[img float=right]http://i.imgur.com/CkKwZws.jpg?1[/img]
A dissonant cacophony of noises reverberated throughout the massive hollowed halls; the hum of ship engines coming to an end or still spooling up, the clanging of maintenance equipment against machinery, or the occasional loud banging of cargo crates being offloaded and maneuvered around by the over-head cranes mounted to the ceilings. Loudest of these was the low hum, the drone of human voices; calling out, barking orders or just merely relaying simple instructions how to perform a task from halfway across a fighter's maintenance catwalk.
It was an unremarkable evening for a shipyard so busy as Valetta, and one that none saw as anything more than another day at the never-ending grind. Cargo barges came and went, shuttles landed on the flight deck and offloaded their payload of troops, engineers and assorted personnel. All of them bore different insignias and uniforms than the last: some crisp yellow and violet, another lavender and emerald, the next a disheveled maroon on red. Standing out among them was a pristine white offset only by a stark crimson trim with minimal presence. Those bearing these colors disembarked and unilaterally marched their way towards a marked opening in the bulkhead opposite the mooring bays, emblazoned in a bright ruby color and flanked by a quartet of stoic guardsmen, their expressions hidden by the featureless helmets they bore.
The posse of sundry men and women shuffled their way through the reinforced gateway, a dull murmur of exchanges passed between them as they spoke of plans for their off-hours, future and past deployments, and various other topics. Having passed security, the group made their way through what had become known as the "Crimson Halls," a section of the station dedicated to the operations of the crusaders and mercenaries of the Church of Tarxien. The bustle of the previous compartment dropped to near silence within the Halls, a quiet that turned to mere whispers and the clanking of boots on the decks. The aptly-named Halls were adorned in the flag of the Crusades, assorted banners of vassal families and organizations, and several other pieces of familial and religious imagery, all either hung or projected throughout the pseudo-sanctuary for the members of the Church and their associates.
Though some of the group dispersed amongst the populace of the crowded halls, many filed their way to a single location on the promenade; a stylized entryway adorned in a brass-colored trim that led into a large darkened room with a series of window panes framing the far bulkhead, a room packed nearly to the brim with the populace of the station. Dockworkers, business associates, transport crews, soldiers and engineers all of the rank and file of the Crusaders made up a throng of people within the bar. The slow beat of the ambience played out throughout the club's confines drummed in the ears of everyone present, milling around the room in various states of inebriation. A single phrase was displayed above the large window screen along the back-wall, glowing in an amber light reminiscent of a morning sunrise: "Avalon Dawn"
[ sci·am·ach ]
/sīˈamək/
A simple, angry man casually working his way through life on a personal quest to acquire copious amounts of street cred.
Valletta Shipyard | Habitat Quarter | "Avalon Dawn" Bar and Entertainment Complex
| 823 AS |
As Felix passed into that den of vice and victuals known by the moniker so inelegantly bequeathed onto it by an over-sized neon sign, he couldn't help but instinctively hold his breath as he ventured into the room. True, the Maltese had been accommodating enough to ensure that this section of Valletta was not contaminated with the orange gas they so enjoyed and craved. But that didn't put him at ease enough to freely breathe their air. With short, silent breaths, noticed a small backdoor guarded by two particularly rough-looking Crusader guards. Figuring that this was the way to go, he began to push past the crowds of debauched drudges off their work and on their drugs and libation. Drunkards were amusing, but a pain in the ass to deal with when more important business was at hand.
Coming to the door, Felix flashed a small ID card to one of the men.
"Here to see Callahan. Was told to meet him here," he said tersely, continuing to stare perceptively at the guards with those icy blue eyes.
The men nodded, opening up the door that led to a flight of stairs that led to a far more quiet and luxurious section reserved for VIPs. It was relatively empty, save for a lone bartender and a small assortment high-ranking individuals who gave him looks of both suspicion and derision. Unsure of whether or not approaching them was a sound course of diplomatic action, the freelancer slid into one of the enclosed booths lining the walls of the area. Making himself comfortable, he waited patiently for his contact to arrive, all while keeping a hand hovering over his sidearm.
Avalon Dawn | Habitat Quarter | Booth #11
| 823 AS |
An hour passed in it's entirety as Felix waited. Surrounded by the clanking of glasses, and the faint murmur of the surrounding patrons filled the room. As the time passed, an assortment of ships passed the window outside: one a transport, another a Cruiser escorted on both sides by a handful of fighters, with even a Battleship drifting into view, partially eclipsing the horizon of Malta in the distance that bathed the light of the star all along the hull.
Suddenly a voice overcame the ambiance of the bar-
"You'd be surprised how many new arrivals find their way here, even more the case for our business contacts. I take it you're Felix?"
The man extended an arm, offering a handshake.
"Inquisitor Callahan. Espinosa's 'assistant' in a manner of speaking."
[ sci·am·ach ]
/sīˈamək/
A simple, angry man casually working his way through life on a personal quest to acquire copious amounts of street cred.
Avalon Dawn | Habitat Quarter | Booth #11
| 823 AS |
Felix stared lazily out of the window as he waited. That eerie green coloration of Malta sent a creeping sensation of uneasiness that he kept away from his mind by force. There was something about the planet that seemed unnatural, abnormal in its celestial presence and state of existence. It didn't help that such a variety of ships freely passed by his eyes as he contemplated the void, disturbing what might otherwise be a relaxing wait. It didn't faze him terribly. If anything, it mostly annoyed him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the dapper gentleman extending his hand with some nonsense greeting. It didn't much matter to him what was said, so long as he got to the job at hand. He reciprocated the extended hand with a stiff shake, followed by a return to his reclined position in the booth.
"So, Inquisitor Callahan... What does she need from me?," Felix inquired, hoping to get straight to the business at hand.
Callahan gestured for Felix to stand and follow him, adjusting his glasses and tucking what appeared to be a datapad under his arm.
" To put it simply: Certain people in certain positions of power maintain a set amount of attention drawn on themselves. Sometimes that attention is less than appreciated and some things are best left done outside of the public or even private eyes. Worry not, all will be explained shortly. Now, if you'll come with me -"
He waved a hand towards the door with a genuine smile on his face, all the while the forboding shape of one of the dreadnoughts out the window grew ever larger until the front of the hull disappeared vanished behind the side of the window. A shake, and a series of hums and low-tone alarms could be heard in the distance as the vessels that flanked the vessel peeled off from it's sides and scattered amongst the busy traffic outside. A number of the other patrons stood from their seats and straightened out their uniforms and filed their way towards the exit in an almost ghostly march of fluid motions and sullen faces.
[+]
The pair walked the halls in near sullen silence; passing the window overlooking a fighter bay in uproar with screaming and cheering as a well-respected pilot came in for a landing after a recent raid into nearby space. The crowd chanted a name that fell deaf on the panes of hermetically sealed glass, but the praising and respect this particular pilot garnered was clear to see. A duo of engineers in cover-alls approached the pilot with what appeared to be a scorched sheet of armor plating: formerly pristine white but now burned around the edges. In the middle was a single black Fleur-de-lis - supposedly from one of the combatants that fell prey to the pilot from before. Champagne and further cheering began to follow as Callahan and Felix rounded a corner and put the charade below out of view.
Through a winding series of corridors and passages the two progressed, passing a number of colorful figures bearing innumerable different familial insignias on their uniforms. Most paid the two no mind but a group of three younger cadets bound in red and white trappings came to a complete halt and stood stiff, saluting Callahan as they passed. Eventually, they came to a small rotunda, the dome above giving a picturesque view of the station's command tower that appeared to begin just before them. The two crossed the room with haste, trying to move ahead of a group of technicians guiding what appeared to be munitions crates on a hover-lift and make it to the far side. There, they entered an elevator at the base of the command tower; the doors closing and the bustle of noise was silenced immediately. A few punches on the holo-screen on the side on the part of Callahan, and they began to ascend.
" Miss Espinosa is doesn't often reach out to outsiders such as yourself for matters, much less personal ones. You seem yourself a decent enough fellow so I'll prepare you as best I can: The Inquisitor has a bit of a sordid history with the organization she now helps lead. She isn't the most agreeable sort, nor is she exactly forgiving. Take extreme caution with everything you say to her, and be very careful what you agree to. If you don't want the job she offers, say so directly and up-front and she won't have a problem. If you back out halfway through though, you're in for a rough time worthy of a Pygarian dune-worm ride. Be direct, be clear, and accept any drinks she offers you: she likes to gauge her associates by how well they handle inebriation- though she herself is a bit of a lightweight; and above all else, be honest, with yourself and her capiche?
The elevator came to a halt and a synthesized "ding" played over the speaker. The moment the doors parted, Callahan sprung forth and began to lead, gesturing Felix to follow before he could even respond. The two passed through an almost eerily quiet section of the station with the sound of both their shoes colliding with the floor paneling being the only noise to echo off the stark-white interior of corridor. On their right was a number of doors, each displaying a name and a number on a screen above the entryway, while the light from Malta's star peered over the orange-tinted world and filled the room. What appeared to be entire fleets worth of ships drifted by outside, each adorned with the markings of their respective familial owners, but all pridefully flying the colors of the Nation of Malta.
Callahan led them both to a series of double-sliding doors, stopping to look a moment behind him to Felix and nod before stepping forth and letting the pressure-plates in the floor slide the doors open. As the two proceeded forward, the clanging of metal-on-metal graced their ears.
The gymnasium-style room appeared to be a sparring ground with the occasional scratch, dent, and even scorch mark dotting the walls and floors. In the center, two femanine figures clad in what appeared to be fencing attire sparred back and forth with training blades. They darted back and forth; the taller of the two standing stoic and blocking every blow from the other with a hand tucked neatly behind her back while the other was far sloppier, slower and more aggressive. The taller lunged forward briefly in a fake-out, prompting the other to try to stand more defensive before realizing the trap and returning to attempting to land a hit on their partner. A couple of minutes passed similarly before the taller of the two performed the same lunge again, this time with her hand clutching the practice-blade darting to the side and catching the other by surprise, enough for them to lose their grip on the blade when the two clashed and send it flying to the far side of the room, landing with an audible "clang." They stood for a few seconds, simply catching their breath - a silence broken only by Callahan stepping forward a little and clapping his hands together in applause, addressing the two.
"Three months ago I saw a young girl pick up a blade for the first time and now I could almost swear I just watched two experts going at it." He hollered, offering encouragement.
The shorter figure went to remove her mask: revealing a blushed, freckled face contorted into a snarl. Her bright green eyes burned in a frustrated rage, glaring back and forth between the other masked figure and Callahan. She was young, not more than ten or eleven years old but surprisingly tall for her age. Billowing down from her head and framing her face was a mane of hair, dyed the sharpest pigment of ocean-blue that nearly reached her waist in length. She began to speak, but was cut off by the other figure, who one could only assume was the Inquisitor.
" Oh she's getting better alright, but her movements are still angered and sloppy. I'm still waiting for the day that she learns that savagely jabbing in my direction out of anger won't get her anywhere. "
Espinosa took off her respective mask, revealing the silver-locks and dark-emerald eyes that were quite familiar to anyone who had seen her neural-net transmission profile. She slicked back a set of her bangs that had gotten in her eye and approached Callahan, handing him the blade and mask that she just held, nodding in the young girls direction before grabbing a bottle and a pair of glasses off a nearby table and walking up to Felix to address him directly, as Callahan hesitantly donned the equipment he was handed and approached the girl.
" Signore Stendahl: tell me, have you ever had Maltese Mosacto? " She inquiried, pouring off-white liquid from the bottle into the two glasses in her other hand.
[ sci·am·ach ]
/sīˈamək/
A simple, angry man casually working his way through life on a personal quest to acquire copious amounts of street cred.
