a woman called fate

[Toska]

coruscant
middle-levels
past​

Ghouls wandered Coruscant tonight. Pale shadows dressed up in livery, stately in their gait. They meandered in clusters, murmurs held low on lips that sipped of the finest champagnes; victory, and it tasted sweet indeed. Callow waifs, eyes hard and weary from the long kiss of dusk that settled over artificial skies. A dome obscured their vision, pleated with beacons for the occasional misplaced speeder and a matte finish for the charlatans who wanted freedom. Such concepts no longer existed.

There was an imperialist touch to the ambiance. Uniforms, crests and medals, the glister of military affairs that followed the patrons' steps in stiff reproach as if to mock their discomfit over the shore leave granted in the invasion's wake. In a club straddling the curbside, deep in the underground where few of the residents dared trespass, Alcyone enamored herself with whimsy. Mingled with a man of importance as decried by her divining gaze.

She washed him with a smile. Light, loose, lips dragging to close around a flash of teeth. The thrum of bass cascaded along her ears, drummed faster than her heart as she settled into the mood. A silted shawl covered her torso, barely masking a mess of fabrics and colors strewn together for reprisal by even the leeriest of spectators. She wore a tilt to her chin, looked up through lashes that fell heavily over cheeks flush in the infrared splash that adorned the club.

The man before her acquiesced to a drink, and it was carried over promptly; a whisky sour, hold the ice, delivered in highball and sickened by mesh of lemon that clashed against the liquid's composure. She shook it around, a nail ringing the lip, and took a sip.

"You're important enough," came the croon as she settled with her elbows perched on a stool.

"It's anachronistic in here."