[Citadel- Presidium] A History Lesson

Like any gathering of bored, over wealthy people on the Presidium there was always that certain level of pomposity which, despite any attempts otherwise, seemed to teeter on attempts at celebrity. Most of the figures present were nothing more than tiny little names in a far greater sea of fame, but on this particular evening they could be treaty as royalty if they so desired. There was a large group of them, smiling and laughing as they were celebrated by a small group of cameras. The entire event could be called a coming together of the Citadel's Elite and famous, at least what you could call such after the war had ended.

In fact, there was very much a strange feeling in the air. Unfamiliar faces and customs prowled among some of the assembled groups. People who were of the new order in the galaxy: those who had somehow either profited from the Reaper war or reconstruction. A new breed in Citadel politics. They didn't even have a term for them yet, other than the snide glares and expressions of doubt.

New Men, or at least as one of them thought himself.

Mason Barnette was standing just inside the atrium, a drink in one hand while patiently waiting for his guests to arrive. He stood alone, watching a few of the faces laughing over drinks. Most of them were here for some trinket or piece of art for their homes, no doubt. Very few actually could understand the singular importance of one item, if it was present at all.

But for now he waited, a cold glimmer of silver behind his blue eyes.

They didn't belong. And it wasn't so much some intangible aura or vague air of disconnect that the money, old and new, could sniff out like the galaxy's most classist bloodhounds as it was everything about them.

To the right was a bruiser of a turian, square shouldered and dark eyed, he barely fit into his suit. The knuckles of his right talon were swathed in gauze, already stained a faint blue from the earthen raw hide. A woman who could have been his sister walked beside him, lean where he was broad. Wary where he was brash. All whipcord and sinew.

The asari in the rear of the little group, at least, looked a tad more comfortable. Granted contrary to popular opinion pulling off an improbably slinky and absurdly high heeled affair was not, in fact, a natural gift of the species but she managed. Even if she didn't so much "float daintily" across the atrium as "manage to not break her neck".

Given the incline of those stilettos it was an accomplishment nonetheless.

Salarians, of course, are generally spared such indignities by benefit of a. being male and b. not giving a shit and the two members present in this increasingly diverse retinue, funnily enough, wore their formal garb rather well. Which is to say that they looked as good as two sunken chested and pallid red amphibian analogues could look.

The man leading the way, a small, grapefruit sized drone hovering over his shoulder, was, in and of himself, a neat little microcosm of distilled planetary multiculturalism. Deep chocolate skin. Canted eyes. An immaculately groomed head of utterly luxurious hair.

The last wasn't really an emblematic of being half Korean and half British but it bore mention on the basis of style alone. As did his Citadel tailored suit cut in the style of the deep al-Vu’sarim.

"Mr. Barnette? Marcus Namkung." A pro-offered hand and a flash of blindingly white teeth. "Ah, Mr. Aleksanders," here an incline of the head to the aforementioned drone, "said you were expecting me in his place?"

Mason took the hand and smiled back, one more curious than friendly. He passed a friendly nod to the others who were in attendance before returning his attention to Mr. Namkung.

He certainly finds quite the variety of employees, doesn't he?

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Namkung. I must say it is a pleasure to run into someone who's familiar with Nemean style. I spent several years there prior to the war, actually, doing some archaeological work." He said, his tone keeping that warm friendliness he always tries to maintain. "And I'm certainly glad you were able to come through with this, Mr. Aleksanders. You certainly won't be disappointed, I believe."

Mason turned, looking over his shoulder as a small light flashed on and off above the doors into the event hall propery.

"Now, if you all are ready, I'd be glad to show you the way to the booths I've arranged. My associate was able to get us fantastic seats for the auction."

One by one, Mason's Petrarch system began scanning each and every member of the group as his eyes moved from each member. No reason to not be cautious, after all.

Namkung's warmth, on the other hand, was completely genuine as was the clap on the shoulder and half-hug he folded the businessman into. "Of course! Please, don't let us keep you. Mr. Aleksanders is very excited on this account. Very excited. As a, I though, I must confess. I'm -heh- not exactly an expert on these matters."

He walked in with Mason side by side, eyes dancing across the hall, drinking in the rich variety of sights and sounds and smells. All the myriad flavors of wealth and history a veritable feast for the senses.

It was, perhaps best for all involved considering, that he didn't go in for the cheek kisses as well.

His guests, in turn, mainly confined themselves to polite murmuring, discrete awkward shifting, and all and sundry head inclines, half bows, and winning (or second place at the very least) smiles. Following on the heels of their two hosts like mob of somewhat disconcerted avians.

Petrarch, however, told a different story.

Oh they all had identities, they all had names. Registered places of residence in the Tenth District. On the Poyissana Concourse. The Xarchian Arch. They were all upwardly mobile, capable men and women with an outstanding parking ticket and a bar fight as the worst sin between them. All with business and social connections to Titan. A fact that was, all in all, not exactly surprising.

It was an excellent mock-up if a little sterile.

As always it was the little things that gave it away. The Knightiamilitum tattoo on the turian man's neck, cracked by an inked blue line; a matching design on the wrist of his female companion, just barely peeking out past the sleeves. The nicks and scars on salarian hands from knife work. Indigo eyes in a cyan face with the oscillating irises of military ocular prostheses.

The fact that all of them had handgun permits and had checked them through security.

You know, stuff like that.

Marcus, on the other hand, didn't have so much of a whiff of C-Space documentation to his name save for a travel index that had him listed as an "administrative assistant" upon his arrival on the Station several days prior.

The drone was really just a drone. A rather handsomely made Ikons Relay Drone granted but nothing spectacular. It bobbed over the Titan representative's shoulder like a buoy on an ocean swell. The dark camera lens twitching as it shifted from focus to focus.

For the time it said nothing, presumably content to allow Namkung handle the greetings, introductions, and general acquaintance making.

Mason smiled, chuckling a bit at Marcus' humility at the matter.

"If it means anything to you, neither am I. My grandfather and uncles were the ones who enjoyed spending their time collecting fine pieces and whatever else they could purchase. My interests were usually more related to ... pleasurable experiences." He motioned the group towards an awaiting mass of booths and tables which seemingly covered the entire hall. Wait staff moved about delivering drinks and hors d'oeuvres. A little bit of the entire galaxy was on display. Whether it was food coming all the way from the Terminus and Abyss, to the presence of Krogan and even a Geth platform, or maybe general attitude of the place everything would simply feel alien to an inhabitant of the Citadel only three years prior. The whole thing seemingly grew in scale with each passing moment. It was brash; it felt eclectic; and the whole thing screamed faux pas.

The delegation from Titan was getting a firsthand look at it all.

"Feel free to order anything; all expenses were included with your tickets. From what I understand the cooks were actually brought in from one the Republics ... Nevos, I believe. From my understanding the menu is ... hold on one second..." Mason stopped and greeted a man who seemingly was pulled right out of a political caricature. He was seemingly built of all the proper parts for a politician, except the very moment he began speaking to Mason one heard a voice so shriveled it made you pity whoever had to listen to it on a daily basis. The conversation was brief, and Mason quickly ushered the group on.


"I do apologize for that, but that man there was Efrain Duarte. He's one of the leaders for reconstruction efforts in Europe and is looking to be in high places once things are ready." Mason passed a nod to another group sitting as he spoke, now leading to the group to a booth and table combination, not more than fifteen feet from the central stage.

"My associate said these were abhorrent seats ... I'm not so sure as to why," Mason joked, looking back to Marcus, "Mr. Namkung, is there any preference to how your group sits? I was hoping you could join me in the booth for any discussion, as the privacy shutters should be able to keep any unwanted ears from listening? Mason smiled again, his body language hiding the other implications of what he was saying.

And for the first time the drone, perhaps realizing that the enduring silence was edging on the rude, finally decided to speak up. "That" Nikolai's dry tones echoed from the speakers, "would be wonderful."

Marcus nodded an enthusiastic agreement. Behind him the guests were scanning the unholy degree of opulence assembled with expressions ranging from the bored to the dubious to the "that table spread could pay my bills for the next couple of months holy shit".

Half a galaxy away a certain businessman was rolling his eyes. Oh no, not just a minor twirl. This was some hardcore contempt being expressed here. To be frank the whole thing was, essentially, an exercise in compensation on a massive scale. Rich people wanting all the other rich people to know they were rich and happy and fashionable and no seriously not at all dead inside and what are you talking about I don't need to sleep around and pop pills to feel loved.

Ahem.

Moving on.

Really the gist was wearing it well. Being secure enough in yourself to not need the spotlight on you and your hilariously indecent dress or whatever. And maybe, perhaps, at least make the attempt to not be a complete asshole. Donation and charitable efforts for example, those were nice things, but we digress.

Namkung gestured with an extended arm and a smile as if to say "by all means, lead the way".

"Right this way then." Mason said, motioning Marcus and the drone into the booth. Inside there was already several bits of food and drink prepared, and as Mason sat down one hand immediately moved towards a glass of wine. The privacy shutters moved into position as they sat down.

The first item was brought up on the stage: a piece of art recovered from Thessia, reportedly from pre-spaceflight Asari culture, and several other phrases to make up for the absurd starting bid. Mason simply watched the opening unfurl coolly. His eyes were more focused on the red liquid moving around in his glass.

"The starting bid will be ten thousand credits." The VI voice rang out, causing Mason to laugh.


"My apologies for bringing you to this cesspool, so I believe I may as well be straight forward from here on out. There is an item going on sale tonight which I cannot allow going into some ignorant collector's collection to waste away. It's fundamental to my research, and in the hands of someone who actually understands the piece far more valuable than that fake sitting on the podium right now. Mr. Aleksanders, have you by any chance ever heard anything of the Cerielians? Or, I suppose, rather the "myth" of them?"

He sat back, folding his fingers across to look at the drone.

The bidding on the painting was up to thirty-five thousand.

"I'm afraid I have not no."

Off to the side Namkung was chatting idly with the asari, the words flowing easily, liquidly; the gestures broad and expressive. It was just background noise mind but it was a spot of light and warmth, of real light and warmth beyond the cold brushed lines and softly glowing neon that this breed so adored.

The opposite was not the inverse and definition as a iconoclast against the excess around them, against the tables laden with sumptuous foodstuffs and fountains of liquor, against the loose conversation and looser desires was not, by definition, virtuous.

He knew that.

Barnette, undoubtedly, was aware.

But if the host wanted to put on a show, do the makeup and song and dance that was his prerogative.

The eye of the drone, rimmed and lidded with dark metal and ceramic tilted and twisted, studying the piece on display. It was lovely oh there was no denying that. Graceful. But the intriguing part was the story it told; an artist, her first marks halting and uncertain, slowly, gradually strengthening, gaining poise and confidence as she progressed.

It was almost certainly being oversold, true, but it had to be vetted as genuine to even be included among the lots and...well it had personality. It had character. And it would rather be a shame to leave it here, the finely detailed temple on the dark, starry, rain encroached plateau. Leave it to be taken home by some pompous ass as another glitzy, glamorous addition to a no doubt equally glitzy and glamorous collection. Cultivated and lovingly tended to inspire envy and awe.

A haptic cloud coalesced around the drone, panes of light shifting, rotating ,then flickering and fading as quickly as they appeared.

The VI auctioneer announced the new values a second later. The drone's submission currently in the lead.

Mason leaned back, turning away just enough to keep the drone from seeing his eyes rolling at the bid. He couldn't blame Mr. Aleksanders for putting in a bid on it, no, but mentally all he could say to himself was please don't encourage them, sir.

He took another sip of the wine before placing it to the side and leaning forward.

"The Cerielians are, according to the Citadel Archaeological Committee, nothing more than myth. Based off a a "ghost ship" discovered towards the end of the Rachni Wars, the Cerielians as the research team named them were allegedly a pre-Prothean species which dated roughly put as living sometime prior to Earth even having life. According to the reports, the ship was an absolute technological marvel, not because of any special technology or innovation that greatly benefited the war effort, but because it Not a single piece of the technology lined up to know conventions at that time. Furthermore, according to dates on the ship there were two separate sets of dates which were around fifty thousand years apart. I'm sure you can recognize the significance of that." Mason stopped, sighing a bit as he leaned back into his side of the booth.

Sadly, this ship was destroyed in the war before any research could be further put into it. Time passed, and ofr the most part it was forgotten or considered a hoax. No other information, remnant, or even scrap had been recovered since then. Until several years ago, that is..."

Betting the on the painting had closed, victory going to Nikolai's drone. Mason nodded to it, before turning his attention to the next set of items. They were a set of stuffed trophies from a Turian general who had so fortunately passed away without any next of kin available. They were creatures from all across the galaxy, some fairly mundane to the terrifying: fourteen items in all.

Bidding would be done individually, bringing forth a scowl on Mason's face.

The first handful weren't quite that interesting, mementos of personal significance they might be it...well that was precisely their problem. The majority of their value was invested in sentimentality and memories, on their own they were merely interesting talking points "oh this belonged to General Such and Such" or xenobiological curiosities. Really it would be prudent to pass most of these by and-

The drone was already locked in a fierce bidding war with a starlet of some ill repute over a wonderfully preserved (and apparently exceedingly rare) Kazaljan Obsidian specimen. A few terse moments of back and forth and the woman backed off, choosing instead to devote her resources to a spectacularly shaggy Vazrai Kulis.

Nikolai himself snapped up a serpentine, tendril wreathed beast a few moments later for a comparative pittance and called himself content. A brief note to donate the pair to the Malcandrix Museum of Natural History (poor things had lost a portion of their collection to the husks when the Reapers came calling to Tayseri) and the drone rededicated it's attention to it's, his, host.

"If I had to guess, and your meaningful silence is rather requesting that I do, I would say that a item related to said ship has surfaced here hasn't it?"

All around the pair the other guests in the booth were settling in, making small talk and setting themselves at ease while the two talked. Fingers had ceased drumming on legs. Wary glances here and there had dwindled. It was a social outing after all, no reason to not enjoy yourself.

"No, actually." Mason said, watching the drone's bidding habits as he continued to enjoy his wine.


"No, what I'm interested in is a small set of pieces from a collection of one Dr. Aria T'Vraechta. She was obsessed over this story about Cerielians, of a ship which didn't need Mass relays, of all the difference that this could make. She wanted to build a new future for the galaxy, but that made her enemies in the Republics. She was discredited, mocked, and shunned from all academic society in Citadel Space. I studied under her briefly, and she was the one who taught me about the Cerielians in the place..." Mason paused a bit, briefly looking to see if anything interesting had come up to bid now.

It was a solid slab of Tuchankan stone, made specifically for this auction as a charity piece. Id had been hand painted and carved by a group of Krogan Shamans in the old style to celebrated the end of the Reaper war.



A slight twitch in Mason's finger sent his bid.

"I suppose you know think I'm some fringe lunatic now, don't you? I honestly wouldn't blame you at all: billion year old civilization, items that no longer have any surviving images or data, and the entire word of the Citadel Archaeological society against me. Even the Reapers had stronger evidence for their existence..." he said, sighing aloud while shifting in his seat.

"To be perfectly frank what I think of your mental state is entirely dependent on what you have to offer Mr. Barnette. You're really only insane if there's nothing of value here, otherwise you're merely...I believe the proper term is 'eccentric'. And I can work with eccentric."

It was a somewhat tactful way of referring to the point and the getting thereof. Philosophy was all well and good but Nikolai was, at heart, a practical man and concerned with practical matters. Pluses and minuses, bottoms lines and overheads, checks and balances. Debating the morality or, indeed, sanity of a particular excursion was all well and good but time and money etc.

He was here to do due prudence to the situation.

Mason was here to put on his production. But play though it might be it was a poor performance that did not make at least a token effort to entertain its audience. To reach out and touch the heart or, in this case, whatever moved the blood around the businessman's chest.

He was waiting. Namkung was waiting. Their guests, they all of them were waiting.

Come now Barnette, make it worth our while.