An elongated parapet stretched to what resembled infinity before Raith's ample eyes. An outstanding stroll, mounted upon dull durasteel plating, sounded rapidly and stressed with each hasty point of contact. Rivets pounded scruffily into the expansive slabs layering each under-toning arch, however, forced one to place every step with care in fear of plummeting to one's demise. Today Sienar did not intend to be agitated with such concerns; his mind was set and bent on a single aspiration. Heck, he wouldn't mind the plummet if this potential assent was failed to be initiated...it was all that mattered.

Wicked torrents of wind and rain deluged the exposed factory and consequentially barraged Raith in its madness. Robes of tone baring commendations from all corners of the galaxy stuck to him as if dear life. Tempests abroad forced even his powerful stature to slouch in its fury. With eyes shrouded immensely by stubborn lids, visibility declined to nearly zero. Hopes of arriving early were long lost in the supremacy of accelerated crosswinds.

And it was over.

Obstinate currents of animosity subsided, hail stung no more, and rain ceased to drench. Besides periodic roars ejected from engineers aloof: serene quiet. The forward containment cell had been engaged to repel the whims of nature in an obviously belated activation.

With bags of inflated garments on every soupcon physiologically open, streams of twirling drainage beaded Sienar's dark hair and fled to his face of heated enmity. In retaining a relatively nonchalant persona, Raith averted direction and retrogressed to his outer-most dormitory after muttering a shortened phrase.

"Damn it all."



Upon arrival, a protocol droid stood upright in temporary stasis. With a polished sheet of copper-like alloy enveloping its core infrastructure in addition to every appendage, the model's physical framing was a design Sienar had never ceased to compliment himself on. Not only did the SienarF-2 Protocol please its beholder's eye, but also the manufacturer's wallet; a lucrative industry Sienar was rather fond of.

"Assimilate an expired piece of art with adjoined structural renovations, energy transponders, and a revolutionized central interface core, and you've fulfilled the recipe for a masterpiece," Sienar became known for droning to both loyal and new patrons.

Once indulged beneath reminisces of his own past exploits, the shrieking yet insipid voice of the protocol droid - having activated on automated drives - reminded him of obligations in dire need of attention.

"Sir, it appears that you have been trapped amongst the natural clamo-"

"Yes, yes. Reaffirm Argon's lack of arrival with Secter 10-B as I change attire. Make haste!"

Raith stood with vast anxiety shadowing his eyes as his fingers fumbled in a quiver over brass buttons faceted to a dark negligee. A humble chronometer set into chromium casing read a discouraging 123:33 -- five standard increments late of original anticipations to turning-up at a diplomatic sector nearly a mile away. His eyes glared of denial to personal flaw; still, he could all but neglect blame to the wet clothes swathed over a chair only to rot. Brash had gotten the best of him once again.

Countless finance feats, each diversified on a productive basis, had contorted to his grand scheme of revenue over decades. And regardless to commonplace arrogance towards similar matters - this noteworthy investment made him tremble by reminiscence of any pertinent factor. He felt the opportunity having presented itself before him not only to be “one of those,” although also the epitome of enterprise salvation…his savior. Coming to a decade, isolation as consequence to vicious galactic law enforcement agencies sniffing his tracks became solitary reality. Past antics and future expectations served as fuel for the marauding beasts, leaving utter disappearance the lone option of resolve. The irony of establishing Sienar Fleet Systems initially to evade ethical struggles in allegiance to a precise military machine troubled him all the more. Deny the passion ascertained for industry he could not, nevertheless receiving the opposite of what he setout to accomplish continued to irritate him.

“Sir-”

[i]Yet again the repetitive droid interrupted Raith’s contemplation without a hint of intemperance. Its words, seeming to emit from a measly dense tube, naturally annoyed the irritable. When drunk or unusually sincere, Sienar would gladly divulge his hatred for droids abroad; the genres he personally created even were admitted to be bulky and monotonous in comparison to their living counterparts. As he considered it thoroughly, that aspect contributed to his reluctance in serving for the military years ago. Parallel to progressing times, droids serving as servants or even soldiers increased radically – both his value to tactical function and his will to assist terminated soon after.

“So…?”

“Yes sir. Argon and his entourage have been reported to enter the troposphere approximately…five standard minutes ago. A landing beacon has been reported to commence approximately…two standard minutes ago.”

“Very well, be certain they’re occupied until my arrival,” Sienar remarked in disdain with thoughts still persisting on his austere reality.[/b]

Fallrix rolled his eyes. The man projected in a holographic display before him seemed to have been seduced by some pathetic beggar of a business man's plee for mercy- a pathetic sight, to be sure.

'Sir, they say that the recent attacks by pirates-'

"I told you, Gret, I don't care; they know those binoc-op sensors aren't worth more than 4 credits each: they're not getting more than 4 credits each."

'But-'

Argon cut off the transmission. He was a realist, not a moralist- it was against his better judgement to even buy the things, in the first place. The fact that consumers were somewhat appeased by them should have been overridden by the backlash they would cause when certain faults in them were brought to light.

But he'd allowed himself to be convinced into buying the things by the fact that he could, in the end, make a profit out of it- provided he conducted a little market-maneuvering.

Acting as an intermediary for trading businesses was always profitable.

'Mr. Argon, we've got landing clearance.'

The shuttle pilot spoke with a disciplined tone- Fallrix valued discipline. He would ensure this one recieved a due promotion; enough to spur him to work harder, but not to drain the Trade Federation of resources by paying for his vacation to Naboo.

"Good. Bring us in."