Open Market Permanently Closed

[Omenon]

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[Omenon]

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.

 

[Omenon]

Dark Jedi of Mirial
" Wᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴏʀ ᴡᴇ ᴅɪᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ "

"Tell the senator his shipment will arrive smelling like bantha piss if you don't shut that damn compressor." Omenon's voice was a blade, sharp enough to slice through the rattling hum of the freighter's failing life support. Her green fingers tightened around the ship's yoke, knuckles pale beneath the intricate black tattoos that coiled up her arms.

The cockpit smelled of burnt wiring and the metallic tang of Heinite serum leaking somewhere in the cargo hold.

Outside the viewport, the hyperspace tunnel bled into streaks of blue-white nausea, the only light in the cramped interior. The freighter, old, unmarked, and held together by spite, shuddered as it fought the pull of realspace. Tynna's orbital control would be hailing them soon, and Omenon had no intention of sounding polite.

The Mirialan's golden eyes flicked to the navigation console, where a single red light pulsed like a dying heartbeat. Someone had tampered with the stabilizers. The copilot's seat creaked as her companion, a scarred Duros with a perpetually sour expression, leaned forward to smack the dashboard.

"If we burn up on entry, I'm billing the senator for my funeral." His voice was dry, but his long fingers moved fast over the controls, rerouting power from nonessentials. The ship groaned in protest, its hull plates vibrating like a struck gong.

Omenon didn't answer. Her attention was on the weight pressing against her ribs, not fear, but the coiled presence of the dark side, waiting. The serum in the hold wasn't just cargo. It was a slow knife aimed at the spine of some unlucky planet's government, with the intention of spreading it across the High Republic while they were distracted with other matters.

Senator Monaray Dod had chosen her to wield this weapon, though she might have to ask for a refund given the state of her damaged freighter. Granted she had stolen it from some poor sap on Nar Shaddaa but that was beside the point, it wasn't easy for a Dark Jedi to get paid in the galaxy's current climate.

The freighter lurched violently as it hit atmosphere, and Omenon bared her teeth. Let Tynna or the High Republic try to stop her.

​

Nestled within a narrow valley between towering, wind-carved rock formations on the planet of Milagro sits Soji Outpost.

The outpost is a cluster of smooth, reinforced domes and low-slung transit corridors, its weathered white hull stained by the unrelenting humidity of the noble-ruled world. A flat scorched landing area extends from the main structure, seemingly being dwarfed by the ancient looming stone arches that surround it.

The unassuming transport relay currently houses a high-security clearing house for the clandestine trade in force artifacts from the remnants of the Galactic Alliance and the New Jedi Order. If the Republic intelligence reports are accurate, these relics are being funneled through Milagro's borders to fund a shadow agenda that threatens the very stability of the High Republic.

As the transport carrying _ and _ maneuver through the tight mountain passes, a flickering holographic transmission illuminates the cockpit. A weary-looking Bothan in a Republic Intelligence Service uniform appears, his eyes darting towards unseen monitors off-screen.

"Greetings, Jedi," he begins, his voice strained. "I am Agent Kallan. The situation at Soji Outpost is more delicate than we anticipated. Officially, it's a transport relay station sponsored by the Milagro Nobility. In truth, we have learned its a hub for a major smuggling outfit within the High Republic."

Kallan's image is briefly replaced by a long-range scan of the domes.

"We have confirmed that Baron Ivor Yasmo is on site. He is a key political ally to Senator Monaray Dod meaning he carries enough diplomatic weight to make a standard Republic intervention impossible. Our sources indicate he is personally overseeing the transfer of several high-value containers. We don't know what's inside but if possible, avoid the Baron's security forces until you have confirmation of what exactly he is smuggling for us to make a proper arrest."

The hologram flickers as Kallan disappears to leave the two jedi to formulate a plan of action. On the landing pad below, a figure in ornate, flowing silks stands by the entrance of the largest dome, his posture stiff as he watches the mist-shrouded horizon.

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