DISCLAIMER: BIOWARE OWNS MASS EFFECT
A/N: Please read and review.
What's that old saying? "The more things change, the more they remain the same"?
I ask myself silently as I shave after taking my morning shower in the apartment Anahe helped me find. The past couple months been pretty hectic; from getting a lease on an apartment, to buying clothes, learning how to use an omni-tool, catching up on what I've missed, and so on. Still have no idea what I'm going to do for the long term, though.
Finishing up with my morning routine, I step out of my bathroom and head into my bedroom to get dressed, picking out a black pair of relaxed-fit pants I'd altered to have a couple hidden pockets for my spare pistol magazines, a pair of good black leather boots complete with a tanto-style boot knife, a charcoal grey form-fitting t-shirt, and a navy blue jacket to help conceal my shoulder rig.
Busy day ahead. Got a message about the local newsies wanting to interview me, I think as I lock up my apartment and walk towards Nebula. "Hey Ian," one of the bouncers, a six-foot-four, muscle-bound human with close-cropped hair says as I walk in. "Isn't today your day off?"
"Yeah it is, but I promised the cook I'd share a couple of my recipes from back home," I answer, stopping for a moment, looking up at him since I'm only five-foot seven and maybe a buck fifty soaking wet. I'm the better fighter, though and we both know it.
"Sure. I bet seeing Lare has nothing to do with it at all," he says, ribbing me.
Chuckling, I cheerfully flip him off and head for the kitchen. "Hey Merinya," I say to the asari cook, tying on an apron and tucking my hair underneath a cap. "You get the ingredients?"
"Yeah," she says, finishing off a shot of her favorite liquor and setting the grill up.
"Alright. This isn't exactly high-class fare, but it's a damn tasty dish that's easy to throw together and should be pretty popular. If not, then no harm in trying," I comment as I get the ingredients out of the refrigerator: shaved sirloin steak, cheddar cheese sauce, onions, and some sesame seed hoagie rolls. Getting to work, I make a quintessential American heart-attack sandwich: the legendary Philly Cheese Steak. "Here. Give it a try," I say, handing her one of the sandwiches.
Looking intrigued, she takes a bite of the sandwich. "This is pretty good," she says enthusiastically. "What do you call it?"
"It's called a Philly Cheese Steak," I answer, digging into my own sandwich. Between bites I continue. "Not the healthiest or most refined sandwich, but it's simple to make and goes great with most bar foods."
"I see," she says, finishing her sandwich. "I'll ask Anahe if we can add it to the menu and see how it plays out."
"Cool," I say. "Well I'd better get going. See you later." Taking off the kitchen clothes, I head out of the club and hail a cab to take me to the Presidium where the embassies are located and where the media wants to do my interview. Why they want me up there is beyond me. I'm not fond of "rich" districts to begin with.
When I arrive, I check the time and realize I'm about an hour early. Might as well go walkabout and see what's what. I think, taking a stroll. I'll give the designers of this station credit. The architecture here is impressive. Organic and serene. If they made a mistake, it's that they made this place feel a little too perfect.
As I walk, I notice my clothing stands out more than usual as everyone is wearing either suits or elegant dresses that obviously cost more than three months worth of my current wages. Judging from their air of self-importance, they're politicians or people born with the proverbial silver spoons in their mouths. Passing through the financial district, I continue on to the emporium, and past a building that has a mixed group of people chatting outside.
"Have you seen the Consort yet?" a Salarian asks me as I walk past.
"Please forgive my ignorance, but I have no idea who that is," I answer, knowing my usual bluntness and language would be frowned on in this area and I don't need the trouble.
"She's amazing. There's no words to describe her," he says, obviously in awe. "She can be anything for anyone. Just being in her presence is soothing."
"I see. Well if I have the opportunity, I'll try to meet her," I say. Right. If she can hold that kind of sway over someone either they are weak-willed morons, or she's damn good at manipulating people, I think to myself as I continue on with my wanderings and end up at the Embassy Lounge in time for my interview.
"Hello, Mr. McLaughlin," the reporter, a middle-eastern looking human woman says as I walk over. "I'm Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, Westerlund News. Thank you for taking the time for this interview."
"Please, call me Ian," I say, not being a fan of unnecessary formality.
"Let's get started," she says, cueing her camera to start recording. "Tell us a little about yourself, Ian."
"There's really not much to tell," I say honestly. "I'm from Earth, spent some time in the military, got a degree in physics, and took up archaeology as a hobby. Nothing really special about me."
"But there is something special about you," she counters. "You're from the past, or so you claim."
"I can see you're skeptical," I answer pleasantly and patiently. "Frankly, if I hadn't went through it myself, I'd think I was full of it too. But the fact is, I was born in the year 1983. In 2011 I was part of an archaeological dig that discovered what I know now are Prothean ruins inside a mountain in the Sierra Nevada chain. While we were studying it, we inadvertently activated a mass relay that had been built atop the ruins. The last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital is getting caught in the mass effect field."
"That's pretty far-fetched," she presses.
"Far-fetched or not, it's the truth," I respond, wondering if she's setting me up for a smear job. "If you look at the records from around the time I claim the incident happened, you'll notice there was an explosion that occurred at the site where the dig was. It was officially explained away as a buildup of methane and other flammable gasses. However, many fringe groups noted that the magnitude of the blast was beyond anything a simple gas buildup could generate. From there, conspiracy theories abounded until the incident faded into obscurity."
"A logical explanation," she says snidely, tipping her hand. "But since you claim the event faded into obscurity, you have no proof of your claims."
Ok, bitch. If you want to play it that way, I can play I think behind an mask of amusement. "For a reporter, you don't do much research about a subject." I counter, baiting her.
"Perhaps it's because there is no evidence proving you are who you say you are," she answers with a smirk, clearly thinking she's won.
"I said the reports went into obscurity. I didn't say they no longer existed," I fire back. Using my omni-tool, I pull up the report. "This is the official investigation report for the incident I've mentioned. And this," I continue, pulling up a list of documents, "is the list of the more popular theories regarding what happened. As for my identity, that was verified even before I awoke in the hospital. The Alliance ran a sample of my DNA and it identified me as Sergeant Ian Nathanial McLaughlin, United States Marine Corps."
"Still you could ha-"
"'Still' nothing, Ms. al-Jilani," I snap, my tone sharper than the knife in my boot as I continue with the verbal beat down. "You clearly have an agenda focused on making me appear to be a charlatan or simply insane. Now I may not be what most consider 'normal', but I'm no charlatan. What makes you even more insufferable is the fact that you don't even take the time to do rudimentary research, instead you rely on opinion and emotion rather than fact. And if THAT wasn't enough, I'm dealing with the fact that EVERY friend and family member I have ever known is now long-dead and you're questioning my integrity with thinly veiled personal insults. You are a classic example of why journalists are generally as well respected as politicians or attorneys in many circles. Shit, I know of crime lords who have better reputations than you. And this interview is over."
Leaving her in the lounge, I hail a cab and head back to my apartment. As I get to my floor, I see Lare in the hallway.
"Hey, Ian," she says walking over to me, her steps fluid, almost predatorily graceful, matching well with her outfit: a black jumpsuit with green trim around the collar and sleeves that leaves her midriff bare and a pair of well-worn combat boots. "I saw your interview. I'm impressed with how you handled that reporter. I'd have slapped her with a singularity or shot her in the foot if she pulled that on me."
"Thanks," I say, opening my apartment and letting her in. "I have to say I wasn't surprised when she tried pulling her little stunt. Journalism certainly hasn't improved much over the years, it seems." Getting a couple soft drinks from the fridge, I hand one to her and ask, "So… what's the plan for tonight?"
"I was thinking we'd go get dinner and go from there," she says, accepting the drink and taking a sip.
"Sounds good to me," I say, downing my drink and throwing the can into a recycling bin. "Ready to go?"
"Sure," she says, finishing her drink and taking the lead as we walk through the wards, stopping at various shops before getting a quick dinner at an asari restaurant. We then head to a theatre for a vid and then we go to a casino for a few games of cards and quasar. After it's over, we head to her apartment and sit out on the balcony, gazing at the nebula surrounding the citadel.
"I'll never tire of the beauty of the galaxy," I comment, sipping at a cup of coffee.
"This from the guy who sings of darkness and how life sucks and thinks picking a fist fight with a krogan is a good way to kill time," Lare answers teasingly. "If you're not careful, you'll ruin your reputation."
Chuckling, I decide to ask her a question. "So, if you don't mind my asking... What do you do for a living, Lare? I know you're not a dancer. You're graceful, but it's more of a predatory grace."
Pausing for a moment, as if to weigh her options, she gives me her answer. "I'm a merc. Freelance, mostly," she says eyeing me closely, obviously gauging my reaction.
"Well, there's something else we have in common, then," I say. "While I have a degree in physics and took up archaeology as a hobby, I was primarily a private investigator and bounty hunter after I got out of the Corps."
"Mercs don't have the best reputation, so I was a bit worried you'd be upset," she says, obviously relieved that I'm not running for the door or trying to kill her.
"Meh, not all mercs are bad. I fought along side a bunch of them a couple times and was damn glad they were on my side. Hell, all of them were soldiers and marines who loved what they did, but wanted better pay and the freedom to say no to jobs they didn't want," I answer, remembering a couple hairy situations my platoon had found themselves in. Good times.
"I agree. I won't lie, though. I've worked for crime syndicates before," she answers. "I was trying to find someone and they were the only ones who had the info. Other times they had the best jobs."
"Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do," I say. "No shame in that. Truth be told, I've been trying to figure out what to do for a long term job. Nebula is a nice club and I like the people there, but it's not career material for me. I'd be bored if it weren't for my music."
"I see. Well, if you want, you can accompany me on my jobs," she answers. "It'll be interesting having a human partner," she continues, the glinting in her eyes telling me she's aware of the double-entendre. "You'll need better weapons than your pistol and rifle, though. And you'll need armor as well."
"Yeah, that's not exactly something I'm looking forward to," I say. "I know guns are nothing but tools, but I'm attached to them. Besides, I've only been here a couple months. I don't have the money for new weapons and, more critically, the training to run them well."
"You continue to impress me. Most people don't think about training when it comes to weaponry. I can loan you some of my weapons until you get your own, and I'll go with you to help you pick out your armor so you don't end up buying shitty equipment."
"Thanks. Don't be surprised if I decide to figure out how to adapt my current weapons, though. They may be outdated, but they don't rely on electronics. No electronics means less chance for something to get screwed up." I say, knowing damn well I'll become proficient with the current generation of weapons, but still wanting to cling onto one of my connections to my past.
Shaking her head in amusement, Lare smiles. "And there's that human stubbornness that is quickly becoming your species' trademark. Not that it's a bad thing to see someone who doesn't give up when they set a goal."
"True," I say, wanting to ask about the asari, but not quite comfortable enough to pester her with such questions yet. "Well, it's getting late. I'd better head back to my place," I continue, standing up to deposit the coffee cup into the sink.
"Alright," she says, following me. Before I can leave, though, she leans down and gives me a quick chaste kiss on the lips. "Something for you to think about," she says, running her hand down my arm before sashaying away.
This could definitely get interesting, I think as I hail a cab and head home for the night, falling asleep and seeing Lare in my dreams.