He worked with money ... and likely some various products.

"What did you do before the speeder crash," Emryc raised his glass to take a sip, pausing just before it met his lips, "Beatrice."

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Her lie seemed to pass, or at the very least the man wasn't calling her on it. The truth of the matter was that ordinary people seemed far too wrapped up in their own individual worlds to really care about the cover life that the Emperor's daughter had constructed. Evelynn could have told him that her name was Skipoopy and that she had been a rancor tamer with the Coruscanti circus and they would have just smiled and nodded, waiting for their turn to speak.

Of course, such a theory only served the mundane and thus her fictional existence became a lot more tedious; the speeder crash aside, it was a life designed to bore others to tears.

Evelynn lifted her glass and observed as the man took his turn to speak in their over-priced interrogation game. A small smile had to be concealed in preference of neutral appraisal as the words trade, investment and sales came to the table. Gosh, it was enough to bore her to tears.

Very good.

The woman imagined that there was an element of truth to his words as she took a small sip, her enjoyment of the overpriced grape juice suddenly interrupted by the manner in which he said 'her name'.

An annoyed eyebrow was raised at his tone of voice.

“I was a logistics co-ordinator for freight consultation firm,” the datapad lied on her behalf, she might have returned his name in an exaggerated tone had the device been capable of such snark, "I was let go."

Evelynn didn't allow time for her answer to breathe.

“And I assume that your trade and investment group is above board?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

"Not at all," Emryc replied without missing a beat. The man pulled his cigarette from his lips, inspected it silently a moment, then leaned to tamp it out in the ashtray, "it is very deep below."

The tamber of his voice was one of calm purpose. He spoke with the same resoluteness that a hammer struck a nail or a bullet struck a bystander. No flinching, just forward drive into the flesh of the question. Perhaps he was joking - or more likely bluffing - simply to string her along. Perhaps he cared very little for the opinion of a woman in a wheelchair who couldn't even speak for herself. Who would believe her if she blathered about meeting a criminal?

Perhaps it was a threat.

But the man had no need to threaten Beatrice Govan.

...or did he.

Bread arrived, warm and smelling like grandma's kitchen. A dish containing a dollop of whipped gourmet butter was set between them. Water glasses filled. Your entrees will be out shortly.

Emryc maintained direct eye contact with Beatrice the duration of this short conversational interlude.

"What kind of speeder was it?" he asked, breaking eye contact finally to take another sip of his drink.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh.

Evelynn hadn't actually anticipated that answer, having assumed that most criminals didn't out themselves while having dinner with complete strangers. Either she seemed so utterly harmless that it didn't matter, or the man simply didn't care.

It became problematic in Dorn's reaction. How would an ordinary person have reacted? With fear? Shock? A nervous smile? By the time the woman had considered such it was too late to even emote accordingly and so what she presented in instinct was constipation.

The bread couldn't have come at a better time, and as the plates were set Evelynn was sure to take a more deliberate gulp of wine to perhaps set a general sense of nervousness despite the lack of it otherwise.

By the Force, it did smell good.

She hadn't lied about leftover night, that much had been true and quite frankly the woman was a terrible cook. The curse of being reliant upon servants had suddenly become very apparent in her new lifestyle and thus the Emperor's daughter was definitely in it for that food.

He pressed again, asking about the speeder as if such a question was appropriate. Evelynn spluttered and glared at him, shooting incredulous daggers at him as she declined to immediately answer and instead reached for a slice of fresh bread with still-gloved hands. She didn't have an answer prepared for that one, people were generally too polite to ask about the accident.

So naturally, this Emryc Qosta would be rude enough.

The rich, creamy butter was spread with a peculiar precision by her hidden prosthetic, Evelynn taking as much time as she could so that a suitable lie could be developed. Ah, there it was.

“A red one,” the datapad replied, her answer typed with the hand not preoccupied with bread.

A strained smile was suddenly offered as the woman tore off a morsel of buttered bread and popped it into her mouth. Usually, she was too embarrassed to eat in the presence of others, but for this man, she would make an exception as the blonde tilted her head upwards to ease the process of swallowing without a tongue.

“It was a company speeder, we were returning from a conference. I don't know the make.”

Evelynn actively had to fight the urge to display a sour little smirk of triumph in honour of her own quick thinking as she fired a return question his way as to not allow the man to continue a one-way grilling.

“Is it weapons? Spice? People?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

Red. Interesting. One of the least least likely to get into an accident. Such a bold, bright color - though still statistically more likely to come to a grimacing end than white, but only by 7%.

"All of the above," he answered her question, taking up a piece of bread as well but forgoing the butter. Too sweet. "and more."

He'd not expecting his entrepreneurial spirit to bloviate after being ousted from Point Nadir, but suddenly having the entire galaxy at his disposal had made the man hungry to expand his horizon. Apparently he would have done well had he chosen to stay in his old home but the idea of his sister lording over him never would have settled. One of them would have ended up dead eventually and he didn't like his odds in that particular match.

There came a brief pause as he watched the woman and her peculiar way of eating before he continued, "How did it happen?"

He bit into the bread and chewed. Fuck this was good bread - now that he'd delved into cooking as a new side hobby he might have to round that out with bread making.

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Oh, she didn't like that.

Not that Evelynn was opposed to the trade of weapons, drugs or even people, but she supposed that on a technical level she was people. Somewhat important people. The concept of being sold back to her father before being ready to return was frankly too horrifying to stomach. Although apparently, her sudden disappearance was very much kept quiet, most likely to save face.

Alas, to be a perpetual disappointment.

She almost spat half-masticated loaf at the man's face as another far too personal line of inquiry was made into the fictitious accident. Yes, let's have the sad, poor cripple answer relive the accident that turned her life into this pitiful and degrading horror show.

The taps upon the device were more forceful now, creases dancing across the woman's forehead as she scowled.

“Head-on collision. The other driver was racing his friend, and I had had a few drinks at the conference.”

Had had was always so unpleasant to type.

For good measure, Dorn made sure to take another very generous glug of the wine before letting her irritation take over her gloved digits. Renewed screen tapping had taken a very snappy turn, it was the only way she could punctuate the emotion that was lacked by the device's robotic voice.

“Have you really no shame? Do you revel in the misfortune of others? Why are you interrogating me about this?”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

She was lucky to be alive after such a terrible accident, for certain.

Then there, as if on cue, came the explosion of conversational viscera. Emryc almost hated how predictable it was, but at least it told him one thing: he was right. Of course he was right because -

"It's what I do," the man replied, his level gaze of roiling grey settling on her with the weight of the unspoken words on his tongue. What he did, what he had become exceptionally skilled at. The sort of thing that easily set other people into a frenetic conniption of emotion while he carried it out with the placidity of a lucid drug addict.

High on adrenaline.

Or was that sourdough?

"Tell me," he slowly tore off another piece of bread, "what were you drinking at the conference," clearly it hadn't been red wine, "and would you prefer that instead of the wine?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It's what he did. Evidently.

What at first glance seemed to be a high-class dinner between a handsome man, and a cripple that got her clothes from the bargain bin was actually a live interrogation (with bread, albeit fantastic bread). The concept of a free meal was beginning to lose its lustre and the Sith had half a mind to just throw in the towel so that they could converse without false pretences.

No, not so soon.

If that was the game that Emryc Qotsa wished to play, then they would play it and she would continue to spew lie after lie until one of them eventually gave in.

Another generous gulp of wine was tipped down the woman's throat as the next line of inquiry was fired off, a seemingly inconsequential delve into the fictitious conference that caused her to exhale from her nose and into the glass, the condensation blemishing its clarity.

“Oh, I don't know. Whisky, or bourbon. Amber swill that makes men feel suaver than they are in reality,” she typed, that same irritation present in the movement of her fingers, “as a woman, you must take part in such boorish ritual lest you be perceived as a killjoy.”

The last glug of Evelynn's glass was finished off and came accompanied with a strained smile as if she really was a champion of gender politics in the workplace.

“The wine is perfectly fine.”

Setting down the glass, the woman refrained from refilling it, knowing full well that her capacity for alcohol was not terribly impressive. A fact that was wholly unsurprising given her frame; a lightweight, as the common people would call her.

“So this is what you do? A part of your job, or just for fun then?”

Dorn almost stopped and let that be her next question, but before a word could escape him the woman leapt back onto the device, a gloved palm held up to his face indicating that he best keep his mouth shut.

“I want more than just a word or two, give me something to work with, damn it.”

---

Emryc

 

[Emryc]

“Oh, I don't know. Whisky, or bourbon. Amber swill that makes men feel suaver than they are in reality,” she typed, that same irritation present in the movement of her fingers, “as a woman, you must take part in such boorish ritual lest you be perceived as a killjoy.”

At this Emryc gave his own drink a quick glance. He couldn't say he agreed with that statement, but then again he didn't generally judge people by the drink in their hand. He took another sip and continued listening as it seemed she wasn't yet done.

"The wine is perfectly fine."

He nodded to her. Very well. The entire bottle was hers for the drinking. To send the message home, when she refrained from refilling he leaned to do it for her. It wasn't an obnoxious pour, but he topped her off at just a bit over half full. That ought to keep her for a bit. Boost her conversational gain - noted by the rebound on his job. Full circle. Made him wonder what went first when the wine really started hitting her.

The thought process or the typing.

"Right now?" he queried, momentarily considering lighting up a second cigarette, "You are not part of my job, you are part of my pleasure."

A beat later and their meals arrived. Emryc watched her over the plate that was set before him, finished his drink, then set the empty tumbler aside, "Another."

The waiter nodded, asked if they needed anything else for their meal, then ducked away with the empty glass.

Emryc loomed over a large primo cut steak situated between two gourmet sides. He took up a fork and steak knife and cut into it with the clarity and vision of someone who was rather familiar with the feel of a knife sliding through flesh.

"I take my meals alone," he continued, giving her something to work with, "but I prefer the company of interesting strangers for the opportunity to ask questions simply for the sake of getting to know them, not because they have something I need."