Chapter 3: Night Out
The bass hit Cristina first. Not sound, but a physical punch to the chest, a deep, relentless thud that vibrated through the soles of Veronica’s borrowed boots and up into her bones. The air in the nightclub wasn’t breathed; it was swallowed. Thick. Cloying. Overpriced perfume warred with sweat and spilled liquor, cut through by the ozone crackle of dry ice swirling near the DJ booth. Neon lights – pulsing blues, searing pinks, acidic greens – sliced through the smoky haze, illuminating flashes of sequins, gleaming skin, teeth bared in screams lost to the music.
Veronica materialized beside her, a vision in shimmering silver lamé that left almost nothing to the imagination. Her grin was predatory in the strobing light. "See? Told you the boots were practical. Now, move those newly acquired assets onto the dance floor, Fett. Time to collect."
The helmet felt heavy, the world narrowed to a bright slit. Cristina’s breath echoed loud inside the confined space, warm against her cheeks. She scanned the writhing mass of bodies. Eyes. So many eyes. Drifting, assessing, lingering on the stark green flight suit, the worn leather boots, the frankly absurd metallic shorts showcasing legs that still burned faintly from three weeks of Veronica’s sadistic "tactical enhancement". They weren't glossy magazine legs. They were hers. Sculpted by effort. Exposed.
A guy in an open shirt and too much gel nudged his friend, pointing openly at her. Cristina stiffened, the old reflex to shrink, to disappear in a hoodie, kicking in hard. Then Veronica’s voice cut through the internal panic, sharp as a vibroblade. "Shoulders back, bounty hunter. They look because it’s weird. Because it’s bold. Own the weird. Strut like you’re here to repo their hoverbikes."
Cristina took a breath, tasting synthetic fog and desperation. Screw it. She pushed off the sticky wall and stepped into the current.
The dance floor was a different kind of gym. Bodies pressed close, radiating heat. The music wasn't a beat; it was a physical force, demanding submission. Cristina moved. Not with Veronica’s sinuous grace, but with a deliberate, grounded power. A stomp that matched the bass drum. A sharp turn that made the armor plates on the shorts catch the light. A thrust of her hip that felt less like seduction and more like a challenge. The helmet restricted her vision, forcing her focus inward, outward, onto the sheer physicality of movement. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades under the stiff flight suit.
Heads turned. Whispers snaked through the noise she couldn’t hear. Pointing fingers. Raised phones. Laughter – was it mocking? Or intrigued? It didn't matter. Inside the helmet, she was armored. Anonymous. Powerful. She wasn't Cristina, the laid-off data analyst drowning in unopened bills. She was Fett. Something else. Something visible. She threw herself into a spin, the ridiculous shorts flaring, and caught sight of Veronica at the edge of the floor. Veronica raised a champagne flute, her smile wide and approving. See? the gesture seemed to say. Living.
A hand landed on her hip. Not tentative. Possessive. Cristina jerked, bumping into the solid bulk of a man squeezed into a cheap Darth Vader chest plate. "Whoa there, space cadet!" he slurred, beer breath fogging her visor slit. "Buy you a drink? Love the... uh... armor."
Cristina shoved his hand away, the movement sharp, efficient. "Move along," she growled, the helmet modulator deepening her voice into something guttural, alien. It felt good. Vader blinked, momentarily stunned, before melting back into the crowd.
Veronica appeared, threading through bodies like smoke. "VIP," she shouted over the din, grabbing Cristina’s gloved hand. "Less riff-raff. More champagne." She pulled her towards a roped-off section guarded by a bored-looking giant in a suit. A flick of Veronica’s wrist, a murmured word, and the rope dropped.
The VIP lounge was a different beast. Lower lighting, plush velvet banquettes swallowing sound. The air smelled of expensive cigars and chilled vodka. Fewer people, but sharper eyes. Men in tailored shirts who didn’t need costumes, women draped in designer fabrics that clung like liquid. Their gazes swept over Cristina’s outfit – the worn boots, the utilitarian flight suit, the aggressively short shorts – with a mixture of curiosity and cool appraisal. Judgment hung thick, unspoken.
"Told you," Veronica purred, sinking into a velvet curve and gesturing for Cristinia to sit. "Double-take central." She flagged down a waiter. "Two Veuve, darling. Extra cold." She turned back to Cristina, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "See the guy in the navy blazer at 2 o'clock? Hedge fund. Probably thinks you’re performance art. Or a high-end escort. Either way, he’s intrigued."
Cristina perched awkwardly on the edge of the banquette, the shorts riding up. The cool velvet against her exposed thighs felt alien. She felt like an exhibit. Not the weirdly powerful figure on the dance floor, but a curiosity in a gilded cage. Inside the helmet, sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to take it off. To breathe. But taking it off meant being Cristina again. Here. Exposed in a different way. "This feels... predatory," she muttered, the modulator making it sound like a statement from the void.
Veronica laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that cut through the lounge’s murmur. "Everything’s predatory, Cris. Corporate boardrooms, dating apps, this velvet dungeon. Difference here? You get champagne." She handed her a flute just delivered. "And you’re wearing the armor. Sip. Observe. You’re not prey unless you act like it."
Cristina lifted the helmet slightly, just enough to press the cool glass rim to her lips. The bubbles were sharp, crisp. A contrast to the heavy air. She scanned the room over the rim of the flute. Eyes met hers and slid away. Whispers behind manicured hands. The hedge fund guy was definitely watching, his gaze speculative.
The champagne flute felt ridiculously delicate in her gloved hand. She took another sip, the bubbles fizzing against her tongue, a stark contrast to the thick, perfumed air and the muffled thump of bass bleeding through from the dance floor. The hedge fund guy – navy blazer, open collar, carefully tousled hair – detached himself from his group and drifted towards their banquette.
"Veronica," he said, his voice smooth, expensive. His eyes never left Cristina’s helmet. "Introduce me to your... fascinating friend." He gestured vaguely at her outfit. "Boba Fett? Bold choice for this crowd. More of a Darth Vader zone, really." He offered a practiced, charm-school smile.
Veronica stretched like a satisfied cat. "Mark, this is Cris. She’s collecting bounties tonight. Mostly on bad dance moves and warm champagne." She winked at Cristina. "Cris, Mark runs things. Or thinks he does."
Mark chuckled, a low rumble. "Occupational hazard." He leaned slightly, trying to peer into her visor slit. "Quite the commitment, the helmet. Must be sweltering in there. Why not liberate yourself?" He gestured towards a low table littered with half-empty bottles. "Drinks flow easier without armor."
Inside the helmet, Cristina’s sweat felt cold. The modulator made her voice a flat, metallic rasp. "The armor stays." She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, focusing on a distant cluster of glowing ice buckets. His proximity felt invasive, like a physical pressure. She shifted, the cheap flight suit vinyl creaking.
"Practical," Mark conceded, though his tone suggested otherwise. He reached out, fingers brushing the worn material covering her shoulder pauldron. "Authentic wear and tear. A nice touch. Adds character." His touch lingered a fraction too long. "Though the shorts are... decidedly non-regulation."
Mark’s fingers traced the edge of her shoulder plate, a deliberate, lingering touch that felt less like appreciation and more like appraisal. Cristina froze inside the helmet, the cool champagne suddenly souring in her stomach. His gaze, sharp and assessing, dropped pointedly to the metallic shorts hugging her hips. "Non-regulation," he repeated, the words dripping with implication. "Definitely an upgrade."
The sheer audacity punched through Cristina’s initial shock. This wasn’t the clumsy Vader on the dance floor; this was calculated invasion. Her usual instinct screamed retreat, vanish into the oversized hoodie that wasn’t here. Veronica’s earlier words echoed: Own the weird. Strut. A spark ignited, fierce and unfamiliar. She tilted her helmet slightly, the modulator lending her voice a low, dangerous rasp. "Regulations are for stormtroopers, Mark. Bounty hunters…" She leaned forward a fraction, the movement deliberate, making the armor plates shift. "...write their own rules."
Mark’s practiced smile widened into genuine surprise, then predatory interest. "Is that right?" He chuckled, low and appreciative. "Prove it." He gestured towards the pulsing heart of the club beyond the velvet rope. "Show me how a renegade Fett moves."
The challenge hung thick in the perfumed air. Cristina hesitated for only a heartbeat. The helmet was her shield, the borrowed confidence Veronica forced onto her suddenly felt real. She stood, the movement fluid despite the ridiculous boots. "Try to keep up, fund manager." Her modulated voice held a dare.
The dance floor swallowed them instantly. The bass was a physical assault, vibrating up through Cristina’s borrowed boots and into her core. Mark moved close, too close, his expensive cologne battling the sweat and spilled vodka. He didn’t ask permission. His hands landed firmly on her hips, pulling her flush against him. Cristina gasped inside the helmet, the sudden heat and pressure shocking. His thigh pressed between hers as they moved, a rhythm born of pure instinct and the relentless thump.
His right hand slid down, palming the curve of her ass through the thin metallic fabric. The grip was possessive, claiming. Cristina stiffened, a jolt of pure alarm flashing through her. Then, something else. A low thrum of heat, unexpected and insistent, spreading from where his hand squeezed. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she rolled her hips back against his palm, a slow, deliberate grind that made him groan against her helmet.
"Fuck yeah," Mark breathed, his voice thick. His other hand slid up her side, rough fingers finding the stiff fabric covering her breast. He rubbed his thumb hard over the peak of her nipple, the friction sharp even through the layers. Cristina’s breath hitched, trapped inside the helmet. A bolt of pure, electric sensation shot straight down her spine, pooling low in her belly. She liked it. The raw, undeniable physicality of it. The power of making him react. Her head tipped back slightly against his shoulder, a silent surrender to the sensation.
His thumb circled again, harder, teasing the nipple into a tight peak. His other hand kneaded her ass. The world narrowed to the pounding bass, the heat of his body, the rough, demanding touch. Cristina moved with him, lost in the unexpected haze of pleasure, the anonymity of the helmet allowing her to feel without being fully seen. It was intoxicating. Liberating. His lips brushed the cold plastoid near her ear slit. "See? Better than spreadsheets."
The words sliced through the fog. Spreadsheets. The corporate grind she’d escaped. The life she was trying to shed. This wasn’t liberation; it was just another transaction under flashing lights. Reality crashed back. She planted her booted feet firmly, breaking the rhythm. Her gloved hand clamped down hard on his wrist, stopping the teasing thumb. "Enough," she stated, the modulator stripping her voice of any tremor. "Bounty collected."
Mark blinked, startled, his arousal shifting instantly to annoyance. "What? Come on—"
Cristina shoved his hand away from her breast with deliberate force. "Move along," she growled, echoing her dismissal of Vader, but colder, final. She stepped back, putting space between them. The cool club air rushed against her heated skin. Mark glared, muttered something crude under his breath, and melted back into the writhing crowd, seeking easier prey.
Cristina stood alone for a moment in the swirling chaos, breathing hard inside the stifling helmet. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her nipple still throbbed where his thumb had been. Her ass felt the phantom pressure of his grip. Discomfort warred with a strange, buzzing exhilaration. She hadn’t run. She’d leaned in. And she’d stopped it.
Veronica materialized beside her, a sleek shadow in silver. She didn’t speak immediately. Her sharp eyes scanned Cristina’s posture, the slight tremor in her gloved hand clutching her champagne flute. Then, a slow, approving smile spread across Veronica’s perfectly painted lips. She clinked her own flute against Cristina’s helmet with a sharp tink. "Atta girl, Fett," she purred, her voice cutting through the bass. "You handled that bounty perfectly." Her gaze drifted towards where Mark had disappeared. "He won't forget your regulations anytime soon." The pride in her voice was unmistakable, a mentor acknowledging a pupil’s first real test passed. Cristina felt a flicker of something warm beneath the lingering shock – not quite triumph, but the dawning realization she’d crossed a line she hadn’t known existed. The helmet suddenly felt less like armor and more like a cage she desperately needed to remove. The bass pulsed on, indifferent.