Private Every Deal Has a Shadow

[Shade]

Port Trinax smelled of ozone, old fuel, and desperation. The whole station vibrated faintly from the slow spin of its surviving ring, lights flickering where the old Imperial conduits bled power into new hands. Shade moved through its corridors without haste, her boots silent against the durasteel decking, her expression unreadable behind the faint sheen of the hood's shadow.

She had come for information — or rather, for the man who supposedly had it.

The dossier had been thin: independent hauler, suspected smuggler, former Republic transport pilot gone freelance. Reliable when he wanted to be. Unreliable when the credits came faster. Amos Bel. The High Republic's intelligence branch wanted eyes on him—and Shade had been chosen to see whether he was worth the trouble of recruitment…or removal.

Her contact had mentioned Dock Bay 47—a bar made of recycled shuttle plating and misplaced pride. From the outside, it looked like every other watering hole on Trinax. From within, it was a study in controlled chaos: laughter, shouts, cheap liquor, cheaper deals. Shade threaded through the crowd with the unbothered ease of someone who didn't need to prove she belonged there.

He was easy to find—everyone else moved like debris; he moved like someone who expected trouble and knew how to run when it came. She watched him for several minutes from a shadowed corner, noting his restless hands, his glances toward exits, the kind of alertness born of too many close calls.

Efficient, she decided. Undisciplined, but efficient.

When she finally approached, it wasn't with the heavy step of authority or the casual swagger of the criminal. Just presence—calm, measured, quietly commanding. She stopped beside his table, letting the din of the cantina fill the silence for a breath before speaking.

"You have a reputation for survival," she said, her voice even, low enough that only he would hear. "I need someone who can do more than that."

Her gaze stayed fixed on him—unflinching, assessing, as if she could read the measure of a man in the span of a heartbeat.

"You have two choices," she continued after a pause, tone smooth as the edge of a blade. "You can keep running jobs that barely pay enough to stay alive…or you can work for people who pay well enough to make it worth the risk."

She let that sink in, then tilted her head slightly.

"Think of this as a recruitment interview. You're being considered for something bigger than smuggling crates and dodging thugs."

The faintest curve touched her mouth—not quite a smile, but close enough to register.

"So, Amos Bel," she said, deliberately using the name now that it would sound earned, "are you interested in a real offer…or shall I assume you prefer running from people with slower blasters?"

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

"Honestly, I kinda do." The words rolled off his tongue as though he were talking to an old school friend.

It wasn't true, really.

Running around every other space port trying to find an employer that wouldn't kill you was about as obnoxious as...well, any ol' horse could really think of. That didn't mean he was looking for more though. Amos liked the easy life, liked kicking back on the Orchid when he had the time. He wasn't a complicated man, no sir.

"But." He shrugged. "I do like money."

Slowly Amos leaned back against one of the crates besides him, grinning at the girl. "And I do like a risk."

That was half the fun of the race. Knowing that any second, any moment, your life could be cut short. It was all a gamble. A delicious sort of rush that was almost indescribable to those who hadn't experienced it themselves. It was a high that Amos would always chase, whether it was on his own time or someone's else's.

"So let's dispense with the pretty words, eh doll?" He smiled.

"What's the job." Amos asked. "And whats it pay?"

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't so much as blink at the nickname. Her expression stayed unreadable, the low lights from the docking bay painting faint blue edges along her cheekbones. She'd been called worse by better men—and most of them were dead now.

She let his grin linger a heartbeat too long before she replied, voice calm, deliberate.

"Honesty," she said, faint amusement threading through her tone, "an unusual habit for someone in your profession."

Her gaze swept him once—assessing, not indulgent. The relaxed posture, the restless eyes, the grin that didn't quite mask calculation. Reckless, yes. But not without awareness. Useful.

"It isn't smuggling or contraband," she continued, stepping closer until the hum of the bay's conduits filled the space between them. "Not exactly."

She drew a small datapad from her coat. Its screen came alive with a low glow—encrypted schematics, no labels, no identifiers, just the faint shimmer of a target site.

"A retrieval," she said simply. "You're good at getting into places you shouldn't be. I'm good at getting out. Together, we make sure what needs moving stays untraceable."

Shade tilted her head slightly, crimson eyes meeting his with the same precision she used in combat. "The pay," she added, "is more than enough to justify the risk. And considerably more stable than chasing the next job until it kills you."

The corner of her mouth curved—subtle, unreadable.

"I don't hire for loyalty. I hire for results. You deliver, you get paid. You fail…" Her tone softened into something sharper. "…and I find someone faster."

She gave him one last, assessing look before turning slightly, leaving him space to decide.

"So," she said, her voice steady as a command. "Are you in for the credits—or the challenge?"

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

Risk and challenge were two different sides of the same coin. Amos was more than familiar with both of them. Challenge was more nuanced, played to the right and the wrong.

Risk was more often than not stupid. "Does it matter?"

Amos said as he rapped his knuckled against the steel crate standing beside him.

Credits, risk, challenge. Whatever it might be, a retrieval job wasn't too hard, and the pay was enough to make it worth his while. The Orchid could get in and out as fast as anyone needed it to be, and at the end of the day- he was here to have a little bit of fun after all. Pushing himself off from the crate he motioned to the woman. "What are we grabbing?"

The smuggler asked, then added.

"Oh, and half upfront." Another smile touched his lips. "Not that I don't trust ya."

 

[Shade]

Shade's eyes never left him as he finished. She stepped closer, the datapad already in her hand, fingers moving with practised ease to bring up the transfer interface.

"Trust is earned," she said, voice flat and steady. "Send the account. I'll transfer half up front the moment I see the credits posted."

She tapped the pad once, sliding the screen toward him so he could read the transfer endpoint and checksum. No flourish. No theater. Business.

Then she looked back up, razor-focused. "As for the job—we can chase a dozen things. Pick one of these, and we'll move tonight."

She flicked the datapad to a new file and let three options roll off in the same calm, lethal cadence she used in the field:

"Option A: an unmarked courier case—likely a single datapuck—scheduled handoff in Ponte Sette's service courtyard. Low profile, moderate security, quick in-and-out. Good pay, low footprint."

"Option B: a locked transit crate offloaded at Dock 9—contents listed as prototype comm-relay. Higher security, heavier lift, better pay. Risk of armed response; you get the rush, I get the exit plan."

"Option C: a secured cache in a private locker—encrypted data crystal with ledgers and manifests. Biggest leverage and market value, but also the highest trace risk if we don't move it clean."

She let the choices hang for the space of a breath, then finished the assessment as if reading a mission brief.

"I'd take C if you want maximum payout and potential for leverage. B if you want the adrenaline and a fat payout now. A if you prefer quick cash and lower heat."

Her thumb hovered over the transfer command long enough that he could see she meant it.

"Account," she repeated, softer this time. "Half now. Decision on the target. You pick; I plan."

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

"Account?" Tatooine didn't do that sort of thing, well, maybe some did, Amos wasn't really sure.

"Blue." He motioned towards the Orchid somewhere off in the distance. The ship was about as old as anything in the skies right now. There were a few others like it still flying, he was sure of it. Some just loved the classics too much to let them go, and unfortunately he was one of them. "You seen my ship, right?"

Amos didn't actually know if she had. "We're going to need to stop somewhere and get cash."

Chits, he was fairly confident they were called in most places, but again he wasn't from most places.

His corner of Tatooine was old, grouchy, and probably only about half as nice as he was giving it credit for. Not that it made it a good place to be from, and in truth he was even trying to be better. Which was why he quickly added. "But I think we'll be takin' option C. Long as you'll be lettin me adapt some of that plan."

A quick smile flashed over Amos' face, he tried to make it as charming as could be.

There wasn't any need to be ornery after all.

Very soon they were going to be making quite a bit of money together, and if there really was going to be quite a bit of heat it was better to get along. Least until all was said and done, then they'd see how they were gettin' on.

 

[Shade]

Shade watched him as he rambled about accounts, chits, old ships, and Tatooine with the kind of fond exasperation usually reserved for people who meant well but lived entirely by improvisation. Her expression didn't shift much, but the faint tilt of her head—amused tolerance—said more than words.

When he finished, she reached into her coat, withdrew a slim datapad, and tapped it once against her thumb. It projected a faint holo-field between them.

"Your ship," she said, tone flat but not unkind, "is still held together by memory and optimism."
A tiny pause. "Mostly optimism."

She extended the datapad toward him for input.

"Just give me the transfer channel for your vessel," she continued, calm and business-sure, "and I will send the advance now. Half, as requested."

No negotiation. No hesitation. No distrust. Just professionalism—and a subtle nod of respect that she'd give him what he asked for without fuss.

"As for the plan," Shade added, slipping the datapad back into her coat the moment he entered the routing code, "Option C works. With your adjustments."

Her gaze sharpened slightly, studying him with a cool sort of curiosity.

"I didn't choose you for compliance," she clarified. "Adaptable is what I need. So if you see a better angle mid-run, take it."

She stepped forward, boots crunching lightly on the grit of the dock, closing the distance to arm's reach—not threatening, but not casual either. A quiet signal that the conversation had now shifted from negotiation to partnership.

"We move at your pace when we hit the air. You know your ship."

A beat. A faint glint in her eyes.

"And I know how to make trouble profitable."

Her hand slipped into her coat and produced a compact, encrypted chip, which she dropped neatly into his palm.

"Your half."

Then, with a subtle jerk of her chin toward the battered silhouette of the Orchid:

"Show me what she can do."

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

Amos shrugged. Fancy folk were gonna be fancy. There was really no arguing with them whether you felt like it or not. He was getting paid, the woman clearly had the money to back up the claim, and that was all he really cared about. There would be a better plan to adjust later, and for now it seemed she was just eager to get underway.

Couldn't blame her, this place wasn't exactly pleasant. "Right."

He nodded and motioned her towards the Orchid. Battered as it might have looked, she was still a beauty of a ship. At least to Amos. There was nothing quite like the old VCX. Not exactly sleek, but rugged. Like it could be battered on the nose and still fly without too much of and effort.

An effort his ship had proven more than once.

"Follow me, Blue." He said, pocketing the chit and strolling over towards the ship. As he approached the ramp began to lower itself, and before long they were strutting upward into the cargo hold. A sight which might shock Shade as she found not a disorganized pile, but an almost militarily precise storage area.

The rest of the ship was much the same. Put together not as though it belonged to a Smuggler, but a man of means. Not meaning to say things were inlaid with gold or made of fine leathers, but it was clear the vessel had been lovingly restored and taken care of. Everything deliberately built to appear perfect.

 

[Shade]

Shade followed a half-step behind Amos up the ramp, her footfalls silent despite the old freighter's soft groan under their weight. She'd expected clutter, the kind of barely-held-together chaos most smugglers called "organized." But instead—

The Orchid opened before her like a study in contradiction.

The cargo hold was immaculate. Not simply tidy—precise. Crates aligned in perfect symmetry. Straps tensioned to regulation tightness—tools arranged with military clarity. Every surface was clean enough that her reflection ghosted faintly across metal.

"…Unexpected," she murmured, voice low enough that it almost didn't reach him.

Shade drifted deeper into the hold, crimson eyes scanning over every detail. Not just clean—maintained, cared for. Nothing about this interior matched the battered, half-ancient plating on the outside hull. Appearances deceptive—very deceptive.

Her instincts hummed.

Order like this didn't come from the typical smuggler. It came from someone who'd been trained, drilled, shaped into discipline long before he ever learned to outrun debts or syndicates.

Or someone who'd once belonged to a crew that expected perfection.

She kept her expression steady, unreadable.

"Your ship hides its truth well," she said finally, her tone calm and inscrutinable as her gaze traced a row of flawlessly restored emergency panels. "Most people wouldn't expect this."

No accusation. No praise. Just observation…with a curl of intrigue beneath it.

As Amos moved ahead toward the cockpit, she let her steps follow—but her mind remained sharp, weighing possibilities the way she always did when stepping into someone else's territory.

A ship this ordered? Either he was better than he let on…
Or the trap, if there were one, would be far more elegant than she'd anticipated.

She didn't show the thought, not in her face, not in her posture.

She walked, composed and silent, eyes absorbing every detail.

"Lead on."

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

"Yeah I'm a great liar too." Amos said in answer as he continued down the halls.

The Orchid was his pride and joy, something almost to be worshiped. Building her up out of the scrapheap had not been an easy task. Truth was, he liked bragging about her and showing her off. He was no fool, he knew how well he had done with this ship and just how good it was. Not that it might measure up to some of the more modern monstrosities.

Who knew.

"This'll be your bunk." He said as they walked by the stern cabin.

It wasn't the most impressive thing, but not bad either. It had it's own refresher and a bed big enough for two. There was a desk in the corner, but the space was tight. Something that was to be expected on a ship this small.

"If there's a firefight, don't hang out in there." He told her, glancing back as he flipped the switch which opened the cockpit. "The Grav-sensors don't always work right."

Amos explained as he threw himself into the pilots chair, motioning for her to take a seat besides him. "Let's get outta here, eh?"

 

[Shade]

Shade stepped into the cockpit without hesitation, but her eyes flicked once over her shoulder to the bunk he'd indicated. A bigger-than-expected bed, a private refresher, a tight space but clean—impossibly clean for a smuggler ship. That alone told her more about Amos than anything he'd said.

The man bragged, but he backed it up.

She slid into the co-pilot's seat beside him, settling with the quiet poise of someone who made every new environment a threat assessment first, a curiosity second. Her gaze tracked the displays, the layout, the way his hands fit with practiced ease across controls clearly touched by only one pilot for years.

Then she looked at him, expression unreadable for a beat.

"You rebuilt her," she observed, not a question but an assessment—equal parts impressed and calculating.

Her eyes traced the immaculate lines of the console, the way every switch seemed perfectly placed—not factory-made, but hand-made, organized with a soldier's precision rather than a smuggler's chaos.

"Most ships that look like hers fly like they should've died a decade ago." A faint upward tug at her mouth. "Yours doesn't."

She buckled herself in, leaning back. The subtle hum of the engines vibrated through the chair—smooth, strong, and steady. Not rebuilt by a tinkerer.

Rebuilt by someone who needed something reliable in a life that wasn't.

Shade's eyes drifted briefly to the stars beyond the viewport, then back to Amos as he started powering up systems.

"If the grav-sensors fail during a fight," she added dryly, "I won't be in the bunk. I'll be where the shooting is."

A beat. A lift of a brow.

"But I appreciate the tip."

As the Orchid's engines flared to life and Amos prepared to take her up, Shade rested her hand lightly on the armrest—relaxed on the surface, yet ready to move at a moment's notice.

Her voice lowered, softer but still edged with steel.

"Take us up, Amos. Let's see what your ship can do."

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

"Well, lets not get ourselves arrested heading out of atmosphere." He told her with a wink. Kicking on the comms and actually following proper flight procedure.

It was a shocking juxtaposition to how he'd been acting, but Amos had his reasons. Years of being a smuggler had taught him more than a few lessons. The first of which was; never break more than one law at once.

Now, they weren't doing any sort of crime by just existin', and Amos had no warrents out. He assumed it was the same for Blue, but that wasn't really the point. If they got caught on a traffic camera now, then three days from now if someone was looking out for the Orchid that camera image would be stored somewhere.

They didn't need that. "So what brought you into this, Blue?"

Amos asked, making casual conversation as the took them up into the atmosphere.

He still wasn't entirely sure that this situation was one to be trusted. Blue had come along had a rather convenient time and everything she'd had to offer had been even more so. Not that he minded an easy gig or bit of fun, but he was weary. Even when something was as pretty to look at as her.

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't answer him immediately. She watched the way he shifted in the pilot's chair, how the moment he flicked the comms into the local air-traffic system, his entire demeanor changed. Gone was the easy swagger he'd worn walking up the ramp; in its place was a man who understood exactly what attention could cost. His hands moved with confidence across controls that were older than both of them, yet maintained with the meticulous care of someone who trusted machinery more than most people. Shade took in the ordered cockpit, the spotless control surfaces, the exact placement of every tool and switch. Nothing chaotic. Nothing accidental. The Orchid wasn't a smuggler's rattletrap—she was a ship shaped by discipline, and by a man who knew how to survive.

Only once they were climbing cleanly through the last of the city's traffic bands did she finally tilt her head in his direction. Her expression shifted only a fraction, but it was enough—measured, precise, assessing in that uniquely Chiss way. When she spoke, her voice was calm, almost quiet, but edged with the crisp certainty of someone who didn't waste syllables.

"You approached me for work, Amos. Not the other way around."

There was no friction in the statement, no defensive heat—just a simple, settled truth delivered without apology. Her posture didn't change; she sat with the same contained stillness she always carried, hands resting loosely against her thighs, gaze returning briefly to the passing bands of atmosphere outside the viewport.

After a breath, she continued, her tone steady as ever.

"I accepted because the job was clean, the terms were reasonable, and because you looked capable enough to fly without getting us both killed."

Shade's eyes flicked across the cockpit again, tracing the immaculate rows of switches, the perfect alignment of the panels, the clear view forward unmarred by clutter. It wasn't luxury, but it was purpose—and it told her more about Amos than any introduction had.

"That is all that brought me into this."

The words hung between them comfortably, neither stiff nor apologetic, simply factual. She let a moment of silence follow—long enough for him to hear what she didn't say. No hidden agenda. No elaborate motive. No trap.

Then, with a faint shift in her tone—drier, almost amused in a way only someone who rarely used humor could deliver:

"If the timing feels convenient, perhaps it is because you were looking for a client, and I required transportation. Nothing more complicated than that."

Her gaze lingered on him now, assessing, thoughtful—not intrusive, but weighing the lingering skepticism in his posture. Amos was wary, and she understood wariness better than most. Still, she made no move toward him, no defensive signal, no posturing—only truth.

"I am not here to deceive you." A slight pause—measured, controlled. "And if I intended harm, Amos…you would already know."

The words weren't a threat. They were delivered with the barefaced honesty of someone who had never needed to bluff.

Finally, she eased her shoulders back by a fraction—barely perceptible, but for Shade, practically an exhale.

"Relax. We both needed something. That is all this is."

The ship climbed higher, atmosphere thinning around them, engines humming with that old-soul steadiness only the VCX models carried. And Shade, steady as the stars outside, settled into the co-pilot's seat as if the conversation required no further defense.

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

"Right, no, I get that Blue." Amos said glancing over to her. "I meant like...what brought you into a position to be accepting this kind of work. It ain't exactly normal, eh?"

He continued. "Like... ya know, asking about your general...life?"

I mean, he was feeling weary about all this, but he hadn't been trying to interrogate the girl. Just start a conversation.

"Like, I'm just a scumbag from Tatooine." He told her with a smile. "There's a dozen of us back home, but from what I know. Csilla ain't usually too hot on criminals."

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't turn her head toward him right away—she kept her gaze forward, watching the sky peel open around the cockpit as the ship climbed higher, letting the quiet hum of engines fill the space before she chose her words. When she finally spoke, her tone held that calm, even cadence she always carried, the one that gave away nothing more than she intended.

"Criminal is a broad word, Amos." Her voice was soft but precise, the faintest wry note threading through it. "On Csilla, most offenses fall under 'dishonor.' Everything else is…negotiable."

She let that settle for a moment before shifting slightly in her seat, folding her arms loosely but without any sign of discomfort. Her posture stayed straight, balanced, controlled—never slouched, never careless. Even now, she was reading him in her peripheral vision, watching the way his hands moved over the controls, the cadence of his breathing, the flickers of tension he probably didn't realize he showed.

"You asked what brought me here."

A small exhale—not a sigh, just breath measured out.

"Survival. Independence. The same things that bring most people to the edge of the map."

Her eyes finally slid toward him, brief but deliberate.

"Where I grew up, paths are assigned. Futures predetermined. Mine didn't fit the mold they wanted."

She didn't elaborate. Shade never elaborated unless necessity demanded it.

"So I left." A small, controlled shrug. "Work like this…it keeps me moving. And it keeps me free." Another beat of quiet.

"And I take jobs when the credits are clean and the terms aren't…vile." The faint curve of something not quite a smile touched her lips. "That's all."

She angled her head slightly, studying him openly now. "A scumbag from Tatooine, hm?" Her tone dipped into the faintest hint of dry humor. "Then it appears we both drifted far from where we started."

Amos Bel

 

[Amos Bel]

"I've been called worse things than a drifter." He noted, preparing to punch coordinates into the nav. "Tatooine was a bit small for me."

That wasn't exactly true.

He had been chased out, more like, still hadn't been home in over a year. He would have liked nothing more, and that was part of the motivation of doing this job. Big money meant paying off debts and a little more. No amount of revenge couldn't be overcome with money. That was a lesson well learned in his life.

Briefly, Amos shrugged to himself. "Guess I ain't so vile either then, eh?"

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't respond at first. Silence wasn't awkward for her; it was a tool, a way to examine the space between words and let truth settle on its own terms. She watched Amos in profile as he worked the controls, the way the dim cabin lights caught the edge of his jaw, and the tension threading through his movements. Men like him often masked history with humor, like patching hull plates with paint, but she had spent too many years reading people in the dark to miss the signs. There was a story beneath his shrug, something heavier than the casual way he spoke about drifting. She let the quiet hold for another heartbeat before speaking, her voice low and even, shaped by something like understanding.

"You make it sound worse than it is. " Her gaze drifted briefly out the viewport, watching the surface of the world shrink beneath them as the Orchid climbed toward quieter air. When she looked back, her expression was unchanged—composed, but not cold—her assessment measured rather than judgmental. "People don't drift without reason. Some run. Some chase. Some get pushed."

The words weren't sympathy. They were an observation. Fact. Shade's eyes shifted back to him, narrowing slightly as she studied the line of his shoulders, the steadiness of his hands on the controls, the practiced confidence in movements that didn't quite hide the instinct to watch every angle. She knew that instinct well; it lived in her too.

"And you…" Her head tilted just enough to register as curiosity rather than scrutiny, the slightest inclination that softened her otherwise still features."…you don't strike me as someone who runs without a plan."

The corner of her mouth shifted, just a breath of humor beneath the steel. It wasn't enough to qualify as a smile, but it changed her expression—made it warmer, clearer, in a way she rarely allowed herself.

Then her tone shifted again, still cool and controlled, but carrying a teasing undercurrent subtle enough that only someone listening closely would catch it.

"So no. You're not vile." She let a pause stretch between them, deliberately enough for him to wonder if she intended to say anything else. "Inconvenient, sometimes."

Her gaze moved pointedly to his hands on the nav controls, lingering there for a fraction longer than necessary before returning to his face, the gesture both a subtle warning and quiet amusement. "But not vile."

Shade eased back slightly in her seat. Not relaxed—she never truly was—but the rigid edge of readiness eased, allowing a rare glimpse of something like comfort in her posture. For her, it was equivalent to dropping a weapon: intentional, deliberate, and far more revealing than she'd ever admit aloud.

"If anything… you're resourceful." Her voice dipped lower, the dry humor sharpening at the edges just enough to make it unmistakable. "I don't hire useless people."

The words hung between them, simple, factual, yet carrying a weight that suggested far more than a job or a temporary alliance. For Shade, trust wasn't cheap. Recognition meant something. And she had just given him both—without ceremony, without softness, but with the unmistakable certainty of someone who didn't waste words.

If you want her follow-up internal reaction next, or Amos's response, I can continue the scene.

Amos Bel