The docking bay area aboard the Sagittarius was spotless. Floor plating has been neatly arranged as to form a regular pattern that brought to mind something along the lines of an ancient Doric order, while at the same time being smooth and reflective, cold. Looking up, one would realize that the hangar plafond was designed the same way, thus creating an immaculate, yet dizzying space. This was a custom job, commissioned by someone with an odd, yet elegant taste, almost insanely cost-intensive.
Apart from the aged Borderworld fighter craft that had just been locked by the docking clams, and its pilot's boots clattering on the disturbing artwork, the space was vacant and silent. Torrential lighting cleansed every bit of shade one would naturally expect, turning the view surreal. After a short while a pressure door opened on the far side of the bay. Three silouets entered.
The one in the front middle was a tall Caucasian man with a friendly, reassuring smile and an ice-cold expression in his eyes - one that is prominent amongst those who'd not flinch at exercising violence or worse to get their way. It was not a handsome face, not even by the most eccentric of imaginable standards. Still, it radiated an intriguing mixture of trustworthiness and fearsomeness, almost as confusing as its immediate surrounding. Dressed in a black, double breasted suit he stood out of the blinding bright background as the dominant figure we was. His company featured two well shaped men in Core Paramilitary uniforms - their expression in turn was blank, but in a harsh, highly disciplined kind of manner one would expect from prison guards, if one was to be unfortunate enough to serve jail time.
Steps echoed from afar as the greeting party approached their visitor. She had been invited to the Sagittarius for a special reason. Special enough for the director himself to provide a welcoming gesture. As he stopped less then three meters from her, his companions aligned, he gave the pilot a kind smile and spoke in a soothing timbre, with a faint Bretonian accent.
Compliments, Miss Aaliyah. Welcome aboard my humble yacht. I hope that you will find its amenities suiting to your comfort. He looked her in the eye with a piercing stir, like a spearhead going clean through concrete, its momentum held floating in freeze-frame: My name is Martin McKinsey.
