Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All is dark. The air is stale and stifling. Her eyes are closed, her hands folded over her chest as her heart races with anticipation. Their voices are muffled, but she has long since memorized the words they chant. Long desired and dreaded to hear them as she does today.

Every initiate must pass through the fire when their nonage is at its end and face the judgment of their goddess. Most emerge unscathed, but some are found unworthy and thus reduced to ash. She fears that possibility—shudders at the thought of it. She is so cold, lying there on her back as still and silent as the dead. Awaiting Vahl’s verdict.

“From the ashes of our empire, an ember emerges,” the priestesses intone, the powerful tongue of her people filling the chamber. “From the darkness of our destruction, a blade is born. It spares none and serves only one.”

The voices begin as a low lamentation, a couple of them wailing as the others murmur. Her heart beats faster. Her chest tightens, her insides twist into knots, and her fingers curl against her clavicle. The ritual has begun in earnest now.

“Wielder of the Flame, Champion of the Chosen, awaken from your slumber!” they command, their voices climbing in volume and pitch with each verse. They mourn nothing now, the chorus becoming a battle cry whose echoes seem to multiply their number.

Are they echoes? she wonders. Or are they the cries of our ancestors?

“Arise!” the coven shouts with vehemence. “Arise! Go forth and vanquish in the name of Vahl!”

Drums beat, the ground quakes, and the lid of the sarcophagus cracks down the middle. There is a distinctive whoosh that’s followed by the crackling of flames as Veera opens her eyes and takes a breath. Her time has come.

She lifts her hands from her chest, presses her palms against the cool stone, and shoves. The heavy slabs fall away, and she instinctively shields her face as she’s blinded by the blaze. But the intensity and proximity of its heat doesn’t scorch her skin. In fact, it causes her no pain at all when she sits up and gazes into the towering flames that surround the sarcophagus. As plumes of black smoke ascend into the darkness above, Veera squints and peers through the firewall, discerning the outlines of the flamedancers as they twist and contort their bodies on the other side.

The priestesses repeat the final verses of the chant over and over again, practically screaming them while she grips the sides of the sarcophagus and pushes herself upright. Her legs tremble violently beneath her. Her mouth is dry, and she suddenly feels dizzy, the weight of the moment—the burden of a name dishonored—settling upon her shoulders. Threatening eternal shame and obscurity.

This is it. The moment of truth. There’s no going back now. The only way—whether it is life or death that awaits her—is forward.

Steeling herself, Veera lifts her right foot and slowly puts it forward. It passes through the fire, followed by the rest of her leg. And then she’s climbing out of the sarcophagus and walking through the flames. They lap harmlessly at her, caressing her cheeks and dancing across her black fiber armor. The fear that she has transformed into fuel begins to fade, supplanted by a rush of relief and confidence, and it takes every ounce of will she possesses to keep the corners of her lips from curling into a grin.

She is worthy. She is worthy.

A trail of burning coals lies before her, and Veera steps onto them without hesitation. She feels only a pleasant warmth beneath her bare feet, and she holds her head high with pride, keeping her gaze fixed upon the face of the Nova Priest who waits where the trail ends. Initiates, bladeborn, firebrands—all have gathered to bear witness to her coming of age, as is tradition amongst the Vahla. They line the path she walks, standing respectfully still and silent on her left and her right as she passes between them.

The drums beat louder—faster. The hounds pound them relentlessly with their heavy fists, their white skull-like masks weaving to and fro in the darkness as firelight flickers against the walls. Veera’s gaze drops to the twin sai Vedrana holds in her outstretched hands, crafted from finest cortosis. Their sharpened edges gleam and glisten, and she notices that intricate designs and enchantments have been carved into them.

The chant and the drums suddenly cease. A reverent hush washes over the room, and Veera kneels before the Nova Priest. She bows her head and keeps it there, unwilling to risk so much as a glance up at the older woman until the ritual is complete.

“Vahl favors you this day, Veera, daughter of Varya,” the priestess declares, and oh, how her heart swells at that even as part of her recoils at the mention of her mother. “The hour of your hunt draws nigh. But first, you must renew the vows you swore to the Ember of Vahl when you became an initiate.”

Vedrana crosses the sai over her shoulders, and Veera does not flinch. “Do you pledge your life and undying loyalty to the service of Vahl and the enforcing of her divine will?”

“I do,” she answers.

“Do you pledge to never defy or disobey a directive given to you by the Chosen of Vahl?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear that you will never steal from a coven sister or brother?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear that you will never kill a coven sister or brother?”

“I do.”

“Do you pledge to never wed or otherwise bind yourself to an outsider?”

“I do.”

“Do you pledge to never betray the Ember of Vahl, its secrets, or the location of this flotilla to an outsider?”

“I do.”

“So let it be. Praise be to Vahl.”

“Praise be to Vahl,” the crowd echoes.

“I hereby pronounce you bladeborn,” the high priestess decrees.

And without so much as lifting a finger, she severs the strip of lavender fabric that has bound up Veera’s hair for all eighteen years of her life. Freed at last, thick black locks whose ends are streaked with white tumble down her back and cascade over her shoulders. She rises, standing tall and looking down into Vedrana’s pale gray eyes for the first time since approaching her. The Nova Priest offers the sai to her, and Veera accepts them as a lump forms in her throat. Her days of training with daggers are over. Now, she carries a weapon bestowed only upon those who have achieved the rank of bladeborn.

Sheathing them at her lower back in the wide belt that is wrapped around her waist, she watches as Vedrana withdraws a datapad and a comlink.

“Hunt well,” the high priestess tells her with a gleam in her eyes.

“I will not fail,” Veera assures her, taking the items.

She turns to leave—

And freezes when the Nova Priest’s callused fingers curl around her wrist. She glances over her shoulder in surprise, and Vedrana leans in close, the sharp angles of her face accentuated in the firelight.

“Savor it,” she urges, her voice just above a whisper. “You only get to experience the primal thrill of your first hunt once.”

“If only it would be my first kill as well,” Veera replies before she can stop herself.

Vedrana releases her, and she bows her head in shame. Vahl curse me and my quick tongue! she thinks, and without giving the high priestess a chance to scold or comfort or whatever she intends, she swiftly departs the ritual chamber.

Veera strides through the empty black corridors, white glow panels stretching across the segmented ceiling and slanting down the upper sections of the walls. Machinery hums and thrums around her, her boots thudding against the floor as they carry her toward the nearest turbolift. Her heart still pounds, and blood keeps pumping wildly through her veins. Her thoughts are racing at lightspeed, and she feels so much all at once—fear and excitement and danger and opportunity.

This is where her life—her real life—truly begins.

“Veera, wait up!”

She stops and turns. It’s Vana, breathless and running to catch up. Strands of fiery red hair have come loose from where the rest of it is coiled atop her head, her light brown cheeks are flushed with exertion, and her pale blue eyes are wide and frantic. She skids to a halt in front of Veera, bending over and huffing with her hands on her knees. When she finally straightens, Veera tries not to smirk—her much shorter best friend has always complained that she walks too fast.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

Veera smiles through the guilt that arises at the realization that she’d been so preoccupied with her thoughts that saying farewell to Vana or any of the others hadn’t even crossed her mind. “I knew you’d catch up.”

“Well, here I am,” Vana says breathlessly, spreading her arms wide. Her eyes sparkle with curiosity as she glances down and points at the datapad. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead,” Veera shrugs, handing it over as she starts walking again.

Vana falls into step beside her and taps away at the screen. “Ah, here we are! Your target is Rix Korden—a human male. He’s a moisture farmer on a planet called Tatooine.”

Veera nods. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Apparently, he’s wanted for the egregious crime of—” She giggles. “—tax evasion.”

“Dead or alive?”

Vana’s brow furrows as she stares down at the screen, and she hesitates before following Veera into the turbolift. “It says dead.”

The doors close with a hiss, and they begin their ascent.

“That seems a bit…harsh,” Veera muses. “But I suppose that isn’t part of the job, is it? Asking questions.”

“You didn’t take a vow of silence,” Vana replies mischievously, “only of obedience. When you meet the client to get the fob, perhaps you can pose a question or two.”

Veera can’t help but meet her conspiratorial grin with one of her own. “Perhaps.”

Vana returns the datapad to her, and seconds later, the doors slide open again. They step out into a vast hangar lined with sleek black starfighters, one of which has already been prepped for launch. Veera’s is a Se’kari-class fighter, wingless and as sharp as the sai that are sheathed at her back.

“Well,” she sighs as they come to stand beside it, “I guess this is goodbye.”

“For now,” Vana adds stubbornly, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m so jealous, Veera. You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back—what the Outside is like.”

“I will,” Veera assures her. “And it won’t be long before it’s time for your first hunt. Then we can hunt together.”

She laughs and grins from ear to ear. “The galaxy trembles at the thought! We will be unstoppable.”

Veera laughs with her as she climbs into the cockpit. Settling into the narrow space, she checks the contents of her pack once more and ensures that her blaster is still tucked under her seat. Everything seems to be in order.

“You deserve this, Veera,” Vana says suddenly, and she looks at her in surprise. “You’ve earned it. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. We are not responsible for the sins of our parents.”

Veera swallows hard, blinking to keep tears from welling in her eyes. “Thank you, Vana. I’ll see you soon.”

She nods and gives her an encouraging smile. “Goddess guide you.”

The cockpit closes and seals as personnel deactivate the hangar’s shields—the final barrier between herself and an infinite field of stars. The engine hums to life, and when Veera glances down at her friend one last time, she sees her raising her left hand in a gesture of farewell. Retracting the landing gear as she steers the ship into the air, she engages the thrusters, and the Se’kari fighter streaks out of the hangar.

Practicing her flying out amongst the stars is the closest she’s ever come to leaving the flotilla, and it’s a more than eerie feeling when she finally ventures beyond the range of its cloaking devices for the first time. The Raa’ga and its accompanying cruisers vanish from sight and sensors, and Veera is suddenly alone, hurtling through the vast emptiness of space. She knows, however, that if she were to simply reach out and—

No. She stops herself before the thought can carry her any farther down that path which she has sworn to avoid. Every Vahla is Force-sensitive, and every Vahla possesses an inherent connection to that which they call the Shadow. It is immensely powerful, capable of terrible destruction, and she fears it with every fiber of her being. It is the darkness inside her—the reckless, violent parts of herself that she cannot control.

So she keeps it locked away. And while other Vahla embrace their bond with this arcane power, she shuns it. A bladeborn is all she will ever be—all she ever can be.
Veera enters the coordinates into the navicomputer and then sits back, takes a deep breath, and watches as the stars stretch into streaks of light. The Se’kari launches into the swirling blue void, and it’s one thing to experience the jump to hyperspace from the bridge of the Raa’ga, but this—

This is what it feels like to be on the precipice. To take the plunge. To know that adventure—her adventure—is finally at hand.

She has a couple of hours to rest, to think. She eats a nutrition bar. She drinks some water. She double-checks the fighter’s systems. And all the while, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional beep of the console are the only sounds in the silence of space.

Veera glances down at the long waves of hair falling past her shoulders, and an idea occurs to her. Braiding is a centuries-old tradition amongst the Vahla. It is a visible symbol of a hunter’s skill, their history, and their victories. One braid for every kill.

After embarking on their first hunt, newly anointed bladeborn would always return with a braid in their hair as a sign of their success.

But she isn’t like the others. This isn’t her first kill. She broke one of the Ember of Vahl’s six tenets long before she ever took her vows as an initiate. It didn’t matter that it had been an accident. Actions had consequences, and she was still paying for her lack of discipline that day. If she hadn't lost control, if she hadn’t snapped, her father would still be here. He would’ve lived to see her become bladeborn, to see her bring honor back to their family.

There it is again—that dull, lonely ache she can never rid herself of.

Reaching up to the crown of her head, Veera begins to weave a thick braid from the center of her hairline all the way down to the base of her skull, her nimble fingers working until she ties all of her hair back from her face. Only two shorter sections are left hanging loose, one on each side of her face, and she fastens them with two tiny silver clasps at the level of her eyes. She’s done it before she even consciously realizes, and when she does, her heart drops like a stone.

It was something her mother always used to do, and as a little girl, she’d thought it was so pretty. She’d wanted to grow up to look just like her, to be just like her. And now—

She wants to tear the clasps from her hair and cast them out into the void. It’s what she should do. And she almost does, her fingers stopping mere centimeters from them. But she can’t because part of her, as much as she wants to deny it, still loves and misses her mother more than anything. No matter what she did. No matter what became of her in the end.

Veera’s hands return to the controls as the Se’kari suddenly drops out of hyperspace. And there it is—Tatooine. The orange, cloud-speckled sphere fills her viewport, and it’s growing immensely larger with each passing second. Here we go, she thinks, squeezing the yoke so tightly that her gray knuckles turn two shades lighter. She knows it’s irrational, but she can’t help but wonder if she’s going to crash into the planet’s exterior like an immovable wall. Never mind all her studies of worlds and their atmospheres—there is no logic to be found in the fear that grips her now.

She jumps when the console beeps with an incoming transmission, and she gulps as she presses the button to accept it.

“This is Mos Eisley Tower. We’re tracking your approach,” a male operator says in Basic, his voice crackling with radio static. “Head for bay eight-seven. Over.”

“Understood,” Veera replies, locking on to the designated hangar.

Goddess preserve me, she prays as the ship shudders and the temperature inside the cockpit noticeably rises. Sweat beads on her temple, and she can’t see anything beyond the layers of clouds rushing past the viewport. Every muscle is tensed, her jaw clenched and her eyes wide as her heart slams against the confines of her chest.

But then the Se’kari bursts through the white canopy, and her mouth drops open at the sight of a sprawling city far below her, nestled in the midst of mountains and canyons, and beyond that—an endless desert. Its simple structures are almost completely camouflaged against the surrounding landscape, and Veera spares them as many glances as she possibly can while she makes her rapid descent. She’s filled with awe and wonder and absolute disbelief that she’s actually about to touch down on a real planet with places she’s never been and species she’s never seen. Some she’s read about and seen holograms of—but to actually meet them and speak to them—she’s ecstatic at the thought of it.

Finally, Veera’s forced to tear her gaze away from the fascinating sights when she approaches the hole in the ground that is apparently bay eight-seven. Slowly, carefully, she lowers the Se’kari until it settles on a bed of sand. Breathing a sigh of relief, she settles back and starts shutting down the fighter’s systems.

“I can’t believe it,” she marvels to herself as she mashes buttons and flips switches. “I’ve made it—I’ve made it—and in one piece too! Let’s not forget that important bit…”

She fastens an extra belt around her waist that has two satchels on her left hip, one carrying her rations and the other her credits, and on her right hip is a holster that holds her blaster pistol. Blasters are a last resort for any member of the cult—they’re crude and inelegant and require less skill to wield than a sai or a sword, and thus, they are avoided unless their use becomes absolutely necessary.

Now she’s gathered her gear, Veera opens the cockpit, hops down, and grins when the impact of her boots sends up a small cloud of dust. She’s standing on ground—real, solid ground. A dry breeze caresses her face, and the hot air is a far cry from the perpetual cold of space. She’s accustomed to the artificial gravity of the Raa’ga, but this is different. Everything feels…heavier. A bit slower.

She crouches and scoops up a handful of sand, and it feels soft at first as she brushes her thumb over it. But when the grains begin to separate and trickle through the gaps in her fingers, they feel coarse and scrape against her skin. Interesting. She turns over her palm, and some of it sticks to her hand. Her brow furrows, and she tries to shake it off.

“You all right there, ma’am?”

Startled, Veera straightens and turns to see a green-skinned, bipedal alien with a pair of eyestalks and a beak-like mouth ambling toward her. Two rusty droids lumber alongside him with stooped shoulders and long arms that hang all the way down to their creaking knee joints.

“You don’t look like you’re from around these parts,” the alien observes, stopping a couple of meters away from her and cocking his head with curiosity.

“I’m not,” she answers uncertainly. But then she squares her shoulders and raises her chin, reminding herself that she’s a bladeborn, not a frightened child. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?” he blinks his reptilian eyes at her. “I’d be happy to help you with that, but first—” He sticks out a three-fingered hand. “—that’ll be thirty credits for the docking fee.”

Thirty? Veera thinks incredulously. I’ve only got a hundred. She huffs and withdraws the designated amount from her satchel.

“Name’s Drue, and this is my hangar,” he says proudly as she approaches and places the Imperial credits in his leathery palm. “You’re lucky it’s open today—it’s the local favorite of any pilot worth their salt.”

“I’m Veera,” she replies with a small smile. She isn't sure why, but she likes him and his gruff, forthcoming manner.

“A pleasure,” he nods. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Mos Eisley spaceport. You got any cargo you’d like my droids to unload for you?”

“No, I just need information. I’m supposed to meet someone at a place called Chalmun’s Cantina. Do you know where I can find it?”

He chortles at that. “Oh, yes. I know it. Everyone around here does. Just go straight a ways once you leave the hangar, and when you see a big junkyard on your left, you’ll know you’re there. There’s always a live band goin’ in that place. You’ll hear it when you start gettin’ close.”

“Thank you,” she responds with a curt nod, breezing past him and heading for what appears to be the exit.

“Watch yourself in there,” Drue calls after her, causing her to stop and look back at him. “Fights have been known to break out every now and again.”

“I can handle myself,” she states calmly before going on her way.

Stepping out from under the large archway on the far side of the hangar, Veera emerges into blinding sunlight. She instinctively recoils, shielding her face with her hand. The sand is white, and the buildings are so bright that it’s difficult for her to even keep her eyes open. She’s lived her whole life in the darkness of space and the dimly lit halls of the Raa’ga.

But her curiosity outweighs her discomfort, and she peeks through the gaps in her fingers, catching the briefest glimpse of two fiery orbs blazing against a blue expanse. Sky, it was called. One sun burned with a yellowish tint, and the other was a raging red.

A steady wind rustles the ends of the black tunic she wears beneath her fiber armor, her hair whipping around her face and shoulders as she starts walking down a wide, dusty street lined with a mixture of domed and flat-roofed structures. Strange contraptions whine and creak on top of them as they turn in the breeze. Weathered tarps ripple and flap, merchants and traders and customers gathering beneath them as they exchange goods. She sees Twi’leks, Rodians, Duros, Ithorians, and so many others that she can’t name.

But the humans pique her interest more than all the others. They look so akin to her people and yet…different. Most of them are a bit shorter, for one. Some are brown-skinned like many Vahla, but others are fair, and none of them are gray like her. They’re dressed simply, in loose fitting shirts and tunics and trousers that look like they’ve seen better days. And to Veera’s dismay, she notices that they and all of the other species walk quickly with their heads down, like they’re trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Like they want to be invisible.

It doesn’t take her long to figure out why.

Men and women wearing white clunky armor and strange helmets are patrolling the streets, carrying rifles in their hands. Stormtroopers, she realizes. Soldiers of the Empire that rules the galaxy. She’s seen them before on the HoloNet broadcasts she watches on occasion. But she’s never paid them much mind, for the Vahla ignore any and all ruling powers apart from their own. The Empire is just another government, another structure whose purpose was to enforce law and order and prevent crime from running rampant—just like the Galactic Republic had been meant to do.

It had failed spectacularly, and she wondered if the Empire would fair any better. But it didn’t really matter to her either way. The very survival of her people depended upon their ability to operate within the criminal underworld, whether it be through thievery, piracy, bounty hunting, or assassinating, and those things would always exist. Because if there was one truth she was absolutely certain of in this ever-changing universe, it was that the fires of war, of conflict and corruption, were impossible to stamp out.

Where there was law, there would always be lawlessness. Where there was order, chaos. Where there was creation, destruction.

Two stormtroopers look at her as she passes them by, and Veera stares back at them. She keeps her head held high, and she walks with deliberate purpose, refusing to scurry away like a rat into the shadows.

Finally, she sees the junkyard on her left—discarded ship parts, droid limbs, and other scrap metal piled high next to a single-story structure with a sandblasted exterior. Its doors hiss open as someone enters, and she hears strange but cheerful music filtering out into the street.

“Looks like this is the place,” she murmurs to herself as she approaches it.

Three small, hooded figures are sitting near the entrance, and Veera wonders if they are children. They peer up at her with glowing yellow eyes and jibber something at her in a fast language that she doesn’t recognize.

“Er, I don’t understand,” she replies in Basic. “Sorry.”

They try to motion her over to some open crates filled to the brim with a variety of odds and ends. Now she understands.

“Uh, not right now. Perhaps later,” she declines politely, spinning as one tries to sneak around behind her. “Hey! Go on now.”

The little cloaked figure squeals and throws its hands in the air before hurrying back to its friends, and Veera keeps one hand on the pouches at her belt as she enters the cantina. The doors close behind her, and she blinks as her eyes adjust to another drastic change in lighting. It’s dark in here and a bit cooler, and she already feels more comfortable than she did out in the scorching heat and sunlight.

She follows a short passage around the corner and then stops in her tracks. Her eyes go wide and suddenly can’t find a place to rest, roving over a room filled with more aliens than she’s ever seen in her entire life. Snivvian, Sullustan, Arcona, and Kubaz. Zabrak, Weequay, Quarren, and Aqualish. They’re clustered around circular tables, crowded together at the bar, and squeezed into booths in the alcoves of the cantina.

A band of black-eyed, bulbous-headed beings blow into instruments that look like long pipes as they dance in time with the music. Voices high and low squeak and growl, hiss and roar. There are claws and paws, beaks and snouts, scales and fur.

It’s all so exciting that Veera almost forgets why she’s here, but she soon comes back to herself and remembers the instructions the client had entered into the datapad. “Meet me in Chalmun’s Cantina. I’ll be in the third booth on the left.”

Her gaze swivels to the designated spot, and she sees that it’s empty save a male Devaronian. He’s already watching her, and he gives her a subtle nod as he lifts his drink to his lips. She scans the room once more before making her way down a short set of stairs and over to the horned patron.

“You must be the hunter,” he says, looking her up and down. “The Vahla.”

“That’s right,” she replies, cautiously lowering herself into the booth across from him. “And you are?”

“Vruhk.” He frowns and looks almost…disappointed as he continues to scrutinize her. “I’ve gotta admit, you aren’t exactly what I was hoping for.”

Veera bristles but reminds herself to remain calm and composed. She wants to earn his credits, not his ire. “What do you mean?”

He glances pointedly at her breastplate before meeting her gaze again. “Your armor—it’s clean. No dents or abrasions or blaster burns. And as for you—you might just be the most fresh-faced, wide-eyed kid who’s ever walked into this place.”

Her fingers curl in her lap, hidden beneath the table, and his dark eyes narrow as he leans toward her.

“You ain’t ever seen any action, have you?”

She glares back at him, her insides boiling with anger. But her voice is as cold as ice when she answers, “I am no child. I am a weapon. You will never find a warrior, hunter, or assassin whose abilities surpass those of my people. We have a reputation for a reason, and you would do well to respect it.”

“I do,” he says, seeming satisfied as he sits back. “That’s why you’re here.”

He withdraws a small, blinking device and puts it on the table.

“Here’s the fob. When the job’s done, meet me back here to receive your payment.”

Veera picks it up and thoughtfully turns it over in her hand. You didn’t take a vow of silence.

“The target—” she ventures hesitantly, “—you want him dead for tax evasion.”

Vruhk’s brow furrows with disapproval. “Bit more to it than that. But questions are unbecoming of a hunter.”

She swallows but remains otherwise unflinching as they look at each other.

“You’ll find his homestead about forty kilometers southeast of here. Should be a simple enough task for someone of your skill.”

He’s mocking her. She can see it in his eyes—in the ghost of a sneer that fleetingly crosses his lips. It’s a challenge, and she accepts.

“I won’t be long,” Veera says promptly, rising and briefly staring him down before she turns and weaves her way out of the increasingly crowded cantina.

Chapter Text

The Se’kari soars over desert dunes and rust-colored canyons and valleys carved out of the planet’s rugged surface. Tatooine isn’t a place where gentle or fragile things flourish—Veera’s learned that much in her short time here. There is nothing green, nothing growing. It’s raw and open and exposed—not a suitable environment for any stealthy maneuvers. There is nothing to mask her approach, and she imagines that from the ground, her fighter looks like a large bird of prey circling overhead.

Below is her destination, a small, domed structure that she might’ve missed if she hadn’t known to look for it. She assumes that this must be the homestead, though it isn’t much to look at. It’s simple and isolated, and she sees no signs of any other dwellings. Perfect. This should be quick and easy enough then, just like the Devaronian said.

His doubt fuels her already intense desire to succeed, and it is far from the first time that someone has had misgivings about her. This is her chance to prove to the Nova Priests—with action and not just words—that their trust in her has not been misplaced. Failure is not an option.

The Se’kari touches down near the homestead, and Veera takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves. Adrenaline courses through her veins, her hands trembling as she goes through the motions of shutting down the fighter’s systems. Embrace it, she hears the voices of her teachers say. Embrace the fear. Let it feed your fury.

She climbs out of the cockpit and jumps down, steeling herself for what is to come. She pulls out the fob and slowly begins to turn, its red light blinking in time with its leisurely, almost forlorn beeps. There is nothing else but the rush of the wind and the shifting of the sands until finally—

It starts blinking and beeping faster. Veera stops and glances up. She hears something now—the scream of an engine. It’s distant and faint at first, but it’s getting louder. So is the fob.

It seems that her target has found her first.

Out of the desert haze charges what looks to be a swoop bike of some kind, old and weather-beaten. A trail of dust rises in its wake, and as it skids to a stop in front of her, its gears whine in protest. Veera switches off the fob, shoves it back into her satchel, and instinctively reaches for her sai. But she does not draw them yet.

There’s a human male on the bike—Rix Korden, she would assume. He’s wearing a faded brown tunic and a frayed poncho. His blond-streaked hair is tousled and windblown, and his tanned skin is leathery and lined with premature wrinkles that she guesses are a result of prolonged exposure to the harshness of this planet. He kills the engine and pulls down his goggles, allowing them to hang loosely around his neck as he puts his hand on the blaster that hangs at his hip.

“Who are you?” he demands gruffly—angrily. “State your business before I blast you for trespassing on my land!”

Her grip tightens around the ebon hilts. “Are you Rix Korden?”

“Sure am,” he grunts, glowering at her. “What’s it to ya? You another one of Jabba’s thugs?”

“You’re a wanted man,” Veera replies, “and I’m here to collect.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Rix draws his blaster, and she draws her sai, her thumbs switching on red energy fields that encase the blades. When he fires, she brings her right sai across her chest and deflects the shot. Her momentum carries her into a spin, her feet gracefully pivoting as another blast zips past her, and her arm comes forward again. But this time, it is to loose the burning blade from her grasp.

Veera lets it fly, and she watches it turn end over end like it’s moving in slow motion. Its angry red energy hisses and snarls in the space of a breath that passes before the blade plunges into Korden’s heart. He tumbles off the bike, his blaster falling from his hand, and lies still in the sand.

She’s breathing hard, her heart racing and her chest heaving as she looks down at him. It’s over. She’s done it. A surge of excitement, of triumph swells inside her. The Nova Priests will be pleased.

But as quickly the thrill comes, it goes, leaving only a sense of striking emptiness in its wake. When she walks over to his body and sees his wide, vacant eyes staring up at the sky, she feels numb. He will never see the sky again—never see the suns rise or set.

Stop, she scolds herself. A hunter is never to feel empathy for the hunted.

But she can’t stop thinking about how she’s seen that lifeless stare before. How it’s haunted her all her life. How she would give anything for a chance to take it back.

This isn’t the same. He’s an outsider. The rules are different.

That is what Veera tells herself as she kneels and pulls the blade from his chest. As she cuts off his hand. As she sheathes her weapons and walks back to her ship with her grisly trophy.

An ear-splitting, blood-curdling scream stops her in her tracks, and she’s so startled that she nearly drops Korden’s hand. She spins around and sees a woman running out of the house.

“Rix!” she cries, collapsing beside him and grabbing fistfuls of his tunic. “Rix! Stars, no…”

Veera suddenly feels like the sai has been driven into her heart instead. The woman looks up and meets her gaze, anguished and utterly distraught, her cheeks wet with tears. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Her expression alone is more than enough to make Veera painfully aware of the magnitude of what she has just done.

Another life taken too soon. Another family ripped apart.

She turns her back on the homestead, incapable of looking at any of it a second longer. It isn’t the same. It isn’t the same. This is for her people. It’s necessary—essential for the Vahla’s survival.

It is the way of the universe. Of nature. Of the Force.

Life and death. Creation and destruction. Predator and prey. The hunter and the hunted. This is the cycle. There is no changing it.

Knowing that is the easy part. Accepting it is harder, and as she makes the short flight back to Mos Eisley, Veera wonders if doing her duty—if doing what is required of her as a Bladeborn—will always hurt this much.

When she walks back into Chalmun’s Cantina, she’s decidedly less enthusiastic about it than she was the first time. The upbeat tunes and lively chatter of its patrons is at odds with the hollowness she feels inside. Some of them stop and stare as she passes them by, and Veera figures it’s because of the severed hand she’s carrying. Without so much as even glancing their way, she makes her way back to the booth where the Devaronian waits for her. She wonders if he’s even moved since she left.

Veera unceremoniously tosses the hand onto the table and takes a seat, and Vruhk doesn’t even flinch as he puts down his drink. He must have seen her coming.

“That Korden’s?” he asks casually.

“Yes,” she replies as coldly and indifferently as she can manage. “Feel free to check.”

She takes out the fob and sets it beside the hand, and he ensures that it does indeed belong to the moisture farmer before giving a nod of approval.

“Well done,” he smirks. “Jabba will be pleased.”

Wait—did she hear that right?

“Jabba?” she repeats blankly.

Vruhk chuckles, his brown eyes glittering in the semidarkness. “That’s right. Korden was a thorn in his slimy behind, sure, and Jabba wanted to send a message to discourage any further…resistance. But this was something his enforcers could’ve handled without any trouble. There was no need to hire a bounty hunter for the job.”

“Then why did he?” Veera asks. She’s heard the others speak of Jabba the Hutt before. They say that he is one of the most prevalent and powerful crime bosses in the entire galaxy. But the Vahla have never worked with the Hutts, and thus, everything they know about him is learned secondhand.

“Because like you said, your people have a reputation, and Jabba wants to find out if the rumors are true. So he set up all of this just to draw one of you out into the open.”

“And now?”

“Now,” Vruhk says, “I can take you to him. He has a job he’d like to discuss with you. Business has been…troubled as of late, and he’s looking for new hunters. I’m not permitted to say much more than that—not until you’ve made things official.”

“What about my payment?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have it. Jabba wanted to give it to you personally—said he didn’t want you to take off without discussing an ongoing collaboration with him first.”

Veera’s overwhelmed and trying her hardest not to show it. This is only her first hunt and a Hutt is already interested in recruiting her? No, not me, she reminds herself. Any Vahla would’ve sufficed.

“Well, lead the way then.”

He nods. “Follow me.”

Vruhk has a speeder parked outside the cantina, and she climbs into the passenger’s seat. They speed through the dusty streets of Mos Eisley, and the resulting wind that whips through her hair helps soothe the exposed skin of her face and shoulders, which are already growing sensitive to the intense heat of Tatooine’s suns.

Veera’s too distracted by what has happened and what is happening to appreciate the sights and sounds of the bustling spaceport any longer. All she sees is Korden’s vacant stare, and all she hears is the heart-wrenching scream of a woman who loved him.

It seems to echo eerily through the valley as the speeder leaves Mos Eisley behind and races out into the wilderness—a place Vruhk calls the Dune Sea. They follow a dirt path that winds around jagged ridges, jutting cliffs, and towering pillars of brown rock. A canyon swallows them for a while, and a narrow strip of sky overhead is the only bit of blue she can see until it spits them out into an open space with more barren slopes and mountainous silhouettes on the horizon.

But something to their right catches Veera’s eye—cylindrical structures made of metal and stone that protrude from the ground like a castle on a hill. One is tall and narrow, having the appearance of a watchtower, and another is shorter and much wider. All of them look as if they are half-buried and only their uppermost levels remain visible—like the desert itself is slowly devouring them.

“Is that—?”

“Jabba’s Palace,” Vruhk nods.

She stares in fascination as the speeder skirts the perimeter and then turns to approach a massive archway that is blocked by an equally massive gate. He parks in front of it and gets out, and she follows suit, suddenly feeling very small and very unprepared for what she’s about to walk into. Crime lords are known to kill beings who commit minor offenses such as looking at them the wrong way or trying their patience, and Veera fears making a mistake that could cost her everything. But this is her life now, and she must learn to adapt, or she will pay the price of failure—of weakness.

What looks like a strange, robotic eyeball on the end of a metal rod springs out of a hole in the gate and nearly makes her jump out of her skin. Its garbled voice asks a question in a language she doesn’t understand, and she glances helplessly at Vruhk, who steps forward to handle the matter himself.

“Don’t speak Huttese, do ya?” he snickers.

She shrugs and crosses her arms as she raises her chin. “Can’t be good at everything.”

He answers the eyeball, and Veera glances back and forth between them, having no idea what’s being said. It makes her uneasy.

The eyeball retracts back into the hole, and a few moments later, the gate begins to rise. Grating and groaning, its large teeth emerge from the sand, opening like a gaping maw. She swallows and stares into the blackness that lies beyond. Vruhk enters without hesitation, and she walks in beside him.

The gate closes behind them with a decisive clang, plunging them into even deeper darkness. As her eyes adjust, Veera sees odd shapes moving in the shadows—passing through doorways and crouching in corners. She glimpses tusked green faces that glower at her and meaty fists gripping big axes.

And then a white-skinned, wraith-like figure emerges—a male Twi’lek with both head-tails draped around his black-robed shoulders. He’s very tall, looming over her as his orange eyes study her with great interest. He says something to her in Huttese, his voice low and rasping.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “I don’t understand. Do you speak Basic?”

“Of course,” he replies with a heavy accent.

“This is the Vahla who accepted Jabba’s bounty,” Vruhk explains. “I’ve brought her back to meet with him as requested.”

The Twi’lek smiles at her, and Veera tries not to stare at his rows of sharp teeth.

“Ah,” he says, reaching out a gloved hand that leaves only the tips of his pale fingers visible. “Such a marvelous specimen.”

She stiffens as he trails a long yellowed nail along her jaw, and when he leaves it lingering under her chin a second too long, she takes a step back. His hand is left hovering in empty air, and he frowns. She narrows her eyes at him defiantly, hoping he’ll take the hint and back off while his hand is still attached to his body. The Twi’lek sneers and make a comment to Vruhk in Huttese, which the Devaronian only gives the bare minimum of a chuckle to in response.

“This way,” he then says to her in Basic, gesturing grandly before turning and leading them toward a nearby opening in the wall.

“What did he say?” Veera mutters in Vruhk’s ear as they follow at a short distance.

“Probably better that you don’t know,” he whispers back. “That’s Bib Fortuna, the majordomo. He’s survived being in Jabba’s employ longer than anyone else here. Best not to get on his bad side.”

“I won’t,” she replies obstinately, “as long as he doesn’t get on mine.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Look, kid, if you wanna survive a life like this one, you’ve gotta learn how to pick your battles.”

“I told you before, I’m not—”

“Not a kid, I know,” he interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But I’m gettin’ old, so you’re all kids to me now. Don’t take it personally.”

They wind through a dark, narrow passage with rays of afternoon sunlight spilling through the small windows above their heads, and she welcomes the cooling of the air as they descend. There’s something else too—a thick, heady aroma. It gets stronger and increasingly overwhelming as they go down some stairs and suddenly enter a large, crowded room.

A wall of sound hits her then. Loud, lively music. Obnoxious laughter and boisterous conversation. Some beings stand clustered together as they chatter, others drink and gamble at tables in the alcoves to the left, and many more are slumped in corners and against the walls as smoke rises from the ends of their pipes.

Spice, she realizes. Of course it is. Only spice could smell so sweet and yet singe her nostrils every time she breathes it in.

Although many Vahla participate in the spice smuggling trade, they don’t actually consume the drug themselves due to the fact that it dulls the mind and the senses and leaves one susceptible to manipulation and vulnerable to attack. She’ll have to be careful. Even inhaling residual smoke could prove dangerous if she remains exposed to it for an extended period of time.

Fortuna brings them to the foot of a dais on the right side of the room, and Veera watches him climb a small set of stairs and approach a large, slug-like creature whose thick, slimy tail stretches the length of the platform. This must be Jabba, she thinks, promptly deciding that no hologram she’s ever seen of a Hutt has done their hideousness justice. The copious folds under a wide mouth that looks like it might unhinge at any moment. The warts and the wrinkles and the filth and the grime and—

Her thoughts careen to a halt as she notices that there’s someone else on the dais, someone who’s gazing at her with mild curiosity. A pink-skinned Twi’lek female who can’t be much older than herself. She’s scantily clad, and there’s a chain around her neck.

A slave.

Smuggling of sentient beings is nearly as common spice these days, and Veera knows that she shouldn’t be shocked, shouldn’t be surprised at all. But she can’t help it. She’s more than shocked—she’s horrified. Hearing about it is one thing. Actually bearing witness to it is another, and the sight of this worm holding the Twi’lek’s chain like a leash makes her blood boil.

Bib Fortuna awakens his master from his spice-induced slumber, and the Hutt’s heavy-lidded eyes open wide. Veera can’t hear what he says to Jabba, but when he points down at her, the Hutt’s slitted pupils find hers. Fortuna withdraws, and a droid shuffles forward, its round yellow eyes glowing in the gloom.

“Ah,” Jabba rumbles, gesturing with his stubby arms as he begins speaking in Huttese.

It strikes her then that the music has quieted considerably, and so have the voices of those around her. She can almost feel their gazes boring into her back.

“The Mighty Jabba is most pleased to finally welcome a Vahla into his presence,” the droid says in a feminine voice.

She respectfully inclines her head. “My name is Veera, and I am honored to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard tales of your exploits throughout the galaxy. The empire you’ve built is unmatched by any syndicate.”

“Ho ho ho,” he laughs, deep and slow.

She plasters a tight-lipped smile on her face as he speaks again, having no idea why what she said was amusing.

“Jabba seconds your sentiment,” the droid tells her, “and he hopes that you will be amenable to the prospect of an ongoing, mutually beneficial partnership. But first, he would like to know if the target has been terminated as requested.”

“Yes,” Veera confirms. “Rix Korden is dead. I’ve brought his hand as proof.”

She unhooks the severed appendage from her belt, and Jabba barks instructions to Bib Fortuna, who immediately hurries down the stairs and makes his way over to her. She gives him the hand and the fob, and he switches on the device so that his master can see for himself. The Hutt laughs with relish, and Veera feels sick to her stomach.

“Jabba would like to congratulate you on a job well done,” the droid informs her, “and he invites you to relax and spend the rest of your evening enjoying the abundance of debaucheries his palace has to offer.”

She blinks. That’s it? What about the job?

Bib Fortuna goes back to the dais and then returns to her with a small case in hand. “Your payment of one thousand credits,” he says.

Veera meets the Hutt’s gaze as she gratefully accepts it. “Thank you.”

She hesitates for half a moment, unsure if she has been dismissed. She looks at Vruhk, and he nods. It’s clear that he intends to stay behind and speak to Jabba alone, so she turns and walks away from the throne.

How is it possible that she feels so light and so weighed down all at once? The burden, the pressure of the first hunt is gone, and she’s relieved. She’s proud, and yet, she can still hear the woman’s scream. Her moaning wails…

“Hey!”

The call is hushed but forceful enough to draw her attention, and Veera stops, glancing to her right. Seated at the table in the nearest alcove are a human male and what looks like a giant hairy carpet with eyes. The man appears to be around her age, possibly a little older, and he has a friendly face. But if there’s one thing that’s been drilled into her throughout the duration of her training, it’s that she should never trust anyone—especially criminals—no matter how decent they seem.

He jerks his head toward the empty seat at their table, and Veera cautiously approaches them. But she doesn’t sit down yet.

“You’re new here, right?” he asks, though it’s evident he already knows the answer. “Us too. I’m Han. This is Chewie.”

He points his thumb at the shaggy…thing, and it growls a greeting.

“Pleasure,” she deadpans. “I’m Veera.”

“Heard you talkin’ to Jabba over there,” Han explains, undaunted. “He recruiting you for the big job comin’ up?”

“I—” she falters. “I’m not sure.”

He laughs and grins up at her. “Yeah? Me neither. We showed up here yesterday, said we wanted in, and he didn’t have us killed on the spot—which was good—but he didn’t exactly agree to it either. Figured we’d just bide our time—see how it all works out.”

His smile is contagious and startlingly genuine, and Veera can’t help but return it as she finally sits down.

“How did you hear about the job?”

Han’s smile falters, and he reaches for his drink. “Oh, a buddy of mine mentioned it to me.”

She glances at Vruhk as he speaks privately with Jabba. The band has gotten louder again, and she can’t hear a word either of them is saying. “I thought I’d taken on a typical bounty, but it seems that there was always more to it than that.”

“Is there any such thing as a typical bounty?” he quips with a smirk.

“I suppose not,” she admits, her face falling as she once again recalls what transpired earlier that day.

Chewie grunts something and pushes a plate of flaky, meat-stuffed wraps toward her. Han takes it and helps pass it along.

“Fried crispic?” he offers.

“Er—sure.”

Veera had completely forgotten that she’d missed lunch, but now, as she plucks a wrap from the plate and examines it, her stomach rumbles with anticipation. She thinks of all the times she’s dreamed of flying around the galaxy and trying the local cuisines on different planets, and at last, that chance has arrived.

She takes a bite, chews, and smiles. It’s delicious. Soon, the entire roll is gone and she’s snagging another.

“Never had a crispic before?” he asks, amused.

“No. These are amazing!”

It’s only after she’s responded with unbridled excitement that Veera remembers she’s supposed to be playing it cool. She swallows a big bite and inwardly cringes.

“I mean, they’re all right. I guess,” she amends, making a concentrated effort to sound decidedly less enthusiastic.

Han raises an eyebrow at her, and her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she redirects her attention back to the band. A singer has joined them, a female with red patterned skin, sharp, elongated ears, and two horn-like protrusions jutting out from the sides of her head. She has long sleek hair that’s combed straight back from her face, and she wears an asymmetrical black dress with a plunging neckline and a skirt that leaves one leg completely bare as her hips sway in time with the rhythm of the music.

The Twi’lek has climbed down from the dais and is now dancing in the center of the room while Jabba holds the end of her chain. She twists and turns and leaps and spins, her movements both effortlessly graceful and carefully controlled. And all the while, drool drips from Jabba’s chin. Several males standing nearby make salacious remarks about her to their friends, and any admiration Veera might’ve felt for the Twi’lek’s skill is eclipsed by immediate outrage.

“How dare they?” she seethes. “This is vile.”

“Wait, wait, wait—”

Han lunges across the table and tries to grab her as she surges out of her seat, but he isn’t fast enough. Veera’s seeing red. She weaves her way through the crowd, storming toward Jabba’s throne—

Until a hand suddenly closes around her wrist and pulls. Caught off balance with one foot in the air, she staggers sideways and throws out her free hand to catch herself. Her palm slams against a battered breastplate, and she looks up with blazing eyes. A masked visage looks back at her, blank and expressionless.

“Let go of me,” she growls.

“Do you want to die?” a harsh male voice snarls.

“Are you threatening me?”

“No,” he replies, gruff and impatient, “I’m saving your life.”

He starts dragging her through the crowd, and Veera stubbornly plants her feet. He turns on her, his grip on her wrist like a vise.

“I said—let—go,” she grits out.

“I will,” he rasps, “if you agree not to make a scene.”

“Who are you, anyway?” she demands, their confrontation buried beneath the beat of the music and the distraction of the Twi’lek’s dance. “One of Jabba’s hounds?”

“You’ve got some nerve—”

She draws a sai and shoves it against his throat. “That’s not all I’ve got.”

Her face is inches from his mask, her teeth bared as she breathes heavily. She wasn’t planning on killing anyone else today, but perhaps she’d have to make an exception. He cants his head, seeming more intrigued than intimidated.
“Everything okay over here?”

Veera’s eyes widen in surprise as she looks to her right and sees Han and Chewie standing there. The stranger finally releases her and turns toward the newcomers.

“I have it under control,” she answers crossly, lowering her blade.

Chewie takes a menacing step forward and roars at the masked man.

“I have no quarrel with the Wookiee,” he says even as his gloved hand drifts toward his blaster.

“He begs to differ,” Han replies with a nod at Chewie. “He says those are Wookiee pelts on your shoulder.”

“Yes—because I respect them. They are great warriors. They have honor. I have no hatred for them.”

Chewie is unappeased, and Veera glances around uneasily as she realizes they’re starting to draw unwanted attention. Beings in the crowd are giving them a wider berth and watching them out of the corners of their eyes. She needs to diffuse the situation if she can.

“Fett! When did you get back?”

Startled, she spins and spots Vruhk making his way over to them.

“A few minutes ago,” the masked man responds. “And just in time, it seems.”

His head turns toward her ever so slightly, and she glares at that black, impenetrable visor.

“I see you’ve met Veera,” the Devaronian observes, crossing his muscular arms over his chest as his gaze shifts back and forth between them.

Fett nods, and she somewhat sheepishly sheathes her sai.

“You two know each other?” he inquires.

“As of today,” Vruhk replies. “She’s the Vahla who answered the call.”

“And?”

He shrugs. “Bit green. Rough around the edges. But I think she’ll do.”

Fett growls under his breath. “We can’t afford any rookie mistakes on this mission.”

“Don’t forget who’s in charge here, Fett. What I say goes, and I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

“Step into the ring if you doubt me,” Veera challenges, “and we’ll go a few rounds.”

“Being a good hunter is about more than how hard you can throw a punch,” Fett counters.

“What are you afraid of?” she goads. “Losing?”

“Only novices are so desperate to prove themselves,” he scoffs. “I prefer to let my reputation speak for itself.”

“All right, that’s enough you two,” Vruhk intervenes. “I won’t tolerate any infighting amongst my crew. I’m gonna need everyone at their best on this mission.”

She looks at him incredulously. “What crew? Jabba hasn’t even hired me for this job yet.”

“What do you think we were talking about after you left? He asked me if I thought you were up for it, and I vouched for you. You’re in.”

Her eyes widen. What? How could the same Devaronian who’d treated her so skeptically in the cantina be putting his confidence in her now? Had his behavior at Chalmun’s been part of the test too?

“Thank you,” she stammers in disbelief.

“What about us?” Han chimes in.

Vruhk looks at him like he completely forgot he was standing there. “What’s your name again, kid?”

“Han Solo, captain of the Millennium Falcon.”

“Ah, yes,” he remembers, putting his hand under his chin. “We are going to need a fast ship and a pilot who can perform well under pressure…”

Han spreads his hands wide and grins. “You’re lookin’ at ‘im. The Falcon’s the fastest in the galaxy, and I just made the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs. Chewie here is my copilot.”

“Can you fly a cloud car?”

“I can fly anything,” Han answers with unwavering certainty.

“It’s settled then,” Vruhk says, shaking his and the Wookiee’s hands. “Welcome aboard.”

“You can’t be serious, Vruhk,” Fett protests. “Twelve parsecs? He’s lying through his teeth.”

The Devaronian turns and raises a hairless brow at him. “Maybe. Guess we’ll find out. You’d do well to remember that it wasn’t so long ago when I took a chance on you, Boba.”

Fett sighs and shakes his head. “How many more do you think we’ll need?”

“I have two in mind. Just need to reach out, see if they’re available and if they’re interested. I’ll run ‘em by Jabba, and then you and I can finalize the plan.”

Veera looks at Fett as he nods, silently bemoaning the fact that she’s going to have to work with this killjoy. Did someone spit in his breakfast this morning, or is he always like this?

“Jabba’s contact is ready whenever we are,” Vruhk continues, addressing all of them now. “If our preparations go smoothly, I think we should be ready to head out in three days’ time. Until then—” and here he looks at Veera, “—stay out of trouble.”

Chapter Text

After dinner, the band gets loud again, and the crowd gets rowdy. Some jump up from their seats and start dancing, while the clumsy movements of others aren’t much more than drunken flailing. Veera decides that this is a good time to take her leave. She doesn’t know how to dance, and even if she did, writhing about wouldn’t do her “ruthless bounty hunter” image any favors. She tells Han and Chewie she’ll see them tomorrow and then seeks out Vruhk, who assists her in finding a servant who can show her to her new quarters.

It feels wrong, following the meek teal-skinned Twi’lek up the stairs and through the dimly lit corridors. She wears a heavy collar around her slender neck, and she doesn't speak, keeping her head bowed and her eyes trained on the ground as she walks. The silence is uncomfortable for Veera, as is the idea of a servant being ordered to escort her through the palace, so she decides to break it.

“What’s your name?” she ventures awkwardly.

A pause, and then—

“Nolaa,” the Twi’lek replies timidly.

“I’m Veera.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Veera.”

Nolaa’s response is automatic and almost robotic, and all the while, she never looks at her. Silence falls again, and Veera decides to keep pushing.

“How long have you been here, Nolaa?”

“I…I don’t remember.”

She ducks her head farther and walks a bit faster. A commotion at the end of the hallway draws Veera’s attention—a dark-haired human woman in a purple dress berating a much younger, green-skinned girl who holds a tray of pastries.

“Who’s that?” she inquires.

“The Mistress,” Nolaa answers in quiet terror. She stops in front of a door and turns to face Veera at last. “Master Fortuna has given you these quarters for the duration of your stay. If you require anything, there is a comm unit that you may use to request the services of either myself or any of the other girls who are otherwise unoccupied.”

She holds out her right hand palm side up, and Veera’s eyes widen when she sees a series of numbers branded on her wrist.

“I’m 3254,” Nolaa says.

And with that, she leaves Veera standing alone in the dark corridor. The Mistress and the other poor girl have gone, but she’s so stunned by all she has seen that she lingers for a long moment before opening the door. It hisses as it rises, and she enters a simply furnished room with a small table and two chairs, a set of old shelves along the right wall, and a bed in the far left corner. There’s a couple of plasteel containers for storage and an adjoining refresher, which Veera is dismayed to find has a bath instead of a shower. Having lived her whole life on a ship, she’s never even seen a bath until this very moment.

But most disappointing of all is the fact that, despite being in a room that’s well above ground level, there is no window. In her quarters on the Raa’ga, she has a large viewport through which she can see the stars and the endlessness of space, and it’s always helped when she starts feeling trapped and confined. Like the walls are closing in on her. But here, there is no escape. No illusion of freedom.

The air is stale and stuffy just like the coffin she was temporarily entombed inside during her initiation, and she shivers at the memory of lying down and staring up at the last glimpse of light before the darkness swallowed her.

Veera shakes her head and brings herself back to the present. This is fine. It’s just…different, is all. She goes to the control panel next to the door and enters a new code that will lock it from the inside, then stows her case of credits in one of the cylindrical containers. She puts her armor and weapons in the other, and when she’s left standing in only her tunic and leggings, she makes her way into the refresher.

Eyeing the brown stone tub uncertainly, Veera turns on the water, removes the rest of her clothes, and climbs in once it begins to fill. As she scrubs the sand and dust from her skin and washes it from her hair, she notices a gradual but unmistakable shift in temperature. Although the water remains pleasantly warm, the heat of the day is fading, and by the time she’s getting out of the tub and drying herself with a towel, she’s freezing. No one had ever told her deserts could be so cold.

Veera scrambles back into her tunic and leggings, deciding that she’ll have to wash them tomorrow, and returns to her room. She’s trembling from head to toe, her teeth chattering as she sits down on the edge of the bed. She needs to send a message back to the flotilla and inform the Nova Priests that her mission was a success, but she doesn’t know what kind of security measures Jabba has within the walls of his palace. All communications sent via the Vahla’s secret channel are encrypted, but she can’t risk her reports being decrypted. She’ll have to make a special trip back to Mos Eisley to transmit her message—and to pay Drue another day’s docking fee.

Sighing, Veera switches off the dim yellow lights and lies down under the covers. The thin sheet and patterned blanket would be more than sufficient if the room wasn’t freezing. But it is. Space is cold, she thinks, but deserts are colder. Her wet hair doesn’t help matters either, and she hugs herself as she curls into an even tighter ball. A powerful wind howls outside, thrashing against the thick walls of the palace, and she thanks the goddess that she has at least been spared the worst of the bitter cold.

Shutting her eyes, Veera wills herself to sleep. Wills her troubled mind to be at peace and her racing heart to still. But she tosses and turns for what feels like hours, refusing to look at the chrono on the wall. The steady, constant hum of the Raa’ga’s engine is gone, as is the comforting knowledge that she is among her people—her family. Instead, she is surrounded by strangers she cannot trust. Strangers who might kill her as soon as look at her.

She hears strange sounds outside her door, which is starting to seem more and more like the gate of a prison. There are running footsteps and eerie cries and echoes of laughter. The palace doesn’t sleep, and neither does she.

Finally, Veera gives a frustrated huff and sits up. A bleary-eyed glance at the chrono tells her that it’s early—too early to be awake. Too early to be doing anything but resting. But if she spends one more miserable minute in this glorified cage, she’s going to go mad.

So she dons her armor, pulls on her boots, and braids her hair—adding another in honor of her second kill. Grabbing her sai from the container next to the bed, Veera rises and ventures out into the dark corridor. She remembers the way well enough to retrace her steps back to the throne room, which is now shrouded in darkness and lit only by scant traces of moonlight that filter in from above. Jabba has left his throne, but shadowy figures sit slumped over at the tables and on the ground in a spice-induced stupor.

She creeps past them, though she isn’t sure why she feels the need to sneak, and makes her way over to a door to the left of the dais. The room beyond it is the most spacious she’s seen yet in the palace, with two steep staircases leading down to an open area with a bar and plush cushions, and at its center is a large fountain-like device that looks like it dispenses spice. Of course. Veera carefully steps over more bodies sprawled on fringed pillows and ventures through yet another doorway.

Surely, she thinks, with so many warriors and guards and bounty hunters, they must have what I’m looking for—

Wandering down the narrow hallway, she scans the rooms on her left and right as she passes them, and finally, she finds it. A circular room lit by yellow, lantern-like fixtures on walls that are lined with a vast assortment of weapons. Practice dummies are evenly spaced along the perimeter, and Veera eagerly strides toward the one that stands directly across from her. She has so much anger, so much pent-up frustration that demands to be expended. She’s tired and restless, alone and out of place.

It feels good when she throws the first series of punches, her fists relentlessly pounding the helpless, humanoid-shaped sack. She grits her teeth as she twists and turns, kicking and striking over and over again until her muscles start to warm up and chase away the chill. Her limbs are loosening, her knuckles are bruising, and Veera’s breathing hard when she stops and listens for a moment. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, as if sensing another presence enter the room. She can almost feel their eyes on her—

No. Don’t sense. Don’t feel. Don’t let it in.

She spins to face the intruder, instinctively taking a defensive stance. But her eyes widen in surprise and then immediately narrow as she straightens and lowers her fists to her sides.

“What are you doing here?” she grumbles.

“Training,” Boba Fett answers.

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at that infuriatingly blank visor of his. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

“Oh?” Veera raises an eyebrow and assumes an air of boredom. “Learn anything of value?”

“You know Teras Kasi,” he responds with mild curiosity.

Good eye, she can’t help but think as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I told you—I can handle myself.”

“Against an enemy who can’t fight back,” he counters, advancing to the center of the room. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.”

Wait. She blinks. Is he…?

“Step into the ring,” he dares, “and we’ll go a few rounds.”

Somehow, Veera just knows he’s smirking. She can hear it in his voice. “What happened to letting your reputation speak for itself?”

“What are you afraid of? Losing?”

That’s it. She strides toward him, her blood boiling as her muscles tense with anticipation. She never loses.

“Hand to hand,” she tells him. “No weapons.”

And to make her point, Veera takes out her sai and lays them on the ground nearby. Fett does the same with his blasters. She notices that he isn’t wearing his jetpack, but the rest of his armor and other gear remains.

“No tricks,” she warns as they begin to slowly circle each other.

“The only fair fight is one where everyone loses,” he replies, cold and matter-of-fact.

Veera watches him carefully—the way he positions his body, the way he moves. She locates every gap in his armor, every place where she can strike. But she can’t see his face—his eyes—and she’s grown accustomed to being able to track the gaze of her opponent, using that knowledge to determine what they’ll do next.

“Do you ever take that mask off?” she sighs in annoyance.

“Sometimes.”

“In front of anyone?”

“Why do you care?” Fett retorts, more defensively this time.

“I don’t.”

They’re circling more closely now, and he’s just out of reach. Veera takes a breath and gathers herself, embracing the adrenaline that makes her limbs lighter and her heart beat faster. She always has liked striking first.

She springs forward and aims a kick directly at his face, which he easily bats aside and answers with a right hook. Veera ducks under it and lands a sharp jab to his ribs that she immediately follows with a blow to the side of his helmet. The shock of the impact ripples up her left arm, but she grits her teeth and lets the pain fuel her as she spins and kicks again. Fett takes a quick step back to dodge the blow, and she goes for his throat, staying on the offensive. But he redirects her a second time and plants his boot on the outside of her thigh, sending her staggering backwards.

Veera recovers quickly and brings her fists back to chest level. Briefly, they size each other up again, and then she moves in. Another series of parried strikes ends with her finally landing a reverse kick to his chest that knocks him off balance. Fett rallies just in time to deflect a relentless flurry of kicks and punches, both of them anticipating and reacting to the other’s movements in the blink of an eye, in the space of a breath.

Veera drops low and sweeps his legs out from under him, sending him crashing onto his back with a grunt. She lifts her left foot and aims to drop her heel on his stomach, but he rolls to the side as it comes down and rises up on one knee, catching her next kick. Fett’s gloved hands wrap around her leg, and he throws her to the ground. She skids across the stone, scraping her right shoulder, and when he moves to pin her, she fends him off by driving her boot into his gut.

There’s a distant roar in her ears. The monster locked in its cage, begging to be let loose. But Veera refuses, shoving it down deeper as she gets to her feet. They’re both breathing hard now, and sweat’s dripping down her temples. This is what she craves. This is when she feels the most alive. Caught up in the heat of battle and teetering on that dangerous edge between control and the complete loss of it.

Between fear and freedom.

He throws another punch that she blocks with her forearm, but he counters her next kick with his right fist slamming into her abdomen. Before Veera can even gasp for air, his left fist collides with her cheekbone. It should hurt—she knows it will later—but right now, it only jars her, the dull thunk of the resulting vibration sounding inside her head. When he swings again, she ducks and charges with a savage growl, tackling him to the ground. She’s ready to finish this.

Fett allows the momentum to carry him into a backwards roll, and she goes with him. As he comes up on his hands and knees, Veera drives her knee into his ribs once, then twice. She doesn’t give him a chance to recover, swinging her leg over his back and reaching down to hook one arm under his throat. I’ve got you now, she thinks as she traps him in a chokehold.

But Fett refuses to surrender, getting to his feet and forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist in order to hang on. He pries at the arm that’s pressing against his throat, and she braces the other against his helmet, tightening her grip. He staggers back a step with a strangled grunt, then punches upwards with his free fist. It rams into her jaw, and even though her teeth are already clenched, Veera feels the unpleasant clack of them smacking against each other. The shock of the blow causes her arm to fall from his helmet, and he seizes it in a two-handed, vise-like grasp.

Then he’s flinging her from his back, and when she flips over his shoulders, she hits the ground hard. It knocks the breath from her lungs, a sharp pain stabbing through her ribs. Panic ripples through her, her mouth hanging open as she helplessly stares up at the ceiling, and suddenly, her torso is trapped between his thighs. Now the black visor of his mask is looming over her, and Veera throws a desperate punch at it. But he catches her wrist and pins it to the floor beside her head as he draws back his other fist.

“Yield,” he pants, his armored chest heaving.

“Never,” she wheezes.

She still has one arm free. If she can just—

“Boba!”

Both of their heads snap toward the room’s entrance in unison. A slender figure has just appeared in the opening, her pink head-tails draping over her bare shoulders and hanging all the way down to her exposed stomach. Her dark magenta lips part in surprise at the sight of them.

“Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were…occupied.”

“I’m not,” he responds, quickly standing and turning to face her—the dancer Veera had seen chained at Jabba’s side. “What is it, Rela?”

Veera rises with a grimace, and as she does, she sees a playful smile flicker across the Twi’lek’s face.

“Xivah’s back,” she tells him. “Didn’t Vruhk want to speak with her about the Bespin job?”

“Yes,” he answers, still breathing heavily from their brawl. “I’ll talk to her.”

Rela nods, her green eyes twinkling with amusement. “That’s probably for the best. As I understand it, he had company last night and won’t be up for a while yet.”

Veera shudders at the mental image that conjures. Fett retrieves his blaster and shoves it back into its holster, and she arches an eyebrow at him.

“Am I to count this as a forfeit then?”

He makes a scoffing noise and stops as he passes back by her. “How can I forfeit a fight I’ve already won?”

“I didn’t yield,” she reminds him, defiantly holding the gaze she knows is behind the mask.

“I like your spirit,” he says, brushing her opposition aside, “and you fought well—for a rookie.”

His casual dismissal is infuriating enough, but the insult is a parsec beyond. She’s practically shaking with rage as he walks out of the training room, her bruised hands balling into fists at her sides. She imagines taking him down from behind and making him regret it—even though she knows that she can’t. He’s part of the team whether she likes it or not. Second in command by the looks of it. She can’t risk legitimately upsetting him or Jabba by extension—not after Vruhk vouched for her.

So she silently seethes until he’s gone, and it’s only then that Veera realizes Rela is still standing there. The Twi’lek is watching her with interest, and she seems somewhat astonished by what has just transpired. There’s a difference from the other slaves in the way she carries herself—a certain confidence. A willingness to say things others won’t.

“I’ve never seen him spar with anyone,” she muses. “He always trains alone. You must be special.”

“Hardly,” Veera scoffs. The suggestion is so preposterous that she can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed by it. “He holds a special hatred for me, perhaps.”

“Is that what you call it?” Rela giggles.

She scowls. “I’m not here to fraternize. I’m here to do a job.”

The Twi’lek sobers up a bit at her hardened tone, her smile vanishing as she nods. “Of course—my apologies. I meant no disrespect. It’s my job to fraternize, and I get carried away sometimes.”

“Right…” Veera remembers, regretting snapping at her over something as trifling as her fight with Fett. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Veera.”

“It’s a pleasure, Veera. I’m Rela.”

“Have you been here very long, Rela?” she asks as she retrieves her sai and sheathes them at her back.

“Seven years,” the Twi’lek replies after a moment’s pause.

Veera turns to see her staring at the ground, her playfulness all but extinguished. Now she looks distant and haunted.

“I hardly remember what it was like before…”

“I’m sorry,” Veera says. “I had no idea that—” That what? A crime lord would have slaves?

She shuts her mouth, suddenly feeling extremely foolish. Rela meets her gaze, her thin brows furrowing.

“I’ve heard that the Vahla live apart from the rest of the galaxy. Some whisper that they don’t even have a planet to call home. Is that true?”

“It is forbidden for me to speak of my people with outsiders.” Rela seems disappointed by this, so Veera quickly adds, “Our secrecy ensures our protection.”

“I see.” Her expression turns wistful. “I had a home once—a family. We were happy there. Until the war started…”

The Clone War. Veera’s heard little of the galaxy-wide conflict that brought the Republic to its knees. She was so young when it began, alone and terrified and still grieving the loss of her parents. Nothing else had mattered to her at the time. The affairs of institutions like the Republic and the Empire were of no concern to the Vahla anyway. They were merely obstacles to be avoided when going about one’s business in the underworld.

“But I’ve said too much already,” Rela apologizes, shaking her head. “I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to.”

“No, it’s—it’s all right,” Veera assures her. She gestures at their surroundings. “All of this is foreign to me, and I’m eager to learn what I can. Your story is of no less value to me than any other.”

The Twi’lek smiles again at last, the fear and tension melting from her frame as her shoulders relax. “In all my years here, no one of your status has spoken to me as kindly as you have. I must return to Jabba before he awakens, but perhaps we shall speak more later?”

“I’d like that,” Veera replies, smiling back at her.

Rela departs, and she’s left standing in the empty training room with an aching jaw and sore limbs. As her adrenaline ebbs, exhaustion sets in. Her clothes cling to her body, and the chill in the air seeps back into her skin as the heat of battle fades. Reaching up, Veera carefully presses her fingers to her left cheekbone and winces. She realizes now that she misjudged Boba Fett—at least in terms of his nerve and his skill in melee combat.

But he’s still one stuck-up son of a ba’shka.

She didn’t lose. If Rela hadn’t walked in, she would’ve had him. She’s sure of it.

Veera spends the next twenty minutes stretching and going over every second of the fight in her mind—everything she could’ve done differently—before returning to her room and grabbing her datapad and comlink. It’s time to make a trip to Mos Eisley.

After paying Drue the day’s docking fee, she drives Vruhk’s speeder—which she hopes he won’t mind her borrowing—to the fringes of the spaceport town and shuts off the engine. Then she takes a deep breath, connects to the Raa’ga’s encrypted frequency, and raises the comlink to her lips.

“This is Veera. I have completed my first hunt. The target is dead, and I have received my payment from Jabba the Hutt, who has recruited me for another mission. We plan to depart two days from now, and when I return, I will transport the required percentage of my earnings to the Raa’ga.” She pauses and looks out at the desert, swallowing before adding quietly, “Goddess guide me.”

She shuts off her comlink, picks up her datapad, and marks Rix Korden as “terminated.” After she does, a distant cry draws her gaze back to the dunes. A ghostly illusion of the wailing woman has appeared in the distance, racing toward her across the sands.

It’s his own fault, she tells herself. He shouldn’t have caused whatever trouble got a bounty placed on his head.

She knows there was more to it than the easily resolved matter of tax evasion. Vruhk had said as much, but she can’t shake the sneaking suspicion from entering her mind—the feeling that Korden hadn’t done anything wrong. That the Hutt had taken advantage of a lowly farmer who had little to begin with and was incapable of fighting back.

Anger stirs in her, and Veera decides that she isn’t ready to go back to the palace just yet. She wants to see the sky, breathe the fresh air, and escape the stifling, spice-filled halls for a while. So she parks the speeder and makes her way to the marketplace, where beings in weathered, sandy clothing are meandering from one tarp-covered stall to another. She drifts closer, peering over their shoulders at patterned quilts and dyed clothing, bracelets and necklaces strung with minerals of many colors, and racks displaying small reptilian creatures that are apparently meant for consumption.

It’s all so fascinating, and Veera wishes that Vana could be here see it. She glances back at the jewelry and hesitates. An older woman with braided black hair, suntanned skin, and a faded blue tunic sits behind the table. Her latest customer has just departed with a new bracelet, and Veera seizes her opportunity before she can change her mind. Returning to the stall, she greets the woman with a smile and a cheerful, “Hello.”

“Hello, dear. What can I do for you today?” the woman answers warmly.

“I’d like to buy something for a friend—a necklace, I think.”

“Have a look here,” she offers, pointing to the shallow boxes filled with stones. “You can choose any one of these—or more than one if you want. Necklaces with one stone are five credits each.”

Veera’s overwhelmed by the variety of choices. Some stones are smooth and round. Others are angular and crystalline in appearance. Still others are rectangular and rough in texture. There are solid stones and patterned stones, and she has no clue which one Vana would like best—until a particularly striking color catches her eye.

“This one,” she decides, picking it up and turning it over in her palm.

“Ah,” the woman nods as Veera gives it to her. “Turquoise—a much needed symbol of hope and protection in these troubled times.”

She slips the stone onto a strong black thread and puts five metallic beads on either side of it that glitter in the sunlight. Once she secures the clasp, Veera accepts the necklace and pays her without an ounce of regret.

“Thank you,” she says, placing the credits in the woman’s callused palm.

But before she can withdraw her hand, the woman grasps it tightly between both of her own. Startled, Veera looks down into her dark eyes.

“You will endure great hardship,” she tells her gravely, “but you will find even greater treasure.”

The Force is in all things, but there is a marked difference between those deemed “Force-sensitive” and those who are not. Veera feels the woman’s energy reaching out to touch hers—to connect. Her eyes widen in realization, and she recoils as if she’s been stung.

“You have the gift,” the woman marvels.

“It’s not a gift,” she retorts, frightened and furious. “It’s a curse.”

Retreating into herself, Veera takes cover behind her mental shields and tries not to panic. But her chest is constricting, her heart squeezing as her breaths come fast and shallow. She remembers losing control—remembers letting the Shadow in. Remembers the fiery destruction that followed.

“Well, look who it is.”

She spins around, her free hand flying to the hilt of her left sai.

“Whoa,” Han says, holding up his hands in front of his chest. “Easy there. It’s just us.”

Veera’s frantic gaze shifts to the massive, hairy shape next to him who’s blocking out the sun and casting a long shadow over her. Chewie.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like me,” she snaps, releasing her weapon.

“Sorry.” He arches his brows as he casts a sidelong glance at the Wookiee.

She scowls and irritably reminds him, “I can see you.”

“Right.” Han looks down at his boots, rocking back onto his heels and resting his hands on his belt before giving her a winning smile. “Look, Chewie and I were just on our way to Chalmun’s, and I saw you and thought…you might wanna join us.”

He sounds like he already expects her to say no, and after the way she just pounced on him like an angry tooka, Veera can’t blame him.

“Oh,” she replies sheepishly. “Sure.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “I’ve worked up quite an appetite, and I could use a break from this heat.”

Chewie growls something that sounds like an agreement.

“He’s hungry too,” Han explains, “and he’s not a big fan of the heat either. All that hair, y’know?”

Veera squints up at the Wookiee. “My sympathies. I imagine it’s much worse for you than it is for me.”

He cocks his head and grunts a response, shrugging his big shoulders.

As they start walking down the dusty street, she uncurls her fingers and looks at the necklace, the turquoise gleaming in her palm.

“Pretty,” Han mutters in his casual way.

“Thanks. It’s…not for me,” she says, stuffing it into her satchel. “About this job—I heard someone in the palace mention something called Bespin. Have you ever heard of it?”

“Oh yeah. Beautiful place. Ugly business. Or so I’ve been told. Never actually been there myself.” He stops and leans in close, glancing around to ensure that no one’s listening before adding quietly, “People in the palace talk, and Chewie and I have heard some things about this job we’ve been hired for. It’s big. Bigger than any of us thought. It could set us up for life.”

“What?”

“It’s true. This isn’t a bounty or a smuggling run. This is a heist. We’ve been hired to steal the Jewel of Yavin.”

Chapter Text

“We’re flying to Bespin in that?”

Perched on the edge of a crate beside the Millennium Falcon as Han and Chewie make final preparations for their imminent departure, Veera looks up from a datapad at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. A green-skinned Falleen with a long black ponytail is striding toward them, flanked by Vruhk, Fett, and a much shorter alien with a scaly snout and sharp, protruding teeth. Its head is wrapped up in brown fabric, and there’s a pair of big black goggles over its eyes.

Han lowers his hydrospanner and walks over to them as they approach the battered freighter. “Hey, appearances aren’t everything. This baby just—”

“Flew the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs,” the Falleen finishes, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “I know. Vruhk told me. I’m just not sure I believe it.”

“Well, you’ll change your mind when you see her fly.”

“She’ll fit in just fine in Port Town,” Vruhk says. “If she was too sleek and shiny, she’d draw unwanted attention.”

“A fair point,” the Falleen concedes, stopping in front of Han and crossing her arms over her chest. Her reptilian eyes narrow, and she proceeds to examine him from head to toe.

Han shifts under her scrutinizing gaze and gives a nervous grin. “Uh…I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I’m Xivah. And you must be our pilot—Han Solo.” She punctuates the word by poking his chest with a claw-like finger.

“That’s…me,” he answers awkwardly, visibly uncomfortable with the scarce amount of space she’s left between them.

“Up there is Chewbacca,” Vruhk adds, pointing to the Wookiee crouched atop the Falcon.

Chewie’s removed a panel and is rewiring some malfunctioning part or another when it suddenly spits sparks into his face and singes his hair. He growls and shakes his fists in frustration.

“And that’s Veera,” the Devaronian nods as she stands and makes her way over to where the rest of the group has assembled.

“So young,” Xivah remarks, looking back and forth between Han and Veera. “Are you sure they’re ready for something like this?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about ‘em.”

“I don’t like going in blind,” Veera interjects. “When are you going to tell us more about this top secret job Jabba’s hired us for?”

She’s decided to pretend she hasn’t already been told about the Jewel of Yavin, because that’s all she knows anyway—just a name. Obviously, it’s worth a fortune, but how they’re going to go about stealing it is a matter she’s been left entirely in the dark about.

“Well, considering that it’s going to take us sixteen hours to get there, there’ll be more than enough time for Fett and I to fill you in on the way,” Vruhk replies, unbothered by her impatience.

Veera glances at the masked visage to his right and sees that he’s already looking at her. They haven’t crossed paths since their fight in the training room two days ago, and she wonders if he ended up with as many bruises and aching muscles as she did.

“Or perhaps just you,” she quips with a smirk as she shifts her gaze back to Vruhk. “I get the impression he isn’t much of a talker.”

Xivah chuckles at that. “I like her already.”

Soon, they’re loading their gear onto the Falcon, and Han excitedly drops into the pilot’s chair. Chewie settles into the copilot’s seat, and Veera takes the one behind him. Peering over the Wookiee’s hairy shoulder, she can see her Se’kari fighter, which she’d been permitted to relocate to the palace hangar with Vruhk’s assistance, sitting between them and an oddly shaped craft with nearly as many dents and scrapes marking its hull as the Falcon’s. Judging by its structure and the orientation of its cockpit, it’s meant to fly vertically rather than horizontally, and it’s difficult for Veera to imagine piloting a ship like that. It’s big and bulky and lacks the sleek elegance of her fighter, but if she squints, she can almost see some similarities between them.

“That ship,” she muses with fascination, “I’ve never seen anything like it. What is it?”

Han pauses in his pressing of buttons and flipping of switches to squint through the viewport. “Looks like a Firespray-class interceptor. Heavily modified.”

“It is,” says a modulated voice over her left shoulder, “and it’s mine.”

Veera goes rigid, inwardly cursing as Han spins around in his chair. His brows shoot up, and his eyes widen with excitement.

“Really?” he exclaims. “That’s great, cause I’ve been thinkin’ about giving the Falcon some upgrades, and you might be just the guy I need to talk to.”

“Are you looking to buy legally or something a little more…off the books?” Fett asks, and Veera slowly turns her head to look up at him.

He’s standing right beside her chair, and she wants nothing more than to disappear.

Han grins and shrugs. “C’mon, look who you’re talkin’ to.”

“I know people,” Fett admits, “and maybe, if you do your job well and the mission is a success, I’ll give you their names.”

“Relax,” Han tells him, confident as ever. “I’ve got this.”

“Don’t take your role lightly, Solo. You’re more than a getaway driver. You have a race to win.”

He blinks and swallows. “A race?”

“Not just any race. The Cloud City Grand Prix.”

Han stares at him for a moment, mouth agape, and then his grin returns as he gives Chewie a clap on the shoulder. “Ya hear that, pal?”

The Wookiee growls a response, and he seems eager, but Veera doesn’t understand what’s so important about this race. Swiveling to face the viewport once more, Han fires up the Falcon’s systems—red, white, blue, and yellow lights flickering to life all around them. The freighter hums and beeps and chatters, and she delights in the way every ship speaks a language of its own.

“Buckle up and prepare for takeoff,” Han calls over his shoulder.

She supposes that her questions will have to wait. She straps herself in, and Fett sits in the remaining empty chair behind Han. The Falcon lifts off slowly, then zips out of the cave-like hangar and soars up into a cloudless sky. They soon leave the endless deserts of Tatooine behind them and enter the infinite blackness of space, where trillions of stars and distant planets twinkle with the promise of adventure. Of sights unseen and tales unheard.

Han enters the coordinates into the navicomputer, and Veera quietly grips the armrests of her chair, bracing herself for the jump. Despite the dangerous nature of the task that lies before them, she can’t help the relief and excitement fluttering inside her. Finally, she’s escaped the confines of the largely windowless palace and the oppressive aroma of spice.

She only wishes the same could be said for others like Rela and Nolaa.

The Falcon launches into the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace, and for a moment, it feels like someone is shoving their hands against her chest with all the strength they can muster. But then the pressure subsides, and she can breathe again. Veera exhales slowly, and Han sits back in his chair. Now, there is nothing to do but wait until they arrive at their destination.

“Come with me.”

She looks up in surprise and sees Fett looming over her. “What?”

“You have questions about the mission, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answers uncertainly.

“Then come with me,” he repeats, lingering in the opening until she rises and moves to follow him.

He leads her out into the central corridor, where they make an abrupt turn and continue along the circular passage until they reach a large, open room which appears to be the cargo hold. The voices of the others are growing distant as they draw farther away from them, and anxiety prickles in Veera’s mind when Fett opens a pair of heavy durasteel doors by activating a panel on the wall.

“Inside,” he says with a nod toward the cramped, cluttered space beyond where automated glow panels have flickered to life.

“You first,” she counters, unmoving.

He sighs and walks in, and when she enters behind him, he closes the doors. If she wasn’t wary of his intentions before, she certainly is now. She tries to create some distance between them, but there’s nowhere to go. Her back meets a stack of storage crates, and there are footlockers and plasteel containers piled high all around them. Machinery hums in the far right corner, and her foot is brushing up against a large coil of thick black wire on the floor. That could come in handy.

“Care to tell me why you’re acting so suspicious?” Veera demands. Her palms are pressed against a crate, and she uses that cover to discreetly slide them closer to her blades.

“Can’t be too careful when you’re on a ship filled with people whose only allegiance is to themselves,” he answers with a glance toward the doors.

“Which is exactly why I shouldn’t trust you.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “You shouldn’t. But you deserve to know why you were chosen for this mission, and it certainly wasn’t out of the goodness of Vruhk’s heart.”

“Why then?” she presses, her tone hard and unrelenting even as her heart races inside her chest.

Fett takes a breath before he begins. “Jabba wants us to steal an especially large and expensive corusca gem called the Jewel of Yavin, which is being put up for auction at an exclusive gala taking place in an art gallery the day of the Cloud City Grand Prix. That’s why we need Solo to win the race—to ensure that all of us receive invitations. We’re going to drive the bidding as high as possible, and once the gallery closes for the night, we’re going to wire the amount of the winning bid to the client’s offworld account, then return to steal the jewel.”

This is a lot to take in, and her head is already spinning. She doesn’t know why she’d expected it to be any less complicated. The fact that seven of them had been hired should’ve been enough of a clue that it was going to be a difficult job to pull off. “Isn’t Jabba our client?”

“Yes, but his contact doesn’t know that. He thinks we’re stealing the jewel for him.”

“What am I meant to do?” Veera asks, steering the conversation back to her role in all of this.

“Word is that one of the bidders will be Grakkus the Hutt, a rival of Jabba’s,” Fett explains. “He scarcely leaves his palace on Nar Shaddaa, but according to the contact, he’ll be attending the auction in person. Jabba sees this as the perfect opportunity to have him killed, and he wants you to do it.”

“Me?” she exclaims, horrified. “Why? Why wouldn’t he ask Vruhk? Or you?”

“Because Vruhk and I are known associates of Jabba’s. If one of us were to kill Grakkus, it would be all too easy to trace the orders back to him. But you—you have no record. No prior associations. If you get caught, there will be no data trail to follow, nothing to implicate Jabba in his murder.”

“And I alone will take the fall,” she realizes, her gaze drifting down to the floor.

“Yes. That’s why he chose you. Because you’re disposable—a low-stakes gamble. If you fail, he will have other chances later.”

Disposable. It shouldn’t sting, but it does.

Veera looks up at him again, meeting a gaze she cannot see. They’re uncomfortably close in the stifling space, and she can hear him breathing behind his mask—a rare reminder that he’s a man and not a machine. “Why are you telling me this? Why warn me?”

“Because you need to understand that if you fail, you fail alone,” Fett replies. “Vruhk and I are the only ones who know you’ve been assigned this task, and we cannot assist you. If you succeed, you must leave no evidence of your involvement. No witnesses. No surveillance footage. Nothing. If you do, you can’t carry out the heist with us, and you cannot return to Jabba.”

“Vruhk could’ve told me this. He would have. I don’t understand what—”

“He wouldn’t tell you that even if you succeed, you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Killing a Hutt is not something to be taken lightly. If his murder is ever linked back to you, there will be a bounty on your head so high that every hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you.”

A realization dawns on her then. “Wait a minute,” she says slowly. “I understand now. You don’t want me to kill Grakkus because that would make me a rival to you. I would become one of Jabba’s most prized hunters in the span of a day, and you’re threatened by that prospect, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re trying to scare me away from this job.” Veera leans in close and glares up at him, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “Well, it isn’t going to work. I’m here to stay, and I won’t fail.”

He doesn’t back down, inclining his head so that his mask is inches from her face. “I want you to understand what’s at stake before it’s too late. There are more lives at risk on this mission than just your own, and any misstep on your part—any moment of hesitation, of weakness—could end in disaster for all of us.”

“I am more than capable of handling myself,” she growls. “Maybe you should make sure that you aren’t the one who makes a costly mistake.”

With that, she reaches past him and shoves her palm against the door controls. As they slide open, she storms out of the crowded space and makes her way back to the others, who have gathered in what looks to be a lounge area featuring bright yellow seats, a full kitchen and wet bar, and some sort of game board. It looks more like the inside of a rich man’s yacht than a smuggler’s freighter.

Well, a yacht that had a thermal detonator go off inside it.

Its white walls are stained and charred, though it seems that someone made a valiant attempt to repair the damage, and several of the leather cushions look as if someone dragged a knife through them. Han and Chewie are seated around the circular game board, listening intently as Vruhk speaks to them in a low voice. It wouldn’t have made her suspicious before, but now—

She’s seeing everything differently. She’s been taught to never trust anyone in this business, but something about Fett taking her aside and making such a concentrated attempt to dissuade her from her task has shaken her. Do they all doubt her as he does? Do they all wish she wasn’t here? Is it true that Vruhk only vouched for her, that Jabba only chose her, because she’s expendable?

She remembers how skeptically the Devaronian had looked her up and down when she walked into the cantina, how he’d called her a wide-eyed kid. Anger stirs inside her, and her hands curl into fists at her sides.

“Veera!” he calls when he finally notices her standing there. “Come on over here, and we’ll talk.”

He dismisses Han and Chewie as she approaches, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Han glance her way as he passes. But she’s focused entirely on Vruhk, sliding into the booth across from him and clasping her hands tightly in her lap—she has to channel her anger somehow, after all.

He leans toward her and props his elbows on the table. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

“Fewer now,” she replies in a clipped tone. “I spoke with Fett.”

His smile fades, and he cants his head. “Did you now?”

As if on cue, Fett walks into the room, and Vruhk casts him a sideways glance before meeting her gaze again.

Veera nods. “He told me about the mission—what I’m meant to do.”

“And?” he prods quietly—seriously. “Are you up for it?”

“I’ll see it done,” she tells him without hesitation.

“Good,” he approves, sitting back and spreading his arms over the back of the booth. “In that case, you interested in a game of dejarik?”

“I don’t actually—”

Music blares out of a nearby speaker, and she nearly springs out of her seat.

“Sorry,” the reptilian alien who’d introduced himself as Jaxo Renz says as he lowers the volume. “Xivah wanted me to give this thing a try.”

“Don’t turn it down,” Xivah whines. “Turn it up. We’ve gotta let loose while we can.”

“Believe it or not, some of us would rather savor the calm before the storm,” Vruhk replies. Xivah frowns but doesn’t argue, and he turns back to Veera. “You were saying?”

“I’ve never played—what did you call it?”

“Dejarik,” he repeats.

“Right…”

“I can show you how,” he offers, pressing a button that activates the board.

Miniature holograms of monstrous creatures appear, and she can’t deny that she’s intrigued. “All right,” she agrees with a shrug.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on,” Han interjects, walking over to them with an outstretched hand. “Never let the guy you’re playing against teach you the rules. He’ll make sure you don’t win.”

“By all means,” Vruhk gestures casually as Han slides into the booth next to her.

“Okay, so the primary goal of the game is for your team of monsters to kill his,” he begins.

“Sounds simple enough,” Veera replies.

“Well, there’s a bit more to it than that.”

He launches into a lengthy, detailed explanation of each creature and their respective stats and special abilities, and the endless onslaught of information quickly becomes overwhelming.

“On second thought,” she interrupts, “perhaps we should just start playing, and I’ll learn as I go.”

“Sure,” Han concurs, taking the hint, and Chewie makes a series of low grunts that she thinks must be what a Wookiee’s laugh sounds like.

She’s good at dejarik, it turns out. There’s something surprisingly satisfying about watching her monsters spring forward and smash, club, or throw Vruhk’s, and she’s thoroughly enjoying herself despite the fact that he’s beaten her twice in a row. Han’s given her hints or advice every now and again, but only when she asks for it, and she prefers it that way.

It isn’t until their third game that Vruhk finally makes a mistake—an apparently minor oversight that results in his defeat.

“Yes!” Veera exclaims, pumping her fists in the air and giving Han an enthusiastic high five.

“Good job, kid,” Vruhk grumbles.

Xivah chuckles with amusement as she munches on a spiky, brightly colored fruit. “Well done! You’re losing your touch, Vruhk.”

Veera’s grinning from ear to ear, basking in the oh so sweet triumph of a hard-earned victory.

“Okay, my turn,” Renz says, hopping down from his seat next to the sound system. “I want in.”

“You can take my place,” she tells him. “I could use a break.”

Han scoots out of the booth so that she can clear the way for Jaxo, and Veera stretches her stiffened back when she stands. A pang of hunger reminds her that it’s already time for lunch, and she makes her way over to the bowls of fruit sitting on the bar.

“You made Vruhk turn three shades darker,” Xivah remarks with a smirk from where she perches on the edge of a stool. “He never saw that strider coming.”

Veera smiles as she grabs a yellow star-shaped fruit from one of the bowls and takes a bite. It’s tart but not too sour and has a satisfying crunch to it. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the look on his face when it happened.”

“And so you should. It was an impressive strategy.”

“Thank you.”

The Falleen nods and takes a sip of her drink, her gold eyes swiveling back to the dejarik board. As Veera glances around the room and munches contentedly, she notices for the first time that someone is missing—Fett. And that’s just fine with her—she doesn’t know if she could stomach looking at him right now after the stunt he’d pulled earlier.

Disposable. Is it really what Vruhk and Jabba think of her? Or is it what he thinks of her? Warning her not to be the one to compromise the mission. Trying to talk her out of completing a task that will earn her the Hutt’s favor. He wants her gone—that much is clear. But she isn’t sure if it’s because he thinks she’s incapable, or if it’s because he’s threatened by her.

“You’re a Vahla, right?”

Startled from her thoughts, Veera turns back to Xivah and manages a distracted nod. “Yes.”

“Vruhk told me,” the Falleen explains. “I’ve never met one of your people before, but I’ve heard whispers—rumors. Is it true that your homeworld was destroyed by the Jedi?”

She hesitates. She isn’t supposed to answer any such questions about her people. But Xivah recognizes her silence as confirmation.

“Must’ve been satisfying, seeing them get what they deserved. Knowing that your people outlived them.”

“It was,” Veera says, though she’d only been nine-years-old at the time and far more affected by the loss of her parents than the decimation of an order she’d never personally encountered. “But the galaxy is a big place, and I doubt that such an ancient and pervasive religion can be erased so easily.”

“Perhaps not,” Xivah concedes, “though it seems the Empire is making quite a concentrated effort to do just that. Even recruiting other Force-sensitives to do the Emperor’s bidding. Some say that they’re Jedi who turned against their own.”

“Trading one master for another,” she muses bitterly.

“Everyone serves someone or something whether they realize it or not,” Xivah replies, calm and matter-of-fact. “After all, are we not currently on our way to do a Hutt’s bidding?”

“For our own benefit,” Veera corrects. “The job is a means to an end.”

“And yet, here we are—because survival is essential. Credits are essential. So we play the game by their rules. We can climb the ladder of power, but there will always be someone higher. Someone pulling the strings. And so we dance until the music stops.”

Veera serves no one but the Nova Priests—no one but Vahl. And she doesn’t mind it, because what greater purpose could there be than doing the will of the goddess? It is the concept of serving an unworthy master that earns her contempt—a master such as Jabba the Hutt.

She glances over at Han and catches him watching them. There is a strange look on his face, distant and…sad. But it’s gone a moment later, masked with a forced smile before he turns back to the dejarik board, where Vruhk and Renz are directing the movements of their unwitting pawns.

The day is long and dull and filled with restless pacing, and it comes as a relief when the hour is finally late enough for Veera to have the excuse to turn in for the night. Han tells her there’s a guest compartment with three extra bunks next to the cargo hold, and she finds it with ease. She hasn’t slept well since she’s been staying in Jabba’s palace, and she hopes that being back on a ship will change that.

But when she opens the door and steps inside, she’s dismayed to find that she isn’t alone. Fett is sitting on the bed to her right, and he looks up when she enters. It’s been a couple of hours since she last saw him, when they passed each other in the Falcon’s winding corridor and she refused to acknowledge him. Now, there’s no way to avoid him, and Veera swallows. She doesn’t know what to say, so she falls back on what is easy.

“What are you doing in here?” she grumbles as the door hisses shut behind her.

He points a hexdriver at the bracer in his lap, and she realizes that it’s the one he usually wears on his left arm. “Making some adjustments,” he answers casually. “What are you doing in here?”

“I was…” She glances at the other empty beds and trails off uncertainly. “Never mind. I’ll just go.”

She turns to leave.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, stopping her in her tracks. “Look, I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me, but you can’t do it forever. We’ve both been hired to—”

“I’ve been avoiding you?” she responds incredulously, whirling to face him. “You’ve been avoiding all of us. You barely speak to anyone. You take your meals alone. And you never take off that stupid helmet.”

Fett leans forward and props his elbow on his knee. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to do a job.”

“Who said anything about friends? Keep your enemies closer, right?” Veera raises an eyebrow at him as she sits down on the bed across from his. “Besides, you’re the one who just complained about me ‘avoiding’ you.”

“I simply made an observation. Deny it all you like.”

Stars, this man is infuriating. “Well, keep any further ‘observations’ to yourself, if you don’t mind. I’d like to get some rest before we reach Bespin.”

With that, she promptly lies down and faces the wall. She doesn’t unbraid her hair. She doesn’t take off her armor. And she most certainly doesn’t remove her sai from her belt. She hates having her back turned toward him, but the alternative is even worse. So she screws her eyes shut and wills herself to sleep, though the prospect now feels all but impossible.

Chapter Text

“There it is,” Vruhk says as what appears to be a massive space station drifts into view, white and gleaming in the light of Bespin’s rising sun and cradled amongst the clouds.

When Veera looks closer, she sees sparkling spires adorning its domed crown. An entire city. It reminds her of the flotilla, the Vahla’s small fleet of ships that houses all that’s left of her people—her civilization. But a city in the sky left exposed to the elements is something she’s never seen before.

Two brightly painted orange starfighters fly out to meet them, and the console beeps with an incoming transmission. Han accepts it, and a male voice crackles through the speakers.

“This is the Bespin Wing Guard. Identify yourself.”

Han’s mouth opens, but Vruhk puts a hand on his shoulder to silence him. “This is Vruhk Ulgor. I’m here on important business with a client in Port Town.”

There’s no reply, and everyone seems to be holding their breath as the fighters take up position on either side of the cockpit. Han shifts nervously in his chair and glances up at the Devaronian.

“Wait,” Vruhk tells him patiently, his gaze never leaving the viewport.

“You’re clear to proceed.”

Veera breathes a sigh of relief, and Vruhk gives a low chuckle of amazement. “It pays to have friends in high places,” he comments.

“Quite literally, in this case,” Xivah smirks.

“We’ve got another transmission coming in,” Han announces. “This one’s encrypted.”

“Patch it through,” Vruhk says.

For a moment, they hear nothing but the hissing of static, and then—

“When you reach Port Town, land on Market Row. There you will find a Pantoran woman named Aris. She will escort you to the meeting with your client.”

The voice is heavily distorted to disguise the identity of the speaker, and the connection is lost before any of them can reply.

Standing behind Han’s chair, Vruhk points past his shoulder as the Wing Guard break away from the Falcon. “We need to go to level one twenty-one. See that big opening near the middle of the facility? That’s Market Row.”

“Yeah, I see it,” he replies, taking the freighter lower and aiming straight for it.

The white spires vanish from view as they descend, and Veera’s heart sinks. She’s embarrassed by the disappointment she feels, and she’s relieved once again that she’s surrounded by people who can’t sense her emotions or read her thoughts. Don’t be such a child, Veera, she scolds herself. You aren’t here to sightsee. You’re here to do a job.

Market Row is a far cry from the pristine exterior of the facility. It’s a dark, kilometers-long corridor cluttered with stalls and piles of junk and ships of every shape and size. As if one hundred Mos Eisley’s had been crammed together and laid out end to end, stretching on into the endless shadows beyond. There is no direct sunlight to be found, only that which filters in through the vast opening behind them. The remnants cast an almost ethereal glow over the grime-coated machinery and overcrowded kiosks—a strange contrast that she isn’t quite sure what to make of.

“Where do I set her down?” Han asks, obviously overwhelmed by the chaos he sees below them.

“Anywhere you can find a spot, kid,” Vruhk answers. “It’s every man for himself down here.”

“How are we going to find one woman in all of this?” Veera wonders aloud.

“Fortunately, Pantorans tend to stand out in a crowd,” Xivah replies.

She decides not to tell them that she has no idea what a Pantoran looks like.

Han finally finds an empty space large enough to park the Falcon, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he starts shutting down its flight systems. “Think she’ll be safe in a place like this?”

“Renz will look after the ship,” Vruhk assures him. “He wants to stay behind. Likes to avoid being around others as often as he can. Slicing is his thing, and he says he can do his part just fine from here.”

Xivah raises a questioning eyebrow. “What if there’s too much interference?”

He shrugs. “It’s a possibility, but he thinks the odds are good enough to risk it. Says all the activity will help mask the origin of the signal if security tries to trace it.”

“Makes sense I suppose, as long as the odds are in our favor.”

“All right,” Vruhk begins, all business as he straightens his broad shoulders, “it’s time to find that Pantoran. The market’s a big place. We should split up to cover as much ground as possible. Boba and I will check this row. Solo, you and Chewbacca take the one behind us. Xivah, you go with Veera.”

The Falleen nods. “Come on,” she says, glancing Veera’s way before turning and striding purposefully out of the cockpit.

Veera follows and, against her will, her gaze drifts up to Fett’s masked visage as she squeezes past him. He keeps staring straight ahead and doesn’t look at her. They haven’t exchanged a single word since what had happened last night. She’d managed to sleep a half hour here and another there, but she’d spent most it tossing and turning in frustration, constantly peeking to make sure that he and Xivah hadn’t moved from their beds.

They never did—with one exception.

During one of those long intervals she’d spent lying awake and staring at the wall, she’d heard him gasp. It was a strangled, pitiful sound she hadn’t thought him capable of making, and she’d instinctively pushed herself up onto her elbow and looked over her shoulder. She’d seen him bolt upright, armored chest heaving and modulated breaths coming fast and hard. He’d swung his legs over the side of the bed, and that was when he’d seen her.

Veera had frozen, knowing that it was far too late to lie back down and pretend she hadn’t seen a thing. He’d immediately gone rigid, and they’d stared at each other for a lingering moment before he’d abruptly stood and left the room.

Now he’s refusing to look at her—much less speak to her—and perhaps that’s for the best. She doesn’t know what she would say anyway. It must have wounded his pride, knowing that she’d seen him like that, and Veera can’t blame him. She knows all too well the misery—the shame—of being unable to find peace even in dreams.

Even now, she thinks ironically as she and Xivah make their way through the congested marketplace, I’m making a complete fool of myself because of my kriffing pride.

But they already treat her like the new kid on the team. They doubt her abilities. They doubt her resolve. Why add a lack of what is apparently common knowledge to the list?

Veera surveys the various stalls and carts that pass them by, not wanting to appear as if she isn’t actively participating in the search for their mysterious contact. There’s a Wookiee selling blasters and a diverse assortment of other weapons, two Bothans selling jewelry in front of a crescent-shaped starship, and a Rodian selling exotic creatures as pets. And food, she realizes when she sees one of them slowly turning on a spit.

“That’s…odd.”

Xivah chuckles. “The galaxy’s a strange place. I get the feeling you haven’t seen much of it yet. A word of advice—don’t try to make any sense of it. It’ll only drive you mad.”

“Why?” Veera had always asked as a young girl. “Why is this happening to me? Why are we doing this?” Always why, why, why. And the Nova Priests had always answered, “There is no why.”

Vahl’s only law is that there is no law. There is only survival—doing what is necessary and attaining the power that is required to ensure that survival.

Then why does the cult have so many rules? she had always wondered. Why do we take vows? Why is breaking those vows punishable by death?

Stop it, she scolds herself, refocusing her mind on the task at hand. There is no why.

“Look,” Xivah whispers suddenly, nodding toward a cart overflowing with colorful odds and ends.

Veera follows her gaze and sees a blue-skinned woman wearing a black leather jacket and dark pants tucked into tall boots. There are bright yellow markings on her cheeks and forehead, and her plum-colored hair is tied back from her face, partially hidden beneath a hat that looks as if it might’ve once belonged to some sort of security officer.

“That’s the contact,” Xivah mutters. “I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll approach her,” Veera volunteers.

Xivah raises an eyebrow at her. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” she agrees after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll comm the others. Be cautious. I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Veera nods and assumes an air of nonchalance as she makes her way over to the cart.

“Welcome to Hobi Rann’s Fine Imported Goods!” a human male calls to her cheerfully.

He launches into a well-rehearsed spiel about how his wares are the most rare and desirable items in the galaxy, and she pretends to listen, plastering the faintest of smiles on her face as she begins to browse his collection of trinkets and knickknacks. She keeps a reasonable distance between herself and the contact, standing on the opposite side of the cart and feigning interest in a wooden statuette of some horned, four-legged creature.

Finally, Veera glances up and finds the Pantoran woman already scrutinizing her with piercing golden eyes.

“You’re on time,” she says briskly, immediately shifting her gaze back to the patterned scarf in her hands. “Good. See those gentlemen behind me in the black coats and goggles? We can’t have them overhearing. Find me at the droid access hatch in ten minutes. Ta!”

With that, she drops the scarf and drifts on with a frown of disinterest. Caught off guard by the briefness of their encounter, Veera slowly sets down the statuette. Now that she’s looking for them, she does see them—six men in nearly identical clothing standing at nearby stalls and walking amongst the crowd. All of them are watching the contact as she heads in the opposite direction, and a few of them are already starting to follow her.

It’s then that she notices a seventh black-clad being, not human like the others, but big and burly with thick white whiskers and heavy wrinkles around wide-set eyes. He’s in the lead, shouldering his way through the throng with unwavering purpose.

“Veera.” Xivah’s voice crackles through the comm on her wrist, and she raises it to her chin. “They’re tailing the contact. Find a way to delay the Lutrillian—discreetly.”

“Got it,” she replies, concealing herself behind the cart and waiting for the opportune moment.

When the Lutrillian draws near, she glances to her left and is pleased to see that Hobi Rann is now focusing his attention on another customer. Perfect. Veera quickly reaches up and dislodges a few carefully chosen objects that topple the entire pile and send it crashing to the floor right in front of the Lutrillian. He growls in frustration, and she puts a hand over her mouth in mock horror.

“Oh, stars!” she exclaims, doing her best to block his view of the contact as she disappears into the crowd. “What a mess!”

But even that does not deter him. He lifts one foot and prepares to wade through the clutter of garish souvenirs.

“No!” Rann cries in distress, desperately waving his arms as he rushes over to them. “Wait! Those are priceless treasures! Priceless!”

“I’m so sorry,” Veera says as the Lutrillian glares. “Here, I—I’ll help you clean this up.”

“No,” Rann answers automatically, holding out a hand to stop her. “You’ve done quite enough.”

She feels a genuine prick of guilt upon realizing that some of his items are indeed broken, but when the Lutrillian gives an impatient huff and stomps around the mess she’s made, she takes satisfaction in the knowledge that she successfully delayed him. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees him stop and search the crowd—unsuccessfully. The Pantoran has disappeared.

Veera smirks and starts weaving her way back toward Xivah, who, to her bewilderment, is currently tracing a finger along the jaw of one of the men in black. Well, that’s one way to distract them, I suppose.

“Hey—you!”

Suddenly, there’s a hand on her shoulder, and someone’s spinning her around. She finds herself staring up into a pair of black goggles, and she instinctively reaches for her sai.

“Who are you?” he demands. “Why was Aris talkin’ to you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she responds unflinchingly as his gloved fingers dig into her skin.

“What did she tell you?” he persists. “What is she planning?”

“I don’t even know who this Aris person is, so kindly remove your hands.”

“You really expect me to believe—?”

“Let her go,” a modulated voice interrupts, calm and even. But beneath its cold surface lies a chilling threat. No—a promise.

The thug stiffens and doesn’t budge as the muzzle of a blaster is shoved against the back of his skull.

“Now,” Fett growls, “or I’ll decorate this floor with your brains.”

“What little of ‘em you have, anyway,” Vruhk adds, and Veera glances at him in surprise as he steps into view. “If you’ve got a problem with her, then you’ve got a problem with us.”

Sweat beads on the man’s brow, and he seems to realize now that he’s gotten himself in over his head. He releases her and raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Relax. Was just askin’ the lady a few questions, is all.”

“Get out of here before I change my mind,” Fett warns.

As the thug saunters away, humiliated but refusing to show it in his gait, Veera glares at Fett. “I had it under control.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would’ve sufficed,” he replies casually, shoving his sidearm back into the holster hanging at his right hip.

“There’s nothing to—”

“Enough,” Vruhk cuts in impatiently. “Veera, you spoke to Aris?”

“Yes,” she nods, sheepishly shifting her attention back to the Devaronian. “She said to meet her at the droid access hatch in ten minutes.”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

They find her lingering in the shadows, keeping her distance from any passerby as her golden gaze darts furtively up and down the corridor. When she spots them, her shoulders relax slightly, but Veera senses the tension radiating from her frame.

I’m not supposed to feel.

She takes a deep breath and retreats back into herself before she feels too much. Before the range of her senses can broaden to everyone and everything else around her.

“Sorry about that,” Aris apologizes as they approach.

“Who were those men?” Veera asks before she can stop herself.

“Mercenaries hired by my husband,” she grumbles, “to ‘protect’ me.”

“I assume your father sent you?” Vruhk inquires, steering the conversation back to the task at hand.

“Yes. I’m to take you to him. He’s waiting for you in an apartment on level fifty.”

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing with a large red hand. Direct and to the point. Not letting a single minute go to waste.

Veera isn’t exactly sure what she expected him to be like on the job, but it wasn’t this. The jovial, leisurely Vruhk who’d spent the past several days lounging and carousing in Jabba’s Palace had all but vanished upon their arrival in Cloud City, and the drastic change in his demeanor reminds her of what’s at stake. This is no ordinary heist. They are here to steal an unstealable jewel, and if they fail, this might very well be the last job any of them ever take.

What does Jabba do to hunters who fail him? Veera doesn’t know, and she has no intention of finding out.

They take a turbolift up to level fifty, and Aris leads them to the apartment she’d mentioned before, pushing a button that will let her father know someone’s at the door.

It slides open a few moments later, and a middle-aged Pantoran man with silvery blond hair stands in the opening. There’s an obvious family resemblance between he and Aris—the shrewd golden eyes, narrow nose, and thin lips.

“Were you followed?” he asks in lieu of a more traditional greeting.

“No,” Aris answers without hesitation as they file into the apartment.

He pokes his head outside anyway to check before joining them in a spacious, tastefully decorated living room, a wood-topped bar the only divider between it and a galley kitchen. Natural sunlight spills through the lightwell overhead, bathing the client in an ironically angelic glow as he sits on a plush gray sofa arrayed with black velvet pillows. His long maroon robes with blue accents drape over the impeccably clean cushions, and he crosses one leg over the other, regarding them with a smile that might’ve been charming if they had come here under different circumstances.

“I’m pleased you came,” he says in a mellow voice, resting one arm along the back of the couch. “Have a seat.”

“Aris,” he adds as an aside while Vruhk and Xivah settle onto the sofa across from his, “fetch us some drinks.”

Veera notices her bristle at that, but she wordlessly complies, making her way into the kitchen to do as she’s told. Meanwhile, she remains exactly where she is, expecting Fett to take the remaining seat next to Vruhk.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at her and doesn’t budge. Her brow furrows in confusion, and he tilts his helmet toward the couch. Now she understands. She’s just stunned that he would be considerate or gentlemanly enough to even think of such a gesture. Incredulous, she stares at him a moment before going and claiming the vacant seat on Vruhk’s right. Fett stands behind her alongside Han and Chewie, who quietly growls something to his friend.

“Welcome to Cloud City. I’m Arend Shen,” the client says, looking at Xivah and then at her—studying. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the rest of your team, Vruhk. Introduce me.”

He nods at the Falleen. “This is Xivah. And Veera. That’s Boba Fett, Han Solo, and Chewbacca. Jaxo Renz is our slicer. He elected to stay on the ship and do his part from there.”

“Boba Fett,” Arend repeats with a bit of awe. “You’re the one who killed Cad Bane, yes?”

“That’s right,” Fett answers, as if there’s nothing at all remarkable about that fact.

Arend nods and grins. “Impressive. It’s your level of expertise, your kind of guts we’ll need to pull off this job.”

Aris returns from the kitchen with a tray of glasses filled with a fizzy orange liquid that she offers first to her father, then to the rest of them. They each take one, but Veera is the only one who expresses her gratitude.

“No thank you,” she hears Fett mumble, more politely than she would’ve expected.

A better man than he must’ve knocked him out and taken his armor while we were on Market Row, she thinks sarcastically, taking a sip of her drink. That’s the only plausible explanation.

“It goes without saying that what you’ve been hired to do is illegal, confidential, and dangerous,” Arend continues as his daughter sits down beside him. “But, if you are successful, each of you stands to gain tens of thousands of credits. The higher you can convince the bidders to go, the better for all of us. The gala and the gem are being held at the Figg & Associates art museum, which isn’t properly equipped to protect an object of such value. That makes this the best chance we have to nab it.”
“We expect the bidding to reach into the hundreds of thousands,” Aris adds, “and whatever the final amount is, we will divide it equally amongst ourselves after transferring it to an offworld account my father has opened specifically for this purpose. It is untraceable to us or to you. This datapad contains all of the relevant information you will require to access the account.”

She hands it to Vruhk, and he thoughtfully strokes his chin as he scans the lines of text on the screen.

“Who are the bidders?” Xivah asks.

“There are currently seven of them,” Arend replies. “Grakkus the Hutt, Shreya Ordassa, Mil Mikkir, Pos Podura, Zekra Fol, Elaiza, and Vorse Tabarith. I don’t know much about any of them except for Vorse. He is my daughter’s husband, after all.”

What? Veera’s eyes widen, and she glances at Aris, whose features have hardened at the mention of her partner. But perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised, she thinks when she remembers the brutes he’d hired to follow her. There’s a story here—one I’ve barely scratched the surface of.

“Looks like we have some investigating to do then,” Xivah muses.

“Indeed,” Arend agrees. “Which one of you will be flying in the grand prix?”

“I am,” Han answers, speaking for the first time since entering the apartment.

“Do you have a cloud car?”

“Uh…no,” he responds uncertainly, glancing down at Vruhk.

“Not to worry,” Arend assures him. “I have one to lend you.”

“As for the heist itself,” Aris says, “you have two days to complete any necessary reconnaissance and finalize your plans. I recommend paying the museum a visit to study the patterns of the guards and learn more about the kinds of security measures they have in place.”

“Once you’ve stolen the gem, there will be a getaway speeder waiting for you outside,” her father continues. “It will take you to the rendezvous point, where we will make our escape on the Venture, my personal yacht.”

There it is again, that feeling of being overwhelmed as Veera tries to store away all of the information that’s being thrown at her. She can’t forget a single detail. She has to get this right.

“Oh, would you look at the time?” Arend sighs after checking his chrono. “My sincerest apologies, but I’m afraid I must excuse myself. There is a rather important matter that requires my immediate attention.”

He stands and smooths his robes. “Aris will answer any further questions you have. And please, do proceed with the utmost discretion.”

“I’m the best in the business,” Vruhk responds with unshakable confidence. “You know that. I’ll get the job done, and I’ll get it done clean.”

Arend nods, seemingly satisfied with his response, and he takes his leave. The door closes behind him with a hiss, and there is an instant change in his daughter’s demeanor. She takes off her hat and lets down her hair, the ends of which curl up and away from her shoulders. Her posture straightens, and she raises her chin, assuming an air of control that she hadn’t dared to while her father was present.

“What can you tell us about the current owner of the gem?” Xivah inquires.

“His name is Marus Grayson,” Aris replies, speaking the name with obvious disdain. “He’s a commissioner in the Imperial Trade and Commerce Authority, and he’s a prime example of why everyone hates the Imperial Bureaucracy.”

“It sounds like you and your father are in this for more than just the money.”

Her jaw clenches, and she clasps her hands tightly in her lap. “He was a client of ours almost seven years ago. We were investors in a subsidiary branch of the Bank of the Core specializing in venture capital. Marus headed a business enterprise that failed spectacularly, and he was desperate to avoid going bankrupt, so he used his connections in the Empire to freeze and later seize our assets in connection with allegations of treason. He ruined us, and we came here to start over—”

“But now the opportunity for revenge has presented itself,” Xivah finishes. She turns angrily to Vruhk. “You didn’t tell me the Empire was involved in this.”

“It isn’t,” he retorts. “We aren’t in Imperial space, and the jewel is considered contraband. He can’t go to them for—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she growls. “You heard her. He has extensive connections and resources at his disposal. He won’t need to open an official investigation to make our lives miserable.”

“If you want out, there’s the door,” he snaps, and Veera flinches at the sudden harshness of his voice.

The Falleen’s eyes flash, and she’s frighteningly still as she stares at him, unblinking. “I’m no stranger to dealing with the Empire, Vruhk, but I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Well now you do.” He looks at all of them in silent challenge. “Anyone else got a problem with that?”

Chewie glances at Han, who immediately shakes his head. Fett might as well be a statue, and when Vruhk’s blazing eyes meet hers, Veera manages to croak, “No.”

“Good,” he says curtly. “Now let’s get to work.”