Futuristic Unlit IC

[Daisie]

The sass coming from her "team member", though not unexpected, was still irksome. Chanterelle had to process that Eska just said what she thought she did - that she genuinely believed that the bio-suit was unnecessary - before reminding herself that she hadn't exactly been handing out posters about her own medical history. Even if Chanterelle had, though, she doubted it would have made a difference; five seconds on Tartarus would teach anyone that antagonism ran in the Cavanaugh genetics.

Eska was... perceptive, though. Someone to look out for. Chanterelle fully intended to match that level of observation.

"Supposed to be on a team, last I checked." Her tone was the same low, unthreatened drone. Bored, maybe even exasperated. "Not unreasonable to be wondering where our members are."

Then a pause.

"... Wasn't much to do back there, either," she admitted before passing a glance around the abandoned ship as a gesture. "Nothing left in here? Looks fresh."

Vudukudu

 

[Vudukudu]

Eska's brow arches haughtily. "Its unreasonable if they told you where they would be, which I did, as I recall." She pauses for a moment, then lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Sorry. Shouldn't be acting like a startled pit viper. Just wasn't expecting company." She offers up the apology almost sheepishly, turning away halfway through it to continue rummaging through a small pile of unsorted items on a table. "They're mostly all picked clean. Except for one that's got some sort of security system, stuck in a lock-out mode, guess they messed it up too many times. Not really qualified to poke at it and it looks like its stuck even more than the stick up Stratton's ass, so.." She trails off before using her forearm to sweep the entire pile of junk to the floor carelessly and then moving on.

 

[Daisie]

It wasn't clear if Eska's joke landed with Chante. It wasn't clear if any joke ever landed with Chante, as all of it is only met with silence and a stare, Eska being no exception. As the teen starts moving along though, Chanterelle takes it upon herself to approach the door to the cargo hold, inspecting it closely.

She places a gloved hand against the plating on the door, sliding it down the center with a metallic grinding. She glances over her shoulder. "Gotta be something good on the other side, then. I'm no tech person, myself, but... Think the both of us can budge it?"

"... If the stick isn't far enough, I guess."

Vudukudu

 

[Solar Daddy]

Ambiance

In the other direction from Team Serpent's activities, Adira and Silas trekked on their own through the dense midday streets of Sine. The duo traveled on the upper promenades of a raised platform which bridged over a wide section of motorway beneath them. The icy rails shook off a thin layer of snow with every vehicle that passed with barely enough clearance below, and the gust of freezing wind carried by the trucks and transports made even the most resilient person shudder to pull their jacket tighter to their body. Before him, Silas' breath clouded into the wind while trying to pretend he didn't mind the cold. Shoes crunched satisfyingly on fresh powdered snow and occasional patches of ice, with the mechanic nearly losing his balance once or twice along their walk.

"Of all the places to get stuck…" Silas muttered under his breath. His scruffy, long beard was full of snow particles and a few icy strands. "Wouldn't be risking this kind of meeting in such terrible weather if I didn't trust my contact.”

Adira kept her face tucked down into the collar of her coat. The weather wasn't a problem for her, but she could understand why Silas hated it so much. Even by her standards, this was pretty awful and the constant traffic only exacerbated it. She had a bit of a better time in the ice than Silas, and at certain points held onto his arm to steady him. "At least we got stuck somewhere populated with breathable air and with a WS presence. Could be worse."

She turned to look back ahead toward the dingy strip of buildings Silas had been leading them to. "So, your contact… the one getting us in contact with the forger. How do you know him again? Usually I'm the one with shady contacts, not you."

“How would I keep up my mysterious aura if I revealed all my cards up front?” Silas joked with his eyes forward. “It hardly matters anyway. We’re longtime friends and he’s a good guy. Can’t really go wrong, I don’t think. Come on, I’m not standing out here any longer.” Silas made a turn into a short alley before crossing into a jammed automatic door, with Silas looking into the machinery in the cracks. It was clear on his face he debated looking into the problem, before glancing over at Adira. “Sorry. Can’t take the mechanic out of the man.”

They traveled up a few flights of stairs before coming to a hallway with some shoddy barred doors. It was clear from the surroundings this place was once a hotel that’d fallen into disrepair. There were a few half-painted walls, clear plastic tarps strewn around and some exposed drywall in some places, but not a soul in sight.

Soon, they arrived at the only non-barred door in sight, with Silas giving it a few knocks. “Room service,” He called while stroking the ice out of his beard.

Miles nestled his nose into his burnt orange scarf as he watched Jae Cayus while the man set up his tools of the trade. The bare circuit boards he played like piano ivories, the information ports embedded into his hands, the conductors sending shocks from his fingertips, it all added up to make him what he was: one of the best forgers presently alive. Yet Miles's green eyes hovered on the man's hands with a hesitation, as such assets came with a price that Miles couldn't understand. Then again, if nobody cared about you, and you didn't care about anyone else, then why not turn yourself into a technologically advanced and very rich time bomb?

Miles stood against the doorframe to the once-bedroom that Cayus was sitting on the ground of and commented, his breath creating small plumes of steam, “Next time, please don't dress so nicely if you're coming to this side of town.” If he was honest though, hopefully Miles would never have to deal with Cayus again anyway. Wouldn't that be nice?

“Why not? Nobody would dare fuck with me.”

“No, but it attracts attention for your buyers who are looking for discretion.”

Cayus tsk'ed and shook his head. “You're overly cautious, Moss, always overly cautious. Relax a little.”

Miles raised an eyebrow and smirked as he paced over and leaned in to whisper to the Liborian. He heard a knock at the door, smiled again, patted him on the shoulder, and walked to the main room.

Miles pulled the door open and grinned, a bright and wholesome smile on his face that lit up his slightly reflective eyes, “Silas! It's so good to see you!” He shook Silas's hand firmly and pulled him into a side hug, then glanced at Adira. “And your friend! Please, come in, both of you. The whole building is secured, you can feel free to relax, both of you. I'd offer you refreshments but this ain't my place, thank the stars.”

He led them into the large main room of what could possibly have been a nice apartment a long time ago. “Jae is still getting set up.” He looked to Adira and held out his hand. “I think we've met before. But if we haven't - I'm Miles Moss.”

Adira tried to keep track of this bubbly young man. He was about her age and he did seem familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She shook his hand, “Adira Rik. Thanks for your help setting this up.”

“Oh, no problem at all,” Miles said. He withdrew his hand to put back in the pocket of his thick canvas jacket, “Silas said your team needed a contact you could trust, and coincidentally I was on this planet anyway and I knew a certain famous forger was here too. It just worked out.”

“Sidereas sure has ways of bringing people together,” Silas commented with a pleasant smile as he looked over his longtime friend. “Been a while though, hope your job hasn’t been keeping you too busy. We’ve been on some pretty crazy adventures ourselves. Got a crew and everything. Adira here’s been keeping my head from floating off into space more often than not.”

Miles shrugged and said, “I've been kept plenty busy lately. Hell, I'd like some time to *not* be busy, but gotta make money somehow.” He turned his attention toward Adira. “You've been keeping track of our favorite mechanic?”

Adira smiled just a bit, “Of course. I've always got his back, whether that's me piloting or pulling out a gun.”

The low rattle of the Liborian’s voice echoed lightly across the empty room, halting whatever Silas was going to say next. “We’re in business.” Jae perched over three separate devices, one datapad and two laptops of wildly different make and model. The blue glow from the electronics lit up the Liborian’s tan sandpaper-like skin from below with an ominous silhouette. His eyes darted from one device to the next as text sprawled across the screens, constantly updating from Jae’s machine-like tapping. “I’m not quite so prone to small talk I’m afraid. You know who I am, I know who you are. You need passes to the Cambrian Shipworks gala being held at the Tala Tower. Eight of them, to be exact. Not exactly an easy crowd to infiltrate, I must say. Prestigious. You also wanted to discuss the possibility of an imagined bank account to fund a very hefty purchase, hmm?”

Silas had stepped up to the other side of Jae’s setup along with Adira and Miles. “I believe we have that covered," Silas said while imagining Stratton, Hanako and Qyilim playing diplomat with some prestigious economic oligarch. "Just the passes for now." Silas looked to Adira with a nod, his eyes stopping on Miles for just a moment as he refocused on Jae.

The Liborian clicked his teeth thrice. “We are in agreement with the passes, then. Miles already mentioned you may have other ways of securing the drive itself. Now; payment for the passes. 30k. Up front.” Jae pushed the datapad on his left forward. A blinking transfer request was plastered on the screen. Silas received a call and excused himself, motioning for Adira to complete the transfer; the funds they’d allocated for the passes was in a joint business account. He held a short conversation with Kestrel, tracking down a usable ship for the eventful night coming.

Miles looked between Adira and Jae, his expression grim. 30k was a lot of money. Whatever kinda things Silas and his team were up to, apparently the pay was good. His eyes lingered on the tablet and the giant glowing numbers on it.

Adira had already spoken with Silas at length about the cost of this transaction, so she knew it was okay. She approved the purchase, but eyed the Liborian warily. A betrayal wouldn't make sense at this point, but she was always on guard.

For the first time that night, Jae showed a hint of emotion; a slight satisfied smirk with a clap of his hands. “Funds transferred successfully. You have yourselves a grand time at that gala. I insist. Miles, a pleasure working with you as always.” Jae Cayus shut the lid of his two laptops, unplugged a few wires and began putting away his gear in a non distinct, off-brand bag.

Miles just nodded to Cayus and turned to Adira and Silas. Another smile lit up his face as he offered, “Here, let me walk you two out.” As they walked down the concrete stairs, their steps echoing through the building, Miles looked at Silas and asked, “So, will you guys need a fake bodyguard for this?”

 

[Solar Daddy]

"Alright," Silas said, tallying in his mind. "We've got our marching orders. Let's all get our groups organized and try and wrap up our objectives by the weekend. Remember, we still need time to get appropriate attire before the event, unless anyone's somehow come from Tartarus with a tux in their pocket."

And with that, the meeting concluded. Stratton wasn’t feeling too hyped-up about the crew staging a heist and- potentially- going in guns blazing against a bunch of security guards but at least this way he could hopefully prevent an armed heist in the first place.

Looking around the table he was glad he wasn’t alone with his choice, though with his background Stratton was confident he could’ve pulled off a non-violent approach solo.

He gave both Hanako and Qyilim a slight nod before looking over to Adira, to whom he offered a brief smile as he got up to leave the room.

Once outside he hoped to catch his two fellow crewmates and as both Qyilim and Hanako left the room he gave them both a wave.

“So,” he began, taking a moment to roll his neck, grimacing slightly as he did. “This could be interesting.”

The envoy then shrugged. “Or go FUBAR really quick.”

He looked at Hanako. “You used to be tight with Burns, right? What are the odds he’ll call off the armed assault in case we don’t succeed?”

“I suppose tight is one way to put it,” Hanako chuckled. She swung her arms from back to front, loosening up after the walk outside. “I’d say we were about as close as Silas let’s people be,” she added, still stretching. She’d leave it at that, mostly; there was no use digging up old history when Silas wasn’t even around to squirm at it.

“That said, if there’s one thing I can always count on, it’s Silas’s stubbornness.” She smiled at the two men she was working with. “No chance he calls something off once he’s told other people about it – especially once he’s told other people about it.”

There were parts of Qyilim that had gradually lost their discipline due to his time outside of Waning Stars’ good graces. Prison had been especially bad; he had found it necessary to sharpen some features, and let others languish. When Hanako spoke the last sentence, his head turned and eyes flicked to the side as his instincts of curiosity bade him glance in the direction of the shipyard he had broken into with Silas. It took some conscious effort to readjust his gaze back onto Hanako and Stratton. As he did so, he considered Hanako’s words: Silas had given him a choice to walk away from the shipyard. Had it been a real choice, or had Silas intended to more forcefully persuade Qyilim if he hadn’t agreed?

Without knowing Silas well himself, Qyilim decided not to comment on the current subject. He instead focused on Hanako. Did he recognise her? Or was it her name that rang a bell? Or perhaps it was the way she was looking at him sometimes; there were no strong feelings he could pick up on, but he was sure she was seeing something he wasn’t aware of. For now, he would have to let his unanswered queries lie - they had a plan to make.

Grunting in response to Hanako, Stratton followed up by crossing his arms. His face bore a mixed expression, one of curiosity paired with reluctance. “He’s a hardy man. A good man,” came his response.

Stratton glanced at Qyilim- the fellow veteran hadn’t said anything as of yet, most likely gauging the entirety of the situation just as Stratton himself was doing- before continuing;

“I just hope that there aren’t any emotions at work here that could cloud his judgment. That, and there’s only so much trouble my contacts could bail us out of.”

He stroked his beard and looked down, seemingly studying the snowy texture and the deep prints everyone left in the snow.

“If I reach out to one of my local contacts, do we have the skillset to either convince or coerce any potential target of sourcing us with the funds of buying the drive outright?”

Stratton gave both Hanako and Qyilim a long, hard, look. “The line between morally right and wrong can be a very slippery slope in a situation such as this. At best we’ll be in debt to someone, worst we’ll have to blackmail or manipulate them discreetly in order to prevent a potential bloodbath at the hands of the other teams.”

Qyilim put his hand to his chest and inclined his head a little.

‘Provided we are able to speak with these contacts in person, my ability to read psionics may help guide us towards an… understanding with the target. If a deal can be made, we will find it more easily; if coercion is our lot, my abilities will let us know where to press. Additionally, I had a positive reputation as a bounty hunter that went further than my regrettable criminal acts. I would hope both of these qualities assist in this non-violent method of acquiring the core.’

The group’s conversations dragged on for a bit with little progress made on securing an economic savant to coerce. Luckily for them, Stratton’s burner datapad hummed with the alert of a message; from none other than Adira.

"We have a rich contact by the name of Rulil eta Yurkashhal. New-money Sol with zF to burn. Has an ego you can easily abuse to get what you want. Info came from a reliable source. You can get your foot in the door by bringing up tech loans to his assistant. Not likely to cause trouble but don't push our luck - Addy"

Unable to throw away such a gifted resource, and with no other realistic options in sight, Stratton managed to convince Qyillim and Hanako to go with the person outlined in Adira’s text.

---

Later that evening, with surprising grace considering a wealthy business owner’s busy schedule, Stratton led his posse through the snowy, grid-like streets of Sine, to one of the tallest outliers in the city proper: Centennial Plaza, a complex twisting hex-grid of immaculately polished glass and curved walls that must make the interior a nightmare to decorate. From their approach though, it was imposing, beautiful, and most of all - lavish. Exactly the kind of people they needed funding from.

The lobby held extensive protection; Waning military police with small arms and moderate defensive plates, high-tech observation cameras in just about every crevice imaginable, and at least four Gor-Arms Reactive Sentinel robots stationed in hibernation containers suspended just barely within sight amongst all the decorative but ultimately meaningless, soulless art and statues strewn about. It was an impressive display of wealth, where nearly everything seemed gold, platinum, or otherwise rare gem materials with absolutely no expense barred. Even the plaza’s front desk receptionist seemed plucked straight from a fashion show into a slanted, designer-brand seat.

Upon entering, Stratton was able to clear himself as a Waning officer, and was also able to waive Hanako and Qyilim’s identification as liaison business. They made it through security easily enough, and the front desk receptionist eagerly showed Stratton the way to the elevator; it was a twisting labyrinth to get to, clearly designed not for ease, but to provide more hallways for spectators to ogle its opulence. Up they went through a near 20 degree tilted elevator that carried them through the twisting insides of Centennial Plaza. Their destination, floor 604, took ages to reach.

Finally, after multiple intentional delays on behalf of the architects of high society, they were face to face with the assistant whom Stratton spoke with earlier.

The human was clean shaven and boasted surprisingly sharp cheekbones, which seemed to jut out taught against olive skin while his hair looked almost like it was painted on from how lacking in volume it was. “Ah, you must be James Staten, I presume? Please, hurry in, Mr. eta Yurkashhal is always eager to meet with up-and-coming tech conglomerates!” He waved his hand off to the door on his right, which seemed to ajar itself at the notion. “Oh and, please, refrain from mentioning the elephant in the room, yeah? You’ll lose your deal and I’ll get fired. Let’s not have that happen. Hurry on!”

Centennial Plaza truly stood out on Sine with its obvious wealth that made the rest of what the crew had seen so far look like a downtrodden favela. Upon making their way upstairs Stratton offered the assistant a brief smile and an equally quick nod before stepping inside the office.

Once inside the office, the group’s senses were immediately accosted by a thick vapor filling the room. It burned their throats like thousands of insect bites, and their nostrils couldn’t bear to endure the overpowering smell of… Ginger? It dulled all other thoughts as the heavy smell was all but unavoidable.

At the far end of the absurdly long office, lined with shuttered windows creating a moody atmosphere and peppered with moss fixtures, sat a rail-thin Sol with his eyes closed and his hands folded before him. His gray skin looked even more leathery than a typical Sol, and his oblong head dipped low.

“Please, come forward, prospecting ventures. Take in the healing aura of my lovely flora.” One hand motioned to the stems of ginger sticking longingly up through the hazy mist in small gardens planted throughout the room. “Feel your burdens wash away in their presence.”

After a moment, the Sol motioned to the three seats before him on the other side of his black marble desk.

Struggling to both manage the overwhelming levels of ginger smell as well as maintaining a somewhat neutral expression, Stratton narrowed his eyes slightly while the very corners of his mouth drooped slightly.

This is almost as bad as that post-battle patrol I had back in the day, minus the smell of gun-propellants and burning hydrogen fuel.

Upon closing the distance across the overly elongated office Stratton nodded politely towards the Sol seated behind the desk.

“Thank you for seeing us,” he began, struggling to not cough reflexively. Once seated Stratton did his very best to remain neutral, both in facial expression as well as physical poise.

Time to bluff.

Stratton offered Qyilim a quick glance before taking in a deep breath- which he came to regret immediately- before speaking;

“So, Mr. eta Yurkashhal. My name is James Stratton and I’m a liaison with the Waning Stars Office of Asymmetric Operations. If you’ve never heard of us, please, don’t be alarmed- few do.”

Clasping his hands together, Stratton leaned in just slightly. “Now, I’d encourage you to not attempt to dig on the information I’ve just given you. For starters, you’ll only find a heavily redacted file attached to my name- assuming you find anything at all- and as far as my two companions go-” Stratton gestured towards Qyilim and Hanako “-you’ll only find criminal records.”

“Don’t worry though, I’m not informing you of this to intimidate you. In fact, we’re here because Waning Stars needs help. For one, we are currently in the middle of a covert ground operation with some very sensitive moving parts that requires a great deal of cash to see through.”

“Secondly, we’re also looking to establish an array of contacts through Waning Stars space as well as beyond and as far as the former goes we think you’d be an excellent intermediary here on Sine.”

Stratton shifted slightly, smiling as he did. It was the same fake smile he’d seen on special ops operatives he’d been assigned to protect in the past, the one you wore to make a threat seem like something else, if for a moment.

“What does this mean for you? Well, I’m glad you asked. For now it means that the organization I work for will need to borrow a large sum of non-government funds and in return you’ll get the privilege and protection of my people and I. This in turn will also bring forth exclusive business deals, from which you will earn a steady and may I add quite generous cut for your cooperation and discretion.”

Stratton raised an eyebrow. “Thoughts so far?”

Rulil, at first, seemed to gaze past Stratton and affix to something behind him - the assistant who’d silently entered behind them, wearing a deeply apologetic, unknowing grimace and shook his head violently with raised shoulders. The delegation before him clearly weren’t here on behalf of VisionPro Corp for a lucrative collaboration, but rather government spies looking to sow seeds in the vast garden that was Sine. Rulil was angered to begin, unmistakably, and the tech CEO effortlessly moved one hand under the desk. One of his slender fingers nearly set off a silent alarm, which would’ve brought in a private security force within the minute. Luckily for Stratton, however, the action was just slow enough for Rulil to hesitate. As the liaison pressed forward into his pitch, the CEO couldn’t help but feel a tinge of… interest?

Once Stratton wrapped up his monologue, Rulil spoke after a pause, his finger still lightly hovering discreetly over the alarm. “So… Waning’s finally knocking on my door after all these years, are they? Under the table, no less…”

Rulil trailed off, the muscles along his oblong skull in a symmetrical pattern clenching and computing at random. Anyone with even slight experience with Sols knew this was a sign of deep thought.

“These exclusive business deals… Be blunt with me. No mincing words. Do they involve The Wrought Assembly? I know it exists, I’ve heard the rumors.” The Sol’s head muscles didn’t cease in their endless spasms as even the slightest change in Stratton’s posture was being monitored closely.

Stratton observed Rulil in silence for a moment. He glanced over to the assistant, narrowing his eyes. “Close the doors,” he said.

“Please.”

Once the assistant had complied Stratton returned his focus to the Sol in front of him. He raised his chin and folded his hands in front of him.

“If there’s any truth to such rumors of such an organization I wouldn’t be at liberty to disclose that- not even if I wanted to.”

Tilting his head slightly, Stratton continued; “No, I represent something factual. Something concrete. Something real.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Special Investigations Office or the Strategic Operations Agency or any of the other dozens of names we use when identifying ourselves, aside the one I just used. We are a clandestine part of Waning Star’s military agency. Omnipresent, ready and always looking to secure new allies in times such as these.

That is what I can offer you, a covert ally with an equally covert stem of black budget funds as thanks for your cooperation and discretion.

Not only that, but we value our allies and those that help us achieve our goals. This includes carrying out the sort of work most citizens would find… distasteful. Granted, that is assuming you’d choose to cooperate with us.”

Stratton shrugged. “If not, it’d be as if my associates and I were never here.”

Rulil had a series of muscles twitch in his face similar to the way a cadaver might respond to electric shocks. Though his eyes narrowed for a moment when Stratton denied knowing anything about the Wrought Assembly, ultimately he leaned back in the moss-covered chair. His three-pronged hands kneaded the organics beneath his palms. He would’ve seemingly sat in thought for eternity had a series of mindless beeps on his datapad not brought him back to the present.

“If I’m guaranteed an… equal or greater return on my initial investment,” Rulil began while motioning in the air, which seemed to spur the tech-filled desk to life and produce an ornate quill from the innards of the surface. “I would say you have a deal, Mr. Waning. I do love a good sponsorship.”

Rulil used the quill, a fibrous device picked from local but rare fauna with an added stylus tip on the end, to elegantly tap away at his datapad. A few signatures here, a few dotted I’s and crossed T’s there, and Rulil flipped the tablet around for Stratton or his posse to take.

“Just put your information here and I’ll transfer over the bottomless pit of cash you require. Don’t worry, it’ll clear without a hiccup in a matter of hours. And, I do look forward to a new symbiotic relationship with Waning.” Rulil let something similar to a grin creep onto his otherwise opaque and plain face.

Stratton allowed the room to fall into relative silence before responding, doing so with a nod. “Absolutely, Mr. eta Yurkashhal. We take care of our own and loyalty to the cause is always justly and generously rewarded- sometimes in more ways than mere funding,” Stratton finished with a sly smirk.

When the tablet and quill arrived Stratton glanced over the former- allowing his concealed implants to record everything- before filling out the necessary information.
In this case he opted to use an old operations account, one his commanding officers had used during his prolonged missions in Icarus-space.

Registered with a non-aligned bank the account would look legit enough on paper, though anyone with half a brain or half the resources of the oligarch in front of Stratton would recognize the smell of a disposable black-ops account.

With that in mind, Stratton signed the tablets. “A pleasure to conduct business with you, always an honor to meet ambitious and loyal patriots.”

---

Three days later, the once-crew of the Ambivalence was given pardon of events that occurred on Tartarus almost a month prior and their travel embargo was lifted. They'd heard through news and other media means about the Durian assault on Tartarus, a planet officially labeled Regarvisis III in common star charts. It was an out-of-the-way, zero importance star system far off from most civilizations, explaining why help had never came for the marooned souls trapped on the nightmare planet. From the reports, Tartarus was mostly leveled outside a few key strategic locations specifically designed to resist orbital attack, such as bunkers and the mines far below the surface. Only a few dozen had survived up to this point, and only thanks to a nearby Human fleet arriving to halt the siege. Currently, it seemed Waning Stars and the Archyss Principality were in a tense ceasefire for the time being. An investigation was underway regarding a mysterious, lost Durian installation from far back in the Duro-Human war, with long forgotten weapons of mass destruction being harbored deep in its endless subsurface vaults.

The original survivors of the siege, a plucky crew now residing on Sine, were getting used to the layout of their new, sparsely decorated ship, an Orsin Harpy procured by Kestrel, Chanterelle and Eska. Silas hadn't registered a name for it yet, something he'd tend to once the gala was done and over with. From the interior, it was clear this was once a simple cargo ship converted to a multi-role amalgamation of exploration, reconnaissance, R&D, and a few dozen other specializations. Everything but the kitchen sink, Silas' dad would say.

The Harpy burst from the clouds circling Virama, ignoring the harsh wind and snow battering its hull on its way to the gala. The scenic view of the planet shrinking in the distance passed by the viewports on the ship like a movie vista while the crew prepared for the party, including last second checks of their outfits, recently procured from the various high-end outlets across the city. No one had to pay out of pocket thanks to the bottomless pit of cash Stratton, Qyilim and Hanako had secured for them.

Silas was among those checking his fit in hopes he could play the part of a lavishly rich socialite who belonged at the gala. He'd survived combat and dire circumstances over and over, pretending to be someone he wasn't shouldn't be so hard, right?

Silas joined the others out in the main atrium of the Harpy, what was once an expanded cargo bay now converted to a barely functional "living room." He, alongside the others, looked completely out of place being on such a low-end ship looking as rich as they did. Silas himself had donned a navy blue jacket with matte black, smooth frills and dark under-clothes. The way he was dressed reminded him of an uptight admiral from one of his binge shows, a thought that had Silas feeling at least a bit brash.

He adjusted the cufflinks on his wrists uncomfortably. He never had to worry about cufflinks before. Out the viewports, a luxurious and absolutely massive ship orbited a radiant blue gas giant. The hundreds of smaller ships owned by the gala's attendants made it look like a small fleet. "How we doing? Everyone excited for some expensive champagne?"

 

[Daisie]

The Harpy was... a bit small. Chanterelle figured it looked a bit bigger when it was in the shop, and briefly wondered if there was some sort of trickery at play when they'd taken the tour, cause all of a sudden, it did not feel nearly as spacious as it once did.

Perhaps it had just sunk in that they really were going to be stuck together. It's easy enough to say you'll join a crew, and a whole other thing to be tagging along on their ship and participating in their subterfuge.

When Silas entered the "living room" (cough, cough, cargo bay, where Chanterelle chose to sit on an empty crate left behind by the seller), she came to attention, helmet tilting upward.

"How we doing? Everyone excited for some expensive champagne?"

"... No." The response slipped from her helmet instinctually, blunt honesty unceasing. After a second or two of pause, Chanterelle pointed to her own helmet as if to point out the obvious.

After setting her gauntlet down in her lap again, she continued.

"I'd like to know just where we're off to, though." She slipped off the cargo crate with a short screech of metal against metal, boots thunking against the bay's floor heavily. "Been, uh... working on a posh voice. Wanna know what kind I oughta put on."

"... If you want me in there. Not real subtle, I know." She directed a thumb over her shoulder. "Can just wait outside if you want."

Solar Daddy

 

[Viper Actual]

"Well," said Stratton, entering the living room. "It's got personality." His face cracked open into a smile. "I kinda like her; rough around the edges, a bit weathered but still more than enough- like me."

Upon entering he gave Chante a friendly and gentle pat on one of her shoulder pads before using his hands to adjust the cuffs on his suit. It looked a bit like the suit he'd brought with him aboard the Ambivalence though it wasn't quite as lived-in as his previous set of formal clothing. Nonetheless, it would do just fine for a night such as this.

Mentally, Stratton was both preparing himself for the night to come while also going over the past days in his head. Sealing the deal for the crew's black funds had been... risky. However, it would certainly be worth it in the long run- though secretly feared that the move may have used up the last favors he still had with his old place of employment. While he might've gotten some leeway with his old officers based on years of service alone the newer, much more 'by the book', officers would most likely not be as impressed.

Then again, that issue would have to wait. Right now Burns, Adira and the others needed him. And him them.

"Want to go over the plan one final time, boss?" He asked aloud, nodding towards both Silas and Adira.

Daisie Dragongal Solar Daddy

 

[Epiphany]

Kestrel's affairs, such as they were, had been handled with neat and taciturn efficiency. At least, once the embargo was lifted. The political situation wasn't something she was an expert in, or in a position to do much about. Still, the news of the Waning Stars/Archyss Principality conflict was noted duly.

The important thing was getting the ship ready. Having procured the Orsin Harpy, she'd spent some considerable time seeing to its outfitting. Ships were something a cosmonaut understood very well, particularly a Cavanaugh with her training, so she coordinated with Stratton and the other experts on filling out that multi-role capability for the craft. Having no broader ties to the universe, outside of some old friendships on the planet of Granite and her relationships with the legacy crew of the Ambivalence, Kestrel simply worked through it all.

Until at last the mission on Virama. As the ship descended and docked, Kestrel likewise tugged at the smart-fabric wrapping around her wrists to ensure a good comfortable fit. She'd chosen a long black dress that left her shoulders bare and exposed a decent length of leg. Something only a socialite might wear, but something she could at least move in if she had to.

Solar Daddy
At Silas' question, Kestrel swept her long blonde hair back with a head toss. revealing a nice pear of teardrop earrings also chosen for the occasion. "I feel a bit ridiculous," she admitted to the ship's owner. "But champagne? I suppose a glass won't hurt."

Daisie
She smiled a bit awkwardly in Chanterelle's direction, at the other woman's obvious discomfort. "Maybe we can save some, see if there's a way of passing it through whatever filters your suit uses later? No sense in you missing out on a bit of the fun. Especially when fun can be in short supply on the kind of jobs we get up to."

Viper Actual
Kestrel snorted at Stratton's opening remarks. "It's a good ship, Stratton. Besides, sharp edges are just asking for someone to round them off for us, possibly by trying to hijack our ship. Should be fine most of the places we'll get up to."

She nodded approvingly at the suit. "You clean up good, soldier."

 

[0stinato]

Although the group were more in-transit than they had been for the past month or so, Qyilim was finally starting to feel a sense of permanency. This ship, despite its modest size, was representative of the group’s acceptance of him, even if the rest of them didn’t see it that way. Encountering Silas and the others on Tartarus, speaking was infrequent. The labour there kept them all busy. Upon escaping, Qyilim was thinking of himself, of his need to get away from the situation, by whatever means it took. Arriving on Sine and sharing a room with Eska, a young woman whose world remained shut off from most, he still felt as though he was dancing on the fringes of the core group, even when Silas asked his help infiltrating the scrapyard. In that snowy landscape was where Qyilim undoubtedly had made the most impact on the others, and where he too was impacted positively by them, but the whole set-up lacked foundation. He knew he wasn’t alone with that thought; Silas wanted the core of his old ship back, and Adira was a pilot without anything to fly. Throughout all his conversations and other dealings in the place, he felt everyone saw the place as a pit-stop.

This little ship was changing that. They were on the move, existing figuratively in liminal space between events, and jetting through literal space, but at least when his rest time came, and he was able to lay his head down, he knew his horizon wouldn’t be changed thoroughly when he awoke.

It was comfortable.

So, if it was a comfortable life for the moment, why had Qyilim picked out attire that was anything but?

Was he so tuned to a life of constant vigilance and uncertainty that the merest whisper of security had him sabotaging his own contentedness? Had his various careers moulded him into someone who couldn’t stand the feeling of comfort or relaxation? And why was he struggling to knot a tie in the bathroom mirror even with an instructional video?

Qyilim reached down to pause the video but found himself smiling. This time last month, such a minor annoyance would have had him frown, or at the very least, release a sigh that had an edge to it. It was probably true that his mental equilibrium was out of balance because he wasn’t on the verge of a perilous situation, but, with this group that eventuality was certain.

Deciding he would risk attending a formal event sans-tie, he slipped it out from his collar and bundled it into a pocket. His overall get-up should be enough: he had selected a burgundy suit and white shirt. It even had a waistcoat. Truthfully, he wasn’t certain about the colour, but when one was as tall and broad as him, one had to take what one could get. He would have liked a navy one with checks, but the sizings just didn’t reach.

Still, the colour off-set the white of his shirt well - a shirt that would strain at its seams if Qyilim so much as flexed his biological muscles. He’d have to be careful not to rip anything tonight. Grace, caution and elegance was required, and he was certain his years behind bars had not dulled his dexterity. Just because you could get away with more boisterous, even more sloppy, behaviour, didn’t mean Qyilim had lost a gentler touch.

Deciding enough preening was enough, Qyilim made to exit the bathroom, ducking carefully under the frame. He was polite in saying the ship was modestly-sized, but he would never choose to be rude. The group had done what they could, after all.

Picking his way through the still-unfamiliar corridors in new shoes to the atrium, Qyilim entered to see a few others already there. Silas stood front and centre, in a navy suit. Well - it was probably good Qyilim hadn’t been able to get the navy one he had liked, then. Silas would have definitely shown him up in terms of appearance. By the looks of it, he knew how to do up a tie, at the very least. All in all, everyone looked quite stunning, which caused poor Chanterelle to stand out in her armour.

He came forward while taking in everyone’s appearances and trying to ignore his own devastating lack of tie, comforted at least to know some of the others were not used to wearing this kind of thing either.

‘I am sure none of us would dream of leaving you behind, Chanterelle,’ Qyilim let his low voice take its place in the conversation, and while his smile was small, the warmth in his voice was full. ‘Those who would not understand the importance that armour has in your everyday life would simply not be worth your time. You should come. You can always leave if it is not the scene for you.’

He looked to Kestrel and inclined his head in agreement with her sentiment to Silas. ‘You are not alone with feeling ridiculous. But you will look as wonderful and co-ordinated all night as you do now, I am sure, whereas I have a feeling I would rip something if I move the wrong way.’

Even while he spoke he felt the press of the shirt’s collar against his neck: it was certainly doing its best.

--
Interactions: Daisie Epiphany

 

[Dragongal]

Adira's outfit was all compromises. It had taken much encouragement from Silas - so much encouragement and a lot of him putting up with her stubbornness - before she willingly went to try on clothes and jewelry. The final choice was a dusk gray high-low dress, cut shorter in the front than the back, with a shimmery layer of gauzy, wispy, glittery fabric over it that was almost imperceptible besides the shimmer, and black leggings under it. The sleeves were loose and gauzey and ended at her wrists, and the collar was a modest V. She found some boots with thankfully minimal heels that went well with the outfit, and wiry crystal necklaces and earrings giving an effect like stars. A slim silver cross-body bag finished the whole outfit off.

Adira tugged lightly at the cuff on her wrists as she walked into the room just in time to hear everyone speaking.

"... If you want me in there. Not real subtle, I know." She directed a thumb over her shoulder. "Can just wait outside if you want."

"Waiting outside would be worse. It's best if you're with us, you never know when we could need help now how we can need help."

"Well," said Stratton, entering the living room. "It's got personality."

"I rather like the ship," Adira commented, still tugging at the cuffs on her wrists. "So far she seems to fly quite well, and the space is nice. And, yes, she has personality."

"I have a feeling I would rip something if I move the wrong way."

Adira looked up at Qyilim and said, "Oh, let me know if that happens, I'm bringing an emergency sewing kit. I - Well, I know how to sew, and sewing on the fly (pun intended) is something I'm good at." A sly little smile crossed her lips and she patted her little purse. It was small, but it was one of her compromises with Silas. There wasn't much, she couldn't smuggle in much - the plan was relying on not needing to smuggle anything in.

 

[Solar Daddy]

With everyone fully gathered and present in the sparse interior of the main room of their new ship, Silas resisted the urge to fidget with the comparatively tight and restricting suit. He hated sleeves, he hated multiple layers, but for now, he needed just make do. First, Silas wanted to reassure the clear doubts or discomfort he sensed from the rest of the team. "I must say, I expected us to get well dressed for the event, but everyone really took this new look in stride." Silas flashed a toothy smile while kicking a scrap of paper off from under his shoe. He'd really need to spend a night or ten with a broom once he had the chance. "We'll blend in so well, we'll wonder why we even worried about it in the first place."

Silas turned to face Chanterelle, the Icarus-clad exception to their dress code. "We're all going. No one's excluded. You don't need to worry about the... allegiance of the armor you wear. This is a strictly neutral event. The gala gets support from all different federations of humans and non-humans, Icarus included. If anything, rounding out our roster with different types will help make sure that, even if someone gets kicked out, they won't lump us all together and kill our chances of getting that core. Not to mention, there'll be plenty of rarer species in human space present here, so they'll be sure to draw more attention inherently than just some schmuck in a fancy old suit of armor." Silas hoped he had thoroughly given Chante enough reason to come. They'd all done their homework to get this thing going, and he didn't want anyone left out of the heist; even if they were here for the core, who says they couldn't enjoy a night out on top of it? They deserved it after the hell that was Tartarus, and the past month cooped up in their dingy apartment complex.

Silas then clasped his hands together. "Alright, on to the meat of it." Silas pointed out the portside window, curved along the hull of the ship which gave them an angled view ahead. "When we land, we'll all verify who we are - make sure you match the names and backgrounds on your ID cards - and head on into the gala. The auction won't begin for a hot minute, so feel free to get drinks and food, or chat up the other attendants. Anything in-character to cement the lie that we belong here will do us good. The auction is being held on Deck C near the aft of the ship. I'd recommend all of you being there for the auction, so we can regroup and plan the rest of the night if something goes awry. I won't be bidding myself; my real name and likeness are tied to the core, something the auctioneers would've checked beforehand, so they'd learn about our plot the second I'd go to claim my prize. Instead, one of you will make the final bid. From there, all it takes is some pesky paperwork, a transfer of the funds, and the crew of the vessel should assist in getting the drive loaded onto our ship."

"One last thing," Silas fumbled in his pocket and produced a handful of small black dots. "Put these in your ears. We'll be able to talk to one another through them. If any problems occur, I'll be listening to give guidance or step in if you need help."

Silas gave a sigh and stuffed his hands into the well-lined pockets of his suit. "All and all, nothing too complicated. Keep the ruse up, bid on the core, and enjoy yourselves. I want to once again remind you all; study the ID's you've been given. Don't slip up on your name or occupation once we're at the screening, or anywhere inside. Clear?" The resounding general "clear" he received had Silas nod his had for a moment. "Let's take back what's ours."

---

Adira had taken control of the ship once more when the Harpy had neared the landing bay on the significantly larger party ship. The gleaming, freshly painted name of the ship, CORONATION, radiated on the side of the otherwise matte grey exterior. Their ship was small enough to be given clearance to land in the open bay, coordinated by the traffic controller onboard. The Orsin Harpy hovered into the landing bay, located within the second O of the ship's name, and the exfil process began. Silas led his posse off the ship and down onto the shiny pad they'd been cleared to land on. They enjoyed a stand-on trolley that embarked to the far end of the hangar where a short queue of people were being let in single file through four separate lines. The checkpoint included a full-body walkthrough scanner, a handful of well dressed and secretly armed guards, and two technicians verifying those coming in.

Keep it cool, Silas said to himself. You belong here. You have no reason to raise any flags in the system. Assuming Jae Cayus' passes work.

Silas joined the line with the shortest queue, and once it was his turn, he stepped up to the dotted line. He was greeted by a man with unremarkable features, save for his wildly out of place comb-over clearly hiding his poorly maintained balding. "Welcome to the LTS Coronation, sir. Identification, please." His voice was surprisingly smooth and well practiced.

"Evening, of course." Silas held out the forged ID card made by Jae a few nights prior. His had the name Gregor M. Umber laminated in bold white on the thin yellow card, with his occupation listed as "Associate Lead of Humanoid Relations, Demeter Periphery branch, Keshar Arms Co." Silas had worked with Keshar Arms weapons in the past, so he felt he was well equipped to keep his cover should anyone press him about his occupation.

The technician waited for the device to return a green flash and a high pitched chirp before withdrawing the card and handing it back to Silas. "Always great having a Keshar representative aboard, Mr. Umber. Enjoy your stay." The tech motioned Silas through the metal detector, where he waited for the box to finish its scan of any weapons on his person. When it was done, the bright purple lights stayed burned into his vision for a few blinks after he stepped through.

Silas was on the other side, and given full access to that night's list of events. Once the rest came through, all they had to do was keep their cover and enjoy the night until the auction came around. They didn't need to stay together, but he figured he'd wait around the entrance for the time being to make sure everyone got through without any problems.

Ambiance​

Inside the entrance hall was a double row of circular stairs leading to the floor below. It was a grand open space of nearly four floors, maybe two hundred meters from fore to aft and half that from port to starboard. The fact a ship could sustain such a large open space comfortably showed just how impressive the Coronation's design really was. The room was awash with teals, seafoam-greens and purples that danced across the many reflective surfaces. While this wasn't a frat party, the planning team clearly had money to burn and a good time planned for all its multi-hundred guests aboard. The size of the crowd granted anonymity for those present, so even as a fundraising gala, many of the participants thoroughly soused themselves and/or let themselves enjoy the festivities without worry of judgement. There seemed to be a near endless variation in species, outfits, cultures and castes present, all mixed throughout the dense crowd. From Silas' view at the entrance of the room, he counted no less than six different bars, three eateries, and over a dozen separate seating lounges for business venture types to drum up relations and form new connections. Many of these lounges had computer platforms, some with holographic dancers illuminating their spectators in a blue sea. Others clearly depicted gambling games where guests either cheered their luck or sulked away in shame. The elite and business-savvy crowd clearly reveled in the loose-but-fancy atmosphere provided by the vessel. Many guests enjoyed their drinks in the open spaces, plenty bobbing their heads to the beat and a handful even showing their moves, perhaps after a few too many drinks had instilled false courage in them.

The walls of the space were lined with four stories of balconies, with guests peering over the railings, drinks in hand to marvel at the sheer expansiveness of the gala. Decorative vines snaked up the otherwise blank surfaces of the walls, clearly trimmed and grown to perfect patterns and creating decorative live art. The auction would be held in a different part of the ship, one far less designed for decadent partying and with much less noise.

 

[Viper Actual]

Kestrel snorted at Stratton's opening remarks. "It's a good ship, Stratton. Besides, sharp edges are just asking for someone to round them off for us, possibly by trying to hijack our ship. Should be fine most of the places we'll get up to."

Nodding, Stratton glanced over towards Kestrel. "Of course, I wasn't being sarcastic. She's a fine ship and, well, truth to be told there are far worse and far more cramped vessels out there."
In response to the supersoldier's final statement Stratton chuckled and nodded towards her with a hint of approval. "Look who's talking," he said, winking.

"If we weren't on the job I'd buy you a drink." Stratton shrugged. "Oh well, guess we'll have to wait."

"I rather like the ship," Adira commented, still tugging at the cuffs on her wrists. "So far she seems to fly quite well, and the space is nice. And, yes, she has personality."

Stratton's attention shifted towards Adira, a warm smile spread across his face as he gazed over at his adoptive-daughter. "We've both seen and been on plenty of ships with personality- including the one where we met for the first time."

The envoy glanced over to Silas. "Remind me to tell you that story sometime."

"Let's take back what's ours."

Once Silas' briefing had ended Stratton- now armed with further knowledge and renewed determination- nodded in response. The Ambivalence might not have been his home for long but the crew was family and that demanded that he'd do his best on this job- even if it could warrant some grave consequences later down the line.

Epiphany Dragongal Solar Daddy

*
​

The LTS Coronation was truly impressive, as was its massive arsenal of entertainment and leisure facilities. Stratton had only visited a handful of similar vessels previously- usually as part of his deiplomatic duties in neutral systems- but the wealth and plain excess had never been so grand and... repulsive.

For a man such as James Stratton the view before him was a little bit too much, even though he concealed it behind a devilish grin and sly eyes as part of his fake persona.

Indeed, while Stratton may be repulsed by such over-the-top extravagance Mr. Aidan Omithir of the Sentinel Star revel in such opulence and status, using an event such as this to further his own agendas on behalf of one of the largest known multi-regional cartels in Sidereas.

Aidan Omithir tightened the cuffs of his suit as he looked out over the main floor, eyes of a predator scanning for potential partners and clients. Opportunities were ample and plentiful, as were marks and possible victims of the Sentinel Star's trademark involuntary coercion techniques.

As a server approached Aidan Omithir snatched a drink with a curt nod and the flick of a hand. It was a quick motion, just as natural as one would snatch a purse or rack a gun. With one arm behind his back Aidan began to wander the main floor while sipping his drink casually.

Now for the difficult part...

 

[Dragongal]

The envoy glanced over to Silas. "Remind me to tell you that story sometime."

"Oh, Silas already knows," Adira commented with a smile before adjusting her dress yet again.

~~

Adira - no, Larissa Avesque - was able to get into the event without anyone noticing how her heart hammered in her chest. And to think she used to do undercover jobs like this almost weekly! Maybe now it was just different because she actually had something to lose.

Her eyes moved to Silas, Stratton, Qyilim, and the rest of the team. That would be her mission tonight: don't lose them. Literally or metaphorically.

She pulled her dusk-blue silk gloves higher and raised her chin as she followed after her teammates.

~~

"Hooked into the comm system?"

Miles tipped his head to the side and nodded to the voice in his right ear. Rather than using traditional wireless connections to pick up the radio signal, he used a thin, clear wire that connected his hearing aid to the spare earpiece he had been given. It was indistinguishable from the set-up every other guard had, but it ensured that he could hear them without anyone being able to hack into his hearing aid. He had already had that happen once before, but luckily the hacker only got to hear him nagging his little sister to take better care of herself; once Miles had realized someone was listening through the hearing aid, he dealt with that accordingly. Ever since then, Miles was careful what kinds of systems he allowed the Bluetooth to hook up to.

He flashed a trademark smile and fixed his cufflinks, looking over himself in the mirror set into the wall of the guard's room: a tux looked good on anyone, and Miles was not an exception. He matched all the other guards for the event, all black and white tuxedos with subtle ear buds for communicating. Who would look twice at him? Hell, they had a Farinthian on the team, Miles blended in with the crowd perfectly - all according to plan.

The former Ambivalence crew wouldn't know what hit them.

 

[0stinato]

Electing to finalise the appearance of his alias by altering his hairstyle at the last minute, Qyilim was later out of the ship than some of the others. He had decided to undo his braids from the high bundle, and instead let them hand more freely, with those at his temples tied around the back in a more formal, planned appearance. The weight of his hair was easy to forget when he spent every day tying it up as it was.

Eventually however, it was Qyilim’s turn at the checkpoint. His ‘name,’ Aqima Di’Min, was given over - ‘Di’Min being short for something much longer in a Zirzolan tongue,’ he improvised, attempting to lend his large, potentially threatening appearance an aura of friendly banter with the technicians. Picking up on few psionic signatures emanating from those around him, he kept up the warm smiles and occasional quip.

According to his documents, he was a representative of the prosthetics department at Frontus United, a deception that practically had the guards expecting the paperwork explaining his own prosthetic arm and leg. Even though the scanners complained a bit at the presence of significant metal on his person, by that point the technicians expected it. He was waved through with minimal trouble compared to what could have easily occurred. Upon seeing Silas hovering, he offered a very slight inclination of his head before carrying on - all is well on my end.

Qyilim wasn’t used to roles like this. He could withstand them, but his quieter, more stoic demeanour only tended to break in moments where he took a commanding position. Needing to stroll around in-character as a prosthetics division representative - a position reserved for those with effortless charisma - would get mentally tiring before long, he knew. It might be true that most people here would be looking for business opportunities, or flaunting their achievements in cliquey circles of infinite wealth, but there were always those who fit not into the majority. In order to retain mental stamina and avoid fatigue that could get him caught out before the auction, that is where he would revel. He was only a representative, after all, not a partner or CEO of the Frontus United prosthetics dept., and while it would be his ‘job’ to scout and poach for investors or talent, why wouldn’t a big-talking salaryman take the chance to not work while on the clock?

Maybe some crafty skiving was just what Aqima Di’Min found guiltless pleasure in?

Besides, Qyilim was still excavating the unused corners of his memory for prosthesis-related words for use when he did get into a jargon-off with the next chest-thumping monopolist.

Deciding to stave off that eventuality for a little longer, Qyilim worked his way between harrumphing clutches of finely dressed businesspeople to acquire a beverage. The glasses were fine crystal, so small in Qyilim’s large hand. It would take him all of a hearty swallow to finish. Armed with alcohol to some degree at least, he began to look around the space. His aim was to find someone else who didn’t quite fit into the usual mould of the majority here. If he was in the company of someone like that, he could diminish his acting and save himself the stamina.

And, if they were a silver fox in a snappy suit with a sharp tongue and suave words… all the better.

 

[Daisie]

The stress was through the roof. As Chanterelle stared out the window at that ginormous title - CORONATION - she began to fully digest just how large this event was. She was well enough prepared. Silas had already given her the rundown multiple times on her cover identity, and she knew exactly what she was going to do with it, but those crowds of people raged on like turbulent seas. It set every part of her on edge. To her, this was just as bad as Tartarus. She felt the primal urge to escape.

Chanterelle, like Qyilim, was one of the last out of the Harpy, having decided to add some final touches to her identity at the last second.

But the instant she stepped foot off of that ship, it was suddenly like someone else had stepped into that armor.

Red paint dribbled down the pristine white suit, the alloys of which caused it to harden and split into a cracked, shattering pattern. The paint was concentrated in large strokes around the visor, the chest, and the wrists, haphazard yet intentional in design.

Everything about her, sans the suit itself, was so starkly different all of a sudden, down to the walk. She almost seemed to raise herself above her own stature with a strut that exuded confidence, and her forearms hovered above her midline in a way that exuded self-importance. The stress still pounded through her body, but all of it remained neatly balled inside, packed tightly beneath an exterior of utter... well, pretentiousness, frankly.

"You don't know?" Her regularly low, monotonous voice was barely recognizable under a pitchy lilt. She even flicked her wrist in the direction of the techs taking her in. "Esclarmonde Iscariot-Hendrik Vi, little darlings, what a pleasure to be met here as an artist such as myself. You should really see my pieces on the horrid socioeconomic state of the Avalon sector, they're really my greatest series to date."

The poor people seeing her through had a look on their face like they'd seen this a thousand times. They attempted to explain to Ms. Vi that their scanners couldn't penetrate the armor, but...

"I can't believe you'd have the gall to attempt to destroy my latest work. This armor represents the hardened exterior of the individuals in our society today, putting up walls because they can never find a place to call home. The paint cannot be smeared, for the cracks exemplify the shattered ego, and the suit cannot be opened, as the walls of the soul are on guard every hour of every day. Once people stop putting up so many walls, maybe then I can take this off, hmm? I thought I went over this with your supervisors weeks in advance, do I need to pull my funding?!"

With one very uncomfortable glance between the small crowd of guards and techs gathered about, it wasn't difficult for "Ms. Vi" to assert herself and get into the crowds.

Chanterelle had to commend Silas for her cover. The best way to blend in, in her situation?

Stand out.

 

[Solar Daddy]

Gang affiliate Aidan Omithir's stroll through the packed party floor was filled with no less than four almost-spills of his fancy cocktail from the crowd's hectic motions, at least two separate attempts to buy the drink off him by soused individuals, and one particularly sticky patch that still seemed to hold Aidan's shoe to the floor long after passing it. The crowd was lively and filled with those looking to enjoy themselves on a luxury liner such as The Coronation. This may have been a charity gala, but it was clear the attendants were all but saintlike. Maybe that's why posing as a high ranking gang member went completely unnoticed. The paneling was pristine, but maybe there was more grime beneath the surface than one might initially expect.

Eventually Aidan's anonymity in the crowd was interrupted. "Hey, you." A gruff voice called out through the crowd. There was no inclination it was directed at Stratton until the voice spoke up again. "Aidan Omithir. Come over here." Searching his surroundings, Stratton would find a burly bodyguard decked in barely fitted, poorly maintained formal wear beckoning him with one hand towards an open bar. His scarred face and prominent crosshair tattoo betrayed his formal disguise. He was clearly another Sentinel goon. What appeared to be a crude, handmade scanner was clasped in the guard's palm, but was soon returned to his pocket. "Been lookin' for you everywhere, hoss. Anro's been askin'. Said a new Sentinel should'a shown up by now. He's waitin' in booth C112. Third floor. I wouldn't leave him waitin' if I were you, already unhappy you're late to report in." The burly man reached back and grabbed a glass from the bar, gulping the contents down.

Viper Actual

---

Within eyesight of Silas, perusing some of the delights of the evening but still nearby the entrance to support his team going through the checkpoint, Adira remained within the thinner parts of the crowd, enjoying the the anonymity for now. She held a tall, thin glass of light liquid in her hand, almost completely full without so much as a mark of lipstick on the rim of the glass. It was clear to anyone actually paying attention just how nervous Larissa was in this setting, even with her attempts to hide it. She was more focused on keeping an eye on those she could, though some disappeared into the crowd near instantly. Really only Silas remained visible to her from her perch. The engineer was overlooking the vast size of the party, sipping idly on a clear, bubbly drink and leaning on a sterile golden guardrail.

That was, until a stout Armyr stepped directly in front of Adira. His outfit was little more than typical Armyr robes, which passed well enough as an exotic dress piece. The singular eye beneath his pagoda-shaped rock skull peered deeply into Adira's soul.

"Look lonely." He spoke with a quick, curt attitude. "Humans don't like being lonely. Sata can help. Drink." The Armyr motioned to the full glass in Adira's hand while downing a large gulp of his own down his crab-like mouth. "Great music. Too nice for my taste. We should go somewhere private. Feel a connection between us." Regardless of Adira's attempts to speak, up to this point, Sata cut her off near instantly, from one blurb of speech to the next.

Dragongal

---

Across the atrium, Qyilim's escapades in staying in character were about as fruitful up to this point. It was easy to stay invisible in a crowd of this size, even if you were actively attempting to stand out. Qyilim's size had those around him give plenty of clearance to move, no-one wishing to be the one who spills a drink on someone so imposing. The nearest bar to Qyilim's location, labeled with a bright pink "ENTERTAINMENT ! ! !" sign, was about as inviting as all the other individual watering holes around the space. Upon approaching the bar for a refill, the red suit beside him took a glance over.

"Ho," He said, whistling in a steady down-tune. "Look at the size of you, big man. Must get quite the attraction at a place like this." He sipped idly at the dark liquid in his short glass. He had a few wrinkles setting in, but his crisp jawline and perfectly side-parted salt and pepper hair made him out to still have plenty of lively years left in him. The deep scarlet suit had not a single imperfection in the elegant threads.

"Bet it takes a lot for you to feel anything, yeah? Zeem, a drink for my parched friend here." The bachelor motioned in Qyilim's direction effortlessly, and soon enough, an exact match of the mysterious man's glass was produced for Aqima. "Sit, relax those strong muscles of yours. Can't spend the whole night dancing without the proper recharge, yeah?"

With one more sip, he stretched and turned to Aqima again. "Had a hard time finding handsome around here. Thought I was running dry for the whole evening. Luck's turning 'round, apparently."

0stinato

---

Dead center of the festivities was a hulking mass of armor, the embodiment of power and mystery, parting seas of people who assumed Esclarmonde Iscariot-Hendrik Vi was nothing more than a cyborg looking for its next victim to crush. Those heavily under the effects of substances were even more frightened, with some actively walking away from the intimidating visage.

For the time being, it seemed almost as though Esclarmonde would be partner-less for the entire evening. Few were willing to risk their feet getting stepped on by such tonnage in the best case scenario. The only ones willing to remain nearby were those so inebriated they couldn't tell the threat in front of them wasn't just an illusion.

That was, until a sharp gasp from behind Esclarmonde pierced the steady beats of the dance floor. "I'd recognize Arctuvus' school of thought anywhere!" Abruptly, Chante's personal space was invaded without any care for her opinion. The pair of glasses eying her armor up and down wore a completely out of fashion designer hat, seemingly from a thousand years ago, and an obscure mash-up of garish colors made up his suit similar to a clown. "Rostaare Tonund was adamant his teachings were all but theoretical but, but this! I can feel it in my very soul!"

The man abruptly bowed deep. "Please, my apologies, Sarcond Eman, it is a pleasure to meet you! I've never seen such bold takes on Arctuvus art in all my years of curating! The strokes of crimson, the armored shell of who you have to be in today's climate, the opaque visage of a community long scorned! I must know who you are! Clearly not one of Le Scharenvze's students? Or Ottum's, he was far too isolated for such a bold expression. I have it! Itomi Hamata, yes? The pattern makes that obvious!"

The incessant prodding of Sarcond had a few fellow snobs peek their head closer and closer. No one wanted to be near the stoic robot intent on killing them all... but the live artwork, the centerpiece of the party, the epitome of Itomi Hamata's work, surely that was worth investigating.

Daisie

 

[Daisie]

Sarcond caught Chanterelle highly off-guard. She was honestly beginning to acclimate to the idea of sweeping through this place wherever she wanted, scattering the masses like a herd of startled livestock. They gave her space, which was something the Coronation had above Tartarus, but then there came Sarcond. And he was garnering attention.

Politely, she bowed slightly in return, though nothing more than a restrained tip. It was only afterwards that the overwhelming tsunami of lingo battered into the back of her helmet like it was hollow. At that point, it might as well have been. What in the stars had he just said?

It took her a few moments of mental exertion just to recover, but as soon as she figured out her next words, they came flowing as if written in cursive through the air.

"Esclarmonde Iscariot-Hendrik Vi," she recited melodically, shaking her helmet. "No Hamata, I'm afraid. Though I'm charmed to be esteemed alongside such profound visionaries."

All of a sudden she extended an arm outwards and upwards, as if to present her own complex art. Not that Chanterelle really felt like basking in that attention mind you, but it seemed like something Esclarmonde would do. She turned her gauntlet over and splayed the fingers, allowing the crowd to see the flair of the cracked crimson paint frozen in strokes and dribbles down the clean white arm.

"Frankly, I find it restricting to associate my inspirations with any one artist, such as Ottum or-eh... others..." She stumbled briefly, but carried on. "There are... minute ideas plucked from the leaves of their heartiest branches of course, but true creative freedom is like the fingerprint of the soul: utterly free and unique. I should hope my work stands well enough in its own light."

So this wasn't exactly the direction Chanterelle wanted to go, but the situation gave her little options to navigate. The attention was straining, but clearly necessary.

Solar Daddy

 

[Viper Actual]

Aidan's attempt to maintain a cool and relaxed visage was temporarily disrupted as several people either nearly collided with him or attempted to seize his drink. One of the latter- a stocky Human whom have had one too many drinks- learned the hard way why that was a dumb idea as Aidan skillfully used the man's own momentum and mass to slingshot him back into the crowd he came from, much to the anger and frustration of the other guests as the man-sized cannonball collided with them.

Shrugging, Aidan narrowed his eyes and smirked before taking another sip from his drink before moving on.

"Aidan Omithir. Come over here."

Taking a moment to study the man from behind his neutral expression, Aidan raised his glass in response to the Sentinel bodyguard. "C112, third floor. Got it."

Not really interested in any further conversation, Aidan moved on, setting out to navigate the colorful jungle that was the Coronation's event space. He didn't pay the bodyguard a second though as the man was- after all- a low-ranking grunt, likely as simple-minded and blunt as the "formal" wear he dressed himself in.

Any real progress would be accomplished with this 'Anro'-fellow.

Hopefully there will be more drinks.

As Aidan traversed across the dancefloor he snatched another drink from a server, winking his eye at her as he did. The server blushed and looked away, which in turn allowed Aidan to snatch a well-polished knife from the platter in her hand. The utensil was carefully slipped into the arm of his suit where it would remain- for the time being.

Eventually Aidan arrived at his location, greeting any other apparent Sentinel-affiliated folks with a curt nod as he did.

"Howdy," the gang boss said as he approached the booth.

Solar Daddy