Tucked inside the Anvil was a chamber utilized by one of Clan Vizsla's chief advisors and head of the Zsoldos Intelligence Division.
From the banners of Mandalorian origin, technocratic symbolism had been woven into the tapestries that hung on either side of a seat lined with glowing buttons and view screens. Yet, it wasn't out of mockery that these banners were created, quite the contrary. It was a collective, a cohesion that operated for the betterment of the Clan. Even though Zor Gron walked outside the lines of Mandalorian culture even while immersed in it, he remained loyal to the cause and secretly used these warriors for self-advancement. Conspiring for power beyond what could be comprehended by those incapable of tapping into the mysterious Force.
However, this same chamber served a sinister dual purpose.
"Sir, we need those shipments!" A diplomat from King's Dawn slammed a fist into the palm of his hand in a vain attempt to show dominance and authority.
The wrinkled flesh of the Skakoan appeared to glow beneath the lighting of his seat and his pressurized suit groaned and hissed as it pumped vital nutrients and gas into his body. A translator flashed as a string of unintelligible words were translated into what could best be described as a robotic tone.
"Your assertiveness is born out of dependency, Senator," Zor showed no emotion as he addressed those in attendance. "I encourage you to rethink your position and urge you to consider changing your tone when speaking to me. Your shipment will arrive on time."
"Th-thank you, sir."
Remaining motionless, even after the trembling bow from the diplomat, the Skakoan's mind was alive with thought as he soaked in the fear emanating from those slithering through the doorway. The need to partake in an addiction turned obsession overwhelmed him so much that his analytical droid, a JN-66 picked up on it.
"Master, if you need to step away, I can handle matters here."
Gron stood to his feet and lurched forward without skipping a beat as the flickering red light in his cranial cybernetic sped up, anticipating the satisfaction that stemmed from dabbling in his dark secret. Few knew that he was in fact a practitioner of the Sith arts, a powerful Force User that desired power through mechanized dominion, possessing creations infused with Darkside energies. Stepping behind his throne of privilege, the cybernetic arm attached to his armor craned over his right shoulder and the claw clamped onto a series of holes in the wall and twisted open a lock that released a seal in what was seemingly a wall panel.
As the door slid open, a cold and noxious air oozed out of a dimly lit corridor. The room beyond was filled with methane. Not only was it comfortable for him and allowed him to walk freely without his pressurized suit. But had the room ever been infiltrated, to breathe in the toxins would mean death to most species. Lining the walls were an assortment of tubes and dim red lights that reflected off of the eerie fog that swirled throughout the chamber as he walked by. The contents of a variety of beakers, vials, and test tubes rippled as lines fed unknown fluids into them. Computer terminals cut through the dense darkness and as the corridor opened up into a larger room, four bacta tanks contained abnormal creatures at various stages of growth and maturity.
Overhead, seemingly endless chatter echoed through his domicile. Communication feeds from those who constantly fed intelligence updates. To the ordinary being, this chaos would be maddening and stressful. To Zor Gron it was merely fuel for his inner furnace. A furnace that burned hotter than his dark forge lined with ancient alchemical runes.
He sunk into a black chair, worn from use, and glanced at the far wall which was decorated with the lightsabers of fallen Jedi, trophies he had plucked from their lifeless bodies. While he had a basic understanding of how to wield them. Taking time to hone his skills with such an archaic weapon was considered a waste of time when compared to the unfathomable power one could attain from fully immersing oneself in the Darkside.
Whirring around, his cybernetic armor attachment clamped down on his mask and with a hiss, the pressure of his suit was released and his mask was pulled free. A toothless maw opened wide as he took a deep breath and his eyelids slid open to reveal burning golden eyes. It was time to get to work.