ʜᴄ sᴠɴᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏɴᴇs
The fortress in which Antherion resided was the most practical, but also, his most dull - he was growing tired of the endless clinical, joyless pursuit of power. He ought to be able to take some pleasure in plucking strength and will from his wretched enemies, but instead he found himself toiling, drudgerously, thanklessly in the shadows. Not that he expected to be thanked. But he expected to be rewarded.
He had never intended for this sunken, geometric puzzlebox of monitors and hallways and storage cells to become his home. Ideally, it wouldn't stay that way. But for now -- for now, he had no choice.
No, that wasn't it. He had yet to make his choice. That was about to change.
The room Antherion dwelt in was dull, austere - his 'throne' was such in the most abstract sense of the word, an intersection of reflective, black prisms in the shape of a chair set at the core. Atop it sat Antherion - a dessicated individual, leathery skin stretched over bone, a gaunt and collapsed face, lights burning in empty-seeming eye sockets. He gestured and the monitors shifted, then gestured again.
The Panopticon was a castle of absolute communications power. It was the fortress of a spymaster, and he has spent the past weeks gathering information. Now it was time to make his move.
A montage of death. A man shrieking as newborn stinger-laden insects chewed their way out of him, a woman reaching into a handbag to find a kouhun that shifted colors as it scampered across her paling skin, scores of people dying on Ession as reptilian beasts trampled their skulls, interspersed with graphs - disease vectors, statistics about villages being wiped out, warnings about resistance to antibiotics. Murder in abstract numbers and murder in nauseating personal detail.
It cuts to a single screen, black-on-white text.
Antherion waited for a call.
He had never intended for this sunken, geometric puzzlebox of monitors and hallways and storage cells to become his home. Ideally, it wouldn't stay that way. But for now -- for now, he had no choice.
No, that wasn't it. He had yet to make his choice. That was about to change.
The room Antherion dwelt in was dull, austere - his 'throne' was such in the most abstract sense of the word, an intersection of reflective, black prisms in the shape of a chair set at the core. Atop it sat Antherion - a dessicated individual, leathery skin stretched over bone, a gaunt and collapsed face, lights burning in empty-seeming eye sockets. He gestured and the monitors shifted, then gestured again.
The Panopticon was a castle of absolute communications power. It was the fortress of a spymaster, and he has spent the past weeks gathering information. Now it was time to make his move.
~
It was certain that [member="Gorba the Hutt"] had crack cybersecurity befitting the mastermind of a profitable, powerful criminal enterprise. The Sith had hoped to make a more dramatic entrance into his communications, but he settled for a video file attached to his usual financial manifest unexpectedly. A montage of death. A man shrieking as newborn stinger-laden insects chewed their way out of him, a woman reaching into a handbag to find a kouhun that shifted colors as it scampered across her paling skin, scores of people dying on Ession as reptilian beasts trampled their skulls, interspersed with graphs - disease vectors, statistics about villages being wiped out, warnings about resistance to antibiotics. Murder in abstract numbers and murder in nauseating personal detail.
It cuts to a single screen, black-on-white text.
INTERESTED BUYERS SOUGHT.
CONTACT INFORMATION ATTACHED.
Pleasant music played over the course of holo-broadcast audio about a rare subculture being threatened with extinction by a disease that caused exsanguination through the pores. Antherion waited for a call.
