A/N: I've been writing professionally for a lot of years now, but this is my first foray into fanfiction. I haven't written much fiction at all in recent times, as the boring, paying work has taken over. I wanted to flex my fiction muscles a bit with characters I've really come to love, and tell their story as I've thought it should have gone, and how it went in my head as I filled in the gaps. I hope you like it, though I welcome any feedback you offer. The title comes from the last line of Norman Maclean's semiautobiographical novella, A River Runs Through It.

Shepard had never heard of Nassana Dantius, so why did she feel dizzy at the sound of her voice when Joker patched her message through to the CIC? The woman sounded haughty and disagreeable - ordinarily the kind of person Shepard had absolutely no time for. Why, then, could the Normandy not seem to reach the Citadel fast enough to bow to her request? Why did Shepard curse the admiral's inspection and Conrad Verner equally for delaying her course to the embassy bar? This woman was no one to Shepard. Nassana's life was wholly unconnected with hers in every imaginable way.

While meeting with Nassana and hearing of her sister's distress, Shepard wrote off the chills that shuddered over her as the asari spoke as a natural reaction to imagining how horrible it must be for a civilian with no training to find herself at the mercy of mercs who only saw her as a means to collecting a ransom. What else could it be? Her heart went out to Nassana. She was clearly spoiled and thought herself privileged enough to ignore the law, but who wouldn't do everything in their power to rescue a sister, especially if that power included an embarrassingly large fortune?

Shaking off the inordinate squeezing going on in her cardiac area, Shepard agreed to the straightforward rescue operation. As she walked away, feeling weighed down and confused, she decided to see if Dr. Chakwas had any good drugs for this kind of thing stashed away somewhere. Clearly, the Saren issue had her more stressed out than she'd realized, if one civilian sob story brought her to the brink of a public breakdown. If Williams, who lacked the tact and gentility of the asari archeologist who rounded out the landing party Shepard had brought to meet with Nassana, failed to mention any outward sign of her commanding officer's distress, it meant that there were no outward signs to notice.

"Good," Shepard thought. Strung-out would not be the best look for the galaxy's newly-minted first human Spectre to present to the Presidium at large.

Ship Commander's personal log, entry 8

We're en route to the Artemis Tau cluster to extract an asari named Dahlia Dantius from a band of mercs who're holding her for still-unknown reasons. If her sister Nassana already sent the ransom as she says, then we have no idea what they want, so we'll just have to be prepared for the worst.

I feel it necessary to note here that I'm aware this is out of our way and seems on the surface as if it's not exactly the best use of our time and resources at the moment. We have yet to find the Conduit or even learn what it is or why Saren wants it. I have every confidence that we'll be able to get this over with in short order and get back to the mission, but also that this is something we have to do. No. Something I have to do. It doesn't matter who goes with me, but I have to attend to this one myself. Chakwas says I seem perfectly normal for someone with "Save Galaxy" on her to-do list and told me to lay off the caffeine.

I've been asking a lot of people to trust me lately, and most of them have - all except the council. I guess it's my turn to trust the instincts that are screaming at me that this is the right thing to do. Maybe Dahlia Dantius has the Conduit stashed in the bottom of her handbag.

Shepard out.

"This one knows you are no longer in the employ of the Illuminated Primacy, but we hope you will accept a commission for us in your capacity as a freelancer."

"You are aware of my rates. As I am not currently engaged, I have reviewed the material given to me by your intermediary and found the job acceptable. Transfer the credits. It will be done."

The orange glow of the omni-tool winked out abruptly as the assassin ended the transmission. While the finer feelings of those who hired him to be a weapon were not ordinarily foremost in his concern, he usually felt it prudent to exercise politeness, especially when the job came from a hanar. Tonight, however, he was on edge. Usually, he felt - well, he felt nothing. When his body hungered, he fed it without a care for savoring any taste or texture. When his body was tired, he went to the nearest bed and slept. Whether it was in a luxury suite or a vermin-filled cot, he didn't care. Nothing had startled or excited him in years, but tonight, he found himself agitated and unable to account for the source of the disquietude.

With a flick of his wrist, he reopened the omni-tool to book passage to the Citadel. Transport was one area of his life for which luxury was required, but not because he craved comfort. He simply needed to guarantee that the ship taking him to where he needed to go would be swift, reliable, and staffed by personnel who understood that their passengers' business was none of theirs. The next suitable booking was not for several hours, so he made use of the room that had been his home, as much as any of the hundreds like it had been over the years, to meditate in effort to rid himself of the unwelcome and unidentifiable turmoil that writhed about the edges of his consciousness.

Confident that he had secured the room against all intrusion, he shed the black leather clothing that was necessary to protect and conceal him as he went about his daily affairs. It did its duty well, but he felt the need to be free of it, to breathe unrestricted. The sun beating through the room's single, tiny window was just enough to warm the room comfortably without being a distraction. An occasional cloud floated by the pane as he sent his consciousness away from a body covered only in the shadow and iridescence of dappled sunlight pouring over its scales.

Amonkira, Lord of Hunters, grant that my aim stay true. Rid me of that which would unsteady my hand as I seek to do Your will.