16th of the Fifth Astral Fire, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(September 15th, 2657 Galactic Standard)
Fallox Sparatus checked the schedule on his omnitool, pushed aside the stack of dataslates regarding Exitium-Citadel immigration legislation, and nodded at the other Councilors. "Well, any moment now, Spectre Arterius' check-in should begin."
The holoprojector in the centre of the meeting room lit up exactly on schedule.
The Councilors watched as the image, which began as a static-laden mess of barely-visible runes, resolved into the sunlit face of Spectre Arterius; he appeared to be near the edge of a dusty, rust-red mesa, and far beyond the edge of the cliffside Fallox could make out what appeared to be a crystal-blue lake.
"Councilors," Saren intoned, his voice both delayed and rendered slightly tinny through whatever it was he was using to send the transmission, "is my transmission coming through clearly?"
"Spectre Arterius? Your image is clear, but your call is suffering from a bit of audiovisual lag," Fallox replied.
"Understood. One moment." Saren muttered something inaudible, turned around and took a step back from the camera, becoming fully visible-
-and each of the room's occupants did their best to hide their shock.
Saren Arterius was, in Fallox's opinion, perhaps not the most stereotypically ideal turian, but if one thing was certain Saren was the consummate professional soldier. As far as he and the others were aware, the man more or less lived in his combat gear - more than once, he'd been seen fully armed and armoured while dining at the sorts of luxury establishments which would run a credit check before even considering taking a reservation.
Saren was still wearing his armour - the bulk of his outline made that clear - but now, he was clad in an inky black over-the-shoulder cloak which hung down his frame and transitioned into a split half-coat marked with red highlights. The same customized rifle which he'd toted since his very first day as a Spectre was clamped to his back, alongside a three-barrelled weapon which looked similar to the same sorts of automatic shotguns the Exitium's guards carried down in their hangar bay. A sleek, unmarked rod of some sort hung down across the back of his waist, and curved blade with a ruby-red hilt sheathed in a black scabbard rattled slightly as the two decorative metal rings which hung from its rounded pommel clanked against one another.
Spirits, Fallox breathed as he recognized the two rings - Verux's Ring of Fire, and Calucinia's Twin Talons.
If not for the firearms, Fallox would have thought that Saren had stepped out of a period drama - and he was, evidently, not the only one thinking along those lines.
"Someone," Councilor Saral Valern muttered, "has been watching a few too many episodes of The Midnight Spears of Palaven."
"I wasn't aware," Councilor Herane Tevos noted dryly, "that you were a fan of turian spear- and-chariot shows."
Saral snorted. "A man must have his hobbies. And be-"
He stopped as Saren twisted his talons into a series of strange contortions; alien runes flickered around Saren's hands, sending gentle pulses of turquoise light towards the camera.
Saren regarded the camera with a nod. "How about now?"
"You are coming through clearly," Herane said with a frown. "Is everything alright, Spectre?"
Saren mirrored the expression. "Yes?"
"Forgive us, Spectre," Fallox added. "You've just never debriefed us outdoors, and we've never had any issue receiving transmission from the Exitium's communications terminals."
"Ah. I understand," Saren replied, nodding sagely. "I am currently in the middle of some fieldwork, the nature of which would make returning to my quarters inconvenient. As such, I'm actually directing this message through an aetheric link from my position to the communications terminal I normally use from quite some distance - I am still working to master the transmission ritual."
"We, ah, see," Saral answered a moment later. "But you are able to give us your scheduled check-in without issue?"
"Of course. As noted in my previous communique, I am continuing to liaise with Inquisitor Hislop; we have been instructing one another in our respective fields of expertise, and I continue to study the Exitium's martial knowledge, its culture, and so forth. In regards to your main concerns from last week - no, I have not been able to provide firsthand confirmation of demons, and the heretics Inquisitor Hislop and I have so far dealt with have been...small-time, would be my best way of explaining it. Administrative fraud, budget skimming and the like."
"You seem well-armed," Fallox said slowly, "to be hunting down white-collar criminals."
"One cannot be too well prepared." Saren shrugged.
The councilors looked at one another, the air thick with unease.
"Spectre Arterius," Herane said at last, "we must express our, ah, grave concerns regarding the nature of 'Hell' with respect to the reports we have received from all of our sources, your reports included."
"To be perfectly frank," Saral continued, "despite all insistences to the contrary, these 'demons' that the Exitium proclaims to be an existential threat, well, don't seem to warrant that level of fear. Make no mistake - we have received some reports and firsthand accounts from members of the Exitium Expeditionary Group who have been sent to the Exalted Exitium's frontier, and the information we've received from them most certainly describes a foe which poses no small threat, to be sure. These…'demons' are dangerous, yes. Lethal, also yes. We are not blinding ourselves to the obvious. Even so, however, what appears so far to be an ongoing war of attrition is not at all the same as the apocalyptic, unending tide of the underworld's demonspawn devouring the universe whole, or the like."
"Indeed. The degree, the true degree of threat - that remains to be seen. Regardless, I have always advocated for planning as though the worst possible outcome is the most likely, and in that I remain steadfast," Saren admitted, his tone professional. "My thoughts on this matter have been clear so far, and remain unchanged."
"That is untrue," Fallox countered. "I'm not accusing you of lying, but - even you have to admit that your perspective on the matter has changed, and you've only been away from Citadel space for three months." He paused; the other Councilors looked at him, and they all nodded. "You, Spectre Arterius, have changed."
Saren glanced down at his clothing. He ran a talon across the hilt of his blade; its crimson metal pulsed with a light Fallox thought resembled the angry fires of Trebia. "I...suppose so. But can anyone say that the past few months has left them unchanged?"
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BREAKING NEWS: Unconfirmed reports of first Citadel citizens slain by "demons"
Our foreign correspondents placed within the Exalted Exitium have unconfirmed reports regarding the deaths of anywhere between six to eight persons killed on a frontier world in Exitium space.
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Lower Council debate regarding Genophage enters second week
Last week's fiery speech given by Redeemed Orator Xallmolleth Li'kaanrak Plague-Weaver continues to create controversy.
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Citadel Public Health & Safety reports half of Citadel's long-term care patients cured
Exitium-based "magitechnology" continues to astound medical officials, healing patients at an exponentially increasing rate.
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Elkoss Combine announces partnership with BruteTech
The Terminus-based, volus-backed megacorporation is the first of the Ilium 5000 to officially begin joint ventures with an Exitium-based partner.
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Third wave of Exitium Expeditionary Group set to depart tomorrow
The third group of travelers to the Exalted Exitium brings with them another set of immigrant-tourists, bringing the total number of civilians in Exitium space to 500,000.
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Batarian Hegemony denounces "sheltering" of anti-slavery activists by Exalted Exitium
Supposed ringleaders of slave-liberation group "Pillar of Hate" suspected of immigrating to Exitium with false credentials; C-SEC investigation is ongoing.
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Sermons, Shrines, Skateboarding, Screaming: A trip into 'Exitium-Town'
For three months, the Exalted Exitium's representatives have been hard at work cramming a slice of their home into Citadel Priority Docking Bay A4. Part One of an ongoing series exploring the newest entrant to the galactic stage.
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Topic: Hell is real [THREAD LOCKED AT REQUEST OF USER]
In: Boards ► Exitium ► General Discussion
Monoglass (Original Poster)
Posted On Sep 17th, 2657 :
It's real.
Hell is real. Demons are real.
Everything the Exitium has said so far is true.
I'm sorry. I don't want to come off as dramatic or theatrical, but I don't know how else to express what I'm feeling, what I've seen.
I'll start from the beginning. Back when the first wave of immigration from the Citadel to the Exitium was opened to the public, I jumped at the chance to go in person. I didn't know what, exactly, I was going to do once I was there, but I did know this was a chance of a lifetime. My old thesis? About the Inusannon? Forget it. Messaged my thesis supervisor, my family, everyone who I'd want permission from - and, like that, I was on a ship headed for Gaia.
Things were crazy. Really crazy. You can connect to the extranet from the Exitium, kind of - I'm sure you've all read at least some other firsthand accounts or watched some vloggers document their time in the Exitium, so I won't repeat it all here. Culture shock was, to put it lightly, an understatement.
Between that and figuring out how I wanted to go about researching a whole new culture - a whole new reality - I didn't really have much time to spend online. I did know that Indomitable was too much for me - even outdoors, at the top of the city stacks, it felt like too much, and this is coming from someone who grew up on the Citadel. So I managed to get myself a ride to one of the Reliquary Worlds - these are entire planets dedicated to storing as much knowledge as the Exitium can replicate and hoard, both to study and in case there's some sort of insane demonic invasion that wipes everyone else out.
Two weeks in, I arrived at Antaresia along with three other visitors from Citadel space. Antaresia's a Reliquary world close to the Exitium's frontiers, but it's just as well-kept and well-stocked as any other, I'm told - and I just dove right into the deep end. History, sociology, cultural records, ancient media, religious texts, private message records - you name it, I could find it.
I spent nearly three hours playing a video game from the Age of Sin, where you play as a "sinbearer" and have to round up your friends and family to rat them out to the Inquisition. I watched live news broadcasts from Third Invasion of Gaia - watched newscasters transmit emergency alerts and orders while demons literally tried to pound down the doors to the studio. I read science fiction comics, where people from the Exitium's Fifth Age dreamed of a galaxy-spanning Exitium that had a million alien species invading Hell to finally bring an end to the War Eternal.
Incidentally, the comic series ends with the entire population of the galaxy pushed out of Hell, the invasion routed and the "noble defenders of the holy" beginning to defend themselves from Hell's counterattack.
The story ends there because the author was killed by demons.
I was in my element. Afraid of the Exitium and all it represents - absolutely. But also engrossed. Obsessed. Imagine finding, in a single megacity, every single document, record, whatever - anything you wanted from the history of every single species that calls Citadel space home, right at your fingertips.
Last week, while I was eating breakfast, the alarms went off.
"Demonsign," the Archaeovist assigned to escort me said. Their eyes were wide with fear and excitement and terror.
Five minutes later, the pods started falling from orbit. I was running towards the nearest bunker when I saw it out the window. Huge, mountain-sized - and that's literal, I'm not exaggerating - columns of flaming flesh and eyes and bones and teeth, slammed into the forest and puked out a horde of creatures.
First came the imps - they look like vorcha, but uglier, spikier, in a variety of colours - brown, black, white, green, red - a rainbow of snarling, raging teeth. Some had wings. Some walked on two legs, others galloped on all fours. All of them - hundreds of thousands of them from each meat-missile - started flinging things at the building. Balls of lightning, or fire, or both, or acid, or ice - the windows shattered. Still have a scar on my face from the cuts.
Right behind them, pinkies - four-legged beasts, some of them being ridden by imps. Then the flying cacodemons - floating eyes, spitting more, smaller demons from their mouths. All of them, in as many varieties and colours and sizes as the imps - but all equally as terrifying.
I didn't run at first. The sight stopped me in my tracks. A tidal wave of claws coming towards the building.
Someone else literally hauled me over their shoulder and threw me deep into an emergency bunker; a few hundred or so civilians - scholars, like me, not the big armoured shotgun-toting soldiers you've probably all seen by now - huddling inside this enormous metal cave. There was enough food, water, plumbing, and weaponry in there to sustain twice our number of literal decades.
Didn't help. The demons started pounding on the door not long after. I pissed myself twice.
I don't remember much beyond that. They got in, eventually, and we all had to retreat further and further down into the bunker's depths. There were fifty levels to fall back into - the emergency bunker was small. Small, someone had said to me. Nothing like the miniature cities on other planets.
At some point, I picked up a shotgun and a chain-dagger and started fighting, too. Never held a real weapon in my life before now. Killed a few demons.
Thirty six hours later, we were holed up in a trench on the fortieth level. A firing line full of librarians and authors and engineers. We were about ready to start running down to the next basement when we heard battle-cries and the sounds of gunfire distinct to our own coming from behind the demons.
A small force of power-armoured warriors, covered head-to-toe in demon gore, ripped through the back line of the demons with spells, chainswords and three-barelled automatic shotguns.
And we were saved.
Just like that.
"The planet is not entirely cleansed," one of the soldiers said to me with a smile - a SMILE - on her face. "But our perimeter is secured, the demoncraft in orbit has been annihilated, and a defensive fleet will arrive with reinforcements within the next half-hour. You are free, now, to clean yourself, indulge in a proper meal, and partake in some well-earned sleep."
I wouldn't leave, you know that? I didn't want to leave the bunker. I didn't want to go back out there. I didn't want to have to walk up ten flights of stairs and wade through the sea of demon corpses we'd made.
It's been a week. They just declared the planet demon-free.
The chain-dagger is on my desk. The combat shotgun is sitting in my lap right now. Every time I try to put the weapons back into a storage crate, every time I want to leave them out of hand's reach, I can't. They kept me safe. They are keeping me safe.
I don't know what else to say.
If the Exitium says you need to do something, do it. Install their magic wards. Let them build bunkers on the Citadel. Take magic classes. Maybe our armies stand a chance against these demons but I swear upon whatever deities exist - and if you don't believe in that than I swear on the lives of everyone I know and love - that the Exitium, if anything, has not been telling you how bad things are. They've undersold it.
I have the statistics on my omnitool. One week ago, Antaresia had a population of four billion. One billion lived in the Librarium - the capital city. The rest, scattered around the planet in a whole bunch of different cities. Of the four billion, thirty percent were members of the Church of the Slayer or Seraph - career soldiers. A further twenty percent had previously served in the military, but weren't in active service. Forty percent, civilians like myself. Ten percent, Redeemed demons.
Right now, ignoring the soldiers and engineers and experts who showed up from out-of-sector to reinforce and rebuild the Reliquary, the estimated population of the planet is five hundred thousand. 62% of casualties were inflicted within the first nine hours.
The estimated population of the planet is now five hundred thousand.
The other three people from the Citadel who came with me aren't amongst that number.
I don't know when the next post I make will be.
I don't think I'll be making any for a while.
Everyone, please stay safe. Or at least try.
"Mr. Misoti?"
The volus looked up at the approaching human clerk - a dark-skinned strogg woman, her bright red hair bundled up into a bun, who looked mostly like her unadulterated brethren, save for a metallic set of arms and a prosthetic - if that was the right term - dull-bronze replacement for the lower half of her face. Her voice was rich, given an almost turian-like flange thanks to some unseen machinery in her body; she wore a form-fitting grey suit which, despite covering her body from the neck down, gave away her thick, well-toned (no doubt due to the bionics concealed beneath) figure. Long, black boots stretched up her no-doubt bionic legs, and she was otherwise unadorned save for a yellow waist-sash tied around her oddly-wide hips which bore the emblem of her company: a black fist, smashing into the skull of a demon.
The motto, beneath, read: BruteTech - Simple, Powerful, Reliable.
Now that, Iren mused, sucking in a thoughtful breath of air from his rebreather, is a good slogan. "Yes, I am here," he said aloud, looking up at the woman. "Is Mr. Mercy ready to see me?"
"He is," the woman said with a nod. "At your convenience, I shall bring you to his quarters."
Iren glanced up at his bodyguards - Lysthima, an asari with nearly a hundred years as an Elkoss security operator, and Sentius, a turian ex-Cabalist who'd made a name for himself as one of the company's best soldiers. They both seemed oddly on-edge, hands clenching their weapons tightly - though given the general distaste for the strogg most of his non-volus colleagues had previously expressed, he supposed that might have been inevitable. "Will Mr. Mercy mind if my escorts accompany me?"
"No, no," the woman said with a multi-toned laugh. "And they may keep their weapons, as well - it is the opinion of Mr. Mercy that one who conducts business should be armed at all times, you should know."
"I agree wholeheartedly," Iren replied, chuckling as he patted the compact pistol and stun gun clamped to his belt. "Very good! Ah, forgive me. I didn't catch your name?"
"Adjutant Alia Tayber, at your service," Alia answered, bowing theatrically.
"Well then, Miss Tayber," Iren said, "lead the way."
Alia motioned for the group - who had been waiting in the corner of the hangar which was now something resembling a small Exitium city nestled within the Citadel - to follow her, and she led them down a series of corridors towards one of the dozens of spacecraft lined up along the docking bay's perimeter, passing by building after building: restaurants, gymnasiums, magic schools, and more.
Odd, Iren thought, frowning to himself within his suit; as they walked, he noticed Alia's unusual manner of walking; her hips and shoulders seemed to sway with an almost unsteady swing. Perhaps her natural gait is affected by her bionics? I wonder how much of her body - her head aside - is flesh, and how much is metal. Magic could, perhaps, allow me out of this suit, like the quarians have found - but after so long, there is something comforting, I think, about this house of pressurized alloy I travel around in.
One of his bodyguards - Lysthima - coughed slightly, and grumbled inaudibly.
Iren glanced up. "Lysthima? Is something wrong?"
"N-no, Director," the asari replied, glancing around. "Just checking the perimeter, sir."
"I appreciate the concern," Iren replied, continuing to walk, "but I imagine that we're quite safe here. This isn't Ilum, Lysthima."
Lysthima nodded slowly, eyes firmly locked on Iren's own. "Of course, sir."
Alia stopped, looking back with one leg stretched out mid-step. "Please, madam, rest assured that no harm will come to you or your charge. I will not allow it, and I know that you and your turian colleague are no doubt possessed of...prowess, too."
Lysthima and Sentius glanced at one another with an expression Iren couldn't place; he simply shrugged and waved a hand generally towards the line of spacecraft. "Nothing to worry about, Miss Tayber. Lead on."
A few moments later, they approached one of the last ships in the lineup - an enormous craft, easily matching a heavy transport-class frigate. It was a boxy craft, sleek lines interrupted by strange, almost organic-looking spheres which protruded from its body as though they were tumours upon a great metal beast; a myriad of cannons poked out of the ship's body at evenly-spaced points, and its bridge, facing the docking bay floor, was an angled, horn-like structure lined with dozens of gleaming red lights. Scrawled alongside the underside of the bridge in stamped Exitium glyphs was the name of the ship: Purveyor of His Bountiful Mercy.
"We have arrived," Alia announced, spinning around with a grand sweep of her arms. "If you will allow me a moment, I shall confer with Mr. Mercy - he can, at times, become rather lost in his own small world."
"Of course."
They watched the strogg woman depart into the belly of the ship, and Iren sighed. "What a lovely craft. I believe I'll have to make more room in my personal hangars - something tells me my private collection will be growing soon."
Silence, for a moment.
Iren folded his arms, took several breaths from his rebreather, and looked up at his guards. "Alright. The two of you are never this quiet unless we're in imminent danger. What's depressurizing your suits?"
The asari and the turian both exchanged another inscrutable look.
"Uh...nothing, sir," Sentius replied stiffly. "Nothing at all."
"This is just an exciting new situation," Lythima added hastily. "Plenty to be excited about, but also plenty to be cautious of as well."
Iren blinked a few times, then tapped the helmet of his suit. "I may be encased in several pounds of metal, but I'm not that dense," he muttered. "If you've got something that needs to be said privately, say it now."
The bodyguards, again, looked at one another.
Iren waited.
"Nothing to add, Director," Sentius said at last.
"Zada's dice," Iren grumbled. "I swear, we've been through how many firefights, assassination attempts and this is where you draw the line? Right when we're about to meet a representative of one of the Exalted Exitium's biggest companies?"
Silence, again.
"Oh, forget it. Keep your secrets," Iren spat. "Don't know why I bother paying you two as much as I do."
A moment later, Alia returned, a beaming smile plastered across her half-metal face. "All is well! I have roused Mr. Mercy from his work - come, and I shall bring you to speak with him!"
Iren and the guards followed the strogg into the ship; its interior was all burnished steel lined with gold gilding, and they passed by only a handful of crew as they made their way into an elevator. Arriving in the bridge - obvious from the sharp angle - they found themselves in a large chamber with only a trio of seats and consoles; the rest of the room was dominated by a long, ascending stairway which terminated in what looked like an open conference seating area, clustered around a central, circular table.
"Have a seat," Alia explained, motioning to the table.
They did as instructed.
Nothing happened.
"Ah...forgive me," Iren said a moment later, "but I do not see Mr. Mercy?"
Alia scowled, and folded her arms across her heaving chest.
Lysthima coughed, and Sentius kicked her under the table - but if the commotion had drawn her notice, Alia didn't comment. Instead, the red-haired woman turned to the wall.
"Mercy! Wake yourself! You have guests," Alia all but screeched, "and you are ignoring them!"
The room was silent, save for the soft mechanical noises of the bridge's various terminals and consoles.
"Wretch-Makron foul your engines," Alia cursed. "Have you lost yourself, again, in your tinkering?"
There was no response.
"Wake up, you senile toaster!" The woman reared back, and punched the closest wall with a resounding clang.
"I am awake, you petulant brat," came a voice over the shipwide comms; the voice was deep, heavy and bassy, distorted by a nearly-inaudible layer of static beneath. "Cease your shouting and desist in your assault at once!"
Alia punched the wall again. "Shouting? Damn you, grandfather, you have guests, who are waiting for you! I knew you were ignoring me!"
"Guests? What are you going - oh, oh! Oh dear. My goodness. Ahem! My most sincere apologies, Director Misoti," Mr. Mercy said, tone sheepish. "I was, ah, tinkering with the product samples your company sent me down in the manufactory deck and lost track of time."
"That's quite alright," Iren replied, frowning. "Will you be joining us shortly, then?"
"Joining? Ah, I am here and ready to discuss the terms of your proposal now."
Iren blinked. "I do not see you here?"
"That is impossible," Mr. Mercy answered, bewildered.
"There are only four people in this room?" Iren offered, equally confused.
Silence.
"Alia, dearest of all my grandchildren," Mr. Mercy intoned, "surely you, being the studious, dutiful, and most excellent merchantwoman that you are, did not fail to inform our guests - who you so graciously have reminded me that we are hosting - of my nature?"
Alia scowled at the ceiling. "What? Your nature? What are you on about, you decrepit old rustbucket?"
"I told you this would happen," Mr. Mercy sighed. "Director Misoti, perhaps my granddaughter did not make my situation clear to you."
Iren gulped down several breaths without meaning to, and glanced at his guards with concern. "Your situation?"
"You have already met me," Mr. Mercy replied, sighing. "You are, more accurately, sitting within me."
All three of the Elkoss Combine employees blinked. "What."
"I am the ship," Mr. Mercy answered, tone gentle. "Purveyor of His Bountiful Mercy is my name, Director."
Iren looked down at the table.
Then at the chair.
Then at the floor beneath.
Then at his bodyguards.
"Oh," was all he could manage. "Um. Pleased to meet you?"
"The pleasure is all mine," Purveyor answered with a booming laugh. "Alia! Out! Go bother the crew with...whatever it is you do," the ship added curtly.
"As you wish," Alia groused as she made her way back to the elevator; she bowed, smiled, and descended out of view.
Iren paused for a moment. We are meeting with a ship.
The ship is the company representative.
He grinned.
This is utterly mad. Mad, and genius, too.
"Very good, very good! I suppose introductions are in order - formal ones, then?" Iren tapped the chestplate of his suit. "Director Iren Misoti, head of Elkoss Combine's Acquisitions and Partnerships Division, at your service."
"Purveyor of His Bountiful Mercy, representing the Joint Operations division of BruteTech," the ship answered in turn. "Might I say - having toyed around with those lovely mass-accelerating rifles I received last week - I do believe that today will be the beginning of a most fruitful partnership!"
"Of course, my superiors wish for nothing less," Iren replied, giddy. I can almost smell the credits! Glorious! "Now then, where shall we begin? Have you had ti-"
"-wait, wait! One moment, before we begin! I understand that, perhaps, this might be rather out of line," Purveyor interjected, "but I must address one thing before we continue. Now - I want you to know, I do - I did - not mean to intrude upon your communications, but my sensor suite is...very proactive, shall we say, and automatically picks up most of loose information floating around the datasphere near my body - especially when my subroutines detect mention of me or, in this case, my crew. And I must confess, tumultuous as our relationship is, I do indeed care very greatly for my granddaughter."
Iren ignored the part of his mind which was very, very curious as to how a heavily-armed transport frigate was capable of producing offspring, and instead nodded gravely. "No offense is taken, sir. What is the matter?"
The centre of the conference table lit up with a holographic projection; it took Iren a moment to figure out that it was a text log of some sort, detailing "unencrypted voice communications" between an "Unknown Operator I" and "Unknown Operator II."
"Oh, Spirits' shit," Sentius moaned.
"Goddess, take me now," Lysthima added with great feeling. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
UO I: hey so strogg are kinda weird with all the metal in them right?
UO II: yeah, for sure. Defs weird AF
UO I: I mean humans are kinda cute, I think, but I dunno about all the bionics and stuff
UO II: yeah me too
UO I: …
UO II: …..
UO I: goddess help me I think I'm going to start drooling this Alia lady is THICK
UO II: holy fuck look at those hips. Damn things could hold up a whole bridge
UO I: this is the worst day ever
UO II: do you think she's sashaying on purpose?
UO I: creds on yes
UO II: well it's not like bossman's gonna give a shit so I don't get it
Iren wanted to look away from the catastrophic multi-vehicle crash unfolding before his eyes.
He could not.
UO I: maybe she's like in her maiden phase, y'know, I remember being real thirsty when I was younger
UO II: lmfao like you're not right now
UO I: hey look we've been real busy lately, not a lotta time to get around these days
UO II: she's stretching her leg out like a speardancer, this has to be on purpose
UO I : shit maybe she's actually trying to throw us off our game
UO I : head on a swivel
UO II: yeah I gotcha
"Anyhow, I am fully aware that my granddaughter can be...eccentric," Purveyor said with a staticy sigh, "but in the future, I would ask that you, ah, control your bodyguards. Much as I would like Alia to settle down with a suitor, or suitors, I do believe those sorts of….details...are things I do my best to pay no attention to."
Iren, one hand tapping the table at a furious pace and the other slowly, slowly reaching down to the stun gun on his hip, glared up at his bodyguards, who both were very busy staring, terrified, at the walls.
"My sincerest apologies," Iren ground out. "I will be having words with my employees. You have my assurances that this offense will not go unpunished. That being said - do I have your assurances that any, ah, private communications will remain as such around your...body?"
"Oh, but of course," Purveyor answered. "I have set my warfare suite to ignore encrypted communications - I rarely have need of such things, Director. Demons are not known for their subtlety."
"That is good to hear," Iren answered, the cheer in his voice dripping with frost; he unclipped his stun gun, set it on the table, and glared at his bodyguards. "That is very good to hear."
Excerpted from: Sermons, Shrines, Skateboarding, Screaming: A trip into 'Exitium-Town', by Kerri T'Vessa
...I have a theory. It's not a universally applicable one, but I have been travelling around the galaxy for the better part of the last hundred-fifty years or so, and it's held up so far. I maintain that the best way to get a quick feel for the on-the-ground vibe of any culture, anywhere, is to find that society's version of a fairly cheap pub or bar that also happens to serve some sort of meat-on-a-stick dish.
Thessian asari, of course, have the otha-ieasali. Pristine, well-ventilated rooms, kept ice cold to help cool folks after a long day of work; thin slices of irif, and it's always irif, because to do otherwise would be culinary heresy, are skewered onto a metal needle. The whole needle is brushed down with a light application of mansa juice, and then it's slowly cooked in a pathlea-style oven before being presented, needle-tip up, to the customer. You use a fork, remove each slice, and savour it with a nice frosty cup of elasa.
It's probably going a bit far to say that all of this somehow represents the asari mindset perfectly, but consider the following.
I'm sitting in a dimly lit restaurant called Sami's Serious Meatery, and their logo depicts an angry-looking cartoon bomb with its fuse lit.
It's no bigger than any of the iesali you might find in the back alleys of Zakera or tucked away in Thessia City's Silver Sathia district. There's a U-shaped table at which two dozen people are sitting - myself included - while, at the centre of the room, Sami, the chef, an enormous, olive-skinned human with black hair and enough muscles to make a krogan jealous works away at the many grills in front of us. Fueled by a very specific sort of high-grade charcoal the people of the Exitium call hvit-tan and kept going by the chef's occasional casting of a small fire spell, the small room is a symphony of sensations. Fat sizzles as it hits the charcoal, sending waves of eye-watering smoke wafting up around the room. There are fans, which in no way, shape or form actually ventilate the room, instead blowing around clouds of greasy meat smoke. Blasts of heat from the grills keep the restaurant at a distinctly uncomfortable temperature; cooling is achieved not from the aforementioned fans - which, to be perfectly frank, probably only serve to make the heat and smoke all the more noticeable - but by chugging as much alcohol as you can keep down.
Only three beverages are on the menu. First is water, which can be carbonated or flat, and for a small fee given shots of various flavourings to make it slightly less boring - a counterpart to soda, I think.
Next is hvit-jiu, a distilled cereal liquor averaging around 85% ABV that brings ryncol and ebrius to mind. Crystal clear, smelling faintly of mint and served in glass half-pint mugs, it hits the palette with enough force to make my eyes water before mellowing out into a smoother flavour that almost - almost - makes it tolerable. Somehow I imagine I would have died in college had this been freely available to me.
Last, and most importantly, is serbirsa: a fermented grain beer not unlike batarian ale, and while the chef explains to me that it comes in hundreds, if not thousands of varieties, each with its proponents claiming that their favoured style is the only real kind, he's also quick to add that the kind he serves is "not the best," but rather is specifically formulated to "slake thirst, complement grilled meat, and also cost as little as is feasibly possible without compromising too much on flavour." Sami's house-made beer, which he proudly calls "Sami's AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA Spiced Fruit Session Crushable Thirst-Destroyer" (that's meant to represent screaming, by the way) is lighter and served much colder than most batarian ales and has a slightly sour, vaguely fruity and mildly spiced taste. Sitting at 15% ABV it's certainly got a lot more punch than most batarian ales would ever think of having, and oh, did I forget to mention that it comes only in serving sizes of two (extra small), six (small), or eight (regular) litre bottles?
Incidentally, staying sober while drinking actual bucket-loads of beer is actually much easier than it sounds. The Exitium, Goddess praise them, have invented the greatest thing ever conceived by mortal minds: sobriety gels. Little green squares, individually wrapped, that have the consistency of a chewy candy and come in any flavour, sweet or savoury, you can think of. If, at any point, you start feeling a little more tipsy than you'd like, you just grab one of these things from the communal bowls placed around the bar, chow down, and within minutes it'll feel like you never had any booze to begin with.
And the meat! Hoo, boy. The meat. There are nearly thirty animals available to sample, each of them just one of the countless numbers of animals the Exitium raise for food; their carcasses are ferried out to the dining area by Sami's assistants in the rear kitchen, who he communicates with by screaming at the top of his lungs - and, in turn, they yell back at him, bringing carcasses back to the kitchen once Sami's expertly butchered the animals into cubes of meat, ready to be skewered on wooden sticks. Some cuts, mostly offal or organs, get a quick brush of thick, black paste that lends them a sweet, umami taste, but most of the more "choice" cuts only get a light dusting of salt and a heavy blanket of Sami's take on kawapgaru, a ubiquitous spice blend reserved for barbecuing. It's a layered, nuanced blend of dozens of spices, none of them with direct counterparts in Citadel space - except for the enormous blast of mouth-searing spice that comes at the end. Through some act of culinary wizardry, the intense heat somehow sits beside the other flavours, letting you suffer the pain while still enjoying the rest of the food's flavour.
It's no joke, kawapgaru. The bar only has three other patrons from the Exitium. The first is a pair, one human, the other a Redeemed imp, both construction workers eagerly tearing through mountains of meat and guzzling bottle after bottle of beer after a long day's work; they're crying from the heat, but only because every skewer they've ordered has been made triple-spiced. There are a bunch of krogan college students sitting next to me who're bawling their eyes out, roaring with laughter from the pain and banging their heads along to the blasting, chugging music blaring out of the ceiling speakers. (It makes sense - this place does remind me of a krogan kur-arak pit, what with the alcohol and meat and noise.) A smattering of other people like me, eager to try something new. And, at the end of the table, there's an odd trio - a turian and an asari, accompanied by a strogg woman, chatting eagerly amongst themselves.
I think that's the Exitium in a nutshell. Like I said before - don't take this all too seriously. I'm not a sociologist. I don't even have an actual degree in journalism. I'm just one asari doing her best to write things down as I see them.
The Exitium is a hot, stuffy, table, where one numbs pain with booze - but always has something on hand to bring you back to reality. The Exitium is a table where everyone is welcome. And the Exitium is a pair of diners, eagerly dipping their dinner in more spice, because pain and suffering are things to be cherished, not ignored...
"...thanks, Luciter. Returning now to our top story of the hour, Relay Beacon News has officially confirmed the deaths of three Citadel space immigrants to the Exitium. For futher details, we go to lead Exitium correspondent Myxinu Sedeni. Myxinu?"
"Thanks, Nuria. According to a joint press release made a few minutes ago by the Exalted Exitium and Citadel Council, we've learned that a so-called 'Reliquary' world - denoting a planet where the Exitium stores large amounts of information, media and data in case that knowledge is somehow lost - by the name of Antaresia was attacked by a demonic ship last week. Serious casualties were taken by the inhabitants of the planet, but at this point the Exitium is stating that the planet has been 'cleansed' of demonic presence."
"That's certainly reassuring. Do we have any estimates as to the number of lives lost in this attack?"
"..."
"Myxinu?"
"...three point nine billion…"
"Apologies, Myxinu, I can't quite hear you."
"Thr - th - three point nine billion, Nuria. Only five hundred thousand survivors."
"Goddess…"
"..."
"..."
"D-do we have news about the...victims...from the Citadel?"
"We do. Two individuals were on-planet for academic purposes - Caela Tanis, a turian graduate of the University of Thessia working at the Museum of Prothean Civilization, and Saehok Ilono, an archaeologist attached to the University of Sur'Kesh. The third was a krogan, Calar Kinoth, though we're still lacking details as to his background. According to the reports no remains were found, though a search is ongoing for them…"
Liara dropped the mug she was holding.
No. It's not them. Just a coincidence. Lots of people could have those names.
Their portraits flashed on screen.
The newscasters kept talking, but their words were blurry, unintelligible.
You said you'd wait for me, Liara thought, staring up at the ceiling. You two said you'd wait for me to get back from my dig and we'd go on a trip together.
There were no tears, not yet.
You said you'd wait for me.
"...Exitium-town," as it's started to be called, is, in theory, nothing more than a cultural outreach facility built into Citadel Priority Docking Bay A4. Thanks to the powers of spatial compression magic, it's much more than that. There are whole apartment blocks built within Citadel Services pre-fab housing units, restaurants crammed into what were once a forest of shipping containers, and, perhaps most importantly, a trio of churches nestled deep within the hangar.
No doubt, by now, you've all heard about the Exitium's primary religion. It's got no name, because why would you name a faith that everyone follows? Centered around the Doom Slayer, the Exitium's religious military leader slash war god, it's not a difficult religion to understand. Kill demons, be a good person, and most of all, kill demons. I'll get into it some other time, but truth be told I don't find it all that interesting. The Shrine of the Slayer which dominates an entire quarter of the hangar's rear section is, to be perfectly frank, much like any other church you can find around the galaxy. It's big. It's pristine. It's got a big statue of the Doom Slayer, raising one armoured fist aloft. There are pews, there are prayer mats, and okay, I suppose the incredibly loud, high-speed music that sounds sort of like a mix of krogan clash and turian citharus that's constantly blaring from every speaker is different. But prayer music is meant to reflect the people who worship, and I think that's fairly self evident.
No, what I find far more interesting are the two other churches you can visit. From what I've been able to understand, just about everyone worships at the Church of the Doom Slayer - at least 90%. There's a minority that believes the Doom Slayer to not actually be divine - just divinely charged, or maybe even just a singular, immortal warrior who serves as an example to be followed. Alright. Atheists, and religious people. But what about the in-between?
The first is the Chamber of Makrons, the place of worship for all Strogg. This sub-society of cyborgs probably deserve an article all of their own; this is, after all, an entire culture based not around a shared homeworld, but rather a shared philosophy. Walk through the entrance to the Chamber of Makrons, and you'll hear no music. It's quiet in there, almost entirely silent; there are no seats, no altar, nothing. It's an empty, unfurnished chamber, and the people inside don't pray aloud.
At the far wall, carved into its surface, is a simple inscription:
FLESH IS PLIABLE, BUT WEAK
STEEL IS STURDY, BUT RIGID
IN ITS MARRIAGE WE ARE ETERNAL
Now that, I find interesting. The Strogg aren't a unique group of individuals, in theory. They're just people who've given themselves over to bionics, augmentations, and the like. They don't shy away from the use of AIs - though, thanks to Council legislation you won't find any aboard the Citadel - and they find beauty in the merger of body and machine. I've heard of Strogg who turn themselves into spacecraft, or build themselves into tanks and aircraft. But, for the most part, the people inside this "church" are just individuals, heavily augmented, who find comfort in reinforcing their frail bodies with the certainty of steel.
And yet, they, too, worship the Doom Slayer, calling him the Omega Makron. They used to be a warlike people, calling their leader the Makron - and yet they too have been subsumed, in a way, by the Doom Slayer Religion, for who could be a greater warrior than the Slayer, who fights his one-man war against all of Hell for all eternity?
So that leaves us with the last church you can visit. Honestly, I think it's the most important one to visit. The Doom Slayer Religion worships the Doom Slayer, because he's the example to follow; he's their saviour. The Church of Makrons say that by augmenting your body you can become more than you already are - but, ultimately, they, too, also worship the Doom Slayer as the be-all and end-all of faith.
No, the most important thing to visit is the exception to this rule. From the most recent records I could find, just under five percent of the Exitium's citizenry subscribe to this final example, and yet it's the only religious institution I could find with a sizable number of followers that feels more familiar to me. The Zentholic Church's building is small, far smaller than either of the previous two examples - really nothing more than a single, tiny room with enough space for maybe a dozen people at most. At its centre is a rust-red pillar decorated with a nondescript, humanoid figure, holding a crescent moon aloft.
Only a single woman was in that building - an ancient-looking human, her skin wrinkled and her long hair bone-white. She was happy that someone had come to visit - even here, aboard the Citadel, it seems that not many people are all that interested in her or her faith.
The man in the pillar, she explains, is Saint Yeshammed Gatama, who lived back in the First Age.
"He witnessed the war between Heaven and Hell," the priestess explains. "And he understood that the Creator's desire was for us to suffer. All things suffer, in life, and all things die. It is natural. It is the way of things. That which is born must die. Even the Creator's first children, those who were of Heaven born, fell in their battle against the darkness; the demons we face are not those mighty, unholy beasts who drew Heaven's blood, but rather their unholy offspring, fighting tooth and claw against us. Do you see? Even the most divine must end. The Creator, who shaped our universe, made it so that not even the stars will last forever. The heat death of the universe approaches, day by day. Saint Gatama knew this, and he shared with us the Truth - that as our souls are flung into the aether upon our deaths, that as new bodies are reborn with the recycled soul-matter the aether spits back out, we are made to suffer, eternally."
She looked at me with bright, rapturous eyes.
"And there is beauty in that! For suffering binds us all together. The Creator gives us life, so that we may hurt, for how can you know what is pleasure and love and brightness and warmth, if you do not hurt? How can you cherish that which is good, if you do not know what is bad? The Creator, truly, is good, for they surely knew that, without trials to face and tribulations to suffer, all life would become fat and slothful and ignorant. The Creator was wise - for, with Hell to fight against, they made every soul have wealth to give, blood to let, flesh to offer. The lowliest of Hell's slaves can offer their lives, and in death, find release. The richest of the Exitium's businessmen can, in death, be reborn as a common person, and so the cycle continues, eternal, until the end of days, when the Creator judges the souls of all who have come before. We are, all, in the end, equal and equally judged. Is that not beautiful? Is that not the most just fate imaginable for that which lives?"
I expressed my disagreement. I've never been a fan of the salarian "wheel of fate," or anything like that. It's always stunk of control - a way to keep the masses in line, happy about their pitiful circumstances, because there's always a chance that they'll be reborn into a better life.
She just shrugged, and told me that one day I would suffer enough to understand the truth...
A wall-mounted mechanical arm plucked the rifle off the table and lowered it slowly down to Iren; he, in turn, gingerly took the weapon and ran his hands over it.
It was, or, once, had been a bog-standard M7 Lancer - Elkoss Combine's best-selling and cheapest assault rifle, and from the outside it did appear much the same, save for a thin, black shroud which encased its barrel. Even so, Iren could feel a slight difference - a shift in its balance, with a little extra weight in its handguard, and the three venting holes on the rear of the receiver had been replaced with a series of dull-beige discs whose sides protruded from the weapon.
"We did not do much to the weapon," Purveyor said from over its speakers, "but as the product of only a week's worth of tinkering, I do believe we have already made great strides forward. The firing range is ready for you, Director."
"Thank you, Purveyor," Iren replied with a nod; one of the Elkoss engineers escorted him over to the nearby firing range, and gestured at one of the ammunition cases nearby. It clicked open as they approached, revealing a solid metal ammunition brick - though, unlike a normal brick, its smooth metal was engraved with dozens of intricate runic spirals. "It loads the same as usual?"
"It does," the ship replied.
Iren snapped open the receiver, slid the brick into its chamber and shut the weapon; it whirred as its running lights flashed blue, and Iren shouldered the weapon.
"First of our enhancements," Purveyor explained, "was attempting to address the overheating issues of your firearms."
"I see you've replaced the venting holes," Iren noted, shouldering and lowering the rifle several times to get a feel for it. "Some sort of...cooling magic?"
Purveyor roared with laughter. "Oho, no, no. The opposite, in fact! Those are runes of thermal redirection," he answered; projectors from the ceiling indicated the runes with a holographic arrow. "You will still have fifty shots before the weapon 'overheats,' but rather than disabling the weapon while it cools, each rune disc will activate in turn. Go ahead!"
Iren grinned, shouldered the weapon once more, and began firing at the targets down-range; true to form, fifty shots later the weapon beeped to indicate that it was overheating, but rather than priming itself for venting, one of the three discs lit up with an orange flash.
"Now," Purveyor explained, "keep the weapon shouldered, and hit the venting button.
Iren did as he was instructed - and nearly dropped the weapon in surprise as a searing, blinding lance of angry crimson flared out of the barrel's shroud.
When Iren's eyes adjusted to the brightness, he looked downrange to find the target he'd been aiming at was gone, replaced by a molten pile of red-hot slag.
"So, really, you have a hundred and fifty shots," Purveyor noted proudly, "and once you're there you can fire off three thermal lances - or vent the weapon normally, using the safety switch."
"Oh. Oh, yes," Iren mumbled, shuddering as he felt his wallet fattening already. "This. This is good. This is very, very good." He paused, setting the weapon back on safe and placed it on the firing range's bench. "I will say, however, that many of our customers select the M7 specifically because it is a simple model - a weapon that does one thing, and one thing only. While I have no doubt that many of our customers will be overjoyed to have a secondary thermal lance function, many more will probably consider this...overkill, of a sort."
"We took that into account," the Elkoss engineer - a turian by the name of Positer - answered, nodding sagely. "Purveyor, could you pass us model six?"
"A moment." Yet another of the ceiling-mounted arms plucked a different rifle from the weapon rack in the middle of the room, and passed it over to Iren; it was similar to the first, but lacked the barrel shroud and the rune-discs in place of the venting holes were an icy blue. "Here we are, Director. A simpler tool, but just as lethal in practice - though, perhaps, a tad boring."
Iren shouldered the weapon, tapping one of the discs with his right hand. "Is this one a supercooled model of some sort?"
Positer chuckled. "Just start blasting away on full-auto," the engineer said, grinning. "And only stop when you feel like it."
Iren nodded, aimed at another target, and pulled the trigger.
His HUD tracked the rounds fired.
Fifty rounds.
A hundred.
Three hundred.
Five hundred.
A thousand.
Five minutes later, Iren let go of the trigger, but only because his fingers and arms were starting to get sore.
"How long," Iren whispered in between lungfuls from his rebreather. "How long? Is there a limit?"
"Three runes of second-tier frost aura," Purveyor said proudly, "are enough to allow for roughly twenty-thousand rounds fired at six-hundred rounds per minute. The venting time remains the same, otherwise "
Iren did the math, and despite himself he couldn't help but shiver with excitement. "You mean to tell me that you can sustain a standard rate of fire for over half an hour, with only a two-point-five second cooldown in between?"
"Just so. Positer here tells me that you have more specialized infantry weapons - submachine guns or heavy machine guns - that can fire at two to three times that rate, no? In truth," Purveyor said with audible glee, "I think that, perhaps, your ammunition blocks might require a bit of bulking up sooner rather than later."
"This is just the beginning," Positer added, baring his teeth in a wide grin. "We haven't even begun working on changing the size of projectiles shaved off by the accelerators, or experimented with ammunition modification. It's not quite ready, but we also have some spatially-compressed barrels in the works that would, in theory, allow even the smallest sub-compact machine pistols to have accuracy on par with a proper marksman's rifle. And the runic inscriptions you saw on the ammunition bricks - those are, right now, only helping cool the weapon's internals, but we've got concepts drawn up for infused ammunition bricks that'll give every M7 the same punch as an anti-materiel rifle."
Silence.
More silence.
Iren let out a sob.
Purveyor gestured with one of the arms. "Iren? Good sir, are you alright?"
"Alright? Alright? Oh, no, I'm more than alright," Iren said, his whole body shaking within his suit. "It's beautiful, gentlemen, BEAUTIFUL! And this is just the beginning! Oh, those idiots at Armax Arsenal are going to be shitting themselves when they realize how far behind they are! We are not just going to be rich, Purveyor, we're going to be swimming, no, drowning in credits!"
"Now, now," Purveyor said slowly, "this cannot be all hoarded for yourself and your compatriots, you understand. This sort of technology must be shared amongst your people, if we are to arm them for the fights to come."
"Well of course," Iren replied, shrugging. "Those demons you face - the ones we'll be facing soon enough, I'm sure - we'll need all the firepower that we can get. But even if we put out a patent on this technology and make everyone pay, oh, I don't know, a zero-point-five percent royalty on it - even that tiny bit counts for a lot, when everyone in the galaxy will be paying us, no? And Elkoss Combine, of course, out of the goodness of its own heart, will be happy to waive those fees for any non-corporate customer, too." He looked up at the ceiling and grinned, planting his hands on his hips for effect. "But for those big megacorporate entities that can pay? We're going to bleed them for all they're worth."
"Ahhh, the ever-present specter of public relations," Purveyor snorted. "Well - let me say that such...theatrics are certainly not unknown to BruteTech. But you are, indeed, correct. Unity is a wonderful thing, but, then again, so is being fabulously wealthy." The ship lowered a mechanical arm down to Iren's level. "To profit, my friend."
Iren grasped the arm and shook it. "To profit!" He paused, thinking for a moment, then cocked his head slightly. "A report to headquarters is important, I should think. Purveyor, I do need to head back to my office for a little while to draft some papers - are my bodyguards still onboard?"
"Ah, no. They indicated that they were hungry, and Alia offered to treat them to a meal," Purveyor answered with a tone Iren couldn't quite place.
"Oh. Hrm. What a shame," Iren replied, sighing theatrically. "I'll just have to stay here and play with the toys for a bit." He looked back at the weapon rack, and pointed at an Exitium-crafted weapon: a bulky, flat-looking six-barrelled weapon with both a grip and a secondary handle protruding from its top. "What is that?"
"That," Purveyor said with glee, "is a weapon we call the gauss chaingun. Would you like to try it?"
...Churches aside, I think there's something to be said about finding more "modern" places of worship. Daalar D'naro, coach of the Neisto City Sunbeams, once said that "the only difference between a jessail stadium and a Siarist temple is that the temple won't overcharge you for food," and while that's probably a bit of an exaggeration I really don't think that she was entirely wrong. People across the galaxy find heroes to worship through sports, for whatever reason, and it's really not any different in the Exitium.
Well, that's not 100% true. The Exitium, like any culture, has their own take on that - but I do find it interesting that their most popular sport isn't one in which people directly compete with one another. It's called huaban, rendered through their magic into Thesserit as "skateboarding," and it, like so much of the Exitium, is something simple conceptually but made...larger-than-life, let's say, in execution. The core concept is pretty basic - you take a board made out of, well, anything - wood, metal, it's up to personal preference - and you attach four sets of wheels to the bottom. From there, it's all a matter of skill and style as you ride up and down ramps and across pre-built "arenas," pulling stunts in the air, using obstacles as platforms to do tricks, and so on.
The Exitium's ambassadors said in an interview with RBN that they set up the skateboarding arena only a week after they showed up, mostly because if they hadn't built one themselves the rank-and-file of their ship crews would have cobbled one together out of scrap.
In ancient times, so I'm told, skateboard arenas were pretty simple. You'd have some fun in a park somewhere, maybe pull around a bench or two to make running a "line" of tricks easier, and that was that. Then someone got the idea of building purpose-made parks for skating, starting installing ramps, half-pipes, and jumps.
So it is, then, that you can arrive at the "Citadel Skate Arena," and guess what? Times have changed. Tucked into a spatially-compressed section of hangar, the arena is dominated by a massive ramp that starts on one end with a two-hundred foot run-in that launches you towards a ramp. From there, you make a jump roughly four-hundred feet to the other section of the arena, which contains a half-pipe and a forest of rails, benches, cubes and more.
Have you ever watched a krogan propel himself through the air with nothing more than a reinforced wooden plank with wheels? Because I have, and it's, uh, interesting, to say the least. Very interesting. The fact that the Exitium's medicine has advanced to the point that they can heal bone-shattering injuries in a matter of seconds has resulted in a willingness to literally hurl themselves into oblivion, because even if they don't land their death-defying stunts, someone will be nearby to magic-glue them back together so they can go for another round.
And, of course, the entire time, the noise of the crowds and boards are barely audible over the ever-present roar of the Exitium's music - though it's not quite the same as the chugging, high-speed blast of what you'll usually hear the preachers playing. I've heard people compare the Exitium's music to citharus, and it's not a terrible comparison to draw. Almost all of the Exitium's music is based on the ju-ni senar, or a "twelve string," a, you guessed it, twelve-stringed instrument that seems almost specifically designed to spit out chugging, bassy riffs. It's utterly ubiquitous; from the thrice-daily calls to prayer, to their version of this year's latest pop music smash hit, it's the backbone of just about every form of popular music, at least from what I've heard. Even here, in this skateboarding arena, you'll hear something similar - but it's more upbeat, even if the central chorus to the song I heard walking in was repeatedly asking if I was ready to die. It's definitely not any less intense, that's for sure, what with all the screaming - and wow, can I say, there is a LOT of screaming in Exitium music - but it's...oddly soothing, somehow. I usually don't count myself a fan of that sort of music - Goddess knows I got real sick of my roommates in college playing enough krogan clash to make my ears hurt - but it's growing on me.
It fits, doesn't it? We associate screaming with negativity; it's the sort of thing you see in music that exists under the current of what's popular. But even if I'm not a fan, or if I wasn't until now, it makes sense - krogan clash, turian citharus, even the asari bluepunk scene, all share the same idea - it's an outpouring of emotion, a feeling of anger and rage and frustration against the world by the downtrodden.
Would you be happy about having to fight an eternity of war against the infinite forces of Hell?
Knowing that we, the people of the Citadel, have the exact same future in store, I can't say that I am...
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Topic: Is anyone else sick of the Exitium's preachers?
In: Boards ► Citadel ► Presidium ► General Discussion
TheBigDrumstick (Original Poster)
Posted On Sep 20th, 2657:
Okay, look, I think of myself as a very tolerant person. I may not be religious myself, but I'm totally down to let preachers do their thing in the Presidium. I don't even care that the exact same hanar preacher tries to give me a lecture about the Enkindlers on my way to work every day. It used to be annoying, sure, but I totally get that faith is a personal thing, and deep down those preachers are just trying to do their best at their jobs, even if I don't think those jobs are strictly necessary.
So you should understand, then, that when I say I'm getting real sick and tired of the Exitium's preachers, that's not me being racist, or intolerant, or whatever. It's just...
SOMETIMES I JUST WANT TO GET SOME SLEEP
AND IT'S 3AM
AND ALL I CAN HEAR IS THEIR MUSIC BLASTING AWAY AT FULL VOLUME AND IT'S REALLY STARTING TO PISS ME OFF
I asked them if they could just, please, in the name of all that is holy, to turn it down, and do you know what they said? That they'd already consulted C-Sec! Their music, which they NEVER STOP PLAYING, is tuned specifically to be right within the legal decibel limit, so technically they're not breaking any laws.
Are you fucking serious? Look, I get that most people don't live near the authorized preaching zone so it's not an issue people have to deal with generally but holy shit I'm at the end of my rope here. No idea what I'm supposed to do about this but the preachers won't turn their music down because apparently "the strength of our voices must be great for our prayers to reach him" or some shit like that and maybe, just maybe, I don't want to have to wear noise-cancellers while taking a bath?
I don't know. Just gotta get this off my chest. If this keeps up I might move somewhere else, it's that bad.
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►VarrenSteak
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
I don't know, man, I think their music kinda rocks. Totally sounds like the clash bands I used to be in back in high school. Those twelve-strings are kinda badass.
►TheBigDrumstick (Original Poster)
Replied On Jan 1st 2011:
I'm not saying their music sucks, Varren, I'm saying that having to listen to that shit every day, all day, non stop, is starting to really piss me off.
►Ratcaller
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
It's not their fault you chose to live right on top of the authorized preaching zone. That's always been a shit place to live, even before the humans showed up. They're not even breaking any laws. Don't like it? Leave. At least stop complaining about it when the solution's right there. I bet you someone'll be happy to take your spot in the Presidium. If you're really that committed go talk to C-Sec or something.
►Jumpjumpjump
Replied On JSep 20th, 2657:
Go talk to C-Sec, seriously. Just because they're not technically breaking the law doesn't mean you can't pin them for something else. Public nusiance or something. I'm not racist against humans or whatever, but seriously, if they're gonna be holding concerts all day they oughta keep that stuff down in their little shantytown.
[MOD NOTE: Careful there, bud. Any sentence you say that has to start with the qualifier 'I'm not racist but' doesn't have any business on this forum.]
►TwoChanka
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
VarrenSteak
Yeah, I'm totally with you. I thought it'd be kind of wierd, at first, since their religious music and their...music music, sounds pretty much the same, but hey, I'm still totally down. I know there's a shop down in Exitium-town (man we all really need to come up with a better name for it than that) that sells both their instruments and their music. Void, I wonder what a krogan take on it would sound like.
►VarrenSteak
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
TwoChanka
Those humans can scream pretty good, but they don't have four sets of lungs, just the one...I betcha I could do better than they can, hehehe. Maybe I'll go dust off my old barku set and get back into practicing! Gotta show these newcomers how a real clash band sounds, lmfao!
►TwoChanka
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
VarrenSteak
That's...that's not a bad idea. Me and a few other buds are actually in the process of putting together a clash band and we need a barku player / vocalist anyways...PM'd you with some details!
►VarrenSteak
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
Oh, man. Replied - and I've got a few friends who've been reminiscing about our old days in the band. We were pretty rockin' for a bunch of snotty teenagers, you know? I think this is the start of something kickass!
[User has been temporarily banned for this post: 1 hour / +1 Infraction. MOD NOTE: Please keep this on-topic. Thanks.]
►TheBigDrumstick
(Original Poster)
Replied On Sep 20th, 2657:
Void take all of you, this isn't a recruiting thread for your stupid-ass band! Go take that shit somewhere else!
[MOD NOTE: Please let the moderators do their work - there's no need to insult anyone else.]
Ratcaller
Okay, look, man, there's a huge difference from when before these assholes showed up. I don't care if some batarian dude is yelling about the end-times for a few hours a day. This is different. I don't get what's so hard to understand about that!
Jumpjumpjump
Yeah I'm gonna go do that. There's no way I'm the only one who's seriously annoyed by this whole situation.
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