The Gypsy and the Devil

[vamp]

THE GYPSY AND THE DEVIL
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Underground Sith nightclub, Coruscant, K/L 9.5

Since the Sith conquered Coruscant, celebrations have been running rampart in its underground Sith clubs. No longer forced to operate in secret, the parties have gotten louder, and more extravagant, much to the chagrin of those who suffered during the Battle of Coruscant, when their planet was torn from their grip.

Calmax Zokar had chosen to unwind from the constant errands he ran around the galaxy, and decided to attend one of the parties. They were all open to the public, if you could find them. Visitors normally had to wander through dimly-lit unused subway tunnels before they emerged into the massive caverns where various buildings have been propped up, all competing clubs or restaurants.

Since he didn't enjoy the tasteless entertainment brought about by cantinas that had slaves dance in front of you, he rarely went to parties, but heard of the crazy festivals on Coruscant, and decided he just had to show up.

And here he stood, still armed and wearing armor (just in case), facing what looked like the musical congregation of the club of evil. Most Sith were on the dancefloor, although some were around the edge. He spotted two Sith having a duel with lightsabers, and some having a drinking contest.

He, however, had chosen to stray from the group, instead sitting by the entrance until he could get his hands on some spice. He scanned the crowd, but found no interesting characters to speak to, until a woman walked in.

@Toska

 

[Toska]

Wicked spires lost their lust beneath towering skyscapes and a synthetic chrome dome that projected light unto the city; Coruscant's lower levels glistered with holographic flares and artificial sunsets. All muted reds and cool blues that failed to mask the perpetual dusk seeping into the air. Regurgitated breezes carried the stench of production. Sanitized, sterile, and an underlaying lattice of hydrolysis stained with residual carbon. Fibrous air, it clung to the nostrils, saturated breath with sharp overture.

And it crawled under Alcyone's skin. The woman wandered beneath notice. Crept along the streets in roves and bands, straying from crowd to gathering and back again with little causality; awareness was furthest from her mind. Social vibrato beat in her chest. Smiled with her at lacquered lengths. She slipped as a faceless someone, coughed to the bitter kiss of manufacturing, and tittered about the depths of a people conquered.

War left scars on the city's surface. Tore into buildings, raised flags that staggered and declared themselves sovereign in such a way that no one dared contest them. But the uniformed masses truly gave up the ghost. Rank and file, pristine armored troops and freshly ironed cadets, a coat of arms strapped to their breasts and a hop of pride welling in their steps.

Alcyone relished in it. All of it, from the whispered wants and careless cries and drunken hoots that followed every pace. Block to block, deep below the horizon where the only indication of time came through manmade fixtures. The atmosphere promised hostility, frivolity, and it suited her well. She wore the trappings of ambiance about her shoulders, silks and linens that clashed against her skin. Mahogany blouse frilled at the collar, dipping low to cleavage soaked in turquoise blends. An offwhite skirt, faded and pale that caught each fleck of dust and debris, made it her own.

She commanded attention and wariness in equal measure. Eyes followed her, lips curled in mockery and disgust, apprehension, the occasional appreciation. And it lifted her brow to the highest of arches. A steeple that twinkled from the pits of her gaze. She smiled at them in turn. Empty, hollowed, and flitted by in blissful ignorance.

Over the course of the evening, she drifted towards sound. Followed the clatter of bass against plastasteel glass. Made her way to the club. Her symposium.

They were looking at her amidst silence. Amidst the wash of synthetic beats and strobing lights: a silence that denied conversation, demanded by mood, by attentiveness. Speech promised nothing if not a break from this dream of gauzy whims and gossamer desires. To lift the paint from this once linear canvas. That was intolerable. So they refused to speak, savoring instead the comfortable lies of inebriation.

And Alcyone, she joined, a mad dash of words cluttered on her tongue left in shambles. She made herself a puzzle, scripted the crooning of probability as she selected the first figure to cross her vision. Lines of smile sculpted her topography, and she approached the man.

"Hey," she said, "you look important. Buy me a drink?"

 

[vamp]

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The boldness of the woman amused him. If he was any other Sith, her night would have likely been cut short, as would her life, perhaps. Yet, as though on purpose, she had chosen him, the one Sith on probably the entire planet who wouldn't kill her. Go figure.

He smirked subtly as she approached. Although Calmax couldn't see her, he knew exactly what she looked like. Her flowing robes made themselves known as they swished after her. Trinkets clinked after her arm.

Calmax chuckled as she requested a drink. "Brave aren't you?" he asked, the ghost of a smile still on his face. He signaled a bartender over, and dropped a few credits in his hand. "Nothing for me, but get the lady a glass of whatever she wants."

People brushed past them every once in a while. "To answer your statement, I wouldn't say I'm particularly important. It's probably for the best anyway, since no high-ranking official here lasts too long. You may have heard what happened to our last Dark Lord," he said passively. He was referring to the previous guy—his name had been Kyuss, if memory served—who had been blown up on his first outing as Emperor. It had been disappointing, if anything.