To Feed the Worm God

[Noth Squadron]

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"Forgot your wool mittens?" Dirk replied with sarcasm to Kendrick's way of introducing himself. A runt like him deserved less, though his presence was a necessity. Some form of acknowledgement was necessary. "Take a seat."

Dirk felt some form of arrogance in Mercer's tone. Clearly, the man wanted to make a point -- that he was going to leave a mark on this family. In a slow, albeit methodical motion, another cigarette appeared between the self proclaimed leader's fingers. "Here. You look like you need it" -- his brain said, anxiously staring at what really lied in the briefcase before invoking a lighter from his coat to ignite that roll of irresistible goodness. His eyes locked with Mercer's as he took a long puff out of the filter, lungs invaded by smoke carrying the sweet nicotine his body craved for not even five minutes after the last cigarette he smoked. It would have been hours before he needed another one, yet this... meeting had accelerated the urge.

"Leverage." Dirk cackles, smoke bursting out like a dragon's breath. "Leverage?" he repeats, confused, though not entirely oblivious by the suggestion.

Another puff. This one was faster. Oxygen was poison -- he was starved for smoke instead. Smoke was everything. "Snap that lock open. Why bother with telling them the details?" -- his brain spoke out of turn again. "Because that is the polite thing to do. Even now. With them." -- he said back. Reining in the basic instincts that wanted to surface. Those who wanted to saw off all elegance and reason.

"Someone who shows initiative! We might just get along. God knows you'll need it." -- muscles contracted on Dirk's face, forming that signature, fake smile of his. So clearly impressed and proud of the fact that someone was doing their job before it even started. That someone received a reward: appreciation. Validation.

"Now. We're in a bit of a bind: The Drudes want us out of their turf. Basel Rock is considering the idea. And we need to some breathing room from all that to properly sink our teeth in the Bretonia's jugular, otherwise Altair Command might start asking why we're slacking off."

His hands merged on the table, one clasping the other with a sturdy grip that refused to let go. He held both pilots at gunpoint with his eyes, which darted from one to the other waiting for a reply. His brain took over, and asked aloud the question they've been waiting for.

"Can you two work together on proving Basel Rock we're the best thing that's ever happened to them since they first took over this rancid rock? And can we make Altair Command see this in an attempt to get more resources allocated to us?"

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