Private I Shot the Deputy...or Was it the Sheriff?

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

GAROS IV

The wind outside howled like a beast with no teeth—loud, but harmless. Dust peeled off the cracked terrain in lazy spirals, carried into the corners of the saloon like ghosts without homes.

Aether stood near the bar, helmet on, cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders, the mud and grit of a long ride still clinging to the hem. Beside him, two of the Mandalorian Protectors flanked the room like statues carved from old iron. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Their sigils spoke loud enough.

This was not a place of ceremony or spectacle. It was a bar. A watering hole. A dim-lit crossroads of stories both true and tall—where folks drank cheap liquor and nursed quieter regrets. And now, it was a recruitment site.

Across from him stood Carter Flinn—cocky posture, calloused hands, and a grin that looked like it had gotten him into more trouble than out of it.

Aether regarded him in silence.

PING.

His HUD flickered to life. The tracer in his visor outlined Flinn’s profile. A dozen petty crimes in Hutt Space. Nothing major. Smuggling. Reckless discharge. A barfight that left someone with a limp and a grudge.

“According to my sources,” Aether said evenly, “you’re a wanted man.”

The room shifted slightly. Conversations dipped. Someone set their glass down, slowly.

“You sure you can wear the mark of the Protectors? Represent the law?”

Flinn didn’t blink. “I’ve done my runnin’, Mand’alor. Swear on the dust beneath my boots—I ain’t that man anymore.”

Aether didn’t answer. Not right away.

Because his gut—trained by war, by betrayal, by too many close calls—was telling him something else.

Not everyone in this room was here for justice.

And some weren’t here to join anything at all.​

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The wind had teeth, but not enough bite to matter. It rasped against the hull of her ship like a beggar’s hand—persistent, dry, and unwelcome. Rheyla adjusted the scarf over her lekku as she stepped down the ramp, the heat rising off the ground like a ghost.

Garos IV was no jewel. Dust-choked air, two moons, and a sun that didn’t seem to care who it burned. The settlement ahead was little more than a scatter of duracrete and rust, the kind of place where people vanished—either because they wanted to, or someone else wanted it more.

She liked that.

Her boots crunched against the hard-packed dirt road as she walked, the settlement’s edge rising ahead like a bad idea that someone forgot to finish building. No name signs. No welcoming comms. Just a long row of squat buildings half-sunk into the planet’s cracked skin, and a cantina with a flickering sign that hadn’t worked in years.

Rheyla kept her pace steady. Her ship—a scrap-bucket YT-2400 she lovingly called The Scourhawk—was locked down behind her, hidden in a rocky bluff. No landing pads here. Just a stretch of quiet terrain and a borrowed power cell keeping her nav systems warm.

In her hand, her datapad flickered softly. The bounty ping was faint but recent.

CARTER FLINN
2,000 credits.
Alive preferred.
Last confirmed trace: Garos IV settlement, cantina vicinity.​

She didn’t need the file anymore. She’d studied his face, read the gaps between his records. Smuggler. Runner. A cocky bastard with a knack for vanishing right before the net closed.

But not this time.

She passed an old droid slumped in the dust, its photoreceptors long dead. A pair of locals watched her from the shadow of a corrugated awning, one chewing something that looked like it used to be food. She nodded once—just enough to acknowledge without inviting anything.

Let them wonder. Let them think she was just another drifter.

That was the trick.

People underestimated charm when it came wrapped in soft eyes and a quiet walk. They saw a Twi’lek girl with a scarf and a worn, snug, durable brown outfit and thought courier, maybe a freighter pilot, maybe someone trying to outrun their own debt. They never thought bounty hunter. And certainly not one who could gut a man before he finished his drink.

She liked that too.

Her hand brushed against her cloak, checking the weight of the vibroblade at her hip. Her blaster rode silently under her arm, cool against her ribs. Her armour—partial, green-painted beskar—was concealed well enough beneath the covering layer of her tattered cloak made into a make-shift poncho. Just enough to turn a knife. Not enough to start a war.

The cantina came into view as a gust of wind blew grit across the street. A drunken protocol droid stumbled out of the entrance and promptly collapsed into a barrel. No one helped it.

Rheyla stepped past without pause.

The saloon door creaked open—just enough to let in a gust of wind and the quiet shuffle of boots.

No one turned. Not really. A drifter walking into a place like this wasn’t a story. Not on Garos IV.

Rheyla moved like she belonged there, cloak trailing low behind her, dust-cloaked boots scuffing faintly on the warped flooring. Her lekku were wrapped and draped in worn cloth, and her blaster—secured high in a cross-draw position—was hidden beneath a fold of cloak. One vibroblade at her hip. Nothing flashy.

She looked like a courier. Or a scavenger. Or someone who didn’t want to be asked.

And that was exactly the idea.

She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, one elbow resting casually on the counter, her eyes catching just enough light to gleam amber in the haze. A lazy breath escaped her lips, like she'd just finished a long day on a speeder. She didn’t stare. She didn’t need to. Just observed in the reflection of a rusted bar mirror, cracked at the corner.

There he was.

Carter Flinn. White grin. Dusty boots. Smuggler swagger. And standing beside a Mandalorian—not just any, either. The armour alone told her enough: this wasn’t just some merc in painted iron. This was someone dangerous.

Her brow arched slightly. “Huh,” she murmured, barely audible, more to herself than anyone. This was supposed to be easy. A small bounty. Alive, preferred. Quick snatch-and-leave. But now Flinn was rubbing shoulders with Mandalorians, and that meant things were messy. She didn’t tense. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, she flagged down the barkeep with a soft gesture and a flick of credits.

“Water,” she said, voice low, honey-smooth. “Dust gets in everything.”

The barkeep grunted and slid her a dented metal cup. She took a sip and settled in. Watching without watching. Listening without leaning. There was always a crack in the armour, always a moment.

She just had to wait for it.

Aether Verd

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

GAROS IV

The saloon door groaned open.

Aether didn’t turn—but the Protector to his right did. Subtle, but sharp. A shift of posture. A hand brushed the grip of their weapon, not to draw, but to be ready. The other adjusted their stance to keep the newcomer in peripheral sight.

Not for Carter.

For him.

Aether caught the reflection in the bar mirror. Twi’lek. Cloaked. Light on her feet but not uncertain. The way she entered was careful. Casual. The kind of casual that took practice. Aether didn’t need a scan to know she was armed, and he didn’t need the Force to know she was watching. But she wasn’t the priority.

His voice cut through the low hum of the saloon.

“Turn around, Carter.”

The smuggler blinked, halfway through a smirk. “What? Thought you were still deciding if—”

“Now.”

Carter turned.

Aether stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. From beneath his cloak, he produced a small sigil—durasteel, worn by time and war, but unmistakable. The mark of the Protectors. The symbol of those who kept Mandalore’s peace.

He held it out between them.

“This isn’t a trophy,” Aether said. “It’s not a pardon. It’s not a shield you get to hide behind when your past comes calling.”

Carter’s eyes fell on the sigil.

“You wear this, and you’re the law. That means when someone’s in trouble, you don’t look away. That means your word means something. That means you stand between the innocent and the chaos waiting outside these walls.”

The saloon was quiet now. Every drink paused mid-hand. Every breath caught just slightly.

Aether took one step closer, his voice lowering.

“It means you belong to something bigger than yourself. Not the Empire. Not the clans. Mandalore. Its people. Its promise.”

He placed the sigil in Carter’s hand.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

For once, the cocky grin faltered. Carter nodded, jaw tight, knuckles closing around the token like it weighed more than metal.

“I won’t.”

Aether gave a small nod, then placed the sigil firmly into Carter’s hand. The weight of it seemed to settle over the man like a mantle—and then, just as quickly, lift him up.

Carter blinked once. Then grinned.

A real grin this time. Not smug. Not slippery. Just… thrilled.

He raised the sigil high and turned toward the bar.

“Drinks on me!” he shouted, loud enough to rattle glasses. “Deputy Protector Carter Flinn’s buyin’!”

A few scattered cheers followed. Some skeptical chuckles. One old man near the corner actually whooped.

Aether didn’t stop him. Didn’t scold. Just watched with the faintest flicker of something beneath the helm—amusement, maybe. The ghost of a smirk, hidden in the tilt of his head.

The Protectors flanking him didn’t move, but one gave Carter a nod—short and firm. The other tapped two fingers to his chestplate in quiet acknowledgment. Neither spoke. They didn’t have to.

Carter glanced back, pride in his chest, dust on his boots, and now—purpose.

Aether then spoke once more, leaning slightly against the bar.

“Enjoy it while you can,” he said simply. “We ride at dawn.”​

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The cheer was short-lived, like most things on Garos IV.

Rheyla watched Carter Flinn lift the sigil like he’d just been crowned. There was a grin on his face that hadn’t been earned yet and a drink already halfway to his lips. Around him, the room loosened its shoulders. Laughter returned in low rumbles. The moment passed.

But not for her.

She took another sip of her water. Swallowed like it tasted better than it did. Then, quietly, she spoke—just loud enough for the barkeep, and maybe one or two others nearby.

“Funny thing about badges,” she murmured, voice smooth, dry as the air outside. “They don’t change a man. Just give him shinier lies to hide behind.”

She didn’t look at Carter. Didn’t have to. Her eyes remained on the bar mirror—cracked glass and dust-streaked light giving her all the angles she needed. One Mandalorian. Two Protectors. And Flinn, fresh with his new identity, not yet smart enough to realize how fragile it was.

Her gaze flicked, ever so slightly, toward the figure in the armor—the one who hadn’t looked away when she entered. She met his reflection like it was a greeting, subtle and deliberate. A faint curve of her lip. Not quite a smile. More like a knowing.

Then she tapped the rim of her cup once with a fingertip. Just once. A quiet gesture. Like a warning shot that didn’t need firing.

“I’ll take that drink, though,” she added, turning slightly on her stool. “Deputy’s treat, right?”

The words carried just enough weight to land. She raised her cup in mock salute toward Carter—then toward the Mandalorian behind him, slower. Almost respectful. Almost.

Then she drank.

Whatever happened next, she was already counting exits.

Aether Verd​

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

GAROS IV

The saloon was breathing again. Laughter, movement, the low scrape of chairs and clink of glasses. It all resumed like a theater whose curtain had lifted after a heavy scene. But beneath it all, Aether stood still, the bar’s edge pressing lightly against the curve of his vambrace.

His gaze hadn’t left the mirror.

She hadn’t either.

Rheyla’s voice had been a whisper in the storm, quiet enough to be missed by most, but not by him.

Carter Flinn, to his credit, was still floating somewhere above consequence. Pride had filled the gaps where doubt once lived. He was grinning again, bottle in hand now: some amber swill he’d yanked off the bar like it had his name on it. Oblivious. Buoyant. The kind of buoyant that usually came before a fall.

“Ma’am,” Carter said with a little too much charm and not nearly enough sense, “don’t mind if I do.”

He ambled over with all the confidence of a man unaware he was walking toward the edge of a cliff. The bottle tipped in his grip, already reaching to refresh her glass, his other hand steadying the bar as he leaned in.

Aether didn’t stop him. Not yet.

Instead, he watched. Curiously. Quietly. The reflection in the mirror was clearer now. Her posture loose, her tone dry, her smile a weapon sheathed in manners. Aether had seen that look before. Not in her, but in others like her. People who didn’t need to shout to be dangerous. People who already had the exits mapped and the odds weighed.

Carter was walking toward a snake. And the rattle was already moving. Aether shifted just slightly. Not to intervene. Not yet. Just to be ready.

Let the deputy offer his pour. Let the cards fall how they would.

But if that smile turned to fangs? He’d be there.​

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The glass clinked softly as Carter leaned in.

Rheyla didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Just angled the cup slightly toward him—an invitation, or a test.

“Careful,” she said smoothly, voice dipped in honey and warning. “Pour too fast and you’ll spill something you can’t mop up.”

Her eyes didn’t meet his. Not at first. She let them linger on the bottle in his hand, then followed the line of his arm up to his face, studying the grin like it was a mask she’d seen before. It was. A dozen times. A hundred. Same shine, different liar.

“You’re awful generous, Deputy,” she added, letting the title roll slowly over her tongue. “Tell me—does the badge come with blinders, or do you just wear yours proud?”

There was a faint smile on her lips. Not warm. Not cruel. Just enough to make a smart man reconsider the shape of the conversation.

She let her gaze drift to the mirror again—not to Carter, but to the one who hadn’t moved. The one with armour that didn’t try too hard, and a silence that carried weight.

High standing, she thought. Not a loud one, not the flashy kind. The kind that earned it. Clan-forged and iron-set.

Didn’t matter.

Rheyla lifted her glass in Carter’s direction, a slow toast.

“To reinvention,” she said, eyes still on the mirror. “May it last longer than the bounty posters.”

She let that one sit. Soft. Inevitable.

Then, finally, she looked at the armoured figure directly—just for a breath. Long enough to say I see you. Long enough for him to know she wasn’t some backwater drifter. She might not know his name, but she knew the type.

And she wasn’t impressed.

Then she drank, slow and easy, and leaned back slightly on the bar.

Still no weapons drawn. Still no names given.

The game had begun—and she saw it in the twitch behind his smile, the way his posture shifted just enough to betray the sudden weight of the moment he was trying not to wear.

Aether Verd​

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

GAROS IV

The deputy chuckled. Not nervously nor cautiously, but with the unbothered grin of a man who thought the room still belonged to him. The glass tilted just enough to refresh hers, sloshing amber in a slow, steady stream.

“Reinvention,” Carter repeated with a self-satisfied nod, lifting his own bottle in kind. “Now that’s a toast I can get behind. You know, they say the stars shine a little brighter once you shake the dirt off your name.”

He was proud of that one. You could hear it in the way he leaned into the bar like a man settling into a new chapter, not realizing the page hadn’t turned for everyone. The mention of bounty posters rolled right past him like tumbleweed. If it stuck, it didn’t show.

Aether had not laughed, nor had he moved.

The words had landed, bounty posters, and they rang too specific to be coincidence. Maybe not meant for Carter. Maybe meant for him. Either way, she had spoken them with intention, and he heard what lingered beneath.

Some men turned the page and called the story finished. Others knew better.

Aether had seen what so-called redemption bought in the Jedi's temples. They were hollow pardons and ritual confessions. Jedi who knelt once and thought the galaxy owed them peace. But Mandalorians did not confuse silence with amnesty. Turning over a new leaf didn’t mean the roots had been forgotten.

His head turned slowly, but no words followed.

He looked at her then, not in the glass, not in the flicker of her smile or the cut of her voice, but directly. His visor locked to her gaze, cold and unreadable, a slab of beskar that gave away nothing of the man beneath.

But he saw her.

Not just the face. Not just the posture. He saw the sharpness that dressed itself in charm. The calculation beneath the calm.

And he let her know it. Not with speech. Not with threat. Just the quiet weight of a man who had fought long enough to know what danger looked like when it wore perfume.

The game was on. And now, so was he.​

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

She could feel the stare through the visor—heavy, quiet, knowing.

Rheyla met it without blinking. Didn’t move. Didn’t smile.

Then, in one fluid motion, her hand dipped beneath the fold of her cloak.

The blaster cleared leather in a blur.

A single blue stun bolt cracked through the cantina’s haze—clean, precise.

Carter didn’t even finish his smug toast. The bottle slipped from his fingers, shattered against the floor. His knees buckled a half-second later, and he hit the ground hard, unconscious. No ceremony. Just gravity.

The room froze.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Glasses hovered, untouched. One man in the back slowly set down his drink like it might explode. All eyes were on her.

Rheyla didn’t flinch. Her blaster remained raised—for half a beat longer than necessary.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she lowered it.

Just an inch.

Just enough to make her point: this wasn’t a massacre—it was a job.

With her other hand, she held a small, well-worn thermal detonator she had pulled and armed the moment she stunned Carter. She didn’t wave it. Didn’t yell. She simply held it slightly raised, cradled in her palm, as the red light blinked softly like a heartbeat.

Insurance.

“I don’t care what badge he flashed,” she said flatly, nodding toward the body at her feet. “Carter Flinn has a bounty on his head. Two thousand credits. Dead or alive.”

Her voice was calm, but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

“Alive, preferably. Which he still is, thanks to me.”

She glanced around once, eyes scanning the room—not wildly, but with the cold confidence of someone who’d already mapped every angle.

Then her gaze returned to the Mandalorian across from her.

“I’m not here for a fight,” she said plainly. “But I’m not leaving my bounty either.”

A beat of silence.

Then, with dry finality: “Anyone wants to argue, we can light up the sky and see who’s still standing.”

She didn’t raise the detonator further.

She didn’t need to.

Aether Verd​

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

GAROS IV

Aether saw it coming before the glass shattered, before Carter Flinn’s knees buckled and the smug toast fell silent against the cantina’s floor. The trajectory of the shot, the way her cloak shifted, the slight tension in her frame, all of it had written the moment before the blue bolt ever cracked through the haze.

The Supercommandos reacted as they were bred to react, weapons raised in an instant, the low hum of charged barrels filling the air with a tension thicker than the smoke curling above overturned drinks. They moved to protect their own, to protect their liege, because that was the way of things. It was instinct, not panic. Honor, not fear.

Aether lifted a hand, fingers closing into a calm, unmistakable signal. Their barrels dipped, weapons lowering as one, not because of the blinking red light in her palm, but because hunting was a tradition older than any badge or council decree. A bounty claimed was a hunt completed, and that alone was worthy of a measure of respect, even here.

He regarded her without moving from his place, the silent weight of his visor locking onto her without flinching, letting the silence do the speaking for a moment as the room settled around them.

“Being a deputy does not absolve the sins of the past.” he said, his voice steady in the hush that followed. “A fresh start is not the same as forgiveness, no matter how much I would like it to be.”

His head tilted, a small motion, as he gestured toward her with an open hand, the faintest spark of something like wry acknowledgment in the air between them.

“Hunting is a cornerstone of Mandalore's ways, and you will find no shortage of respect for it here. You did your job, but your timing could use improvement. Now I am down a deputy.”

His hand dropped back to his side as he let the moment settle, the quiet after the storm, the weight of the room shifting as those watching waited to see what came next.

“So, let us settle this cleanly. Take his place. Cash in your bounty, wear the badge, and keep your gun aimed at the lawless instead of the law-abiding. You will find the pay fair, the work constant, and the company willing to let you keep your edge.”

He let the offer stand, the promise of it hanging in the air like the scent of ozone still clinging to the cantina’s walls, waiting for her to decide if the hunt would continue, or if, perhaps, it would take a different shape from this moment forward.

"What say you, Hunter?"​

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

She didn’t move at first.

Not when the barrels hummed. Not when the room held its breath. Not even when the Mandalorian offered her something close to legitimacy.

Instead, Rheyla holstered her blaster with slow, deliberate ease. The thermal detonator vanished back beneath her cloak, still armed, still humming quietly against her side. She wasn’t done needing it yet.

“I don’t do badges,” she said finally, her voice steady. “Last time I followed a cause, it ended in orbital fire and a crater full of armour I’d give anything to wear again.”

No grief in her tone. Just the weight of memory that had calcified into fact.

Her eyes flicked once to Carter—still unconscious, still breathing—and she reached into her belt pouch without fanfare. A flat, heavy-looking device snapped into her palm. The GravBinder Clamp. She crouched beside the body and affixed it centre-mass with a sharp magnetic thunk. A soft chime followed as the unit’s repulsorlift engaged, lifting Carter’s limp body smoothly into a hovering position just above the cantina floor.

The red light on the clamp blinked in rhythm with the tether coiled at her wrist. She gave it a subtle tug to test the slack. Clean. Balanced. No dragging. No mess.

She rose.

“I respect what you’re building,” she said, finally turning to meet Aether’s gaze—or the helmet that guarded it. “Takes spine to try and build anything in this galaxy.”

A pause.

“But me? I’m done pledging to people who get vaporised for politics. Done pretending causes don’t come with body counts.”

Her voice didn’t waver. It didn’t need to.

“I chase credits. It’s honest. Cleaner than faith, and a lot harder to betray.”

The room remained tense, but the edges had softened—danger giving way to something more uncertain. A few eyes lingered on her with that look: part wariness, part reluctance to what would happen now, and a whole lot of don’t get involved.

Her gaze swept the room once—sharp, cool, measuring. Then it landed back on the armoured man across from her.

“You ever need someone who doesn’t kneel, doesn’t preach, and actually finishes the job?” Her smirk curved, dry and deliberate. “You can hire me—like everyone else.”

A beat.

“But I charge extra when the client wears a helmet and gives speeches,” she added, winking with a knowing smirk before turning her back to Aether.

She gave the tether a flick. Carter’s limp body floated after her, weightless and silent, drawn along like a drunk on strings.

Rheyla didn’t look back.

But she left the detonator armed—for now.

Aether Verd​