Chapter 2

Your storm cloak clings heavily against your shoulders, its leather hide glistening with repelled water. The rain is harsh and it hammers against your hooded head, but you are grateful for it. The cold and wetness of it are in stark contrast to the barren dryness of that krogan controlled planet and are a welcome change after being trapped on that wasteland for months. You feel the merciless sun must have dried your supple skin and turned your face into a leather mask. You are also grateful that the rain is actually water and not acid; you've been to some worlds where environmental friendliness was not a high priority, and being trapped in a rainstorm like this one was a quick way to earn chemical burns and skin cancer.

You duck your head as you walk the nearly empty streets. The torrential downpour has kept most inhabitants of this lonely colony indoors, and there are few attempting to brave the storm. Those who do, dash from point A to point B, trying their best to keep exposure to the elements at a minimum. You know your slow and careful, albeit tired, gait is likely to draw attention, but you are satisfied that most colonists would prefer keeping to themselves, especially in this weather.

The cascading rain cuts visibility to no more than a few meters ahead of you, but the downpour somehow does little to diminish the neon glow of a flashing display mounted on the wall of a fairly squat building; it glows brightly like a lighthouse in the night and you are drawn to it like a moth to flame. The sign has seen better days, but its blinking lights spell out a universal message any alien can read: drink and entertainment. The tavern is built mostly into the ground, like all the other structures in this town; its sunken construction helps it maintain a cooler temperature and reduce operating expenses. You can hear the rain clattering against the buildings metal roofing.

The stairs descend several meters, and you push open the heavy doors. Immediately, outdated music from an artist you cannot recognize pours through the portal, and you step inside. The pungent odor of alcohol mixed with old sweat punches you in the face, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. This is certainly not the best of establishments, and it certainly cannot compare to the bars found in Citadel space, but you are not in any position to complain. The tavern is dry and warm, but most importantly, it is home to alcohol.

The cantina is not packed, but it is occupied with a fairly decent number of people. You are slightly surprised at its size; from above, you were expecting a building half, or even a third of its size. Most of the patrons are asari, which is to be expected considering the population ratio of space-faring sapient beings. You see several salarian, and, to your utter amazement, you even spot a single turian. That is, you guess it is a turian. You've not actually seen one in person; they are the newest species to be encountered by the Citadel races, and you've only seen them via hologram or video. You are surprised that one would be found on as backwater of a colony as this.

There is an open table in the far corner; you would have preferred a booth for the extra privacy, but all of those are occupied. You doff your dripping storm coat and hang it from the back of a chair; a small puddle of rainwater slowly grows from underneath it. As you sit, you notice the slight creaking of the chair, and you note the weight and feel of its construction: the furniture is strong, yet old, but would suffice as a weapon. You chide yourself as your commando-trained mind catalogs likely threats, escape routes, and potential improvised weapons. Sometimes you cannot help but be prepared.

"What'll you have?" The asari waitress looks down at you, the weariness evident in how her shoulders slump, as if she really does not care what you order. You look up and note her age: her face is undecorated, and her purple skin is smooth and soft. She cannot be much more than half a century.

You run through the impressive list of alcohols and liquors you have memorized, but you settle on a safe choice; you do not know the local fare and so you take the easy route. "Something strong," you say. The words are carefully spoken; weariness and disinterest underscore their inflection. "What do you suggest?"

The asari shrugs. Her attention is focused on the holovid projector. "Ryncol if you're adventurous or a PPC if you want to stay local."

The ryncol is tempting, but you actually have a private stock of krogan-brewed liquor aboard your ship, which you save for times when you either really want to forget everything or degrease the engine. You've not heard of a PPC, and you are curious. "I'll pass on the ryncol," you say. "But I'll give the PPC a shot." The waitress doesn't reply as she leaves with your order.

The voice from the holovid projector catches your ears, and you glance up at the display. "Refugees from the asari colony Lusia escaping the krogan advance have now settled on several nearby worlds. Relief agencies are sending thousands of tons of food, water, and other supplies into these refugee camps even as new reports of krogan offenses appear. Council representatives are calling for unilateral support of displaced peoples."

You turn away from the holovid as the waitress returns with your drink. You thank her and deposit a few credits in her hand. She leaves without so much as thanks, and you roll your eyes at the horrible service. The drink sitting before you is a sharp red, as bright as freshly spilled arterial blood. You sniff glass, noting a hint of mint, and take a sip.

The PPC hits you like a punch to the gut, and you gag. You are not a stranger to hard liquor, but this drink takes you by surprise. Despite the fact that your teeth feel as if they've had the enamel stripped off, you appreciate the fresh, minty bite. You glance at the glass, grimace, and take another sip.

"You see why it's called the PPC?" The voice comes from behind, and you silently curse yourself for letting someone sneak up on you. It is light and lilting, and carries enough warbles for you to guess that it was spoken through a mask.

You set your glass down carefully and your left hand reaches for your trench blade. "No," you reply. "What's a PPC anyways?"

"Particle projection cannon," is her response, and you see how aptly the drink is named. The speaker takes a seat across from you, and you arch a brow. A respirator obscures her lavender face, while a cowl covers her head. Her pupil-less eyes shine with the intensity of a small star. She pulls back the rain-soaked hood to reveal a mane of ebony quills that run down past her shoulders. Quarian, you conclude. She waves the waitress over with a three-fingered hand and the respirator hides her smile. "Nurse that carefully. It'll hit you sooner than you think."

You nod. "Thanks for the advice, miss…?"

"Ari," she replies. The waitress returns with the quarian's drink, something green and significantly less potent than yours. The quarian unlatches the respirator and sets it gingerly on the table. She takes a sip from her glass. "My name is Ari'Itani." She looks at you expectantly.

After a moment, you hesitantly introduce yourself. "Starmet," you lie. It is one of numerous names you have, and the least used one. You mask your wariness in a false, weary but upbeat tone. "It is good to meet you, Ari."

You watch curiously as the quarian sets a small pouch on the table. She reaches in for some crackers, and you remember the whole reverse-chirality problem quarians have. She chews and swallows. "I've not seen you around this mining town, Starmet. What brings you to the middle of nowhere?"

Now you are alert. "Oh, nothing special. Needed to discharge my ship's FTL drive, and I figured I'd take a break to stretch the legs." You chuckle; it sounds genuine but your mirth is fake. "Hell of a night to take a walk, though. Is the weather always this shitty?"

Ari'Itani laughs, and, despite your distrust, you decide you like that very much. "It's the rainy season. At first it sucks, but you'll miss it when the dry season rolls around."

"Why's that?" you ask. You order another PPC after catching the eye of the waitress.

"Oh, imagine this weather, but completely opposite. Completely opposite." The quarian took another sip, and you make a mental note to ask her what she ordered. "The planet is roasted during the day time. There's no moisture anywhere. If you want to go outside without having to wear radiation and heat shielding, you have to do it at night. It's rather horrid."

"That does sound terrible," you respond. Your attention is momentarily caught by the newsvid, and you move so you can see the projector behind Ari. She follows your gaze.

There is a large krogan armored in ruby and gold combat plate. His weathered face bears the scars of a thousand battles, and the camera pans around to show the hundreds of krogan warriors gathered behind him. The krogan Battle Master shouts; his voice is a brutal guttural sound, and his warriors roar in support. "Races of the Citadel! Your Council is full of hypocritical and cowardly creatures that hide behind their guise of civility and diplomacy. With one hand they claim to uphold law and justice, but with the other, they strike with dishonor and duplicity.

"The krogan colony Oshika was devastated by the dastardly sabotage of its antimatter refinement facility. The explosion destroyed most of the colony, but most of all, eradicated hundreds of clutches of newborns." The krogan Battle Master narrows his eyes in rage and spittle flies from his mouth. "For that, the World Eaters will rise like a consuming wave and devour your worlds. We will butcher your children as you butchered ours. And we will begin with this one."

The image wavers and jerks suddenly as the Battle Master raises a shotgun. There is a large thunderclap that is muffled by the projector's poor audio system, and then the image fades to static. The news anchor looks visibly shaken, but he continues. "After receiving this message from Oshika, the Council issued a statement that all krogan advances will be repulsed. The Seventh Fleet has been deployed and will move to secure vulnerable worlds…"

Your stomach tightens in a knot as the krogan's final words play through your mind. Your commando and huntress training has instilled in you a sense of duty and you will stop at nothing to see a mission through; however, your compassion and instincts are still strong, and you cannot forget the yellow eyes of the krogan child. Her death, and the death of her Broodbrothers and Broodsisters are on your hands, and you know this. Though you try, you cannot convince yourself that the necessity of your mission was worth the deaths of so many children.

"Hey, you alright?" Ari waves her hand across your face and you refocus on her.

"Sorry," you say, shaking your head to clear away the ruminations. "The drink's probably getting to me."

"You sure?" There is some concern in her voice, and you wonder about her kindness.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You down the rest of your PPC in a single gulp and manage not to choke. After a pause, you ask, "What do you do here, Ari? You don't see many quarians traveling the galaxy, so I'm a bit surprised to meet one here."

She shrugs, but her response is laced with a smile. "Years ago, I caught a case of wanderlust, and so I took to traveling around. Quarians are mechanically gifted, so that served me well. Eventually, I picked up a contract with a mining corporation and ended up here. I've been maintaining the equipment and machinery for the last couple of years."

You point at her respirator. "All that traveling can't be easy, what with your immune systems and all."

Ari looks a bit surprised, and you worry if you've offended her. "It's actually not that bad. Our immune systems may not be as robust as yours or the salarians, but we don't need to wear hazmat suits or anything. At first when I started traveling, I'd be down for a few weeks with chills, coughs, and all that crap. But, my body's adapted, and it's not so bad anymore. The respirator is just a nice precaution."

The two of you continue to talk, and gradually you lower your guard. You know that part of it is the poisonous alcohol accumulating in your systems, but you also sense that the quarian is genuinely not a threat. Your conversations are sincere, and you detect no malice or secrets behind her words. You gather that she is indeed a mechanic and not some secret agent placed here by the krogans to assassinate you.

You do not realize just how many PPCs you've consumed until you try standing and nearly pitch forwards onto the table. Your vision swims, but you manage to steady yourself with an embarrassed laugh. Ari is at your side, and she holds you steady with a surprisingly strong grip.

You reach for your coat, but she stops you. "You're completely wasted."

"No shit," you reply. "I'm fine. I'll just head back to the ship."

"That's not going to happen." Ari refastens her respirator and pulls the hood over her head. She tosses you your coat. "You can stay in my place until you're sober enough to walk."

You try to protest, but you can't remember how. You are led outside into the rain, which has amazingly only intensified. Soon, you find yourself indoors; it is warm and Ari'Itani seats you on a couch. Within a second, you have collapsed and you are out cold.