Shepard resisted the urge to tug the fancy dress she wore. She didn't like dresses. She was the armour and guns kind of girl. However, going undercover and playing a high-paying customer for a slaver ring in order to bring down the aforementioned slaver ring required some sacrifices. Like, for example, wearing the expensive gown Miranda had lent her after she had solemnly promised to return it in one piece. She wasn't entirely sure she could keep that promise, but at least she had the funds to buy her another dress, should this one be ruined.

She sat calmly in a very soft, very comfortable chair in the office of the wealthy Batarian they knew was one of the ring-leaders. Thanks to Aria's cooperation and connections – and the Asari helped because she disliked the sudden competition when the slaver ring settled on Omega – Shepard was presented as a client wealthy enough and important enough to be attended to personally by the boss. Garrus stood behind her, looking imposing in a shiny new armour and a whole arsenal of different weapons upon his person. The Turian had been imposing and intimidating enough that they eventually allowed him to keep his weapons in their facility. Not that he would need them today, Shepard knew. Today was for scouting, not fighting.

In front of her, sitting behind a massive desk made of a single polished block of marble was the Batarian, quietly reading from the datapad Garrus had handed to him. Finally, he looked up, both pairs of eyes focusing on her, creating an effect that would've been disconcerting for any other person, but Shepard didn't even blink. She had stared down people far scarier than him in her life.

"Well?" she asked, allowing herself to sound slightly impatient, fingers twitching against her dress.

"All your funds check out, Miss Davidson." The Batarian gave her a greedy smile. "You can purchase whatever goods you wish." He paused, looking at the datapad again. "I see that you would like something rare and exotic?"

She nodded and lifted her chin.

"I believe I have just the thing for you." The Batarian said amiably, beckoning her to follow him to the hidden elevator on the far wall of his office. Together they Garrus they entered and the doors closed with a hiss behind them. As the machine began moving down, the Batarian kept talking.

"Ever heard of the Drell, Miss Davidson?"

She hadn't.

"No, I don't think I have."

The Batarian grinned even wider.

"I am sure you'll like what you'll see. They do resemble your own species, but are deliciously different as well. And this one…" he paused when the elevator stopped abruptly and the doors opened "is special."

They left the elevator and followed the Batarian through a darkened corridor into another room – a large hall, in fact – windowless, smelling of disinfectants and sweat and fear. There were pens lined up against the walls, dozens and dozens of them, too short for a grown person to stand in them, and too small to lie down, cruelly designed to keep the people occupying them from doing anything but sit or kneel. They were all filled with people – human and otherwise – of all genders and ages, most barely dressed, watching the newcomers with dull, empty eyes.

Her stomach roiled with revulsion, rage and raw hate at the sight and she turned to look at Garrus, because if she looked at the Batarian right now she wouldn't have been able to stop herself from tearing out all four of his eyes and cramming them down his throat. Garrus own eyes were two chips of ice in his scull, almost glowing with a rage probably as great as hers.

Finally, she turned to the Batarian again and smiled saccharinely at him.

"I was promised something special, but what you're showing me here is your usual stock. This scum here has been sold and resold numerous times. I want something that isn't used goods." She said through gritted teeth, half-grateful that the Batarian didn't understand the real reason why she was so angry.

"We're going to him, Miss Davidson. Be patient." The slaver answered, gesturing to the door at the far end of the hall. "We keep him separate from the rest, for special clients like you." He began as he led them. "He was an assassin once, believe it or not." The Batarian explained as they reached the door and he entered the security code in the lock. "He murdered our former leaders and many of their associates. We decided that this would be the most fitting fate for the likes of him."

The room he led her in was small and completely empty, save for the pen situated in the middle of it. Inside there was a man kneeling, his head bowed, dressed in form-fitting leather pants, barefoot and shirtless, his hands cuffed behind his back and connected to another pair of cuffs around his ankles. The man was humanoid, as the Batarian promised, his facial features quite similar to that of a human, his body-structure as well. That was where the similarities ended – he was covered in smooth, tightly knight iridescent green scales, his eyes, much larger than that of a human, were pitch black, there wasn't a single hair on his body, not even eyelashes. The man's eyes were firmly focused on the floor before him as she approached and he did not look up, as still as a statue. She eyed his pose again and resisted the urge to wince – who knew for how long he'd been forced to kneel like that.

"He's very well-trained to serve, Miss." The Batarian's grating voice interrupted her thoughts. "I admit, it took us almost five years to break him after we captured him, and another year to train him properly, but he'll be completely obedient now." The slaver leered at her, then at the captive in the pen. Shepard kept her hands behind her back, out of sight from the bastard before her, fists clenching and relaxing as she tried to regain her cool. Shepard knew what they did to willful captives, knew about the whips and the drugs and implants, the ruthless cruelty with which they treated other sapient creatures until they convinced them they were little more than objects to be used.

She took a deep, calming breath and reminded herself that she couldn't kill the man now. She needed him to lead her to his associates. And that meant coming back here and buying another one, not just this man kneeling before her now. She needed to convince the bastard that she was a good client.

Suddenly, the man looked up and their eyes met. Time stopped and she forgot how to breathe as she gazed in the onyx depths. The Batarian was wrong. This man here wasn't broken. He was damaged, yes, and absolutely desperate, but not broken – there was fire in those eyes, feverish, even crazed fire, but those weren't the eyes of a soulless, broken doll. Perhaps he wasn't beyond help.

She turned to the Batarian and gave him another saccharine smile to hide her bloodlust.

"I'll take him."

On the ride back to their rented apartments, all three people in the vehicle remained silent. The slave she had just bought was quiet in his seat, his legs now uncuffed and his hands moved to his front, lying demurely in his lap. He was staring out of the window, down at the flashing lights of Omega – the bars and brothels and the nightclubs, at the tiny people toiling away in this hellhole, burrowing deeper and deeper among the trash.

Garrus was piloting the vehicle, his three-fingered hands moving along the glowing controls in gestures so sharp and jerky that Shepard could tell he was still infuriated.

She herself felt drained – her previous rage still simmering under the surface, but also incredibly tired. She had been fighting against people like that her entire life, and yet she hadn't even dented their operations. From time to time, she glanced back at the Drell, carefully examining his elegant profile – the prominent brow-ridges, the small, delicate nose, the full, almost pouty lips, the strong curve of his chin. If he weren't what he was, she would've certainly found him attractive. Probably would've pursued him as well. As it was now, the thought of beginning any sort of sexual relationship with him, after all he's been put through by the monsters back in that place, seemed absolutely abhorrent to her. He stomach roiled again and she turned around, focusing on Garrus. Brave, noble Garrus. Her best friend and most trusted lieutenant. He gave her strength when her own strength abandoned her.

Finally, they reached the luxury hotel behind Afterlife and Garrus parked the vehicle on their reserved pad. The slave obediently followed them as they entered the grandiose lobby and made their way to the elevators, ignoring the Asari hostess that bowed to them respectfully. Garrus escorted them to Shepard's rooms and paused at the door as she led the man in.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked, blue eyes both hesitant and suspicious as he watched the Drell stand quietly behind Shepard.

"It's alright. I can handle him." She reassured the Turian and allowed the sliding doors to close. She didn't expect, however, to be suddenly tackled by a Drell who was surprisingly heavy for his slender build, his hands thrown over her head in an attempt to suffocate her, the vice like grip tightening around her throat like a snake trying to suffocate the life out of her. She elbowed him in the stomach, as hard as she could, and stomped on his bare feet with the high-heeled shoes she wore as hard as she could, but the only result was a grunt and a hiss and the grip tightened ever further. She was beginning to see black spots, becoming more and more light-headed. The pressure on her neck was enormous and she was sure he was trying to break it and the only thing preventing him from having already achieving that result was the heavy bone weave her doctors had installed months ago.

In the last possible moment before she lost consciousness she remembered the remote for the nerve stimulator connected to what must've been a Biotic Amp installed at the base of the Drell's neck. Shepard stuck her hand in her pocket and wrapped her nerveless fingers around the small device. She pressed the button as hard as she could and the grip loosened completely, a pained moan issued through gritted teeth filling her ears and the Drell finally let go of her and staggered back.

Shepard swayed and almost fell over as well as she heard him crumple against the wall. Her vision was blurry and her neck ached as she desperately gulped for air, one of her hands going to her throat to check for damage. Finally, her sight cleared, the howling in her ears stopped and she regained his footing. It was only then that she heard the scuffing sounds behind her, as well as the pained, guttural whimpers. She turned around and saw the Drell spasming on the ground, dark eyes wide-open and unseeing, teeth bared in a rictus snarl. Much to her surprise she realized that her finger was still firmly pressing the button of the remote and she dropped the thing in her hand as if it burned her.

The Drell stopped thrashing immediately and sagged against the wall, gasping for air as much as she did. It took him a few moments to regain his faculties enough to look around and then finally his gaze fell on her. The dark eyes widened in unmistakable fear and he tried to crawl back, all fight having gone out of him, tremors running through his slender form.

Shepard felt guilty. She had seen more than enough times what slaver implants did to people, and could only imagine that one set in place of a person's biotic amp – as it had direct access to their nervous system – was capable of inflicting untold agony on its victim. And she had just done that and the result was staring up at her with terrified dark eyes.

Feeling nauseated Shepard kicked the damned device away from her and carefully approached the Drell, who now sat propped up against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest in a clearly defensive position. He flinched even more and pressed himself as far back to the wall as he could, expression vulnerable and fearful as Shepard crouched low to look at him in the eye from his level, then kneeled on the ground.

The transition from an incredibly strong – and apparently well-trained – attacker to a frightened victim was jarring and she knew that things between them could've started better.

"It's okay." She tried, using the most soothing tone she could manage, despite the fact that her voice croaked as if she had glass in her vocal cords. Damn, but he had been strong. "I'm not going to hurt you." She raised her empty hands to show him she held no device. "I'm sorry I had to use it." She elaborated. "You would've broken my neck if I hadn't."

A surprising expression of guilt rippled through his features at those words.

"What is your name?" Shepard tried again.

He stared at her incomprehensively.

"Surely you have a name."

The confused look didn't leave the Drell's features. She sighed and tried again:

"What did your… masters call you?" she asked and the word 'masters' tasted bitter on her tongue.

He licked his lips and tried to say something but no sound came out. She stared for a moment then she realized what was going on, got up from the floor and hurriedly poured him a glass of water from the bathroom and returned only to find him in the same fetal position, propped up against the wall.

"Here." She offered him the cup but he just stared at her for a moment, apparently expecting this to be some sort of a trick or a cruel game but she remained in her spot, quietly offering him the full glass. Finally the Drell reached and tentatively took the glass from her, cradling it in both of his hands and keeping it there for a while, watching her for a few more moments as if to reassure himself she wouldn't try to take it from him. When he was satisfied, he pressed the glass to his lips and drank greedily, audibly gulping the clear liquid until the glass was empty.

Shepard carefully took the glass from his hands and set it on the floor next to them.

"Now, let's try again. What's your name?"

"Number 37." The alien finally spoke and she blinked in surprise at the sound of his voice – hoarse and resonant, so very different from a human.

"Oh." she sat down and settled herself more comfortably. "And before that? What was your name before you were captured?"

The Drell looked away and a shadow fell on his features, distress clearly written all over his face. His arms tightened around his curled knees and he let out a pained, pitiful sound, much like a wounded little animal.

"Hey, it's okay. It's okay." She hurriedly tried to soothe him. "I'll just call you 37 for now, okay? You can tell me about the other name when you feel ready."

She offered him his hand in an apparent handshake.

"I'm Elizabeth Shepard."

He looked at the offered hand as if it was an incredibly violent and poisonous alien critter and under other circumstances Shepard would've felt a little offended, but now she just sighed and remained as she was, patiently waiting for him to gather the courage to shake her hand.

Hesitantly, the Drell reached and shook her hand.

"I know… I know that name…" he whispered.

"Who doesn't?" Shepard thought with annoyance. Saving the Galaxy not once, but three times from billions of years old sentient machines did that to a person.

Only Mordin's and Chakwas' expertise had made sure that she was practically unrecognizable so that she could take up this job.

After he let go of her hand, she leaned back on her heels, her gaze taking him in his slim figure and said:

"You must be hungry. I bet they didn't feed you well there, among other things."

After a moment's hesitation, the alien nodded.

"I'll call room service." She informed him and got up to her feet to place her order. "What does your people eat?"

He blinked, apparently having difficulty understanding her question, then apparently it clicked for him because he answered with a soft:

"Fruits, Mistress."

Shepard froze when he called her that, another wave of revulsion threatening to twist her stomach into knots but she swallowed around the bile that rose in her throat. Her first urge was to tell him, order him if she had to, not to call her that, but she thought better of it. She had just acquired another sentient being as property, a sentient being that had apparently been subjected to brutal abuse for years for the sole purpose of breaking his will and molding him into the perfect servant. Although their little scuffle earlier that evening had proved that the conditioning hadn't entirely succeeded – or maybe had even failed spectacularly – he was still suffering and would continue to suffer for some time from severe trauma. Changing too many things at the same time might not be a good thing.

"Fruits it is then, 37." She told him quietly.