Log:Array Consortium: Rich Idiots
Smuggling a large load of medical relief supplies into post-poisoning Mon Calamari, Adhar, Maeve and ZHU YAN (zhu yan!) disguise themselves as a couple of rich idiots and their long-suffering transport pilot. Larfs are had.
So it's a bachelor pad - an expensive one, but still a bachelor pad.
Adhar sits on one of the couches, sipping from a glass of whiskey and staring out through the giant windows into the hangar proper. When guests appear, he smiles, and uses the intercom to call them on up. Waits quietly, jazz music playing in the background. Because jizz wailing is something you do in holoporn.
Appearing just a little bit frazzled, which is typically the way Maeve Zavir appears after being responsible for piloting her own ship from point A to possibly near or sort of near or more than likely in the general vicinity of point B, Mae strides into Adhar's bachelor pad and announces: "I need a drink. And possibly to buy a pilot droid."
Speaking of point B, WHO ELSE BUT ZHU YAN? The formerly one-armed bastard (he's still a bastard, but is back to two arms now) didn't even bother with the whole 'polite knocking' business. Knocking was for chumps. He just pushed the door open with his matte-with-shiny-bits new arm. Suddenly having a left arm again was refreshing. And a shoulder too, but that only meant his shrugging was no longer lopsided. "Ladies, gentlemen, Gann," he clapped his hands together, winced, and shook his flesh and blood one in mild pain, "let's go and smuggle a hot lady doctor on to a fish planet."
Adhar smiles as the two of arrive, being pleased - and forewarned of your arrival; rising to his feet, he instantly heads for the liquor cabinet for his vineyard bestie, Miss Maeve Zavir (Doctor Zavir if you're nasty). "Anything for you, my darling," he says to Maeve in a warm, singsong voice, grinning faintly - and then looks to Yan.
"Brother," Adhar says, barely suppresing a wince, "Between you, me, and Hex we can make up a combat droid. You all right over there?"
"Uh, I be mistah, uh sorry, Captin Fames Thodreck, chartah poilot," said Zhu Yan suddenly, his voice changing from his faux-Corellian accent into something resembling a mishmash of the lower crusts of both Coruscant and Eriadu. Then he coughed. "Nah but seriously I got my identity, a bottle of baby powder, and a hat. Oh!" he fished around in the pocket of his ICONIC BOMBER JACKET, newly restored to his really short frame. From it, he pulled three identites. "A noble ID for you," he gave one to Maeve, "an ID for you," he gave one to Adhar, "and one for me!" he held the third up in front of him. Bam. Easy. "Yeah, Sesti made this a near-exact copy of my right arm so the balance is perf!"
As he pours the wine, Adhar's expression grows expansive and breezy, Johnny Party with a very high-class Corellian accent as well, despite the scars and optical prosthetic. "Well, I don't know about you chumanisi, but I cannot /wait/ to go on this party. I mean I hear they got buildings underwater out there? Can you imagine? You don't suppose that they might need some of my daddy's filtration systems, do you? You know what they say, 'kas tulisha abia al port'. Chaos opens the door to opportunity."
He swans over to where Maeve sits, offering her the glass of wine selected - a nice, slightly sparkling amber-gold selection. "Don't you mind me, though. I got this chunka gold in my eye in a racing accident, not a battle. I'm a lover, you know. Not a fighter." He gives Maeve a wink, and extends is hand. "Chanton Sal-Solo, Lady Dumont. Charmed, I am certain." And that is...acting, actually. Wow. "And thank you, Captain."
Accepting the ID that's handed to her, Mae scrutinizes it for a moment before grinning at Yan. "You even captured my good side for the id holo," she remarks with a wink. "Not, of course, that Iliana has a 'bad' side, perish the thought," she skims one hand over her hair with a sniff of indignance. "So, Captain Thodrek is our charter pilot, and you, my love," she walks over to Adhar and curls her hand into his, giving him a dreamy-eyed look that makes the best use of those long lashes of hers, "are my afianced. We're on a party circuit, and Mon Cal is out next stop. Idle rich, after all, wouldn't want to get bored!"
"You should run these past Dawn," Adhar says to Maeve with a smirk. "Her family's Ensterites, the aristocratic caste. I guarantee you she'd be able to tell you if you were playing up to snuff." He takes the hand, and places an exaggerated kiss at the back of her hand. "Ah, what scandal it would be for her to see us now, min larel!" A beat. "Seriously though, have you heard from her? She's not been sending me any letters since the other day. She all right?"
"Aight cool," Zhu Yan spoke in the hurried sort of manner that befit a man who's time was limited, and lunchtime doubly so. "Look, the Redline is parked downstairs, we can take that. I've even rewired the IFF so it's the King's Dejarik now." Even he could hold back a groan at the lame name he'd picked. "Ugh. Well. When you two are sorted, bring your disguises downstairs and we can get dressed in hyperspace. Remember!" He held up a finger, "The more obnoxious you are, the less likely they'll see who you are!"
"Obnoxious? My dear man, I am charming. Everyone loves me," Mae replies in that snooty upper crust accent that just drips money. Old money, at that. She winks then gestures with the glass she's holding to the large duffel bag she'd dropped near the door. "Disguise is ready to go. Never leave home without at least one wardrobe option already prepared. Plus," and she flexes both hands, her recent manicure gleaming, "all the details, all the way down. Even my toes are buffed and polished." She glances sidelong to Adhar, gripping his hand for a moment. "She's alright, to the best of my knowledge. Politics being politics there's some complete asshattery going on that I'll explain along the way. I had some guys move the supplies that we're taking to Mon Cal into your hangar, so they're ready to be loaded."
Adhar gives Maeve a bit of a look at that, but then nods. "Give me twenty minutes," he says, and vanishes into a bedroom. When he returns, he is...not himself. Oh, there's the bionics, but the frame is different, gleaming blued durasteel with polished silver accents; his suit is gunmetal silk, a red sash across his chest that makes him look as though he should be the mayor of some extremely exclusive resort colony. Hair is blonde now, slicked back, and the remaining eye is startlingly blue. In fact, 'startling' is a perfect way to describe the transformation.
"Right, then," he says in that party-boy voice, "Let's go spread some goodwill to the plebians, shall we?"
The King's Dejarik, after an absurdly fast journey that likely left Adhar with no time to do his makeup or his hair or his nails or drop the hot goss about Dawn Antilles (she is a treasure, cherish her, or you might find yourself staring into the displeased face of Arnold Schwarznegger). In fact, it barely left time for Zhu Yan to turn himself from the most beautiful smuggler imaginable into a long haul space captain that was only missing the peg-leg and the eye-patch to not fall within the 'haggard sea captain' stereotype. Sea shanties? OH HE HAD THOSE. And he sang them. Badly. His hair was all salt-and-pepper from baby powder, he had a nautical hat on, and a typical blue shirt. Maybe he needed a bird of some sort on his shoulder, or a lothcat or whatever the hell dragon Ax had.
"Yarrr," he said, for old time's sake from his seat in the strangely-arranged cockpit of the King's Dejarik, "We're a'pullin' up on the old blue globe now," too pirate, too pirate, tone it down! "So if'n ye all be strapped in, I'm gonna commence the old re-entry."
Making good use of the time, Iliana aka Mae has swapped out of the black on black ensemble of button down shirt, khakis and boots to a dress that just screams 'I have more money than common sense' and heels that are designed to break ankles and make the toes of lesser women weep. With a casual skim of one hand over her hair, which is styled back in a carless twist that looks simple but takes serious skill to achieve, "Lets do this," said with a grin.
Oh, he treasures her, he does. Hence why the concern. The building dread that he's going to hear something he doesn't like, and the anger that percolates beneath it. But like all good method actors, Adhar simply tries his best to channel this into an underlying rich-boy disaffection that only serves to stiffen his smile and make the performance /truly/ realistic.
"Darling," he says to Maeve as she appears, looking down the woman with sigh. "Why don't you just dump Sar and run away with me eh?"
Everyone's disguises were on point tonight, after Adhar had had to assist Maeve in a way that both of them can elaborate upon, because they're adults, and any sexually-charged chemistry they may develop as a result at the expense of Sar Yavok was totally up to them. Word. They were so well dressed that they could very well have crashed an extravagant Imperial gala and stolen the party. Well, except Yan. Sorry Yan.
Speaking of Yan, sorry, FAMES, Fames was busy grumbling and flying the ship towards the planet and grumbling about rich people and how he worked his butt off for forty years and had nothing but a leaky ship and a busted refre-BEEPBEEPBEEP! That was the comm!
"Why-Tee Two-Thousand..." pause, "King's Dejarik," emerged over the ship's speakers, followed by a really fracking quiet snigger, "please state your intentions and transmit flight path."
Fames SIGHED. "Charterin' these two frackin' lovebirds down to that gala thing o' yours tonight," he explained, loud enough for them to hear. "'Ang on I'll put 'em on." He flipped a switch, activating the lounge intercom. "An' sendin' through the flight plans now." They weren't true, not at all, but they looked good.
Before she'll reach for the com mic Mae grins at Adhar, "Because, without me, who would keep him in nifty jackets and weapons?" is murmured in a quiet tone of voice that manages to somehow convey amusement. Somehow. As to the disguise assistance, a dress like the one that she is wearing requires someone -else- to manage the zipper. It's just how it's designed. She gives Yan a sly wink before she gives a subtle head toss, hair flip and taps the comm button with one manicured fingernail.
"Hello? I say, hello?" her voice is pitched into that upper crust corellian enunciation again, with a hint of sex-kitten thrown in for measure. "We're terribly late, the party is supposed to start a good half hour ago. We were," there's a husky little laugh given after her words, her lips curving in a suggestive smile, "delayed."
"She means to say we're shagging like Banthas at the height of the season, old boy!" Drunken slur and high-pitched, horsey laughter calculated for maximum nouveau riche loathability. "I dare say I'll end up spending half my inheritance on stain removal! Haaaaaw ha ha ha haaaaaaw!" He's all teeth. No doubt he got that bionic eye from being shot in the face for being so /fucking insufferable/.
There was a burst of static from the other end of the line before a staticky sigh emerged. "I pity you transport pilots. You gotta do this all day. Your paperwork checks out. Docking bay 94." Whatever they'd done, they'd gotten through to the guy on the other end, who was probably being teased for having to deal with yet another loved up couple that were going to cause a mess on the dance floor. Again. Third time this week.
Fames turned off the comm and re-entry began. As the ship bounced and shook, Fames said over the internal comms, "Ladies and gentlemen, please keep track of your valuables and make sure that you have every thing you need. This is your final check before customs, and if they find anything, all hell's gonna break loose."
"Better than shagging like Hutts," said in a sly tone of voice after the comm is shut off, Mae exhales a low sigh and reaches over to swat Adhar on the shoulder. "When Hutts shag it's hard to tell where one ends and where another begins. Its just two huge mucus coated bodies going at it, in slow motion." She winks at 'Fames', "I have all sorts of clothing and delicate things packed that ought to be fun to see customs go through."
"I feel like I need to change clothing just hearing that," Adhar grumps at Maeve, peering at her with his remaining eye. "Suns below."
This is why Adhar carries weapons that are entirely legal. Sword? Check. Check. Ancient-ass scattergun modified into a hand-held artillery piece? Check, and still totally legal. Somehow. These are in the luggage - and he does, in fact, have a story for it. What story? Fortune only knows, but Adhar seems perfectly confident.
Fames turned in his seat, looked back down the central corridor of the YT-2000, and /stared/.
The King's Dejarik broke through the cloud cover and set a course towards their designated berth. The approach was easy. Fames, even mentally drinking bleach to clear his brain of the horrors that had unfolded, or merged, or squished, made the approach easily. There was a thump as the ship touched down, and a hiss as the boarding ramps opened.
Below, two Customs Officers waited. One, a tall man with an expression on his face that said he wanted to be anywhere else right now, probably some fancy AF gala, was checking his chrono. Another, shorter, had an expression of either sternness or constipation on his face. "Papers, please," he said in his impeccable Coruscanti accent to whoever was coming down the ramp, probably the lovebirds since Fames was still powering down the ship.
While Fames is bringing the ship in, Iliana unfastens the safety harness and gives Chanton Sal-Solo one of those eyebrow-wobble suggestive looks before she seats herself in his lap and snuggles in like she belongs there. By the time the customs officers arrive she has one shoulder strap half lowered, a lazy expression on her face and one leg crossed over the other, one foot slowly swinging from side to side. "But of course, officer," said in that sex-kitten upper-crust Corellian accent. She leans forward, reaching for her ID from the open purse on the chair seat she just vacated, and takes her time sorting through it until leaning back with the ID in hand and offers it to the officer with a sultry sort of smirk.
"Why yes of courrrrrse," says the irritating boil on the ass of the Sal-Solo clan, offering the officer his own identification packet. He, for his part, rocks constantly on his heels, not at all subtle about staring straight at Maeve's exposed cleavage. He gives one of the officers a wink that says 'Haha, boyo, I'm swan-diving right into that with me cod as soon as we get to the hotel, what do you say to that?'
"Hrmmmm, lady Iliana Dumont, of the Dumont family. Obviously." This short guy with the space Napoleon complex had 'I hate my life so I'm gonna take it out on you' written all over him. The tall guy just wanted to go home and watch the Holonet. "And Chanton Sal-Solo. Sal-Solo." He looked at the name and hrmmmmmmed, but whatever he was thinking, he dismissed it. "State your purpose for visiting Mon Calamari, please," he requested, with the least polite version of the word 'please' ever used.
Meanwhile, Fames had finished powering down the engines and was tromping towards the ramp. Charter pilots, no one ever cared about the charter pilot.
"Alonzo's party, of course," said in that -obviously- tone of voice as sex-kitten blinks those extraordinarily long lashes of hers at the short guy with the short-man-syndrome and the grumpy voice. She glances down at her manicured nails, makes a small tsk as she finds the most minuscule of flaws in the finish. "Baby, we're going to have to find a place to get this nail repaired. I can't be seen in public with this disaster," her eyes lift again and now there's a mournful sort of look. "Tell me there's a mani-pedi repair place near the spaceport," in that earnest tone. "Alonzo will understand that we were unavoidably detained," again the scrutiny of her manicure and a sigh.
"Oooh, sexual tourism, I'd say," says 'Chanton', giving the customs man another big grin. "Drinking, convincing random virgins into whirlwind threesomes, that sort of thing - we're celebrating our engagement, after all!" He cants his head, speaking into Maeve's cleavage again. "Or would that simply be considered 'fishing', darling?"
The fact that the Sal-Solo clan didn't and couldn't actually exist flew over the heads of both of the Customs officers, neither of whom had any reason to study geneaological lines of Corellian families. The Dumonts probably existed though. The tall one, who's feet really hurt, glanced at Iliana's cleavage too. Because by god. The short one, who probably either had a wife and kids at home, could not actually care any less. That or he was more into Sal-Solo. "Hrm. Yes," said the short one. "However, your only choices are unfortunately Quarrens, but, judging from your..." he gave the one-eyed man a look up and down, "...pedigree," ouch, "I doubt you will encounter trouble on that part. One more thing." He looked at his datapad, then gave them both a gaze he believed to be withering. "Please provide the address of your destination."
By this point, Yan was standing at the edge of the ramp, looking bored AF. He looked at the tall guy and nodded, a look of sympathy on his face.
That sexy little pout on Iliana's face is paired, first, with a slow curve of a smile and the words, "Quarrens you say? Hmm. Well. I've heard that they do reliable work, when paid properly." She makes a sort of 'tsk' of sound again, mild eye-roll, "He doesn't mean virgins, of course." From there the slow curve of a smile is paired with a playful gleam in her eyes, "Though threesomes are the best sort of fun. After all, sexy fun between consenting adults is the best kind of fun. I'm sure you two see it all the time," see it not do it, there's a fine distinction there. She gives one of those subtle body language shifts again, a slight arch of her back and tilt of her shoulders, as though Chanton needs more reason to stare down her dress. "81 Daly Terrace, tower two, landing pad 71," she rattles off the address as she lifts one hand to skim her manicured nails along the material that is draped, fetchingly, across her breasts.
Not paying attention now, 'Chanton' is busy staring off into space. "I say," he murmurs, more to himself than anything, "Don't Quarrens have beaks under all those tentacles? Dash cunning of a prostitute, making sure you pay your credits while she holds your willy hostage."
This was the closest the tall one had ever been to a woman. Well, not literally, he'd hugged his mum, but maybe he had changed his evening plans from 'Get on the holonet and watch movies' to 'Get on the holonet and watch p...' okay moving on some of you have children that can and will be everywhere. "It all checks out," he said, his voice surprisingly deeper than most of Mon Cal's oceans. Put him in a mask and you could call him a Sith.
The short one with the inferiority complex who had a happy-ish home life couldn't care less about unnecessary bosom. "Very well," he said. He'd had quite enough of airy fairy old money for one evening, thanks. Stepping aside, he waved them past. "Welcome to Mon Calamari. Please don't litter." SUCCESS.
Knowing how to catch the eye of any reasonable aware man with a working set of eyes, Iliana gives another of those smiles that's all curved lips and sparkling eyes. She traces the tip of one nail across the upper curves of her breasts again, making the taller of the two track the movement. "Thank you, officer, officers," the correction is smooth but it's clear she's flirting with the taller of the two. "We'll do our best not to litter," and she tips her head back to rest on Chanton's shoulder, a playful pout curving her lips. "I do love a man in uniform," is said with a suggestive little smile. "Perhaps we can find a quarren for you and a tall man in uniform for me, have a nice foursome?" she kisses the edge of Chanton's jaw after murmuring not so quietly this idea to her fiancee.
"Well, I do like seafood..." This Chanton says with a ridiculous laugh, leaning in and kissing his 'fiancee's' temple. "Ah, darling. You spoil me so. I am truly, /truly/ glad that we're together." And this, strangely, smacks of something completely different, no artistry or dramatic dur-hur-hur. Square, strange honestly. And then it's gone. "You give me such the nicest gifts! Do you think you can buy me a few quarren girls? We can have seafood salad every night!"
It almost looked like the tall man was going to follow, but he got a sharp look of 'Oh you better fracking not' from the short man that made him harrumph in his Keith David voice and stay put. There was no further bar to access Mon Calamari for the two, but Yan walked down the ramp and said, in his impenetrable working-class accent, "Oh I'm tellin's ya, they spent the entire flight, the ENTIRE one, boning. Boning. I shut tha door to the cockpit, and I can hear the damn screams and the whole 'Ohhhhh stick it in me luv, I love it right proper!' business." He nodded towards teh possibly retreating Sal-Solo. "This from him, y'know."
Rising to her feet, and to the impressively high heels that just scream 'watch me walk', Iliana links one hand with Chanton, fingers entwining for a playful tug as she fetches her purse with her free hand and saunters toward the hatch. Saunter or sashay, one of those two words can barely describe the way her hips sway, the subtle arch of her back, red dress making that expensive silk sigh of sound as she leads the way forward. "Define 'a few'," she teases over her shoulder at Chanton, tugging at his fingers and bringing his hand to her lips for a playful kiss of his knuckles. "Baby, we were made for each other," said in that sex-kitten tone of voice again as she brushes past their charter pilot. His words tug a glimpse of a wicked grin from her as she slips a large credit tip into one of his pockets. "Buy yourself someone fun, darling, but keep your comm on."
"I'll remind you of that later when you find me drunk and drooling at the bottom of the hotel stairs, darling," says Chanton as he walks off with his busty belle, utterly out of her league/sport/local planetary system. "Haw haw!"