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​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

Falling for her is like falling into hyperspace, fast, bright, no trace left
​

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

Kinley grinned and slid the drink across to the blue Twi'lek before taking a lazy seat opposite her. She'd played the girl-on-girl game before—flirtation was just another card in the deck, but tonight wasn't pleasure. Tonight was business.

"The job I've got might be less dangerous than a night with me," she teased, tipping her hat with a wink before stirring her mocktail. Kinley Pryse was the picture of cool composure, her confidence a careful mask honed by years under the Black Sun's shadow. But this run wasn't for them. Not tonight.

"I've got a few birthday presents that need delivering," she said, lowering her voice just enough to make it sound like trouble. "The kind that don't do well in the sun." She waited to see if the blue skinned female caught her drift.


Rheyla Tann

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla caught the sliding drink without looking at it, fingers curling around the rim as Kinley took the seat opposite. The smirk stayed, small but genuine.

"Less dangerous than a night with you, huh?" She took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Kinley’s. "Don’t tempt me with a fun night."

She set the glass down, tracing the condensation with a thumb. The faint hum of conversation filled the small pause that followed.

"Birthday presents, though," she said lightly, leaning back in her chair. "Let me guess. Fragile, a little temperamental, and the kind that explode if you shake them wrong." There was a pause as she planted her boots on the table’s edge. "Or is it the after-party kind of birthday present?"

Her tone was playful, but her gaze was all business, measuring Kinley in quiet calculation.

"You picked the right shade of blue for this kind of job," Rheyla added after a beat, amusement returning to her voice. "I don’t burn easy, and I don’t scare easy. So tell me, sweetheart, who’s blowing out the candles?"

In truth, she didn’t care what the cargo was or why it needed to be delivered, as long as she got paid. She was just enjoying the steps of their little dance.

Kinley Pryse​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

Kinley Pryse tried being honest once. It was boring and didn't pay​

Kinley smiled, just enough to be friendly, not enough to be trusted. The woman across from her looked as sharp as a Nexu's teeth, competent, the sort you liked on a job that couldn't afford mistakes. Good. Stupid people had their place in the underworld but clever ones kept you alive and well-paid and that's what she needed today.

"My niece's on Lao-Mon," Kinley said, leaning in like she was sharing a joke. "She runs a tidy little operation there"

Lao-Mon's was a rebel stronghold that others whispered about but nobody had confirmed. If The Empire found out what they were up to there would be trouble to pay, which is what made this work dangerous.

"It should be an easy drop. Fly in, slip the gifts to her, and get out. I'll front you half now, half when my niece's hands are on the crate." She let the offer hang, casual as a shrug, but with the kind of confidence that made the listener count the credits in their head.


Rheyla Tann

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla took a big sip of the drink Miss Smoothtalker had so graciously provided before resting the glass in her lap. Her top boot bounced to music that wasn’t playing in the background. "Well, aren’t you a nice aunt, running a family business with your niece," she commented with a small, natural, cheeky smile.

"So the crate," Rheyla said, rolling the glass lightly between her palms. "I’m not the type who gets nosy. You point me at a job, and I fly it where it needs to go. I don’t need to know what’s inside unless it tries to blow a hole through my hull or set my ship on fire."

She paused, letting the boot that had crossed the other bounce in a lazy rhythm.
"Unless it’s something harmless. Like a kiss or caress. Those only bruise egos, not bulkheads."

The smirk she gave after that was small and wicked, the kind that made it very unclear whether she was joking.

Her tone shifted back into a smooth, businesslike cadence, though her eyes stayed bright with amusement. "So just tell me if it’s the quiet kind of cargo. If it is, I don’t care whether it’s party favours or headaches. As long as it sits still and doesn’t try to kill me, it can hitch a ride."

Rheyla leaned forward, dropping her feet to the floor, setting her glass down on the table as she eyed Kinley with measured curiosity.
"Half now and half later sounds generous, but that only tells me your payment style. Not the sum."

A slow grin. Confident. Controlled. Playful.
"Credits talk, sweetheart. So give me a number. Then I’ll tell you if you’ve bought yourself a pilot for the night."

Kinley Pryse​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

Kinley Pryse doesn't miss. Sometimes she just chooses to scare people first​

"Shouldn't cause any damage unless someone pulls the trigger."


Kinley said it lightly, almost musical, like she was commenting on the weather rather than a weapon primed to ruin someone's whole afternoon. She rolled her shoulders, loosening the tightness that had settled there during the trek in.

Negotiations. Now that was the fun part.

She slipped a hand into her coat pocket, fingers brushing past a few odds and ends before finding what she wanted. A toothpick, thin, wrapped in crinkled paper. She tugged it free with a soft rustle, peeled it open with a practiced flick of her thumb, and stuck it between her teeth. The familiar pressure against her molars helped her think, helped her settle into the version of herself that did the talking instead of the shooting.

Kinley let the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat, then tipped her head, hat brim casting her face in deeper shadow.

"How does fifteen thousand sound?" she drawled, voice smooth but carrying that sharp undertone that made it clear she wasn't guessing. She was setting the number.

Her boot scuffed the stone floor as she shifted her weight, toothpick bobbing slightly.



Rheyla Tann

A Smooth Criminal