General of Signa-Ki RND
Linn didn't smile back. She simply handed over a slim datapad — Andrew's profile. Combat footage. Known weaknesses. A brief visual log of his last six purchases — including the exact brand of synthleather boots Sommer wears.
Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos
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Private The Lights That Weren’t On (BIRTHDAY BASH!!!!)
- Thread starter Sommer Dai
- Start date
Character
Greah's eyes flicked over it all. So easy to follow the trail of a man who lives in denial.
General of Signa-Ki RND
As she headed toward the door, Linn's voice followed her — cold and absolute:
Character
Greah paused, her back to her mother.
And she stepped into the hall — walking not as a soldier, but as a whisper in heels, a smirk behind mirrored glass.
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
Andrew was storming past check-in nodes, palming a false clearance chip, ready to break every protocol if it meant getting to Sommer.
And then he saw her.
And then he saw her.
Character
The woman stepped forward in pale silver heels, her silhouette half-swathed in the silk shimmer of a diplomatic wrap. Her expression was warm — with just the right touch of surprised confusion, as though running into him were fate, not calculation.
"Mr. Lonek?" she asked, voice soft but firm.
"I'm sorry — there's been a bit of a mix-up. You're looking for Sommer Dai, yes? She's fine. Touring the west wing with a team of our higher science staff. Negotiations."
Greah offered a carefully tilted smile, just shy of flirtation.
"You looked concerned. Please — let me buy you a stim-coffee while the staff finish the tour. She asked not to be interrupted."
"Mr. Lonek?" she asked, voice soft but firm.
"I'm sorry — there's been a bit of a mix-up. You're looking for Sommer Dai, yes? She's fine. Touring the west wing with a team of our higher science staff. Negotiations."
Greah offered a carefully tilted smile, just shy of flirtation.
"You looked concerned. Please — let me buy you a stim-coffee while the staff finish the tour. She asked not to be interrupted."
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
Andrew blinked. Her eyes were almost too familiar.
Something about her didn't quite sit right.
But her voice was soothing. And the cameo at her neck? It played back a private line Sommer had once used, embedded in the tones.
Something about her didn't quite sit right.
But her voice was soothing. And the cameo at her neck? It played back a private line Sommer had once used, embedded in the tones.
His jaw clenched.
Character
Greah took a careful step forward, hand brushing his elbow, eyes shimmering with studied kindness.
"She's more than alright."
"She's finally doing something that matters."
"She's more than alright."
"She's finally doing something that matters."
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
Signa-Ki Concourse Lounge – Just Outside Research Sector
The lounge was quieter here — private, sophisticated, with no viewports, no clocks, no overt signs of time or transit. It was a room made to hold people in place, and Andrew hadn't yet noticed that.Greah Dobson sat across from him now, one leg crossed carefully over the other, sipping from a slim porcelain cup laced with hints of spice and floral. The drink she offered him earlier remained untouched in front of Andrew. He hadn't taken his eyes off her.
Character
Greah let the pause linger, then placed her cup down with a soft clink.
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
Andrew's brow furrowed, skepticism mounting.
Character
Greah leaned in slightly, her tone dropping into something velvet and conspiratorial.
She tapped the datapad beside her, letting it glow subtly between them — schematics, neuron-responsive armaments, hybridized slicer tools, and unnamed experimental Force-resistant armor designs flickered past.
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
Andrew's gaze narrowed. Some of the blueprints looked half-familiar. They resembled designs he'd abandoned — years ago, back when he still hated the Jedi enough to create weapons made just for them.
Character
Greah smiled. Not smug — curious, as though peeling away a puzzle she already knew the answer to.
She gestured to the data flowing beside her.
The word hung in the air like a thread of silk with a razor edge.
She gestured to the data flowing beside her.
The word hung in the air like a thread of silk with a razor edge.
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
Andrew exhaled, his voice low and tight.
Character
Greah uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. Her hand brushed lightly against his — feather-soft, deliberate.
Her breath whispered just beside his ear now.
Andrew Lonek
(L.T.I President)
He turned, finally catching her gaze — cool ocean-blue with a strange, delicate hunger in them. The kind that didn't want his body so much as his mind. His loyalty. His usefulness.
And yet… the flirtation wasn't false. Not entirely.
That made it more dangerous.
And yet… the flirtation wasn't false. Not entirely.
That made it more dangerous.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Inner Observation Chamber Delta-3
The air in the room had changed.No… not the air. Sommer.
She sat still in the low, contoured chair where the scan had begun—its sleek armrests humming with near-silent pulses of energy. The lights were dimmed now, overhead glow soft and pulsing with the rhythm of her breath, and a slight warmth coiled in her temples.
The Dahlia imprint was designed to be graceful. A whisper into the subconscious. It didn't arrive with needles or restraints, but with scentless suggestion, with carefully-tuned sound waves and photonic pulses, gently mapping her neural pathways—blending foreign data with her deepest-rooted memories.
They wanted her pliable. Still her—but a version that served their needs.
And for a moment, it worked.
Her breath slowed. Her heart beat like music muffled beneath silk. Her eyes fluttered half-closed. The facility's soothing voice cooed in her ear.
But then—
Crack.
Something splintered.
She didn't move physically, but in her mind's eye, something fractured sideways—like a mirror catching too much light.
A scream.
A soft one. Her own.
Or maybe not?
In the dark corners of her memory, something stirred. Not a voice… a refusal.
It didn't come from the Dahlia. And it didn't come from the polished woman who ran the Gilded Veil.
It came from the scratching, hungry thing buried beneath the perfume, beneath the velvet, beneath the name Sommer Dai itself. The girl who had once starved. The girl who fought for scraps, who stole dreams like earrings. The girl who did not belong to anyone.
And suddenly… her eyes opened. Wide.
Sommer gasped.
Her hands gripped the edge of the chair—not weakly, but like a fighter finding the ropes.
The voice returned in her ear:
But Sommer blinked. Not slowly—deliberately. The Dahlia was trying to smooth her like silk over wire.
It didn't know she had fangs beneath the satin.
She stood.
Or tried to—her knees buckled, brain swimming. But she laughed—laughed, like she'd slipped on her own runway heels and made it a performance.
She turned to the mirrored wall across from her. The lights flickered.
In the reflection, her eyes were not her own for a moment.
They were someone else's.
Red. Bleeding. Zori Galea.
Then black. No iris. AZIS.
Sommer stumbled back. But did not break.
General of Signa-Ki RND
The room was flooded in teal. Monitors cast their sickly glow across glass-panel floors, the hum of data streams a soft constant underneath the stillness. No alarms sounded. That wasn't how Linn Dobson designed her systems.
She preferred the silence of deviation — the type that crept.
Across the largest screen, Sommer Dai's biometric profile blinked in a wash of red-orange hues. Elevated neural activity. Oxygenation flux. Heart rhythm spike, but not in a panic pattern. This was something else.
The words didn't come with alarm — just acknowledgment.
Linn's gloved fingers laced together behind her back as she watched Sommer's silhouette pace within her chamber below, movements sharp, uncooperative, too aware.
She didn't look like a woman being reformed anymore.
She looked like a woman preparing for war.
A junior technician beside her spoke hesitantly:
Linn didn't answer immediately. Her sharp eyes flicked to another screen — Andrew Lonek's profile. It was holding steady. He hadn't noticed Sommer's change in status yet.
Not yet.
She stepped forward, brushing her fingers against the glass. Sommer's face, caught mid-movement, stared back in pixelated defiance. Linn's expression didn't twist. If anything, it smoothed—serene in its resolve.
She turned to her chief operative.
The technician blinked. "That's—uh—the containment loop. Are we isolating her entirely?"
She tapped the screen again.
She paused.
The technician swallowed. "And if she continues to reject the implant?"
Linn moved to a case near the wall. Unlocked it with a retina scan.
Inside, sealed in obsidian foam, was a thin silver ampule, marked with the sigil of Unit K-57. Experimental compound. Not part of the Dahlia project. Not approved. Memory flood catalyst.
She held up the ampule to the light.
She preferred the silence of deviation — the type that crept.
Across the largest screen, Sommer Dai's biometric profile blinked in a wash of red-orange hues. Elevated neural activity. Oxygenation flux. Heart rhythm spike, but not in a panic pattern. This was something else.
The words didn't come with alarm — just acknowledgment.
Linn's gloved fingers laced together behind her back as she watched Sommer's silhouette pace within her chamber below, movements sharp, uncooperative, too aware.
She didn't look like a woman being reformed anymore.
She looked like a woman preparing for war.
A junior technician beside her spoke hesitantly:
Linn didn't answer immediately. Her sharp eyes flicked to another screen — Andrew Lonek's profile. It was holding steady. He hadn't noticed Sommer's change in status yet.
Not yet.
She stepped forward, brushing her fingers against the glass. Sommer's face, caught mid-movement, stared back in pixelated defiance. Linn's expression didn't twist. If anything, it smoothed—serene in its resolve.
She turned to her chief operative.
The technician blinked. "That's—uh—the containment loop. Are we isolating her entirely?"
She tapped the screen again.
She paused.
The technician swallowed. "And if she continues to reject the implant?"
Linn moved to a case near the wall. Unlocked it with a retina scan.
Inside, sealed in obsidian foam, was a thin silver ampule, marked with the sigil of Unit K-57. Experimental compound. Not part of the Dahlia project. Not approved. Memory flood catalyst.
She held up the ampule to the light.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
The door hissed open without ceremony.
Sommer's breath caught. She expected a sterile corridor, guards, containment fields — hell, maybe even Dobson herself waiting with that icicle smile. But what she saw made her hesitate in the doorway.
A warm glow spilled out. Red velvet walls. Golden fixtures. Hanging crystal bulbs that hummed in familiar harmony.
The scent of jasmine and skin.
She stepped forward — cautiously at first, then slower, disoriented, unsure if her heels were echoing on polished floor or her own memories.
Her mirrors.
The private booth with the sheer curtains — just slightly swaying, as if someone had just left.
She blinked up.
The Gilded Veil sign glittered above, pulsing neon like a heart that never stopped beating.
And then the sound.
A slow, sensual beat… her beat. One from an old show.
The music she danced to the night she claimed her title.
She turned — and saw herself on stage.
Not a reflection.
A projection.
The illusion danced like her. Moved like her. Twirled and ground against the pole with that same predatory elegance that earned Sommer her crown. The crowd below was indistinct, faceless shadows clapping in slow motion.
The projection flickered — and its smile twisted. Too wide. Its lips parted, mouthing words that didn't match the song.
Queen.
Pretender.
Little girl in heels too tall.
Sommer stumbled back. The crowd's clapping became footsteps—loud, echoing, like boots on metal. Like combat. Like panic.
She turned — and suddenly she was in her office.
Familiar. Dim. The decanter on her desk. The red-velvet chair.
But this time, someone was sitting in it.
A man. No face. Just a silhouette — watching her.
She reached for the comm panel — dead. Her heart raced, but she forced calm into her throat.
It moved like Ghost. But wore Andrew's coat. And Zori's smile. And someone else's voice.
Being thirteen on the street.
Taking a blade to the ankle of a Hutt enforcer.
Staring at herself in a busted mirror in a Nar Shaddaa alley, telling herself: you're worth loving.
But somewhere deeper — that same primal thing from earlier surged again. The part that would never be touched without permission. The part that bit back.
She clenched her fists.
She was herself again.
Bloodied, bruised, winded.
But standing.
Alone.
Still here.
And then—
Another hiss.
A door in the far back opened. Real? Another illusion?
Sommer wiped her mouth and squared her shoulders. Her heels clicked as she walked toward it, slowly, like she were preparing to walk onto a stage full of knives.
Sommer's breath caught. She expected a sterile corridor, guards, containment fields — hell, maybe even Dobson herself waiting with that icicle smile. But what she saw made her hesitate in the doorway.
A warm glow spilled out. Red velvet walls. Golden fixtures. Hanging crystal bulbs that hummed in familiar harmony.
The scent of jasmine and skin.
She stepped forward — cautiously at first, then slower, disoriented, unsure if her heels were echoing on polished floor or her own memories.
There was her stage.
Her mirrors.
The private booth with the sheer curtains — just slightly swaying, as if someone had just left.
She blinked up.
The Gilded Veil sign glittered above, pulsing neon like a heart that never stopped beating.
But her body betrayed her. Muscle memory took over. Her hand ran across the bannister leading to the upper lounge. Her fingers knew the grooves.
And then the sound.
A slow, sensual beat… her beat. One from an old show.
The music she danced to the night she claimed her title.
She turned — and saw herself on stage.
Not a reflection.
A projection.
The illusion danced like her. Moved like her. Twirled and ground against the pole with that same predatory elegance that earned Sommer her crown. The crowd below was indistinct, faceless shadows clapping in slow motion.
She stepped closer.
The projection flickered — and its smile twisted. Too wide. Its lips parted, mouthing words that didn't match the song.
Queen.
Pretender.
Little girl in heels too tall.
Sommer stumbled back. The crowd's clapping became footsteps—loud, echoing, like boots on metal. Like combat. Like panic.
She turned — and suddenly she was in her office.
Familiar. Dim. The decanter on her desk. The red-velvet chair.
But this time, someone was sitting in it.
A man. No face. Just a silhouette — watching her.
She reached for the comm panel — dead. Her heart raced, but she forced calm into her throat.
The silhouette rose.
It moved like Ghost. But wore Andrew's coat. And Zori's smile. And someone else's voice.
Suddenly mirrors surrounded her again — warping and multiplying the figure a thousand times over.
Her chest ached — memories bleeding at the edges.
Being thirteen on the street.
Taking a blade to the ankle of a Hutt enforcer.
Staring at herself in a busted mirror in a Nar Shaddaa alley, telling herself: you're worth loving.
The projection flickered again — now showing Sommer bleeding from the eyes, just like Zori Galea, whispering:
A scream built in her throat.
But somewhere deeper — that same primal thing from earlier surged again. The part that would never be touched without permission. The part that bit back.
She clenched her fists.
Her reflection flickered again — and for a moment, the images stilled.
She was herself again.
Bloodied, bruised, winded.
But standing.
Alone.
Still here.
And then—
Another hiss.
A door in the far back opened. Real? Another illusion?
Sommer wiped her mouth and squared her shoulders. Her heels clicked as she walked toward it, slowly, like she were preparing to walk onto a stage full of knives.