Oaths Are for the Obedient

[Fab]

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MEANWHILE ...

The biometric results for codename ORATOR are complete. The data is uploaded to the Daggers and Agent Winter by the data team...

BIOMETRIC SCAN: ORATOR

APPEARANCE: Human male, approx. 1.80–1.85m. Well-kept, tailored presentation. Suit is a Rheinland luxury brand (Handmacher, Stuttgart line), worn without the usual corporate pin or crest. ORIGIN: Body structure and limited phenotype analysis suggests birth in the Edgeworlds. Colonist likely. ACCENT: Shifts subtly between Liberty and Bretonian inflections. On longer words, faint hints of Rheinland cadence emerge -- inconsistent, likely deliberate. CIGAR: Distinct scent of Bretonian Black Leaf Reserve, an expensive export usually restricted by customs tariffs. SHOES: Tracked in light industrial dust, but polish and make are Kusari imports. Model: Nagano Grand FINGERNAILS: Faint grease residue. Composition matches Kusari shipyard lubricant, type used on heavy dock handlers. WRISTWATCH: Exclusive, out of production Liberty Navy analog model. Shows signs of age and use, but is serviced regularly. Model: Minuteman 800 Commemoration Edition DEMEANOR: Microexpressions near-absent; posture fluid. Voice remains steady, not a single nervous tell noted despite hostile environment and threats. / / / Preliminary result: At present, ORATOR cannot be reduced to a singular profile. Possibilites are as follows: 1. Foreign Counterintelligence Officer. ▷ Highly trained CI agent. Perfect demeanor and calculated speech support this possibility. 2. Independent Information Broker. ▷ Buys and sells information. Curiosity in the Sudbury anomaly and luxury items supports this possibility. 3. Mercenary. ▷ Hired by a foreign government to gather information or spread misinformation. Access to resources and lack of traceability supports this possibility.

ORATOR allowed himself a thin smile, the kind of expression that looked less like joy and more like vindication. The Daggers had played their part exactly as intended. He drew deeply from his cigar, savoring the ember’s glow, before sliding a compact communicator from his inner pocket. Its polished surface caught the kaleidoscopic reflection of the artifact’s brief light before he set it down beside the ashtray, like a gambler placing his final chip.

He tapped the device once, the gesture as casual as flicking away ash.

ORATOR:
“ORATOR. Report. Success.”

The communicator chirped, acknowledging. A low hum filled the air, followed by a reply -- not in words, but in a layered static of tones and warped syllables, like human speech heard underwater. To anyone else, nonsense. To ORATOR, perfectly clear. His eyes flicked with amusement at a particular phrase, though no outsider would ever know why.

He leaned back into the chair, exhaling a slow curl of smoke that twisted upward into the yellowed light. The device continued its indecipherable conversation with him, and ORATOR nodded once in response, as if agreeing with an old friend.

Finally, silence reclaimed the room. The cigar’s ember burned low.

He did not rise. He did not leave. He simply waited -- patient as stone -- for the next piece of the game to come to him.

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