2018-01-10: A Brief Meeting

A cloaked man steps into an alley behind one of the many dingy warehouses in Jolly Rodger. He glances around, presses his fingers to his lips, and whistles--two short tones, and one long. The notes hang in the air a moment. The man glances up at the warehouse wall, confirming that it does in fact have the old, worn advertisement for Pete's Pickled Fish. He takes a step forwards, puts a hand to his chin--as he so often does--and waits. A door near the end of the alley opens, rusty hinges groaning with exertion. Out steps a woman in the loose coveralls of a Gear pilot, complete with full-face helmet. A patch on the right breast pocket depicts a cartoonish cat with a grave-digger's spade and a bag of gold slung over one shoulder. The cat is digging up someone's grave.

"I'm sorry about the delay," the woman says. From accent alone, the man figures she's from somewhere in Meria Boule, or maybe northern Sylvaland. "Ran into a bit more trouble than I was expecting, but all significant parties escaped with their lives." The woman reaches into a thigh pocket, and takes out the small, thin wedge of a data cartridge. "It's all there. The primary recorder was an unfortunate casualty, but the secondaries picked up the slack."

The hooded man pulls something from an inner pocket of his coat--a flat metal tablet with a glassy screen. He takes the wedge, slides it into a slot on the top, and touches the screen. Recorded images flicker across the screen's surface, overlaid with numbers and colored bars. He watches from a Gear's perspective as it engages multiple foes--a trio of enemy Gears, several beasts of uncertain origin, and small, humanoid figures. The video stops, and the man looks up.

"Excellent," he says. "You've come through again. Our mutual acquaintance will not be disappointed. You'll find your payment in the usual location."

The woman chuckles. "Would you appreciate my editorial commentary?"

"Of course." The man pulls a small, pen-like stick out of the tablet's side, drags a fresh text pad into place, and begins to write.

"Initial threat estimates on the Ebony Wings were vastly highballed, probably because our analysts expected actual dragons. Their focus on nonlethal methods makes them /very/ easy to bait, though their snipers could likely go lethal if they chose. Their most forthright combatant seemed to be this one, here--" A slender, gloved finger reaches out to pan the image right and downwards, to a figure with two ponytails and a massive sword. "Unless we count this one." Another adjustment, and the image fixes on a black-armored woman with a spear. "I'm not sure what to make of her. Unquestionably a Demon, but she wasn't at the warehouse."

"Interesting. Didn't our other friend say something about dissent within their ranks?"

"Yes. Their leader is now officially a race-traitor, and near as I can tell, she's gone groveling to anyone who will bother to listen to her." The woman laughs, a bubbly chuckle edged with menace. The woman straightens up, and suddenly, the humor is gone. "Watch her, though. She's got /something/ that messes with people's heads--one of the cameras saw some of the help going down without so much as a fight. Wasn't Symbology, whatever it was."

"Worth examining in further detail," the man says. "What about the mercenaries?"

"The only one I got a good look at was the Beastman. Big fellow, fox features, quite the looker. I have to hand it to him, /I/ would've been hard-pressed to play the card he did at the end there. That arm is going to be a devil and a half to replace. His ladyfriend turned into a mad dog the moment I threatened the third one, the one in the Gear with the plates. Those two may be acquaintances or partners of some sort, but I don't know if the Beastman is related to them. I'm certain that Everstead-Rey hired the three of them, and took advantage of an existing sting."

"Shame you couldn't get that Fossil, though," says the man. "And a shame that the cache is out of our reach now. I was interested in seeing what the other research staff could put together, with or without the aid of a certain potential recruit."

"Can't win 'em all," says the woman. "Anyway, you know where to find me. Pleasure working with you, as always, Dr. Henriksen."

The woman turns on a bootheel, and walks away, leaving Dr. Henriksen with his data. Lambda would surely be pleased, insofar as he ever was.