Ord Mantell, Bright Jewel Sector, Mid Rim
Early morning a few kilometers outside the main settlement
Mirage leans against the peeling wall of an abandoned trading post, her scarf pulled up to shield her face from the biting desert wind. She drops her scarf and takes a slow sip from her flask, feeling the burn of the sharp, smoky liquor rolling over her tongue as she surveys the rough landscape of Ord Mantell. The scent of scorched metal and distant engine fuel hangs heavy in the dry air. Every breeze sends another fine layer of grit skittering against her sage green scarf, sneaking into the folds of her clothes and stinging her cheeks.
The sounds are never still. Every few moments, the grinding whir of old machinery or the distant hiss of a garbage compactor echo across the plains, mixing with the low hum of voices from the nearby settlement. Even the wind carries a metallic tang, and Mirage catches herself squinting against it, feeling the fine dust settle onto her lips with every gust. She can feel Ord Mantell’s gritty wear and tear, each scrape on her worn armorweave plate serving as a reminder of the planet’s rough charm.
Her liquor, a blend she’d made, masks the bitter aftertaste of survival rations and warms her insides. With every sip, she lets the quiet burn steady her focus as she watches the man across from her. He’s a tall Devaronian named Voss. He carefully glances around before meeting her gaze. His red eyes, always darting and suspicious, seem especially shifty this morning.
Voss clears his throat and lowers his voice, “I need someone… discreet. Out there, on that ice-covered hell planet, things don’t always get finished the way they should.”
Mirage raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. “And what’s unfinished out there, exactly? You’re not bringing me some multi-week run, are you?”
Voss chuckles nervously, scratching at his neck. “Nothing glamorous, Mirage. It’s just… a cleanup. A little trouble got left behind on Anteevy when my crew had to evacuate fast.” He pauses, gauging her reaction, and adds, “The locals are few and… uninvolved. You’d only have one, maybe two people to deal with, tops. It’s just that the… uh, subject’s a little paranoid. And he’s got this—”
“Hold on,” Mirage interrupts, tilting her head as she sizes him up. “You want me to clean up a loose end on some near-empty rock? And what—there’s no backup, no one waiting if things go sideways?” Her tone drips with mock outrage, but there’s a flicker of genuine curiosity in her eyes.
She takes another swig.
Voss shrugs, forcing a grin. “That’s why I came to you, Mirage. If there’s anyone who can handle themselves alone out there, it’s you.” He leans in, trying to sound confident. “Look, the pay’s decent, and you won’t be watched. In and out, easy credits.”
Mirage narrows her eyes. “Fine, Voss. But if your ‘subject’ turns out to be anything more than an easy payday, I’ll be back here. And you better hope you’re not.”
Voss chuckles nervously, scratching the back of his neck, “Hey, if there’s anyone who can handle a lone target, it’s you. I’ll be waiting for good news and credits ready, of course.”
“Yea, you said that already Voss,” Mirage replies.
The wind whips around them as she gives him a slow, appraising look. Finally, with a lazy shrug, she pushes off the wall.
She gives him a parting nod, pockets her flask and strolls over to her BARC speeder nearby. The paint is worn, stripped down to bare metal in places from years of hard use and desert grit, but it purrs to life with a satisfying growl. In one smooth motion, she swings her leg over, leaning forward as she guns the throttle. The speeder rockets forward, kicking up dust as she disappears into the desert, leaving Voss in the swirling sand.
Later that day aboard the YTS-40
A short ride later, she’s back at her YTS-40, its monstrous and rugged frame leering just outside the sprawling settlement. It's massive form nearly casting a shadow over the hill it's landed behind. She pulls the speeder onto a lowered cargo elevator in the ship's belly cargo deck. Jumping off, she hits the ‘raise’ button and it grinds slowly upwards towards the hull. Inside the main cargo deck. She checks the near-empty deck riddled with empty supply crates and stand-in dividers.
Mirage walks to another lift and presses the button for 'Operations Deck'. She ascends from the dark cargo bay into the bright and clinically white lighting of the Operations deck. The crew stands waiting: Raul, her loadmaster, with his arms crossed; Graves, ever-skeptical, leaning against the wall; and Fargo, relaxing in a hammock hanging from the ceiling.
Mirage steps off the lift, flicking some sand off her scarf. “We got a job,” she announces, her voice a mix of confidence and exhaustion.
Raul raises an eyebrow. “Cargo run, or the other kind?”
“The other kind,” Mirage says. “You three’ll watch the ship while I’m dropped off. This one’s a solo visit to some backwater. No one will see us, and no cargo setup is needed,” she flicks her eyes toward Graves and Fargo. “Keep her ready for a quick pickup, in case things get loud.”
Graves and Fargo exchange a glance, but both nod, giving her the usual half-grins that say they’re ready for anything before heading off to their respective duties. Raul’s gaze lingers a little longer, more curious than concerned.
“You sure this is worth it?” Raul asks, voice low.
Mirage shrugs. “As much as any of them.”
“You smell like booze. Take it easy before the job. You’ll need to focus,” Raul warns.
Mirage grabs her flask and takes a sip, offering it to Raul after. He rolls his eyes and grabs it from her, drinking some himself before handing it back.
“Not a bad batch,” he says.
She smiles at him, “I’m not done yet. I need to stop by the guild lodge and check for a contract in the same sector. Those repairs we made were costly and someone’s gotta earn that back. We’ll need a bigger contract than normal too. Voss is only paying a small sum but it’s a direct bid, so no split with the guild.”
Raul eyes her, “A bigger contract than normal? Mirage, if you have to use the relic it could be very bad for us.”
“I won’t need to use it Raul. Calm down.”
“That’s what you said last time,” he sighs.
She turns away and heads towards the lift again, this time to the Habitation deck, one deck higher.
She yells down the hall beforehand, “Raul! Take us to just outside the port and fill her up! I’m going to shower!”
I want to make a good impression. She thinks to herself.
The lift slows to a halt on Habitation, the comfortable yellow hue warming the space nicely. The padded leather-trimmed walls, worn from years without cleaning. She walks from the lift towards the stern of the ship, through the open lounge and kitchen, to the crew hall. At the end of the crew hall are a few larger rooms with placard-labelled doors. Mirage gets to her's and stares at the label that has been taped over and hand-written, 'Mirage'. She walks into her room and closes the door behind her, then gathers her things for the refresher. At the corner of her room is another doorway that leads into her personal refresher unit. Mirage walks up to a comm-link on the wall and presses the overhead.
“Fargo, clean the ship over the next few days, please. I can’t stand this anymore,” Mirage's voice chirps over the speakers throughout the whole ship.
A pause, then the speakers respond.
“Yes sir— Could Graves and I head to the cantina while you are at the lodge? We want to grab a quick drink before we leave for the next few weeks,” Fargo requests sheepishly.
Mirage listens to his inflection. Nervous— most likely put up to this from Graves. She nods once.
"Affirmative," she replies.
“Thank you sir.”
The ship hums to life as Raul takes the controls.
Refresher Unit
Mirage steps into her refresher unit, sighing as the door slides shut, sealing her off from the grit and noise of her day. She undresses and walks into the shower. Twisting the knob to make the hot water cascade down. It fills the space with steam that softens the edges of the metal walls and erases the wear and grime of Ord Mantell. As the water pours over her, it’s almost a meditative experience, the warmth working through the knots in her shoulders and tracing over old scars and new scrapes alike.
She tilts her head back, closing her eyes as the heat pulls the tension from her face and neck, rinsing away the thin layer of sweat and ash that had clung to her skin for days. The steady, rhythmic beat of the water drowns out every other sound, a soft thunder that silences the constant buzz of the ship, the weight of the upcoming job, and the clamor of the Guild Hall she’ll soon walk into. For now, there’s nothing but the quiet sanctuary of the shower. She lathers her hair, smelling the simple, herbal scent of the cleanser she prefers—something refreshing and grounding, a faint reminder of a time before bounty work, back when things were simpler. Back at the temple. She lets her mind go blank, losing herself in the soothing feel of her fingers running through her hair. Finally, she lets the last of the soap swirl down the drain, rinsing away the remaining traces of her last job, her last worry.
She finally steps out, wrapping herself in a towel and breathing in the clean, steamy air, she feels lighter, her body and mind refreshed. For the first time in days, Mirage feels ready. She’s calm, collected, and a little more herself. She puts on her clothes and straps her Firepuncher to her back. Double checks that her A-180 blaster pistol is on full display on her hip before heading to the Operations deck.
The ship touches down. Dust kicks up as its massive frame displaces the air. Mirage lowers the personnel ramp on the port side of Operations. The heat rushes up as she walks down, Graves and Fargo lowering the cargo elevator behind her. They attach the sidecar to the BARC speeder and power it on. Graves throttles forward and Fargo waves at Mirage as they pass her, dust shooting out behind it. A ship fueling attendant pulls up in a modified land speeder.
“Fuel and supplies?” the droid asks.
“Just fuel,” Mirage states.
The droid starts to hook up a line. Mirage heads into the settlement on foot. This lodge is just inside the main gate.
Inside the Guild Lodge
She stands in line, fishing out her flask from under her chest plate and shakes it. Empty. She sighs. The lodge is unusually full today. The guild even fronted a bartender for the members. This definitely means new contracts.
“Hey Mirage,” the bondsmen at the window greets.
“Targin,” she retorts.
The bondsman before her is a wiry human not unlike Voss. Not as tall but way more confident. Too confident. Mirage crosses her arms, taking in a breath through her nose as the bondsman shuffles up. Her heightened sense of smell, catches every layer of his curated scent, painting a mental picture before he even speaks.
First, there’s the sharp sweetness of an artificial cologne, a bit too cloying, like he doused himself to cover something less palatable. Beneath it, the faded musk of old sweat lingers, just noticeable enough to betray that he’s been huddled in dim offices far longer than he’d admit. A faint trace of smoke mingles with the smell, its bitter edge suggesting a lifetime of secondhand lounges and smoky dealings.
As he steps closer, she picks up on the polished leather, almost too new, likely his gloves or the freshly shined boots that he thinks lend him an air of authority. But the scent of antiseptic lingers underneath, betraying a habit of dousing his hands with sanitizers after he touches anything or anyone, a sign he’s been handling his fair share of unsavory transfers. Mirage senses a faint hint of metal cleaner or oil as well, a telltale trace of the bounty equipment he tries to distance himself from but that remains part of his daily life.
Mirage pieces together a portrait of the bondsman: a man meticulously preened but marinated in the underworld. He might look well-kept, but his scent tells her that he’s neck-deep in shady deals, hustling to maintain a respectable facade over an endless grind of grime and backroom negotiations.
“You smell nice Mirage. Dinner tonight?” He asks leaning towards the window.
“You couldn’t wait to ask until after we talked business?” she groans.
“I’ve been rehearsing for an hour. I saw your ship come in and duck behind the canyon. Name another bounty hunter in a ship that size. What is it? Same size as a CR-90? Knew it was you when you crossed the horizon, literally the moment you crossed,” he leans closer and puts his hands under his chin.
“Don't be stupid. It's larger than a CR-90 in every way that matters. Just not longer," she tilts her head to the side, waiting for the expected response.
"That's what I like to hear. It's about how you use it. Not the length," Targin grins.
She rolls her eyes, "I need closed contracts. I need one in sector P7. I’m willing to do something more difficult. What you got Targin?”
“Hmm. I have one but it’s not the same sector. Next one over, Q7. Sylar Saris. Delivery. Breathing air or pushing daisies. He knows we’re coming and will most likely be entrenched. It’s a fun one. Toxic air, known bunker dweller, multiple high-profile kills, the works. Fifteen percent my cut. You take sixty-five.”
“I’ll take it,” she pats the window bar top and turns to leave.
“Mirage, make sure the Guild gets their cut from Voss’ contract,” Targin slyly remarks while playing with his fingernails.
Mirage stops walking and doesn’t turn around. After a brief pause, she continues out the door.
“It’s a big ship, Mirage!” he shouts behind her.
Back aboard the YTS-40
Graves and Fargo are working on cleaning the hallways as Mirage boards via the ramp. They are buzzing, joking around and pushing each other back and forth.
“Have a good time boys?” she asks.
They stand straight and smile at her.
“Good,” she smiles back.
She takes the lift to the crew quarters and walks down the center hall. Raul is relaxing on his bunk, reading a tabloid with his door open. She leans around the edge of the door and smirks at him.
“Need a favor. Go buy four environmental suits and a case a beer,” she grins, “Make it two cases.”
Raul raises an eyebrow and climbs out of his bunk, pushing her lightly to the side. He grabs his bag.
As he’s walking down the hall, Mirage looks at him while she leans on the wall and says, “Oh yea, I’m going to use the relic.”
He stops and hangs his head low — “Shit.”
Continue Hyperspace
