Lekku. LOG-012. Krayt’s Teeth.

LOG-012. Krayt’s Teeth.

We meet in a scrapyard bar outside the Roche sector.

It’s neutral ground, with enough droid parts stacked between us and Republic jurisdiction to keep things civil. The kind of place where no one asks what your armour means, just whether you’re going to pay before or after the drink hits the counter.

I buy the first round.

Neither of them thanks me. That’s how I know we’re still on the same page.

Kedo’s Ordo. Quiet. Bigger than I remember. With a scar on his neck that wasn’t there last time. I ask where it came from. He grunts. Doesn’t explain.

Torren’s Skirata. Mouthier. Carries his helmet under his arm like it’s a story he hasn’t told yet. Always moving, fingers, feet, something. Can’t hold still unless he’s aiming.

I fought with both of them before. Small ops. Inter-clan drills. Real fights. Real blood. We didn’t really bond. But we did bleed.

Sometimes that’s enough.

They sit across from me at the corner table while the bar drones hum through static and two Trandoshans argue over star charts in the next booth.

I set down a datapad between us.

Slide it forward.

No fluff. No pitch deck.

Just the facts.

My ship. My command.

Split shares. No leash. No clan politics.

Independent. Clean. Ruthless when we have to be.

“Krayt’s Teeth.” I shrug. “Start with one ship, build from there.”

Kedo reads slow.

Torren reads faster, then leans back and whistles low.

“Merc work?”

“Better than open merc work.” I say. “No cause. No flag. Just credits and combat.”

Kedo taps the table once. “You lead?”

“Yes.”

He nods.

Torren grins. “What if I snore?”

“You get spaced.”

He laughs. Then nods too.

That’s it.

That’s the answer.

I don’t smile.

But I feel it settle in my bones like weight finally shifting forward.

We’re not a company yet.

Not even a full squad.

But it’s real now.

And I’m not flying alone anymore.

It’s a good feeling.

—

The job’s supposed to be simple.

Breach a Techno Union relay tower on Resh’kal. Quiet in, quiet out. No bodies. No tracers. Just a download and disappear.

I don’t bring the crew.

Not for this.

Too many sensors. Too much noise.

Just me, a stealth rig, and a knife I don’t plan on using.

I make it halfway through the lower spine of the server stack before I realize I’m not the only one inside.

—

The lights are off. The hum of cooling systems echo off the walls like a heartbeat.

I move slow.

Turn the corner near the uplink hub.

That’s when I hear it, the soft clacking of keys, someone mumbling to themselves between code strings.

I raise my blaster pistol and step into the room.

The slicer (there’s nothing else distinguishing about them I can make out beneath all the gear) doesn’t look up.

Just snorts.

“Took you long enough.”

They’re sitting cross legged on top of a mainframe panel, surrounded by open junction boxes and loose wiring like they were born in it. Long coat, data cords plugged into their sleeve, one boot off like they forgot it mattered.

“...You’re not Union.” I confirm.

“Obviously.”

They finish a string of code, press a key with exaggerated care, and then turn to face me.

Grin like they’ve already won.

“Trix.” They say, tapping their own chest. “Ex-Union asset, department of unauthorized authorization. Former rank: ‘please stop letting them into the system.’”

“...Why are you here?”

“Same reason you are.”

I tilt my head. “You have a contract?”

“Had one. Company got cold feet mid job. Told me to stand down.”

“You didn’t?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

I lower the blaster pistol. Just slightly.

Trix hops down from the panel with the easy energy of someone who doesn’t care how many ways they could die.

“Look.” They begin, brushing dust off their coat. “You can shoot me. Or we can both take the data, walk out the back tunnel, and pretend I didn’t make a backup five minutes ago. Hm?”

I blink once.

Then nod.

Ten minutes later, we’re in the cargo hold of Krayt’s Mercy, slicing through the encryption like it’s a game they’ve played too many times.

They whistle low as the final packet decrypts.

“So…you’re building something.” They poke.

I don’t respond.

“You’ve got a crew. A ship. Silence that says leadership trauma. Real vibes.”

I finally glance at them, bemused. “You want in?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

They grin.

“Do I get a room without blaster holes?”

I exhale through my nose.

“You get a door. That locks.”

Trix smirks. “Sold.”

—

Nar Shaddaa breathes like a dying animal.

Wet air. Smoke. Lights flickering through rain streaked transparisteel. I move through the underlevels with my helmet off, cloak up and armour toned down just enough to not spook the doormen.

This is a private job. Quiet entry. No blood unless I say so.

The high roller’s compound sits six floors above the club, two beneath the skywalks. Soundproofed. Drenched in wealth. I walk past velvet walls and bored guards, each one paid to see nothing and survive doing it.

The bounty’s in the back room. I know that going in.

But it’s not what stops me.

She does.

—

She’s dancing for the room, but she’s not there.

Twi’lek. Green skin. Tall. Coiled like a wire pulled too tight. Dress cut for movement. Smile like a blade.

She’d almost remind me of mom if it weren’t for the hands.

Hands that aren’t dancer hands.

There’s callus on her trigger fingers. A slight ridge of bone under the right wrist. Old breaks. Combat posture under every sway of the hips.

Her eyes track the room too slow to be flirting.

Too fast to be lost.

I follow the glance, a brief flicker to a compact on the tray. Metal casing angled perfectly to catch a reflection.

And a spoon.

Not for eating.

Not anymore.

She moves like she’s timing something. No panic. No hesitation.

Just readiness.

The target walks in three seconds later.

Loud. Drunk. Surrounded by rented muscle and the kind of confidence you only get when everyone who wants you dead’s been bought off.

He sits. Signals for the dancer.

She drifts toward him.

Her hand brushes the tray.

She palms the spoon.

The killshot’s kriffing beautiful.

It’s gotta be a modified dart tip. A hidden pressure launcher she triggers with a flick of her thumb mid spin. Straight into the throat. No sound. No splash.

The guards don’t even know he’s dead until he slumps.

Then everything goes loud.

I move.

Two guards drop before they turn. A third catches a stun bolt to the gut. I grab her wrist as the place turns to chaos and yank her behind me.

She doesn’t ask questions.

Doesn’t flinch.

Just moves along with me.

—

We don’t speak until we’re four streets out, tucked in an alley beside a trash incinerator vent, my ship pinging a soft lockup tone across the link.

She looks at me.

Sharp. Measured. Still no fear.

“You’re not part of them?” She questions.

“No.”

“You saw?”

“Yes.”

She waits a beat. “You gonna sell me out?”

“No?”

“Why?”

I shrug. “You don’t miss. Come with me?”

She looks at me for a long second. Then nods once.

Doesn’t say thank you, not that it’s asked for.

But when I walk away, she follows.