Wicked Games
Capris first spotted him half-way down a glass of Saraveen brandy.
She'd been slack-boned against the bar top of some quaint little speakeasy for the better half of an hour, folded--upper body supported by a single elbow, and mind passively stupid. Tacked on the wall were holoscreens, most broadcasting podrace highlights that gave her eyes something to glaze over. But suddenly, out of the fold, there was something new. Hosted by some by a man with a moustache and some stunningly beautiful zeltron that made her briefly suicidal. Those self-esteem issues quickly mended themselves upon seeing another face.
"Heh." She hiccuped, "That looks like my boyfriend."
The girl attempted to straighten out a finger to point at the pixelated blur of beauty and brawn, but it didn't quite carry. The bartender, expertly interpreting her attempt, passed a look to the screen, read the clear bold "Son of the Sword" typography running under the image of scarred twenty something, and peered down with skeptical pity.
"Sure hun."
Capris giggled, too drunk and too absorbed to find any nuance in the words. "He's really nice. Probably the nicest." It was said right as he sicced twin vorksnrs on his opponent. "Cute little accent too." she continued to babble, tracing a finger around the coaster set for her drink. "And face."
The last time she'd seen it had been with an overcast of tragedy and heartache. That made her sad, and with nowhere to place that emotion, she looked at the screen instead. He wasn't happy necessarily, but…determined and gorgeously lit by whatever optics they had going on.
"That's really brave of him." She murmured with sudden severity, another hiccup riding the tail.
The girl went corpse-silent for one long uninterrupted minute, staring with enough tragic yearning to guarantee another sale of alcohol.
It was then a miraculous case of sobriety hit her like a rancor.
"Wait– what the fuc-"
-------
Never again let it be said she suffered from commitment issues.
The arena was rank. An obvious thing to expect, but it had been enough time since Capris stepped foot in one for the nose-blindness to wear off. Now everything felt new, and vibrant, and scandalizing.
Not too scandalizing though, she did use to kidnap people for a living.
It was painless enough gaining entry. The scars, the tattoos, the general bad vibes– She looked the type that would pay to see someone get the shit beat out of them, so there was no hold up there. Getting to back of house was a bit more of an effort, but all things are possible through a little faith,
And generous assistance from the Force.
So Capris walked with awful posture, a stolen ID badge, and a building migraine as she considered the place.
Why the hell was Kyric of all people here. Wasn't this supposed to be her thing? Bloodied fists and gapped teeth, and… stupidity? Knowing him he had some dastardly noble reason in his backpocket that would floor her, and humble her, and have her roll eyes all in the same breath. Possession fluttered to life in her and suddenly, despite the knowledge Kyric had survived far worse, she wanted him far, far away from this cesspit. Because here he was surrounded by people who looked and acted and thought exactly like her. And knowing herself as astutely as she did, that was a very bad position to be in.
Especially when it came to this Mercy character.
Sure, she might've rooted for her in the first round or two, interspersed between obsessive scrolling through rank sheets, statistics, and battle predictions. But in her paper thin defense, Mercy was sort of aspirational. Or at least in terms of whatever dead ambitions Capris had for herself a couple sum years ago. Some strong, powerful, impossible-to-feth-with image that Capris slowly felt guilty for falling victim to when all the Sith hogwash was added atop.
But now the red-head was slated to fight Kyric and, love and faith aside, Capris was not wholly comfortable with the idea. Maybe it wasn't some grand romantic gesture to go break in the knee cap of his final opponent (Not that Capris had decided that would her course of action) but she did feel pushed to do something.
What exactly? Have a little cat fight? Frown and wag a finger? Capris would get her shit decked by this woman, if not by the roving fans and attendants set between.
But caution was something she frequently tossed to the wind. So she grabbed a towel stack from a passing attendant, ignored their protest, and shoved open a swinging door with her shoulder.
"Uh, can I interest anyone in some towels?" She piped up. "They're heated!"
Mercy
