The glow of the privacy screen flickered faintly as Braze approached the booth. The figure inside leaned back casually, their silhouette barely visible through the cheap holoprojection. When Braze stepped closer, the screen shimmered, and the figure became clear.
A lanky Rodian sat at the table, his green skin dulled by years of hard living. He wore a patched jacket that might have once been expensive, now more hole than cloth. His fingers drummed idly against the table, a nervous habit betrayed by the steady, calculating gleam in his black, bulbous eyes.
The artifact—a small, nondescript metal box—sat between them, glinting faintly under the booth's dim lights.
The Rodian didn't look up right away, but when he did, his voice came out oily, his Basic laced with a heavy accent.
"You're not the buyer," he said, tilting his head slightly, his tone somewhere between suspicion and curiosity.
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
"Who sent you?"
The Rodian's hand rested on the edge of the table, just out of sight. The faint outline of a blaster could be seen beneath his jacket, ready but not drawn.
The room seemed quieter now, the din of the cantina muffled by the weight of this exchange.
Braze stood before the booth, his dark hooded cloak casting a shadow that swallowed most of his face. The folds of fabric hid his attire, leaving little for the Rodian to scrutinize.
"I've credits to exchange for the item," Braze said, his voice calm, steady, unassuming.
"Who I am is not important."
He paused just a heartbeat, leaning in slightly as he let the Force ripple outward—a subtle, invisible nudge. His next words carried a quiet weight, deliberate and smooth:
"You do want to get paid, don't you?"
The Rodian's fingers froze mid-drum. His head twitched slightly, those black, unblinking eyes narrowing as if trying to peer through Braze's hood and into the truth beneath.
"I do want to get paid," he muttered, the words slower, heavier. The mind trick rippled across his surface thoughts, nudging the greed that already simmered in his brain. He shifted in his seat, the artifact box still sitting between them, close to his side.
But he wasn't entirely weak-minded. He blinked once, shaking his head slightly, as though clearing away the fog. His lips pulled back into something resembling a smirk.
"You Jedi types always think you're clever."
The word
Jedi slithered into the air like a whispered threat. He didn't shout it, didn't even raise his voice—just loud enough for Braze to hear. His hand, still resting near his jacket, curled a little closer.
"Credits are one thing. My neck is another," the Rodian said, his tone oily and pointed.
"You're not the first one sniffing around for this trinket. There's another party interested. Big money. Bigger blasters."
He tapped the box lightly with two fingers, his gaze locked on Braze now.
"So let's sweeten the pot, stranger. You want it? Double the price—or give me a reason to risk upsetting them for you."
The Force around the room stirred faintly, tension coiling tight. The Rodian had said enough to imply
someone else was already hunting for the artifact, but he hadn't yet called for help or drawn the blaster. For now, he was willing to listen.
Braze remained unfazed, leaning back as he crossed his small arms over his chest. A faint glint flickered in his somber jade eyes—steady, unyielding—as they settled on the dealer with quiet authority.
"My master's patience is short and unforgiving," he said, his tone even, but edged with warning.
"I've little time to dawdle with the likes of you. My kindness will not extend a second time."
With that, he dropped a pouch of credits onto the table. The leather hit with a satisfying weight, the mouth falling open as a handful of credits spilled across the surface, glinting under the dim light.
The Rodian's black eyes flickered down to the credits, the metallic glint catching his attention despite himself. The clink of the scattered coins lingered between them, heavy as silence. He shifted in his seat, fingers twitching ever so slightly, as if debating whether to snatch the credits or shove them back.
"Hmph." He let out a short, nasal breath, part irritation, part acknowledgment.
"Your master sounds charming," he muttered dryly, though there was no humor behind it. The greed in his expression warred with caution. The pouch was real—tangible—and that was hard to ignore.
Finally, his hand darted out, scooping the pouch up in a flash. He weighed it once, rolling the coins in his palm, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
"Fine. Consider this my good mood for the day, stranger."
He pushed the small box across the table, its cold surface humming faintly with energy. The artifact sat there, within reach, the faintest ripple in the Force marking it as something more than mere metal.
"But if anyone comes asking about this?" The Rodian leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low hiss.
"I'll tell them exactly who to look for."
His eyes locked onto Braze's, dark and glinting.
"Now get out before I change my mind."
Braze kept his gaze locked on the Rodian, his posture steady and unmoving. Using his peripheral vision, he set his hand on the metallic box, fingers curling just enough to secure it. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the artifact toward himself. He watched for any sudden movements, his senses tuned like a taut wire, ready to react.
The Rodian's fingers twitched faintly as Braze's hand settled on the box, but he made no move to stop him. His gaze, unblinking and reptilian, stayed fixed on Braze, calculating something unspoken. The faint hum of the artifact against Braze's palm was like a steady pulse, its energy prickling through his senses, alive yet contained.
"Careful with that," the Rodian muttered, though his voice carried no real concern. It was more of a parting shot, a hint of something unsaid.
"Not everything that shines is worth the trouble."
The silence between them stretched as Braze slid the box off the table. Around them, the cantina's hum returned—laughter, muffled music, and the occasional thud of footsteps against metal grates—but it all felt far away now, as if the air had thickened around their booth.
The Rodian leaned back, a lazy attempt to feign indifference, though the faint sheen of sweat on his brow betrayed his unease. His hand drifted a little closer to his coat, hovering near where Braze had glimpsed the outline of the blaster.
"Go on, then," the Rodian said, voice low and flat.
"Before your luck runs out."
The words felt less like advice and more like an omen.
Braze wasted no time. The moment the box was secure in his grasp, he turned on his heel, his dark cloak sweeping close behind him as he moved to leave. His steps were measured but swift, threading him through the narrow walkway that led out of the booth.
The Rodian said nothing as Braze left, though the weight of his stare burned against his back.
