Chapter Text
The ballroom was too hot, too loud, and full of too many people Kleya Marki wanted dead. There was something rotten here at the core of it all, the decay beneath the surface of the rich and powerful of Coruscant, all barely masked by a thousand mismatched perfumes.
Her finger still throbbed from disarming the touch-painting's hidden microphone the night before, and a night of more pointless Ascension Week festivities seemed like a punishment for a crime she had not gotten around to committing.
Yet.
Kleya resisted the urge to check where the dataspike was securely fastened in her elaborately pinned hair. The exchange with her contact had gone smoothly enough: a brush-pass near the refreshers, the spike quickly worked into her hair, the kind of transaction she could do in her sleep. But the real value of tonight hadn't been the dead drop. It had been the conversations.
Three separate clusters of Naval officers, drinks loosening their tongues, discussing fleet deployments and supply routes like they were discussing the weather. An undersecretary from the Imperial Security Bureau complaining about jurisdiction disputes on Ryloth. A Moff's aide mentioning, casually, that the Emperor would be touring the Outer Rim in six weeks.
Intelligence like that couldn't be found on a recording. It had to be contextualized and delivered in person to Luthen. Which meant she'd needed to stay far longer than she'd wanted, circulating through the crowd with aching feet and a smile that felt painted on.
The crowd pressed too close for her comfort. Wealthy idiots in ceremonial uniforms they'd never earned, Senators' wives dripping with jewels mined by slaves, Imperial officers congratulating each other on promotions bought with blood that wasn't theirs.
She needed air. More importantly, she needed a place to think.
She spotted a quieter bar set up in the corner of the ballroom and made a beeline over to it, snagging one of the empty stools before any of the other circling guests could spot the opportunity. The layers of her navy silk gown rustled as she sat: expensive, elegant, and completely impractical for standing and smiling for four hours straight. She carefully eased her toe into the arch of her other foot, loosening the tight shoe with a sigh of pained relief as the blood rushed back to her abused toes.
It was a good vantage point. She could see three exits from here, track the movement of the various delegations she'd been shadowing, and still maintain the appearance of a bored socialite taking a break from dancing. And as a bonus, she could even manage a drink as a reward for a hard night's work.
The bartender, a bored-looking human with a scar threading across his bottom lip, slouched over. "What'll it be?"
"Nothing blue. Nothing flammable." She tapped her heel absently against the rung of the stool.
“More bitter or more sweet?” he asked. She might have thought it was flirtation if it wasn’t said in such an utterly flat tone.
“Bitter,” she said immediately.
A brisk nod, then the bartender produced a bottle with a label that looked like it had been through a war zone. He poured a glass and left her alone with the murmur of the crowds.
Kleya took a slow sip and nearly choked on the bite of numbing spices. "Stars," she muttered, and set the glass down too hard, trying not to cough. There was nothing redeeming about the drink. It went straight to the kick, pulled no punches. She had expected something much milder and watered down.
"Not to your taste?"
The voice came from her right. Not loud, but precise, each word given an exact weight. The kind of voice that expected to be heard without needing to demand it.
Kleya turned, her hand still on the glass, and found herself face-to-face with an alien officer. It wasn't the cobalt blue of his skin that made her pause, or the sharp angles of his features, but the way he stood: poised, certain. He wore a crisp olive dress naval uniform, gold bars winking from the shoulders. High rank, then. But where the rank plaque and code cylinder should sit at his breast, there was only a curious expanse of blank wool, as if both had been sliced away.
The oddity was enough for the more analytical parts of her brain to catch up and begin automatic processing. Flag officer. Recently promoted or recently stripped of insignia: which? Non-human in a human-dominated command structure means exceptional or connected.
But most of all: potentially useful.
His crimson eyes flicked to her drink, then back to her face. Not the lazy assessment most of the partygoers gave when they looked at her, but the way Luthen looked at a new prospect, weighing value.
"It tastes like someone's idea of a drink," Kleya said, recovering. "Not the real thing."
His mouth curved slightly. "Isn't that what Ascension Week is for? I'm told nothing's authentic except the hangover."
There was something dry in his tone, almost amused.
She studied him more carefully. The slight distance in his expression wasn't boredom; but she didn’t know how to read his features to understand what it might be. It didn’t seem to be directed at her, based on his conversation so far. Only one thing was obvious.
"You don't seem to be celebrating," Kleya observed.
"I am celebrating." He glanced at the crowd, then back to her. "I simply prefer to do so at a remove from the enthusiasm."
"Enthusiasm is one word for it."
"I would accept several alternatives." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Most of them less charitable."
Kleya felt a moment of unexpected recognition. Here was someone else tired of these artificial festivities. There was an edge of impatience beneath the control, barely visible but definitely there. Her attention started to shift away from the low-level anger these useless parties entailed and towards the enigmatic stranger.
"If you'd care to sit down," she said, gesturing to the stool beside her, "you can certainly find out for yourself whether the drinks are worth the company."
He raised one dark eyebrow, a micro-expression of consideration, then sat. His posture remained perfect, his gaze tracking out across the ballroom's windowed view of the Coruscant night sky.
The bartender returned, and Kleya watched his reaction to the newcomer carefully. A slight stiffening of the shoulders, jaw set. Definitely the blue skin, then: enough to make him uncomfortable. She could see the quick expressions track across his face, see the moment he decided the uniform outweighed the alien. The officer either didn't notice or didn't care.
She noted the indifference with something like approval. Confidence, not arrogance. He knew his value and didn't need to prove it.
"White Alderaanian wine," the officer said. "If you have it. If not, something dry."
The bartender returned after some time with a glass of pale amber liquid that caught the light like honey.
The officer turned to her, head tilting slightly. "It is customary for my people to toast before drinking with companions." He raised his glass, and for a moment his gaze locked on hers, unnervingly direct. His eyes were startlingly bright, an incandescent red. "To finding refuge in unexpected places."
Kleya lifted her glass, meeting his eyes despite the urge to look away. "I'll drink to that."
They both drank. The sharp astringency of her drink hadn't lessened, but she swallowed it anyway. His wine, from the brief expression that crossed his face, was apparently more palatable.
Information, Kleya.
She set down her glass and took the risk. "So what brings you here, besides terrible drinks and refuge?"
"A celebration." He paused, and she watched the way he chose his words with visible care, as though each one required evaluation before use. "I received a promotion I had been... pursuing."
The hesitation was slight, but she caught it. Pursuing. Not "working toward" or "hoping for." Pursuing with active intent.
"Congratulations." She kept her tone light. "Must have been quite an achievement."
"It was necessary. Whether it was sufficient remains to be seen."
Interesting. Not satisfied, then. Or satisfied with the achievement but not what came with it. She filed that away: an officer who'd achieved his goal and found it wanting was either dangerously disillusioned or dangerously ambitious. Possibly both.
"Sufficient for what?" she asked.
His eyes cut to her, sharp. For a moment she thought she'd pushed too far, asked the kind of question that would make him remember he was talking to a stranger.
Then he said, "To justify the cost."
Simple words. But underneath them she heard both ambition and sacrifice. The sense of a man who'd measured everything he wanted against everything he'd given up and hadn't finished summing the total.
Kleya understood that math intimately. There was something compelling about someone who admitted uncertainty, who'd achieved everything and still wondered if it was enough.
Dangerous thinking. She usually preferred her contacts less... complicated.
"And was it?" she asked. "Worth it?"
He turned back to her, and she felt the weight of his full attention. "I’ll know soon."
Not yes. Not no. I don't know yet.
She wanted to know more. She wanted to know what a high-ranking Imperial officer considered costly, what he'd sacrificed, what he thought he'd gained. Intelligence, absolutely, but also genuine curiosity.
The instincts she trusted whispered: Dangerous.
But in this moment, she decided, she didn't care if it was dangerous or not. There was a certain freedom in having this conversation, and he'd piqued her curiosity.
"What do you get after such a promotion?" she asked. "Are you sent to pick a fight? Or just enjoy a better view?"
She kept her tone teasing, light.
She had expected him to take offense despite the tone. To her surprise, he did not. "They don't send me to start wars." His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. "They send me to solve problems. Efficiently."
There was no pride in it, no boasting. Just statement of fact. This is what I do. This is what I'm good at.
She believed him.
The predictable Imperials were the ranting zealots and the corrupt bureaucrats. It was the competent ones who did the most damage. The ones who simply did their jobs with ruthless skill, who solved problems and moved on to the next. And this one had risen high, for a non-human in the Imperial Navy.
Luthen would want every detail she could gather.
"That sounds—" The word lonely hovered on her tongue, but she swallowed it, wondering how strong the drink she held truly was. "Isolating," she said instead.
Something flickered in his expression. Recognition, perhaps, that she'd changed course mid-sentence. That he'd heard what she hadn't said. The brief vulnerability in his expression made him seem suddenly more human, despite the alien features. Or perhaps because of them. She found herself leaning slightly closer, drawn in despite her better judgment.
"Effectiveness often is," he replied.
The noise of the party swelled around them, filled with music and the clink of glasses. They sat in their small pocket of quiet, two people who were both here for reasons neither was about to state.
Kleya looked at her bandaged finger, at the alien beside her, at the ballroom full of people celebrating an Empire built on calculated cruelty. She wanted to offer some small truth to him in exchange for what she felt had been honesty, or at least the honesty he could afford.
"I'm Kleya," she said.
He turned to her fully, and she saw the decision happen, some internal calculation that came out in her favor.
"A pleasure," he said, and left it at that. No name offered in return.
Fair enough. She smiled, respecting the boundary even as some part of her wanted to push against it. Wanted to keep talking, keep sitting here while the Empire celebrated itself around them.
She took another sip of her terrible drink, let the burn chase its way down her throat. Wanting things was how you made mistakes.