Private Operation: Market Garden

[Darth Virelia]

"Hustle and Bustle."

Tags - Oleander



Kwenn Station had the smell of a dying feast — too many bodies, too much heat, too many half-rotted spices clinging to the recycled air. The Black Sun probably called it a jewel of both legal and less-than-legal commerce. Virelia thought it was a jewel in the same way a swollen tick was full of blood.

She walked at the center of the current, a ripple in the chaos of the market promenade. Her armor was scaled down for the occasion, worn like a second skin — black plates hugging every deliberate contour of her frame, cloak split high for ease of movement and the faintest promise of indecency. The violet eyes behind her maskplate glimmered with indulgent contempt as she surveyed the press of traders, smugglers, bounty hunters, and other predators who fancied themselves apex.

She was here for one reason: whispers.

An expert in poisons and alchemy — a ghost with no name, but a legend in certain circles. She'd heard the rumour twice on different worlds, which meant it had either spread far enough to be useful, or someone wanted her to hear it. Either way, she would bite.

Unfortunately, biting required finding the damn thing first. And Kwenn's market was less a map and more a fever dream.

Virelia stopped beside a stall dripping with glow-netting and exotic flowers. The Zygerrian seller immediately perked up, ready to spill some pitch about the romance of his homeworld. She cut him off with a deadly glare and a tilt of the head.

The man stammered something about incense that could mimic poison symptoms. She left him mid-sentence, amused at the way his tail twitched nervously as she brushed past.

Another bottleneck. Too many bodies, too much noise — she tried slipping left and found herself pressed between a Twi'lek spice-runner with too much cologne and a Rodian selling counterfeit blasters. She leaned just enough to murmur in the Twi'lek's ear, low enough to make him shiver:

"If your scent were a weapon, it would be so highly illegal even the Black Sun wouldn't use it."

She left him blinking as she pushed through, earning a few laughs from bystanders.

The promenade curved without warning, a snarl of food stalls forcing her into another direction entirely. She found herself beside a Gamorrean cook pounding meat with enough force to break ribs. The sizzling scent was almost convincing — until she realized it wasn't meat from any species she recognized.

"You wouldn't happen to know the way to someone who deals in… more sophisticated recipes?" she asked, voice dropping to something conspiratorial.

The Gamorrean snorted, flicking his tusks toward a darker corridor off the main artery of stalls. It looked less like a market lane and more like somewhere you'd wake up missing a kidney.

Perfect.

As she slipped in, the crowd noise dulled. The lighting dropped to a bruised amber. Here, the goods weren't displayed so much as hinted at — sealed crates, draped tarps, muttered exchanges between people who didn't want to be overheard. The smell shifted from food and sweat to acrid herbs and bitter resins.

Rumour said her quarry was here. And while she had no guarantee this trail wouldn't end in another dead end — or an ambush — Virelia could already taste the intrigue.

The hunt was half the pleasure.

And the other half… was figuring out what she would do when she caught them.

 

[Oleander]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Kwenn Station //:
//: Attire //:

"I don't know, Felix." Oleander leaned over the booth, the vine behind her flicking back and forth like it had something to say.

"No, we're stuck here. I spent my last credit on that sandwich." She slouched across the table, arms dangling over the sides, fingers drumming in annoyance.

A sharp poke to her shoulder.

"I know! I didn't realize it was bantha-based." She groaned, still sulking as Felix busied himself arranging the vials and bottles. He was the brains of the bunch, even if he couldn't speak binary, and she appreciated the help — especially with the stomach ache.

The moment a few heads turned toward the booth, Oleander pushed herself upright, plastered on a smile, and let the charm take over.

"Hello! Yes! I am the great Oleander from Hapes!" she announced, holding up a gleaming bottle.

"Everlasting beauty! Enough to rival the new Queen Mother herself!" She winked, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Don't tell her I said that — she won't be a fan."

Coins and credits flowed as Felix tossed her bottles, and she caught each one, trading them for payment in a practiced rhythm. Luck tonics, beauty tonics, vitality potions — gone in minutes.

When the crowd dispersed, Oleander swept the credits into a small knapsack. "We should deposit this sooner rather than later."

She paused, frowning. "No, we are not sending Marylyn."

Oleander groaned.

"The last time we sent her, she lost everything. She doesn't have thumbs, Felix." She rubbed her cheek, sighed, and muttered, "None of you do."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Hustle and Bustle."

Tags - Oleander



Kwenn's market thinned to a tolerable pulse just as Virelia found the booth—bright bottles arrayed like captive suns, a makeshift banner, a cheerful grifter's smile cooling to calculation as the last customers drifted away. The stall smelled of candied herbs and desperate promises. Behind the vendor, a vine twitched with nosy interest; beside her, a meticulous assistant was rearranging vials with priestly care. There was also mention of a Marylyn with no thumbs. Intriguing menagerie.

Virelia arrived as if she'd always owned the space, a smooth interruption disguised as courtesy. The cloak's split hem whispered against her armored thighs, violet eyes taking in the geometry of the table, the root of the vendor's posture, and the microflinch at the clink of newly earned credits. Hunger lived here, but not the kind that begged. The interesting kind.

"Busy house," she said lightly, the maskplate angling just so.

She didn't wait to be invited closer; she reduced the distance by one small, deliberate step, enough that the glow trapped in the glass sang on her armor. Humor curled at the edge of her voice. "And for the record, sending Marylyn would be a terrible plan. I prefer my investments with thumbs."

Oleander—if the name matched the flair—smiled like a person who could take a compliment and make change.

"You can call me, Virelia." Virelia continued, tone warm, almost indulgent. "I am shopping for very specific moods."

She let the words hang, then traced them with the soft edge of her gauntlet across a small cluster of bottles, not quite touching. "Hallucinogenics of several families. Quiet bliss that opens doors. Loud terror that closes them. Things that fold time for a few minutes and convince a witness that an hour has passed. A fog that makes obedience feel like relief. I'm not particular about route: contact, inhalant, ingestive. Transdermal if you're clever."

Another step; not crowding—crowds push. Queens drift. "I enjoy precision. Dose curves that obey, antidotes that actually deserve the title, and toxins, lots of toxins. If you have tinctures that skip the liver's little tantrums, even better."

She dragged a finger's width across the edge of the table, the gesture entirely unnecessary and therefore intentional.

"I pay well," Virelia added, a velvet aside. "And I am excited to see what you have in stock."

 

[Oleander]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Attire //:

Oleander looked up and stood while this purple moth began to talk. Felix quietly gathered the credits the woman had left at her feet and tucked them away in the safe behind them.

As Virelia reached for the bottles, feigning touch, Oleander flicked her hand to warn her off. This was a break it, you buy-it kind of store.
Who exactly did this armored woman think she was?

She spoke in strange, flowery riddles — magical and mystical, dripping with feelings and the like. Oleander's gaze wandered over the bazaar, half expecting this to be some kind of setup. She wouldn't put it past the Vigo who'd scooped her up on Hapes to pull a practical joke.

But when her eyes landed on the fiery mountain known as Mercy , she noted the woman wasn't laughing.

Oh, so she's for real…

Oleander's brows climbed as she tried to comprehend the order… request… or was it a sonnet? None of it made sense. Poisons and tonics didn't "open doors" or "close terrors." They made you stronger, healthier, maybe luckier — or on the flip side, sick to your stomach, vomiting, bleeding from your eyes. If deadly enough and given to the right enemy, they Acould be lethal.

The woman finally finished, and Oleander stared at her, eyes glazed over from the marathon of words.

"…What?" she said at last, tilting her head in pure confusion.

"Okay, so what are you actually looking for? Because I have no idea what you just said, and I'm pretty sure you're in the wrong store, lady."

She picked up a vial, a green shimmer catching the light on the glass as she rolled it between her fingers.

"I sell practical stuff — poisons, tonics — not…" she lowered her voice, adopting an overly posh and mocking tone, "Quiet bliss that opens doors and loud terrors that close them, or whatever it was."

Felix perked up at that, clearly sensing danger. He knew the woman across from them wasn't someone to provoke. Oleander? She couldn't care less. She'd faced the might of Gerra and headbutted Mercy.

After those two, nothing really scared her.

"So again," she said, voice back to normal, "in plain Basic — or Huttese, if that works better — what do you want from me? I've got things to do."