First Reply Pray

[The Fool]

​

The Mean Fieri Cantina
Capital City, Terminus

Count Vernon St-Callais, an influential and wealthy politician from the Core, had offered a hefty sum for whoever found his runaway daughter and brought her back safe, in one piece, and most importantly - discretely. Of course, such contracts, due to their sensitive nature, reached men like Roman through the most reputable infochants. The reward matched the high value of the target and mostly its lack of strong leads - Terminus and a love drama. Love affair on Terminus, what a joke, he thought, but nonetheless took the job.

His first stop was the Mean Fieri Cantina on Terminus, a hotspot of traveler activity and local trash, and secretly - an illegal brothel; slaves and all that. Roman went with his gut on this one. If someone had abducted the girl to serve in a slave prost cartel across the edges of the Outer Rim then it was safe to say Count Vernon St-Callais' should start either mourning or funding an incredibly expensive operation to find her and retrieve her; in one piece was debatable.

Roman leaned on the bar, rolled a few credit chits at the bartender and projected the holopic of Pray St-Callais from his wrist datapad. "Seen her?" The Chiss kept polishing a glass, deliberately ignoring the investigator. "Hey." he growled and the bartender's red eyes locked with the pic. A momentous twitch of his eyes caught Roman's notice but he said nothing.

"Why? You a cop or sssomething?" the Chiss asked venomously.

"Do I look like one?" Roman grumbled.

"Yeah."

Silence. Irritation boiled but a few glances at the numerous armed men kept him from doing something rash. For now.

"Give me a Corellian." he leaned back from the bar and switched off the holoprojection, then took a cold simmering sip from the ale served.

He really felt like blasting the blue sleemo's head off.

 

[AMCO]

'Twas official, his evening was ruined.

The young Knight might be a Sith, but he had made it a habit to pretend like slavery wasn't one of the pillars of the Sith-Imperial economy. Found it more than a little distasteful, if he was being honest, and this - this even more so. A damn shame.

Sighing audibly, he straightened his jacket, turning to the very attractive S'kytri. Such a fething shame. "Enslaved, here? I thought this Alliance... well, I suppose assuming they were capable of controlling anything, much less more discreet establishments, was a bit presumptuous."

Clicking his tongue, a soft smile returned to his features. "Tell you what. You want out and I'm rather miffed they failed to mention this little detail. I will cause a bit of a ruckus - no, I'll make it up as I go along - and you just slip out. Take this for the collar."

Inquisitorial autoslicer. Probably shouldn't just hand those out, but they had remote kill codes, so why not. Besides, he was more concerned about this new plan of his - screw over the manager, the slaver, that had spoiled what was supposed to be a wonderful evening, and make this new acquaintance of his rather grateful in the process. If she later chose to reward him... that would be perfectly acceptable. Surely.

Pushing open the door, Adrian did his best to go with the flow, nodding to a few people as he went. One busy cantina, quite a few guards, and no immediate sources of inspiration. What to do, what to... "Give me a Corellian."

Far too impulsive to resist, the Corellian chuckled softly, a crooked smile on his lips as he leaned against the bar to face whoever this was. "Will I do?"

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

Roman flung his hand over the bar to pluck a lone lighter and shook it before lighting the cigarette in his mouth. The smoke released eased his tension and he took another sip.

"Will I do?"

A stranger leaned next to him with a cocky smile, acting smart. Another drag of nicotine followed by a cloud dispersing above in the mix of stench in Mean Fieri's Cantina. "No." Roman replied tonelessly and put the cigarette pack back inside the pocket of his long coat. He turned his back deliberately on the man and stared blankly at the shelves of liquor behind the bar. A colorful selection. Merenzane Gold, bet that's as real as the one they got back on Mos Eisley, he thought as he noticed the intricate design of the expensive bottle.

"No smoking." the chiss bartender interrupted his thoughts and that lit him up. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Roman snapped at the blue sleemo and yanked him with a single hand on the bar itself like a ragged doll. "Listen here, you little shit..." the investigator clutched his neck tightly as if drowning a fish. "You had one chance, one fethin' chance to lie and get away with it, and you played yourself." Roman's wrist holoprojector snapped alive once more with the image of Pray St-Callais. "Where have you seen her?!"

The bartender put all his effort in a muffled response. "B-bo.." no air. The investigator loosened his grasp. "Bogussssei...gang." Roman shoved the chiss back behind the bar and switched off the holoprojection.

What the hell's a politician's daughter doing with a gang all the way out here on Terminus?

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

Hah, how brusque! It was almost refreshing, for even other Sith were careful how they responded to an Inquisitor. As if the Saaraishash would ever diminish themselves by giving in to petty vindictiveness. Well, alright, excessive petty vindictiveness.

Raising an amused eyebrow at the ruffian's outburst, he realized that he wouldn't get a better opportunity than this. Reaching out with the Force, he all but prodded one of the security guards, turning the ogre of a man's attention to the little scuffle at the bar. With another little twist, he sent a pulse of blinding anger at a rather intoxicated-looking Wookie - a madclaw by the looks of him. This should be fun.

... and then he was forced to reevaluate the man. Was that...? Hmm. This changed things.

"... is that Vernon's girl? What's her name, ah, Pray?" What in the Nether would she be doing with an Outer Regions gang? Kidnapped, perhaps, though the Count hadn't seemed the sort to let his daughter out from under his wings any time soon when last they had met. A bit overprotective, perhaps, but who was he to complain, given the security measures he'd pushed on his baby brother.

"Let's talk..." Well. This was about to get chaotic. "... outside."

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

Roman peered at the stranger who seemed to be acquainted of his client and the target. He didn't sound like another contracted investigator like him but as a man who simply just knew them. Vernon was understandable, he was an influential man but Pray - not so much; and this far from the Core? Who the hell was this guy anyway.

There was an eerie silence behind before a wookie growled and pounced at one security guard. That was all the rest of the trigger happy patrons needed. Prosts fled for the doors, along with those without weapons cluttering the exit while showdown intensified with each new participant. It was bottles and fists at the start but it drastically turned into a warzone when someone decided to test his new illegal heavy particle beam blaster tearing a hole in one of the security guards.

"This way." Roman flung his cig stub at the bartender cowering behind the bar and moved towards the emergency exit next to the lavatories. Kicking down the door after it denied him access, the two would come out in a shady back alley; their explosive exit startled rats clawing through trash and a hibernating homeless man swam up from a garbage container with eyes wide in fear. He looked at Roman, then at the stranger and screamed before fleeing away into the main streets half-nude. The sirens of law enforcement grew stronger with each moment. "Talk on the way." he told the man and hurried away from the establishment into a maze of adjacent, equally shady back alleys. "You ain't no investigator, so who the hell are you?"

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

Following the man - clearly, he had some experience dealing with the violent squabbles of the hoi polloi - the Knight could not help but smile softly at the effects of his handiwork. There went the prost - and a few of her friends too. Not to mention the rampant violence. Oh, this would hit the owner right in the wallet. Serves them right for not featuring a disclaimer - illegal brothels were fun, he owned a few, but slave brothels less so.

Though he felt very out of place as they hurried through some very shady and not at all clean alleys, Adrian had to agree with the wisdom of talking on the run - he could befuddle policemen easily enough, but there might be a Judge nearby. They were... quasi-Jedi, no?

"Hah, no, I am not. It would be more accurate to say I am a, ah, tourist. From the Core. Corellia and Teta, mostly." Probably not a good idea to give out his name - Sith were not exactly popular, around these parts. Well, around any parts. "You could say the good Count and I move in some of the same circles. Never met the girl though - what'd she do, take a vow of poverty to help the needy, or something?"

The amusement was audible in his voice, but mixed with interest. Count St-Callais was wealthy, influential, and thoroughly respectable. Could make a valuable asset - and the young Knight had always preferred the indebted to the blackmailed.

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

Civilian, sure. Noticing the unnoticeable, seeing the invisible, all that were vital lessons taught to him as a Force 13 commando. Terrorists did not necessarily have to be simply goons with guns, contrary to popular belief. And as a man who believed he learned these lessons well, Roman knew this man was no investigator; and neither was he a simple civilian. Perhaps a loyal henchman to St-Callais himself - pieces of truth, he learned, weaved the best lie. The investigator couldn't really be certain. His sole concern was that this 'civilian' didn't turn into a liability in his efforts. St-Callais' cash was too good to miss.

"Don't know." Roman admitted curtly. He slowed down to a halt and sharply asked the man. "What's in it for you?" He leered at the man suspiciously but a silent movement in his periphery made him shove the man away and jump away from the impact of a heavy blaster bolt. Then the rain of fire came. An ambush from both sides seeking ferociously the demise of the two men.

"Shit." he murmured to himself as he produced his own pistol behind cover. The relentless barrage of blaster fire forced him into a near embryo position and wondering whether the 'civilian' was still alive.

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

"What's in it for you?"

Not one to take him for some selfless goody-goody two shoes? Not an idiot, then. Just as he was about to respond, there was a sudden sense of danger, and then the man pushed him to the side, a blaster bolt tearing the air where they'd just stood. Shit.

Ducking behind a dumpster, he gritted his teeth. Assassins? No, not for him. Only idiots hunted Sith with blasters. It didn't really matter, though, he was in the crossfire. Sighing audibly, he turned his head in the investigator's direction, shouting to be heard over the blastefire. "I didn't lie, you know! I am Corellian..." icy mist boiled forth from his fingertips, filling the street. "... but these days I spend most of my time on Dromund Kaas."

With a twist of his fingers - almost like a conductor guiding an orchestra - the mist surged upwards and outwards, pouring down the throats of his would-be killers - all but one, who instead found himself merely restrained - only to crystalise on the inside. Take a shot at a Sorcerer, and you better not miss. Not that he didn't have a Shield Talisman.

"I do hope you aren't going to go fainting on me because of a little Sorcery, because this just got personal."

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

...Dromund Kaas"

Just as the man uttered these words Roman felt the temperature drastically drop around. He glanced up; sun was shining hard despite the clot of tibanna gas residuals giving the sky a blue-ish orange hue and blotting out the sun. One plus two equals a Force user. As the blaster fire ceased abruptly, Roman snapped out of cover with his pistol aimed at the 'civilian'. Sweat had broken on his brow as he contemplated his options quickly. Trained as a professional Jedi Hunter by none other than the famed Elias Hobei, a former Sith-Imperial operative turned Force 13 commander, Roman had learned the ins and outs of hunting Force users.

And he knew he neither had the gear, the advantage, the distance and, most importantly, the goal of trying to tackle the Sith (sorcery was not what Jedi dabbled in); Roman lowered his pistol reluctantly and strode to the captured goon with caution. Just in case, he kept his distance to the Sith 'civilian' near.

"At least you're no Jedi." the investigator grumbled. He had no love for either religious zealots but the Jedi were those who stomped the cause back then; with his former wife's help, of course. The betrayal echoed in his mind leaving him silent for a moment before he shook it off. The investigator scanned the lifeless bodies and noticed bloodied tattoos written in Space Creole - "B O G U S E I", a dagger with wings piercing through the middle of the text.

"The shots will most definitely be heard by the cops back there." he stated to the sorcerer. "You got a quick method to...get answers?"

"Heard Sith had a thing for...extracting the truth."

Oh, yes. Elias had been very descriptive, he remembers.

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

It was somewhat amusing to imagine that the man seemingly considered taking on a Sorcerer with nothing but a blaster pistol, but then his Order did have a reputation for unnecessary brutality. Humans were prone to all kinds of unreasonable if they thought they had no other choice.

Smiling softly at the investigator's statement about Jedi, Adrian casually strolled over to the last survivor, squinting his eyes at the statement.

"That we do. Pretty decent chance it will scramble their minds, though, so I prefer not doing it unless necessary." Without further ado, the Sorcerer placed his fingers on the forehead of the panicking gangster, bands of ice keeping the man restrained and gagged. "I wouldn't recommend struggling - all that will accomplish is increasing the odds of permanent damage."

Closing his eyes and inhaling sharply, he began trawling through the man's memories, ignoring the muffled screams. Flashes from his childhood? No. The scent of his...? No. Ah, there we go. Pushing deeper, deeper, there. Letting go, he allowed the now comatose man to fall limb.

"Bogusei? Same people the Chiss mentioned, no? He's been with them since his youth - they like them loyal. Hmm. He didn't know who I was, he was here for you. All he knew was that you knew too much... but so did he." Eyes glacial, a predatory smile spread across his features. "He knew of their usual haunts, yes... but also that the, ah, boss has a penthouse in what passes for the good part of town. Naughty little eavesdropper."

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

What probably felt to the Sith as reading an open book was actually an extremely painful experience the goon was going through. The Nine Circles of Hell, Elias had described the 'adventure' as so for the receiving party. Sure, people without the touch of the Force had an eons long experience of how to extract information from captives but Force unlocked new, unimaginable paths of pain for the Sith to set their captive on; and they didn't really need to spill blood to do so. Very clean, very efficient. Extremely agonizing.

"Loyalty's just a currency." Roman stated gloomily more so to himself rather than to the Sith. He looked up back at where they came from - the wailing of sirens grew louder. Turning back to the tortured goon, Roman, in one practiced motion, delivered a merciful execution to the thug. "No trail." he said, although he was certain that when these thugs didn't report back to their head honcho, red flags would be raised. Time was running against the investigator and he had to get to that penthouse as soon as possible while the lead was still fresh.

"Nothing on Pray, huh? Might be going by a different name." he said and holstered his pistol. "Tag along but I ain't taking no pay cuts." It's why he rolled lone wolf, usually. No financial arguments thereafter.

--

Halifax Avenue,
Capital City, Terminus

Spoiler

Blue-collared faces dressed in white-collared suits. So-called 'Trashstocracy". Men who've hustled their way up from the gutters of Terminus through cunning machinations or climbed the hill made of a body count. As much as they tried covering their shady background by leading lavish lifestyles and copying Core World practices, their faces told their actual stories. The Bogusei's penthouse wasn't the only penthouse belonging to an outlaw, as a matter of fact - all of these penthouses were the homes of criminals. Past or present.

This high-up in the clouds, the blue-orange clot of tibanna gas was more transparent and one could occasionally see the sun as it is. Polished pavements and streets, flashy signs, hair styles 200 creds each, dry cleaning business booming and boob-n-lip jobs by the dozen. Safe to say, Roman Hayato hardly fitted in.

The two reluctant partners, arriving by the transit link, set their compass on where the boss penthouse was located. No surprises it was supposedly on one of the highest floors of the tallest buildings. Large, tinted and opaque windows from which the habitants could overlook the streets below without worry of being caught. Just any other building on Halifax Avenue, this was one also had a security detail of men and droids at the entrance asking questions and expecting the right answers; answers Roman didn't have.

"You said top floor, right?" he looked up from the corner of the street. Around forty levels above ground. Prestige measured by the floor. Big dick guy, Roman thought, wonder what's a Core poly's daughter doin' with him. Thrill? Adrenaline rush? Mamma, I'm a criminal? Plenty to speculate about but nothin' much else to go by. "Front entrance doesn't seem like an option." he nodded at the smart dressed buffons up at the front.

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

That was quick - he'd taken the liberty to befuddle the gangster's last memories, but slitting his throat worked just as well, he supposed. Who was this man, ex-military, perhaps? Hmm, or Intelligence, probably the military kind. Seemed more likely.

"Hah, no worries. I'm hardly impoverished."

---

It was flashy, it was expensive, and it was entirely transparent. The truly wealthy did not need to flaunt their wealth so, for their very presence was herald enough of their highborn origins. It was why all he had to do was straighten his shoulders and apply just the right amount of smug contempt to his refined features, and the investigator fit in well enough - as the bodyguard of a travelling aristocrat.

"Hmph. My skyscraper is taller."

... and likely far more secure. The men he could deal with easily enough, but the droids were problematic. Unlike his apprentice, he'd never had any aptitude for the obscure art of Mechu-Deru. A shame he hadn't brought her - this would have been an excellent test.

"I can't say I'm used to breaking into places, but we could cut through the floor from beneath - I would have put seismic sensors in place, though. Those droids. I'm not much of a technician, do you recognise their make? If they're only there to back up the organic security should they ask for help, I can get us through, though I've never had much aptitude for controlling electronics. A shame I left my view masker in the yacht."

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

"Uh. Phrasing." he corrected the man inaudibly. There was no need for genitalia size flaunting, although this skyscraper phrase seemed new to him. Kinda of an odd way to describe one's private parts but to each their own. Forcers were weird and it wasn't really possible that this Sith sorcerer owned a skyscraper, right? I mean, why the hell would he be doing all the way down on trash Terminus. Roman could think of a thousand and one other activities to be doing with such wealth and none of it pious.

Spoiler: CUTSCENE

After a few minutes of deliberation, or more like bickering, the two men agreed on using a coin, the ultimate herald of destiny, to decide their next course of action. Clearly biased by the subtle ripple of the Force, the coin landed on the Sith's preferred side - heads - meaning the covert infiltration plan Roman promoted was shoved in the backburner for the Sith's own action plan of entry formed after his own sudden rhetorical question of 'Wait a minute, those windows aren't triple-reinforced plexalloy with overlaid ray and particle shielding? Does he want to get attacked?'; a pretty flaunting entry too. Now, the skyscraper phrase made more sense.

Jacking a flashy ride was nothing complicated for a duo of a determined ex-commando and a decisive Sith. Roman took the driver's seat, after the Sith 'joked' that he'd been used riding on the backseat of the latest Baymach 800 and something about drivers being serfs.

Roman slammed the pedal to the metal and swerved the vehicle out of the normal traffic lanes. "Hold on fuckin' tight." he growled and a moment later the vehicle torpedoed straight through the windows that apparently were not triple-reinforced plexalloy with overlaid ray and particle shielding.

And no alarms were whining. Bingo?

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

So far, he was unimpressed with the Bogusei - he had been prepared to manifest a Force Barrier around himself, if needed, but the vehicle was mostly intact - well, in one piece - even after ramming through the window. Then again, this was supposed to be more of a covert hideout...

... which explained the lack of any alarms. Stepping out of the battered airspeeder, he smiled smugly, glancing around the ornate lounge area. "Really? I was expecting a bit more, but..." No sooner had the words left his lips before several wall panels slid open, spitting out gleaming battle droids, their wicked-looking arms sporting... shit, shit, shit. "Pulse cannons!"

On instinct, he threw himself behind an artisanal leather coach just as the orb of superheated fusion plasma shot through the space which he had previously occupied - presumably to burn a hole in the building across the street. Coming out of cover, the flesh of right arm shifted ominously even as a beam of concentrated entropy shot forth, drilling a hole the size of Wookie's head through one of the droids.

"Trivohld, that cybernetic bastard!"

His own business practices weren't the best, but at least he didn't sell war droids to thrice-cursed gangsters.

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

Roman would've admired the interior designer's intricate touch on the penthouse if a number of wall panels hadn't slid to the side spewing out deadly battle droids armed with...

"Pulse cannons!"

"Shit." Roman muttered and jumped to cover behind a wall dividing the living room and the kitchen. He learned the wall wouldn't hold as much when the plasma chewed a hole straight through the durasteel-concrete. A moment of hesitation of whether to use the loud Vornskr Revolver he utilized nearly costed him his head when another hole formed right next to his face. The scorching plasma breaking sweat on the man's forehead. "Fuck."

He peeked out of cover, aimed quick and double tapped. Plasma encased slugs shot out with deadly velocity taking a chunk of a droid's head and limb to the scrapyard. Another droid appeared from the panels to take its position firing back at the investigator but not before he noticed the terminal subtly hidden next to the wall panel.

"Sith! Terminal on the wall panel!" Roman yelled out furiously. Did the karkin' mob store an army here? AND HOW?

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

Scrambling to the side, the Knight sent one droid flying into another with a thrust of telekinesis, though it was unlikely to do more than slow them down. He was beginning to think about pulling out the big guns - metaphorically speaking - but what a mess that would be.

Then he heard the investigator's shout and, as soon as he was able, directed his attention at the terminal. Oh, oh. Good eye.

Dashing out from behind cover - currently the remains of a piano - he could only praise his luck that'd brought a spare... and, as a plasma orb was swallowed up upon coming into contact with his defensive barrier, that he'd worn his Shield Talisman.

With a flick of his wrist, and a bit of telekinetic tugging, the autoslicer landed squarely on the terminal.

After a long moment - and quite a bit of evasive footwork, for the Talisman could only take so much - there was a soft beep and then the droids suddenly froze, before beginning to return to their alcoves. Remote override, because even the toughest of gangsters were unnerved by the presence of murderbots in their own homes. Speaking of... "Shit, is there even anything left alive in here?"

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

What remained of the wall Roman took cover behind looked nothing more than a gourmet spaceswiss cheese. Thankfully, it had not been a load-bearing wall. Not that that would've helped the proprietor's mood when they see the damage bill after but then again - why store a droid army in your locker? Their entry had not been extremely complicated, the droids were dealt with sort of quickly - so did this penthouse actually carry any bearing to the owner, or was it just a place for the proprietor to take a few ladies, do some spice and record it for a quick buck on the porn market?

"Just us, seems like it." Roman replied sharpening his ears. "But I am not sure how long before the cavalry shows up. We've got to look for some leads on Pray. If any." He holstered his revolver and shuffled to a computer terminal, close to the piano, surprisingly intact from all the fire. "Let's see if we can find anything." the investigator slid a chip inside one of the ports and typed in a few commands cracking through the computer's defences. He was no specialist in slicing, his former wife had been much more adept than he was in this, so he relied a lot on the tools he used. Another few taps on the holokeyboard and the instrument began a quest for anything relating to Pray.

"There you go." A correspondence between Rygan, the recipient and potentially the owner of this penthouse, and an unknown sender. "Inventory. Sunset. Seampunk." Not the most encrypted message in the galaxy, that was for sure. Clearly a meeting between two parties engaged in some transaction. Most likely the receiving of smuggled goods. Seampunk where it got complicated for most. A pre-Gulag name of one of the abandoned docks in the capital city. Further screening of the computer discovered correspondence implying dirt on Count Vernon St-Callais, something Roman's opportunistic ass snatched real quickly, and also something about rebel cells working to disrupt Vernon's black operations. Whatever they were. Smelled like fish market. Whether the Sith was able to acquire this information merely through reading behind Roman or through his own methods remained an unknown to the investigator and something he wasn't extremely bothered with.

"This boss man of the Bogusei - he's meeting someone at an abandoned dock west of here by sunset. Pray mi-" he was interrupted by the quick steps heading their way. Security finally showing up. Roman ejected the slicer and hurried towards the vehicle, surprisingly still intact (whoa, story convenience).

"Don't know what's worth it at this point but if you wanna torch this place down, now's a great time to do it. If not, well..." He ignited the orgasm bringing engine of the Samerati and called out at the Sith. "Get in loser, we're invading the Bogusei."

He wouldn't admit it but the firepower the Sith brought with his space magic - shit was about to go down for the gangster.

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

As it turned out, the Sith did have a way of acquiring at least part of said information - being slightly taller than the investigator, he simply peeked over his shoulder. What he did see was interesting - something about black operations? Hopefully not his own, that would be awkward.

Grabbing his autoslicer - the Saaraishash's supply officers got ever so cranky when you left them behind, expensive hardware and all - he pondered the question. To torch, or not to torch? Bah, he could always come back. "No point wasting energy when we don't know what's waiting for us."

While the airspeeder "smoothly" extricated itself from the mess that was the penthouse, Adrian took a potshot at what could only be Bogusei... thugs? Operatives? Meatshields? Hard to tell, but they died just fine, that's for sure, a bolt of entropy shearing off an arm and vaporizing the next man in line's head. One or two fewer criminals on the street, depending on whether they had a medic. Neat.

---

So this was "Seampunk"? Not very impressive, but then it was very, very old. A natural hiding place for illicit activities, however, for the sheer scale of the installation and the (he could only assume) somewhat dubious nature of Termnius' local government made keeping control somewhat difficult.

"I don't suppose the terminal mentioned which part this meeting was to take place in?"

Pausing briefly, he pursed his lips. "... and did you ever check this airspeeder for a tracking device? The owner will probably have reported it stolen by now, I dare say the local law enforcement getting involved is the last thing we need."

The Fool​

 

[The Fool]

​

"Shit." Roman muttered when he picked up the tracker from beneath the speeder's hull. He'd been to negligent. The Sith was right, although his timing wasn't great either. The investigator showed the transmitter to the Sith. "Guess we'll have to be quick about this." While Terminus law enforcement tended to be trash and highly corrupt per usual, this wasn't the case when it came to a rich prick's issue. Hell, they might end up deploying a whole SWAT unit on this crap. Big lovers of PR that Terminus PD.

He sighed shaking his head but accepted the situation as it is. "Yeah, dock 84." Roman replied. "Should be the dock after this one."

Spoiler: CUTSCENE

The atypical duo of Sith Sorcerer and commando veteran found themselves on a strategic vantage point overlooking the landing platform of dock 84 of the abandoned Seampunk Docks. If Roman was asked to describe the place with one word, he would've simply stated 'decadence'. While abandoned as docks from a long, long time, Seampunk had become the habitat for the worst of junkies, those whizzed out on experimental synth spice - Kamikaze X, New TNT, Rebel2, you name it. Stuff spice 'artists' experimented and shoved once on the market as a test. Turns out there was a market for all that crap. Addiction, apparently, was limitless.

The vantage point they acquired through force. A couple of junkies that had to be knocked out more than their spice could. Just in case, you know. Ain't nothing as shutting your lights down by the end of a gun's butt or some space voodoo. Whatever the means they used, the duo now laid in wait for the meeting that was just about to take place.

A small, rather luxurious barge arrived first and landed neatly on one of side of the platform, clearly expecting another vessel to arrive. From the black painted barge, a dozen men in similar clothes to the Bogusei thugs that had ambushed them earlier and one specific figure standing out due to his different attire. Long rain coat over his shoulders, white shirt sleeves pulled back to the elbow revealing heavily tattooed skin. Bossmang. Had to be. Unlike the rest of the Bogusei escort, which wielded various different firearms, Bossmang had nothing. Or at least nothing visible.

The Bogusei did not have to wait any longer as a trashy freighter landed. The most inconspicuous freighter Roman had ever seen but with the most conspicuous passengers to come out - Selectivist Revolutarionaries. Along with them the runaway - Pray St-Callais, clearly on friendly terms with both groups. Bossmang and Selectivist head honcho shook hands and a few droid-led repulsor crates of goods came out of the luxurious barge. Roman didn't have to guess to know the contents.

"This just keeps getting better." Roman said tonelessly. The Selectivist Revolution had been a hostile organization to the Nebula Front. Roman personally had carried out missions against it, a few times, as part of Nebula Front's secretive commando wing - Force 13. And, ironically, on a few times Force 13 had partnered with the Selectivists on joint-task forces carrying out operations against Sith-Imperial targets. Mostly soft targets. The investigator wasn't sure how to feel about all of this mess. Much bigger than he had expected when the contract was offered to him. Love affair with a mobster was all he believed this was be.

It was far more...exaggerating.

AMCO

 

[AMCO]

So the police were likely already on their way? Could prove inconvenient... but could also be turned to their advantage. Depends on what they were about to find, really, but he was confident he could handle some thugs on his own.

"I take it we might need to make a rapid getaway? I'll line something up." Typing a quick commando into his wristband, he smiled softly. He had come here in his yacht - who knew, the prosts might be there now - but he had also brought alternate transportation.

---

"Sellectivists."

The sheer hatred with which the word was spoken might have seemed out of place, given the young Knight's tendency towards ambivalent tolerance of most other philosophical groups, including the Jedi, but it was hardly surprising, given his circumstances and personal ideology - it was not without good reason he had come to this chitheap, after all.

"W... I knew they were up to something, the fethers. Humanocentric scum - they came this close to blowing up my brother, once. At least the Jedi try to keep civilians out of it. Most of them, anyway."

Carefully making his way closer, he turned towards the Investigator, a previously unseen coldness in his eyes. "What do you think, take out whichever ship she's not on when they prepare to leave? Assuming you still plan on gettings your hands on the Count's money."

The Fool​