The No Time for Decompression. A ship that was equal parts hazardous and iconic, as well as possibly being the fastest man-made craft in the sector. It was the Alliance's answer to VIP transport across systems or even just intra-system hops. And while it rattled up a storm all the way, and seemed like it might come apart at any second, the abomination of a Kestrel always held together and reached its destination.

Perhaps the name truly was fitting.

Although this was a unique case, it had never brought outsiders of any kind to Ramsey of all places, and Ontario had now been declared the provisional seat of the LFR and a true independent world. One that sat on the cusp of House Liberty and might serve as a beacon of dissidence to other rebel groups. The hope was of course that Erie would pull together and follow in the footsteps of this example. But it was just a hope after all.

The delegation that had been picked up from the disclosed location were ferried here in short order. Although their food may or may not have stayed in their stomachs. Not that the touchdown proved any more relieving, it came with a sudden thump and hiss, a sign that the clamps had worked rather than failing and causing a fatal collision at high speed. As usual, the pilot turned around to face any passengers he might have been faring and grinned a knowing smile.

They were at the end of the line and could get off now.

The monorail whistled its way in, winding up and along the steel lines that although precarious were designed to support high speed transit across the planetoid. The monorail train itself was an off-white and slightly dirty industrial design common in House Liberty. As to how it would have been sourced here was a mystery and it suggested sponsorship of some variety.

It stopped a short distance away, out of clear clear sight lines, but it was still within earshot and the sounds of boots and fists thumping echoed out towards the recently disembarked posse. If one was attentive enough it would sound like the sound was getting closer, not a march, not footsteps, but the occasional salute perhaps.

But even if this observation had eluded perception, it was made overt by that man arriving. This caused the guards nearby to straighten out into more upright posture, following by the thumping of a closed fist over their chest and the stomp of a boot the ground. This was the noise that had sounded like it was drawing closer to them, a line of guards or functionaries saluting the Commander, even though he was not their superior.

"Miss Blake?"

He singled her out first, likely having some trouble recognizing her in person without all the comms static impeding the eyes. But all the same she was being offered a formal handshake in front of her group and the full view of Ramsey's "daytime" busybodies. It was a highly public showing of cooperation between the two groups that served optics as much as it did mere formality and politeness.

"Have you?"

He asked coyly and as if anticipation to see him was unheard of. But he was just being sarcastic to break the ice and move things along pleasantly. After all the monorail was still waiting for them back at the platform.

"Straight to it or would you like to sightsee first?"

The fact she was being given the option at all suggested that there was no real rush. And considering that she had allegedly been looking forward to coming out here then perhaps this was exactly the opportunity to get a sense of the world that was forming in the wake of the recent victory.

And now with his hand withdrawn, Damien turned sideways from the entourage and waited patiently.

"You can leave your equipment here then. Our crews will see it transferred over to the work site. And don't worry, they have ample experience in conveying sensitive equipment."

The words came immediately after Blake elected to see what Ramsey was like. And rather than wait for them to comply with his suggestion regarding their equipment, Damien turned on his heel deftly and began to walk away. They would have to keep up if they truly wanted to get a sense of the place.

The monorail itself was close by, settled in neatly at the platform reserved for the lower priority lines to this district, and the doors were still open. As if to beckon their inbound passengers.

Guards that were stationed all along the way back towards the tram once again performed their rigid yet graceful salutes as the Commander passed them by. For his part, he paid them no mind, but his posture very much sat in line with their steely attitudes.

A quiet hiss punctuated the closing of the doors and a dull thud denoted that they were locked securely with everyone onboard.

It was time to decide if they wished to sit or stand, and Damien gestured for his companions to do the former, while he elected to remain standing.

Regardless of their choice the tram proceeded after exactly a minute more of waiting, likely arranging clearance codes and sorting the route out with a central control room. This ensures there are no interruptions at any of the junctions they would pass by later, or traffic issues with the other trams.

The ride begins through the oldest tunnels - corridors first blasted out of the rock back in 807 AS. The walls here are raw, jagged stone lined with rusting support beams and ancient wiring, some of it still held together with zip ties and soldered patches. Dim, flickering lamps cast intermittent pools of light, giving only brief glimpses of the spaces beyond - munitions storage rooms, barracks chiseled from the asteroid’s core, and a central spire serving as an academy for the Fort's green recruits.

As the car picks up speed, it dives into a more expansive chamber, one of the newer additions hewn during the DSE mutiny and exodus from Toronto. Here, the influence of skilled engineers is evident. Massive gantries hang overhead, bristling with cranes and fabrication arms, and the airspace is cluttered with suspended walkways and humming power lines. Workshops buzz below, where torches flare and robots slog about to deliver heavy materials. Welding masks glow like fireflies in the gloom. The tram passes over a deep excavation site - a new hangar, perhaps, or an expansion of the station’s reactor core. Men in jury-rigged exosuits haul plasma cutters the size of rifles, carving through rock with mechanical precision.

Then comes a shift again, not just in architecture, but in atmosphere. The next sector is newer still, the rocky walls feel darker, more rigid. This is the legacy of those veterans both broken and unwanted upon their return from the cauldron that was the Gallic war. The tunnel here has been widened and plated with clean, military-grade steel. Rows of surveillance cameras blink steadily at every intersection. The lighting is cold, efficient, almost clinical. The monorail slows automatically at a checkpoint - glimpses from the windows reveal a squad of uniformed Xenos in pressed uniforms, each one marked with the insignia of Ramsey's squadrons. They move in sync, no wasted motion, eyes forward. The authoritarian discipline is palpable. Banners hang on the bulkheads, depicting sharp-edged eagles, arrowheads and white circles - all of which serve to evoke a tangible sense of unity. Albeit brutal in its application.

Finally, the tram reaches the observation sector - a rare stretch of transparency in an otherwise walled-off fortress. The car slows to a crawl, offering a wide view of the Georgian Ice Field beyond. Frost crystals cling to the window edges, refracting the scattered starlight of Ontario's B2 star into a hazy blue shimmer. Far off, faint lights mark the remains of DSE mining rigs, half-buried in ice. Patrol craft hum past the station’s perimeter, full tilt into their engines and radiators glowing hot.

As the car coasts to a halt at the main hub, the doors hiss open once more. The rails behind stretch like a steel artery through the bowels of a movement caught between its criminal past and a potentially militarized future.

This sudden question caused him to halt in place and turn swiftly to face her. For a moment it might have even seemed like she had offended him but he was clearly smiling when in plain view. Aggression or indignation of any form was absent or at least not detectable.

"We have a tradition in the Alliance. The callsigns of each pilot are given to them by the Commander. When I volunteered it was under the tenure of someone more.. whimsical. She took one look at me after I'd survived my first few sorties and dubbed me "Coral" - because I was pretty."

As if expecting there to be a brief spell of amusement, Damien paused to allow his guests to laugh or otherwise just smile and take in the little piece of levity before he carried on.

"This caused problems later because as it turns out I was actually uniquely qualified and good at what I did. But you can't expect people to take a man seriously with a name like that, especially when they know why he has it, and so she had to make a decision. She decided it was time to stop screwing around and shoot for the big leagues. Cobra was the name she eventually settled on, a grand hooded serpent, regal but without a crown or respect for false perceptions of authority. After that? I was free to be exactly who I knew I was."

It had been years since then and the fact his people kept reelecting him spoke for itself by now. And since he'd given her the answer she'd requested so boldly, Damien maintained direct eye contact throughout the silence that came afterward, a way to silently ask if that was it or if they could keep going.