Women and Death | Tyger Tyger

[Natasi Fortan]

The message had been transmitted to Tyger Tyger with a time and date and an address: Number 10, Park Lane.

Natasi Fortan and Sioux Chambers arrived at the address a few minutes ahead of time, this time without a full police escort, only the four horsemen -- or so Natasi had taken to labeling her plainclothes detail -- and the two women. Sioux unlocked the gate and pushed it open, and they strolled into the drive. It was designed to take air and ground traffic, and was large enough to turn around a limousine-sized speeder, as needed. Number 10, Park Lane was the official residence of the Grand Moff of the First Order -- even though the position was currently vacant -- but Natasi had access to the building because it was used for government functions and receptions even in the Grand Moff's vacancy.

Natasi unlocked the glossy black door and pushed it open, then walked into the foyer. It still smelled new and fresh -- not exactly like fresh pain, but like the memory of fresh paint. Natasi looked around; there were basic furnishings here, enough to do the job but nothing exactly personalized. Still, Natasi knew better than to start redecorating. Even if she did become Grand Moff, she had no intention of living at Number 10. It would make very little sense, in her mind, to advetise where she lived, given her history and the apparent ease with which Rebels, rogue Sith, etc. seemed to be able to find, attack, and abduct her.

"Measuring for drapes?" asked Sioux.

"Let's just get on with it," Natasi said with a sigh. She folded her arms over her abdomen and wandered through the empty state rooms, her face inscrutable, even to Sioux.

[member="Tyger Tyger"]

 

[Tyger Tyger]

[member="Natasi Fortan"]

Tyger Tyger would arrive to the meeting when he did. No, he was not late, or at least, not deliberately, fashionably so. Though it had been long since he would forego the ritual of 10 minutes prior, hurry-up-and-wait so conditioned into him while in Imperial Service, he was still a professional. However, as he was his own boss now, his punctuality took on more casual definitions.

After he saw to it that Leia ate, and that she was comfortable being alone in the Far Star for whatever length of time was warranted by his departure, he made his way on over to Number 10. Not a power play in intent, but still one in function: No longer did mission or the money take priority in the bounty hunter’s life. There was a new variable, and it took on a meaning akin to old religious rituals of the nomads.

Of keeping a candle lit in a storm.

A higher-calling is its own leverage.

Though he had left his armor and his bowcaster to the ship, he still sought it worthy to carry his scatter gun, his trench knife. It was a mixed message – one of general peace, but not of naivety of the sadists that lurked within Sith nobility, and acted behind a veil of privilege and corruption. He took no umbrage to the occasional Stormtrooper who approached him for identification, then nervously backed-off upon seeing his credentials as they appeared –mostly redacted—in the personnel verification. He knew where to find their eyes within their helmets and made sure he did, folding within their throats any potential need to chit-chat further.

His step slowed outside Natasi’s door, allowing the "Four Horsemen" to see him seeing them. They simply nodded in response, gracing him on through --- the group apparently of a stronger breed than the typical First Order Soldier. On he walked, the bodyguards closing the doors behind him.

Tyger Tyger would find her admiring a piece of art. A very on-the-nose piece of Aram Kalast, clad in full-regale. It expressed nothing else but patriarchy, reveling in the memory of a man who was not even dead.

Yet.

Like those adorning the walls of so many dead Empires and fallen Sith Temples. These whole civilizations, pyramids built by Kings to be buried in.

After so much time lived adrift, Milo Nox felt the familiar trappings of home creeping over him. Though Avalonia was across the galaxy, it felt like he had finally returned to Dromund Kaas.

Somewhere in his heart, he realized just how much he had missed his father.

“Ma’am,” he said flatly. It wasn’t respect. It wasn’t even a greeting. It was only a notification that the meeting had begun.

 

[Natasi Fortan]

Natasi studied the portrait of Aram Kalast seriously as she waited. He was wearing some sort of -- she didn't know exactly, but it looked like a stylized and exaggerated version of his First Order uniform. It was somewhat perplexing, she thought, and she didn't much like it. She canted her head to the side and called for Sioux. "Take this down. Send it back to -- wherever we got it from -- and replace it with something else. A landscape. Something." Sioux looked at her blankly, as if she wasn't sure whether she was expected to do it herself, immediately. Natasi clarified: "Now, please. I think there are still some roles of packing paper around here somewhere -- ah." She stopped short when she saw [member="Tyger Tyger"] enter.

He was late, but Natasi didn't care. Those who risked their lives for her safety were immune to some of her Level One pet peeves -- tardiness, loud clothing at informal occasions, and chewing gum.

"Tyger. Mr. Tyger," Natasi amended. "I'm sorry, what do I call you?"

She strolled across the room towards the door and offered her hand. When the pleasantries were concluded, Natasi watched Sioux -- who was looking at Tyger Tyger with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, because she knew that how he performed would reflect on her -- carry the painting into the foyer. She closed the door behind Sioux and turned to Tyger Tyger. "Did Sioux pass along your bonus for -- for what you did for us on Lanteeb?" she asked.

 

[Tyger Tyger]

Natasi had surprised him, the removal of the picture as offensive, as boring, spoke volumes in symbol. Perhaps, though this was an Empire of the Many, Infinite Empires, it was the not the same as the last, and the one before it. Perhaps, though this was an Empire, Milo’s life was not actually moving in a circle. The faintest impression of a smile cracked his otherwise stoic features; an ever-so-subtle twitch of the very end of his left eyebrow marking his amusement.

“S’your dollar,” he said out of one side of his mouth, shifting his weight and lifting a single hand in that gesture that isn’t a shrug, but conveys the same meaning. She had temporarily broken his scripts, and it caused him to be slightly more ingratiating than he had planned.

“But ‘Tyger Tyger’’s the name you’ve paid for...”

Until, of course, he realized it.

He rocked back onto his heel, crossing his arms over his chest in a declaration of independence.

“Probably ought’t stick with that.”

He didn’t need to watch Sioux as she left, the inherent strengths of his more…action-oriented personality gifting him with a more pronounced ability to feel her as she moved past. It made him appear offputting, unphased. Which was important. Milo couldn’t lie, so Intimidation was the way to play it.

But [member="Natasi Fortan"] was no slouch, presenting the most obvious functional use for traditional manners and courtesies. In her handshake, she taught the meaning of it – The reasoning behind its design.

Temporarily, he had to break his closed posture, drawing a hand from the top, extending it forth, and shaking her hand in his partially-gloved one. Firm, but not crushing or overcompensating – A surprise, considering the level of vascularity pronouncing itself in his wrist. He sought her eyes – His, blue like a winter crystal -- and lowered his brow slightly.


If she were shrewd in the reading of such things, she might recognize it as Skepticism.

Did he receive the bonus?

“I did,” he agreed, his head canting to the side. “You’re too kind.” His face resumed a more neutral position, and he made no greater effort at gratitude. He had done his job, and she had paid him. If she wanted to pay him more, he would not object.

But she did not own him, and Tyger Tyger would not be signed to a contract prior to knowing its details.

 

[Natasi Fortan]

Natasi nodded and spread her hands as if to say well, good then. Her dark eyes fixed on his bright ones for a moment before she turned to face him. They stood in front of the massive fireplace, quite alone. It was like Deep Throat met Downton Abbey in space. Natasi jammed her hands into her pockets and looked up towards the ceilings. "Look, I've got a million things to do and I imagine you do, as well, so I won't beat around the bush. Your talents were very handy on Lanteeb and Sioux tells me you are, more or less, reliable. I have use of someone of your abilities outside the usual intelligence apparatus. Not -- " she said, holding up a hand from her coat pocket. " -- because I have anything to hide from the intelligence people, but because I believe it's important that someone keep an eye on the people keeping an eye on the rest of us."

She reached back into her pockets and pulled out a small silver cigarette case, which she popped open, offering a cigarette to [member="Tyger Tyger"]. When he had decided whether to take one or not, she took her own and picked up the table lighter from the nearby coffee table, which she used to light the cigarette. She took a long drag and then exhaled. "I have some concerns about some of my ... newer colleagues. The First Order does not abide by graft, or corruption of any kind, or misconduct of any variety. We must lead by and example," she declared, drawing herself up to her full height as the cigarette's thin silver tendril curled up from its tip. "I would like to be sure that everyone is on the same page in this regard. Obviously I can't ask the Minister of Security to investigate himself. Nor can I ask him to vet the Minister of State."

The Moff looked over at Tyger Tyger and took another drag from her cigarette, exhaling billowing smoke as she spoke: "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

 

[Tyger Tyger]

Milo’s brow lowered further, until his eyes had actually narrowed at her mention of the Intelligence game. The brief mentioned made him wonder if his cover had been blown; if [member="Natasi Fortan"] needed to be stuffed inside that fireplace and her body sent to Heaven in a smog of ashen particles. There was a thin, but palpable, tension emanating from him.

Fortunately, it was not long before she clarified, and his eyes softened in response. He uncrossed his arms at her offer of a cigarette, waving a single hand at the small case in dismissal. They did not cross again. Instead, he took a slow step forward, following Natasi as she moved toward the coffee table, maintaining their same conversational distance.

“…,” Milo didn’t say, but still somehow managed to possess its own moment to land, nonetheless. He appeared amused again as he watched her smoke, unconsciously dissecting whether it was an oral fixation from nervousness, a deliberate seduction technique to draw attention to her mouth, or, really…just the comfort of being in your own house. Safe.


Milo was not aware that he was doing this math. He was only aware that he didn’t dislike her.

Did he understand?

Yeah, he got it.

“Embed. Observe.,” he reiterated. His eyebrows then furrowed, looking at her sideways. “…Adjudicate?”

 

[Natasi Fortan]

Natasi bent to pick up the silver ashtray from the coffee table and held it in her palm like a saucer and teacup. She tapped her cigarette with her index finger while looking over at [member="Tyger Tyger"]. There was something about the ritual of smoking a cigarette that Natasi rather enjoyed. The sameness of it, the familiarity of the cylinder in one's hand, the sweet smell of the t'bacc a one lifted the cigarette to one's mouth, the momentary flinty scent as the match or lighter strikes, the brief blaze of heat as the flame illuminates one's face.

The taste and smell and feel of the velvety smoke rushing in and slowly billowing out. The gentle tap of one's index finger to discard the bit of ash into the tray. She thought of her mother, an elegant, old-fashioned cigarette holder between fingers covered in gloves that went past the elbow, laughing over a sidecar at the piano in the drawing room. Natasi smiled fondly and took another drag of the cigarette.

"Adjudicate?" Natasi's eyebrows lifted as if it was an idea she was considering. On second thought -- she shook her head gently. "Afraid not -- unless you're at risk of danger, in which case by all means defend yourself. Otherwise -- my reign will be one of law and order, so if you discover any malfeasance, I'll need you to provide it to me so the Supreme Leader's prosecutors can build a case. But you'll be paid well. And we can discuss the ancillary benefits, if you're interested." She raised an eyebrow at him as if to encourage him to express his requirements.

 

[Tyger Tyger]

Tyger Tyger appeared to be lightening up, his existential burden lessened ounce by ounce with every few passing seconds. It was in Natasi’s unconscious approximation of an old, dead woman that finally brought him around – No longer a bitter employee, but a witting accomplice.

He half-grinned, a private joke implied in her refusal to grant him a License to Kill; the ol’ “Haha, it would be cool to murder them all, wouldn’t it, but not today,” then nodded along as [member="Natasi Fortan"] gave him permission to not die while on the job. So, he would be playing at “Internal Affairs” by the book. He had hoped to be a bagman, but he could settle for P.I.

Ancillary Benefits, she said. Her eyebrow raised, and he hung on it, raising his in turn almost sardonically, waiting for her to elaborate.

But she never did. Apparently, it was his price to name.

He raised his hands, snapping fingers on both. “Just like that?,” he questioned what he was hearing, the boundaries and reach. He had been used to working for outliers – for criminals, and NGOs, and insurgents, and rebels, and corporate monsters. It was unusual to have access to the wealth only available to those within Society; to be able to request something official and bonafide.

 

[Natasi Fortan]

"Well," Natasi said. It was a fully encapsulated statement, when paired with the loft of her chestnut brows and the wave of her cigarette through the air, causing a stream of smoke to escape into the air. She studied him carefully through the haze, her dark eyes scrutinizing every hair, every angle of his face, the little details that make the man. He had done the First Order a good turn and he was useful. They stood in silence for a few moments until Natasi went on: "Within reason, that is."

She walked over to the window, threw the brocade curtains back. "See that? Park Boulevard. You want a townhouse in this neighborhood? Done. If you want something a little different -- something with a lawn for your kids or a garden plot for your wife -- the Garden district has some nice houses. One can be yours. A flat in the Palace district? And not just places to live. If there's something in my power to give you, then I will give it to you. Not as quid pro quo, but as a gesture of my thanks for your efforts on Lanteeb."

She half-turned back to him, nodding him towards the window. "What do you think? What's on your mind?"

[member="Tyger Tyger"]

 

[Tyger Tyger]

To be netted in. Yoked back, anchored, stapled to the ground. Before the disruption to his life in Military Service – that disruption to his father living at all -- Milo might have dreamed of this.

He might have, he considered…But then, he didn’t really much remember dreaming at all, in those days. Even now, they were of the night…though, textured, at least.

Anything he wanted…within reason, of course. Why, Moff Fortan, didn’t you know? Reason is the one thing this galaxy has in short supply.


He’d seen mercenary unit grow to control planets, ignorantly throw tanks down on cityscapes. Empires stolen away in the night while its denizens rest in their beds. Entire cultures and planets, dreamt up by Monarchs, that post maybe a handful of times, then disappear forever. This nightmare of whimsy and pastiche and pop culture that transforms life into cliffhangers and confines imagination to a t-shirt.

Milo shifted his weight, turned his body, following her in minute, but appropriately casual increments as she moved to the window. The brocades flew back, the room turned washed in the blinding overcast of Avalonia, its polished architecture and litter free streets. [member="Natasi Fortan"] was unabashed by the light, but Tyger Tyger winced against its harshness. His eyes would adjust. Outside, Milo had barely acknowledged the place in its bland monochrome; but here, framed by the window, it was a portrait in White.


This was it. A place in the inner circle, what his dad had spent his life competing for, fighting for. The failure the old man had sought to escape in the Far Star. Milo had taken a step off the beaten path, and found it. Everything his family had ever done was to get here.

The dream of the blood and the tribe.

He could probably even have his rank reinstated, his name returned.

And then she brought up schools, the benefits offered to family. Milo set his hands at his hips, his gaze falling to the floor in contemplation as the whole of his life before this last year took a backseat to who he was now.

This was not the brief flicker of the genius – a quick rolling of eyes to run back into the mind, fish something out of an abstract filing cabinet, and return with a full prototype or theory in hand. This was more akin to the powering down of a machine – a complete reallocation of function. These possibilities RACKED Milo, as though he had never once given thought to his existential station. At all.

Would this be what’s best for Leia? A yard to play in, friends at school? Community. Stability. Relative safety, certainly. Or was he falling into the same bad swindle the old man had? Was he ignoring all he himself had seen regarding the state of the universe?

What if Leia couldn’t handle it?

The offer began to lose flavor in his mouth, like bubblegum chewed for millennia.

What if there was something wrong with her?

Impossible. If the Force spoke to Milo at all, it was through her. Muted, haunting, sacrosanct.

The way the candle spoke in storms.

Something inarticulable changed in his expression, his eyes transitioning to meet Natasi’s. His willpower had solidified, the momentary confusion gone from the air.

“I need access to health and welfare specialists. Counselors. Therapists. Particularly versed in trauma and crisis.”

He didn't care how this made him sound. Madness, after all, was never an adjective that hurt a Bounty Hunter's reputation.

 

[Natasi Fortan]

Natasi turned from the window, letting the drapes fall back into place, once again plunging the room into the artificial half-light of the overhead lamps. She turned back to [member="Tyger Tyger"], examining him for a few moments curiously. He was an odd one. Access to health and welfare specialists. Counselors. Therapists. Versed in trauma and crisis. She raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing for the time being. She couldn't help but wonder in that moment. He seemed perfectly well. True, people hid these things with varying degrees of sincerity and success, but she didn't get the vibe from Tyger Tyger at all.

She inclined her head in assent. "Of course. All of that. I can put you in touch with the best specialists in First Order space." She paused and swallowed audibly. "My office will cover the costs," she added, in case it weren't apparent from the context.

"So, is that a no on the real estate?" she asked quietly. "What else can I offer?"