Private Blasters, Credits, and Bad Intentions

[Rolcor Wildstar]

Location: Mos Eisley Cantina — Tatooine
Time: Early Afternoon
Scene: Waiting for Kinley Pryse

Mos Eisley stank of sweat, spice, and broken promises — same as always.

Rolcor Wildstar sat tucked in a private alcove of the cantina, the glow of neon catching on his green skin and the rising smoke of a half-burned shento cigar. A glass of Corellian whiskey sweated beside his elbow, untouched. He wasn't here to drink—not yet.

He was here for a partner. Or trouble. Probably both.

Kinley Pryse.

Word was she was smooth — real smooth. Too smooth for her own good, some said. Rolcor had seen that type before: fast hands, faster talk, and no shortage of enemies with a score to settle. But she'd pulled off a few jobs most people wouldn't touch without a dozen bodies and a fleet on standby. That counted for something.

When the cantina doors swung open, he spotted her. Confident stride, stylish coat, eyes like she already knew what cards you had in your pocket.

Rolcor leaned back, dragging smoke through his teeth, and gave the barest hint of a grin.

"Well, ain't she trouble gift-wrapped in pretty boots…"

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

You look like someone about to ask me to do something illegal, expensive, and probably personal. Lucky for you I'm broke, armed, and bored.​

The door to the Mos Eisley cantina hissed open with a tired groan, and the smell hit Kinley Pryse like a wall, sweat, spice, and the kind of desperation that clung to the rafters in places like this. Her boots crunched against the sand tracked in from the streets, long strides carrying her through the smoky gloom as eyes flicked her way, gauging if she was trouble or prey.

She hoped the answer was both.

A hat shadowed most of her face, but the long caramel brown hair and scarf tracing her jawline and the way her fingers never strayed far from the blaster on her hip told a certain kind of story. One that didn't need words. She was here for a reason, and anyone who got in the way of that was going to find themselves picking sand out of their teeth.

Wildstar.

That was the name. A contact with a job and credits. Kinley needed both. Badly.

Her boss, Flint, didn't tolerate debt. Especially not from the people he "owned." And Flint didn't own anyone. Black Sun did. Flint just held the leash. And right now, Kinley Pryse was wearing the collar. When he said jump, she didn't ask how high, she just prayed her knees held out.

Still, if this job paid well enough, maybe she could buy a few inches of slack on that leash. Maybe even enough to breathe. That is if she didn't get herself killed first.

She moved deeper into the cantina, scanning the booths, the dark corners, the backs of heads, looking for someone who might answer to the name Wildstar. Finally her hazel eyes fell upon the man she was looking for.

Kinley slid into the booth without asking, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Wildstar? I expected more scars. Less hair."

Rolcor Wildstar

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Rolcor Wildstar]

Rolcor's eyes swept her face once, slow and deliberate. Not in a leer — more like an appraisal. Like a mechanic sizing up a starship that might fly… or blow the hell up on launch.

He smirked. Just a little. Then took a drag off his cigar and leaned forward, elbows to the table, voice gravel-warm.

"Scars are under the coat. Hair's just good genes and clean water." He exhaled a trail of smoke. "You Pryse?"

He didn't wait for confirmation. Didn't need it. She had the look — fire in the eyes, debt on the back, and a ghost of bad choices haunting her walk.

"You're late," he added, not sharp but not soft either. "Which tells me two things: you're either brave, or desperate. Maybe both." He knocked back a sip of his drink, then set it down with a soft clink.

"Either way, Flint must want something nasty done if he's sending someone with a face that pretty and a fuse that short."

His yellow eyes narrowed slightly — not unfriendly, just curious.

"So. You want to tell me what kinda mess you're dragging to my booth, or should I just guess how many bodies it's gonna leave behind?"
Kinley Pryse