The barely pressurised ice asteroid in the corner of Sierra Ice Field. One coming to this place might very readily feel the uneasiness of treading on frontier ground, surprised that it still remains in one piece. The old hangars, remembering the times of Hellfire Legion, barely usable, with hardly any lights or power connected to them. The new ones, scarcely insulated, with dripping water from the ceiling, ice melting with the heat of recently turned-off engines. The bare tunnels, many recently hollowed out of the ice rock, without any support for the feet - much of the crew and visitors resort to wearing spiked shoes wherever there is gravity to avoid falling over. The bar that's hardly anything more than a dilapidated military cantina.
The cantina was empty and without any significant presence beyond a group of Xenos and Freelancers arguing about something quietly at one end and a lone woman on another. It was one of the few places in the entire station that had something of a "room temperature" - a few decimals above fifteen degrees centigrade. The table in front of the woman was occupied by a portable console, a large thermos mug and a few loose garments - a black silk cowl and a pair of elaborate leather gloves.
It was hard to judge her age. She seemed young, but there was no telling how much of that youth was meticulous procedures at OS&C beauty salons and makeup and how much was actually young age. Indeed, she had an aura of dignity around her, one that girls gain as they transition into women, losing their teenage mannerism. Her raven-black hair flowed gently as she tapped something on the console. An untrained eye might have just found her doing her taxes or handling some other boring paperwork, but in fact she completed the filings of bounty board claims, periodically sipping Yorkshire tea from her mug.
Damian hated coming here, owed to the fact that the former occupants were themselves insufferable enough, let alone the standards of the station's maintenance. Yet all the same he didn't seem bothered by the coldness, he seemed comfortable with it, donning a flight suit and having no need for anything special beyond its slick boots. His entrance caused the other occupants to grow quiet, if only to spend a second in recognition of the striped red and white armband on his left shoulder, along with the telltale depiction of a crowned serpent with a flared neck. It didn't take long for the other occupants to return to their quiet debate and for Damian to join the woman at her otherwise empty table. He took a moment for himself to loosen up his posture and rid himself of any trace of "helmet hair" before saying anything. His appearance wasn't anything like what was expected if somebody were asked to picture the leader of a group of Xenos. Pale white hair to go along with his complexion, followed by contrasting deep blue eyes. He had all the visual hints of youth, but none of the associated mannerisms, almost as if he were older than he appeared but not in any way that felt normal. "I can't tell if this place is better now than it was under the Legion. But it's infinitely more pleasant to not have them as my immediate neighbors anymore. Since we're doing this in person though and under a fairly informal setting, call me Damian. Cobra's just a call-sign and a bit of theatrics to scare the cops and average naval pilot." He hadn't brought any beverages with him, so it seemed as if he didn't plan on staying very long. Here only for whatever this discussion entailed and then away for whatever other business a person like him concerned themselves with. He had a reputation for always being busy, but somehow always having time.
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As the man sat down at her table, she folded up the console and turned her lilac eyes towards the newcomer.
"Good day to you, too, Damian," she squinted. She spoke with unadulterated Bretonian upper-class accent. "It is my belief, too, that nicknames ought to remain where their place is, that is at children's playgrounds."
Jennifer sat back and waved her hands around. "So, here we are. How do you find this place?"
The voice of an aristocrat, a quality Damian found annoying, but that perception was going to be conveniently kept to himself. There was no reason to resort to rudeness immediately, they were still exchanging pleasantries after all, despite the gesture being entirely wasted on him. He could do a remarkably convincing job at pretending to be amused by idle conversation. "I hated it then, I hate it now. I'm leaving in the morning, no reason to be here beside this business you seem to have in mind." An almost curt response, but honest nonetheless. In reality, he had no qualms with the relative discomfort of the station's accommodations, he just hated its former associations that much, enough to make a change in management seem like a minuscule thing.
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She paused for a second, looking somewhere over Damian's shoulder.
"That's what puzzles me. You seem to dislike the place, yet to me it is a Freeport in name only. There are Xenos all around," she gestured with her open hand towards the group on the other end of the room. "If you look closely enough, the dealers sell Xeno guns. Transports move cargo to Xeno bases. Your boys went to the trouble of removing the previous occupants at, no doubt, great personal and operational cost."
She laced her fingers and put her hands on the table. "Yet you say you hate this place. So, what gives? What's your endgame?"
He shook his head slowly, whether it was denial or disappointment for having to repeat himself was up to his hazy acquaintance to determine. "Already told you. We had a rapidly degrading relationship with the Commonwealth. I had no intention of allowing them to maintain an installation in the core of Liberty. When the assault wing got here, they met an under strength garrison. The liberation went smoother than expected. But nobody could come up with a use for the place. It was handed over to these bootleggers, and they've agreed to keep the doors open for business with anyone. It just hasn't attracted much attention despite its status as a Freeport." In a way, that made it sound like his only endgame was to deny another organization their own. A bold preemptive strike at opportune timing to ensure an accessible market node was cultivated. Especially with the losses of zoner operated Freeports in Bering and Magellan, it hardly seemed like a waste of resources when access to supplies was guaranteed in exchange.
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"I see...," she drummed her fingers on the table, thinking about what the Xeno had just said.
The thing she was most concerned about was that investing her time and money into a station that would at all times be threatened by retaliation of the Insurgency would be wasteful. On the other hand, there was just a properly hollowed out rock, with some involvement from a capable party this could be a worthwhile endeavour. Perhaps not "the next Barrier Gate", Liberty authorities would absolutely not let the base live if they found it out.
Those were the two weaknesses of this entire plan - retaliation and discovery. What were the advantages?
Well, for one, she would have a spot to lay low when the bounty-hunting cycle was too hot - targets wising up to her presence and hiding in the safety of battleships and cruisers. Repairs - though she would have to find a capable engineer for this. CTE ships were not rocket science, but she was not interested in learning the details herself. And some security and luxury, not found anywhere like Buffalo, Ouray or Alcatraz, could also probably find its way to Fontana.
"It does seem like, for the moment, our interests in the matter are aligned. You don't want this place to be in the hands of anyone who can threaten the Xenos, and perhaps become something of a beacon for commerce, and I want this place to be running smoothly enough to be a functional safe house. I'll be honest and openly reveal that my interests are selfish here, but isn't the best tenet of capitalism after all that self interest of one is to the benefit of all?"
His face cracked up into a full smile at the remark, it was clear he was amused by something. He had no intention of leaving what that was vague, especially when he was being asked for his thoughts. "You just described the exact fundamental disagreement behind why we've resorted to armed revolt against Liberty's Government and armed thugs. I wasn't expecting you to be on the same page as us ideologically, no that would be immensely naive." He paused momentarily to lean forward, using his elbows for support on the table, it produced a groan in protest to this but no further. "You're a rich cut of steak from the finest restaurant, superb seasoning and probably melt in the mouth. But you're overpriced, and anything that relies on the lure of fantasy, if enjoyed semi-frequently just becomes an overrated sweet nothing. Like everything else. You want to look out for the interests of these bootleggers? Be my guest, just please spare me the ideological pandering. I don't care." For what his affiliation suggested, he had the potential to be remarkably eloquent when he needed or wanted to be. Though it was perhaps somewhat suspect that he didn't reveal what his own disposition in terms of beliefs were, likely believing it to be an unnecessary discussion at this juncture of business. It wasn't as if she was asking to be his business partner either, they just shared a common interest for this den.
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She tensed up and squinted again, visibly annoyed. She found talking to idealists annoying, and talking to opportunists who pretended to be idealists was even worse.
"I am not sure what you mean with the steak metaphor, Damian. And I am sneaking myself towards the suspicion that you might be making the classic mistake of judging a book by its cover." She paused to take sip of the tea and gather her thoughts. After a moment, she continued. "I'm not sure what you mean by the bootlegger's interests, either. This is a conversation between us, not them, and the only person whose interests are of any importance to me are my own. And if the two don't align, someone will have to give in. The invisible hand of the market can only do so much magic."
"You are right that our ideologies differ. I, for one, only pledge allegiance to, in the poet's words, 'the ducat, gold as the Sun'. That allegiance, has led the both of us to this moment, to this table. And since, I believe, now we are done with motivations, we might finally begin talking about business."
By contrast he appeared to be perfectly relaxed and even leaned back when his acquaintance broached the subject of a business proposal. His words would often suggest the opposite of his carefully crafted demeanor, perhaps part of a more elaborate routine that helped further his own ends. Or maybe he was just this erratic for purposes of never being a predictable part of an equation. "The metaphor's my first impressions. Put together the finer tastes of a Hacker along with the ruthless credit-oriented pursuit of a Hunter and you're the result." He paused to make a motion of the hand in order to invite further clarification. "I'm listening, but I'm not sure what I, the leader of a political movement, can do for you. Feel free to prove me wrong." Tilting his head to the side, he listened intently to what might follow, silently wondering what she had in mind.
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