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[sup][i]Chinatown, San Francisco, USA[/i][/sup]
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	Chen looked up from his monolithic placement within the very backs of the restaurant, and heaved another of his iconic sighs. 

	Truth be told, he knew full well that he had hired idiots for this. This - perhaps the "this" that would form the bulk of perhaps what was the Kuomintang's sole shot at redemption within the past five generations of humiliations upon China. First and Second, there were the Opium Wars, of which China was embarrassingly subserved to each and every one of Europe's powers. Third came the dissolution of the Qing, and into the period of warlordism was the greatest civilization to grace history had known. The Fourth came the War with Japan, at which the great Kuomintang would be fractured internally by the insidious communists from the heart, and the barbaric Japanese from the skin, until rupturing forth unto the Fifth great humiliation of China, at which the communist bandits would unleash their depraved hordes unto the island-fortress of Taiwan itself, while the West had - as they had always done - simply observed as China burned with unconcerned gazes. 

	And perhaps, the sixth humiliation upon his country would be that he had hired a band of "motley street Negros" to find the crown jewel of what would be the world's most important auction in the everlong fight to win back China. Yet, perhaps that was simply the worst of it - the full knowledge that Chen had known he would need the disposables to do the work for him in Nevada, and the pittance that they would be the ones so famed to be recalled in the far-flung history books as the "Saviors of the Chinese People", and perhaps, he only as the lackey who simply had the funding to pay these souls such a pittance as to think the [i]Principia[/i] as naught but a trinket by which the Kuomintang would pay a measly sum for. 

	An artifact on the stalker's market, situated in some sun-bleached tent strewn about a red Nevada mesa, or one cheap nylon tarp draped beneath a beating Kazakh sun, might be introduced by a snaggle-toothed young merchant, scars of the Zones etched upon his face as if to age the poor young man fifty years. There, he would provide no greeting but the presentation of an artifact - encased in a lead-cased glass dome which itself weakly wrapped itself about scrawny, spider-thin fingers, which draped each cleansed view unto the artifact's glass with sweat-stained fingerprints. Such a thing, the skeletal figure of a man might grant his tirade of his escapades into the local Zone - of his perhaps suspiciously heroic exploits as he kissed Mother Danger herself perhaps one too many times firmly upon her lips, as if he had ripped her by unsuspecting shoulders and had lunged himself forward, uninvited as he cast his own invitation towards his own demise. 

	And just to think, the fates of so many nations were hinging on this street kid to do his first real job right. 

	Chen tap-clicked the refresh button upon the cinderblock of a laptop on the second, desperately hoping that that iconic blue arrow mark would appear just above the plaster-white mail symbol. He glued his eyes to his screen, much like a carpenter might glue his splitered old wood in hopes that he might keep his beam together for only moments more. Moments mattered much, especially in the case when the momentary existence of one's whole nation, by the same passing moment, only became a more distant memory. He clicked the button and watched it reverb through the San Francisco restaurant. He felt it chop, screwed and vibrate through the oscillating desk fan as it made its hypnotic pass through the megacity's still air. 

	A blue button. Etched perfectly with a "1", right in its center. 

	Chen instinctively reached for the massive white block he excused to be a phone, mechanically plugging away at the dashing dottted sequence as the numbers hummed at his every touch. A symphony of bleeps, precursor to the sonata of play. 

	He was calling the Commissioner - perhaps uninvited, certainly illegal. And, with no doubt, the most powerful man in America. All the while, the phone dialed through as it performed its electric groove, and to this ambient toccata, Chen smiled like a teenager getting lucky with his first girlfriend. 

	[b]"Central Commissioning Service, how may I help you?"[/b] the familiar codename called out. The Chinaman only could glee in turn.

	[b]"It's Twelve Star."[/b] Chen introduced. [b]"Pass along a message to Mister Colombo to me."[/b]

	He felt the operator's exhausted breath a continent away. It only made Chen's grin deepen. Even the image of how this man's jaw was going to drop all the way to China was enough to keep Chen alive and eager. 

	[b]"And that message would be...?"[/b]

	[b]"We've found Principa."[/b]

	Silence.

	The man on the other other line awkwardly coughed. A forced, dislocated half-slacked guffaw. 

	[b]"You're bullshitting me."[/b] 

	Chen yowled at his disbelief.

	[b]"The Ants were right. It [i]was[/i] in Nevada, after all."[/b] Chen still couldn't believe his luck when this same street punks got a tip off in Tijuana through the local EALN. Guys like them could barely scrape two coins together to cook up crack rocks in their kitchens and make a profit. When they said they found the coordinates of the Principa? Bullshit, the cliques said. But, Chen was a gambler at heart, and he had a good set about his feelings when he saw those guys out and about. Each of them possessed that uncanny charisma, apropos the youthful boxer who walked with the confidence to make the scofful redoubtful. 
	
	A beat came through, just interrupted by a rough groan over the other line. Chen knew the guy was nervous. And why shouldn't he be? With luck like this, the KMT had The Commission by the balls. 

	[b]"Forward me the files."[/b]
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	He hung up his line not five minutes later. He couldn't even believe what was on his computer screen, nevermind what any of this meant. 

	Yet...the KMT were desperate...but a cornered animal was the most dangerous one in the jungle. And they needed someone with a lot to gain, but still something to lose. And with a prize [i]that[/i] big? The KMT would be staking their entire life on this one artifact. 

	[b]"Well?"[/b] the secretary asked him. He looked back up in response, a slow stare from one lowly to another.

	[b]"Get everybody on the line. Everyone."[/b]

	The secretary raised an eyebrow. His only response was a grin.

	[b]"Tell them we've found their anti-grav artifacts. We're setting up The Auction."[/b]
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