Chapter 1: The Start
Two weeks had passed since Saren, a rogue Spectre, was defeated and Sovereign, the sentient Reaper ship he aligned with, was destroyed. The chaos and full-focused sprint to the final endgame between Command Lakota Shepard's squad and the Reaper scout ship was over. In the aftermath, lies the broken, but still functional Citadel, a massive space station constructed over 50 millennia ago which acts as the political, cultural and financial capital for the galaxy's sentient species. As a nexus of the galactic community's stability, it accurately reflects the galaxy's own bruised and injured state…
"Regalian ale." Lakota Shepard stood at what was left of the Flux bar and pretended to be interested in the amber liquid that was now sitting before her. She had frequented the establishment many times in the past, but this was the first time since the battle with Saren. Somehow or another the bar managed to avoid major damage during the Citadel attack, so its doors were allowed to remain open and become the hot spot for anyone seeking to forget the cares of the day or the troubles of tomorrow. It had not avoided change though. What was once an upscale meeting place for a more regal clientele became a dingy watering hole for anyone with a few creds to burn.
The bar was packed with a conglomeration of Citadel and non-Citadel members. At this point, everyone - regardless of race - was looking to escape the heaviness of the space station's near annihilation. Amidst bustling energy and thick sounds, the place was illuminated with a kaleidoscopic spectrum of ever shifting colors that followed the pulse of the dance music. Ceiling mounted fog machines billowed hazy clouds down upon the dancing masses, which then crept along the outlining floor like an ethereal mist. This combination of fog and light added a surreal feeling to the restless space giving it an otherworldly sensation.
The latest techno mix thumped through the bar like a war drum making tabletops shake and the liquid in Lakota's glass ripple. The enthralling, heavy base beat seemed to reverberate through the prismatic, hazy air and stimulate the very core of the commander. She loved to dance and the rhythmic cadence was like a siren call to the primal energy found only on the dance floor. But tonight was not a social outing. Tonight, Lakota was meeting a contact who had valuable information, and they were late. This only meant one thing to the Spectre: the contact was not coming. Unobtrusively scanning the bar, she noticed a scene that looked out of place: a table with four male humans. It caught her discerning eye for a reason.
Earlier in the day, she received an unexpected dispatch from the C-Sec detective, Chellick. It was repayment for help she'd given him a few months ago while he was investigating illegal arms trading. His message contained a request to meet him along with a recent image of some Tenth Street Reds members on the Citadel. One of figures was Tomas Finch, a man who threatened to reveal her past affiliation with the Reds, so she, in turn, threatened to end his life. Finch ran, saying he would never return. Apparently, the definition of "never" was open to interpretation. Tonight, she planned on indoctrinating her own definition of the word into the man.
At the table with the four humans sat Mario Torres. She recognized him from the image Chellick sent. The other men were dressed similarly which led Lakota to believe they were all, most likely, members of the Reds. They would have answers about Finch's whereabouts. Although Chellick was a no-show, she was not going to waste her night out.
She scanned over the crowded bar while she waited for an opportunity to make a move. The bar was packed tightly with a diverse crowd. Chora's Den had shutdown from damage acquired during the attack on the Citadel leaving the Flux as the only decent and official establishment still open. People needed a refuge from the everyday life that had gotten more difficult since the battle.
Even though the bar was teeming with patrons, nobody looked twice at Commander Lakota Shepard. No one seemed to recognize the first human Spectre, the "Savior of the Citadel", wandering among them, but she planned it that way. She learned long ago the value of hiding in plain sight.
Her raven-black hair, normally pulled back into her characteristic pony-tail, was worn down. Every morning Lakota made a conscious choice to pull her hair back, so she would have the ability to change her look with one swift move: letting her hair fall to the shoulders. It was a drastic change of appearance, if you had never witnessed it before. And recently, Liara T'Soni was the only one who had been privy to such a sight.
In place of her Mercenary armor, she wore tight, dark brown leather pants, a rust brown leather tank top and knee-high, brown leather boots to match. Lakota chose these boots specifically for tonight, because although chic, they offered a few hidden features she desired, but more importantly, the heels were sensible. Basically, she could maneuver quickly and efficiently in them if the situation called for it.
On her forearms she wore stylish, ten-inch brown leather bands, which were highlighted in sage green. These, too, had a secondary purpose beyond accenting her wardrobe. Lakota intentionally left her pistol and sniper rifle in her quarters, but she did not enter the evening unarmed. Her dagger, Chaos, was strategically tucked away on the underside of the left armband and throwing knives were safely hidden in the boots and right armband. They were leftover trinkets from her days with the Reds, strictly non-Alliance issue.
The most difficult feature for Lakota to cover-up was her trademark, seven inch scar that cut across her face. But with a creative application of makeup, she was able to make it disappear. If anyone did notice Lakota, it was not because of her rank or title; it was because they noticed a strikingly good-looking human.
Mario and two of his companions got up from the table. The fourth man stayed there, sipping his drink while the others unhurriedly made their way through the crowd toward the exit door. Lakota pushed her untouched drink aside and followed. Casually keeping a discrete distance, she quietly slipped out the door, but did not allow them to get beyond her line of sight. The three were inebriated, and had no apparent concern of being followed, making it that much easier for her to tail them.
The men made their way through the recreational corridors of the Upper Wards and toward the habitation wing of the Bachjret Ward. It was late, so few individuals were in the artificially illuminated passageways. Lakota noticed that the further they travelled away from the Flux, the quieter the corridors became. The Spectre slowed her pace as she approached a corner the three men just passed. Peering around, she caught sight of them talking to a male, human guard stationed in front of the entrance of a habitation room. After a moment, the guard used his ID card to open the door and let the other men in.
Lakota turned the corner and casually walked up to the guard donning her most award winning smile. "Hi."
He was a big man, but didn't look physically fit - he had a bit of a gut and little muscle definition. Lakota assumed he was one of those men who intimidated others by his size, not his fighting skill.
Narrowing his annoyed, brown eyes, the burly guard grumbled, "You've got the wrong place, bitch."
The Spectre rolled her eyes. She wasn't one to easily be intimated… by size or attitude. If the guard noticed her disdain, he showed no sign of it.
Without missing a beat, Lakota shot back a snarky reply. "I need to talk with the three guys who just passed through, so that means I need to go," she pointed her finger at the door, "in there."
"Get lost."
"Listen. We can do this the easy way or… oh, to hell with it."
Lakota stepped up to the doorman and hit him in the throat with the crook of her right hand - between the thumb and forefinger - the two grabbing the trachea in a pincer-like manner after impact. The man who taught her this move called it the Tiger's Mouth Strike. The doorman grunted and attempted to spin away, but the Spectre caught him with a left jab, which landed well, and a right cross, which landed even better.
Disoriented, he stumbled back a step in an attempt at getting some distance between him and his attacker. Panic was in his eyes - he knew he was outmatched and reached for the pistol in his holster.
In one swift movement, Lakota slipped Chaos from the arm sheath with her right hand and bludgeoned the pommel into the guard's nose. Surprise was on her side, as he instinctively covered his broken nose with both hands and her left fist landed a solid jab in his solar plexus. He exhaled with a kind of snort and doubled over as blood spilled out of his nose. Unable to catch his breath because of the punch to his sternum, his breathing came in short, hitched gasps from his mouth. A millisecond later when Chaos' hilt slammed down on the back of his head, the guard fell to his knees. The coup de grâce came next. Lakota's knee connected with the temporal area of his cranium, which finally knocked him out cold.
Sheathing the dagger, Lakota dragged the guard down the hallway discarding him behind some storage crates. She propped him in a sitting position so the blood from his broken nose wouldn't choke him, patted his head as if to say, "sweet dreams, asshole" and then took his ID card and pistol, holstering it in her belt behind her back.
Lakota headed back to the door and used the newly acquired ID card to gain entry. The doors slid open with a soft mechanical swoosh and she cautiously stepped into the small main foyer of a dingy, three bedroom apartment. The three men she had followed were twenty feet away, standing around a figure who was strapped into a chair. Although a fourth man was positioned in front of the chair, obscuring Lakota's view, she could tell the sitting figure was a turian.
The human standing to the right of the chair had both of his hands on the turian's shoulders, as if keeping the bound figure's head upright. The man had a stocky frame, but wore loose, oversized clothes which made him look unkempt and frumpy. A tribal tattoo ran down his shaved head like a mohawk, which only added to the scruffy appearance.
The man standing behind the chair was completely opposite. He was tall, lanky with a full head of curly, shoulder-length red hair and a clean shaven, baby face which made him look ten years young than his true age. The khakis and maroon, short-sleeved button down shirt fit as though they had been tailored and even his black shoes were shined. The only thing that deterred from the trendy image was the pipe he held in his hand which he used to intermittently tap on the turian's head.
To the left of the chair stood Mario Torres who was a blend of the other two - short cropped black hair, medium height and build, but with a well maintained goatee. The dark red polo shirt contrasted well with the black dress pants, although the white shoes on his feet were a bit of an eye-sore.
"Larry, Moe and Curly," Lakota thought to herself.
The forth man spun around giving Lakota her first clear sight of him and the turian strapped in the chair. The human looked both mean and strong. He wore crimson t-shirt that looked two sizes too small and every muscle in his chest and arms seemed to threaten to rip the fabric. He trimmed his hair short like a marine and left a permanent five o'clock shadow on his jaw line, so his whole head had the same length of hair. He had a thick, dark uni-brow and small, beady eyes which seemed to make him look even uglier when he focused on Lakota.
As for the turian, even though his face was a bloodied mess, she recognized him: Chellick.
In the span of time it took for the four men to see an unarmed woman walking into the room, Lakota had narrowed her eyes menacingly and formulated a plan of action.
"Who the fuck are you?" yelled the one with the tattooed head. "How the hell did you get in here?"
"Your friend," Lakota nodded in the direction of the door, "let me in. It seems I'm late for the party though."
If Chellick was conscious or recognized Lakota, he made no indication of it.
"I didn't catch your name." The strong, ugly one picked up a pipe off the table and advanced upon Lakota.
"That's because I didn't give it." Surprise was on Lakota's side as she brandished the gun from behind her back. "Now back off before things get messy."
The ugly one smiled which did nothing to improve his appearance. He continued to walk toward the Spectre. "You ain't going to shoot nobody, darlin'. You ain't got it in ya."
Lakota rolled her eyes. "I see your looks aren't the only thing that's lacking." She fired the gun once.
The burly man stopped and looked at his shoulder. "You fucking shot me!"
"Yes, I did."
"You fucking shot me in the shoulder!" He seemed more indignant that he'd been shot, than concerned by the blood running down his arm.
"We've already established that fact. Now don't be stupid. Back off, before I do it again."
"You can't take all of us out at once, bitch! Get 'er boys!" All four men charged.
Lakota calmly fired three, successive head shots. Each one remorselessly took out its target. To no one in particular she mumbled, "Why do they always have to be stupid?"
Mario Torres was the only man standing. He quickly looked around at his fallen comrades, plaintively looked at the woman with the gun and raised his hands in the air.
"On your knees, Mario. Hands behind your head, fingers laced, and legs crossed." For extra incentive, Lakota pointed the gun at him and shouted, "NOW!"
The human quickly complied with the Spectre's instructions.
With the other three humans down, Lakota crossed the room and checked each of the bedrooms - the gun always pointed at the trembling man kneeling on the floor. Confident the apartment was secure, she moved over to the table and verified Chellick's semi-conscious form. He was battered, but nothing looked broken. Then again, she was no expert on turian physiology. More importantly, after glancing at the table littered with various instruments of torture, she was just glad he was alive.
"I'm only going to ask you this once, Mario. Where's Finch?"
"Oh my god, oh my god," whimpered the man. "I'll tell you anything. Please don't kill me."
To Lakota, it looked like the man wanted to curl up in the fetal position and cry. Sighing heavily, she said, "Tell me what I want to know and I won't need to kill you."
"I don't know any Finch. I've never heard of him."
Lakota pressed the warm barrel of the gun to the man's forehead. "Think very carefully before you answer my next question, Mario. They could be your last words."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck… I don't know. I swear! I don't know him!" Mario was trembling so hard that his hands had trouble staying woven together.
"Where can I find someone who does know?"
"Oh shit. Oh, man. Please don't ask me that. They'll kill me."
"And I won't?" The Spectre's hand grabbed the man's hair and forced him to look at his fallen comrades.
"Okay… okay… But don't tell them I told you."
"You have my word. Now where can I find them?"
"They'll be in 'Las Catacumbas'."
"Las Catacumbas? Where the hell is that, Mario?"
"I don't know! I've never been there. I just heard Moreno talk about it."
"Who's Moreno?"
With his head, Mario motioned to the big, ugly dead man.
Irritated, Lakota threatened, "If I find out you're lying to me…"
The kneeling man bent over so his forehead touched the ground and cried, "I swear! I swear! Te lo juro por Dios!"
Lakota heard the tearing sound of metal as a human silhouette, haloed in blue biotic energy, flew past. She only got quick look, but recognized him as the fourth man at the table in the Flux. His body landed with a deadened thud and she quickly swung around to the apartment entrance, pistol leading the way.
A familiar figure walked through the door, causing a mischievous smile to grace Lakota's face. Pointing her gun back to the confused, quivering human kneeling on the floor, she happily intoned, "Wrex."
"Shepard," was the deep tenor response from the krogan battlemaster.
Raising a questioning eyebrow, the commander said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell are you doing here?"
Wrex nodded in the direction of the human torpedo. "Looked like you could use someone watching your back."
"Yeah… thanks for that, but how did you find me?"
"Your asari scientist."
"Liara? She asked you to stop me?"
"No. She knew I was bored and pointed out that trouble always has a way of finding you."
Lakota chuckled. "Did she?"
"Yes. She's shrewd." Wrex looked around at the dead men lying on the floor. "…and knows you well."
"Hey, you know some of the shadier parts of the Citadel… have you ever heard of a place called Las Catacumbas?"
"The place where humans go to feel superior?"
"That sounds like the place. Know how to get us in there?"
"I've worked with someone who would know."
"Oh?" Curiosity got the best of the Spectre. "Krogan?"
"Asari."
"Would she remember you?"
"She would."
"Fondly?" smirked Lakota.
"No."
"You know where to find her?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The krogan nodded his head. "What about the quivering mass of hysteria at your feet?"
Lakota looked at Mario. "I'll turn him into C-Sec. First though, I need to get help for Chellick."
"Didn't you get that turian out of a bind with some illegal arms investigation?"
"Yep. The one and the same."
"And now you saved him from some human zealots."
Lakota shrugged her shoulders. "What can I say, I'm a helper."
Wrex nodded his head again. "What's your plan?"
"I'm making it up as I go. So… you ready to alleviate your boredom, Wrex?"
The krogan's eyes turned into what people who knew would call amused. "Lead the way, Shepard."
Next Chapter: The Lead