This logfile is imported from aitelogs2 and may contain errors or wrong timestamps.
#FreedomFalls – June 27, 2017
It's midday on November 17th. Another cold, winter Aite day. The spaceport consists of a large, walled-in field peppered with landing pads and hangars of all sorts. A terminal stands at one end of the spaceport, serving as an exit to the walled-in field. It certainly doesn't stack up against the spaceports of Earth, but it gets the job done. Snow has been coming down off and on all day, causing the crews of the numerous landed freighters to
work feverishly to clear snow in order to unload their cargo. The center of the spaceport is dotted with small freighters, corvettes, and shuttles surrounded by a makeshift camp of tents, booths, cargo crates and small prefabricated shelters where a large group of quarians from the Flotilla have set up camp. Given the day's weather, there's less activity out of the quarians than usual. There's less activity out of the spaceport in general.
But some quarians still remain outside despite the cold, cooking on grills and talking in small circles outside of their temporary residences. The scent of grilled varren blankets the entire spaceport. Many of the hangars have closed up to combat the cold, but a few can be seen wide open as trucks are loaded with cargo to deliver around Freedom Falls.
Locke lent a hand on a shovel for the crew of the ship he arrived in, and once enough of the cargo was unloaded for them to fish out the his hastily stowed luggage truck, he exchanged a few friendly farewells and wrapped a worn scarf around his face before setting out across the port towards the gatehouse with his possessions in tow. He'd been able to prepare for the weather, but the first face to face is always more art than science
As Locke begins to make his way towards the terminal, and thus closer to the quarian encampment, the sound of unfamiliar music can be heard. A wide array of flutes and stringed instruments can be heard over top of synthesized drums. It's unlike anything found on Earth. When Locke begins to pass by the quarian's labyrinthian maze of tents and stalls, he catches the eye of a small group of four quarian seated near a stall who had been
laughing and chatting amongst themselves. One, a man in a grey environment suit with intricate white designs flowing throughout the material decorating it, quickly rises to his feet as he spots Locke. "Friend! Friend!" he calls out as he approaches the stranger, "What timing you have! Another minute and you would have missed the opportunity of a lifetime!"
Locke grins behind the scarf and makes sure to pause as if in thought, but he's already made up his mind and started pondering how this would play out. The music is unfamiliar, but new genres are a taste one acquires begrudgingly, as some of the crew of the freighter came to concede by the time Locke left them. With the part of the hesitant mark played, he approaches with genuine curiosity but says nothing yet.
The quarian gives a few rapid nods as Locke approaches, his grin visible in his glowing eyes that shine through his visor. "Ah, you see? I knew you were a smart man! I knew it as soon as I laid my eyes on you!" he exclaims. His two friends simply watch the interaction play out, snickering aloud at their friends' enthusiasm. "Didn't I tell you?" he asks, looking towards the two for validation, "Didn't I say-..." he pauses, mid-sentence,
simply to gesture towards Locke. Points for theatrics. "This. Is. A. Smart. Man!" He merely gets a few grunts of affirmation from his fellow quarians. His attention returns to Locke as he gives another grand, sweeping gesture towards the stall they were all seated beside. "Omni-tools. Datapads. Whatever you need! You will not find better prices!" Without taking a breath, he looks Locke up and down, seemingly assessing his clothing,
"Boots! Do you need boots? Aite's winters are harsh, friend, it is never a bad idea to stockpile a good pair of boots!"
Locke looks down at his own boots, a rugged issue of civilian use military template batch printed generics to match his general attire. They'd suffice, but they wouldn't excel. Excellence was not a trait that boot manufactures held dear. He could, in fact, use better boots. "You know, I was gonna cut my losses to enough to buy you drinks, but if you'll forgive a pun in my native language, your pitch has real sole. Boots, you say?" Hi
probably a high baritone aspiring to low tenor but plausibly the inverse, is friendly and sincere. He's still not sure he trusts modern translation praxis, but he's been impressed so far. "But surely, boot salesmen don't go nameless, do they?"
The quarian falls uncharacteristically quiet as Locke's pun misses its mark- undoubtedly in no small due to being lost in translation. "Ah... yes." the quarian nods, doing a poor job of playing it off as if the pun landed, "...That's-... Hah.... Very clever!" A salesman through-and-through. Human puns may not be his thing, but a request for name? That's something he understands. "Daz'Fulina!" he says, that earlier enthusiasm returning to
his voice as he introduces himself, "Well known among my people for my high quality goods!" His bragging gets more snickers from his companions, which he responds to with a sidelong glare that dissipates the moment his eyes reach back to Locke. "But you may call me Daz. Come, come!" He leads the way back over towards his stall, rounding it and proceeding towards a line of crates behind it. "And what do I call you, friend?" he asks, back to
Locke has a tongue tip that never keeps undue hold of a cover identity, but here he doesn't have one. The lack is jarring, and he makes a very subtle false start that the drinking buddies might well miss, but the professional in front of him certainly won't. His second pass is smooth enough to pass as a legitimate first to anyone who wasn't standing face to face with him. "Charles Locke, but people call me Locke. Charles is too commo
Daz`Fulina continues to rummage through the crate, nodding distantly as Locke speaks. "Locke." he repeats aloud as he lifts two, quite obviously, different boots up out of the crate and looks them over to see if they match. One is a muddied brown and the other is black. With a grunt, he tosses aside the brown one and reaches back for a new boot. "I like it. A good name." he continues, doing his best to butter up a sale. A quick 'Aha'
escapes him as he lifts a second black boot up and presses the soles against one another to ensure they're the same size. "These are perfect for you!" he assures as he turns back to Locke and sets the boots atop the counter of the stall between them. They look to be a size too big, but otherwise in good condition. "These are finely made! So finely made I only wish I, myself, could wear them." He gives a snicker at his own
joke, probably lost on Locke lest he know the plight of the quarians. "Ah, but one's loss is another's gain! And today, my friend-..." he quickly corrects himself. They're friends now, afterall. "Locke! You are going to gain!"
Locke holds up the ill fitting boot, nodding and making approving noises as he catches one manufacturing flaw after another. These didn't fall of a truck, a truck disowned them and denounced their family. >>
Locke hefts one, as though that was a part of boot buying, and nods. "How did you come into possession of such a remarkable example of the cobbler's trade, Daz'Fulina?" To his credit, he nails the name pronunciation.
Daz`Fulina remains silent as Locke begins to appraise them. "They are great, no?" he continues his sales pitch, "I am doing a disservice to the rest of the Flotilla by selling them to you, if I am to be honest. Those boots-..." he reaches out, gently patting the other boot as if it is a treasure to be cherished, "...will last you so long, you will probably never need another pair of boots." Upon being questioned of their origins, and
the implication that Locke finds them impressive, his eyes beam with pride. Fake pride, sure, but pride nonetheless. "Ahhh, you have a good eye for craftsmanship, my friend Locke. Everything you are seeing here is handmade- by our people- specifically for your people. It is a beautiful thing, is it not?" On close inspection, there's a slight scratching along the sole of one of the boot in Locke's hand. As if done with the
tip of a blade. 'Derrick'. "Two-hundred and fifty credits." With a slight lean over the counter, he lowers his voice, "For anyone else? Four-hundred credits."
Locke seems surprised by the sum. The typical numbers in credits are still largely meaningless to him, but if he just pretends they're all dollars it mostly makes sense. "Hand made? I'm sorry, Daz'Fulina, but these are far too fine for my reach. Do you have- ah!" He fumbles with the boot, but catches it before it could risk falling into the snow. >>
Locke has learned enough about the translators to know that they're very fast, and very good about volume matching. In the soft white quiet of snowfall and the rough grey rumble of engine noise, he trusts it to carry a very subtle mumble as his feigned loss of balance takes his head slightly closer to the quarian. "Fifty and your drinks if you get me past the wall."
Daz`Fulina's eyes steady on the man before him. The glow narrows until it's barely more than a slit. But, at once, his gaze evens out once more and he gives a friendly chuckle. "Ah, my friend! I am afraid that is an impossible task! If I am to make any profit at all-..." he leans a bit more heavily against the counter and lowers his voice once more, making as if secrecy is required, "I cannot do it for less than one-hundred and twenty
credits. I put myself at great risk getting you through the terminal..." he explains, casting a tense glance towards the building looming in the distance. "One-hundred and twenty." he repeats.
Locke eyes the terminal and takes a moment to survey the wall itself. Again. He had plenty of time to ask the crew if there was anything to worry about, and more than enough to notice the lack of serious security. He does enjoy the feigned secrecy. "Surely any world not ruled by tyrants isn't worth over seventy five to slip into, though? Is it so dangerous here?" Dazzy is addressed by the first question, but the second is asked to hi
Daz`Fulina gives his friends another sidelong glance as he addresses Locke's question. "Aite is incredibly dangerous, friend. I would not like to see you on the wrong end of the local authorities." he explains.
There is, indeed, a lack of serious security. Little more than a few armed people idly keeping watch for trouble. As a matter of fact, the personal security of the individual ships certainly outnumbers the spaceport's own security by a great deal. Daz' friends seem to be caught off guard when Locke addresses them directly, left to merely exchange glances back and forth before looking back to Locke. "Uhh... It can be dangerous anywhere,
can it not?" one says, answering the question without actually answering it. She is dressed in a similarly designed enviro-suit to Daz, only a difference in color scheme. Hers is a deep crimson red with black accents. The voice is decidedly female, tinted with the standard quarian drawl. She looks to Daz, as if hoping her response was acceptable.
Daz`Fulina decides to cut the exchange off at the pass, feeling as though the sale may be slipping through his fingers. "You seem to be a good man, so I am going to do you a favor. Ninety credits!" he announces.
Locke takes this seeming ultimatum at face value, rolling it over in his head, savoring the nuance of stance and intonation that went into it. His response is just loud enough to rope in eavesdropping bystanders. "My deepest apologies, Daz'Fulina, I should never have pitted coin against your safety. I've only two credits over eighty five, and your lives aren't worth such a fool's gambit in any case." >>
Locke doesn't offer further context, wondering what scattered possibilities would arise in ostensibly alien minds at the implication of life threatening danger and the sudden addition of a price point they could overhear.
Given the nature of Aite in general, and the relative low-activity given the day's weather, few passerbys take interest in the exchange going on. Most know it's not wise to get involved in others' affairs out in the Terminus Systems. Others are far more worried about escaping the cold than interrupting a quarian scam. It illicits a few passing glances, but little else. Save an intentionally loud muttering of, "Fucking bucketheads..." by a
Daz`Fulina waves his hands in front of him, attempting to quiet Locke's concerns. The passing man's blatant bigotry gains him a look of contempt, but it's par for the course in the life of a quarian. "I will not allow a light credit chit to get in the way of your warmth and safety, my friend Locke." With a sigh and a glance down at the boot on the counter, he slowly slides it towards Locke. "Eighty credits." he says, the inflection in
Locke offers up a prepaid token for eighty five credits, one he'd had in the palm of his hand since just after the opening bids. "My thanks, esteemed Daz'Fulina. And..." he leans in to whisper "next time check the shoe size."
Daz`Fulina scoops the credit chit up from the palm of Locke's hand, the soft glow of his eyes the only sign of the creature behind the visor. When Locke comments on the mismatched shoe size, the glow dulls somewhat and his gaze drops sheepishly. "You will be very happy with these boots, my friend Locke! I assure you!" he guarantees. With one last play at secrecy, he leans in once more, "Should they try to halt your entry into Freedom
Falls, just tell them you are with Daz'Fulina. The name will carry you far, friend." With an attempt at sincerity, he reaches out across the counter to clasp a hand on Locke's shoulder. "Be well. Keelah se'lai." As he withdraws his hand, he gives a nod of his head and begins to back towards his friends once more. No doubt ecstatic that he manages to seal the sale on a pair of stolen boots.
Locke departs in good humour, passing unmolested through the remainder of the starport and, indeed, entirely unchecked through the terminal. He does, however, leave the boots on an official looking desk with a note, "Courtesy of Dazzling Dazzy"
The terminal grants a nice respite from the cold outside. A gust of wind presses at Locke's back as he enters inside. The terminal, much like the rest of the spaceport, is seeing little action today. Aite doesn't exactly have commercial ships bringing people to and from the planet, so most travel done is via chartering a freighter in the area, thus there's not exactly a crowd of people coming through. There's a handful of people who are
likely crewmembers to the ships docked outside standing around, chatting and taking a moment out of the cold to warm up before returning to their jobs. As Locke sets down the boots, a man nearby gives a humorless chuckle. "How much did the quarian get you for?" he asks. His voice is flat, without inflection. He looks to be in his 40s and stands at around 5'10, hands clasped atop one another as he stands up rigidly. He's dressed in civilian
clothing, but may as well have a System's Alliance logo tattood on his body language. Small streaks of grey are beginning to show up in his short cropped hair. "He tried it with me, too."
"Eighty to smuggle me past the wall, actually, but his opening bid was two fifty. Did Derrick miss them, or is everything all post-scarcity printing out here?"
Locke pulls the scarf down for the moment, revealing his need to shave more than anything else but letting his voice carry without the unavoidable muffle of cloth
The man gives another, similarly dry chuckle, understanding well enough Locke's implication regarding the stolen merchandise and their previous owner. "Eighty credits for a pair of boots...?" he asks, giving the boots a once over with a shrug, "Not too bad." It seems to take him a second to catch on to the comment about the wall. "Smuggle...?" he asks, not actually expecting an answer. Instead, he glances pointedly to a small group of loud,
rowdy batarians standing near the door. Low, guttural laughs bordering on growls permeate the air from the armored and very-much-armed group. "...I don't know about you, but I don't think they're too picky about who gets by."
Locke chuckles and glances around. "Professional habit. There wasn't much in the way of security back at Manswell's Rise, so the wall had me falling back on the familiar. The boots aren't that bad as backups, but aside from that there's not much I can be certain of these days."
The man cocks an eyebrow, the name instantly setting off red lights in his mind. "Manswell...." he repeats softly, gaze darting down as he tries to place the name. "Why does that sound familiar?" Despite his formal nature, the man seems kind enough.
Locke realizes that he's got a relevant response to that! "Oh, the lost earth colony. Alpha Centuri, first contact all over again. It's kinda nuts that aliens turned out to be so... boring, honestly."
The man looks taken aback by Locke's revelation. "You were a part of the Manswell expedition?" he asks, mouth slightly agape. Seemingly realizing his reaction, he gives a shake of his head. "My apologies. Service Chief Christopher Wolfe of the System's Alliance." he introduces himself, extending a hand towards the man. "I read about the situation. It was quite-..." another humorless chuckle escapes him as he searches for the words, "...It
was an impressive story." he settles on, the previous formality returning to his tone as he regains his composure. "This all must be quite a shock to you." he continues, passing another glance towards the group of batarians.
Locke chuckles, but it's a dry formality of a laugh. "I was kept from getting involved directly, so the departure from sensible protocol was..." He trails off, and picks up elsewhere. "I hear there's not a lot of government out here, but the architecture of your network made it tough to get any details. We're not talking wild west, are we? Got my fill of that on the colony."
Christopher glances to the rowdy group once more when Locke switches gears. He's not the type to pry and he barely knows the man. When served with Locke's question, he falls silent as he tries to find the right words. "It.... fluctuates from place to place." he decides tentatively, returning his attention to Locke once again. "The Terminus Systems can be incredibly dangerous if you're not careful. As for Freedom Falls itself? It
would be disingenuous for me to claim to have any first hand knowledge. You've got about as much 'first hand knowledge' here as I do I'm guessing. But my nephew has lived here for a good while now." Despite the dry, rigid, formal veneer, a slight smile cracks through momentarily at the mention of his family before quickly fading away. "He seems to think it's a good place to set down roots. Can't say it would have been
my first choice. And it certainly doesn't seem like the obvious choice for a man who just began climbing a hill the size of a century." a friendly, somewhat forced chuckle follows, "So what brought you out this way, if you don't mind my asking?"
Locke goes to answer, stops himself, and tries two more times before plowing ahead. "Getting away from a world that hasn't changed enough, I guess. The tech took a good bottle of scotch to wrap my head around, but everything else feels like a cheap coat of paint on the same kind of thing Manswell left home to avoid, if that makes sense."
Christopher remains silent as he listens to Locke speak. Of course it doesn't make sense to him. How could it? He hasn't been displaced for the better part of a century and a half. But that's neither here nor there. "I may not have been around to see what Earth was like a hundred years ago, but I am old enough to recall the First Contact War. The day we encountered the turians is a day I'll never forget..." He sucks a deep
breath in through his nose as he looks Locke over, "You're moving from one snapshot to the next. I can't imagine how confusing that must be, but I assure you we've come a long way. This galaxy is a lot larger than the one you remember, and we've made great strides towards getting humanity where we need to be in that time. Give it time to set in." Sure, a bit of it is that System's Alliance go-getter showing through. But