Log:Of Bikes, Booze, and Budding Business

Of Bikes, Booze, and Budding Business

OOC Date: October 11, 2018
Location: Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Kostej, Netep Muri

The Ko Hentota District is a place worth warning newcomers about. It isn't as if people are getting stabbed there on the hour, but it's certainly a spot to be aware of due to the lack of a police force other than the chance of someone else getting blasty in response to another doing the same.

Kostej doesn't appear to have a blaster hidden in his attire, but anything is possible. He is wearing one of those gi-style belted robes that he favors, but tonight a sleeveless, synthleather coat is hanging down and open over it. He looks more like someone about to give a speech after usurping a position of power than he does like someone trying to blend in.

Despite the lack of looking the part, no one is bothering him. He is leaned against the wall of one of the few sturdy buildings in the area. His left hand is held level as his right types at the screen of the datapad that wraps around his left forearm. It glows with a soft light as he types white colors onto the black screen.

A large-eyed alien (possibly an Arcona) watches Kostej from the end of an alley; head mostly obscured by a robe. The golden man doesn't seem to notice.

"Aw, c'moooon..." A frusterated groan fogs the visor of Muri's helmet when a pair of quibbling Besalisk back out of a stall, pushing, shoving, and quite literally obscuring the /entire/ strip of street. Four meaty arms swinging on either side and whatnot. The Nightfalcon growls sympathetically under its rider's prompting and kicks back a few meters before veering around a pile of burning rubbish and around some venting pipes of noxious fumes.

Kriffing delightful.

By the time Muri actually comes zoooooming up to a sudden halt in front of the specified address, she's late by almost half an hour. More oaths grumble away inside her helmet and she wrestles it off to get a less foggy view of the persons loitering around. Roomy sleeves, golden skin...that's her man! "HEY!" she yells to get her voice above the ambient din. "Coruscant's golden boy!" One arm flags.

There is a brief hesitation as he closes the document he was working on, but Kostej looks up just as the new hair color comes spilling into view. He tilts his head as he examines Netep and the vehicle she rides, but where exactly his eyes are focused is a bit difficult to determine.

"I like it," he states. He probably means nothing scandalous, but that low, unhurried voice of his does tend to make things sound more sensual than intended. He leans down to pick up the cylindrical pack at his feet. It is about the right size for stuffing someone's forearm into. He hooks the straps over his shoulders and lifts his voice a little so it can more easily be heard over the noise. "Permission to board, captain? Or would you prefer that I drive?" The corners of his lips play at amusement.

"Over my steaming corpse," Netep grows a lopsided grin and reaches to crank up the music on her ride, partly because this happens to be a favorite and partly for the joy of spite. Just one more stream of ostentacious beat and nasally chords to blend into the cacophany of market. Her head and shoulders are already subconciously keeping beat while she keeps a possessive grip on the handlebars and hikes up a saggy shirt hem just enough to flash the Czerka's grip to some probably innocent shoppers that walk too close to the bike for her comfort. "Better hop on before the grime permeates the bottle, eh? Or worse. You know one time I was down here for some after-market discounts on real snazzy suit wear and I came back with fleas." Is she joking? Lorrdians are masters of facial speak, so the way hers is flatlined, it might make it hard to tell.

"What's a guy like you doing down here with the likes of me, anyway? Don't tell me you've found an office. Breathe a week of this air without a respirator and you're guaranteed to sprout an assortment of tumors."

"Noted," Kostej says as his eyes drop - hopefully and presumably towards the exposed weapon. A nearly soundless snort leaves his nose as he smirks. He throws his long coat back over his hip and vaults onto the speeder bike behind Netep.

"I trust "you're not going to give me fleas, Ms. Muri," he says behind her as he wraps his arms around her waist and very innocently clasps his own hands rather than her body. "I daresay I've never actually been on one of these things b-" he starts to admit over the music, but fate has a sense of humor. He should know better than to assume anyone that would drive such a deathtrap regularly would be patient enough to warn him.

Muri's at home wherever she goes. It's both blessing and a curse, her ability to assimilate and absorb the energy of a place and a people. And places like Ko Henota? They aren't patient. Just about the time he gets settled in, she's thumped her helmet back into place and may as well have hit the green light.

Zzzzzzrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The falcon kicks off into as high a speed as it can in this crowded swarm of vendors and buyers. Which is to say...not super fast. The sudden lurch forward is something though, even if short lived before they're snailing it and threading through tents and buildings alike. A wicked spark of mischief shines knowingly in Muri's eyes after his brief but hopefully heart-flipping initiation into speeder bike transportation. "If you happen to die back there, just warn me so I can ditch the extra weight, keezx? Zanki."

There is a lot of confidence that typically surrounds Kostej, but the burst of acceleration leaves it behind like it is unable to keep up with the bullet of a vehicle they are on the back of. His gentlemanly hands slip apart and spread like talons as he grabs the front of her - her stomach rather than anywhere that might get him blasted, fortunately - and hold on for dear life until he is able to pull himself forward and get his arms more securely around her once more.

And then it happens.

A laugh spills out of Kostej Nesmertenly. Not a laugh at droll antics. Not the condescending 'I'd never be caught dead doing that' laugh. Not even a sophisticated chuckle. True laughter. That kick of adrenaline. That surprise. For a moment, he forgets that he is surfing on the rim of the sphincter of the galaxy. ...While possibly getting fleas.

Netep flinches under the sudden grab but the helmet/music/impatient wine of the ill tempered engine drown out the squeak which accompanies it. Kostej manages to come out the other side with all his fingers, though, even if the craft takes a sudden jerk to the right, left, back again and narrowly careens around a tipped dumpster through the next alley. Woah there, Muri.

The bike is also ticklish. It's the bike's fault.

"Maybe that bulk freighter we're gonna score'll make for a great racetrack, mm?" Through the spewed mists of fog rising through undercity pipes underfoot they ride, essentially doing a scenic detour before getting back to the main thoroughfare and merging into the congested air speeder/bike traffic that is Nar Shaddaa 'highway'. After a time, they've pulled into the starport in Corellian district and are circling the Doaba Hermi, then loading into its belly.

It's a strange feeling to want to confess how much fun it is as you're too afraid to say anything and spoil it. That's where Kostej is stuck for several seconds before he manages to get out, "Kazz ma kazz." (I have insurance.) His Bocce, it seems, is considerably above proficient. "But I have no idea whether or not it covers 'death by engine-riding'."

It is like he is a different person as he releases Netep, but does not dismount right away. He holds his hands up where they both can see at least one. Another laugh spills out of him, but without the surprise this time. "My hands are shaking," he says without a touch of complaint. Only then does he dismount from the bike and begin to straighten out his disheveled clothing; not realizing his typically picture-perfect hair is wild. "I think racing one of those things would turn me into carbon scoring within moments, Ms. Muri." He glances up from the pant-leg he is turning back down to look at her.

Netep leans forward in order to back hike her leg over and more or less slithers off the bike. THe Nightfalcon might not be the longest and most cumbersome out there, but it's a helluva lot bigger than she is. Disheveled seems to be a natural state for her so she doesn't even bother making adjustments, just powers it down and walks over to the control box dangling barely within her reach to raise up this cargo hold's belly loader that she's parked it on.

The noise is abysmal, these grinding gears and hydraulics that probably shouldn't sound this way but do. It's also piteously slow. Sloooooowly the sight and sound of the spaceport disappears from view and the spacious, EMPTY hold of Doaba Hermi swallows them up. She's caught that hint of grin and it's enough. An understanding nod swings a beaded curl into her face and she swipes it back. "I've just had her a few weeks, myself. Been thinkin bout it for ages, then a friend of mine recently took ownership of a dealer and I figured...why not? Worse case? Carbon scoring. Actually might be the best case, since I haven't actually /got/ insurance."

The lift screeches to a halt and she tugs at an ear. "So. Finitez cetez detox, Mr Nesmertenly?" (What do you want?) Her helmet goes to rest on one of the handlebars and she starts climbing the nearest staircase up to the hatch.

"Keez meeza foy wunclaz?" (Can I upgrade to first class?) The sarcasm on this one certainly runs dry. He follows her up the stairs. Whether he's checking her out as he climbs them is hard to say. Even if there was a witness there, there's trying to pinpoint where those eyes settle. It can be... unsettling.

"I appreciate getting straight to business, but I prefer to have a glass in my hand and some warmth heading towards my belly before I blow someone's mind." Perhaps he is not aware that his phrasing might be considered suggestive. Along with his voice. And the way he follows her up the stairs.

Perhaps.

"Pour me a drink, I'll pour yours, and then I will tell you my plan... and why I chose you to be my partner in it."

If Netep's concerned with where those bionic eyes are or aren't settling whilst following her lead, she doesn't show it. Might be she doesn't even /think/ to notice. "Well then, right this way..." Her fingers drum in a code and the hatch opens, admitting them both into the soft illumination of the ring corridor. It's like a different world in here. As scattered and disarrayed as Muri the Captain might be, her ship is nearly immaculate. Nearly, because as her guest will soon see, it's witnessed some rough encounters.

She plucks a leaf off one of the plants along the way and eats it before turning into the second hatch portside. Galley. Once inside, she goes straight for the fridge and opens it to reveal the sorely empty guts. The picture didn't lie. Half a horned melon, some dessicated paper sack of once greasy, now rubbery fried food, a few bottles of cheap ale and can of namana juice that sports a somewhat lewd cartoon on its label. Also, 1 reusable, clear tub full of what looks like it might be stew. There aren't a lot of choices in /here/ but still Netep stands there for the obligatory amount of time to ensure new contents don't magically appear before reaching in for a beer.

The surroundings are taken in. A wall is touched with the swipe of palm. A doorway is caressed with the back of his index finger. Netep and the plant she feeds off of are examined. The former with a curious glance and the latter with a pause to smell it with a nose glad to be free of the... poignant scents they have left behind.

The refrigerator is approached, reopened, and knelt in front of. Kostej sets his bag in front of him, unzips one end of it, and reaches inside. He produces a container with no label and places it on the roomiest shelf before standing, closing the door, and moving to the patchwork cushions. One is flipped over to the floor with a flick of the wrist. He sits down on it with his legs crossed and settles a bottle of wine in his lap. Its label is beautiful; written in an intentionally outdated dialect of Huttese.

He nods towards the hole in the couch. "Someone make you prove your statements about 'funny business'?"

"That /was/ the funny business," Netep annotates around the lip of bottle, wets her whistle, "part of it, anyway. Gaderffii stick." and follows Kostej's lead in tossing a cushion to the floor. Sentientologist see, sentientologist do. "I forget if it were the first or second one what chased me through here, but this place was a right mess. I'm small and I'm quick but I'm no athlete, so sandy kriffer caught me eventually. Fancied he'd drag me back down the ramp by my heel after beatin the tar outta me but..." a tiny utility knife pops free from her belt and whips around in display before being sheathed again. "Hamstringed the brute and when he tripped up, I put it in his neck and ran. THAT's when the second one came aboard, yeah. Got him down that'a'way up by the crew berths with a live circuit panel. Cost me a pretty bundle to repair the sensor compartment later, but that's all right."

She breaks from her tale of dune sea adventure for another swig, then points to his seated self. "So where you from, anyway? I mean, I hear the Coruscanti plenty thick - accent's contagious that one, my sister lived there not ten years maybe an she speaks like pisspot royalty, now. Glad we smuggled her out o'there. S'just it's harder to get a read on /you/ what with the.." her talkative hand goes to her own face, then, pointing out the obvious EYEBALL situation. "Pupils are so telling and yet far as I can tell, you haven't got any. Puts me at a disadvantage, that does. Reckon it suits your business just fine."

The story of the battle is listened to with a calm, excited contradiction of interest. Those machine eyes shift around as if replying the events in his mind. He event lips something strange as he looks at the sensors. Perhaps a sound effect of them being ruined.

"You're quite the lady," he judges after several seconds of wordless, thoughtful silence. "Allow me to reply to that all... in time." He reaches into his bag for the deadliest weapon he owns: a corkscrew. A moment later, and his bottle is free of its cork. It is placed beside him. "It needs to breathe."

"As to where I'm from, I assume you refer to my ancestry. Truth is, I can barely say. I was raised by my mother; a human. My father is firrerreo. All I inherited from him was a skin tone that does not work well with most bright colors, a penchant for quick healing, and nails that need to be clipped often." He looks at them with a frown of distaste. "A troublesome metabolism in a variety of ways, I suppose. And though I heal... I do not regenerate." He lowers his hand. "What is removed stays gone. Such as when my eyes were incinerated." He reaches a hand out for the beer she holds.

Netep listens raptly to the man under her miscroscope then passes the ale into his custody. "That sounds most unpleasent," she grimaces and shrugs out of her outerwear then heaves the jacket up and around to the table behind. It falls short. "Manicures are a terrible thing." Her lips purse firmly together with firm resolution not to snickersnort at her own terrible joke. Instead, she exhales through her nostrils thinly, calmly. "Wardrobe dilemmas aside, doesn't sound all too bad of an inheritance. Genetics are a phenomenal thing, are they not?" Muri lowers her gaudily colored eyes to stare at the breathing bottle and picks at a stubby fingernail that's got no issue with overgrowth.

"I don't resent them," Kostej tells her. He interrupts his elaboration with a drink of the beer she's handed over. "I'm..." He rubs his lips together as he contemplates the liquid. "Bold. The beer I mean. Very bold. Suits you. I approve."

"I simply find my genetics and... birthright to be far less interesting than the story of a person that used no such things to obtain..." He glances towards the couch and back towards the ramp as he gets to his feet and walks over to the kitchen with his beer hostage. "Such fascinating skills." He returns with a cup and holds the neck of the beer between his finger and thumb. He pours her some wine in far too elegant of a manner for the container it is being poured into, and then offers it over to her with a bow and an over the top but so very spot-on accent. "I present to you a liquid worthy of beings that ruled over others without question. It is not overly expensive, because expense becomes its own flavor. It is not easily obtained, because rarity is refinement. It is not impossible to have, because the mythical lacks substance. Nesmertenly 1157," he announces.

The cup is indeed a humble thing. In fact, look closely enough or touch in the right place and you'll discover it's had the bottom third glued back together. For the love of credits.

"So glad you approve," Muri replies in flawlessly mimicked accent, even going so far as to drop her voice a tone and a half. She smirks and hovers the once-swirled glass beneath her nose before drawing a tentative sip off the top. A formerly pensive brow shoots aloft in show of surprise, followed by a second, more confident mouthful. "Mm. Worthy it is, and to be poured by a gentleman who cites his own quotes, no less!" She takes another sniff and leans her right hand flat on the deck behind her to serve as kickstand while the left maintains wine sampling function. "Can I see the label?" Soon as it's put down, the hand comes back off the floor and tugs a pair of little glasses off her belt to then shove ungracefully onto face.

The amusement is hard to conceal as he watches her drink. The wine is one of his brain-babies, after all. The delight she expresses is a contagion. He is infected, though muted in that reflection. This makes him unguarded as the reading glasses are pulled out. "...Really?" The incredulousness is heavy in his voice. "And to think I assumed myself at least a decade older than you," he chides playfully as he sits down beside her and holds the bottle like a waitron presenting it to a customer.

The old dialect of Huttese is a nice touch, but the real art to it is the way that each character incorporates Basic in its shadow so that a native speaker of either language can read it with ease, and a less fluent reader of either can do so with difficulty. "I would hand you the bottle, ma'am, but I'm afraid your old hands will shake too hard for you to read it." He looks over as he teases her. From this distance, those strange eyes are far too surreal. Her reflection can be seen in them, as well as that of the bottle and the glint of light the strikes its dark-green surface. It gives them a soft, green glow.

Netep casts him a sideways, frowny look over the slouching rim of her lenses and cranes her head back a few degrees until the script comes into sharper focus. "Some of us were handed the genetic short straw, Nesmertenly. Can't see my own face in the mirror but can spot a fly on a nerf's arse half a klik away. S'like havin a built-in pair of booze goggles." Maybe a /slight/ exaggeration, but he can get the point.

Her lips mumble out the name and she squints. "Wait, so you weren't /quoting/ yourself, this is you! This is yours--SHHHAV!" her face turns a glance at his, only to get a startlingly clear view of just how bizarre those replacement parts are. "Did they look like that before?" The glasses come off, back on, off, just to be sure. Mayhap the farsightedness has changed a bit in the past year.

Kostej shakes his head. "No," he tells her. That scratchy-smoothness of his voice makes that word decadent. "My eyes were blue with orange rings, but darker around the edge of the iris. Almost violet. Penumbral." He lifts a finger towards his temple to gently tap the outside of his eye socket. "But these are a much better window into my soul than the ones I lost ever were." There is something far too compelling about his voice when he speaks so softly. All the superiority is drained right out of it.

He takes a swig of beer as he brings his feet around to sit in front of Netep with crossed legs; knees brushing against hers as he settles. He sets the bottle between his ankles and his crotch. "I'm torn between having you keep your glasses on so you can see my eyes... and telling you to keep them off so I can see yours. Whether they are green, yellow, or gold is hard for me to decide." He presses his lips together as if to delete what he's just said.

"My plan," he amends.

"Just let me fetch my monocle, then," Muri quiets her own volume to match, like a secret between pals. Cept there is no monocle and she doesn't fetch anything, much less get off the floor to carry the jest further. The glasses go back on to accomodate this range of one-on-one, knee-to-knee strategy. "I don't know what color they are today, haven't looked in the mirror since I popped'em in and by now I've forgot." One shoulder shrugs limply under the weight of her hair. "Changes as often as my hair. Stasis is dull."

Netep pours her remaining wine from glass into gullet with a single toss of head, then gently sets the patched cup aside. "Is this how you conduct all your business meetings?" Her chin dips, amusement crinkling behind those boring, black frames. "You're not half the stiff I'd presumed you'd be, product of the Core an'all. That card? Don't oft see the likes of that handiwork out here...I mean not Y'toub specifically, but the Outer Rim in general."

"You're so very..." That is a dangerous sentence to trail off with. It invites as much humor as it leaves an uncertainty hanging in the air. And any spacer knows that it is bad to leave things in the air. Especially foul smells. Some people would be unnerved by how long Kostej stares at Netep before he speaks a word to close out that sentence. "Alive." Coming from a man like him, that soft praise that forms the word might as well be a trophy, a wild cheer, and ecstatic applause.

He looks down at his lap as he considers how he is conducting the meeting, and feels a need to move the bottle before he replies. He didn't quite realize the phallic placement of it. He sets it to his right and recovers with an easy grace the belies his state. "I grew up with very little... I think it is the reason I put so much pride and effort into the few things I have." He looks at her face, and those discs shift as his focus moves from feature to feature. "I'm not usually one to speak about myself in such a way, and this is not how I typically do business. I've been... disarmed by the ride. The-" He realizes he is still wearing his coat and shoves it back off of his shoulders. The pretty synthetic flops back as he pulls his arms out. "The plan I have...."

Infuriating? Terrible? Obnoxious? Snarky? Crass? Half a dozen words go through Netep's brain in silence to fill the gap but it'd seem her self-assessment isn't quite on the same wavelength he's riding there. "Alive," she echoes to feel out the word for herself. She can't /argue/ it of course because well, she is. Very much alive. Will she be after they take a run at that derelict freighter? No telling. And so a small sigh of acceptance breathes softly out while he fumbles on with wordage and focus. Her unblinking stare goes on unrelentingly back at him until he can finish his sentence.

And then, because of course there'd be an interruption, some unseen source emits a crackled burst of static overhead followed by a weirdly nasally robotic voice on intercom saying "Captain? The sensors detect life forms on board. Please confirm identity before I seal all compartments and vent."

Muri's eyes squeeze shut with a somewhat pained pinch of lips between teeth as she grimaces outwardly at the intrusion and the absurdity OF it. "Fer kriff's sake!" she pops up to her feet and marches over to the wall, leaning over table to press the button there. "That only works in SPACE, J'ni. But yes. It's me." Releasing the button, she shakes her head and rubs a hand over face. "We've just been onboard what, twenty minutes? NOW he decides it's a concern." Ugh. Crew. "Sorry." She makes a pass by the fridge on her way back to floor, grabbing a second beer as she goes.

Kostej soundlessly opens his mouth when that static happens. Words. He's usually quite good with them. It's like playing holochess while too many people are watching. Things just get more difficult. When Netep steps away, he recovers by quaffing his stolen stout. Empty. Alcohol; the panacea. He checks her drink--a custom, she might be aware, of politeness in his culture. Pouring ones own drink was rude, so doing so for another before asked was considerate. Seeing it still has quite a bit of wine, he stands before he looks and nearly bumps right into her as she comes back with another beer. "Pardon," he says automatically.

Then he looks at her. ...and then he sniffs the empty beer bottle. Twice. "'...best rethink it...'" he quotes to himself before his expression goes from ponderous to stern.

"Blast." It is perhaps the first time he's sworn since he arrived in the system. "I really hope you're as bad at keeping your word as I can be." That is all the vague warning she gets before he leans in, head tilting... and steals her beer.

"Wh--" Muri's just frozen in place, hands up as both automatic surrender and a barrier between herself and...the beer thief. Her hand retains its bottle-clutching shape as her jaw cocks aside, brow furrowed into a look of having been duped. Duped and pilfered. The empty palm turns inward to drag the glasses off her face. "Fat load of good they did me, eh? Well I'll have you know my word's good as gold. When I want it to be." She's itching to snatch a THIRD beer from the fridge to have just another taste of the stuff before it's all gone or Yoska comes onboard and THEN it's all gone...but the last bottle left standing in there might be safer if it remains shut up out of sight, soooo she scuffs back to her seat and arranges herself on the cushion a bit more rigidly.

The wine cup makes a return visit to her mouth for a cool sip, then she clears her throat. "Your /plan/, sir."

A victory, however small, is exactly what Kostej needed to get his control back. Like a line of metaphysical cocaine snorted off the back of a dream's hooker-muse, that little win is.

"Well, Ms. Muri," he says as he settles back in front of her. "The only problem I see with this alliance--besides for all the obvious givens--is that Mr. Jensa has all the power. He came forth with the offering, the information, the plan, et cetera. Whereas we have provided nothing but future service. Promise of action."

It seems that stolen beer tastes better, as he looks quite pleased with the swig he takes. "What would you say if I told you that I had a plan that would allow us to bring something big to the table, but that I can't do it without--very specifically--you?" He could sell a fake moon with a pitch like that.

"..." Netep closes her mouth to rethink a few choice words. Eh, screw it. "Jensa's got about as much power as what people let him have. Have you /seen/ him? I'll wager those robes make up more'n half his bulk. Gave him one o'those cans in there," she points to the fridge "and he went stumblin bumblin out of here like he was 'bout to lose his hat! Lighter weight than I ever was." And while oh so briefly on the subject of drinking habits, she reaches to take back the beer.

Eye contact is maintained, however, trying to find the trick hidden behind this proposition. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the dropped glasses, maybe he IS being on the level with her. It's hard to say. "Why is it you need /me/ for this big reveal, anyhow? What is it you think I've got?" A slightly nervous glance cuts to the corridor while her brain hashes through a quick inventory of artifacts and splendid things tucked away.

"I don't refer to his physical power," he says with a look that somehow has all the same feels of a heavy rolling of eyes without even so much as an upward shift. "I know that he probably dribbles in his robes when he hears a sneeze. I refer to... standing. Ethos."

Kostej can handle direct. Direct is how he keeps people unbalanced in the Sumo match of business deals. A slap to the moob and a very direct proposal. "I think you have the ability to cross sixteen hundred meters in under a minute... and work out the cypher at the other side before the passage self-immolates and kills you. And I, quite frankly, don't know anyone else I can say that about."

She stole the empty beer from him. HOW? He sips the full one as cool as a cucumber.

Muri's beer hand weighs the empty bottle up and down, adopting an expression akin to annoyed feline. "We're speaking in figurative terms, right? Or do you mean there is literally a tunnel of fire you mean to put me through to solve a riddle that doesn't give second chances?" A pause. "Because it kind of sounds like we're /not/ speaking in figurative terms here and...I just wanna be clear. Fire." Her fingers 'poof' up in the air, bottle slinging around between knuckles by its neck until it works 'round to her thumb and plunked down. Long gone is the sly and grinning Muri. In her place is genuinely concerned and maybe a little baffled Muri.

"I save figurative terms for when I'm talking about the emotions I'll instill in a lover," he makes romantic gestures with his hands. "Or the figurative weight of a literal wallet that will figuratively be able to crush foes and pin down marriages like an anchor on the seafloor." His beer lowers down as if an anchor through water. He offers it to her, but changes his mind and take a swig. "I save figurative for the rhetoric. This isn't rhetorical. This is real. I am literally asking you to literally travel with me to ancient, boobytrapped temple that, as far as I know, is still untouched by modern beings... partially because of a requirement to be in two places at once, and partially because my flare for linguistics doesn't extend to the ancient. And yes. What I've translated suggests a fiery demise that I believe, very literally, is entirely literal." Now he offers her the beer for real. And so much more.

Aw, dammit. Temple. Ancient linguistics. How can she NOT!? Netep snatches the bottle and greedily finishes what's left without coming up for air and glaring cross-eyed around it all the while. When at last she and the bottle do part lips, she rolls it aside with the other empty and has at least the decency to dab some escaped dribble off her chin with shoulder strap. Classy. Adara would scream and bitch. Lok would secretly approve but pretend he hadn't noticed. Blacksheep Muri's got a deal on the table she can't refuse but honestly probably should.

"You don't even know if I've got the credentials. All you know is I showed up to Idan's little gathering and frankly that was more out of curiosity and lack of nocturnal plans than anything else. But, here we are!" She throws her arms widely apart. "And tomorrow, we might all be pirate fodder, aboard /my/ ship." A pause. "Home. My home." Agitated Netep can't sit still any longer and takes the cushion with her to toss blindly back on the bench. A pace to the left, a step to the right, rock backwards aaaaand "Okay. I mean maybe. Just....forward me all that you've got on this temple and/or civilization in advance, please? I do better with cheat sheets."

• KZZZT*"Muri?" queries the droid overhead again. "Will your guest be lodging with us this evening or shall I postpone lockdown? And by 'us' I mean 'you'."

Netep's shoulders slump in resignation. There's no point in even being embarrassed. Her hand once again hovers over the com. "Listen, I'll see ya tomorrow," she flops an arm at Kostej but has a stroke of genius and wherewithall to recover her manners enough to extend that hand in formal readiness to shake on it. "Also I guess I need to show you the way out."

"With a slicer on every other corner--alternating with hooker-muses, as it were--I'm afraid that if you want to see it... and I know you will... you're going to have to sit down with me in person, in a very secret place, and take a look at what I've got."

He walks over to her and her extended hand. "And once you do?"

He takes her hand, but not in a business shake. He takes it like a gentleman takes a lady's; even though Netep doesn't exactly... fit the bill. She's probably never even been to charm school.

"You're going to be hooked." He bends down to kiss her hand, but does the proper thing of not quite kissing it and kissing near it instead. "Goodnight." He, having an excellent memory, leads their way out after fetching his things.

The rest of that bottle of wine is left behind intentionally.