That night she dreamt of the home she remembered as a child. From her bedroom window she saw the sunrise give halos to the hills. The skies above Serrice held ribbons of cloud. Pictures of five generations of mothers hung on the wall, giving the child's room an odd formality, on another wall: posters of the wild animals she imagined one day for pets. Her first omni-tool lay half buried in blankets on her bed where she'd fallen asleep with it the night before, after secretly playing holo-games hours past her bedtime. She remembered the illicit thrill of trespassing against her mother's rules, the blissful safety of her first home.
The house no longer stood there. Neither did the neighborhood. It had been part of the last targets the Reapers assaulted before the war ended.
She opened her bedroom door and it led into an access corridor aboard the Nefrane. Pale blue light gave ambience to the steel path. She remembered the route, knew it like her bedroom, could navigate the decks blindfolded. Ten paces ahead, turn left, walk twelve paces, take the access ladder down eight rungs, turn right, four more paces: her first posting on the ship. Her battle sisters had welcomed her, even the veterans. They immediately included her in their bravado, guided her, helped Falindra find her confidence. She missed that crew. She rarely regretted the honor of receiving a position within the Serrice Guard. Rarely means sometimes. Accepting the new role had taken her away from the last home she knew. She had thought herself an adventurer without need for such comforts; but it's easy to think that until you're without one.
The data terminal at her workstation displayed a slideshow of heart throbs from her youth. She'd been strongly attracted to turian women, powerful, elegant, and self-possessed. The first stirrings of pubescent hungers had been inspired by the poster of a turian actress dressed in-character for an historical vid detailing her people's early efforts at space exploration.
She turned away from the terminal and saw Drin Haylar at knee level, making repairs at a circuit box. "All done," he said in her dream. Then he started barking and growling and Falindra woke up.
The growling followed her through lucidity and into consciousness. She took a moment to collect her senses in the darkness, to cast off the sleepiness that fogged her brain. The Serrice Guard trained her to make the adjustment within a second. The tunnel was dark; she had expected ambient blue, but dismissed the notion as quickly as it had sprung.
The growling came from ten meters away. Two people, (her ears trained well enough to deduce the number where others might hear a meaningless squabble of grunts). At first she presumed vorcha must be the owners of such bestial sounds. After listening a moment longer she recognized that the sounds came from batarian vocal cords. A third individual yelped with pain. Two more peeled gales of bellowing laughter. Those deep-pitched tones had to come from the double set of lungs krogan possessed.
The yellow-skinned salarian who eyed her with envy at the ice drill sat nearby, curled against the wall. He kept to the shadows, trembling, limbs lurching involuntarily with each squeal of pain heard from beyond view.
Falindra groped the floor until her hand found the sharp metal strip of steel siding she'd hid there after scavenging a dilapidated locker room. She checked the steel-fiber shoe laces she wore: two per shoe, one each near the toes and at the ankles, all properly fastened. She punctured the bottom of her shirt before with the improvised blade before tucking it into her belt, then stuck her finger in the hole and tore a swath off the bottom of the shirt.
After that she pried a nearby ventilation grate loose from the wall – without difficulty; nothing seemed maintained in this habitat beyond what necessity demanded. Crumbs of rust puffed out from the surrounding frame. The screws that had so inadequately performed their task of keeping the vent in place were easily dislodged from their sockets with the sharp press of her thumb. Falindra wrapped the first layer of the swath from her shirt around her right hand, placed four screws along her knuckles, wrapped the fabric around twice more until it was nearly spent, then tied a knot. The salarian watched, bewildered by her activities, and silently mouthed warnings for her to lie back down.
She made a fist to test that the screws sat properly before crawling away from her makeshift nest toward the audible commotion.
It had been one minute, twenty seconds since the growls first woke her.
"Don't go. They'll hurt you too," said the salarian, fear painted in his eyes, even in the dim. She motioned for him to remain in the crevice where he cowered and continued on.
The corridor tapered into a service access route, forcing Falindra to hunch over, ambling with her knees level with her chest. She was confident that her ears gave her an accurate account of the distance, but had not anticipated the disrepair of the tunnel she crawled through. It was one of three routes running near where she slept at night and she had not yet found chance to explore beyond the first fork. Debris littered the ground: broken shards of metal and glass, the skeletal remains of bugs (Yagi was too inhospitable for native life; but pests had talent for stowing aboard vessels and riding among the stars; these ones suffering the fate of arriving where no bounty might sustain them), and the bones of something that had once been much larger than any bug. She turned left at the fork and followed the krogan laughter. She dragged herself by the arms under a partially collapsed bulkhead toward the diffused amber glow of fueled lanterns.
Moments later she poked her head out of the opening where the access tunnel ended. Her chin was pressed against the top of a ladder; she had arrived near the ceiling of what had once been the locker room when this habitat still held the illusory promise of legitimate prosperity and many employees.
Two batarians stood directly below her, shoving a drell back and forth between them, smacking him across the face, the back of the head, the neck. His legs wobbled and he fell. Whatever fight might have occurred during the time it took Falindra to make her way to the room was over. This was predators playing with their food.
The drell's shirt was tattered. A dark, lumpy bruise already began forming around his left eye and his neck was covered in welts. One batarian picked him up, cooing mock sympathies.
The krogan sat further back, having made bleachers for themselves from toppled machinery. "That drell is softer than a baby," chortled one to his cohort's amusement. A vorcha sat between them and, appropriate to his station, below. His unsettling row of fangs flashed a demon smile as he soaked in the blood sport.
She recognized the spectators. Drau Mar was one of the two krogan; the tattoo of a black skull overlaid across his face made it obvious enough. The second one was Hurx. She suspected that the vorcha was Skeb. She found the species hard to differentiate, but he stood taller than his kin and had the bluster to keep company with krogan by himself.
Not for the first time, she missed her equipment. The bio-amp that took seven months from start of manufacture to final tuning to complete; the omni-tool that lagged with the eccentricities of overly adapted computer programs; her body armor; her weapons. This situation should prove the superiority of Serrice Guard training. That's what she hoped. Other Special Forces across the galaxy, from STG to N7, thrived on their gadgetry to the cusp of dependency. The first lesson learned in the Serrice Guard was that tools and toys were fleeting things, lost in the frenetic movements of clandestine operations or destroyed in combat, and that made relying on equipment a burden. Asari commandos were trained to think of how any situation might be approached without equipment. Forced to rely on ingenuity and improvisation, the experience was liberating. On the other hand, Falindra suspected that her instructor never faced krogan internment without a bio-amp.
Two more vorcha entered the room carrying crates of supplies. The noises distracted them from nightly chores. She recognized the one that had been lynched near the conveyor belt. Bruises layered his face. Knowing the vorcha's famous regenerative abilities, Falindra guessed the wounds had been received from a more recent beating, a second in as many days. Nobody seemed safe from the tradition of brawling on Yagi, slave or sentry. The other vorcha, Rog, was slightly hunchbacked. They stayed to watch what was left of the fight.
One batarian punched the drell as the latter tried to get to his feet. The blow's force sent him on his knees again.
The vorcha took turns pushing, nudging, and punching one another, establishing the hierarchy of their new seating arrangement. Falindra saw no better time than the provided distraction. She sprung from the access route with her left arm, the other arm outstretched and braced.
Her padded fist connected with the first batarian. Falindra's aim from twelve feet was true; she connected with his temple, sending him sprawling across the ground.
She knew the second batarian by day as her colleague at the ice drills. The recollection flashed through her mind, but she did not allow it to cause any hesitation. She kicked him in the chest. The kick forced him a distance back, giving Falindra precious seconds to attain a better fighting posture. She caught the krogan and vorcha watching the change of events from her peripheral vision, but so far they hadn't moved.
The first batarian started getting to his feet faster than she expected. She struck out at the second, eliciting a grunt, but found herself flanked before she could deliver a crippling below. Suddenly, with one batarian to each side of her, she was on the defensive, dazzling her opponents with a series of thrusts, feints, and parries. One tested her and the other tried to sneak in. When she fended them off, her two attackers reversed roles and tried again.
Her co-worker (and wouldn't sharing water cooler talk be so much fun come morning) struck hard. She evaded a series of fists until the taller batarian with longer reach came from behind and got his arm around her neck.
The co-worker came at her again, eager to successfully connect a punch and cause pain. His mistake was assuming her defenseless and, in turn, putting his own guard down. She kicked, connecting with his neck. The batarian crashed into the ground, clutching his throat. Stifled gagging noises escaped his lips, panic revealed in all four eyes.
The second batarian became enraged at the sight of his fallen compatriot. He dug into her neck with his fingers, grabbed her by the calf with his second hand, and hoisted her above his head, holding her high with barbaric superiority. He'd not recover from the error. Falindra's legs locked up his left arm. Her elbow smashed into his face, again and again and again: a blur of motion. The cartilage around his nose crumbled. He fell to the ground with her on top and spread across his chest.
She stole a look back at the first batarian to make sure he still lay incapacitated, and then came a spray of stars and blackness and the vertigo of motion as Falindra went hurling across the room.
She blinked the stars out of her eyes, waiting for vision to return. She had landed against the wall, lying atop the spilled refuse from a dustbin.
Drau Mar stood over her. She hadn't seen him move from the makeshift bleachers. He had sat comfortably, joking with his friend while they watched the gladiatorial combat, and they had enjoyed her surprise entry; but he changed from audience to disciplinarian on silent cue. When occasioned to, he moved with frightening speed.
"Fighting is good," said Drau Mar. "Proves you got mettle, that you're worth giving food." His face came closer. "Killing my property is bad." He waited until she nodded confirmation that his message had been successfully delivered through the fog of semi-consciousness. The warning needed to be understood because it would only be given once.
Falindra managed to stand, surreptitiously reaching for the tip of one steel-fiber shoelace. The Serrice Guard were trained to regain their senses in seconds, be it from sleep or the risk of concussion. She feigned grabbing at the pain around her head (in truth, there was little pretending) and made a quick toss, trusting to the adhesive. She so admired his omni-tool. The tiny aglet stuck to the underside of it.
Drau Gorba bulged into the room, angry and shouting. It should have been clear at a glance that no slaves were conspiring or out of control. Any happenings that occurred without his knowledge set his temper into an inferno. He swatted at the still-wounded vorcha to demonstrate his irritation. How Gorba relished unleashing his frustration on the same vorcha, as though he found it cathartic to debase the same creature that often was the source of his annoyance.
Mar gave a snap glare at Gorba, brief, but Falindra saw that no strong bonds of brotherhood united the two.
Mar led his cohorts out of the room. The two batarians, struggling to their feet, eventually followed, leaving Falindra with the drell who had been forgotten by everyone by that point. He stood in the corner of the room, nursing his wounds, soaking droplets of blood from cuts on the back of his head with a grubby handkerchief.
Falindra walked over.
"I guess I should thank you for sparing me the rather unsavory beating they'd thought to offer me." He tried smiling. "Name's Sye Videl, and you'll find that there's no better person to have owing you a debt than myself."
For a man who'd been cowering and defenseless he managed to display a quick façade of charm. How could a man pretend to possess such casual magnetism so soon after being assaulted? She trusted him less for the attempt.
"You all right? Some of those bruises look painful."
"Darling, never tell a man that his face is marred when he's trying to be his most impressive." He struck his chest to embellish the wound she'd caused his honor. "I suffer the shame of being rescued by a beautiful maiden instead of being the one who performed the rescue. Otherwise I'm fine. Believe me," added Sye, "it's far more undignified when the vorcha start licking my skin to get high."
"Why did they attack you?' Falindra decided it was best to dismiss the image of a tongue-wagging vorcha before it festered.
"Why wouldn't they? You're clearly new here. The krogan encourage fighting among the slaves. Drau Mau taught you as much. They figure it's the surest way of seeing if a laborer has the strength to be worth his keep. Of course I haven't seen anyone inflict the sort of harm you just did. If a slave is too incapacitated to work come morning, the Drau investigate and the culprit winds up twice as maimed."
"Guess that's one way they keep discipline," Falindra muttered.
Sye chuckled, inspecting the tiny flecks of blood on the handkerchief, disappointed that, for the pain he felt, there lacked the signs of a more horrendous wound to describe when he recounted the tale of his part in the brawl. Thankfully, the gods had gifted Sye with the wondrous talent for exaggeration. The batarians would be each eight feet tall before long.
"Nobody wants to fight a krogan. Well, except maybe you. You really tore apart those batarians. Unbelievable"
Falindra was pleased by his evaluation despite herself. She expected gratitude, but what she needed was for him to be impressed. If beating Hastings and his goons wasn't enough, besting the batarians with Drau Mar watching was certain to give her a reputation. Looking to gain notoriety was a risk; most people in her predicament preferred avoiding attention, tried to keep away from krogan notice as much as possible. Keeping to herself would not build alliances with the other slaves. Risk it was.
Arriving here served a purpose, two actually. She needed to collect information, though, and get moving. The fact that she'd been forced into this predicament only proved that her assignment was more crucial than she realized.