A/N: Remastered on 10-21-14.
Urdnot Wrex was not happy. His last task for the Broker had ended messily, with the turian target dying in front of his family.
Then the family attacked him. He hated turians, they tasted bad, if you ate too much you'd throw up, and they were all crazy in his opinion.
Now they had gone from crazy to dead, and he'd had to waste hours cleaning his armor, making him late for his meeting with the Broker representative for his next job. All because a turian was dumb enough to double-cross the Broker.
It's amazing how stupid people always think they can escape consequences, he thought, checking the loads on his shotgun before shipping it to the latch on the small of his back. The huge krogan then came to his full two point three four meter height, his scarred face looking around him with jaded, ancient disinterest.
The Citadel was much the same as it always had been on previous visits, a patina of blind fools prating away among five cities worth of people who pretended they had made it big, while the sludge of society lapped away at their very feet, snickering in amusement even as they feigned obedience. C-Sec was, as usual, efficiently cocksure and arrogantly lording it over the commingling races in the docking bay, their blue armor setting them apart from the drab coveralls and tired hex-pack travel wear of the many people thronging about.
Not that they got anywhere near Wrex, of course.
No, the crowd parted before him, throwing him worried and frightened glances and making hasty motions to clear his path, as if a mass effect field had parted some sea for him to walk through. The Battlemaster began to walk to the far end of the bay, eyes barely taking in the outstretched arms of the Citadel, festooned with a parade of light and motion. His heavy armored feet thudded like the boom of distant thunder on the metal decking below him, as a group of salarians clucked in alarm at his menacing approach and scattered.
Worthless pack of pyjak dung. I hate docking bays. Always full of people on the go to someplace else, yet always managing to get in my damned way.
The air was stale, still, rank with the body scents of things that clanked, flapped, and glowed. The din of faintly said words beyond the range of the translator was a dull, irritating roar in the background, the staid and ugly arches of the under-supports of the bay littered with the occasional graffiti. An insectoid keeper crossed in front of him, softly chattering as it began to unscrew a panel on the wall, eyes fixed in an idiot's focus.
Wrex did not like the Citadel.
Too soft, too full of fools, too much security that never stopped the strong but merely enabled the weak to be preyed upon multiple times. Wrex had no time for the wide-eyed humans, snobby asari, or the uppity turians. It was sterile and dead, a mockery of a real world, hidden away from the truth of the rest of the galaxy.
He was here to see one person about one job and then he could get off this stupid tin can and back to the free, clean wilderness of the Terminus Systems. He needed the money to keep up his hunt for the Ganar who had killed his son, but the rage had begun to fade even as his pain increased. Taking jobs from the Broker would let him get back into the chase, and clear his head.
All too often, though, the Broker's jobs broke his number one rule: don't take any job involving anything else but himself, his shotgun, and a dead body. He'd rather work for someone else.
Of course, not many can afford me. Only places to go other than the Broker are all on Omega. Maybe I can go get some work there, and Aria and I can pretend we don't recognize each other again, or if Sederis isn't too crazy or trampy.
He paused, actually stopping for a moment to imagine a non-trampy, sane Sederis, then laughed. His mood lifting slightly at the ridiculous image, he turned the corner from the main corridor to a long, empty access hallway that led only to empty docking bays.
In a pool of light at the far end of the hallway stood a slender, menacing figure, all in black, cloth falling from cocked hips, ungloved talons gleaming in the faint light. One hand clasped a thick black cane; the other was hooked into a wide black leather belt weighted down with weapons. The turian's face was a black space within the all-concealing hood, the tip of mandibles barely visible, and one angry glowing red eye.
Wrex sighed. Goddamned turian melodrama. He then strode up, gait easy and slow, hands empty. "Tetrimus."
The turian's voice was a cold rasp, as if damaged. "Wrex. You are late."
Wrex sighed. "Delays from the last job. I'm here now."
Tetrimus flicked a mandible in irritation. "You're out of sorts. Even more so than usual."
The krogan made no movement. Tetrimus was a scary bastard, and while Wrex feared nothing, he did respect the turian's strength and quiet lethality. He had been one of those who spoke 'with the voice of the Shadow Broker' for almost thirty years now. The Broker only tolerated the turian and a crazed salarian assassin, Tazzik, as his representatives.
Everyone else who had sought a personal audience with the Broker died, usually in horrifying ways.
That, in and of itself, was enough to make Wrex's plates itch with caution. He knew Tetrimus fairly well, of course, having worked for and with him for decades, but he didn't get to be as old as he was by assuming anything. And anyone crazy enough to kill both sons of the old turian Primarch – the one before Fedorian – was no one to take for granted.
Wrex grunted, folding his arms, finally speaking. "I hate coming here and I haven't had my friendly chat with C-Sec or my first cup of jaaki yet, so let's get this over with, Tetrimus."
The black-clothed figure pulled his hand free from his belt and extended a datapad. "To work, then. Three solar cycles ago, we received a low-level contact from an interested party. A salarian, Mano Ergdai, had a confirmed lead on activity regarding certain bio-engineering activities in the Perseus Veil. Details are not important. The contact was to be made, here, yesterday."
A pause.
Wrex grunted, hating turian melodrama. "And? Who was the contact supposed to be?"
"Fist, the fourth level entry contact at Chora's Den, Lower Bachjret Ward. You know, the human."
Wrex snorted. "Gristle headed two-bit thug. What happened?"
Tetrimus exhaled. "Due to the importance of the data, and the likelihood of hostile interest, a security and liquidation team was sent."
Wrex snorted. Translation, the data was hot and expensive enough the Broker was willing to kill to get it.
The turian continued. "There was an altercation. Two members of the wet team were taken down. The contact was liquidated, the data lost. We are almost certain this is an internal security breach. Meeting times and places were known only to myself, the Broker, the security team – both dead – and Fist. There is a possibility that Fist is not involved but merely compromised."
Wrex tilted his reptilian head, red eyes fixing on the artificial one of the turian. "You want me to kill Fist?"
The turian shook his head, the minimal movement exposing an expanse of scarred, blackened plating and red facial markings. "Not yet. The Broker has decided the chance that this was not a betrayal by Fist is still non-zero. Thus a test is called for. The next official contact event we have will be routed to Fist. We have isolated and identified all other potential leaks. Your job will be to ensure there is no leak with Fist. If he betrays us, secure the asset and kill Fist. If he is secure, inform him – respectfully but firmly – that someone in his organization is compromised, and that a level two liquidation and a Severance from the Feed will be conducted."
Wrex nodded, familiar with the Broker's rather extreme methods. Even if Fist wasn't a traitor, he had let someone pierce his security. For that, Fist would be ejected as a Broker dealer and contact, cut off from the Feed, and excluded from any further contact for at least a year. Anyone working for him would be killed.
Wrex was rather surprised the order wasn't just to kill him anyway; the Broker did not usually display such mercy. It was curious enough, actually, that Wrex decided he needed to know more. "Why not just kill him anyway? He's just a human thug."
Tetrimus gave a harsh bark of bitter laughter, mandibles flickering. "The Broker believes humans are about to be awarded rights to submit a candidate for the Spectres, in preparation for them to assume a Council seat. Councilor Tevos is impressed with certain actions humanity has taken recently. Some human raid killed an old enemy of hers."
The turian folded his own arms. "The Broker has contacts in Human Space, of course, but Fist is uniquely placed – he is the brother to a recently placed acolyte with the Consort, his bar is frequented by those members of C-Sec who are open to influence and bribes, and he has very good ties with the Blue Suns and the Underunners. Fist could be developed and mentored to a second level contact with time and effort."
Wrex nodded, thinking, settling back on his legs.
Humans had moved so fast. In less than half a century they went from first contact backwater rubes to boasting a navy clearly deserving of respect and fear, and in some ways superior to that of the asari or salarian navies, regardless of dreadnought numbers. Their soldiers were as fierce and relentless as batarians, but better disciplined, and their tight alliance with the asari meant they were destined to pass the volus and elcor in short order. Their creativity and original ideas were sending shockwaves in military circles that Wrex still bothered to listen to.
Having good contacts was how the Broker stayed in power, and having contacts with contacts of their own, in such a fast-moving situation, would be something the Broker wouldn't throw away at the first sign of a problem.
"Alright. So I keep an eye on this guy. He double-crosses us, kill him, otherwise give him a warning, kill his people, and put a bullet through his link to the Feed. Pay?"
Tetrimus nodded. "Full expenses, hotel of your choice, bond fees, docking fees, transport within four jumps, and your usual fees for live combat wetwork. We've done this before. We're still running down your requested information on Ganar Clan sightings, most of them seem to be working for Saren nowadays. Take that as you will."
Wrex grinned, suddenly in a much better mood. Unlike the last job, this job wouldn't cost him a credit and he'd get to move out almost immediately. Plus, if the Broker could pin down any Ganar Clan groupings, he could strike them before they knew he was coming.
I'd need backup, but Jona would probably help. Maybe time to pay Omega a visit. Wonder if Aria still has that beat up old krogan as a trophy or not.
He shrugged. "Done. Who's my contact?"
Tetrimus shrugged. "I will serve; we're trying to keep a low-profile until this is sorted out. I'll be at Flux if you need me, assuming Doran doesn't die of fright when I show up and cause C-Sec to come looking. I'll be there after mid-light to just before low-light every day until the mission is complete."
Tetrimus dug into his cloak, searching for something. "As usual, payment in volus banking system credits and docking passes will be given once completed. If you need additional support, I can provide that. Here."
Tetrimus handed over a C-Sec weapons authorization (identifying him as a bodyguard for a turian CEO), a ten thousand credit chit, and the datapad with the mission information on it. "Pad code is WREAV. As usual, it wipes in ninety-six hours."
Wrex frowned. "Broker has a stupid sense of humor." He sighed, rubbing his crest at the name of his worthless brother. "No matter. I'll be keeping an eye on Fist. "Without another word, Wrex stomped away, tucking his new possessions into the outer pocket of his battered red armor, and began thinking tactically.
Fist is not going to be public; he'll have dug himself in somewhere. If he betrays the Broker openly, he has to know he's a dead man… unless whoever he betrays the Broker for has resources enough to keep him alive. That means a Spectre, or deep STG, or a Councilor. None of which make sense.
Wrex grumbled, walking slowly back out into the open bay-area, and over to the shuttle call station.
Humans are never tactical thinkers, always too busy going after the quick profit. Salarians aren't known for being trusting, and whoever whacked the guy with the info not only took him out, but took out two of the Broker's bully boys to do it. Pile of varren shit, more than a damned 'leak.'
The krogan sighed as the taxi pulled even to the curb, and stepped in as its top split open. Leaning his large bulk back into the squishy plastic seats that vainly tried to shape themselves around him, he barked out commands. "Brakas Hotel, Lower Bachjret Ward."
The taxi swooped away, entering the tube-ways linking the five Wards together that passed along the outside of the Presidium ring. Wrex snorted at the sight, rolling his eyes at the thought of simpering paper-pushers within the flimsy looking ring.
Soft ass aliens… not worth my time. Leaning back further, the old krogan closed his eyes. Seems like nothing is, these days, except credits I can't spend on much beyond weapons and ryncol that doesn't keep the memories away long enough.
