Characters/Pairing: Shakarian, Ashley
Rating: T
Word Count: 2100
Prompt: from marigoldfaucet, for the AU meme: "Shakarian. Space Western."
Notes: Originally written in January of 2014. Also, I read like six wikis and restarted this at least four times and yet, somehow, I'm still not entirely sure what a space western is. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
—
"For the record," Garrus says casually, wiping down the inside of a hopelessly-stained glass, "out of all your plans over the years, this is definitely not my favorite."
Shepard snorts and leans one elbow on the bar, vaguely unsettled by the sticky glaze that coats the dented wood from end to end. "Not even top five?"
"Not a chance. Maybe top eight. Just under the wind farm fight on Intai'sei; better than the thing on Talis Fia where you made me crawl through the vents of that industrial manufacturing plant."
"You said you wanted to try something new."
"Turians aren't made for vents, Shepard. Especially not volus-sized vents. Especially when those vents make me smell like enviro-suit liner for two weeks."
Shepard laughs and pulls her drink free from the sticky bar, downing most of it to cover the brush of her fingers over the Carnifex at her hip. She'd wanted to bring the Wraith, but Liara had said that even the Terminus Systems tended to look askance at casual world-hoppers with heavy weaponry. "ETA?" she asks, sliding her glass—skipping, really—across the bar to Garrus's hip.
He tops her off from a bottle of something gold and strong-smelling and glances at the door over her shoulder. "Five minutes, tops. Vega says they're wandering down the street in a drunken pack."
"Ash?"
"Nothing yet, Shepard." Her voice is thin through the omnitool distortion; behind it, Shepard can hear the rhythmic creaking of the ancient mass effect field generators, constantly filtering the worst of the baking planet's dust from the air. "Wherever their hideout is, they're not going anywhere near it right now."
"Copy. Stick close, but don't blow your cover yet."
"Right. I'll wait for you to do that for me."
"See you soon," Shepard says, grinning, and from the other end of the bar, Garrus shakes his head.
So. Waiting. Shepard's not great at waiting. To kill time, she checks the entrances and exits again, just to be sure. It's not a big place, not out here on the edge of civilization in a system that's barely been mapped, let alone fortified with anything approaching law enforcement—which is why they're here, after all, trying to track down the gang that had somehow managed to knock a hole the size of the Mako in the Alliance's Crucible funds account two weeks ago.
Just a handful of narrow booths along one wall, a few round wooden tables by the front door, one exit in the rear, so little-used the console has stuck flickering between orange and green. No lights inside, the owners too cheap to pay for the electricity during the day, not with two suns above the horizon fourteen hours at a time. No customers, either; just a wheezing radio in one corner, Garrus behind the bar where he's been the last ten days, visor dimmed, the steel-threaded patina on the windows behind him draping slats of dusty sunlight across his shoulders—and her, Shepard, the idiot tourist who doesn't know the Anhur Syndicate prefers this bar to be kept private in the afternoons.
"Incoming," Garrus murmurs, and Shepard deliberately curls both hands around her glass, bare fingers in plain sight atop the sticky oak veneer. Uncomfortably far from the Carnifex hidden under her leather jacket—but that's what Ash is for, she reminds herself, perched above the shopfront across the street with a Widow and a clear line of sight to Shepard's back.
The door whines open behind her, gears groaning at decades of grit. It brings with it a hot, sun-choked wind and a whirl of dust that sends the dim light swirling, and Shepard blows out a long, slow breath. Doesn't move, though, not even at the sound of too many booted feet stomping in at her back, not even at the half-dozen laughing voices that fall still at her presence. In their bar.
Not yet.
Someone laughs, and a heavy body thumps onto the high barstool at her right. "Hey," says a multi-toned voice, thick with an arrogant amusement, and Shepard glances up.
Batarian. Smiling. Left canine implanted with small silver jewel; heavily modded Phalanx on his hip; expensive armor for the ass-end of the Terminus Systems, especially with sockets for blades at his shoulders and elbows. Black emblem on the chest, a circle broken by two lines. Anhur Syndicate's mark.
"You want something?" Shepard says, lifting an eyebrow, and she takes a sip from her glass.
"Yeah," says someone else, and a tall, slender human woman in green and grey slides into the seat on her left. "The answer to why you're in our bar, lady."
The rest of the group disperses quietly, seating themselves at the wooden bar, at the scarred round tables between her and the door. Eight, she counts, including the batarian who'd spoken first, most with old-fashioned bandannas around their necks to protect against the dust; Garrus nods at the two or three who approach him, taking their empty bottles, replacing them with new ones glittering blue and gold on the shelves beneath the broad windows. Four batarians. Three turians, the one human. All armed. Not the best odds they've ever had, and if the shift of Garrus's shoulders is any indication, she's not the only one thinking it.
Shepard lifts her glass to the woman, raising her eyebrows. Leave the rifle where it is, Garrus. "Just having a quiet drink. Didn't think that was a crime."
"I think you picked a bad place to do it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," says the batarian, slinging his arm over her stool's low back, leaning close enough she can count the facets in the gem on his tooth. Ten, as it happens. "Iisi Tau's not known for sightseeing."
A lazy curl of anticipation twists up from her stomach, settling high behind her ribs. Garrus saunters over to her end of the bar, white rag tossed over one shoulder, an oddly-shaped silver bottle in one hand. "You want the usual, Pix?"
The batarian nods, winking two eyes at Shepard before turning to Garrus. "Yeah. And tell me why she's here, while you're at it."
He shrugs as he sets the bottle on the bar, faint foul-smelling mist wafting from its iced mouth. "She came in about an hour before you did and refused to leave. Said she was…waiting for someone."
"And you let her stay?"
Garrus looks at her, then, blue eyes distant and cold as they rake over her face, her jacket, her bare hands around her emptying glass. One mandible flicks out dismissively. "I thought you could take care of her if you had to."
Shepard's mouth tightens, annoyance not entirely feigned. "I didn't ask for the lip, turian. I just wanted a drink. And a little privacy."
His mandible flicks out again, and Shepard can practically hear his voice in her head. Turians don't have lips, Shepard—but Pix has his arm on the back of her chair again, and this time he's holding his gun to her spine. The bar has gone silent; neither he nor the woman in green is smiling now. "Ten seconds, human," he says, voice low. "Or we show you what happens to unwelcome guests on Iisi Tau."
"I've got a shot." Ash's voice, quiet in her ear, and the tense lines of Garrus's neck ease an infinitesimal amount.
Shepard straightens in her chair, facing the batarian straight-on. "No need for threats, people. This is just a friendly conversation here, isn't it?" The mouth of the Phalanx digs into her back, treacherously near the butt of the Carnifex; hurriedly, Shepard adds, "I heard of some…business opportunities here. For—enterprising individuals. Individuals who have skills you need."
"Talk faster."
"I want in."
"Nothing to be in on."
"Bullshit," Shepard says, a faint smirk twitching at her lips, and the gem on Pix's tooth abruptly gleams orange as her omni-blade's tip touches his throat.
The batarian glances down, four eyes going cross-eyed a moment; then he grins, wide and toothy, and the pressure of the Phalanx lessens. "A friendly conversation, human."
"I thought so," Shepard says, her smile just as hard, and then her earpiece buzzes with the crackle of Ash's comm.
"Incoming, Shepard! Six bogeys on foot, two in a—oh, damn, look at what they did to that skycar. That beautiful thing's got to fly like you wouldn't believe. If Vega doesn't destroy it I want—uh. That is, ETA ninety seconds. Sorry."
Suddenly, the dust-thick air of the bar fills with the whirs and whines of weaponry coming to the ready; the Phalanx is at her back again, and Shepard turns to see a dozen weapons leveled at her heart. All with illegal mods, of course—though she does find herself surprised by the shotgun with three separate blades bolted to its muzzle.
"You brought friends," says Pix, lowering his hand from his own comlink.
Outside, dirt kicks up in a fifteen-foot whirlwind as a skycar pulls to a careless stop in front of the rundown bar. "So did you," Shepard replies evenly. The base of her skull is tingling with adrenaline, with the wild rush of impending battle. Garrus's eyes are burning into her temple; she tips her head and sees him step backwards, out of her line of sight, to the low shelf by the broken back door where his rifle is hidden. Not that this is the best room for snipers, with its close walls and peeling paint and too-crowded tables—but that's the point, after all, to persuade Pix, or to let Pix get free, to let him lead them all to the headquarters of the Anhur Syndicate via the tracker she's just hidden in his collar.
It's surviving until then that's the tricky part.
"You really want to do this?" Shepard asks Pix, sliding carefully from the chair, letting her hand brush against the pistol beneath her jacket. Her skin is nearly vibrating, sharp contrast to the lazy dust motes glittering around the Phalanx's mouth. How Garrus can complain about this— "You really want to blow a hole in my head before your boss gets a chance to see what I can do?"
His eyes flicker. Just a second, just a half-glance to the door—
Just loud enough for the comms to pick up, Garrus murmurs, "Covered."
That's all she needs. Shepard abandons Pix and strides forward, turning her back to the roomful of cocked weapons, ignoring Pix scrambling after her to the sounds of breaking bottles, trusting everything to the bartender in the corner, her turian in bright blue with a four-and-a-half foot sniper rifle that no one has bothered to watch vanish into the shadows. He says she's safe. That's enough.
"Hey!" Pix shouts, but she's already at the door—and there is the turian from the skycar to meet her, not over-tall but impossibly broad-shouldered in silhouette, the bright noon suns behind him, dressed in grey with the black, slashed circle on his shoulder and turians and batarians alike at his flank. He has no colony markings.
"Trellix Epos," Liara says in her ear. "Shepard, he's the leader of the Anhur Syndicate."
"Do I even want to know how you know that?" Garrus mutters, and Shepard sees a red bead of light flick over the turian's heart for the briefest instant. Covered.
"The tracker I gave Shepard may have had a small camera installed as well."
"Why am I not surprised?" Ashley says from the rooftop, voice wry, and Shepard puts her hands on her hips. She can't stop her grin; she can barely keep from bouncing on her toes, from leaking biotic-blue flickers of light from her fingers.
"I hear you've been looking for me," Trellix Epos says, subharmonics dangerous enough that even she can hear them. His eyes flick to Garrus in the corner and back again; his smile is all teeth.
"Yeah," says Shepard, and pulls her Carnifex at last, resting it at her hip, promise and not yet threat. It doesn't matter how this conversation turns out, not anymore; she's got Ashley on the roof and Liara in her ear and Garrus at her back, and nothing else matters, nothing, nothing. Covered, Shepard. "You and me—let's dance."