The abrupt manoeuvre caught Tomas by surprise even though Moretti was in his field of vision, he glares his eyes wide until finally relaxing after the thump. "I uhm.." He clears his throat ".. I appreciate it, Mister Moretti. Please, call me Tomas. Testament is just some absurd moniker I picked for the Neural Nets, ya'know, anonimity and all." Ending with an audible shrug, he grabs his ice-cold refreshment and toasts with a smile towards Moretti "Cheers."
With the open invitation to ransack the table a prudent hand grapples a batch of napkins to put by his side, leaning in forward to hunch over with both his elbows on the table, each hand with a different kind of Luxury Food, despite the sudden shift in body language, he keeps his lip-smacking to a minimum while chewing politely.
Finally, he looks at Moretti yet again while nodding repeatedly to approve of the "finger(s)-food".
As the barrage of gloomy and dark guests spewed through the chamber doors he immediately finishes whats in his grasp before taking the stackload of napkins to clean his gluttony away.
To each of the male guests, he gives a quick nod, but to the girls, he adapts to a half-smile, so as to not seem intense.
Tomas resumes his leaning posture towards Moretti's direction, while darting his eyes around the many new faces, anxious for the Alliance Commander to get to business as tensions rise with each passing second. To ease up, the ice-cold cup is sipped at random intervals.
The winds cast by the illusory arms of time and fate were ever uncertain and abstract things. Many claimed they held dominion over the destiny of man, many among that number used it as an excuse. Mankind loved excuses more than their own sons and daughters. The summit was filled to bursting brim with people just like that, be their focus a higher power, greater good, or who fired the first shot so many years ago it hardly mattered.
Hemlocke being the subject of many a controversy among many attending the meeting, was uncertain as to why some of the groups even bothered attending, owing it to the fact that the silver haired prince had called it, and nothing more. He remained open minded to the possibility that his expectations may be subverted, but this was Liberty, you can't count on things too good to be true in this backwater of human filth, treachery, and credit pinching. Even less could you count on those that had an agenda to push, using every tragedy as a platform to spew their rhetoric.
The meeting room would hear the feint echoes of metal-on-metal contact as weighted footfalls approached the large room from afar, the sound grew in volume until a red light appeared in the doorway, the man behind the blinding red gaze stopped only a moment. His eyes flicking in rapid pace over every face in the room, before the likely obnoxious and grating sounds of his boots hitting the floor continued past the delegates on his side of the room toward the appointed rogue banner positioned aside the head. Giving the Militant banner a brief glance and nothing more, not entirely familiar with the group behind it.
As the rogue "warlord" as he'd been called in jest and seriousness alike passed by the room, his attire was revealed to be rather unlike what one would expect of an underworld kingpin, even if he was a rogue. Simple, black well fitting T, matching tone pants, what appeared to be armored boots of some variety, and the only "nice" thing among the attire, a brown woven leather belt, the uniqueness immediately marred by long dried blood stains splotching the perimeter. The detail of greater note was that this simple attire left his arms bare to the room, a tapestry of pain unfolded in clear view of the other delegates, scarring so extreme there was barely any normal tissue left on his forearms and hands. Rips, burns, laser and bullet impacts, tears. There was an oddity to them, a sense of wrongness. Perhaps the rogue thought the display intimidating. He certainly wasn't dressed for the occasion, seemingly lacking interest, yet he had arrived regardless. Armed, with a right-hipped holster for what appeared to be a custom sidearm, and two strange curved blades attached to left. Instead of approaching Morreti for the typical formal niceties associated with gatherings like this, he stopped at his delegated seat, dragging it away from the table slightly with his left hand.
Once seated, the wild-maned rogue sat rather forward on the edge of his seat, looking like he was ready to move at a moments notice, a commonality amongst many pirate groups and edge worlders in strange environments, giving one the clue the rogue might be uncomfortable with this situation, or perhaps was on edge as a habitual rule. His eyes briefly glanced to Morreti after taking his seat, and spoke simple words regarding another delegate yet to be present.
A simple nod this time, no fake smile and a brief answer. All of it delivered from a seated position.
"Understood."
The lack of ceremony was refreshing, hopefully the trailing associate wasn't going to fill in for the good cop role of what would be an especially depraved buddy cop series.
The second Rogue delegate, a figure of mild intrigue for anyone with a borderline obsessive infatuation with the workings of Rogue politics, made his entrance. His scars, a testament to a storied past, were unlike Hemlocke's. Each scar bore the consistent mark of burned tissue, a result of exposure to open flames rather than energy weaponry. His face, a canvas of survival, it seemed, was not spared, with the scarring extending up and along his left cheek up to his temple, stopping just short of the point where his eye would have been in danger from the flames that caused the marks.
His hair was short yet neatly kept. Aside from the prominent scarring, a clean-shaven face and a penetrating gaze from brown eyes marked his most notable facial features. However, a keen eye might notice that were it not for the burns, Clark seemed younger than one might expect for the position he held, seemingly only in his late twenties or early thirties. The second delegate was just as casually dressed as his counterpart, if not more so. A short-sleeved button-up shirt that hung unbuttoned over a black tee held a pair of shoulder-slung handguns. The steel slides were as scarred as their owner, with large chips and scratches visible to the keen eye. Stone-washed jeans held up by a black leather belt and a pair of tan street boots, dressed as though this was more a friendly catch-up rather than a meeting of some of the most significant figures in the underworld, one that may determine what the aforementioned underworld may come to look like in the future.
The second rogue didn't seem to be much for formalities or socializing either. Yet, he differed from Hemlocke as he scanned the current occupants of the room, seemingly coming up blank on familiar faces. Clark's stoic act held until he locked eyes on the Adjutant. A faint smirk crossed his lips as his gaze locked on the other scarface present before locking into a disapproving scowl at the camera setup provided for the more eccentric band of Hackers that had yet to present themselves. Still, his tongue held as he took his seat, and the second delegate seemed content to wait in silence until the proceedings began.
Not too far behind the Rogue warlord, a representative of The Order showed up.
Well built man stood tall at 190 centimetres or six foot and three inches as many Libertonians preferred such measurements. Contrasting impeccable features of ‘Senator’ , this man's face was partially marred by fading scars, consistent with use of scar removal technology yet still too fresh to rid of them entirely. Raven black hair kept short, with an increasing number of stress induced silver interruptions in greater numbers than two years ago. He refused to do anything about it and accepted it on his own terms. Beard meticulously trimmed to length consistent with one week old growth. His eyes were green but not entirely human. Upon closer inspection, these would be replacements for whatever damage he sustained in the past. They could easily pass as lifelike especially at a distance but technology still has its limits. Uniform was standard Order with additional customizations still consistent with regulations. Bits of light yet flexible armor which most prominent part of was silver trim on the torso that might resemble a carapace. No distinctions concerning rank outside The Order’s Overwatch insignia. His pace was perhaps slower to a more observant eye, with some form of powered exoskeleton supporting his left leg. A hint he was put off duty for health reasons until now.
“Admiral Michal Golanski.” He introduced himself, though Moretti would not require introduction and would undoubtedly recognize him already. Overwatch did not send the identity of their representative prior. His accent was foreign to everyone present, some faint offshoot of humanity in the borderworlds or perhaps echo to a nation long lost with Old Earth whose only remnant persisted with this peculiar timbre, refusing to entirely fade away just yet. Unlike the codename Senator - whose gaze was ice cold entirely due to his manners - Golanski was the more lighthearted counterpart as such an odd pattern emerged in this very room. He would extend his firm handshake to meet Moretti with natural unforced smile on his face.
"I assume this is your plus one?" It sounded like an idle jest as he tapped his fingers against the table somewhat impatiently. The other group of Hackers likely running late, no doubt on account of youthful whimsy. Or just failing to wake up on time.
It was just then that the additional Order representative arrived, once again engaging in formality that Damien had already become tired of. But nonetheless, he acquitted himself of it with impeccable manners. It was simple enough to reciprocate everyone's respective attitudes and leave it at that.
"Fashionably late, Admiral." Admittedly, Damien had expected a functionary, not a figurehead and smirked at the switch-up. But then again, this was meant to send a statement. That the situation in Ontario was at least being taken seriously enough that they had chosen to send him. Bum leg and all. "Take a seat and we'll get started. The remaining Hackers can join us midway." With a graceful wave of the hand, Golanski was directed to the seat labelled for his organisation.
It finally felt like time to put things in gear. "I'll start with the obvious problem." A click of a previously unnoticed remote near Damien's side of the table caused a holo-display to whir to life and project an image of the relic site on Planet Sudbury. There was no further elaboration, everyone was being given their time to appreciate the apparent gravity of this first talking point.
If Caliban had any eyes left they'd widen at the sight of both Hemlocke and the Overwatch's very own Admiral he had heard of so many times, but never actually seen. A fiendish smile took over his face. On the outside, however, he would merely stare at the two of them with a neutral stance - arms crossed and torso laid back on the chair. "Isn't this nice" - he quietly mumbled to himself. Scenarios ran through his mind. Both good and bad. "...what for." - he continued, shrugging off the intense wave of ways he'd envision himself committing yet another 'good deed'. There were other things to focus on.
"So many faces." he said slightly louder than the times he'd ramble within the confines of his helmet, barely holding his excitement hidden under all the glitching and interference plaguing his voicebox at times like these. Every now and then heat builds up in his chest like an engine running over the red line for too long. The heat dissipates through small vents hidden under a blank white shirt. The molten orange glow shined through the fabric for a brief moment as steam escaped under the coat subtly.
"Planet Sudbury. Shielding effectively fries all scanners with the exception of those too dumb to even grasp what is in front of them." said Caliban as clearly as one could, inviting himself into the topic. "Bringer of conflict within the House. And possibly from beyond."
What he said was a mere generalization to what everyone might already know. What he knew, even though there was still one thing he left out for the moment. Instincts told him to wait and hear what everyone else had to say. And so he did.
"Test the sharpness of your sword against another. And when that is not enough, unsheathe your cunning as the hidden dagger that ends the fight."
Drake stepped over to the drinks area and poured himself a glass of Gin. As it appeared nobody had shown any interest in engaging in conversation he proceeded to take his seat at the front row of the table. As he took a sip of his drink Drake was surprised by the taste of the Gin."Good catch with the Gin Morretti, I usually don't enjoy it with just ice but rather with tonic water. Shame you didn't get a crate of that as well. I'll be blunt with you... what have you come up with?"
The Lane Hacker Assassins
"Killing the corporate weenies, so our kids can live in a free and just galaxy."
More and more representatives arrive. Hester regarded each for a short while, her steely blue gaze resting on them for but a few seconds to evaluate what she might expect. Shortly before the representatives of the Rogues arrive she made herself a small glass of gin ready. Taking a careful sip from the glass as to savour the aromas of it. The high percentage of it made her shiver barely noticeably. “Something for the nerves.” She thought.
Then the first of the Rogues entered and she put down her glass. It’s the first time that she saw them outside of space. They made just the impression that their ships made, cobbled together from different parts. The second entered and by now she felt a little sting of envy at the sight of more people that were free to choose their own clothing. The smile the second one regarded her with she didn’t quite understand what it is for. But to be polite she reciprocated it with a slight nod towards him.
As she took another sip form her gin the Admiral of the Order showed up and it dawned on her that this entire gathering seemed to have developed into a sausage party. Hester sighed internally, leaning a bit further back into her chair as Damien started up the holo-projector. She had of course, already seen the thing it showed from space.
Making note of Clark's arrival with a brief glance of his crimson gaze, his eyes briefly shifted towards the Adjutant, trailing Clark's gaze. Yet it remained only briefly, his eyes shifted towards Admiral Golanski making his entrance, an imposing yet surprisingly warm man that spoke with a strange accent. Reminded the rogue of Santa Claus. Though his arrival to this meeting reminded Hemlocke well of his previous communications to the Order, it would seem the Overwatch was taking a dramatically altered approach to diplomacy as of late, the Admiral himself deigning to come to this summit.
Strange times.
The rogue noted the missing Hackers, briefly rotating in his seat to look at the camera present, as he did so its visual feed would be blotted out by the intense crimson glare of his optic, he idly pondered if the camera was here just so they could avoid arriving in person. Either way, he rotated back in his seat. Remaining leaned/almost hunched forward, his eyes affixed to the holo-projection come into view at the click of a button, having not seen the item he'd gathered information on prior to this moment. He failed to resist the urge to get on with things, especially when met with the utter vagueness of Caliban's offered information. As it typical of a man not being paid. His voice raised, completely lacking inflection or respect for flow of conversation, detached, and spoken in statements only, another oddity.
"What exactly the structure is, is unknown, nor at this time do I think it relevant. We know the effects of its presence and activation."
A pointed pause.
"The manifestations are extreme technological interference, and far more concerningly to anyone invested in the collapse of the super gate project, Hyperspatial anomalous activity and disruption."
"We are looking at another potential disaster centralized in Ontario, with no clear defined borders on how far the radius of effect will be should the worst come to pass. Best case scenario, this will simply be another site of entry to Earhart. The system in question I will remind those present is Liberty's fault in the first place, allowing them to control this site will be a detriment to all of our work, regardless of goal."
"Texas, Alberta, Poole, Kepler, are all proof that Liberty's interests are purely economical, and they're willing to destroy entire solar systems over it.