Rheyla Tann
Character
JUTRAND // SITH SPACE
SECONDARY PORT — DOCK 17G // SCAV-CLASS DESIGNATION: THE SCOURHAWK
SECONDARY PORT — DOCK 17G // SCAV-CLASS DESIGNATION: THE SCOURHAWK
The moment the navcomputer spat them out of hyperspace, everything felt... wrong.
Rheyla had jumped into cursed systems before—old battlefields, dead moons, pirate scrapyards steeped in rot. But this? This was different. The void itself felt coiled, watching. Like she'd brushed up against something ancient that chose not to strike—yet.
Crossing the Blackwall hadn’t been clean. The encrypted chain code had worked—barely. The storm corridors surrounding Sith space had groaned with warped gravity and dark-side interference. Void storms lit the hyperspace lanes like lightning through veins. Her cockpit instruments wept static. It took every ounce of her skill—and the smug bastard confidence only Mandalorian training and a few brushes with death could grant—to ride the path through.
And now here she was. Docked. Still breathing. Barely.
She hadn’t been on Jutrand more than thirty minutes, and already she hated it.
The station’s lighting was too clean. The air too still. Even the shadows didn’t behave. She kept her headwrap drawn tight around her face, leaving only her eyes and the lower length of her lekku visible and one hand resting near the blaster at her thigh—not on it, not yet. The kind of place where twitchy fingers vanished behind doors that didn’t open again.
She’d seen stormtroopers before. Hell, she’d gunned down a few. But these weren’t just enforcers. The Sith troopers here moved like apex predators—quiet, cold, efficient. No banter, no swagger. Just discipline carved in blood and silence.
Rheyla didn’t talk to them. She didn’t talk to anyone.
The job was clear: pick up the client. No questions. No trails. Get out.
Encrypted Channel XHR40-BAND5 — Active
“Tann here. Through the wall. Landed and waiting. You’ve got thirty before I get twitchy.”
Message sent...
“Tann here. Through the wall. Landed and waiting. You’ve got thirty before I get twitchy.”
Message sent...
She closed the channel with a thumb flick, leaned against a crate of sealed coolant coils, and watched the docking corridor from under the brim of her cloak. Eyes sharp. Posture lazy.
Behind her, the Scourhawk squatted on its landing struts like a wounded bird of prey—low to the ground, wide-bodied, and ugly in all the right ways. The hull was a patchwork of gunmetal grey and matte olive panels, battered by time and dogfights. One side jutted out slightly from a retrofitted sensor array and a bolted-on shield casing where the hull had once given way. Red-orange striping peeked from under grime like the ghosts of stolen parts—or maybe just a past owner who didn’t make it.
Twin engines sat at the rear, one newer than the other, humming with uneven heat. The forward landing strut still groaned like an old man every time it extended—she'd had to kick it into place when they touched down. A topside cannon jutted near the nose, clearly not stock. The underbelly turret was half-dead, but it looked functional enough to bluff.
It wasn’t pretty. But it was hers.
And it hadn’t failed her. Yet.
She hadn’t come this far to admire the skyline.
This was a pickup, not a pleasure cruise.
No detours. No politics. No getting involved in whatever passed for “normal” inside Sith space.
Just slide in, collect the client, and punch out before anyone got twitchy—especially her passenger.
One warm body in the seat beside hers. No holes in either of them.
Just another job.
Except she’d never set foot in Sith space before. Never wanted to.
Too many lies. Too much drama. And things that didn’t stay dead.
Rheyla exhaled slow through her nose, eyes flicking to a nearby security camera that had definitely turned toward her.
She gave it a lazy wink.
She wasn’t sure if it was the tech watching her… or something worse.
Either way, she was already counting the seconds to get back out.
