Kaboom.
As a rule, Dresden disliked formal events.
It wasn't so much the speeches, or the endless hobnobbing with superiors. He had just never enjoyed the process of preparing a dress uniform, what with the seemingly endless pins and ribbons and patches, all of which had to be placed with millimeter precision. He flat out refused to wear dress shoes, instead polishing a pair of old black leather boots to a mirror finish. And he never understood why the ceremonial swords were purposefully kept dull. He had always kept an edge on his that was sharp enough to cut someone if they looked at it too hard, and that had always earned him an ass chewing from his superiors.
Which is why, after he took over the Senate Guard, he had come up with a dress uniform that was simple, comfortable, stylish, and included a karking sharp sword.
That might be why he was enjoying the hell out of himself at this particular military ball.
As per usual, the speeches had been dull. He had given one himself, and had a new appreciation for why they were so boring. As it turns out, they were usually prewritten by staff who did their damnedest to implore the speech givers not to swear or tell off colored jokes. It was hard to get a General to do anything he or she didn't want to, but somehow the staff weenies always managed to convince them to do a passable impersonation of a personality-challenged droid.
The speeches had been followed by a handful of high profile awards. A squadron of pilots had been awarded for valor in a battle against the One Sith. A Command Sergeant Major had just reached her fortieth year of service, and had been presented with a commemorative saber by the youngest private in the room. The poor boy, barely 18 years old, had nearly fainted when the Sergeant Major had winked at him and made a comment about his shapely posterior.
Generals could be tamed, but Sergeants Major were a different breed.
Once the formalities had been observed, the room had descended into amiable frivolity. A Bith DJ kept a steady stream of popular dance music blaring, and the large dance floor was full of senior officers and NCOs, as well as a smattering of brave lower enlisted, all bumping and grinding with drunken abandon. The open bar that took up the entirety of the western wall of the massive room saw a never-ending stream of servicemen and women, all looking to get hammered on the government's credit.
The ballroom itself was something out of the opulent days of the Old Republic: marble floors polished to a high gloss, high ceilings dancing with holograms portraying major historical battles, decorative stone columns along the edge of the room, and the eastern wall was lined with shadowed alcoves, providing a measure of privacy for anyone who might want it.
The northern end of the room was dominated by a large mezzanine that overlooked the dance floor. It was mostly empty, having hosted the stage for the ceremonial portions of the evenings. The southern end of the room featured massive floor to ceiling windows, with glass doors opening up to an open air balcony. The balcony was shielded, of course, as was the whole of the building. But whoever had installed the shield generators had done an excellent job of keeping them discreet. The view of the city was breathtaking, and the distortion created by the protective energy barriers was minimal.
It was out on this balcony that Dresden found himself, lost in thought. An empty brandy snifter sat on the rail next to him. Serving droids had tried to offer refills, but he didn't want to be drunk, not just yet. Instead, he wanted to enjoy the night air, even if there was a slight tinge of ozone to it from the shields. This was shaping up to be one of the best nights in recent memory. It would be a shame to ruin it by passing out in an alcove, where he'd almost certainly wake up to genitalia sloppily drawn all over his face.
It wasn't so much the speeches, or the endless hobnobbing with superiors. He had just never enjoyed the process of preparing a dress uniform, what with the seemingly endless pins and ribbons and patches, all of which had to be placed with millimeter precision. He flat out refused to wear dress shoes, instead polishing a pair of old black leather boots to a mirror finish. And he never understood why the ceremonial swords were purposefully kept dull. He had always kept an edge on his that was sharp enough to cut someone if they looked at it too hard, and that had always earned him an ass chewing from his superiors.
Which is why, after he took over the Senate Guard, he had come up with a dress uniform that was simple, comfortable, stylish, and included a karking sharp sword.
That might be why he was enjoying the hell out of himself at this particular military ball.
As per usual, the speeches had been dull. He had given one himself, and had a new appreciation for why they were so boring. As it turns out, they were usually prewritten by staff who did their damnedest to implore the speech givers not to swear or tell off colored jokes. It was hard to get a General to do anything he or she didn't want to, but somehow the staff weenies always managed to convince them to do a passable impersonation of a personality-challenged droid.
The speeches had been followed by a handful of high profile awards. A squadron of pilots had been awarded for valor in a battle against the One Sith. A Command Sergeant Major had just reached her fortieth year of service, and had been presented with a commemorative saber by the youngest private in the room. The poor boy, barely 18 years old, had nearly fainted when the Sergeant Major had winked at him and made a comment about his shapely posterior.
Generals could be tamed, but Sergeants Major were a different breed.
Once the formalities had been observed, the room had descended into amiable frivolity. A Bith DJ kept a steady stream of popular dance music blaring, and the large dance floor was full of senior officers and NCOs, as well as a smattering of brave lower enlisted, all bumping and grinding with drunken abandon. The open bar that took up the entirety of the western wall of the massive room saw a never-ending stream of servicemen and women, all looking to get hammered on the government's credit.
The ballroom itself was something out of the opulent days of the Old Republic: marble floors polished to a high gloss, high ceilings dancing with holograms portraying major historical battles, decorative stone columns along the edge of the room, and the eastern wall was lined with shadowed alcoves, providing a measure of privacy for anyone who might want it.
The northern end of the room was dominated by a large mezzanine that overlooked the dance floor. It was mostly empty, having hosted the stage for the ceremonial portions of the evenings. The southern end of the room featured massive floor to ceiling windows, with glass doors opening up to an open air balcony. The balcony was shielded, of course, as was the whole of the building. But whoever had installed the shield generators had done an excellent job of keeping them discreet. The view of the city was breathtaking, and the distortion created by the protective energy barriers was minimal.
It was out on this balcony that Dresden found himself, lost in thought. An empty brandy snifter sat on the rail next to him. Serving droids had tried to offer refills, but he didn't want to be drunk, not just yet. Instead, he wanted to enjoy the night air, even if there was a slight tinge of ozone to it from the shields. This was shaping up to be one of the best nights in recent memory. It would be a shame to ruin it by passing out in an alcove, where he'd almost certainly wake up to genitalia sloppily drawn all over his face.
