Whoever holds Coruscant, holds the galaxy.
Whoever controls Coruscant controls the political, economic, and cultural center of the galaxy; whoever controls Coruscant controls the hub of interstellar traffic at coordinate (0, 0, 0) on the standard nav chart.
On Coruscant, dream-chasers from every corner of the galaxy gather. By day (work hours), they chase their dreams in the industrial and commercial centers on the surface—sometimes even up in the clouds. When night falls (after work), they ride the vertical transit lines down into the underworld, dragging their exhausted bodies back to rented pods and returning to the reality beneath the city.
Among Coruscant's trillion-plus residents, more than sixty percent live like this—running back and forth between "up top" and "down below," a whole population of drifters trying to make it. Of course, even the underworld doesn't actually belong to those drifters.
So who does the underworld belong to?
The lords and ladies in the clouds don't care. But power abhors a vacuum: where the authorities don't govern, someone will rise up to rule. Crime syndicates—big and small—carved the underworld into territories and took control of district after district.
Over the past few years, fights over spice-trade turf erupted again and again across Coruscant's lower levels. By last year, what started as petty gang shootouts had escalated into near-war. That didn't just disrupt the underworld's "order"—it began seriously affecting the drifters commuting up and down to serve the lords and ladies above.
Finally, the galaxy's honored senators and socialites couldn't take it anymore. On one hand, they pushed emergency measures authorizing the Judicial Forces to strike the underworld, suppress riots, run peacekeeping operations, and restore order. On the other hand, they tasked the Jedi Temple with dispatching an envoy to the source of the spice trade to mediate and negotiate.
After the Judicial Forces eliminated several of the most flamboyant "uncrowned kings," and after the Pyke Syndicate—spooked and guilt-ridden following the death of Jedi envoy Master Sifo-Dyas—began cooperating with the Judicial Forces' work, Coruscant's underworld finally returned to a level of calm that the drifters and the upper-class elites could tolerate again.
That was why, when Max said he wanted to "take a look around" down below, his mentor didn't treat it as a big deal.
"Which level do you want to go to?" Aayla Secura asked.
"Level 1313."
"Fine. Above a thousand, it's usually not too bad." The Jedi flower agreed readily.
She unhooked her lightsaber and tossed it to Max. "Catch. Keep it on you—hold it for me."
A perfectly reasonable move. A lightsaber hanging off the waistband of hot shorts really was way too conspicuous. Max caught it and stowed it, then hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
"If you want to say something, say it." Aayla's observation was razor-sharp.
"Uh, well, this, um…" Max stammered. "No offense, Mentor, but why do you always dress so… so lightly?"
Aayla smiled sweetly, stepped to his side, looped her arm through his, and purred, "Handsome boy—Twi'lek street girls in the underworld dress like this too, you know."
"Huh?" Max didn't understand what was happening. The tips of his ears went red, and he started talking nonsense. "The underworld on Coruscant can afford Twi'lek women too?"
"Hah." Aayla raised her elbow and jabbed him lightly. "You really know the market, my good student."
"No—wait—I don't—please don't—"
Max's attempt at an explanation was cut off.
"Shh. Enough. If you really knew the market, you wouldn't ask that." Her tone turned calm, matter-of-fact. "Young, beautiful Twi'lek women? They're up in the clouds—places like this Republic Five Hundred Building—where the powerful can toy with them. When they grow older and fade, they drift lower and lower: to the surface, then down into the underworld."
Aayla released his arm and spun once in place.
"This is a dancer's performance outfit. Well? Does it look good?"
"Uh—yeah, it looks great!" Max nodded rapidly.
"Outside Ryloth, any Twi'lek woman you see will be dressed like this—dancer or prostitute workwear, basically. It's become the closest thing to 'traditional clothing' for Twi'lek women. The reason I dress this way is because I want to break the galaxy's stereotypes about Twi'lek women."
"I want to tell the galaxy—and tell my own people—that Twi'lek women aren't only fit to be dancers and prostitutes. Twi'lek women can be Jedi too."
She lifted an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
("What do I think? This is clearly the setting team patching George Lucas's preferences. Too bad the patch isn't very good—logically it doesn't hold up at all.")
"What do I think?" Max echoed. "Do you want the honest answer, Mentor?"
"Of course."
"Then I'll be honest." Max touched his chest and nodded. "I deeply admire your spirit. As for what you're doing here… I honestly don't get it."
"You don't get it?"
"Isn't this just going to deepen the stereotype?" Max asked. "People will think: even if a Twi'lek woman becomes a Jedi, she's still, at heart, a dancer—still, at heart, a prostitute."
A clean hit—straight to the core. The Jedi flower visibly wilted.
Aayla froze where she stood. For a long time, she didn't speak. For the first time in ages, she vaguely felt a chill—and something like shame.
"Mentor."
"Huh?" Max's voice snapped her back.
"I'll gift you a set of Figg Mining work uniforms."
"Ah!" Aayla's eyes lit up instantly. "No, no—one set isn't enough. Give me several!"
"Mentor," Max tried to wink but ended up just scrunching his face, "see? My plan is a better way to break stereotypes, right?"
"Ma… Vizsla—" Aayla stopped herself mid-word, then solemnly gave him a formal salute. "Max Vizsla, every Twi'lek will be grateful for Bespin prioritizing recruitment on Ryloth. One day, Twi'leks will understand, and the galaxy will understand: Twi'leks are not a species that can only sell our bodies. We can be excellent workers. We can be excellent Jedi!" 7
When she raised her head again, she saw Max hesitating like he had more to say.
"Max Vizsla—if you want to say something, say it."
"Mentor…" Max scratched his head. "Just call me Max."
"Max, my good student—say it. What do you want to say?"
"You told me to say it, alright!" Max took a step back. "If I offend you, you can't get mad."
"Go on. Say whatever you want. I promise I won't get mad."
"Mentor—honestly? A Jedi in a dancer outfit, and a dancer dressed like a Jedi… both have a kind of extra 'contrast' charm. Seriously."
"Max." Aayla shook her head, both annoyed and embarrassed. "You really do know your stuff. A student like you wouldn't graduate from the Jedi Temple."
"Good thing I'm not in the Jedi Temple." Max grinned. "But Mentor—I have another suggestion."
"Oh?"
"I think we shouldn't just do outreach to stop the next generation of Twi'leks from going down the wrong path. We also can't give up on the Twi'leks who already went down that path. We should do something for them too."
"How?" Aayla used the Force to pull a sofa over and sat down.
Max stepped forward and, naturally, sat beside her.
"Mentor, you just said the high-end dancers up in the clouds gradually sink lower as they age—down to the surface, then into the underworld. Why does that happen? High-end dancers earn a lot."
"They earn a lot—and they spend even more. They can't save credits." Aayla frowned and shook her head. "A girl from backwater-poor Ryloth suddenly lands on Coruscant—neon, decadence, and indulgence everywhere. How many can keep a clear heart? Almost none. Without exception, they become captives of consumerism."
"So that's it." Max nodded. "Pretty much what I guessed."
"Mentor, here's my idea. I want to set up a Crazy Horse Club. On the surface, it's a club open to high-end sex workers. In reality, it's a union-like organization for high-end sex workers. (In reality, it's my intel station.)"
"I'd hire professional financial advisors (I'll pull people from Lord Figg) to provide investment and wealth-management services to these high-income sex workers—paid services, of course. Teach them to invest, teach them to manage their money, help them save enough credits for retirement."
"And for those who want to leave the trade, the club can provide services too. If they want to start a business and support themselves, the club can teach them how to run a shop (an intelligence node). If they want a stable life, the club can introduce them to honest men from Figg Mining. And so on—what do you think?"
"Crazy Whore Club?" Aayla's eyes went wide. "That's way too blunt—and way too ugly!"
"No, no, no—" Max waved both hands frantically. "Not that—H-O-R-S-E! Crazy Horse Club, not Crazy Whore Club. You misunderstood!"
"Oh, like that?" Aayla nodded thoughtfully. "I think it could work. Expand on it."
"Gladly. Here's what I'm thinking…"
PS: The entire planet of Coruscant is one gigantic city, with a total of 5127 levels.
PPS: Level 1313 is the most famous layer of Coruscant's underworld. In the canon animated series The Clone Wars, both Ahsoka Tano and Asajj Ventress operated on this level. LucasArts also once developed a game titled Star Wars 1313 (delayed and ultimately never released), telling the story of the young bounty hunter Boba Fett adventuring in Coruscant's underworld.
PPPS: If you're interested in Aayla Secura, I recommend Dark Horse's Legends-era comic series Republic.
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