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

 

[Shade]

Shade stepped inside, her gaze sweeping the room with quiet precision. Thirty terminals hummed in disarray, wires tangled like veins, the air thick with heat from overworked processors. The faint ozone scent of cheap circuitry stung at the edges of her senses. Beneath it all, she could feel the hum—not through hearing, but through the subtle pressure of the Force—a rhythm that didn't belong to any Republic trace.

Her eyes drifted toward the purple hoverchair in the corner. Empty. Active. Watching.

"He's lying," she said at last, voice calm, almost detached. The Squib froze mid-motion, lenses flicking nervously in her direction.

"Power readings don't match Republic trace frequencies," she continued evenly. "And that relay?" She nodded once toward a sparking terminal. "It's bleeding data from the inside. You're broadcasting, not being followed."

The Squib's fur bristled. "That's absurd—"

"No," Shade cut in softly. "It's careless."

Her gaze returned to the hoverchair, eyes narrowing slightly. "Who are you transmitting to?"

The chair's lights pulsed once, twice—deliberate. Not random.

Shade's hand lifted, subtle but sure. The air shifted, pressure thickening as the Force coiled just beneath her skin. The hum stuttered, flickered, then fell silent. The lights on the chair dimmed to black.

She lowered her hand, her expression unreadable. "Better," she murmured, eyes never leaving the Squib. "Now we can have an honest conversation."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

Shade had an eye for detail others would have missed. As the purple chair powered down, the squib moved its fingers to its neck, tugging its fur nervously as she shut things down without moving.

"Well you know, it's… we… I have lots of clients, I do all kinds of work." He started taking great interest in something on his desk to sidestep that can of worms. "See this? It's a great gadget. Could be as big as that latest powercell upgrade." He turned it on and it sparked brightly, then fizzled out.

Black quirked his eyebrow. "Cutting-edge stuff. Just needs a decade or two."

"Still prototyping," the squib mumbled, realizing he was toast.

Like he was trying to walk a fine line between spilling his guts and keeping everyone happy. "I'm in a bind," he said to Shade . "Can't you cut me some slack?" Reaching into his pocket nervously, his hand around a lighter, ready to pull out a cigarra.

Black could have gone with 'Who pays the rent,' but instead he opted for the good cop/bad cop routine with Shade.

"Gleevar, we've known each other… well, not a long time, but long enough to know when you're focused on the wrong trouble." Hinting that Shade was the one to worry about. Black paced a step, wiping some dust off a shelf with his finger, voice calm and smooth as ever. "Don't you ever want to get away from all this? Take a little vacation, upgrade to uptown. Fresh apartment, real air filters. Republic's doing wonders for the districts."

Black lifted a half-finished junk droid arm, turned it idly as if inspecting a piece of cybernetic art. "You've got talent. Be a shame to see it used by someone with fewer scruples." Then he leaned in close, his tone dropping to a friendly whisper, something that always meant trouble. "It's better than getting her mad," he murmured, nodding slightly toward Shade. His expression tensed just enough to plant the idea before stepping back, giving her space to move in.

"You don't know these people," the squib stammered. "I'll be out of business, they'll be scrambling my signals for weeks, months."

Annasun started scanning the purple chair. A camera swiveled straight at her and shook itself side to side, as if shaking its head. She paused. It nodded up and down.

Shade

 

[Shade]

She remained still. Not the stillness of patience—the stillness of a drawn blade.

Her crimson gaze never left Gleevar, though she hadn't moved since the chair powered down. She took in everything: the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his fur clumped where sweat gathered beneath it, the lighter clenched like a lifeline he wasn't allowed to use. Even the fizzled gadget — a distraction tactic already dead on arrival.

She stepped forward just once, silent. Enough to make the chair's optical sensor swivel toward her in a nervous jitter.

"You are not in a bind," she said, voice level, almost gentle—the kind of gentle that made hearts stop. "You are in a room. With us. And you are deciding how you leave it."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the lighter, then back to him—a wordless warning.

"You want a future. Upright. Breathing. Making gadgets that do more than spark and die."

She leaned in just slightly—not enough to touch, more than enough to burn.

"Then give us what we asked for. Names. Locations. Access routes. You know the channels. Start talking."

A single knife slid into her palm with a soft metallic whisper—she didn't even look down as it happened, didn't need to.

The squib froze, lighter forgotten.

Shade turned her head a fraction—acknowledging Black's earlier comment, her voice a quiet thread of amusement and warning woven together.

"He is correct about one thing." Her eyes locked onto Gleevar's—steady, unblinking. "You do not want me angry."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

The squib retracted his fingers from the lighter. Shade was sharper than most, sharper even than the Jedi usually were. Knife in her hand, Gleevar's nose twitched. "Hey... hey... we're all friends." He coughed and exhaled, eyes darting between them. "Right?" His fur was starting to look as ragged as he felt.

"Okay... okay." He looked up, maybe realizing his time on Denon's underbelly was coming to a sharp close. Retirement suddenly didn't sound so bad. "The Uos family still has muscle in District Twelve. They're looking to trade for some pub's ship schematics... top 'spire' tier tech." He glanced at Shade. "Course I said no to helpin'." His nose tensed again.

Black circled the room, considering the angles, checking the scene with one gloved hand along the back of the purple chair. He didn't interrupt, just listened to Shade work. The pattern was forming, a web tightening into context.

The squib watched him move. "Then this other group…" He hesitated, careful not to name them. "Wanted to stop them. Blame the Uos's Blue Rodian. Make it look like a spice deal gone bad."

Black's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Sounds almost noble. Except for the part where you get caught between both sides."

"You know me," Gleevar stammered, looking down at Shade's knife, her eyes, and her intent. "I don't like the Uos. Nobody does. I'm all about doing the right thing." He cleared his throat.

"They call themselves Rogue Protocol. Weird bunch, but I swear, hand to heart, on my mother's mother, I was going to call it in." His gaze darted between them.

"And they're just doing this out of civic duty?" Black asked, voice always smooth but now edged with disbelief.

The hoverchair answered back with a small shock, he didn't flinch. "Touchy." His tone was dryly amused. Black adjusted the cuff of his jacket and glanced at Shade. "Always meet the best people on this planet."

The monitors flickered. A green sickle carved itself across each screen, an anarchist slicer's signature burning into the feed. Naughty Nought. Letters flashed once before the data in the server's began dissolving line by line.

Broca jerked back, barely unplugging in time. Black moved quickly, checking Broca was alright, then one of the terminals. His voice sharpened significantly, all his charm replaced by efficiency. "We're losing everything. If you've got a trick or someone to call," All that information Shade could use, the truth of the transfers, the trails. Maybe Black should let it go, might be easier than cleaning the paperwork trail, not that he ever dealt with the Squib directly. Making him only nominally invested in saving it.

The squib just stared. Pale under the light flickering above. His world of data devoured bit by bit, cleaning him and killing him at the same time inside.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade moved first, every step measured, pistols drawn. The hum of the damaged chair and flickering monitors behind them faded into the distance. Still, she catalogued every detail—the angle of a vent, residue of a hacked terminal, the pattern of broken wiring that could conceal a sensor.

"Upper maintenance shafts," she murmured, voice low, precise. "Shortest path. Multiple choke points, blind corners. Perfect for masking movement. Keep close, stay sharp."

Her crimson eyes tracked every shadow, every vibration in the metal floor beneath her boots. Even dampened sensors could be read through microfluctuations in air currents, subtle vibrations, and faint echoes. Rogue Protocol, the Uos muscle—they could be anywhere, waiting.

The first shaft appeared, narrow, metal steps slick with condensation. Shade slipped inside, pistols raised, every sense attuned. She felt the slight hum in the panels, the way air moved along the shafts, confirming movement had passed recently.

"Dampened, but not blind," she noted softly, more to herself than anyone else. "Microfluctuations, vibrations, air currents—we move along the edges. One misstep, and we're exposed."

A faint clatter echoed below. Shade froze, hand lifted in a silent signal. Reflexively, she read the shadows, determined it was a loose pipe, not pursuit. Confirmation—small details mattered, and she did not overlook them.

She advanced again, eyes scanning every angle, every reflective surface, every subtle shift in light.

"Every shadow, every sensor, every potential watcher—we account for them," she whispered. "One misstep, and Rogue Protocol or the Uos catch us. We do not allow it."

The shaft opened onto a service landing. Shade crouched, pistols sweeping, eyes cutting through darkness and debris. A distant patrol flickered in her vision—slow, deliberate.

"Engage only if necessary," she murmured under her breath. "Disable cleanly, then continue. No theatrics. No mistakes. We move until the surface, until our ship. Nothing else matters."

Each step remained precise, each breath controlled. Shadows flowed around her, every angle accounted for, every subtle cue catalogued. Rogue Protocol and the Uos could chase all they wanted, but Shade had already counted the moves, threaded the line of escape, and read the path ahead.

For now, that was enough.

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

Gleevar's signal empire collapsed, justly, some might say.

"We'll settle up," Black assured the dejected squib. He didn't leave loose ends loose; he recycled them. Echelon would find a place for him. Black fixed his tie, his thumb pressing a digital stud beneath it. Moments later outside, distant shots and the sharp crack of a familiar high-velocity sniper round echoed. With this many players, it was hard to tell who was killing whom.

"I concur," he said with deadpan certainty.

Annasun moved first after her, flexible in the narrow space. Black followed with a careful side-step, his motion carefully economical. Broca loomed behind them, his width and cybernetics making the space tighter than comfortable. They froze when Shade lifted her hand; Black's cybernetic fingers tensed on the pistol's grip.

"You heard the lady," he said quietly. "No mistakes. You only get paid if you survive, company policy." Annasun gave him a glare. He only hired the best for his inner circle.

Looking to Broca, "something quiet," Black noted, keeping in time with Shade's approach. The big man put down his blaster carbine, pulled out his slicing deck, and interfaced with the systems. They paid the rent on this place, and could bring its network up, but they still had slicers to deal with, so they had to pick carefully. Black looked over and tapped his finger on the pad.

Broca grinned; moments later one of their small mass produced SB-1 drones hummed by, beeped something to the patrol about a threat in binary, and they escorted it the other direction. Before they could move, Broca's voice warned them, "Cameras ahead. On a patterned rotation, looks like I could cut in. But if we touch them, they'll know where we are." Shade's choice to move silently or take them down as he looked her way.

After she decided, Black motioned forward with a half smile, stepping aside with that immovable ease of his. "You see in shadows better than I do."

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade's gaze slid to the cameras—a slow, assessing sweep that took in timing, angles, potential blind spots. She stood motionless for a beat, weight balanced, breath silent. Then:

"We leave them blind. Short disruption. No trace."

Her voice held that restrained, surgical clarity—the decision already mapped three steps beyond the words. She shifted forward just enough for Broca to see her signal.

"On my mark. Three seconds only. They will log it as a glitch."

She raised her hand slightly—two fingers poised like the trigger of time. The cameras rotated…reset…aligned.

"Now."

As the feed flickered dark, Shade slipped ahead—shadow where shadow belonged. Each step deliberate, purposeful, her attention sharpened to a knife's edge.

"Eyes open. Anyone out of place—we do not let them speak."

Her hand did not touch her weapon yet—it hovered near, ready, but unnecessary until precision demanded it. She signaled the next corner, every movement measured.

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

Now

Broca's static hit the cameras, and they moved with her, the large man unplugging himself as they walked, their quartet smart and precise. Annasun mirrored shade well, like a small tactical team covering each other; Brocca, the last around the corner before the cameras came back online, made it with a step to spare.

Black had decided now was a good time for glasses, putting them on to obscure his face; more than vanity, they fuzzed his features to any digital trace. One more layer of plausible deniability or glitch. He caught Shade's movement, impressed by how she handled herself.

"You're good," he spoke quietly, his tone light but genuine. "You handle yourself well. Like you've done this for people who think they are smarter than you." A grin flashed; he knew his reputation, and he used it. "Whatever they're paying you, I'll triple it. Comes with better stimcaf and fewer moral constraints."

Around the next corner, freedom crept closer, and trouble stood in the way.

Three Uos enforcers were mid-argument, confused as much as angry. The kind of thugs that bought their suits on credit and their guns second-hand from slow Rodian shooters. One Arkanian at a terminal faced a bright green sickle and an anarchist's laugh track for his curiosity; two Weequays circled, distracted, irritated, and armed. Smartly dressed thugs, but thugs all the same.

"Schutta's playing games." A weequay cursed.

Black sighed, relaxing his natural wrist and his cybernetic arm tensing. "Same old story: brains optional, attitude mandatory." Annasun glanced to Shade, moving to mirror her call, whatever the play was.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade slowed her pace as they stepped into the open, the night air sharp against her skin. Her eyes swept the perimeter instinctively, noting escape routes and cover even as the distant hum of the city hinted at quiet observation. Black's words lingered, heavier than the wind. She considered them, the offer hanging between them like a pause in the rhythm of motion. Her gaze shifted briefly to him, neutral but precise, measuring his sincerity and the potential cost. She weighed the ease of his promises against the weight of what she carried, the autonomy she'd never surrendered. The temptation was there, undeniable, but so was her caution—every choice she made was deliberate, and this would be no different.

"I'll think on it," she said finally, her voice low, steady, betraying nothing more than acknowledgment. "Before I make my decision." Her words weren't a rejection, nor were they an acceptance. They were a boundary, a promise to herself to act on her terms, just as she had with Cassian long ago.

Then she shifted her attention back to the enforcers, letting the night and the game ahead reclaim her focus. Her posture didn't change, but the faint tightening of her fingers around her blaster spoke volumes. Her eyes flicked from the Arkanian at the terminal to the two Weequays circling, analyzing their spacing, habits, and weaknesses. She was calm, precise, a predator evaluating prey, every detail noted in a rapid, silent calculation.

"Brains optional, attitude mandatory," she murmured under her breath, echoing Black's words with a hint of sardonic amusement.

Then she moved, fluid and deliberate, leading the team in a series of minor, almost imperceptible adjustments—positioning themselves to flank, covering each other's blind spots, forcing the enforcers into a slow, disorganized retreat without a shot fired yet. Her focus was absolute: every step, glance, and breath directed at neutralizing the threat with maximum efficiency and minimal exposure. Even outside, under the city's indifferent lights, Shade's presence alone shifted the dynamic. She was the eye in the storm, a quiet anchor of control, and she made sure the thugs knew, without words, that they had just walked into a problem far bigger than they anticipated.

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

"Expect nothing less." If she knew his file, she likely knew there was always room to negotiate, whatever her terms were; more an art than a procedure with Black though.

Annasun moved with her like they'd trained for this moment, keeping those angles sharp and rhythm perfect. Weapons raised before the thugs even processed that they were outgunned. Hands up, eyes wide, the Uos crew did what street thugs always did when corporate effectiveness met bad decisions, or just local badasses thinking they were tough: they blinked but sensibly backed off.

Black didn't need to lift his weapon. He just adjusted his dark glasses and straightened his cuffs, the same cuffs that, if you looked closely, enabled another button press. Everything was recycled, no waste, black could have run a board meeting mid-firefight.

"Nicely done." Black confirmed to shade smoothly as the thugs stumbled away into the night. He turned his head slightly, watching them go. "Uos." He added with a shrug for confirmation, resisting the urge to make another crack about galactic IQ levels lowering.

Broca had word in his earpiece. Pointing high with his carbine sight at the approaching shuttle, now breaking the smog above, the AX initials on the sleek grey side unmistakably Apex ID. Repulsors blew dust across the surface as it settled. A figure hopped out first, a Chiss, in Apex black tactical armor minus the helmet, rifle slung but readied. The faint lens glare on his scope gave him away as their earlier watcher.

"Locals give you any trouble?"

"Light," came the reply, clean and cold like the metal under his boots. "Warning shots only."

Black nodded, satisfied. "Efficient as ever."

He turned to Shade, tone cooling down into business. "Meet my occasional miracle worker Thalen. He leads Apex's tactical division."

Then, folding his arms, Black continued, "The Uos are about to make a very poor investment, Republic ship schematics. We intend to stop that happening." He couldn't have underworld power on Echelon or Denon shifting unpredictably by that magnitude.

"How about the two of you handle it? You've got the brains, he's got the firepower. And me?" He tapped the side of his glasses and his smirk sharpened. "I've got the funding and a luxury Stimcaff machine waiting for us all when it's done."

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade watched the Chiss hop down from the shuttle with the same economy she used in a firefight—a single, efficient silhouette against the settling dust. Cold, precise movements; the kind of awareness that marks a professional who keeps their head when others panic. She noted the Apex insignia and the way the rifle rode at his hip. Thalen looked like someone who would prefer to solve problems before anyone else had a chance to notice them.

Black laid out the plan with his usual mix of swagger and ledger-minded pragmatism. Republic schematics in Uos's hands were a red flag for anyone who cared about balance. She agreed with the assessment; uncontrolled kinetic advantage in corporate hands made for ugly, fast disruptions.

Shade folded that into her mind the way she cataloged threats: objective, access, egress, collateral. She'd run the angles already, mentally sketching the routes, the likely terminals, where the schematics would move once someone tried to ship them off-world. Thalen's report—"warning shots only"—told her he understood containment as well as he understood escalation.

She turned to Black, her voice level and precise.

"I'll coordinate with him. Silent approach, limited scope, no Republic exposure," she said, listing limits as if they were part of a tactical brief. "We stop the transfer, secure the files, and we leave no fingerprints that point back to Echelon."

Her eyes flicked once to Thalen, then back to Black. If Apex provided firepower and Black provided funding, she would give the execution—but on her terms—no theatrics, no collateral theater, and no surprises that could spin into headlines.

"Expect nothing less."

Mr Black

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

Expect nothing less.

Black smiled that dangerous smile and gave Shade a small theatrical bow. He slid a slim comm-frequency card across her palm like a business card. "Free suite at Kynaron Tenpillar-Deluxe, my personal guarantee you'll like the place. Call it corporate hospitality." He straightened, then pulled his mirrored glasses down a notch lower. "Do me one favour. If you decide to disappear, give me a heads-up, I'd like to stay on your good side." No assumptions. Just a suite at Kynaron City on Echelon, built on Chiss precision, Atrisian artistry, and the Echani language of motion, Echelon style of course.

A sleek, armored hoverlimo eased up on silent repulsors. Black entered, then Annasun and Broca moved like tying a knot; the doors closed, and it pulled away, leaving the pair alone.

"Team or solo?" Thalen asked Shade. The rest of their A-TRD team could meet them there or not; it was her call. Almost like this was an interview for Thalen, weighing and measuring. When she confirmed, Thalen nodded once, already preparing the plan in cold calculation. He boarded the squeaky clean shuttle and waited for her.

The Scylla AI had presented a tactical blueprint to follow. It showed the Blue Rodian's Uos handoff to be in Ponte Sette, a cantina area and service courtyard. Thalen projected a clean copy up on a central table surrounded by chairs, pressing a spot to show Shade could mark it with a finger or a nearby pen and erase it in the same way. The AI also had a prompt below the blueprint ready for voice commands to remap as required.

Recommended insertion zones by AI's were usable but not always the best course. While Shade reviewed, Thalen opened the equipment locker in the shuttle and slid a small kit across to her: stun cuffs, non-lethal grenades, non-lethal or lethal melee weapons, and a slim sensor jammer. He offered the weapons access without a word.

"Alias?" Thalen asked, the single-word a clinical inquiry. He tapped his own comm card and added flat : "Locker codes on your card." Meaning she could take what she wished, larger caliber or smaller; it was well stocked, because there would usually be a team of six in here. Of course the card had more than one use, everything was recycled.

The pilot eased the shuttle away from the landing zone, conservative and steady. They had arrived clean and departed cleaner; not a spec of dirt on the underside—small cleaning droids were already seeing to that. The duo had a few minutes to prep for insertion or plan, and Thalen let her lead, with that same measured calculation assessing her approach.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade accepted the comm-frequency card without hesitation, the metallic edge glinting once before she tucked it neatly into the inner seam of her coat. She didn't look at it long—she'd already memorized the digits—but her mind lingered on the offer. Triple pay, fewer constraints, Black's version of control disguised as freedom. Dangerous, but efficient. It was the kind of proposition that required careful thought—and she would think on it.

Her eyes followed the departing hoverlimo until it vanished into the haze of Echelon's skyline. "He's persuasive," she said at last, tone level, unreadable, "and practical. That's a rare combination."

She stepped into the shuttle beside Thalen, her movements smooth, unhurried, the kind of composure that spoke of habit rather than effort. As the doors sealed behind them, she studied him in silence for a moment—not assessing for threat, but for capability. His precision mirrored her own: sharp, deliberate, devoid of wasted energy.

When he offered the equipment, she nodded once, slipping the card into the console reader before selecting a compact blaster, two stun cuffs, and the sensor jammer. The gear clicked into place against her belt with practiced efficiency. "Team," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "You take the high field. I'll move close. Quiet."

Her gaze flicked to the projected blueprint hovering above the table. She traced a gloved finger along the AI's insertion path, pausing near a narrow alley where sight lines converged. "We enter here. Cut through the supply route—fewer sensors, better cover. We let them start the exchange before we move."

Shade straightened, eyes shifting briefly toward the viewport as the shuttle broke atmosphere. The faint reflection of city light caught against her crimson irises, and for a heartbeat, her voice softened. "You can call me Shade."

She glanced back at him, the corners of her mouth curving—not a smile, exactly, but acknowledgment. "If this works clean, maybe I'll consider that suite after all."

Her tone carried no humor, only the quiet pragmatism of someone who meant what she said. She had no intention of committing to Black's operation yet—but he'd gotten her attention. And that was dangerous enough.

By the time the shuttle angled toward their destination, Shade's focus had shifted entirely. She leaned forward slightly, crimson gaze fixed on the glowing map, every line of her posture the same—poised, calculating, ready. "Let's see if Apex's miracle worker lives up to his reputation," she murmured, calm and clipped, the faintest trace of challenge in her tone.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

"Prep the team for insertion. Non-lethal deployment." He offered her a small comms unit, or the identifiers if she preferred to use her own, a wrist or earpiece extended as courtesy.

Standing beside Shade, ready, listening to her approach with calculated poise as he linked the squad. The A-TRD was a coordinated unit: Commander: Com-7 (Thalen), Marksman: Mark-7, Breacher: Bre-7, Tech Specialist: Tech-7, Heavy: Heavy-7, and Medic: Med-7. Both maps synchronised now as the two shuttles neared their target.

"Clear?" Each of the team confirmed they understood her instructions: Shade ahead, with the team covering.

Thalen dotted on the map. Bre-7 a distance behind Shade for shielded backup, Mark-7 on the canal rooftops covering them, Tech-7 to move near the elevators to override calls, Heavy-7 at the landing bay doors to supply ground suppression if needed, and Med-7 near the rear alley for support. "I'll make my way here," he pointed to the salon roof, placing Com-7 ID there for a clear view to call targets and to join in if necessary. "Armor gives us mobility." Not flight, but precise vertical movement. Meaning they could close the gap quicker than you'd think once inside.

"Shade." A slight incline of the head. Thalen turned slightly, placing his helmet on, the faint red line of his visor reflecting her silhouette in the shuttle light. "Understood," he said, tone equally clipped but balanced. "Then we'll make sure it works clean."

Miracles. The Chiss adjusted the carbine now at his shoulder, voice calm and unhurried. "Once you move, Shade, it's just execution." His visor tracked the map, marking important angles and choke points to cover as he spoke. What others saw as miracles were done here in the planning beforehand.

The twin shuttles settled into the dark, their repulsors fading out against the gravely dust. Under the cover of night, the A-TRD team disembarked in a perfectly synchronised silence. Six shadows in matte black AX armour, visors glowing faintly red or blue in the dim light. Thalen dropped to the surface last, the gravel shifting beneath his boots before settling. Two sharp hand signals cut through the silence, one to form up, one to secure. No words needed.

The unit spread out with a honed precision, each member sliding to their designated vector without breaking formation, AI made exact adjustments on their HUDs. Overhead, the faint hum of scanners dimmed as Tech-7's jammer came online. Thalen watched them postion, Bre-7 holding close behind Shade's path, Mark-7 scaling for overwatch, the rest locking in arcs of quiet area cover. When each marker on his HUD clocked green, he signaled in silent certainty. The team moved like parts of a single engine, almost as if the AI coordination was an afterthought.

They waited for Shade's signal to move.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade moved like a shadow that had practiced stillness until it was a habit. Her kit was a checklist completed before thought—cuffs, jammers, non-lethal rounds set, blade secured. When Thalen extended the earpiece, she took it without hesitation, slotting it into place with a practiced thumb and tapping the link to his comm grid. The faint confirmation tone in her ear was almost comforting: one more channel, one more node in the quiet web they ran on.

Her visor blinked through the team markers and the placements Thalen had laid out. Everything read green. She keyed her comm and let her voice be small and exact.

"Bre-7: two meters back on my left. Close enough to the shoulder if we need a push, out of sight if we don't."
"Mark-7: take the canal rooftop flank. Watch the alley mouths; angle of approach ninety-two degrees from north marker."
"Tech-7: stall the elevator calls at zero five. Override window will be sixty seconds; don't pull until I confirm."
"Heavy-7: suppression is precautionary. Non-lethal only—bean, stun, and flash. Hold fire unless I give the escalation call."
"Med-7: remain mobile at the rear alley. Prep two triage kits and a stim patch for blast contusions."

She let the list sit long enough for the cadence to set in HUD-silence, then added the one line that mattered most.

"We go clean. We go fast. No signatures left. No trophies."

Shade checked Thalen with a single tilt of her head, then brought her hand up in a slow, deliberate motion—not a theatrical signal, only the precise movement the team had trained for. Her palm angled, fingers firm.

"On my mark. Three…two…one. Move."

Then she moved—quiet, certain, the team flowing behind her like clockwork.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

Team-7 reported a clear copy on her orders and a ready to move, swinging around to the rear of the alley; hazy denon rain like night mist, dampened their armor. Two of the squad either side of the alley, created overlapping zones of fire; almost everyone had ion carbines out to stun, covering her approach, their primary weapons slung, quiet and contained.

Good entry point, with the breacher's large black shield a distance behind her, his sonic concussion blaster beside it, toned down to stun.

Thalen activated his jump-assist alongside Mark-7 and vaulted upward to market stall roofs, cutting off to conserve fuel with his usual economy. The two moved parallel to those below, keeping low, his voice firm and clinical. "Movement. Twenty meters. Civilian." Looked like a cantina worker having a smoke break.

The TRD-7 team held to Shade's instructions here, pausing patiently until she acted, either a clean takedown or a longer wait. The blueprint was accurate so far, but there was clutter here: empty Duraplast boxes, loose trash, and a stack of rickety old pallets that looked like they could blow over at any minute.

"Movement South." Thalen called, bringing up his binocs. The loading bay door groaned open. Two tattooed Kiffar started hauling what looked like a large box out, moving east with it. "Two casuals, handling cargo. Vectored towards the objective."

Assessed and contained. No surprises. The team tightened into the planned geometry. HUDS feeding every detail, every sound, light or predicted movement. All on Shade's next move.

Shade