Sin and Misery

[Fyl Terrano]

Nar Kaaga, Palace of Vunto the Hutt​

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Every sentient reacted to disaster differently. Some charged after it, trying to be heroes. Some tried to exploit it for their own gain. And some stayed the feth away.

The Contingency. It was a name increasingly known across the galaxy, associated with blood and fear and the whirring of servomotors. The rulers of the galaxy's great powers had seen firsthand what kind of destruction this new threat was capable of, as had far too many of their citizens, often with fatal results. Vast fleets and armies had been assembled to confront the mechanical menace head-on, while terrified refugees fled in all directions, desperate to find a place safe from this newest indiscriminate threat to the galaxy. Those who could afford it had sealed themselves away, shutting out a troubled universe and doing their best to forget its dangers.

This was the strategy enthusiastically adopted by Vunto the Hutt, the Shell Hutt who ran much of Nar Kaaga. His world was a minor one, of little strategic or economic importance, and he had little stake in this conflict. When the Galactic Alliance and First Order went to war, it was easy to deal weapons to both sides. But when the whole galaxy was facing down a faceless, unyielding army of machines, well, that was harder to profit from. So Vunto had closed the gates, marshalled his security forces, and promptly gotten terribly, terribly bored. No amount of slave dancers or exotic foods could lift his malaise. He needed more thrilling and uncertain entertainment.

That was when the idea had hit him: a Sabacc tournament. He called it, with typical tastelessness and lack of empathy, the Burning Galaxy Games, promising vast prizes of varied natures to those who emerged victorious. He was prepared to give away his finest wines, his favorite slaves, and a substantial portion of his personal fortune in order to relieve these doldrums of entertainment - after all, he could always make more money as soon as the crisis passed. And so word had gone out that riches and safety could be found in Vunto's palace, and a week of hedonism and utter debauchery had begun. So long as it amused the Hutt, anything could be permitted.

The tournament itself was scheduled to begin at the end of that week, and the day had finally arrived. In the vast central hall, players began to take their seats...

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Fyl would have been more sickened by it all if he hadn't been so relieved to be somewhere secure.

It wasn't the first time in his life that the galaxy had gone mad, but it was the first time he'd borne personal witness to it. Back in the little town on Barkhesh where he'd grown up, all of the vast events that had shaken interstellar powers to their foundations had been distant, hardly of direct concern. Now he'd passed really karking close to some of the systems that had become the front line struck by the Contingency in their vast incursion into known space, seen the faces of the refugees as they recounted their stories, watched the buildup of the various governments trying to deploy the forces that would - hopefully - drive the machines back into Companion Aurek.

He'd been lucky to make it into Vunto's palace before the doors had sealed; he'd been on his way down the Gamor Run, looking to make a quick credit in Hutt Space, when the ship he'd been on had stopped by chance on Nar Kaaga. He'd seized the opportunity as soon as he'd heard about it, and soon he'd been surrounded by debauchery like he'd never seen. The treatment of the slaves sickened him most. The First Order labor camps had been bad enough to give him nightmares forever, but no one there had run their hands over him or degraded him for a laugh. He'd spent most of the week drunk, avoiding thinking about it - the booze was flowing free, after all.

Fyl had the good fortune to be a pretty good sabacc player. His fellow rebel Declan Eris had taught him the game during their extremely brief "training" before joining Ranger Squad Esh, and the two of them had played back and forth for most of the war, sharpening their skills on unsuspecting comrades before diving back in to try to get the advantage over one another. Once, in a fit of boredom while dug in at the Pennechota Trail, they'd gotten drunk and spent an entire day playing sabacc, hand after hand. They'd never finished that game. A sniper had taken Declan's head off when he went to take a piss, signaling the start of the full retreat that would end the Insurrection.

Thanks, Declan, Fyl mouthed, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face even as pain flashed in his eyes. No buy-in was required for this game - Vunto the Hutt had furnished all of the players with a 5,000 credit stake so that all of them would have the chance to play. It wasn't generosity so much as the bored Hutt's desire to drag out the excitement as long as possible, but the ex-rebel was willing to take it. If he could win big here, leave with at least something, things might be looking up for him. He could start over somewhere, halfway across the galaxy from his problems, and it wouldn't even have taken an honest day's work. If nothing else, it was worth a shot.

He took his seat at one of the huge tables lining the cavernous hall. The Burning Galaxy Games were about to begin.

[member="Kole Harper"] | [member="Vigil"] | [member="Formorta"]​

 

[Rakaan Horne]

The Galaxy went mad and Kole had nothing to do it with. Risk your life for it? No thanks, there are enough people that are doing that already. He'd rather run away from such a problem, of course he could be of some use but that wasn't what he wanted. Instead he'd rather travel to Vunto's Palace and play the games, earn some money, retire for a few months and then get back to working when it all runs out. It always does, money isn't something Kole was good at monitoring well enough. So back to smuggling goods, ripping off big-wigs and even stealing from Hutts would soon be back on the menu.

​As he made his approach to the Palace he was stopped at the doorway, told to leave or be killed. Vunto still hasn't gotten' over that? ​"Hey, look, how am I supposed to talk to Vunto if you don't let me in?" The doorman grunted, stepping aside and allowing Harper inside. He stepped through with a smirk and stopped with his hands on his hips. This was palace sure was something, even he had to stop to take it all in. One thing caught his eye, a particular cowboy sitting at table. Time to make him bankrupt. He thought, moving towards it.

He walked on over towards the table, slinking into one of the seats and glancing at Fyl, if they managed to lock eyes or eye in Terrano's case then the Smuggler would give a nod before grabbing at his cards and giving them a sly glance for the time being. Then to the rest of the contenders at the game of luck. Something Kole had plenty of.

[member="Fyl Terrano"]

 

[Vigil]

Vigil really wasn't quite... welcome in many of these hutt palaces. Not that he was forbidden from entry mind you, but that more than a few people were unnaturally put off to the AI's lack of social graces, and distinctly aware that he was always gathering knowledge from them. See, the droid was an Information broker, a damn good one at that, beloved when needed and despised when someone else paid for your secrets. Such business practices held little in the way of customer loyalty, unless the AI liked you well enough (and so very few were on that list). Still, Mr. Orwell, as he was known, was quite the guest, Never drank, never indulged himself, it was like he wasn't even a person. Calmly walking around, collecting sizable earnings from sabacc with those he was certain he could best, all to fund his growing enterprise as he waited for the organics outside to win their war.

See, the droid mind of his was able to calculate probability at rather impressive rates of accuracy, and though he wasn't certain, history showed organics tended to be rather good at preventing the entire galaxy from being destroyed. For better or worse, he would leave it in their hands. Credits would certainly flow his way one way or another, and he would be certain to attend to storing history away, whatever the outcome. He could not die a meaningful death for them, so instead he would commit to his natural programming.

And indulge himself in besting organics at their own gambling. Naturally the man was in his normal holo disguise, a tall Kel-Dor male, the body Orwell was assumed to have. Or, at the very least, his representative. Whichever people believed worked fine enough, as long as his business partners never suspected the truth. And with such a realistic disguise, how could they?

He glanced around, having finally gotten his disguise perfect to represent the wear on time spent here thus far, and went to work finding suitable sources of interest. He eventually noticed a duo, [member="Kole Harper"] and [member="Fyl Terrano"], and moved toward their table. He sat down in a spectator's position, leaning back a bit as he observed. Mr. Orwell was known to take delight in learning from observing potential clients and sources, though the true nature of his observation was far less simple. No, he was searching the holonet for what information he could on the two, without tripping any servers. Without being connected directly to a computer there would be likely very little, if anything, he could find...

((OOC note: Given his connection to the holonet, Vigil is attempting to learn the names of both Fyl and Kole. Feel free to mention in your next posts if that much is successful.))

 

[Fyl Terrano]

Running Fyl's face through any facial recognition database would quickly turn up results. He was a criminal in First Order space, a terrorist who had fought against the new government of Barkhesh during the brief uprising known as the Southwest Insurrection - only he was supposed to be locked up on the prison moon of Valko. There had once been a reward on his head, some seventy thousand credits, but it had been claimed several weeks before. How he'd gotten here, on the far side of the galaxy, was left to the speculation of the holonet-capable observer; there was no record of his escape, and if he'd ever been at Valko, he'd certainly made good time to get here.

A male human of about Fyl's age took the seat across from him. The ex-rebel caught his eye and returned his nod. This guy was confident, cocky even, in the way he carried himself and the smirk he wore. Sometimes Sabacc rewarded that kind of attitude; sometimes it punished it brutally. Fate could be one cold schutta, and there was no telling whose side she would come down on at any given moment. As the players settled in and the spectators gathered around them, a commotion began at the far end of the hall. Upon a raised dias, Nikto drummers began to beat against massive gongs. Fireworks leapt toward the cavernous ceiling and erupted, spilling real peggats onto the floor.

As people dove into the shower of gold coins, sweeping them into pockets and sacks with cries of greedy delight (along with much pushing and shoving), an ornate hoversled adorned with aurodium filigree and studded with corusca gems swept onto the dias. Borne upon it was the resplendent bulk of Vunto the Hutt, his pudgy arms raised in a show of welcome - or dominance. A silver protocol droid stood beside him, its magnified voice booming through speakers set throughout the hall. "Mighty Vunto, the everlasting, the all-powerful, the eternally opulent, bids you welcome. By his command, let..." At that moment, there was a waver in the droid's voice, a slight off-key warble to the words.

All around the hall, droids - dealers, drink-servers, bodyguards - stood stock still for an instant, heads cocked as if listening to some far-off speaker. Then, almost before it could be noticed, it was over. "... let the Burning Galaxy Games begin!" The protocol droid finished smoothly, and several dozen more fireworks bathed the hall in green and red. Literal fountains of wine sprayed down from the support columns, and Twi'lek slaves, perhaps a hundred of them spaced throughout the vast gaming parlor, began to dance in perfect synchronicity, their skin tones arranged in a precise rainbow up and down the hall. The gaming fields at each table came online, and cards were doled out by many-armed droids.

Fyl stared at his opening hand: The Star and the Commander of Sabres. It was dismal - one positive card and one negative. But his face gave nothing away.

[member="Vigil"] | [member="Kole Harper"]​