{Coruscant / Senate Chamber / 26 BBY}
The Galactic Senate was once again in session—an increasingly common occurrence given the recent events shaking the galaxy, especially those on Bespin. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, accompanied by Mas Amedda and Sly Moore, presided over the assembly, prepared to address the matter at hand.
Mas Amedda granted the floor to the Senator of Alderaan, Bail Organa, a well-known member of the pacifist faction within the Senate.
"As all honorable members of this chamber know, the galaxy grows less peaceful with each passing day. Criminal organizations, corporations with private armies, and separatist movements threaten to tear apart this ancient institution. The most recent event occurred only days ago, just before this session—on the world of Bespin, which appears to have bowed to an external power and suffered a situation much like that of Naboo years ago."
His words ignited outrage and shouting from several Senate representatives, especially those connected to the matter at hand—namely, the delegates from Bespin and Cato Neimoidia—forcing Mas Amedda to call for order.
"Order! I said, order!"
Once the uproar subsided somewhat, Senator Organa resumed. "But that is not the only matter. Since when have the Jedi, as guardians of the Republic, been meant to act as mediators in political disputes rather than as true keepers of the peace? What is most concerning about these events is the intervention of this institution's defense forces on a member world such as Bespin. Let us not forget, Senators, these are—"
What followed was a session lasting more than three hours, filled with debates over the events on Bespin, what measures should be taken, and Bespin's standing in the affair. In the end, nothing was resolved, as opinions were wildly divided—save for a few who argued in favor of forcibly acquiring the gas reserves.
While the powerful debated their course of action, deep below the glittering towers of Coruscant—in depths so dangerous that even the police and judiciary forces dared not enter—a gang war raged. The conflict had erupted due to the arrival of a new player in the underworld: the Santa Muerte Cartel, known for their skull-face paint, tattoos, and extensive use of projectile firearms instead of blasters, owing to their lower cost.
In one of the dimly lit streets, two members of the Red Devils were collecting protection fees from a local shop under their control.
"Old man, it's time to pay up—or maybe this time we'll take one of your legs instead. My friend here would be more than happy to help you out," said a Rodian thug, gesturing toward his Gamorrean companion, who replied with a grunt.
"I'm sorry, but I barely have enough to eat. Please, let me speak with Frenn Oskel—he'll surely make sure we reach an understanding."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible. He's been rather busy lately. So pay up—or we'll make you pay in pain."
The onlookers were accustomed to such scenes, most of them trying to live normal lives and avoid gang business, though always watching from a distance.
"Excuse me—are you Zhoran? Zhoran the Octopus?" came a calm voice from behind the Rodian.
"And who the hell do you think you—" He turned to face the speaker, his words cut short when he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Before he could finish his sentence, a loud shot echoed through the street.
BANG!
Several more shots followed, this time aimed at the Gamorrean. The assailant then left a message behind before fleeing the scene.
"Greetings from Señor Donoso."
For the inhabitants of Level 1316, this was nothing unusual—just another day in their lives since the Cartel had taken root, consuming smaller organizations and growing ever stronger. The man behind these executions sat high above, in one of Coruscant's skyscrapers, gazing out at the skyline—with a perfect view of both the Senate Building and the Jedi Temple.
His name: R.R. Donoso. To the galaxy, he was a philanthropist, a collector of relics and history, who made his fortune through trade and transport. But to the followers of Santa Muerte, he was the chosen executor, the one tasked with guiding them to the next life.
"It's done, boss. With this, the status quo is bound to change."
"And the little birds—have they flown the nest yet?"
"Yes, they've grown splendidly. Unfortunately, the canary and the swallow still try to spread their wings."
"In that case, give them a little push. And if instead of flying, they fall—well, there's nothing to be done. Also, prepare everything for our upcoming operations. The product must be ready for immediate distribution. Make sure the next shipment is properly handled. Use force if necessary, and secure full control of Levels 1320, 16, and 32. It's time we rid ourselves of the pests feeding off the fruits of our labor. You know what to do if it comes to that."
"As you command." With a bow, the subordinate left the room, which soon fell into a sepulchral silence.
With each passing day, skirmishes between corporations and the Republic intensify. Militias rise across underdeveloped worlds, each under its own banner. Soon, war will erupt—and with it, the galaxy will once again drown in pain and misery, yearning for a savior to bring peace and stability.
Though I try to distance myself from this coming storm, I see no escape from conflict—from violence and death.
Si vis pacem, para bellum.
"That you are not interested in politics does not mean politics is not interested in you." — Pericles