In the desert's corridors, dust settles faster than the unrest in a heart.
They were all gathered in the overheated backroom of a half-collapsed desert outpost. No plan, no calm. Just curt words, ragged breathing, heat, and static.
Kira paced.
Rusk listed probabilities of infiltration, intervention, or full-scale ransom in real-time.
Loewen stood frozen, eyes glued to a horizon no one else could see.
Doc lay sprawled on a bench, moaning in existential defeat since hearing Illaoï had been hauled off by the Hutts.
And Scourge… leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Silent.
But inside, his mind raced. Too much. That alone was unnatural.
Since when did he feel... concern?
No. That wasn't the word. This was older, deeper.
A need.
To see her again. Not to save her. Not like the others.
But to understand.
To name the thing inside him.
And that... that terrified him more than any blade ever had.
Meanwhile, in the golden belly of a pleasure hall reeking of incense and fear, laughter oozed through marbled walls. The pools steamed. Slaves drifted like shadows. The air was thick with spice, sweat, and repressed screams.
Illaoï was brought in.
Barefoot. Draped in translucent silks and clinking jewelry designed more to mock than to hide. But there was no submission in her posture. No tremble in her gaze.
She was fury wrapped in elegance. And the Hutts—fat with power and lacking foresight—laughed.
They debated her value. Her price. Her potential as an "investment."
She let them.
Watched.
Listened.
And when one dared to suggest she'd suit a pleasure house nicely, she moved.
Gracefully, she sank onto a blood-red cushion.
Poured herself a drink.
Plucked a fruit from a golden bowl and took a slow, deliberate bite.
Gasps.
— "Insolent…" one of the Hutts hissed.
She raised one hand.
Delicate. Icy.
— "Really, darling… must we play pretend?"
She gestured toward the heap of credits near the central Hutt.
— "That pile? Earned in full. In public. With a crowd of thousands. You'll make more on that one bag than you did on half your rigged bets tonight."
— "You were not hired. You're a fraud."
Her eyes narrowed. Voice sharp velvet.
— "So you admit to stealing from an independent artist mid-performance. Not great for business."
A low, dangerous pause.
— "Reputation matters," she continued. "Especially in your world. And you just dented yours in front of a thousand witnesses."
— "We could kill you now."
— "Sure. And when the Emperor finds out you stole his prize and ruined his plans?
What then?"
They froze.
Her smile didn't touch her eyes.
— "You're stuck between profit, politics, and pride. Let me offer an exit."
She leaned back. Took another sip.
— "You keep the credits. All of it.
In return, you give me and my crew the parts we need to leave this sandblasted hellhole.
And you walk away as heroes. Sponsors of the starlet. Undefeated champions of fairness."
A pause. A slow tilt of her head.
— "Or... do you want the galaxy whispering that a single barefoot girl outplayed the great and powerful Hutts?"
The silence cracked. Laughter slithered through the room.
And in the shadows behind her gaze, something gleamed.
She wasn't the prey.
She never had been.