The cantina on Ord Mantell was a hive of vice and whispers, its dim amber lights casting long shadows over tables sticky with spilled liquor. The air buzzed with the low hum of shady deals and the clink of glasses, a perfect hideout for those who thrived in the underbelly of the galaxy. Clone Force 99, better known as the Bad Batch, strode through the creaky door, their mismatched armor and distinct silhouettes drawing curious, wary glances from the eclectic crowd of smugglers, mercenaries, and drifters.
Hunter, the squad’s rugged leader, moved with a predator’s grace, his heightened senses scanning the room for threats. His tattooed face and keen eyes missed nothing, lingering just a fraction too long on a striking woman perched at the bar. She exuded a commanding presence, her leather-clad frame leaning casually against the counter, a blaster holstered at her hip like an extension of her body. Her dark hair fell in a sharp cascade over one shoulder, and her piercing gaze caught his stare with an amused smirk.
“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice cutting through the din as she sauntered over, hips swaying with deliberate confidence. “Looks like I’ve caught the eye of a scruffy clone with a staring problem.”
The rest of the squad—Tech, Wrecker, Crosshair, and Echo—erupted into laughter, Wrecker’s booming guffaw nearly shaking the table they’d just claimed. Hunter didn’t flinch, his lips curling into a lopsided grin as he crossed his arms over his chest, vibro-knife glinting at his forearm.
“Scruffy, maybe,” he shot back, voice low and rough, “but I reckon you’re just jealous of my rugged charm, sweetheart.”
Her smirk widened, revealing a flash of sharp teeth as she stopped just a step away, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of blaster oil and something sweeter on her skin. “Charm? That what you call it? Looks more like desperation to me.” She tilted her head, appraising him like a hunter sizing up prey. “I’m Captain Veyra Korr. And I don’t waste my time on clones who can’t keep up.”
“Oh, we can keep up,” Hunter replied, his tone dripping with challenge. “Question is, can you?”
Veyra’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the smoky air like a blade. She turned her gaze to the rest of the squad, her eyes glinting with mischief. “How about we test that? A drinking game. I’ll drink you defective clones under the table without breaking a sweat. Unless you’re scared to lose to a woman?”
Wrecker slammed a massive fist on the table, nearly toppling the empty glasses already scattered across it. “Ha! I’m in! I could outdrink a Wookiee with one hand tied behind my back!”
Tech adjusted his goggles, his voice dry as he interjected, “Statistically speaking, the likelihood of outdrinking a Wookiee is approximately 0.003 percent, given their superior mass and metabolic—”
“Shut it, Tech,” Wrecker grumbled, waving him off as the others chuckled.
Veyra raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Big talk from a big guy. Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to back it up.” She snapped her fingers at the barkeep, who scurried over with a tray of murky, amber shots that smelled like engine degreaser. Her gaze slid to Crosshair, who leaned against a nearby pillar, toothpick rolling between his lips as he watched with his usual icy detachment. “What about you, sniper? Too cold to play, or just got an icy stick up your ass that needs thawing?”
The squad stilled for a heartbeat, waiting for Crosshair’s inevitable sneer. Instead, a rare smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his sharp eyes locking with hers in a way that crackled with unspoken heat. “Careful, bounty hunter. I’m all bark and no bite… until I decide to bite.”
Her grin was predatory, unfazed by the threat. “Oh, I hope you do. I like a little danger with my drinks.”
The game began with a flurry of clinking glasses and taunts, the shots burning down throats as Veyra matched Wrecker blow for blow. Her iron will was evident in every move, her posture unyielding as she leaned forward, goading him with a wicked smile. “Come on, big boy. Don’t tell me you’re slowing down already. I thought clones were built to last.”
Wrecker laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m just gettin’ started, lady! You’re gonna regret this!”
“Regret?” she purred, downing another shot without a flinch. “Sweetheart, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Hunter watched the exchange, his senses attuned to the rising heat in the air—not just from the liquor. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting casually on the table as he fixed Veyra with a sly look. “Seems to me you’re trying to conquer more than just the game here, Captain.”
Her eyes flicked to him, dark and dangerous, a spark of amusement dancing within them. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Maybe I am, soldier. Care to take the real challenge somewhere more private?”
The squad exchanged looks—Wrecker’s eyebrows shot up, Tech pushed up his goggles with a muttered “Fascinating,” and Echo shook his head, murmuring, “Bad ideas and worse decisions.”
Wrecker slapped Echo on the shoulder with a grin. “Lighten up, pal! This is gonna be fun!”
Veyra straightened, her posture commanding as she tossed a credit chit on the table to cover the drinks. She gestured toward the cantina’s back exit with a tilt of her head, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Let’s see if you clones can keep up with a real woman. Move.”
Hunter met her gaze, a slow smile spreading across his face as he rose to his feet. The rest of the Bad Batch followed, the air thick with anticipation and the unspoken promise of a night where missions and morals might just take a backseat to desire. As they trailed her out into the humid Ord Mantell night, the cantina’s noise faded behind them, replaced by the electric hum of something far more dangerous—and far more enticing.
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