Star Wars: Undisclosed Desires (1x1, PatricianHavelock)

[teumessian fox]

Taungsdays were always slow — miserably so, in Echo’s opinion. That the denizens of Coruscant might have better things to do than drink and gamble their lives away at the Outlander Club had come as something of a surprise, though on a practical level it made sense; one had to earn credits to have credits to spend, and it was only the truly destitute (or obnoxiously well-off) who had the leeway to spend their early mornings throwing chits into slot machines with reckless abandon. The lack of orders coming to the bar hinted at some sense of propriety among the assembled gamblers: drinking before noon? How excessive. How unnecessary. How gauche.​

​

But a quiet morning left her with precious little to occupy her time, and Echo found herself succumbing to boredom behind the bar, hands idly working the same rag over the same clean, polished glass in an effort to keep occupied. Cerd was a decent boss, all things considered, but the Bothan had little interest in paying his employees to do nothing, and Echo was all too aware that he would delight in figuring out some obscure, physically intensive chore for her to accomplish in her idleness. She was bored, sure — but when it came to menial labor, it was difficult to deny that she possessed some small, inborn sense of laziness, too.​

​

It was strange to see the Club so quiet, regardless of the hour. In the evenings, the building came alight with a thrumming neon glow, with patrons packed from one wall to the next. Hearing the person next to you was an impossible task over the music, the sounds of the holo-screens, and the raised voices of one’s peers; half the time she found herself simply guessing at orders, too busy to read their lips or ask for clarity. Maybe it was luck, or some working of the Force that she was rarely wrong — as long as they tipped her and the Bothan didn’t find out and fire her, Echo wasn’t exactly liable to care.​

​

Among the various employees — bookies, dancers, musicians, and bartenders alike — Echo had found some level of anonymity. Nothing was on the books, no chance of a trail; no one cared where she came from or where she hoped to go. Her past as a Jedi didn’t matter. Her real name, what brought her to Coruscant, why she was laying low, no one cared about any of it. There was nothing more comforting than being forgotten, especially considering the kind of trouble her (and her lightsaber) seemed to bring.​

​

With a resigned sigh, Echo placed the glass on the counter. From beneath the bar she produced a bottle of amber liquid to fill it halfway, before topping it off with something that smelled impossibly sweet, turning the concoction a deep violet where the two spirits mixed. Swirling the glass, she brought it to her lips and took a sip, content to whittle away the last hour of her shift on her datapad.​

 

[PatricianHavelock]

Approaching the bar was one of the shiftless types there content to throw away their credits at one of the digital pazaak boards, even if it was early and the wrong day. Unremarkable in every other way, and wearing a rebreather, their deciding they needed a drink to go with their destitution was certainly an unwelcome surprise. Half stumbling into the stool only a few down from where Echo had stationed herself at the bar, the unrecognizable alien waved her over with the kind of overwrought gesticulation that conveyed he was plenty drunk to begin with.

“I’ll have . . . whatever you’re having there . . .” Came the digitized slur from behind his re-breather, as he failed to make eye-contact.

There was a grim-dappled duster over his shoulders and down past the edge of the stool, and an unremarkable keffiyeh wrapped up from his neck and over his head. Fortunately, he didn’t stink, even if he did give the appearance of being stinking drunk.

If only the appearance. Sharp eyes pierced the gloom as soon as Echo seemed to be going about her work, and his fingers flexed beneath the bar in anticipation. The ripple through the Force of sudden, undeniably malicious intent, impossible to ignore, was like a static shock while she was busying herself, and worst of all . . . it was familiar.

A tremor in the Force; The last time she had felt it was in the presence of . . .

Flashing a brief smile was Vanduen Tross, hardly the man anyone wanted to see when they hadn’t specifically sought him out . . . or were trying to collect one of the bounties on his head.

 

[teumessian fox]

The worst part of her job was always the customers. People needing something - from her, specifically - was a difficult space to navigate, though less so when it was a simple credits-for-goods transaction. Still, Echo couldn’t help but begrudge every person who had the audacity to ask her for a drink, even if they were a distraction from the very idleness she had grown to resent. The truth, of course, was she was a bad fit for customer service; but if she couldn’t hack it at a cantina, or as a pilot, or as anything else she’d tried her hand at, what in the galaxy was she good for, anyway?​

​

Biting back the urge to tell the stranger her concoction wasn’t on the menu, she instead forced a half-smile and turned to do as he requested, setting down her datapad and pouring together the ingredients with less enthusiasm than before.​

​

There was no preparing for the sudden invasion of her senses, or the rush of memory that came with the realization that there was only one person who would dare be so subtly reckless to reveal himself, uninvited, through the Force. Part of her wanted to lob the glass at his head and smash it on his rebreather, as if it would somehow change everything that had transpired between them. He’d appeared out of the ether, embroiled her in his schemes, and vanished without a trace; was she supposed to be happy to see him?​

​

No - she was hurt. Echo had grown to like him, insufferable as he was, and to lose a friend - her only friend, it seemed - was a slight she hadn’t counted on. She enjoyed her solitude, but being thrust back into that familiar loneliness against her will had been too much to bear.​

​

It was only an extraordinary feat of self-control that allowed her to turn around, replay the same fake service industry smile, and place the colorful drink on a coaster within his reach. If he was hoping for a reaction, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of one; perhaps it was petty, but it was a far more agreeable option than succumbing to his manipulations.​

​

“Tab open, or closed?” ​

​

 

[PatricianHavelock]

‘So it’s like that, is it?’ Vanduen thought to himself, knowing that he couldn’t very well blame her for being bitter. Tricks of the trade were one thing, but lying to Echo had quickly become an exercise in futility . . . for whatever reason, the ex-Imperial agent’s intricate web of deceit invariably seemed to come crashing down around where this former Jedi was concerned. The will of the Force? He wasn’t one to speculate, let alone give the notion of ‘destiny’ the time of day. It was a purely practical matter.

“What will this get me?” He asked, sliding something in a small scrap of cloth across the bar towards her.

Beneath the flimsy bit of fabric was what to most eyes would appear to be a gemstone, uncut, unpolished, valuable, surely, to the right buyer, but hardly anything spectacular. To a more discerning eye, it was clearly weapons-grade crystal of one of only a few origins throughout the galaxy, useful for all manner of advanced armaments, focusing, directing, or concentrating power . . . to the eyes of a Jedi, it had a far more poignant significance. This was a rare example of crystal suitable for the crafting of a lightsaber; even without being an expert, one could tell it was uniquely grown for such a purpose; naturally no less, and reaching out through the Force, it was clear this was a gem of no small power. In the right hands, it could make for a weapon of legend . . . or doom.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it. I’m supposed to be helping fence it in fact . . . I’ve decided to do the honorable thing though, and make sure it, and the others wind up back in the right hands. For a healthy reward, of course.” Van was smiling behind the rebreather, but his eyes were glinting. No hint of deception or betrayal was behind those bright eyes, as he flipped the cloth back over the crystal and reached for his drink at the same time.

“That’s where I need your help, of course.” He winked, “It’s a job. Better paying than this one . . . and the only lecherous wretch you have to put up with would be me.”

 

[teumessian fox]

Echo sucked in a sharp breath, sickness rising in her stomach like a wave. The crystal wasn’t hers, but to see something so precious and rare in Van’s possession brought back a series of memories she’d hoped to forget. Their short-lived partnership had brought about the destruction of her lightsaber at its climax, and while it was no one person’s burden to bear, a part of her blamed him for the loss.

In her mind’s eye, she imagined herself taking the shard, shoving him out of the bar, and ending their acquaintance then and there. But Van was persistent, and like a spreading sickness always seemed to show up when she let her guard down.

It pained her to hear him talk like they were old pals, separated by little more than circumstance. Cycles ago she would’ve considered him a friend - perhaps foolishly, given his duplicitous nature - but now it was clear he viewed her as little more than another asset, a tool to be used when convenient or necessary. There was no cure for the lonely ache that settled in her chest, but Echo liked the taste of whiskey well enough to finish her drink in an attempt to dull that pain.

“Some nerve,” she mumbled into the glass, turning away from him. Keeping watch on him out of the corner of her eye, Echo shook her head. Part of her hoped Cerd would show up, chastise her for talking too long, and send her away. But it seemed like such a silly thing to wish for - when had any boss, ever, done something so convenient?

“I don’t care about money.” It was true: Echo lived a very simple, straightforward life. She wasn’t one to long for material things, so long as she had a place to sleep and something vaguely palatable to eat. It wasn’t an exciting existence, but it was honest.

Visibly struggling to keep her composure as she put her thoughts together, eyes fixated on some far off point at the opposite end of the cantina, she forced herself to speak; to give the anger and frustration in her chest a voice. “I really.. I thought you were my friend, Van.” Disappointment heavy in her tone, Echo knew it was her own fault for trusting in him. A snake was a snake, and she was an idiot for believing otherwise.

“I know better now,” she added quickly, cutting off any opportunity to interject. “It was.. Naive of me to assume. So, thank you for that.” Failure was always an opportunity to grow, but stars’ end - did it have to hurt so much?

Fingers tightening around the glass in her palm, she finally turned to face him, her expression sharp, almost withering. “I’ll help you, though, on two conditions.”

Raising the index finger on her free hand, she continued. “One, is you find me a crystal like that one, no questions asked, no strings attached.”

With her middle finger extended to create a v-shape, marking her second request, she made sure to hold his gaze. “Two, is that I never, ever have to see your face again.”

 

[PatricianHavelock]

Steadily, the color and enthusiasm drained from Van’s demeanor as Echo made herself inescapably clear that she was not going to stand for a micron of fuckery on his part. Truth be told, he’d been entirely too hopeful about his chances at reconciliation, and all because, what? He brought her a shiny rock and the promise of a hard currency payout. Nope, what he’d done wasn’t the kind of thing that could buy bygones, and he only hoped that watching him shrink before her withering and well-warranted invective was a start. There was no need to feign contrition on his part, Van did in fact regret the way things had gone down. Out of trillions of teeming throngs in the Galaxy, Echo was one that he sincerely believed deserved better.

A sentiment that he did not extend to himself, and given that this was probably the least of what he had coming, Van took the time to bear it out, listening, nodding in acquiescence.

When she got to the ultimatum, he couldn’t hide the urge to retort, to turn it around somehow, but biting his tongue, he exhaled and offered his hand, “Deal. You get an ‘out’ clause, you’re free to invoke anytime. Before or after we get you your crystal.”

He made sure to let his hand linger and through the Force, did his best to relax his usual defenses, lay himself bear in a show of good faith. Van couldn’t change who he was, not that easily, and his twisting, nebulous aura was still full of guile, plans, contingencies . . . but in the moment, absent any ill-will or the hint of deception towards Van. There were ways around such things, and it was no guarantee about down the line, but unless he was a far better impersonator of false-feelings than he took credit for, she would be able to tell the difference between what she had just felt and anything duplicitous.

“So the job. I know where the crystals are being held, and the folks who have them don’t know that I know. That’s the easy part. The hard part is that there isn’t exactly a ‘return shipping label’ for wherever they stole them from. This crew, they’re run by two Sith Renegades, and not the friendly sort like me. We can set up whatever sort of sting you want against them, but once we’ve got the crystals, we need to get rid of them fast and make ourselves scarce. We take all the time you need now to figure out and find whoever in the Republic or Jedi you might trust to ‘receive’ them that’s on the up-and-up and is willing to look the other way in regards to us. Sound like anyone you know, off the bat?”

 

[teumessian fox]

To the Jedi, anger was an unthinkable sin: it was the ultimate taboo, the surest sign of their failings. It laid bare the extent of one's training - of how deeply the pacifist ideology had taken root - and made clear which threads of attachment still lingered, which branches still reached for the sun, needing to be pruned. It was a feeling that Echo relished in, letting it warm her when little else could, happily simmering in the kind of selfish, passionate fury that had been denied to her for so long.

But there was no pleasure to be found in her ranting; no wave of self-righteous pride to numb the raw edges of her pain, no rush of adrenaline to replace the anxious thrumming of her heart with predatory excitement. For all the times she had practiced telling him off in the shower, putting him in his place with wit and cruelty and grace, it was disappointing to hear her voice tremble, to struggle to succinctly tell him what an unbelievable ass he had been - and, no doubt, still was.

The anger was a mask, one that seemed to slip as he offered his hand, his contrition nearly palpable through the Force that connected them. Sighing, she placed her palm against his and squeezed gently, shaking once. Pulling back, she picked up the towel behind the bar, rubbed it briefly over her hands, and tossed it aside with little regard for where it might land. Listening as he continued to speak, Echo started on her preparations to leave: grabbing her backpack from beneath the counter, throwing in a bottle or two from the shelves above her head, and availing herself to the tip jar for a mere handful of cred-sticks, rightfully deserved despite the lack of current customers.

Pausing, his question was enough to distract her from whatever snide comment had been running through her head - if those Sith weren't like him, maybe she might like them after all - and it was some time before she spoke again, clearly uncertain. "I might know someone," she confirmed, snagging her datapad from the back of the bar. Would the Jedi actually pay..? Probably not. But she wasn't completely without contacts, despite her predilection for solitude. "You don't know anybody?" She asked casually, stepping out from behind the counter.

"Let's leave through the back before my boss shows up." It wasn't a suggestion: whether he followed her or not, Echo started toward the opposite end of the bar, heading for the narrow door that opened up into one of Coruscant's many back alleys.

 

[PatricianHavelock]

"Are you kidding? I'm taking a major loss not selling these things to some high-end weapons manufacturer here on Coruscant, or else to the Hutt Cartel for a percentage on every crystal sold. Could retire on those kinds of dividends. Trouble is, somewhere in the back of my mind, I picture it being me or another poor sap just trying to get by without my wit and charm on the receiving end of a highly refined blaster bolt, or worst of all, a shiny red beam of plasma." Van remarked, quietly enough so as not to be heard in the absence of any appreciable noise at the cantina. Nodding approvingly at the liquor and the credsticks, he joined Echo in heading to the opposite end, only a passing glance for sign of followers. "No, if a Jedi winds up running me through with a crystal I sold them, at least I might actually deserve it."

Realizing the Jedi (fallen or not) most likely to stab him was the one he was currently talking to. Vanduen grinned nervously and swallowed hard.

"Speaking of which, you need a piece? I've got a spare of your choosing, blaster or vibroblade. Which are you feeling up to these days?" He certainly hadn't meant for it to come off as an implication she was the one at a disadvantage, but then, everything being as on edge as it was, as they exited into the rear alley behind the towering structure in the Coruscant slums, not much in either direction but graffiti and detritus, Van was once against struck with how he was credulously offering to hand a weapon over to someone who could leave him here for dead without any witnesses.

Hopefully that counted for something in the way of trust, and it wasn't like he was a walking armory at the moment either. Echo wouldn't quite have the drop on him, even if she usually had a leg-up on him in close-combat ability.

 

[teumessian fox]

"Ah." She replied, coolly. The idea of Van caring for anyone's well-being - save his own - was a ridiculous conceit, and to Echo's cynical ear it sounded as though he simply couldn't find a buyer willing to pay what he thought the crystals were worth. Somehow suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she simply continued on her path to the cantina's exit, eager to get away from the monotony of her day job even if it meant spending her time with the lying son of a bantha she blamed for putting her there.

"Since when have you cared about consequences like that?" She asked as the door to the alley slid open, a rush of warm, putrid-smelling air invading her senses. As far as she was concerned, it was a rhetorical question. No matter how apologetic he seemed, no matter how harmlessly contrite he came across, she knew what he was, or at least liked to think that she did. He was a selfish man, troublesome to the last, and the sooner she could be rid of him, the better.

Which made it all the more frustrating that some part of her, deep down, was happy to see him again.

Adjusting the weight of the bag on her shoulders, she came to a full stop when it came time to process his offer. It seemed.. unthinkable, really. Not only had he shown up out of the blue with the one material possession she could ever hope to acquire, he seemed to be sitting on a cache of the damn things, and now - despite the obvious bad blood between them - was offering her a weapon, assuming she was unarmed. Combined with the talk of his just desserts, the situation felt surreal somehow. Maybe it was a setup. Maybe she was paranoid. Either way, she couldn't help but laugh at him, the cruel sound of her amusement echoing down the otherwise empty alley.

"And what about this situation makes you think I won't just shoot you where you stand?"

 

[PatricianHavelock]

No good answer came to Vanduen's mind as Echo questioned his consequences. Truthfully, he tended to overthink most situations out along strategic ends. His ideal plan was one which accounted for every eventuality, and to the degree that consequences like collateral damage came with added complications that tended to get you caught or killed (people held grudges, exhibit A). What did this have to do with favoring the Jedi with a cache of weapons-grade crystals? . . . Van didn't like to think along those lines, but the fact was the war between Republic and Empire was not going well. Not that he had his finger on the pulse of military intelligence like he had when he'd been playing double-agent at the Corellian Fleet Academy, but it was hard not to notice for someone of his expertise.

Easier not to dwell, but he couldn't exactly articulate that Echo. Not like he was choosing sides or anything, just that if the Sith got too far ahead, their reach might come to encompass him.

With her begging the question that was on his mind though, Van decided it was time to cut some of the tension. Reaching behind his back, he pulled the holdout blaster he had from the concealed holster and hefted it, checking that the safety was on before glancing up to Echo with a smile. "Catch." He said, tossing the weapon in a slow arc towards her, managing to keep the grip angled towards her.

Faster than it could fly though, he had the cortosis blade in his sleeve out and was within striking distance. Not that he expected a Jedi to fumble the catch, but he was already inside her guard, the push-handled blade too small for a vibro generator, but still plenty dangerous. "You think I'd give you the chance?" he asked with a smirk as he eased out of a fighting stance. All in good fun as far as he was concerned, but then, seeing Echo's reaction, he realized he may have miscalculated.

 

[teumessian fox]

Echo had no interest in his blaster, nor did she want his blade: she wanted her saber back.

Frowning, she watched him heft the blaster in his palm, testing its weight, before tossing it in her direction. Some part of her wanted to snatch it out of the air and turn it on him, consequences be damned - as if anyone would care about a body in a back alley gutter on a plate so low - but the moment passed in time with her opportunity to do so. Instead, she simply leaned slightly aside, allowing the blaster to arc gracefully through the air and clatter to the broken duracrete below. The idea of trading her beloved lightsaber for a common blaster was insulting, and she had no intentions in engaging with his idea of 'charity'.

There was plenty of conventional wisdom to be had about letting sleeping dogs lie: even the most mild mannered pet was liable to lash out when provoked, and Echo was certainly well past the point of being agitated by his sudden reappearance. It was a potent cocktail of emotions: of anger, at the memory of how they had parted ways; of disappointment, knowing that her lightsaber was truly lost forever; of excitement and joy marred by inward annoyance at her desire to simply forgive him, move on, and get the job done. Despite all that transpired between them, she'd missed his presence, the barely-controlled chaos his company seemed to bring, and it drove the more pragmatic parts of her mind mad with frustration.

He was bad news, and she knew it. But then again, so was she.

A Jedi would never retaliate on such a toothless threat. He was close, the blade was sharp, but he wasn't threatening her with anything remotely lethal. It was all for show - and she knew it. Still, something about his smirk inspired a knee-jerk response in her, a desire to wipe the grin from his face as quickly and violently as possible. Turning her torso, she launched herself forward at him without a second thought, slightly hunched, aiming her elbow for his stomach. A blur of silvery hair and dark clothing, her movements were faster than they should've been for someone so long removed from the Order; it was no doubt clear she had been practicing. If not for this moment, then another.

In truth, she didn't much care what she collided with as she stepped through the movement, leaning her weight into the motion. His gut was liable to be softer than his sternum, but her elbows were sharp and slender, and she knew if the blow connected, it would sting either way.

 

[PatricianHavelock]

Operating on instinct, the clatter of the blaster against the ragged flooring of the ill-maintained plate, Vanduen was far more susceptible to distraction than the former Jedi's honed reflexes. It was his way of fighting those more powerful in the Force than himself, and here and now, it was plain that Echo hadn't forgotten how he fought. Her elbow made contact with his gut, but he rolled with it, pulling the knife back in the process and springing up as she pushed through, weight forward. He was winded only for a moment before he brought his empty hand around to find a hold on her arm or shoulder. The blade he kept back as he twisted, trying to keep his machinations out of sight and turn her along with.

His foot found the blaster and it provided the momentary distraction. Situational awareness was one thing, but he couldn't match the omnidirectional senses of a trained combatant in the Force.

Van froze, making himself a brittle target in the moment. It would be more than enough to shift the momentum of his attempted grapple, so he had to try something different. Kicking the blaster further up the alley, Van threw his weight against Echo, attempting to push her backwards, in the direction of the cantina, hoping he could get some distance to talk, now that Echo had made it clear she hadn't gone soft on him. His breathing was still a bit ragged from the blow below his sternum though, and whatever he might try to say to talk his way out of an escalating altercation . . . well, he hadn't quite thought about that yet.

Maybe he wasn't admitting to himself that the tension wasn't all on her side. Van had gone into the cantina thinking he could defuse everything with a solid acknowledgement, a bit of sincerity. When they had been partners though, sparring had been as much as outlet as a past time, and maybe it was as much instinct that had driven them to a confrontation. The need for a good scrap to prove nothing at all.