[Illium] Meanwhile, at One Dwickcast Tower

Dwick looked up from what looked like a sudden, furious tapping of keys on his omnitool. He quickly stopped, tapped the table and cleared his throat “innocently.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure. What ‘ee said. Yup. Acid pools, psychobonics, all VS, all’a it. An’ really, how’s our vorcha clown gon’ talk ‘bout kader syrup on ‘is cookin’ segments, if ever’one plays the show backwards an’ ‘cuses him’a sayin’ ‘Praise Kredak’ alla time, huh?”

He rested his hands on his gut and shook his head grinning as a video of Curr's cooking show played above him. “Alla buncha hooey, yup.”

Olabode. Just. Stared.



There was an unusually long amount of silence. A very, very tense silence. The volus couldn't speak for the krogan, but he could swear the temperature just dropped several degrees while the stare went on. What felt like an hour later, the slim, ebon-skinned man arced an eyebrow, voice level as stone.

"Are you sure that's all?"

There was a second, even more unusually long pause as Dwick’s leg twitched under the table. He nodded his head, looking from side to side, pretty much anywhere but the detective’s face.

…

…

…

Dwick’s head paused mid-nod, his eyes flicked around for a moment, and he finally, finally looked at the detective.

“…Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyup.”

There was another, much briefer pause. Olabode finally took a breath to continue, when Dwick.

”Well, except fer da whole Omega thing, I s’pose. Heh.”

Mr. Olabode sighed. Flicking his fingers over his omnitool, he opened up a new window and pressed record.

"Alright. Let's start again. Deposition 227-18, file: DDS, interview 12. Interviewer: Vincent Olabode, Olabode and Millithea Risk Investigations, Interviewees: Jorgal Dwick and..."

"It's just Terrorbyte."

".... Terrorbyte of the DDS. Subject: 'This Omega Thing.' Mr. Dwick, considering the vast amount of money your firm is paying me to untangle your legal woes in regards to these supposedly false insurance claims, I suggest - again - that you and your colleague be as forthcoming and honest with me as possible about your legal issues, otherwise my services will be rendered nullified and I will end our transaction without any kind of reimbursement from my firm. Since this falls under the blanket agreement you've already signed with my firm, it behooves you to explain everything to me as honestly as you can. Now. About the... 'Omega Thing.'"

Dwick’s eyes widened slightly as he watched Olabode hit the RECORD button. Then he grinned, glanced over at Terrorbyte, and adjusted his ridiculous bowtie.

"Well, ya see, we was takin’ a short little vacation down in Omega—“

"-er, not so much a *hsssk* vacation as a an assignment, actually--"

"--well, yeah, we was there ter shoot a coupla segments'a Da Short Hour'n stuff--"

"--all of which had gone through our *hsssk* legal department already, and it was all *hssssk* scripted and practiced hours in advance--"

"--yup, nadda single thing wen' wrong in da whole show - even bought off 'dis one slut atta bar at da last shoot--"

"--er, an Omega-based small *hsssk* business owner, he means, Mr. Ola*hsssk*bode--"

"-yeah, whatev's, ennyway, we was wrappin' up da final act, oooh hoo hoo hoo hoo, it was gon' be a good one-"

"--and well within the legal *hsssk* confines of both the DDS legal *hsssk* department AND the bylaws set down by Omega--"

"-when alla sudden, dese two fucksteaks-"

"--absolute *hsssk* fucksteaks--"

"-dey come outta nowhere, screamin' all sorts'a fuckin' bloody murder an' start tryin' ter pry m'fuckin' crest offa my face!"

Mr. Olabode took a few notes and then glared balefully at the pair.

"I see. Did you get the names of these fucksteaks? Perhaps a picture of these fucksteaks? Did these fucksteaks leave behind any kind of ID or picture-based identification? Or were this an anonymous example of fucksteakery?"

His face remained impassive - disconcertingly so. Terrorbyte managed to stammer out a reply.

"Uuuh, I don't think we got any *hsssk* identification on them, no, but... er, Dwick?"

Dwick swung up a finger, grinning...and froze. His face went slack as the rusted, toothless gears ground in his head, and his flabby jaw shifted from side to side as he stalled.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

It was at this moment that the vidscreen above Dwick's Throne began playing the last sketch of the latest Short Hour episode. As Dwick hemmed and hawed, the very scene in question started playing - complete with the pair of Unscrupulous Humans in question staring at the camera.

At that very same moment, Dwick swatted the table irritable. "Well, fuck," he muttered. "I don' think we did. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

"Then there's nothing I can do about that. Without any form of identification, there's no way we can verify the people involved, nor can we point our legal engines at them to, well, dole out punishment and fines. In any case, that matter is beyond me, and I doubt it would be easy to find these two individuals amongst all the rabble of the Omegan underclass. Legally, the incident between you and these... 'fucksteaks' might as well never happened. You are rapidly running out of legal recourse, sirs. Unless there's anything else, I think I should be on my way."

Terrorbyte looked at Dwick pleadingly, hoping the krogan had at least two braincells he could rub together to come up with a decent idea.

“ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME?!” roared Dwick, surging to his feet and looming over the desk, the light from the monitor casting his enormous figure into shadow. “WELL? What’s da point’a all ‘dis shit if you can’t do jack fuckin’ PISS ‘bout our complaints?!”

He ran a hand against his massive crest and rolled his eyes, pounding the desk with his fist.

“I mean, FUCK, we bring you in, we give you free reign on da records, we even sign off a shitload’a da proceeds from da case – if ya can’t even help us out wit’ straightforward ‘tempted murder’n an’ shit, what GOOD is—”

"OH REALLY? AN' WHERE WERE YOU DURIN' DAT WHOLE FIGHT, HUH?”

Dwick blinked slowly as he recognized the sound of his own voice.

”I SEEM TER REMEMBER YOU HANGIN' ONTA DA BACK'A MY HUMP DA WHOLE TIME, GOING 'DWICK, DWICK SAVE ME, SAVE ME--'"

Pulling back from across the desk, he looked up to watch his own digital antics as he and Terrorbyte fought amongst themselves. The gears ground in his head once again, and he pondered for just a moment before grinning, reaching over, and jabbing an otherwise featureless mark on his desk.

The response was immediate: a spider web of blue fracture lines lit up on the marble, and a speaker crackled to life. Hissing from it came the irritable voice of a young-sounding woman, who muttered “Yes, Mr. Dwick?”

“Helloooo, toots.”

The other end of the line sighed. “Yes, Media Overlord Jorgal Dwick?”

”Better.” He grinned; Olabode grimaced. ”ENNYWAY – I need all da cut footage…fer da da second half…’a da last Short Hour end sketch…playin’ on dis here screen in my office. Got dat?”

Another sigh. “One moment…You mean for the sketch ‘Harlan Beats the…Shit…Out of an Old…?”

”Outta’n Old Fuck, yup.”

“Very well, sir, one moment.”

The hiss shut off with a pop, and the bloated dinosaur twisted to look at the vidscreen, drumming his fingers on the desk and turning every few seconds to grin at the detective.

Giveitasec…giveitasec…aaaaaaaand…dere.”