Minxi Kara
Let's Party!
Tags:
Kinley Pryse
,
Persephone Dashiell
,
Hilal Vizsla
,
Korda Veydran
Location: Coruscant Underworld, Level 1312
The air on Level 1312 was thick with smoke, exhaust, and the faint tang of burned ozone, a miasma that never quite cleared. Neon signs sputtered across every surface, casting garish splashes of color over the crumbling duracrete towers. Buildings leaned in on each other like old conspirators, their lower levels repurposed into dive bars, pawn shops, and black-market stalls where stolen starship parts and questionable food shared the same shelf space. Elevated walkways stretched like skeletal bridges across the streets, their flickering lights barely keeping the shadows at bay. Overhead, holoscreens blared advertisements for everything from cheap spice to illegal augmentations, their cheerful voices at odds with the grime-soaked underworld below.
Crowds pressed through the narrow streets in a chaotic flow, an endless tide of beings from every corner of the galaxy. Rodians hawked stolen droids, Twi'lek dancers in bright silks called to passing gamblers, and grizzled mercenaries nursed drinks at tables set out in the open. The air was alive with sound—the hiss of repulsorlift taxis, the pounding bass of a nightclub buried in the wall of a neighboring tower, the shouts of a vendor selling hot skewers sizzling with grease. To live here meant to embrace the chaos, or at least to survive it. Few lingered without reason; fewer still looked up, for on Coruscant's lower levels, curiosity often came with a blade in the back.
Some buildings stood out even amidst the clutter. A half-collapsed arena, long abandoned by any official sports leagues, had been reclaimed by locals for brutal pit fights, its cracked seating filled with gamblers shouting over the blood. Nearby, a cantina called The Rusted Saber thrived as a neutral zone, its battered exterior hiding a surprisingly plush interior where gangs, bounty hunters, and smugglers carved out temporary truces. Across from it, a multi-story bazaar bustled beneath a canopy of rust-stained tarps, lit with lanterns scavenged from military surplus. The stalls offered anything from counterfeit Imperial uniforms to weapons still dripping with oil from recent use. Every doorway hummed with stories, most of them dangerous.
Above the din, the city's infrastructure creaked like an old starship under strain. Pipes leaked steam from the walls, filling alleyways with a fog that concealed more than it revealed. Elevators rattled as they climbed and descended, many of them jury-rigged with exposed wiring sparking against the metal frame. Along the walls, crude graffiti marked the territory of rival gangs—skulls painted over sigils, crossed out and replaced again in an endless cycle of defiance. To outsiders, Level 1312 was a choking pit of lawlessness. To those who called it home, it was simply life—loud, dangerous, and never still.
Deep within a forgotten service tunnel branching off from this chaos, Minxi crouched in silence—or rather, she would have been silent if not for the blaring tune rattling through her earpieces. The music was loud, manic, and infectious, and she moved to it with jerking, gleeful motions as though the whole world were her stage. Her boots tapped against the duracrete, her braid swinging wildly as she spun and skipped between devices. Cylindrical charges littered the floor like party favors, their indicators pulsing in time with the beat as if the bombs themselves danced with her. She giggled while fastening a detonator, then broke into a high-pitched hum that clashed with the melody in her ears. At one point she leapt onto a crate, twirling with outstretched arms before dropping to her knees and planting another explosive with a flourish, as though she were decorating for a festival no one else had been invited to.
Her eyes gleamed with manic joy as she pressed the last wire into place, swaying her head violently to the rhythm of the music. Every beep, every blink of a primed charge was music to her just as much as the chaotic track blaring in her ears. To Minxi, this wasn't preparation for destruction—it was choreography. A dance. A celebration waiting to happen. As she stood among the blinking devices, grinning from ear to ear, she whispered a line to herself, her voice nearly drowned out by the pounding beat: "Now the party can really start." Above her, the crowds of Level 1312 pressed on, oblivious, while far below, a gleeful maniac prepared to rewrite the night in fire.
Kinley Pryse
,
Persephone Dashiell
,
Hilal Vizsla
,
Korda Veydran
Location: Coruscant Underworld, Level 1312
The air on Level 1312 was thick with smoke, exhaust, and the faint tang of burned ozone, a miasma that never quite cleared. Neon signs sputtered across every surface, casting garish splashes of color over the crumbling duracrete towers. Buildings leaned in on each other like old conspirators, their lower levels repurposed into dive bars, pawn shops, and black-market stalls where stolen starship parts and questionable food shared the same shelf space. Elevated walkways stretched like skeletal bridges across the streets, their flickering lights barely keeping the shadows at bay. Overhead, holoscreens blared advertisements for everything from cheap spice to illegal augmentations, their cheerful voices at odds with the grime-soaked underworld below.
Crowds pressed through the narrow streets in a chaotic flow, an endless tide of beings from every corner of the galaxy. Rodians hawked stolen droids, Twi'lek dancers in bright silks called to passing gamblers, and grizzled mercenaries nursed drinks at tables set out in the open. The air was alive with sound—the hiss of repulsorlift taxis, the pounding bass of a nightclub buried in the wall of a neighboring tower, the shouts of a vendor selling hot skewers sizzling with grease. To live here meant to embrace the chaos, or at least to survive it. Few lingered without reason; fewer still looked up, for on Coruscant's lower levels, curiosity often came with a blade in the back.
Some buildings stood out even amidst the clutter. A half-collapsed arena, long abandoned by any official sports leagues, had been reclaimed by locals for brutal pit fights, its cracked seating filled with gamblers shouting over the blood. Nearby, a cantina called The Rusted Saber thrived as a neutral zone, its battered exterior hiding a surprisingly plush interior where gangs, bounty hunters, and smugglers carved out temporary truces. Across from it, a multi-story bazaar bustled beneath a canopy of rust-stained tarps, lit with lanterns scavenged from military surplus. The stalls offered anything from counterfeit Imperial uniforms to weapons still dripping with oil from recent use. Every doorway hummed with stories, most of them dangerous.
Above the din, the city's infrastructure creaked like an old starship under strain. Pipes leaked steam from the walls, filling alleyways with a fog that concealed more than it revealed. Elevators rattled as they climbed and descended, many of them jury-rigged with exposed wiring sparking against the metal frame. Along the walls, crude graffiti marked the territory of rival gangs—skulls painted over sigils, crossed out and replaced again in an endless cycle of defiance. To outsiders, Level 1312 was a choking pit of lawlessness. To those who called it home, it was simply life—loud, dangerous, and never still.
Deep within a forgotten service tunnel branching off from this chaos, Minxi crouched in silence—or rather, she would have been silent if not for the blaring tune rattling through her earpieces. The music was loud, manic, and infectious, and she moved to it with jerking, gleeful motions as though the whole world were her stage. Her boots tapped against the duracrete, her braid swinging wildly as she spun and skipped between devices. Cylindrical charges littered the floor like party favors, their indicators pulsing in time with the beat as if the bombs themselves danced with her. She giggled while fastening a detonator, then broke into a high-pitched hum that clashed with the melody in her ears. At one point she leapt onto a crate, twirling with outstretched arms before dropping to her knees and planting another explosive with a flourish, as though she were decorating for a festival no one else had been invited to.
Her eyes gleamed with manic joy as she pressed the last wire into place, swaying her head violently to the rhythm of the music. Every beep, every blink of a primed charge was music to her just as much as the chaotic track blaring in her ears. To Minxi, this wasn't preparation for destruction—it was choreography. A dance. A celebration waiting to happen. As she stood among the blinking devices, grinning from ear to ear, she whispered a line to herself, her voice nearly drowned out by the pounding beat: "Now the party can really start." Above her, the crowds of Level 1312 pressed on, oblivious, while far below, a gleeful maniac prepared to rewrite the night in fire.
