*It’s been a long time since Costa had set foot anywhere outside the Omicrons, even longer since he’d come face-to-face with so-called allies.
When he stepped out of the ship, the heavy clang of his boots echoed across the hangar deck. The first breath he took was filled with the taste of metallic dust and burned fuel, a smell that, to him, carried the scent of home. The air here was recycled, thick with oil and sweat; it was real.
Falling in behind Dimitrious, Costa let his gaze wander. The workers in the bay moved with mechanical rhythm, each knowing his place, each keeping the station alive by any means necessary. It reminded him of the Corsairs back home, patching together their ships with scavenged metal, fighting the void itself just to feed their families.
Then his eyes found Kruger, tall, weathered, his expression carved by time and battle. The man carried himself like someone who’d survived more than one war, and that alone earned Costa’s respect.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking the ashes to the floor.
"Hola, Señor Kruger," *Costa said, stepping forward and offering his hand, his single sharp eye locking on Kruger’s.*
"My name is Costa D Sol. I’m lookin’ forward to knowin’ you and your people, maybe even seein’ the area around Pacifica, if time allows. I’m not much for long talks, truth be told. The place… it tells me more than words ever could."
*The handshake was firm, an exchange of unspoken recognition between men who’d both seen too much.
As Dimitrious continued to speak, Costa fell back into his place at the rear of the delegation. He stayed quiet, observing. His mind traced the hum of generators through the deck plates, the faint hiss of decompression valves, the distant clang of machinery, all signs of a station that lived and breathed through struggle.
He could feel the weight of the moment.
Corsairs and Unioners, two worlds long separated by abstinence and distance, now standing in the same light.
Costa’s gaze drifted toward the far bulkheads where banners of the Unioners hung, their insignia flanked by rust and rivets. He couldn’t help but smirk slightly beneath his breath. Maybe, he thought, this time the talks might actually lead to something that lasts.
When the delegation began to move toward the meeting chamber, Costa followed, his steps silent, his eyes scanning every shadow. Whatever the Conclave had planned, he knew one thing for certain: in places like this, trust was earned, never given.*
