Private What Do You Require?

[Azen Kast]

LORRD, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

Cross-division operations did not occur with any regularity, not among Mandalorians who prized clarity of chain and purpose, yet the Mandalorian Empire no longer lived in ordinary times. Exceptions were no longer rare, and Azen had learned that such moments were often where history began to bend. A Supercommando did not normally work alongside a Nite Owl, not by doctrine and not by tradition, but the orders had come from a height where tradition thinned and intent sharpened. He was to assist one of Mandalore’s shadows in the fulfillment of her objective, to ask no questions beyond what the mission required, and to leave no impression once the work was done.

The planet assigned to this task would never warrant a name in the songs of warriors or the records of historians. It lay along the Mando-Diarchy border, unremarkable in every way that once mattered, its massive cities having thrived on trade, predictability, and quiet ambition. Before the escalations, its streets had known peace and prosperity in equal measure. Now it existed in a state of slow fracture, pulled between two powers that both spoke of restraint while sharpening their blades, and each passing day made the space between them more dangerous to occupy.

Azen entered one such city from below, moving through its underbelly with measured precision. The cantina waited in the ghetto’s depths, a structure sagging beneath years of neglect and indulgence, its exterior scarred by old blaster fire and newer marks of ownership that changed hands weekly. Inside, the stench of alcohol mixed with unwashed flesh and chemical residue, an assault on the senses that made no effort to hide what sort of place this was. Azen paused only long enough to reseal his helmet, the familiar enclosure restoring clarity as it muted the filth and noise around him.

He took a seat at the bar with deliberate calm, gauntleted hands resting against the counter as if the environment itself did not merit acknowledgment. He did not scan the room openly, nor did he posture or announce himself. The kind of contact he had been assigned would find him without invitation.

“Efficiency,” Azen said at last, his voice carried through the helmet with composed authority, “is all I require from this arrangement. My presence here is temporary, and I intend to keep it that way.”

He waited after that, posture unyielding and patience intact. He did not know what he was meant to look for, nor what form his contact would take when she emerged from the noise and smoke. Orders were orders, and this mission would be completed swiftly, so that he might return to serving the Empire directly, and in places far more deserving of his time.

Maya​

 

[Maya]

LORRD, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

Noise continued to churn; laughter too loud to be sincere, arguments too quiet to be safe, the steady pulse of desperation disguised as leisure. No heads turned when she slipped in through a side entrance instead of the front. If anyone noticed her at all, they gave no sign of it.

She moved without urgency, tall and self-possessed, her presence settling into the room like a knife returned to its sheath. Wine-dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, framing sharp features set in calm neutrality. There was no warmth in her expression, but no overt threat either—only the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where she ranked in the ecosystem of violence.

Predator, choosing to be unarmored.

Maya did not look at Azen right away.

She took a seat two stools down from him, close enough to acknowledge, distant enough to suggest indifference. One leg crossed over the other with practiced ease as she caught the bartender’s eye. He moved at once. Only then did she angle her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the helmet; not studying the armor itself, but the discipline beneath it.

“Temporary,” she echoed lightly, voice smooth and unbothered by the filth around them. Then you’re already ahead of most people who end up here.”

The drink arrived. She didn’t touch it.

Instead, Maya watched Azen’s reflection ripple across the surface of the glass, reading posture and stillness, the kind of restraint drilled in by doctrine rather than instinct. Efficient. Controlled. Predictable. Useful, if handled correctly.

“You were told not to ask questions,” she continued, tone casual, almost idle. “Which usually means you were also told I’d know who you were without introductions.”

At last, she turned to face him fully. Her gaze was steady, assessing, utterly unafraid. There was no challenge in it; only ownership of the moment.

“I’m Maya,” she said. No rank. No honorific. Names carried weight only when she allowed them to. “Mandalore wants this handled quietly. I want it handled permanently. As long as neither of us wastes time trying to prove something, our goals align.”

She paused just long enough to measure his response.

“Finish your drink,” she added, already rising to her feet, whether he chose to comply or not. “Then we move. If you can keep up, we’ll be gone before anyone here realizes this city just lost another problem.”

Maya turned away without waiting for agreement. Some people needed persuasion. Others only needed a direction sharp enough to follow.

TAG: Azen​