There was little to mark the building out as anything special: four storeys, with a facade of imported stone from Naboo, a thin web of creeping vines latticed up the eastward wall to the roof. It stood three doors down ‘Imperial Avenue’, just off the main street in the well-travelled ‘Old Town’ of Canto Bight, and was one of the most expensive and up-market addresses in the City. On one side was a spoke speeder design agency, and on the other a trophy room where the elite could transfigure hunted beasts into ornaments of considerable worth - yet the customers who came here would be in need of neither service. A half-step with a simple chromium carpet-rail led to a modern-looking door cast of the same metal, and there was a window which contained a clinical logo picked out in holoform, a vase containing a small Wroshyrr tree and nothing else. The name of the place was picked out in clipped chromium lettering:
About thirty minutes ago, a Guild d'Lanseaux class luxury speeder had drawn up outside the entrance. The speeders' make had been specifically chosen so as to blend in to the surroundings, one of many hundreds of such speeders which made their way, gliding about the streets of this most auspicious of cities. It was a luxury model, but here on Cantonica such a thing was commonplace. The arrival had been timed almost to the second, in the past fifteen minutes alone, multiple other vehicles had pulled up, and their charges and stepped out, either singly or in pairs, crossed the pavement and entered into the severe looking building.
If anyone had been watching the arrivals, it would have been natural for them to assume that one of the many Cantonican families was arriving to make the final preparations before one of their own elderly members was interred in carbonate, in a last-ditch attempt to stave off the encroaching spectre of death. The last person to arrive had been a short man, powerfully built with the stance of a man who knew his own worth. He had broad shoulders and a bald, cleanly shaven head, a large scar etching a cruel judgement across his cranium. His face had a tragic aspect, an angular nose with two beady but somehow sad-looking blue eyes, appearing squashed beneath the angular features of his brow.
His clothing however was immaculate, and spoke of a man who had dressed for the occasion, and carried a distinctive style he had clearly taken many years to perfect. He was wearing a grey suit, with a long line of gold buttons culminating in a high collar that made his head look even more brutalistic. There was a single Chromium ring on the little finger of his right hand. The man had been on his communicator as he stepped out of the speeder, but he stowed the device away in his pocket, deactivating it as he did so. Without looking left or right, he swept across the road and to the pavement, heading into the building. A found himself in a white room, where a young woman with her hair pulled back into a well-managed pony tail looked up at him with the sympathetic look of someone who had been in this business for years.
“Good evening,” she began. “How can I be of service?” “I’ve come to meet the Cyroneer,” the man replied. “Someone close?” “My Uncle, however I have not seen him for many years.” “You have my condolences, Sir.” The same conversation had already taken place in the exact same style several times this morning. Had anything been out of place in the utterances, the bald man would simply have left.
He knew, at least, that the building was secure.
Their meeting had been arranged at short notice, just twelve hours before it had been called. The young woman turned in her chair, swivelling slightly to face a small screen, onto which she placed a hand. A section of the wall gently clicked, and opened to reveal a small elevator, into which he now stepped. Hyperax was a real business, indeed it had been set up by Sebastian Hipori and Reed Raxus, here on this very spot just ten years prior. They had been in the business for a decade, and now the two founders where themselves frozen in the pods of their own design, in the buildings cold-storage basement, alongside hundreds of well-heeled customers.
After that the business had been taken into new ownership, by a small investment firm registered on Muunilist, and it continued to provide ‘world class’ service for the great and the ‘good’ of the galaxy. Yet these days it had another purpose, it had become the Corporate Sector HQ for an organisation that was just beginning to find its feet on the galactic stage, owned and operated by the same man who stood in the buildings elevator,, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet as he impatiently waited for the elevator to reach its destination. Intelligence gathering, bribery, corruption, murder; that was the real business to which this unsuspecting looking venue now catered. For many years there had been meetings just like this one, bringing together a motley collection of galactic villains to plot their next move, their next scheme.
Many years ago, at their first meeting there had been only ten of them. A smuggler, two assassins and a collection of other unsavoury characters. Since then one had died in an industrial accident, another had suffered a heart collapse during a Cathar Love Knot, and two more had been shot by business rivals. Their second oldest member, the very first person their founder had taken into his confidence, had made the foolish decision to retire.
He had been murdered the next day.
In the past few years the organisation had been silent, watching as the galaxy seemed to do a lot of their work for them. Durr the Hutt had released a virus, in what they considered to be a stroke of enviable genius, yet he had shown the ignorance for which his gluttonous species was renowned, and had failed to develop an antidote before the virus spread. However, this organisation had not been idle. A few backroom deals, and a great deal of staying under the radar had meant they could consider themselves in a position now, to profit from the galaxy's turmoil.
That was why they had come to this address in the Corporate Sector to discuss a new assignment, one that would net them many millions of credits, and with such an amount at their disposal, the real work could begin.
With a ping that made him wince, the elevator announced it had reached the correct floor. A short corridor led to a room blocked off by another door, a hidden camera watching the man as he approached it. A second followed him as he stepped onto a metal platform in front of the door and looked into a small device affixed to the door itself. Behind it was a biometric scanner which flashed over his eye matching it to the data they had on file, and confirming who he was.
Had it failed to confirm him, the metal plate would have activated a blaster door, and the small compartment therein created, would have been flooded with carbonate gas. He would have been rendered a frozen statue in seconds had he been anyone other than who he was - Maximilian Prath-Praji, the group's founder, who had led them since the very beginning.
Sliding open, the door revealed a moody looking narrow room, without any windows, and no decor of any kind. There was a thin black table, surrounded by chairs, without any devices, or any means of taking notes or records in the room. He did not permit people to record what went on here. Around the table a small number of cruel looking individuals sat, waiting for him to take his seat at the head of the table.
His head was hidden by the darkness of the room as he took his seat, before suppressing a small button on the side of his chair which activated floor lights, enabling him to see the others - but keeping himself obscured. “Good evening,” Max began. He spoke with an accent that seemed to blend the accent of the deep core with a dry Corellian drawl. Nobody returned the greeting - these people were not friends, they were business partners. “We all know the stakes of this game, we have all seen what can happen to those who fail. I hardly need to remind you that the underworld is in a state of flux, the corporate world likewise, and the political world” he paused and smiled, not that anyone would have been able to see “- continues as usual.”
Max looked around the table, and stared at every person there. “We have been given a most challenging task, by a client with a great interest in seeing a significant change to the galactic state of play. Not only is this an opportunity to refill our coffers, it also serves as a considerable boost to our reputation. Our task is this. We are to assassinate the triumvir on Manaan, who control the three largest producers of Kolto in the region. In two weeks from now, they will all be together in one place, which opens the door to our mission. It has been left to us to decide the method.” His eyes flickered around the gathered people, as he waited for a response.
Hyperax
CARBONITE REPOSE
Death is just the beginning
CARBONITE REPOSE
Death is just the beginning
About thirty minutes ago, a Guild d'Lanseaux class luxury speeder had drawn up outside the entrance. The speeders' make had been specifically chosen so as to blend in to the surroundings, one of many hundreds of such speeders which made their way, gliding about the streets of this most auspicious of cities. It was a luxury model, but here on Cantonica such a thing was commonplace. The arrival had been timed almost to the second, in the past fifteen minutes alone, multiple other vehicles had pulled up, and their charges and stepped out, either singly or in pairs, crossed the pavement and entered into the severe looking building.
If anyone had been watching the arrivals, it would have been natural for them to assume that one of the many Cantonican families was arriving to make the final preparations before one of their own elderly members was interred in carbonate, in a last-ditch attempt to stave off the encroaching spectre of death. The last person to arrive had been a short man, powerfully built with the stance of a man who knew his own worth. He had broad shoulders and a bald, cleanly shaven head, a large scar etching a cruel judgement across his cranium. His face had a tragic aspect, an angular nose with two beady but somehow sad-looking blue eyes, appearing squashed beneath the angular features of his brow.
His clothing however was immaculate, and spoke of a man who had dressed for the occasion, and carried a distinctive style he had clearly taken many years to perfect. He was wearing a grey suit, with a long line of gold buttons culminating in a high collar that made his head look even more brutalistic. There was a single Chromium ring on the little finger of his right hand. The man had been on his communicator as he stepped out of the speeder, but he stowed the device away in his pocket, deactivating it as he did so. Without looking left or right, he swept across the road and to the pavement, heading into the building. A found himself in a white room, where a young woman with her hair pulled back into a well-managed pony tail looked up at him with the sympathetic look of someone who had been in this business for years.
“Good evening,” she began. “How can I be of service?” “I’ve come to meet the Cyroneer,” the man replied. “Someone close?” “My Uncle, however I have not seen him for many years.” “You have my condolences, Sir.” The same conversation had already taken place in the exact same style several times this morning. Had anything been out of place in the utterances, the bald man would simply have left.
He knew, at least, that the building was secure.
Their meeting had been arranged at short notice, just twelve hours before it had been called. The young woman turned in her chair, swivelling slightly to face a small screen, onto which she placed a hand. A section of the wall gently clicked, and opened to reveal a small elevator, into which he now stepped. Hyperax was a real business, indeed it had been set up by Sebastian Hipori and Reed Raxus, here on this very spot just ten years prior. They had been in the business for a decade, and now the two founders where themselves frozen in the pods of their own design, in the buildings cold-storage basement, alongside hundreds of well-heeled customers.
After that the business had been taken into new ownership, by a small investment firm registered on Muunilist, and it continued to provide ‘world class’ service for the great and the ‘good’ of the galaxy. Yet these days it had another purpose, it had become the Corporate Sector HQ for an organisation that was just beginning to find its feet on the galactic stage, owned and operated by the same man who stood in the buildings elevator,, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet as he impatiently waited for the elevator to reach its destination. Intelligence gathering, bribery, corruption, murder; that was the real business to which this unsuspecting looking venue now catered. For many years there had been meetings just like this one, bringing together a motley collection of galactic villains to plot their next move, their next scheme.
Many years ago, at their first meeting there had been only ten of them. A smuggler, two assassins and a collection of other unsavoury characters. Since then one had died in an industrial accident, another had suffered a heart collapse during a Cathar Love Knot, and two more had been shot by business rivals. Their second oldest member, the very first person their founder had taken into his confidence, had made the foolish decision to retire.
He had been murdered the next day.
In the past few years the organisation had been silent, watching as the galaxy seemed to do a lot of their work for them. Durr the Hutt had released a virus, in what they considered to be a stroke of enviable genius, yet he had shown the ignorance for which his gluttonous species was renowned, and had failed to develop an antidote before the virus spread. However, this organisation had not been idle. A few backroom deals, and a great deal of staying under the radar had meant they could consider themselves in a position now, to profit from the galaxy's turmoil.
That was why they had come to this address in the Corporate Sector to discuss a new assignment, one that would net them many millions of credits, and with such an amount at their disposal, the real work could begin.
With a ping that made him wince, the elevator announced it had reached the correct floor. A short corridor led to a room blocked off by another door, a hidden camera watching the man as he approached it. A second followed him as he stepped onto a metal platform in front of the door and looked into a small device affixed to the door itself. Behind it was a biometric scanner which flashed over his eye matching it to the data they had on file, and confirming who he was.
Had it failed to confirm him, the metal plate would have activated a blaster door, and the small compartment therein created, would have been flooded with carbonate gas. He would have been rendered a frozen statue in seconds had he been anyone other than who he was - Maximilian Prath-Praji, the group's founder, who had led them since the very beginning.
Sliding open, the door revealed a moody looking narrow room, without any windows, and no decor of any kind. There was a thin black table, surrounded by chairs, without any devices, or any means of taking notes or records in the room. He did not permit people to record what went on here. Around the table a small number of cruel looking individuals sat, waiting for him to take his seat at the head of the table.
His head was hidden by the darkness of the room as he took his seat, before suppressing a small button on the side of his chair which activated floor lights, enabling him to see the others - but keeping himself obscured. “Good evening,” Max began. He spoke with an accent that seemed to blend the accent of the deep core with a dry Corellian drawl. Nobody returned the greeting - these people were not friends, they were business partners. “We all know the stakes of this game, we have all seen what can happen to those who fail. I hardly need to remind you that the underworld is in a state of flux, the corporate world likewise, and the political world” he paused and smiled, not that anyone would have been able to see “- continues as usual.”
Max looked around the table, and stared at every person there. “We have been given a most challenging task, by a client with a great interest in seeing a significant change to the galactic state of play. Not only is this an opportunity to refill our coffers, it also serves as a considerable boost to our reputation. Our task is this. We are to assassinate the triumvir on Manaan, who control the three largest producers of Kolto in the region. In two weeks from now, they will all be together in one place, which opens the door to our mission. It has been left to us to decide the method.” His eyes flickered around the gathered people, as he waited for a response.
