Fool Me Once

[Vega Van-Derveld]

Curamalle, capitol city of Corulag. It was the week of the annual Imperial regatta. Another product of the Empire's propaganda machine, the regatta was a weekend-long event created to inspire patriotism and instil loyalty into the people of Corulag. In truth, the effort was largely wasted – not because it had no effect, but because the people of Coruag were already smitten with the Empire and likely would remain as such for decades to come. The presence of the Imperial Academy, along with many Imperial funded universities and research sites, created a prosperous and thriving society, one often cited as a model for Imperial utopia.

Even apparent perfection, however, is not without its flaws and in the case of Corulag, their flaw was Crullov City. Once a large manufacturing centre, the city had been all but destroyed by an earthquake pre-dating the Battle of Yavin by a century. No effort had been made on the part of the government to restore the city and in time it became largely ignored. As a consequence, it became a haven for the likes of smugglers and gangsters. There were rumours that the officials in Curamalle had taken pay-offs from a Hutt crime lord to leave Crullov be. Whatever the case, it was a far cry from the pristine streets of Curamalle and one of the few places that the reach of the regatta did not extend to. That is, outside of the usual holofeeds.

“Why you gotta have this dren on, huh, Prin?”

Prin Mater was the owner of the Bulfus Bar. A dive of epic proportions, the Bulfus had a small number of regular clientèle, none of whom wanted to have Imperial brouhaha and bravado stuffed down their necks whilst they were trying to have their morning ale. Unfortunately for his customers, Prin and his family had once been inhabitants of shining capitol city and a little nostalgia reared its ugly head in him every time the annual regatta came round. As he stood cleaning a tall glass with a dirty (of course) rag, his eyes were glued onto the images of battalions of recruits in training being marched down Main Street to the rhythmic pounding of a drum.

“I said, why you gotta have this dren on, Prin? I can only stomach so much nancy boy prancing before I puke!”

The complaints were coming from an irate Rodian and were unfortunately falling on deaf ears. Giving a gruff sigh, the Rodian turned his eyes from the video feed and looked around. The bar was almost empty; just the usual suspects, and a handful of unfamiliar faces that looked as though they just wanted to be left alone. One in particular, however, seemed to be paying particular attention to the footage of the parade.

“See what you're doing to this guy, Prin?” the rodian asked, jerking a thumb in the mans directions. “He's whiter than a sheet. One more minute and he's going to blow chunks all over your nice clean counter.”

Prin turned, reluctantly, from the screen and his eyes followed the Rodian's gesture to the end of the bar. He was right – the man did look pale, deathly pale. Prin set down his distraction, the glass and cloth, and paced the length of the counter. He squinted in the dim light at that pale face, those eyes that seemed to burn, the lips that were twisted with malice.

“You don't look in such great shape, pal.”

“One too many of your special ales, eh, Prin?”

Their words seemed to go unheard. The man seemed intent on watching the feed.

“Hey!” the Rodian turned on his barstool, “buddy- wake up. We're trying to help here.”

Prin shifted his eyes between the two characters. This wasn't something he wanted to get involved in. All he wanted was one peaceful day, so that he could enjoy the regatta and not have to worry about cleaning the insides of someone's skull off of the ceiling. That damn Rodian was always starting something, though. He managed to get offended at the smallest things, and it seemed that today his gripe was an evidently ill man not wanting to engage in conversation.

“I am talking to you,” he continued, enunciating every word in the most patronizing voice. The pale man didn't even blink. Now the Rodian was on his feet. He swaggered uneasily down the length of the bar, stopping a few feet short of his target.

“Hey, hey!” he thrust his glass accusingly towards the man, the contents spilling out across the floor – and onto the man's dark coat. At this, something in his face seemed to twitch. As if spotting the minute crack in his façade, the Rodian gave a triumphant: “Ah-ha! So you do hear me, huh!”

What followed seemed to occur too quickly for either Prin, the Rodian or anyone watching to completely understand. One moment, the sickly man was hunched over the bar, apparently unwilling to be baited by half a glass of ale being thrown over him. The next, the Rodian was lying on the bar and half of the glass was firmly implanted into his open mouth - the former contents of which had struck the table of an unsuspecting customer, spitting green and black tissue in his face. As though they had simply been waiting for the signal, the occupants of the bar erupted into a brawl that too seemed to begin in the blink of an eye.

Of course, the pale man was the cause of it all. Freshly doused with the dregs of the Rodians drinks, he rose to his feet and, with only a single hand, lifted the goggle-eyed alien into the air. Effortlessly, he swung the chubby frame up onto the bar counter and with his free hand seized the glass which the Rodian had been drinking out of, and cracked it against the bar. It split in two, half falling to the ground, whilst the remaining segment glinted like a dagger in the pale man's hands. Before any protest could be made, the slimy tongue of the once loud-mouthed alien had been cut from its moorings. Blood bubbled out of rubbery lips, as the pale man drove the glass-shard deeper in the aliens throat. The tongue, then, was hurled without a care over his shoulder. It landed hard, with a sickening squelch.

So the brawl began. Interestingly, the pale man was not the sole target of the violence. It seemed everyone was game. Long-time drinking partners were happy to exchange punches, while complete strangers made their first acquaintances with one another by breaking each others ribs. In the middle of the maelstrom, Prin Mater alone remained still and silent, wiping a single tear from his eye as the Imperial standard flickered on the old telescreen above the bar. When all the chaos had died down, and broken noses were being nursed over freshly poured pints, a bright spark finally had the sense to point out the fact that the pale man did not number among the unconscious or, in fact, the conscious. He was no where to be found – and, somewhat more worryingly, neither was the tongue.

[Una Rakesh]

Crullov City always had the most interesting of characters walking its' streets, which was nothing to say of its' establishments. Those looking to do their business - legitimate or otherwisr - found their the privacy in dark, back corner booths while others looked for random barfights to either start or partake in. It was one of the best places for a person to hide.

And one of the best places to find information.

The years of entropy and decay hid something for everyone, and it was just a matter of knowing who to talk to when a person was wanting to get the what-what on most anything. News travelled fast depending on its' sensationalism, and rumors spread faster. More than one streetwalker was 'reputed' as being one of Emperor Palpatine's concubines (though this particular rumor was started by rival whores looking to steal business), and others claimed to have slept with the now-deceased Han Solo. Bars and taverns toutedstories of how they once served the highest of the Empires' elite, while others laid claim to serving the Empire's most wanted. And so it went for the city's run-down hotels. Claims of once great glories were either made known through hushed whispers or large billboards.

Almost everything could be found here, And while almost everything could be found, it was an undeniable fact that the everything in question came at a price.

It all depended on who had said information, who wanted it, and who was the better haggler with the odd penchant for threats.

One such information hub, My'eeda Apothecary, was situated in the very heart of Crullov. Serving anyone who could hand over a credit, Oron My'eeda made a modest living 'helping' those who needed his wares. Yet, he made a fortune helping those who came to him for more than just his medicines. It was said that Oron had eyes and ears everywhere, and that if he didn't know about something, it likely didn't exist.

It was this bit of knowledge that had brought a young woman to him during the annual Imperial regatta.

Una Rakesh could care less about the goings-on of the Empire; unless they paid her to, of course. Thankfully about the only thing thay paid her for were the relics she brought to the Imperial Academy, and she had yet to be finagled into sitting through any sort of speech or parade. Even if her father taught at the academy, she had the lovely distinction of being the family near-pariah. Her only saving grace being that of her contributions to the Academy's historical collections. Which, not surprising, was what brought her to Crullov.

Alone in the apothecary with Oron, Una leaned across the counter with an aire of detached interest as the shopkeeper idly went through his books.

"Hmmm, and you're sure you filled out your order last week?"

"I already told you. Yes."

"Well, I can't seem to find it in my records."

Lofting a brow, Una dug into her front pocket, pulling out a wad of neatly rolled credit bills and a slip of paper. A quick search in the back pocket revealed a stylus, and the woman set the bills on the countertop beneath the paper. Without ceremony, she went to work writing (or drawing?) on the peper, and after a few moments slid all except the stylus to Oron.

"Trust me, I made the inquiry."

A moment of silence as Oron plucked the bills and paper up. The bills were pocketed with ease, and the paper was scrutinized. It was a crude drawing, to say the least; yet it wasn't wholly unrecognizable. A seemingl simple coat of arms. And if its' design wasn't enough for most if not all inhabitants of such an Imperial held world, the name scrawled beneath it laid to rest any unknowns.

Van-Derveld

A few seconds later and the paper was wadded into a ball before being tossed in the wastebasket behind the counter.

"Yeah, I think I remember your order now."

The hinged part of the countertop was raised, and Oron motioned for Una to follow him. "I keep all my special orders in the shed in the back alley. Follow me."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

The streets of Crullov held many memories. As Vega Van-Derveld slipped unnoticed out of the door of the Bulfus, he was presented with a familiar scene. Although he had not set foot on Corulag for many years, it seemed things had not changed. Memories of his time at the Imperial Academy to mind, as he recalled how odd-duty cadets would often make the trip to Crullov for a little rest and relaxation. They spent their days taking orders from their commanders, and spent their nights giving orders to hookers and whores. The life of a cadet was far from the glamorous clean-cut living that the Empire sold it as. No one could have called them unprofessional, of course. When it came for them to do their duty, they were exemplary. It just so happened that they were equally committed and well-applied to their after-hour activities.

Moving through the narrow streets, Vega felt echoes of the past everywhere. On one occasion, he and a small patrol of soldiers had been ordered into this part of Crullov, to – in the words of their commander – clean it up. This was the commanders way of saying that the residents were getting a little too comfortable with their current way of living, and that the needed the boys in white to go shake things up a little, keep them on their toes. The directive was vague and so while many men stuck to strong arming a shopkeeper here and there, others took larger liberties. War turned men into monsters, who took no shame in humiliating others through any kind of abuse – whether physical, psychological or sexual.

Van-Derveld wasn't here to reminisce, however. He had a much more specific purpose for returning to his home world. He wanted information. How he was going to get it, however, was another problem entirely. While he had known some of the local gossip peddlers back in his time at the Academy, he was almost certain that they would be dead or gone by now. When you were in the business of information trading, it wasn't long before you stepped on someone's toes or itchy trigger finger. Unfortunately, this time he was going to have to go directly to the source – to the Academy itself. Of course, one doesn't simply wander into the Imperial Academy and demand access to personnel data files, especially when one is considered to be a traitor to the Empire. In his vanity, Vega supposed the guards would be ordered to shoot him on sight – that they would want his head mounted on a Force pike outside the Academy gates.

No, it wouldn't be that easy. What he needed was an inside contact. The men who he had worked closed with had all died tragically, and brutally, on Hoth. There was no such thing as friendship and honour among the ranks of the Stormtroopers, as Vega had proved in cannibalising his own squadron. Though the grunts of the Imperial war machine had such low intelligence as to be easily manipulated, it was unlikely that any of them would have been granted access to classified personnel archives. Vega needed someone higher up the ladder, someone with a bit of sway. How he was going to convince them to help him was quite the conundrum.

Word had it that a man named Oron might be able to provide some assistance. Though the Empire played host to many double-agents, it also had within its ranks a number of disgruntled lower peons. Forced into their place, they took their small revenge by selling little snippets of information now and then. Given the insatiable greed of the Imperial mind, he wouldn't have been surprised if one of the more superior officers had taken to the same practice. At least, he could only hope this was the case.

On arriving at Oron's point of sale, the Apothecary, Vega paused to conceal his identity beneath the cowl of a dark hood. Though the guise was hardly inconspicuous, it hid his face from view. For all he had been... affected by the Dark Side, his face remained recognisable – he didn't want to take any risks. Ducking through the shops doorway, he stepped into an empty room. The walls were adorned with phials and odd trinkets. Of course, every good crook had a cover for his true game. It seemed this one touted himself as a medicine man. Whilst scrutinising what was on display, one bottle in particular caught Van-Dervelds eye – a flask of what appeared to be blood of some kind. He outstretched one hand, as if to touch it, before withdrawing quickly upon hearing the soft murmur of voices.

“Oron,” he called out. His voice was not natural, but rather synthesized, the product of an artificial voice-box. It was cold and metallic, void of any intonation or distinguishable accent, yet somehow eerily human.

“You have a customer.”

[Una Rakesh]

She had one foot out the door, and one still inside. Oron was already in the alleyway, but the sound of his name being called was enough to turn his head. A few quick and hushed Bothan expletives escaped his frowning lips, and he ushered Una back inside with a harshly whispered order to stay in the shadows and out of sight.

Straightening his apron, Oron let out a cough as he made his way toward the front of the store. Approaching the counter, his brown eyes took in the sight of the hooded stranger, and he placed one gnarled hand on the countertop.

"You're not one of my regulars," was the simple statement.

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“Aren't you observant,” the figure stated in reply.

The sight of the rather rotund Oron was not all too impressive. The dirty apron he wore was presumably all part of the law-abiding front of the Apothecary. It didn't exactly instil confidence. Unseen, Vega smirked.

“I have a problem, and word has it that you may be able to help me with it.”

[Una Rakesh]

"Many people have problems," A finger tapped once on the tiled counter, "... it's just the nature of the problem which can sometimes prove to be problematic."

Behind Oron, leaning against a wall out of sight, Una crossed her arms in the first stages of impatience. An annoyed stare was sent to the floor, and she grumbled beneath her breath while sliding down the wall into a crouch. For now, she would have to wait for Oron's customer to get what he came for and then be on his merry. Resting an elbow on a knee, she propped her chin in her palm and listened in on the conversation.

"Now. What can I help you with?"

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“I'm looking for someone. An old friend, who I lost touch with some years ago.”

As he spoke, Vega's eyes resumed taking in the contents of the shop, the items hung across the walls. There were jars with grasses, bars and flowers in them. Containers of bone-white powder and fleshy-packages of gelatinous goo. Strange smoke wafted into the air, filling the room with an unusual smell that tickled the back of Van-Dervelds throat.

“He was a member of the Imperial Academy... I'm sure they must have details on his whereabouts, but as I'm sure you can imagine, they aren't exactly forthcoming with said details.”

[Una Rakesh]

Oron leaned back on his heals a little, chuckling lightly.

"Oh that just depends on how you ask, Stranger."

One hand going up to rub at his stubbly chin, the older man thought to himself for a few moments.

"About how long are we talking, here?"

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“Ten years... more perhaps. We were school friends.”

How long... Vega's mind struggled to remember the truth. Weeks, months and years blurred at the edges. Whole sections of his life since the Empire were unmapped. How long had he spent on Hoth? It wasn't long before he'd stopped counting the days, not long before he'd succumbed to a kind of daze. Time had become immaterial.

“Do you know of anyone who might be able to assist me?”

[Una Rakesh]

Coming out from behind the counter, Oron expertly navigated his bulk through the shelves littering the center of his establishment. That this stranger wished for information on an individual from ten years back was a bit much, he had faith in his own contacts. Credits went a very long way, and he knew that ten years was nothing for the right price.

"Ten years is an awful long time."

Stopping at a far wall, he pondered the selections before him before reaching up. A small bag of ground kaadu toes and a vial of some suspect looking red liquid were palmed, and Oron returned to his counter.

He set the two items atop the surface, looking to the hooded stranger once more.

"It's not impossible," he went on, "... but it certainly isn't easy.

"My question is, is how much you're willing to pay for such a person."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“As much as is necessary.”

It was a bold statement. Much of the Van-Derveld family fortune had gone into the Imperial Academy and what money Vega himself possessed was the fruit of his time since leaving the Imperial army, gained through less honourable measures. He didn't require much in the way of material possessions and so had acquired a modest sum, but wasn't certain that it would be enough to fund this little investigation. That would be a bridge to cross when he came to it.

[Una Rakesh]

She had taken to biting at her nails in irritation while keeping one ear on the conversation going on between Oron and his customer. Both ears perked at the mention of credits though, and Una ventered a peek around the corner to take a gander.

A hooded man, a strange voice, the need for information on an Imperial citizen, and more importantly as many credtis as were needed to find this 'old friend'?

A leap and a bound was all it took for the young woman to insert herself into the conversation.

"Credits do make the galaxy spin now, don't they."

Deftly sliding past Oron, Una slapped the countertop with an energetic motion. "I think I know just what you need, Sonny Jim."

"Now wait a- "

"Oron, I'm busy with a customer."

This stranger was her customer now, and her previous interests had been easily placed to the side. She'd been looking for the widow Van-Derveld for years, but many times over the woman had opted for other projects before returning once again to what was now very basicly a hobby.

Her hand went up to pat the stranger on his shoulder, and she nodded to the door. "I've got a few contacts in the Academy who could help you - and as long as I'm with you, you'll get everything you need."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“Is that so...”

The hooded head turned to regard the hand placed on it's shoulder. Oron, who gave a gruff sigh, appeared to have consigned himself to defeat. Already this woman was trying to escort Vega out of the door, her enthusiasm doubtlessly fuelled by the mention of a limitless bounty of credits.

“Perhaps we might discuss this business somewhere more privately, then.”

[Una Rakesh]

"Privacy sounds good."

Leading the way through the apothecary's door, Una hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her dusty black trousers. Her boots, scuffed by years of use, scraped over the pebbles scattered across the sidewalk, and she turned her head first to the left, then to the right.

She pointed down the road. "Over there. I know the owner of the NerfHide. I can get us a beautifully private table... " she turned a sideways look to try and get a glimpse of the face beneath the hood; it was a futile attmept, and she started off with a lively step. "... not to mention as dark as you want so you won't have to wear that hood."

As an afterthought, she added, "That thing looks uncomfortable, anyway."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

Van-Derveld made no reply. Evidently, the woman was as curious about his identity as he was about her claims and occupation. The dusty road was almost empty, though sound drifted out into the street from the NerfHide. It looked much like many other shop fronts in Crullov, with the small exception that it had a number of tables set up outside on the cobbles. There, a couple of weary old men sat talking over stimcaff. They glanced up only briefly as Una and her guest arrived, one tipping his cap in greeting before he returned to his coffee and conversation.

Barely had they stepped through the door when a voice called out: “Una!”

Another elderly man, this one somewhat more well-dressed, approached. He embraced Una warmly and the pair exchanged small pleasantries as Vega looked around the interior of the NerfHide. There were a small number of couples here and there, enjoying the respite the café provided from the heat outside. Dark and quiet – just as promised. Returning his attention to his newly acquired help, Vega found that both she and the old man were staring expectantly at him.

“Shall I take your coat, friend?” the old man repeated, chuckling uneasily.

“That won't be necessary.”

[Una Rakesh]

"He's one of those 'mystery' types," she grinned cheekily. Turning to the owner of the NerHide, Una gave a wink.

"I need a table - best one in the house."

The man's eyes glinted knowingly, and he smiled wide. "But of course, my dear. But of course."

Stepping to the side, he motioned for Una to lead the way. She knew the way - had known if due to her countless dealing here, and stepping out into the lead, she clamped a slender, tanned hand on the edge of her newfound friend's coat and almost very literally drag him with her.

Oh the credits! As many as it would take, he'd said. Credit chits were dancing in her eyes as she pulled the man with her, through tables toward the back of the establishment and down a darkened stairway.

Hitting the bottom landing, Una veered left and stopped at a metal door. A series of knocks, and it opened slowly. Cigar smoke wafted out through the crack between door and doorframe before she pushed her way further inside.

Down beneath the NerfHide was, like the apothecary, where the real money was made. Illegal gambling and betting on shockboxers, Sabacc tables and the slythmongers that hoverd over them - it was all here. Una took the stranger past all of these, to the farthest back booth wreathed in smoke.

Finally releasing him, she made a grand gesture for him to be seated, all the while showing him her pearly whites.

[Vega Van-Derveld]

It seemed pointless that the gambling rings and drug dens of Crullov continue to operate fronts such as the NerfHide. After all, anyone with their wits about them knew that just beyond the back counter or underneath a trapdoor there was a whole different set of business going on. Vega was not, therefore, surprised to find that the kindly old owner of the café was in fact the proprietor of this smokey basement. Finally arriving at their secluded table, Van-Derveld took a seat and waited for his guide to do the same.

“I believe introductions are in order,” he began, and as he spoke he drew the dark hood away from his face. What had been previously hidden beneath was a largely humanoid face, but one that appeared to have been ravaged by illness or fatigue. His skin was pale, with thin blue veins stretching hungrily across the flesh. The only mark of colour was the sore-looking red rings beneath his eyes. To anyone with any knowledge of the Force, these were clearly signs of the abuse of the Dark Side.

“My name is Harkon Lain.”

[Una Rakesh]

She was turned away, doing her best to flag down one of the few servers floating about from table to table. Momentarily giving up, Una returned her gaze to the man sitting opposite her, and promptly blinked.

"... Harkon Lain... "

Harkon Lain? She blinked again. This Mr. Lain look oddly familiar, as if she had seen a holo of him somewhere, but Gods be damned if she could place a name with the face. Shaking the thought away, Una busied herself with leaning back in her seat. It was strange, he looked so pale, torn apart by... something; but his eyes gave off such a life and hunger despite the redness beneath them.

And in that instant she was taken with this stranger. To her, he was already an enigma. A collection of conflicts that would have normally cancelled each other out, yet for some reason they coexisted together in this man.

Coughing only slightly to break the silence, Una spoke up.

"I'm Una. Una Rakesh."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rakesh.”

Though he could feel her eyes on him, searching his face for something, Vega remained composed. He even offered a small smile – cold yet charming all at once.

“Shall we move right on to business?”

He did not wait for an answer.

“I'm afraid I wasn't completely honest with Oron earlier. The person I'm looking for isn't an old school friend of mine... though I'm sure that my relation, or otherwise, to them is of little consequence to you. The person I'm looking for is a former Imperial who has turned on the Empire and joined the Rebellion. It's quite possible that she may be travelling under an alias now, but when I knew her she called heself Grace Van-Derveld.”

[Una Rakesh]

Una stared at him, her eyes glazing over only slightly at the mention of the name Van-Derveld, but she composed herself after a few short seconds.

Clearing her throat, she casually laid her palms atop the table's polished surface.

"Well," she coughed again, "I can help you fairly easily. But... " Una tapped a fingernail on the tabletop, "... given the nature of the name - and connection to the Empire - I think we can actually help each other out."

She found herself drawn back to his eyes. "Because, well, it seems that the both of us have an interest in that family."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

“How unusual.”

What business did this woman have with his family? Did she recognise him? Surely, if she had, he would have felt it by now. Outwardly calm and unperturbed by this revelation, Vega continued quite casually.

“What about the family interests you? I wasn't aware that they were anything of note.”

[Una Rakesh]

It was on the tip of her tongue; Harkon Lain wasn't his real name. She knew it wasn't. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his features, and in that instant it came to her.

Una leaned forward across the table with a swift, almost jerky motion and her body tensed up in excitement.

She spoke in a sharp whisper that only he would hear.

"Vega... !"

[Vega Van-Derveld]

A feeling of mingled unease and anger awoke in him. That fire, that life, she had seen in his eyes – it flared. To calm himself, Vega took a deep breath inwards.

“You would do well to not use that name again.”

[Una Rakesh]

She saw it in his eyes, the blazing intensity. Even if it'd been for only a moment, Una saw it.

She moved not a muscle, lest this was some joke upon her perpetrated by her father.

"I would do well?"

Her voice was still a whisper, yet it was a bit less harsh than before.

"Those are awful big words coming from you. I'd wager that your homecoming wouldn't involve parades and medals, much less anything else of that ilk."

Una paused to stare at him, and her eyes held nothing but rapt fascination. For her, the Van-Derveld family had been nothing short of intruiging. She cared not for the political and wayward leanings of its' members.

She drew in a quiet breath. "It's really you, isn't it."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

To her question, there was no answer.

“Are you going to help me find her, or not?”

[Una Rakesh]

A cursory wave was sent his way and she leaned back to settle more comfortably in her seat.

"Oh of course I will. I'd be an idiot to pass up this sort of opportunity. I'll even give you a discount on the cost of helping you.

"You game?"

[Vega Van-Derveld]

A discount? Vega frowned slightly. He didn't like feeling as though he had lost the upper hand, but there was small consolation in knowing that if this Rakesh woman didn't live up to her words, he could kill her.

“Very well... how exactly do you plan to help?”

[Una Rakesh]

She gave him a wolfish smile.

"My old man is a teacher at the academy. It'll be easy to look up just about anyone you want to find, and I can get you the best counterfeit ident cards in the Core.

"And if the academy doesn't have information on your Grace, then I've got a few more tricks and favors I can pull. Odds are though, that we won't have to look far for her."

[Vega Van-Derveld]

It seemed he had, indeed, come to the right person for the job. A cold smirk grew on his pale lips.

“When can we begin?”