Green light. He admitted he had no idea how to convince her and still made it. He tried to hide his surprise, as he first expected her to deny the request the moment she talked about drawing the line. She had probably noticed it nevertheless.
It made him wonder. He had said it before, but now, with her actually giving the permission, he thought about how the gallic people would look at him, especially in case of him receiving a gallic citizenship. There were certain advantages about the idea, if he was honest. The distance between Gallia and the Omicrons. Maybe Gallia was the place to bail out fully. Sombra had mentioned Planet Blouis a few times, which was the closest Gallia had to Curacao, in a way.
Settling down there? Maybe. But what would happen to the Apahanta? Selling it? Returning it to the Core? For now, he would keep it. His ship, his crew. Mobility, the power to defend himself and his inferiors. Access to Gallia was all they needed. Settling down was something for the distant future.
Ezrael smirked at her after having been visibly in thought. Sombra was right. There was something charismatic about her. Under other circumstances, he would have liked to listen to her life's stories in a more private setting.
"Not now, and not in the near future, admittedly. I have thought about buying a house on the rheinlandian planet Baden Baden. Beautiful black sand beaches, the planetary environment close to what Curacao has. But I believe I couldn't befriend with it. It is simply not Curacao. And like that, I believe your Planet Blouis would give me the same feeling, although Miss Hookier said she enjoyed her two days down there. I believe the only planet that feels like home to me is and will always be Curacao. It is difficult to explain. Maybe I can show you at some point, Amiral." He sighed, smiling dreamily at her table.
Then his smile vanished. "I don't know how much value you put into my word, Amiral, but take it as a promise that my crew and I will not cause trouble in any way in Gallia. I assume it won't be easy for me to convince your people to give us a chance just like you do. Miss Hookier told me about her experiences in Gallia during her stay. The looks she caught in certain areas. Not everyone was hostile to her, but still. And then, the sight of a Mako-class warship in their space, shortly after the events of Omega-3." He paused, looking at her in a more firm way. "Pardon my curiousity, Amiral, but how does Gallia view the Core now, given their direct involvement in the war with Bretonia?"
Chanteloup raised an eyebrow at the mention of visiting Curacao. It was not an eyebrow raised in anger or shock, but amused surprise. Curacao, among many, many other places, was only an important name on a map, at best a 3D representation on a holo-display. She knew of it, but she didn't know it. Vertiga's words about his home had a certain echo in her... Except she could still go home after this, and he did not.
"Maybe you could, monsieur Vertiga. Maybe you could. Believe it or not, I never actually set foot on Blois, or Blouis as it is falsely known in Sirius, for some unclear reason. I suppose we might as well see both together once this whole mess blows over, and we'll get to compare." She had no idea why she said that, in a exceedingly rare loss of self-control on her part. Probably just the lack of sleep, and the relatively fresh wound.
"To be fair, I haven't been in the streets of any of our cities for ages, now... I'm a little disheartened to know of miss Hookier's poor reception here and there, but not entirely surprised. If the legends are true, you've been further from this corner of the galaxy than any man has ever been before. You know of isolation... Multiply that experience by eight centuries. The Gauls are emerging from a deep slumber, and are only now digesting the fact that many other nations exist on this plane, and not all of them hairy, illiterate monsters. To see an actual, well-learned, well-mannered Sirian up close, with all the horrors they've been taught about Sirius since school... I can imagine the looks. This may take a while still, a generation at worst... But the Gauls will do as they are told, even if they'll moan and groan in doing so."
She had still not opened the pack of cigarettes he had handed back to her. She gazed at it, almost with surprise, and made no further motion.
"As for your question... You may guess that a lot of our plans in regards to the Core are strictly confidential. I could tell you that even I haven't been made aware of those plans, but that'd be a rather cheap lie." She chuckled. "I'll give you the broad strokes, for going through the effort of coming here at my request. The Core has never been much more than an economic partner based solely on opportunity. Gallia was desperate for resources, new horizons and possible friends, and the Core felt like a natural pick. The situation has evolved since then, we've found stronger and closer friends to aid us. Friends that aren't exactly keen on our Omicron-dwelling rabble... And now, this whole Omega 3 débâcle. So yes, the broad strokes ; we're not going to annex Imperium Omicronis just yet, but I'm not going to risk any Gallic life to save that of a Core agent, either. None of this is particularly sensitive, but I'm counting on you to keep it to yourself and no more than, say... three of your concubines."
Not skipping a beat, she slapped the table with the flat of her hand. "Right, I'm hungry. Would you have lunch with me ?"
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
He had leaned back slightly while listening to her, especially the part about the Core. It was something he had wondered about multiple times. What interest did Gallia have in the Core. It was more than obvious that the Core did have a big interest in Gallia, given the big parade they assembled for Gallia's arrival in Omicron Delta during the Vaultcracking. Her words confirmed his assumption on it being more of a temporal thing. She seemed trustworthy on that topic. So far she hadn't made an effort on lying to him, to the best of his knowledge and ability to read body language. A bit more worrisome was how well informed her intel was. Not many people knew about the adventure beyond Omicron Chi.
With surprise he gazed at her hand on the table, the sound successfully having pulled him out of thought. Lunch, with her? Why not? "How could I even dare to reject the Amiral's invitation?" he asked her with a smirk. She was quite a charming person after all.
Chanteloup had a satisfied smile. She was drawing on her reserves at this point, and wouldn't want to offer Vertiga the spectacle of her current weakness. It wasn't something Gallic admirals were allowed to do. Lunch would remedy this, and the change in context could be helpful as part of the interview. Highly irregular, but what wasn't, these days ?
"Excellent. I am certain you will enjoy it. I needn't comment upon the reputation of Gallic cuisine ; just know that, by tradition, the Marine has the best food of all units, directions and services, and that's by Gallic standards. It's an old tradition..."
She rose with some difficulty, and pressed the intercom again. "Monsieur Vertiga et moi-même souhaitons nous rendre au mess. Faites le nécessaire."
The intercom promptly replied : "Bien pris, amiral. Le maître d'hôtel vous attend".
She shifted her attention back to Vertiga.
"Come with me, I'll take you to the mess, we'll finish our talk there and then I'll let you be on your way. There's still a few things we need to address."
She walked to the door, which opened as she approached it. It wasn't automatic ; one of her well-dressed staff had simply heard her coming. She gestured at the corridor.
"While on the way, please tell me about what it is you usually like to have for lunch. Miss Hookier was very eager to try that aspect of Gallic culture and wouldn't stop talking about it. I can understand that."
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
Rising shortly after her, he took the invitation and followed her, by walking at her side, in her speed. If he was honest, he would have liked to support her or even carry her, but that had seemed to him rather inappropiate. She was an Amiral. She was trying to keep up the facade of pride the entire time, while the war had crippled her. Respecting that, he tried to be the most acceptable guest an Amiral could wish for.
He also grinned because she said something that sounded like memes, in gallic.
"I'm afraid that my diet is rather boringly healthy," he admitted, yet smirking slightly at his host. "Miss Hookier is roaming all around in Sirius to get us the various cuisines of the sirian houses, and recently even from Gallia. Our robots on the Apahanta are programmed with a wide variety of recipes and luckily prepare any meal with the inhumanly accuracy." It reminded him of Nodtvibot. A Kishiro Service Robot his girlfriend Maren had toyed around with. Other than most KSRs on the Apahanta, Nodtvibot was given a very specific voice: Erik Nodtviet's voice, with a cold. It used to serve dishes, commanding to enjoy it as only THE STRONG MAKE THE RULES.
"Every now and then we keep it fresh, having a bunch of crew members cooking for the crew. The canteen is open for any experiments in those regards. Miss Hookier, for example, enjoys baking muffins and cakes and cookies and other sweets, while I prepared a classic curacaoan menu," He blushed sightly as he hadn't gotten to boast about his cooking skills in years. Maren was vegetarian, so the only flesh she would take in her mouth was the meat popsicle that just walked next to the Amiral.
"We have a bird on Curacao. Genetically engineered, imported from Planet Los Angeles many years ago and adopted as mascot of Curacao. It's called Chiwi. A little bird, unable to fly. Since there are almost no insects on Curacao, for the lack of landmasses, it is eating flowers and other flora. Because of that, the meat of that bird has a natural honey-ish taste. Very soft. They let these birds roam around freely on all islands. Most of Sirius only gets Chiwi meat from Los Angeles. Chiwi meat from Curacao is, because of the lack of actual poultry farms for those, very expensive and tastes even better."
He chuckled at her for a single moment. "When Curacao was evacuated, Miss Hookier picked up her three cats from the planet. One of them had hunted down a Chiwi right before that and proudly presented it to Sombra. She then had the idea to collect some of the birds, since everyone was busy with the evacuations, to bring them to the Apahanta. It was the best dinner the crew ever had." Ezrael gave her a slightly awkward look. The story sounded weird to himself. "Thanks for the war, I guess?"
The unlikely pair made their way to the mess hall. Chanteloup found Vertiga's company to be pleasant, now that the initial and mutual gauging had been completed. Just like two predators deciding that the other isn't worth the effort, she thought, piggybacking on the mention of the Chiwi bird, and imagined a neon-coloured shark with long hair and a sly smile. She laughed at Vertiga's "Thanks for the war, I guess?" remark much louder than it was worth, because she couldn't get that image out of her head. It was a truly genuine, humorous and throaty laugh. She usually had few of those, and never in such circumstances. She looked at Vertiga, a tear in her eye, still giddy.
"Ah... Sorry, that's... That was an unexpected twist. Hehe. Cats." She wasn't sure the situation could get any more awkward, and she reflected back to those meetings with the Grand Maréchal, before she forcibly replaced him. Good times.
Just as she recovered, they arrived at the hall's entrance, where an average sized, thin man in dress uniform welcomed them with practiced obsequiosity.
"Amiral de Chanteloup. Monsieur Vertiga. Bienvenue à la Rotonde. Suivez-moi, je vous prie" he said, and made an ample gesture to beckon them into following. They passed a large wooden sign with "LA ROTONDE" written on it. Surmising that Vertiga was or would be confused soon, Chanteloup took the initiative.
"You've probably never eaten in a Gallic warship or station, monsieur Vertiga. I'd remember. You're now entering what is perhaps the most traditional of all places in Gallia. Not only is the food what you would expect, there is an armada of traditions surrounding the practice of eating in a naval mess hall... Each of them, no matter how humble, must be named, for one thing. Furniture and cutlery obey to elevated standards : silverware and fine woods are a given. And the maître d'hôtel, whom we're following just now, is the master of the premises. He'll see to your every need while you're here, no matter how petty. Because you're my guest, and because I'm this station's guest. He is, I suppose, much like your kitchen robots (those words tasted bitter in her mouth and it showed) but with more... Or rather less... Ah, you know what, you're free to pester and test him, but do so at your own risk."
They entered a small room with wooden panels and various paintings depicting naval scenes. They included ancient age of sail vessels, Sol-era surface ships, and more recent spacecrafts from Gallic history. One wooden panel read, in gold letters, HONNEUR ET PATRIE, and another, opposite, predictably read "VALEUR ET DISCIPLINE". At the maître's invitation, they sat to their designated, luxurious wooden seats around an oval table, much too large for the two of them. There were three other similar tables next to them, all empty. The maître d'hôtel disappeared once they sat.
"Welcome to the Carré officiers of Cordes, monsieur Vertiga. It's modest and cramped, but the offerings should be acceptable." She had not finished her sentence when the maître d'hôtel returned with two flûte-type glasses filled with a very light red liquid. "Deux kirs. Bon appétit !" he said in his professional manner.
Before he could leave however, Chanteloup snapped at him, though pleasantly : "Une minute, patron. Expliquez le menu à monsieur Vertiga, s'il vous plaît. En anglais."
He raised both eyebrows in utter surprise, then, remembering who it was who asked him, straightened and said, with the slightest stutter : "O-oui, bien sûr, amiral." He then turned to Vertiga and looked at him with such utter haughtiness that Chanteloup thought he'd take off and fly away somewhere.
He did not, and instead pleasantly explained, though in a rather stark Gallic accent : "Monsieur, in apéritif : a Kir. One fourth crème de cassis... I mean, blackcurrent cream (he almost winced), three fourths Bourgogne Aligoté. That's a dry white wine, monsieur. Then, in entrée, we shall have goose rillettes... Which is like foie gras in less gaudy, monsieur, accompanied by a salade vinaigrette and tomates fraîches, naturally with some fresh brown bread. For ze plat principal... (he thought for a split second) we shall have a, euh... salmon papillote on a bed of sliced patates, turnips and carottes. A selection of Corsican cheese will follow, and for ze dessert, the chef 'as prepared a surprise for his special guest (he looked at Chanteloup at that moment). And, heu, for you too of course, monsieur. Is the menu to monsieur's liking ? Does monsieur wish for something to be changed ?" he asked, with that particular tone of voice that waiters have when they know they're expected to ask something, but they'd much rather you said no.
Chanteloup had, of course, watched the entire presentation and bit her lip at several points to keep from laughing again.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
This was a cultural shock if Ezrael ever experienced one. He had been to Kusari a few times to enjoy the nightlife of Neo Tokyo. And then the traditional daylife of Kusari, with their paper walls, kimonos and temples. Until today, he would have called that time in Kusari as the most extraordinaire one he had been through. But here came Amiral de Chanteloup, presenting him the LA ROTONDE, with capital letters. While the wooden theme was not a rare sight on space ships and stations, as he remembered the few times he had been invited to a Bretonian warship, but it was this place where he got confronted with the most gallic gallicisms of Gallia. The language, the food and the servicemens' mannerisms.
Listening to the Amiral and the maître d'hôtel, he had a hard time keeping up with their exchange. There were few gallic words and phrases he knew, but listening to them was way different from reading them. He however understood what was happening the moment the poor man turned towards him, as he was requested to explain the menu to Vertiga in a not-so-classy language. With not-so-classy terms. "No, please. This sounds as excellent as it could get."
In Liberty and Rheinland, it was common to be as polite as the host was. In Bretonia, it was a duel or a tournament about who could be more polite. Something that the bretonian battlefield etiquette was often reflecting when it was possible. Of course, Admiral Dagon was not the best example of bretonian charme. In Kusari, however, the guest was supposed to get serviced in any possible way from the host. The host was always supposed to be more polite than the guest. Now he was here on Cordes, a gallic space station, decorated with the famous and feared Amiral Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup. A woman decorated and scarred by her successes and failures alike. And while Ezrael couldn't help but notice the facial instability around the Amiral's mouth region, clearly indicating her amusement, the Curacaoan was facing the most gallic way of servicing and hosting he could have imagined. If he was to suddenly grab and lift the maître, chances were the man would get stuck to the ceiling with his nose.
While the scene in his mind, a gallic ceiling decorated with multiple haughty gallic men and women, he tried to focus more on what was happening around him. Sitting in his chair and facing the Amiral in what felt almost uncomfortably far away, he smirked at her. "I wish I had a connection to the BIS or the LSF, just to get an idea what deeds resulted in your title, Amiral. Your presence commands so much respect, I almost feel pity for your inferiors here on Cordes. The tension." He made a fitting gesture for the last word. "I guess I can call myself lucky for receiving this much of your attention. Under other circumstances, people would probably envy me for being your guest." Taking in the view of her, framed by her surroundings, he couldn't help but smile a bit wider. "I hope I do a good job so far as your guest."
The kir. Ezrael took the fittingly-shaped glass and raised it slightly. Not his first time. An apéritif. Not wanting to cause a fauxpas, he waited for her to make the first move.
The maître d'hôtel disappeared upon Vertiga's cordial dismissal. Chanteloup had expected all sorts of nasty or playful jabs from him towards their designated waiter, but it turned out he had opted for the polite, professional approach. Not really a man-child after all, she noted with some surprise, then realised that someone in his position couldn't just get away with it out of sheer luck.
Either that or he's utterly lost in this world, which I would probably be.
She had a thin smile at his last remark, raised her glass in his direction, and had a sip.
"I feel like you'd be disappointed. We're taught that many Sirian admirals are never found in their office, and instead are directly commanding warships from the front, directly in the mêlée... This isn't the case in Gallia. I never single-handledly neutralised an enemy battlegroup, toppled a legitimate government or brought someone from the dead. I'm a staff officer, with some stints on the deck of warships. All of this (she makes a sweeping gesture) is my job. Someone needs to keep it running, and I was a good enough staff officer to eventually become that someone."
The entrées arrived, delivered by the maître d'hôtel himself. They were served on a rectangle tile of slate ; the rillettes were located in a lovely glass pot, and a colourful salad was next to it, slathered in a pungy vinaigrette. He placed each tile in front of the diners, added a basket of freshly baked bread he carried on his forearm, bowed, and left before Chanteloup could find something to ask of him. She let Vertiga take in the view before resuming her tirade.
"I'm not into heroics, monsieur Vertiga, as you can easily tell. My deeds, such as you call them, are probably not what you expect. Let me explain ; before I was chosen for this position, Gallia had been stuck in Leeds for years. Marginal progression, quite a bit of internal strife, a general lack of efficiency, intolerable meddling from incompetent parties across the board... Then I arrived. And now... Well, you're more aware than most of the current situation. Gallia has moved much further than it ever has. And that's after a year at this post."
She gazed in Vertiga's eyes, with an unreadable expression. Something on the way to a frown, but not exactly.
"My life is a succession of hard choices, monsieur Vertiga. It seems to be all I do, from dawn to dusk, and often beyond. I've gotten good at making hard choices, and my subordinates know this. They know that valour in battle and strength of arms would never be enough to win our war. They know that willpower is the one ingredient desperately needed to our success... And I like to think they have identified willpower as my strong suit."
She looked down at her very alluring slate, and had a slight smirk. She seized the knife and starting applying rillettes to a piece of bread, pensively. "I don't think this appears in our enemy's intelligence files..." She looked up at Vertiga, with sudden intensity. "But I think you know more about our enemy's intelligence services than you let on. A stateless adventurer like yourself, able to go wherever he wants, with advanced technology at his disposal... You're a dream come true for any intelligence operative. I won't ask you to let go of whatever legal bind you may have with our adversary, but what I will ask is your occasional cooperation with my services regarding... Various topics. Nothing that would compromise you in the eyes of Sirius, of course... You are in a unique position, monsieur Vertiga. Don't think I'd believe to be the first person to show interest in the opportunities you offer. This would be the modest service I mentioned earlier, in exchange for a ticket into Gallia. And possibly a new life."
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
Rillettes. Ezrael eyed the amiral, mirroring her actions. It was simply the easiest way of sticking to the etiquette. Sadly he wasn't sure what exactly to expect from this mass of flesh paste. He could only guess from the looks and the smell. Chanteloup applied it to the piece of bread, the latter looking and smelling way more inviting, if he was honest. There were only few things better than fresh bread. Then he eyed the salad, which was probably the one thing he prefered the most. Being a polite and nice guest, he didn't dare to do anything but mirroring his host. The dance shall be lead by her this time.
"Intelligence services..." He paused for a moment, sighing as he spread the rillettes on the bread on his plate. She wasn't wrong. "I believe this is something I can't deny, mon amiral, and this topic refreshes some rather unwanted memories. Surprisingly, however, it was less about the Apahanta when I had to deal with them, but more about my crew. My ship is home to people from all over Sirius, you see. Mostly people from Bretonia and Liberty, then a few Zoners, a few Rheinlandians, two Kusarians, a handful of people that joined me from groups like the Core. And of course four Curacaoans, including myself. These people come with backgrounds, sometimes even more, uh, colorful than mine. I can't deny this caused a shift of attention of some smaller and bigger intel agencies to the Apahanta. Although one could say these people are just excuses to ask uncomfortable questions, or even blackmail us."
At this point he paused again, not for rhetorical reasons but because he was considering taking a bite of the bread. But then he couldn't talk. And then he had to admit that he wasn't sure where to go with the conversation. He couldn't tell her about the SIS, 404 or the LSF. Although it was no secret that the LSF, on paper,killed his girlfriend Maren. On paper. When she wasn't secretly doing things for her blue friends, she was pretending to have a normal life on Baden Baden with her adopted daughter. Best not to cut the topic at all.
Facing the amiral again, he continued with his story. "Sad truth is that no fiction and conspiracy theories are too over the top to not be possibly true when it comes to intelligence agencies, and that is why I prefer to avoid them. While the idea of everyone being fully aware that most factions have spies on almost every station and planet and capital ship is hilarious, it changes the way you look at your own subordinates. It would be nice to trust each of them after all the things we've been through. All the conversations, little and big adventures, fights and ups and downs. But control is better than trust. As such I wouldn't be surprised on the houses keeping more than just an eye on us, and I don't believe it would be different the moment we set a proverbial foot into your space. There is nothing else to do about it then treating it with acceptance. If people really want to watch me shower, I'll make it a good show."
The fuck did I just say? "As long as the demanded services are within acceptable parameters, we will do it. My only condition would be to not get us involved in any possible combat scenario. There surely are better sellswords available to Gallia." Finally he could get to try this rillettes bread!
Isabelle raised an eyebrow at Vertiga's mention of conspicuous showering, and she snorted, before taking another bite on her toast. She went about it with her usual taught, almost naturally elegant manner, but there was some snappy energy to the proceedings, much like a shark at a baby seal tasting. The classic, rustic taste of rillettes was addictive. It could be best compared to a mixture between corned beef and butter, only much more delicate and complex, starting with a buttery, sweet taste and ending on the meaty flavour of goose. She was coming back to life, and lamented the lack of wine. The mere thought seemed to conjure up the maître d'hôtel, whom politely and gracefully erupted into the room with a bottle of red whose shape indicated it was from Burgundy. He served them both, filling each glass only halfway as was the custom, then departed as Vertiga finished his sentence and gazed longingly at his slate. Chanteloup decided to act mercifully, and imperceptibly nodded at him while keeping briefly silent, hinting that he could finally start his culinary experience.
Meanwhile, she brought her glass to her nose, pensively rotating it to reveal the earthy, strong aromas typical of Burgundy reds, and took a sip. The complex taste went from fruity to earthy, and lingered pleasantly in the mouth. Adequate, she thought, but not exceptional. Probably one of the best they had in store over at Cordes, which had probably not served any VIP in ages, and the notion brought her some pride. She moved the glass back to its precise initial position and decided that Vertiga's concentration had enough time to recover. She picked up the conversation.
"Control is better than trust, you say. Interesting tidbit, that ; the Gallic military has a very old saying, usually used ironically but not devoid of sense : la confiance n'exclut pas le contrôle. In short, trust does not take away the need for control. To answer your concerns in no particular order : we can't afford to have spies everywhere, and the notion does amuse me also. Just imagine an army of tuxedo-wearing suave gentle men and women being taught to merely lurk around asking pointed questions... But it is true that we, as well as any somewhat capable nation, hold information in high regard and go to great lengths to secure it. Spies are a dreadfully obsolete notion, monsieur Vertiga. The trend, these days, lies with listening devices, tracking equipment, decryption, deciphering, imagery... Human intelligence is only helpful in very specific, small scale situations now, minus exceptional circumstances. I don't need spies, monsieur Vertiga, nor do I need sellswords. I need people in the know, who can come and go to various places untroubled... Or at least not directly shot at... And who can understand the world around them better than your average peasant, and you seem to be that someone."
She started digging in her salad. "I didn't think your crew would be mostly Curaçoans. No offense, but I'm baffled that Curaçaoans themselves haven't already started eating each other, so I didn't picture them as competent space-farers. I can very much understand that this motley crew of yours could have attracted the attention of several of our... Colleagues. But, although it is true that the Apahanta's movements within Gallia will be tracked, I've not asked for more surveillance. Who you choose to bring along with you is your concern, as long as they are not wanted by Gallic justice. So, really, the services I mentioned are nothing more than to answer my questions when I have some... And to refrain from divulging any strategic information you may come across to... Other parties. I'll have a non-disclosure agreement for you to sign at the end of this meal ; in regards to you acting as an occasional source of information for me within Sirius, or wherever you end up... We can keep it to a verbal agreement between ourselves. Trust, and a degree of control, no more than is necessary. Would that sound fair ?"
She looked down at her slate. Nothing was left, not even crumbs. She sensed the maître d'hôtel in the next room, trying to divine the state of progression of their meal, ready to pass on appropriate instructions to the kitchen.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
