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You exhale, the breath escaping you in a sort of helpless chuckle as more gunfire erupts in the hotel's lower floors.
The Marchioness watches you: expectantly, nervously. Wode, her bodyguard, is also keeping an eye on you, even as he subvocalizes into his comm implant, demanding updates from the security detail.
It is, of course, an offer you can't refuse. Accept your fate, bow to the Dragonblood's whims - and by doing so, save the station. It is the only sensible choice. By the moral standards of Elne Blavis, there can be no other path.
However. You've been Elne Blavis for fifteen years now. But you have lived for much, much longer. And no matter what name you answered to, or the kind of life you've lead, there has been one trait of yours that has remained constant and unchanging - the bedrock of whatever personality you'd create.
"Remind me, Marchioness," you smirk at her. "What was the first thing we discussed? About what you've read in my personnel file."
"That you're an anarchist?" she frowns, confused.
"No, that was just you making an assumption. I mean the other thing."
"That you... oh," understanding dawns.
"Yeah. But it's not authority I despise. It's people who use it like a bludgeon - to get their way no matter the harm they cause."
"Wait!" the Dragonblood leaps up from her chair. "I wasn't-"
<span class="mu-s">Vis Drain: 3 Wyrd spent</span>
(cont)
