Private Lost (and found) in Time

[Ordan Vosk]

Midvayne, the Inner Rim
Valery Noble ​

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Midvayne City, a Hub for Underworld activity.

It might have been a cantina like any other. Criminals and the unsavory element mixed here, strong music played in the background and it was an undeniably unsafe environment. It may have well been home.

Since the Hutt Cartel had dissolved, returning to a state of several competing Huttese Crime Families he'd kept out of the limelight. It wasn't so different than after the Black Sun had relegated itself, taking a more minor role on the galactic stage. Something had happened though, it started as a rumor and then it grew into something else; it could be an enormous payday or it could be death.

Only one way to find out.

He'd reached out to old contacts he'd maintained, people who wouldn't double-cross him for fear of death but whom he also couldn't risk bringing on the job. Loose lips sink ships or so he'd been told once or twice when he was younger. Eventually he heard a name, reputable and someone he didn't know; Alicia.

Now he was here, on Midvayne in the inner rim, waiting.

He'd taken a seat at a Sabacc Table, across from him and on either side were what looked to be a pair of Near Humans, a Rodian and a Sullustan. As the cards were dealt Ordan took a shot of the tables flavor, a strong liquor that bit all the way down his throat that he chased with a drag from a cigar that was rolled by one of the girls working the establishment. Lifting the corner of his cards he'd nod...

"I'm in."

...and toss a few more credits into the pot and so on it went. He didn't know who Alicia was, he didn't know what she looked like; he didn't know if she was a Pilot, a Smuggler or something else, all he knew was that she was the one when he was given a name. Now he had to wait, he was given coordinates on where to meet her; she knew he had a job for her and she'd decide whether it was worth her time or not.

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Undercover Smuggler
Weapons: Blasters

The cantina was the kind that smelled like old credits, spilled booze, and danger waiting to unfold.

She didn't walk in — she strode, like she belonged. The doors hissed shut behind her, swallowing the street noise outside as heavy bass thumped through the floor. Her steps were measured, boots quiet against the metal, but there was nothing subtle about her presence. She drew eyes. Not because she sought them — but because she wore confidence like a second skin.

She looked striking: fit, with sun-kissed skin dusted by smudges of grease and grit from travel. Her shirt clung tightly under a leather harness that fit like it was made for her — sleeves rolled up, collar teasingly open and laced at the chest, with a holster slung low against snug brown trousers that had seen more than one close call. Fingerless gloves covered her hands, and her long, dark hair was tied back in a high ponytail, though a few rebellious strands curled down to frame a face too sharp and knowing for this kind of place.

A faint scar marked her face, and the eyes — a flame, edged with amusement — scanned the crowd like a predator in no hurry. She found the sabacc table easily. Sliding through the smoke and dim lighting, Alicia moved with practiced casualness — not flashy, not aggressive. Just someone who knew exactly how to navigate places like this. When she reached the table, she didn't ask. She sat.

Right across from him.

A soft creak of leather as she leaned back in her chair, resting one gloved hand casually on her thigh, near the holstered blaster that wasn't just for show.

"Ordan, I presume," she said smoothly, voice warm but edged with curiosity.

Ordan Vosk ​