Open Fistful of Credits

[Pidge Batana]

Glasses clinked. Attire glistened in the low lighting. Droids rolled around serving hors d’oeuvres and beverages. Every manner of human and alien appeared to be attending, all in the newest, flashiest fashions. There was, in fact, such an abundance of shiny, sparkling, or sequined surfaces, that the entire room would serve as an excellent reflector for a galactic cruiser. The smell of shellfish and expensive wine hung so heavy in the room, one could almost taste it. Plates of expensive, vibrantly colored spice were being circulated.Waiters bustled around in formal suits and, taking center stage, was a quartet of stringed instruments playing a melodic tune.
——
Sweat poured down Pidge’s face as she stood, unmoving, behind a corner. It was definitely not one of her best hiding spots, but she was desperate. Clattering of silverware and the ringing of voices could still be heard from dinner happening in the luxurious room down the hall. The whole place was a fancy, formal den of thieves and criminals. There was a stereotype on Coruscant that the less savory folk only occupied the lower levels. As Pidge had learned, it was only that those on the upper levels tended to be wealthy and powerful, and could therefore hide their vices more easily. Not that she was one to judge the business of others, being the main slicer for the Crymorah Syndicate. Most criminals of the sparkling upper city were renowned business men and occasionally even philanthropists. This dinner was, however, not for charity. It had been planned rather suddenly, only two weeks prior. The gathering was hosted by Gorrow Brighton, the owner of a questionably legitimate pharmaceutical spice plant which got the majority of its sales from street dealers and junkies. The enigma was that a Coruscant Police Chief for the sector was the guest of honor. Completely unphased by the illegal activity surrounding him, he appeared to be enjoying himself greatly.

A shadow passed her by and she relaxed. Although Pidge had a (forged) invitation, she would certainly be under suspicious if someone found her snooping about. Stepping lightly and quietly towards the door the host and guest of honor had disappeared through, she leaned her earcone against it. If there was bribery going on, she would need to notify her Syndicate. The whole situation was ripe for blackmail.

 

[Baymon Bluevynson]

Music IC

Spoiler

​

“What do you mean the cranberry crostini isn’t fully toasted?” Baymon sparked his query with perplexed brows that might have put the wisest Jedi to shame.

“Uh, I mean, sir, that—”

“N-N-N-N-N-No.” Baymon cut the waiter off. “Fact is, if you’ve any reason whatsoever for cranberry crostini being less toasted than ‘toasted’ could ever define then, quite frankly, I don’t want to try it.” He sighed, testing the waters. Crab toast? No, better reserve anything to do with “toast” for Weequay with nothing better to do than target practice for their overly sensitive blaster rifles. “Tell me, how do you acquire your oysters? I’d like to taste a plate of grilled oysters on a bed of salt, wary though I am at our preceding conversation. You do have the freshest of oysters, I take it? Eggs, at least? I’ll take a board of deviled eggs if worst comes to worst.”

“Ah, uh, yes, Mister. We have the most exquisite of fresh oysters—”

“I don’t want exquisite fresh oysters. I want fresh oysters. Nothing exquisite about fresh. “Fresh” is self-explanatory. It is self-defining in greatness without all the romantic vocabulary of words like “exquisite”. Understand?”

“Ah, yes, Mister...ah..?” The waiter inquired, as if any name would warrant his self-respect.

“Bluevynson.” Baymon rolled his eyes. “Baymon Blluevynson. Or does the nametag not read Basic enough for your Human eyes?”

At a loss for words, the waiter blinked, before being waved away by his host. Baymon could only shake his head at Zenke sitting opposite, the only man in this crazy galaxy that ever seemed to understand him. “Honestly, how hard is it to convey culinary requests these days?”

“You’re being rude, Baymon.”

“Rude?” Baymon gasped, masking his own shock. “Oh, fine. I suppose you’re right. Uh, waiter!?” The server hadn’t ventured far from the table enough to avoid turning around with raised brows of how-can-I-serve-thee?

“One order of crab toast with garlic bread with rosemary-herb dip, breaded and broiled oysters off Mon Cala, and a plate of stuffed olives—extra cheese, if you’d please. And fine job on your service skills. Don’t let my aging unevenness deceive you into being anything less than an outstanding host. Your patience is appreciated...far beyond my frail words can evoke."

The waiter, as if pleased to every possible facet of his being, smiled, bowed, waved and went along.

“Thank you, Zenke,” Baymon acknolwedged as he sipped on his wine.

“For what, Baymon?”

Baymon shrugged. “For reminding me that I’m not as fat in self-importance as my belly would have me believe.”

That brought a grin to Zenke’s countenance, one that his friend delighted in rather than denounced. “You once told me that the most superior thing in life is not the wealth one carries, nor the health, but the stealth of concealing either and neither.”

To that, against his intentions, Baymon grinned. “An object lesson that I am still learning.” With that, both men lifted their glasses to their lips, and drank.


@Pidge Batana

 

[Pidge Batana]

“Has the shipment arrived? I don’t pay for bad service.”

“Patience, Officer. A pack of fifty gram bags is a big order.”

“Well, I can’t be ordering often or people will notice. I claimed to the bank this withdrawal was for a vacation. I can’t go on ‘vacations‘ every week, can I?”

“I can get it to you in three days if you hand over 50,000. Credits speed up the workers.”

“You know I don’t have that money.”

“Then you have to wait”

“Kriff you!”

The door Pidge was leaning against flew open and she barely avoided getting her face crushed. Thankfully, the police officer was too angry to think straight. He grabbed her around the waist, clearly thinking she was a dancer there to satisfy his every request. “C’mon darling. Let’s get a drink.” Not wanting to protest for fear of being discovered snooping, she played the part. “Something with a little cinnamon, honey.” The Twi’lek was not only revolted by the assumption every woman of her species was an entertainer, but also by his breath as he leaned on. They were entering the dining hall once again. Eager to get away, Pidge couldn’t believe her luck when she heard a familiar voice. Tearing herself away from the embrace of the other man, she rushed towards her wonderful Baymon.

“Baymon! Zenke! So great to see you. Oh, we really need to catch up. How have you been?” With a quick glance over her shoulder, she checked to see the location of the Coruscanti officer. The rather miffed man had walked back to his table in a confused daze. “You wouldn’t believe what I just heard!”

@Baymon Bluevynson

 

[Baymon Bluevynson]

Music IC [Recurring]

Spoiler

​

“Now there’s a familiar sight!” Baymon smiled over Zenke’s shoulder, who turned around to spot a robed figure at a corner of the room with a head that stretched down to the knees. The mouth opened; a cavern of scant teeth, two like tusks, leading up a snout to beady eyes. It was the scar across the snout that gave his identity away.

“Chuula the Chevin!” Baymon chuckled. “Now what do you think the old rascal is up to these days?”

“Keeping to himself, I imagine.” Zenke replied.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s on the hunt for a ship so that he can carve out its innards for cargo bays.”

“Now there’s a familiar sight.”

Blinking, Baymon followed Zenke’s gaze, this time looking over his own shoulder. What he saw made him smile as wide as the orbit of a free floating planet. There, walking toward his very own table, was Pidgelle Batana, in the teal flesh. She wasn’t alone. The prying hands of a police officer were unmistakable.

“Baymon! Zenke! So great to see you. Oh, we really need to catch up. How have you been?” With a quick glance over her shoulder, she checked to see the location of the Coruscanti officer. The rather miffed man had walked back to his table in a confused daze.

It was just Pidgelle who arrived at the table, looking clearly concerned with her departed company. Ignoring the latter for now, Baymon gestured to his guest. “Delightful! More so with such a lovely surprise!"

“You wouldn’t believe what I just heard!”

"Oh, I have heard so many unbelievable things that these days it’s more difficult to believe in the believable. Here, pull up a chair and you can tell me all about it over drinks.”

With that, he motioned toward a passing waiter with a tray of empty glasses, who promptly placed one before Pidgelle. Baymon lifted a bottle of red wine. “Flying Falcon. Don’t let the name fool you—it may sound like a mercenary company but its vintage is as fine as its history.” Barring her objection, he began to pour.

“A colossal sum of credits were once raised during a wine auction for this very pour, perhaps because of its cult production for extremely small quantities, adding to that the lower volumes of this little vintage. When you merge scarcity with superb reviews, you end up with one of the most expensive wines in the history of the galaxy. I happened to acquire this one at a bit of a discount.” He smiled with pride.

Swiveling his own glass before taking a luxurious sip, Baymon looked at a table yonder, and a man who appeared to be agitated sitting at it. “Is that buffoon giving you any trouble?” It would cost so outrageously less than this wine to fix it.



@Pidge Batana

 

[Pidge Batana]

The twi’lek’s heartbeat had finally quieted enough for her to hear the beat and sway of the music as the quartet burst into a new song. The notes and flourishes grew ever more vivacious as the performers helped themselves to a few drinks, the atmosphere growing merrier. Or rather, Pidge certainly felt merry, after what she’d heard. Pulling up a gilded chair, she sat gracefully, casually stretching a long leg before daintily crossing her ankles.

Giggling at Baymon’s witty joke and flashing a smile at his more quiet companion, Zenke, the performer turned med assistant turned black market criminal rocked gently back and forth. Before she could resist, a tall glass was placed in front of her and the cork from a bottle of deep red wine had been popped. It smelled expensive. Even the deep scent and the hints of berry were enough to intoxicate her. Baymon better be paying for this or I’m broke, she mused. A colossal sum of credits payed? He really better take the tab. There was little doubt the circumstances of Baymon’s ‘deal’ had been a hair below the line of legal. Perhaps he would share his infamous charming techniques.

At the suave scoundrel’s question, Pidge smirked. “Oh no. Nothing to worry about. Well, not on my end at least. Soon, he will figure out he‘s lost his credit chip. I require payment for my escort services.“ Teal fingers pulled a Coruscanti bank card from a long silver and lace sleeve. With a wink, she tucked her prize back out of sight.

The wine was incredibly potent, enough so to pinker the twi’lek‘s cheeks and give her a rush. The sourness almost made her lips pucker. Within a minute, half the glass was gone. It was a good thing the woman had built up her tolerance.

“There are many a prying here. Meet you on the balcony in five minutes? Oh- and bring the Flying Falcon with you. I’m not sure I could resist a second glass”

@Die Shize

 

[Baymon Bluevynson]

Music IC

Spoiler

As the violin became unison in crescendo and diminuendo, Baymon felt the strings on his heart being plucked. The exit of the "Falleen Style" was a sweet farewell that he would endure as the band positioned themselves for their next piece and Pidgelle granted herself a seat. The timing of a violin that grew into a grin and a teal Twi’lek’s wink could not have been better. Baymon chuckled his approval of her little swipe. Was it before or did I miss it? He could spot a sleight of hand better than most, having once shared a room with pickpockets, but this was one woman who continued to surprise him.

“Five minutes sound reasonable enough. Though if I arrive at four or six minutes then assume I have not had enough to drink yet.”

Leaving further verbosity for later, Baymon would tip his hat to the Twi’lek and spend his minutes musing on the music as the patrons began bopping shoulders and swaying hips. What better sense of peace than the bliss of sound? He was struggling to find a comparison by the time he reached the balcony, ready to receive Pidgelle. Zenke remained inside at the table, though as attentive as ever with eye and ear, the latter via earpiece.

The air was fresh outside after stepping out of a den of thieves, though on his way out Baymon did experience a curious entanglement of cigar smoke and scent of sushi that made him wonder if sushi-scented cigars or cigar-scented sushi was the way to go. He posed that question to his acquaintance through his earpiece after checking the time: he was three minutes early.

“Neither,” Zenke opined over the comm. “They are both terrible ideas, Baymon.”

“Hmm.”


@Kestrel @Pidge Batana