<Sebastion`Jaques> <In a far flung corner of a Vulcan Industrial facility, 
a man in his late forties sits, nursing a glass of scotch. Amid darkness, 
his face is cast in a half shadow, only the barest splinters of light allowed 
to penetrate the room. It is a lonely setting, one that speaks of hardship, 
pain, suffering, and loss...>


<Sebastion`Jaques> <But then, it is all very deserving. For though many, 
save historians and scattered storytellers, have forgotten the name of Sebastion 
Antonio Lyboc, the man himself has never strayed far from his past... neither 
his accomplishments, nor misdeeds.>


<Sebastion`Jaques> <He stands, seeing a few stray sheets of paper of his 
desk. Setting them into the fire place in his room, he watches the evidence 
burn. In the meantime, it's on to business as usual.>


<Sebastion`Jaques> <He takes out a small device. Comm> Yes... very well. 
<and then pockets it, leaving his small apartment.>


<Sebastion`Jaques> <He walks on, stepping through the florescent lit corridors, 
ignoring the harsh sterility of the light against metal plating. The whole 
setting is sleak, and ultra-tech paragon of perfection.> Without charm... 
without feeling...


<Sebastion`Jaques> <He stops, looking from an observation window, down at 
the mass of workers huddled in the assembly area. This is the heart of Vulcan 
Industrial's operations, in terms of weaponry.>


<Sebastion`Jaques> <Standing over the scene, a silent, crimson sentinel, 
is the personal unit of the disenherited leader of the Grand Cross... or 
rather, that of his double identity. A subtle merging of the two personas, 
wrapped in metal and baptised with blood.... Judecca. >


<Sebastion`Jaques> Time and trial... <he looks down> Perhaps... perhaps 
some darknesses are inescapable.


<Sebastion`Jaques> And perhaps some... should be embraced. <He turns away 
from the window, walking on, footsteps echoing as he disappears amongst 
the surrounding staff.>