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Priscilla     The inevitable meeting with the Imperium of Man, or more accurately, the highest level of its myriad representatives that some distant Lord of Terra felt worth it, is incipient. Foreboding enough as the prospect has seemed, with the Imperium's wide and weighty reputation for all manner of things, wild claims thrown hither and thither about what sort of brutalist, theofascist consequences anyone in their sights would suffer for all of this, the choice of negotiating table is . . . unexpected.

    Particularly, no ships descend from on high to alight upon one of the system's seats of rule and spew out soldiers alongside a lord's catspaw. No carefully bartered neutral ground is observed on some space station somewhere, where two sides can glower at each other into a state of mediated M.A.D like a tradeoff between two massive cartels. No. The result is an 'invitation to parley', aboard a gilded cruiser with the Astra Militum aquila, with scarcely so much as an escort of destroyers. Technically, it could be seen as a demand to talk solely within the enemy's stronghold, but given the *relative* lack of military girth readied, and an open invitation right inside, it'd be a less-than-prime position to ambush and crush negotiators who present terms deemed unacceptable.

    Frankly, it kind of seems like whatever branch responded to this situation is one that could scarcely give a fuck whoever's hands the sector changed into so long as they're more competent than the last.

    'Could scarcely give a fuck' appears to be the keyword of the day as well. Instead of rusted and dingy halls of hardened and fortified centuries old space construction, befitting something sailed without rest from one end of the galaxy to the other, endlessly ferrying troops of war and returning empty, perhaps stained with blood-rust from uncountable repelled boarding actions and Warp incursions, you're invited straight to a set of captain's quarters that constitute something the size of a small ballroom, broken up into a number of compartments furnished like an afficionado of early 1900s English expedition culture.

    More specifically, you're invited to a very literal negotiating table of some dark, polished alien wood, complete with a rug of who knows what fur over flagstones polished to a shine, in a lushly decorated reading room (in space). The stand out feature is the fact that the overly large walls, soaring upward to a genuine high Gothic arch, are plastered wall to wall, floor to ceiling, with trophies. Not the gold kind. The mounted and stuffed kind. The heads and necks of uncountable hideous monsters, from fanged and snarling beasts, to many-mandibled insectoid horrors, to the scorched and twisted flesh of horned daemons. Some samples are even taxidermied and stood up on pedestals in various fearsome positions, including a familiar six-armed carapaced menace.

    The representative, rather than a solemn bureaucrat, a high church zealot, or dour inquisitor, is a man in a high-collared military coat, with red ribbons, a robotic left arm that looks fit to crush a skull, and the most *magnificent* Freddie Mercury mustache you've ever seen. His vocal tones are bang on the epitome of that specific kind of upper class British gentleman that constantly sounds mildly to moderately sarcastic. A bald, dour, middle-aged man with a grizzled face and extremely bored expression looks extremely awkward and out of place at his side, still wearing military fatigues, having not touched the glass of wine at his spot on the table while the former officer is halfway through an entire bottle by the time you get there.

    "Please, sit! We're not barbarians here are we? Take a load off. Emperor knows this entire process will be grueling enough." the officer says. "Lord General Castor of the Astra Militarum, at your service. To whom am I speaking?" He lifts his bottle with the ridiculously powerful robotic hand instead of the original one.
Starbound Flotilla     The Flotilla's efforts here so far have been more low-key, concerned mostly with space infrastructure and interactions with their good friend The Janitor, so they're an unlikely bunch to have here. But, as the Miniboss Gang, it helps to have them ominously standing about. The gilded cruiser is met by a modest, plain, and unarmed transport shuttle of the Flotilla's own, and they share the transit with plenty of others.

    Albert matches the man, and he seems to be taking the lead. He matches him visually, but hardly in nature. "Hmh." He makes an apeish grunt, concise and straightforward. "Captain Petrov, Starbound Flotilla. Dauntless of the Concord." He says.
    "Forgive me if the rest of the Flotilla refrain from traditional negotiation participation in this matter. They have neither the rank nor inclination to speak on the topic. I am Moonfin Hylotl, of the Starbound Flotilla, and Dauntless of the Concord." He takes a seat.

    The rest of the Flotilla remain in positions about the room, lit in a rather obfuscating way, almost shadowed perfectly by the lights in the room, except for a few gleaming eyes. +_+ +_+ +_+ +_+ They're not unfriendly, they're just sort of perpetually watching. Probably because Moonfin called in favors to get them to keep a little more quiet.
Haguro Haguro's more than aware of the need to maintain appearances and decorum when it comes to parley. Even though the circumstances are on a scale she's not quite used to dealing with, the implications of being asked to come aboard what is essentially an enemy spacecraft are just the same here as they would be on a seafaring vessel packed to the brim with enemy soldiers.

If only she knew anything about actually performing proper negotiations. She's got the look down pat, at least, as she arrives donning a white admiral's cap with her hair brushed aside to keep both slightly glowing eyes visible instead of letting it droop as it usually does in this form. She's even dressed in her purple uniform from the fleet, although it looks a little ill-fitted around the midsection due to the gun and mouth bearing tail coming out of it.

She'll just have to keep that draped over her shoulder. It's well-behaved, at least, as she steps into the negotiation room, trying not to let her eyes wander too much at the lavish surroundings. When she spots the representative and his magnificent 'stache, the Abyssal raises her right hand in a reflexive salute to the gentleman, and the balder man gets a similar if somewhat hastier salute.

"Vice Admiral Haguro of the Luthan Fleet, Partner of the Concord. Thank you for meeting with us, good sirs of the Astra Militarum." With her own greeting concluded, she waits a brief moment to give her companions a chance to start sitting as well before taking her own seat. The gut-tail murmurs briefly, but remains still over her shoulder for the time being. "So! General Castor. What is it you wanted to speak with us about?"
Captain Flint      Present among the 'planetary governors' is a man on the taller side of humanity's norm--at 5'11", he may be shorter than some Multiversal denizens and certainly moreso than the average Marine. Nevertheless, his 18th century attire can't conceal a muscled frame. A black longcoat, a woven shirt tucked into what appear to be riding pants that terminate in a pair of worn black leather boots. A wide, studdedn leather belt holds a rapier to his hip--a seemingly spartan weapon, but when the light catches it just so, the fine filigree of a master smith shines faintly.

     His face is weathered by sea air, his eyes likewise the color of the Caribbean ocean. Amber-brown hair is bound at the back, just enough to keep it from those eyes. There is a certain scholarly detachment within them. Presently, he regards his surroundings with one bejeweled hand upon his chin. He seems every bit a pirate, in whatever local parlance that might be.

     He is, accordingly, entirely at home in this environment, whether his sword and pistol (an anachronistic M1911) have been checked or not. Compared to the Freddie Mercury mustache of his host, Flint strokes thoughtfully an amber-brown goatee. When he speaks, his accent is similar to their hosts in that it is British--but it is, by comparison, a gravelly baritone which is equally suitable for growled threats as for discourse on the finer points of literature.

     He nods graciously, after a pause. "I am called Flint. I hail from an Earth of the 18th century--one in which the year is presently 1718. I captain a ship--the Walrus. I'm a member of Lady Priscilla's Concord and a man of fortune besides." He pauses. "And I am the standing planetary governor of the agriworld which you call Yayor."
Big Boss The Imperium has been contacted directly by Outer Heaven recently. Their world greatly interests the interventionist forces, and so, with terms of actually likely helping the Imperium out as an all-human more-disposable-than-usual mercenary force. Two men have been sent for the negotiations as such, to talk to both the Concord and the Imperium about the situation, already educated on the basics of the situation and their 'foes'.

One is in a military uniform, with red epaulets, a gray suit, a black belt with a side overall restraint, golden cufflinks, and a black tie. The patch on his shoulder is a damaged skull, reading OUTER HEAVEN. His brown hair is cut short, and his blue eyes are piercing. Ezra Sanson steps into the captain's room, flanked by a man in a less-flashy uniform, but still a nice one. His name is Roth, according to discussions.

Both men wear earpieces, as they step forward. Roth is armed with a pistol unless it's been checked out, but if not, it's sheathed, and part of the uniform. Sanson is unarmed.

As they're offered to take seats, the two do so, formally and with knowledge of military etiquette. They do not sit with the Concord. Roth doesn't speak, not at the moment. Sanson waits for just the right moment before introducing himself. "Thank you for your hospitality, General Castor. I am Ezra Sanson, aide de camp to the commander of Outer Heaven. This is my secretary, Alexander Roth." Roth nods, as Sanson continues, turning towards the Concord. "Outer Heaven is a private mercenary company operating off of Earth, 1992, as well as the Multiverse. We have heard much of this situation and are prepared to offer intervention if necessary."

Based on the fact that no one in the Concord hired or talked to them, it's probably on the side of the Imperium.
Staren     Staren arrives by whatever ship the Concord sends -- He's not certain if his flying space castle is appropriate for formal dipomatic meetings. He's wearing the same 'new formal clothes' as when he visited the Slaanesh cult -- a white coat with a mantle and golden trim in a circuit-trace design, creased black pants and nice boots. A design on the back of the coat combining a medical cross, a gear, and circuit traces.

    All this time, he's been faking that he knows what he's doing, that he's a bigshot and confident and in charge, and... it had seemed like it was working, but was it ever really? He's not entirely sure. He has to put up the front anyway, he has no choice, but sometimes it shows cracks.

    He looks around the room. Extravagant for most spaceships, perhaps, but Imperium ships are so huge, they have plenty of room. It's just... curious. The things on display indicate this man has interests besides fighting xenos. Hobbies. Staren hasn't met Imperium people with hobbies, as far as he knows. Karian's never mentioned any.

    Staren approaches and looks over the man. "Staren Wiremu. Hand of the Concord and Planetary Governor of Amistel Majoris." He'll try offering a hand to shake if anyone else's hand was shaken, then takes a seat.
Priscilla     It seems the captain slash lord general could not possibly give less of a flying shit about checking people for weapons. Though if he planned to lure anyone into a trap, he really didn't bring the forces and organization to do it thoroughly, the fact is that if someone did try to shoot him in these quarters, they'd really have no other option but to fight their way out of a kilometer of cruiser on red alert, filled with soldiers around every corner. It's basically a presumed stupid move, and the man clearly has the visible swagger to indicate he knows that you all know it too.

    He also has a fuckoff huge gun that'd be beefy for a space marine sitting around on the mantlepiece just around arm's reach, so there's that, but still. 'No need to be barbarians'. He does, in fact, even shake Staren's hand. Even his real one is a great big paw, calloused from countless control grips and weapon handles, and overly muscled from absorbing recoil.

    "Indeed! That's the question on everyone's tongues!" he proclaims, waiting for the extremely awkward-looking rugged Guardsman to hand out drinks as if he were a second mate. "'What's this all about?' I think I'd like to know as much as anyone! I suppose there are people more desperate to know than I am --my boss's boss's boss and so forth-- but they didn't fly out to the ass end of nowhere to ask now did they?" He folds his hands together in his lap, tapping his fingertips together patiently with little whirs of bionics. "I trust you already know how this works, yes? Whoever kills the old governor becomes the new governor. It's like pirate kings, or Davy Jones. Not really, but that's how you've gone about it, so we're moving past that." he says dismissively, starting to stroke the edge of his mustache.

    "Now, there are plenty of those who would strongly object to this. Plenty enough hungry to throw troops at the problem straight away --matter of principle and all-- as if we didn't have enough wars to fight already. I, however, don't waste men, and once again, they aren't the ones who spent a fortnight flying out to the ass end of nowhere! In the Lord Inquisitor's wisdom, I've been chosen for the unenviable duty of filing the reports, due in no small part to my impeccable intellect and overflowing charisma." The Guardsman finally grumbles. "Get to the point sir."

    "The point? That is the point Merrick! I can report back whatever I damn bloody well please! I'm quite prepared to do so favourably, even, if I like what I see! Most of this sector you see has already been declared by the Administratum, 'Aptus Non'. That means there's no point in tithing the bloody mess because there's nothing to gain from it anyways! Half of it is lawless warrens, and the other half pays its due solely in arms and steel to Cadia! There's certainly a case to be made that bringing this place back up to ship shape is a net gain to the Imperium, no?"

    "The way I see it though, a motley crew like yours wouldn't simply do that out of the patriotism for humanity burning in your breast! Free traders and fringemen always have their angle. I have to say, this seems all rather hastily done. So, I turn the question right back on you. What do you possibly hope to gain by cleaning up this Sector's mismanaged messy hangar in plain view of the Emperor's eyes?"
Starbound Flotilla     "Ahhh, our longer-term plans to reform the matter. I should hardly regale you with the virtues espoused of fulfilling, properly optimized life purged of needless violence or imbalance, as I'm sure you've heard such lofty aspirations from others, but you will find--" Moonfin starts, before Albert raises a hand.

    Moonfin looks both astounded and kind of aghast. It's a surprise for Albert to want to take any kind of lead on a diplomatic matter, and also kind of... insulting, to him? But Albert pushes on anyway. "Only one reason you focus on humanity first. You know humanity is the greatest species in the galaxy." His voice marches from the deeper recesses of his throat in a militaristic cadence. "Know that aliens, chaos, whatever else, deserve being on the bottom. Cheat their way to the top. They have plans. Want to get things out of being on top. Greatness is different." He shuts his eyes and exhales a heavy breath through his nose. It has the mood of a train engine ejecting a rush of steam.

    "...Ah, yes." Moonfin nods sagely. "I see and understand. Yes, it would seem, I believe, that the Imperium seeks a rather specific goal, and one hardly made worse by our presence. It seeks greatness. The goal is not the feeding, the clothing, and the safety of every man, and woman, and child. Nor, I assume, is it the death of all other species." He closes his eyes and strokes his chin wisely. "It is simply greatness. I have studied only a meager amount of the history of this galaxy, but have determined quite certainly that the Emperor became a leader not out of convenience, ambition, or scheming, but because greatness is something that spreads to every corner and every person it can reach, and it is, in itself, the goal of the great."

    "The Concord is much the same. It cannot abide an absence of drive towards greatness, it abhors settling for less, and we spread and respect only Greatness itself, in its most capitalized form. That, you see, is the true nature of the Concord's intentions, in philosophy. Should our efforts not be in vain, the sector shall become a jewel of human greatness that can -- that /must/ -- be appreciated by all who see it, regardless of whose hands pull the levers of the bureaucracy and governance that ensures such a state."

    Moonfin slips a sly grin across his cheeks and says in a confident way, "Though idealism breeds greatness in its own ways; I imagine that many of our companions have more tangible motive, but let this give you insight into what to expect from the outcome overall."

A little muttering from the peanut gallery, over subvocalized radio.
"Leave it to fuzzy to know exactly the right way to appeal to fascist-brain."
"Uneasy. Well, I hope it works, at least this would be peaceful."
"Floran can underssstand compulsssion, Floran thinksss sssoldier can too."
"Hah. Well, it's not a proper cult, but there's a good angle there."
Captain Flint      Flint nods, just so, at Castor. His stony exterior crumbles, just slightly. "On the contrary, Lord General," rumbles Flint. "It is precisely my patriotism for humanity which led me to take up this endeavor." He's still sitting back, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap, as if in casual conversation rather than conducting statecraft.

     "I come from a place with an Empire very much like yours. An Empire which, like yours," notes Flint with an equally casual gesture of his hand towards Castor, "...has a tendency to throw away the lives of its subjects. That you yourself do not treat your men in this fashion merely makes you an exception proving the existence of that rule."

     "Through my model for Yayor, I intend to create tangible proof that the state, as we know it, is unnecessary to a man's survival." He states it plainly, conversationally, aboard several kilometers of state sanctioned excess, before the very commander of those several kilometers. "That men need not be expendable currency to be paid in wars which do not involve them. That their well-being should be a promise, and not a threat to be held over them as a bludgeon to coerce labor."

     "Yayor will produce enough to feed its own, and to make tithes. It will be defended by the very people who till its soil and partake of its bounty. These things its people will do gladly, and, in time, without need of a governor to manage and coerce every aspect of their lives."
Haguro To be fair, he does have that moustache thing going for him. Haguro nods every now and then as she listens closely to the General, not quite getting what those looks he's giving the Guardsman -Merrick, was it?- are supposed to indicate. She does wrinkle her nose a bit at being compared to pirates and Davy Jones, but he's not /wrong/. She's just not fond of the comparison.

After sitting through the elaborate nothing for a while, she manages a brief nod towards Merrick when he hurries Castor up, then rests one hand atop the other when he finally asks their motives. Answering that's hard for her, notwithstanding the fact that she hasn't quite done much of note/at all in this sector as of yet. Still, she's here as a representative of the Concord, and making sure they give off the right impression is of the highest priority!

"As you can see, Lord General, our motivations vary greatly. I can't speak for my allies here, but it's both for me." Haguro smiles softly while straightening up in her seat. "I've heard of the problems plaguing this region, and it was clear that the current... Erm. Previous governors were just spinning their wheels instead of doing anything productive. There's plenty of untapped potential with so many raw m-mm. People around, and..." She nods towards Moonfin and Albert. "Humanity's made great strides to get to where they are now, but these regions have stalled instead of making even greater strides. Someone needs to whip them back into shape."

A beat. "Being able to do that and become a hero on the way is just a bonus."

Good thing there's others around that have actually done things in their given regions. Otherwise, she'd just be talking out of her ass right now.
Staren     The man doesn't even bat an eye at xenos and spirits being present, let alone claiming to be planetary governors. Staren considers, but only for a moment. He's not sure how to act like a leader -- but he will always value the truth.

    He stands to speak. "I am an honest man, Lord General. In return for showing us the respect of meeting us like this, I will respect you enough to tell you the truth; hopefully you deserve it."

    Staren takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes for a second. Opens them. "We want great things." He gestures at the assembled group. "Some of us see ourselves as heroes who want to help people -- others are mercenaries who've recognized that the best way to ensure a long-term return on investment is to build successful societies. We've turned the tide of countless conflicts across many worlds. Whether to save their people or for profit."

    "We've been aware of the Imperium and its struggles for years. At times I've played a part, helping the Space Wolf Karian and his men. And although I am a half-human, and have seen my own world threatened by advocates of human supremacy, my heart goes out to your people." He holds a hand to his breast, and then stares into space. "They just want to survive and to thrive. To dream and reach for their dreams..." Staren shakes his head. "...but your galaxy, frankly, is so full of problems that countless multitudes don't have a chance."

    "Despite your military's hatred, we've been moved. A dear friend of mine would gladly lay down his life for your cause, to the eternal frustration of most who know him, because he's not a human but he's become the Imperium's most fervent supporter in the larger Multiverse and taken to heart all of your doctrines except the hatred of all xenos."

    Staren begins to pace. "By and large, though, while heroes from across the Multiverse have come together to save one world after another, when it comes to the Imperium of Man... your troubles are brought up every now and then, but when heroes' hearts are moved, they are told no; that you will fight anyone who tries to help you, no matter how much you need it, if we are xeno, or if we try to deliver foreign aid with technology not approved by the... Adeptus Mechanicus is the word, right? It will be seen as heresy, and anyone who accepts our help will only be exterminated by the Inquisition or the Adeptus Astartes."

    Staren takes a deep breath and sighs, briefly pausing in his pacing before continuing: "And so, there's much grumbling, and noone tries to do anything, and then a few years later the Imperium's brought up again and the same argument happens, with the same conclusion."

    Staren stops, and then turns to face the Lord General. "But not this time. We want to help the people; not their xenophobic government that resists progress. And so the First of the Concord, Priscilla, has taken posession of these worlds that we may begin doing so directly. And lest the Imperium simply glass all these worlds, I am given to understand that they are important for supplying the fight on Cadia against the Eye of Terror from which the Warp's monsters and demons spew forth."
Staren     Staren takes a deep breath, and then holds his hands in front of him, belly level, palm-up. "So there you have it. We hope to help the billions and billions of souls upon these worlds, and eventually all of the prople of the Imperium. We're done with being told no, with being told it's impossible because of the Imperium. We have the power to help, and will do so regardless of what the Imperium decides to do. Frankly..." Staren tilts his head, "We haven't been too hopeful that there'd be anyone willing to listen to reason in charge," He stands straight again and smiles, "but you seem like a more reasonable man than we ever could have hoped for. Can the Imperium work together with us to end the true threats that face it, both the violent dangers of the warp and the /hostile/ aliens of this galaxy, and difficulty advancing and innovating technology that have resulted in widespread poverty and low quality of life for so many?" Staren extends a hand and a hopeful smile.
Big Boss As Castor talks, the two OH representatives listen. Sanson has sleepy eyes, but is probably paying attention. Roth is paying attention /ruthlessly/. He's recording every word on a small device, hand-held like a Walkman. The two do not actually respond to Castor, as they were not addressed. Sanson actually doesn't respond at all - which might bring Roth into suspicion.

Because Roth immediately jumps into this. He starts with the Flotilla captains. "Greatness, you say. That's an interesting angle to want greatness here, of all places. That's very interesting." The device is activated. It opens up a holographic display protruding from the technology, which immediately turns into pictures of the known Concord Governors. This includes the members of the Concord currently present, who are flicked into being on prominent display.

"Greatness could be needed in any sector of the Multiverse. There are multiple worlds not ruled by the Imperium. They also need assistance. Why did you choose this one?" Roth taps the display, and it changes into a map of the sector.

It zooms into the planet that serves Cadia. "This planet is, as far as intel has got us, a major support for Cadia.  I therefore hypothesise that this sector was chosen to put a thorn in the Imperium's side. If that's not the case, any argument would be appreciated."

With another click, another picture is brought up. Public photos of Priscilla, First of the Concord. "Now, I wonder. What is /her/ agenda? That's the most important one, but she's not in the room to give it. But certainly, you'd know it, as three of you are high-ranking officers of the Concord. Which brings me to my next thought." Roth slides the display back to the pictures of the governors.

"If your goals are to bring greatness, to bring perfect societies, to bring I assume utopia, why are /all/ of you, skilled, powerful Elites, with their own forces and duties, in this sector? That speaks to me as needing those who could certainly fight back if they were opposed. As if there was an expectation of something to come."

Staren's reply 'answers' most of this, but Roth seems unamused. "So all of you were sent merely to help billions of souls. You were all sent merely to do good. Is that what you're saying? Good is the ends, not the means?"
Staren     Staren replies to Roth with a 'so-so' hand gesture. "Whether greatness or helping motivates us more varies between members of the Concord. But all of us, and First Priscilla, cannot stand to see humanity -- cannot stand to see anyone -- in the state it's been reduced to."
Starbound Flotilla     "Why here?" Albert regards the question from Outer Heaven's reps coldly, the way he might regard a knife slammed blade-down into the table. "Soldiers march when ordered." As if it were obvious. "Everywhere says 'somewhere else'. Greatness doesn't stop for 'why not somewhere else'. Why not here? Could turn a thousand barren worlds somewhere else into megastructures. Useless. Greatness exists with life and difficulty. Plenty here." He makes that apelike noise again. "Hmh."

    As for Priscilla's goal? "Greatness spreads." He says, simply. "And a message shows nothing stops it." Albert is tense, concise, perhaps too few words to get across what he intends. It feels like his wording should be shouted in a trench, not used in a negotiation conversation.
Priscilla     "Well I'd hope to hear that alright!" Castor says to Albert, in that perfect mix of British exasperation and sarcastic vehemence. "What all else is there here? The bloodthirsty green menace? The abominable tomb-things that are so dead set on exterminating all life? The *Eldar*, who lit the biggest of all the fires burning the galaxy and are happy to sit back and watch? The *Tyranids*? *Chaos?* I'd most certainly expect anyone with half a lick of sense to agree that the Imperium of Man is about the only worthwhile thing that exists in this whole galaxy!"

    Even Merrick, dourly standing around, examining a trophy head, makes an appreciative, humourous grunt. "Quite right lord general. Only exceptions maybe are scattered across a handful of worlds; doesn't rightly make a difference." "Too right good man!" Castor bellows, thumping his hand onto the arm of his exquisitely carved chair.

    He then sits back and resumes drumming his fingers. "'Greatness'. Well that's all well and good for a man to strive for. I appreciate more than the next man the unquenchable drive to do bigger and better." he says, surrounded by the progressively larger and nastier heads of what were probably once monsters he fought in a warzone, rather than on safari. "But that's perfectly abstract now isn't it? Heroes don't become governors. Politicians become governors. Governors *stay* governors by not being heroes." he adds, sardonically. Merrick grunts again. "Most don't get a private army to do their bidding and all. They're too busy fretting about if the next Adeptus Administratum visit is going to result in blowing their brains out and handing their badge of office to the next guy for a sub-par tithe."

    "Quite right!" Castor continues. "That's what you've gotten yourselves into! The best possible conclusion here is that we accept assassinating the old means The King is Dead, Long Live the King! That means the minute the news spreads, plenty of ambitious types will have the same idea about you. Even now, you've gotten a little taste for the discontent and trouble that plagues these worlds, haven't you? Terrorism, cults, strange disasters --and you haven't even faced your first invasion yet. Far from it. These are grueling, thankless, unrewarding tasks you've picked to play heroes with --unless you'd like to divert funds to your personal pursuits of course, but I presume you're already more than adequately compensated in your . . ." he spins his hand around a few times, words not forthcoming. "Concord thing." He then snaps his fingers and points in the direction of Ezra.

    "My good man here has the right of it. You aren't independent do-gooders unable to see men suffer. You're organized. Armed. Incorporated. A guild at the minimum, and a guild's coffers don't pay for charity. Surely you don't expect me to write back 'All's well, concerned immigrants, relief and charity' do you?"

    Merrick grumbles at the mention of the Space Wolves. "That's what they're calling themselves now is it? Or is that a pet name. Can't say I care for them much more than the Insquisition does." Castor's mustache twitches though, his eyes narrowing, brow creasing, his crows feet deepening, at the whole extra part Staren gets into. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this sounds awfully contrarian. If I were an optimistic man, I'd go as far as to say you've all been bally well rused into putting in the elbow grease to prove a very clever disinformant wrong. Since I'm a realist though, I'd have to conclude that you've been motivated by more than a little frustration. An 'even I could do better than that' mentality, young and hot-headed."
Priscilla     He squints at Flint and Moonfin, wiggling his nose slightly. "Though I can smell a couple of canny opportunists between you. Merrick, write that down." He adds the order in response to Flint saying he's just . . . going to pay the tithe. "I can't tell you how the magic bean counters will dilly dally tally up their data beads, but even taxed Aptus Extremis, that's a planet's worth of product where there wasn't any before to do with what you like, isn't it? I imagine --that one, the most visually striking witch-- has much the same idea. No matter how much is given away, it's three score worlds of 'do as thou shalt'. The tithe ships can't haul it all away you know. That's the most attractive bit of governing."

    "Still though, do you have any idea what you've taken on? Even assuming you pledge your unconditional cooperation, the enemies you'll attract with this operation are far more numerous and inscrutable than you can imagine. The Imperium isn't *mad*, so long as you don't talk to anyone with more than eight skulls on their person at any given time. There are purists, zealots, inquisitors, and good old bloody patriots who will be more than happy to watch hawklike for the slightest sign of the forces of chaos or insurrection bubbling up in your back yards, but more than anything else --the reality with which I am starkly familiar, and quite probably the reason I'm here rather than a Master Inquisitor-- is that we are *at war*, and by jove we need every fighting man and working rifle we can get."

    He leans back further. The fine cushions in his seat creak heavily under the uneven weight of his bilateral halves. "So, I'll ask you again. Not what you *think* you're doing, but what you *are* doing. If all I hear a second time is the same, I'll admit very little faith in this venture going anywhere" he says. Merrick actually picks that up. "I trust them one hundred percent to get bored and sloppy once they've made their point, if not the minute someone stops yelling at them they can't do it."
Captain Flint      Flint regards Staren's response to Roth neutrally. When his attention turns to Roth, however, his eyes seem like the icy depths of the arctic. He straightens in his seat. "I was not 'sent.' I was /asked/ to come, Mr. Roth, because of my leadership experience, and my experience in bringing a sense of purpose to places determined to piss away their last shred thereof."

     Of course, there is an ulterior motive. It is, however, far removed from this place, from the world of Yayor. Flint nevertheless continues to obfuscate. "It is true that all of us are not without our means of defending ourselves. True, as well, that this sector was chosen for good reason."

     "That reason lies bare before us," says Flint, with a nod towards the Lord General. "Reaching the ear of the Imperium. The Concord is /not/ an altruistic organization. It believes plainly that the ends justify the means where the pursuit of greatness is concerned."

     He pauses, allows Albert a chance to speak. Flint nods solemnly. "As is, the Imperium is great only in its bloated excess." He makes a list with the fingers of his bejeweled hand. One: "Its people are poor, uneducated." Two: "Forbidden from inventing under pain of death." Three: "Education is idle talk, given the opportunities for most children." He lowers his hand and shrugs his shoulders. "A life of hard labor, of crime, or military service--which, by and large, seems to entail dying on a foreign world to buy time for sorely sought-after Marines. But if Mr. Roth and the Lord General are not satisfied with that explanation..."

     He leans back in his chair. "If my own personal motivation will not dispel your concerns... know this. We have taken these planets as a strategic show of force, not to instigate another long and wasteful war, but to show the Empire that there /is/ a way out, /if/ they are prepared to pay for it. Observe the means by which we govern your worlds. Report back to your superiors our inevitable success. When you are ready to pay us, you will have at your disposal the means to extinguish every fire ever started in your galaxy, abroad or at home."
Staren     Staren nods at 'even I could do better than that', and fails to completely stifle a short laugh at the eight skulls comment, turning it into a sort of reverse snort through his nose. He nods at what Flint says, too.

    "What we /are/ doing? Hmm. Restoring order on a slice of Narsine and putting someone actually competent in charge of one of its manufactories. Preventing Lezard's world from shaking itself apart with earthquakes. Investigating how to clean up the Plague ships all over Amistel Majoris. I'm also working on a plan to modernize its infrastructure and the armament of its Guardsmen. The Tithe goes to Priscilla, not to you, but if the Imperium bargains for guardsmen from Amistel Majoris, they will fight the horrors of the Warp with superior technology!"

    Staren delivers this speech with the eagerness of someone who's spent hours and hours designing and testing new equipment and making plans that seem likely to work, at least.
Big Boss Sanson nods as he's pointed towards, but continues to let Roth to do the actual talking for him. Those savvy might have realized that he's less of a secretary than he might have seemed to be. Flint and Staren both get a small smile from Sanson. Good. This might be what he needs, as he glances to Roth, who nods.

Roth speaks up again. "So you're saying that you can solve every problem in the Imperium. When you haven't solved every problem that's you're already active against in the Multiverse. Is that so?" It's questioning, but is clearly meant to instill doubt in them. He then speaks towards Staren. "And you want the Imperium to pay for forces who were already theirs, to get a tithe that already belonged to them? I see."

The savvy are also probably starting to figure out Roth and Sanson's game, here. Roth just takes his device and changes the holographic display back to Priscilla. "I don't believe Staren Wiremu's motive for her, but I believe Albert of the Flotilla's. This is to send a message. It's spite. Am I correct? Is that the true motivation behind this entire crusade, according to you?"

Despite his motivations, Roth is being as polite as possible. His tones are that of a diplomat.
Staren     Already theirs? "One of the reasons we took them is because they were going to waste under Imperial mismanagement." Staren explains. "If the Imperium wishes to benefit from our improvements, they'll need to work that out with the First. The Concord helps people, but we're not a charity organization. Even those of us interested in giving charity recognize that continued operation as an organization requires resources. We wouldn't last if we never recieved anything in return. So rather than straight-out charity, most of our help is investment. By creating greatness, we help people and also profit by them, giving us the resources to help more people, and so on."

    Staren scratches his chin. "Of course, you could also take back the planets by force, but is that really the best outcome for the Imperium? The planets will lose value due to battle damage, and if the Imperium couldn't manage them properly then, why would they expect to now?"
Haguro When the representatives from Outer Heaven arrive, Haguro takes notice between their tech looks closer to her own time's and simply not recognizing them. There's also a certain adversarial nature she's picking up from them, but she can't very well just say that in front of everyone. This is politics! It's time for thoughtful words and careful maneuvering!

No wonder she never got into any of this. She leaves most of the talking to the others, nodding along a few times as though she understood most of it. She clearly doesn't, of course, and the gut-tail is even starting to drool on her back a little, but she hasn't noticed it yet.

If nothing else, at least her expression doesn't falter when Castor seems unimpressed by the morality angle. Roth's continued needling of their motives here does get the Abyssal looking his way again, and... Yep.

She's way out of her element. Best to try focusing on what she knows: Honesty, and shooting things. "I've done no governance at all, Lord General. I'm a weapon, not a governor or any sort of politician. My bosses-" She gestures at Albert, at Flint, Moonfin, at Staren, and at the image of Priscilla. "-choose the path, and I ensure that the path is cleared for more righteous and intelligent minds to handle the more... Um. Governing aspects of it all."

A minor hiccup at the end there, but she's starting to sound more confident. "There's a rather cliched saying... 'Might makes right'? If imitators want to come for our heads, let them." She turns to Roth next. "Besides. A stock broker doesn't stop with one investment. They diversify, they spread out their investments, and they improve their standing over time. The Concord doesn't limit itself to one..."

She's freezing up. What's the word? "... Directive to follow. Otherwise, we'd never get anything done."
Staren     "Might does not make right." Staren replies after Haguro says it. "However, it does decide what... happens."

    Alas, noone likes his catchy saying about might deciding not who is right, but who is left.
Starbound Flotilla     Biteblade perks up at "bloodthirsty green menace" but then makes a quiet "awww" when it turns out to have nothing to do with her.

    Albert speaks with a voice like a gun's chamber being loaded. "Find missed opportunity. Cultivate greatness. Learn. Understand. Experiment. See how to upend systems of mediocrity. Persist the changes. Apply it elsewhere."

    Albert swivels his head towards the Outer Heaven reps like a big turret, and his scowl is far more concentrated and purposeful. "Spite is useless. Messages are useful. Prevent people from putting words in your mouth. Not correct."

    "Stay tuned, kids! More to come!" George pipes up a little, smiling broadly. "Remember, the ratings for the early programming decides what's coming up next season. What's a good winning strategy? You refine by learning, and you learn by doing. Don'tcha wanna swap some of the answers to your homework, maybe?"

    Some kind of insight sought? George seems to imply he's tuned into it, but Albert has a more general read on things. Something about upending systems of mediocrity?
Priscilla     Merrick laughs a short, bitter bark at the mention of marines. "Please sir. The Marines buy time for the Imperial Guard, or failing that, a Cyclone Torpedo." Castor responds to Merrick with a dark, sardonic chuckle of his own, muttering 'quite right' under his breath, then returning to stroking his magnificent mustache with delicate care.

    "Bumping off three score governors in a night, while fairly impressive, is not itself an act of war." he harumms. "The disappearance of several Imperium ships in this space is suspicious, but in lieu of any ability to prove anything, even the warhawks won't solely move on that pretense. My point is, planets out in the less reliable, less faithful sectors change hands quite quickly; only the Forge World here is an exception. That is to say, at this moment, you arne't *necessarily* an invading hostile force. The Imperium encounters small societies, frontier factions, uncontacted races, and has miniature empires wash up on its shores all the time."

    "That said, the man touches on a very important point: that the Agripinaa Sector belongs quite firmly to the Imperium, and by your description, you intend to ransom it back. A show of strength to be taken seriously is all well and good. It brings a strong arm to the negotiating table when the Administratum shows up out of the black and starts sniffing about to decide how much you owe them and how much you're owed for your service. There's a very fine distinction, though, between a show of strength and a hostile takeover, and it all comes down to whether you intend to serve the Imperium's interests and its people, or sell condescending advice and dole out handfuls of arms from on high."

    "What you're failing to comprehend . . ." Castor says, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "Is that the worlds in this sector are worth less than the sector itself is. No doubt your own general chose it for the location rather than the riches, or lack thereof. Its proximity to the only stable Warp corridor in the galaxy, critical for transporting arms and troops to the fortress sector of Cadia --my home regiment, might I add-- in a timely and reliable manner, as a crucial bulwark against the very Eye of Terror. The slightest disruption --the slightest threat to Cadia-- will rightly terrify the men in the tall brass chairs, of presenting an opening to the ruinous powers and provoking the hordes from the Eye, and they won't put a monetary value on taking it right back to keep blood and iron flowing on schedule."

    "So which is it? You didn't come here for money, or else you'd have shown yourselves somewhere lucrative and soft. You didn't come for territory since you don't have an army to annex the Imperium's presence. You didn't come here to tip the scales of war, because you intend to keep the spoils for yourself and profit rather than pledge service, and that brings us right back around to the start doesn't it? You're not telling me that someone had an entire sector of the Segmentum Obscurus taken over solely to spite some xenos creature are you? Surely you've got better than that for me."

    He snorts. "Or if you *are* here trying your very best to impress the big hats off the High Lords of Terra and swing a much-deserved hammerblow on the beasties crawling everywhere you can point a lasgun, a power play like forcing the High Lords to step off their thrones and do business as if you were their peers is about the worst way I could imagine it going. You haven't sought a Warrant of Trade have you? That old license to kill."
Staren     Staren shakes his head. "Ransom it back? That would require the Imperium improving enough that we believed we were putting the planets in good hands. At the very least!"

    Staren paces again. "I don't know what more there is to tell you. The reasons are to foster greatness, to help at least SOME of the people of the Imperium, and quite possibly at least a little out of spite to disprove those who said it couldn't be done. However, we also need to make a profit so that the Concord can continue to operate, as I described."

    Staren sighs. "The High Lords of Terra taking notice in a positive fashion would be nice -- but the worst way WE can imagine it going is that you war against us too, and while that would be a senseless waste of human life, on both sides," he shakes his head, "we WILL win and rebuild the galaxy from the ground up if we have to."

    Staren turns to face Castor again. "We will create a better future for the galaxy. The only question is just what path it takes to get there."

    "I've been honest and forthright with you. Why the repeated doubt, the scoffing?"
Captain Flint      "Let's discuss for a moment the motivations of your own outfit, Mr. Roth. You've plainly described yourself as a mercenary. If you wanted money from the Empire, your interests would be well-served indeed by devaluing the Concord's ability. Instill enough doubt, and you can walk away with a princely sum of money while eliminating a more experienced, better-equipped rival."

     His tone is dismissive, but his eyes are like a shark. "You have relatively little leverage, in this moment, but I'll not deny you've used it wisely. I've no doubt my voice, as well, will appear on your record for use in attempted contextomy. You're nothing, if not a product of your time."

     Flint rises from his seat. His hands are both laid upon the table. "I am, however, a product of my own. You claim to be a mercenary." He makes a businesslike frown, and slowly straightens his posture. "Surely, then, your interests here are mercenary in nature. Name your price." He points a finger down at the table. "Name a price for your outfit's assistance on Yayor, and for your guarantee of non-interference with Concord affairs in this endeavor."

     He takes a moment to look across the room, like an actor gauging his audience. "A reasonable request, I'm sure everyone would agree--that is, if you truly are here as a mercenary and not merely an instigator."

     His attention drifts back to Castor. There is a fiery glint in his eye as he does. "'As if' I were their peer?" His tone is low--the growl of a predator. But it's gone shortly after. He paces, taking in the Lord General's various hunting conquests. "That notion notwithstanding... at /present/ only Cadia is of worth, and the sector itself of note only for the Eye of Terror. Our motive here is to increase a hundredfold the productivity of each respective world within this sector--to make it of economic as well as strategic importance. We will make it more than the Empire was ever able or willing to manage, and we will sell the proceeds back to you at a fair market price, while granting the Empire usage of the sector to stage offensives against any enemy it so pleases."

     "Accept this, and for a small injury to Imperial pride, you earn a massive boon. Peace of mind--something which it seems to me the Empire is severely lacking. Force us out of the sector, and you have, in your own words, lawless warrens, a waste of time... and a small measure of pride over having taken back a system which has thus far resisted your every effort at increasing productivity. You may then return it to your stifling, inefficient, and frankly, theocratic means of rule." He shrugs, returning to his seat and sitting with a small sigh.

     "That is our motive, and there you have your choice."
Big Boss Flint tells them to name their price. Calls their bluff. Roth turns towards Ezra Sanson, who nods. "One moment." He talks into his earpiece for several moments, and then once he's done, grabs the iDroid off the table.

A screen is typed into. It lists a price for all to see. The price is unfair, but not outrageously - enough to cause one to consider not taking it, but just not enough to give them evidence they're purposely trying to make it too unfair.

"Assuming that Yayor's issues are similar to the ones that our host here mentioned, this is our price."
Priscilla     "Yes. As if." Castor emphasizes at Flint, knowingly. "Frankly, it doesn't matter whether you are; not to me and most certainly not to them. The mere impression that you think so will be more than enough to send them into a tizzy. That's who you're dealing with here.

    "My doubt . . ." he begins with Staren, clapping his hands back down on his knees, but it's Merrick who turns around and answers faster. "Probably comes from wondering who in the world you expect to accept walking in and taking something that belongs to someone else, because you said you could use it better. Even if that's true --and it may well be for all I know-- how do you expect the Imperium --any empire-- to keep on living if it'll just give away its own land to anyone who takes it? That's not how it works. There'd be no Imperium left, and whether or not the High Lords have it up their arses, we've still got an obligation to guarantee Imperium worlds the protection and benefits *of* the Imperium, like it or not."

    "Couldn't have said it better myself!" bellows Castor. "No country will *give up* its own lands because 'it'd be better off in someone else's hands'! Ridiculous! And the more you go with 'well the Imperium doesn't deserve it anyways', the more you situate yourself as an enemy! Little better than an Eldar!"

    "At any rate, I'd like you to give some very long, very *serious* thought to what you're doing. Emperor knows everyone would like to see a return to form in the Segmentum Obscurus, but no one will buy this we're not invading pinky swear pretty please hogwash! I will, of course, be touring around the sector for the next few weeks, to give back a thoroughly detailed report. By the end of that time, I expect you'll have an answer that should . . ." Castor is already pacing around his collection of trophies, stopping in front of the head of a mounted carnifex, stroking his chin. ". . . placate the men whose job it is to have nightmares about the Eye of Terror. I hope for your sake, the sake of the people of Agripinaa, and the sake of the men who might be sent to die here, that you come up with something better than morally disguised spite."
Staren     Staren looks more and more confused as they go on. How can they expect the Imperium to /accept/ what happened? It happened; to ignore it is delusional. And who said anything about pinky swearing it's not an invasion? Staren is all ready to just tell the truth and correct misconceptions, but... he hesitates. There's a tiny possibility that he misunderstood something. That those better-versed in politics than he knew the Imperium would react this way, and so informing the Imperium that Agripinaa is in no uncertain terms sovereign Concord territory might throw a wrench into Priscilla's and the other governors' plans.

    "I see..." He says, sort of vaguely. "Well. It was good meeting with you." His uncertainty briefly fades. "Really. It's reassuring to see that not everyone in the Imperium is so closed-minded about nonhumans." He smiles earnestly, then it fades back to that sort of... he's not sure what to do now. He bows, and turns to leave.
Captain Flint      "I'm well aware, Lord General. The vanity of men like your High Lords has made me what I am." With the matter of Outer Heaven settled, there's nothing left but the final pitch to Castor. This is where Flint thrives. Last ditch sales pitches for outrageous ideas.

     He rises from his seat. Staren's altruism sees his eyes narrow, his mouth tugging down at the corners. "Be that as it may, I didn't accept the First's request so that I could spite you." Flint pushes his chair in.

     "Though I make no secret of my thoughts on your Imperium, my motive was plainly stated. I wish to make a model of a working, self-sufficient society. Allow me this, and the Imperium will have its tithe from Yayor. The first, you'll note, in recent history."

     "As for my fellows, and the Concord's motive as a whole..." Flint shrugs. "I will repeat again that whatever the Imperium spends, it will earn back a hundredfold. The truth of the matter is that we have taken your holdings and intend to charge for them."

     "As an officer," Flint says in a tone that suggests he was once one himself, "You know that the truth must sometimes be delivered a certain way for it to be... properly understood. Not a lie, not at all... but a means of presenting the facts in a more palatable fashion. I see in you a pragmatic man, Lord General." He utters the title as if he's used to it.

     "I know that you see the value the Concord could bring to this sector. When the time comes to make your reports, I know that you'll ensure the facts are presented rightly."