Private GLITTER AND VIOLENCE

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

"Zeltros demands answers after the Third Concession Accords collapsed in scandal. When reached for comment, Senator Velyra Vonn replied—”

“Oh, turn that up,” Velyra murmured, reclining backward in her seat with a languid roll of her wrist. “This is the part where I ruin that man's career using only vowels.”

The shuttle’s holoscreen played the Senate broadcast in soft, glowing blues across the cabin walls. She watched herself on the news—draped in teal and gold, just sharp enough to draw blood. The camera had captured her just as she leaned forward, smile like silk over razors. Clearly, the cameraman knew what the audiences wanted to see.

“—‘a tragic misunderstanding of what qualifies as governance versus graft. I do hope the Senator from Derellium enjoys his early retirement. I'm told prison food is quite slimming.’”

The pilot chuckled from the open hatch. “That really what you said?”

“No,” Velyra drawled, letting her head tip lazily toward him, “I believe I also implied his mistresses were better at math.”

Her bodyguard—tall, stoic, and blessed with the kind of cheekbones that had made the last month bearable—gave a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He stood just behind her chair, arms crossed in quiet vigil.

She twisted around in her seat, the iridescent shawl at her shoulders catching the low cabin light.

“You boys are lucky I'm representing Zeltros” she purred with mock formality. “Otherwise, this sort of behavior would be heartbreakingly unprofessional.”

The pilot cleared his throat and adjusted something that didn't need adjusting.

The mood inside the shuttle was warm. Easy. They were just descending to refuel on some quiet Mid Rim world—Lioran's Hollow or Narka-something. One of those places where the sky always looked like a memory and the locals were polite, if sadly underfunded.

Her assistant had already curled up with a datapad and was mouthing speech edits for the Fondor arrival. Her last message from the Senate floor had been flooded with hearts, cheers, and—naturally—anonymous threats of public nudity protests on Zeltros in her honor.

So far, a good trip.

Then the sky screamed.

The shuttle jolted hard left, one wing dipping. Her glass of limoncitron went airborne.

The bodyguard moved first—faster than thought. Hands on her shoulders, he forced her into the crash harness, buckling her in with such precision that she barely realized what he was doing.

“What—?” she started.

“Missile lock,” he said.

Then the world went black.

---

When she opened her eyes, something was dripping.

Blood, maybe. Champagne. Time.

The shuttle’s nose was buried in dirt and fern, half-embedded into a ridgeline. The pilot's seat was gone. Not empty – gone.

Her bodyguard was slumped beside her, his body twisted and pinned between sparking conduit and collapsed bulkhead.

He was breathing. Shallow. Agonized.

Her own harness had locked. She fought with it until the auto-release hissed, spilling her forward into broken glass and the scent of ozone.

He was still alive.

Just.

One eye opened. He saw her. Recognized her.

From somewhere in his vest, with fingers twitching from pain, he pressed his backup blaster into her palm.

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

A breath escaped him, shaped like a laugh.

“Protocol,” he rasped.

She was crying before she realized it. Hot streaks cutting through the ash on her cheeks. She took his hand. Kissed his forehead.

"You and your... damn protocol!"

His eyes didn’t respond.

She closed them with two fingers.

Then she stood, not bothering to stifle the emotion that burned out from her, radiating like a Zeltron Empathic beacon in meltdown.

Her knees were shaking. Her lip was bleeding. Her glamour was broken—but not gone.

She was still a Vonn. Still a Senator.

Someone was approaching.
She raised the blaster.

And waited.

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

LIORAN’S HOLLOW​

The bounty was supposed to take a while.

Rheyla had landed just past midday, the sun high and hazy through a thin veil of cloud cover. Lioran’s Hollow wasn’t much—just a sprawl of prefab structures clustered between dense ridgelines, dust trails, and half-working water farms. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions and didn’t appreciate people who did.

She liked it well enough.

After paying off a bored docking attendant with the kind of charm that worked better than credits, she had stashed her gear, changed into something dust-ready, and gone to the local market while reading the bounty from a small datapad.

A medium-threat mark, known for torching deals and people in equal measure. Enforcer type turned independent. Word was, someone he’d worked with—or betrayed—had put up real credits for a "dead or alive" collar. The alive part paid nearly double, which meant Rheyla was here to get personal.

And she’d expected it to take months if not longer.

She even planned to buy supplies for the long haul. Which was why she was standing in Lioran's Hollow's food market.

With a crate of purchased supplies, she hiked back toward her ship—ready to take off and begin her hunt for her bounty—she heard an explosion.

Not thunder. Not a backfire. Something intentional.

She wasn’t the only one who heard it. Locals in the square stopped mid-step, gazes turning skyward. One kid dropped a hydrospanner. The sky bloomed orange and white, and a luxury-class shuttle—all gleaming plating and clean, probably Republic lines—came tearing down from the clouds, trailing smoke and plasma scars.

Rheyla followed its descent with a tight jaw, eyes narrowing. No civilian shuttle took that kind of hit. No one in this backwater had the credits to fly that kind of ship.

Then she saw it.

Sleek. Compact. Illegally retrofitted thrusters still glowing hot. Raising her HUD's scanner at the raider ship in the air.

Rheyla’s HUD blinked.

ID MATCH: CORIN VASK.
Vessel: The Knucklebone.
Status: Armed. Active. Hot.
Bounty: Dead or Alive.​

She muttered under her breath, low and sharp:

“Kriffing son-of-a-bantcha.”

She couldn't believe her luck. The fact that she had just picked up the bounty on Corin Vask and then his ship appeared in the sky, seemingly hunting some luxury vessel. Vask just decided to attack a ship near where Rheyla had landed. She almost laughed. She had never tried that before, her bounty almost falling into her lap.

Then again, she was rather annoyed at the fact, that he had decided to shoot down a damn luxury transport. Possibly with a senator or some corporate bigwig inside.

Which meant things had just gotten messy. The kind of messy that drew attention.

And she hated attention.

Rheyla double-timed it back to her ship, boots kicking dust, heart already shifting into hunt mode. She didn't need to know why he'd done it. She just needed to be there when he came in to finish whatever he'd started.

And maybe—if whoever survived the crash wasn’t already dead—she’d figure out what the hell her bounty had gotten himself wrapped up in.

Either way…

“You better still be breathing when I find you, Vask,” she said, checking the stun setting on her blaster after having stored her crate with supplies.

From her perch higher up the ridgeline, Rheyla watched the sleek, illegally-tweaked vessel burn off its final descent. She tracked it through the scope of her cycler rifle, breath steady, finger just brushing the trigger.

There. Her bounty. Thick-built, scrappy armour, moving fast across the treeline toward the crashed luxury vessel he had shot down. Armed. Clearly hunting for someone himself.

Her HUD pinged the ID again—Corin Vask, medium-threat bounty, marked Dead or Alive by someone very private and very well-funded. Likely a client with a grudge and credits to match. She didn't care who placed the bounty, so long as she got paid and the payout was significant... if she could drag him back breathing.

Rheyla clicked the safety on her rifle and slung it behind her.
No shot. Too much risk.

She preferred face-to-face anyway and jumped off the ridge, activating her small, convenient rocket propulsion system affixed to her boots, making it safely down, instead of having to climb down.

CRASH SITE — MINUTES LATER​

The clearing was a ruin of twisted metal and shattered flora. The shuttle’s nose was embedded deep in the ridge slope, smoke curling from half-melted panels and ruptured power lines. Something valuable—or someone—had been aboard, but Rheyla didn’t care.

Not yet.

Her eyes were on Vask, crouched low near the port side hull. She crept into position, silent through the brush, one knee pressed to the earth, a blaster already drawn. He hadn’t seen her.

His focus was locked forward—weapon raised, tension in his shoulders, like a predator ready to fire.

Good. Stay busy.

She flicked her blaster’s setting to stun. Quiet hum. No warning shot.

One breath in.

Then she fired.

The stun bolt hit Vask square between the shoulders.

He seized—just for a second—then crumpled face-first into the dirt like a sack of poorly-packed cargo.

The body hit the dirt with a satisfying thud.

Rheyla stayed behind the wreck’s jagged metal edge, crouched low beside the unconscious form of Corin Vask, her blaster still raised and ready. One stun bolt, clean shot. He hadn’t even known she was there.

Just how she liked it.

Then—movement. Not from him. Ahead. Beyond.

She hadn’t seen who he’d been aiming at. Still couldn’t, not clearly. But someone was out there—alive, armed, and probably scared out of their mind.

Which was a problem. She didn’t know if they were another hostile, a bystander, or just about to panic and start firing wildly.

So she called out, voice dry but clear:

“If anyone’s still breathing in there—relax. I’m just here for that guy.”
She nudged Vask’s limp form with her boot.
“No interest in anyone else, unless you feel like shooting me. Which I’d politely prefer you didn’t.”

She waited, still in cover, ears straining for movement—blaster humming faintly in her grip.

“Not a rescue. Not an assassin. Just cleaning up someone else’s trash.”

A pause.

“You shoot, I shoot back. He’s worth more alive, but I’m flexible.”

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The senator emerged from the smoke and wreckage with regal precision, a weapon still raised in her elegant grip. Her Galactic Senate uniform, silken blue with gold accents, was torn at the hip, smoke-blackened at the sleeves, and stained red at the lip. A lesser figure might’ve looked bedraggled. But Velyra wore ruin like a mourning veil: beautiful, intentional, and dangerous.

The voice that called out from the trees was clear. Measured. Familiar in the way all mercenary tones were: practical, flexible, and entirely untrustworthy.

She waited.

Calculated.

Then replied without flinching.

"If I were going to shoot, darling... you'd already be feeling it."

She stepped into full view. Her heels cracked ash and glass beneath them. Her blaster never wavered.

Smoke curled around her as she approached the body—his body. Her guard. Her shield.

Velyra knelt without ceremony. She took his hand in hers and placed the pistol he’d given her across his chest like an heirloom. One kiss to the temple. One final gesture for the man who had watched over her to the very end.

No tears. Not yet. Not here.

She stood.

Turned to the silhouette in the treeline.

"He... He died putting me in that seat." Her voice was quiet now. Controlled. Measured, like a scalpel—so sharp it didn’t bleed. "I'd rather not waste the effort just for a second corpse today."

She let the silence hold, heavy as lead.

"You're... not what I expected." A breath, barely audible. "But I suppose nothing about today was."

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The reply came smooth as synth-silk and twice as sharp.

“If I were going to shoot, darling... you'd already be feeling it.” That comment caused an involuntary smirk to form on Rheyla's lips, only for a brief second or two.

Rheyla exhaled—half a scoff, half a breath that loosened the tension between her shoulders.

“Noted,” she murmured. “Points for restraint.”

She rose from her crouch slowly, blaster still drawn but relaxed at her side. No sudden moves. No threats. She wasn’t here for theatrics.

Her eyes didn’t go to the voice. Not at first.

They went to Vask.

Still breathing. Unconscious. She gave him a light toe-nudge to make sure he stayed that way. Then crouched again, pulling a pair of flex-cuffs from her belt and snapping them around his wrists with practised speed.

Only once he was secure did she glance over toward the voice.

Smoke was parting now, and through it, the woman emerged—blue and gold, singed and bloodied, but walking like nothing had dared to stop her. Regal. Armed. Intact. But somehow still gorgeous, Rheyla guessed that came with the territory of being a diplomat or another type of big deal.

Senate-grade attire. Or a very good fake. It didn't really matter that much to the Twi'lek girl.

Rheyla didn’t stare. Just logged the details.

High-status. Controlled. Not panicking. Which meant not helpless.

Behind her, she heard the soft crunch of heels in ash and glass, followed by silence. Then a new voice—tight, sharp, knifed by loss:

“He... He died putting me in that seat.”

Rheyla didn’t turn around.

Instead, she secured Vask’s sidearm, tossed it a few meters into the brush, and muttered without much heat:

“Yeah, well. My guy tried to shoot someone out of one. I'm guessing you were the 'someone',” she commented, kicking her bounty's boot. She holstered her blaster, finally facing the woman. The distance was enough. No need to get closer.

“Look, I’m not here to play medic or mop up politics. I came for him, and lucky me—he brought himself.”

A pause.

“You’ve clearly had a worse day than I have, so I’ll make it simple. You don't shoot me, I don't shoot you, and we can just skip to the part where I drag this sack of Bantha poodoo back to my ship and get off your crash site.”

Then, with just a flicker of dry amusement in her voice:

“Unless you’ve got more surprises hiding in the smoke, in which case... I’d really like to renegotiate my rates with the one who put out his bounty.”

As if summoned by her sarcasm, a sharp report of blaster fire cracked through the clearing.

Missing her lekku by an inch—a bolt flew right past her.

Rheyla didn’t hesitate. She dove sideways, landing in a crouch behind a jagged piece of the downed shuttle, her blaster already barking a return shot toward the treeline.

“I was kidding!” she shouted, tone exasperated as another bolt whizzed past overhead.

Another shot. Closer this time, followed by multiple, as more raiders moved in on their location

She ducked, checked her sights, and muttered under her breath as she returned fire:

“Kriffing amateur hour. I knew I should have just taken the shot from the ridge” Rheyla groaned out loud to herself and shot one of the raiders in the shoulder from her cover.

Velyra Vonn

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros
​

The Twi’lek’s bluntness was... refreshing. In another life, Velyra might have hired her on the spot. But today wasn’t a recruiting mission. Today was blood and ash, and a body cooling by her side.

Still, the smirk didn’t quite stay buried.

Not helpless. The thought lingered behind her eyes. Rheyla hadn’t said it with scorn—just fact. Velyra appreciated that.

“You make an excellent exit, I’ll give you that.”

She was about to holster her blaster—just to de-escalate things properly—when the bolt screamed past Rheyla’s lekku and shattered glassy bark above.

Instinct surged. So did fury.

Velyra spun toward the direction of the shot, eyes narrowing, jaw tight. She didn’t scream. She didn’t duck.

She moved.

One clean slide behind the twisted skeleton of a structural brace, boots skidding in soot. Another blaster bolt chewed a spark from the edge near her head.

She drew breath—just one—and exhaled calm.

Then fired.

Two precise shots from behind cover—blaster angled low, sharp, defensive. She wasn’t reckless. She was practiced. Her grip betrayed the truth: she’d held a weapon before.

Make it clean. Make it quiet. No hysterics. They’re watching.

Not just the shooters. Always, someone was watching.

“Don’t suppose that one was yours?” she called toward Rheyla, a bitter lilt in her tone. “I’m trying to keep my death toll modest today.”

Another shot slammed the metal just above her hand. She flinched—only slightly—then ducked lower behind cover, checking her charge pack with a clinical glance.

Her lips, dry from smoke, curled faintly.

“On Zeltros, surprise is supposed to be fun.”

A beat.

“This is not that kind of surprise.”

Rheyla Tann
​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla barked out a dry laugh—short, low, and almost fond.

“Certainly hope not,” she shouted back. “My trash doesn’t shoot in teams.”

Another shot ricocheted off the bulkhead near her shoulder, and she ducked instinctively, slamming her back to the metal with a curse.

She peeked out—just enough to count them.

Two in the trees. One flanking right. Possibly more.

The first two were wearing cheap armour and poorer aim. But the one on the right moved like he knew what a perimeter was. That made him the problem.

Rheyla adjusted her grip, fingers dancing across the side of her blaster to swap charge modes. She didn’t have the juice for a prolonged firefight—not with her rifle still slung and her bounty breathing deadweight behind her.

“Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else, “Plan B.”

She twisted around the corner and fired—twice—sending a pair of bright blue bolts into the treeline. One found a target. The scream told her enough. Non-fatal. Probably.

She dove back behind cover, crouching low beside Vask’s unconscious form.

“You better stay out, you karking idiot,” she hissed, patting him once as if to dare him to wake up.

Then, calling out toward the Senator:
“Didn't know Zeltros trained senators to shoot like that. You ex-military, or just a particularly well-funded schoolgirl fantasy?”

There was a beat. Two shots rang out from Velyra’s side. Controlled. Clinical. Rheyla raised an eyebrow, unseen.

“Right,” she muttered. “Fantasy it is.”

She reached for a compact detonator clipped to her belt. It wasn’t much—just a flashbang rigged for sensory overload—but it didn’t need to be lethal. Just loud.

“Cover me!” she called, voice firm now, tactical.

Then she rolled the device toward the trees, counted three beats, and—

Boom.

A blinding pulse lit the crash site for a second, followed by the disoriented shouts of two would-be shooters.

Rheyla was already moving.

She sprang from cover, grabbing Vask by the back of his collar and dragging him with a grunt of effort toward a better vantage—closer to Velyra, but not too close. Close enough to coordinate. Close enough to speak without yelling.

She ducked behind the next piece of cover and dropped him with a thud, panting lightly, pulse steady.

Blaster ready. Eyes scanning.

“Three hostiles confirmed. Could be more. Not local, either—gear’s too clean, movements too sharp. Someone brought backup, and I’m guessing it wasn’t for me.”

She gave the Senator a once-over now that they weren’t separated by smoke.

Up close, Velyra looked like a disaster in high fashion—torn silk and blood and fury barely leashed beneath the sheen of senatorial dignity. Rheyla respected it more than she meant to.

She jerked her chin toward the treeline.

“You wanna keep your death toll low? Stay on my flank. You cover, I move. We clear them one-by-one, keep it locked, clean, and if we’re lucky—fast.”

A pause. A flicker of that trademark smirk.

“Unless, of course, you’ve got a diplomatic solution hidden under that ruined couture of yours.”

Another bolt slammed into the wreckage near her head, spraying sparks.

Rheyla fired back on reflex—clean shot, controlled—then snapped her head toward the treeline and shouted:

“Do you guys mind?! We’re trying to have a conversation here!”

Another shot answered, closer this time. She ducked again, sighing as if inconvenienced rather than threatened.

Blaster still hot in her grip, she muttered toward Velyra without looking:

“See? No manners. Just rude.”

Velyra Vonn

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

Smoke trailed past the smudge of ash on her cheek as she moved to cover, not running—but walking with defiant grace, cradling the still-warm blaster like an accessory in a fashion shoot from hell. A curl of blood darkened the neckline of her ruined senatorial uniform, gold trim burned to black. One heel gone. Hair in soft disarray. But her eyes, luminous and sharp, found the Twi’lek with unsettling clarity.

“Didn't know Zeltros trained senators to shoot like that. You ex-military, or just a particularly well-funded schoolgirl fantasy?”

“They don’t. But they do teach us to pose for our obituaries.”

Her tone was too light, too poised for the circumstance. It cracked on the end just slightly—an echo of the trembling she hadn’t allowed to rise.

She knelt, dainty even in dirt, and slid behind the same bulkhead fragment Rheyla had occupied just moments ago. Her movement was graceful but cautious, almost ritual—every gesture wrapping grief in glamour like gauze over a wound.

The blaster remained steady in her hand. Not practiced. Not trained. But familiar.

“Let’s say I made a few enemies on Zeltros.” A glance, sidelong, sly. “You know how it is. Some places teach you to curtsy. Others teach you to aim. Pretty girls on certain worlds—well... we learn both. You from Ryloth? You ought to know all too well why.”

She fired once—not to kill, but to keep heads down. Her form was elegant, if not strictly by-the-book. As if every act, even violence, had to be done with some measure of aesthetic.

I don’t even know his name. Just that he took the shot meant for me.

Her hand trembled slightly after the recoil. She lowered the weapon to re-center her grip.

“I’ll watch your back. We move when you say.”

Her gaze flicked toward the enemy in the trees.

“I’m usually better at disarming tension with compliments, but they don’t seem in the mood for flattery.”

Another shot whizzed past them. She flinched. One hand rested against her sternum, over a scorch mark near her heart.

“We can talk rates later,” she murmured, quieter now. “Assuming either of us makes it off this crater in one piece.”

She glanced sideways toward Rheyla again. Studying her. The cut of her coat. The way she moved. Like a storm dressed in confidence.

“Though, for the record,” she added, “if we do survive this, I'm buying the drinks. It’s a Senatorial courtesy.”

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t glance over immediately.

She had one knee in the dirt, shoulder pressed to scorched metal, and was adjusting her sights mid-sentence like it was just another day in paradise. When Velyra slid into cover beside her, Rheyla’s lekku twitched slightly under the wrappings—a reflexive shift, not quite surprise. Just recalculating.

It was the voice that got her.

Not the content. The delivery.

“They don’t. But they do teach us to pose for our obituaries.”

Rheyla snorted. Actually snorted. Quiet, brief, half amusement, half disbelief.

“You really are from Zeltros,” she muttered, taking another shot toward a raider silhouette darting between trees. “Nobody else makes existential dread sound like a perfume ad.”

When Velyra knelt beside her, all elegance in ash and ruin, Rheyla caught the way her fingers trembled. Just for a moment. The kind of detail most wouldn’t clock under fire.

But Rheyla wasn’t most.

She didn’t comment on it. Just adjusted slightly to widen their shared cover.

“Enemies on Zeltros, huh?” Rheyla drawled. “Must’ve been one hell of a party. I always figured the only people who made enemies on that planet were the ones who ran out of credits or offended a dancer.” Her smirk curved slow, wicked, and just a little impressed.

She fired again. No kill, but it bought them breathing room.

“I'll give you this, you make a hell of an entrance,” Rheyla muttered. “Less so on exits, but we can work on that.”

“Some places teach you to curtsy. Others teach you to aim. I learned the second one. Early.” And that was all she gave.

Another bolt whined overhead. Rheyla fired back, clipped a raider’s leg, and let her blaster hiss as it recharged.

“Cute,” Rheyla said, ducking another bolt. “But I prefer flirting with people who aren’t actively trying to shoot holes in my face.”

When Velyra flinched from the next shot, her hand landing near her heart, Rheyla clocked it—but didn’t comment. Just shifted half an inch to give her the stronger side of the cover.

“You said you’d watch my back?” she said, tone turning crisp. “Good. Because I’m about to get very loud.”

Then, she twisted out from behind the wreckage and fired twice—one shot suppressing, the other aimed. Another target dropped. Disarmed, maybe dead. Didn’t matter.

She ducked back into cover, while also tilting her head and shouting again into the treeline:

“Seriously?! We are in the middle of a deeply personal bonding moment here! Can you go shoot at someone less charming?!”
A shot scorched the metal beside her again. She sighed, long-suffering.

“No respect for timing.”

She turned back toward Velyra, her voice dry:

“Alright, Senator. You want to live? Stick close. We move fast, we flank wide, and you don’t stop unless I do.”

A pause. Then a flicker of that familiar smirk:

“And sure—if we survive, you’re buying. But I’m choosing the bar.”

Rheyla froze for just a breath, staring down at Vask’s unconscious body like it personally offended her. Her blaster hand twitched, the other tightening around the strap of her kit.

“Deadweight’s not in the job description,” she muttered.

The blaster fire cracked again—closer this time. She scowled. Huffed. Then pointed an accusing finger at Vask’s limp form like it could feel the betrayal.

“You were supposed to be easy money, you glorified meat sack.”

Another bolt screamed past. That sealed it. With a frustrated growl, she turned back toward Velyra,

“I’ll come back for him when this party’s less explosive.”

“Stupid backup. Ruining my whole dramatic exit.”

Blaster in hand. Feet set. Lekku coiled tightly beneath cloth.

“Let’s move.”

Blaster fire cracked behind them as Rheyla darted from cover, boots skidding over scorched ground. She raised a fist—hold—then glanced back toward Velyra.

“Move now,” she called, low and sharp.

One cover at a time. Ripped hull plates. Fallen trees. Anything solid enough to eat a bolt before they did. Rheyla kept low, blaster always raised, eyes scanning constantly. Her armour was scorched, her lekku stinging under the wrappings, but her focus never slipped. She’d cleared more ground than she’d planned to even walk today.

She took down another raider near the edge of the wreck—two clean shots, one to drop, one to silence. Another one down.

And still they kept coming.

By the time they hit the outer perimeter of the crash zone—halfway to open terrain and the tree line beyond—Rheyla dove behind a jagged fragment of wing plating, yanking Velyra down beside her.

She exhaled hard, sweat trailing from her temple.

A bolt hissed past, too close.

She slammed a fresh charge into her blaster and groaned like the universe had personally offended her.

“How much backup does one kriffing raider need?” she barked. “It’s like a bloody family reunion, but everyone brought guns and unresolved trauma.”

Another shot hit the plating behind her with a dull clang. She leaned just far enough to return fire and muttered under her breath:

“I swear, when I find Vask again, I’m going to kick his ass so hard, he’ll wish I’d just turned him in dead.”

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

Velyra moved like she’d even practiced bleeding gracefully.

Blaster fire cracked in the distance, but she barely flinched—only drew in a slow breath as Rheyla's voice answered hers like a match struck in shadow. Wry. Clear. Alive.

“You really are from Zeltros,”

A smile touched the Senator’s lips—not quite amusement, not quite ache.

"We sell what we must to survive, darling. It's the only ad that pays.”

She pressed her back to the twisted hull plating, adjusting the grip on her blaster as if it were an accessory—one she hated having to wear. Her fingers still trembled faintly.

Rheyla moved beside her with the kind of economy born of long violence—each step calibrated, each breath measured against risk. When she widened the cover without a word, Velyra didn’t thank her aloud. She simply accepted it. And didn’t forget.

When the Twi’lek teased about enemies on Zeltros, the Senator gave a small, knowing tilt of her head. “You’d be surprised how many predators come disguised as patrons,” she murmured. “And how conveniently few people seem to notice when someone goes missing until you open an internal investigation.” She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she glanced to the smoke-wreathed treeline where the next wave waited—too many, too practiced. Someone paid handsomely for a clean disappearance.

But the fire in her chest wouldn’t let that happen. Not here. Not beside Vask’s still form. Her thumb swept over the crease of the grip—one last apology to the fallen—before she pivoted to cover Rheyla’s flank.

Rheyla barked her orders.
Move fast. Flank wide. Don’t stop.
Velyra gave a soft nod.

“Mm. I've always found confidence charming. Especially when it’s earned.”

Then she ran. Not with the brutal speed of a soldier, but with the grace of someone who knew how to be seen even when dodging death. Her dress torn, her hair loose from its pins, Velyra Vonn cleared ground like a fading ribbon in a breeze —no longer showy, but still exact.

She stumbled once—gravel catching under her heel, blaster arm dipping—and Rheyla was already there, a hand bracing her elbow. Their eyes met for half a heartbeat.

Velyra said nothing. But her fingers brushed the back of Rheyla’s hand as she steadied herself. A gesture of quiet gratitude.

At the next line of cover, she dropped beside Rheyla, chest rising too quickly, blaster hot in her palm.

“You were right,” she breathed, wiping ash from her cheek. “Terrible exit. But I’ll let you revise my form later. Preferably with fewer explosions.”

When Rheyla cursed the raiders and called it a family reunion, Velyra gave a low, velvety laugh.

“If this is family, I’m absolutely skipping Life Day this year.”

The next bolt hissed overhead. Velyra leaned, fired once—distraction only—and ducked again.

Then, as Rheyla groaned and threatened her quarry by name, the Senator took a brief pause—just enough to smooth her hair back, steel her voice.

“For what it's worth, I don’t believe in easy money either. But I do believe in earned drinks.” Her gaze met Rheyla’s, firm through the smoke. “So yes, you’re choosing the bar. But I’m choosing the vintage.”

One last glance toward the ruin they’d left behind. One more weight she’d carry.

Then she rose, blaster raised, poised as ever—no less dangerous for the polish.

“After you, darling.”

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t answer right away.

She was counting. Footsteps in the brush. Shots from the flank. Timing the rhythm between suppressive bursts like a song she knew too well.

Whoever wanted them dead wasn’t in this for the credits. This was planned. Overkill. Maybe even personal.

She slid behind another bent strut of the wreck, her boots crunching scorched grass as Velyra landed beside her—breathing hard but steady, eyes bright through the smoke.

And something in that moment made Rheyla pause.

It wasn’t the touch. It was the scent—delicate, floral, but grounded. Not the cloying kind peddled in starport boutiques. Real. Like wild blossom tea steeped over embers—like those rare, quiet nights with Clan Vhett, when Lenya would brew something sweet over the fire, just because she liked how it smelled. A simple comfort, from a life long gone.

Rheyla’s mouth twitched—almost a smile.

It was fleeting. Barely there.

But it was real.

And that was dangerous.

She didn’t trust easily. Never had. It had cost her too much to be given lightly. Her past was hers—scarred, buried, and locked behind the kind of silence only loss can teach.

So she said nothing.

Just let go. Turned forward. Motioned ahead.

“Keep moving,” she said, voice steady again. “We’re not out yet.”

She’d clocked the tremble earlier. Now, she registered the steel underneath it. Velyra wasn’t built for this, but she wasn’t falling apart either.

Rheyla respected that.

“…Next time I take a bounty near a diplomat,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “remind me to bring a bigger gun. Or a lawyer.”

She peeked out. Fired. Something screamed. Then silence. “We move east,” she said, tone clipped but calm. “Thicker trees. Better chance of losing them.”

A glance toward Velyra.

“You’re surprisingly durable for someone who smells like luxury and bad decisions.” The corner of her mouth twitched. Then she was already scanning for their next move.

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just moved. One beat ahead. Always first through the open. Cover to cover. Her breath was steady, but the sting of exertion burned through her lekku. The armour was hot against her spine. Her side ached from that near miss back at the wing plating. She didn’t mention it.

Another burst of fire behind them. Another body in their way. Rheyla didn’t hesitate. By the time they reached the outer line of trees—where debris gave way to dense brush—she dropped behind the trunk of a twisted fern-pine, letting her breath catch up with her.

She slammed a fresh charge into her blaster and goaned low, forehead tipping forward for just a second. “I’ll find Vask later. Right now, I’d rather not die for punctuality.”

Another bolt cracked against bark. Rheyla ducked reflexively, then shot a glance at Velyra.

A breath. Her voice softened, just a fraction. “You doing alright?”

Not tender. Not overly warm. But genuine. A rare crack in the armour—offered only because it was earned. She rolled her shoulders once, checked the treeline, then locked eyes with the senator and flashed a crooked half-smirk, followed by a wink. “You got yourself a deal, lady.”

Then, with a flick of her hand, she motioned forward.

“Come on. If we follow the treeline this way, we should be able to circle back to Lioran’s Hollow. My ship’s not far.”

She didn’t usually say that out loud—where her ship was. That kind of information got you dead. But the senator from Zeltros—whose name she still didn’t know—had promised drinks. Plural. And somehow, in Rheyla’s galaxy, that counted for something.

They moved quickly at first. Heads low. Feet sure. Rheyla led, weaving them through branches and brush like she was built for it. The sounds of blaster fire behind them faded into the distance, replaced by the steady rhythm of boots on dry earth and the rustle of leaves.

For a while, only silence, best not to play with fate for now, but as the silence stretched into something easier. They weren’t being followed. No shots. No voices. Just forest and fading smoke. Rheyla slowed slightly, not enough to be obvious—just enough to confirm they’d shaken their tail. She glanced back once to check Velyra’s footing, then refocused on the path ahead.

The treeline began to thin, and the edges of the town came into view—prefab roofs and half-lit signs blinking through the dust haze like stubborn stars. Rheyla exhaled, tension bleeding off her shoulders in degrees.

“Looks like we’re clear,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

Then, louder:

“Try not to draw attention when we hit the edge of town,” Rheyla said as they neared the outskirts. “People around here aren’t big on high-profile guests. Or senators. Or anyone who looks like they still have savings.”

She slowed her pace just a hair, glanced at Velyra’s vivid Senator attire, then sighed, already peeling the long wrap from around her neck, shoulders and head.

“Here.”

As she unwrapped the cloth, the top of her lekkus was revealed, showing their patterns fully broken up by the faint blaster scars along them visible in the soft light. But the cloth was weathered, dust-colored, and practical—enough to pass for a headscarf, or a travelling shawl, or just something that wouldn’t scream senator with opinions.

She held it out to Velyra with a flick of her wrist.

“Here. Wrap it around your shoulders. Maybe your hair, too. Less likely someone’ll shoot you for looking expensive.”

A beat. Dry as always:

“You’ll still stand out, but hey—maybe you’ll just look like my problem.”

But there was a hint of something else beneath the sarcasm. A quiet, wordless offer of protection. Not warm. Not open. But real.
Then, as they moved again:

“And don’t worry—I’ll get us in quietly. Just… try not to shoot anyone unless I do first.”

Another pause. A faint smirk tugged at her mouth.

“And if anyone asks—this wasn’t a rescue. You were just... stubbornly in my way.”

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The scent Rheyla noticed—jasmine smoked with amberwood—was a holdover from the morning.

It had clung to her deliberately, part of the day’s illusion: the radiant, disarming Zeltros Senator descending in heels and pearls to speak on trade routes and food chains, not death.

But now, trailing in the wake of a woman like a blade held low, the perfume turned accidental comfort. A balm smeared across blood and ruin.

Whoever she was… she had good taste.

Velyra didn’t interrupt. Not the wink. Not the breath. Not the gift of silence, earned through shared terror and a body count they weren’t finished stacking.

Instead, she let the rhythm pass between them—the shift of weight, the tree bark’s drag along her shoulder, the sudden softness in Rheyla’s voice.

“I’ll live.”

She offered it like a benediction, not a boast.

Though I wish I could say the same for Vask.

She didn’t name him aloud. She couldn’t.
The ache of it was too sharp, too close to the bone. So instead, she watched Rheyla’s eyes—measured the way they scanned, the way her fingers twitched before each shot—and committed it all to memory.

By the time they reached the tree line, her breath came easier. The woods began to change—less hunted, more hiding. Rheyla guided them like she’d done it a thousand times, and Velyra let herself be led. When the wrap was offered, she took it without hesitation.

Soft. Sun-faded. Smelling faintly of oil and stone. Velyra swept it around her shoulders, then up over her hair in a practiced motion. She glanced down once—assessing herself—then gave a faint smirk.

“Chic,” she murmured, “in a revolutionary-on-the-run sort of way.”

Her fingers lingered as she tucked the cloth beneath her chin, brushing the fabric with a gentleness it likely hadn’t known in years.

Scars on her lekku. And she handed this over anyway.

It wasn’t gratitude she gave in return - it was allegiance, a quiet kind. This Twi'lek was kind, the sort to aid even if they were in dire straits themselves. Velyra wished to foster more of that sentiment in the galaxy.

As they stepped onto the outskirts of town, Velyra kept her posture relaxed but poised, taking note of the fading signs and sidelong glances. She said nothing at first—just moved a little closer to Rheyla, letting her presence blur slightly into the bounty hunter’s silhouette. She adopted a slightly less composed gait, mimicking that of a Zeltron who spent their days constantly inebriated. It fit in with what scorched and torn attire remained visible better than any other explanation. Im

She grabbed lightly onto Rheyla's elbow. The scarred mercenary and her floozy companion, perfect cover anywhere mid-rim and beyond.

“My dear,” she murmured with a slightly exaggerated slurring of her speach, still only loud enough for Rheyla’s ears to hear clearly, “I’ve been someone’s problem for decades. At least you smell better than most of them.”

When Rheyla warned her not to shoot first, Velyra arched a brow with practiced innocence.

“I only shoot when invited to.”

Then came the final line—this wasn’t a rescue—and Velyra let the silence stretch for a beat too long. Let it breathe. Let it sit. Then, she leaned ever so slightly closer, voice low and velveted with indulgent amusement.

She whispered a reply, purring for dual effect – to fit the persona she adopted, and to let the mercenary know that Velyra, underneath the ruse, was not taking Rheyla's help for granted.
“Of course not. You just happened to be passing through the wreckage of a downed shuttle, guns blazing, and pulled me from a firestorm because I was in your way.”

She glanced sidelong, lashes low over wine-dark eyes—a little sprinkle of pheromones as well, to accent.

“I’m sure it happens to you all the time.”

And then—quiet, rare, unguarded:

“Thank you.”

No flourish. No insincere flirtation. Just two words, given clean. She adjusted the wrap again, as the lights of Lioran’s Hollow sharpened through the dusk.

“Lead the way, darling.” She paused, “You’ve earned that first drink.”

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t react at first.

Not to the hand on her elbow. Not to the slurred affection curling like smoke in her ear.

She just kept walking.

Boots steady. Posture alert, but not rigid. Eyes scanning the shadows at every corner of the Hollow’s edge. She’d grown up around towns like this—quiet on the surface, but twitchy underneath. You didn’t stroll into Lioran’s Hollow looking important unless you were armed, insane, or both.

Velyra? She was making it look like performance art.

The mercenary spared a glance at the woman beside her—makeup smudged, dress torn, eyes still sharp beneath the lazy Zeltron sway. One hand looped around Rheyla’s elbow like they were halfway to some scandalous retreat and just needed to shake the tail.

It was a good act.

Too good. As if she had done it before.

The Twi’lek didn’t smile, exactly. But her mouth twitched. Like something inside her found it funny and was very deliberately keeping that fact to itself.

When Velyra purred, [color=#A6D1DF“At least you smell better than most of them,”[/color] Rheyla snorted once—soft, reflexive.

“You must’ve had some deeply unfortunate company.”

But her gaze didn’t quite hold. For a breath, she looked forward instead, as if watching for danger—though the path ahead had gone quiet. There was something in the way Velyra had said it—low, velveted, almost amused—that curled under her skin like heat where there shouldn't have been any. Not now. Not here.

She didn’t show it. Not in any way that counted. But her hand tightened just slightly on her blaster grip. A twitch of her jaw. A blink a second too long.

Then—quieter, almost too soft to catch:

“Guess that makes two of us.”

She guided them along a quieter alley toward the back of the docking district. Fewer eyes here. More broken lighting. Just the way she liked it.

Velyra’s next whisper—You just happened to be passing through…—drew a sideways look. Not hostile. Not entirely amused either.

“You were in my way,” Rheyla said, eyebrow raised. “Right between me and a payday.”

A beat.

Then came the soft thank you.

And that, more than the theatrics or the pheromones or the flirtation, made her falter. Just for a step. Just long enough to show she’d heard it.

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t say you’re welcome—she rarely did. But she let that silence hold, just long enough for it to feel like acknowledgement.

Then, finally:

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

Dry. Quiet. But there was a thread of something warmer underneath it—buried, but there.

When the lights of her ship flickered into view across the lot—worn edges, patched hull, but flying—Rheyla pointed with her blaster-hand.

“There she is. Doesn’t look like much, but she’s faster than she looks.”

The ship squatted on the edge of the landing zone like it didn’t want to be seen—half-shadowed by a power relay tower, hull dull under the dusk. A mid-sized light freighter, low-slung and wide-bodied, clearly modified beyond whatever factory design it was meant to be.

The Scourhawk had teeth.

The hull bore the story: asymmetrical plating where an external power core shield had been bolted over a breach, the left flank slightly broader from a retrofitted sensor array. Gunmetal grey all over, with faded olive green panelling and streaks of exposed durasteel catching the light. Scorch marks spidered along the starboard wing like someone had painted fire across her skin. A single line of red-orange striping—half-buried under carbon scoring—suggested salvaged parts, or someone else's past claim.

The cockpit sat off-centre, visor-like, with one transparisteel pane a shade darker than the rest. Replaced. Improvised. Survived.

Twin engines—mismatched in age and whine—rested like coiled fists at the rear, ready to launch. The vertical fins curved slightly along the top, giving the ship a hawk-like silhouette if you squinted just right. The front landing strut let out a soft metallic groan as if protesting the weight it bore.

“She flies fine,” Rheyla added, as if the thing hadn’t just groaned like a dying animal. “Just needs a nudge now and then.”

As they drew closer, the topside cannon near the nose came into view—an aftermarket addition, definitely illegal, definitely personal. Beneath it, the underbelly turret hung in a half-limp slouch, like it was daring someone to ask if it actually worked. Rheyla didn’t offer. She just keyed in the access panel, waited for the hiss of decompression, and gestured for Velyra to step inside.

A pause.

Then, with a glance toward Velyra and a faint smirk:

“Kind of like you.”

She tilted her head, just a fraction. “Come on, Senator. Let’s see if you survive re-entry.”

The ramp groaned shut behind them with a hydraulic thunk, sealing out the fading light—and the world that had nearly killed them both. Inside, the Scourhawk felt like stepping into a different kind of storm: close-quartered, metallic, and humming with old energy. Rheyla didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. The ship’s internal glow came from strips of dull amber panelling along the walls, flickering intermittently like a heartbeat. She moved with the confidence of someone who’d memorised every inch—every dip in the floor plating, every creak in the joints.

“Watch the step,” she muttered as they passed through the narrow corridor just past the cargo ramp. “Starboard pressure seal never did sit right.”

The cargo bay was first—a cramped, utility-first space littered with crates, tarped gear, and a makeshift station near the wall where a vibroblade lay half-disassembled, flanked by a whetstone and oil-smeared cloth. A few barrels sat stacked near the bulkhead, likely filled with salvaged parts or things she swore she'd fix one day. On one side, a wall-mounted rack held a mix of tools and scavenged tech, their edges softened by soot and time.

A faint scent lingered here—metal, solvent, and old heat. The smell of repairs made in the middle of nowhere.

She passed the armoury next. Just a narrow corner with a few magnetised racks and secured straps: her cycler rifle, a sawed-off scattergun, a few grenades clipped to a rig. Velyra would note the precision—everything tied down, every slot used. No wasted space. No wasted weight.

Past that, a tight bunk section tucked behind a half-closed panel. The living quarters, if you could call them that. One bunk, slightly crooked, draped in a weather-stained cloak. A ration pack lay torn open on a tray beside a dented water canister. A cracked mirror hung above a small washbasin—burnt in one corner from a plasma spill long since cleaned but never fully erased. A faded clan banner—just the corner visible—was folded and wedged into a cubby like a memory too delicate to fully unpack.

She didn’t slow.

“Don’t mind the mess. Hadn’t planned on company.”

Finally, they reached the cockpit, a narrow nose of the ship offset slightly left. Two seats, though clearly the right one hadn't been used in a while—its cushion still wrapped in ageing tarp. The left was worn in all the places that mattered, seat leather frayed from years of use. The dash was a chaotic spread of blinking lights and taped-over indicators. A single sabacc card, faded at the edges, was pinned above the console—a Queen of Flames.

Rheyla dropped into the pilot’s seat with a long breath, her fingers already flipping switches, bringing the ship’s systems back to life. The console lit with reluctant flickers, engines beginning to hum with uneven power.

She didn’t look back yet.

Instead, she reached to one side, unstrapped her gloves, and tossed them beside the throttle.

“Strap in,” she said, voice low and steady. “This part’s loud. The Scourhawk doesn’t like strangers.”

The console chirped. The nav flickered. Rheyla smirked—just a hint.

“She’ll fly anyway.”

Then, under her breath, like a promise:

“She always does.”

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The Scourhawk groaned around her like a beast in slumber—metal bones creaking, breath held in cables and coils. Velyra moved slowly, fingertips trailing along the warm glow of a bulkhead as she followed Rheyla deeper inside.

It wasn’t a place built for comfort. No mirrors. No flattery. No gentle corners. And yet...

Every inch of it bore the shape of its mistress. Purposeful. Scarred. Alive.

She didn’t speak at first. Let the silence take her measure, just as Rheyla had. Only once the Twi'lek vanished into the cockpit did Velyra turn a slow circle in the cramped corridor, exhaling gently through her nose.

A scattergun here. A tangle of half-repaired gear there. Her eyes drifted to the banner folded in its hideaway, then to the sabacc card pinned above the console—the Queen of Flames.

She knew that card. She had been that card, once. Still was, in the eyes of some.

She lowered herself into the co-pilot’s chair with more grace than the thing deserved, crossing her legs at the knee despite the jostle beneath. A faint tug of the wrap at her shoulders—Rheyla’s wrap—secured it into a more presentable drape.

"I like her," Velyra said at last, voice a satin ribbon, lazily unfurled. "She’s not pretty, but she pretends she doesn’t want to be. That’s always a giveaway."

She turned slightly in her seat, watching Rheyla beneath lowered lashes as the mercenary flipped switches with practiced ease.

"And you... you fly her like someone who’s never crashed, but still doesn’t believe it."

The words weren’t a challenge. Not quite. There was something in them softer, like velvet thrown over glass—sharp if pressed too hard, but warm to the touch.

Velyra reached for the safety strap, securing it with a fluid click. The belt felt rough against her hip.

"You know," she added, eyes now on the flickering nav-screen, "it wasn’t always bodyguards and diplomats. Back home, I made enemies in better lighting. The kind that smile while funding trade ships filled with empty cages. Zeltros has its shadows, same as anywhere."

She didn’t say it outright. Didn’t need to.

"Pretty girls learn to shoot."

A beat. Then she turned toward Rheyla again, a sliver of something fond behind the lacquered mask.

"But I never learned to fly. I always preferred someone else at the controls."

The engines whined beneath them.

"So. Do you always rescue strange women from burning wreckage, or am I special?"

It was half a tease, half a truth. She tilted her head slightly, dark curls spilling to one side. A spark behind her gaze. The faintest trace of grief still clinging at the edges.

"Don’t answer. I’d rather imagine the answer’s yes."

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t look at her right away.

The console chirped as her fingers danced across the switches—more habit than need. She could have launched the Scourhawk half-blind, one hand tied, and still made orbit before someone finished loading a threat. But tonight, she moved slower.

Rheyla caught the motion out of the corner of her eye.

Velyra settling into the co-pilot’s chair like it was a throne, legs crossed at the knee with impossible grace—and wearing Rheyla’s head-wrap like it belonged on a catwalk instead of a merc’s bunk.

The damn thing was faded, frayed at the edges, probably smelled like engine coolant and smoke. And yet somehow, somehow, the Zeltron had made it look like a deliberate fashion statement.

Rheyla blinked once. Looked away.

Unbelievable.
The kind of woman who could make being hunted look like a party entrance. She focused harder on the console, fingers adjusting a stabiliser dial that didn’t need adjusting.

Thank the stars she couldn’t read minds.

The Scourhawk shuddered as the engines powered up, grumbling in that way that meant she’d fly—but only because she felt like it.

Rheyla kept her eyes forward. Mostly.

Velyra’s words hung in the air like perfume: soft, deliberate, just a little dangerous.

"So. Do you always rescue strange women from burning wreckage, or am I special?"

Rheyla let out a breath through her nose. Dry. Almost amused.

“Depends. Do you count running headfirst into a death trap as ‘rescue-worthy’ behaviour?”

She finally glanced over. Just briefly. Just enough to see the way Velyra wore that strap across her hips like it was jewellery. The way she tilted her head. That same look she’d seen diplomats use on high-ranking targets—satin-gloved menace with a smile.

But the grief was real. Rheyla caught it. She didn’t name it, but she let it change her tone.

“Most people I’ve pulled out of burning wreckage, rounds down to zero. And the rare ones I do? They don’t flirt on the way out.”

A beat.

Then, with a faint smile tugging into a cheeky smirk, she turned to look at Velyra:

“Guess that makes you special.”

The thrusters coughed to life beneath them, rumbling through the floor like a beast waking up angry. Rheyla gripped the controls with one gloved hand, settling deeper into her seat.

"And for the record," she added, tone laced with cheek as the ship began to lift, "I don’t crash. I land with style."

She didn’t wait for a response. The Scourhawk surged forward, cutting through the dusk with a growl and a flicker of its mismatched engines.

Outside, the world shrank.

Inside, the silence wasn’t quite empty anymore.

The planet fell away behind them, nothing but a shrinking smear of ash and cloud in the rear scope. Rheyla leaned back in her seat as the stars steadied into stillness, the Scourhawk cruising on sublight. For once, nothing was on fire.

She exhaled.

Then:

“So,” she muttered, fingers dancing across the nav console, “a free drink from a diplomat. That’s not the kind of offer you let expire.”

The console flickered through star charts, system pings, border beacons.

“Let’s see…” She tilted her head, scrolling with the heel of her glove. “Cantonica? Nah, they’d frisk me at the gate. Zeltros? Too obvious—and if you take me to your homeworld, it’s not a drink, it’s an ambush.”

She kept talking like Velyra wasn’t there, though her tone held the faintest lilt of performance, like she knew she had an audience.

“Chandrila’s got that floating lounge with the gold-sprayed chandeliers... but I’m pretty sure I still owe someone there a vibroknife.”

She cycled again.

“Naboo?” A pause. “...Too soft. I’d break a wineglass and they’d fine me for emotional damage.”

A faint grunt. “Corellia’s got real booze, but also real security. Can’t risk another customs entanglement. Not after the last time.”

Click. Swipe. Scroll.

“Kijimi had that place with the sapphire shot towers and the velvet bar stools—place smelled like sugared spice and broken promises.”

She gave a faint, wistful snort. “They kicked me out once for ordering something too cheap. Said it ‘clashed with the ambience.’” A beat. “Still the best drink I’ve ever stolen.”

Swipe.

“Okay, so what I need is a planet fancy enough to serve overpriced spice-laced cocktails in jewel-stemmed glasses... but poor enough not to run a credit check at the door.”

She squinted at a system name and smirked.

“Pillaris Station? Hah. ‘No shirt, no pulse, no problem.’ Pass.”

Another scroll.

“Hey. This place—Teysha Minor. Heard they ferment nectar in singing crystal vats and serve it in carved ice goblets.”

She looked sidelong at Velyra, arching a brow.

“You fancy sipping symphony-liquor in a place where the waiters call you ‘star-blessed’ and the bathrooms have velvet curtains?”

Then—drier:

“Unless the esteemed diplomat has a better idea?” Rheyla blinked. Just realising she still didn’t know the name of the beautiful woman wearing her battered old head-wrap.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The Zeltron's fingers traced the edge of the nav console, slow and idle, as if she was learning its story through touch alone. The air smelled of ozone and heat, of long-haul engines and recycled breath. There was something intimate about it—this ship, this silence, this stranger who wasn’t quite a stranger anymore.

“You fancy sipping symphony-liquor in a place where the waiters call you ‘star-blessed’ and the bathrooms have velvet curtains?”

She smiled faintly, the kind that tugged at only one corner of her mouth. A private smile. A tired one.

“Darling, at this point, you could have suggested a wet duracrete booth at the Nar Shaddaa docks and I might’ve still said yes. But—” she leaned back, head tilting toward Rheyla with something looser now, almost indulgent, “I do appreciate a touch of ceremony.”

A pause. Not long, but full.

“Teysha Minor it is.”

She watched Rheyla out of the corner of her eye as stars streaked past the viewport—felt the subtle shift of inertia and the hum of retreating tension. Untying the wrap, she tugged the fabric a bit tighter across her chest. There was a shiver there. Not from cold.

The pilot’s seat was still buried in the crater long behind them. The man who once guarded her—gone, with no last word. No farewell. Just smoke.

But here, now, the galaxy had given her another hand to hold. Rougher. Warmer. Unexpected.

She offered the head wrap back, to return the garment, a simple but sincere garment that had made her feel safe. Even now.

“I should thank you properly,” she murmured, voice low as her gaze flicked once, gently, toward Rheyla’s face.

“Not for the rescue, necessarily. Though that was impressive. It’s more…” She let the sentence trail off, fingers folding in her lap.

For not asking why I was crying when I didn’t say I was. For offering me a drink instead of a lecture. For letting me sit beside someone who didn’t flinch when I reached for steadiness.

She turned fully now, reclined yet composed.

“And since you did ask so sweetly—” a flicker of amusement played through her lashes—“No, we won’t be going to Zeltros. It would absolutely be an ambush. There’s a welcome parade I’ve been dodging for years and at least two ex-lovers who’ve promised to set fire to each other if they’re seated in the same room.”

Her expression softened.

“But it is home.”

She extended a hand across the space between them—not formal, not dramatic. Just open.

“Velyra Vonn. Galactic Senator - of Zeltros.”

A beat. Then the real smile—slow, deliberate, a little wicked at the edges.
She held the gaze for just a moment longer before turning her eyes toward the stars beyond the viewport.

The mask never dropped entirely. It wasn’t meant to. But some things shimmered through the cracks—a woman not just surviving, but reaching. Not for power. Not for dominance.

Just for closeness.

And perhaps—if the liquor was strong and the night stayed kind—for comfort without shame.

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla glanced down at the wrap in Velyra’s hands.

It was just cloth. Old, frayed, probably still smelled like blaster smoke and engine oil.
But it had been hers for years—kept rain off her lekku, shielded her from suns and stares alike. And now?

Now it looked like it belonged in Velyra’s hands.

Her gaze shifted, from the wrap to the woman holding it. Saw the way her fingers lingered on the fabric, careful. Like giving it back meant giving something up.

Rheyla didn’t reach for it.

“Keep it,” she said—then, softer, “Looks better on you anyway.”

A pause.

“Besides,” Rheyla said, tone dipping just enough to pass for casual, “it kept you alive and made you look good doing it. That’s practically sorcery.”

She let the words hang for a beat—then shot Velyra a quick, sideways wink. The kind that didn’t ask for anything, but said I noticed.

And just like that, her eyes were back on the console. Like it hadn’t meant anything at all.
Like her pulse hadn’t just kicked a little harder. Like, she didn’t just give something away.

But the corner of her mouth twitched—almost a smile.

Almost.

Rheyla stared at the offered hand.
Not like it was a threat—more like it was a puzzle. One she hadn't been expecting. One she wasn’t sure she had the tools for.

“Senator of Zeltros,” she repeated, dryly. “And here I was thinking I was the high-risk passenger.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, but didn’t quite take over.

She took the hand.

“Rheyla Tann. Smuggler, Bounty Hunter, and occasional crash-lander—though never officially recorded.” Her glove was warm from the controls, palm calloused from years of rough flying. But the contact was… steady. Not firm, not soft. Just real.

She let go after a moment, but her eyes lingered.

Then, with a half-shrug and a touch of mock resignation:
“Teysha Minor it is. But if anyone there calls me ‘star-blessed,’ I’m blaming you—and stealing that wrap back for moral protection.” She smirked, clearly teasing.

Rheyla punched in the coordinates. The nav console beeped its approval, and with a familiar jolt, the stars stretched—then snapped into the shimmering blue tunnel of hyperspace.

She leaned back in her seat, boot tapping absently against the worn floor panel.

“Teysha Minor in…” she glanced at the display, “four hours, give or take. Depending on whether my motivator decides to cooperate or explode. Fifty-fifty shot.”

A pause.

She glanced over her shoulder, vaguely toward the back of the ship, then back to Velyra.

“Would offer you something to eat,” she added, tone dry, “but unless you’re in the mood for three-year-old ration bars and caf that could strip paint, I wouldn’t recommend the house menu.”

Rheyla shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of the absurdity of the situation.
She usually had prisoners in the back. Or corpses. Or once—a live gundark.
Now?

Now she had a Senator from Zeltros. With perfect posture. And that infuriating, effortless beauty Zeltrons were practically bred for—like the galaxy’s idea of a cruel joke.

She scratched the back of her neck, almost sheepish. “Not really used to… guests,” she admitted, eyes flicking toward Velyra. “Especially not the diplomatic, alive, and voluntarily onboard kind.”

A beat passed.

Then, drier: “You want the full hospitality experience, I can toss you a pair of stun-cuffs. For authenticity.”

But her mouth twitched at the corner. Not quite a grin. Just enough to suggest she’s joking. Probably.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

Velyra turned the wrap over in her hands again. Still warm from the cockpit. Still fragrant with engine oil, blaster smoke, and the trace of something living.

Rheyla’s scent, she realized, was not one of perfumes or pheromones—but of motion. Burned ozone, spent adrenaline, and iron grit. The smell of someone who never stopped long enough to be caught.

Velyra smiled faintly.

No wonder it suits me.

She folded it carefully and draped it over one shoulder—not like a souvenir, but like a shawl. As if, somehow, it was part of the ensemble all along.

“Well,” she said, tone silk-wrapped mischief, “if Teysha Minor’s the destination, I’ll have to cancel my next ambush.” Her eyes danced. “A shame. I had matching tattered clothes prepared and everything.”

She let that settle just long enough for the joke to register. Then she reached out again, more casually this time, brushing her fingers along the console’s edge before curling them beneath her chin. Her gaze flicked briefly toward hyperspace’s blue tunnel.

“Four hours,” she mused.

She unbuckled the crash strap slowly and stood, stretching with feline grace in the narrow cockpit before settling a hip against the armrest of Rheyla’s seat, carefully at the edge of what seemed to be her bubble of personal space.

There was warmth in her smile now. Still measured, still dressed in velvet, but edged with something sincere. Something bruised. “You didn’t flinch, you know.” Her voice dipped lower. “When I reached for you. When I was a mess. You just… steadied the ship and let me breathe.”

A flutter of lashes, but she didn’t look away.

“I don’t always get that.”

She could have said more. About how often she’d been touched only when perfectly presentable. How few people reached for her without reaching through her. But that would’ve been too raw.

Instead, she tilted her head, letting ash flaked curls tumble over her shoulder.

“I don’t need dinner service, darling. Just a seat that doesn’t fire at me. Though—” she arched a brow, playful again, “—if the stun cuffs would make you feel at home... ”

She had leaned forward slightly before pulling away — then started to move toward the rear of the ship, trailing her fingers along the wall.

“I’ll let you fly. I have a feeling you do your best work with your hands full.”

One last glance over her shoulder. Slower. Lingering. Not a dare, but still an invitation.

“Wake me if the motivator explodes…”
She paused at the threshold, then added with a sudden, almost embarrassed glance at what remained of her uniform:

“…or if I’m allowed to steal your shower, maybe even borrow something not covered in soot?”

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla snorted.

A sharp, amused breath through her nose—brief and involuntary, before she could smooth it out. Velyra's comment about cancelling her next ambush genuinely got to her.

The wrap still rested on Velyra’s shoulder like it belonged there. Like this wasn’t the same woman who’d stumbled through her hull looking like hell minutes ago. No. Now she was all composed glances and dangerous poise, perched at the edge of Rheyla’s armrest like she owned the air around her.

Rheyla didn’t move.

But her eyes flicked up when Velyra spoke again. Really spoke about not flitching

That one landed harder than expected.

Her jaw shifted slightly, like she wanted to say something but hadn’t figured out the shape of it yet. She wasn’t used to gratitude like that. Real. Quiet. No performance.

“Didn’t think you needed flinching,” she said finally, voice low. “You walked out of a crash with half a ship on top of you and still had time to make jokes. That’s not fragile. But strength”

She paused, then added—softer, almost reluctant:

“But… yeah. I noticed.”

And that felt like giving something away.

Rheyla returned her attention to the console, mostly to avoid whatever look Velyra was giving her now. But her lekkus still caught every word, every velvet-edged tease, even when Velyra moved toward the back.

"I have a feeling you do your best work with your hands full."

That one earned a glance.

Then a flicker of a smirk, faint but sharp-edged.

“Only if it’s worth the trouble,” Rheyla said with a bit of cheek in her tone. “Still deciding.”

And then Velyra threw her completely off-script.

Rheyla blinked.

Once.

Her brain tried to reroute. Process. React.

The Senator—the Senator of Zeltros on her ship—wanted to borrow her clothes?

The smart response got jammed somewhere between her throat and her pride. So what came out was a few slow, clearly suspicious words:

“Side room to my sleeping quarter, second door on the right. Shower’s temperamental—you’ll need to toggle the flow valve twice or it screams.”

A pause.

Then, almost before she realised she was doing it: “Closet’s open. Take whatever fits.”

Another pause. Longer. Then a grimace, mostly at herself.

And for a moment, she looked like she might ask why she’d just said yes. But she didn’t. She just ran a thumb along her glove, fidgeting like she needed something to fix.

Her voice dropped—still dry, still hers, but quieter now:

“I’ll wake you if the motivator explodes. Or if the caf starts talking again. Either way, you’ll want to be conscious.”

She didn’t turn around as Velyra disappeared down the corridor. Just leaned back in her seat, one arm draped over the backrest, boot tapping a slow rhythm against the floor.

Like nothing had happened at all.

Except it had.

And that was the problem.

Because Rheyla wasn’t the kind of woman who offered her shower to strangers, she didn’t open up her closet. And she sure as hell didn’t say yes to a senator from Zeltros just because she walked pretty and spoke like velvet.

That wasn’t her.

...Right?

The tap of her boot stopped after about half an hour.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Her brow furrowed—not angry, not annoyed. Just... trying to make sense of herself. And when that didn’t work, when the silence stretched a little too long and her own ship started to feel too damn quiet, Rheyla let out a quiet sigh.

She pushed herself up from the seat.

Didn’t rush. Didn’t try to make excuses for it.

She just… followed the path she expected Velyra to take, to her bedroom.

Curiosity was a hell of a gateway drug to danger that wasn't always bad.

And Rheyla Tann had never been good at leaving well enough alone.

~~~~~~~~~~​

The door slid open with a low hiss, the moment Velyra made her way to the door of Rheyla's very personal quarter, also known as a bedroom.

The room beyond was small, but lived-in—clearly personal, and unmistakably hers.

Half of it was a workspace: a long bench hugged the far wall, cluttered with scattered tools, exposed wiring, and half-disassembled tech. Gears, coils, and stripped power cells sat in open trays, surrounded by datapads with cracked screens and tiny screws gone rogue across the surface. A soldering iron lay cooling in its cradle, and a narrow lamp above cast warm amber light over the mess. The air carried the sharp, familiar scent of heated metal, old circuits, and oil—punctuated faintly by the sterility of fresh welds.

And of course, a pair of metallic cufflinks.

The other half was more private. A low bed, tucked into the corner, still rumpled from sleep. Blankets half-kicked off, one pillow fallen to the floor. Not dirty, but definitely untouched by order—a clear sign that Rheyla didn’t waste time making the bed after rising. The sheets were dark and plain, like the rest of the room, but they looked warm—lived in. A comfort space, not a showpiece.

Against one wall stood a metal closet, utilitarian in design, its door slightly ajar. Inside hung rows of nearly identical outfits: muted tones, breathable fabrics, reinforced stitching. All practical, durable, and built to disappear in a crowd.
Likewise, there were neatly folded shirts and pants of various muted brown, blue and green colours.

But tucked off to one side, partly hidden behind a dark tunic, hung a small pendant—weathered beskar, shaped into an old Mandalorian sigil. It was worn smooth at the edges, clearly handled often. A Clan Token. One of the last pieces left of whatever group had once called Rheyla their own. Beside it, on a narrow shelf, sat a folded strip of red-and-black cloth, frayed at the ends. It might have once been part of a banner, or a shoulder pauldron wrap. Something carried from battle to battle. Something saved, not for utility—but for memory.

A small datachip rested in a magnetic tray nearby, unlabeled. The kind meant for personal files, not mission logs.

At the base of the closet, tucked just behind a folded flight jacket, was the unmistakable glint of a knife blade. Another, smaller one was strapped to the inside of the closet door—easy to miss, but not exactly hidden.

The floor had a few discarded pieces of gear scattered near the workbench: a cracked rebreather mask, a pair of flight boots in need of repair, and a partially open storage crate of spare parts.

The room didn’t try to impress. It just was—a space shaped by habit, necessity, and long hours alone between jobs.
Quiet, cluttered, and unapologetically real.
But in the closet, behind all the repetition and stashed backup vibroknifes…
There were still ghosts she hadn’t let go of.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The door hissed shut behind her with a soft finality, sealing off the cockpit—and with it, the weight of Rheyla Tann's unreadable eyes.

Velyra stood still for a moment, bare feet against cool plating, taking in the quiet chaos of the space. The cluttered workbench, the scattered tools and half-dismantled tech—it all spoke of a woman who fixed things with her hands, not words. She found herself drawn to the worn pendant tucked just behind the line of flight jackets. A Mandalorian sigil, dulled with age, its edges softened by years of touch. Her fingers itched to reach for it, but she didn't. Some ghosts deserved their distance.

Instead, she moved to the closet, selecting a simple oversized shirt—a muted gray thing, with sleeves that would swallow her elbows—and stepped quietly into the adjoining washroom.

The shower screamed exactly as promised. She toggled the valve twice, as instructed, the hiss of steam quickly filling the space. As she stepped beneath the hot stream, her breath caught—not from heat, but from the sudden silence of it all.

The flirtation faded. The adrenaline cooled. And she was alone, at last, with the reality of it.

The pilot who'd died at her side. The man who'd been her bodyguard for a decade. The scorch marks on her dress. The ashes in her lungs.

She pressed a palm against the wall, forehead resting beside it. Her other hand came to her chest, as if trying to still the sudden tremble in her breath.

Stars, what if she hadn't made it? What if Rheyla hadn't been there? What if that moment in the wreck had gone differently?

She tried to ground herself, drawing long, steady breaths. But even that was tainted. Her pheromones—they'd been thick, she could tell now. Velyra, still frayed by fire and grief, leaned on old instincts. Smiles. Tease. Skin. What if that hadn't been fair to Rheyla?

Zeltrons were built for charm, not control. But Velyra had made a life of choosing restraint. Even when grief clawed at her composure. Even when part of her wanted to collapse into someone who didn't flinch.

The steady stream of the water was deafening. Quiet enough she could hear the shuttle wrenching apart. The impact.

She stood under the spray until her muscles stopped aching and her breath found its rhythm. She wrapped her hair in a towel, careful not to drip, and padded barefoot through the corridor once more.

When she reentered the cockpit, she looked smaller somehow—not in stature, but in posture. No earrings. No gloss. Just a woman in someone else's shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair damp and pinned beneath soft white terrycloth.

She slipped quietly into the co-pilot's seat once more, tucking one leg beneath her, and glanced toward Rheyla without the usual lacquered charm.

"I hope I didn’t impose too much," she said, voice gentler now. "Or... overwhelm. I—"

She couldn't handle being alone on the shuttle just yet, even despite the confident facade. The mask she had tricked even herself with when she left the cockpit was removed with the time to contemplate granted.

She hesitated. Then offered the smallest, most vulnerable smile of the evening. Her gaze drifted to the stars beyond the viewport.

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Hyperspace blurred the stars to blue and silence, but Rheyla never fully relaxed—not even in transit.

She’d pulled her blaster from its holster not long after Velyra left. The cockpit had gone quiet, save for the soft hum of the drive and the occasional creak of a freighter aging badly. In the dim light, she inspected the weapon with familiar fingers—flipping it open, checking the charge, cleaning carbon from a stubborn seam with a small tool she kept tucked behind the console.

Routine. Comfort, in a way.

She didn’t need to be doing it, not really. The blaster was already clean. But it kept her hands busy and her mind from wandering somewhere it shouldn’t.

Like how long the shower had been running. Or why the hell she’d just handed over her ship’s only decent towel and a shirt from her personal stash to a senator who had crashed into her life with smoke in her hair and a mouth like danger wrapped in silk.

She clicked the casing shut with a quiet snap. Let the weight of it settle in her palm.

Familiar.

Grounding.

Rheyla did for a second humour the thought of getting to try rich people's wine, she probably never will get a chance to again in life.

And just then, she heard it—the soft pad of bare feet approaching, and the barely-there hiss of the cockpit door sliding open behind her.

Rheyla heard the soft steps before she saw her. No outfit, no boots—just bare feet against old freighter plating, padded quiet like hesitation. She didn’t turn right away. Just adjusted the angle of her boot on the console and watched stars smear blue across the glass.

When she did glance over, it was brief. A flick of the eyes, measured.

Her shirt.

Not that she had many, but—still. Grey, oversized, sleeves swallowed to the elbow. And worn by someone who looked like she’d stepped out of a palace and accidentally wandered into a war zone.

She wasn’t lacquered this time. No earrings. No perfect gloss. Just damp hair pinned under a towel, the curve of her neck still beaded with steam.

Beautiful.

But smaller.

"I hope I didn’t impose too much," she said, voice gentler now. "Or... overwhelm. I—"

A smirk—wry, but not biting.
“You didn’t.”

Rheyla’s eyes flicked to Velyra, now wearing one of her oversized shirts. It looked ridiculous. Soft. Too clean for this ship.
And yet… she’d let her. No protest, no rules, no boundaries. Maybe she didn’t know why.
Or maybe she did, and just didn’t feel like admitting it.

She looked back to the swirling blue tunnel outside, gaze steady.

A beat passed. Then, quieter, more honest than she usually allowed:
“Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

She tilted her head slightly, one lekku slipping from her shoulder as she glanced at Velyra again. This time, her smile wasn’t a smirk.
It wasn’t armour.

Just real—soft at the edges, bordering on sweet. And just as quickly gone, hidden behind the internal armour of trauma, as her attention dropped back to the blaster resting in her lap.

She tapped a switch above them, confirming nav was still clean, then leaned back, letting the silence settle between them, not heavy, just present.

“There’s caf,” she added, quieter now. “One mug. Probably clean. Ish.”

No fuss. No expectations. Just a small offering, rough-edged and real.
Her eyes stayed on the blaster in her hands, but her tone had changed, despite walling off an actual sweet smile, Rheyla still seemed less guarded in general, more grounded. Like someone who didn’t know how to say you’re safe here without sounding like an idiot—so she didn’t.

She just stayed focused on her blaster..

Velyra Vonn​