Noam
Member
Sergeant Finn, newly of the Resistance, adjusted his jacket, which didn’t need to be adjusted. It had been perfectly tailored to fit him, by an Ishi Tib tailor with more fingers than Finn had ever seen on a sentient before. His pants had been tailored, too, and his shirt, all of it made out of some sort of fantastically soft and light purple material that glittered in the light. His shoes were the right amount of broken in, and an irritable Bespinian man had done something to his hair called a high fade, and just generally he looked like the well-educated and politically-minded son of a middlingly wealthy family. Finn knew that was what he looked like, because the tailor and the irritable Bespinian had told him explicitly that was who they were making him look like, and because he’d had a briefing, and because the ID chip in his bracelet and the carefully forged and collected pocket litter scattered on his person indicated that he was Dakson Hartscol, an aide to Senator Lannith of the neutral planet Malachor III.
Finn wasn’t a senatorial aide. He was a spy, as of a week ago. He’d always thought that spying was the sort of thing that would happen in dark alleyways and smoky bars, but The Brightest Star was almost alarmingly well-lit, and a discreet sign by the door announced that there would be no smoking of any substances whatsoever on the first floor. Warm, golden lamps flickered from discreet alcoves in the wall and in the center of each table; Finn guessed that they were supposed to look like candlelight, but they just reminded him of the aftermath of a battle, with fire from flamethrowers guttering out in former gardens. Shadows danced against the walls. It made him uneasy. The whole thing made him uneasy--he was wearing better clothes than he'd ever worn in his life, he had a legal identity for the first time, and he had a name and a rank and a clear purpose and people waiting to welcome him back when he'd accomplished it. None of it was bad, but all of it was new, and nerve-wracking.
Senator Kasimira Tarkin was seated at the bar, which was good news for Finn. If she’d been at a table, it would have been harder for him to casually bump into her. He wove through the crowd, dodged a waiter carrying five stacked trays of something hot and steaming, and shored up against the bar. It was mirrored, not just shiny metal but actual glass reflecting everyone’s nostrils back up at him, and he resigned himself to the night being incredibly weird.
The bartender had stalk eyes and a neck longer than Finn’s leg, and asked him what he’d have to drink in the poshest Core accent he’d ever heard. His briefing on Dakson Hartscol’s likely political opinions, religious beliefs, education, and hobbies hadn’t included a drink order. “Whiskey, neat,” Finn said, since the arrogant oil tycoon in Love in the Time of Empires had ordered whiskey. Right before having a threesome and being tragically killed by the protagonist. In retrospect, he should have figured out that was fiction sooner.
He drank half his glass, managed not to cough, and scanned the room casually before letting himself take a second look at Kasimira Tarkin. Two seconds, three—he let recognition dawn on his face. “Senator Tarkin,” he said, loud and cheerful, leaning towards her, already extending a hand before she’d even fully turned towards him. Confidence, that was the thing. Trusting that people were generally friendly and good and wanted to meet you, because people were, who didn’t want to meet a well-educated and charming young senatorial aide? “Congratulations on your election. Dakson Hartscol, I work for Senator Lannith.”
~*~*~
Coruscant was as Coruscant ever was—chaotic, and noisy, and brutally cold. Jaumet stepped off the ship and immediately headed for the vendors that crowded the northwest dockyards. You could buy anything there—clothes, guns, food from half a thousand planets, probably some less important organs. Jaumet limited herself to a hat and matching gloves, and another set for Rey: The Last Jedi, who she figured had probably also lost her warm weather gear when the Raddus had been destroyed. She turned to hand them to Rey, and found the other woman standing in the dead center of the corridor, head craned back to look up at the skyscrapers vanishing into the grey clouds above them.
“Pretty, right?” Jaumet said. Which it wasn’t, not her idea of pretty, but the skyscrapers glittered even in the absence of sun, advertisements dancing across the paneled walls. Above them, fifty-story tall man transformed into a bright red Krayt dragon and flew across several apartment blocks before exploding into the logo for an energy drink. Ships wove across the sky, directed by a hoard of glittering traffic drones and hindered by bursts of multicolored smoke that exploded from the side of a factory with alarming irregularity. Too crazy for her tastes, too cold, not enough green, but maybe Rey would like it. And it would be good to figure out what Rey liked, if they were going to work together.
At the very least, Coruscant was a place where two human women could blend in, even with one of them dressed like an Outer Rim bumpkin and gawking up at the sky. “Come on,” Jaumet said, nudging Rey’s elbow to get her to start walking. “Let’s go find our hotel, and then we can meet everyone at the restaurant.” Which was, of course, code for finding Kon, their contact. He’d be able to get them in with anybody in the city who might have even the slightest interest in helping—or joining—the Resistance.
Lucyfer
Finn wasn’t a senatorial aide. He was a spy, as of a week ago. He’d always thought that spying was the sort of thing that would happen in dark alleyways and smoky bars, but The Brightest Star was almost alarmingly well-lit, and a discreet sign by the door announced that there would be no smoking of any substances whatsoever on the first floor. Warm, golden lamps flickered from discreet alcoves in the wall and in the center of each table; Finn guessed that they were supposed to look like candlelight, but they just reminded him of the aftermath of a battle, with fire from flamethrowers guttering out in former gardens. Shadows danced against the walls. It made him uneasy. The whole thing made him uneasy--he was wearing better clothes than he'd ever worn in his life, he had a legal identity for the first time, and he had a name and a rank and a clear purpose and people waiting to welcome him back when he'd accomplished it. None of it was bad, but all of it was new, and nerve-wracking.
Senator Kasimira Tarkin was seated at the bar, which was good news for Finn. If she’d been at a table, it would have been harder for him to casually bump into her. He wove through the crowd, dodged a waiter carrying five stacked trays of something hot and steaming, and shored up against the bar. It was mirrored, not just shiny metal but actual glass reflecting everyone’s nostrils back up at him, and he resigned himself to the night being incredibly weird.
The bartender had stalk eyes and a neck longer than Finn’s leg, and asked him what he’d have to drink in the poshest Core accent he’d ever heard. His briefing on Dakson Hartscol’s likely political opinions, religious beliefs, education, and hobbies hadn’t included a drink order. “Whiskey, neat,” Finn said, since the arrogant oil tycoon in Love in the Time of Empires had ordered whiskey. Right before having a threesome and being tragically killed by the protagonist. In retrospect, he should have figured out that was fiction sooner.
He drank half his glass, managed not to cough, and scanned the room casually before letting himself take a second look at Kasimira Tarkin. Two seconds, three—he let recognition dawn on his face. “Senator Tarkin,” he said, loud and cheerful, leaning towards her, already extending a hand before she’d even fully turned towards him. Confidence, that was the thing. Trusting that people were generally friendly and good and wanted to meet you, because people were, who didn’t want to meet a well-educated and charming young senatorial aide? “Congratulations on your election. Dakson Hartscol, I work for Senator Lannith.”
~*~*~
Coruscant was as Coruscant ever was—chaotic, and noisy, and brutally cold. Jaumet stepped off the ship and immediately headed for the vendors that crowded the northwest dockyards. You could buy anything there—clothes, guns, food from half a thousand planets, probably some less important organs. Jaumet limited herself to a hat and matching gloves, and another set for Rey: The Last Jedi, who she figured had probably also lost her warm weather gear when the Raddus had been destroyed. She turned to hand them to Rey, and found the other woman standing in the dead center of the corridor, head craned back to look up at the skyscrapers vanishing into the grey clouds above them.
“Pretty, right?” Jaumet said. Which it wasn’t, not her idea of pretty, but the skyscrapers glittered even in the absence of sun, advertisements dancing across the paneled walls. Above them, fifty-story tall man transformed into a bright red Krayt dragon and flew across several apartment blocks before exploding into the logo for an energy drink. Ships wove across the sky, directed by a hoard of glittering traffic drones and hindered by bursts of multicolored smoke that exploded from the side of a factory with alarming irregularity. Too crazy for her tastes, too cold, not enough green, but maybe Rey would like it. And it would be good to figure out what Rey liked, if they were going to work together.
At the very least, Coruscant was a place where two human women could blend in, even with one of them dressed like an Outer Rim bumpkin and gawking up at the sky. “Come on,” Jaumet said, nudging Rey’s elbow to get her to start walking. “Let’s go find our hotel, and then we can meet everyone at the restaurant.” Which was, of course, code for finding Kon, their contact. He’d be able to get them in with anybody in the city who might have even the slightest interest in helping—or joining—the Resistance.
Lucyfer
