Death and Taxes

[Aver Brand]

Kwenn station was quiet this time of day. Which was actually a time of night, for the pedantic.

Not that it mattered much. Hailing from all across the galaxy, you skipped so many timezones you usually made it full-circle back around. Was hyperspace lag a thing?

Not a question that plagued the Equalizer as she emerged from the shuttle.

Presently she only had one burning query, and it was to be addressed to her most pleasant associate, Maleagant. Known as [member="Darth Osano"] these days, apparently – which, totally inconsequentially, tied back into that question.

See how nice and circular the universe was?

The merc sat her ass down in whatever debauched equivalent of a meeting room the Cabal had built on the station. She didn’t order a drink.

How do we make more money, Mal?

Simple question. Complex answer.

Aver waited.

 

[Darth Osano]

It was a disgusting little cantina. The back room was more luxurious and meeting oriented, but violent [member="Aver Brand"] had a different locale in mind. Darth Osano, the requested party, never showed up. The High Inquisitor only departed the confines of Empire space for the most important missions... Such as when they pertained to bird women. Ostensibly. He was far too high profile to be seen slumming around in some watering hole on Kwenn Station. Instead of the shadowy visage of Darth Osano, an ugly little Ugnaught waddled up to the bar stool closest to Aver Brand.

He climbed up on the stool, seat spinning around unavoidably. It took the Ugnaught a couple seconds to get himself sat comfortably, having to grip the bar to steady himself. He could barely see over the side. The Ugnaught himself radiated something sinister. It smelled of something dark and vile. Strange considering its mechanic's uniform was impeccable. Not so much as a smudge. Maybe more peculiar was the fact that it did not sound like an Ugnaught and seemed happily capable of articulation.

"You are lucky I like you," said the Ugnaught that was definitely not Maleagant, Darth Osano, or anyone who could conceivably be tied to the two. "I don't like house calls. Oink."

It was difficult to say whether or not the oink was habitual or conscious. In either event, the Ugnaught tapped the bar. "Noonian fixer." This settled, he could consider Aver's query more carefully.

"I have plenty of money. Lots of money. Don't you?" His nose twitched and he stroked a mutton chop. "Do you want me to pay for your drink?"

 

[Aver Brand]

A woman of her stature was used to looking down.

Granted, never quite this far down, but let no-one ever say Aver Brand wasn’t adaptable.

She craned her neck. Smirked. Scoffed. Shook her head.

“Lucky’s one word for it.” The merc rotated on her barstool, propping one elbow against the counter.

“Reckon a man like you’d appreciate someone who ain’t drinking on the job for a change,” Aver said with a light smirk, but picked right back up, “don’t matter, though. Sure we have money. But half of what we do is about relieving others of their money, innit?”

Reaching over, Aver took the Noonian Fixer from the bartender and handed it to her vertically challenged associate.

“I hear [member="Darth Osano"]’s moving up in the world. Figure he’s high enough yet to start shoving stacks of credits off his tower?” A beat. “All for a good purpose, of course. Like…” red lips stretched to reveal teeth. Sharp. “...guns? Armor?”

“You know. The oil that greases the wheels of any warmachine.”

 

[Darth Osano]

Not-Maleagant giggled, punctuating the turgid sound with another oink. "Oh, you don't want my money." The bartender returned with the requested drink, which the Ugnaught made comical grabby-hands towards before finally taking. He had to stand himself up a little more to reach it, and even then he had to stretch rather extravagantly. If Darth Osano ever turned himself into an Ugnaught, he might as well have fun with it. Not that he ever would turn himself into such a stumpy, foolish little creature. Even in the name of being incognito.

"You want somebody else's money. Government money. Best kind; they're all so bad at keeping track." He took a deep swig of his drink and placed it back on the counter. He belched, but kept his mouth closed and put a hand to his mouth for good measure. Just because he was a pig didn't mean he had to be gross, he looked back to [member="Aver Brand"] , wiping a hairy lip with his sleeve. "That can be done. I guess. Don't really need anything right now, though."

Was there anything better than having a favor to sit on? Aside from Athena Heron. Not that the Ugnaught even knew who that was.

"How much do you need?"

 

[Aver Brand]

Crime lords were one of those folks where you’d offer an inch and they’d take a mile. Or you’d offer a finger, and they’d take the whole damn arm, then make you pay back-breaking interest to get it back, piece by piece.

In Aver’s case, you’d probably get it served on a steaming hot platter of al dente pasta. You know – bolognese sauce? Never say that crime and high cuisine don’t mix.

Need. Such a silly word.

She didn’t need any of it. If she weren’t a selfish, power-hungry murderer, Aver could’ve retired twenty years ago, built herself ten luxurious villas all over the galaxy, and never worked a day in her life again.

Need had kark all to do with it.

“How much can you get?”

[member="Darth Osano"]​

 

[Darth Osano]

The Ugnaught hummed to himself contemplatively. At one point he reached for his drink again but stopped halfway, instead stroking his chin. He could drink when he had an answer... He really needed an answer then, because that Fixer was good. Best one he had in a while. Everyone else kept watering it down. "Million and a half every two months," he decided. This was a conservative estimate. It really depended on two other factors: how many shakedowns he had performed as the Inquisition in that same time frame, how generous he was feeling at the given time.

"It could fluctuate. Embezzlement on this scale is not so much an exact science. But it's the thought that counts."

He could get away with that much. What was going to happen? The Inquisition was going to tip itself off to the fact that the Inquisition was laundering money? Yes, they would take such an accusation very seriously. And then, after a thorough internal investigation conducted by themselves, the Inquisition would clear itself of wrongdoing. And then whoever had made the tip would be found dead the next morning. Hung themselves. Suicide. It was always such a shame, no one ever recognized the signs of depression until it was too late!

Still, any more than that and Maleagant would turn heads that didn't sit on shoulders he had already bought and sold. Satisfied, the Ugnaught took another swig. "Oink," he said into the bottle, just as the liquid reached his lips.

[member="Aver Brand"]​

 

[Aver Brand]

“Mm. Nice number.”

Aver tipped her head to the side, eyeing the bubbling drink. The ugnaught was going through it with surprising speed.

Alarming, even.

“So what’d you want in exchange, short stack?”

[member="Darth Osano"]​

 

[Darth Osano]

Now mostly empty, the Ugnaught friend returned the glass to the counter once more, running a pudgy tongue over his lips. He would have to come here more often. Either that or just kidnap the bartender. Well, not kidnap. Hire, maybe. Or send a droid in to analyze that particular mixing methodology and replicate it perfectly. This Ugnaught had no particular love of droids, but they served some uses better than humans and most other organic creatures.

"I'll think about it," he finally said, smacking his lips. "You keep doing what you do right - oink - and maybe chit on those Collective people if they show up near you again."

Nobody welshed on a deal with Darth Osano and got away with it. Not that Darth Osano had ever interacted with them. But this Ugnaught definitely had. It was like he had directed them to do something specific in return for payment, but instead of doing that they faffed about like a bunch of dumb kids and slipshod amateurs. That made him angry. And nobody wanted to be facing down an angry Ugnaught - this one could punch their kneecaps, like, super hard.

The Ugnaught fished around in his apron for a credit chip. Tapping out already, it seemed.

[member="Aver Brand"]​

 

[Aver Brand]

The merc gave a lazy, one-shouldered shrug. “Alright.”

With a slow swivel of the head, Aver reached out to lightly pat her ugnaught friend on the back. “I got it.” Not like they weren’t both filthy rich. Something something blood money torn from the grubby hands of orphans and the dead.

Well, the latter was nicer, you’d suppose. ‘Least a corpse didn’t need it anymore. Not that those orphans didn’t quickly become the dead after they picked them clean… but that was neither here nor there. The merc didn’t concern herself with such matters, and she doubted it weighed on the conscience of one [member="Darth Osano"] either.

Or maybe it did, and that’s why he was so short today.

Grinning, Aver slipped from her bar stool and parted the way for them both through the crowd.

Efficient, this lot.