Post by Duncan Ryder on May 12, 2021 6:58:25 GMT -5
Space. Pure infinite darkness decorated by pinpricks of ancient light, a haunting look into the galaxy's distant past. From nowhere the still blackness is disturbed by the arrival of a ship dropping our of hyperspace. It is sleek like a predator with long sweeping curves from its pointed nose to the four engines, burning blue-white at its rear.
This is the Normandy, pride of the Alliance fleet. A prototype of advanced technology created by the brightest minds of both humanity and the Turian race. It was a symbol of cooperation between two races that had once been at war and served as a promise of a brighter future.
The ship orients itself and gently arcs out of shot. We follow it and another structure comes into view, a space station. It is shaped like a ring with five long arms reaching away from it. As the Normandy draws closer we can see the size of the station as it dwarfs the craft. The ship flies between the outstretched arms towards the centre ring. Grand buildings the match for any city on Earth reach out for it from every direction.
This is the Citadel, the social and economic hub of the galaxy. Here people of every species live side by side, united, and in this galaxy, every adventure starts here.
With a splutter and a jerk the old van that poses as an RV shuddered to a halt in the parking lot of the Indiana Farmers Coliseum. The drivers door swung open near silently on freshly oiled hinges and the vehicles sole occupant stepped out into the cool Indianapolis morning.
“Great job,” said the driver giving the vehicle an affectionate pat on the roof like one may pet the family dog, “didn't doubt you for a second.”
The arrival of the less than subtle vehicle in the middle of the day drew the attention of a pair of maintenance workers who had been fixing a pothole nearby. One jutted a thumb in the direction of the rust eaten brown van and the two of them smirked to one another. They shared a nod of silent agreement and stepped away from their work, strolling assuredly towards the new arrival.
“Hey, is that thing even legal?” one of the men said as they got within mocking distance of the newcomer, “it looks like you stuck wheels on a piece of washed up sea trash.” His friend laughed along.
The driver had had his head stuck inside the van through the sliding side door when he was addressed. Startled, he quickly yanked his head back, hitting it against the top edge of the doorway prompting another laugh for the maintenance workers. The driver rubbed the back of his head as he straightened up and turned round, simultaneously revealing the cheap plastic toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.
“Yo, the fuck are you doing?” one of the workers asked, disgust clear in his voice.
“What does it look like?” the driver replied though his words were garbled by the foaming toothpaste in his mouth that he was keen to keep from dribbling down his chin.
“But why are you doing it here?” the second worker asked.
The driver didn't reply right away, holding up a finger to instruct the men to wait while he reached into the van again, withdrew a water bottle, took a swig from it then spat it out onto the floor.
“Sorry,” he said as he turned back and gave a slightly sheepish shrug, “needs must. Anyway, I have an important meeting in,” he checked his watch, “shit, five minutes. You don't expect me to go in with breakfast burrito breath do you?”
The two workers looked at each other with a mix of confusion and disgust. “No, but, do that shit at home.”
“I was,” said the driver, “or at least, that was until you two came to insult it.”
The two men laughed, “That's your home? You're living in that?”
“Yup,” said the driver without shame.
“Well, there's no hobos in our lot. You've gotta go.”
The driver shook his head, “No can do. As I said, I have a meeting.”
“With who? The kitchen staff? Because they threw out all the leftovers last night.”
“No, the Developer.”
“Bullshit.”
“No shit,” said the driver as he threw his belongings in the back of the van, slid the door shut and locked it behind him. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said and started into a brisk walk towards the arena.
The two workers watched him go for a few seconds before one of them called out. “Who even are you?”
The driver turned but didn't stop walking, “Me?” he began, “You'll see.”
I haven't had some kind of mental breakdown and detached from reality. I'm not crazy.
Sometimes it's just fun to be someone else for a while you know?
The Salarian Embassy, like those of all of the council races was just off the Presidium, that bright ring of smooth white pathways intersected my cool running water and decorated by expertly cultivated flora from across the galaxy.
Shepard was wearing his Alliance Navy dress blues. They were stifling, far too hot to wear even in the soft artificial heat of the Presidium when he was so used to the cold of space. He fussed endlessly with the sleeves and tugged at the close fitting collar of his jacket until someone addressed him.
“Can I help you?”
Salarian's are an amphibious race. They have narrow jaws, large jet black eyes and the tops of their heads split and curve like horns and their bodies are thin and sinewy. More so than any physical feature though the most distinctive thing about Salarians is how they speak. Salarians have a high metabolism meaning that they move fast, think fast and speak fast. The woman who had addressed him was no different, the simple question coming out in a blurt of hastily produced words that caught the distracted Shepard off guard.
Shepard cleared his throat as he recomposed himself. He gave his sleeves one last tug and walked towards her, “Yes, I'm Commander Shepard. I'm here to see the Dalatrass. I have an appointment.”
To the human eye Salarians don't have the most expressive faces but even so Shepard could see a hint of discomfort creep creep into the receptionists expression. “Commander Shepard, yes, I see you here,” she said as she consulted her console, “however there are no meetings with the Dalatrass. You'll be meeting with a group of representatives on her behalf.”
Shepard frowned, “I was under the impression I would be meeting with the Dalatrass personally.”
“My apologies. Do not take this personally. You must understand that no-one meets with the Dalatrass directly. It is a matter of security. Her representatives are waiting for you though. Please head through these doors behind me up to the tenth floor. They will greet you there.”
“OK. Thanks for your help.” said Shepard, following the instructions given and heading towards the elevator.
The elevator doors opened and an awkward looking young man in an ill fitting grey suit was there to greet him.
“Mr. Ryder,” he said, offering his hand, “we're so glad you could make it.”
“Just Duncan is fine,” he replied and grasped the hand just long enough to be polite.
“OK then, this way please,” the young man said leading Duncan down the hallway to a conference room and opening the door for him to pass through.
Inside were three more people, each older to some degree than the one who had greeted him. Each of them was also wearing a suit, one much better fitting than that of the young man who was now waiting outside. Duncan didn't like suits, neither the garments themselves or the people they most often contained. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the table from the three men he fancied that he were looking at creatures from a different species to his own. Despite the small differences in colouring and build he struggled to distinguish any one of them from the others.
“Thank you for finally joining us Mr. Ryder,” the seemingly eldest of the three men, sat in the middle of the trio said with a pointed look at his watch.
“Duncan.”
“What's that?”
“My name is Duncan. Mr. Ryder is-”
“Your father?” said the suit on the left.
“Actually no,” Duncan replied, “even he just liked to go by Michael. Maybe my grandfather. I dunno, he died when I was eight.”
An awkward pause fell over the room.
“We're um, sorry for your loss,” said the middle suit.
“It was twenty-eight years ago, I've made my peace. So, you're not the Developer?”
Middle suit chuckled slightly, “No Mr.- Duncan, I'm not. My name is Mr. Short. I'm a part of the legal team that represents the Developer here to oversee the signing of your contract. Do you have any representation of your own we should wait for?”
Duncan shook his head, “If I had someone to negotiate contracts for me I'd still be in Chicago.”
The three men looked between themselves, seemingly unsure what to make of the comment.
“That is to say, no, we can proceed,” Duncan added.
At that, right suit slid a small stack of paper across the table into Duncan's reach. Duncan took them and started to thumb through them.
“It's all very standard,” said middle suit.
“Oh I'm sure it is. I'm just checking for the very standard clause where you devils take ownership of my soul,” said Duncan dryly.
The three suits each recoiled slightly in their seats and fixed him with unsettled looks. Duncan didn't notice right away, eventually looking up from the contract to see three sets of frown framed eyes boring into him.
“It was a joke,” said Duncan both insincerely and unconvincingly.
A couple more minutes passed in silence only broken by the occasional shifting of paper until Duncan spoke again. “Anyone got a pen?”
Left suit reached into his jacket pocket and produced a red and gold ballpoint which he passed over the table. A second later the contract was signed.
“Well, that's everything,” said middle suit getting to his feet, left and right suit following his lead. Duncan stood up too, when he was ready, taking a little pleasure from making the three men wait. “Welcome to Level Up Wrestling Duncan,” said middle suit.
“You know what, I've changed my mind on the name thing,” said Duncan.
“You would prefer Mr. Ryder?” asked middle suit.
“No. Call me Shepard. Commander Shepard.”
There's a reason I chose to come to Level Up and it's not just because there are vacant titles here offering someone a chance to lay their claim as the 'First Ever'. It's not even because your boss was willing to give me gas money to get here. OK, it's a little bit both of those things, but really I chose Level Up because I saw potential for reinvention.
The world sucks. It's in a sorry state and every time I open my eyes and see the rot it makes me angry and though I'm so tired of being angry I can't just let it go. I can't close my eyes and pretend it's not there. That's not me.
But maybe, every couple of weeks I can give myself a break. Maybe every couple of weeks I can pretend to be someone else. Someone who lives a long way from here. Someone who lives in a galaxy where people from a dozen completely different species live in unison.
Maybe, somewhere along the line, I can learn what it means to be a hero.
We open on a shot of Duncan Shepard, dressed in his new N7 inspired ring gear in front of a green screened image of the SSV Normandy's galaxy map. He's holding a tablet in his right hand which he pokes a few times then looks up at the camera.
“Jennifer Williams,” he says, looking back down at the tablet for a moment and giving a shallow nod before lifting his gaze again, “so you're to be the first challenge set before Level Up's future inaugural Power Champion. I'm looking forward to meeting you at EXP 7.”
“Now obviously we don't know each other, but I've deployed my scouts to gather up every bit of critical information they can on you and I must say they've done an excellent job.”
Shepard swipes at the tablet. “Says here you're an Asari commando. Fast, agile, fearless, impressive. Having fought beside Asari commando's on several occasions I know what a incisive and deadly force they are and any day of the week I'd be proud to have one by my side. That said, they're not the perfect fit for every situation.”
“You see this is the first step towards the Level Up Power Championship, a qualifier for the Skeleton Key match at Dead By Daylight, and though this match has all the standard rules I think it would be remiss of me not to show you, the fans and everyone else in the back a taste of what to expect from me when I challenge for that title, and I will challenge for it.”
“Because out of the two of us I'm far more suited to do so. You've got your skills, sure, I can see that, but this isn't a battle for Asari, this battle demands a Krogan, or at least, a man who can fight like one. Did I ever tell you about the time I got into a headbutting match with a Krogan and won? OK, I didn't win, it was a draw, but have you seen a Krogan's head? They've got those chitinous plates,” Duncan gestures the shape of a Krogan head on his own, “and their skull's are like football helmets.”
“My point is, I'm sure you're going to come in strong. Try to wear me down and outmanoeuvre me but it's not going to work because I'm ready for you. I'm going to take everything you can throw are me, charge is up and give it back to you like a biotic nova.”
“No hard feelings Miss Williams, but I'm Commander Shepard and at EXP 7, I will be going home with my first win on the Citadel.”
“I mean, in Level Up.”
This is the Normandy, pride of the Alliance fleet. A prototype of advanced technology created by the brightest minds of both humanity and the Turian race. It was a symbol of cooperation between two races that had once been at war and served as a promise of a brighter future.
The ship orients itself and gently arcs out of shot. We follow it and another structure comes into view, a space station. It is shaped like a ring with five long arms reaching away from it. As the Normandy draws closer we can see the size of the station as it dwarfs the craft. The ship flies between the outstretched arms towards the centre ring. Grand buildings the match for any city on Earth reach out for it from every direction.
This is the Citadel, the social and economic hub of the galaxy. Here people of every species live side by side, united, and in this galaxy, every adventure starts here.
With a splutter and a jerk the old van that poses as an RV shuddered to a halt in the parking lot of the Indiana Farmers Coliseum. The drivers door swung open near silently on freshly oiled hinges and the vehicles sole occupant stepped out into the cool Indianapolis morning.
“Great job,” said the driver giving the vehicle an affectionate pat on the roof like one may pet the family dog, “didn't doubt you for a second.”
The arrival of the less than subtle vehicle in the middle of the day drew the attention of a pair of maintenance workers who had been fixing a pothole nearby. One jutted a thumb in the direction of the rust eaten brown van and the two of them smirked to one another. They shared a nod of silent agreement and stepped away from their work, strolling assuredly towards the new arrival.
“Hey, is that thing even legal?” one of the men said as they got within mocking distance of the newcomer, “it looks like you stuck wheels on a piece of washed up sea trash.” His friend laughed along.
The driver had had his head stuck inside the van through the sliding side door when he was addressed. Startled, he quickly yanked his head back, hitting it against the top edge of the doorway prompting another laugh for the maintenance workers. The driver rubbed the back of his head as he straightened up and turned round, simultaneously revealing the cheap plastic toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.
“Yo, the fuck are you doing?” one of the workers asked, disgust clear in his voice.
“What does it look like?” the driver replied though his words were garbled by the foaming toothpaste in his mouth that he was keen to keep from dribbling down his chin.
“But why are you doing it here?” the second worker asked.
The driver didn't reply right away, holding up a finger to instruct the men to wait while he reached into the van again, withdrew a water bottle, took a swig from it then spat it out onto the floor.
“Sorry,” he said as he turned back and gave a slightly sheepish shrug, “needs must. Anyway, I have an important meeting in,” he checked his watch, “shit, five minutes. You don't expect me to go in with breakfast burrito breath do you?”
The two workers looked at each other with a mix of confusion and disgust. “No, but, do that shit at home.”
“I was,” said the driver, “or at least, that was until you two came to insult it.”
The two men laughed, “That's your home? You're living in that?”
“Yup,” said the driver without shame.
“Well, there's no hobos in our lot. You've gotta go.”
The driver shook his head, “No can do. As I said, I have a meeting.”
“With who? The kitchen staff? Because they threw out all the leftovers last night.”
“No, the Developer.”
“Bullshit.”
“No shit,” said the driver as he threw his belongings in the back of the van, slid the door shut and locked it behind him. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said and started into a brisk walk towards the arena.
The two workers watched him go for a few seconds before one of them called out. “Who even are you?”
The driver turned but didn't stop walking, “Me?” he began, “You'll see.”
I haven't had some kind of mental breakdown and detached from reality. I'm not crazy.
Sometimes it's just fun to be someone else for a while you know?
The Salarian Embassy, like those of all of the council races was just off the Presidium, that bright ring of smooth white pathways intersected my cool running water and decorated by expertly cultivated flora from across the galaxy.
Shepard was wearing his Alliance Navy dress blues. They were stifling, far too hot to wear even in the soft artificial heat of the Presidium when he was so used to the cold of space. He fussed endlessly with the sleeves and tugged at the close fitting collar of his jacket until someone addressed him.
“Can I help you?”
Salarian's are an amphibious race. They have narrow jaws, large jet black eyes and the tops of their heads split and curve like horns and their bodies are thin and sinewy. More so than any physical feature though the most distinctive thing about Salarians is how they speak. Salarians have a high metabolism meaning that they move fast, think fast and speak fast. The woman who had addressed him was no different, the simple question coming out in a blurt of hastily produced words that caught the distracted Shepard off guard.
Shepard cleared his throat as he recomposed himself. He gave his sleeves one last tug and walked towards her, “Yes, I'm Commander Shepard. I'm here to see the Dalatrass. I have an appointment.”
To the human eye Salarians don't have the most expressive faces but even so Shepard could see a hint of discomfort creep creep into the receptionists expression. “Commander Shepard, yes, I see you here,” she said as she consulted her console, “however there are no meetings with the Dalatrass. You'll be meeting with a group of representatives on her behalf.”
Shepard frowned, “I was under the impression I would be meeting with the Dalatrass personally.”
“My apologies. Do not take this personally. You must understand that no-one meets with the Dalatrass directly. It is a matter of security. Her representatives are waiting for you though. Please head through these doors behind me up to the tenth floor. They will greet you there.”
“OK. Thanks for your help.” said Shepard, following the instructions given and heading towards the elevator.
The elevator doors opened and an awkward looking young man in an ill fitting grey suit was there to greet him.
“Mr. Ryder,” he said, offering his hand, “we're so glad you could make it.”
“Just Duncan is fine,” he replied and grasped the hand just long enough to be polite.
“OK then, this way please,” the young man said leading Duncan down the hallway to a conference room and opening the door for him to pass through.
Inside were three more people, each older to some degree than the one who had greeted him. Each of them was also wearing a suit, one much better fitting than that of the young man who was now waiting outside. Duncan didn't like suits, neither the garments themselves or the people they most often contained. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the table from the three men he fancied that he were looking at creatures from a different species to his own. Despite the small differences in colouring and build he struggled to distinguish any one of them from the others.
“Thank you for finally joining us Mr. Ryder,” the seemingly eldest of the three men, sat in the middle of the trio said with a pointed look at his watch.
“Duncan.”
“What's that?”
“My name is Duncan. Mr. Ryder is-”
“Your father?” said the suit on the left.
“Actually no,” Duncan replied, “even he just liked to go by Michael. Maybe my grandfather. I dunno, he died when I was eight.”
An awkward pause fell over the room.
“We're um, sorry for your loss,” said the middle suit.
“It was twenty-eight years ago, I've made my peace. So, you're not the Developer?”
Middle suit chuckled slightly, “No Mr.- Duncan, I'm not. My name is Mr. Short. I'm a part of the legal team that represents the Developer here to oversee the signing of your contract. Do you have any representation of your own we should wait for?”
Duncan shook his head, “If I had someone to negotiate contracts for me I'd still be in Chicago.”
The three men looked between themselves, seemingly unsure what to make of the comment.
“That is to say, no, we can proceed,” Duncan added.
At that, right suit slid a small stack of paper across the table into Duncan's reach. Duncan took them and started to thumb through them.
“It's all very standard,” said middle suit.
“Oh I'm sure it is. I'm just checking for the very standard clause where you devils take ownership of my soul,” said Duncan dryly.
The three suits each recoiled slightly in their seats and fixed him with unsettled looks. Duncan didn't notice right away, eventually looking up from the contract to see three sets of frown framed eyes boring into him.
“It was a joke,” said Duncan both insincerely and unconvincingly.
A couple more minutes passed in silence only broken by the occasional shifting of paper until Duncan spoke again. “Anyone got a pen?”
Left suit reached into his jacket pocket and produced a red and gold ballpoint which he passed over the table. A second later the contract was signed.
“Well, that's everything,” said middle suit getting to his feet, left and right suit following his lead. Duncan stood up too, when he was ready, taking a little pleasure from making the three men wait. “Welcome to Level Up Wrestling Duncan,” said middle suit.
“You know what, I've changed my mind on the name thing,” said Duncan.
“You would prefer Mr. Ryder?” asked middle suit.
“No. Call me Shepard. Commander Shepard.”
There's a reason I chose to come to Level Up and it's not just because there are vacant titles here offering someone a chance to lay their claim as the 'First Ever'. It's not even because your boss was willing to give me gas money to get here. OK, it's a little bit both of those things, but really I chose Level Up because I saw potential for reinvention.
The world sucks. It's in a sorry state and every time I open my eyes and see the rot it makes me angry and though I'm so tired of being angry I can't just let it go. I can't close my eyes and pretend it's not there. That's not me.
But maybe, every couple of weeks I can give myself a break. Maybe every couple of weeks I can pretend to be someone else. Someone who lives a long way from here. Someone who lives in a galaxy where people from a dozen completely different species live in unison.
Maybe, somewhere along the line, I can learn what it means to be a hero.
We open on a shot of Duncan Shepard, dressed in his new N7 inspired ring gear in front of a green screened image of the SSV Normandy's galaxy map. He's holding a tablet in his right hand which he pokes a few times then looks up at the camera.
“Jennifer Williams,” he says, looking back down at the tablet for a moment and giving a shallow nod before lifting his gaze again, “so you're to be the first challenge set before Level Up's future inaugural Power Champion. I'm looking forward to meeting you at EXP 7.”
“Now obviously we don't know each other, but I've deployed my scouts to gather up every bit of critical information they can on you and I must say they've done an excellent job.”
Shepard swipes at the tablet. “Says here you're an Asari commando. Fast, agile, fearless, impressive. Having fought beside Asari commando's on several occasions I know what a incisive and deadly force they are and any day of the week I'd be proud to have one by my side. That said, they're not the perfect fit for every situation.”
“You see this is the first step towards the Level Up Power Championship, a qualifier for the Skeleton Key match at Dead By Daylight, and though this match has all the standard rules I think it would be remiss of me not to show you, the fans and everyone else in the back a taste of what to expect from me when I challenge for that title, and I will challenge for it.”
“Because out of the two of us I'm far more suited to do so. You've got your skills, sure, I can see that, but this isn't a battle for Asari, this battle demands a Krogan, or at least, a man who can fight like one. Did I ever tell you about the time I got into a headbutting match with a Krogan and won? OK, I didn't win, it was a draw, but have you seen a Krogan's head? They've got those chitinous plates,” Duncan gestures the shape of a Krogan head on his own, “and their skull's are like football helmets.”
“My point is, I'm sure you're going to come in strong. Try to wear me down and outmanoeuvre me but it's not going to work because I'm ready for you. I'm going to take everything you can throw are me, charge is up and give it back to you like a biotic nova.”
“No hard feelings Miss Williams, but I'm Commander Shepard and at EXP 7, I will be going home with my first win on the Citadel.”
“I mean, in Level Up.”