[Tempest Row - Dizba the Hutt's Palace]
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<I say we strike immediately! Send out our mercenaries and show them what it means to cross the Hutts!> Said Torlux, waving his flabby arm in an almost energetic gesture of anger. To his left his translator droid relayed the message to the waiting table of twelve. Attila had one too, of course. Everyone at the table did, Hutt and Ferengi alike, but in Attila's case it was largely a ruse. He had taken the time long ago to learn the Ferengi's vile tongue. An effort that had served him well.
One of the Ferengi, a particularly noxious individual by the name of Gripak, laughed. <Yes, open war in the streets! And while we're throwing all of our resources at MERC, I'm sure the slavers, steam-barons, Dust guilds, and every other wretch in Tempest Row looking for a piece of us will sit idly by while we do it.> He said scornfully. <You're almost as dumb as you look, Hutt.>
As offensive as the Ferengi was, Attila had to agree, and raised a placating hand to calm the other Hutt's rising temper, once the translators had relayed the Ferengi's insults.
<But you must agree that we must set an example of MERC, surely.> He said. <If we let this... Dipsnig... this 'goblin'... move in on our holdings here, surely that will also send a message to Benedict Percival Paxton, Stone and Ishkur Sulayman that our territory is easy taking, to say nothing of the slavers.>
The Ferengi bristled. <Of course not. And I have a plan on how->
"Alliance." The third Hutt's voice was not raised, but the weight of his authority silenced the discussion in the room nevertheless. That, and his use of the Nexus Common, which everyone present knew of course, but had elected not to use, out of the same close-minded pride and xenophobia that Attila so detested in both species. It was a testament to the stress caused by the MERC situation that Dizba had chosen to break decorum. Attila would have almost respected Dizba for speaking directly, instead of hiding behind translator droids. Would have, had Dizba the Hutt, current head of the Ferengi-Hutt Tempest Row Alliance, not been the one person in the room Attila hated the most.
"The slavers, mages, and steamers will like MERC coming into Tempest Row as little as we do. This city is too small for all of us. They will agree that MERC must go.” He declared.
Torlux swelled up like a balloon. <Alliance?> He croaked. <With our competitors?>
<A dangerous notion.> Said Gripak.
Attila had to agree, though for different reasons. An alliance with the other Tempest Row factions against MERC would make the one between the Ferengi and Hutts stronger than ever. Such petty superficial differences that they had, they were still more similar to each other than they were to the likes of the steam ship barons or the magic using Dust peddlers. And a strong Hutt-Ferengi alliance, in Attila’s view, was bad for just about everyone, especially Attila and his business.
While the discussion continued, he schemed.
[The Raindrop District - Lucretia's Manse (The Real One)]
“Your concerns are all our concerns, Han the Greater.” Said Lucretia, trying and failing to keep the mockery out of the name. Han the Greater was anything but, of course. The oldest son of the venerable, yet unfortunately elderly Lord Han could, in another life, been a highly capable accountant. Maybe an actuary or lesser bureaucrat of some sort. But in lordly strengths and graces he was sorely lacking. Already his famous hair-trigger temper was approaching a low boil, triggered again by Lucretia’s slight jab after his impassioned rant on the events of the past day, though the content of her speech seemed to placate him just a little. “This mercenary scum is merely the latest indignity to grace our fair city’s decline into incivility and chaos. Surely, it’s our responsibility as the nobility to prevent our city from sliding further into the hands of these degenerates.”
Lucretia watched the faces of the nobles sitting around, nodding in agreement. Fools. As if Lucretia cared one bit about whether the city was ruled by riffraff or these chattering, self-important peacocks. So long as she kept her place just where it was. Only a few of the faces weren’t nodding, and Lucretia latched on to one of them, only to be interrupted by the bobbing bald spot of Han the Greater.
“I’m so pleased you side with us, Lady Lucretia.” He said, nodding repeatedly. “We are glad to have such a staunch ally as you.”
“Come now, must these parties be all politics?”
Ishkur Sulayman was a large man, sure, but size alone couldn’t describe the way he dominated the room, an aura of presence extending beyond his mere bulk, commanding attention with his broad, charming smile and the rich bass of his voice. To the untrained eye, he might fit right in with the crowd of affluence and indulgence Lucretia had gathered. His ebony skin shone underneath his brightly colored wax fabrics, and his beard and long dreadlocks were heavy with gold chains and scented oils. But Lucretia knew that under his pampered, princely visage was real power. Power that burned behind his fiery blue eyes, and crackled in the air around him like a storm cloud. A fine friend to have. Or a fearsome foe.
“Enough of this ‘MERC’ business. Wine all around, and be merry! Lucretia, your taste surpasses comprehension, my dear. One day you must tell us all the secret to your ability.”
“Why, Lord Ishkur, what can I say? It’s just a natural talent of mine.”
[The Cloudtops - Club Typhoon]
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The Professional was a consummate professional. That’s how he got the name, after all. And as a professional, the last place he expected to be would be here. A high class strip-club was still a strip-club as far as he was concerned, and not even the best in neomodernist aesthetic could disguise the fact that, at the end of the day, a bunch of grown men were throwing credit chips at half naked ladies gyrating on the stage. Including his boss.
The Professional sighed. Desperate times.
Leon Brightstar had declined in recent months. Not that he had ever been wholly admirable. As a twin he had always invited comparison. Physically he had always exceeded his sibling, of course. The other Brightstar, as a boy, had never been one for athletics. It was in the athletics of the mind that Leon had proven to be a disappointment. Slower. More gullible. Less daring and meeker of wit. The other one… ‘Vix’ as she now called herself - she was always the clear choice as the heir to the Brightstar empire. The Professional would have once been happy to follow her into a new Brightstar era. Until he found out what that had entailed. “The family comes first.” That was the Brightstar code. That was the one the Professional had been proud to uphold - in all his 120 years of service, he had never been contracted to draw Brighstar blood. Until Vix had asked him to. And he had complied.
So that was how he came to be standing in a strip club, watching a 35 year man with a shaggy blond beard sprawled across a chair in the darkest corner of the establishment, too drunk to even know what a thong was, but still resolutely trying to slip whatever barest scraps of an allowance Vix still allowed him into the strap of one. One attached to a woman the Professional thought was surely only a legal adult by the smallest of margins, squirming in the lap of a wretched figure of a man easily three times her size. Well, for whatever pretense of ‘legality’ still existed in this city.
Desperate times indeed.
“Leon.”
“Uuuuuuhhhhhh….”
The Professional frowned.
“Get up.” He told the stripper, grabbing Leon’s arm. Once she was out of the way, he pulled him up, easily slinging the massive man over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. The woman gasped, her hair implants shifting through a rainbow of colors as she tried to process the sight of a man who most closely resembled someone’s favorite kindly grandpa easily manhandling the hairy bulk that was Leon Brightstar like a sack of cotton fluff, but the Professional didn’t have time for nonsense or explanations.
“Show me the nearest unoccupied private room.” He said.
The stripper pointed. “But you can’t go in there.” She said.
“That’s no concern of yours.” He said, reaching down and picking up the remains of Leon’s money. He tossed it to her. “And by the way, you have no idea who this man is.”
“Uh… okay.”
He tossed Leon Brightstar down on the bed, paying not much attention to whether any of the man’s limbs happened to get crushed underneath the rest of him in the process.
“Whooo….. whuuhh….”
“Please don’t speak, sir.” Said the Professional, pulling a syringe out of a jacket pocket. “Relaxing won’t make this any less painful, but it’d be certainly much more pleasant for me.”
He jabbed the syringe into Leon’s chest, pushing the plunger all the way down. Immediately the serum took effect, and Leon arched backwards, screaming in pain as the specially engineered bacterium in the solution coursed through his body, purging any trace of alcohol found within. As far as detoxes go, there were definitely prettier ways to do it. A flailing arm caught the Professional across the face, slamming into him like a side of beef. He picked his round-framed glasses off the floor and settled them back onto his nose. When it was over, Leon curled up on the bed, clutching his head and groaning as he nursed the mother of all hangovers.
“Leon.”
Leon looked up, eyes widening in shock, and then anger.
“You!” He shouted, exploding to his feet. “You killed him! You killed my fa-”
“I know what I did.” Said the Professional, grabbing Leon by the lapel and lifting him up over his head, one hand clamped tight over the larger man’s throat. “And it is something I will regret until the end of my days. Which is why I’m helping you now.” He said icily. He dropped Leon, who fell onto the bed with much screeching of bedsprings. Of course a place like this would be so barbaric as to still use springs. No doubt the clientele thought it added to the atmosphere.
“Why the hell should I trust you. You’re a betrayer, just like that bitch I used to call my brother. For all I know, you’ve been sent to kill me as well.” Leon said, sneering.
The Professional slapped him. Lightly. He really wasn’t here to kill him, but the boy was really starting to get on his nerves.
“You know me well enough. If I were here to kill you, we wouldn’t be talking.”
“Well obviously you’re not going to kill me yet.” Said Leon, nursing the developing bruise on his cheek. “You’ve got to build me up first, give me hope. You claim you’re helping me, but it’s just an elaborate ruse.”
The Professional scoffed.
“Vix isn’t that sentimental. If she wants you to die, you die. Which she might still decide to do. But it won’t be at my hand. I’m here to give you back what should be mine.”
“What is… mine?”
“Your company, Leon Brightstar. You’re the one who deserves it, Nexus help us all. And I’m here to make sure you get it.”
“But… how? The bitch has everything now. The resources. The private security. The tech.”
“You have me. And you still have money. Not the allowance Vix gives you. Your father kept some inheritance away, out of reach. That’s yours now. And there’s something… interesting that happened in Tempest Row this morning. I think they can be of use to us.”
Leon swallowed. Taking back his company… that was certainly something he wanted. That he desperately wanted. And trusting this man… the family assassin… well, it’s not as if he had much of a choice.
“Well then. Who are ‘they’?”
[Thunderhead - An Abandoned Factory]
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The dining room was one of Dr. Graves’s last conceits to luxury. Most other trappings of aristocratic life he had long since discarded, but the dining room, converted out of a back room of the abandoned building the Night Police called ‘Midnight Base’, was as lushly decorated as could be found in any palace. Perfect for banquets, Bond Villain-esque cordial interrogations, or weekly lunches with his most trusted lieutenant. Not that ‘lunch’ was anything that Dr. Graves himself ever partook in. His utter lack of biological function was something Erik Slater continued to be unnerved by, even after the decades they had worked together since that fateful rainy day in Poland where they had first met. That, and the faceless mask and metal body.
Dr. Graves reached over, pouring Slater another cup of coffee from the French press. It was excellent coffee, as always. His knack for finding fine foods, even under the tightest of budgets or rations, was unnatural. And for someone who never ate himself, Graves was an uncommonly good cook. ‘A family talent’, he had always claimed.
“Another gang of mercenaries taking root in Tempest Row is nothing new, Erik. Why should the activities of MERC concern us?”
Erik took a moment to wipe away a few stray crumbs from his mouth.
“MERC are no common racketeers. They have already created near-monopoly conditions in Riverside, and tenaciously hold on to much of the freelance business in Inside, despite multiple attempts by the Union to root out their operations. They are uncommonly well equipped and have access to powers beyond normal expectation. Even in Tempest Row, they may tip the fragile balance of power.”
“And what is it you suggest we do about this?”
“The Night Police need to grow, Herr Doktor. The treatment has a better success rate than ever, and we are getting more volunteers by the day.”
“Volunteers to die?”
“Volunteers to keep the peace. Crime rates in this district have decreased by 15% since we increased our patrols, and some of the special operatives you authorized have already taken down some of the most prominent slaver rings. We are no shadow organization anymore. People recognize us and trust us. Why should they have need of mercenary protection with the Night Police in place to keep them safe?” Said Erik forcefully.
Graves sighed, the noise a metallic crackle through the filters of his mask.
“Your faith in force concerns me sometimes, Erik.”
Erik gave Dr. Graves a steady look. On the other side of the table, Graves seemed to be distracted, almost lethargic. Erik knew the timing of Graves’s more hesitant moods well. Quarterly, on the last Thursday of every third month - like clockwork it would strike. Erik had never asked why, and Graves, of course, had never volunteered the information himself. One of many secrets Erik was content to let lie between them. Their friendship had always been based on mutual respect more than it ever had been on intimacy. Graves had ever seemed to have little to share. Thankfully, even the queerest of his partner's moods rarely stood in the way of real progress.
“Perhaps we should discuss this at a later time, Herr Doktor? It seems clear to me that you need more time to think.” Erik said, putting down his fork. "We can have this lunch again... tomorrow, perhaps? I will alter my schedule to compensate."
“No.” Said Dr. Graves, responding with sudden decisiveness, his fists clenched. “We cannot squander time. If MERC are as dangerous as you say, we must be prepared for their first moves. Take whatever precautions you deem necessary.”
“Of course, Herr Doktor.” Said Erik, smiling. "I'll send your orders out immediately."
[Tempest Row - Attila's Cantina, a back room]
<Torlux, you know I have nothing but the utmost respect for you.> Attila said.
It was a lie, of course. Attila respected Torlux about as much as he respected a piece of moldy bread. Less, actually. With a piece of moldy bread, the mold might end up being penicillin, and heal a great many people. Torlux couldn’t dream of being that useful. Not on his own, anyway. In Attila’s hands, however… Torlux was a moody, temperamental Hutt, with twice the average dose of Hutt xenophobia, and three times the average dose of Hutt arrogance. In other words, a perfect patsy.
<Of course, Attila.> Said Torlux. <Dizmak is a fool to think we can benefit from an alliance from the scum of this city. We glorious Hutts are the only ones keeping this overgrown blister of a settlement together.>
Attila almost smiled. It was almost too easy.
<Dizmak was always too trusting.> Attila said. <Even this alliance with the Ferengi was ill-advised. They have already betrayed us.>
Torlux’s eyes narrowed. <What do you mean, Attila?>
Attila feigned surprised. <Why, this whole business with MERC, of course. Surely you have figured it out as well as I. They wouldn’t come into this city unless they knew they had an ally. An insider who could give them business and feed them information on where to strike. And the Ferengi have always detested their reliance on mercenaries supplied by the Hutts.>
<Are… are you sure about this?>
<Yes. We should strike them - soon - before they strike at us.>
Attila could see the wheels turning in Torlux’s head. Even as hateful and suspicious as he was, he still had the basest capacity for reason, and that reason was telling him not to make the first move on an ostensible ally. Not until he had evidence. Well, such ‘evidence’ could easily be arranged.
<This is… much to think on, Attila. Thank you for coming to me with this information. I will consider what you have said.>
<Don’t think too long, Torlux. I fear they will make their move soon.>
Attila turned off the holotransmission. He had his own moves to make soon.
[Tempest Row - Dipsnig]
Wherever he is, his transmitter should start warning of an incoming call.