First Contact

First Contact

"How many have we gathered thus far?" In a bland and almost dilapidated-looking control room for a flying vessel, Vazar could be seen looking on with a small smirk on his face.

His presence exuded pride and confidence as he had his chin resting on top of his palm while his free hand played with an ominous grey energy.

"20, my Scion." The handler, a sickly looking man answered dutifully and Vazar nodded with a hint of satisfaction.

"Even faster than just expected. At this rate, we'd have gathered most of what we needed by the time to reach the center, and that's not even talking about the number the others would have collected at that time. Very good." His tone was carefree, but instead of relaxing, the Handler and all the other workers in the room shuddered.

That's because their Scion, despite his confident appearance, had very fickle emotions, to the point that many of them assumed he had some sort of mental disorder.