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Dust in the Mass Effect

Chapter 4

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It was hard.

You might think that digging through trash would be one of the more laid back occupations in the galaxy. You would be wrong. Imagine it like this:

You've just barely gotten yourself to sleep. Your back hurts, your 'bed' is lumpy as hell, and every single muscle in your body is sore from venturing around to uproot the most valuable of the trashes. Then, without any real warning, you hear a giant crash of metal of the in the distance. This is your work whistle. You must now get up, gear up, and head out in hopes that you can beat those dirty Talon mercs to it. If you can, then maybe they'll back off and let you sort through it in peace. If you can't, then you have to back off and pray they won't shoot at you. If you're lucky and the Talons aren't there, then you have something else to worry about. Is anything that just dropped even valuable? Usually it is, but sometimes it isn't. Even when it is, how much is it worth? Is it enough to eat off of? Hopefully. Can you get enough supplies to last until the next good drop? Maybe. Will you have to cut back in expenditures order to actually turn a decent profit? Definitely.

I found myself in debt to Nolan the very first day. Necessary gear includes, at the bare minimum, a functional omni-tool and a translator so you can understand the barks of your batarian coworkers. I, of course, had neither of these. They were not cheap. My first payday, a full week after my arrival, was cut by half to take care of the expenses involved in loaning me the items, even if they were both used. Apparently they'd been the property of someone called 'Buster' at some point. I was vaguely fortunate to learn that Buster was not one of the Blood Pack's victims, but someone who'd disappeared off into the yard one day, never to return. Cockney claimed that the man had always been a hard worker, and, if I didn't live up to his reputation, he'd come back and kill me for them.

Phantoms or not, this meant that I made a pittance every week. The exact number would make you cringe. Suffice to say, I wasn't doing much more than eating and sleeping in my spare time. Food came out of cans on good days, out of tubes on bad days, and tasted like grasshoppers every day. Drinks were ridiculous as well. Water? Not in our scrapyard. The shit we got… well… I called it 'tang' to make me feel better. It tasted more like ass-flavored cough medicine. Sometimes the batarians would order in some good stuff on occasion, but I wasn't exactly on their list of people to share with.

So yeah. My standard of living plummeted. Better than being dead, though. If I had anything going for me, that was it.

T

"Get a move on, Duster!"

Scavenging and salvaging was a lot like searching for seashells, except only about two percent of the shells were worth taking, the beach was an enormous breeding mound for tetanus, and an angry alien was constantly yelling at you to do it faster. Oh, and some of the shells needed to be fixed by a specialist before they could be worth anything. Just like looking for seashells, except a way bigger pain in the ass. The process was simple. We – meaning the four of us on the 'scavenger team' – would pour over the pile that had received the most recent drop. If you found something useful, hooray. If you didn't, tough shit.

"Y'know," I wheezed to Cockney as we struggled to find anything worth more than its weight in materials. "I could've sworn you told me to be slow and methodical about this."

"I did," the man chuckled. "Grask is just bustin' your balls. Ignore him."

Easier said than done. Grask was our supervisor, and he made sure we knew it. If he wasn't shouting at us disdainfully, then he was berating whatever we'd brought down. He was a batarian, one of three in the eleven members of our group. What made him unique were two things. One, he was built like a train. If he really wanted to, he could probably punch a hole straight through a vorcha. Two, his false leg. You'd think that a one-legged man in the 22nd century would have access to some high-tech replacement options. This was not the case for Grask. His prosthetic limb was little more than a cleave of metal. This was probably why he was down there screaming at us instead of actually helping. How'd he lose it? I'll tell you later.

The point is that, in spite of his injury, he still managed to be intimidating as hell. Doubly so when you considered that the assault rifle he carried around had inferno rounds. He, as well as Nolan, ran security for us while we searched.

"So…" Cockney started. I looked up from what I was checking, finding him looking uncomfortable.

"What?"

"You've been here for a few weeks now," he remarked with a scowl. "I'm just wondering how long you're gonna stick around."

It was a strange question, I thought.

"Do people tend to leave in the first month?" I asked, returning to work at the same time. I could've sworn I'd just seen something that looked relatively new.

"Most leave within the first couple of days," he shook his head. "It ain't easy work, and it don't pay well."

I pulled up a small container as he spoke. Normally, a box like this would open at the press of a button. This one was busted, of course. Still, it wouldn't be the first one I'd sent down for recovery. I put it aside for later.

"Well, it's not like I have anywhere else to go," I answered after a moment.

"Seriously?" he seemed a little shocked by that claim. "You're what? Eighteen?"

"Twenty-one."

"Still too young to not have anywhere to turn," he decided for me. "I know you ain't one of them lifer orphans. You'd be in a gang or slaved by now."

Now it was my turn to scowl. I'd been very tight-lipped about my origin, and that wasn't about to change now. Cockney was usually pretty lax around me, but today he seemed to be a little off. It was making me nervous. If I trusted anyone in this camp, it was him. Still, I wasn't about to go telling him that I'd mysteriously transmigrated through time and space to wind up in this scrap yard. The last thing I needed was to get thrown out of camp because they all thought I was crazy.

"I'm just a guy," I went for the route of 'spout bullshit until he gives up'. "I got in trouble, and now I'm here getting myself out of it."

Technically, that wasn't a lie. As far as I was concerned, I really was in trouble and this really was my only way to get out of it. In retrospect, this was incorrect. I could have always just asked Nolan for directions out of this place. I know I wouldn't be the first. Often was the time an errant treasure hunter would pass through, unable to ascertain his/her way out. The only problem with that was that, even if I got out, I still didn't have anywhere to go. At least down here I was making money and not getting shot on a regular basis. I heard Omega was rather bad in the latter regard.

"Oh, c'mon," Cockney rolled his eyes. "What's the hurt in telling me?"

"Listen, man," I stopped him. "I'm not gonna pry into your backstory, so why're you prying into mine? Especially since I can say with full authority that it isn't interesting in any way."

"If it isn't interesting, then, and I repeat, what's the hurt in telling me?"

"Hey!" Grask interrupted before I could lose my cool. "Less squawking, more hauling, assholes!"

We both went back to work after that, not saying anymore on the subject for that day.

But yeah. That was the average day of the scavenger named 'Dust'. In fact, I dare say that those were the good days. Those were the days that made me money and got me one step closer to something else.

The bad days? Well…

"That's close enough, trash!"

There was something sinister about a turian's voice coming through the relays of his helmet. All Talon mercenaries wore their armor when they were on scavenging runs. It was good grade stuff, too. According to our salarian tech specialists, even the best rifle our group owned couldn't pierce their shields in single shot. Against them, we were utterly outmatched.

Military experience in our group numbered up to five individuals. The rest of us amounted to civilians. They had at least seven people, all but two of which were turians. Fun fact about the turians and their society, military service was mandatory. If you saw one carrying a gun, you might as well assume that it knows how to kill you with it in the most efficient way possible. Sure enough, they all had guns, and the appearance of our group was a cue to draw them out of their holsters.

Nolan, always at the front of our pack, stood tall before the Talon turian. The merc had a rifle trained on the man. A flex of its finger would kill him. Nolan had no armor or shields. He didn't even bother pointing his own rifle forward. Nobody in our group did. Grask looked like he was ready start incinerating, but even he knew that we didn't stand a chance in a straight fight.

"This drop is Talon property. Turn your operation around and no one gets hurt."

That was the ultimatum. Every damn time, he would say that. Nolan would stand there, glare at him for a second, and then tell us to head back. The walks back were always the worst. The instant we were out of earshot, Grask would start going off. The rest of us would just sulk, all thinking the same thing. We had just wasted time and energy for nothing. Nolan would always tell us to keep a look out for anything useful on the way back, but we rarely found anything then.

As we'd walk, I would involuntarily think about when I'd been cornered in that cylinder by that one Talon. I'd been spared that day. Even if I hadn't been able to understand what it was saying, I knew that much. It had seen me. It pointed its gun at me. I'd been defenseless, but they'd held back. What did that mean? Were they more honorable than their aggression towards the group suggested? Or maybe they just didn't think I was worth the bullets.

In the end, I decided it was best not to ponder. I had more important things to worry about, like when my next meal was going to be.

T

This went on for a solid month. In that month I learned many things, ranging from the date to how batarians celebrate birthdays. The date? According to Earth's Terran Coordinated Universal calendar, it was September of the year 2182. How do batarians celebrate birthdays? I could tell you, but you'd never believe me.

The date was significant to me. I was just enough of a nerd to know that the plot of the game that was Mass Effect started in 2183. With it already September, that timeframe wasn't exactly far off. Not that it really mattered. For one thing, there was no way I could afford to get off Omega before the year was out. Secondly, even if I did escape, where would I go and what would I do? I wasn't about to load up and fight a war just because I knew it was about to happen. Sure, I was pretty smart, if by 'pretty smart' you mean I knew my ass from my elbow. I knew how to handle a gun, I had a basic grasp of elementary squad tactics, and, most importantly of all, I knew how the pieces were fated to fall. Did that make me a soldier? Hell no!

If anything, it all made me just want to curl up and hide. I knew that my direct involvement in the Reaper conflict would result in nothing less than my death and possible indoctrination. I mean, just look at Saren, Benezia, and the Illusive Man. They all tried to fuck with that shit, and all they got were bullets to the face for their troubles. Of course, that train of thought assumed that I could live long enough to get indoctrinated. If this crazy scrapyard didn't kill me in some sick and twisted way, then whatever lay just beyond was likely eager to do the job. That's what I thought at the time, anyway.

So, instead of pursuing great justice and whatnot, I played poker with Cockney and the guys. Surely that was safe and not life-threatening in any way. Right?

"Cards above the table, Duster," Grask growled at me from across the table.

I quickly hobbled my cards up where everyone else could see their backs. I was always on edge when we played cards. Thankfully, we weren't using real money. I'd have been broke in a heartbeat if we had. Grask was great at calling bluffs, and the two batarians that played with him were about as expressive as drywall. On my side of the table were fellow humans Cockney and Dirk. Dirk was a red sand addict, so he wasn't much competition. Cockney was okay, if only because he wasn't as intimidated by Grask as the rest of us. The two other batarians were Dev, a younger fellow who rarely spoke in more than single-word sentences, and Brot, Grask's right hand man.

We had just finished drawing, which meant it was time for the second round of betting.

"Today was a shit haul," Brot grumbled as he opened.

"If it were a lucrative business, we'd have more than eleven people," Grask grumbled as well, watching carefully as Dirk saw the bet. It was notable because Dirk tended to fold on the second round.

"We need more hands," Brot kept on. I silently saw the bet as he continued. "It won't be long before the Talons move in and take us to the-!"

"They won't do that," Cockney cut him off, laying down a raise in the process. "Aria would move in if they took control of the entire sector. She owns this place, not no damn fucking Talons."

Brot, Dirk, and I both saw the raise. I had a pair of queens. Not too shabby, I believed.

"But are they smart enough to know that?" Brot kept arguing in spite of his elimination. "The Blood Pack came and picked a fight, and we shredded them good and proper. Who's to say that the Talons won't hit us now that we have decreased capabilities?"

"Stupid," Dev gave his one cent as he saw the bet.

"Exactly!" Cockney nodded appreciatively. "Omega only has one rule."

"'Don't fuck with Aria,'" half the table said at the same time as Grask raised it another bit.

"And taking us down, claiming our territory, and eating our share of the take, they'd start generating more revenue," Cockney went on. "Aria would take notice. The outfit they've got here wouldn't last a week. Then the big bitch would probably disrupt the operations in their district, demand higher cuts from their business. They don't pay, she dices the entire operation."

"Extreme," Dev said as Brot folded.

"Typical asari bullshit," Dirk scoffed, raising the bet two more bits.

I folded, sighing.

"It explains why they don't shoot us on sight, at least," Cockney mumbled as he and Dev also folded.

"It's all a load of shit," Grask commented before upping the ante by five more bits. The tension in the air suddenly thickened, enticed by the glare the massive batarian was shooting at Dirk. "Just like you, junkie. Bluffing won't work on me."

Dirk raised again. "Try me, four-eyes."

Grask growled – like audibly. Brot and Dev both looked perturbed as well. I'd be lying if I said I knew a lot about batarian culture, but I still knew not to talk shit about their eyes. Not unless I wanted to wake up inside a trash compactor. I shot Dirk a glance, wondering what he was thinking. It was one thing to outsmart Grask at poker. It was another thing entirely to outsmart Grask at poker and piss him off in the process.

"Fine then," Grask snarled once he'd regained his sense. He laid down an equal bet, and that was it. Show time.

Grask laid a full house. Three sevens and two kings.

Dirk laid a straight flush. Eight, nine, ten, jack, and queen of diamonds.

The junkie let out a shit-eating chuckle.

Grask flipped the table.

If you've never had a table flipped over onto you, take my word on it when I say that it sucks. Protip – when playing cards, don't sit directly across from the angriest member of the group.

I wound up falling over backwards in my chair as Dirk and Cockney scattered in either direction. My first thought was to get the table off of me, but then I found it jerked away. Looking up, I found Grask holding the plastic assembly up over his head. He tossed it like a flying disk, and I adjusted my viewing angle just in time to see the whole of it slam into Dirk. The junkie let out a terrified shriek as he spilled onto the floor like the bag of lemons he was.

Everything stilled after that. We all stared at the table, but Dirk didn't move. After a few seconds, Grask stormed off. Brot was quick after him, leaving the rest of us to pick up the displaced cards and chips.

"Could have been worse," Cockney stated as he pulled together all the cards. "The last guy who mocked him like that got knocked through a wall."

"Dumbass," was Dev's comment on the subject. I had to agree.

"Boys."

We all looked up to find Nolan standing over us. We all stood to meet him, but I couldn't help feeling like we'd just drawn the principal's attention with our shenanigans.

"What happened?" Nolan crossed his arms. The tone in his voice was understanding, much to my relief.

"Oh, you know how it is with Big G," Cockney was quick on the explanation. "Poor Dirk over there decided to run his trap. Beat out G's hand and got the whole table as a reward."

"Yeah…" Nolan said with a sigh before walking over to where Dirk had seemingly passed out. Moving the table, we found the addict splayed out with a stoned look on his face. A whiff of the air and check of his pants revealed that he had likely pissed himself at some point. The four of us stood over him for a few moments, wondering if he was actually knocked out or not.

Then, in an instance of cliché, he took a sudden inhale. His eyes went wide, as if he was still in trouble. We gave him a second to chill, after which he settled down and relaxed. It was almost funny, really. If I hadn't been so down at the time, I might have laughed.

"Did I win?" he asked.

"You almost won a free trip to the hospital, ya nutcase," Cockney joked as he helped the poor guy up. "What were you thinking?"

"I thought…" Dirk spoke slowly, which wasn't rare for him. "…it would be funny to see the big guy lose his cool over a card game."

"Risky," Dev berated.

"You're lucky he didn't lose his cool through your face," Nolan agreed with Dev. "We don't cover medical fees down here. If you ever get hurt, it's a long damn way to the hospital."

"As you've mentioned several times before, bossman," Dirk didn't seem to take the advisory seriously. "I need a hit. Anyone care to join me?"

We all stared at him with various levels of disapproval.

"No? A'ight, fuck y'all then."

Dirk walked off without another word, favoring where the table had struck him.

"What a guy," Cockney snickered, shaking his head. "Remind me why he still has a job."

"His dealer buys from us," Nolan remarked.

"Really? By that logic, we should get Dust hooked on speed and open up a new market."

Nolan refused to be amused by that. He just scowled and walked off, no doubt having more important shit to do. Dev left as well, probably having stopped caring long before.

"Aw, whatever," Cockney waved them off dismissively before looking to me. "C'mon. Let's get a drink."

We went over to his place for drinks. It wasn't much in terms of quality, just shitty lite beer, but it was better than the stupid tang. We kept quiet for a while as we sat out in front of his metal hut. I could tell that he was feeling sour, though. Nine days out of ten, Cockney was the most upbeat person in camp, though that wasn't saying much.

"…fucking ridiculous," he muttered randomly as I sucked the last few drops of beer out of my can.

"What is?" I bit.

"This-" He gestured to our surroundings. "All this bullshit around us."

I had to try and not roll my eyes.

"I mean think about it," he carried on. "Our lives are absurd. We live in the deepest fucking recesses of a scrapyard on the most criminally unlawful space station in the galaxy. We're lightyears away from home, working for shit money, eating and drinking shit that was made in a factory, and we could die at any goddammed minute."

"You drank before lunch again, didn't you?"

"Brot's right, y'know," he refused to stop. "Those Talons could walk right in here and blow us to fucking smithereens before we even had time to run and hide. We wouldn't even know what hit us! We could be fucking dead fifteen seconds from now! And what difference would it make?! Who'd fucking care?!"

There were tears welling up in his eyes by this point. I wasn't sure whether this was really alcohol or a rapidly approaching existential crisis.

"Our lives…" Cockney said very slowly, leaning in with his red eyes wide and brow furrowed. "Our lives are motherfucking ridiculous! And we take them so. Goddammed. Seriously!"

I felt myself unconsciously lean back, taken aback in a way I didn't understand.

Before the nut could say anything else, something green flew in and bounced off his skull. He straightened, stiff as a board, dropped his beer, and fell out of his chair. Next to him was the weapon, an empty batarian liquor bottle. Looking over from whence it came, I found an agitated Dev. I offered a hesitant wave, still astonished from Cockney's outburst. The batarian ignored me, turning back to his fellows.

Back to the downed Cockney, he didn't seem to be dead. He was breathing just fine, with the only apparent damage being a growing lump on his head. He was going to have one hell of a hangover, but not much else.

I set my empty can aside and hunched over. My hands came up and caught my face. All of the sudden, I didn't feel so good.

Welp, that's chapter 4. A little shorter than last chapter, but things are still building.

Not much else to say. I will reiterate my thanks towards my good friend Warhammer 2-4 for his continued efforts beta-reading my chapters. If you haven't checked out his own SI, then you don't know what you're missing. It's called "Temporal Leap: Incipiens", and it's definitely one of the best new SIs in the archive.