The only bar on the Presidium went quiet; it was late, long past closing time, and the hustle and bustle of incoming and outgoing ambassadors, embassy workers and military personnel had long left the place. The lone patron of this ritzy establishment, cloaked in shadow and smoke, sequestered himself in a corner booth, far from the bar but near a door that led out onto the balcony. He preferred it this way: alone, hidden in plain view, away from the action but close to an exit.
With a glass of scotch and a cigar for company, he skimmed the most important details of a long winded file relayed to his personal data-pad by Alliance HQ.
Thirty-one. Biotic. Above average technician. Never lost a soldier.
He tilted his head back, gulped down what was left of his scotch on the rocks before rolling the smoldering tip of his cigar on the edge of a nearby ashtray. He activated his omni-tool, a yellow-orange hologram surrounding his forearm, and opened a direct line to the SSV Normandy.
"This guy as efficient as he reads?"
The reply, garbled by static, came quick and certain.
"Yes. Surgically so."
"Then forward your position to my omni-tool. I need to meet this guy in person."