Post by Maelstrom on Mar 18, 2015 14:57:52 GMT -6
Donnel Udina activated his omni-tool, allowing it to sync up with the lock on his adequate Citadel apartment. Both devices used an advanced encryption, and the lock could only be opened if the DNA of the person attempting to do so was himself or one of his two assistants, though they could only enter with a one-time-use code that operated on similar principles. He would have never thought up such elaborate measures himself, but the security firm that worked for him were masterful at devising such measures. They were the best company- the best human company, that was- in the business. Udina did not have anything against aliens, exactly. It was just that his job necessitated keeping many things completely confidential, and he did not feel that he could trust someone of a different race to be in charge of guarding secrets that could topple the Alliance in a day.
The door opened, and he stepped through, the lights automatically turning on upon his entry. A long, deep sigh escaped him, as he set the arm-full of pads down on the table next to the door. Just like every other day, his work consisted of long, tedious hours of putting out political shit-storms both real and imagined. Very few people truly understood just how taxing a job it was to be the ambassador for one's entire race. He had not when he accepted the appointment; he sometimes wondered if he would even have accepted it if he had. Of course, once the position was filled, smooth operation required that the same hand stay at the helm and steady. There was just too much that one needed to be conscious of at all times for anyone of good conscience to vacate the position unless absolutely necessary. Without years of training, there was just no way for anyone to catch up.
Multiply that by a factor of ten, and one could begin to understand the responsibilities of being one of the four councilors. Sometimes he wondered what he was thinking when he pushed to be appointed to that seat. The answer was obvious enough, though. Because of his years as humanity's ambassador on the Citadel, he was uniquely qualified for the position. His sense of duty would not permit him to let anyone less qualified define humanity's place on the Council. Let alone someone so completely unqualified as Anderson. No, it had to be him.
Although this past week, dealing with the aftermath of Shepard's horrific actions at Bahak, almost made him consider handing in his resignation.
His apartment was his escape. In truth, it was larger than most people's planetside homes, but were he anywhere that space was at less of a premium, Udina's accommodations would have been at least twice the size for the sake of impressions alone. To make up for this failing in presentation, he decorated the space with the most expensive and envied collection of human art his position and fortune could afford him. Most of the pieces were modern, specifically selected to show humanity's mind for the future and progress, but they also tended to be made of wood or other natural materials which lent a comfortable warmth to the space. The few pieces of more classical art from centuries gone by were carefully chosen, as it was rare to find examples that would not clash with the rest of the decor. Still, he found these pieces invaluable, as they established that humanity's traditions and past should not be forgotten and could find a place in the future they were making.
This place was his sanctuary. His safe haven. And, after years working on the Citadel, the only place in the galaxy he could find true rest. Even his house on Earth, far more lavish than this residence, could no longer calm him the way this place did.
"Hello, Councilor. Did you have a fulfilling day?" the housekeeping mech asked.
"Taxing as always, Victoria, but thank you," he replied. He was not overly fond of the device, but he found early on in his career that it was important to maintain one's professionalism and courtesy at all times. Otherwise, one risked falling into other patterns of behavior at precisely the wrong times.
"Would yo like me to fetch you a bottle of wine?"
"Yes, that sounds lovely," he replied. After a moment's thought, he added, "Make it one of the Château Lafite Rothschilds."
"The 1811?" the mech asked.
"No!" he responded, horrified. That bottle was to be saved for an emergency, a time when he would have to inflate a party's sense of his already imposing level of influence to secure something of vast importance to humanity. He was not sure when that would be or what his goal would be, hut he knew beyond any doubt that would be the bottle's use. "Bring me the 2,000."
"I'm sorry, sir. My inventory interface indicates that vintage is not currently stocked," the mech replied.
"What?" he demanded. As busy as he was, collecting wine was one of his hobbies, and he had personally checked every bottle in his store-room only last week. He distinctly remembered having the 2,000 on hand. Losing his temper a bit, he said, "Return to your charging station and run a full diagnostic. Now."
"Understood," the unit replied compliantly, moving off on its own.
Udina closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried immersing himself in the breathing exercises his therapist- a requirement written into law for each member of the Citadel Council- trained him in, but he was distracted.
"I'm sorry," a quintessentially feminine and disturbingly unfamiliar voice called from his living room. She turned the corner while holding a half-full wineglass, her lithe form moving with the same deliberate yet fluid grace as a large cat on the hunt. The black dress she wore fitted her form perfectly, though it was tight only to the point that it accentuated the curves of her body. It was not in any way obscene. Her auburn hair cascaded down onto her shoulders in gentle waves, and her green eyes seemed simultaneously filled with a knowing intimacy and ruthless calculation. To him, she was the definition of elegance and beauty, far from the vulgar sexuality that most men seemed to find attractive. "I'm afraid I took the liberty of pouring us a couple glasses."
He found himself frozen. The part of his mind that kept working realized that he should have been sexually stimulated by the situation or that he should have been irate at someone taking it upon themselves to open one of his most prized bottles of wine without asking and without invitation. It was that last part that held the key to his lack of action, though. Without invitation. C-Sec watched the Councilors' apartments like hawks, and his security system was military-grade. It was then that he realized that the reason he could not move was that he was gripped in terror.
The genuine, knowing smile that spread across the woman's face as she watched his dawning realization did nothing to ease his fears. "Please, Donnel, if I were here to kill you, do you really think I'd have started drinking before you arrived?" She took another sip as though to punctuate her question.
In its own way, her response frightened him. She was not claiming that it was against her nature to let someone see the kill coming and revel in their reaction. It was not a claim that she would be in any way incapable. It was merely a statement that she was in a relaxed mood. Still, he chose to take it as an assurance that he had nothing to fear, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Marshaling himself, he said, "I'm certain you could not have gotten in here on your own. Someone with a great deal of funds and influence would have had to help you. So, who do you represent?"
"So discourteous for a Councilor. I might have expected that if I paid a visit to your turian counterpart, but that's not who we are, is it?" Holding out an arm, inviting him into his own living room, she said, "Please, let's talk as civilized people."
He was tempted to point out that civilized people did not break into homes, serve themselves, and lie in wait for the owners to return, but he thought better of it. For a moment, he considered pressing the panic button under the table by the door, but he knew that even if the officers could safely arrest the woman without her harming anything or in some way creating another political mess for him to pick up, it might not be in his best interests. For all he knew, this was meaningless posturing, the same way his 1811 Château Lafite Rothschilds was, albeit of a different sort. The woman could have a favorable proposition which would almost certainly evaporate if law enforcement became involved.
Without saying anything more, he followed her into the living room. On the table was set a variety of cheeses and crackers that he knew from experience would accompany the wine perfectly, as well as another wineglass filled and left for him. What surprised him was that some of the selection were things that he did not have in his own refrigeration unit. At least she brought something other than herself to the party.
Without asking- it was his house after all- he took a seat in his chair, a comfortable high-backed leather chair that maintained his posture. It occurred to him that his mech should have been aware of her presence and announced her when he arrived. Actually, she should have sent it an alert to his omni-tool and to C-Sec. He could not think how she managed it. Rather than show his own hand, rather poor at the moment, he settled for saying, "I'm afraid we've not met before."
She flashed him a warm smile, though he felt nothing kind behind it. "Emily. Emily Moore." Extending a hand, she said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Councilor."
He merely smiled and nodded as he shook her hand, unable to bring himself to say it was a pleasure. "And who do you represent, Miss Moore?"
"Still so direct and to-business," she said, seeming disappointed, before delicately grasping one of the slices of cheese and taking half a bite. She followed it a moment later with a sip of the wine. When she found him still staring at her, having not made any move, she said, "Please, Donnel, we don't want you dead, and oral poisoning is such a unpredictable and inefficient means anyway."
He remained silent.
"Are you going to make me drink from your glass for you?"
Though he knew it would mean little- she could have ingested a counter-agent prior to his arrival- he played along and took a sip of the wine. Against his better judgement, he closed his eyes and savored the unique flavor. Just as every vintage was unique, each bottle had its own subtle differences. Though he had lines on securing two more of the 2,000's, he would never have this wine again. When he looked back to Emily, he found her with what seemed to be a real smile.
"Good," she said, clearly pleased. "Now, to answer your question, I'm here on behalf of Cerberus."
He was hardly surprised. "And why are you here today? I suppose this has something to do with Bahak."
"No, actually. I'm afraid we don't have anything to add on that issue," she said.
"Then are you here to offer a favor or request one?" he asked. Realizing his manner was less than congenial, he said, "I'm sure you understand, I've had a taxing day and am very much looking forward to relaxing on my own."
"Well, I guess I'm not sleeping here tonight," she said in a joking manner. He was not amused. "Neither, actually. I've come do deliver a message."
He was tempted to ask why they did not come through the usual channels. Though his dealings with the radical black-ops organization were infrequent, both sides viewed each other as a valuable enough resource to set up a sort of protocol for establishing contact.
Answering the unspoken question, she said, "We knew you'd be under increased scrutiny after Bahak. The Illusive Man wanted to make sure the message got through to you and was secure."
And he thought having someone break into my apartment was more secure? "And what would that message be?"
She took another sip of wine, and he went for a piece of cheese, admittedly hungry after his day's work.
"It's come to our attention that you've been making deals with some parties and organizations, a certain one in particular, we've been in direct opposition to in the past. That's fine, so long as you believe it's in humanity's best interests. After all, we don't represent the Alliance and you don't work for Cerberus. Though our interests are aligned, only a fool would expect our methods to be similarly in agreement at all times." She took a knife and spread one of the creamier cheeses over a cracker before eating it and following it with more wine.
Udina took another sip, taking his time to savor it. "I have a hard time believing The Illusive Man would have you deliver a message that is nothing more than common sense to someone in my position."
She nodded, acting as though she forgot something. "He also wanted me to remind you not to cross us in these dealings. That I could speak of letting out secrets we've kept in confidence, of supporting others envious of your position, of actions we can and cannot take but that, to someone in your position, that would all be assumed. He said the real thing to remind you of is where our interests, unlike others you might deal with, lie- with the best interests of humanity. And also to remind you that there will come times in the future that you'll want to call on us."
"If he's as smart I've always credited him with being, he would be aware that I am at all times acutely aware of everything you've said."
"He expected you to say something like that. He also said that everyone can use a little reminder every now and then," Emily said. Getting up, she said, "I hope you enjoy the cheese."
"That's it?" he asked.
"There is one more thing. This does involve a Cerberus project, but I'm asking you about it on my own, without The Illusive Man's direction," she said. She brought up three holographic displays on her omni-tool. One was of a man's face he had never seen before. The other two were of different suits of armor. He thought he saw her face flush. "This man goes by the name 'Maelstrom.' Do you know anything about him?"
Udina looked at the images for a couple more seconds more as a courtesy than anything else. He did not typically involve himself with mercenaries. "No. I'm afraid I've never seen this man before or heard anything in regards to a man under that alias. Why do you ask?"
"We have reason to believe he's on the station or has been recently," she replied.
"I have very little to do with the day-to-day running of this station," he said, slightly irritated that she would question him about something so trivial. Having engaged his curiosity, though, he asked, "What did this man do?"
"That's classified. Let's just say he killed... some of our operatives," she replied. He understood now. The reason for her asking the unusual question was that this man killed someone she cared about.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," he replied.
"Thank you, Councilor. Take care."
With a slight flicker of light, she disappeared. A moment later, the front door opened.
Is that how she got in here too? he wondered, more than a little unsettled. Through the front door.
He brought up his omni-tool and, sure enough, he received a message earlier in the day from systems' maintenance that there appeared to be a malfunction with the door but that security sweeps revealed nothing. A technician had been out, but none of the systems appeared compromised and the problem was written up as a random surge in the power system. Hardly the first since that geth warship damaged the Citadel in what seemed like a different life.
The door opened, and he stepped through, the lights automatically turning on upon his entry. A long, deep sigh escaped him, as he set the arm-full of pads down on the table next to the door. Just like every other day, his work consisted of long, tedious hours of putting out political shit-storms both real and imagined. Very few people truly understood just how taxing a job it was to be the ambassador for one's entire race. He had not when he accepted the appointment; he sometimes wondered if he would even have accepted it if he had. Of course, once the position was filled, smooth operation required that the same hand stay at the helm and steady. There was just too much that one needed to be conscious of at all times for anyone of good conscience to vacate the position unless absolutely necessary. Without years of training, there was just no way for anyone to catch up.
Multiply that by a factor of ten, and one could begin to understand the responsibilities of being one of the four councilors. Sometimes he wondered what he was thinking when he pushed to be appointed to that seat. The answer was obvious enough, though. Because of his years as humanity's ambassador on the Citadel, he was uniquely qualified for the position. His sense of duty would not permit him to let anyone less qualified define humanity's place on the Council. Let alone someone so completely unqualified as Anderson. No, it had to be him.
Although this past week, dealing with the aftermath of Shepard's horrific actions at Bahak, almost made him consider handing in his resignation.
His apartment was his escape. In truth, it was larger than most people's planetside homes, but were he anywhere that space was at less of a premium, Udina's accommodations would have been at least twice the size for the sake of impressions alone. To make up for this failing in presentation, he decorated the space with the most expensive and envied collection of human art his position and fortune could afford him. Most of the pieces were modern, specifically selected to show humanity's mind for the future and progress, but they also tended to be made of wood or other natural materials which lent a comfortable warmth to the space. The few pieces of more classical art from centuries gone by were carefully chosen, as it was rare to find examples that would not clash with the rest of the decor. Still, he found these pieces invaluable, as they established that humanity's traditions and past should not be forgotten and could find a place in the future they were making.
This place was his sanctuary. His safe haven. And, after years working on the Citadel, the only place in the galaxy he could find true rest. Even his house on Earth, far more lavish than this residence, could no longer calm him the way this place did.
"Hello, Councilor. Did you have a fulfilling day?" the housekeeping mech asked.
"Taxing as always, Victoria, but thank you," he replied. He was not overly fond of the device, but he found early on in his career that it was important to maintain one's professionalism and courtesy at all times. Otherwise, one risked falling into other patterns of behavior at precisely the wrong times.
"Would yo like me to fetch you a bottle of wine?"
"Yes, that sounds lovely," he replied. After a moment's thought, he added, "Make it one of the Château Lafite Rothschilds."
"The 1811?" the mech asked.
"No!" he responded, horrified. That bottle was to be saved for an emergency, a time when he would have to inflate a party's sense of his already imposing level of influence to secure something of vast importance to humanity. He was not sure when that would be or what his goal would be, hut he knew beyond any doubt that would be the bottle's use. "Bring me the 2,000."
"I'm sorry, sir. My inventory interface indicates that vintage is not currently stocked," the mech replied.
"What?" he demanded. As busy as he was, collecting wine was one of his hobbies, and he had personally checked every bottle in his store-room only last week. He distinctly remembered having the 2,000 on hand. Losing his temper a bit, he said, "Return to your charging station and run a full diagnostic. Now."
"Understood," the unit replied compliantly, moving off on its own.
Udina closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried immersing himself in the breathing exercises his therapist- a requirement written into law for each member of the Citadel Council- trained him in, but he was distracted.
"I'm sorry," a quintessentially feminine and disturbingly unfamiliar voice called from his living room. She turned the corner while holding a half-full wineglass, her lithe form moving with the same deliberate yet fluid grace as a large cat on the hunt. The black dress she wore fitted her form perfectly, though it was tight only to the point that it accentuated the curves of her body. It was not in any way obscene. Her auburn hair cascaded down onto her shoulders in gentle waves, and her green eyes seemed simultaneously filled with a knowing intimacy and ruthless calculation. To him, she was the definition of elegance and beauty, far from the vulgar sexuality that most men seemed to find attractive. "I'm afraid I took the liberty of pouring us a couple glasses."
He found himself frozen. The part of his mind that kept working realized that he should have been sexually stimulated by the situation or that he should have been irate at someone taking it upon themselves to open one of his most prized bottles of wine without asking and without invitation. It was that last part that held the key to his lack of action, though. Without invitation. C-Sec watched the Councilors' apartments like hawks, and his security system was military-grade. It was then that he realized that the reason he could not move was that he was gripped in terror.
The genuine, knowing smile that spread across the woman's face as she watched his dawning realization did nothing to ease his fears. "Please, Donnel, if I were here to kill you, do you really think I'd have started drinking before you arrived?" She took another sip as though to punctuate her question.
In its own way, her response frightened him. She was not claiming that it was against her nature to let someone see the kill coming and revel in their reaction. It was not a claim that she would be in any way incapable. It was merely a statement that she was in a relaxed mood. Still, he chose to take it as an assurance that he had nothing to fear, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Marshaling himself, he said, "I'm certain you could not have gotten in here on your own. Someone with a great deal of funds and influence would have had to help you. So, who do you represent?"
"So discourteous for a Councilor. I might have expected that if I paid a visit to your turian counterpart, but that's not who we are, is it?" Holding out an arm, inviting him into his own living room, she said, "Please, let's talk as civilized people."
He was tempted to point out that civilized people did not break into homes, serve themselves, and lie in wait for the owners to return, but he thought better of it. For a moment, he considered pressing the panic button under the table by the door, but he knew that even if the officers could safely arrest the woman without her harming anything or in some way creating another political mess for him to pick up, it might not be in his best interests. For all he knew, this was meaningless posturing, the same way his 1811 Château Lafite Rothschilds was, albeit of a different sort. The woman could have a favorable proposition which would almost certainly evaporate if law enforcement became involved.
Without saying anything more, he followed her into the living room. On the table was set a variety of cheeses and crackers that he knew from experience would accompany the wine perfectly, as well as another wineglass filled and left for him. What surprised him was that some of the selection were things that he did not have in his own refrigeration unit. At least she brought something other than herself to the party.
Without asking- it was his house after all- he took a seat in his chair, a comfortable high-backed leather chair that maintained his posture. It occurred to him that his mech should have been aware of her presence and announced her when he arrived. Actually, she should have sent it an alert to his omni-tool and to C-Sec. He could not think how she managed it. Rather than show his own hand, rather poor at the moment, he settled for saying, "I'm afraid we've not met before."
She flashed him a warm smile, though he felt nothing kind behind it. "Emily. Emily Moore." Extending a hand, she said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Councilor."
He merely smiled and nodded as he shook her hand, unable to bring himself to say it was a pleasure. "And who do you represent, Miss Moore?"
"Still so direct and to-business," she said, seeming disappointed, before delicately grasping one of the slices of cheese and taking half a bite. She followed it a moment later with a sip of the wine. When she found him still staring at her, having not made any move, she said, "Please, Donnel, we don't want you dead, and oral poisoning is such a unpredictable and inefficient means anyway."
He remained silent.
"Are you going to make me drink from your glass for you?"
Though he knew it would mean little- she could have ingested a counter-agent prior to his arrival- he played along and took a sip of the wine. Against his better judgement, he closed his eyes and savored the unique flavor. Just as every vintage was unique, each bottle had its own subtle differences. Though he had lines on securing two more of the 2,000's, he would never have this wine again. When he looked back to Emily, he found her with what seemed to be a real smile.
"Good," she said, clearly pleased. "Now, to answer your question, I'm here on behalf of Cerberus."
He was hardly surprised. "And why are you here today? I suppose this has something to do with Bahak."
"No, actually. I'm afraid we don't have anything to add on that issue," she said.
"Then are you here to offer a favor or request one?" he asked. Realizing his manner was less than congenial, he said, "I'm sure you understand, I've had a taxing day and am very much looking forward to relaxing on my own."
"Well, I guess I'm not sleeping here tonight," she said in a joking manner. He was not amused. "Neither, actually. I've come do deliver a message."
He was tempted to ask why they did not come through the usual channels. Though his dealings with the radical black-ops organization were infrequent, both sides viewed each other as a valuable enough resource to set up a sort of protocol for establishing contact.
Answering the unspoken question, she said, "We knew you'd be under increased scrutiny after Bahak. The Illusive Man wanted to make sure the message got through to you and was secure."
And he thought having someone break into my apartment was more secure? "And what would that message be?"
She took another sip of wine, and he went for a piece of cheese, admittedly hungry after his day's work.
"It's come to our attention that you've been making deals with some parties and organizations, a certain one in particular, we've been in direct opposition to in the past. That's fine, so long as you believe it's in humanity's best interests. After all, we don't represent the Alliance and you don't work for Cerberus. Though our interests are aligned, only a fool would expect our methods to be similarly in agreement at all times." She took a knife and spread one of the creamier cheeses over a cracker before eating it and following it with more wine.
Udina took another sip, taking his time to savor it. "I have a hard time believing The Illusive Man would have you deliver a message that is nothing more than common sense to someone in my position."
She nodded, acting as though she forgot something. "He also wanted me to remind you not to cross us in these dealings. That I could speak of letting out secrets we've kept in confidence, of supporting others envious of your position, of actions we can and cannot take but that, to someone in your position, that would all be assumed. He said the real thing to remind you of is where our interests, unlike others you might deal with, lie- with the best interests of humanity. And also to remind you that there will come times in the future that you'll want to call on us."
"If he's as smart I've always credited him with being, he would be aware that I am at all times acutely aware of everything you've said."
"He expected you to say something like that. He also said that everyone can use a little reminder every now and then," Emily said. Getting up, she said, "I hope you enjoy the cheese."
"That's it?" he asked.
"There is one more thing. This does involve a Cerberus project, but I'm asking you about it on my own, without The Illusive Man's direction," she said. She brought up three holographic displays on her omni-tool. One was of a man's face he had never seen before. The other two were of different suits of armor. He thought he saw her face flush. "This man goes by the name 'Maelstrom.' Do you know anything about him?"
Udina looked at the images for a couple more seconds more as a courtesy than anything else. He did not typically involve himself with mercenaries. "No. I'm afraid I've never seen this man before or heard anything in regards to a man under that alias. Why do you ask?"
"We have reason to believe he's on the station or has been recently," she replied.
"I have very little to do with the day-to-day running of this station," he said, slightly irritated that she would question him about something so trivial. Having engaged his curiosity, though, he asked, "What did this man do?"
"That's classified. Let's just say he killed... some of our operatives," she replied. He understood now. The reason for her asking the unusual question was that this man killed someone she cared about.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," he replied.
"Thank you, Councilor. Take care."
With a slight flicker of light, she disappeared. A moment later, the front door opened.
Is that how she got in here too? he wondered, more than a little unsettled. Through the front door.
He brought up his omni-tool and, sure enough, he received a message earlier in the day from systems' maintenance that there appeared to be a malfunction with the door but that security sweeps revealed nothing. A technician had been out, but none of the systems appeared compromised and the problem was written up as a random surge in the power system. Hardly the first since that geth warship damaged the Citadel in what seemed like a different life.