Open Naboo Stealth Mode

[S8R-D]

The Parnelli Museum of Art, Theed, Naboo​

It must not have seemed particularly strange to see a mid-sized droid wandering around the interior of the Parnelli Museum of Art. It might as well have been a normal occurrence that conical beams of light would be scanning the artifacts of the Wonders of Kashyyyk exhibit. Maybe it was the comfort the organics felt in the droid’s deference, as it stepped aside to make way for them; maybe it was the sheer mundanity of its presence beside the gonks and security droids that kept the place clean and safe. But somehow it seemed perfectly ordinary that S8R-D mingled among the tourists of Theed, a tourist in its own right, unnoticed and unbothered.

This particular exhibition seemed to be its favorite. While wandering around outside a nearby bar, where its primary operator had bade it wait, the probe droid had been drawn into the museum’s foyer by sculptures made of rare minerals. One thing led to another, and now S8R-D was logging all of the wood carvings and ceremonial instruments that Wookiedom had lent to this temporary display.

“Sample thirty-four!” It chirped to itself in Binary, a violet light shining on a warped bantha horn plated in gleaming metal and gemstones. With a blink, the droid’s light diverted toward an adjacent placard. “Palsaangi Clarion.”

As a science research droid, it would have been entirely content to catalog the museum’s entire collection. But suddenly, an assuming organic deposited a used cup on the large, flat surface of its head. They did not alert the droid, nor thank it. They simply turned away, freshly unburdened of the slight amount of liquid that remained inside the cup, before S8R-D could even turn around to analyze who they were. That was the most attention that had been drawn to it all afternoon and, so exposed, it simply bowed uncertainly.

Then it waddled with utmost care to the next display, resuming its scans while precariously holding a mostly empty cup on its head.

 

[Milo "Scratch" Stare]

When everyone went to an art museum, they noticed the fantastic displays. It was only natural, it was what you went there for to begin with.

No one really remembers the face of the people working in the museum's foodcourt, or administrative desk up-front, or most of all, the janitors, or the droids.

Side note: The story of how Milo had become a janitor on Naboo encapsulated this point beautifully, and susinctly.

He had smuggled himself off of Nar-Shadda by stuffing himself in the luggage of a passenger who could actually afford transit off that accursed cyberpunk hellscape, and didn't bother explaining anything when he frantically clawed his way out of the Twi'lek's suitcase when he moved to open it. There was a Twi'lek scream on the starport landing pad, a rat-like flash of grey rags as Milo bolted for the nearest crowd to blend into, and the prospect that said Twi'lek was likely confused and horrified beyond reproach at what had just happened.

Milo pursed his lips and grumbled at the thought. The Twi'lek had never "Welcomed themselves into" someone else's suitcase for space-travel, clearly they couldn't hold a torch to Milo's trauma, what did they know? I mean, sure he stuffed himself in there, but including that tad of information really would've ruined Milo's victim mentality, so he conveniently left it out.

One janitor uniform stolen from a dumpster, one memorized schedule off a data pad, and two hours of starvation-backed labor later, Milo was a janitor for the Parnelli Museum of Art, within the beautiful and idyllic city of Theed, Naboo. Another part of the forgettable blur that managed the more memorable, and extraordinarily expensive exhibits. It was practically a paradise for him. . . He could admire the security patrols, or protection systems of the facility. . and no one would even remember his face. He was just another, ordinary cog in the machine. . . yup. . .

He was really living it up as he enjoyed his break, on that sunny, idyllic Naboo afternoon. Sitting on a bench is a navy-blue janitorial jumper beside a bucket with wheels and a mop, and a half-eaten Naboo poultry meat sandwich in his hand. . . Hell, he didn't even have to steal the sandwich, they just gave it to him for pretending to mop for the last half-an-hour.

And he even had a show, as he idly watched SR8-D end up in the exact same situation he had pulled, and repressing the fact that he was envious that the droid had done it without even trying that hard. He wasn't jealous, or whatever.

He had observed the drone waltz into the densely forested "Wonders of Kashykk" exhibit. He had seen the little droid wander through flora, examine the exhibit's quite impressive models of its fauna, and observe it's, well, wonder, like any other museum guest. It was almost kind of cute, like watching a lost child get lost in the beauty of something.

He had also watched one of his fellow employees mistake the droid for one of the museum's, (Milo didn't correct him, he thought it'd be really funny to see what would happen). Then when the droid starts hauling mouth-drooling-ly expensive artifacts from one storage room, to an exhibit like it was any other day on the job with security access codes, it practically broke his mind. Bejeweled Bantha Ivory, ancient bow-caster's wielded by Wookie heroes, ceremonial instruments that would cost more than the net value of the entire museum put together!

And then, just as if to spit in the face of Milo's life-threatening struggle of becoming a janitor, a museum go-er plopped a drink on his head like the droid had been there since the day the museum had opened! The droid didn't have to waste a single percentage of battery trying to blend in!

That was the last straw, and thus Milo pulled himself up from his comfy bench, and sidled over towards the droid - taking another smug bite of his sandwich as he came up next to the thing, hoping to catch it before it wandered off.


"Oi nows, 'old it droid! Where you finkin' you's goin'?"

 

[Reiel Mal Crowholde]

She was becoming more accustomed to going out in public bare-faced and without armor, but Reiel wasn't overly worried given the fact that only a trusted few truly knew what she looked like. And even if some idiot decided to randomly follow the urge to trouble her directly, it was not as if the petite woman didn't know how to purposefully break a bone or two.

From the mess that was Tinnel IV's leave from the ISC, the Mandalorian now had more time to spend herself. She would enjoy it more together with Carrick, but she understood how busy her sorcerer was. Still, she couldn't stop the urge from rolling her eyes with frustration at the thought of the citizens of Tinnel IV not wanting the Secretary of Defense as its planetary representative. Well, whatever. They could do whatever the hell they wanted from now on...

She could already hear Nirem's boisterous laughter as the former mercenary report to her how the officials were running around like headless chickens while overseeing the planet.

NalPhone in one hand, Reiel took a quick selfie by the museum entrance and sent it to her sorcerer with a message attached, Museum date when you're free? Take care always, and don't forget to take a break! I miss you! She debated against putting a heart emoji or two, face burning with embarrassment as she stowed away her phone. After all those years, thoughts of him still never failed to make her blush.

The Mandalorian incognito – clad in a simple dress and blouse combo paired with black high-heeled ankle boots – soon found herself lost in the sheer amount of beauty and history the museum had to offer, honey brown eyes bright and sparkling with unbridled awe as she stopped by one exhibit to the next. Without her helmet and armor she was just another ordinary visitor wandering around, but the intensity with which she stared and lingered by a display earned her a few amused glances sent her way. The woman paid them no heed – rather, she was too immersed in her viewing (correction: studying) to even notice some tourists and staff glancing her way.

A pair of bickering, uniformed students passed by a mesmerized Reiel, one teenage boy trying to grab the cup of soda the other was holding. In their struggle, the dark-haired boy dropped the cup on purpose just so his friend couldn't have it, spilling bright, orange liquid across spotless floor. The other boy's dismayed groan snapped the Mandalorian back to the real world, turning to face the two youngsters and honey brown gaze drifting to the orange soda steadily crawling on the floor.

"Now you've done it!" snapped Darky as if he didn't cause the mess himself, dabbing away at the drink that stained his cuff. He glared at his friend before his gaze landed on the Mandalorian who was staring at the pair. "The hell are you looking at?!"

Reiel would've let the snotty attitude slide because she shouldn't be staring in the first place. But when the teen began to whistle at the nearest janitor (@WhatARuckus) who was approaching a droid balancing a small cup on its head (@Citheronia) and began to rudely call the former, her expression turned from curious to flat in a matter of seconds.

"Hey, bonehead! Why not do your job instead of picking up droids? Heh, can't pick up girls so he's going for droids instead–"

"No, you clean it," Reiel told the kid bluntly. "You spilled it on purpose. Clean it yourself."

"It's his job–"

"And he's obviously on his break," she cut the brat off, jutting her chin towards the scruffy janitor's half-eaten sandwich. Then, pointing a thumb at the cleaning supplies by the abandoned bench, Reiel repeated, "Clean it yourself. You caused a mess on purpose, expect to clean it up yourself."

 

[Milo "Scratch" Stare]

The sounds of the two young rich students being an obnoxious pair about the art museum was initially lost on Milo's perceptions. He had greater things on his mind. You know, like, how he was totally going to get this droid to steal him a bunch of incredibly valuable artifacts from the museum, and how he'd totally get away with that without suffering any sort of consequences what-so-ever since he was just that good. Though one spilt drink and one dismayed groan later, the duo began to catch his attention as the peripherals of his dark-circled green gaze glanced at the trail of sugary orange soda crawling across the immaculate marble floors of the museum.

I mean - it's not like he was going to do anything about it. After all, he was real busy dealing with this "museum" droid over here. So he did his best to idly to blend in like he had been and -

"Hey, bonehead! Why not do your job instead of picking up droids? Heh, can't pick up girls so he's going for droids instead–"

Milo's shoulder's flinched upwards as the recognizable vocal airy twinge of an aristocratically youthful voice called out to him, and the hand he had reached out to the droid shot back to fold upwards at the elbow, mimicking that kind of motion one does when they've touched something scalding hot.

And then they snapped at him. Twice.

I'm not even a real janitor, and of course I'm the only one in the area when these two obnoxious children make a mess . . .there is no justice in this universe, he thought miserably.

He turned towards the duo in his classic, put-upon working class hunch that he assumed when he was under the pressure of people that had more money than him. He slowly raised a bone-thine index finger, and began to open his mouth to speak.

Only someone else beat him to it. . .

"No, you clean it," the stranger told the kid bluntly. "You spilled it on purpose. Clean it yourself."

Before Milo stood a lithe, athletic woman with charcoal black hair and stern, honey-brown eyes. He stared for a moment, blink less as she spoke, wielding the demeanor and undeniable force-of-voice of a soldier but. . . all-the-while garbed in the picturesque picnic attire of a black and white blouse dress combo, and high-heeled ankle boots. . . It was certainly a sight.

"It's his job–" the kid futilely retorted, only to be cut down by the woman's undeniable presence yet again

"And he's obviously on his break." She gestured towards his cleaning supplies, and then his half-eaten sandwich - which, during the argument, Milo had taken to fully stuffing into his mouth, and swallowing. "Clean it yourself. You caused a mess on purpose, expect to clean it up yourself."

And you know what, yeah! He was on his break!

"Oi now!" he announced, now that he was done wolfing down what remained his sandwich, he began strutting fourth towards the gathering with an air of presumptuous indignation. "Litterin' in the Parnelli Museum of Art, in Theed, On Naboo?! That's a serious offense that is! Not to mention harassing this perfectly 'armless an' well-to-do museum guest? That's another offense! Not to mention vocally harassing Museum Staff?!" He threw up his arms, as if to display that was a real big deal. "I've got half-a-mind to report you to the noble art museums authorities! But . . . seeing as I'm in such a generous and benevolent mood, I'd be more than happy to let you off the hook, and even mop up this mess you've went and made . . ."

He paused, and let a moment of anticipation settle before his expression became something mischievous and smug.

". . .For a small fee of five hundred credits~ - surely, that's fair a price as any for this not to besmirch your - or your parents' - reputations with the museum? Wouldn' want to get my manager involved now would we? He's not as nice as I am, I warn you~"

He looked towards stranger in the dress, and smiled.

"That sounds like quite the fair deal for this whole mess, now doesn't it?"

@Forsythe Crowholde

 

[Reiel Mal Crowholde]

The conceited kid glared at Reiel, as if weighing his options, while his friend glanced between the two with an increasingly worrying gaze. Though taller than her, there was no way this dumbass brat could cow Reiel into lowering her gaze first. Seeing as the woman had no intention of budging and the seriousness with which she ordered him to clean up his own mess, the kid scoffed and moved to grab her by the collar - only to halt when the janitor announced himself with the haughty indignance of an important office worker barking at his colleague.

”What the hell…?” exclaimed the kid, backing off in alarm as the janitor threw his hands up and spouted an accusation and a half. The other student seemed to have given up trying to intervene and had resigned himself to simply watching the situation unfold.

Reiel, for her part, turned to regard the janitor as he rambled about how the kids committed grave offenses along the lines of littering in the museum, and harassing both ‘harmless’ guest and museum staff. Honey brown gaze scanned the man from head to toe, and not so subtly at that. The guy looked like he needed more than just a measly sandwich, a proper night’s sleep, and a sturdy comb for that mess of blond hair. The Mandalorian incognito still couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped her when the blond paused, as if for dramatic effect, before mischievously declaring his intent.

Blackmailing a pair of rich kids, really?

The woman averted her gaze, one hand lifting to cover her mouth and smother the laughter that threatened to slip past her lips. But the conspiratorial smile the blond sent her way became her undoing, a muffled snicker escaping Reiel and making her shoulders slightly shake.

”I see how it is!” snapped the arrogant kid, pointing an accusing finger between Reiel and the janitor. ”How about I tell your manager you’re extorting us or something! Is this your damn modus? You’re working together, aren’t you?”

The allegation only fueled Reiel’s amusement further. She lowered her hand, her face flushed from restrained laughter, and cleared her throat before regarding the snotty brat with barely concealed humor.

”If I was with him, I would’ve told him to ask for more than five hundred,” she said, glancing at the janitor with an amused twinkle in her eyes. ”And five hundred only? Really?” The petite woman gestured at the logo of the Royal Academy of Theed emblazoned on the pair of teenagers’ uniforms. ”At least make it five hundred each.”

It was her turn to pause, gaze drifting between the stuttering boys and the janitor. After a beat, Reiel added,

”And make this pompous brat-” she pointed a thumb at the boy who spilled his drink, ”-clean up the mess. Imagine if he spilled the drink on one of the artifacts or art pieces instead… five hundred won’t even begin to cover repairs and restorations, and I bet they're gonna pin the blame on you, because who are you to them? Just a janitor, that's who. C’mon, pay the man up, he’ll be kind enough to put it in the donation box or something for you.”

Grumbling, the kid begrudgingly nodded, fishing for credits in his pockets before stuffing them in his friend’s hand. He glared at Reiel, at the janitor, then stomped off towards the cleaning supplies.

”Is that the kind of behavior a future governmental leader should have? Where’s the apology? The humility?”

Turning to the janitor as the kid began to mop up the spilled drink, Reiel crossed her arms over her chest and regarded the blond with faux sternness.

”Aren’t your employers paying you enough?”

@WhatARuckus

 

[S8R-D]

It all happened so fast.

S8R-D turned toward the janitor that addressed it with an alarmed jump that nearly sent its glass cup tumbling off the top of its head. But with a dexterous scooping movement it retained its burden, which twitched precariously as it turned its head between the parties of the scene that unfolded. A preventable mistake, an entitled order, an honorable intervention, and a bold proposition later, and the droid found itself a part of something that was a hazard to its current objective.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed, to use the cover of commotion to pretend that it had never been noticed at all. It had not been carrying anything but a cup, merely scanning the items of display for its databank-- and it did have an innate, programmed desire to continue doing that. The truth of the matter, though, is that its heuristic processor made it crave the attention of organics. It was programmed to help them, to serve them, to improve their lives. And if there was any one person in this group who deserved that, it was the person who acknowledged the droid when no one else did.

“You will clean up the mess,” it interjected, addressing the noble boys in the only language it knew: the chirps and whistles of birdsong-like Binary. In case the message was unclear to anyone who did not know S8R-D’s manner of speaking, it had another way of getting its point across.

Suddenly all of its sensors burst from its carapace like so many spider legs bent on attack. A rangefinder, an energy scanner, a substance analyzer, a geoscanner, and a hologram projector splayed out in a threatening stance, so many little bits of metal and wires that a layman might not recognize as totally harmless. Even the menacing hum of its laser drill and the aggressive clack of its manipulator arm were only marginal threats. Its spark projector snapped at the boys, much like they had snapped at Milo, as it added, “And you will apologize for your behavior.”

The effect was only marginally compromised by the empty cup that remained on its head.

(OOC: For what it’s worth, I can usually only reply on weekends.)
@WhatARuckus @Forsythe Crowholde

 

[Milo "Scratch" Stare]

The stranger had an . . . interesting response to his extortion offer, and the fact that her first reaction wasn't an over-important disgust over blackmailing a couple of snobby rich-kids, was so green a flag, it'd put the actual forests of Kashyyk to shame. Though he was suddenly made less hopeful by the realization that green was also the color of poison, and maybe he just had walked into something he couldn't ever walk away from.

(He could run if it came to it though, he was good at that)

That fact that she had smiled, laughed - GIGGLED, brought the first slight pang of terror to Milo's conscience. Plenty of times he had be rung along by someone just pretending to be nice and amicable. Like that one time a bunch of cute pole-dancers on Nar-Shadda said he'd look great in a dancer's outfit, and they were real charming enough so obviously he put one on to impress them (he was a certified brave boy, he wasn't going to miss his chance). Next thing he knew the dancers were gone and there was a blaster at his head from the club owner, shouting at him to get inside and dance or he'll be beaten so bad he'll never dance again.

So, long story short, playful giggles terrified him, among many other things.

Compound this with a near heart-attack at the mention of calling his manager by the snobby kids (nothing could terrify Milo so much as being threatened by a boss he wasn't actually working for, somehow that second bit made it scarier), and he was physically shaking in his size-too-large rubber janitorial boots. They might've even squeaked on the not-so-squeeky-clean marble floor.

And then she made her counter offer.

”If I was with him, I would’ve told him to ask for more than five hundred. . ." and she turned to him "And five hundred only? Really?”. She gestured a strong, affirmative hand to the logo emblazoned on the student's prim-and-perfect uniform "At least make it five hundred each.”

To Milo's thieving, and frankly, stupid brain, he interpreted that observation more-so as a threatening command, rather than what was likely just a lucrative suggestion. The museum guest - no, the cunning, merciless , intimidating extortionist in a black-and-white blouse-dress combo with form-fitting high-heel boots was obviously just a high-ranking hutt-syndacite member on vacation or something, and sniffing credits in the water, she did not want to be caught lacking.

And, as if to cement this manifested identity. She forced them to clean up a mess he was(nt) hired to clean. Classic display of thug dominance.

“You will clean up the mess,”

Milo did his best to strangle his yelp as the binaric, chip-tune'd words of a droid came beeping in from somewhere below his knees.

When he craned his dark-circled gaze to the familiar bot that (to Milo) had practically manifested before him, he full on jumped a half-a-meter backwards at the sight of viscous, whirling tools that sprouted from the small bot like devices of torture! A rangefinder (for tracking down his prey, obviously), an energy scanner and substance analyzer (those were for injecting the optimal painful toxins and poisons into his victims)! A holoscanner and like, a bazillion different loose mechanical bits and electrical wires! A geoscanner (so he could find grounds deep enough to bury those stupid enough to cross it and its master!).

"And you will apologize for your behavior.”

And then there was something in that last train of thought about the geo-scanner, something that just clicked.

This was the very same droid scanning those insanely priceless artifacts, and it was a master of blending into environments like this (obviously). Not to mention it was in the same place as the scary hutt-syndacite lady who was blackmailing the dumb rich kids. . .

The droid was working for the lady

The lady wasn't here on vacation, she was scouting a potential break-in

The lady was the droid's master.

It all made perfect sense.

And then the lady turned to him, tearing him from his brilliant internal deduction with a face as stern as the day was long.

”Aren’t your employers paying you enough?”

Technically, they weren't paying him at all. But that response was going to either get him laughed at, or shot, and he didn't want to suffer either of those things. Especially from a certified hutt-syndacite mastermind. So took a moment to calm his quite easily shaken nerves, and he scratched at his burnt-off scalp with a ragged hand. His dark-circled eyes never really leaving the droid and it's many whirling bits.

"H-hah! Well, 'fink of it this way. If they're spendin' so many-a-credits on these. . . fantastically valuable artifacts, they ain't a whole lot left for lil' ol. . ."

- Don't say Milo, that's your real name dumbass

" . . .Scratch. . . I jus' uh, try to make ends meet is all."

He paused, put on his best nervous wreck of a smile, and leaned down to the droid in the terrified way someone leans down in front of a violently rabid canine to remove the bottle from it's head. It was a gesture of good faith, if not a hopeful gesture to earn himself mercy points if it's master decided to ever turn one of those many torture devices on him, rather than some rich school boys.

Speaking of which, he gave a quick glance over towards the duo and their mopping, and after ensuring they were far enough, he continued talking.

"Plus I hate rich pillocks. . . - NOT speaking of which" He turned back to the stranger, and the droid at that. "I've got you two t'thank for gettin' me out'a that mess. Anythin' I can do to return h'favor? Free sandwich at the cafeteria. . .? Free battery charge for t'lil guy? - OH! Maybe Early access to . . some exhibit or one another? I've got basic security access to pretty much everythin' except th'REAL expensive exhibits"

I mean, he was talking to a certified hutt-syndacite badass and her drone, the need for complete subtly would really only get in the way of things like, I don't know, unfathomable credits.

Speaking of which. . . his gaze slyly drifted towards the large sum of credits in her hand. . .

"On an' related note. . . how's it you plan on splittin' them credits. . . E-ehehe. . H-hopefully thirty three percent alls round - Droid included, that is. . . I'd say we uh . . . all did an' equals part in it all"

Of course he knew the droid was working for the hutt-syndacite lady, but by framing it this way he thought he might get a bigger cut. If he tried it 50-50, the crime boss before him would obviously say that her droid had lent a hand, and for that she should be paid more . . .
but this way. . . He got just that little extra - and, you know. . his day was going great so far, why not push it a little more in his favor? What could go wrong? And who knows, maybe the droid and her master had a more 'partners in crime' vibe rather than a 'master and servant' deal.

@Forsythe Crowholde @Citheronia

(OOC: Gots it! Eheheh that's kickass to know - I'll be sure to wait till the weekend then, and I'm sorry if it seems like jumped the gun in continuing without you - that's primarily my fault.)

 

[Reiel Mal Crowholde]

The droid the janitor seemed to be chasing after earlier had joined the verbal fray, showcasing an array of tools it was equipped with in what should have been a display of grave threat. The empty cup on its head wobbled precariously but otherwise remained there. The pair of troublesome teenagers would’ve laughed at the droid as it added to the conversation with its chirped and whistled Binary, but they seemed to come to a consensus and decided against it when Reiel shot them an unimpressed glance and resumed mopping the floor. Spoiled brats these days, thinking they could make others do their bidding willy-nilly. The sense of entitlement never ceased to both amaze and annoy the petite woman.

”Alright, buddy, calm down,” the Mandalorian told the droid with a smile both amused and somewhat surprised that it chose to stand up for the janitor. ”Besides, I think telling them to apologize seems a bit far off right now. Not when they’re forced to clean up an’ all… so let's just make do with what we have.”

When her gaze returned to the blond, Reiel’s brows shot up at the sight of him looking as if he was gearing up for a panic attack. The way he glanced between her and the droid, as if the gears in his mind were turning to piece a complex puzzle, followed by the all-too familiar glint in someone’s eyes when they were experiencing a light bulb moment - tell-tale signs of something that piqued the Mandalorian’s interest. She didn’t even spare one of the teenagers a glance when he trotted over and handed her the credits. Her full attention was drawn on the janitor as he fumbled for a response to her question, the brief pause he made before giving her his ‘name’ not slipping her notice.

The nervous smile sent her and the droid’s way, and him bending down to pick up the cup on the bot’s head, spoke of a bloke seemingly intent on earning either or both her and the droid’s favor. And really, there was no need to return the favor - Reiel had confronted the kids because they were being nuisances. It wasn’t as if she scolded them so as to purely stand up for the janitor they chose to harass. But the way the janitor - Scratch - expressed to return the favor a bit too eagerly, and not to mention the sly gaze sent to the creds in her hands…

The stern expression on Reiel’s face melted and gave way to an almost shark-like grin.

She made a show of counting the money in her hands before splitting it 50-50. She glanced at the droid, to the credits, then back at the small bot, ignoring Scratch on purpose for a bit. She was no mind reader, that was a Jedi or a Sith’s or any trained Force-user's go-to trick, but judging from the way Scratch seemed to speak as if he somewhat thought that she knew the droid was a funny prospect to her. And splitting the credits? She didn’t need these, she’s got secret stashes saved up in Hod Ha’ran and she knew where.

”I’ll hold your share for you for now,” she addressed the droid in a bright tone that brooked no argument. Reiel then took one of Scratch’s thin hands, turning his palm up, then promptly dumped the rest of the credits on his waiting hand. She looked up at the janitor then winked, before shooting the two teenagers one last glance.

”Be nice now, especially you, Darky,” she told the pair who were finishing up with their mopping. The pair then came over, with Darky practically shoving the mop and bucket at Scratch before scurrying off with tails tucked between their legs. ”Someday you’re gonna take up that attitude on the wrong person and end up with a broken jaw. Or worse.”

Of course she was the ‘wrong person’ there, but she wasn’t in the mood for making a demonstration. Not when there was someone interesting right here - and two of them, at that. Because really, the droid didn’t need to involve itself and yet here it was.

Reiel let Scratch’s hand go, only to hook her arm with his. If he was so intent on returning the favor, then why not humor him? Besides, she wanted to see how this would all play out - a janitor who seemed more like a crook and an S8R Vector-Class Probe droid which looked like it needed a new paint job and a maintenance or two.

”An interesting offer, Mister Scratch! By all means, please give us that early access to ‘some exhibit or one another’,” Reiel said, fingers curling on the blond’s arm. She glanced at the droid and gave it a wink as well, hoping that it would agree and come with them.

@WhatARuckus @Citheronia

 

[Milo "Scratch" Stare]

Fifty percent! There was some mercy left in this accursed, violent galaxy!

A wide and blatant grin of his own cracked across his face like flames crawling up a bonfire. Sure, he felt a little guilty that the droid wasn't getting his cut - he did his fair share in scaring off those insolent rich kids - but it's not like he was gonna look a gift-bantha of fifty percent in the mouth.

Though he shuddered once and shakily at the wink the agent had offered him afterwards. Nevermind the fact he was afraid of just winking in general, he was more afraid if it had meant something that he was unaweres of. Many and eldritch were the secret hand-signs and code-phrases of Cartell operatives, and he did not want to be caught lacking in knowledge of such a death-oriented subject. He shot back an overtly exaggerated wink, keen to keep up the lie that he was really cool, and, in the know.

He was giddily counting his credits as they were placed in his hands, his mind half-lost in the day-dream of what he could do with so much financial freedom, when the mop thrust into his arms by the aforementioned rich kids threatened to spill that precious currency from his grasp. Fumbling with the desperation of the truly poor, his lanky arms shot about to grasp the credits that tumbled from his hands - just barely regathering all of them from the aftermath of the irate gesture.

He stuck out his tongue at the rich kids, and made a variety of other vastly inappropriate gestures, just so they know what he thought of him in no uncertain terms.

"Someday you’re gonna take up that attitude on the wrong person and end up with a broken jaw. Or worse.” - Said the Cartel Agent as the defeated rich kids ashamedly shuffled off. He smiled his best shit-eating grin of mockery, and tacked on his own insult as they walked off.

"Hah! Roigh' as she said, you rich pillocks! Else those pretty-boy eyes of yours will see where even the stars don'-"

His voice froze in his throat as the women hooked his arm with his, and began waltzing off . . . with him in tow.

"An interesting offer, Mister Scratch! By all means, please give us that early access to ‘some exhibit or one another’,”

Oh right. Fuck. He actually had to make good on that promise.

The smug and victorious visage of Milo immediately melted to his more normal expression of constant fear and discomfort, but nevertheless he managed some wreck of a smile as he led the agent through the densely forested Kashykk exhibit, all too aware of how easily she could end his life if she so wished it. Her arm wasn't hooked that tight, but he could feel the hint of a dangerously effective set of lithe muscles from beneath the sleeves of her dress. He gulped, and did his best not to stutter as he walked forth.

"W-well, by all means! Th'biggest - an' currently least observed - exhibit we've gots roigh' about now is. . . "

He paused briefly, craning his dark-circled gaze around to make sure no witnesses or security devices were within earshot.

"An' old exhibit on some ancient well-to-do Naboo family's relics. . . . All th'rage is set about this Kashykk exhibit, or anythin' to do with the royalty, whatever that means, of Naboo . . but the not-so-famous rich folks often have exhibits of their own tha' rotate in an' out as place holders of th'real popular ones. . ."

He came to the end of a long, straight hallway spotted with either forested Kashykk exhibits, set-dressing, and other such artifacts being prepared for exhibition. At the end, a metal security-locked door lay bare before them, with a touch-pad console rightly adjacent. Milo, as ever, had told a lie about having security codes, that was why he had wanted the droid to begin with. . . but that didn't mean he was incapable of getting in.

From beneath the collar of his janitorial jumpsuit, he pulled out a lanyard with an I.D hanging from it like a pair of dog tags.

An I.D he had taken keen to. . . making some friendly, totally-legal modifications too, that might've bumped up his security access restrictions. You know, just so he wouldn't have to go through all of that democratic nonsense if he had wanted to get somewhere. It was really just for the efficiency of the museum, of course. He was just putting in that extra-work as an employee.

With his nervous smile, he took the lanyard off his neck and held up the I.D to the data pad. It paused for a moment, and displayed that circular loading animation that many computer's did in moments of registration like this. The circular animation played, and played, and just as it might've seemed like it would've denied his entry. . . the interface glitched with black and white static, and a moment later returned to normal. Now presenting a radiant green

Access Granted.

He whistled proudly to himself, stepped in, and with a sweeping right arm hit the lights of the storage room as the door shut behind them.

In front of them was a collection of artifacts of the lesser houses of Naboo. Commissioned paintings, ceremonial head dresses and glittering treasures. Countless gem-embroidered insignia's and jewelry, tabards that hung from the walls with countless irradiant colors of house sigils. The harsh white lights of the industrial storage room seemed to make everything that shone, glitter with radiance and wealth.

Milo looked to the cartel agent, and his nervous wreck of a smile widened.

"Y-you know. . what with these valuable artifacts bein' placeholder exhibits. . . I'm sure no one would really mind if they went missin'. Plus. . .After all my hard, back-breaking work that I do for this museum, I think I'm in for a bonus. Wouldn't ya agree?"

Of course, it wasn't like he was keen on sharing that bonus. . . but that moment was yet to come, he just needed to wait for his opportune moment. . . just a little longer. . . just until this scary cartel agent was distracted. . .

@Forsythe Crowholde

 

[Reiel Mal Crowholde]

The Parnelli Museum of Art's security, let alone the strict screening its staff boasted of when it came to guarding and protecting the art pieces and artifacts they kept and displayed, was becoming more of a letdown for Reiel. Staff shouldn't be offering guests early access to upcoming exhibits, let alone trips to the storage room, unless said guests were stakeholders or members of high-ranking museum staffers.

Still, she went on with humoring the janitor, all smiles as they traversed the hallway uninterrupted. She so badly wanted to huff out one disappointed sigh after another at the complete lack of security personnel posted by the storage room. Reiel had to restrain herself, though, and instead subtly kept an eye on Scratch as they approached the metal door. The Mandalorian incognito didn't even bother with admiring the rest of the Kashyyyk exhibit on their way to their destination; her focus was now solely commandeered by this seemingly jumpy yet roguish janitor.

She was in no way judging him based on his job, but as far as Reiel knew a lowly janitor shouldn't have access to restricted sections of the museum – the storage room containing highly valuable stuff, to name a few. Sure, there were areas cleaning staff were allowed access and entry, but she couldn't buy what Scratch had sold her. Reiel didn't know the guy, but the way he presented himself, down to his overly eager desire to earn her (and the droid's who seemed content to get left behind; the little guy not following the pair of organics didn't escape her notice) favor were minor red flags that she took careful notice of. She didn't personally know Scratch, and really, she didn't want to judge, but she had been around crooks and criminals for as long as she could remember and there was something about the blond that reminded her of those kinds of people.

Sure, he presented himself as a janitor. But was he really one, or was he more than that? Reiel had learned to follow her instincts even if the facts presented to her weren't all too complete. So when Scratch gestured for her to enter the storage room she followed, her smile disappearing and her eyes never once straying on the glittering, expensive valuables held within.

Reiel walked in after him, turned around, opened the door, and promptly walked back out.

"I think you're in for a bonus, alright." The once playful tone she wore when talking earlier had all but vanished, replaced with a thoughtful and somewhat strict one. Reiel's hand remained on the door, honey brown gaze – laced with both mischief and military authority – landed on Scratch, the smile on her lips fading.

The Mandalorian retrieved a commlink from her dress' pocket. She had no solid proof but Scratch's words and actions, but there was something endearing about him that Reiel didn't want to go to waste by siccing security on him. He didn't suit janitorial work – to her, anyway. Maybe he could be suited for something else?

She would decide if he took the offer she would make. But first...

"I haven't told you my name yet, and you haven't asked. Aren't you curious, Mister Scratch?" Reiel asked him, gaze fixed on the man. Though her posture seemed rather relax, the Mandalorian was gauging and waiting for any action the janitor might make.

@WhatARuckus