Private That’s Not What It Looks Like

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t answer right away.

The cockpit settled into a low, mechanical hum—hyperspace humming against the hull, quiet in that empty sort of way space always was. No blaster fire. No shouting. Just two people and too many unsaid things.

She could feel him sitting there—arms crossed, posture stiff like he hadn’t decided whether to argue or meditate his annoyance into the floor.

Her eyes didn’t leave the star lines. “You’re not the only one who wasn’t planning a detour.”

She reached forward, flipping a stabiliser toggle with more force than necessary. The panel responded with a dull beep, and the overhead lights dimmed slightly—casting a harsher edge to the shadows crawling across her face.

“Next time, try packing emergency snacks. Or, I don’t know... a ride that doesn’t barge onto ships mid-firefight.” The barb came easy, but the venom had dulled. It was a reflex, more than anything. Habitual bite to cover the exhaustion nipping at her heels. Her hand hovered over the controls for a moment longer than needed, then dropped to her lap. She sat back, exhaling slowly through her nose.

“Twelve hours,” she muttered—not to him, really. Just aloud. The kind of tired statement spacers made to themselves when the rush was over and the silence came creeping in.

“Could’ve been six,” she said, tone flat as a landing pad. “If you and Dro hadn’t decided to play Stop the Smuggler—galaxy’s favourite untelevised disaster.”

Her fingers drummed twice on the edge of the console, then stilled.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Aris—tall, quiet, folded into the co-pilot’s seat like he was trying not to take up space. A little too still. A little too there.

She squinted.

“You meditating? Brooding? Planning to redecorate with your big Jedi thoughts?”

Another flick of a switch. The nav screen blinked. No surprises. No beacons. No pursuit yet.

She leaned back again.

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the ship and the slow drift of hyperspace.

Then, almost grudgingly, she muttered, “You play sabacc? Pazaak?”

Her eyes didn’t leave the console, but her tone shifted—subtle, worn-down practicality sliding in to replace the tension. “Figure if we’re stuck in here for half a day, might as well not die of boredom before the blaster bolts start flying again.”

She paused, then added under her breath, “Or worse… conversation.”

One brow arched, just enough to signal the closest thing to a challenge without actually making it one.

Aris Noble​

 

[Aris Noble]

"I don't much care for standing in flamethrowers, in truth. Even snackless I'd pick hopping on board." Even if he couldn't be burned, his clothing could. The items Zaiya Ceti had made for him too. Grant it, he didn't want to have to defend that choice, considering who it was the group had even been firing for.

"By all accounts if I hadn't been there, how were you going to stop them from blowing up your ship while you tried to get it started?" He perked a brow, glancing up towards her. It wasn't like he brought Dro, which meant if he wasn't there, wouldn't things have been worse? "We'll consider me being on board thanks for the help and leave it there."

No more digs, no more trying to feel the other out, that would be fine for Aris. Though his brow did twitch faintly at the continued questions anyway. Brooding? Did he ever look like he was brooding?

"What is big Jedi thoughts even supposed to be? No, I'm just thinking on how to help myself in the situation. I'd like to avoid being shot at as much as possible."

A pause. He watched the Twi'lek finally, rather than the view port. Emotionless as ever, but watching. After a moment he turned his gaze back out towards the blue around them.

"Neither. People didn't like it that I always won. Something about counting cards being bad, but numbers are numbers." He was damn good at numbers.

"We don't have to talk, though. I'm already speaking far more than I normally would."

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla didn’t look up from the console. Her lekku gave the faintest, impatient twitch—the kind that said she’d heard every word and filed it under arguments I’m not dignifying with a real answer.

“Cute,” she said at last, tone flat. “You keep telling yourself you were the deciding factor between me and Shorty, sabre-boy.” A flick of her wrist brought up the nav display again. ETA still the same. Twelve hours of this.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and pulled out one of her vibroknifes and absentmindedly ran two fingers over the flat side of the blade. It was more to pass the time than anything else as the Scourhawk hummed on.

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, her eyes resting on the starlines. “I didn’t pick you up for conversation anyway.”

Minutes slid by, the hum of the ship swallowing the cockpit. Stars blurred on and on until the pull of caf won out. Rheyla got up and left the cockpit, entering the galley to brew some caf, because if this was going to be a quiet trip, she would need something to keep her from falling asleep. Sheathing her vibroknife as she listened to the coffee brew as she stood with crossed arms and her back leaning against the counter.

Her thoughts went back to the tracker Dro threw onto her ship, and a frustrated exhale escaped her. Her lekku gave a slow, agitated coil as she took another sip, already turning over ways to peel that tracker off the hull before it became the headache she knew it would be the moment they dropped out of hyperspace.

A soft ding could be heard behind her, and her train of thought was disrupted as she turned, took the cup with fresh, though slightly bitter caf and returned to the cockpit. She slid back into the pilot’s seat, caf in hand, and flicked a glance at Aris—still there, still tall, still too calm for someone in her ship uninvited.

Aris Noble​

 

[Aris Noble]

"There is nothing cute about being shot." As ever, the matter of fact tone he spoke in didn't help with the tenseness of their semi conversation. He could see her annoyance though. The twitch, how she palmed her blades. The huff of frustration and discomfort. He'd remained calm all throughout, even as she got herself some what smelled like instant caf.

And started staring at him again. There was a brief, barely noticeable twitch of his brow.

".. Would talking help you to stop staring? Neither of us like this situation, but once you've found a spot to land without us being attacked I'll be gone. There's no reason to make this any more uncomfortable."

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla blew across the rim of her cup, took a sip, and exhaled slow through her nose. The caf was still bitter, still awful—just the way she liked it.

“You call this staring?” Her voice was dry, unimpressed. “Stars, you’re delicate.”

Her gaze flicked to him briefly, just long enough to read the stiff lines of his posture, then slid back to the nav screen.

“Talking doesn’t help. Flying helps. Credits help. Not having a karking tracker nailed to my hull helps.” Despite her tone, her voice wasn't loud while her fingers drummed once on the armrest, restless, before stilling again.

Another sip. Another pause. Her lekku twitched with that faint pulse of amusement she couldn’t quite smother. “Relax, Jedi. If I were staring, you’d know it. And for the record? Everyone looks cute when they’re being shot at. It’s the panic. Brings out the charm.”

She set the cup down with a quiet clink, finally cutting her eyes toward him.
“You keep saying you’ll be gone once I land. That’d be easier to believe if you didn’t sit there like a hired conscience.”

Her tone was flat. The edge beneath it lingered, half irritation, half amusement.

~~~ Twelve hours and some change later ~~~​

The Scourhawk broke out of hyperspace with a shudder, Florrum filling the viewport. A red-brown world, ugly as a cauterised wound. Dry deserts, jagged ridges, and dust storms that looked like they wanted to peel the paint off her hull.

Not exactly a vacation spot. But for a delivery no one wanted logged, it was perfect.

Rheyla flicked a switch, guiding the freighter into the atmosphere. Heat rippled across the transparisteel, and the engines groaned like they resented the planet already. She felt the vibrations run up through the seat, a low growl in her bones.

Her jaw worked as she scanned the coordinates blinking on the nav. Meeting point: some forgotten mesa station on the far side of the equator. The kind of place you went to get paid, not to ask questions.

She reached for her caf cup, found it empty, and muttered under her breath in Ryl.

One hand stayed steady on the yoke as the Scourhawk cut through the atmosphere, angling down toward the cracked spires and canyon floor. The other drummed once against the console—restless, sharp, the rhythm of someone who trusted the ship but not the welcome waiting planetside.

Aris Noble​

 

[Aris Noble]

"Delicate?"

There was vocal and actually clear confusion for once in his tone. It had never been a word used to describe him before, and it seemed to put Aris quite into his own head. Worse, the idea that panic was cute. He certainly hadn't been panicked in the moment, just stressed about not loosing another set of clothing to burn damage.

How was that cute?

He let out a breath before he turned his gaze elsewhere. No where looked comfortable to look at, nor did he want to just wander around her ship. Maybe he should sleep. Getting some shut eye would be ideal if there was going to be a fight. Better to be prepared for the worst than to be unprepared, or something along those lines.

It was a change of atmosphere that woke him back up. His eyes opened up calm as ever as he looked to the world they'd arrived to. And stared, blankly.

".. Do you always trade spice in places that look like they could hold any number of ambushes?"

Rheyla Tann

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Rheyla was flipping a couple of switches as Aris stirred in the passenger seat. For a moment, she’d humoured herself with the idea of using the boredom to poke the sleeping Jedi, just to see if he actually did dream like the holodramas claimed. The idea lasted half a second before she’d dismissed it, returning her attention to the cockpit window and the ugly swirl of red and brown below. Florrum. Dry, cracked, and about as welcoming as a blaster muzzle.

“Firstly,” she said without looking at him, “I don’t trade. I smuggle.”

Another switch, another groan from the Scourhawk’s overworked systems as the ship adjusted descent.

“Secondly—” her honey-brown eyes cut toward him, flat and sharp “—I don’t control where the drop-off is.”

She let that hang, the hum of the engines filling the silence. One lek twitched against her shoulder, betraying irritation she didn’t bother voicing.

“You think I’d choose Florrum? Dust, pirates, and caf that tastes like burnt ration bars. My clients pick the rock, I fly to it. That’s how this works.”

Her gaze lingered on him for half a heartbeat longer, brow ticking up, before sliding back to the viewport. Florrum swelled to fill the glass, all scorched ridges and sand-choked valleys, a wasteland dressed in dust storms.

She tightened her grip on the yoke and leaned into her seat as the Scourhawk hit atmosphere. Heat licked across the hull, plasma streaks painting the glass in burning orange. The freighter shuddered, metal groaning in protest, but Rheyla barely blinked as this was just part of the job. The coordinates blinked steadily on her nav, leading them toward a broken stretch of mesa on the far side of the equator. The kind of place that wasn’t on any tourist map. The kind of place where you landed, got paid, and left before someone decided you looked like cargo, too.

Aris Noble​