those changeling hearts

[Toska]

Salvtore forgot where he found himself. Some speck of dust on the outer rim, inhabited by tongues both foreign and not; some hub of activity where the weary came to rest, where the rested sat to die. Recalling to oneself the weight of responsibility on the fringes of civilization came at a cost, and here credits rarely covered the sum. The eyes that settled on the bar, that fell in line behind the cantina's sliding durasteel doors sagged longingly. The illusion of respite, and one many indulged in gleefully.

A barbaric show—lights of neon doused in black holographic overlays, the skittering jump of a bassline that rattled the pulse and shook the ears of all but the most savvy species. The bar was ringed by chairs, chrome semi-circles lavished with faux plush and leather, gaudy a comely fashion. Monstrous as only the outer rim could accomplish. And it did so with its chest puffed out, pride bristling with the feathers of want swathing the cantina. Step after step, song after song, the establishment bustled.

Constant, the thrum hummed through Salvatore's veins. He felt it at his temples, his chest. He heard it through his nose, tasted it on his fingertips, and lost track of the colors passing him by. They came as imported figurines, porcelain dolls and ragged clothes cut from the cloth of eternity. The same faces as Coruscant, roughshod from the war. The same as Bastion, brimming with that cocksure arrogance so reminiscent of youth. The same as Nar Shaddaa, where few garnered the will to escape.

Separated by quantum infinity, yet they danced to the same tune. Puppets on marionette strings, and Salvtore? none the wiser. Bitterness choked him, counterbalanced the sting of whisky as he knocked back a tumbler. The taste of bile hung in his throat. Disturbed the queasy ambiance settling about his shoulders; he adopted a slump, a lazy slouch that fell into his wrinkled shirt. Off-white fabric, once pristine, crumbled around him. Flanked his collar, opened his flesh for all to see; but he dared them to look, beckoned their gazes.

For any bold enough to stare earned his respect. His smile said as much. That candid show of machismo, that slurried blush of dominion. Here was a man all too eager to die. Deep in his cups, weight shifting erratically (his center of balance was disturbed by the very air around him), he wore the cloak of a king. Intentionally. Intentionally in such a way that he bleared into the background. Slipped from the notice of passersby too consumed in their own avarice. Indeed, another clown on a street of jesters.

His very presence admonished him. And in those mocking spans, he grabbed another drink. Some blue-green concoction that glowed beneath the blacklight. Simmering with temptation, a coil of smoke trailing from the lip of its glass. He swirled it. Dashed it about his tongue with a soured touch. Swiveled in his chair.

There. A girl behind him, just adjacent. Passing by as all the rest, but acute even in her own oblivion. He followed the scent.

"Before the Force came the gods, before them came faith; but before faith, what impeded the progress of man?" His voice released a crooning hum. Matched the tempo of the music drowning his breath.

He asked of this woman the world, eyes sharp to the ways of frivolity. And in return, he wanted for naught. Nothing, not even the draught held daintly so against his wrist.



@Mocha

 

[Mocha]

Pounding, pulsing, vibrating, deafening, the Cantina was a sight to behold — and truly, what most would expect from a getaway on what she considered a backwater planet with little redeeming qualities on its dusty surface to behold; those within looking to lose themselves or find themselves through means that Ellié didn't want to ponder over. Without notice, the song shifted and neon lights splayed over her face, momentarily blinding her. In her blindness, a body moved behind her, grinding up on her back, causing bile to rise in her throat and dismay to overtake her facial features. In the blackness that seemed to come from nowhere, a pause within the Cantinas light show, Ellié turned around quickly, pushing a half-dressed man in leather off of her. Vulgar words followed suit as he toppled over into a couple behind him, the air within the space seemed to come alive with the threat of violence — which she wanted nothing to do with. She had, after all, only been a victim, simply protecting herself from someone trying to sexually assault her backside.

Working her way through the thickening crowd trying to get a good view of the arguing men, all itching to watch the display that she had caused, Ellié could only shake her head at their barbarism. And, after a few minutes of jostling and pushing, she was able to finally catch her breath. Apparently, she could add cramped and claustrophobic settings to her growing list of dislikes.

With another intake of breath, a puff of smoke entered into her lungs, causing a cough to ripple through her. That was where she mentally drew the line, never, ever, would she meet with another friend, who apparently wanted to speak with her, in such an abysmal setting such as this, if he even showed, that is. She'd been waiting for over an hour now and was tempted to simply leave. Already her clothing, which had been nicely pressed upon entering, was starting to wrinkle where people had brushed, and rubbed, against her. Thankfully, she hadn't put any makeup on, or it would no doubt be running down her face by now with how hot and tightly packed it was.

As Ellié walked, a breath left her. No longer in the confine of the crowd, she allowed her mind to wander. And then, a voice came from behind her, "Before the Force came the gods, before them came faith; but before faith, what impeded the progress of man?" which caused her to pause mid-step and turn to face the voice.

A man with a wrinkled shirt, collar opened for all to see, who was no doubt handsome, having caught the eyes of a few onlookers around them, was sitting, his posture and presence showing that of a King observing his Court from afar. From what she could see, he was simply another drunkard. Yet still, his words caused Ellié to pause, taking a moment to think about his surprising poetic words.

After a moment, she couldn't help but reply, her lips twitching at the edges, having to mentally war with herself to not smile, "I know little about the Force, and less so when it comes to Gods. But faith, I know faith. I hold faith that one day — though I will more than likely be long dead by then — that this wretched galaxy might find peace from war. As for man's hindrances, I would account that to ignorance and fighting. Only an ignorant man would wage wars over something as trivial as power and dominance, just take the galaxies current situation. It's stagnating in the face of war like it has for so long now — but truly, what do I know? I'm simply some inconsequential girl in this Outer Rim slum hole, waiting for a friend that's most likely stood me up." A bitter laugh came from her lips at this.

Though, after her words, she couldn't help but feel foolish, this man probably cared nothing for her words, and even less about her. What he had asked was something he probably asked all the passer-bys. Still, her feet hurt, the four-inch heel causing cramps that would no doubt hinder any attempts she made if assaulted or attacked, and, surprisingly, she found herself asking the man, "Would you be alright with me taking a seat for a moment? To simply rest for a minute, and then I'll be on my way." If he denied her the request, that would be fine, she'd simply be on her way. But it never hurt to ask.

 

[Toska]

Between them, the span of seconds passed. Slurred in the kiss of breath, of dialogue passing from lips to air, from air to ear. The words took shape, an oily, coalescing thing that slipped from cognizance and into perception; Salvatore heard her. He heard her voice treble from the echoes of the bass, weaving between the lines of music that saturated his cognition. Those words (the Force, ignorance, the galaxy et al.) resonated with his approval, and he wore it openly on his sleeve.

"The bar is open; it's hardly my place to say where you can't sit." An outward glance, arms wide, he welcomed her to his humble abode. The seat to his left was vacated, and he offered it to her with a certain, slow immediacy.

He surveyed her. From the planes of her face to the errant topography of bespoke confusion; each wrinkle of flesh, each bat of an eyelash that contemplated him. Measure was ceaseless. And for a time, he played the part of judge. Acted as any might act on the brow of serendipity. Gentle, reprising, and firm as he deigned it fit to nod.

Leaning, elbows braced against the countertop, he offered, "Expectation is the bitterest fear of ignorance." He brushed the notion aside as one swept away the sweat of the sun. Inconsequential. Only wayward thoughts treaded the waters of their minds, limiting time as he pushed further recourse: conversation, his wrist suggested, to fill the emptiness. And to the bartender, he demanded a drink in that same motion. A reward for companionship.

"War weakens the many but strengthens the few. Those who succeed rather than win, those who test themselves against it's mettle... but what about the rest? The survivors, the refugees. Where do they go when the fighting's done? When their homes are torched and their worlds blackened, scalded by theevil in men's hearts?"

A pause.

"Where did you go, and where are you going?"

 

[Mocha]

With the welcoming approval into his small dominion at the bar and gesture towards the free chair to his left, she promptly moves to it before anyone else could swoop in and acquire it, offering up a modest, "Thank you," as she sits beside him.

Quietly listening as he speaks, she tries to find an ample enough position within the chair and remains silent, not wanting to interrupt him. Finally getting comfortable enough, she crosses her legs, the black zip-cuff leggings she's wearing helping to provide adequate comfort within the plush, leather, chair, as she leans her side on the bar, supported by her left hip and forearm. A small, ever nagging, portion within her brain questioning just how 'clean', both the chairs and countertop were, but she quickly pushed those thoughts aside and continued listening as the man beside her.

His words, which are remarkably indistinguishable to her own line of thought when it comes to war and destruction, can't help but conjure up sharp, lingering thoughts of her parents, their faces shimmering at the edge of her mind. Their loss was something she'd yet come to accept, even after five years, the bitterness of their deaths still left an ashen taste in her mouth, and unable to help self, she couldn't help but think that if they could see her now, in such a place, they'd no doubt fall over in shame. These thoughts cause her body to tense up, and she swiftly relaxed back into the chair, allowing a smile to form on her lips.

As he finishes speaking, surprising, she agrees with every word he's said, finding no fault within his eloquently spoken words and mannerism. When he asks another question of her, she's unable but to answer in earnest.

"I was born within the Colonies, though I've been gone for quite some time, too busy willing and dealing in places like this, I suppose. The Outer Rim is an easy place to lose yourself within. As for where I'm going, who knows? Our galaxy is a large place that holds abundant opportunities for those that simply reach for them, leading to impossible possibilities." Her voice remains steady as she speaks, and she can't help pondering how easily she finds it when speaking with the man.Pausing for a moment, she then carefully extends her hand, offering up a handshake and adequate introduction between the two, "Ellié. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Having introduced herself, she can't help but revisit his earlier question, hand still outstretched, "And what of yourself? Where have you gone, and where do you see yourself going?" At this, she offers another smile, genuinely wondering how he might reply.

 

[Toska]

Glass shifted on his palm, rose gently to his lips; he sipped of it, that wash of blue and green, tainting his teeth under the blacklight. It affixed a glow about him, a ghostly pale around flesh, shirt effervescing with each rippling motion. As an ocean, he moved. Assured, the haze of liquor abetting his breath.

Eyes on her hand, attention rapt to the words tumbling from her mouth, he said, "Salvatore. The pleasure's mine," in a mumble, nigh imperceptible over the beat. It left him by rote, an automatic response that clipped past his tongue even as he seized her hand. As he held it in contemplation, pursed with hesitance. He dropped it, settled back against the bar, his arms a mess of drumming fingers and hair as his head fell between.

From his slump: "I've been to Coruscant recently, Dantooine, Nal Hutta, Hapes..." He listed them off absently. "It's easy to lose track. The galaxy's a vast place, and I've had hardly a roost for my feet since the war began."

And he barked a laugh. Almost a cough as he propped himself up.

"Where do any of us see ourselves going? Wealthy, successful, happy. Some manner in between. No, I see myself in every individual heartbeat. Later comes as it will. But the now, it leaves even as we live it. I can't see myself living any other way... unless you'd prefer I drown in my own thoughts. The liquor's done that nicely so far."

 

[Mocha]

With their introductions over with, she gave a small wave of her hand towards the bartender, briskly asking for a glass of water, and upon arrival, the water within creates a shimmering display of iridescent colors thanks to the neon lights pulsating throughout the bar, and a simple cup of coffee, black, with no sweeteners. Not the grandest or most extravagant choice of beverages, but both were well within her comfort zone. Looking from hers to Salvatore's drinks, a stark contrast between the two, with his blue and green alcoholic beverage, she couldn't help but give a twitched smile of personal amusement.

Taking a moment to think about his answer, she says in a hushed reply, voice somber, "All three of those things; wealth, success, even happiness, seems to be the epitome that those within the position reach towards. And then there are those that simply try to survive in the here and now, heartbeat to heartbeat, as you said. That's how I always saw my time on Cloud City for these past five years, before finally departing. How I still see myself at times, as well. Fleeting and irrelevant." Then, giving an amused chuckle, and a wave of her hand, she couldn't help but retort, "No need to drown yourself in unwanted thoughts simply because of me. Enjoy your drink and night, everyone else is."

And, after saying this, she allows her mind to mill over his earlier words for a few seconds, unable to help but to offer up a question, "Coruscant, Nal Hutta. I've been to each of them more than once, but not Dantooine or Hapes." At this, she takes a moment to lean forward, taking a drink of her water, and then continues, a genuine look of wonder on her face, blue eyes shining, "What were they like, if you don't mind me asking? I apologize if I'm being too intrusive, but each seems like a rather extraordinary place to see and visit."

 

[Toska]

That daughter of stardust aroused his amusement. He relayed it in his laughter. Pure, innocent, stark against the unkempt tuck of his shirt. For all the bitterness, the want that wanted for release, he lost himself in such simplicities. It was elegant. Easy. A display of passion demurred by the tangential nature of their meeting.

This cantina, flanked by speeders and whorls of emissions that tinged the very air a translucent blue, sung with reminiscence. That of peace, a quaint sensation brushing across the skin. Where the only worries held themselves close to chest, and none dared wear them on their sleeves. Lust of the flesh, for the moment, it struck each of them. Coiled around their hearts with little, punchdrunk whispers. And the hours passed thus, ceaseless and repetitive, but a comforting sort. Reassuring.

Salvatore said as much, absent in his thoughts. Heedless of the shape of tongues slipping from his mouth; basic? The language felt foreign, thick. Stuck to his vocal chords as a smile crept on up.

"The homeworld of my people," came the collective of his voice, "is beautiful. The sunrise, the warmth, the towering vessicles of chrome that pepper the planet's surface. Another metropolis, tinged in the most elaborate of dyes. Embellished by eons of..."

He struggled for the word. Fumbled with it around the tall of his glass.

"... isolation? It was beautiful, yes, the way stained glass might be. Artificial, manufactured, created by the hands of mortals solely to be appreciated... just as my very species was manufactured thus. Isn't it strange? Surreal, even, that a people might be built in such a manner. But we were. Maybe we all were; it's merely more apparent in some."

 

[Mocha]

Churning his words over, she reaches for the coffee, swiftly downing a large portion of it. It's still warm, yet quickly turning cold, a show of how immersed in the conversation she's become. Unable to help herself, she tries to bring images of what Hapes might look like, pulling and pushing her artistic side into the forefront of her consciousness, the side that loves photography and beautiful landscapes, taking each of his descriptions to heart: beauty, sunshine, warmth, isolation, and artificiality. She tries to pull each of Salvatore's words into a coherent painting, breathe life into the imaginary world her minds quickly forming. His Homeworld, just thinking of it, creates a yearning within her gut to see it firsthand, though she highly doubts she'll be able to, not anytime soon, at least, or possibly ever. And any picture already formed of the exquisite world is quickly swept away with reluctance, finding her imagination simply too inadequate for her liking in mentally recreating it.

Unable to help herself, words form on her lips, and she finds herself speaking in earnest, "It's hard to imagine such a world, locked away from everyone else. The grandeur and beauty of it all sounds simply breathtaking. I know you speak of the artificial and manufactured way it was formed, but still, do you miss it? I know I miss my home on Commenor, deeply. The longing to set foot on it once more, at least for only a little while, seems overwhelming at times."

Reaching for the water this time, she carefully sips from it, finding her throat dry from talking. In coming to the Cantina, she'd never expected to find someone like her current companion. Which, in all honesty, was a pleasant surprise, at least to her.

 

[Toska]

In the moments between a heartbeat and a breath, Salvatore's brow furrowed. He listened, propped over elbows and leaning to tilt his gaze up to hers; he listened, drawing his eyes in focus to ensnare the silhouette before him. The figure of a woman, little more than shadows crossing the precipice of perception, peppered in blues and blacklit gauze that strained him to catch.

It was mystifying, truly, how this blinding sensation could comfort him. How being enmeshed in darkness with only the occasional flit of sight called to him so; he could not escape from it. Every night, when the sun fell low beneath the horizon, his pulse quickened. Every night, when vision failed him and the longing kiss of want nestled over his sclera, exhilaration threatened to overcome him. The vibration of bass against his eardrums, the scent of colors amalgating in the air, of alcohol and the nonchalant tinge of vomit and chamomile which haunted the roosts of his nostrils—it accented the affect dripping from his shoulders.

For from the very bosom of uncertainty, he fashioned himself after regalia. Wore it, his shroud against the darkness. As if to beat back the fear beating his breast.

The urge suited him, and the lurch of focus tore him back; "Fascinating," he said, the intonation rolling with a knuckle along his lips. He blinked. Cleared the temporal focuses from his eyes, sifted through the amorphous mass of perception overwriting his senses.

At its crux, he laid himself about the counter, glass raised in a limp wrist. The aroma of half-burned beans wafted to him. The taste of hair product. The helpless fiat of attention fixated upon him...

"I've never missed it. Not once. Rather, I've longed to behold the galaxy as a whole. Every sight, each individual world all blended together. I've longed to see it without the lens of time, without the trappings of civilization. I... must not be making sense." Chiding, he laughed at himself. Shook his head.

"Why do you miss it? What was there that makes you long to set foot on its surface? The more I travel, the more I feel that every city is the same. That even the people are cut from a single mold, regardless of their idiosyncrasies."

 

[Mocha]

Thinking about his words for a moment, another neon light flashed across her face, momentarily blinding her in its dazzling display of colors like before. If it wasn't for her current companionship, she'd have long vacated the confines of the Cantina in hopes of a more subdued atmosphere and vicinity. Just thinking about all the people around them, her nerves were set on edge. Groups of drunken people normally equated into trouble, at least in her few experiences within confined and enclosed spaces and drunkards.

The beat of the music sent vibrations throughout her, trying to lure her mind and body into a false sense of comfort and relaxation with its melodic tone. And, for a moment within the darkness, she allows emotions of melancholy to display across her face. The unhappiness more so coming from being stood up by her friend, rather than thoughts of her parents. Maybe such thoughts originated from her discomfort within the bar more than anything else, or from being abandoned, or even from her quickly frying nerves. Honestly, it could be any of them.

Lifting her glass of water once more, she takes a deep drink from it, schooling her voice into one of calmness and confidence, "I think I miss the memories more than anything else, in all actuality. Commenor is, and always will be, the most peaceful times I've had within the Galaxy. I suppose longing for what once was, above anything else, is a rather benighted way of thinking." Chuckling at this, she sets the glass back down, looking at Salvatore once more in his laid out and relaxed positioning atop the counter on the bar.

Rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand, sudden fatigue washing over her, she's unable to help in asking, knowing her offer will most likely be discarded in favor of good drinks within the Cantina, "Would you care for a meal? I'm sure there's a nice outing with a more suitable assortment of foods around here somewhere, though I understand if you'd rather stay here." A flash of light shines behind her this time, showing off Salvatore's back and hair before the light is quickly enveloped back into darkness. And, as if reading her mind, her stomach gives off a silent rumble, causing a soft, unadulterated, laugh to escape from her lips.

 

[Toska]

Neosynth; that was the classification of music. The way it ebbed between jarring staccatos and melodic, soothing pianissimos... the way it flowed, liquid from crest to wave, its rhythm effervescing from the softest of touches before pulsating out, reverberating against cochlea with a hypnotic trill and haunting lulls. An amalgam of genres, a blend suited to these backwater tastes.

For those who sought it eager embrace, it sounded sonorous indeed. Those fickle hearts which skittered about, little chrysalises emerging from a rote of silence. They longed for the simplicity, the loss of thought heralded by the beat. They longed to forget what they spent their days struggling to recall. What their passions sputtered in the deepest hours of the night.

They longed for something intangible, distinct on the foreground of this duracrete world.

Among them, Salvatore could only remember. Could only abate himself in the pretense of conversation as a tradecellion of thoughts swarmed the recesses of his brain. They tumbled, like drunken bees, swollen from the pollen of inebriation, intoxicated by the heady lust of anonymity. A smile crept upon him.

"I'd be... remiss to pass up the opportunity," he said, head rolling from its perch to look at her. He left his credits on the counter. Brushed his way from his seat, offered her his hand.

"Walk or speeder?" A glance to her heels berated the question. "This district is hardly known for it gourmands."

 

[Mocha]

The cadence of the vocalist, who sung in a langue she wasn't accustomed to, and the crescendoing of the pulsating vibrations of the music that rippled throughout the Cantina impaired her senses for a second, and after only a moment, she raised a brow, looking to the outstretched hand before her. She couldn't help the astonishment that flashed through her; the feeling mostly stemming from the preconceived notion that her suggestion that they go and acquire food in a more peaceful and calming surrounding, would no doubt be denied in favor of drinking within the Cantina. Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, she quickly takes the extended hand, allowing Salvtore to help her to her feet.

Once firmly balanced on the dagger-tipped stilettos, she releases their interlocked hands, allowing her hand to slip from his. It was comforting knowing that chivalry wasn't dead, at least while inside a Cantina, that is. And, amidst this thought, she offers a smile and a hushed, "Thank you," all the while taking a moment to rotate her shoulder blades and loosen her overly tensed body. Once seemingly decompressed, she reaches into one of the slim pockets of her leggings and tosses a handful of credits onto the bar, knowing that the amount given will be more than enough to pay for her coffee and water.

Turning her body, she glances back to him, her long hair framing her face, "Some walking would be nice, I think. Don't allow these heels to deceive you. And I'm sure that there's at least one reputable dining establishment within walking distance from here. Maybe a cozy Diner, hmm?" Chuckling, she begins gliding her way through the crowd of partygoers, making sure not to touch or brush against them.

With another glance back towards Salvtore, she can't help but notice how the two of them are nearly the same height, with her holding maybe an inch or two over him.

"So," she shouts over her shoulder, looking back just quick enough to see that he's still within speaking distance, her voice barely audible over the heavy base thundering around them, much different than the formally smooth and melodic tones, "do you happen to have a favorite type of food you like? I'm sure that can help us in narrow down any options we might be able to find once we're outside."

 

[Toska]

To the entrance, they swept, that dissonant choir of heels and pattering toes; the quiet perceptible only by moot vibrations that staggered the breath, that clipped words from their form. An ebb and flow of vocalizations warring with the music. It was constant, dominating the pretense of sensory deprivation within the establishment.

The very ambiance promised reprieve. From the beshadowed fixtures to glaring blacklights, from the presence of music that clashed with thought and sought to quash all in its path. The noise, the darkness, the lingering doubts of identity bore a gravity which made itself clangorous. Within depths where eyes could not see and ears could not hear, where a touch was too quiet to notice against the bristling thrum of a beat reverberating against ribcages and pounding in skulls...

It held a distinct irreverence for self.

Salvatore graced himself with a smile. Some crooked thing that twisted his lips. Sloppy from the show of teeth to the tilt of his chin to meet her gaze; he refused to speak without catching her eye, without holding her attention. And he made it known in the subtleties.

His reply came at the threshold, as the doors slid shut behind them, drowning the cantina's fervor in favor of a washed pallor. The cherry-red kiss of thought.

"Nothing so glamorous," he said, "to be called superlative. Besides, you're lucky to find anything worth shoving down your throat here." His smile slipping, he admitted, "Hunting for diamonds in the rough has never been a strength of mine. Is it yours?"

 

[Mocha]

Now that they were both outside the disorientating Cantina, she couldn't help but take a deep breath; enjoying the somewhat fresh air around them, the musky smell of sweaty bodies left behind within the closed doors of the Cantina. Turning her body once in a slow circle, as to look at their surroundings, she pauses once she's facing Salvatore, looking him in the eyes, having understood the that when speaking, he wanted the utmost attention between the two of them, "I'm sure if we put out minds to it we can find a nice place to eat somewhere around here, hopefully." Then, offering up a shrug of her shoulders, she can't help but give a delicate laugh and jokingly retort, "I can't say I've even hunted for jewels, but you know what they say: They are, after all, a girl's best friend. So, maybe if we're lucky, a place to eat will find us, and not the other way around."

Another amused laugh escapes her lips as she looks to the left, then right. Shrugging, she takes the path leading to the left; seeing as it has more windows spilling out lights, some with flashing advertisements in Galactic Basic, offering promises of an assortment of things from simple goodies to exotic clothing and toys, and even a medium sized store selling "freshly" butchered meat. That one she was unsure of, but she kept her mouth shut nevertheless.

As they walked, and a few minutes of searching waned by, Ellié couldn't help but look over to Salvatore, offering up a dampened smile, "Maybe you were right. We don't seem to be having much luck, huh?"

Eyes roaming around them once more, the flashing lights of a somewhat dingy-looking building in the distance catches her eyes, and her brows raised in surprise as she reads the sign aloud, "Late Night Dine Right: Roxy's Rockin' Diner." Unable to help herself, she giggles, turning her head towards Salvatore as to catch his eye, "What do you think? Want to give it a chance?"

 

[Toska]

Tinted plastiglass windows embellished the exterior; Roxy's Rocking Diner's facade came as a blur of colors, a wash of steel plates dashed together haphazardly. To call it retro, striking the appearance of a dismantled old freighter, was too kind. The decorations, such as they were, laid about the entrance in gaudy whorls. Piecemeal, patched together from different materials, the welding visible at the seams.

Salvatore appraised it from the arch of a brow. Quaint. From behind the windows, only the serving staff loitered. Their customers flitted out past the hour, leaving them desolate. Forgotten. Even the establishment's name was too contrived to remember. Looking away from the sign promised to sink it back into the recesses of memory. But the experience...

It conjured images of dust ridden tables and stained seats. Fixtures wrought from all walks, food heated over repurposed mag-lifts. The ins and outs of propriety, a mockery to the industry itself.

But his judgment lingered only on the curl of his lip.

"It seems, ah, quiet," he said at last, a nod obfuscating the cringe that overcame his topography. Heralding the way, he entered, tossing a, "Too late to turn back," over his shoulder.

"I've never had the distinct pleasure of entertaining a venue such as this. Have you?"

 

[Mocha]

Following after Salvatore into the Diner, she gave a mere shake of her head, "Nothing exactly like this, no, but I've been to a place with a somewhat similar exterior." Then, once inside, she allowed her eyes to roam around its surprisingly clean and crisp, and well-lit interior; mentally assessing it.

Simplistic in design, she couldn't help but find the dismantled freighter-turned-diner to be rather picturesque, reminding her of a congenial cabaret she'd visited after just arriving on Cloud City. The cabaret had been family owned since the construction of the outpost above Bespin, designed from the families former luxury yacht that they'd arrived at the outpost on, and continued to do remarkably well even after decades of business. Roxy's Rockin' Diner, on the other hand, was somewhat lacking in the clientele department at the moment; whether it be from lack of interest, or simply because everyone was off getting intoxicated. Still, she couldn't help but appreciate the carefully, if sporadically, decorated interior within; pictures and knickknacks scatted about, that, at least to her, gave off an endearing aura of normality and simplicity. What others might see as a disjointed, convoluted, mess, her artistic perspective couldn't help but soar at the individuality scattered about, explaining a complicated story that only the owner could accurately comprehend.

With the two of them standing in the doorway's entrance, an elderly, hunched-over, white-haired human woman shuffled and huffed her way towards them, an energetic look illustrated across her finely-lined face, even if her aged body had long since become a hindrance to her mobility, "Please, follow after me, and I'll have you both seated," she commanded to each of them and, at that, the elderly woman turned around more nimbly than Ellié thought possible, her nametag flashing "Roxy", to Salvatore and Ellié.

Watching as the woman shuffled away, she gave Salvatore's shoulder a good-natured bump, eyeing him, "Let's not keep her waiting, huh?" A gleaming smile splayed across her face, and with that, she followed after Roxy, or who she assumed was Roxy, towards their table, wondering what her companion thought of the crippled-looking woman.

 

[Toska]

Some time remained before the old woman's return; the pair took their seat at a high-topped table, lavish faux flush cushions adorned the chairs, and a ruddy, polished chrome dirtied the facade. It suited the place. For all the bustle and pomp the planet boasted (its denizens were wont to affix themselves with fantasies, as little else existed this deep in the web of space), Roxy's provided some small haven. Comfort from the extravagance, the stress of life and all it entailed.

By no measure did it strike Salvatore as a haunt befitting of him, but he suffered it nonetheless. Suffered with a smile, the corners of his lips perpetually lopsided in a haze as he splayed himself against the table. Again, he stole his perch about the crook of his elbow, leaning forward to catch the woman's eye.

"Tell me something," he said, the words rolling slow and purposeful off a tongue that refused to slur. He measured himself, the weight of what he wished to say, and satisfied, nodded before continuing.

Truly, the silence was deafening here. It allowed him to hear each of his thoughts. To turn them about his skull, to pound them against brain matter and dash their hopes against an amygdala swollen by a liquored touch. It lent itself towards comfort. The rattling kind that jittered restlessly, never content to sit, to wait for the dawn to crack over the horizon and abet his worries...

"Tonight, we are ephemeral. Blips, bits of stardust effervescing on the eave of oblivion"—that was good, his voice strayed dangerously close to cracking—"who will fade nonetheless quickly from each other's thoughts. How does it feel to know that tomorrow your existence will be overwritten by a hangover? That mine will fizzle into the nether, as if it never happened."

As if for all the importance of a moment, it lacked in permanence.

"It's surreal, sometimes."