Private Twin Exiles

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

The undercity of Taris had never smelled clean. Even the fresher districts—newly built over old bones, where durasteel walkways glimmered with corporate polish—carried the faint perfume of rust, spilled spirits, and desperation. It clung to the air like a second skin, a reminder that no matter how much one scrubbed, the planet was a graveyard upon which life insisted on staggering forward.

Darth Virelia did not blend here. She did not attempt to. Her armor was not made for concealment. It was not camouflage, but revelation. The bar's regulars saw her long before she stepped through the threshold; six violet eyes glimmering from the shadow of her hood, mirrored plates scattering neon signs into jagged shards of color. A hush fell the moment her talon-toed boots touched the floor.

Inside, the bar was thick with the mutter of wagers, laughter, and false bravado—the sort of place where off-duty Mandalorians, scavengers, and the broken-spirited nursed their ruin. They parted for her without command. She trailed heat and silence, every step drawing their attention like a blade dragged across glass.

The rumor had reached her ears days earlier: a former Jedi, stripped of order and temple, yet still—stubbornly—radiating that infuriating purity of spirit. Not a fallen Jedi. Not corrupted. A believer without a sanctuary.

Perfect.

She reached the counter, her talons curling once against durasteel before the bartender fled the space he'd occupied. She did not sit. To sit would be to humanize herself. Instead, she leaned—an angle calculated to display the violet crystal pulsing at her sternum, its faint hum thrumming against the walls. Her helm tilted, six eyes scanning the room with insectile patience.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Adelle lifted her head from the bar. It felt like the barometric pressure in the air had changed and the temperature had dropped, but these were not physical sensations. Something like a thunderstorm, cold and oily, in the Force approached the bar. Even as dim as she kept her own presence, just enough to register as any other living being, she had to tamp down the urge to cut herself off entirely. A fight, physical or philosophical, wasn't wanted right now. She glanced at the helm of the Mandalorians, the buy'ce, sitting on the bar's counter. Her buy'ce.

After the riots on Taris . . . it seemed like the best use of her skills. The Mandos welcomed all, cin vhetin, and had their own Force-wielding fraternity. She'd sworn the Resol'nare. And while not fully Mandalorian yet--the Verd'goten still had to be completed--Adelle was no stranger to creeds; this one just required more physical adherence.

The helm that terrified her on her bad days seemed incredibly comforting in the protection it offered. And the anonymous Mando face it presented.

She sipped at her alcohol, a decent Whyren's Reserve. Jedi though she wasn't, she wasn't about to start letting fear dictate what she did or felt.

Outside the fogged windows, Adelle caught a glimpse of black and violet armor. And then the immense pressure pushed into the bar. The armored female--the fit of the armor left no doubt about the gender--turned heads and Adelle glanced over with the rest before turning back to her drink. Better to blend in than try to escape that suffocating pressure. There'd been worse things she'd endured than hiding one's presence from a Dark Sider.

And then the lady made for the counter. Kriff me. Adelle slid over as she stood at the bar, noting the way others had made space for her to glide past, patiently sipping her whiskey and staring at nothing. Something bright and sparkling shimmered in her peripheral, something set in the center of the woman's armor. Claws scraped over the bartop, a discordant hiss of metal on metal, and the woman's head scanned the room predatorily, the ever-present pressure of her Force presence seeking.

Kriff me.

"Looking for someone, burc'ya?" she asked, not looking directly at the Dark Sider. Adelle wondered if the woman had a description of her quarry--and if it matched her own. Heterochromatic eyes with scars from what looked like claws going down the left side of her face was distinctive to say the least. Hiding in plain sight was a dangerous game, and unfortunately, Adelle knew it all too well.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

Virelia did not turn her head immediately when the voice brushed against her. Six eyes glimmered violet in the dim light, their mirrored sheen refracting every angle of Adelle's face back into her own periphery. Silence stretched. Only the faint thrum of her crystalline core filled the pause, pulsing in time with her measured breath.

When she finally moved, it was not with the quickness of a predator but the slow inevitability of something far more certain. Her helm tilted down toward the Mandalorian helm on the counter. One taloned finger traced the edge of its visor, a gesture so delicate it almost seemed reverent. But reverence had no place here. The motion lingered instead like a lover's touch across a wound, unsettlingly intimate.

"Burc'ika," she murmured, her voice velvet—low, hushed, but thick with double-edged meaning. The word dripped from her tongue as if she had worn it long before ever stepping onto Taris.

She did not look at Adelle yet. That restraint was deliberate. Instead, Virelia circled her glass of whiskey with one claw, stirring it into a faint spiral. The reflection of six violet eyes shimmered on the amber surface before she pushed it lightly toward Adelle. A silent invitation, or perhaps an unspoken claim.

When at last she shifted, her head inclined by a fraction, six glowing facets fixing on the scarred woman beside her. The pressure of her gaze was heavier than the weight of her Force-presence—more intimate, more insidious. It was the look of someone who already knew far too much.

"You hide," she said, the words curved and soft, like silk over steel. "And yet you ask me if I seek."

Her talons drummed once, slowly, against the counter. Click. Click. Click. Each tap precise, deliberate, a heartbeat dragged into metal.

She leaned closer, the black-mirrored helm almost brushing Adelle's shoulder. The scent of synthweave and cold iron mingled with a sharper note—violet spice, faint but unmistakable, clinging like perfume. Her voice dropped to something barely audible, a whisper sharpened into a caress:

"The question is not who I am looking for, Jedi." A deliberate pause, savoring the word. "The question is why you are so eager to know if it is you."

The runes etched into her breastplate glimmered faintly, casting thin violet lines across Adelle's scars, tracing them like a map of belonging. Virelia tilted her head just so, studying those marks as though they were scripture, or an invitation.

For a moment she said nothing more. She allowed silence to stretch again, the kind of silence that suffocates, until the bar's sounds—murmured bets, clinking glasses, hushed laughter—felt impossibly distant. Only the two of them remained in orbit.

Then, almost idly, she brushed one talon against Adelle's half-finished glass, tilting it just enough that the liquid trembled without spilling.

"Drink," she breathed. "It steadies the hands. It loosens the tongue."

The implied and I want both went unspoken—but it lingered in the air, sweet and venomous, impossible to ignore.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Silence met her question. Silence and stillness. Alright, fine. The Dark Sider was either ignoring her or couldn't hear through the six-eyed helm. Adelle returned most of her focus to her drink. That was fine too. So long as she could drink in peace, silence was fine.

And then the helmet turned achingly slow towards Adelle's buy'ce. Oh kriff me to Corellia's nine hells. A metal talon extended to the distinctive T-visor, tracing the outline. Adelle swallowed the kneejerk reaction to move the helm, to save it from whatever abuse the Dark Sider might do, swallowed the wince when that metal claw touched the visor. She just got the beskar'gam. If this Dark Sider scratched it up or weakened the seam between visor and helmet, her new clan would never let her hear the end of it.

"Burc'ika," she murmured.

That was definitely Mando'a but a word she hadn't encountered. "'Ika" she'd only ever heard used with nicknames or children but she couldn't place what it was doing in that word. The six-eyed helmet studied a glass of amber liquid, slowly stirring with a metal clawed finger, and then the taloned hand slid it towards her. Adelle raised an eyebrow, then sipped from her own glass. She'd made the mistake of drinking from a glass offered by a stranger when she was a younger woman; she had learned that lesson a while ago.

The head finally, fractionally tilted toward her and it felt like every single searchlight in a CorSec operation immediately arrested on her. Ah kriff.

"You hide," she said, the words curved and soft, like silk over steel. "And yet you ask me if I seek."

"A calculated risk," Adelle said, bringing the cup up to her lips again, "but I'm terrible at math."

The Dark Sider tapped claw-tips into the counter once and leaned into Adelle's personal space, close enough she could smell the Dark Sider's scent through her armor. Adelle held her ground, still not staring at the strange helmet. Many beings who invaded personal space were trying to establish control or to intimidate. She wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of reacting to that kind of tactic.

"The question is not who I am looking for, Jedi." A deliberate pause, savoring the word. "The question is why you are so eager to know if it is you."

"Ex-Jedi," she corrected, finally looking straight at the insectoid helmet, keeping her own voice hushed. Best not to draw more attention to herself than absolutely necessary. Although the Dark Sider next to her made that incredibly difficult. "Same reason I keep track of storms. I want to know where the lightning will strike."

Even as the Dark Sider reached a talon towards her drink, Adelle kept her hand on the glass but let the glass tilt. A straight-out tug of war over it would just spill the drink. She had to let the Dark Sider threaten to spill the Whyren's, but she kept a careful eye on the balance of the glass. It was hard to find a good Whyren's Reserve.

"Drink," she breathed. "It steadies the hands. It loosens the tongue."

Two reactions fought to be released at those words. The first was an incredibly childish, stubborn refusal along the lines of Well now I don't want to. That kind of attitude had gotten her into a lot of trouble when she was a younger woman.

The second reaction vying for attention was amusement. And it won out.

Adelle smirked, sliding the glass out from under the Dark Sider's finger in one smooth, steady motion, and allowed herself a small, quiet chuckle.

"Never met an alcohol that steadied hands," she said, feeling and choosing not to acknowledge the weight of expectation and desire. If the Dark Sider had something to say, she could say it. "Nerves, maybe. But practice has kept my hands steady all these years."



Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

The smirk. The chuckle. The refusal to play the game by its obvious rules. Virelia found herself savoring it. Most bent too quickly, or broke too loudly. This one resisted in small, clever ways. Not defiance—no, something sharper, like a blade turned sideways, refusing to be drawn but glinting all the same.

The talon that had threatened her drink instead curled lazily back against the counter, tracing a slow, circling groove into the durasteel surface. She tilted her helm, six eyes narrowing in languid, insectile focus as Adelle's words spilled into the air. A lesser predator might have bristled. Virelia purred.

"Steady hands," she echoed, her voice low, velvet, threaded with amusement that licked at the edges of threat. "Yes. Practice does that."

She leaned closer—not in the brash press of intimidation, but in the deliberate, unhurried encroachment of someone who already knew the other would not retreat. Her helm hovered just to the side of Adelle's temple, so close that the faint warmth of the crystal at her sternum seemed to radiate through the space between them.

"But practice only makes hands precise. Not… daring. Not inventive." Her words breathed against the Mandalorian's ear, hushed enough that only she could hear them. "It is not steady hands I want, Jedi. It is what you do with them once they are no longer steady."

One taloned fingertip lifted, hovering above Adelle's scarred cheek. Not touching, not yet—simply waiting in the charged silence, as though the air itself might bend to complete the contact. Then, finally, the claw traced down the faintest edge of scar tissue, following its line like a lover mapping an old story. Not cruelly. Not gently. Intimately.

Her helm tilted fractionally, so that six glowing eyes fixed directly on Adelle's heterochromatic pair. The violet light reflected back in her irises, a corruption creeping into the surface of water.

"You say ex-Jedi," Virelia murmured, savoring the correction, "but your spirit clings like incense to the temple's ash. I smell it. I taste it in your restraint." A pause, her talon gliding lower, down along Adelle's jawline. "You are hiding in armor and creed, but neither Mando'ade nor Sith care for masks. Sooner or later, they strip you bare. And when they do, what will you be left with?"

She leaned closer still, helm nearly brushing Adelle's skin, voice descending into something dangerously soft.

"Do you know what I see? A woman who wants the lightning to strike her. Not to run. To feel it. To be changed by it."

The talon lifted, breaking contact, but only to hover above the rim of Adelle's glass again. This time, she did not tilt it. She simply pressed down lightly, steadying it in her place.

"Drink," she said again, though now it was no command. It was a promise—silken, coiled, and lethal. "Not to steady your hands. To remind yourself they still tremble."

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

So it was going to be that kind of night. Adelle closed her eyes, ignoring the instinctual alarms about the proximity of the Dark Sider, the memories of revulsion that cold metal talon dredged up, the impulse to throw the glass in the Dark Sider's face, and breathed. Deftly with the surety of having done it a million times, her fingers opened one of the pouches on her belt and pulled out a small metal cylinder. Let the Dark Sider wait. Let her questions, her philosophical musings and guesses and assumptions hang unanswered. Adelle unscrewed the top of the small cylinder and shook out an analgesic capsule, popping it in her mouth and swallowing it. Wordlessly, she firmly removed the glass from under the Dark Sider's claw and knocked back the rest before signalling to the bartender for a double.

That kind of night called for one.

She leaned her elbows on the bar again, grateful for silence and whatever compulsion dictated the Dark Sider's revelry in it. A younger version of herself would have been itching with the silence, the stillness. Patience had not been a great virtue of hers back then, but it had been an invaluable lesson. Adelle rolled her neck, stretching muscle and vertebrae, releasing tension. That felt better.

"If you insist on talking to me," Adelle said finally. "You can at least use my name--Adelle, although I doubt you'll return the courtesy. You've assumed an awful lot without knowing my name, I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't projection. Shall I try psychoanalyzing you now? Take a guess at what made you don that armor and mask yourself?"



Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

The capsule. The swallow. The signal for another double. Virelia's six eyes narrowed, and for the first time that night she let the silence twist back on itself, dragging every sound in the bar into a kind of suspended, anxious orbit. Mandalorians did not answer to words alone. She knew this. She had dealt with five before Adelle—each stubborn, each proud, each certain their will was forged unbreakable. They bent only when reminded that armor was a shell, not a soul.

A faint hum vibrated through the crystalline node at her sternum, bleeding into the air around them like the prelude to thunder. She shifted, closing the space between them with the slow inevitability of tide over stone, her cape brushing against Adelle's thigh. She did not touch her—yet—but her presence pressed in, heavy, suffocating, designed to trap the body before the mind realized it.

"Adelle," she repeated, tasting the name as though it were wine, rolling its syllables slow and deliberate. "You offer it like a shield, as though names keep the world at bay. They do not. They are invitations."

Her talon—delicate, inescapable—hooked lightly under Adelle's chin, forcing her to meet the violet gleam of six mirrored eyes. Not enough to break skin, but enough to remind her how sharp the edge could be.

"You ask what made me don this mask." Her voice dropped, rich and velvet, sliding over the word mask with almost obscene emphasis. "Dominion. I wear it because when others see their reflection in it, they forget themselves."

The pressure of her talon eased, only for her other hand—gloved and clawed—to rest firmly on Adelle's wrist, pinning it to the bar. Not brutal, not overt, but with just enough control that resistance would draw eyes from every corner. A public place was no arena for combat, but she did not need combat. She needed inevitability.

"You want to analyze me, Adelle?" The helm tilted closer, so close the faint hum of her armor reverberated against skin. "Then begin with this: I have no need to guess at your scars. I will make new ones." A pause—intimate, lingering, licentious. "Not on your flesh. On your spirit. Marks no armor will hide."

The talon lifted from her chin, dragging away like the aftertaste of a kiss denied, leaving only the weight of promise behind.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Silence. Again. It was the silence before a storm, the silence before lightning struck, the waves receding before a tsunami, but it was just silence. That's all Adelle wanted. A quiet night with a good drink before heading back with her new clan and diving into the deep end of Mandalorian culture. She could ignore the inherent dread, the unspoken threat, and wait in the silence.

It was the silence that allowed her to finally notice the crystal as more than just some sparkling gemstone set in armor, humming with a rhythym as if alive. She could feel it in the Force. Oh, hells. A Kyber crystal. Broken, twisted, consuming. Like a black hole, devouring everything, warping everything. And it wasn't just the crystal that resonated in the Force. The whole armor seemed to hiss, echo with ancient screams, in the Force. This Dark Sider was literally wearing the Dark Side as armor. Her stomach roiled at the abomination. It was as much weapon as it was armor. Adelle thought of her durasteel beskar'gam pitted against it in combat. It looked a lot like a vibroknife against a rocket launcher in her head.

There was a tonal shift in the crystal's resonance as the Dark Sider came closer, the fabric of the cape nearly catching on the cuisse of her beskar'gam. Adelle hadn't thought it possible for the Dark Sider to get closer without touching but apparently, she was wrong. Any closer and the woman would be in her lap. Between the forced proximity and the unrelenting pressure of the Dark presence, she started to feel claustrophobic. Adelle focused on her breathing, keeping it even, steady, watching the bartender grab and make drinks with all the ease of years of practice. Very nearly hypnotic.

"Adelle," she repeated, tasting the name as though it were wine, rolling its syllables slow and deliberate. "You offer it like a shield, as though names keep the world at bay. They do not. They are invitations."

She felt the flash of metal before the talon pricked the soft skin under her chin, pulling her head to look up at the six-eyed helm. Adelle hissed, letting the natural reaction to unexpected sharpness on delicate skin pass through her. A little more pressure and the point would pierce the skin. She was an idiot for not putting her helm on earlier. Claustrophobia or no, it would have at least stopped the incessant touching of her gods-damned face.

"You ask what made me don this mask." Her voice dropped, rich and velvet, sliding over the word mask with almost obscene emphasis. "Dominion. I wear it because when others see their reflection in it, they forget themselves."

The point on her chin eased ever so slightly only for the Dark Sider to clamp a hand on Adelle's right wrist. Loose enough to give the illusion of an easy escape. It would require far more effort than it seemed to escape the pin and the ungodly claws would do significant damage before she'd manage to break the hold. Nothing was going to be easy tonight, was it? Adelle kept her head perfectly still but her eyes darted down to her pinned wrist then raised her eyebrows ever so slightly at the faceless insectiod mask. Really?

"You want to analyze me, Adelle?" The helm tilted closer, so close the faint hum of her armor reverberated against skin. "Then begin with this: I have no need to guess at your scars. I will make new ones." A pause—intimate, lingering, licentious. "Not on your flesh. On your spirit. Marks no armor will hide."

Adelle could almost feel the angry buzz of the armor's Dark Side resonance, like a hive of Dantooinian bees. The talon scraped across skin, leaving behind a minor abrasion. Not enough to be considered an injury but it would be an annoyance later. She stretched her neck side to side again, finally freed from having to hold one position looking up, and tried to loosen the muscles that threatened to stiffen. The bartender set her drink down on the countertop and Adelle used her free hand to reach around into a pouch for the appropriate amount of creds.

"Promises, promises," she said, more to herself than the Dark Sider, looking at the bartender. One of these days, her sense of humor was going to get her into trouble. Probably tonight even. "You wouldn't be the first. You probably won't be the last."

Which told her some very important information. She grabbed the glass with her left hand and took a drink. This Dark Sider had no idea who Krayt was, had no idea about anything that had happened to her. Or at least, wasn't using that information. And that was very reassuring. Enough that she could almost tolerate further conversation with the Dark Sider. Almost.

"I gave my name as a courtesy and the truth," she continued. Unsurprisingly, something that hadn't been reciprocated. "If I wanted a name as shield, I'd have used an alias."

Adelle mulled over the other things that the Dark Sider's words had brought to mind, trying to gauge which would kick the hornets' nest, and which would walk the knife's edge and let her get out of this damn conversation. Mentioning how inventive she'd been in making someone shut up before probably wouldn't be the wisest idea. This was going to be a delicate balance.


Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

The credits clinked softly against the counter. Virelia didn't move to release Adelle's wrist, her talons still coiled lightly around bone and sinew, reminding her with every breath who truly dictated the space between them. Six violet eyes studied the Mandalorian's humor, her almost casual deflection, and Virelia felt the curve of a smile bloom beneath the mask—hidden, but unmistakably there in the rhythm of her words.

"Courtesy," she purred, letting the syllables drip like wine down a throat. "That is not the same as truth, Adelle. Courtesy is a leash, velvet-wrapped. And you have worn too many."

She leaned closer, the mirrored helm grazing against the braids at Adelle's temple, her voice dropping into that intimate, licentious register that belonged less to language than to touch.

"You tell me I will not be the first to mark you. Nor the last." Her talon traced lower along the wrist she pinned, pressing just enough to feel the pulse beat frantic beneath. "But what you do not say… is that you always survived them. And survival breeds hunger. Do you deny it? That thrill, when you are pressed to the edge and still standing?"

Her grip shifted—not loosening, but reasserting. She brought Adelle's wrist up slowly, inexorably, until the rim of her glass brushed the crystal node pulsing at her chest. The violet glow refracted through, painting her scars in decadent light. A trick of the bar's neon, or corruption sliding its fingers deeper into the cracks of her will.

"Names are not shields. They are contracts," Virelia whispered, helm tilting just enough that her voice vibrated across the shell of Adelle's ear. "And when you spoke yours to me, you signed yourself into my keeping."

The hand at her wrist eased, but only so that a clawed fingertip could trail from palm to knuckle, slow, possessive, leaving faint impressions that would fade too quickly to be visible.

"You should have used an alias," she said, indulgent, almost amused. "Because now, Adelle, you are mine to unmake—or remake."

Her helm lingered close, every word a silk snare.

"And I do so prefer to remake."

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

There was a shift in the silence but Adelle couldn't feel anything different in the Force. Just the same unbearable weight of darkness. The same suffocating claustrophobia.

"Courtesy," she purred, letting the syllables drip like wine down a throat. "That is not the same as truth, Adelle. Courtesy is a leash, velvet-wrapped. And you have worn too many."

Well at least she sounded amused. But Adelle couldn't help but notice that while the Dark Sider said she wore too many leashes, everything she had said so far at the very least implied she wanted to put her own leash on Adelle. And not the fun kind.

The strange six-eyed helm leaned closer and Adelle leaned away just enough that the Dark Sider's mask only just barely brushed her hair.

"You tell me I will not be the first to mark you. Nor the last." Her talon traced lower along the wrist she pinned, pressing just enough to feel the pulse beat frantic beneath. "But what you do not say… is that you always survived them. And survival breeds hunger. Do you deny it? That thrill, when you are pressed to the edge and still standing?"

If it had been anyone else, the effect would have been intimate, sensual even. As it was, the cold, oil slick of the Dark Side kept Adelle on edge, calculating how much pressure the claw would have to use to pierce leather and skin, tearing through ligaments and veins on her wrist. That thrill, she said. Adelle curled her lip involuntarily. She only felt the pain of the cost of survival, even after all these years.

"Names are not shields. They are contracts," Virelia whispered, helm tilting just enough that her voice vibrated across the shell of Adelle's ear. "And when you spoke yours to me, you signed yourself into my keeping."

"Oh for kriff's sake," Adelle hissed under her breath. She hoped the painkiller she'd taken would take effect soon. The mental gymnastics the Dark Sider employed was starting to hurt her head and not in the fun way like alcohol. The grip around her wrist loosened. She took her chance and quickly removed her arm from the Dark Sider's grasp, talon-tip tearing through a layer of the leather of her glove. She grimaced internally but it couldn't be helped. It could always be repaired later.

"You should have used an alias," she said, indulgent, almost amused. "Because now, Adelle, you are mine to unmake—or remake."

Her helm lingered close, every word a silk snare.

"And I do so prefer to remake."

Adelle took a long drink, in what felt like a blasphemous move. Whyren's was meant to be savored but with this Dark Sider constantly touching and encroaching on her space, it wasn't like she was going to be able to enjoy it fully.

"Like I said," Adelle said after a moment, "it was a calculated risk and I'm bad at math. But if names are contracts, you'll have to fight for custody with everyone I've introduced myself to."

She took another drink, fighting with herself to stop engaging in the sunk-cost fallacy with her whiskey. "Unmake, remake, whatever. You can claim I'm yours but you don't actually own me." Adelle turned and stepped into the Dark Sider's space, having to tilt her head up to look the Dark Sider in her masked face. "And you never will. Now state your business with me plainly or kriff. Off."


Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

Six violet eyes narrowed, their facets flickering faintly as Adelle stepped forward. Virelia did not retreat; she allowed the Mandalorian to close the distance until they stood almost chest to chest, the humming crystal between them like a living heart of shadow. Beneath the mask she smiled — not with mirth, but with the satisfaction of a predator who had drawn her prey into striking distance on its own accord.

Her talons flexed once at her sides, whisper-silent, before rising. One clawed hand settled at Adelle's hip — not harsh, not bruising, but firm enough to remind her who had been setting the rhythm of this dance all along. She tilted her helm so that the mirrored faceplate hovered just above Adelle.

"You mistake my patience for weakness," Virelia murmured, voice dipping into that licentious purr again. "I could have taken what I wanted in the alley outside. But I prefer to taste the moment. To see the fight before the surrender."

Her grip at Adelle's hip shifted fractionally, a slow, deliberate pressure. Not painful — guiding. Her other hand drifted up, tracing a claw from Adelle's collarbone to just under her chin, hovering there like a poised signature on a contract.

"I don't need to own you," she said, blunt now, each word heavy, velvet and steel. "I need you. I need a set of steady hands and a mind that doesn't break at shadows. There are things on Taris, off-world too — shipments to intercept, people to make disappear, information to pull from places it does not want to leave. Work that pays far better than soldiering."

The claw at Adelle's chin tilted her face upward, a subtle echo of the grip she'd used before, but softer now — coaxing instead of threatening.

"You can call it a contract, a leash, a game," Virelia whispered, her voice brushing Adelle's ear. "All I care about is whether you will walk at my side while we do it. I pay well. In credits. In power. In freedom from the things that keep you running."

She released her, only to trace one talon slowly down Adelle's armored arm, leaving a phantom of touch in its wake.

"Tell me," she breathed. "You are at least, interested..."

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Finally, finally the Dark Sider spoke directly about what she was after. Adelle considered that a small win, in spite of the hand clamped nigh-possessively on her hip that forced her to remain face-to-face. She could almost forgive the projection about mistaking patience for weakness. The infernal claw-tip that waited just under her chin finally moved. Adelle braced herself for the sharp point to push into the softer skin of her chin--a point that never came. It was almost gentle, the tilt to make Adelle stare into the violet eyes of the mask, as was the trace down her arm.

If it had been anyone else.

There was a certain allure to what the Dark Sider offered. She had said to call it whatever she wanted--leash, game, or contract--and contracts seemed infinitely preferable to everything else she had said so far tonight. They were less ironclad with Dark Siders--Adelle knew she couldn't trust this one as far as she could throw her--but the thought was tempting. Mandalorians were mercenaries, after all.

Except she knew better. This was an invitation to dance with the devil, the first step on a slippery slope that would be worse than all of Corellia's Nine Hells to escape. If she accepted this, there would be no coming back from it. And it would be the height of arrogance to think she could enter into a contract once and get away cleanly.

Adelle reached back to the bar and grabbed her glass, still facing the Dark Sider.

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said, not sorry at all, "but you'll have to watch the fight a little longer yet. Surrender's not in my nature."



Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Talent scouting."

Tags - Adelle Bastiel

Virelia's helm tilted, slow and serpentine, until the violet reflections along its mirrored surface fractured Adelle's face into six shifting fragments. A soft hum pulsed from the crystal at her chest — not anger, but something heavier, darker, almost amused.

"No," she murmured, voice low, luxuriant, the faintest edge of laughter threaded through it. "It isn't. That's why you interest me."

Her talon withdrew from Adelle's arm only to drag idly along the rim of the abandoned glass on the counter. The gesture was lazy, unthreatening — but it carried the same implication as before: you can think you've won, but you are still inside the game.

She leaned in again, close enough that the light between them flickered violet on the edge of Adelle's scars. "You call it surrender," Virelia whispered. "I call it inevitability. Everyone breaks, Adelle. But not all at once. It begins with a single concession. A favor. A task you tell yourself means nothing."

Her hand lingered a moment longer at the Mandalorian's hip, then withdrew — slow, deliberate, leaving behind only the ghost of heat.

"Refuse me tonight, if it pleases you," she said, voice returning to its quiet purr. "But you and I both know Taris doesn't forgive debts. Sooner or later, you'll need something more than courage and credits."

She stepped back, violet eyes dimming to embers. "And when that moment comes…" A pause, the air tightening between them. "You'll find me. You'll tell yourself it's for the job."

A final flicker of violet washed over Adelle's face — not quite light, not quite promise.

"But we'll both know it's for the surrender you swore you'd never give."

From her clawed gauntlet, she placed a small black datachip on the bar—obsidian sheen, etched with faint violet runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Without another word, she turned, her cape trailing violet shadow behind her, and vanished into the Taris night.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Everyone breaks. Adelle's gaze sharpened but she kept her breathing steady, her body controlled. Had Virelia guessed or did she know? No, she would have used that ammunition, that trigger already. She glanced at the datachip as it was delicately placed on the counter before the Dark Sider withdrew and left the bar. Sound and light seemed to return and the weight on Adelle's chest dramatically eased. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath then turned to finish the Whyren's Reserve.

The Dark Sider's words echoed in her mind and she turned them over, examining her reflection in them. Beneath the ego, the spoken promises and unsaid threats, Adelle could see a path that followed the Dark Sider's plan. She could see a third breaking in her life, either willing or unwilling--but the result would be the same: she'd once again be a weapon with someone else pulling the trigger. Adelle drank the whiskey appreciatively. At least for now, she'd chosen who got to pull the trigger.

Adelle stared at the buy'ce on the counter. She'd have to be careful that the Dark Sider didn't do any digging into her past.

Finished, Adelle slid the glass away from her and pulled the helm on. It was time to return to clan and kin. The usually claustrophobic helmet felt more comforting now. The Mandalorian left for home.

Darth Virelia