Private Border Security: Dosuun's Front Line

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn stared at the wall.

Her sharp features gave way to no greater expression, remaining just as pointed as her gaze upon the stark surface. If one were to pop their head into the room and inspect the woman they might have thought her to be in a realm of completely neutral meditation.

Of course, internally, Evelynn was screeching.

How concerning, how alarming, how embarrassing! She had seen out of the corner of her eye the whispering glances that had come forth from her fellow travellers as the spaceport security singled her out. She had imagined their idle gossip as they continued onto their destinations:

She didn't look like a fugitive.

I bet you anything it's spice!

Poor thing, I watched a documentary about spaceport spice mules, it's scary stuff.

Oh, you're right! She had a cane, I bet it's hollowed out and filled to the brim with glitter!

A spaceport spice mule. Really? No, really?! Every time that Evelynn thought her life had hit rock bottom she uncovered a new layer beneath. She longed to yell, 'DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM', into the faces of those who watched but she supposed that the point of travelling under a false identity was for people to, in fact, not know who she was.

She continued gazing into the wall, as if it was going to provide the answer to the question of what happens next?

Would she lie? Swear down to the teeth that, yes, she was Beatrice Govan and that there obviously must be some kind of mistake? Everything depended on their end. What did they want? Was she a perceived threat? Perhaps there were fears of a far-reaching scheme that involved a man who was in dire need of a vasectomy spreading his children out to every corner of the known galaxy to infiltrate and take over?

That sounded even worse than being pegged as Susie the spice mule.

Her stare finally shifted downwards to the table, where her datapad sat. It was her voice, a brilliant device in all honesty. Practically made for interrogations as it hid any and all secrets and intonation with flat, robotic tones. Mercifully the security staff did not part her voice from her hands, otherwise, she might have been forced to garble tongueless vowels at them in a menacing fashion.

Or telepathy, but that always made things so... complicated.

At last, Evelynn's face twitched, her brow crinkling as impatience dawned upon her. Why were they keeping her waiting?!

 

[Delilah Graham]

​

romance & love & eight hours' sleep​

The ping had come just as Delilah was stepping into the turbolift at the Home Office.

For a moment, she considered ignoring it. Pretending she hadn't heard it. If she could get home and have a shower and a glass of wine before whatever the ping was turned into an explosion or a body count, she might just be able to face it. After all, who would call her on it? Grand Moff Yvarro was gone. The Supreme Leader was back in the capital, true, but still. The freedom of a quiet ride back to her flat, a hot shower, and a nice glass of red beckoned to her...

The doors slid shut, separating Delilah from the rest of the world.

With a heaving sigh, she pulled her comlink from her bag and opened the message. She was glad she did.

The ride to the customs station was mercifully short. Door to door -- well, door to hangar bay -- was about twenty minutes. The auburn-haired woman emerged to be greeted by an escort from the customs division. "Home Secretary," he said, offering a curt bow. "This way, please." He led her into the secured back corridors of the customs station, separated from the bustle of the station's main functions, which was to process immigrants and refugees into First Order space. The First Order was taking lots of refugees these days, given the upheaval going on in the rest of the galaxy. It was good to see the station firing on all cylinders.

Even in the back corridors, it was busy but quiet. The station operated round the clock, so there was no time for delay or inefficiency. The man showed her to an interview room and relieved her of her briefcase and coat, leaving Delilah in a plain grey suit as she entered. The room was utilitarian but comfortable, designed for security, surveillance, and efficiency, but not to be uncomfortable. Unlike a police interrogation room, one's presence here was not meant to intimidate or coerce. It was about getting information and getting one on one's way.

"Good evening," Delilah said casually, her gravelly voice posh and polished. She took a seat opposite the woman already in the room, clasping her hands before her on the table. "May I see your identification papers, please?"

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn's features drew into a tight, inquisitive stare as she appraised the woman who at last, entered the room. Professional. Efficient. Tailored. The woman's appearance contrasted with Evelynn's own, which gave the impression of the type of person who would take public transports in the first place.

High street clothes, straight from the bargain rack that was so nondescript that if you were to have asked the Sith's attire for its music opinions it would have said, 'oh, well I like a bit of everything, really.'

The outfit was offset by a pair of black, leather gloves, whose sole purpose were to hide the great gilded arm beneath. Talk about a statement piece.

It was straight to business and while Evelynn was affronted by the idea of handing over her forged paperwork to be personally scrutinised she still complied, sliding over a litany of fake documentation. Identification, travel visa, health declaration and whatever other requirement was needed. Half of it was a forgery; anything pertaining to her identity, although there had been no word of a lie when the woman had checked the box confirming that she was, indeed, vaccinated against mynock fever.

The issue at hand was that it was a cheap and cheerful fabrication. Not designed to be looked at but merely glanced at in passing. Given a minute and an eye that knew what to look for and everything fell apart.

This was precisely why Evelynn said nothing beyond her compliance. Nervous people talked, filled the room with inane babble that gave the game away. All she would do was sit back and speak when spoken to.

 

[Delilah Graham]

​

romance & love & eight hours' sleep​

"Thank you," was Delilah's only response at first.

She took the proffered documents and pulled them up to her. She didn't even need her reading glasses to spot an obvious forgery, but she reached into her inside breast pocket and drew them anyway, placing them on her thin nose so she could scrutinize the documents that had been presented. She studied each document in turn. Her gaze was relentless, scouring every inch of the front and back of each document. After a few minutes of prickly silence, punctuated only by the shuffling of papers as she shifted from one to the next, Delilah sat back in her chair and scooped the pages up with one hand. She reached up to pull the glasses off her face with the other, then framed the woman opposite her with a cool gaze.

Even still, she did not speak. Her eyes traced across the woman's features and her wardrobe.

It seemed -- if one would forgive the oxymoronic nature of the phrase -- meticulously careless. Thrown together so as to appear unremarkable. Fairly well done, Delilah thought; her own agents could possibly take a lesson from her. She tried to imagine Agent Queen in anything so pedestrian as an off-the-rack shirt; this elicited a huff from her nostrils and a slight upturn in her lips, creasing the alabaster around her mouth.

Finally, her gaze traveled back up from the woman's gloved hands, along her torso to her neck and jaw and then her face. Pretty, she thought to herself. Patrician, not pedestrian. Almost -- supercilious, somehow. The clothes are all wrong. The gloves... Delilah placed her free arm on the table, creating a pedestal with her fist upon which to rest her chin. She smiled. "Do you know why you were pulled for secondary vetting," Delilah finally began, her tone conversational and perhaps a touch wry, as if she were asking an old friend what she thought of the film they'd just seen. Her gaze flicked down to the documents and then up again to her face. "Miss... Govan?"

Was it perhaps just a touch of dubiousness in her tone?

Delilah smiled pleasantly.

Beatrice Govan

 

[Beatrice Govan]

She was really going to do this.

This woman was going to sit there and give the whole thorough rigmarole of document inspection. Unbelievable. Evelynn's right eyebrow lifted; a small quizzical notion that had to play the substitute for a grand and withering eye roll.

However, despite the obnoxious and unnecessary scrutiny of the forgery, Evelynn did find a small modicum of appreciation for the tactic. She could imagine in great detail, first-time offenders and hapless refugees left sitting in a pool of their own sweat in the stilted silence. Panic rising, hands fiddling, eyes darting. It was a craft, a form of artistry in doing as little possible to achieve maximum emotional damage.

As Evelynn was appraised she leaned backwards in the chair, her gloved hands clasped upon the table in front of her in a dignified calm, anticipating a question to be levelled. When it finally came her hands separated, reaching for the datapad where fingers deftly typed a response.

“Yes, that is what I prefer,” came the feminine robotic tones, reminiscent of an automated answering machine. The Sith could have changed the device's voice to something more natural if she truly desired, but Evelynn found that this exact tone and inflexion both frustrated and annoyed those who thought it appropriate to speak to her.

Preferring Miss Govan was not a lie and in fact her current truth. A wonderful technicality.

“Not officially, no,” she continued, her emerald eyes flitting from woman to datapad in the name of preventing a hideous spelling mistake, “and I feel no cause for me to speculate. That is your job.”

Evelynn returned the pleasant smile.

 

[Delilah Graham]

​

romance & love & eight hours' sleep​

"Indeed it is," said Delilah. She wasn't sure if she was bantering with the datapad or the woman herself, but given the quirked eyebrow providing a reasonable facsimile of sass, she suspected it was the latter. "Some of these documents are rather good forgeries," she said, her tone continuing to be conversational and pleasant, as if she were paying a compliment to the woman opposite her, rather than having caught her out in a crime. "You probably would have gotten away with it, actually. I mean, the sheer volume of people passing through this station makes one wonder just how closely the staff are checking documents. Too closely and it gums up the works. Not closely enough and anyone can waltz through."

Delilah held up one of the forms. "For instance, this one? Beautiful job. It might not actually be a forgery, now that I think about it. This might be legitimate, but based on a fraudulent identification. Miss Govan." She cycled through the documentation. "Your fatal mistake, of course, is this." She held out the emigration form. "The form number was discontinued eight months ago and was updated. I think the font changed. Perhaps the margins. Isn't bureaucracy a wonderful thing?" Delilah beamed across the table as if in earnest.

She sat back and again cycled through the documents. "Who are you, really?" she asked after a moment of silence. "What's your business on Dosuun that you couldn't do under your own name?"

Beatrice Govan

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Evelynn grit mental teeth as she sat and let the woman crow about the achievements of excessive bureaucracy. Numbers. Fonts. Margins. Insignificant and tedious details that kept a well-oiled machine running. This woman had a right to be proud, it was her jurisdiction, after all, a representation of her own competency within a system but that didn't mean that the Sith had to enjoy it.

Of course, if the roles were reversed the blonde doubted that she would have been any less conceited. Probably more conceited to be perfectly frank.

She let the question sit in the air for a moment, giving it room to breathe like a vintage red after a long day. Was there a point in lying? After all, the life and times of one Beatrice Govan was a fabrication of self-preservation, not of wanton deception for the sake of harm.

What was the worst that could come of the truth?

Death, probably. Not ideal. However, a nagging voice always sought to remind the woman that she was not nearly as relevant as she thought.

She frowned.

“Evelynn Zambrano,” the Sith finally typed, taking the decision to rip the plaster off with that notorious surname rather than the easier option of 'Dorn'. Air it all out. One shouldn't build a foundation upon lies.

“And I have come to Dosuun under the pretence of a fresh start,” the voice of the datapad stated, the sound of which caused Evelynn's nose to wrinkle in disgust and a necessary addendum to be added, “as trite as it may sound.”

 

[Delilah Graham]

Delilah shifted in her seat, her eyes narrowing at little as the woman confessed to what was, perhaps, her real name.

Still, someone claiming to be a Zambrano raised eyebrows. Could this be a double-bluff? One way to find out. "Wait here," said Delilah curtly, standing up. She took the documents with her and went to the door, which swung open as she approached and clattered shut behind her. "You heard her?" she asked the technician standing by the one-way mirror, observing.

"Yes, ma'am," said the technician.

"Do we have any photos of Evelynn Zambrano?" she asked, leaning against the desk. She set the papers down on a tray. "Something we can confirm identity against?" She leaned forward to watch the man scroll through the datanet.

"Nothing concrete, ma'am," he said. "I'll try to find something."

Delilah thanked him and returned to the interview room, taking up her seat again. "Miss Zambrano," she said pleasantly as she folded her hands together. "I don't suppose you have any documentation to support that identification handy?" Her pale eyes scanned the woman's face; it all was starting to make a little more sense. The patrician features, the slightly off-kilter attempt to look common. Aristocrats didn't always find it easy to dress down. "As for your assessment that the wish to start fresh is trite -- well -- perhaps. But the genuine wish to start again is anything but. Perhaps we two can have a fresh start here. Why do you need a new beginning?"

Beatrice Govan​

 

[Beatrice Govan]

Well, that certainly garnered a reaction.

It was precisely the sort of thing that Evelynn had hoped to avoid, to be frank, and as the woman got up and left the room the Sith couldn't help but feel a little more than on edge. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep, irritated breath. If a firing squad suddenly marched itself into the room there would be very stern words.

Beatrice Govan would never have these kinds of problems.

After a short interval, she was rejoined and... asked for proof of identification. This elicited a long, hard stare which was a frightful blend of outrage and exasperation which was finished with an incredibly petty eye roll. After all, who in their right mind would lie about being a member of the galaxy's most unpopular, usually malevolent and shamefully gothic family? It was madness! It was ridiculous! It was... was... bloody bureaucracy.

“No documentation, no.”

Evelynn began to peel the gloves from her hand, first the left and then the right, which revealed slender, ornate fingers of a golden prosthetic. An ostentatious artefact that if nothing, suggested extreme wealth.

I could show you if you like, came the chill of a telepathic whisper into the head of the other woman as the blonde leaned forward. Unpleasant. Frigid. Brusque. Invasive. It felt wholly unnecessary, but at the same time, the use of the Force was only another indicator of proof.

“Officially, I am likely dead and have been for twenty-two years. That may aid in finding support of my claims.”

She was back to typing as if nothing had happened, the clack of metal, articulated fingers now rattled across the surface of the datapad, her face dropping back into a more neutral expression.

“In regards to fresh starts it is simple. There is a long, protracted war against the Sith, I do not wish to partake and that alone is grounds for execution within my dearest family,” it was, admittedly, slightly more complex than that but the cliff notes would surely suffice for now, “I wish to live, on my own terms and more importantly on my own merit.”

 

[Delilah Graham]

The Home Secretary studied the woman across the table from her.

No documentation. How convenient.

Her gaze followed the woman's motions as she removed her gloves, the second of which revealed an ornate, golden construct. An auburn eyebrow arched delicately, but she said nothing more as the woman continued her little display. Or perhaps -- not just a display. She went rigid when an unfamiliar voice sounded in her mind. The other woman's body language made it obvious just who was doing the telepathing. When the woman's presence retreated from her brain, Delilah tried to relax, but she couldn't quite get there.

"Let's not do that again," she said sternly, knowing full well that Delilah couldn't stop her. She opened her mouth to speak again but there was a knock at the door. She turned her head, presenting her profile to Evelynn. "Come." The technician entered, murmuring an apology for the interruption, and handed Delilah a hastily-assembled dossier. Delilah took it and the technician returned back from whence he came. She opened the file and examined it, leisurely flipping through the pages.

"Well," she said after a moment, looking back up to Evelynn with a pleasant smile. "If you aren't her, your cosmetic surgeon is much better than your document forger." Delilah raised an eyebrow, her glassy eyes narrowing at Evelynn. "And frankly, given what I can see here -- which, I'm sure, barely scratches the surface -- you'd be a fool to admit to being Evelynn Zambrano if you weren't her. You're a wanted women in certain parts of the galaxy."

Delilah shut the folder and clasped her hands together over it. "Are they right to have a warrant out for you?" she asked, keeping the question deliberately vague.

Beatrice Govan​

 

[Beatrice Govan]

At least something there was a match. Whether it was a display of power, wealth or more likely the information regarding dates. There was a brief fleeting moment of pleasure, the discomfort inflicted upon another. Her interviewer's attentions were drawn away and Evelynn granted the entire scene a slow, withering eye roll.

Who would lie to be Evelynn Zambrano? Some dead, monstrous monolith of an institution that looked backwards rather than forwards? It was utterly absurd.

The woman skirted around the truth, deciding to dance at the temple of assumption instead of the easier realm of belief. What made it hurt was the woman's lack of desire to be noted, her past was just that, passed. No longer was she that person but such a thought was personal, emotional.

Damned if she was, damned if she wasn't.

They acted on the notion of what-if, which was as much as the Sith felt like she could garner from this situation.

“Yes,” her device stated, “but I served a death sentence and twenty years for such misgivings.”

Perhaps bureaucracy claimed such a sentence unsatisfactory, perhaps under some redundant official ruling it was multiple death sentences and five thousand years imprisonment that was just. All that Evelynn knew was that she didn't particularly want to discuss it.

“I am no longer that person.”

 

[Delilah Graham]

Delilah's face was stony, and she was silent for a long time as she considered her position.

Assuming that it was all true, it would still be a public relations nightmare if it was discovered that Evelynn Zambrano was admitted into First Order space. Even allowing her through the gates would be seen as harboring a fugitive by the Jedi, a concession to the Sith Empire by the New Imperials, a betrayal to the Sith, and God only knew what the Alliance would make of it. Not to mention the thoughts of the everyday First Order citizen who would think that the Home Office had let a fox into the henhouse.

On the other hand...

This was a woman who was clearly not without talent. She must have had certain skills and contacts. Evelynn had to be some kind of resourceful to survive a death mark in the Sith Empire and a hostile environment in the rest of the galaxy. She massaged her chin with her thumb, her gaze still scrutinizing the younger -- or younger-looking -- woman opposite her.

Finally she sat back, drumming her fingers on the table lightly for a moment. "Tell me about Beatrice Govan," she said finally. "You've been happy to live with this identity for some time now, yes? Would you wish to continue living under this identity should you be admitted into First Order space?" Delilah raised an inquiring eyebrow as she leaned back against the chair's back, crossing her legs under the cold, utilitarian metal table.

Beatrice Govan​

 

[Beatrice Govan]

It was a warranted period of silent deliberation.

Perhaps once Evelynn would have been frustrated, impatient and likely making lofty demands with threats of prolonged suffering as the wicked cherry on top. However, the events of the last year had forced a change of perspective and with it more reasonable and mundane choices in the face of adversity.

As her interviewer scrutinised and balanced the options born of revelations, Evelynn slipped her hands back into the black, leather gloves, happy enough that her ostentatious golden hand had played its part.

Then finally, a decision. Or at least directions towards one

“Beatrice Govan was a logistics coordinator for a freight consultation firm in De-Purteen, Ord Cantrell. She lost her job after a terrible speeder accident had left her temporarily crippled. She is, however, on the mend and searching for a change in career.”

As the device rattled off the brief construct of her alias, Evelynn took the brief respite to clasp her hands together and observe the woman opposite’s reaction to the fabrication. Perhaps it needed work, she could accept that.

“Yes, it was my initial intention to continue to use the alias.”

A raised eyebrow sought cooperation.

“Although it would seem that Beatrice Govan requires new, more official documentation.”

 

[Delilah Graham]

Delilah watched as the woman put her gloves back on, considering the motions. The woman opposite her was fascinating, truly fascinating. Delilah Graham was something of an amateur student of psychology, and this Evelynn Zambrano was truly fascinating. She seemed to lack the ability to speak; if Delilah wasn't mistaken, her tongue was gone. Perhaps she wasn't born with one, perhaps it had been removed; the acerbic wit suggested that the woman was entirely capable of annoying someone, but to the extent that they would tear her tongue out?

The million-credit question.

The way she used her gloves... the subtle communication, the clandestine threats. There was power in what she showed and what she concealed. Delilah pursed her lips, running a finger along her lips, thoughtful and pensive. Fascinating.

"I can help with that," she finally said, her tone enigmatic. "If we come to some kind of arrangement, that is."

She frowned slightly and inclined her head. "What is your plan for your new life in the First Order?" Her tone once more conversational. "Do you have the means to support yourself, or will you need some kind of career placement? I'm sure we can find something in the -- what was it? -- logistics and freight consultation. Or something else, if you'd prefer. Do you see yourself in some kind of public sector role?"

Delilah looked across the table intently. No doubt seeking to see what kind of advantage she could get out of the inscrutable and mysterious girl before her.

Beatrice Govan​

 

[Beatrice Govan]

An arrangement, yes, that would be the ticket.

Evelynn leaned back as the other woman queried her future within First Order space, clasping her gloved hands together and placing them beneath her severe chin. Her brow knotted as if in thoughtful consideration, but it was at this point that the woman had begun bluffing.

Her plan, had she not been flagged by immigration was rather, well, for lack of a better term, fluid.

The Sith had chosen their territory on reputational merit. She sought security, order and sanity. Ideally, most of all she longed for conflict-free territory but such a thing was mere fable upon a planet with actual amenities and a civilised population.

As for a career and stable life plans the woman had been planning on improvisation from a rough blueprint. It mostly involved quietly manipulating herself into both wealth and comfort via a web of mind trickery. Not that her goal was simply to amass credits and eat bonbons, that was hardly emotional progress now, was it?

But this, this was much better. Actually solid. She leaned forward and unclasped her hands so that she could respond, her expression frigid and deathly serious.

“Logistics and freight consultation is my passion,” spoke the robotic voice with all of its disjointed syllables before Evelynn finally broke into the faintest smirk.

“That was a joke.”

Resuming composure after that barest sample of mirth, Evelynn's facial expression returned to a more thoughtful realm. She had to play it off with a degree of nonchalance, not seem desperate to claw at an actual chance to rebuild her life rather than a half-baked notion of how it should go. At the end of the day, the point of this fresh start was still, despite who she was, in earnest.

“If you are offering any official opportunity then naturally I would be more than happy to accept. I am at your mercy after all.”

Deep inside, Evelynn retched after typing the last sentence but her angular features remained placid.

“And as a measure of gratitude, I would serve in whichever role you feel is best suited to my, particular skill set,” she smiled, lips pleasant and cordial but eyes all too knowing of what those skills were, “and your people already have my curriculum vitae.”

 

[Delilah Graham]

Delilah was thoughtful for a few moments.

"So -- I guess you ought to know who I am. I suppose we both ought to go into this with open eyes. My name is Delilah Graham, I'm the Home Secretary of the First Order. As part of my vast purview, I oversee the First Order Security Bureau." She brushed an auburn hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, and clasped her hands in front of her.

"I'm not suggesting that you necessarily join the Bureau -- although, frankly, I feel your talents would be well suited there. But I'm going to put an agent with you, at least until we are able to confirm that your intentions are what you say they are. Don't take it as a sign of trust. Let's call it: trust, but verify." She smiled broadly across the table at Evelynn and flexed her fingers, cracking her knuckles.

"Perhaps once you've had an opportunity to settle in and get used to your new life here, you can come in and take an aptitude test and we can see where we go from there. Once we know what you're good at, we can consider where best you can contribute. Other than your passion for logistics." At this, Delilah allowed herself an indulgent chuckle. She unclenched her hands.

"We should probably discuss how things work in the First Order, vis-à-vis the Sith religion. How attached to this practice are you, exactly?"

Beatrice Govan​

 

[Beatrice Govan]

There was a small crack there upon Evelynn's face as her interviewer revealed herself to be none other than the Home bloody Secretary. Nothing more than the flare of nostrils on an otherwise static, pleasant expression, but it was still there.

Her faded patchwork quilt of an ego felt a small rub, despite an internal creeping of increased stakes. Look! Aren't you important! That scathing thought was pushed down into the mental toilet like an overweight, smashball card collecting teenager's face at public school.

“That all sounds perfectly agreeable,” Evelynn typed with a small nod of concession to the woman, “and I welcome any and all scrutiny as is required.”

This was a lie. The idea of being shadowed by some no doubt foreboding agent was hardly anybody's idea of a delightful picnic and having a lifetime of... questionable misgivings cast under a harsh light would inevitably taste like a bile sandwich. However, it was a necessity in compliance and given that the blonde was earnest about her motivations she could potentially come out the other side smelling of roses.

Well, in theory.

“As for my attachment to the Sith religion,” her fingers tapped, every muscle in her face remaining rigid as to prevent from a sudden scoffing fit, “I have none."

Evelynn looked up from her device at Delilah and offered a thin-lipped smile, the awkward sort that you would grant a passing acquaintance in the hallway.

“I understand that given the nature of my family that this is quite unbelievable,” the device spoke as Evelynn leaned backwards, head titled upwards to contemplate her own statement before she resumed conversing, “or perhaps very believable.”

Her brow furrowed as she prepared a precarious statement, one that would be no longer restricted to thoughts and bound in black and white.

“I am no longer associated with the Sith or my family in any capacity whatsoever."

 

[Delilah Graham]

The Home Secretary liked to think that she was a decent judge of character. Certain former members of her staff -- and probably one or two current ones -- might take issue with such a generous self-assessment. But it wasn't that she didn't know when people were garbage. She just recognized that even garbage people were useful on occasion, especially when they had contacts, networks, or specialized knowledge and skills. Not, she hastened to add to her internal narration, that Evelynn Zambrano was a garbage person. She didn't know the contents of Evelynn's heart and soul, nor did she think it was helpful to consider them.

This was about what was best for the nation, for the Bureau, and for Delilah Graham -- in that order.

She wanted to trust Evelynn. There were unplumbed depths there, riches waiting to be uncovered and claimed. And her disdain for the Zambrano clan from whose loins she had sprung seemed more or less genuine, so that was encouraging. "That's very well and good," she said after a moment's consideration. "I was only going to say that you are entitled to practice whatever religion you should choose -- Jedi, Sith, Spaghetti Monster, whatever -- but that proselytizing is strictly forbidden within the First Order and its territories. Particularly when it comes to Jedi and Sith dogma. But it sounds like this won't be a problem for you."

Delilah cleared her throat. At some unseen signal, the door opened again and the same technician from before entered and handed Delilah a sealed manila envelope. Delilah took it. "You implemented the Delta Protocols?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the technician.

"Very good. Let Rover know to expect her." The technician left again and Delilah unsealed the envelope, pulling out a stack of documents: the passport and paperwork that Beatrice Govan would need to make her way in the First Order -- but genuine, this time. Well, as genuine as a false identity could be. "Still warm from the printer," said Delilah. "Your identification paperwork, Ms. Govan, and your entry visa. Notice that this is a restricted visa. You will need to check in with your contact regularly. The restriction will be removed and a proper citizenship card issued following your probationary period."

Delilah slid the papers across to the woman. "This will get you in the door. One of my men will rendezvous -- well that makes it sound more exciting than it is. He'll meet you in a public place in Avalonia and get you settled. Ms. Govan, I need you to understand that you will be under surveillance for some time once you make landfall. Try not to take it personally. But I must insist that you not attempt to give security the slip. I am perfectly willing to have you over to the Silver Jedi Concord or the Galactic Alliance if you give me reason to believe your intentions here aren't genuine. Do you have any questions about this or anything else?"

Beatrice Govan​

 

[Beatrice Govan]

“Not a problem at all.”

Evelynn took a small moment to enjoy witnessing the fruits of a well-oiled machine. Every process that was taking place behind the door was swift and without issue. It had to be appreciated, it felt like a crime not to. A snide little voice in the woman's brain suggested that the operation might not have been so smooth without the presence of the Home Secretary but she swiftly snuffed it out as to not spoil the enjoyment of somebody's tax credits at work.

Delta Protocols sounded foreboding, Rover less so. Did the First Order have a pet hound? The humorous notion of a uniformed canine whispered through Evelynn's face with a slight wrinkle of the nose.

It was a damn sight better than considering the fine print of either of those things.

Then there was more. Restrictions. Check-ins. Surveillance. Topped off perfectly with the cherry of threat. Necessary concessions that the woman had to make in her situation. Her gloved index finger rested upright upon the new official documentation, it was warm but alas, fading. The blonde stared at the papers, face fixed in quiet deliberation as she tapped her finger once, twice and a third time.

The Galactic Alliance would have her head in an instant, the Silver Jedi Concord on the other hand would probably at least hold the pretence of a trial before deciding on some non-violent yet permanent solution. Ugh, perish the thought; she'd rather face the firing squad of the dubious morality brigade.

“I do have a couple of questions, actually,” she typed before looking up at Delilah Graham, that thoughtful expression still present upon her face and finger still upright upon the documents, “best to deal with any potential...”

A pause as she searched for the most diplomatic term.

“...unpleasantness first, no?”

Evelynn smiled, tight-lipped and strained as her eyes sought to lock with those of the Home Secretary's as if she was prepared to read a lie.

“If this identity is compromised I wish to know in advance what course of action would be taken on your part. I take no offence in what would need to be done for the sake of The First Order but I would like to be prepared for the scenario should it come.”

 

[Delilah Graham]

Delilah spread her hands in response to the question, as if to show she had no means or motive of deception.

"It really all depends on the circumstances," she explained. "If it was compromised because you did something highly immoral or illegal in the public view -- well. You'll rest well assured knowing that citizens of the First Order are entitled to due process of law. But if your identity should be compromised in service to the First Order or through no fault of your own, there are methods we can explore to reinstate your cover under a different name. Judging from your -- "

At this Delilah was uncharacteristically flummoxed, and she gestured vaguely at Evelynn's gloved golden hand.

" -- I assume you wouldn't be against some kind of cosmetic alterations in order to secure your identity. This is, of course, predicated upon you making it through your probation period. If you trespass on our hospitality then, as I said, we're perfectly willing to extradite you to whomever." Delilah recovered, offering the young woman a smooth smile, her velvety voice all gravitas. "I'm sure we don't have to worry about that. You seem... sensible. I mean, Beatrice Govan. Dull as dishwater. You'd be surprised -- although you probably wouldn't -- how many people create fake identities that can be spotted miles away. The Grand Duchess Helena Hudor-Tudor or Captain Dante Flameborn, I ask you."

Delilah rolled her eyes before returning her gaze to Evelynn.

"Do you feel like we're on the same page, Ms. Zambrano?"

Beatrice Govan​