Purple Light

[Armen Westyll]

Spoiler: Music IC

The Carta’blanch wasn’t among the richest restaurants in this city upon Estaria.
It did yet cost a pretty penny but Armen felt he was doing well enough so whatever.
He had a girl to impress as well. She went to school on this world, this star in the air.
Downtown, a man found the place and set the date. Now he sits down waiting for her.

Purple is the atmosphere of the restaurant, violet lighting surrounding tables and chairs.
Dark, not too much so that you can’t see the person you’re talking to, but sets the mood.
Brighter at the bar, purple merging with pink, bathing bottles already colored in rainbow.
It’s all so very poetic and romantic, a man thinks, actually he honestly doesn’t really care.

But she will. She’ll like this. This is her kinda setting and cup of tea.
Sitting at a square booth beside tables, circles so round, is him.
A man, Armen Westyll, parking his ass on royal purple leather.
In a black suit, it seemed fitting, like the tablecloth of lavender.

Atop the tabletop, no cup of tea, a glass, a drink, liquid is pink.
Gin and wine in a cocktail, a martini, garnished with pink cherry.
No olive or lemon twist, but from farmland wotzit and it’s sweet.
Armen bites it, swallows it, sips his drink, licks lips, looks at comlink.

Any minute. Any second. He thinks.
She wasn’t early but wasn’t that late.
Given that she’s a student, he can wait.
Armen isn’t impatient, too relaxed, they say.
Nonchalant, doesn’t give a damn, but not always.
He just doesn’t see the reason in people panicking.
Overreacting at anything, doesn’t understand, anyway.
Indifferent, a bit blasé, but learning more empathy is Armen.
The Jedi Order, he is their student, and they teach him the way.

“You want another drink while you wait?”
Asks the server as she walks up, smiling.
“Sure. Another one of these. And thanks.”
He doesn’t look up. Comlink has his face.

While he waits, the server walks away.
Armen slouches, comlink now on table.
Bored of hvtropes, instead plays a game.
Two menus, one man, waiting on his date.

Text pops up on Armen’s com.
Beside another name. It’s Taco.
He goes with the first. It's her.
‘Sorry I’m late. I’m on the way!’
‘No problemo.’ Is his response.

A silver watch, left wrist, hangs loose.
He checks it, what time it is, past noon.
Past five, not yet night, approaching eight.
Doesn't get why but Armen rhymes anyway.

Time flies in moments as an empty glass leaves and a filled one arrives.
The server smiles again, Armen affords about half of one as his reply.
It is not personal, he isn't shy, he is just generally a quiet kind of guy.
Sips more pink liquid, sets the glass down, hearing a voice from behind.

"You look better in a tie."
She has the voice of a woman.
And the blue features of a Pantoran.
Long blonde hair curled over right shoulder.

"Oh...I was hoping you wouldn't notice."
Armen half-smiles again. Ties choke him.
Her gold eyes gaze moments in his brown.
Silence in her pupils, irises, circles so round.

"Kinda fancy, isn't it?"
Dang. Is it judgment?
Dates, not his business.
Not his first date, this is.

"Uhhhh..." Looks left and looks right.
"...I was hoping you wouldn't notice?"
Silence again, gazing into their eyes.
Rigid lips, they split, smiling. "Idiot..."

And the conversations begin.
Pointless, it's all just nonsense.
Between them, though, meaning.
The server. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Lemme get an ecumonopolitan, please."
"You got it. Will we be ordering a meal?"
Damn am I hungry. "Just another minute."
He's polite about it. Kinda feelin' the eel...

What he isn't feeling is what patrons do.
Despite the mood, it's still just a restaurant.
"I might get salmon." She looks up from her menu.
"Eel. Salmon. I feel a dance comin'." Their eyes lock.

 

[Armen Westyll]

Spoiler: Music IC

Between eel and salmon, dancing can happen.
Cheesy cheese, thinking with ease, it happens.
Between a boy and a girl, that meaning is deep.
Eyes into eyes, hold the fish, one gazes deeply.

Track changes, the music shifts, but the mood doesn’t exit.
It wasn’t time to dance, wasn’t the place for it, the restaurant.
They weren’t at the bar, weren’t in a club, no, sitting at a booth.
Across the tabletop, a girl and a boy—or a man and woman too.

Young, but not dumb. She’s a college student, he’s a Jedi Padawan.
Eyes into eyes, each one looking on, forgetting life, their eyes are gone.
Lost, but won, that bond, hers into his, his into hers, and O is he into her.
She’s into him, she betrays the emotion by a silent kiss, gazing, eyes burn.

At least, he thinks, he hopes, that young man, Armen Westyll, in his suit.
It’s crisp, that’s his wish, black jacket and white shirt, but she knows truth.
He can’t hide his eyes, he can’t lie, not to her, not beside all this purple light.
In the Carta’blanch, this establishment he picked, hopefully not too rich, right?

Oh well. None of that matters. Nothing else matters. Right now, it’s just her and him.
Time passes, they travel through time, forward and backward, like a summoned wish.
He hears words, it’s hers, but not hers, it’s the server’s. She’s back with drinks. Has his.
He forgets what it is. It’s less important than what his date is drinking: ecumonopolitan.

Fancy, he thinks discretely, hiding a smile, but he’s not making jest, ever thinking his best.
The server broke their gaze, which was good anyway, lest they stare too long, and forget.
“Have you decided on a course?” She asks pleasantly, smile not treacherous, O he knows.
She knows too, that Pantoran beaut sitting across from him, and so slender is her throat.

“I’ll get the braised eel in red wine,” Armen points to his menu, unable to pronounce it.
The server smiles, unfazed, trading her gaze to his date, who curls her long blonde hair.
“And for you?” Doesn't hesitate. “Miso ramen with glazed salmon.” No pointing, not this.
Was the dish on the menu, just something she knew to request? Either way it was squared.

“Coming right up,” the server smiles, collecting menus, not forgetting appetizers though.
She had offered, but man and woman had politely declined, waving no, with eyes into eyes.
Cliche, one may say, and Armen Westyll would agree. Distant, expressionless. What is this..?
This wasn’t the way, wasn’t his way, to be so stricken, so smitten, by gazing into this girl’s eye.

Quin would have a joke to poke at me for this. But he isn’t blushing, he’s grinning, can’t help it.
“How was your day?” He opens the floor, breaks the silent gaze, sipping his pink whozitwotzit.
“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” she sips, delicate lips. “College can be a climb over bricks.”
Colorful language, in the sophisticated way. “Or hot coals. Today, not so much. And I got my wish.”

Eyes into eyes, hers into his, and Armen, a Jedi Padawan in name, continued onward.
“You’re studying archaeology and cos—” -Bzz!- But it wasn’t his thoughts. “Ah, sorry.”
Comlinks. Who needs ‘em? Taking it out, it’s a repeat sound of a message, the first.
From Taco. Armen pauses, apologizes. “Sorry again, might be important.” Tells her.

Her eyes, he can feel them, golden globes brilliant, watching him, warm, they’re on.
He keeps his head bowed to his comlink, that darned thing, and Armen’s, his are off.
The message, it wasn’t a text, it was more a recording, no, a ping, like an alarm’s ring.
The kind you send when in distress, yes, a distress signal, kind of emergency beacon.

A…voice...recording..?
Comlink to ear, he hears.
Armen, Taco’s friend, listening.
To a Twi’lek singing his worst fears.

"To the execution dock.
I have come.
Till I go.
To the execution block.
For to sail.
I was sick and nigh to death.
But I vow with my every breath.
For go with wisdom ways when I sail…”

 

[Armen Westyll]

Spoiler: Music IC

That was it. That was the end of the message. Cryptic at that. Uncertain of what it meant, what he said.
Taco… Armen knew the name, the voice, combined to form a friend who he knew of and well enough.
Is he pranking me? It would have been easy. The Twi’lek was the type to do it. A prankster. Then again.
How Taco sounded, as if surrounded by ghosts, dead space, and the feeling that it wasn’t some bluff.

To the execution block. Armen’s lost. He blinked away his confusion, the kind that gets him into inaction.
Call him back. Obv. A finger tapped, a glance across the table at his date; she looked away, with patience.
“Sorry. Just be a sec.” Armen said. There was a ring, pinging the other end, then the comlink went dead.
Not exactly odd. If this was a joke then Taco might just be laughing if not distracted with cinnamon bread.

“Everything okay?” It really did not take a Jedi to read this young man’s face, as plain as day Armen’s ever was.
He wasn’t emotionless, he just wasn't very expressive, more expressionless, if repressive of most emotions.
Whatever that meant, maybe in the sense that most folks tended to fret about everything, except for him.
Stoic, a bit apathetic, chill as ice most days and nights, not as thrilled as most guys even tonight, this kid.

Silence. Armen gave it to this Pantoran. Her blue eyes gazing into his violets. Armen Westyll beside Eles Vemi.
Sometimes, though, a man's face could betray emotion without him knowing, and she saw it, surely, and clearly.
Fear. No robot, it was an emotion that was off and on, as Armen's subconscious turned conscious that moment.
A distress signal, emergency beacon, the faint whisper of his friend as if given to pale breath in a broken wind.

And Taco’s comlink just rings. “I’m fine.” Armen lied. I need to find him. “How’s your drink?”
It was rosy pink, kind of slushy. “Tasty.” Eles licked her lips. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
Armen shrugged. “I don’t know.” Blunt, honest though. “I got a message from a friend. He…”
He trailed off, unable to talk, sinking into a feeling that was deep and belonged to a Padawan.

“Oh, is he okay?”
“Eh…he may—”
She looked away.
Covered her face.

“What did I say?” Armen cocked a brow.
“The table behind you. Don’t look, Armen.”
He looked at Eles instead. “You okay now?”
“I know that guy... He works for…bad men…”

“Bad men?” It was his turn to be confused.
“Armen…I…didn’t really tell you the truth…”
Great. Is my date engaged? Armen just listened.
She took a breath. “My family is in some debt…”

Bad men. Debt. That generally meant a criminal element to some extent.
“I wasn’t just late because of class but because— Oh no. He spotted me.”
Armen didn’t hesitate. He turned in his seat, nonchalantly, craning his head.
It was a Human, a big guy, who just then left his seat and came toward them.

 

[Armen Westyll]

Spoiler: Music IC

Big guy with an off white pinstripe suit on. Looked as clean as a garment easily dirtied.
Brown hair. Blue eyes. The Jedi sized him up in a moment. An expression like ‘Don’t mess’.
The man walked forward toward the table of the man and woman with a confident stride.
Not really strutting, just like someone who knows they’re a big guy. But not that I’m a Jedi.

“Armen!” His date, woman, hissed at him. “Don’t look!” Hint of panic on blue countenance.
“Trace…” Armen looked away, eyes into eyes. “Something you wanna tell me?” Nonchalant.
Like it’s just a game, but it wasn’t, and they both knew it. Behind them, the man approached.
Armen didn’t look, but he did sense. “I…can’t…” Trace whispered. “Not here... We should go.”

It was a solid approach. Then again… Armen sighed. There goes my braised eel in red wine…
He kept his gaze trained into Trace’s golden eyes, noted their brilliance, as he sensed a big guy.
The latter then arrived at their table. Armen expected him to stop and to say hello to the Pantoran.
He didn’t. He just kept going. Walked right past. Oh... Armen spotted his direction. Kinda crafty, man.

“Restroom,” Armen gestured, hearing his date’s heartbeat through her veins. “Might be genuine.”
He shrugged. “Or he might just want you to know that he knows you’re here. Know what I mean?”
“Shit.” Trace took a deep sip of her drink. “Shit.” Armen blinked. “Probably got his friends waiting.”
“Friends? Waiting?” Friends. Armen was Taco’s friend. Finish this first. “So…what is this business?”

“Deep shit.” Trace sighed. “My parents…father and mother both…got into some financial problems.”
He could relate. Finances were a bit of a problem for Armen when it came to this fancy restaurant.
“Borrowed a loan,” Trace went on. “Now they—we—owe it back.” Finished her drink. “Only we can’t.”
Oh. Armen blinked, forgetting his own drink. “How much we talking about?” Enough for the big man.

“A lot,” Trace didn’t bother offering a figure, and Armen didn’t need Force Sense to read her.
“And the kind of people wanting to collect this debt?” His stomach moaned. Uh-oh. Ignore it.
“The kind of people you don’t take from and not pay back. Okay?” Licked her lips. “Gangsters.”
“Ah,” Armen drummed his fingers. “You mean the kinda people who will kill you if you just slip.”

Trace nodded. "Yes."
"Well, okay, then..."
"...That's it, Armen?"
He shrugged. "Bet."

She frowned. "Thanks for understanding."
He smiled. "Don't worry. I mean, I mean—"
Pinstripe emerged from the restroom then.
"Let's pay that tab. Got your back. Don't fret."

 

[Armen Westyll]

Spoiler: Music IC

It seemed to be a good enough idea if a bit of a working theory. Pay the tab. Get out of dodge.
Only problem was, as that man began his advance after the bathroom, Armen saw no waiter.
Not theirs, anyway. Dang. Where is she? So he simply began trying to wave another one over.
He sees me. Right? Surely? Nope. That sucked. Next one. Not her attention either. Gotta talk.

“Excuse me, sir!” In retrospect Armen should’ve since learned a Force trick for getting served.
“Everything all right, sir? Need your server?” In only seconds, however, would arrive a gangster.
“Just need to pay the tab. We’re in a bit of a rush.” Right…but…surely nothing will happen here?
In hindsight, they're probably worrying about nothing. This was public. No need for her to fear.

“I’ll see what I can do about that.” The waiter smiled. Genuine. Good. That means good speed.
“Sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you two. However, will your partner return?”
It was a question a server of this establishment if no other had to ask when it came to the tab.
Wait. All this time he had been talking, Armen had been watching the floor. His back was turned.

He didn’t even see her get up and leave. Shit. What’s she doing? Where’s she going? Gone.
“I got the tab covered. Just go get our server.” He wasn’t rude but was really in a rush too.
“Sorry, sir.” The waiter’s apology wasn’t given to Armen but given to a man in a white suit.
“Don’t worry. That was my mistake.” They had bumped into each other. His eyes were…off.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Pinstripe had given Armen a look, the quickest of glances, as if in on a secret.
Or curious as to whether this kid’s girlfriend had spilled the beans to him and both are in for it.
But Pinstripe walked on. He’s going after her. This is happening. As I sit here like some dumb idiot.
“Server dude!” He snapped his fingers. Waiter turned back again, forcing his polite expression.

“Sir?”
“I don’t need to pay the tab.” He waved his hand at the man.
“Sorry, sir, but you most certainly do.”
“...” He could dart. Dip. Dine and dash. They’d be on his ass.
“It is business policy to—”
“My mistake. I already paid. You don’t need to check into it.”
“No problem. Mistakes happen. You already paid. I don’t need to check into it.”
Thank the best steak in existence and hold the fish. Armen got up. And exited.