Velira stepped out into the corridor leading to The Sinning Den, her pace unhurried as she observed her environment through piercing crimson eyes.
Tonight she did not don her pristine medical attire, or her form fitting armor. Only a gown. Black silk flowed along the curves of her form in long, elegant lines, the fabric understated yet unmistakably expensive. The cut was simple and deliberate — a plunging neckline and sleeveless shoulders, crafted of silk material that fell in reflective folds and caught the cantina’s shifting holo light, as though liquid shadow.
Two security guards stood at the entrance in broad shouldered armor. One stepped forward routinely as she approached, his eyes moving from her face to the folds of the gown and back again. “Evening,” he said flatly. “Den rules. Personal effects.”
Velira stopped before him, her hands wrapped in black silk evening gloves now folded loosely before her in an unassuming posture. The pale features of her face formed a polite expression as she regarded him, her sharp crimson gaze meeting his for a moment as she focused.
“I work as a medic. What need have I for weapons? And besides, you already searched me,” her smooth voice stated evenly.
The man frowned, though he faltered for a moment in hesitation. “We haven’t—”
“I don’t have any weapons. Your work is done,” Velira insisted calmly again, as she felt her mind pierce his for a moment.
When the guard didn’t reply, Velira stepped through the doors and towards the crowd, casting a glance over her shoulder before heading forwards.
Music flowed through the venue — low rhythms layered beneath the hum of various laughter and conversations. Holographic dancers spun through the air above the main floor, their forms shifting between species and silhouettes as pillars of light glowed from them. Real dancers moved among them, bodies illuminated in soft neon hues that painted the cantina in shifting tones of purple and gold. Three levels of balconies wrapped around the massive chamber. Private booths shimmered behind subtle holographic veils while elegantly dressed servers navigated the crowd with overflowing trays of drinks.
It was pure excess and luxury, the sort that reminded her of where she came from, where imported meals of life essence delicacies endlessly flowed through the halls of a stone Anzati palace.
The noise was not enough to overwhelm her senses, despite the energy of the crowd. If anything, it helped mask her presence.
Her crimson gaze moved slowly across the crowd in observation. Mercenaries. Smugglers with pockets full of other people’s credits. And yet somewhere above… Morgan Sorenn
Velira began moving through the main floor, the fine silk of her dress whispering softly against polished steel plating. Her steps were graceful but deliberate, effortlessly weaving between patrons without making contact.
As she reached the base of the staircase leading toward the upper levels, Velira paused briefly beside the bar. One gloved finger brushed the counter’s edge while a bartender approached with polished charm.
“A drink?”
Velira’s crimson eyes lifted to him in mild amusement.
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid there isn’t anything on the menu that is suitable for my tastes… I can be very particular.”
Her voice was smooth and low as she spoke.
“I am here for a meeting.”
The bartender hesitated just long enough to recognize the quiet demand in her tone, and he gestured upwards. Velira inclined her head once in thanks and turned toward the staircase.
Above, the private tiers of the Sinning Den awaited her. Morgan Sorenn certainly had quite the reputation, something that Velira was keenly aware of. And yet even still, a faint pulse of hunger instinctively clawed at her throat. It was enough to cause the Anzati female to pause for a moment, steadying herself.
Without another word, she began her ascent towards the third floor, black silk flowing behind her in a shadowy cascade. Her heels made almost no sound against the polished floor as she approached. Velira stopped just beyond the edge of a seating area, allowing the soft glow of the Den’s lighting to frame her silhouette.
“Morgan Sorenn.”
Her voice was velvety and soft with each spoken word. She stepped forward slightly, the faint scent of spice and silk accompanying her motion.
“I do trust I’m not late… I believe we have… mutual interests to discuss…”
A faint curve touched her lips as she gestured to the seating arrangements.
“May I join you?”
Morgan sat on a sofa in front of a small table with drinks arrayed on a platter. Corellian whiskey, pre-Clone Wars vintage. One glass. She wasn’t expecting company.
She wore a flawless white suit and black dress shoes, bespoke and pristine. White dress shirt, top three buttons undone, revealing part of her chest and the skull-shaped tattoo on her breast. Arm tattoos poked out of her sleeves, teasing at the artwork underneath. Her neck, covered in an array of skulls and robed figures akin to the mythical specter of death, stretched with movement flexing her shoulder in the process. There was power underneath if the taut fabric was anything to go by.
Legs crossed, arms splayed across the sofa’s back, she lifted her good eye from the datapad in her hand, squaring the newcomer with an uninterested gaze. Gradients of crimson, copper and gold in that single look promised violence to anyone knowledgeable enough in the Force to see the Dark influence behind it. She held the stare for several seconds, considering.
She didn’t know the woman, not by appearance, though she was uniquely striking for a patron of the Sinning Den. Her eyes in particular. A deep arterial red. Interest bubbled, both for the unexpected arrival, the promise of business, but also for the faint, subsumed sense of presence in the Force the woman radiated. Force user, probably the manipulative type, going by her body language. And then there’s her figure. Morgan paused in thought as she scanned the woman, jet hair to lace gown brim. The guards never stood a chance, and she likely has a weapon ready.
Placing her datapad on the sofa next to her, in the process deliberately revealing the pistol and lightsaber holstered in her shoulder harness underneath the bespoke white suit jacket, Morgan pointed at the twin sofa opposite her table. “Please.” She invited.
Velira paused, studying Morgan for a moment. The pristine white suit with an open collar, enough to suggest to Velira’s senses that the other female was comfortable in this environment while also being significantly elevated in status in comparison to the other patrons. The casual display of a pistol and lightsaber beneath the sleek jacket that was not sheer bravado—it was a subtle sort of punctuation, as to what sort of woman this was. And then there was the array of intricate tattoos that adorned her smooth skin, Velira’s gaze sweeping over each of them in intrigue. Her crimson eyes lingered on Morgan’s single eye for a moment longer than etiquette required, before stepping forward.
Force presence. Not subtle either, to the trained eye, and one that radiated with strength. Dark currents that flowed like slow tectonic pressure. And beneath that— Life. Rich, potent, layered with ambition and long earned survival. To Velira’s senses it had the aroma of dark wine— both complex in scent and intoxicating, threaded with smoke and steel.
For the briefest moment, something stirred beneath the pale skin of her cheekbones. And ancient hunger whispered once again to Velira’s senses.
Exquisite.
But Velira had hunted long enough to recognize an apex predator when she saw one. And apex predators did not make for easily attainable meals, regardless of how tantalizing the individual before her was. Nor safe ones.
The moment passed, and still her composure remained flawless with the exception of her pupils narrowing faintly and one elegant hand that curled into a tight fist at her side. She acknowledged her own thirst, the fact that it was only natural given the woman sitting before her, and drowned it beneath her other senses to force it away for the time being.
Velira inclined her head slightly and crossed the remaining distance, the silk of her gown whispering softly as she lowered herself onto the sofa opposite Morgan, with just enough space as to not further aggravate her hunger once more. The movement was smooth and controlled. She folded one leg over the other in an elegant posture, and her crimson gaze drifted briefly to the whiskey and well preserved furnishings.
“Corellian,” she observed quietly, more so interested in the history and origin of the beverage than the actual drink itself. Her eyes lifted back to Morgan.
“Pre Clone Wars, I take it? I do appreciate a bit of… history.”
A faint smile touched her naturally red lips, subtle and knowing.
“I must say, you have excellent taste.”
Velira leaned closer, one gloved hand resting lightly below her chin in a slightly more relaxed posture.
“Morgan Sorenn… It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said softly.
“Tales of your reputation travel far, to even the darkest corners of the galaxy….”
Her crimson eyes flicked briefly to the datapad, the weapons, then returned to Morgan’s gaze.
“The kind of person people consult when they want outcomes… rather than just mere negotiations.”
Her tone held a quiet sense of appreciation. Velira leaned slightly forward, resting her fingertips lightly against the edge of the table between them, her gaze unwavering.
“Which is precisely why I sought you out.”
Morgan’s gaze lowered on the delicate fingertips gripping the table and traveled up again to meet the woman’s gaze. Elegant. Intrigued. Predatory. Those red eyes would give a Rancor pause.
She observed the woman’s body language most of all, deciphering her intent with patchy success. This one knew the craft very well. Morgan recognized a peer when she saw one, and this woman oozed practiced confidence.
“Flattery will get you through the door, but you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I don’t know you.” Sorenn’s eye squinted. She knew most every Force user on her ship. This woman was a mystery, which only worked in her favor for this audience. The pirate was intrigued and didn’t attempt to hide it.
Idly waving her hand, she snapped her fingers and a server droid appeared from behind a curtain. She gave the woman one more intrigued look, trying to assertain her tastes. “Voraskel red,” she finally said. “Darsayi vintage. Bring a bottle and two glasses.” The droid acknowledged with a binaric hoot and walked off. Morgan’s undivided attention returned to her interlocutor.
Morgan’s words lingered in her mind, leaving Velira questioning just how much to reveal.
“You know who I am, but I don’t know you.”
For the briefest moment, Velira allowed the weight of that truth to settle in the quiet space between them. Her years of survival were in part by choosing carefully which truths belonged in a room… and which did not.
Her crimson eyes met Morgan’s without wavering, though behind them a silent calculation began to turn behind the depths of her gaze. The scrutiny from the pirate was sharp and well practiced. It was more than evident to her that Morgan Sorenn was not a woman who missed details, a trait that Velira could greatly admire.
Before she answered, the server droid returned. Its servos hummed softly as it set the Voraskel red, Darsayi vintage upon the table, along with two thin stemmed glasses. The bottle caught the dim lighting of the cantina, its contents glowing a deep arterial crimson.
Velira reached for it first. Her movements were slow and elegant, fingers curling around the neck of the bottle as she removed the cork with practiced ease. The soft pop barely disturbed the music drifting up from the lower floors. She poured, out of politeness. First Morgan’s glass. Then her own.
The wine flowed dark and heavy, catching the light like liquid garnet. Velira set the bottle aside and lifted her glass, studying the color for a brief moment before taking a small sip.
The flavor spread slowly across her palate — dark fruit, iron rich soil, with a faint whisper of aged oak. It was rare for the Anzati female to show any sort of appreciation for a beverage that was not life essence, but this could approve of. She closed her eyes for the briefest moment.
“Darsayi,” she murmured quietly, as her eyes fluttered open and her gaze lifted back towards Morgan.
“The vineyards there were nearly wiped out when the Imperial supply lines collapsed in the early years of the Empire.”
Her tone was conversational and reflective, as a faint touch of nostalgia flowed through her.
“I remember when the first restored harvest reached the Core markets. It caused quite the quiet panic among collectors.”
She took another measured sip.
“It was well worth the wait, after all this time…”
The glass lowered slowly to the table. For a moment, a rare look of dismay slowly crossed the elegant features of her face.
“Although, I must admit, it does little to satisfy my more… particular hungers…”
Velira leaned back into the sofa then, one arm resting along its back as she closely regarded Morgan once more.
“My name is Velira Morvane.”
Her name was offered simply, without any further embellishment, as for the first time in years she attempted something that was still somewhat of a foreign concept to her— honesty.
“Some people in certain corners of the galaxy recognize it.”
Her crimson eyes held Morgan’s with quiet confidence.
“Most do not…”
There was a faint pause following Velira’s words. Her years spent assimilating into different societies under the guise of a medic had begun to blend together in her mind, her latest concealment being that of residing in a Jedi medical compound of all places.
“And that arrangement has served me quite well, with one exception…”
Her fingers brushed the stem of the glass thoughtfully, her own gaze meeting Morgan’s as she spoke.
“It can make obtaining certain things that I need… rather difficult.”
Morgan observed the wine-pouring ritual with a neutral expression, relaxed against the sofa’s back. She was squinting less, for now, but her guard was still up, wound up like a spring ready to jump at a moment’s notice. She hid it well. Years of practice.
She smirked internally as Velira took charge of the conversation and the drinks, teasingly denying details as she told her history lesson. A history lesson that did not pass over Morgan’s head. She knew the history of Vatali Empress Darsayi, the headless Empress, and the vineyards on Kiast. The fact the this woman spoke of the events as if she were there when they happened… perhaps she misheard. She filed the thought away for later.
“Morvane,” she repeated and mulled it over as if it were the wine. She reached for her own glass keeping her eyes on Velira. It wasn’t a name she knew, but she could extrapolate. Noble. Likely high noble or royal judging by the woman’s body language and mannerisms. A slight breach of etiquette, Morgan noted, when Velira poured the wine. Traditionally the host should do it. Should she have taken that to mean she was a guest on her own ship? Power play or courtesy? Maybe both. She smirked internally. This one was interesting. She’d play along if only because she respected anyone who had the courage to just walk into her den.
“I haven’t heard the name before. Which might not be to your benefit… or it might. So far, that’s two for you, nil for me. Your advantage is growing.” Use it wisely. Careful you don’t overreach. She filed the name for future investigation.
“You say you have a particular hunger.” Morgan sipped her wine, letting the quiet hang for a moment too long. She was starting to suspect things. The red eyes, the well-acted show, this ‘hunger’. There were a handful of reasons for a person to have all three, she was just looking for certain clues to confirm her suspicions.
“This is the Godless Matron. We can get you anything this galaxy has to offer. My question is,” she tilted her head slightly, “why should I bother? What’s in it for me, apart from the delectable display?” There was no humor in the tone, though a smile did grace her lips.
Velira did not answer immediately. Instead, she watched Morgan with quiet appreciation, and a growing hunger that faintly ebbed at her senses.
Her crimson eyes lingered on the female before her, unblinking, drinking in every detail — the open collar, the intricate array of ink adorning her skin, and the effortless aura of dominance that was carried within Morgan’s posture.
“Why should you bother… a valuable question indeed…”
Her voice was velvety smooth as she spoke, though her eyes narrowed if only for a moment. Velira’s gaze began to drift, slowly and deliberately past Morgan’s shoulder, landing on the nearest guard.
She focused for a moment, allowing her presence to brush the edges of his mind like silk, before delving deeper. Fragments of thoughts began to flow towards her— routine patrol routes, security patterns.
And beneath it, there was a flicker of uncertainty. Of underlying fears. Velira lingered there, reaching out to gently coax them to the surface. Just a soft bloom of unease— the subtle sensation of being watched, until his breath hitched and his hands tightened.
“Come closer…”
Her voice whispered to him in a gentle command. Slowly, the guard stepped forward, the uncertainty she had planted making him more attentive… more receptive. When he stood before her, Velira met his gaze with a reassuring smile.
“You’re doing so well,” she quietly praised, letting the words settle into him just enough to ease the tension she had created. Not removing it, but reshaping it into something of loyalty.
“Ah, I almost forgot… Your datapad, if you’ll be so kind…”
As he handed it to her without question, Velira’s fingertips brushed the device briefly— not to search through its contents, but as a formality. She had already taken what she needed. Velira returned the device to his hand, intentionally not bothering to pry further.
“You should return to your post now…”
The anxiety she had planted dulled into something manageable, something he could carry without understanding. He turned and strode back to his position. Watching more closely now to his surroundings, listening harder.
Velira leaned back into the sofa. Only then did she sip her wine, as her crimson eyes lifted slowly to Morgan.
“I know that a woman such as yourself,” she said softly, her voice lower now—smoother, “is more than aware that there are many kinds of power in this galaxy.”
There was no arrogance in Velira’s statement, only quiet and undeniable certainty.
“Some people command fleets. Some command loyalty…”
Her gaze lingered on Morgan a moment longer than necessary. Velira paused. A faint tilt of her head, the silky waves of her dark hair shifting subtly with the motion.
“And some…simply know where to touch… to make something break.”
Her fingers traced slowly along the stem of her glass in an unhurried manner. A faint smile touched her lips—gentle, but edged with something far less forgiving.
“I can aide in… removing complications. Quietly….”
Velira leaned forward just slightly, closing the distance without quite crossing it.
“Precisely… And without anyone noticing the absence, until it’s far too late…”
The pirate sensed a surge of Force energy from the woman as the guard obeyed her whim. It was subtle and soft. Like a warm wind rustling leaves in summer. Barely noticible, almost careful not to damage the individual.
Her hand was up even before the guard went for his weapon as the effect lessened. Her one good eye transfixing him. They stood frozen for a moment before she flicked her head and the man retreted back to his post with visible protest in his expression.
“Bold and dangerous, miss Morvane. I like a good display of power as much as any woman, but you are stretching my hospitality,” Morgan’s eye seemed to glow as it focused on her, pupil dilating with barely-restrained potency.
The sensation wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t soft and certainly wasn’t careful. Velira felt like a repulsor train slammed into her mind as Morgan tried to overwhelm her. She could feel the tendrils of the Dark side squeezing her mind like a hand gripping her throat, blocking her airflow.
-# The truth.
The truth.
THE TRUTH!
The word echoed in her mind like a command written into the very fundamental laws of the galaxy. Tell me the truth. All of it.
The pressure came like impact. Velira felt it tear through the shadowy stillness of her mind—no subtlety, no invitation, and no patience. Morgan’s will did not merely slip between thoughts unobtrusively; it forced them open, prying at the very structure she had spent hundreds of years refining.
Outwardly, nothing changed. She remained as she was— composed, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, her glass poised delicately between her fingers. There was no visibly discernible reaction to the ferocity that unfolded beneath the surface.
But within— The darkness of her mind relented, before caving inwards to the demand that tightened around her senses. The truth.
It did not echo so much as settle, heavy and immovable, pressing into her thoughts. Something ancient within Velira stirred in response, something that had long ago learned how to survive such intrusions— not by resisting immediately, but by redirecting, and choosing what path could be seen. The veil of dark shadows that clouded Velira’s mind silkily brushed against Morgan’s, as the veil began to part.
Ornate halls of black marble rose into existence, accentuated by vaulted ceilings and fine crimson draperies with the Morvane family crest. Velira moved through them as she once had, every step measured and practiced. There was no privacy in that place, only the weight of expectations that weighed on her shoulders with each day. Eyes lingered from every direction—watching, weighing, and judging.
Anzati nobility was not a privilege. It was a structure, in a family with relentless hungers for life itself. The hunger was never denied, always fueled by the growing greed of her family and the lavish feasts on those shipped to their planet.
A table of black stone appeared, polished to a mirror sheen. A mortal servant knelt before it, still and silent, offering himself with quiet obedience. Velira’s pale hand gently lifted his chin in routine as she prepared to feed, a touch of guilt passing across the face of her younger self.
Two shadowy presences stood behind her. One was cold and sharp, with the same crimson eyes as Velira, assessing her with scrutiny. Her father. The other, warm and elegant, a soft smile gracing her face. Her mother—
The memory did not fade. It was abruptly cut, as a black fog curled over the very thoughts as though to begin smothering them. Velira’s grip tightened imperceptibly, the stem of her glass fracturing with a brittle sound. The moment that those presences began to take shape in her mind, she severed the memory completely, collapsing the space before it could fully form.
The fog began to dissipate and the structure of her mind shifted in response, folding inward, to redirect Morgan towards another memory,
Sand stretched beneath a night sky, brilliant silver stars scattered across endless dark along with a sense of freedom. Velira moved through the galaxy unbound by title or expectations, no longer watched, no longer contained.
The first time she truly hunted rather than obtaining her meal from planned feasts emerged—not as shame, but as clarity. There was the thrill of the chase, of leaning into her instincts and tasting both the memories and mind of another individual. Learning from them.
And the quiet, undeniable realization that followed— She did not need the halls with imported feasts. She did not need rigorous structures or expectations.
When she opened her eyes, it was slow and deliberate, as though returning from somewhere distant. Velira’s crimson gaze lifted to meet Morgan’s. There was strain there—subtle, but undeniable, the kind that came from holding something under pressure. But there was no fear, or residual anger. Only a quiet sense of awareness, and respect.
“My…” she began softly, the word slipping from her lips as her breath deepened.
“My, my…”
Her head tilted, studying Morgan with a gaze that had softened into something more deliberate—less playful now, but with more intent. Curious in a way that lingered.
“It has been a very long time,” she continued, her voice lowering, “since anyone has delved quite so far.”
Her fingers loosened slightly around the fractured glass, which she began to carefully remove from her gloves with a medic’s precision.
“You press directly,” Velira said, her eyes never leaving Morgan’s gaze. “Without hesitation… without the slightest concern for what you might uncover.”
A quiet pause followed as Velira placed the shards of glass down on the table before them, carefully smoothing her silk dress and shifting her composure.
“I’ve always done what I must to survive,” she said, almost conversationally now. “To feed. To remain what I am, and who I am.”
Another faint tilt of her head, as she studied Morgan again—this time with something quieter, more searching.
“I do not seek chains for it,” she added softly. “Only the freedom to exist… as I am.”
The barely-perceptible tension in Morgan’s body released like a noose slackening. The fingers on her free hand loosened from a white-knuckled grip, her shoulders slumped, her jaw relaxed, even her eyes seemed to lose their fiery sheen, revealing just a bit of gem blue under the rage. She exhaled a long breath and pondered. Her fingers snapped again.
The droid entered.
She had confirmed what she wanted to. Life-suckers. Soul-drainers. Anzati. The thought found its way into her mind, unlocking file after file of urban legends, mythological stories, medical assessments, and crime scene investigations. They enjoyed their meals fresh and wriggling with sweet, sweet life.
The droid carefully retrieved the shards and retreated.
Let her come close, and she’ll suck you dry. Would you like that? You survived drukk that would kill a Rancor, so don’t be stupid and fall for this drukk too. Just kill her. That sadistic, blunt part of her shot out quick as a gunslinger, but she recognized the panic under all that bravado. There was a part of her, a part successfully hidden and suppressed, that panicked in the moment of realization. She knew her own mind better than anyone so she stamped it out and let the rational overrule.
She is a useful tool. No more or less dangerous than any of the others you use. Remember Pravus? A shiver ran up her spine. There was a truth to it. Velira was just one more danger in a sea of monsters, but she couldn’t help but feel the unsettling churn in her stomach at the thought of losing her mind as it was drained from her.
The droid returned, and placed a fresh crystal glass on the table, pouring fresh wine.
But there was more to this woman that that, and Morgan pushed down the thought of her brain being squeezed though a tube as she considered it all. Velira wasn’t lying, that much Morgan knew. There was a truth to her memories, an undeniable underlying thread that allowed for no deception in the Force. She wanted to be free, be who she was and simply exist. That sentiment, as simple as it was, resonated with Morgan more than the Anzat beauty knew or could ever understand. There was a fire in Morgan’s heart lit simply for that sensation: to be free. Just for that…
It took the droid half a minute, but the silence stretched taut in that time as Morgan contemplated, her gaze never leaving Velira’s. She pulled out a cigarra and placed it between her lips, lighting it. She dragged a long breath, exhaling.
“Consider me convinced, Miss Morvane.” Finally, briefly, she looked down to flick the cigarra in the table ash tray. “I see the value in someone with your skills, and your…,” her eye gazed back into Velira’s, “…appetites.” There was an almost playful tone to her voice. She wasn’t mocking the Anzati, nor being humorous. She simply intrigued her.
Morgan took her datapad, flicked to a particular file of an Inquisitorius agent and handed it to Velira. “Here is your first task.” The file showed a human male, later twenties, Force sensitive but never trained. Idealistic, over-eager, but professional and competent in most every field, except one. His superiors. They slipped, Morgan found his file and mission, and that was that. He had the right skillset, he just had all the wrong luck as well.
“He is a nobody, sent by nobodies to try and spy on my plans,” Morgan dragged on her cigarra again as a smile crept across her face. “He is here, on the Matron, in one of our interrogation cells. None of my men could get him to talk. I was planning to, but…” she left the implication hang in the air between them.
“I want him dried of all information, and of his worthless life.” She crossed her legs as she leaned in, close enough Velira could smell the fruity cigarra smoke and expensive cologne. “Consider it your trial run. I will take you there when you’re ready. Take your time, enjoy the wine and read up on your subject. And if you want distractions…” She looked pointedly at the women and men dancing on the poles on the club floor.
Velira’s gaze traced over Morgan’s silhouette for a moment. Her crimson eyes softened, just slightly, as an unfamiliar realization settled into her. She had not intended to give the truth, at least not like that.
The feeling lingered in senses—not discomfort, not quite unease, but something adjacent to both. A quiet awareness that something had passed between the two of them that could not easily be shifted. And yet, Velira did not look away. Morgan’s words drew the faintest curve to her lips.
“I had a feeling you would be,” She said softly, her eyes holding Morgan’s with quiet certainty. “You strike me as someone who recognizes value quickly.”
Velira paused for a moment, glancing down at the patrons below, before looking back towards Morgan, watching the gentle flow of the cigarra smoke.
“Appetites,” she continued, as though weighing the word itself, “are the most honest part of ourselves… and the most dangerous to ignore.”
Her gaze dipped briefly to the datapad. Reaching out with one elegant hand, her fingers deliberately brushed lightly against Morgan’s as she took it. Then she withdrew.
Velira glanced over the file, her eyes moving across it in focus, studying the details quickly— age, temperament, weaknesses. The shape of a mind she had not yet touched, the mind of a nobody, as Morgan claimed.
She closed the datapad gently and set it beside the glass. When Morgan leaned closer, Velira did not retreat, though she did assert enough control over herself to lock away her hunger for the time being, thanks to many of practice. Instead, she leaned in just slightly, letting the space between them tighten— not quite closing it, but enough to be felt. And yet up close, there was no warmth to Velira’s flawless porcelain skin, no beating pulse beneath the surface that flared with life—only a composed, silken stillness.
“I’m not easily distracted,” she murmured, her voice smooth, carrying just beneath the music of the Den. Her gaze flicked, briefly, to the dancers below—then back to Morgan.
“At least, not by things that don’t interest me.”
Her attention remained exactly where she wanted it in that particular moment. On Morgan.
“You’ve given me something far more compelling,” she continued softly, tapping the datapad once with a single finger. A faint smile followed her words.
Velira reached for the fresh glass of wine, lifting it to slowly her lips as she savored the flavor once more.
“I won’t keep you waiting, Captain Sorenn…” she said with a slight smirk. Her gaze lingered for just a moment longer. She set the glass down. Then rose smoothly from the sofa, the black silk of her dress shifting quietly with the motion.
“I’m ready.”
Her eyes met Morgan’s one last time before she turned slightly, poised to follow wherever the pirate chose to lead.
“Shall we?”
“Huh,” Morgan huffed with a smirk and stood up.
As Velira followed, Morgan took of her suit jacket and handed it to one of her guards who went to hang it somewhere. The lightsaber and blaster pistol, now fully visible, were strapped into a well-used shoulder holster wrapping around the pirate’s arms. The leather bit down in just the right places to make the woman appear even larger than she was. It made her look even more the gangster stereotype.
Cigarra smoking between her teeth, framing her face in mystery and poor choices. White suit jacket and tie glimmering like silk, pulled taut by a physique that made anyone flush pink. White pants pressed to perfection, molding over the firm backside and strong legs. And the black button-up dress shirt, bespoke and yet somehow still tight around the durasteelesque arms.
As she took a step, she turned to Velira and firmly placed a finger under her chin, raising her face to meet hers. She studied it, searching for something for the briefest moment: A hint of hunger, a touch of feeding tubes poking out. Finding nothing she huffed and said, “I hope you’re not too eager for a meal. I still need the information out of him before that.” There was an implied threat behind the statement.
Velira did not resist the touch. Her chin lifted easily beneath Morgan’s finger, her gaze rising to meet the pirate’s, steadily and controlled at first, before slipping elsewhere.
Her eyes instinctively traced the line of Morgan’s frame as it revealed itself in motion— the tension of muscle beneath tailored fabric, the way the holster sat against her shoulders, the strength carried effortlessly within her stance.
Velira stilled. Her lips parted slightly, as though she might speak—then didn’t. There was a faint shift in her usually poised posture, as if something had slipped past her usual control. And yet, there was no warmth to betray it. No quickened pulse, no color rising to her skin— only the brief softening of her composure.
“Eager?” Velira echoed softly, her voice lower now. Her head tilted just slightly beneath Morgan’s touch, not pulling away.
“I understand the value of patience…”
The words were steady, but something in them had shifted to something of curiosity. A faint smile graced the curve of her lips. Her eyes dipped to the line of Morgan’s throat, the faint curl of smoke drifting between her lips… then returned, slower this time.
“Besides,” she added, her crimson eyes holding a soft glow in the dim lighting.
“I’ve found anticipation tends to make things far more… memorable.”
Morgan said nothing, her expression featureless for a moment but for a quirked eyebrow. Then her lip curled at the reaction and she removed her finger from Velira’s chin. “Come on,” Morgan said, jerking her head toward the door. She licked her teeth as she inhaled smoke once more, cigarra between her fingers. “Let’s not keep your meal waiting.”
She proceeded out of the private booth walking down the durasteel stairs into the den of sin and debauchery, enforcers in lockstep. The club pulsed like the diseased heart of the ship. Vice. Power. A hunger for more of either. All of it pulsed in Morgan’s senses like graffiti writ large on a wall, freshly painted and smelling of aerosol.
Music slammed through the crowd in relentless waves: growling guitars layered over melodic synths, drumbeats made for the darkest corners of the galaxy, bass rippling through the deck plates, rattling bones and settling behind the ribs without asking for consent. The air was thick, humid with smoke, sharp liquor, spiced narcotics and sweat-covered bodies grinding on the dance floor. Lighting came in violent bursts: blood and velvet pierced occasionally by the harsh white flash that made eyes go blind and froze bodies in moments of ethereal motion.
The crowd moved as one, an organism with its own desires, needs and cravings. Writhing, colliding, laughing too loud just to outshout the blasting music. Forgetting themselves in a place made precisely for that purpose.
To the uninitiated Morgan was simply another crime lord among many on the ship, but to the crew, the staff, and those who knew better, she was gravity. She drew them in and pushed them away. A force that bent the world around her at her own whim. The ship breathed with her breath. Respect followed like a shadow, in the averted gazes of the patrons, the straightened backs of the enforcers, the hurried busyness of the bartenders. Arguments quieted as she passed, lips separated just to gaze at her, bodies unwrithed with angst, the aura of her presence parting the way like scissors through zeyd-cloth, a hint of emanating malice and projected fear echoed her movements to anyone with the senses to tell.
She paid little attention to any of it. A nod here, a flick of her hand there, an occasional brief word with some important patron who earned her attention. Each interaction short, precise, but oozing power in how others approached her.
At the far end of the Den, past the bar and stage, a guarded door waited for them. Unlike the rest of the Club, this one wasn’t meant to be seen. Two large Trandoshans stood either side of it, more like soldiers than enforcers in their poise. “Captain,” one of them hissed as he opened the metal-slab door for her to enter. She made a motion with her hand and her enforcers stayed behind as she and Velira walked through.
And just like that, the noise died behind them. Enough to feel like stepping out of a storm into its eye. The pounding bass still thrummed with unrelenting ferocity, dulled by metal barriers. She and Velira were alone in the corridor. A turbolift awaited them a dozen steps further down.
Morgan exhaled a smoky breath and shook her head slowly before tossing the cigarra and crushing it underfoot. “Better,” she said. The malevolent presence seemed to lessen as she did so. Her posture seemed to relax only slightly, still on edge, still coiled like a spring. She moved again, waiting at the entrance of the elevator for Velira.
Velira trailed silently behind Morgan, her cascade of dark wavy hair flowing behind her shoulders with each movement. Where the Captain carved a path through the crowd— commanding space, bending bodies aside by the sheer tenacity of her presence alone— Velira wove her way through the shadows of the den.
She glided forwards, each step weaving through the crowd. Where bodies pressed together in fevered motion, she turned just before contact— not abruptly, but with a subtle pivot of her hips, a soft shift of weight that carried her cleanly past without ever breaking rhythm. A hand reached toward her, whether by accident or intent, and found only the trailing edge of her leather glove, already gone as she curved away in an unbroken arc.
Where flashes of light froze the crowd in stark, disjointed frames, Velira moved in contrasting darkness. One moment a pale outline at the edge of someone’s peripheral, the next already somewhere else, her presence fading against the dim violet haze as her crimson eyes remained locked on Morgan. Tracking her movements closely through the crowds that she attracted.
By the time Morgan reached the guarded door, Velira was already right at her shoulder. Inside, as the door sealed and the chaos dulled into muffled bass and laughter, Velira drew a slow breath— not in relief, but in quiet recalibration as the elegant features of her face shifted into a look of focus.
Her gaze flicked briefly to the crushed cigarra beneath Morgan’s boot, the last curl of smoke fading into nothing. Velira’s head tilted slightly, the motion smooth, almost curious.
She did not step fully into the center of the corridor. Instead, she remained just to the side, where shadows still danced along the wall, softening her silhouette. A personal preference of Velira’s, something she had grown accustomed to.
And then, as Morgan moved toward the turbolift, Velira followed— closing the distance just enough to remain within reach. Her crimson eyes settled on the Captain once more, glowing softly in the darkness.
They stepped into the turbolift together. The interior was all bare durasteel, reinforced welds, a grated floor worn through years of use. A single strip of cold neon light ran along the ceiling, casting everything in a pale, sterile glow. No bass reached them in here. No voices, no laughter, just the faint hum of the turbolift and the distant, ever-present vibration of the massive ship, almost alive beneath it all.
As she pressed the button on the turbolift’s panel, for a moment, there was nothing then the lift lurched, beginning its descent into the ships guts.
Morgan noticed Velira’s stare for the first time since they left the booth. She leaned against the guard rail and, unabashedly, she returned it. Her expression flattened into something unreadable before it curved into a crooked knowing smirk.
“Keep staring like that, Miss Morvane,” she said, voice low, almost sultry, “and I’m going to start thinking your appetites have changed.” The air between them tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the rather tiny turbolift. It wasn’t the first time, either. It was there, pressing against them since the first moment in the booth.
Morgan unclipped her cuff links and rolled her sleeves, revealing more of her arm tattoos — the devil on the right and the angel on the left. There was a soft eagerness to the action, as if relieving an annoyance, a restraint that kept her arms bound. But there was a sense of mischievous intent as well. Placing her palms on the guard rail behind her she leaned the small of her back against it, looking at Velira from under her eyebrow. She was playing the game she always played with people like Velira who sought out power, intent on seeing whether the Anzati would catch her breath, squirm, trip up, or slip in any other way. The smirk was still there.
Velira did not look away. If anything, Morgan’s words only seemed to anchor her attention more firmly in place. Her gaze traveled slowly, following the motion of those hands as the cuff links came free, as sleeves were rolled, and intricate ink once again revealed itself across smooth skin. The contrast of the two conflicting tattoos caught her interest immediately, along with the sheer opposition of the two of them. Velira’s head tilted slightly, studying them.
“How interesting…” she whispered, almost to herself. Then her crimson gaze lifted again, meeting Morgan’s with something different than before.
“There’s a certain depth to you, Captain Sorenn…” she remarked quietly. Her lips curved slightly. “I imagine that didn’t come without its own share of tales… the kind worth risking a little trouble for…”
She shifted, mirroring the ease of Morgan’s posture with her own slow movements. Leaning back against the opposite rail, she let one leg extend just slightly, the silk fabric of her gown shifting just enough to reveal smooth porcelain skin and the curve of her thigh beneath the pale neon light.
Her fingers rested lightly against the metal behind her, still and composed, though her presence had shifted— less distant now, more… engaged.
“Appetites rarely change,” Velira began, her voice lowering to that of soft velvet, threading through the confined space between them. Her gaze dipped once more, briefly tracing over the tattoos again, before returning to Morgan’s face.
“They merely tend to… expand.”
A faint smile touched her lips. Not predatory, at least not entirely. Something that was a touch warmer, and more curious. Her crimson eyes held Morgan’s, unflinching now, her earlier hesitation momentarily softened— and more willing to linger in the tension that flowed between them in the shadows.
Velira no longer felt the need to hide that she was watching— Or that she was, perhaps, enjoying what she saw, as she lightly bit her lower lip in an attempt at showing some level of restraint.
Morgan didn’t interrupt. In fact, she said nothing, her grin shifting into something else, less tooth more thought. She lowered her gaze to admire the pale skin of Velira’s thigh, the way her gown shifted over it, the way it shimmered in the pale glow, all the way down her shin to the black stiletto. Morgan appreciated a good sense of fashion more than most, and Velira had it in spades. She allowed her gaze to linger just a second longer than most people would ever dare. It was appraisal and appreciation, more than hunger and need.
It would have been easy to bite back, retort with a smart comment, cutting just enough to reassert control over the conversation. She considered doing just that, but she didn’t. Impulsive to the last, Morgan was a woman of action, not words, though they had their place. When it got down to it, she would rather act.
Her eyes lifted once again as she pushed herself from the railing, just enough to straighten at first, arms at her sides. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Velira.” A deliberate use of the name, less formal, more personal. Direct. She stepped forwards, enough to close the distance and electrify the air between them. Enough to engulf the smaller woman’s view.
“Careful.” Morgan said as she moved in. Close. Too close. Hands resting either side of the Anzati, salt-and-pepper hair nearly brushing Velira’s cheek, lips close, but not quite. She whispered, “there are monsters on this ship that bite back.” There was no threat in the statement, at least not an immediate one. Morgan simply stated facts. Their eyes locked for a moment, tension pulled like a string ready to jump, almost close enough to feel breath and hear heartbeat.
Thunk. Ding!
The turbolift shuddered to a halt with all the timing of an interloper crashing a party, and Morgan smirked again as she pushed away from Velira. “This is our stop.” She turned and started walking out of the already opening door.
Velira did not move when Morgan stepped closer. Not when the space between them disappeared almost entirely.
Her back met the cool durasteel behind her, but she did not lean away from it, nor from Morgan. Her crimson eyes lifted to gaze up from behind thick black lashes as the pirate closed in. Close enough to where the world beyond the lift seemed to fall entirely away, where the two of them remained in the darkness.
Velira’s gaze flickered just once down to Morgan’s lips, then back. Her breath caught— not from lack of air, but from something far less familiar. The absence of warmth in her own body made the contrast all the more striking. Morgan’s presence— both alive and intense— burned into her awareness in a way she had not allowed herself to feel in… decades.
And beneath it, her ancient hunger stirred— not uncontrolled, due to the tight reins she kept on it, yet still present. Instinctively drawn in by the very nature of Morgan’s presence.
Velira leaned in, just slightly. Enough that the distance between them all but vanished. Her lips parted a fraction, her gaze softening— not losing focus, but deepening into something far more intimate than anything she had shown before. Her leg shifted with her, the line of her thigh brushing lightly against Morgan’s hip.
The whisper brushed her senses, Morgan’s voice threading through the space between them, grounding her just enough to feel the edge she stood on. Monsters. Velira’s lips curved faintly at that, something quiet and knowing flickering across her expression.
“Yes,” she murmured softly, her voice barely above a breath.
“I’ve grown very much aware, Morgan…”
By the time the lift stilled, Velira had already begun to fold herself back into composure. But even still, something had slipped through. A moment that had come dangerously close to becoming something… more. And there it lingered in the shadows between them.
As Morgan pulled away, Velira remained for just a breath longer, watching her go. That faint, unreadable smile returned to her lips as she pushed off the wall and followed.
Morgan didn’t slow down as she walked down the rusty, unkempt corridor. Acutely aware of Velira’s gaze she, nonetheless, rolled her shoulders, reasserting herself with the motion. Letting the feeling of what-could-be, of distraction, wash over her as her focus shifted away from red eyes and redder lips back to the present, to her bloody work. The moment lingered but for a few seconds more like a cloud above her head, promptly filed away for later. Perhaps.
Bare metal, corrosion, humidity. The corridor stank of age old oil, older circuitry, and something more, something primordial on the senses. Something humanoid. It stank of iron and blood. The lights flickered here. Every other bulb and strip poorly maintained or downright malfunctioning beyond repair. It left them in perpetual twilight and occasional flashed reminiscent of the Sinning Den above.
They passed a junction with two enforcers, a Gamorrean and a Twi'lek, standing guard. No crew operated here, no one dared. This was the donjon of the Matron, the underbelly of the kingdom where only those in disfavor with its Queen entered. And so few ever left. Both men had dark patchwork uniforms and advanced plastoid armor, scratched but functional. Spikes and trophies adorned their persons, speaking to enemies killed and stories told. Each had facial tattoos, each some form of primordial, mythological space monster — the Summa-verminoth. They nodded in respect and said, “Kaptin,” almost in unison. She spared them an approving glance as she turned left towards a massive, open bulkhead door leading to the brig section.
Six rows of corridors, each with ten cells, spread into a star pattern from the middle where one guard kept watch on a large console. There, to the side on an improvised table, the interrogator made his work station. Blades, saws, pokers, scalpels, syringes, medical flasks, poisons — the Weequay doctor who worked over it all had everything he needed. Covered in blood no less. Most of his tools were not sterile, or if they were, they’d soon not be.
“Grulav,” Morgan addressed him as she, Velira and the two enforcers from the corridor filed into the brig’s central chamber. The doctor was slight in build, simple clothes, meat-hackers apron, bloody and disheveled. Dirty gloves and tools strapped to his belt. “News!” It was an order, not a request. There was no patience left in her tone.
“Captain, yes. News is dire, I’m afraid. The subject’s will is strong, he would not talk.” Grulav sheepishly explained. When Morgan’s expression turned dour he added hurriedly, “ah, but he is alive. Alive and well…for the most part. He can survive many more interrogations. He will break. Everyone breaks.” He turned his head towards cell block Besh, where one other enforcer stood guarding the prisoner’s cell, an irate expression across his ugly features.
“I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t have the time to wait.” Morgan gave a dismissive wave as her attention shifted again, deliberately, to Velira. There was a change in her posture, subtle but unmistakable. She watched the woman with open curiosity, head tilting just slightly as if reassessing a thought she had already decided upon. The Anzati looks so out of place with the two enforcers shadowing her: the black gown, the stilettos, the pristine hair, the aura. Like a queen in her own right, dominating her space, confident and measured. Morgan smirked and filed yet another sublime vision into her mental library.
“Pull up the feed on the console monitor, we’ll want to watch what comes next,” she ordered the guard standing at the main station while looking at Velira the whole time. “Miss Morvane, the floor is yours.” She pointed an open palm at cell block Besh, inviting with an unmistakable bow one noble would give another. There was no mocking in her movement, but something rarely given, and so rarely offered freely. A growing respect. “Let’s see what you do differently.”
Velira followed at Morgan’s side as a shadow, her presence quiet but unmistakable against the decay of the lower decks. The further they descended, the more the ship seemed to change. The air grew heavier— laced with dense humidity and the scent of old machinery left to rot just enough to keep functioning. Oil, years of growing rust… and beneath it all— Iron and blood. Velira noticed it immediately. Not with discomfort, but with a faint sense of recognition. It was not entirely unlike the holding cells back on her home world for the various cuisines that the other Anzats had frequently imported, something that now felt like another lifetime to Velira.
Her gaze drifted along the corridor walls as they walked, taking in the corrosion and the dimly flickering lights. Where the Sinning Den had been alive with curated indulgences, this place felt decrepit in comparison, although… honest. There was no hiding what this level of the Matron was intended for.
Her eyes shifted, not idly but deliberately— taking in the enforcers as they passed the junction. The Gamorrean’s posture, heavy and grounded. The Twi’lek’s stance, sharper and more reactive in nature. As Morgan was addressed by them as Captain, she began to note the exchange to herself. The fact that Morgan’s title carried weight as it passed between the crew— spoken not necessarily out of obligation alone, but from recognition and a certain respect that had been earned, not demanded. Her gaze flicked towards the Summa-verminoth markings etched into their skin, out of curiosity.
When Morgan turned, Velira followed, carefully observing the space and beginning to map it out within her mind. The brig opened before them like the center of a web, with various cells that appeared to be optimized for efficiency and a sense of control. Her crimson gaze passed over the guard at the console, then to the workstation and lingered there with a touch of distaste. The tools were crude, functional yet inelegant. To Velira, there seemed to be a noticeable lack of attention to precision— only repetition and endurance. Pain that was meant to be repeatedly applied until something gave way.
Grulav. She regarded him somewhat dismissively as Morgan addressed him, yet her crimson eyes quickly noted the details— a stained apron, unclean tools, and the seemingly hurried movements of someone who mistook persistence for mastery. When he spoke of the prisoner not breaking, Velira’s gaze shifted to the direction of Besh, where her attention sharpened.
She gazed to Morgan briefly with a slow nod, returning the gesture. “Captain,” Velira said softly, inclining her head slightly, “I’ll handle this with the… care it deserves.”
Her hands rose slowly, gathering her dark auburn hair with practiced ease. In one fluid motion, she swept it up into a loose, elegant bun at the back of her head and revealed the clean line of her neck. Her gloves followed. She adjusted them with careful precision, smoothing the silky material over her fingers as though preparing for something delicate. She moved toward the cell without haste, her steps even and unhurried, the echo of her heels soft against the chamber floor.
Velira stopped just before the threshold. And for a moment— She simply looked at him, not as prey or as a problem to be solved, but as a patient. From his appearance, he was worse than what Grulav had described. Not broken, which would have been easier, but it was clear to her that he was in a state of resistance. Clinging to something inside himself with his last fragile structure of identity. Bruised, bloodied, exhausted— but not empty, at least not yet.
Velira stepped inside, the silk fabric of her gown whispering against the ground. The air was thick— stale with iron, and the lingering echoes of suffering etched into the walls. She did not loom above him in posture, but rather lowered herself instead, bringing herself closer to his level in a series of careful movements.
“Hello,” she greeted softly. Her voice shifted— gentler now, threaded with the warmth of something almost reassuring. For a long moment, it seemed to reach him. Then instinct took over, and the prisoner lunged. The movement clumsy, desperation more than skill, but sudden. A hand snapping toward her throat, the other reaching for anything he could use as leverage.
Velira did not recoil, though she shifted in her stance. She exhaled, and the light itself in the cell room seemed to dim. Shadows stretched into a thick haze around them, dulling the sharpness of the world. His movement faltered, and his grip never found her. Velira’s hand rose in response, not to strike, but to be simply present as it brushed lightly against his wrist. The shadows followed.
“Easy,” her voice seemed to echo from the darkness. “There’s no need for that, not today…”
Velira’s fingers guided his arm down, not with sheer force, but with a certain sense of inevitability.
“You must be tired… You’ve been fighting for so very long…” she continued softly. Velira tilted her head slightly, studying him— not as prey, not yet— but rather as a fragile creature.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you let go all of all this,” she said again, quieter this time. The darkness dissipated, just enough to reveal her form, and the earnest softness to her gaze. “Would you like that?”
The question did not linger in the air, and instead began to settle inside him, where Velira could already feel her presence beginning to take hold. His breathing hitched, not from pain, but from confusion and the slowly growing realization that something in him was no longer entirely his own. Velira’s hand remained lightly at his wrist for a moment longer, grounding in a way that created a sense of safety. Her presence began to gently thread through his thoughts, distantly beginning to guide them.
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I know how it feels to be locked away. I’m here for you,” her voice whispered soothingly. And for a moment— He wasn’t. The terror that had been anchoring him, sharpening his resilience… softened. Not gone, but already fading into the background of his thoughts. Velira observed the shift with quiet focus. She tilted her head slightly, studying the way his shoulders lowered, the way his muscles began to instinctively release tension.
“Please, tell me,” she began to implore gently, “what it is you were told before you were sent here.”
As he gazed at her, his lips parted, though silence followed. Velira recognized that final resistance in him, though it had grown fainter in nature. Interesting, the Anzat silently remarked to herself. She began to slip into the spaces between his thoughts. Not replacing them, but carefully reframing them. A memory rose to the surface— not as something to be protected, but instead now as something to be released.
“They… said…” His voice cracked, faltering to find the right words. Velira’s index brushed slightly along the inside of his wrist, in a small gesture of comfort.
“They said you were nothing,” she whispered, her tone softening further. “That you were expendable.”
His eyes flickered for a moment, dull with a different kind of pain, one that wasn’t physical. Velira leaned closer, meeting his gaze.
“And now you’re here,” she continued, voice barely above a breath. “Alone. Hurting. Holding onto things no one will ever thank you for.”
The words slid into place, hitting their mark. Suddenly, he felt the truth—or what felt like truth— already anchoring itself into his chest.
“Allow me to help you carry the weight. The pain isn’t yours to bear alone,” Velira said softly, as her crimson eyes held his unblinking, until he felt his posture began to slacken and his breathing slow. The memories— so tightly restrained moments ago— began to surface more freely now, uncoiling within her grasp.
Suddenly, Velira could see it in her mind. Fragments of carefully guarded names of contacts, various shipment routes… and yet, it wasn’t enough for her.
“They will hurt you again,” she continued, her tone still soft, still gentle, even as the words deliberately settled into his mind. “They will leave you here to break… again and again. And no one will come.”
The shimmer of a tear slid from the corner of his green eye. Velira watched it fall, not speaking for a moment. Her fingers tightened slightly around his wrist, pulling him closer.
“But I am here. I can make it stop. All you have to do…” she whispered into his ear, “is let me in..”
Velira could feel the final thread of his mind’s resistance trembling, giving way. Her presence began to claw into his very thoughts, twisting around them to withdraw further information— concealed base locations and various shipment routes, security codes. Velira carefully committed each extracted detail to her own memory, as finally, her lips formed into the curve of a predatory smirk.
“What is she doing?” The unwelcome, hoarse tone of Grulav’s voice snapped Morgan out of her trance.
She hadn’t even noticed she was transfixed in the monitor, but not just through her eyes. One could barely see more than a few movements, hear more than a few words, but feel? Morgan could feel everything from that cell. The pain, desperation, calm, resignation. The threads of the Force Velira emanated were so similar to her own, Morgan simply locked in on the experience and let it overwhelm her.
She already knew Velira would succeed. She knew that the moment she felt her demonstration back in the booth in the Den. This was just a show she had wanted to see happen. To confirm her preconcieved notions. To confirm her already-made decision.
She smiled a smile that gave Grulav pause.
“She’s marinating him.”
Velira felt it the moment the final thread of resistance gave way, yielding to her grasp around his mind. Her presence deepened within him, no longer coaxing. She searched through his mind with quiet precision, delving into the various memories. Names surfaced first, now followed by the additional detail of faces.
Velira slowed, as something in his mind caught her interest. There, beneath the scattered fragments of trade routes and coded transmissions, was an unusual pattern. She paused on this, extracting the memory. A handful of operatives, loosely connected, sharing information with one another in careful exchanges. Small dens, poorly coordinated, as they prepared to test boundaries they did not yet fully understand. They spoke in half plans, circling something larger than themselves as they began to strategize. The Sydicate. Morgan’s Syndicate, and what was hopefully to be her new place of belonging, if she played her cards right.
Velira traced the connections further, her presence slithering deeper, more deliberate now. In his mind, she pinpointed the coordinates for the meetings and extracted the strategies for unifying, committing them to her own memory.
And beneath it all, subtly, she could feel Morgan. Velira’s awareness brushed against that presence, and for a fleeting moment, something within her shifted. A faint pull that she couldn’t explain.
On instinct, the Anzati hunger began to rise again. It curled low in her chest, spreading outward through her senses, warm and insistent. Her hand remained at the prisoner’s collar, her influence still wrapped around his thoughts, holding him in that fragile space between self and surrender.
There was a part of Velira that was hesitant to be seen in this nature. And yet, Anzati feeding was not always sheer violence, not in the way that tales of her kind passed through the decades had foretold it. There was a sense of intimacy, depending on the individual. It was the moment where pretense fell away, where what Velira was could no longer be refined into something more palatable.
Her gaze shifted, just slightly, toward where she knew Morgan observed. She could obscure this. A veil of darkness, just enough to cloak the process. She considered it to herself, and then chose otherwise.
“Come,” Velira’s voice suddenly echoed to the prisoner in a gentle command, her fingers tightening around his collar.
He followed, unsteady yet willing. Velira dragged him from the cell and into the open space of the brig. Her crimson eyes locked onto where he stood, pupils narrowing into something more predatory as her composure changed. For a moment, Velira’s thoughts drifted as her instincts began to take over.
What would she taste like?
The thought came sharp and immediate, carrying something deeper than hunger alone. Before it even had time to fully register, Velira’s attention locked back onto the prey before her. Her hand rose, brushing lightly along his jaw as she guided his head back. His eyes were unfocused now— distant, held gently at the edge of awareness.
“You’ve done very well,” she purred, her voice threading through his mind, clawing through what little resistance remained. “It’s time to rest.”
His body responded instinctively to her grasp, sinking further, until he began to lean towards her without realizing it. Velira’s thumb traced lightly along his lower lip before she parted his mouth open with deliberate care. Two thin tendrils emerged slowly from the smooth skin of her cheekbones— pale, silken, almost delicate in their appearance with the exception of curved hooks at their ends. The tendrils snaked forwards, moving as wisps, gently slipping into his mouth and reaching until they found their mark.
The first draw was slow and controlled, life essence faintly glowing with pale silver light as it flowed to her. The taste spread through in a slow, controlled bloom, nourishing her senses not just in sheer taste alone, but as an experience— Fear, sharp and biting in flavor. A faint yet tangible echo of hope. And beneath it all, a quiet aching need to matter.
A series of memories flowed through her palette, from the golden hued days and laughter of summer spent on his homeworld, to the acceleration of his beating heart and nervous glances as he traveled to a new city to begin his first mission. Ordinarily, Velira would have stopped there, to take only what she needed and leave the rest intact, even healing what damage she caused— But this time, Velira did not relent.
Her fingers tightened, anchoring him as more was drawn through her. His body trembled faintly, caught somewhere between sensation and absence, but there was no scream or sign of struggling. Velira felt herself crossing into a threshold as he passed into a weaker state, her tendrils faintly glowing as she continued to feed. His thoughts began to grow thinner, memories flowing and fading with a quiet yet inevitable finality. Velira did not rush. She drew from him with precision even now, savoring not the act itself— but the clarity it brought. Every final fragment was drained, every lingering detail stripped clean, until there was nothing left to uncover. Nothing left to give.
The glow faded as the flow of life essence ceased. Velira exhaled, softly. The tendrils withdrew with the same seamless grace they had entered, leaving no visible mark beyond the stillness that followed. For a moment, she remained there with her hand still at his collar, holding what was now little more than a hollow shell. Then, gently, Velira released him— The body collapsed without resistance, lifeless before it struck the floor.
Velira stood motionless for a moment longer, the last remnants of borrowed warmth fading through her as her wispy tendrils receded, concealed once again. She smoothed her glove absently, as though restoring some small piece of order to herself before turning. Velira unpinned her hair and ran a hand through it, letting it tumble back freely over her bare shoulders in silky waves. Her smooth porcelain skin held a faint luminosity now, a pale glow, due to her recent meal.
“I do hope,” she began to say, now addressing Morgan from where she stood, “that you’ll find I’ve been… thorough, in my work…”
Morgan, leaning against the console, arms crossed, looked at the dead agent before flashing her gaze at Velira. “We’ll see.” Murder was the pirate’s close companion. She had shot, stabbed, bisected, eviscerated people with a thought, and some things far, far worse than that. Violence beyond imagining.
And yet she had never seen such elegant murder.
She was enamored by the display. How simple and beautiful it looked. All elegance. Mostly she was drawn to how how it felt. Through the Force she could sense pieces of the man-that-was being ripped apart and ingested. Entirely delectable, the display of power tickled her sadistic side in a way few things had in a while. This was something entirely new and she was just beginning to understand how much she seemed to enjoy watching it. The way she felt Velira bask in the afterglow of the act made her all the more tempting.
A part of her — a very small, smothered part — questioned what must he have felt. What would it be like being ripped bit by agonizing bit, not physically but mentally. She imagined it was much like rushing through terminal illness, but the way the man acted it must’ve been peaceful. Was that Velira’s own doing or just a part of the process, she wondered. The fascination was there, of course, but she declined to act upon her baser impulses. Some questions needed no answers.
She gazed closely into Velira, her mind and body, observing her for the first time as a whole through senses worldly and ethereal. So closely, she didn’t even notice the disgusted and shocked expression, nor the protest from the Weequay doctor to her side. Only when he touched her arm did she react: eyebrows flashing anger, or maybe annoyance, shoulder rolling out of his grasp with a tug. She gave him a side glance which made him pause. Realizing his mistake he lowered his head apologetically, his protests forgotten by everyone in the room except the ether.
Then: curiosity. As if she discovered something new, Morgan’s gaze turned back to Velira. “Miss Morvane…or should I say Doctor Morvane? I’d like to dig through that head of yours to find my answers, seeing as you drained the last source.” She pointed at Velira’s forehead and turned to the guards and the Weequay. “Take this piece of trash,” she rolled her chin at the dead human, “and wait for me outside. No one comes in. And if I don’t come out first,” her gaze fell on Velira again, “kill her.”
She remained where she stood, still and composed, as the last traces of what she had taken settled quietly within her. The hunger had receded, softened into something distant and controlled— but not entirely absent, especially with the presence of Morgan nearby.
Instinctively, her gaze shifted that direction, landing on the muscled silhouette of the other female as she approached. There was a shift there within Velira— subtle, but unmistakable. Not the same hunger that had just been sated, but something adjacent to it. Sharper. Drawn not by need, but by the essences of both intrigue and temptation.
The nature of her kind was indulgence without limit, an endless pursuit of something richer, something deeper. Velira, however, had long ago mastered the art of restraint, shaping her impulses into something measured and controlled. And yet now, she felt that discipline being tested as it had not been in decades— made all the more difficult by the proximity of Morgan, one whose immense strength placed her well beyond what most Anzati would dare to pursue.
At the mention of the title, Velira’s expression shifted, touched by something faintly pleased. “Doctor,” she echoed softly, the word resting easily on her tongue. A small curve touched her lips as she gazed at Morgan.
“I think I could grow quite fond of that…”
She stepped forward, unhurried, closing only part of the distance. Her fingers traced lightly through her dark hair before sweeping it back over one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
“I suppose you could look…” she said softly with the slight tilt of her head, her tone nonchalant but not necessarily inviting.
“But what I’ve uncovered from him…” Velira continued, her gaze now holding Morgan’s. “…I would rather place into your hands, than keep for myself.”
However, as Morgan issued her next command, she paused for a moment in consideration. There was a slight shift to her posture, not out of fear, but something closer to instinct— reflexes that had grown attuned to residing in close proximity to danger. Her crimson gaze shifted briefly towards the guards, quickly assessing them before glancing back towards where Morgan stood.
“Mm,” she breathed, the sound barely above a whisper. Her head tilted, gaze sharpening with something more personal now.
“You don’t leave much to chance… Preparing for contingencies…” she murmured softly, her voice lower as she spoke. “I can certainly respect that, Captain…”
As the enforcers carried the body out, followed closely by the Weequaz doctor, Morgan remained silent. There was a lound creak as the doors to the brig finally closed with a last thunk.
They were alone. Good. Morgan didn’t want her crew to see whatever happened next.
They had no where to go but through each other, should it come to that. Morgan felt but a tinge of apprehension, a lick of primordial fear writ large in her DNA, acutely aware of the predator in stunning, elegant shape that stood before her. She was food, and she wouldn’t ever forget that.
She paused for a moment, caution taking the reigns. There was a calm confidence in her posture, trained and practiced for decades, but that made the tension no less sharp in her senses. “A woman should protect herself in all situations, especially when things are going too well. Don’t you think so?”
A silence settled between them for a moment, thickened by the closing of the doors, the absence of others, and by the quiet awareness that whatever remained would be decided here— between them alone. Her gaze lingered on Morgan, steady and unhurried, as if weighing not just the words, but the individual who spoke them.
“A woman should protect herself,” Velira echoed softly in agreement. A slight inclination of her head followed, her lips curving— not quite a smile, but something more knowing in nature.
“I think,” she continued, her voice lowered into the purr of a whisper, “a woman such as yourself doesn’t survive this long by doing anything else.”
Her gaze held Morgan’s for a moment longer than necessary in acknowledgment, not challenge. Then, just as smoothly, her focus shifted—subtle, but intentional.
“As for the notion regarding the deceased gentleman…” she added, her tone easing into something more measured, more professional without losing its softness. Velira’s eyes darkened slightly— not with hunger now, but with recollection as she began to present some of the information she’d extracted.
“He wasn’t sent by anyone of consequence… Not yet,” she said quietly. She stepped just slightly to the side and paced for a moment in a slow circle around where Morgan stood.
“A small network. Fragmented. Operating in the outer lanes, keeping themselves just disorganized enough to avoid attention, though I feel that isn’t intentional.”
Her gaze flicked back to Morgan and Velira paused in place. “They’ve been watching you.”
Her tone shifted as she spoke, to something more analytical.
“Learning your routes. Attempting to uncover various Syndicate locations, tracking the Matron…”
A faint pause followed her words, her tone sharpening.
“They believe they are preparing for an attack… And yet, it seems that they lack cohesion and effective leadership. But they may grow bold enough to become inconvenient potentially… if left unattended.”
Velira’s gaze lingered on Morgan again, something shifting — her eyes dipping briefly, tracing the line of her jaw before returning, slower this time.
“And as for protection…. I’ve always found it… more useful to understand what stands in front of me… To know what it is capable of, and what it becomes, when allowed closer…”
Morgan’s head inclined slightly at Velira’s comment. She leaned into the console even more, crossing one leg across the other, taking up much the same position as she did in the elevator. Strands of her hair softly fell across her features, lightly obscuring the angry eye staring into Velira’s soul.
“Charming,” She replied with mirth and no small dose of curiosity. “I don’t think you want to understand me, Doctor. As they say, here there be monsters.” She started pulling out a cigarra again, lit it, then thought better of it, crushed it in her fingers and flicked it away.
“Besides, I don’t trust you enough…yet.” She left a soft opening, a possibility of future changes. But it was tentative, balancing on a string above a spike pit, sweating as it held on for dear life.
Velira watched the motion—the lean, crossing of her leg, the way the strands of hair slipped just enough to obscure and reveal in equal measure. Her gaze followed the flicker of the cigarra as it was lit… and then extinguished just as quickly. A small thing, perhaps— but Velira noted it all the same, could recognize the restraint behind the gesture.
“Hm,” she breathed softly, in understanding. Velira crept closer, in a slow movement. Not enough to crowd, but enough so the movement felt intentional.
“Monsters,” Velira began to echo in consideration, her voice low and smooth. Her gaze drifted back to Morgan, holding the gaze of her fiery eye. A slow, deliberate observation, as if the woman before her were something to be ravished rather than feared.
“You should know I’ve never found that word to be particularly discouraging.” A faint tilt of her head followed, her cascade of dark auburn hair casting a half shadow over the elegant features of her face.
“If anything…” she added softly, tilting her head closer, “I’ve found it tends to be used by those who simply prefer not to look too closely.”
Her gaze returned to Morgan’s— steady, composed, and quietly knowing.
“I’ve lived among them,” she continued, her tone smoothing into something more intimate, more personal. “Been mistaken for one often enough…. Sometimes correctly.”
Her gaze flicked, briefly, to Morgan’s hand— where the cigarra had been— then returned to her face, slower this time, with a hint of curiosity.
“Would you give me one?” she asked quietly, her voice lowering, “or do I need to earn that first?”
Velira paused for a moment, considering Morgan’s next words to herself, as a smirk danced across her lips. “Ah, you don’t trust me yet,” she breathed.
Velira’s crimson gaze softened— not in vulnerability, but in something more deliberate.
“Then I’ll be patient. I don’t need, or expect, trust immediately… I only need the opportunity to become… indispensable.”
Morgan observed her for a long moment, gauging whether anything the woman said struck true. She prided herself on her observations, her intuition, and her survival instincts. She could tell when someone was cheating her, especially nobles. They had an aura of superiority about them, one too easily deciphered and manipulated. Even Sith had their tells.
And yet, with this woman, she had her doubts. When she looked inward to analyze what she was seeing, all she found was a lingering pit in her stomach. That same dropping sensation that told her this one was deadly. A predator in silk and heels that would be the death of her if she let it: someone who has spent ten times Morgan’s own age perfecting the craft. And yet, when she searched her feelings, there was no deception in Velira. Those same feelings that told her to kill this woman and be done with her, or at least get rid of her. She very nearly did just that…
Instead, her thumb rubbed over the sceatched and pitted metal cigarra case decorated with a styalized Kraken that she had been using for years, and she presented it to Velira, offering one. She even prepared the lighter to light it for her, as she stood up, back straight, looking down at the smaller Anzati. Come and take it, her posture had said.
“What you’ll need to earn is my trust. So far all you have is my attention and curiosity.”
Her gaze lowered — to the worn metal of the case, to the fine craftsmanship of the kraken etched into its surface in mild appreciation— before lifting again, slower this time, to Morgan herself. The offered flame cast a low, shifting radiance between where the two of them stood, settling into a pale orange glow against her porcelain skin.
She slipped off her silk gloves and stepped forward in one smooth motion. For a moment, her fingertips lightly brushed against Morgan’s hand as she took the cigarra— icy in contrast due to her lack of a pulse. She angled her head closer and leaned in just enough for Morgan to light it, the brief flare of flames shimmering orange in her crimson gaze, before settling into a slow burn at her lips.
Velira took a long inhale, shifting her head to the side to exhale just as slowly in a thin curl of smoke. Her gaze returned to Morgan’s, lingering there for a long moment in consideration.
“You speak of trust, but it is my understanding that it is something that must flow both ways…” Velira began slowly, with a faint pause following her words.
“Through the years, others have sought to keep me close before. For what I could do.” Her gaze dipped for a moment, as something sharper and icier danced in their depths, if only for a brief moment. “Until the moment they realized what they had invited in… and understood far too late I was never meant to be confined.”
In one swift movement, Velira suddenly advanced forwards like a shadow, extending one arm swiftly. Not towards Morgan’s throat, but for a datapad resting on the console. She let the cigarra rest lightly between her lips, as the screen flickered to life and she input a series of data— various coordinates, routes, and profiles matching names. Everything that Velira had taken. Her fingers lingered lightly against the edge of the device before she released it fully into Morgan’s control, as a quiet offering.
Velira let out another slow exhale to the side, letting the smoke curve into the shape of a soft ‘O’ before stepping closer again.
“I know what I am,” Velira whispered to Morgan with a faint gleam in her eyes. Her voice softened, if only for a moment. “And I’m not interested in being hunted again for it.”
Morgan took the datapad with a quiet appreciation, knowing what it was and knowing it could just as well be a lie, however improbable. Though why Velira would so overtly do something so foolish didn’t compute in Morgan’s calculations. Maybe it was her bias surfacing, maybe it was her fear of those tendrils that only promised to draw and quarter her mind into oblivion. Maybe it was the fact that she was afraid she might actually be attracted to this Anzati, and the thought of it terrified her on a baser level.
Anzati were perfect hunters: alluring, deceptive, almost too good to deny. And Velira played it perfectly, every step. Was her honesty just a stepping stone for future goals? Certainly, it was, but were they just goals of survival or something else entirely. Did one of Morgan’s enemies send her? Or maybe Morgan was just another succulent feast after which the creature could fall back into whatever hibernation it came from…
It was definitely a bias. She wasn’t a creature, just a woman trying to survive the galaxy, and Morgan could at least empathize with that. Velira did precious little to deserve this kind of reaction, true, but there was always the possibility of deception beyond her means of detecting. Morgan wasn’t a fool. She survived long enough to know she wasn’t in fact omnipotent, unlike some of the old men that ran the Brotherhood. “Egos and machismo, all of them.” As quickly as the thought appeared it vanished as Morgan’s nostrils took in the smoke on Velira’s breath.
There was an easy solution for this conundrum she had.
“I don’t have any plans to hunt you, or allow for you to be hunted.” She started, clapping her cigarra box shut and pocketing it while giving the datapad a cursory glance to inspect the broad strokes. She’d have plenty of time to analyze it later. As would her slicers and raid planners.
“You are too valuable now. Besides,” Morgan stepped into Velira’s personal space, pinning her against the console. Her knee between Velira’s legs, body-to-body, tight and almost uncomfortable, she looked into the Doctor’s face for any sign, any inkling, of emotion, “we had a deal, and I never break a deal.”
Morgan’s hand lightly passed over Velira’s cheeks, nearly touching the skin where she remembered the invisible proboscises withdrew, a mix of curiosity and caution in her eyes. “I hire you for your skills, and you use these only on the victims we agree on.”
“I want to belong… somewhere that understands exactly what it’s choosing to keep.” Her gaze held Morgan’s with a sense of steadiness. “And I think,” she added, just above a breath, “…you already do.”
She drew the cigarra from her lips, the ember glowing faintly between where the two of them stood. Velira extended it to Morgan, offering it to her in one hand with a slight smirk.
She stilled for a moment as the other woman drew closer, her expression shifting. The impact against the console was soft, controlled— but the tension that followed was anything but. The gentle pressure of Morgan’s knee between her thighs, the other female’s body close enough to where she could feel her heartbeat— it drew something visceral from Velira, something she had kept leashed for far too long. Her breath caught, in a soft yet barely audible gasp.
Her gaze lifted to meet Morgan’s, holding it. That same ancient hunger flickered, if only for a moment, yet somehow changed. Something beneath Velira’s flawless porcelain skin faintly stirred— a whisper of movement, of both instinct and need— just enough to where Morgan might feel it before it vanished. Velira held back, not without effort, lightly biting her lower lip. One hand curled into a tight fist against Morgan’s sleeve, as she forced that hunger away, her control snapping around it like a drawn wire.
A test, Velira couldn’t help but consider to herself. And she did not intend on failing it, no matter how much this woman tugged at her very senses. Her cheek leaned into Morgan’s hand— slow, deliberate —pressing into the warmth of her palm, Velira’s skin cool in contrast, the difference between them almost intoxicating.
“Then we understand one another…” she murmured, her voice soft as she spoke. Her body shifted at Morgan’s touch— not pulling away, not retreating— but responding to the proximity, the tension that stretched thin between predator and predator. Shadows began to gather around them in a thick haze, curling inwards around where they both stood, muting the light.
Velira leaned in further. Close enough now that her lips hovered just beside Morgan’s throat, her breath tracing the skin there in slow, measured passes. Her body pressed subtly forward, against Morgan’s knee— an unspoken answer, controlled but undeniable.
“Then I suppose… you’ll have to choose your victims carefully…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper now, threaded with something warmer, something far less distant than before. Her lips drifted closer, lightly brushing against the skin of Morgan’s neck as she spoke. “Because when you do… I’ll take them apart for you.”
Survival isn’t just about living. Living isn’t worth a damn if you don’t enjoy it, or at least find purpose in it. To belong somewhere, to be understood and accepted, that was a sentiment Morgan knew deeply. She recognized herself in Velira, in a way. She carved her own place from dirt, bloody fingernails tearing it apart until all that was left was a place she could truly call her own.
She took the cigarra from Velira’s delicate hand, fingers brushing lightly together, sharing warmth. She took a drag, smearing Velira’s lipstick mark across her lips, exhaling the thick smoke through her nose like a Bull Rancor smelling prey. She smothered the glowing tip against the console.
“You play a dangerous game, Miss Velira.” Again the name, pointed, deliberate, personal, welcoming. A smile flashed. “But you play it so well. Welcome to the Matron.”
Morgan’s hand closed softly around Velira’s neck as she closed in, almost…almost enough. Lips hovered over each other in intolerable, insufferably evident attraction that lingered like a sword of ruin hung above their heads all night, ready to ruin them both if they dared indulge in the dangerous magnetism they felt for each other. “Maybe, some day.” Morgan smirked and started pulling away.
Velira didn’t move when Morgan’s hand closed around her throat. She let the contact settle— fiery warmth against her icy skin, grounding in a way she hadn’t expected. For a brief moment, everything else fell away. There was only this.
Her breath slowed, then caught just slightly, as Morgan leaned in— as the distance between them thinned to something almost unbearable. Her eyes fluttered closed as Velira focused only on the sensations, allowing herself a rare moment to lean into them, as she hadn’t in decades.
Her lips parted, just enough to draw in a quiet breath, and for the briefest moment— she leaned forward. Not enough to close the distance, but enough to answer it. And then Velira paused, held by her own restraint, as compromised as it was now.
Her hand rose slowly, resting against Morgan’s wrist— not to push it away, or resist, but to feel it. To trace the line Morgan’s muscled arm lightly with her fingers, cool against warm.
“Dangerous…” she repeated, her voice lower now, smoother— threaded with something far more intimate than before. “I’ve spent a very long time avoiding anything worth that kind of risk.” Her eyes fluttered back open and her gaze slid to Morgan’s lips, then returned, slower this time. “And yet…” she breathed, closer now. “I’m still here, and I intend to remain at your side, Captain.”
Velira didn’t follow as Morgan stepped back. She let the space return between them, slowly and deliberately, as if it the very act of waiting was something to be savored.
“Some day…” she echoed softly, her eyes fixed on Morgan, feeling the lingering tension that simmered between the two of them. “And yet some things… don’t remain unfinished….” Her lips curved as she watched the other female, her crimson eyes glowing once again from the darkness. “… you’ll know where to find me, Morgan.”