Smooth Criminal
You've been hit by... you've been struck by...
Kinley Pryse could sell sand on Tatooine and somehow create a shortage.
The twin suns had long since baked Mos Eisley into submission.
Heat shimmered off the streets outside, turning the distant buildings into wavering ghosts of sandstone and durasteel. Inside the cantina, however, the desert had been traded for a different kind of misery. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, spilled liquor, and enough questionable life choices to keep a Hutt entertained for an afternoon.
Somewhere near the bar, a musician plucked lazily at an instrument that sounded like it had survived at least three bar fights. Glasses clinked. Credits changed hands. A Rodian shouted something angry from across the room, followed by the scrape of a chair and the unmistakable sound of a blaster being drawn.
Nobody bothered looking.
Just another evening on Tatooine.
Kinley Pryse had claimed a table toward the back.
It was the sort of spot she liked,close enough to the action to know what was happening, far enough removed that nobody could easily sneak up behind her. She sat sideways in her chair, one boot hooked casually around its leg, looking entirely too comfortable for someone conducting several transactions that could probably earn her a lengthy stay in a Republic prison.
Not that the Republic had much say out here.
A small glass sat in one hand, filled with something bright, fruity, and conspicuously lacking alcohol.
Kinley took a sip.
Across from her, a nervous-looking spacer slid a handful of credits across the table. Kinley glanced down at them. Then up at him. Then back at the credits.
"You're short."
The spacer swallowed.
"I—"
Kinley raised an eyebrow.
Another credit chip appeared.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
Her hand disappeared briefly beneath the table. A small packet changed hands. The spacer tucked it quickly inside his jacket and disappeared into the crowd before anyone could take too much interest.
Kinley took another sip of her mocktail.
Spice sales were going well, but business was getting boring. Spread across the table in front of her was a worn deck of cards. Beside them sat a modest stack of credit chips, arranged with just enough care to suggest their owner intended to acquire considerably more before the evening was finished.
Kinley idly picked up the deck.
Shuffle.
The cards danced between her fingers.
Shuffle.
Her eyes wandered across the cantina.
Smugglers. Mercenaries. Bounty hunters. Pilots. Criminals. A few unfortunate tourists who hadn't yet realized they had chosen the wrong establishment. Surely one of them had credits they didn't particularly need. Kinley placed the deck on the table. Then she leaned back in her chair, lifted her glass, and waited.
Every proper cantina needed three things.
A drink.
A bad decision.
And someone foolish enough to think they could beat Kinley Pryse at cards.
She already had the first two covered. Now she just needed a volunteer.
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A Smooth Criminal
