Zayne
Zayne Ryde slouched at the controls of his X-42 skiff, the Stardust Rogue, as it rattled through hyperspace, its engines grumbling like a spacer after a bad spice deal. The ship was a scrappy relic, a smuggler’s haven with a vibe that echoed tales of legendary freighters—corridors lined with flickering panels, a cockpit cluttered with mismatched gauges, and a hull scarred like it had brawled with an asteroid and lost. The Rogue’s interior reeked of burnt wiring and spilled liquor, its walls plastered with holo-stickers of pin-up droids and a faded “Verdis Forever” emblem Zayne couldn’t bring himself to scrape off. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and it had outrun Dominion patrols more times than he cared to count.
He was Hotth-bound, the icy planet a frosty blip on the nav-screen, with a cargo hold full of Moppits—shaggy beasts the rebels needed for some frostbitten scheme. Zayne didn’t care for their plans; the credits were good, another step toward freeing Taren from Verdis’s labor camps. His brother’s face—younger, softer, but hardened by years of Dominion toil—haunted him, a reminder of why he kept running dust. The Dominion’s oppression was a drag, but it kept his business booming, and the rebels paid well for Moppits and intel. Loyalty? That was for suckers. Zayne’s heart belonged to Taren’s freedom and the open stars.
A sudden lurch jolted the ship, the Moppits bleating in the hold like a chorus of tone-deaf drunks. “What now?” Zayne muttered, flipping switches as a warning light blinked red. He stomped to the cargo bay, the stench hitting him like a fist—wet fur, rotting hay, and something fouler. One Moppit had kicked open its crate, its beady eyes glinting as it gnawed on a power cable, sparks flying like a cheap firework show. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Zayne groaned, wrestling the beast back into its crate, its slimy fur smearing his jacket. “These things smell bad on the outside. I’d hate to see one cut open,” he quipped, picturing the mess with a shudder. He secured the crate, muttering, “If the rebels wanted livestock, they should’ve hired a farmer—not a smuggler with a death wish.”
Back in the cockpit, Zayne patched the cable, the ship stabilizing with a reluctant hum. To kill time, he fired up the holo-comm, dialing an old flame—Rhea Varn, a fiery pilot he’d met three years back on a spice run in the Outer Veil. They’d been partners in crime, smuggling for the same shady dealer, their nights a blur of laughter, liquor, and tangled sheets until their paths split—Zayne to dust, Rhea to rebel supply runs. She was a courier for the resistance now, ferrying tech and intel, but her heart, like his, was rogue, loyal to credits over causes. Her image flickered to life, her red hair a cascade, her smirk as dangerous as ever, her tank top clinging to curves that still haunted his dreams.
“Zayne Ryde, still kicking?” Rhea teased, her voice a velvet purr, her green eyes glinting with mischief. “Thought a Moppit might’ve eaten you by now.”
“Barely,” Zayne grinned, leaning back, the ache from Corruzcant stirring at the sight of her. “Those beasts are a nightmare—smell like a cantina’s back alley. You?”
“Running tech to Yankin’ 4,” she said, stretching, her top riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. “Rebels pay well, but they’re a bore—all ‘greater good’ nonsense. You’d think I was hauling sacred relics, not blaster parts.” She laughed, a sound that warmed the cockpit. “Miss me, smuggler?”
“Like a good blaster misses its charge,” Zayne quipped, his gaze tracing her on the screen. “You still charging for these calls, or is this a freebie for old times’ sake?”
Rhea’s smirk widened. “For you? On the house. But don’t tell my other clients—I’ve got a reputation to keep.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Let’s make it quick, Zayne. Show me yours, and I’ll show mine.”
Zayne’s blood heated, his hand freeing himself as Rhea slipped her top down, revealing full breasts that made his cock throb, the blue balls from Coruzcant’s teasing a nagging ache. She teased her core, her moans crackling through the comm, her climax a sharp cry as Zayne’s release hit, hot and desperate, his groan echoing in the cockpit. “Gods, Rhea,” he panted, “you’re still trouble.”
“Always,” she winked, signing off. The ache dulled, but the silver-masked woman from Nabooty lingered—her moans, her curves, a mystery that fueled his desire. The nav-screen beeped—Hotth was close, the Moppits a ticket to more credits for Taren. “Let’s hope the rebels packed a heater, or I’ll be smuggling ice cubes next,” he quipped, the Rogue humming toward the icy horizon.
Lysara
Lysara Vex stood rigid in the sterile comm-room of a Dominion outpost on Jackyou, the crimson sky beyond the viewport a vivid contrast to the gray walls that caged her spirit. The tracker she’d planted on Zayne Ryde’s skiff in Moan Eisley pulsed steadily, guiding her to Hotth, where his Moppit delivery would fuel the rebellion she was sworn to crush.
Her duty pressed down like a storm gathering over a fractured peak, the Dominion’s expectations a relentless tide threatening to drown her. Failure would cast her parents into Kessellion’s mines, a slow death, and leave her to face a public execution, a spectacle to feed the Coalition’s insatiable hunger.
She faced General Korr’s holo-image, his scarred visage a testament to Dominion ruthlessness. “Commander Vex,” he snapped, his voice a whipcrack, “your reports are threadbare. Supply routes are trivial without rebel names. Deliver, or your family’s quaint life ends—and so does yours.”
“I’m closing in, sir,” Lysara replied, her tone steady despite the tempest within. “The smuggler’s headed to Hotth—Moppits for the rebels. I’ll have names soon.”
Korr’s sneer cut deep. “You’d better, Vex. Your parents’ colony won’t shield them from your incompetence. Nor will you escape judgment.” The holo faded, leaving Lysara alone, her breath ragged, frustration a coiled beast in her chest. She struck the console, the thud a muffled echo of her defiance cracking.
In the silence, a tender fracture appeared in her Dominion armor. She drew a small holo-disc from her cloak, a forbidden treasure, and activated it. A flickering image of her younger self danced with her parents on their colony farm—her mother’s laughter bright, her father’s hands caked with soil from honest toil.
Lysara’s eyes misted—she’d been a dreamer once, sketching constellations, dreaming of love, before the Dominion claimed her, forging her into a blade. “I’ll protect you,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread.
The Dominion’s tyranny had stolen her family’s joy, now demanding she destroy others to save them. For the first time, a whisper of rebellion stirred—could she serve an empire that crushed souls, her own among them?
She pocketed the holo, her frustration a simmering storm, the masked man’s phantom touch a torment she couldn’t shake. Hotth loomed, a chance to prove her worth, but her heart ached for the girl she’d lost, for her parents’ safety. Zayne was a fissure in her resolve, a man who lived unbound, and the Dominion’s yoke felt heavier than ever.
“Hotth better have a decent cantina—I need a drink more than a general’s sad excuse for a pep talk,” she muttered, her wry humor a shield as she prepared for the icy pursuit.
