When the Crymorah Syndicate wanted something, truly wanted something, they were extremely fast to move. Darius had been on Onderon because of the Senate proceedings because of the almost immeasurable amount of government data being sent about over the holonet. When the Senators chose a planet to hold a session on, literal thousands of aides and government officials flocked to the planet to support the proceedings. Hotels were packed, bars and cafes flooded with aides, ties loosened and shirtsleeves rolled up, to get an extra half-hour of work in while they choked down mediocre coffee and a wookiee claw. All of this data and information being sent over public holonet connections.
He'd been there to quietly snoop and see what information he could unobtrusively collect. Nor was he the only one. Where government workers went, spies followed. It was easy for Darius to remain unnoticed; it was hard to detect a pattern of the same person lingering around a certain group when he could take any face he wanted. All of that changed in minutes. There he was, taking an hour to decrypt and piece together data packets he'd "sniffed" over a public holonet connection, when his Pear Phone started having a notification seizure. Before he knew it, the Crymorah had acquired him passage on a luxury liner to Ord Mantell (how, Darius didn't know and didn't want to know), provided him with information, news reports, and access to a certain amount of credits. His orders were clear. The Syndicate was explicit in what benefit they wanted him to obtain.
So here Darius sat lounging in a plush chair, swirling a crystal glass of scotch, while a lit cigar slowly smoldered in an ash tray next to him. He was dressed casually, if one could consider an outfit that cost hundreds of credits casual. His hoodie, which he wore with the hood up over his head, was of a gossamer black with gold stitching. It lay draped open, revealing a white shirt with the faintest herringbone pattern woven into the fabric. His pants, though casual, were clearly expensive and fit him perfectly. Even his boots, modeled after a working style, had rich color and a flawless polish. They had all been provided to him for the purposes of this conversation.
Getting into the private suite had been simple. No lock was unbreakable, and in factory produced luxury liners, even those like these, they didn't use the end-all military grade locks. After all, if there was a fire or accident, emergency personnel needed quick access. All it took was an organized distraction, a political argument turning dangerously close to a fist fight, to draw away anyone watching over the hallway, and he'd been able to slip in.
His phone buzzed once more, and he tilted his head to look at the message. "Drinks are over," it read. That meant the person he was supposed to have a conversation with was heading back to the room. Darius took a sip of the scotch to sooth over that one nerve that had been bothering him. He didn't have the luxury of a lengthy amount of time to absorb all the information and come up with a pitch or strategy. In the end, he'd decided to simply play to his strengths and not rely on any one thing. Keep it fluid, that's the best strategy he could have. As the amber, slightly peaty fluid trickled down his throat, Darius leaned back in his chair and turned on the lamp, bending the flexible stem and turning the lamp head slightly up and away from him, so that anyone attempting to get a clear look at his face would have great difficulty looking past the glare. And if they tried turning up the dim room lights to compensate, well, he'd taken care of that, too. Slicing and taking over control of the room lighting had been an almost effortless task.
A faint, rapid beep beep sounded from the door as it accepted a keycard. Darius slowly lifted the crystal to cover the lower half of his face, the finger's worth of alcohol left inside lazily sloshed back and forth.
Showtime.
@Charles
He'd been there to quietly snoop and see what information he could unobtrusively collect. Nor was he the only one. Where government workers went, spies followed. It was easy for Darius to remain unnoticed; it was hard to detect a pattern of the same person lingering around a certain group when he could take any face he wanted. All of that changed in minutes. There he was, taking an hour to decrypt and piece together data packets he'd "sniffed" over a public holonet connection, when his Pear Phone started having a notification seizure. Before he knew it, the Crymorah had acquired him passage on a luxury liner to Ord Mantell (how, Darius didn't know and didn't want to know), provided him with information, news reports, and access to a certain amount of credits. His orders were clear. The Syndicate was explicit in what benefit they wanted him to obtain.
__________________________________________________
So here Darius sat lounging in a plush chair, swirling a crystal glass of scotch, while a lit cigar slowly smoldered in an ash tray next to him. He was dressed casually, if one could consider an outfit that cost hundreds of credits casual. His hoodie, which he wore with the hood up over his head, was of a gossamer black with gold stitching. It lay draped open, revealing a white shirt with the faintest herringbone pattern woven into the fabric. His pants, though casual, were clearly expensive and fit him perfectly. Even his boots, modeled after a working style, had rich color and a flawless polish. They had all been provided to him for the purposes of this conversation.
Getting into the private suite had been simple. No lock was unbreakable, and in factory produced luxury liners, even those like these, they didn't use the end-all military grade locks. After all, if there was a fire or accident, emergency personnel needed quick access. All it took was an organized distraction, a political argument turning dangerously close to a fist fight, to draw away anyone watching over the hallway, and he'd been able to slip in.
His phone buzzed once more, and he tilted his head to look at the message. "Drinks are over," it read. That meant the person he was supposed to have a conversation with was heading back to the room. Darius took a sip of the scotch to sooth over that one nerve that had been bothering him. He didn't have the luxury of a lengthy amount of time to absorb all the information and come up with a pitch or strategy. In the end, he'd decided to simply play to his strengths and not rely on any one thing. Keep it fluid, that's the best strategy he could have. As the amber, slightly peaty fluid trickled down his throat, Darius leaned back in his chair and turned on the lamp, bending the flexible stem and turning the lamp head slightly up and away from him, so that anyone attempting to get a clear look at his face would have great difficulty looking past the glare. And if they tried turning up the dim room lights to compensate, well, he'd taken care of that, too. Slicing and taking over control of the room lighting had been an almost effortless task.
A faint, rapid beep beep sounded from the door as it accepted a keycard. Darius slowly lifted the crystal to cover the lower half of his face, the finger's worth of alcohol left inside lazily sloshed back and forth.
Showtime.
@Charles