Ahocholochol, attn: conner, maris

[Trinity Rosa Blythe]

Trinity could smell the pub from the street. Every time the joint’s door swooshed open, the scented air escaped in warm bursts that berated her nose with the sour smells of unbathed men and ethanol and the musty odor of mildly illegal spices. The Blue Cap did not offer any glamour to its customers, crammed in between two bold high-rises and with only a single faded sign to identify itself. If the exterior had ever been cleaned, the layers of exhaust and grime did not indicate it. Windowless, it was only the smell that forced recognition of the building’s purpose. That, and the sound of chinking glasses and boisterous laughter. It was not the sort of place that any important ambassador or visiting politician would grace with his or her presence, and Trinity had grown fond of its services precisely for that reason.

Kader had owned the bar for as long as the Lorrdian’s father had been ranked in the Confederation. He was an odd man, always dressed in colorful fabrics that appeared to have been patched together by his own hands into mismatched works of shirts and trousers. A new assortment of jewelry always hung from his neck—gold and silver chains that clinked when he walked, acquired from moneyless patrons who wanted a drink or two. The man always wore an easy smile. Whether this was because he prescribed to a diet of octane or because he had been born jovial, Trinity enjoyed his company. She’d stumbled upon the Blue Cap as a new recruit, and it had become a retreat. Other officers did go in and out, but rarely her direct superiors. Mother had never allowed the consumption of alcohol growing up. So it had been in the far corner that Trinity had tasted her first beer and discovered her rather low tolerance for booze. Proceeded by her first bar fight. The memories made her smile, and she sat down at the bar grinning, happy to untuck her shirt and allow her trained posture to slouch.

“Blythe.” Kader’s usual, one-word greeting was accompanied by uncapping a bottle and sliding it to her.

Trinity nodded and glanced over her shoulder at the surrounding tables, grouped mostly by officers and locals, “you’re busy tonight.”

“Mm.” The bartender watched his customers for a moment, obviously pleased with the business. “I heard there was a delegation or a conference or something of that sort today. Your mother come in?”

“Yes, actually.” Her nose wrinkled at the mention of her mother and the long lecture she had received, again, for cropping her hair. And for joining the military. And for being single. Taking several long gulps from her bottle, she sighed, “fortunately my father is around for a while, and they haven’t seen each other for a few months. She leaves in the morning.”

Laughing, Kader pulled a cloth from beneath the counter, slung it over his shoulder and said shortly, “I’ll be checking in, Blythe” before turning to assist new patrons.

[Maris Kala'myr]

Maris had always watched those around her closely. It was a core party of the heuristic algorithms that governed her personality processes. Today was a day like any other in that regard and she sat at the bar, waiting for her friend, and silently observing those around her. Such drinking establishments had always been an strong example of organic interactions that she strived to mimic with the practiced ease of one who was intimately comfortable in such settings. She had come along way, but her creator had known that the droid's learning would never be complete, and as such there was no directive to stop her observations or call a point where enough was enough. It was the constant observation that gave Maris a somewhat intense appearance even with the warm and welcoming smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Everything held some level of interest to the droid. She watched with fascination the man brooding into his beer and could have heard his mutterings if only she had been closer. The man appeared forlorn and predictive models were loaded into redundant cerebral processors to discover the best reason to the depression. Equally fascinating was the group of cadets enjoying their drink a little too much and making a scene towards the back of the room. She watched their rituals and strained to derive meaning and reason beyond the obvious sociological imperatives that drove them. She listened to their bawdy talk and boasts, analyzed their raucous laughter as glasses clinked together in toasts.

While still maintaining her vigil over the man at the bar and the group of cadets, her attention turned to the woman who had just entered. For the briefest of clock ticks, Maris believed it to be Connie. But it soon became obvious that it was not, but she watched the woman all the same, waiting for her friend to arrive. The interaction between the new subject and the barkeep was considerably different from the other interactions Maris had noted so far. Her head cocked to the left as she observed. There appeared to be some level of familiarity between two and it was an easy deduction to make that the woman was a source of constant patronage. The way the barkeep popped the cap off the bottle and slid it to the woman without preamble was indicative of such a relationship.

Even with the loud din of the bar and the multiple points of contact that Maris was observing, inconspicuous eavesdropping was accomplished easily. Every sound within the bar was filtered and processed, split into separate threads of logic and processed simultaneously. The exchange between the barkeep and the woman was informal and pleasant. Maris had recognized an indifference about the man as he served her an Alderaan Ruge. He was polite enough, but his body language spoke differently.

Bringing the glass to her bright red lips, Maris sipped the Ruge. Chemical analysis showed it to be a poor bottle, but then she had expected little else for the price paid and her surroundings. But Maris was not here to enjoy the various spirits and liquors. She was here to socialize and pull tighter the shroud of humanity that she cloaked herself with. A red smear of lipstick crested the tumbler as she drew it from her lips and placed the glass back on the bar. Maris looked around again, smiling amiably.

Maris was blonde again and her hair fell down to her shoulders in a chic tussled look that appeared haphazard and carefree, but was anything but. The droid was a little overdressed for the likes of the Blue Cap, but it hardly mattered. She wore a pair of high heels and tight denim jeans – the jeans were new and designer branded, much like the shoes. A salmon pink silk wrap hung loose from the shoulders with a deep collar of pleated fabric that almost came to her breastbone. The wrap was tied at her left in a simple bow and pinched about the waist, accentuating her lean physique. The sleeves were lose by comparison and elasticized just below the elbow. A few pieces of jewelry completed the look. She wore a handful of metal bracelets on her right wrist. They were of bronze and copper and stainless steel and a few were engraved with simple repeating geometric patterns. What little light there was in the bar caught on the bezeled and square edges. A heavy necklace hung around her slender neck and was lost in the folds of the salmon wrap, and large golden hoops weighed on each lobe.

The droid gave a glance towards the door, expecting Connie at any moment, and went back to her observing.

[Constance Bravil]

Stars knew why Conner had taken it upon herself to teach her HRD friend about the rougher side of civilization. Sure, she’d made noise about wanting to make sure Maris could handle unfriendly environs, but that was a load of crap. The droid might have trouble relating to the less-washed masses, but it wasn’t as though she couldn’t defend herself. Anyone who got aggressive on her would just end up tossed across the room like a toy.

The spy supposed part of her hoped exposing Maris to more of the galaxy might make the AI more… flexible in her thinking. Given who owned her, Constance figured she’d been programmed with way restrictive morality subroutines. Most things to be snowblind white and Confederate uniform black with her.

That said, all signs pointed to Maris’ neural heuristics being the most complicated and adaptive the spy had ever run into. That meant she could possess the droid equivalent of emotions and creativity. A few times Conner felt she’d gotten past the firmware interrupts, that she’d demonstrated enough objective evidence of valid shades of gray to get Maris thinking. Not much, sure, but it was a start.

When Constance first took in the dingy façade of the Blue Cap, she wondered if maybe she’d been a bit too ‘ambitious’ in her choice of locale. Not that she was much surprised by the look of the place; Algy had told her about it some while back, and there existed no better authority on all the alcohol-serving establishments in Diflu. Looks like he might’ve understated a bit though. Not Blue Eyes level, to be certain, but still.

Oh well; too late to back out now. Given that Maris often arrived early to any appointment, it was likely the droid had already arrived. She didn’t want to jerk the woman… well, machine… whatever… around. Wouldn’t be decent of her, especially since Maris always acted so damned enthusiastic about spending time with her. Could be her behavior was based entirely on preset social interface norms, but if it were otherwise Conner thought it best to encourage it.

Shrugging off her momentary doubts, the pilot sauntered on inside. Eager to go casual whenever possible, she’d selected one of the most non-professional looking outfits her closet contained. The red synthleather miniskirt definitely gave a major party girl vibe, what with the slits up the side. Those were more than mobility than anything else, but she didn’t mind the effect. She had no self-esteem issues when it came to her appearance. The shimmery white fabric of her top was opaque enough, but the thin straps securing it to her shoulders and the low V-neckline showed off a respectable amount of skin.

The high crimson heels she wore gave her enough additional inches on her height so she didn’t have to strain too much to spot Maris at the bar. Or the attention Maris was getting from several quarters. Whoever designed her hardware—inside and out—was quite the artist. Soon as she spotted those crystalline blue optics zeroing in on her, she gave a bright smile and a wave to make it clear she’d seen the droid.

It took a fair number of seconds to politely shoulder through the crowds. Apparently the place was popular enough crowd the place in spots. She deftly dodged a few grabby hands along the way, very much in a “look but don’t touch” mode. No one else would ever have that particular privilege beyond Lysander again.

Fortunately no one occupied the bar stools to either side of Maris yet, so Conner made haste in hopping up on the one to her right. “Sorry I’m late! The tram got delayed, some kind of malfunction in the antigrav unit.” Turning away briefly, the Group Captain roved gray eyes down the bar in search of the nearest bartender.

Out of the corner of her eye Conner caught sight of another woman, one who looked nagglingly familiar. The name escaped her at the moment, but her mind associated the lady with a business context, so she figured her for another Confederate recruit. Not wanting to be rude to her droid friend, she turned her attention back to Maris in a blink. “What’re you having? Any good?”