Private Dark Blue

[Ryssa Yvarro]

Judah Dashiell​

Ryssa exhaled sharply, adjusting the collar of her structured midnight-blue blouse as she cast a half-hearted glare toward her niece. She was going to blame Ivalyn for this. Entirely.

"Oh, dearest Auntie, you seem like you could use a friend. I happen to know someone…" That's how it had started—spoken in that syrupy, calculating tone Ivalyn used whenever she was about to orchestrate something from behind the scenes.

And now here she was—Ryssa Noehmi Yvarro, Chief Executive Officer of Primo Victorian Enterprises, a woman who had signed defense contracts with the Commonwealth Navy and brokered resource treaties across five sectors—being readied for a date like some glittering society girl fresh from Alderaan's debut season.

"A concert and dinner? Really, Ivalyn?" she said with crisp incredulity, her Galidraani accent cutting the air like a vibroknife as she fastened an antique clasp into her swept-up hair. The mirror reflected a woman of elegance and experience—eyes sharp, posture regal, her makeup immaculate. She looked every bit the part of Avalonia's most exacting industrialist, and yet, tonight she felt oddly exposed. "What am I, a senator's daughter on leave from finishing school?"

Raqos, lounging against the doorframe in his Fleet Captain's duty jacket, arms crossed, couldn't resist the opening. "Mum, you'll have fun," he said with a lopsided grin. "It's not like she's sending you to a rock show in Coronet City."

She cast him a sideways look—pointed, but not without amusement. "That is hardly the point, Raqos. The point is, I am very well capable of meeting people on my own. I do not need my niece, nor my son, intervening in my personal affairs."

"Oh, it isn't setting anyone up, Auntie," Ivalyn replied with unrepentant sweetness from her seat on the windowsill. She wore a silk blouse in soft silver, her blonde curls pulled back loosely, the picture of casual elegance. "Mr. Dashiell is quite lovely. And I haven't seen you out since... well. Since Djonas."

Ryssa paused as she affixed the second earring—an understated Alderaanian pearl set in platinum, a gift from another time. Her expression softened only slightly. "Djonas and I had our arrangements," she said, her voice tinged with something quieter than sorrow. "We respected each other's time and space. And most importantly—we didn't meddle."

"I would argue this isn't meddling," Ivalyn countered, rising to retrieve a sleek coat from the nearby chaise. "It's encouragement."

"Encouragement," Ryssa echoed flatly, turning back to the mirror with the tight-lipped patience of a woman who had managed boardroom coups and Moff Council hearings with fewer interruptions. "You know, when I was your age, I didn't go around matchmaking my elders like some Core Worlds socialite with a holo-column."

"You were also running a shipyard and arguing with admirals before brunch," Raqos quipped, arms still crossed. "Maybe this'll be good for you."

She sighed, long and low, and reached for her clutch, a polished leather piece embossed with the Primo Victorian seal. "You're both insufferable," she muttered, but with no real venom.

Still, as she took one final glance at her reflection—at the woman in the reflection who could navigate economic negotiations with a flick of her stylus but had not said yes to anything resembling a date in far too long, Ryssa had to admit, privately, that she was curious.

Judah Dashiell, by every account, was a respectable man. A gentleman. And as Ivalyn so carefully pointed out, available.

She turned to them, spine straight, chin high, every inch the commanding presence they knew so well. "If I am harassed by a Gungan lounge singer or find myself at a venue with ambient waterfall mist and mood lighting, I will never forgive either of you."

"Oh, come on," Ivalyn said with a wink. "You'll have a lovely time. Just don't interrogate him like he's applying for admiralty."

Raqos raised a hand in mock-serious formality. "Now, Mum, what time are you coming back? Don't forget, you can call me if you need anything. I can have a speeder dispatched in minutes, just say the word."

He said it with that infuriatingly calm, responsible air, the exact tone she had used when he was younger and leaving the house with too much product in his hair and a slightly questionable crowd waiting in the drive.

She shot him a withering look, though the faint glint of amusement in her eyes betrayed her. "Oh, piss off," she muttered affectionately.

The sound of her heels echoed down the corridor as she finally exited, the front door sliding shut behind her. Laughter from her son and niece followed her out like the tail end of a familiar song.

Avalonia was humming that night.

The speeder waiting outside was sleek, polished durasteel in Commonwealth grey, with chrome trim that caught the glint of the city's brilliant lights. The night air was cool, kissed with the faint scent of salt from the Fortuna Estuary. Ryssa slipped into the back seat, adjusting the fall of her coat and gloves with practiced ease. She reminded herself—again—it was just dinner. Just a concert. Nothing scandalous. Nothing outrageous. Bloody Ivalyn.

Then she spotted them—four figures in immaculate crimson and slate-grey armor stationed around the vehicle. Janissaries. Their posture was rigid, ceremonial—but unmistakably ready.

"Did my niece send you?" Ryssa asked, dryly.

None of them answered. They didn't need to.

She exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Bloody great," she muttered under her breath.

Le Chantier sat like a crown jewel on Whittaker Drive, its warm golden lights spilling out into the street like molten honey. A grand vestibule led into an interior of soft amber tones, carved darkwood panels, and transparisteel chandeliers that shimmered overhead. The tables were spaced generously, each lit by a soft-glow lamp and adorned with linens finer than most government offices.

The restaurant was alive with the gentle murmur of high society and the distant strains of a five-piece band playing what Ryssa privately referred to as Great Galactic War–era jazz. The horns carried a smooth, brassy tone, reminiscent of vintage swing nights on old Alsakan. The percussion kept time with a steady rhythm, and the keys danced lightly, a duet of nostalgia and elegance. The kind of music that made one feel like they'd stepped into a holofilm.

The waitstaff were dressed in crisp formalwear—gloved hands, tailored jackets, and earpieces with subtle imperial flourish. Conversations were held in low, purposeful tones. People weren't just here to eat—they were here to be seen.

Ryssa stepped inside, heels whispering against the marble floor, chin held high. The maître d' recognized her immediately and dipped his head respectfully.

"Lady Yvarro," he greeted. "Mr. Dashiell has arrived. If you'll follow me."

She nodded once, calm and composed. But beneath it all, somewhere in her chest, she felt that quiet flutter. Not nerves. Not dread.

Just something... unknown.

And for once, she allowed herself to follow it.

 

[Judah Dashiell]

AVALONIA

To say he was surprised when Ivalyn Yvarro reached out to him to set up, of all things, a date was an understatement. At first he didn't know if he should be flattered the young woman had thought of him or insulted that Miss Yvarro knew he could never coordinate such a thing on his own.

It had taken a day to respond with his answer. The old salvager had debated if such a thing was wise to attend. He certainly didn't want to offend Miss Yvarro by declining. Judah suspected they were on at least decent terms and judging by the contracts that continued his way, Miss Yvarro was at least pleased with his work. With the Blackwall in place, he saw his work as more critical than ever.

Yet in the end it didn't sway his decision. A small bit of reflection and a decision that getting out of his comfort zone once in awhile was a good thing had been the final factor.

At least, thats what he kept repeating to himself as he stepped into Le Chantier. It was one of those fine dining establishments holostars, government officials, and the very wealthy were often spotted. The type where holographers waited across the street for just the right angle to sell to gossip magazines and nightly entertainment shows.

Music reached his ears, along with the small hum of hushed conversation. Immediately he was greeted, with barely any time to breathe. Le Chantier was apparently also one of those establishments that researched their bookings prior for a personalized experience.

"Mister Dashiell, welcome to Le Chantier. If you would just follow me." A small pause as he was led deeper into the building. "The manager has made sure we have seated you in an excellent location overlooking our small alleyway garden. This will allow for cigarra smoking if you so desire."

Defintely did their research.

Reaching the table, water on the fine tablecloth, a soft candle lit, he undid the button on his light taupe suit, taking a seat. Judah wasn't sure how formal to go, so he had gone middle of the road, eschewing a tie but keeping the kerchief for a bit more of a relaxed look as a failsafe.

Barely seated and checking his datapad, the arrival of Ryssa Yvarro occurred before he could even get a chance to recover and mentally sike himself up once more. Datapad left face down on the table, he quickly stood and buttoned his jacket, greeting the well dressed woman in blue.

A quick kiss on the cheek in the uppercrust fashion of greeting someone, clasping her hand as he did so.

"Miss Yvarro, a pleasure."

 

[Ryssa Yvarro]

"Mr. Dashiell," Ryssa greeted, offering a poised but genuinely warm smile as she stepped toward him. Her voice carried the smooth cadence of her Galidraani upbringing, every syllable deliberate. "A pleasure to meet you, properly, this time."

She had crossed paths with him once, perhaps twice, during some Corporate Interests Guild summit or naval procurement affair, though neither meeting had been particularly memorable beyond a handshake and a cordial nod. This, however, was something entirely different. There was no agenda tonight—at least not the kind she was used to.

"I feel as though I should apologize," she continued, lowering her voice slightly as though letting him in on a well-worn secret. "My niece can be... rather adamant." She paused, her smile sharpening just a touch. "Some would say persuasive. I know better."

She said it fondly, but there was no mistaking the long-suffering note in her tone. Ivalyn, for all her grace and charm, had grown from an adorable, precocious child into a relentless meddler with a talent for steering people exactly where she wanted them to go. And now here Ryssa was, having been thoroughly maneuvered into a dinner and a concert with a man she barely knew, but couldn't quite bring herself to resent it.

"I believe it's dinner, followed by a rather lovely performance at the Royal Music Hall," she said, smoothing an invisible crease on her coat before stepping in beside him. The rich scent of roasted nerf and citrus glaze wafted from the kitchen behind them, mingling with the soft hum of conversation and the distant strains of a polished jazz quintet playing something unmistakably from the Great Galactic War era. Brassy, smooth, elegant—it was music with a purpose, the kind that made a person straighten their shoulders without realizing it.

She drew in a breath and then glanced sideways at him, hesitating for the briefest of moments before admitting, "It's been... quite some time since I've done anything like this."

She gestured vaguely to the softly lit interior of Le Chantier, the glow of warm lamps bouncing off crystal and polished utensils. "Simply being, I suppose," she clarified after a beat, with a wry twist of her lips. "Being somewhere without an objective. No negotiation. No board meeting. No inspection tour or press interview to prepare for."

Her tone wasn't awkward, Ryssa Noehmi Yvarro did not do awkward, but there was a note of vulnerability beneath her polished exterior. A quiet confession, tucked into the cadence of her otherwise formal speech.

"Feels rather odd, doesn't it?" she added, glancing toward him again. "Relaxing, I mean."

She said it like someone testing unfamiliar waters, and in truth, she was.

Judah Dashiell ​

 

[Judah Dashiell]

"Indeed a pleasure. We've only greeted one another in passing before."

Spending time in the Commonwealth he was beginning to recognize the faces of various business people and wealthy in the area. Given the Commonwealth was a smaller government, it made it easier to put faces to names, instead of say something like the vast sea that was the Galactic Alliance Senate.

"No need to apologize for the meddling. If I didn't want to be here I would have faked a sudden illness or more believable, a pressing business concern."

Although he was surprised by the itinerary for the evening such a night would allow him to experience more of the culture of the Commonwealth. Mostly it was all business. Although he did spend a few days here and there fishing and testing the waters around the sector. That had been few and far in between.

A small smile at other unsure nature at the prospect of relaxing for the evening. If taking a moment to enjoy a quiet meal was unfamiliar to Ryssa Yvarro he wondered about her professional life. Perhaps Miss Yvarro had been wise to suggest an evening out with someone who didn't have an agenda.

"Relaxing can be odd, yes. I've been trying to do it more before my sons go the same route Ivalyn went for yourself. I only have two basic, boring hobbies that can often be done on my own....so at the very least I can relax to their standard and avoid being set up for awkward dinners with strange businessmen."