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[Judas Wayne]

Wayne Tech Temporary HQ | Roon​

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Judas Wayne sat behind the desk in his makeshift executive office on Roon. His company had yet to source the funding for a full-time headquarters, so this is what he had to work with until they were able to construct something a little more official. The blueprints were already being drawn up by an architecture firm, though the Wayne Tech CEO was still hoping to locate an old Techno-Union structure to inhabit instead. The costs of building the structure they had in mind was astronomical, and he greatly wished to shuffle at least some of those funds elsewhere. For now, he was at least grateful that this building had AC.​

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He sat awaiting a certain Darth Vesper for negotiations regarding a potential business agreement. He had been vehemently opposed to meeting a Sith of any kind, as the death of his parents by the hand of Force-using warmongers had left him with a deep-seeded hatred towards those that wielded their gift with reckless abandon. However, partially due to the practical begging of his advisers, he had agreed to meet with the Darth despite his feelings towards the Sith Empire.​

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While he waited, Judas looked over the rough draft of the terms he wished to negotiate on. His goal was to hire some of Luxarc's doctors to train some of his own people in medicine, all in exchange for weapons and armor for Vesper's security guards. Judas just hoped he would be able to hold back his anger before it spoiled the negotiations.​

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[member="Antherion"]​

 

[Ras'kala'han]

When you make a habit of travelling, when you have the privileges afforded to you by Sith status, you see all sorts of places. The pyramidal tombs of Ankhypt, reaching out from the windblown desert sands, monuments to the immortality of long-dead kings. The solemn temples of Korriban, sands dyed red by the blood of endless power struggles, braziers burning blue into the night with sorcerous flames as constellations named and marked by the sorcerers of old wheeled in the sky. Malachor and Ziost, Bastion and even the Greywall, the austere fortress of the Jedi Lord who had dealt him terrible injury - perhaps the only Jedi to garner his respect as well as win his hatred for showing that even in that tepid order, there were some who were not poisoned against power, against ambition.

Today, Darth Vesper saw the provisional headquarters of Wayne Tech and bit his tongue, wondering why he hadn't sent one of his aides, a proxy, or simply holocalled in. This building reeked of mid-level corporate dealings he by all rights as a man of his station should be above. Though he knew why, the wondering was important because if he admitted to himself that he did know - that he was rendering respect to the man he was about to deal with to smooth over relations - he would not be able to keep himself from leaping out a window.

Vectivus did business, Vesper thought as he climbed the stairway to the office - loath to take an elevator, a metal box with no escape routes - And near all the prominent Sith Lords of our time do business, he thought, and if I am willing to hand my soul over to a psycopath with a lightning rod of power to let him turn me into his mirror image, I am not above doing business.

Bury your anger. Let it fester. Let it ferment into the wine of hatred, drink deep, and feel power. The way of the Sith. Vesper breathed. It would be uncouth if any of the papers he was handling caught fire in the middle of discussion.

Even so, let's make this quick.

He had dressed well for the occasion - his usual accouterments, the dark robes of the Sith, were traded for a set of short, pressed robes of white shimmersilk, trousers and slippers of the same color. His short, blonde hair had a tousled look, and he went for understated jewelry: a metal choker, almost of burnished, rippling steel, and a single, silver ring. He almost would have seemed a simple executive, dressed to impress, but pride demanded he not bury the signs of his status: his lightsaber hung at his hip, and he did not disguise the swirl of rippling gold in his eyes - the color of absolute, domineering power.

Curtly stepping in after a knock, the Lord sized up the room, the man - sitting at his desk, instead of coming to greet him. A sleight. Not acted one, but not unnoticed. A cursory glance through the Force revealed... nothing. A mind of iron discipline or Epicanthix. It seemed that ever since those pillaging Panathan pirates had taken the reigns of all Sith activity in the Galaxy, Epicanthices were half as common as humans. Perhaps a testament to their excesses - even his once pristine human body was tainted by the alien blood, forcing him to reconsider his speciest views to something exactly the same, but excepting himself.

He opted for boldness. Donning a winning smile, he stepped forward and extended hand. "Mr. Wayne, I presume?"

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[member="Judas Wayne"]​