Paired with = Not in one's own plate
No, Spam. Pls.
When it rained, it poured.
"What a shitshow!" exclaimed a man, hands in his pockets, covered in shadow up to his thighs. His lips were faintly lit by his Cuban cigar, mechanical eyes shining icy blue.
The faint tapping on the metallic roof breaking up the silence was a midnight drizzle from an oncoming cold front.
"They're going to tear us a new one for this." Said his snazzy suit-wearing compatriot scratching his chin, facing the window illuminated by magenta neon signs. Infatuated with the tremendous cloud-piercing spire-like building in the distance, stealing the show.
Many smaller ships circled around it wildly, the city reverberated with the sounds of police sirens.
"You boys worry too much." The woman behind them murmured, completely hidden within the gloomy apartment. There was a small device near her, diode glowing faint yellow; it beeped.
All three intently listened with suspenseful agitation to a radio broadcast on this fateful late Friday night. To them, it was mockery, a re-roll of a tape. Whatever their goal, they did not seem thrilled to step into the limelight.
"Welcome back to Dipole Radio, bringing you an exclusive objective first-hand recounting of events, interviews and live broadcasts! Following is the unofficial report circulating the events surrounding Dr. Farruco Melendrez. At 2500 shots were heard from the underground parking lot of Summit's Peak! Once security arrived only a unconscious Melendrez was found, lying in a pool of his own blood with a gun in hand. On-hand medical personnel was called to stabilise him until Trauma Team Premium arrived. Despite their best efforts, Melendrez condition worsened and has according to an independent source passed away, today at 0035 CASMT. Details are held private by a swiftly formed investigation committee at Throuph HQ, the eleventh consecutive host of the Yearly Societal Rendezvous. The following is a statement by the committee's speaker. (Never ever before had the Summit been so blatantly, so violently attacked! We are deeply ashamed of our failure to safeguard this new years Rendezvous, we regret the death of a man that was supposed to be in the most secure place on this planet. We vow to apprehend and bring these criminals to justice, whatever the costs, whatever the stakes! As for the curfew. It was put in place to protect the public, the appropriate authorities are working around the clock and will lift the curfew in five hours time from now. Thank you, goodbye.) Another spokesperson stood up on stage to alleviate fears, but most questions about the case were dodged, citing that the company didn't want to tip off the perpetrators. However our inside man has managed to sneak out audio recordings from the backstage, it is yet unknown..."
Tap, tap. The deluge intensified, emptying the streets below, and rapid tapping turned into a wet drumbeat, drowning out any other sound. They could no longer hear what the presenter was blathering on about. And when they left, it didn't stop raining, and the radio kept echoing through the night.
"We'll be back with the official press statement from Mayor Mehrians' office, after this short break."
/*/*/*/*/
Trimidia's Orbit| TDV PT-44B2, Facula-Class | 1355 PST/0611 CASMT, 05.01.2156
People darted from console to console, tools in hand, orders shouted, a fascinating watch of the well-oiled machine that was the Trimidian Defence Force. Hackett was dazed, phasing through a different world of his own, partly due to a stressful day. He came down to engineering simply for the ambiance and told the others he needed a minute to unwind. The truth was this place calmed his nerves whenever he was distracted and helped him to think. Right now, all he did was sit by and closely gaze into the distance, not particularly at anything or anyone. It felt like time slowed as it passed him by, an odd feeling but also a comforting one.
"...so, what do you think?" The question came in from his left ear.
Hackett did not reply until the querier jabbed him in his abdomen.
"Hey, hear me?"
"Huh-who?" He blurted out in his absentmindedness.
It was Anderson.
"Steve, you're daydreaming again, aren't you?"
There goes his paper-thin cover.
"Guilty as charged." He quickly admitted.
Anderson joined in, sitting next to Hackett on the cold metal bench.
"Time's a luxury, don't you know?"
"Just a minute."
"I'm all out, those damn glass lickers wanna to see us."
Hackett hung his head low; their patrol was responsible for inspecting leaving/landing vessels. Trimidia's intelligence branch, the Territorial ('terror' common slang abbreviation) Secret Service, was on the prowl and had 'reasonable' suspicion that their ship failed to stop & search a public cruiser that the killer used for his escape. An hour ago, Ilian Zhivkov – the patrol group commander – was intensely interrogated by the TSS. He stepped forward in hopes that the terror would back off, but their tunnel vision was far too fixated on the two rising fleet officers.
"Imbecilic blame game," Hackett cursed under his breath, "they were the ones that let him slip by!"
"Sure, but it's unlike them to take responsibility." Anderson agreed the response time was poor, and spaceports were closed two hours after the now highly publicised murder. Plenty of time for an escape.
"You know –" The clanging against a grated metal floor stopped him. A pair of sleek dark blue armour-clad soldiers strolled by Anderson; he glanced in their general direction, not making eye contact but still carefully waiting for them to pass. "You know, Zhivkov thinks the same."
"Then why doesn't he go to Internal? Terror can go bother someone that enjoys it for a change."
Anderson snorted bitterly. "I dunno. Something this Melendrez guy was working on is being kept hush-hush, the Summit is on red alert. Feels like the end of world over there."
"You were groundside?"
"Mm-hmm. Shuttle ride, dropped Zhivkov off. Has some admiralty meeting."
Just their luck, the only one that could cover their flank got called away. All too perfect. Hackett sighed deeply; he was getting more nervous as each second passed. They were in serious trouble, likely due to some high-level executives making a stink.
"Well, we'll just have to do our best until he returns."
Hackett finically shook himself out of trance. "They in the holding room?"
"Bet." Anderson got up.
"Huh." Hackett sniffed, slapping his knees. "Going to be strange sitting on the wrong side of the table."
Hackett and Anderson both routinely stopped a handful of ships, oddly enough, many of those they scanned were clean, and their unit had the least amount of busted criminals per search. Despite that, they sat plenty of times in the holding room, questioning captains and individual crewmembers on their illicit cargo and expired licenses. This time around, it was them being prodded and poked at. One grumpy uniformed officer – arms behind his back, covered head to toe with a variety of cyberware – stood behind a friendlier looking cop. Strange company for the spook. Usually, the police didn't like being in bed with terrors; Hackett also saw the role reversal. The cop was the one asking, whilst the agent glanced over his shoulder, despite being more trained and equipped for the job. One might think he was mute, responding only with grunts to any inquiry his partner made.
Anderson was first up; Hackett thought nothing of it. He was his XO, in charge of all the daily routines on their corvette. Once he came out, he pinpointed questions about crew negligence, and assumptions were made about Hackett's orders but nothing out of the ordinary; in fact, he was mostly vague about them. Hackett entered, and the procedure was just about the same. The cop seemed more interested in him directly.
"What did exactly happen tonight?" Open ended questions.
"I just want to establish the events here, Steven." Casual tone.
"We might be able to persuade command not to relieve you of duty." Fear alleviating.
"If you are going to answer my questions, then I will leave you unmentioned. There's plenty more officers on my list to retain anonymity." Cheap tricks.
It was a surprise that the cop didn't have the interrogation rule book tucked under the table or a cheat sheet scribbled on his palm. Hackett's refusal to play nice had the policeman's noggin jogging; regardless, both men kept their composure and professionalism. He asked about the ship and if the procedures were followed. Hackett repeated himself multiple times, quoting Anderson even. Regardless the interrogator ran his mouth. Spouting question after question...
There was, however, a specific inquiry capable of piercing Hackett's shield.
"Rear Admiral Zhivkov." He intently stated. "Real, hard-working man! Good to his subordinates I hear."
He is.
"Is he your friend?"
"What bearing does this have on the investigation?" Snapped Hackett, perhaps too vigorously.
"It's a simple yes or no question."
Terror behind him glared; for whatever reason, this was getting a tad uncanny. Insistence or not, he'd not snitch on his commander.
"He's my superior. Beyond that, is no one's concern." Hackett was rankled alright.
The policeman nodded, "I see. As you know we have – reasonable suspicions. And those are linked directly to the Admiral."
Hackett instinctively raised his eyebrows. "He's under investigation?"
"Been awhile. You see, Zhivkov regularly clashes, with some people at top. Lot's of tension, but I'd rather avoid that minefield."
It was an off-handed mention but news to Hackett. He saw an admiral who could do no wrong, a man of integrity. How dare they accuse him?
The rest of the interrogation proceeded as both parties expected. Few mentions of Zhivkov were made here and there. Eventually, a conclusion was reached. The ship might've been used by the killers or at least corroborating evidence suggested so. During the interrogation, a call came in, for the terror. Afterward, the questions seemed to fly by, and little to no comment was made by the interrogator. The terror informed Hackett he'd send a recommendation to the fleet, fat lot of good that'll do, his inner voice grumbled. With a goodbye and placid thank you, they left Hackett to ponder the immediate future. His career was at a crossroads, the sword of Damocles dangling over his head. Either some desk jockey would scribble all over his papers without a second thought, or worse the people upstairs would look to give someone a rough treatment for their own incompetence. Hackett had no illusions whatsoever; Trimidia was always valued for the image of unparallel security offered, this image paid huge dividends. And if there's a universal truth to this world, it was that money talked louder than words.
"How the hell is one murder worth so goddamn much." Growled a furious Anderson.
Feedback from Internal – "Due to the poor judgement of our commissioned officers relating incident flight PERN-55G10 a report has been filed on behalf of the Internal Inspection Commission for Armed Forces. Territorial Secret Services have recommended immediate temporary duty suspensions for the involved individuals. Under Act No. 051/2145, the officers will remain within Trimidian borders until further investigations are conducted." – was plain abysmal.
Act 51 in short, meant having to deal with appointments to the inspectorate of Internal. Re-training, tests, pointless exercises. It also meant the terrors had full access to their files. Essentially leave without pay. And shit smeared on their faces for good measure; everyone loves being defamed.
"You tell me." Said Hackett, stuffing his bag with personal items.
Anderson pre-packed since he had a premonition. "We're the fall guys."
Bingo.
"It's how the game is played. Just happened to be the wrong time, wrong place." He said with resignation, packing a few last-minute things into his duffel bag.
"You think Zhivkov got the same end of the stick?"
Speak of the devil, Hackett's retina lit up yellow. /*Incoming Call, /*Rear Admiral Ilian Zhivkov
Hackett connected; immediately, he heard Zhivkov panting his way down a flight of stairs. "I need you and Anderson down here, stat."
"Is something –" Hackett was cut off.
"As yet? No. Don't worry about the suspension. But I need you down at the Summit." Zhivkov sputtered. "It's critical."
Zhivkov ended the call abruptly.
"Amen," Hackett replied to himself. He threw his last item in the bag and zipped it up. Bursting full with his personal effects. He began tying his shoelaces whilst Anderson meandered around the changing room, looking grim.
"So? What he did he say?"
Hackett looked up at David, "To meet up. Sounded important."
Anderson grunted. "Well, it's not like we have nothing but time on our hands."
True as it was, Internal would still be asking about them. Then again, nobody had told them directly that Zhivkov had been relieved of command; technically, they were only following orders.
/*/*/*/*/
Casimiria| Summit's Peak, Throuph Hotel Suite 177 | 1500 PST/0816 CASMT, 05.01.2156
"... and the political fallout is sure to ruin Throuph." The man in black confidently stated, his chin as sleek as the suit he wore. He had faint wrinkles on his forehead, black-grey hair, a shaven face. Any cybernetic enhancements he might've had were subtle, the only visible evidence was his personal link on his wrist. He faced the window every now and then, watching raindrops slide across it.
The woman sitting on the couch opposite him so far had 'unimpressed' written all over her face. "Mr. Katzadoulos–"
"Please." His voice deep, soothing to the ear. "You may call me Nelson."
"Fine. Nelson it is then." She spoke with a pronounced lisp, her voice bland and gravely. "Do you envision yourself as a shrewd investor? Pulling strings behind a crimson curtain for an oblivious audience?"
The man, Nelson, adjusted himself in his seat. "Mrs. Voorveld. Subsidisation can only work for so long in our environment. Sooner or later Lazarus will offer an irresistible deal to the Trimidian regime..."
Voorveld cleared her throat, "Throuph is more than a security organisation, it is a peace project, the only company in the business of actively refusing to participate in our daily squabbles. Subsidisation allows them to pursue distinctive goals."
"You, admire them?"
"I envy them."
"It is a complacent, ineffective organisation, currently jeopardizing our very safety. And please do not insult us. We both know that the Summit serves merely as a negotiation tool between Earth and Trimidia."
The woman, visually older, took her cup and saucer from the coffee table. She relaxed her shoulders, crossing her legs.
"Beware that the owner of this theatre does not kick you out, Nelson. Everyone can have their play, if only they do not sully the good name of this establishment."
"My play is straight to the point. Lazarus sees an opportunity, ripe for the taking. In this, Fyastil can help us immensely."
Opportunities generated curiosity, "How?"
"Your company would not have to waive any fees, simply let us escort your cargo carriers."
To Voorveld, it was simply stupid. "Don't believe for a second the Chairman would even entertain your little charade." Trimidia being an autonomous government – far as an individual could go from Earth's reach – had their own security, their own escorts that kept peace between any rival corporations, allowing for relative peace to reign in within their borders. Throuph, a specialised company working in tandem with government authorities, was the tool most often utilised.
"You see, he doesn't have to. If we partner up, chances are Militech, Arasaka and the rest would mimic our own efforts with rival companies. This newly manufactured pressure would mount on Trimidia. Throuph as you know, provides vital services around the planet's storage facilities and owns most of them, Fyastil is a cargo company. Seeing foreign security forces will wrinkle a few noses. These people value their independence. In a bid not to appear weak, they would seek solutions aligned with said independence.
"You want to force them to invest."
"Now we understand each other. From there, we play by my rules. Fyastil will demand tighter security that we can provide, on paper anyway. We sit on this a while, play hard to get, then we seize the moment and offer a compromise where we leeway some benefits."
This would get a more proven company to bolster public confidence, a shortcut to something Throuph desperately thirsts forever since its inception. There was hearsay about the company, major security breaches swept under the rug.
"What if Arasaka offers a better deal?"
Nelson scoffed, "Unless said company is willing to operate at a loss, impossible. I'm in the market for long-term calculated risks! Besides, Lazarus fields the most experienced private army on Earth. And quite possibly, even our new space forces. Manpower that the emerging Trimidian economy wouldn't want to ignore. We all know you can't pretend being a non-aligned power when the waters are filled with sharks."
"You certainly do not lack for ambition, Nelson."
"I also do not aim for short-term gain, don't mistake my actions to be driven by pure greed. My hope is that Fyastil leadership feels the same."
No, not greed. Power. Men like Nelson oozed self-admiration; money can only satisfy someone for so long. Sooner or later they become numbers on a spreadsheet and the mind races, 'what should I spend it on?' And then they arrive at chilling conclusions, making a mark on history, influencing events covertly or if they so chose, overtly. Those smart enough to keep their hands clean pass on wealth to the next generation, instil some principles. However, that approach garnered little favour with psychopaths and megalomaniacs. The most prominent demographic occupying CEO positions.
"Perhaps it does, perhaps it does..."
Kir Czarnecki spent the better part of that evening tending to the worried Voorveld family. Trying to calm down the son most of all. There had been a murderer on the loose, with very little to no information being leaked. Causing rumours to spread faster than light. Once they reached the ear of one Maximilian Voorveld, he couldn't stop asking for his mother, currently in session with one of the most influential investors this Rendezvous had the pleasure of tending to. He very well couldn't just barge in and embarrass Rose in front of an important meeting. And so he made promises, tell her that the family is troubled and that she would call back soon. One small problem. She hadn't planned to.
"His reliance on me is both sweet and sickening."
Kir didn't entirely understand. "He's just worried."
"He's the heir of a multibillion enterprise, of course he is worried. Worried of taking responsibility! One day dear old mother will no longer be around to coddle him. I've left far too big shoes for him to fill."
"Pardon me, that's sounds cynical."
"Pha! I wish I was wrong Kir, I truly do. Never enjoyed being right about my intuition."
Rozemarijn Voorveld was well into her one-hundreds, 141 to be exact. She had no interest in being Arasakas' plaything, no interest in miracle treatments or life-prolonging surgeries. Her life was lived to the fullest, her time sacrificed for the good of a company she never intended to run. Time for a passing of the torch was nigh, according to her.
"I tried my best at being a mother, yet it is hard when as a CEO the weight of thousands of employees lay on my shoulders."
Kir intently listened to everything she had to say.
"I raised him wrong."
"You raised them well." Kir simply stated.
Rose lightly chuckled, "Sorry Kir, you haven't even been alive for the better part of my motherhood. But if you ever have children, and are forced between a career or fatherhood. Choose the latter."
She finished her tea, setting it back on the table. "But let's not talk about my disappointments. Where do you see yourself in 10 years from now?"
His career pursuits were Kir's ambitions; his success with women was practically null. But she didn't need to know that. "I have never been happier than as your aide."
"Wrong, Kir. Were you only my aide, this conversation would've never been possible." She patted the seat next to her. "Sit down."
"I –"
"Kir."
"Yes?"
"Please, sit down. You're not an Araskan stooge kissing Saburo's feet."
Kir reluctantly circled around the couch, sitting down next to Rose.
"10 years, from now. I won't be here. Age has already caught up to me, I plan to retire soon. I tire of listening to ego-driven buffoons such as Nelson. My son happens to be set on a path similar to the people I despise, my daughters ran around their youth bedding vain playboys and sniffing glue. You do not want to associate with my family. Least of all my uncle."
The oldest living Voorveld to date, Kir heard, he's been retired for years yet Rose never quite told him much of their past.
"It is not contempt speaking, but a bitter truth I had ignored far too long."
"I have not known anything else but service to your family. You gave me a chance when others would merely sneer at me. I said it once, I'll say it again Missus Voorveld. This is my dream job."
Kir saw the elderly woman smile, although her eyes were not joyful. Pitiful, sad, remorseful maybe?
"Oh, you're young, Kir. Observant, polite and kind. Not too shy, respectful and equipped with a perfect amount of diligence. Why did someone have to go and curse you with naïveté is beyond me."
She then took him by the wrist, placing a small data shard into his palm. She closed his hand, curling it in a fist. "I'm not going to beg, if you feel as though your place is to remain by my side. By all means stay, but don't say I didn't warn you."
Kir stood up, his hand still closed around the data chip. The elderly woman smiled, turning away.
"You may leave now, make sure you're well rested for tomorrow. I wish to have the day for myself."
Here's the thing, Cyberpunk cast in one story, ME cast in another, they then slowly mesh together. The world? Basis being Pondsmith's universe, that develops into Bioware's universe. Then likely some classic first contact with an altered humanity and similar FF ME tropes.
I'll admit to skewing the timeline a tad bit. I'll make one if there are calls for one, otherwise won't bother.
But, being in 2077 (beginning in 2021, ME has colonies in 2103, 80 year difference) we already have established colonies on the Moon and Mars, small as they might be. So the Prothean cache would statistically be found sooner, for my crossover this carries implications. And we know for a fact that ME's 2077 wouldn't hold a candle tech wise to Cyberpunk; as technological progress was fantastically fast after the Cold War in the Cyberpunk AU.
So in any case, what's the fate of our hated/beloved ME (human) chars? You might ask. I mean, surely some wouldn't even be born? Let's attempt the tried and true the suspension of disbelief route. End of the day its a ME+Cyberpunk crossover, some things aren't worth putting thought into. They'll exist, differently but still influenced but not directed by their roles in the original story, the Shepards included.
That's about the extent of where I'm steering this ship.
Next ep is halfway done, could be released sooner.
