Bravo nods.
Sounbyte tilts his head slightly, observing the almost regal looking vesk. Bravo's words are quickly sampled, archived, and then repeated back word by word as he attempts to mimic the greeting of his companion.
"Are there others like me here?" Morimoto once asked when he had encountered one of his Witchwyrd hosts.
"There are hundreds. They are all around us," came the ethereal reply. Then, in response to Morimoto's confusion, it added, "You must use more than eyes to see."
Over the next few weeks, the Kasatha warrior attempted to reach out with all of his senses while meditating. After one such session, he opened his eyes, and another Kasatha stood before him. He blinked, and she was gone. In the months that followed, he often glimpsed others at the corners of his perception, but never encountered one as clearly as that first time.
The next time the Witchwyrd revealed themselves, Morimoto asked, "I do see them now, but only fleetingly. Will you explain this?"
The great being extended its four arms as if to feel the spray of sand on the wind. "Every dimension and every point in time and space are connected. To experience them requires... greater perspective than you are yet capable." His host placed a hand on his shoulder. It was the first physical contact Morimoto had felt in decades, and it brought him to tears.
"You will not join the Idari," it said. "Your clan made its decision. But your personal journey continues on Absalom Station. Seek out the Starfinders. With them, you will achieve your destiny."
Morimoto follows Roskar's lead. He bows and extends two arms in an open gesture of trust.
"I am Morimoto Masaharu Hito, First Disciple of Tempered Fear, Last of the Settled Clan Haru, End of the Noble Line of Hito." Rising and meeting the gaze of his new teammates he adds, "But you may simply call me Morimoto."
The Kasatha allows himself a study of Bravo's arsenal. "A ranged specialist," he observes. Then he looks to Soundbyte and senses the powerful aura of mysticism. "Very good. I expect we will function as one, with great effect, when the need arises.
"It is a comfort to make your acquaintance," he says to the whole group.
"Please, the pleasure's all mine." He intones with a man's rich voice.
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"Hoi chummers, I'm Wraith," says Wraith, her voice-modulator adding a background rift of grinding metal guitar.
Then she doesn't say anything, but eventually decides that more words might be more proper for an initial greeting.
"Alanna Whiteangel, Order of the White Angel, as it goes," she does a small curtsy. "Y'all got the bang-bang down, and I ain't saying Imma lay down in that department, but I'm just as comfy tripping the virtual light fantastic as I am doing the man-dance."
Her eyes land on Soundbyte and suddenly she can't look away. Her head tilts first one way and then another, like a veteran fisherman seeing a Castrovelian rainbow shrimp for the first time.
"Oooooo. Full robot form?" she coos looking him up and down. "I mean, I've seen some chrome in my time, heh," she laughs a bit, like a full drum kit playing Jingle Bells, as she indicates her own full-chrome status, "but, chummer, whoa." It's like she's impressed to find someone with even MOAR Cyber than herself.
He careens his head slightly, sunlit bulbs watching the pseudo-machine ashe she speaks at such length. "You are a bold one."
Bravo raises an eyebrow at Alanna's way of speaking.
"Never heard of that group. They star knights or something?"
Morimoto shifts his weight at the mention of "star knights."
"Are there such things as star knights? Do they work with the Starfinders? Are you one of their rank, Bravo?"
"Nah, I'm talkin' about groups like the Knights of Golarion or the various Hellknight orders. I'm just plain ol' PCDF with some training from the Starfinders' own Forerunner program."
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Alanna straightens up, apparently pleased with the look of hte SRO. "Yeppers," is all she comments on the observation, apparently taking it as a compliment.
"And, ya, you could say that, Bravo. As much as the ancient Knights Templar were an offshot brand of...whatever they were an offshot of, the Order is much the same thing.
Starfinders do what they can," she observes, sitting back down.
"The Order of the White Angel...does what is necessary.
We're a good lot. My meat body got in a bad way--still don't remember exactly what--and they were good enough to back me up and reboot me in this mad phat chrome can you see before you." She does a small bow.
Turning, the SRO focussed back on their starfinder liaison. "Reporting for duty." He modulated, both eager and curious to learn what was next on their agenda. Perhaps if they had time he should see about what was in stock ar the armory.
Bravo raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.
An alarm chimes on Historia-7's console, "Your three minutes has elapsed."
She motions to a screen on the wall which turns on reavealing this flag, "It baffles the mind exactly how the Ninefold Directorate of Hell has gotten their hands upon a shard of Unity, but they have provided incontrovertible evidence that they have. Initial credits have been transferred and preliminary paperwork painstakingly filled out, but the deal still needs to be ratified at the Embassy of Hell, much to the Society's dismay. You are to go to the Embassy of Hell, struggle your way through their frankly nightmarish bureaucracy, and retrieve the shard, all while doing your best not to promise them your soul or something of even greater import to the Society. Are there any questions?"
Bravo gapes at the symbol and the description of the mission, his unflappable demeanor uncharacteristically disrupted.
"Um, yeah. WHAT?!" he exclaims.
"'Why, 'O Goddess, did you let my soul fall? To become embraced by the darkness, when before you offered me a place in thine light?' She looked upon the once-man, a dispassionate mask of stone. 'Through no fault but your own.'" Soundbyte clipped, left hand gently rubbing his chin in contemplation. It did not bode well fkr them to be condemed so early in life, but if cautious and clever, he imagined they'd escape relatively unscathed.
Historia-7 scowls, "I wish it weren't so either. Our legal department has been working as diligently as they can, and there should be some protection against the worst of the devil's machinations. That said, I am sure you will face problems there, but if the need is dire, you will be on Absalom Station after all, and a Society extraction team could recover you, though likely at the expense of the fragment."
Roskar raises an eyebrow as Wraith speaks, but doesn't move from his stance. After hearing their new mission Roskar seems to grin.
To outwit devils, our task now seems... Their own pride our hopes gleam. For they would consider themselves even greater than the stars. He lets out something akin to a chuckle.
You have my word that we shall recover this shard. This could be quite the test of skill and wit. Interesting indeed.
"Though the majesty of Her Light is humbling, to some, the fires of Hell burn just as bright." The SRO commented, tapping his staff twice.
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Alanna listens carefully to the data about the meeting, and then looks at Soundbyte as if she has no idea what he's talking about. Mainly because she doesn't.
Turning back to Historia she says, "Um, any chance we can get a copy of said writ, along with anything your legal department can wrangle up about 'If said couriers of said contract are in any way tampered with, kidnapped, tortured for all eternity, or forced to have hot pokers shoved in various parts of them, then the party of the first part will pay the party of the second part a metric fragton of credits'?
Or somesuch? Or else there's nothing much to stop them just grabbing us and returning the paperwork using their own people while saying 'Give what couriers back?'"
"The universe contains many things more terrifying than the bureaucracy of Hell, I assure you," offers Morimoto. "I, for one, am intrigued."
Then he turns to appraise his eloquent Vesk companion. "Well said, Roskar Katavo Avular Elinasto."
Historia-7 nods to Alanna, "The contracts already established should protect from death, imprisonment, or severe bodily harm. They are, unfortunately, too long to efficiently transport, as the Embassy specifically requested them on parchment, citing an obscure clause in the infernal legal code. The Embassy of Hell is already on...shaky legal standing with Absalom Station, so any truly egregious actions risk causing a diplomatic incident on both parts."
"A diplomatic incident. With Hell. Which is ruled by a god. Goodie," Bravo deadpans.
Morimoto pauses. At least four critical pieces of information have remained unspoken, but he allows the room space to breathe in the event that one or more of his new teammates has already connected the dots and knows where to go and who to contact. When his questions are not answered, he calmly asks Historia-7, "Apologies, I am new to the Station, and am unfamiliar with the Embassy of Hell. Where is it, how do you suggest we get there, and who do we contact when we arrive? Do we require any specific method of identification or recourse to Starfinders HQ?"
"The Embassy is in the Consular Quarter, just past Parkside in the Eye. The station rail is your best way to get there. Once at the gate of the embassy, you will display your Starfinder identification credentials. The appointment has been set, and updated to reflect the new composition of the team. Relevant logistical information should be on whatever device you may be using."
"When's the drop?" He clipped, with an old smoler's voice this time.
Bravo grimaces, but just waits for the conversation to conclude.
Historia sighs surprisingly emotionally for the infamously stoic venture-captain, ”Hell, in it’s maddening particularity, gave us the appointment time in the Infernal system, one where the time 6:66 occurs nine times a day on three different but related clocks, each with their own calendars. As you can imagine, it took some time to figure out when, as you can imagine, but in our time it’s 2 in the morning today. I have to imagine it was intentional. They have been unwilling to negotiate on the time.”
It’s currently 1pm, so you all have some time to kill.
"That seems... Illogical, captain." His voice modulator spat out, the SRO's head tilting just slightly. Truly, the devils of Hell knew no shame. Hopefully his organic companions wouldn't suffer detrimental sleep deprivation.
Roskar raises an eye at the time explanation.
Do you have any data sheets we can read over to help get a better understanding of... Hm.. Likely a futile effort. Sleep may be the better option... He gives a curious look towards Soundbyte, the question clear on his face even if unasked.
Do they even sleep?
"That seems... Illogical, captain."
"Hell has it's own logic, though it rather unfortunately revolves around making mortals miserable."
Following the conclusion of the briefing, Morimoto bows to Historia-7 and returns to his spartan apartment. After a simple meal of Soylent Red and water, he practices forms unarmed, meditates, and then sleeps, deeply as always, regardless of the hour. Shortly after midnight he assembles at the rail terminal with the rest of the team for the journey to Hell.
At the Vesk's unspoken quesrion, Soundbyte taps the center of his robe shrouded chest. "Battery low." Plays a stiff feminine voice.
"I'll get some rest, so I'm ready to walk into the hellmouth," Bravo says. Then he turns to Hlaush. "This is where we're gonna have to part ways for now, kid. You've got enough culture shock already to work through without needing to worry about your immortal soul."
He looks at Historia-7.
"Don't mean to impose, ma'am, but would you please assign someone to help Hlaush here get acquainted with Absalom Station and the Society? He's got the curiosity and toughness to make a good Starfinder, but he's got a lot to learn about modern technology and interplanetary life. Like I said, he's literally the first member of his people to leave his homeworld and venture into space."
"That we know of..." He clips enigmatically. Mentally he starts to do a few asssements and mental calculations regarding purchasing new equipment and the pressing need to recharge at the solar farms.
Historia-7 gives a slightly puzzled look at Bravo, "Ah, that's why...your acquaintance was here. I can make arrangements. Normally we would want our first contact protocols to be a bit more, ah, rigorous, but nonetheless, I will make sure Hlaush there is properly integrated into the Society."
The party has some time, so if anyone wants to do some shopping or other preparations, now would be the opportunity.
Bravo smiles at Hlaush.
"Welcome to the club, Hlaush!"
Then, as the group parts ways to begin preparations, he makes his way to the Lorespire's armory to rearm and refuel his kit.
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As it turns out, early, early morning on the Absalom Station Metro is a strange place. A vesk street performer plays a psychedelia tune on a klaabu horn as the party waiting for the 1:30 am railcar as two gnomes, presumably waiting for the same train, bicker about all manner of strange topics.
Eventually, the train comes and 15 minutes later the party finds themselves at the Embassy of the Ninefold Directorate of Hell. A tall fence reminiscent of wrought-iron surrounds the place, an imposing nine-tiered ziggurat of what looks like black stone. The proportions of the building make little sense as one looks at it, more rigid and absolute than mortal minds can truly comprehend. A small security station guards the entrance of the gate to the embassy. A screen with a burning pentagram has the words "Wait here for access" emblazoned on it in both Common and Infernal.
The concept of dawn was one of the first experiences Soundbyte had upon leaving the archipelago, a place where Her Light never set. It was a comforting experience to feel the first traces sunlight hitting his most sensitive of solar receptors, a tangible reminder of althe goddess's might. When on shore-leave he'd always carefully alligned his internal clock to stir from standby at the exact moment the local star peaked over the equivalent horizon.
This was not his beloved morning ritual.
Hours before he'd the liberty of upgrading his internal batteries for more extended missions on and offworld, resulting in this being the first time in several years he'd woken without even the barest hint of natural sunlight to greet him. The night offered an opressive darkness not even the station's lighting could pierce.
Riding the tram had been an interesting experience, however. Every so often the new resonate crystals that modified his audial receptors would catch faint telepathic chatter from Absalom's healthy supply of psychic citizenry. It was curious what one might discuss when so certain they'd never be overheard. Most of it was the same as one might do with their vocals, yet it was certainly a touch more open between those that conversed. His mind worked to catalogue snippets if their thoughts, though it was proving troublesome converting them into audio files he could actually use.
Once he finally stood before the imposing embassy, he could feel his internal matrix throb in the face of oppressive, unrepentant evil. The forces of darkness were never what he'd consider 'welcoming', yet he could almost consider devils to be 'personable'. Enough so, at least, that they're bound by their own core nature to abide by mortal law in most circumstances. Twist and contrive, certainly, but it was the work of Abadar's priests to beuracratize the devils into an endless mobius. All that one of Her faithful could do was offer reptentence to the poor souls sweapt up by infernal law.
All of this didn't mean he was dissalowed from personally, very much hating the fact he had to even interact with these creatures. The things he did for the society, sometimes.
Bravo finishes assembling and upgrading his gear, now sporting a suit covered in spiny, chitinous plates, russet brown in color with a slightly reflective sheen. It wasn't his first choice, especially as it was effectively wearing the skin of a dead sentient being, but then the formians that these were made from did donate their bodies specifically for their manufacture. He wasn't sure what his mother would think, seeing her son bearing any resemblance to the Swarm monstrosities that she'd spent her career fighting.
His old hunting rifle had been replaced with a bulkier, powered gun, the twin rails concealed by covering to resemble a slightly wider gun muzzle. As before, the modified grenade launcher was below it, this time loaded with proper grenades rather than the crudely-assembled ordnance he'd relied on for the last mission. He hoped he would not need to bring them to bear on this one, as their incendiary power would only be half as effective on the fire-resistant devils. This wasn't supposed to be a combat mission anyway, right?
He's quiet as they travel aboard the tram, trying to practice the discipline he'd need to keep up during the meeting. When they arrive at the embassy, he looks to the others.
"Abandon all hope, ye that enter here?" he comments, attempting a joke.
Roskar gives a nod to the Vesk performer, enjoying the tune. And curiously regards the gnomes as they bicker.
He takes the short trip as a time to meditate and center himself. He would need a clear mind, and strong will when dealing with what was likely far more paperwork and undisclosed rules than even his people had. At Bonar's quip Roskar casts a glance towards him before responding.
Hope may be the only small light we have to guide us out. I would suggest to make it your guiding star. A small grin barely shows on his face.
He then moves up to stand in from the the sign, and, making sure their presence is known.
We are here to discuss finishing a transaction between Absalom station and the Ninefold Directorate of Hell. He states matter of factly.
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"Have you tried resonating the transponder with a bioregenerative transporter chamber? I find that always helps me," Alanna says happily at the gnomes. She has no idea if that was at all impactful, but based on what they were talking about, there was at least a non-zero chance it helped. And if it didn't? Well, then it's funny. To her. And that's what's important.
"And let's get it done as quick as can be," she answers at Roskar. "Even _I_ don't wanna spend too much time here.
Probably."
"Hope," says Morimoto, repeating Bravo.
The concept of hope was one which he understood only superficially. Before he was even born his family chose to remain on a dying world with few resources, under the constant barrage of a blazing red giant that threatened to go supernova at any moment. Every day was a gift and a burden; there was only routine. And when he was the last of his line, living in complete isolation and solitude, did he even once consider that his destiny lie elsewhere?
No, not once.
Morimoto turns to reply to Bravo, "If that is the requirement, I am prepared."