Star Wars: New Age by TheCIA

Chapter 1

Launch Day

The face that floated in the center of the world was perfectly calm. Her name was Anya Sharma, and her Global News Network broadcast was being projected onto skyscrapers in Neo-Tokyo, into dusty cantinas in the Arizona Federation, and across the shimmering, ad-choked canals of the Venetian Protectorate. Her expression was the serene eye of a planet-wide hurricane of anticipation.

"An exodus not of miles, but of mind," she said, her voice a soothing alto that belied the chaos she was describing. "In less than one hour, the servers for Mythos Games' magnum opus, Star Wars: New Age, will go live. This is not merely a product launch; it is, without exaggeration, poised to be the largest simultaneous migration in human history."

The view behind her cut from the sterile GNN studio to a sweeping drone shot of Seoul, where lines of people, thousands deep, still snaked around the chrome-and-glass towers of Chrono-Corp retailers, hoping for a last-minute cancellation of a VR-Pod pre-order. The electric hum of the crowd was a palpable thing, a sound of collective prayer.

Anya's face reappeared, now in a four-way split screen with a panel of experts. "Dr. Aris Thorne," Anya began, turning to a stern-looking woman with sharp, intelligent eyes, "you've been one of the most vocal critics of the game's 'Perma-Life' system. For our viewers just tuning in, can you explain the gravity of what we're about to witness?"

Dr. Thorne leaned forward, her digital avatar mimicking the motion flawlessly. "Let's be clear, Anya. We're not talking about a game. We're talking about a new, voluntary social contract with a mortality clause. Mythos has sold this as the ultimate immersive experience—a 'second life' in a galaxy far, far away. But their innovation is also their most terrifying feature: when your character dies in New Age, it is gone forever. All progress, all possessions, all identity—erased. The player is then locked out, unable to create a new character for a full twenty-four-hour cycle. It's a digital death penalty."

Another panelist, a young tech-evangelist with neon-green hair, scoffed. "It's the ultimate stake! It gives actions meaning! People are tired of consequence-free living, Aris. They want their choices to matter."

As they argued, a feed of live Chirp posts scrolled vertically along the side of the screen, a river of raw human emotion condensed into 280 characters.

@Vex_Lord99: T-MINUS 54 MINUTES! My body is ready! For the Republic! #NewAge #LaunchDay

@LilaPlays: Just finished setting up my rig. My hands are literally shaking. One life. Here we go. #StarWarsNewAge

@Historic_Holos: Remember when people camped out for concert tickets? Quaint. #TheAwakening@RealTalkBen: My brother just quit his job for this. Told the family he was 'investing in a new career.' I'm terrified for him.

Anya Sharma let the debate simmer before gracefully cutting it off. "Meaningful choices are precisely what Mythos Games has promised. Not a story to be played, but a universe to be built. No Jedi, no Sith, no Empire. A blank slate, a galaxy waiting for its first legends to be forged by the players themselves."

The broadcast cut to a slickly produced Mythos Games trailer. A chorus of epic, orchestral music swelled over images of nebulae swirling in cosmic paint pots, of unnamed desert moons and colossal, gas-giant planets. There were no heroes shown, no characters at all—only the vast, beautiful, and terrifying emptiness of a galaxy full of potential. The trailer ended with five simple words in stark white against a field of stars:

A UNIVERSE AWAITS ITS AUTHORS.

The GNN feed returned, the cacophony of a planet holding its breath momentarily silenced by the trailer's grandeur. Anya Sharma smiled, a knowing, sad little smile.

"Authors, heroes, villains, or just echoes in the void," she mused, more to herself than to her billions of viewers. "Whatever they become, their story starts soon." She looked directly into the camera, her calm demeanor a anchor in the swirling sea of global hype.

"For those of you about to make the plunge, we wish you luck. The servers for Star Wars: New Age go live in T-minus ten minutes."

Anya Sharma's calm, authoritative voice was tinny and small, issuing from the cheap holo-projector sitting on the corner of the table. It shared the limited space with a stained, empty synth-noodle cup and a datapad displaying a dangerously low bank balance. The global hurricane of hype, the roar of the crowd, the heated intellectual debate—in here, it was all just background noise, a ghost haunting the corners of a small, quiet room.

The room, like most residential pods in the Phoenix Metro-Sprawl of 2050, was a study in efficient despair. A fold-down bed, currently folded up, was recessed into one of the gray-crete walls. A nutrient paste dispenser, stubbornly flashing a 'Refill Required' warning, sat next to a compact sanitation stall. A single, grime-streaked window offered a view not of the sky, but of the perpetually shadowed alley behind the building, a tangled mess of conduits and weather-worn graffiti.

In the center of this grim tableau sat Jackson "Jax" Riley.

At twenty-five, he already had the permanent posture of a man who'd spent seven years hunched over a terminal. There was a knot of tension in his jaw that never quite unclenched, and his eyes, currently fixed on the datapad, held the weary resignation of someone who had long ago learned not to expect good news. He ran a hand through his unremarkable brown hair, the motion automatic and tired. He wasn't watching the broadcast anymore; he was staring at the last transaction record from his former employer.

Omni-Drop Inc. Final Severance. Thank you for your service.

He let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh. "'Thank you for your service,'" he whispered, the words tasting like acid in the silent room. "Seven years..." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Deleted."

The word hung in the air, cold and digital. For seven years, he had been the man behind the curtain for Omni-Drop's drone delivery fleet. From his cubicle, he'd managed a swarm of autonomous machines as they zipped across the city. He'd watched them soar through open skies while he managed their routes from a sealed box, his only job to be the human failsafe. Then, the automated system update. Project Nightingale is now fully operational. The Failsafe Coordinator position has been deemed redundant.

Replaced by an efficiency upgrade. The final severance pay was the last flicker of his seven years of service. His eyes drifted from the severance line to the final total at the bottom of the screen. A number so small it felt like a joke. He let out another shaky breath, this one laced with pure, cold fear.

"Okay, Jax," he muttered to himself, his voice raspy. "No pressure."

Every credit of that pathetic number, along with every other credit he had in the world, was now sunk into the machine that dominated the room.

He looked up, his gaze falling upon the rig.

It was a Mythos Deep-Dive VR-Pod, the 'Sleeper' model. It lay in the center of the floor like a black pearl in a shoebox, its polished obsidian shell seeming to absorb the room's dim light. Sleek, alien, and silent, it was the most advanced and expensive thing he had ever owned. Part sarcophagus, part escape pod. He'd spent two days meticulously calibrating it, his old logistical fastidiousness finding one last purpose.

This was his rebellion. An absurd, desperate, all-or-nothing defiance against a world that had told him he was obsolete. His stream was already set up—'The Unseen Path with Jax'—a hopeful name for a channel with three followers. His plan was simple: don't follow the crowd. Find the secrets. In a game with perma-death, information was life.

He closed the datapad, the glowing red of his negative balance winking out of existence. He stood up, his joints cracking in protest. He walked over to the Sleeper pod and ran his hand over its cool, smooth canopy. In the dark, reflective surface, he saw a distorted version of his own face: pale, tired, but with a fire of grim determination burning in his eyes.

"Alright, you bastards," he murmured, his voice low and intense, addressed to the empty room, to the ghosts of Omni-Drop and a world that had written him off. "Let's see an algorithm do this."

Anya Sharma's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and final.

"…go live in T-minus ten minutes."

Jax's breath hitched. Ten minutes. The time for doubt, for fear—it was over. He took one last look around his tiny, gray room, a final goodbye to the life he was leaving behind.

Then, with a resolve that felt both terrifying and utterly freeing, he swung the canopy of the Sleeper open. It rose with a soft, expensive hiss, revealing the padded, form-fitting interior.

He steadied himself with one last, deep breath. "Time to go to work."

He lowered himself into the Sleeper pod. The synthetic leather conformed around him, cool and strangely comforting. It felt less like a bed and more like the mold for a future self. He pulled the canopy down, and the soft hiss of the magnetic seals engaging created a sudden, profound silence, isolating him completely from the mundane reality of his Phoenix apartment.

The interior of the pod glowed with a soft, pulsing blue light. A holographic display flickered to life above him, running a diagnostic sequence. Lines of code scrolled too fast to read, interspersed with green checkmarks and the occasional yellow warning that vanished just as quickly.

Neural Interface Calibration: Initiating…

A faint tingling sensation spread across his scalp as tiny sensors within the pod's lining made contact. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. In… out… The air inside the pod was recycled and faintly metallic, but it was his air now, his small, self-contained universe for the moments to come.

Sensory Input Synchronization: Commencing…

The blue light intensified, washing over his closed eyelids. He could feel a gentle pressure building around his temples. Fragments of his old life flickered through his mind: his mother's worried face, the endless rows of identical cubicles, the taste of that last lukewarm cup of synth-coffee. He pushed them away, trying to clear his mind, to create a blank slate for the new reality that awaited.

A calm, synthesized female voice, different from Anya Sharma's broadcast, spoke directly into his consciousness.

"Welcome, Jackson Riley. Preparing for neural transfer. Please remain still."

He felt a momentary lurch, a sensation like being on a rapidly ascending elevator. The blue light pulsed faster, and the air in the pod seemed to vibrate. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. This was it. No turning back.

Consciousness Integration: Initiating…

The feeling intensified, becoming a rush, a torrent. His thoughts seemed to scatter and reform, like sand caught in a whirlwind. Colors flashed behind his eyelids, swirling and merging. He felt a strange disassociation, as if his awareness was being pulled away, stretched thin, and then…

Silence. The rushing sensation stopped. The swirling colors faded to black.

Then, a single line of stark white text appeared in his vision, stark against the endless dark:

STAR WARS: NEW AGE

Below it, a digital clock, counting down with relentless precision: