Private No Mere Parcel of Rogues

[Malcoma Hesse]

. . . Location: Point Modie, Maramere . . .
. . . Tag: Wynter Rackham . . .
. . . Equipment: Dress / 'lipstick' . . .​

. . .​

The whole nation raised a hymn of liberation since the declaration of executive order EO 860SP2-1: Confederacy First. And that hymn had rippled through it's territory from the Vicelord's office with surprising speed, razing down criminal enterprises that relied on imported or exported goods, foreign nationals, or all of the above in its wake - enterprises just like Eve Escorts. Like any executive operating legally or not, she was prepared to do anything to protect her business. In so doing, she had hopes of persuading the Confederacy's favorite Darth to loosen his new law and order before its finalization; to that end, the annual southern Trade Federation gala was the last chance that would so easily present itself to Malcoma.

As far as the general, law-abiding Confederate public was concerned, there was absolutely nothing illegal about the escort agency: no exploitation, no extortion, no kidnapping or slavery, and certainly not a possibility of prostitution. What they were known to do - offer companionship of the non-intimate variety - had won Malcoma a lucrative handhold in a business teetering dangerously on the line between vice and...well, not outright virtue, but some gradation. The great deals of money she earned begat plenty of influence, vested both domestically and intergalactically. She only hoped enough remained here to sway the most unprecedented vote of recent Confederate history.

What reason had he to refuse the protection of his economy? If all else, i.e. reason, failed, she would play into his attraction. If he didn't desire Eve's wealth of taxes, he probably at least had a baser one...

...but he hadn't deigned to attend, she realized with a glance about the filling ballroom. There was still time, of course, for him to make his entrance, but somehow the madam doubted he would. She blew her frustration out of her nose and barely resisted an eye roll. Instead, she'd have to woo the local Mere viceroy. As she walked the circumference of the room, step free of her pointed purpose, Malcoma lifted a champagne flute from a serving tray. What fun.

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Captain Rackham of the Undoubtedly felt strange here.

Suited up, shaved his beard back, pristine. It was a different look from the bars, the chaotic rumblings of ship corridors and the sort. But this was another part of the whole. The Fool had been clear about that. You didn't just hijack chit and schmooze in a cantina with outlaws. You had to look higher up than that.

Find partners amid nobility and higher-ranks.

If you befriended them? Certain things opened up for you.

So, that was what Wynter was doing right now. Schmoozing and spending a portion of their cash royally. A tip here, an order there, after all they would only befriend someone of means.

Not a hobo in a cowboy outfit.

Luck had it that Malcoma Hesse and him lifted two chutes from the plate at the same time. "Oh, I don't believe we have met yet." Wynter drawled lightly, while taking a sip from his champagne. It really wasn't that great. Expensive, sure, but you could hardly enjoy it. As if you were swallowing liquid mint and had to put up a brave face afterwards.

"Captain Rackham, and you are?"

Polite curious look as he waited for her response. She seemed like someone of wealth, perhaps there was an angle here.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

If networking and wealth didn't so often hold hands, Malcoma would have brushed off the forced interaction, if not looked upon its source with some suspicion.

She had likewise taken a sip of the sparkling wine, though her palate was more gilded than his. She didn't mind drinking money, her own or anyone else's, nor did the taste at all offend her. It might, did the labels or years in question taste more, literally, of metallic credits, but as long as they didn't, she would continue dabbling in the symbolism.

She studied Wynter Rackham through the lip of her flute, glass naturally transparent but now smudged with ghosts of her nude lipstick. High society fashion and hygiene strangely fit the captain like a tailored glove, embroidered with perseverance and purpose. It certainly would have fooled most any other guest - almost had fooled Malcoma until she pulled on the single loosed thread. She wasn't entirely sure if she was more disappointed in herself for said lapse, or him for his obnoxious gumption.

A good try was a good try, but a Wookiee wood artist had never gotten famous by showing a half-finished sculpture. And this man, he was missing air.

"Madam Hesse, Captain," she said simply, shuffling her glass to free her right hand for a handshake. There was no hint of shame in her voice as she exchanged her title as he did his. Madam, director, president, were synonymous nouns regarding her, none of which were insinuous of criminal activity. But if the former did elsewhere in the galaxy, or when applied outside of the legal front of Eve Escorts, she couldn't be bothered to care. She was who she was.

"Pleasure."

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Malcoma Hesse

Casually accepting her hand and leaning over to kiss her knuckles gently.

That was how it was done here, no?

In a bar that would get you your teeth knocked out. High society was odd like that. Rising back up, but holding onto her hand for one breath longer than was proper. "So it is, Madam Hess, so it is." Murmured pleased there.... and then letting go. "It's a nice little get together the Viceroy put together here, hasn't he?"

Eyes leaving her and scanning the crowd for a little while.

"A real who is who of the Southern systems."

The Viceroy had expensive taste, sadly, and being on the border between the Confederacy and the OPA had been a boon to him. Until this whole Confederacy First business started up.

How sad.

From one moment to the next kick-backs from reputable spacers coming over the borders became more difficult.

That's why Wynter was here. To open... things up, so to speak. You only needed to offer them the way forward. Make them see the opportunities. They were always there. Just ripe for the taking, if you were willing to keep an open-mind. "It must be quite difficult for your business. What with the borders being so restrictive these days."

Wynter had said that very absently.

His eyes still on the crowd.

Very innocent.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

What a party.

"Indeed."

Not really.

Finding her disappointment dissolve, Malcoma did not at all know with what she was left. He still spoke, and she responded in kind without much of a second thought, either because she felt the need to explain herself or...to hear his voice (charming, she had to concede, if a bad liar). "Oh, I don't find myself on that listing ship." Though, evidently, there was just enough competence left to cover her tracks.

She was, of course, on that listing ship.

"Even if I did..." The thought trailed, remaining deliciously vague. What would it have become, a tidbit of truth, a taunt, a threat? Patchwork of all? In any case, Malcoma left the sentence on the marble floor as her gaze drifted up to the grandest chandelier. It hung high above the indented dance floor on which it sprinkled bits of light, catching, cascading off of its inverted tiers of fine gemstones and gold tendrils. Malcoma sighed softly as if taken by its beauty. The thing was too gaudy even for her, but it served her nonetheless. She took to choosing her words slowly, overtly cautious indeed, to finally form a warning of sorts: "I once heard diamonds are the hardest mineral known to the galaxy. Now isn't that fascinating?" She rose her flute again to her lips, eyes sparkling like the drink, the decor.

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Malcoma Hesse

That silence was abused by Wynter thoroughly.

By observing her intently, the cut of her dress, the expression that seemed so forcefully neutral, the way her jewelry lined her frame. Options aplenty really, since the Madam provided a lot of opportunity here. All that mattered was what Wynter wanted to do here. Part of him wanted to woo her, a different part wanted to rob her.

Maybe both?

But there was a business opportunity here too.

"Oh, truly? Some would say that makes them even more enticing to steal away." Wyn murmured in response, that little smile playing, while enjoying this game thoroughly.

"After all, the harder something is, the more some want to test its... durability."

A shrug there.

Away from them music began to play. The crowds starting to shift, from sipping and chattering, to splitting up. From those who would watch, to those who were looking for a dancing partner. "Do you dance, Madam Hesse? I hoped I'd be able to at least receive one enjoyable dance tonight." Offering his hand already there, so pushy.

"-and something tells me you would be very quick on your feet."

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

With one smooth twist, Malcoma set her flute on a passing server's platter, less then half emptied. If drinking away money was a class-led power play, then surely wasting it was too. "My, my," she mused as Wynter Rackham suggested a heist of one thing or another, her voice sticky with sugar. "What an illicit suggestion, Captain," in more ways than one.

Crime? Absolutely, positively scandalous.

But, as far as her act was concerned, they were simply discussing possibilities. It was a mean galaxy. No one could help that.

Oh. Durability, was it? Cute. If his actual intent was to be seen in the many faces of a neglected diamond, he had just cleaned its fogginess away. Not only wouldn't she dignify him, but she would continue weaving a wordsmith's web. A small laugh, small and polite, but wholly artificial, preceded an unaware explanation, "I am not speaking from any place of expertise of course. I'm sure it'd be easy to find a Dorvalla Mining petrologist about." She leaned away a hair and stood on her heel's toes, acting like she was scanning a yonder portion of the crowd. "In fact, I see a few." Did she or didn't she, she wanted him to take from that one thing:

She had friends here. He did not.

The hesitation before taking his hand didn't insinuate fear or anxiety, at least not on her part. Probably not on his either - she had a feeling none of her tricks would shake him - but she did want to drag this out. It was worth a twisted try. "I do, though I lead. Will that be a problem?" She smiled, waiting for a answer, though there was only one she'd accept.

Two could ramp up this game.

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Malcoma Hesse

"Truly? You must introduce me to them then." Murmured with a smirk.

Oh, Wynter picked up on what Madam Hesse was putting down, but didn't let that dissuade him. Not at all. "If business was good, then I doubt they'd be here sipping someone else's champagne." Far from their usual hunting grounds of the Videnda Sector. No, it seemed to Wynter that most people here were on a fishing expedition, so to speak. Trying to find business opportunities in a world that suddenly flipped around on them. Nobody who was rich wanted to suddenly find themselves on the backfoot like that.

Once she put her hand in his he drew her in, regardless of her words.

"Of course, Madam Hesse. Lead the way and I will... follow intently." Wyn spoke softly as they wandered on over to the dancing floor. Let the crowd lead them there even. Like water flowing through the river.

"How long have you been leading I wonder? Certainly you have skill." The outlaw didn't mind this position. It amused him, but he didn't always need to be ... on top, so to speak. Sometimes there were times where that wasn't part of the play. And this play was getting more interesting by the moment. They were close now, because of his draw. Body to body, where she would breathe in his scent. Burning cigars, whisky, a trace of engine oil. Smoky charcoal and more.

"Doesn't it tire? So much control all the time..."

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Hapans liked to dance. Slaves didn’t. Raunch had been too easy to bleed out and, from there, a certain amount of instinct had taken over, but that was a lifetime ago. But, he could do all the wondering her wanted. Still, she was willing to humor him in her own way. She spoke, purposefully taking him out of context again: “Jealous already, are we?” tsking her tongue twice.

He credited himself she suspected, and maybe their proximity up to a point was his doing. This point, but not when she stepped closer still and all but nuzzled her cheek to his. The band’s tempo had died down from moderate to intimate drawl, so, to keep up appearances she swayed them to the beat, but Wynter might feel a hint of her upturned mouth on his skin. She wasn't angry with the situation.

“Oh, Captain,” she cooed. The hand on his shoulder crept to the back of his neck, where her thumb rubbed a lethargic circle on his nape. “Tired of being out of it?” Biting, venomous, and outright rude, but suggestive all the while. “You haven’t gone five minutes.”

Not an entire beat had passed before she metaphorically spun on a dime with a theatrical sigh. She pulled away as she added, “You know, you’re right. It does tire. Be a doll and take over.” It wasn’t with laziness that Malcoma gave up her edge, but dry curiosity, though she really did loathe this part of the dance's footwork. In their orchestra pit, the band rapidly livened the score. It was time for Wynter Rackham to swim or…step on Malcoma’s velvet stilettos.

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Malcoma Hesse

"Oh, darlin'..." Murmured close into her ear here. "...I ain't ever the jealous type, fret not."

She brought them closer and this surprised Wynter just a tad. It was difficult to parse Hesse properly. One touch acid, two sprinkles worth of intimidation that amused and excited him in equal measures. Malcoma was no woman in distress, that was for sure. No. She was in control and she liked to play the game her own way.

Very exciting indeed.

"Jus' concerned about your well-being, ma'am." Wyn drawled with a grin she could feel herself spreading. They turned, she took distance and then Malcoma offered...

And Wynter always took what was offered.

Pulling her back in, his hands shifting to lead now. "Oh, I didn't realize you enjoyed playing with dolls, Madam Hesse, but I am sure I could accommodate you for a spin." Drawing her even firmer against him. Positively scandalous here. If anyone was expecting the cowboy captain to strike out here, they would be sorely disappointed.

His feetwork was quite graceful indeed.

It wouldn't be the first time he had to infiltrate a ball setting.

Just usually he had a knife hidden somewhere.

"Would you like to give me a performance review yet... doll?" Sweet, sharp and with that smirk only deepening.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Another well-placed laugh, this a one point-blank taunt. "You haven't seen a woman fret if you think that's fretting." And then, stalely, "Ah, lucky me."

Pulled back in, she gasped, but had not enough time to hate herself for it. She instead gave herself over to the routine. Following wasn't always as passive as it might seem.

"Quite impressive indeed," she said with the first hint of sincerity, but her next words did something to contradict that. "Though I'm afraid my show is quite a bit harder to steal than light fixtures." A smooth deviation from Wynter Rackham 's lead and Malcoma had hooked one of her legs around his. It didn't stay for long, nor did her desire to steal back control, and she fell back into step. She was dabbling in loss was all.

"I'm not sure how you run your ship, but to me, time is money," she began after a beat. As fun as this game of cat and cat was, she had a business to run. Plus, who said it had to end? Business and pleasure weren't mutually exclusive. "What's a fly like you doing at a Confederate gala?" An abbreviated form of flyboy, or quite literally the bug, whatever did she mean?

Vagueness was a delicacy of the spoken word.

"If all you wanted was a dance, a cantina schutta would have obliged." Just a dance of a different sort, of course. More direct.

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Malcoma Hesse

"Fuel is money on mah ship." Wyn drawled lazily. Entirely unconcerned by her barbs, at least by the looks of it. If Madam Hesse would get to know Wynter anymore she'd find out this was simply him. Always in and out of movement. His mouth spitting words per mile. Always a sprint and marathon all at once, while thinking about the next race.

There was no room for heart breaks in that.

"Oh, well, see..." Getting to the business end of things, which was fine with Wynter. Oh he enjoyed the dance. The real one and the wordy one. But business was a pleasure in its own way.

"One difference between dis fly an' all dese big wigs..." Stretch, turn, pirouette. "...mah fortune ain't tied to the whims of a government, who right now seems frankly silly. An' theeese bigwigs be desperate." That last bit husked into her ear, close and soft, like sharing a secret. "Enough that even yah Viceroy 'ere is very keen for mah brand of honey."

There he dipped her as the music called for it.

Nose to nose, brow to brow, breathing heavy.

"Mebbe I just like dangling mah honey in front of ya." Before carefully pulling her back up to her feet. A smirk, self-satisfied there.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Wynter Rackham

Why hello, tall, dark, and handsome. Where had you been hiding?

Her head swam. How his scent mixed with her gardenia-bergamot perfume was intoxicating. Was it that, or the dance's conclusion, that threatened to buckle her knees?

In no way she tried to parse it was the amount of time it took her to focus on forming a reply appropriate in any way. So much for high-class poise, even more so for crime's poker face. She knitted and then undid her brow shortly as she remembered the captain's words. Indeed, these bigwigs were desperate, and she was most certainly included among them. Her business, like most of theirs in part if not entirely, relied on the rest of the galaxy. A supply line that the CIS couldn't, even wouldn't if it could, give her: Slaves.

Ergo, listing ship.

Madam Hesse knew her only hope was tasting of that honey. It wouldn't just help decide her fate; she had more to look after than her pride.

"You best be careful," she worked up a reply. "Walk into its cave, and a bear might just maul you for it."

 

[Wynter Rackham]

Wynter saw it in her eyes.

That positive swirl, melt, heavy-lid.

He had her, even if she didn't want to admit that just yet. Which was fine to him because that only made things more interesting. It took her a moment to formulate a response. That moment made his grin only swell. She could see that. Maybe it would infuriate her even more, which would make the tasting that much sweeter.

"Oh, I believe I wouldn't mind this beer maulin', no no, I'm okay with it." A smile bright there. Wynter pulled her in close again, before Malcoma Hesse could completely recover.

Keep them off-balance.

That was the trick there.

"You interested in mah honey then, darling?" Again slowly turning them. The beat of the music slowing down. Already winding down, but they had a few more moments between the two of them. "-say yes, I will introduce ya to monsieur Viceroy over dere... I will open up quite some paths to you." A slow nuzzle just under her ear.

"Scratch me an' I scratch yar back too."

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Wynter Rackham

She was lulling her head back for him until she went rigid.

She only retained the edge for a moment. Around them, last notes swirled before settling to simmer, and she took the musical excuse to step back out of his immediate reach. "Stay," she enunciated, tone as sweet as her curt order wasn't. She wove smoothly around him and beelined across the dance floor, pace a thoughtful balance between rush and purpose.

She joined a man in a dark, snapping suit. As she approached, he hadn't seemed to notice her but now, as she touched his forearm, he turned his head to assess her. "Damris," she began. Her bodyguard hadn't come to the gala with her.

"Sorry to show up like this, ma'am," he apologized after his gaze settled back on her. For the moment before, it had followed her path back to Wynter.

She tsked her tongue gently, not nearly in the mood to criticize. "No matter."

"We have a problem. A Raven problem." The intelligence agents of Confederate Intelligence Command, from essentially the moment Malcoma had expanded her business ventures from Coruscant into the Confederate systems, had kept watch over her and Eve. They were always a step or two behind at the very least, of course, but that didn't keep them from giving it their best. Or Malcoma from taking every threat presented by CICOM, no matter how small, seriously.

But, now?

"Don't know how, but they got a warrant out. Yours."

It was no cutesty investigative attempt.

"I think I beat 'em here. We need to go now."

He hadn't, in fact, beat them there.