Date 18: House Vorreena dance

originally posted in April of 2011

Vanya’s eyes widened a bit with every few words. She continued to stare up into Spar’s sternly lecturing face, wordless -- shocked, perhaps -- until finally he had passed every point at which he’d expected the Jedi to interrupt. He stared back down at her for one heartbeat. Finally he snapped: “Well?”

She took half a step toward him, definitely invading his personal space, but perhaps justified by an intention to keep her voice from carrying back into the castle; he refused to give any ground, even if it meant they stood less than ten inches apart. “Are you on drugs?” she asked in a near-whisper.

“What?!”

He drew in an infuriated breath to answer that ludicrous charge, but she continued over him with a short, sharp hand-wave of negation. “Don’t give me that. You can be honest with me on this. Has someone in that rabid-womprat-infested pit called the Council of Ministers’ Advisory Panel slipped you an addiction to spice? Because otherwise this moment makes no gorram sense.”

The problem with Vanya, well one of a hundred problems really, was that she never reacted properly to an intimidating loom. Maybe that was one of the side-effects of being short. Or thick-headed. Regardless its source, she failed to notice Spar’s reflexive lean except to tilt her head that tiniest fraction further upward. She pointed back through the narrow stonework hallway toward the brilliantly-lit ballroom: “Who is the most gorgeous woman in that chamber?”

Now what in the hell does that have to do with--

“Your. Wife,” Vanya bit out. “No question. She’s a beautiful, confident, graceful, deadly woman. She is wearing a dress made from Isconda silks, in nine perfectly layered shades of wine-dark maroon, exquisitely tailored to her every curve by the personal hands of a designer at the absolute height of his considerable talent. That dress alone should cost enough to bankrupt more than one Count’s annual budget, but in the powder room I also happened to catch a glimpse of those man-killer boots she’s wearing under the dress -- the ones whose straps wrap all the way up to the weapon sheaths, halfway between hip and knee? Yeah. Oh my word. It is more than worth every last centicred.

“And here you are.” Vanya tapped the wall just passed Spar’s shoulder, meaningfully. “Do you have any clue how many men in that room -- and, let’s not forget, no few of the women -- are finding it nearly impossible to take their eyes off Ventress right now? Do you have the faintest notion what percentage of those would gladly give their eyeteeth just to win a pleased smile from her? They were gnashing their mental teeth for a bit because she walked in with you. Vor rules, man, you can flirt a tiny bit with a married woman but if you try to get serious about it, you better not be surprised when she or her husband object. Only instead of cradling that gorgeous creature in your arms like a man with an actual pulse, and did I mention that most of the dances they play at these things are the socially approved closest thing to foreplay with all your clothes on? But no. You aren’t there with her. She’s dancing with Sir Tam. Because I asked him to go offer, because I spotted Baron Vormeder drifting in her direction and he’s got wandering hands, and I’d hate for Lady Ventress to have to rumple this event -- or her dress -- in the process of breaking his fingers for him. And you? You’re supposed to be worshipping your date. And breaking hearts thereby. Not,” and here Vanya took one last aggressive step toward the former ARCtrooper, “absolutely not drawing me off into a balcony hallway so you can crab at me for attending a meeting -- to which I was invited -- oh and the invitation was made in person, not even over holovid; a business meeting of the entire Beskar Aran, fergodsakes -- that took place three weeks ago!”

She looked absolutely outraged, as she finally thumped him on the lapel. “So I’m giving you this one chance to admit that you are on drugs instead of just plain mentally compromised, after which I will discreetly get you the help you so obviously need. Otherwise, you march your shebs back into that gorram room, and you politely slip around its perimeter until you’re back where your wife left off, and the instant the current music is ended you go up to her and bow like a goddamn gentleman and request the favor of the next dance, and you spend the rest of the night adoring her like you damn well ought to. Or I will!”

That was … really not at all the way he’d ever imagined his adversary might react. Attempt to chew him out, sure, but on the grounds of the relationship with his fellow clones, on the points he had raised, not at all on -- did she just question his masculinity?!

“Listen, you little idiot, I’m happy to watch every biped in the galaxy drool in Asajj's wake, because I’m the only one gets to see her naked,” he half-snarled. “You can butt right back out of--”

Vanya struck without warning, knotting her left fist in his shirt just below his collarbone and yanking him bodily past her to throw against the hall. A lightsaber flared active in her right hand, why did no one ever frisk the damned Jedi at these no-weapons-permitted events, and he rolled to a crouch just before three of the Emperor’s Guard came running past him to attack her.

No, to join her.

The narrowness of this hallway didn’t permit much room; all three men had to stop a few feet behind her position. Two immediately dropped to their knees and leaned toward the walls, shooting around her toward the glinting forms coming from the balcony, while the third stopped behind them, hefted his carbine up to his shoulder, and started judiciously picking off more distant figures as they dropped down onto the balcony railing.

“Can’t be just a pointless argument with this one guy who’s jealous over his friends,” Vanya groused as she increased the pace of both lightsabers, knocking incoming blaster-fire away; “oh no; it’s got to be frakking Reavers screwing up our date now. Davish, I’ve got this spot bottled up but they’re not coming in nearly fast enough, could you start searching for a third entry point? It’s probably on one of the less-guarded floors -- and Spar, you’re not even wearing a blast vest; get the hell out of our combat zone and go organize the Security Office, would you?”

“You don’t suppose they’re attacking anyone more important?” he returned. “For instance, the Emperor?”

Her voice was growing bland and vague as she focused more intently. “They’re Reavers. They’re attacking bodies. Go direct strategy, dammit, and stop needling me.”