Business or Pleasure

[hugo]

The boardroom of the east wing of the 85th floor of the Grand Latrelle PleasurePlex was a loud affair.  The long walls were clothed in bright orange, Maalras-print shag, intermittently separated by ornately embellished, goldium plated faux columns on either side.  Between each set of columns was a holoprojection of the company's various pleasure yachts.  Opposite the rose-colored glass entrance doors on one end was an identically tinted, bay window which fit wall-to-wall.  The window's filtered light adorned the nearest third of the room in a dreamy, pink glow, only now the glow was split by the long shadow of a buxom silhouette.        

Zeena Latrelle was gaily clad, the flower of the boardroom; the middle-aged Zeltron pulled gracefully from the end of a long argentium cigarra holder fashioned after a serpent.  At its end the cherry correspondingly grew bright and thin blue smoke rose to the ceiling. 

She listened dimly as her roughly two dozen siblings--fellow members of the board--bickered, laughed, and cried variously.  These meetings were always a mess, but she needed them here to vote.  After last quarter, they were in hot water with the Banking Clan Trustees who'd been appointed by their creditors following a series of totally unsubstantiated class-action lawsuits alleging every iteration of spurious charge, including, among others, fraud, negligent infliction of emotional distress, and reckless disregard for intergalactic sanitation standards (the most outrageous of them all: only ONE person died out of the hundreds who'd taken food poison-she'd take those odds any day).  Truly impossible.  HER company, the company her father had built from the ground up, only offered the finest in astral destination cruises, and she'd be damned if she went down because of some cEaSE anD deSIsT injunction. 

Ahem. The room fell silent.  When Zeena spoke, her brothers and sisters listened.  She was the oldest and the most fabulous of them, and it was her that would get them out of this mess.

"This company," she began, " is the product of a great dream, once our father's, and now ours.  We did not become the preeminent leisure travel conglomerate on this side of the Hydian Way by being afraid of doing what we do best!"

"As of today, the Inter-Rim Singles' Circuit is going back into full-time operation!  Preparations are underway as we speak for the Peak of Pleasure to set off for Corellia before the end of this quarter!"  The assembled Latrelles erupted in applause, some of them having already begun their libations early in the day.  

She could feel it in her bones.  This is what would save the company.  And this time, she vowed, they would not skimp on the shellfish.  There would be no more of this "permanent gastrointestinal trauma" BS on the holonet.

---

Civilian Departure Terminal B
Orbit of Corellia

Bas' knuckles were white around the braided gold handle of the YvesSt.Coruscant duffle.  Though the air inside the security checkpoint was cold, he was sweating.  The human's face betrayed nowhere near the amount of panic that seized over him.  He had to admit, this was kind of a ballsy move, even for him. 

The Peak of Pleasure, was from what reviews he'd read, a complete dump.  But when he stumbled past a cheap ad on the Holonet advertising something called the Inter-Rim Singles Circuit, an idea had crept into his head.  Singles cruises, particularly this one, were known for being raucous, depraved affairs, and a setting like that was as ripe as could be for an entrepreneur like himself.

See, Bas was sweating because there was about three life sentences worth of refined, purple spice stuffed in his boxers.  It was a potent variety, and it hadn't been cheap.  The guy he'd gotten it from said it was a lot like the quick, fleeting high of his preferred blue spice, only much prolonged and with mild hallucinogenic effects.  The initial sample-bump did not disappoint.  Bas regarded the high upfront cost as a risk, but in the business of spice running, risk reaped reward.  Demand would be crazy on board, once the shenanigans started, and, he wagered, his boldness would pay dividends. 

As the line made its way down the corner, Bas caught sight of the security guards and the scanners they manned.  For the first time, he felt some relief.  A darker, plump guard slouched on a metal stool in front of the x-ray readout, half-asleep and barely paying attention to the luggage and their revealed contents. Her protege was not much more attentive, more occupied by a pretty Pantoran with whom he was chatting.  There was nothing to worry about.  

---

Bas was still thanking the Force by the time he'd been cleared through security and awaited the arrival of the Peak.  The terminal was wide and airy, with massive glass viewing ports that overlooked the busy space station.  Several hundred passengers crowded the area, some standing or leaning against the glass windows for want of seating.  They were mostly twenty-somethings, which was optimal and expected.  

Aside from making sales, Bas was looking forward to the prospect of getting away for a few days and seeing some more of the galaxy.  He always enjoyed a good party too, and from the looks of it, so were his fellow boarders.  There were a group of Twi'lek "mean girl" types, a muscled Rodian in an obnoxiously tight tank showing off his scaly biceps to a pair of Weequay co-eds.  He could have been mistaken, but Bas was fairly sure he saw a blue-haired human co-ed funneling a duskberry CoreLoko in the corner.

Yes.  These were his people, his market.  

But there was something else too.  A tingle zipped across his senses, an inclination.  There were footsteps, a pair of them, faint and distant, but he could hear them.  The Force was relatively new to Bas, or at least unfamiliar after his decade-long hiatus from its disciplines.  Yet it was there, stronger than ever, and now he sensed something.  Someone.  He thought for a moment,  wondering if it had been his imagination.  No they were there, influencing the flow of the living energies above all the rest, two of them.  This was hardly the place for Jedi.  

Bas pretended to scroll the holo on his handheld while he scanned the room subtly, looking for a hint as to which among the surrounding passengers he sensed so unmistakably.  

[Rugs]

The Peak of Pleasure wasn’t Io’an’s first choice when he decided it was time for a getaway from Circumstore, Nar Shaddaa and all of Hutt Space’s constant worries. No, that had been the Star Crown, a luxury stellar cruise line that made a long voyage from Coruscant to Woostri, with stops at Alderaan, Zeltros and Aiaru along the way, all with the comfort of some of the finest amenities available.

One look at the cost — tens of thousands of credits, just for one passenger — and he backed off of that idea before even raising it to Ms. Faine. She was very wealthy, and the Exchange was doing well for itself, all things considered in the aftermath of the Archeri Crisis, but there was no need to go overboard.

And that was before he managed to rope Vance in on the trip, after weeks of badgering him to stop working himself and take some time to get away for a little bit. With the Blind Eye deep in metamorphosis from casino to floating fortress and the Exchange’s operations on Circumtore humming along smoothly, now was as good a time as any.

And he’d found just the ticket.

Enter the Peak of Pleasure.

It wasn’t the most expensive voyage — or even in the top tier, for that matter — but it would do the trick. A few days away to relax, then head back home. A couple thousand credits for an all-expenses-paid trip for the two of them. And they had their own rooms.

That had been important.

Io’an smiled to himself as he stood, waiting in the long security checkpoint line. Rows of profiles, many with pictures of men’s shirtless torsos, filled a portion of his comm’s screen. He’d been chatting with a particularly interesting Zeltron most of the time since they arrived at the terminal.

Io’an didn’t really care what Vance got up to in his own time but he wanted some privacy.

A message notification pinged in the upper right corner.

“Sir. Sir. Sir!”

Io’an looked up to see an annoyed guard waiting for him to pass through the checkpoint. “Please keep the line moving, sir.”

“Right, yes.” Io’an felt himself blushing at the attention lapse as he lifted his bags onto the small conveyor for scanning. “Of course.”

——

Sometime later, Io’an waited with Vance in the terminal, watching a distant starliner, silhouetted against Corellia, set sail. He sat in a thinly-cushioned metal chair near the windows, reclining with an arm over the back of the empty seat to his left and a pair of thick headphones resting on his neck.

He wore a light jacket that hung open over a plain sleeveless shirt, despite the chill to the air. His pants and shoes were mostly unremarkable but comfortable for traveling.

Bzzt Another notification. His comm buzzed in his pocket.

“Ever been on one of these?” he asked with an upward glance at Vance. “I’ve always wanted to, but never had the chance...”

Words trailed off as a shifting, a whisper in the Force caught his attention. He’d felt it while waiting in line, there and gone, but it was more noticeable now. A Force-user, and a ripple of... was that fear? Caution, perhaps, running underneath.

Io’an looked around, tracing the feeling to its source. His gaze at first slid over the dark-haired young man scrolling on a handheld, but no... For a moment, he thought their eyes might have met, but they couldn’t have. There was no need to stare, anyway, though the fellow wasn’t bad looking.

Bzzt

“Strange,” he muttered to himself. With a shrug, he looked back to Vance. “Wonder when the ship’ll get here?”

[Fromikeable]

Vance had hoped that dressing the part of an eager vacation-goer might've helped convince himself. He'd gone all-out; obnoxious floral-pattern shirt, khaki shorts, and even sandals. High-class sunglasses hang from his shirt collar. He'd bought a small camera for posterity and shuffled it into his luggage. He'd even bought a small green visor, and had tried his best to wear it when they'd arrived.

It had proven to be the straw that broke the charade. Tossing it in the trash, Vance had kept his hands in his pockets since, his eyes darting around every now and then, the greatest diversion he afforded being to his communicator.

He'd never been great at relaxing anyway.

But he liked Io'an, and even if he'd refused the offer to go on a short vacation a billion times beforehand, he had caved on the principle that it was worth a try. His trip to Zeltros hadn't really been a vacation, per se; he'd only stayed a day, and with Mooney, the day had felt incredibly short. Too short.

Seeing Io'an flick throug his comm, Vance eyed his own. Should he tell her that they were...?

The yelling of a security guard stopped the thought before it could finish. Shaking his head, Vance relinquished his bags and stepped through the scanner.

---

"I was on one a few years ago, yeah." Sitting back in his seat beside Io'an, Vance crossed his arms and gazed up at the ceiling, trying to remember. "It was a planetary cruise that dipped into Felucia's atmosphere to sight-see. I, uh... wasn't a passenger." He scratched his chin, the memory finally coming to him. That had been one of his first real times doing something for the Exchange away from Nar Shaddaa. He recalled the hesitation clearly; Lidah had yet to seize power and he'd had zero desire to do anyone else's chores.

It almost felt like a different life. He wasn't sure he knew a single individual he didn't like that could tell him what to do by this point.

A brush of the Force snagged Vance from reliving the old days, making him sit up suddenly. Swiveling his head, he took a full gander around, his presence cautiously looking for the one that had just tapped theirs. It was trained, or so it felt, but just barely; so minorly so that it was hard to pin. Was it merely someone sensitive whose subconscious worked of its own accord? Was it someone with secretive talents hiding?

Or was Vance really just that bad at relaxing?

Realizing how tensely he'd crossed his arms, Vance sighed. "Soon, I hope." A hand came up to rub his face. "I think I needed this more than I realized."

[hugo]

Captain Qwizo was an innocent man.  The middle-aged Zeltron, infamous in the cruise liner captaincy community for his bejewelled, ever smoking pipe and flamboyant, gender-fluid wardrobe.  Certain intergalactic transportation authorities had prosecuted six indictments--six--to no avail, thanks to his equiglamorous life-long protege, Kob Rardashian, a wily Sephi defense lawyer, who'd everytime beat back the overzealous, humanocentric Coreward-bias-tinged prosecution to find no fault for the captain.  Qwizo remembered fondly the day of his most recent acquittal, six weeks prior, and pending the dismissal of a court order, he was a mostly reputable captain of competent experience.  

In fact, Qwizo's last expedition aboard the Peak was marred not only by the shellfish debacle, but also a Corellian rum provoked near miss with a certain space station above Manaan.  Manaan's stick-in-the-mud Arbiter-General had urged another inquiry into his untarnished professional conduct, citing multiple affidavits by employees and colleagues attesting "barely functional alcoholism" and "promoting a culture of substance abuse and gross professional misconduct.  Whatever that meant.  Kob had, of course put his 250,000 credit retainer (half of which was customarily for the Magistrate) to good use, and Zeena had been all too eager to foot the bill for her favorite uncle.  Besides, if he went down, he knew enough to take the whole racket down with him.  

It was remembering this and taking a long toke from his fabled pipe that the Captain saw the two space docks ahea- or was it one space dock?  Whatever.  Zeena of course, was not ignorant to her uncle's drunken incompetence.  She'd hired an able crew to take the reins and avoid another incident, and in spite of his captaincy, the Peak of Pleasure eased into view of its destination terminal and docked gently and without incident.  A few minutes passed, docking procedures followed, and the airlock ports aligned.  More minutes passed.  More procedures followed.

From the terminal, the Peak's slender bow announced its arrival, the slender, gray liner slipping into view for the expectant passengers.  It was a long and narrow ship, roughly the size of a light cruiser, gray and of vaguely Corellian design, though flambuoyantly adorned in the traditional Zeltron fashion.  It's hammerhead-esque bow began a long, transparent atrium that ran the length of the ship's narrower midsection before widening into a plaza and pool complex of sorts near the wider stern, behind which a half dozen hefty, pre-war style thrusters chugged the nearly century old vessel along.  It was far from glamorous, but had a sort of dusty, looked-over charm to the more appreciative.  To the great majority of its soon-to-be-passengers, the Peak did not seem so romantic, perhaps a stern reminder of the ever-true maxim- you-get-what-you-pay-for to some, and barely registering to many others, at least to those among whom the libations had already begun.

Before anyone could get two angsty, the small crew of mostly Zeltron stewards and stewardesses announced boarding had begun, organizing the passengers by class and boarding priority.  Of course there were few elderly or children queuing up for the debauchorous voyage--save the rare Mid-Rim-Granny-Gone-Wild.  Accordingly, and because the Peak was not a very large liner and had less than a thousand passengers, boarding was rather smooth, and within the hour, most of the passengers had been seen to their rooms of varying quality and hygienic state (Latrelle Pleasure Liners was infamous for skimping on quality maid-service), Bas and the as-of-yet-unrevealed Force sensitives included.

---

Bas was relieved now.  He'd made it onboard with his 'cargo' and was finally alone in his suite.  It wasn't that bad, he had to admit as he set down his duffle and brushed the still-slightly-damp black hair out of his face.  It was small, like all cruise cabins, but it was fine for just him and whoever he ended up bringing back with him.  Business would have to take place discreetly, but he couldn't, for obvious reasons, make sales directly out of his cabin.  No, anyone who made it back here would do so by grace of chemically repressed inhibitions.  At least that was how he rationalized some of his less impressive conquests.  Or his less heterosexual ones.  

In truth, the waifish, fair-skinned Human was here to make money, and any fun that came along during the 7-day journey would be incidental, secondary.  It was funny he thought, that his two prime ambitions, carnal and monetary, were butting against each other in his thoughts and, retrieving the vacuum-sealed package from his- well, package, in his JulieKatarn boxers.  Along with his worries about being sentenced to life in Republic prison, he was particularly worried that the blocky container would unduly stretch the 1,000 credit, silken underwear, which were his favorite.  Luckily, it seemed, he wasn't going to prison, and the boxers seemed mostly fine. 

He relaxed for the first time after he'd partitioned a small portion of the powdery blue product into a tiny baggy, sniffing a tiny sample, just o be safe, as he did so.  He sealed up the bags and hid the larger of them behind a panel in the impossibly small, essentially-a-refresher-with-a-sink and a mirror. 

Tossing off his hoodie and t-shirt, Bas laid his pale, toned form on the sheets, which were not so soft nor so silken.  He'd only done a small bump of the blue, so he shouldn't hallucinate or anything, just mild euphoria and maybe some fatigue...

---

Bas noticed the tear in the ceiling's rainbow upholstery for the first time as he eased back to consciousness.  He saw the frayed threads of the fabric sway ever so gently as it was pushed back and forth by the currents of the fan swirling lazily below.  He looked around, feeling calmer than normal, the colors and details of the room more vibrant than he remembered pre-siesta.  So he hadn't been asleep long; the blue was still working.  Or maybe he'd been out for three days and it was powerful stuff.

He sat up, a gentle expression on his face.  He was in a good mood.  That was good, tonight was strictly recon.  He would go to dinner, which, checking the bedside chrono, he thankfully had not missed (there was more than an hour before the introductory Captain's Dinner began, a semi-formal party that set the tone for the rest of the week-long journey).  There, and in the initial partying that followed into the early morning, he could scope out prospective clientele.  The fiends and party-girls were easy enough to spot, but sometimes unexpected opportunities presented themselves if one was sufficiently observant. 

He'd specifically requested a smoking friendly room for exactly this reason; when he was blitzed he hated getting out of bed to smoke outside.  What was civilization come to if you couldn't smoke inside? Luckily the Peak and her proprietors were not so savagely inclined. Savoring his prudent decision, he lit one of his cigarras and breathed in the delicious, acrid smoke.  In a few minutes, he'd return to the capsule like refresher and wash for dinner, all the while under the warm glow of the apparently long-lasting spice.

But was it just the spice? Bas was far from a trained Jedi, but he knew what the Force felt like.  He'd felt it earlier, but had been unable to locate it's source.  And now he felt it again.  The same pair of presences, near enough to appear as one to one even less adept than Bas.  Was the spice messing with his feeling of the Force?  That would have been crazy.  As much as he doubted his own ability to discern what was from what was not when it came to the Force, he still couldn't help but feel that the impressions, light but very much extant, were still near.  So it had not been a mere spaceport passing.  In any event, Bas reasoned he should get ready for dinner.  These mysterious "Jedi" would reveal themselves in time, he wagered.  

---

Bas had been on a shit ton of cruises.  His parents were pretty rich, and had compensated for his several years away from them as a Youngling by spending lavishly on he and his siblings.  Frankly he was sort of sick of them.  This of course, was different.  Now he was doing it for himself, for his own benefit, not to ease his parent's shitty guilt-trips.  Even so, he remembered that cruises called for a couple formal outfits, and had carefully packed a slick charcoal suit to survive the boarding crease-free.  His hair still a little wet and cold from the on-and-off hot water of the refresher, he dressed himself in a slate gray button-up, adorned with a motif of lavender, floral patterning.  The light gray of his shirt was contrasted by the charcoal of the suit jacket and slacks.  He left the collar un-buttoned and left his tie; there was no need to be pretentious.  He slipped on a pair of black-leather boots, shining and freshly polished, with goldium plated aglets and YSC emblems below the laces.

He appreciated his surroundings more fully than before as he made his way down the carpeted and cheaply decorated corridors, where he could have sworn several of the light fixtures buzzed in and out from time to time.  He passed a gaggle of giggling human women, one of whom smiled at him.  He pretended to ignore them.  The trick, with girls, and from time to time, boys, was that you had to be an ass.  At least, that had worked for him to some extent.  Not that you could be a complete ass and expect to go home with someone, only a cool sort of mystery.  

Finding his way to the main dining hall, Bas was almost late.  Most of the patrons had been seated according to their cabin numbers, with Bas', 0786, on the far rightside of the room, near the center of a long, hors d'oeurve laden dining table at which were seated over a hundred of his floormates.  The sharply-clad human made his way to the spot, weaving through the busy dining hall and looking out through the atrium at the infinite streaks of white and blue above.  They must have made the jump while he was napping.  

Taking his seat, he noticed he was flanked by empty chairs, the nearest passengers a few seats down.  There were names printed on the two cards to his left, but he didn't recognize them.  He did recognize the pair of sequential numbers, though, which indicated their occupants were his neighbors to the left and across the hall.  Interesting.

It was then that Bas had that queer feeling in his stomach again.  More worried about appraising his prospective clientele, he attributed the sensation to the fleeting effects of his earlier sample.  When the waiter, who looked overwehelmed, finally came by, he ordered a double jawa juice dry, hoping the beverage would clear his senses as he set about enjoying his first dinner aboard the Peak and making some money.

That was, until the unsettled feeling, the sensation, the pair of presences, did not dissipate, but grew more constant.  What was going on?  He was interrupted from his inquiry by movement to his left.  It seemed his neighboring diners, and indeed passengers, had arrived, and he saw those whom he'd felt for the first time.

"Sup?"  












    

[Rugs]

“Felucia? I didn’t know you’ve been there.” A wild and untamed world. Io’an almost shuddered to think of the energy waiting there, ready to tap at a moment’s notice.

“Well, this time, you’re a passenger. So relax, alright?” He smiled warmly at Vance. “You won’t do anyone any good if you keel over from working yourself to death. We’ve both got plenty to worry about, but it can wait.”

This was partially thanks, of sorts, to Vance, for his help and reassurances when the Dark Side called out to Io’an on Gamorr. It’d been a small thing, but he couldn’t imagine what might have happened — what he might have given into — if Vance hadn’t been around.

As if on queue, the Peak of Pleasure arrived, sliding through space toward the dock. It was... less impressive than Io’an had imagined, even from the pictures and plentiful reviews.

But it was too late to turn back now. They were soon to be starbound, for better or worse.

---

A while after the Peak of Pleasure pulled leisurely away from its space dock over its and leaped to hyperspace, Io’an found himself in his room, with company.

The Zeltron — his name, or the name he was giving, was Kasche — hadn’t been in the mood to wait for meeting, and Io’an was hardly complaining. There was a while yet to go before dinner, and he’d have plenty of time over the voyage’s duration to explore the modest ship with Vance.

Now he was the one being explored, as Kasche slipped soft pink hands up under Io’an’s shirt and across his abs. The pheromones flooding the room were nearly intoxicating, and Io’an pried his mouth free of the Kasche’s for a moment to mutter something about checking the door.

A casual flick of the Force flicked both the deadbolt and latch lock into place. For a fleeting moment, Io’an was aware of that Force presence. Too weak and unfamiliar to be Vance’s, but lingering, perhaps across the hall.

Later he thought as he felt his shirt being pulled over his head. He returned the favor, thoughts of the mystery Force-user slipping away as he reveled in Kasche’s beautifully-sculpted body. The pink skin was soft to the touch and well cared for; the muscle beneath was firm, solid.

He hadn’t come onto the Peak of Pleasure to find other Force users, after all.

---

Io’an emerged from his room some time later in a dark blue suit with a sea-green shirt that matched his eyes. He carried himself with a bit of pep, despite his tardiness. Dampness clung his blonde hair and the fresh aroma of a recent wash in the unremarkable refresher in his room lingered about his person.

The Captain’s Dinner would begin soon, and he’d lingered chatting with Kasche too long after their romp. The Zeltron hailed, unsurprisingly, from Zeltros, but was more than a pretty face. An aspiring software engineer, he was on the cruise a celebration for finishing his schooling before heading off to the Core for some fancy high-paying cybersecurity job on Coruscant.

Io’an could have gone on talking for hours, once he found their interests so closely aligned, but there were things to be done, and he rather doubted it’d be his last meeting with the pink-skinned man.

The dining hall was as grand as could be hoped on a ship like the Peak of Pleasure. Certainly, portions of the Blind Eye impressed more, but not everything could be as impressing as the functional base of a criminal empire.

Still, the glass ceiling above provided an almost mesmerizing view of hyperspace’s swirling blue and white, and the broad, curving staircase at the far end added a hint of grandiosity that would have been sorely missing, otherwise.

Io’an picked his way through the crowd of people — many, late like him — trying to cram into the dining hall. The Force led his eyes to Vance, and he waved at his friend as he finally made his way to a seat — marked with a small card with his name and cabin number, 0789 — motioning him to come over.

As he sat, he felt that feeling again. The Force, echoing in a person in the way that it only could in a Force user. He glanced to his right and saw, seated next to him, the young man from the terminal.

He was handsome, Io’an decided as he scanned him quickly with his violet-ringed eyes, and well-dressed. What are the odds? he wondered. Three Force users, all in a row.

“Hi,” he said simply, with a smile and polite nod in response to the stranger’s greeting. He realized, breaking eye contact, he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Raising Force sensitivity off the bat seemed strange, especially for a random man on a cruise ship. “I’m Io’an.” There was something about the man that nagged at Io’an’s senses, beyond the Force sensitivity. A suspicion, maybe? Wariness? He couldn’t place it, and presently lacked the desire to probe further with his senses.

Not on vacation.

“What do you think of things so far? It’s my first time on one of these.”

Shuffling behind him announced Vance’s arrival, and Io’an turned to greet his friend. He wondered, idly, what Vance had been doing to occupy his time. “Hey, there you are. I thought I’d be the last one in here.”

[Fromikeable]

”Yeah yeah.” Vance waved a dismissive hand despite his admission. He still didn’t like people telling him to relax. Maybe it was just his instincts screaming at them for being foolish. Maybe it was his anxieties. Maybe it was just his inexperience. Regardless, it made him cross his arms and squint at nothing in particular, his brain subconsciously set to task trying to create something to be on-guard about.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled a certain conversation he’d had last Life Day with a certain woman. As it dawned on him that she might’ve been more right than he’d realized, he huffed in mild annoyance. Drawing out his comm again, he opened it to Mooney’s profile and began to tap.

---

The drift of the stars was easy to forget about in the rush of city living, especially on a city as smog-ridden and with such long days as Nar Shaddaa. Reclining in his cheap beach chair, Vance tuned out the creaking it made under his weight, plucking at his shirt instead. He’d had no idea what to wear to this cruise, so he’d decided to stick to the classics; gaudy tropical shirts with the top three buttons undone, light-colored shorts, and comfortable sandals. The looks of confusion he drew were something of a guilty pleasure; it wasn’t every day that he just got to be weird and stand out, to be conspicuous, to be obvious.

But the clothing’s real motivation came through as he drew his comm again, smiling at a text message. Flipping to the device’s camera, he hummed lightly to himself as he gazed around, trying to figure out how to set up his shot.

At first he pictured the stars. With no reference, however, they looked too bland; he shifted the shot to include the deck in the lower half. No, still too bland. His free hand extended to hold his drink, a bright, fruity cocktail of some kind, just on-screen. Still not enough, too uneven, too random. He lowered the shot lower, including his legs.

No, now he just looked like an insane bum taking pictures of his own crotch.

This went on for a few minutes until he settled on a pose, the shot coming out as the stars in the background, the deck in the mid, and his drink-holding arm resting on a raised knee on the right. It would have to do.

---

Vance had almost forgotten about the dinner; the event drawing the bulk of the people away from the viewing deck had been too welcome to simply depart. But a buzz on his comm to remind him had sent him scurrying back to his room, where he had donned an incredibly simple, very relaxed suit. The jacket lacked buttons to speak of, the shirt was plain, white, and loose, and the pants were hardly party-grade. Still, everything matched, and a matching set of a belt, shoes, and holowatch made the outfit at least high-class, if not half-effort.

Vance had rationalized it as being… well, a suit for vacation. He didn’t imagine tuxedos as leisurewear.

Stepping into the hall with his hands on his pockets, Vance’s presence had shot to Io’an’s quickly. Spotting him, he returned the wave with a small smile and a nod. Before stepping off, he paused for one last text on his comm, the message short.

Text you in a bit, dinner with a friend. Stowing the comm, he looked up again to see Io’an speaking to the man sat beside him.

The same man they’d felt earlier. Vance resisted the urge to cringe, the hairs on his neck electing to stand a little instead.

Walking over with his hands restored to his pockets, Vance eyed the man top to bottom. Raising an eyebrow, he forwent his seat, standing just off to Io’an’s side instead.

”I didn’t realize we were keeping schedules on this vacation.” Shooting Io’an a glance, Vance looked back to the man with obvious hesitation, his eyes squinted lightly.

”How’s it going…” Vance’s eyes drifted down to the man’s card, noting his name and room number, ”... Bas? Or do you pronounce that like Base?”

[hugo]

"Bas." The diner that had disturbed him so was Sephi, a tall, lean, and well-built figure that sat next to him. The Force called more loudly than before, his attention further diverted toward his newfound neighbor by the young man's fine features. "I dunno, my refresher's hot water is in and ou-"

Bas' response was cut short by the arrival of the second one, a human of a different but not lesser, appeal.

"Like Ass with a B." Bas chided, grinning slightly. Of dinner companions, Bas could have done much worse. The pair, apparently and unsurprisingly acquainted, churned the otherwise calm current of Force energy that flowed through the room. So there were two of them, and they were together.

Yet Bas was relieved. They weren't Jedi. There was no way. It wasn't that Jedi always had to dress or act a certain way, but there was a way about them, a stiffness, a crisp adherence, that stuck out so starkly for Bas. Perhaps that was because the only Force sensitives with which he'd really interacted had been Jedi.

After their initial exchange, their was a moment of silence. It was awkward. If he could feel what they were so freely, then he knew they could observe him with an equal measure of liberty. The premise underpinned the three of them as the desert of silence dragged on. Force sensitivity was not something Bas had discussed in any substance out loud for... some years. Sure, the last year's revelations had lent him read what he could on the holo, and Gork knew, but online wanderings and the confidence of close friends was a far cry from the two Force users that sat and stood respectively a few feet from his person. There was no distance, no insulation now.

Whether it was the receding spice or the rising jawa juice, Bas acquiesced to his curiosity and disobeyed his caution. "So what brings you two here?"

His emphasis, veiled as it was in his amiable tone, cut neatly through any ambiguities between the three. They weren't openly hostile. They weren't Jedi. What was the harm in a conversation? Surely he couldn't go the rest of his life without meeting another Force-user, perhaps on less cordial terms. He understood at least that: the Force worked in strange ways, but it was always working, working on something. It had a way sewing disparate threads, however alien their origins, together. Bas gulped down the remainder of the jawa juice, which was mixed, a la cheap cruise style, about three times too strong by amateur hands. One had a tendency to take note of such things if he should spend enough time among barkeeps and drunkards.

He ordered another round, and before it arrived, the serving droids were about, delivering the first course of the evening. A group of Bith played Tatooine Swing in the corner, Bas noting with annoyance that the bass was just out of tune. The aroma of the coming appetizers filled the room, revealing a fishy, but not unappealing dish. The light of the trillion stars stretching infinitely outside the viewing ports, dancing blue in the reflection of the fair human's dark brown eyes.

[Rugs]

Bas. Yes, that at least confirmed the man was sitting at the right spot, Io’an thought with a glance at the name card in front of Bas. He’d started speaking when Vance arrived and Io’an attention was jerked toward his friend.

“They did give us one when we booked the cruise, you know,” Io’an said with a wry grin at Vance. The schedule was more a series of recommended activities than a strict list of ‘thou musts.’ Even the captain’s dinner was optional — it wasn’t as if the crew would be jettisoning anyone who missed it out of one of the airlocks.

Io’an rather much doubted there were going to be any better options for dining on the first night, though, and the smaller restaurants and bars scattered throughout the starliner would be open for the trip’s duration.

He wondered what Vance had been up to since they split up. Probably shouldn’t have run off so soon. But Kasche had been irrestable. Io’an glanced around the dining hall but saw no sign of his pink-skinned friend. Besides, Vance was an adult; he could entertain himself.

A server drifted by, taking orders for drinks. Io’an ordered a Quasar — a cocktail with what was probably entirely too much alcohol that glowed a bright, pale blue.

His attention returned to Bas as the server hurried off.

Bas’ question gave Io’an some pause. He didn’t miss the subtle emphasis. Either this Bas fellow was strange, or he wasn’t entirely untrained and felt the Force in he and Vance, just as they felt it in him.

“Just a getaway,” he started, smiling coyly. As he looked briefly into Bas’ dark eyes. “Pleasure, myself.” The word carried a subtle weight, a gentle emphasis that matched Io’an’s smile. He wondered how Bas would read it, but carried on with a motion at Vance. “He can speak for himself, but I think we both needed a break. From Hutt Space.”

He glanced at Vance, checking to see if he’d said too much. Anyone from Hutt Space might need a break after the Archeri set everything on fire. It was a fine line to walk, giving a degree of honesty without outright blurting that they both worked for the Exchange. Lying would be easier if their present company wasn’t a Force user.

Still, Io’an decided to press a bit. Their conversation would be wandering and awkward, at best, if they kept dancing around what they all knew to be truth. “What about you? I hadn’t expected to come across another Force user here, though I suppose there’s no reason why that couldn’t happen.”

His drink arrived, spilling light between the server’s fingers as he set it before Io’an on the table. Io’an looked to Bas with a grin. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was trying to impress Bas or if he was feeling emboldened from his earlier adventure, but he extended a finger toward his drink’s round glass. He reached to the Force, as easily as breathing. There wasn’t much in the way of natural energy to draw on other than from the ship itself, with them deep in a hyperspace tunnel — not compared to being on a planet. But there was enough to pull off a party trick.

Frost spread out along the glass’ surface from where Io’an’s finger made contact. What was at first a thin layer thickened slightly, until it was even across the glass’ entirety. The light from the drink, once piercing was now soft, diffused evenly along the glass as if through a shade. Io’an grinned and resisted looking at Vance.

His friend would surely know that he — normally hesitant to touch the Force at all, let alone to show off — was certainly not acting his normal self.

[Fromikeable]

Vance took his seat beside Io’an slowly as their new friend asked his question. The tone was almost comforting in a way, the awkward silence preceding it a reassurance. There was no automatic charm here. No attempts to beguile or dazzle. No stand-offishness, no sense of being had. Just a solid half a minute where no one knew what to say.

Investigators and Inquisitors are professionals. They’d never come across quite that weird, especially when on assignment.

This guy was something, but he wasn’t a threat. Not yet, at least.

Still, Vance’s instinct only allowed brief glances elsewhere, returning Io’an’s many grins with a raised brow. He responded to Io’an’s motion with a single nod, his uncertain, guarded tone a direct contrast to Io’an’s. ”More or less.”

The arrival of food and the striking up of the band served to cut the tension, but only by so much. But it was Io’an’s trick that truly shifted Vance’s posture from defensive to inquisitive. The power itself was one he’d seen enough to understand. It was never lost on him how someone so prone to avoiding the Force could work it in ways most users couldn’t dream of.

No, the change came as Vance’s eyes shifted from Bas to Io’an, his mouth flattening, his brow raising further.

Somebody’s already had a few of those. Vance had never imagined Io’an being the type to pre-game, but he couldn’t come up with any better explanations. Besides, the guy spent most of his day-to-day life hanging out with Qiki.

It was really just a wonder he didn’t drink more.

”I can come up with a few.” Waving a hand at the statistical rarity that the three of them represented, Vance dismissed the line of thought. ”But I’d rather hear it.”

[hugo]

So the attraction was mutual, Bas noted, only letting the corner of a grin out as acknowledgment. He was a curious creature, elegant, and unusual. A seat down, the Human, Vance, was of a more conventional appeal, muscular and weathered. Whatever their superficial disparities, both young men gleamed brightly to Bas' dim Force perception. Far brighter than him.

Bas was taking a long drink when the reciprocal question came from the Sephi to his left. He wasn't going to come out and tell this rando he was here to sling spice. No, with spice you always had to wait for something of a rapport to develop before opening up about business. Luckily, the pair fit well within his target market. Young. Single. Here for fun.

"About the same myself, trying to get away from Metellos for a spell." He took another long sip, bringing the glass perilously close to being empty, he noted with annoyance.

Their conversation was cut short by the spectacle Io'an performed before him. His eyes widened, momentarily betraying his surprise and wonderment. What the hell. He remembered seeing some pretty otherwordly feats from his instructors at the Temple years before, but Bas couldn't say he'd every seen anything quite like that. Ice came from nowhere, emanating from the Sephi's slender hand onto the glass as naturally as if it were frost transfiguring the fresh morning dew. That was something.

He imagined it was, at its root, a telekinetic manipulation of the atoms themselves, slowing their entropic ricochet-fest to a near standstill and wrapping the object with ice as a result. "Cool trick." He noted flatly, though his initial expression had long betrayed his admiration. He was nowhere near that kind of technique in his own recently adopted disciplines, having found only mediocre success in other fields, telekinesis not among them.

"Don't think I could quite pull that one off, myself." he said, grinning, offering his nearly empty drink in toast to Vance and Io'an before downing its remnants. Some time later, appetizers had come and gone, and the last of the entrees were being cleared when Bas, by now inebriated, was struck by a sudden and severe urge to smoke. Looking around, it was clear that doing so would be "frowned upon" within the dining area. Luckily, he was prepared for these situations.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a slender, black electronic device and proceeded to take a long drag from it, a lone blue light the only indication that he was in fact, getting his juice. It was an e-cigarra, which Bas generally detested. Even so, he could not dismiss their obvious utility for when the nicotine cravings hit in places where smoking was socially unacceptable. So stupid, he thought.

His cravings nominally and temporarily satisfied by the berry-flavored device, he offered it to Io'an under the table. The three had kept up their conversation throughout the first courses, Bas explaining a little about his background in the Jedi and what lead him to rediscover his latent Force affinity. In turn, he learned a little about the other two.

As desert was brought out by a cadre of clunky looking server droids, he wondered what his next move should be.

"What are you guys getting in to tonight?" Looking down at the datapad he'd left in his lap, Bas browsed the itinerary, noting that their was a shot competition on deck 7 after dinner. Hmmm.

[Rugs]

Metellos. Io’an was familiar with the world but had never set foot on it. A lesser Coruscant, often forgotten in the Republic capital’s shadow. Overrun with crime and poverty, from what he’d heard. It didn’t sound all that dissimilar from Nar Shaddaa, really.

He cracked a small smile at Bas’ acknowledgment of his trick with the drink glass. The other Force user was playing it cool, but Io’an saw the expression flitter across his face, felt the surprise ripple through his presence.

“Thanks,” he said simply. Yes, he was feeling himself this evening. Eventually the confidence, the swagger would all come crashing down. He’d retreat back into his shy, quiet shell.

But not now. Not yet.

He took the offered e-cigarra from Bas’ open hand and took a drag. Io’an didn’t normally smoke, but alcohol and hormones were, perhaps, loosening his inhibitions. Thank the Force Qiki was absent, or he could only imagine what trouble she’d have him in by the end of the night. The berry-flavored smoke could have been worse, at least.

The conversation — lubricated by alcohol and food — flowed on as the dinner progressed. Io’an’s turn came to show surprise and wonder when Bas opened up some details of his past as a Jedi. Two former Jedi, then, with Vance sitting opposite — not that his history was Io’an’s to tell. Io’an’s own story, such as it was, felt insignificant, unworthy.

He’d wanted to be a Jedi, but was found too late. He’d been trained by a former Jedi, but never set foot within the Temple’s hallowed halls. Still, the last year and a half had been a tale to make anyone jealous.

But as far as he told Bas, he was a slicer, trained in the ways of the Force by an independent mentor, who now had steady, lucrative work in Hutt Space. If the drug-runner could pick up on more from that, well, he had a quick mind.

“Oh, I don’t know that we have any specific plans,” Io’an said by way of answer to Bas’ question as he glanced at Vance. He actually had no idea what his friend was getting up to. “Well, I know I don’t, anyway.” There was more of that subtle weight — less so than it had been, with a few drinks in his system — that hinting of being open, that coy little smile. “Figured I’d get to see the rest of the ship. Seems as good a time as any to look around and see what all’s on offer.”

He turned to Vance. “How about you? We can’t have come all the way out to the Core to get on this ship without getting up to some fun, right?”

[Fromikeable]

Conversation proved a balm to Vance’s stiffness, but slowly and stubbornly. By the time appetizers were gone, Vance’s shoulders weren’t held up like a mannequin’s. By the time the first course ended, he wasn’t staring Bas down. And by the time he was listening to the man’s history, he was kindly nodding along, small smiles leaking through at the mentions of parts of his childhood.

Vance only let slip that he’d been on both sides of the war. But his warm reception to the memories of the Coruscant Temple made one of those sides not only obvious, but favored.

From there, his guard remained only for details. He described himself Io’an’s coworker; a statement of equality more true than ever since certain departures.

”Define ‘fun’.” Giving Io’an a skeptical look, Vance glanced down at his pocket, his comm nestled therein having buzzed a few times during the meal. Shifting his gaze off to the side, he hummed lightly.

”I was going to spend the night, uh, catching up on a few things online.” Raising a hand to his chin, he covered his mouth for a second, concealing a smile.

An entire cruise at his disposal and all he could think about was messaging Mooney?

”... but I guess I could be persuaded away with the right kind of trouble.”

[hugo]

Even before they'd spoken, it was clear which of Bas' new acquaintances was the instigator of their starlit vacation.  The Sephi, Io'an, was perhaps motivated by something other than amiability, had been conversant enough, clearly taking in the uncommon respite offered by the two star cruise.  Vance, on the other hand, was uncomfortable.  He spoke little, and Bas suspected there was an element of suspicion, not least of all because his dark eyes were hard when they met those of Bas.  

But time, alcohol, and fuller stomachs made, progressively, for better conversation.  He noticed the other dark-haired human loosen up, even brighten when they're recollections met at the Coruscant temple.  Even if he loosened up, Bas still felt just the slightest impression of tension, perhaps conflict of some kind.  

Presently, the serving droids had just made their way to their place, which was furthest from the kitchen doors from which the half dozen, hopelessly outdated protocol droids, mismatched and obviously secondhand, emerged carrying platters of a gelatin like substance.  Bas fought back a brief but formidable wave of nausea.  

Gel-a-Gin, a popular jello-liquor concoction, had become his arch nemesis in prep school.  It was a battle he inevitably lost.  Ever since a particularly outrageous winter formal outing to Alderaan, even the mental specter of the cursed substance sent not only his stomach into tumbles but metaphorically sent a shiver down his spine.  By the time the bearers of the itself-harmless dish had reached the trio of young adepts, Bas was ready to dismiss the droid without a word.  Eating the food was one thing, but he wouldn't endeavor to test an instinct so visceral, etched permanently into his liver by one excess too many.  

"Yeah I'm gonna skip desert."  He noted to no one in particular, before leaning over, slightly closer to the Sephi as he spoke about his plans.  He smelled nice, though Bas didn't recognize the brand.  He reasoned that was a permissible heresy. "Sounds good, I was going to scope the place out myself." 

He looked expectantly at Vance, who, after the initial shell had been cracked, seemed to be an alright guy after all.

He wasn't serious?  "Bro, we know you're not going to catch up on your holo-mail."  He feigned a serious face.  He lost it though, and cracked out into a wide, self-amused grin.  "No judgement though just make sure you switch hands every now and then."  It was the sort of jaunt more appropriate to a middle school locker room than a formal dinner among grown men.  But Bas was still young, and absconding from a deliberate life of maturity and accomplishment, he had not yet outgrown many of his teenage habits.  He took an innocent drag from the device in his palm, exhaling the diluted vapor after a moment through flared nostrils.

Leaning back more comfortably in his chair and remembering the shot competition starting soon on deck 7, he reigned in his amusement (more difficult with the third Jawa Juice swirling around his stomach).  "I was going to get wrecked on deck 7.  Figured the crowd at the shot competition will be pretty rowdy."

[Rugs]

“You know. Fun.” Io’an figured he and Vance had vastly different ideas of what getting up to ‘fun’ on the stellar cruise entailed, but that didn’t stop him from smiling innocently at his friend. Once upon a time, he’d have thought the getaway an opportunity to try pursuing his own interest in Vance. Alas, not all dreams were within reach.

Bzzt. Io’an wondered if it was Kasche. He hadn’t seen a hint of the Zeltron out among the dinner crowd, but there were a lot of people stuffed into the dining hall. Besides, Io’an’s present company held his attention fast. Io’an grinned stupidly at Bas at the other’s joke about... something Vance had said.

So maybe the drinks were getting to him a little bit. The Quasar was stronger than he’d expected, and the handful of rounds that followed surely hadn’t helped.

He’d be fine. There was always the Force for clearing away the haze. Io’an actually had no idea if that was possible, but he figured it could probably work if he tried hard enough.

A shot competition. That was something he was bound to lose, but why not. “See?” he said to Vance, motioning at Bas. “Fun! And we can see more of the ship.” Had Vance already seen more of the ship? Io’an had only seen the hallways to his cabin, the inside of his cabin, and the hallways to the dining hall.

“One of you is gonna have to lead the way, though,” Io’an said, sitting up in his chair with a confidence that didn’t really match what he was saying. The crash hadn’t come yet, and he’d ride the high spirits as far as they took him — a place he hoped involved Bas. “I don’t have a clue where Deck 7 is.”

---

Deck 7, it turned out, was the ship’s seventh deck. Io’an felt a little stupid at his proud admission of not knowing this before the trio headed out, but his mood — brightened by the booze drifting through his system and his companions — suppressed this well enough.

The shot competition was set up in a club about three-fourths of the way to the Peak’s stern on the starboard side. It was a trashy place, so it fit in perfectly with the rest of the ship. The floors and walls were all heavy grey metal, modeled after the lower levels of Coruscant or Nar Shaddaa or really any city-planet.

Might have been a nice place, if you ignored the paint peeling and some of the cobwebs up in the far corners where maintenance apparently didn’t bother to reach. Io’an did not notice these, nor the countless other little imperfections as they arrived.

They were in the middle of a talk about their plans for the cruise’s various stops — Io’an hadn’t made any concrete ones — as they reached the club. Booming, pouding bass cut Io’an off in the middle of what he was saying and he waved off his annoyance with a sigh.

“I guess we’re here,” he borderline shouted at Vance and Bas. A human woman stood at a small table, taking sign-ups and motioning the (mostly young, university-age) participants inside. At least the all fit the general demographic, Force sensitivity aside. “So we’re doin’ this?”

[Fromikeable]

Bas’s serious facade made Vance freeze up a bit, the accusation leveled at him somewhere between perfectly true and as far from the truth as he could be. Even as the facade broke and Bas smiled, Vance could feel his cheeks burning, his eyes darting to the side as he tried to come up with a rebuttal.

”I wasn’t going to-” Stopping himself, he bit his tongue. Did he really want to explain the complexities of that relationship now? To what he thought was a tipsy Io’an and a relative stranger?

”Yeah, uh, switching hands.” Murmuring, Vance wiped his mouth with his napkin, buying a second to recompose. As the topic of shots came up, he sighed lightly. He could barely get through a few beers without falling out of his chair, let alone hard liquor. When was the last time he’d even drank?

Oh right. Sitting with Locke after the Blind Auction debacle.

”Maybe just one.” Anything to distance himself from that memory.

---

The pulse of the bass felt like it was rattling Vance’s skull with every beat. Squinting through the sensation, he tried not to compare it to a sonic collar, to a sonic rifle even, as they neared the entrance. Observing the frontwoman instead, Vance watched as she ushered them in, keeping closer behind Io’an and Bas than he meant to.

This was their territory, after all. He was out of his depth.

Hands in his pockets, Vance simply took in the sights. A cluster of young people at the bar, lines of shot glasses before them, spilling as much as they drank. A dance floor exploding with neon lights and glowwear, the DJ at the front controlling the dancing mob like a Sith Lord. Exposing outfits. Rampant laughter and yelling. Thudding music. Relative darkness.

Vance couldn’t help but wonder if this was what people in their 20’s were supposed to do.

”I guess so.” Yelling back, Vance looked to Bas. ”Is there a prize for winning, or…?”

[hugo]

Bas smoked two cigarras during their trek to deck 7, the first after they entered the atrial passageway that lead to the central lift, and the second when they traversed the corresponding atrium-deck of deck 7.  Even before the durasteel doors of the turbolift slid open with in immediate hiss--though the Force sensitives may have noticed that the lower half slid down just a little slower, catching a little when it fell into the slot.  He noted it but didn't say anything.  None among the three were blind or stupid; they knew the liner was a floating dump too.  There was no need to belabor the point, only to get so blackout that your vision was too blurry to see the unpleasant things.  That thinking was a motif at this point in his life--fill yourself up with so much dope that all the unpleasant smudges of life faded away and finally, everything was beautiful.  

None of the guys had thought to change, unsurprisingly.  They were not alone in this, so the trio stood out only a little as they eased through the morass of revelry that spilled out of the club, which they found easily after following the inescapable pounding of its debauchorous hymnals.  In what Bas imagined would give a Core world fire marshal a conniption fit, hundreds of people, most of them around his age, or at least acting in a manner that suggested they were.  He noted more than a couple of old people among the crowd, one of them an apparently "cool grandma" Zelosian chugging sweet tea surrounded by like-species senior trippers.  Ew.

"Yeah bro we didn't come down here to play games," he said, jostling himself as forcefully as could be polite toward the shining refuge of the shot bar, "we have serious work to do."  He had to yell to be heard, if he could be heard at all.  He recognized the beat as a remix of Arkanianotonix.  Out of his periphery, he could see the inebriated mass moshing slavishly, like puppets suspended on the disc jockey's sonic strings.  But his dark eyes were intensely focused on the bartender, a busy looking Quarren who finally caught his eye after he'd stood on his toes when getting to the bar.  "Nine Nerf Numbers."  He slapped a hundred credits on the counter and pushed them towards her with firmness.  

He turned and leaned against the bar as they waited.  Looking around, he felt the anarchy would permit him to get away with smoking inside, as, literally, there were people basically banging with clothes on and obviously snorting uppers everywhere you looked.  More than a few others puffed on acrid smokes of their own.  He smiled at his new friends as he lit the long white stick.  "No Vance, no, I don't think anybody really wins.  More likely everybody loses." 

Two or three minutes later, and by the time he was basically deaf, their nine shots arrived, a luminescent concoction splashed hurriedly into nine small, plastic shooters.  "Well boys."  He held a trio in each hand and went about the awkward task of handing them off to them, spilling a little of the sticky liquid on his hand as he did.  He licked it off.  Disgusting.  Like mouthwash.  Perfect.  

"Bottoms up."  He toasted Vance then Io'an and threw the first of the three back.  He was determined to outshoot both of them put together, entirely confident he was not flying too close to the sun, so to speak.  


 

[Rugs]

Bas was the tip of the spear for their little group as they pushed and pressed into the overcrowded bar. The thudding music, already overbearing outside the establishment’s walls, assaulted from all sides as they broke through the throng of people trying to cram in. Bas pushed through the crowd well, to be the smallest among them, and as they approached the bar under the music’s neverending onslaught and an array of dazzling lights, Io’an came to terms with the fact that he’d likely have a headache in the morning — and not only from drinking.

As things stood, he was still feeling himself, future consequences be damned, and so he sauntered up to the bar a step or two behind Bas, brimming with all the confidence he could muster.

“What?” He yelled back at Vance. Something about a prize? Unfortunately, his pointed ears did nothing for hearing over the constant whumping bass, or the shouting and cheering that rolled over them like waves coming ashore. The noise in the Force that accompanied it all made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. Io’an withdrew as far from the Force as he could, quieting the din to a distant roar.

Bas’ shouted reply about winning and losing seemed to confirm Vance’s question. He blinked. “Wait,” he shouted at the two of them as the bartender arrived, bearing three shots for each of them, “not even money or somethin’?” He’d not taken the time to read anything about the contest as they signed up.

Oh well. Too late to turn back now. Besides, Io’an was less concerned about whatever winnings might be on offer than continuing (he hoped) the good impressions with Bas.

Doubt flickered through his mind as he raised the first of his three shooters. Io’an had never been a heavy drinker — for all of Qiki’s and Reflex’s occasional efforts to change that. He’d had basically nothing to drink for the better part of a year, while suffering through the Archeri Plague. Whatever alcohol tolerance he’d was long since whittled away, and he’d not done much drinking since the Crisis’ conclusion.

He licked his lips, nerves breaking through the facade. Here to have fun, he reminded himself. So have fun. He looked to Vance and Bas in turn, giving each a very different grin. To Vance, he raised a separate, silent toast, a nod to their camaraderie, strengthed in the fires of the past year.

Then he raised the shooter to his lips.

The shot was disgusting, bearing more concentrated strength than the already potent Quasar he’d had with dinner with all of the joy of drinking cleaning alcohol. Io’an forced it down with a barely-contained grimace and began to reach for the second, thinking he could power through them in quick order. His hand stopped, hovering shakily over the bar as the burn racing down his throat reached his gut.

“I uh...” he started slowly, words lost under the music, “I don’t...”

Io’an braced himself with both hands against the bar as his head spun. Whatever was in that shot was not mixing well with dinner and his earlier drinks. Before he knew it he was hunched over, with no thoughts but keeping the mixture of fish and booze from splattering over the bar or onto the floor around his feet.

As he fought his losing battle, he raised a hand to tap out in silent surrender.

[Fromikeable]

Every pulse of the club reverberated through the Force. People were certainly alive here; passions ran hot, tempers and insecurities flaring through agitated presences, satisfaction and lust through others. But no one was still; not even the older denizens that caught Vance off guard, sparing them a raised eyebrow.

Apparently not just your 20’s. Fish flew, birds swam, partiers partied, evidently.

By the time Bas arrived, the pulsing had gotten Vance’s skull ringing along with it, a mild headache beginning to form. Knitting his brows slightly, he accepted the shot while his other hand nursed his temple, mild pain on his face. He returned Io’an’s toast with a simple expression.

The kind that signaled how bad an idea something was, but knew they were already stuck with it.

Knowing enough to not treat the shot like his drinks with Locke, Vance slammed the entire thing into his mouth in one fluid motion, trying desperately to swallow it before he could taste it. He failed by the hair of a second, hissing with disgust just after he swallowed, shaking his head.

”Tastes like compressor fluid and alley sludge.” Shuddering a bit, the hand on his temple pressed a bit harder as a warmth spread from his stomach outward. Bracing as it hit his head, he grumbled lightly.

His head didn’t feel any better, but he didn’t seem to care as much.

Handing the glass back to Bas, Vance waved a hand. ”Can we just switch to punching each other in the stomach instead?” A vile burp made Vance quickly turn to the side, spitting on the floor.

[hugo]

The buzz from dinner and the first succession of shots yet stalking his subtly fading sobriety from afar, yet to pounce.  So he felt great, slightly inebriated, the sort of drunk that swelled one's courage and sharpened his resolve.  So it was not entirely with sound judgement that Bas took Vance's remaining shots and downed them with the last few drags of the cigarette.  The easy victory over his weak-livered new friends, however, was far from the human's mind as he leaned against the bar, his light frame resting on a sticky barstool, Vance and Io'an on either side.  

Instead, his big brown eyes were working.  He surveyed the crowd, which had grown no less raucous in the half hour since they'd arrived, wondering how much he could make if he slipped back to his room and sold bumps on the dance floor.  

That ambition, it turned out, was premature, as soon after it crossed his fogging brain, the remaining shots, properly sifted through his stomach and into his blood, pounced on the defenseless human.  He had laughed at Vance and Io'an when they'd been similarly victimized by the trio's collective act of self-sabotage, but now it was Bas who stumbled, nearly falling off the stool as the world began to turn.  Looking over at his pointy eared friend, who had paled several shades from his pleasant pink, Bas recognized that neither of them looked so good.  Vance, perhaps as a karmatic blessing for his endurance of Bas' goadings, seemed to be the best situated of the three, though the expression on his bearded face was far from appreciative as he remembered the taste of the Nerf Bombs.  Yeah.  They were pretty nasty he guessed.  

"I nee-" he could hardly speak.  Belching silently into his hand, Bas put his head down at the bar.  "Air.  Let's go."

Bas slumped off the stool, far drunker than he'd intended to be.  He'd forgotten, and only now remembered, a particular review on the holo mentioning how inexperienced the liner's bartenders were, and just how often overmixing took place.  Welp.  

Reality was a blurry as he fought a path through the club out to the quasi-airy atrium outside.  He bumped hard into a short but solid looking Twi'lek, who slammed him threateningly with his shoulder, a sleight that nearly caught Bas off balance but that he was too drunk to be bothered by.  Eventually he found the railing, evidently outside, he thought, by the cooler temperature and comparatively few bodies moshing around him, not to mention that he could almost hear now, the ringing in his overwhelmed ears notwithstanding.

On the railing, Bas took a little nap, for how long, he did not know.  But someone was mad at him, he did know, when he woke up.  Apparently, shlumped over on the railing, the blissfully reposed Bas had lost control of his tortured stomach, and ungraciously entered the balance of its contents on a group of lounging Devaronians below.  It was shouting, from a tall, skinny male of that group, that woke him.  

He was only vaguely aware of what had occurred, seeing the deed's results directly below on the lower deck, but was only more vaguely concerned, until he noticed the yeller bolting purposefully to a spiral staircase a few dozen meters to the left.  "Ughhhhhhh" He groaned. 

 
"T
ime too-
g
oooo" The words came broken and slurred, but he was obviously amused by the idea, though he was serious.  It may hurt less to get your ass beat while you were blackout drunk, but it sure didn't make the next morning any easier.  And clumsily, he evidenced his intention to flee by staggering across the deck, as fast as could be managed, towards the turbo with the caught door.  He didn't wait to see if his new friends were behind him, tho the drunkest part of him hoped that at least Io'an, the flirty Sephi with the pretty face, was.  He was headed back to his suite, he thought.   

[Rugs]

Io’an was, at best, vaguely aware of Vance’s and Bas’ attempts at the shot trio. Vance, surely the hardiest of their little group, seemed immediately turned off by the shot’s foul taste. Bas, who’d invited this disaster upon them all, powered through one, then a second.

“You win,” Io’an managed to get out around his hand as he struggled to keep down the contents of his roiling stomach. Whatever confidence he’d been swimming in earlier had melted away in favor of one simple goal: don’t throw up on the suit. If winning meant enduring more of that... that filth, then Bas was welcome to it.

“Force, help me,” he breathed as he lifted his head. The nausea slowly retreated. Io’an felt no comfort in this — that it was gone now didn’t mean it wouldn’t or couldn’t come racing back later, at the worst possible moment.

Bas was staggering off into the crowd, muttering something about air. Io’an come to the conclusion that, whatever their intentions, neither of them was going to be in much shape for getting down once they made it back to their rooms. Perhaps that was for the better. Besides, there was a long cruise ahead of them.

Io’an looked forlornly at Vance, the realization of his mistake written plain across his face. “Vance,” he started, leaning closer to his friend than was perhaps polite, “if I ever decide to do that again, please, please...”

Io’an frowned what had he been about to say again? Oh, right. “Punch me in the face or something. Anything is better than that shit.”

The bartender hmphed loud enough for Io’an to hear over the constant noise as she dropped off three glasses of water, though Bas was nowhere to be seen. She’d apparently seen their struggle and taken pity.

Io’an snatched up his glass and downed the cool water before she could change her mind. “Hell of a start, don’t ya think?” he asked Vance with a weary grin. “Better’n bein’ stuck at the Eye all day helpin’ with construction, or on Circumtore. For a few days, anyway.”

He sat, momentarily wistful, then pushed himself off of the stool, slowly to be sure he still had his balance. If he listened to carefully to the Force, through the fog in his head and the pounding noise, he could make out Bas’ presence, shining above the others on the ship. After thanking whatever gods were listening that Bas was Force-sensitive, he headed out, certain that Vance would follow.

---

They caught up to Bas at the turbolift, after passing his handiwork splattered on the rail and over the edge of the balcony in the hallway. With them all heading back down from Deck 7 anyway and in various states of drunk or weary, the group seemed to easily enough reach the conclusion that it would be best to return to their rooms. Bas, particularly, seemed to be the worst off from their little misadventure, and by the time the rickety lift ground its way back to their deck, Io’an was offering him support to walk back along the hallways toward their room.

Thankful that Bas at least stayed across from himself and Vance, Io’an bid his friend goodnight once they reached their rooms and headed with Bas into the one across from his own.

Once inside, after ensuring that Bas was done emptying his stomach and getting him some lukewarm water from the refresher’s fiddly sink, Io’an was preparing to head back to his own room when Bas extended an invitation to stay. Io’an hesitated--he was in better shape than Bas but not yet sober — but relented, at least hanging his suit jacket up on a peg on the wall.

For a while, they made idle chatter until sleep claimed them both.

---

Io’an had no idea what time it was when he awoke. The room’s interior looked much the same as it had the night prior — dark, on the ship’s interior, without any portholes. Even if they’d had any, he suspected the same blue-white swirl of hyperspace would still greet them beyond.

At some point during the night he’d stirred to throw off his suit pants and now hopelessly-wrinkled shirt — it’d gotten pretty warm during the night — and as it was he lay with his head cradled next to Bas’ shoulder. He lay still, enjoying the company and the moment.

Then the hangover came roaring into his awareness.

He squinted at the throbbing in his skull and sat up, awkwardly pawing for his comm, laying on the small nightstand beside him. As he sat up on the side of the bed, he typed a message to Vance.

“My head feels like shit. Have I missed breakfast?”

A pause, as he set about looking for his clothes. After awkwardly dancing back into his pants — he was trying, very hard, not to turn the light back on, he sent another message to Vance.

“How’re you doin? Not dead after last night are ya?”

As he set his comm down, he heard a stirring on the bed behind him. Bas was waking as well, it seemed. “Morning. I think.” Io’an groaned at the throbbing in his head as he leaned down to look for his shirt. There it was, somehow kicked partway under the bed. “Feeling any better?”