A police cruiser passed on his right, Æden permitting himself a slight grin at seeing the officer inside trying and failing to discern his own vehicle's contents. Æden's gunmen eyed the cruiser nervously a moment before the officer sped off into the distance, uninterested. A close call, one of many. This was a long way from the damp rivers in the Skaldanian heartland that Æden called home. The Enyaman frontier was a harsh place this deep into winter, and the bitter winter smog followed the glacial winds. The bay brought some semblance of regularity in temperature, but little could assuage the bleak nature of it all. He was a stranger here, as unknown to the land as it was to to him, and Æden reveled in the uncertainty.
"I'm surprised he didn't try to pull us over." His driver said, taking the truck for a harsh turn into a nearby alley. "Big black truck, tinted windows, bulletproof tires. If that's not suspicious, I don't what is."
Æden shrugged. "Probably doesn't know what real, military grade tires look like. These things'll absorb a mine going off, let alone a bit small arms fire."
"Still," His driver began to insist. "There's still a few more ways this op can go wrong."
"That's for the brass to worry about, our job is to make sure this information gets across. I'll not have any of your doubt on this." Æden said, the tapping at his pistol flaring with a momentary intensity.
The driver scratched at his scalp. "Understood, Colonel. We're nearly at the marker, so if we're going to call this off, now's the time."
"We've got our orders. Worst comes to worst, we've also got our guns. Turn in."
Their truck dug into the final turn, spraying snow into the bank as it swung around the corner. A gate in the chainlink fence was parted by an motley assortment of thugs barely in time to avoid getting run through underneath the tires. Men practically dove out of the truck's way before it came to an immediate stop in the center of this run-down maintenance yard. Slouched figures began to filter out from between stacks of hubcaps and spare parts, tension and uncertainty in their eyes. The sight brought Æden a devilish smirk. He knocked his knuckles against the nearest window and looked to his men. "Remember, this is a negotiation. I want total intimidation and equivocated restraint from all of you, nothing less. If someone ends up dead, then we've wholly wasted our time."
The doors to the truck opened with a thunderous clacking, Æden's men rising out of the vehicles in precise formation. Standing tall with hands held close to their bodies, their visages were obscured behind towering beards, wildly tattooed scalps and obfuscating sunglasses. Like shadows, their jet black suits managed to stand out against the bright white of the morning snowfall. Before them, skulked the Beardless. A feared organization operating within the city, the Beardless were dangerous people, widely recognized as among the most extreme proponents of the Akuteran independence movement. They were brutish, remorseless killers who operated with an exceptionally violent disposition.
They were precisely the kind of people that Æden needed.
He stepped out of the truck with a gradual and purposeful stride, brushing the back of his cigar along his lips as he stepped through the steely fog. He and his men scanned the pack of Beardless arrayed around them, waiting patiently for one to step forward. Eventually, a scraggly man with twisting ancestral tattoos of his own stepped out from behind the crowd, practically shoving his subordinates aside.
"I went to great lengths to make sure this meeting went smoothly, spooks. Make it worth my while." The scraggly man demanded, the fingers of his prosthetic arm contorting tightly as he flung it about.
Æden recognized the man's profile immediately. It was Erner Othel, the Beardless' nominal leader, and exactly the man Æden had been hoping to talk to.
"Mister Othal." Æden said, striding forward and offering his hand to shake. "My name is Colonel Æden, I come on behalf of Task Force 29. I'll be brief; the Council has decided to throw in our support behind your cause. I'm here to lay out what we have to offer, and our terms."
Othal grabbed Æden's hand with a scowl and shook it firmly before practically throwing it back. "Terms, huh? Demands. Threats. Call them what you like, the boys won't be happy to hear them. I won't be happy to hear them."
"Do you want our support or not?" Æden said.
"Depends on what that support even is, exactly." Othal spat.
Æden nodded. "Money. Manpower. Equipment. Even weapons, if it comes to that."
"It'll come to that." Othal's eyes shone like fire at those words, their intensity burrowing deep in the mind.
"That remains to be seen. But, in the long term, everything we can invest will be invested into bringing you back into the fold." Æden said, holding an upturned palm along the horizon, his smoke caught by the breeze. "But your people are the key to doing this... naturally."
"Hmph." Othal scowled. "Too scared to sacrifice your own in a war, are you?"
"You are our own." Æden said, resting his cigar over his mouth, tasting a breath of it. "But war brings unwanted attenion. The Latins wouldn't spare a heartbeat to start something far bloodier than a natural uprising. You're no stranger to sacrifice, mister Othal."
Looking to his arm, then to Æden's scars, Othal's scowl lifted. "We'll see. Your people had better be worth it." He spun on his heel and motioned to a nearby warehouse looming overhead. "Come, let's hash out your deal."
Æden's wicked grin returned. "Anything to rid you of the Enyaman scourge, my friend."