Dominion One Small Step || SO Dominion of Chalcedon

[Aspect of Defiance]

The Maw Cluster occupies much of what was once the border between Sith space and the Galactic Alliance. Long before the Blackwall was raised, it served as a natural barrier, a region of unstable gravity wells and distorted hyperspace lanes that punished the careless and erased the unprepared. The Blackwall only reinforced what the Maw already was, a graveyard of ships and ambitions navigable only by those with the fortune or the forbidden knowledge to do so. Sith charts and inherited routes turned catastrophe into passage, but even then the Maw demanded respect.

That balance has shifted. What once functioned as a barrier against Coreward advance has become an obstacle of a different kind. The collapse of authority beyond the Blackwall has opened paths that invite movement, yet the Maw itself remains ill suited for sustained, large scale deployment. Fleets cannot linger there. Supply lines cannot be anchored in its storms. If the Sith are to move beyond probing raids and isolated strikes, a stable rally point is required, a world that can absorb pressure and project force outward without relying on the Maw itself.

That world has already been identified.

Chalcedon has long served as a way station rather than a prize, lightly populated but precisely placed. Galactic powers passed through its ports without lingering. Criminal syndicates used it as neutral ground, a place to refit, bargain, and vanish back into the lanes. Its value was never in what it produced, but in what it connected. For the Sith Order, that quiet relevance makes it indispensable.

Chalcedon is not intended to stand as a symbol of conquest. It is meant to function. Its docks will gather forces. Its corridors will stabilize movement. Its position will allow the Order to deploy deliberately rather than opportunistically, ensuring that the advance into the Mid Rim and toward the Core is sustained rather than sporadic. Control of Chalcedon transforms ambition into infrastructure.

But usefulness invites resistance. The same syndicates and local authorities that once thrived on Chalcedon’s neutrality will not surrender it willingly. They understand its value as clearly as the Sith do. Before it can serve as a doorstep into the Core, it must be stripped of competing claims and brought under singular control.

Only then can the advance move forward with certainty.

Spoiler: OBJECTIVES

Objective 1: Controlling the Board​

Chalcedon must be made to recognize Sith authority as a physical and unavoidable presence. Before criminal networks can be addressed or rival powers dismantled, the Order requires a secured foothold from which to operate openly. Spaceports, orbital control, and key infrastructure must be seized and placed under Sith command.

This phase is not about subtlety. It is about making control visible and permanent. Garrisons must be established, supply routes stabilized, and resistance broken quickly enough that no competing authority can claim legitimacy. Those who act decisively during this phase will determine how Sith rule is expressed on Chalcedon, and whose influence shapes the world once control is formalized.

Objective 2: Cornering the Market​

Cyklo Market, once one of the key shadowports of the galactic slave trade, still exerts significant influence over Chalcedon through its black markets and criminal networks. Securing control of the world, and more importantly ensuring uninterrupted military access, will be impossible without bringing the market under control.

Local crime lords must be brought to heel, replaced with more agreeable figures, or the market itself placed under direct Sith authority. The method is irrelevant so long as Cyklo presents no threat to future passage, logistics, or operations. Those who move first will decide who profits from Chalcedon’s underworld, and who disappears into it.

Objective 3: Flipping the Tables (BYOO)​

Not every action on Chalcedon will fall cleanly under authority or commerce. The arrival of the Sith will unsettle alliances, expose rivalries, and create opportunities that cannot be fully anticipated. This agenda exists to address what emerges in the wake of that disruption.

Intelligence gathering, political maneuvering, countering outside interference, internal rivalries, and unexpected threats all fall within this scope. Actions taken here may strengthen or undermine the primary objectives, often without immediate visibility. Those who operate under this agenda shape the environment in which control is asserted and markets are dominated.

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: Irina Jesart | Open

The Maw had always been a border.

Not one that could be held, and never one that invited lingering. Ships crossed it with care or vanished into it without ceremony. Routes were inherited rather than trusted, and even those demanded respect. The Blackwall had not changed that reality. It had simply made it permanent.

What lay beyond it, however, no longer was.

Gerwald stood near the forward viewport as the shuttle descended, its hull cutting cleanly through Chalcedon’s upper traffic bands. Second Legion escorts held position around it, their presence already forcing civilian craft to reroute and compress. There was no panic in the lanes below, no alarms. The ports remained active. Chalcedon continued as it always had, moving on the assumption that neutrality was still protection enough.

It would not remain so.

His two apprentices stood behind him in silence, their presence steady and unobtrusive as the planet filled the viewport. Chalcedon was unremarkable at a distance, its surface broken by ports and corridors that showed constant movement without cohesion. It had never needed to impress. It had endured by being useful and forgettable in equal measure.

Syndicates had used it to refit and disappear. Authorities had governed it by avoiding commitment. Powers passed through its lanes without lingering long enough to claim it. Chalcedon had survived by never forcing a decision.

That indulgence had ended.

For a brief moment, Gerwald’s attention shifted beyond the planet itself, to the space it occupied. Chalcedon did not matter because of what it produced or what banner it flew. It mattered because of where it sat. It gathered movement without drawing attention to itself. It connected lanes that were not meant to converge. It allowed forces to assemble without relying on the Maw to hold them together.

The Maw could be crossed. It could not be built upon.

Second Legion signals bled into local traffic control as the shuttle entered controlled descent corridors. The change was subtle. Lanes adjusted. Holds were imposed. Civilian traffic compressed without understanding why. Control did not announce itself. It asserted itself.

Resistance would come. It always did.

The syndicates operating here understood Chalcedon’s value as clearly as he did. They had exploited its neutrality for decades. Local authorities had mistaken survival for legitimacy. Neither would relinquish control willingly. That reluctance was expected. It had already been accounted for.

Chalcedon was not being claimed as a symbol. Gerwald had no interest in spectacle. It was being taken because what followed could not be sustained without it. Raids and isolated strikes had their place. What came next required ground that could be held.

Across the planet, command channels opened and stabilized. Assets began to move. Orders were issued without fanfare, received without debate. This was not a single operation unfolding in isolation. It was the opening movement of something larger, and those who recognized it early would decide how the world changed around them.

The shuttle’s descent slowed as the capital complex rose to meet it. Landing beacons activated in sequence, ceding priority without protest. The pad atop the capital building cleared as if it had always been reserved for this purpose.

The shuttle touched down, its engines winding down as the Second Legion arrived not as guests, but as fact.

"Move out... and I want the governor brought to me. The rest of you... set up the command post."

 

[Elmindra Xitaar]

Mid Rim, Tashtor Sector, Chalcedon System
Naamino Zuukamano | Kasir Dorran | OPEN

​

The Omen tore from hyperspace before the rest of Korriban's fleet emerged around it with disciplined precision. Battlecruisers and escort frigates snapped into formation, their hulls catching the light of Chalcedon's distant sun. Chalcedon bloomed into view beyond the forward viewport—a dark, volcanic sphere veined with ember-lit fault lines and crowned by thin, tattered clouds.

The command deck was bathed in crimson light from the Korribani crystals embedded within the durasteel walls and vaulted ceiling. The crystals hummed softly, not sound so much as presence, resonating through Elmindra in a way that reminded her of the Sith holy world she and Darth Caedes had made their home for many years now. The red light shadowed the sage green of her Falleen skin and gave her reptilian eyes and otherworldly glow. The Rajakzânkut crew moved in disciplined quiet beneath that glow, silhouettes against holodisplays and tactical projections.

Elmindra stood at the fore, hands clasped behind her back, posture unyielding. Her long jet-black braid fell straight down her spine, accentuating the length of her neck and the subtle ridges along her forehead. Her Benediction armor embraced her frame like a second skin—articulated plates of obsidian alloy traced with ornate golden filigree and Sith sigils. Sorcery and circuitry braided together within it, reinforcing her presence in the Force, sharpening her perceptions as she studied the world below.

From orbit, Chalcedon was all harsh geometry and scar tissue—infrastructure clinging to basalt shelves in concentrated colonies, habitation domes nestled into volcanic glass like insects trapped in amber. The planet's true value was not in its resources but it's location and, for that reason, Elmindra could see the strategy in its occupation. Due to its neutral standing and lack of organized authority, she knew Chalcedon would be easy to take but difficult to keep without a proper and absolute assertion of control.

Beyond the viewport, Chalcedon's orbit began to change as per Elmindra's orders. Her warships moved into siege position, weapons and interdictor fields aimed and ready. The Omen's axial supercharged laser cannon powered up, its reactor-fed core feeding energy forward along the ship's spine until it settled in an ominous glow around the mouth of the massive weapon. The cannon did not need to fire. Its mere readiness was declaration enough.

Elmindra felt satisfaction coil in her chest. This was not a raid. This was not intimidation by proxy or whispered threat carried through intermediaries. This was occupation—clean, undeniable, and backed by the full weight of the Sith Order's will. Chalcedon would not be negotiated with. It would be instructed. And it would obey.

Naamino Zuukamano flanked her. Her zabrak apprentice cut a stark silhouette against the red light, horns casting jagged shadows across the deck. Elmindra did not look at him directly, but she was keenly aware of his presence in the Force. He was tension and potential, contained violence waiting for permission to be unleashed. This would be his proving ground as much as hers. Nearby, Kasir Dorran similiary waited in practiced stillness. The Champion of Wanosa carried himself with the rigid assurance of someone who believed utterly in the purpose he served. Elmindra was glad he had agreed to join her this time—another small step in building upon their alliance and her alliance with Darth Strosius.

A tactical display flared to life at the edge of her vision, mapping Chalcedon's orbital traffic in rapidly diminishing vectors. What local vessels were unlucky enough to be in orbit for the arrival of the Sith's fleets were either frozen with indecision and fear or they attempted to flee only to be snatched up into interdiction fields. Local control frequencies devolved into panicked chatter before being overridden and instructed to stand down and prepare to be grounded.

"Chalcedon has suffered their independence long enough to be unruly," Elmindra said, addressing the crew at large, her tone frigid and implacable. "They will need to be brought to heel before they will accept our occupation."

She angled her head slightly, enough that Naamino and Kasir would know she spoke to them.

"The fleet will control orbit," Elmindra continued, reptilian eyes fixed on the planet—the prize she intended to claim for the Order. "While it does, we will take the ground that matters. Spaceports first. Control towers. Any symbol that suggests authority."

With that, she turned away from the viewport to face them, her tone hardened and edged with promise.

"Those who refuse to obey will be destroyed. Understood?"​

 

[Sian Sestoi]

OBJECTIVE 2: CORNERING THE MARKET
TAGS:

The hum of Cyklo Market usually provided the perfect cover for a man like "Slim." Beneath the collar of his heavy, layered trenchcoat, Humraath moved with restless energy at the sight of the burgeoning slave market. The Devaronian's skin appeared pale beneath the flickering streetlights as he shut the crate filled with pilfered data-spikes, leftovers from the once-powerful underworld market that thrived within the former Galactic Alliance.

There were ample supplies remaining from that era for the Criminal Underworld to distribute, and the Whisper Network would take their cut. His eyes flickered back and forth between shadowy alleyways and the criminal enforcers passing by, always on the lookout for anyone tailing him, as he had acquired numerous less than friendly acquaintances in this profession.

"Quickly now, credits upfront, no talk, just pay," Slim snapped, his voice adopting a low hurried rasp given the circumstances. He hated lingering; the longer a conversation lasted, the more chance there was for something to go wrong. "The Whisper Network doesn't sell junk, but we don't stay around for small talk either. Take the spikes and move."

He froze. The air in the market didn't just turn cold; it turned heavy. From the docking bays, the steady thud of boots echoed through the plaza. Red blades hissed to life, cutting through the smog of the shadowport. The Sith Order had arrived, and they weren't here to shop.

Slim's hand instinctively brushed the grip of a blaster hidden deep within his coat. The local cartels started screaming, their blasters firing in a desperate rhythm against the red glow. This was the moment everything changed. The Sith didn't care about the local bosses; they wanted the market and the trade routes for themselves.

"Market's closed," Slim muttered to his startled buyer, already stepping back into the shadows of a nearby stall. He wasn't going to die for a crime lord's pride. If the Sith wanted to control the underworld, Slim would make sure he was the one holding the keys for a price.

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

​

Elsewhere…

The silence of the antechamber was broken only by the muted hum of atmospheric systems and the soft chime of an incoming transmission. An aide approached, posture formal.

"Pasha," they began, tone even. "The Sith have moved on Chalcedon. A fleet has entered orbit. Early reports confirm their presence above the capital."

Ivalyn said nothing at first. She extended a gloved hand, and the aide placed a data tablet into it without hesitation. Her gaze swept the display, tactical overlays, fleet signatures, intercepted comms. Quietly, she asked, "Was the Administrator's evacuation completed?"

"Yes. The White Wolves departed on schedule. All administrative personnel are secure. Those who remain… chose to stay. They believe they can reason with the Sith."

Her expression did not change. Only the slightest tilt of her head acknowledged the absurdity of the notion.

"Do we have assets on the ground?"

"Yes," the aide replied. "Embedded and transmitting."

A pause. Calculations turned behind her pale eyes like a machine with no need for warmth or haste.

"Get me the Intelligence Directorate," she said at last, voice smooth as glass.

Let the Sith come. Let them scream about justice and vengeance while burning what they do not understand. Chalcedon had already chosen its future. The Sith were simply late to the negotiation. And now, with every ruin they wrought, every corpse they created, the Commonwealth would be watching.

The connection opened with no fanfare, just a shift in the low-frequency hum of the encrypted relay. A sigil blinked once on the tablet screen: Directorate Online.

Ivalyn did not look up from her position by the viewport, Dosuun's distant light casting stark shadows across the room.

"Report."

The voice that answered was filtered, modulated. Genderless. Identity scrubbed.

"Assets are in place across three key quadrants. Uplink steady. Visuals coming through. No interference."

A soft blink of incoming feeds filtered onto a side display—drone footage, still images, intercepted Sith orders.

"Local resistance?"

"Minimal. Civilian clusters remain sheltered. Non-combatants were advised. Those who stayed made their choice." A beat. "Sith elements are escalating."

Ivalyn's jaw tensed a fraction. "Let them."

Silence stretched, respectful, then:

"Would you like us to initiate Operation Echo Black?"

A pause.

She turned, eyes reflecting the cold glow of the screen. "Only when the fire is brightest. Not before."

"Understood. All footage is time-stamped and corroborated. We are tracking broadcast nodes now. Footage will be disseminated through proxy channels. Attribution clean."

Ivalyn gave a single nod, though the feed had already cut. They didn't need to see it.

All was in motion now. The Sith believed this would be a lesson to the stars. Let it be.

Let the stars see.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

OBJECTIVE: NEW LABOR
TAGS: Helix , Lirka Ka , OPEN

While other Lords sought the subjugation of Chalcedon, to make it a model world within the ever-greedy Empire, Darth Nefaron sought the restoration of a practice that had been so thoroughly stomped out in this sector of the Mid-Rim.

Slavery.​

But for Dzara and Darth Nefaron, this could not stand. Though the Empire officially banned slavery with select exceptions, the rule of law was cracking with the disappearance of the Emperor and the end of the Tsis'Kaar. The great forges of Anoat were ever hungry for their need for fresh meat, the Legions gathering in need of raw recruits, and the cruel trio at the head of the burgeoning Dzara required new servants to torment and twist to their will. The Galactic Alliance was gone, and the High Republic scrambled. Now was the time for the Nefaron and his colleagues to strike out from Sith space and lay the groundwork for an Empire of Terror.

Tucked away in a little corner of Cyklo Market, shetlered witin the walls of a deteriorating warehouse, a gathering was taking place around an impromptu table. Gangsters, raiders, slavemongers, even representatives of Black Sun and the Hutt Clans appeared to hear the offer made by the cloaked Sith. Nefaron had arrived with little fanfare, escorted by Tsis'Kaar traitors who had been enlightened by the Terror Lord. They stood guard, weapons and armor hidden under their own black robes.

"I understand your concerns, friends. The current regime has made it clear that this world is to be a gateway to a grand assault on the Mid Rim. Chalcedon will be folded into the Empire's embrace, and with it comes the law of our Empress, her court on Jutrand."

The gathered criminals looked at each other, the Dark Lord having pointed out the obvious and striking at the primary issue with his little scheme.

"But what is that law worth when unenforced? When the Sith are so busy killing each other that they waste little time concerning themselves with which laws they are breaking? All of you know of the fate of the Tsis'Kaar, of the breakdown of the so-called justice system within Sith space. Even as we speak, thousands of slaves flow through the Blackwall, and all I ask is that you provide the proper facilities to increase that number."

A projector at the center of the table ignited, revealing a map of Sith space and current routes to pass into the great Empire. What Nefaron proposed would ensure lucrative trade for all, and more importantly, provide the Dzara with the vast labor force it required to carry out its plans.

"Sith Empires are built on the backs of slaves. When I tell you millions are required, I am being entirely honest. But that also means millions of credits in return. From the lowliest syndicate to even the great Hutt clans, all will benefit!"

Until it was time for them to feel the lash, the heavy chains around their necks.

As the gathering discussed its options, one local, a Devorian, spoke up. He leaned back in his chair, feet kicked up on the table as he addressed the Dark Lord.

"What if your pals do start poking around? You Sith don't tend to be too merciful."

"Very true. But allow me to make it rather simple. The Dzara has already infiltrated the government on Jutrand, and if some are not swayed by idle threats or generous bribes, well..."

The Corpse Lord beckoned to one of his servants to bring forth a rotting sack, dumping it unceremoniously on the table. The head of one of their number, that belonging to an unfortunate human, rolled out into the center.

"They will never speak again. This fellow here thought to betray me to that fool Darth Strosius, but he was rather regretful once we started removing fingers."

The Corpse Lord laughed, his sadism shared by his loyal followers and a few of the gathered criminals, but the message was clear. Dealing with the Dzara was either profitable to the extreme or a death sentence.

But the death would not come quickly. Or cleanly.​

 

[Zlova Rue]

A deep red, Lethan Twi'lek leaned back atop a stool with both feet kicked up atop the bar. Pitch black, traditional Sith tattoos ran the full length of her body and down every limb. A snug top did little to conceal the contours of her upper body, but it did cover her chest; and loose wrapped leggings covered her legs down to the well-traveled boots on her feet. Two curved-hilt sabers rested along the small of her back.

The bartender had left the holo on with reports coming in about the invading fleet in orbit, lack of details from the government, chaos and pandemonium as everyone sought to secure their wealth before the kark truly hit the injector port.

Zlova leaned forward and stretched out a hand to retrieve the bottle left on the counter. She didn't bother with a glass as she took a swig from the source. "Yeah, yeah. Big Sith Fleet in orbit. You people still haven't learned. It's the ground troops you need to worry about." Which Sith were these again? Given where she was at the moment... Sith Order, right? Probably. Crapshoot if they'd be the sane faction or the karking nutters.

No point trying to run the blockade. Zlova had a far better chance talking her way out what with her being a Sith Lord and all. Maybe not one of their Sith Lords, but cowing underlings was cowing underlings and who knew all the raving egomaniacs in the Order, right? The alternative was cutting everyone into little pieces and casually walking away from an explosion. So, win-win either way.

After another drink, a loud clack of glass atop the bar filled the vacated waterholing at the spaceport. Sith show up and everyone panics. Typical.

A small device was drawn out for Zlova to check on what her ship was reporting. Might as well see where the ground forces were landing in her area. Look presentable and all that. It'd only take a second to switch into arrogant domineering monster mode to start bossing people around like this was her planet. She never tried to forget how to be a Sith, because she still was one. The whole "don't tell" game aside with the Mandalorians when they asked which culture she beloned to. Wasn't like she could hide it. Literally. Covered in tattoos.

Elmindra Xitaar | Naamino Zuukamano | Kasir Dorran | Open

 

[Helix]

Tags: Darth Nefaron / Lirka Ka
Equipment: Himself ​

It went without saying that the Dzara had a considerable interest in Cyklo Market. The consortium's influence had spread from Anoat like a cancer, gripping and subsequently strangling a number of smaller operations wherever it went.

As such, Helix found his way there personally. A number of minor players had been dealt with already: some swayed by greed, some dispatched at gunpoint, still others mentally reprogrammed by Helix's corruptive nanites. That was the Dzara's way. Willingly or otherwise, service was not optional.

The irony was not lost on Helix. Under the banner of the late Tsis'kaar, and particularly Darth Strosius , he'd filled many a mass grave with the smoking remains of various criminal elements. Now, here he was, turning them towards more useful ends.

So far, resistance had been minimal, likely because the Dzara had so far practiced discretion, using the carrot instead of the stick. It wouldn't do to stir the hive this early. Not when the rest of the Order was actively subjugating the planet.

While best known for displays of violence that were as memorable as they were creatively disturbing, Helix could, on occasion, exercise a degree of subtlety. So it was today.

The tall, inhumanly-lanky apparition loomed ominously over the table, watching silently as Nefaron lured the scum onward. His quartet of luminous eyes shone like hell's own coals in the dim lighting, occasionally flitting back and forth to transfix one speaker or another.

Helix knew criminals well. By any definition one chose to utilize, he was one himself, and had been a part of innumerable organizations in the past. He knew they were utterly, hopelessly unprepared for someone like Nefaron, or for that matter, anyone else in the Dzara.

The Dzara was something new. Something that saw slaves and profit as grease for a greater engine, not an end unto themselves. The likes of those assembled could not hope to understand, let alone counter, what they were facing.

But they understood greed. They understood money. Money, of course, was a sure route to damnation where the Dzara were concerned. To make deals with the Sith was to put one's mind and soul at peril, but that wouldn't dissuade men such as these.

Not until it was far too late, of course.

Helix watched as the disembodied head landed with an unpleasantly-liquid thud before the assembled scum. Fitting enough. Death was a common method of dealing with an insubordinate lesser in the Sith Order, to say nothing of the Dzara's own particularly-artistic punishments for treason.

Of course, gentlemen like these saw worse than this on any given Taungsday. Maybe some had even done worse themselves. Nonetheless, the message was a clear, easily-understood one. Betrayal wouldn't be tolerated.

He wondered if they understood the second, subtler, but no-less-important message, unspoken as it was: this proposal probably wasn't a request. If they didn't agree, their domains would eventually be taken, by force or guile. This way, they could at least still keep their cut of the pie and live comfortable existences, albeit under the yoke of a newer, darker master.

When one fell under the Dzara's shadow, the road forward branched into only two paths: Lose your life, or lose your soul.

Helix wondered which one they'd choose.

 

[Lirka Ka]

CORNERING THE MARKET
TAGS - Helix Darth Nefaron

Crime and cartels stood as the backbone of this Empire, in some form or fashion. Most were a carefully managed thing with shadowy puppeteers of the Sith at their back making sure the decripet plebeians of the masses stayed in their lane. Lirka posited that, ultimately, the terrible trio they had assembled was doing more or less the same. They just were playing by different rules.

Lirka did not feel compelled to speak to the assembly yet, Darth Nefaron was ever so eloquent. A trait she certainly appreciated, Cyklo Market represented an important interest to the Empire. Gears needed to turn in such a way that this explosive expansion into the Mid Rim and beyond would not be halted by petty things like Shadowports. Of course…now the gears would be turning towards the new way. The shadowy worms that nestled their way into the Sith-Imperial form. Lirka would see that they do.

When Lirka had declared the name Dzara to the stars upon Anoat, she knew well that dabbling in the egotistical politics of leadership would quickly be the undoing of these evildoers who all saw themselves as the most important creature in the Galaxy…but, unlike her fellows, Lirka held unfortunately lofty rank at her back. And with that came scrutiny - she wondered what Gerwald Lechner might say about this little shadowy meeting now that he had taken on the role of the ultimate commanding officer of the campaign, or what the rest of her fellow Dark Councillors might bemoan about that dirty “slavery” word being used.

She held back her laughter to keep decorum with the scum.

Finally, a clawed hand raised from the metallic creature. Lirka kept an ominous figure, black metal plate freshly glossed and the furs of some horrid monster draped around her shoulders for today. She would not denigrate her companions into minions, nor leer over them too hard with her endless narcissism. But - she was the ultimate representative of the Empire now. And the rumbling words from her helm would have to prove that much.

“Well spoken, Lord of Anoat.”

Glowing slit lenses now looked across this gathered assembly of scum - rats and slugs, useful tools but ultimately worthless lives. She doubted many of them were worthy. Perhaps a handful could be turned into something greater with enough care.

“I will speak plainly to you all, as you people of the muck-and-mire of this Galaxy deserve that respect. Cyklo Market is ours. What we posit here today is where you all will sit within its profitable future.”

There was a certain bluntness Lirka employed when dealing with criminals - most were not of a class high enough to warrant anything else.

“You wish freedom from the laws of tyranny that now breathe upon your neck? The Dzara shall grant it, if you move within our shadow. They are laws forced upon the weak by the strong - we shall make you strong. My companion has placed before you the start of this oath, but more will be required. The transfer of meat is but a singular piece in the great cosmic machine - for what I offer is that which is less tangible…but exciting all the same. A chance in the wake of oppression, to indulge. Let loose your impulse and desire beneath our Black Banners, and you shall have the freedom within the Chain to grow your coffers fat on our foes.”

Well. Underworld recruitment did have to start somewhere.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Mid Rim > Tashtor Sector > Chalcedon System

Outfit:
Belt of Strength, Field Com-Scan Link,
Weal & Woe
Kor'ethyr Issued Kainate Trooper Armor
Armor Permissions
Tags: Elmindra Xitaar | Kasir Dorran | Zlova Rue | Open

THEME

​

Their purpose had been clear to him before they ever arrived, upon first viewing the dossier on Chalcedon that was provided to him by Elmindra. Its location for trade and supply lines was invaluable alone. Due to the volcanic activity, Naamino could also guess that natural resources on the planet would be rich as well. Such a pivotal location could not be left to self governance, Naami knew. It required a firm hand, to be utilized and its people shepherded along the correct course.

Aboard the Omen, dressed for war but calm with the self assurance that less dire tactics might win out first, Naamino's red-brown face tattoos looked bloody bathed in the light of the bridge. His helmet was tucked under one arm and the big man was perfectly at ease amongst the diligent crew of Rajakzânkut. Every steady breath he took seemed to gradually fill him with potent energy, surrounded as they were by Korribani crystals.

Resolute in the task before them, Elmindra's instruction came as no surprise.

"I am ready and relish the work ahead, Master."

Zealotry filled the words, his low voice rumbled through the durasteel beneath his feet. There had been a time when the boy might hesitate at the thought of using deadly force against civilians, some of them didn't know any better than to fight for their old way of life. Now though? The man he'd become wouldn't dream of hesitation, his cause was righteous.

 

[Kasir Dorran]

Elmindra Xitaar Naamino Zuukamano Zlova Rue

​

Not a single muscle disturbed the stasis of the Sangnir's pale visage, as he stood upon the crimson lit deck, emanating the funeral stillness of one that knew how to bide its time. That wasn’t to say the assignment did not sit heavy; this was a tether to fate he neither sought nor fully embraced. Truth be told, he hadn't been particularly inclined to board The Omen, not even if orders suggested it. And standing here now only solidified his disdain for an infernal vessel.

To no surprise, the air was rife with the stench of another doctrine, a vile afterthought that he would gladly purge in another setting, and surely under different circumstances. Though it did little to provoke true disgust, the impurities still irked him, only to be dismissed with a flick of the hand.

He preferred a forge, not a shrine for excess, as he preferred to measure rooms in distances of violence. Today, his presence served a single purpose. The budding alliance between Wonosa and Korriban required appearances, and this was one of them. But perhaps bleeding at the same moment for the same outcome might change that thought in due time.

Elmindra's words were met with a curt nod; it was a gesture to convey acknowledgement, but little else. Hollow vows, affirmations, these trivialities were far beneath him. To those who understood Kasir, they would know this was more consideration than most within the Order ever received.

Eventually, both hands locked behind his back, pale digits interlaced.

He noted the Zabrak, a familiar and capable Sith from prior service, where Jedi had fallen like wheat before a scythe. Another weapon, mayhaps, but like any other, it was an edge that would require further sharpening. For now, this was but the prelude, for even the assassin knew the real work never started with commands barked from afar. It would be in the aftermath.

A fetid bloom in the darkness; he waited.

 

[Irina Jesart]

Tags: Gerwald Lechner | OPEN
Wearing​

Chalcedon's occupation was inevitable. The moment the Dreadbourne's fleet entered orbit it was inevitable. It had been a no man's land for decades, never truly occupied by any power save the syndicates that infected its surface using it's lawlessness to their advantage. Today that would change, not because the Order wanted it to, but because their march into the Core demanded it.

It would serve as their foothold, the foundation from which they would launch forward and take the core into the Order as it was meant to be. There was a part of Irina that was itching to get her feet on the ground, to cleanse the world of those who would make themselves a nuisance, but her place was at Gerwald's side unless he told her otherwise.

The shuttle shuddered as it settled atop the capital building, the hum of its engines dying in a finality that said they were not leaving. Boots thundered down the landing ramp in response to his orders, without ceremony. This was not a raid for glory.

Irina moved with her Master, datapad in hand; she studied incoming reports from across the planet as the Order moved. "Korriban's fleet has settled into orbit, Lady Xitaar's flagship has their command. There's a few pockets of resistance flaring up in the markets but nothing of real substance." she told him before folding the pad away. "Where do you want me Master?"

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: Irina Jesart | Elmindra Xitaar | Kasir Dorran | Naamino Zuukamano | Zlova Rue

Gerwald inclined his head to Irina Jesart . For five years she had stood at his side faithfully and without wavering. She had taken his instruction to heart, not as doctrine to be recited, but as discipline to be lived. The change had been gradual and deliberate, shaped by campaign rather than ceremony. It was evident now in how she carried herself, in the absence of hesitation, in the way she no longer sought affirmation before acting.

The nobility she once wore easily had been burned down into something leaner and more dangerous. It suited the Second Legion. It suited the work ahead.

His little firebird was no longer soft in appearance. What stood before him now was a weapon that knew its edge.

…and she was eager.

“Lord Commander, we have a new fleet in orbit. Sith.”

His attention shifted from his apprentice, if only for a moment. The blue of his eyes dulled as corrupted pale gold bled through, the irises ringed in red as he allowed himself the smallest indulgence of anger. It was not rage. It was irritation, sharp and unwelcome, born not of surprise but of disruption.

“Who.”

“The Omen.”

“Korriban is here.”

Gerwald remained torn on the actions of the Desert King and his compatriots. Elmindra Xitaar had proven herself capable, and Korriban’s fleets were not without value. They had worked well together before, when lines of authority were clear and intent aligned. This did not feel coordinated. Another fleet in orbit felt like another will was in motion. Perhaps this was another set of priorities moving alongside his own.

The plan for Chalcedon had been simple. Secure the capital. Establish control. Let the rest of the world fall into alignment once inevitability replaced uncertainty. Independent action now threatened to complicate what did not need embellishment.

He could not allow that.

“Open a channel.”

“My Lord… the governor is here…”

Gerwald’s gaze returned to Irina Jesart . He did not soften it, nor did he harden it further. Pride was present, but it remained contained, something acknowledged internally and set aside. There would be time for recognition later, once Chalcedon was no longer in motion.

“Greet the governor. Ensure he understands the terms of our occupation here. Avoid killing him if at all possible.”

It was not a kindness. It was efficient.

Irina would understand the balance required. The governor would as well, once the alternatives were made clear. The Second Legion did not need to demonstrate its excesses to make a point. The knowledge that Irina’s Berserkers were waiting was leverage enough.

“Open the channel.”

The technician inclined his head and complied.

“Lady Xitaar,” Gerwald said when the connection was resolved. His voice was level and unhurried. “I am glad to see that Korriban could join us. I have taken the capital. The Commonwealth has ensured the governing powers of Chalcedon will welcome our stay. There are pockets of resistance across the outer continents. Please ensure they do not become an obstacle. We cannot control the world if they are allowed to remain.”

The words were chosen carefully. They were not presented as a request but as an invitation to redefine the operation. It was his direction delivered without emphasis.

The matter had already been settled in his mind. Three of the five Dark Councilors had agreed that this campaign was his to lead. Chalcedon was not a proving ground for competing ambitions. It was a necessity, and necessities demanded clarity.

Gerwald intended to see the expansion succeed, not because it flattered the Order’s pride, but because failure here would echo far beyond this world. Chalcedon would either become the hinge upon which the advance turned, or it would become a cautionary lesson in overreach.

He had not come this far to allow the latter.

“Your king and I have worked well together for the defense of Brosi, and other Holy Worlds. Perhaps today you and I can find the ability to do the same here as well.”

 

[Irina Jesart]

Gerwald Lechner​

Lips curved into a small smile as his gaze moved to her, recognising the glint of contained pride in his eyes. It wasn't something she saw often, not because she didn't earn it but because her master was a hard edge, his emotions were always contained and controlled until there was a need for them not to be. It was from him that she had learned to contain the anger that rested so easily beneath her skin, a weapon to be called upon when he asked it of her.

"As you wish."

She bowed her head and turned on her heel, datapad disappearing into a pocket as she moved into the building. Her eyes swept the interior, recognising the wealth in small touches of décor. Chalcedon and its criminals lords had thrived under autonomy, no doubt it was a wealth built upon the backs of others, slaves were hardly a rarity here. She took that knowledge and folded it neatly into the simmering pot of anger, sweeping into the conference room that had been set aside.

The governor was zygerrian, his face covered in greying fur, four fangs jutted from his jawline, though one had been broken at some point in his life. His thick eyebrows jerked in surprise at first site of her but he quickly regained composure and offered a ow and a fake smile that Irina did not return. "Greetings, welcome to Chalcedon. I am Zigras Oman. I was expecting to be speaking with your Lord Commander-"

"He's busy." She gestured to one of the chairs. "Sit, Governor Oman, we have much to discuss."

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Hydra | Open //:
//: Ckylo Market, Chalcedon //:
//: Attire //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence | Taozin amulet | LK Spider Slicer Droid //:
//: Objective II - Cornering The Market //:​

Just streets. Noise. And the slow rot of a market.

One of the shadowports living across the underbelly of Chalcedon, the air was thick in the Cyklo Market. The ozone smelled of stale coolant, sweat, spice, and fear. Canvas canopies and durasteel overhangs layered over one another in crooked tiers. The light that came through was choked into a permanent dusk. CT-312 moved through without slowing. Chains rattled throughout the market’s maze and voices overlapped in different languages. There were no banners or declarations. No loyalties openly claimed. Just transactions that pretended not to see the blood beneath them.

Sellers drifted toward the Scout. Their augmented limbs and data slates clutched close. The slaves followed in tow with compliance collars glowing faintly at their throats. CT-312 ignored them all. She walked the streets neither aggressive nor submissive. A professional passing though, unbothered by the filth so long as it didn’t cling to her boots.

CT-312’s attention remained split. Part of her attention stayed on the Sith communication frequency, murmuring in her ear. Reports filtered through in clipped bursts. On the other side of the Cyklo Market contact had been made. Other teams were engaging their sectors and pressing crime lords into corners. The other channel belonged to BARCA. Ghosting information into her HUD with a series of beeps. Overlaying the chaos with order, clean and precise. The mission parameters scrolled once more across her vision in a green hue as she continued walking.

<:// Location: Cyklo Market //:>
<:// Assigned: Quinn Varanin //:>
<:// Environment: Key shadowport of the galactic slave trade //:>
<:// Local Threats: Local Crime Lords //:>
<:// Primary Objective: Neutralize. //:>
<:// Replace with compliant leadership or bring under Sith authority. Method irrelevant. Outcome mandatory. //:>

With a flick of her eyes the mission briefing vanished. What mattered now was execution. CT-312 let the market speak for itself. Whispers slid past her as she patrolled. Names repeated too often, a rumor shouted, someone had gone missing, fear moved faster than credits and it left a trail just as clear. The Scout followed it. As the crowd thickened, the area widened as the auction house rose from the market. Wrapped in holo-banners, advertising slaves, weapons, and other favors. It was popular. Profitable. Exposed.

‘There we are.’

CT-312 slowed as she approached the entrance. Sound inside leaked out with the crowds murmur and the cadence of a broker’s voice rising and falling as bids climbed. This was where influence pooled… where leverage was sold with a smile. She was a step from crossing the threshold when her attention snapped. Not forward, but sideways.

Across the open concourse, beyond the crowd of bodies and hanging lights, CT-312 felt a pull. Not a command or a threat. Just a subtle pressure. Her posture didn’t change as her hands remained on her rifle that sat resting across her front. Her eyes behind the visor were cold and locked on the source. CT-312 approached cautiously and ready. A single word with a tone that was flat and measured.

“Sith.”

Neither an accusation, nor a greeting. A simple check. A statement posed as a question, waiting to see whether what answer would stand beside her… or in her way.

 

[Frankie]

Frankie's work was easy today, relatively speaking.


She had already deployed her drones, each one silently cataloging the carnage left in the Sith's wake. Frankie knew how easily any large government, especially an authoritarian one, could decide who belonged and who did not. It was never difficult to label a population less than, to mark them as unwanted, other. From there, the word criminal followed effortlessly, along with the claim that their elimination was an act of mercy, order, or salvation.

Frankie noted the pattern with grim familiarity: what defined criminality for those in power often defined dissent just as neatly. Anyone who disagreed, resisted, or even questioned the prevailing authority became suspect by default.

She moved through the streets as an ordinary civilian, posture relaxed, expression carefully neutral, blending into the flow of frightened bodies as the Sith were given free rein to lay waste. There were rules, she was sure, there were always rules written somewhere, but with no enforcement, they meant nothing. The very nature of the Sith guaranteed civilian casualties. The unarmed would suffer. Those who spoke out would be made examples of. The message was brutally simple: obey or die. And even obedience, Frankie observed, offered no real protection.

Sith bowed to no one. They took what they wanted. Order, if it existed at all, was incidental.

Black smoke coiled through the air, thick and oily, stinging her lungs with the scent of burning plastoid and scorched stone. Somewhere nearby, a building collapsed with a sound like thunder, followed by screams, sharp, panicked, abruptly cut short. Frankie forced herself not to flinch. Not to run. Her drones hovered unseen above the chaos, snapping images, recording holovid, capturing everything.

After all, she thought grimly, a government can command people not to believe their own eyes.

If the Sith were even capable of governance.

Beyond the Commonwealth's borders, Frankie had seen what Sith rule looked like: worlds left lawless and abandoned, or crushed beneath such ruthless enforcement that survival itself became an act of submission. The law was followed not because it was just, but because the cost of defiance was unbearable, and it was almost always paid by those least able to afford it.

Her wrist unit pulsed softly as data streamed through encrypted holochannels, bouncing from relay to relay, far beyond Chalcedon's atmosphere. Even if she didn't make it off-world, the evidence would. The truth would.

Operation Echo Black was underway.

 

[Darth Hydra]

CT-312 : Open
Objective II- Cornering the Market​

Darth Hydra walked with poise, serenity and with cold anger. This world was full of vice, decadence, solventless greed. It lacked order, discipline, purpose. It masked every vile act of abuse as if they were marks of real power. Power was its own purpose, only through power could one be free. It did not need to be excused or disguised by wanton greed. As if credits were the most important value of the galaxy.

The Sith were right to bend this world to their will. To enforce true order and stability on a planet too far gone from decorum. Everything about this place rank of imbalance. Not the virtue of passion, but the imbalance of a system of perpetual decay. With the crime lords on top in constant fear of their rivals, subjugating the masses, while the enforcers acted not out of devotion to any code or philosophy but merely for the pat on the head of a few credits or the favour or displeasure of their bosses.

A Zyggerian slaver approached Hydra cautiously.

"We have the finest stock available to serve you. Freshly broken in."

Hydra waved a hand and used mind control, he did not feel like being particularly merciful on the Zyggerian.

"You will go home and rethink your life. Whether it is worth living." Hydra commanded.

The Zyggerian went slack jawed his mind already broken.

Slaves. A pathetic investment. On a personal level Hydra found them to be a lazy substitute for doing work yourself, some owners of slaves could not even be bothered to fetch their own cups as they debauched on their delicacies and Zeltros wine.

On a government level it was lazy and shortsighted as well. Economy's had been proven to have worked better under which people were paid, providing more resources for the state to exploit not less.

As for war. The idea that slaves could out perform free soldiers was suspect at best. Hydra personally found carefully tended devotion was far more effective then systemic subjugation. If your men worshiped you then they would die for you and more importantly kill for you.

Though Hydra had to admit as a study of Sith history that the Clone soldiers carefully manipulated and orchestrated by the Ancient Sith Lord Darth Sidious had served their purpose admirably. For Hydra however this merely confirmed his point not discarded it. Sidious had cultivated a devotion carefully in the state the Republic of which he had been head of.

Though depending on the source it had not been discipline that had lead the clones to turn on their Jedi comrades, but inhibitor chips. Sidious had of course replaced the clones with recruits, and ruled for over twenty years albeit with some crucial tactical errors along the way.

Hmm.

Regardless Hydra found slaves to be a waste of time, resources, energy, production and effectiveness.

Hydra was brought back to the present by… a presence. Just on the edge of his senses. He identified the source. She could have been mistaken for just another bounty hunter or mercenary. Wearing Halcyon armour in camouflage pattern, and a scout troopers helmet.

"Sith." She stated bluntly.

Hydra inclined his head ever so slightly.

"Indeed. I would offer to be of service, but I have yet to determine if I would regret that service or not. Perhaps if you were to enlighten me as to your identity, we may begin a more cordial interchange of graces."

Hydra response was measured, clipped, formal and polite. Hydra never understood those Sith who insisted upon brash threats and intimidations in every opening of interactions. Threats were only powerful if they had elegance, substance behind them.

Hydra was a great admirer of Darth Tyrannus in this regard.

 

[Aerik Lechner]

Tag: Matteo Guo-Yian | Open​

The streets of Cyklo Market pressed close, a maze of welded plating and hanging cables that funneled foot traffic into narrow, uneven channels. Light filtered down through stacked walkways and tarped balconies, never quite reaching the ground. Aerik and Matteo moved with the current rather than against it, their presence altering the flow without announcing itself. Conversations thinned. Eyes followed. No one lingered where they passed.

Aerik kept his pace measured. The Force extended from him in a controlled pressure, not a threat, but a certainty that unsettled those sensitive enough to notice. This was a place built on anonymity and denial. Both eroded quickly under sustained attention. He marked exits, counted armed silhouettes pretending to be traders, and felt the subtle clustering of fear around a lower tier where the air grew stale and the noise dulled.

They descended without comment. The market changed character as they went, commerce giving way to quiet industry and guarded doors. Scuffed walls bore the marks of hurried repairs and concealed access points. This was where people were stored rather than sold, hidden until movement offworld could be arranged. The den did not advertise itself. It assumed no one would look closely enough to find it.

Aerik slowed near a junction where multiple corridors converged, his awareness settling into the space like weight. Signals rippled outward through the market, small and frantic, but no one moved openly. That restraint told him enough. The slavers knew something had shifted, even if they did not yet understand what.

Aerik slowed and turned just enough to meet Matteo’s eyes. The look carried assessment rather than reassurance. This was not a question of readiness.

“You ready?”

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Hydra | Open //:
//: Ckylo Market, Chalcedon //:
//: Attire //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence | Taozin amulet | LK Spider Slicer Droid //:
//: Objective II - Cornering The Market //:​

As they stood, the market continued to breathe around them. People passed without slowing. Foot traffic flowed in and out of the auction house like a revolving door. The look on the faces were fixed on profit and gain, while others narrowed with the constant calculation of survival. Shouts broke out as vendors yelled at the perceived threats and pickpockets were chased off with curses and raised hands. Off to the side, away from the rowdiness there were those who stood in quiet assessment of one another, making silent deals or negotiations.

No one cared.

In Cyklo, stillness was more suspicious than confrontation. As the unknown figure spoke and answered. CT-312 let a few seconds pass before answering. Her gaze lingered on the confirmed Sith before her. Memorizing details: pale tentacles framed his head, noticeably tall, and his presence carried deliberate restraint rather than blatant menace. The way how he carried himself and spoke, marked him as someone who wasn't low in the chain of command. ‘Not disposable.’ Behind the Scout’s green-tinted visor, one brow lifted a fraction. ‘A more cordial interchange of graces.’ Repeating the phrase as it echoed briefly in her thoughts.

Subtle amusement brushed along her composure before filing it away. There were not many Sith who bothered with formality. Even fewer who still extended it to someone who was just another trooper. Let alone to her, a “clone”. Despite her wariness, curiosity peeked. CT-312 decided to indulge it for a moment. Finally answering.

Her tone came out even from the helmet's voice modulator. “CT-312.” Giving a slow intentional nod, acknowledgment without submission. The Scout gave nothing more. No context, no mission briefing, just enough to see how he would respond to being questioned rather than obeyed. Declaring oneself "just a Sith" meant little in a world like this. Rogue, exile, or even pretender… any of them were possibilities. “What brings you to this part of the market?” Pausing once more, assessing the Sith before continuing. “And how shall I address you?”

As she waited for a response the market suddenly surged. Shouting cut through the ambient noise as armed guards forced their way down the concourse. Additional hired guns flanked them, forming a moving perimeter that pushed the crowd aside. People stepped back without protest as massive energy cages hovered into view. The fields hummed as the bars cracked faintly.

Inside the slaves huddled together in tight clusters. Chains linked them wrist to wrist and neck to neck. Some stared at the ground while others stared nowhere at all. The cages came to a halt and the doors opened. More shouting happened as the guards yanked the chained lines forward. Impatience evident in every movement. Those who stumbled were pulled upright and those who hesitated were punished or shoved forward.

“AARRGGHHH” A sharp yelp cut through the noise as one of the slaves brushed along the energy bars. Blue light flared as flesh burned.

“WATCH THE MERCHANDIES, YOU IDIOT!” One of the enforcers barked, shoving the guard aside. “Keep that up and you’ll be back in those collars yourself! You think the bosses wants damaged goods?!”

The guard snapped messily into an attention posture. Arms pinned tight on both sides as their back was stiff, standing like a plank. They nodded frantically, retreating hastily to the back of the line as the procession continued into the auction house.

CT-312 watched it all. Something scraped along the inside of her thoughts and chest. An old and familiar pressure. Not rage. No. Not yet… Normally she wouldn’t have cared. Feeling emotionless. But recently it seems more fractures were spreading beneath, hairline cracks splintering deeper within unknowingly. She blinked once. Then again, slower this time. ‘Confirmed.’ This was the place.

Her full attention turned back to the Sith. CT-312’s posture remained steady as her presence remained unreadable. Waiting to see if he had come here for somewhat of the same reason she had.

 

[Darth Hydra]

Hydra considered the trooper in front of him. She was either brave or stupid to confront a Sith so forthrightly. Without fear perhaps, but certainly there was a degree of cautious response. She knew Sith well enough to identify one on sight, and despite the abruptness demonstrated a degree of caution without submission.

The combination of traits seemed familiar to him somehow. Hydra searched his mind, using a mental discipline technique to bring burgeoning thoughts to the surface. An image of the trooper attending Lady Quinn Varanin . At some Sith event some time or rather. A shadow stepping closely behind. Hydra had remembered a flickering acknowledgement of how odd it had been to see a Sith of such stature attended to by a mere trooper.

Hydra sighed to himself. A personal companion perhaps? Hmm possibly a bodyguard. Either way someone no doubt regarded by Lady Quinn as some sort of value. Not someone Hydra might easily kill without consequence. Not that Hydra would act with such disgrace as to kill without reason. Or rather without challenge. There was no challenge here except if he was inclined to challenge Lady Quinn directly, to which Hydra saw little benefit.

It wasn't that Lady Quinn wasn't worthy of the challenge, rather Hydra avoided the… squabbles of other Sith Lords and Ladies. As far as Hydra could tell it was a near certain way of at best isolating oneself to be picked off by Jedi or at worst a method of debilitating madness constantly searching for more power. Meanwhile true power was in personally defeating one's enemies.

Hydra didn't have time for machinations. True power was direct. The applications of power of the Sith Order were when it was applied to their enemies. As was indeed the case here on this mission. The thought solidified Hydra's reasoning. This trooper was an ally, perhaps not the ally he would have wished for, yet an ally, nonetheless. Killing her would remove a resource he could otherwise utilise. A shameful waste.

"You are Lady Quinn's… companion?" Hydra asked with care.

Hydra glanced at the scream, noticing the energy cages, his lips twitched in disapproval. Terrible waste of resources.

"You may address me as Darth Hydra. A Master of the Korriban Academy. Come let us remove ourselves from this unpleasant waste." Hydra said with a frown of disapproval at the energy cages.

Hydra walked a few paces to a side alley. Bowing and gesturing an arm for CT-312 to follow. Hydra supposed most Sith would consider the clone trooper beneath them, and if pressed Hydra might agree. However, he did not see that as any reason not to act with decorum. Courtesy was as much about self-control as it was about treating others with respect. About respecting your own self enough to always present a figure of respect to the world. Regardless of who one was addressing or what one was doing. Self-respect, self-control, these were the key to wielding power.

"A pathetic attempt of power. Slaves. Such a waste." Hydra sighed shaking his head.

"You are here at Lady Quinn's request? What are your mission parameters?" Hydra asked directly.

CT-312