Chapter Text
Cronus Vantas’s desire for you is, truthfully, woefully transparent. Whether it is simply the product of desperation, his job as a performer, or actual attraction, is yet to be determined. Regardless, it is by far more tolerable than his drivel about castes not mattering in his art, and how it’s freer, the fact that he’s regaling your crew with tales of “swingin’”—blurring the quadrants for selfish personal gains, as if lowbloods like him have the right to pull trolls like a seadweller pulls conquests. All in the middle of work.
He is currently leaning forward on your desk with eyes so metaphorically crimson it should be put on the cover of some cheesy bottom-of-the-barrel erotica. You, on the other hand, have been debating internally whether to pretend to reciprocate his flirtation, to feign interest in him, or to just fillet him like a fish and cook him on an open fire for the entire ship to see.
“Oh, m’dear Orphaner,” Vantas says knowingly, as if seeing your mental battle in real time with some hidden psionics, which, if Damara’s theory that he is a limeblood is true, he would have plenty of, “What makes you so different from your beast-hive burner of a broad?”
“Do speak in a language that is not a hair’s breadth from being completely incomprehensible, Troubadour,” you reply, “Or at least tell me that you are not intending to seduce her into your red quadrant.”
“Ya mean a ‘beast-hive burner of a broad’?” Vantas smiles, lopsided, like liquid aphrodisiac. “Oh, I mean your matesprit, praise be Her name, is an absolute stunner. But I ain’t got eyes on Her Majesty—I gotta play it up a little for my beloved audience, ya see.”
“Am I included in this ‘beloved audience’?”
Your tone is challenging, might you say, with a sword-edge tinge.
The lowblood looks unfazed, in that his flirty, almost musical tone continues. “That depends on what happens at the end of this little meetin’, Cap’n.”
“There is no audience on my ship,” you reiterate, “This is the real world—not a stage for your seduction. No one in the real world works in black, white, and grey.”
His posture relaxes, just a smidge, for him to take out a cigarette from his chest pocket. With a flick to its tip, the white turns ashy, emitting smoke. A fake cigarette for an equally fake troll. “Ah, but show business is part of the real world, Orphaner. A croonin’ purrbeast doesn’t get as far as I do by caterin’ to a narrow set of audience.”
Just like Damara said, then.
“Cronus Vantas’ signlessness is a part of his image,” she lectured, needle-sharp in her jabs, “You need to understand how appealing it must be, to fantasize that the troll with the golden voice is singing to you personally, without the barriers of the hemospectrum.”
“But—”
“It is very sweet, Kankri. I have invited him and his band to the Palace — his performance was sexy, both on- and off-stage. He makes me feel like I am his only lover, worthy of every quadrant and every sacrifice. You should give him a try.”
“I can respect pragmatism,” you say grudgingly, “Earning credits cannot have been easy as someone in your position.”
Damara was not just playing him up to convince you to invite his band to your ship, apparently. So deep is Cronus Vantas in his role as a casteless swinger, he takes a drag from his cigarette, even holding his breath a little before exhaling rings of smoke shaped like a heart, a club, a diamond, a spade. Strange technology—or maybe strange psionics—the limeblood theory seems more likely. But why so mysterious when he is only a limeblood? What if he was different?
“My dear,” you say, lips puckering at not only what she said, but also Vantas’ sheer audacity. Flirting with the Empress? And getting out alive? Who does he think he is? “Do you really buy his ridiculous ‘Vantasmagoria’ concept? You know ‘Vantas’ is not even a real ancestral name!”
A scoff, which the mailing-husk made into a horrible echoing sound. And then, the scratch of a match, the subtle inhale of a cigarette.
“Don’t be a culljoy, Kankri."
“Besides,” she continues sweetly, “I wouldn't have let a seductive young troll set foot on your ship if I didn't trust you to stay loyal to me.”
“It’s not just for my own sake,” Vantas says, more pensively now. He leans on his seat before your desk, stealing a longing glance at the viewport—so theatrical! “Between you and me, Orphaner, my band’s got a lowblood majority. We truly need that audience. And we really need this gig, if ya- if you can forgive my boldness.”
Fine . You know when to relent. “If I allow your band to keep wearing attire not indicative of their castes, will you accept working on the ship as part of my crew?”
“We expect a fair wage if we do, as promised by Her Passionate Condescension,” he says. “She won’t be happy to know that you’re withholding our rewards.”
Why won’t he meet you in the middle? Does he know the war your cells waged on each other inside your body? That your blood no longer runs violet? What sort of limeblood psionics have escaped the studies of the Empire’s medicull scientorturers?
You will not relent that easily! “What Her Condescension does not know will not hurt her.”
The lowblood puts the cigarette between his lips and hums a single, deep note. Two fingers take it out with deliberate movement before twirling it, his eyes never taking off of the fake cigarette. “What have you done to guarantee that no message from me or my band will ever reach her, Captain?”
“I blocked all unauthorized communications—had my crew search all your belongings, and all your personnel,” you say. Half of his band also seems to be fugitives to the Empire—mostly inconsequential ones, being runaway slaves and servants, but he also had that gold-blooded oracle that Damara lamented the loss of. She didn’t even bother wearing horn-caps when coming here. What is his game? How had Damara—and all the palace’s workers—missed that? “I know at least one of them has quite the bounty on her head.”
“I accept people into my band for their talent,” Vantas says lightly, a ghost of a smirk dancing on his face, almost caressing his sideburns. He then looks at you firmly. “Their past is irrelevant to me—as irrelevant as their blood colors.”
The sheer audacity of this man. Your inner battle is inching closer to crowning ‘fillet him like a fish’ as a winner. “You do know that harboring wanted trolls is treason, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah,” he replies. He takes another breath of his false cigarette—frustrating, vexing, boiling your hot-red blood. Exhales it while leaning back on his seat as if he’s the captain of this vessel. “But I’m Her Majesty’s favorite bandlead, and my band’s the favorite band in all the Empire, won several years ‘a polls in a row even. If ya try to drag me down to endsville, there’ll be more than the Empress takin’ you down. I’m sure ya don’t wanna die of Cronusitis.”
“Threatening me on our second meeting. How droll.” Another stab of grudging admiration goes through your bloodpusher. Cronus Vantas is truly the most outrageous person you have ever had the displeasure to meet. “If you weren’t sent by the Empress herself, I would strike you down this instant.”
“But ya haven’t, and I thank ya for that, truly.” He smiles. Extinguishing his cigarette, he looks at you with mock-innocent eyes. “I promise ya, I know nothin’ of no one’s treason. Cross my pumpin’ biscuit.”
He crosses his chest.
“If someone passes our auditions, I let ‘em join the band, no questions asked. She’s not doin’ anythin’ anyway—bein’ in my band kinda stops ‘em from doin’ all that treason-y stuff.”
“I will hold you on that end of the bargain,” you say. You may be losing on the threat department, but you can still turn this around—you have an inkling of an idea to use your own situation to your advantage, and to earn back Damara’s favor. “Go tell your band that they are free to be the ship’s entertainers for a fair wage. I’ll give my crew new orders.”
Vantas rises from his seat and winks at you. “You’re solid, Mr. Ampora. Thanks.”
“I told you to use my title, Troubadour.”
“What, ya don’t want the name?” Vantas snickers. “Want me to use it for ya? ‘Cronus Ampora’ has a nice ring to it.”
Dear fucking gods .
And he has the gall to laugh at you.
“ Please go back to your station, Mr. Vantas ,” you grit out, “Dismiss yourself before I change my mind.”
He throws you a salute. “Aye-aye, sweetfins!”
Despite that insulting term of endearment, his laughter can’t help but echo in your thinkpan for the rest of the night.