File: NØVA//CITADEL-OP/ARK-ONE
Encryption: Astra-0 | Quantum Cascade
Failsafe Route: Auto-dispatch → "PeachFuzz_Beta"
(Her jaw ticks when she says it. She still hates that she coded it that way.)
The holofeed boots with a distortion ripple — so overloaded with encryption that the image lags, smearing into neon static before resolving two full seconds later.
When it clears:
Concrete room.
Cold walls.
Cold light.
Nøva sits on the edge of a cot, boots half-laced, teal hair a riot of static-charged tangles. One optic blazes brighter — freshly recalibrated, still running hot. She's got that expression she only gets when she wakes up in pain:
Not rage.
Not fear.
Just that slow, simmering, kill-the-day-before-it-kills-me kind of pissed.
Time-stamp: "Whatever ungodly hour my nerves decided to riot."
…
…
"Alright. Wake up, Nøva. Hololog time. Let's do this before the adrenaline wears off and I start making good decisions."
She stretches her arm; servos clack—someone's stiff, someone's pissed.
"So. Job came in. Big one. Mando big. The kind where most sane people go, 'nah, not worth getting vaporized over.' Guess which category I don't belong in."
Eye-roll.
"Target: a drifting fortress—yeah, that Citadel-class monster. Retrofitted, armored like an ego with abandonment issues. The Ark. Mando outpost, semi-nomadic, very private. Not volcanic ridge, not system-side—this thing floats. Like a damn myth with coordinates."
She snorts, dragging another hit.
"Objective's twofold:
"It's a burglary job wrapped in a recon job wrapped in a suicide job. Real cute."
Pause. She adjusts her optic.
"Before I continue—yeah, kid. I'm talking to you. Peach Fuzz. If you're watching this, it means my ass didn't check in when I should've."
A humorless smile.
"Don't get soft on me. I'm not dead—probably. Maybe. Hopefully not in too many pieces. Point is: you're my failsafe. I know, I know—big honor. Try not to faint."
She leans closer to the cam.
"I don't do Mandos normally. Too much drama, too much firepower, too much… pride. And don't get me started on their tech philosophy. 'No AI,' they say. 'We don't trust it,' they say. Yeah, yeah—tin-can honor code, whatever. Means I gotta do all this the hard way because they can't handle a little smart circuitry tracking their nonsense."
She scoffs.
"And because Mandos never forget a face. Or a slight. Or the time you bumped into one in a bar three years ago and they decided it was a war crime. Love that for me."
Another drag. Another servo click.
"Here's the layout as I got it:
— Citadel hull intact.
— Hangar rotation soft at cycle markers 03 and 11.
— Internal patrols run analog-tight—no AI loops to exploit.
— Access point is a maintenance chute on the starboard flank. Size of a coffin. Perfect fit for someone who hates themselves."
A long exhale.
"Look… I'm not sending this because I'm scared. I'm not."
Her expression softens—barely.
"I just… like breathing. And I've cheated death enough times it's probably building a grudge."
A crooked grin.
"So if I don't ping back in seventy-two hours? You follow the dead-drop map I left. You take the encrypted drive. You sell the data to the backup buyer.And you don't you dare come looking for me. Got it? You're backup, not a damn hero."
She taps the camera once, impatient.
"Alright. That's it. I've got a fortress to rob. A bunch of helmeted zealots to outsmart. And hopefully a payday big enough to make me forget how stupid this plan actually is."
She grabs her jacket—zips it halfway—stops.
"…Oh. And Peach Fuzz? If this message ever reaches you? It means I trusted you. Don't prove me wrong."
SIGN-OFF
She steps into frame, leans closer, voice dropping into that quiet, lethal register she reserves for the moments before everything goes hot:
"Ghost the line. Burn the trace. Radiant out."
The feed implodes into cascading black code — quantum-scrambled, untraceable, unreadable.
End Log.
GhostKey Warpriest Prime
Encryption: Astra-0 | Quantum Cascade
Failsafe Route: Auto-dispatch → "PeachFuzz_Beta"
(Her jaw ticks when she says it. She still hates that she coded it that way.)
The holofeed boots with a distortion ripple — so overloaded with encryption that the image lags, smearing into neon static before resolving two full seconds later.
When it clears:
Concrete room.
Cold walls.
Cold light.
Nøva sits on the edge of a cot, boots half-laced, teal hair a riot of static-charged tangles. One optic blazes brighter — freshly recalibrated, still running hot. She's got that expression she only gets when she wakes up in pain:
Not rage.
Not fear.
Just that slow, simmering, kill-the-day-before-it-kills-me kind of pissed.
Time-stamp: "Whatever ungodly hour my nerves decided to riot."
…
…
"Alright. Wake up, Nøva. Hololog time. Let's do this before the adrenaline wears off and I start making good decisions."
She stretches her arm; servos clack—someone's stiff, someone's pissed.
"So. Job came in. Big one. Mando big. The kind where most sane people go, 'nah, not worth getting vaporized over.' Guess which category I don't belong in."
Eye-roll.
"Target: a drifting fortress—yeah, that Citadel-class monster. Retrofitted, armored like an ego with abandonment issues. The Ark. Mando outpost, semi-nomadic, very private. Not volcanic ridge, not system-side—this thing floats. Like a damn myth with coordinates."
She snorts, dragging another hit.
"Objective's twofold:
- Client wants the Ark's internal data—defense nets, supply routing, deployment cycles, whatever the hell they're shaking in their boots about. They're paying stupid amounts, so yeah—someone's worried.
- And me? I want a lift of raw beskar. Small haul. Enough to take to Doc for strengthening my sub-dermals. Not greed—just survival. 'Cause apparently almost dying eight times wasn't a strong enough hint."**
"It's a burglary job wrapped in a recon job wrapped in a suicide job. Real cute."
Pause. She adjusts her optic.
"Before I continue—yeah, kid. I'm talking to you. Peach Fuzz. If you're watching this, it means my ass didn't check in when I should've."
A humorless smile.
"Don't get soft on me. I'm not dead—probably. Maybe. Hopefully not in too many pieces. Point is: you're my failsafe. I know, I know—big honor. Try not to faint."
She leans closer to the cam.
"I don't do Mandos normally. Too much drama, too much firepower, too much… pride. And don't get me started on their tech philosophy. 'No AI,' they say. 'We don't trust it,' they say. Yeah, yeah—tin-can honor code, whatever. Means I gotta do all this the hard way because they can't handle a little smart circuitry tracking their nonsense."
She scoffs.
"And because Mandos never forget a face. Or a slight. Or the time you bumped into one in a bar three years ago and they decided it was a war crime. Love that for me."
Another drag. Another servo click.
"Here's the layout as I got it:
— Citadel hull intact.
— Hangar rotation soft at cycle markers 03 and 11.
— Internal patrols run analog-tight—no AI loops to exploit.
— Access point is a maintenance chute on the starboard flank. Size of a coffin. Perfect fit for someone who hates themselves."
A long exhale.
"Look… I'm not sending this because I'm scared. I'm not."
Her expression softens—barely.
"I just… like breathing. And I've cheated death enough times it's probably building a grudge."
A crooked grin.
"So if I don't ping back in seventy-two hours? You follow the dead-drop map I left. You take the encrypted drive. You sell the data to the backup buyer.And you don't you dare come looking for me. Got it? You're backup, not a damn hero."
She taps the camera once, impatient.
"Alright. That's it. I've got a fortress to rob. A bunch of helmeted zealots to outsmart. And hopefully a payday big enough to make me forget how stupid this plan actually is."
She grabs her jacket—zips it halfway—stops.
"…Oh. And Peach Fuzz? If this message ever reaches you? It means I trusted you. Don't prove me wrong."
SIGN-OFF
She steps into frame, leans closer, voice dropping into that quiet, lethal register she reserves for the moments before everything goes hot:
"Ghost the line. Burn the trace. Radiant out."
The feed implodes into cascading black code — quantum-scrambled, untraceable, unreadable.
End Log.
GhostKey Warpriest Prime
