Infiltrating the Franchise

Njon_the_Hutt

Date: Wednesday, 09 Dec 2009, 3:34 AM | Message # 1

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The Franchise was to the moon of Nar Shaddaa what Nar Shaddaa itself was to Nal Hutta; an ostentatious hub of criminality in the heavens. Nal Hutta—the foul, polluted homeworld of the Hutts—was, of course, a misery unto itself. But it was a singular testament to the infamy of its moon, Nar Shaddaa, that it should have a microcosm of itself in orbit above it (a "Nar Shaddaa" of its own, so to speak). Such was the function of Njon the Hutt's commandship, an old Lucrehulk-class freighter originally manufactured, decades ago, for the Trade Federation.

By starship standards, the Franchise was considered a relic—a fact which Njon had always found amusing, considering that he was well over 100 years older than it was. But whereas the Hutt had aged well (and was still considered young for his species), the ship certainly hadn't.

Indeed, the freighter had deteriorated much since its days in the Trade Federation's merchant fleet. Its corridors had once gleamed so much that one could see oneself reflected in the durasteel floor panels (an amenity that surely appealed to the vanity of its Neimoidian owners). Needless to say, Njon did not concern himself with such things; since he'd purchased the ship and made it his headquarters, it had become strewn with refuse, discarded machinery, and droid components. The smell of spice was everywhere, the floors were sticky, and often the lights would burn out and not be replaced—this left many corridors too dim to see the small creatures scurrying about in search of food, or the spice addled thugs passed out, or dead, on the deck.

The ship had too many rooms for the Hutt to possibly use, and as a result many of them were empty (providing ample places to hide, if need be). Some were occupied with crates of cargo, some with discarded trash, some with sadistic torture devices, and some with crude tables and cots that sufficed as living quarters for the crew. There was no apparent method to this madness, and one wondered how even Njon's own people found their way through the Franchise's multifarious confines; much of the ship's interior, in fact, was left unguarded for this exact reason.

There were exceptions, of course. The hangars were constantly bustling with activity—ships came and went, and cargo was deposited, inspected, and prepared for storage or shipment elsewhere—and all of it was closely monitored and patrolled by the Hutt's men. The command bridge, the reactor and engine rooms, Njon's quarters, and the Franchise's turbolasers were also guarded and/or crewed regularly.

Infiltrating the vessel would no doubt prove difficult but, perhaps, not insurmountable for Trevor Page.

Njon Anjiliac (alias "Njon the Hutt")
■ Owner and CEO of Anjiliac™ brand Spiced Wines, Ltd., known leader of the Anjiliac crime family, suspected leader of the Hutt Cartel.
■ Suspected of grand larceny, embezzlement, extortion, and trafficking in slaves, spice, liquors, and weapons.

Trevor_Page

Date: Saturday, 12 Dec 2009, 6:21 AM | Message # 2

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Page walked with careful steadiness up the side street to where he parked the air speeder. Farther on was a supply depot, one of thousands scattered about Nar Shadda. He had become quite a student on the Hutt Cartel, learning their routines, vices, and the many faces. Anjiliac's throne was off world, in orbit. The investigation had gone cold. His only lead was up there, onboard the Franchise. He put all his hope into it.

It didn't bother him that this operation, to which he was committing his life, might yield such modest results as shadowy blobs on microfilm or incomplete conversations pointing to no where. He was in good spirits. Page conducted hundreds of infiltrations and so far hasn't had an ominous feeling about this particular operation.

If he found what he hoped he would find, then everything would take off once again. He hoped for evidence the assassin Havoc consorted with the Hutt Cartel and proof of his involvement a bar massacre. He was also the opportunistic sort. Any little bits of information he could gain on the Hutt Cartel would be invaluable to the New Republic.

He opened the cargo hold of the speeder. Within was an array of equipment, all of which was going with him into the belly of the beast. His primary weapon was a semi-automatic, silenced slugthrower with specialized shredder rounds ideal for tearing through flesh. A combat knife for the personal touch. A grappling gun powerful enough to carry a few hundred pounds. The rest consisted of a typical saboteur's load out: slicing equipment, lock picking and explosives. He spared no expense in the stealth element, having an armband containing a stealth field generator and several smoke pellets.

Once fully equipped, his appearance was reminiscent of Rebel Alliance infiltrators. They were dissolved after the Battle of Endor, but the New Republic was slow to forget. Espionage and sabotage was Mother's Milk to the Rebel Alliance. He donned a dark cloak to finish the look. Satisfied with the condition of his equipment, he locked up the air speeder and proceeded to the supply depot.

His plan was to breach the security of the supply depot, expecting poor to moderately trained guards and supply officers inside. Large shipments of spice was routinely moved from this depot to the Franchise where it would be disturbed to other locations. He'd hitch a ride onboard one of the transports, hiding in a barrel of sorts. While he could smuggle himself into the many spice containers, he chose instead a water container scheduled for delivery. All he would have to do is tamper with the control unit and adjust the amount of water loaded into the container. Then he would slip inside and wait. The thick metal casing would conceal his thermal signature, helping him bypass hangar security.

If he was successful in penetrating the supply depot and smuggling himself into one of the water containers, he would have to wait four long hours in the dark till the spice and other cargo were loaded into a transport.

He was confident in his plan. He proceeded towards the supply depot, interested only in infiltration and not taking lives.

Njon_the_Hutt

Date: Wednesday, 16 Dec 2009, 1:22 AM | Message # 3

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The depot consisted of a series of warehouses, some of them on the surface and some housed beneath—in which Njon kept all manner of illicit substances and commodities—all of which were arrayed around a duracrete landing pad and a series of freight turbolifts that connected to the rest of the complex. Most of the actual work was done by mindless loadlifter droids, programmed to move a specific crate to a specific location without even the capability of wondering why. As Page had surmised, ships were constantly coming and going from the complex, moving merchandise and supplies to and from the Franchise in orbit (which, in fact, could be seen from the surface of Nar Shaddaa rather easily with the naked eye; an intimidation factor that Njon relished).

The particular warehouse that Page had in mind (the one which stored the consumables, water, some fuel and alcohol—that is, the essentials) was near the edge of the complex. Its doors, facing into the complex, were wide open as loadlifters lumbered in and out, retrieving supplies for delivery to the central landing pad under the supervision of three guards and a Toydarian, who appeared to be a foreman and watched the warehouse and the droids like a hawk, occasionally banging one on the head with a datapad and cursing loudly at it in Huttese.

The back door to the warehouse was a small, unassuming one that was usually locked. However, one of the guards—a Gran—had snuck away from his three other colleagues while the Toydarian was distracted with one of the droids; he walked past stacks of containers, keeping out of sight, then opened the back door and stepped outside for a smoke. Worried that he might lock himself out, he foolishly set his blaster pistol on the ground to keep the door propped open and then, at last, eagerly lit up.

It would be all too easy, were it not for the security cameras that covered almost every inch of the complex. Whether or not anyone was actively observing them, however, Page could only guess.

Trevor_Page

Date: Friday, 18 Dec 2009, 4:57 PM | Message # 4

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The facility's main security perimeter was just beyond him now. He hurried along, not breaking his stride. In the darkness, Trevor Page was a shadow or gust of wind. Sometimes he could appear as nothing at all. He remained alert nonetheless. One mistake could bring disaster.

Not tonight. Despite the danger, he found he was calm. Page was aware of himself, the gear, and the world around him.

He moved clandestinely around the enemy by being where they weren't. He breached the outer defenses and moved amongst the warehouses. Enemy strength was unknown to him in this area. His motion center was picking up activity along all the different paths between the fat warehouses.

The security cameras made the movement on the ground especially restrictive. Instead, he took to the heights. From the rooftops he could get a bird's eye view of the ground. Page could only assume the enemy held such distaste for petty theft to install security cameras to cover the rooftops. He moved about cautiously, probing everything with a quick, discerning eye.

As he came close to the warehouse he was searching for, he noticed the noise and lights of the men at work. He had precious little time left. He moved quietly along the rooftop. The warehouse didn't seem to have a second floor, which was unfortunate. His ears caught a sound on the wind, he froze. His eyes moved to the rear of the warehouse. The backdoor. He noticed one of the guards had stepped away to smoke.

Now was when he considered his options. A moment after, he had decided. He scanned the warehouse below with the sensors located within the suit on his left hand. The information on the warehouse and supplies were uploaded to his tiny computer on his wrist (where he also checked the motion sensor). The different water supplies weren't loaded yet, after such essentials as fuel and alcohol. There was even less time now.

The agent took flight from the rooftop to the next as silently as possible. He favored the scouted path on his way to the power generator. If patterns repeated themselves, Page expected to find poor security around the power generator. Probably something static. He also expected the generator itself to be in pathetic condition. Probably barely alive, rigged to keep going despite the poor maintenance.

Should there be mobile security, he would wait patiently and move around them. He was ready to retreat or fight if it were required. Death still wasn't an option. If he encountered a security camera he had a crude plan of attack.

Sometimes the cameras would glance side to side, unstopping. Others would simply stare forward. Regardless which he would encounter, Page would throw a bit of random junk at it if he was confident it wouldn't alert anyone. Once its gaze was off center, he would creep in on its blind side and disable it. Not destroy it, but leave it requiring maintenance.

To the generator itself he would apply a small amount of explosive gel with remote detonation. The detonation would be small enough to rupture the generator and require a few replacement parts. Nothing that couldn't be scrounged together with less than an hour's delay.

Page climbed back to the rooftops and returned to his warehouse as quickly as possible. If he had gone to the power generator first he might have had a chance to take advantage of the idle guard in the rear. If the guard was still smoking by this time, then Page's fortunate would be unusually high. Any rooftop entry point would be of interest to him. With his fiber optic cable, he scanned the road ahead. Fortune favored the prepared. He couldn't just drop into the middle of them as though he were some Jedi.

Besides, he didn't feel like being a hero. Not tonight. He just wanted to get the job done and get back to Coruscant. Not tonight.

Njon_the_Hutt

Date: Saturday, 02 Jan 2010, 0:12 AM | Message # 5

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(( Shameful for me to take so long to post! I apologize. ))

It wasn't the fear of petty theft that caused Njon to install cameras about the compound; anyone who was anyone on Nar Shaddaa knew that the Hutt moved tons of spice in and out of these warehouses every day—hundreds of thousands of credits worth. It was a testament to the influence of the Hutt Cartel on the planet that theft was not attempted often. Such theft would have consequences, and Njon's recent venture at Taris proved to anyone who doubted it that there was nowhere the Hutt wouldn't or couldn't find his enemies. But revenge was expensive, and so was spice. Thus, the cameras.

Njon did not usually pay attention to the cameras, but he was today. Earlier that afternoon, an apparently "rogue" Jedi had trashed one of his cantinas, and since then he'd been visited by an assortment of strange characters. The cameras, there, had been helpful. Njon was currently sitting in his security room aboard the Franchise, far above Nar Shaddaa. His holoscreen had just turned off, from a transmission that had just ended with a potential associate on the planet. His large brow was furrowed in thought, and the room was silent until he glanced at the Duros that stood beside him. "Are you certain?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir. The transmission was monitored," the Duros answered in Huttese.

"Did we find out who was listening?"

Directly behind Njon was a large bank of monitors, displaying the live feeds from dozens of security cameras. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except that a number of monitors for his shipping complex were winking out one after another. Njon, of course, didn't see it; he was facing the wrong way. The Duros, who was Njon's security chief aboard the Franchise, didn't see it either because the Hutt's massive form was blocking his view. "No," the Duros said, looking pensively at his datapad, "The trace was incomplete. We only have a general location, above the cantina."

"In the building?" Njon asked, clearly troubled by this possibility. No one infiltrated his property, and worked mischief within. No one.

"No, no," the Duros was quick to reply, "It's above the building, apparently."

"In a ship..." the Hutt mused.

"It would seem so, Sir. We're scanning the area now, and we'll have more information shortly."

Njon heaved his bulk into motion and began to lumber his way toward the door, away from the monitors. He wasn't as sedentary as most Hutts. He was as fat as he needed to be—girth was a status symbol in Hutt culture—but he was deceptively so; much of his bulk was, in fact, muscle. In this case, however, it wouldn't be much needed for the short distance to his suite. The Duros turned to walk beside him. "I'm going to be in my quarters," Njon said, "I'll recieve your update there. Oh, wait." He stopped, lumbered about, and made his way back into the security room (in the direction of the monitors, the cluster of black screens now standing out quite conspicuously from the others).

He stopped right in front of the display, paused, looked about.

Then he saw it.

That is, the keycard he left on the desk in front of the monitors. He needed it to unlock the door to his suite (one of the few doors on the Franchise, in fact, that was regularly locked). The Hutt slipped it into one of the satchels that adorned him, turned about, and left the room. The Duros had been staring at his datapad the entire time, and hadn't noticed anything amiss. The two started down the corridor, and the door to the security room closed behind them. "We must be cautious, and perceptive," Njon said to the security chief, "Now more than ever."

"Yes, Sir."