Victor Montegue
Jun 6th, 2018, 09:12:59 AM
Jovan Station was a strange place.
There were many kinds of strange. There was good strange and bad strange, obviously. There was interesting strange. There was off-putting strange. There was the kinky kind of strange, where at first you were a little taken aback by the request or suggestion, but were sure to gain at least a memorable experience out of the situation, even if it did leave you with several weeks of subsequent itching. There was the scientific kind of strangeness too, although that wasn't strictly relevant right now; and then there was strange as in stranger, something foreign and unfamiliar.
Jovan Station definitely was not that latter kind of strange: quite the opposite, in fact. The Cizerack and the Alliance had worked their precious little hearts out trying to add colour and brighten up the place, but it was pretty hard to disguise the underlying Imperial architecture, especially if you had any sort of passing familiarity with Imperial installations such as this. Victor's familiarity was more than passing. Heck, he was pretty sure he'd set foot upon this very station before, back in his Sector Ranger days: though it had still been in the name appropriate Jovan system at the time, rather than floating out here in the middle of nowhere spot that the Cizerack had chosen for it - which was pretty strange. Power to them for recycling, he supposed, but why the station needed to be here and not there was an oddity that he didn't have an answer to. Perhaps he'd ask at some point, though likely not: that seemed like the sort of conversation that he'd regret provoking almost as soon as it started.
The station didn't just look strange, it felt strange. This wasn't the first Alliance military installation he'd set foot in. Ever since Ambassador Wrath got a rathtar in his bonnet about establishing military contracts with the Alliance of Free Planets, Victor had found himself transformed into an interstellar tourist, hopping from Alliance venue to Alliance venue to cross i's and dot t's. Just as the slug had carefully tailored parts of his web of businesses and subsidiaries to appeal to the Empire, so to had he customised other aspects to appeal to the Alliance. Perhaps acquiring Rothana Heavy Engineering, and trying to sell brand new versions of old Republic tech to the formerly-named Alliance to Restore the Republic was a little bit on the nose, but there was a definite Outer Rim flair and flavour to everything in the Czerka Arms catalogue. And, just as Rath had carefully chosen Slylar Trezen as the corporate focus of those Empire-centric businesses to appeal to Imperial tastes and sensibilities, so too had Victor Montegue been chosen for his Alliance appeal. Victor was under no illusions about that, absolutely aware that he had been employed not for what he could do, but more for what he could represent. Victor was a relic of the Republic, a former lawman - a Sector Ranger - who had grown weary of serving an unjust Empire, and had turned his back. Granted, he'd decided that mercenary and bounty hunter was a more lucrative application of his time and talents than fighting for the Rebellion, but the Rebels had a familiarity and a nostalgic fondness for that sort of a person. More importantly, it established himself as someone who took deals and contracts seriously: they might not trust the Hutt that loomed behind him, but they could - or at least, that was Rath's gamble - trust Victor himself to abide by the contracts he signed.
The ink was still wet on the deals that Victor had worked to broker, but the first steps were already falling into place. And so, Victor travelled, like some wandering salesman with a battled old suitcase, pimping out Czerka and Rothana hardware to every Free Planet the damned Alliance had - or at least, that was what it felt like. Granted, some worlds were perfectly fine to fend for themselves, and others were happy to make use of whatever hardware the Empire had left behind, but Victor was good at what he did. Each potential contract was a bounty, and Victor hunted each one with dedication, gently playing into the fears and vulnerabilities that made a world worry about it's ability to protect itself, or dazzling militia Generals with what-if scenarios that only a Czerka gun or a Rothana walker could possibly resolve. It didn't stop there, either. Products that had been designed by Czerka and her subsidiaries to appeal to bounty hunters and mercenaries were pitched to law enforcement instead, while at the same time Victor enticed deals that flowed in the other direction as well, custom police blasters from Naboo passing through Czerka hands on their way to other Alliance worlds, or Rothana heavy transports ferrying perishable goods to worlds in need that the Ministry of Supply was stretched too thin to deal with. It was a matter of opportunity, but also one of reputation. Contracts to supply Tactical Enforcers and Assault Transports to the Alliance Defense Forces was all well and good, but Ambassador Wrath wanted his businesses to satiate a desire to feel needed, to feel as essential to the Alliance as Kuat or Sienar did to the Empire. For that, Czerka and Rothana needed to be more than just a supplier for tools of war: they needed to be an ever-present answer to the question of who could help with whatever problem you might have.
Unfortunately, in today's instance, Czerka and Rothana were the root of his problems rather than the solution. On the one hand, there was something novel - though strange - about having just flown through Imperial space and landed on an Alliance station. Ambassador Wrath's title may have been for flavour more than legitimate function, but the doors it had begun to open had certainly begun to feel like diplomatic immunity. On the blue side of the border, Ubrikkian Industries was making itself indespensible to the corporate efforts of Cloud City and the Greater Javin; and here on the red side, the Alliance's fondness for his guns kept his border crossings from becoming too much of a hassle. It almost made him regret that he wasn't actually a smuggler, despite Alliance Security's understandable suspicion that he might be: it was almost criminal to waste the kind of access and freedom he had.
That access and freedom only got him past the border though, and did nothing to help expediate his way through the queue at the Corellian House of Waffles, and the non-stop travel that Czerka required from him of late was entirely to blame for his urgent need and desire for caf and carbs. Well, Czerka, and the Mirialan star hostess on the last leg of his interstellar commute, though he was far less inclined to resent that particular cause of his tiredness.
At last, the queue shuffled forward enough for Victor to state his order to the towering, aproned Wookiee behind the counter, whose CHOW employee badge invited you to call him Glen. Somehow, Victor found himself feeling skeptical about the validity of that name, more inclined to assume that the apron was borrowed than to believe that the name was somehow short for Glenbacca or something along those lines. It didn't matter, and to his credit, the Wookiee proved to be one of the best kind of fast food employees: the kind that realised you were not interested - and probably not capable, either - of understanding whatever pleasantries they might try to offer, and simply listened to your order and trusted in your ability to read how much you were being charged off the digital display. "Thanks, Glen," Victor said as he lifted the midly sticky blue plastic tray from the counter, and actually meant it.
Making a bee line for one of the last remaining unoccupied tables, he spared a thought for Skylar Trezen, and the swanky seventeen course tasting menu she was probably pretending to enjoy in one of Cloud City's swankier upmarket restaurants. Part of him wanted to be jealous, but as he set about preparing his Kor Vella waffles and side of Ryloth toast, he couldn't quite bring himself to commit to it. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he caught himself muttering something his younger brother used to say: live fast, eat shit, die young.
There were many kinds of strange. There was good strange and bad strange, obviously. There was interesting strange. There was off-putting strange. There was the kinky kind of strange, where at first you were a little taken aback by the request or suggestion, but were sure to gain at least a memorable experience out of the situation, even if it did leave you with several weeks of subsequent itching. There was the scientific kind of strangeness too, although that wasn't strictly relevant right now; and then there was strange as in stranger, something foreign and unfamiliar.
Jovan Station definitely was not that latter kind of strange: quite the opposite, in fact. The Cizerack and the Alliance had worked their precious little hearts out trying to add colour and brighten up the place, but it was pretty hard to disguise the underlying Imperial architecture, especially if you had any sort of passing familiarity with Imperial installations such as this. Victor's familiarity was more than passing. Heck, he was pretty sure he'd set foot upon this very station before, back in his Sector Ranger days: though it had still been in the name appropriate Jovan system at the time, rather than floating out here in the middle of nowhere spot that the Cizerack had chosen for it - which was pretty strange. Power to them for recycling, he supposed, but why the station needed to be here and not there was an oddity that he didn't have an answer to. Perhaps he'd ask at some point, though likely not: that seemed like the sort of conversation that he'd regret provoking almost as soon as it started.
The station didn't just look strange, it felt strange. This wasn't the first Alliance military installation he'd set foot in. Ever since Ambassador Wrath got a rathtar in his bonnet about establishing military contracts with the Alliance of Free Planets, Victor had found himself transformed into an interstellar tourist, hopping from Alliance venue to Alliance venue to cross i's and dot t's. Just as the slug had carefully tailored parts of his web of businesses and subsidiaries to appeal to the Empire, so to had he customised other aspects to appeal to the Alliance. Perhaps acquiring Rothana Heavy Engineering, and trying to sell brand new versions of old Republic tech to the formerly-named Alliance to Restore the Republic was a little bit on the nose, but there was a definite Outer Rim flair and flavour to everything in the Czerka Arms catalogue. And, just as Rath had carefully chosen Slylar Trezen as the corporate focus of those Empire-centric businesses to appeal to Imperial tastes and sensibilities, so too had Victor Montegue been chosen for his Alliance appeal. Victor was under no illusions about that, absolutely aware that he had been employed not for what he could do, but more for what he could represent. Victor was a relic of the Republic, a former lawman - a Sector Ranger - who had grown weary of serving an unjust Empire, and had turned his back. Granted, he'd decided that mercenary and bounty hunter was a more lucrative application of his time and talents than fighting for the Rebellion, but the Rebels had a familiarity and a nostalgic fondness for that sort of a person. More importantly, it established himself as someone who took deals and contracts seriously: they might not trust the Hutt that loomed behind him, but they could - or at least, that was Rath's gamble - trust Victor himself to abide by the contracts he signed.
The ink was still wet on the deals that Victor had worked to broker, but the first steps were already falling into place. And so, Victor travelled, like some wandering salesman with a battled old suitcase, pimping out Czerka and Rothana hardware to every Free Planet the damned Alliance had - or at least, that was what it felt like. Granted, some worlds were perfectly fine to fend for themselves, and others were happy to make use of whatever hardware the Empire had left behind, but Victor was good at what he did. Each potential contract was a bounty, and Victor hunted each one with dedication, gently playing into the fears and vulnerabilities that made a world worry about it's ability to protect itself, or dazzling militia Generals with what-if scenarios that only a Czerka gun or a Rothana walker could possibly resolve. It didn't stop there, either. Products that had been designed by Czerka and her subsidiaries to appeal to bounty hunters and mercenaries were pitched to law enforcement instead, while at the same time Victor enticed deals that flowed in the other direction as well, custom police blasters from Naboo passing through Czerka hands on their way to other Alliance worlds, or Rothana heavy transports ferrying perishable goods to worlds in need that the Ministry of Supply was stretched too thin to deal with. It was a matter of opportunity, but also one of reputation. Contracts to supply Tactical Enforcers and Assault Transports to the Alliance Defense Forces was all well and good, but Ambassador Wrath wanted his businesses to satiate a desire to feel needed, to feel as essential to the Alliance as Kuat or Sienar did to the Empire. For that, Czerka and Rothana needed to be more than just a supplier for tools of war: they needed to be an ever-present answer to the question of who could help with whatever problem you might have.
Unfortunately, in today's instance, Czerka and Rothana were the root of his problems rather than the solution. On the one hand, there was something novel - though strange - about having just flown through Imperial space and landed on an Alliance station. Ambassador Wrath's title may have been for flavour more than legitimate function, but the doors it had begun to open had certainly begun to feel like diplomatic immunity. On the blue side of the border, Ubrikkian Industries was making itself indespensible to the corporate efforts of Cloud City and the Greater Javin; and here on the red side, the Alliance's fondness for his guns kept his border crossings from becoming too much of a hassle. It almost made him regret that he wasn't actually a smuggler, despite Alliance Security's understandable suspicion that he might be: it was almost criminal to waste the kind of access and freedom he had.
That access and freedom only got him past the border though, and did nothing to help expediate his way through the queue at the Corellian House of Waffles, and the non-stop travel that Czerka required from him of late was entirely to blame for his urgent need and desire for caf and carbs. Well, Czerka, and the Mirialan star hostess on the last leg of his interstellar commute, though he was far less inclined to resent that particular cause of his tiredness.
At last, the queue shuffled forward enough for Victor to state his order to the towering, aproned Wookiee behind the counter, whose CHOW employee badge invited you to call him Glen. Somehow, Victor found himself feeling skeptical about the validity of that name, more inclined to assume that the apron was borrowed than to believe that the name was somehow short for Glenbacca or something along those lines. It didn't matter, and to his credit, the Wookiee proved to be one of the best kind of fast food employees: the kind that realised you were not interested - and probably not capable, either - of understanding whatever pleasantries they might try to offer, and simply listened to your order and trusted in your ability to read how much you were being charged off the digital display. "Thanks, Glen," Victor said as he lifted the midly sticky blue plastic tray from the counter, and actually meant it.
Making a bee line for one of the last remaining unoccupied tables, he spared a thought for Skylar Trezen, and the swanky seventeen course tasting menu she was probably pretending to enjoy in one of Cloud City's swankier upmarket restaurants. Part of him wanted to be jealous, but as he set about preparing his Kor Vella waffles and side of Ryloth toast, he couldn't quite bring himself to commit to it. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he caught himself muttering something his younger brother used to say: live fast, eat shit, die young.