Rafa Martez

"Right there, right there!" Rafa said urgently, pointing beyond the viewport.

"Where? I don't see it." Trace scanned the entirety of the shaft's wall but could not pick out the place her sister was referring to. To her credit, she was also doing her best to keep the Silver Angel's descent steady.

"Three levels down, with the big disposal bin. You see it?"

"Oh, now I do," Trace affirmed.

"Drop me there, and I'll meet you back at the mech bay," the older Martez instructed. "We don't have much time left."

"That's not my fault," Trace said defensively as she directed her ship toward the spot Rafa found. "I'm not the one who insisted on getting her hair redone after the job."

"Hey, there are unspoken rules in this business." It was Rafa's turn to defend herself. "Looking presentable is one of them. You saw the state I was in after the brush with those Rodians. If I'd shown up looking like that, Leid would laugh me out of this meeting before I even had the chance to pay him what we owe."

"What you owe, Rafa," Trace reminded her.

The elder sister did her best not to show how much that remark bothered her. Their time with Ahsoka had had more of an impact on Trace than she necessarily liked. Sure, the Jedi - or whatever she was - seemed like a good enough sort, but she had managed to fill her sister's head with all sorts of dangerous stuff in their one short adventure together. Dangerous stuff like caring too much about what other people did with their own property, or whether a debt was hers or theirs. Sisters stick together. How were they supposed to get by if they were constantly splitting hairs over whose name the loan was under?

"Yeah, I don't hear you sounding so particular when you've got spending money for parts for this ship instead of having to worry about whether we go hungry," Rafa scoffed.

Trace sighed as she brought the Silver Angel to a halt and deployed the cargo ramp. "I'm just asking you to be a little more choosey about who you borrow money from."

"Don't you worry," Rafa said, her usual confidence returning to her voice. "Once Leid gets his money, we'll be nearly free of any debts at all. Just think, a few more jobs, and then the money we make will be for us; not anybody else." She stood from the passenger seat and made her way out of the cockpit.

"That would be a nice change," Trace muttered.

Rafa stepped off the ramp, and dropped over the walkway rail. The Silver Angel pulled way from the edge before resuming its descent down the shaft. With the credit case in one hand, Rafa straightened her coat before checking her chronometer. She really ought to hurry.

In a light run, she navigated the dingy streets of Coruscant's intermediate levels. She found it to be less seedy than 1313, but it was no Topside.

Rafa peered around the final corner between herself and the meeting location specified by Leid. Sure enough, the human stood at the foot of an extremely vandalised statue with a handful of hired muscle. Rafa was about to step into view before catching herself.

Wait! She had nearly forgotten to deduct their cut. She and Trace had been fortunate enough to finish a job that landed them enough credits to pay off her debt to Leid and then some. Rafa opened the case and withdrew the appropriate quantity of legal tender; subtly, of course. She knew better than to go flashing a case full of credits on this level of Coruscant - or any other, for that matter.

With the money in her coat pocket, she snapped the case shut and approached Leid. One of the minions spied her first, nudging his fellow lackey and pointing to her. The thugs moved between Rafa and Leid, making their respective blasters and bludgeons visible to the woman.

Rafa raised her free hand amicably. "Woah. I don't know what I was expecting, but I'm pretty sure it was warmer than this." Her façade of control and ease was on and firm.

Leid did not respond, looking wholly indifferent about Rafa's arrival. He consulted his own chronometer with unrushed movements. "A minute longer and I would've made good on my promise about your mech bay, Martez."

One thug made herself more visible. She was holding a flamethrower raised and gave it a short puff to get the point across.

Rafa did not let the mask falter. "Well, as you can see, it wasn't even worth your time to load that thing." She held up the credit case triumphantly. "I've got your money right here; all ten thousand credits worth, as promised."

Leid looked to one of the minions and nodded at Rafa. The goon stepped forward, holstering his blaster and taking the case from Rafa. He opened it and briefly totaled its contents. He gave his boss a nod.

Leid actually raised his brows at this. "All right. Well Martez, it's been... business with you," he said, not willing to commit to any sort of positive adjective. He waved his hand for his lackeys to follow as he turned to leave. They all followed suit, apart from one that lingered, staring at Rafa. She raised a questioning brow at the thug.

"I like your hair," he commented. Without another word, he too turned to head off with the others.

After they were out of sight, Rafa released a sigh of relief. "That went much better than it could have."

Heading home, Rafa stopped in an inconspicuous alley to recount the surplus credits. It made for a healthy bonus; not enough to pay off the next debt, but enough to buy Trace and herself some breathing room until they could. She deducted enough to cover living expenses for the near future, then divided the remainder in half.

"That's your cut, Trace," she murmured to herself, "and this is for me." The credits she held in her palm were enough to afford one or two self-indulgent purchases, and she knew exactly what she wanted to spend it on. She drew her communicator and called her sister. "Trace, you there?"

"What is it Rafa? You paid Leid on time, right?"

"Tch, I don't need that uncertainty from you. Of course I paid him on time."

"All right, what is it then?" Trace asked. Rafa could have sworn she heard a power tool spinning back up in the background.

"I'm not heading home right away. I'll see you later tonight."

"Okay, just don't take too long. Remember, it's your turn to cook dinner."

"Yeah, I know," Rafa terminated the call. "When isn't it?" she said under her breath.

Taking a lift back to the familiar territory of 1313, Rafa set on a path that led neither to their mech bay, nor to her laundromat, but to one of her favourite hangouts.

Defean Dream was the only adult entertainment club she knew on 1313 that respected itself enough to maintain an air of class. The dancers did not look starved, no one solicited **** sticks, and the venue did not smell worse than the patrons. It was a nice place, in Rafa's book. She would not have minded buying it, if it had been in her budget.

That day though, she was happy to enter as a patron. Barely four paces past the door and she was already greeted with the familiar visage of the Kel Dor manager.

"Rafa! Wonderful to have you once again. It's been a while."

"Good to see you too, Nis'am," she greeted the other woman.

"Staying out of trouble, I hope?"

"You know that's not where the money is." They shared a friendly chuckle.

"May I presume you're interested in your usual: a private show with Sarel?"

"You're the best at what you do," Rafa affirmed.

“Oh, I’m quite aware,” Nis’am said cheekily. “Why don’t you settle yourself in room eight and I’ll send her over?”

"Right after a drink," Rafa acknowledged. Before she could reach the Duros bartender, one regrettably familiar patron snagged her attention from his place at the foot of one of the dance poles.

“H-Hey, Rafa!” he said, his words bogged with liquor. “Your sister legal yet?” He burst into sloppy laughter.

“Back off, Ardrin,” Rafa answered through clenched teeth that she tried to pass off as a smile. She was not going to let one pig ruin her night so easily. The bartender served her and she made her way to room eight, avoiding so much as looking at Ardrin any further.

Minutes later, she was seated in a private viewing room, sipping from her low-proof drink. There was a chime from the door, announcing the arrival of her favourite entertainer. In sauntered the young Onderonian woman, dressed in flowy garments like she was just returning from a walk on the beaches of Scarif. Her dark hair ran over her shoulders and concealed one eye. The eye that was visible looked at Rafa with desire and mischief. A seductive grin played across her painted lips.

"Dearest Rafa! You have requested me yet again? My, you know how to make a girl feel special."

"Sarel, don't ever let anyone tell you that you aren't," she said, setting her drink aside and reclining.

The grin on the performer's face split wider, tickled by Rafa's flattery. The door fell shut behind her and she sashayed to the space before her audience of one. She made little show of removing her navel-baring top, simply pulling it over and playfully throwing it into Rafa's face.

"Feel like chatting tonight?" Sarel offered with a cute tilt of the head.

"I always want to hear what you have to say," Rafa said, pulling the top from her face and setting it on the couch beside her. She kept her voice sober of admiration enough that Sarel could not mistake its sincerity.

"I was thinking of something a little more give-and-take," the dancer said, putting on an impatient voice. "But since you insist, I'll start."

She played with the tie on her sarong. As experienced as she was, she knew just how to drag out the act without making it look staged; slowing down here and there like she was trying to pinch the right part of the knot. The sways of her hips as she did so made it an entrancing act. The sarong came undone, but the beauty beneath was not yet revealed. She continued to dance and play with the piece, offering glimpses that tantalised. She turned her back to Rafa and with her arms over her head, and held the sarong like a curtain that concealed her backside. Finally, she let go, dropping the blind. It fluttered to the ground like a shroud at some grand unveiling.

To Rafa, it may as well have been. The rotund, endowed ass she was faced with was practically an object of covetousness for her. It was everything she wanted to see on a woman; shapely, ample, and an ideal complement to the rest of Sarel's figure. In keeping with good teasing form, the dancer swivelled, ensuring that Rafa was left wanting more.

"Found a new beat that hasn't been claimed yet," Sarel said in an abrupt return to discussion. "It's got plenty of people itching to get their next nip of spice."

Rafa blinked. "Oh? That's great..." Her eyes flicked off Sarel for a moment.

"Right? Not often that you find unclaimed territory." As she spoke, she went on with her performance, recapturing Rafa's gaze with her backside. "I figured it could make for a good payoff - at least until one of the gangs turns wise and moves in." She turned perpendicular and lifted one leg, showing off her cheek and thigh from the profile. "If you want a piece of the action, I could use a supplier. Interested?"

Again, Rafa was inadvertently pulled out of the moment. Normally, she had a hard time telling Sarel no - doubly so when the dancer was performing - but at that time she could not find it in herself to so much as think it over. She had been to Oba Diah and seen firsthand what the Pykes were like; how they produced their spice; how they treated their enemies.

For every bit of petty resentment she felt in seeing how Ahsoka rubbed off on Trace, she felt twice as much when she realised that the Togruta had wormed her way into her own conscience too. She tried to tell herself that it was something other than sentiment; that avoiding any business that put her within range of the Pykes was simply the prudent choice.

"Thanks, but I'm good," Rafa declined.

"Really? You know I'd give you your fair share." The dancer batted the lashes on her visible eye.

Kriff, she's good.

"Of course I know. You're better than that. I just... need to keep away from the spice trade... For the time being, anyway."

"All right. If that's your answer, then I won't push you." Sarel faced away, widened her knees, and made a display of dropping her rear to the floor before bringing it back up. She cast a seductive look over her shoulder at Rafa. "But if you change your mind..." She waggled her waist, setting her magnificent haunches in motion with shallow wobbles.

Stars above...

Sarel gracefully worked her way up to Rafa, making a seat out of the other woman's lap. There, she carried on as she had been; swaying, rolling, and shaking her brief-clad booty. Poor Rafa was having a time of it. All the hypnotic power of Sarel's performance was magnified this close. Of course, feeling the soft weight of those globes brushing and bouncing against her legs did not make things any easier.

The dancer peered over her shoulder and noted with a smirk the way Rafa bit her lip and looked like she was resisting fresh water in a desert. "I don't usually let guests do this, but for you Rafa, you can touch if you want."

"Oh, please. You expect me to believe that?" All the same, she brought her hands to rest on Sarel's plump glutei. "That you'd hoard this much ass for any one client?"

Sarel looked back at her much the way she would if Rafa had been taking her from behind. "Does that mean you don't like hearing so?"

Rafa's heart fluttered. "Just let me know if you really want to go exclusive."

The dancer gave an amused and somewhat sensual chuckle. "That's sweet of you, but I don't know that you could handle me, darling."

"Maybe not," Rafa admitted, turning her eyes back upon the still-moving globes in her lap. "You are a lot of woman after all." Her fingers sank minutely into the flesh as she gave an appreciative squeeze.

Sarel chuckled once more. "That I am." She emphasised the point by suddenly dropping herself higher on Rafa's lap.

The younger woman lurched, not because the weight was anything she could not manage, but because that desirable derrière was now nestled atop her stirring loins. Her hands were **** to migrate, resettling on the outsides of Sarel's thick thighs. The performer herself leaned back into Rafa, bringing their torsos flush. She faced Rafa with another titillating look over her shoulder.

"So, do you have anything for me, darling?"

Rafa had to swallow before speaking. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, there was... there was a bootlegger I heard about who was looking for someone who could distribute on Coruscant for him."

Sarel hummed approvingly. "That does sound promising." She ran her hands down her form, beginning with her face. She accentuated her breasts by cupping them as she passed, then traced down to her waist where she flared her fingers to follow her legs. Those tender digits paused atop Rafa's own before taking a hold of them and retracing her path.

With the performer's guidance, Rafa was allowed to run her hands up the curves that enticed. Feeling the supple skin under her finger pads, noting the elegant contours of her form, hearing the contented sigh Sarel breathed; it was the stuff of dreams.

It grew even better as the dancer steered one of her guest's fingers under the shoulder strap for her top. They pulled it aside and Rafa could see the material over Sarel's chest go slack as the strap fell down her arm. After some more convenient dawdling, they did something similar with the other side of the swimming top.

Rafa's breath hitched as Sarel abandoned her hands on her thighs once more and reached for the weakly clinging garment. It was very nearly free of her when the shot rang out. The pair of them flinched, violently torn from the moment by the disturbance. It had come from outside their private room.

"What was that?" Sarel asked, giving voice to the question on both their minds. She scrambled off Rafa and hastily redid her straps. The other woman stood and cautiously approached the door. "Rafa, no!" she hissed in warning.

Rafa gave her a reassuring look and proceeded to ease the door open. She could see nothing but the hallway. Spurred on by a need to know, she retracted it the rest of the way and moved into the corridor.

"Rafa!" came Sarel's whispered cry.

The eldest Martez paid her no heed, following the passage back toward the main room. Sarel hesitated for a moment before deciding she preferred to stay with company rather than wait in solitude.

The scene in the main room was tense. The music had stopped and the dancers stood frozen. Patrons shuffled uncomfortably or even crept toward the exit with all the stealth they could muster after three drinks. All stared in apprehension at the group that stood in the middle of the establishment. A small band of armed individuals faced one of the performers. Cowering on the floor, he held one arm up defensively, his mortified gaze locked on the man that stood over him.

The man was a big Pantoran. Armour and gadgets peeked from beneath his cloak. In one hand he held a blaster, raised at the ceiling. Its muzzle smoked from the recent discharge and a matching hole smouldered overhead. His contemptuous eyes met those trained up at him. The crew at his back was similarly dressed with numerous means of dealing **** barely concealed beneath simple cloaks. They had to be bounty hunters. Who else carried that much firepower without exhibiting some sort of insignia to tie them to a particular faction? The stillness lingered as everyone waited on everyone else to do something.

Of all people it was Ardrin who made the first move.

"Welp, I think that's if for me. My ears are ringing and I can't hear the music anymore. Though usually I make it to nine drinks before that's a problem. Oh well, must be losing my edge." The drunken human stood from his armchair, steady as a Trask fishing boat in a storm. Moving toward the front door, he did not walk so much as continually avoid stumbling over. The bounty hunters stood between him and his destination but made no move to inhibit nor enable. So it was that the extremely **** Ardrin bumped shoulder-first into the disagreeable-looking Pantoran.

The man's measured response was to shove Ardrin back, sending him toppling over another chair. The furniture was overturned, leaving the drunk inverted with his legs propped skyward by the seat. A hiccup could be heard from the floor where he laid.

Under other circumstances, it would have delighted Rafa to see the prick knocked around, but there was still a number of people with blasters in her favourite club; and it was plain that they were not in a good mood.

"Enough!" shouted Nis'am, finally finding her voice. "I'll not tolerate this sort of thing in my establishment. If you ruffians are looking for trouble, look somewhere else!"

"Shut your trap," the Pantoran spat insolently. He looked back to the performer at his feet. "Stand up, or I'm dragging you out."

"Absolutely not!" Nis'am intervened. Bravely, she stormed over to the thug to confront him. "No one's taking my-"

As soon as she was within reach, the man hit her with a backhand that left the Kel Dor woman bracing against the bar.

"Bradlan! What are you doing?" One of the other bounty hunters stepped forward to challenge his actions. The rest of the party seemed indifferent.

"Quiet," he demanded. He looked down to the dancer again. "Are getting up any time soon, or would you rather peel your back on the walkway?"

It was clear that things were about to get ugly. There was no way anyone in the club could stand up to the hunters, not in a direct confrontation, anyway.

Rafa broke from the corner she had hidden behind to a sound of frustrated distress from Sarel. She made herself conspicuous, walking with a proud posture toward the group. Having not seen her before, Bradlan regarded her as a potential threat, lowering his blaster until it was aimed at her.

"That's far enough," he rumbled.

Rafa raised her hands to show they were empty. "If I may ask, what's going on here?"

"None of your business. Back to your den," he said curtly, flicking his blaster accordingly.

"I beg to differ," Rafa said with polite insistence. "But everything that happens in my club is my business."

"Your club?" Bradlan inquired, unconvinced. "Not hers?" He jerked a thumb toward Nis'am, still supporting herself on the bar as she craddled her bruised cheek.

Seeing the woman like that, Rafa could only swallow back the anger and indignity she felt. "She's my manager," she said convincingly. "I am the owner. I apologise if she did not show you the hospitality that I expect for my guests." She very nearly gagged on the words. "If you tell me what I can do for you, we may be able to work something out."

Bradlan seemed to buy her lies, but he remained cross and authoritative. "We've got a bounty on this little womp rat," he gestured with his free hand toward the still-floored dancer. "So he's coming with us - no room for discussion." The way he adjusted his blaster arm as he said this seemed as if he intended to do more than simply keep limber.

"You want to take one of my performers without even compensating me?" she said with exaggerated disbelief. Even as she did so, she was kicking herself for being so reckless with a man pointing a blaster at her.

"He's not one of yours," Bradlan asserted. "He's a runaway from a rather affluent aristocrat."

"Alright then, if you're not going to pay me for him, then I'll pay you for him."

"What?" Bradlan did not follow her, but his tone made it clear that this was not his problem.

"You heard me," Rafa said, once again pushing her luck. She set a hand on her cocked hip. "I'll keep my performer, and you run back to your client with enough credits to buy a new one. Sound fair?"

"No," the Pantoran shot her down, metaphorically. "We were hired to bring in this piece of ass, not the money to buy a different one."

"Not so hasty," one of the others said. It was not the one that had objected to Bradlan's methods; it was a droid. The RA-7 protocol droid was the only one among them not carrying any weapons. It stepped forward to join the exchange. "While you are correct, Bradlan, my master did establish that though Ziltare is valued, he is not irreplaceable."

Bradlan looked at the bot, finally taking his blaster off Rafa. "You're saying we should accept her offer?"

"If she has the credits." The droid fixed Rafa with its broad photoreceptors, demanding that she put up or shut up.

"Okay, how much are we talking?"

"Forty-nine thousand credits."

Rafa scoffed. "Try again. I think you've got some wires crossed."

"Experienced dancers are a desirable commodity," the droid explained. "Additionally, my master is particularly fond of this one."

"Maybe so, but I know robbery when I hear it. Not happening." Rafa folded her arms with finality.

The droid shook its head. "Ziltare rightfully belongs to my master. This is not a barter. He will be returning with me, or you will be compensating us for a satisfactory substitute."

Try as she may, there were few options left on the table for Rafa. The droid was right; it and the bounty hunters had all the leverage. Even consideration toward her counterproposal was grace on their part.

"Fine. Nis'am, be a dear and fetch the funds, will you?"

With a hand still clutching her face, the Kel Dor looked up at Rafa with discontent. Whether it was about paying the thugs' price, or about being bossed around in her own club, Rafa did not know. She wanted to apologise about her condescending manner, but for the sake of maintaining the act, she simply held her assertive expression.

Nis'am said nothing as she stood and made her way to the back of the establishment. All present watched her leave, and the stillness that remained quickly grew uncomfortable.

"Can... Can I go?" one of the patrons asked. Bradlan settled a withering gaze on the man and he wordlessly retracted his question.

Rafa put her focus into premeditating her coming moves and preserving her flimsy illusion of standing on equal ground with the hunters. She checked her nails as if the situation did not faze her. She glanced away from them to steal a look at the rest of the ruffians. Her curiosity lingered on the one who had challenged Bradlan. What was the story there? No one else seemed to harbour any qualms about the frontman's approach. The outlier looked to be Zabrak from what she could see beneath the cloak.

It was a few more minutes before Nis'am returned. She handed off the pouch she brought to the droid. As it dumped the contents on the bar to examine them, she fixed her own spiteful gaze on Bradlan.

"These funds are insufficient," the droid reported when it finished fingering through them.

"That's all I- all there was in the safe," Nis'am explained. "We don't keep too much outside the bank."

"Consider it a down payment," Rafa intervened. "You take this for now, and I'll get you the rest when I can secure a withdrawal."

"You will give me the full sum now," the droid insisted.

"I'll give you the first part now, and the second part with a five-percent bonus as a reward for your patience," Rafa raised an eyebrow enticingly.

"Twenty percent," the droid countered.

"Four," Rafa shot back.

"Seventeen percent."

"Two."

"Ten percent."

"Ten it is," Rafa accepted.

"You will have the remainder of the payment transferred to this account by the end of the next rotation." The droid loaded the information onto a holodisc. "Good day." It gathered the credits back in the pouch and exited the building, expecting the others to follow.

"Never going to let a droid handle negotiations on my behalf," Bradlan grumbled disapprovingly. He holstered his blaster, gave Ziltare one last glare, and left.

The rest of the hunters followed suit, with only the Zabrak throwing back one final look on the way out.

Even in their absence, the remaining occupants of the club held still for several moments after. Eventually, they gathered that this was the best time to get out themselves.

Rafa breathed her second sigh of relief for the day.