Private Fantastic Fathiers Never Win

[Davik Lorso]

Fathier racing was one of those things that Canto Bight prided itself on the most. A dozen stables existed around the city, each invested in by the galaxy's wealthiest people going from dictators that ruled over entire sectors to corporate middle management and even crimelords. A few months ago, Davik and Gentis hit it big with a con and decided to invest into one of the smaller yet reputable stables; South Stretch's Fantastic Fathiers Racing Stable. The fathiers in that stable were literally descendants of galactic racing champions, sired at enormous costs by retired stallions of illustrious racing careers. They looked like it, too. Not too much fat, well-defined muscles and their speed and stamina recorded through the roof on every qualification test. And yet, when Davik first arrived on Cantonica they were losing races left and right for weeks.

Pooling all of their combined wealth, Davik and Gentis bought a minority share in the stables and figured that if they could just bet smart once and make their Fathier win, then the credits would come flooding in. Unfortunately they soon discovered that the majority shareholder of this stable was a weequay aversed to the limelight. Dram Smollet didn't look rich as he smoked cigarra's and drank cheap Corellian whiskies from his office inside the building the stable's jockey's bunked. What the pair learned too late is that Dram was a Vigo (a lieutenant) of the Hutt Cartel and whenever he got a call to throw a race, that was specifically because his Hutt overlords were betting on it. It was one of the many ways in which the cartel laundered their fortunes from the spice and slaving trades. Davik only found out because he was trying to manipulate the race the other way around and Dram -to put it lightly- didn't appreciate that.

Long story short, Davik had to appease the weequay with a spice shipment intended for the Pyke Syndicate. In some way it was probably more of a delayed execution than a life-saving deal, since the Pykes wouldn't forgive him losing a shipment of theirs, but so far so good. He was still alive and technically still one of the few dozen owners of the Canto Bight Fantastic Fathiers Racing Stable.

So this morning, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he walked through the outside gate. For the occasion he had bathed, trimmed his beard and put on some fresh clothes in proper Canto Bight fashion. On a line of credit, ofcourse, as he was about to make a lot of credits.

To his right four fathiers were already running around the outer edges of the training field, their jockey's warming up their muscles in preparation for the qualifiers of today's midday races. Usually Dram wouldn't interfere with the qualifiers as they determined the betting odds per Fathier. Good qualifiers meant good odds to win. Past races weren't officially taken into account, but the daily gamblers knew them by heart anyway. To maximize profit, Dram never told the same jockey to lose too many times in a row because the gamblers would stop betting and that would in turn affect the odds. The system was surprisingly intricate and Dram could afford it because he had -in fact- a lot of fantastic fathiers that were all able to become champions in their own right.

To his left the rising sun was hidden away by the stable's main administrative building. Davik knew that on the second story, probably about the third window, Dram would sit enjoying his morning caf overlooking the galloping Fathiers. Davik hyperventilated for a few seconds and then exhaled deeply, "Alright Davik, no big deal." he told himself, very keenly aware that he had no weapons on him except for a small slicing computer stashed under his jackets in the small of his back. "Just go in, steal from the Hutt Cartel and get out." without getting caught, or seen, or discovered after the fact. All three would literally be the death of him, albeit each with their own timeline.

He went inside and was greeted by the surprised voice of the stable's head groom. "Mister Lorso?" Davik spun to his left, his heart beating skipping a beat, "I didn't think we'd ever see you again, after-" the groom's eyes suddenly widened, realizing that most people that made Dram Smollet angry never came back because of a very specific reason related to the untimely unaliving of their physical bodies. The fact that Davik was still around meant that... well, that he was either of the same caliber a criminal as Dram, or that he had enough funds to appease the weequay's anger. Neither was true, but it wouldn't be smart to enlighten the groom. "Ah, that was just a misunderstanding. I take it Dram will leave soon to attend the qualifiers?" Davik knew the weequay had a private booth at the racing arena, but to his surpise the groom shook his head. "No, Mister Lorso. Dram had a new holofeed installed in his office that links directly to the arena. Said it saved time and that-" Davik didn't need to hear the rest to know a cliche, "-time is credits."

Well, kriff. Time for the back-up plan.

Waving goodbye to the groom, Davik continued to the chambers from which the few dozen owners of the stable could relax, talk to the jockeys and entertain the ladies they brought along for a personal tour of the fathier stables. It was -to no surprise of anyone- a cheap trick to get into their panties. Thanks to the philanthropy of his co-owners, these rooms were designed for their privacy and Davik went into one for just that; a private holocall to the one that gave him this assignment.

"Ahoy mister Voren," Davik grinned awkwardly as the HoloNet Broadcaster took his call, "Hows the hunt for that HydroCool Injector Tube? Anyway, listen-" he cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one could see him, "I need you to come to the Fantastic Fathiers Stable during the qualifiers and ask for an official comment on the limp that was observed on 'Chantme' ahead of the midday race." That was sure to get Dram out of his office long enough..

Nor'baal

 

[Cassel Vorren]

Cassel's hologram shimmered to life in Davik's borrowed lounge, posture immaculate despite the somewhat rough transmission line. He smoothed a hand over the lapel of his jacket and flashed the kind of smile that really sold subscriptions.

"An official comment? On a limp in a champion's bloodline? That, Davik, is exactly what Helios lives for." His tone was silk, but his eyes were sharp, already measuring how much heat this would draw. "You'll have your distraction. Consider it a complimentary service, after all this type of scandal is the kind that makes my rivals wonder why they even bother tuning in elsewhere."

He cut the line, already rising from his seat in the speeder. The droid driver swung them through the manicured streets around the racing district, where neon marquees promised spectacle and fortune. The qualifiers had begun, and the air hummed with the roar of fathiers pounding the dirt track, their jockeys crouched low in a blur of colour and silk.

Cassel stepped out at the gates, dressed to the nines, as if he belonged on every holo-feed in the Core: tailored jacket, crisp collar, hair slicked back and gleaming under the twin suns. His datapad blinked with the Helios insignia, credentials queued up and ready. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who knew that on Canto Bight, perception was nine-tenths of reality.

As the crowd pressed in with gamblers, tourists, hanger-ons he adjusted his cufflinks and walked toward the stable entrance. He looked every bit the consummate broadcaster on the hunt for a quote that could turn into a scandal.

"Cassel Vorren, Helios Broadcast," he announced smoothly to the first stable hand in sight. "I'm here for an official comment regarding the condition of Chantme ahead of the midday qualifiers."

The words were sharp, professional, and just loud enough to carry, designed to draw Dram Smollet's attention out into the open.

 

[Davik Lorso]

The security guard at the gate was a sixty-something weequay with a large scar on his face from his right temple all the way down to his chin. He was often full of stories of how he got the scar: In his youth it was often a knife fight (that he won) and as he grew older his previous life become more and more enhanced. This man was a pirate, for decades, becoming a right terror on the hyperlanes and boarding ships of all corporations and nations. During one of his most daring boardings he got the scar in a one-on-one fight with a Sith Lord. No one ever believed him because it was clear as day that he wasn't nowhere near as tough as he pretended to be in his stories.

"Oh-eh, ah-" he stammered, unsure what to do with the perfectly dressed gentlemen in front of him asking about Chantme's condition. "Chantme is very conditioned, sir-" he tried to smile as the nerves grew debilitatingly fast. "His condition is top notch, ofcourse. Sure it will qualify as the best and win big-" be bounces nervously on the balm of his feet, "-is a sure bet."

Meanwhile, Davik snuck closer to Dram's office and was pretending to get some caf at the refresher at the end of the hallway. From here he had a good vantage point to see the weequay leave. From then it would just be a matter of using his security spike to get into the office and mess with the long-range holo-communicator on his desk. If he could copy the receiver's codes, then a different station could be programmed in listening mode. The journalist would have more than enough proof at a next race.

Nor'baal

 

[Cassel Vorren]

Cassel stood a pace back from the gate, letting the crowd’s noise wash past him while keeping the scarred weequay square in his sights. He nodded once, all polished courtesy, then pressed the question about Chantme with the practiced neutrality of a reporter fishing for a quote.

“How’s Chantme looking to you, truly? I’m not here for fluff. If there’s even the hint of a limp, we need to know now.” He let the word limp hang a beat, then shifted gears with a half smile that suggested curiosity rather than accusation. “By the way, that’s an impressive scar you’ve got. Everyone in Canto Bight seems to have a story. Rancor? Pirate king? Daring boarding action? Which one’s yours, if you don’t mind me asking? Tales like that tend to tell me more than any official line ever will.”

He kept his tone light, the kind of friendly prod that softened an intrusive question. His datapad was visible but idle, the Helios logo clear enough to reassure the guard that this was business. Cassel’s eyes scanned the hallway beyond, taking in movement without staring. If anyone inside made a sudden move, he would catch it, but for now he wanted the weequay talking.

 

[Davik Lorso]

For a moment the security guard´s anxiety lifted as the stranger admired his scar. "Actually-" he beamed, letting Cassel through the gate and taking him aside away from the murmur of the crowds, "-all of the above. I was in the Republic Navy, you see-" he started walking towards the administration building, gesturing Cassel to follow before waving a hello to one of the jockeys that was in the training pen with a young Fathier stallion. "Did this boarding action on the ship of this pirate King of a sector near Hutt space," he stopped and turned to look at Cassel as if to try and guess how familiar a well-dressed Cantonica broadcaster would be with galactic topography of the Outer Rim. Then he grinned, no doubt having come to the conclusion that such details didn't really matter for his story anyway, "everything went very well, pirate thugs covered in scorchmarks filled the hallways until we reached the cargo bay,"

As he said it, someone at the gate shouted "Oi, what are you doing!? Get back to your post!" and the guard startled. "This gentleman has questions about one of the Fathiers, so I-" but he was interrupted in his reply when the other guard caught up. "Which one?" Suddenly the scarred guard tensed up again, seemingly realizing his mistake of letting a journalist onto the grounds. "Ah, eh, Chantme."

The other guard didn't waste a second and grabbed his holo-communicator, directing it at Cassel as it rang twice and suddenly a miniature version of Dram Smollet appeared lounging at his desk. "Sorry to disturb, sir-" the guard said and paused to allow Dram the time to sit up straight as he gazed at the finely dressed human. "This gentlemen-" the scarred guard interjected a "Cassel Vorren of Helios Broadcast." the other shook his head in disappointed, "-has questions about today's champion, Chantme."

Dram's eyes narrowed from behind his desk, "What questions?"

For Davik's plan to succeed he needed Dram out of his office. Getting an interview via pocket holo-communicators wasn't going to work.

 

[Cassel Vorren]

Cassel inclined his head slightly toward the tiny hologram, every movement measured. His voice carried the same cool authority that had fronted countless broadcasts, now he needed to really blag it.

"Mr Smollet, Cassel Vorren, Helios Broadcast. We're covering the qualifiers live, and there are already whispers in the stands about Chantme's gait. A limp, spotted during training. You can imagine what rumours like that do to the betting markets." He let that hang for a heartbeat, gaze steady on the projection.


"I'm not interested in speculation. I want to put it on record, from you directly. Our audience expects clarity, and it's your stable's reputation on the line." Cassel gave the faintest smile, trying to just keep talking through the nerves, professional but insistent. "But you'll forgive me if I don't settle for a pocket holo. An official comment deserves an official setting. I'd like to do this face to face, with you. If your Fathiers are in top condition, the galaxy deserves to hear it from their owner."

He adjusted his cufflinks, tone smooth but unyielding. "What do you say? Two minutes of your time, and I'll make sure every gambler in Canto Bight hears that Chantme is fit to win."