Private Angles and Edges

[Shade]

Shade stepped off the shuttle, boots silent against the matte metal of the Denon landing bay. The city stretched before her, industrial spires and market labyrinths bathed in the deep red-orange haze of the late afternoon sun. Her armor shifted with her movements, subtle and precise, calibrated to remain as unassuming as it could while still offering protection.

She had agreed to this mission as a test of herself—a trial in discipline and patience. Solo work was what she knew best. Relying on someone else, even temporarily, was a challenge she wasn't eager to meet, but it was part of the trial. She'd hoped for a mission that would push her in different ways, something that demanded more than observation and conversation. Still, even this would measure her resolve, her precision, her ability to read a room, a person.

Balen Var waited in the shadow of a narrow market corridor, lean, confident, moving with the careful precision of someone accustomed to making deals he shouldn't. Crimson eyes took him in, noting posture, gait, the way his attention flicked over the street. He wasn't a soldier, not an agent, but she had learned to read people like him as if they were.

"You're Mr. Black," she said, voice low, measured, carrying the weight of authority without overt threat. "Shade. I understand there's… business you'd like to keep under wraps. I want to make it easier to explain."

Her hands rested near her sidearm, not in challenge, but ready. Every mission began with observation. Every person she met — ally or suspect — first revealed themselves through subtle cues. This was no exception.

She'd be lying if she said she didn't crave something more volatile, something that might test her reflexes or demand a faster hand, but restraint was its own discipline. And if she could navigate this without faltering, she would know she was growing, that she could handle more than the ghosts and shadows she'd made her life.

"The black-market activity, the trades that shouldn't be happening here—they've drawn attention. I want to understand why," she continued, tone deliberate. "We can do this quietly, efficiently. You answer, I observe, and we both leave without mistakes. Or we do it my way."

She let her gaze linger just long enough to gauge his reaction, unflinching, composed, and precise. She wasn't here to charm. She wasn't here to negotiate yet. She was here to test herself, to see what patience, leverage, and discipline could extract from someone who thought they were untouchable.

"Shall we start?"

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

A smile hits his lips. She's good. But he's confident, relaxed even, like he's expected this here of all places. Meeting Black in an alley, alone, far from the usual boring corporate cafes, sterile boardrooms, or all too-clean ships. Here, where real life actually happens. Yeah, no one did that. Ever. Which means someone set the stage. Or maybe this isn't just any old alley after all.

So why's he standing alone? When half the board would vaporize him on sight if they had the chance. She'll figure it out soon enough, he's not alone. If he were, this conversation would already be over, permanently. A flash from a rifle scope above covered in neon glow, a passerby staring a moment too long, the vendor pretending not to eavesdrop while polishing the same counter for the fifth time. Some eyes are on him, others on her.

Still, she's probably the most interesting person he's dealt with all month. No Lie. Most meetings felt like watching paint dry, scrawled on an eye-bending spreadsheet. But she made it past his security, face-to-face, with no appointments or escorts. That takes skill, timing, and nerve. Black decided to play along. The real question is, why's he here? What's so special about this particular alley that it pulled him out of his fortress of sterile comfort? He clasps his hands together, then opens his palms, an easy gesture, 20% disarming, 80% performance.

"We should start. Ask, and I'll answer. But let's not do it on an empty stomach. How long has it been since you had real food, I mean down-to-earth real Denon food?" He turned to her, as if trying to lay her doubts to rest. "Don't look so shocked. I eat real food. Occasionally. Once in a blue neon moon. Okay, fine, never. Tragic, really." A smile flickers, part charm and test. He's easing her tension, watching every reaction like a scanner, or a sensor.

Charm, corporate veneer, polished suits and and protection stacked layers deep. But she can see it, insight after insight, he's not just standing in some alley. That's not how Black works. This is his alley. Or specifically one he's already bought, monitored, or compromised six different ways, for a very specific reason.

The buildings around them hum with mid-tier offices, in between the countless levels sat a handful of corpo fronts covering corpo fronts, regulators on the take, every permit stamped with a credit trail that leads into a murky pit of bureaucracy so deep you'd lose your mind reading through. Bureaucracy was the weapon of kings here. The more Denon got cleaned up, the easier it was for his operation. The Republic and the Black Sun had both seriously hurt his enemies. But credits, credits still buy the galaxy, especially on Denon.

He strolls toward the food stall nearby, his confidence casually deliberate. The smell of delicious Denon street fare wafting over. The Rodian vendor, probably on someone's payroll, served up sizzling offerings that smelled way too good to trust. But who's paying who? Doesn't matter. The game's the same, the players only change.

A blonde Hapan woman in a suit ate standing in front of the stall, eyes everywhere but on her food. Watching the seller, watching them. You'd miss it if you weren't trained to notice the subtlety of her motion laced with calm precision. Assassin, his best one. Annasun passed him the food she's already taken a bite out of. Because he's that careful and meticulous

"I recommend the Bantha Burgers," she says. He takes it and smirks. "Almost as good as Beebo's, huh? Yeah, shame what happened to them. Total accident. Several, actually. Tragic string of coincidences. You know how it goes." He bites in and chews thoughtfully, eyes looking over the shadows as he watches Shade the same way. "So, why do they draw attention?" His gaze traces to a very non-descript doorway, then back to her. "You ever notice how, on Denon, if something's drawing eyes, it's either amateur hour or someone's trying really hard to make you think it is?"

The Rodian tried to sell his common Blackfish Sushi instead to Shade, something everyone tries to pass off as a rare fish to outsiders when many varieties are as common as they come. Black didn't say anything, simply observing how she handles this rare delicacy being offered.

Shade

 

[Shade]

The woman didn't move right away. She let the sounds of the alley breathe and took in the air. The faint hiss of the grill, the hum of passing speeders, rain tapping metal somewhere down the line. Her gaze flicked to the Rodian's tray, to the sheen of the so-called rare blackfish sushi glistening under neon light.

"Common stock," she said quietly, tone even, almost disinterested. "Market price dropped again last cycle. You should update your pitch."

The Rodian gave a nervous laugh. Shade's eyes cut to him once, a sidelong glance, nothing overt, but sharp enough to make him look away. Then she turned her focus back to Black, the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.

"I'm not here for Denon cuisine," she said, voice low, deliberate. "And you don't strike me as the type who eats street food unless you already own the street."

A pause stretched between them, the rain filling it in slow, deliberate rhythm. She shifted her weight slightly, eyes tracing the upper levels of the buildings — the glint of a lens, the turn of a watcher's head, the pulse of a relay node feeding data somewhere unseen. He'd layered the field well. Almost too well. She wasn't here to critique his setup or street.

He's comfortable here, she noted. Not careless. Confident. That's worse.

Her gaze settled back on him, unflinching. "So tell me, Black," she continued, "what's the real reason you wanted to meet in your alley? Instead of somewhere more comfortable."

She let the words hang there — quiet, steady — the tone of someone who'd already mapped three exit points and marked who'd pull a trigger first. This wasn't a courtesy call. It was business, and she'd come to peel the truth out from under his polished charm.

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

Shade knew her food, which meant local knowledge at the least, no Denon-Slang mercifully, so she probably wasn't born here. Black was studying her personality and posture the same as she studied his, she was deliberate and focused. Broca joined them at the nondescript doorway. An especially large olive-skinned aide carrying a briefcase, though one she might realize was nowhere near the same threat as Annasun, the Hapan lady standing with them,

Why did he want to meet her here?
"I don't know," Black said, one eyebrow quirking as he polished off the last of the Bantha burger. "But if we're going to get ambushed, we might as well do it on a full stomach. Shall we?"

Brocca looked up, as if wondering what Black was waiting for.
"Well, knock. We are not barbarians," he said, clearing his throat and adjusting his suit slightly.

After a minute of shuffling feet and an awkward pause, the door slid half open. A small squib with far too much junk-tech covering his furry face peeked out, then looked around a few times.

"Yes?"

A small silver marker changed hands. The squib looked surprised, bit it to test its authenticity, then opened up the door, tossing it into a chute, which swallowed it quicker than you could blink. Inside there were thirty terminals, all running, wires hanging out at every angle, prized Squib scrap littered around, and oddly, a small purple hoverchair in the corner, absent any pilot.

"Why all the noise, Gleevar?" Black cut to the chase, efficiency layered over charm. Brocca was already interfacing with the tech, his eyes strangely blank in expression. That silver marker had apparently skipped the introduction stage completely.

"Republic's been pinging us every five minutes, can't move a signal without a trace." Which, as Black's guest didn't know was happening, could be a lie, a trap, or a mimicked High Republic slicer posing as one of them.

"Then we've got the… Blue Rodian telling me my job, me, barking out orders like he owns the place! Tried to run a knockoff glittersim, glittersim, through my network nodes, of all the.... wasn't even the real deal." The Pykes were going to love that detail.

Black frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Rodian with counterfeit glittersim and a backbone? I'd pay to see that trainwreck." Annasun was already relaying information on her wrist device. Hard to tell what was true, in Old Denon, everyone played everyone. Suffice to say, Apex Holdings was not known for drug smuggling, even if some of their cartel connections were.

Shade