Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Public Lashes, Lies & Low Frequencies

(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
The round door hisses. It slowly begins to open.

Beyond it, a chamber flickers into view. Dark. Geometric. Laced with red symbols glowing beneath the floor. A place that was meant to be hidden.

A breath leaves Sommer's lips like a vow.

"…Alright."

And she walks through the threshold.
 
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer steps inside, blade still drawn, though her fingers tremble now.

The walls here are wrong — not walls at all, but ever-shifting panels of smoky glass, each one flickering with images she half-remembers: her first performance at the Veil, her nights surviving in alleys, Andrew asleep beside her after a bloody mission. Kael laughing, drunk, with stars overhead.

Then—

One panel flares.

And her reflection steps out of it.

Not quite her.

Its skin is too pale. The smile too wide. The eyes—completely black, like empty wells. Its hair moves slightly, as if underwater.

It tilts its head.

"You really thought you were anything more than a product, didn't you?"
Sommer backs away, heart thudding.

"A club girl with good cheekbones and a trauma complex. Dressed up like a queen because it's the only way you know how to survive."
"I'm not you," Sommer spits, though her voice falters.

The mirror-image circles her slowly, trailing one long black fingernail across the air. Where it moves, the very space seems to ripple.

"No. You're what's left of me after they took everything. After the streets, the deaths, the love you faked to stay warm."
"You wear makeup like armor. Sex like a distraction. Power like perfume."
Sommer lashes out — slicing through the air, through the illusion.

Nothing.

The clone just laughs.

"You want to be real? Let's see how you stand with everything stripped away."
It bolts.

Into the dark.

Sommer gives chase — blade still in hand.
 
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
She runs hard, faster, through winding corridors that seem to change behind her. The laughter echoes off every surface.

She turns a corner — and gasps.

The floor gives out beneath her feet.

PSSSSHHH—

A hiss. A puff.

She lands hard in a padded recess, surrounded by vented smoke. It curls into her lungs like poison.

Sommer tries to scream, to crawl—

But the world blurs.

Her body slackens.

Darkness takes her.
 
Andrew lands hard in his suit outside the rear maintenance corridor, Kael stumbling behind him, eyes still wrapped in a high-tech recovery band. They storm down the same path Sommer took, guided by her override code left behind on the lift's panel.

They arrive—too late.


The red chamber is quiet now. No sign of her.


Until a hologram flares.
 
Ghost's face appears.


"You never deserved her protection. You never saw what she was becoming."
"Now she belongs to something far older than either of you."
"Try and find her. But know this…"

The hologram shifts, and for a moment they see Sommer — unconscious, suspended in a glass pod filled with black mist. Her hand twitches slightly, fingers brushing the inside of the glass.


"…the next time you see her, she won't remember your names."

Static.
 
A labyrinthine holding compound disguised beneath a collapsed ruin at the edge of Nar Shaddaa's coast—an old docking array tethered to the sea. Ghost's lair sits quiet, gleaming with outdated war tech and filtered illusions projected across every surface.

The air is thick with sensory manipulation. It's warm, too warm — and carries the faint scent of incense and citrus, like a dream trying to disguise something rotten.


Sommer Dai Sommer Dai floats, unconscious, suspended in a glass pod flooded with misty sedatives. Her form flickers under low red lights — a porcelain statue in slumber, drifting on a ghost current.


Ghost stands before the chamber.


His mask is off. For once, his full face visible. His expression is... curious. Studying her. As though watching a painting that might blink.


Behind him, one of his tech-lieutenants leans forward. "Shall I increase the neuro-scramble, sir?"


Ghost raises a hand slowly.


"No. Let her wake. Half-dreaming, half-bleeding. That's how you soften a wolf's bite."


He turns toward the window overlooking the coast, where the ocean beyond pulses under the stars, black and heaving.


"She's bait. But not just bait… she's the mirror. The last real thing left of Andrew Lonek that isn't soldered or sanctified."

The tech stares at the pod. "You think he'll take it personally?"


Ghost's lip curls. "That's the point."
 

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