Private Nar Shaddaa Blues

[Lysander von Ascania]

T-37X StarRacer​

The streetbike's engine growled, a beast drowning in the neon of Hutta Town, wheels rolling over countless spots that didn't feel appropriate for synthrubber. The ride was a maze of unpredictable danger, perfect for one driven so often by adrenaline, with half lit bridges and ramps like scars etched across the city's skin. Twice, he had to duck under barely visible power cables, electric tendrils desiring the taste of flesh. And once, Lysander's ride nearly met its end as he avoided clipping a broken holo advertisement.

Finally, he arrived at the noodle stand, parking in one of the alleys. Paths that led to this place were few, but he had made them work, defying the odds, like every other obstacle in life.

The machine's frame was protesting as the kickstand was put in place, heat still bleeding off it like an infected wound. He killed the ignition first, before releasing the protective barrier from his head with gloved fingers. The scent of spice and frying oils filled his nostrils.

Cool air brushed his face, damp from sweat. Strands of blonde clung to his forehead. The instant he felt like the boy he’d once been; gliding through the skies of Coruscant, naive enough to believe the galaxy was ordered.. safe.

But the memory washed away as quickly as it came..

Since those days of innocence, so much had changed. He was a Sith apprentice now, bound to another shadow entirely, but also a figure with credits tied across businesses on Nar Shaddaa, slowly trying to build a name here

But no matter which side of himself he wore, both served that same insatiable hunger.

A slow breath was let out, placing the helmet on his bike, then fixing his gaze on the door behind the noodle stand.

The library waited.

Stepping within, the door behind sealed. Rows of shelving leaned against the walls.. an accumulation of datacards, cracked holograms, battered flimsiplast binders. Holoprojectors flickered in the back. The lighting wasn't much better than a candle blame.

And so the memories returned. The Jedi Temple Library.

He remembered believing knowledge was a gift.

Here, in the lower levels, knowledge was not gift.. but more contraband.

It was traded, hoarded, and at times.. weaponized. The splicers who ran this place treated it like currency.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Scherezade wasn't really a fan of libraries. She loved reading, sure, and she loved old things too, especially the kind that came with stories or fangs, but cryptoriums like this? The kind built in praise of the written word and the supposed sanctity of knowledge? Those always gave her the creeps. They smelled like dust and ghosts and people who thought they were smarter than they were. Some found that scent comforting. She was not among them

Still, when you worked with the Black Sun, you didn't exactly get to curate your itinerary. The datachip in her pocket lay dormant, waiting for the right machine to wake it up. She hadn't asked what the machine was. She hadn't cared. It was just one more errand between point C and point D, so sure, whatever.

Her boots managed to squeak against the carpet as she made her way through the stacks, because of course they did. It was a special skill, making noise where silence wanted to live. The lighting was bad, the air stale, and every flickering holoprojector cast long, nervous shadows on the walls.

There weren't many people here. Good. Her instructions had been clear; go all the way to the back, hand off the chip, collect whatever came in return. Easy enough.

Glowing green eyes caught movement ahead. A single figure ( Lysander von Ascania ).

"Rest now, my children," she said, voice perfectly casual, giving the passphrase like she was ordering a drink. She didn't bother checking whether he was the right person, and her stance was loose, her gaze steady, and the air around her hummed faintly with intent.

If he wasn't the one she was meant to meet, well… that would just make the night more interesting.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Scherezade deWinter​

The shelves were leaning like drunks from one of Nar Shaddaa’s many cantinas. Secrets were bleeding out in flickers of blue light. A gloved hand skimmed across them, pausing here and there to thumb a datacard, to watch a holotext barely stutter to half-life, only to dismiss it. Jedi aphorisms corrupted by smuggler's edits, Sith fragments annotated by hands that didn’t truly understand them.. knowledge here was less scripture than contraband, and he treated it accordingly.

He'd arrived after a whispered lead, and doubt was already coiling in his chest.

Then there was ovement at the edge of his vision. A shift of shadow. Someone else had entered. Nar Shaddaa was dangerous, yes, but danger was the baseline here. To overthink it would be weakness. So, Lysander simply noted it, eyes flicking once to the shelf, then back to the holotext in his grasp.

With a soft click, he set it down on the table. The dim light caught the edge of his jaw, the faint scar over his brow, the detachment in his gaze.

Through the thick shadow that swathed the room, a hand suddenly emerged, barely visible, demanding attention, extending just enough reveal durasteel, or something close to it. His gaze briefly dropped to the hand before flicking back up. Locking onto hers, his eyes spoke silent words that didn't quite register.

One dark eyebrow arched, just enough to signal his amusement, skepticism, and a challenge all at the same time.

His lips curved. “Girl, I've got no patience for heirs or orphans."