Avalon City, New Avalon
7 June 3006
The place was grimy, smoky, and hot - just the way he liked it, Prince Ian Davion reflected as he strode in the door. Without the body guards or the press corps, he was a little hard to notice - nondescript if handsome, he looked nothing like one of the most powerful men in the Inner Sphere. Especially not dressed from top to toe in leather and hiding behind wrap-around mirror shades.
The lighting was terrible, and the music was too - though it had a beat you could dance to. In fact, several of the bar's inhabitants were doing just that. The ancient holovid display on the bar had on some kind of tabloid show, and he gave it a brief glance while he waited for the bartender.
Rumors continue to circulate regarding the disappearance of Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces General Katrina Steiner. A source close to the Archon suggested today that this event may be linked to the similarly-timed disappearance of Donegal Duke Arthur Luvon and his nephews, Morgan and Patrick Kell. We'll keep you updated as new information becomes available...
Well, that was interesting, in kind of a vague way. Katrina wasn't first in line to his rival's throne. Her cousin Frederick was considered the clear choice, and their uncle Alessandro might have looked a little shaky from a PR perspective- what idiot would call a deployment strategy "concentrated weakness"? - but his power seemed secure enough, and his intelligence people didn't know of anything in progress that would threaten it. If he'd taken out his niece, though...that changed things. Especially if that had only been part of a quiet purge of dangerous noblemen. That was a desperation move, often a prelude to a poor ruler's fall from power. He'd definately have to remember to look into it when he got back to the palace.
He ordered three shots of malt liquor, paying in D-Bills, and took his first look around for the night's real entertainment. Ian liked to think of himself like kind King Henry from the old tales, walking among his people to gauge their moods and to gain a glimpse of their life. When he was honest, as he usually was after his first shot, he was just out chasing tail where the tabloid cameras would have trouble finding him.
Because, frankly, screw settling down and making heirs. Or even making bastards. Ian hadn't asked to be First Prince, and he wasn't going to inflict that life on a child. Hanse or Marie could take care of that, he wanted none of it. But he was still a man and a man still had needs.
And then he saw her - his entertainment for the night was among the dancers, her moves foreign in a way he couldn't quite place, yet sexual in a way he found all too familiar. She was a mechwarrior, one of the mercenaries he'd hired to guard New Avalon, he thought. Somebody's Dragoons (weren't they all?,) or maybe Wolf's somethings (he had once worked out that just over 8% of the mercenary units working for his government at any given time were run by somebody whose name was a variation on "Wolf" - usually by choice - his favorite was the "Lobo Locos," an aptly named unit out of somewhere in the back end of the Free Worlds League.) It didn't matter. She was a redhead. He liked redheads.
As she moved off the floor, he went in for the kill, offering her the third shot and sliding into a seat at the table she'd appropriated for her stuff. The camo jacket on the chair read "Kerensky."
"I like your moves," he opened, but it didn't matter what he said, "What's your name?"
She winced a little, he wondered why, but her response was gamely enough: "Natasha." the word again sounding foreign in a way he couldn't quite place. Almost Terran, and that was odd enough, but not quite. And it was hard enough to tell behind the deliberate slur of feigned intoxication. "Friends call me Tasha." She extended a hand, trembling a little as if she were actually tipsy.
Instead of alert and deadly.
"And what's yours?"
"Friends call me Dave."
"Dave? I have a feeling we will get along fine, Dave..."