Public An Artificial Night | Open

[Scherezade deWinter]

. : Denon : .
The Glitch Orchid Cantina​

The air hung thick with smoke, clinging to the walls and curling around throats like a warning. Scherezade wrinkled her nose as she slipped through the meager crowd, her senses reaching, probing, searching for something distinct amid the miasma. She caught hints of iron, plasma, desperation... But the smoke masked more than usual. It was not her first time in a place like this, but something about what they were breathing tonight made her skin itch. She made a note to find out what it was. Later.

It had all begun with a strange message that had slithered into her datapad weeks ago, unbidden and unsigned. Look at this, it had said. No explanation. Just… schematics? At a first glance, it seemed like absolute nonsense, but then she took a closer look. Scherezade knew how to build things. Chaotic things. Things that glittered before they detonated. But this? This was different. Deliberate. Dangerous. And incomplete.

She'd spent weeks spiraling through half-lit corners of the galaxy, chasing whispers, gambling her time on cryptic breadcrumbs. Not that she had much else to do. Her sister had vanished beyond the Rim on some hush-hush mission, her best friend was entrenched in planetary politics, and the rest? Ghosts in her memory. A surprising amount of good ghosts that she had and forever would love. They had scattered over the years, Scherezade had a feeling they'd resurface eventually. Time had little meaning to those who shared her blood. Unless someone stopped their clocks permanently.

She slid into a chair near the stage, choosing a spot close enough to watch but far enough to react. Here it was. The final lead. The last thread she had to pull.

Now, all she could do was wait.

And try not to throttle the lounge singer, whose syrupy ballad dripped like saccharine into the smoke-thick air.

 

[Csariden]

❖ CSARIDEN ❖
What Survives Becomes the Weapon.

Previous thread/Denon Terror Attack

The Chiss composed more of metal than flesh slipped in through a side passage – one of those warped-plasteel maintenance cuts that only half the patrons noticed anymore. His silhouette flickered in the ambient neon, long and angular beneath layers of dark outerwear. Hood up. Shoulders sharp, Face shadowed by a smoked rebreather veil that might have passed for anti-pollution tech in a city like this.

The cloak wasn’t old, once military, it hung heavily off his frame. Edges slightly frayed. Concealing more than it revealed. His boots didn’t click on the floor.
Just another shape in a place full of ghosts.

He remained near the back wall, watching the stage. Or the singer. Or the watchers. A worn travel bag rested against his boot, the kind that could carry tools, a weapon, or a false identity depending on what was needed.

When the lights from the holobooth flared, his cybernetic eye reflected a crimson light.
He could have been waiting for a contact, or marking someone for death, or simply blending in until the heat died down long enough to slip past star port security.

From across the cantina, the syrupy croon of the lounge singer oozed between verses. Someone laughed too hard at something not funny enough to warrant it. The smoke curled along the floor of the establishment, bringing with it a memory, not a long time ago, not very far away:

FEX-M3.
The gas hit fast — deadly, but not quick. Eyes reddened. Sinuses swelled. Muscles locked.
A scream died in someone’s throat before it ever formed

The figure in the back just lingered.
Unmoving, unseen – except by those who were looking into the shadows.

Scherezade deWinter | @Open​

 

[Lachadann]

She slid into a chair near the stage, choosing a spot close enough to watch but far enough to react.

"Shurazad Winter."

The voice was heavily Chiss-accented. The weapon — the visible one, anyway — was a Chiss pistol charric.

"There is bounty on you. Is alive. No worries. Yes?"

Stybla'cha'danni eerk-eerked through the smoke and into the range usually associated with personal ranged weapons. Denon being what it was, not so many of those nearby tried to get out of the way. (The non-visible backup weapon was a sonic emitter that would, if activated, change their minds immediately, and also their eardrums, while qualitatively improving the band.)

Lachadann tilted her head just so, absent eyebrows.

 

[Niysha]

It had been... actually, Niysha legitimately couldn't remember the last time she'd been so far coreward she'd seen an ecumenopolis that didn't stink like Hutts. Months, at least. More likely years. Even if she tooled around here for months more, it'd take a while to overwrite Wild Space in her fuel computer. From her maps, this seemed like it was safely tucked inside Naboo's expanded territory, so she hardly had to worry about attacks, as long as she kept her presence buried nice and deep.

Obviously, it would take something pretty impressive to get her to set a course so far outside her normal haunt, and for Niysha, that something was a puzzle. Unfortunately, it wasn't the cryptex this time; that one still eluded her, and she hadn't really had the time she needed to crack it yet. Her setback on Korriban had honestly left her very distracted, and it was taking time to get her feet back under her. This, she reasoned to herself as she entered a cantina that proudly proclaimed itself the "Glitch Orchid," was part of that time.

Niysha took a bit of time to brace herself when she stepped inside to the overpowering presence of choking life. The other piece of her puzzle was supposed to be somewhere in that mess, which meant that she really didn't have much of an option but to push through. On the upside, the music was only terrible, and the smell was barely worse. She'd been spending so much time in and around muddy, dung-soaked frontier worlds that "bad" felt like a massive improvement over the "honestly very depressing" she was used to dealing with.

As she staggered in though a crowd of huddled drunks and into one of the only empty tables in the room - uncomfortably close to the center, well within view of everyone and far too exposed - the Miraluka finally took stock of her surroundings the only way she could: all at once, from every angle, all at the same time.

Individual auras were basically impossible to make out in this mess, save the truly exceptional ones. As a result, Niysha noticed two right away.

The first looked... almost familiar? Certain souls were touched by similar destinies to each other. Back in the days of the old Sith Order, Niysha used to see the sort of throughline of gleaming, radiant clarity on many people. Recently, it'd become a distinct rarity. The rest of the woman sitting by the stage wasn't uncommon for what she'd come to expect from a Sith, though there was a bit more glitter than usual. The greater oddity was finding a second trained, traditional Sith in the middle of Jedi territory.

As for the second, it was somehow even stranger. She'd never seen a single droid with a soul to date, let alone one with a spark. She was peripherally aware that the Force worked through droids in much the same way as it did sentients, but she'd never seen one before. Judging by how it was approaching the Sith, though, it might've been something in her aura muddling the two together. Maybe she'd affected it in some way. Impossible to tell from so far back, and with so many civilians muddling her sight.

For now, she took a seat and waited. Whoever had the second half of the little schematic-puzzle she'd recieved a few days ago was bound to be here eventually.

Scherezade deWinter Csariden Lachadann

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

From her chair near the stage, Scherezade leaned back just enough to give her muscles a break without appearing relaxed. The upholstery was sticky, and she could feel it through the seams of her bodysuit. Eww. There had been years during which she wouldn't have cared, but her time beyond the Rim had changed her in more ways than one, and there were certain discomforts she no longer tolerated.

The vocalist on stage was poised, polished, dressed in a liquid silver slip that clung like mercury. Her voice, all smooth honey and cold starlight, drifted effortlessly through the room. She hit every note with precision, let the lyrics bleed just enough around the edges. There were probably at least a few patrons trying to actually listen to her.

Scherezade hated her.

Not because the female sang poorly. Objectively, the vocalist was excellent; controlled, practiced, and deeply atmospheric. But there was something about her that set Scherezade's teeth on edge. The way she held the mic like it owed her a secret. The way her eyes flicked across the room, not to engage, but to evaluate. Like she knew exactly who Scherezade was and was trying very hard not to smirk about it.

Maybe she was part of it. Maybe she wasn't. Either way, Scherezade hoped the song would end soon. She wasn't in the mood for sweet metaphors wrapped in velvet. Not tonight.

At last, the final note hung in the air a moment too long before breaking apart like ash. The vocalist offered the faintest bow and stepped down, heels clicking offstage.

A beat of silence. Then a new figure took her place. No music this time. No glamour. Just a harsh-faced Nikto with a voice like gravel and a death stick clenched between his teeth, mumbling announcements over the sound system like he couldn't care less if anyone listened.

The cantina filled with noise that wasn't music; glasses clinking, murmurs, and all the rest of that usual stuff.

Scherezade sat a little straighter. Blending in used to be second nature. Now, it felt foreign, like trying on someone else's skin. She was too used to standing out, to not having to hide. So when someone finally approached her directly, she didn't even notice them until they spoke ( Lachadann ).

"Scherezade deWinter," she said under her breath. This was not a part of the galaxy that she had missed.

"There is bounty on you. Is alive. No worries. Yes?"

Blink.

Blink.

Seriously?!

Four decades. She'd been gone forty frakking years, and the bounty still existed? What the heck had happened while she was away? She hadn't kept up. Chose not to. Politics, shifting alliances, and the endless churn of galactic drama had all seemed so small compared to what she'd been chasing beyond the Rim. But before she vanished, the list of people she had royally pissed off, both personally and professionally, was, well… Quite literally over nine thousand. And now?

Now she was back. And apparently, so were the consequences.

There wasn't even any time to ponder why the droid in front of her felt different than other droids. She couldn't scent its blood, and the rest wasn't quite as interesting in that moment.

And yet, at the same time, Scherezade could feel a certain it. She didn't know what that it was, but she knew she couldn't leave. Not right now. Mentally, she rolled for a charisma check and hoped she had enough modifiers to add.

"No worries," she said with a giant smile, and pushed the empty chair near her towards the droid, "Join me, will you? I hear the next vocalist is supposed to be uh-maze-ing. We can go get your bounty collected afterwards. No worries. Yes?"

In the back of her neck, she could suddenly feel the presence of others ( Niysha & Csariden ). In the old days, they would have automatically been added to a very instant and very bloody kill list. For now… krak.

 

[Csariden]

❖ CSARIDEN ❖
What Survives Becomes the Weapon.

He moved when the music stopped.

The brief silence between sets was filled with murmur from the crowd, the din of conversation. The figure in the dark cloak stepped wall deciding it had something to say.

He had heard something that drew his interest at the table of the woman and what he presumed was a droid-like bounty hunter. He cared not for the woman and her bounty – no, he had come here to bide time and lay low – it was a very distinct accent and a very particular type of pistol that his focus was on.

He walked directly past the blindfolded woman ( Niysha ) not sparing a second look at the completely unremarkable bystander.

He reached the table where Scherezade deWinter was seated and Lachadann was poised.
Just stood there a beat too long.
Then, at last, his voice – but spoken in Cheunh:

“Ch'acah ch'un'ca? Ch'acah ch'ittacah?"
His eye focused on the bounty hunter, though the veil concealing his mouth and prosthetic jaw couldn't mask the flat modulation of a cybernetic larynx.
"Besides the bounty." He continued in basic.

He finally placed a hand — gloved — on the back of the empty chair, pulling it back to invite himself into the conversation rudely, other hand resting on the High-frequency vibroblade sheathed against the small of his cybernetic spine. Had he found kin? Or had he found a traitor who once bore the same blood?

Only then did he spare a glance to the woman accosted at the table. Far from helpless, but having a stroke of either very good or very poor luck.

Scherezade deWinter | Lachadann | Niysha​

 

[Lachadann]

"No worries," she said with a giant smile, and pushed the empty chair near her towards the droid, "Join me, will you? I hear the next vocalist is supposed to be uh-maze-ing. We can go get your bounty collected afterwards. No worries. Yes?"

Having grown up in a sarlacc and spent several centuries right there, Lachadann had specific priorities in re: life and the living of it. Bounty hunting was in service to those priorities: it got her new experiences, exciting worlds, interesting work that fit her specific skillset, the money to keep her life support system chugging along, and chrome polish.

"Last singer was not so good. But must be a good song or two on Denon. This planet knows life is hard," she said approvingly. "One song. Bounty can wait minutes."

For technical reasons she had a bias against sitting. She stayed standing, charric ready. With her other hand she produced a cigarra.

"You have light?"

"Ch'acah ch'un'ca? Ch'acah ch'ittacah?"
His eye focused on the bounty hunter, though the veil concealing his mouth and prosthetic jaw couldn't mask the flat modulation of a cybernetic larynx.
"Besides the bounty."

"Naporar. Hear a song."

 

[Niysha]

As often happened, the Sith was attracting all sorts of interesting people. The Force attracted people, whether or not they realized what was guiding them. While it was at best pseudoscience, it was at the very least a widely held belief that the stronger you were in the Force, the more magnetic you seemed to those around you. It was the main reason Niysha kept herself so suppressed.

Of course, the way things tended to work, Niysha's mysterious contact - the one with the other half of the strange document - was probably that exact woman. She might have to improvise if it came down to it, but for the moment, she had to wait. From her position of relative distance and subjective irrelevance, the Miraluka surveyed her surroundings and made sure she had plenty of options on her approach.

Which largely meant she was going to spend a lot of time sitting alone and just watching everything, all at once.

The Chiss was... surprising. She hadn't even noticed him on first pass; cyborgs weren't terribly interesting in general, and Force-blind ones even less so. Spending so much time near the most interesting person in the room, however, gave Niysha both time and a valid excuse to study him more closely. It was rare for an average person to have visible taint in their aura, but it was absolutely there for this man, mingled with his circuitry.

That made... three compelling individuals in the same room, surrounded by the clatter of drinks and the clamor of cantina gossip. One of singular significance, one with a curious malformation, and a third that seemed completely unique. The Force couldn't have screamed any louder. It was only a matter of time before something very loud went down.

Soooo... Niysha tapped the electronic menu at her table, ordered herself a Sacha-Lo lemon soda cocktail, and sat back to enjoy the show. Hopefully it didn't get too explosive; she needed that fragment intact, and she couldn't stand the prospect of an unsolved puzzle.

Scherezade deWinter Csariden Lachadann

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Scherezade was glad her bodysuit provided some sound muffling of her internal organs, hopefully keeping anyone from noticing her heartbeat spiking in the microseconds it took Lachadann to respond. Unfortunately, it didn't want to sit down, so she felt more than a little dumb with the offer still open. An agreement had been reached; one song, and then they would go. One song, and then she would have the extra time she needed to get what she was after.

As Csariden suddenly appeared by them, the Sithling blinked. One uninvited person being creature someone was more than enough, two were some weird metaphor that emphasized how much she was not into it. And to make things worse, the new Chiss spoke in a language Scherezade didn't know. Being a polyglot was great, but you never knew everything, and if he was speaking in a Chiss language or dialect, she couldn't even tell. Was she going to have to bring one of her many knives out to let him know buzz off in a universal language?

"Besides the bounty." He continued in basic. Scherezade exhaled. Okay, he knew basic! That was good, that meant she explain to him why being near her right now was a very bad idea. Look at her, being all grown up and adult, giving words before sticking the end of pointy weapons into people! Progress!

But before she could say anything, a low hum passed through the cantina's speakers. The sound was subtle, almost imperceptible among the noise of clattering glass and people speaking with each other. And then the lights shifted. Not a spotlight, which was to be expected, but a ripple in the dim lights of the cantina, as though the air itself was holding its breath. The new vocalist stepped onto the stage.

No flash. No glitz. The vocalist wore a high collared coat of matte black, long enough to brush her boots, which made no sound on the platform. Her bald head almost shone. No jewellery. Just the mic stand, waiting for her like a blade in a sheath.

Scherezade didn't move.

Her blood stilled as something deep inside her snapped to attention. There was no signature, no scent, no Force ripple. Just knowing. This was the reason she was here. Not a coincidence. Not chance.

The woman didn't introduce herself. She simply leaned forward, lips barely grazing the mic, and began to sing. Her voice was low. Intimate. Just slightly wrong, as though the key was shifting beneath the melody, notes slipping in ways no one else in the room would notice. But Scherezade did.

And then came the words:

Down by the anchorlight where circuits sleep,
Turn left at the system that never speaks.
Where the stars forget their names,
There, she waits. She waits. She waits.

Scherezade's glowing green eyes eyes narrowed. Her fingers curled lightly around the edge of the table. It wasn't a song. It was a map.

Not whole, not lost, but cut from three,
Spark to frame and bone to key.
Blood remembers. Fire denies.
In the silence, something tries.

If any others were actually paying attention to the lyrics, it probably sounded like one of those obscure, poetic sets meant to sound mysterious but ended up being extremely campy and cringe. But Scherezade heard the message hidden in the lyrics, clear as glass shattering in her mind.

Coordinates. Events. Maybe the final piece of her schematics. Maybe the first step into something worse. She felt heat flare at the base of her neck The awkwardness of the Chiss beside her and the droid looming nearby evaporated. Everything she'd been chasing through half-lit systems and forgotten caches was finally singing to her.

"I'll be right back you guys," she said to them, "Unless I'm not. Life hazards and destiny and all that bantha-crap, y'know?"

And with that, she leaped into the air. For all her bumbling and social weirdness, when it came to action, Scherezade was precision incarnate. One breath she was seated and the next, airborne To most, she'd be a blur of motion. To the trained eye, a study in flawless aggression; a curvaceous figure springing from her seat with the elegance of someone who'd done this a hundred times, blades in both hands, more spinning free from hidden places like glittering stars. At the height of her arc, she was perfectly poised to land on the vocalist with at least three major organs marked by the spinning daggers arcing with her. This wasn't improvisation. This was choreography. And someone on that stage had just sung her name.

Niysha

---

Edited to add a link to the blades; https://www.starwarsrp.net/threads/whimsy-knife.133036/

 

[Lachadann]

Lachadann, too, liked a nice knife. She carried a Rekalikad sheathed on her hip, a beautiful find at an Unknown Regions swap meet station. She very deliberately did not take it out. A charric was polite; a knife would have been a very different kind of invitation.

For now she watched the spectacle — the murder or assassination of someone who, until moments ago, Lachadann had wanted to be. To sing like that, to have that much intention and assurance behind every note and every move, to command a room. Living as Lachadann did, that all felt impossibly, transcendently out of reach.

But feelings lied. She'd held to that, stayed in the moment of defiant possibility, even now after the target unveiled similar grace and screams interrupted the song.

"Stybla'cha'danni," she said to Csariden , still focused on Scherezade deWinter . "Once ozyly-esehembo. And you?"

She stuck to Basic. She needed the practice.