A Faustian Waltz ( pt. 1 )

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

It was silent, for a moment. Perfectly still, every single body in the room seeming to be held in some perfectly suspended animation. All around him stood well dressed men and women of various races. His eyes darted down the still aisles of people with their hands gently wrapped around each other. Their eyes, tightly locked into each other, hands pressed neatly against the upper back or lower hips of their partners, clasped in the air, fingers interlocking. Gloved hands, dark suits, black boots, high heels. Long flowing dresses. Frills and sparkles and shines. Class oozing off of each one.

Suddenly the music began and the room came to life like a dial of a child’s melody box; and Graffion’s hands gently squeezed the green handed Twi’lek before him. He pushed himself close, the white suit of his tuxedo fitting perfectly with the blue sparkling dress that clung tightly to the Twi’lek’s perfectly curved body. A warm smile sat across Graffion’s lips as his well managed hair bounced gently with every step of their dance.

The music flowed through their bodies, and each step took a life of its own, their rhythm locked in a perfect and professional synchronicity. This was hardly Graffion’s first dance, and significantly not his last. He would not consider himself a social creature, but in all capacities, he had valued the concept of the dance. For every fight he’d been in Graffion considered a dance, not with his opponent, although that’s how it may appear to an onlooker. Graffion danced with death.

And no more beautiful a partner could be found. Her alluring, perfectly timed steps calling to you with every moment. No different was the dutiful ballroom dance; it was about feeling the rhythm, and knowing the steps. Of course, there were no fancy steps at this time; Graffion was not here to perform the dance, the dance was merely a part of his task. His eyes wandered across the room, keeping track of his mark.

You see today Graffion was not dancing for death, but warding against it.

The private luxury line spacecraft was known as the most reclusive and luxurious top of the line cruise in all the world; and Graffion was not known for real vacations. He had been invited for the sole purpose of protection. Mr. Lar Vulrax had requested his presence on this cruiser because despite all of his wealth and his prestige, somebody had tipped off that he would be throwing this private cruise and whispers had spread through the channels that he was marked for death. Of course, with the guest list all booked and millions put into this private vestige, cancellation was not an option.

So half a million more credits brought Graffion on board to operate in junction with the private security team to protection mor Vulrax.

Graffion’s feet stopped in perfect harmony with Madame Vulrax just as the music stopped.

Conveniently, they stood just next to Mr. Vulrax and his dance partner.

“Might I…” Graffion bowed, and held a hand out to Mr. Vulrax’ dance partner, “Cut in?”

His hand outstretched to Tesa, and his smile seemed genuine.

For beauty was hardly a monumental word, he should think, to describe her.

[Squee]

She wore her plastic smile. The curvature rested too easily on her lips. She didn’t mind her current dancing partner, as long as he focused on his steps and kept his mouth shut. The silky edges of his voice made her flesh crawl. If he spoke, Tesa imagined eels swimming from the depths of his mouth, impressing slim coated words upon her ears. Although decent at his steps, Lar Vulrax lacked a specific smooth elegance. It seemed such grace had been gifted to his voice.

Pulled tight to avoid a collision with another dancing couple, Tesa held her breath to avoid a stronger whiff of Lar’s cologne. Counterbalancing the next spin perfectly, she took the advantage to seek and spot Graffion. Reassured by his nearness, she redirected her attention back to Lar, and continue to smile with perfect plastic features.

The music tapered into a single instrument fade. Like any true gentleman ending a dance, Lar signified a final spin to send her out. She dipped her head toward him in gratitude for the dance and joined the crowd in clapping. Tesa turned to Graffion, grateful they had stopped close to each other, and silently begged he rescue her from another potential dance with Lar.

She got her wish.

She didn’t wait for Lar to agree or take up his wife. Tesa grasped Graffion’s hand with sincerity. Stepping into him, her arm fell around the back of his shoulder. The wine-purple coloration of her sheer sleeves contrasted against his white formal. For perhaps the hundredth time already, the perfection of their wardrobe swelled her chest with immense pleasure. He probably knew. She’d grinned the first moment she saw his suit. Genuinely grinned. Like she had received the best gift in her life. She smiled similarly now.

Grafifon’s hand on her open back was much more comfortable than Lar’s. She waited for the strike of music, hummed the count, and waited until Graffion moved them.

“I suppose it would be rude to muzzle your employer?” she said, conversationally. “It’s quite difficult not looking like I’ve swallowed something awful every time Lar opens his mouth. Bless his wife, hearing that voice in bed.”

The twist of curls, dangling from the bind in her hair, brushed and tickled the back of her neck. No amount of dancing would coax the bind free.

“Despite Lar,” Tesa smiled, “It is one of the nicest venues I’ve been invited to. I haven’t been on a cruise since I was a child.” A couple stepped slowly to the music within their path, which she saw over Graffion’s shoulder. “Watch behind you,” she warned, before continuing. “Although, I’m surprised to be invited by you. I thought I would have been the first to invite you to such a luxury.”

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion danced in perfect rhythm with Tesa. His eye glanced along her frame and her beautiful attire, gliding along her poised arms. Finally, he locked on her eyes. For a moment, he allowed himself to become lost in a sea of amber...drifting aimlessly along the glasslike world, imagining the smoothness of it's surface, an entire planet of the substance, sitting in a cosmos as a gem amongst all of the stars. It was an odd thought, he blinked.

Tesa gave the warning and Graffion reacted, avoiding the dancer who approached their space. Expertly, he weaved a new path on the dance floor, resecuring a solid, obstruction free route. And yet, he subconsciously kept them within a sight line of Lar, allowing his electronic eye to freely record and assess threats, communicating quietly through his neurological pathways that connected the eye to his brain. He allowed it to do it's threat assessment as a background thought. If anything peculiar, specifically electronic or movement speed, passed towards Lar, he would be immediately aware.

For now, he snapped his consciousness back to his dance partner, as they weaved themselves across the floor, creating lines like spiders laying webs along with the rest of the dancers.

"Do you flatter me?" he asked her, when she commented on the cruise, his blonde hair resting flat on his face to conceal his flawed half, leaving only a charming yet almost nerve twisting grin, "Surely a woman of your resources has seen far lovelier places than a trophy ship floating in the dark?" His smirk seemed to get sharper, as though sharing some joke only he could know. He glanced at the gallant and extravagant ballroom. It was designed and built to imitate the height of Alderan's classical historical architecture. It sported a domed ceiling with rounded, magnificent pillars coming down from the ceiling that were covered with a myriad of soft glowing lights that echoed warm and engaging colors, perfectly lighting the regal space which contained this massive ballroom.

It was lovely. Yet Graffion could think of little else than the Hedonism and Vanity which had led to it's construction. The monument to a little Twi'lek's pride. Perhaps with such extravagance Tesa had never been in such a display of vanity, perhaps she was just allowing herself to enjoy it. He admitted, it was absolutely stunning. Were he a more social and feeling creature, it might be the most perfect place in the universe.

Which brought him back to the moment he was in. Here he was thinking such churlish thoughts when the true gem in the ship was of Amber, he shrugged, "Is it wrong that I can hardly imagine you ever having been a child?" he whispered, as though keeping some personal secret between only them, "Perhaps I'd be a different man if I'd ever been on a ship at all as child, let alone one such as this."

[Squee]

“Do you flatter me?”

“Always,” Tesa replied. Her smile returned with ease after she spoke. Breaking her dance poise, she glanced at his one blue eye. “I have been to many planets. Rarely do I find them alluring enough to be considered beauties. Wroonia, maybe. The structures here were modeled after Alderaan, which are beautiful, but I find the whole planet terribly vicious.”

She was attracted to shiny things and luxury, and Tesa knew this about herself. She preferred the highest quality, up-scale finery, and excellence. She catered to snobbery, to a high-class society exclusive to those who could afford it. That was the way things should be. Otherwise the quality would be diluted, and she would be less pleased with this venue if unclean ruffians floundered about and spoke lacking intellect and grace.

As it was, she felt almost at home. Gentlemen and gentlewomen, enjoying expensive fruits in their high-price suits, and dancing to beautiful waltzing tunes. Even as they moved around the ballroom floor, she was still taken aback Graffion could lead her, and expertly.

Tesa laughed at his next remark. “I was born into a wealthy family with a successful business man for a father. He remarried when I was seven. The ceremony and reception were on a cruise line and it was all so formal and extravagant and my high-class manners were still in need of correcting. I vaguely remember some of the details, but mostly what I felt – annoyed and angry.”

There was almost a finality to the way she spoke those final words. Her smile had faltered as her eyes looked into her memory. That scrambled memory, where the lines between events blurred. Her emotions were also conflicted about that young of an age, like she couldn’t decide if she’d been a happy child or a sad one. At the very least, Tesa could identify her anger.

“You would be,” she said instead of elaborating on the details of her cruiseline memory. “Different. We’re partially defined by the events of our past.” The music ended on a final, soft count. Stepping back from Graffion, her dress swept fluidly as she bowed shallowly before taking his elbow. “Perhaps you wouldn’t know how to dance. Perhaps we would not have met at all.” A smile teased her lips. “There’s a strong chance I would not have liked that Graffion.”

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion took a deep breath as the song ended. He could see his charge take a seat in the background, "Unfortunately each dance has it's end." he said as he took her hand and lead her gently off the dance floor, moving to a table adjacent to Vulrax. The table was large and round, with dark crimson cloth covering the top, draping close to the floor. Graffion found a seat after pulling Tesa's back for her. He strategically picked the closest table to Vulrax while still lending the best possible view of the room, "What makes you so sure a different Graffion would have need of your liking?" He teased as they left the ballroom floor. Graffion scanned the ballroom passively with his electronic eye as he ordered a nice vintage red for Tesa and a white Zinfandel for himself.

"So if there is an assassin lurking around here." Tesa asked, "Other than you, how does Graffion Maruhuey go about catching one?"

Graffion thought about the answer for a moment, then leaned back, debating how much he wanted to reveal about his methods. It was an amusing question, for sure. Tesa certainly had many methods for catching and defending against threats herself, but Graffion was deeply versed the archaic dance between two masters of the killing craft. Not in the spies and devious nature that Tesa was use to, but the very dangerous art of stalking, marking, and moving on a prey. A very exacting and demanding process that required not just cunning, but more importantly, accuracy and precision.

"In the matter of stopping a professional killer goes all the way back to the evolutionary killing machine within our very cells." He jested, toying with a real answer, "There is a spider on Nar Shaddaa. A small thing. Cleans up the pests in the industrial districts, a friend of most households and businesses. But for every hunter there is a prey, and every prey has it's one in a million victim who turns those tables on their hunter." He pulled out a holonet interface and looked up an image, "The Lazarus Beetle is a small, incredibly rare bug native to Nar Shaddaa."

Graffion took a sip of his wine, letting Tesa imagine the spider and stare at the beetle, which seemed an insignificant thing, small in comparison to most beetles. Tiny, even. "It is a slow creature. It will spend it's days slowly lumbering across a given surface, unable to find and kill on it's own. However, the Lazarus Beetle developed a special relationship with spiders. For the beetle will crawl into a spider's nest and cocoon itself. The spider lays traps, patiently waiting for victims to become immobilized, and then allowing them to starve into weakness before taking it's time paralyzing their victims." He smiled, "The Beetle is no different, stuck in the web, the spider bites the Beetle, and wraps it in a cocoon. But the Beetle does not give in to death. No. Inside of that cocoon, he becomes a monster. He changes; evolves. When the spider comes finally to consume it's meal, the Beetle will burst from the cocoon," He took another larger sip from his Zinfandel. "And it will consume the spider, turning it's trap into it's own death."

Graffion looked out at the patrons of the ship, milling about and doing their business, dancing without a care in the world, loving and enjoying their simple moments in life. It was not an experience he could relate to. Graffion did not live for the simple and pleasurable times. He was keen, sharp, focused; ready for pain and suffering. Ready to respond. There was a coldness in his eyes at what he considered to be mostly weak and insufferable people using their money and influence to achieve unimpressive ambitions of greed and worthlessness.

"The Lazarus Beetle picks a home with many cobwebs." He looked at Tesa with an arrogant and smug smirk, "And in this world of webs and spiders." Pure deviousness took over his expression as he whispered the final words, "I eat the spiders."

[Squee]

“Are you suggesting the current Graffion has need of my liking?” she teased back.

Of course he probably didn’t, but she wasn’t going to stop the words. She teased for the side-looks he’d shoot her, or the small tick of a smile in the corner of his mouth. Graffion was working, but she was here to enjoy each luxury as a pretty woman on his arm. Toying with Graffion was a part of the enjoyment. As was him helping her into her seat, with a view to appreciate the ballroom floor.

She knew Graffion well enough to know he was always alert, and perhaps even more so while on the job. Tesa stroked her wineglass and drank, appreciating Graffion ordering for her. The wine was enjoyably dry and pleasantly tingling her tongue and throat. After a moment examining his profile, she crossed a leg over the other and asked her question.

She hadn’t expected his story-telling answer. She knew of spiders, but not Lazarus beetles, though the name was implying. Resting her arm lady-like on the table, she listened quietly. Unsure what to make of his conclusion, but returning his smile nevertheless, Tesa drank her wine.

“Interesting analogy. I’ll be sure only to consume unsuspecting moths,” she said, finally. Catching Graffion’s single blue eye, she held it while sipping larger. Beyond a doubt, Graffion was dangerous, and she had the ultimate faith in that danger. Straight and sharp as the metal of his sword.

Graffion had the ability to frighten her, as he did in this moment. Tesa was a webmaster, tying her strings together in a difficult, intricate craft including business, Sith Empires, Sith aristocrats, and Sith Orders. And a Graffion. Was he warning her? Perhaps. She’d caught him, back on Nar Shaddaa, and he was prepared to kill his way to escape.

Or just perhaps it was supposed to be an analogy to give reason to his fine suit, beautiful than ever hair, explanation for his dancing, and general ability to blend in well enough with the cruise patrons. This was not his normal scene, yet he was cocooned in it and behaved gentlemanly enough that brief contact with Graffion gave the impression he did this every day. Beetle indeed. A chameleon one.

Tesa drank. “Death by your hand would not be such a terrible end,” she said, hushed and with a touch of romanticism.

Tesa’s eyes shifted over Graffion’s shoulder. Behind him, two men approached them, age spanned a generation. Their suits were immaculately tailored - the younger gentleman wore gray and the older one black. Matching burgundy ties and matching kerchiefs poking from their pockets, their folds crisp and triangle shape perfect. The younger man she had met a day earlier, answering to the name Silas. The other man had smokey gray hair, representative of his age besides the long lines pulling down his face but also a becoming color on him.

Tesa had a distinctive sense of deja vu. Tilting her head, she appraised the man more critically. Olive skin tone although his pallor was fading and his gray hair might have once been rich and dark. There were probably dark circles beneath his cosmetics. He turned his head, saying something to Silas, and her heart skipped as she placed it.

That was her nose. Her eye shape. And her lips on a masculine face speaking to Silas.

“Kriff,” she whispered. “Kriff, kriff, kriff!” That couldn’t be. There were billions of trillions of humans in the galaxy. There was such high potential two humans would look similar. It was simply impossible she would miraculously run into her father.

Her breath was hitched in her throat. She raised her wineglass to her lips, couldn’t drink, and set it down completely. She wasn’t right. She wasn’t going to be right this time.

“Miss Tesa Araneidae,” Silas said, his address warm and the small dip in his head polite. He looked at Graffion. “Sir. May I introduce Jona Yarum, my father?”

Dammit!

“I’m pleased to meet you.” His voice hadn’t aged a day. She was eight years old again.

“Pleasure is mine,” Tesa said, her voice more airy than intended as her lungs failed her. She smiled, covering her perturbation, while shaking her father’s hand. Jona’s near-black eyes were bright and reflected thoughtful intelligence as he met her eyes. They lingered as if stuck on her face, puzzlement and hints of surprise pulling on his brows.

“This is Master Lazarus,” she introduced Graffion, letting her hand rest fondly on his forearm.

Tesa reached through their bond, sending him a telepathic pulse which screamed, Get me out of here! She wanted him to lie if he had to. Early dinner is beginning soonish. A show is starting soonish. Anything. She didn’t care as long as Graffion snatched her from her father’s presence before she fainted.

“She owns an establishment on Bandomeer, mining ionite, right along the Hydian Way. Which is certainly remarkable given the Empirical presence on the Outer Rim. I wanted to introduce you two and perhaps exchange contact information if business is favorable.” Silas paused, brow furrowing in concern. Her step-brother. Who had once been a chubby, jealous little boy. “Are you all right? You've paled.”

“A dizzy spell. I may have stood too quickly.”

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion raised an eyebrow at Tesa's response, unsure what to make of her cavalier remark regarding his cryptic story. On the one hand, he wanted to assure her that no death was pleasant except for the sweet release of sleep and soft poisons. And that his hands were violent and cold. Many who died at his hands spent their last moments in writhing pain or unimaginable terror. His mind went somewhere dark for a moment, flashes of his hands covered in her blood, of her corpse laying on the ground. He shook his head at the thought. No. That was absolutely one possibility which was never going to happen. There was little in life that was absolute, but this was one.

Of course, he knew she didn't mean it in earnesty; some kind of flattery, some dark poetry or words that fell on overly literal and methodical ears. His dark humor had failed him, but he shook passed the thought and saw the statement for what it was, "These hands carry death only for your enemies." He promised.

Graffion caught her eye and turned his head to view the two men that approached. Graffion looked up and down their immaculate suits and matching ties. They didn't seem like threats, but they were walking straight towards his table. He recognized one of them, as someone Tesa had spoken to the day before. The older, more distinguished man Graffion did not recognize. He shifted his body as they drew closer. He sensed nothing about them, and a quick scan of their bodies and forms confirmed his initial suspicions. They didn't appear to have any weapons or threat of any kind whatsoever.

Which made him awfully more curious as to why Tesa shifted uncomfortably and started to mutter curses. She was freaking out, and he could tell. One of his hands moved to his side, where a very small blaster sat concealed by his hip, his fingers tracing the handle. Still, he saw nothing threatening in the eyes of the approaching men.

"Miss Tesa Araneidae," The younger man, who Graffion could not remember the name of nor particularly cared until this moment, said to Tesa. He held back an eye-roll, untrusting due to Tesa's nervousness. The man turned to Graffion, who made sure his blonde hair well covered his genetic implant as he bowed his head slightly in greeting,
“Sir. May I introduce Jona Yarum, my father?”

Yarum. Yarum.

YARUM.

Holy shit.

Graffion's brow raised high for one moment, a smile spreading across his lips. Graffion eyed the man. His hand moved from his blaster pistol, pretending to rub his right eye. In the darkness, Graffion allowed the small nerve interface in his mechanical eye to show him side-by-side pictures of what he just saw, Jona Yarum, and Tesa, who he knew at least one of her names to be Yarum. And he quickly concluded, they were related. This was no coincidence. His smile deepened in amusement. Graffion finished rubbing his eye, yawning slightly. Tesa introduced him, putting a hand on his free fore-arm.

And like a zap he felt her compulsion. Go. She needed to go. He could do that. He nodded once more, staying quiet as she introduced him. The younger man prattled on about business to the older man. Graffion made a distinct correction in his head, to Tesa's father. He thought. "Are you Okay? You've paled!"

Graffion stood up, "Oh dear," he put his arms around Tesa as if she had faltered or was weak, "Are you feeling ill again?" He asked, "I swear," He turned to Silas and Jona, "Her weak stomach will be the end of me! How many times have I told you to eat before drinking so much wine?" He shook his head and tutted at Tesa. He bowed respectfully at the men, "I'm afraid we'll have to exchange contact at a later time! Her stomach can be quite aggressive at times! We'll have to retire to our cabin." The lies came easy, the dignified speech of a wealthy man flowed well from him. In the movement, his cybernetic implant became obvious, but there wasn't much he could do at this distance to hide that. The unfortunate pride in his appearance and the deformations that years of combat sometimes brought did not lend itself to being unnoticeable in a crowd.

"I hope you'll excuse us!" His eyes darted quickly to his Twi'lek employer, who seemed to be fine at the moment. And more importantly, may not notice if Graffion left the room for a short period. There were no threats in the room. Not currently. Graffion was fairly certain there wasn't even a threat on the ship. But if the assassin was worthwhile he wouldn't be.

Still, her urgency was more important than this Twi'lek. As good as an employer the man had been in the past it didn't actually matter to Graffion whether he lived or died. Not much, anyway.

[Squee]

Excellent. I’m a drunkard. Tesa hoped Graffion would forgo such an excuse in the future, less it tarnish her stellar reputation.

“Please, excuse me. I am feeling a bit ill. Perhaps we can discuss this another moment before the cruise is complete.” After confirming with Silas they’d exchanged communicator frequencies, Tesa allowed Graffion to lead her away.

Stunned and breathless, Tesa said nothing as they exited the ballroom and neither did she disengage from Graffion.

“I appreciate…” Voice trailing, Tesa didn't finish the sentence. Honestly, she did feel sick now the original adrenaline was fading.

Lounges lined the walkway, positioned beneath enormous windows lined in silver tiles. The ship currently ambled along beside a gorgeous amaranthine nebula, swirled with fingers of sunset orange and crimson. Tesa moved away then and sat on the cerulean suede cushions, grateful for its firmness which helped ground her from dizziness.

“Kriffing hell,” she muttered. Unexpected. Innapropriate. Shaken, Tesa remained seated with elevated eyebrows and meditated on regaining a smooth breathing cycle. “Do you think he recognized me?” The question was more of a personal susurration, but she turned from the nebula to Graffion.

The uncertainty and worry pertaining to this familial encounter burned through her mind. Tesa, who so carefully prepared for most conversational exchanges in her life, had never prepared for the insignificant percentile that she would encounter her father. Those brief moments of meeting his eyes would haunt her for years to come.

Dipping her head, Tesa patted fingertips against her forehead, hoping the flash of heat did not produce much sweat. She was breathing easier now, and feeling much better now that the dizziness and immediate sickness had subsided.

“There is nothing to be done about it.” Although her father must be doing very well to be on such an excessively luxurious cruise.

Much more gathered, Tesa rose to her feet and bid the nebula a farewell glance. “You shouldn't leave your employer unattended long, but do fully escort me back to our room. So you return after a suitable amount of time. And besides,” One side of her red lips curled into a smile, in either cleverness or mischief, “I have something for you.”

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion's mix of amusement and concern fluctuated as he watched Tesa sit down, her dizzied expression moving from irritation to regret. He thought he saw something deeper for just a moment, but then it died quietly, like it had never been there at all. Finally, after grumbling her displeasures and uncertainties, she instructed him to return to her room with her. The curl of her lips was a conscious betrayal of intent, a message that shot through Graffion like a tingle of excitement.

Oh, how a woman could make a man feel vulnerable. Even a stone warrior became putty in their hands. Graffion was reminded of this as he felt a cold hand grip his heart. Danger, The cold hand of death warned him. This too, was part of the dance, though. A gift from her could be an unwanted complication; a man wrapped in a bow, dangling pathetically off the bed for easy assassination, or perhaps money, payment for a job to be done. Or perhaps a dagger at his hip, digging into a vital organ.

Or maybe even a kiss.

The last thought made his heart rate increase for a moment. Instead of allure and happiness, though, Graffion killed that thought, making it still-borne in its cradle. That was not his purpose. That was not for him. She was fascinating, she was beautiful. She was dangerous. He didn't know what he wanted from her but he couldn't accept that thought. Not right now. Not right here. That was simply not acceptable.

Graffion raised his chin and courteously helped Tesa up, his arm around hers. His body was a little stiff, though. She could tell something had made him uncomfortable. He was anxious about this surprise. She made him anxious. A gift from Tesa, the possibilities were unpredictable. She was unpredictable, with motives that stretched far beyond the moment.

"My lady, let us retire at once. A gift from you shall be most appreciated." He guided her with his hands down the hall, though she needed no guiding, and strode confidently but quietly. As they moved, his anxiety and stiffness laxened. He stopped thinking. He allowed himself to stop thinking. And he simply enjoyed the soft touch and presence of a beautiful woman near him. It's not like he'd never been with or near a woman in such a pleasant manner. Indeed, he'd known quite a few ladies from the brothels of Nar'Shaddaa.

But this feeling was different. Calming rather than sensual. Natural rather than purposeful. Just...correct. Familiar, even though it was unpracticed.

He became aware of that thought, and tensed up again. Why was such a thing like walking down a hallway such a complicated process?

Blissfully, they arrived at the door, and Graffion released Tesa's arm so that she could type her code into the door.

It occurred to him that he'd said nothing to her the entire way to the room and that might be taken as an offense. It baffled him that this was even a concern of his but he still found himself, fumbling for the words, even moving his lips as he rehearsed conversation in his head. Nothing seemed to come to his mind as to what to say.

Finally, he thought about what someone would normally say when being told about a gift.

"I hope this gift doesn't try to kill me." He finally said.

Did I just kriffing say that? He thought incredulously, Am I daft? If this were a mark I'm letting it get away

"Then again, that may be preferable to returning to the party."

Kill confirmed. He thought, the very slightest hint of a smile creeping on one corner of his mouth.

[Squee]

She squinted at him when he spoke oddly, smile withering, but perhaps he was still in character in case someone overheard.

He said nothing on the walk, and for that she was grateful because she was left to her own thoughts, planning out a strategy she might need for the rest of the trip. There was no way to avoid Silas and Jona; to go communicatively silent was not good business practice and who knows who they knew. By the Force, they had to be more influential than she’d originally considered, and she’d never considered having to keep tabs on her father.

At her door, Graffion finally said something odd and Tesa glanced at him quizzically, curls of hair drifting over neck and shoulders, because the comment seemed forced. “I think you are far too skilled to be concerned,” she admitted vaguely before stepping into the room.

She abandoned her clasp upon the vanity, which was assuredly covered in a variety of cosmetic products and brushes, arranged in item groups. The bed was made and other objects were spruced or arranged to cleanliness, a testament to the steward’s attentiveness to his guests’ leave. Decidedly, she paused by the small closet and pulled out a rectangular silver case, which she lay on the foot of the bed.

“Here,” she said, gesturing to the case and stepping away.

Tesa waited for him to open the case and kept silent as she allowed him to inspect the pair of swords. One was similar to a pair he already had, but the other was slightly shorter and metal a duller, darker gray matte. Sleek and practical, with a durable grip coat on the handle, they lacked any embellishment and in general seemed quite unexciting. Yet these were made by a master’s hands, who’s craftsmanship was seen in the blade itself.

“I noticed one of yours was chipped.” Tesa curled long fingers around the top edge of the case, nails matching a similar shade of purple to the jewelry around her neck. “So I commissioned these to be forged. I’m told their balance is perfect for an average man of your height, the edge reliable, and the metal is of fine quality. Should you hate the balance, tell me.” She leaned to point to the shorter one, with a dark matte for a blade. “For blocking, and made of cortosis, which is more brittle but disrupts high energy shields and weapons. Like lightsabers.” Tesa straightened again, tilting her head as she looked at him. “If you stay with me, you will need cortisis.

“So. Unless you fall upon them yourself, I do not think they will kill you.” Tesa was a bit more concerned they would kill her, for it was slight lunacy to hand her most dangerous assassin, one who had once proclaimed he hatred for the Force and particular the Sith, the very instrument which would dismantle her own defenses.

These days, however, she was finding herself less Sith and more a fugitive from the Order.

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion stared at the case with suspicion. With some amount of anxiety he stepped up to it, staring at it. He could use his mechanical eye functions to look through it, but that would spoil the fun. If it were harmful, Tesa probably would have killed him a long time ago. His human eye gazed down upon the case as his hands traced along it's edges, resting on the latches to either side which held it firmly shut. With a slight pop, he released them, the cracking open. Nothing smoked out of the cracks, nor were there any screams of the souls of the damned, so he could probably set aside any worries about Sith or Force magic. Good.

He pushed the case open, gazing at it's contents. Two swords parallel in the case, handles facing opposite directions. One of them was of near exact style and build to his existing swords. A little longer than his forearm, the end of the blade a subtle but dangerous curve. The curved handle well wrapped and appearing sturdy. It had slight differences to his own pair of swords but nothing that would effect it's use or weight distribution. To Graffion, a slight aesthetic difference was of no consequence. The second blade was dark, similar in many ways but shorter in length. The blade, he'd never seen one like that. It was not steel, durasteel, or any number of high quality metals he'd seen. The closest he'd seen to it was obsidian blades, which were brittle.

His hand first went to the normal blade, lifting it up as Tesa spoke. He glanced at her briefly as she mentioned his was chipped. Yes, it indeed was, during their confrontation, although she no doubt knew that. Perhaps this was some kind of apology. One that he no longer required from her, but, the gesture meant something. He gave the sword a slow but calculated swing, feeling it cut the air with ease. Sharp, masterfully made. He could tell. It was brilliant. Possibly better than his current left blade but not as familiar to the grip.

That would change. Slightly lighter, but that was not a problem. A light left hand was good for him. He pushed around in his head how best to adjust his fighting style to maximize every possible strike. Yes, this would work. This would absolutely work.

As she mentioned the other, his right hand grasped it's handle. The metal was heavier than steel. He brought it close to investigate. His mechanical eye was getting a strange reading in the electromagnetic spectrum, picking up slight electromagnetic radiation from the blade itself. Was this...radioactive? No, any traces of that were so minute they were harmless. It wouldn't be strange for some metals, especially synthetic metals and fibers, but this seemed to be to a much higher degree. He trusted her, so he didn't immediately drop it.

Tesa leaned and pointed at it, explaining.

He raised his good brow, Cortosis. Capable of disrupting energy weapons. Even lightsabers. This was a tool for someone who assassinated legends. Legends like the Jedi, or the Sith. He glanced at her. Yes, this was the instrument of her destruction.

Or a knife, aimed directly at the hearts of her enemies. Enemies which were powerful, but on the periphery. Terrifying and dangerous, but invisible to the naked eye.

For now.

This was to prepare him. He had a sinking feeling that it would come into play sooner than they hoped. He needed to decide, right here and now, if that was something he was prepared to face. Graffion tightened his grip on the swords as Tesa told her little joke, but any humor or awkward romance was gone from him, devoid from his body. Now, only a cold warrior stood before her. He tensed, the tension of an apex predator lining up the perfect strike. His feet took him in a circling motion away from her as he put a few feet of distance between them.

"A powerful tool, if it works the way you claim." He rolled the handles over in his palms to test their movement briefly, "I must know." He finally said, raising his blade toward her, arm extrended, blade pointed at her heart. About a foot from the tip of the blade toward her chest.

"Show me. Draw your blade, and strike. Strike me to kill me." The calm, level tone in his voice proved that this was no jest. This was not a request.

[Squee]

“You cannot be serious,” she chastised at his request. Indeed, he very much was. Of course, she’d smuggled her lightsaber aboard, with a quiet word to security about being a Jedi. Quite ridiculous, how using the title granted her access to a number of things without much further scrutiny, which only proved her philosophy of assertive authority: act like it confidently, and not many will question.

Tesa sighed, as if under a great burden by his challenge. Placing her hands upon her hips, she tilted her head, considering how she needed to feel about intentionally striking Graffion. Besides stressed and slightly appalled; Tesa very much liked Graffion and she would hate for him to miss a block and wind up in two pieces across her bedsheets. The outcome of such a scenario would be undesirable, to say lightly, and a waste to put it most rudely. She did not just invest thousands into Graffion only for him to die right in the middle of their mostly very pleasant work cruise.

Have more faith than that. Graffion was likely the better swordsman between them, but even as she looked in the hard, grim lines pulling his face in determination… he was uncertain. Uncertain, perhaps, if he could trust its tool before seeing its capabilities, or uncertain of simply her. As far as he knew, she still had the upper hand in any swords conflict by the sheer fact her blade cut through almost anything. As Tesa scrutinized him, an unfriendly smirk crawled across her red lips; the way to perform his request was by delighting in his anxiety. She’d treat him as any enemy, which, she felt, was easier to do than it should be.

“Have you any idea where it’s located?” she purred. “There’s no way it’s on me.” Her hands floated up and down in gesture to her body, to bring attention to the dress which could hide nothing, and she slinked forward, grinning with intensifying menace. The sword tip lingered centimeters from her chest. “Remember,” she drawled, fingers sweeping hair over her shoulder in a long, languid motion. The air hummed in dark resonance, as she telekinetically called upon her weapon. Her feet shifted into a shallow stance, and Tesa leaned to her front foot, chin canted to tauntingly expose her neck. “You asked.”

A cabinet behind her flew open with a bang and a precise purple arc seared through the space Graffion should have been in, except he had leapt away. As suddenly as the lightsaber had ignited, it had switched off. Tesa released a low snarl. The Force reflected his flare of fear back to her and darkness intensified in the small cabin space.

“Running away? After all that bravado?” she jeered. “You won’t prove anything by dodging, little assassin, and you don’t have much room to spare for such drama!” With a hiss, the thrumming returned, warbling as she made a crisp salute with the purple blade. Tess’s stance was tight, her blade motions made with a duelist’s control. “So prove it. Block me!” she demanded, and lunged for his chest.

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion felt the anxious tension in his chest as Tesa taunted him. She was drawing his eyes to her, her body. Like a whirlpool sucking in a ship on the ocean, the sailors eyes all turned towards their devastation. But that made the danger lurking near the edges of the pool. He couldn't turn away from Tesa, but he couldn't ignore the reality that her blade could come from any direction. She drew it out just long enough...

And that's when he heard the loud clatter and bang of the lightsaber. Tesa's hands moved and jeered. He -heard- the threat before he could see it and every cell in his body tightened up, screaming to move. Graffion's feet did not betray him like his hands and heart seemed to, as he back pedaled. There was sulfurous burning smell the purple blade caught his eye, crackling the air, the heat incinerating the air molecules as it cut through, the whirring sound echoing across his brain like an empty cave. And the light around the blade seemed to be eaten away as the shimmering purple light source emanated in the center of his vision, dulling everything around it.

That dangerous, crackling hum became his sole focus. His brow widened and his hands clenched nervously. He couldn't even feel the sweat on his brows or the dampness of his arms as his body exuded the fear that took hold in his chest. This is what he was afraid of. A weapon beyond his caliber, which he could not fight. An enemy that he could not reach, that sense his approach. Destruction barreling toward him.

Tesa taunted him, where indeed had all his bravado gone? If he could not do this, he was useless. If his tool failed, he would die. Graffion no longer cared to be the greatest assassin. The fame and the feeling of satisfaction had faded. So, to fail in this task, it was greater than. Death. Tesa's taunt gave his heart the moment of composure that he required.

As the blade made it's way toward his heart, Graffion growled and moved toward Tesa aggressively, pushing the flat of the blade against the lightsaber and upward, a perfect parry against the sword strike that came at him. Only this was no sword. And if he did not trust in his equipment and his equipment prove trustworthy, there would be only death. There was a flicker, a spark on contact. Graffion hesitated for the slightest second before pushing aggressively forward. What gave him confidence was that he could FEEL the blade stop. The metal pushed up.

And as he would have pushed a normal blade up and out of the way, making for a perfect counter to an enemy's stab that would create an opening, the Lightsaber simply dis-ignited suddenly, and Graffion was stepping into Tesa. He pushed his sword out of the way, his free hand reaching under her elbow and finding a pressure point near her pit. His thumb started to dig in for just a second, but he relaxed his grip as his chest came into hers.

And he stood there, body pressed against her, hand under her arm ready to cause damage that would make a normal person cry, but he released all pressure. And dropped the sword, and instead, his hands found themselves along Tesa's waist. His chest pushed against hers. His eye locked into hers, and a smile curled up his lip, "It works." He growled, "A tool that can combat a Jedi..."

He leaned closer to her, his breathing coming under control from the erratic panic that the terror of the lightsaber had briefly placed in him. He found himself very close to Tesa's face. He'd never been this close, save for when she was bleeding all over the floor.

Without thought or control, he leaned in closer, as if to ask for a kiss from her.

And that's when his emergency line started blaring, "Graffion, Graffion! You're needed STAT in the Dining Hall. I think we have a real emergency on our hand!"

Before Tesa could even decide whether to accept his attempt at a kiss, Graffion growled and pulled away. He was visibly angry now. Angered to be pulled away at such a moment.

"I..." He paused, choosing his words, "Apologize for that." He finally said. It was a rare thing, for Graffion Maruhuey to admit fault of any kind, "It was unproffesional."

[Squee]

The blades contacted, Graffion sweeping the lightsaber upward in a testing parry. Tesa watched the light shudder. Then wink out, energy cell overloaded. Tesa inhaled sharp, too conscious of where his sword was going...

Graffion crashed against her and she tensed as his hand latched onto her elbow. Her free hand snapped up, pressing fingers hastily against his unprotected temple, the Force pressing toward her as she prepared a defensive mental assault. Her hand gripped the deactivated lightsaber, thumb upon the ignition, although a test press revealed it would remain deactivated for the immediate future. Amber eyes tracked his expression as the last vestiges of panic died away, giving way to elation.

She heard the sword drop behind her, and Tesa removed her hand. Graffion’s pulled on her waist and her eyebrows rose.

“Of course it works,” Tesa smirked. The room seemed to brighten as her sinister disposition retreated. “I wouldn’t fool you about such things.”

He leaned forward, and his intention became very clear. Her amused smile spread, truly entertained as she neither leaned toward him nor away. She hadn’t considered Graffion as the type to initiate such intimate contact; he had been previously forthcoming of his ill-opinion of Force-users, and in particular Sith.

Then he pulled back, reversing nearly as quickly as he’d put forward. “Oh, I wouldn’t have thought you would be the tease,” she said.

Tesa advanced, lightsaber floating from her palm to join the abandoned clutch on the vanity. She tutted as he spoke, hands reaching forward to tug Graffion’s suit into perfect order. “I am not your employer this time,” she remarked and smoothed the collar flat. Tesa didn’t withdraw immediately, but stayed close to his chest as she observed the look in his eye. “Now is the time to be curious,” she continued, tilting her head temptingly.

She was not opposed to the intimacy, if he wished to experiment. Not only because she didn’t find him unhandsome, but it only seemed a natural progression of their relationship. He’d rescued her thrice now. She had taken a bullet for him and rewarded him more than liberally for jobs, and now provided the cortosis sword. A sword that was a statement about where she thought their future would go, and she was equipping him with the finest to walk that path with her. Admittedly, she showered him in generosity because she wanted to keep Graffion close, desired his loyalty, and protection. A not so small part of her was willing to cross all thresholds if it meant retaining him, but she was somewhat surprised she wanted him to follow through with the kiss.

[Deceit *Drinker of Jawa-Juice*]

Graffion was already checking to make sure he had all of his equipment with him as Tesa reacted to his moment of weakness and indulgence. He glanced at her with a half hearted scowl as she made fun of him, or at least it seemed like she had made fun of him. Most people were too terrified of the -dire- consequences of making fun of a man like Graffion. Although, most of the time Graffion would not waste his time reacting to being made fun of. Tesa was braver than most, cleverer than most, and most importantly closer than most.

When Tesa reminded him that she was not his employer, inviting him to explore his feelings, he hesitated a moment, before shaking his head, "No." He said, perhaps too curtly, as he realized she didn't hear the call for help, he quickly followed by saying, "Something has happened. The client is in trouble." He turned towards the door, having all of the gear he thought he'd need. He didn't have time to fit the swords, and he doubted he'd need a pair of swords. Besides, he was still fairly incognito on this ship, appearing as a regular patron. It would be an awful bit of bad luck to run into a lightsaber wielding foe on a cruise ship full of businessmen.

His plus one had better be the -only- exception.

Graffion walked to Tesa's door, stopping just a moment. He turned his head slightly so he could view her with his good eye, "I've got to go and see what is happening. I would like it if you stayed here...I don't think I could afford the...distraction. I'll be sure to pick up this conversation where we left off." Graffion pushed the button and the door slid quietly open and Graffion stepped through without looking back a second time. He felt the cool rush of air from the outside corridor and turned sharply towards the dining hall, moving at a brisk jog towards the dining hall, his gear barely making a sound as it was tightly pressed in very well made holders along his hips. He was carrying the minimum amount of gear, but still managed to have a knife and a small holdout blaster concealed.

Graffion had passed by nobody along his travel down the hall, which was unsurprising considering the main event was still going on. Most people were there or at the observation areas, not a lot of traffic back and forth between the cabins.

He rounded a final bend to see quite a commotion of people in the main hall. His employer, the green skinned Twi'lek, was sitting nervously to the side of the commotion, still very much alive. Graffion quickly scanned the entire room. His wife was also alive. Good. He made his way towards the commotion. Twenty or so civilians were standing around gawking at a poor young server on the ground gasping in pain and clutching at his throat. Graffion moved to the end of the ring, "What's going on?" He played the part of the concerned onlooker.

"The boy is choking!" Graffion strained to look closer. Yes, he was indeed choking, but not on drink or food. Graffion could see it in the young man's eyes, a tell tale swelling, his chest sucking in but unable to grab any air. The boy's throat was swelling up inside. This was a very common poison. An amateur's work, submitted into a liquid to be injested by the target. It caused swelling in the chest and lungs, closing up the airways. Allergic reactions of the lips, nose, eyes, and mouth were an immediate indicator, although subtle enough that only a trained eye would notice before the autopsy.

Worse yet, this boy was the taste tester that Graffion had assigned to his client. He had figured the odds were low that an assassin would be amateur enough to make that their play, but Graffion had told him to make sure that his drinks were tested in the kitchen and brought out to the client by this single server.

A doctor moved to help the boy, but there was nothing he could know to do. Graffion stared, wondering if he should blow his cover by telling them to punch a hole in the lungs for him to breath through. The boy still had some agonizing time left before he would suffocate. This poison was painful. It took a long time to fully close the lungs. It was an unpopular and amateur killing method because of it's ability to be fixed with a simple field medical procedure. He debated it for a few moments, then turned to see the client sitting ghostly, looking at the choking child.

Graffion slid back a few steps, just enough that nobody could hear him whisper into his comm, "Poison." He told them, "Tell the doctor he has a collapsed lung. A needle aspiration or open chest thoracotomy will save his life." Graffion said through the radio.

Someone, Graffion could see the guy standing behind the crowd reaching to his radio, "Do your job! Watch Mr. Vulrax." The security guard seethed. Graffion watched the guard look over to the choking boy, deciding if the boy's life was worth saving.

With a sneer, Graffion turned toward Mr. Vulrax, sitting pale in his chair. He'd provided the necessary information. It was no longer his responsibility to save the kid. It had little bearing, now that the boy had served his function. If Vulrax valued his people, they'd be trained to help each other.

Graffion moved over to Vulrax. The security let him through. Vulrax looked up at him, "There really is someone trying to kill me isn't there." The terror and fear in his voice was apparent. Graffion despised it. But, he was paying very good money to keep him alive, "I catch no threats in the room at the moment. Poison, administered in the kitchen. You'll need to review the kitchen staff thoroughly once more. I hope you kept those pre-made meals in the freezer under lock and key like I suggested in the event of the kitchen staff being compromised." Graffion's voice was almost teasing as he scaned the room. Mr. Vulrax looked at him in horror.

Yes, Graffion had told him to have a stash of uncontaminated food in case there was an incident with the public meals. Once the food on a ship became a threat to the client, nothing in the kitchens could be considered safe.

"Of course I did." Mr. Vulrax sighed, "I'm a simple, peace-loving man with very little enemies. All I want is my and my families' safety." Vulrax was almost delirious with fear. Graffion's eyes went to Mrs. Vulrax, who was staring with curiosity but a lot less fear than him. A close observation removed his suspicions. She seemed genuinely unknowledgeable about the poison, mildly concerned, but not horrified. She had no idea this was not an accident, but an attack. Either that or she was a splendid actress.

"We should get you two to the safe-room." Graffion told them, "Come." He reached and grabbed Mr. Vulrax under the shoulder. The man rose to his feet.

"There are too many people here."

As they left, Graffion glanced over to see the doctor performing the procedure to clear the boy's lungs. Good. If there was one person Graffion could rule out of guilt, it was that kid. And questioning him could be valuable later, even if the kid knows nothing, he might have seen something he wasn't aware was important.

"Your security can take you to your room. I'll investigate the kitchen-"

"NO!" Vulrax reached out and grabbed Graffion's arm, pulling him. Graffion shot him a back-off look and instinctively flexed, the muscles in his arm tightening like a rope pulled taut. Vulrax reeled his hand back both at the look on Graffion's face and the surpising raw power in his arms, a power refined from a lifetime of training and a youth spent at the steel factory welding and lifting heavy raw materials.

"P-please come check the room with me. I need to make sure there is no attacker hiding inside."

Graffion was confident his security detail could get him to the room and had made sure that the room was guarded at all times. On a ship like this, there really was no way to sneak into a secured room. Still, he could go to the kitchens afterwards. This man was paying him a lot of money to keep him alive; very well, he could endure a short walk.

"Let's go with haste then. The sooner I investigate, the sooner I kill your killer." Graffion led the way. With two men in front and two men close behind, and one tailing a lot further back, they proceded towards the front of the ship, heading to the more private cabins. Vulrax had a hole section mostly to his own. Afterall, this was his cruise.

The walk was boring. Graffion kept his guard up nonetheless. A few maintenance and crew were passing by, but Graffion stopped them and made them go down a different hallway before his entourage could even be in sight. Most were angry or inconvenienced, but Graffion's cool and commanding demeanor diswayed them from arguing too much.

Finally, they rounded the corner to the very much out of the way and untraveled corridor that Vulrax's room was in the middle of.

And Graffion froze in place.

The white, softly lit hallways of this ship were stained red with blood all along the wall and floor. A large spray of blood had shot up the wall like someone had hacked upward. The floor an icky puddle. Graffion stared at the scene. The two guards flanking either side of the door were extremely dead. One sitting with his back against the wall, head tilted up. It looked like some kind of metal rod was pinned through his cranium and into the wall behind him. The other guard was laying on the ground, arm around his belly. He'd died slowly, his belly cut open, bowels falling upon the barren floor, and throat slashed so he couldn't call for help. The second man had apparently crawled halfway down the hallway, leaving a large smear of blood and innards between where he'd originally been disemboweled and where he'd died.

A cruel death.

Graffion's blaster was in his hands instantly and he went to a knee, clicking his thermals and checking the hallway ahead for anything strange. He turned back to the way he'd come. Vulrax and his men saw Graffion and were pistols out quickly. Well, they were trained well in that regard at least. One guard put a hand on Vulrax, making him crouch low, and standing to block any potential attacks.

"Somebody gutted your boys." Graffion told him, "I'm going to check the room." Graffion moved forward. No immediate threat, "Stay close behind. Don't break up the pattern."

Graffion could ignored the gore before him. But it was hard to ignore the smell as he got closer. These men had been dead for a while. This was not a recent attack. As Graffion stepped over the closer, disemboweled man, he could see that someone had hack his arm off at the elbow with a bone saw. A clean chop. A fine job. But why would anybody do that?

Graffion checked the body. The weapons and valuables were still in place. This guy hadn't even drawn a weapon. Whoever had attacked in this clear hallway with no hiding places must have been a familiar face. Or wearing a uniform that nobody would question. Graffion continued walking, his foot steps making a sickly squicking noise as he stepped over the thick smears of blood on the floor.

He found himself over the second corpse. This person died faster, a cavity in his chest. A perfect shot with a slug weapon. A heart shot. Graffion didn't have time to admire the work. He looked up at the corpse. It seemed after the man died a metal spike was driven through his skull right at the bridge of the nose, pinning his head into the sheet of steel that was the wall. Graffion reached to the spike. He recognized this spike.

This was placed by a rivet gun. The force of the impact had nearly shattered the victims skull. The killer would have had to kill this man, retrieve the rivet gun, and then put the spike through his head. This was not an assassin. This was a psychopath. Graffion looked up and around once more.

A missing arm. A rivet? This didn't make any sense.

A sinking feeling started to hit Graffion, but it was impossible. He dismissed it. He dismissed it entirely. It was impossible. Graffion knew for sure it was impossible. This was a wandering madman. This was a psychopath aboard the ship, nothing more. He looked back to Vulrax and the guards. To their credit, they were doing a solid job pretending they weren't bothered. Until one of the guards peeled forward and retched vomit all over the floor.

Graffion moved toward the door.

~*~

There was a soft knock on Tesa's door.

"Room service." A pleasant voice came through, "Mr. Vulrax sends a complimentary dinner for the dance."

If Tesa were to look through the peek hole, she would see and sense a harmless middle aged, leaning towards the beginnings of an older man. His graying hair was tied neatly in a ponytail behind him, charming smile, and a cart with what looked like a very nice and expensive meal underneath a gleaming silver tray, and a dark red bottle of very fine looking wine.

The man wore the proper uniform. His thoughts were simple and plain. There was not a single threatening thing about him, and he even wore the customary clothes of one of Vulrax's private servers.

There was really no way for Tesa to begin to suspect that knocking on her door was Artemis Entreri.