Aboard the Red October, the massive Colossus-class dropship that served as Shephard Industries' mobile showroom and auction house, the atmosphere was a strange mix of anticipation and tension. The ship's cavernous hangar bay was a hive of activity, with technicians, logistics personnel, and security teams moving with practiced efficiency.
The dropship was approaching Andro and would descend into the planet itself within three days, and there was a slack of one week before Auction Day.
At the center of it all, a squad of Cerberus operatives stood in their Longinus Battle Armor, the sleek, angular suits gleaming in the harsh light of the bay. Painted in the distinctive white, black, and gold of Shephard Industries, they looked less like mercenaries and more like a corporate strike force which, in many ways, they were.
The squad was in the middle of a pre-mission briefing, but as often happened in the lull before action, the conversation had taken a more casual turn. The topic of discussion? Whether this auction was going to be another "Saturday Night Special."
"You remember Lesnovo, right?" one of the operatives, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, said as he adjusted the settings on his suit's HUD. "That was a real shitshow. Roman cosplayers with enough heavy metal and transport muscles to make a Steiner blush. And don't even get me started on the locals. They were not happy."
Another operative, a younger woman with a sharp, angular face, chuckled as she checked the power levels on her David Light Gauss Rifle. "Yeah, I remember. Took us three days to clean up that mess. And don't forget the part where the ISF tried to crash the party. That was fun."
The veteran snorted. "Fun? You call getting shot at fun? Kid, you've got a weird sense of humor."
The woman shrugged, her smirk widening. "Hey, it beats sitting around doing nothing. Besides, we got paid, didn't we?"
The veteran shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Yeah, we got paid. But that's not the point. The point is, this auction's got all the makings of another Lesnovo. You've got the ISF sniffing around, the holy robes trying to flex their muscles, and now this new Periphery-based merc outfit with five regiments. You really think this is gonna go smoothly?"
A third operative, a tall, lean man with a cynical edge to his voice, chimed in. "Smoothly? In the Inner Sphere? Don't make me laugh. It's gonna be a clusterfuck, just like always. The only question is who's gonna start it."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "You think it'll be the ISF? They've been quiet lately, but you know how they are. They love making a scene."
The veteran shook his head. "Nah, it won't be the ISF. They're too busy playing spy games with the Capellans according to intel. My money's on the holy robes. They've been itching for a fight ever since that last border skirmish."
The cynical operative let out a dry laugh. "You're both wrong. It's gonna be the Periphery mercs. Five regiments? That's not a merc outfit; that's a damn army. And you know what happens when you bring an army to a knife fight."
The woman frowned. "You think they're gonna cause trouble? I heard they're professional. Wolf's Dragoons or something like that."
The cynical operative snorted. "Professional? Maybe. But you don't get to be a five-regiment merc outfit by playing nice. They're here for a reason, and it's not just to bid on a shiny new mech."
The veteran sighed, his expression turning serious. "Look, it doesn't matter who starts it. What matters is that we're ready when it happens. And trust me, it's gonna happen. This auction's got too many players, too much money, and too much tech on the line. Someone's gonna get greedy, someone's gonna get stupid, and then it's gonna hit the fan."
The woman nodded, her smirk fading as she checked the ammunition feed on her Gauss rifle. "Yeah, you're probably right. But hey, at least we've got the Longinus suits. If things go sideways, we'll be ready."
The cynical operative chuckled darkly. "Oh, we'll be ready, all right. But let's not kid ourselves. If this turns into another Lesnovo, it's not gonna matter how good our gear is. It's gonna be a bloodbath."
The veteran clapped him on the shoulder, his tone grim but resolute. "Then we'll just have to make sure we're the ones walking away from it. Now, let's get to work. We've got an auction to secure."
===
In a dimly lit, nondescript room tucked away in the labyrinthine underbelly of Andro's capital city, two shadowed figures sat across from each other at a small, unremarkable table. The room was bare, save for a single flickering light overhead and a faint hum of white noise emanating from a small device on the table—a precaution against any potential listening devices. The two men spoke in low, measured tones, their conversation a masterclass in innocuous small talk designed to mask the true nature of their discussion.
"The weather's been unusually mild this season," the first man said, his voice calm and conversational. He was middle-aged, with a lean frame and sharp features that gave him the air of a man accustomed to operating in the shadows. "I hear the harvests are looking good. The farmers must be pleased."
The second man, slightly younger but with a similarly unremarkable appearance, nodded in agreement. "Yes, though I've heard the markets are still volatile. Prices fluctuate so quickly these days. It's hard to keep up."
The first man leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "True, but that's the nature of commerce, isn't it? Supply and demand. Some things are just harder to predict than others."
The younger man sighed, his tone tinged with frustration. "Some things, indeed. Take, for example, the recent influx of… let's say, livestock. They're not the most cooperative, are they? More suited to charging headfirst than following a shepherd's lead."
The older man's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Ah, yes. The wolves, or should I say they deserve to be called bulls. Stubborn creatures, aren't they? Hard to guide, harder still to corral. And their den is well-guarded. It's not easy to find… willing hands to tend to them."
That was the source of frustration. For being so deep in the Periphery, these people seem to not have a price, and valued close kin and wary of outsiders.
Even neutrals like them that were respected were kept at arm's length.
The younger man nodded, his frustration evident even through the veil of coded language. "Exactly. And with so many eyes on the fields these days, it's even harder to move unnoticed. The local landowners are on high alert, and the… let's call them neighboring farmers with the sun shining so bright… are watching closely as well."
The older man's expression darkened slightly. "Yes, the sunny neighbors. Always meddling, always prying. They've been asking for help, haven't they? From the local duke, no less. It's made things… complicated."
The younger man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "We've done all we could. The contracts we've cultivated are lying low, as they should. But with so much attention on the fields, it's difficult to make progress. The wolves are stubborn, and the neighbors are watching. It's a delicate situation."
The older man nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Delicate, yes. But not impossible. We've faced worse before. The key is patience. The wolvess may be stubborn, but they're not invincible. And the neighbors… well, they can't watch forever."
The younger man sighed again, his frustration giving way to a grudging acceptance. "I suppose you're right. But it's frustrating, nonetheless. We've put so much effort into this, and now it feels like we're spinning our wheels."
The older man reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on the younger man's arm. "I understand your frustration. But remember, this is a long game. The wolves may be difficult now, but they'll come around. And when they do, we'll be ready."
The younger man nodded, his expression hardening with resolve. "You're right. We've come too far to give up now."
The older man smiled, a cold, calculating smile that spoke of years of experience in the shadows. "Exactly. The game isn't over yet. And when it is, we'll be the ones holding the winning hand."
As the two men rose from the table and prepared to leave, the faint hum of the white noise device continued to fill the room, masking their conversation from any prying ears. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving the room empty once more.
As the two shadowed men slipped out of the hidden room and into the labyrinthine streets of Andro's capital, they moved with the confidence of those who believed themselves untouchable. Their conversation, veiled in innocuous small talk, had been carefully crafted to throw off any potential eavesdroppers. They were professionals, after all, and they had every reason to believe their precautions were sufficient. What they didn't know, what they couldn't know, was that they were being watched by a far more skilled and patient observer.
High above, perched on a rooftop with a clear line of sight to the building's exit, a figure clad in advanced stealth gear adjusted the focus on their binoculars. The operative, part of a team inserted by Shephard Industries' most elite security division, had been tracking the two men for weeks. Their mission was simple: observe, gather intelligence, and, when the time was right, eliminate the greatest threat to SI's operations on Andro.
The two men below were just the beginning.
The operative's earpiece crackled softly as a voice came through, calm and professional. "Targets are on the move. Maintain visual contact. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary."
"Copy that," the operative murmured, their voice barely audible. "Moving to follow."
As the two men disappeared into the bustling crowd, the operative moved with practiced ease, blending seamlessly into the urban environment. They were a ghost, unseen and unheard, their presence known only to the team coordinating the operation from a secure location nearby. The two men, secure in their actions, had no idea they were being hunted.
Meanwhile, in a nondescript van parked several blocks away, another member of the SI team monitored the situation through a series of high-tech displays. The van was a mobile command center, its interior filled with cutting-edge surveillance equipment and communication gear. The team leader, a grizzled veteran with a no-nonsense demeanor, watched the feed from the operative's body cam with a critical eye.
"They're heading toward the market district," the team leader said, his voice calm but firm. "We'll let them lead us to their next meeting. If we're lucky, they'll take us straight to the top."
One of the younger operatives in the van, a tech specialist with a penchant for dark humor, chuckled softly. "You know, I've been thinking. Those two down there? They're tough, stubborn, and way too confident for their own good. But you know what they say…"
The team leader raised an eyebrow. "What do they say?"
The tech specialist grinned and began to sing softly, his voice carrying a mischievous tone:
"You can fight like a krogan, run like a leopard,
But you'll never be better than Commander Shepard."
The team leader rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. The catchy phrase, a hit among Shephard Industries' employees, had become something of an unofficial anthem for the company's security teams.
They thought it was a propoganda song meant to aggrandize their boss, but it was hella ctachy.
"Focus," the team leader said, though his tone was more amused than stern. "We've got a job to do."
The tech specialist nodded, his grin fading as he returned his attention to the monitors. "Right, right. No singing on the job. Got it."
Back on the streets, the two shadowed men continued their journey, oblivious to the fact that their every move was being tracked. They were confident, perhaps even arrogant, in their belief that they were untouchable.
But they were wrong. Dead wrong.
As they turned down a narrow alley, the operative following them paused, their instincts screaming a warning. The alley was a dead end, and the two men had stopped, their conversation growing more animated. The operative's earpiece crackled again.
"They're meeting someone. Hold position and observe."
The operative nodded, their eyes narrowing as they focused on the scene below. A third figure emerged from the shadows, their face obscured by a hood. The conversation that followed was brief but intense, the three men exchanging information with the urgency of those who knew time was running out.
The operative relayed the details back to the van, their voice calm and precise. "Third target identified. Possible handler or intermediary. Orders?"
The team leader's voice was cold and decisive. "Wait for my signal. We take them all at once."
The operative nodded, their finger hovering over the trigger of their weapon. They were a professional, trained to wait for the perfect moment. And when that moment came, they would strike with the precision and efficiency that had made Shephard Industries' security teams the best in the business.
As the three men below concluded their meeting and prepared to leave, the team leader's voice came through the earpiece once more. "Execute."
The operative moved without hesitation, their weapon firing with a soft thwip as a dart embedded itself in the neck of the first target. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even knew what had hit him. The second and third targets barely had time to react before they too were subdued, their bodies slumping to the ground as the tranquilizer took effect.
The operative moved in quickly, securing the targets and signaling for extraction. As the van pulled up to the alley, the tech specialist hopped out, still humming the catchy tune under his breath.
"You can fight like a krogan, run like a leopard…"
The team leader shot him a look, and the tech specialist grinned. "What? It's motivational."