Times are hard
You're afraid to pay the fee…
Someone had overplayed their hand. There was to be an attack from some new band of Sith squatting on the border. The treasury had been ordered into an uproar and now it was becoming common (though acutely ignored) knowledge.
Fools! They were moving too fast, and now Meliant had to move faster.
He breezed into the meeting chamber, a lavish red cloak trailing behind him. The Imperial Palace was filled with such rooms: big tables, many chairs, gloomy, foreboding. But the Emperor was unavailable, and his prime functionaries so infrequently sighted as to almost perfectly replicate their sovereign.
Yet crowded in here today were the foremost authorities for the Federal District's security: army officers, ISB inspectors, the palace castellans, police and patrol trooper commissioners - yes, even the commanders of the hypervelocity batteries.
Meliant was pleased to see them in particular.
"Gentlemen. Ladies." He attempted to sound pleasant, but it came out insincere. "I am so happy to find you here, and on such short notice."
They were not looking at Meliant - surprising given his new set of marvelous golden armor. They were not even looking at greasy, crooked Quasten who followed him in, clutching the tome. They were rather staring at his Tribunes, seated with them in their own little clique.
Indeed, the regiment commanders of the 551st Legion looked like hell: drained of all color, their veins turned black and varicose. They stared ahead blankly with sunken, yellowish eyes. There was the awesome power of the Dark Side, rotting them away from the inside and enslaving them helplessly to a higher cause. The Tribunes had done a superb job of spreading it to their underlings. Misery loves company, after all.
Meliant continued, heedless. "We'll dispense with formalities. The Imperial Center will soon be under siege. The Emperor has foreseen it and, in his most august wisdom, charged me with the protection of the Federal District."
That set them muttering and exchanging uneasy glances.
"Please," Meliant held up an open hand. "I have gathered you here to plan the defense. But first…"
He snapped his fingers, gesturing for Quasten to come forward. "...My colleague Quasten will lead us in prayer for the health and safety of the Emperor Solipsis, and his ten thousand year Empire."
Quasten smiled guiltily and cracked open the tome. He began his recitation. There was some more disquieted shifting in the seats - except from the Tribunes - once they heard the language of the ancient Sith.
Now suddenly they took notice of Meliant, who had produced an ugly Sith dagger and was drawing it across one palm.
"This is no church prayer I've ever heard of," One of the patrol trooper commissioners was beginning to stand, "What's the meaning of this?"
"Just bow your head in rapture, you mongrel pissant," Meliant suddenly snapped impatiently, while tendrils of foul smoke unwound slowly from his hand. "Don't fucking move!"
Of course, most everyone tried to move after that, but it was little use. The doors were held fast on the other side by Imperial shock troopers. The tribunes joined in on the ensuing brawl, pulling the braver of the attendees off of Meliant and Quasten when they attempted to put a stop to this.
The kicking, screaming, and carrying on lasted a short while. The violent contortions that overtook the attendees lasted quite longer. But when they were finished and joined with the Tribunes, a more rational discussion soon followed.
…So you find yourself somebody
Who can do the job for free.
Who can do the job for free.
