Session export: S1C2 RO - [Swooping Slicers]

The Blue Docket, Level 3152

Coruscant, Coruscant System — Mid-Level Entertainment Sector

A gold-shelled protocol droid glided through the vaulted atrium with the solemnity of a presiding magistrate, its dome capped in a powdered wig and a plastene ruff—a satirical nod to the building’s former life as an Imperial judiciary hall. Its photoreceptors glowed a soft blue beneath the curls, scanning for patrons in need of refreshments or spectacle.

“The court is now in session,” it announced in sonorous, rehearsed legalese, extending its tray with a sweeping, dignified gesture. “May I interest the jury in a Contempt of Court or a Guilty on All Counts?”

“Two Guilties, counselor,” came the unanimous decree from the booth near the mezzanine rail, where two alabaster-skinned Twi'leks hadn’t moved more than a lazy flick of a lekku since the verdict was declared—twice before.

The droid bowed with mechanical decorum. “An excellent verdict.”

The twins’ identical hands—one left, one right—rose in perfect synchrony, azure nails gleaming as they lifted the fluted cocktails from the tray with the ease of practiced royalty. Tinted a decadent violet-gold and served in tall glasses etched with micro-scale legal jaron in flowing Aurebesh, the Guilty on All Counts was garnished with a floating shard of crystalline ice mined from Rhen Var, said to melt more slowly in the presence of unresolved guilt.

Kasula raised her glass. “To crimes we did commit—”

“—and the ones we haven’t yet,” Ysera finished, tapping her flute gently against her sister’s with a crisp, crystalline chime.

The ice clinked melodiously as both sisters took a slow, indulgent sip. The Guilty on All Counts was spiced at first with a hint of cinnamon and the crackle of freshly broken capsules of nitrogen gas before giving way to the cool breath of Rhen Var. It was decadent, theatrical—designed not just to be tasted, but remembered.

Their booth, a plush crimson banquette salvaged from the original benches of the old court, had been commandeered by the Daegellas as their own personal viewing box. The low table, worn smooth over decades of legal posturing, now served as a witness stand for the twins’ more hedonistic pursuits. Amidst the detritus of empty cocktail glasses, and an open bottle of Last Night on Bellassa that had been gifted by an admirer earlier in the night, the Daegellas lounged like queens in exile—glamorous, intoxicated, and overstimulated with the particular brand of exhausted euphoria that came from three straight cycles of Coruscant’s mid-level nightlife.

Kasula exhaled with a contented sigh, her head lolling to rest against Ysera’s shoulder. “I’ve had worse verdicts,” she murmured.

Ysera hummed a noncommittal noise as she half-heartedly watched the scrolling headlines displayed on the massive holo-screens that lined the walls. Political scandals, celebrity feuds, economic forecasts—the news cycle churned on, a never-ending parade of drama and distraction. Beneath her sister’s weight, she traced a finger along the rim of her glass, following the path of the condensation that had begun to form, a miniature moisture farm in the heart of the city.

Among the various hangers-on, influencers, and swoopheads desperate to be seen beside the twin Goddesses of 1139’s Circuit, a nervous trio hovered near the edge of their orbit, sipping drinks too expensive for their credit chips. One wore an old CEC racing jacket so battered it bordered on antique, a relic from some forgotten league. He clutched a flat square of flimsi in both hands, looking like he might ask for an autograph, but lost the courage when one of the Daegellas—Kasula, though even here, few could tell—flicked her lekku across her shoulder with a motion just a little too practiced to be casual.

“Are you really them?” he blurted, with all the confidence of a first-timer at a Sabacc table with no credits and a losing hand. Kasula draped an arm lazily along the back of the booth, crossing one leg over the other with performative indifference. The chrome lettering curved over her thigh flexed as she shifted, reflecting the scrolling headlines in a fractured mosaic of corruption charges and celebrity divorces.

“Depends who’s asking,” she said, her voice hinting at a smile she wasn’t quite willing to give.

Ysera leaned forward, plucking the flimsi from the fan’s outstretched hand. “Is this legally binding?” she asked, turning the holostill over between her fingers as if scrutinizing fine print on a warrant. Printed on the flimsi was a grainy, matte-finished still of the twins, taken from a private photoshoot in the clouds of Bespin, capturing a moment so precious, so far removed from the mundane reality of everyday life that the fan had dared to approach the twins themselves for an autograph.

“I—I mean—no?” he stammered, visibly shaken from the moment her fingers brushed against his in the exchange, leaving behind the faintest trace of Last Night on Bellassa, a particularly potent Zeltrosian aphrodisiac—and the twins’ preferred scent for the night—on his jacket’s sleeve.

“That’s too bad,” Kasula murmured, taking a stylus from the fan’s front jacket pocket without asking and flicking it open with a smooth, practiced snap. “I only sign binding agreements.”

Still, she signed it anyway, her hand scrawling Kasula & Ysera Daegella across the flimsi in a script that was half-signature, half-art. She toyed with the flimsi between her fingers like a sabacc card, letting it rest on the backs of her knuckles for a moment before passing it to her sister.

Ysera took the signed flimsi from Kasula, fanning it to let the signature dry the same way she might fan herself during a sweltering Ryloth summer. “Want me to seal it?” she asked sweetly, with a smile that could charm a Gamorrean guard. “Make it truly binding?”

The fan hesitated, clearly torn between his desire for an authentic, one-of-a-kind keepsake and the risk of appearing too eager in front of his friends. “Only if you want to,” he dared to suggest, though his eyes betrayed a longing for something more tangible to commemorate this chance encounter with the Daegella twins, a memory to be cherished long after the night had faded into the hangover that only a Bailiff’s Special could induce.

Ysera leaned forward, pressing her glossy lips to the corner of the flimsi in a kiss that was as much for the fan’s benefit as for the flimsi itself. The imprint of her lips glistened in Rhen Var violet, matching the hue of their Guilty on All Counts—a seal of authenticity that transformed the simple autograph into a work of art.

“There,” Ysera said with a smile, passing it back to the starstruck fan. “Now it’s a document of record.”

The fan stared like he’d just witnessed the sunrise on Naboo, his mouth opening and closing like a gooba fish on dry land. One of his companions slugged him on the shoulder, half-congratulatory, half-jealous that he hadn’t brought his own flimsi to be signed.

Kasula returned the stylus to the fan’s jacket like a magician returning a borrowed credit chit—flicked it down with two fingers, then used the third to tap the flap of his collar in a dismissive, flirtatious way. “Go cause trouble,” she said, voice velvet-smooth with just enough bite to make it a challenge, then turned her back to his orbit of hangers-on with all the ceremony of an admiral dismissing a deck crew.

The rest of the fan club had just vanished into the press of pedestrians flooding Coruscant’s entertainment level when the one in the CEC jacket lagged behind, pausing at the foot of the mezzanine just in time to see Kasula lean over the rail and blow him a kiss with the same hand she’d used to sign his flimsi. He caught himself grinning like he’d received a declaration from the Queen of Naboo herself.

“That one was cute,” Kasula mused, returning from lingering at the railing and settling back beside her sister with a theatrical flop. She draped herself across Ysera’s lap like a contented tooka-cat, one leg dangling over the edge of the booth, the other propped up against the wall where the crimson cushions met the ornate durasteel paneling.

“You say that about all of them,” Ysera replied, absently stroking her sister’s lekku while tossing back the last of her drink in one bold swallow. The Rhen Var ice shard clinked against the back of the glass with a crystalline ping as she placed it on the table, the last swirl of gold glitter clinging to the inside curve before dissolving into the violet dregs. “Exactly what type was this one supposed to be?”

“The earnest kind,” Kasula replied with a dreamy smile, twirling the end of her lekku between her fingers. “Didn’t you see that vintage CEC jacket? Probably saved up three months of maintenance pay for it. ‘Sides,” she stretched languidly across the crimson cushions, arching her back off her sister’s lap, “they’re all my type after three Guilties. I’m just generous.”

“Poor things,” Ysera sighed, her fingers still tracing delicate patterns along her sister’s lekku. “You know they can’t tell us apart. Half of them think I’m you.”

Kasula rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow as she gazed up at her sister with mock indignation. “And here I thought you were starting to show your age,” she teased, tracing a finger along Ysera’s cheekbone.

“Says the one born three minutes earlier,” Ysera retorted, playfully swatting her sister’s hand away.

Right on cue, as if summoned by their empty glasses, the gold-shelled protocol droid glided back to their table, its tray laden with an assortment of fresh cocktails, each one more decadent than the last. “May the jury consider further evidence?” it inquired, presenting a cocktail menu detailing the establishment’s most incriminating concoctions—the Chain Code Chaser, the Corporate Espionage, the Full Disclosure—all guaranteed to leave the drinker guilty of something by morning.

As the attentive server began collecting the row of fallen verdicts, Kasula draped one arm over the booth’s cushioned edge and took her time examining her options, lips parting in delight at the absurdity of the descriptions. “What do you think, ‘Sera? Full Disclosure or—”

Before she could finish posing the question to Ysera, their shared comlink—an obnoxiously sleek thing tucked between the seat cushions—let out a shrill, insistent whine.

“If that’s Kyvo asking us—once again—to plug the Speedhouse,” she muttered, reaching down to fish the device out from the cushions, “I swear I’ll reroute a maglev through his refresher.” Kasula flicked the activation switch with her thumb and tossed it onto the table. It bounced once and settled, casting a soft circle of light as it connected to the booth’s holoemitter. A moment later, a three-quarter-scale projection resolved in the center of the table.

The hologram flickered to life, revealing a Rodian dressed in what appeared to be yesterday’s suit, with mottled green skin and a set of spines that looked perpetually in need of grooming. Tallo Mezz—the twins’ B-list talent agent—paced back and forth within the projection’s confines, his antenna-like sensory appendages twitching with each agitated step.

“There you are! By the moons of Iego, I’ve been trying to reach you for twelve hours!” His eyestalks flicked back-and-forth between the twins and something outside of the projection’s confines while his snout contorted with each rapid exhale, “Where in the blazes have you two been?”

Kasula waved a dismissive hand through the hologram, distorting Tallo’s face momentarily. “Having fun, Tallo. You should try it sometime.” "We’re celebrating,” Ysera added, “the 1139 Circuit victory. You remember—the one that earned your agency a fifteen percent cut?”

“Celebrating? Celebrating? While your faces are plastered across every Holonet feed from here to the Corporate Sector?” Tallo’s suction-cup fingers splayed across his forehead in exasperation. “You’re being accused of inciting riots—violent riots—after that swoop race down in the lower levels!”

The twins exchanged a glance, identical expressions of confusion mirrored across their faces.

“What riots?” they asked in unison.

“The ones all over the feeds!” Tallo’s voice rose an octave, as he tapped a digit against his datapad’s screen. “There’s footage of you two—or someone who looks* exactly* like you—throwing thermal detonators into a crowd of swoop gangs on Level 3412! Then more footage of you both rallying a mob to storm the Sector’s Security office!”

Kasula sat up straight, nearly knocking over the opened bottle of Last Night on Belassa. “That’s not—”

“We haven’t left this lounge in three cycles,” Ysera finished, raising her hand like a shield to prevent the pheromone-laden scent from tipping over. “Three cycles? You’ve been drinking for* three cycles*?” Tallo looked horrified, but a sense of relief washed over his expression. “So you have witnesses? Alibis?”

“More than we can count,” Kasula said, gesturing vaguely toward the crowded lounge.

“More beyond reasonable doubt—so dont get your antennae in a twist over it—'kay, Tallo?” Ysera added, planting her boot on the table with a smirk.

Tallo wasn’t amused. “This isn’t a joke! SoroSuub is threatening to pull their sponsorship. Incom wants a public statement. And Blastech—” He swallowed hard. “Blastech says they can’t have their products associated with civil unrest!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kasula snapped, her lekku curling with indignation. “They know exactly who we are.”

“Publicity hounds, not vandals,” Ysera finished, her own lekku mirroring her sister’s irritation.

“Tell that to the millions of viewers watching your lookalikes trash speeders and lead chants about overthrowing corporate rule!” Tallo’s hologram jittered as he threw his hands up. “We need damage control now. I’ve got three different publicity firms calling me back, but we need to get ahead of this before—”

“I believe the court has reached a verdict on the Reasonable Doubt,” interrupted the gold-shelled protocol droid, appearing at their table without being summoned. It set down two tall, frosted glasses filled with a swirling silver-blue liquid topped with levitating spheres of flavour-injected bubbles. “As requested, with extra suspicion.”

“We didn’t order—” Kasula began.

“When I said ‘reasonable doubt,’ I was talking about the charges,” Ysera explained to the droid, gesturing toward Tallo’s hologram.

The droid paused, its programming momentarily conflicted. “My apologies. Shall I remove the evidence?”

“Leave it,” the twins said in unison, each reaching for a glass.

Tallo’s holographic eyes bulged further. “Are you drinking right now? Did you hear anything I said? Your entire career is about to implode!”

Kasula took a long sip, the levitating sphere vanishing in a cloud of blue smoke around her lips. “Relax, Tallo. It’s obviously some kind of mistake.” "Or someone with a really good holographic disguise,” Ysera added, studying her drink thoughtfully.

“I need you both in my office immediately,” Tallo insisted, his voice cracking. “We need to issue statements, contact legal—”

The comlink chimed with an incoming call, cutting Tallo off mid-sentence. The twins glanced at the identifier and exchanged a knowing look.

“Sorry, Tallo,” Kasula said, her finger hovering over the accept button. “New caller.”

“We’ll call you back,” Ysera promised as her sister switched the feed.

“Don’t you dare—” Tallo’s frantic tirade vanished mid-sentence as the connection switched to the new caller.

Orse Olo’s cybernetic eyes flickered with static as her image stabilized. “Oh good, you’re both still alive,” Orse blurted, relief washing over her features. “Listen, don’t go anywhere public. Someone’s using your faces, and it's—” She paused, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “Meet me on Level 1077. Quadrant eight. Bring your reasonable doubts with you, and for star’s sake, don’t use your usual transport.”

The Undercity Coruscant 43 ABY

A pulsing vibration prompted Bril to tap the viewscreen on the inner face of Sur'eyir, one of two beskar vambraces he wore. It was a message with an encryption signal he recognized as one of many employed by the Coruscant Security Force (CSF), reading:

*Multiple suspects last seen venturing further into Coruscant’s lower levels. *

They are extremely dangerous and should be considered armed. Do not engage without first calling backup.

Images of the suspects will be forwarded to your comms after this transmission ends.

After the transmission ended, a short chime indicated an incoming holotransmission. As he turned his wrist over, a narrow beam of light shone from a micro-projector concealed amongst the beskar plating, and expanded into a colored holoimage of an older Khil woman with muted, slate gray skin and a set of thick tendrils whose ends shifted idly, slowly. A pair of beady teal eyes stared at him with a measured intensity.

“Did you get it?” she asked with a calm, yet appreciably urgent, “The Captain put out a BOLO for you and any other Brotherhood members as soon as reports started coming in.”

“Yeah,” Bril replied, “Elevated police presence is going to make this mission a lot more difficult. I know you’re putting your job at risk by patching me in to the CSF’s network, so, I can’t thank you enough, Ryseni.”

“Just don’t make me regret it, Bril. Find those bastards and prove that you’re still one of the good ones.”

Bril nodded before shutting the holoprojector off. Ever since they first met during his investigation of a museum heist two years ago, Ryseni Thall had been a valuable asset, keeping him abreast of important updates within the CSF and the Core Worlds. And on this day, when the Brotherhood was endanger of being exposed to the wider galaxy, the senior analyst had given him an invaluable boon.

He could still hardly believe that someone had thought to impersonate several notable figures in the Brotherhood and its clans, himself included, while carrying out several attacks across Coruscant. Although they were primarily focused on the Undercity and not the most cherished locales closest to its surface, an attack on the “Jewel of the Core Worlds” would almost certainly draw the eyes of the New Republic. That was the kind of attention that none of them needed, especially when Revenant activity was on the rise again, and the Collective was finally starting to slink out of whatever hole they’d beaten them into the last time they went against the Brotherhood. The Collective and the Tenixir Revenants, he understood, but these “Quantum Shadows” were unfamiliar to him. But one thing Bril was certain of, was that they had help from one of the Brotherhood’s enemies. How else would a comparatively small-time gang confined to Coruscant’s lower launch such a coordinated and ingenious scheme against them?

As much as he detested many of the Brotherhood’s practices, he knew that the fallout of these attacks could put his family, his clan, and his home at risk. The Shadows needed to be stopped, and this situation needed to be contained. Quickly.

Level 1077 - *Smelter’s Hollow*

Upon setting foot on the level, the reason why the locals called it that dawned on him. Permanently bathed in the dim, reddish-orange radiance of distant, barely functioning forges that left the air thick with smog that scratched at his lungs, Smelter’s Hollow existed as a shell of a bygone era. Its forges – once integral to Coruscant’s emergence as a galactic superpower – now existed merely as a means to keep its impoverished inhabitants from succumbing to the bitter cold looming just beyond the warmth of their cherished light. That this level drove the expansion of the planet’s ecumenopolis only to be effectively buried beneath it all generations later was an irony that made his hearts ache. These people deserved better.

-

Bril kept his head low as he walked, the wide brim of his obscuring his tattooed visage from the single photoreceptor of a CSF recon droid that floated by. Police presence was laxer here than it was on the higher levels, but that didn’t mean he could afford to let his guard down. There was too much at stake. When the young Starosta loosened the restraints he kept on his potent Force sense, several locales across Level 1077 revealed themselves to him, buzzing with the energy of innumerable vibrating threads.

“Let’s shake a few trees and see what falls out,” he muttered to himself before setting off in the direction of the first hotspot.

But he wasn’t able to make it far before he sensed something else, something close to an organic’s tone but distinct. He turned on his heels to find a familiar droid approaching him from behind an abandoned turboloader. “Tanako?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, “What are you doing here?” Were it not for how she felt in the Force, he likely wouldn’t have recognized her; her entire chassis had been swapped for something more streamlined, a design that seemed better fit for combat. The mix of colors, though, contrasted starkly with the darker tones of his attire. How would he blend in with a brightly colored droid walking next to him?

“The Princess asked me to locate you,” the droid replied with a lilting voice produced by top of the line vocal actuators, “Now that I have done that, I must escort you to a predetermined location.” She took a step to her right and gestured in that direction with her metallic hand, “If you will.”

Of course Orse was here. He hadn’t expected to see her again so soon, but now was as good a time as ever to, he supposed. What role did she play in all this?

In Transit - Public Turbolift 17-C, Shaft 36-A Descending toward Level 1077, Smelter’s Hollow

Kasula Daegella slouched against the turbolift railing, one leg crossed over the other like she was lounging in a rooftop spa on Zeltros—except this wasn’t Zeltros, and the inertial dampeners were calibrated to the minimum safe standard, in accordance with New Republic Mid-Level Transit Guidelines for Vertical Transport Class-C Systems—or so claimed the corroded compliance placard beneath the ventilation grate that hadn’t blown air since the Clone Wars.

“Ughh.” She swallowed hard as the lift lurched downward, sending her stomach into her throat. “I think the Guilties are coming back for round two.”

Ysera wasn’t faring much better, her face tinged with a shade of green that clashed horribly with her white skin. The nausea was hitting them both in waves—not from the movement—stars knew they were used to that—but from the combination of expensive cocktails and cheap transit. They’d survived hairpin turns through asteroid fields at full throttle. They’d executed corkscrew maneuvers through the needle-thin gaps of the Shaltin Tunnels. They’d skimmed pressure bands around gas giants with the inertial dampeners dialed way down because, as Kas once said, “if it doesn’t plaster your lekku against your skull, what’s the point?” But there was a difference between flying a high-velocity racer with tuned-down inertial dampeners and whatever this bureaucratic stomachache of a transit system was.

“Remind me why we didn’t just fly down here again?” Ysera asked, clutching their half-empty takeaway cup of Reasonable Doubt they hadn’t the heart—or foresight—to refuse from the overachieving server droid back at the Blue Docket. Across from her, Kasula leaned against the opposite rail with her eyes closed, willing the three Guilty Verdicts—and whatever other judicial-themed cocktails they’d had before those—from making a sudden reappearance.

“Because someone said,” Kasula began, pitch-perfect in tone and cadence, mimicking her sister’s voice with just enough smugness to twist the vibroblade, “‘Let’s lay low, Kas. Let’s not be seen, Kas. No speeding through maglev airspace in a branded starship, Kas.’” She cracked one eye open to glare accusingly at her twin.

“That was before I remembered these lifts feel like being digested by a space slug.” Ysera replied flatly. Her stomach lurched as the lift shuddered at the passing of another car. “Do these lifts come with barf bags or do we just—” she waved her hand vaguely at the floor, “hope for drain slots?”

Between them, a Duros in a maintenance jumpsuit peeled back the wrapping on a sandwich held between two sheets of waxed flimsi. The pungent aroma of fermented bantha cheese and what might have been pickled gartro eggs filled the confined space like a biological weapon. He hadn’t spoken once, hadn’t acknowledged the twins’ celebrity presence, and hadn’t stopped chewing with the deliberate, sluggish determination of a maintenance worker on a union-mandated lunch break. His unblinking red eyes remained fixed on the glowing level indicator above the door, utterly indifferent to their glamorous descent into hell.

“We could’ve just commed her,” Kasula muttered, pressing her sleeve against her nostrils. “Told her, ‘Listen, slight complication with our rendezvous—how about you drag yourself up to civilization for once?’”

“Orse? Voluntarily leave her underground sanctuary?” Ysera’s laugh turned into a gag midway. “She’d sooner endure this death trap’s entire maintenance cycle than let natural light touch her skin for thirty seconds. Remember last time? She sent a proxy droid to pick up the parts we brought her.”

The Duros took another methodical bite, a viscous orange sauce dripping from the corner of his mouth. He dabbed at it with a corner of the flimsi, his expression never changing as he chewed thirty-two times exactly—Kasula had been counting to distract herself from the smell.

“Maybe we should have just waited it out,” Ysera continued, swirling the dregs of their cocktail. “Let our agent handle it. I mean, how long could this impostor thing last? A day? Two?”

“Until someone puts a blaster bolt through our actual heads because they think we’re the ones who—” Kasula froze mid-sentence, her words dying in her throat as the Duros’ unblinking crimson eyes flicked toward her, lingered for one uncomfortable heartbeat, then drifted back to the steadily descending level indicator without a flicker of recognition or interest. “You know. Did the thing. With the stuff. In the place.”

The lift jerked to a halt, and the indicator chimed a dissonant four-note sequence. The Duros folded the flimsi around his half-eaten sandwich with meticulous care, tucked it into a pocket, and shuffled out without a word or backward glance. The doors sealed, trapping the odor of the pickled eggs and fermented cheese in with them. The broken air recyclers wheezed ineffectually, doing nothing but stirring the noxious cloud that now mingled with the turbolift’s permanent bouquet of sweat and machine oil. Kasula’s lekku curled involuntarily as the full assault hit her senses.

“Oh, that’s just—” Kasula gagged, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Ysera suggested, then immediately regretted it as the taste of the lingering odor coated her tongue.

“Great advice. I can now taste whatever that was,” Kasula groaned as the lift resumed its descent with a stomach-churning lurch. “You know what’s worse than being framed for inciting riots? Being framed for inciting riots while trapped in a moving trash compactor that smells like the wrong end of a bantha.”

Ysera took a tentative sip of the Reasonable Doubt, hoping the alcohol might kill whatever was now living in her mouth. “Do you think Orse knows who’s behind this?”

“She better,” Kasula replied, pushing herself upright as the level indicator ticked down. “Because if we went through all this just to hear her say ‘I don’t know, but I thought you should know someone’s impersonating you'—I swear I'll—”

“What? Throw up on her shoes?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Kasula pressed a hand to her stomach. “Forty-three more levels. We can do this.”

The lift shuddered again, dropping several meters in free-fall before the dampeners caught it.

“When we find whoever’s behind this,” Ysera muttered, “I vote we strap them into this turbolift for a full day cycle.”

“With sandwich guy,” Kasula added, her lekku twitching in disgust. “That’s a punishment worthy of the crime.”

Although he was careful not to watch Tanako as closely as he had when they first met, lest he appear to a more observant (or perhaps, nosy) passerby as anything other than her owner. That was the least suspicious arrangement, after all. As they walked, he kept his senses open and his eyes peeled for more of those patrol droids. Luckily for them, it seemed like the bulk of the CSF’s forces were handling issues elsewhere on the planet, likely on the higher levels.

“No need to apologize, Tanako,” he replied, “It’s not like I’m not used to this kind of thing in my own line of work. Plus, the situation sort of demands it.”

Bril took a step forward, then stopped himself to see if Tanako was coming with him. But it looked like she had business elsewhere. He continued onward, keeping his head down when passing a man stumbling down the hallway. Once he reached the door to Apartment B, he lifted a hand to knock on the door, but it opened before he could; Orse was standing in the doorway.

“This another one of your hideouts?” he asked while stepping inside. “Things are crazy out there. I’m guessing that’s why you had Tanako bring me here?”

Bril lifted his arms to help speed the scanning along, scanning the interior of the room to get a better understanding of his surroundings. It was fairly nondescript, with a number of half-opened containers of electronics lining the far wall beneath a shuttered transparisteel viewport. Not far from there was a collection of computers and monitors that mirrored the one he’d seen on Orse’s ship a few weeks prior.

“Not to my knowledge, no. But I don’t imagine the Shadows are particularly forthright about their allegiance, so I can’t be certain.

"My contact in the CSF informed me that they’ve issued a B.O.L.O for me.”

“Lovely,” he said, folding his arms across his chest and scrunching his face in displeasure, “Count me in. If this footage ever got out, it would make my job back home much harder.” Many citizens of the Dajorran Confederacy were still skeptical if not downright mistrustful of Arcona, and if holorecordings of one of its most recognizable leaders wreaking havoc on Coruscant ever made it to Selen, the public’s faith in their leadership would crumble.

When the holotape replayed another time, Bril’s eyes widened when he saw the faces of the two twi'leks. “Are those the Daegella twins? They’re roped into all this, too?” Impersonating Brotherhood members, he could understand, but what reason could the Shadows have for incriminating two celebrity swoop racers? What was the connection?

Bril made a mental note of what Orse said. After all, he never knew when he’d need a pair of resourceful smugglers – especially given his work in Lower Korda. “They’d fit in well in Port Ol'val, then,” he commented. “So, what do we know about where the data tapes are being held? Anything on security? Fortifications?”

He nodded. “If we need a distraction, sending them to the bar could work. A bunch of intoxicated bikers get a surprise visit from the Daegella twins? I’m sure that’ll cause a stir.

"I’ll take the guild hall. I’m used to working with those types back in Korda, a city on Selen. I can take Tanako with me. If they’re not a fan of droids, we could use that to our advantage. Not to mention, I imagine she has sophisticated scanners that’ll help in determining if the data tapes are there.”

“Hm. Well, let’s hope it won’t come to that,” he said in reference to Orse’s mention of Tanako’s self-destruct unit. It didn’t take the Force for him to notice the unease the though of Tanako exploding herself brought Orse. It brought to mind their conversation on her ship, where both of them shared how much their companions – one group droid and the other animal – meant to them; if anything happened to any of his pack, he’d be devastated, so he suspected it was no different with her. That alone was more than enough reason for him to decide to do whatever it took to ensure that Tanako made it back in one peace. “Actually, it won’t come to that,” he corrected himself, “Not while I’m here.”

“Also, how’d you know where to find me?”

Level 1077 – Smelter’s Hollow, Turbolift Terminal 17-C

The glow from a wall-mounted overhead flickered in arrhythmic pulses, casting alternating bands of shadow and sickly yellow light across Tanako’s multicolored chassis. The E-XD Infiltrator Droid stood motionless before the sealed doors of Turbolift 17-C, her once-pristine frame now a canvas of hastily sprayed graffiti, mismatched stencils, and street-art symbols in acid yellows, corroded reds, and oxidized blue streaks that clashed magnificently with her underlying chrome plating.

To the untrained eye, she resembled the abandoned project of some passing muralist. But to anyone who knew, beneath the chaotic art lay mechanisms designed for annihilation.

On the terminal wall beside her, Tanako’s SCOMP link was still embedded into a recessed data port, quietly siphoning access credentials, surveillance logs, and floor schematics with the dutiful silence of a droid who believed anticipating need was the highest form of love. The soft clicking of servo-motors and decryption wheels coming into alignment blended gently into the background noise of distant furnaces, and from a small sub-vocal processor came an almost contented hum—a mimicry of contentment, drawn from Orse’s favorite ambient track list, labeled: “Safehouse Ambience 3.”

She withdrew the link with a mechanical snickt, retracting it into her forearm as the data port resealed with a hiss. The terminal screen flickered, then darkened—scrubbed of all trace of intrusion. No record. No trail.

A speck of soot drifted from the overhead vent and landed on Tanako’s graffitied chestplate. The droid paused. With mechanical precision, she brushed the particle away with a sweep of her palm, then buffed the spot with the edge of her other hand until the acid yellow stencil was visible again beneath the grime. The droid did not sigh—Tanako was not equipped with sighing protocols—but if she had been, now would’ve been the moment.

Above the doors, the ancient floor indicator twitched between levels, numbers jittering. The system sputtered, slowed, then leapt several levels at once—overshooting before the stabilizers caught the lift from freefalling into the abyss of decades-old shaftwork. Tanako took one exact step back from the doors and raised a hand in half-greeting, half-readiness. Inside her arms, weapon ports rotated into standby position, and the fail-safe warhead calibrated itself to minimal yield. Tanako had no intention of self-destructing today.

But protocol demanded preparation.

A vent hissed behind her, and the emergency buffer locks cycled. With a heavy groan, the door’s ancient servos began their sluggish pull. The stench hit first—a miasma of rotting cheese, pickled eggs, recycled air, and something her olfactory sensors classified simply as ‘biohazardous.’

Tanako’s facial-recognition algorithms had been running continuously since the twins departed the Blue Docket, running probability matrices against her internal database. Though her infiltration programming should have kept her focused solely on threat assessment, she couldn’t help the small subroutine that initiated what Orse called her “fussing protocols"—checking the twins’ public profiles, running a quick scan of recent security footage, and pre-loading medical diagnostics for possible inebriation treatment.

The turbolift doors finally parted with a wheezing shudder, revealing a dingy car interior that looked like it had transported at least three generations of Coruscant’s most questionable inhabitants. The lighting inside flickered weakly, illuminating the twins in harsh, unflattering pulses.

Kasula staggered forward first, arms wrapped around her midsection. “If I hurl on your chestplate, that’s on you,” she groaned, eyeing the droid’s mismatched graffiti coating with bleary recognition. “Stars, you’re looking extra colorful today. Urban camouflage?”

Ysera followed, one hand braced on the doorway for support, the other holding the remains of their half-melted cocktail. Her lekku twitched sluggishly, like two overcooked noodles. “Just shoot me and get it over with.”

“I am not authorized to terminate either of you,” Tanako replied. “However, I am programmed to carry you to a designated safe zone should unconsciousness occur. Please collapse neatly.”

Kasula snorted despite her nausea. “Tanako, darling,” she slurred, pressing a hand dramatically against the wall for support, “has anyone told you lately that your bedside manner is indistinguishable from medical droid horror stories?”

Tanako tilted her head the precise number of degrees associated with curiosity, a motion she had learned from observing Orse during moments of dry sarcasm. “That is an incorrect assumption. I have reviewed forty-seven thousand, three hundred and two medical droid horror stories. My bedside manner exceeds seventy-nine percent of documented interactions in tone, timing, and implied empathy. I am better.”

“You’re definitely something, alright.” Ysera slumped against the wall opposite her sister, the half-melted cocktail sloshing dangerously close to the rim of its container. She lifted it to eye level, examining the remains with a professional’s disdain. “I paid fourteen credits for this. Fourteen. And the ice melted before we hit level three thousand.”

“And you are late,” Tanako added, her modulated voice devoid of judgment but heavy with the passive insistence of a service droid that had noticed. “Orse estimated your arrival would occur approximately six minutes and forty-nine seconds ago. I have recalibrated her expectations.”

“Recalibrate her expectations?” Kasula pushed herself away from the support beam, straightening despite her nausea. “Tanako, sweetness, if she wanted us on time, she should have sent a speeder with a clean interior and a functional inertial dampener. Or better yet—” she paused, one hand pressed to her stomach to suppress another wave of queasiness, “—come up to civilization for once.”

“Your complaint has been noted,” Tanako replied, her voice modulating to a softer tone that somehow managed to sound both sympathetic and completely unmoved. “Would you like to register additional complaints for my daily report to Orse?”

Ysera swirled the remains of her drink, watching the melted ice spin in lazy circles. “Yes, I would. Log this: ‘The sandwich guy in the turbolift.’”

“Cataloging complaint: ‘Sandwich guy,’” Tanako replied, optical sensors briefly dimming in what might have been the droid equivalent of processing. “I am unable to locate this individual in my database. Please provide identifying characteristics beyond species and dietary preferences.”

“The complaint is the sandwich,” Ysera clarified with a grimace. “The sandwich that smelled like it crawled out of a sarlacc pit after a thousand years of digestion.”

“Ah.” Tanako’s processors whirred as she accessed her olfactory scan of the lift’s interior. “Duros male, approximately forty-three standard years of age, maintenance worker identification badge MNT-4721, consuming a Triple-Layered Hutt Delicacy with extra gartro egg and fermented bantha cheese. Known for its distinctive aroma that registers as biohazardous on sixteen percent of sentient species’ sensory scales.”

Kasula’s lekku twitched with revulsion. “You knew about him? And you still let us ride down in that death trap?”

“I calculated a sixty-eight percent probability of your encountering an unpleasant olfactory experience during transit,” Tanako confirmed. “However, I also calculated a ninety-seven percent probability that sending a more conspicuous vehicle would compromise operational security parameters.”

“Next time,” Ysera tapped the droid’s chestplate, leaving a faint print of condensation and blue residue from her drink, “factor in a one hundred percent probability that we’ll reprogram you to feel nausea if you ever subject us to that again.”

Tanako’s servos audibly whirred as she raised a panel in her wrist and began polishing the spot with an internal microfiber buffer. “Your threat has been logged and cross-referenced with previous threats regarding my reprogramming. I note this is the seventeenth such threat in our acquaintanceship. The statistical probability of implementation remains at zero-point-zero-zero-three percent.”

“Let’s save the programming threats for later.” Kasula pushed herself off the wall, steadying her balance with visible effort. “Right now, I’d like to know why our faces are plastered across every holoscreen in the district while we’re being accused of inciting riots we definitely didn’t start.”

“That information is classified until we reach the secure location,” Tanako replied, her optical sensors scanning the corridor. “Orse has implemented Protocol Seven.”

The twins exchanged glances, their lekku twitching in synchronized alarm.

“Protocol Seven?” Ysera whispered. “That’s the—”

“Yes,” Tanako interrupted. “The ‘everything-is-catastrophically-wrong-and-someone-might-be-listening’ protocol.”

Kasula’s face sobered instantly, the last vestiges of her inebriation evaporating like water on Tatooine. “Who else is there?”

“Orse has acquired external consultation.”

“That’s not an answer,” Ysera pressed.

Tanako turned with mechanical precision. “Please follow me. Maintain a distance of precisely two-point-three meters. Do not speak above a whisper. Do not make eye contact with any surveillance devices.”

The droid led them through a labyrinth of maintenance corridors, each more dilapidated than the last. Finally, they approached a nondescript door where faint light leaked beneath. Tanako extended her SCOMP link, the door sliding open to reveal Orse hunched over a terminal and a tall Zabrak male studying holographic projections of the twins’ faces—their faces, yet not their faces—frozen in expressions of violent rage.

He blinked. “Since we met?” he repeated her words in disbelief. Maybe this was her idea of a joke? But Orse didn’t laugh nor did she even crack a grin. He only felt a little better about it when she told him that it’d only activated when he got close enough, but how could he be sure? Whether a benign, if not a little tone deaf, recitation of the facts, or a post hoc rationalization of deceitful behavior, the bit about the tracker inadvertently aided Bril irked him. “Remove it,” he said tersely while lifting both arms toward her.

The hasty approach of two unfamiliar presences, whom he felt in the Force, caused Bril’s posture to stiffen just slightly before he realized Tanako was traveling with them. After greeting the Daegellas with a nod when they arrived, he looked back to Orse. “So, what’s the plan?”

<@150486303903973376>

“Princess, it appears our guests have arrived in a state of significant inebriation,” Tanako announced, stepping aside to let the Daegellas through. “Their blood alcohol content suggests they consumed approximately six cocktails each within the last three hours. I shall prepare a detoxifying solution immediately.”

The droid moved with surprising grace toward what passed for a kitchenette in the cramped apartment, her combat chassis somehow managing to navigate the cluttered space without disturbing a single item. As she walked, her SCOMP link retracted into her forearm with a soft click, the terminal screen flickering back to life before returning to its dormant state.

Kasula squinted at the tall Zabrak standing near Orse, her eyes half-lidded from the aftereffects of their binge drinking. “Who’s tall, dark, and tattooed?” she whispered to Ysera, nudging her sister with an elbow.

“No idea,” Ysera replied, “but he looks like he could use a good drink. Or ten.”

In the kitchenette, Tanako busied herself with collecting various ingredients from several unlabeled vials and loose pouches—close approximation for the components of what a dubious HoloNet article had dubbed ‘Dr. Drogg’s ultimate hangover cure.’ She measured out precise amounts of each substance, her mechanical hands moving with the precision of a surgeon as she mixed them together in a small bowl. The concoction fizzed and frothed as she poured it into a pair of glasses that looked suspiciously like they’d been salvaged from a cantina dumpster.

“Here we are,” Tanako said, returning to the main room with the glasses held carefully in her mechanical hands. “This will neutralize the alcohol in your system and prevent morning discomfort,” she explained as she approached the twins. “Lady Olo requires your full faculties for the mission ahead.”

“Thanks, Tanako,” Ysera said gratefully, reaching for one of the glasses. “At least someone cares about our well-being.”

Kasula downed the concoction in one gulp, her face contorting into a grimace of pure disgust. “Stars, that tastes like a Hutt’s armpit,” she choked out.“

"How would you know what—” Ysera began.

“Remember that job on Nal Hutta?” Kasula interrupted. “With the—”

“Oh right,” Ysera nodded, then took a more cautious sip of her own drink. Her expression mirrored her sister’s disgust, but she managed to swallow without complaint.

Bril waved his hand in the hopes of catching the twins’ attention while they spoke. “Right here, you know,” he said before using that same hand to gesture toward the monitors currently displaying the Quantum Shadows’ crimes on loop. “Those hut'uune used my face to wreak havoc across the city. To hurt people. So, you’ll excuse me for being a bit on edge.” Although there was some bite present in his tone, he didn’t seem frustrated with them so much as the situation.

He glanced at Orse and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they seem great. Now, about the mission,,,,:

Ysera blinked once, twice, and for a moment, the confident, charming public persona faltered. “He’s right,” she said finally, her voice softer than usual. “We’ve got a problem here.” Kasula shot her sister a look of mutual alarm before turning back to Orse.

“Those aren’t us,” Kasula insisted, her voice rising with indignation. “Whatever you’re thinking, we had nothing to do with those riots. We’ve been celebrating our win at the Blue Docket since the race ended.”

Orse leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. The gesture was casual, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her concern. “I believe you,” she said finally. “But the evidence says otherwise. That’s why I need you to listen carefully to what Bril has to say.”

Bril gestured towards the holographic projections still rotating above the terminal. “I’ve got my own issues with identity theft,” he reminded them. He paused, collecting his thoughts before continuing. “I’ve been investigating a string of crimes across Coruscant, all committed by what appeared to be me.”

Ysera’s eyes widened slightly as she exchanged a worried glance with her sister. “Go on,” she encouraged.

Bril nodded, resonating with Orse’s frustration with the whole thing, especially the methods the Shadows had employed to incriminate him. “Right. Had they done any real research into how i operate, they would have known that I never use blasters. I don’t even use my lightsaber unless I have to.

"My initial thought was that an operation like this seems too sophisticated for a small-time organization like the Shadows to conceive of and execute on their own. After all, why would a gang based in Coruscant target us?

"And then the execution; this is the work of a cleaver, not a scalpel. If they really wanted to incriminate us, they could have done more than wear our faces while using a bunch of Brotherhood-issue weapons.”

Bril tapped his index finger against his bottom lip, eyebrows knitting together as he contemplated the details of their situation. It had been less than ten years since the Battle of Exegol, and although the fragmented remains of the New Republic still possessed enough power and influence to pose a threat to the Brotherhood and its operations, he doubted marked weapons alone, even those used in a terrorist attack, would be enough to lead the battered government to the Brotherhood’s doorstep. Not when there were likely much more pressing matters on its agenda.

He looked to Kasula and Ysera, then Tanako, then to Orse, his expression grim. “What if this is just a smokescreen … something to pull our attention away from what the people who put the Shadows up to this really want? Whatever that may be.”

“‘Whatever that may be’ doesn’t concern us,” Kasula declared, setting her glass on the console with a clink. The Daegella twins moved to sit on a nearby couch, sinking into the worn cushions with all the grace of royalty stripped of their throne.

Ysera nodded in agreement, mirroring her sister’s posture on the opposite end of the couch. “All we want is to clear our names and get back to our lives,” she added, her tone equally dismissive. “Our fans, our sponsors—they’re what matter to us. Not some underground gang’s political agenda.”

Kasula turned her head to face Bril, fixing him with a piercing stare that belied her earlier drowsiness. “So here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him for emphasis. “You help us deal with this mess—get our faces off those vidscreens and stop whoever’s behind this.”

“And in return,” Ysera continued smoothly, picking up where her sister left off without missing a beat, “we’ll help you find whoever’s framing you too.” She gestured vaguely toward Orse and Tanako as if including them by extension in their impromptu deal-making.

“Clear enough?” Kasula asked with a raised eyebrow.

Bril shook his head, unwilling to accept what he was hearing. “Orse’s right. The Brotherhood’s enemies aren’t going to care whether you’re an actual member, or just someone with connections to it. Just two years ago, the Collective snatched up anyone they could who was associated. If this gets out, it burns us and the people who are close to us.”

Bril didn’t know much about the twins, but hopefully that last bit was enough to convey the gravity of this situation to them. As popular as they were, they had to have friends or family they cared about, right?

“And how are we handling exfil if things get too hot down here? My ship is fast. Unlikely to draw attention, either.”

Kasula drummed her fingers against the armrest, her patience wearing thin as she listened to the details of their predicament. There was that name again - Brotherhood, Brotherhood - like it should mean something to them, but it didn’t. Her gaze flickered between Bril and Orse, noticing the way their expressions changed ever so slightly at the mention of this organization. It was as if they expected her and Ysera to understand the gravity of the situation simply because of a single word.

But to the Daegella twins, ‘Brotherhood’ sounded like some vague term out of a history lesson on the Galactic Republic’s heyday, or perhaps a colloquialism used by some distant planet’s population to describe their particular form of local governance. Whatever it meant in the grand scheme of things was lost on them. In their fast-paced world of high-speed racing, thrill-seeking adventures, and carefully curated public images, they didn’t really have time for esoteric concepts like that.

Everyone they cared about? To them, that meant each other—and maybe their agent and publicist, but that was about it. They had thousands of fans they’d never met by name, sponsors who bankrolled their racing career, and a select few who could provide them with the adrenaline rush they craved - people like Morgan and Orse, who understood the value of living life on the edge. Beyond that, their circle was shallow and transactional.

“Look,” Kasula began, her voice laced with an edge of sarcasm as she crossed one long leg in front of the other, her right foot bouncing in the air with pent-up energy. “We get what you’re saying—sort of—but we don’t really see how any of this ‘Brotherhood’ stuff affects us. We’re not exactly ‘joiners,’ so…”

“…sure, we’ll help you out with this whole mess because it’s got our name smeared all over it—but beyond that? Not really our problem,” Ysera added, finishing her sister’s thought seamlessly as she often did. She shot a quick glance at Bril before refocusing on Orse. “We’ve got our own problems to deal with here.”

“As for transportation—that’s obvious,” Kasula chimed in with casual ease. “We’ll take our ship, the Damsels’ Distress,” she declared proudly, as if their ‘getaway’ vehicle had already been decided a cycle ago. “She’s fast, modified for racing and not your average freighter by any stretch. Problem is she’s parked down in the mid-level ports right now—but we can have our agent send someone to fetch her for us.”

Without waiting for a response from anyone else in the room, Ysera reached into her pocket and retrieved her comlink. Her thumb moved deftly over the controls, already dialing in a familiar number as she brought the device to her ear. “We’ll just give him a call—”

“Good talk,” he said curtly, “Now that that’s settled, we should get a move on. The longer we wait, the greater the chances of those videos getting out.”

Bril buried one hand in his pockets while walking toward the door, and used a slight flick of his wrist to pull the door ajar so he could pass through it without interrupting his stride. Tanako wasn’t far behind him, once again adopting the ruse she’d employed earlier, walking with a jerky gait typical of protocol droids lacking state-of-the-art servos.

Once they reached the ground floor of the building, Orse took the lead this time, using the same hotspot map she’d shown him earlier to guide them toward the fabrication workers’ guild hall. But when they were about close enough to see their destination across the street, Orse stopped to address Kasula and Ysera. “Maybe you two should go to the local cantina,” she suggested, remembering her earlier conversation with Bril about using them as a distraction, “We’ll hopefully be in and out, and you can use that as a good place to keep watch for anything suspicious.”

She gestured with her eyes toward the cantina a few buildings down, to their right.

Kasula and Ysera exchanged a skeptical glance—drawn-on eyebrows arched high as they regarded Orse with suspicion. “The cantina?” Kasula repeated, the smog of leftover cocktails still swirling in her head. “You want us to babysit the bar while you do all the heavy lifting?”

Orse didn’t correct them—didn’t bother explaining that her plan hinged on their not being helpful. The Daegellas were too loud, too obvious, too perfectly bad at subtlety to infiltrate a krayt’s nostrils without announcing themselves. And that was exactly what she was counting on.

“Bril and I can cover more ground if we split up,” Orse said smoothly, fabricating an excuse on the fly. She checked her chrono, feigning concern about their tight schedule. “Enjoy your ‘downtime.’ We’ll meet back here in two hours and compare notes.”

Ysera wasn’t buying it. “O-kay,” she said slowly, looping her arm around her sister’s waist. “Come on, Tchin. Let’s go waste our time drinking flat carbon freeze while the real grown-ups play cloak-and-dagger.”

Kasula shot Orse a parting look of confusion and discontent but allowed herself to be steered away. As they sauntered into the cantina, a Devaronian bartender with a mangled horn and a permanently sour expression raised his head, his eyes lingering on their form-fitting attire with a mix of disdain and reluctant interest. “What can I get you two?” he growled, eyeing them like a pair of glossy speeders that had somehow ended up in his junkyard.

“Got anything that’ll nullify Dr. Drogg’s ultimate hangover cure?” Kasula quipped, slapping a credit chip onto the bar with a loud clink.

Bril sensed the concern and discomfort brewing in Orse’s mind with the Force – understandable, but no less troublesome emotions to be feeling on a mission. Especially one as important as this.

“No one’s dying today, Orse,” he said with a confidence that may have seemed unearned. How could he be so sure? “The Winged Goddess watches over us. And more importantly, we’re watching each other’s backs.

"Sure, I can do the talking. Time to see if these public speaking courses were worth the effort.”

Bril moved to the front of the small group as they approached the fabricators’ guild building. It was a fairly nondescript edifice, parts of its crumbling duracrete exterior covered with haphazard patch jobs using metal panels from old cargo haulers.

Standing on either side of the front door were two men: a nikto with leathery, bole-colored skin wearing a dark gray jumpsuit with a single digital scanner over one eye, and a human man who was wearing a shirt entirely too small for his muscular frame. Both of them gave the group suspicious looks.

“You have business with the guild?” the nikto asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

Bril nodded. “We do, actually. I’m wondering if either of you have any experience working with beskar,” he replied, making sure to lower his voice to a near whisper toward the end of his sentence. Mandalorian iron was an exceptionally rare metal, after all, one greatly coveted across the galaxy. His hope was that the men would clock him as a potential wealthy mark, since anyone willing to pay for something made of beskar likely had credits to blow, so to speak.

Back at the Cantina

The bartender grunted, wiping down the sticky duraplast surface with a threadbare towel that had likely been washed as many times as most moisture farmers had witnessed rainfall on Tatooine. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered after a moment, his tone unhelpful. “But I’ve got something that might do the trick.”

He reached beneath the counter and produced an unmarked bottle filled with an ominous-looking sediment. He poured generous shots into two stained glasses that looked like they hadn’t seen a dishwasher in weeks. “Five credits each,” he said flatly, setting the glasses down in front of them.

Kasula tossed back the shot like it was carbon freeze, her throat working to swallow past the burn. She slammed the glass down on the bar with enough force to make Ysera jump. “Not bad,” she wheezed, pounding her chest with her fist. “What is it?”

“Doesn’t have a name,” the bartender replied, pocketing their credits. “Some Gungan brewmaster taught me how to brew it. It’s got enough kick to knock a tauntaun off its legs.”

“Not bad?” Ysera repeated incredulously as she gingerly accepted the glass, bringing it to her nose for an exploratory sniff before taking a tentative sip. Her eyes widened as the full force of whatever concoction hit her taste buds like an assault charge from an Imperial TIE fighter squadron.

Kasula laughed loudly at her sister’s reaction, pounding her back good-naturedly. “Oh come on, Tchin,” she said through chuckles, “it’s not that bad.”

It was almost as if they’d never left the Blue Docket at all—except now, without their agent breathing down their necks about image and reputation, they could indulge in whatever they pleased. The cantina’s seedy atmosphere was far removed from the posh decor of their favorite lounge bar, but to Kasula and Ysera, it didn’t matter where they were or what they were drinking - as long as it could wash away Dr. Drogg’s detestable concoction and bring back the pleasant haze of intoxication they’d grown accustomed to over the past few cycles.

As they continued to drink and socialize, Kasula found herself glancing at the chrono more frequently than she cared to admit. Two hours felt like an eternity when you were stuck in limbo, waiting for others to do all the real work while you were relegated to ‘downtime.’ It grated on her nerves, this feeling of being treated like children who couldn’t handle anything serious.

Why did people always have to make things more difficult than it needed to be? When the large human tried to shove him away, Bril lazily swatted his hand aside before he could.

“Look, I’m sure whoever runs this place wouldn’t be too happy if they found out that you turned away someone with good credits and this,” Bril paused to roll up his sleeve, providing a glimpse of the beskar kom'rk that glimmered in the soft light of the level’s abundant forges. He covered it again and quirked an eyebrow at the nikto man, waiting to hear his reply.

His eyes widened with recognition when he saw the metal. But not just any metal, he’d thought, that looked like the real deal. A sly grin appeared on the man’s face. “Careful showing that off around these parts, friend,” he said, “Plenty of people in these pars would love to get their hands on that. And their not all as nice as me.” He rubbed his chin horns for a moment, thinking. “Sure, I think the boss would love to see what you have to offer. Right this way.” He gestured toward the path leading to the back of the building, not too far from where the swoop bikes were parked.

Well, that was easy enough. Something about using beskar, which was sacred in Mandalorian culture, as a bargaining chip made him uncomfortable; however, their present situation was exigent enough to warrant such tactics.

As Bril, the nikto ringleader, and the droid started down the path, and Orse and Tanako began to do the same, the latter were blocked by the imposingly built human man, who looked down at them both with crossed arms. “You two stay,” he said, his voice taking a more threatening tone as he glared at them.

“It’s okay, you two,” Bril said, lifting his hand in a nonthreatening way, “We’re just going to talk business for a bit.” He smiled.

As they rounded the corner, Bril’ acute Force senses picked up feelings of malice smoldering within the mind of the nikto man; he’d felt this many times before – the intent to kill. He hadn’t been interested in learning more about the beskar at all and, while Bril suspected as much, he didn’t want to assume.

“You know, I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt because I don’t like assuming the worst of people, but you had to go and prove me right,” he said while stopping in his tracks with his back turned to them. He could feel the man creeping closer. When telltale ring of a vibroknife hit his eardrum, Bril spun around just in time to grab the man’s wrist before he buried the blade in his back; then, he rammed his elbow backward into his assailant’s jaw with enough force to stun him before executing a forward throw that sent the nikto crashing into the ground, an audible crunch confirming that he broke something on impact, likely a few ribs. Before the droid could raise its blaster in opposition, Bril had already closed the distance between them and, with frightening strength unlocked with a brief dip into his Force reserves, he snatched the droid’s head (and its neural core) clean off its mechanical shoulders; the now inanimate husk hit the ground shortly afterward.

After tossing the droid’s head aside, Bril quickly searched the unconscious nikto’s coat pockets until he found a small access card, which he closed his hand around before returning to Orse and Tanako with a brisk gait.

“Time to move,” he said while tossing the card to Orse. “Think that’ll let you get inside?”

The large human, upon seeing Bril coming back alone, stepped forward with balled fists. “Where the kroff are theu?” he asked with a demanding tone.

The Cantina

“I’ve heard a lot about you two,” Ce’celia Lathos said, her voice gravel-scoured from too many cigarettes and too little sleep. She exhaled a plume of acrid blue smoke that curled around Kasula’s face before dissipating into the cantina’s stagnant air. The glass of Raava liquor was soon empty—but before she even had to ask for another round, the bartender somehow managed to weave his way over with a refill. He lingered long enough to light a fresh cigara stick for her before retreating—a man who’d clearly learned which side of the line to stand on when Ce’celia Lathos came knocking.

The ash crumbled off her cigara as she tapped it against the rim of her glass, sending a gray flake drifting across the table—delicate as a snowflake, it hovered before landing precisely where Ysera’s gloved hand rested on the furniture. “I saw your race on 1139—the one they called ‘The Crownplate,’” Ce’celia said, her voice like gravel tumbling down a reactor shaft. “You two are naturals.”

Ysera flicked the ash off her glove, leaving a streak of cigara soot that clung stubbornly to the synthetic material. “Thanks,” she said blandly, scrubbing at the smudge with her thumb. “And you are…?”

Ce’celia chuckled—a dry, huff-like sound—and leaned forward. Her cybernetic arm let out a faint hydraulic whine as she braced herself against the tabletop, its claw-like fingers flexing against the duraplast surface as if imagining crushing something fragile under them. “Someone who knows a lie when she sees it.”

She paused to let the bartender pour her another drink, his service unusually attentive now that she’d spoken up. When he stepped away, she slid a datapad across the table. Footage flickered to life—a grainy vid of Daegella lookalikes smashing supply crates while screaming anti-Republic slogans. “That’s not you two… but it’ll take years to prove it.”

Kasula snorted, reaching for her own drink. “So what? You’re the galaxy’s leading holoforensics expert now?”

“No.” Ce’celia stubbed out her cigara in what was left of her Raava, the dark liquor bubbling and hissing as it extinguished the flame. “I’m the kind of scum who notices when a Trandoshan slime like Bhoc Vedmat—fill your tail-heads with that name—parades your pretty faces on every vid-screen in the undercity.”

Kasula snorted, reaching for her own drink. “What does our faces have to do with you? You’re not here karking with us out of the goodness of your heart, that’s for sure.”

Ce’celia let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, ash flakes dancing from her lips. “I get to watch Bhoc burn without lighting the match myself.” She leaned back again, her chair creaking like an old swoop bike frame. “And you’ll be doing me a favor by razing his house of cards. His vault? Fortified. His guards? Loyal to his credits. But… his ego? A karking supernova. He kept every forgery, every staged riot clip, in one place.”

Kasula raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “We’re holonet celebrities, not demolition crews. What makes you think we’d waltz into a gutter-lizard’s fortress?”

“Because this is the fun part,” Ce’celia said, tossing a data crystal onto the table. It skidded to a stop against Ysera’s glass, leaving a smudge of grime in its wake. “Your faces sell tickets. Your names sell outrage. But here’s the deal: I’ve got blueprints. You’ve got starships faster than my hopes of retirement.”

The twins exchanged a weighted glance. Ysera opened her mouth to protest, but Ce’celia cut her off. “I know you’re not saints. I’ve seen your ‘Distress’ waltzing through Black Sun checkpoints. But Bhoc? He’s the real deal—blood, bodies, no apologies. And right now, he’s hunting anyone who didn’t clap loud enough for his little puppet show. Do you want to be his next encore?”

Ysera’s lips tightened, but she picked up the crystal. Its surface was slick with ash from Ce’celia’s cigara. “What’s in it for you?”

Ce’celia smiled—a sharp, cynical thing that suggested she’d been bitten by every promise ever made. “Oh, sugar. I get to live.”

Bril nodded and lowered his stance while the sensation of Orse’s Force energy spreading over him like a veil. He’d only seen Flyndt, his ori'vod’s partner, use it prior to this, but neither of them had had reason for Flyndt to use it on him. The sensation was odd – like he was there but not there at the same time. But now wasn’t the time for him to dwell on the phenomenology of this new experience; they had a mission to complete.

He crept forward, slowly and quietly, listening carefully for the disembodied whispers of his ancestors reaching out from the Force to warn him whenever some passersby was about to venture too close to him, allowing him to shift positions enough to avoid them.

Bril’s eyes narrowed upon seeing the group. Orse was right. Not only were there more than a dozen of them, many of the bikers in that group carried blasters on their hips, and that was only the ones who were carrying them openly. “Keep this cloak up, Orse,” he replied through their mental connection, “the last thing we need is to find ourselves in a confrontation with this many people.” Skilled Force users aside, the sheer number of the people present was enough to put him on notice. He kept his stance low while following her lead. Moving through a crowded building of people who had no idea they were there was a challenge in its own right, but they eventually made it through the maze and, upon reaching the other side of the guild hall, began to explore the backrooms.

The first two didn’t yield anything of interest, just a handful of half-opened crates containing scavenged mechanical parts and the remains of old tools – chipped saw blades, broken hydrospanners, and spent compact tortures were just a few he noticed before they decided that it was time to move on. After hanging a left, the duo found a single room at the end of the hall. Someone’s office judging off of the large desk with papers strewn about it, and a simple gray computer sitting amongst the mess.

“Do your thing,” Bril spoke telepathically again, nodding his head toward the computer, “If anyone comes in, they’re going to get a face full of fire.”

The zabrak stood just inside the door and pressed himself against the wall, then extended his senses outward with the Force to encompass that entire wing of the building. If anyone started moving in their direction, he’d know it.

Smelter’s Hollow, Outside the Fabricators’ Guild

Ce'celia Lathos’s less-than-subtle discussion about burning down Bhoc Vedmat’s data vault had, predictably, drawn the wrong kind of attention. All their talk of sabotage, forgeries, and what would have amounted to terrorism if reported to the proper authorities seemed to pique the interest of the cantina’s more unsavory patrons - tough-looking thugs nursing drinks, scoundrels discussing the details of their latest hauls, and a single Rodian bounty hunter who cast them a side-eyed glare over the rim of his ale-stained mug. It was just the sort of thing someone might listen in on and decide to take elsewhere - namely to Bhoc’s paying ears, if they were connected to him.

“We should probably get moving,” Ce'celia Lathos declared, lighting up a new cigarra stick as she pushed to her feet. Her cybernetic hand’s long, nimble fingers wrapped around the edge of Ysera’s drink glass, lifting it off the table and draining the last of it with a swig, her face contorting into a grimace at the aftertaste. Ysera watched the departure of her drink as if she’d left behind an old friend.

Kasula didn’t wait to see if their new acquaintance was still thirsty. She took a final swig of the Gungan brew the bartender had recommended for countering Dr. Drogg’s notorious hangover cure, its bitter taste making her shudder reflexively like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of thermal detonators. Setting the empty glass on the console with a clink, she stumbled backwards, bumping into Ysera.

Ysera steadied herself against the bar, one gloved hand grasping for purchase on the slippery duraplast surface as she caught Kasula by the elbow. “Easy, Tchin,” she cautioned, rolling her eyes good-naturedly as she guided Kasula back upright. “You’re going to end up on the floor if you keep drinking like that.”

The bartender’s attention was drawn by one of the waitresses as she passed by. She gave the twins a sideways look as she whispered something in his ear, incoherent under the beats of the fizzy club music. The bartender’s face soured, his eyes squinting. He nodded to her and approached the twins again, giving them a long, hard glare.

Just as her sister started to apologize, the bartender - whose face looked like a crumpled up piece of duracrete now that the color had drained from his bright red complexion at the looks these three were begging to draw after a bulletin scrolled across the cantina’s entertainment screens - cleared his throat to gain their attention. “If you three ladies are gonna be on your way, right about now is good. About to be a rancor’s nest right around here. Better yet,” he added with a jerk of his head toward the back of the cantina, “Use the rear exit.”

Ce'celia Lathos led the way, scooping up the bottle of Raava the bartender had given them as a peace offering. Her cybernetic hand closed around it like a vice, her fingers clicking with a metallic tang against the glass container. She tucked the bottle into her jacket pocket, patting it reassuringly as she headed for the cantina’s rear exit. The bartender grumbled, sliding their bill across the counter. “You haven’t paid yet. Five credits for the drinks, and twenty-five for the Raava.”

Without breaking stride, Ce'celia flipped him a credstick. “Keep the change, sweetheart,” she said over her shoulder, flashing a mischievous smile. “Consider it a tip for your discretion.”

It took a moment before it registered with the twins that their tab was squared away, and by the time they noticed, Ce'celia had already ducked into the cantina’s rear corridor, weaving past the kitchen where a pair of cooks stood peeling a batch of rootleaf stalks, oblivious to the two trailing behind her like giggling shadows as they struggled to keep pace.

They fell into single file as they navigated through stacks of food containers, industrial cleaning solvents, and disused janitorial supplies. The narrow, dimly lit passage forced them to duck and weave, avoiding low-hanging pipes and partially concealed electrical conduits. After a particularly narrow squeeze between two shelving units, Ce'celia administered a solid kick with the heel of her boot, which dumped them straight into an alleyway behind the cantina itself. The cool night air slammed into them like a slap in the face, carrying with it every unpleasant odor that lingered in the shadows of Coruscant’s undercity.

Once outside, Ce'celia dropped her cigarra stick into an overflowing receptacle outside the cantina, the still-smoldering butt disappearing amongst discarded wrappers and yesterday’s fried Endorian Tip-Yip. She pulled out another stick from her pack, striking it alight with a small lighter as she surveyed their surroundings.

The twins found themselves facing a section of fencing flanking what appeared to be some sort of storage yard for the fabricators’ guild—a small, fenced-in area surrounded by towering buildings on three sides and a low duracrete wall on the fourth. The space wasn’t very large; a swoop bike could have navigated its length in seconds flat, but it looked like just the sort of place where black market dealers might store stolen goods in between swaps. At least a dozen swoop bikes were parked along one edge of the lot, oil slicks staining the ground where mechanics worked late into the night, patching together ships to be sold to any sucker desperate enough to try their hand at podracing.

Ysera pinched her nose shut, wincing at the smell of garbage that had accumulated at the base of the fence. It reeked of trash—food scraps, discarded packaging, and who-knows-what from who-knows-when. Whatever it was, it didn’t exactly agree with her still-sensitive stomach. She eyed the heap warily, unsure how Ce'celia managed to look at it without gagging.

Ce'celia Lathos didn’t appear to bat an eye at the idea of using the towering mound of garbage scattered alongside the duracrete wall flanking the fenced-in compound for a boost—a collection of cantina and restaurant refuse, rotting vegetables and torn-out seats from maker-only-knew-which speeder model.

“Time for a little workout,” she muttered to herself, climbing up the precarious pile of garbage like a native Rylothian sand-slug scaling a rockface. Ysera watched with a mixture of horror and fascination, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified by Ce'celia’s willingness to dig through the mire like some kind of urban womp rat. The sound of Ce'celia’s boots scrabbling against the walls echoed off the surrounding buildings, punctuated by an occasional curse as she gained footing on a particularly unstable patch of debris.

Every step seemed to increase the stench emanating from the rotting trash, filling their nostrils with a noxious miasma that threatened to gag them. Ce'celia’s foot burst through a soggy mess of rotten fruit peelings, prompting a minor landslide of trash to tumble down from atop the pile. Liquid splattered everywhere, some of it threatening to splash onto their pristine, white boots as they backed away, trying not to get too close to the mess.

“Hey, ladies,” Ce'celia called out over her shoulder, one leg cocked over the top rung of the fence as she prepared to swing her other leg over. “Feel free to lend a hand anytime.”

To her amusement, the Daegellas remained rooted in place—content to let Ce'celia do the dirty work, apparently. After all, she did look like someone who made a habit of hopping fences and digging through dumpsters on the regular.

“What, you two not joining me?” Ce'celia asked with a hint of surprise, dropping lithely down on the other side with a muffled thump that sent a few rodent-like creatures scurrying for cover further into the trash-heap.

“We’re good,” Kasula replied, holding up her gloved hands in surrender. “We’re not exactly dressed for garbage diving.”

“Yeah, and I don’t relish the prospect of reeking like a Sarlacc pit,” Ysera added, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Both sisters were keenly aware they had been Holonet darlings for too long to subject their refined sensibilities to that kind of abuse.

“You got it,” Kasula agreed. “We’ll just go wait for you to unlock the gate like a couple of valets.”

Ce'celia let out a hearty chuckle, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings. “Suit yourselves, princesses,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll just go ahead and unlock the gate from the other side, then.”

The Daegellas waited like two dutiful attendants while Ce'celia went about whatever it was she was doing. Moments ticked by like hours as they leaned against the fence, stifling yawns and checking their comlinks for any important messages that might have slipped past their attention. Ysera checked her chrono for what felt like an eternity, flicking her gaze toward Kasula every time she passed three minutes since Ce'celia had vanished.

“I swear, she’s enjoying this,” Kasula grumbled, propping an elbow against the fence. “Know who she reminds me of? Orse. The two of them would probably get on with the idea of finding something techy in that… mess.”

Finally, after a moment of reminicing, they heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the other side of the fence, accompanied by the soft clinking of metal against metal. Moments later, the gate swung open with a soft click.

“All set,” Ce'celia called out breezily as she sauntered out of the shadows, the flickering glow of the overhead lights casting eerie shadows on her pale blue skin. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “After you, ladies.”

“About time,” Kasula snarked, kicking the gate wide with the toe of her boot. “Thought we were gonna have to start charging for admission while we were waiting.”

Ce'celia flashed her a wry smile, rummaging through her jacket pockets to produce a small, palm-sized holo projector. She slotted the crystal into place and activated it, the holographic display flickering to life in front of them like a miniature version of the guild’s inner workings. The layout of the fabrication workers’ guild sprawled out before them in meticulous detail, with every air vent, drainage pipe, and reinforced wall highlighted like veins on a med droid’s chart.

“Alright, so your safest bet is taking the ventilation shafts in Section B-12,” Ce'celia explained, pointing out several key entry points and service tunnels on the holographic map. “From there, you’ll want to make your way to Sub-level Three via the drainage pipes. That avoids most of the high-traffic areas altogether, since that’s where most of the guards tend to congregate.”

Ysera watched intently, committing the layout to memory, while Kasula studied the hologram from a more abstract angle, looking for optimal vantage points. The sheer complexity of the guild’s design was daunting, but Ce'celia’s guidance lent a semblance of order to the tangled network of passageways and chambers.

“So, what’s the plan once we’re inside?” Kasula asked, folding her arms as she scrutinized the hologram.

“Burn everything,” Ce'celia said matter-of-factly, handing Ysera a roll of detonite tape. “This should give you enough bang to vaporize whatever’s stored in there. I’ve stashed a plasma cutter near the vault’s entrance, just in case you need to slice through any additional security measures.”

Yet despite the ease with which Ce'celia had laid out their plan, a nagging question began to form in their minds - why wasn’t Ce'celia coming with them? The whole operation seemed to hinge on Ce'celia’s expertise and familiarity with the undercity’s hidden passages, not to mention her uncanny knack for knowing exactly what they needed, when.

Kasula frowned, exchanging a dubious glance with her sister. Something didn’t quite add up. Ce'celia had been instrumental in getting them this far, and it seemed strange that she’d opt out of the final push.

But Ce'celia merely smiled, exhaling a stream of smoke from her cigarra stick as she gestured toward the guild’s looming facade. “Trust me, girls. I’ve got some unfinished business to take care of. You two got this. The vents are straightforward, and it’s practically a straight shot from there to the vault. Plus, you’ve got the detonite, and I left that lovely little plasma cutter by the vault entrance. What more could you possibly need?”

“A guide who actually knows what she’s doing?” Ysera ventured, shooting Kasula a worried glance.

With a wave of her hand, Ce'celia dismissed their concerns. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a couple of geniuses, aren’t you? Famous holostar geniuses, at that.” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but it was tempered with a reassuring smile. “Look, I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to shine. Just remember, the goal is to get in, burn the evidence, and get out. Don’t worry about the rest; I’ve taken care of the variables that might interfere with your little excursion.”

As if that settled the matter entirely, the Daegella Twins found themselves staring dumbstruck at Ce'celia Lathos’ receding backside as she melted away into the shadows that pooled at the edges of the storage yard, leaving them standing alone before the towering edifice of the fabrication workers’ guild. Neither of them seemed to know what to make of Ce'celia’s sudden desertion.

“Well,” Kasula sighed, smoothing the folds of her jumpsuit as she regarded the guild’s formidable bulk. “Guess we’re on our own, then.”

Ysera snorted. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘good luck’ like a renegade Twi'lek with a cybernetic arm and an affinity for pyromania abandoning you mid-mission.”

Despite their growing reservations, the twins knew they had come too far to turn back now. Circulating the perimeter of the facility, they searched for the nearest ventilation intake, Kasula unable to shake the feeling that they’d just been handed a live thermal detonator and told to figure out the disarming code.

Ysera eventually spotted a likely candidate - a broad, grille-covered aperture that offered easy access to the ductwork. With a deep breath, she boosted herself up into the open mouth of the ventilation shaft, her slender legs bicycling momentarily in the air before she disappeared from view. Kasula followed suit, hoisting herself upwards with a grunt of effort that earned her a muffled giggle from her sister.

Within, the ducts proved to be a tighter fit than anticipated, their progress hampered by the tight spaces and awkward angles that necessitated squeezing through narrow chokepoints and worming across broad spans of ducting. Every scrape and clang of their equipment against the ductwork sent jarring echoes reverberating through the metal, making them freeze, holding their collective breath lest they attract unwanted attention. Yet minutes ticked by without incident, until finally they found themselves poised before a maintenance hatch that presumably opened onto Sub-level Three.

The hiss of pressurized air greeted them as Kasula popped the seal on the hatch, swinging it open with a soft creak. Beyond, the hum of machinery and the murmur of distant conversation created a familiar background din—the quiet bustle of a facility winding down for the evening shift. Ysera retrieved the plasma cutter resting at Ce'celia’s designated drop point, its weight reassuring in her grip as she thumbed the ignition stud. A brilliant blade of superheated plasma sprang into existence, casting flickering shadows across the metal confines of the duct.

“It’s clear,” Kasula whispered, leaning out past the threshold of the hatch to peer around the corner of the corridor. “No guards in sight.”

With that assurance, the twins dropped silently to the grated catwalk beyond the maintenance access panel, their landing muted by the duracrete decking. For a moment, they paused there, listening intently as the ambient sounds of the facility filtered up through the grates—a distant clash of tools on metalwork, the hydraulic shudder of heavy machinery, and the clipped cadence of a supervisor directing his crew.

Their destination loomed ahead, a sealed doorway bearing an ominous warning label in Galactic Basic: Authorized Personnel Only: Data Storage Acess.

With a final click, Orse closed down the terminal, and the screen returned to darkness. Turning, she found Bril positioned at the doorway, peering intently into the corridor beyond. His back was rigid, the muscles visibly tensed beneath his sleeveless tunic. Something had caught his attention; his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his lightsaber.

“What is it?” Orse whispered, slipping up beside Bril. She readied her blaster, her finger hovering over the trigger.

“A faint disturbance in the Force,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on some point beyond their hiding spot. “Someone’s approaching.”

Just then, a blur of color flashed from around the bend—a flash of white, accompanied by loud chatter and the clattering of heels on the worn duracrete flooring. Orse tightened reflexively on the trigger, almost squeezing off a shot, but Bril reacted faster. With a swift motion, he ignited his lightsaber, its bright beam casting eerie shadows on the surrounding walls. Orse held her position, poised to provide supporting firepower if needed.

However, instead of the expected gangsters or their ilk, Kasula and Ysera Daegella, the twin racers, stumbled drunkenly into view. The women’s eyes, glassy from drink, met theirs with equal surprise.

For a heartbeat, the four remained locked in mutual confusion, the only sound Bril’s humming saber. Then Kasula, always quicker-witted, gasped theatrically. “By the makers! It seems like we stumbled onto the wrong holofilm set.”

Orse let out a sharp breath, lowering her blaster. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” she stated flatly, her narrowed eyes studying the twins. “How did you two get past the guards?”

Bril deactivated his saber, the sudden absence of its glow plunging the corridor into relative darkness once more. “I take it the cantina didn’t keep your attention,” he observed wryly.

Kasula waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that place was dead, anyway. We figured, why sit around at the cantina twiddling our thumbs when things are this dull?” Her gaze drifted over the pair, taking in their tense postures and Orse’s lowered blaster. “Besides, looks like you two could use our help.”

Ysera nodded vigorously. “Yeah, this whole waiting-around-at-the-cantina thing doesn’t really suit us. We’re more ‘take-action-now-and-think-about-it-later’ types, y'know?”

Orse pinched the bridge of her nose. This was precisely why she hadn’t wanted the twins getting directly involved—they lacked the subtlety and discipline for covert operations. Still, they’d made it this far, somehow. With a resigned sigh, Orse motioned for them to fall in step. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well help. I’ll have to retrieve Tanako later once she realizes you’re missing.”

Bril raised an eyebrow, his eyes roving over the twins as if assessing potential liabilities. “Perhaps,” he suggested dryly, “you should tell us exactly what you’ve gotten yourselves into.”

“Later,” Orse interjected briskly, her eyes darting between the corridor and the datapad in her hand. “We don’t have time for explanations now. Stay quiet and stick with me.”

Without waiting for a response, Orse set off down the corridor, her footsteps echoing softly off the walls. The Daegellas exchanged a questioning glance before hurrying to catch up, their high heels clicking out a staccato rhythm on the duracrete flooring. Bril fell into step behind them, his lightsaber at the ready.

As they navigated the winding corridors of the guild, the air grew thick with dust and the smell of aged metal. Flickering overhead lights cast eerie shadows on the walls, making it seem as though they were being watched by unseen eyes.

Finally, Orse stopped before a reinforced door, its surface etched with warning symbols. “This is it,” she whispered, consulting her datapad. “The vault. According to my scan, there’s a pressure plate outside, but I managed to disable it remotely.”

Kasula leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “What’s inside?”

Orse’s expression turned grim. “That’s what we’re about to find out. Stay alert; we don’t know what kind of security they have in place.”

Kasula’s eyes widened as Orse shouted for a seismic charge. She opened her mouth to respond, but the reality of their situation struck her hard. “We don’t have one! We left it back at the hideout!”

Ysera glanced nervously at the oncoming blaster fire, which sparked off the wall behind them. “What do we do then?”

Before Kasula could answer, Orse’s hand shot out toward them, snatching something from Ysera’s belt—a roll of detonite tape. Without hesitation, she threw the entire roll into the doorway, the explosive strip unraveling with a snap, stretching out like a whip until only a few centimeters of adhesive kept its free end tethered to the rest of the spool.

“Now we make our exit,” she declared curtly, her eyes flashing to Bril and the twins. “Cover your ears!” she warned tersely, just before triggering the detonator.