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

​

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​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Acier watched and waited, Rheyla felt tense - it reverberated through the Force. Well, it made sense. Then she had another outcry of Ryl, causing Acier to slightly lean away from her. He wasn't sure if she was yelling at him, the ship or the situation. Ace bit his lip, again holding back a snicker as he watched her essentially lose her mind.

She did it though, she got the ship moving. The ship's rattling violently shook Acier's body, and for a fleeting moment, he felt fear - what if this ship can't sustain flight? Turning his head to face here, Ace asked:

"Need me to do any repairs? Maintenance? Anything?" he asked, it was both of their survival now, if he could help he would.

But then, the ship proceeded to blast away from the docking bay - rumbling and ricketing as it did so. Ace gripped the arm rest and exhaled in relief. Maybe they'd actually make it out of this in one piece.

That same voice called out from the cargo hold, making Ace turn in its direction. One of Rheyla's bounties he gathered. It was crazy to think that it could have been him in that position all those months ago if Rheyla hadn't had a change of heart.

She started muttering to herself in Ryl again. Then she stood up. Slowly. She must havereally been mad. Rheyla ordered him not to touch anything. Ace threw his arms up and leaned back.

"Okay, okay!"

He watched her as she left the cockpit, her stride sharp, shoulders squared with fury and weirdly… control. Command. Something about it hit different. Not in the "blaster-in-your-face" kind of way. In a way Ace couldn't quite name. His brow twitched. He blinked once. Then frowned.

No. Absolutely not.

He shook his head like he was clearing dust out of his brain, muttering under his breath, "What the hell is wrong with me…"

He slouched deeper in the seat, arms crossed, jaw tight. And very, very determined to never think about that again.

After hearing the bounty plead with Rheyla followed by the sound of a stun bolt, Rheyla returned. He cleared his throat after what she said, letting the silence hang. This situation was... awkward to say the least. Caught red-handed trying to steal a ship from someone you're kinda-sorta friends with (if you'd call it that) who also tried to turn you in for credits once. Awkward indeed.

Ace sighed, folding his arms.

"Sooooo..." finally speaking up "What've you been up to? Looks like you've been making friends." Ace added, half-heartedly.

She didn't have to put up with him this time, she did him a huge solid. The credits he offered, it didn't feel like enough to square them off. He felt like he needed to do something else to compensate.

"Thanks, for helping me out. Again." it was painful for him to admit "This ship looks like it's seen better days. There anything I can do to help? I wasn't kidding earlier. I'm a good mechanic."

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t look at him right away.

She ran one last system check, watching the ship’s readout pulse in a slow, lazy rhythm—like a half-drunk mechanic finally deciding to do her job.

Only when he cleared his throat did she glance sideways.

Her brow arched. Slowly.

“Yeah. You know me. Real social butterfly.”

She said it without looking, but the sarcasm could’ve stripped paint.

"Thanks, for helping me out. Again."

Now that made her pause.

Just a flicker of it—barely a hitch in her fingers over the controls.

He kept talking—something about helping, being a mechanic. Useful. Rheyla let him finish, the corner of her mouth twitching like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw him out the airlock. Finally, she leaned back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she turned to face him properly. One of her lekkus slid off her shoulder as she shifted. She leaned back slightly, angling her head to look at him fully. Her expression stayed dry. Guarded. But not unfriendly.

“You know, you’ve got a real bad habit of showing up when I’m least inclined to play hero.”

Then, flatter:
“You’re welcome.”

He kept going—offering help, talking about being a mechanic. Rheyla let him talk, arms crossing slowly over her chest. Her gaze didn’t soften, but it sharpened a little less.

“Have you ever worked with actual ships before?” she asked, voice flat with scepticism. “Not speeders. Not swoops. Ships. With failing compressors and wiring held together by hope and corrosion.”

A pause. Her brow arched—just slightly, but enough to make it clear: this wasn’t small talk. This was a test.

Then, to make her expectations perfectly clear—

“If I hand you a spanner and you ask me where the flux conduit is, I will space you.”

Still, she could tell Sparkleboy was genuine in his offer. And after everything that had just happened, well—if he wanted to help, she might as well put him to work. He’d offered credits, sure, but Rheyla figured she could squeeze a little labour out of him too. If he learned something along the way? Bonus.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Ace blinked. "Hope and corrosion..." he echoed under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

Yup. That tracked. The tension in the cockpit hadn't eased, not really, but something about her shifted. Just a flicker. He didn't need to hear her say it. The Force pressed lightly against his senses, subtle and instinctive. Like a breeze changing direction. She was testing him. Not threatening. Not welcoming. Just... weighing. He straightened a little in his seat, brows rising as he shot her a glance.

"Yeah. I've worked on ships before. Not museum grade-junkers, present company excluded, but ships." He paused, then clarified: "Y'know. Things that fly. Barely."

Her brow didn't lower. In fact, it might've gone higher. Ace exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, I'm not saying I could rebuild your stabilizers from scratch or install a whole new nav core or anything." He tilted his head slightly, offering a crooked, familiar half-smirk. "But if you've got loose wiring, a fried circuit board, or a panel that's making a sound it shouldn't? I can fix it. Fast."

Then, a second later, he added—deadpan: "And I know what a flux conduit is. I won't insult your ship or get spaced today. Promise."

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.

"But if you do hand me a spanner, and it happens to be wrapped in explosives? At least gimme a heads up. I wanna go out cool, not clueless."

He watched her then... really watched her. The way she assessed people, the way her eyes sharpened instead of softened. It wasn't just sarcasm. It was armor. And for some reason, he didn't want to get bounced this time.

He broke the silence "So, what do you need me to do, Bluebell? Maybe I can teach you some stuff too."

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla stared at him for a long, flat second.

No sigh. No smile. Just the faintest twitch of a brow that said: fine, impress me.

"Congratulations," she said dryly, "you've met the minimum requirement of 'not entirely useless.'"

She stood and crossed to a wall panel behind the co-pilot seat. The hatch creaked open with the usual amount of resentment, revealing a mess of old wiring, scorched relays, and something that might've once been a diagnostics node. Maybe.

"Fix that. Don't start a fire."

She stepped aside and pointed, not looking at him.

"You better know what you're doing, Sparkleboy—or I'm filing this under your problem."


Then she paused.


Turned.


And smacked him—lightly—upside the head.


Not hard. Not angry. Just enough to make her point.


"Bluebell?" She snorted, slightly amused by the kid, one brow arched.
"Cute. I drag your sorry ass out of a firefight, and now you think we're swapping pet names? Nice try, Sparkleboy, ain't gonna happen."

She leaned back against the frame with her arms folded, watching him without blinking—as if expecting him to break something just by existing near it.

Under her breath, in a low mutter of Ryl, she added:

"Chaka'ti ven'cha Nar'shaat… vek'hassa trak'zil ven'wake an'kura 'sweetheart'—zura'ti yota'mek."

She closed her eyes briefly. Just long enough to mentally prepare for the rest of this absurd day before getting up from where she leaned and leaving the cockpit. "If something blaring or beeps, don't touch it", she called over her shoulder, the brown weathered cloak swearing behind her, not sounding ominous at all.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Ace hissed, blinking as she walked off. One hand instinctively rose to rub the back of his head where she'd smacked him. Again. Not hard. Just enough to leave a point and a little sting.

He squinted after her retreating form.

"Well," he called after her, voice dry, "Long as you keep calling me Sparkleboy, Bluebell's sticking around too."

She didn't respond. Just the sound of her boots fading, her cloak rustling, and... yep, more Ryl that probably translated to creative violence. Ace snorted under his breath. She didn't deny it, though.

He turned toward the wall panel. If ship guts had a crime scene, this was it. Frayed wiring, scorched relay boards, a half-melted diagnostic node that looked like it had been insulted into giving up.

"'S a miracle this piece of junk even flies." he muttered, crouching down.

He closed his eyes briefly and let the Force reach out, not sharp or precise like a trained Jedi, but reactive. Instinctive. A pressure shift in the current of wires. A hum where something pulled too tight. Like hearing music through a wall and knowing which note was wrong. Grabbing the toolkit, was ready to get to work.

"Alright, Bluebell," he said to himself in a low tone, "I'll show you useless."

The next few minutes passed in quiet focus, metal clinks, soft zaps, one sharp "Kriff--!" when he misjudged a connection and singed a fingertip. But slowly, the mess began to take shape. Wires re-threaded. Contacts replaced. Burned nodes bypassed. He was in his element, everything Mira had taught him was being put to use once again.

As he tightened the last screw, Ace leaned back on his heels, hands smudged with carbon, and let out a breath. It wasn't pretty but it worked. He smirked to himself, half proud of his handiwork and half proud at being able to disappoint Rheyla.

Dusting himself off, Ace turned to face Rheyla with a confident air about him. Hydrospanner in hand - flicking it into the air, catching it, then repeating. Ace considered himself humble, but when it came to this? He had nothing but blind confidence in his ability to look at a problem and fix it. It made him uncharacteristically jovial too.

"Think I deserve a promotion?" he said dryly with a cocky half grin. "I'm thinking 'Not entirely useless' to 'competent'."

A few moments passed, whether Rheyla responded or not - it didn't matter. His expression returned to its usual stoic expression and he rested his hands on his hips. Ace looked at her.

"Where are you headed? Think I can hitch a ride to Ord Mantell? For old time's sake."

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The heavy stomp of boots returned before Ace could get too smug.

Rheyla reappeared in the cockpit doorway, a ration bar in one hand and a half-finished caf pouch in the other. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, eyeing the open panel. Still intact. No smoke. No fire.

Huh.

She took a bite of the ration bar, chewed, then pointed at the fixed wiring with her caf pouch.

“Didn’t set anything ablaze. Look at you,” she said dryly, voice as flat as the caf was bitter. “Almost like you’ve touched a ship before.”

She walked over, crouched beside the open panel, and gave it a closer look. Fingers ran lightly along the wiring—testing tension, checking heat. It held. Not elegant, but solid.

Still crouched, she glanced up at him, expression unreadable.

Then smacked him upside the head. Again. A little harder this time, but still far from actual violence.

“That nickname thing? Was cute the first try,” she muttered, standing. “You’re not that cute, Sparkleboy.”

She took another swig of her caf, then stepped away from the panel with the posture of someone who had too many things to do and no patience for any of them.

At his question about Ord Mantell, she stopped. Turned just enough to give him a sideways look.

“Twelve hours out of my way,” she said flatly. “Fuel cost. Risk. Noise.”

She leaned a shoulder to the wall, folding her arms with a casual tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed, calculating.

“You said you had credits. How many?”

There was no warmth in her voice, but no venom either. Just the tone of someone who didn’t run a charity—especially not for stowaways with bad timing and worse nicknames.

She took another bite of the ration bar.

“Tell me the number doesn’t insult me, and maybe we’ll talk detour.”

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: The Scourhawk

Equipment:
Standard Outfit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27 | Rucksack

​

Acier watched as the Twi'lek returned, looking her up and down - he noticed the ration bar and caf pack. He stifled a frown, disappointed he wasn't offered anything. Especially after the marathon he'd just ran back on Denon. He sighed to himself, realizing that the chances of receiving any type of food from Rheyla was slim.​

​

Arms folding over his chest, his copper eyes tracked Rheyla as she inspected his handiwork. He rolled his eyes at her backhanded compliment, refusing to take the bait. She continued inspecting, crouching low now to examine the intricacies of the wiring. Ace waited patiently, no baited breaths, he was completely confident she'd be pleased.​

​

Then, out of nowhere, she smacked him upside his head again. A frustrated grunt escaped his lips and he instinvtively made a fist, winding it back ready to hit her but he quickly regained his bearings. He exhaled deeply.​

​

"Sorry. Reflex from my orphanage days." lowering his arm, he unclenched his fist. He flashed her a cocky half-smirk "Okay, my bad. Bluebell." the repeated head smacks and the clear signs of annoyance the nickname brought out of Rheyla only served to egg the boy on.​

​

As she began to leave the room, Ace took the moment to rub the back of his head again. He turned to face her when she answered on whether she could take him to Ord Mantell or not.​

​

Rheyla's answer was reassuring. While it wasn't a definitive yes, the amount of credits he had would determine the outcome of this trip. Without words, Acier pulled the pack off his back and shook it - the sound of metallic rustling could be heard within it. Hopefully, months of saving would bail him out of this.​

​

"I got about 10,000 in here."​

​

Rheyla Tann​

​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla stared at the bag.

Then at him.

Then back at the bag.

"Ten thousand," she repeated flatly, as if the number personally offended her.

Before Ace could blink, she snatched the pack right out of his hand, slinging it open with practised ease and giving it a quick jostle. The clink of hard creds was enough to satisfy. Probably.

She clicked her tongue.
"Guess I’m feeling generous," she said dryly, though she made her tone sound more bark than bite on purpose, already turning toward the front. "Welcome aboard The Scourhawk, Sparkleboy. No refunds, no complaints—and if you call me Bluebell, I’ll retain the right to slap you."

She dropped into the pilot seat, still holding the credit bag, and kicked her boots up onto the dash—ankles crossed with practised ease. One hand loosely nursed the last of her caf. Then, without ceremony, she popped open a small, secured compartment near the seat and tucked the bag of credits inside with all the casual care of someone filing spare parts.

The blue swirl of hyperspace reflected in her eyes.

“Caf’s in the back,” she said without looking at him. “Might be some food. Try not to mistake the ration bars for power cells.”

A pause.

“We hit Nar Shaddaa in an hour or two. Try not to break anything. And don't go where you don't belong” The last bit was clearly a warning about going into her personal quarters.

The moment Ace would leave the cockpit, the door would hiss open with a reluctant kssht, revealing the ship’s interior beyond.

The Scourhawk wasn’t new, and she didn’t pretend to be. The corridor ahead was a stretch of hardened durasteel and patchwork plating—some sections mismatched, a few scorched at the edges, others reinforced with visible weld seams from repairs that had clearly been made under fire or in a hurry. Exposed wiring ran overhead in secured conduits, bundled neatly enough to show someone gave a damn, but not so pretty it felt showroom clean.

The lighting buzzed faintly. A few overhead strips flickered now and then—not because they were broken, but because the power routing had been optimised for survival, not ambience.

Just outside the cockpit was a narrow galley space—bare-bones but functional. A caf unit was bolted to one wall above a compact counter cluttered with spare parts, a dented tin of protein powder, and a cracked mug with scorch marks near the handle. Storage compartments were shut tight with reinforced latches, and a single folding chair had been wedged against the wall and promptly forgotten.

Three doors branched off from the small kitchen: one led to a cramped refresher unit that still smelled faintly of cleaning solvent and burned wiring; another, firmly sealed, was clearly Rheyla’s personal quarters—access panel scuffed from years of glove-clicks but kept sealed like a vault. The third door, directly opposite the cockpit, led to the cargo hold where the Zabrak was stunned and locked in place.

The hum of the engines deepened faintly as the ship drifted in hyperspace, and from the cargo bay, the soft click of the inertial stabilisers adjusting rhythmically echoed through the floor.

It wasn’t a sleek transport, and it sure as hell wasn’t a passenger cruiser—but the Scourhawk was sturdy, stripped-down, and utterly unapologetic. Everything about it said: used, tested, and still flying.

It didn’t need to be pretty.

It just needed to survive.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: The Scourhawk

Equipment:
Standard Outfit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27 | Rucksack

And just like that, months and months of hard work down the drain. Guess it was a small price to pay for salvation. Hands literally empty now, he placed them in his jacket pockets as he watched Rheyla inspect his pack. She feigned an apathetic tone, agreeing to take him to Ord Mantell after a detour to Nar Shaddaa.

"Still got a soft spot for me." he said with a smirk, shuffling out of the cockpit before Rheyla could retaliate.

Ace went off in search for some food and caf, the perfect remedy for escaping bounty hunters by the skin of your teeth. Making his way to the caf unit, he really took the time to note the severe condition the Scourhawk was in. How this thing hadn't fell apart must have been a legitimate miracle. The sight of its interior scratched at an itch Ace didn't even know he had. This compulsion to just fix anything and everything in sight.

He shook his head, grabbing a caf pouch he told himself to just let it be. Ace headed back to the cockpit, swiping a ration bar on his way out. He slid into the co-pilot's chair next to Rheyla, taking a bite of the bar

"Thanks again. Seriously." he said, mouth-full but no less authentic. Taking another bite, followed by a chug of caf "I'd say the universe wants us to be friends, with how it keeps throwing us together." he said half-heartedly, clearly joking.

Ace paused, letting it hang or... letting his food settle. Grains of food puffed out Ace's left cheek as he glanced toward the streaks of stars as they passed through hyperspace. Contemplative, curious, this question had been bothering him for some time now. Swallowing his mouthful, Ace spoke without glancing at Rheyla.

"This is the third time you've taken a chance on me now." he said softly "All three times you could've left me to hang. Why do you always choose to stick your neck out for me?"

Rheyla Tann
​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t answer right away.

She stared out at hyperspace, sipping her caf like it might offer some kind of cosmic wisdom. When she finally spoke, her voice was neutral—borderline indifferent.

“Maybe I’ve got a thing for strays who fix wiring without frying the ship.”

A beat passed. She still didn’t look at him.

“Or maybe I’m just tired of watching people get spaced over bad luck and worse timing.”

Another sip. Then she tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance at him with one brow raised.

“Don’t read into it. It’s not a habit. Yet.”

She gave him a sideways glance, eyes narrowing just a touch—mocking, curious.

“Besides,” she drawled, lips curling into the faintest smirk, “someone’s gotta keep you from panicking your way into holy matrimony with a Hutt.”

A pause.

Then, a snort. She shook her head slowly, lips twitching around the edge of her mug.

“Stars, I can see it—cornered in some grime-slick alley, hunted by lowlifes, stammering vows to a Hutt slug draped in gold chains, with a translator droid officiating just so you don’t get spaced.”

She took another sip, like the image was somehow both horrifying and hilarious enough to warrant caffeine.

“’Til carbonite do us part,’ huh, Sparkleboy?”

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: The Scourhawk

Equipment:
Standard Outfit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27 | Rucksack

"Bad luck and worse timing seems to be the story of my life." Ace muttered.

She told him not to read into it. That it wasn't a habit. But he didn't buy it, Ace cast a side long glance at the Twi'lek. The corner of his lip rose in a half-smile.

"Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern." he argued, teasing Rheyla lightly.

Then, she was back. Rheyla's usual, playful, happy-go-lucky demeanour had returned. It was what he'd come accustomed to since their previous two encounters. She teased Ace about someone needing to stop him from 'panicking' his way into trouble. Her example being 'marrying a Hutt'. Ace scoffed and rolled his eyes, clearly resentful of the comment.

"You think you're so funny."

He took out another bite of his ration bar, jaw a little tighter this time. Ace wasn't mad, not really, but there was always something about people brushing off how hard he worked to survive that got under his skin. His survivability was one thing he prided himself for.

Finishing off the ration bar, Ace crumpled up the wrapper and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. He leaned into his chair, taking another swig of his caf. He could feel his eyelids getting heavier, no doubt a result of today's earlier events. Still, he fought it, remembering what happened last time he was unconscious around Rheyla. Ace didn't want a repeat of those events.

He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, looking at his caf.

"This should be helping." he muttered to himself.

In an effort to keep himself awake, he glanced at the Twi'lek next to him. He watched her for a moment, her eyes stayed on the stars, but her thoughts were clearly somewhere else. Ace didn't say anything. He just watched. She looked tired, too. Not just physically.

Without even thinking, he spoke:

"This bounty hunting thing? This something you want to do for the rest of your life?"

Rheyla Tann
​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t answer at first.

The stars kept sliding past in smooth lines, hyperspace humming steadily beneath them, and for a long moment it seemed like maybe she hadn’t heard the question—or just didn’t care to answer.

Then, with a soft snort, she muttered:

“Stars, no.”

Another sip of caf.

“Don’t get me wrong—blasters, credits, adrenaline... it keeps the lights on.” She leaned back a little further in her seat, head tipping against the headrest, eyes still on the blue swirl ahead.

“Jobs like this... they make sense. You track, you shoot, you get paid. Simple. Predictable.”
Her tone stayed light, but there was something in the way she said it—too casual, like she was sidestepping the real answer.

She took another sip of caf, letting the silence stretch just long enough before adding,
“Been doing work like this for a long time. It’s what I know.”

A small shrug. No sadness, no weight in her voice—just that carefully measured neutrality that meant don’t ask.

She let that hang for a beat. Then added, with the faintest curl of a smirk:

“Besides, peaceful retirement sounds like a death sentence. I’d either go stir-crazy or end up stealing someone’s speeder out of sheer boredom.” But the edge of her mouth twitched—something between amusement and ache—and if Ace was paying attention, he might catch it:

For all her jokes, for all her confidence, there was something haunted behind those eyes despite the deceptively soft, sweet and kind face. A quiet kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep.

Just years of loss she’d never said aloud.

She reached to nudge a control on the dash—more muscle memory than purpose—and finally glanced his way, expression unreadable.

“Why?” she asked, low but steady. “You thinking of switching careers?”

~~~ Hours later ~~~​

The Scourhawk dropped out of hyperspace with a familiar jolt—engines groaning like an old beast stretching its joints.

Ahead, Nar Shaddaa unfolded in all its neon-stained, smog-choked glory: a floating snarl of orbiting freighters, blinking shuttles, and traffic lanes stacked like a nest of vipers. The planet itself pulsed below like a wounded star—bright, chaotic, and always five seconds from violence.

Rheyla leaned forward in her seat, fingers flicking across the console.

“Welcome to the armpit of the galaxy,” she said, tone dry as sandpaper. “Try not to catch anything breathing the air.”

A narrow window flickered open in the mess of traffic. She nudged the yoke and slid the Scourhawk through it like a thief ducking under a closing door.

“Hangar’s in the Duraan Sector,” she added, tapping in the coordinates. “Old place. No paperwork. Should be empty—unless some spice-runner turned it into a bonfire while we were gone.”

She didn’t look over, but there was a glint in her voice as she continued:

“Keep your boots on and your mouth shut till I say otherwise. Hutts don’t like surprises—and I’m not in the mood to sweet-talk the Hutt, Gorrga, if this goes sideways.”

A pause.

Then, more dry than reassuring:
“Shouldn’t take long. In and out. No drama.”

Which, coming from Rheyla, basically guaranteed the opposite.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: The Scourhawk

Equipment:
Standard Outfit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27 | Rucksack

He'd half-expected her not to answer. A genuine look of surprise formed on his freckled face when she did. Again, to his surprise, Rheyla confessed that this lifestyle wasn't something she'd planned on living forever.

Predictable. That stood out to him for some reason. She continued but Ace's eyes narrowed as he hung on to 'predictable'. It wasn't far from 'stability'. Funny, for someone who seemed to enjoy thrill and danger, maybe that was her form of stability. He didn't comment on it, not wanting to pry further. People like them, who lived the way they did? Preferred, or needed to keep their cards close to the chest.

"I don't know. Peaceful retirement sounds nice. Living in survival mode all the time..." he sighed, eyes lowering "'S exhausting."

He looked at her once more. She hid it well, on her face and in her posture. But the Force? That was a different story. Ace felt it all, the weariness in her spirit, also pain - but she carried it like armor.

"I'm good where I'm at." he answered "I'd feel like a hypocrite anyway." he was semi-serious, referring to his status as a bounty himself. He let a moment's silence pass.

"You carry it well, you know."

He was vague on purpose, but confident Rheyla would understand what he was referring to.

Hours Later

The jolt of dropping out of hyperspace woke Ace up. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep. Immediately, he patted his face - looking at his reflection through the cockpit's viewport to check for any drawings on his face.

Ace made a face - whether it was one of disappointment, disgust, apprehension, or all three, wasn't clear. He'd been to Nar Shaddaa once, and prayed it would be his last too. Unfortunately, plans never tended to go his way. Clearly.

"No need for introductions." Ace interjected "Sadly, I've been here before." he said begrudgingly.

As they descended, Rheyla warned him to stay-in-line. He simply nodded. She didn't need to warn him more than once, everyone knew about the Hutts. He didn't need more heat on him right now. Ace would just follow her lead for now. However, Rheyla's "No drama" comment made the white-haired youth feel a wave of unease. As if she'd just jinxed everything.

Ace sighed.

"Now I've got a bad feeling about this..." he muttered "Alright. Following you."

Rheyla Tann
​

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The Scourhawk settled onto the platform with a final groan of protest from its aging struts. Rheyla leaned forward, flicking a toggle on the console as the display showed an empty landing pad bathed in yellow floodlights and grit.

She smirked.

“So far, so good. No spice-runners, no bonfires. Might actually be our lucky day.”

She stood, shouldering the satchel stuffed with credits—payment for a job that still wasn’t quite done—and made her way toward the cargo hold.

Inside, the Zabrak was just starting to stir.

The stun cuffs on his wrists sparked faintly as she keyed the cell open, the makeshift barrier sliding aside with a hiss. She didn’t bother with words. Just grabbed him by the arm and gave him a firm shove toward the still-sealed ramp.

“Move.”

He blinked, disoriented but recovering fast. Already his voice was warming up, that same greasy charm sliding into gear.

“Easy, sweetheart—no need for the rough handling. I was starting to miss you, you kn—”

“Save it,” she muttered flatly. Then turned to Ace as she walked past him. “Watch him.”

Without waiting for an answer, she ducked into the small gear locker just off the corridor.

As soon as she was out of sight, the Zabrak tilted his head toward Ace, voice lowering to something conspiratorial.

“You don’t really want to hand me over, do you? Look, we both know she’s not getting a fair deal from that Hutt. I can fix that. Triple payout. No questions. You and me—quick credits, in and out.”

He even smiled like he thought it might work.

But Rheyla returned before the pitch could go too far—cycler rifle slung over her shoulder, expression unreadable.

The Zabrak immediately straightened up.

Without a word, she grabbed his upper arm again—less dragging, more herding—and walked him to the ramp controls. Her hand slammed the button with a flat, mechanical clunk.

The ramp began to descend with a slow hiss, light from the landing pad creeping into the ship like the first touch of dawn.

Rheyla didn’t even look at him.

“Walk,” she said simply.

And this time, he did.

The ramp clanked down fully, its hydraulics whining as the Scourhawk’s interior gave way to the neon-drenched chaos outside.

Nar Shaddaa greeted them like a slap to the senses—heat, noise, motion. The landing pad perched like a parasite on the edge of a mid-tier platform, overlooking lower districts swallowed in smog and flickering light. Towers jutted up around them like rusted fangs, crowded with cables, vents, and open-air walkways that twisted through the undercity like veins.

Steam hissed from nearby exhaust ports. Droids trundled past on cracked duracrete lanes. Advertisements screamed in a dozen languages, casting shifting holograms across the street: half-naked Twi’leks selling glitterstim, armed mercs offering “personal protection,” and one particularly aggressive ad for synthetic bantha milk that seemed to follow them for several blocks.

And the smell.

Fried grease, ozone, old metal, unwashed bodies, engine coolant, and worse—every breath a gamble.

Rheyla moved with purpose, rifle over her shoulder, expression sharp and unreadable. The Zabrak shuffled between her and Ace, hands cuffed, still somehow managing to fill the air with his voice.

“Okay, okay—listen. I know what this looks like, but we could all walk out of this richer, right? Just a quick chat with your Hutt friend, yeah? I’ve got friends, real ones—people who owe me favours. You want info? Done. You want spice? Got a guy.”

They passed a hunched vendor who shouted about fried nerf tails—Rheyla didn’t even glance his way. She kept walking.

The Zabrak kept talking.

“I mean, sweetheart—Rheyla—look, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. A real professional. What are you doing running errands for slugs? No offence. Okay, some offence. But still.”

Another level of foot traffic crossed above them, and a steady stream of hovertaxis whined past overhead, kicking gusts of hot air and paper trash across their path. A Rodian shouted something vulgar in Huttese from across the street. No one paid it any mind.

“You ever seen what Gorrga does to people who hand him the wrong bounty?” The Zabrak tried again, a touch of genuine concern slipping in. “Just saying, if he decides I’m not worth the creds, he’s not gonna comp you a consolation prize. You’ll be lucky to leave with your kneecaps.”

They passed a sputtering neon sign that read "CHOP & CHARGE — IMPLANTS WHILE YOU WAIT". The transparisteel storefront showed a Trandoshan elbow-deep in someone’s chest cavity. Rheyla didn’t blink.

“And you—Sparkleboy, was it?” He grinned like a man who’d just found a crack in the armour. “She calls you that affectionately, or am I detecting tension? Either way, you look like a reasonable sort. Sensible. I bet you’ve got a soft spot for underdogs, yeah?”

The street curved, revealing a broken-down speeder being hosed off by a Gamorrean. Someone shouted in Binary from an upper catwalk. Blasterfire crackled faintly in the distance—too far to matter. Yet.

“Sparkleboy, c’mon,” the Zabrak pressed, still keeping pace. “You let me go, I vanish. You two ride off into the smog. Nobody loses a limb. Or a ship. Or a kneecap. I don’t even need a thank-you.”

Rheyla stopped.

Cold. Abrupt.

She didn’t turn fully—just enough to throw him a dead-eyed glance over her shoulder.

He stopped, too.

Wisely.

Then she turned back around and resumed walking. Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t grow sharp. It was colder than that:

“Keep moving.”

And this time?

He did.

Still muttering.

But quieter.

Acier Moonbound​