The silk clung to her frame, light as air but suffocating in its own way. The embroidered patterns shimmered under the neon glow of the ballroom. The mask of wealth and privilege sat uneasily on her shoulders, but she wore it well. She was born to it.

She hated it.

Bronwen adjusted the thin silver cuff on her wrist—a hidden interface beneath the delicate metal, ready to trigger her next move. The data core lay somewhere beneath this glittering facade, buried under layers of bureaucracy, security, and arrogance. The Imperial Elite danced above secrets that could shatter a thousand worlds, and she was here to take one.

The take was the ultimate prize tonight. Bronwen Al'Midala disguise was one seeking a husband. The silk rustled as she moved across the room. But in the open and with eyes on her the disguise was complete.

Scanning. The close proximity made this part easy. Brandon had assured her that the elite of the elites had gotten lazy. With the added removal of AI in the chain of command infiltrating the main datacore nodes had been surprisingly easy. 

The hum of quiet conversations and the clink of crystal glasses were the perfect cover for her covert scanning. Her neural interface pulsed lightly in the back of her mind, tracing delicate pathways through the ballroom's security systems without triggering any alarms. As her eyes danced across the crowd, she felt the familiar tug of adrenaline settling into her veins.

Patience. She couldn't afford to rush. After this take she could get off world. 

A couple near the refreshment table caught her eye. A man in an impeccable white suit, his smile perfectly manicured, leaned toward his companion, whispering something that made her lips curl with disdain. He would never see her coming.

She diverted her gaze and slipped into the shadows of the room, near the perimeter. A glance upward, through the massive glass dome above, revealed the sprawling cityscape beyond Neo-Tokyo proper—the skyline a jagged silhouette against the artificial starlight. The city's power and control were woven into every structure, and nowhere more tightly than in the building she was infiltrating tonight.

Her interface buzzed quietly in her earpiece, a subtle notification that the access codes to the data core had been successfully decrypted.

Step one, complete.

Bronwen took a slow breath, her fingers brushing the silver cuff again as the next part of her plan unfolded. The ballroom was a sea of faces, all absorbed in their own worlds, but she could feel the eyes on her, those of the Imperial Elite who likely saw her as a mere plaything in this high society game. That's how they all saw her—a beautiful distraction. She wasn't in a high enough house to warrant the attention of the greater houses.

But Bronwen's eyes were focused on one thing: the stairwell leading to the lower levels of the mansion. Where the data core was kept, secured in a vault under layers of digital and physical protection.

Her silken gown twirled around her legs as she took a step toward the exit. A light touch on the cuff, another probe into the building's security network, bypassing the guards' encrypted communications. A final glance around and she was moving.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. Just a little longer. The real work was about to begin.

The stairwell loomed ahead, its polished stone steps stretching down into the bowels of the mansion, where the heart of the empire's secrets pulsed in silence. Bronwen's steps were light, deliberate—her every movement a dance of control and restraint. The air grew cooler as she descended, and the sound of music and laughter faded into the distance, replaced by the hum of the mansion's complex security systems.

She'd reached the access point.

Scanning.

A low hiss echoed through her interface as the security grid revealed itself in intricate layers, each one a wall between her and the core. One wrong move, one misstep, and all her careful planning would crumble. But there was no room for hesitation.

She slipped her fingers over the cuff again, activating a hidden subroutine. The gown, a symbol of wealth and submission, suddenly became her cloak of invisibility as she bypassed the final security protocols. The screen of her neural interface flashed green. 

Access granted.

The door opened and she felt the take emerge.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Just for a moment her composure faultered.

"A moment of your time, Miss..."

She'd know that voice anywhere. "Al'Midala," she supplied smoothly. She bowed a low curtsy. Darius Dawson was the scion of house Dawson. Rumor had it he was already looking to replace his deceased wife now that she had passed and his eldest was dead, his second.

She looked up at him, heart pounding but keeping a smooth face. Brandon had taught her to mask her emotions - and she showed surprise now, humility that such a great man would deign to even glance her way. 

50 % loaded. 

Darius Dawson's gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, sharp and appraising. His presence was commanding, even without the opulence of his house's wealth. Bronwen could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the subtle pressure to bend to the gravity of his status. He was used to being followed, admired, and above all, obeyed. It was why he so effortlessly dominated a room.

"Al'Midala," he repeated, his voice low and velvety, a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. "Your family is rather... remote, aren't they? Not many at these events would have the pleasure of knowing the true bloodline of House Al'Midala. Tell me, what brings you here tonight?"

Bronwen's lips curled into a smile, poised and practiced. "The same as everyone, I'm sure. A little bit of pleasure, a little bit of business. I may meet someone." She shrugged. Her tone was light, but her eyes—eyes that met his without flinching—betrayed a hint of something more calculated.

Darius's smile softened, but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze dropped to her waist, to the thin fabric on her body and the silver cuff that glinted in the low light of the stairwell. The slight shift in his demeanor was almost imperceptible, but Bronwen caught it. His curiosity piqued, and that was exactly what she wanted.

"Business, hmm?" He stepped closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, though still loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "You'll have to forgive me, Miss Al'Midala, but I'm afraid I have a particular interest in your business tonight."

Bronwen's pulse quickened, but she kept her composure, the practiced ease of a lifelong schemer holding her steady. She subdued the urge to break a glass and stab the shards into his body.

"I'm sure you do, Lord Dawson. But I'm afraid the affairs of my family are best left to me. Unless, of course, you're suggesting something more... personal?"

She tilted her head, just enough to make it seem like an innocent inquiry. Darius chuckled, the sound rich with the satisfaction of someone who had just discovered a new game to play. He was toying with her, as expected. But Bronwen had no intention of playing by his rules.

His eyes never strayed from her for long, but his attention was clearly divided. He wasn't entirely unaware of her presence—the presence—of others nearby, monitoring the situation. There would be whispers of his attentions. Yet in this moment, the power dynamic between them was clear. 

He was calculating. 

She was waiting.

"I do admire a woman who knows how to play her cards, Miss Al'Midala." His voice dropped an octave, his words laced with an undertone of amusement. "But know this—there's always more at play here than any of us realize." He paused, his eyes glimmering with unspoken meaning. "I wonder... What's it really worth to you?"

Bronwen's breath caught in her throat, but she recovered quickly, shifting her weight with the grace of someone who had spent years learning the art of manipulation. She offered him nothing but a smile—a smile that wasn't quite friendly, but it wasn't hostile either.

"The cost?" She whispered, her voice just audible enough for him to hear. "Only that which you're willing to pay."

"And what is House Al'Midala willing to pay?"

75% loaded.

She turned away then, offering her back as a sign of her demureness. Her house would need her intact, a virgin. Some customs did not go away as easily as technology changed. She knew one thing for sure: the game had just changed. Darius didn't need a new wife, he was at the top, he needed a brood mare. 

She bowed low. "That would be up to my Father," she said, hoping to buy herself some time. Her father would not be pleased that she was here. She was supposed to be at school - training for her career not sidling up Lord Dawson.

She'd miscalculated on that score, her disguise was too opulent. Lord Dawson wanted someone easily controlled and she fit the bill. At least her disguise did. 

Shit. This wasn't part of the plan. 

Darius Dawson wasn't here to play the game—he was setting his own rules. The weight of his words—the glint of calculation in his eyes—sent a chill creeping up her spine. She had thought herself invisible in plain sight, a perfect mask for a perfect take, but now the lines were blurred, the boundaries shifting in ways she hadn't anticipated.

Her fingers brushed the cuff again, a subtle movement, a reminder of what she was here for. 

The take. The prize. Everything had been leading up to this. The world of power, the machinations, the deceit—it was all tangled in a mess of opulence, and she was supposed to cut through it, extract what was necessary, and disappear into the shadows.

But now there were stakes beyond data. Beyond her mission.

Her back stiffened as Darius's voice slid through the air again, low and tantalizing.

"You're a woman of ambition, Bronwen Al'Midala. I can see it. But let me ask you this..." His words were measured, every syllable purposeful. He didn't ask questions without knowing the answer. "What will you sacrifice for ambition?"

She could feel the shift in the air around them, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her shoulders. The suffocating glamour of the ballroom, the gilded masks, the endless dance of influence—it had all been an act. An illusion. He wasn't the one who played the game. She was.

Her heart thundered, the walls closing in as her neural interface buzzed a warning. The core was so close.

Bronwen's lips curled into another smile, tight and practiced, but inside her mind, calculations were already at work. Darius had revealed his cards—he was playing a different game. She couldn't afford to be blindsided. No more mistakes.

"I don't play for the game, Lord Dawson," she murmured, lowering her voice just enough for him to hear. "I play for the end."

His lips parted, surprised, perhaps, by her subtle challenge. But he recovered, maintaining the air of superiority. He stepped back, eyeing her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "An end? And what end would that be?"

Bronwen's interface buzzed again—90% loaded. She knew it wouldn't be long now. Time to disengage. Brandon was here somewhere. They'd need to rendezvous but getting out with Darius Dawson in tow wasn't part of the plan.

As he regarded her, the weight of his gaze shifting from curiosity to something more predatory, she took a final glance at the party behind her, her heart pounding with a renewed urgency. The data core was so close. She could feel it, the prize just beyond her reach. And once it was in her hands, she could disappear into the shadows of Neo-Tokyo, away from the mess of political intrigue and power plays.

But she couldn't let herself be distracted. Not now.

Shit, she whispered to herself again. 

100% loaded. 

She smiled, triumph across her face. 

Lord Darius saw and his own smile grew. "Might we take this conversation somewhere more private?"

"We might," Bronwen said. 

He held out his arm and she took it, her other arm taking a glass of wine off a passing robot servant. 

She drained the goblet and turned and smiled at him.

His grip tightened on her arm. 

<I'm here> Brandon sent to her across her private channel.

<I have a problem.>

<I can see that. You got it?>

<I did.>

<I'll have your distraction ready in 3,2,...>

An explosion rocked them both off of their feet.

The explosion was deafening. Bronwen's breath caught in her throat as the shockwave threw her to the ground. Her vision blurred momentarily, but instinct kicked in. She rolled, planting her hands on the marble floor to steady herself. The ballroom had erupted into chaos, the music silenced by the blast, replaced with screams and the sound of shattering glass.

Darius stumbled back, his grip on her arm now gone, and she felt his body heat fade as he was shoved away by the force of the blast. Bronwen scrambled to her feet, heart racing, but her eyes immediately locked onto the approaching chaos—guards shouting, the panic setting in. The explosion had been her cue, Brandon's distraction pulling all attention away from her.

She could still hear the buzz in ear, Brandon's voice sharp and clear through the static.

<Move now. The exit's clear.>

The adrenaline rush hit her like a jolt of electricity, but she was already on the move. Bronwen's silken gown no longer felt like a weight, but a tool—its opulence now a cloak to weave through the panicked crowd unnoticed. The thick scent of smoke filled the air, mixing with the tang of expensive perfumes and burning fabric. She didn't spare a glance back at Darius. Fuck him. He was no longer her concern.

She pushed through the throng of people exiting, coughing and spluttering.

Brandon was good she admitted to herself. He'd promised to be in the background for this take. The price for failure was too high for him to support her openly.

Outside she felt a hand on her arm. 

She looked over meeting  pair of familiar blue eyes. 

Brandon nodded and hurried her away. His suit was non descript - he could have been a lesser son of a great house or a guard. She wouldn't haven't known.

"Time to get you off planet," he whispered. "You'll have to make your own way to New Elysium but we'll get you off world."

"What do I have?" She whispered.

"The truth," he said. "Very few have seen it, the counsel of 300, the real reason humanity was moved off world."

I nodded. "And what do I do?"

"Get it to Jack and make sure he broadcasts it all over the Empire," Brandon said. "He owes us."

Bronwen nodded as he loaded her into a small car. Mentally she was already probing the datacore herself. Images passed through her mind too fast for her to process everything but she could see the lies.

Brandon touched her hand again. "Tell no one you're Neo-Tokyan," he said. "Off planet you are a target."

He sat back. "You two looked like you were getting close. Did he make you an offer?"

"I'll kill you if you suggest that again," she hissed.

"So he is looking?"

"Yes," she muttered rubbing her arm.

"It would have been a great placement for someone of your caliber."

She glared at him. "Only if the mission was to kill him."

He nodded. "It is, but first -- we have to make sure there is no throne for someone else to take over."