Private Ghost in the Wires

[Korda Veydran]

The lower levels of Coruscant stank of coolant, ozone, and desperation. Korda Veydran moved through the shadows like a man who belonged to none of it. His boots rang dull against ferrocrete, his cloak heavy with rainwater that had never once touched sunlight. In his hand, tucked tight beneath the folds of fabric, was the object that had drawn him into this cesspit: a datapad.

Not just any datapad. Ancient. Pre-Clone Wars at least, its casing scarred and wires exposed. He had pried it from the fingers of a dead man in a forgotten vault, and every attempt to coax its secrets had failed. Locked. Sealed behind codes written in languages no common slicer could parse.

Rumor brought him here — the word of a ghost in the system. A slicer who moved faster than Imperial censors, who left trails of static across their surveillance feeds. Some called her Noodles. Others swore by the handle n00dlezzz. Either way, if anyone could tear open the secrets of the relic he carried, it would be her.

Korda stopped at the edge of a flickering holo-sign that buzzed over a dive bar deep in the warrens. His gloved fingers drummed the datapad's casing once, then stilled.


He asked the bartender in a low voice

"I'm looking for a slicer. Not the kind that plays games. The kind that makes the Empire bleed."

And then he waited, the hum of broken lights above him mixing with the whispers of half-drunk scoundrels. Somewhere in this underworld, Noodles would hear that someone was asking questions.

Noodles

 

[Noodles]

Outfit: bomber jacket, layered skirt + leggings, boots
Equipment: portable slicer rig, satchel of wires & snacks, HUD goggles, headphones
Companion: 404
Tag: Korda Veydran

The bartender's eyes narrowed as soon as the words left the Mandalorian's mouth. For a long beat, he said nothing, just wiped the same chipped glass with the same filthy rag, the sound of it rasping against the counter. Then he leaned in, low enough that only Korda could hear.

"You better be careful with that kinda talk these days," he muttered, voice gravel-rough. "Imps got ears everywhere."

He spat onto the duracrete at his feet, as if the very word tasted foul, then straightened, casual again.

"Still," he added after a moment. "There's someone. Might help. Might already be watchin' you." His gaze drifted upward, just a flicker, toward the camera mounted above the bar.

He handed the man a tiny card that held rather vague coordinates, and didn't say another word. He knew he didn't have to.

* * *
​

Somewhere in the undercity, far from the stink of booze and rust, the ghost was listening.

An unmarked basement, walls sweating with condensation, cables snaking across the floor like roots. In the centre of it all, three mismatched screens throwing neon light across a clutter of instant ramen tubs, loose circuit boards, and snack wrappers.

Noodles sat cross-legged on a busted swivel chair, goggles pushed up on her head, a tangle of wires running from her rig into the port at her temple. 404 rumbled nearby, one tread squeaking every time he shifted, clutching a half-crushed can he'd scavenged.

She slurped broth from her cup, eyes darting across feeds: street cams, security grids, glitching overlays where Imperial firewalls still resisted her touch. One window showed the bar. The bartender's subtle glance at the ceiling. She caught it instantly.

"Cute," she murmured, half to herself, half to 404. "Dude might as well have waved a sign."

Her fingers tapped in a blur, strings of code dancing across the displays. She already had a bead on Korda, tracking his steps back through half a dozen cameras, overlaying movement trails on her HUD. Somebody wanted her attention. Fine. But she wasn't about to let some random cloaked stranger walk the wires to her door without knowing who he was, where he was headed, and what skeletons rattled in his closet. Noodles leaned forward, grin crooked.

"Alright, mystery man. Let's see what you're hiding."

Her screens pulsed with static as another firewall buckled. Somewhere above, another camera feed flickered.

The hunt was on.

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda studied the card for a moment, then tucked it into a pouch. His helmet turned just enough to catch the reflection of the ceiling camera in the bar's warped metal wall. He let the silence stretch, then deliberately raised his glass and tipped it in a wordless salute — not to the bartender, but to whoever was watching.

"Cute," he muttered, voice dry inside his helmet.

When he rose, the datapad was still hidden under his cloak, its weight against his ribs a constant reminder of why he was here. The thing hummed faintly, as though it resented being woken from centuries of silence.

Korda stepped out into the undercity streets, neon and smog washing his armor in fractured light. He didn't head straight for the coordinates. Instead, he walked slow, purposeful, through narrow alleys and broken markets. Let them follow. Let them see he wasn't hiding.

Finally, he stopped beneath a flickering holo-lamp. He set the datapad on a crate, his gauntleted hand resting on it like a challenge.

"You wanted a look, slicer?" His voice carried low, but certain, toward the nearest camera.
"Then look. See if your ghosts can wake this thing."
The visor tilted up, scanning the shadows above. Korda didn't need to see her to know she was there — in the wires, in the static.


He waited.

Noodles