Bishop's Gambit

[Gorba the Hutt]

A dark haired man clad all in red stalked into the convention center. Behind him fluttered a cape of the same color material. Two stormtroopers flanked him. These, however, were hardly the most noticeable features concerning his entry. Of more interest to any onlooker was the mask of bone covering his face from forehead to upper lip, leaving the lower jaw exposed.

Why did he wear a mask?

Well, no one really considered asking him such a question. Posing personal queries to members of House Zambrano seemed like an easy and avoidable way to shorten one’s life expectancy. Most people chalked it up to the usual weirdness of that particular Pacanth Reach family.

Arkaitz Zambrano swept through the atrium, stalked down an alcove, before finally reaching the designated meeting room. He waited for one of the stormtroopers to step forward and activate the panel. The door slid open with a hiss. Arkaitz entered the chamber and seated himself at one end of the black marble, oval table.

One wall of the room was glass and looked out on the rest of the city. Arkaitz’s eyes of tortured gold never wavered from the other occupants of the room.

“Shall we begin?”

[member="Decima Fortan"]

 

[Natasi Fortan]

What is the story with that mask? Decima asked herself, peering across the room as subtly as she could muster at the freakshow wearing a bone mask -- or at least, she assumed it was a freakshow wearing a bone mask, because who else would wear a mask, on their face, that looked like bone? She was trying not to stare; that was impolite. But she was sure that his attention was on the proceedings at hand. She was there in her official capacity as an aspirant Ren, babysitting -- that is, bodyguarding, she amended herself -- a pair of junior First Order diplomats, who had been sent on a blue milk run to open communications with something called the Black Empire. Just what that was, Decima Fortan couldn't tell you, but that was for the diplomats to worry about. Decima's role was to keep them alive.

One of the diplomats leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Very well," he said in a clipped accent. "Shall we start with a baseline, non-aggression agreement? And we can move on from there to trade and the like?"

Decima frowned internally. Aren't these supposed to start with genteel cocktail parties? she wondered, casting her gaze around the room before returning to the bone-mask-wearing freakshow across the table. I could absolutely murder a vodka gimlet or three.

[member="Arkaitz Zambrano"]

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

"We anticipated such a request. Here is a copy of the non-aggression pact between the Sith Empire and the Sorcerers of Tund. The major facets should serve as a foundation for our agreement. Mainly, the Black Empire and First Order will not conduct nor aid in any form of hostile military activity directed at the other."

Arkaitz set his briefcase down on the table, clicked the latches open, then pulled out a rather thick set of flimsi and handed it to the First Order diplomat.

"For trade, I believe the slave camps of Togoria and Panatha constitute a sufficient base of cheap labor. The Black Empire can easily mass produce a number of goods. Anti-dumping tariffs are expected. We believe a mutual arrangement can be made in which the Black Empire provides the First Order with raw materials in exchange for premier technology at a discounted rate."

The son of Zambrano's voice was a chill veneer over a sultry baritone, with no indication of warmth. Those with functioning brains would pick put the hint... he saw this as strictly business.

[member="Decima Fortan"]

 

[Natasi Fortan]

The lead diplomat leaned over and took the thick stack of flimsi. He unclamped it and began to sift through the papers, examining the document that had been laid before him. "Certainly, certainly," he mumbled at the words that had been spoken, but he continued to leaf through the flimsi stack, and leaf and read and leaf and read for what seemed like hours but in reality was only minutes. Decima was bored already; she couldn't care less about what was being discussed if she took a pill to achieve it. Just as she thought she might nod off, there was a whisper of warning in the room before a concussive blast ripped the door from its frame, blowing it across the room and flipping the table with it. The diplomats scattered, flimsi flew into the air, and Decima yanked her lightsaber off her belt.

"Everyone stay down," she instructed the First Order diplomats, ushering them behind the capsized table and then leaping over it and approaching the door cautiously. A moment later, their curiosity was sated when a team of what looked like pirates stormed into the room. Decima brandished her saber in front of her. "In the name of the Supreme Leader, I command you to lay down your weapons and surrender. You are under arrest." She didn't expect this to work -- it almost never did with these kinds of ruffians -- but it was worth a shot anyway.

[member="Arkaitz Zambrano"]