At Lenina's question, Gawain opened his mouthy to speak before closing it again as she continued. It was an invitation, or a demand, for the formality he knew he should have stuck to in such a setting. For a moment hot shame washed through his body, his hands trembling slightly, before he crushed down on it. It was his own fault for throwing the etiquette demanded by the situation out of the window. He resolved silently to make it up to her today. Hopefully without making a fool of himself again.
As he thought of an appropriate response, another man appeared. Tall, glossy blonde hair and a beard which seemed to leap from his face to grab Gawain's eyes and pull them towards it. Joseph Marx, former Crown Prince of Ostia. Gawain knew about the man-he knew about most people in galactic politics-and he liked what he knew. With any luck, the man was everything he'd heard.
Although the city had seemed majestic when spread out before him, from within it seemed to be a statement in grandeur. Columns and marble caught his eye at every turn and straight, orderly roads radiated out from the enormous domed structure in the distance. It was a marvel of both architectural genius and urban planning that Gawain could only admire. Anything else would not have served it justice.
At the invitation, he leapt lightly into the hover-truck and found himself a seat. Perhaps truck was the wrong word for these, actually. They were more like very, very secure limousines and he felt his feet sinking almost two inches into the thickly carpeted floor. Finding himself a seat, he sat down gently and crossed one leg over the other, looking around at the other representatives who entered. Now would be an excellent time to mingle in more exalted circles, as opposed to petty politicians. But who to approach?
Slade leaned forwards imperceptibly as the holoprojector activated, suppressing a smirk at Squire's obvious annoyance. He already disliked the man, however much money the arrogant rat was paying him. Still, it would be foolish to pass up an opportunity like this. Doubly so when it was so obviously important to whoever was behind this. As his thoughts drifted, his hand absently patted the long-barreled rifle on his back.
The LRKR-19 was one of the best marksmans' rifles produced by the ISC. The typical combination of gyrojet rounds and mass-driver kickstart made it deadly at long ranges, capable of reliably hitting a Human-sized target at over eight hundred meters with minimal aiming time. The rounds themselves were perfectly capable of reacting to changes in their target's velocity and, best of all, could switch out various different submunitions, from explosives to biological weapons to mercury. It was a weapon that suited Slade perfectly.
The holo's shift broke him from his thoughts and snapped him back to attention. The two faces before him were instantly recognisable: Empress Lenina Marx and Boris Ivanov. A cold fear gripped his heart for a moment, and a career's worth of the rules tempted him to stand up and leave the room. Already, this was breaking the two most important rules of the game: never kill a head of state and never start a war. But then the obscene amounts of money he was being paid reasserted dominance over his mind and the moment passed. He leaned forwards further, chin resting on interlaced hands.
"When, where and how?" He asked.
