☆ Date: 05/09/834 AS ☆ Time: 1502, +00MT ☆ Location: Zen Star (C. Oasis Liner); Outer Huron orbit, Ontario.
Ontario, when charting for potential areas of interest for a liner, is typically a destination left to the bottom of any list.
While a system of some renown, home to and source of many an intriguing rumour, it is also one held to be dangerous enough not even Interspace Commerce dares offer insurance for and not even OSC's best marketing minds could redeem, before the lockdown put the kibosh on any future prospects by most business interests.
However, the Oasis currently orbiting Huron is not an ordinary liner - as the Kusari decorative motifs and accompanying escort craft make even clearer - and does not represent an ordinary business interest.
« Hi, Cobra. We have you on scanner. Here... docking vector transmitted for bay 'Ni' », says brightly a young, familiar, feminine voice over comms, as a series of golden markers extend down the keel of the vessel. « Mister Fitzgerald's already there. I'll be too, shortly. »
Not many can claim to be personally acquainted with the Alliance Commander without being a Xeno, after all.
Not for long, anyway.
The vessel's unusual exterior promised what the interior fulfills, presenting its guests with an odd mélange of Liberty and Kusari.
Liberty is to be found in its ample halls, built to comfortably accommodate the House's larger vessels and facilitate the transfers of cargo and personnel, as well as the assortment of heavier machinery lying in wait for the purpose; a pair of Longfellow Lifters, something of a staple in Libertonian industry due its utilitarian but elegant design and the sheer power of its a-grav engines, stands out among the rest (not least because one hovers close to the shuttle).
Kusari, on the other hand, is seen throughout.
It is in the warm lantern-like lighting;
in the metallic finishes of bulkheads and the flowing ornamental motifs of cladding, gleaming softly golden against the slick blackness of treated steel;
in the great masks jutting out from walls on high, their likenesses inspired by (as foreign legend holds) ancient animalesque protective spirits;
in advanced droids accompanying the flight deck crew on their duties, or the suits of armour lining its edges, gauntleted hands holding archaic-looking rifles.
« Honored guests, I bid you all welcome to the Zen Star! », the chipper voice of a young man in this early thirties greets the Alliance delegation, its source revealed by a parting of the group of deck guards.
And, of course, it is in the host's attire: an ornate merchant's kimono, sporting a ultramarine haori rimmed in a darker shade of blue and bearing a white insignia; a lighter chestpiece, fastened in place by a wide sash, black with golden thread; and a white pleated hakama, extending down to the banded boots.
The one piece that does not immediately evoke the Northern House is the pair of shaded round glasses resting on his nose and hiding his eyes.
« It is my hope you will find your stay pleasant and fruitful. If you so desire, you may freely avail yourselves of the refreshments on deck two; the selection caters to all tastes, not to worry, but should you wish for something in particular do not hesitate to let the personnel know. »
A person steps forward, outfitted in a heavier set of armour than their peers. The masked helmet, much like the layers of plating, denote little beside their higher rank compared to their peers.
Interestingly, no firearms seem to be in the employ of the vessel's security; only some manner of long, pronged truncheon is visible at their hip, the ring circling its body past the handle glowing faintly blue.
« Before we proceed, I would appreciate it if you left your arms with the chief here; the Zen Star is meant to be a place of fair dealings as a matter of principle, you see, and I prefer force left by the hangar doors », he adds by way of explanation, adjusting his glasses. « I will not begrudge a decision to hold onto them, however. You are on foreign ground, as it were, and sadly few give hospitality its due as I do. »
"Quite the predicament." Of the four token honor guard present at his side, one had already taken swift steps forward and blocked the pathway of their heavier counterpart. The other three were already in supportive positions at the flank, giving the pendency surrounding a potential resolution to this significant amounts of tension. "Our heritage is rebellion. Being armed in our world is a large part of how you ensure.. good manners at the table. And my personal piece is more a badge of office than a means to do harm." Despite saying this he still paused for a moment to think it over.
"I'll have the guards wait near the airlock. I intend to keep my weapon with me however. A matter of principle going back to when I was sworn into office and handed the piece. He neglected to elaborate on whatever that was, leaving things at face value and evident of the fact that this was a refusal to disarm.
☆ Date: 05/09/834 AS ☆ Time: 1507, +00MT ☆ Location: Zen Star (C. Oasis Liner); Outer Huron orbit, Ontario. Hangar Bay Two.
Hancock's brow rises, intrigued by the guest's grounds for refusal than the refusal itself.
« An equitable arrangement. Very well, then, that is enough », he nods, gesturing then to the chief to stand back; which they do, with a salute. « Still, if the honoured guests wish for anything, see to it that it is provided. »
He turns aside, motioning to the other end of the bay.
A large turbolift, its diameter wide enough to accommodate substantial amounts of cargo as well as people, glides swiftly down a cylinder of reinforced glass; within, an eagle-eyed observer may spot a diminutive figure bearing a mane of blue hair, and a couple of service droids.
« Our way up, mister Morreti. Follow me, if you please », he says, leading him through the busy hallways and around the crews; as they pass through, more than a few wave in greeting at the captain, with some bowing in the manner customary of the northern House, a gesture to which the enterprising merchant replies with a smile and a gentle brushing away of the hand.
Greetings aside, almost all organic eyes in the room are locked onto the leader of the Alliance, a mix of burning curiosity and either thrilled excitement or disquiet shining through them.
« I hope that moment of friction earlier has not soured the mood. Principles are always a prickly subject, liable to stand in the way of deals, but for what it's worth, I respect the willingness to stand for them », he muses affably, then chuckles at what must be an amusing thought of his. « I am reminded of that old Manhattan joke, if you're familiar. The name of the comedian eludes me at the moment, but it sounded like this: 'these are my principles! and if you don't like them, well, I have others!' Hah! »
A ringing laughter, although brief.
He looks at his guest, interested in his reactions, before adding pensively, « it was rather telling, in retrospect, that my former colleagues saw it less as a piece of brilliant humour and more as business advice. »
In the meantime, they've reached the turbolift shortly after it had reached its destination; the two droids immediately walk off their own way, following some protocol or perhaps a wave of the hand from their traveling companion.
The blue-maned human, long feathered hair bobbing with her step, for her part is now recognisably a young woman in her twenties donning an independence pilot's bodysuit, surmounted by a worn, white jacket bearing a number of tricolour Bretonian insignia, most of them referring to some aerospatial agency.
A silver (or possibly platinum) winged brooch, cradling a round and finely polished lapis lazuli, hangs by a lapel, close to her neck.
« Mister Fitzgerald. Mister Cobra-- », she greets the two men, a little nervous smile on her lips, with a brief hesitation over the latter as bright, azure eyes scan him with a look. « --I thought you'd be taller. »
Reference image used. Pending quality edits, the wings are not there.
In a setting like this his uniform stood out. Stark white and bright red, emblematic of his country's flag and apparent virtues which hadn't been brought up yet. And for the most part, he seemed to ignore the reactions of onlookers towards his presence here. Likely no stranger to receiving attention from people in the background of either variety, whether it be admiration or contempt.
"Manhattan is a place where flexibility ensures prosperity. Flexibility in all things apparently." This was said in a manner that evoked contempt mixed with a degree of belittling amusement. Clearly he had no love for the world and its culture, still he could appreciate a good joke that came at the expense of these things.
The sudden entry and quip of another person did give him pause, if only for a few seconds before his mind clicked back into gear. He smiled politely and nodded before giving back what felt suitable. "I'm already more than tall enough for an active duty pilot." To emphasize this point he made a sweeping motion with his left hand in the space just above her head. It was easy enough to do without reaching upwards too much at all.
Though having done this he glanced in Fitzgerald's direction. A silent indicator he could send this lift on its way with them all inside.
☆ Date: 05/09/834 AS ☆ Time: 1510, +00MT ☆ Location: Zen Star (C. Oasis Liner); Outer Huron orbit, Ontario. Deck Two.
The young woman looks at his hand inching closer, drawing with jokey but stark clarity the about one head of difference in height between them.
« Not really in a position to talk, me, huh? », she replies, with a little shrug and a smile of her own. « Makes it easy to slip into cockpits, though... » « Does it ever! My girl, you should really rest more. We have other explorers, you know! »
Hancock grins, gently ruffling her hair in mock admonishment as she makes some distinctly non-committal noises, and turns to Damien.
« Mister Morreti, here is the young miss Iris Douglas, my most senior and capable surveyor in spite of her age. I understand two you are already acquainted? »
The rhetorical question is underlined by his tapping a panel on the glass walls of the lift; the controls are laid out in Libertonian and Kusari, but are otherwise fairly simple.
A button lights up, and with a pneumatic hiss the lift starts moving upwards.
" 三 - 個人部屋 " " 3 - Personal Quarters "
« It came as quite the surprise, I must admit! Such a gentle soul, the confidant of one of the most wanted men in Liberty? Why, it beggars belief! And yet... » « And yet here we are, yep », she nods, sounding a little surprised herself. « --he's not as bad as they make him out to be, though. He and his mates have been good to me... even if I'm not really sure why. » « Is 'your kind heart and bright mind' not answer enough? », he ventures with a smile, only to be quickly rebuffed by her scoff. « Pfft. Yeah, sure. »
The merchant looks at Morreti, as if inviting him to solve the mystery; Iris, instead, takes a few steps around the two and appears to focus her attention on the piece the Commander kept with him.
Her brow furrows.
A chime rings around the lift, as the disc leaves the cavernous hangar spaces and enters the decidedly smaller, human-sized, confines of the second deck.
Crew quarters and offices, according to the Libertonian label, but at a glance tastefully decorated with the typical Kusari assortment of curated trees, embossed figures and soft lighting, and with ample space given to each room, if the lengths going from door to door are any indication.
Did he even care or was this one of his usual displays of "professionalism" on behalf of the LFR?
All these thoughts flew by in the same second before he shot out an answer.
"The IMG were and are on a scarcely populated shortlist of organizations we have no quarrel with. The friendship is incidental." Circumstance and mere statistic likelihood. He made it sound so plainly plausible and matter of fact that it was easy enough to believe this. But on deeper layers than this that the average person might miss, it seemed as if he was uninterested in adding any further meaning to this apparent bond.
At the same time and through the corner of his eye, he intuitively caught the bending frown Iris was throwing in his direction. Specifically at the gun still on his hip. "Here, look if you really want to." He stated plainly, while keeping with his expected politeness.
What followed was a deft drawing of the solid, and quite possibly antique weapon from its holster. Before he spun it in hand and offered it up with the grip facing Iris. And upon first impression the thing that struck her senses immediately was the weight of it. It was uncomfortably heavy in the hand, and perhaps no more suitable for Damien's slim build. The fact he carried and handled it so gracefully did at least suggest some semblance of familiarity with it, but it still felt unlike what the man would personally favor in terms of a weapon.
It was an obese piece of steel with faux wood furnishing, the only semblance of branding left being the number "8" designated on one side of the frame near the safety. Something about the overall design quality felt indicative of Detroit Munitions but it was impossible to be sure now. Not the least of which because this was certainly modified from its original state. The particle cell loaded could be ejected and replaced quickly given its break action nature, but the fact it used particle cells for ammo at all meant that this was going to generate huge amounts of heat. This in turn meant that extra heat shielding was necessary. Extra heat shielding meant that significant amounts of weight was being tacked on to what was meant to be a sidearm. All that extra weight meant that careful consideration was required for how this weapon was going to be balanced.
So it was no surprise then that Iris had never seen this design in particular before. Why would she? It seemed thoroughly impractical even if high quality and well maintained by its user. The entire thing felt incredibly standoffish and obstinate, but perhaps that was the point.
Etched across the side of the barrel and as if by hand was what seemed like a pledge - Wield me only in the face of tyrants, or to defend the defenseless.
☆ Date: 05/09/834 AS ☆ Time: 1512, +00MT ☆ Location: Zen Star (C. Oasis Liner); Outer Huron orbit, Ontario. Deck Three.
The girl appears to deflate, at his response.
Whatever she expected, it must not have been that.
« Oh. I see... », she murmurs, her spirits dampened and her gaze averted from his face; they fall back down to the sidearm, more by accident than design, and then to the exterior of the lift.
The merchant adjusts his round glasses and smiles amiably.
« Incidental, you say? », says he, with a brief chuckle. « Hah! Would that I had more friendships capable of enduring the test of years and a change of allegiance! You are fortunate indeed, my girl - and you as well, mister! »
Iris turns to him, a confused, conflicted - and perhaps a touch hopeful - look on her face.
She opens her mouth to say something, but what comes out is a gasp as the oversized pistol is unholstered, causing her to recoil instinctually.
Whether it is the expert handling of the weapon to elicit the unease in her eyes, or the ungainly hand-cannon itself, it is abundantly clear Iris has never seen a gun up close, much less held one.
« Now, now, there is nothing to be afraid of. He's only offering you a closer look », Hancock reassures her, gently laying a hand over her shoulder. « What is it that caught your attention? »
She shoots him back a glance.
« Not the gun, it's just... I was thinking... a while back, stars know how much time ago. Ames. He'd offered me to teach me how to shoot, but... », her voice trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Given her earlier reaction, it seems unlikely she'd want to make up for the lost time now; her tone speaks more of distant recollection than anything else.
It must have been quite the while back.
« I admit, it is hard to imagine you holding a pistol, especially not one such as this », he shakes his head, taking then an appraising look at the weapon and quietly observing it for a few seconds, stroking his chin. « No, no. A compass, or a flower, would sooner befit you. »
The girl gives a weak nod and a faint smile. The flower joke never truly went out of style, much as she'd liked otherwise, but she could appreciate the intent.
The merchant turns to his guest.
« It is a most interesting sidearm you carry, mister Morreti, if you don't mind me saying. I am hardly an expect on the subject, not being overly fond of arms myself, but I have been acquainted enough with those who are - like my old pal Jan McCaelum, his life's joy these - to discern some details... »
He steps closer, asking for permission to hold it - if given, he would cautiously hold it open-palmed, one hand under the grip and the other under the barrel, turning it this way and that while making sure it wasn't pointing at any of them.
« Would I be correct in saying this is something of an antique? The weapon is seldom fired or well maintained, from what I can tell - clean, little erosion around the barrel - but the markings are mostly faded, and the somewhat uneven profile suggests to me it has seen some modifications over the years. And then there's the pledge etched into the side, of course! », he remarks approvingly, handing the gun back to its owner. « A noble pledge, too, steeped in the values of Liberty... well, the flaunted ones, anyway. A ceremonial weapon, perhaps? »
When asked again if he truly meant it was a friendship born of mere circumstances, Damien flashed a brief smile and nodded. But since Hancock was at this point effectively prying but doing so politely, he provided some elaboration on perspective.
"It's not as if anyone really chooses to like and be friends with someone. It just happens. It's always incidental. And it's only in retrospect that you can truly appreciate it for what it is." This made it seem like there was no greater meaning. That one of life's greatest joys in the form of companions was just consequential, perhaps with some being more fortunate than others. There was also the fact that going any further than this would have been overly sentimental. And there was every impression that Damien sought to avoid that.
But now they were on the subject of history, specifically of the Xeno variety. "That gun is older than I am. Couldn't tell you with certainty who the original owner was. But in the days when we didn't have the means to distinguish people by uniform, this is what you looked to." Once Hancock was finished looking over the weaponized badge of office, Damien politely retrieved it from him and deftly replaced it in the holster whence it came. A matching set, apparently
"If you go by the legend the old timers tell then this was the thing that fired the first shot of our war, marking years of defiance. The words inscribed were that person's beliefs. But they've been held as the standard for Commanders through the years. And I'm expected to account for every time I fire it. Six times, before you ask." He could tell the question was an inevitability and got rid of it now. This meant he could circle back to something else that had been said, by Iris this time.
"I'd still be willing to teach you how to shoot. No reason why someone who explores shouldn't be capable of effectively defending themselves." This offer felt warmer than the previous comment on their friendship. As if this was how he truly expressed himself.
☆ Date: 05/09/834 AS ☆ Time: 1514, +00MT ☆ Location: Zen Star (C. Oasis Liner); Outer Huron orbit, Ontario. Deck Three.
The two listen attentively to Damien's brief history lesson, waiting for him to be finished before replying; she with a hand to her side, the other idly caressing the winged brooch, he stroking his chin, an arm folded.
« And who did you defend? », asks she, a flicker of curiosity dancing in her eyes. « Hm. Who expects you to keep track? », asks he, pensively.
A pneumatic hiss, and a second set of chimes, announce their arrival.
A young man, unmistakably Kusari in appearance - dark-haired, hazel-eyed, closer to the explorer's height than Hancock's - stands before the door to welcome them with a bow.
Unlike Hancock, he seems to be favouring the more practical and modern types of uniforms commonly seen on Kishiro vessels, instead of the more traditional garments worn by the more House's conservative personalities. A thick pair of augmented glasses rests on his nose, the rims slowly pulsing cyan.
« Fitzgerald-san. Iris-san. M-Morreti-san », he says, with a slight but noticeable nervousness around the guest's name; the sound itself does not sound overly foreign, suggesting a certain familiarity with Libertonian. « Eita, my boy! », he greets back, with a shorter bow of his own and turning to Damien to make the introductions. « Commander, this bright young man is Eita Kitagawa; secretary, comms operator and invaluable aide in keeping this ship running. » « T-Too kind, Fitzgerald-san. I merely do as instructed », he brushes the compliments aside, with expected humbleness as well as enduring unease. « Um. » « What is it, Eita? », she prods. « One report of note... it is the Farmers. One of our transports has narrowly eluded their grasp. »
Hancock clicks his tongue, impassively. The vanishing of his otherwise near-permanent smile signals his displeasure.
« Damage sustained? », he asks, calmly. « I trust our patrols are already searching for the perpetrators. » « N-Nothing major », he nods. « The Fairlight has reached Deshima and is currently undergoing repairs to the crippled thrusters, while the injured crewmen are currently being treated. No casualties, Fortunes be praised. » « Fortunes be praised », he repeats, a sentiment echoed by Iris' sigh of relief. « See that a gunboat is dispatched to escort the vessel on the way back, too, in case the curs feel bold enough to strike again. » « Yes, Fitzgerald-san. I will leave you and the h-honoured guest to your meeting now », he nods again, bows, and takes his somewhat hurried leave.
With that said, he steps aside and allows them to proceed.
In front of them is a long corridor, decorated much like the one found on the lower deck; a holographic map on the side of the wall outlines a series of large rooms circling a central square, most of them devoted to what is likely a single person, an arrangement fairly similar to what is common in the higher floors of liners.
One, also marked as office, is for Hancock; a smaller one, for Eita; an oddly oblong one, mostly facing the outside, for Iris; and lastly, not counting the empty square ones, a particularly large pair of rooms given over to a certain "Asakura-sama".
Not a first name, interestingly enough - and the only one to keep the honorific even in Libertonian.
« Well. That does dampen the mood somewhat », Hancock sighs. « Either Samura's mongrels are running ragged and searching for any prey they may sink their teeth in, or they are feeling emboldened... » « Wonder if that's what's gotten him so spooked. He's more calm, normally... » « At any rate, something to discuss for later. Shall we? »
He simply smirked, the impeccable timing of their arrival meant that he wouldn't be answering either of these questions just yet. Instead, he took the first step out of the lift and onto the floor, intent on casually inspecting the premises albeit without intrusion.
The fact there was a one man welcoming party almost caught him off guard, if not for the stuttering that followed. Still, he turns and reciprocates the bow in a manner that indicated familiarity with the gesture, formal and to a neat and near exact 30 degrees.
["It is good that you are humble. But humility in excess is deceitful. It is also rude to refuse a compliment even if it were not necessarily true."] He spoke the language, fluent enough that he must have been well tutored at a young age and also devoted time towards maintaining proficiency. It also appeared he was well aware of the jarring contrast between his present conduct and the stance adopted by his cause towards most matters of a foreign nature. But it seemed as if good manners and sharp wit preceded all of that.
Some amusement was still derived from the unease his presence caused, and when the young man scurried off, Damien turned his focus back to the environment as the two spoke of Eita. He neglected to give them the answer for their secretary's strange behaviour. "Who is this?" Of course he had to know, especially given the oddness of the plaque's titling and the added fact that those rooms in particular seemed the largest. A small indulgence of idle curiosity, if nothing else.
But rather than stay in place and wait for an answer, he followed after the duo that had accompanied him so far.
