All Mass Effect characters, plot and situations belong to Bioware and EA. Original dialogue and situations belong to me. Thanks to Bioware for such a fantastic game, story, and to you for reading!
Breathe.
He closed both sets of eyelids for a brief moment, calming himself, preparing for what lay ahead; his final mission. He was ready to die.
He ran through the same checks that he had done dozens of times before. He didn't need to think about it, it was all automatic. Sniper rifle loaded, ammo full, barrel unobstructed, backup SMG ready, harness secure. His target wasn't going to see another sunrise. Ready, he folded his hands, bowing his head for a moment,
"Amonkira, lord of hunters," he began, voice barely above a whisper, "Grant that my hand be steady, my aim be true, and my feet swift. And should I be successful, grant me forgiveness." It was a prayer that he had repeated many times before, each remembered with the perfect clarity that only his species could have. He appealed to one of the old Gods of his people, one whom many had abandoned, but who held special meaning to a killer such as himself. He did not pray because he was afraid he would not succeed; he had been trained for this one purpose since he was six years old, killing since six years after that. He prayed because he needed to: no matter that the woman he was to kill was a killer herself, no matter that his body was simply the tool being used by another to bring about her end, he was about to take a sentient life, and so he asked for forgiveness.
His brief moment of silence ended, he looked up, and steeled himself against feeling. This, too, was part of his ritual, bringing himself from person – whole, thinking, feeling – to body – hard, unyielding, instinctual. He looked over the shipping crate behind which he had paused to ready himself. The door to the tower he was preparing to enter did not appear to be guarded, and even if it had been, no mercenary would have seen the pair of inky black eyes watching them through the dying evening light. Besides, this tower was still under construction, and so was not nearly under the same scrutiny as the one it stood beside. It should have been though. The two structures were connected, over one hundred floors up, by a bridge. It was as of yet uncovered, open to the elements and whipped by constant wind, but it was a way across nonetheless. His target would be in her office, in the penthouse of the completed tower, and reaching her through this second skyscraper would be significantly easier than fighting through the dozens of mercenaries she employed to guard her in the first tower. He knew that he would encounter resistance; he counted on it. That was his reason for choosing this mission, to encounter resistance, but he didn't expect to be overwhelmed by it until after his target had been eliminated.
He stood, adjusting his holstered weapons one last time, and slipped into the shadows surrounding the building. His week-long surveillance of Dantius Towers had given him intimate knowledge of the comings and goings, and he knew he would reach the nearest air vent without trouble. He passed through the doors and turned left, the map clear in his mind, his route chosen after a careful look at blueprints obtained during a previous night's work. Six paces in, look up to the left, approximately 42 centimetres above his head, a ventilation panel. The magnetic screws holding it in place were already loose, not through his own work but in order to facilitate easy access by the various Salarian maintenance crews still at work on the complicated ductwork that ran throughout the tower. He removed three of the screws, turning the vent cover so it hung by the remaining corner, and pulled himself up with a strength bellied by his lithe, slim figure. If he had been concerned with covering his tracks, he would have pulled the grille back into place, fastening it with a spray of adhesive, but tonight he didn't care about not getting caught, as long as he made it to his target first.
His target… Nassana Dantius. CEO of a multi-trillion credit corporation, with a heart as black and empty as the void. She had started her rise to the top following the convenient death of her business rival several decades ago. Two years previous she had arranged for her younger sister, Dahlia, to be killed, following Dahlia's attempts to blackmail her, though it wasn't common knowledge that Dahlia, a pirate wanted for a variety of crimes, was related to Nassana at all. Those who had been unfortunate enough to be privy to that secret had also met their ends. Whatever it took to defend her reputation, Nassana did it. He was certain that he was not the first assassin to come after her, but he would obviously be the only successful one. She was paranoid, though not without reason, and kept herself constantly surrounded by a personal bodyguard made up of mercenaries from the elite Eclipse group. He knew that it was only a matter of time until his presence was detected, and he would have to start fighting his way up. Fortunately, the alarm system hadn't proven to be too difficult for him to deal with, so he had some time before things got complicated.
He liked complicated.
It wasn't that he was heartless. On the contrary, heart had been a motivator for some of the deaths that he had caused, but he had to admit that there was a high that he got from a successful job. The Hanar, the race who had trained him for this work, had given him a purpose, honed him into an instrument of death, and he was the best at what he did. They were a polite, religious, physically frail people, incapable of performing the type of task to which he was so well suited. His family had been honored to give him up to the Compact, the centuries-old agreement between his species and theirs that had saved his kind from extinction, and he did not once resent his place. His eyes took on a far-away gaze for a moment as he lapsed suddenly into the powerful memory recall unique to his race. Hands, gripping the rifle, holding a breath to take the shot – synthetic target recoiling with the impact of a bullet – "This one is impressed with the Drell's progress." He blinked, back in reality. His first time with a real weapon. He remembered it perfectly; he remembered everything perfectly. The Drell possessed eidetic memories. He could not afford to waste time reminiscing though, he had a job to do.