The Wheel in the Sky Keeps on Turning (Open)

[Gorba the Hutt]

​

From the safety of his private ship, Gorba reviewed the plan concocted by his underlings for the hostile takeover of the Wheel.

Several teams of Bareesh Kajidic operatives posing as gamblers or merchants or various filth would infiltrate the space station and make their way to the station's mainframe and backups. Once there, slicers would infect the old Master-Com systems (or whatever remained of them) with a virus designed to shut the entire security and main systems down. The shut down would allow the slicers to upload a new Artificial Intelligence into the central system. Once there, it could anything the old Master-Com could.

Gorba had coveted the Wheel for some time. The Council of the Ancients, still recovering from economic losses caused by the Silver Jedi's intrusion into traditionally Hutt territory, would be too busy sorting out their own cartels now that the Silvers were gone. They would not care, so long as trade remained uninterrupted.

The Bareesh Hutt ran a tongue across scarred lips. Soon, his minions would wrest control of the station away from that wermo Shell Hutt and the Wheel would belong to the Bareesh. And more importantly, to him.

He dismissed the waiting mercenaries with a wave.

"Boska. Bargon u noa-a-uyat."

Attn: [member="Popo"]​

​

Allies: [member="Smeg"]​

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Gorba the Hutt"] wasn't the only one with designs on the Wheel that day. Having shouldered the financial burden of relocating an entire clan out of Mandalorian space following the wake of the aptly dubbed Red Coronation, Aliit Shysa was forced to chase even the faintest rumors of lucrative contracts in the hopes of restoring their fortunes. Primo Victorian, Didact and now, hopefully, [member="Popo"] the Hutt and his Tenloss Arms racket. Provided that the tip she'd received from Vizsla was on the level.

"Still say working for Hutts is bad business." Garev muttered quietly as their ship completed the final docking procedures. The old, scarred veteran a study of disapproval and unease as he stared out the view port with those weathered slate grey eyes. Having elected himself the apparent spokesman for the rest of the Shysa mercenaries that filled the corvette. The cream of the cream. The Elite. The show models. "You know as well as I do that you can never trust them, Ent'ika. You lie down with vornskrs, you gonna get fleas."

Ent'ika.

Her lips twisted slightly at the nickname. Little debt. An affection that few were afforded the luxury of speaking without receiving a broken jaw in recompense, most of which taken the an early grave over the last few years. Her father, Kalad... Now there was only Garev. But that fact alone wasn't enough to dissuade the black and gold clad Alor as she stood beside the older man, even though she shared some of his misgivings and every instinct honed during her exile on Nar Shaddaa stood in agreement. Hutts couldn't be trusted. It was a well deserved galactic truth, but then... So was abject poverty.

"Don't need to trust them, Garev. Just their money." She replied flatly in a tone that brokered no room for further discussion. The Clan needed funds if they were to continue to survive. If that meant working for the Cartels, then so be it. "And last I checked, Hutt creds spend as well as the next. Tenloss is just another purse, same as the rest. "

A single noted claxon rang out as the ship's airlock connected with the station and began to cycle, prompting Entye to reach for her buy'ce clipped at her belt, pausing only to buffet Garev on the pauldron with what could roughly pass as affection. "At least this one is upfront about being a greasy hut'uun, unlike that Mecetti, eh? And speaking of greaseballs, comm Ronan. Let him know we'll be making station-fall shortly."

 

[Ronan Vizsla]

[member="Entye Shysa"]
[member="Koda Fett"]
[member="Popo"]

Waging war was a costly thing.

Didn't matter that the Empire was covertly supporting their fight, they couldn't cover the entire war and neither would Ronan have accepted that. It was one thing to take what an ally offered, another to become just another lapdog in a whole line of pups. Vizsla had gone back to the mercenary ways- fighting, killing, training, extracting, they did whatever they were asked to do as long as the price was right.

With the fall of the Silver Jedi Order's control over the Tingel Arm and the chaos in the old territories of the Free Worlds Coalition Tenloss had grown... concerned. Not a strange thing, no.

The whole array of the Sith Empire on your doorstep, wedged between it and the new territories of the Silver Jedi Order.

"Comms for you, Cabur." One of the Vizsla guards said, looking over the terminal they manned here. Vizsla was here to train the Tenloss security guards and reinforce their numbers while the criminal organization gathered more forces from different areas of the Galaxy. The Wheel was a profitable venture. It didn't surprise Ronan that they wanted to keep its security solid.

Moments later the scarred face of Vizsla showed up peering at the two Shysa enforcers.

His attention glanced to something outside the project. "Shysa's here, Fett, makes three once more, eh?" Ronan said before looking back. "Bay 3-A is available for you."

[member="Gorba the Hutt"] | [member="Smeg"]​

 

[Popo]

War.

War never changes.

A thousand battlefields over hundreds of years proved this. The flames of conflict scorched planets again and again leaving devastation in it's wake. The sparks of strife fell cyclically and rendered civilization to ash. Between the waves of fire and death peace grew, but only as a lull. A prelude to the orchestra of chaos that was the unchanging tide of war.

The Wheel had seen conflict and war many times in it's existence. Interplanetary nation's vied for power over the system and it's trade routes. It's power up for grabs every few years or so as another warlord or despot hungered for the stars. They wore the titles of grandmaster or Lord or prime minister, but each was the same. Their greed only matched by the bloodshed they towed behind them.

He was hardly much different in such a light. The leader of the Cartel once. Supreme Chancellor at another point. They were different lifetimes, it seemed. Another chapter read and gone in his long life. Through it all, his company stood strong. Tenloss had kept it's course. Stayed it's path through strife and fire. His hand on the tiller and the corporation's resolve had allowed this.

And now, someone aimed to take it from him.

His contacts had dwindled over time. His finger was no longer on the pulse of the criminal underworld, but his old titles and holdings still held true at times. Whispers had come to his notice. Rumors and gossip. As time went on, they grew. Movements in the shadows were barely perceived, but where whispers and shadows met, kernels of truth could be found. He'd not survived this long, become this successful, without paying such things heed.

The massive shell Hutt sat calmly, the beskar armor encasing his body shining dully in the artificial light. He'd put out the call some time ago and now that the shadows began moving en masse he knew the time had come. His suspicions were confirmed.

It was time to make it known, for it had long been forgotten. The wheel of Time had turned until fact became rumor and rumor turned to legend. He picked up his helmet, the match to his armor, and placed it over his head. After a moment, the T-shaped visor flickered to life with a faint glow.

His brothers were coming. For fame or glory or pay, he knew not, but it was time. The charade could end.

Mando'ad draar digu.

[member="Koda Fett"] [member="Gorba the Hutt"] [member="Entye Shysa"] [member="Ronan Vizsla"]

 

[Nadir]

Mobius D'ik

There was a peculiar kind of bare-faced honesty to be found among the criminal strata. Theirs was that of the blade, of the gun – Nadir brought change through aggression. Evolution through revolution. Violent upheaval that was wont to collapse even the most ancient corridors of power and build upon their ruins anew.

All of this, and for what?

“Profit, gentlemen.”

D’ik looked around, taking stock of his myriad Myrmidons. They were kitted out in full save for their helmets – many of them had, over the years, acquired his love of a good smoke. Thus they were holding their pre-op brief not with the booming hauuum, but with the soft-spoken cadence of their leader; that, and his new favorite brand of cigarra.

Nadir Black Label. (Perks of the job.)

“It is a good day for hunting, my friends. Like fish in a wheelbarrow.” The massive herglic exhaled another ring of blue haze and let out a reverberating laugh.

Captain Chym-el Ad al-Balhttp://starwarsrp.net/topic/123707-captain-chym-el-ad-al-bal/

Mobius and his, they were hardened frontliners, so naturally they were approaching from the front. But criminals would hardly be criminals if they didn’t attack from behind as well. Al-Bal and his fleet of pirates were still speeding through hyperspace, his precious Red Diamond at the fore.

Best of all, they were riding their own personal hyperlane – ain’t nobody gonna have any clue they were coming until it was far too late.

[member="Popo"] | [member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Gorba the Hutt"] | [member="Entye Shysa"]​

 

[Jax Vandal]

Location: Wheel Gambling Den
Objective: Spend all of my credits apparently

Jax took a swig from a bottle of foul tasting liquor. He had lost a lot of credits today, but his liquid comfort eased his pain. This was his day off. No calls, no jobs, no worries. He had his second in command running operations back home. For once nothing is going to go wrong today. He finished his bottle. "One more, my good sir", he said with a wave of his mechanical hand to the bartender. The bartender rolled his eyes and slid him another bottle. One mellow day, surely nothing could go wrong.

 

[Coratanni Cartel]

Space
Ciruk Thawne

The Irrukiine slowly paced back and forth within the small cargo hold of the ship, his arms flexing slightly as they pressed against the floor, his lips curling and uncurling in a mix of a sneer and half a whine as he moved back and forth.

Behind him sat two Executioner squads, the eight men and women staring at their boss with a mix of amusement and apathy. They had all met Ciruk before, in fact most of them had fought him once or twice during a sparing match. They well knew the drill when it came to this sort of thing and it was really just a matter of waiting it out. The Irrukiine had never been a great fan of starships, or close spaces in general. There was something off about the smell, the lack of plants, the...tightness of it.

He didn't like it.

Of course he really only had to endure it once or twice a month, but it was still stupid. He frowned slightly, coming to a stop in the middle of the cargo hold and glancing at one of the Executioners. The woman smiled at him, offering her boss a little wave of comfort before pointing her finger to the viewport. Ciruk turned his head, spotting the small silver Wheel in the distance. His eyes narrowed, and a small smile...if one could call it that, pulled at his lips.

Mara had explained the job before he'd left, and luckily it had been simple enough for even him to understand.

Slowly Ciruk pulled himself up onto his hind legs, his four arms unfurling from beneath him as his fingers slipped into fists. He was ready for this.

[member="Nadir"] | [member="Popo"] | [member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Gorba the Hutt"] | [member="Entye Shysa"]​

 

[Sal Katarn]

Katarn took one last pull on the cigarra, glanced at his wrist chrono, then tossed the cigarra to the floor and ground it out with his foot, where it joined the rest of the litter outside a particularly run-down cantina on the Wheel.

"Those'll kill you," bleated a homeless Gran sitting outside the cantina. He looked at the cigarra, then back up to Sal with an empty stare.

Sal's lips twitched. "Yeah." He flicked the Gran a cred chit. "Buy a pack."

All three of the Gran's stalk-eyes focused on the cred chit. "Hey, thanks, pal." He looked up, but Sal was already gone, lost in the Wheel's foot traffic.

The bounty hunter made his way through the crowd 'til he reached a turbo lift, which took him right on up to the bay level. He'd a Hutt to kill.

Funny thing about Hutts. Nasty, sure. Rude, yeah. But they paid well and they didn't kill off bounty hunters who got the job done. Unlike the Sith. So when a Hutt put in a special bounty for the death of another Hutt, the Guild kept it real quiet for him. Gave it to Sal, 'cause they knew he didn't talk much.

Hutts killin' Hutts. Dangerous business. When stuff like this cropped up, Sal tended to wonder if he should get out, then he remembered that he'd tried. He'd tried a half-dozen times. Somehow the game always pulled him back in again. He looked down at his hands, weathered to a ruddy shade. Weren't much those hands were good for anyway, 'cept killing; the only trade he really knew.

Sal grunted, checked his chrono, then kept walking. Couldn't be too hard to find the Hutt in this place.

[member="Popo"] | [member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Jax Vandal"] | [member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Entye Shysa"]

 

[Lemon]

THE WHEEL

---

---

THE PROJECT

Fett was where the trouble was. Either he followed it, or it followed him.

Mandalorians had thrust themselves into self-exile in one last act of defiance against this new regime. Plenty kept to the sidelines, finding work easily due to their particular set of skills. Vizsla waged war, Shysa rebuilt her clan, and Fett- well nobody really knew what Fett was doing. They were as independent as they came, barely seeing each other, but they answered the call of their Aliit Alor all the same. Even Mandalorians needed company every so often, or so it seemed.

Fett, however, had ulterior motives. The Bounty Hunter had eyes, and ears everywhere. Rumours of Gorba's assault was made known to him, but it was exactly that. A rumour. Couldn't pass up an opportunity to earn all those credits now, could you? War was the most profitable thing in this Galaxy, and Fett knew war. From the Republic, the Galactic Empire, the Sith Empire, and the Mandalorians. He'd seen it all before. It's where all the riches come from. That and capturing royalty.

A short distance from Vizsla was Fett, standing there with his carbine held with one hand; his right. The grip on it tensed, flexed with anticipation. Time was running out, and Hutts were barely tardy in their operations. Though the T-Shaped Visor peered to Ronan, huffing,"Hmph." a hint of amusement, "Doesn't happen often." Commenting on the lack of times all three find themselves together.

You never could trust a Hutt, and Gorba? Gorba might be the worst of them all.

---

---

[member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Entye Shysa"] | [member="Popo"] | [member="Nadir"] | [member="Jax Vandal"] | [member="Coratanni Cartel"] | [member="Sal Katarn"]

 

[Azimuth Industries]

The Wheel,
Crimson Casino

​

​

Four of the gooniest goons sat in a booth at one of the casino's small cantinas. Cigarra smoke clouded the room. A moving hologram of a pole dancing twi'lek floated in the corner. Folk ordered alcohol at the bar. All the usual stuff, but the goons ignored all that. One of them was a Devaronian, with horns and all, who went by the name Luchy LeFrange. A prime Kajidic contact. With him was his known associate, Jiimi Skrambles, an Arcona who was busy sucking on a salt crystal like a popsicle. Two others sat opposite them: a Rodian (first name Pauul, last name Farrlo: hitman for hire) and a Vodran (a low level Bareesh lackey, fresh off planet Vodran, who still used his real name of Zatax). The Vodran wore a crimson colored shirt.

"So like I was telling Jiimi, the Hutt who runs this place? Well his career looks like a Star Tours stock graph. Up and down and sideways and every which way," LeFrange ranted, then paused to take a sip of a clear liquor. He blinked at the glass' contents. Clear-ish.

"Whaddayuz mean, Luchy?" asked Pauul, who honestly looked more engaged with the edge of the new Morp Knife he'd bought from Vanir Tech. But hey, multi-faceted eyes, so you never really knew where the Rodian was lookin'.

"Well it's like this, see. Popo the Shell Hutt was this big shot crime lord back when the Black Sun ran things around Nar Shaddaa."

"-what, you mean the one from nine hundred years ago?" Pauul's antennae twitched.

"Huh? No, stupid. The new one that the Republic wiped out."

"Which Republic?"

"Would you shut the kark up and let me tell the story."

"Yeah, Pauuly, shut the dark up," Jiimi added helpfully.

"Anyway," LeFrange rolled his eyes and stroked a horn, "This guy used to be the bad man in town, see, only when the Republic curb stomped the Black Sun with that Jedi lady - what's her name."

"Halcyon," said Jiimi from around his salt popsicle.

"Right, Halcyon, well she punched this cartel real good."

Farrlo cocked his head. "Are yuz sure it was the Black Sun, because I'm pretty sure Miss Domino would like a word with yuz."

"Who?"
"Fuggedaboutit."

"Ok. Anyway, Black Sun, Hutt Cartel, whatever. Guy was a major player. Then they get stomped. Stomped bad. So what's this guy do? Works his way into the system. Gets himself elected Supreme Chancellor of the Republic."

"What."

Zatax opened his mouth, "I don't think-"

Luchy talked right over the Vodran. "-Yeah, that's right, then after the Republic goes bye-bye, he pals around with some Mandalorians and they get all buddy buddy. This Hutt? He's a survivor, man."

"Yeah I think you lost me," Jiimi said.

"What? I explained it all didn't I," Luchy scowled.

"No, I don't understand, so was he Supreme Chancellor or a Mandalorian?" Jiimi gesticulated with his popsicle.

"Both. All of them."

"Yeah, I'm confused," Jiimi shrugged.

Pauul nodded, "Me too."

Zatax raised a hand. "I don't think you should speak of one of the Great Masters like this."

"What in the kark are you on about, you thick scaled lizardfaced motherkarker," Jiimi pointed at Zatax with his popsicle.

"Oh for Force's sake, Zatax, put your hand down, Jiimi don't insult him like that." LeFrange was getting a headache and it wasn't from the secondhand smoke. "He's Vodran. They've been brainwashed for like three thousand years."

"I am not brainwa-"

"-Just give the guy a break, stang. When are those Helix boys supposed to show up anyway?"

Pauul shrugged.

Jiimi smacked his lips. "Hm. [member="Smeg"] should be here soon."

[member="Helix Syndicate"]

 

[Mav Halo]

Allies: [member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Koda Fett"]
Potential Employers: [member="Popo"]
Unconfirmed: [member="Gorba the Hutt"] | [member="Nadir"] | [member="Coratanni Cartel"] | [member="Bareesh Kajidic"] | [member="Sal Katarn"] | [member="Jax Vandal"]

The tepid scent of station living assaulted their senses as the docking procedure completed. Stale, recycled air, the smells of three hundred thousand arguably sentient beings, and the gentle waft of a recycling unit groaning under the strain of having to service such a volume. Yet even with that potent cocktail, one didn't need to be a force sensitive to catch the undercurrents of tension in the air. Like the smell before a thunderstorm, charged and ready.

It was reflected in the way the guards held themselves. Tight around the shoulders, eyes darting towards any sudden movements, hands reflexively seeking the comfort of their sidearms. Seeking trouble, yet hoping beyond hope that it would remain blissfully hidden. Ignorance was a guard's friend at the end of the day. See no evil, hear no evil, get ganked by no evil. Who knows, with a little luck maybe it would sort itself out.

Ttt.

She adjusted her helmet in the crook of her arm as they passed, their armored advance buying them a wide berth as they moved towards the cargo bay that Vizsla had set up for their rendezvous. A set of scarred lips curling with increasing distaste with each and every heavy footfall. Ignorance wasn't a luxury a Mandalorian could afford and Clan Shysa wasn't known for their abundance of luck.

"Aril, go back to the ship." The youngest Mandalorian of her entourage cast her a surprised look. He was formidably skilled for his age, but still painfully green around the edges that he couldn't hide the sliver of hurt in his eyes at potentially being benched. Ade. Yet to properly get his shebs toasted in a real firefight; hungry for the glory that border skirmishes and livestock disputes couldn't afford him. "Tell Jarus and Pella to take their pick of crew and lock it down. Tight. Clan frequencies and countersigns only. Then join us with the rest of the vode in Bay 3-A with Vizsla."

With a relief filled nod, the younger man faded to the back of the pack and vanished the way they came. Her perceived spoiling of the youth earning her a slightly reproachful, yet amused shake of the head from Garev. He wouldn't lend it voice, however. Not out here. Not amongst the unfriendly ears of the aruetiise. Out here, they were of one mind and one purpose. Her orders, their hands.

"Sur'ar." She murmured, tucking her features behind her black and gold trimmed helmet, the clansmen behind her mirroring her action with a sudden professional unison. Their formation tightening, stance switching from relaxed to on the prowl, their signatures within the force suddenly alert and fiercely eager. Like vornskrs straining against the chain of its master. Kark it all if she wasn't leading a clan of children and canines.

Fine, if they wanted to act like a pack of dogs, she'd indulge them as she had Aril.

She lifted her hand as they neared the doors to the cargo bay, scarcely needing to drop the command of 'Aran' before they were falling into place and taking up positions. Leaving her and Garev to enter the cargo bay alone.

"Vizsla. Fett. This job better be good if you're willing to drag me and mine this close to the chakaaryc Empire space. They might be keen on leaving recent history to the historians, rewriting the annuals to fit their narrative, but the grudge book of Shysa remains open and intact."

 

[Darth Athora]

​

​

Work had finally come to Hircine. She was hard at work on rebuilding her blacklisted experiments when she received the message from her employer to provide assistance on their next operation. She could not say no. Not if she wanted to keep her experiments going.

Currently disguised as a Zeltron, Xristana found herself walking around the Wheel as an innocent bystander. She did not partake in any of the abundant gambling, instead finding herself sitting at a bar, glass of wine in her hand. She took her time between her sips, awaiting the call for her to prepare. Several people walked past her as time went by, all catching her eye as she kept herself on alert. She didn't expect her cover to be blown, especially since all her armor and weapons were stashed away while she was wearing simple civilian clothing.

Patience was a virtue she was beginning to lose.

[member="Coratanni Cartel"]​

 

[Muad Dib]

It wasn't everyday that the man known as Muad Dib found himself enjoying a drink and a deathstick in a public bar. Wait, scratch that. That was nearly exactly like most days for the Mad One. A wry smirk crossed his face as he tossed back the shot of whiskey, a slight grimace etched on his features as the liquor burned down his throat. To soothe the burn he took a deep pull from the half smoked deathstick, the blue haze escaping from his nostrils in two polluted streams.

Glowing blue eyes surveyed the bar as he sighed, his hand flicking the half smoked butt away to land on the soiled floor where it joined the litter cast there by the patrons that day. Leaning against the bar he shifted his shoulders to settle the scabard and sheath across his beskar covered back. Today he wasn't here as a CEO, nor a force user. He was here for more personal reasons and to, well, make an osik load of credits.

Chuckling lightly he looked at his allies here this day. Not just allies but family. A soft smile crossed his face, one reserved for only those that he would die for. His aliit and vode. Those of House Dib, Clan Farr. His people. Turning once more he slid another cred chip across the bar getting his shot glass refilled. Taking the glass he looked into the clear liquid and frowned slightly. He was excited. It had been a minute since he had complete autonomy from governments, orders, or other alliances that his actions may color their own reputation. He was more then ready to paint the walls of the Wheel red with blood for the cargo bay of credits offered.

Chuckling again he swallowed the shot and turned once more to wait for the communication ping from his employer over his buy'ce, which hung from the netting at his waist.

Spoiler: Tag

[member="Anya Malvern"] I [member="Zesiro"] I [member="Arabella Darkhold"] I [member="Rogo Hin"] I [member="Popo"]

 

[Arabella Darkhold]

This was a learning experience while her father and brother had taught her many things about being mandalorian it wasn't until she saw [member="Muad Dib"] decked out that it hit her. She was attached to a mandalorian.

She knew he was deadly when on the attack but now to add in that his association with those known as the best bounty hunters in the galaxy, it wasn't a combination she expected anyone to walk away from easily. Sexy beast he was. Feth.

But no time for thoughts like that she walked up and took the death stick from him as she winked hello. She took a long drag and let the smoke escape. "Hello my madman..." She motioned to the bartender for a drink, then placed the death stick back in Muadie's mouth.

"Do I get to wear armor too?" She took another breath as her lungs filled and her body relaxed, "What are we doing out this far Muadie?" She had gone back to Atrisia to begin setting up a house there a base that would...in time...be their second home. In time...everything in time.

Odd sensation about this place really...it felt haunted. Whether it was by the souls of those who had died, or it was just haunted by events that had left a mark upon it she didn't know yet.

 

[Zesiro]

It felt odd to be one of a family to Zesiro. Her own having been taken away when she was quite young. The trauma that had been delivered to her then she had been unable to cope with and everything about her childhood had been forgotten. That is until a fateful meeting with a woman on Nubia. Her twin sister Anya. After that meeting, the two of them slowly pieced together what had happened to them and what they were. What had started off with hostile intentions to each other ended up being the best thing to happen to them.

Time passed, but they were always in contact with the other. Zesiro had been there for Anya at times and at others her sister had been there for her. Suddenly they had found each other fighting side by side and ended up together in the medical ward of the Confederacy. After ample time to recover, they had then been adopted by Maud and well, it was all rather confusing to the blond.

Life wasn't so simple anymore and free time was lacking. A day came up when there was some and he proposed a night out. Agreeing to meet up, she arrived with Maud and was just returning to him from the ladies room.

Ordering a drink herself, she took a fast and deep draw off of it when it arrived.

"So what's going on?"

[member="Arabella Darkhold"] [member="Muad Dib"]

 

[Naast'ika Laaran]

The Wheel housed innumerable docking ports and numerous hangars of various sizes. In one such hangar, a peculiar ship rested on it's armored belly, nacelle slowly twitching every so often as the massive biomechanical abomination slept off a hangover.

Nearby, someone had hung a sign.

Drunk Spaceship is Sleeping. Do not Disturb.


Elsewhere in the system, a pod of wild Mesen'loras drifted lazily near a star, their calm and eerie songs playing hell with the local subspace channels as they absorbed radiation from the massive celestial body.

 

[Karsan Munin]

Location: Outside Wheel Gambling Den, Safehouse
Allies: [member="Skosk Fett"] l [member="Rex Taff"] l [member="Cadmon Geller"]

Crushgaunts. Check.

Fett Kal Trench knife. Check.

Beskar'gam. Check.

MF-44 Close Assault Platform. Check.

Mandalorian Ripper. Two of them. One on his hip. One on his thigh.

Jetpack was in working order.


He loaded his MF-44 first, chambering a shell and filling the tube with the 12 it allowed. He set it down on the table, loading his Rippers next. He placed the shells in the belt around his waist, and loaded the magazines into the holsters on this thighs for his ripper. The trench knife went on his forearm, for easy access. A rotating sheath would make it hard for someone other than him to grab it, although, not impossible.

His crushgaunts whirred a bit, and he curled them in his hands. They felt good. Heavy.

He felt like a god damn freight train.

They wanted him dead? Fine. They'd have it in about sixty years when he keeled over in his bed at a ripe old age. These bastards, the so called [member="Bareesh Kajidic"]. They put a hit on him, a mark. Lots of money.

[member="Gorba the Hutt"] wanted him dead.

[member="Nadir"] was looking for him too.

Well here he friggin' was.

He looked at his compatriots gathered in the small hotel room they found themselves in. He slung the shotgun over his armored frame. They were preparing as well, for the ensuing rampage he was about to unleash. The Wheel was a powder keg right now- everyone moving against this and that. This person and that person. He was going to exploit that.

"Everybody who ain't us is expendable. Kill 'em all. We're sending a point to everyone. Be ready to move."

 

[Janick Beauchamp]

Objective: Slicing
Unconfirmed: [member="Naast'ika Laaran"] @Zesiro @Arabella Darkhold [member="Muad Dib"] @Hircine @Entye Shysa [member="Bareesh Kajidic"] [member="Koda Fett"] [member="Jax Vandal"] [member="Coratanni Cartel"] [member="Popo"] [member="Gorba the Hutt"]

After the operation on Shusugaunt, she decided to go hit the mercenarial road, especially since there was so much for her to acquire until she can consider herself independent. Today's cover is another form entirely, and, wearing what she believes would be appropriate for a tax collection agent, without introducing herself as such before she is actually in position to enter the facility's mainframe(s), she decides to go to the Wheel, seeking fortunes because it was pretty much a criminal free-for-all. From what I heard, the Wheel is run by one of the big names in the underworld, Tenloss Corporation. Today's rumor mill brought me here, so, if I'm successful, I could still make off with a pretty significant chunk of money, enough to take care of the seed money. I could have used Island InkJet and sell him some ion bomb filling disguised as copier toner, but I feel this scheme is more likely to bring me where I want, she thought, before entering the docking bay, alongside with her companions of the day. If it works - and only if - then she can think of getting a suit of beskar armor made, and a weapon for use in the more dangerous operations, even though she knows that such a suit would be pretty heavy to her. Fake ID? Check. So said fake ID would state that she is instead Hetzel Holdo, an early twenty-something from Oorn Tchis, and a distant descendant of Amilyn Holdo, so that she could later play pazaak and then file complaints while playing, with a few chips to bankroll her part of the plan.

"Your ID please"

"Hetzel Holdo"

 

[Anya Malvern]

[member="Zesiro"] [member="Muad Dib"] [member="Arabella Darkhold"]

Lotta people could say they went to the bar with their family. However going to the bar decked out with all armor and your weapons? Now that was something Anya really enjoy doing. Anya had in her hand a strong vodka...she took a drink and sighed as she felt that lovely burn down her throat. She glanced around to her buir then sister and a few of the allies that were gather...yeah they would raise some hell

All that was mention was a lot of credits involved...Anya liked the sound of a lot of credits meant you could get better gear, better weapons she was even thinking maybe getting a star fighter for herself so she could fly! She downed another glass and closed her eyes to feel the force around here....haunted indeed it made her shiver yet she gave a sort of crazy smile that faded as she looked to her buir then her sister and chuckled

credits my sister credits

 

[Smeg]

The Cheese Wheel, Crimson Casino

Get this.

A Wheel of cheese.

No really, I don't think you understand the magnitude of this situation. Out there in the galaxy there was a Wheel of cheese. It might not be so valuable to you, but for some it was the difference between being a drifter and being a king, and as it was understood one Smeg was inside the Wheel of cheese. Was that not madness? Was that not fantasy? It was what dreams were made of, the power of conquer an entire race of Skraal within his grasp. How none of these morons had comprehended such was quite frankly flabbergasting.

He strolled along, his ragged half tail swishing across the floor like a cape of glee. Occasionally the former Rat King stopped at the odd trash receptacle to check for any goodies. You'd be surprised at how often people waste food. Or maybe you wouldn't. I don't know you personally. I hope that you compost your waste at the very least, no, I don't care if you don't have a garden, don't start with me!

“Iz der anyfink goodz, boss?”

He could have shared the half-masticated chili dog that his nose had so expertly found (with his face buried in the waste) but...

“...hff...nuffin...scarf...goodz, boyz...”

Plod, the cleanest of the three looked dejected and sighed, his brother Sebastian-Chamberlain passed gas. Sebastian-Chamberlain was special, his eyes bulged and a multitude of fingers and toes were missing. Non-verbal but very pungent. Nobody knew how he had gotten his name, not even Plod.

“But I iz hangry, boss!”

Smeg shook his head in disbelief, the remnants of chili upon his nose, he gestured around himself with grand sweeping arms.

“Dis whole place iz made of cheeze, skeghead!”

Plod shrugged, looking down at his clawed feet, “Not look lik cheeze on way in, boss.”

Sebastian-Chamberlain was defecating upon the carpet.

“You iz questionin me?” Smeg inquired, eyes narrowing maliciously, sharpened pestilence-ridden fangs slightly bared. Plod was problematic, thought he was smart. No. Only Smeg was smart, the smartest of all Skraal! There was no other with a mind like Smeg, he was the chosen one, he alone bring his people to the forefront of glory. All he needed was a giant Wheel of cheese.

The three finally arrived in the cantina after their scavenging adventure, their superior senses of smell clouded by the thick cigarra smoke that permeated the air. Skinsackz were so disgusting sometimes. Approaching the booth Smeg strutted up with a confidence beyond his stature.

“You gotz any snackz, boyz?”

---

[member="Bareesh Kajidic"]