<b>Alythra and Sev, Common room</b><br/><br/>“Straight to the point, I see,” Sev remarked after Alythra finished with her terms. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I can’t imagine that you move among the ne plus ultra of Galactic society without having a head for business.”<br/><br/>He made a show of considering her offer, acutely aware that he didn’t have much of a choice. Oh, certainly he could simply skip out on the debt. He’d done that before, but that had been debts owed to shadow bankers and crime lords - dangerous, yes, but not the social suicide that defaulting on this debt would represent. Alythra, after all, knew many of the Right People. The sort of people who could see him exiled forever from Society.<br/><br/>“I am assuming,” he said carefully, “that by ‘job’ you mean bodyguard and collections as and if necessary, in addition to driving?”  He sighed theatrically. “I had rather hoped to work off my debt by providing you with other services entirely, but... no. I was your client, not you mine. Therefore, I am forced to accept the extreme justice of your kind offer, with a caveat that I may pay off any uncleared debt at any time I find myself in possession of a surplus of funds.  Shall we drink on it?”<br/><br/>Looking under the gaming table, he grabbed the flask he’d noticed earlier. It sloshed promisingly, and he retrieved two mismatched glasses to go with it. “I can offer you,” he began, unscrewing the cap, “a finger of...”. Pausing, he sniffed the air dubiously. Then he sniffed the bottle and made a face. “Of What smells like unrefined promethium cut with alcohol. Perhaps we should shake on it, instead?  Or would the sworn word of a gentleman suffice?”