Boost Let Tomorrow Never Come | Artefact Heist; ATTN: Underworld & Sith

[Razmir Tezhyn]

PARTY LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW
WAYFINDER HEIST​

---

FINON DELSTEELE
SON OF THE 1%
VIP-lounge, top floor of the nightclub

Was it reckless to leave the oppressive safety of Sith space for a night of partying?

Absolutely.

But today was Finon's birthday. His day. Edicts of Isolation be damned. Tonight he wanted to be free.

It had taken months of good behaviour and downright humiliating begging, but his father had finally relented and given him the wayfinder. It sat hidden in the vault of his personal lounge, watched over by his father's personal bodyguards. The stoic warriors were total buzz-kills, but they were easy to ignore.

He'd earned today, and he meant to indulge in defiance of all those days spent caged inside the Blackwall.

Finon cut the orange dust with a credit chit, and partook of Kessel's gifts. The spice slipped into his system like crushed lightning. Nothing came close to the sense of euphoric clarity that followed.

"yyyyYYYEEEAAAAH!"

His scream echoed down the central shaft of the nightclub. The crowds below went wild. From rich scions to renowned celebrities and desperate social climbers, anyone who mattered was in attendance. After all, how often did you get the chance to cut loose beyond the eye of an overbearing Emperor?

The venue for the night was a former plasma forge. Four floors of harsh duracrete, absent of decoration, with sharp angles and labyrinthine walls that could make a Miraluka claustrophobic. Finon's personal lounge sat at the top, along with the vault full of artefacts and riches. Music pulsed through speaker droids suspended in the void running up the central spine from bottom floor to ceiling.

Finon stood at the top, right outside his lounge, and overlooked the chaos below.

"Come what may tomorrow! Tonight we raise hell!"

​

---

RAZMIR
SCION OF NOTHING
Outside the nightclub

Razmir lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The faint ember flickered in the darkness of the abandoned industrial district.

The night was dark and quiet outside the venue location. If he didn't know any better, he might have started to worry the party wasn't happening tonight. But Sith troopers swarmed the venue, dressed in black armorweave failing to look inconspicuous. They must have deployed sound dampening fields to mask all the noise.

Razmir followed a group of late arrivals to the front door, blending in with casual conversation. Showing up fashionably late was in vogue again, it turned out. The rich kids he used for cover made sure to let him know. They wouldn't be part of the crew. The lack of a ping on his forged invitation chip confirmed it.

Anyone who joined him tonight received a special invitation chip. His mechanic had customized them with proximity-based friend-or-foe identifiers, which would tip off members of the crew about nearby friendlies and allow them to coordinate on the fly.

There was no plan beyond leaving with credits and the wayfinder in hand. Raz had kept the info packages purposely minimal. Time, target, blueprints, dead-drops. Beyond that? He didn't trust new hires. Not for an operation that needed to be kept quiet until the moment they were all inside.

His turn came at the entrance. He presented the invitation chip to the trooper—who did a poor job posing as a bouncer. The man held the chip under his scanner. The device took a second, but it lit up green. He waved Raz through.

Raz stepped inside. A short corridor separated the nightclub from the outside world, like the doorway to the depths of Chaos. The moment he cleared it onto the bottom floor the atmosphere struck him like a wall. Noise, heat, lights, and motion. He slid on polarized shades, which helped with some of the visual chaos.

He vanished into the crowd. Somewhere in that mess of vice, on the top floor of the former plasma forge, the wayfinder waited for them.

Parvati Vestra Tane Kivah Eaton Waters Ka'Ahs'Ruk The Vulptex Kinley Pryse C-127 Sidewinder Xa'tra Yylix

// OOC Thread

Spoiler: OOC TL;DR

• Set somewhere on a foundry world in the Outer Rim, beyond the Blackwall and Sith Space
• Finon Delsteele is the son of a powerful Sith Lord 1%er, likely recognizable to Sith or their allies
• There are four floors filled with party guests:
  • Ground & 2nd floor: main club, bars, dance floors, and regular party goers
  • 3rd floor: private booths, black-market dealers, entertainment, and more exclusive guests
  • Top floor: VIP Lounge, vault-access, and a small group of elite Sith Warriors protecting the vault
• "Undercover" Sith troopers & bodyguards are spread throughout the building
• In the event of a firefight, attendees will flee through fire exits and abandoned corridors leading out of the building
• The vault itself is sizeable, but not infinite; expect credits, artefacts, and other items a rich kid would want to show off
• Anything else, feel free to hit me up in dms, the ooc thread, or on discord!

 

[Mr. Usher]

The Skin We Wear​

The invitation chip blinked green.
The guards nodded him through.
The name on the list was Dr. Eldin Torov, a known antiquities scholar and guest lecturer from Obroa-skai. He was here to consult on the authenticity of Finon Delsteele’s vault collection.

He was also dead.

Somewhere in the sublevels, a husk of wet meat curled limply against a drain grate, its spinal cavity hollowed with surgical precision. Most of the skin had been preserved. So too had the musculature, now reinforced with internal tendrils and nerves rerouted to accommodate their new resident.

The thing that wore him now walked calmly across the third floor—wine in hand, posture impeccable.
It blinked. It breathed. It smiled in the ways memory taught it to smile.
And it listened.

Oh, how it listened.

Guests greeted him warmly. He nodded, recalled birthdays, exchanged credentials. He did not falter—unless one looked closely at his eyes. One blinked slower than the other. The wrong one.

He moved past art dealers and spice chemists, past Sithspawn breeders and private arms brokers, leaving no trace but the quiet chill that followed each exchange. Where he paused, the lights dimmed. Where he lingered, mirrors fogged.

At the edge of the floorplan, he reached the threshold of the vault stair.

Not to breach it.

Not yet.

But to feel it.
Something inside was singing.

“A Wayfinder, tuned to storm-space… old navigations… precursor marrow…”​

“What you gathered, child, I will remember more clearly than you ever dreamed.”​

The guests continued to drink.
The dancers thrashed below.
And the thing inside Dr. Torov began to map their minds.

Location: Third Floor – Dealer’s Promenade
Objective: Scout the vault. Record the shapes of minds. Feed if disturbed.
Tags: Razmir Tezhyn @Wayfinder Crew​

 

[Mauve]

A woman in a sheer bit of fabric rounded the corner. Lavender skinned, with hair the color of wine done up in some curls, her dress was - predictably - a sheen of some purple with an obscure name. As she came around the corner, she saw a familiar face. Information being her business, she flipped through the mental portfolio. The gallery in Coruscant? No. The Brentaal IV opening? No, not that either, that was an arms dealer.

She remembered this man from somewhere else. Somewhere chilly. Ah. She remembered now.

The name on the list was Dr. Eldin Torov, a known antiquities scholar and guest lecturer from Obroa-skai.

“Why Dr. Torov, what a surprise. I haven’t seen you since that late-Rakatan period exhibit on Mygeeto. Plundered any Gree burial sites lately?”

 

[Mr. Usher]

Gently, the Skin Cracks​

The body turned—
The smile bloomed on cue.
But the emotion behind the eyes was not recognition. Nor surprise.
It was a near-dead tether to a writhing mass.

To most, his surface-level affectations would pass muster: a soft, cultured tone, an expression of pleasant surprise, even the little narrowing of the brow that marked recollection. But Mauve’s mind was not most.

Zeltron intuition tasted the color of emotion. And this one? This thing?

It radiated no color.
Only the void-black pulse of hungers that had no language.
A gurgling mass of desperate minds blended and stripped of individuality, homogenously mixed into one ego. Just beneath the surface was the still freshly stitched emotions from the last memories of Dr. Eldin Torov as they were assimilated. Fear and pain tainted the veneer of emotion. Like spoiled meat plated and presented perfectly.

The smile held.

“Ah, Lady Mauve. Your memory is as sharp as your wardrobe.”

He raised his glass—wine untouched—and gestured softly toward a quieter alcove with his free hand.

“It was indeed Mygeeto. The frost-glass sarcophagi, yes? A shame they cracked under atmospheric transition.”
“Though I must confess, I rarely find the living as well-preserved as the dead.”

The words matched cadence and memory of the dead man, almost. For an instant—barely a blink—his voice echoed twice. Once from the throat. And once from somewhere behind it. Then it was gone. The smile returned. Slight. Courteous. Frayed at the edge.

“Are you enjoying the party? There’s something about the air tonight... electric, isn’t it?”

Something in his emotions pressed back against her perception. Not hostility, but an unintended pressure of immense gravity, a vertigo akin to leaning too close to the edge of a pit, trying to see how deep it goes.

Location: Dealer’s Promenade, Third Floor
Objective: Maintain persona. Adjust mask. Evaluate threat of recognition.
Tags: Mauve Razmir Tezhyn ​

 

[Xa'tra Yylix]

Location: The Bar, Ground Floor
Objective: Drink
Tags: OPEN​

Security at the front entrance was tight— brutes in polished armor with that hardened look in their eyes. The kind of guards who'd seen things, done worse, and wouldn't hesitate to put a bolt through someone's chest just for looking suspicious.

Luckily, the back door didn't share the same reputation. The entrance marked Staff Only was less watched, less patrolled. Xa'tra technically had an invitation to the party, but there was no way he was letting them scan him down and confiscate Dorothy. Being without her felt like walking into a warzone with nothing but a grin.

So far, things were smooth. He'd slipped in without setting off any alarms, without raising any eyebrows— at least, not any that still worked. The only person who noticed him had been a lone staffer taking a cigarra break out back.

Poor bastard. Wrong place, wrong time.

Xa'tra moved through the dim corridors like a shadow, boots quiet on the scuffed durasteel floors. A few employees passed by, but none gave him a second look. The pounding bass of the dance floor ahead grew louder with each step— like a heartbeat calling him deeper.

He pushed open the last door and stepped out onto the club's ground floor. Lights pulsed in every color imaginable, cutting through the haze of smoke and sweat. The place was packed— bodies dancing, drinking, dealing. Everything from spice to spice deals, and from private dances to whispered contracts.

Not exactly Xa'tra's kind of place. Too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes. But then again— there was booze, drugs, and women. And in his downtime, that usually checked all the right boxes.

Still, he wasn't here to dance. This wasn't pleasure— it was business. Some patched-together crew of freelancers had reached out, looking for muscle. A distraction. A wildcard. Xa'tra wasn't much for teamwork, but if they needed someone to make noise and draw attention? He was born for it. And with Dorothy at his side, he brought more than just noise.

He was early, though. No signal yet. Nothing to do but wait.

His path led him to the bar. He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"A bottle of Ryloth," he said, voice sharp and interrupting the bartender mid-conversation. "None of that cheap chit. Give me the good stuff."

The barkeep gave a low grumble, slid the bottle across the counter without a word, then returned to his discussion like Xa'tra hadn't just insulted half his stock.

Xa'tra took a swig and leaned against the bar, scanning the crowd. He didn't know exactly what the crew planned to steal—Sith artifacts, supposedly. He didn't know much about ancient relics, and frankly, didn't care. What mattered was the payout. And if there were credits to be made, Xa'tra had a habit of showing up.

In fact, if there were enough zeroes at the end, he'd steal a temple brick by brick.

For now, he'd wait for the signal. Until then, the bar would do just fine.

Razmir Tezhyn Mr. Usher Mauve ​

 

[Parvati]

A chilled glass hovered near already wine-stained lips. Deep brown eyes, framed by oversized sunglasses, swept the room from above the rim. The party raged around her- Finon Delsteele's birthday bacchanalia, a decadent display befitting the son of a Sith 1-percenter. A different kind of Sith spawn, and one Parvati almost despised more than the true acolytes.

Still… credit where it was due. The venue was divine. Four levels of debauchery set inside a gutted plasma forge, all sharp angles and unpolished duracrete. A cruel, echoing beauty. She'd be stealing some ideas for her next club , she always believed bass hit better when it bounced off stone and steel. If she'd brought her droids, she'd have had them recording reference footage already.

But this wasn't a reconnaissance mission. Not entirely.

Parvati's gaze drifted from the brutalist design to the small crowd circling her, try-hard socialites from half the galaxy, orbiting her presence like parasites orbiting a star. They whispered her name like an invocation. Some knew it from clubs. Others from whispered deals and auction houses. Fewer still from far darker circles.

Let them wonder.

While Razmir scrambled with invitation chips and proxies, Parvati had received hers directly from the source , a personal ping from the birthday boy's staff to attend. It paid to know everyone. Of course, that meant no chance of slipping in unnoticed, but that wasn't the plan. Not hers.

The forged chit still rested in her clutch, though, rigged with Raz's FOF signal. A backup. Always have a backup.

If she was going to reach the vault, she needed more than credentials, she needed access. Intimacy. She needed Finon to want her in the room when he opened his gilded cage of treasures. The others would make their play with guns, tech, or chaos.

Parvati would use something older.

Trust.

Desire.

Power.

After all, the wayfinder wasn't just valuable. It was leverage. And if any of these "freelancers" thought they'd split it evenly? They didn't know her very well. She wouldn't blame them for trying. She was counting on it.

A soft voice pulled her from thought.

"Parvati, do you want some?"

She turned. A girl, barely twenty-five, lavender slip dress, eyes wide with manufactured awe- held out a tray of glittering spice. The mistress inhaled through her nose, measured, and exhaled.

Then, smoothly, she dipped and took the hit in one motion: straw to nose, head back, hair flung from her face like the finishing flourish of a performance. She exhaled slow. Her pupils didn't dilate. Her smile didn't slip. She passed the tray to the next reveler, then turned back to the girl.

"Alice, dear-"

"It's Angela," the girl corrected, voice lilting.

"Angela, dear," Parvati purred, placing a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. "Didn't you say your friends knew the birthday boy?"

She leaned in, sultry, conspiratorial. Her voice was smoke and static and velvet.

"I want to give him a birthday present."

Razmir Tezhyn Mr. Usher Mauve Xa'tra Yylix

 

[Kivah]

​

//:...mission-link-established...
//:...location=... First Floor
//:...objective=... Party

A thousand-thousand worlds, and upon slipping past the blackwall Finon Delsteele had chosen to come here? To a windowless duracrete plasma forge scoured clean and made into a bar. Kivah would never understand the rich. Sure she'd spent plenty of nights in similar places, warehouses where the party lasted as long as the drugs and booze, tiny bars that cut into the spaces between larger establishments, and concerts held in places similar to this where the expanses of duracrete got the fuzz-grunge noise called music bouncing around just right, but these people were rich.

Idly Kivah considered robbing the brat herself. The so-called Sith troopers acting as guards weren't. Any soldier so undisciplined and sloppy as these would likely be sent off for some light motivational torture. Ah well, old habits, send a thief and all that. She was just happy that she didn't have to spend any real time behind the blackwall herself, unlike the very real Sith sent to protect their little toy. Build a wall, and the first thing anyone wanted was to steal the key to the gatehouse.

Tonight as she drank dark blue milk with her hip up against the bar, the amazonian Cathar was dressed rather uncharacteristically in a silky white V-neck blouse under a blazer with matching stylish slacks. She hadn't picked the outfit, but grudgingly admitted it looked good once her normally unruly hair had been tamed and brushed into order.

She'd just started on her second glass when a Verpine pushed their way to the bar and ordered. "Bug Man?" She asked with an incredulous grin and moved over next to him before realizing. "Ah, no. Sorry. Thought you were someone I knew back in Canto. But he doesn't do Basic very well, and you've got much better tastes in drinks." She laughed off her mistake. "I'm Kivah, what brings you to the brat's party?" She asked before taking a slow sip of her drink. It wasn't common she met people as tall as herself, might as well enjoy it.

Tags:
Xa'tra Yylix
Mr. Usher | Parvati | Mauve
Razmir Tezhyn​

 

[C-127 Sidewinder]

Xa'tra Yylix Kivah Parvati Mauve Razmir Tezhyn Mr. Usher

C-127 was determined not to let anyone else seize the Wayfinder Artifact, a treasure that rightfully belonged to his master and benefactor, Zunn Zenraj . Zunn's influence within the Black Sun Syndicate was steadily increasing, yet he required a significant boost beyond merely currying favor with the Underlord and scraping by with the sale of underworld goods at junk stations scattered throughout the Outer Rim.

He was aware that others would be pursuing the device, and they were likely more than capable of completing the task. This fierce competition was something the Bounty Hunter Droid welcomed, as he had always yearned to face a genuine adversary who relied on skill rather than the usual iconic interference to secure victory.

C-127 understood that his skills would be put to the test as he gripped the gear panel of the trolley parked next to the nightclub. While others would stage their assault from within the nightclub, the true prize lay within the vault, and the easiest way to access it would be through the employees, who would go unnoticed by the security and the pampered organic known as Finon Delsteele.

Clad in a brown overcoat and hat, the Droid stood patiently, waiting for someone to emerge and inspect the trolley. A perplexed rodian looked up from the datapad in his hand as he approached the adjacent vehicle, "We weren't expecting a delivery at the club," he remarked.

"No need to panic; this delivery is non-perishable. Unlike you," the Droid replied in a mechanical voice, swinging the Modified 785MK Sniper Rifle from the passenger seat and pulling the trigger. The shot rang out, and the rodian collapsed to the ground with a soft thud.

The Droid then opened the door, quickly changing uniforms, stashing the sniper rifle in a nearby waste basket, and nudging it along.

 

[Eaton Waters]

It was fine. Traveling around, and listening? It gave one a lot of ears all around the galaxy. Eaton was fine with that. His sister was a Farseeker for her Witch Clan, and Eaton was trying to be the Warden of the Sky wannabe, but honestly? He was a thief mostly. A treasure seeker, looking for his next big score. That was why when he heard there was an artifact getting moved and resurfacing? He set his course.

What was nice was that it wasn't so bad here. He found the world wasn't so dry, and in the middle of the dance floors? He was dressed like a Chandrillan noble, part of his and his sister's lineage, as he danced and moved his way around, drink in hand and surveying who was around. It was all a matter of seeing where he could go, and who was around. What he was seeing was how staff were moving.

And how the ones who didn't want to be seen as staff were acting. There was the Force, but he was not that great with it, and he knew it was a matter of training, but he knew enough from what it did give. Right now? His eyes were on a particular Zeltron woman, and the door behind her.

 

[Xa'tra Yylix]

Location: The Bar, Ground Floor
Objective: Drink
Tags: OPEN, Kivah
Equipment: Dorothy

​

"Bug man? Who do you think you're talking to, furball?" the insect hissed, mandibles clicking slightly as he turned to face the Cathar.

Xa'tra had heard all the nicknames before— filthy bug, psycho bug, worthless bug, the bug with the talking gun. They usually came from mouths a safe distance away, whispered behind his back by people smart enough to know better. Saying that sort of thing to his face? That usually ended with someone getting ventilated.

So either this Cathar had a death wish… or she was very, very stupid.

Lucky for her, before Dorothy could even twitch in her holster, the patron muttered a hasty apology— just a case of mistaken identity, apparently. Wrong bug. Wrong time.

Still, Xa'tra didn't apologize for snapping. He wasn't known for his charm.

"Pleasure," he said flatly, more out of habit than sincerity. His tone made it very clear why he didn't have many friends—and why most who got close didn't stick around long.

"I'm here for a Si—" He stopped himself mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. Was he seriously about to tell a complete stranger he was here to rob the place? Maybe that bottle of Ryloth was hitting harder than expected.

"I'm here for… business," he corrected, letting the word hang in the air. Vague. Noncommittal. Hopefully enough to satisfy this Kivah without inviting more questions. Because if she got nosy, she might end up keeping company with the guy in the alley out back.

Then, from beneath Xa'tra's coat, came the voice.

<A WOMAN WILLINGLY TALKING TO YOU? SHE MUST BE A WORKING GIRL. HOW MANY OF OUR CREDITS DID YOU PAY HER?>

Dorothy.

Xa'tra didn't move, but his eye twitched ever so slightly. Of course she had to chime in now. The blaster's tone was sharp, smug, and entirely too loud for comfort.

He muttered under his breath, barely audible over the thump of the music, "Bloody gun…"

Dorothy always had something to say. Usually the wrong thing. Stirring trouble wasn't a bug— it was a feature.

Razmir Tezhyn Mr. Usher Mauve C-127 Sidewinder Eaton Waters Parvati ​

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

INSIDE THE NIGHTCLUB
GROUND FLOOR -> SECOND FLOOR

Music pulsed like a heartbeat through the abandoned plasma forge. Bright lights lit up the cloud, reflecting off Razmir's shades. It was hot inside. There were too many bodies crammed together in this duracrete maze.

Raz rolled up his sleeves. He'd let a short stubble grow on his face, and his hair was just the right blend of styled and messy. His suit similarly had a deliberately disheveled look. The designer shades tied the look together. It made him blend in as another lonely soul in the party crowd. No one looked at him twice as he slipped through the mass of dancing clubbers toward the stairwell.

He got a good glance at the ground floor on his way up the steps. Most faces looked entirely unremarkable. Undercover troopers did their best to hide in the crowd, but a trained eye could pick them out. Scattering the guards throughout the nightclub made sense. Raz guessed he was in the vicinity of at least two guards at any given moment from the distribution he'd been observing. This Delsteele kid had a decent sense for security, it turned out.

As he moved, his gaze briefly lingered on an odd pair by the bar. A Cathar and a Verpine. Of particular note was the latter, who looked very little like your average rich kid party attendant, and more like he'd just walked in from the streets of Nar Shaddaa with that coat obscuring so much of him.

A decade of mingling with your average high-class raver idiot had given Raz something of a sixth sense for those who stood out. Was that one part of the crew? He filed that bit of information away for later, and pushed on to the second floor.

He needed to get a better sense of the place and the people before he moved in for the steal.

---

FINON DELSTEELE
SON OF THE 1%
VIP-lounge, top floor of the nightclub

Finon's attention didn't leave the green eyes of the Falleen in front of him. Son of a Senator had been the stranger's words after they'd found each other on the dance floor. Something along those lines at least, Finon hadn't really listened.

"Yeah, my dad runs half the industry, basically. Everyone would be screwed without him, and I'm gonna inherit all of it," Finon said casually.

The Falleen laughed, a smooth melodious sound that seemed entirely too intoxicating. Some part of Finon was aware it was probably the Falleen pheromones working, but he didn't much mind right now. He wanted to hear that again.

But one of his father's men stepped up to the private booth of his lounge. Finon gave the Falleen a brief smile before he pulled his attention away. Whatever the guard was about to say better be something along the lines of 'the club is burning down'.

"What," Finon snapped.

"We've been notified that Doctor Eldin Torov checked in. You had scheduled—" Finon groaned to interrupt the guard. The man, to his credit, seemed to be getting pretty good at hiding that indignation at being told to shut it by the son of his boss.

"Feeeth off, can't you see I'm a little busy right now?" Finon gave a condescending eye roll. "I'll send for the Doctor when he turns green and twenty years younger." With a wave, Finon dismissed the guard. The man snapped at attention, and moved away.

Where was he? Oh right, that deep verdant green.

Mr. Usher Mauve Xa'tra Yylix Parvati Kivah C-127 Sidewinder Eaton Waters

 

[Kivah]

​

//:...mission-link-established...
//:...location=first floor bar...
//:...objective=party...

Well that was hostile, at least she'd seemed to settle his ruffled feathers, chitin. She laughed it off with a wave of her caffed vodka cream. Her tail had relaxed once he'd apparently decided not to attack her, and she leaned up against the bar much like she had been earlier. "Business, we're all here for business. Even the ones thinking they're here to celebrate a name day." From beneath the Verpine's coat, a robotic voice sounded out, and Kivah stiffened again, her eyes moving past her unconversational conversation partner. She blinked back into it about the time it was asking if he'd paid her. That made two.

Kivah's sharp ears caught Xa'tra'a oath muttered under the beat of club music, not a comm then. That explained the smell he'd brought in with him, not the sharp tang of burnt ozone, but something richer yet still burnt. He was probably number one's partner. "No, there's a ban on that, last I heard. But I do other things for credits." She said over a sip of her drink, turning the hand holding it so the flashing lights of the dance floor played across her scarred and beaten knuckles. She didn't resent the machine's implications either, she'd been called far worse things far more honestly.

Truthfully, five years back, she'd probably be happy to make this Verpine's acquaintance. They'd probably done very similar things and for similar reasons. Even outside the Corporate Sector Authority there were hundreds of planets with the same problems, same ecosystems living in the shadows of giant cities and the corporations that kept it all going. Just business.

This frustrated her, she'd really hoped that she'd be able to just drink in peace, maybe find a cutie and some company, blow off some steam at an after-party where she didn't have to stay sober. Instead, she was casting about with her mind at the Sith upstairs to be sure of their alertness as she gazed out over the dance floor and sipped at her drink next to someone who'd brought a gun into a place those definitely weren't allowed. All because she saw a Verpine and, in a moment of nostalgia, forgot that there were more than one roaming the galaxy away from their hive. Way to go, Kivah.

She sighed and tossed back the rest of her drink, "How long do you think it'll be?" She asked Xa'tra.

Tags: Xa'tra Yylix
Mr. Usher | Parvati | Mauve | C-127 Sidewinder | Eaton Waters
Razmir Tezhyn​

 

[Vestra Tane]

LOCATION: NIGHTCLUB. GROUND FLOOR. PLASMA DUCTS.

OBJECTIVE: RESEARCH. CURIOSITY. WAYSTONE.

EQUIPMENT: DATAPAD. WELDING MASK. PROTECTIVE SUIT. CUT-DOWN BLASTER CARBINE. TIBANNA CANISTERS. LIGHTSABER. VIBROKNIFE. LUCK. THE FORCE.

---

It wasn't the money that interested Vestra. Unlike some members of the Sun, she wasn't looking to line her - or her boss' - pockets tonight. There were easier ways to do that than robbing the Sith - and there were certainly easier ways to rob the Sith than crawling through decommissioned plasma vents.

No, when Vestra looked at the scorched durasteel under her fingers, when something shifted beneath her feet, she reminded herself what tonight was really about:

Knowledge. Power. Answers.

Vestra tested the metal beneath her, pressed her weight against it - solid. Minimal flex. Good. She braced herself against a vent wall, and sat, knees up to her chest. Then, satisfied, she unclipped the datapad from her belt.

Information filled the screen. Maps, blueprints, tidbits of useful intel scraped from holonet urbex forums. Vestra smiled, smug, and exhaled.

Two floors up, the maintenance ladders stopped - from there, the scoundrel needed to shimmy her way through one of the plasma crucibles, and from there, into one of the slag chutes. If she was right - and she'd triple checked, dammit - then picking the right one would take her underneath the vault.

After that it got tricky, but she'd deal with that when she got to it.

Vestra exhaled, again, and took a moment to prepare. Suit intact? Yes? Good. It had been expensive to source something this heat-resistant. Tibanna Canisters in her pack weren't leaking - good, good. Those were plan B. Blaster loaded, knife in boot, lightsaber at hip - more for its practical applications than combat, admittedly.

A sigh, a smile, and the criminal balanced the datapad in her hand before unceremoniously breaking it over her knee.

Then she started climbing.

 

[Parvati]

LOCATION: 3RD FLOOR --> VIP

Angela's gaze never left Parvati's. Her mind and body were already molding to the Mistress's rhythm. It happened often with those who had little to cling to, they latched onto power, onto strength, onto her. For someone like Angela, Parvati wasn't just beautiful, she was gravity. A force. A shape around which weaker people bent without realizing.

"Yeah." Angela swallowed hard, voice trembling with anticipation, laced with a hunger that had nothing to do with the spice. "My friend Alec is upstairs." Her pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the color of her irises. In the strobe-lit dark, her eyes were black and glistening, like ink about to spill. There was magic in her gaze , not the kind born of the Force, but the fragile, desperate kind, manufactured by chemistry and fantasy. Her world was beautiful in this moment, and so was Parvati.

"He'd like you," Angela added, almost as an afterthought, her voice breathy with devotion. Then, barely audible over the war-drum bass, "I like you."

Parvati didn't miss a beat. She offered nothing but a wicked, painted smile. But behind her sunglasses, her gaze was sharp and cold, a scalpel, not a mirror. Perfect, she thought. Another pet. These people were all the same. Lonely, impressionable, intoxicated by proximity to something sharp and dangerous. She didn't even need to try.

"Everybody does, my dear."

Her hand came up, slow and practiced. A well-manicured touch to the cheek, soft as a lover's, clinical as a cut. She let her thumb glide across the girl's skin, brushing away a tear that didn't exist. The moment was real, even if the feelings weren't. The spice made everything shimmer, touches lingered, emotions bloomed, and false affection rooted itself fast.

"Now," she said, low and intimate, "take me to your friend Alec."

Her eyes locked with Angela's, deep and unblinking. There was no love in them. Only gravity. Pulling. Unrelenting. The girl stared like she was being devoured and kissed at once. Parvati didn't need to speak a word- her silence was louder. She saw through the girl with practiced ease. She saw the fear beneath the heat, the craving beneath the courage. She saw the ache, the need to belong to someone, anyone, strong enough to carry her through the dark.

Both feelings served her.

She sealed the moment with a kiss.

It was brief. A flourish more than a gesture, all lips, no tenderness. The kind of kiss that said you'll remember me long after I forget your name. Parvati's eyes were already open by the time she pulled back, watching as Angela stood dazed, lips still parted, eyes fluttering shut. It was almost sweet. Almost.

"Yeah," Angela breathed, voice thick with dopamine. "Let's go see Alec."

Parvati moved through the crowd with her hand laced in Angela's, hips swaying like a metronome to the rhythm of the club. They left the lounge behind them, but the gazes stayed. Envy, lust, curiosity, she wore them like a second dress. The stares soaked her skin like warm rain. And she let them. Let them imagine. Let them want. The club pulsed around her, a cathedral of synthetic ecstasy, and she walked through it like the goddess they thought she was.

It really was a fabulous party. The kind of thing she might've enjoyed under different circumstances, with better drugs, better company, and no business agenda. But tonight wasn't for pleasure. It was for profit. And if things went how she intended, she might just buy this venue before the night was through- after its current heir turned up mysteriously dead for misplacing his father's priceless relic.

Two birds. One stone.

They approached the stairs leading to the fourth level, the vault floor. A new tempo thrummed under the music: tension. A tall man stepped forward from his post, all hard lines and unhidden suspicion. He didn't even bother pretending to be a guest. Parvati didn't blame him. Anyone worth half a damn could spot a narc with their eyes closed.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice like a durasteel door slamming shut.

"I'm here to see Alec…" she began, then paused, eyes narrowing slightly. She hadn't gotten a last name, had she? The spice was hitting harder than she'd calculated.

"Stonecipher," Angela chimed in eagerly, her voice small but proud, like she'd just passed a test.

The man glanced between them. His gaze lingered just long enough to confirm what they all already knew.

"Only one of you has a VIP-enabled invite."

Angela's hand gripped tighter. Parvati's fingers went slack.

"Sorry, babe," she said breezily, flashing the girl a smile that could be mistaken for affection if you didn't know her. "Thanks for the escort, though."

And just like that, she walked on.

No hesitation. No backward glance.

Behind her, Angela stood frozen at the edge of the stairs, crushed under a hundred feelings at once, the biggest of which was abandonment. The comedown had begun, and it was going to be brutal.

Parvati didn't care. She was already thinking about the vault.

Mr. Usher Razmir Tezhyn Vestra Tane Kivah Xa'tra Yylix Mauve C-127 Sidewinder Eaton Waters @

 

[Rin Aikawa]

Well, I was trying the job out. Maybe this time I could keep it and not lose it. Matching a lot of the uniforms of the workers, women were given a rather unique set of different clothing options. Mostly, just dress as nicely as possible. So to keep that feel, but without feeling like I was exposing myself to the world, I dressed up in a blacked out old-time sailor's uniform.

It fit nicely and wasn't brash. But I was clearly not one of the dancing girls that were at the location. Moving about with a drink plate in my hand, I handed out drinks as requested of my boss. However, I was stopped. The Zeltron man looked down at me and grabbed the tray from my hand.

"You need to go deliver some drinks and refreshments to a VIP. They are late!"
"Um, why me?"
"Cus you are the new girl, and our customer likes new girls to have fun with."
"Alright."

A rolling of my eyes while I held onto now two plates. One with various drinks of all kinds, when the other had small snacking options upon it. Both were fairly heavy and could put strain on any normal person's wrist. However, I have been a waitress and a server before. This was lightweight compared to dishes back on Byss. Either way, Walking through the area and to the doors, one of the guards looked me over and then nodded his head. Letting me past and into the VIP section. Looking for the description given to me, I moved like I was on a mission. Filtering between patrons and guards or whomever to come to the table.

"Mister Delsteele, Your earlier request for more refreshments?"

I did not wait for a response. Just sitting the refreshment plate on the pull out tray I had with me. Then began placing the drinks from the other. Providing all within his little entourage with what they had requested.

"My manager wants to humbly apologize for the tardiness of the asked refreshments. There was a sudden boom in patronage here and forced us to work doubly hard to provide you these. Now, is there anything else you would like to request?"

Parvati Mr. Usher Razmir Tezhyn Vestra Tane Kivah Xa'tra Yylix Mauve C-127 Sidewinder Eaton Waters