I had expected many things by becoming an ambassador, though I can safely say the last thing I was expecting was to deal with paperwork. A week has passed by since my 'appointment' with Yitor being the closest thing I have to a liaison to the Quarians. I had expected people bugging me for tech, but what I had not expected was just how much attention was gravitating towards me.
The Quarians were decent enough at least, mostly to do with various requests about coming aboard, bugging me for tech as expected, though also many curious questions about humanity and myself. Though the temptation to lie about humans being absolutely amazing and our tech beyond their wildest imaginations came up, I eventually just decided to write just some informative blurbs along with staying vague about myself. Last thing they need to know is that I'm a mercenary with a killcount so high not even I know the answer.
What I had not expected was the messages from other aliens. Messages from Turians, Asari, Salarians, and more. Some messages were curiosity, some were requests for asylum oddly enough. The inbox which Yitor setup has also been hit with messages from actual gonks in power wanting to sink their teeth into me.
Oh, and let's not forget how Johnny's bitching has somehow increased while being in here. I thought he complained too much before, but now it seems as though I'm always hearing him say something about how either this place is giving him the creeps, or that I shouldn't trust anyone here. This isn't exactly Night City, where violence and murder awaits me around every corner.
To be blunt, the position I set myself up in has been both boring and anxiety inducing. The only reason I have managed to stay sane is thanks to small mercies from the crew helping me out with place. Viter knows his way with the mechanical stuff, Aldia's work on automating some stuff is a lifesaver, and I would've probably ripped my damn hair out were it not for Yitor helping out with everything to do here. The others help too, but I'm not about to admit I don't know the names of some of my own crew.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts, looking towards the door as it opens to show Yitor entering. He rubs his hands as he approaches, almost hunched over. The sound of his breathing echoes through the room, fast and out of sync with every other breath. I turn the rest of my body to face him, putting the cigarette I was smoking out in a makeshift ashtray.
"What's troubling you, Yitor?" I put on the helmet built for translation, which is more for my sake than it is for anyone else's. Apparently most people have some kind of automatic translator implanted into them, and Yitor had figured out a way to make it so that it would translate for the crew. Due to how unfamiliar my biology is to everyone else here along with my already extensive amounts of chrome, I decided to stick with the helmet for a little bit longer.
"Um, we have a problem. A big one."
"Yeah, alright. Just tell me how bad it is."
"It's really bad. I hadn't expected it to end up this bad, but this is on a whole different level Keelah, I knew this might happen b-."
"Hey," I try to speak in a soft, yet authoritative voice. "Just take a deep breath, calm down. Take a minute to breathe, and then tell me."
A few seconds fly by, Yitor trying to slow his breath down. I move my chair so that I can guide him to sit down on it without pushing him full force. Yitor's usually calm, nervous but calm. Whatever's setting him off so bad must be something extremely fucked.
I squat down enough to be at slightly below eye level with the Quarian, resting my hand upon his knee and slightly patting it to try and give him a little bit of comfort. The quick laborious breaths begin to slow down, appearing to approach the closest I will probably get to normal with Yitor right now.
"I'm okay," Yitor says in a voice similar to what I'm used to hearing him speak at. "I'm okay."
"Alright,now just tell me what has made you so worked up."
"It's the citadel. The Batarian ambassador there is raising another fuss about you, and that you own that you got this ship by killing Batarian slavers."
"I hate to be rude, Yitor, but I don't exactly see how that would affect us too much. I mean, he can kick up a fuss about this but it's not as though they'll declare war against the Quarians."
"No, it's not that. The council had mentioned that they already have someone looking into this, and considering that you're with the migrant fleet they would send someone who they absolutely trust. Like a spectre."
"What's a spectre?"
"The council's right hand, what they send in situations that they send when they believe that 'galactic stability' is at stake. The sort of person who is above the law, and could take out an entire base of enemies all on their own."
So, a bit of unhealthy paranoia based on a simple phrase tossed out which his mind connects to the best of the best. I've heard similar cries from people before, with some of them even coming out about me a bit before I decided to hit Arasaka tower. People will always come up with some sort of boogeyman to be terrified of, and I suppose it's no different in space.
Still, the slavers are more than likely going to continue in an attempt to make themselves known as victims and me as the villain. I have to do something, and it might be a good idea to at the very least try to make some people in the citadel at least not openly despise me. Plus, if I could maybe get myself some connections in factories and begin to get some things pumped out…
"Hey Yitor. Do you know how to arrange a call with one of the many people flooding my inbox? One of the politicians to be precise?"
"I mean, I could. Why?"
"I've got a plan on how to possibly keep them from tearing me a new one. I want you to try to connect with the highest ranking person we've received messages from, and make sure to set up a computer for translating what they say in English. Oh, and send the translation software to them as well."
"Are you sure about this, Captain?"
"Most definitely not, but I have to try. Now, get to it."
Yitor left the room, the footsteps echoing throughout the ship as he ran. Was he being paranoid? Yes. Did he still have a point? Also yes. One can be right while also being scared of their own shadow, just like Jefferson. I look to Johnny, already sensing his approval of the scheme. Just as it appeared he was going to talk, a hate filled glare was enough to at the very least save myself another headache.
Boring, yet anxiety inducing. Barely sticking my neck out, yet always at risk of death. It's starting to feel just like I'm back in Arasaka. I should feel disgusted yet I feel almost relieved. I had cut myself out of that life, but I somehow keep crawling back to it like a loyal dog awaiting it's master. Stockholm syndrome, you have reared your head and have me caged in a cubicle.
I move to smoke my cigarette, only to remember that I snuffed it out. I want to smoke, but it might be a good idea to keep a clear head for a little bit. Friends in high places go a long way, and hopefully I'll make sure that the alien doesn't actively want my head.
Yitor'Shulas always heard tales from the older Quarians about their pilgrimages, about how they traveled throughout the galaxy searching for the perfect gift for a captain, to have seen all the beauty the galaxy had to offer yet still deciding to return home. He always dreamed about seeing the citadel, or maybe standing on grass. What he had never dreamed about was being enslaved by Batarians.
He had spent five years surviving in those hellish camps, with sicknesses that had nearly killed him time and time again. He had survived, though barely and was sure that he would be on death's door soon enough, reunited with the ancestors. At least, that's what would have happened.
Yitor owed Vincent so much, from his life and freedom to even the position he had in a ship. He had found his way home, and now helped out on the Samurai (He still needed to ask why the captain had chosen that name for the ship) as the liaison between the ship and the rest of the migrant fleet. It was everything he could've hoped for, and yet he still felt… empty.
The place was far too open, too quiet compared to the rest of the migrant fleet. He could barely sleep at night from the lack of noise along with the memories of Vana still haunting his mind. While the rest of the crew were good people, he felt so isolated from them as they were not fully used to spending all of one's time on ships. Of course, he doubted all the time he spent slaving away for Batarians would foster too many connections with other Quarians.
At the very least, he could hide himself in his work, to focus on something else so that he might not think about everything, he had done it before when in chains. That sounded like a good plan to him, just bury himself in work and the rest will fade away.
(A/N) Two chapters in a year, kind of concerned that made me proud of myself. Anyways, this was a bit of filler for writing a chapter I've had in my thoughts for a bit.
Also, could use a beta reader if someone wants to be one. Just message me, and I'd appreciate it.
