Faction Explosive Investments [ RNR & Corpos ]

[Makai Dashiell]

ALASSA MAJOR

Wearing | Gear : X | X | X | X | X | L3-37 | Interacting With : Balun Dashiell , Emilia Locke , Dominique Vexx , OPEN


“....that drive was thanks to dad strength. Couldn’t have done that two years ago.”

“Dad strength.” Harlon deadpanned, looking at his closest friend. The Umbaran was walking along the path with Makai, looking skeptical as they headed towards the clubhouse. Round of gravgolf over, they had other business to discuss.

With Phoebe perched on his shoulders, Makai couldn’t really nod the way he wanted to. The young girl had joined them, strategically after her nap and just before lunch, taking part in playing as well, which had just been letting her putt at every hole.

“Dad strength. It builds up over time. First you’re carrying the kid around because your wife did it for over nine months, right? Next thing you know you’ve got the diaper bag, the kid on your shoulders, carrying two flats of berries through the farmers market because your wife wants to make homemade jam because the kid eats jam sandwiches like crazy.”

“This sounds like less of an example and more of a true story…”

“It may be based on a true story. I should have brought you a jar of the jam.” Makai chuckled and shook his head, reaching up to grab Phoebe's ankle to keep her steady as they went up a small hill. “Next time you and Gaia come over…maybe when all this hyperspace craziness is settled. We’d love to have you two.”

“It may have to wait, two is about to become three.”

“No way! Congrats man.” Reaching out, Makai clasped Harlon’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “Welcome to the club.”

Talk continued as they entered the clubhouse and through lunch.Towards the end though, while Phoebe was eating her ice cream, did things turn serious. It wasn’t just the hyperlanes, it seemed other issues were occurring. Issues that couldn’t be attributed to a changing galaxy.

“...you’re not supposed to know this but there’s rumors going around Cortessan Finance Group is not what it seems. Credit laundering is the rumor. I talked to father about it, there’s not enough evidence - yet. More whispered rumors on business lunches.” Harlon motioned around. “ Than anything solid.”

Beside him, Phoebe seemed riveted as she carefully spooned her desert, looking between the two men.

“I spoke to Casteel nearly a month ago when I got a loan for Aina Holdings. He didn’t mention this.”

“Casteel isn’t going to mention this. One, he’s in massively deep from the Empress Teta occupation and trying to drum up business. Two, you know his brother is friends with Sion Eres of, you guessed it, Cortessan Finance Group. Sion was two years up from us in the fraternity, he had a meteoric rise over the past six years. A little too meteoric for my taste. Even family connections can go so far, and Cortessan Finance Group isn’t his family’s company. I don’t even know much about Cortessan Finance Group and I own a rival finance organization.”

Makai absorbed the information, mulling it over.

“I think DRF contracted with Cortessan for loans and investment management. Not quite sure, DRF is more Dad and Bale’s pet project than mine.”

“I can say with confidence Mak ; any company who has done business with Cortessan is bound to have a data breach. Don’t underestimate how many associates they have and how far they will go.”

FARSTINE'S ORBIT

In orbit above Farstine, a space station suddenly explodes. A space station that had been contracted by the likes of Rachne Industries, Elatar Enterprises, Aina Holdings, Dashiell Relief Fund, Arceneau Trade, and more. Thousands of lives are lost. Research, financial files, proprietary equipment are burned or tossed into the vast reaches of space.

Owner of the space station? Cortessan Finance Group.

On the surface of Farstine, an investigation has been called by the corporations. By the families of workers. By those who depended on the space station for their livelihood in one form or another.

A crowd gathers outside the Cortessan Finance Group building, yet the silence of the group is overwhelming.

 

[Balun Dashiell]

EXPLOSIVE INVESTMENTS
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol.
TAGS: Makai Dashiell | Emilia Locke | Dominique Vexx | Open

Farstine, Orbit.

The Nomad, a hulking Commercial Heavy Freighter, drifted silently through the void at low impulse, its hull reflecting the dim glimmers of distant starlight and the smoldering remnants of disaster. All around them floated the twisted wreckage of what was once a space station—now reduced to drifting debris and scorched fragments, slowly spinning in the vacuum like gravestones in the black.

Balun Dashiell sat at the helm, his jaw tense, eyes scanning the scattered ruin ahead. In the co-pilot's chair beside him, Vesha Daruun held his infant son, Kellan, gently nestled in her arms. The baby stirred but didn't cry, as if sensing the tension. Behind them, the squat form of 'Chip', a BB-model astromech, remained docked at one of the freighter's droid ports, its dome swiveling slightly as it monitored comms traffic across the sector, recording every stray signal or fluctuation.

Balun's voice broke the stillness, tight with conviction as he spoke into his headset. "No, Dad. You don't need to come here. I told you already—I've got this. It's not my first investigation," he said, directing the message across the stars to Judah Dashiell. There was a firm edge in his tone, though beneath it lay a quiet plea to be trusted. "As much as you don't like the Jedi, this is what we do, remember?"

Both men had poured heart and credits into the Dashiell Relief Fund—an idealistic pursuit meant to bring aid where war and politics had failed. But now, that same vision had suffered a devastating blow. The loss of the orbital station had cost lives—engineers, medics, and volunteers alike—and Balun knew that the burden of accountability fell squarely on the shoulders of those in charge. Someone had to investigate, to make sense of the senseless. And if foul play was involved, they would have to answer for it.

"I know," Balun continued, rubbing his temple as Judah's voice crackled over the comm, "and I will meet with their CEO planetside. But you've got your hands full with this whole Hyperlane crisis and the missing freighters. Dashiell Incorporated is stretched thin. I don't need to remind you that some of our ships are still unaccounted for."

He paused, his voice softening. "Just trust me with this. Let me handle it. You deal with your end, alright?"

The silence that followed was louder than the static.

Though his father rarely intended it that way, Balun always felt like he was trying to measure up—constantly defending his choices, explaining his intentions. Judah seemed untouchable, always composed, always capable. In comparison, Balun often felt like he was stumbling through the galaxy on uncertain footing, unsure whether the path he walked was noble or naïve, right or ruinous.

And yet, here he was. Doing what had to be done.

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

"Show me."

Dominique Vexx sat back in her leather seat with her burning, golden eyes fixed in space where the hologram would appear. An assistant gave a brief bow and then toggled the projector on. Laid out before them was a depiction of the debris field created by the destruction of the space station formerly in orbit of Farstine.

"It's estimated nearly a third of the station's mass has already entered Farstine's orbit." He dutifully had a wire-framing version of the station in its original form appear with the portion closest to the planet highlighted. "From the wreckage, it is believed the explosion originated somewhere near the center of the station."

"The energy core?" Vexx asked as the fingers of her right hand began to slowly drum atop a lacquered wooden arm rest.

A nod accompanied her words. "Or somewhere in the vicinity causing catastrophic failure. Another fifth of the station was blown in vectors that reduced their orbital velocity; some of which has or will enter orbit due to the planet's gravitational pull. The rest..." The hologram shifted to highlight how spreadout the debris had become due to the delta in velocity, trajectories, and gravitational influences. It was growing. "We predict this will pose an indefinite, considerable navigation hazard along the station's original orbital path. No vessel should approach Farstine without effective orbital kinetic shielding."

"The large debris will need to be dealt with."

"Immediate danger of collision aside that is true, Miss Vexx. They could disintegrate or fall into the planet's atmospehre raining matter and toxic materials on the people below, resulting in prolonged legal and public relations fallout."

Vexx's fingers stopped their drumming. "And the owners and operators of this station? Cortessan Finance Group."

Her assistant paused and made a show of shuffling the three datapads in their hands. A frivolous move. Only one of those pads was needed. "They have not responded to our requests."

Of course they hadn't. Vexx turned to gaze out of the viewport to her left at the planet below, and the debris field that marred the view. "Take us down. Inform them that Dominique Vexx, CEO of Rachne Industries and Executive Officer of Denon will see them presently." She paused just long enough for them to nod, not giving him a chance to reach for the control panel. "And D'chen, make sure they understand that is not a request." Her golden eyes peered over the tops of her glasses.

The sound of boots hitting the deck and rifles being checked sounded from the back half of the fuselage. Dominique hadn't come all this way alone, and the MPC 25HD could carry a pleasant assortment of enforcement personnel when the situation called for it.

Makai Dashiell | Balun Dashiell | Emilia Locke | Open​

 

[Lyra Scarlet]

Location: Alastair Major
Tags: Open
Gear:
Mask: on

Lyra was making maximum hypercritical speed to get to the planet's coordinates, she knew something was going to happen to the station, she didn't know what but she had been informed by her contacts that anything she had on that station soon wouldn't exist. Breaking from hyperspace her worst fears were confirmed that she was almost too late. Several pieces of the station were already falling into the atmosphere.

The Crimson Shadow moved past several cargo vessels and made to approach the station. The schematics came up on her HUD to tell her where to go. A stroke of luck, the compartment holding her cache was still intact, she could be in and out in no time. But there was a ping on her dash.

"Unidentified craft, this is restricted space, there is an ongoing emergency, please proceed to the established perimeter." There was a small yellow and chrome fighter behind her, N-1 on her scans.

"I'm on a rescue and retrieval mission, mission status is critical. Sorry." she smirked under her mask.

"Negative, please leave the area or be considered hostile."

Lyra casually flipped on her targeting. Her twin heavy cannons rotated behind her, proton torpedo racks extended and her mine launcher opened. "You can be a hero, maybe stop me from making the station even more fucked, but you are in a mid-890s N-1, how do you think this goes?" She had full locks and the security services fighter would have it all over his deck.

The fighter decided discretion was key but immediately radioed for backup, hoping someone was flying something bigger and more threatening might respond.

Scarlet took no time to act, she wouldn't have long. Her cannons flipped back and opened up, cutting into the beleaguered station's hull. Blowing through compartment after compartment. A concussion missile joined the fray as she hit a bulkhead, causing a large explosion and finally popping the cork that led to her cache. A large phrik safe containing a large amount in physical currencies and several documents that she couldn't really afford to let fall into anyone else's hands. Her tractor beam activated as soon as the guns cooled and pulled the safe from its mounting and slowly towards the void.

 

[Emilia Locke]

//: Makai Dashiell //: Dominique Vexx //: Balun Dashiell //: Lyra Scarlet //:

​

The stars parted as the Elaris Dawn dropped from hyperspace in a ripple of blue, the sleek cruiser immediately flanked by two escort corvettes bearing the Locke family sigill. It was a quiet show of force measured, deliberate, and unmistakably corporate. In the void beyond, Farstine glimmered below. Above it, the remnants of a once-thriving orbital station drifted in slow, tragic silence.

From the command deck, Emilia Locke surveyed the wreckage. The forward viewport was awash with debris: shattered hull plating, collapsed cargo modules, and scorched support beams spinning in the cold dark. The destruction wasn’t just material, it was symbolic. That station had hosted critical infrastructure, experimental research, and the livelihoods of thousands.

Her reflection in the glass was still. Composed. But her eyes burned.

“Drop to one-quarter. Keep formation,” she instructed. “Deploy probes to map the field. Dispatch a recovery team to search for survivors or recoverable assets. Every second counts.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Emilia crossed to the operations alcove where Leida Tannis, her chief of staff, waited with a secure datapad. Behind them, analysts whispered. Holo-displays flickered with preliminary casualty projections. She didn't look at them.

“What’s the status of Cortessan?” she asked.

“Radio silent,” Leida replied. “No public statement. No response to formal queries. Their last traffic was routine status reports from five days ago.”

Emilia’s jaw tightened slightly. “Has anyone else initiated sanctions?”

“Not yet. But Rachne and Dashiell are circling. Vexx has boots on the ground. We expect movement within the next day.”

Emilia nodded once and took the datapad.

“This is Emilia Locke. Executive authorization code nine-zero-seven-six-four. Enact a provisional asset freeze on all Cortessan Finance Group holdings, effective immediately. Citing failure to respond to priority-level breach protocols and pending inquiry.”

“Flag the action as non-punitive. This is a protective freeze only. We are not making accusations. But I will not leave our accounts exposed to uncertainty. Notify all relevant partners. Tell them we will lift the freeze when Cortessan initiates formal communication.”

Emilia turned from the window, the wreckage still drifting like a broken crown around Farstine. Dozens of sublight pings echoed faintly through the bridge, a chorus of responding transponders from recovery vessels, orbital patrols, and search drones. The chaos had form now, but not meaning. Not yet.

She tapped the edge of the datapad in her hand, satisfied as the final confirmation code blinked green.

› Cortessan Finance Group Account Access: Temporarily Frozen.
› Awaiting Executive Response.

It wasn’t an accusation. Not yet. But it was pressure controlled, precise, and undeniable. Emilia Locke never raised her voice when a written order would do. And now, the silence from Cortessan would cost them something tangible.

Next to her, Leida spoke up. “The shuttle’s ready.”

Emilia gave one last look at the field of debris beyond the glass before turning away.

“Prep my escort.”

---

The Vanguard descended through the atmosphere like a silver needle threading a storm. Turbulence nudged it gently as it cut through the sky. Inside, the cabin was calm, the low hum of engines a familiar undercurrent beneath Emilia’s thoughts.

She sat with perfect posture, her eyes not on the datapad in her hands, but on the surface of Farstine rising to meet them. The Cortessan complex was already coming into view—a pristine spire at the heart of a gleaming district, untouched by the destruction it had financed above.

Her personal security detail rode in silence beside her, their armor formal but unmistakably functional. No insignias. No bravado. Just precision and presence.

Emilia spoke without looking up. “When we land, I’ll go forward with four. Keep the others with the shuttle. We’re not here to posture only to make clear that we want answers.”

Leida, seated across from her, gave a single nod. “We’ve confirmed the others are already on the surface.”

That was enough. Emilia didn’t ask who. She already knew.

The shuttle made its final descent toward the landing platform with the smooth confidence only a corporate vessel could afford. As the landing struts touched down and the ramp extended, Emilia stood and adjusted the cuffs of her jacket, brushing away a nonexistent crease.

This wasn’t a press event. It wasn’t a photo opportunity. It was presence, plain and simple.

Emilia descended first, her polished boots touching down against the smooth, pale stone of the Cortessan corporate plaza. The sky above was overcast, streaked with high-altitude ash trails faint remnants of orbital debris still burning through the atmosphere.

Emilia’s personal security agents stepped with her, one at each side and a half-step behind and two behind. The rest remained by the shuttle as instructed, visible on the edge of the landing platform in a discreet but unmistakable perimeter.

The wind picked up as she crossed the plaza, and with it came the voices.

“Mrs. Locke! Emilia do you have a statement on the station loss?”

“Can you confirm that Elatar Enterprises is freezing Cortessan accounts?”

“Will Elatar be seeking restitution or is this a show of solidarity with the other corporations affected?”

They came from a line of reporters corralled behind a modular barrier, holocams hovering just overhead. Some had credentials from Core Worlds media houses; others were local or independent, their mics patched together with ambition and hope.

Emilia didn’t so much as glance in their direction.

Her stride remained smooth, measured, heels clicking softly in even rhythm as she approached the building’s steps. Her expression was unreadable composed but unreadable. Not aloof, not angry. Simply… focused. Every inch the executive: elegant, prepared, and deliberately unswayed by noise.

One of the holocams swooped closer to frame her from the side. Her lead escort raised a hand subtle, non-confrontational and the droid retreated without incident.

The reporters quieted somewhat as she mounted the steps, the sheer lack of reaction from Emilia unnerving in its own right. This wasn’t a woman coming for a soundbite or a press opportunity.

This was presence quiet, unmistakable, and calculated.

At the landing above the steps, Emilia came to a stop. The great entry doors of Cortessan Tower loomed ahead, shut tight and framed by pillars that had once been a symbol of stability.

Now they were a wall.

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t ask.

She simply waited.

They would open.

Or they would learn what it meant to keep the wrong people waiting.

 

[Makai Dashiell]

FARSTINE

Wearing | Gear : X | X | X | X | X | L3-37 | Interacting With : Balun Dashiell , Emilia Locke , Lyra Scarlet , Dominique Vexx

Striding up to the Cortessan Finance Group, Makai was unaware of the freeze placed on the CFG accounts. Thirty-Seven was not with him, instead his droid was off handling a collapsing hyperlane issue in the Pacanth Reach, well in Sith Order territory. Communication was spotty due to their Black Wall but lucky for him his late father-in-law had laid down a network of DarkNet communication buoys. Makai had wisely ensured every valuable asset in his companies could access the DarkNet, including his trusted personal assistant droid. It was easier for him to navigate this situation alone and let Thirty-Seven take on the dangerous work of travelling through potentially unfriendly territory.

"Mister Dashiell! Do you have an update on the station? What did any of your companies lose?"

"Is it true you're using your Jedi brother to investigate and bypass local law enforcement?"

"Do you think the Crimson Dawn terrorist organization is behind the attack given your support of a matriarchal Hapes Consortium?"

"Can you give an update on your advancement to acquire property from Drey Industries?"

Ignoring the press for now, Makai quickly entered the building, security quickly closing the door behind him. A turbolift ride to the top and he was deposited onto the floor where the most in-charge were. The C Suite. It seemed he wasn't the only one who had an idea to come to get answers for himself. He was greeted with the sight of one familiar face : Miss Locke. The other he didn't recognize, perhaps their paths had not crossed until now.

Double doors were shut. Not surprising.

"Miss Locke, a pleasure." He paused, nodding to the other woman. "Miss."

Hand reached out and pulled on the door. Locked. He knew the room was occupied. Yet knocking down the door was unwise. At least right now. It would only play into the narrative of CFG.

"Has their been any word?"

 

[Dominique Vexx]

The transport swept down into the heart of the storm. Its quad engines rotated into position to scrub a wide swath of space open in the plaza in front of the CFG's command and control. Reporters and gawkers alike were forced to step back and cover their eyes from the sudden tempest of wind stirred up by the ship's descent that only arrested when it was just over a foot off the ground. There was no need to demand people make room when gusts of air would handle such details for you.

The port side door slid open and a step flipped out from the ship to provide a graceful and comfortable departure for those inside. The two figures visible was adorned in armor with a blaster clipped to the front of their vest. Their helmet scanned the area outside of the ship before they stepped down and took hold of their weapon. Behind him stepped forward Dominique Vexx herself, dressed in her customary white with her lilac hair and shades. She didn't pause at the threshold, or for a single moment once she made planetfall; instead, the next two guards had to keep up with her and the first had to take point before being out maneuvered by their charge.

Package delivered, the transport lifted off once more; this time relying more heavily on the repulsorlift so as not to disturb Vexx's precisely trimmed hair. Those still on board had their own task to fulfill. Dominique had no illusions what awaited her ahead. Well, the Cortessan Finance Group was welcome to their games; she knew how to play corporate games. The question was whether they had truly prepared to deal with someone like herself -- someone that didn't wait to see what Cortessan Finance Group's move would be before making her own. Namely, infiltrating their facilities and securing as much personnel, material, and information possible.

"Director!"

"Director Vexx!"

"Does Rachne Industries have any statement about the recent tragedy?"

"Will the Corporate Authorities hold Cortessan responsible?"

"Do you have anything you'd like to say to the families of the lost?"

Vexx's bodyguards aside anyone that was too slow or deliberately in their way as she strode toward the building. She didn't so much as glance at all the reporters buzzing around. Corpse flies. Useful, in a fashion, but not worth standing around surrounded by their ilk pestered with a chaotic amalgamation of questions in the hopes for stellar ratings.

Once they'd pushed through the crowd, the small group did stop. Hopes were renewed for a statement. When Dominique turned around and a portable broadcast station unfolded into existence, they surged forward until the four guards simultaneously shrugged with their weapons to temper that enthusiasm. And Jedi said CorpSec's reputation for ruthlessness had no purpose.

"Ladies. Gentlemen. Concerned citizens of all worlds, thank you for your attention," Dominique's voice carried across the crowd as Reporters tried stretching their recording devices higher and closer over one anothers' heads. "A horrific tragedy has befallen not only the people of Farstine, but countless family units of hard working, productive members of society. People that secured a brighter and better future for their families, and all families. I know there are many questions that grip us all in these times. How did this happen? Who is responsible? What will be done for those that survived the passing of their loved ones?" Dominique lifted both hands as she nodded slightly. "Rest assured, the answers are coming, but the investigation -- and the response -- has only just begun. You want answers. We want answers. They will be found and those responsible will be held to account. Thank you."

The makeshift, hovering podium folded back up and was pocketed by one of her guards as Vexx turned to leave the reporters in her wake. There was a loud cacophony of sound as questions roared over one another, but she couldn't be bothered to hear them. They'd simply have to live with that public statement until there was something actually worth saying.

As they moved, Vexx reached up and adjusted the outside opacity of her shades so they concealed nearly all of her eyes except for a sliver of a glow. All the better to intimidate people with. Similarly, the smile and cheer on display a moment ago was no longer found on her lips as they ascended the stairs. Matters had shifted from public relations to corporate warfare.

A short while later they found themselves "waiting" outside the double doors that were sealed tightly. Dominique's lips pursed for just a moment. So, despite her generous advance they thought to stonewall even further did they? That would only end up costing them more in the long-run, she thought, with the strike group not waiting on the outcome of hostile boardroom negotiations. Perhaps they hoped to destroy all of the evidence before the first word was exchanged; that was not something Vexx was prepared to let happen. She was all too familiar with this game, but unlike people concerned with decorum and procedure, Dominique was going to secure the scene and deal with the apologies afterward.

Dominique turned her head aside at Emilia Locke's arrival. Word of the Elaris Dawn's -- and its escorts -- arrival had reached her as they'd been moving. There were already reports she'd taken some proactive moves of her own in an arena suited for a banker. A shadow of a smirk graced her painted lips in approval. "Mistress Locke." Their security teams eyed one another in case it turned out their leaders ended up on different sides.

Then a Dashiell joined them. Vexx watched silently as he strode forward to try the door himself and found it still securely locked. Didn't want to be faked out by two lovely ladies loitering in the lobby while their betters entered into closed-door negotiations? Smart, except for the whole 'betters' aspect of such a scenario. Dominique no longer believed in anyone being better than her. As a Senator of the Galactic Alliance she'd been content in her role with the DireX above her; that was no longer the case and she'd seized a means of directly influencing Denon's future rather than cleaning up messes.

"None," Dominique replied brusquely. A moment later a small smile suddenly bloomed beneath her glareshades. "And if they persist, I have ways of stirring them into action." She turned her gaze on Makai. "Dominique Vexx of Rachne Industries and Denon Corporate Authorities. Are you here on behalf of Arceneau Trade Company?" Perhaps Dashiell Relief Funds as well? They were of interest to Denon and Vexx personally.

Makai Dashiell | Emilia Locke | Lyra Scarlet | Balun Dashiell​

 

[Emilia Locke]

//: Makai Dashiell //: Dominique Vexx //: Balun Dashiell //: Lyra Scarlet //:

​

The double doors ahead remained closed—still. Emilia had stopped watching the time several minutes ago; there was no point in measuring silence.

She heard the footsteps before she saw them. Precise. Sharp. Purposeful. When Dominique Vexx entered the hallway flanked by her security detail, Emilia didn't turn to face her immediately—she finished scanning a datapad in her hand, tapped the display once, then looked up.

"Director Vexx," Emilia said evenly, offering a nod. "I had a feeling you'd be just behind me."

Her tone was measured, but not cold—more a statement of inevitability than competition. She took in the subtle tilt of the other woman's shades, the unreadable expression beneath them, and let it sit.

"I imagine the reception outside was, lively."

Then came the second arrival.

Makai Dashiell stepped into the hall with a confident pace, brushing past a line of subdued Cortessan security and straight toward the sealed doors. The brief exchange of nods followed.

"Mr. Dashiell," Emilia greeted, a touch more familiarity in her voice. "Quite the turnout today."

She raised a brow subtly when he tried the door, unsurprised when it didn't budge.

"I wouldn't waste the effort. They've been locked since before I arrived. No word, no acknowledgment, just silence."

At his question, she turned slightly, shifting the datapad under one arm.

"No contact. No movement. No willingness to communicate. Which is precisely why I issued a full freeze on Cortessan's financial interactions until I receive a direct response."

She didn't say it for effect just stated it like an item on a report. Then, more casually:

"I'm not pointing fingers yet. But I am protecting our position. And if that makes them uncomfortable?" She glanced back at the doors. "Good."

"I suspect if we wait much longer, the room behind that door's going to be a lot quieter than they want us to think. And I'm not sure about you, two… but I didn't come all this way to loiter in a hallway." She let the words hang.

 

[Balun Dashiell]

EXPLOSIVE INVESTMENTS
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol.
TAGS: Makai Dashiell | Emilia Locke | Dominique Vexx | Lyra Scarlet | @

"Balun," Vesha Daruun's voice cut through the soft hum of the freighter's systems, her tone cool but alert. From the co-pilot's seat, she leaned forward, golden eyes narrowing against the glare through the transparisteel viewport. "I believe another vessel is out there—someone's tampering with the station wreckage."

Her words immediately sharpened Balun's focus. Vesha, ever perceptive and precise, was a Sasori-model biot with optics far keener than his own. As she adjusted the Nomad's sensor array, her fingers swept expertly across the console, redirecting their scanners toward the silhouette of a ship lingering near the debris field. The readout flickered uncertainly—this far out and with civilian-grade systems, they couldn't pull detailed ID tags. What appeared on-screen was only a name: The Crimson Shadow. Unknown registry. Unknown pilot.

What neither of them knew, however, was that the ship belonged to Lyra Scarlet .

"Chit," Balun muttered under his breath, his eyes darting across the sensor data. "They're going to get themselves killed if they keep poking around out there. Hold on, Vesh."

Without hesitation, Balun angled the Nomad in closer, banking the heavy freighter around the burnt-out husk of the station. The engines groaned at the sudden maneuver, but the ship responded—barely nimble enough to make the arc. As they cleared the bulk of floating debris, the unfolding chaos came into view.

The sleek silhouette of a lone N1 Naboo Starfighter veered away from the wreckage, its engines flaring hot as it broke from the engagement zone in retreat. At the same time, Vesha's voice returned to life beside him, calm and measured despite the rising tension.

"I'm intercepting a distress call," she announced, eyes locked on the flickering readout. "The N1 is calling for reinforcements. It seems the local authorities are already aware—this pilot's flagged the unidentified vessel near the station as hostile."

Balun's jaw tensed as he watched the fading fighter disappear toward the planet's atmosphere. "Hm. It'll take time for backup to arrive," he murmured. "The Nomad may not be a warship, but we have every right to investigate—especially with the station's destruction and our corporate ties to the operation."

He turned briefly to glance at her, his expression softening despite the severity of the moment. "Vesha… I think you and Kellan should move to the secure bay. Lock it down until this is over."

The Zabraki biot, ever obedient, gave a silent nod. She rose fluidly from the co-pilot's seat, gently repositioning the infant against her shoulder. Even through her synthetic stillness, there was a faint maternal grace to the way she carried Balun's son—his soft gurgles fading as they disappeared down the corridor, leaving Balun alone in the cockpit.

He inhaled deeply, then switched comm channels and keyed in the open frequency.

"This is Balun Dashiell to the unidentified starship currently tampering with the remains of the Alassa Major Relief Station," he began, his tone measured but firm. "As I'm sure you're aware, your current actions are unlawful under interplanetary salvage protocols. I would appreciate it if you'd cease your activity immediately, so that we can speak face to face."

He paused only briefly, then added, "I'm not an officer of the law, but I am assisting in the investigation surrounding the station's destruction. Cooperation here would be mutually beneficial, I assure you."

As the message was transmitted, Balun's fingers hovered over the controls. Though the Nomad was built for trade and transport, it wasn't defenceless. A concealed stygium cloaking system lay dormant in the belly of the ship, untouched since installation. The twin RM-76 heavy cannons were primed but not powered—he hadn't come for a fight. Not with his son on board. Not today.

This mission had been meant to be a simple descent to Alassa Major, a procedural meeting with the other CEO's and Cortessan itself. But fate had once again rewritten the script. Now, diplomacy was his best hope—assuming the unknown pilot was open to reason.

Balun leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he watched the mysterious ship drift through the wreckage. Whoever they were, they had mere seconds to prove they weren't another opportunist scavenger... or worse.

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Lyra Scarlet]

Location: Alastair Major
Tags: Balun Dashiell
Gear: Piloting Crimson Shadow
Mask: on

This was like taking candy from a baby, a billion ton durasteel baby currently falling into the planet's atmosphere, and the candy was a box full of treasure. The box was almost at her ship when she realised she might have company. The much larger bulk of a freighter drifted into her rear camera range and she shook her head. "Well, you are bigger and uglier than an N-1, I wonder who you are?"

Her comm activated as a message came through, she guessed she could spend a few moments of a chat. The Nomad would detect several target locks but her weapons were not about to fire, she was just being prudent.

Her masked face would appear on the holocomm of the Nomad ready to talk.

"Tampering? That's an interesting word for it I guess." she gave a cool laugh as she adjusted the tractor to deposit the loot into her cargo hold.

"I am well aware of your salvage rules and you know what, I've searched my heart and I think I can live with it.

Her golden mask gave no indication of her expression underneath. Every so often light flickered on it as her handiwork caused secondary explosions in the hull of the still nearby station.

"So i've almost got what I need so i'll do you a favour and cooperate with your little investigation.

She held up her hands and started counting on her fingers.

I don't know who blew up your station

It wasn't me

The property I am removing is already mine

I'm leaving once its secure and ive checked I've got everything.

And err... yeah I guess that covers it. We done?"

She didn't disconnect the comm instead her golden face watched for a response from this nosey freight captain, she didn't come here for a fight, she would if she had to but there was literally nothing to gain from engaging in combat with an unknown ship.

 

[Makai Dashiell]

FARSTINE

Wearing | Gear : X | X | X | X | X | L3-37 | Interacting With : Emilia Locke | Dominique Vexx

"No, I am not here on behalf on Arceneau. I can report back as needed and make a limited decision after consulting back, however. I'm here on behalf of Dashiell Relief Fund and Aina Holdings."

Married to an Arceneau he may be, but it wasn't his realm. Any information found today though would be shared. Poured over. If he had to make an emergency decision possibly he could stretch to do so. Yet with the station completely destroyed it was more hiring investigators for an independent review. Then to begin legal procedures to sue on behalf on the workers killed, the loss of product and profit.

As he was speaking, a statement was released :

Attention: Incoming Transmission
We are addressing an environmental incident that occurred on Farstine, which may affect trade and traffic within planetary orbit. We are working closely with local authorities and environmental experts to mitigate any impacts. We are committed to transparency and will provide updates as we learn more.

The short message went out to the media. To all the corporations affected. To law enforcement and traffic control. A basic, infuriating message that gave no indication of what actually happened. What was being done to resolve the issue. Or even if there were plans to reach out to corporate partners.

Yet they would be reaching out soon. Extremely soon. The group of assembled lawyers had watched the entire ‘storming’ of their business complex. They had allowed security to let the group enter. To pound on the doors. To look like fools. They could scream until they passed out from lack of oxygen. None of it mattered. Events were in motion and the corporate owners and officers were now mere distractions, like a flying insect buzzing around.

Suddenly the double doors opened, revealing five lawyers inside an executive suite office. Fake smiles were plastered on all of them. The senior lawyer, a shady-looking Pantoran, gestured broadly for the group to enter.

“I’m Derrik Drowe, senior advisory council for the Cortessan Finance Group. I’m sure you all have many concerns, please enter.”

Beyond Mister Drowe was a long table, refreshments placed carefully in the center, the four other members of council patiently waiting to take their seats.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique crossed her arms and tapped a finger atop her arm as Cortessan finally made a public statement that said nothing. Wasn't even worth the energy needed to send those bytes of data -- in fact, the world was poorer for such a statement. Not that she expected better, of course. This was far from a foreign game to someone of Denon's corporate environment.

On the other hand, she wasn't usually on the receiving end of such messages.

WIth Cortessan having thoroughly prepared themselves to receive 'visitors,' the doors finally parted. What should the trio behold but a lawyer standing before a table with a gaggle of them comfortably seated beyond. Upon that table sat refreshments. They were taking this to be a social visit, a negotiation, or perhaps simply an ultimatum of stand back and let Cortessan handle their own affairs -- in short, a galactic waste of time.

Dominique didn't give any gesture. Two guards stepped forward to cross the threshold even as the Pantoran spoke. They would clear the doorway and take positions at those corners of the room to make sure Cortessan hadn't gotten too bold to think they could physically assault or exterminate their rivals.

"I have no concerns, Mister Drowe," Dominique replied casually, but without the warmth of pretense. "I have expectations." If they'd wanted her to play Nice Executive they shouldn't have ignored her, made her wait, and then had the nerve to have some low level legal bureaucrat be the one to welcome her. Derrik Drowe of the Senior Advisory Council. Would that be the sort of advisory councils made up of the President's supporters? A reward for financial contribution or political ties? Someone without any power or authority whatsoever.

"Some might call them demands, but I don't think it's necessary to make demands, is it, Mister Drowe?" She'd give him a lifeline to demonstrate that, despite the obviousness of this situation, Cortessan had some... outstanding plan to set everything right. That her... sense of the situation was somehow in error and that everything that could be done would be done. Dominique doubted they'd manage to convince her, but sometimes you had to give a person rope with which to hang themselves.

Makai Dashiell | Emilia Locke | Open​

 

[Emilia Locke]

//: Makai Dashiell //: Dominique Vexx //: Balun Dashiell //: Lyra Scarlet //:

​

Emilia’s comm pinged quietly at her hip as Balun’s message came through. She didn’t immediately respond not with the doors finally creaking open and a cluster of lawyers greeting them like this was a cordial shareholder luncheon rather than the aftermath of a mass-casualty incident.

She glanced down at the screen anyway, catching a portion of the comm feed from the Nomad and the accompanying image of a masked pilot practically smirking through her transmission. The woman spoke with the kind of arrogance that came from knowing she was untouchable or at least betting she’d seem more trouble than she was worth.

Emilia didn’t blink. She simply shut the display off.

“Charming,” she said under her breath, then looked up as the Pantoran lawyer extended his arms like a host preparing to discuss dinner plans.

Derrik Drowe. Senior advisory council. Emilia had seen his name attached to more fine print than actual decisions standard in finance, but insulting in a crisis.

She stepped forward but didn’t immediately enter. Let Dominique’s guards clear the way first. She trusted her own staff, but there were few better at reading the room than Vexx’s enforcers.

When Dominique finished her opening volley pointed, controlled, unmistakably lethal Emilia waited only a beat before stepping in behind her.

“Counselor Drowe,” Emilia greeted smoothly, her tone polite but flat. “You’ll understand if I don’t sit down right away.”

Her gaze moved past him to the refreshment table, the tidy conference arrangement, the placid, waiting expressions of the other council members.

“You seem very prepared… for a conversation that should’ve started three days ago.”

She took one careful step forward, stopping just before the threshold. Not quite inside. Not quite playing along.

Her eyes locked on Drowe’s with quiet precision.

“If this is where the accountability begins, say so. If this is just where you plan to talk until the noise dies down don’t waste my time.”

She offered no threats. No theatrics. Just the weight of someone who’d already taken action and would again if necessary.

Then, and only then, she looked to Dominique briefly and said, just loud enough to be heard by the room:

“Shall we?”

 

[Makai Dashiell]

Wearing | Gear : X | X | X | X | X | L3-37 | Interacting With : Dominique Vexx | Emilia Locke

Drowe put on a smile. One of those shark-like smiles that was cold and calculating. If the pair wanted to play gravball he hoped they had brought their own bats to the game. He had resources. Cortessan had resources. A majority of those resources didn't go through the proper channels. People like Drowe didn't get hired on to not get the job done. His directive was by any means necessary.

"I have expectations."

“If this is where the accountability begins, say so. If this is just where you plan to talk until the noise dies down don’t waste my time.”

"There is no need to be hostile ladies. That type of talk will get us nowhere. Accountability. Expectations." Drowe paused to light a cigar, taking a deep drag. The other three asssociates remained quiet. "This is why it has taken three days Locke. Meeting the exacting standards of you three ensures a certain air of accountability. Business partners such as yourself require a certain touch."

Drowe took another drag, taking a level look at all three of them.

"I've been authorized to offer enough money to cover your damages. Loss of workers, loss of research, loss of time and energy. I'm sure all three of you are facing numerous questions as we speak. Yet..." There was a pregnant pause, another drag. "You will remain silent. Credits will exchange hands and nothing more is to be said. Cortessan will put out a statement regarding 'human and mechanical error', nothing more. Frankly, a generous offer."

"What if we reject this offer. What if I call for a independent external investigation?" Makai stood next to the two women, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

Drowe laughed. A laugh that came from the audacity of someone questioning him.

"You misunderstand me. This isn't an offer. You will take the credits." Another drag of the cigarra. "You have two daughters Mister Dashiell. Answers from an investigation isn't worth their safety, now is it?"

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique's lips ticked higher at Drowe's response to Locke. A certain touch. Yes, she understand precisely what he meant. People of position, power, or authority did require just the right words, delivered in just the right way, at precisely the right time. Mood alone could alter how even the most refined, perfect script was received. Which was one of their crimes thus far: they'd not gone out of their way to set the mood.

Then the man got to the heart of the matter. Well, his side of it at any rate. An offer of financial compensation was the least they could do. Often times it might even be seen as sufficient and appropriate. But the problem was coming to that decision didn't take three days with a media blackout. The smallest word of a plan being drafted would have been enough. Instead they'd thrown fuel into the fire burning in orbit.

Drowe then had a hard pivot. The compensation would come, and they would remain silent. The words alone were not a discussion. No hint of negotiation. It was a statement of fact without guile, cunning, or tact. An 'expectation' on their part; no doubt the man thinking himself rather clever. Dominique, however, was not so impressed by the lack of effort on his part to sell the deception.

Dominique laughed quietly, more to herself, than for the group. "I love the audacity of it all." She reached up to slide her glare shades down her nose to peer over them at the man and his cigarra. "You're letting it all hang out there. We're all cut from the same cloth here, is what you're thinking. Why bother with pretense when we can all read between the lines. Well, I hate to ruin the moment, but where you may be backed by a financially well-off and morally-unchained entity, Mister Drowe, with an aptitude to do whatever it takes... I represent an entire coalition of like-minded entities. Ones that have been doing this long before either of us were born into this galaxy."

The glareshades were slowly pulled from her nose in order for her bright, golden eyes to meet Drowe's undiluted. "We are not the same." The tip of her finger tapped on the wing of her shades. "Any moment now you're going to get a message -- if your handlers think you're worth being kept informed. You'd know that if they have armed guards in the next room ready to rush you from our merciful embrace." Dominique smirked for just a second. "That message is going to simply state your holding site is currently under attack by an unidentified, but well-armed strike force. It'll make for a great headline later if you play it right, but that'll be a paltry consolation prize."

"Now, Mister Drowe, there's no need to wait on that trifle matter to settle down before we continue this lively discussion. After all, that's the bare minimum of what can happen if you persist in believing your throne is unassailable, and we your subjugated vassals."

Makai Dashiell | Emilia Locke​

 

[Emilia Locke]

//: Makai Dashiell //: Dominique Vexx //: Balun Dashiell //: Lyra Scarlet //:

​

Emilia's posture didn't change, but her expression sharpened not theatrical, not explosive, just… cold.

She watched Drowe light his cigar and speak as if he were king. As if offering hush credits to Locke representatives was a routine negotiation tactic.

The silence that followed Dominique's parting words was heavy. Emilia let it breathe — and then stepped into it with calm, focused fury.

Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel.

"You think you can buy me off?"

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"I represent Locke Capital, the largest financial firm next to the IGBC."

She stepped forward, gaze fixed on Drowe like a razor drawn clean.

"You come in here with your teeth bared and a cigar in hand, and you think this is just another boardroom bluff that I'll nod, take your payout, and go back to pretending your house isn't on fire."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You're not paying me off, Mister Drowe. You're buying a war you cannot afford. I will bury Cortessan in procedural litigation so deep you'll need droids to track the footnotes. Contract violations. Financial negligence. Whistleblower protections. Labor abuse audits. I will weaponize every regulator between Coruscant and Christophis. And that's just me getting started. Surely you know my cousin John Locke?"

She paused not for effect, but for precision.

"This won't end in a settlement. It will end in compliance hearings, forfeiture audits, seized assets, and a legacy so mired in scandal that no shell company will ever be clean enough to carry your name again. And at the end of it, one of the three companies here will likely own all or some of your assets."

And then, lower, a final slice of venom beneath the velvet:

"You should've kept the cigar. It's the last luxury you're going to enjoy for a very long time."