“Sometimes I think this planet is nothing but a hellhole.”
― Natasi Daala, to an unconscious Nek Bwua’tu
In the lowest levels, in the abyssal urban depths, of the ecumenopolis that was Coruscant, it was a rare thing indeed to see sunlight. For the inhabitants of the baroque and gleaming cloudcutters, skytowers and superskytowers – the latter reaching as much as two kilometers high – the sun was something taken for granted, just as were the other comforts of life. Since WeatherNet guaranteed that it never rained until dusk or later, the rich golden sunlight was simply expected, in the same way that one expected air to till one’s lungs with every breath.
The latter was the life that Manuk was born to. Or rather, one she inherited.
But hundreds of stories below the first inhabited floors of the great towers, ziggurats, and minarets, in some places actually on or under the city-planet’s surface, it was another story. Here hundreds of thousands of humans and other species lived and died, sometimes without ever catching as much as a glimpse of the fabled sky. Here the light that filtered through the omnipresent grey inversion layer was wan and pallid. The rain that reached the surface was nearly always acidic, enough so at times to etch tiny channels and grooves into ferrocarbon foundations. It was hard to believe that anything at all could survive in these dismal trenches. Yet even here life, both intelligent and otherwise, had adjusted long ago to the perpetual twilight and strictured environment.
And, oddly, it was this way of life that Manuk was being more and more often drawn to.
Down amongst the jetsam of the galaxy, a motley collection of sentients dismissed by those above simply as “the underdwellers,” who eked out lives of brutality and despair. It was merely a different kind of jungle, after all.
And where there’s a jungle, there are always those who hunt.
For now, moving quietly, she made her way from her bathroom – the size of which a family of ten would aspire to live in ‘down below’ and crossed the expanse that was the living room of her apartment. She proceeded out onto the balcony, where she stopped and stared out across Coruscant’s endless cityscape.
Traffic in the galactic capital never stopped, and she found the constant buzz and blur of shuttles speeding by soothing – or at very least a distraction. She leaned out over the railing of the balcony as far as she could, her eyes unable to pierce the darkness to make out the planet’s surface hundreds of stories below.
“Don’t jump, Mistress. I don’t want to have to clean up the mess.”
She chose not to turn her head at the sound of her protocol droid’s voice behind her.
‘He’ – for she decided it was male – stood at the threshold of the balcony door. Its rose gold plating gleaming in the light. She hadn’t re-programmed it – instead it had changed from an entirely obedient and servile droid which she inherited with the apartment – to a sarcastic and surly servant over time. She often mused it was actually programmed to keep her sane – and this was the persona that would do precisely that.
“Are you planning to go out again tonight? And if so, shall I wait up?”
Her night-time excursions were becoming more frequent. She’d experimented with alcohol and death-sticks when barely a teenager. Gambling and illegal narcotics followed. Which still did not satisfy her. In truth, she did not know what she was looking to sate, but she knew whatever she tried, it came up short.
Next came petty crime – but when you have credits, it seemed the authorities turned a blind eye to such matters. She received and paid fines and soon got bored. She contemplated serious crime – like murder – but dismissed the notion, for now. Instead she did what she was about to do – go walkabout and see what trouble she could end up in.
She walked through the colourful crowds that thronged the marketplace. It was a euphemistic name for an ongoing rowdy street fair. In the upper levels, it had a sector name. Down here, below the layer of smoke and fog, it was simply more of the same. While much of Coruscant’s lower levels comprised less-than-desirable real estate, some areas were loci of particular and concentrated trouble. The Southern Underground, the Factory District, The Works, the Blackpit Slums – these and other colourful names did little justice to the harsh realities of life under the perpetual smog layer that hid them from the rarefied upper levels.
She walked softly, gracefully, in a long black cloak with its hood pulled up to hide her face. Even she was not to stupid as to reveal exactly what she looked like down here. Many in the crowd accidentally bumped into her (it was never the other way around) and she neither gave nor received an apology.
She reached her intended destination a few minutes later – a small cantina in the far corner of the market that offered drinks, dancers, and gambling. It’s reputation said it catered to the seedier elements of Coruscant society: black-market smugglers; thugs and bounty hunters; stim and spice dealers. As a result, the clientele was predominantly a mix of species with unsavoury galactic reputations. Scattered among the Rodians, Chevin, and Kubaz were a handful of humans.
Manuk took a seat and ordered two beers. She chose a small table in the far corner of the cantina, her back to the wall. She kept her hood up and scanned the room. A scantily clad Twi’lek dancer was giving one of the patrons a private performance as he sipped on a green-tinged drink. Sliding past that table, she saw the usual mix of scum and villainy and wondered how long it would take before someone approached her.
@Topher
― Natasi Daala, to an unconscious Nek Bwua’tu
In the lowest levels, in the abyssal urban depths, of the ecumenopolis that was Coruscant, it was a rare thing indeed to see sunlight. For the inhabitants of the baroque and gleaming cloudcutters, skytowers and superskytowers – the latter reaching as much as two kilometers high – the sun was something taken for granted, just as were the other comforts of life. Since WeatherNet guaranteed that it never rained until dusk or later, the rich golden sunlight was simply expected, in the same way that one expected air to till one’s lungs with every breath.
The latter was the life that Manuk was born to. Or rather, one she inherited.
But hundreds of stories below the first inhabited floors of the great towers, ziggurats, and minarets, in some places actually on or under the city-planet’s surface, it was another story. Here hundreds of thousands of humans and other species lived and died, sometimes without ever catching as much as a glimpse of the fabled sky. Here the light that filtered through the omnipresent grey inversion layer was wan and pallid. The rain that reached the surface was nearly always acidic, enough so at times to etch tiny channels and grooves into ferrocarbon foundations. It was hard to believe that anything at all could survive in these dismal trenches. Yet even here life, both intelligent and otherwise, had adjusted long ago to the perpetual twilight and strictured environment.
And, oddly, it was this way of life that Manuk was being more and more often drawn to.
Down amongst the jetsam of the galaxy, a motley collection of sentients dismissed by those above simply as “the underdwellers,” who eked out lives of brutality and despair. It was merely a different kind of jungle, after all.
And where there’s a jungle, there are always those who hunt.
For now, moving quietly, she made her way from her bathroom – the size of which a family of ten would aspire to live in ‘down below’ and crossed the expanse that was the living room of her apartment. She proceeded out onto the balcony, where she stopped and stared out across Coruscant’s endless cityscape.
Traffic in the galactic capital never stopped, and she found the constant buzz and blur of shuttles speeding by soothing – or at very least a distraction. She leaned out over the railing of the balcony as far as she could, her eyes unable to pierce the darkness to make out the planet’s surface hundreds of stories below.
“Don’t jump, Mistress. I don’t want to have to clean up the mess.”
She chose not to turn her head at the sound of her protocol droid’s voice behind her.
‘He’ – for she decided it was male – stood at the threshold of the balcony door. Its rose gold plating gleaming in the light. She hadn’t re-programmed it – instead it had changed from an entirely obedient and servile droid which she inherited with the apartment – to a sarcastic and surly servant over time. She often mused it was actually programmed to keep her sane – and this was the persona that would do precisely that.
“Are you planning to go out again tonight? And if so, shall I wait up?”
Her night-time excursions were becoming more frequent. She’d experimented with alcohol and death-sticks when barely a teenager. Gambling and illegal narcotics followed. Which still did not satisfy her. In truth, she did not know what she was looking to sate, but she knew whatever she tried, it came up short.
Next came petty crime – but when you have credits, it seemed the authorities turned a blind eye to such matters. She received and paid fines and soon got bored. She contemplated serious crime – like murder – but dismissed the notion, for now. Instead she did what she was about to do – go walkabout and see what trouble she could end up in.
###
She walked through the colourful crowds that thronged the marketplace. It was a euphemistic name for an ongoing rowdy street fair. In the upper levels, it had a sector name. Down here, below the layer of smoke and fog, it was simply more of the same. While much of Coruscant’s lower levels comprised less-than-desirable real estate, some areas were loci of particular and concentrated trouble. The Southern Underground, the Factory District, The Works, the Blackpit Slums – these and other colourful names did little justice to the harsh realities of life under the perpetual smog layer that hid them from the rarefied upper levels.
She walked softly, gracefully, in a long black cloak with its hood pulled up to hide her face. Even she was not to stupid as to reveal exactly what she looked like down here. Many in the crowd accidentally bumped into her (it was never the other way around) and she neither gave nor received an apology.
She reached her intended destination a few minutes later – a small cantina in the far corner of the market that offered drinks, dancers, and gambling. It’s reputation said it catered to the seedier elements of Coruscant society: black-market smugglers; thugs and bounty hunters; stim and spice dealers. As a result, the clientele was predominantly a mix of species with unsavoury galactic reputations. Scattered among the Rodians, Chevin, and Kubaz were a handful of humans.
Manuk took a seat and ordered two beers. She chose a small table in the far corner of the cantina, her back to the wall. She kept her hood up and scanned the room. A scantily clad Twi’lek dancer was giving one of the patrons a private performance as he sipped on a green-tinged drink. Sliding past that table, she saw the usual mix of scum and villainy and wondered how long it would take before someone approached her.
@Topher