Private Lines Cut, Signals Lost

[Iandre Athlea]

The frost‑tipped cables and frozen comm panels of the remote hub glinted under Iandre's careful inspection. The building's lights flickered weakly, a dying heartbeat of technology struggling against the cold and neglect. The low hum of failing power reverberated through the metal floor, echoing softly against the high ceiling. The Force hummed faintly at the edges of her awareness, whispering of unease, of hurried movement, and shadowed intent.

Iandre stepped over a broken access grate, boots crunching on ice, eyes scanning the corridors for anomalies. Every step kicked up a light spray of frost, swirling in the weak glow of flickering lights. The hub should have been quiet—abandoned save for the maintenance droids—but subtle traces told a different story. Power conduits had been tampered with; scorch marks traced erratic lines along the walls. Something—or someone—had been here before her.

A low hum erupted from a compromised console, sparks leaping across its panel. The air smelled faintly of burnt circuitry and ozone, acrid and electric. The Force whispered again—chaos was close, tangible, prickling at the edges of perception. Iandre's hand hovered near the hilt of her weapon, though her mind weighed options with measured precision. There was no panic here—only calculation.

The corridors stretched out ahead, long and narrow, littered with debris: twisted metal, frozen cables, and shattered panels. The occasional clatter of a falling support brace echoed down the halls, a reminder that the building's integrity was fragile. Every shadow could conceal a hazard—or a threat. Iandre's boots made a soft, deliberate rhythm on the metal flooring as she advanced, each step measured, attuned to the subtle vibrations beneath her feet.

She paused at a junction where the floor sloped sharply into the deeper sections of the hub. Sparks crackled faintly nearby, illuminating the dark in brief, harsh flashes. Sensors detected irregularities—temperature fluctuations, unstable power readings—but no movement. Still, the Force hinted at something lurking, unseen, waiting. Iandre's breath remained even, controlled, as she prepared to continue. Whoever had caused the blackout was still here. And every decision she made could determine whether she uncovered it safely or walked into the chaos that waited in the shadows.

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

The frost still clung to everything. Her gloves, her sleeves, the loose strands of hair that had fallen across her face… It made her fingers stiff as she pried open the compartment's casing, each screw resisting like it was personally offended by her presence. She muttered a string of curse words in various languages, words sharp enough to make a sailor blush, and when the last panel came loose, it screeched in protest before falling to the side with a metallic groan.

Sithspit. Scherezade hated the cold. She was a creature of eternal summer, of blue skies and poppy fields and all that nice crap. She wasn't built for these temperatures, even with protective gear.

The compartment was a mess of coiled wires, half-frozen coolant lines, and the scorched husks of smaller drones. Scherezade leaned closer, breath fogging against the icy metal, rummaging with single-minded focus. The datapad she'd taken off one of the droids was cracked, its display flickering between bursts of static, but it had given her the coordinates. Somewhere in this hub, one of her schematic fragments was buried. Events of the galaxy had distracted her from her hunt for these schematics for too long, and this was the first time in months that she finally renewed her search for them.

Her gloved hand disappeared into the compartment's guts. She hissed as she brushed against a live wire, the shock biting through her palm. The scent of burnt insulation mingled with the faint sweetness of coolant. "Butthole," she muttered at the machinery, voice rough from the cold. "You were supposed to stay quiet."

The power conduits behind her still spat occasional sparks. The droids had come at her in waves up until just a few minutes ago, their mechanical voices blaring warnings she'd ignored. Maintenance units, sure, but someone had modified them. Combat subroutines buried deep, waiting. The scorch marks on the walls were the result of blaster fire she'd redirected, the twisted metal the aftermath of kinetic throws she hadn't quite measured. One of them had exploded near the junction, showering her with fragments that still glittered faintly on her hair.

She hadn't drawn her blades. Hadn't needed to. The droids had come apart beneath her hands and the Force's invisible weight with crushed limbs, twisted plating, and a spray of oil that steamed when it hit the cold air. It hadn't been elegant. Efficiency trumped grace when time mattered.

Now the hub was quiet except for the faint hum of damaged systems struggling to stay alive. The silence pressed against her ears. Every sound she made, from the click of metal, the rasp of her gloves, to the shallow exhale, seemed almost too loud. She could feel the stillness after the storm, and beneath it, the faint tremor of something alive moving through the corridors.

Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.

Someone was coming.

Not droids this time. The rhythm was too deliberate, too careful. Flesh and bone, not gears and servos. The Force prickled at the edges of her senses, warning and curious all at once. She didn't reach for her weapons… Yet.

Instead, she kept crouched, one hand still buried in the open compartment, the other resting lightly against the floor to ground herself. A thin smile ghosted across her lips, half amusement, half anticipation.

"If you're here for my mess," she half yelled into the air, more to the machinery than to whoever was approaching, "you're kinda late."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre stepped lightly into the hub, boots barely whispering against the grated floor. Her grey eyes swept over the scorched panels and twisted metal, a faint crease of distaste forming. Droids had never sat well with her—their cold, mechanical certainty, the way they obeyed without thought—but these, altered and aggressive, left a bitter tang in the air that made her stomach tighten.

"Late, perhaps," she said softly, voice calm, carrying a thread of dry amusement, "but some messes…some disturbances… are worth seeing."

She crouched slightly, letting her senses reach along the faint currents of the Force lingering in the scorched machinery. Subtle vibrations and a faint tug at the edges of her perception told her something—or someone—was moving nearby. Her gaze swept the corridor, searching without exposing herself, probing the Force for intent.

"You've left quite a mark here," she continued, tone measured, more to the presence than the machines themselves, "though I cannot say I enjoy the company of your…helpers."

Her fingers hovered near a scorched conduit, grounding herself in the Force, ready but unthreatened. "I do not know who—or what—is here," she murmured, "but I can sense your presence. I will see you, and I will understand. Move carefully, for I am patient, and I listen."

"If you intend to make this mess your own," she said, her voice steady and quiet but carrying unmistakable resolve, "know that I will not be caught unaware."

Scherezade deWinter

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Iandre Athlea

---

Messes…some disturbances… are worth seeing.

Hand still buried in the compartment, Scherezade grinned. That was definitely a statement she could vibe with, and she did, her body bouncing ever so slightly in an almost happy food dance, though there was, unfortunately, no food involved. Yet.

Now that the stranger had spoken, she could tell the voice was feminine, and assumed its carrier was as well. But more importantly, now that the person had come slightly closer, Scherezade sensed her blood. Still searching with her hand in the compartment, she took a big inhale, testing the scent. Yup, female. Human. Not someone she would be worried about by default unless they gave her cause.

The effin' schematics were not in the compartment. She sighed with disappointment and pulled her hand back, glowing green eyes gazing at the black oil and tar that covered it. Getting herself cleaned later would suck so much.

"Not my helpers," she yelled out as if her mind only now caught up with the rest of the words that had come from the stranger's direction, "I was cool with ignoring them. They weren't cool with ignoring me. So I figured, hey, I'm already here, might as well do some clean up, y'know?"

Now she stood, letting her own blood flow back into her lower libs, and stretched, dirty hands reaching for the ceiling and all. Force, it felt good.

It was quite amazing, how Scherezade was, on one hand, a terrifying person to deal with when angered or drawn into a battle, and the latter did really not take too much to get done. But at the same time, or as they say, on the other hand, her demeanor outside of that was so child-like sometimes, so casual and care-free, that it was hard to understand how the bubbly and cheerful Sithling was actually a Sith. Some had used her personality as a reason to discredit her. Often, they didn't live long enough to regret it.

But still, there was no ill intent within her towards the stranger. Not yet, anyway. She'd need a damn good reason to add stranger's blood on top of the oily and tar stains.

Without a care in the 'verse, she walked to the entrance of the room she was in and opened the door that led to the hallway Iandre Athlea was in.

"Here I am," she grinned and waved. Scherezade was an Amazonian woman, tall and wide, her usual green armour now dirty along with every inch of skin. She looked like she'd gone mining on a backwater world somewhere rather than chase something that was for her, among the most precious things in the galaxy.

"Did you want anything?" she asked, her voice almost sing-song like, "I mean, the mess is mine, but I wasn't planning on cleaning up. Just looking for something and then I'll be on my way, unless you rather do the whole threaten each other and then fight for no apparent reason thing. If you're not, I'm Schereade."

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre stepped forward, boots soft against the grating, her hands open at her sides to show she wasn't here to escalate anything. The tall woman was a striking sight—oil-streaked armor, green eyes sharp with humor and something wild underneath. Dangerous, yes…but not hostile. Not yet.

"Schereade," Iandre repeated, offering a small, genuine nod. "Iandre Athlea. It's good to meet someone else who dislikes droids as much as I do."

Her eyes flicked to the wrecked machines, then back with a hint of shared exasperation.

"They make terrible company and even worse opponents. So—thank you for clearing a path before I arrived."
There was a faint smile there, sincere and not forced.

She took another step closer—not crowding, just enough that their voices didn't need to fight the hum of failing systems.

"You said you're looking for something. If you want help, I can offer it. And if you'd rather keep your search to yourself…I can at least keep the next round of droids off your back."

Iandre's voice softened, warm with understanding rather than judgment.

"This place feels like it's hiding more than malfunctioning circuits. Whatever brought you here…you don't have to face it alone if you'd prefer not to."

She extended a hand—gloved, steady, sincere.

"Either way, you won't get any threats from me. Just let me know how I can make this easier for you."

Scherezade deWinter