James Justice
Charting new Paths
The screen of the datapad goes black in a brief fit of static. The following words scroll across the screen:
Encryption: Alpha-theta-G4o6
Source: Unknown
Priority: High
Bandwidth: Galactic
The figure of James Justice looms in the center of the screen. A black tie hangs loosely from his the color of his silken white shirt under his classic leather jacket. He is seated on a throne-like chair. In one hand rests a bottle of mostly finished Correllian Ale, in the other is perched a cigarette. The background is fogged by the smoke in the air, making it all but indistinguishable.
If ye are getting this, then chances, ye are one of the lucky ones. It means ye got a set of skills, a rare set that few dare to master, let alone learn. Larsony, assault, forgery, spice dealing, smuggling, piracy--ye get the idea. He chuckles, taking a pull from his cigarette. Oh, dun't worry, we ain't gonna turn ye in. Actually quite the opposite.
Crime will always exist, wherever there is order. It seems the more that we are oppressed, the more we want to fight against it and take what is ours.
Now I could sell ye some bantha crap about the betterment of the galaxy, making ye world a better place, or twelve steps to heaven, but I will save ye the crap. That ain't nothing but a lie. We all know it. No, I am gonna offer ye something real, something more tangible. Money. Spice. Booze. Women. He waves his hand. Yours.
I am contacting ye on behalf of the greatest crime organization the galaxy has seen in many ages, possibly in history. Contact the number at the end of the transmission to tell us ye are interested and we will send in envoy to pick you up.
He leans forward.
Stop being an errand boy. Join us.
The screen goes blank once more.
706-7000 BTS
Take what is yours. Join the Black Tie Syndicate.
End transmission.
Encryption: Alpha-theta-G4o6
Source: Unknown
Priority: High
Bandwidth: Galactic
The figure of James Justice looms in the center of the screen. A black tie hangs loosely from his the color of his silken white shirt under his classic leather jacket. He is seated on a throne-like chair. In one hand rests a bottle of mostly finished Correllian Ale, in the other is perched a cigarette. The background is fogged by the smoke in the air, making it all but indistinguishable.
If ye are getting this, then chances, ye are one of the lucky ones. It means ye got a set of skills, a rare set that few dare to master, let alone learn. Larsony, assault, forgery, spice dealing, smuggling, piracy--ye get the idea. He chuckles, taking a pull from his cigarette. Oh, dun't worry, we ain't gonna turn ye in. Actually quite the opposite.
Crime will always exist, wherever there is order. It seems the more that we are oppressed, the more we want to fight against it and take what is ours.
Now I could sell ye some bantha crap about the betterment of the galaxy, making ye world a better place, or twelve steps to heaven, but I will save ye the crap. That ain't nothing but a lie. We all know it. No, I am gonna offer ye something real, something more tangible. Money. Spice. Booze. Women. He waves his hand. Yours.
I am contacting ye on behalf of the greatest crime organization the galaxy has seen in many ages, possibly in history. Contact the number at the end of the transmission to tell us ye are interested and we will send in envoy to pick you up.
He leans forward.
Stop being an errand boy. Join us.
The screen goes blank once more.
706-7000 BTS
Take what is yours. Join the Black Tie Syndicate.
End transmission.