Private Scent of Iron

[Darth Anathemous]

Location: House of Iron, Nar Shaddaa
Wearing: Dress shirt + Gloves
Tag: Everest Vale

The House of Iron was coming along swimmingly.

Workers came in and out of the elevator behind the crowds, who drank and danced to aggressive, haunting music.

Kaila proudly watched it all from a booth tucked away into the darkest corner, golden eyes piercing the shadows as they drank in every vice. It made her easy to find, but only if you knew what you were looking for. Such was the case for one Mara Praji, an Atrisian girl of little renown and humble beginnings, she oversaw a waste disposal company that Kaila often contracted. Drunken party goers often left clubs in a mess, after all.

Few knew she also led the infamous "Cleaners".

"Took care of that thing for you." said Praji.

Kaila, sank deeper into the leather cushions, pointing her cigarette towards the opposite end of the booth, which Praji soon filled.

"Yes, SB-13 has already informed me." she gestured at the Commando Droid standing behind them, which made the Atrisian go pale.

"Heard you lost some of my inventory?"

"It won't happen again."

The Dark Lord in disguise narrowed her eyes on the woman, and slowly sat upright. Praji couldn't stand to hold eye contact anymore, swiping a glass of Revnog off a tray as the waiter passed. Kaila signaled him to leave the whole bottle.

"I know." she said at last.

"Which is why I'm only docking your pay tonight."

​

 

[Everest Vale]

Outfit: Undercover
Equipment: Lightsaber, Bracelet, Earrings
Tag: Darth Anathemous

Rain came down in sheets, thick with the stink of metal and spice. The streets below pulsed with colour, red signs bleeding into blue puddles, bodies drifting like ghosts through the noise. Eve walked among them with her hood low, the cracked pleather of her jacket shining wet under the lights. Hair clung to her cheek. The satchel strap dug into her shoulder. Every few steps, she felt the hum of passing speeders tremble through the soles of her boots.

The city pressed in on her. Too bright. Too alive. And yet, she could vanish here, if she wanted to. No one would notice another face. Another lie. It was tempting.

Her contact had sent the coordinates earlier that morning, a place belonging to the House of Iron, one of the many merchant guilds that kept Nar Shaddaa's nightlife supplied with glitter, guns and everything in between. THP wanted confirmation of Sith and Haxion ties. She was to blend in, watch, listen. Nothing more.

But she hadn't felt like herself in days. Every sound seemed sharper, her thoughts heavier. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was everything she'd been pushing aside. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't distracting her.

A tram screeched overhead. The neon reflected on her gloves, bruised violet and chrome.

You could disappear here, away from it all, the thought whispered again. She exhaled through her teeth, forcing it away.

A queue of workers and patrons funnelled through a scanner manned by guards in dull armour. The smell of ozone and perfume mingled in the rain. When it was her turn, she kept her chin up.

"Jeyne Masa. New intake. Admin level three." Her tone was clipped and professional. The gruff guard at the door squinted and checked his datapad. The pause stretched just long enough to bite at her ribs. Then a grunt.

"On the list. Inside."

She nodded once. No smile.

The doors swallowed her into a different world: warmth, bass, bodies moving under amber light. The scent of smoke and oil. She adjusted her satchel, eyes flicking across the crowd. Bartenders, mercenaries, traders. Somewhere in there, someone was laundering blood money in Sith gold.

And Jeyne Masa — quiet, tired, anonymous — began her investigation.