Elriss sits in the booth, willing her head to clear, staring blankly at the wall. She only half-listens to the conversations going on around her until the phrase "Visser forty-eight" drifts through the air. Instantly, she's staring raptly at the back of the head of the very well-groomed man speaking. The Light still technically answers to the Vissers, and for that reason alone, having one of them here makes her very uncomfortable. On the other hand, she's alone and cut off from the Empire; if this Visser still has access to his forces, maybe...
Something doesn't seem right about this situation, though. Nareth 577... the Visser had introduced himself as Nareth 577... she knows that name... but not as a Visser. She wracks her brain, trying to remember... Nareth... a name from a long time ago... an important name... she nearly misses the name 'Myitt.'
Further alarm bells go off in her head, and the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. A Nareth... a Myitt... and talk of whether or not these are imperials...
It's her host, Rose, who figures it out first. <You idiot,> she laughs. <They're traitors. Host sympathizers. They're gonna kill you!> She says in a singsong voice, <They'll kill you, and I'll be free!>
<For how long?> grouses Elriss. <You know the Light can't let you go free, not with the knowledge you have.>
<You know what they say, honey. Better to be dead than a slave to a brain-stealing space-slug ****!> cackles Rose, practically dancing a jig inside her own head.
Elriss sighs and snaps, <Would you shut up? I need to think.> She forces her will on Rose-- a technique she's adapted from Vanress. Fight the host when it's not rebelling, and the host is forced to either fight back or back off. Rose instinctively backs further into her own mind-- she knows this is not a fight she can win-- but defiantly continues to imagine gruesome deaths for Elriss.
<Helpful,> comments Elriss distractedly. She feels at her waist for her holstered Dracon-- it appears to be missing. "Dapsen," she mutters, feeling underneath the bench on which she's sitting. There. That must be it.
The Dracon she pulls out is not, in fact, hers. It's an older model coated in something sticky. "Ugh." She's tempted to chuck it and go wash her hands, but the readout indicates that it has enough charge for a few shots, and this is not a moment she can allow to pass without taking action. A Visser who is, apparently, a traitor to the Empire, right here on her doorstep?
"I am gonna die," she mutters. She sets the sticky Dracon for heavy stun and stuffs it into her holster. She runs her fingers through her disheveled hair, decides it's a lost cause, and immediately pulls out a hairtie and throws it back into a quick, curly ponytail. She stands up, fights down a wave of nausea, does her best to still her pounding heart, and saunters towards the group at the bar.
"Hi there," she says in her sweetest, thickest southern accent. She steps up next to 'Nareth," and flashes her winning smile. She casts a glance at "Myitt" and at the man she's speaking to; her hand rests solidly on the grip of the Dracon.