On the fifth chime of the clock the door to the chamber opened and a man stepped inside with a languid confidence at odds with the reality of his situation; he was a stranger stepping into a strange room about to meet a bunch of strange people he'd never met before. You wouldn't think so by looking at him, however. His back was straight, his hands were clasped casually behind his back and an easy smile played around his face as he cast his bionic gaze across the room, micro-devices clicking and whirring behind hiss artificial irises. 

The room was empty. He was the first to arrive. 

"Naturally," Apollyon Kaicero said quietly to himself and closed the door behind him as he put the keycard back into the pocket of his armored coat. The importance of punctuality and making a good impression had been drilled into him throughout his entire life, but the aristocrat had learned quickly that that wasn't the case for the degenerates he usually found himself working with. Many of them considered 'anything within the hour' to be close enough. He snorted at the thought, shook his head and set off on a stroll about the room. 

It had to be said that he was pleasantly surprised at the tasteful upholstery of the space. It reminded Apollyon a little of home. "Ah!" he exclaimed softly at the sight of a table with food and, more importantly, drink, and he immediately poured himself a glass of amasec. These kinds of meetings were infinitely more enjoyable with a little buzz, Apollyon had decided early on in his budding career as a mercenary. He wondered where the Rogue Trader was and chided himself as he realized that the man must be waiting for the others to arrive before making a grand entrance. He'd do the same thing in his position, after all. 

He had left the death-arc in his room -- it was impolite to bring such significant firepower to a friendly meeting, after all -- and therefore looked like little more than a highborn traveler taking a moment to enjoy the best that the station had to offer. His coat and clothes were dark, yet stylish, and his close-cropped blond hair almost seemed to glow in the warm firelight that emanated from the hearth. Apollyon swept his coat aside and made himself comfortable on one of the chairs by the table, crossed one leg over the other and sipped away at his amasec while looking around at the pictures of glory and honor that dominated the room, chuckling softly at their self-aggrandizing nature. 

"Imperials," he whispered and shook his head.