Chapter 3: Club Hopping, Omega-Style
For all their differences, it's amazing how much people have in common. Think I'm wrong? You should walk a mile in my boots and observe their behaviour on Omega.
Some are rich. Some are poor. There are men and women, seniors and children, members of just about every race who discovered spaceflight or mass effect technology. They came from Earth, Palaven, Sur'Kesh, Thessia and a hundred other worlds. But if this is their first time to Omega, then they invariably act the same way. They watch the view screens or windows with rapt attention, faces bright and excited as the station grows larger. Some even press their noses against them, as the smudges will attest.
They might be kids possessed of too many credits and not enough sense. Students who'd just finished their final exams and were ready to blow off some steam. Civvies on holiday who are looking for a thrill. People who want to dance on the wild side. Criminals all excited to enter the galactic gangster's paradise. But when they pour out onto the streets of Omega, one by one and two by two, they all slow down. Their eyes widen. Their mouths might drop. There's a lot of excited whispers. Pointing of fingers, talons, tentacles and so on. They race down the streets, eager to take in all the delights that are promised to them. Bedazzled by the brilliant neon lights announcing all the pleasures that await. The drinks and the drugs that they only heard about but never dared to try. Fun things like a round of poker or placing bets on varren races. It's a fantasy come to life. A paradise. A dream come true.
But all dreams must come to an end.
By the time they wake up and rub the stars from their eyes, Omega has changed. Sometimes it only takes a night. Sometimes it takes a few more return trips. Sometimes it's the realization that they have nowhere else to go. Nowhere that would accept them. Whatever the situation, everyone realizes that Omega isn't a magical place. It isn't a fairy tale come true. It's real. Real and grimy and gritty and dirty. Now the streets are filled with pools of spilled beer, vomit and blood—some of it still drying—all rank and vile. Garbage, glass, condoms and bodies fight for space, sometimes settling for mutual coexistence. That's when you see the filth, the suspicious eyes, the bulges that might be guns—all cast in a harsh light by the ever-present neon. That's when you see the deep shadows hiding things that wouldn't dare be seen walking about, even on Omega.
That's when the pleasures you thought you enjoyed, the sins you thought you were reveling in, become... mundane. Ordinary. Boring. You think you've seen and done it all. Slept with everything that had a pulse and maybe a few that didn't. That nothing in the galaxy could possibly surprise you at this point. That's when you start looking for something more... extreme.
That's when you go to establishments like Exava's.
It's the kind of place you go to when you're looking for new temptations to fall for and new depravities to wallow in. At Exava's, pain is just another word for pleasure. When sharp knives and spikes are toys rather than weapons. Where tight leather and corsets are standard and the whips are always nearby. For clients who spent so long pushing their minds and bodies in the pursuit of hedonism that only extreme pleasures would satisfy them now. And if they died—with a smile, a moan or a scream—well, no one could say they didn't get what they paid for.
The four of us stood there outside Exava's and studied it from a safe distance. The edifice was built of dark metal, polarized glass and probably a couple litres of blood. Holo-images flickered over the façade, displaying an ever-changing montage of sexual positions and possibilities that aroused and horrified in equal measures. That was Exava's for you: the warped offspring of an unholy union between insatiable cruelty and overwhelming passion.
I'd been in this neighbourhood more than once during my days as Archangel. I even had to go into Exava's once. For a mission—I'm not that kind of turian, after all. Still have the scars. I watched the reaction of my squad—no, this was smaller than a squad. More like a team. I watched my teammates to see how they reacted.
Shepard, to my amusement, was taken aback. His lips kept parting, ever so slightly, before his conscious mind caught up and closed them. For all his worldliness, for all the things he'd done and the horrors he'd seen, apparently he'd missed this sort of place.
Zaeed had a lewd grin on his face. No doubt some of his bounties had come here—or somewhere like here—to hide. Or they were known to come to such establishments because they were that depraved. The way his lip curled, ever so slightly, suggested he occasionally came here for... personal business. I suppose everyone needs to release some tension.
Miranda put up a facade. A polite mask of disinterest that was belied by the way her eyes kept darting all over the place. Observing, assessing, calculating, making fresh assessments based on earlier calculations, re-calculating and so on. Her outfit was new. Still bore the Cerberus logo and colours and highlighted her curves, but it was mostly in black. If she was asari instead of human, she'd fit right in. Spirits, she might still fit in as a customer.
"So this is where the little bugger likes to go," Zaeed said. "I like him already."
"You would," Miranda muttered.
"So... how do we do this?" Shepard wanted to know. "Just waltz in the front door and flash that guy's pic in people's faces?"
"I have a better idea."
Shepard, Zaeed and I looked at each other blankly, then hurried to catch up to Miranda, who was striding towards the front door to Exava's. Her pace very clearly stated to anyone who watched that they should step aside or get stepped on. Given the look of cold determination on her face and the length of her heels, I couldn't blame people for scurrying out of her way.
Miranda finally slowed down. Couldn't risk walking into the door, after all. Oh and the bouncers. One batarian, one human. Both sporting the kind of musculature that comes from an unhealthy mix of hard exercise and harder steroids. She turned around, snapped her fingers and made a 'Hurry up' motion. The rest of us quickly joined her.
"Whaddya want?" the batarian asked.
There was a pause.
"Well, answer him!" Miranda snapped, glaring at Shepard. He flinched. Actually, honestly, swear to the spirits flinched. He might have even jumped. I was sure glad that I wasn't in his boots right now.
Miranda rolled her eyes. "You see what I have to put up with?" she asked plaintively.
I think they did. To be honest, I wasn't sure whether they envied or pitied Shepard.
With a dramatic sigh, Miranda continued. "I have an appointment with Mistress Sin. Or rather, my boyfriend does."
Wow. Hadn't heard that name in almost a year. More interesting was what she had called Shepard. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was a cover for the mission. Either way, it was news to me. And Zaeed. Not to mention Shepard. Unfortunately, the bouncers saw that too. "Really?" the human asked. "Cause… looks like he didn't know."
It did. It really did. Interesting…
"I booked it for him today. Spur of the moment thing. Call it a reward for actually remembering our six month anniversary. Just when I thought he wasn't trainable too."
"Um…" Shepard began, trying to gain control of the situation. "Honey…"
"Did I give you permission to speak?" Miranda barked.
Shepard stood to attention. A brief arm-twitch told me he suppressed the urge to salute just in the nick of time. That would have really been bad. The "No, ma'am" he barked out was a little too military, but hopefully the bouncers would buy it.
"Exactly." Miranda turned around and glared at the bouncers. "Now then. If you will excuse us?"
The bouncers looked at each other and stepped aside. "If you're ever between jobs, Lady Exava's always looking for new… staff," the batarian murmured. "She usually goes for asari but for you, I think she'll make an exception. She doesn't advertise, of course."
Miranda swept by them without even acknowledging what they said. The rest of us followed.
"Hey… Shepard…" I whispered once the doors closed. "Did I miss the briefing where you explained this part of the plan?"
"No, because I didn't plan this," he whispered back.
Really? That was interesting. Not that he hadn't planned in advance: that was fairly common. Truth be told, most of our missions were spur of the moment and had little preparation. If we were lucky, we had a general objective and a vague idea of the location. Everything else Shepard made up on the spot.
What was interesting were the readings coming from my visor. See, it does more than make me look really, really sexy. I've put a lot of nifty features into it. One of them is a sensor package that can detect and interpret heart-rate fluctuations and changes in breathing patterns. It only works within ten metres and only on standard Council races, but you'd be surprised what it can tell me.
When Miranda was going all dominatrix outside Exava's, Shepard was surprised. Honestly, flat-out surprised. He let that surprise show on his face too, which was unexpected—he's usually better at hiding his emotions than that. And you should have seen the readings when Miranda called him her boyfriend. Definite surprise there. And shock. And fear. It's like he had absolutely no idea how to handle that scenario. Hence the uncharacteristically poor performance.
I think it's fair to say my plan to gather evidence on whatever relationship existed between Shepard and Miranda was turning up some very interesting findings. Either Shepard was taken off-guard by Miranda singlehandedly making their relationship public or their relationship was so new and tenuous that anything could rock the boat. Or maybe Miranda thought they were in a relationship but Shepard hadn't gotten the memo until now. I'd have to monitor them more carefully. And watch their backs. Shepard's, at least. He certainly looked too distracted and flustered to mind his surroundings.
Thankfully, he recovered before we entered the main room. Red neon lights everywhere. Smattering of black leather furniture. Quite a bit of metal too—also painted black. We paused to get our bearings. It wasn't every day you ended up in a place like Exava's, after all.
The staff were all asari, of course. Because here, more than anywhere else in the galaxy, was where they had all the power—and they definitely knew it. There was no shortage of men and women to order around, to abuse and mistreat and humiliate. People from every so-called lesser race, who were willing to throw their credits and dignity away to indulge their pathetic little fantasies.
And there were definitely a lot of them, filling the air with their cries and screams. I saw a batarian being whipped raw by one asari, his blood splashing against the wall in a lurid backdrop. Several humans were stuck in cages that were dangling from the ceiling, shaking partly in time to the music, partly from the electricity that intermittently ran through the bars. A turian was jerking spasmatically, as needles—no doubt coated with some kind of mild poison—were jabbed into his body one at a time. Next to him, a pair of volus sat there while another asari used her omni-tool to wreak havoc with their pressure suits. And a vorcha was screaming as yet another asari applied a plasma torch to his body.
You wanna know the best part? According to my visor, every single one of them was having the time of their lives. And people say I need my head examined. Which I probably do, but at least I'm not the only one. Misery, company, you know the saying.
"So… now what?" I wanted to know. "Wander around the room and talk to random strangers?"
"Or look for the really obvious bloke just standing alone and doin' his best impression of Avina?" Zaeed suggested.
"Actually, I really did schedule an appointment with Mistress Sin," Miranda said. "All we have to do is wait for her to find us."
"That… does explain a lot," I admitted.
Miranda glared at me. "I happen to know her."
And that only confirmed it. Knowing about this place wasn't that difficult, nor was finding it. Getting through the front door just meant paying an exorbitant entry fee. But actually landing an appointment with one of the Mistresses? On such short notice—it had only been twenty or twenty-five minutes since I briefed the team? That suggested a past relationship of some sort. "Still explains a lot," was all I said.
"All right," she conceded, much to my surprise. "I'll give you that. But it's not what you think."
"It rarely is."
The glare was back. I should clarify: I meant a professional Cerberus relationship. Though with Miranda's outfit, who knows? "I'll explain later, when we're in a more secluded location," she said.
"And when Shepard is around," I added, having just realized something. "Where is he, anyway?"
"Doin' what he does best," Zaeed said. "Look."
We did. He was busy talking to one of the staff. Asari, sporting an outfit that seemed to consist of wide leather straps. Either that or there were lots of jagged holes in the leather. Either way, there was a lot of skin showing. Spirits, I needed a cold shower. The three of us hurried over to join him. "...finished your first year?" he was asking.
"Yeah."
"What's it like?"
"Lots of fun, lots of partying, then lots of panicking and cramming when you realize that essays are due and exams are right around the corner."
"Sounds about right. Never did that myself, but I know people who did and that sounds—hey!" Shepard broke off upon seeing us. "This is Mistress Razor. She just finished her freshman year at the University of Thessia. Didn't really know what she wanted to do, so she enrolled in the General Arts program. Now she's thinking of majoring in archaeology."
Miranda and Zaeed probably didn't get it—well, maybe Miranda. Depending on how thorough her research was—but I did. Another asari interested in archaeology. What were the odds?
Zaeed scratched his head. "Uh, if you don't mind the goddamn cliché, what's a nice girl like you doin' in a place like this?"
"Tuition's expensive," Mistress Razor said. "Like, crazy expensive. I needed to earn some credits."
"On Omega?" I asked. "In Exava's?"
"My aunt lives here, so I get to crash with her for free. Salary's really good. And this way I don't have to do something like flip burgers, join Eclipse or spread my legs."
All good points.
"And if someone tries to get fresh with me, all I have to do is tell them where they work and what I do. That's usually enough to discourage them."
"And if it doesn't?" Shepard asked.
In response, Mistress Razor raised an arm. A thin whip of blue biotic energy crackled to life, extending out from the palm of her hand. We got the idea.
"Mistress Razor."
She stiffened and turned around. Another asari stood behind her. She was showing more skin than Mistress Razor. She also had a lot of spikes sticking out of her leather. "Uh, Mistress Sin! How may I serve you?"
"A pair of humans just walked in. They are loud. Rambunctious. Arrogant."
"And they need… discipline," Mistress Razor stated more than asked.
"Yes. Though they do not know it yet. Enlighten them."
"Yes, Mistress." We got a quick nod of farewell before Mistress Razor nervously scurried off. For the sake of her role as a dominatrix, I hoped she would get it together before she got to the humans. The other asari apparently felt the same way: "She's still rather new, though she has… potential. It's been a long time, Ms. Lawson."
"One year, nine months and three weeks by my count," Miranda replied. Naturally she'd remember that detail. I was more surprised that she didn't add the days, minutes and seconds.
Mistress Sin rolled her eyes. Apparently she found Miranda's compulsion for precision a little exasperating. "This way."
We followed her out of the main room. Most of the people were too caught up in their pleasure and pain to notice us. As for the rest, half of them were too busy scurrying out of the way of a scary asari in skin-tight leather. The other half looked very envious.
Again: can you believe people say that I need my head examined?
After a minute of stark, gloomy walls with custom lighting—at least, I hoped it was custom. If they were actual torches with open flames, then we had a major fire hazard… which meant squat. This is Omega, Garrus! Remember?—we ended up in a small room. Black walls and ceiling; white carpet, desk and leather chairs. Very minimalist. Not a chain or blade or handcuff to be seen. An office, then, not a dungeon or torture chamber. I couldn't help but notice that Shepard and Miranda automatically moved so Zaeed and I were between them. Why were they avoiding each other?
"We can talk freely in here," Mistress Sin said before I could give the matter more thought. "Good to see you again, Garrus."
The team whipped their heads around to stare at me. The look on Miranda's face clearly said that turnabout was fair play. Zaeed looked torn between envy and amusement. Shepard was just shocked, with a side helping of 'This explains a lot.'
"I was here looking for a gang-banger," I explained. "His ex used to work here, so I came here looking for information. It was strictly for business."
"He was very persuasive," Mistress Sin offered.
There were a lot of raised eyebrows. "I had to question the mistresses. And, while I don't want to brag, I have to say the ladies seemed to like me. Certainly I didn't hear any complaints."
"Because he tipped them."
Miranda was amused. Zaeed was disappointed. Shepard seemed relieved. And any hopes of establishing a legendary—what did humans call it? Mojo?—died a quick and sudden death.
"Three times their normal wage."
Now it was my turn to whip my head around. "Three times?!" I squawked at Mistress Sin. "You said it the going rate!"
"I lied."
"Do you know how much food costs? I went without lunch for a month because I was paying all that tip money. And now you're telling me that I overpaid?"
Mistress Sin gave me a smile that was both mocking and condescending. "We were very grateful."
"Okay, enough about me," I said loudly, trying to regain control of the conversation—and, perhaps, some of my dignity. "I'm not the only one you recognize. How do you and Ms. Lawson know each other?"
The smug smile quickly vanished from Mistress Sin's face, replaced by a sullen look of discontent. Meanwhile, Miranda was looking very smug, like the feline that swallowed the dairy product… or however the phrase goes. "Our dear mistress really was a very bad girl," the latter replied, ignoring the smouldering glare that was aimed in her direction. "It seems that, once upon a time, Mistress Sin wasn't a hard-working employee at Exava's. She was, in fact, part of a fairly profitable drug smuggling ring. One that thought they didn't have to pay Aria a cut of their illicit proceeds."
Ooh. Big mistake. Though you'd be surprised at the number of people who think they can get away with it. In my experience, they tend to fall in one of three groups.
Some think they're too small-time to be worth Aria's notice. They might be onto something—to a point. If you don't cause too much trouble and don't earn a lot of credits, Aria won't bother hounding you. Chances are she's already profiting from your presence—you do need to pay for food and rent, after all, and she already gets her cut from the vendors and landlords. Though she has been known to make an exception from time to time…
Others feel they're already paying enough to other parties like the Blue Suns and can't afford to pay any more. Again, it depends on the situation. Sometimes there's an unspoken arrangement in which the group running the protection racket is collecting for Aria as well as for themselves. In those cases, Aria won't send any more goons after you. There are people, however, who owe multiple parties due to their own choices, mistakes and sheer bad luck. Sucks to be them.
And then there are the men and women who think they're actually strong enough to screw with the Pirate Queen of Omega. If you're in that group… well, Aria takes an especial pleasure in teaching you the error of your ways. Walk down the streets and alleys of Omega and you'll probably find one or two bets going on who will be Aria's next example. My credits are on the Talons. Small group, mostly turians, involved in the usual criminal activities—though they were organized enough to have a nice side business running their own ports on Omega and charging ridiculous fees for ships who wanted to dock without dealing with Aria or her organization.
To my knowledge, the only person who hadn't paid Aria anything for conducting business on Omega and lived to get away with it was Shepard. There were a number of reasons that I could think of. First, he didn't stay on Omega very long. Second, he had the firepower, combat experience and body count to make anyone think twice about messing with him.
Third and most importantly, because Aria had dropped enough hints to suggest that Shepard was operating with her tacit approval. Think I'm wrong? Look at Afterlife. There's always a lineup and people always have to pay a cover charge just to get through the door, yet Shepard routinely skipped the line and entered the club without paying a single credit. Most people have to make a name for themselves or do a lot of schmoozing before they have a chance of seeing one of Aria's lieutenants, but Shepard got an invite to speak with her minutes after he set foot on Omega—an invite he promptly ignored in favour of satisfying his wanderlust. Not to mention that he could drop by and visit Aria in person any time he wanted, without needing to set up any appointment. Then there's the fact that she asked him to help out the krogan who used to run Omega, the one she derisively called Patriarch. And the fact that he gave him the location of an Eclipse cache that was up for grabs, though heavily guarded by three spirits-damned YMIR mechs. Do you think any of that's a coincidence?
But I digress. The point is that whoever Mistress Sin was or used to be, she had apparently made the mistake of breaking Omega's One Rule. And Miranda had somehow found out, a fact she had apparently used to arrange a private meeting on very short notice. Either they had a cozy arrangement or Miranda was using this information to blackmail her, probably with the threat of revealing her identity and location to Aria or one of her underlings. I was guessing the latter. Call it a hunch.
"You're lucky you survived," I offered.
"You call that lucky?" Mistress Sin snorted. "All I did was see which way the wind was blowing and have the brains to get out before Aria dropped the hammer."
For once, I understood the human colloquialisms she used. Both of them. Go me.
"We're lucky that you might be able to help us," Shepard said. "There's a human who visits Exava's on occasion. He's in trouble and we're trying to find him."
I pulled up his image on my omni-tool and showed it to Mistress Sin. "Do you recognize him or know where he is?"
"Not really," Mistress Sin admitted after a pause. "Mind you, most humans kinda look alike. Though there are a few exceptions." That last comment was aimed squarely at Miranda.
"Do you have some vid-cams set up here?" Shepard asked.
"Of course," came the reply, somewhat grudgingly.
"Can your security VI run a facial-recognition search through your security logs?"
"I suppose," Mistress Sin relented.
"Look at it this way," I offered, as Shepard sent the image file over, "the sooner you do this, the sooner we'll get out of here."
All I got was a muttered curse that didn't quite translate, but Mistress Sin complied. The search didn't take too long."We have… several hits," Mistress Sin reported after a few minutes. "I guess he does come here."
"When was the last time?" I asked.
"Two days ago," she replied. "Looks like he came here, had a couple drinks and left."
"Can we see?"
In response to Shepard's question, Mistress Sin typed in a command on her console. A vid-screen, that had previously blended into the wall, came to life. We watched as Cooper's cousin came into Exava's. We watched as he stared at the various sadomasochistic pleasures around him. We watched as he ordered a total of three drinks, chatting with whoever was sitting next to him. We watched him finish his drinks, pay his tab and leave.
I watched the woman on his right. Something about her looked familiar. Just needed her to turn around so I could get a better look at her shoulder. As if the spirits were listening, she obliged a few seconds later.
Perfect.
While I had gotten the clue—or clues—I needed, I couldn't just leave. Not if I didn't want to raise any suspicions. And I couldn't very well tell the team that we got what we needed, right in front of a resentful asari who had only cooperated with us under duress. So I kept quiet and waited while we perused the rest of the security footage, trying to be patient. Patience was a virtue, humans liked to say.
Waiting was something I was used to. As a sniper, you have to wait for the right confluence of factors—the ambient breeze to blow in the right direction, a clear line of sight to your target, said target either stationary or moving in a predictable manner. As a cop, I also had to wait, though those circumstances seemed to be more… aggravating. Waiting for backup to arrive when the crime was occurring right now. Waiting for the paperwork to be filed so we could obtain some warrant. Waiting for the lab results that always seemed to take forever. Waiting to get the intel we needed to move a case to the next step.
On some level, I knew waiting was necessary. Waiting to get the right forms filled out, waiting for authorization, waiting for all the evidence to be gathered and organized before going in for the arrest. Father tried to drill that into me all the time. 'Do things right, or don't do them at all,' he preached. I knew he was right on some level. I could admit that now. But when the letter of the law was more important than the spirit, when paperwork was prioritized over results, when bureaucracy was championed over justice… well, it's hard to remember those things.
Another reason why it was so rewarding working with Shepard, and why I was so relieved to be working with him again. He seemed to know when to let things slide and when to hold the line. When to toe the administrative line and when to 'streamline' certain things. I wish I had that sense of balance. But I didn't. All I knew was that it was easier to wait when Shepard was around.
Eventually, we finished going through the footage. I made some bullshit suggestion of checking out some other establishments with similar fetishes, for want of anything better to do. The team agreed, we said our goodbyes to Mistress Sin—whose glare told us very clearly that we shouldn't let the door hit our ass on the way out—and left Exava's.
"So where are we going?" Shepard asked after a few minutes.
"I recognized the woman Cooper's cousin was talking to," I replied. "Well, not her exactly, but the group she belongs to."
It was Zaeed's turn to ask. "How the hell do you know that?"
"Her tattoos. Left shoulder. One of them is the logo for the Tylers."
"Profile. Now." That was Miranda.
"Group of humans," I explained. "They claim to be a family band, but DNA evidence suggests otherwise. They also claim to be the next big hit in popular music. They're not. At best, they were a one-hit wonder. They relocated to the Terminus Systems to avoid criminal charges."
"On what grounds?" Shepard wanted to know. "Poor taste? Plagiarism? And why haven't I heard of them?"
"Turned out they were intermediaries for, well, anyone who wanted to trade secrets with anyone else. Spent more time brokering deals with traitors and turncoats than writing songs or taking voice lessons. Made a lot of enemies, so they left Citadel space. Guess it was only a matter of time until they showed up here. And Shepard: you've never heard of them because you don't listen to any music that isn't at least a hundred years old."
Shepard opened his mouth. Paused. Apparently found himself at a loss for words. Closed his mouth again.
"Anyway, they must be up to their old tricks again if they're talking to Cooper's cousin. If they could get their hands on that list of undercover agents, the potential payday could be huge."
"You mentioned tattoos," Miranda said. "Plural. Then you explained the significance of one of them. What about the rest?"
"Most I didn't get," I admitted. "Except one: it's a temporary omni-tattoo given to customers who visited Notan. It's a new club that opened up last year."
"Notan," Miranda repeated. "As in the comparison and contrast of light and dark, how each represents what the other is not and how they play off each other when placed together?"
"Yes," I said without missing a beat. I actually had no idea if that was true or not. If she was right, and I had a feeling that her desire to showcase her exhaustive knowledge would outweigh any motivation to mislead me on such a trivial subject, then I had finally learned what the damn word meant. I'd spent a few days trying to look up the word and find out if it was real or not, only to be thwarted by some very slow and painfully intermittent extranet access. Then I got distracted with scaring the crap out of criminal scum.
But they didn't need to know that.
The predominant colours of Notan are black and white. The façade. The interior. The furniture. The staff uniforms. Even the food and drinks. Makes sense, given what Miranda had just told me about the origin and meaning of the word. Though I do think they took the whole theme a bit literally.
When you go to Notan, you know exactly what you're in for. You will line up to get in. You will pay the cover charge, no matter how outrageous. You will eat and drink whatever's on the menu—which changes from day to day according to the mercurial whims of the staff and whatever was available. You will enjoy whatever music is blaring through the speakers. Special requests not entertained. Contrary to popular opinion, you cannot solicit sexual favours from the staff. If you want sex, you can go next door.
You'd think that kind of thing would piss a lot of people off. And considering how many people walk around armed to the teeth, and the kinds of weapons that you can openly carry here, that would be a serious problem. You'd think someone would've burned it to the ground by now, just on general principle. Except… it wasn't. It was, in fact, extremely popular. Everyone who knew about it wanted to go there, even if it was just once. Maybe it was the idea of a club that was so obsessed with rules running in a place where there were no rules. Maybe people thought that if they wouldn't be crazy enough to insist on all these rules if there wasn't something good about the club.
Whatever the reason, it was extremely popular. Which was why the lack of a lineup made my gizzard twist into a knot.
I wasn't the only one who was concerned. "Is it just me," Shepard voiced out loud, "or is it awfully quiet and empty here?"
"Usually more people here buying something," Zaeed agreed. "Drinks. Drugs. Sex."
"Either something serious occurred or everyone's cleared out in anticipation of an ambush," Miranda chimed in.
Oh goody. We were all in agreement. So now what? Shepard had come to a decision, judging by the look on his face. The rest of us were a little more undecided. "Zaeed, why don't you stay behind and watch our backs?" I suggested. "Give us the heads-up if anyone comes by hoping to ambush us."
"Right," Zaeed nodded. He grabbed his assault rifle and melted away into the shadows. Miranda pulled out her submachine gun and moved in to investigate. Shepard and I both grabbed our sniper rifles before joining her, because they made us feel so manly.
It wasn't until we were within a few metres of the door that our suspicions were confirmed. It's not unheard of to see dried blood on Omega. There's a lot of violence, several deaths on a daily basis and the effectiveness of the janitorial staff is iffy at best. You learn to notice it, deal with it and move on. Sometimes it gets to the point where you only subconsciously register its presence and automatically step around it. Or subconsciously register its presence and belatedly realize later that that was why you put the extra effort into pummelling some scumbags into a bleeding, crying and possibly dead pulp.
Fresh blood is another story. Particularly the stream of blood trickling out the door.
I took a deep breath, all the while noticing that I wasn't the only one, hit the door controls and strode in.
The smell hit us first. It was like walking into a wall of freshly spilled blood, guts and bodily fluids. Shepard looked a little queasy, probably because he hadn't experienced anything quite so… messy. Miranda's face became white as a sheet, which was impressive considering how pale she was to begin with, and threw a hand up in front of her mouth. No doubt the input from her genetically enhanced senses had temporarily overwhelmed her usual self-discipline. She managed to keep the contents of her stomach down. Shepard made a jerky, twitchy motion towards her, like he was going to check on her and then changed his mind halfway through. Miranda looked annoyed, probably because she had shown some outward sign of weakness. But I also sensed some ire directed at… Shepard. Why? Was she annoyed that he had wanted to help? Annoyed that he didn't help?
Questions. So many questions. Some more pressing than others, like how Notan had turned into Omega's latest slaughter fest.
Dead bodies were strewn everywhere. Some of them belonged to Notan's staff. Some were wearing nondescript outfits that could be found anywhere. There were a number of humans in civvie garb. I saw a number of Eclipse hardsuits as well. The 'mercs' appeared to be all asari and salarian, which made me suspect that they were actually undercover huntresses and STG units. I say 'appeared to be' as I couldn't be one hundred percent certain. Positive ID is challenging when the victims have their heads blown off. Or the majority of their chest cavity gaping wide open. Or suffering from dismemberment or evisceration. Red and purple blood covered the furniture and walls, adding some garish colour to the normally monochromatic décor. The carpet was soaked with blood as well, judging by the squishy noises that squeaked out every time one of us took a step.
The gory spectacle that lay before us was magnified by the absolute silence that filled the club. Almost as if the club itself was in shock at the events that had transpired here. Of course, the cop in me noted that that was due more to the fact that most of the speakers had been shot to pieces.
"You take me to the nicest places," Miranda said sarcastically, breaking the quiet.
"I'm sorry," Shepard said, his voice on edge.
"You should be."
Actually, I think Miranda's comment was directed more at me, but the fact Shepard felt the need to respond was interesting. Not to mention the underlying tension. The timing sucked, of course. But then, this was Shepard we were talking about. The one person who the spirits seemed to hate more than me.
Of course, most people in a relationship—and I was seriously considering the possibility that Shepard and Miranda were in a relationship at this point—start with the lovey-dovey nauseating sweetness before getting into a fight. Again, this was Shepard we were talking about.
"Well, look on the bright side," I said, hoping to defuse the tension. "It's been a while since we last bumped into any mercs."
"Eleven days," Miranda corrected.
"Whatever," I dismissed.
"Still, it's good to know that mercs can come to a sticky and messy end without my help," Shepard brightened up.
"Or mine," I added. Because I couldn't let him have all the credit. I hadn't spent the last two years on Omega twiddling my talons, thank you very much.
"Point taken," Shepard allowed. "Now what?"
"Now we search the bodies for clues," I replied.
Miranda flinched. "You can't be serious."
"We only had one lead," I pointed out. "It led us here. Somewhere in the midst of all this blood and guts and gore, there's a clue that'll give us something new to go on. Unless you can recreate the Lazarus Cell and bring one of these guys back from the dead to interrogate."
"Believe it or not, Garrus, I do realize that. But sifting for clues would mean… touching… them." She shuddered in revulsion.
"That's what gloves are for," Shepard chirped.
Miranda let out a sound of disgust. "I'm going to need two showers when this is over."
I didn't need my visor's sensors to see Shepard gulp.
Shepard's issues aside, I couldn't really blame Miranda for her reluctance. Evidence gathering was always my least favourite job in C-Sec. At best, it was dull, boring drudgery. Most of the time, though, it was sticky, smelly and messy. Though this particular scene put most of my past encounters to shame. I think I had a new candidate for my Top 100 Gross-Out Scenes Guaranteed to Give Me Nightmares. Maybe even Top 50.
After a half hour of searching and digging, two things became clear. First, we wouldn't get another clue here. We could get credits. Weapons that we already had. Thermal clips that we couldn't swipe because we were already chock-full of clips. But no clues.
Second, I saw three groups here. The salarian STG units pretending to be Eclipse, asari huntresses pretending to be Eclipse, and the Tylerspretending to be something other than a one-hit, has-been band. All wiped out. Judging from the position of the bodies and the spatter of blood and bodily fluids, most of the slaughter had been done by a fourth party.
"Well, this is interesting."
I jerked my head up, along with Shepard and Miranda. We had company.
An asari had entered the room without any of us noticing. Including Zaeed, who was currently squawking in my ear about who were we talking to and where the hell did she come from? Or Miranda, whose genetically enhanced hearing should've picked up on something. Though to be fair, we had been engrossed in some distasteful and ultimately fruitless investigation.
But back to the asari. She held herself with a certain confidence and familiarity. Like it wasn't her first time on Omega. I didn't see anyone with her, unless they were hiding somewhere. If she had come alone, she was either very brave or incredibly stupid. She glanced casually around the club, as if she wasn't a stranger to this amount of violence. Maybe she wasn't.
She looked familiar too. Where had I seen her?
"Don't tell me," she grinned. "Let me guess: this isn't what it looks like."
Right. Walking in on three people, hands covered in blood, sifting through bodies. Natural conclusion: murderers and looters, caught in the act. Mind you, all of us had taken several lives. And one of us had been a shameless kleptomaniac even before he died.
"Actually it isn't," I replied. "We're looking for a friend."
"And you thought he might have come here?"
"We did," I said, getting to my feet. Then I paused, took a few steps and crouched down again. "At the very least, the woman he was talking to came here," I added, after carefully looking at another body. Martina Tyler, former eldest sister and head of the Tyler family/band/spy group. "But it seems we hit a dead end. Literally."
"Then perhaps I can help."
How convenient. "How?"
"I think the three of you could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement with my employer," the asari replied.
"And that employer is…?" Shepard prompted.
"Aria. I believe you've met her before… Commander Shepard."
Shit.
This mission had just reached a whole new level of complicated. All our efforts to stay under the radar and avoid notice had been for naught. Because Aria T'Loak and her organization was onto us. They might've been from the very beginning.
Worse, this asari knew who we were. Well, they knew Shepard at least.
"I wouldn't want to trouble Aria," Shepard said. "It's not that big a deal. I'm just trying to find a friend of a friend on behalf of another friend. Aria knows I do that sort of thing all the time."
"True," the asari said. "But maybe Aria thinks that the sooner she helps you find this person, the better. Maybe she's concerned that the longer this drags out, the worse it will be for Omega—and her."
Put that way, she had a point. Besides, Aria did have a finger on the pulse of Omega. And it wouldn't be the first time she threw Shepard a bone. Maybe she could put us back on the right track.
Of course, she might have other motives in mind. Most people do.
While the mysterious asari led us out of Notan and off to whatever spot Aria had supposedly chosen to meet us, I began running a medical scan. Maybe her DNA profile would help me figure out who the heck she was. The scan was still running by the time we'd reached our destination, but I learned one thing about her for sure: she definitely knew her way around Omega.
In the half hour we spent following her through the bowels of the station, she proved she knew which alleys were empty and which ones were packed full of ne'er-do-wells. Which streets were open and which ones were closed due to construction, crime or acts of Aria. Spirits, she led us through a few detours and shortcuts that I didn't even know exist.
After a while, I began to recognize a kiosk here, a shop there, and I realized the asari was taking us to Athame's Pride. You might not recognize the name, but you've probably been there before. Or somewhere very close to it. It was a typical nightclub that could easily be mistaken for just about any other nightclub in Citadel space. Visitors to Omega flocked there when they had been exhausted by the unrelenting danger and needed somewhere more subdued and familiar. Natives found it laughable in its pretensions, tame in comparison to the other thrills and sins available.
There was a lineup, of course, leading to the gold-leaf doors guarded by a pair of krogan bouncers. Everyone melted away at our approach. More evidence, if any was needed, that this asari was more than who she appeared to be at first glance.
Hoping Zaeed had managed to keep up with us, we walked through the doors and stepped into a huge ballroom. A large, multifaceted silver ball rotated and sparkled overhead, reflecting a million different colours. Hundreds of customers, dressed in bright and gaudy outfits, fluttered around the room like butterflies, shouting and laughing, dancing like the night would never end. At the moment, they were bouncing in rhythm to the music, as a woman sang about girls just wanting to have fun.
Naturally, Shepard recognized the song.
The asari led us across the room, weaving in and out of the crowd with an ease borne of inherent grace and long practise, and through a door marked for staff only. The relief from the visual and auditory assault was palpable. We followed her through a maze of corridors and more rooms than I could count. I wasn't surprised when she led us into yet another room, empty aside from a few barrels and crates.
I shouldn't have been surprised when the asari reached out and tapped a cleverly-concealed wall control. Kinetic barriers blazed to life, trapping Shepard, Miranda and I in a cube of brilliant blue light.
"Aria apologizes for the inconvenience," the asari said from the other side of the barrier, "but she's very interested in Mr. Wexler."
"Who?" I frowned.
"Joseph Wexler. The man you've been looking for."
"Right."
The asari rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you don't even know his name."
I didn't, actually. Thank you, Mr. Cooper.
"I said I was looking for a friend," Shepard said, coming to my defence.
"No, you didn't," Miranda interrupted.
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"No, you said you were looking for a friend of a friend on behalf of another friend," Miranda corrected.
"Fine," Shepard gave up. "The point is, I never said I knew his name."
"What exactly is Aria's interest in Mr. Wexler," I asked, curious to see what she knew.
"The salarians were interested enough in him to send a STG unit all the way out here. The asari were interested in why the salarians were interested. Some two-bit freelancer group who hadn't sold any secrets worth a damn in years were also interested in him. And then Commander Shepard became interested in him too. Four different players, all playing spy games on Omega. Without even asking Aria for permission. Seems rather rude, don't you think?"
"So now Aria's going to go hunting and she doesn't want any competition," I said. "Is that why she had the salarians, the asari and the Tylers killed?"
"They were in the way."
Not exactly a yes, but the inference was certainly there. "And now she's going to make it four for four?"
"Not exactly," she replied, shaking her head. "Aria thinks you might come in handy someday, so she wants you alive. But we will keep you here, out of the way, until she gets what she wants. Speaking of which, it's time for me to go. Pleasure to meet you all. Ta, ta!"
The asari sauntered out of the room with a casual wave and a cheery smile. The door closed behind her.
And we were left alone. Trapped like rats.
