Post by Charlotte on Mar 30, 2019 13:16:06 GMT -5
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A Business Matter
Spots of blue light converged into the grainy image of a long-necked Quermian in a tailored suit of many layers. The holo stole many things from him: height, context, and the color of his fashionable attire. He sat poised and perfect behind a whimsical desk.
“Jouofah.”
The Quermian in the image inclined his head in respect. “Dame Rasaardem; an honor. How may I serve you?”
This transmission used means tidied by professionals, as all of her communications had since Buffton’s bid for power had collapsed under a tonnage of mystical and mechanical interference. Nowei Rasaardem trusted it only because she would be paralyzed and silenced if she did not. She acted like she believed in it, but had a new habit of keeping all her communications brief. “That matter you handled for me: Stop payment.”
“At once,” Jouofah told her, reaching to the side across his desk. “If I may ask, is there a dispute regarding the quality of service?”
The old Pantoran’s surprise bubbled up in a light laugh. “I take it you have not followed news from Mandalore.”
“Is there news from that place? I had no notion anything noteworthy ever came from such backwaters.”
“Suffice it to say, the service is no longer required.”
The Quermian had never used his face as if the study of expression might be a worthwhile enterprise, so any actual surprise he may have felt appeared exactly like the solicitous interest he’d shown before. “With respect,” he began carefully, “I received word some time ago that the servicer had already been dispatched.”
Nowei Rasaardem balked with another incredulous chuckle. “You really don’t know what’s happened! I should say the servicer has been dispatched, indeed. By a rather large projectile of some sort. The cosmos itself has conspired to save me the two million. We cannot be found ungrateful, my dear! Stop payment. No one is left to cry about the contract. Both servicer and objective spiral the planet as ash.”
A Business Matter
Spots of blue light converged into the grainy image of a long-necked Quermian in a tailored suit of many layers. The holo stole many things from him: height, context, and the color of his fashionable attire. He sat poised and perfect behind a whimsical desk.
“Jouofah.”
The Quermian in the image inclined his head in respect. “Dame Rasaardem; an honor. How may I serve you?”
This transmission used means tidied by professionals, as all of her communications had since Buffton’s bid for power had collapsed under a tonnage of mystical and mechanical interference. Nowei Rasaardem trusted it only because she would be paralyzed and silenced if she did not. She acted like she believed in it, but had a new habit of keeping all her communications brief. “That matter you handled for me: Stop payment.”
“At once,” Jouofah told her, reaching to the side across his desk. “If I may ask, is there a dispute regarding the quality of service?”
The old Pantoran’s surprise bubbled up in a light laugh. “I take it you have not followed news from Mandalore.”
“Is there news from that place? I had no notion anything noteworthy ever came from such backwaters.”
“Suffice it to say, the service is no longer required.”
The Quermian had never used his face as if the study of expression might be a worthwhile enterprise, so any actual surprise he may have felt appeared exactly like the solicitous interest he’d shown before. “With respect,” he began carefully, “I received word some time ago that the servicer had already been dispatched.”
Nowei Rasaardem balked with another incredulous chuckle. “You really don’t know what’s happened! I should say the servicer has been dispatched, indeed. By a rather large projectile of some sort. The cosmos itself has conspired to save me the two million. We cannot be found ungrateful, my dear! Stop payment. No one is left to cry about the contract. Both servicer and objective spiral the planet as ash.”