Dominion [Black Sun] Just What the Doctor Ordered || BSS Dominion of Manaan Super Hex

[Velzari Tharn]

BLACK SUN SYNDICATE
JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED

​

On Attahox, the Torgaigne Syndicate believed they were untouchable within Alliance borders, where they hoarded the acquisition of phosovane salts, an important ingredient to producing potent—and highly addictive—painkillers. But now, the Galactic Alliance has collapsed in a spectacular battle that also stunned the Empire, leaving swaths of the Inner Rim vulnerable. The Underlord thinks it's time to show the Torgaigne what a real syndicate is like and take their little operation to the galactic stage.

Of course, other systems are vulnerable as well. On Manaan, kolto remains a dirt cheap alternative to bacta. Less effective, but clinically indistinguishable from the effects of bacta other than potency. Our "doctors" back on Nar Shaddaa have long claimed one could cut bacta with kolto and save a few credits along the way; few would know the difference. Perhaps it's time to put that theory to the test.

There are also the worlds of Mimban and Gyndine with tidy economies of their own, and no shortage of ways to exploit them. Really, for Black Sun, it seems Life Day has come early.

Now get to work.

OBJECTIVE 1:
THIS TOWN AIN'T BIG ENOUGH

​

The Torgaigne Syndicate is deeply entrenched on the impoverished garbage world of Attahox, where decades of complacency allowed it to thrive unchecked. Their operations center around refining phosovane salts, which fetch incredible prices from pharmaceutical companies and the black market. In fact, their primacy source of income has revolved around the stuff—a grave mistake in the eyes of a diversified crime syndicate such a Black Sun. They must be shown their true potential... or have it taken from them.

Black Sun contacts in the Hellhoop have uncovered the heart of the Torgaigne's operation: a long-abandoned CIS droid foundry. It's an unassuming structure from the outside, rusted shut and surrounded by mountains of scrap metal and debris. But on the inside, it's a fully functional phosovane refinery. With the Alliance in shambles and the Empire embroiled in a three-front war, nothings stands between the Black Sun Syndicate and Torgaigne's lucrative salt racket.

Fold Torgaigne enforcers into our ranks or punish them for defiance. Do whatever it takes to secure the refinery.

OBJECTIVE 2:
LIQUID COURAGE

​

Deep below the rolling waves of Manaan, a precious liquid flows along underwater currents. Known as kolto, it has healing properties comparable to bacta, albeit less potent. Since the age of the Old Republic centuries ago, it has been used by militaries, Force users, and common folk alike to treat injuries. Its use waned greatly, however, as the galaxy's favorite blue gel became universally accessible. But in times of war and strife, when bacta reserves are depleted by dying soldiers on the battlefield, it is kolto that many governments look to—and Manaan's people, the Selkath, are happy to provide it.

Now free from Alliance trade restrictions, though, the Selkarth are empowered to wield their kolto however they please. Between the Empire, Mandalorians, Republic, and Sith, there's no shortage of customers across the galaxy. Turns out that Black Sun was the first to come knocking.

Officially, Manaan's kolto processing is a state-controlled industry, but there are certain shadowy elements who maintain a prominent place in its refinement and distribution. Elements like the Order of Shasa, a cult of Force-sensitive Selkath eager to break bread with Black Sun. On Hrakert Station, hidden from the light of day, the Vigos work to secure a deal... or scheme a way to smuggle the kolto without Manaan or the cult being any wiser.

OBJECTIVE 3:
BYOO

Black Sun's efforts are focused on Attahox and Manaan, but that does not stop independent agents and their cohorts from exacting the Underlord's will across the sector. A list of assignments lights up mission boards across the Outer Rim, graced by Black Sun's crest and issued with the promise of credits and prestige:

• Advanced shipyards over Gyndine house damaged Alliance ships in need of repairs following the Battle of Atrisia. Black Sun is interested in acquiring these vessels, but a strong Pyke Syndicate presence makes such an operation tedious.
• The Bando Gora Assassins demand suitable resources for the construction of lightsabers, and the precious dolovite veins on Mimban beg to be mined. Satisfy both needs by accessing an illegal Imperial mining operation via ancient Thrella wells and ensure that all the ill-gotten dolovite winds up in Hutt Space.
• Ancient relics line the halls of the long-forgotten Truuine Jedi Praxeum, prizes of a bygone era just waiting to be looted. If the Bando Gora lack a purpose for them, they will certainly fetch a fine price on the black market.
• On T'surr, the Crimson Fleet has caused quite a commotion. The native species, also called T'surr, are notorious slavers and pirates, though they've been kept beneath the GA's thumb. Without the SIA watching over them, however, their lust for domination can run rampant—perhaps Black Sun's pirate lords can recruit the four-eyed, two-armed mongrels?

 

[Morné Karn]

OBJECTIVE 1:
THIS TOWN AIN'T BIG ENOUGH

Open


Morné’s boots crunched over the broken glass and rust flakes the factory space near the old CIS foundry floor. The air tasted of metal and chemical rot.

He walked past his armed strike team. They watched the shadows for any Torgaigne stragglers. But their focus kept sliding back to the center of the room. Morné rarely got his hands dirty these days. He had bounty hunters and enforcers to spill blood on his behalf.

In the middle of the room was a man. He sat upon a simple wooden chair, his wrists bound behind his back, shoulders shaking with each labored breath.

"I am told you haven't been all that forthcoming," Morné growled. He took off his jacket and passed it to one of his men. He removed his cufflinks and placed them in his pockets.

He very slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves. Up to his elbows they went, revealing old scars.

Morné circled him once, silent, the way a predator measured prey. Then he struck.

His fist slammed into the lieutenant’s cheek, snapping the man’s head sideways with a wet crack. Morné didn’t rush. He hit him again with deliberate rhythm of a man reacquainting himself with an old language. Another punch. A third. Knuckles splitting, skin scraping, blood spattering across the durasteel floor.

Morné took a few steps back. That animal that he kept dormant had started to move. It took him several breaths to unclench his fists. His people watched, because they rarely got to see Morné when he lost his temper. For all of his smooth talking, the man held power based on his old reputation. It was important to let them see it every now and again but he had to be careful.

The violence was like a drug to him.

"That was so that you know I mean business. I'm not fucking around," Morné said.

The lieutenant spat red at his boots. “We don’t answer to you.”

Morné’s expression didn’t change, but something darkened behind his eyes. He grabbed the man by the jaw, thumb grinding into a bruise he’d just made, and forced him to look up.

“You do now.”

He drove a knee into the lieutenant’s ribs. Bone cracked. The man wheezed and collapsed sideways. Morné didn’t stop. He crouched, seized a fistful of hair, and hauled the man upright again.

“This refinery belongs to Black Sun. You know it. I know it.” His tone stayed calm, even conversational, but each word cut like a blade.

“So I’m going to ask you once. I need a route into the refinery. The best route. After that you'll talk about your off world contracts and distribution routes. By the end of tonight you'll work for me. Or you'll be in a shallow grave. Eventually. Your defiance earns you nothing."

The lieutenant trembled, teeth pink with blood. For a moment there was defiance. Then Morné struck him again. It left the man sagging like a rag doll.

“Torgaigne doesn’t survive this night unless someone talks,” Morné murmured. His voice was like gravel being tipped from a cart.

“Decide if it’s going to be you.”

Behind him, his strike team watched in silence. They had all heard the stories about Denon, about the rise of Morné Karn. The trail of bodies and violence. The ambition that led to his rise paid in blood. But watching him now with bare hands dripping red, they understood those stories hadn’t been exaggerated.

Morné straightened, shaking out his bruised knuckles, and waited for the lieutenant to choke out whatever truth might save him.

---

In the end, it only took another fifteen minutes. You catch flies better with honey better than with vinegar. Morné had never trusted the saying, but he found offering the kindness of a painkiller, a smoke and a job offer was the lifeline a man on the edge needed.

He took two things from his people: a rag to wipe his knuckles clean and an armoured vest.

"We've got a way in," he declared. "Minimum casualties."