Private She's a Super Freak

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Kinley Pryce once beat a Devaronian at sabacc with nothing but blank cards​

Mos Eisley, Late Dustfall

The twin suns had already begun their slow descent, bleeding molten orange across the dunes when Kinley Pryse stepped through the blast-scored archway of the cantina. The heat outside clung to her like a second coat, sweat drying into salt across sun-browned skin, but in here the air was cool and thick with the sour tang of spilled lum, engine grease, and the stale perfume of a thousand whispered deals.

She paused just inside the door, one gloved hand resting casually on the grip of her blaster. Casual, but never careless.
Heads turned. They always did.

A few eyes widened in fleeting recognition: Wanted in twelve sectors, bad news in all of them. Rumor said she'd smuggled spice through a blockade by pretending to inspect herself. Rumor said worse. Rumor never mentioned she was real. She took in the room with a gunslinger's glance that was quick, deliberate, counting exits, armed threats, drunk liabilities. A pair of Weequay gamblers hunched over sabacc. A Devaronian dealer watched her too long. A Black Sun enforcer she knew by reputation slouched in the corner, marked by the obsidian emblem at his collar. She looked away. Not him. Not today. She wasn't here for syndicates. Not for debts. This run was dirtier, riskier. Rebel guns. Imperial heat. The kind of cargo that got you spaced if you trusted the wrong hands.

She made for the bar.

The bartender was a grizzled, human, too old to scare easy who was polishing the same glass he'd probably been polishing since the Clone Wars. "Drink?"

"Information," she said, sliding a credit chit between two fingers. It glinted like bait. "I'm looking for someone who knows routes. Quiet ones. No Black Sun strings attached."

His eyes flicked up. "Bad time to be runnin' guns."

She arched a brow. "Good time to be paid."

He hesitated. Then nodded toward the far end of the cantina. "Blue Twi'lek. Keeps to herself. Doesn't dance. Doesn't pray. Flies anything with a hull and something to outrun."

Kinley followed his gaze then smirked as she saw the woman he described. "Give me whatever she's drinking and a mocktail."

With drinks in hand Kinley made her way over to the table to see if this Twi'lek liked credits more than fear. Politics were people who could afford morals and today Kinley wasn't one of those.







Rheyla Tann

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Rheyla Tann]

The cantina hummed with the familiar noise of half-spoken deals and half-drunk regrets. It was the kind of sound Rheyla could almost relax to. She sat tucked into a shadowed corner, chips spread across the table in uneven stacks, the spoils of a game that had ended three hands ago. A few sore losers still lingered near the bar, muttering into their drinks.

Rheyla ignored them.

Her headwrap was pulled down for once, revealing the fitted cap beneath. It was a snug, weathered piece of craftsmanship in deep brown hide, reinforced with slim bronze trims that caught the low light. A small inlaid crest sat centered above her brow, polished from use rather than vanity. The design was practical but carried a quiet pride. The air here was thick but mercifully cool, the kind that made the twin suns outside feel like a bad dream. She slid a credit into her palm and flipped it idly between her fingers, counting, listening, keeping one ear tuned to the rhythm of the room.

That was when the door opened.

The sudden spill of orange light did not draw her gaze, but she noticed the shift anyway, the way conversation dipped just slightly. Someone new. Someone important enough for a few heads to turn. Rheyla did not need to look to know the type. The step was too sure, the weight in the air too practiced.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of sun-kissed skin, the outline of a blaster, the set of a woman who walked like she expected the galaxy to make room for her. Rheyla did not bother reacting, though a faint curve touched her mouth.

Let her come.

By the time the woman reached the bar, Rheyla had already swept her chips into a neat pile. When the bartender’s chin tilted her way, she knew exactly what was coming.

So when the stranger approached, two drinks in hand, Rheyla pocketed her winnings with an easy motion and leaned back in her chair. One leg crossed over the other, a hand resting lightly near her blaster, not as a warning, just habit.

Her eyes lifted, warm with quiet amusement.

"Well now," she said, her voice smooth and teasing. "If you’re buying, I must have made a better impression than I thought."

A small, knowing smirk followed. "Or you’re trying to butter me up before asking for something dangerous. Either way, I’m listening."

Kinley Pryse​