M O B I U S
ALASSA MAJOR
The heat of Alassa Major clung to him like guilt.
It wasn’t the blistering, unforgiving heat of a desert world — no, this was the soft kind. The lazy kind. The kind that smelled like salt and fruit and sweet oils, carried on the breeze from the open bays and gilded promenades below. Somewhere, faintly, he could hear music. Not the structured fanfare of the Republic or the meditative hum of the Temple halls, but the playful strum of leisure. The slow, self-satisfied rhythm of people who had nothing better to do than drink, dance, and forget.
Seth Denko sat on the balcony of the Royal Suite, legs hooked over the rail, head tipped back against the cool stone of the archway behind him. His pilot’s jacket was draped haphazard across one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, collar open just enough to let the sweat dry off his neck. The faint blue glow of his datapad flickered against his lap as he flipped through the local security brief again — not because there was anything new to see, but because it kept his hands busy.
Personal protection detail.
That’s what they’d called it. Babysitting, more like. Their charge, Lady Cyrène Vantos — charming enough, sharp as a vibroblade, and twice as dangerous once the drinks start flowing — was somewhere down below, mingling among the resort elite, shaking hands and smiling through gritted teeth. The Republic wanted Alassa Major on the map. Or, at least, they wanted it leaning their way when the time came to draw new lines. Which meant Cyrène needed to be seen. Protected. Untouched by scandal or incident.
And they — Seth and Tobias — were here to make sure of that.
He cut a sidelong glance toward the Jedi across the suite. Tobias Perris. Corellian-born, fighter-bred, and Jedi in training — not too different from himself, really, if you looked at it from the wrong angle. Good head on his shoulders, sharp eyes, plenty of fire under the surface. Seth had flown with his type before. Couldn’t decide yet if that was going to make this easier… or harder.
“You know,” Seth said, voice cutting through the warm air, “when they told me we’d be stationed here, I half-expected to find you already by the pool with a drink in your hand.”
A ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“But here you are. All diligent. Focused. Practically putting me to shame.”
He thumbed off the datapad, leaning forward, elbows to knees.
“Tell me something, honestly. What keeps you from walking down there, letting the mission slide just long enough to taste what they’re offering?” His tone was inoffensive, whilst his gaze searched the man’s face. “Is it discipline? Fear? Or are you just that good?”
A pause.
“Or maybe you’re still figuring out what it means to wear this robe.” Seth gestured loosely toward the Jedi insignia on his belt. “Stars know I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”
It wasn’t the blistering, unforgiving heat of a desert world — no, this was the soft kind. The lazy kind. The kind that smelled like salt and fruit and sweet oils, carried on the breeze from the open bays and gilded promenades below. Somewhere, faintly, he could hear music. Not the structured fanfare of the Republic or the meditative hum of the Temple halls, but the playful strum of leisure. The slow, self-satisfied rhythm of people who had nothing better to do than drink, dance, and forget.
Seth Denko sat on the balcony of the Royal Suite, legs hooked over the rail, head tipped back against the cool stone of the archway behind him. His pilot’s jacket was draped haphazard across one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, collar open just enough to let the sweat dry off his neck. The faint blue glow of his datapad flickered against his lap as he flipped through the local security brief again — not because there was anything new to see, but because it kept his hands busy.
Personal protection detail.
That’s what they’d called it. Babysitting, more like. Their charge, Lady Cyrène Vantos — charming enough, sharp as a vibroblade, and twice as dangerous once the drinks start flowing — was somewhere down below, mingling among the resort elite, shaking hands and smiling through gritted teeth. The Republic wanted Alassa Major on the map. Or, at least, they wanted it leaning their way when the time came to draw new lines. Which meant Cyrène needed to be seen. Protected. Untouched by scandal or incident.
And they — Seth and Tobias — were here to make sure of that.
He cut a sidelong glance toward the Jedi across the suite. Tobias Perris. Corellian-born, fighter-bred, and Jedi in training — not too different from himself, really, if you looked at it from the wrong angle. Good head on his shoulders, sharp eyes, plenty of fire under the surface. Seth had flown with his type before. Couldn’t decide yet if that was going to make this easier… or harder.
“You know,” Seth said, voice cutting through the warm air, “when they told me we’d be stationed here, I half-expected to find you already by the pool with a drink in your hand.”
A ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“But here you are. All diligent. Focused. Practically putting me to shame.”
He thumbed off the datapad, leaning forward, elbows to knees.
“Tell me something, honestly. What keeps you from walking down there, letting the mission slide just long enough to taste what they’re offering?” His tone was inoffensive, whilst his gaze searched the man’s face. “Is it discipline? Fear? Or are you just that good?”
A pause.
“Or maybe you’re still figuring out what it means to wear this robe.” Seth gestured loosely toward the Jedi insignia on his belt. “Stars know I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”
