Machiavelli Station (Open IC)

[Skeelzania]

“The Dominion's commitment to trade and co-prosperity is well noted, even in distant Gamma. It is part of what originally drew our attention when we reached out again towards Sol.” Enguerrand said while still in the lift. He stopped playing with his hat and gave Clemente a pointed look. “And of course, the Dominion has the advantage of having never fired on a Skeelzanian vessel.”

The lift came to a halt, its doors opening on to the conference room. Low murmurs of approval from the four diplomats in white at the sight of the furnishings, which Enguerrand did not care to emulate as he strode across his seat. The diplomats followed and took flanking seats, whilst the FS Guardsmen dispersed about the room. Two stood directly behind Enguerrand, while the remaining six divided themselves among the three walls (sans the one with the lift).

Setting his cap over his knee, Enguerrand steepled his fingers and looked directly down and across at Clemente. “An excellent question, Commander,” the Archduke replied. “If you will permit me, I will answer in long form.

“At first glance there seems to be little that would draw the Sternreich’s attention to Sol. We are a remote nation and the foremost power in our region of space. Our fleets and armies are strong, and our spirit stronger. Through strength of arms and strength of will we have beaten back the Xenos that infest the far reaches of space, ensuring the further spread and continuing triumph of Humankind. Why should the Sternreich return to an astrologically unremarkable star system, where some of our greatest humiliations played out?”

Enguerrand shrugged. “I cannot say why our hearts tell us to seek our Place in Sol. Perhaps it is because, even after centuries and dimensions removed, Terra is our ultimate birthplace. Or maybe, as some of our local apologists claim, Sol truly is the center and great font of all civilization in this galaxy.

“I have doubts regarding that.”

Silence as the Skeelzanian leaned forward and selected a glass of smoky liquor from the table. Settling back into his seat, he gently swirled the glass before tasting the drink. Only then did he continue. “What I, and more importantly the Kaiser, have no doubts about is that the Solar System, these few planets and satellites orbiting a half-dead yellow star, has riches that surpass Skeelzania’s a thousand fold. Technologies are employed here that are not even theoretically possible, according to the mathematicians on Solomon. I would not be at all surprised if, in the course of a standard Terran year, the wealth passed through this single station exceeds than the entire Skeelzanian Gross Domestic Product.

“What I am about to say is not greatly known outside of the Sternreich, something we would like to maintain. I am trusting both your personal discreteness and that of the Dominion as a whole. If control of this information is lost, it could provoke certain nations, perhaps nations allied with your own, to try and take advantage of Skeelzania. Fortunately Skeelzania is not as weak as that, but I think we can all agree that a fullscale interstellar war is very bad for business.”
Lifting his glass to his lips, Enguerrand calmly drank its entire contents. “This is the information: In the last four years our economy has contracted nearly thirty percent. Production of consumer goods has collapsed. Starvation is fortunately remote, but our fleets are growing strained and our shipyards are failing to keep pace with demand. Loss of several fringe systems to Orks and pirates was only staved off by deploying enough atomics to jumpstart a small sun.

“The decision has been made that it is imperative to restore, or more accurately to create, beneficial relations between Skeelzania and as much as Sol as possible. We desire technological interchanges, trade, even foreign investment, if you can believe that! Eight hundred years of independence and expansion, and now we need Solar funds to bring our economy back to respectability.

“The Dominion is in the unique position in regards to helping us to achieve that goal.” Enguerrand brusquely passed his empty glass to the diplomat on his left, who took the trouble of setting it back on the table. Flexing his shoulders in agitation, the Archduke’s voice changed from heated to icy. “You are one of the few Solar powers to not jump on the ‘Shoot the Skeek’ bandwagon two hundred plus years ago. You are connected to at least two powerful alliances, with the ear of many nations who did see fit to humiliate us in the past. Furthermore, and do not take this as an insult, you Dominioners seem to have a keen sense of gold.

“So. First things first. The Skeelzanian Sternreich would like to open a formal embassy on Machiavelli Station to facilitate political and economic interchanges between our nation and the forward-looking states of Sol. From there we may begin negotiating in regards to increased trade and especially foreign investment. The Sternreich has the mineral wealth of a quarter of the galaxy to mine, but our equipment is outdated and we need markets. And of course, our own civilian markets are comparatively wide open. In exchange for an Embassy and Dominion assistance in normalizing relations, we are willing to grant the Dominion Favored Nation Status when it comes to economic dealings with the Sternreich.”

[Scolopendra]

Tskra allows herself a little smile at the disguised elf's response. He likes to play at charades, hrrr? A most welcome addition to my little collection of who's-who, I think. If he wants to continue the game, well, I can play right along... "But of course, gracious sir. Anyone who cannot see that must be poorly informed at best, or perhaps unfortunately deprived in terms of visual acuity."

With her free arm she pushes the inner doors wide open and steps through, moderating her pace to account for the shorter steps of the gentleman she escorts. Pausing just far enough inside the salon so that the doors can close automatically behind her, she flicks her ears and announces in a clear and naturally sensuous in a husky whiskey-and-cigarettes voice: "My most esteemed friends, allow me to present to you the honorable Mister"--while she makes it sound truly auspicious, she clearly seems to be having some harmless fun with it, and continues with the moderately false name she had been given (since if he had given his true name, he could not go incognito as he currently is)--"a gentleman of the only the finest and noblest breeding who has earned the place of being my special guest tonight."

After all, she doesn't know she's been mistaken for a bodyguard.

[Aelosia]

Such a delightful deep tone. Such throats would be prized as an entertaiment in Daeros Houses of Music across Aelosia, minstrel would appreciate the basso, said the Marquis to himself, enjoying, as usual, the contact with alien species.

Strong, too. Amazing bodyguards. Forget the droids and the Dragons, I want a Kzin caretaker!, he added to himself as soon as the Scolopendran opened the doors with a single arm, following close to the Kzin as best as he could, almost walking in the tip of his toes to diminish the difference in height, although that could barely be noted by any observer. Bless all those Minuets and Gigas in the court rooms for this kind of balance.

The Marquis brought as back as he could his keffiyeh so he could show his face to everyone around. Sindajin was a name as better as any other, and had that tasty arabic flavor that went well with the setting, so choosing it was a no brainer. Anyone smart enough as to relate his slightly sharp elven features with the "Sinda" part of his name and discovered he was an elf was worth talking to, anyway, so it was a good selection test.

He bowed his head slightly to those gathered around him, as in acknowledgement of outstanding company, and finally leaned a few inches towards his Kzin companion again. "Perfect place, and perfect company. Now I would love to be introduced to the Lady of the House, as long as she available, so I could show her my gratitude. Oh, and also I am interested in knowing if you have any siblings that I could turn into my business associates"

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Enguerrand’s initial comments were of course, met with approval and no small amount of pride by the Dominioners present. The idea that reputation, and a good one, had spread so far was never a bad thing in any of their eyes. Though there was a bit of wry chuckling at the ‘never fired on’ bit from the Commander, nodding in understanding.

“Civilization is often … overrated,” Clemente agreed. “I doubt any one nation, alliance, system, or galaxy can lay a valid claim to be the end-all answer to it. After all, it is what we choose to make of it, no? I would agree with your summation of the inherent potential here in Sol – and the general area. Even nations who do not call Sol home have ties here that can be utilized, if one knows where to look and who to talk to. Admittedly, that is part of the intent in building this station – to reach out and create a waypoint for those groups who might not normally have dealings with one another, which is why we view your request in a more positive light than some might think.”

“You can be certain of our discretion,” Giovanna interjects, picking up where Clemente left off. “We have never been of an imperialistic bent, set on imposing our will or our military on others. I for one agree that such wars and unfortunate incidents put a serious damper on business, no less the betterment of relations overall. Your difficulties are not unique, as unfortunate as they are, and I don’t doubt that given the right promotion, there are ample markets to access here who should have no problem in dealing with your nation. Not only that, with the proper introductions and diplomatic overtones, we may be in a position to help smooth over old wounds and re-introduce you in a more positive light to those who may still hold old grudges.”

“No insult taken,” she continues, smiling wryly. “I know our Trade Offices would maintain that you couldn’t have offered a higher compliment, their business being the acquisition of gold and wealth, and I’m the first to agree that we have profited quite nicely on account of many of the situations you’ve mentioned. Not being trigger-happy, and being open to less outwardly ‘acceptable’ opportunities has netted us more positives than negatives, all in all. And we’d like to continue along those lines.”

“I’m certain trade issues can be worked out with the resident offices on the station, so long as we have clearance to proceed. They should have additional options as well, considering that …” Here, Clemente paused, as if what he was looking for were on the tip of his tongue.

“Trade Network Association,” Giovanna assisted, eliciting a nod and a grin from the Commander.

“That’s the one. Fantastic piece of work, that, by all accounts. Something they can discuss with you when the time comes. What we need to do now is make certain we have clearance to set you up with at least a diplomatic facility here on the station, then we can proceed from there.”

Already messages had been sent, processed through both the PR offices, and Intel, and the alliance representatives, with various responses trickling in.

Pellegrino was more than a little concerned with the station being used as a base for further incidents in Sol, but was willing, grudgingly, to do some footwork and look into things more closely before giving a final judgment.

Evangelista thought it a brilliant idea to take a former enemy with a valid need, and try to turn them if not into a friend, then at least a nation they might have positive influence with. Anything that promoted peace and prosperity was a good thing in her book.

The Trade offices were understandably excited, though word from Up Top would have to wait on getting hold of di Medici, who was currently otherwise engaged – though they were certain he’d be keen on the idea of pushing forward, as he usually was when money was to be made.

Fabian Mancuso was intrigued by the idea, but concerned about what other nations in the NDA might have to say on the matter, particularly The Kingdom, and The Serene^Union, who tended to be rather cautious in such matters, and in at least one case, had been rather involved in past … scuffles. It might be a hard sell, it might be grudgingly accepted, but it was likely something they would have to pursue further in testing the waters, so to speak.

Reactions from the Trium were unknown, though the tendency seemed to lean towards the idea that encouraging peaceful, and profitable relations might not be such a bad idea. Again, inquiries would need to be made.

The bottom line of course that Machiavelli was Dominion sovereign territory, and they could in all honesty do as they liked – which they usually did in any case, much to the irritation of some of their friends and allies. Still. It was always good to at least consider the opinions of others in a situation where said others might prove themselves to be either a great asset, or a right annoying detriment to the project on deck.

“I believe that Trade would be very interested in your offer of Favored Nation Status,” Giovanna noted, one brow arching up curiously. “But lets not get ahead of ourselves just yet.”

[Schadow]

Sadiya al-Masaari glanced up at the introduction, gently putting aside the book she’d been reading – one Much Ado About Nothing, a favorite Shakespearean comedy.

She had until then, been comfortably lounging on a nicely appointed fainting couch off to one side of the salon, daintily sampling iced grapes with be-ringed and manicured fingertips. Her large grey eyes twinkled with mirth at the apparent misunderstanding, and in spite of her best efforts, a quiet, musical giggle escaped her lips, albeit from behind a daintily-placed hand, sending the coins decorating her headdress to lightly tinkling.

“Humbly begging your pardon, most noble sir,” she replied all the same, luminous eyes sparkling with mirth, her voice rich and inviting. “But I am certain the Lady will introduce herself shortly.”

Any implied joke there being of course, unintentional. Of course.

[Scolopendra]

Tskra-Prret rolls with the surprise, pausing only for the barest moment while her mind races with ideas. Most of them, to her credit, actually do not center around how such a thing could occur. Perhaps less to her credit, though, the honest mistake has tickled her ironic sense of humor. How, oh how can I capitalize on this without embarrassing the poor man? This is simply too good to let go to waste... Smiling, she looks down at Lórindel and glances over at the corner of the salon partitioned off from the rest with the artful yet modular privacy screens. "Certainly, I can take you to her... as for my family, well, perhaps in a moment--we cannot keep the good Lady waiting, no?"

Keeping her sphinx's smile set on her feline muzzle, she guides the disguised Sindarab through the crowd. The sight turns heads, and gets exactly the right kind of attention. Anyone personally guided by Madame Tskra-Prret is a somebody; courteous as she is, she doesn't wait on anybody and everybody. This Mister--how odd, she usually opts for professional titles in that case!--Sindajin must truly be an exemplary sort. Turning the corner around the privacy screens reveals that the little chamber-inside-a-chamber is vacant, save for a small table with a dark fat bottle cooling in a bucket, a brandy snifter and an oddly fluted goblet somewhat resembling a tulip with pointy petals sitting next to it, a few luxurious overstuffed but small chairs, and a large fainting couch in the far end. Several card tables are neatly slotted between the fainting couch and the wall, and the particularly astute can possibly note a small door or hatch--perhaps the door to a cabinet or some such--next to the fainting couch designed to match the local decor. Both the chairs and the couch match the sort of Middle Eastern Deco fusion style of the rest of the salon.

Tskra gently and politely releases the Sindarin's arm, smiles at him, then struts smoothly over to the fainting couch, where she lies down. She poses idly for a moment, looking distracted, then pretends to notice the Lord for the first time. "Ah!" She rises, bows low, then takes the elf's hand. "I am honored to meet you: I am Madame Tskra-Prret, and welcome to my salon. Please, take a seat." She directs him down into a seat whilst she sits back down on the couch, a bit of mischief in her yellow eyes. "It is truly outstanding that you were able to make it to my humble salon, and I do hope it meets with your liking. Please forgive my previous distraction: I was, to be honest, somewhat afraid that our guest of honor would not make it but, silly as I can be, I had scheduled for him to be fashionably late. Still, he, being a nobleman of impeccable taste, was fashionably late to a fashionably late time... which only made his entrance even that much more notable. I very much doubt anyone will have any complaints.

"As for any siblings I may have... I do have a twin brother but I am not certain he meets with your needs. To some extent my own schedule is somewhat flexible, so all things considered I would not be averse to... moonlighting as a member of your entourage, m'Lord." She accents the last word only very slightly, as a way to harmlessly emphasize a harmless joke. "This is, of course, assuming I understood your intent correctly." Her smile looks perfectly sincere, if a touch impish.

[Reploid Productions]

At the Docks - Anyone need a ship?

It's not the first time the ship designated TTE-01 Runabout has arrived at Machiavelli, nor will it be the last. Nastasha Tempest, co-owner of Tempest and Tempest Enterprises has been making the Sedna run and back for years, even before the two-ship cargo company had set up shop at the station. Usually it's dull work lugging supplies to science stations out in the Kuiper belt, and only occasionally further out, perhaps hauling a load of specially ordered stuff to some colony world or another, requiring use of the Busu-2 class cargo hauler's FTL drive.

The goods are legal. Most of the time.

Sometimes there's a special shipment of some less-than-legal substances, occasionally it's firearms for some knights-errant types. Or at least for the highest bidder. On one particularly noteworthy occasion, it was a handful of dead M.A.N. agents that had been discovered and 'accidentally' murdered by another reploid. Those had been jettisoned from the ugly ship's cargo pod somewhere in the Oort cloud and Nastasha was pretty sure they'd never be found. A fitting end for a bunch of criminals like that, as far as she was concerned.

The nice thing about being from the Shogunate. Nastasha muses as her latest shipment is offloaded and transferred to an nondescript ship that looks like it might have been a decommissioned military vessel now serving a (presumably) civilian role. Everybody assumes we're squeaky clean and they don't look too hard.

The Runabout had been up for a spot inspection this time, but the inspectors never spent too much time going over the 5.6 km vessel, and they certainly didn't verify the apparent cargo space in the Busu-2 Merchant class ship's hold. What they surveyed was most definitely not the cargo hauler's full 4,807,687,192 cubic meters of cargo space; they didn't check to see whether the interior had been modified, allowing for hidden sections in the hull and hold to hide contraband cargo. Of course, the fact that the Runabout had virtually no atmosphere nor pressurized cabins probably contributed; who wants to comb that much spaceship in a spacesuit? But then, life support systems cost money, and on the Runabout and her sister ship the TTE-02 Back Alley Wayfarer, they're unneeded. Sure, a few areas are capable of being pressurized for the rare occasion in which they're carrying people or animals, and the company keeps a specialized cargo pod for the ships at Machiavelli for transporting live cargo or materials that require delicate handling.

This is all beside the point however. The ship's safe in dock, her captain in search of a new load to haul and a chance to unwind. Nastasha finishes setting the restrictors on her weapons; one for each arm-mounted gun, and one for the large plasma cannon mounted on her shoulder and heads for the nearest dive bar on the station. She's a combat reploid after all, standing nearly six and a half feet tall and covered in curvy dark blue and black armor; one doesn't just walk around the station with that kind of armament unchecked.

Not that the reploid can drink booze typically found at seedy dive bars, but they're a good place to catch up on station gossip and look for clients.

[Cetaganda]

Cetaganda:

The dragon sat and watched her for a few minutes before asking a question, a simple ice breaker question.

"So, what inspired this picture?"

Talia took a moment to lay her paintbrush down and turned in her chair with a small smile. "The history of the Triumvirate of Yut, or at least one small part of it closer to the beginning. I'm mostly basing it on extraction campaigns, especially the Battle of New Auschwitz. It's quite an interesting point in history. So many nations working together, only a few of them really knowing they can trust each other, bonds being formed in battle, clashes between good and evil and indifference. It's proving a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. I think perhaps paint was the wrong medium to adequately capture how complex it all is."

[Warhaven]

Talia took a moment to lay her paintbrush down and turned in her chair with a small smile. "The history of the Triumvirate of Yut, or at least one small part of it closer to the beginning. I'm mostly basing it on extraction campaigns, especially the Battle of New Auschwitz. It's quite an interesting point in history. So many nations working together, only a few of them really knowing they can trust each other, bonds being formed in battle, clashes between good and evil and indifference. It's proving a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. I think perhaps paint was the wrong medium to adequately capture how complex it all is."

"I believe the only two mediums capable of perfectly capturing history are books, and Time itself. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the Triumvirate of Yut, but the picture's nice. But it must be nice though, the nations had each other, I wish I had someone."

[Skeelzania]

“I believe the Sternreich may already hold some sort of membership within Trade Network Association,” Enguerrand said with a nod. “Of course, given our reputation and past policies, we have only seen limited benefits from it, thus far. You are correct in your assertion, Signore, that we must ‘not get ahead of ourselves.’ We in the Sternreich have been keeping a balanced view; one cannot expect riches to flow from nations that are still technically enemies.

“Economics is not my forte. I am content to leave pure trade discussion to those in the Ministry who are trained for it. However, I am a noble by birth and a naval officer by training; both traits lend themselves towards the development of diplomatic skills in our part of the Galaxy.

“The expedient establishment of a diplomatic office, or at least the permission to conduct such affairs in our own capacity, is my primary goal on this station. While it is hoped that the Dominion might act as something of a facilitator, the Sternreich can hardly be expected to make no independent effort on its part in establishing relations. I intend to remain here until a permanent settlement is reached, and hope to achieve some personal success in that regard.”

Throughout the discussion Enguerrand had largely maintained his physical composure (though that tended towards ‘glowering’ in any case); as the discussion progressed in an amiable direction, his tone became more and more conversable. “If there is any guarantee that I can give, any concerns addressed, that will aid in the expediency of that process, then please ask. For the present I do not envisage a delegation any larger than my current entourage; all we truly need is reputable lodging on this station while the process is worked out. There are also additional Skeelzanian diplomats aboard the Zahhak, many with doctrinal concentration, who can be brought in as events transpire.

“I am here to provide immediate Imperial control, not juggle minutiae best left to those trained in it. One may also say that my mission is to provide a certain amount of ‘gravitas,’ as in our experience so much of international relations are directed by the force of personalities, and it seemed ill-advised to leave such a substantial venture in the hands of a comparative no-name.”

A grin pushed back the edges of his beard. “At least, forceful personalities tend to dominate the relations of what may be generously termed ‘autocracies.’ It is my experience that the mob-republics on our frontier are better dealt with when with a heavy hand, knocking as many minor personalities aside the head as possible. The rate of turnover in their offices makes the establishment of true relationships between rulers virtually impossible.”

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

As the conversation continued, notes were exchanged via the various datapads and in some cases, the Spook earpieces to be passed on from the aides to the officials dealing with the newcomers directly. It was an interesting proposition, and one that seemed to both intrigue and concern many in the government, for various reasons. That of course is why they had the Ministry. While the Dread Lady may have final say, or countermand any decision made, she was wise enough to leave the general running of things to those best suited to doing so to the best of their ability. It wasn’t as though she didn’t do everything in her power to keep apprised of how the nation was being run, after all. And it was a commonly known fact that in the end if she wasn’t happy with how things were being handled, none of them would be, all apparent ‘mellowing’ in methods aside.

Weighing the information at hand, and silently conferring with Giovanna – who usually would be the one heading up such discussions, were it not for the impression they had gotten from the Skeelzanians that implied preference for the more authoritative approach - Clemente came to a decision.

“Details would be much easier to address were you to have an office from which to operate from here, no doubt. Here is what I would propose. We would have no problem in getting you set up in one of the finer establishments for the time being – there are many hotels and the like to choose from, according to your taste, and no doubt we could find or acquire a block of rooms or suites near one another, for peace of mind and ease of contact between your group. If you are already in the TNA, monetary exchange will not be an issue, and a simple line of credit backed by your funds could be set up for ease of use via your ident cards, which we will be creating here shortly given your intent to stay.”

“In the meantime, if you can give us an idea on the relative size and amenities a Skeelzanian diplomatic office would require, we can get our people on locating something that will suit your needs. There are many options available that way, with everything from basic offices, to your usual embassy compounds with living quarters and all the rest. Depending on how much you wish to expend, there are the detached pods and outbuildings one can lease that include their own docks, warehouse space, or whatever else is required. Depending on availability and what work needs to be done to any given space to suit you, things can be arranged in a reasonably timely manner. Should your people prefer to lease living space outside the diplomatic offices, they are free to make inquiries with housing who will be instructed to assist as needed on an individual or group basis.”

Clemente smiled pleasantly as he looked across the table at the rather impressive Enguerrand, and spread his hands slightly on the table. “I believe that should cover any immediate needs, and the rest can follow apace. Would you and yours find these to be a satisfactory beginning? If so, I can get our aides here started on the ident cards that we require all visitors and residents of the station to obtain.”

[Schadow]

Sadiya glanced up at the gentleman speaking with Talia, curious as to his approach. This was, after all, a salon where companionship was the general commerce, so it wasn’t as though anyone planned on being here alone – be it in the waiting room or elsewhere, for whatever purposes.

She pondered the wisdom in pointing that out, pursing her painted lips slightly. It might be considered rude, and if one thing was simply not done here, it was being rude towards a client – or anyone else for that matter. The ladies here were thought to be above that sort of thing, and there was no doubt, Madame Prret had both offered them a safe and unique opportunity here as well as instructed no few of them in the finer arts. It didn’t matter that she was tall, imposing to some, and covered in fur, being wholly alien.

Tskra-Prret was a Lady, in every sense of the word, and Sadiya could no more envision herself being ungrateful or insulting to her than she could her own mother, may Allah bless her soul.

The gentleman the Madame had rather impishly lead out of the room of course more than piqued her curiosity. She wasn’t as versed in the who was who of many, though she had entertained several gentlemen who’s positions required the sort of discretion this establishment was prided on. But for this …

My, my, who do we have here? Someone high in power, no doubt. But from where, I wonder? Intriguing. He certainly cut a dashing figure in any case.

And with that, she stretched idly, reached for another grape, and went back to her book, curling up contentedly.

[Treznor]

Aboard the waiting Imperial shuttle, the crew finally appears to undog the hatch. The combined bodyguard detachment swoops out to verify the security of the immediate area before grudgingly acknowledging "all clear." Treznor stands, stretches and gestures languidly for Nathicana to lead the way.

Nathicana gives Devon a sharp look, one eybrow arching up suspiciously before taking the lead and stalking down the corridor, often pushing ahead of the guards trying to do their jobs. She takes the curving stairs down two at a time, and starts making demands for information before the people there even have a chance to respond.

"The hell is going on, and where are they?" she snaps, immediately being directed to Naiya's room on the other side of the apartments. Several agents fall into place alongside, glancing nervously between her, and the Emperor.

The station reacts accordingly, with a clear delineation between Dominion citizens and foreign visitors apparent. Those natives not immediately engaged in escorting or accommodating the Imperatrice's demands are quickly making themselves scarce, leaving the visitors to wonder what's going on. A common conversation to be overheard involves a visitor asking for information, to which a native snaps "Nevermind! Just get the hell out of here!"

In short order the party is in the elevator leading to the Imperial Apartments and the station is left oddly silent, like a beach washed clean after the fury of a storm.

"Perhaps Your Majesty might want to see your daughter first before getting into the specifics," one agent offers tentatively, again shooting Devon a nervous look. "There have been ... complications."

Treznor quirks an eyebrow and nods slightly toward Nathicana, clearly deferring to her here.

Nathicana swears under her breath at that, impatiently counting the seconds it takes for the lift to reach its destination. "Fine. Now get out of my way," she says as the doors open, and she brusquely pushes past, once more stalking through the corridors. It doesn't take her long to reach Naiya's room, and she's through the doors before they even finish opening.

"Naiya, are you ..." She stops, catching sight of Alkanphel for the first time, then continues to the bed where her daughter is sitting, putting her arms around her and hugging her tightly. "Are you ok? What happened?"

Treznor follows behind, exerting himself just a little to keep pace but remaining silent as before. He pauses at the doors to Naiya's room, clearly reluctant to enter, but the pause is brief before he joins his wife.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Alkanphel stands slowly but says nothing just yet. He folds his hands behind his back and slowly takes a step back, looking first to Nathi as she descends worriedly upon her daughter, and then to Treznor. He narrows his eyes slightly but maintains his policy of silence, preferring instead to let the situation develop as it will. He knows that whatever is going to happen to Devon here requires little or no input from him: the writing was on the wall, and he saw no need to make it any larger or bolder. For now, he stands in silence.

Naiya hugs her mother back, closing her eyes for a moment in relief, then looking quickly over at him, immediately tensing and glaring at him in uncharacteristic defiance and anger. "He did it," she says quickly, drawing back, then looking at Nathicana. "He tried to kill him!"

Nathicana blinks in confusion, then looks over at Devon, and back to Naiya, trying to calm her and comfort her as best she can. "Naiya, he's been with me all day. He couldn't possibly ..."

Treznor stands still as soon as he perceives Alkanphel in the room, face and body locked into rigid immobility as he struggles to contain his reactions. He glances irritably at Naiya, but focuses his attention on the other man. "Well. I see our funeral arrangements were premature. Are we now entering your endgame?"

Alkanphel, for his part, matches rage with calm. "I would be lying if I said I didn't expect something like this, but I was surprised that you'd act this quickly," he answers. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, his gaze is fixed on Nathi. "What concerns me perhaps more than the attempt itself was not only the evidently unimpeded ease with which these would-be assasins reached me, but also with station security's sluggish response.

"The hell do you mean by that?" Nathi demands, turning her attention to the Maia. "Before you two start another fight here, I'd suggest you remember we're on a station, in space and I doubt very much if any of us would enjoy any sudden decompression. Put them away for fuck sakes, and tell me exactly what happened."

Treznor allows himself a slow smirk. "Quickly? It took us too damned long to get here. But I had to see this for my own eyes. You've come to follow through on the seed you planted years ago. I always knew there was more to the birth of the twins beyond mere coincidence but I could never get anyone to believe me." He turns to Nathicana. "Do you believe me now, Red?"

"Don't listen to him, mama," Naiya says quickly. "Its all his fault. He sent them. Those people who broke in and started shooting--"

Oh, they'd had this discussion before, Nathi and Devon, but to be confronted with it now, with everything else going on ... "Naiya, please, I don't have time for hysterics. Dev, she's just a girl, you can't possibly --"

"'Believe you?'" Alkanphel cuts in. "You sent a hit squad to kill the Dominion heiress' father on neutral ground. I might have expected some or other tantrum planetside, but here? I wasn't the one who reacted to the situation by sending in men with guns."

"She is his daughter, and always was." Treznor practically spits the words in his rage. "You've never been stupid, Red. He died, leaving her behind but he's back now and what's the first thing they do? In secret. Do I really need to connect the dots for you?"

Alkanphel draws his jaw. "For all the open contempt you had for Morgoth, you sure seem to have similar reactions to what you perceive as a threat. How long after you heard about my return did you issue the order? Two minutes? Three perhaps?"

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" Naiya blurts out, trying to get off the bed and launch herself at Devon, only to be quickly restrained by her mother, who's temper and confusion are quickly reaching boiling point.

"I didn't even know he was alive until he showed up here! Since when did you care what I did? He's my father which is a damn sight more than you've ever tried to be! And the first thing you manage to do concerning me is try to have him killed?"

"Stop," Nathicana says, firmly setting Naiya back on the bed, and giving her a warning look. "I mean it, stop, the lot of you. I'm not going to have a bunch of wild accusations flying back and forth without some goddamn proof!"

Outside the room, agents and guards watch the situation slowly fall apart with more than a little concern. One finally manages to interject some necessary information. "Mi dispiace, Imperatrice, but there has been a security breach, and a team of assassins made an apparent attempt on the Ardan's life soon after he and your daughter had arrived. Details are still being ... investigated." The man made every effort not to look at the Emperor while speaking.

Treznor frowns and glares at the man who dares to interrupt, then back at the three in the room and folds his arms. "I said from the beginning that Alkanphel had a purpose in raping you, and we wouldn't see it for a long time. Now it begins. What more do you need? But fine, don't believe me. Ask your sister what she thinks."

Alkanphel nods towards the agent. "This is correct. They showed up, I'd say..." he pauses briefly. "Maybe an hour ago; after I had been here for two or so. I found Naiya in the main hub, separated her from a frothing Roanian, and she led me up here to the apartments. We had been talking for some time before the power was cut and a team of six men with plasma rifles entered the room. They fired probably three or four shots, as I recall; one hit their own men, one grazed me and the other shot or two landed somewhere along the walls; the effects of their impact surely still visible as testament to the attempt." Alkanphel glares at Devon again. "Whether or not Naiya was a target, the attempt clearly put her in no small amount of danger. In the future, Emperor, I would suggest attending to your own personal problems with me without endangering others. Especially my daughter. I let your team live, but may not be so forgiving next time."

Treznor doesn't flinch under Alkanphel's gaze. "You can accuse me of anything you like. I really don't give a damn what you think. Your miraculous resurrection and purpose here is what concerns us all right now. So tell me, exactly why are you here? Filial duty? Fatherly concern? Very touching. How long have you been planning this? Nineteen years? Longer?"

The room seems to shrink around the Maia as his anger peaks; his eyes don't flash but energy cracks around them and his fists clench. "Devon Treznor," he booms, "Self-righteous hypocrisy will earn you nothing here; you speak grandly of 'accusations' while levelling more preposterous charges against me." Alkanphel settles down a bit, the color returning to his eyes. "You're the only person who possibly could or would have reacted so swiftly and violently. Had Morgoth caught wind of my return--wherever he is--he would have waited much longer than an hour to strike at me. If you didn't send these men, then who did?"

The charge of 'rape' leaves Naiya speechless, and she looks between her mother, and Alkanphel with no small amount of outright confusion. Enough so that the rest of the rantings coming from him slip past with little response. What was worse, behind all the anger she was feeling something from her mother she wasn't familiar with. Something the woman rarely displayed. Fear.

"Were they yours?" she asks Devon in a deceptively calm voice, letting the rest go for now as she fixes him with a steady gaze.

Treznor twitches slightly, one hand reaching for a gun that by necessity isn't there. But he restrains himself and shakes his head. "That's a really good question, Alkanphel. Who knew you were going to be here? Because if it were my people, you'd be dead. Who would gain from a failed attempt on your life?"

"Enough," Nathi shouts, leaping to her feet and first glaring at Alkanphel, then turning her attention back to Devon. "Enough with the posturing and accusations, the both of you. I want to know - were they yours?"

"All of them are still alive," notes Alkanphel. "If Devon won't tell us, I'm sure one of them will."

Treznor shakes his head. "Like I said, if they were mine they wouldn't have failed. Someone else sent them."

Naiya finally speaks, though in a much more subdued tone than before. "One of them said Colonel Atwater from Imperial Command ordered the attack. Surely your people don't operate without your approval, do they Emperor? You keep such a tight control over them."

Treznor quirks an eyebrow at Naiya. "That doesn't make a lot of sense. Colonel Atwater would be...decommissioned for running a rogue operation. Perhaps there's another reason he mentioned that name?"

Nathicana twitches at that, trying to balance her desire for Devon to be telling her the truth, wanting to believe her daughter, and all in all, really not having to deal with any of this unpleasantness at all. Naiya doesn't respond to Devon, looking away uncomfortably and curling up with the pillow she'd been holding earlier.

Alkanphel snorts derisively. "I somehow doubt news of my return had made it that far down the chain of command by the time the order was issued. Just look at the timetables here, it doesn't make any sense."

Treznor grins. "Yes, that does bring us back to my original question, doesn't it? Who knew you'd be here? Who would benefit from your failed assassination?"

Nathicana shoots an annoyed look at Alkanphel. "The Emperor has been rather ... busy over the past while. I would have to agree that it would have been difficult for him to order anything, considering the circumstances." Still, the timetables ticked through her head, and his message to Ben requesting 'the team' made her mentally twitch yet again. "We're not going to accomplish anything with all the back and forth. We need to investigate further," here she gives Naiya a pointed look - further argument was not going to be appreciated. "And when we all find out what's been going on here then we can all take the appropriate actions. Do we have an understanding?"

Alkanphel gives Devon a flat look. "If you think that I have some cadre of armed men at my disposal, you've got another thing coming. If you expect either me or my daughter--who, unlike yourself, were actually present for this debacle-- to believe this team was meant to fail, you're fooling yourself."

Treznor shrugs gently. "You're still alive. Again."

"I was gone form this world for eighteen years!" Alkanphel roars, taking a swift step towards Devon before restraining himself. "Do not speak of what you do not know! He turns from Devon and glowers at the wall. "'Again,' he says."

"And that is an explanation I would dearly love to have," Nathicana agrees, looking back to the Maia speculatively even as she steps between the two men, clearly worried about escalation. "You told me before that was impossible. Why? Why now?"

"I am not Mandos," Alkanphel admits, "so I cannot myself answer those questions: they're his alone to answer. Despite my lengthy absence--and subsequent time with him--I'm only beginning to understand myself. If you really want to know why, I'd ask him, not me."

Treznor snorts derisively. "He never explained why he impregnated you while you were still carrying Marcus, so why do you expect the truth now? 'Mysteries beyond our comprehension,' as always. But now he's here, with Naiya and apparently someone tried to kill him before we got here. Forgive me if I don't expect much truth from his lips."

"The answers are as far from me as they are from you," Alkanphel snaps. "Whether you choose to believe it or not is of little consequence."

"Orders, Devon. Orders. I remember at least that much, and he'd since ... repented, for whatever it was worth. Or have you forgotten the last time we three were together, the two of you were hauling my sorry ass off that mountain, and he was sacrificing himself for you to get me clear?" Nathicana snaps, increasingly irritated both at being caught between, and not having any easy answers.

Naiya watches the exchanges with surprising quietness, her eyes flickering between the three adults, weighing the words, measuring the responses ... and not getting the impressions she expected from them on account. She looks at her mother, her face carefully masking any expression, then back to Alkanphel, staring at each as if she could get all the answers she wanted just by willing them.

"Orders, yes. Orders to do what? For what purpose? Why is he here now that Naiya's matured? None of that was ever answered," Treznor snaps back. "Yes, I was there when he died last time. I held a bloody state funeral for him. I figured he'd fulfilled his orders and had lost his godly protection, but here he is again. And surprise, here he is secretly talking to the daughter he was ordered to create. Why? Do you really expect the answer to that?"

Alkanphel turns back to face Devon finally. "The strength of your convictions belies your innocence, Emperor. If you did not send these men to kill me, why show up so angry with me? Demanding answers from me that you know I can't give? I'd just as soon throw the Ithil Stone at the both of you and see if you can sort it out any better than I have."

"And if you were given a chance to see your father again, or he you, do you think either one of you would hesitate?" Nathi shouts back at her husband. Of course it wasn't completely rational, but there it was.

"If my father were to come back from the dead, I'd show a little caution in the matter! And I wouldn't do it behind anyone's back!"

Alkanphel balks. "'Behind your back?' So showing up in the middle of a busy trade hub, on the main deck no less, is suddenly to be taken as clandestine maneuvering? I made my presence and intentions perfectly clear, thank you very much."

Treznor resumes his glare at Alkanphel. "If those men had succeeded, I'd have found out what they were being paid and tripled them. I never made a secret of my distrust for you, and your miraculous return does nothing to invalidate it. The circumstances of your return and your actions as they apply to my family are all the justification I need to want to shoot you myself. As many times as it takes until you stay dead!"

"Wait, wait now - why in hell did you choose to show up like that? Why wouldn't you at least do me the courtesy of letting me know you were alive much less wanting to see Naiya?" Nathi interjects.

"Devon, goddammit, this is not the time! Like it or not, this is my family too - on both sides here. And in spite of having done a wonderful job of making certain its been as fucked up as possible could you please not rake me over the coals for it right now!"

Treznor rests his hands on his hips and nods to Nathicana. "Fine. It's your show."

"I would have come with Konrad to the villa some weeks ago, but Devon's presence--which, by the way, I'm rather surprised that you saw fit to include in this happy little reunion--rendered that an impossibility. I had my reasons, not all of which were rational, the primary being I wanted to get to her as soon as I possibly could. Had I known that some clown would try to have me killed, I'd surely have reconsidered. As far as I'm aware, for what it's worth," Alkanphel continues "Konrad did his best to inform you during the dinner without..." he pauses, glancing to Devon. "Tipping his hand."

"Oh stop the accusations, please. You hate each other. I know. And its a good deal my fault you've any cause. I know. And ..." That last brings her up short.

Treznor nods. "My point exactly."

"So Konrad knew? For how long?" she snaps.

Alkanphel shrugs. "Six or seven months. I've explained it all to our daughter already. But you'll excuse me if I'm not inclined to explain everything with this man's incessant second-guessing."

"Well this certainly complicates things even further than I'd like," she mutters petulantly. "I suppose now you'll want to withdraw all your support for the things we put in motion with Arda, Dev?"

"What'd I tell you before about dealing with Arda? You're the Imperatrice, and it's up to you to decide." Treznor bows slightly. "Don't let me stop you. If I may be excused, Red, I'll let you folks have your 'happy reunion.'"

"No one's stopping you," Nathicana replies with a good deal more heat than she knows she should. "You," she shouts at one of the agents near the door. "Don't let the Emperor out of your sight until we can properly clear him and his people of all charges."

"You're right, Dev. I am. And you're on my station. And we will discuss this further."

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

The entire situation just didn’t feel real. Alkanphel, back. Devon, in a rage and certain the other man was out to destroy him –which given their history, she couldn’t fully blame him for. All the old troubles and concerns come home to roost, with a vengeance, and her unprepared, unable to address them as they came during the heated conversation, unable to just make it all go away, and unable to explain it all half as well as she’d like.

She was torn between a number of wants and needs and realizations and worries. On the one hand, the past nearly two decades with Devon, even previous to that, all they had been through in their lives, all they’d shared, and now they weren’t even speaking to one another via more private means in favor of trading accusations and on her part, making excuses.

On the other hand, there was Alkanphel. Oh, she had hated him, yes. And used him as much as she felt he’d used her, save for those original orders from Morgoth to muddy the waters and introduce rifts between her and Devon – which he had, no doubt about that. That, she’d almost managed to forgive him for over the years. After all, he’d given her a daughter who she loved very much, and was deeply proud of, in spite of all the troubles surrounding her, and the continued disagreements between herself and her husband. And she had admittedly developed feelings for the son of a bitch as time went on, and the situation changed. And he had rebelled against his former master, going so far as to sacrifice himself in the process. How many men would do the same?

Which of course brought the circle of logic back to ‘why’. If Devon were to be believed, it had all been an elaborate ruse, and she had fallen for it like a common mark in a pool hall. Which would mean he was here to use Naiya, and manipulate her as well towards whatever ends he – or his master – intended. Konrad claimed Morgoth was floating ‘somewhere in the void’, but did he know? Was he certain? And why would he not have found some way to truly warn her if he weren’t in on the plot?

That didn’t make sense to her, considering all the man had been through, all they had sacrificed in order to rid themselves of their dark lord and master, how hard he had fought for it. He was as capable as the next man of lying, but her instincts, which she was rapidly starting to doubt, told her his desire for freedom and the betterment of his people and nation were genuine. He had always been one of the more reliable, more predictable, and more reasonable of the warlords, seeming often genuinely frustrated with the tangled politics, preferring to deal with situations more bluntly.

Nadia now … she, Nathicana could see manipulating behind the scenes, acting as Konrad’s keeper so to speak, directing him, pushing him. She was a woman Nathi could relate to, which worried her all the more. Still …

Devon was right. Oh how she hated admitting that even to herself – not that she was going to admit the same to him, not with the way he was acting. But then Alkanphel was too, which pissed her off all the more. The timing was more than curious. The circumstances as well. There were any number of nations or organizations who could have an interest in creating an incident, who could be capable of infiltration, who could feel threatened by a new, strong Arda and Dominion ties to them. Her own allies – any number of them – given past, and no doubt present concerns were some of the most likely to have the capabilities.

Which of course, included Treznor. Their hands were deeply in one another’s business, though courtesy had thus far been observed in not taking too much advantage. It was a game overall, seeing who could maintain the upper hand, and for how long, tit for tat, playing chess on a nation-wide level, upping the ante in areas of commerce and trade and any number of areas that could be competed for.

Entirely possible. Plausible, given Devon’s near but not-quite- irrational hatred of Alkanphel. No number of arguments, years, or facts could or would ever change his opinion on that point. He had his reasons. And many of them were perfectly valid and understandable, especially if one refused to acknowledge any real change in others. It was the logical approach. Once burned, twice shy. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of doing the right thing. Only two kinds of paranoia. And here she was arguing with him against everything she’d ever advocated. And for what?

Validation. To prove she’d been right in not terminating her daughter’s life before she’d even been born. She had worked so hard all these years, and Naiya was everything and more than what she’d hoped – in spite of some of the things she’d surprisingly said during this conversation, which was something Nathi intended to address. Later. Devon refused to see it, refused to acknowledge it. And now, it seemed that all her effort was being thrown back in her face. His arguments hitting her like a physical blow, one after the other did have her second-guessing herself, and she hated that.

Of course, she also wanted to protect Naiya. To give her daughter what she had so wanted over the years – a father. If Devon was right, she couldn’t do that. If Devon was right …

She didn’t want to think about what that might mean between her and her daughter. Didn’t want to think about that at all. So she firmly pushed those thoughts aside, and continued to try and keep abreast of the conversation, to interject where she could, cursing Devon for his damnable augmentations that allowed him to think circles around her when he wanted to, cursing Alkanphel for being so goddamned reasonable and helping Devon to look the raging irrational here, cursing herself for allowing all this to come to pass and not owning up to her own mistakes and part in it all …

Devon’s final words stung, deeply. And her response was as much an attack as she could manage off the top of her head which was still spinning at the possibilities. She hated them both, right now, irrational as it was.

And there was Naiya, sitting quietly, taking it all in. Judging them all by how they reacted, what they said, though her expression betrayed none of it. Nathicana was certain no points had been missed by the girl, and that conclusions were being drawn, questions being framed, and that made her angry as well. How dare she judge? She had no idea what they’d been through!

Of course, she herself knew all too well what her daughter had endured, and who’s fault a good portion of that could be attributed. And that made her all the more furious.

--- --- ---

For herself, Naiya sat watching the three argue and spar, trying to use the skills she’d been taught to focus herself, regain her center, and concentrate not just on what was being said, but how they were saying it.

The accusation of rape elicited no outrage or hurt responses from her mother. She had never heard that particular approach before tough the circumstances surrounding her conception had always been rather vague, even when she’d pressed. Historical events couldn’t fully sum up the intricacies, and her mother had been reluctant to provide her with too many details.

Yes, science could indeed account for the aberration that had resulted in her and her brother sharing a mother, but having two different fathers. Rare, but possible. Yes, she had come to accept that her mother was not a woman of morals, and never would be – in spite of her admonitions to her children to take care in that aspect of their own lives.

Her mother was scared. She couldn’t get past that detail. She could feel it emanating from the woman, even as she outwardly showed no sign. Confused, angry … all understandable. But the fear was what had her wondering.

Fear that the tidy little house of cards that she had constructed had finally come falling down around her ears? Fear that Devon was lying? Fear that she herself was lying? Fear of what Alkanphel really wanted or intended to do? What had shaken her so badly aside from the obvious? No wonder she was willing to dismiss her own daughter’s accusations so easily, which stung badly enough without having it happen in front of him.

Devon was a ball of anger and hate – that was clear enough. She never had been able to get much of an impression from the man, other than what he chose to show outwardly. Whatever the case, she believed the man entirely capable of ordering Alkanphel’s death, and after the outbursts, her own as well, regardless of his relationship to her mother. The stakes had been raised in his eyes – there was no mistaking that. And with that change, her status of ‘untouchable’ likely had been removed.

She knew how he operated. Marcus and she had shared quiet, concerned conversations about his disagreements in how that man ran his government. Capable? Entirely so, and in her mind, the most likely suspect. Naiya didn’t regret lying to either one of them in the least on account of such things. He was lying, so why couldn’t she keep one tiny little secret? It didn’t matter if she’d suspected, or even known in her heart that Konrad had told her the truth before Alkanphel ever showed up, and damned if she were going to admit any of that now.

Alkanphel … her father. She was still reeling from all of that. His reactions both confused and comforted her the most. He had stood up for her. He’d repeatedly been the only one here seemingly concerned with her well being, first and foremost. He was strangely calm, save for those brief shows of rather understandable temper. More calm than she had been by far. There would be consequences for what she’d said, but at the same time, she felt she hadn’t said nearly enough. Not by a long shot. She didn’t get the same hate emanating from the maia as she could see from him. That calm seemed to be tinged with some concern, even worry – which also made sense to her. After all, he’d just survived an assassination attempt. And he, unlike some, had shown absolutely no desire to take any lives. Not even those who had tried to kill him.

That was a very telling point in her mind.

But that brought her back to some of the accusations, and things that had been said, and not just by him. She needed some straight answers, and regardless of the fact that she’d known him only a short time, she felt more confident in Alkanphel’s ability to offer her those than Devon or her mother right now.

She listened as Nathicana demanded a series of explanations from the man, who calmly responded to each, one after the other, relating much the same information as he had when she and her father had spoken earlier. The obvious questions of ‘why now’, and ‘how is it possible’, and ‘what do you intend to do now’ were delivered, and answered with the same calm as he had exhibited through much of the evening. Naiya could detect no duplicity in any of it.

Once the general information has been exchanged, and her mother and … yes, father, were quietly staring one another down from across the room, weighing and measuring, she finally spoke.

“So why did … he accuse you of rape?” she asks Alkanphel, then immediately shifts her gaze to her mother. “And what did you mean by ‘orders’, and why did he agree?”

[Skeelzania]

“A block of suites would be most suitable, provided they are in a sufficiently reputable and secure location. It is my suspicion that even a temporary Skeelzanian presence is bound to attract some unwanted attention, and I do not wish to be sleeping in a room that is close enough to the station’s exterior to allow for a ‘convenient’ meteorite collision.” Enguerrand’s tone, while still conversational, gave no hint of any humor.

“Now, in regards to a permanent establishment, we took the liberty of drafting up some preliminary estimates on staff size. I am pleased to say, however, that we did not anticipate such a generous offer of having our habitat and dock. Perhaps it would be premature to take the Dominion up on that offer now, but if this embassy is successful, acquiring our own more substantial residence would indeed be desirable.”

Shifting in his seat, Enguerrand pulled a small black booklet out of his belt. Thumbing through to the page he wanted, he leaned his head back and focused down the length of his on the writing. “Ye-es, my aides had calculated that an initial Skeelzanian embassy would consist of no fewer than at least seventy persons. I believe this would allow us to develop a fuller diplomatic relationship with the Dominion, as well as have the necessary manpower to deal with the rest of Sol, at least tangentially. Ideally we would be able to establish future embassies in other countries as our relations improve, but it may be necessary to keep a large part of our in-system infrastructure on Machiavelli. With proper compensation, of course. Which segues rather neatly to another of your points.”

Enguerrand made a summoning gesture to the guardsman standing to back to his right. “Aboard my shuttle is approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of gold bullion. While I am unaware of the current market price for gold in Sol, I suspect it will be enough to cover at least a portion of our immediate expenses. Food, lodgings, et cetera. Captain Truk here knows the combinations as well as where it is stowed, and will assist your men in transferring it.”

The guardsman, anonymous beneath its armor, bowed curtly. Enguerrand waited until the exits were complete before continuing. “Now, for the actual presence on Machiavelli. We desire a self-contained ambassadorial compound, capable of housing at least eighty diplomatic and security personnel. We do not intend to station an entire regiment aboard Machiavelli, but we would desire control over our own facilities. A modest security detail of perhaps twenty Schutzen should be adequate; no doubt there are sufficiently capable local security forces for hire if the need arises.

“Securing a moderate warehouse would also be desirable. I do not know how things are run in the Dominion, but we Skeelzanians put more stock in hard paper than electrical impulses that really do not exist at all. A secure location for the housing of embassy files is a must.

“I believe that about covers our initial demands,” Enguerrand said as he snapped the book shut. “An in-house medic will be sufficient for first aid, while any more serious medical emergencies can doubtlessly be addressed on the station. Fortunately there is not too much exoticness in the repertoire of Skeelzanian ailments. And for entertainment, our staff will need to find that on their own time, in someone else’s territory. I wish to keep the amount of floorspace devoted to frivolity in our own facilities at a minimum.

“Signore, Commander, thank you for your time thus far. Is there any more questions I can answer, or shall move on to having my company processed by Security?”

* * *

Captain Truk was no more conversable going back down to the shuttle than any of FS going up. He simply stood facing forward, gasmask-like helm giving him a perpetually blank stare. It wasn’t until they were standing in the shuttle’s main compartment - a large space nevertheless rendered small by a plethora of crash netting, harnesses, and more protruding pipes than one would think wise on a spaceship – that Truk spoke in an electronic staccato. “The bullion is beneath this panel.”

Two additional guardsmen watched from the forward cabin, each cradling as a SMG that weren't quite pointed at anyone in particular, as the Captain knelt on the cabin floor. Flipping open a concealed panel, he quickly punched in a long series of code, which in turn caused two turnstyle handles to rise up and reveal themselves. Grasping these, the Skeelzanian wrenched them open and pulled up the floor panel.

And there they were. Fifteen gold bullion bars, each stamped with the Vehmic Cross of Skeelzania. “Not much of a dragon’s hoard,” Truk rasped, “but it is the Dominion’s now. Should be big enough to keep the haulers from nicking one as a souvenir. I believe there is a dolly stashed somewhere aboard this rig; hope for your sake your vaults aren’t too far.”

[Sentient Peoples]

Beati pacifici
Ampelio’s, Down Below, Machiavelli Station

The smoky atmosphere, the shimmer of neon signs advertising alcoholic beverages, the rough looking bartender, the otherwise dim lighting… it could have been any bar in any of ten thousand cities on a hundred different worlds. The constant hum of the station’s massive power systems and environmental plants was slightly more noticeable underneath the chatter of fifty or sixty voices. The clientele was a varied as the location – though owing to the station’s location in Sol, most of it was human.

A prime example of clientele that was not human was sitting at the bar, nursing some sort of yellow drink that was more than likely alcoholic. The points of the ears peaking out from the hair atop her head were less distracting to most of the clients than the long, sinuous tale that was wrapped around the upright of her stool and that peaked out from just above the extraordinarily low slung waistband of her skirt and the hem of a black leather jacket.

The empty glass plunked back onto the surface that there was no way was real wood, and it was followed by the musical tingle of a number of gold sovereigns. “Got anything better than this, ‘Keep?” she quite literally purred.

A smooth base voice interjected, accompanied by a hand that shoved the money back to the nekohuman, “Get her some of the special, Auselio.”

To most people, the rapid paling of the bartender’s skin would have been missed under the conditions that prevailed, but experienced eyes caught it. “Si, Signore Maranzano.” He moved comply with almost obvious haste.

Slit-pupiled eyes rotated from their contemplation of the dirty mirrored wall behind the various bottles of alcohol. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“I insist,” the voice said, its owner sliding onto the stool next to her. Olive complexioned, with dark hair, going gray in a distinguished way at the temples and icy blue eyes, the term gentleman might have been applied in another setting, given the quality of his clothing. But those green eyes on the nekohuman had watched him enter in the mirror, had seen the way people unconsciously shifted away from him and his entourage. Criminal, at the very least. And a decently powerful one, for this area.

“I’m always interested in seeing a young lady trying to make her own way,” the cultured voice continued in an understanding tone, completely at odds with the rotten vibe that was coming off the man, “but I’m sure you understand there’s a cost to doing business.”

That got a laugh and smirk from the young lady in question. “Just here to relax, mister. Not trying to move in on your turf.” He was a pimp. Prostitution was legal in the Federation, and as such, exploitation of it was much more difficult. Athletic and exotic, the nekohuman could have easily cleaned up from the people in the bar… if she had thought they could afford her. She was not above a business transaction on her terms.

The shark smiled without revealing his teeth to her. “Perhaps we could discuss business in private, then.”

Alright, this was getting silly. She pushed the drink away and returned to contemplating the various dingy looking bottles on the shelves. Which was when the man made his first real mistake. He placed his hand on her arm. Jade fire whipped around to regard him levelly. “Remove your hand,” she hissed, the barest hint of enlarged canines visible as her tail uncurled from the bar stool.

“Come with me,” he said, standing on his feet. Unmoved, she broke his grip with a simple twist, and he roughly grabbed her shoulder. “I’m afraid you are on my turf, kitty.”

Peripheral senses clued her in to people in the bar looking away, very purposefully focused on something other than the confrontation at the front. The grip on her shoulder propelled her off the stool and onto her feet in a single, fluid movement, unintentionally raising her skirt higher on her thighs. The flash of skin caught a number of people’s attention, but not Maranzano. His attention was on her hand as she brushed him loose from her shoulder, dismissively. “Not interested.”

He went for her wrist again, but it was not there when his fingers closed and he snarled at bit, losing his cool. “I don’t care. You come down here, you play by my rules. And I think you and I,” he went for her hand again, catching it this time (maybe she let him), “are going to get to know each other much better tonight.” His eyes roamed her up and down. “I mean, you are nothing but a pussy. And everyone knows what a man does with a pussy.” The crude joke brought laughter from some his bodyguards.

The shock of his reversion to crudity was a surprise, breaking the image he tried to project, and gave her pause long enough for another voice to chime in. “I believe the lady said she wasn’t interested, Signore.” The soft baritone brought forced the young woman to suppress a smirk when she heard it.

“Stay out of this, straniero,” the dark haired man replied, the last word morphing into a scream as the nekohuman broke his wrist with a simple move. “Kill her,” he snarled as he stumbled back against the bar, holding his wrist in his other hand.

Two of the hulking bodyguards moved in as a second, male form in black leather moved up beside the nekohuman. “Huh, I think these morons are serious, Crysti.”

“It would appear so, Demetrius,” she replied, a lilting smile evident as her voice acquired an even more purr-like vibrato. A third guard moved in when he realized that the unknown foreigner was planning on helping her out.

“Erik will be really annoyed if we get in trouble.”

Green eyes flashed as the first attack came in and Crysti dodged it gracefully, jerking the man around her to slam against the bar. “We’re not the ones in trouble here.”

The other two moved in together, and Demetrius took the first with a sudden snap kick to the stomach. An uppercut when he bent around the foot sent him tumbling backwards, but he stayed on his feet without any trouble.

Crysti, meanwhile, gently flexed her fingers and let her razor sharp claws slide free, as the second man came in on her. A series of fairly deep wounds joined the various scars already on his face, but, like his compatriot, he was hardly incapacitated.

The nekohuman and her friend ended up back to back, surrounded by the three that were suddenly joined by three more well dressed associates. A grin lit Crysti’s face. “Oh, three to one odds. That’s almost fair.”

Demetrius snarled, his skin paling, his lips curling back, revealing even more wicked looking fangs than the catperson, even as his brown eyes faded into an inhuman blue. The men facing him took an involuntary step back. “For them,” he agreed.

Which is when things became suddenly a lot more confused. Maranzano’s guards were well trained, for bullyboys, and so they moved in fairly good synchronization to each other. But the neko and vampire were not only better trained, but incomparably faster and stronger.

Claws on both their parts sent blood spraying against the bar surface, and cries echoed along with the sharp popcrack of a knee being shattered with a side kick. When the swirl of violence passed, three of the guards’ clothing had bloodied rips through it, and one was completely disabled on the ground, screaming from the intensity of the pain. No longer fooling around, the five came in together. Arms flashed, backed by immense weight and muscles, but the two targets lithely slid under and around the oncoming assault. Hands flew through the air unerringly, and the largest of the men went down, clutching as his neck, trachea crushed as the result of a brutal throat strike from Crysti. Another man was sent literally flying through the air by the power of the kick from Demetrius, and the table he shattered on landing sent beer and pressboard flying everywhere. Irate patrons from that table, dripping with alcohol and nacho cheese came in towards Demetrius, adding to the confusion.

More people were sucked into the vortex as people came flying out, airborne, their landings usually as awkward as possible. Almost all the people in the bar worked for Maranzano in some manner or another, the bar being near the heart of his territory, and the only thing that perhaps saved the two Federales was that the only armed men in the bar were the first six they removed from the equation.

Well, that and the third member of their group. On realizing that the two agents were actually enjoying themselves, the tall, robed elf had remained out of the fray until he saw a knife flash in the hand of one bulky man moving to assist. While slender and less skilled than the other two, the combat mage was unseen as he stepped up behind the larger man, his hand snaking out and grabbing the wrist of the knife wielding hand. Fingers strengthened by hours upon hours of practicing magic clamped like steel on the appropriate pressure points, and with a yelp, the man was brought to his knees by a well placed kick. His face smashed into the floor a second later, and the soft, high, oddly accented voice in his ear was deadly in its promise, “If you move, feuyear, I’ll break your fucking spine.” For whatever reason, probably a certain genetic stupidity, the man failed to believe Alineial for about three seconds. The sickening crack that was the only thing he heard before passing out was confirmation of the elf’s truthfulness, though.

In the meantime, a man had crashed into the mirrored wall behind the bar, covering himself in cheap liquor as he fell headfirst to the floor. The bartender, on producing a shotgun, got a face full of two smaller men, one after the other, launched by the nearly petite nekohuman with inhuman strength.

A man came at Demetrius with a broken table leg, and much to his horror, he found his wrist and ribs shattered under a series of blows so quick he did not even see them. The leg fell from his grip to be retrieved by the flicking tail of the rolling Crysti, and flung straight into another man’s face, snapping his head back violently and sending him crashing to the floor…

The bar looked like a tornado had struck it in a matter of moments, groaning, defeated bodies littering the floor in midst of the remains of shattered and broken tables and chairs. Only three people were still standing… make that four…

ClickityBOOM!

The report of the shotgun was nearly deafening in the enclosed space, and Demetrius staggered forward as the round took him solidly in the back. With a snarl, he spun on Maranzano, who was just beginning to realize the foolishness of using a shotgun on a vampire, but would never have time to fully form the thought.

ClickityBOOM. ClickityBOOM.

The man was steady. He got off two more shots in the time it took for Demetrius to cross the ten feet between them, leaping the last five in a blur, his arms extended, a snarling warcry, canvas tearing, metal scraping over slate, sending shivers through anyone still conscious after the melee. His weight bore the injured man to the floor, his head bent, and with a snarl and a spray of blood, his teeth sank in and ripped the man’s throat out.

His head dropped again, unmoving, except for a slight pulsing in his neck, for long moments, until the elf shook his shoulder. “We had better go, Demetrius.”

For a long moment, it appeared as if the vampire were going to refuse, but he slowly straightened and stretched, licking blood from his lips, teeth shining red in his mouth. “At least I got my drink,” he murmured, his eyes still gleaming their soulless blue, and despite working with the vampire for six years, Alineial shuddered a tiny bit.

The three vanished, dark clothing blending them in as they went out into the permanent twilight of the bowels of the station…

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Alkanphel scowls. "Devon cannot accept the fact that your mother would have anything to do with me. He assumes that any emotion she may feel for me is the result of trickery or manipulation..." he trails off and pushes his eyebrows together. "On some levels, I can't blame the man. From where he stands, I was an agent of Morgoth, in fact, when our relations began. But the man is clearly more than happy to overlook the good in favor of the bad," the Maia laments.

Nathicana isn't smiling either, nor does her own scowl lessen any with the maia's explanation. "Lets finish the rest of that, shall we? She wants to know, feels she can handle the answers."

Yes, it was petty, but at the moment, it didn't stop her from saying it. "Your father there was an agent of Morgoth at the time, yes. We'd had dealings in the past which were always above board. Politically, things had become ... difficult, and he was instructed to up the ante, so to speak. To introduce some division. He did so."

Alkanphel throws up his hands. "Oh, so you want me to retread over all that now? What purpose would that serve if only to make her feel all the worse? Yes, I acted on what can only be described as evil orders. But does she not live, and breathe all the same?" He draws his jaw. "Get a hold of yourself. Would you rather I didn't? Has she provided so little value that you'd rather throw the last eighteen years with her away?"

Nathicana looks as though she's been slapped in the face, first going pale with anger, then stalking across the room to try and strike the man, responding as she moves.

"How dare you accuse me of that!"

"I accuse you of nothing, I merely suggest that bringing this up is of no practical value," Alkanphel counters without missing a beat. "Of course she has value to you, as she has value to me... why else would I expose my presence so blatantly, to all and sundry, risking the very threats I ended up facing not an hour ago?"

"Do not trick yourself into thinking you're the only one that has made sacrifices for her," Alkanphel hisses, catching her hand as she reaches him and takes a swing. "Spending nearly two decades away from one's own flesh and blood is hardship enough, regardless of your mortality."

Nathicana stands there pressing back against the pressure of his hand, though not trying to overpower or force her way into following through, glaring up at him angrily. She finds herself in the uncomfortable position of not having anything to readily shoot back at him at that, and after a moment, realizes that further confrontation on this point will likely only further damage things with Naiya.

With a noncommittal grunt, she rips her fist from his grasp and turns to face her daughter, eyes welling up with tears of anger and frustration. "Naiya, you know I love you and always have. It doesn't matter how you got here, you're mine, and I will never regret that."

Naiya watches the exchanges impassively, carefully keeping her own emotions in check, trying very hard not to hint one way or another what she's thinking and feeling, however much happens to be raging beneath the surface. She'd already lost control earlier. She did not want to do so again. Not here, not now.

"And all the rest you told me about him?" she asks quietly.

"All true," Nathi is quick to respond. "He wanted to be a part of your life from the beginning, as soon as he knew about your existence. Even before you were born."

Alkanphel 's brow steeples and his mouth flattens, which is about as close to crying as he's going to get. He walks slowly to Naiya during the exchange, and kneels in front of her as Nathi finishes. "And that was precisely what I intended to achieve by rescuing your mother. I--unlike some others I can think of, wanted you to have two loving parents..."

"Even if your mother had chosen him over me for what I can imagine had to be both practical and emotional reasons." He turns to glance over his shoulder. "I should go so far as to point out that this desire was expressed after I had been made aware of this decision. A sentiment Devon has failed to express in the intervening eighteen years."

Naiya slowly puts the pillow she's been holding aside, and leans forward to lightly lay her hands on her father's, her eyes glancing between the two, watching the emotions play out over their faces even as her own composure slips, and the tears once again stream down her face.

Nathicana doesn't deny a word of it, watching for the first time her daughter, and her daughter's father interact, the emotion in his voice, the look in his eyes as he glances her way, softening her own angry expression. There were a million things she could say, but none of them seemed right, or enough to make up for all those years of lacking on her daughter's part.

"I'm sorry," she finally manages, not specifying to whom the words are directed. "I can't change what's happened. Some of those things I do not regret, even though the repercussions were not what I would have chosen. For any of us."

The years seem finally to weigh down heavily on Nathicana’s shoulders, and she starts to wonder about Devon’s desire to just disappear, grow old together, and leave all of this behind. The accusation was there, in spite of the redirection at her husband – which was well-deserved, for the most part, even if she understood in turn why he’d acted as he had.

"Few decisions can be made without undesirable reprecussions," Alkanphel answers, still over his shoulder. He wraps his hands around Naiya's. "But oncew in a great while we are lucky enough for good things to come from bad decisions."

His words bring Nathi fully back to the present, amidst worries on how she is going to make this work, what she is going to do with Devon, whether or not she will be able to make good in her daughter's eyes, and how this was all going to affect her son, and his process of ascending his father's throne.

She offers a tired sort of half smile, and starts to respond when she is again interrupted from the doorway as one of the intel ops first knocks, then peeks in.

"My apologies, Imperatrice, but the remainder of our Ardan delegation has requested docking rights with the station, and we need clarification as to your wishes in that regard."

Nathicana spins on her heels to face the decidedly anxious man wringing his hands unconsciously. "You," she begins harshly, then forcibly calms herself, closing her eyes for a moment, then starting again in a more modified tone.

"You will direct control to proceed as planned, but direct them to whichever dock is currently most secure. And you will have two squads meet them there, assigned one to each of the primes. You will escort them to the rooms we have set aside for them, and you will make certain they have every comfort due them."

She pauses, looking apologetically yet with no small amount of irritation at the pair behind her. "You will remain here, and wait for my return," she says simply, with every expectation that she will be obeyed. "Captain, follow me." And with no further ado, nor explanation, she exits the room.

[Aelosia]

To his chagrin and shame, for a pair of seconds the aelosian Marquis stood motionless as the Kzin revealed her true identity, well, her only identity, as after all, the mistake of protocol was entirely his fault, and not the product of some kind of cruel joke to embarass him. His features were showing the most iconic expression of surprise and shock as the big Scolopendran stood and took his hand, and he was barely able to repond to the gesture as an automaton.

However, now to his merit, the Marquis Haralis shook his head sideways once, and recovered entirely from the surprise, just after a few crossed thoughts that let him assess the situation at hand. Did she tried to con me? No. Did she try to embarrass me? No, I did a good job with that all by myself. Actually it could have been worse. Is she insulted by my mistake? No, she looks like amused. Next time, I should try to check some facts before meeting strangers, specially, why their names sounds so weird, who knows? Maybe it is because they are part of an exotic race, d'oh. For the Valar, man, you really though someone called Tskra-Prret was human?.

He heard Madam's words slowly nodding with his head, as his face showed again the half-satisfied, half-roguish smile that was usually displayed by his features. "The salon is perfect, being exotic without reaching too alien standards. I am marveled about your taste so far, Madam".

"Regarding puntuality...", he continued, his hands recovering enough self confidence, (the Marquis have a lot of hidden stashes of that inside his psyche), as to start to gesture elegantly as he spoke, "I am amazed that everything went to perfect. Protocol can be such a boring necessity at some times".

Finally, the elf bows his waist again, removing his keffiyeh with a slight movement of his left hand and letting his silver like hair fall gracefully over his shoulders. "Time to issue an apology, however, many intolerant beings would consider my mistake in identifying you as an offense. I hope you are not one of those. And finally, M'lady...", he added as he recovered from the complex courtier gesture, "I am afraid that I would feel strange with you as a member of my entourage. The rest of my servants and associates would feel too diminished with your presence. However, I could feel extremely satisfied if I could call you, in time, a friend. Friendship is without doubt a more close relationship than mere business".

[Scolopendra]

The Salon

To her credit, the master courtesan somehow manages to be completely oblivious--in a good way--to the Marquis' distress. It quite simply did not happen. "Worry not, sir, for there is nothing to apologize for. Occasionally mistakes are made, but this one is so harmless as to hardly qualify. After all, I did not recognize you at first either, with your decision to come under an assumed name. Nevertheless, you have quite effectively established for yourself an air of notable mystery, which I think can be cleverly arranged to your benefit. If I can be so bold as to advise, you merely have to play the mysterious game a little longer and, when you finally do reveal your noble identity, no one will complain. We have all sorts here--within reason, of course--and such senses of humor and delicate tact are quite prized. My salon is, I will admit, somewhat unusual and it would considered perfectly proper that someone of your stature would desire... forward intelligence, shall we say, before openly lending your august name to such a thing."

She smiles gently, ears flicking slightly. "I am honored simply to make your acquaintance, M'lord, and so the possibility of becoming friends is, to put it mildly, an exciting one." Tskra resists the urge to wink playfully, and resists it well. "Nevertheless, now that you are here, we can discuss such things as business at your leisure. There is no need to rush or delay such things on my account, so all that remains is for me to attempt to be a gracious host." Motioning to the chilled bottle with an idle motion of one hand, she continues: "Would you like something to drink? I have some exceptional Treznorian brandy right here, although if that is not to your taste I can have whatever you would like brought in, albeit at the expense of a little more time... which may not be in and of itself a bad thing."

There she allows herself to look a little mischievously sly. But only a little, and within the bounds of good taste.

* - * - *

A Moderate Distance Away on Titan

In a corner office of the Executive Apartments, the cityscape of Stonozka on the far end of the Central Park dominating the view, a forceful dark-skinned woman folds her arms and raises one eyebrow. She is best described as "forceful" because everything she does seems to hold a sort of unstoppable certainty behind it, a will that tends towards being dominating and a personality solid enough to match. It was something of a shock to the Scolopendran people when Speaker-Rrit declined to run for still another term in order to prevent, in his words, "establishing a dynastic executive," so with the popular first choice actively declining, the people elected the next best person they could find. In that sense it is not too outlandish to imagine them most comfortable with Mballa Ipolla, a woman of Cameroonian descent who is brown-skinned, green-eyed, and graced with long black hair superficially and, more importantly, has features that can be as pleasant or as stern as she wills them to be at any given moment. She has a vision, a reasonable plan, and isn't about to kowtow to the powers that her predecessor helped to set up, and people respect that.

"Them again?" She says to the man standing just inside the door to her office, scowling slightly. "What a bed the Elders made for us, considering those we must share it with."

"'Them' and the Ardans, ma'am," International Relations Advisor Thong-oon Kraisee says with quiet, understated politeness, perhaps in an overreaction to growing up with a name unfortunately similar to 'crazy.' Which is, of course, his nickname. Given the Scolopendran love for puns and ironic names, the mild-mannered Thai had no choice. "It does appear to be most delicate. The Intelligence Section reports that the Imperatrice has just passed through, and I quote the report the Advisor shared with me, 'like a hurricane' and also report seeing the Emperor Treznor and... Alkanphel, in the company of Principessa Naiya. I am uncertain of his current title, or if he has one. The state organs of the Dominion are in a frenzy and it appears that something may be amiss."

"'May be.'" Ipolla scoffs, looking rather stern indeed as she turns her chair just enough to look out the window at the city of the people she serves. "Sometimes, Crazy, your preference for understatement is truly sublime."

Advisor Thong-oon cracks a very slight smile. "It seems to be conducive to the effective execution of my duties."

"Bullshit. It's who you are. Anyway," the Supreme Emperor replies, continuing to muse out the window, "I recall enough from the continuities that these are all Important People which, by reports, are very angry at each other. Alkanphel was one of the major warlords of the Five Kingdoms back in the day, but he apparently is on the side of goodness and light now, or, at the very least, is no worse than some of our allies. Any indication that he has any place in the current Ardan structure?"

"You know we still have no direct contact, due to... unfortunate history," the foreign minister answers with his customary softness, "but through our go-betweens I can say with a high degree of certainty that he has no official power. Unofficially... he is a very charismatic man."

"So what do we do when a love triangle between two of our autocratic allies and some magical ex-enemy ex-general comes to a head?" Mballa tightens her arms a little more and furrows her brow slightly in brute-force thought. "I'm not about to consult the Elders. I don't want to be a puppet for His Holiness and His Holiness doesn't want me to be his puppet."

"Ma'am, if I may: asking for suggestions from those who lived it is not a weakness."

"That's just it--they lived it. Treznor and D'Aquisto are undeniably their friends and Alkanphel, despite their best meaning, is undeniably their enemy. They're too close to it, and yet not close enough. Everything's based on rationalization and categorization with them because they may have lived it but they didn't live in it." She turns back to Kraisee, pinning him in something that is more than a look but less than a glare. Maybe it is best described as 'the glower of command.' "Find me someone who lived in it and has seen all three of these people in the same room together."

The advisor nods. "I'll start with Officer Zinn'Yersha Bondayehr; she's our diplomat to the Dominion and is close to the Imperatrice. She'll know someone."

"Excellent. I'm certain you'll get it done, Kraisee."

* - * - *

A Few Minutes Later, A Very Long Ways Away on A Previously Uncharted Planet Rimward of Sol

He'd take a deep breath of a new planet's fresh air, untasted by human lungs, but he couldn't. Well, not exactly as such. That regulations demand that flag officers maintain a bodyguard in unsecure situations is bad enough but requiring that all personnel maintain biological isolation procedures in untested biospheres is particularly annoying. Understandable, but annoying. Still, Fanged God bless the SEELE suit. It breathes in, and, operating on a partially uploaded version of Sky Marshal Timofeyev Bondayehr's mind, the mechanoid hindbrain in it translates the sensations from the raw data the suit collects into a decent simulacrum of what an unsuited Bondayehr would sense. It would have to do, and he's gotten used to it.

Very earthy, with wet clay and dew on leaves. A touch sulfurous, which only makes sense given the planet's volcanism and how its wildlife had never quite evolved out of cracking sulfurous oxides for energy. Still, it's new and different, and he likes it.

Once again quietly thanking the powers that be that rank does indeed hath its privileges, he kneels down in his armorpoly powered suit and looks at the ground cover. That explains a few things; the leaves are broad and fat, more like deciduous leaves than grass, so these plants lose a lot of water through respiration very quickly... although they'd lose more if the air wasn't so humid. He can feel the humidity but, as the suit does not need to sweat to maintain its temperature, it doesn't bother him. That was odd at first, but he got used to it. Anyway, the leaves are broad but can get away with it because there's not much in the way of trees and it rains a lot around these latitudes. Oh, and they're also quite blue, but that's due to cobalt compounds appearing in most everything around here.

Standing up, he looks at the three-sixty panorama of an alien planet: rolling blue hills, oddly muted by how the leaves absorb the light of the star, under a blue sky (with only a hint of greening yellow) and white clouds--a surreal mix of the usual and the completely different--with some spiky mountains jutting up out of the landscape due to recent tectonic action caused by kilometers-deep explosions of magma pockets. Oh, and of course, the oddly graceful and vaguely cobra-like bodies of his SEELE-suited bodyguards scanning the landscape and occasionally checking their weapons.

"That," Bondayehr says, pointing to the tallest mountain he can see, "is Shorty Mountain." The dog-brain in his suit pants happily and notes that down on the local terrain map, designating it as a terrain point of interest--better known as a 'landmark'--as that's the closest thing it has to a cartographic function in its array of tactical programs.

"Sir?" buzzes his headset. 'Buzzes' and 'headset' are unfair; the sound quality is clear and he's not wearing a headset, since he hears what the suit hears, and since this is a tactical QE link, he hears it in his head but appropriately toned and directed to indicate that it comes from the bodyguard behind him and to his left.

"Yes, Private?" This kid was new. Always so formal.

"You name every large mountain on every planet you see 'Shorty.' Admittedly, you do it in different languages sometimes, but..."

Maybe he had potential. "I'm the explorer, I get to name things as I please... and as long as there's no repeats per planet, it's kosher. Okay, Private, for speaking up it's your turn. Pick something and name it."

"-Sky Marshal, Gray Shark Actual.-" Another voice, from above. Bondayehr suppresses a sigh and addresses Admiral Bhagyamma somewhere aboard Battleship Gray Shark. "Go ahead, Baggs."

"-Sir, priority message from Stonozka Central for you. Your eyes only.-"

"Stonozka Central? I don't directly work for the Segments anymore."

"-It's been cleared by the Special Services, sir. It's for you.-"

"Alright, they want eyes only... patch me in, low bandwidth." Highest security, most annoyance. He'd still not quite forgiven the previous 'Pendran government, which meant the current one has to put up with it. The following is spoken by the individual parties, but read by the recipients:

<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Sky Marshal Bondayehr here. How may I be of assistance?
<IRADV_Thong-oon> I am International Relations Advisor Thong-oon. We need your help with a delicate situation, Sky Marshal.
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> This has historically been the case. I'm afraid I have a different command structure now, though, so the orders will have to come through the CINCTYCS before I get on my tired white charger.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> I think my intention is misunderstood. We need your expertise... simple information. There is no fire for you to put out.
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Alright, then, my apologies for jumping to conclusions, Advisor. What do you need to know?
<IRADV_Thong-oon> What do you know of the relationship between Devon Treznor, Nathicana D'Aquisto, and Alkanphel?
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Pardon?
<IRADV_Thong-oon> You did meet them all together, yes?
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Something on the order of twenty-five years ago, yes, I did. Once. For maybe fifteen minutes.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> It is all we have to go on.
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Before I was fitted for headware memory.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> Please, Sky Marshal.
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Right. Hrm. The short-short-short version: Nathi's had sex with both, has complex feelings towards both. Alkanphel and Devon hate each other.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> Some more detail would be helpful--complex feelings and hatred?
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Nathi's a passionate lady who tends to get conflicting feelings whenever she has two objects of attention vie over her. There's an internal competition with her, especially when these two lovers have conflicting agendas. Devon is a paranoiac of the highest caliber, which is why he disowned Naiya, she being Alkanphel's daughter. He also doesn't pull any punches when it comes to dealing with things he considers a threat. Given that Nathi is literally the most valuable thing he has, Alkanphel is by extension his greatest threat and possibly fear.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> And Alkanphel?
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Like I said, for fifteen minutes a quarter of a century ago persrec. All I could gather is that he can read minds and was, at the time, rather sensitive to what he read. That being said, he at least had the capability to control his emotions to insist that whatever was annoying him (that would've been me) be removed before he did something about it. That suggests some form of ethics as well. Nathi would tend not to hear a bad word against him; I heard as much from the previous administration. She's not one to throw attentions towards the absolutely unworthy, though, so I'd surmise that he must have some sort of redeeming value. Especially towards the end of the Ardan Conflict with the sacrifice and all.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> We have reason to believe that Devon and Alkanphel have... interacted on Machiavelli Station. What is your advice?
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Check to make sure the station still exists and hasn't been replaced with an expanding debris field of equal mass and energy.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> It's still there.
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> Okay, any report of any particularly royal corpses then?
<IRADV_Thong-oon> As far as we know, everyone is still alive.
<SKYMSL_Bondayehr> I'd keep out of it, myself. Still, I can understand the need for action. This is a very personal thing for all parties involved so if you must inject yourself, come in from the angle that they are all important people and the results will inevitably have an effect on their stalwart allies, the Segments. You are therefore primarily protecting your own interests and do not wish to pry any further than is necessary to ensure a positive outcome for all involved, which is the best outcome considering those interests. I assume.
<IRADV_Thong-oon> A correct assumption. Thank you, Sky Marshal.

* - * - *

Quite Nearby, Aboard Machiavelli

Diplomatic Kurt Honnêteté idly scans his empty office to ensure that it's empty and then rubs his face with his hands, resting his elbows on his desk--the same desk with the integrated screen which has just displayed his latest orders and recommended actions. He's a diplomat, not a marriage counselor or a relationship guide... still, diplomacy isn't always as easy as some seem to think it is and Kurt is not one to turn down a challenge. After all, close allies having a falling out could have serious repercussions, and if he does nothing... well...

He types up a quick missive, codes it, and transmits it to Station Administration with the message that it is a priority message for the Imperatrice, her eyes only, from the government of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra over matters of vital import. He throws a little bit of pomp and acting into his communique so the Administrator would know just how important it is that this message be transferred to a portable jack and given to the Dread Lady. All she'd have to do is tap it to her forehead and her hardware would do the rest.

The message is too short to be a virus:

Imperatrice,

It appears that there may be delicate matters afoot which may have unfortunate repercussions for the Segments and the Triumvirate should things go too poorly. As such, I offer my services as an only tangentially related and hopefully disinterested facilitator for discussion should such a thing be useful in your present situation. I hope you don't consider me too forward for offering but, as I'm sure you know, we are a naturally helpful people who only become more so when it may be a matter of our interests. I have no interest in getting any deeper into what must be a personal matter than is necessary to ease things and put my superiors' minds at ease.

Respectfully,

Diplomatic Officer Kurt Honnêteté
Consul, Machiavelli Station Consulate
Federated Segments of Scolopendra

[Aelosia]

An aelosian administrator, deep bottom in its heart, hidden under all the flashy curtains of silk and manners, is and remains just an administrator. A lavish lifestyle of a noble in deep thinking courtier rooms may polish that brittle lingot of greed and desire for exactitude and round numbers, but deep down, at the end, it comes to be an administrator nevertheless, no matter how court-wise, educated, or socially adept he might look.

Being the ultimate administrator in a stellar empire that spans hundred of millions of people, with thousands of other administrators, the Marquis, deep at heart, is not used or prepared for courtesan manouvers. He has been trained, of course, both in theory and practice, and he is no fool either. Being a Merchant, after all, takes not just a sense for numbers, but also the affinity to understand what people wants, and how, when, where, how and why they want it.

Yet, the kind of games Madam Tskra-Prret was playing right now, were more political than economic in nature, and although a being like the Marquis was quite used to see the relationship between the two, and to even play games to his advantage with said relationship, he had to recognize that in the political field, he was more like an interested amateur than a consumate master.

And this Kzin, well, she was quite the master. Haralis Lórindel was smart enough as to see the complexity of what could be awaiting. Including the possibility that in the end, this wasn't no complex game at all, but just a simple offering. However, to assess this situation properly, you would need a Master courtier of the Paelisi Noble House, something that the Marquis, without doubt, wasn't. He has been playing the Courtier with the secrecy thing, and then with all the well manners, but that was just because of the practice of the aelosian courts.

However, if this goes entirely political, he was completely and utterly taken. The Marquis didn't even want to think about allegories to the game of cat and mouse, because, well, that allegory turns out to sound dangerous when you are standing in front of an oversized, exquisite, educated, but then again extremely large humanoid cat. He already made a mistake. A small one, but mistake nevertheless. The only solution left was, of course, to resort to move matters towards a subject in which, with certain exceptions across the stars, he ruled supreme.

"Treznorian brandy is perfect. I found it to be a delicacy", ha said, now his self confidence boosting his entire mind and image. "And speaking of brandy, have you ever tried Sindar Miruvor or Saeros Wines? I think those are perfect drinks for a Lady with a palate as distinguished as yours".

He continued, waiting for his drink. "And time, fortunately, is one of the resources that I can manage all by myself without interferences and interrumptions. Nobles of my standing have a nickname in my homeland. Masters of their own time, which means we can really do whatever we want with our time without noone else butting in. And as things goes, I can't find another use for my time than spending it here, speaking, and drinking a rather good glass of a marvelous liqueour, while you, and me, Madam Tskra-Prret, speak of business. Good, old, and specially profitable business".

An aelosian administrator, deep bottom in its heart, hidden under all the flashy curtains of silk and manners, is and remains just an administrator.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

“Yes, I know you’re just trying to do your job, but so help me, if you get in my way, I will snap you like a twig.”

The statement is delivered in a cool, controlled voice by the diminutive woman currently stalking through the corridor, her security retinue scrambling to indeed ‘do their job’ effectively whilst staying out from underfoot – and out of reach of their decidedly irritated Imperatrice. Were Mas here, he’d undoubtedly have some smartass remark of some sort to make, and while it would irritate her further, it would at least be delivered with a backbone and intent to bring some much-needed levity to the situation.

As it stood, the group she had was not one of her usual groups, leaving as fast as they had on such short notice. Granted, they knew their business, and how to interact well with the Treznor forces – they all were expected to know that, and the protocols and agreements in place concerning the coordination – but the mix of house and station security was not who she’d prefer to have at her back all the same.

Truth be told, she’d honestly prefer they all fuck off to the nearest security checkpoint and do something bloody useful rather than hover and menace, but that simply wasn’t going to happen.

At least they had the option of mostly travelling via maintenance and security areas. She was really in no mood for any stupid altercations with any over-eager paparazzi or unfamiliar resident getting ruffled and loud over the disturbance of her passing in any case. Restraint was required, but it was also the one idea she wanted to toss out the window right now.

At some point along the way, another group intersects with a quick delivery for the Imperatrice. She accepts the portable jack, and her face darkens even further when she learns the source.

Damned meddling idealist bastard idealists … well isn’t that timing just convenient? Granted, the only time they’ve interfered directly in a foreign government that I’m aware of at least, was at my damned request. Fuck if they aren’t entirely capable though. Entirely. Though I’m not sure what they’d get out of it. Unlikely. Possible, but unlikely considering. Mannagia, what next?

“Is there anyone else who wants to complicate my evening?” she snaps waspishly, wrapping her hand around the jack, and demanding a portcomp be waiting for her at their final destination. Whatever was on it would require a response, and she wanted to be sitting down to review it. Times had changed, and the people she was friends with no longer ran the show.

A brief jaunt through the kitchens and service lifts, and they were up to the level where the Ardan’s suites were. Damned nice place they’d reserved for them too, she notes in passing. Arriving at the intended suite, a portion of her cadre enters first, making certain the place is secure. She then bowls past the rest into the room, sits down on the couch, and orders the lot of them out.

“You can bloody well protect me from that side of the door. And I am not taking no for an answer. Push me, and just see how serious I am. When they arrive, you let them in, then mind your goddamn business until I have to leave again. Capisce?”

Oh Toni is going to have words with me over that. Of course I’ve got more than a few choice ones for him as well. How in hell did they infiltrate that quick, that deep?

A litany of curses flows from her lips as she taps in the jack, and intently pokes every possible angle she can on it for any hidden meanings or agendas, then goes about answering it, sending it along through secure transmissions to the Scolopendran offices on board.

Officer Honnêteté,

Please pardon the stir created by the decidedly unexpected, dare I say unanticipated arrival of a particular guest. I do not foresee any difficulties arising at this time for our respective nations, nor our fine alliance, though I will not deny that certain discussions have been more successful than others. I very much appreciate your offer, and hope that you would convey said appreciation on to extend to your government. The Segments have always been stalwart allies, friends in need, and a valued voice of reason in times of trouble.

Please assure your superiors that the situation is well in hand, in spite of expected difficulties. You are correct in concluding that this is a personal, and not a diplomatic matter, as our guest currently has no formal position within his government, and is traveling as a citizen, under his own direction and power. Perhaps if you would choose to describe it to your superiors as a family reunion of sorts that was never expected to have happened in this lifetime, it would perhaps assist in explaining the delicate nature of this visit, and thus our concern. We will of course keep you apprised, and thank you again for your offer.

In gratitude,

Nathicana D’Aquisto, Dread Lady and First Imperatrice of the Dominion

The Ardan security arrives, and she makes no sudden movements, nor indicates any desire to speak with them, continuing to communicate with security to nail down any further bits of data she could prior to discussing the matter with Konrad and his wife. And in doing so, desperately trying to find either proof, or reasons, or excuses not to lay it all at Devon’s feet, as both Alkanphel and Naiya would have her do.

She is still sitting cross-legged on the couch in her dark tee-shirt and loose track pants, her tousled hair having been hastily pulled up into a quick twist and clip, jacked into her computer when the pair finally reach the door to their suite.

[Scolopendra]

Polite Social Conversation, In A Salon Setting

Tskra-Prret nods as appropriate while she listens, uncorking the brandy and pouring a polite portion into the pair of glasses on the table. The conventional brandy snifter she hands to her guest, retaining the oddly fluted (but still appropriately bulbous) tulip-like goblet for herself. Rolling the dusky liquid around in her glass, she savors its scent before taking a sip, the fluting matching her muzzle. Art with utility--perhaps appropriate for the cultured lady. "To business, then." She relaxes onto the back of her fainting couch, nonchalantly crossing her legs in the same fluid movement. "As you doubtless know--and I do not intend to speak ill of my hosts, but the truth must out--the Dominion is a highly politicized society that values image as a reality unto itself. Not appearance for appearance's sake, as in other societies, but appearance as part of the closed feedback loop that generates reality. 'Spin,' while a most gauche and artless term, is an accurate one for describing the general use of such things, since the concept of a noble class in Dominion society is relatively new and lacks the social acceptance through tradition that nobility can rely on in other cultures.

"I am in the business of, among other things, image." The master courtesan allows herself a slight smirk. "Nothing nearly as structured or insincere as marketing"--the word comes out as a gentle sneer, like how one may describe a disgusting but harmless and mildly important creature--"but me and mine can and certainly do assist newcomers in navigating the image-conscious society of Machiavelli. For a small retainer, I can provide suitable escorts that can suitably reflect and augment your desired image in social functions, as well as act as a form of... deterrent against those who may try to take advantage of your inexperience regarding Station politics." The kzinrret shrugs eloquently in a fluid motion of her shoulders. "I do not mean to intimate that you are incapable of handling yourself, M'lord, far from it... but no matter your experience or skills you've certainly better ways to spend your time than having to deal with social climbers and manipulators who are an unfortunate side effect of the local culture."

She ponders, for a moment, mentioning that for a slightly greater retainer said escorts can provide an additional level of companionship. The term in this case is important; while the Madame certainly has a stable of available and willing one-night-stands, she has the Marquis pegged as a classier, and perhaps more needful, customer. She decides to let him make whatever moves he thinks are appropriate that way; there's no reason to come on too strong. She has nothing but time, after all.

"In addition, I can offer advice based on my own experiences and, depending on the circumstances, perhaps call in a few favors should it be necessary. I do happen to be a respected name aboard Machiavelli and such things do have their privileges--it certainly will do your image no harm to be associated with me, as I am considered an excellent judge of character." She allows herself another mischievous smile at that. "I must admit, M'lord, that I am currently liking what I'm seeing--and before you think that mere flattery, please understand that I am not one to offer compliments lightly."

* - * - *

Polite Diplomatic Conversation, Electronically

Reading the Imperatrice's response, Kurt chuckles wryly to himself. She's perfectly in her rights, of course, to tell him to buzz off. It's pretty much what he expected, although a lot more information has been let through than she perhaps realizes. Alkanphel is a nobody, albeit the worst kind of nobody--a nobody who used to be a somebody--the meeting that was only guessed at really did happen, and by at least the Imperatrice's standards it should never have happened. Folding his hands and resting the front of his chin on the arch thus created with his elbows on his desk, the diplomat runs his options through his head.

First, he could just let it go. While that may please the Imperatrice, his superiors would not be happy, especially if this little reunion ended up going in less-than-optimal directions. Should things go poorly, well, there would be demands. Could something have been done? Yes. Why weren't they done? Mistakes had been made. Despite the Segments' general open-mindedness and enlightenment as a culture, it was still made up of humans and other species who could communicate and generally think analogously to humans. Thus, Someone Must Be Blamed... and that someone would inevitably be Diplomatic Officer Honnêteté, a nobody leading a relatively minor consulate and thus someone completely expendable.

No, that wouldn't do.

Second, he could continue pressing. Of course, while the Imperatrice seems to respect persistence she absolutely hates, by all reports, pressure. Pressure which she would certainly think, and not entirely wrongly, is an attempt by an outside force (the Segments) to influence an internal matter. This is compounded by the fact that he is explicitly an agent of the Segments with the authority to speak for them as a whole in this matter. That's not something he wants to do, but it becomes irrelevant in that his status as agent makes him completely incapable of ingratiating himself into the situation. The Federated Segments does not make a reasonable arbiter for a personal dispute. If he could divorce himself from the title and the country, though...

A third option: offer, as a person, to assist if necessary. Or find a suitable person to fill the same role. Someone close, a family friend. Someone who practically is family. Well, it's no secret in the Diplomatic Corps that Officer Zinn'Yersha was decidedly close to the Imperial/Dominion royal family... and female, which may have advantages of its own. And a mother who hasn't had things the easiest since the father is a spacer.

An optimal plan forms. At the very least, it can't hurt to try.

Imperatrice,

I understand that a personal matter such as that which you describe is no place for the Federated Segments to meddle, no matter how it may worry that its interests are affected. Ideally, the state has no call to interfere in issues of family, no matter how important or unimportant the family in question may or may not be. However, I would be remiss as a relatively moral and honorable person (or at least one who imagines himself as such) if I did not reiterate my offer, not as a Diplomatic Officer of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra, but rather as an empathic human being with an interest in alleviating the emotional pains and struggles associated with the dialogues between people. That is, after all, why I decided to become a diplomat rather than a policeman or a Federal doctor.

Of course, I also understand that I am an unknown quantity in all this and an outsider foreign to your inner circle of people you are comfortable with. With that in mind, is there anyone who I can inform--'summon' is too strong a word--who may be able to help?

Respectfully,

~Kurt Honnêteté

[Solont]

Matthias looked up as Nesar entered the room, as did Silké. It was patently obvious that Matthias had been in the middle of trying to console his daughter; she was seated at the small table, dapping tears from her eyes with a handkerchief, as her father rubbed her shoulders.

"Ah... Mister, er, Cheruv." Matthias said, caught a little offguard at the Roanian's sudden entrance. "We weren't expecting you so soon. And where is Lieutenant Crevan?"

"Lieutenant Crevan?" Nesar asked, taking a seat at the table. "I don't recall the name. No, I'm here for your daughter, as I said." He examined Silké quietly. "Or perhaps not."

"My daughter?" Matthias raised an eyebrow and moved in front of Silké, his hand drifting towards the holster on his hip. "I was led to understand that the problem had been resolved. If you even #think# about touching my girl..."

"Don't be a fool. My weapons are in the hands of your charming guards. I'm just here to talk." Nesar yawned at Matthias. It was a spectacular yawn. "Silké, is it? Are you aware of what you've done?" The Roanian made no move one way or another.

"No no no no no. You don't talk to her. You talk to me," Matthias interjected authoritatively. He pointed to himself

"Very well. Matthias, are you aware of what your daughter has done?" Nesar said, without missing a beat.

"I am well aware, yes." Matthias says. "I've been kept aprised of the situation as it has developed."

"Very good. Tell me, then. What would your feelings be? What is an appropriate act?" Nesar kept his eyes fixed on Silké, not looking up at Matthias.

"For God's sake, Nesar. She's just a girl. Leave her be." Matthias entreated. He insisted on keeping himself between Nesar and Silké. He didn't like the look in the Roanian's eyes.

"Hrm. I suppose that it's not her fault that our archivist was an idiot." Nesar stroked his chin. "Silké, if I asked you to, would you sign a letter stating that Kyrie broke the mask?"

Matthias opened his mouth to object, but shut it again as Silké gave his hand a squeeze. "No, I won't." She whispered. "She didn't break it."

"Interesting." Nesar stood up. "Well, then I have no choice."

Matthias tensed. Silké cowered behind her father, fearing the worst. Damnit, where the hell was Dominion security?

"Obviously, the mask was never broken at all." Nesar slapped a piece of paper onto the table. "Silké, kindly sign your name on the dotted line attesting to the fact that your quick-thinking and reflexes preserved a priceless cultural artifact."

"Read the whole thing before you sign it," Matthias warned. He relaxed visibly as it became clear that Nesar wasn't a direct threat, but he still wasn't entirely trusting of this man. Too many prevarications, too many verbal games...

"Really, Matthias, you wound me." Nesar held his hand. "On my honor as a nobleman, I avow that I have no intention of harming your lovely daughter or yourself. I have promised a woman I care deeply for that that would be the case." Nesar stroked his chin for a moment. "But you have obviously had a rough day, so I appreciate your concern. What may I do to convince you of my good intentions..."

"Look, Mister Cheruv..." Matthias started. "It's... it's been a long, stressful, and outright terrifying day in some respects. I'm in no mood for verbal jousts and diplomatic games, and Silké doesn't deserve to worry any more. So, please... why are you here. It's not just for the signature. I can tell."

"Well, no." Nesar put his feet up. "But I don't know why you think I have any more games to play. I am merely waiting for the next player in our drama and making conversation." The Roanian contemplated Silké some more. "Tell me, Silké. Do you like to learn?"

Silké opened her mouth to speak, but Matthias interrupted her. "Now see here, Mister Cheruv. Just what is your apparent interest in my daughter, anyways?"

Nesar turned to face Matthias, leaning his hand on his table, his chin in his hand. "My apparent interest, Matthias, is increasingly becoming one of curiousity as to how so beautiful and charming a young lady, who evidently made quite an impression on my... our... archivist... was raised by you, Master Matthias." He said, coolly. "She may speak for herself, or she may ask you to speak for her, but I am trying to hold a conversation. If you must know, she seems... familiar. Which is obviously impossible, because I don't even know where the two of you are from." Nesar stroked his chin.

"If you must know why I am so intent, well, for her quick thinking, she deserves some reward. As well as something to impress upon her the seriousness of what we both, and what no one else will, know happened." He switched gears. "However, Master Matthias, if you feel I am treating you or your daughter unfairly, well, my dear sir, there is a choice. You may come with me to speak with my empress personally."

If Matthias registered the insult, it was only reflected in his face by a slight narrowing of his eyes. "Well then, Mister Cheruv," he said coolly, "I don't know how things are done where you come from, but on Solont, it is a father's obligation to protect his daughter from harm. And when strange would-be assassins come marching in taking a keen interest in her..." he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. He didn't take his eyes off of Nesar for even the briefest of instants. "I'm not going to apologize for playing my role as guardian."

"That said, however..." Matthias said, his tone softening considerably. "We're not ungrateful for the things you did to help keep this incident private, but until I know for certain that I know you, that I can trust you, let us conduct ourselves as diplomats, and as men."

Nesar tapped his chin. "Perhaps you should come with me to the Empire." Nesar quietly considered the kitsuite and her father. "Her Majesty would doubtless appreciate meeting you both." Nesar's fingers twitched slightly and he grinned. "Ah, forgive me. It seems to be a quirk amongst my kind that whenever we see tufted ears we yearn to scratch them. The felinoids appreciate it. Very well, Matthias. Do you wish me to speak with you, then? Forthrightly?"

"Yes, please." Matthias said, taking a seat next to Silké.

"Very well." Nesar steepled his hands and leaned onto the table. "By rights, I should have at the very least severely injured your daughter for the crime she has committed. Our laws recognise no defences which might save her here, Master Matthias. She would be in a great deal of trouble."

Matthias furrowed his brow and clenched his fist, but held his tongue. "... Go on."

"But, she's not." Nesar held his hands out, a benevolent expression on his face. "Because I consider myself, for whatever it's worth, to be above our laws, dear sir. And so, as I am sure we will shortly learn, since the mask is repaired, the mask was never broken." Nesar smiled at Silké. "Because of your quick thinking, in fact. You are to be congratulated, young lady." He holds up the piece of paper.

"But... I didn't do anything. Everyone else solved the problem. I was passed out," Silké said quietly.

Nesar's expression grew slightly glassy. "Silké, child, I am trying to help you..."

"I know, and I appreciate it. But what we say here is private, between only us. Please, don't give me accolades I don't deserve..." She says quietly, squeezing her father's hand.

Nesar looked at Matthias. "Sir, please explain to your daughter..."

"Explain what?" Matthias asked.

Nesar laughed and slapped his hand on the table. "You are too much, Silké, Master Matthias. If I had my hat, I would have to take it off to you. Very well." He tore the paper up before their eyes. "Silké, dear girl, you have impressed me. And you as well, Master Matthias."

"I'm... not sure I understand," Matthias raised an eyebrow as he spoke. Surely something must have been lost in translation...

"If you do not wish false accolades to be given to you, far be it from me to disagree with such a selfless notion." Nesar shrugged his shoulders. "So be it. And yet, I feel there must be something I might do for you."

"I only meant that we shouldn't pretend that I did something I didn't in private. If I need to lie publicly to protect my father and miss Kyrie, I'll do it..." Silké whispered.

"You don't need to." Nesar threw his hands up. "I wanted to offer you a reward for some very stressful times."

"I... I'm sorry..." Silké whispered, looking on the verge of tears. "I'm not used to this language..."

"I know." Nesar smiled. "Which is why I think you deserve a break." He took a deep breath. "Silké. Would you enjoy the chance to travel someplace? While your father goes to meet someone very important? You would be in the best of care, and I believe you would be helping your nation immensely."

"What exactly are you proposing?" Matthias asked suspiciously, butting in.

"I am proposing, Matthias, that you come with me to meet my Empress." Nesar responded, again without missing a beat.

"I... see." Matthias said quietly, contemplating the offer. "I'm afraid, Mr. Cheruv, that such a decision is not up to me. I'll have to report in to my superiors back on Solont."

"As you wish, Master Matthias." Nesar looked up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe that's the lovely librarian at our door."

[Roania]

The door opened, and Kyrie and Kione were escorted in. Kyrie looked around the room and smiled at Silke. "I've gotten the mask fixed, it's all okay!" She squeezed Kione's hand. "Sir Kione helped, too!" Then she saw Nesar sitting there, looking up at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "O-oh, Master Nesar... w-what an honor, sir." She swallowed.

Nesar quietly sat there, looking up at Kyrie, his eyes as empty as they had ever been. "Archivist... Kyrie, yes?" The Roanian slowly stood up, his hands on his side, looking down at her.

"I'm really, really very sorry! And it was all my fault! Silke didn't do anything, sir!" The young woman quietly began to tremble.

"No one did anything. The mask is intact, and my work here is done." Nesar blandly told Kyrie, still not looking at her. "It is a pleasure to have met you both," He told Matthias and Silke, quietly bowing at his waist. "I shall take my leave."

"Wait!" Kyrie blurted out. "Have we met before? You seem familiar."

Nesar's leg stopped, and he stood there for a few, long minutes. "No." He answered her. "No we have not. You might have seen me at the Empress' coronation."

"Master Nesar... I'm almost positive..."