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Foreigner      The Foreigner's flagship is not a place ordinary mortals want to spend a lot of time on. Between the noxious black smog pouring from its smokestacks, the unstable and unpleasant patter its wheels create as it moves, the slopping noise of the fishmen ambling about the deck, the silent glassy-eyed stares of the Deep Ones from the shadows, the creaking of the wooden decks, and the uncanny *stability* with which the ship cleaves through the waves, it's a thing that generates nervousness and ill-temperment in all but the most resolute of people. It is the ship of a thing that lives beneath the waves, the ship of a thing that *owns* the waves, the ship belonging to a black abyss that devours all manner of things.

     Said abyss is currently sitting at a table on the front deck, dressed in his smart uniform, his cane leaning against the wall. There's a black china tea set sitting on an exquisite wooden table, along with a tall pitcher of lemonade and a chilled bucket of fine wine. Cookies sit on a platter nearby. A fishman hybrid stands off to the side, ready to receive and wait on the abyss and his guest.

     The Foreigner raises his own glass to his lips.

     And now...he would wait.
Midway     There's a quite sudden geyser of water off the port-bow, as if something beneath the surface had exploded. When the water settles, she stands there. A visage carved in alabaster and obsidian. The only color to the woman's figure is her eyes, a glowing crimson. A ghost enshrined with rage, carefully concealed beneath a fine porcelin covering. The Princess of Progress.

    But she's not here to try and out-terrible-creature-from-the-deep her host for the afternoon.

    The Princess folds her arms gently and strides forward in steady, confident steps. She seems to rise-- as something enormous and round rolls out of the waves beneath her. The occasional glimpse of enormous humanlike teeth reveals it to be her parasitic rigging which brings her to the level of the flagship's gunwales.

    Without accepting any assistance, she steps over and deposits herself on the deck. Her rigging sinks, falling to the wayside and disappearing somewhere behind the vessel while Midway dips her head. Contrasting the previous meeting with the Raider Demon, there is no hesitation or caution. She was invited to this meeting, after all.

    "Foreigner of the Black Ships."
Foreigner      The blast of water draws attention. Several fishmen scramble to their stations, or are about to, when the Foreigner holds up his hand. At that, they fall in, disciplined to a fault. Midway gets a look at just how well-trained these hybrids in their uniforms are - the precision with which they relay their orders is superhuman. The Foreigner stands as Midway arrives, every bit the proper gentleman. He lowers his head politely, he raises his glass to greet her, and he gestures to the on-duty fishman, who pulls out her chair with the politeness of a New England gentleman. Only once she's been seated - and her chair pushed in, and tea and biscuits and all the rest offered - does the Foreigner actually speak. His voice has a clipped, gentlemanly accent, with a fatherly tone behind it, and an officer's habit of enunciation. He's clear and proper and disciplined, his back straight, one hand folded in his lap, one on his glass.

     "I'm so pleased you could make it, madam," the Foreigner says cheerfully, raising a glass, "Here's to pleasant meetings. Please, help yourself to whatsoever you like. If none of this fare meets your needs, I'm sure I can have Abernathy go fetch you something else, isn't that right, Abernathy?"

     The hybrid nods. "Yes, Father."

     "Good boy, Abernathy."

     "So."

     He sets his glass down and places his now free hand on the table. "This is a business meeting, and I don't know about you, my lady, but I am a man who believes in cutting to the quick and getting to the heart of things. I'm a merchant, first and foremost - a man interested in securing trade routes and acquiring new clients, in earning new and interesting currencies, and in opening new markets. So tell me, my beautiful princess - what do I have to do to get your business?"
Midway     She cares little for decorum, and yet, this will reach the core of the matter the quickest-- and such Midway assumes the offered seat. She pinches the folds of her dress between fingertips and shifts it until she is satisfied with the arrangement. A teacup is accepted, lifted, but not partaken from-- Can she even do so with those spines around her jawline?

    Red eyes flick from the drink to the man's son, then to the man himself. This close, it's unmistakable. Just as the Foreigner's eyes gleam with madness, Midway's burn with a carefully restrained fury. The source of that ever-present glow, perhaps.

    She places the teacup back down, then leans forward. Her fingers lace together, metallic reinforcement gleaming in the sun, "I am the progress forced upon mankind as a result of conflict. The desperate, life-and-death struggle for victory and thus survival. My dear, verbose gentleman-- I am war. My business, therefore, is also war." Her head tilts slightly, casting her eyes into the shadow of her bangs, "I believe you are one who dabbles in it as well. The Raider Demon spoke of you during its enhancement. You had an arrangement with it, as I understand."
Foreigner      The Foreigner's smile doesn't change. His eyes don't move from hers. He only blinks at odd intervals, as if he's intentionally blinking every few seconds for some reason instead of a more natural pace. It's obviously off, and it's odd to watch, but for Midway, it's probably not nearly as unsettling.

     "Indeed, she did have that arrangement with me. I offered oil and metal in exchange for her privateer efforts against various targets. I've got my fingers in quite a few business efforts."

     "And if war is your business, madam," there's that mad smile, "Then I am *certain* we can do business. I have no particulars about whom you are at war with, so long as it isn't me and mine. My boys and girls are perfectly willing to work with your girls, and I've no particular qualms about whatever targets you happen to want dealt with. And we both know, my dear, that war needs cargo - needs oil, needs steel, needs coal, needs blood. I can provide oil, steel, and coal, and, in some circumstances, I might even be able to procure blood."

     "Does that sound appealing to you, Princess?"
Midway     The intentional blinking is observed. It's quite obvious. But not important. It's probably about as unnerving as Midway not blinking at all. Those crimson eyes shift aside briefly to one of the crew moving by on their duties, before returning to the Foreigner directly.

    "Yes, that is what it indicated. Raiding targets of your choosing for rewards." Her head dips slightly, the faintest change in her posture conveys amusement, "Like a dog. Although that is often the best way to deal with such Demons, so I do not fault your approach."

    The woman's posture straightens at this point, her hands relocating to her lap, "Oil and steel are sought after. As is aluminium. Keep your coal, it is of no use to me or mine." Her head tilts the other way, "As for blood, it is most readily provided by the enemy."

    A hand unfolds, lifts, her fingers curled upwards like talons, "In return, I expect you wish to direct my wrath. But I will not take direction, for I am no subordinate. Instead, I offer something more valuable than mere brute strength. Bear in mind I am the Princess of Progress. My offer is powerful but straightforward," Her fingers straighten, baring the flat of her palm, "Development. Weapons. Armor. Propulsion. This is my specialty."
Foreigner      The Foreigner's chuckle is quiet and good-natured, like the bubbling of a deep ocean vent. "I wouldn't say a dog, madam. A dog is a friend. You don't order a dog, you teach it. And there's not hardly any shame in privateering."

     "Oil and steel is easy. Aluminum, too. Development's an interesting thing, Princess. My boys and girls do their own sort of science, but I'm more than happy to take what I can get. I'm not in the need for propulsion, but the rest, the rest sounds like a deal well-struck."

     "A simple bargain, I think."

     The Foreigner holds out his hand, smiling at her. "And, I think, you might be willing to make an agreement of mutual military assistance? Mutual defense seems like something we can both benefit from, considering how many...unsightly folk there are, who don't know the first thing about how this sort of thing works."
Midway     "Perhaps," Midway capitulates. She finds little benefit in pursuing the meaning of her words beyond the initial understanding. Her head inclines once more, eyes cast in that ominous shadow as she considers the deal. After a moment, she nods, "Yes. Materials in exchange for enhancement. I find this agreeable."

    She does not move, however, to take his hand. Not until-- there it is. The secondary point she expected. Military aid. Those crimson eyes narrow as she considers those words.

    "Your power is not unknown to me, Foreigner. I observed your activities when you first sortied to the Raider Demon. Quite impressive. That you possess such power but still believe that alliance may be necessary proves you are not merely strong, but quite wise." Her hand lifts, and she places it fanned out over her breastbone, "I, too, am confident in my strength. But any warship is only as strong as the fleet around her. This, too, applies to my Black Fleet."

    The hand lowers, "As you have proven to be both strong and wise, a partnership is acceptable to me." That same hand is then slid forward into his. She has a certain expectation based on this man's prior behaviors, but for now will merely attempt a surprisingly firm handshake.

    "You may call me Midway. If you prefer my titles, I will not object."
Foreigner      A tendril coils out of the air around their arms as Foreigner's hand locks with hers. Foreigner's mad eyes gleam as the tentacle closes around her upper arm. If she's paying careful attention, it's clearly coming from about where his elbow is. "Then it's agreed, Princess. Feel free to call me Foreigner. Everyone does."

     The tendril slides back into space as Foreigner's hand releases hers. "You remind me of my lovely wife," he says cheerfully as he sits down, "She has the same sort of way of speaking. Very business-like. I love that about her. Woman knows how to cut to the heart of the matter even better than I do. I have an unfortunate habit of being verbose." His smile is knowing and teasing as he picks up another cup.

     "She's a good woman, you know. Very patient. I don't think you're a very patient woman, based on what you've already told me, but I think you're a good woman, and that's really all I particularly care about. People who keep their agreements. I really CaN't AbIdE dEaLbReAkErS."

     He covers his mouth, as if he didn't mean to do that, and then laughs. "My apologies. I really can't abide dealbreakers. It just makes me so angry."
Midway     Expectation dashed. And for this Midway seems pleased. The alien tendril coiling around her wrist is noted but ignored. Just more of the otherworldliness of this man creeping into this phase of reality. Perhaps it is a sign that he is pleased to make such an arrangement, she reasons.

    "You are correct," Midway states as she retracts her hand, "If I view something which needs correction, I correct it. There is no reason to tolerating suboptimal performance." Her eyes wander to the ship's stacks and the heavy black smoke they spew, then back to the Foreigner directly, "However obvious it may appear to be, however, there can be surprises in older designs." Such an outmoded power plant, and yet he is pleased with it? There is clearly something to this that she is not aware of which clearly overcomes its shortcomings.

    Or it just can't be replaced because it's part of his identity as a Servant, perhaps.

    "I do not make many such arrangements," Midway explains, "I am often left disappointed." Shifting, she rises to her feet, "My experiences with those who disappoint often end violently. But I believe this arrangement will bear fruit."
Foreigner      "Most of my agreements," Foreigner says, a gleam in his eye, "Come at the end of a gun. I'm something of an old hat when it comes to gunboat diplomacy. The oldest, really."

     He watches her rise. "And I have no doubt that this'll bear fruit, my dear. And if any of your girls happen to decide they need husbands, I have plenty of sons willing and able. It'd be my pleasure to deepen the bonds of friendship between our people as extensively as possible."

     "And something like that might even bear some interesting results of its own."

     He raises the cup into the sky. "But we can talk about that, later, once we've seen well what we can offer each other, once friendship has already been deepened. You have a pleasant evening, Midway. I'll be around. You can always reach me by radio; my boys are listening."

     "And I'm always watching the seas." His eyes flicker again, a brief red glimpse behind his mad gaze.
Midway     Midway's eyes narrow once more in thought as she considers Foreigner again. This seems considerably to be something other than gunship diplomacy. Then again, she considers, she is surrounded by his crew. If things turned unfavorable, would they have been ordered to turn on her? The what-ifs are almost as fascinating as the reality.

    "I must disappoint you," the Princess gestures, "We are not human. We are not even 'alive' by typical standards. Your sons are destined to disappointment on that front. As for myself," Her head inclines, "I am married to my work."

    Fingertips pinch folds of her dress and she tugs it out, legs crossing at her calves in a ghastly imitation of a courtsey, "I will be in touch. You can always find me in the Abyss." The woman then turns, steps up on the gunwale, and then simply casts herself over the side. Clear of the paddlewheel, she hits the water and sinks like a stone. The blue sea remains dark where she disappeared for several moments longer until it, too, fades.