Lyra smoothed out the bodice of her gold gown to work out the last but of nerves. She always felt a little nervous before a shift. One would think by this point in her life, any sort of apprehension would have disappeared. By now this sort of thing should be routine. But Lyra was always an anxious sort of person.

She walked out onto the casino floor, her award-winning smile in place. This was one of the busier nights, as several cargo ships had docked at Nar Shaddaa a few days ago to trade their goods. Traders, merchants, and ships crewmen all mingled in the casino, all flushed with new wealth.

Lyra had started to make her way to the blackjack tables when Mr. Saracen intercepted her. "Someone has requested your services," he said to her in his gravelly voice as he pushed a card into her hands. She gazed down at the eggshell card embossed with gold lettering which read "Djura, 4145".

Her heart raced with both excitement and anxiety. It wasn't every day that she got requested—mainly because her strengths lied with encouraging the guests to spend more in the casinos than one-on-one in private. Mr. Saracen had been known to block requests for her if he felt money would be made better with her on the floor.

It made her wonder what sort of person had requested her, considering how busy the casino was.

Lyra turned and made her way to the elevator pads, but she paused by a mirrored wall to check her appearance. Her floor-length gold gown was pressed to perfection and the delicate fabric glittered under the casino lights. The gold contrasted her lavender skin perfectly, even with the blue-flushed look on her face. The headband she'd affixed to her head and the gold ribbon she'd wrapped around her lekku looked picture-perfect.

With a deep breath, she approached the elevator pads. She went over all sorts of lines in her mind as she inputted the 41st floor and was teleported there in seconds. She wondered what sort of person this Mr. Djura was as she strode down the carpeted hallways. Was he someone she had entertained on the floor? Not every gentleman gave his real name, or any name for that matter, so it was possible she may not have caught it.

Running her hands over the bodice of her gown again, Lyra spotted the door to the 45th room. As she approached, it opened automatically for her. She walked in, head held high and her brilliant smile on her face…and nearly tripped over a pair of dirty old boots left in the doorway.

Bracing herself against the threshold so she wouldn't fall, she heard a muffled chuckle and looked up to see the man which had requested her. He sat at the fine dining table in the suite, his stocking feet resting on the delicate glass surface. He was reclined back on the hand-carved chair, drinking champaign directly out of the bottle.

Lyra's heart sank at the sight. "DJ," she said dejectedly, and the man grinned. She looked down at the calling card in her hand. "Djura. I really should have seen that coming." She let it fall to the floor.

"That's a c-c-cold way to greet a friend," he said teasingly. "What are you g-g-goin' by now? Lyra?"

"What do you want?" she asked pointedly.

He kicked out the chair next to him. "Want-t-t a drink?" he asked, holding out the champagne bottle.

Lyra didn't move from her spot, but folded her arms over her chest defensively. "I'm good," she said.

DJ just shrugged and took a swig. "I need'a t-t-talk to your b-b-boss," he said as he slid his legs to the floor and sat forward.

"You've already spoken to my boss," she said. "You got me up here."

"You know I'm not-t-t-talking about that crabby floor manager," he said. He got to his feet and approached her, moving very close to her. "I need your real b-b-boss."

Despite her disdain for DJ—borne mainly of their last encounter—Lyra's heart raced as he moved so close to her. The smell of him, of alcohol and leather and his own natural musk, made her almost dizzy. Still, she kept her composure as she met his dark eyes.

"And what exactly do you know about my 'real boss'?" she asked, adding, "If one existed."

"You don't gotta play that obscure g-g-game," DJ said, putting his hands on her shoulders. Her cool skin prickled at the warmth of his palms. "I just got-t-ta have a little chat-t-t with Szilb."

Lyra pulled away from his grasp. "So then who are you working for?" she asked. DJ's eyes went wide and his mouth formed an O—a mocking expression of surprise that made him look almost childlike. Lyra glared in response. "There's no way you'd know about Szilb if you weren't told about him," she said. "Not to mention," she nodded to the suite, at the fine décor and linens which decorated it, and then gestured to herself, "you don't have the cash to pay for all this."

DJ chuckled, a raspy, rattlebox sort of sound. "I may have a sp-p-ponsor," he said. "He's called Ungu."

"Ungu," Lyra repeated quietly. "I've never heard of him."

DJ scoffed. "No one has," he said rather quietly. Something in his tone caught her attention particularly.

Lyra looked at DJ closely. Overall he looked much the same he did the last time they met: shaggy, unkempt hair, salt and pepper scruff, clothes well-worn but in decent shape. He still swayed when he walked, twitched when he was still, stuttered and slurred his words. But when Lyra looked closer, she saw it—the deepened lines on his face, the gaunt look in his eyes. He was thinner than last she saw him. Not that DJ could ever be described as obese, but sometimes he looked a little more filled out when times were good for him. This was not one of those times.

She felt it, too. Lyra couldn't telepathically communicate with non-twi'leks, but she could tap into their mood on occasion, particularly Force-sensitives (DJ didn't know she knew that particular secret of his, and Lyra kept that fact to herself), and she could sense his dampened spirits.

As a former slave, Lyra was sometimes irritated with DJ's talk of freedom. The way he'd pompously deride the First Order and the Resistance and anyone who picked a side irritated her, for she'd still very much be an owned person if it weren't for the Resistance. Yet here he was, the freest man in the galaxy by his definition, and he certain did not have it easy.

She felt pity for her old friend.

"I can bring you to Szilb," she said, and DJ raised an eyebrow. "On one condition, however."

"Oh?" Now he grinned. "And what-t-t might that be?"

"Apologize."

His grin disappeared immediately. "L-l-look, that was—"

"I don't care what it was," she spat. "You left me alone in a rancor pen with two newborns and a very angry mama rancor." The memory of her very close escape made her chest tighten.

"They were p-p-pretty cute, though, r-r-right?" Lyra gave him an icy stare, then turned to leave. "Fine!" he said, reaching out and grabbing her arm. "I'm s-s-s-sorry!"

She gazed up at him over her shoulder. "Okay. For what?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry I t-t-took off without you," he grumbled. He paused, and she glared at him again until he spat out the rest. "And for t-t-taking your half of the p-p-payout."

Lyra's glare melted and she smiled, turning to face him. She reached up and felt his cheek, his stubble scratching her soft palm. "Szilb will be sure to collect that," she said with a hint of a giggle in her voice. "Come on, then, I'll take you to him."