Awakening modern au! Awakening, meets Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, meets Sons of Anarchy. You don't need to have read any of them to follow it though. It's mostly DA.. Hale (Hailey) is my Lisbeth Salander, but I don't call her that. I am not a hacker. I don't know how to hack. I made stuff up and looked it up online. I am not naming makes/ models of bikes, but I have them in mind. Please let me know what you think!
"The Darkpawn have been ambushing trucks at the gas station on the highway near the Woods," Nate informed his counterparts as he pulled his hair back in a ponytail. "Someone in the capital asked us to check it out. A favor for a favor." He glanced from where he sat on his bike to Anders on the machine next to him. With the largest port on the northern shore, the Arling of Amaranthine remained Denerim's largest supplier of foreign goods even after the damage the region six months prior; the recovering capital suffered when Amaranthine's trade routes were hindered.
Anders laughed, "sure. Favors for the capital in Dalish territory. The Queen's getting paid for this one, right?" He adjusted his bandana and waved his hand over the engine. The analog lights flashed as he turned on the electrical system with magic.
"Shut it, you nug humpers," Oghren grumbled. The bags under the dwarf's eyes suggested sleep deprivation, matching his languid movements as he climbed onto his trike. "If we hurry up and get this over with, the sooner we'll get back. I picked up a single-malt last time we were in the city and it's calling my name."
"I've got third," Siggy hollered, staking her claim to the position of riders before they got on the road. She hopped on her small bike, lowered to meet her proportions without requiring three wheels. Transferred to the Wardens from the Legion, Sirgun, or Siggy as she preferred, held her own among the group of men. "Last time I was the sweeper, Oghren was lazy on the throttle. Had to keep slowing down or I'd have passed him. Were you getting distracted there, buddy?"
Displeased and incoherent muttering was Oghren's only reply to the female dwarf. Nate, or Nathaniel by birth, rolled his eyes and gave a questioning thumbs up to the rest of the group. The others mirrored his gesture, signaling their readiness to ride. Buttons pressed, Nate's first followed by the others. Engines roared in succession. Silence transformed to waves of grumbling. Throttles turned, warming cool bikes, calling to each other in preparation for the ride; revving in eagerness like wild animals waiting to be freed from their binds.
Nate's tattooed arm lifted in the air, motioning for the band of Warden's to move. Boots met shifters, and the unified clink of bikes shifting into first gear rang through the grounds of the Keep. Nate's slow twist of his throttle let him lead the procession to the open road. The president of their MC, Cece, or the Queen as most called her, stayed behind; her preferred method of delegating small jobs applied. But Darkspawn aren't small jobs. Allowing the confused thought to pass, Nate focused on the road.
The group's bikes accelerated, growling at the highway as they turned. Shifting up in quick motions, enjoying the freedom of the open road while holding formation. The riders staggered, occupying space on asphalt as a pack. Adorned with jackets and vests marked with the griffon, most of Ferelden recognized the symbol of the Wardens and few willed to stand in the way of the vigilantes. Excluding the Darkspawn: a rival gang of nonhuman cultists who controlled the roads underground. They came to the surface to hoard supplies and when ordered by one of their leaders. The recent increase in the criminals above ground suggested a resurgence of the gang.
Claiming ownership of the road, vibrating engines of the Wardens' wheeled machines barrelled down the deserted highway through the flat plains toward the Wending Woods. Decayed suburbs in various stages of rebuilding outside the city of Amaranthine tapered to farmland; metropolitan high rises were visible from the outer edges of the city. Wind howled warning of speed, and Nate heard the muffled sound of Oghren's music played from his trike. An hours ride east brought them to the station, marking the beginning of the Pilgrim's Path: a long stretch of road that wove through forested foothills.
Thieves fled the area as the first three riders' slowed, rolling into the station. Bikes stopped, kick stands lowered, and engines turned off. The Wardens dismounted. With slow steps Nate took in the sight before them, Anders and Siggy at his sides. Thick smoke clouded the area from withering flames on the scorched underside of box trucks, overturned in the parking lot; the area was strewn with shattered glass, void of any remaining employees or Darkspawn; the dying flames and stillness suggested the initial ambush occurred hours ago.
Oghren's arrival interrupted the devastating scenery. He blared Viking metal and his trike backfired, popping from the quick release of gas causing the exhaust's intake of air. The dwarf stopped his vehicle near the others, killed the engine and grumbled.
Anders gave an abrupt laugh. Turning his head from the destruction with an amused grin. "Excuse you."
The dwarf chuckled, walking to rest of the group and waving his hand behind his rear as if the sound from his trike had been his own. Guffaws erupted, Anders bellowed at Oghren's display, and the dwarf took it as an initiative to join. Members of Cece's initiative to rebuild the club since the last Darkspawn incident, none had much time to become well-acquainted aside from teasing banter and humor.
Nate's hand lifted, ushering the noise to cease while shushing. Immature snickering replaced bellows, as the group explored the area. Kicking debris with his motorcycle boot, Nate scanned his senses for the presence of Darkspawn. Superstitious rituals of both MCs required a joining of blood, passed down by club predecessors. The Warden ability to detect Darkspawn and reverse suggested somewhere in their history the bloodlines crossed. Fuddled by time and secrets, Nate's questions of the Wardens' history met silence when he inquired at his initiation.
He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the pole near the gas pumps and walked toward the trucks, boots crunching on glass with each step. He put out the feeble smolder of plastic and rubber. The powdery chemicals smothered the low-heat of red flames with a few puffs.
"Well," Siggy voiced between the bursts of the fire extinguisher. She peered into the half-empty cargo load of the truck. "It looks like the Darkspawn are gone."
"So it seems," Anders sing-song tone jovially assessed as he gazed into the trucks from a distance. He and Oghren stayed removed from the scene, neither interested in getting their hands dirty. "But why would Darkspawn ambush trucks and leave the cargo? What's missing is just what those looters got away with."
"This wasn't Darkspawn," Nate sighed, turning to Anders. Damn it, Cece. You knew it. He deducted her reason for not joining them, an answer to his previous confusion. "A fugitive like you knows an act of rebellion when you see one, don't you Andy?"
"Oh ho," Anders chuckled with a playful sneer and Nate, "fuck you, Nate. You know I hate it when people call me Andy."
Siggy and Oghren shook their heads, grinning at the exchange. It was out-of-character for the vice-president of the club to instigate clubmates. The dwarves suspected his goal of proving something.
"Case in point." Smirking, Nate provoked, "remind me how the Templars always find you. . . Andy." The Chantry operation of Templars policed magic wielders across Thedas; Anders was notorious for the numerous Templar warrants for his arrest after multiple escapes from the institution.
Anders' snickered, his hand flexed, fingers extending. Fire ignited in his palm; a jocular threat from one clubmate to another. "They find me really fucking angry. And call me Andy again and I'll singe that ridiculous patch of hair off your face."
"There," Nate pointed to the powder coating the truck and glanced at Anders' magical fire. "A pissed off mage. That's who did this." His free hand touched the hair and stubble under his bottom lip.
Anders removed the magical charge from his hand. Puzzled, his brow cocked. "I'm not pissed. I thought we were just having fun!" Oghren struggled to quell his giggles.
"Oh!" Siggy exclaimed in agreement with Nate. "You're right! There's no catalyst!"
Nodding to Siggy, Nate continued his explanation as he walked around the wreckage, making final blasts of the chemical mixture to quench the few remaining embers. "This was aimed and the fire died soon after it started. Otherwise, we'd probably arrived to the aftermath of a massive explosion."
"All right," Oghren's scratchy voice sounded with impatience. Shaking his head, he squinted at Siggy and Nate. "Not all of us have recon experience. What's this shite mean?"
Nate and Siggy's military experience on reconnaissance teams gave them an advantage in information gathering.
"It means this was a warning," Ander's chimed in, finally reaching the conclusion Siggy and Nate had already surmised."We're on Dalish territory. They've done this before."
A rattling from the convenience store of the gas station disrupted the Wardens' conversation. Glass broke, the door shattering from the inside; four more raiders emerged from inside. Arm loads of items dropped to the ground when the thieves spotted the group standing near the trucks.
"You didn't see anything here." A looter hollered from the doorway; his sidekicks crossed their arms to appear intimidating. Young hoodlums, hungry scavengers desperate for food traveled in large gangs. In the last uprising of the Darkspawn, cases of delinquency skyrocketed.; young adults heavily loaded with artillery and willing to resort to violence and murder to meet their needs. The Wardens knew it was reckless to underestimate the threat the delinquents could pose.
"Leave now and we won't have to hurt you," another miscreant called, this one a woman. She flashed a gun in her waistband and signaled to other criminals still in the store.
"I don't think they know we're Wardens," Siggy glanced up to Nate, brows furrowing, readying her hands to pull her 9 mm pistols from their shoulder holsters as a warning to the thieves.
Black leather straps looped Nate's belt and another buckled around his thigh. The color of his holster matched the revolver it held and blended into the dark fabric of his jeans. A sheath next to his gun secured his knife. His hand rose to the grip of his gun and fingers popped open the buttons.
Sideways looks passed between the scavengers, debating to run or fight through silent communication. Before they could reach a consensus, one of the hoodlums reached for a weapon. A small gun pulled quickly from the waist of his jeans.
Walking to join Siggy and Nate, Anders chuckled to his clubmates, extending his hands to summon magic from the omnipresent and transcendental realm of the Fade. "This'll be fun."
Oghren sighed, begrudging his potential obligation to grab his weapon, a compact semi-automatic rifle, from where it was stowed in his trike. He made a few lazy steps toward the vehicle, but a shot sounded from behind him.
"No! Damn it!" The sidekick fell to the ground, writhing in pain, blood oozing from his leg. His hands hovered over the entry site, shocked, uneager to touch the wound but desperate for relief from the pain. Screaming, he looked at his friends for support. With shrugs the other hoodlums bolted, leaving the wounded one behind.
Nate snorted while shaking his head, he glanced to Anders as he pointed away from the gas station. "We're going to travel out up this trail to check for other damage. Will you go heal that kid? And you stay with Anders." His last question was directed at Oghren.
"Of course, Sarg!" Grinning, Anders gave Nate a mock salute and sauntered toward the looter still gasping in pain.
Nate rolled his eyes. Deliberate steps took him back toward his bike, followed by Siggy. Bikes turned on, shifted into gear, the two followed the Pilgrim's Path from the gas station further into the Wending Woods.
In his wait for Anders to finish healing the miscreant, Oghren climbed up on his trike. His upper body leaned against the backrest and he belched. Loud and unapologetic, the sound vibrated through the air.
"You know that's disgusting right?" The judgment in Anders' tone was masked by his pleasant lilt. "Are dwarven women into that sort of thing?"
The pair had not known each other long. What knowledge they had of each other prior to joining was based solely on reputation, the rest built on assumptions.
"Not really," Oghren gave half a chuckle then stopped, glancing up as if his answer to Anders' question brought some deeper realization. After a moment of pondering, he jeered. "Are mage ladies into lanky beanpoles?"
"Yes, actually," Anders smile broadened as he stood up. The miscreant fainted while Nate healed him, but he would recover soon and his friends would return for their stolen goods. "And I've been into a lot of mage ladies in my day so I should know." He winked and tilted his head before walking to his bike next to Oghren's.
"Oh!" Oghren crowed, slapping his knee as he sat back up. "Good one!" Turning the key to his ignition and starting up his bike, he hummed in thought. Loud enough to carry over the sound of the engine, he made an offer. "I'll share my whiskey when we get back to the Keep if you teach me some of your tricks, sparkle-fingers."
"Let's drink!" Anders turned on his motorcycle, the guttural rumble drowning out his answer. He cried out, "to lost causes!"
"What?!" Oghren yelled over the roaring engines.
The mage's finger pointed to his motorcycle then to his ear as he shook his head, suggesting that he couldn't hear. Displeased, Oghren's eyes narrowed, distrusting Anders sincerity. But the moment passed; Oghren gave Anders a thumbs up and Anders reciprocated. They shifted into first and headed the direction of the other Wardens.
Motorcycles lent to turns, handling curves with technique; starting points perfected for space and speed, footpegs dragged on asphalt. Deserted trucks parked on the shoulders, empty, looted. Outlaws and thieves scurried from sites when they heard bikes coming. Anders and Oghren caught up to Siggy and Nate. The group rode the Path, following it up the foothills surveying damage and searching for the source.
Elven ruins littered the countryside. The native peoples' architecture abandoned long since the displacement of tribes hundreds of years ago. Limited of space and unwilling to conform for their oppressors, the elves stayed on reservations. Ancient histories upheld in customs none willed to break.
The Path ran alongside a crumbling piece of architecture tucked within the rocky terrain. With a signal to the other riders, they parked their bikes on the shoulder to examine the ruins for activity. Nate led, quiet steps up the driveway dividing trees came upon the flat ground of the old stone altar. The area had been adapted: wood cabins built, a van or motorcycle parked next to each one. Despite the vehicles, the area seemed unoccupied.
The group had but a moment to view the area when a harsh voice barked. "What are you doing here?"
"Whoa there," Anders mumbled, peering up to an earthy ledge over them. Boots turned to long, leather-clad legs and curves continued to a corseted bust. A beautiful but cantankerous blonde elven woman stood glaring at them. Form fitting clothes flattered her figure but the high neck of her top maintained some modesty.
"You disgust me," the woman snarled down to them. "There's nothing left for you to steal so leave!" The magical energy swirling around her hands revealed the culprit of the truck fires.
"That's our mage," Siggy deducted, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard by the angry woman.
Monitoring the elven woman's movement, ready to reach for his gun, Nate informed her of their intent. "We're not here to steal. We were hired to look into the issues with trucks getting through the Path."
She continued to nag, her voice grating with misplaced resentment. "None of your fucking trucks are getting through here anymore. I'm done with you shems destroying my tribe."
"Look, lady." Interrupting her rant, Oghren grumbled. "We didn't do anything to you or any other Dalish people. We came up here to tell you to stop lighting up cargo trucks."
"How dare you!" Her voice rose, she summoned tree roots from the earth where she stood. The roots entwined to give her a pathway down to the Wardens.
"If you overlook her crabbiness, that's actually pretty cool." Genuinely impressed by the elven magic, Anders murmured to no one in particular.
The woman came to stand in front of them, her hands planted on her hips. Scratched leather on the left toe of her boot suggested she rode. Her glare passed from Anders and Nate who returned her glare with amused disinterest. "You human idiots come here and destroy our land, kidnap my sister, then steal from us and you think you can just dismiss me?"
"Well, he dismissed you." Anders pointed to Oghren, cautiously smirking. "And he's not human, and neither is she." He gestured toward Siggy who stood with her arms crossed. "Who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?"
"Your sister was kidnapped?" Nate's question interrupted Anders'. In addition to crimes of petty theft and violence, the Darkspawn's behavior worsened to grand larceny and murder when their numbers grew. Some even rumored the monsters kidnapped women for procreation and pleasure. Nate's concerns overrode Anders'.
"Vel. And you heard me!" The elf barked at Nate.
"Darkspawn," Nate announced in a low grumble to his clubmates. "We need to tell the Queen." He spoke the woman directly, his tone even with the tiniest thread of compassion. "I'm sorry about your family. Blame the Darkspawn and stop damaging trucks that drive through."
Dumbfounded, the woman stared as the group walked back down the driveway to their bikes. One at a time, they turned around on the Path and rode back the direction they came. Vel recognized the Warden patches.
Hale laid over her cafe racer. A sleek design, perfect for an elf, her knees hugged the grips on the sides of the tank. Swerving, she picked up gears as the traffic she navigated became more predictable. Two fingers rested on the front brake lever, hand twisting the throttle with gentle pressure. The other hand touched the clutch, prepared to shift down if needed or up if opportunity allowed.
Most would call weaving through cars on a motorcycle in Amaranthine traffic a death wish. Maybe it was. Earbuds snug in her pointed ears blared punk rock, drowning out the sound of vehicles honking when she scared them. Her helmet masked her face. Lane splitting allowed her to reach her destination ahead of schedule.
She took an off ramp from the highway, slowing on the one-way road to a parking garage under a condominium. She parked, removed her helmet and pulled her hoodie over her head, hiding the long, dark auburn hair shaved on one side and her face decorated with a tattoo and piercings. Combat boots stepped through the empty parking garage to the stairwell, free from cameras.
She used a key card, copied from another resident she followed into a grocery store from the condo a few days prior. A purse left in a shopping cart while the resident browsed frozen foods, Hale plucked the wallet from inside as she walked by. Grabbing the card and copying the RFID with a portable device plugged into her phone. It took less than a second and she put the wallet back undetected. The shopper was still searching for microwavable dinners when she walked away.
The copy she made opened the door to the stairs. Taking two steps at a time, she found the floor she needed. 9th. Room 928. Rendon Howe. Good riddance, you sick fuck. The man whose condo she was breaking into died 8 months prior.
The hall was empty and Howe's unoccupied condo was easy to find. Hale pulled her pick from her hair and took a final glance down both sides of the hallway. Satisfied with the emptiness, she picked the lock. An alarm sounded, a few quick beeps but she found the control panel and pressed in the numbers she knew would work. Acquired from a call she made to the alarm system company, pretending to be Howe's only daughter, answering the needed security questions- the answers to which she found online- they gave her the code without hesitation. Hale stopped the alarm after five seconds, knowing she had 30 seconds before the company would be notified.
She scanned the condo. Simple design, masculine decoration. This was the deceased mayor of Amaranthine's private lodging to take back prostitutes and manage meetings with shady business partners. Hale learned this by researching Howe's property, under all pseudonyms, including one of his long since departed wife, Eliane Bryland.
Pacing through the condo, she found what she came for. His computer. In his living room, the dining area had been turned into an office. A desk sat against the wall, a simple monitor on the desktop and a tower on the floor. Hale's eyes wandered the room for his router. Near the television, on top of his cable box; she picked up the router to check the WiFi password, assuming Howe didn't change it. Not likely. Doubt he even knew how.
Her smartphone scanned for wireless networks. He left his with the name of the Internet provider and the signal was strong. Selected, she typed in the case-sensitive assortment of letters and numbers listed as the password on his router. Connecting… connected.
Easy. She walked to the computer and turned it on. The machine was old, the software outdated; it was slow to start. While she waited, she checked the IP address from her jailbroken cell and entered the hacking program she installed. The computer turned on, monitor lit up, a picture of the mayor and his son in the background. Thomas, dead like his father and the only family member the mayor used for publicity stunts. Hale made an irritated scoff.
She typed a code into her phone and added the IP address. Hacking computers was like picking locks. All about angles and perspectives. Inserted combinations of letters, clicks of keystrokes. And sometimes it took a few tries. But the conclusion, the rewarding hum of code scrolling when she succeeded; like her pick finding the right pressure for the final tumbler pin to discover what waited on the other side of an unlocked door.
A few more lines of code entered, and she was in. She overrode his password from her mobile device; green code scrolled against black as she gained entry. The father and son picture disappeared, replaced with an image of naked women: an elf and a human groping each other. She sneered at the screen and plugged a portable hard drive into a USB port.
Space was a non-issue. She dragged all of his files onto the drive, perusing his computer as the files transferred. Internet history composed of his email provider, political and financial news, escorts services, erectile dysfunction medication, and torture porn. Disgusting.
Files completed their transfer. Eager to leave the condo, she grabbed the drive and put it in her pocket, shut off the computer and reset the alarm. The beeps counted down her time limit to leave. The door clicked shut behind her and she took large strides back down the hall to the stairwell. Hoodie came down and her helmet came on, a reflective bubble visor covered the Dalish tattoo.
The motorbike whirred from the garage, following the one lane road to another, then merging onto the freeway. She raced to her apartment on the other side of the city and parked in a neighboring parking garage on the same floor as the breezeway that connected the two constructs. Certain that the information about Howe would give her answers about her parents fueled her speed. Unclear of the circumstances, Hale knew only that her mother's disability of mental impairment and her father's death had to do with an elven trafficking project she traced back to Howe. A hacker and researcher, Hale's income came from jobs of digging up hidden information for people. But this work was personal.
Entering her apartment, she pulled off her helmet; it landed on her desk with a soft thud. Fluid movements she'd done a million times, the next steps followed. She kicked her boots off, balancing with a hand on the wall, revealing her socks pulled over her skinny jeans. Posters of punk and metal bands scattered with eccentric art on the walls decorating her cozy studio. A mattress lay on the floor not far from the desk near the main wall. It supported two screens, an external hard drive, and a large pc tower lay beneath. She pushed away the large rolling chair in front of her desk and brushed the button to turn on the tower. She had no television, and her kitchen was bare except for a microwave. The computer started, purring as the monitor woke up. Freeing her small frame from confines of her hoodie, she pulled it off- revealing naturally tan skin, half sleeves of tattoos and other ink sneaking out of her tank top and traveling up her neck. Lighting a cigarette as she walked to the kitchen, she tossed popcorn in the microwave before returning to her desk. The background image of her motorcycle illuminated the screen after she entered her password, holding her cigarette in her lips while she typed.
The task at hand, research Howe's involvement in the slave trade. She browsed through folders, searched his files for records, excel sheets documenting money in and money out. Exploring anything of interest to gather information on the crook. She found what she was looking for first:
Drugs. To sedate elves to expedite trafficking out of Denerim and Amaranthine.
Mother fucker. This is it. She tapped the ash from her smoke in the ashtray on her desk and made a mental note to research the sedative Anorium.
And the old base of Rendon's illegal operations: Vigil's Keep.
Wonder if the Warden's know. Though she never met the Wardens, she had researched them. The group of vigilantes made their return after the defeat of the Darkspawn's previous leader, the Dragon. She made a note to research the Wardens further to find more than their first names and pictures.
The microwave beeped and a few pops followed the signal. She snuffed the cigarette, got up and grabbed the bag of popped kernels. After dumping salt into the paper package, she sat in her desk chair. Legs crossed, the bag in her lap, she continued searching Rendon's secrets.
His eldest son. Nathaniel Howe. Didn't know he had another son. In her previous research of Rendon, she found record of one son and one daughter.
She found pictures of a pale rich kid with dark hair through different stages of life. The last picture: an adult man in a Marcher military uniform. She zoomed in to see his face. Long hair pulled back, a distinct aquiline nose. That's Nate from the new Wardens.
What's this? An article: Mayor's wife, Eliane Howe, dies at the hands of thugs in armed robbery. In the same folder, contracts for the death of Eliane…the entire Cousland family…and Nathaniel. Cold blooded wanker. All dead except this Caoilainn chick and Nate. Why would he want them dead? She added this to her items to research later.
Hale browsed further. Money records, embezzlement, siphoning funds from Loghain Mac Tir's investments in Denerim. That's no surprise. The colluding between the two politicians became widely known prior to their deaths. But this record suggested Loghain may not have known of his missing funds.
But this… she opened another record of money exchanges from Vigil's Keep to a large urban development firm. The leader, a scientist and entrepreneur, the Architect.