A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.
Alcohol on Omega was never good. It ranged from undrinkable sludge to downright poisonous depending on who was your bartender, and whether he had a grudge against you for not paying off your tab on time. The best stuff for humans came from whatever smuggled goods the Blue Suns, Eclipse, or any other merc group had with them, provided one paid them enough to overlook the fact that some of their supply was getting skimmed off the top. Naturally, they overcharged, especially if the buyer was one of the poor wretches that lived in the lower levels of the station.
Because aside from death and taxes, the one constant in the galaxy is mercenaries and a greedy streak.
I can afford it, seeing as how I don't spend much money on much of anything else.
He leaned back in his chair, the wood squeaking in protest. It was an old piece of junk he'd salvaged out of a dumpster when he'd first gotten on the station, shortly after he'd found a small little one-room apartment. It was like a rat crawling into a hole in the wall, but at least he had a ceiling over his head. That was more than most got on this godforsaken station.
The empty bottle of vodka lay on the table, rolling back and forth on its side like a metronome. His head was spinning, thoughts swimming between bad times and worse. Veins throbbing in his forehead. He was going to have the mother of all hangovers the following morning, that was for sure. A pistol, a beaten and worn M-3 Predator, lay in his lap. He hadn't loaded it. He'd just kept it there. For motivation.
Groaning, he staggered to his feet. He put a hand to his forehead.
Upon which he doubled over and vomited all over the floor.
As he lay there, the smell of alcohol and vomit and god knows whatever else seeped into the walls and floors of his "home" and this godforsaken station, he wondered if he'd indeed hit rock bottom. In his heart, he knew he probably hadn't.
Or maybe he had. Either way, he'd finished the bottle, not the other way around. That had to be a step in the right direction.
Some time later, he managed to stagger back to his feet again, the painful throbbing of drunkenness subsiding to a steady buzz. He walked over to the little suitcase that he kept essentials in, a piece of garbage leather thing that had seen better decades, and popped a couple of stim pellets. Nothing too strong; he wasn't about to go fucking around in Afterlife, after all. But he wanted to be a little sharper than he was when he went out and about.
After all, he had to go to church.
…
It was a tiny little parish, roughly big enough to hold anywhere from 20 to 25 people. It wasn't a church so much as it was a conveniently steeple-shaped building that had been appropriated by the small human community that lived in the neighborhood. A little cross had been nailed on the door front, and a local girl had painted the scene of the Ascension on the wall behind the altar and the priest's pulpit. It was a rather impressive piece of art, all things considered. Slightly dreamy and ethereal, with a surprisingly life-like look to those in the mural. It might be the prettiest thing on the entire station, and the majority of the place would never know that it existed.
He sat in the very back corner pew, an arm slung over the backrest and one leg crossed over the other. He kept his Predator holstered, out of respect for the atmosphere of the place. When he'd first arrived, the parishioners had stared somewhat fearfully at his weapon, but when he'd made no moves against them they came to accept him as another part of the community. Every now and then an alien or two might poke their head in the building to see what all the fuss was about. Most of them were one-time occurences, and soon they were off after having their fill of silly human spirituality. Some, however, stayed. Whether they believed in the things that the man in the vestments said was up for debate, but they seemed relaxed either way to be in a community that wasn't trying to kill them, like the rest of Omega's population.
And that's what it was, really. Just a couple of families and a few others struggling together in a little neighborhood project that was about a block and a half in length, with apartments and a few "houses" on both sides. Everyone knew each other, and even though they lived in a degree of squalor no one seemed to despair. They clung together desperately, and there was something he admired in that.
The priest had finished saying the closing prayer and blessing. He crossed himself, extending the blessing to the parish. And with a final "Thanks Be o God," the sermon was ended. The parishioners filed out the front door, some of them making eye contact with him and smiling. He smiled back as a courtesy, and gave a nod to others. But he didn't say anything back. They had him pegged as a relatively quiet one and he wasn't about to disabuse that notion.
"Rough night, son?"
He looked up and saw the priest standing over him.
Father Hidalgo was a short man, with a plump belly and a shiny bald head. He wore thick glasses, and tended to tug at his bushy red beard when he preached. He spoke in a noticeable accent; it was most likely Scottish, but he'd never asked the man. It seemed impossible that someone who seemed so…good was in a place as shitty as Omega, but then again he always liked to tell them that the Good Lord worked in mysterious ways, or something like that.
"A little bit, I suppose." He admitted. "Didn't sleep well."
"Confession might help." Father Hidalgo said with a cheeky grin, with the air of someone who already knows the respond headed his way. He was not disappointed.
"Father, I really appreciate the way you've welcomed me into your little community here, but I have to confess this: I just don't get the whole religion thing, really. I was never big on it growing up, and I'm trying to understand it, but I don't really feel comfortable laying all my problems on you. You aren't a psychologist, you know."
"I understand, laddie." Father Hidalgo nodded sagely. "Jus' know the door to th' booth is always open." He scratched his chin in thought. "Seemed like a good turn-out today, don't yeh think?"
"I'd agree. Even got a few of the new faces from last week to come back. Don't see too many Asari in a Catholic church, do you?"
Father Hidalgo chuckled.
"Not really, son. They seemed like they were open to listening, at least. Can't say they believe in it myself, though."
"How exactly does one reconcile the faith with the advent of life outside of earth?"
"Well, as far as I'm concerned, we aren't on earth, son. We're on Omega. And the best way to keep the faith is to preach the faith, not focusing on the little details and theological disputes."
"Awfully liberal of you, father."
Father Hidalgo snorted.
"Please. I don't care about that sort of thing. I care about helping my worshippers. It's like they say: The shepard must tend to his flock…" He trailed off, and let the young man in the pew finish for him.
"…And, at times, fend off the wolves."
That's my role, essentially. Someone has to be the 'line of defense' for the helpless, or however the line goes. Might as well be the scariest-looking one in the room, as well as the only one who knows how to shoot a gun. I doubt Father Hidalgo has even held a weapon before. It's okay: I can manage for the both of us.
…
"Father Hidalgo?"
The two men turned in the direction of the voice. It was one of the women who'd been at the service that night, and she'd brought her daughter with her.
"Ah, hello Diana dear." Father Hidalgo said, a warm smile on his face. "What can I do fer you?"
"I just wanted to say thank you for the wonderful sermon. Nef and I enjoyed it." She turned to her daughter, who smiled lightly.
"Best one in a while!" Nef said in a bit of a chipper voice.
I wouldn't have named my kid "Nef," but I get the feeling that it's short for something. "Stephanie," maybe. Don't know for sure. Haven't asked. She's the one who painted the mural on the wall of the church. Talented artist, that one. Though she's a bit of a shut-in. Painfully shy. I keep wondering if maybe she should make a few more friends. Get out more. But then again, I'm not her parent. And Diana seems to do a good enough job, as overwhelmed as she is.
"Thank you, child." Father Hidalgo said, bowing slightly in appreciation. "You always have one of the more noticeable voices in the songs. You have quite a voice, you know."
"Th-thank you, Father." Nef said. Diana smiled sweetly, and turned to the young man sitting in the pew.
"Mr. Holliday! You were actually just the man I was looking for." She said. Nef blushed furiously.
"H-he was, mom?"
"Ach, what're yeh askin' of ol' Doc here, Diana?"
As you can probably guess, "Doc Halladay" isn't my real name. It's just the first one I could think of when I stumbled into Omega and when I ran into Father Hidalgo, the first person on the station that didn't try to fight or kill me. Suitable cover name, I suppose. Also a bit of a history dump for anyone smart enough to research: Doc Holliday was an old gunslinger in the American Wild West. Highly unlikely that your average alien is well-versed in 19th century American history to recognize such an obvious pseudonym. But it goes even deeper than that: I sign my name on the church ledger as Doc Halladay, not Holliday.
Because I'm really naming myself after an old baseball player that my dad said was real good. First game I ever watched was a recorded holovid, with terrible quality, of him pitching in the playoffs. Didn't give up a hit. Or a walk. Or anything, really. And even though he was dead long before I was born, I knew he was cool. He was my favorite player, and I never saw him play in real life.
Or maybe it was just because I was watching a game with my dad on one of his rare shore leaves. That was probably what made it the best day of my childhood.
"Well, I have noticed that when church is over, Mr. Holliday here always goes back to his place, and he's done so much for our little community that I think it's a right crime that he hasn't been rewarded back in some way."
"I just live here, ma'am." Doc said quietly. Diana shook her head.
"Please. It would be downright unhospitable if I didn't do something for you. Nef and I were having dinner later tonight, and we'd love to have you join us. Would you?"
I weighed my options. On one hand, I've never been a socialite. Making small talk wasn't my favorite thing in the Alliance, and it got even worse after Dad died. After I left the Citadel for the last time and during my drifting days, there might have been week-long periods where I said absolutely nothing. Just communication by grunts and the bare minimum of vocalization. But on the other hand, the look on Nef's face right now is somewhere between hopeful kitten and frighteningly embarrassed teenager. Might be funny to push her buttons.
"That would be lovely." Doc said. "When?"
"How about in an hour and a half?" Diana asked. "That would give me time to finish dinner, and you time to take your walk." She said with a smile. Doc nodded.
"Sounds good. I'll see you then."
…
Omega doesn't really have weather, and it doesn't really have wind. The closest one got to the latter as whenever the life support fans needed to filter. Some of the backdraft that came from those mighty turbines could be a little cool, though the smell wasn't always the greatest. Every now and then gunshots could be heard in the distance, echoing off of the walls and systems like distant firecrackers. Faraway sounds of debauchery and violence and general unrest. The Queen of Omega, Aria T'Loak, really had a lot to answer for about the standard of life on this place.
Of course, this was under the assumption that she gave a fuck to begin with.
He hobbled through the street, whistling a little nursery rhyme tune through his puckered lips. Something about a farmer in a dell, whatever that was. He'd never really paid much attention to Earth history about little things like that. Every couple of steps, he thought he felt a brief little stab of pain in his knee, and he tried his best to ignore it.
Somewhere down the line my knee decided to tell the rest of my body to get bent. I don't even know what happened, if it was all at once or a long process of degeneration. I sure lived a rough life after leaving the Alliance. Either way, I was thankful for the knee brace that had been given to me by that one Salarian doctor, Solus or something or other. It fit under my jeans and other pants well enough, and if I felt like playing make-believe I could pretend thatI was a football player, because that's the kind of brace it was. Still, it meant I wasn't about to win any marathons any time soon. The Doc had offered to operate on me whenever I wanted to, and even said he'd do it free of charge. I told him I'd get around to it. That's what I told him and his staffers every time I stopped by for a run of medication or errands for the others in the neighborhood.
He thought he heard something off in one of the alleys, and tensed. Slowly, he drew his pistol out of the holster, and flicked the safety off while he kept the weapon close to his hip. He wasn't a bad hip-firer. The leg injury had affected his balance, and pretty much took away any hope of using a heavy rifle. Pistols and side arms were the only weapons that didn't feel like they wanted to rip apart his leg.
Eventually, the noises continued, and he relaxed. It was just a wild varren, gnawing on some trash in the back. Still, those things were pretty damn feral, and there was no need for it to go and eat one of the locals out late.
He squinted one eye shut, and raised his gun and fired.
…
"I wish I could shoot a gun like you can, Mr. Holliday." Nef twirled the noodles around her fork, looking down at her plate as she spoke. Sitting adjacent to her and across the table from Diana, Doc smirked slightly.
"No you don't. It's not a pretty skill to have."
"I'd listen to Doc, honey." Diana said. Somehow she'd taken the terrible foodstock that the refugee camps and soup kitchens on Omega provided and had made a gobsmackingly good bit of spaghetti. The social worker assigned to their section, Helena something or other, also was good at skimming a few luxury items off the top for the sake of the neighborhood. Tonight it was honest-to-god parmesan cheese. Doc felt like he was in heaven, or at least as close to it as possible. Still, he had to be careful not to eat too greedily. It was easy to get food and crap on his beard and mustache. It wasn't fun washing himself off in that terrible shower with the smelly water; he had to be careful he didn't pick up a waterborne disease.
"But it seems so…romantic!" Nef finally said. "The way you're always out there on the street, in that brown duster…you look like a cowboy like in those old pre-holo vids. It's a very inspiring look to draw-" Her eyes widened, and her face was the color of a tomato. "I-I-I-I mean, not that I watch you and draw you an-" Next to her, Diana smiled a motherly smirk.
"What's wrong, Nef? Are you suggesting that Doc here isn't a good-looking fellow? If I were his age…"
"Mother!"
Despite himself, Doc smirked.
I smirk a little as the mother gets in a few shots at the expense of the daughter. Nef's a good kid, but I'm way too old for her. She doesn't even turn twenty for another few months, for god's sake. It's just an innocent crush, I guess. Besides, I looked a lot better without the facial hair and the beard and the shaggy hair, in my opinion. Of course, if I cut it off then people would see the scars. And they'd see who I really was.
"Alright, alright." Diana said. "I'll stop teasing, dear. But you really make it too easy."
"Mom, please…" Nef said, in a desperately pleading tone. She wouldn't even make eye contact with Doc. He rubbed his chin in thought, and then smiled.
"You know, now that I think about it…maybe I'd be a good model after all."
"W-what?" Nef asked, looking like a stunned goldfish. Doc tried not to smile.
"Maybe I'd like a little painting of me as a cowboy. Nothing too fancy, of course." He smiled. "I could even pay you."
"…Really?" Nef asked. "I mean, I'm okay at sculpting but painting is…no, I'll do it." She smiled sweetly. "I'll do it because you asked nicely, and you're nice."
If only she knew.
…
Later that night, after thanking them for dinner and promising to make it a weekly thing, Doc hobbled out into the street. It was "dark," or at least darker than it was a few hours ago. This was usually when the troublemakers started to come out to play. He heard the sounds of locks clicking through the neighborhood as he passed through. It wasn't because of him; it was because of whatever else might be out there. He didn't blame them. Omega was a scary place, filled with scary people.
A perfect place for a butcher to hide, really.
He got to the door of his tenement apartment, and was about to enter when he froze. The small piece of gum that he'd adhered to the bottom corner of the door, so small that no one would have noticed it, was snapped. Someone had entered the place.
Drawing his pistol, he made sure it was loaded and kicked in the door.
…
He lowered the weapon when he saw who it was. A figure in the shadows, wearing a mask to disguise his face. Dark armor designed for both stealth and black ops missions. Very top of the line stuff, to be honest. He must have stolen it from a very wealthy shipment. The figure had his back to him, gazing at the wall. No weapons in plain sight.
"You could have knocked." Doc finally said.
"I was in a hurry."
"You couldn't have waited for me?"
"Please." The figure turned towards him. "I'm not exactly in a position to be strolling through the streets of Omega as a salesman going door-to-door."
The figure's helmet had a voice modifier that deepened the tone of voice, but wasn't quite able to disguise the telltale flanging of a Turian's voice. Also, the body type was a dead giveaway, but that was another thing entirely.
"I think the expression is 'door-to-door salesman.'" Doc said. The figure waved a hand dismissively.
"Isn't what I just said? I'm not here to debate semantics. Your idioms are hard enough to figure out, and I've had practice with the best of them."
"What do you want." Doc said, his smile faded. There was no questioning lilt in his voice. He was tired and starting to feel the effects of his stims wearing out. In another hour he'd be crashed on the bed, sleeping off the mother of all hangovers.
"Can't I make a social call?" The Turian asked.
"I didn't think we were friends."
"Then does that make us enemies?"
"No."
"Then I'd say we're friends."
"…Whatever."
The figure looked around the room, and then down at the floor.
"Have a rough night?" He asked, gesturing to the telltale signs of cleaned up vomit on the floor. Doc's eye twitched.
"Maybe. Maybe that's none of your business."
"I can't have any unreliable assets, you know."
"I don't recall ever agreeing to be your asset. Or anyone's asset."
"You're not my enemy, by your own words. And you're unwilling to say we're friends. So that makes you an asset, for lack of a better term. Don't look so offended, it means we're not enemies. You don't want to know what I do to my enemies."
"I've heard stories."
"Oh?" The figure sat down on the chair, the wood creaking in futile protest. Doc winced. That chair was going to break the next time he sat in it, he just knew it. "And just what have you heard?"
"Enough to make two-bit thugs afraid of making drug deals in the open, and think twice about bothering a little group of humans huddled around what they call a church."
"I haven't done much about this neighborhood." The figure admitted. "That's all you, according to my intel." He paused, gauging the way Doc's shoulders heaved. "Do the others know the things you've done to the riffraff that've tried setting up shop around here, in the abandoned tenements? I have to say, it's damn good work. A little…messy, I suppose. But it's dead scum all the same." He folded his arms behind the back of his head. "My offer is always open, you know."
"I'm not much of a team player." Doc said.
"Then freelance. You can operate out of here, and only work on the outside fringes of my operation."
"Still too invested."
The Turian chuckled.
"Well, it wasn't a no. I like that." He got up. "I've stayed here long enough. Any longer and my team gets worried, or the mercenaries start looking for me. Wouldn't want them to get brought to this section of the station. By the way, a little gift." He reached into a bag he had fastened to his hip. "I saw the one you carry at your hip and thought it could use a brother. Or a sister, if you will."
Doc took the M-3 Predator in his hand, feeling the weight of the weapon. It was light, which meant that it hadn't been loaded. He twirled it around his finger forwards, and then backwards. He looked at the masked Turian, and nodded.
"It'll work."
"Because I'm such a nice guy, I brought some upgrades for the other one, so that they're both on similar levels. I've seen that peacekeeper you've got. No offense, but I think the only thing keeping it from breaking apart on you is dumb luck." The Turian set the bag down on the table, and cleared his throat. "I should go. It's getting late." He was about to walk out the door, when he stopped and turned around. "Oh, and I know it's none of my business, seeing as how we're not-quite-friends and not-enemies, but I saw a bunch of unsavory sorts filing into that tenement apartment at the far end of the street a day or so ago. They haven't come out, which likely means they've been hitting the red sand a little too hard…but I wouldn't bet against them stumbling out with guns firing in any general direction. Unless they…were taken care of." He pointed towards the building in question. Doc stared at it, and then looked back at the Turian.
"But how many ar-"
He was talking to himself.
I hate it when he does that.
It's technically midnight by the time I'm done putting together and cleaning up my Predator with the upgrades that Archangel gave me. Don't know why he's taken a shine to me, but at least I don't have to worry about getting my head blown off from half a mile away. And during that time, I can hear the sounds of loud noises and stupidity coming from that tenement. Definitely raiders, alright. Maybe even a slaver or two. They might be drugged out of their minds right now on red sand and god knows what else, but there's no better time to deal with a threat than when they're at an objective disadvantage.
I strapped the holsters to my hips, and made sure both guns were properly loaded. No need for a misfire now. I throw on my duster, the very one that little Nef said made me look like a cowboy, and I step out into the night. You know, it's kind of cute, in a funny sort of way, that Nef's painting me as one of those old-school gunslingers, the kind that roll into town at high noon to defeat the man in the black hat. I'm sure that's the way that the others see me, too.
I reach the doorway of the tenement, and can hear the voices dying down as the drugs kick in and their adrenaline saps.
I don't have the heart to tell Nef that, in the end, I might be the man in the black hat after all.
But that shouldn't be much of a surprise.
I am a Butcher, after all.
A/N: Hope you can follow the narrative structure. Anything in italics is the inner thoughts of our main character: "Doc Halladay," (whose real first name hasn't yet been revealed. Might as well be "X" Shepard at this rate. Hang in there, we'll hear it soon!) and anything in regular text is the normal third-person narration. Hope it makes sense. Shout-out to anyone who recognizes the veeeerrry small characters from Mass Effect 1 and 2 in this chapter, which doesn't count the well-known one at the end. See you next time!
A/N no. 2: As another personal aside, our main character "Doc Halladay/X Shepard" bears a striking resemblance to Kurt Russell in Escape from New York…minus the eye patch, and with facial hair more akin to Ben Affleck in Argo. Hopefully that helps with visualizing him. He didn't always look like this, though.
