Chapter Text
“Fan Experience costs two hundred truguts,” the clerk droid said. “Gym Appearance is a hundred and seventy.”
“Just the two tickets,” Surot told him.
The droid handed over two holocards, marked blue for second story. “Enjoy!”
“Enjoy what?” Ashkhen muttered under her breath as they walked through the security gates of the arena. She felt positively naked without firearms, a strange sensation considering she had spent her entire life up until a few weeks ago without owning one. “We’re about three hours early.”
“Plenty of time for footwork. Speaking of which…” Surot pulled his datapad and tapped on a headline. “Bounty hunters dead in the desert,” he read aloud.
“Oh… that’s, uh—”
“Elg Rofa, age forty-nine and Aynur, age one hundred and twenty-eight, along with an unidentified companion, were found dead in the Mirvad Plains early this morning.
“The Rangers happened upon the three bodies just outside Baa’ol Creek. Authorities have yet to determine the reason behind the deceased heading into the wilderness in such a strikingly underprepared fashion, as they were found without any drinking water or field rations. Cause of death: severe dehydration.”
Surot looked up from his screen. “Loved the personal touch.”
“…what?”
“You, a water elemental, made them die of thirst. Not sure if I should call that savagery, or art.”
“So what, some hunters showed up.” Ashkhen’s voice and half-shrug didn’t really align with her real concerns about what happened, and she wondered how much of it was showing. “Told them to walk away.”
“Huh.” Surot scrolled down a little and continued, “According to the spokesperson of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild, the last known mark they had checked in for is Ashkhen Dakiis, age twenty-five, wanted by the Galactic Empire for high treason.”
“Bummer. I’m still Sev, remember?”
Surot thrust the screen towards Ashkhen. “There’s a mugshot.”
“Well, shiiit,” Ashkhen bit her lip, “Journalist did that poor young woman dirty with that last paragraph.”
“So how exactly did you phrase that? Because they appear to have walked up to the moment they dropped dead of exertion.”
“Is it my fault that they took it literally?”
Surot stopped and gave her a disapproving look. “Ashkhen, I come from a desert planet. That wasn’t a good death.”
“Are you really gonna lecture me?” Ashkhen raised an eyebrow. “You must’ve killed a kriffton of people in your career!”
“I killed them in combat. What you’re doing is devious.”
Surot’s appraisal didn’t sit well with Ashkhen. It was self-defense. Justified. She sent them away. They walked away. It was unfortunate that they died.
The three of them, all at once. Shouldn’t have been this… easy. That was the unsettling thing. She truly just meant to send them away, not… send them into a desert.
“Not gonna pretend I’m sorry,” she said after a short pause.
“You will be,” Surot said. “Your bounty’s just gone up and you’ve officially pissed off the Guild.”
A concern arrested Ashkhen. She looked askance at Surot. “Enough for you to, uh…?”
“Nah.” Surot’s mouth curled into wicked grin, underlined by the tattoos. “I want more of them to come so I can watch you pick them off one by one in the most kriffed up ways.”
••• ••• •••
A popcorn soared high into the air, slowly losing its velocity. It hung suspended for a moment, then commenced its descent. Ashkhen opened her mouth the last moment, then closed it with a satisfied crunch.
“Still don’t get why you won’t let me just pickpocket him.”
“‘Cause it’s not a kriffing ballpoint pen we’re taking off him. It’s his personal identification code cylinder.”
Ashkhen shrugged. “Roughly the same size.”
“You’re as much of a thief as I am a sculptor.”
“Respectfully, I disagree.” Ashkhen squinted with one eye, aimed, and tossed another popcorn in the air. “I literally lift things with the Force, and you sculpt! Only, your medium is, uh, people, and you chisel their arms off.” The popcorn bounced off Surot’s shoulder and landed in his lap. “Oops, sorry.”
Surot flicked the kernel off his thigh. “Do that again and I’ll toss you up to the third floor balcony.”
“Sheesh, I said I was sorry!” Ashkhen grabbed a handful and threw it directly into her mouth. “How about this: you create a distraction, I sneak up close and zoom”—she flourished her fingers—“done and done.”
“How are you still alive?” Surot said, shaking his head. “Your plan is to get me shot twenty-eight times while you, an ex-Jedi with an arrest warrant and a bounty on your head, prance up to Vocarno and do the very thing that gives away your identity right off.”
Ashkhen briefly considered throwing a handful of popcorn directly at him. “Okay, genius, let’s hear your plan, so I can come along nodding.”
“I talked to the promoters. It’s not just money awaiting the champion,” Surot said. “Vocarno’s considering a sponsorship deal and a personal invitation to another tournament.”
“Awesome! Does that mean you plan to keep forcing us to watch meatheads pound on each other?”
“No. Vocarno’s leaving Hutt Space after this. That’s where we’ll make a move.”
Ashkhen reached into the bag, and noticed with disappointment that the popcorn was gone. “So where does the Jackhammer factor in?”
“He’s the most likely to win. But for this to work, him winning has to be a constant, not a variable.”
Ashkhen propped her feet up on the back of the seat in front. “Why don’t you make a late entry, beat everyone, become the champion and get that personal invitation?”
“Tuxa’s been doing this for two hundred years, dimwit! How much fighting experience do you think he has on me?”
Ashkhen grinned. “Don’t you believe in yourself?”
“Knowing my strengths and my limits kept me alive this long,” Surot said. “No, this looks like a job for you.”
The holoprojectors above the ring had the pictures of the fighters displaying on a loop. Gragg Chuge The Bloodchugger, a Karkarodon warrior posed with a severed arm between his jaws. Ashkhen blinked several times to expel the image from her mind’s eyes.
“Are you out of your kriffing mind?”
“Not fighting in the arena, idiot.” Surot rubbed the black stripes on his temples. “Getting real close to Tuxa. Make sure he wins, then piggyback to the Wheel as Vocarno’s personal guest.”
Ashkhen’s mouth opened in protest, then closed. Then opened again. “I’m gonna have to repeat myself here: are you out of your kriffing mind?”
“Put you in a dress. Plant you in his way, boom”—he made a mockery of Ashkhen’s finger wiggling from earlier—“you prompt him to like you. Then you can keep whispering in his ear. Or whatever that is on the side of his head.”
“Hard. Pass.”
Surot stood and a cascade of popcorn pitter-pattered to the floor. “Then I’ll sign you up for the tournament. Just make sure you win.”
“Dude, you know I can’t fight physics without the Force, and I can’t use it overtly in the ring!”
“It’s your choice. You want to let all those guys pound you?” The line above his eyebrow warped into an amused arch. “Or just Tuxa?”
••• ••• •••
“Can I help you?”
The droid assistant—its chassis gleaming in the signature black, gunmetal and silver stripes of Stratos&Starr—hovered over to Surot and Ashkhen after a commercially established ninety seconds of letting the Iridonian mercenary browse the face-outs in the latest drop section by himself.
Ashkhen found the image of Surot looking at women’s eveningwear with apparent consideration absolutely surreal. The fact that he knew where to find an S&S boutique in the city, and the fact that he even knew where to look for high fashion clothing was such an out of character surprise that quips momentarily eluded her.
Then his dead wife rapped her upside the head, and she stayed absolutely kriffing silent.
“I need a pretty dress,” Surot told the droid.
“Oh, I’m afraid this brand only carries sizes up to cresh-three, but Godin Gabot over here makes his signature pieces in size”—the droid’s optics flashed Surot in green light from head to toe—“forn-two, and forn-two, wide.”
Ashkhen’s outburst of laughter was cut short when Surot yanked her forward by the arm.
“This is Sev. I need her very pretty.”
The droid floated around Ashkhen in a close circle, giving her an updown scan. “Who’s the intended audience? Because we might need to try colours beyond the human vision to make her look less like a drowned victim.”
“Oh, go rack out yourself!” Ashkhen huffed in indignation.
“Or try red first.” Surot’s contribution had both Ashkhen and the droid snap their heads around in surprise.
The droid shepherded Ashkhen away. She threw a questioning glance over her shoulder, but Surot was already halfway across the store to get away from the harsh and flickering fashion lights.
“Isn’t that a lot of personality programming for such a small chassis,” Ashkhen muttered.
The droid spun around mid-flight. Ashkhen could have sworn it bobbed its head side to side. “You’re quick to point fingers, aren’t you?”
Ashkhen ran a hand over her face and followed the droid in silence.
The best part of being given assistance by a stylist droid was that it took exactly one attempt to find the perfect fit. Ashkhen didn’t even have to try it on, she put the dress on and it was done. She slipped into the shoes she would have never even considered, then went to find Surot.
Surot was sitting in a cushioned chair, running a thumb back and forth along his eyebrows. He looked up when he registered someone approaching, the recognition in his eyes arrived three seconds later.
“Which one of us is paying for this?” Ashkhen asked, pointing at the attire.
“It’s your dress.”
“It’s your contrivance!”
“I’ll put it on your tab,” Surot said. “You look palatable.”
Ashkhen rolled her eyes. “The kriff does that even mean?”
“But your face doesn't match the rest of your outfit. Can you try a cute smile?"
"Can I try shoving my bejewelled foot up your ass?"
"Huh… maybe with your mouth closed?" Surot stood and headed towards the checkout. “Have it put in a garment bag. Lights in here are killing me, we’ll head back and catch some rest before the evening.”
••• ••• •••
Ashkhen put down her empty glass, then drank down half of Surot’s drink in a long pull too, before he plucked the glass from her hand with a scowl. Ashkhen pulled a very modest version of the face she would have, had she had enough courage to do so in Surot’s presence.
“I hate this.”
“Stop twiddling your fingers and go!” Surot pointed at the booth Tuxa was seated in. “Where’s the same confidence you had when you had security let us in?”
“That was one compulsion, and I didn’t have to stretch it out across three days to make him want to be my friend.”
“Yeah, friend.” Surot snorted. “This is the easiest part. Go.”
“Mind control is a sprint, not a marathon,” Ashkhen said through clenched teeth. “What if I can’t maintain it?”
“Don’t you believe in yourself?” Surot asked in a mocking tone. “If you want to switch up tactics, there’s something else you could try.”
Ashkhen raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Kindness.” Surot nodded in Tuxa’s direction. “There sits a man who’s been surrounded by aggression and violence all his life. People aren’t kind to him, they see him as either a tool to use or a monster to run away from. It’s a lonely existence, and we’re talking centuries in his case.”
Ashkhen pondered his words for a moment, looking at the man sitting by himself across the hotel’s lounge. He picked up fingerfood with the same hands he picked out eyeballs and it was a little disturbing.
“I’ll… keep that in mind.”
She let out a long sigh, and left Surot at the bar, making her way through the sparsely populated room.
“Hey,” she said when she stopped by his table, conjuring up a friendly smile. “Huge fan. Can I bother you for a moment?”
Tuxa looked her up and down, then snapped his fingers. Ashkhen blinked in surprise.
“Was that a yes or a—what does that mean?”
An attendant ran up to the table and placed a cocktail glass—no, a cocktail bucket—on the table, and pulled out a chair, looking at Ashkhen expectantly.
“I, uh… I’ll have a seat, then.” Ashkhen tried her damnedest to compartmentalize, then turned to Tuxa again. His features had sharpened into a where-to-dig-in leer, and that was also very disturbing. “So, I was—”
“Come,” Tuxa’s growl of a speech startled Ashkhen. His voice sounded so deep as though it came from somewhere around his stomach. Maybe spending two hundred years getting punched in the throat had that effect. Ashkhen gladly left her untouched drink by the table, having worked in the bar scene far too long to feel safe about anything but drinking straight from a bottle uncapped by her own hands.
The closed confines of the turbolift condensed Tuxa’s mood to such an intensity that Ashkhen was having problems focusing through it. Ten more levels and it would have started to precipitate on the walls. Oh well, if things got a little too heated, she could always rely on the Force.
“So, umm… what kind of music do you like?”
“Loud.” Tuxa turned a sharp left. The hallway runner muffled the sound of his steps, but not the impact on the floor. Ashkhen wondered if the Jackhammer nickname was also roughly two and a half centuries old, from an era when the little Tuxicle was prone to stomping his feet in a tantrum. The door to his suite opened when he held a hand against the reader. “Here.”
Ashkhen peeked inside, then took a tentative step into the suite.
“Wow, what a lovely—”
And that was what two hundred years of fights to the death looked like against roughly fifteen years of formalized martial arts, with a heavy focus on swordplay. The Jackhammer had Ashkhen in a rear naked choke before she saw him move, spun around on his back leg and rammed her into the wall by the entrance with such force that Ashkhen could feel her right side fuse into the light beige panels on a molecular level.
Blackness spread from edge of her vision towards the center. Ashkhen had seconds left. She wasted them by scrabbling stupidly at his forearm.
Then she heard the sound of fabric tearing. Kriffface meant business.
STOP! she thought, for the lack of breath.
The reach for the deeper register was unintentional; she wasn’t using the Force as much as the Force was using her. The command hit Tuxa like a block of duracrete and he disengaged. A weird thought crossed Ashkhen’s mind as she dropped to the floor—why would anyone install a high pile carpet in the spot with the most foot traffic in a room? Her face pressed into the tightly twisted silky threads. Maybe because most murders happened in the bathroom.
Pain zapped through her body with every heartbeat, which was a great many beats per minute, considering the number of hearts she packed. Utter exhaustion settled in after the adrenaline crash. At least the carpet was a nice colour to be looking at for the foreseeable future.
“Not cool, Tuxa,” Ashkhen said. In a short while, she felt she had overindulged in trendy and sophisticated mauve, and turned her head to the other side. “Dress cost a kriffing fortune.”
“I’ll… I’ll tell my agent to buy you a replacement one,” Tuxa said. Now that he had dropped the gladiator persona, his voice sounded surprisingly normal. “I’m… sorry about that. I sort of lost my head a little back there.”
And I sort of lost my structural integrity!
“Can I get a little help here?”
And Tuxa picked her up as one would snatch up a toy from the floor that their kid had dropped, and set her on the couch with as much deliberation as one would give to all the miscellaneous shit they flung in the same toy bin in an attempt to declutter their living space. Ashkhen observed a moment of silence for all the women in the past two centuries who did not command the Force.
The Feeorin fighter took a seat in an armchair, visibly at a loss. The Jackhammer was gone, his operating system was compromised, and the layer beneath that had been banished from the public view for over two hundred years blinked at Ashkhen as though he was waiting for further instructions.
“You wanna press charges?” he asked. “My agent takes care of that stuff, so, umm… I’ll give you his number.”
Ashkhen let out a long sigh, then drew on the firmly instilled compassion from another life in the past.
“Am I correct in assuming you only interact with people in two ways, and both are about dominating the kriff out of them?”
“I guess,” said Tuxa.
“Well, now that I’m here, maybe we could try something different.” At Tuxa’s expression, she added, “Don’t worry, we’ll start slow. You can tell me anytime if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”
“Okay,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “What do I do?”
“Pretend you’re still sitting at your table in the lounge downstairs, and I just walked up to you.” Ashkhen cleared her throat, then cranked up the comforting undertones in her voice to an eleven. “Hi there. I’m Sev Maral. How’s it going?”
“I’m Tuxa Jrylluk. I’m… I’m good.” Tuxa’s concentration now was rivalling his focus in the ring from the previous night. “It’s not my real name, though. My parents named me Tux, but that rhymes with sucks, so my agent added an ‘a’ before I went pro to make it sound better.”
“That’s interesting, thanks for sharing it with me,” Ashkhen said, then veered the topic the kriff away from real names. “Originally, I used to have blue skin, but a couple of years ago, a combination of infections and environmental factors triggered an autoimmune response, and I lost my pigmentation. Moral of the story: always swim between the flags.”
Tuxa’s expression made it abundantly clear that he rarely ever had conversations about anything other than promotions, schedules, workouts and fights. It took him a few moments to realize injuries were a common ground.
“I think you’re pretty like this too,” he said.
“That was a very nice thing to say, I appreciate it.”
Tuxa was fluent in the ring with fighters, as he was fluent in hotel rooms with escorts. This was in such stark contrast with either that he found little foothold to navigate. “Uh… Sev, right?”
Ashkhen nodded.
“What is happening?”
She gave him a warm smile, one that was genuine for a change. “Tuxa, this is how you make a friend.”
••• ••• •••
It was little over midnight when Ashkhen turned up at their lodging. She tossed Tuxa’s bomber jacket into a chair, then shrank a bit with a painful wiggle of toes.
I hope when I die it’ll feel like slipping off a tight shoe.
The lid of Surot’s blaster maintenance kit clicked shut.
“The dress cost a kriffing fortune,” he said in a good-evening tone. Then he gave her a second glance over. “Did he… want me to get you a pillow to sit on?”
Arms and legs akimbo, he tumbled over the backrest of the couch and hit the floor with a loud thud. Ashkhen passed by his spot without breaking her stride, slowly lowering her hand. “I want the sound of water rushing down my head. I swear having a kriffing conversation with him was more exhausting than if I had just let him plow me.”
In twenty-nine minutes, the water heater beeped a sad noise and the hot water quota for the day ran out. Ashkhen made a second appearance in the common room, looking more like her original self. The living room, on the other hand, turned into a high-end seafood restaurant in the meanwhile.
“What the—wow. Wow!” Ashkhen said, completely taken by surprise. “You know what? Kriff it, today’s my birthday. Thanks heaps!”
“Wasn’t me.” Surot shook his head. “A nervous looking guy showed up just now. Didn’t say a word, just brought the food and all that”—he jerked a thumb at the entrance—“stuff in. Care to elaborate?”
Ashkhen followed the direction, and saw heaps upon piles of premium retail bags lining up by the entrance. She wandered over and chose three at random to peek inside.
“Well, what do you know,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I guess ruby red is my colour now.”
As exquisite as the premium fashion clothing articles were, Ashkhen’s attention quickly shifted back towards the wide assortment of food on the table.
“That is insane,” she said. “You know, crazy as it sounds, I actually prefer eating seafood on land.”
“How come?”
“I don’t have to catch it first. Come, let’s dig in before it gets warm.”
Surot took a seat on the opposite side. His face showed as much recognition as if he was staring at a picture that was meant to be observed with four types of cone cells.
“You’re not allergic, are you?” Ashkhen broke a colossal crab leg off at the joint and pointed at the table with it.
“I have no way of knowing,” Surot said. “I’ve never sat at a table with so many little black eyes staring back at me.”
“No sealife on Iridonia?”
“No seas, only frothing pools of acid.” At Ashkhen’s expression, he added, “I’ve had fish before, and I’ve seen some of these creatures”—he eyed a bowl of impossibly spiky reddish-black balls—“it’s just never occurred to me to try and eat them.”
The spiked ball rose from the container, then hovered into Ashkhen’s hand. She cut a round hole in its shell, drained the liquid, then levitated it across the table.
“Like all sea creatures,” she said in a sage tone, “the real treasure is on the inside. Scoop out the orange stuff and try it.”
Surot looked unsure, but followed instructions. It took him a long while to deem the bite well chewed.
“Was it heaven in a shell?” Ashkhen asked between tossing back oysters.
“It was… salty.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Ashkhen grinned. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t. You tried Yilu fish before?”
“It has this… judgemental look in its eyes,” Surot said, looking at the dish plate Ashkhen indicated.
“Then eat them first!”
“W-what?”
Ashkhen grabbed a spoon. ”Look, it pops”—she pressed down on the side of the fish’s head—“right out like that. Here.”
Surot stared at the silvery-white eyeball sliding around in the spoon offered to him, then looked across the table at Ashkhen, at a loss for words.
“Come on, it’s a sign of honor and respect.”
Surot shook his head, a tremble running through his features. “Have mercy, I’m only getting my feet wet here.”
“I hate idioms that make me think twice.” Ashkhen sighed.
“Can I respect you back?” He nodded at the spoon. Ashkhen accepted, the eye went down with a slurp and Surot had to look away. “So, were you gonna tell me what’s all this? And that wardrobe?”
Ashkhen pulled the prawn arrangement closer and methodically brutalized it. “I know that look. Trust me, these were tank-grown. What can I say… after it was clear that I would walk out with my head still attached, we talked about our lives, and—well, it was all a bunch of banthashit on my part, which made me feel a little bad, so I dropped some truths too. And I guess he remembered I liked seafood, or I dunno, his assistant did. Wanna try one of these?” She pushed the oysters across.
“What do I do with it?”
“Take the little wiggly part in the middle.”
Surot stabbed his fork into it, then threw it in his mouth in one determined motion. He started chewing, then colour ran out of his face.
“Shit, you’ve got antihistamines in your med kit, right?” Ashkhen half-rose from her seat.
Surot shook his head, mouth tightly closed. The bite went down with a gulp, then he spat what appeared like a tooth into his palm. “Could have warned me there’s a pit inside.”
Ashkhen dropped the prawn. She couldn’t have been more surprised if it propped itself up on its tail fan and danced away on the tabletop.
“Dude, that’s a pearl. You found a pearl! That’s super rare!”
Surot turned it over in his hand. “It’s kind of small. And a little wonky.”
Ashkhen reached for it, Surot tossed it across the table.
“So, is there a… folk story about this?”
“You mean, specifically Nautolan?” Ashkhen blinked up in surprise. “Kriff if I know. I grew up in a group home, I’ll have to look it up on the HoloNet the same as the next landlubber.”
Ashkhen gave the pearl back to Surot, wiped her hands then whipped out her datapad.
“Let’s see… according to this, pearls in general symbolize wisdom and divine light, whatever that means, but happening upon one like you did marks the beginning of a journey.”
“A new journey?” Surot poured himself another drink, then offered to do the same for Ashkhen. “How do you know if the last one’s already ended?”
She took a contemplative sip. Years ago, her first instinct would have been to defer to Master Balian’s wisdom about such questions. Now, with everything that was behind her, she just sat with it.
“Say, Surya… d’you reckon we could be friends?”
The glass stopped gently tilting from one side to the other in Surot’s hand for a moment. He looked across the tabletop at Ashkhen.
“I don’t see why the kriff not.”
“Great!” Ashkhen perked up despite the comforting weight of digestion. “So can we get the chip out, then?”
“Nice try, dimwit.”
Tuxa must have been used to consume twice the amount of food as she and Surot combined, and had his assistant throw a couple of extra dishes on top for good measure. Ashkhen started to worry that she might not fit in those nice dresses anymore.
“So, where in your journey are you at?” she asked, then suddenly remembered herself and hastened to add, “I don’t mean to pry, just… you don’t have to, if you, you know…”
Surot propped the pearl-yielding oyster shell on its edge, and slowly twirled it around. A wan smile played around his mouth. “Haven’t done this in a while.”
“Having a dinner table conversation?”
“Yeah. There’s been a lot of running around lately, but… it’s nice to slow down every now and then.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Shoot.”
“Are you really doing therapy, or was that just a joke?”
“Is it that hard to believe?” Surot tossed the oyster shell onto the heap of Ashkhen’s remains. “There are only two kinds of Iridonians who’ve served their time in the army: those in therapy, and those who’ve killed themselves.”
“How’s it going for you?”
Surot let out a long sigh. “Slow and very expensive. You see, I’m working with a real person, none of that pre-programmed, choose-your-preferred-voice-and-accent, feel-good banthashit.”
“That’s incredible,” Ashkhen said. “I’m…happy for you.”
“Funny how it worked out in the end,” Surot continued with a nostalgic look in his eyes. “It was his idea to give this”—he indicated the both of them—“a test run before I move on to gutting you.”
“Sounds like an amazing therapist,” Ashkhen said in a small voice. “How long has it been?”
“Almost three years.” Surot fixed the pearl on the table with an inscrutable look on his face. “Since my wife died.”
“Man, that’s heavy,” Ashkhen said to the pearl, then thought briefly about about how Surot brought it up this time. “Do you… want to talk about it?”
“Not the topic for right now,” Surot said. “What about you?”
“I’m not married.”
“Yeah, I figured. You’ve eaten all the males to gain sustenance?”
Ashkhen’s jaw dropped. “What kind of kriffed up widower humour is that?”
“Friends give each other shit, no?” Surot said. “It’s just that you seem like the kind of person who naturally draws people in, but you’re also sort of withdrawing from all that.”
“No, I’m not!” Ashkhen said. “Well, not like… It’s like I’m, uh…”
Surot’s eyebrows seemed to be determined to climb up his forehead so high until they were hugging his horns.
“Oh, kriff. Whatever.” Ashkhen sighed. “Probably because of the way I was brought up by the Jedi, I’m not that great with those kinds of emotions. It’s confusing. I mean, I know what attraction feels like, but I don’t know what to do with that knowledge. I think I’ve been kind of in love with someone before, but he turned out to be a serial killer, so I don’t really trust my own judgment in that regard.”
The pause stretched on. Ashkhen sensed a hint of concern thrumming beneath Surot’s general bafflement. Professional or personal? She didn’t dare probe deep enough to distinguish.
“You dated a what?”
There it was again. Showing up uninvited, unprompted, planting himself in the middle, bending the focus his way. Not this time. Ashkhen shook her head with a soft sigh. She wouldn’t let him hijack this moment the way he hijacked everything else.
“That’s a story I’ll tell you some other time,” she said, stifling a yawn. “The match is in the evening, we don’t have to set an alarm for tomorrow morning, right?”
Surot picked the pearl up and slipped it into his pocket. “Nope. You go ahead and brumate.”