Focus Groups (Undisclosed, surrounded by money)

".... and this is *hsssssk* another area I think we need to expand into, considering the *hsssssk* amount of market reaction we've polled as a result of showing the advertisement in the Illium system."

Terrorbyte waved his squat arms at the SuperPoint presentation, indicating the market response that DDS had accrued in the past year alone. Ah, it was good to be in charge. Here in this massive boardroom, surrounded by lesser-minded peons who had to beg and scrape at his every whim, knowing there was an office just a few steps away with his name on it - in platinum, nonetheless - with two very attractive females in it with strong hands and several books on full-body massages under their belts... ahhh.

Bliss.

It was good to be in charge, yes indeed.

"Mr. Terrorbyte, are you sure Illium is a good market right now? The rebuilding process--"

"Is gonna take another *hssssk* few centuries with the way the asari do it, so if we wait for them to *hssssk* 'be in the mood' to get in on this, DDS will be dead in the water by that time. No, let's start small, expand into *hssssk* underground markets and media outlets, push it through virally. Donson, I want you to *hsssssk* set up a few dummy galaxytube channels with Illium contact addresses and spam 'I lied, Holmes' and 'The Haargh Show' to every *hsssssk* nutjob with a GT account. We won't need many, maybe *hssssk* fifteen. Ohira, get me that hair-faced human who does the red sand, maybe we can convince him to start talking about the 'good old days' on *hsssssk* live trid. That should get people to hit up galactinet for *hsssssk* TLE references and, eventually, the DDS site. Also, we'll need--"

The doors slammed open. In stomped a fat krogan bearing the world's largest submarine sandwich and a baseball bat. Everywhere he went, a glowing AR sign followed him, screaming I'M DA BAWS in brilliant yellow letters.

Terrorbyte sighed. Great.

Dwick had actually shown up to a meeting.

It was more accurate to say that the hat was sitting on one of his crest’s horns, as there probably wasn’t one in existence that would fit properly outside of novelty gift shops.

At least he was dressed. Terrorbyte could still remember the time the dinosaur had tried to answer their door on the Citadel wearing…well, wearing effectively nothing. It’d taken the entire contents of his stomach, not to mention some frantic negotiation and outright misdirection to stop that from happening – to say nothing of what he did to get most of the imagery out of his head.

Anyway. Suit. White. Same one from the fundraiser. Even looked like it’d been cleaned and pressed today, which meant the funds from Terrorbyte’s “Make The Fat Bastard at Least Somewhat Presentable” division were going somewhere correctly.

”FOLKS!” he shouted, waving the sandwich like a pointer as he surged toward Terrorbyte. ”Hope Gasbag ‘ere ain’t been borin’ you with SuperPoints too long, heh.”

He arrived at his seat – tastefully designated with both a reinforced back and a gold-filigreed sign saying “PROPERTY OF DA BAWS”, pulled the sign to the side and sat with a glory-laden “Ahhhhhhh.”

A second later, he looked up. Everyone was staring at him.

“What? What’d I miss?”

"Oh, nothing. Just our expansion into *hsssssk* Illium territory. We've managed to pick up a *hssssk* basic foothold in the market there - if we can crowbar ourselves into the *hsssssk* public perception of being a *hsssssk* hip and happening company, then we can dear god Dwick what do you think you're doing with *hssssk* that."

Terrorbyte just... stared.

His disapproval would have collapsed suns.

Of course, Dwick’s sheer density outstripped your average star’s – as did his sandwich, which he’d thrown on the table. He was in the middle of pulling various bottles of sauces out of his suit (the type best labeled “Yellow Starch,” “Red Food Dye #YouDon’tWantToKnow,” and “Will Make Your Dry Cleaner Commit Suicide”), when Terrorbyte interrupted him. He sent the volus a mildly annoyed look in response.

“Havin’ lunch, doi,” he muttered, giving him Terrorbyte a distracted “shoo!” motion. “Well? Go on.”

Seething with hatred at his best friend and wishing he could ventilate his compadre's brains all over the boardroom and then dance devilishly in the remains, Terrorbyte did the next best thing and returned to his SuperPoint presentation. He ignored a blob of what could generously be called mustard as it blooped on the table next to him.

"Anyways. Ilisana, I want you to *hsssssk* head the media marketing campaign. Get some tempdisks out on the street with video clips, maybe a whole episode. Work with *hssssk* design on a logo. Now if we play this right, we can *hssssssk* get in on the ground floor before they realize we're trying to put in any purchase *hsssssk* power - that means that we'll be in a stronger place to negotiate when it comes to getting airwave time or our own planet-side station, and *hsssssssk* with that leverage we can position ourselves better to *hsssssk* make some real money off of this. Any questions?"

“Yyyyyup.”

Dwick was now sloshing sauces all over his sandwich with his bare fingers, taking a moment to lap up some of the mustard that had landed on the table and swishing it in there as well. He licked a finger, and jabbed a thumb at the screen.

“S'how many slides’d you use fer torture 'fore gettin' ter dat point?”

Underneath his cowl, Terrorbyte's eye twitched. Resting his hands on the desk, he started inching towards the command console.

"As many as are *hsssssk* necessary to get the point across. It depends on how *hssssk* thick the subject is. You'd know this if you *hssssssk* attended the management lessons I suggested when we bought this friggin place, you *hsssssk* monumental fatass."

The various members in the boardroom looked at each other, panic on their faces. A few of the ones closer to the door snuck out a carefully as they could.

And yet, not a single fuck was given by Mr. Large and In Charge. Slapping the sandwich together with a loud squelch, he bend half of it up to his face and gave it a hearty chomp, supremely unfazed by the insult.

“Whudeffah ‘oo ‘fay, Mifdah Fee Eff Oh. Juf’ magin’ ‘fure yer nod *chomp* *smack* waftin’ cummany dime.”

His speech was so riddled with food bits it required an expert in Dwick-ese to translate.

Living with Dwick for years had made him an expert at Dwickese. So, between gobs of mustard, mayo, marshmellow fluff dear god that was disgusting and whatever else was on that... thing, something intelligible reached Terrorbyte's ears.

Press it? No. Noooo. No need for that. He'll behave this time. You'll see. You'll see.

Clearing his throat, Terrorbyte pushed the button on the SuperPoint slide. Omega swam into view on the holoscreen.

"Now, another property *hsssssk* we need to start pushing to leverage is Omega. The station has *hsssssk* over three million people there at any one time - it's a massive *hssssssk* habitat with almost no *hssssssk* media enterprise available, save a few *hsssssk* pirated stations and whatever the hell Aria decides is interesting. If we can push ourselves in there, we could *hsssssk* provide the area with pay-by-play coverage, not to mention get around the *hsssssk* numerous FCC guidelines still hampering us at this point IS THERE SOMETHING YOU WANT TO *HSSSSSSK* SAY DWICK!?!?"

Terrorbyte thrust the laser pointer at Dwick's massive, flabby mouth just as it messily devoured the rest of the sandwich, leaving gobbits of sauce and... other stuff everywhere.

Sam the intern was sick in the corner.

Dwick tossed his neck back, seemingly unhinging his jaw for a moment to cram the rest of his massive sandwich in and making jerking motions as it slid down his gaping gullet. Leaning forward to clean his mouth with a too-small rag, he nodded his head.

“Yup.”

A sniff.

“Jus’, uh, thinkin’a Candid Fleet. Oh, and, uh, Zeegret Ennertainer’s Network, an’—ooh right, ever’buddy’s favorite three-headed dowg.”

He ticked the names off as he sucked something that looked way too thick to be mayo off of his fingers.

“Y’see, I was, uh, I was in da neighborhood when Candid…well, let’s say when Candid had its first acquisition an’ shit. Coo’ shits, dey was, thinkin’ dey could sneak in dere more “sensationalist” bits, so long as dey sucked da Queen off wit’ enough shows dat she liked. Managed ter score a cameo’re two – ‘leastways, dey was in da contracts fer it.”

He was pooling a finger in a small puddle of mustard on the table as he spoke. When he paused, he licked it.

“Thing is, dey got a little, say, too big fer der britches, see. Figgered dey could start implementin’ dey’re own policies on Big Rock, seein’ as dey wasn’t in no place ter get hurt by da queen, right? Dey fergot da one rule: ya don’t piss off Queen Bitch.”

He rubbed a hand on his suit, still grinning and somehow managing not to stain it. He gave Terrorbyte a beady eye.

“Now, I c’n send ya da pics dey found in one’a dem police reports – whoever she hired got real creative, got da Veep an’ da Prez in a crazy-ass Sixty-Nine ‘fore ventilatin’ dey’re throats. You surewe ain’t gonna piss’er off in da same way?”

Oh, that finger itched so.

"Dwick. I'm assuming you're *hssssk* referring to Aria. Well, the thing about Aria is that *hsssssk* she's a pirate queen. She wants *hssssk* money coming in. Right? I don't think she *hssssssk* cares about a media empire, because she doesn't *hssssssk* HAVE a media empire. So we go in, offer her a *hsssssk* generous cut of the profits, make the rest up with *hsssssk* advertising our own products and selling them, and generally not fuck things up too much. I mean, it's not like *hssssssk* we haven't discussed this before a HUNDRED DAMN TIMES, *hssssssk* Dwick, of you'd come to the meetings and pay the FUCK ATTENTION."

Dwick's attitude was beginning to piss Terror off. The damn krogan spent all day in the writer's room eating donuts and making demands. Dwick had NO IDEA how to run a business.

And just like that, Dwick’s very brief moment of lucidity ended.

“Oh, I’ll fuck dat attention,” he said, grinning. “Jus’ show me where it is an’ it won’t know what hit it. HEH HEH HEH.”

Alright. That was it.

Terrorbyte's finger slammed down on a juicy red button on the desk's console. Suddenly, Dwick's armrests clamped over his wrists, and cuffs spread out to pull in his feet. A number of tiny mechanical arms popped out of the headrest, pinning Dwick's head against the seat's back, opening his eyeballs and ensuring Terrorbyte had the krogan's full attention.

"Do you know how long I've had to *hsssssk* endure your lack of ... enthusiasm!?" Terrorbyte said as the rest of the staff snuck out, abject terror propelling them down the hallway. These interoffice spats were... familiar at DDS. "How long I've TOILED and FRETTED at *hsssssk* the chain, THRUSTING myself into the *hsssssk* CHASM OF FINANCIAL DESPAIR, simply to ensure YOUR PONDEROUS CHINS would be PLEASED BUT FOR *hsssssk* ANOTHER DAY!? WELL, NO MORE. NOW YOU WILL *hsssssk* FEEL THE MIGHT OF MY POWER. NOW YOU WILL KNOW THE DEPTH OF MY INTELLECT. NOW, YOU WILL *hsssssk* ENDURE..."

Terrorbyte flicked a switch on his desk. A new SuperPoint presentation popped up, boringly titled "appreciating your coworkers"

"A MANDATORY HR SUPERPOINT SLIDE CLOCKING *hsssssk* IN AT 200 PAGES! WITH NO *hsssssk* AUDIO! HAHAHAHAHAHA"

A pie chart hoved into view.

It was monotone. With comic sans.

The horror.

Terrorbyte’s speech was probably meant to be intimidating. Probably meant to inspire fear into a krogan who’d gone too long without feeling it.

But he’d made one fatal mistake.

And that was the Unfortunate Innuendo.

By the time he’d reached the word “thrusting,” Dwick’s maladjusted, brutalized, quite possibly pea-sized brain had already found enough puerile humor that he began shaking – and when the first slide came out, he simply burst out laughing.

“THESE CHAAAAAAAINS! HAW! THESE CHAINS, THESE CHAAAAAAAAAAAAINS!””

Terrorbyte was LIVID.

"NO! YOU DO NOT GET TO *hsssssk* LAUGH! NOT AT MY *hsssssk* GENIUS! OBSERVE!"

The squat volus pressed a button. A very monotone female voice began speaking.

"Hello, and welcome to the DDS. If you are watching this, then you are about to take a new step in an exciting world of media recognition and social dynamism. Over the next few hours, this presentation will explain exactly what it means to be a part of the DDS family and what is expected of you, along with ways that you can improve your earning potential while thinking outside of the box. So sit back, relax, and get ready to put aside those preconceptions as we take you on an exciting journey in DDS' exciting world of species resources and personal interactivity responsibility exercises."

A star crossed the screen with a horrible little twinkle. A plastic smile leered. Somewhere, a soul was broken.

It was the worst, blandest presentation EVER. Terrorbyte leaned back and laughed like a bond villain.

But Dwick would not be so easily cowed…and the volus had yet to remove his most powerful weapon.

“HELLO, BLANDIE! MY NAME’S DWICK! AN’ I OWN YOU! TERDAY, YER STEPPIN’ INTER MY WORLD’A PISS JOKES AND DICKIN’S, AN’ DERE AIN’T NUTTIN’ YOU CAN DO ‘BOUT IT!”

Dwick’s eyes, now forced open, leered at Terrorbyte. It was a rather horrifying look, thanks to the wire tongs holding them in place.

“SO YOU SIT BACK AN’ ENJOY ‘DIS, FUCKFACE, AS I RIP YER REVENGE PIECE TER SMITH’REENS! HAW!”

Terrorbyte merely got quiet, staring at Dwick.

"But Mister Dwick. How can you mock my presentation when you are unable to speak?"


-
As soon as the volus said that, the ceiling opened up and a giant, krogan-shaped mouth plug - helpfully labeled "THE CORK" - began dropping, threatening to plug Dwick's cavernous piehole for the duration of the presentation.

Dwick just laughed back.

“HAW! AIN’T NO CORK BIG ENOUGH TO MRFFF MRRFF MRFF!”

As Dwick taunted the volus, THE CORK made one last jerking motion down to face level – and with a pneumatic KSSSSS, it shunted forward, lodging in his piehole and molding itself to his teeth like some mad orthodontist’s Foam Mold From Hell. The gargantuan krogan thrashed in his seat for a moment, trying to spit it out…and then glared at the smug volus with his blood-red eyes.

And so, with Dwick suitably restrained, the SuperPoint presentation began in earnest.

Slowly, the presentation wore on, grinding down the minutes as the voice continued, flat and monotonous, a gray sonic void that ate at the mind and soul and shat out blandness in their place.

Terrorbyte plugged his ears and watched Dwick's expression. Not even the strongest individual could withstand the horrors of Volus Presentation Torture.

Dwick’s head immediately began thrashing the moment the presentation proper began, rattling the sides of the chair and shaking the very ground around them. For a good five minutes he thrashed, but the chair’s restraints jammed his joints together, effectively using his own gargantuan bulk against him. Finally, with an immense crash, he lay still, eyes twitching, his corneas drying, little bubbles of slime coming out the sides of his snout and dripping onto his expertly-pressed suit.

Dwick’s jaw muscles continued to move throughout this, bunching and relaxing despite the cement-like hold of The Cork on his teeth.