First Reply Illegal Shadowcast λ1421445.32

[Lambda Vox]

"A crackling radio set upon a log, tuned hopefully up towards the nearest moon. An escape pod drifting slowly away from salvation, tuning to whatever frequency can be caught. A wedding, a funeral, maybe both at once - I wonder where you're hearing us from tonight, listeners. I wonder if you feel in your heart the same ache that I do as you peer up into the night above and below, able to understand and to see and to perhaps even FEEL that there are things beneath the flickering of distant stars and the screaming of the moon. Beneath the visual spectrum, ultras and infras as far as the eye cannot see. Beneath that: sound. Radio. Perhaps thoughts and feelings, emotions that can only be invisibly transmit - sent hurtling across the Hyperlanes like an ancient curse, a malediction. An oath. For when two beings communicate as they do, as we ARE, right now, there is an exchange. Ultras and infras. Thoughts. Feelings. Emotions. And from that simple beginning spills forth all the evil of the Galaxy, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps I can feel your credulity, listener. Perhaps you, like I, know that beneath all the evil of the Galaxy lurks something far worse, far more pervasive, far more powerful and capable of driving men mad: Hope. Understanding. Camaraderie. Welcome to Lambda Vox, listener. I hope you're hoping with us tonight. But for what do we hope? What indeed."

"Tonight, rumors swirl of a Sith Lord who’s defected - not to the Galactic Alliance, but to a small nomadic commune powered by tibanna and loud opinions. We reached out to him for comment. He responded only with laughter and a bouquet of lightsaber hilts welded into a wind chime. We love him already. "

"Developments ongoing at Ka'thaa'rahn, a continued conflict between what is real and what is not. A war between two sides, equal in conviction but unequal in firepower. Listeners, word has been spilling in of great virtue, but also great tragedy. Civilian transports fired upon by military peacekeepers, mercenary extortion, and the ruthless looting of a vibrant and ancient culture which, admittedly, tended to be more than a little loathsome. Does the virtualized engram of a person stored on a crystal have the same rights as a living being? The KKa'venn would like to know: Who's asking? And what gives you the right to question the eternal torment of their servitor caste? Seems harder than just using normal storage solutions, if you ask me. They didn't. Maybe they'll ask you, listener. Why not swing by? Pick up a refugee. Drop off a bomb. If bombs aren't in your budget, perhaps one last expectorate."

"More on Ka'thaa'rahn as the situation implodes. Mark your social calendar, listeners - the Unity Gala is underway! Finally, something to brighten our hearts after the crushing, needless loss of so many innocent souls. Our source on the inside reports that the hors d'oeuvres are simply to die for. She emphasizes that this is a euphemism. She has stated that the Empire's fashion is fantastic and 'on point'. She has insinuated that visitors to the event may need to provide their own lubricant and back-scratchers, as the circle is running low on both. She is adding that this is also a euphamism. No reports on the state of actual lubricants have been forthcoming. More on that situation after we can get ahold of an engine tech or something, listener. In the meantime, if you'd like more word on the fashion? I suggest the holonet news, followed by a supplementary sedative. Really let it soak in there."

"For those of you who are seeking a family getaway this weekend, our tourism board suggests Pesmenben IV - full of activities for the whole family! The weather this weekend should be sunny and clear, resting at a balmy 48c at midday. Don't forget your sunscreen, listener! And some orange slices. Hydration is important when you're touring the slave auctions. You know what they say, listeners. Pesmenben IV: Come for the lithium mines, stay for the lithium mines, die in the lithium mines. If you decide to swing by, be sure to bring extra seating - you never know when a revolt might happen, listener. You never know what might happen on Pesmenben IV."

"Aside from the miners, of course. They know exactly what happens on Pesmenben IV. Stay strong. Help may or may not be on the way."

"Tonight’s guest is a Jedi archivist who insists the Jedi Order never existed and that our memories were implanted by sentient mushrooms living beneath Empress Teta’s crust. He brought charts. We’re listening. You’re listening to Lambda Vox. Stay paranoid. Stay curious. And remember:

"The Force is with you."

Even when you wish it wasn’t."

"Before we open our lines up, listener, recall best practices - if we don't pick up, you weren't secure. If somebody else picks up, you really weren't secure. If somebody else is calling and we pick up, why are you even here? Feel free to leave a message. Feel free to leave your concerns at the door. Feel free to move about the cabin. Feel free to no shoes or shirt - because it won't stop us from serving you regardless. Tonight's encryption key is Lockout-Delta-19-Pink-SHAKA - give us a call if you'd like to weigh in, speak your mind, or ask for advice. Promote your adult film series if you like - I'm not getting paid to do this. Fascinate me. I'd love to fall in love tonight."

"I don't promise to fix your problems, but I'll always hear them out - and we don't have the budget to censor. Caller one, you're live on-air. Unburden your infras and ultras. Let me visualize your light spectrum."

 

[Sommer Dai]

A moment of silence stretches, but it's not empty. It crackles, electric with the hum of distance, the barely-contained tremor of someone about to say something they shouldn't… or maybe must.

Then—
A voice, smooth as vintage liquor poured in the dark, full of warmth and warning both:

"...Lambda Vox. Darling. Do you ever have one of those nights where you can't tell if you're in love, or if you're just being hunted?"

She sighs, and it's a rich, melodious sound. Tired. Honest. Free in the way only someone trapped long enough to forget freedom can be.

"Because I think I might be both."

A beat.

"I run an empire of mirrors, and every reflection I see is someone else's idea of who I'm supposed to be. Ice queen. Club mistress. Femme fatal. Ghost on a gilded leash. I smile for cameras, slit throats for coin, and bathe in light I don't believe I deserve. But I remember what it was like to be touched without transaction. To be wanted without being claimed."

There's a pause, faint rustling, maybe fabric shifting over a silk pillow. Maybe fingers trembling as they press the comm button harder than they should.

"I want to be loved in a way that doesn't end in leverage. I want to dance without watching who's watching. I want to feel someone's breath on my skin and not wonder what information they're stealing with it. I want to run—not away, but toward something. Someone."

Her voice softens, turns conspiratorial, like she's whispering into the hollow curve of your soul.

"And I'm tired, Vox. Tired of being desired like a prize and never held like a person. Tired of calling the shots in every room except the one in my own chest."

A click of a lighter. A breath. Smoke curled into confession.

"So this is my message in a bottle, darling. A pulse on a frequency I didn't know I still had access to. If there's someone listening… someone who sees me through the shine and the shadow..."

A pause—then quieter, deeper.

"Find me. Let me go. Or let me fall."

Silence.

Then a faint, almost embarrassed laugh, like the sound of porcelain cracking.

"…Sorry. I don't usually do this. Blame the champagne or the ghosts. Maybe both. I'll take my answer off the air."

 

[Lambda Vox]

"A heartsick ghost, wandering the halls of her own success. You've built the windows, you set the curtains, you make sure the furniture is arranged - and for what? No thieves stealing in through those halls in search of treasure, no ma'am. One lonely-ass feast a year - maybe a BALL if you're lucky. Hardly a reason to beat out the rugs, throw the sheets, hire a maid. A woman cannot live on banquets alone, Heartsick Ghost. Maybe you know this. Maybe you don't. Maybe I'm just a voice on the radio, whispering words into a rock we've painted gold on and tricked the lightning into."

"Ah, my heart goes out to you. Or it would, were it not constrained behind my ribcage. Lamentable. Heartsick Ghost, if I could crack myself open and collect the juices in a vial to serve as the catalyst in a bomb to blow open the walls of the mansion you've built for yourself. And that bomb would scream. Scream! Scream that the world outside for all its wickedness and cruelty, of all the small things eager to stick you with knives lurking under the mothbeaten couches of the universe..."

"It's kinder than you think, Heartsick Ghost. Larger and kinder and more forgiving by half than your wildest nightmares. And it's waiting for you to open the windows and let the burglars in. They aren't so bad. And you probably have too many holoscreens in there, anyway. Spread 'em around. Build a bomb."

"Never apologize for reaching out, Heartsick Ghost. Just like I won't apologize for airing quality content. I've read your message, I'm sealing it with a kiss and I'm throwing it back into the hyperlanes. Tell us how you got here. Tell us about the walls you've built. Tell us about the burglars you dream of in the night. Tell us your food allergies. Let's really peek into the windows here."

 

[Sommer Dai]

Begin Transmission:

"I didn't build the house. Not really. I inherited it. Or maybe I stole it. Either way, it creaked when I stepped inside and it smelled like power left too long on low heat. Bitter. Tangy. Familiar. I added the windows. I picked out the curtains. The velvet. The voidblack. I laid rugs over bloodstains no one would ever see. I hired ghosts to do the cleaning, and I fed them just enough memory to keep them obedient. Still, the halls stay cold."

"I've danced in every room, alone. I've screamed in the atrium just to hear something echo back. I've thrown a banquet for a dozen powerful bastards and still felt starved before dessert. I've made deals in the east wing and mercy-killed a girl I used to be in the west."

"But you asked how I got here. Simple: I was starving and I took the first throne I could sit in. It wasn't meant for me. It never is. I warmed the seat. I sharpened the crown. I looked out the high windows and watched the stars pretend to care."

"You said something about burglars. About burglars being kinder than I think. You might be right. The ones who try to steal from me now at least have the decency to want something real. They come for the spice, the credits, the secrets—and maybe, just maybe, they come for me too."

"The burglars I dream of? They don't steal. They leave things behind. A ring in the sink. A memory in the sheets. A fight I don't want to win. A question I'm afraid to answer. And when I wake, the room is emptier than before, like they took a piece of air with them."

"Food allergies? Intimacy, I think. Or sincerity. Some nights, I break out in longing. Other nights, I can't breathe through the wanting. But it passes. It always does. Doesn't it?"

"I built the Veil as armor. But maybe it's a beacon, too. A lighthouse for the lost and damned. So if you're out there, burglar or not, just know: I still keep a light on in the kitchen."

"And I don't lock the doors."

 

[Lambda Vox]

"Ah, I can hear the shape of a story there - lingering on the tongue, building in the eaves. Such a story longs to be told, begs to be shared, and shrieks for the closure of oblivion once spoken aloud. At least, that's MY experience. Your mileage may vary, listeners. Terms and conditions may apply. Supplies are limited."

"But don't take MY word for it. Visit your local manor. Knock on the windows and ask for tea, listeners. Hear the echoes - don't they sound familiar? Broken glass and running water. There's a pie on the sill and knives in the sleeves, and the kitchen light buzzes and flickers and smells like ozone but it never goes out. No matter how much we might wish it might. Isn't that right, Heartsick Ghost?"

"Ahh, how sweet a thing is when we've taken it for ourselves. My producer is frantically waving at me, listeners. All three of his arms are wildly akimbo, both of his heads bouncing merrily. He's holding up a datapad with a countdown and pointing to it furiously. It's... funny, you know? Fun. I'm glad we have fun around the station."

"Heartsick ghost, thank you for calling in tonight. Thank you for sharing your knives and your tears and your banquets and telling us which rock the keys are hidden under. Thank you for being, thank you for assembling your component atoms and midichlorians and mitochondria into the shape of a person who can be broken the ways that you are and still contact us tonight and share all the jagged edges. I see your sharp, serrated points. That's a euphemism. I hear them through you. I love them. I would happily crush those broken pieces down and gobble them greedily, to feel your tragedy slice me up from the inside. I can think of only seven better deaths. Potentially eight."

"Before we part - potentially forever, potentially for an evening, depending on the content of my producer's silly little countdown - is there anything you'd like to share with the audience? A nugget of wisdom, a crisper drawer of compassion, a rattling riddle rolling around in the junk drawer of your soul? What advice might you give them? Where can they buy your book?"

 

[Sommer Dai]

"Advice?"
(her voice is low, textured—like silk over gravel—measured in the kind of calm that only ever follows ruin)
"Sure. I've got something to say to the lost ones. The drifters. The ones staring out of transparisteel windows, wondering why the stars don't look back anymore."

"Listen to me."

"You are not broken."
"You are shattered—and that's not the same thing."

"Broken things beg to be discarded. But shattered things? Shattered things catch the light. Shattered things hold memories in their cracks. Shattered things cut. And in this galaxy, sometimes that's the only way to make space for yourself—by bleeding the walls until they remember your shape."

(There's a pause. A slow inhale. The clink of glass set on durasteel. When Sommer speaks again, she's closer to the mic—intimate. Raw. Unshaken.)

"So to the one sleeping in a stolen freighter because it's the only place left that doesn't echo with guilt—stay awake. To the one who gave everything and still wasn't chosen—reclaim what's yours. To the lover who was left behind, to the fighter who's grown tired, to the child who never learned softness: you are still here. You exist. That is the first and last act of rebellion in a galaxy built on forgetting."

"If you're listening to this, you are not too late."
"You are not beyond repair."
"You are not a whisper."
"You are the crash."

(Her tone sharpens, flames rising behind the words like fuel catching spark.)

"Make them remember you."
"Walk into their temples and tear down their false gods. Write your name on the walls they said you'd never enter. Burn your shame for warmth. Be a religion unto yourself. Let every breath be a sermon that says: I lived. I am here. I matter."

"And if you're lucky?"
"Someone out there will hear that sermon and breathe a little easier knowing they're not alone."

(A softer tone returns. Gentle now. As if cupping the listener's face in both hands.)

"This is Sommer Dai. Heartsick Ghost.