03-26-2018, 10:34 AM
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn a formal getup.
The cybernetic warrior had never got married nor had any of his associates popped the question during his lifetime. When you were busy running around the quadrant slaying cosmic villains and partaking in interstellar politics, you often lacked the free time to get hitched. Sure, there was plenty of ‘action’ to be had, but how rare was it for those romances to work out?
Seventeen had found something, until he lost her.
Mikey had found something, until he lost her.
Violet had found six or seven somethings, until she lost them.
Now, here in a world an unknown number of universes away, Seventeen found himself dressed in the hybrid spawn of a tuxedo and a marine corps dress uniform. With the scene set all around him, the cyborg slipped back into a group of people and made his way silently toward the bar. He made it as far as twenty paces before he found himself accosted by a group of middle-aged men wearing top hats and donning monocles. For a brief moment, Seventeen questioned whether or not someone had spiked the air of the banquet hall.
“Sooooo,” one of the men remarked, his ring-adorned fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of sparkling blue chardonnay. “You’re that fancy soldier who runs around blowing stuff up … How is that, hrm?”
Seventeen glanced around, initially hoping that they had been speaking to some other nearby soldiers. When he realized that he was shit out of luck, he swallowed his pride and flashed a warm smile at the quartet of venture capitalists. “It’s springtime in Coruscant, so business is… booming,” the cyborg replied with a straight face. He had hoped for a chuckle or a grin from one of his acquaintances, but it seemed they lacked the processing power for sarcasm. Most of them merely nodded their heads before moving on with their lives.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the cyborg slipped backwards and smacked into someone. Spinning on his heels, he saw a somewhat familiar face—blonde, female, medic… the eyes were wrong though.
“You should watch where you are walking,” Aisha Knudal spoke softly as she glanced at the floor. Her drink had spilled a little, but she had been holding it nearly at arm’s length, which meant she’d avoided the need for a new dress. “You already trying to escape?”
The cyborg snickered as the pair wove their way toward one of the ancillary bars on the periphery of the banquet hall. “I’ll do better once I have something to drink,” he added as slipped into a spot adjacent to the bar. Aisha stood behind him and took some sips at her magenta-hued liqueur while Seventeen ordered one of his vintage favorites. When the raven-haired man turned around with an almost fluorescent green liquid adorned with a lime, the specialist furrowed her brow.
“What did you order?”
“Diet Mountain Dew and vodka,” he replied as he took a long gulp from the short glass. Without skipping a beat, Seventeen’s second drag from the glass sent the remainder of the mixed drink down into his gullet. “Excuse me, I need a refill, Miss,” he said with a grin as he turned to reorder.
With the second round in his hand, Seventeen took as smaller drag from a larger glass before exiting the bar.
“Something from where you’re from?” Aisha asked, gesturing to the green drink and its citrus accent.
“A classic,” Seventeen replied, leaving out the circles in which such a legendary beverage would be considered ‘classic’. The specialist, who seemed like she was somewhere in her twenties, didn’t need to know the long and storied legend that he brought the cyborg from the afterlife of one realm and into this bizarre, pocket universe and its talking turtles and white space fascists.
Somewhere in the distance, Seventeen heard something shatter. Despite the throng of people, he heard it as clearly as if it had happened at the bar behind him. He couldn’t help himself—he tensed almost instinctively. It was a miracle that he didn’t accidentally squeeze the glass in his left hand to death as he anticipated some sort of scream or eruption of violence. Instead, the moment simply passed, and the person who had dropped their glass slinked off to find a replacement drink.
“Looks like the captain isn’t the only one who thinks there’s some rot beneath the glossy veneer,” Aisha said, referring to the sea of drinking revelers. Somewhere in the distant corner of the banquet hall, a house band started to play tunes. They began with the same song that had ushered the quartet of soldiers into the building—it was the marching music for the Imperial military. On the other side of the hall, the Master of Ceremonies announced the arrival of some additional VIP guests. Seventeen didn’t recognize their names, but their ranks pegged them a few rungs lower on the hierarchy than Trixie.
“You never know,” Seventeen whispered before pausing to take another sip. “It’d be an easy target, wouldn’t it? A fancy, upscale building packed with a bunch of up-and-coming Imperial military whiz kids? What rebel wouldn’t want to blow this entire place to shit?”
“Of course,” Aisha remarked nonchalantly as she sipped at her own mixed drink. The woman was carrying heat on her, which naturally must have made her more relaxed with the idea of diving into combat.
“Begs the question, though,” Seventeen chuckled. “Maybe the Empire knows that. All we know, they might have the surrounding neighborhoods blanketed with undercover operatives. We could just be one giant honeypot they’re using to lure in would-be revolutionaries.”
Despite her stone-cold exterior, Aisha smiled and even laughed. “So we’re unknowing participants in a giant sting operation? Don’t those things usually involve drugs and prostitutes?”
Seventeen shrugged his shoulders. “Look around you. I bet you I could get drugs and prostitutes in under ten minutes.”
“Make it five and you’re on.”
“Deal.”
The cybernetic warrior had never got married nor had any of his associates popped the question during his lifetime. When you were busy running around the quadrant slaying cosmic villains and partaking in interstellar politics, you often lacked the free time to get hitched. Sure, there was plenty of ‘action’ to be had, but how rare was it for those romances to work out?
Seventeen had found something, until he lost her.
Mikey had found something, until he lost her.
Violet had found six or seven somethings, until she lost them.
Now, here in a world an unknown number of universes away, Seventeen found himself dressed in the hybrid spawn of a tuxedo and a marine corps dress uniform. With the scene set all around him, the cyborg slipped back into a group of people and made his way silently toward the bar. He made it as far as twenty paces before he found himself accosted by a group of middle-aged men wearing top hats and donning monocles. For a brief moment, Seventeen questioned whether or not someone had spiked the air of the banquet hall.
“Sooooo,” one of the men remarked, his ring-adorned fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of sparkling blue chardonnay. “You’re that fancy soldier who runs around blowing stuff up … How is that, hrm?”
Seventeen glanced around, initially hoping that they had been speaking to some other nearby soldiers. When he realized that he was shit out of luck, he swallowed his pride and flashed a warm smile at the quartet of venture capitalists. “It’s springtime in Coruscant, so business is… booming,” the cyborg replied with a straight face. He had hoped for a chuckle or a grin from one of his acquaintances, but it seemed they lacked the processing power for sarcasm. Most of them merely nodded their heads before moving on with their lives.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the cyborg slipped backwards and smacked into someone. Spinning on his heels, he saw a somewhat familiar face—blonde, female, medic… the eyes were wrong though.
“You should watch where you are walking,” Aisha Knudal spoke softly as she glanced at the floor. Her drink had spilled a little, but she had been holding it nearly at arm’s length, which meant she’d avoided the need for a new dress. “You already trying to escape?”
The cyborg snickered as the pair wove their way toward one of the ancillary bars on the periphery of the banquet hall. “I’ll do better once I have something to drink,” he added as slipped into a spot adjacent to the bar. Aisha stood behind him and took some sips at her magenta-hued liqueur while Seventeen ordered one of his vintage favorites. When the raven-haired man turned around with an almost fluorescent green liquid adorned with a lime, the specialist furrowed her brow.
“What did you order?”
“Diet Mountain Dew and vodka,” he replied as he took a long gulp from the short glass. Without skipping a beat, Seventeen’s second drag from the glass sent the remainder of the mixed drink down into his gullet. “Excuse me, I need a refill, Miss,” he said with a grin as he turned to reorder.
With the second round in his hand, Seventeen took as smaller drag from a larger glass before exiting the bar.
“Something from where you’re from?” Aisha asked, gesturing to the green drink and its citrus accent.
“A classic,” Seventeen replied, leaving out the circles in which such a legendary beverage would be considered ‘classic’. The specialist, who seemed like she was somewhere in her twenties, didn’t need to know the long and storied legend that he brought the cyborg from the afterlife of one realm and into this bizarre, pocket universe and its talking turtles and white space fascists.
Somewhere in the distance, Seventeen heard something shatter. Despite the throng of people, he heard it as clearly as if it had happened at the bar behind him. He couldn’t help himself—he tensed almost instinctively. It was a miracle that he didn’t accidentally squeeze the glass in his left hand to death as he anticipated some sort of scream or eruption of violence. Instead, the moment simply passed, and the person who had dropped their glass slinked off to find a replacement drink.
“Looks like the captain isn’t the only one who thinks there’s some rot beneath the glossy veneer,” Aisha said, referring to the sea of drinking revelers. Somewhere in the distant corner of the banquet hall, a house band started to play tunes. They began with the same song that had ushered the quartet of soldiers into the building—it was the marching music for the Imperial military. On the other side of the hall, the Master of Ceremonies announced the arrival of some additional VIP guests. Seventeen didn’t recognize their names, but their ranks pegged them a few rungs lower on the hierarchy than Trixie.
“You never know,” Seventeen whispered before pausing to take another sip. “It’d be an easy target, wouldn’t it? A fancy, upscale building packed with a bunch of up-and-coming Imperial military whiz kids? What rebel wouldn’t want to blow this entire place to shit?”
“Of course,” Aisha remarked nonchalantly as she sipped at her own mixed drink. The woman was carrying heat on her, which naturally must have made her more relaxed with the idea of diving into combat.
“Begs the question, though,” Seventeen chuckled. “Maybe the Empire knows that. All we know, they might have the surrounding neighborhoods blanketed with undercover operatives. We could just be one giant honeypot they’re using to lure in would-be revolutionaries.”
Despite her stone-cold exterior, Aisha smiled and even laughed. “So we’re unknowing participants in a giant sting operation? Don’t those things usually involve drugs and prostitutes?”
Seventeen shrugged his shoulders. “Look around you. I bet you I could get drugs and prostitutes in under ten minutes.”
“Make it five and you’re on.”
“Deal.”
Quote:YOU TRACK THE WORDS JOE
SCRUB