Savi found them, unsurprisingly, in the cargo hold.
What was surprising was that they were out in the open and not folded into some vent somewhere, just waiting to make smarmy commentary through the grates.
The creature that the Shani knew as Imopea moved in measured circles around an open stretch of durasteel plating. Their head was a smooth ridge, like unshaped clay, and while there were eyeballs in seated sockets, only appropriately-sized holes for every other feature remained; tiny external auditory meatuses, slits of nostrils, a small opening for additional respiration at the base of the skull. No mouth in sight. The body was all muscle and facets, an anatomically magnificent dancer’s build.
Savi would know, having dallied with some incredible artists of such caliber in the centuries past.
And Imopea was dancing. That became clear within a few seconds of observation. Their often skillful, quicksilver movements were broken by awkward drags of heel and toe and taking steps too far to actually be a decent waltz. The displeased grunts that emanated from the mouthless changeling would surely have been swears worthy of causing seasoned pirates to blush.
Savi did not laugh, but it was a near thing. Instead, she prowled forward, lazily pantherine, sure to scuff her boot so that Imopea would hear her approach even without more equipped ears. She didn’t fancy a stabbing attempt at the moment.
The changeling stumbled and then stridently ignored that she had, pacing into the next turn like an agitated nexu.
“It really does help to practice with a partner, you know. It isn’t a solo dance,” the Shani voiced as they stepped into the shifter’s space, pacing to follow but remaining out of range.
The next grunt from Imopea was distinctly derisive.
Shifting of bone and muscle under crawling skin happened so quickly that were she not watching, Savi may not have witnessed it. Even with three hundred years of life, seeing Imopea shift, hearing it, was still viscerally discomforting, which was why the Shani watched closely. She wouldn’t be controlled by her deepest animal impulses against something so unnatural.
Nose and eyes popped into place, skin and sinew coalescing into lips. The shortest, most delicate feather follicles of brows and lashes along with those on her scalp were still growing, but it didn’t deter Imopea from opening their mouth to immediately stab back at Savi’s implied offer.
“Bugger off, Savran, so sorry I didn’t learn to bloody prance about. Not all of us have the ages to pick up useless fancies like your utterly decrepit ass.”
Savi’s brow and eye twitched, but they gave back as good as they got, grin serpentine, and struck. Cobra-quick, she lunged in between one turn and another and caught one of the changeling-Shani’s hands, lofting it gracefully. Tension rippled through Imopea from fingertips to the balls of her bare feet, a waveform visible in the literal bristling of her cyanotic skin. She hissed, but stubborn as ever, refused to be defeated. Another pale hand snatched Savi’s free one, digging in talons that erupted from her nailbeds still-bleeding, leaning in close enough to spit words nigh to Savi’s lips.
“Fine then. Do show off your expertise, since it’s your damn fault I’m goin’ to this bleedin’ banquet of buffoonery.”
“You are dragging me.”
The Shani shifted their arms and hands, kicking at Imopea’s feet until they were in the right positions, and then counted them off, taking lead. Of course, Imopea was a terrible follower.
“Still your fault. I made you a promise, Princess.” Slitted, saffron eyes glared up at her, feral and intelligent, too sharp. “I’ll be fulfilling my vows even if I have to haul you bloodied and beaten along with me.”
A brief narrowing of eyes followed Imopea’s comment; Savi was measuring them as she often did, scrutinizing them with the same vulturine, yet disarmingly blasé mien she often wore when speaking with their prickly counterpart. Finally, Savi pulled back just slightly, like a vornskr that had grown bored of its prey, saying, “You know, your threats lack the gravitas they used to. I think you’ve grown soft on me. Or perhaps, for me is a more apt description?”
They strode across the space, every one-two-three-four rotation less like a dance and more akin to a battle. Imopea didn’t step– she lunged. She didn’t retreat– she riposted. Savi shook their arms with a slight lift of her crest.
“Ease. Stop fighting me. You have to share control.”
“‘I bow to no one,’” Imopea parroted to her in Savi’s own voice, unfortunately succeeding in causing another feather twitch.
“You bowed to me.” Such needling could only be responded to in equal measure. The Changeling was too sharp for anything else.
“Princess,” they hissed again, twisting the dagger. Savi threw away one of their hands and lifted the other, urging Imopea into a spin. They twirled away, bitchily kicking off of the Shani’s stomach to do it, then strode back.
“No, you spin back just the same. Give your back to me. I’ll take your shoulders, turn you out, then we resume.”
“And what will you do with my back?”
“Keep my promises as well, you insufferable shrew.”
That mollified the shifter. She scowled but complied, setting up to repeat the spin, allowing herself to be pirouetted instead of thrown, and gently rotated back. Her spine barely touched Savi’s breast.
It was all barbed knives for vertebrae, and they sunk, rounding slowly and grinding down to softer edges, one by one. Savi examined their scalp up close.
“Your pinions look flawless,” she remarked, once begrudging, now only impressed. “You’ve been practicing?”
“Mmm.”
Hums from the Changeling were never useful. Not saying anything was just one way to avoid a truth she hadn’t yet decided how to weaponize.
The longer they danced, the more the faux-Shani took form. The feathers grew in, primaries and secondaries, even the long tail feathers. The jaw finished. Their build sculpted between assassin and performer. Their shoulders eased by centimetres.
Attempting to assuage Imopea’s evident anxieties wouldn’t be well received, so that left only more taunting.
“So where are we meeting the friend you made on arrival?” she probed, adding a wide, mocking smile and proud tone.
They stumbled two steps as Imopea’s legs locked, a full hiss of utter disgust leaving their twisted maw.
“That pervert is not my friend,” she spat aside, nigh on bristling like a tooka held over a bath.
Savran stilled as well at the visceral reaction. Their gaze slitted.
Imopea never chose one word without meaning it.
“What do you mean, pervert?”
“Loose your talons.” Realizing they had clenched their fists, Savi did, consciously having to ease the deadly grip. “You’ll see when you meet her, she’ll probably ask to see your kidneys too. Or for you to half-swallow her while she,” one bloodied hand released Savi’s to make crude gestures.
“And what did she do to you?”
The Changeling looked back to her face then, and something of whatever they saw had them reaching to cup Savi’s cheek briefly.
“Nothing I could not handle, Savran.” Then just as quickly the touch was gone, and her hand flapped flippantly. “I got her to shut her bloody mouth for a good ten minutes by promising to show her my kidneys through my calves, but the whore only talked telepathically. Pretend you’re talking to me, only horny and sad, and you’ll do just fine.”
What had they seen? A glimmer of genuine concern beneath eyes that feigned annoyance and begrudging tolerance. No longer could Savi maintain their normal, the kind of mean girl banter one might expect to see had they come up in grade school together, no…that all was washed away by a swelling tide of protectiveness, of a maternalistic whisper rising up from their subconscious. Nurysa lived on within her in more ways than Savi’s memories of her.
She shook her head, then scoffed.
They resumed their waltz, Savi advising a different version, and the quiet concentration was blissful until–
“Princess?”
“What?”
“She speaks Shani. My acquaintance. She speaks Shani.”
This time it was Savi who ground them to a halt, and Imopea who had the utterly placid aura of murder about her.
“… you’re certain?”
“I’ve heard enough of you sampling to know it when she tried to speak to me with this Face. She also knew I didn’t have the anatomy perfect– granted that’s because I meant not to, but her words were to the effect of, ‘I’ve been inside a Shani enough to know.’”
Imopea leaned close again.
“I will kill her for you too, if you wish me to.” And Savran knew that, because the whole thing of this was that Imopea did not consider the necklace of skinned Quantum Shadows faces she’d brought Savi enough payback for the crime of stealing Savi’s likeness in a mask, recruitment to the Brotherhood or no. “But I hate to admit I may be at a match for it alone.”
“Don’t plot anything yet. I have questions for this woman now.”
“So mote it be. But do keep me apprised of the conversation you two will surely hold that I cannot understand. I want no surprises with that hemorrhagic, hemorrhoidic harlot.”
Savi actually cackled at that description, and it was a deflection, but a suitable one.
“I will.”
They went through the second waltz, and nearly started a third, more and more awash in the rhythm of one another’s twisting bodies, the metronome clock of a heart beating replacing strings and symphony. Time passed easily until the crisp staccato of a marching cadence and a barely-audible grunt announced their third party member joining them.
“Has.” The Human looked first to Savi, then to Imopea, opening her mouth, then closing it on a microscopic grimace her training would not let show. “The pilot estimates our arrival in T-thirty-eight minutes,” Emere Galo delivered her report, toneless and tepid as a bath cooled to room temperature.
Savi watched the smile peel across Imopea’s face, fluttering the buccal flaps of her borrowed Shani features. The changeling had let go immediately upon the interruption and now swanned around Savi to circle Emere like a tooka with a mouse.
“Oh, your poor dear,” she cooed. “It must be so difficult for you, interacting with people like us who’ve no surname or place in your militant hierarchy. How can you possibly convey that cute apathy and disdain for their entire person and the concept of social interaction if you can’t distance them verbally from the start by refusing to use their name? You might have to use,” a dramatic pause flitted on a gasp before a haunted whisper, “actual inflection. Tone! To tell me you don’t need me or anyone! Oh, what horror!”
Galo’s steely dark eyes didn’t twitch. Savi smirked a bit, staring at her knowingly, and got a furrowed brow of a glare back.
“You should make sure you’re ready to deploy,” was all Emere added, valiantly ignoring Imopea’s goading.
“Oh, don’t worry, darling, we’ll be ready. I’m done borrowing Savi from you.”
The shifter circled back around and pushed at Savi’s shoulders, sneering.
“Go on, Princess. Escort your lady love proper. I’ll be just fine with Iphis.”
“Imopea,” Savi warned, if only tokenly.
“Saaavran,” they sang back.
“Get dressed,” sniffed the true Shani with a slight eye roll. “I’ve selected an outfit for you.” Because there was no way in the Galaxy that the changeling would be prepared for the Tem if left to their own devices. “The garment bag is with my things.”
“Yes, yes, ornamentation and ostentatiousness and all that gilded glamor. I shan’t disappoint.”
“And don’t you dare get any wine stains on my clothes.”
“To that, my dear, I make no promises.”
Iphis stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping, full lips crooked down into a slight frown, the artist’s impression of tedious, bored impatience. She wore a dress uniform representing no organization but herself: a fitted, high-collared, long-sleeved black septsilk jacket with an overlapping front panel secured with Serenno silver fasteners; a wide, deep purple Onderon silk sash is draped across the waist and hips, held in place by a silver chain that looped over her shoulder; polished black boots of dubious leather; a floor-length cape, made of Onderon silk in Krath purple, flowing down from her right shoulder to pool slightly at the bottom. Her sword rested conspicuously on her hip.
The martial, masculine attire would have clashed with the aggressively feminine body within it, but her resting bitch face managed to tie the two together in a way that would doubtlessly appeal to the mommy issues so common among the Brethen.
The shuttle came in for a landing in the worst and least favored part of the Saint of Awe. Its pilot had to maneuver with unexpected care to avoid putting the vessel down on top of Iphis, who was not moving, if only because she didn’t have a chrono handy to ostentatiously check. Its occupants filed out in short order.
Iphis gave Imopea a quick once over. “You dressed yourself,” the Hapan said flatly. “The mind boggles.”
Such were the first words that greeted the trio as they stepped down the ramp of their shuttle, birthed into the marbled, patchwork bowls of the Saint of Awe. On approach, the dreadnought had was impressive, indomitable specimen through the viewscreens. The hangar was an empty metal box, clearly not outfitted for a tender ship in need of fuel or maintenance.
Immediately, Imopea scowled, and Savran’s eye twitched before she could quite contain it at the blatant insult to their sense of style.
“We’ll fix that.” She withdrew a comlink from the jacket and spoke into it. “Phaedra, we’ll need the dress.”
"I rather like my outfit,” the changeling said, nothing if not loyal. “And wouldn’t you need this face’s measurements?”
Bright, glowing green eyes that hadn’t blinked in the entire two minutes of interaction thus far almost rolled, but didn’t make it all the way, the gesture too much effort for something so obvious.
“As if I didn’t get your every measure when last we met. Don’t be difficult and change them either. Speaking of, the blood samples I took from you—”
“You what.”
“—Hemolized and I want more. There are proteins in here that aren’t Clawdite, according to the literature.”
It was then the true Shani cut in, her face twisted in the kind of scowl Imopea recognized as genuine annoyance. “I don’t know what kind of twisted game or relationship you two have, nor do I want to know, but keep that kind of chatter to a minimum while I’m here. Understood? Good. Let’s get on with the mission.”
Iphis took a moment to look at the other two women with idle curiosity. Emere warranted an appreciative look up and down but no further consideration. Savran merited a closer look. “I’m a bit old fashioned,” Iphis said after a pause, “in the sense that I think it’s very poor form to slaughter a house guest. That said, do not come into my home and think you can give me an order.” She smiled, cloyingly, and continued in a matching tone. “Understood? Good. Let’s get you ladies something to drink.”
That comment earned a tilt of the head from the amber-eyed woman. Lips permanently blackened by ancient ink pulled ever so slightly into a sardonic grin at the thought of a pre-mission skirmish, but she took much more pleasure in knowing that she’d so easily provoked this Iphis woman into issuing threats.
“Braver and ….,” she paused, allowing her forked tongue to taste the air. Not for a scent, but for the woman’s very signature in the Force, “stronger beings than yourself have tried. It’ll take far more than a wilting dandelion to ‘slaughter’ me, dear.”
She lingered in that tension for a moment, thriving in it, before finally smiling more broadly. “A drink would be lovely.”
“That’s insulting to the noble dandelion,” Imopea snapped, and strode for the lift. There was little that would move her fast than the promise of alcohol.
“You’re right,” Savran intoned, “The dandelion deserves better.”
After that, she shifted her gaze to Emere, and offered a quick smile that carried all the mischievousness that the woman had come to expect from her. Looping her arm with hers, Savi stepped away from the confrontational blonde and out of the main thoroughfare, waiting for their host to do her job and escort them to the promised alcohol.
<@315438760428961793> <@371402534973341696>
“I would have gone with hemlock, personally. Tall, spindly, pale, inadvisable to eat? Maybe something that causes cramps. By the way, your progesterone and estradiol levels are shockingly low all of a sudden.”
The Hapan led the other three up a set of bare metal stairs through one of the matching doorways at either end of the hangar. The transition was jarring. The hangar had been effectively derelict, functional only in that it was lit, had a working shield to keep air in, and had enough life support to be habitable, albeit not quite comfortable. The corridor, in contrast, was freshly refinished in polished marble and exotic, lacquered hardwoods. The corridor ended in a cavernous atrium, awe-inspiring not only for its luxurious architecture, but for how desolately unfurnished the whole thing was. The Saint was very clearly new, or at least under new ownership, and said owner had blown all of her money or all of her time on the structure before getting to the appointments. There was a small table with four mobile chairs clustered around it, and an Omwati woman stood beside it holding a tea tray with light refreshments.
A pause, then a slight tilt of the head. “Are they, though?” She asked, having already detected the little intrusion and subverted it with her own use of the Force.
Emere, to her credit, was handling the awkward tension of the exchange in stride. She knew that Savi was more than capable of handling herself. “Cozy,” said Emere while examining the polished interior of this new space.
Savi leaned over to her, whispering, “And garish.” That earned a grin from the Ilohian soldier; Savi took pride in being able to break through that stoic exterior of hers.
“So, what will we be having?” the shani inquired before leveling her gaze on the omwati woman. Slitted pupils narrowed just a hair as something deep, predatory, rumbled within her. Only one omwati presently had a pass from her acting upon centuries worth of interspecies rivalry, but this stranger was not him. Her tongue flicked out again like brandished daggers, tasting the air for the scent no doubt wafting from the woman’s plumage.
<@244244163002892288> <@315438760428961793>
“Ryloth 69’s,” the Omwati answered, either oblivious to or ignoring the Shani’s subtle hostilities.
They were each offered a tall, slim, round cocktail glass with clear liquor and bubbles topped with candied citrus peel and a singular bright red pithe fruit. Emere declined hers, Savran took the drink in a decadent hold, and Imopea sniffed it with a grimace before tilting her head back and drinking it in one swallow, her mouth staying open, the liquid poured directly down her gullet. She smacked her own forked tongue a moment later.
“Did you give me juice?”
“I gave you refreshments, as one does guests. Your intriguing lack of cirrhosis for that gauche alcoholism is much further down my list of studies.”
Imopea growled with distinctly non-Shani vocal folds, though a flick of Savi’s fingers stilled her from pulling any knives this early on.
“Charms aside, you have prepared for our actual job, I take it?”
“We have a job?” Iphis’ tone was bland. “You have a job. I am here to be the most important, prettiest princess at the ball. Maybe get my fingers inside you after. I haven’t decided yet.”
Imopea’s glass shattered in her hand, and she took the shards between her fingers, growing the muscle and skin around them so that she didn’t need to give her grip to keep her knuckles razored.
And here she’d had the gall to warn Savran to keep their cool.
Savi said something in an ancient tongue, melodic yet biting like a serpent’s tongue. Both Emere and Imopoea recognized it as Shani, her mother language, yet only the latter of the two recognized this word in particular: settle. She’d uttered it many times before, an involuntary lesson when the shapeshifter pressed her luck with the older woman. A cutting glance accompanied the words, and Emere’s hand moved to the blaster concealed on her hip, ready to spring into action at any moment.
“I think it’s best we quit while we’re ahead,” Savi commented, “the Brotherhood will find someone else to complete this mission.”
Only one of Iphis’ glowing green eyes slid to look between the three, and she sipped her drink, lips curling over the rim.
“Cute. Does that make you mommy?” she commented in the same tongue, sibilant and perfect, pronunciation so good that had her companion not forewarned her, Savran’s crest might have belied shock. As it was, the mercenary merely stood from the table and turned around, treading back the way they’d come.
Galo’s marching order footsteps were swift to follow, holding the rear until Imopea begrudgingly got up. The least of the changeling’s revenge seemed to be to pull out each of the glass shards and will herself to bleed more profusely, simply to better ruin the plush rug the table was on. Given Iphis could equally will said blood to clot, they could have been there all night. Savi snapped her fingers, and her mulish copier finally followed.
“Ta,” drawled the Hapan to their backs.