Disclaimer: Mass Effect and its related characters are the property of BioWare and Electronic Arts. I do not own any part of Mass Effect in any way. The following was written solely for the enjoyment of my readers and myself.

Murder on the Citadel

Chapter One

The Citadel, Lower Wards

Chora's Den was, as usual, bustling. The small, poorly lit club was packed to the brim with beings looking to have a few drinks, watch the dancers, and forget about the drudgeries of life for a few hours. Merchants, travelers, off-duty C-Sec officers, and many others occupied the central bar and the small booths lining the club's walls. It didn't matter whether you were turian, human, or krogan; as long as you had credits, you were welcome there.

On a normal night, the supple grace of the asari dancers would enthrall every being in the club. However, on this night, even they could not capture the attention of Michael Armstrong.

Armstrong's gaze was directed straight down, the blue-red lights of the Den dimming his verdant eyes as they stared into the untouched glass of elasa in front of him. It had been some time since Maakwa, the volus bartender, had served Armstrong his drink, and still the human had not reached for it.

Lost in his own thoughts, Armstrong was startled by the slap of a hand on his back.

"Hey, what's the problem, buddy?" inquired the human seated next to him. He was dark skinned, a few years younger than Armstrong, and looked as if he had already consumed more than his fair share of Maakwa's finest. "That stuff's not going to drink itself, you know."

Armstrong mumbled an apology and shrugged his shoulders in an ineffective attempt to dislodge the offending man's arm.

"Come on, you're in Chora's Den," the other man continued. "Lighten up!" He finally removed his arm from Armstrong's shoulders and lifted his own glass to his lips. "So what brings you down here, anyway?"

"I'm celebrating an anniversary," Armstrong replied impassively, his eyes riveted to his glass of elasa.

"No kidding?" The drunken man grinned sloppily and lifted his drink in salute. "Happy tidings, my friend, and here's to many more!" He downed the remainder of his beverage and then slammed the empty container down on the surface of the bar.

Seated next to Armstrong's new friend was another human, who rolled his eyes at his associate's behavior. "You're an ass, Jefferson," he remarked. "Don't you know what day this is? It's the tenth anniversary of the fall of Mindoir."

Jefferson blinked stupidly at his friend and then turned to look at Armstrong, his dark eyes widening as realization hit him. "Oh. Hey, I'm real sorry, pal. I didn't—I mean, I had no idea..."

"No," Armstrong interjected. "You didn't." For the first time since he'd sat down, he looked away from his drink, his green eyes flicking to his right so he could take in Jefferson and the other man. They were both dressed in smart, crisp robes befitting diplomats. If Armstrong were to guess, he'd say that they were assistants to Ambassador Thiéry, the Systems Alliance's representative to the Citadel Council.

Jefferson continued to stumble over his own tongue in an attempt to apologize, and Armstrong looked past him to the other man. "Maybe you should make sure he gets home safely," he suggested.

Jefferson's associate nodded in wholehearted agreement. "I think that's a good idea, sir. I apologize for my friend, he doesn't hold his alcohol very well."

"Don't worry about it," said Armstrong. "There's no way either of you could have known."

The pair made a quick exit from Chora's Den, and Armstrong finally picked up his glass of elasa. His eyes scanned the rest of the club, taking in the sight of its less-than-savory clientele. Chora's Den wasn't exactly Armstrong's first choice, but it was either that or the embassy lounge on the Presidium, and he preferred the anonymity afforded to him in the Den. There had been talks of opening a new bar in the Wards, something a bit less sordid than Chora's Den, where a person could get a drink without having to worry about getting his face punched in, but so far, nothing had come of them.

As he looked over the bar, his gaze fell on one of the asari dancers. Her last patron, a turian, had just departed, likely on his way back to his quarters to sleep off the copious amounts of alcohol he had no doubt consumed.

Armstrong froze as he met the asari's eyes. Time seemed to come to a standstill, and the music faded to a distant droning in the back of Armstrong's mind as he and the asari stared across the club at one another. The blue and red lighting gave her soft lavender skin an electric purple tone, which highlighted the markings on her face and the folds of skin covering the top of her head. The corners of her mouth tilted upward in a seductive smile, and then suddenly her clear blue eyes flashed into vast, empty pools of blackness.

Startled, Armstrong finally blinked and looked away. He brought one hand to his forehead and he shook his head, as if he'd just awakened from a dream. When he finally looked to the asari again, he was shocked to find that she had disappeared.

Well, I think that's my cue to leave, Armstrong told himself. He made eye contact with Maakwa and gave him a thankful nod as he got up from his seat and made for the exit. His drink would be charged to an anonymous account, as part of a personal agreement between Armstrong and the volus.

He exited Chora's Den and was immediately relieved as the music dissipated behind the hissing doors. The clicking of his boots echoed in the halls as he made his way down to the nearest elevator. It was late, and by this time, most sensible beings were in their homes, resting up for the next day. The only ones Armstrong expected to see out and about at this time of night were salarians and drunken club goers like Jefferson as they stumbled to find their quarters.

During the lengthy elevator ride, Armstrong found himself thinking back to the captivating asari dancer. He had never been taken with one as he had been with her, and he seriously began to question whether or not he'd actually seen her. She felt more like a figment of Armstrong's imagination than an actual living, breathing person.

His thoughts continued to drift, and he saw Jefferson again, the man's inebriated eyes staring dumbly as he realized what had caused Armstrong's melancholy. The voice of Jefferson's comrade echoed in Armstrong's mind. "Don't you know what day this is? It's the tenth anniversary of the fall of Mindoir."

Armstrong sighed and leaned against the side of the elevator, his eyes closing as he allowed himself to remember.

He had grown up on Mindoir, one of humanity's most successful colonies in the Attican Traverse. While Armstrong had been born on Earth, in the crowded Chicago megalopolis, he was still a boy when his parents decided to settle on Mindoir. He had spent half of his childhood there, but knew early on that the farmer's life was not for him.

When he was eighteen, Armstrong returned to Earth to attend the Systems Alliance Military Academy. He'd originally planned on becoming a Marine, but his test scores instead marked him for fighter pilot training. He had been studying at the Academy for about a year when batarian slavers raided Mindoir. Armstrong's parents, his little brother, and his fiancée were all killed in the attack.

Three years later, Armstrong graduated from the Academy and was assigned to the SSV Charlemagne. Five years of service on the Charlemagne saw him promoted to Staff Lieutenant and squadron leader just in time for the Alliance raid on Torfan, a retaliatory strike against the batarian-led perpetrators of the Skyllian Blitz in 2176. Armstrong relished the opportunity to strike back at the batarians. His squadron was part of the Alliance vanguard, tasked with taking out Torfan's defenses before they could sound the alarm. They were successful, but Armstrong's squadron suffered massive losses. By the time Command had called them back, Armstrong was the only member of his group still flying.

The Charlemagne's CAG, Commander Blair, tried to convince Armstrong that it wasn't his fault, and Armstrong knew she was right. Fighter pilots knew what they were getting themselves into when they signed up. It was a dangerous job, with one of the highest casualty rates in the Alliance Fleet, but that didn't stop Armstrong from blaming himself. The safety of his pilots was more important to Armstrong than anything else; if he'd had to choose between saving his squadron and accomplishing the mission, he would have chosen the former every time.

The assault on Torfan was a resounding success. After suffering heavy losses, the batarians withdrew from Citadel space and back to their home systems, and the Alliance colonies in the Traverse were safe. But the cost in human lives was too high for Armstrong to bear; less than a month later, he'd tendered his resignation and left the military.

While she wasn't happy about losing one of her best pilots, Commander Blair supported Armstrong's decision and did what she could to help him out. She contacted Ambassador Thiéry at the Citadel and recommended Armstrong for a position with Citadel Security. After reviewing Armstrong's service record, Thiéry agreed with Blair, and forwarded Armstrong's name to C-Sec, where he had been working for a little more than a year.

His time with C-Sec thus far had been mostly uneventful. There had been a few minor incidents, but nothing particularly serious. Life on the Citadel was quiet and peaceful, and it was so huge that one could easily lose their self in it. It was the perfect place for anyone who wanted to disappear and get lost in the crowd.

The elevator chimed as it came to a stop, and Armstrong opened his eyes once more. He blinked against the Presidium's simulated sunlight, wondering briefly whose idea it was to keep it that way despite that most of the denizens who populated the Citadel's top level were now asleep. He slipped his hands into his pockets and began the long walk to his apartment, where he would finally crawl into bed and fall asleep, his only respite from his past. Armstrong was certain that he dreamed about Mindoir and Torfan, but he was lucky enough to never remember them.

Before Armstrong could get very far, the stillness was shattered by a piercing cry, a harsh scream of absolute terror that was finally silenced by one loud, final gunshot. Armstrong was off before the echo of the gunshot had faded. Adrenaline pumped through his system, and for a brief moment he felt like he was back in the Academy, being rousted from his bunk by his drill sergeant. He reached behind his back and pulled out the Edge pistol he kept hidden under his jacket, the firearm shifting out of its compact state and into combat mode as Armstrong rushed in the direction of the scream.

He rounded a corner and came upon the body of Jefferson, the drunken embassy worker he'd encountered in Chora's Den. The young man was lying prone on the ground, one hand clutched over his chest as a pool of blood spread beneath him, staining the pristine innocence of the Presidium walkway.

Something flashed in the corner of Armstrong's eye. He spun around to face whatever it was, bringing his pistol to bear. "Freeze!" he yelled out, to no avail. Armstrong couldn't guess who or what the killer was. They were moving too fast and wearing clothing that obscured their physical features.

Following the killer with his eyes, he reoriented his aim and managed to squeeze off one shot just as they were about to escape. He swore as the magnetically propelled bullet missed, and the murderer disappeared.

Armstrong was about to give chase before remembering Jefferson. He checked to make sure the area was clear before moving toward him. The last thing he wanted was to be ambushed by whoever it was that had shot the poor man. Satisfied that the assassin was gone, Armstrong quickly moved to inspect Jefferson, dropping to one knee beside him and placing two fingers over his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.

Nothing. Jefferson was already gone. A quick visual inspection of the body told Armstrong that the bullet that killed Jefferson had ripped right through his heart. Whoever did this was familiar enough with human anatomy to know how to bring down a strong, relatively healthy young man with one shot.

"Don't move!"

Armstrong looked over his shoulder to see a pair of human C-Sec patrolmen standing at the end of the walkway, both with assault rifles aimed directly at him. They both looked fairly young; Armstrong wouldn't have been surprised if they turned out to be rookies out on one of their first patrols.

"Drop your weapon and move away from the body!" ordered the patrolman who hadn't spoken up yet. She looked just as nervous as her partner, however, and Armstrong did as she instructed, slowly setting his pistol down and stepping away from Jefferson.

He turned to face the pair, showing them his weaponless hands. "Listen," he began, speaking slowly and calmly. "My name is Michael Armstrong. I'm with Citadel Security. Let me just show you my identification—"

"Shut up!" the male patrolman yelped. Both he and his partner stepped towards Armstrong, the woman moving to check on Jefferson while the young man kept his weapon trained on Armstrong. Armstrong's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed briefly. These two kids were going to make this whole thing worse than it already was.

"Take it easy," he urged. "Just relax and let me explain—"

"I said shut up!" the patrolman repeated. He grabbed Armstrong, spun him about, and pushed him face-first into the wall. Armstrong grunted with the impact, and the officer quickly began to pat him down.

"Would you just give me a chance to tell you what the hell's going on?" Armstrong demanded, looking back over his shoulder at the officer. He knew he should have been calmer about this, but stumbling on a dead body didn't exactly make one see things clearly.

Thinking that Armstrong was about to attack him, the C-Sec officer panicked and smashed the butt of his rifle into Armstrong's face. Crying out in pain, Armstrong saw stars as he fell to his knees and then collapsed onto the floor, the Presidium swirling around him in a cacophony of color and sound. He heard the officer with Jefferson call for medical assistance, while the officer who had hit Armstrong began reading him his rights, before finally succumbing to oblivion's serene embrace.