Private Edge of the Abyss

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

The sounds of the planet were always different first thing in the morning. He had spent much time since the dissolution of the Protectorate largely doing this. A private investigation firm, helping out the people and using it as the chance to foster contacts on the planet. Which helped in tracking people down as the world of Spira was a resort world. Lots of foot traffic, lots of chances for work which he had found as sitting there in his office he could only think a few things. The more protective bodysuit designed to look professional but functional.. his hair cut short but not too much and he spent time working out to maintain a physically fit form. It helped with all of the running and speeder chases he wanted to do... truth was he largely worked cases of spouses thinking the other cheated on them or looking for a dream girl someone met on the beach.

THe desk gleamed of polished metal with the computer screen on display, his long coat and hat there on a rack for the look of a private detectives office from a holonovel. Even done to the secretary who was clearly a femme fatale... he went all in for it to give the display of professionalism. THough he had never mastered the self narrative part of the gimmick.. he still loved the noir aspect.. he could make it work as there were several cases there on his desk where he was looking around. The assembled cases came up which was giving him more information for what he wanted to do... a newer higher paying job to at least help pay all of the bills and grease the wheels for information as it were. He spent to much time in seedy bars and clubs bribing information. Outside the window the resort world with its gleaming towers of white stone, sparkling blue oceans and streets filled with people milling about to the stretches of beaches.


He made sure the window was closed though to not let in the sound but he could see more of it. The ports were busy, actual boats on the ocean. A few hover boats and platforms that were there for all to see or look around. Men and women in swimsuits, business casual suits and attire. Sports happening around them as the hover bokes went over the water with the waves or others were on boards. Dancers on the beaches, countless clubs and resorts that housed all of them.

 

[Ana Rix]

The message he sent wasn't even an hour old when the air in his office shifted—subtle, barely perceptible unless someone lived their life watching shadows instead of sunlight. The scent of saltwater drifted through the cracked blinds, stirred by the soft hum of the building's cooling cycle. Outside, Spira glowed pristine and bright; inside, the temperature dipped just enough to suggest something had triggered the environmental override.

His long coat rustled faintly where it hung on the rack.

Then—
a tone.
A single, quiet pulse from his terminal.
Not an alert.
Not a knock.
An access signature.

His screen flickered once, long enough to blur the lines of a case file, then sharpened again with a new window laid carefully over his desktop—clean, geometric, elegant. A communication channel he had not installed. A secure node that did not belong to any Spiran network. No prompt for connection. No request for permission.

Just a line of text blooming across the screen in steel blue:

Door.

That was the entire message.

The lock on his office door clicked before he could react.

It didn't slam open.
It didn't creak.
It simply… parted.

And Ana Rix stepped inside as she'd always belonged in places people swore were secure.

She closed the door behind her without touching it, the panel gliding shut in a whisper of hydraulic compliance. Her silhouette was spare and composed, a long coat falling in clean lines, hood lowered but presence unmistakably guarded. She didn't move like someone accustomed to violence or theatrics—she moved like someone accustomed to not being seen until she wanted to be.

Her eyes swept the room once. Not lingering, not prying, just cataloguing—the desk, the coat rack, the holo-photo on the corner, the secretary's empty chair, the unresolved case files arranged with meticulous care. Her steps were silent, each one measured, as if she were calibrating the space rather than walking through it.

Only when she reached the edge of his desk did she speak.

Her voice matched her message: calm, steady, unadorned.
Sharp clarity without sharpness.

You called me about a case that suddenly became too complicated for you to pursue—four warnings in the last seventy-two hours. Two attempted redactions. One off-world alias flagged by a shell corporation on Serenno. That is not a cheating spouse case.

She paused—not to give him space, but to confirm he was listening.

You said you wanted information. Before we discuss what you think you need… you're going to tell me what you've already stepped into.

Her gaze leveled with his, calm as water, unflinching.

Start at the beginning. And don't lie. I only take cases where the client understands the danger before I do.

She did not sit.

She waited.

Perfectly still.
Perfectly patient.
An operator assessing whether the man across the desk was worth her time—or walking away into Spira's sunlight without another word.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

The flicker, the entrance it was... certainly theatrical. Intimidating and he could appreciate it. There was something to be said as he leaned forward in his seat and spoke taking her in but no comment, business first was important and he could appreciate that. He spoke. "Oh it started as such at least on paper as it were. Client comes in." He didn't say a name, he waas more then certain she either would have it fast enough or already did either way her skill was renowned and impressive. "Says he is worried about his wife's late nights, holocalls and mysterious charges." He tapped on the desk while bringing it up with a look. "ON the surface standard fair, different hotels, different eateries at times when he was offboard."

He showed more of it. "So the usual surveillance, all goes well enough. Nothing terrible at first. So first thought was maybe coincidence that things just lined up a certain way and if you look at it with the intention of it being something it can be that. Second thought is she might be cautious and the client tipped their hand they were suspicious so letting things cooldown. Both scenarios reasonable on their own. Nothing requiring anything beyond a few greased palms with some credit chits to get information. No waiting in alleyways or sneaking in yet. Then one night she changes routine. Figure maybe she is comfortable anything suspicious is not paying attention."

He said it as he was getting to the important enough parts. "So i follow and she doesn't go to any of the hotels here on Spira, she takes one of the boats to a private island. Easy enough to get to and on, never an issue with that. The dozen other ships doesn't seem strange the islands are just as filled with people as the other places. THem all bringing out a cargo holds of slaves for an auction... not so much. There being a lot more guards suddenly around and shooting at me. Something to be handled easily enough but they had other things. Force users and hutts which never makes things easy. I don't need an army of bounty hunters and mercs coming after me.

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana listened without interruption, her posture still and composed in the warm Spiran light. Nothing in her face shifted as he spoke—no raised brows, no tightening of the jaw—only a quiet, steady attention that made it clear she was absorbing every detail without leaping to conclusions. She did not sit. She made no move to take control of the room. She allowed the story to unfold, watching the logic behind it settle into place.

When he reached the part about the private island, the shift in routine, the unexpected cargo, and the sudden presence of guards and Force-users, Ana let a breath ease out slowly through her nose. No surprise. Not alarm. Just a subtle recalibration of the picture forming in her mind.

Only after he finished speaking—and only after a long, quiet moment in which Ana seemed to weigh every detail he had offered—did she finally move. She stepped forward with the same unhurried precision she had displayed since arriving, her coat whispering against the still air of his office as she rested one gloved hand lightly against the corner of his desk. Her gaze dropped to the datapad still displaying fragments of his surveillance work, eyes tracing the inconsistencies, the patterns that almost lined up, and the ones that didn't. She studied them without rushing, without judgment, the faint glow from the screen illuminating the sharp cut of her profile.

Most investigations begin with a simple premise. Very few stay that way once the truth starts showing through the surface.

Her tone was steady—too calm to be patronizing, too even to be sympathetic. Just clarity. Clean, practiced clarity. She made no effort to soften the reality of the situation, but neither did she weaponize it. Ana stated facts the way a cartographer drew borders: precisely and without embellishment.

Her gloved fingertip hovered above the datapad, never touching the screen as she traced the path of his notes, following the arc of the wife's movements as they grew less predictable.

What you described at first is ordinary. Suspicious activity. Changed patterns. Credits spent in places that don't align with the stated routine. Cases like that usually resolve themselves in one of two directions, and neither requires anything more than observation and patience.

She lifted her eyes again, meeting his with a steady weight that seemed to sharpen the room's stillness.

But leaving Spira's public spaces and crossing into an island not listed on local registries, accompanied by cargo that isn't registered, guarded by personnel not affiliated with planetary security—

A breath, slow and level.

—that is not a marital matter. That is structure. Organization. Routine. The behavior of people who expect to operate without being seen.

She said it plainly, almost gently, as if the words themselves were nothing more than directions on a map.

Ana stepped back from the datapad and shifted her hands behind her back, a posture that suggested she had moved from listening to analyzing, from absorbing the information to shaping its edges.

You didn't describe an attempt on your life.
But you did describe stepping into a place where you were not expected, not welcomed, and certainly not intended to understand what was unfolding.

The observation was delivered without force or urgency, settling between them like a quiet certainty rather than a warning.

Her gaze drifted toward the office window for a moment. Beyond the glass, the peaceful illusion of Spira played out in bright, careless colors—the beaches alive with tourists, the boats slicing across clear water, the white towers gleaming in the sun. The veneer of paradise. The curated calm. Ana let her eyes rest on it only long enough to acknowledge the contrast before turning back to him.

You followed the path your work laid in front of you. That isn't failure. It's simply that the scale of what you encountered didn't match the assignment you were hired for.

When she stepped closer, it wasn't intrusive. It was measured, as though she were aligning herself with the conversation more fully now that he had laid out the last of the facts. She remained at the edge of the desk, presence steady, grounding.

Before I take any step further, I need two clarifications.

Her voice didn't shift in tone—it stayed smooth, steady, and almost low enough to blend with the hum of the office lights.

First: did your client provide a verifiable identity or contact information, or did the arrangement begin with ambiguity? That detail tells me whether the misdirection started before you ever took the case.

She gave him a moment to absorb that before continuing.

Second: on the private island, did you notice any markings, symbols, uniforms, color schemes, or identifiers on the boats, the handlers, or the cargo? Even a small detail—a sigil, a crest, a repeating color—can help narrow down who is involved.

Her posture eased by a small, subtle degree—not warmth, but openness, the kind that suggested she wasn't here to reprimand him for what he hadn't known or couldn't have predicted.

Tell me exactly what you saw. Nothing more. Nothing less. I do not speculate until the details are clear.

And then Ana grew very quiet, very still—her presence settling back into that poised, patient calm, inviting him to speak without pressure and without judgment.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

"I was more careful about it but I am not in doubt that something will happen. I knocked out several of the ones I ran across. Killing would have raised more alarms but even different names will eventually trace back once they comb through security logs. I know a lull shouldn't be wasted so going for as much information as I can before I am possibly in a firefight." He said it looking at her stance as she was there near the edge of the desk. "The clients identity checked out. A hotel owner down on the beach. The Grand Lux, decent place, casino and the floor manager oversees three more in the area. The standard level of criminal ties over overtly hutt or black sun involvement. They pay protection to be left alone."

He said it while moving the information to go to reports, histories and records... everything showing it was either real or an in-depth forgery... possible but he hadn't seen that level of detail for something normal. "As to the island, they were nondescript. You wouldn't look twice at them, the guards were more mercenary geared. different armors and weapons closer to what you can get then standard groups. Human trafficking makes a lot in many cases so it would attract more credit wise." He stood up finally but walked to the opposite side of the desk. "If they are coming after me, I figure at the worst another twenty three hours, if there is a suspicion of the husband could be less or it could take them a lot longer."

He said it more matter of factly. "Either way, information is important and being prepared. by now the evidence is likely offworld and gone. Even if they waited until there is no doubt they have something on the other end where they were going if they were going that would make the people disappear a dozen different ways."

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana listened without interrupting, her attention sharpening subtly as he laid out the sequence—names, movement patterns, the island, the guards, the timeline. Nothing in her posture changed, but her focus tightened, like a lens sharpening to clarity. When he shifted around the desk, she followed him with her eyes alone, not her body, measuring space, tone, and detail with the same deliberate stillness she had shown since walking in.

She let a few seconds of quiet settle after he finished. No hesitation—processing. Threading his narrative into something coherent enough to dissect.

Then she spoke.

You made the correct choice, avoiding kills. Dead bodies change priority levels. A few unconscious guards do not.

Her voice slipped easily into that even, analytical cadence—calm without softness, precise without judgment.

And your client's identity… if it's real, it places him at an intersection of influence and exposure. Someone who sees a great deal and pretends not to. Someone who benefits from the system without wanting to be caught in its machinery.

She stepped around the desk, but only far enough to glance at the dossier on the display—her movement controlled, unhurried. She didn't sit. She rarely did when the situation still simmered with open variables.

Protection payments mean he survives by not asking questions. Which means hiring you was already a deviation from his normal behavior. Either desperation or guilt pushed him past the line.

She let that possibility hang only long enough for him to consider it, then she moved on.

Your description of the island matters more. Mercenary hardware. Mixed armor types. Unbranded transports. That points to a decentralized contract group—one that buys silence rather than loyalty. Efficient when running a slave pipeline.

Her tone didn't change at the mention of trafficking, but something in her gaze cooled further—an instinctive tightening, an internal shift he would only see if he was paying close attention.

The most likely structure is a transient auction node. They receive the cargo here, then move it along hyperspace corridors the moment the bidding closes. You're right. The bodies are already gone.

She folded her hands loosely behind her back again.

As for the twenty-three hours—

Her eyes lifted to his, steady, unblinking.

If they come, it will be sooner. They won't investigate a log when a witness is easier to remove.

Not alarmist. Just a fact.

Your movements will be under review now. Your presence on the island will have been flagged. Someone will check whether you tell anyone what you saw. Their silence depends on yours.

Another quiet beat, the kind she used before offering strategy rather than speculation.

But all of that works in your favor. You have a narrow window to pull information they don't know you're looking for. And you came to the right place for that.

She didn't smile. She rarely did. But something sharpened at the edge of her voice—resolution, not reassurance.

Show me the exact timeline of the island departure. Once I see that, I'll know where they went next.

Ana didn't need theatrics, threats, or drama.

Just the following input.

And she waited for it—still, focused, and already calculating.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

He gave a nod to her on that. SHe was for business and had a clear idea and line of thinking. "Here." He moved the information to give a time line with his timestamps. "As for the owner there is a third option, rare usually with those in the business he is. He might actually care about her and be worried about losing her. Rare, unlikely but never impossible." He shrugged minorly for the moment allowing her to go over the details as they had finished with time stamps sixteen hours before when he returned from the island and was more covering tracks with bribes for security logs where needed or making sure some didn't see him. All invoiced properly with receipts and expense reports.

"ANd it is good to hear I am at the right place." He offered a smile and it was less flirt and morre acknowledgement of something good happening. Keep up the spirits before he moved around the room with another monitor for security systems. "It isn't much but if your correct then it is never to late to make sure everything is working properly." He gave it a look while she could continue to go over the information and work out a plan. He had the security and the information but he waas mostly thinking of where they would be going or better who was making the order.. a housewife of a casino owner didn't scream underworld boss normally.

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana accepted the data packet with a brief nod, eyes narrowing slightly as the timestamps began to scroll across her display. She didn't sit; she rarely did while processing. Instead, she stood near the edge of his desk, weight evenly balanced, posture composed yet alert in that quiet way only practiced professionals maintain. Each line of the timeline drew her attention into sharper focus—not hurried, not visibly intense, just increasingly precise.

The sixteen-hour window was tight. Good. Tight windows left fewer places for errors to hide.

As he spoke about the third option—the unlikely but not impossible prospect that the client actually cared—Ana's expression did not change, but something subtle in her gaze shifted. No doubt, no acceptance. Calculation. She filed the thought away with a mental label: viable but low-probability branch. Still, noteworthy enough not to dismiss.

When he moved around the office and began checking his security feeds, her attention tracked him for a heartbeat, then drifted back to the cascading timeline. She lifted one hand, gloved fingers tapping a slow, thoughtful rhythm against her opposite wrist as she parsed the movement logs, timestamps, and intervals.

Her voice came only after she'd traced the entire chain twice.

Sixteen hours is narrow enough to map their exit pattern. Whoever ran that operation didn't improvise. They executed a practiced sequence with practiced speed.

She stepped closer to the desk, her eyes sweeping over the datapad again, pulling out the most meaningful fragments.

Your presence disrupted the flow, but not enough to force them into deviation. That means they had a secondary route prepared. Which means they expected possible surveillance, even if they did not expect you specifically.

Her focus sharpened further.

The housewife angle is a misdirection. People underestimate anyone tied to legitimate business—especially in leisure sectors. But you don't move high-value bodies through a resort world without someone with authority smoothing it over.

She turned her head toward him slightly—not fully, just enough to show she was addressing the root of his curiosity.

If your client is uninvolved, then his wife is the access point, not the architect. Someone uses her as a courier, a liaison, or a non-suspect face. But she isn't the power behind it. The patterns don't reflect personal command. They reflect delegation.

A beat.

The question isn't where she went.

Her eyes lifted from the timeline and met his with a calm, measured intensity.

It's who benefits from her movement.

She walked over to his security display, looking over the equipment with the same quiet assessment she had given everything else. No criticism. No reassurance. Just fact-driven observation.

Your precautions are good. For most cases, more than enough. But this isn't a spouse investigation anymore. This is a network. Networks react.

She lifted a finger to the timeline again.

First step is isolating their departure vector. Once we have that, we follow the hand holding the leash—not the woman wearing it.

Another soft pause—her version of an invitation to continue.

Show me the exact coordinates of the island's approach route. That will narrow which syndicates are capable of operating in that corridor without drawing notice.

Then she fell silent again, the room settling around her quiet analytical presence as she waited for him to provide the next thread to pull.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

He gave a nod to that and they would be able to have some of the information. "There is about three in the area with access to the island... but it being a private island means there could be anyone heading to it." He said it while looking out the one window. "You have the family, Corellian gangsters under the Piscardo name and they are much more reasonable in some areas. Avoid spice and drugs as dangerous vices but take protection from everyone. You have a minor hutt gang trying to get bigger but not making it. They are feuding with pykes on another island and allocating many of their resources to that so their territory here has been getting moved on by a homegrown one."

He said it while getting some of his stuff while he secured a swordbelt with blaster on i. Slipping some ID's into the inner pocket of his vest. "They are islanders and are coming back into power as it stands but they are all about respect and dislike offworlders... but they know it is better to manage then try and fight a losing war." He moved a little opening a drawer and pulling out credits and other payments for bribes. "The lesser gangs trying to get territory all pay protection or answer to them." He was setting the security alarms for leaving. "But the best way to handle things is to talk on the ground. THey would have better information."

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana listened closely as he laid out the local ecosystem—names, families, pressure points, territorial disputes—and she didn't interrupt. She followed the movement of his voice and his steps with equal attention, absorbing the social map of Spira's underbelly with the same quiet efficiency she used for data feeds. Every mention of a gang or faction threaded itself neatly into a mental lattice she was already building.

When he crossed the room to gear up, she didn't say anything. Preparedness was sensible. And she noted, without reaction, that he moved with the ease of someone used to slipping between respectable fronts and less civilized sectors. The swordbelt earned a brief flicker of attention—more out of curiosity than concern.

She let him finish before she spoke.

Three possible access groups are manageable. Two, if we exclude the Hutt faction, they're probably too tied up in their conflict with the Pykes to divert stable personnel to a side operation.

Her tone remained calm and deliberate as she stepped toward the window he'd been watching, her gaze sliding over the glittering line where the sea met the horizon.

But the private island changes the calculus. Whoever runs that node isn't using public channels. They're paying for silence. That narrows it further.

She didn't turn when he gathered his bribe money. She continued the line of thought he had opened.

Corellian outfits like the Piscardo group prefer predictability. They don't use decentralized islands for processing unless they're hiding something from their own superiors. Unlikely, unless they've fractured.

A breath, small but intentional.

The islanders are more interesting. You said they value respect and dislike offworlders. That tells me two things: they don't run slave auctions directly… but they do rent territory to those who can pay.

She turned then, eyes meeting his with the kind of quiet certainty that didn't need volume.

And a private island is exactly the sort of neutral ground they'd lease for profit without wanting to touch the product.

She stepped toward him, stopping just far enough to give space while still clearly shifting into operational mode.

You're right. To understand the structure, we talk to the ones on the ground. But we choose carefully. Islanders respond to respect protocols, not intimidation or ego. If we violate either, we get nothing.

Her gaze sharpened, a subtle narrowing that hinted at the calculations unfolding behind it.

Before we leave, I need one more detail. The wife—what was her demeanor when she boarded the boat? Nervous? Detached? Focused? That tells me whether she's obedient, complicit, or unwitting. A pause.

Each of those opens a different door when we reach the islanders.

Ana stood still again—quiet, grounded.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

He listened to her and it was spot on. There was a silver of a chance that the hutts or even the pykes would try and do it to fund their fight but it would be harder to pull off and not have it be obvious. He looked at her and thinking about the wife he debated it. "She looked almost resigned. I've seen the look on soldiers under commands they will do but know not to talk back. She was going through it more then she anything else." He said it while walking and had an idea for himself. "Best case scenario she may have been drawn in and is over her head which means she would be scared and looking to make a deal to get out..... but given how much she worked to hide it I imagine she is deeper then she thought or maybe she wanted the thrill. Someone promised her the chance to live a little and now she is in too far to just walk away." He was looking at her and moving towards the door. "If you are up for it we can go and ask them. They do a lot of things but there is always the chance they won't like offworlders potentially bringing problems."

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana absorbed his description of the wife without interrupting, her expression remaining as steady as ever—though the word resigned drew a faint narrowing of her eyes. She had seen that look too, in soldiers, smugglers, slicers, informants who realized the current had pulled them somewhere deeper than they intended. Resignation wasn't panic. It wasn't guilt. It was the acceptance of a chain around your wrist, even if you didn't remember when the clasp had closed.

Her attention returned fully to him as he spoke through the possibilities. She listened in the same measured way she processed data: filtering, discarding, drawing slow connections between the pieces he laid out.

When he finished, she stepped a little closer—not crowding him, but aligning herself with the decision he had placed between them.

If she was resigned, then she isn't the architect. Resignation means she understands the consequences of stepping out of line. It means someone else is giving the orders, and she's following them because the alternative is worse.

Ana shifted her gaze toward the door he'd begun moving toward, assessing not the exit itself but the idea of the islanders—territorial, hierarchical, prickly about outsiders. She took a breath, calm and quiet, almost contemplative.

Your second theory is possible. Someone offered her a thrill, a secret, a break from the monotony of a respectable life… then turned that thrill into a leash. People don't hide things this carefully unless they're afraid of losing something—or afraid of what they've already lost.

She let that settle before continuing.

But none of that changes the value of speaking with the islanders. They'll know who rents private territory. They monitor every credit and every ship that passes through their waters. They don't tolerate surprises on their soil.

Ana closed the distance to the door with unhurried steps and stopped beside him, her posture balanced, hands loosely folded behind her back. The neon glow from outside cut a faint line along her jaw, highlighting the calm precision in her expression.

If they believe we're here to solve a problem rather than create one, they'll talk. If they think we're bringing trouble to their doorstep, they'll shut down the moment they see us.

She tilted her head slightly—not quite a nod, but a signal that she was weighing the approach.

I'm willing to go. But we go with the right posture. Respect forward. No assumptions. No threats. They respond to strength, not bravado, and they value honesty more than most offworld factions do.

Her gaze met his—steady, calm, unflinching.

You know their customs. I know how to read intentions. Between the two of us, we'll get what we need.

A slight pause, deliberate rather than dramatic.

Lead the way when you're ready.

She stood beside him, composed as ever, waiting for the next move—not impatient, not hesitant, prepared.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

He gave her a nod, her thoughts and points didn't really make room for an argument. Nuance maybe but they were covering a lot of bases with their works and plans. The radical and near impossible thing could still happen but it would be a lot more difficult hopefully. There was the risk of reading everything wrong it was all some master eight d dejarek game by a cosmic master. He moved to the door letting her out with a nod of his head as he closed and secured the door. Offering a non threat was important as walking through the building he only opened the doors to scan and check before continuing down the stairs. Quicker movements descending as he offered neighbors smiles and welcomes.

THen outside it was nice, warm without being sweltering and the breeze coming off of the ocean was nice and cool. he could see plenty of tourists milling around as he was walking towards one of the footpaths. Leading the way through crowds and past a number of buildings as the casino and resorts gave way to smaller bars. Shops for more homemade outfits or items. He was moving and there were a few others there he could see as he walked but only offered nods to them while removing the belt with his weapons on it. A kid running by as he let him grab it and take it along with some credits so they could pass through towards the one open bar. Several sitting around drinking aas island singers were on a stage.

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana fell into step beside him with the same ease she brought into every environment—nothing rushed, nothing hesitant, but constantly taking in the landscape with a mind trained never to stop cataloguing. As they left the office, she didn't comment on his careful door checks or the pleasant expressions he offered neighbors, but she noted them all the same. Small behaviors told her more than forced explanations ever could. He was cautious, but not paranoid. Protective, but not reckless. A man who understood danger without letting it turn him into a ghost.

Outside, the warmth of Spira touched her skin like a welcome she didn't return. She adjusted her coat slightly, not for comfort but to shift its weight and make movement easier. The breeze coming off the ocean carried salt, distant music, and something else—human density. Tourists. Locals. People who weren't watching but could be used to watch. She threaded through the crowds with practiced fluidity, following his lead without appearing to follow him at all.

Her eyes moved constantly: over storefronts, over shaded balconies, over the reflective surfaces that showed her angles she didn't need to turn toward. Every few seconds, she checked for patterns—faces repeated, shapes in peripheral mirrors, changes in flow around them. Nothing immediate. Nothing sharp. But she didn't assume that would stay true.

As the scenery shifted—bright resorts dissolving into smaller, humbler structures—Ana felt the air change. Bars instead of clubs. Handmade goods instead of polished imports. The kind of place where information moved faster than credits, and gossip traveled as currency.

When he removed his belt and passed it to the running child, she didn't so much as blink. Just observed the exchange, the trust in it, the way the kid's small hands clutched the weapon with familiarity rather than fear. Local culture. Expected behavior. Another detail for her growing map of Spira.

The path narrowed near the bar, the sound of island singers drifting through open slats, voices warm and unhurried. People sat with drinks in hand, speaking too loudly, leaning too casually, living the kind of life that made others overlook the dark currents beneath it.

She stepped in closer—not intrusively, simply enough to speak without raising her voice.

"No eyes on us since the office."
Not reassurance—just fact.

"But that will change as soon as we start asking questions. People notice outsiders faster than threats."

She paused, watching the bar's entrance, the rhythm of bodies moving in and out.

"You lead the conversation. They know your face. I'll watch the room."

She adjusted her posture just slightly, turning half an angle toward the street, half toward the bar—positioned to intercept either direction without drawing attention to the choice.

"If the islanders have a story, they'll tell it. If they're hiding one, they'll tell that too."

A breath. Soft. Controlled.

"Either way, we'll know what we need before we walk out."

Her gaze slid once along the edges of the crowd—calm, calculating, absolutely present.

Ana Rix didn't blend in.

She belonged to whatever space she chose to stand in.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

He gave a nod while moving and inside of the bar was a different story. He didn't say it more pointed with a finger for Ana as he was guided towards one of the tables and sat down. The man sitting there taking a bite of food while his drink was there and the blue liquid released steam as the coldness of it was meeting the warmer air. His hand came out motioning to an area across the table for the moment but he didn't speak as Mistral sat down pulling the chair out for Ana while he looked around the room. He knew respect and what to do it was just not always enjoyable when you were starring at several people and likely a lot more.

"So you came back." He spoke finally and sounded younger but turning to look up as he took another bite of the food though and pointed as one of the servers was bringing over a similar drink to his. Mistral looked at it and looked at Ana for a moment as he more flicked his eyes around to the rest of the people drinking the same thing as an indication. "I did and we came to you first out of respect." He spoke looking at him as the man nodded. "Which is why my men kneecapped the offworlders trying to follow you. What have you gotten yourself into now?" He looked at him and Mistral spoke. "Still not entirely sure of all the pieces but there is an island about ten miles off the pier."

He seemed to be looking at him more. "And what about it?" Mistral looked more at him. "And I know you don't care what offworrlders do but if they are bringing things like that here it means the more they are able to do it the more comfortable they get and if they are comfortable that doesn't work out well for anyone. More criminals means your guys have to protect your people more then try and move the others out. More offworlders being comfortable it means they bring more credits which funds the hutts and the pykes who pump poison onto your streets." He said it while he was looking at him though and hadn't taken a drink but was more sympathetic.

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana didn't rush to sit—not out of hesitation, but because the room itself needed to be catalogued first. As Mistral pulled out her chair, she let her gaze sweep across the bar in one practiced, unbroken motion: the cluster of locals pretending not to stare, the too-synchronized drink orders, the quiet shift of weight from the men at the back wall. This was a place where glances mattered more than words, where status was measured in who looked away first.

She sat smoothly, hands resting lightly atop the table, posture precise and unthreatening but unmistakably deliberate. When the chilled drink was set in front of her, she didn't touch it—only offered the faintest nod of acknowledgment, understanding the gesture, the expectations, and the silent test wrapped inside it.

When the local boss finally spoke, she listened without interrupting, letting the cadence of his voice and the subtleties of the room settle before she answered.

Her eyes lifted to him, steady and unbothered by the attention they were receiving.

"Your men did good work."

The words were even, controlled—not flattery, not gratitude, just clear recognition of competence.

"If someone is reckless enough to trail a local through your streets, they're either desperate or confident they won't be punished for it. Neither is something you want breeding here."

She shifted slightly, leaning in—not aggressive, simply intentional, as though narrowing the space so the conversation belonged strictly to the three of them.

"We're not here to bring trouble onto your sand. We're here because someone else already did—and because Mistral showed you the courtesy of coming to you first."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Mistral, then returned to the man across from her with a clarity that made it very plain she had already mapped out the hierarchy of this place.

"Whatever's happening on that island isn't small. Human cargo. Offworld muscle. A routing pattern that doesn't match the usual scavenger work. They're establishing a chain. And chains only get stronger if no one cuts the first link."

She finally brought the untouched drink closer, fingertips brushing the rim—not drinking, but showing she understood the gesture, the custom, the subtle test of whether she knew how to behave in someone else's house.

"We're not asking you to declare war. To tell us what's changed. Who's moving where they shouldn't? Who's making deals they don't have the right to make."

Her voice softened—not warm, not pleading, but steady in a way that implied purpose rather than threat.

"Give us the shape of the problem. We'll handle the parts that should never touch your shores."

Then she sat back, composed as ever, letting the silence settle—not pushing, not pressuring, simply offering the man across from her the space to decide how much he wanted to say in a room that already knew too much.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

The man was looking at both of them and he spoke. "Your woman is pretty good." Mistral looked at him and his hand on the table splayed out in a hold gesture without saying anything. "She is certainly something but she is right, this problem could only get worse if they can make a foothold and you have more then enough annoyances. So let us handle it, nothing comes to you and if it ties to your rivals then it hurts them as well." He said it and the man was looking at she shrugged with a look on his face. "You are not wrong, offworlders coming here, always a problem... worse are the ones who think they know our business." He said it while looking with a narrowed gaze for the moment as the sound of chairs shifting could be heard.

Mistral looked at him for the moment. "It does annoy when that is done but the ones who show respect in such cases are usually the exception.... also I did that case for your mother and she still invites me to the monthly cookouts on the beach." He said it looking at the guy and the man was serious for a moment but then offered a laugh as two large hands went on Mistrals shoulders. "Come now little dude." The voice said it and the man was large, hairless except his head but there was no violence to it. Mistral patted his hand. "Kono." The guy looking at the pair spoke. "My mom still talks about how much you helped so Kono here is going to go with you and answer."

Mistral gave a nod of his head to that and rose up as he turned and looked at the man, he might be overweight but that wasn't something you really argued with... or mentioned. he was just a mountain you didn't want to fight before Mistral was nodding and offering the a hug to the man. A woman coming out from behind the bar as she was much older, hunched over and patted his cheeks for a moment. "Be safe out there, those hutts and pykes are no joke and don't care." She looked over at Ana and looked at her. "And get her a sandwich, she needs some meat on her fill out one of those swimsuits." The old lady chuckled and looked at her grandson who looked at the others who started laughing aas Mistral was walking with Kono and nodding for Ana to come.

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana didn't react to the "your woman" remark—not with offense, nor with amusement. She understood it for what it was: a local measure, a way of sorting outsiders into categories before deciding which ones belonged in the room and which ones didn't. So she let it pass, her expression unchanged, posture still composed.

She watched Mistral handle the exchange with an ease that spoke to long-standing ties—enough history here that a single wrong word could drag old ghosts into the room, and enough respect that even the threat-laced quiet of shifting chairs didn't escalate.

When the man finally laughed—when the tension broke like a wave cresting—Ana allowed a fractional easing of her stance. Not relaxation. Just acknowledgment of changing air.

And when Kono loomed up behind Mistral, hands the size of durasteel plating settling on his shoulders, Ana took him in with a calm, assessing sweep of her eyes. Height, weight distribution, center of balance, gait, scars, posture, the way the bar reacted to him—she filed it all away in silence. Not fear. Not suspicion.

Preparation.

The old woman's sudden appearance from behind the bar drew Ana's attention more sharply; elders had more influence in places like this than any boss or enforcer. When the woman's hand patted Mistral's cheeks, and she turned her gaze onto Ana, the steel-blue of Ana's eyes softened only a fraction.

The swimsuit comment earned a faint, quiet curve of her mouth—not a smile, but the closest thing to one she ever offered strangers.

She inclined her head to the woman.

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

No argument, no discomfort. She understood when affection came wrapped in teasing.

As the bar's laughter rolled through the room, Ana rose smoothly from her seat. She didn't rush, didn't jam her chair back, didn't telegraph anything but readiness and respect. One final glance around—cataloguing exits, faces, weapons, habits—then she turned toward Mistral and Kono.

She stepped into motion beside them with the quiet confidence of someone who moved easily through dangerous places, her voice low enough to keep the conversation theirs.

"Your people value loyalty. That's a strength."

A subtle nod toward the elder woman and the man they'd just left behind.

"Let's make sure their trust isn't misplaced."

And with that, Ana fell into step with the two men, slipping seamlessly out of the bar's watchful eyes and into the warm, salt-scented air outside—ready for whatever waited on the long walk ahead.

Mistral

 

[Mistral]

Ana Rix

He gave a nod as they walked and all of them didn't speak until outside. The streets mostly the same while Kono walked and whistled with the kid coming up and Mistral got his weapons belt. Taking a moment to give some credit chits to the kid who gave a grin showing he had just lost a few baby teeth. He moved off and Kono spoke. "What you are asking for little brotha." He said it while walking and leading the way down the street to a larger speedervan. The side opened as he turned around and opened his arms. "What you think huh?" He said it and mIstral was looking at him with a small chuckle. "Finally got it didn't you? Guess you showed them you had the drive?"

He spoke and Kono looked at him. "Somewhat, after what happened with you and Ayoshi helping us. Grandma decided we need to have a chance to live out our dreams... keeps us from getting antsy or doing really bad things as the two of you had learned. So she said I could but I have to go down to the beach and not be near any of her shops trying to mess with her business." He said it but gave a nod as both he and Mistral spoke. "Progress." The two of them laughed and the big man was going into the van. "So what can you tell us Kono, who wants to try and put a foot hold here now?" He asked it and the man looked at the two of them as he presented aprons.

"I can't tell you that." He said it and Mistral was going to say something. "Cause if I tell you... you going to call me a liar or worse. I wouldn't have believed it unless I saw it." Mistral looked at him and then at Ana as he spoke. "I know I shouldn't but that build up... really has me curious about who is trying to move in now more then anything."

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana listened as the two men spoke—Kono teasing, Mistral amused, the back-and-forth easy in a way that belonged to people who'd known each other long enough to fill silence without thinking. She didn't interrupt; she rarely did unless there was purpose behind her words.

But she did take note. The kid with missing teeth. The grandmother who ran half the shoreline economy by force of personality alone. The locals who watched strangers before acknowledging them. A structure. A rhythm. A community that tolerated outside help only when it chose to.

She stepped closer to the van, her eyes drifting over its interior with quick, practiced sweeps—mapping exits, reading spacing, cataloguing anything that didn't fit. Only after she'd completed her visual assessment did she look back toward Kono, her expression unreadable but attentive.

"Then show us." Her tone stayed level, steady—neither pushing nor timid. Simply precise.

"If you think we'll call you a liar, that means whatever you saw doesn't match the pattern here. Something out of place. Something bold enough to risk drawing attention." She folded her hands behind her back, her posture as calm as the breeze from the ocean. "You wouldn't bring us this far just to say you can't talk."

A small glance toward Mistral—silent confirmation that she had reached the same conclusion he had. Then back to Kono. "If you saw it with your own eyes," a faint tilt of her head, "I can handle hearing it."

No pressure. No accusation.Just quiet confidence—the kind that made people talk because they sensed she wasn't there to argue, only to understand.

Mistral