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The spaceport on Ord Mantell was a mess of noise and desperation—freighters groaning under half-legal cargo, mechanics shouting over sparking repulsorlifts, and the occasional blaster report echoing from a "disagreement" in the docking bays.
Kael leaned against the wing of his fighter, arms folded, dark eyes scanning the crowds moving between ships. He looked more like a mercenary than a Jedi—scuffed boots, cloak travel-worn from dust and smoke—but the way he carried himself, the way people instinctively gave him a wide berth, betrayed something deeper.
Problem was, his fighter couldn't carry the crates stacked at his feet. He'd taken the job thinking speed mattered more than space. Now the client's deadline was hours away, and Kael was running out of options.
That's when he noticed her.
A woman negotiating docking fees with a terminal officer, sharp-edged confidence in her voice, but something in her eyes spoke of long miles and heavier ghosts. The name came to him only after a moment—Alana Calloway. A bounty hunter with a reputation for surviving things most people didn't.
Kael hesitated. Asking her meant risk—Force only knew where her allegiances truly lay—but the crates weren't going to move themselves. He pushed off the hull of his fighter and crossed the bay, his voice steady but measured when he called out:
"You looking for work? I've got cargo that needs moving fast. Problem is…" he gestured back at the fighter with a dry half-smirk, "my ship's built for speed, not freight."
Alana Calloway
Kael leaned against the wing of his fighter, arms folded, dark eyes scanning the crowds moving between ships. He looked more like a mercenary than a Jedi—scuffed boots, cloak travel-worn from dust and smoke—but the way he carried himself, the way people instinctively gave him a wide berth, betrayed something deeper.
Problem was, his fighter couldn't carry the crates stacked at his feet. He'd taken the job thinking speed mattered more than space. Now the client's deadline was hours away, and Kael was running out of options.
That's when he noticed her.
A woman negotiating docking fees with a terminal officer, sharp-edged confidence in her voice, but something in her eyes spoke of long miles and heavier ghosts. The name came to him only after a moment—Alana Calloway. A bounty hunter with a reputation for surviving things most people didn't.
Kael hesitated. Asking her meant risk—Force only knew where her allegiances truly lay—but the crates weren't going to move themselves. He pushed off the hull of his fighter and crossed the bay, his voice steady but measured when he called out:
"You looking for work? I've got cargo that needs moving fast. Problem is…" he gestured back at the fighter with a dry half-smirk, "my ship's built for speed, not freight."
Alana Calloway
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