Oof. Really glad we doubled down on conservation.
Creative Destruction: A Clone Wars Banking Clan Quest
- Thread starter mouli
- Start date
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
Well we probably haven't been his primary target. He's likely been more interested in getting rid of his political rivals.
TimEd
Meteor maker
Yeah, but looking at the rolls, we've done a surprising job at revitalizing our image.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
board seems too like us for now. give a bit of breathing room there to do things.
still market is getting more stable all the time so thats nice
still market is getting more stable all the time so thats nice
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
Though we'll need to improve profits ASAP since they are currently 'slim'.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
well doing oke profite wise, its a little on the low side ya.
but numbers are still going up and things are going toward stable, so progress i say.
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
Sure but we we'll want to focus on getting profits back up in order to stop tanking popularity. Though it'll be easiest to get the best profits when stability is around 50.
So we're going to have to make sure to keep playing the markets to ensure we get the money we deserve (IE as much as possible).
Man, Dooku's diplomacy stat must've been in space to get us and the TF to work together in canon.
- Pronouns
- They/Their
Dooku was the Sith Diplomat.
Just as Kenobi was the Jedi Diplomat.
Plus, the TF didn't fuck up this bad in canon, just invade a relatively important world for matters that didn't have anything to do with it.
Herding Cats (Noncanon Sidestory)
CthuluWasRight
Fresh Meat for the SV Grinder
- Location
- Canada
He can't kill them. Dooku is trying very, very hard to remember this as he stares down at the conference table, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to divine some prophecy written in the grain of the wroshyrr wood. Or better yet, a way to get out of this room.
"You can't possibly blame us for what has happened to the markets."
"The hell we can't! We asked you to take your foot off Theed's throat for two seconds and you fucked us-"
This was supposed to be the easy part. Convincing crowds of hot-tempered students at universities and lecture halls across the Mid Rim had been enjoyable, yes, reminding him of his days as an idealistic young padawan, but the schedule had been punishing for a man reluctantly prepared to admit that he was "getting on a bit", as Master Unduli might have tactfully phrased it. Convincing Senators and scattered separatist and nativist political leaders to follow him had been more relaxed, yes, but had to be done much more cautiously: guiding experienced politicians towards a war required far more deceit and honeyed language than swaying a crowd of hot-tempered youths. He had even allowed himself to feel a twinge of regret for lying to Senator Bonterri, such an earnest woman, and many others who genuinely thought that secession was anything more than another move in this great game his Master was playing. The corporations were supposed to be easy. They met in luxurious boardrooms. They provided excellent travel and accommodation, and above all, they were creatures of self-interest. That much would make it simple to persuade them to follow his plan.
"You were the ones putting up advertisements in every holozine and starport, selling backwaters peopled by illiterate savages in mud huts as the next Galactic City!"
"You were the ones who made all the fucking colonies collapse at once over one piddling trade franchise!"
"You were the ones who set it all up to collapse in the first place! That shit is on you!"
"Oh, kiss my snow-white ass you fucking ambulant ballsack-"
Well, it's certainly a simple task to get them to stop yelling and sign this treaty. It's just turning out to be absolutely impossible. Dooku clears his throat, then resorts to banging on the table when the squabbling merchants simply ignore him to continue heaping abuse on one another. "Gentlemen." He says. "Gentlemen, please." He holds up a hand and leans forward in an attempt to solidify the brief moment of silence he's created. "Who was at fault for the recent economic downturn is beside the point. The Republic's blatant interference in corporate business and its utter failure to stabilize the markets merely reveal our true enemy. Right now, Republic bureaucracy strangles both of your businesses in red tape. Forming a new state to challenge the Republic's arrogance and tyranny is the only way to be certain that market forces and economic liberties will continue to be protected and respected." Reluctant nods around the table, thank the Force. "The Republic may not have an army, but it has the means to acquire one in short order should our plans be discovered, or should it decide to contest the matter of secession. The worlds that have already joined the CIS are strong in will and rich in both resources and consumer potential- but they will need a force that can defend them from the full might of the Republic and their meddlesome Jedi pawns. Only by uniting our efforts could we hope to create such a bulwark- but if we do, we will ensure the security and prosperity of a rival to the Republic's power. A rival, I should note, that will have far more respect for the independence of the private sector."
The Trade Federation representatives consult briefly, and then begin to sign. The Banking Clan representatives likewise confer, and eventually take up their pens as well. It is only due to years of practice at retaining his aristocratic bearing that Dooku manages to maintain good posture rather than collapsing into his seat and sighing in relief. Finally, the last holdouts to the formation of the CIS have been-
One of the Muun representatives raises his hand. "Uh, one question Count. This treaty mentions mutual defense against any military or paramilitary force which threatens the territorial or political integrity of the CIS, which is fine. But I'm not seeing anything in here about ten year old slave boys in antique fighters, which I think should be cause for concern for the Nemoidian representatives-" A thrown attache case sends him sprawling. This is the part where Dooku should tap into his rage, but he's honestly just too tired to do anything more than press one hand to his face, as if to hide his eyes from yet another round of this farce.
"Your glorified assembly of pawnbrokers could tell us a thing or two about taking losses these days, isn't that right? Is it true you've put suicide nets on your headquarters building?"
"You lost to Gungans! You got your asses kicked by fucking frog people with sticks led by another frog person with brain damage! I think his IQ score might be the only thing in the galaxy lower than your profit margins these days, Nute!"
He feels detached, as if at any point he might simply float away from this table. Maybe he could just float home to Serenno. Go fishing in the palace's lake, take brisk walks on his country estate. Perhaps talk about some new book or other with Jenza in the gardens.
"The Chancellor is about to nationalize you, San! He is going to rip your fucking face off!"
Is this detachment? Is this what his old Master had been trying to teach him all this time? Should he have eschewed meditation for sitting in on bureaucratic meetings in the Republic's civil service? Perhaps the Jedi have been doing it wrong for the past millennia. Perhaps he should return to them, let them know that the true path to enlightenment is to try to get two groups of financiers to stop behaving like drugged-up acklays fighting over a mate for more than thirty seconds at a time.
"Hey now, no need to bring the government into this, let's keep this civil. I mean, how's the wife Nute? How's she coping with a ten year old, a teenager and a bunch of frog people with sticks being more of a man than you when you had an entire droid army backing you up? Hey, maybe that Gungan general's fucking yousa wife right now-"
"I'll turn that fucking domed head of yours into a chamber pot!"
"Better hope that amphibian's got bombad pull-out game, Viceroy!"
Ah, there's the simmering rage. Dooku reminds himself once again that he is not allowed to kill them.
"Perhaps I'll take all your heads off right now, and get a full set for my mansion's guest bedrooms!"
"I wish you had the balls to try, tadpole-fucker!" One thrown pen sets off dueling broadsides of stationery and office supplies.
He is not allowed to kill them yet. He contents himself with wistfully patting his lightsaber.
He's starting to think Sideous got the easy job.
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I actually fell out of my chair laughing at this.
- Location
- Fort Worth, TX
I have not laughed so hard in weeks. Thank you.
Interlude: The Last Tenth of the Law
mouli
Terrible QM
- Location
- United States
Interlude: The Last Tenth of the Law
Muunilist
32 BBY
You're tired, but that's at least something you're used to. What you're not used to is the letter that's come in from the Outer Rim, the third such letter that's stamped on neat letterhead and archaic paper. The seal of some tinpot dictatorship shines in cheap gilt in the inset on the top right, and some brainless sentient has signed it with an actual pen. It begins with Dear Chief Counsel Fina Sell and it ends with a polite Fuck you, no. You sigh, toss it on the pile of similar letter from the dictatorships of the Rim, and turn back to your assistant. "Tell me, Bosk, what's the intel assessment for the Rim?" You cast a sour glare at the pile of actual paper fuck-you letters, "It would seem that it's all the rage to wave a hand in the IGBC's face and tell them to shove off."
Bosk smiles thinly, the Bothan's muzzle fur a deep golden-brown in the bright lights of your spire office. His voice is hoarse from use and from countless briefings, but he continues anyways – the pay's enough to repair damn near anything, after all. "Of those worlds, sixteen have conscription enforced and are calling up their troops. Another twelve are in Hutt Space and believe that their payments are better off headed for the Hutts. The rest seem to think that they can fob you off with the Republic's bureaucracy and hide behind the Trade Federation." He places a datapad on your desk, the clear glass desk and the sleek datapad seeming a far cry from the letters that are piled haphazardly on one side. "This is a copy of their contract list that Creditor Reports has obtained. Most of them have signed monopoly deals with the Trade Federation in the months following Naboo and two of them have Lucrehulks in orbit."
You nod. You'd expected this. You're calmer than you look, calmer than a Coruscanti perjuring himself on the witness stand, and when you finally speak it's a cool monotone. Your fingers are drumming on the side of your chair and it takes a thought to still them. "We have a writ from the Republic Courts allowing repossession. Precedent set two centuries ago. We have the right to first collection in the Rim under the terms of the contracts that the warlords have signed." The Muunilist sun shines into your window, casting a deep golden glow on the furniture, as if to tell the Bothan before you that things will go well. "So we have the right to move in. The Trade Federation will stand aside."
"Some of them have mobilized and the Hutts are already there."
Bosk is raising points like a good devil's advocate, but even then...you have a solution there. "I'm a lawyer, Bosk. I know my limitations, and I stop at force. I've made sure we have a solid case, the warlords out there have refused the writs we've sent and their governments have unilaterally refused to pay their debts. At this point we have to call in consultants."
The Bothan raises a fluffy eyebrow, "Oh?"
You smile, thin and vicious. "Call in Captain Tost and tell him we want the Iotran General Staff on the line. We have a repossession expedition to mount, and we have little time. I think the droid arsenals wanted to test something, right?" Bosk nods, and you continue to rattle off orders that your datapad dutifully records. "Lastly, we see about the Hutts. The ORSF has been allowed to accept external funding sources by Republic order, since they didn't want to fund them. Now we use that. Tell Tarkin that we're willing to play ball." You look at Bosk, looking at the impeccably dressed and respectable yet somehow greasy Bothan in the eye. "Tell Tarkin that personally. I don't want this on the hyperwave. Understood?"
"Yes, Chief Counsel." Bosk stands to leave, and the Muunilist sun in the windows seems to almost bleed to red as he does.
Nar Shadaa
32 BBY
The Hutt before you is a massive thing, built like a house. A sneering, arrogant house that knows you're inferior, knows it in its bones. The Hutt is named Borvo, and he runs the bulk of the spice trade in this bit of the Rim – he looks at you with something worse than hatred, and you're sure that it's because of who you are. You are Pors Tonith, the intelligent, distinguished Muun, and you're on vacation.
You're also working for the IGBC. That might be it, yes.
It rumbles out something in Huttese at you, the great arching entryways of what was some grandee's palace now shadowed and dusty, cleaned by slaves and lined with Hutt slime. A cringing protocol droid comes up and tells you, "Master Borvo wants to know what the bank plans to do with the Rim. He believes that the Banking Clan has acted in too precipitate a manner. Perhaps the bank is here to reconsider its choices in the matter?"
Borvo rumbles something else out. You push past the droid and ignore it, three steps forward before the guardsmen near the Hutt's dais come to block your way. You shake your head, pulling a piece of paper out of your pocket and tossing it to one of them. "Tell Master Borvo that he has a writ to be served. I'm a humble vacationer and not here on behalf of the IGBC. This is a writ asking him to render a legal service at the mortuary."
"Excuse me?" The protocol droid turns towards you, metallic voice ringing out from behind as you get befuddled looks. Fair enough, not many here have your intellect. You might as well wait for the Hutt to read. You've heard it takes some time.
Thankfully it doesn't take that long. The Hutt glares at you, great yellow eyes staring at you as those funny little stubby arms wave about for a moment. It rumbles something new at you, and the protocol droid begins to speak again until you tell it politely to shut up. "I do know Huttese, you know. I just don't like it very much. The writ is asking you to come identify the bodies that have been dumped in the regional mortuary. Nothing that complicated."
"What is this-"
You grin and cut off the Hutt, two shock-pikes pointed at you while the security are no doubt on their way, "Ten companies of the finest mercenaries in Hutt Space, old boy. Three of them are yours. Three hundred infantry. You're their employer and emergency contact, surely you can identify them? I've already asked the others, no need to warn them."
Borvo snarls at you. You smile at him. Best to be polite, customer service face. You've never done delivery before, but you'll do it well. "Now, then, Master Borvo, I'll be on my way. I trust you can find your own way to the mortuary." A pike lingers near your torso before you turn away, and a blaster is pointed at your face when you turn around.
It takes two fingers to move it aside. As you tell the Twi'Lek pointing it at you, they really don't want to do that.
In the distance an air-raid siren sounds. You walk out whistling a jaunty tune that you learned on the trading floor. It's been a lovely vacation so far.
The Outer Rim
32 BBY
The rest of the galaxy has been melting down over this whole subprime colony business, but for you, Guard Captain Relan Trig, it's been more of a pleasant bit of excitement. You are an Iotran, after all, inheritor of over a thousand years of continuous military tradition, even if your people mainly exercise it on behalf of those spineless domeheads in the IGBC these days. The only bankers with a stomach for a fight in that sprawling corporate mess were working the Outer Rim, and they preferred rough-and-ready bounty hunter types to the consummate professionalism the Iotran Guard provided. So most of your career has been a pretty standard series of boring guard duty posts, occasionally beating petty debts out of some governor too big for their britches and too extravagant for their means, or on one memorable incident, helping a very drunk Pors Tonith repel a full boarding party of pissed-off Gamorrean pirates.
But now there has been a market crash, and as the old soldiers are always keen to tell the troops in the Intro To Finance portion of Basic, a market crash is always interesting. Much like fuckups in the military, a fuckup in the market must inevitably be corrected. And it has traditionally been the job of the Iotran Guard to handle the more kinetic aspects of said correcting, with extreme prejudice.
Which brings you here, sweating your genitals off on some shitball world run by some tinpot general high enough on glitterstim and gold braid that he thinks his piddling planetary military stands a ghost of a chance against the galaxy's biggest creditors. His troops are conscripts fielding blaster rifles two decades out of date: they seem positively ancient when compared to the brand new Gettiam Central Armory blaster rifle sitting next to you in the shallow shell-scrape.
The group of conscripts you're watching through your rangefinder from about a kilometer away have nothing to fear from the rifle at this range: they have somewhat more to fear from Terika's custom slugthrower, swaddled in tan camouflage wrapping and laden with menace as it sits hunched on its bipod.
The conscripts don't look worried. They look bored, passing around tins of ruik root to chew as they alternate between gagglefucking as only conscripts can and making the shittiest attempt at digging a trench line you've ever seen. It's been two hours and calling the line they've scratched out of the stony soil a ditch would be an insult to all sentient life able to grasp the operation of a shovel.
"Where the fuck are the officers?" Terika hisses. It's at least partly a statement of exasperation at a display of lazy incompetence that is sheer torture for anyone with Iotran discipline to watch, but it's pertinent for the mission too. The fearless general has given many of his friends their own shoulder boards and gold braid in exchange for helping to keep this herd of banthas disguised as soldiery in line, and with the Great Leader having just told a bank with entire infantry divisions on speed dial to go fuck itself he has decided it would be prudent to have them inspect the planet's key military infrastructure, such as it is. Infrastructure like the set of ancient anti-ship batteries and the bunker complex around them that you and Terika have been monitoring for the last two days.
The batteries themselves aren't really an issue: modern orbit-to-ground munitions could take them out with almost comical ease. But people are squishy and paranoid and act in ways that a warship's targeting computer can't really predict, so Collections And Security as decided that it wants organics to run point on culling this planet's frat house of an officer corps before repossession starts in earnest.
So far nobody important has shown. But even a spiced-up and tipsy officer hiding from the brutal heat in the shade of the distant duracrete bunkers can't let flagrant disobedience go on like this forever. A couple of lieutenants have already made token efforts to try and get this platoon moving, but they obviously don't care enough to make anything more than a temporary sally out of their own cool fortifications. So eventually whoever's most important here is going to poke their head up so that the IGBC can take it off and you and Terika can go the fuck back to orbit where there's cold ale and actual beds and 'freshers that aren't a bottle and a hole in the ground.
"Contact. Fucking finally." Terika sighs, her own huff of annoyance sweet music to your ears. You turn to follow her own gaze and see a bearded human in a suitably gaudy uniform zig-zagging his way towards the conscripts with something resembling purpose. He's so piss drunk you almost want to call up mission control and tell them to just abort mission and let liver failure run its inevitable course on this fine specimen, but it's not the innocuous-looking company freighter idling in orbit that you comm once you've carefully checked his rank insignia against the guide that Creditor Records had so helpfully provided you with.
Instead, when you say "Lurathi calling S-R Nine, come in S-R Nine." It's the static-filled, distorted voice of a droid that comes crackling back through the commlink. "S-R Nine receiving, go Lurathi." Well, it might not be pleasant to listen to, but HailFire droids aren't built to provide stimulating debate. You'd honestly prefer to just have Terika scoop this clown's brains out with a supersonic slug and then leg it for the extraction point like usual, but corporate wants to test the capabilities of these new HailFires in unconventional situations, or something. They actually just want to justify the expense of buying them, but the capacity to tolerate corporate bullshit that makes your life harder is about as much of a requirement for an Iotran soldier as a good pair of boots, and at least they still let you bring the slugthrower if this thing can't cope with a situation that isn't killing anything vehicle shaped directly in front of it. You're still skeptical about the droid's accuracy at these ranges, but you've got faith enough in Terika's that you're not worried overmuch.
"PID on planetary defense force HVT. Requesting fire mission." You say, rolling your eyes at the last part for Terika's amusement. Not that she sees, she's too busy looking down the scope of her rifle, ensuring that it doesn't need any major adjustments. "Target type: fourteen foot mobiles..." You pause and assess their 'earthworks' for a moment "...in the open. Fifty meters southwest of marker Aurek-Padawan. Two rockets, HE. Over."
"Confirmation: Target type: fourteen foot mobiles in the open. Fifty meters southwest of pre-designated marker Aurek-Padawan. Requested payload two rockets high explosive. Out." The HailFire replies. For a moment there's silence, and you're about to start feeding range and windage to Terika just in case when the tinny's voice unexpectedly crackles in your commlink again. "Lurathi, interrogative: marker Aurek-Padawan denotes closest fortifications, affirmative?" You sigh and key transmit on your commlink. "Affirm, S-R Nine."
Another pause. "Lurathi, interrogative: are the fourteen foot mobiles the only such group in the area?" There's another couple platoons scattered along the line, but the one they've been watching most closely is the one most likely to get reamed by the officer for their conspicuous ineptitude. "Affirmative SR-Nine, there's another couple platoons elsewhere along the line, but the HVT is only close to the fourteen foot mobiles originally mentioned."
Terika shoots you a quizzical look, and you shrug in reply. You're not sure what gets into these fucking clankers' heads half the time. The IGBC never memory wipes as often as it should, petrified that downtime might look like wasted money on C&S' quarterly reports. Now this fireworks display on wheels is apparently playing at being an intel analyst or something. The commlink crackles for a moment, the channel open but silent, as if the HailFire droid is hesitating. "Lurathi, request permission to amend fire mission: two rockets HE on original target, two rockets airburst targeted fifteen meters southwest of marker Aurek-Padawan. TOT plus fifteen seconds after HE impact."
You and Terika trade what-the-fuck looks for a moment as you try and make sense of the situation. What is the HailFire droid trying to achieve here? After a moment it speaks again, as if able to detect your confusion: "Explanation: other foot mobiles additional target of opportunity. Foot mobiles designated poorly trained in mission SITREP. Foot mobiles likely to seek hard cover in the event of nearby artillery strikes. HE rockets most effective against clustered group, including HVT. Airburst rockets most effective against dispersed group of foot mobiles in the open."
You eye the fifty meters between the bunkers and the gagglefucking conscripts, now being chewed out by the irate commander. You can hear him slurring his words even in the snatched fragments carrying to you on the wind. Then you take a second look, note the absence of cover. Imagine trying to cover that distance at a dead sprint. And what a cloud of shrapnel would do to you if you were wearing just your fatigues, if you didn't even hear it coming because you were deafened from an HE blast just meters away...
"Oh fuck." Terika whispers, her eyes widening in recognition.
"Uh..." You say for a moment into the static of the commlink, the droid waiting patiently for your assessment now that it's said its piece. "Uh, permission granted to amend fire mission: two rockets HE on original target, two rockets airburst targeted fifteen meters southwest of marker Aurek-Padawan. TOT plus fifteen seconds after HE impact. Over."
The droid almost sounds pleased as it rattles the details back to you one last time. "Lurathi, S-R Nine is ready to fire. Weapons off safe." You hear two almost simultaneous crackling hisses echoing faintly from some point hundreds of meters behind you, hissing with far more volume through the tinny speakers of the commlink. "Two away. Type HE." The conscripts look up from cringing at the lecture they're recieving, not yet understanding what it is they've just heard. The officer seems to have a slightly better idea: his yelling abruptly stops and he nervously edges back a few paces. Another pair of crackling hisses come as the HailFire reports again: "Two away. Type airburst. Request splash."
"Affirm." You reply, only a few seconds before two deafening booms rumble in your chest and a geyser of earth and assorted body parts abruptly leaps up where the platoon and the officer were once standing. "Splash, over." You say. "Splash out." The HailFire replies.
The other conscripts don't even wait for the dust to settle before they're sprinting like nuna chicks towards the distant safety of the bunker, a straggling, panicked mob looking hurriedly over their shoulders as if they might see the next rocket coming. When it comes, they definitely do not. There is just a demonic hiss and a staccato crackling as two oily black vapor trails abruptly blossom into a cone of fire and fragments of durasteel. Through your rangefinder you see the full gory results of twenty-some sentients undergoing rapid unplanned disassembly. There's something stuck in your throat, and you cough to clear it, hastily thumbing the transmit key on your commlink. "Splash, over." You say.
"Splash out." The HailFire replies. You pause for a moment, taking in the devastation, hearing a few faint screams and groans carried on the wind. Nobody leaves the bunkers to help them. There's a few moments of stillness before the pillboxes light up like a Life Day wreath, hosing down everything in front of them with frantic blaster fire. You duck your head slightly as a few stray rounds whip past you, Terika calmly packing up her slugthrower. "S-R Nine, Lurathi, good effect on target. HVT neutralized, at least thirty six foot mobiles neutralized. Record end of mission and move to extraction point. Thanks for the assist."
It's a mindless courtesy, a holdover from working with organic artillery crews and pilots for most of your life, wasted on a droid. But the HailFire genuinely sounds like you've made its day when it replies. "Happy to assist, Lurathi. Moving to the extraction point, out."
Getting away isn't hard, you and Terika just make a brief dash over the crest of the hill to a scree you'd taken note of when you first set up your positions. The conscripts are so panicked and the air so full of blaster fire you're not sure they even saw you: the handful of rounds that came close to you might have just as easily been fired completely at random. You slide down the scree and make for the dry riverbed where a C&S stealth gunship is waiting to ferry you to safety along with the HailFire droid, the sound of the one-sided firefight quickly fading into a distant patter.
It's a few minutes before Terika speaks. "I never thought I'd say this, but those things fucking scare me." She says, puffing slightly with exertion, and you just nod. C&S wanting to assess their capabilities doesn't seem quite so foolish now. That HailFire droid probably won't have its mind wiped after this mission either. It'll file away that knowledge, not just the isolated data points but the full memory of coming up with the idea, firing the rockets, hearing your assessment, and use it and iterate on it for the next time C&S tasks it with that sort of work. You wonder how many other HailFires are getting similar missions, waiting right now for Iotran spotters to feed them coordinates. Probably more than you're comfortable with.
But you're the commander here, so it's your job to try and keep up morale. "Look on the bright side," you tell Terika, "At least they're with us." And, well, as long as us means the IGBC, you've probably got the resources to handle whatever weird shit the company throws your way. It's been the deal for hundreds of years, after all, ever since the Council of Eight first signed that contract.
Doesn't mean you have to like it. But then you get your performance bonus for smoking the other thirty six conscripts, and seeing a check with eight figures makes you dislike the deal a lot less.
+5 Board Opinion, increased PR, +5 Market Stability. Contact made with Outland Regions Security Force.
AN: The last section is written by @CthuluWasRight who sent it to me once the rolls were done, used here with his permission.
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
I like that HailFire droid, it knows it's business.
The thing is probably Chopper's spiritual ancestor.
The thing is probably Chopper's spiritual ancestor.
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- Location
- LEO
A droid rebellion quest would be interesting.
- Location
- California
Oh boy, they don't even know what's lurking in the shadows.
I also really like this section here. A lot of threads mock Starwars' world building in it's inability/ fear of wiping droid memories, but this might be the best presentation on why the galaxy is scared of them.
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
Which part, Muunilist, Nar Shadaa, or the Outer Rim?
All of it I guess? Just to be sure I got everything.
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
OK, this entire interlude is from us double downing on Public Interest Litigation which netted us an artificial critical result (82+20).
Essentially the various tinpot dictators and minor governments on the Rim are trying to default/not pay back their debts to the IGBC. However thanks to a previous writ from Republic courts, the IGBC is allowed to repossess assets from the would-be defaulters in order to make up for our losses etc.
The combat is due to the defaulters not wanting to fork over the materials/properties etc that would be demanded by the repossession expeditions. Of course once we smash the local governments and take what we're owed, we install governments centered on democracy since that sort of government creates freer people, which equals freer markets, which equals more money for us. It's the
As for the Hutts, I'm pretty sure that exchange was a 'polite' way of telling the slugs that no, the IGBC is reclaiming what they are owed and the Hutts are going to stay out of it. And if they don't stay out of it, there are going to be problems.
Problems for the Hutts that is.
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Ah so that is why the Hutt was pissed. We basically took resources and even mercenaries that belonged to them. Add in the new governments that we installed we look good, get what we asked for and new governments looking highly of us from putting them in power which opens new deals. Probably more I'm missing but have a better understanding.
So very much grateful to you great soul.