A Lady in Waiting

(A/N): Now where the heck did this come from? O_o

Mass Effect was a series that was right at the bottom of my priority list during its hay day. However, I decided to get my hands on the Mass Effect Trilogy for PC in late May and well... The entirety of June was filled with pretty much nothing but Mass Effect! Christ, I had a scheduled two to three hours every day! xD

While I finished Mass Effect 3 on a sour note, I was left with a fascinating universe that was just begging for continuation after such an anti-climatic ending. And with that, I began pondering ideas for fics!

A bunch of concepts didn't make it through the interview: a Garrus fic, a Grunt fic, and a Mordin fic. The end result came to mind after a random brain wave whilst giving the ME3 multiplayer a spin. Why not try something a bit like my TES series, eh? IT'S NOT LIKE OCS EVER BOTHERED ANYONE.

... Oh wait.

WARNING: Spelling errors, OCs, language, backwards attempts at being funny and dramatic at the same time, an inaccurate portrayal of autism, probably a bunch of lore contradictions, terrible accents and the usual mad bantz!

Chapter One: Extra Credit

C-Sec Personal Guide and Handbook, Page Six-Hundred and Thirty Two.

When greeting a member of the Batarian race (see diagram six), make sure to bow your head as a sign of respect. In the unfortunate circumstance that you are in fact human, diving under your desk (see diagram nineteen) is a viable alternative. Do make sure to announce this sudden action in order to prevent miscommunication and avoid causing unneeded stress to the Batarian who is about to try and kill you.

Smile, you're on CCTV.

Alfred Saxon hated reading through the rules and regs while on the job, but Commander Bailey had insisted. He'd read the handbook inside and out a hundred times over during his time in training. In fact his "training" as a C-Sec officer had literally consisted of a few groups readings with some gun-ho Turians with their knees the wrong way around, and not much else. Well, unless you count the buffet.

The regs only had one use to him now, and that was as a convenient bludgeon in times of stress. He could throw the book at any criminal, both figuratively and literally. Followed by the bookcase, and then library - brick by brick. His dad had made a point of slapping him over the head with his revision guides during his boyhood back in Bromley. He knew how much it stung; to this day he couldn't look at a Science textbook without wincing.

He gave the office a rather forlorn do-over, his perpetually disinterested olive eyes spying just enough empty seats to know that something was wrong. Of course you constantly got people calling off sick in C-Sec, or claiming that they'd just been involved in a collision with a Volus trade freighter and were in the middle of filing ten billion different lawsuits. But this time, it was different.

There was a hole in the wall for starters.

Man sized. Could probably fit a couple of the larger Krogan warlords through it and still have decent leg room if you really put your back into it. Saxon, like his peers, had always complained to the bosses that there wasn't any ventilation in their humid office block. He doubted this was their solution though, as convenient as it was.

There was a simple reason for the shortage of workers, as well as the crude bodge of a DIY jobbie on the far wall. C-Sec had been in a complete and utter mess since the Cerberus attack on the Citadel not two weeks prior. The entire damn station was chronically understaffed, casualties having bitten a meaty quarter off their already hard pressed numbers and gulped it down for supper. Combine that with a need for increased security in certain hotspots and the constant expenses on repair work, and they had the combined strength of a naked Quarian with his head shoved down a chemist's needle bin.

Saxon shivered with the draught, skanky air lapping at his neck hairs like a cheap prostitute's tongue. A thin layer of shadow had encompassed the whole of his gob over these stressful weeks. He was probably one of the only C-Sec officers that hadn't missed a single day since the assault. It wasn't that Saxon was a well behaved man who respected the rules, he was just terrified of what would happen if he was caught breaking them. He had an image to maintain.

Problems were inevitable. If you yanked out half of somebody's brain they probably wouldn't be functioning at peak capacity, providing they weren't drooling all over the floor. C-Sec had done all that they could to patch up people's booboos and clean up the mess that Commander Shepard had left in his wake, but at this point they were about as organised as a Sweet 16 once the booze starts getting passed around. Most of the force at this point were just militia. Volunteers with only the most basic of training.

Hell, they were about as qualified as him when you put it like that.

This whole Reaper affair was going to be the death of everyone. Now Saxon wasn't exactly a philosopher. He'd gotten an E in GCSE Philosophy for writing "42" all over his booklet, his examiner being about as cultured as an academy student on social media. But regardless, he couldn't help but feel that this war was fruitless. Pointless. He was against it entirely.

Defeat was inevitable - a foregone conclusion. Some would call him a pessimist, others an arsehole, but he was just being realistic. The Protheans had been slaughtered down to the last amoeba, and they'd been a race vastly superior to every single council member combined. Shepard may've been a bit of a badass, but this was far beyond even his capabilities.

In his opinion at least.

To be fair he wasn't alone. Even now hundreds of people funnelled into Purgatory, eager to just party and snog and rub their well oiled bodies together until it was finally over. All would raise one last glass to the end of the galaxy, and sip at that sweet nectar till they were pissing rainbows.

And while they were off doing that, he was stuck filing papers in alien dialects he could barely understand.

He had enough trouble speaking English clear enough for all the American spacers that came through, all of them convinced that he was an Australian rather than a South Londoner. It was strange how few Britons there were outside the stratosphere of Earth. Were they all too shy? Did they think they might get sun burnt? Was there a reason why there was no such thing as a "Space Cockney"?

"Resistance is pointless, bloke".

"Shooters set to bollockin'."

He would've spent hours on coming up with tag lines for a potential "Space Cockneys" feature film where absolutely no one outside of ye olde pubs would get the lingo, but he was caught off guard by a ringing phone. Of course in a C-Sec office at least three phones had to be ringing the same monotonous tune at all times, but this time it was coming from his mobile. That's a cellphone, or a "small talky box" in case you didn't know.

Saxon didn't hand out his phone number all willy-nilly. He'd never really been much of a fan of the peculiar gadgets, really only looking at it to check the time or to look at his awesome collection of lockscreens and wallpapers. Swiping his index finger across the leftmost breast of a woman draped across the hook of a camo coloured Mako, he checked the message he'd just received.

"New info. Get praise. Call back. Signed Anonymous X."

The pencil pusher's nostrils flared indignantly, his large digit oafishly stabbing at buttons just small enough to be impractical for someone in a hurry. It only rung once before his call was answered, the other end remaining perfectly silent outside the ambience of clubbing. Not so much as a "hello".

"It says your name on my screen, Swinks." Saxon growled over the line, resting his pristine boots over his desk. This wasn't the first time that he'd pointed this out to him. It was becoming a ritual of theirs. "It has an image of your ugly chops and everything. You don't need to sign it anonymously"

The speaker crackled with either the sound of sobbing or that weird sound of complete silence, before he absently responded. "Really?" Swinks asked curiously, before dismissing the topic as quickly as it had been brought up. He'd rather get straight to business. "No matter. Come to Purgatory." he specified, "New info. Get praise."

You always had to corral Swinks in the right direction. His mind was like a sloshing steam, needing firm yet gentle irrigation to reach its destination. "Yeah, I got that the first time mate." the human said calmly, curling an imaginary phone wire between his fingers. "Gimme more. What are you on about?"

With that he appropriately gave him more. "Job info. Good for work image. Good for C-Sec. Good for war effort?" he listed the potential benefits of the task he had in mind. He could probably hear Saxon's lips curling into a grin, producing that icky wet sound that tended to ruin dates at the first base. "Promotion maybe? Pay rise?"

"Now that's a language I understand." the desk worker gave his best smirk, which only seemed to bother a group of Asari in the passenger lounge.

Swinks took this as a sign of acceptance. "Come when able."

Saxon hauled his legs off the counter like a roast chicken on Christmas day, pulling himself to his feet and patting through his pockets. "Oh, I'll be right there." he assured, glad to have something else to do for a change. He gave a glance at the ever-growing line of spacers, refugees and GI Joes waiting patiently for admission. For one little mark from the red stamp that sat amongst his stationery. "It's not busy up here at all."

"Good. Will wait at Purgatory."

Touching himself up for the third time that minute in what resembled a mockery of the Macarena, Saxon clicked his authority belt on - equipped with all the gear you needed to uphold god's law - and slinked through the hole in the wall. Those few others that were at the office at the time were too busy drowning under papers to even notice his departure, not that they'd particularly care.

Ferlorn Swinks was his name. A very strange Salarian that had began hanging about the Citadel around about the same time that Saxon had started working with C-Sec. He was a skittish bloke to say the least, but he quickly took a liking to the rookie and stuck around with him.

Supposedly he was ex-STG. He told him over drinks one day that he'd left the Task Group after a couple of years and began relaying information over the black market. Shady stuff, but everyone had their vices. It wasn't as if all that Saxon had ever gotten was a parking ticket. It's fine to misbehave, you just need to know when and how.

Swinks had quickly set him up for a constant stream of information, passing him on tips that could benefit both him and the company absolutely free of charge. He'd asked the Salarian for his reasoning once, but the question was dismissed within an instant and the topic never brought up again. Who knows, maybe he was just that desperate for a drinking partner?

Saxon honestly wondered if the alien had something legitimately wrong going on in his head. Did he have some sort of mild mental illness, or was he just perpetually empty headed? Was it ADHD? Autism? Even the way he spoke was off. He almost sounded like the famed saviour of Omega's slums Mordin Solus, if he was coming off a ten year high. A ten year high on sherbet lemons.

It didn't matter in the end. Swinks could've been a kingpin in the underworld for all he knew, hoping to take a C-Sec member under his wing with promises of sweets and pony rides. He could've been a dastardly crone offering him a poisoned apple, and it wouldn't particularly matter.

After a lengthy ride on one of the Citadel's few functioning lifts, Saxon ended up a metre under Huerta Memorial Hospital. Climbing and scrambling through the small gap that opened up to the patient lounge, he and a few nurses on duty spent a good half hour trying to get the death trap operational again. After an over the top exchange of thank yous with those kind men and women, Saxon cautiously re-entered the steel coffin and continued on his descent to Purgatory, shuddering expectantly at every random bump and sound.

Finally arriving at the front of the Purgatory Bar, Saxon had no trouble spotting his Salarian. It wasn't that he stood out among the crowd, but rather that he was waving at and calling for him. Not to mention that he was literally right next to the lift door. Borderline standing right in front of it.

"Saxon!" Swinks waved frantically, a grin pulling across his alien features. The rest of the lift's occupants gave him a dubious look as the C-Sec officer took his leave. "Here!" he continued, beckoning him from a two feet away like he was some sort of household pet. Knowing him, it wouldn't be beyond him to start giving people belly rubs whilst whispering "whose a good boy? Whooooose a good boy?". "Come here!"

"I'm right in front of you." Saxon pointed out. It was question up to debate honestly, but he wasn't Descartes or Jean Paul Sartre. You should leave those pointless questions to the prats who wear polo necks and have way too much time on their hands. Commoners shouldn't have time for that nonsense.

The Salarian backed it up a bit, his face shrouded by a mysterious looking shadow. It would've looked quite menacing if he wasn't such a weirdo. "In my alcove." he pressed, looking left and right as if worried that the police might catch him. Ignoring the fact that he was talking to a police officer. "Must be secretive."

What was this, an illicit date?

"Hot coffee, Saxon?"

"Gentle, Saxon."

It didn't hurt to make sure. Swinks had never been the best at holding his liquor, and this was a level of weird foreign even to him. "... You haven't been drinking those Turian Tonics again, have you?" he asked like a loving parent, raising his hands like he was subduing a group of velociraptors in a cash grab animated movie. He didn't answer. How disappointed he was in the Salarian bastard! "We talked about this. No drinking when I'm not here to manage you. Jesus."

Swinks must've taken some degree of insult. "No!"

"Salarian Cider?" Saxon threw out of the blue. Purgatory had all sorts of generic specials. Salarian Ciders weren't even Salarian. Turian Tonics were toxic to Turians... Toxic to humans and everything else actually, now that he thought about it.

"No such thing." the weirdo held his ground, his feet shuffling against the floor as if covered in mud. "Salarian Cider? Never!"

Things were quickly getting out of hand, and Saxon wasn't exactly in the mood for a tirade outside of Purgatory. C-Sec's image had already had a deuce taken on its face after the Cerberus assault. Having a man with a badge throttling a Salarian whilst shouting "YOU FREAKIN' MUPPET" right at his face probably wouldn't help make amends with the people. "You called me for a job, right?" he altered the conversation's trajectory, "We waiting for someone, or...?"

The speed in which he returned to business must've given him mental whiplash, if that was a thing. "Contact in Purgatory." he dispensed with his usual succinctness. Good things came to the patient. "Table one-nine-eight-four. Quiet, secluded, good access to lavatory. No wheelchair access."

Christ knew why he pointed the latter out. Saxon glanced at Purgatory's doors, a few drunkards in varying states of undress and consciousness flocking around it like the zombies in that one movie, "Flight of the Walking Dead" or something. He knew for a fact that one or two of them were wanted felons. One or two were cop killers. "I'm a law abiding C-Sec officer Swinks." he pointed out, keeping his eye on them. Sometimes he really hated having a badge. "Gotta lead the way for me."

And that's what he did. "This way." he gestured, like a fancy waiter.

Bars had never really been his thing, even back on Earth. He never saw the appeal of drinking overpriced pints with people he had nothing in common with in a vast den of inequity. He certainly didn't get the appeal of flailing your limbs about to stock binaural beats. Wasn't listening to the same blaring thirty second loop of "music" for hours on end used as a torture technique in some circles?

Once Saxon entered, he couldn't hear a damn thing through the pounding wall of techno. Hundreds of speakers lined the walls of the cavernous club, sending waves upon waves of sound smashing against the air like a drum. There was a thick mass of bodies ahead writhing and wiggling in various states of joy, sadness, ecstasy and zest.

And he had to make it through.

This made the Spartans look like damp cardboard.

"Charge once more into the breach!"

Slowly but surely he began to machete his way through the undergrowth, forging a drove through the never-ending party on Purgatory's dance floor. Some gave him weird looks, dubious about a C-Sec man crashing their pad. Most didn't notice, too pissed or too careless to give a damn. One bloke in particular - with more hair on is palms than his head - gave him a feisty looking wink, patting his back as he strode on by.

"I love a man in tight pants." he cooed as Saxon made his way forward.

He didn't have any classy retorts up his sleeves. They were rolled up after all. "Trousers." he decided on correcting, before losing the courtier in the mob.

Swinks had managed to pull quite a lead over time, his lithe and agile Salarian frame managing to slip through gaps that the human couldn't dream of fitting through. The crowd was getting more and more stubborn, refusing to budge from their positions as if they held leases on their squares of land and he was a tax collector.

An SA marine and what Saxon could only assume was his girlfriend were eagerly grinding against eachother on the dance floor, their bags and belongings sat on the floor between them as if they were performing some sort of voodoo ritual around an idol. The dolts took no notice of him as he tried to shuffle past, nor did they heed his polite cough. They didn't even listen to his impolite cough.

This means business.

Nudging the girlfriend's shoulder, he got the pair's attention. "Look love, if you want to dance." he snatched her handbag from the ground and tossed it across the bar, no doubt spilling a few drinks in the process. He patted her arm. "Do it over there. Cheers."

Circumnavigating the rest of the storm, Saxon emerged from the undergrowth doused in sweat and alcohol. Swinks stood in wait, so he wasted no time in moving forward. For all he knew time was of the essence. "So what sort of job is this Swinks?"

Of course he stuck to the big words, like a mission statement from a video game company. "Big job. Good for work image." he advertised expertly. He didn't expect Saxon's damning stare, which burnt through his retinas until he couldn't resist spilling the truth. "... Not entirely legal." the Salarian admitted. Saxon's stare evolved into a glare, prompting Swinks to try and redeem himself. "... Not entirely illegal!"

The C-Sec officer sighed. "This'd better be worth it."

"Illegal. Legal." the strange alien mumbled to himself, as if pondering about the science behind gravity. He clicked his fingers, moving on. "Both have legal in!"

Thankfully the path was much more easy going when there wasn't a mass of people right in front of you. Casting a quick gander back at where he'd come from, Saxon was shocked to realise just how little distance had been covered. If it wasn't for the crowd, he could've probably jumped to here from the damn lift.

Table one-nine-eight-four was the destination, wasn't it? Did Purgatory really have that many tables, or was it just to make it sound more fancy? He muttered under his breath, scratching at his waxy ear. "We there yet?"

Swinks held him up like a lollipop man staring down a battle cruiser. He pointed at one of the bar's very few inhabited tables. "Look there." he said, before waving at a seated person. The wave was registered, but it wasn't returned. "Turian woman."

He didn't see any Turian women in this section of Purgatory. He saw what looked like a slimmer Turian man. Was that who Swinks meant? He tapped the Salarian's shoulders, asking for clarification. "You mean the one looking at us like we let rip a silent but violent?"

"Silent but violent" wasn't a phrase that he was familiar with, but the desk jockey was right. "Yes."

Slowly but surely they continued their advance, the crowd having thinned tremendously this far from the dance floor. The more the distance closed, the more he could make out the Turian's features and gauge her appearance. Regardless, the first thing that leapt out at him wasn't that it was a she. To be honest he still wasn't too sure of that part.

Purgatory was chock full of legless people, ambling about after their twelfth drink of the evening. Some were better at hiding it than others, but that didn't change the facts. It was a bar, that was to be expected after all. Still, never did he imagine to find someone who was literally legless amongst its patrons. And without a drink, might he add.

The Turian's right leg ended at a neatly cut stump just above the knee, as if an artisan with a obscene amount of time on his hands had delicately smoothed out every bump with a big arse industrial sander. She sat slouched back in her seat, her single foot pressed against the table's stand as if she was having trouble maintaining her balance.

She also appeared to have quite a big sniper rifle at her side, which sat propped against the counter in all its glory. Well, "big" wouldn't do it justice. From stock to barrel it was taller than Saxon on his toes - it was the sort of hardware that could pierce through tanks and still have enough speed in it to turn your head into something that resembled watermelon pulp. What did she call it, the Elephant Killer?

A single eyeball rolled to look at him, examining the cockney with a cold calculus. He'd initially thought that she was winking at him, but a quick double-take revealed that one of her sockets was unsettlingly empty and hollow. A rather specific scar jig-jagged across the vacant gap, putting the question of its previous resident's fate to rest. What it didn't answer was what in god's name she'd been through to be in her woeful state.

Weight watchers must've hated her.

Looking at the human expectantly, she eventually turned her fury to his escort. She scowled in displeasure, which was quite an achievement with how unhappy her neutral expression looked. "... This is it?"

The voice was just the right pitch, at last confirming the alien's gender. That whole Turian sex thing was going to be the death of him one day, that's for certain.

Swinks smiled proudly, like a used car salesman on one of his happier days. "This is it."

Saxon pointed at his chest, glancing at the Salarian. "This is it?"

"This is it." Swinks repeated with the same jovial tone and the same grin of confidence.

The Turian kissed her teeth irritably, which is weird when you're from a species that has no lips. And no discernible teeth. Somehow she'd managed to pull it off like a sassy Nigerian mother. She commanded that they stop. "That's it."

Swinks raised one of his digits, helpfully correcting her mistake. "No, this is it."

"Sit down and shut up." she said flatly, brushing her hand perilously close to the barrel of her rifle.

Needing no more convincing, the dastardly duo made for the seats opposite to her just fast enough to convey their fear. It took Saxon a few moments to realise that he'd been tactically cornered by his Salarian tour guide, who'd snagged the outer seat without so much as a "please" or "thank you".

So what, was this woman involved in the job? Had someone nicked her wheelchair or something? Saxon folded his arms upon the sticky table top, trying to give his form a more confident appearance. Regardless as to whether it worked or not, the Turian didn't look impressed. You certainly wouldn't want your woman having an expression like hers when you pulled your pants down.

"Did he tell you?" the oddly limbed lady asked, having no glass at hand to take a dramatic sip from. She remained static, almost looking like she was braced between a rock and a hard place.

Saxon hadn't been told much really, but he'd rather keep the flow going. "You had a job for me?"

"For C-Sec." she corrected. That was certainly a sweeping generalisation. You'd think that if she wanted something from the entirety of C-Sec she'd talk to someone official rather than a random desk worker who hadn't even been on the payroll for too long. "I need more than just one guy. Maybe nine or ten."

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, giving his best approximation of a charming grin. Rest assured, he'd never picked up a woman with that face. He had to dance with one of his teachers during his school prom. "Having a hen night? I've got some friends I could bring with me."

"Bitter" wasn't a strong enough word for the sheer indignation of her expression. It could crush dreams within a single heartbeat. "Don't try to be funny. You're shit at it."

Fair enough.

The Turian coldly returned to business. "Anyway." she exhaled, that weird echoey-voice thing that her species had really aggravating the cockney's growing migraine. "What I have in mind'll be beneficial for everyone involved. I'm offering you something of value, providing you do me a favour in return."

His previous attempt at breaking the ice having nearly resulted in the alien breaking this throat, Saxon settled on keeping his lips zipped and instead gesturing for her to go on. He honestly doubted that the human gesture for "go on" was the same in a different solar system, but hopefully she'd get the message. Swinks certainly wasn't being too helpful as the supposed middle-man of this deal, his large black eyes glowing with wonder as he stared at the awe inspiring hues of the strobe lights.

It was cute.

He was kind of like a puppy.

"I've been tracking a ship." she went on, taking their silence as understanding. "Small thing, stocked to the gills with Reaper tech and more." her weapon sank a bit against the table, forcing her to roughly set it back up. "Who knows what else's inside?"

Saxon shrugged his shoulders, highly suspicious of the Turian's motives. "Yeah, who knows?" he agreed. He wasn't about to go and throw C-Sec's limited manpower at something like this. If she wanted someone to collect a random item for her, why didn't she just talk to Commander Shepard? All he ever seemed to do was listen in on your conversations and give you things. It was okay when the hero did that, but when he tried something like that he got given weird looks. Hypocrites. "Mind telling me why you're interested in this ship? Or why C-Sec should even give half a damn about it?"

A vicious mockery of a smile filled her angular features, sending a chill down his spine. That was the grin of someone who'd forgotten happiness long ago. He'd knew that expression well - he'd been to a lot of different schools in his youth. "There's a ship full of Reapers running wild close to the Citadel, and a member of C-Sec was made aware of this by an anonymous tip off." she played her trump card, glad that he'd walked straight into her trap. "You wouldn't want it to come out that C-Sec ignored something like that, would you?"

Clever cow.

The bitch was blackmailing him. The Citadel was jumpy as it was, and having something like this - even if it was a complete lie - reach the ears of the public would be akin to kicking yourself in your own bollocks. For all he knew she could've been a criminal out for misguided revenge, and she wanted to gather a bunch of C-Sec squaddies together so she could off them in a myriad of graphic and creative ways.

But he didn't have much choice now, did he? He remembered what Swinks had said prior, scratching at the back of his head. Misuse of C-Sec resources was a felony that bore weight at a time like this, believe it or not. True everyone would be dead after the whole war was over, but those dicks would find him even beyond the grave. They were persistent little buggers. "What you're asking isn't entirely legal."

"You're friends with a Black Market dealer." she pointed out rather matter of factly, shooting a glance at the Salarian with a judgmental sneer as its vanguard. This human couldn't act all high and mighty around here. In Purgatory, everyone had guilt on their conscience in one way or another. "I'm sure you can come to some sort of arrangement."

Looking at Swinks' dorkish face for a bit, he begged her pardon. "If you'd just give me a moment with my business partner." he asked. The Turian nodded, bowing her head in disinterest. Out of paranoia Saxon dragged his counterpart close and fell to a hushed - if not terrified - whisper. "... For Christ's sake Swinks."

Instantly he rushed to the defensive, his own whisper somehow sounding louder than his normal voice. "Promotion! Good for C-Sec!" he reminded, pushing back lightly. As foolish as he was, he had only the best intentions in mind. "Good for morale in Citadel!"

Saxon resisted the urge to throttle him within an inch of his life, remembering the image that he was trying to preserve. He snuck another look at the woman, examining her features once again. Jesus she was an ugly one, and this was a Turian he was talking about. Perhaps long ago she'd had the workings of beauty. She might've been a heartthrob to her peers for all he knew. Yet with time the scars of battle had done much to deface her. She looked and sounded like a complete mess. Did she have anything else to lose? "... I don't like the look of her."

"She is homosexual." Swinks noted out of the blue, seemingly sorry to disappoint. "No matter. Sexual attraction irrelevant."

He'd learnt to ignore him when he made comments like that. They were only accurate half the time regardless, not that it mattered. "Why would she be interested in a ship full of Reapers?"

"Stolen cargo? Credits? Heirlooms?" the Salarian pondered aloud, employing the reasoning skill his race was famed for. He may've been on the lower half of the spectrum of intelligence, but that didn't mean he was a fool. He had his moments, like everyone else. "Small ship. Likely Turian. Captured by Reapers. Her own?"

God knew, and Saxon wasn't exactly on the best of terms with God nowadays. Maybe his edgy atheist years in his boyhood had left a vast rift between them, because all God seemed to do to him now was give him lousy work shifts and bless him with terrible people skills. There were other, more immediate things to fret about however.

This was an opportunity of a life time. This could've been the lucky break that Saxon needed to make nice-nice with Commander Bailey - at last a victory after weeks of defeats and low notes. This could've been the final push he needed to step out of that rickety desk chair and into a nice leather one higher up on the chain of command.

Bailey was the very definition of the Everyman. He'd certainly understand if he twisted a few legs in order to get his own way for the benefit of the majority. It was one of those traits that made him such a respectable boss to have. He'd understand doing something a little bit illegal on the side for the greater good

But regardless, he still needed to cobble a case together. You know in secondary school when you're forced to do those dull science experiments with the Bunsen burners, and you're paired off with a group of tossers who'd rather spend the whole day playing paper football leaving you to do all the work to avoid detention? Picture that magnified tenfold. How was he supposed to muster a group of blokes who'd happily help in raiding a Reaper ship for no apparent reason?

Did C-Sec even have troops?

They were security, not soldiers.

Maybe Swinks could help out. Hire some mercenaries, or at best some patriotic idiots raring for front line combat. He had no idea honestly. Saxon and Swinks pulled out from their little huddle, the former resting his hands on the table like a card dealer in his Sunday best. "... Look, I'll see if I can pull some strings. I'm not guaranteeing anything love."

"Farah Servilia." she said. The Englishman briefly thought she'd suddenly sneezed, although he quickly realised that she'd just told him her name. She fidgeted on the spot, using the table as support. "Don't call me love."

"Right then, Farah." he corrected himself. To be honest he wanted more information before he threw his spuds onto the fire. You could respect that desire, couldn't you? "What're you planning, specifically?"

Had she planned that far? She blinked awkwardly; a moment that would've been much less awkward if she'd gotten a bloody pint in the first place, like a normal person. "Get on board, find what I'm after." she said non-specifically. She had all the subtlety of a slutty Asari. "I get what I want, you get your fame. We're all happy."

How on Earth... Or Palaven or whatever... Did she plan to do this when she only had one leg? She seemed to have enough trouble sitting up straight. He could only fear the sheer mania of her trying to sneak about a ship full of bad guys. Saxon wanted to comment on this, but he decided on holding it back. She knew what he was going to ask, he could tell. "Alfred Saxon." he returned her introduction at a rather strange point in the conversation, lacking a fedora to tip. "If you want updates, go through Swinks here."

"Hello!" Swinks waved with his usual enthusiasm. Maybe he just enjoyed waving?

"We've already met." Farah pointed out in disinterest, the Salarian having been the person who'd organised this meeting in the first place. Regardless he just kept waving, like an unruly child on an incredibly long shuttle ride. After a full minute of this, she gave a half-assed wave in return. "... Hi."

With Swinks satisfied and the deal supposedly made, the Turian strained with effort as she reached for her rifle's grip. For a brief moment Saxon honestly feared that she'd become fed up with the both of them, and planned to try and shoot them both all mafioso style. Thankfully it seemed that wasn't her priority, as she slowly readied the stock under her arm and pulled herself to her feet using her rifle and the seat as leverage. Soon enough she was up on her own one foot, limping away with her makeshift crutch.

Hopefully it wasn't loaded.

He couldn't stop himself from asking the question as she hobbled off at a painfully slow speed. We're talking "old lady in the market waiting line when you're in a hurry" speed. "Any reason why you ain't got prosthetics or anything, Farah?"

Thankfully she was too engaged with her current predicament to fire anything worse than venomous words in his general direction. "Any reason why I should?"

Raising a hand as he often did, Swinks started. "Well-"

"Rhetorical question, frogger." Farah was quick to spit, returning to her odyssey.

"Frogger?" Saxon repeated in confusion, not even questioning whether or not that was an actual rhetorical question. Was that some kind of insult? "Frogger? Come on, that isn't even a word!"

She didn't even give that the common courtesy of a dismissive scoff, simply continuing to limp towards the dance floor. He doubted she was planning to bust any moves; it was the only way to the exit, fire safety be damned. The pair watched on for a bit, yet their fascination quickly died down.

"I've got a bad feeling about this." Saxon sighed once she was out of earshot. Farah just seemed to spell trouble. Well, not literally. Hell, none of the letters in "Farah" even appeared in "Trouble", but you get the point. "I hope she isn't expecting much, because she isn't getting much."

"Something is enough." Swinks replied swiftly, almost sounding enlightened providing you disregarded his stupid voice. "C-Sec gains more than it risks. Expendable numbers."

Why the hell did he have to say the word "expendable"? All that did was make him feel even more anxious. "Whatever you say, bloke." he noted, slipping his hands into his pockets. "The bossman's gonna chew me out for this."

"Commander Bailey?" Swinks asked, which Saxon clarified with a rather lazy nod. After a brief silence that must've felt like an eternity to a Salarian, he spoke once more. "Commander Bailey is married. Heterosexual."

That didn't even deserve a confused expression. Merely shaking his head like a scruffy dog in slow motion, Saxon rubbed at his temples and relaxed for a few moments. This was quite a significant event believe it or not. If he got this right - which he didn't want to do - he'd be off on a ship fighting Reapers and god knows what else. He'd gotten a desk job for the sole purpose of avoiding this bollocks. What would his mum say?

Hanging about for a bit longer, the duo eventually decided to get a move on to their respective duties. The party had neither calmed nor grown over the past hour, the tired having merely swapped places with fresh drunkards. There was a strange degree of organisation when pissed people were made to work together, and it was a wonder to behold. It made collective hive minds look like sheep.

They faced the exact same predicaments making their way back through the breach to the relative safety of the entrance. Alas, when they finally broke free of the humid sweat-stinking crowd they were welcomed by the sight of Farah - who was still slowly shuffling forward with her crutch after all this time. No doubt if she moved any slower she'd be going backwards.

Exchanging a look, the Salarian and the human casually overtook her and went on their merry ways. Farah looked taken aback by such bravado. Making her way through the door after a complex procedure involving the use of her entire body to hold it open, she leant against a nearby wall with daggers in her eyes.

Her face said it all, but she saw fit to say it out loud too. "Bastards."

X

(A/N): Well, that didn't work out quite as well as planned... But then it is a first chapter!

Generally hoping this series to be the sci-fi counterpart to my TES fics, with a similar writing style and all. Just not quite sure if it works yet. We'll have to wait and see, but who knows? :P

Also, is it me or is it impossible to play ME2 again after playing ME3? The gameplay just feels weird D:

This experimental fic will continue, eventually!