"I want to know what you're doing here." The statement was simple, but direct. "As I said, you're talented in your craft, Ress, and I don't just mean making a good drink." Tiraa straightened slowly on her stool, giving the impression of a predator stirring from a nap; unhurried, unbothered, but dangerous if the wrong move was taken.
Ress tilted their head and straightened, their hands settling comfortably on the counter. Not a challenge, but not backing down either. “Serving drinks,” they said, then let out a soft, breathless chuckle. “Ships suit me. Free travel, somewhere to sleep, and wherever they dock, orbit or land, I can apply my trade.” Their smile remained, steady. “I am nowhere in your league, Tiraa Shai. My dealings tend to be between people, favours, debts, names, smuggler routes, the sort of secrets people think are small until they need them.” They studied her for a moment, the cybernetic iris faintly purple in the bar light. “You, in comparison, are infrastructure.”
"Nonsense." Tiraa waved her hand in mild dismissal. She didn't get to where she was by underestimating people like Ress. A name dropped in the right ear at the right time could bring down empires; she'd seen it herself. "You peddle weapons, just not the physical kind, and we both know that fact very well. The people on this ship are under my protection; I will not have you putting knives in our backs with one hand and pouring drinks with the other."
Ress, who was indeed fond of knives for protection anyway, watched her as the humour faded from their face. “You don’t seem to understand,” they said, bluntly, the hint of something else underneath their voice. Something darker, but they meant it. “I don’t poison my own air supply.” They rested their hands on the bar, visible and still. “Especially not when I know how easily people can get lost on a ship and fall out of an airlock. You and the crew have nothing to fear from me.”
“I’ve heard such sentiment many times and yet somehow, people still seem willing to suffocate for the right price. How do I know you aren’t one of them?” Tiraa challenged firmly, but not aggressively.
For a moment, Ress just studied her. Then they gestured toward Tiraa with one hand, not sharp enough to be rude, but close enough to make the point. “And how do I know you are not just another Orion waiting to hand us all over to a syndicate?” they asked, before taking a slow breath, as if they had pushed something else back behind their teeth. “We do not know. Not really.” Their hand lowered back to the bar. “But we are both professional, Tiraa Shai. In my industry, my word is my bond. If it was not, no one would trust anything I told them, and I would be dead, broke, or both.” Their expression stayed serious, but not hostile. “I gave you my word. That is what you have.”
Tiraa’s dark eyes remained on Ress with a continued steady intensity. She listened, she watched. Prejudices against Orions were common — one might have even argued natural at this point. Luckily for Tiraa, she didn’t have to simply take Ress at their word. She simply allowed herself to open, to feel. There was no hostility between the two of them at this point, but there lingered the understandable wariness from both sides. Underneath it all though, she felt no ill intent coming from them. Outright trust would be foolish, but she could allow Ress to operate under her watchful eyes until true confidence grew regarding their intentions.
She took another sip of her drink and licked the excess off of her full lips. “Then that is what I will take.”
Ress nodded once, accepting it for what it was. Not trust, not yet, but something with enough shape to stand on for now. They watched Tiraa for a moment longer, the way one might watch something beautiful with teeth, then lowered their eyes to the PADD and drew one neat mark against the open order.
The lines had been drawn, for now. That was fine. Ress understood lines, understood borders, understood the small mercy of knowing where not to step. They glanced back at the bottles behind them, then at the missing space where the Karemman spice-liquor should have been, and reached for the next crate. Peace, suspicion and inventory, apparently. It was still a better start than most.