Frigid cold. That is how Basel Rock felt at this hour. Heating was often considered a luxury best reserved for areas of importance on this carved asteroid. Naturally, the bar was not one of them. The few residents who spent their time idling with a drink in hand were usually raiders who had just finished their runs and the superiors that no one who is less than them would dare question.
The Bar, Basel Rock
Most of them tend to keep to themselves, unless they are part of the same wing, family or sect. One such case would be the recently arrived "Noth Squadron", who often receive bad reputation for their straightforward thinking and reckless tactics. Such gossip tends to originate from the much older, local thralls known as "Drudes" -- fans of much quieter tactics executed on enemy ships passing through Skagerrak Planetary Fragments. They are reveled for silencing scouts, explorers and stranded patrols, thus keeping The Rock's location a secret.
It didn't take long for the two groups to develop some sort of rivalry. Those who would rise up to the challenge and prove themselves worthy were promised a serious promotion, although such privilege is not usually attributed multiple individuals at once. "We can't all be Commanders and Admirals", they say.
Dirk Madron, more commonly known as "One" or "The Baron" had a taste of what real authority was like -- once, in a past life. "It felt good", he told himself many times since, trying to replicate that feeling with every order thrown around within the confines of his family. And so he wanted more of it.
Smoke invaded his lungs through the filter of a cigar, followed by the soothing feeling of nicotine making its way through his body. It was as if all the bad thoughts vanished. The stress of having to constantly keep a seemingly sinking ship afloat was gone, taken by the Void.
"Soon." -- dim, cold light reflected off of Dirk's watch as he glanced at the time. It was a bit past lunch. Both Four and Twenty-Nine should have arrived by now.
Compared to other Noth Pilots, Dirk was a lot less active in space. Managing resources, constant infighting and the occasional challenge to his imaginary "throne" had stolen a good portion of his time. To top it off, Basel Rock tolerated the Squadron simply because they were good at sourcing goods. Should ever cease to be for any reason, they'd be without a home in no time.
That is why a meeting with the family's leading experts in chemical terrorism and chemical manipulation was so important. Table eight was already reserved for the day, so waiting was the best thing Dirk could do.
Basel Rock had a way of reminding you where you stood, and Kade Mercer let it do its work before stepping fully into the bar. The door hissed shut behind him, sealing out the vacuum-chill of the corridors and replacing it with something only marginally warmer. He did not hurry.
That alone was enough to draw eyes. He moved with the quiet certainty of someone who knew exactly how late he was, and exactly who would notice. Boots crossed the stone floor without urgency, jacket still dusted with residue from the docks. No effort made to appear apologetic.
Table eight was easy to spot. Four wasn’t there yet.
'One' sat where he always did.
Interesting.
Mercer stopped short of the table, resting one hand on the back of an empty chair but not sitting. He let the moment breathe. Let the silence acknowledge him.
“Dock traffic.” he said finally, voice level, unembellished. Not an excuse, just a fact offered for the record. “Delayed inspections.”
His eyes moved briefly around the bar, cataloguing reactions rather than faces. He noted who avoided his gaze, who held it, who looked to Dirk before deciding how to respond.
Chemical work always made people nervous. Even among the Noth.
Mercer pulled the chair out and sat only after that assessment was complete, setting a slim case beside his leg rather than on the table. He didn’t open it. Didn’t need to. The implication was enough.
“Four will come.” he added, almost casually. “Or he won’t.”
Dirk's left eyebrow perked up at the sound of Kade's excuses. It was obvious the man saw himself as some sort of superstar now that his knowledge is needed. But he didn't deserve that privilege -- that line of thinking -- yet. That's what the self proclaimed big boss of the Noth Squadron told himself whilst ignoring the bigger picture of all seven of his superiors and The Wild Hunt breathing down his neck with every decision that may or may not backfire at any given second.
"Inspection, huh?" he'd say, faked curiosity falling off his tongue and into the conversation. "Yeah, they do that. Did you bring anything fancy?"
A quick flick with the cigarette had bits of ash fall off the tip and on the table. Some managed to find their way to the ashtray, while others rebelled and went along with the cold breeze as the bar's sliding doors hissed open once more to let a passing raider through. They didn't look like Kendrick, but they did appear to sport the colors of one of the Drudes. "A concern for later" -- Dirk would think, though not entirely believing it himself.
"As for that outcast -- he'll come. This whole thing fits his portfolio to the letter. I don't see him wanting to miss this over whatever those fiends do on Kaarst." a small pause crept inbetween topics. "I heard they worked on modernizing some of their Valkyries. Little else."
He raised the cigar to his mouth. Fingers pinching the filter ever so slightly whilst taking one puff. Nicotine once again tickling the edges of brain. Then, the filter found itself crushed into the ashtray. Quiet sizzles wailed against the glass surface one last time before the embers fell quiet.
"I couldn't get much info on it though. I lack clearance, they said. It is safe to assume that we won't get to fly those beauties anytime soon." -- there was no actual sadness in his voice, just a soulless observation with a hint of sarcasm.
Light metallic clinking heralded Kendrick Walter's arrival, though he preferred the name "Four". Having a number removed both the past and personality attached to a name, things he didn't need.
The more psychically inclined could feel the constant malevolent shadow that hung over him, either from his own mind or from the mind that claimed him as both pawn and rival. Famous or infamous, oh champion mine, either brings competition.
However, for those more grounded in reality, his perfectly silent walking had led to more than enough spooks and startles. Not something you want to have in a room where everyone is armed. Therefore, he'd picked up a habit of flipping a butterfly knife around. It gave his hands something to do, it gave his brain something to learn, and it gave people a heads-up.
Another, worse sensation: he was here. Four wasn't sure where, but he was certain that Nikolaus Strauss, the Devil in the flesh, was somewhere here on Basel Rock. It felt like the walls were laughing at him. More pressing matters caught his attention, though, as he found a table that he was supposed to be at was already occupied. Were they overly punctual, or was he just late? His voice was slightly raspy due to not actually having spoken for nearly a month now.
“If they are upgrading frames...” Mercer said, “...then something higher up expects resistance. And if clearance was denied, it means we are not meant to concern ourselves with the reasons.”
His gaze held on Dirk for a moment. Four’s comment about the cold lingered in the air. Mercer acknowledged it with the faintest shift of attention.
“You will adjust.” he said, neither dismissive nor sympathetic.
Only then did he reach down beside his chair and lift the slim case onto the table. He did not push it forward. He kept it within his own reach.
“You asked if I brought anything fancy,” he said calmly. “I did not.”
His fingers rested on the latches, but he did not open them yet.
“Fancy draws attention. Attention invites inspection. Inspections lead to questions.”
“What I brought is controlled.” he went on. “Designed for localized deployment. Temporary effects. Nothing that carries Wild signatures, and nothing that traces back to us.”
That last point mattered more than the rest.
He released one latch and lifted the lid only slightly, just enough for Dirk to see the matte containment cylinders nested inside without giving the room a clear view. Industrial. Unmarked. Functional.
Then he closed it again.
“This does not change fleet balance.” Mercer said evenly. “It changes behavior. It makes corridors uncertain. It makes boarding actions slower. It makes decisions hesitate.”
He folded his hands lightly over the case.
“We do not outgun refitted wings. We remain useful to the ones who fly them.”
His eyes shifted briefly between Dirk and Four before settling again.
“If escalation is coming in the lanes, then our role is not spectacle. It is leverage.”
"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?"
"Chems? Must be my birthday." Four delivered the joke with no tone, no change of facial expression. He didn't really care about emoting right now.
Four's eyes quickly snapped across the two individuals nearby and the nearest exit. Jugular, thigh, flip the table to block, and escape. With a plan silently set, he felt comfortable enough to take a seat and actually discuss.
"As long as it's interesting, I'll do it. The last "care package" I got from Command was a double-edged sword, so I suppose you guys can keep those extra resources. "Behavior changers" are almost always interesting, though, so consider me on board."
The clinking came to a stop as Four closed the butterfly knife and slipped it into a holster on his chest. They had his attention now.
Mercer watched the smoke curl upward as Dirk spoke, as if the man needed something visible to hold onto while the ground shifted under him. The fake smile did not go unnoticed, nor did the way the cigarette appeared too quickly, too eagerly, as though nicotine had become the only thing standing between control and something far less refined.
When the question finally came, not about chemicals, not about leverage, but about survival, Mercer let it sit in the air for a moment.
Four had already committed in his own way. That was obvious. The knife had stopped moving. That meant more than any declaration.
“You’re asking whether we can work together.” Mercer said, not loudly, but with a weight that cut through the smoke. “That’s not the problem.”
His gaze shifted to Dirk, steady and unblinking.
"The problem is that Basel is deciding whether we are noise or necessity, and the Drudes are doing everything they can to make sure we look like the former.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table now, posture tightening the space between them without turning it into confrontation.
"If they want us out, they won’t challenge us directly. They’ll convince Basel that we cost more than we contribute. That we escalate when quiet would suffice.”
There was something sharper beneath his calm now, a faint irritation that had been building since the word leverage had been laughed at.
"You want to prove we’re the best thing that’s happened to this rock?” Mercer continued. "Then we stop thinking like pilots competing for attention and start thinking like a solution they can’t remove without harming themselves.”
He finally allowed his hand to rest more firmly against the case, not theatrically, just decisively.
"This doesn’t exist for spectacle. It exists to shift outcomes in corridors that matter to Basel’s supply flow. If Bretonian patrols start slowing down where Basel needs them weak, and if those patrols can’t quite explain why, then we become useful in a way the Drudes can’t replicate.”
His eyes flicked briefly to Four.
"You want interesting? Fine. It’ll be interesting. These Chemicals aren’t forgiving, and deployment windows won’t wait for second guesses.”
Then back to Dirk.
"You want Altair to allocate more resources? Then give them metrics, not bravado. Patrol delays. Rerouted vectors. Requests for reinforcement. They won’t care how it happened. They’ll care that pressure increased.”
The irritation surfaced just a little more now, not uncontrolled, but honest.
"And if we don’t do it, the Drudes will happily stand there and tell Basel that they can handle everything without us.”
He leaned back again, not relaxing, but resetting.
"So yes. We can work together. The real question is whether we’re prepared to do this carefully enough that no one above us feels the need to ‘correct’ the initiative.”
That last word carried weight.
Not rebellion.
But a reminder that mistakes are not easily forgotten.
"That's all I needed to hear." Dirk replied, taking in one last breath through the filter of a dying cigarette as a smirk washed over his face. "A lot of things are at stake here. So I suggest the two of you don't start butting heads later."
Both Kendrick and Mercer had their own little quirks that would eventually come to clash in the final design of their product. The grizzled veteran could only hope he was right in bringing the family's most "savvy" members -- a domestic terrorist and a disgraced chemist.
"From this point on, you two are equally responsible with the solution to our problems." bitterness crept up in his tone. The words he was going to say next did not sit right with him. "The Arsonist will oversee all operations while I'm gone to take care of something else. Because we don't have a dedicated lab of sorts, you will work inside of Tixtla's cargo bay. She is currently moored with Basel. You have some resources there to work with -- and what you don't have, you will have to procure yourselves. You don't have to be kind when you do it."
And just like that, Dirk gave up his role as the leading voice of the family to another. In reality, he didn't expect a swift return from the Sigma region -- and maybe even Kusari, if the job would turn out to be more complex.
"Good luck." he'd add, before leaving his seat, his duties and his prized trophy behind. The bar's doors had hissed open once again, before shutting once again behind Dirk.
Four wasted no time, locking his eyes onto Mercer. What was usually a hollow, unfeeling man floating between one kill and the next now had a tiny spark of anticipation behind his eyes. It had been a long time since he'd been able to get near strong mind-altering substances. His benefactors usually want their targets dead or brought directly to them. He rarely got to hurt them as much as he wanted to. And that was what was so beautiful about chemicals like these. Victims that don't die. Humans can run out of blood, there's only so much physical pain you can give them. But pain in the mind? Infinite, colorful, and beautiful.
"So, will you let me see the pretties? I wanna know what we're working with." He was asking, but it wasn't exactly a question.
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