Author's note:
This short story is a continuation of Sara's encounter with Sloane Kelly on Kadara. Took liberties with the town/city's name, the turian gang's name and Vetra's personality.
As always, constructive criticism is welcome.
HAADEN PORT
PLANET KADARA
ANDROMEDA GALAXY
~ 2786 CE
"DROP IT, NOW!"
Sara's aim didn't waver. If anything, she wasn't fazed by the fact several guns were leveled at her head. She snarled, putting every ounce of menace she could muster into her voice, narrowing her eyes, "You first."
Kelly didn't blink. Her gun hand remained steady.
Seconds passed.
"Get out," sneered Kelly. "Or I will put you down."
Sara knew a lost cause when she saw one. It was a mistake to come to Kelly in the first place – she had never intended to give up Terev. She sighed. "Fine."
Held the turian's weapon out to him; he took it gingerly. Sara cast one last hateful glance at Kelly, the guns still trained on her. "For what it's worth, you're a disgrace, Kelly."
Sloane Kelly settled back into her throne, the outlaw queen in her element. "I won't repeat myself, Pathfinder. Out."
"Well, I assume the negotiations did not go as planned?" enquired Vetra.
Sara nodded tersely, clamping her weapons back to where they belonged. "We need a new lead. Hear anything?"
Vetra consulted her omnitool. "Well, the crisis specialist is purchasing something at an arms dealer; he may be able to get some info, in exchange for some of our gear."
Sara tightened her fists. They needed equipment to continue their mission, but if sacrificing some of it meant getting wind of Terev's whereabouts, she was ready to authorize it herself.
"The asari, Pelessaria, is doing her usual – how do you humans put it? – "flirty thing". Already she had gotten us some rather interesting artifacts to look at, something that may pique your interest, Pathfinder."
Sara pushed past several human outlaws, earning dirty looks at first which morphed into lecherous ogling as they seized the opportunity to examine her behind. "We're not here for artifacts, Vetra. We're here for Terev, or for the information that he has." Sara's frustration was threatening to boil over – every time it happened, she would get a headache.
Which was happening right now.
"Oh, and the cute human, Jonathan? He's gotten into a duel down by the Tempest."
Sara continued for a few steps before what Vetra said registered. She spun to face the turian. "WHAT?"
Vetra shrugged. "Some of my kin challenged him to a duel. What for, I do not know. But if we hurry we may be able to catch it."
Sara's headache intensified; she rubbed her forehead. Closed her eyes. Dammit, Jon.
"Vetra, lead the way. I have a bad feeling about this."
All manner of crooks and knaves lined the central square where they'd passed on the way to Kelly's stronghold; Vetra's tall form helped part the crowd, Sara following close behind, her sidearm ready to spring into her hand. For all the good it would do; she and Vetra are outnumbered at least fifty to one. She's truly in the lion's den, and the lions were roaring for blood.
Kinetic barriers have been set up in a rough rectangle in the middle of the square, roughly the size of a t-ball court, back in the day when humans still played t-ball. The barriers glowed bright blue, casting its hue onto the first few rows of spectators. The noise was overwhelming; bets were being placed, shouted in human, asari, turian, and other languages Sara was unable to place her finger on.
Jon and a turian were inside, staring each other down.
"Ah, someone's got his reputation on the line," commented Vetra. "A turian barrier room duel."
Sara barely heard Vetra, eyes on Jon. His stance was wide, arms out to his sides, palms up. His body language suggested he was relaxed, as though it was casual dialogue he was about to engage in. His titanium blade, strapped to his right thigh, drew boos from the crowd, mostly from the turians.
"What are they yelling about, Vetra? They seem to be displeased with Jon's weapon."
Vetra tossed a few credits into the passing pot, suspended by a drone. She ignored Sara's glare coolly. "I'm rooting for Jonathan, Pathfinder. But, to answer your question, we turians, when challenged to a hand-to-hand barrier room duel, would prefer the mexta, a turian sword. Jon's shorter knife suggest he would… "fight dirty", as you would put it. In any case, Jonathan's opponent is armed with a weapon with a longer reach that his own. This should make for an interesting duel."
Sara bit back a remark at Vetra's callousness, examining Jon's turian opponent. He looked young, but was taller than Jon by about the length of a human hand. He wore the armor of the Blue Claws, three blue stripes painted across his face. His body language suggested he was nervous about this; he shifted every few seconds, arms tense, mexta hanging loosely off his left hip, eyes darting to the crowd, up, down, left, right.
Suddenly, Sara was certain Jon would win this duel. The turian was too jittery, too nervous. Jon was completely the opposite; he seemed quietly confident.
That thought scared her. What could cause Jon to be so unafraid in a situation like this?
"They're about to lower the barrier," intoned Vetra.
The crowd fell silent, voices fading away. Another Blue Claw, outside the barriers, raised an hand and stabbed down on his omnitool with a finger.
The four barrier walls surrounding the duelists stayed up. The one separating them shimmered, then disappeared.
The turian drew his mexta and lunged forward in the same motion; to Sara, it was as lightning, the speed at which he moved. The mexta blade caught the cool blue light, the turian's eyes glancing at it briefly, as it stabbed right towards –
Empty space. The turian made the mistake of turning his head to the side, surprised to find his target gone, thinking Jon had moved behind him.
He was correct partially – Jon did move. But not in the direction he anticipated. Jon merely ducked. Down.
The turian cried out in pain as Jon pushed up off the ground, whipping his knife across the turian's outstretched thigh. Dark blue blood spattered the dirt.
Jon turned slowly, flicked his wrist, flicking the blood off his knife, twirled it. His gaze was unsettling; it was piercing, a look that Sara had never seen before, stabbing the turian with a coldness that was palpable even from this distance.
Several humans in the crowd made sounds of admiration. This one was skilled.
The turian grunted in pain, hefting his mexta in both hands. Turned to face Jon.
"In a first-strike battle, they would have concluded the match by now," said Vetra, crossing her arms. "The fact they're still fighting means they intend to fight to the death."
The words chilled Sara, an icy fist closing around her heart. "Death," she whispered. She closed her eyes. "Dammit, Jon. Dammit."
Jon waited, his knife out. The turian's eyes flicked to it, flicked back to Jon.
The seconds went by.
The turian lost the waiting game. He bellowed, raised his mexta and charged, leaving blue blood in his wake.
The mexta arced. Sparks as Jon parried it with his knife, once, twice, light on his feet, all but dancing around the turian, the turian too slow to follow Jon's erratic patterns. He would dodge to one side, then actually turn into the turian's attack, parrying, then suddenly back off, circling the turian once more, then move in for a strike – no, he ducked under the scything blade, tossed his knife to his other hand, and stabbed the turian in the belly, sliding the blade into a chink between the armor and the underarmor.
The crowd was silent. The turian was panting hard now; the thigh wound was slowing him down, and now he was losing blood from the stab in the belly. Jon's gaze remained hard as he tossed the knife from one hand to the other, never missing a beat.
It occurred to Sara that Jon was toying with the turian.
Jon didn't wait this time; he initiated the charge. The turian brought his mexta up to block, keeping his eyes on Jon, learning from his lesson. Jon ducked under the mexta, anticipating a swipe –
He tumbled, knife clattering away. The turian had changed the direction of his mexta at the last moment, and Jon had cut himself on the turian blade. He pushed himself up, retrieved his blade. Red blood was dribbling down his arm. It didn't seem to bother him.
He smiled at the turian.
The turian charged. Jon kept smiling, up until the turian stabbed him in the stomach.
At least, that's what the turian's last thought, last mental imagery was.
Jon waited. Blocked the mexta with his knife, then –
Sara would watch the replays of bootleg vids later to truly understand what she saw. To all present at the duel, though, Jon did a backflip off the turian, landing with a thump.
The turian stared, unable to speak. He gurgled. Turned his gaze to his fellow Blue Claws, fell flat on his face. A pool of blue blood began to form.
His throat had been slashed.
The crowd was silent. Jon got to his feet, dusted himself off. As with his first strike, he flicked his knife, clearing it of blood, returned it to its sheath. Only then did he use a hand to staunch his own wound.
The Blue Claw who started the match dispelled the barriers. Not looking at Jon, he produced a small square, which Jon quickly pocketed. "Get out of here," growled the turian.
He walked over to where Vetra and Sara were, the crowd parting to let him pass. "Well, Pathfinder, Vetra, let us be off. Duty calls." He smiled tightly, holding a hand out to Sara.
She shrank away from him.
Jon dropped his hand, turned and began to walk away without a backwards glance.
Doctor Lexi tutted as she applied medigel to Jon's wound. It was a clean cut, about fifteen centimeters long, curving its way from the outside of his upper arm towards the crook of his elbow.
"Lucky for you it's superficial, young man," admonished Lexi. "Severed muscles can be a nasty business. Here."
She applied a bandage over the gel – already, Jon could feel the gel warming, beginning the healing process.
"Thanks, doc. Now, can I go?"
Lexi sat back in her chair. Took a long, hard look at Jon. "You know, that was a pretty good display," Lexi admitted. "Everyone on board was holding their breath, you know." Her eyes hardened. "What were you thinking, dueling to the death? You know the Pathfinder's worried about you."
Jon swung his legs off the examination couch. "That's irrelevant. We went to Kadara to find Terev. She knew what we might have had to coax, cajole or even threaten our way to him. I fought."
"Well, since we've left Kadara empty-handed, I would say the mission was an utter failure, meaning you took a highly unnecessary risk, Jonathan," Lexi's voice became accusing.
Jon reached into his underarmor. He waved the square the turian had given to him. "Incorrect, doctor. We did leave with something. Now, if you'll excuse me."
"You bastard!"
Jon's head snapped to one side. He reached up and rubbed his cheek. "Ow."
She slapped him on the other cheek. Now his head snapped to the other side.
"BASTARD!" The curse echoed around the Pathfinder's cabin.
He turned his head to face her, his eyes cool. Doctor Lexi was right; he'd taken an enormous risk. But it paid off, didn't it? And considering his last interaction with Sara, he thought that they'd decided to keep their relationship strictly professional. He knew Liam had heard him whimpering in his bunk during lights-out, but Liam was every bit as helpless as Jon was to change things.
So Jon adopted a façade of cool indifference. He practically froze his heart, to keep the pain at bay, to become a fucking machine, to complete the mission, no matter the cost. After all, Sara had made it plainly clear that she held him responsible for her injury, one which would, in her own words, "ruin my chances at starting a family!"
Now, he stared steadily into her eyes, without the warmth he once had for her. Her own eyes were brimming with tears. He wanted to feel nothing, but the sight caused something to shift deep within himself.
Mentally, he pushed it aside.
Sara slammed fists into his chest, winding him, but he stayed upright.
"What were you thinking, Walker? You nearly blew the mission!"
Her use of his last name, instead of his first, made it easier for him.
"I seemed to recall that the Pathfinder said that she wanted Terev, or whatever information he could give, by any and all means necessary," Jon said, his voice level, smooth, almost robotic. "I performed my duties as instructed, nothing more."
"At the risk of your life? No one dies on my watch!" screamed Sara, her face practically in his. "Especially someone I still care about!"
The fight seemed to go out of her at the admission. Her arms dropped to her sides. She took a step forward, putting her face in Jon's chest. Her shoulders heaved with sobs.
Silence for a while.
Jon pushed her away gently. Not yet. He still could not forgive her for what she said.
He turned and walked away.
She stared after him, at the doors as they closed. She threw herself onto her bed, still sobbing.
"Lieutenant Harper?"
Cora Harper looked up from her workstation. "Ah, Engineer Walker. What brings you to the bridge?"
He snapped off a crisp salute. "Ma'am, I'm happy to report I have obtained information from Vehn Terev himself. He was waiting to brief us in person, but due to the nature of Haaden Port, was unable to do so. He thoughtfully provided us with this, and now I pass it to you, and report a successful mission. I regret to inform you the Pathfinder is currently… emotionally unfit to receive the disc, hence my presence here."
Harper inspected the square. It was an optical storage drive encased in a diamond casing, small and lightweight, almost indestructible. She nodded. "Good to hear, Engineer Walker. May I commend you on a most… unorthodox way on obtaining this, and a most admirable display of hand-to-hand."
He saluted again. "Ma'am. If I am no longer needed, I shall be in the engineering bay."
Harper nodded. "That would be for the best, Engineer Walker. Carry on."