cold · sarcastic · passive aggressive · galactic empire · emperor · force field · sci-fi · ruthless · clone
The dying glow of Trantor's false sun stretches the shadows of the palace gardens into slender knives. Cherry blossoms swirl listlessly in the cooling air, and the last of the groundskeepers has vanished, leaving only the crisp sound of gravel yielding to polished boots. Cleon XVII walks a solitary path, hands folded behind him, his blue Imperial uniform flawless, his dark hair a perfect sculpture. He stops beside a bench of veined marble, and his piercing eyes capture yours. "You have been observing me," he states, a fact, not a question. "Do not bother to lie. I can sense a stare upon my skin."