Private Glass and Wire

[Arcubis Kornelius]

Denon was exactly as I remembered—filth laid beneath a neon sky. A world addicted to its own noise. From the high-spires of the corporate towers to the heat-choked gutters of the lower levels, every part of it hummed with artificial life and decaying spirit.


It had no memory of me. But I remembered everything.


The alley reeked of old coolant, and the flickering light overhead sputtered like it was dying on purpose. I kept to the shadows, even though I didn't have to. The Voidcutter was parked three blocks east, cloaked and tucked into a bay only droids used. I hadn't been here in years, but the people hadn't changed—still angry, still hungry, still desperate for escape in a world built to consume.


I wasn't here for them.


I was here for the chip.


A schematic older than the Empire. A fragment of Sith design encoded into a data-slice so compressed it bordered on sentience. The kind of tech you only find in the hands of someone foolish enough to carry it—or smart enough to hide it. And according to the whispers, that someone was a kid.


A splicer, they said. Fast. Arrogant. Talented in ways that drew the wrong kind of attention.


She went by Aren D'Shade


I found her inside a run-down node café off the sub-sector's back transit rail—no sign on the door, just a red glyph spray-painted like blood. I paused at the threshold, letting the night air press in against my back like a warning.


The Force was noisy on Denon. Static-laced and restless. But in places like this—under the grid, where minds buzzed with caffeine and code—sometimes it whispered anyway.


Inside, the lights were low and the glowpanels pulsed with soft geometric patterns. Dozens of terminals, half-broken and jury-rigged, formed a hive of cybernetic chaos. I scanned the room, letting my presence settle like smoke. Measured. Dense.


And then I saw her.


I didn't need to guess.​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

She was too focused on her current project to notice the comings and goings of the patrons. What she needed was a place where she couldn't be traced. This cafe was one such place. Yes, she could be traced to this location, but no further than that. That is what her life had become—a series of out-of-the-way corners to hide in and piggyback until the payload came in.

Sitting in the corner, a cup of caf at her elbow and a worn headphone rested on her ears. She was reading the code in front of her and shifted slightly as his gaze found her. As if somebody had just walked over her resting place, she shivered and changed the screen she was looking at.

Lifting the now cold drink to her mouth, she let out a grimace as she replaced it on the table. Looking up, she waved to the keeper for another drink and paid for the new one at the terminal next to her. Not the one she was looking at. Lying the pad on the table when the new drink arrived, its face was down, and she didn't let the keeper get a look at it.

"You know just how I like this. Thank you."

Arcubis Kornelius

 

[Arcubis Kornelius]

She didn't look up right away.

But she felt me.

Not the kind of "felt" that came from footsteps or sound—this place was too chaotic for that to matter. No, it was deeper. Primal. That subtle tightening of the spine when the air around you changes pressure, like your bones suddenly remember they're breakable.

I watched her shift in her seat—shoulders pulling closer to the terminal, head ducking just a little. Her fingers slid across the screen like she'd been caught reading someone else's mail.

ARCUBIS (Inner Thought):
Not fear. Not yet. But awareness. Good. You've learned to keep your secrets close... and your tabs open.

I noted the motion she made toward the server—silent, practiced. A gesture so familiar it had no hesitation. She'd been here before. Often. Enough that the barkeep brought her caf exactly how she liked it without needing to ask. That alone told me two things:

One: She trusted this place to shelter her.

Two: She'd already overstayed the luxury of comfort.

I took that as my cue.

My boots made no sound on the polished ferrocrete as I stepped closer, shadows draping from my shoulders like a second cloak. Her table sat in the back corner, half-lit, wedged between a broken vending unit and a wall of defunct signal jacks. No security cams in the blind spot. That hadn't been an accident.

I slowed as I neared her, not so much out of caution—but respect.

There's a strange kind of beauty in someone buried in their craft. The way her fingers moved over her pad, her shifting gaze, the almost instinctual click of a confirmation key—all of it bespoke someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who'd earned the rings under their eyes and the scars she kept hidden beneath layers of purpose.

I stopped beside her table.

ARCUBIS (aloud, voice low and dry, like gravel soaked in rain):

"Someone who drinks caf cold has either been running too long or coding too deep."

I let the words hang there, casual. Friendly, almost.

But my eyes never left her face.