CONCORD: All Balls, No Brains

The camera focuses in: it shows a very dimly lit view of Mala's living quarters. In the near-darkness, few details are easily discernable, aside from a few objects -- a spacious bed, situated near a small nightstand and a dresser... Mala's soothing voice seems to come from behind the camera itself.

It's about time the foolish shits at CONCORD caught on. I suppose it was a misstep on my part. I asked a few too many questions, to the point where one of my sources realized he was giving me a lot more than just some rough, steamy fun every few nights. Leaving him alive and unconscious was a necessary loss; I don't need CONCORD arresting me for the death of one of its low-level grunts, at least not anytime soon.

What's funny is that after the news broke, only one of my other inside sources felt guilty enough to confess and sacrifice his career. It speaks volumes about CONCORD that many of its employees can reconcile compromising the security of others with receiving a few nights of intense physical pleasure. I don't claim to be any different -- but then, unlike them, I'm not tasked with maintaining security and order.

They've given me plenty of information to work with. By the time they finish playing their guessing game and give up, they'll have a dead body on their hands and -- if I'm lucky -- no suspects to apprehend. In the meantime, I confess that the "high-class social events" they referenced are indeed highly addictive, especially under the cover of an alias. I'm flying out to another one this evening in Villore.

Speaking of which, I need to prepare my ship, and perhaps fire off a few missiles at some outlaws just for fun. CONCORD ships would be more enjoyable, of course -- until I end up with my ship in a heap of scrap and myself incarcerated.