"Is something wrong, Dragan?" Captain Pierrot asked, looking down the dinner table. "You've barely touched your food."

Indeed, Dragan had simply been staring down at the roast strand on the plate in front of him, deep in thought. He didn't see how anyone could blame him for it -- this was an incredibly serious situation. Even if Ruth was shoveling chunks of meat into her mouth with her hands, and Serena was nibbling away like a rabbit at a leaf of lettuce, and that idiot Skipper was cutting away at his steak like this was a fancy restaurant, Dragan at least wouldn't let himself be taken in.

"No offense," Dragan said, unsuccessfully trying to conceal his hostility. "But I don't think we're on a first name basis, Mr. Pierrot. And I'm not hungry."

As the others continued eating, either ignoring or not noticing the obvious hostility, Pierrot simply smiled warmly. "Of course -- forgive me. I understand this must be a confusing situation for you, being from the Supremacy and all. It's Captain Pierrot, by the way."

Dragan didn't blink. "I'm sure it is. And I'm not worried because I'm from the Supremacy, since you were implying that. I was in the AdminCorps -- that's hardly part of the military structure."

"Hm," chuckled Pierrot. "I'm not sure the Supremacy's military structure would agree with you there. AdminCorps is officially part of the military, after all."

Dragan narrowed his eyes. "AdminCorps operates on a slot-in basis, like the Special Officer's Commission. It can be part of the civilian or military complex as required. When I left, it was part of the civilian sector."

"And yet you were dispatched to assist a Special Officer -- who, at the time, was working under the military."

"Working with the military -- like I said, they're slot-in, and Muzazi was working under the orders of a Minister, and they're classed as civilian."

"With the authority to command military assets if it advances the will of the Supreme."

"So?"

Skipper suddenly cut in, laughing as he put his knife and fork back down on his plate. "Ah, what a feast! I really appreciate it, pal. You're gonna have to forgive Dragan here, he's going through a moody phase. You know how kids are."

"I'm nineteen," snarked Dragan, unimpressed. "I don't have moody phases anymore."

"Your whole life is one moody phase," came Ruth's muffled voice as she spoke through a chunk of meat.

"Haha. You're so funny."

Still, Dragan had to admit he was being uncharacteristically talkative -- and his hostility was being uncharacteristically open. Normally, if someone pissed him off, he'd let it simmer below the surface until he could take some kind of subtle petty vengeance, but that wasn't the case here. He felt the urge to refute every single thing this Captain Pierrot was saying.

He couldn't help it. The man just rubbed him the wrong way. It was as if every one of Dragan's Cogitant senses was screaming threat, threat in response to even the most innocuous statement or gesture from the old man. Not a physical threat, but someone who could not be trusted under any circumstances.

It wasn't hard to figure out why, given the way the conversation seemed to be orbiting Dragan's history with the Supremacy military: Captain Pierrot wanted to get intel out of him. Dragan figured that could happen one of two ways -- either peacefully, through a conversation like this, or… less so. If that was the case, it was in his best interest just to tell the Captain what he knew, even if it was so very little.

But the guy just pissed him off.

"There's no need to apologize," Pierrot chuckled infuriatingly, taking a sip of water. "I've raised children myself -- I'm quite familiar with the occupational hazards. At any rate, the Supremacy isn't what I'd like to talk about today."

Liar. Full of shit. Fuck you.

"Oh?" Skipper leaned back in his chair. "And what is it you wanna talk about, then?"

Pierrot smiled thinly. "Before we ran across your ship --" Before you captured us, you mean. "-- we actually made a brief stop at the planet Taldan, for refueling purposes." No -- if you were refueling, you'd have done so at the Taldan lightpoint, not the planet. "I understand a potentially cataclysmic situation occurred there -- and that you were instrumental in stopping it." Who would have told you that? There wasn't exactly an audience there. "I brought you here so I could thank you." Yeah, right. "You saved so many lives."

"Eh," Skipper waved a hand. "Don't worry about it, buddy. It's kinda what I do, but I appreciate the appreciation, yeah?"

Suddenly, Bruno cut in, swapping places with Serena mid-chew. "Is there a reward?" he said seriously, lettuce still sticking out of his mouth.

Dragan shot the other boy a glare: Don't engage with this!

"I'm sure something of that nature can be discussed," Pierrot said calmly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "But all things in good time, my friend. Your ship is in dire need of refueling itself -- I understand you left Taldan in a hurry. We'd be happy to provide that service while you enjoy the facilities here on the Regent."

It was almost insulting how little Pierrot was bothering to conceal his deceit. The excuse didn't even really make sense -- the only flying the ship had done since leaving Taldan had been the relatively short trip to the Reverie. At what point would they have apparently used up all this fuel?

Still, Dragan didn't say anything. He just sat there, glaring. He was almost surprised himself, with just how irritated this man was making him.

"I'll have my aide show you around the ship shortly," Pierrot said, standing up from his seat. "I'm sorry we couldn't talk for longer, but this is a busy vessel. I'll do my best to meet with you again before you leave."

And with that, he began walking for the door -- and Dragan couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Pierrot!" he called out harshly just as the Captain was about to leave the room. The old man turned to look at him.

"Yes, Dragan?"

Skipper was giving Dragan a disapproving glare -- telling him to chill out, probably, or something just as unhelpful -- but the Cogitant didn't care. He wanted a little honesty here. "What do you want?" Dragan glared.

Captain Pierrot seemed to consider the question for a moment, putting a hand to his chin and closing his eyes, before answering:

"Peace and joy for all mankind," he said truthfully, before striding out of the room.

Jaime Pierrot hurriedly adjusted his coat as he walked down the hallway, a pair of Undermen saluting him as he passed.

That had been more taxing than he'd expected. The Cogitant issue was something he was used to at this point -- he'd certainly gotten enough of it over the years -- but it'd never been to that degree before. Hadrien had clearly been dissecting every word that came out of his mouth.

He went to brush his hair back with a hand, only to stop when he remembered it was no longer there.

No matter how suspicious Hadrien might have been, there was no way he could have actually deduced the cause -- but Pierrot's speech and body language set him on edge, like it did with all Cogitants. It was an irritating counterweight to The Prince's usefulness, but not enough to impact what he needed to do.

He put a subtle finger to his temple, reached out once again, for guidance, and then lowered the digit. His best course of action was to continue the ship's present course towards the UAP-Supremacy border. It would also be best to hold Skipper's crew until he'd had a chance to speak with Ambassador Dalcina.

In other words, stay the present course. That was the best path forward for all involved.

His hands clasped behind his back as he walked, Pierrot reminded himself of the reason he did all this.

Peace and joy for all mankind. At whatever cost was due.

"He's so full of shit," muttered Dragan, arms crossed. His foot tapped angrily against the floor.

Skipper raised an eyebrow. He was well aware that Dragan Hadrien was an untrusting guy, but this seemed a little overboard -- he hadn't even bothered to hide his obvious aggravation as the dinner went on.

"Well, of course he's full of shit," Skipper grinned. "Most people are, when ya get down to it. Still, he gives good grub, so maybe he's not so bad, yeah?"

Dragan vigorously shook his head. "No," he growled. "No. Fuck that."

Ruth leaned forward across the table, obviously concerned. "Are you okay?" she said, reaching a hand forward to take Dragan's temperature -- a hand that was expertly dodged. "You're acting kinda weird."

"I think he's acting normal," offered Serena, patting her belly as she finally finished her food.

"I'm fine!" snapped Dragan, moving away from the table and out of Ruth's reach. "It's just… ugh. I dunno. That guy just pisses me off, I guess. Something about him."

"You don't like bald people, do you, Mr. Dragan?" Serena proposed, smiling sweetly.

Ruth put a hand to her mouth and 'coughed' into it, obviously suppressing a laugh. "I don't think that's it, Serena," she smirked. "I don't think Dragan likes anyone."

Serena's lip wobbled. "Even us?" she turned to look at Dragan, face stricken with grief. "You don't like me either, Mr. Dragan?"

Dragan glared at Ruth. "Can you not?"

Skipper clapped his hands together, using the tiniest bit of Aether to boost the sound of it -- creating a noise that easily cut through the burgeoning argument. All three of their heads snapped to look at him.

"Kids, kids," he chuckled, raising his hands placatingly. "None of you are wrong, honestly. This situation is kinda sus -- so how about this? We play along for the time being, and the moment things get dicey we pull off the ol' Skipper special."

"What's that?" Ruth cocked her head.

"We blow a hole in the wall and leave."

Dragan groaned, pushing his chair back with a squeal as he stood up. "Great," he sarcasmed. "Great plan. Good luck with it, yeah? You guys can go wait around for this guided tour or whatever, but I'm going to investigate. Figure out what this guy's game is."

Serena quickly swapped over with Bruno, who stood up from his chair as well. "I'll go with you," he said hurriedly. "We shouldn't be moving around alone on an enemy vessel."

"Ah," sighed Skipper, as the pair made themselves scarce. "The paranoia's contagious around here, huh?" He glanced towards Ruth. "Back in my day, people trusted each other, yeah? It's a damn shame."

Ruth had left her chair as well, but hadn't fled from the room -- instead, she was squatting down to peer through the glass display case.

"Ruth," The tiniest trace of annoyance slipped into Skipper's voice. "I'm giving out pearls of wisdom here!"

"Are these what I think they are?" Ruth muttered, inspecting a golden hook-sword.

Skipper looked up. "Oh, yeah -- I did a sneaky Aether ping while we were eating, aimed at that case. Those are definitely Aether Armaments. Our Captain Pierrot's got quite the collection."

Infusing and altering objects was common practice for Aether users -- but sometimes, an object was so thoroughly transformed by its owner that it retained its unique attributes even after its creator was long gone. Once that was the case, anyone could use the Aether Armament -- just by pouring a little of their own Aether into it.

"If we do need to bust out," Ruth muttered. "We could use these, couldn't we?"

Skipper sighed. "I guess. Listen, though -- let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Dragan is right, though, even if he's being weird," Ruth said, looking at Skipper over her shoulder. "This whole thing is sketchy as hell. They're prolly not just gonna let us go, right?"

"Of course they won't," Skipper shrugged. "But that's no biggy. We'll break out --" he wagged a finger to punctuate his point. "-- when I say it's time to break out. Trust me?"

Ruth's smile faltered -- right. The things that had happened back on Taldan, the things Ruth had been told about Skipper's time in Vantablack Squad, with the Widow and everybody else. They hadn't had time to talk about it, and this certainly wasn't the time either.

Still, he couldn't say nothing.

Before Skipper could even open his mouth to speak, however, the door slid open -- and a young woman with short black hair stepped in.

"Hello! Ready for the tour?" she said cheerfully, only to frown once she had a chance to look around the room. "Oh. Weren't there supposed to be four of you?"

Mess halls, Dragan found, were the same no matter where you went in the universe.

A massive room with echoing acoustics designed to irritate, filled with as many uniform rows of tables and benches as it could hold. The babbling of the ship's crew as they ate was a constant undercurrent -- Dragan was tempted to clamp his hands over his ears just to shut out the unholy amounts of sound.

The food didn't seem much to speak of, either -- processed bars of nutrients and simple flavour, designed for efficiency rather than enjoyment. Dragan noticed some crew members crushed them up into some kind of porridge, some cut them into wafer-thin slices, but the result was the same in the end. Not even the finest chef in the galaxy could make this sort of crude matter seem gourmet.

A surly Scurrant janitor with folds of skin hanging over his mouth like mustachios walked past Dragan and Bruno as they entered, casting an indiscriminate glare at them. It seemed the cleaning staff were in constant demand here: where there were people and food, there was mess to be cleaned. Crumbs and snack packets were constantly being sucked up from the floor by janitors and their cleaning automatics, and they were being replaced just as quickly.

Dragan looked over the sea of red-dressed Undermen, looking for anyone who seemed to stand out. If there was someone who could tell him what was going on around here, it wouldn't be one of the rank-and-file.

"What are you thinking?" Bruno asked, standing next to him.

"There." Dragan pointed towards a lone speck of yellow in the crimson crowd, and began walking. Bruno quickly followed after him.

This person was an outsider like them -- that was clear to see. Instead of a uniform, he wore a yellow jacket that looked like it had been pulled out of the jaws of a shredder, the tassels hanging from it brushing against the floor as its owner sat and ate. His face was framed by a mass of chaotic red hair that seemed to be trying to escape in every direction -- and that face was a sight to behold, too. Lumpy, like it had been stung by a swarm of bees, with a long dark scar running from the man's left temple to the bottom of his jaw.

"Focking fascists!" Dragan heard the man shouting as they approached -- he had an accent that sounded like it was from everywhere at once. "Mazma can't believe this! Oh my goodness!"

The man -- Mazma, presumably -- was sat alone on one side of the table, ranting at a pair of eating Undermen on the other side. As he went on, he gesticulated wildly, hands flapping through the air with such speed he could probably take someone's eye out.

"What's going on?" Dragan asked, reaching the table.

One of the two Undermen, a young man with dreadlocks, looked up from the table. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said long-sufferingly. "This guy's had his ship impounded because of --"

"Because!" Mazma interrupted with a jab of his finger. "Because Mazma Mazmamas is a man who believes in freedom, yes! Mazma is a man who sails the kind of cargo he wants to, yes! So what is this? Mazma's ship is locked away? What! Hello?!"

"You were transporting contraband," the other Underman, a ginger woman, sighed. "And it's not up to us -- you can't transport unrefined Sartlite. It's UAP law."

Mazma crossed his arms, shaking his head wildly. "You show Mazma this law," he shouted. "And Mazma will show you how you are a son of a bitch! Okay?"

"You'll have your ship back once you've paid the fine, dude," the first Underman sighed, before glancing back up towards Dragan. "Sorry about this -- I'm Danny, by the way. Danny Werner."

"Lucia Yet," the other Underman offered. "We work in the impound hangar -- it's, uh, it's a lot of this, unfortunately."

"I am unhappy!" Mazma was still going on. "First you take Mazma's ship, his pride and baby, now you want to take Mazma's money too?! Oh my god! Demonic person!"

Dragan took a seat next to the Undermen, and Bruno followed suit. As Dragan turned back to the two Undermen, though, he couldn't help but notice the woman -- Lucia -- staring intently at him.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked awkwardly, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had approached them.

"Oh," Lucia shook her head. "No. Nevermind. It's just -- you're a Cogitant, right? The eyes?"

Dragan nodded.

"Wow," Lucia grinned despite herself, trading an excited glance with Danny. "That's just -- that's swell. I've never seen a Cogitant on this ship before."

"They're not that rare," muttered Bruno, some strange discomfort bubbling just under the surface.

Lucia shrugged. "Just bad luck, then, I guess," she chuckled. "You guys are more spread out here in the UAP, and we don't have any serving on the Regent at the moment."

Dragan furrowed his brow. "Really? Why not?"

The woman shrugged, discomfort trickling into her body language. "I don't know that there's a reason," she mumbled. "Like I said, just bad luck, right? It's just numbers. Say, is it true that you can look at my fingernails and tell me when my birthday is?"

"Of course I can," Dragan lied.

She cocked her head. "When is it, then?"

"Mazma," Dragan very suddenly changed the target of his conversational assault. "You said your ship was impounded, right? Taken in? When that happened, did you meet the captain?"

Mazma thumped a fist on the table with surprising force, rattling the plates atop it. "No!" he cried, with all the offense his bizarre voice could muster. "No! Mazma demands this -- Mazma pleads with such anger to see the captain, but no, they say! Focking bullshit! Oh my god! I hate this!"

Dragan blinked. "I see."

He'd really doubted it, but that confirmed that Captain Pierrot didn't personally meet with every unfortunate that he brought aboard. He'd targeted them for a reason, then, and was holding them with the intention of gaining something. What was it, then, that he wouldn't just ask for it? Information? Was he waiting for someone else to arrive, someone to take them in for what had happened on Taldan? Maybe it was something else entirely. He had no way of knowing, after all.

Whatever the case, Dragan got the feeling he really wouldn't like it.

Captain Pierrot watched, standing at attention, as Ambassador Dalcina's shuttle docked with the Regent. He was standing in Hangar-19, seemingly accompanied only by Overman Yaza -- but he'd made sure more than a few security staff were here, disguised as maintenance techs. With the person he was dealing with, he couldn't be too careful.

The shuttle landed in the middle of the hangar, the air pressure from it's landing thrusters causing Pierrot's coat to billow behind him like a cape. Heroically, Yaza didn't budge -- even as her hair was blowing in her eyes. She didn't even flinch.

The craft itself was brutalist in design, little more than a grey box with small legs jutting out, like those of a table, to land on. There were no windows, either -- just tiny black dots that Pierrot knew were viewing cameras, beaming a feed of the outside world into the shuttle's cockpit.

As the thrusters died down, a section of the shuttle's hull unfolded, becoming a ramp that thumped against the hangar floor. A second later, the shuttle's occupant walked out.

Ambassador Dalcina was in her late sixties, her hair grey and an intricately carved wooden cane supporting her as she walked. For this formal visit, she was wearing traditional Adrustan clothing -- a black dress that brushed against the floor, with a white wooden shawl draped over her shoulders.

Her face was kindly, soft -- but Pierrot could see the true sharp edges lying behind it. A dagger that looked like a cushion. She smiled genially at Pierrot as she descended.

"Good evening, ambassador," Pierrot smiled back, taking Dalcina's hands in his own as she reached the bottom of the ramp.

Good evening, he thought. Widow.