C'saa e Nomaani'suurra

[Gunner Rodes]

"Fly safe out there, Tick-Tock."

One of several disjointed thoughts wriggled its way to the surface in response to Jaden's tactical analysis of his significant other-less situation. It took shape, on his lips, like surprise, and withered into feeble nothingness as he watched the Commander slip into the crowd. That was it, then. The plan to find Kiimiti Taassaurra was underway, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. It was normal, he told himself, to be excited, and to feel a little nervous, but the racing pulse, clammy skin, and constricted throat made for a cocktail rather more potent than your run-of-the-mill pre-date anxiety. And, while having Tristan and Jaden in his corner should've furnished the doubting corners of his mind with encouragement, it only added to the pressure: he had an audience, now. An expectant one.

Sure, he'd considered the possibility that his unlikely comm-pal would be at the festival, but, after their damp squib of a conversation, the thought of shrouding himself in the anonymity of a busy crowd was more than appealing. It wasn't that he didn't want to meet her - he did - but how to capitalise on such a wasted opportunity? How did you rebuild a house of cards, once you'd emptied the deck? No. He couldn't do it. Too much was invested in Kiimiti Taassaurra for him to blow it all on a stupid line. If he was going to embarrass himself, he'd rather do it with a complete stranger. So, he'd stall for all the time in the galaxy.

A tall Cizerack approached, he was wearing a waistcoat of crimson and gold, and carried a tray loaded with complimentary champagne flutes. Gunner helped himself to two of the flutes, downed the contents of one in a gulp, and, before the big guy vanished, plucked a third one for Tristan.

"Drink?"

All around them were faces, showing their teeth, singing songs of laughter; the unrelenting conversation fell like rain against the windows of his mind. He attempted to focus, instead, on the music: a smoky sort of sound, stitched together with an unfamiliar exotic sort of syncopation, and decorated with silvery chimes and rushes of harp strings. It was at once sensual, and light on its feet. His head bobbed in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the band, and a questioned returned to him from before:

"Tristan, are you a dancer?" His gaze crept sideways, and came, hand-in-hand, with an amused grin, "Do you have some sick shapes in your arsenal?"