Lost Way
{Disney owns Star Wars universe and characters, not me. Warning: depictions of drinking alcohol to excess, alcoholism triggers, exotic dancing, physical arousal. 18+ only, please. Also, I don't know Rodian, so pretend you're reading subtitles.}
The sun was setting over the western hemisphere of Takodana. The lights glowed warmly in the little town set into the stonework of Maz Kanata's castle, and food stands were putting up their awnings in preparation for the third meal rush. The ambiance of the main pathway was a din of mingled languages and faint, discordant music fading in and out as patrons entered and left various shops, bars, and nightclubs. The heady perfume of spices, the wafting vapors of seared meat, and the pungent tang of exotic liquor assaulted the olfactory, even beneath his reflective helm.
It was something, at least. Distracting. Active. People going about their busy lives in relatively good spirits. As diverse and alien as most of the denizens and tourists were, this was by far the most alien thing about them, to him. He pushed through the throng, making his way to the inviting green glow of a sign in some illegible script hanging over a doorway draped with soft, flowy, embroidered scarlet and violet fabric.
The music in here was downtempo, soothing, and somehow inviting. The lighting was dim, the conversation more hushed. But, more importantly, there was a bar.
He took a seat, motioning to the tender, a powder blue lady Rodian in a tight-fitting orange dress. Not knowing or caring what he was ordering, he pointed to a bottle of something magenta, and she nodded, pouring him a tumbler and setting it in front of him.
He stared into the glass for some moments before fetching a deep sigh, and removing his beskar helmet.
After all, there was no Way. Never was. All lies, manipulations, empty doctrines from a long-dead civilization. The liquor was more real to him, now. It quieted the void.
He drained the glass and hailed the tender again.
The music faded into something sultry, full of longing. Scattered applause and vocal noises of approval rose behind him. He drained a second tumbler before turning to see what the patrons were encouraging.
Toward the far wall sat a low stage lit by rosy light. A green hand had appeared from behind a burgundy curtain holding a short length of chain, a glowing blue ball dangling from the end of it. This sight was enough to pique the armored man's curiosity, and he turned in his seat. The Rodian had returned to refill his glass, but he took the bottle from her instead.
The rest of the green being emerged, revealing a Mirialan woman in traditional black garb, grasping a similar chain-orb in her other hand. Slowly, she moved in time to the music, motions fluid and curling. She began to twirl the chains, swinging the glowing orbs to the laid-back beat. Deftly, she maneuvered the centripetal forces, creating swooping after-images of blue light. Flowers, solar systems, exploding stars. It was hypnotic, especially the way her hips swung, and how her feet slid, stepped, and pivoted lightly in practiced dance. The Mandalorian picked up his bottle and moved to a seat in the "audience" around the stage. "Seat" was a generous term, as they were mostly poufs and pillows where patrons draped themselves with a comfort he did not understand.
He sat cross-legged on a large, purple pouf, sinking into it with unease, and took a pull of the spiced liquor. He now noticed the spiced quality, savoring a mouthful this time. The pain was slipping away. He almost smiled, eyes glazing a bit as the patterns melted into one another.
The headdress slipped from the dancer's head. This caused the Mandalorian to sit up a bit. He didn't know much about Mirialan culture, but he knew the head coverings were important to them. She did not seem embarrassed- indeed, she glanced coyly over a shoulder at the catcalling audience and smirked. She continued the dance, tempo speeding, chains whipping around doubletime. He could see now her punkish hairstyle, a quarter shaven, the rest an inky black tousle over one amber-colored eye. Details were beginning to jump out at him as the drink released his tensions. Her black diamond tattoos, one below the corner of each eye, trails below the corners of her black lips, and a dainty line down the center of her rounded nose. He was so absorbed in these details, he almost hadn't noticed the bottom half of her flowing gown had dropped away as she twirled, leaving a long, embroidered black loin cloth.
"Dank Farrik."
He had stumbled into a strip club. As far as he knew, he'd never been in such a place. He wasn't entirely sure he approved of such things. And while he contemplated the situation, more of her garment had fallen away as she deftly swung her orbs. The glow from them had melted into a twilight purple, pairing nicely with the leaf green of her skin. More tattoos were revealed, all black diamonds; bands of them around her biceps and thighs, and a trail from just above her belly button that disappeared beneath the remnants of her skirt.
He had never been one for openly leering at the female form. He blushed and looked away, taking another swig of alcohol. It would be rude, he thought, to leave in the middle of a performance. He might as well wait to settle his bill until she had finished. His eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the psychedelic patterns of dark lilac and summer forest.
Her dance ended before she was fully exposed, to the Mandalorian's relief. He had seen worse on Twi'lek dancer girls. The Mirialan's outfit was tastefully provocative, by the time her orb-chains swung to a stop. She flourished a bow and skipped behind the curtain to applause and growls of unsated lust.
Mando rose with a bit of a lurch, and strode unsteadily to the bar. Surroundings were beginning to get fuzzy at the edges, and the music was making it hard to think. He realized, with distant mortification, that he had become visibly aroused. He bellied-up to the bar, hastily shoving several credits toward the Rodian for the bottle he clenched. He was stuck there until his shame subsided, it seemed.
And that was where the evening blurred and his memory ended.
Fuleen tied her short, black apron in place over the amethyst petal skirt into which she'd changed. The dance was addictive, and she longed for her next performance. The crowd was sparse that night, but she still expected to meet her quota of tips. She never gave private dances like some of the other girls, so she supposed she could always make more… but so could a prostitute. And that was a slippery slope, even on a relatively safe haven like Takodana.
And let's be honest, she thought, I don't really need all that much. Best not to get greedy.
Ji'ka was dancing her set when Fuleen took to the bar, picking up a tray and conferring momentarily with Dulo. Dulo warned that the one in the shiny shell might need to be carried out soon, but Fuleen figured he was harmless enough. She'd walk him to a back room if he started to pass out.
She swung around the bar and sauntered, tray aloft, asking patrons for their orders. She turned, still smiling from her last exchange, but froze when she saw the "shiny shell" Dulo had warned her about. Fuleen had never seen a Mandalorian outside of story holos. And here was one, getting drunk on paloflower congac. Sure enough, though, there was the jetpack, phallic rocket protruding and all. This man could actually fly at will. What in the galaxy was he doing in a sleazy pit like this?
She noticed his helmet, seemingly forgotten at his feet where it had fallen. She stooped to pick it up, and happened to glance up at his… well, he seemed to be enjoying his stay.
She grinned to herself, rising and placing the helmet at the Mandalorian's elbow. The tinny tap of her nail on his pauldron made him jump, and he swiveled to face her, looking alarmed and unfocused. He had a face that spoke of deep weariness and bewildered innocence, stubbled and dewed in a nervous sweat. Poor thing probably mistook the place for Maz's bar. Tourists often did.
"How are we feeling, spicecake? You want a cup with that cognac?"
His brow furrowed further as he attempted to translate what she just said. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple to his neck.
"Issat whassis?" he slurred, cleared his throat and clenched his eyes, opened them and tried again. "Is that what this is?"
She giggled, almost genuinely. "Yes. Paloflower, actually. I'd have said you have excellent taste if you had chosen it on purpose."
She leaned over the bar for a moment, taking her time to let the patron appreciate the view, and retrieved a stout, fluted glass.
"You mind sharing a drop with your waitress?"
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and slid her the bottle. She poured, golden eyes flicking from her task to meet his gaze.
"So… you liked my dance." It was not a question.
"Uhhhh…" he swallowed, grasping for the bottle as soon as she set it down. "It was… I've never seen anything like it."
She smirked, sipping the rich beverage. "A traditional dance from here, actually. I've lived here most of my life, and picked it up. The orbs are a modern addition; the traditional chains have rocks on the ends. Not as exciting."
He mumbled agreement, staring severely at his gloved hands.
Fuleen, on a wild impulse, slid her hand lightly up his thigh. He tensed, but made no move to indicate this was unwelcome.
"You liked the dance. I can tell." she whispered in his ear. He shuddered a gasp.
"It was… maybe a bit too short." he whispered back.
"I don't normally do this… but… you wanna come with me somewhere more… private?"
This may have been a bit too much for him. His eyes rolled back in his head for a second, eyelids fluttering as he swayed in his seat. She slid an arm around him, draping his arm over her shoulders.
"Come on, spicecake. Leeny's gonna take care of you."
She helped him shamble away from the bar, still clenching his bottle. Dulo, noticing this turn of events, snatched up the beskar helmet and followed the awkward pair discreetly. They passed through a red curtain, and Fuleen gently laid the inebriated customer on a pile of cushions. She nodded her thanks to Dulo, taking the helmet and resting it on the floor. The Mandalorian was already unconscious, head tilted back and snoring softly. She took the bottle from his limp grasp, noting the tent his greaves still sported with a snicker. Dulo stuck her blue head back in, speaking in Rodian.
"If he's still comatose at closing, he's your problem. This is not a hotel."
"Well aware." Fuleen replied in Common, rising. "There's room in my speeder. He can sleep it off in my barn, if it comes to that."
Dulo made an impressed noise in her throat. "Special guy."
Fuleen laughed heartily at that, following Dulo back beyond the curtain.