Chapter One: Vorcha Guts and Varren Cheese Pizza
Written by MizDirected
Warning for a little bit of ick with some gross detail and terrible smells and rotting things.
The darkness cradled her, providing succor and safety. She plucked a tiny tomato from the bowl resting on her stomach. Holding it to her nose, she breathed it in, it's singular scent drowning out Omega's vague background stink. Closing her eyes even though she couldn't have seen her hands in front of her face, she popped it into her mouth, moaning softly as she bit down. The flavour exploded through her mouth, sweet and savoury. Saliva washed over her tongue, and for a full five seconds life flowed in with it.
A long sigh spooled out, drifting up to echo amidst the jagged, mined out rock as the flavour faded. She needed to pick up new gold halide lights today … before her little garden died in that black. Lying there, unwilling to abandon the warm softness of her bed, she calculated the cost of so many bulbs. Shit, she'd need to find a whole squad—Blue Suns or one of the rich, private merc groups—to afford them.
She stretched, arms and legs reaching out through the darkness, her entire body vibrating as muscle fibres extended, sweetness mixed with sour, much like the tomato. And then just sour as the wounds carved into her flesh opened. Tenuous scabs tore along barely-healed seams, white-hot magma seeping through. A thin, agonized mewl bullied its way between her lips.
Fucking hell. Why did she have to move? If she could just stay still ….
Even as she collapsed back into herself, she reached for the small case at the head of her cot. The syringe and bottle settled, cool and comforting, into her grip, shaking hands managing to transfer the contents of one to the other even in the dark.
The needle slid through her skin like butter, the burning sting of the drug turning to ice as it spread along her bloodstream. Sweet relief. She shook the bottle. It felt light.
"Droney, light, please." The small space filled with bright, blue-white light as her drone winked into existence. "Thanks, buddy." Her heart sank as she held up the bottle, the clear liquid diminished to a few drops rolling around the bottom. Had it been three days already? The pain roared in defiance of the medication: a threat rather than reality. Damn. She'd have to find even more funds and make her way down into Gozu District, a hell of a long trip through the vents and waste tunnels.
"Better get started, then, huh?" She threw aside her ragged blankets to sit up, her forgotten bowl tumbling off to the side. At least she'd finished the tomatoes before dumping it. A glance across the small chamber she used as her bedroom pulled a smile onto her face. Her stolen armour gleamed a brilliant blue. She'd repainted the Blue Sun logo to resemble a hard-boiled egg, a small act of defiance that gained her a great many dirty looks, but that also branded her crazy enough to leave well enough alone.
"So, what's the best chance of finding the richest mercs around, old friend?" she asked the drone. After less than a minute, her omnitool sparked to life, showing a scan of the station. She tapped on one of the locations. "This one. How many mercs here?"
The screen zoomed in, information scrolling up the side of the image. Twelve mercs, all private hires working for that rich bastard from Beckenstein. If she didn't get killed, that should cover everything she needed and a nice lunch. "Excellent job, buddy. They might as well be gift-wrapped. Plot me the best path, please."
She closed her eyes and stretched again, testing out her pain level before getting up. Tolerable, but without a top-up dose for later, she'd have to move her ass. She dressed quickly, uncoordinated fingers fumbling over the seals on the armour. Her brain had issues telling her body what to do despite remembering how to do everything with great clarity. Her all but missing fingertips didn't help, but eventually, she wrestled all the pieces into place.
Cocking a hip, she took a few seconds to look over her enviable collection of weaponry, pausing at the M920 Cain at the end. She'd taken that off the Blood Pack then tracked down the dealer, because whoever sold a Cain to the Blood Pack deserved to hang from the rafters, strung up by their own entrails as a warning. She swallowed a vague shadow of guilt as the torin's pleas for mercy rang through her memory, then shook it away. Letting the past interfere with the present would just get her killed.
"No Cain for today, though," she said, glancing at Droney as she bulwarked her shoulders and pulled herself back in line. "Today, I need precision, not a melted slag heap." She picked up a Mattock in one hand and a Harrier in the other. After weighing them for a second, she put the Harrier back. Auto fire just wasn't her style. She should probably sell it, but it was pretty. Instead, she lifted a Viper off the rack. Twelve mercs meant finding a good sniping position. She put the Mattock back and settled the Viper between her shoulder blades. She finished the loadout with a Carnifex she'd taken off a dead vorcha; the long, curved blade of a turian Talon; and a few flashbangs. "Just in case, you know."
She sucked in a long breath, even that action sending a spike of pain down through her body. Apparently the inside of her was as badly damaged as the outside. She didn't really know, not being able to assess those wounds. Shoving it aside, she concentrated on the work. "How much loot from twelve mercs and their base?" she asked, casting a glance over at Droney. "Two duffels?" She frowned, then picked up three, shoving two inside the other one. "Just in case." Shoving three small antigrav units into her belt pouch, she patted herself down, mentally running through her mission preparedness checklist.
If one wanted to survive longer than three minutes on Omega, one went out loaded for bear and krogan and quite possibly someone's pet thresher maw. Of course, the one of those she'd found in the trash compactor, she'd taken home to keep pyjaks out of her garden. At two-thirds of a metre long and three centimetres in diameter, Harold had quite a ways to go before she needed to find him a new home.
She opened her drone interface to deactivate Droney. "Okay buddy, time for you to go incognito, just keep the map where I can see it." When his merry light vanished, she cursed and groped for a flashlight. "Why do I never grab the flashlight first?"
Her hand closed around the smooth, metal cylinder, her thumb complaining as it toggled the switch. Once a thick beam of light preceded her across the uneven rock, she set out, following the map to a small warehouse she'd raided more than once before. The rich bastard was sneaky and smart, and hired near-clones of himself to command his grunts. Once she hit smoother, semi-lit ground, she switched off her flashlight and turned her attention to figuring out what form the trap would take that time.
Last time, they'd set up shot detectors and come at her with snipers of their own as soon as she took the first one out. Only quick feet and some good luck with pedestrian traffic at the docks got her out of immediate danger, and she'd been able to pick them off during the pursuit. She paused and sniffed the air, barely suppressing her gag reflex at the thick ribbon of rotting carcass that wafted through the air.
"Waft?" She pulled her 'carrion kerchief' from her belt pouch and tied it over her nose and mouth. "More like ooze. Lord have mercy, that's rank." The mint and cloves she stored with the kerchief helped cut down the urge to puke that formed such a large part of the Omega experience.
The smell turned out to be a vorcha. She crouched over the corpse, looking for the cause of death. A tightly clustered grouping of sniper rounds told her it was a sanctioned kill.
"Gavorn's work," she whispered. "Five or six days old." She gagged, choking back her breakfast as the smell overwhelmed her kerchief, tying her stomach into spasming knots. Bloat had split the body open like a dropped watermelon. "And disgusting." Still, she stayed there, crouched next to the suppurating stench, her palm worrying the hilt of her Talon, the beginning of a plan taking shape.
"This won't be big on pretty or socially acceptable, my juicy friend," she groaned as she drew her knife from its sheath. Looking around, she spotted a mostly intact bucket. "Oh sure, you just had to go and make this stupid plan workable. Thanks universe." She gagged, just managing to swallow in time. "And, it's going to require a helmet."
A half hour later, she straightened from hanging over the bucket's payload of the juiciest parts of the corpse and more than a little vomit. "Good lord, this plan had better work." She wiped her chin on her kerchief for the last time, then threw it into a pile of trash and put on her helmet. Cool, clean air rushed in, and she took long draughts. Sheer bliss.
Once she'd recovered enough that her stomach muscles unlocked, she grabbed the bucket's handle. "Okay, come along my dearly departed accomplice. There's bullet work to be done."
Thirty minutes later, she set the bucket down on the warehouse roof and crouched to peer down through the skylight. She ran a detailed scan, turning down the glare on her omnitool. Two guards on the exterior, another two sitting at a table in the back room on the right, eight more sleeping in the one to the left. Twelve to one … well, one and a smelly … and a rocket drone with VI upgrades.
More than doable. Okay. Timing would prove essential. Picking up the bucket, she crept down the roof, keeping an eye on the main floor below through the skylight. When she reached the far end, she eased open the skylight and leaned through, drizzling some of the vorcha guts onto the floor inside the door. "Just a little taste," she whispered, then stood, hurrying back the way she came.
At the opposite end of the main room, she opened another skylight, this time, laying down on her belly so that she could wriggle all the way through. Grabbing the bucket, she gave it a good heave, splashing the entire floor in front of the back rooms in the effluvia. Wriggling backwards, she shrugged her Viper into her hands and set up. From that vantage point, she could pick them off as they—
The door at the far end opened, the guards taking two steps before their hands flew up to cover their faces. Two bullets, dead center through their brows, dropped them where they stood.
She swung the rifle around, using the moment to pop in a new heat sink. Just in time. Both back doors burst open at the sound of gunshots, men and women … all human … running out. She took down one before they hit the slick of guts and puke. Launching Droney into their midst as they slipped and skated through the mess, she lined up another shot.
Clockwork. After all the madness she'd seen in her days, taking out twelve, surprised mercs amounted to just that. Clockwork.
"Free headshots for everyone," she said. Chuckling a little to herself, she put a round through the back of a mercs head while he doubled over, throwing up his last meal. "Consider that a mercy killing."
Her next shot hit a woman in the shoulder, the merc letting out a faint "oof" as the round spun her to face the next shot as it went through her throat.
"Damn, sloppy as hell," she muttered to herself. A third bullet finally put the woman out of her misery. "Sorry about that, sweetie."
The rest went down, head shots each and every one, before they could do much more than regain their balance and pull their weapons. She counted the bodies to be sure, then scanned the building—she hadn't lived that long by being less than impeccably cautious—then policed her heat sinks. She dropped them into a heat proof bag, then scanned the area with a critical eye, looking for any identifying marks … bootprints in the dust … anything. Once sure she hadn't left any traces behind, she climbed down, entering through the open front doors.
Thankful for her helmet, she moved quickly and carefully through the mess, scooping up everything of value except for their armour. As much as really decent armour might bring, she couldn't carry that much. She paused, looking at three brand new, sleek air cars. Of course … if she could get the starter codes, she could fly out of there in style.
"Nope." She moved on, grabbing guns and credit chits and omnitools. "Intact cars are too easy to trace. Greedy gets caught." That and she didn't have anywhere in the old mine to park a car. Best to stay small, slide beneath everyone's radar. Duffels full, she attached the antigrav generators, then shouldered them and headed out.
A damn good day's haul. She set her duffels down outside the door, then turned back, a wide, wicked grin settling over her face as she contemplated how best to make her statement. After all, she wasn't just some cleaning service. No, Omega had Archangel for that. She was an artist.
Droney guided her through the vents and service tunnels to the markets on the way to Gozu District, and the only decent doctor on the station. Well, the only one she trusted not to sell her out to the first Cerberus or Alliance or any merc bastard who came along with a couple of creds.
She liked the markets, well, the sleazier ones anyway. She fit right in down there, blending with the rest of the filthy, ranting masses.
"Hey, kid," she called, flopping against the quarian scrap seller's kiosk. "Could you use three skycars?"
The quarian jumped and let out a soft gasp as he spun to face her. After a second, he flinched away. "Keelah, L'oeuf! I can smell you through my suit's filtration system."
She sniffed under her arms the best she could wearing a helmet, a crooked sneer of combined pleasure and snarkiness tugging at her lips. "What? Is my deodorant not working?" She sniffed again, then shrugged. "Maybe it's a medical condition?" She grinned at him through her helmet's faceplate. "So, what about it, kid? I took down a merc base this morning, and there were three cars just sitting there, pretty as you please. If you're going to claim em, you'd better get to it."
The quarian hesitated, so she pushed off the counter, impatient, the nerves along her legs twitching, insisting she keep moving. "Let me know if you're going to take them. If not, I'll donate em to charity."
"How would I—" he muttered, following her to the main corridor. "Where would I …?"
She waved, one hand flung above her head, cutting him off. She didn't have the time or patience for waffling and worrying about legal title. "Not my problem, kid. Have a good day. Regular finders fee to my account if you take 'em." She spun to walk backwards, levelling a mildly threatening finger at him. "And I'll know if you cheat me, Kenn, and I'll come for you."
He sputtered a string of half-articulated sentences, his posture a combination of indignant and terrified that made her laugh. She knew it never even occurred to him to try cheating her; he'd consider it bad manners. "Just kidding, kid. Breathe. You're fine."
Marsh must have heard her coming, because his counter was folded back, the door to the back room open. She headed straight in, not wanting to tempt fate by parading her haul through the crowd.
"By the holy fucking pillars, L'oeuf," he gasped, all four eyes springing wide even as he clapped a hand over his mouth. "You humans always stink, but this is a new level of fragdul. What have you been rolling in?"
She dropped the duffels. "I've come to restock your store, Marsh, don't talk shit about humans." She shrugged. "And … I think I'm being personally insulted here as well … are you saying you don't like my new perfume? It's L'eau de Six-Day-Dead-Vorcha." A harsh, humourless laugh greeted his gagging grimace as he flinched away. "Oh, don't worry, it's Gavorn's handiwork, not mine." She kicked the first duffel toward him, the way he jumped pulling a cruel smile onto her face. "This is my handiwork. So? Let's get this done."
A half hour later she walked out the door, pockets filled with creds and one duffel filled with gold halide grow lights. She'd even made enough to buy extras, ensuring that her little garden would have all the fake sun it needed. "Nice doing business with you, Marsh. And don't worry, I'm fairly sure dead vorcha washes out."
Taking back to the service tunnels, she made her way to Gozu District, a part of the station she generally avoided like the plague. Too many humans lived there, and amongst humans, even her ruined face proved far too recognizable.
She dropped down out of the ventilation system into Dr. Mordin Solus's back room, startling his assistant.
"Oh, L'oeuf," Daniel said, clapping a hand over his heart, "you scared me." She just nodded and waited, not moving until his hand slapped over his nose and mouth. He gagged. "What the …?"
"Tell Dr. Solus I'm using the decon shower," she said, patting his shoulder as she passed by, heading straight to a small room off to one side.
She set the shower for its highest heat and detergent settings and stepped inside with her armour on. Only one way to skin a cat … or well, get rid of L'eau de dead vorcha. Ten minutes later, she stepped out and removed her helmet, taking a couple of test sniffs. Much better. Downright livable, in fact.
Stripping off her armour, she piled it along a wall to dry, then returned to the shower, setting it to a far less incendiary heat. Still, nothing hurt quite like a hot shower, all of her open wounds screaming at once, their varying pitches forming a symphony of agony that roared: lava and acid pouring down the length of her body.
Sagging against the wall, she sucked in long, ragged, moaning breaths, offering prayers that alternately begged for mercy and cursed the powers that be. The water turned off, a soft yelp escaping as she jumped and spun to face the door as it opened.
"Enough of that. Already clean. Further pain unnecessary," the salarian standing at the threshold said, his words quick and clipped. "Put on gown and robe." He hung the garments on the door and set slippers just below them. "Come to other room when dressed." With that, he turned away, closing the door behind him.
Doing as she was told, she dressed in the offered garments and slung her belt pouch over her shoulder. She padded across the hall, trading glares with the LOKI mechs standing there as she passed through to the second room. Like all of Omega, the doctor's clinic looked like a war zone during an uneasy detente. At least he kept it scrubbed meticulously clean .. even if it didn't look it.
"On the table," he said from the far side of the room without turning from his computer. "Lie back. Need to run scans."
She hopped up onto the sheet, but stayed sitting. "Look, Doc, nothing has changed in three days. I just need some meds."
Turning away from the computer, he approached, activating his omnitool. "Lie back, please."
She met his stare and narrowed her eyes, willing to wait him out. He might be stubborn, but he'd also met his match. Only one doctor had ever been able to keep her in bed, and that was mostly due to the generous use of sedatives.
"No scans, no meds," the doc said and crossed his arms. "Omega filthy, riddled with disease. Infection probable."
For a moment, she considered going without just to prove a point. He'd be sorry when she died up in her dark, lonely hole in the asteroid. She moved to jump down, but then her entire body let out a loud, wailing guffaw. 'Right' it said, laughing—and by laughing, she meant shrieking in agony—'you won't even make it home without drugs.'
She laid down and let him get to work.
"There. Not so difficult," Dr. Solus said twenty minutes later, handing her a small crate that contained all her meds, salves, and sealants. "Enough for three days. Return then." He gave her a shot of pain killers and patted her shoulder, an absent sort of comfort.
She sat up and took the crate then set it next to her, trading it for her belt pouch. She glanced up even as she dove into one of the pockets for creds to pay him. "Is anything healing?"
He waggled his head. "Healing slowly. Need cloned skin and tissue grafts … surgery to repair several organs."
She shook her head, her entire body freezing … even her heart stopping for several seconds before it jumped straight to FTL. She swallowed, jagged handfuls of fear dragging down her suddenly parched throat. "Can't be down that long where they can find me." She thrust a generous handful of creds at him, then hopped down. She needed to get dressed ... to put a nice, thick layer of armour between her and the galaxy.
"Would not betray you," he said, his tone caught halfway between indignant and comforting. He returned to his computer, carelessly dumping the creds on his desk.
"No, you wouldn't," she agreed, "but all it takes is one wrong word in the wrong ear … ." She gathered up her things. "Thanks, Doc. I appreciate your help."
"Consider what I said. A few days of trust could alleviate cycles of suffering."
She stared at his back for a moment before nodding. "Sure, I'll think about it." She turned, heading back to the shower and her gear.
"Won't," he said, sighing. "Stubborn, paranoid."
That time, she let him have the last word. He was right, after all. She geared up and then returned to the ventilation system. About halfway back to her little cave inside the asteroid, she caught a scent far more pleasant than L'eau de dead vorcha. Her stomach let out a loud, almost feral howl as it curled in on itself, reminding her that she'd eaten only a handful of tomatoes early that morning, then proceeded to toss them all over the vorcha corpse.
Slipping around to the back room of her favourite restaurant, she exited the maintenance duct and made her way out the back, circling the exterior to stand at the counter. "Good morning, Zullius." She gave the turian a bright grin.
"It's afternoon on Omega, L'oeuf," the torin retorted, casting a quick glance at her. "Not sure what time it is in your universe, though, so sure ... good morning." He passed an order of Batarian Red Gill down the counter before sparing her another glimmer of attention. "Don't have any potatoes to make your pooteen crap until you bring me another sack."
"That's poutine." She shrugged. "But it's okay. It was the smell of pizza that pulled me in."
"The usual?" he asked, already smoothing sauce onto a crust. "And, by the way, I know you come out into the back room, why not just walk through?"
"Yeah, the usual." She lifted a hip onto one of the stools and leaned on the counter, her chin resting in her hands as she watched him work. "Appearances. You can't have crazy people creeping out of your food stores."
He chuckled and shook his head. "Like it matters on Omega."
She watched him pile on pineapple. "Did you save the tops of those, and do what I said?"
"Yeah, they're rooting already." He glanced back. "Do you want to take them with you?"
"Sure, just crate up the pots. I'll have to haul them back in a duffel." She relaxed into the stool. Zullius was the first person she'd met on the station when she arrived four months earlier. She'd asked him for poutine, discovering the tragic news of Omega's potato shortage in the process. That day she'd taken out five Blue Suns and ordered seedling potatoes over the extranet, along with a wide variety of other seeds and seedlings. Now she supplied him with potatoes, onions, carrots and pineapple.
Twenty minutes later, she hauled her duffels and her varren cheese, vat pepperoni, onion, and pineapple pizza into the ducts and continued on her way.
The sound of gunfire interrupted her quick journey home. She paused at a junction in the vents, glancing toward the racket, then to her pizza, still clinging to a little warmth, then to home, and back.
Chaos drifted down the vent, teasing her curiosity, particularly when she heard a batarian voice shout something about Archangel. She sighed and set down her duffels, keeping the pizza with her. Pyjaks wouldn't bother with lights but they'd run off with her pizza in under ten seconds.
The trail of battle led to a back alley. She peered out through a grate, congratulating herself on an excellent vantage point.
Archangel's people had set up a cross-fire gauntlet of doom at the end of the blind alley. Only one straggler remained, holed up behind a wall of crates, cleverly conserving his shots while Archangel and two or three others tried to flank him. She set down the pizza box, and took out a slice, munching as she watched.
"Best entertainment I've had in awhile," she muttered, sitting cross-legged and leaning into the slats. A huge turian in blue armour crept along a second floor balcony, a Mantis held easily in his talons. "Oh, yep, he's got the drop on you, merc loser. If he's any sort of shot with that thing, it's game over." She gulped down the slice of pizza, her belly complaining at the speed, but not at finally being full.
The turian reached the end of the balcony, taking cover and setting up his shot with a care that impressed her. He didn't have a clear shot, but a good hand's width of the merc's helmet stuck up. More than enough of a target for a decent marksman.
A crack like thunder roared across the alley, lifting the top of the merc's helmet and head like a machete cracking open a coconut. She hooted a wordless congratulations, then clapped a hand over her mouth, listening for any sign she'd been heard. Nothing.
"Sweet shot, boss," a turian said, practically crowing with a combination of battle high and adrenaline giddiness.
The large turian in blue—Archangel, I presume—straightened slowly, pushing himself up off the railing. He looked as if he was in pain, or maybe Omega had just aged him prematurely. She frowned at that. Prematurely? What if he was just old? What made her think him young, but weathered?
"Thanks," Archangel said, "but you don't know where I was aiming."
Her breath stuck in her chest. The voice.
She scrambled up onto her feet and pushed the vent cover open, needing to get a better look. That voice, and the joke. She'd made that joke a hundred times ….
"Take off your helmet," she whispered, her voice a thin, desperate hiss. A thousand needles stabbed up and down her spine before nesting at the base of her skull, jabbing her until it was all she could do to clamp her teeth down on a scream. She knew that voice, but …. It didn't belong here … it didn't belong to the filth and stink. It belonged to the gleaming streets and sparkling lakes of the Citadel. It belonged to hope … her hope, out there, fighting the good fight, becoming—
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, halting the frantic diatribe before it spun out of control.
More than anything, that voice belonged to her dreams; to the long, dark hours and the quiet when she allowed herself to remember. It lived deep inside the box of secrets that she pulled out now and again, thumbing through the fragments of memory like old photos.
"I'm starving." The grumble pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts. A massive block of human swaggered out of cover at the end of the alley. "Can we go back to base now? If I don't eat, I'm going to faint, and the rest of you will have to carry me home."
Archangel swept his helmet from his head, retracting it until he could hang it from his belt. "Yeah, finish cleaning up the site and call for pick up. They had a hell of a shipment ready to go out." He turned to face her hiding place, looking almost right at her without seeing her. Cobalt familia notas stood out against steel-coloured face plates. "I'm glad we got to them when we did. Another two days, this crap would have been all over Citadel space."
"Garrus!" Her hands clapped against her mouth as she stared down, her heart thundering in her chest, her legs suddenly so weak that they threatened to dump her on her ass. It was him.
Panic took hold, and for a moment she didn't know whether to run toward him or away.
"Seriously, boss. I'm dying here," the brick groaned, staggering dramatically toward a stack of crates.
"Butler, get your lazy ass over here and start going through pockets," the second turian called. "Maybe you'll find a candy bar."
She opened the pizza box, sandwiched two slices together, then dropped the box out the vent. Twisting her wrist, she added the perfect spin so that it sailed through the air and landed between the two vigilantes.
"What the fuck?" The unknown turian spun to look up at her. When he caught sight of the open grate, he started climbing.
"It's a miracle! Pizza from heaven!" the brick shouted, scooping it up. He had half a piece wolfed down before Archangel snatched the box away.
"It could be poisoned, Butler, you idiot." Always the cop, suspicious and wary. It warmed some of the wan chill in her joints to see he hadn't changed all that much. He opened the box and peered inside. "Onions, pepperoni, pineapple, and cheese? Shepard used to …." She held her breath as he ground to a halt, letting it out only when he clamped his jaw shut. After sniffing at the pizza, he passed it back. "It smells all right—for levo crap—but if you're barfing in an hour, don't blame me."
She stared for another second, but then the second turian clambered up onto the level below her. Too close. She sprinted back to the junction, snatched up her duffels and ran, not pausing for breath until she entered the mines. No one could follow her through that maze. Not even Aria.
Garrus. She shook her head, a heavy bolus of sorrow and confusion pressing up into her throat. Panic swirled through her head, confused and dizzy. What was he doing there? He was supposed to be training to be a Spectre. That was the plan.
Staggering into her den, she flopped down on her cot and took a bite of her pizza sandwich, now completely cold. The plan. A long sigh spooled out. If it hiccoughed a little here and there, well, she was … um … choking on the pizza. Yeah. Choking. Definitely not crying.
No, definitely not crying for a plan that had ended in fire a year and a half behind her.