Public What You Built, We Burn | OPEN to all | Denon

[Csariden]

DENON.
Avenue-317. Sector Twelve.​

A ceremony of remembrance. A celebration of forgetting.

The plaza gleamed like new money. Chrome railings. Fresh duracrete. Projected names gliding across tall glass facades—names of firms and subsidiaries, logistics bodies, modular engineering firms, and orbital haulers. Names that meant very little to the civilians browsing vendor stalls or adjusting their holopads for a better photo angle.

All they saw was a stage.
All they heard was the speech echoing over the speakers:

“—without the tireless innovation of our sector’s supply chain, the war effort would have faltered. Your parts, your algorithms, your navigation modules made victory possible. We thank you for your service.”

A polite wave of applause followed. Apathetic. Professional. Obligatory.

Above, floating holo-screens rotated visuals of industry: orbital drydocks, assembly lines, factory workers smiling through face-shields. There was no mention of The Mercy—the colossal superweapon that had blown a planet to debris. No mention of Csilla. Of those vaporized in apocalyptic light 35 years ago. Of the Chiss children turned to ash in less than a second.

A “Peace Through Industry” banner hung above it all, flapping with automated airflow from cooling towers. A man in a grey suit gave a calm address about trade normalization. A catering droid handed out wine flutes.

All so civil.
All so polished.

But in the shadow between security patrol routes, a service drone paused.
Its lens shimmered.
A blank-faced child watched it, unmoving.

A few meters away, someone coughed static through a faulty commpiece.
Another drone stopped transmitting.

And above, for the first time all morning—
one of the holo-screens flickered.

The air was just a little too clean.
The sound just a little too distant.
Something beneath the surface was breathing in.

 

[Kasmion Duum]

A man in a grey suit gave a calm address about trade normalization.

One didn't reach or keep such heights unstained. Down in the crowd, politely applauding, Kasmion met the speaker's eyes and knew exactly what he'd find, the depths of willful blindness and routine complicity stretching back through the origins of branching sins down to a root of fundamental emptiness. "Shame, please," Kasmion whispered, and grasped the speaker's ability to focus on the here and now instead of all the memories the speaker suppressed every month or two when they cropped up.

Kasmion removed that barrier. The speech trailed off.

The speaker removed his suit jacket. Confused murmurs rose when he removed his shoes as well, tidily. Then the rest of his clothes, leaving him — a human in his early elder years, with the trim leanness of wealthy health — kneeling naked on the podium.

"Mercy," said the old man to nobody. "Mercy. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy—"

 

[Csariden]

The man onstage laughed. It was the brittle, affluent kind — the practiced chuckle of someone who’d hosted galas during orbital blockades.

“Apologies! Bit of a… poetic moment, I suppose. The prosperity you all have brought about makes romantics of us all.”
“Mercy,” he repeated, as though that word had ever been gentle. “Mercy… is a virtue. And it’s thanks to partnerships like ours that mercy no longer requires sacrifice.”

He gestured weakly to the crowd. The suit jacket lay at his feet like shed skin. His tie was missing. His eyes were growing bloodshot red.

---

In the crowd, new figures emerged.

Just a few at first. Moving with the shuffling rhythm of street vendors and mid-tier technicians. Their skin bore the familiar blue hue of Pantorans… or so it seemed. But the face paint was an imperfect imitation.

Chiss insurgents, wearing tinted goggles and imitation features, passed unnoticed through the murmuring crowd.
Each one bore the blank, unfeeling expression of someone preparing to die.

One knelt beside a tipped-over food cart and quietly drew breath through a rebreather mask.
Another adjusted the cuff of his jacket — revealing the clipped shape of a FEX-M3 dispersal canister in his palm.
A third whispered something in Cheunh, and took position by a droid with frozen photoreceptors.

---

The droids did not move.

They stood like statues — surveillance units, sanitation walkers, event assistants.
But their eyes flickered.

Inside their shared subroutines, buried just below system awareness, Csariden was slicing.

Not with speed. With certainty.
Each script was a scalpel. Each delay a vein collapsed.

The artificial nervous system of the plaza began to shut down.

---

The CEO wiped his forehead and gestured to a chart that never appeared.

“Heh… technical glitch. Can’t do anything without a droid these days, eh?”

A few polite chuckles.
The screen behind him still showed Csilla, suspended in time.

The applause was gone.
In its place, the crowd shuffled. Cameras lowered. Questions rose.
No one knew what was wrong.
Only that something was.

Faintly, murmured by the insurgents amidst the crowd—

“Mercy.”
“Mercy.”
“Mercy.”

The word once again looped from the speaker’s lips and from a toy in a nearby stall. The same cadence. The same damage.

The same sin.

@Open | Kasmion Duum​

 

[Eivii]

Outfit: Durasteel Armor
Weapons: Slugthrower Rifle | Blaster Pistol

Spoiler: Eivii's Loadout – Urban Operations

Clothing and Protection:

• Stealth Suit – Adaptive coloration, lightweight armor designed to evade visual and sensor detection.
• Armored Jacket – Light protective garment with sensor-dampening lining.
• Rebreather Mask – Filters airborne toxins and allows operation in low-oxygen environments.
• Utility Belt and Thigh Rig – Carries essential tools, pouches, and weapon mounts.
• Vibro-insulated Gloves – Insulated gloves with dexterity support and electrical resistance.

Primary Weapons:

• The Silencer Blaster Pistol – Virtually silent, favored by assassins and covert agents.
• Vibrodagger – Compact melee weapon ideal for close-quarters takedowns.
• Throwing Knives – Balanced and reusable for silent eliminations or distraction.

Sidearms and Tools:

• Disruptor Hold-out Pistol – Compact and extremely lethal against unarmored targets.
• Slicer Spike – Device for breaching locked systems and electronic interfaces.
• Stun Baton – Non-lethal electroshock weapon for subduing targets.
• Breaching Charge – Portable explosive for forced entry.

Tactical Equipment:

• Neural HUD Visor – Overlays battlefield intel and target tracking.
• Holo-Decoy Emitter – Deploys false holographic image to distract enemies.
• Grappling Cable Launcher – Enables vertical traversal and rapid repositioning.
• Signal Scrambler – Interrupts enemy comms and detection systems in a local area.
• Compact Stun Mine – Deployable trap that discharges an incapacitating shock.

Survival and Support Gear:

• Stimpacks – Injectors for pain suppression, endurance, or healing in the field.
• Compact Field Medkit – Bacta, dermaseal, and emergency medical supplies.
• Encrypted Comlink – Secure device for encrypted team communication.
• Portable Air Sensor – Detects airborne toxins, contaminants, and environmental threats.
• Emergency Cloak – Thermal/light-concealing outerwear for ambush or evasion.

She had the best view in the city.
A rooftop garden, locked and long-abandoned, lined with crumbling trellises and ceramic pots filled with sun-bleached dust. No cameras. No patrols. Just a perfect line-of-sight across the entire plaza.

Eivii lay prone beneath a canopy of dying ivy, rifle slotted between rusted grating and old cabling. She’d padded the barrel rest with a folded hotel towel—light blue, monogrammed, stolen that morning. The scope glinted once, then dimmed.

Down below, the show was starting to slip.

The man on stage had taken his jacket off. Now his shoes. Now everything else.
"Damn farrik"
Eivii muttered under her breath, adjusting the focus.
"They said it was going to be subtle."

Eivii should have known better by now. She had no love for the Revengeancy. Fanatics gave her hives. But credits were credits, and every so often their cause aligned with her mood: bitter, precise, and hungry for catharsis.

Her HUD ticked as the plaza’s surveillance droids went dark one by one. Someone was slicing them. Someone very good.

A corner of her mouth curved up.

"Cute."

The insurgents moved like wraiths—fake Pantoran paint, real conviction. One by the noodle cart palmed a nerve gas grenade. Another was murmuring Cheunh to a trash bin. All of it beautifully timed.

She thumbed the safety on her rifle. Slow. Deliberate. Unhurried.

Not yet.
Not until the word came.

Her finger hovered beside the trigger as she glanced sideways toward her datapad. A small screen showed a citywide weather feed. No alerts. No aerial patrols. No satellite eyes on her rooftop. She was still a ghost.

She liked it that way.

And maybe, if this went loud—
—if enough people screamed mercy in the wrong direction—
—she could slip off Denon quiet and satisfied.

Or maybe she'd do something stupid.
Again.

@Open | Kasmion Duum | Csariden​