#marcus trant

[blue-mint-winter]

Jace Malcom: Who is this Theron Shan? Is he related to Satele? Oh, he's her son, so who is the father? And he's not a Jedi. He must have taken after his dad. Did you know I served with his mother? 😉

Director Marcus (completely missing the point): Please, pick anyone else but him on this mission, please please please!

Jace Malcom: I want Theron on this mission, he'll be perfect! Just like his mother 😉

[elliedearest]

MARCUS TRANT???

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised Theron stayed loyal to you. Once you sink your hooks in someone, they're yours." He's either calling her a honeypot (which makes me wonder what kind of reputation she's developed over the years before becoming the commander) or he's calling her a rapid dog/monster that doesn't let go of their prey.

My head canon for who the other two on his list are my Sith Warrior (Juno) and Eris Wynborne (my Jedi knight because even though she's a Jedi the Republic does like to have a file on them incase they turn on the republic).

[blueburds]

Whumptober 2025; Prompt no.20

Prompts used: Fancy Event Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic; Medieval-Fantasy AU Word count: 744 CW: NA

The old man was supposed to be an easy target. All nobles were. Too distracted by their appearances and flaunting of wealth to notice a seamless swipe of a coin purse.  

But it seemed young Theron Shan underestimated this particular old noble. 

Theron had caught him in between buildings, walking from the manor and toward the garden, and thought it’d be a quick distract-and-snatch type of situation. But this man had to have known he was being followed. Had Theron gotten sloppy? Or was this guy too good? 

Whatever the case, he found himself now at the end of a blade once concealed by a walking cane. His reflection stared back up at him, through a cool moonlit glow and shadowed by swaying trees. A bead of sweat trickled down his chin. 

“Bold move, son,” said the man cooly. “Ah. . . but there’s a familiar look. Are you afraid I’ll kill you? Or is that just sheer desperation in your eye?” 

Theron’s lips curled into a sneer. Suddenly he lunged for the man, pivoting to try and disarm him. Without use of the cane, he was more vulnerable. Theron could just swipe a pocket watch, a ring, a purse and— 

An elbow to his chin cut him off from that attempt. 

He saw stars, head spinning as he tried to orientate himself. Then he was on the ground, the air knocked from his lungs, and the man standing over him with a look Theron could only acquaint to disappointment. 

“What’s your name?” 

Theron pushed himself up with trembling arms, snarling. He didn’t reply. 

“Got a family, kid?” 

“No,” Theron spat. And internally he thought: not anymore. 

The old man hummed thoughtfully. He had the audacity then to turn and continue his walk toward the garden. Theron gawked briefly. He debated just leaving, take his loss and run back to his hideout, then hide under the tattered blanket until the embarrassment went away. But then the old man cast a look to him. Theron hesitated, but followed. Normally, his survival and street skills would have stopped him from doing so. But his curiosity was piqued. 

“Most folks don’t take kindly to thieves,” said the old man. “You’re lucky that I’m not most folks. You can call me ‘Trant.’” 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Theron asked bluntly. “Or are you just turning me in?” 

Trant paused beneath the archway of shrub and rose. “Because I’m an opportunist. Like you.” He turned, meeting Theron’s gaze with one determined. “Don’t see a lot of young folks with that kinda boldness. I’d like you to hear me out.” Trant waved his hand in gesture, and Theron followed him into the manor gardens. 

The sun had set not long ago, the warmth of a spring day still lingering within the air. Theron could hear voices—back at the manor, hopefully—and kept his head low. He shouldn’t be doing this. This was a trap. This man was going to turn him in to security or worse: The Odessen Royal Guard. 

They came to a stop, approaching a smooth stone fountain depicting one of Odessen’s finest warriors of legend. Theron gazed up at it, the sneer still present on his face. The androgynous figure wielded two swords; a carved cape swirled around them, the artist having depicted this hero in the heat of combat. Theron was no history buff. That was Master Zho’s interest, and Theron was certain that, if he had been here, he could have told him all about this hero. 

But Zho was not here. Theron found himself nothing short of feeling like a cornered animal in the moment. 

“No family, eh?” Trant said, breaking their silence. “Reckon you probably don’t have many friends, either. Not with that sunny disposition,” he said dryly. 

“Cut the small talk. What am I hearing you out on?” Theron redirected, irritated as much as he was nervous. 

Trant idly tapped the head of his cane. “There’s a place where you can put your skills to better use,” he explained, even-toned. “A job, if you will. A proper one. Pay’s good, so is the work. We’re always looking for new recruits.” The old man straightened his posture—and then, as the moonlight struck the right angle of his face, Theron determined he was not quite so old after all. 

“What do you know of Talon, young man?” 

Theron narrowed his eyes. 

[incorrectstarwarslegendsquotes]

Jace Malcom: Marcus Trant: Satele Shan: Teff'ith: Gnost-Dural: Theron Shan: It seemed like a good idea at the time.

[sullustangin]

Fluff Prompt 1: The News

This had been slightly delayed from Friday.  @frutepye stated they needed some cheering up around this time of year, so they sent in some prompts that I’m happy to fulfill.  (If you’re reading the Ziost fic, BOY HOWDY, you know why.)

So here’s the first one:  Jace finds out he’ll be a grandfather.  I wrote a snippet of this a few years ago, but this is considerably expanded. CW for mention of pregnant person (Eva). 

~~

Marcus Trant watched the steadily flashing light on Jace Malcom’s desk.  Someone was waiting on hold.

Specifically, it was the light used to indicate that the Alliance’s representative wanted to speak to Malcom. That varied, according to Malcom. In the days between the end of the Eternal Empire and the Iokath operation, it had been Aygo, and most days, it continued to be.  

After Iokath, once in a while, Theron Shan would call in.  Most of the time it was all business.  Jace was happy to acknowledge that there had been more personal lines of communication established, especially since the miracle that had been Theron getting married.

Trant had met and worked with Eva Corolastor a few times.  As a person, Trant could see how she suited Theron.  What didn’t track was the fact that, at the same time, she was the Voidhound, the leader of a third major faction in the galaxy, while still running the Voidfleet Cartel.

Trant supposed Theron had finally stopped running from those issues, a topic of contention between them… twenty years ago now.  The galaxy had changed since Theron had tracked down Ngani Zho and discovered the existence of the Sun Razer.  

Trant didn’t know if the galaxy was better, for all that it had endured.  He did know that Theron had finally permitted himself to have something that didn’t directly contribute to ‘the greater good.’

But apparently, ‘the greater good’ manifested in stranger ways that anyone could have anticipated: the Voidhound, her Alliance, the current status quo of the galaxy.

That explained pretty much all of Trant’s interest in that flashing light on Malcom’s desk.  It was his business to know about other governments in the galaxy. Theron’s life was absolutely none of his business, but that didn’t stop Trant from trying to follow it like one of the holodramas Mrs. Trant #4 liked to watch.

(Trant hated the fact that both Jace and Theron – completely independently of each other, at least a decade apart – had privately nicknamed his wives the exact same way so they could keep track of them.)

(And Trant really hated that he’d started to number them the same way as they did.  So maybe he had issues too.)

“Trying to follow” was the operative phrase here.  The pair were pretty slick in obscuring their whereabouts and activities.  Nothing personal; Theron was still her spymaster, active in the field.  His face was still unknown to the galaxy.  Trant knew that Theron had raced under an alias at Manaan recently, mostly through Jace who was conveniently there at the time on Republic business. Beyond that, Theron had lived in the shadows, and Eva had glided along the line of being famous and infamous, as usual.

Thus, Marcus Trant was very pleased to see Theron’s image flicker to life on the holocomm.  

The former SIS agent noticed his ex-boss immediately.  “You in the middle of something?”

“No, son,” Jace answered far too quickly to let Trant say otherwise.

Theron caught that.  “Right.”  He frowned slightly, looking down at a datapad.  “Well, I have no doubt you’d hear about this anyway, so I guess this saves us all time.”  

Trant saw the smile pass like a ghost across Theron’s face before he resumed his usual briefing style: brisk, slightly irreverent, unerringly accurate.

Trant noticed that the comm was suddenly secured at highest decryption levels, both ways.  

Malcom picked upon that too.

“The Captain wanted me to inform you…” Theron stopped, as if reconsidering the words and how he wanted to convey the message.  “We’ve --- ”  Again, that smile that didn’t linger, this time with the slightest worry.  “It’s still very early, but she wanted someone to know, regardless –”  

Malcom frowned.  “Theron, is Eva all right?”

The transit smile finally stopped and remained, even as Theron’s eyes dropped to his datapad.  

Trant knew that smile.  He’d worn it himself, twice, and he saw it after the fact in holos.  “I think she’s more than all right, currently.  Theron?” He wanted to get that confirmation…because he wanted to know he still had that investigator’s knack.  Being out of the field was hard for Trant – always had been.

Jace Malcom was a smart guy, but he could be utterly dense sometimes.  His gaze bounced between Theron and Trant, slightly irritated that he hadn’t been let in on the news yet.  Then again, Marcus Trant was not the Director of SIS just because he was cute and did the paperwork.  

“Yeah.”  Then, faintly, as if still absorbing the shock, yet undeniably happy: “She’s pregnant.”

Jace Malcom rose to his feet from behind his desk, staring at Theron’s image.  His expression was unreadable.

And then the world lurched.

So this is how I die, thought Trant as he watched the Supreme Commander spike his caf mug into his office desk, breaking both into pieces.  Then Jace let out a whoop still worthy of Havoc Squad.  Jace is going to bounce me off the desk next.  Or break all my ribs in a hug.

(Jace could still benchpress a speeder, probably.)

Then security burst through the door and swarmed the entry way.  The point men stared first at Trant, then at Malcom, then at the office furniture, then back at Malcom.

“I’m going to have a grandbaby!” he bellowed joyously. Security collectively blinked and backed out of the office, with all due haste.

The holo image flickered from its newfound position on the floor.  “Please don’t give yourself another heart attack or break anything….anything else.”  Theron ran a hand back through his hair as he amended the sentence.  “And don’t convert anything into a nursery – you’re not allowed to kidnap it.”

It seemed to finally register on Jace that he’d effectively trashed his office like some junior officer on a bender.  His hands flexed a few times as he shuffled around the debris to pick up the holo unit.  Once he had it in his hands, Jace’s words failed him as he looked at Theron. “I –it’s – such --  good job, son.”

All three men facepalmed at the same time at that one.  

“Congratulations, Theron,” Trant finally offered the obvious, saner alternative.

Theron nodded as his hand came away from his face.  “She – she still wants to celebrate it, but –”

“Risky.”  Jace seemed to gathered enough of his wits to analyze the situation; some people might have thought that Theron had received his analytical skills from Satele, but as far as Marcus Trant knew, that was not the case. It was public knowledge that Eva had spent considerable time in carbonite.  “But you two never were fully opposed to risk-tasking.”

Again, Theron’s smile flickered.  “No.  Never.”

~~

Hope this fit the bill, @frutepye!  More to come in the near future

[ulavii]

Everytime the Director of the SIS calls Theron Shan

Marcus Trant: Theron (derogatory)

[keldae]

Fictober 2021 -- Day 28

“So, this is it, is it?”

Theron froze, one boot on the Serenity’s boarding ramp at the voice echoing in the military hangar the ship had been stowed in. When he looked to the entrance to the hangar, he could see a very familiar figure standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

“Banthashit.” Marcus Trant took a step forward into the hangar, becoming more visible in the dim evening light to Theron’s enhanced eyes. “You’re a damn good spy, Theron, but you can’t lie to me about what you’re doing. Unless you’re going to tell me that this isn’t what it looks like?”

“... I don’t have to explain myself.” Theron muttered, not stepping back from the ship’s ramp. 

“No… like I said, you’re a good spy, but I know you too well.” Marcus shook his head -- probably disappointed with his old ward’s actions. “You’ve been acting off since the Zakuulans invaded -- ever since we received the word of Darth Marr’s fleet being destroyed. You lost someone on that coalition fleet. You’ve been angry and grieving ever since, and now, you’re in a secured military hangar at close to midnight -- conveniently, the same hangar being used to store Master Taerich’s ship, which hasn’t been used since her Padawan and crew escaped from Marr’s fleet while she died on the flagship. If I didn’t know you better, I would say you’re planning on leaving in the dead of night.” He sighed, for once looking old and weary. “Couldn’t think of a better way to grieve for everything you’ve lost besides cutting ties and running?”

“... Who said I was running?” Theron looked back up at the Serenity and bitterly snorted. “She flies better than she runs.”

“Dammit, Theron.” Marcus sighed again, this time in frustration. “You know what this will do to your standing here, with the SIS, and with your father. If you leave like this…”

“It’s better than staying here and bowing to our new overlords,” Theron snapped.

“Do you think I’m happy with the outcome of the siege? I lost people I cared about too, damn it -- but I have a duty to the Republic and the SIS. The same duty you have!” Marcus shook his head. “Where do you even think you’re going to go? Even the Hutts are caving to Zakuul. There’s nowhere for you to go besides staying here.”

“That’s not true,” Theron growled, even if part of him railed in despair at what Marcus was saying. “I can’t make any sort of a difference staying here when the Senate crumpled like a house of sabaac cards.”

“Again -- where are you going to go? The Empire? Empress Acina bowed as quickly as the Senate did.”

“I’m sure as fuck not going to the Empire,” Theron spat. The thoughts of Lana and Darth Imperius crossed his mind, and were banished. Even if rumour did have it that Imperius had fought hard against the treaty with Zakuul and had only bowed to protect Imperial civilians… “I still don’t have to explain myself. I’ll… I’ll make my own way.”

“And is this the way Master Taerich would want you to do it?” Marcus gestured to the Serenity. “By stealing her ship and flying off in the dead of night to Force-only-knows where, because I rather doubt you know where you’re going, and sulking at Zakuul from a position where you can’t do anything?”

“I’m effective in the field,” Theron muttered. “I know what I’m doing, and I can work better alone than I can here.”

“And what, pray tell, is one solitary rogue agent going to accomplish that the entire SIS can’t do?” Marcus sighed. “Theron, beyond the fact that this is illegal and will get you strung up for treason, this is a suicide mission. You’re still young -- you have more to live for.”

Theron paused for a long moment, looking back at the Serenity, then shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me here,” he quietly said. “Xa-- Master Taerich would do the same thing if it had been me who died on that ship.”

“Really? The Jedi Master, throwing it all away on an attachment she wasn’t supposed to have?” Marcus snorted. “I suppose she wouldn’t have been the first.” He took another cautious step into the hangar. “Theron, just think about this for a minute. You’re rash and headstrong, but you’re smarter than this -- I know you are. Do you really think Master Taerich would have you throw away your life like this? If she was here--”

“If she was here, none of this would be happening,” Theron snapped. “Or, she would have already left, and brought me along with her.” That, he had to admit, was the more likely scenario. Not even Xaja by herself could have held off all of Zakuul, but she would be the best person to seek justice for the galaxy. And if that meant sneaking onto Zakuul and taking down Arcann directly, then so be it. Force knew she’d been talented enough and headstrong enough to pull it off, too.

Another heavy sigh echoed through the hangar before Marcus quietly spoke again. “There’s nothing I can say that will change your mind, is there?”

“You’ve known me long enough to know that answer.” Theron took a step up the ramp, then paused. “Tell my… tell Jace I’m sorry, but I’m doing what needs to be done.” Oh, wouldn’t his father be furious with this update… but Theron couldn’t bring himself to care enough to change his plan.

“Make me the messenger to get shot, why don’t you,” Marcus muttered. “Just… try to be careful.” 

His throat suddenly tight with emotions he refused to give voice to, Theron just nodded, knowing his old mentor would see the gesture; then he hurried up the ramp and into the ship where Tee-Seven was patiently waiting for him. “Let’s go, buddy,” he said as he threw himself into the pilot’s seat and tried not to think about what Xaja would do if she knew he was stealing her ship. “We’d better get out of here before Coruscant Security comes down on our asses.”

Tee-Seven beeped his agreement, and a minute later, the Serenity was flying out of the hangar and vanishing into Coruscant’s night sky, leaving Marcus to stand in the empty hangar and watch the disappearing ship with worried eyes.

[andveryginger]

Fictober 2021, Day 5: “Asset Management” (1/1) (SWTOR; Mairen/Reanden)

Title:  “Asset Management”

Prompt:  5. “I’m not saying I told you so….”

Fandom:   Star Wars: The Old Republic (RPverse)

Rating:   Teen

Warnings/Tags:   Adult Situations Implied

Notes: Real life keeps interfering mightily with my writing time. So these are going to get done when they get done, and posted in completely random order, I suspect.

Anyone interested in the back story should take a peek at “A Dick in Knight’s Clothing,” “Deja New,” “Breaking the Ice,” and “Falling Action," all of which cover the first meeting and subsequent stumble into a relationship of these two super-spy dorks. This story would seem to fall into the timeline shortly after “Falling Action.”

Posted without beta. All mistakes are my own.

Club Vertica Nar Shaddaa 3640 BBY | 13 ATC

Club Vertica had been a fixture on Nar Shaddaa since well before the time Marcus Trant served as SIS bureau chief. Back then, it had been the spot for the elite – the celebrities, politicians, and other wealthy socialites of the galaxy to see and be seen. Somewhere along the way, however, the standards for entry had been relaxed, while maintaining private suites for their previous clients. The result was a bit more casual atmosphere… and more diluted drinks.

Sauntering into the main lounge, Marcus allowed his trained eyes to take in the room. It was, as always, cavernous, shielded ceiling glowing purple against the night sky. At center was a round stage, taking up perhaps a third of the room. The generator for the complex stood in the middle, reaching up toward the stars, and providing a brilliant light show of its own. Sometimes, there were live bands; in this instance, blue holographic dancers were spaced around the edge, equidistant. They stood out in stark contrast to the gaudy neon that flickered around them and blanketed the room in an orange glow.

There were fewer slot machines than he remembered, and the card tables were spaced farther apart. Still, the machines trilled constantly, punctuated by the occasional siren call of a win, and an accompanying shout; at the tables the occasional rattle of dice or the clatter of credit chips could be heard. Low levels of conversation added to the atmospheric din, with only the Huttese announcements on the public address system clearly understood.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Marcus wandered clockwise around the room. He knew from long experience where each of the exits were; the bouncers lurked in their usual places, with particular attention to the passages leading to the elite lounges. His gaze also swept over the other, more technical security measures: Biometric locks could be seen to the side of some doors, while cameras kept an eye on the patrons – and their cards.

As he continued his trek, he spotted his quarry standing by one of the card tables. A man of moderate height, he wore a fitted tunic, belted at the waist. His hair, usually dark with streaks of silver, had been temporarily replaced with what Marcus could only assume was a wig – an odd shade of darker red, made worse by the flickering neon. The profile had been altered slightly, too, likely a trick of prosthetics and make-up – just enough to confound the scanners. A half-finished drink sat on the gold metallic edge, a small stack of chips on the green felt before it. He held a few chips in his left hand, fingers of his right fidgeting over the edges.

To his left, seated on the stool, was a Twi’lek male, tchun curled around his neck. A club escort hovered at his side, wearing the metallic bra and foiled scarves that barely concealed anything. Her fingers trailed absently along his lek, surely in an effort to keep him distracted from the game. Given the way the tail of his tchin twitched, Trant suspected she was succeeding.

Marcus stepped up as the attendant began the next deal and tossed a few chips of his own onto the table. Cards slid toward him on the soft surface, one at a time, until he had a full hand. “Minimum still ten credits?” he asked.

The attendant, a wiry blond male he knew to be an informant, nodded once. “Ten to play, and ten more at the flop.”

Pursing his lips, Trant nodded and produced the initial bet. He then picked up his cards, holding them close to his chest as he offered a polite nod first to the man whom he had been looking for, and then the Twi’lek and finally the escort.

Conversation was light; focus was on the cards. Through four hands, Marcus held his own, while his contact and the Twi’lek lost heavily. He watched as the escort finally leaned down, speaking quietly into the ear cone. Greenish lips curled backward, revealing sharp, feral teeth as the Twi’lek offered a grin. He barely offered a nod as the escort slipped her arm in his and they began wandering toward the private rooms.

Shaking his head, Marcus turned to the dealer. “Count me out,” he said. He looked to his contact. “You staying in?”

The faux redhead shook his head. “Time to change tables,” he muttered with a grimace. His accent was almost Imperial, save for the drawling vowels. “And more than past time for a drink.”

“How about a round on me? It’s the least I can do for cleaning you out.”

“You’re on, mate,” the man replied. He gestured toward the lounge. “Lay on.”

Gathering his chips, Marcus shoved them into his pocket. The two men fell into step, weaving their way up the stairs and toward the lounge. It would be quieter – a better place for conversation – and much easier to deploy their usual countermeasures against eavesdropping.

The court lounge had also changed very little in the intervening years. A rock fountain still stood at center, veins of gold folded through the dark mineral. The purple energy ceiling was in place here, too, less overwhelmed by yellow and orange neon. Red and gold carpets padded the walkways – carpets that reminded him strangely of the Senate Tower. The half-naked Nautolan female dancing on the fountain, however, ensured there was no confusion about where he was.

The two men ordered drinks from the passing attendant droid and settled in to an empty sofa. In his hand, Marcus slid his finger over one of his personal credit chips. The action activated a small jammer, embedded in the chip. It would serve to confound any electronic devices listening in – at least for a few minutes.

Trant regarded his contact with a lopsided grin. Now that he was closer, he could note fully the cosmetic alterations, spotting a faux scar and a few extra shadows. “Always such a fun place, Nar Shaddaa,” he said, starting the identification.

“A regular neon playground,” his contact said. He took a sip of his drink. There was an amused gleam in hazel eyes as he regarded the SIS director. “As a friend once said, it hides a multitude of sins.”

“That and a good bribe.” Marcus laughed and took a sip of his drink. “I hope that’s a wig, ‘cause red is not your color, old man.”

The old man – agent Reanden Taerich, codename Duathion, late of Imperial Intelligence – smirked. “Been out of the field too long,” he drawled, maintaining the accent. Marcus recognized it now as something closer to his native voice, one which he used rarely. “It’s dulling your already questionable tradecraft.”

The Director of SIS narrowed his eyes. “Questionable tradecraft didn’t keep me as bureau chief for four years. Or get me promoted.”

A familiar impish twinkle lit the hazel eyes. “That’s what they do to get people out of the way, isn’t it? Promote ‘em to the highest level of incompetence?”

“Keep talking like that, Duathion,” Marcus replied, maintaining his glare, “and I’ll leave you to twist in that cesspit. Now… do you have your report, or are you wasting my time?”

“What are old friends for?” Grin widening, Reanden withdrew a credit chip from his pocket, flipping it through the air. “Wanna call it?” It landed in his palm before Marcus could respond, and he slapped it onto the back of his hand. “Too late. Tails.”

Tossing his head back with a theatrical laugh, he gestured with his drink, sloshing the amber liquid all over himself and Marcus. The chip fell to the floor, where Marcus then smoothly picked it up, palming it, even as Reanden produced another from… somewhere. He made sure it was seen in his hand before returning it to his pocket.

Shaking his head, Trant sighed. “Why in the Nine Hells did I ever promote you to station chief?”

Reanden sipped his drink, grimacing as he lowered the glass back to rest on his thigh. “You didn’t have much choice,” he said. “Letar is too junior, and you needed someone more senior to run her and Cardinal.”

“Speaking of – how are things with Cardinal?”

There was the slightest hesitation as Taerich raised his glass and took a sip – a hesitation so brief that anyone other than Marcus would have missed it. The director also noted that the drink served as something of a delaying action. His expression, however, revealed nothing, and, other than raising and lowering his arm, he did not shift his position. “She’s proven more than capable,” he replied smoothly.

Marcus regarded his old friend with a sideways glance, a hint of amusement in his brown eyes. He hid his grin behind his glass as he took a sip of his own drink. “I was under the impression that the two of you did not get on well?”

Here, Reanden did shift his position, cocking his head to the side as he studied Marcus for a long moment. “We’ve come to an… understanding,” he said. He took another draw from his whiskey, again considering the director for a beat. “But you already knew that.”

“Suspected,” Trant corrected. “I knew from previous reports that the two of you had a rather explosive meeting a number of years ago, and were known to be – how did the analyst phrase it? – ‘openly acrimonious.’ It was enough to catch the attention of a few informants. And now, through those same informants, we’re starting to hear rumors – well, that she’s adopted you as her ‘pet agent.’”

Duathion snorted. “We needed an excuse. The rumor mills and fascination with… dynamics… made it an easy choice for a cover.”

“Lots of time together, probably late at night,” Marcus drawled, “alternating between your place and hers? Makes sense. For a cover.”

Reanden narrowed his eyes. “What else would it be?”

In response, Marcus cut him another sideways glance. “That would be entirely up to you, Duathion,” he replied. “Far be it from me to suggest that intense, devoted relationships can sometimes emerge from equally intense, undercover operational situations… as I know you are familiar.”

The corners of the agent’s mouth tipped significantly downward, a crease in his brow deepening. “We may be old friends –”

The remainder of his thought was cut short, however, by a distinctive female voice. “There you are, darling,” she called, drawing out the syllables in a perfect mimic of Taerich’s accent. Looking up, Marcus watched the shapely form of a relatively tall, human female sauntering their way. A long black dress draped elegantly over her, the fit revealing much while leaving more to the imagination. It fluttered around her ankles as she walked, hips swaying in an almost mesmerizing fashion. Dark hair was piled elegantly on her head, eyes shadowed dramatically. An impish glint lit green eyes, however, as she regarded first Marcus, then Reanden. “You’ve not gambled our fortunes away, have you?”

“That’d take longer than we have… darling,” Reanden replied. He did his best to bite back the flare of temper, but it was still eminently visible in his eyes, and the set of his jaw… until, in what appeared to be an instinctive movement, her slender fingers swept over the bare skin at the base of his neck. There was a sharp inhale, nostrils flaring slightly, even as he straightened. Marcus noted the shift in his intensity immediately.

For her part, Cardinal – known to most only as Mairen Bel Iblis – appeared not to notice the effect that she had on her counterpart. Marcus suspected it was entirely intentional, however. Damn Jedi, he thought. Still playing the part of the socialite, she fluttered her eyelashes at the director. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

“Oh, not at all,” Marcus replied. “Matter of fact…” He paused, downing the last of his drink. “I was just about to head back to my hotel.”

Bel Iblis, looking odd without her signature red hair, tilted her head to the side. Her other hand came to rest on Taerich’s shoulder, fingers still casually draped at his neck. “Please don’t let me rush you,” she said.

Marcus found he couldn’t quite smother the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He stood, smoothing his own tunic and recentering the belt at his waist. “Not at all,” he said. “And I might suggest you do the same… before Duathion blows a gasket.” The smirk widened, and he shared a knowing glance with Cardinal. “Until next time, you two.”

He turned and headed toward the exit before Taerich could form another response. It was fairly clear that Cardinal understood all too well how to deal with his fits of temper, Force help her. Trant was almost to the door as he keyed up his comms. “Ardun? It’s Marcus,” he began. “I’m not saying I told you so, but… I told you so. That’s a hundred credits you owe me…”