Author's Note: This story is different. Instead of one continuous narrative told from chapter to chapter, this story is a collection of smaller tales (or short stories, if you prefer) that span the lifetime of a single location: a bar. The stories range in genre and perspective as well as time, so pay attention to the dates at the beginning of each story. If you enjoy the stories, feel free to follow, favourite, or review. It's not mandatory, but I always appreciate hearing what I did well and what I can improve on. This story is a good one to start the collection with, setting the tone of remembrance and the past to a noir/jazzy vibe.

I do not own Mass Effect or its respective universe. Though the plot, characters, ideas, and setting may be mine, I forfeit them to Bioware. This is their universe and I treat this work as only an extension of such.

The Sign Above the Door

15th of September, Galactic Date: 2183

There is a saxophone singing its song somewhere. Its pitch low, its tone mellow. Rain patters across the streets. I am alone. With only the sax singing its lonesome tune.

The frigid nights on Illium are often the worst. It's cold in the nether regions of the mega city Nos Astra. Low lights, low traffic, low life. I consider myself none of these, then again maybe that's why everyone considers me all of them. Maybe it's because people feel so small down here under the gasping skylines above. "We are as small as ants," is what humans like to say. I'm an asari, so I really don't know what an 'ant' is. But whatever an ant is, I'm definitely it.

It's cold and I bring my jacket tight against my body. Frigid temperatures rarely are much trouble for asari; I guess that can be explained by my father being a drell. In the end, whether my other mother was asari or not, I'm cold blooded through and through. I'm soaked by now, straight to the bone as another human idiom goes. I have neither hat nor a hood for my head. The soft pattering of rain smacks against my cranium and runs deep grooves down my face; water that turns to rivers of cleansing. Humans say that when a person is ready to confess their sins it will rain frogs, at the same time people say raining frogs represents that something abnormal is about to happen. Whatever the meaning of the phrase is, it makes no sense. How could the sky rain frogs? The thought is bizarre, especially to a half-drell.

So here I am, in my 'natural habitat' as a lowlife asshole might call me if they found out my lineage. I'm on the side of the road and it's raining cats and dogs, not literally, just another idiom. There are lamp posts I swear come from a photo album of a lovely couple who claimed they were dressing up like the 1920's. Tacky, tacky, tacky. Still, lovely smile; they seemed happy.

It's colder than I thought and I decide to rub my hands against my upper arms. No effect. Well of course not, there is not logical reason for heat to be generated! Heat does not pass through the skin quicker by rubbing furiously. Still, I rub my appendages again, just to be safe.

The man playing the sax is in a black leather jacket. He is under a ledge pouring water down in front of him like a waterfall. It is thick yet you can see through it, almost like frosted glass. Everything is so lucid. I can experience everything. The feel of water pounding on my arms, the smell of gas hanging in the air, and the taste of musk fresh off the street from the rain. Everything is so tired and worn, yet all new to me. This district of the city had not seen some crowds in a few years.

All this jazz and rain tugged at my heart and threw the heat from my body. With quick steps I crossed the road, no cars so I did not have to check. I huddle under the balcony with Mr. Saxophone. The soft sound coming from the instrument makes me dizzy, relaxed, and talkative. Warmth and comfort was what I needed then, not some old geezer who blew a horn and made me feel 'fuzzies'. Light breaks through the glass behind me, shining its luminous qualities on my hardened soul. They say blues and a hot coffee is the cure for a cold heart. They say a lot of things, don't they?

But eventually I enter the old cafe. The sign above the balcony reads Moonshine Cafe. Moonshine, what a ridiculous name, someone ought to change it. The carpet is velvet and the seats are plush. Far into the back are the embers of a dead fire. The whole atmosphere is dense with character, just how I like it. Stories upon stories wrapped up in a clean and crystal shell. In the end aren't we all just stories?

I sniff my clouded nose and find a slight waft of cigarette. Damn, what I would give for a fag. They say that nicotine patches are the way to go nowadays. No harmful effects to the lungs or to the heart, just higher blood pressure due to some of the chemicals in the pouch. "But really," they reason, "who doesn't have high blood pressure nowadays?"

I counter with my own reasoning: There is nothing like holding a cigarette between two fingers. The slow burn of the fire and the embers that light and fade downward when you tap the end slowly. Goddess, thinking of it just makes me want one now. Damn humans and their enticing drugs.

I shudder once more; the heat from the cafe dries my head, but not my clothes. I am soaking wet, a wet dog, like a drowned rat, like . . . like . . . dammit! I stomp my foot on the floor and alert the bartender cleaning some glasses, 'cause what else do they do with their lives?

He signals me over.

I turn away.

His voice is the next sound in the room besides the pouring rain outside and my own breathing.

I deny it.

He insists.

I give in 'cause I'm cold, weak, and tired. They say asari are easy prey for sexual predators. That's not true. We are only easy for those who have a warm fire and some hot drinks. From his hands flash a mug and he taps the side with his other hand expectantly. I nod. "Yes please," is my answer. Though by the time I had said it he was already to the coffee maker and I knew my action had done the job. So I sit there and rub my arms some more.

He comes back with a steaming cup of coffee. It is black and thick like molasses. I look to him expectantly and he nods. A cup of milk and sugar is brought to me. I take the milk, not the sugar. Don't want my blood pressure too high.

I sit there with him cleaning glasses before me. The rain pattering outside. The old man with the saxophone. Everything is quiet, peaceful, serene. He is the first to make conversation and I am glad till I hear the words, "So, what are you here for?"

I look to him curiously. Is this human crazy? His hair is brown, almost the colour of my coffee, maybe a bit lighter. The hair itself is not too long, yet not too short. It is that awkward in between phase where you can't politely complement him, but can't disregard him for a hooligan you find in the streets. Hooligan, more beautiful human diction! "Why, you ask?" I reply monotone. Softly I blow on the coffee and take a tantalizing sip. It is a bit hot and yet I savor the burning sensation in my mouth. It beats the cold aching of my bones. My gaze returns from the coffee to his face. He is smiling.

"Everyone has a reason for being here," he says with a thick American accent. I've met enough humans to know what country on Earth each came from - his accent is like a New Yorkers. "The real challenge," he begins again with a grin as he picks up another glass to be washed, "is finding out what that is."

My head tilts and he laughs slightly. It has a joyous ring to it, not similar to the brooding dark laughs of the humans I passed in the streets outside. The sound is . . . inviting; dare I say, real. There are no strings attached (again, to use another human idiom), no bells or whistles to distract you from himself. It is simple and blunt, happy and peaceful. He was generally amused.

My prolonged silence seems to jar him and he quickly hastened to make an apology. I, at the same time, said it was all fine and we ended up talking over one another. The end result? We both burst into laughter.

The door creaked open and Mr. Saxophone walked in. He shook himself and his instrument from water, though I really did not know how he was so drenched from being under cover. The bartender looked to him and grinned boyishly. "Oh, Hank, the playin' has been getting better? How are the tips?"

Mr. Saxophone blows his nose into a handkerchief that is surprisingly dry, counter to his soaked exterior. "Oh," he starts with a rough voice, "same as always. I could ask you the same thing Tim!" He blows his horn once more into the handkerchief. I cannot help but wonder how much of a pain his pure white beard must be. Being an asari does have some advantages after all.

From the bartender named Tim, to Mr. Saxophone who is apparently named Hank, I am lost. I feel distanced from the conversation and the world. I am not surprised in the slightest as I slowly sip my drink. It is warm and bitter.

I hear Tim's voice. "You can set up your instrument Hank, I have no doubt it'll sound marvelous."

"No, I couldn't bother you with—"

"No bother, my friend." The tone is sincere and from that tone replied the mellow sound of the sax. Its smooth and crisp notes all harmonized and placed together in a line. Each note is accented and drawn out, prolonging its sad – no . . . battered song. I use that word for the song seems used and worn. Heh, aren't we all?

I look up from my steaming drink to meet the eyes of the young Tim. No beard or facial hair of any kind on his face. But long dark streaks of brown on his exposed forearms. His white shirt accents his tanned skin perfectly, yet his eyes are bright green, bizarre and strange. "You know something?" I ask after a silence.

"What is that?"

"I know your name and you still don't know mine."

A grin widens. "I bet you're pretty proud of that."

"For a man as popular as yourself? You bet I am." He chuckles lightly and presses a wine glass down a few feet from my face. Another glass is picked up and is dried lightly. Those hands, so big yet so gentle with the glassware. A strange man this human is.

A few more glasses are dried and then placed on a tray. The bartender takes them and places them underneath a shelf a few inches from the wine. The human then gets up and lets his fingers drift around the booze. He shakes his head and gets himself a mug, obviously decided on the drink I so frivolously looked into. He returns with coffee black as mud and drinks it wordlessly. I cannot fathom how someone could drink black coffee, so bland and tasteless. Bitter, oh goddess how bitter it would be! I sort of envied him; he must have had iron taste buds.

"So?" he asks finally after a long sip. The cold prick of the rain has not left my body.

"So?" I reply sarcastically, taking my own sip.

A smile. "Your name." He pauses with a free finger from his right hand pressing against his lower lip as he looks to the ceiling. His left holds the cup in front of himself. "I think you were about to tell me your name."

Oh, that thing. "Sarnia T'Hypola," I remark softly. My names seem foreign, even to me. Maybe that's because I've been around human culture for so long. I'm sick of all of it. I take another douse of my coffee, it is nearly finished. My bartender notices this.

"And your story?" I feel like I'm in therapy.

"Why the hell would you care?" I ask bitterly. My hands wrap around the coffee tightly, gripping it like a lifeline. "I am nothing to someone like you; you don't care about my life or even that saxophonist's life. You humans are all the same: egotistical and stuck up your ass." I look into the coffee and see my dim reflection; I feel as used and dirty as this cup. My face grimaces as I press my teeth tightly together.

His eyes soften as he places his own cup on the table near mine. His human hands inch towards my blue. Once close enough his hands touch mine, softly grasping them with comfort and warmth. "Who hurt you Sarnia?" This question is kinder than the rest; I feel like I'm witnessing something no one has seen before. The sax in the background picks a new song, something that should be played beside a roaring fireplace in my opinion.

I take my hands from his and rub them together. I am shy, as is my nature, and do not want to feel emotion. "Got dumped this morning. Some human ass had another girl he was seeing. Saw them on the bed together." His eyes are soft, luminous orbs and his hands go out to mine again. This time I do not pull back. "You can understand my trepidation with human males right now."

The bartender, no, Tim looks at me and shrugs. "Human males are not better or worse than any other male. I guess in your culture you are graced, or maybe even cursed, with not having male dominant figures." How dare he? This comment is too much but my hands do not move. Part of me wants to storm out, yet another wants to hear his side of the story. I internally growl, even now I cannot escape the human idioms that plague the galaxy's language. "What I mean to say," he reflects, this time choosing his wording more carefully, "is that everyone is different. You may not have experienced the pains of people taking advantage of you." He looks down into his own coffee, this man who has more secrets that the wealthiest stripper. "That's why you're here I guess; this is a safe place. You should feel no worry here."

His words should make me run off, fly away. Yet it kept me firm. I look to him and give a soft smile. Oh, how I have fallen for another human's charms! But what am I with love? A failure. I give myself over completely: learn all the idioms and tricks of the language to better communicate. Cook and clean, smile and joke. All for what? Seeing someone else in my bed?

We stay there for a few minutes, but they feel like seconds. I have unloaded my baggage like the clouds unload the rain. Illium, the city in darkness, the bright lights that shine on forever. His hands retract from mine finally and I find that I miss them slightly. He goes to his coffee and sips slowly, looking like he is savoring his drink. I do the same to mine and we enter a prolonged silence, neither person willing to speak.

Soon the cup is finished and I lay it on the table. I wipe my lip with the back of my hand and though it is considered 'unladylike' in human culture, I do it anyway. No longer do I feel chained. My coat is dried now and the embers of the song dwindle as I nod my head towards Mr. Saxophone and the bartender. I slowly exit my seat and start towards the door, the voice of Tim turns me around though.

"Hey you!" he shouts, I turn and give him a soft smile.

"Hey you," I reply.

"It can get lonely some nights when there is no one around. You live near here?" I nod, not sure where Tim is taking the thought. "If you ever feel like having some company then why don't you hop on over? I'd be glad to talk to you some more." Though the words could be interpreted as trying to get more customers, I feel the warmth that emanates from the tone and realize the sincerity behind it.

I look from him to the rain outside. The sax in the background, to night swiftly leaving the city of lights. I grin as I look back to his face. "I'd be glad to return." He nods his head with a grin and I do the same with mine. The door opens and I brace my coat against the wind and rain, the saxophone's song now only coal. One breath in and I am thrust outside into water that cools my scolding body.

It is raining frogs.