The Road Outside My House Is Paved With Good Intentions (Solo thread)

[Popo]

Popo sat idly fiddling with papers and files on his desk. He sat in his office back on the Wheel, a place he'd not truly returned to until recently. It was comforting, in a way. A return to roots, of a sort. Sure, he still had positions in the Republic, but with things going as they were, he could work from home, so to speak.

The Republic's war with the Sith was stalemated and had been before he'd left office, though perhaps 'stalemate' was slightly generous. The Sith had taken Alderaan quickly and with little resistance. Efforts to stop them were met with failure and the attempt to retake the planet ended more or less similarly. The only place the Republic seemed to stand a chance was in space, fighting ship to ship. Unfortunately, the Republic seemed to prefer to fight on the ground and, while the Navy was gaining numbers and officers, they were more or less untested and untried. Too green to do much more than die before Sith cannons in the darkness of space.

It was depressing and overwhelming to any exposed to the futility of the fight, especially to Popo. To him, it felt as if he'd failed the Republic and himself. He'd not stopped the Sith, he'd not stopped them taking worlds whenever they desired. While he wasn't viewed as a laughing stock, the current Senate obviously deemed him inconsequential. While being viewed as such normally worked in his favor, after so much effort, it left Popo wondering what he did wrong.

Did he not work hard enough? Did he not pay close enough attention to detail? Did he not work to keep the Senate happy? The people?

Was he fighting the wrong war?

 

[Popo]

That last question stuck in his mind. Was he fighting the wrong war? What did that mean? What kind of answer went with such a question? It bothered the Hutt to no end.

Popo tried to flip through reports and files, attempting to distract himself as best he could. Tenloss was doing well currently. His expansions were going to plan and he'd established not one, but two trading posts on Crystalsong. He was well in the black and his profits grew by the day. So few negative reports or problem notices came across his desk nowadays, he could almost sit back and let the company run itself. Things were running smoothly and easily.

Why, then, was he so upset?

He grabbed another page to pull his mind from the thought and started reading. It read out as a basic status report from Crystalsong listing the number of supplies sold and how many were needed as well as basic status reports. What irked Popo to no end wasn't the usage of supplies, but that his mind kept placing the same question every few lines of the flimsi sheet.

Forty Three (43) bags of grain sold, ten (10) kilograms each, to the Coruscanti Colony.
Thirty Eight (38) bags of grain sold, ten (10) kilograms each, to the Rylothian Colony.
One Hundred Four (104) bags of grain used, ten (10) kilograms each, by the Coruscanti Trading Post.
Am I fighting the wrong war?
Twelve (12) PTS-N Submachine Guns damaged by use, Coruscanti Trading Post.
Four (4) Type 8 Submachine Guns damaged by use, Coruscanti Trading Post.
Am I fighting the wrong war?
Fourteen (14) Ambassador Revolvers damaged by use, Coruscanti Trading Post.
Am I fighting the wrong war?
Am I fighting the wrong war?
Two (2) suits ofam I fightingEnforcer Armor Damagthe wrong war?ed by use, Coruscanti Trading post
One (am I fighting the wrong war?
Am I fighting the wrong war?
Am I fighting the wrong war?

 

[Popo]

"Am I fighting the wrong war?" Popo echoed aloud, closing his eyes in vain attempt to hide the words from his sight. "What does that mean? What does it mean 'wrong war'? How does that even make sense?"

It frustrated him to no end. Wrong war? Wrong war? What was the wrong war? What was the right war? What did it mean?

"What does it mean?" Popo asked, his voice weary and weak. "What does it mean?"

The Hutt propped his elbows up on the desk before him and sunk his massive head into his hands. The Republic had left him weary and drained. Even now, he still felt it pulling. It was an empty, sucking feeling in his chest. As if his very soul was being tugged, yanked back into the Republic itself. Not the concept of the Republic that he fought for. No, that was still there. A distant goal sitting atop the mountains. Visible, then unseen. Almost like smoke on the horizon at times, then within reach at others.

This was different. This was vastly different. It wasn't the concept, the goals of the Republic that pulled at him, at least not like this. This was different. This was more sinister. It was the rot that lay beneath the surface. Not of the concept, the idea of the Republic. It was the rot beneath the Republic as it stood. The rot was there and significant, but it wasn't all encompassing. Parts of the Republic were still solid, untouched by decay and stagnation. He had tried to reverse the rot, to return to the goals and ideals of the Republic.

Was that the war? Was that what it meant? His mind reached out to his psyche, his subconscious. Was that the answer? Was that the question?

His soul only threw the question out faster and more pronounced than ever before.

 

[Popo]

Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war.

Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war. Am I fighting the wrong war.
Am I fighting the wrong war?
Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war? Am I fighting the wrong war?

AM I FIGHTING THE WRONG WAR?​

AM I FIGHTING THE WRONG WAR?​

AM I FIGHTING THE WRONG WAR?

AM I FIGHTING THE WRONG WAR?​

AM I FIGHTING THE WRONG WAR?​

WHAT WRONG WAR?​

WHAT RIGHT WAR?​

WHAT IS THE QUESTION?​

WHAT IS THE ANSWER?​

WHY?​

WHY?​

WHY?WHY?WHY?WHY?WHY?​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

Am I fighting the wrong war?​

 

[Popo]

His mind hammered by the questions and his body racked by stress, Popo's eyes shot open from within his hands. In a fit of rage completely at odds for Popo's personality and mental state, the Hutt roared aloud and shot back from the heavy desk. Huge hands gripped the desk's edge and massive arms lifted mightily upwards. The wooden desk rocketed forwards and slammed against the office floor, sliding towards the doorway a good few meters until coming to a stop amid a flurry of papers, files, and empty wine goblets.

Angry hands moved once more, ripping a filing cabinet from the wall and smashing it against the floor and desk. The room was filled with fluttering papers and crashing sounds as Popo yanked more cabinets from walls to smash them against the floor, walls, and each other. Expensive paintings flew across the room to smash and splinter against the walls of his office. The chair normally offered to non-Hutts shattered as Popo threw it against the massive, intricately carved wroshyr-wood door of his office. His armor had weapons, but in his rage induced state the Hutt neither remembered nor registered they were bolted to his armor.

Popo continued to smash and re-smash what he could lay his giant hands on throughout the office. When his anger could no longer allow his hands to work properly to grip and tear and break, he resorted to smashing his fists and tail into the walls of the office, shredding, cracking, and tearing the wroshyr-wood panels from their mountings to reveal the, now dented, bulkheads beneath.

All the while roars and bellows of primal anger echoed from his office throughout his penthouse on the Wheel.

 

[Popo]

"WHAT WAR!?" he bellowed to the ruins of his office. "WHAT WAR AM I SUPPOSED TO FIGHT?! WHAT WAR IS THE RIGHT WAR!? WHAT IS THE QUESTION!? WHAT IS THE ANSWER!? WHAT KARKING WAR!?"

Beskar plated fists slammed into the bulkheads and a metal encased tail destroyed more panels, sending debris flying through the office. His movements and the impact of his tail against the walls sent more papers flying up and around. That, coupled with the movement of air caused by his furious form sent anything light enough into a whirlwind of pure rage around the Hutt.

"WHAT WAR AM I SUPPOSED TO FIGHT?! WHOSE WAR?! MY WAR!? OR SOMEONE ELSE'S!? CHOY NUDCHA?! CHOY NUDCHA!? BOLLA NEECHU!! BOLLA NEECHU!!"

Popo screamed and ranted and shouted at his own mind and the questions burned into it. What war? Why? What is the question? What is the answer? What war is the right war? What war is the wrong war?

Fists and tail met metal bulkhead as Popo's mind filled to the brim with anger and rage and frustration and more and more questions. Slowly, ever so slowly, anger and rage melted into tears and sobs of pure frustration. After a while longer, he slumped into the corner, his body limp and unmoving while sobs racked the Hutt's body.

 

[Popo]

His mind and body exhausted, Popo's conscious drifted in and out of the blackness. He felt his body distantly, as if it were someone else's that he could feel on the peripherals of his thoughts. He felt the slow welling and oozing of blood from his fists under the beskar gauntlets. He could feel his tail bruising and swelling slightly inside the armor from smashing it against the walls of his office. He heard, far in the distance, the settling of papers and wood as his ruined office shifted as more debris floated down slowly to land atop shattered furniture and stacks of strewn papers.

Am I fighting the wrong war? What war? Why? What was the right war? What was the wrong war?

The questions were still there, still imprinted on his mind, but quiet now. Hushed. Gone was the raging torrent of noise and, in its place, a quiet whisper within Popo's mind. It ate away at his thoughts and tucked into the spaces of his mind. With a body and mind racked with fatigue, Popo had no choice but to dwell on it.

He couldn't distract himself, he couldn't run anymore. His subconscious had him where it desired he be.

At his most vulnerable, and most receptive, point of existence.

 

[Popo]

What was the wrong war? Was it the causes of the fighting? Was it the fighting itself? Was it the sides fighting each other? Or was it the war's impact?

He'd done what anyone would have in the war. He'd lead from the front. He'd fought on the front lines, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of the Republic. He'd commanded armies, ordered fleets into war, and fought Sith face to face and hand to hand. He'd fought and bled and wept alongside the soldiers of the Republic's armed forces. He'd carried hardships and seen the true face of war in all its gory and bloody horror.

How was he fighting the wrong war?

Did he not try hard enough? Was he trying too hard? Should he lead more? Or fight more? Did he make the right decisions? Or did he make the wrong decisions? Was he taking the right path? Or the wrong one? So many questions, but so few answers.

His mind, however, hooked on one question and repeated it, now, over and over again. Was he taking the right path? Or the wrong one?

What path did he take? What path should he take?

 

[Popo]

Paths. Maybe that was it. What paths had he taken? What paths should he take?

He'd taken a warrior's role. A leader's role. He'd lead from the front and fought blade to blade and blaster to blaster with the enemy. It was his duty as the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. To shy from the face of war was to ask the men and women under his command to do what he would not. He couldn't ask them to do such a thing if he himself would not.

He'd taken a soldier's role. He'd fought in the battles and seen his share of combat. He'd carried the burden his soldiers had carried and seen the horrors they had seen. He'd done so out of respect and his sense of duty. If they were to march to horror and death, so would he. If they were to face the enemy and fight through Hell, so would he. He could do no other.

But was that the right path? The war was one of extermination. Only one could stand. The other must fall. The Sith ran their propaganda machine and attempted to win the hearts and minds of the people they conquered. The Republic did not. At least, not to the same levels. Attempts to openly declare worlds safe ended with the Sith taking them. Claims to an undefeatable army or navy saw them routed in shambles. New weapons saw limited effectiveness or limited use. New ships saw green captains and crews, their effectiveness blunted.

Popo saw that open warfare was, at best, holding. At worst, it was failing. The Sith operated in the shadows just as much as in the open. The Republic, and Popo, focused on the open, hoping to spot the movements in the shadows in the process. One vantage point, two eyes. Or so it was thought.

The Republic needed eyes in the dark, in the shadows. Something to watch and see and track. A watchdog in the blackness. A silent guardian. A watchful defender. Something, or someone, that could act as needed, not as preferred. The Republic couldn't do it, it couldn't be seen to do such a thing. It would undermine the Republic's very foundations, its very ideals.

Am I fighting the wrong war?

The question was clearer now.

 

[Popo]

The Republic couldn't ask its leaders and soldiers to watch the darkness, to fight in the shadows. The Republic couldn't place its hands into the blackness and expect to emerge unstained. The Republic could not delve into the dark and watch and act without undermining its ideals, its goals, and its concepts.

But Popo could.

Before the Republic, before becoming Supreme Chancellor, he had run the Cartel. He had run a criminal empire that he still, to an extent, held. He no longer lead the Cartel itself, but his presence was still known. The bones of his empire were still there.

He could act in the shadows. He could fight in the darkness. He could do what the Republic could not. He could fight a shadow war.

But how?

He needed men and materials. He needed a platform to move on. A springboard of sorts.

As one massive, tired eye opened, papers on the floor told him what he needed to know.

 

[Popo]

Hunters. Bounties. Mercenaries. Individuals hired for money and profit given tasks they only knew the surface of. Proxies. A Shadow War waged by Proxy. Tenloss' weapons and equipment were prolific in the underworld and among the galaxy. Mercenaries using such weapons were common, if not nearly the standard in places. A proxy war.

Was he fighting the wrong war?

Yes, he was. He was a Hutt fighting a war in the open. While commendable and, at the time, necessary, it was ultimately not his strong suit. It wasn't his strength. He worked best from the shadows, behind the scenes.

A war of proxy among the darkness. That was the war to fight. It wasn't the war that would plant a flag in the bloated corpses of the Sith, but it was the war that would allow the Republic to do so.

Therefore... it was the war to fight.

 

[Popo]

Incentives. That was what he needed. Not for him, but for those he would hire. Those he would use as pawns in his proxy war. His gear was top notch, but there were other items he helped make or completely made that would catch eyes on the market. Items that would draw in the mercenaries and hunters.

Popo rose slowly from the corner of his room and shifted to the center of the wreckage. A few moments of rummaging and his commlink was found. A second or two of fumbling and he managed to get a hold of his secretary.

"Tryn? This is Popo. Call the factory heads and have them start moving the Republic supply stocks into the open market. No, we're not cancelling the supply to them, we're just expanding the markets for them. Thanks. Also, see if you can find a law firm. We may need them later."

And with that, Popo's war began.