Private Like a Bad Penny, She Just Keeps Coming Back

[Acier Moonbound]

U P P E R- D O C K I N G- B A Y
D E N O N
I N N E R- R I M

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The sound of blaster fire cracked through the docking bay, chasing echoes down durasteel corridors. Screams followed - sharp, panicked, scattering like pigeons in an open square.

Acier's boots slammed hard against the floor, every footfall fueled by adrenaline. Sweat traced lines down his temple as he ducked low, blaster bolts sizzling past him in rapid succession. He returned fire without stopping to aim, more to buy space than win the fight. His breathing was ragged. Too ragged.

He'd stayed on Denon longer than he should have. The stunt at the Blue Drift a couple months back that riot trooper's arm flying off in front of a dozen cameras—had bought him attention. The wrong kind. Now the bounty hunters were swarming like mynocks. Ace needed off-world. Fast.

Sliding over a cargo sled mid-sprint, he hit the ground rolling and came up running again, momentum now the only thing keeping him upright.

Dozens of bay entrances whipped past in a blur. Then he saw it: a freighter tucked into a far bay. Wide-bodied, scarred, ugly as hell, like it hadn't seen a proper tune-up since before the war with the Bryn. Perfect. No one would miss it. And if they did, too late. He could fix what mattered later.

Ace banked hard, dragging his hand across the duracrete for balance as he threw himself into the hangar. He didn't hesitate, raised his blaster and fired into the access panel. Sparks burst out. Behind him, the bay doors slammed shut. It wouldn't hold forever. But it didn't need to. He was betting his life on just five more minutes.

Ace dashed up the ramp, heart hammering against his ribs as the freighter's hatch sealed behind him. The ship groaned like it resented the intrusion, old hydraulics whining under stress. He didn't care. He sprinted through the narrow corridor, past exposed wiring and flickering panels, until he slid into the pilot's seat. The controls looked half-forgotten, patched with mismatched parts and held together by stubbornness.

Ace wasn't a pilot, he knew enough to fly, barely. But "barely" was going to have to be good enough. Fingers flying across switches, he muttered under his breath, trying to recall everything Mira ever barked at him during repair jobs. Systems coughed to life. Repulsors buzzed. Lights flickered green. That was either a good sign or a bad one, he'd figure it out in the sky.

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The door hissed shut on the makeshift holding cell with a satisfying clang.

Rheyla keyed in the lock sequence, then gave it a firm kick to make sure the magnetic seal held. The Zabrak inside—tall, smug, and two sentences away from being stunned—flashed her a toothy grin through the bars.

“You know, sweetheart,” he said through the bars, flashing a grin, “you hand me over to that Hutt, you’re not getting paid—you’re getting played. Let me go now, I’ll make it worth your while. Triple what he offered. Clean credits. No questions.”

“Keep talking and I’ll reclassify you as cargo,” Rheyla muttered, holstering her blaster. “That’s a shorter trip.”

She turned to leave, rolling her shoulder as the ship creaked around her like it always did. The job had gone smoother than expected, which made her suspicious. Smooth jobs usually meant trouble was lagging behind.

Trouble didn’t lag this time.

The freighter suddenly rumbled beneath her boots—an unmistakable whirr of engines kicking on. The bulkheads groaned. Rheyla’s head snapped up as the deck shifted slightly beneath her feet.

…What the Kriff?

She hadn’t started the launch sequence. She hadn’t even warmed the repulsors. She was the only one supposed to be on board.

Her hand was on her blaster before she hit the first corner. Boots silent, shoulders low, she crept through the narrow corridors of mismatched plating and flickering lights, pulse quickening with every step. Her freighter was a junker, sure—but it was her junker, and no one flew it without her say-so.

By the time she reached the cockpit, the engines were fully live.

Rheyla rounded the corner, blaster drawn—ready to deal with whatever fool thought they could jack her ship and live.

And there he was.

Slouched in the pilot seat like he’d never left, fingers still hovering over the console, hair slightly more of a mess than usual, and absolutely, disgustingly familiar.

"...You’ve got to be kidding me."

She didn’t lower the blaster.

"Sparkleboy?!"

One blink. Two. A long, annoyed groan.

"Of all the decrepit hunks of scrap in this galaxy, you squat on mine?"

She stepped inside, slow and deliberate—like someone already calculating which part of your anatomy to shoot first.

Her blaster didn’t so much as twitch downward.

“Okay. No, you know what? I give up. What are we now—cosmically bound by dumbassery? First the bounty, then the gambling den shootout, and now you’re stowing away on my ship?”
She squinted at him, expression halfway between a smirk and a migraine.
“Did I accidentally bond with you in some kind of ancient dusty Jedi ritual? Should I be picking out rings?”

“Explain. Fast. Or should we just skip to the honeymoon where I lock you up beside the insufferable Zabrak bounty in my cargo hold? Pretty sure he’s already rehearsing his life story for whoever shares a cell.”

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Ace jolted - just slightly. He knew that voice. Unfortunately, he'd recognize it anywhere. Realizing exactly what this was about to be, he let his head drop forward with a sigh.

"Rheyla. How's it going?" he asked dryly, voice dipped in fake pleasantries.

Of all the decrepit hunks of scrap in this galaxy… In the short time since he'd been on the run, Ace had learned that the 'will of the Force' was very real and apparently, it had a sense of humor too. A vast galaxy, billions of systems… and yet, somehow, he'd managed to bump into her not once, not twice, but three times. At this point, the universe wasn't just messing with him. It was writing punchlines.

He turned his head toward her, only now clocking the blaster aimed between his eyes. His posture was casual; arms loose, spine against the pilot's chair, but his rapid breathing, sweat-streaked brow, and messy hair told a different story. He raised both hands slowly.

"Remember the shootout at the Blue Drift?" he said, glancing toward the corridor. "Turns out bounty hunters took the hint. A Wookiee and an assassin droid. Guess I upgraded."

A loud bang echoed through the ship, the sound of fists - or claws - slamming against the inner hull.

"That's them now," he added, jerking a thumb toward the noise. "I got creds. I'll pay you."

He flashed her a brazen smile, lopsided, boyish, and entirely unearned.

There was also the possibility that Rheyla would throw him to the kath hounds. Hand him over, wipe her hands clean, and be done with it. It'd be easy.
But… Ace didn't think she would. Not after Botajef. Not after the Blue Drift. She'd had chances, plenty, and still chose to keep him breathing. That had to mean something, right? So yeah. This was a gamble. But then again, his whole life was a gamble.

And right now, Rheyla Tann was the closest thing he had to a lucky hand.

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The blaster didn’t move.

Not when he flinched at her voice. Not when he offered fake pleasantries. And especially not when he turned, half-glowing with sweat and nerves, flashing that boyish grin like it ever worked on her.

“‘How’s it going?’” Rheyla echoed, voice flat. “Sparkleboy, you are sitting in my pilot seat, priming my ship, with my bounty in the hold—and you’ve led a karking Wookiee and an assassin droid to my front door.”

Right on cue, a loud clang rang through the hull. Heavy. Repetitive. Too close.

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, then back to Ace without moving her blaster.

“Oh, and there it is. Your fan club.”

Then, from behind her in the cargo hold—“Come on, beautiful! You don’t wanna hand me over. I’m worth more alive—maybe not in credits, but in charm, yeah?”

Rheyla didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But the muscle in her jaw twitched.

Another clang hit the hull. Closer.

She snapped.

“Kriffing sley'kaka mi’tor VRAK qel’nara!” she barked, storming a step closer and jabbing the blaster forward like punctuation. “Cha’kta VENN’teek!”

The words tumbled out in sharp, venomous Ryl—pure Twi’lek fury—layered with years of lived spice, frustration, and very real threats involving a rusted airlock and a hydrospanner.

Ace couldn’t possibly know what she said, unless he spoke Ryl.

But the tone said it all.

And just like that—blaster still in hand—Rheyla exhaled through her nose, lowered the weapon, and smacked him across the back of the head with her free hand. Not hard. But loud enough.

Thwap.

“Out of the chair.”

She didn’t wait. She stepped past him with the exasperated grace of someone babysitting a disaster in progress.

“If I’m gonna save your sorry ass, I’m at least flying the damn ship. Before your friends out there tear the hull open and I have to explain to the Zabrak that he's not the most irritating thing on board anymore.”

She dropped into the pilot seat, hands already moving over the controls.

“Strap in, Sparkleboy. And don’t touch anything or I'll shove you in with loverboy back in my cargo hold.”

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

For the first time ever, she actually seemed pissed. No jokes. No snark. Just raw, unfiltered frustration radiating off her like engine heat. Ace could feel it bouncing around the cockpit like a live wire. He had to stifle a grin. Some part of him, deep down, felt a little proud. He'd finally cracked Rheyla's unshakable deadpan. Then another clang rattled the hull, and his smirk faltered.

"Aren't you an ex-member of that fan club?" he shot back, tone dry.

Another voice echoed from the cargo hold: smug, loud, and absolutely not helpful. Ace's brow arched as he glanced back at her, a crooked smirk pulling at his mouth. He leaned back into the pilot's seat and crossed his arms.

Then it came: a whole stream of nothing. At least, to him. A rapid-fire torrent of Twi'lek fury. Probably curses. Hopefully not death threats. Either way… yeah, guess she'd made her decision.

"Ow!"

He flinched, rubbing the back of his head with a wince, sucking in air through his teeth. Alright. Fair. He probably earned that. Wordlessly, Ace rose from the seat and let Rheyla take the helm. He slid into the co-pilot's chair beside her, muttering under his breath,

"...you hit harder than the Wookiee."

He didn't say much after that. Just leaned back in the seat beside her, the tension in his shoulders easing. Barely. The ship still rumbled, the threat still lingered, but for the first time in hours… he didn't feel like he was flying solo.

Ace glanced sideways, eyes flicking to her hands moving over the controls: precise, practiced, steady. And despite the pounding in his skull and the chaos still banging at their hull, a small, reluctant thought crept in:

It's gonna be okay. She's got this.

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The freighter's engines were already hot when she dropped into the pilot seat—too hot, and blinking in all the wrong places.

She scanned the console. One second. Two.

Then—

“Ch’uta-raka ven’tok?!” Rheyla snapped in rapid-fire Ryl, hands darting across the controls. “Nara ven’chak vo'terka!”

Switch after switch flipped as she hissed through her teeth, untangling the mess he’d made. Life support toggled twice. Port stabilisers were inverted. Atmo-seal was blinking yellow.

The ship jolted, not from flight—but from a heavy bang against the outer hull.

Too close.

Too late.

She grabbed the stick-and-throttle, muttering under her breath in venom-laced Ryl, and yanked the ship up hard. The Scourhawk didn’t purr. It growled—rattling as it rose from the hangar floor just as another thud echoed from behind. The wookie and Assassin droid were not giving up and made some terrible dents on her poor ship.

“Come on, girl. Hold it together,” she muttered to the ship, slamming the throttle forward.

The Scourhawk screamed in response, blasting from the docking bay like a kicked speeder, fire trailing from its repulsors as they cut hard into the Denon cityscape. Towers streaked past below them. Rheyla turned the nose upward and climbed fast.

From the cargo hold:
“Hey, sweetheart? Any chance we can talk about this? Preferably not in deep space?”

Rheyla’s eye twitched.

“Kriffing z’kaka tresh’ta...” she hissed under her breath, fingers dancing over the console. “Ki’taka jenu’ta sweetheart ven’chaka… I stun’dra his chak’ti..”

The Scourhawk pushed through the upper atmosphere, rattling violently, but held. The old bird could take a beating—and today, she had no choice.

As they broke into space, the shaking eased. The black opened wide before them.

Rheyla let go of the throttle.

For a long moment, she just breathed.

Then—with agonising, deliberate calm—she turned in her seat to face the kid beside her.

Her expression?

Flat.

Deadpan.

Dangerously patient.

She stared at him like she was still deciding whether this counted as kidnapping, attempted murder, or just one really unlucky commute.

Then—like the universe was daring her—his voice echoed from the cargo hold:

“Sweetheart, look, I didn’t mean anything by it—just saying, we could work something out, yeah?”

Rheyla stood.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She turned her head just enough to throw a flat look at Ace.

“Do not touch anything, Sparkleboy.”

Then she left the cockpit.

Ace was left with silence… for a moment.

Then came the faint, muffled sound of the Zabrak’s voice through the bulkhead. Still talking. Still trying.

“Okay, okay, okay, let’s not be rash—look, we can talk about this! You’ve got amazing eyes, I just—wait—wait!”

FZZZAP.

A stun bolt rang out. Then: absolute silence.

Three seconds passed.

Four.

Then Rheyla walked calmly back into the cockpit and sat down in the pilot seat, as if nothing had happened.

She adjusted the controls. Flicked a few toggles.

“That’ll teach him to call me sweetheart.”

Beat.

Then, under her breath, almost like a reflex:

“Z’kaka chak’ti.”

Acier Moonbound​