Private GLITTER AND VIOLENCE

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

Velyra padded toward the little galley nook without a word, bare feet silent against old freighter plating. The oversized shirt she wore hung off one shoulder now, towel still wrapped around her hair like a makeshift crown. A trace of steam still clung to her collarbones.

Her hands found purpose.

Not to pry. Not to charm. Just—move. She located the mug by memory, checked it, and gave it a proper wash with practiced care, pausing to inspect a chip near the rim like it told her something secret about its owner. She rinsed, dried it with a corner of her shirt, then began brewing the caf with far more reverence than it deserved.

One mug, she'd said.

That would do.

She leaned slightly against the counter while the machine sputtered. Let her voice break the quiet—not loudly, just enough to be heard over the hum of hyperspace and the comfort of silence.

“Tell me something,” she said, her tone light, coaxing. “Why... This line of work? Why the Outer Rim? You strike me as someone who could’ve made a name in the Core if you’d wanted.”

She smiled faintly, glanced over her shoulder toward the cockpit.

“Or maybe that was the point—not wanting it.”

The caf beeped. She poured it carefully, inhaling the aroma before turning back toward the cockpit, cradling the mug in both hands. Then—an offer.

“I promise not to hog it.” A slight lift of her brow. “We could share. Unless that breaks some sacred freighter custom.”

She returned to the cockpit slowly, the weight of hyperspace still pressing faintly in her bones. The towel still coiled in her hair had begun to sag, a single dark curl escaping near her temple. The oversized shirt was too soft for her, and yet it suited her strangely—sleeves swallowed to her wrists, hem brushing bare thighs.

Her gaze found Rheyla's again—curious, warm, but with that softened edge of sobriety beneath it now.

“And if that’s too forward, you can deflect by telling me your favorite skyport meal. But you should know—I will judge you for anything freeze-dried.”

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The question drifted in from the galley—soft, unpressing. Just curious.

Rheyla stayed in the cockpit, legs up on the console, blaster still in her lap. She let the silence stretch as she watched the stars blur by—swirling, endless. Safe, in their way. Predictable.

"Ryloth. Wild Space," she called back at last, voice even. "Don't remember much, but got picked up by a Mandalorian clan. Vhett. Small. Tight-knit. We took the kind of work the Core pretends doesn't exist." Her tone was distant—casual, almost flippant. Not cold. Just… controlled. "Taught me how to fight. How to fly. How to survive when no one’s coming."

A long pause followed. Too long to be casual. The hum of hyperspace filled the space she didn't.

"They're gone now."
Just that. No further explanation. No names lost. No tragedy cried.
But even from where Velyra stood, the words came charred—burned down to ash, too deep to name, too raw to share. A closed door. And behind it, something that still smouldered.

She adjusted the blaster idly, as if to shift the weight of the moment.

"And the Core?" A quiet scoff. "Too many rules. Too many eyes. You start giving people expectations, they start thinking they own a piece of you." She glanced back—not toward the open doorframe, not directly—but enough that the movement betrayed awareness. Or maybe... something more.

"Out here, no one expects anything. Which suits me fine."

A beat.

"Mostly." She mumbled to herself. A faint, self-directed smile tugged at her mouth—barely there. Then gone.

"Anyway, never met a caf worth a damn in the Core. Guess I'm staying for the drinks." Rheyla didn't turn as Velyra approached—just kept her gaze on the stars outside, fingers drumming absently on the edge of the console.

"You're in luck," she said after a beat, voice dry. "Sacred freighter customs allow shared caf if the offering party isn't wearing pants."

She finally looked at Velyra then, head tilted just enough for one lekku to slide off her shoulder again. Her smirk was light, less armour, more invitation.

"Lucky you qualify, then." She reached out and accepted the mug with one hand, not quite touching Velyra's fingers but not avoiding them either. Then, without ceremony, she took a sip—grimaced slightly.

"...Not terrible," she admitted. "Might just earn your co-pilot stripes yet."

Rheyla leaned back in the pilot’s chair, boot tapping lightly against the console frame. The caf mug rested between them now, balanced on a crate she’d dragged closer—neutral ground. Her gaze flicked toward the blue tunnel of hyperspace, then back to Velyra.

Then, a sideways glance. "So."

A pause. "What’s a prim, polished, Zeltros-born senator doing on a gutterworld like Naraka?" She didn’t say it unkindly. If anything, her tone was with a light tease—too light, like she was poking at the edge of something real without making it obvious.

"Secret lover? Fleeing a political rival who's also your ex? Midlife crisis?" A faint smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth—not mocking, just curious, like she was honestly trying to picture it. Her lekku shifted as she tilted her head, the motion lazy, thoughtful.
Rheyla didn’t even know how old the senator was—Zeltrons were impossible to pin down that way—so the midlife crisis line was more tease than theory.

"Or let me guess… you're secretly part of some undercover operation to destabilise caf prices in the Outer Rim."

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

She rose just slightly to shift her weight, letting the hem of Rheyla’s oversized shirt swish loosely around her thighs with a deliberate sashay. Not overdone, just enough to remind the room that she still knew exactly what she was doing.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to stay pantsless for morale,” she murmured, gaze flicking toward the copilot’s seat with theatrical innocence.
“Customs are customs, after all.”

The corners of her lips turned upward—but just for a moment.

“A secret lover?” Her brows lifted theatrically. “Stars, don’t tempt me. I’ve already got twelve husbands and sixteen wives. Give or take a handful of divorce hearings.”

She sipped the caf and gave a wry little shrug. A practiced motion, almost elegant in its resignation. Exaggeration? Maybe. Maybe not.

“One more scandal and I’ll need to start sending apologies in bulk. I hear Mon Cala prints them on biodegradable scented Vellum these days.”

She glanced at Rheyla sidelong, studying the play of light against cheekbone and blaster alike.

"Maybe I just like good caf and dangerous women,” she said finally, a glint of dry affection in her voice.
“I’ve made worse decisions.”

She let that hang in the air a moment before reclining slightly, one knee curling beneath her.

“I was on my way back from a summit,” she said after a pause—less performative now. The truth. “Anti-corruption efforts across the Mid Rim—shared audits, civilian oversight councils, post-reconstruction accountability…” She trailed off, then tilted her head faintly, smirking. “You know. The kind of things that make very wealthy, very guilty people nervous.”

Her tone turned more clipped—sharper, but still poised.

“Stopped to refuel on the way back. I was... I was teasing the pilot right before the first explosion.”

She voice clipped short again. The weight of it sank into the quiet between them—like carbon smoke still clinging to skin no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla let out a low whistle.

“Twelve husbands, sixteen wives, and still found time to crash-land near my ship. Busy calendar.”

She swirled the caf in the mug, watching it catch the light. “You politicians really are overachievers.”

A beat passed. Her gaze lingered on Velyra—not quite soft, but not her usual armour either. Something between amusement and scrutiny. Rheyla huffed a low laugh into her caf. “Wealthy, very guilty people nervous…” She tilted her head slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’d pay to see that.”

A beat. Her eyes didn’t leave the stars.

“Hell, I’ve done worse for free.”

The smile lingered—crooked. Not quite bragging. More like memory.

She holstered her blaster, then added with dry amusement, “There’s a certain sector Moff still nursing a bruised ego and a missing prisoner. Word is, he’s got a bounty out—unofficial, of course. No paperwork. Just credits and a grudge.” She glanced sideways, the curve of her mouth sharp as a vibroblade. “Apparently, leaving a man stranded on a prison moon messes with his career trajectory.”

Then she shrugged like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just admitted to humiliating Imperial brass and painting a target on her back.

“Anyway. Some people just don’t take losing well.”

The hum of hyperspace filled the gap again. Rheyla didn’t rush to fill it.

She took another sip of caf before handing the cup to Velyra.

A wry smirk followed.

“Anyway. My vote’s on 'dangerous women and bad life choices.' You’ve got good taste, at least.”

She leaned her head back, one lekku draping over the side of the chair, eyes flicking to the side with a lopsided grin.

“Dangerous women and bad life choices,” she echoed.

“Guess that puts us both on-brand. Maybe our meeting was fated, Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros,” Rheyla teased, her eyes settling on the woman beside her—bathed in the dim glow of hyperspace, where shadows traced the slope of her cheek and the glint of chartreuse eyes watched the stars like they meant something. The oversized shirt draped artfully off one shoulder, all silk and sin against the control seat’s hard lines. A smile tugged at Rheyla’s mouth—curious, crooked—before she finally looked away.

Her gaze landed on a weathered deck of cards.

Reaching into the side panel, she pulled out a worn Pazaak deck—cards bound by a fraying strap, corners curled with use. The kind of deck that had seen too many cantinas, too many high-stakes holds, and maybe one or two blaster-scorched tables.

“Tell you what,” she said, holding it up between two fingers. “We’ve got a long jump and half a pot of mediocre caf.”

Her grin curved slow and sharp.

“You know how to play Pazaak, Miss Lady Senator? Feel like tempting fate…?” She teased her again.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

By the time the nav timer dipped below five minutes, Velyra had lost three rounds of Pazaak, won two, and surrendered one with the kind of flourish that suggested a dramatic bluff—even if it wasn’t.

They’d shared the rest of the caf. Exchanged small stories, lightly worn. The kind that didn’t press, didn’t dig. Just enough to feel less alone.

And somewhere in between sarcastic wagers the air between them had shifted more. Not completely. Not permanently.
But enough for the Zeltron to breathe a little easier.

Now, perched in front of a small reflective panel mounted above the freighter’s sink, Velyra tapped a bit of tinted balm across her cheekbones with her ring finger, blending it in with practiced ease. The result wasn’t flawless—but then, perfection was for speeches. This was for armor.

A little color. A little shape. Just enough to add insult to injury when they see me not only alive but thriving.

And in the company of someone with grit cast in their very bones. If she does get recognized, a public appearance like this would still play in her favor.
She dragged the edge of a stylus casing across her upper lid, just sharp enough to mimic liner. It worked—barely. Good enough for improvised caf-grounds as pigment. Not a lot of emergency beauty supply stations in hyperspace.

“Never underestimate the power of recycled cosmetics,” she murmured to her reflection, then turned slightly, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. Her hands lingered there for a beat—then dropped.

Paint the face. Square the shoulders. Let them see what you want them to see.

She unzipped the borrowed jacket another inch. Not enough to reveal burns in her newly laundered top, just enough to hint at the assets underneath it.

Perfect.

The ship gave a familiar lurch beneath her feet—a soft tremble through the floor that warned of reversion to realspace.
Velyra exhaled once. Calm, composed.

Then stepped lightly from the mirror and made her way forward, ready to follow Rheyla by the elbow – such a formal posture wasn't too intimidating for the dangerous Twi'lek.

“Showtime.”

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t primp.

She didn’t own dresses. Didn’t paint her face. Didn’t hover in front of reflective panels wondering what the galaxy would see. The idea alone made her vaguely itch. She understood the value of appearance—how a certain tilt of the head or cut of fabric could disarm, distract, and control a room without saying a word. She’d watched others weaponise beauty like a vibroblade. And she'd be lying if she said it didn't work. If it didn’t look good.

But that game had never been hers.

She leaned against the wall just outside her own quarters, arms folded across her chest, one boot braced against the bulkhead. Waiting.

It was still strange—having someone else in her space. Her bunk. Her fresher. The galley already felt less like hers with two mugs in the rack. She’d given permission. Freely. Reflexively, even.

And she hadn’t retracted it. Wouldn’t. But stars, it itched.

She didn't know why she'd said yes. Not really.

Maybe it was the caf. Perhaps it was the Pazaak. Or maybe it was the way the Senator had smiled like she knew the punchline to a joke Rheyla hadn’t even realised she was telling.

The ship shuddered as it exited hyperspace—a soft groan of worn stabilisers kicking back into realspace. Rheyla didn’t move.

Outside the viewport, Teysha Minor glittered like a lie told with confidence: a jewel-cut little pleasure moon wrapped in silver rings and atmospheric shimmer. Up close, the spires of crystalline architecture rose like spun sugar from velvet valleys, all designed to impress.

Rheyla snorted to herself.

Somewhere down there, they probably did serve symphony liquor in ice goblets. Somewhere down there, someone probably would call her star-blessed with a straight face. She could already hear herself trying not to punch them.

The cockpit argument with landing control had been brief, gruff, and just rude enough to secure a pad. No names given. No titles claimed. Just a transponder ping and a refusal to pay a guest registration fee.

They landed anyway.

Now, as footsteps padded softly up the corridor, Rheyla tilted her head toward the sound without fully turning.

“You done making caf into cosmetics in there?” she called with a dry tease. “Or should I prep a gift basket for the spa?” No real bite behind the words—just that crooked edge of sarcasm she always wore when unsure what to do with herself.

Still not looking, she added: “Welcome to Teysha Minor. Hope you’re ready to be called ‘star-blessed’ by a man in decorative gloves.”

And maybe—just maybe—her mouth curved into something that could be mistaken for a smile.

The click of approaching steps echoed down the corridor.

Rheyla didn’t straighten, didn’t shift her weight. She just exhaled slowly through her nose and let her arms stay folded, one boot still pressed against the bulkhead wall. When Velyra appeared, she caught her first with peripheral instinct—then turned, just slightly.

And yeah.
She looked.

The jacket—hers—hung open just enough to hint. Not enough to flash. Just enough to suggest that whatever had been scorched beneath it had been covered in something cleaner, tighter, and criminally well-fitted. The curls were tucked, the cheekbones sharpened with something subtle, and the glint in Velyra’s chartreuse eyes had returned full force.

“...Huh,” Rheyla muttered, mostly to herself. Her eyes captivated Velyra a second longer than normal.

No other comment. No compliment. Just a flick of the brow, the almost-smile that said she’d noticed and chose not to elaborate.

She pushed off the wall with a slow, casual roll of her shoulders and reached to key the hatch release. The ramp hissed, then began to lower—metal groaning into the high-humidity air of Teysha Minor. The scent hit first: syrup-sweet florals and some kind of expensive atmospheric filtration, probably designed to smell like nothing at all except wealth.

Rheyla made a face. “Smells like a perfumed bank vault.” She almost regretted it, almost.

She started down the ramp with that easy, loping gait of hers—half-glide, half-threat. She didn’t look back to see if Velyra was following. Just spoke as she walked:

“Okay, ground rules: I don’t pay cover. I don’t wear collars. And if anyone asks, I’m your disgruntled bodyguard—fired halfway through the night, stuck around for the drinks… and maybe the company.”

A beat.

Then, with a glance over her shoulder—dry smirk, voice low and amused:

“Unless you’ve got a better story, Red.”

The breeze caught her lekku as she stepped off the ramp—night wind warm with planetlight shimmer, the kind that didn’t come cheap. Ahead, the landing pad glowed with subtle underlights, polished to a mirror’s sheen. Past it, a shuttle bay offered sleek passage into the entertainment district proper—tiered balconies, translucent crystal walkways, faint music drifting down like perfume.

It was too clean. Too polished.

Too Teysha.

Rheyla hated it already.

They didn’t make it five steps before the guards arrived.

Three of them, in charcoal armour trimmed with tasteful silver, already moving the second the landing struts hissed. No weapons drawn, but hands hovered near holsters—casual stances with trained weight behind them. Their helmets were smooth, unreadable. The lead one tilted his head just slightly, sizing her up like a burn mark on marble.

Above, security drones swept past with soft, chiming tones—elegant little whispers that said: you don’t belong here.

Her ship creaked behind her like an insult in steel.

Rheyla didn’t reach for her blaster.

Yet.

She just stopped—boots solid on the spotless pad, shoulders loose. Let the silence hang a second. Then muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Red to hear:

“Let me guess,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Red to hear. “The decor doesn’t scream ‘fire hazard,’ but I do.”

But when she glanced back—just for a moment—and saw Velyra Vonn beside her, composed and radiant, somehow turning borrowed clothes and caf-pigment into political weaponry…

She almost didn’t mind.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

She rounded the corner and descended the ramp in Rheyla’s wake, every step soft and slow like a practiced entrance. Hair pinned, neckline framed, jacket unzipped just enough to tease the idea of ruin without inviting it. Even now – especially now – she wore her injuries like accessories, not flaws.

One of the guards turned. She felt it. The smallest ripple: attention, curiosity, something quiet and half-coiled beneath the matte helmets. Velyra let it wash past her, unbothered.

“And you,” she added over her shoulder, voice dipped into velvet, “make a very convincing bodyguard. Just the right amount of unresolved rage.”

A subtle shift in the atmosphere followed. Something in Rheyla—tense? Braced? Curious? Velyra couldn’t read the thoughts, of course. Only the temperature. A soft churn beneath the surface that told her not to press too hard. Not yet.

When the guards stepped forward, she adjusted. One shoulder turned—opening her posture without surrendering it. Smile gentle. Presence unmistakable.
Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

The lead guard hesitated. Just a second. It was always the pause that gave them away—the fraction of a beat where the scent of perfume didn’t match the phrasing of command.

Velyra stepped closer.
Not confrontational—gracious.
She tilted her head, a smile like polished chrome. “I’m sure it was simply a delay in coordination. We’ve a standing arrangement with resort management—Suite Eight-Four. No aliases. No retinue.”

Not exactly a lie either. Not exactly. She’d booked it under an old diplomatic courtesy weeks ago, back when Teysha had just been a passing idea on the itinerary. One of her familes was going to be in the region around the same time, but it fell through at the last minute. It was a severely late check in, but a travelling polyamorous politician had to have contingency bookings to keep up with her relatives.

She lifted a hand and the lead guard’s gaze faltered behind the visor. The security drones turned to one another as the reservetion checked clear. They simply rotated, hovering quietly overhead.
After a beat, the guards parted. The lead one gave a clipped nod.

Velyra didn’t thank him. Just offered a slightly self satisfied smirk as she extended a hand behind her wrist turned elegantly, not looking, to offer Rheyla her place at her side.

If the Twi’lek took it, fine. If not? The gesture remained.

They passed through the security arch as the path opened. The scent of too-perfect air hit harder now, sweet with artificial calm.

Once they were clear, Velyra murmured low—barely audible over the soft pulse of music ahead.

“You were right, by the way,” she said without looking over. “This place does smell like polished credits and cosmetic surgery.”

One heel clicked softly on the translucent flooring. A subtle glance, just enough to meet Rheyla’s eye. After all, they had a legitimate reservation to fake.

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t take the hand.

Not because she didn’t want to.

Because the guards were still within earshot, and Velyra’s outstretched arm looked too much like something out of a high-budget romance ad. And if she touched it—if she let herself—that slight smirk on her face might’ve cracked wide into something worse—something real.

So instead, she fell into step beside her. Close enough to count it.

Her voice was low, edged with disbelief, amusement—and just the faintest tease of something warmer.
“Of course, you had a suite here. I could’ve thrown a dart at a star map and still landed in your backup honeymoon plan. Remind me to rescue you more often.”

The city opened up around them—gleaming walkways, music rising in slow waves from polished terraces, neon cascading down glasslike waterfalls meant for aesthetics more than function. Teysha Minor didn’t feel like a place. It felt like someone’s idea of one. Like a sales pitch wrapped in starlight and filtered air.

Rheyla's eyes stayed forward, but her voice lowered again, almost idle:

“Next time someone nods at you like that, you should charge him for the privilege. Double if his drone gets ideas.”

The way she moved a half-step closer—shoulder to shoulder now, not trailing—said enough.

The walkway curved ahead in a slow incline—no railings, just wide transparent panels cantilevered over a horizon soaked in golds and violets. Below, the pleasure district stretched like an open jewel case—terraced lounges, boutique casinos, spas shaped like constellations. Hovercraft drifted lazily between tiers like expensive afterthoughts. Somewhere in the distance, music played with just enough sub-bass to feel it more than hear it. Not a sound out of place.

It was the kind of wealth designed to feel effortless.

The kind that took entire governments to maintain.

Rheyla’s boots made soft, flat sounds against the smooth flooring like they didn’t belong. She kept her stride loose, eyes flicking toward movement, light, scent.

Every inch of this place smelled controlled—air scrubbed clean of consequence. Like someone had taken a whole moon and told it to behave.

She blew out a slow breath through her nose. “This much money shouldn’t be quiet. I don’t trust quiet.”

Then, with a glance at Velyra, softer than expected:
“Place like this doesn’t feel alive. Just… curated.”

A small group passed them headed the other direction—well-dressed, clearly local, clearly watching. Rheyla’s body shifted, instinctive—subtle, almost imperceptible. She didn’t block Velyra’s path. Didn’t shield her. But she placed herself just off-centre. A step between. A position easy to deny if questioned.

When the group passed, she didn’t relax. Just adjusted back into rhythm like nothing had happened.

As they crossed a floating bridge between two spires—its underside lit in slow-blooming hues of teal and blush—she added, more dryly:
“Still, gotta give 'em credit. Even the glow here looks expensive.”

And then, almost as if she regretted the softness in her tone a moment ago, she tacked on:
“Bet if you licked one of these walls, it’d taste like credits and teeth whitener.”

A faint grin, crooked. Real.

~~~~~​

The interior was worse.

Glass floors with light woven beneath them, pulsing in lazy intervals like a heartbeat trying to seduce. Every surface gleamed—plated in chromaglass or some expensive alloy designed to never fingerprint. The air carried notes of orchid and ozone, cool and artificial.

A trio of reception droids waited behind a crescent-shaped desk, each one shaped like a stylised statue—sleek, silver-limbed, and faceless save for the soft glow of their eye-lines.

Rheyla slowed only slightly, gaze flicking across the space, already noting exits, cameras, blind spots.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

This was Red’s territory now.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros
​

The blinds had just settled shut. Wine just poured. The tension—just beginning to settle into something more tender. But of course, someone had to ruin it.

He entered without knocking, flanked by two overdressed bodyguards in mirrored vests and electro-jackets. A smirk preceded him—thick-jawed, overcologned, his hair sculpted into a half-slick faux-hawk that defied both gravity and good taste.

“Evenin’, ladies,” the newcomer said, voice full of smug grease. “Heard someone important was staying in Eight-Four, and what do I find? The Velyra Vonn, gracing Teysha with her curves and convictions.”

Oh, Force preserve us. A local.

He swaggered in like the suite was his. Hands out, looking around with mock approval, as if this were a brothel he'd just decided to buy.

“I’m Kalden Strimm,” he said as if his name meant anything. He tossed a cred chit onto the bar. “You may have heard of me. Big name down here. Entertainment, logistics, pharmaceuticals—you know, little bit of everything.”
He winked, as if the euphemism made him irresistible.

His eyes made the mistake of lingering too long on Velyra’s form, flicking over the fabric of her gown like they’d earned that right. Then they slid to Rheyla with a conspiratorial grin.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just thought maybe the Esteemed Senator could use... stronger local ties. Someone who knows how to handle things when the streets get messy.”

He’s posturing. Craving validation. Wants to be seen as dangerous and desirable. In truth, he reeks of daddy's credit line and a deathstick habit. Likely bought his 'entourage' and leased his name. Thinks he can sweet talk some politician with juvenile posturing and start some corruption racket.

Velyra didn’t rise. She simply leaned back in the conversation pit, her wine untouched in hand, gaze cool and unreadable.

“You poor thing.”
Her voice was velvet. Pity disguised as warmth.
“You've fooled yourself into thinking you're relevant.”

She let the words linger, then flicked her eyes to Rheyla not commanding, not even asking, just... allowing, if she wanted.
A nod. An opening.

The kind of subtle cue that said:

Handle him as you like, darling. I’ll savor the view.

Rheyla Tann
​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t move at first.

She just looked at him. Really looked. From the plastic grin to the artificially whitened teeth, to the faux-hawk that looked like it required a maintenance droid and a prayer.

And then she took a step forward. Just one. Slow, easy.

Picked up his cred chit off the bar between two fingers like it offended her.

“Kalden Strimm,” she repeated, dry as vacuum.

She let the name hang in the air, as if tasting it. Then made a small, thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. Tossed the chit once, caught it.

“Right. Entertainment, logistics, pharmaceuticals—little bit of everything, huh?” Her voice stayed casual, low, like a sabacc player halfway through a bluff. “That’s cute. You sound like a rejected dating profile for someone whose trust fund was the last thing that ever loved them.”

Another flick of her fingers, and the chit clattered to the floor—gently. Not dropped. Discarded.

Her gaze didn’t leave him.

“I’m gonna guess you’re used to people pretending that smirk of yours is charming. Probably gets you past a few VIP lounges. Maybe even gets you a holo in one of those 'Bachelors of Teysha' articles with the uncomfortable lighting and bad cologne advice.”

She leaned in slightly, voice dipping with just a flicker of suggestion:

“But here’s the thing, Kalden. You walked into this room like it’s for sale. It’s not. Not the woman. Not the air. Not even the view.”

Pause.

“Although, I’m told the electro-jackets go for about forty credits on discount day, so congrats on splurging.”

She smiled, just a little. A crooked, predatory thing.

“And you should know—if you look at her like that again, I won’t punch you.”

A beat.

“I’ll laugh.”
Another pause.
“Then I’ll watch what’s left of your self-respect try to crawl out of this suite in those borrowed boots.”

She stepped back, slow and deliberate, turning to face Velyra without another glance at him.

Tone cool. Unbothered. Professional.

“Client handled.”

She reclaimed her drink from where she’d left it by Velyra—lifted it without ceremony, like it was part of the rhythm. Took a sip.

It still tasted like something she couldn’t place. Expensive, complex. Too refined for her usual palate. But she drank it anyway.

There was a beat of silence.

And then—just as expected—Kalden laughed.

Too loud. Too forced. Like he was trying to fill the room with it, remind everyone he was still there. Still important.

He stepped forward again, brushing at the front of his jacket like her words had left something on him.

“Feisty one, aren’t you?” he said, voice dipped in the kind of smarm that thought it could pass for charm. “Bit mouthy for hired muscle, but I get it—every senator needs her strays.”

He smiled, wide and condescending, eyes back on Velyra.

“You always did like collecting things, didn’t you? This one’s got bite, sure, but I’d be careful. Street dogs get twitchy when they think they’ve got territory.”

He flicked his eyes to Rheyla again, that too-slick smile unwavering.

“Why don’t you run along, sweetheart? Let the people with actual power talk business.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Not a twitch, not a warning—just a shift in the air. The kind of cold that made people stop walking. A narrowing of her gaze that pulled every ounce of warmth from the room.

And Kalden—Kalden—actually stammered.

Just for a second. A hiccup of breath, a falter in his fake grin as something instinctual told him he’d stepped too close to something that bit.

His two bodyguards took a subtle half-step forward. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. Their mirrored vests caught the light, but not Rheyla’s attention.

Because she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

She turned her head, slow and deliberate, gaze settling on Velyra with that crooked not-quite-a-smile she used when things mattered, but she refused to say so.

Her voice came quiet—dry with amusement, but softened at the edges. A thread of something gentler, buried beneath the casual delivery. Something careful.

“Red,” she asked, tone too even to be flippant, “if I deck this polished cockroach, does that land you in trouble?”

She didn’t ask if she’d get in trouble. That part didn’t matter.

Just an honest calculation, laced with dry amusement, unspoken loyalty—and a flicker of concern she’d never call what it was.

It almost meant: Don’t say yes. But I’ll stop if you need me to.

Velyra Vonn​

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros
​

Velyra crossed on leg over the other and leaned back, one hand lifting her drink to her lips, the other stretched over the bench casually.

“Red,” she asked, tone too even to be flippant, “if I deck this polished cockroach, does that land you in trouble?”

"Not at all, I'm just a patron here. Being accosted by men who I've conveniently started investigating for political corruption.”

Velyra let out something between a giggle and sultry snickering. She sipped, observing the tension in the moment of silence.

"Have your fun, darling, I think they could use humbling before someone less pleasant teaches them how adults handle things."

Velyra watched, dangerously close to openly ogling the Twi'lek when she made her next move.

Rheyla Tann​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla tilted her head at Velyra’s reply, that slow, crooked smirk sliding into place like a weapon being unsheathed.

“You know,” she said, voice low and honey-warm, “you always know just what to say to make a girl feel appreciated.”

Then she turned—just a little. Just enough to bring Kalden back into view, though her eyes stayed half-lidded. Relaxed. Like this was already over.

It was.

“Right,” she murmured. “Showtime.”

The first move wasn’t a punch.

It was a flick—a sharp little jab with two fingers to Kalden’s forehead, like swatting a button on a malfunctioning panel. He stumbled back with a noise of protest, more indignant than hurt.

She didn't give him time to recover.

Pivot. Drop.

Her boot swept his leg out from under him with surgical ease. Kalden crumpled like a bad deal, hitting the carpet with a soft oof that might’ve been funnier if it weren’t so pitiful.

Then the bodyguards moved.

She met the first mid-charge, stepped in close. One knee to the gut—clean, brutal. He doubled, and her elbow drove down hard on the back of his neck, slamming him into the floor with a thud that rattled the low table nearby.

The second was smarter. He circled. Reached for a stun baton.

Rheyla let him.

Let him see her watching. Let him think. Let him imagine, just for a second, that he had the advantage—that her silence was hesitation, not calculation.

Her lekku shifted, a subtle coil of tension—like a predator adjusting its stance, reading wind and blood and distance. One twitched against her shoulder, the other draped low behind her, still and poised.

And then she moved.

Feint left—he bit.

She twisted low under the arc of his swing, fluid as smoke, one lekku flicking out with the motion. Her hand snapped up, catching his wrist mid-strike, twisting it at an angle it was never meant to bend.

And then—momentum. Velocity. Brutality.

She drove him forward with his own weight, slamming his face into the nearest support pillar. The crack of bone against durasteel rang out like a bell in a cathedral. Her lekku snapped with the sudden force, one curling forward across her shoulder like punctuation.

He dropped.

She caught him before he hit the ground—gripped the back of his collar like trash to be taken out—and hurled him across the room. He crashed through a polished table, sending high-end appetisers and crystalware shattering like fireworks.

A stunned silence spread through the suite, thick with disbelief and dawning fear.

Kalden groaned from the floor.

Rheyla turned slowly, adjusting her sleeves with the careful precision of someone who knew exactly how dramatic stillness could be. Her lekku draped languidly now, relaxed in the way only confidence could afford.

Not rushed. Not winded.

Just… finished.

And somewhere behind her, she could feel Velyra watching.

Enjoying.

Approving.

Which was more dangerous than anything else in the room.

She walked back to Velyra’s side like the suite was hers now, picked up her glass—still half-full and untouched.

Lifted it.

Sipped.

Still too refined. Still something she couldn’t name. But this time, it tasted like performance. Like proof.

She didn’t look at Kalden. Didn’t need to.

“Stay down, sweetheart,” she said lightly, but with bite. “I promise your dignity’s in worse shape than your jaw.”

Kalden groaned again, rolled onto his side, and pushed himself upright with a grunt that sounded more insulted than injured. He scoffed—an indignant, wheezing thing—as he stood, swaying, clutching the side of his bruised face.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, voice raw with humiliation and strained pride. “You’ve made a very expensive mistake.”

He turned with a stagger that ruined the threat entirely, one hand flapping vaguely toward the door like it owed him obedience. Behind him, the first bodyguard scrambled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, only to be half-lifted by the second—both of them trying to salvage dignity as they hustled after their employer with the quiet panic of men rethinking their career choices.

A final broken-glass crunch under someone’s boot, the hiss of the door sliding shut—and silence.

Then she turned her head, just enough to meet Velyra’s gaze.

“And for the record…” she added, voice dipping silk-smooth, “you give the best invitations, Red.”

Velyra Vonn​