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…”