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?"
![[Image: dlUObBQ.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/dlUObBQ.gif)