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| - There was a tale that spread on the lips of hopeful dreamers, of the everliving presence of those that have become one with the Force. Few alive these days had ever seen such an apparition, let alone believed in their existence. Like something out of one of those tales via technology that was common enough to be taken for granted, the visage of Loy appears projected above the holo projecter. The dapper reporter, semi transparent and swathed in blue-white light, smiles as he looks out at the room as though he were truly there. He says with a voice just on the edge of performance, "Mr. Smitherbodkins. I... received your message to make contact. I'm sorry that I could not come to you in person, but... well. You're a business man like myself, and I'm sure you know what it's like to get caught in your work." Smitherbodkins is seated at his desk, a short stack of papers in front of him and a stylus in his hand. His head is bent over the paper, the stylus moving gracefully across it, leaving its indelible trail behind. As the image of Loy shimmers into existence, however, the noise of the holoprojector causes him to raise his head, and his thoughtful expression melts into a smile. "Mr. Marin," he begins, moving the paper to the top of the stack and straightening it, "good of you to return my call. I absolutely know how busy you are." His tone is pleasant, though there's a slight emphasis on the word "busy;" however, it could just be a glitch in the communication. "I hope you are well?" "I'm as well as can be expected," Loy says, spreading his hands. The sound of Loy's voice is as hollow as his image, yet he still manages to maintain a smooth unctuousness. "Before we begin, I suppose I should congratulate you," Loy continues, bowing his head slightly to Smitherbodkins. "There have not been that many men in your position that have managed to get out of sight of my cameras as smoothly and as eloquently as you have. It makes my job a bit more difficult, but I've always prided myself on rising to a good challenge." A chuckle escapes Smitherbodkins at this, and he leans back, regarding the image of Loy sardonically. "Well, I believe we both know how my last interview with you turned out for me, so perhaps you cannot blame me if I am a bit more reticent? But don't despair, Mr. Marin. I have something coming down the pipe that will give me plenty of face time with your camera. I would trust it to no one else but you." "First, though: the reason for the call." He steeples his fingers in front of him, "May I inquire what you think of the recent events in the CSA?" He doesn't expand on what he means, but of course Loy, being Loy, would know. Loy does not answer immediately. He brings a luminescent hand to his face and presses the knuckle of his index finger to his lips, thoughtfully. His eyes remain fixed on Smitherbodkins, but even with the slight crackle and fuzz of a holo transmission, it's clear that Loy isn't really seeing anything as he considers his answer carefully. Finally, he says with a smile, "I think things are never what they appear to be, on the surface. It's unlikely, yet possible, that you and Mr. Qwynt have realized my grand design for you and the Direx board, and you're enjoying the stage. The Toydarian fleeing, with a star destroyer of all things, gives the audience the impression of action and intrigue. It's the sort of marketing that can't be bought. People rooting for your side of the public dispute will believe you've gained a victory, and buy more of your products and invest. People siding with Mr. Qwynt will be curious about what his next move will be. And they, too, will buy his products, and invest. It's what I put forward to Qwynt many days ago." Loy pauses to shake his head before continuing, "But I don't think that you two are working together on this. No, I think that you managed to get a grip on him and started to squeeze, and like a bar of greasy soap, he slipped away. The woman that died was a casualty caught in the cross-fire." Smitherbodkins listens thoughtfully to Loy's interpretation of the events, nodding along at some points, raising his eyebrows at others as though surprised. However, he does not speak, allowing the man to give his full opinion on the subject. The reporter understands the public, that much is obvious. The mention of the woman, though. Now -that- manages to pull some emotion from him, however slight. His lips press into a thin line and his gaze hardens. When he finally speaks, however, his voice is well controlled, almost flat. "I don't condone killing innocent people, Mr. Marin. Oh," he continues, waving a hand away as though what he says next is of little consequence, "I don't deny that CSA policies sometimes conflict with worker quality of life. Industry has its casualties, as you say. But that...no. Never that." He pauses, his eyes trained on the face of the face of IGNews, "Mr. Qwynt, however...now he is a different matter. Shall I show you?" Loy turns and takes a few steps to his right. The image is disconcerting, as the luminescent reporter's legs move, but the image remains firmly in place above the projector. Loy doesn't move far on his end; wherever he is, he doesn't seem to have much room to pace. "Before you show me what you have to show," Loy says, raising a hand, palm towards Smitherbodkins. "Before we continue, I would like to point out that there is an argument... one that I even believe, sometimes... that there are no innocents. Only those of varying degrees of guilt that haven't been caught yet." Loy grimaces before hurrying on, "But I think from your expression that perhaps what I should be saying is, 'I'm sorry for your loss.' I have no idea what the woman meant to you, but I'm sure she was quite precious. Please. Continue." "Perhaps you're right," Smitherbodkins concedes, spreading his hands wide in acceptance of the man's assessment. "Certainly none of us are entirely blameless." He doesn't continue right away; instead, he reaches forward and presses a button on his desk. The picture behind the desk vanishes, and in its place is a viewer. He stands, moving his chair so that Loy has an unobstructed view of the screen. "This isn't quite up to the standards of IGNews. After all, it's only a rough cut. No editing to tell your story." The screen winks on. It's the Direx board room, the version of it that Loy showed in his report. The wall is ripped out, and the giant black throne looms over the rest of the seats. There's no sound, but the picture is pristine and the players are easily identified. One is Smitherbodkins himself; the second, G. S. Qwynt VIII, dressed in a robe, wearing a white curled wig with a crown atop it, his cheeks painted a brilliant red; and the third, Miranda Jabs. The three are obviously conversing, Jabs standing well back from the sheer drop, Smitherbodkins moving toward it as Qwynt's mouth moves, his arms waving, one of which holds a glittering scepter. Smitherbodkins is at the gaping hole. Qwynt puts his arm around the man's shoulders. Then, suddenly, Qwynt maneuvers to the side and gives Smitherbodkins a vigorous kick, sending him flying outward into thin air. Smitherbodkins has not been narrating thus far, but as soon as the image of him goes over the edge, he quips, "CSA security feeds leave much to be desired, but the quality of their new cameras are quite good, I think." Loy shakes his head at the conclusion of the video. He remains silent for several moments, simply studying Smitherbodkins. Loy's expression is unreadable. Clearly, the sick inner workings of the reporter's brain were tumbling over and processing what he'd just seen, trying to fit each piece into some unseen story. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of Ms. Jabs," Loy says at last. "I do recognize her, of course. I may have to correct my ignorance before things get too far out of hand." "But yes, the video is good," Loy continues, nodding. "And I know where you're going with this. You want a story that shows the Direx Prex unprovoked attempted murder of Lord Geophreigh Smitherbodkins IV. A public display showing Qwynt as both a clown, a tyrant, and a murderer. With his recent flight, you know that I will make a story that will end him in the eyes of the viewers. Am I right?" Smitherbodkins looks affronted, though it's clearly feigned, and puts a rather overly dramatic hand to his chest as he sits down in front of the screen once again. "Mr. Marin, you wound me," he says, shaking his head sadly. "If nothing else, I've learned that if I want to be portrayed positively in my little tiff with Mr. Qwynt, I cannot go to you. No," he continues, "I merely show you this so that you know who you're dealing with. I know he made you promises. How likely do you think it is that he'll keep them, the second he sees that you stand in his way? He tried to kill me because he saw me as a threat. If it had been Ms. Jabs that had gone to the ledge, he'd have done it to her just as quickly, and with as few regrets. You may think that you are invincible, that being the face of IGNews gives you protection. I assure you, it does not. He will give as little thought to killing you as he did to me, as he did to the ExO. As he did to that woman." "I do have a story for you, however." "I'm interested in your story," Loy says, his transparent form turning and pacing in place the opposite direction he'd walked before. "I'll hear it. But again, I think I should tell you something, Mr. Smitherbodkins. I'm not a stupid man. I have been called ambitious, and I've been blind to dangers, but I know exactly the sort of creature Mr. Qwynt is. He's the same sort of creature you could be, one day. The same sort that Ms. Salibar is, now. "It's true that Mr. Qwynt has made me some promises," Loy says, crossing his arms in front of him. "The thing to remember with the Qwynts of this galaxy is... they are as predictable as any predator. The Toydarian is just a bit more obvious about it. Someone like Ms. Salibar wouldn't push you out a hole into open air. Someone like Ms. Salibar would put something in your drink, or have your vitamins replaced with poison. No, Mr. Smitherbodkins. I'm not worried by the antics of Mr. Qwynt. I'm more worried what Ms. Salibar might do. Or what you may do, once you realize that on the other side of that line that you may be afraid to cross is just... nothing." A shadow of Smitherbodkins' former smile crosses his face as he listens to Loy, though something else flits behind his eyes; a darkness that is at once at odds with his courtly, formal, even frivolous behavior, and yet somehow also quintessentially him. When he speaks once more, he's dropped all his affected mannerisms: the booming, jovial voice, the overdone gestures, the iron wall of courtesy that hides his true feelings. "Ah, but I have something that neither Mr. Qwynt nor Ms. Silabar have. I suspect you recognize it, though perhaps you don't understand it. I have honor. "My story is this. In three days' time, it shall be announced that I have acquired the Corellian Engineering Corporation. I have much bigger aims than Mr. Qwynt's rabble-rousing. My loyalty is, first and foremost, to Corellia, to the wellbeing of its denizens." And, of course, to the credits that he stands to make from the deal. "I want you to make the announcement. No one else would capture it as you will." "Ah, is that why you're on Corellia," Loy says, looking at something off to his right. He reaches towards whatever he was looking at and touches something. Turning back to Smitherbodkins, Loy says, "Yes, I know what honor is. It's useful. It has its place. News stories are made that much sweeter when one of the antagonists is honorable. It's why the public spectacle between you and Mr. Qwynt is so sweet. "But I think I'm starting to deviate towards ground we've already covered," Loy continues. His voice crackles with the last word, and his image flickers. As good as their connection seems to be, there are still reminders that millions of miles separates the two men. "I will make the announcement, as you request. Is there a particular angle you would like me to highlight?" Smitherbodkins hesitates, tilting his head slightly to one side as he scrutinizes Loy, choosing his words carefully, as he knows they'll surely be twisted somehow. Finally he answers, "I want you to emphasize a new era for the CEC. It is has the finest engineers in the galaxy, the most innovative designs, but there are still new heights for it to reach, new goals to be achieved. This is what I wish the shareholders to see, Mr. Marin. The shareholders, and the galaxy at large." He reaches into his desk, taking out a glass and a bottle of a deep, rich amber liquid. He uncorks the bottle and pours himself a generous measure. "The fighting on Corellia will not last forever. Out of the ashes, we shall rise again, harder and stronger for our efforts. A righteous cause, as Mr. Qwynt has managed to realize, pulls people together like nothing else. Show the galaxy that this is only the beginning of the CEC, and on a grander scale, Corellia itself." Cocking his head to one side, Loy says, "Is the honorable Mr. Smitherbodkins going to war? A shipyard like what you've acquired does its best business when its products are getting destroyed. There's business during times of peace, of course, but it's nothing like what you'll see when the blasters are blasting. Tell me... will you be taking a side in the Corellian conflict?" "Of course I shall," Smitherbodkins says, and one eyebrow raises ever so slightly as he reclines easily in his chair, "but would you really want me to rob you of the pleasure of finding out which?" His smile is back, and he reaches forward to the papers in front of him once more, jotting something down. "I shall have my office communicate my statement to you, as well as other technical details I wish you to include. Is that acceptable?" The reporter nods and smiles as he says, "That should be fine. Depending on the material you send, I should be able to make the good viewers in their various homes see you as a bringer of hope to a war ravaged world. A man of honor, taking up a mantle of leadership, when swift, decisive action is needed most. I can see images of Corellian ships leaving construction berths and taking to the Corellian sky, their armor unblemished as they move to join the fight. "Hope in the midst of war and conflict makes for a great start to a story," Loy continues, steepling his fingers. "But I cannot think of the last story in this galaxy where the ending was happy for the hero of honorable business. Sometimes they are murdered, but usually they become corrupt. It's like a force of nature. First the public tries to convince them that they are like a god, and then they start to believe it." "Ah, but you haven't though of everything, Mr. Marin." Smitherbodkins takes a long draught from his glass, not stopping to savor the subtle flavors, as he usually does, but instead downing the liquid in one swallow, setting the now empty glass down in front of him with a loud *THUD*. "History has shown me that I am no god, and I already know that the ending to my story will be anything but happy." Loy starts to open his mouth, ready to seize on some minor point. Looking at the empty glass in front of Smitherbodkins, Loy seems to think better of whatever he was going to say. He licks his insubstantial lips, perhaps thinking of finding a nice bottle of something for himself. Putting his hands together before him, Loy bows at the waist, keeping his eyes on Smitherbodkins. It was a formal gesture. As he rises, he says, "I look forward to seeing what history has to say about you, Mr. Smitherbodkins. And I look forward to the documents for the story. Until next time." With that said, Loy reaches once again to something invisible on his end of the galaxy. One moment he's there in his shimmering blue light, the next the holo project goes silent, a tiny fan deep within its mechanisms audibly spinning down.
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