The central atrium of the venue was lit ablaze by the pulses and throbs of an array of arcing lights and scintillations, ranging from vibrant pinks and purples to muted blues and reds. The grand, arching roof above reflected these lights into stellar shimmers that danced as if animated nebulae; this was combined with the rising steam and smoke from combinations of stage effects and the cigars, cigarettes, and cigarillos of many who inhabited the upper viewing levels of the atrium. Below this spectacle lied the true centerpieces of the venue: a massive circular dance floor encompassed the circumference of a central rise-in stage, which was populated by one of the most critically acclaimed neo-pop bands on the city of Vallen after the occupation started. The all-female Valkyries, with their wild, iconic neon-colored hair and similarly exotic get-ups, had attracted tens of thousands of people to the indoor venue ― and the sheer population was apparent from the undulating waves of raised hands and cheers emanating from the dancing masses below.
The song that was blasting through hidden speakers all throughout the nightclub was deeply seeped in the rousing synths and drums of what many considered a by-gone age. Yet, for those in attendance, it was nothing but gone; the sheer rumbles in the very infrastructure of the building from the power of the music and the waves of crowds attested to such.
On one of the highest alcoves that overlooked the grand atrium of the Helica nightclub laid a compact but ultimately luxurious dining table, with two individuals seated partly away from each other on the same side of the table that allowed an overlook on the event in action. Two other individuals stood behind them, their slim and sleek exo-armor and the silhouettes of PDWs undertow indicating their roles as guards. The men at the table, however, neglected the use of such armor, and instead were dressed in what seemed to be formal military uniforms. Their caps were off and at opposite ends of the table, with an assortment of liquors and beverages assembled upon the table's center and surrounded by ashtrays already brimmed with discarded ash and dust.
“I never took you for a 'synth-and-pop' sort of guy, Christopher!”
“It's partly for the women and partly for the atmosphere; makes for a good contrast to work.”
Christopher took the fat cigar that he had alight and hoisted it back upon his lips, stroking his saltpepper beard as he observed the evolving rave below the two men. His blue eyes constantly darted between the band on stage and the lightshow all around, with assisting holograms and projectors making it seem as the very venue itself was steeped within the bejeweled cosmos itself.
“Which one there tickles your fancy?” asked Christopher's compatriot officer in a joking tone, bearing the same rank as him upon shadowed collar tabs. The man was angling his own lit cigarette towards the central stage, where the various female members of the Valkyries were assembled upon drumsets and near guitar stands, their hair swinging to and fro and almost creating a haze of rainbow-addled trails in one's vision.
“I have a wife, Harri; you don't. I should be asking that question to you more than anyone else, sans the fact that they're twenty and you're fifty goddamn years old,” Christopher responded as he leaned back in the adaptive fibers of his chair. “Anyways, did I bring you here to select your future rocker-maiden, or did I bring you here to talk business?”
“Ah, that's right,” Harri replied, his face seemingly turning forlorn at the thought of abandoning the previous topic. He plucked his cigarette back into his mouth as he reached to his side and placed a briefcase onto the table, pushing away empty shot glasses and the ashtray that lied nearby.
“I never could understand your insistence of physical shit over data-forms, but that's not my problem,” the man commented as he went through the process of unlocking and decoupling the hoists that held the briefcase closed. After manually inputting a final code, the briefcase popped open with a sudden hiss, revealing a dark interior. Harri pushed open the briefcase almost like opening a lap-top in order to reveal what lied within ― a miscellany of superthin papers that had assortments of words and emblems printed or stamped onto them. Below the scintillating lights of the nightclub and its general dark ambience, it was almost impossible to read such printed font; nevertheless, Harri plucked various papers of interest and placed them under the table's sole lamp for his compatriot.
Christopher leaned over and rested his arms upon the blackened lacquer of the table's surface, taking out his scigar to speak once more through a plume of exhaled smoke.
“Are you sure you don't want a digital copy of any of this? It's easier to keep secure, for one-”
“Stop the nagging for just this once and let me read, Harri.”
Christopher's eyes scanned over the first paper in his hands, which was stamped as CONFIDENTIAL all throughout and marked with the simplistic symbology of the Staatssicherheitsdienst. The paper itself spoke of something that both men had high interests in; one that they didn't mind to speak about in the midst of the raging decibels of song and dance that flowed around them.
“Almost a trillion metric tons has made it past the Gamma Quadrant's far reaches, huh...?”
“Those dumbfucks and their 'open trade' bullshit allows us to use commercial ventures as a vector of disseminating what we need to disseminate. I mean, shit, the papers say it all. Go through them if you want to see the metrics.”
Christopher took in another breath of his cigar as he overlooked the papers with Harri, the raving nightclub's dance below them now reaching a crescendo as the Valkyries reached the apex of their song.
“Many of these countries are practically suffering from bureaucratic paralysis or just... shit, ineffectiveness. The Compact just keeps winning and winning as time goes by, with these slow fucks not rousing up to do anything.”
“What have other sectors of command reported about their military readiness?”
“Piss-poor. Some of them in a newly revitalized and re-affirmed alliance ― that uh... Yut-thing, yeah ― they went and buggered off northward in order to assist in humanitarian missions towards Arkesia. Unless you count that bullshit as readiness, they are ultimately sitting ducks. Or sitting on dildoes, as the guys up above usually say.”
“The real question is why the Chancellery hasn't responded to this,” Christopher remarked as he downed a shot of whiskey that seemed to be infused with golden flecks suspended within. “If the Staat doesn't take this as a chance to do something, it is an utter waste.”
“About that, Christopher... you saw the order from the chief, right?”
“Yeah, I saw Eisenmenger's internal gag-order for anything relating to the New Silk Road. Man's planning something, but exactly what is up for debate. We aren't allocated to any sector near the New Silk Road sans the part that runs through this shithole, so I guess we aren't yet privy to that information.”
“In my opinion-” Harri said as he shot down a glass of vodka, “...fuck, that shit stings. Anyway, what I think's happening is that the SSD might make a move somewhere. Fuck, the Sternenstaat itself might be making a move. And that's a problem for this shit right here,” he continued, jabbing his finger on the pile of documents before them.
“Why do you think it'll cause a problem for us?”
“Christopher, don't bust my fucking balls here. You know any war isn't good for what we're doing. How the fuck're we going to ship guns across the galaxy if half of star-space is torn apart?”
“Stop speaking in hyperbole. The higher-ups aren't total dolts, they know not to start a massive war yet; even with these paralyzed xenos and other traitorous human nations. Even if this is to happen, we don't get immediately affected. Shit, if anything, this allows our organization deeper hooks into the black market. Now, Harri, try to shut up; this is the best part of the song.”