Private 40 years and still going strong

[Rheyla Tann]

The sky over Nar Chunna always looked like it had a bad hangover—smog-stained clouds, blinking neon signs flickering through the haze, and heat bleeding off the duracrete in greasy waves. It smelled like old coolant and fried spiceworms. Charming.

Rheyla adjusted the wrap around her lekku and leaned against the rusted rail of a half-collapsed balcony, a few stories up from the market strip. Her goggles sat loose around her neck, and the faint glow of the lower city shimmered in their reflection. Below, the noise was constant—shouting, barking, haggling, a speeder’s engine choking on its own exhaust. She’d narrowed it to this quadrant. Didn’t know if the quarry was here, but the signs were stacking.

Someone matching that description had come through two days ago: tall woman, dark hair, dangerous edge, credits to burn and no concern about hiding her glow-eyed stare. Locals said she smelled like iron and laughed like it meant something. Could be a dozen people. Or it could be the one person worth breaking her usual rules for.

A 40-year-old bounty. Scherezade deWinter. Sith. Blood magic. Princess of Chaos. One-time agent of a faction that sounded more like a band name than a military movement. Unclaimed, unpaid, and radioactive.

Most bounty hunters would've looked at that name and kept walking. Too cold. Too buried. Too risky.

Rheyla had grinned when she saw it.

Was it reckless? Maybe. But kark it, something about chasing a ghost made her fingers itch. And if the ghost had teeth? Even better.

She palmed her datapad again, thumbing through fragments of old records—blurry holos, half-deleted chatter, one Hutt-issued bounty notice so ancient it might as well have been etched in stone. No updates. No cancellation. No expiration date either. Still valid. Still open. Probably never meant to be collected.

Which made it the perfect kind of stupid.

Her eyes drifted to the end of the block, where a shadow lingered too long near a vendor’s stall. Something about the posture—calm, like a person waiting for something, not buying.

She pushed off the railing.

One way or another, she was going to find out.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Nar Chunna. A planet that someone like Scherezade could truly appreciate. Sometimes you needed a Big City™, but Coruscant was too volatile. Too many people interested in anything that might interest others first, too many eyes and ears even in the darkest and dankest spots. But here? Chunnah meh babeh. All the beauty of city sprawl with far fewer drawbacks.

Which was likely why she still had contacts there. Contacts that had managed to somehow already know we were keeping things more hush hush than usual, yet were still plugged into enough nets to pass the right kind of whispers. Her sister would've called it utterly stupid to use them. Her sister would have called it utter stupid to use them. Scherezade saw it more as a calculated risk. After all, what were the odds that someone would find her here of all places? It was one of the very few planets in the area that she had not terrorized in one way or another all those decades ago.

She wasn't even trying to cloak her presence. Instead she let the shadows to it for her in the city of smog, though even in them her eyes still glew their emerald green. Once, she had caught sight of what she looked like when that happened in a mirror, and it had made her laugh; like a potentially giant cat in the dark, ready to deliver glow in the dark wee.

Her gaze swept across the market. She was waiting for someone. Well, granted, she'd been waiting for them for the past three days and was close to being pretty much done, but still…

People moved around her like a river around a rock. Some gave her a wide berth, and others didn't notice her at all. The Sithling picked up a stick of roasted meat from a stand without asking and bit into it. Spices, char, maybe actual meat, tasted a lot better than it smelled. She'd always been a meat eater. With a flick of the wrist, Scherezade tossed a cred towards the stall owner and took a step.

And paused.

And then shrugged and it took another bite of her food. The 'verse was just throwing all those signs and warning! And watch out!'s at her these days that she simply didn't have the patience to sort them through. Still though. The meat wasn't as good as she thought it was a moment ago. She wasn't running away. If anyone wanted to have a little chat, they'd have to buy her another meal first.


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The glow was unmistakable.

Even through the crush of bodies, the haze, and the scent of too many bad decisions grilling on open flame, Rheyla caught it—green eyes bright as knife edges in a shadowed face. Too much poise. Too much stillness. Everyone else moved like noise. That one sat like punctuation.

Rheyla didn’t change pace. Just melted into the crowd—head low, hood pulled tighter, lekku wrapped, one hand brushing her belt near the flash charges. The market swallowed her whole.

She took a slow route, curving between stalls and smoke plumes, stopping to pretend interest in a rack of knockoff comlinks. Didn’t look directly again, not yet. One glance was enough. She wasn’t paid to hope it was Scherezade.

She was here to know.

Took her three turns, a loop through a spice stall, and a bump past a twitchy Gran before she found her second angle—across a line of hanging fabric, through the warped reflection in a sheet of half-polished alloy. There. Eating meat off a stick like a local, shoulders relaxed like she didn’t have a single goddamn care.

Princess of Chaos, my ass.

Rheyla leaned her shoulder against a cracked pillar and watched. Every predator had tells. It was never the stance—it was the stillness. The ones who knew how to kill didn’t fidget.

She didn’t fidget.

No guards. No visible weapons. No fancy flair. Just one Sith Lord with attitude and a spice rack’s worth of blood on her name.

Rheyla let her breath out slowly, scanning the exits. Two viable. One vendor cart close enough to vault. A half-rotted canopy above for vertical egress if things got messy. This wasn’t her first high-risk pickup. But Force-users were always the worst.

She rolled her shoulders once, loosening tension from her joints, then stepped away from the pillar, fading toward the outer ring of the crowd. Not close enough to strike. Not yet.

But the hunt had begun.

And Rheyla Tann did not spook easy.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

The bite she'd taken turned to dust in her mouth.Not literally, of course. That sort of thing only happened on Dathomir, and only when you pissed off the wrong witch. But still, the sizzle of street meat and spice that had just moments ago danced across her tongue now tasted like… anticipation? Like static before a storm. Like someone had looked at her too long without blinking.

She didn't turn.

Didn't need to.

Her next step was as casual as the first; heel-toe, smooth and slow. She kept her head level, eyes half-lidded, expression one of someone utterly bored with the universe. The kind of bored that was a lie. The kind that carried too many teeth under the surface.

A ripple in the current.

She licked grease from her thumb, then tossed the stick into a chute without looking. The cred she'd thrown earlier had been more than enough. Even if it hadn't, she'd have laughed if they tried to charge her extra for the mood shift.

A few more paces carried her into a stall packed with windchimes and bits of bent metal that claimed to be art. A cacophony of clinking, clanking, echoing nonsense. Perfect cover.

There, she let her fingers trail across a rusted mobile of rotating moons. It squeaked.

Her voice was low and casual, almost conversational. "Y'know," she said aloud, to no one at all, "you're doing a decent job for someone who thinks they're hunting me."

Pause. A smile, small and sharp.

"But I don't run. And I don't hide."

She tilted her head, listening to the chimes sing. Usually, she had a lot more patience for the cat and mouse games so many bounty hunters insisted on playing. Whoever this one was, they didn't feel old enough to be a contact from before forty years ago, which meant that it was likely either a very angry relative of theirs, or someone new, chasing something their minds considered new as well.

"So what's it gonna be, hunter? We dance now, or do you want to buy me another meat stick first? I'm still hungry."

The last words came with a turn. Deliberate. Measured. Her gaze found where she thought the shadow had moved, because even if she hadn't seen the face yet, she'd felt the direction, the decision.

Scherezade didn't light a saber. Didn't call the Force to her fingertips.

She just stood there, weight balanced, eyes aglow with something that wasn't anger or fear. It was interest. Amusement. Maybe a little hunger. The market didn't notice. The world kept turning. But the stage had shifted.

And she wasn't worried at all.

After all, she did have her knives.


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe. Just kept her eyes fixed through the warp of the alloy panel, watching the Sith tilt her head and smile like a predator bored of waiting.

There it was. The tone. That voice, barely loud enough to carry but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the market.

“Y’know, you’re doing a decent job for someone who thinks they’re hunting me.”

Rheyla exhaled through her nose. Flattery from a Force-wielding Sith Lord with a knife collection wasn’t high on her list of professional goals—but it wasn’t nothing either.

The target still hadn’t pinpointed her. Close, but not quite. The shadows were thick, the crowd heavy, and Rheyla had spent years learning to vanish behind noise. Besides—some people were born to stand out.

Rheyla had been raised to shoot them.

She slipped a hand inside her cloak and wrapped her fingers around the blaster grip, thumb easing off the safety. Just in case. If this went loud, it wouldn’t be her fault.

Scherezade’s words drifted again, laced with that maddening calm.

“So what’s it gonna be, hunter? We dance now, or do you want to buy me another meat stick first? I’m still hungry.”

The corner of Rheyla’s mouth twitched behind the wrap across her face.

"Sure. Just as soon as you surrender, I’ll even let you pick the side dish, princess."

Her voice came from nowhere in particular—carried low and dry, threaded through the market’s noise like it belonged there. Just loud enough to reach Scherezade’s ears. Just soft enough to make it clear she wasn’t moving.

Yet.

Let the Sith wonder if that voice came from her left. Or behind. Or above.

Rheyla's finger rested near the trigger. Not on it. Not yet.

But the moment had shifted again.

She had the first shot.

And she was thinking—really thinking—about taking it.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

"Princess," she repeated under her breath, lips curving like the word was a vintage flavor she hadn't tasted in a while. "Cute."

She didn't raise her voice. Didn't need to. If the hunter could send whispers on the wind, Scherezade could answer in the same. The Force was a lovely thing that way. It made intimacy out of distance.

There was a beat.

Then another.

Then Scherezade laughed.

Not the polite kind. Not a chuckle. A full-bodied, head-tilted-back laugh that startled a couple of passersby and made a vendor clutch his merch like she'd just threatened to eat it. Which, to be fair, she had once. Different planet. Different week.

"Surrender for a side dish," she repeated, wiping a fake tear from her eye as the laughter died down to a grin that could slice open realities. "Force, I haven't heard one that bold since a Herglic tried to trade me for a crate of smoked nerf ribs and a foot massage."

She stretched, spine popping, then tilted her head just slightly toward the voice's general direction. It was not enough to reveal anything, but enough to show she was done pretending she hadn't clocked it.

"I'm not saying yes," she said slowly, drawling the words like they tasted good, "but I'm not not saying yes yet either."

A pause.

"You got creds, hunter? Because if you're serious, I want a full platter. No corner-cutting vendor scraps. I want a real sit-down. Roasted nuna legs. Bantha ribs. Maybe a vat of cream, just for fun. You provide me with a meal worthy of being a final one, and I'll surrender."

Another beat. Her emerald eyes flashed with that all-too-familiar mix of mischief and menace.

"Deal?"

She leaned casually against a support beam, like they were haggling over souvenirs instead of life choices. Her knives stayed sheathed. The Force was quiet around her, contained. For now.

Because if there was one rule Scherezade truly believed in, it was this:

Never start a fight on an empty stomach.



Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

That laugh.

It cut through the crowd like a vibroblade through plastifoam—too loud, too sharp, too damn amused for someone with a forty-year-old bounty on her head.

Rheyla didn’t flinch. Just shifted her stance slightly, keeping the pillar at her back and her eyes locked through the gap in the stall’s warped reflection. Scherezade was enjoying herself far too much.

“Surrender for a side dish.”
“...a crate of smoked nerf ribs and a foot massage.”

Rich girls...

She almost snorted.

Almost.

Instead, she let the silence answer for a moment longer. Let the crowd’s noise reclaim the space between them. Let the Sith talk herself into amusement, appetite, and overconfidence.

“I want a full platter… a real sit-down… Roasted nuna legs. Bantha ribs. Maybe a vat of cream…”

Rheyla tilted her head slightly. Cream. Of course.

She thumbed the stun setting on her blaster without looking.

"Stars, if I knew you were that easy to bribe, I’d have booked a table instead of loading a blaster."

Her voice slipped through the market again—low, casual, wrapped in dry heat. Just loud enough to carry. Just quiet enough to leave no trace.

"You’re high maintenance, princess."

A beat.

"But I’ve handled worse dinner dates."

Still, she didn’t move.

Not until the gap widened—just enough, just briefly. A moment where the crowd thinned, the Sith leaned too far into her smirk, and the angle cleared between them.

Rheyla fired.

The stun bolt cracked through the market noise, blue and fast, aimed centre-mass.

Gasps erupted around it. Two nearby vendors ducked instinctively, a droid squawked and dropped a tray of roasted bugs, and a Rodian stumbled backwards into a fruit cart. Screams didn’t come—not yet—but the hum of normalcy had shattered.

Rheyla didn’t wait to see if the bolt landed.

She was already moving—slipping through a burst of startled movement, her cloak trailing behind her like smoke, boots silent against the duracrete. By the time the first voice shouted, she’d reappeared two stalls down, half-shrouded behind a hanging screen of oxidized droid parts.

Scherezade was still in sight.

Rheyla’s blaster was already steady again, smoke curling from the barrel.

She watched.

Calculated.

Let the next move be the Sith’s.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

The stun bolt hit her.

Right in the stomach.

Dead center.

It should have dropped her.

And it did… Sort of.

Scherezade crumpled with the drama of a stage actress in a particularly tragic holo-opera, twisting mid-fall just enough to knock over a stand of hanging windchimes as she collapsed in a glorious tangle of limbs and overpriced artisanal metal.

Vendors screamed. One sprinted. Someone shouted for security. A flock of paperbirds burst into the sky as though the street itself had held its breath.

And then…

…a wheeze.

A cough.

And a voice, ragged with laughter.

"You shot me!" Another giggle. "You actually shot me over a menu negotiation. Force, you bounty hunters have like, zero chill."

She rolled over with a groan, propped herself up on an elbow, and squinted toward the direction of the voice, her eyes still glowing, though now rimmed with amusement and, yes, a little static.

The stun had hit. She hadn't dodged. She also wasn't unconscious. That's okay. That was normal. Beneath her clothes was an array of scars, collected and earned one by now. There wasn't a weapon she could think of that hadn't come through one side of her body and out of the other one. Sure, she could feel it. She would also have to account for the slightly slower movement she was going to suffer for a bit.

Scherezade licked her teeth, flexed her fingers, and sighed.

"…Okay," she muttered to herself, "guess we're doing appetizers after the fight."

With a grunt, she stood. Her move was slow but fluid, shaking out the tingle in her limbs. Bits of windchime still clung to her coat. One of them was playing a broken version of the Imperial March. She didn't stop it.

Her gaze swept the stalls. Found the smoke curl of a blaster. The twitch of fabric.

There you are.

"I'd say that was rude," she called out, voice carrying now. Louder. Not shouting. Just enough that anyone who still hadn't run knew something wasn't right.

Then she smiled again. Bright. Sharp. Unbothered.

"But points for flair. You really do know how to ruin a date."

She still didn't draw her weapons.

But the air around her was starting to hum. Just a little. Like the moment before lightning decides where to land.

And Scherezade waited, arms at her sides.

"Do it again!"


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The bolt hit.

Right where it was supposed to. Full charge, centre mass. She’d stunned bounty targets twice this woman’s size and dropped them like bad habits.

So when Scherezade collapsed in a symphony of windchimes and overacted flair, Rheyla didn’t relax.

She squinted.

"…Really?" she muttered in disbelief, more to herself than anyone else.

Vendors screamed. A metal stand keeled over like a drunk. Someone ran. A fruit cart exploded in a chorus of squashed pulp and market despair. And in the middle of it all, the Sith was laughing like she’d just tripped over a punchline.

Not even unconscious.

Stunned, sure—she could see it in the way the woman moved, slower, edges fraying. But standing?

That stun charge could down a Wookiee. Rheyla had tested it. Twice.

She stepped out from behind the oxidised screen, boots clicking soft against the duracrete. Calm. Balanced. The kind of casual that only came from practice and a total refusal to be rattled in public.

Her blaster stayed raised. Lekku wrapped. Cloak drawn back just enough to give her elbow room. Her eyes—warm, honey-brown, and very unimpressed—locked on the grinning Sith wrapped in windchimes and ego.

"Princess, if that’s how you handle being shot, I’d hate to see your idea of foreplay."

She let that one hang, just long enough to feel it.

A flick of her hand reset the charge. Just in case.

"Gotta say, though… not the reaction I expected."
A pause. "You’re still standing. Most people are snoring by now."

Another two steps forward. The crowd had mostly scattered, but a few lingered—low enough to duck, far enough to pretend they weren’t watching. A droid recorded from across the street. Great. This would be on some local feed before sundown.

"I came here for a clean pickup. Bag, tag, stun, drag. Nothing flashy."
Her tone was bone-dry now, all professional detachment—except for the crooked smirk tugging just beneath it.
"You ruined that by taking a stun bolt like a stage diva on opening night."

She aimed again. Centre mass.

"So. Last offer before I start improvising."

A pause.

"You want that dinner first, or do we keep trading shots and compliments until someone’s smouldering?"

The hum around Scherezade was building now—static curling at the edge of the air, like the Force itself was leaning forward.

Rheyla didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t lower the blaster.

"Your move, glowstick."

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Glowstick.

Glowstick.

Scherezade exhaled like she'd just been told she couldn't eat dessert before dinner.

"You know," she said, brushing a chunk of windchime off her shoulder, "I used to get titles like 'Daughter of Chaos' and 'Knife Witch of the Southern Sectors.' But nooooooooo, now it's 'Princess' and Glowstick."

She pouted. Just a little. For effect.

Then smiled again, sharp and delighted.

"You're lucky you're cute."

The blaster aimed at her didn't make her flinch. Neither did the distance, or the threat, or the fact that yes, her limbs were still buzzing slightly from the stun shot, and yes, it had annoyed her.

But not enough to make her strike first.

"I'll take that dinner now, thanks," she said, grinning. "Though if that's your idea of foreplay, you'll need to work on your plating skills."

She flexed her fingers once, then cracked her neck side to side.

"You're good," she admitted. "Quick. Professional. Real… focused. But you came here thinking this would be a job. A checkmark. A nice little paycheck with maybe a side of drama."

She took one step forward. Casual. Not threatening. But every inch of her dripped with power just waiting to stretch its legs.

"And now you're realizing it's something else. You're realizing you're not here for a job."

A tilt of her head. Eyes glowing, locked on target.

"You're here for a story."

Another step. Another grin. Scherezade deWinter in her full, dangerous element, laughing in the face of logic, threat, and protocol.

"So the question is: Do you want to bring me in?"

A beat.

"Or do you want to see what happens next? Either way, my word is my bond, I get dinner, you get to hand in me as a bounty. I also recommend that if you try the stunning thing again you shoot at least three bolts at once next time, by my calculations that is the best way to make sure it actually does something to me."


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Princess pouted.

Then smiled.

Then offered dinner like she was inviting a bounty hunter to a second date after taking a stun bolt to the gut and monologuing about titles.

Rheyla had expected a lot of things when she dusted off this relic of a bounty.

This? Was not one of them.

Her blaster remained steady, aimed cleanly centre-mass. Her stance hadn't shifted. But the corner of her mouth curved just a little—slow, deliberate, entirely too amused for someone standing across from a Force-sensitive lunatic with blood magic and dramatic flair.

"You get dessert when you behave, princess."
A beat.
"Until then, stand still and sparkle."

It slipped out easier than it should have. Crisp delivery. Just the right amount of disdain disguised as flirtation. And now that she’d said it…

Kark.
Was she actually considering it?

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

Sure, it would be smarter to fire again. Stun her twice—three times if needed—drag her off while she was twitching and collect the payday before anyone else decided to interfere. That was the plan. That was the professional thing to do.

But here she was.

Considering dinner.

Not seriously. Not yet. Not really. Right?

She exhaled quietly through her nose, recalculating. No good exit route without drawing more attention. No guarantee Scherezade wouldn’t lash out the second her back turned. And yet… she hadn’t. Not once. Just stood there smiling like a knife waiting to be picked up.

"This is the part where most people run," she said, more to herself than the Sith. "Or beg. Or scream. Not flirt."

A flicker of motion—her finger flexed near the trigger, but didn’t pull. She could end it. Might even land the shot before the air sparked.

But some stupid, reckless part of her wanted to see what happened next.

That same voice that had always whispered what if just a little too close to the edge.

She didn’t lower the blaster.

But she didn’t fire either.

"So what is this, then?" Her tone was drier now. Tighter. Curious against her better judgment.
"You handing yourself in for dinner and drinks, or just hoping I get distracted long enough for the knives to come out?"

Because let’s face it: both options were still very much on the table.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

"Until then, stand still and sparkle."

Scherezade beamed.

Not the demure, flirtatious kind of smile that batted lashes and played innocent. Not even close. This was the grin of a creature who had absolutely no idea where the line was, and would probably lick it if she found it. Just like she'd linked that Rodian.

"Ooooh," she sing-songed, rocking on her heels like she was considering an extremely important diplomatic decision. "So I do get dessert. Eventually. Noted!"

Her eyes sparkled like war crimes wrapped in confetti. Still, she hadn't moved. No knives thrown. No Force-bubbles summoned. Just glitter, sass, and the very real sound of her stomach making protest noises that echoed a little too loudly for someone supposedly in control of the situation.

"You know," she added, pointing one lazy finger at the blaster still aimed center-mass, "If I was going to spring a trap, I'd have already done it. Probably with fireworks. Or something involving carnivorous slime. The good kind, though. The kind that sings."

She paused, as if genuinely weighing her next words.

"I am hungry," she admitted finally, as though it were a great concession. "And I have surrendered to worse offers. Like that one time on Rishi when someone tried to trade me for a half-eaten muffin. I didn't even get the muffin!"

Beat.

"I accept your terms. Princess stands still and sparkles. For dinner. And dessert." She gave the last word a particularly dramatic inflection, like she was already fantasizing about six kinds of cake and at least one form of ice cream weaponized with espresso.

Scherezade straightened, released a belt that contained a few weapons (mostly various blades) and let it drop to the ground, still not flinching, and crossed her arms behind her back in the most suspiciously obedient pose imaginable.

"But," she added, tilting her head just slightly, "if you do plan on dragging me in, I hope you realize I snore. Very loudly. And I have questions. So many questions. Like, do you always look this good when you're threatening people? Or is that just for me?"

And there it was, the full-frontal flirtation with a side of glitter, mischief, and a dangerous lack of self-preservation.

She grinned wider.

"Lead the way, bounty hunter. I'll try not to sparkle too aggressively."


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

She dropped the belt.

Just like that. No flair. No sudden lunge. Just a quiet clatter of metal hitting duracrete as Scherezade crossed her arms behind her back and smiled like she was about to be crowned prom queen of the local psych ward.

Rheyla stared.

Not for long. Just a second. Long enough.

Then she lowered the blaster to her side.

Kark it all.

"You really are gonna make me buy dinner, drink and dessert, aren't you?" The words came out half-muttered, half-exhaled disbelief. She wasn’t talking to the Sith anymore. She was talking to the universe. The Force. Herself. Whoever was listening.

And they were laughing.

She stepped forward—slow, smooth, measured. Not relaxed. Never relaxed. Her honey-brown eyes stayed locked on the woman in front of her, like she expected a knife to fly at any second. Because she did.

But for now?

No weapons. No resistance.

Just glitter, sass, and possibly the galaxy’s most dangerous sugar craving.

"Do you always look this good when you're threatening people? Or is that just for me?"

Rheyla blinked once.

Then gave her that look—the one that said really? without needing to waste the breath.

But damn it, the corner of her mouth betrayed her again. That crooked not-smile that always came out when she knew better and didn’t care.

"You flirt like a concussion," she said smoothly.
A step closer.
"Messy, inconvenient, and I’ll probably regret letting you anywhere near my head."

She paused just in front of Scherezade.

Close enough to see the flicker of emerald glow in those eyes—unnatural, almost luminescent in the half-light.
Not warm. Not welcoming.
But beautiful in that too-sharp-to-touch kind of way.

The kind of beautiful that should’ve warned her off.

It didn’t.

If anything, it pulled her in like gravity with knives.

"You do realise," she added, slipping a pair of cuffs from her belt with a casual flick of the wrist, "this counts as the weirdest surrender I’ve ever accepted, right?"

She paused just in front of Scherezade.

"And I once collected a bounty on a Pantoran who insisted on being spoon-fed fried nuna legs before letting me cuff him."
A beat.
"You’re somehow worse. And also better. I haven’t decided yet."

She fastened one cuff around Scherezade’s wrist. Smooth. No resistance. Yet.

"If you bite me," she added dryly, "dessert’s off the table and I will bite back."

The second cuff clicked into place.

Still no sudden movement. No Force storm. No hidden blades. Just that ridiculous grin and more tension than an over-wound vibroblade. Rheyla exhaled again. Just one slow breath. Her pulse hadn’t slowed—not even close—but her grip eased.

"Alright, princess. You’ve got five minutes of good behaviour before I start getting twitchy." She stepped back, half-turned, keeping Scherezade in her peripheral as she slid the blaster into its thigh holster, holding on to the Sith's belt.

"Try anything, and we’re skipping dinner and going straight to unconscious."

A pause.

"And no, that’s not a euphemism."

She jerked her chin up the street beside the spice stall, so they could make their way to the spaceport. "Move. Left turn up ahead. And if anyone asks—"

Another smirk.
"—you’re my aggressively fashionable date with impulse control issues. Got it?"

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Scherezade's grin only widened as the second cuff clicked into place.

"Ooooh," she cooed, twisting her wrists ever so slightly within the restraints, as if testing their quality, "You really do have good taste in metal. Firm, but not too tight. Did you pick these out yourself, or do you just keep them around for special occasions?"

She leaned in a fraction, not enough to violate space, but enough to imply she could, and waggled her eyebrows. Any second. If she wanted. The emerald glow in her eyes sparkled like someone had just poured starlight into a vat of mischief and murder.

"But dinner is still on the table, right? Otherwise I'm going to rebel and start a riot, but if you're feeding me, I might behave." She tilted her head, faux-pondering. "Maybe. No promises. I am but a simple woman who is very food motivated."

Then she took the first step forward, obeying the command with all the performative enthusiasm of someone pretending this was her idea. She moved like a dancer might stalk across a battlefield, all graceful, dangerous, and fully aware of the weight at her back.

"And for the record," she added, voice light as sugar and twice as sharp, "I never bite first unless attacked. Most people taste really yucky. But I'm willing to reconsider someone asks nicely."

A wink.

Followed by an almost theatrical sigh as she glanced toward the direction Rheyla had indicated. "Left turn, fashionably aggressive. Got it."

Pause.

Then, louder, as they began walking: "So. Hypothetically. If I don't escape, don't explode, and don't make you regret this entire situation… will the dessert still be included?"


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to. Her eyes cut sideways as they walked, trailing over the Sith’s ridiculous swagger like it was a live wire that had somehow grown legs. “Starting a riot over a missed dinner?” she muttered. “That's supposed to scare me, or turn me on?”

She didn’t wait for a response. Wouldn’t admit she kind of wanted both.

Blaster holstered, cuffs secured, belt in hand—and still, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was walking beside a pressure cooker with glitter duct tape over the valve.

“Dessert’s conditional,” she said at last, tone drier than a Tatooine bar fight. “No explosions. No escape attempts. And no attempt to give me a headache”

A beat.

Her pace never slowed, but her head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly. Watching.

“And you absolutely have to tell me what the hell happened on Rishi.”

Another step. A little too close, just enough to shoulder-brush if either of them misjudged.

“Also,” she added, like it was an afterthought—when it absolutely wasn’t, “You pull that eyebrow wiggle again and I will add a leash to those cuffs.”

Was she bluffing?

Probably.

...Maybe.

But either way, the smirk was back. Small. Crooked. Dangerous. “Let’s just see if you make it to dessert.”

~~~~​

The spaceport's entry doors scanned them both, but nothing else really happened.

Rheyla walked just behind and slightly to the side—close enough to reach out, yank a collar, or put a bolt through someone’s knee if it came to that. Her blaster stayed holstered but ready, her grip loose in that don’t make me prove it way only seasoned bounty hunters managed. The confiscated weapons belt slung over her shoulder added a familiar weight, counterbalancing the tension in her spine.

She didn’t need to look directly at the Sith. The sound of cuffs, the echo of measured footfalls, the sense of unpredictable energy just ahead—it was enough.

The main corridor of Nar Chunna’s spaceport met them like a punch to the sinuses.

Lights buzzed overhead, sickly and unreliable. The air stank of old coolant, spice smoke, and whatever passed for lunch in the cantina two doors down. A flickering holosign read “Rynni’s Fuel & Booze”, but only the latter was still in stock.

A Nikto dockworker in stained coveralls paused mid-spanner-turn to stare. Someone muttered a bet into a commlink. A Trandoshan vendor hawking knockoff power cells took one look and slid his stall window shut.

Rheyla didn’t care. Let them watch. Let them wonder who was leading whom.

She kept her pace tight, close enough to respond but not so close it gave anything away.

“Smile bigger and someone’s gonna think you’re into this,” she muttered dryly. “And before you ask—no, that doesn’t make it better.”

The corridor sloped downward. Bay numbers passed by in chipped aurebesh.

Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three.

A few loitering dockhands looked up and then looked away, the kind of streetwise shuffle that said 'not my problem'.

Then: Bay Twenty-Five.

The Scourhawk looked like hell. The good kind. The “still flies, still fights, bite me” kind. She squatted low in her berth like a beast mid-growl—scorched armour, mismatched hull plates, and a rear cannon mount that had definitely killed someone important. Possibly recently.

Rheyla lifted her vambrace. One tap. The boarding ramp groaned down with a hydraulic wheeze and a clang that made two pit droids jump and scurry off.

She motioned with her chin, blaster hand still loose at her side.

“Up.”

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Scherezade walked like she'd already won.

Not the war, no. But something. A skirmish. A moment. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth like it was trying to pick a fight. Her back was straight and there was a happy bounce in her steps.

"You say riot like it's a bad thing," she drawled, not quite looking at Rheyla. "I prefer enthusiastic civic engagement." But her voice dipped now, low, warm, amused, as she added, "Though if it does turn you on, I'm not the one making that weird."

The cuffs clinked softly with her stride, a sound she wore like jewelry, and made sure every few steps to give them a little jiggle to let the bounty hunter hear that she was still under lock and key. The swagger didn't leave her step, but it softened just a hair when Rheyla got close enough to brush. Close enough that Scherezade felt it, like static against her skin. Her eyes flicked sideways, sharp and burning, then away again.

"No explosions. No escape attempts. No headaches," she echoed, like she was reading terms off a datapad. "That's a shame. I'm excellent at all three. Especially that last part."

She tilted her head toward Rheyla, lashes fluttering in mock-thought. "What happens if I break just one?"

Then the kicker.

Rishi.

For a heartbeat, everything in her went still. Not frozen, more like just... pressurized? Like a star before it goes nova. She didn't stop walking. Didn't stumble. But that was the sort of question people didn't usually walk away from asking. Not intact. And yet… Scherezade breathed out through her nose, a sharp little exhale. Her tongue darted to the corner of her mouth.

"You're gonna need more than dessert if you want that story," she said with a firm nod, voice all velvet and teeth. And then the leash comment landed, and the grin broke loose like a prison riot. "You say that like it's a threat," she purred, her voice dropping half an octave. "You sure you're not into this?"

But she obeyed the gesture without complaint.

Despite her cheery and bubbly demeanour though, there was one thing that did bother the Sithling. She knew the bounty on her was four decades old. She could also make educated guesses as to who had taken the responsibility of paying for that bounty.

And those… Were not people she actually wanted to be in the same room with, or interact with. Not four decades ago, not now, not ever. She hoped for the cute Twi'lek that they would at least be sending representatives and not come in person. That would make it way easier, and meant the death count wouldn't include her. Unless she insisted, of course.

Up the ramp, each step a silent dare. She didn't run. Didn't look back. Just the sound of the cuffs. Just the scent of gun oil and blood and ozone. Just a Sith, walking into the belly of the beast like she might be the hungriest thing on board.



Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

"You say that like it’s a threat," she purred, voice dropping half an octave. "You sure you’re not into this?"

The ramp groaned shut behind them like the ship was annoyed to be awake.

Rheyla didn’t miss a beat. “Careful,” she said dryly. “The Scourhawk’s temperamental. Doesn’t like when I bring cheeky company, princess.”

Somewhere deep in the hull, a groan echoed—perfect timing.

She smirked.
“See? Already jealous.”

She still hadn’t answered the question.

Inside, the ship was dim and narrow, the kind of warmth that came from old wiring, poor insulation, and too many sealed arguments with the engine core. The recycled air carried a mix of caf grounds, scorched metal, and ozone. Familiar. Home.

Rheyla didn’t press too close, but she didn’t stray far either—just within reach, right behind the Sith. Old habit. You didn’t let a bounty lead unless you were damn sure there was nowhere for them to go, and the Scourhawk didn’t have many exits. Especially not for someone cuffed.

They moved through the cargo hold first. It stretched long and echoing, the deck marked with blast scarring and drag lines from hauls that didn’t come quiet. A few crates were lashed against the walls with magnet clamps, one corner occupied by a folded shock net—still crusted with soot from the last time she’d needed it. Overhead, tie-down chains swayed faintly with the motion of the hull. The air here always smelled sharper, tinged with coolant and dust and the faint aftershock of too many desperate landings.

Rheyla’s boots made a dull thud against the metal floor. She could hear the Sith’s cuffs clinking with every step—little reminders that this wasn't over, not yet.

Ahead, the inner bulkhead door loomed. It slid open with a reluctant hiss and ushered them into the galley.

The lighting here flickered overhead, not quite steady—just enough to make shadows move where they shouldn’t. The air was warmer, tighter. Lived-in. It smelled like burnt caf, old ration packs, and something sweet from a tin she'd stashed and forgotten two weeks ago.

To the left, bolted counters ran the length of the wall, one with a shallow sink and another home to a caf machine that wheezed like it was dying of old age but still spat out caffeine when bullied right. Across from it, a round table clung to the bulkhead with two folded metal chairs strapped in beside it. Behind that, a carbon-scored wall still bore the faint memory of a fire she hadn’t quite wanted to repaint.

Three doors split off the space. First on the left: the refresher. Just a toilet, just enough room to turn around. Next to it: her quarters, and directly opposite the way they came in—the cockpit.

She let the silence stretch just long enough for it to feel intentional.

Her eyes flicked to the table.

Could cuff her to the strut there. Easy. Secure. Keep her in the galley where nothing critical could get melted or murdered. Would give Rheyla a minute to breathe. Maybe even run a diagnostic.

But…

Her jaw ticked.

That would also mean turning her back every time she hit the cockpit. Leaving the Sith out here, unobserved. Unchecked. Alone with a caf machine that already hissed like it was plotting something.

Nope.

She didn’t trust that grin. Didn’t trust the sparkle behind it. And most importantly, didn’t trust what might happen if she couldn’t see it.

“Change of plans,” Rheyla muttered.

She tapped the panel on the cockpit door. It slid open with a reluctant hiss.

“You’re sitting up front.”

She gestured with a tilt of her head. Past the threshold, the pilot’s seat waited—scarred leather and armorweave, worn from years of use but still firm, functional. Just beside it, the co-pilot’s seat: spare, re-bolted, and a little less padded, but reliable enough for someone who didn’t mind a few bumps. It wasn’t luxury, but it wasn’t scrap either. It would do.

“Right there,” Rheyla said, voice firm. “Second seat. Be a good girl and don’t cause trouble, princess, and I might just upgrade our deal to a full-course meal.” There was a spark of wit in her tone, laced with that familiar, flirtatious charm as she dropped into the pilot’s seat and began to check her nav for a planet suited best to feed the strange Sith woman.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

The cuffs continued to jingle as Scherezade paused at the edge of the galley, weight shifting to one foot like a cat deciding whether to knock something off a counter. She surveyed the space, looking at the scorched wall, the flickering lights, the caf machine that sounded like it needed therapy… And smiled like she was seeing a five-star suite.

"Cozy," she said, entirely too delighted. "Very... bachelor in exile chic. I like it."

But when Rheyla changed plans and waved her toward the cockpit instead, something in her expression sparked. Not surprise. Not protest. Something closer to approval, thinly veiled under amusement.

"Ooooh, front row seats? You sure know how to treat a girl." She sauntered forward, dragging the cuffs against the wall as she passed, just to make noise. "And here I thought you'd strap me to a pipe and hope I didn't rewire your nav system with a spork." Because she totally could. She'd done worse. In the past. With less things to work with. On multiple occasions.

She dropped into the co-pilot's seat with a thump and a satisfied sigh, legs crossed at the ankles like she owned the place. The chair creaked slightly beneath her weight, and for a moment, she leaned her head back, letting the recycled air wash over her.

Then her eyes slid sideways, slow and deliberate.

"So…" she began, voice syrupy with mischief, "Full-course meal. That's, what, soup, entrée, side dish, dessert, and a post-dinner threat not to touch the hyperdrive?"

She grinned. Not teeth-baring, not yet. But it danced at the edge of her lips, dangerous and sugar-sweet.

"You're exquisite when you try to pretend this isn't fun for you."

A pause.

"But I'll be good." Her tone softened… But only barely. "Mostly. For food." A wink. "Still super food motivated."

She looked out the viewport then, as if gauging how far the stars were from their current mess.

"And, hey… thanks for not strapping me to the table. I hate eating in cuffs. Messes with the cutlery." And then her nose began to twitch. "Uhh… Hey, can I ask for a favour? Just scratch my nose? Please? I promise, no biting! It just needs a scratch all of the sudden."


Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t look up right away.

Her fingers moved across the nav console with practised ease, shifting between screens like she wasn’t currently fielding a request to scratch a Sith Lord’s nose. Coordinates blinked. Fuel reserves scrolled. She toggled a planetary menu with one hand and reached for a side dial with the other—still scanning, still working, still looking for somewhere halfway civilised that wouldn’t try to kill them both on landing. Preferably with decent food.

“Would’ve ruined the ambience,” she said without missing a beat. “Besides, I hear Sith get cranky when the dinnerware doesn’t match the restraints.”

A beat of silence. Just long enough to make it clear the line wasn’t entirely a joke.

Rheyla finally turned from the console, fixing Scherezade with a slow, pointed look. “You promise, huh?” she said flatly, one brow raised.

The implication hung heavy in the silence—the kind of look that translated across every language as you better not.

She held it a beat longer… then exhaled through her nose with something between amusement and disbelief. Leaning lazily on the armrest, she reached out with two fingers and gave the Sith’s nose a quick, deliberate scratch. No hesitation. No fear. Just confidence in wrist and posture—the kind of move you make when you dare someone to turn it into something else.

A small smirk tugged at her lips.

“Don’t get used to that, princess,” she added as she eased back into the pilot seat and tapped another screen. “I don’t make a habit of nose-sitting my passengers.” The Scourhawk gave a familiar hum beneath her boots, systems cycling up like an old beast roused from sleep.

“And yeah, that’s the full-course,” she went on, still half-focused on the nav readout. “Soup, entrée, side dish, dessert… and a post-dinner lecture about boundaries. Especially around the hyperdrive.”

Her tone was flat, but the glint in her eye wasn’t.

The screen pinged softly—one potential planet flagged. Decent port. Minimal patrol presence. Food rating… passable.

Rheyla kept scrolling.

“And for the record,” she added, not looking away from the screen, “I never said I wasn’t having fun.”

Her fingers dragged through the nav list, muttering under her breath like a woman forced to plan dinner with a stun-cuffed date. It could be worse; she could still be dating her ex. “Not Nar Shaddaa. Last time I parked there, someone tried to hotwire the ramp.”

Tap.

“Cantros? No. That place serves noodles in minimalist glass cubes. I’m not fighting a Sith on an empty stomach and aesthetic plating.”

Tap.

“Mordaxi Prime—mm, hard pass. Humiliated a senator's son in a game of Sabacc, he never forgave me.”

Tap.

“Zeratan IV? No. Everything smells like wet sock and spice. Not worth the risk.”

She squinted at the next option.

“Okay... mid-tier port, nobody checks your papers, and the food won't kill us unless we order the seafood.”

The nav chimed in dull agreement.

Rheyla leaned back with a grunt, as the ship rumbled faintly—probably judging her.

Then, louder toward Scherezade:
“Hope you're in the mood for something fried, unlicensed, and possibly illegal in three systems.”

A smirk.
“Should go well with the cuffs.”

The engines rumbled to life beneath them, a low growl that reverberated through the deck. Scourhawk didn’t purr—she snarled.

Rheyla flipped a few switches overhead, fingers moving with casual precision. The repulsors kicked in, lifting them off the landing pad with a lurch and a hiss as the landing struts retracted. Outside, the viewport filled with a smear of dusty skyline and the distant sprawl of stars begging for distance. With a practised hand, she tilted the controls and guided the ship skyward. The hull groaned in protest, but it was the kind of protest that meant working as intended. As they cleared the atmosphere, the stars sharpened into a clean black canvas, streaked faintly with orbital debris and long-forgotten satellites.

She tapped the nav console. Coordinates blinked to life—already locked in.

“Mid-tier port, no seafood,” she reminded herself, then punched the hyperspace control.

The stars stretched.

And then they were gone—swallowed into the blue tunnel of hyperspace with a flash and a roar.

Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Scherezade's whole body practically melted at the scratch from Rheyla Tann EYLA , a groan escaping her like she was a cat who'd been denied sunbeams all week. Her head lolled back for maximum dramatics.

"Ohhh, Force, thank you," she sighed, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. "You may have just saved the galaxy."

But when she opened her eyes again, there was a flicker of something more in her gaze. Not softness. Just… watching. She sat there quietly through the nav search, surprisingly well-behaved. Mostly. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, but her boot gently tapped the metal floor in an off-beat rhythm, not quite patient.

At possibly illegal in three systems she lit up.

"You know how to show a girl a good time," she grinned. "Greasy, mysterious, potentially fatal… If I'd ever been invited to a prom, I think this is what it would have felt like."

The ship rumbled around them as the engines came to life, and she leaned into it slightly, like she enjoyed the motion, the sound, the rising tension. There was something deeply familiar in it, even if this wasn't her ship. Or her mission. Or her idea.

She tilted her head, studying Rheyla's profile as she guided the Scourhawk through takeoff. Still grinning. Still dangerous.

"You keep saying things like boundaries and don't touch the hyperdrive but you're doing that thing." She wiggled her fingers. Not that Rheyla could see it, but still. "That thing people do when they're trying very hard not to like the dangerous, cuffed woman in their cockpit."

She leaned back again, letting the seat take her weight as the stars turned to hyperspace.

Then, softer, almost genuine, but not quite:

"So I'll try not to disappoint you."

Now she pulled her legs up, so she was now sitting tailor-style in the chair.

"Are we there yet?"