The YT-1300 dropped out of hyperspace into the Ryloth system, and the crew got their first look at what they were up against. A lone Star Destroyer hung in high orbit, its fighter patrols threading lazy arcs across the habitable twilight band. Dozens of smaller Imperial vessels dotted the blockade—customs corvettes and patrol craft scanning every ship that came within range. Getting to the surface unnoticed would require finding a gap in the net.
They found one on the bright side. Tann'la Outpost sat at the edge of the scorched hemisphere, the furthest settlement from Imperial patrol routes—too hot, too remote, too insignificant to warrant regular attention. Echo angled the freighter toward it, threading past the blockade's blind spot. But the astromech hadn't accounted for how savage the approach would be. As the ship dove toward the bright zone, the sun's glare flooded the cockpit and the hull temperature spiked past safety margins. The landing was less a touchdown and more a controlled crash, the YT-1300 grinding to a halt on the outpost's scorched landing pad with its heat shielding glowing cherry-red.
Inside the outpost, the crew found their way to a cantina that reeked of ryll spice and bad intentions. The place belonged to Black Sun. Its operator, a Twi'lek woman named Ranna Tik-la, served as the syndicate's local underboss, running smuggling operations out of Tann'la under the Empire's nose. The crew settled in uneasily, aware that their last encounter with Black Sun had ended with a betrayal and a pile of dead stormtroopers.
Then Echo received a message. Marra Voss had been delayed—three days at least. And a warning: don't go to Lekku. The reason wasn't clear, but the tone left no room for argument. They were stuck on Ryloth with nothing to do and nowhere safe to wait.
The situation deteriorated when Tharal confronted Ranna directly, laying bare the fact that they had been double-crossed by Vorn Dol, a Black Sun underboss on Ord Mantell. Ranna's expression hardened. She signaled her guards. The cantina went quiet. For a long, ugly moment, it looked like it would end in blood.
Then Frenki moved. In one fluid motion, the Besalisk pulled Ranna onto his lap and pressed a dagger against her throat. The guards froze. Frenki told them to drop their weapons, his voice calm and conversational, as if he were taking a drink order. Ranna, to her credit, didn't panic. She offered to call her superior—someone higher up the chain who could sort this out. Frenki told her she could make the call right there, with the blade still resting on her neck.
She did. The contact on the other end—a masked, unnamed Black Sun boss—listened to the crew's accusation with cold patience. The syndicate does not betray, the boss said. It always honors its deals. There would be an investigation into Vorn Dol's conduct. But for now, the crew was to release Ranna unharmed. They complied.
With the standoff defused and an uneasy truce in place, Ranna offered the crew something unexpected: a lead. She knew of an organization looking for exactly the kind of ragtag group they were—capable, desperate, and unaffiliated. The contact was someone called Ola'ra, operating on the outskirts of Lekku. While Frenki and Tharal talked logistics with Ranna, Echo and Thrar excused themselves to the refresher—and quietly planted explosives on the cantina's air circulation systems. Plan B, in case Ranna decided her cooperation had an expiration date.
They had barely returned when Ranna received a call that changed the equation. The organization she'd mentioned wasn't waiting for the crew to come to them—they were already on their way. Desperate for a crew, apparently. Frenki and Tharal settled back into the cantina to wait while Echo and Thrar watched from outside as a ship touched down on the landing pad.
Four scoundrels disembarked and walked into the cantina. Their leader introduced himself as Kel—a Kel Dor, which earned a few raised eyebrows at the coincidence. The group pitched their organization with practiced ease: good work, fair pay, a cause worth fighting for. It sounded almost too clean for the Outer Rim.
Then Echo and Thrar saw something that made their circuits and fur stand on end respectively. Ten stormtroopers filed out of the same ship the scoundrels had arrived on. The two rushed back inside to warn the others, but the troopers were already at the cantina door. Ranna, demonstrating a survivor's instinct, revealed a hidden back exit and disappeared through it without a backward glance.
The stormtrooper sergeant's voice rang out from behind the sealed door: surrender. Kel and his people drew weapons, their casual demeanor replaced with the discipline of soldiers. They looked at the crew—are you with us? The moment split the group. Tharal stepped forward immediately, pledging to fight alongside the strangers. Frenki edged toward the exit. Echo and Thrar stood frozen, their eyes locked on each other. Something didn't add up. They had watched those troopers walk off the same ship.
Thrar pressed Kel on it. The Kel Dor's composure cracked. He held up a hand, sighed, and called out to the stormtroopers outside: "Come in. They know."
The door opened. The troopers filed in and removed their helmets. Rebel fighters, every one of them, wearing stolen Imperial armor. Kel explained: it was a test. A trust exercise. Who would stand and fight against impossible odds, and who would run? He had his answer—Tharal had passed without hesitation, while Frenki's instinct had been to flee. Kel admitted he was disappointed the ruse hadn't held long enough to test all four of them. But he'd seen enough.