Chapter 1

"I'm going to ask you again, what is your name?" I stared straight ahead, refusing to meet the eyes of the two men standing in front of me. One seemed unrushed, unfazed by my aloofness as I grew tired of this little interrogation. The other leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest, bearing a scowl that told me he was not at all impressed with my attitude towards the situation. "Who do you work for?" The man with the warm brown eyes and skin to match asked. At some point he must have been considered handsome, sharp edges hardened his features in a way that screamed masculinity. But the lines and creases on his face told a different story. He looked worn, his eyes sagged in the corners with the tiredness of someone who hadn't slept in decades. His shoulders slightly slumped as if he'd been holding the weight of the universe on his back. The gentleness in his eyes told me that he was long past his trigger-happy days, but the way he held himself betrayed the calm softness on his outer shell that would fool most people. He could kill me in the blink of an eye if need be and we both knew it. When he spoke, he didn't bite the words out, didn't even say them as if they were an order but more as a request. I'm sure if it was up to his brooding friend he would've used more caddish methods in getting me to talk.

How did I get myself into this situation? Only yesterday was I held up in The Citadel's most scandalous night club, Chora's Den, putting my feet up on a stool while lowly local boys fell over each other buying me drinks. Most of them not even sure how to use their own pixie sticks, if you get my meaning. The sweet yet poisonous fumes of drink, smoke and sweat swirled in the air as heads and hips swayed to the beat of the booming bases. Looks of whispered promises thrown across the room to each other even though you knew you wouldn't remember their name the next morning. The kind of environment that put me at ease, made me feel as close to home as I could get.

Things went to hell after saving that quarian from Fists assassins. I'd been prepared to deal with that, scumballs like Fist were born without balls and always used merc's to clean up their piss. A couple of arrogant ditzes with pea shooters wasn't a problem I couldn't handle. What I hadn't been prepared for were the three well-armed figures that seemed to peel out of the shadows themselves. Demons disguised as soft, adorable teddy bears in hard armor and grenade launchers strapped to their backs. If it wasn't for the menacing scowls they wore that promised death with lots and lots of blood, I would've considered bringing them home to place side by side on my shelf. You'd think the assassins had never seen a ghost before, because the moment the uninvited guests made their dramatic entrance they'd started letting bullets fly like the air itself was attacking them. The asshats had caught me in the side and calf. Which hurt like a bitch, let me tell you. The impact had me sprawled on my belly with the air knocked out of my lungs like someone had just run over me with a skycar. By the time the battle had ended and the roaring of firearms seized, which didn't take long, smoke screened the surrounding air and my mouth was sour and dry from the taste of copper and salt. Blood.

Steps sounded in my left ear before a talon gripped my shoulder to roll me onto my back. On impulse, not missing a single beat, I swung my leg out from underneath me. The hand retreated as they hit the ground next to me with a hard, thunderous thud and I was off sprinting before anyone else had time to pull their heads out of their asses.

My vision swayed and darkened with each step I took, my breathing was sharp and raspy. It was almost embarrassing; two little bullets and I was ready to curl up in a ball and take a nice long nap. Pathetic. Across the hall the exit was close, oh so close. I pumped my legs harder. A few more paces. If I could just-

Something big flew into my back, knocking all the air out of my lungs with a yelp, and I went down hard. I gasped, pinned to the ground by something so heavy I could barely breathe. Strong gloved hands rolled me over so I was on my back. I brought my fingers up to his face, trying to claw his eyes out with my nails like the idiot I was. Good thinking, Chyler. That'll really throw him off. He grabbed both of my wrists and locked them down on either side of my head, shifting so he was straddling my chest. I growled and tried to squirm out from under him. This just made his hold on me tighter and more forceful, like holding down a slippery fish who was attempting to make a getaway to the safety of the water. His weight pressed against my burning side. I cried out, my sight going spotted with black smudges like a watercolor painting.

Stupid sonofabitch. I'll flay you alive and dance the rumba naked over your grave after painting my apartment walls with your blood and using your skull as my bedside table light fixture, you overweight Yahg.

When my vision focused again, I was looking up into very blue very angry eyes, eyebrows furrowed low and lips pressed in a thin line. He wore black heavy armor with a white and red N7 insignia, a blood red stripe going from one shoulder along his arm to his covered hand. Armor too nice for any mercenary. He was attractive, very attractive. All chiseled with equivalent features. Unruly dirty blonde hair and extremely intense, bright ocean blue eyes with impossibly long eyelashes that most women would have killed for, after spending all their fortunes on implants that ate away their eyelids instead. It was distracting. For a few moments I stopped struggling completely just to gape up at him. He was young, but the way his eyes burned told me he had seen a lot of this galaxy. Tales hidden in them that, from the blue fire flashing in his irises, I know I didn't want to know. It should've been a crime for a marine to look like that. His features alone gave him the upper hand which I found a little unfair. You'd have to seriously think if you actually wanted to kill him or jump his bones. The phrase "looks meant to kill" was most definitely referring to this psychotic bastard.

The wheels started to turn in my brain again, creaking from the blissful trip that they just passed through. Almost groaning in protest for the rude awakening from whatever trance took hold. I snapped my mouth shut, aware that I'd been staring at him open-mouthed like a hollow head for a good thirty seconds. I bucked, squirmed and twisted, anything I could think of to try to get his weight off of me.

"Stop," he said in a firm, demanding voice. I took note that it was an order, not a request. An order that I was not about to fall over myself to obey. Not today, not ever. Hell would sprout roses first. We glared daggers at each other, blue eyes clashing with brown. There was movement behind his shoulder. Two figures made their way cautiously and carefully like walking barefoot on broken glass over towards us, a dark haired man with a flabbergasted expression and a very pissed off looking turian, mandibles flaring in the way turians do when the sticks up their asses were kicked up even farther. Both had their weapons drawn and raised to attention. The man above me once again put pressure down onto my injured side, lacing fire through my veins. If I could've breathed I would've flung curses at him that would have even the turian blushing crimson. The pain had been so fierce, so consuming that it had agony tickling up my side, down from my clenched teeth to my curled toes. Everything started to turn shadowy, like someone had put a black lens over my eyes. Like I was living in my own personal nightmare where my life was modeled after those terrible silent films that nobody in their right mind missed. I was losing consciousness, and unsettling quickly at that.

"She's just a kid." The turian's voice seemed to be coming from far away, though I knew that wasn't the case since if I stretched my head back I could bite his clawed foot with my teeth, something I would've attempted if I wasn't so damn tired.

I slapped a hand against the chest above me, despite the fact that it was covered with hard, bullet repelling armor and hurt my palm more than it hurt him. Through the stinging after effect that made my fingers tingle and shake, the annoying voice in the back of my head was chanting, 'Yeah! Shove against that chest! Show 'em who's boss!' I didn't even last long enough to tell the voice to shove off before the cruel beast that was unconsciousness swallowed me whole, bones and all.

I woke a few hours later, ankles and wrists cuffed to a plush hospital cot and wearing a pearl white papery gown that did nothing for my curves and showed more than I would've preferred. From the constant irate humming beneath my feet, it didn't take long to realize I was aboard a starship. An expensive one, by the size of their sterile white medbay. The doc in charge probably spent more time keeping dust from forming on the gleaming metal tabletops than actually tending to battered up marines. Everything was crisp and so clean I was afraid I'd be spaced if I left even a single smudge. I'd be spaced for less anyways, probably. The air smelled of freshness, like a new luxurious skycar you sold your house for to be able to afford just to shove it in your friends faces that you were bigger. It made me wrinkle my nose up in disgust. So, not just Alliance marines, but important ones. I was about as lucky as a quarian without a suit in a room full of sick patients. I would have been able to make a grand escape made to be put in the history books if it wasn't for the two sets of eyes watching me like a hawk the moment I became conscious. They didn't trust me to sit quietly until orders were barked in my face like I was a mutt, how insulting.

"What was your purpose being on The Citadel?" Good Cop tried again. The screeching of metal sliding harshly against metal demanded that my head explode like a watermelon as he pulled a chair up to the side of my cot and folded himself down into it slowly and with practiced ease. A gesture to show that this wasn't a hostile conversation. Cheap shot. I've been in numerous interrogations and your tactics don't impress me, Scout Leader.

I gave them my best cynical smug smile like I ate puppies for fun. "I'll take my recognition for saving the quarian verbally and at any time," using the same tone as someone saying, "Thank you for the candy bar, mister. Chocolate and caramel is my absolute favorite." I wasn't about to let some Alliance dickheads try to scare me into submission. I never did like bullies who pushed the weaker around, and the Alliance was one of the biggest bullies on the playground. I was the little brat that liked to kick sand in their eyes for fun.

I expected hostility, rage, maybe even a little bit of threatening. "If you don't tell us what you know we'll kill so and so with a weapon that sounds like a pro wrestlers ring name," that sort of thing. In fact, I'd kind of been hoping for it. But the response I got scared me so greatly that my blood turned to pure ice and my heart skipped a full beat. He smiled. Not in a mocking or cruel way, not arrogant, but a genuine smile. Reaching up to those deceivingly gentle eyes that made you want to spill your entire tearful life story. There was no disguised edge behind it. The man with the burning blue eyes resembling that of a gas flame sighed behind him, running a hand over his face and into his hair. A substitute tactic, I realized. He very much wanted to wrap those hands around my neck but settled for disheveling his hair instead.

"Anderson, this is getting us nowhere. We're wasting time; have C-Sec look into the matter."

"I'll also take my apology at any time for being barbarously manhandled," I snapped gratingly at him and regretted it almost immediately. He fixed me with a hard stare, his cobalt eyes flashed dangerously at me, like lightning on a clear summer day. I'd recognize that challenging gaze anywhere. The Chief glare, the one that shrieked vigor and authority. I'd received it before, where they screamed at you with their eyes to shut your overly large trap or get a taste of their boot in your mouth. Most were bearable, causing your pulse to spike slightly for a few moments and your stomach to roll like the after effects of the first dive on a roller coaster. His was the kind that made serial killers cower in corners with their tails between their legs and helplessly howl for their mothers. Freezing you into his own personal ice sculpture. The flames licked at something sinister. Hunger that reminded you of a lion stalking his prey, making them writhe before going in for the kill, promising it will be a long and harrowing process. It completely terrified me, so I laughed in his face.

"I don't cooperate with anyone who ties me down. You treat me like an animal and that's exactly what you'll get in return. Flashing your headlights at me won't change anything." Except I might need a change of undergarments.

"You talk big for someone with so little to offer." Ouch. I suppose I deserved that; poke the lion and he's likely to snap your stick as well as your arm. And eat your face off, apparently. I could try batting my eyelashes and wiggling my tush at him, but I think we're past that stage. He bared his teeth at me in a silent snarl like he was contemplating eating my head clean off my shoulders. Definitely past that stage.

"Don't worry, Gingerbread. I'll track down whoever stole your lollipop as soon as we're done here."

A rumbling chuckle came from the man named Anderson. He was looking at me strangely, like I was some newly discovered species he was eager to acquaintance. At least someone found me amusing, Boy Scout looked like he wanted to stuff me and hang me over his bed as a decoration.

"It looks like you've found your match, Shepard," Anderson said, his tone light and laced with amusement.

Holy jumping tits on a flying purple elcor. Please tell me Anderson was a very rare looking asari and my translator just had a minor glitch. Please tell me the universe didn't hate me so much to place me in the presence of the last person in the galaxy that I wanted to meet. And please tell me I didn't just goad him to the point where I'd be waking up stranded on some frozen ice planet stripped down to my skivvies with the word "ditz" tattooed on my forehead. I'd formed a consensus: no good came from being pinned down by an extremely handsome man. From now on, I'd have to avoid them like the Black Plague. If my arms weren't cuffed down to my sides I would have slapped myself on the forehead.

Shepard was the last person I wanted to cross paths with. His reputation was blood-curdling enough to have a vorcha turning the opposite direct when he approached. He was what people liked to call "Pretty Poster Boy." He was humanity's trophy wife, except for being petite with large breasts he was a monster N7 soldier trained to kill with the flick of his wrist. I'd rather swim through hell and back than share the battlefield with him. Yet me, suffering from a contagious disease known as word vomit, had to open my big mouth and provoked him to no end. I'd challenged him, something he wasn't going to toss aside even if I bowed down to him and kissed his feet. I was such an idiot.

"How about this," I forced my tone to stay even despite the fact that my insides were exploding like a volcano, "you pretend you didn't see me; I'll pretend I didn't see you. A mutual concurrence and then we can both be out of each other's hair."

Anderson enlaced his bulky fingers together under his flat chin, settling his elbows snugly against his knees and fixed me with a persistent gaze. Intelligence danced behind those eyes. From the way his orbs never left my face, you'd think he was trying to think his way into my brain. We stared at each other. Add some whistling and a rolling tumbleweed and we'd be all set. "I think we could use her," he said without glancing away.

The blood drained from my face. You're really on a roll today, aren't you, Chyler.

"You can't be serious." Shepard stared at Anderson like he'd just sprouted a third head. "You honestly trust her enough to not slit our throats in our sleep?"

I snorted. "I wouldn't need to wait until you were sleeping." The Chief glare again. I really needed to stop talking.

"Saren's got one hell of a bite," Anderson told him. "If we're going to have any chance against him, we'll need the largest guns and sharpest teeth we can find." For the first time since our beautifully choreographed, civil interrogation began, Anderson broke the link between our eyes. He cranked his thick neck to fix that gaze on Shepard. "Trust me on this."

A silent tête-à-tête passed between them, though I'm not sure how that's possible since both of their expressions gave about the same amount of emotion as a stone wall. Typical Alliance marines. Look at us, we like to have scolding competitions for fun. Winner gets a fist to the face.

Shepard's eyes subsided slightly, something I didn't think was even possible. "Alright," he said in an evenly toned voice that betrayed the tightness of his jaw.

Anderson dug for something in the snug pants of his Alliance blues. A chorus of gangling echoed in my heart as he pulled the cuff keys loose from the depths of his pocket. My eyes latched onto them like it was a hunk of meat and I was a starved savage. Anderson unlocked the restraints binding my ankles first, then my wrists. I had to fight the instinctive urge to latch my teeth into his arm.

"Now then," he gave me that benevolent smile that continued to vex me with its tenderness. You'd think I was some frightened child by the way he looked at me. I was neither. Anyone who thought different could say it to the barrel of my pistol. "We could very well use your help, if you're willing to give it."

Strange that they were giving me a choice. Alliance usually took whatever they wanted whenever they wanted it, no exceptions, no excuses needed. Act first, talk later. I'd never met one that was willing to negotiate. Not that I was looking a gift horse in the mouth; I was grateful to still be breathing. And moderately cut up that I didn't get to smash anyone in the face with one of the polished stainless steel chairs.

I was a coward. I'd come to terms with that little known fact a long time ago. I was given minute, meaningless assignments, ones that didn't affect the galaxy in any way but still put a good amount of credits in the palm of my hand at the end of the day. That was the way I liked it, where I was discreet and known only as "that dark haired woman with the big mouth and ego to match." I wasn't actually considering accepting their proposal. There was no way I could seriously be that dense. I might as well hand them my funeral arrangements. "Yes, I would like white roses placed on my gravestone, please. Make a note to carve 'Here Lies Chyler Hale, significant moron since 2183 and holding strong' on the headstone above a drawing of a dancing monkey."

Yet the inner voice bouncing around in the back of my hollow head purred at the idea. It liked the thought of being immersed in the smack middle of all the action, craved on the top-shelf information that came as a packaged deal with the job. It liked the idea of being able to sway the menacing tango with Shepard. I should have been telling them no, to stick it where the sun shines. The words fizzed in my mouth to the point where I could almost taste them. They were creamy, pleasantly deep and full of life. Yet the words that actually came out sounded nothing like what I was thinking.

"Okay," I said. "I'll do it."