[Citadel, Tayseri] Leaving the Ducts Charity Dinner (Open to all)

It was finally happening. Laykalar pulsated rhythmically, nervous yet abuzz with joyful anticipation. Part of him was fearful that he'd forgotten something, some manner of essential preparation that might undermine the evening's purpose. The rest was a thrilling sense of pride and excitement. Soon the guests would begin arriving. He hoped it would be a most stimulating evening.

From the ceiling hung a large banner, with the legend “Official Leaving The Ducts Fundraising Charity Dinner!” (Yes, there was an exclamation point. It was perhaps fortunate that there wasn't more than one). Across the walls were posters and holographic displays chosen for their presumed relevance to the issues at hand, some very effective, others merely surreal. There was also a disturbing quantity of neon blue glitter glue. In the traditions of Laykalar’s home banks, the luminous swirls were akin to a blessing of prosperity, and an argument for the great importance of a given undertaking. Cards from some of the younger students were displayed along the walls, each with a personal message as to why Leaving the Ducts had made a difference to them, and how they benefitted from others' generous donations. He had censored some of the more distressing incidents of street slang for the sake of decorum, but on the whole the voices of the students were allowed to shine.

There were several hired VIs around the room, programmed with a collection of relevant quotations and personal affections, as well as arguments for assisting homeless populations and vulnerable youth, with pointers as to further reading should one wish to pursue greater illumination (as one surely would!). He had chosen the appearance and personality of each construct based on a combination of philosophical relevance and appeal to beings of all ages and species. Around the room, then, were virtual representations of Matriarch Dennivoss, Caelax of Palaven, All-Bright Olos the 10th, and beloved children's entertainer Uncle Garm Garm. A stage stood at one end of the room, with the tables arranged so as to give all seated guests a view (he had needed reminding, to his embarrassment, that his original room plan supposed 360 degree vision and was unworkable) with a ball pool forming a moat of sorts around it. Laykalar was pleased about the ball pool. He couldn’t imagine a more layered yet essentially simplistic metaphor for immersing oneself in the diversity of the Many Voices. That the humans encouraged their young to play within such pools was a sign, he thought, of great wisdom. He had included pink balls to represent the hanar.

Convened in one of the corners was the contingent from the Greater Encompassing, of whose presence he remained acutely aware. They were keeping together, in a knot of silent anticipation, and Laykalar vaguely worried that his learned betters were discomforted. He had assured them that such formal events were by definition courteous, and he looked forward to demonstrating the relevance of his work here. Between the scholars’ esteemed presence and the catering staff, the room was currently very rich in hanar, to an extent rarely seen on the Citadel. There was also Sounds From The Flooded Hollows - “Justicar” - who was floating near one of the tables, currently rather innocently. He had been reluctant to include her, but had eventually decided to invite her in order to impress upon the distressingly forthright hanar the importance of correct decorum. Perhaps she would benefit from others' example. Also, it would be most uncharitable to deny her such an opportunity!

He was, after all, incredibly thankful himself for the wonderful opportunity this event entailed, in keeping with the highest virtues of the Enkindlers. There were Very Important People attending, and he’d been sure to assign each of them what he judged to be one of the better seats. He looked forward to the many provocative and stimulating discussions that such a rich pool of noted personages would surely generate! He was eager, too, to observe their manner of visual expression. Citadel residents would have draped their bodies in newly acquired, aesthetically pleasing cloth, placed new and intriguing coverings upon the body for ritualistic significance. The humans would have styled their fur. (Hair, he reminded himself; he must remember the correct terminology, or he might cause mild offence). The visual complexity alone would surely demonstrate the scholarly value of direct participation in Citadel community life. Were hanar capable of shooting furtive glances (or of a need to) he would have shot one in the direction of his elders now.

The fact that so many guests would be affiliates of Cerberus Daily News also pleased him. It was at a gathering hosted in that esteemed name that he had first met the learned Rondor and his friend Julian Snow. He thought now of his many productive interactions with the board’s members. His discussion with a wise batarian scholar; his pleasurable exchanges with the ex-Cerberus operative who had demonstrated so inspiringly a being's capacity for personal growth (she would perform music at this very event!); the law enforcement officer who sung intriguingly symbolic lyrics based on rhyme; the mated asari and human who had been so supportive one night at the Hungry Tides restaurant. There was no better example of the capacity for damaged reefs to restore themselves through mutual comprehension and support than was to be found in CDN. He hoped that his learned elders would perceive it the same way, once they were truly immersed.

Had hanar worn clothes, Laykalar might have loosened his collar at this point, and were hanar able to swallow, he might have done so forcefully.

The tables were set, the grand studio space prepared. In one of the room’s corners, Justicar was talking with “Uncle Garm Garm”, attempting to convert him to her sect, denouncing Gaisus the Talkative Turian as a heretic. One of the caterers was methodically retrieving a group of live shumshin slugs that had escaped their bowl and colonized one of the water jugs. Everything else seemed ready.

He shimmered in anticipation.

"Finally here, for what it's worth," Snow grumbling to himself as he entered the backroom adjacent to the hall where the reception was being held. The past few weeks were quiet for the red hood, allowing him to recuperate from the misadventures with Kayana Pesh and the New Dillinaga co-op, and best of all, only a few weeks remained on his sentence. "Three more weeks," repeating the mantra to himself as he lowered his hood, still clad in his street gear which consisted of baggy work pants, black t-shirt, boots and his everpresent red hooded coat. Miss Rondor had made it clear that this was a fancy dress function, but Snow's responsiblity was security and surveillance, not kissing corporate ass, so he 'forgot' that little detail. Chuckling at the thought, the lanky young man headed to the table in the center of the room, spotting a strange package on one of the chairs. It was a suit apparently, turning away, Snow keyed up his omnitool, ringing up Laykalar,

"Just arrived Laykalar, so far so good, no intrusions or listening devices I can find yet. Just got one question, what is this suit doing here, is it for our new hire Shaart?'

That was one detail Laykalar was particularly pleased about, and he pulsed contentedly.

"This one has been working to ensure that all contingencies are covered. It was aware that you had not made acquisition of a formal suit, such as decorum dictates. It realizes that you must have been so focused on ensuring the implementation of security procedures, in accordance with the general plan, that you did not have time or else had forgotten. This one has therefore acquired an appropriate outfit for you to wear".

The piece in question was obviously tailored for humans but inspired by turian aesthetics; in particular, those in vogue on some of the outer colonies, those whose relationship with the Hierarchy could be shaky. Laykalar had wanted to honour both Snow's role as an armed protector to Leaving the Ducts and his individualism, and believed that human clothing evoking colonist turian styling best captured the essence of his friend. Moreover, the blend of human and turian was a fitting visual symbol for the cooperative spirit in which beings came together to overcome prior animosity, as Snow himself had worked to move past the troubles of his past under the learned Rondor's guidance. The suit's heavy collar, imitating the form of the turian carapace, had been coloured red.

Laykalar was very pleased with himself.

"Uhhh, yeah, good looking out Laykalar," looking over the turian/human hybrid suit???? Stifling a groan forming in his mouth, Snow looked over the rental. It was unlike anything he'd seen in formal wear. In Burns, Oregon it was simple, slacks, dress shirt, tie, and dress shoes/cowboy boots, but this? The ex-salvager not knowing where to begin as he scooped up the package and began to look for an restroom. Snow had no idea how to put the ensemble on, but Laykalar had gone to the trouble to arrange for the catering, entertainment and decor for the evening,"I can at least try," Snow thinking darkly to himself as he entered a nearby stall, and attempted to figure out how to put the red and black suit together...

Michelle entered the room with awe in her eyes. Someone might have found the neon display a little over the top, but certainly not the woman who had seriously considered wearing golden neon glasses tonight (fortunately, she just had black hipster glasses).
"Laykalar, it's wonderful! You did an amazing job! My gods, I love it!"
The cards especially had an impact on her.

Merde, we're really doing it. We're really doing good. Did I actually cheat *the universe* into thinking I knew what I was doing?
She had a chuckle when she saw a dumbfounded Snow walking by with his hybrid suit. And he thought he could spend the evening with his hoodie!

"By the way", she said to Laykalar with a toned down voice, "I would like to thank the humble hanar, but I'm not sure which is which... Also, I STILL don't know his face name. Could you help me out a little here please?"

"This one is not in fact aware of the other's face name".

Perhaps sensing that this wasn't going to go over too well, Laykalar continued in a slightly flustered manner. "These ones place less emphasis on individualism than the learned other is used to. It has been addressing our lead caterer by an honorific that describes its status as a minor community leader. It does not believe there is an agreed-upon translation. It has attempted to find one".

He had been thrilled to hear Rondor's initial praise. His first major project for Leaving the Ducts, and it seemed it was to be a success. She had invoked multiple gods - surely a good sign!

Before Rondor responded, the Learned Tathissyl glided over from its position among its fellow scholars, and finished up "facing" the human, towering over her. Laykalar dimmed fully for a moment, the hanar equivalent of a respectful silence as a distinguished guest moved to speak. Rondor simply appraised the new arrival, her facial expression beyond Laykalar's capacity to read.

Tathissyl spoke - a single layer of meaning, as hanar often employed when addressing foreigners. "May this one offer its respectful greetings. This one has been selected from among its peers to approach the other". This was announced with great dignity and a hint of trepidation, as though the selection was both an honour and a distasteful necessity. "It acknowledges the other's generosity in permitting these ones' presence at this... event. These ones have been informed that their attendance will further the general goals of the Finding." Her exact pattern of bioluminescence conveyed to Laykalar both her scepticism and her cautious desire to keep an open mind.

"It is intrigued by the other's choice to hire hanar both to undertake the planning of this event and to cater it. The association of Primacy citizens with such unconventional organizations as Leaving the Ducts is indeed worthy of... lengthy contemplation. These ones can say that they have thus far been appreciative of the specified blessing integrated into the décor. This one extends its congratulations for said success".

A pause.

"Acolyte Laykalar has spoken of the other's work many a time in the Inner Sanctum of our vessel. Often he has spoken at considerable length, in a matter only tangentially related to the issue under consideration..."

Laykalar fairly bounced in place. "This one was attempting to cultivate an ongoing argument for these ones' need to integrate more readily into the local community" he explained to Rondor. "It has learned much from the other's example!"

Tathissyl was non-responsive for a moment. Then: "Learning is not in itself difficult. Judging the value of that which is learned, and its relevance to one's development of character, may prove more problematic. Ms. Michelle Rondor, these ones wished to formally offer their acknowledgement for the other's hospitality, and extend their wishes for a productive evening".

"This one hopes the esteemed Elders will find the occasion stimulating and enjoyable!" Laykalar said happily.

After a moment of silence, he addressed Rondor, slightly more timidly. "This one will find the one styled 'Humble' now".

The loud thudding sound of a vehicle with excessive bass playing a loud club-style song filters in from outside. Rather than fading, the noise comes closer, accompanied by the growling of engines.

It's not unreasonable for the occupants of the building to expect the arrival of a street gang. Particularly when the convoy comes into view - a utility vehicle in the middle, aircar in the middle, a truck behind, all bearing jury rigged armour plating and matching colour schemes in jagged red sunbursts. It's the truck that's got the gratuitous speakers mounted in the back.

And because Chieftain Vindi Detticia is very aware of her undesired reputation as the Warlord of Denakot, she's made every effort to appear respectable. The vehicles all bear corporate insignias on their hoods and doors labelling them part of the fleet belonging to SNIPER'S TOUCH - RIFLE RANGE AND CROSSHAIRS CAFE, DENAKOT, TAYSERI. The aircar and utility vehicle have had their armour painted a glossy grey under the red and are immaculately clean. The truck's clean and polished, too, albeit a bit more chipped and rough looking in its original blue paint, and its owner has added some oversized chrome jet-covers and the kind of lights that are completely useless in an urban setting.

The whole thing pulls over to the curb, and two turians slide out of the front passenger seats of both the utility vehicle and the aircar to open the doors. It might be noted that these "butlers" are some rough-looking customers, dressed in combat pants and black shirts, who seem to favour a lot of chain jewelry, arm guards, tattoos, and sturdy boots. But if gangsters were trying to sneak up on the event, wouldn't they be smart enough to dress for the occasion?

"Greetings and clear waters", answered Michelle. "It is our honor to have you here. I sincerely hope you find the evening agreeable and stimulating."
"My decision to hire Laykalar and the Hungry Tide team was based not on species but on merit. I saw in Laykalar a mix of enthusiasm, vast culture and a sharp and inquisitive mind that befitted very well the work we are trying to do. It's a decision that proved most fruitful.
Similarly, the Hungry Tide crew were offering quality, professionalism and expediency, for a very reasonable fee."
Michelle raised an eyebrow at the pause before the word "unconventional". The condescension was palpable.
"Yes, we're all about being unconventional. This is a new galaxy, Esteemed Elder. Three years ago some lady shooed away the predators of all sentient species with a big blue light. Thinking outside of the box is not optional anymore. I'm hoping tonight will..."
Then she heard the noisy turians.
Who the hell is that? A new gang here to flex their muscles? And Snow's away of course...
"I am dreadfully sorry Esteemed Elder, I must cut this conversation short. Please enjoy your evening, and seek Laykalar or I out if there is anything you need."

She walked at a brisk pace at the door. She had no idea who those turians were, but they seemed antagonistic.
Those ones make the LTEs look damn subtle...

"Can I help you?", she asked coldly.

Disgusting.

The word radiated through Quylid's squishy interior constantly as it observed more and more individuals filing in near the front of the door.

How positively disgusting

Quylid was easy to spot if you knew where to look, he (she? it?) was much larger than Laykalar, or maybe the self-importance it emitted constantly, even as a mostly featureless jellyfish that was near impossible to ignore.

Or failing all of that, you could just see the tall, immaculately dressed, and utterly terrifying compactee standing close to it. Almost as if it was expecting trouble.

Keep an eye on the turians, it pulsed to a passing drell under its employ. Trouble. Possibly Sundowners. She nodded once before going back to work.

Quylid gazed at the aliens gathered in its restaurant once again and a tentacle twitched in revulsion. It knew this little vent was for the good of the Hungry Tides, and by proxy, the Depth's. Good publicity meant more customers, more money to fund their operations here on the Citadel and elsewhere...

But did it really need to socialize with the aliens itself?

Another shuttle pulled up outside, finding a street-side parking spot. It was a sports model, but unadorned, painted light blue. It opened to let its occupants, a rather short turian in a formal robe and significant cybernetic reconstruction, and a tall female quarian, wearing similar robes to the turian. The turian, a mercenary by the name of Davril Wilde, stretches briefly, looking over at the convey, then to the pair of what appeared to be turian gangsters. "Well," he says, smiling to himself. "Looks like their might be some pre-dinner entertainment," he motions to the two other turians as he says so. "Want to wait to see what happens with them, or should we just ignore them and walk in?"

Off in the distance, an aircar approached and parked, with the formal driver stepping out and opening the door for the passenger. Sarah Thompson- Former terrorist, military intelligence official and now concert performer. Her dress was a gold and silver evening dress that flowed as she took an offered arm and stepped away from the vehicle. She had a violin case in her grip and a nervous flush of red to her face- it's been some time since she'd played the violin- and the last time she'd spoken with Michele, Chris vanished within the week. To complete things, she had to deal with one Julian Snow- whom history and memory paint with a curdled, sour and profane coat.


"Already the place is full." She murmured under her breath. "Don't worry- I'll introduce the people I know. One of the Hanar is a sweet kid, the caterer's a dick."

Her escort shrugged as they approached. "Backhanded Hanar and charity workers. I'm sure I can handle it. I covered Toronto, you know. Go on inside, say hi, I'll be in just a moment, need to get my camera drone." He rummaged his hand through his tuxedo jacket as he stepped back to the aircar, leaving Sarah near the entrance. The woman glanced over at the loud and under-dressed Turians- and tried to inject herself between them and the event hostess.
Friendly smile. Work the charm!

"Michelle! It's been too long! My word, it's good to see you, I've brought a donation and my violin so I could play, where do you need me? Oh, and my plus one is a journalist that'd like to cover this- I'm sorry I didn't clear this with you but the date's really last minute." She drummed her fingers on the violin case with that huge smile on her face an attempt at being disarming.

The noise from outside indicated that the first of their guests were arriving, entirely punctual if not a little early. Laykalar's excitement peaked, washing away (for now) the uncertainties his elder had managed to stoke. The event was now truly underway!

He approached Quylid, pleasantly pulsing a friendly greeting. "The learned Rondor has asked to convey its gratitude for the other directly".

He didn't know which sect or nation the humble hanar claimed affiliation with, but despite its possibly controversial behaviours on the board, it and its staff had performed admirably thus far.

The entrance of the Sundowner goons hadn't gone unnoticed either from Shaart, who stood guard by the walls, well away from the swelling crowds. By virtue of having no known existing suit designs for raloi on the extranet, he'd gotten a free hand in putting together an outfit of his own. Gray tunic, loose fitting pants of the same colour and a cloak resting on his shoulders and arms. Archaic? Yes, but it also concealed his hands, enabling the raloi to work with his hands without giving away his intentions right away.

And yes, he'd finally gotten introduced to soap and shower. Regardless of that, Shaart put out a mild foreign scent that hadn't bowed down to deodorants and perfumes (blegh!).

"Three gang vehicles at the front, personnel disembarking. No weapons out yet. Have we invited anyone like these or should I place a call with C-Sec?" he spoke into his commlink.

Out of each vehicle steps a female turian in formal dress attire. From the utility vehicle in front comes a woman quite beautiful by turian standards, wearing a glittering scarlet sheath dress with daringly placed cutouts above her waist, just barely high enough to be decent. Her velvet shoes are highly impractical but definitely striking. Ahsaala Montagnais, former torch singer on Omega, is dressed to the nines tonight, and preparing to give every man in the room whiplash, and half the ladies besides. The only thing to mar her beauty is the fact that her left eye is ever so slightly a different shade of blue than her right; it's the only hint that the eye is in fact a prosthetic.

And yet Ahsaala pales next to the woman in the car.

Vindi has foregone her usual fuzzy track pants and Sundowner vest in favour of the dress which Daia had given her. Emerald green to match her eyes, it covers her from throat to ankle, very modest next to Ahsaala's stage-worthy number. Long gloves in a matching shade cover her hands from talon-tip to armpit, covering up her prison tattoos. But it is the cut of the dress, tailored perfectly to Vindi, trimmed with a V-shaped gold belt to accentuate her waist, that makes Vindi stunningly attractive without showing very much at all.

In contrast to Ahsaala's plentiful bangles and showpiece choker necklace, Vindi has forgone any jewelry save for the belt and a delicate gold filigree of curlicues and swoops balanced on the hinges of her golden mandibles. The mandible jewelry is very exotic and unusual and begs the question - how are the golden ornaments attached? The answer, of course, is that Vindi's mandibles are in fact prosthetics and the filigree has been easily attached to the pre-existing metal framework. Looking at her, though, you'd never guess she wasn't wearing--and setting--the latest striking trend.

These two beauties are each accompanied by an equally handsome gentleman: in Vindi's case, her new boyfriend Arx, a sergeant in crisply pressed Hierarchy dress uniform, wearing the Unification facial tattoo, and in Ahsaala's case, her husband, Battis Montagnais from the range, representing the Sundowners in the traditional Solregit grey vest and fur-trimmed cloak, wearing more conventional dress pants and polished boots with it.

If Vindi is the slightest bit nervous about being unarmed, Battis' presence is a reassurance. The man is a biotic and cannot be unarmed; he is, himself, a weapon. That's why he's on entourage duty tonight.

Well, that and Ahsaala's just so obviously delighted to be here.

Vindi can't help that her people are a little rough around the edges, or that her culture came from an impoverished turian minority rendered outlaws on their own planet. She's cleaned them up as best she could, but at the end of the day, they are what they are, and she will not disavow the people who stood with her against the Reapers just because they won't fit into high society.

Indeed, the two tough customers at the doors - Breaker, former lieutenant of the Rolling Bones, and Tango, enforcer for the Blue Talons - were once duct rats themselves. It is because of them that she is here. They're good people - would they have ended up gangsters if they'd had any better options?

"Chieftain Detticia," she identifies herself, holding out four tickets, and then flares her mandibles in a smile. "Vindi, from CDN."

Breaker and Tango are looking longingly at the gathering, mouths watering at the delicious smells in the air, as though an event so ritzy is beyond their belief.

Suddenly there is a hush, not from the Sundowner's boom-box but from the Citadel itself as an eerie silence covers all, traffic seems to have stopped in the skies above, then there's the sound of serine, a single C-Sec colored corvette, flies low overhead. Followed by row of C-Sec patrol cars, lights blazing, the silence remains until a deafening sound of two heavily armored Systems Alliance gunships stop overhead, as more vehicles both C-Sec and Alliance wiz by.

Two step-airvans stop on either side of the entrance, as burly Alliance marines step out taking on defensive positions as more vehicles fly by, and more troops are deployed this time turian, and C-Sec. Above the gunships are joined by more vehicles, turian multi-role air-support. Other ships seem to further along on the roofs of nearby, dropping snipers?

The air is filled with half- decipherable chatter between the forces, who clearly eye the other arriving guests with some suspicion.

Finally, a clearly modified and armored limousine slows down right before the entrance, emblazed on its front both the symbol of the Systems Alliance and of the Hierarchy are shown, the door opens and Albert Lowell, dressed in formal-wear, steps out.

"Thanks for the lift sir, ma'am, I hope it wasn't too far out of the way." There's a voice from the inside of the car, "No ma'am, I won't have trouble getting home. Have a good trip to Palaven." There's a nod, and chuckle, "I'll let cooper know sir. Have pleasant evening, and thank you once again."

He closes the door and the motorcade carries off, as fast as the force deployment was the withdrawal of the force is even faster; before he has even reached, the door the final trailing vehicles pass and the normal traffic resumes.

"Stay cool Shaart, they're not gangers, they're turian seppers. They call themselves Sundowners. Just keep an eye on them, I'll be in the main hall shortly." Snow replying to the new hire, Shaart on his omnitool as he finished buckling the belt to his trousers and pulled the coat portion of his suit on, not bothering to fasten the coat closed, a white button down shirt underneath the black suit with crimson trim. Finishing up, he wetted down his hair and gave himself a onceover, shave, check, fingernails trimmed, check, boots blackened and buffed out, check. Sighing, Snow strode out of the kitchen bathroom and into the main hall, taking position opposite Shaart before beginning his first walkthrough of the evening.

"I'm in the hall boss, I've arranged for two C-Sec men to conduct foot patrols outside and a cruiser to swing on the hour. I'm beginning my first sweep of the place and Shaart is keeping an eye on new arrivals. Holler if you need me." Taking a deep breath, Julian Snow began his walkthrough, maintaining a casual saunter in contrast with his cool facial expression and dead looking gaze, the suit Laykalar gave him giving him a much needed patina of respectablity. Recognizing a few of the guests, the platinum blonde ex-cerbie, and the Sundowner chieftan, he slowly gave the new arrivals a onceover as he slowly walked the edge of the hall, at the ready...

The next car to arrive does so in style. It's a racer, streamlined, twin-pronged, a black blur with a red stripe, screaming in on afterburners and protesting inertial dampeners. It swings around, going from god-knows-how-fast to a perfect park by the curb in less time than it takes to blink, and its form solidifies into a glorious, sleek, red-and-black Xeikil aerospace vehicle. A clean, professional logo for RedOut Protection Services is emblazoned above the red streak, displaying its loyalty to the world, and several advertisements for charities, sapient rights groups, and transapient organizations stud the vehicle.

The Xeikil settles into park and the hatch hisses open, releasing a pair of aliens. The first is a hanar, Luoon, with three cybernetic tentacles who, if one were a hanar and knew what to look for, was outright rakish in its bio-luminescence. It floated out of the Xeikil attended by a personal assistant drone and flashed a greeting as its companion clambered out.

The second, Veranex Vadarat himself, was a young turian, perhaps 28 or 29, dressed in an impeccable Orozvhadi dress uniform. It's tailored to exaggerate the fighter pilot's looks, adorned with military honors and ornate pauldrons and topped with a sash covered in kill-markers tops off the uniform, displaying Veranex's accomplishments for all. He wears the uniform with pride, displaying his and Luoon's tickets before entering the dinner.

A taxi pulls over a short distance behind the other aircars, and three young drell pile out. All three are in traditional-or at least, very strongly drell-dress and the girl is laughing and hanging off one of the men in a way that suggests she's been drinking already.

Or it's just Kayana being Kayana, loud and demonstrative.