- Invitation Status
- Writing Levels
- Give-No-Fucks
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Genres
- Any.
Arrival on the Citadel
A place of commerce, various species walking around and exchanging items in the marketplace. A Volus trying and failing to sell his wares as an observant human spots the badly made replica of the famous smuggler's gun. Or the Rodian selling certain pictures of other species in a themed shop. Many purchases were done wirelessly so certain customers couldn't be seen buying certain materials. And as usual there was a hacker stealing info on said purchases to be used in blackmail. Another average day in the Citadel.
But there has been a recent uptick in shadier dealings occurring underneath the surface. Smuggling is getting more rampant and the C-Sec is tied up in asinine bureaucratic tape that is used to the fullest by corrupt agents. Folks running around with weapons on display get pardoned by a mere electronic pad. Certain aliens were allowed where they wouldn't otherwise be allowed because of a seal from a higher up.
Which is where you come in.
You each get a special call on your communicator, the dreaded call that you knew was coming someday but prayed it never did. For everyone it was a little bit different.
For a certain plucky Quarian. She had her substantial debt brought up and was kindly reminded that she could clear the debt by coming to the Citadel via the shuttle that was automatically sent for her. And that attempts to delay or let's say try to alter the shuttle's path would lead to it exploding at the wrong time and the Migrant Fleet getting a bad reputation for essentially launching a terrorist attack on a major hub of commerce.
For a certain escaped experiment, she had been lured in with the promise of specialized tech that was just too promising to pass up. And promptly trapped when she docked, a messenger telling her that attempts to leave would be met with a catastrophic failure in fuel pipes that'd blow up the bay she had docked in. And even if she had somehow made that unavailable, her favorite trader for parts would tragically die via purely accidental causes. Their shop somehow venting its oxygen or voiding the room completely.
For a certain alien that decided he'd fight some slavers in the past, he would be facing getting served to said slavers on a silver platter. With the added bonus of his people being made easier to be enslaved. Whatever was necessary to ensure he didn't try to push off his little appointment.
For a certain former Imperial agent, well that was a simple blackmail. His little idea of faking being dead would be revealed as being a ruse on top of a little snitch speaking up about his location on the main place of commerce.
For a former Inquisitor, she would obviously have her past sent off to the New Republic with doctored footage to make it look like she was back to the old ways of Imperial being spread amongst the public which would obviously lead to public outcry and a Galaxy-wide manhunt just for her. But all she had to do to avoid said outcome was just to come right to the Citadel and meet up with some folks and do a little favor.
All of you very obviously didn't want anything of the sort to play out so you hightail it through whatever means were available to you to get on the Citadel. Where nearly instantly you are approached by shady looking individuals. Each encounter was nearly the same. Dressed in long coats with the most generic nearly forgettable faces you can imagine, evidently armed from the holstered blaster pistols. Each handed you a special electronic pad that basically waived your passage to certain areas that were restricted to your types.
"You'll meet the Illiasion in the Presidium Ward, meet at this room." Dull near robotic words would drone out before a room number was flashed in a holo-picture.
The 'dead' Imperial would recognize the man in front of him was a clone. A cheap version that'd no doubt die within the year, not really meant for long term usage but for the ease of liquidation in case the clone was found doing something that'd risk catching a lot of attention. In fact the clone would refer to the Imperial by his rank.
The effect of the pads would be immediately noticed. For C-Sec would very not be pleased to see you walking around in public armed and would approach to confiscate weapons. But a wave of that special pad and suddenly the faces of C-Sec would change. For some it was frustration, the look of someone who had smelled something foul but couldn't speak up about it. Or with the Quarian, the looks she got were ones of pure and unadulterated confusion. The Turian was stuttering as he read the pad before he waved her on. Grumbling about why was a Quarian walking around with a Government seal. The rest got concerned but tired looks as if they had been through the wringer before and didn't want to have another headache to deal with.
"Don't cause any trouble or whoever's ass you've been kissing won't be enough to save ya."
No doubt earning strange looks as you each entered the luxurious sector meant for the elite and officials for the Merchant groups, you followed the directions given until you began to encroach on each other as you assembled before a door that read with bright green colors. The Quarian would recognize a certain Mandalorian amidst the strange party gathered.
"Broker - Melissa Sanders: Open."
Before someone can even reach towards the door, it shot open and an older woman who looked like she was a microsecond from killing someone. "Get in. Sooner I'm done with you lot, the sooner I'm not having a shit day." She spoke with a heavy accent, hard to discern where it had originated from but the looks she gave the more alien members of the crew denoted that she didn't like them especially. She looked as if she had served in a military of some kind. Harsh eyes, grayed hair and an aura of authority.
Stepping into her office was like walking into a smoker's den as the smell of tobacco filled the air and there was a light smokey haze over the room. "So you miserable lot are called here to fulfill a simple task a braindead ape can succeed in doing. A simple smash and grab on a ship that is currently missing somewhere in the Galaxy. Exact whereabouts are unknown but we have some intel that a crime-boss on Omega may know the coordinates on the ship. Get the item and bring it to Hanger Four on this station and you can all go back to whatever sad excuse of lives you have." After speaking, she takes a deep puff off a stick and exhales a plume of smoke before asking in a disinterested but expectant tone. "Questions?"
@littlekreen @PolyesterH @Noble Scion @Wiggin @Nomad-22
A place of commerce, various species walking around and exchanging items in the marketplace. A Volus trying and failing to sell his wares as an observant human spots the badly made replica of the famous smuggler's gun. Or the Rodian selling certain pictures of other species in a themed shop. Many purchases were done wirelessly so certain customers couldn't be seen buying certain materials. And as usual there was a hacker stealing info on said purchases to be used in blackmail. Another average day in the Citadel.
But there has been a recent uptick in shadier dealings occurring underneath the surface. Smuggling is getting more rampant and the C-Sec is tied up in asinine bureaucratic tape that is used to the fullest by corrupt agents. Folks running around with weapons on display get pardoned by a mere electronic pad. Certain aliens were allowed where they wouldn't otherwise be allowed because of a seal from a higher up.
Which is where you come in.
You each get a special call on your communicator, the dreaded call that you knew was coming someday but prayed it never did. For everyone it was a little bit different.
For a certain plucky Quarian. She had her substantial debt brought up and was kindly reminded that she could clear the debt by coming to the Citadel via the shuttle that was automatically sent for her. And that attempts to delay or let's say try to alter the shuttle's path would lead to it exploding at the wrong time and the Migrant Fleet getting a bad reputation for essentially launching a terrorist attack on a major hub of commerce.
For a certain escaped experiment, she had been lured in with the promise of specialized tech that was just too promising to pass up. And promptly trapped when she docked, a messenger telling her that attempts to leave would be met with a catastrophic failure in fuel pipes that'd blow up the bay she had docked in. And even if she had somehow made that unavailable, her favorite trader for parts would tragically die via purely accidental causes. Their shop somehow venting its oxygen or voiding the room completely.
For a certain alien that decided he'd fight some slavers in the past, he would be facing getting served to said slavers on a silver platter. With the added bonus of his people being made easier to be enslaved. Whatever was necessary to ensure he didn't try to push off his little appointment.
For a certain former Imperial agent, well that was a simple blackmail. His little idea of faking being dead would be revealed as being a ruse on top of a little snitch speaking up about his location on the main place of commerce.
For a former Inquisitor, she would obviously have her past sent off to the New Republic with doctored footage to make it look like she was back to the old ways of Imperial being spread amongst the public which would obviously lead to public outcry and a Galaxy-wide manhunt just for her. But all she had to do to avoid said outcome was just to come right to the Citadel and meet up with some folks and do a little favor.
All of you very obviously didn't want anything of the sort to play out so you hightail it through whatever means were available to you to get on the Citadel. Where nearly instantly you are approached by shady looking individuals. Each encounter was nearly the same. Dressed in long coats with the most generic nearly forgettable faces you can imagine, evidently armed from the holstered blaster pistols. Each handed you a special electronic pad that basically waived your passage to certain areas that were restricted to your types.
"You'll meet the Illiasion in the Presidium Ward, meet at this room." Dull near robotic words would drone out before a room number was flashed in a holo-picture.
The 'dead' Imperial would recognize the man in front of him was a clone. A cheap version that'd no doubt die within the year, not really meant for long term usage but for the ease of liquidation in case the clone was found doing something that'd risk catching a lot of attention. In fact the clone would refer to the Imperial by his rank.
The effect of the pads would be immediately noticed. For C-Sec would very not be pleased to see you walking around in public armed and would approach to confiscate weapons. But a wave of that special pad and suddenly the faces of C-Sec would change. For some it was frustration, the look of someone who had smelled something foul but couldn't speak up about it. Or with the Quarian, the looks she got were ones of pure and unadulterated confusion. The Turian was stuttering as he read the pad before he waved her on. Grumbling about why was a Quarian walking around with a Government seal. The rest got concerned but tired looks as if they had been through the wringer before and didn't want to have another headache to deal with.
"Don't cause any trouble or whoever's ass you've been kissing won't be enough to save ya."
No doubt earning strange looks as you each entered the luxurious sector meant for the elite and officials for the Merchant groups, you followed the directions given until you began to encroach on each other as you assembled before a door that read with bright green colors. The Quarian would recognize a certain Mandalorian amidst the strange party gathered.
"Broker - Melissa Sanders: Open."
Before someone can even reach towards the door, it shot open and an older woman who looked like she was a microsecond from killing someone. "Get in. Sooner I'm done with you lot, the sooner I'm not having a shit day." She spoke with a heavy accent, hard to discern where it had originated from but the looks she gave the more alien members of the crew denoted that she didn't like them especially. She looked as if she had served in a military of some kind. Harsh eyes, grayed hair and an aura of authority.
Stepping into her office was like walking into a smoker's den as the smell of tobacco filled the air and there was a light smokey haze over the room. "So you miserable lot are called here to fulfill a simple task a braindead ape can succeed in doing. A simple smash and grab on a ship that is currently missing somewhere in the Galaxy. Exact whereabouts are unknown but we have some intel that a crime-boss on Omega may know the coordinates on the ship. Get the item and bring it to Hanger Four on this station and you can all go back to whatever sad excuse of lives you have." After speaking, she takes a deep puff off a stick and exhales a plume of smoke before asking in a disinterested but expectant tone. "Questions?"
@littlekreen @PolyesterH @Noble Scion @Wiggin @Nomad-22