Afafa Gbeho was not satisfied with her journey. Confidant and relative of the Councilors of the Orrmist Confederation, she was groomed for authority. Sent abroad to study to learn the science of the northwest she had come to Hope's Enclave, the great Refuge reborn. She'd made the journey over the Atlantic Mists dozens of times, visiting different member states of the Confederation. After that, the first thousand miles of air travel were comfortable enough. She did not truly enjoy flight, but it was preferable to some other forms of transit, such as the Settan way, and at least it was over more quickly. Settan society was advanced enough to maintain a metal fortress spanning miles. Its laboratories and technology approached even the highest achievements of the old humanity. It was beyond Afafa why they would not choose to use flying machines. Yet near the center of the continent, her Orrmisti pilot had dropped her off to make rendezvous with the caravan. From there, it was countless tedious miles over land, shoved into a small space with the crowd.

For most of the journey, she shared her space in the transport with two strangers. One, a stiff man, wore a suit that didn’t fit him. The other was a hoarse-voiced young woman who refused to remove that abominable dueling sword from her hip. It was… tolerable. She bore it quietly and spoke only to the woman - who, despite her appearance, was a friendly enough conversation partner. Hope Reese was her name. a stout lady of Rivenstad with something of a noble bearing herself. She might have been from one of the great Solist families of that land, Afafa silently speculated. That would explain the way she spoke, the sense of nobility she had about her, and the weapon. Afafa would expect a Solist – especially a Rivenstadi Solist, in this day and age – to go out armed at most times.

Over days, Afafa told Hope a little of herself. She felt she did not truly know this woman, as much as she would like to. Certainly, Afafa had no advantage over her. Yet she knew herself to be a curiosity in these lands. She could hardly fault Hope for her curiosity. For her part, Hope’s interest in the Orrmist did not seem malicious. She asked about what life was like across the sea, through the mists. Afafa told a little, without giving away anything truly personal. And by the end of the trip, Hope appeared to trust Afafa, a little. If Afafa was reading her right, she even seemed… grateful to have a representative of the Orrmist Confederation with her on the trip. Now what would the average Rivenstadi have to thank the Orrmisti for…

Afafa pondered this on the trip but could not think of a satisfactory answer. If this woman were loyal to the Invictus, it would be obvious enough. Yet here she was, heading to Hope’s Enclave to aid in the great project of sending humanity to the stars again.

By the end of the journey, Afafa had given up puzzling it out. She and Hope talked of trifles, and traded glances with the others in the transport. Afafa tried not to look the suited man, with his bowed head and tight fists, in the eyes. For his part, he did not look her in the eyes.

When finally they arrived, Afafa practically leapt out of the transport, full of excitement at the touch of the sun. Free, finally free from the prison of that damn vehicle! She reminded herself of her purpose and stepped out of the vehicle in the most dignified and regal way that she could manage. To her right, Hope said hoarsely, “Hold on. I need a moment before I get off. It’s this trip.” Afafa paid her little mind.

“It’s alright, Hope. I’m going to be the first of us to enter Hope’s Enclave, because I must speak with the Director of Ifterra Project.”

From the opposite side of the cabin, a voice called out derisively. At the threshold, Afafa turned and looked over her shoulder. The man in the suit raised his gaze and said, “What makes you think that the Director himself is going to greet us? You know how big this place is? How many people there are?”

“Well…” Afafa sniffed. “We are the first group of initiates to join the Ifterra Project in months. Surely the Director can spare a few minutes out of his no-doubt busy day to greet us at the door and send us on our way? Some of us will be dedicating years of our lives to this project?”

“Years. Right.” The man shook his head and waved one hand toward Afafa. “Go on, you have fun.”

“I will,” Afafa muttered quietly and stepped out into the day.

Inside the vehicle, it was cool and dry, but outside the heat was high. Not as hot as an average day on the east side of the mist border, sure, but still hotter than Afafa had grown accustomed to over the past several days. She lowered her head slightly and adjusted her headdress so it was looser, with a bit of her hair free to shade her eyes. She crossed the gate quickly to approach the man who stood out in the courtyard. He looked studious and put-together, with a well-trimmed red beard. Unfamiliar as she was with Settan fashion, Afafa could only assume by his manner that the man was dressed in a casual way. Yet, he seemed presentable enough.

“Director,” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Afafa Gbeho, special envoy from the Orrmist Confederation. The Council sends its regards, and wishes for you to know that the success of the Ifterra Project is one of our great hopes. I will gladly contribute all my efforts to this project, so long as the Council deems fit.”

“Actually, it’s Deputy-Director,” the man replied, smiling warmly. “But nonetheless, a pleasure.” He shook Afafa’s hand with enthusiasm, Afafa’s own enthusiasm waning a little bit at the word “deputy.” “Robert Shula. It’s my responsibility to integrate new recruits into the project and get them up to speed on our progress so that everyone can contribute.”

“Ah, I see.” Afafa’s smile faded. “I do appreciate the welcome, though I must admit this all feels a little bit informal.” She silently reminded herself to leave the mask in place. “Regardless, it is no problem. We are here to help. So.”

Robert – the Deputy-Director – smiled. “You were expecting something more formal, were you? Don’t worry, we’re going to have an official initiation meeting tomorrow. All the basics of this place will be explained to you then. And I’m sure your people have told you plenty already.”

“What was that, sir?” she exclaimed in response. Immediately Afafa cursed herself for her rudeness. This, she reminded herself, was not the time to change her act. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me,” she said coolly. “I’m not sure if you were briefed regarding the specific focus of each of your new arrivals, and I know little about any of the others, but for my own part.” She stopped. Afafa reminded herself to stay her tongue a moment, and drew in a slow breath, letting her shoulders and chest rise and fall with the air in her lungs. “My experience is as a diplomat. I played a small role in the recent negotiations with the government of New Tenoch.”

“The recent annexation, you mean?” Robert asked. It was an obvious rhetorical question, and Afafa was prepared for it, sidestepping.

“In technicality, yes. The reality on the ground is much more complicated and less violent than that term implies. But, in preparation for my journey here I’ve begun to study the language of the Aliens at Proxima Station.” Robert raised an eyebrow at that, and Afafa let the corners of her mouth twist upwards a bit. Let him know that she knew she’d won this bout. “I have no intention of being a burden on your personnel, Deputy-Director.” She stressed that word, deputy, as though to turn around her disappointment and lord it over him. He crossed his arms, mouth a thin line, unimpressed.

“I appreciate that, Afafa,” Robert said. That informal address rankled her a bit, yet she held her tongue. Robert turned his gaze past her, and Afafa followed his eyes.

From behind her, the stiff-backed man in the suit approached, glowering at Afafa before they even initiated eye contact. He walked haltingly, each step followed by a moment’s hesitation, until he stood next to Afafa.

“Hello. Mr. Ryan Sawyer, I presume?”

The man – Ryan Sawyer nodded. When he spoke, his voice was cold, dismissive, and contemptuous. Walked past Afafa, not looking at her even as he addressed her. “My turn to talk, princess.”