Mala Fide

Posted on Wed Nov 14th, 2012 @ 4:02pm by Morgo Le'Shaad
Edited on on Thu Nov 15th, 2012 @ 1:24am

2,793 words; about a 14 minute read

Chapter: Chapter II: Era's Dawn
Location: The Elite, Coruscant
Timeline: Late Day, Day Four (Night - Coruscant Local Time)

Morgo was careful. As she passed extravagant vases of arranged exotic blossoms, room service droids, she did so quickly and quietly. Glittering chandeliers of crystal and rare gold caught and scattered the warm light across the cream walls.

To anyone else the effect would have been beautiful. Morgo only chuckled dryly at the thought of informing the keepers of The Elite that they rather reminded her of spattered brain matter—the horror on their faces. Given how much she was paying to stay at this place, if she made an uproar they’d probably ever so graciously offer to take down the chandeliers until she left. Though as enjoyable as it would have been to see their near panic trying to and preserve their reputation and please a guest, it really would have been rather disingenuous of her. After all, the memories of the last time she saw brain spattered walls were not altogether unpleasant.

Coming to a stop at one of the doors at the end of the hall, Morgo fished out the metal keycard from within her cloak and slipped it into the slot. It opened with a trite little tune of beeps.

Stepping inside Morgo shut the door with her foot and waved the lights on. With it came a mechanical voice.

“Welcome valued pat—”

“Mute.” Morgo said distractedly as she noted the two tall windows on the east wall, “And please, blacken the windows.”

In a flurry of movement, Morgo spun herself out of her heavy brown cloak and cast her eyes about the place in search for the room holoprojector. On another day perhaps she could have appreciated the rich grandeur of her room—different from her own suites back in Dromache, of course—but just as well furnished. On the east wall were two towering (now blackened) windows which reached all the way to the ridiculously high, coffered ceiling. From there at the center of the room was a chandelier, a sphere shaped pendant lamp of a dark metal. White silk diffused the bulb’s bright glow while an intricate metal filigree pane orbited that. A pompous bed of ebon wood and crimson sheets dominated the north wall while the south opened to the entrance to the spacious washroom of dark slate, whose surface striation reminded Morgo a bit of petrol oil over black water.

It was only after she followed a small hallway of the suite that she discovered the lounge—complete with hearth (which burst into flames as she crossed over the threshold), couches and a wet bar—that she found the holoprojector sitting atop the center coffee table, built into its dark wood.

Morgo took a moment to familiarize herself with this particular device, long fingers running over is surface in search for its interface. When its smooth metal surface revealed no such thing, Morgo caught the table’s edge with the toe of her boot and unceremoniously flipped it over. The plush carpet muted what would have been a security alerting sound and exposed the table’s underside…and the holoprojector’s weak underbelly.

Kneeling, Morgo might not have recognized the particular model of the device, but she recognized the tell-tale seams in the metal that would no doubt give her access to the projector’s computer, where calls from both sender and receiver would inevitably be recorded and stored. Morgo reached up over her blonde head and pulled out the thin metal stick keeping her braided-bun. With a soft thud, Morgo’s hair unwound and landed dully on her back in one thick braid as she used the flat blade-like edge of the hair accessory to pry open the hatch. It popped open with a satisfying hiss and despite herself, Morgo smiled. Once she’d pushed past all the wires, Morgo carefully severed the machine’s own conduit to its internal storage component, letting it hang there like a dead limb. Digging into the depths of her own pockets, Morgo pulled out a small chip and placed it inside the projector, connecting each of the limp wires with the corresponding space in the metal chip with tweezers she also seemed to produce out of nowhere.

This was all very much delicate work. Not unlike surgery if she were to be honest. Except she didn’t exactly make a habit of opening people up and replacing their organs with the parts she preferred—though it was a fascinating idea….

Morgo finished quickly, double checking the chip’s position and resealing the holoprojector’s hatch, safe with the knowledge that no one would be the wiser. There were no bugs or cameras here.

If the suite’s ridiculous bed size were an indicator of anything, it was that this suite was often frequented by politicians and their illicit lovers—perhaps even paid for (though Morgo doubted it). Power and authority in itself was perhaps the most potent aphrodisiac known to the galaxy, even if the masses wanted to believe otherwise. To believe in something called love. Love at its most basic is an addiction of another’s power over you. It was one of the reasons Morgo speculated that the unconscious desire to submit (even if it was mutual) was perhaps more prevalent in people than they realized.

Returning the table to its original position, Morgo sat on the edge of a cushion and waved a hand over the holoprojector. Instantly it glowed and presented a number pad to her. As she typed in the required number and address her mind automatically went to the last time she’d typed in this number, this address—just over seven months ago. Her body grew chill.

“Name of the desired resident?” the console mechanically chirped.

“Merik Bettencourt, if you will.”

The telltale gentle beeping continued on as her call attempted to connect, and Morgo leaned back to close her eyes. Waiting. When the beeping abruptly ceased, Morgo’s eyes snapped open to see the blue-tinted image of a man’s upper torso, his eyes zeroed in on her.

“Merik.” She acknowledged.

“Your Grace.”

Though he was 28 now, Merik still looked exactly the way he had when he was 22. Shaggy blond hair slightly swept to the side. Thick dark brows and ever bright, green eyes. And that laughable beard he’d been trying to grow since the beginning of time was still only just a stubble—the only difference being the mustache he’d always wanted to have was there. That is, if that small line above his upper lip could be called a mustache.

“It’s just Lady Morgo now, Merik. The Duchy is no longer mine. It’s Andraste’s—you know that. ” she chided.

“Your mother? You call your mother her name?” Merik questioned, bewildered.

“There are a great many things I could call her, Merik, and her name is the least of them,” Morgo said, almost irritated, “Now are we here to discuss business or my personal life?”

Merik waved a hand, the velvet green sleeve of his jacket moving with the motion, “I haven’t seen you in months and you want to ‘get to business’ ? How are you doing?”

Morgo crossed her legs, “Focus Merik.”

“Not until you answer me.” he declared defiantly and raised his eyebrows in emphasis, “How. Are. You?”

Petulant as ever.

“Terrible.” She answered, not bothering to debate with him. He was insufferable when he was like this, “Earlier today I had a run in with a malodorous, amateur bounty hunter with family problems and cost me 250,000 credits. He ruined my drink then showed me my bounty picture. Goddess , it was horrible…” Morgo paused abruptly, turning her face and narrowing her eyes at the man, “Have anything to say for yourself, Merik?”

The man shrugged, looking completely innocent, “I have no idea what you’re talking about Morgo. No idea.”

“That was your picture.” She pointed at him accusingly, leaning forwards in her seat, “You and your perfectly useless camera, do you remember? It was the day we recreated the Darth Tenebrous retrovirus…and you insisted on celebrating with a picture.”

He’d ambushed her as soon as she’d stepped out of the lab. Given…she’d been just as excited as him about the discovery, perhaps even more so. But she was always better at hiding things than he had been.

The image of Merik sighed, “Don’t you mean you recreated the retrovirus and gave birth to the first maxi-chlorians in over a thousand years?”

“I meant we, Merik. You, the others, and I were a team. Now quit your sulking,” she said pointedly, “You are not the one the entire galaxy thinks looks like an easy entrée with a side serving of 500,000 credits.”

Merik grinned widely, “The face that launched a thousand bounty hunters.” He jested.

“Do be quiet, Merik.” She ordered darkly as she stood, “It’s your fault everyone will be after me. I look like a vacation beside the bounty posters of mass murderers, terrorists and dark cultists.”

“Look, I’m sorry!” he insisted, holding his hands out in front of him. “They said they wanted to make a scrapbook or something in your honor, and I could hardly point them in the direction of your creepy oil painting portrait.”

“Yes, you could have, Merik. You could have done something about it.” She said, voice level but eyes cold.

The air around them grew charged.

“And what?” the man countered, face hardening, defensive, “Have them arrest me too for failing to cooperate with the Grandsire?”

Morgo snorted, “Perhaps not. Perhaps that’s too much to expect from you. You were always too much of a coward to stand up for anything you believed in.” Morgo said, her smile positively glacial by now.

Suddenly all good humor had left. Suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore.

Anger flared, and green eyes narrowed, “You dare—”

“You could have said something, Merik!” Morgo snapped, gray eyes stormy.

No. Instead he’d said nothing . Did nothing. Just like everyone else. Morgo closed her eyes.

…On the charge of First Degree Murder and the abominable act of Patricide, we the Jury, in concurrence with the esteemed Houses of the Royal Court, find the defendant, Scholar Duchess Morgo Le’Shaad, guilty...

There was a silence, the air heavy between them.

It seemed that somewhere along the way they’d begun to talk about something else entirely. At the realization, Morgo’s nails bit into the skin of her palm as she balled her fists, strangling some invisible emotion. A conversation within a conversation. A layer beneath a layer—all about a subject she’d avoided for six months now. Morgo looked away self-consciously. Merik swallowed.

She breathed. When Moro was sure there would be no more ridiculous outbursts from herself, Morgo sat back down, the cushion sinking with her weight. Still, Merik wouldn’t look at her.

“Now if you think we’re quite done, Merik, I’d like to get to business.” It took him a moment to meet her eye again, blinking rapidly.

“Yes.”

Morgo nodded, “Now have you decided on a place in which we can meet?”

“There’s an opera showing at Coruscant Opera. I suggest we meet there.”

“No,” Morgo shook her head, “it’s much too high profile. The place will be crawling with security.”

“Then the Galactic Museum.”

Morgo looked into the fireplace, allowing herself a small smile, “You and I both know we’d get nothing done there, Merik, glued from one exhibit to the next.”

Merik smiled too, conceding the point.

“Then how about the Galaxies Opera House? When under Emperor’s Palpatine’s rule the place was big. Ever since his fall, though, patronage has declined a bit. No one is eager to remind themselves of his reign. Even security avoids the place.” Crossing his arms, Merik flicked his tousled hair from his face. He nodded to himself, pleased with the choice.

Palpatine? Morgo perked up at his mention. As much as she hated the man for his crimes against Dromache, the man was also a master manipulator—a true Sith at heart, even if he did not adhere to many tenets of Sith doctrine. To say she admired his brilliance and patience would be an understatement. But nothing would have been possible without the tutelage of his dark master, Darth Plagueis, who had done more for the science of midi-chlorians and biology’s role in the Force than any other individual. Even her father.

“The Galaxies Opera House will do.” Morgo agreed, “Get us a box and we can begin negotiations.”

Merik looked pleased, “There are many operas showing at different times. I’ll contact you back….” The golden-haired man trailed, off eyes flicking distractedly at the console projecting Morgo’s proud image. He looked back at Morgo, suspicious, “Wait, why can’t I see your number and where you’re staying?”

“Because I’m currently scrambling the origin of the transmission. Merik.” She answered dully, as if it should have been obvious.

The side of Merik’s mouth quirked up with mock hurt, “Don’t you trust me, Morgo?”

“Not particularly, no.”

She watched as he pressed his lips into a thin resigned line, nodding and looking away. The tension between them was tangible as Merik worried his lower lip, voice tentative and quiet, “You know,” he began, “We were friends once, Morgo.” There was a soft pause, “What happened?”

As he asked he looked back up at her, visible confusion mixed with regret and frustration. Morgo had always known that the man was a poor politician but even this was sloppy of him, being so readable…so transparent. Morgo sneered. Sentiment.

When she smiled it held no warmth. “Markus happened.”

There was a long pause before any of them spoke again…. because what do you say to that? What felt like minutes passed before Merik finally cleared his throat and crossed his arms—an unconscious gesture Morgo knew to represent an attempt of the subject to distance themselves from something undesirable.

“…I’m assuming that you’ll be contacting me back then, once you’ve chosen the date and time?” If she did not trust him with her address, there was no way Morgo would trust him to pick the show, date and time of the rendezvous .

“Within 16 hours,” Morgo affirmed, drumming her nails on the table’s lacquered surface, “are we done?”

Merik was silent for a moment, a quizzical expression on his face, “I feel compelled to remind you that, as wonderful as you are,” he chuckled with some amount of sarcasm, “you can’t show up at the opera in…. that.” Merik gestured to Morgo’s white jumpsuit with some amount of distaste.

“Please Merik, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“I’m just saying it would be rather conspicuous if you were in the upper boxes in your current clothing and boots.” He said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him. Morgo decided to humor him.

“Then what would you suggest?”

“A black dress, heels or jeweled slippers, and a robe—exotic styles are all the rage nowadays.” He advised, “But no fur, Morgo. The subject of animal cruelty is rather polarizing at the moment in Coruscant.” He added pointedly.

Morgo rolled her eyes. Animals. She respected them of course (particularly in the laboratory) but the reality was that animals used to die in her labs every day. If she couldn’t be brought to care about sacrificing their lives in the name of science (when the things were at their most useful), she could hardly begin to care about their sacrifice in the name of comfort. But anonymity was her first defense… and in this Merik was right.

Morgo gave Merik a strange look, “Why black?”

“Because that’s what color I’ll be wearing.” He answered cheekily, smirking like he’d been born doing it.

“Goodbye, Merik.” She sighed as she stood. Her back popped.

“Wait, Morgo!”

Morgo stopped mid turn, looking back at him expectantly.

“It was…it was nice seeing you again.” He said, sounding so earnest Morgo had to snap her head up to look at him. The sincerity of the statement struck her, for some odd reason. She watched him reach forward to end the transmission.

“Merik,” Morgo called suddenly, surprising even herself. His hand stopped mid motion and a few moments passed before she spoke again, her voice grave, “I came to Coruscant. To you.” Morgo’s eyes flicked back up, “Don’t make me regret it.”

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