A/N: Alright, a bigger and badder (in a good way) chapter!

Just to clear some stuff. This is set between ME1 and ME2. The Citadel is about in as much a state as it was in ME2.

Also, I'm not sure if I'm going to ship Kert anyone yet. I've been doing romance after romance. This is just cop-buddy/drama for the first chapters.

...but who knows later on?


I couldn't sleep at all, and it's almost time to go to work. This new partner thing has me pretty pissed off. As soon as I came home, I just lied down in bed, and haven't moved since. I mean, I can't even move I'm so paralyzed by hate and anxiety, but I'm a little excited too. Not for the person of course, just the possibilities to have someone else do all my work. The data pad didn't tell me anything else aside from his name…

Alexander Mitzka.

The clock says "6:00" and it's time to start the ritual as usual, with the added bonus of not needing to shower or dress. I turn over in my bed till I reach the edge. Suddenly overcome by last night's nonexistence, I feel tired. I'll just get an energy drink for the fridge and make it through most of the day. I sit on the bed's edge and crack the bones in my body: first the neck, then the arms, my back next, down to my toes and fingers. I get up to stretch my muscles, and yawn out whatever I've left inside me. Now I'm really tired, but I just have to solider to the fridge to stay up.

Walking about a yard from my bed, I walk through the door to the kitchen. A yard more, and I bump into fridge with my toes. It hurts like hell, but I've got nothing to shout with, so I just squint my eyes and complain quietly to myself. Opening it, I find some energy drinks and microwavable breakfasts. I take one of each, pop the drink into my gullet and rip the pre-made-meal open and smack it on a metal tray. Turning on the oven, I slide the meal in there and wait five to ten minutes. I'm in a rush though, so I'll just turn it on high or something.

The stove is next to the fridge, with no space in between. Between the two and the wall is just enough space for my stove's door to go partially down. From this walkway I can go, and do go, into the other half of the room. It fits an end table and a chair I found in my dad's living room. It's the most expensive thing in the whole place, and even then that's not worth a whole lot. My kitchen/dining room is gray, and lit up by a dull fluorescent light that covers almost the entire ceiling; there's enough space left for the ventilation. I once thought I'd have to move incase there was ever a fire in here, but aside from oxygen, there's nothing in this room to burn.

I decide to drink some water from the sink in the closet of a bathroom I have here. On my left, from the "dining" area, there is a very small, close quarters of a space that has a toilet, shower, and sink. Turning on the light shows off the gorgeous white on white on gray design, all metal, and all reflecting the all too bright light that I can never get use to. The water is cold though, and splashes nicely on my face, relaxing. Then I look at the hazy mirror that reminds me that I'm barefaced.

It's more of a choice than anything else. I don't care about people, I don't swear loyalties, and there's nothing for me back at my home. Certainly no one is there to welcome me warmly. I just don't care about how people see me, and that makes me stronger in a lot more ways than the conforming and hypocritical meritocracy that poignantly states how everyone is about you. I start to think more about how everyone, more than just my race, is trying to fit in and be like the main character in a movie, where everyone is happy and nothing is wrong. Am I the only person that can see how everyone is just delusional? I look away and take another handful of water and throw it to the back of my throat.

Then I hear the bing from the oven's timer, which must mean breakfast is burnt to ash, or still solid as ice. I take another glance then turn the lights off. The reflection's stare still looking back at me in a burned gaze, almost like the lights still aren't off. Whatever. Breakfast seems to be burnt-ish, so I'll just eat what I stick a fork in. Taking it out to let the smoke clear up through the vent, I chug the energy drink as fast I can to get past the shit taste it leaves on my tongue; it still taste like shit no matter what. I pick at the food, and looking between the cartoon extravaganza on the box it came in and the product left behind, I can hardly recognize what parts are which. Still, I stick my utensil in what I think is "egg" and chew on through.

This is the routine that I'm use to, and though it contradicts my looping rant about how I have luck, it's a lot better than most people on the wards. This food sucks, this apartment sucks, and my life sucks. I understand this fully and thoroughly, but I've gotten this much by doing almost nothing. Sometimes I entertain the thoughts of wealth and fame if I tried hard, but then I hate myself because that just sucks me into the whole notion of "success" on this station – and everywhere else too. I'm satisfied, and that's what real luck does.

It keeps you going on a plateau, and only when it leaves you do you know you've had it in the first place. Most don't think much of it for that very reason – it can come and go as it pleases and will never be enhanced or diminished by practicing. The thing is, it's a skill to me because I can follow it. And keeping that idea floating in my head as I finish up the rest of the food and throw out everything that's trash, it keeps me from submitting to this society's bullshit.

I turn my omni-tool on, check the time, and as usual I'll be late.

.

..

..

.

Strolling by the people complaining about their lives, and one especially eager one who even tried to talk to me (I answered him with, "Not my job!" and continued) I make it to the my next challenge. Make it to my desk without attracting the attention of Ms. Johnson, or Prissy Bitch Johnson if I'm feeling up to it – or Ms. PBJ if I want to be funny and sly.

I'm almost there, making past some of the other officers and sergeants. I'm almost there, and then I realize something's wrong. A smell of death floats across my nostrils and burns. I turn the corner and walk into my room with that I already knew. Her.

"You are twelve minutes late." Every syllabul of each word is said without emotion, not one stressed letter, and that cold face of hers only convinces me further she's a Geth in disguise. She doesn't even look at me. Her feet are on my desk the whole time, as she plays some game on her omni-tool, as well as talking about me as usual. "When you were hired, I believe they told you the times you needed to come in, yes?"

I don't answer, but she doesn't miss a beat.

"There are people in trouble, and all you can do is come sneaking into your own workplace, trying to avoid me." I'm a bit shocked at how she knew, but then again, I've been doing this same routine for a few years now, and she's seen me do it from the beginning.

"I wasn't always avoiding you," I reply, in the same tone as hers. "Before you stole your job from that other guy, I was avoiding him." That catches her attention, and her head pulls up faster than I've ever seen. I can see her green eyes, and they are not something I want to look into right now. You get lost in them, and not in the romantic way, but more in the loosing direction in some woods surrounded by Varren.

She finally retorts back with a simple, "I earned everything." Which has to be another attack at me with how I get what I want without try. Those eyes of her are what humans consider the color of envy, and it shows. She continues with a reminder about my new partner, but I'm still too focused on the issue at hand about her sitting at my desk.

"…so I told him to wait for you outside about twenty-two minutes ago, though he only should have waited ten minutes if you weren't – "

"I want my desk."

I can see that the interruption was a shocker to her ego, but the remark is what really stunned her. She came back with, "And why would I do that?" Her back leans far too exaggeratedly into my seat, and she re-crosses her ankles on top of my fucking desk.

"This is where I work." I state, trying to hold back my temper.

She calmly states, "You work? Since when?"

"This is my work-space, so you should go into your work-space. Y'know, play with your dolls and think up more dicks you could suck to get to the position of Captain."

"Awwwwww," She almost laughs. "That's real cute. Is that how you talk to a lady?"

"You're a chick?"

"Well I'm sure that's a sight to you. From what rumors say, you're only release is in a bottle."

"Well Miss Prissy Bitch Johnson, if you don't find a way to release yourself, you might be to high-strung to blow Pallin for that promotion you want!"

Both of us are screaming, but the sounds of the station are able to veil the noise enough that you'd only be able to tell if you saw us. She stands up now, leaning on her hands, which are stapled to her side of my desk, and I mimic the pose on the opposite side. This fight is too good to just pass up.

"Look here, Kert! I worked hard for everything cent of this pay, and every promotion I received was from honest work! I'm sure that's hard for you to believe, but than again, you've never made it past Officer!"

We joined the force on the same day, and since then, that's the only thing we've had in common. She works and works and works. Everyone calls her fridged this and stuck-up that, and as they mocked, she soared. They still say all those things out of spite. I just say them because it's fun.

"You know, you compare yourself to me an awful lot, and always talk about me, even to my face! Hey, if you're looking for that release, I have to say I'm flattered, but I'm not about to cross the species barrier just to help you!"

"You wouldn't help anyone if it meant more than doing jack-shit! And even then I think you still wouldn't do it! What is so fucked up in your noggin that you can't even do your mother fucking job? You're fucking job!"

I'm over this, and I just want this to be over. I don't want to do this anymore, and she's annoying me more than entertaining me.

"Sprits! Just gimme my damn desk back, you egotistical, self-centered, bitch!"

"I'm self-centered? Me? But not you, right? You're above the 'pettiness' of society and it's 'strict rules' and all that 'bull-shit' bull shit, right? FUCK YOU!"

"FUCK YOU TOO!"

She knocks over my chair with her heel and daggers are thrown from those damn eyes of hers. There's a silence. After what seems like an hour (but turns out to be a little less than three minutes) she orders me to go outside, but Alex Mitzka, and after I "finally do [my] fucking job," that I'll find my desk empty and as before. I throw in an order of my own, and tell her to put my chair back where she found it. I leave the room to the sound of my chair being torn apart, broken, and I think even shot at.

Like I told her, she can't stop thinking about me.


A/N: Ah, and another chapter done. I'm feeling every excited about this story, so please don't read, fav, and NOT COMMENT!

Something as simple as, "More tits!" or "So, I don't get it." should be ...not typed, but something ELSE like that wouldn't be minded.

Anyway, more to come, I guarantee it!

PEACE&LOVE