I wonder if these bars taste good

         A slight frown of annoyance hovered about the pilot's features as he removed his visor. Eight years. It had been eight years since he had left this miserable planet, and now he was being forced to come here by higher authorities. True, he would only be on the planet surface for forty-eight hours, but They could have sent him somewhere other than the town of his birth.

         He tossed the visor behind him, into the cockpit of his mobile suit, the Sahama-Dien. It was beautifully made, designed to match his fighting style perfectly; even the outer 'decor' was a flawless reflection of his personality. Obviously whoever designed it had taken great care in doing so.

         After a few moments of gazing out at the town through the open hangar door, the pilot sighed softly. There wasn't too much that could go wrong. After all, eight years can change a person quite a bit, and he doubted he would run into anyone who would recognise him now. When he'd left, he had been a scrawny teenager, completely unskilled, weak, and unsure of his place in the world. Had he been left to his own devices, he'd probably have ended up as a baker's apprentice, or some equally unimportant job. But he had shown potential, and They had chosen him.

         Now he was a skilled warrior, a trained assassin. Occasionally, at times like these, a diplomat. It certainly wasn't the role he liked the most, but he was bound to Their rules. If They said he was to play diplomat, then that was what he would do. They held his fate in Their hands; it was unwise to go against Their wishes.

         This being said, he was loathing the fact that he had to come here. The initial dread had subsided, though, and all he felt was a dull, bitter distaste. Like the taste of bile at the back of his throat. But as long as no one recognised him, things would not become too bothersome. So, the young mech pilot sighed a soft sigh of resignation, and leaped down to the ground.

         Pushing himself back to his feet from the crouched position he had landed in, the silent assassin brushed a few strands of hair out of his face with his free hand. Standing, he was just over five and a half feet tall, and he was of a thin build that would fool many into thinking he was fragile. Of course, this was not the case. If it were, he would have been long dead by now. However, there he stood, in a hangar he had no desire to be in, preparing himself for a mission he had no desire to fulfill.

         Since he would be speaking with a head of state, he was not dressed in his usual attire. His long, pale lavender hair (save for a few wavy strands that framed his porcelain-pale face beautifully) was held back in a loose ponytail with a thin emerald ribbon that matched the hue of his eyes perfectly, and he wore black dress pants with a partially unbuttoned navy silk top. Not the most formal of outfits, especially if one was to be speaking with the leader of a country, however, it was the most that the unorthodox diplomat was willing to do. His goal was not to impress the masses, nor even the person to whom he was speaking. If he had to rely on his clothes to persuade someone of his viewpoint, then he would be a poor excuse for a diplomat indeed. Granted, diplomacy was not his main skill; mech piloting, assassination, espionage, and even fencing would be higher up on a list of his skills than diplomacy. However, the boy could be manipulative when he had to be, and really, that was all that mattered.

         The young assassin threw one last glance over his shoulder at the Sahama-Dien, making sure that it was being attended to, before making his way to the open hangar door, where an escort of five guards awaited him. Of course. Can't allow me to find the way by myself. I might get lost or injured, and then what would they do? the young pilot thought grimly. Of course, this wasn't always a bad sign. But he was never fond of guards, especially when he was unarmed. He brushed his side absently with one hand. It felt odd, not having a gun there. No matter how many times he was sent on a simple 'tea time' mission, he'd never get used to that. But there wasn't much he could do about it.

         He forced a smile as he approached the five men, raising one hand in greeting while the other slid into his pocket. How he longed to be somewhere else.

         "Ah, Mister Variu Dravanscus. We've been awaiting your arrival." One of the men motioned behind them, out the door. "If you'd be so kind as to follow us..."

         The young mech pilot nodded silently. He had no reason to waste his breath on these puppets. Rather, he followed them, watching the town in silence as they made their way to the state building. Despite his desire to be elsewhere, he found himself wondering how much the town had changed since he had last been there. The last time he had seen it, he was still a boy, only fourteen, and eight years had passed since then. He wondered if anyone remembered him.

         But it was no matter. He had more important things to worry about.