[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/F2p9i3I.jpg[/img][sub][sub][sub][h3]P ' S I Y A H[/h3][/sub][/sub][/sub][img]http://i.imgur.com/91zCtZn.png[/img] [/center] [sub][sub][sub][h2][color=08b0cb][indent][indent][α] Luynus — [i]Snoria Bazaar[/i] — Early Evening[/indent][/indent][/color][/h2][/sub][/sub][/sub][color=464646][img]http://i.imgur.com/J95XiCl.png[/img][/color][color=7d7d7d][indent][indent][i][sup]Initiating . . .[/sup][/i][/indent][/indent] [indent][i]E[/i]legant intonations and intricately laced articulation surrendered from pale lips, every breath of annunciation carried fluently betwixt pearl flesh that easily conjoined over curious dialect and accentuated carefully into conversation. Poised phrases, inquires and rejoinders swiftly collaborating behind interchanges of haggling dialougue and manipulated tongue. This was an art of its' own, on a separate tier of interaction that was inclined with the feathering tints of nobility and refined gentry; a class of bustling creativity in the garnish of shadowy manipulation laden under obligated sincerity. Violence and disfavour here was carefully cloaked behind simpers of rabid endeavors, biting inclinations that translated to ascending prices and refusals of purchase in favour of the neighboring client. The bustling exchange lasted for barely a minute, sixty seconds of rapid firing intricacies and suddenly the heavy weight of a vintage military shell was being slapped into her arachnid gestures, fingers curling against near ancient metal salvaged from dead hands and hunks of worthless machinery. [color=08b0cb]"I need [i]chips[/i],"[/color] a breathy sigh intoned, a pleasing dialect and accentuation of modified vocal cords that rang with the cadence of grace and dignity: the sole, regional language of Upper Nobility. [color=08b0cb]"Not this.. thing."[/color] A scoff puttered from her pearl coloured mouth, tongue pressing against pallid bone in clicks of disapproval, and offended service as she literally dumped the shell back into wreathed hands interlaced with silvery threads and clusters of cybernetics. This was shoddy amplification that tampered the skin and wore the membrane to leathery, pocketed scars and disfigured complexion, the exhibit of black market results often left her lips in a curl. The proprietor let loose a tangent of dribble, dulled tones and intonations that beget to the local flavour, not [i]Jovi[/i] articulation, but the slur of [i]Ori[/i] that still made her cavities bleed. [color=acacac]"Then I'll give you these: ninety credits, all together."[/color] Two more shells, and bundles of fiber optic cables and ports assembled into a bundle of purchase; sales and deals fished out from random selection, she mused. The translation, of course, was lost somewhere in the bedlam of timbre and tones, a slip of the verbal juncture, and hope waned through the successions of bartering before she left, sauntering further down the browse with emerald oculi reeling with the myriad of wares proffered openly by frenzied possessors. Sensory here was absolution, and the whorl of activity and bandits of illegal franchise literally spurned her amplifications into overdrive, violet pings and modulating frequencies pulsating to life in irregular blushes of colour in reaction to electric currents and impulses. P'siyah carefully concealed her sensory implants through the ebonette overcoat tied securely around her waist, knotted and laced together over the latex of her suit that suffocated her in the slick material. The concepts of covert operations were null on context to her appearance, the grace of hyper beauty from genetic purchase and years of constant splicing had simultaneously cursed her with the inability to properly blend into the mortal flaw of humanity. However, under the guise of a noble within a noble, she played into her role with finesse, for the extravagance was known among the bazaar. The slum market recognized the royal when they glanced upon one, and in the upper echelon of wares where prices were displayed into the reeling and befuddling expense, P'siyah ventured with the confidence of one befitting to their stature. The spools of her ebonette hair were wreathed high onto her crown, extensive tails spilling from the knotted tresses pinned into place through swift, spindly graces of her hands. Boots of common footwear found purchase easily on the bazaar asphalt reflecting both neon and smog in whorls of oil—slick water; left loose around her ankles and crisscrossed with curious silver buckles and obsidian heels. She was dressed down into rudimentary cloth, courtesy of a curious bystander she had came across during the transit upon the civilian transport, exchanging wardrobes under the pretenses of befitting wear and the moniker of Priscilla, a epitaph given with a garnishing smirk by one of her more quip—riddled comrades. Priscilla was a noble woman, Lower Nobility of course, of certain wealth by the bequeath of some doting father who lauded himself on a throne of a benevolent nature to his beloved heirs. She was here by her lonesome, wary of the experience, but lolling into the atmosphere, complexity wreathed in simplicity; this was her only ability into surreptitious affairs. It played well into various results, especially the further P'siyah descended into the bazaar, sidelong glances peering through the thick fringe of her lashes, hands tucked away into the depress of pockets as she continued, at her leisure, a saunter worthy of a boulevard. Whilst her impression was best deemed careless and inexperienced, there was a confident sway into her swagger, one of pure intent and destination and every sweep of flickering green gleaned new sights, information, potential illustrated into the gathering of details and specs through this eternal bustle. The wolfish fatale among the sheep, P'siyah swept through the flock until the resonating scuffle of her heel paused at the threshold of an absurdly embellished sign, decked out completely in harsh, hot pinks and illuminated within borders of cyan bulbs that pulsed in the endeavors to garner attention. It was lurid and vain, and utterly ridiculous, and exactly what she required. Located in the upper tiers of the Snoria slums where the colony apartment towers loomed, wreathing around the smaller, underground establishments banked between the compacted buildings with shoddy brick and dampened alloys. The labeling illuminated the stairwell that fell way into the gloom and P'siyah carefully shielded the emerald of her oculi to an aquamarine clipped with mossy undertones and piled her thick, tumbling hair into knots and swirls to decorate her appearance; these intricate and minuscule performances of sprucing activating the threading of sensory throughout her frame; webs shimmering to life—bearing hues of azure with violet discs humming in their luminescence. She carefully plucked her way through the door, hinges that should've squealed upon pressure instead yawned fluidly, betraying the aesthetic of the underground facility as curious, vibrating bass waves pitched, and coated her ears and nerves. Immediately the proprietor shimmered into view, heavy cybernetics seeded tight through the metallic shrug of his arms that wired up to broad, copper plates feathered in overdone trims of gold that faded into the black of shadows surrounding the both of them. Mechanical eyes honed in on her figure, immediately bypassing the barrier of cloth to recognize her own altered form; genetic and mechanic. [color=acacac]"What's a Noble want with the Nyte?"[/color] He slurred, heavily accented [i]Ori[/i] pouring from his lips that almost made her expression cringe into disfavour. [color=08b0cb]"This is a [i]meeror[/i] den... No?"[/color] P'siyah carefully supplied, mimicking his slur and slang to appear familiar with the locality. [color=acacac]"I don't know what you're talking about."[/color] He answered swiftly, immediately penning a rapid succession of modules she hadn't noticed at his temple, various components shimmering into hues of green that brightened to near, blinding neon. Her eyes narrowed, memorizing the particular motions and gesticulation until he nodded, confirming that their conversation was deemed secure, temporarily, by the broadcast of the channel he supplied through his own mental capacity. P'siyah shrugged her shoulders, smiling a trademark simper of dazzling glamour and canted her head to one side, manipulated refineries bleeding out onto her countenance as she applied the long term effects of her exceptional beauty to gain particular favour. [color=08b0cb]"Now.. I need one of your private rooms, furthest down as possible. No disturbances. A lady needs to get her fix."[/color] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/91zCtZn.png[/img][/center] [i]O[/i]f course, he had no idea of what her real intentions were, or that using a [i]meeror[/i] den as a base of operations, because it was a particular vantage point in relation to the geosynchronous orbit of the Operational Support Satellite, and with the colony apartments' own bustle of activity and electronics that would eclipse her own meddling. The fact she had been heavily anticipating to get her turn with the OSS was another matter all together, one she had gleaned over carefully when inquired by Anson to her... [i]Intentions[/i]. Allow the other hackers to have their trinkets and games, the OSS was her gleaming gem to be sharpened and finalized into something of pure grandeur and polish. Pearl flesh tipped into a sensuous smile, pouring into a sigh as she knelt down onto the floor, ignoring the finer trimmings of the furnishing stained and the mixture of blacklight that gave further evidence to the real endeavors carried through out the den. No matter, she thought, carefully unfastening the knot of her overcoat and slowly shedding the cloth to activate the latex sensory suit that brightened to life, illuminated with her own discs beneath the slick mesh and material. It was akin to a secondary skin, leaving none to the imagination as she also retrieved various tools from her previous cover. These were projection tools and rings of silver, six in total that she laid about her in a circle, as swift and careful flexes of muscles and fingers began penning the objects to life. Low hums resonated through out the room, blooming to online existence with an azure glow smothering the purple haze and swarming with various binaries and flickering numerals as each of the rings arose, expanding into the six—gated holographic sphere of The Seraphim. The process took less than a minute, the gargantuan projection responding immediately to every movement she executed as visual panels came forth, summoned by small pings with her various controls bridled beside each screen projecting her status. The complexity of the network shadowed various servers and farmed into its own private sector of information. It took another time frame of few, passing seconds to initiate The Seraphim's display and to locate the OSS through its' trajectory miles above the planet, but that distance hardly phased P'siyah as the matrix of her holosphere transmuted into coding and rapid—fire signals, immediately connecting to the satellite without hindrance through invisible links and fine threads of technology. Immediate, swift flashes of her digits over her controls, almost too quick for the mortal eye; twisting over them with flicks of her wrists, keys blinking onto the projection and surrendering from view as she initiated the up—link and finalized the connection with a grin of completed finesse. The OSS controls were hers now, the entire system responding with quiet sounds of calibration and transferring its' all—seeing purpose onto her visual panels, various sectors of the bazaar immediately available to her personal threatre and interchanging to diverse details of the market as she twisted the controls. With fingers sunk deep into digital feed, it was almost artistic into every bend of her arachnid gestures just as a familiar voice splintered over her consciousness through mental feedback. [color=f26522][i][/i][/color] [color=08b0cb]"Sorry Anson..."[/color] She murmured, eyes aflame into pools of peridot as she acknowledged that her commanding officer was linked through his modified oculi to the satellite, but she could amplify and fortify its' range, thus able to broadcast the ocular feed into a broader scope. She had intentions to access luxury models located through the bazaar that would yield to her the exact specifications and details of the local revenue through every stall she could pinpoint with The Seraphim display and the OSS's geolocator, however she suspended these actions by swiping the panels and screens to the side, waiting for the final input of her commands. Her response was gradually delayed as she pried her fingers from the OSS controls and began to expand her connection range next, The Seraphim efficient and almost ruthless as she began accessing the ports of cameras located outside the den, panels coming to life so she could examine the limitations of the building. A small ping to her flank aroused her attention then, pink hues blinking to animation as another hacker activated her own terminal, making P'siyah acknowledge such by the noise, but did not garner any further reaction as she carefully responded to the direct missive of their residing leader with her own encryption in the swift, elegant tongue of [i]Jovi[/i]. [sup][color=000000][i]>Seraphim and the OSS are connected. On stand by.[/i][/color][/sup][/indent][/color]