When the ambassador closed the wide-open briefcase in front of her after hours of calm negotiations, everyone in the bar could finally breathe a little more easily now that there were no more military-grade explosives just lying around. As Maggie stood up, everyone else at the table followed, even though no such formalities were assumed. The woman’s authoritative presence coiled around the clients like tentacles, and while that alone was enough to let her wander around the station selling weapons to just about anyone, she had aged so well for a woman in her late forties that the local media had turned her into a bit of a celebrity. It didn’t matter whether it was a massive arms deal with her name stamped on it, or her face and a bit of cleavage on the screen, they all knew that Maggie Greer was good for business.<br/><br/>Thick, wavy locks of dark-brown hair coated the ambassador’s shoulders and framed her mature face above the neckline of a black, conservative tuxedo shirt. Maggie crossed her arms over the single, undone black button of her light-grey jacket and waited for the men to leave.<br/><br/>“Madam Ambassador,” the leader of the group said formally as he offered to shake hands.<br/><br/>“Commander,” Maggie responded with a low, soothing voice and offered only a light grip of her gloved hand, which the leader of one of the deadliest freelance squadrons ever to dock on the station didn’t dare to squeeze any harder than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a handshake to show off power or confidence, but to evaluate whether or not he was to be trusted with two shipments of high-explosive grenades.<br/><br/>“Don’t spend them all in one place,” Maggie said with a wide smile, and then finished with a smirk, “Unless I’m invited to watch.”<br/><br/>When the whole show was over and the men gone, the ambassador took a deep breath and redid the single button of her light-grey jacket that still left a good portion of the black shirt exposed, but got tightened up just enough to put more emphasis on the modest size of her bust. Maggie turned her back on the briefcase on the table and trusted her people to take care of it just as soon as she departed the slightly elevated deck where their meeting had taken place for the whole bar to see. It was, after all, free advertisement and a show of force of the Black Dragon, an independent faction specialized in the manufacturing of the deadliest explosives in the galaxy.<br/><br/>The day’s hard work was done, and now it was time for a drink—and perhaps for a little play, as Maggie’s eyes fixated on the Ethonian insignia that someone had been foolish enough to show off here of all places and today of all days. Even from the distance, Maggie could recognize the symbol, and it only got clearer and clearer as the sharp clatter of her heels got closer and closer to the blue-haired girl.<br/><br/>There was no point in any sort of introduction between the two members of the rival factions—or ‘rival’ in the sense that the Black Dragon was making fucktons of legitimate cash and the Ethonians benefited merely by stealing from them, and from everyone else for that matter. The woman in light-grey and black sat down opposite to the girl at the table, swiftly plucking the cigar from between her lips, and then despite the Ethonian’s reaction, made a calm attempt to use a lighter and begin to smoke the cigar herself. Maggie was prepared to be polite enough not to exhale the smoke right at the girl’s face, if the situation ever got that far, but for now, the older brunette was looking the pale girl in the eye with no attempt to conceal arrogance.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>