==== February 13, 2014
==== Chel, Thierry
==== An impolite proposition leads to a surprisingly civilised interaction… all things considered, anyway.

Who Chel, Thierry
What An impolite proposition leads to a surprisingly civilised interaction… all things considered, anyway.
When It is midmorning of the sixteenth day of the first month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
Where Cantina Back Alley

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Cantina Back Alley
A little too quiet, a little too dim. The alleyway behind the Dustbowl is not… unpleasant, exactly: the tavern staff have a little raised garden, and the brickwork of the ancient buildings all around offers a subtle beauty, with raised arches leading into little courtyards. And yet. There's something uncomfortable about the way the shadows linger here. Something distressing about the stink of the place, quite unrelated to the midden that lies at its end. Whatever else this alley might be, one thing is as certain as the goosebumps it gives: it's not a place for good little girls and boys.

As if warded off by nothing more than an unsettling feeling, the bright sun of the winter day barely trespasses here, in the Cantina backwoods. Its sole lively feature, the garden, a wintry shade of its springtime or fall self. Still, it's not left unattended by hands unafraid of getting a little cold and a little dirty. In front of a dark bulb sprouting a bit of contrary greenery at the very tip of dirt, Chel futzes with a strip of cloth. Judging by its edges, it's been hastily removed from its original cut. Perhaps the amount piled by the knee she's got propped on the garden's raised wall, right next to a couple of shapeless clay pieces. Though she's her jacketed back turned on the gloomy shadows of the rest of the alley, a clink or clank has her turning, revealing the long skinny piece of wood between her teeth, before going back to her work when nothing shows itself. She stuffs the cloth into the back pocket of her trousers and leans over the dirt pit.

That clink-clank was caused by someone lurking in the shadows further down the alley; a certain someone who's playing with a recently-issued set of handcuffs. All the better to arrest you with! A quick glance out and along the alley and Thierry realises he's not as alone out there as he thinks; he spends a moment eying Chel up before stepping out of his little alcove, regulation guard boots clomping softly on the bazaar pathway, announcing his presence almost as much as the gentle jangling of the cuffs hooked on his belt down.

Stab! Soft scrambling of punctured dirt and now the stick from Chel's mouth sits in the garden next to the tenderly growing plant. It's as her fingers trail off of the top of that wood that she deigns to straighten, multi-tasking a grab for the cloth at her back-pocket with a look across the alley at that clomping, jangling presence. Dark eyes needle him like she might be sizing him up for his own stabbing a second before the look dwindles, losing focus. He's been marked; the end. No automatic respect for regulation anything. With a little bounce of her knee, she repositions to fit the clay in her other hand and lean a second time over her new stake.

Clump.Clump. Clump. Silence. Thierry stops walking a couple of metres back from where Chel is, looking steadily back, dark eyes to dark eyes, when she looks at him. And then he just stands there… still, save for the fingers fiddling with his handcuffs, and his eyes where they rove over the girl's figure. After several seconds of silence, he speaks up in a slightly roughened voice; "You selling?"

Having been working those spare silent seconds, Chel devotes the next few to her task of sheltering the bud, leaving Thierry's question in the lurch. Only when she's done does she straighten, twist, rub both her hands together with a sprinkle of excess dirt, and look at him. "Ohh… darling." She sounds almost sad for him, her teenaged voice not mature enough yet to pull of patronizing. A head crooks towards the cantina's back wall as she lifts, deliberately but with casual affectation, and tromps around the edge of the garden so that she's leaning against a wall that no longer shows Thierry her vulnerable back. "Booze's inside."

Thierry tugs at the hemline of his uniform to readjust the upper half, watching Chel down the bridge of his nose. Her actions amuse him enough that he's got a quirk of a smile playing on his lips, if only for a few seconds; then he steps around to almost shadow her. "Can't drink on the job," he replies drily, while his eyes fix, very pointedly, on the curvier parts of Chel's anatomy. Hello, ladies. "I asked if /you/," he points a slender finger her way, "were selling."

A humored narrowing of her eyes follows his expulsion of rules right before that particular suggestion and, her leg now propped up as before, she leans into it, blatantly uncaring towards the movements or whatnot of her anatomy. "Oh, I know." Chel nods her head softly, stretching across the garden's corner to grab the cloth she left behind. Taken in both hands, it's stretched, "I artfully redirected because you were being dumb." Riiiiiip. The cloth comes apart in the middle, creating ragged new pieces.

Thierry's dark eyes narrow at the insult to his intelligence, and he stands up just a little bit straighter, with his chin tilted up slightly. His hands press into his pockets, though it's easy to see his fingers flexing and curling behind the fabric of his pants. "I've got better brains that you on account of having a /cock/," he snaps, with a sneering smile. "Dark girl, dark alley, bent over on her knees… and you're telling me you're not shoving it out there to the highest bidder? /Pah/."

When Thierry snaps, Chel's chin bobs and her fingers dart to gently touch her lips in a quick gesture of ineffectually holding back a laugh. Amusement still sparkles in her eyes as she sucks in a deep breath obviously meant to restrain her from responding. "Pah, indeed," dances out in her voice finally, when she can just barely trust it. "But I'm /sure/ there's somewhere else that will work," now her chin jerking along her shoulder indicates the alley beyond the Cantina, "What with there being more refugees around here lately than you can shake your dick at." An allowing drape of her eyelids gives her a thoughtful expression as she unabashedly stares between Thierry's legs with a trader's professionalism. "I mean, if it's shakeable length." Not that she's saying it's not; her voice rather practical.

"Heh." Thierry's sneer shifts into a more smug smirk when he sees where Chel's eyes go, and he shrugs nonchalantly before reaching down to lewdly grab his package with a thrust of his hips. "More than you could handle," he replies, chest puffed up all manly-like. "Come over and give it a go, if you want." A bob of his head down towards /there/ and a tiny flick of his finger beckons Chel to him.

Dark eyebrows leaping high, Chel puckers her lips, alright, but to whistle low and embarrassed for him as she affords the offer her own dismissive shrug. What cloth she's already ripped becomes wildly more interesting than the guard and she rocks idly forward to fix it into place in the garden, fingernails driving into the dirt. Though tension in her frame betrays she's not entirely written Thierry off. Muscles quiver in wary anticipation behind casual affect, keeping constant note of his distance — or lack thereof.

If nothing else, Thierry /does/ keep a relatively respectable distance between himself and Chel… but the fact that he's blatantly leering - no doubt fascinated by the cool rebuttal he received - can't be entirely/comfortable. After a while of not-so-comfortable silence, during which he's managed to light himself a toke that he's happily puffing on, he clicks his tongue to try and get Chel's attention. "You gonna come down the alley with me or what?"

Being constantly on guard puts a stilted blanket over all of Chel's interactions with the undeserving garden, though she masks it with an efficiency not entirely void. Down goes the clay guardian, lidding the only green in the otherwise sleeping patch. Everything else is waiting for a more opportune date, or gleans too much from what little sunlight streams in. What little touches Chel's cheek as she turns it away from Thierry, "I'm not, no. But, y'know," a stick gets waved at him, his crotch, as some kind of — tiny — resemblance, "All the luck gettin' your brains sucked out elsewhere." Her voice lowers to a murmur as she rolls her eyes to herself, "So productive." Never once looking over at him again.

Thierry digs his hands deep down into his pockets at the rejection. This time, he maybe gets it, as he's scowling in frustration at the back of Chel's head. Eventually, though? He just gets bored. "Your fucking loss," he snipes sorely, boots scraping as he turns to stomp away, back into the shadows he was hanging out in earlier.

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