Faction [ATRAMENTUM] The Initiation Simulation

[The Lady of Deceit]

Darkness.
​

Not the kind that comes when the sun sets, nor the flick of a switch on a starship's console. This darkness was older. It was total. The kind that lived beneath stone and memory, pressed in like velvet suffocation. There was no sound. No breath. No pulse. And then, there was.

You remember where you were. A moment suspended in normalcy—a cot aboard your freighter, the silence of meditation, the act of walking through a doorway you've passed a thousand times before. The world blinked, and you were removed from it. No struggle. No sensation. Just a void—and now this.

You awake not in pain, but disorientation. A slow, stifling awareness creeps in: cold air in your lungs, the sterile press of artificial flooring beneath your back, the sharp clarity of sudden isolation. The Force is isolated. Not dulled. Not hidden. Isolated to just this room. You cannot sense others. You cannot even sense yourself.

Above you, a single strip of light flickers on with a cold pulse. It reveals a chamber—featureless, metallic, polished black from floor to ceiling, with no visible seams. A perfect square. Eight paces by eight. No doors. No windows. Only silence. And at the center, a pedestal.

Upon the pedestal rests a mask.

It is not ceremonial. It is not ornamental. It is yours. Somehow, it reflects something back at you—twisted, refracted, uncomfortably familiar. A mirrored voidplate. A gaping snarl. A plague doctor's beak. An insectoid lens. Each different. Each tailored. Beside the mask lies a folded garment: a simple tunic, gloves, and leggings—uniform, impersonal, sterile in form and function. Functional. Dehumanizing.

You reach for it—and that's when the voice comes.

It is not spoken. It is not heard. It appears within your thoughts—too calm, too exact, too designed to be anything but artificial. Genderless. Ageless. Unfaltering.

"You are a candidate. A Velatus. A veiled one. You have been selected to undergo the Initiation Simulation. You will not leave this place as you came. If you leave at all."

There is no room for question. No allowance for fear.

"Your past, your rank, your lineage, your loyalties… all irrelevant. You will wear this disguise. You will answer only to your codename. If you speak your real name… if you attempt to reclaim your former identity… you will be erased."

The word erased lands with the finality of a blade. Not killed. Not punished. Erased. As if you never existed.

"You are being watched. Judged. Not by your reputation, but by your choices. Your strength. Your obedience. Your ingenuity. Your will to survive. You will face trials. Alone. And with others. Trust will be tested. Lies will be rewarded. Violence will be permitted. Mercy will be remembered. This is not training. This is filtration."

Then, the pedestal glows faintly. The mask is warm now—charged with some dormant energy. The name appears, carved digitally into the clasp of the garment: Shade. Or Hex. Or Wretch. Or another. Each unique. Each false. It is the only name you are now permitted. You don the mask, the clothing. The air shifts. The room hisses.

The wall opens—not with grandeur or ceremony, but with the subtle unfolding of plates, as if the chamber were breathing you out. You step into a larger space. You are not alone.

Others emerge from near-identical cells, masked, nameless, anonymous. Strangers, all—yet any one of them might be someone you've known. Fought beside. Loved. Hated. You wouldn't know. The masks are complete. The disguises perfect. The silence heavy.

The chamber into which you step is shifting—a vast, symmetrical arena of black alloy and reflective glass, its architecture moving like clockwork sculpture. Corridors appear. Archways collapse. Mazes form and dissolve.

Prepare yourself. Trust no one.

Survive.



OOC: Feel free to pick a codename if you don't already have one!

 

[Niysha]

Upon waking up in a strange place, Niysha's first assumption was that something had gone wrong while she was disarming the tomb. Basically nothing else other than a supremely toxic and aggressive spirit could leave her senseless and transport her at the same time. Regardless of the source, though, she calmed the spike of utter, virulent terror that shot through her body and focused on her surroundings. There was a solution to every puzzle, if you were patient enough to find it.

Slowly, the world around her started opening up. First, she could see herself again, then the room around her, then the room in front of her. With each expansion, it became clearer that only one of two possibilities made sense: either she was in an elaborately-constructed installation with wards and materials meant to mute or block the Force beyond their walls, or this was some kind of illusion or dream. The latter was simpler to justify, but considering she could still feel her fingers and toes, it was even odds whether or not this was all real and just extremely theatrically staged.

When the first, very small room opened up, Niysha took the whole thing in all at once. As she always did, without vision arcs, without noting things like light, shadows, or poor visibility. Small, as close to perfectly geometric as possible. More evidence for illusion, then. With only one feature in the whole of her visible space, there wasn't a lot she could focus on but the neat little outfit tidily laid out for her. The faint glow to the mask marked it as clearly imbued, though the boring old robes weren't so extravagant.

Voices in here head weren't really any indicator of reality versus illusion. That was the sort of thing that inevitably happened when dealing with other Force-users. And, unfortunately, Niysha had been dealing with a lot of other Force-users recently. Judging by the unnecessary pageantry and pointless theater of all of the nonsense currently pouring directly into her head, this was a Sith thing. Again, not surprising. In her unbroken stream of consciousness, she'd last spoken to Serina about an ancient sealed prison-tomb just a few hours ago. In fact, judging by what the other Sith had told her when they'd last spoke... this was actually probably exactly what she was on about.

What had Serina said again? Pattern, design, hidden... whatever was going on here certainly had her particular brand of unnecessary flare.

After the telepathic missive, the mask glowed a bit more intensely. Whatever was in it had woken up, and whatever Serina - who she would be doing her best not to name - had planned probably involved silly costumes and The Dread Finality Of Evil in great abundance. With a quiet sigh to herself, Niysha slipped out of her clothes and into the robes her most recent and melodramatic contact had provided to her, noticing in passing a little clasp that had "Mouse" precisely engraved into it. She would've figured Serina to designate her "ghost," but she got a feeling that was a hotly-contested title.

Niysha's mask was completely, perfectly blank. Flat, without any features at all other than its own gentle curve. Fitting, she noted, for someone who had no need of eyes. When she put it on and pulled her hood up over her frizzy mop of hair, the Miraluka was pleasantly surprised to learn that nothing about her new badge of office made it difficult to breath. With the exception of the gentle weight resting on her head, it was like she was wearing nothing at all. That was probably by design - it'd make it easier to stay totally concealed for the whole lot of whatever stageplay was going to be happening beyond that second door.

Before stepping out into whatever waited beyond her little preparation room, Niysha made a genuine and concerted effort to bury her presence deeply and aggressively. Normally, she settled for presenting herself as an uninitiated civilian with minimal Force potential, but today, she attempted very earnestly to leave no presence in the Force at all. If she was meant to "trust no one," then it would be easier for her to operate if no one knew she was there.

Then, finally prepared, the Miraluka stepped through her freshly opened wall and out into what amounted to a complex, subterranean arena. She noted briefly that the Sith had far too much money to waste, then took stock of her surroundings. Allegedly, she wouldn't be alone down here, which meant that there was a pretty significant chance that the greatest threat she'd actually face would be hot-blooded, arrogant children who called themselves Sith and assumed that murder was the first, best solution to every problem they faced.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

This was absolute crap. Being taken away from my work. Subjected to whatever this kind of game it was. My blood boiled with a fury for whoever did this. I cared not for who they were, why they did it, or when they did. Just that it happened. I of all people have been extremely tedious in my attempts to protect myself and any aversions to manipulation. This being done to me only showed how much I have failed. How much I needed to improve for this to never happen again. Even as my eyes still were filled with the darkness being replaced with sterile light fixtures. My body barely being able to control itself as it moved to the pedestal.

The mask glowing a deep hue of energy. Red and Purple flecks of broken and growing power. I hated it. Loathed it. I wanted nothing more than to simply smash it and wear my own mask. The one I had to specifically perform a nearly exact purpose of hiding an obscuring my face. The blackened steel was familiar to the touch. I could feel it burn my hand. My connection to the Other, had slowly been making me adverse to such influences of the Force. Burning my hand like a hot iron pulled from the coals.

I forced my will upon it. Focusing my own energy into it. The purple and red energy faced into an absence of light. Nothing of the Force remained. The pang of heat removed itself from my grasp and replaced with a chill. A cold void from where I had learned and gained much. Draping the clothing over myself, hiding any skin or hair as clearly this was meant to be a way to hide one's identity from others. A rage filled my heart as I placed the mask upon my visage and opened the door with force. Entering this maze and trial of what would be whatever placed before me. My eyes peering through the mask with vile intent.

Written upon the face a word I knew too well. Atropos. A cutter of fate and destiny. Breaker if needed. Is that what I was surmised as? Breaking the world as it was for the pure aspect of tearing down everything? My anger and wrath seemed to live up to that in the moment. However ironic it was.

"Motherfethers better be doing something useful out of this."

Muttering the words under my breath when my attention turned to another. Smaller individual. A quick glance to see their own name upon the mask. Mouse. What determined the names that people got here? Clearly they were part of whatever game this was as well.

"Looks like I'm not the only one here."

Serina Calis | Niysha