Private Definitely Not a Trap

[Devin Virell]

Acier Moonbound

​

He didn’t need to be told twice! The moment Ace’s blade screamed to life and the warehouse detonated into chaos, he was already on the prowl. Crates crashing were but thunder in the ears, and he ducked and weaved to the best of his ability to dodge what he could of the spice dust raining down. Part of it stung his throat. The alien blue blow strobing across walls, shadows jerking like ghosts, it was plenty enough to have all the scrum present drawn to the Jedi.

There was no denying the thrill he felt in that moment. With boots whispering against the deck, and that familiar slugthrower weight pressing against him, he felt like more than a sneaky shadow. Devin was armed, dangerous, and very much alive now.

Another line carved.

Devin smirked to himself.

Subtle, huh?

The word tasted bitter and amused all at once.

He ghosted along the far wall, slipping past another stack of crates. Spice grit clung to his tongue, sweet and acrid, the smell of ambition and ruin. And well.. fun.

And by the time Ace had someone pinned, the pilot was already there, datapad scrooped up. The screen revealed cargo loads and displayed the same Imperial stencils. He wouldn’t read them just yet.

The Jedi was the storm. Devin would be the vibroscalpel.

The slugthrower came free, barrel pressed against his target's ribs, just under the glow of a saber.

“Here’s how this works,” he murmured, eyes sharp. “You talk, I listen. You stall, I get bored. And trust me.. when I get bored, things get messy.”

He let the datapad tilt in the other hand, screen casting a pale glow across his face. “So. You’re gonna tell me what’s in these crates, who you’re moving them for. Nice and clean. No lies, no stalling. Because between me and the wizard here..” he direction his chin toward Ace’s blade, “you’re running out of bad options.”

The man's breath hitched, sweat beading at the temple. “Spice. Just spice. That’s all. We move it, we sell it-”

He cut him off, pressing the barrel harder into his side. “Yeah, spice doesn’t get stamped with fresh Imperial stencils. Try again.”

The man swallowed hard. “Alright alright! It’s not spice. Not all of it. Some crates are… transfers. Off world shipments. The Imps pay us to move them quietly.”

The datapad was tilted so its glow washed across the man’s face. “Transfers of what? Weapons? Tech? …People?”

Hesitation followed before words spilled out. “We don’t open the crates, we don’t ask. Just load and ship, past the spice dens. Sector Twelve’s the funnel. That’s all I know, I swear.”

His jaw tightened. “Where the feth do they go once they leave here?”

Panic began rising. “Dock crews say… say they’re bound for some frigate in orbit. Imperial registry has been wiped. A ghost ship.”

Devin leaned in. “Last chance. What else?”

Words began tumbling out even faster. “There’s a mark.. two slashes through a circle. It’s on the crates, the walls. Not Imperial. Some gang.. some syndicate. They’re in on it. They get paid to keep the streets clear while the Imps move cargo. That’s all I know, I swear it!”

With the datapad flickering, it confirmed the symbol in the logs. He exhaled slowly, pulling back just enough to let their hostage breathe. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You talk, you live. Simple math.”

The barrel eased back. He flicked the screen shut, tucking it into his jacket as if sealing a confession. “We’ve got our funnel,” he suggested. A glance toward Ace was all it took. Storm and scalpel aligned. The smuggler was already forgotten, just another shadow now.

What mattered was east, past the dens, into the dark.

That was where the crates moved, where answers waited. Devin rolled his shoulders, that smirk sliding right back into place. “Time to cut to the source.”

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Ord Mantell

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber | Tic

Ace's free hand remained pressed against the man, lightsaber firmly hovering over his throat. His dark eyes pierced into the overseer's, faintly smirking as Devin conducted the interrogation.

When the pilot had gotten the information needed, Ace didn't speak right away. The hum of his lightsaber still burned faint between them, filling the silence the overseer's whimper left behind. The smell of scorched spice was thick in his nose. Then, he finally thumbed the blade off.

"Yeah." Ace muttered, voice low. "We cut to the source."

He turned, boots scuffing the deck as Tic hopped back onto his shoulder, chirping once like the droid had been holding his breath too. Ace's gaze swept the bay, datapads still sparking, cargo lifts stalled mid-cycle, a half-empty sled humming in standby.

If what the overseer said was true, then the crates heading east weren't the end of the route. They were the beginning.

Ace exhaled through his nose and started toward the open freight doors leading out of the bay. The night beyond glowed faint red where the spice dens burned. The further east they went, the heavier the air felt, heat, rot... and desperation.

He paused just before the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. "Whatever's waiting past those dens, it's not spice. Imps don't hide freight this deep for nothing."

Then his gaze turned forward again, sharp, steady. He folded his arms, pondering for a moment - recalling the overseer's words. The frigate in orbit drew his immediate attention.

"The frigate. We're gonna have to deal with that too, eventually."

Ace glanced to Devin briefly, a silent understanding passing between them. Whatever came next, they were moving through it together.

As they continued on, they passed alleys slick with condensation, the hum of portable drives and vent fans layering into a constant, dull vibration. Voices carried from somewhere ahead... low, scattered, but tense. The kind of tone people used when money and danger mixed freely.

Ace slowed as the street began to dip toward the dens. The glow ahead wasn't just neon now; it pulsed from open doors and windows where haze poured into the air like steam. He lifted a hand slightly, signaling for Devin to hold for just a second, his voice a quiet thread between the noise.

He nodded toward the pulsing red light ahead - the dens, alive and waiting. He'd let Devin make the call on how they play this. Collaborative effort, after all.

Devin Virell​

 

[Devin Virell]

Acier Moonbound

​

Devin slowed whenever Ace’s hand lifted. The signal was enough, so he froze mid stride, eyes narrowing on the red haze pulsing ahead. The dens breathed like a living thing, doors yawning open, smoke curling out. Every sound here was heavier with the clink of credit chips, the rasp of laughter, and the shuffle of boots that marked the dens as a place for the wicked to congregate..

Rolling his shoulders once, slugthrower shifting in his grip, he smirked faintly.

“Subtle’s not exactly our forte,” he murmured. “But I say we ghost the first den. Eyes open, ears sharper. No noise unless we have to.”

His gaze flicked upward, past the haze, to where the frigate’s shadow still resided in his mind. The datapad hidden in his jacket burned like a secret against his ribs, just another reminder of their shared mission.

“That ship’s the artery. These streets? Just veins feeding it. We cut quiet, we follow the flow, we find the heart."

So he tilted his chin toward the glow ahead, a scalpel’s gesture to match the storm’s signal. The red light painted the pilot’s face, eyes catching the reflection like embers. “Your call if we go loud. But my plan? We slip in, bleed them for answers, and walk out before they know we were ever here.”

Devin’s smirk returned, sharper this time, as he glanced sidelong at Ace. “And if the Imps are hiding ghosts past spice, then we’re already late to the party. Let’s make sure we’re the ones writing the guest list.”

He shifted his stance, waiting for Ace’s move, but the intent was clear.. Devin had set the course. The dens were no longer just a wall of red haze.. they were the funnel, the artery, the next cut waiting to be made..

A burst of laughter cracked from deeper inside, followed by the scrape of chairs and the thump of music bleeding through walls. Shadows shifted in the haze, and two figures emerged from the nearest doorway, jackets marked with the same double-slash circle that Devin had seen on the datapad. One of them leaned out, scanning the street, before disappearing back inside.

"Looks like the syndicate’s already on watch.” His voice stayed low, threaded with dry amusement. “We ghost it, we catch their whispers. We storm it, we see who runs.”

The choice hung in the air, his finger loose on the trigger of his pistol, attention fixated on the haze..it rolled like the breath of a waiting beast, enticing them to step forward and enter the den..

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Ord Mantell

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber | Tic

Ace let Devin talk while he watched the den. Two figures had just peeled out of the nearest doorway, same double-slash circle on their jackets, and the way they scanned the street told him the syndicate wasn't blind. They were patient, practiced. Dangerous.

He slid a fingertip along the hilt at his side and felt the rhythm of the place: who moved like they belonged, who watched like they were waiting to be paid. No theatrics. No grand gestures. Devin's plan to ghost the first den fit; it was the smart way in.

"Okay." Ace said. He didn't need to shout. He only needed to be heard close. "We go quiet then."

Tic clicked once on his shoulder. Ace tapped the droid's headcase, thumbing a simple command the little unit knew well: light scatter, brief comm-scramble. No hacking the whole block, just enough to make a momentary blind spot at the doorway and garble any local mic chatter for a breath. The droid whirred and skittered toward a nearby service panel, disappearing into a rusted alcove.

Ace's gaze slid to the two watchmen who'd returned inside. He counted their angles, the way the doorway funneled sightlines, and picked the approach: close, single-file, shallow profile. He pointed once, a small, sharp motion toward the alley that ran along the building's flank.

"You take the front flank." He said. "I'll sweep the side and cut off the back if things go wrong. We keep comms hard and quiet."

He didn't say it for bravado; he said it because someone needed to be practical. If the Imps had ghosts past spice, they'd rather not be surprised by loud swords and blaster fire in crowded rooms.

Ace drew breath and tasted the spice haze, then stepped forward.. He moved slow, every step a small economy of sound. The den's doorway grew closer: a smear of red light, a half-heard laugh, a sliver of motion just beyond the threshold.

He crouched at the corner, and watched the rhythm of bodies inside. Tic's light blinked once, and the little droid extended his scomp link, jacking into a rusted port along the wall. For a moment, the panel lights flickered, and the faint hum of nearby receivers cut to static. Cameras glitched. Audio feeds dropped. Just enough noise in the system to make a blind spot.

Ace let the moment stretch long enough to feel it. Then he moved again, slipping toward the rear of the den. No lightsaber yet. No theatrics. Just precision, the quiet before a break.

He pressed into the shadow of a half-collapsed vent stack, peering toward the back entrance where faint light leaked through the cracks. The red haze from the front still bled through the walls, pulsing in time with the bass from inside. Reaching to his comm, Ace's voice came through.

"In position, Flyboy. On your mark."

Devin Virell ​