He wiped the sweat from his brow and placed the meager stock on the shelves before turning back to the vorcha that was asking his boss, John, about weapon upgrades. It hissed at the human, "Why you no have piercing mod?"
Marcus reflected boredom at the creature's threatening stance as John drawled, equally unaffected by the vorcha's posturing, "Look, I told you last week, it's not like I get regular shipments of parts. I have to find these things myself. You wanna blame something, blame the embargo."
"Sarko blame you! What Sarko want, Sarko get." The vorcha thrust a dirty fingernail into the man's face and Marcus had to suppress the urge to shoot it off or more enticingly, yank the arrogant fuck over the counter and sink a knife deep into his ribcage. The compulsion grew exceedingly hard to ignore as the vorcha swept all the goods from the table to the floor with one gangly arm and Marcus closed his eyes and breathed, willing the rage to cool, "Cipritine shit! All you have for turian gris'kital, but none for vorcha!"
John laughed without mirth, coldly eyeing the sharptoothed alien, "Look, pal, why don't you just get out of here and go bother someone else. Someone who gives a shit what you want."
Marcus' hands tightened on the handle of his broom as the vorcha puffed himself up and raged, pounding a fist over the hooked staff emblem on his vest, "You give shit when I break ugly human face!"
A twitch toward John was all the vorcha had time to do as he soon found a wooden pole shoved smartly into his face in a stinging slap that reverberated through the small market. Marcus had leaped over the counter as the creature stumbled back and hit the vorcha with a barrage of blows that landed on his neck and shoulders and ribcage in a blinding flurry. The handle snapped and Marcus grinned savagely as he swept the male off his feet with a low kick, ending up straddling the vorcha with the sharp broken end of the broom handle at his throat, puncturing the skin slightly as the turian heaved in pants, eyes rolling madly. He shook as he fought to not plunge the stake into that exposed throat.
"Marc, stop! Let him up. Jeezus, I said let him up!" Hands yanked at him, pulling him off the vorcha, whose frightened countenance turned to him as the creature scrambled up and fled down the narrow alleyway. The blood haze left his vision and he blinked down into the human's furious brown eyes, "The fuck did you do that for? Now he's gonna go get the Authority and I ain't got a permit. You have any idea how much it costs to bribe those sanctimonious bastards? What the hell were you thinking?"
Marcus shrunk back away from the small human, knowing full well what he was thinking. Eliminate the threat, which before his little nature walk, before...other things had happened, would have meant gentler methods, but now, with so little control, had nearly made him murder a man in this very public market. In a daze, he felt a fistful of credits being pressed to his hand and him being shoved out into the street by none too gentle hands at his back, his now former boss yelling, "You know what, just get the fuck out of here! Just git! And don't come back around if you know what's good for you!"
He turned at the theatrically loud shouting with a sinking heart and took in the terrified look on the human's face, under the mock rage and was humbled by the compassion he saw in the man's eyes. How many times had this happened now? When was he going to learn? The human flapped his arms at him, "Go on! Git!"
He ran, blindly, down streets, half hunched over, ignoring the stares of people who'd watched his little episode. His run slowed to a walk several streets away, far enough away where the Authority probably wouldn't pursue, if they even knew what he looked like. He doubted the vorcha was articulate enough to describe him to any reasonable degree. Thoughts crowded him, filling him with guilt over what he'd done, with this job and the last dozen or so.
He'd come to Omega to lay low and learn, quietly ascertain the whereabouts of his target. Well, he'd been anything but quiet since he'd gotten here and trouble had followed him from job to job. It was amazing to him that he'd gotten this far, with all his incompetent fumbles. That he hadn't been arrested or blackbagged yet. Maybe they figured he was too stupid to bother with. At this moment, he was inclined to agree.
"Killer." A low feminine voice from an alleyway to the side startled him out of his reverie and he whirled to see a slim figure in a cloak, leaning nonchalantly against a brick wall. He drew himself up to his full height and the woman started back in surprise, a slim blue hand coming up to her chest. An asari, then and the woman took a hesitant step toward him and his heart thumped as a fanciful thought occurred to him, but no, this asari was too tall, her skin too blue. And it was his turn to start when her voice drifted to him in hesitant tones, "Archangel...?"
His browplates lifted in shock, of course he'd heard the stories. About a vigilante, turian if the rumors were to be believed, who'd led a team of rabble rousers against the corruption of Omega, who'd paid for that...arrogance with his life as three merc companies united and cornered him, killed him. But that happened well before he was born, three decades ago or so.
The woman straightened her shoulders and said, "No, you're not him. But you are a killer. I can see it in the way you move."
"You don't know anything about me, stranger." He said gruffly, moving to leave only to find his way blocked by the woman's arm. He growled wordlessly at her and she tilted her head back so he could see the smirk playing about her painted lips, the glitter of her eyes in the darkness of her hood.
"I have a...proposition for you. And now that it seems you are without employment or prospects, maybe you'd like to at least consider it." Something about this woman's tone said she was rarely refused and that rankled somewhat. He didn't want to be some woman's tool, but he'd at least hear her out. Because it was true what she'd said, he had little to no prospects left, he'd burned many bridges and was no closer to what he wanted. She seemed pleased at his hesitation and continued, "I need men-"
He snorted and she flashed him a dangerous smile before raising a hand to silence him, "I need...muscle, shall we say? For some heavy...lifting."
Got alot of furniture to move, lady? Paulus' voice jeered in the back of his mind and he just kept himself from wincing. That was one thing that being among people again he hated. All his interactions were tainted by what his brother would say if he were here. He overrode that thought with, "Go on."
"I can see that you have no love for our beloved Authority." She waited for him to decry the heresy she'd just spoken and seemed very pleased when it brooked no reaction from him whatsoever. Galactic politics were far from his mind, he really didn't care either way. He had one goal and one goal only. She laid a hand on his arm and he twitched under it in discomfort, "Let's just say, neither of us would be too very put out if someone started making trouble for them, if someone were already making trouble for them."
Marcus thought it through as she spoke. Did he really want to do this? Be a...a hit man? The last month had shown him that he really wasn't suited for anything else, but killing. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he rolled back on one hip, "I can be trouble."
"You know, somehow I believe it." She looked him up and down appreciatively and he glared at her base attempt at manipulation and she relented with a wave of her hand, "So, handsome, what's your name?"
He narrowed his eyes at her and ground out, "Marc."
She grinned wickedly, "Yes, you are. Well, Marc, I do believe we can do business. This chit will access a hidden account that I'll transfer credits into after every successful assignment. Try to be frugal if you don't want to alert the Authority. Sudden large purchases will not go unnoticed."
"What do I call you?" He stepped toward her, crowding her and she took a half step back, reaching reflexively for what he was sure was a gun of some sort, but he didn't relent, nor act overtly hostile in any way.
"Call me Omega-" She started but he cut her off by grabbing her chin in one hand, hard, but not hard enough to bruise, just enough to trap her in his fingers. He swept back her hood and found himself looking into a famous countenance, one that used to grab quite a bit of attention on the newsfeeds when he was just a child, before Unification. Its cold beauty hadn't changed much, other than the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her jaw.
"Aria." Her eyes flashed rage even as they swam with haunted thoughts and he held her still by her chin. He was not that surprised, he found, in fact the thought had probably been swimming around the back of his mind already, unrecognized til now.
Her voice seethed as it came out from between clenched teeth, "There was a time when I would have had your hand for touching me without my permission."
"And other bits I'm sure." He let her go and she rubbed her jaw. Marcus stood back and said in low tones, "What's the going rate for...cleaning?"
"10K a head, more if that head is attached to a very important neck." Aria flashed hand signals into the shadows, no doubt to placate whoever it was she had there to watch her back. There were probably a dozen or more weapons trained on him. His skin prickled but he forced his inner survivor to quiet, this exchange was far from friendly, but it wouldn't get nasty. And if it did, he already had half a dozen plans to kill her and abscond before they could down him. He'd take a bullet, maybe two, nothing serious, of that he was confident.
"Halve that. I don't need much." Indeed, everything here still seemed a luxury to him. Everything from environmental controls to the corner store where he could just walk in and purchase food any time he wanted.
She watched him warily and he watched her back with equal intensity, waiting for the inevitable question to follow. Aria appraised him again, a new respect in her eyes as she took in how calmly he assessed the situation. Now she knows I'm not just a brute, how exactly does that change the deal? She laughed, short and bitter, "And? What do you want then?"
He took a deep breath, it was all or nothing, this. But nothing else had worked for him so far. This might just be what he needed. Letting the air slowly out, he whispered, "Information."
"Done." She clapped once and pulled her hood up once again to hide her features. She gestured for him to follow and led him to a waiting aircar. Another turian opened the door for them and after closing it behind them, sat in the driver's seat. They sped off into the perennial twilight and she looked out of the window at the transformed station. No longer was it the criminal capital of the galaxy. They'd moved in and cleaned house, literally and figuratively. He saw empty streets free of clutter or pedestrians, there were armed men on virtually every street corner to enforce the strict curfews and there were marching troops on wider boulevards. Afterlife had been completely gutted and turned into a Temple of the Shepard where every citizen was required to go at least once a week for Devotions, mostly an excuse for the Authority to root out insurgents and heretics. He turned at Aria's sigh, and she said in a soft voice, "They've ruined it."
"It's cleaner, at least." He said wryly, at which she snorted derisively.
"I liked it dirty. The one place left in the galaxy where it was still winner take all, where wit and audacity still counted for something."
"Yeah and where extortion, slavery and murder were commonplace, encouraged in fact." He couldn't help a bitter note entering his voice. She shot him an amused look.
"How do I find all the naive ones?" She mused to herself as she watched him from under lowered brows, "No crusading while you're on my payroll."
He frowned at her and she smiled archly as he rumbled, "Who's the first head to roll?"
"Later, pet. For now, just relax and enjoy the scenery."
Marcus leaned back, watching her out of the corner of his eye, "I'm going to need equipment."
"You'll have it." She shot back, as though angry that he thought she'd forget such an important and yet unimportant detail. "Armor, tech, grenades, rifle, whatever."
"I have a rifle."
"Make a list, I'll give you the name of someone who does provisions. Don't bother me with such trivialities."
He hummed, "Why did you come out in the open to recruit one man? You don't know me."
"We've been shadowing you for some time. You were obviously trying to stay hidden, but doing a very poor job of it. Some of my agents were impressed with how...thoroughly you put down some of the people who, um, instigated a...situation. I thought it worth a look, since you seemed to have the devil's own luck avoiding capture." She smirked under her hood, "When I saw you alone in that alley, looking a bit lost, I let my intuition take over. It's rarely wrong."
"You exposed yourself to a potentially hostile and violent threat because you were...curious?" That didn't sound like the aloof and cool sovereign of a thousand worlds in the Terminus systems to him. Or the woman who'd ruthlessly run Omega before then. It was a puzzlement indeed.
"As I said, my intuition is rarely wrong." She hissed as the aircar swept over the Temple, "Oh, they will pay."
Slyly, he said in an amused rumble, "No crusading unless it's your crusade, is that it?"
He was vaguely surprised when she chuckled. And she then turned to look at him fully, with a serious look in her eye, "What's your whole name, Marc?"
He flicked a mandible and stared at her hard before answering, "Marcus Cicero."
She made a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat, replying in an almost wistful tone, "Not Vakarian, then?"
He wrenched his gaze so he was once again looking out at the city below, eyes fixed on a point that was much safer, much less likely to give away the intense wave of shame and guilt that washed through him, and he was immensely relieved that his voice came out evenly, almost mild, over the sudden pounding of his heart in his hollow chest, "No, not Vakarian."
He lay back on the too short bed and thought hard about the encounter between himself and the formidable Aria T'Loak. Her voice floated to him from his memory, You won't see me often, if ever, your marks and their dossiers will be sent to you anonymously. Encoded, of course. The ciphers will arrive separately, hardcopies only. Do not trust a cipher if it comes by omnitool. Your call sign is The Mark. Call it my twisted sense of humor. If you're ever caught, be assured that you'll be dead before you can give them any intel on me or what we're doing.
He snorted, The Mark, indeed, if she only knew how close to true that was. He could see the humor in it and his brother's ghost in the back of his mind had howled in mirth when she'd said it. The first cipher had found its way to his door not an hour after she'd dropped him off, so now he waited for a dossier to ping his omnitool. In the mean time, he had nothing to do but stare at the cracks in his ceiling and listen to the gentle rumble of his only friend from his pile of frayed and dirty cushions on the floor.
It still plagued him, the thought of doing Aria's dirty work, but what choice did he have, really? He doubted she'd just let him walk, now that he'd seen her and knew something of her plans. He wondered how Ushal was faring, wondered if he'd found a way through the Shepard's blockade of Rannoch. Apparently, the fanatics had figured out that the geth couldn't be directly threatened for whatever intel they so desperately wanted. Any active geth captured just terminated themselves, usually finding ways to take out its captors while doing so. They couldn't be tortured, not in the conventional sense anyway. And they turned aside any attempts to infiltrate their collective with the ease of a child swatting insects.
That's what Ushal had meant by the geth thinking he wasn't geth when he didn't have the correct authorization codes. The Shepards had tried to write programs that mimicked the way geth behaved so that they could mine data from the servers still connected to the extranet. It had failed spectacularly, those programs often converted and turned back on their masters. So now the only recourse the Shepards had was to threaten the only perceivable weakness the geth had, the quarians.
The blockade was slowly starving the quarians, who hadn't had time to build a viable ecology on their planet as yet. Too large a population, not enough resources. Without supplies from Palaven and the other dextro colonies, eventually the quarians were going to die or surrender. And if they surrendered, the geth were more than likely going to self terminate, which would set the quarians back hundreds of years, if not kill them in a few years. The last few decades of cohabitation among the geth and quarians had made the two races nearly symbiotic, made them nearly one race.
He saluted them their will to not give up, no matter how hopeless it seemed. He hoped that Ushal made it home safely with the telemetry data he'd collected when the Mark II had witnessed the moon over Alchera disappear. Maybe the geth could figure out what was going on with their huge machine brains that thought thoughts that were nearly faster than light.
And now, he had a lead on what he was searching for. He'd given Aria the names of the people he was looking for, one in particular. She hadn't known right then, but she had people, she said, people who were very good at finding things like this out and damned if he didn't find himself trusting her word, just a little. Which led him back to what he was going to have to do to earn it. He winced, killing for a cause he understood, killing for revenge he understood. Killing for credits, why did that seem so...beneath him?
He cursed his own arrogance. He was no better than any of these criminals. To get what he wanted, he'd do almost anything. No, he corrected himself, feeling it lance him with needle like pricks of recrimination, he'd do anything. Marcus rolled onto his side and saw that his companion had awoken and was looking at him with those molten gold eyes that shone with an inner light. He sighed, "What do you think, Caesar? Did I just fuck everything up?"
No opinions from that quarter as the shaggy beast ambled over and rested his great head on Marcus' shoulder, offering comfort to the troubled turian. He stroked the animal's mane absently as he thought aloud, "Aria's not to be trusted. Dealing with her is, well, I want to say, foolhardy at best. This feels like it could very easily turn into a big mistake, if I'm not careful. Trouble is, I seem to have forgotten how to be careful. I don't know how long I can hold out."
Despair caused him to involuntarily draw his legs up and he ground out harshly, mandibles twitching spasmodically, "I have to find her. I have to kill her. And then I won't have to hold on any more."
Caesar watched sagely as the turian clenched his eyes so very tightly shut that surely it pained him and huffed a warm breath into Marcus' face, and sent a thought out into the ether, He has no anchor, karesh'igal. His mind flutters unfettered with only this obsession for vengeance to hold him here. He will be lost if he does not find a root to cling to.
Silence was his only answer. Not that he really expected an answer, it wasn't for him to demand an answer from those whose purview was so large that his and this boy's actions were obfuscated from the tall ones by the vast difference in their perspectives. That they'd intervened on his behalf more than once was probably more than one could ever ask. Silently, the one the boy called Caesar willed Marcus to sleep, which he did, fitfully as he'd always done.
As he watched the turian slumber, Caesar, for the name was as good as any other, tried to recall the exact moment when duty had turned into fondness. The boy was a cub lost in the woods, but so were they all and despite the horrendous wounds on his spirit, the boy strove, indomitable. Caesar knew that despite the sorrowful words, this small being whose light barely flickered would keep going long past the breaking point.
He'd continued his guise as an animal for far longer than he'd intended, knowing that he couldn't be this boy's anchor. He'd lived for far too long, he knew far too much and that would just taint the boy's own growth, skew his own sense of worth. For as much as he'd discovered in his own journey, he didn't have all the answers. So he'd watch and wait, and hope. And more importantly, hope that hope would be enough.