Barrier Gate Station; Coronado System; Independent Space
Coronado was a colorful place, both aesthetically and politically. The brilliant contours of the barrier set to the backdrop of a fledgling nation and Great House intrigue. It had become somewhat colonized in recent years but was never truly safe. And with Liberty's expensive campaign against the Insurgency, along with the still ongoing occupation, the charge of system-wide policing fell almost solely to the Crayterians. They were a resilient people. Their sole redeeming trait, undermined quite viciously in terms of autonomy by their determined dependence on either of the Great Houses they bordered.
This of course meant people of Damien's particular affiliation would be subject to interdiction if intercepted. And while he had anticipated this might happen from his secured seat in the back of this rocketing Kestrel, nothing of the sort came to pass. The No Time for Decompression blew along the route without much concern for structural integrity, carrying five passengers. The Commander and his four "honour" guards that could be trusted to maintain the privacy a meeting like this. Armed and armored in Kemwer kit, their affiliation was unclear to any potential eavesdroppers. Though if a fine eye for detail was exercised there were small clues, and at the very least a narrow list of collaborators with the producers of such equipment.
The pilot said something to one of the guards closer to his perilous vigil, but whatever it was had been completely drowned out by the incessant screaming of the engines. This guard then in turn motioned towards Damien and slammed his fist against the metal interior thrice, it was a signal that they were close and it was certainly more effective than trying to shout over the engines. The nod issued in response meant the message was received and understood. And with their destination rapidly coming into view, Damien looked himself over and then counted through his belongings to make sure nothing was forgotten. Not that it would do any good to find out now, flying back would be as good as cancelling this meeting.
When the ship pulled into dock, Damien hefted his bag up and onto his shoulder before taking those first few steps through the airlock and into the rocky interior. The fact he packed was an indicator of intent, but what exactly it indicated was up to his partner to figure out. A trip perhaps? And if so, where?
The guards caught up with him, two in front and two at the rear. Working as a tightly knit unit meant that nobody could follow along and prove to be an uninvited guest, nor could anyone hope to easily impede their brisk walk to Annex-A. And while there were certainly onlookers of all kinds, nobody was going to pick a fight if it didn't seem worth the potential cost. So their trip across the various sections of the station remained mostly uneventful, save for the occasional need for one or both of the guards at the front to yell at layabouts to get out of the way.
Eventually they were at their intended destination, another cramped umbilical that facilitated mooring, but this one was reinforced and suited for larger ships than the freighter which had ferried them here. With the door leading here shut behind the group of five, all they could do now was wait for the somewhat gilded steel in front of them to part and make way for who Damien was here to see.
The heavily armed luxury yacht of Fiorella de Marco, also known as the distinctly modified Amalfi, a former Storta-class destroyer, anchored with precision at a docking point on Barrier Gate Station A. The side armored panels on the starboard side of the elegant Outcast vessel swung open, revealing a universal telescopic airlock that extended towards the station, nestled deep in the icy rock. The room echoed with three loud metallic clangs as the Amalfi secured and connected its fuel and energy lines to the station. Simultaneously, distant fuel pumps whirred into life, beginning to pump compressed liquid H-fuel into the 'yacht'.
Yet, something here was amiss, unsettlingly wrong. It was an indescribable sensation, elusive and intangible. His only guide in this perplexing moment were his instincts, which now, faced with the airlock, were sounding an alarm. She wouldn’t be coming this way; she was already here. Behind you. For an infinitesimally brief moment, he could have sworn he saw his own back.
"One of the most sought-after men in Liberty - and yet so conspicuous."
A feminine voice emerged from one of the side corridors, and Damien could hear the too-familiar melodious laughter belonging to none other than Fiorella Arianna de Marco. She stepped elegantly out of the side passageway and into the light. Clad in a form-fitting dark outfit with a black leather jacket and choker around her neck, she exuded an air of calculated grace.
Her steely blue gaze briefly swept over Damien's entourage before settling back on him. She appeared as relaxed as during their last meeting, her face adorned with an amused smirk. It had been three long years since she had honed her acting skills to blend in unnoticed among the Sirians, maintaining an utterly ordinary facade. How long had she been watching them? How many of her agents were scattered throughout the station?
One thing was certain - she now dramatically, almost theatrically, cast aside her civilian mask.
"Buongiorno, gentlemen. Oh Cobra - you have that look again - are you pleased to see me?"
She moved with a slow, almost languid stride towards her companion and his guards. At her waist was a pistol - too heavy and cumbersome for an ordinary person, more akin to a light anti-vehicle weapon. Though she appeared to pay only scant attention to his bodyguards, her eyes keenly followed their movements, her reflexes reminiscent of a playful yet still predatory being.
With the simplest of gestures, namely a plain nod in their collective direction, the guards were dismissed and allowed to assume positions outside this cramped space. This way the two were left to their own devices in the reinforced mooring clamp between the ship and station. Privacy was now indisputably in their possession. After all, the guards had not been brought along to protect him from her. No, their sole mandate in coming here was to see that nothing interrupted this meeting. They were utterly silent upon being greeted and appeared to hold neither any respect nor ill intent for the Outcast femme fatale.
With their swift exit, Damien remained silent for several seconds. What eventually broke this silence was the dull thud of his bag being set down as he took steps forward and towards her. She could tell he was restraining himself from rushing, not wanting to seem overly eager. All the same, Damien wasted no time in enveloping his partner in an embrace. Content to hold that for several moments and say nothing. Not that there was any need to say anything given that this more than answered her rhetorical question.
As he approached her for an embrace, she wrapped her arms around his neck and slightly tilted her head, bestowing a brief, closed-eyed kiss as a greeting. Beyond the significance of this intimate gesture, the kiss served merely as a medium for what transpired next.
As their lips met, he could feel her emotions and sensations stealthily infiltrating his own mind - perceptions he was scarcely capable of on his own. Yet now, they felt almost as if they were, as if the origin of these otherworldly feelings was irrelevant. It was like an elusive cloud enveloping the enamored pair, isolating them once again from the surrounding world.
The experience was intensely profound yet profoundly invasive. The physical dimensions of her body, and perhaps even his, ceased to matter. They became inconsequential, mere vessels. The black-clad Fiorella seemed to dissolve into his embrace, permeating his being. He could sense her within himself, amongst his nerve fibers. How long did it actually last?
After what felt like an eternity, she withdrew a few steps, gracefully gliding through his paralyzed arms as he was slowly returning to the physical world, to his more mundane and ordinary existence. She appeared human, yet it was abundantly clear she was not. Her blue gaze brought him back from the recently experienced cognitive and sensory intoxication.
"I am also pleased to see you in person yet again, Damien."
With her left hand, clad in a thin black glove featuring golden pads for touchscreen manipulation, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a small optical data carrier, its edge adorned with the logo of Kishiro Technologies. She briefly clasped the chip between her long fingers and offered it to him with an elegant gesture.
Absolutely no time was wasted when he had been presented with that little data chip. Hurriedly, he pulled his PDA out from a pocket within the simple gray jacket he opted to wear and deftly slotted it into the relevant port. Once the device booted and he had quickly navigated through a few menu screens, both the screen and his eyes lit up. The former with the vivid color of good pictures and footage, the latter because he felt a strange mix of immense pride and sorrow.
He hadn't been there with her when all these memories were made. And it felt like that had cost him something he could never get back.
"She looks happy." While the words were rife with melancholy, it was the truth. And if nothing else he tried to let this fact serve as consolation. She was growing up the way a child ought to, surrounded by family and adored. Not an investment. The nuance of all this and the way her partner felt would not have been lost on Fiorella. Just like every other time before, his eyes said everything.
Once he'd reached the end of everything the chip held, he stared at the screen for a few seconds longer before putting the device on standby. "Can I keep the chip?" There was an aspect of insecurity behind the tone of the request, it wasn't shame, instead it seemed to come from a place of doubt and was centered around himself.
With a nuanced smile gracing her features, she regarded the image of her daughter on Damien's PDA. Her posture, typically a manifestation of commanding assurance, subtly softened, yet she preserved an air of inviolable dignity. The inherent elegance that was her signature remained undiminished, tenderly tempered by the maternal instinct evoked by Ciara's image. Her hands, usually the epitome of steady and decisive action, betrayed a faint, discernible quiver, unveiling a depth of emotion rarely permitted visibility.
"Ciara shall remain separate from all our matters – both yours and mine. As an innocent child, she is deserving of the joys and liberties of a carefree childhood. You are to refrain from speaking of her to others at present. Do you agree?"
As she articulated the stipulation, her expression wove a complex array of emotions. Her lips, curving into a subtle, enigmatic smile. The unarticulated message was unequivocally clear: this stipulation was absolute, a boundary established by a mother safeguarding her child.
That subtle shiver of the hand caught the whole of Damien's focus for a moment. Not even a second after her question had been posed he reached out to take hold of the respective hand reassuringly. The words that followed even felt as if they came of their own accord and felt entirely natural. "I love you and I love our daughter - of course I agree. Sometimes I even catch myself praying that she doesn't take after me." That second half which resembled more of a confession seemed like it cut quite deep and she knew exactly why given the sort of upbringing he had.
In saying this and feeling the way he did the words he wanted to come next did not. He was hesitant to say or ask whatever it was but since Fiorella could see it all the same, the discretion was hers to try and cut past the doubt and reassure him in turn.
Upon hearing his words, her expression softened and warmed once more. For a brief moment, she blinked rapidly and averted her gaze before looking back at his face. She tilted her head slightly, and a radiant smile flickered across her dark, glossy lips.
"I still find it hard to adjust to the new Damien Morreti - so much has changed in the last three or four years."
She paused briefly as she observed more recorded images of her daughter Ciara on his PDA. In silence, they both watched the young Ciara, her tiny pink hands attempting to grasp Fiorella's long, slender fingers, all the while wearing an expression of pure curiosity in her blue eyes - a trait inherited from both of her parents. Fiorella closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder.
He could feel the foreign, alien presence in his mind once again. As in previous instances, it was an indescribable and elusive sensation, as if his brain were attempting to process a perception for which it had no proper centres. He felt countless fine, black, and glossy fibers painlessly infiltrating his being, permeating him.
His head and mind grew heavy as he was forced to process more sensations than he was accustomed to. How much of the world, how many 'realities' might be hidden from him? How might his lover see, perceive him? Was she observing something about him that he himself was not aware of?
The thread of his thoughts was broken by a gentle, cautious tickling around his left middle finger. It was the touch of something infinitely soft and pleasantly warm. Five delicate touches in succession, tentatively coiling around his finger.
A sharp exhale of amusement was all he offered as a reaction to her comment about this being the new him.
And then he shot a glance down at his hand to see if that might be her doing something to tease him. But when he noticed nothing at all, not even stray thread from the sleeve of his aged jacket were responsible for this inexplicable feeling. While immensely confused he didn't want to ask for an explanation but did look at her in a way that suggested he would eventually like to know where the source of strangeness about her came from.
"I hope you don't mind but I was hoping to tag along with you on your return trip. I've met your family before but this time I'd like to speak to your father specifically." Now it was clear why he had packed a bag as cumbersome as the one currently discarded on the floor.
She kept her head rested on his shoulder, but upon hearing his words, she slowly opened her eyes. An amused expression appeared on her face as she moved back to look at him directly. In her eyes twinkled mischievous, sardonic sparks.
"With my father, Salvatore de Marco?"
Fiorella crossed her arms over her chest, assuming a somewhat imperious posture. Her expression became more serious, even slightly colder.
"He nearly killed you when you were on Malta last time – and he swore to God that if he ever saw you step through his doorway in that ridiculous gas mask again, he would not listen to my words a second time. He took it as a great insult, one he has yet to forgive. I beg you to reconsider your wishes."