Chapter 4
Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Mass Effect universe and more than likely never will, much to my detriment. Because I would totally be okay with owning Aria.
Arriving at Inferno, I open the large, front door and find the first floor nearly empty. The only noticeable people are the bartenders and the occasional exotic dancer. Those men and women aren't dancing now, though. They're sitting on the velvet couches sipping from glasses with colorful liquids inside. I search for my second-in-command, not seeming to find him anywhere in sight.
"Bray!" I yell. My voice echoes around the Inferno.
A set of footsteps thumps heavily on the third floor.
I roll my eyes. I readjust the woman I have on my shoulder. She's surprisingly heavy.
"Yeah, boss?" He's now coming down the stairs to the first floor. He's struggling to rearrange his royal blue robes. The robes are fashioned to cover his legs completely, half of his broad chest and over his left shoulder. I swear there are easily over a hundred different folds in the rich fabric.
"Get your ass over here and help me with this," I snap.
He rushes the rest of the way down the steps. He hurries over to me and takes Miranda off of my shoulder. He carries her like a sack of potatoes.
"We're taking her up to my apartment," I tell him. I hand him the key to unlock it. "Set her down in a chair and make sure she doesn't leave. I need to get some rope and put these weapons away."
He takes the key and walks back up the stairs to the fourth floor.
I turn to face the double doors underneath my command station. I walk over to them and open one side. Behind these doors was one of my favorite places in Varris.
My personal armory.
The room was enormous. Each wall was thirty strides long and on those walls hung every weapon imaginable. There were long bows, short bows, lances, whips made from solid metal, pikes, halberds, daggers with wicked blades, greatswords, claymores, battleaxes, and other weapons that didn't even own names. Scattered in numerous sports were stone and metal tables with armaments in various states of dismemberment. Blades have yet to be attached to their respective hilts. Bows need to be finished being carved and strung. There were also some weapons that were being experimented on. One looks like someone fused two swords together and inserted a wooden handle between them. Another one is a monstrous scythe with three, curved blades made of ebony, one of the strongest metals in the Land of Light.
Searching on the right wall, I find what I came for. A long, coiled rope hung on one of the innumerable hooks. I stride over to it and remove it from its hook. I then walk to one of the tables and put Miranda's sword there, along with all of her knives.
Seeing the knives and sword reminds me of my tattered clothing, which was barely staying on my toned frame. They also remind me that I have other things to take care of, like a certain annoying assassin in my apartment.
I walk back out of the massive room. I sprint up the stairs to the fourth floor, wrapping the rope across my shoulder and chest. I take the stairs two at a time. When I arrive on the top floor, I'm not even winded. I briskly walk to my door, which is slightly ajar. Light spills out onto the crimson carpet in front of the door. I enter my apartment and see that Miranda Lawson is still out cold and seated on one of the armchairs located near the lit fireplace. Bray is standing behind her chair, ever vigilant. I mentally roll my eyes.
I unravel the rope from my body and toss it to him.
"Tether her wrists and ankles," I tell him. "I don't want her ruining my clothing again."
Bray binds the unconscious woman's arms and legs to the chair. For extra measure, he uses the remaining rope to secure her chest to the back of the chair.
"Go get a few buckets of water," I say. "We'll end up needing them. I need to…" I gesture towards my shredded outfit. Bray nods in understanding.
We go in our separate directions. I enter my bedroom and head straight for the walk-in closet. I open the paneled doors and travel to the area that holds my robes. I slip off my buckled boots and peel off the tattered and soaked remains of my shirt and pants. Because my underclothes are drenched as well, I'm forced to take them off. I quickly grab a robe, crimson of course, and wrap it around my body, pulling some of the luxurious fabric over my shoulders. I grab a gilded gold version of the sash I always wear and situate it around my waist. I make sure that the Inferno symbol is displayed in the center. I walk out of the closet while trying to fix my drying hair by running my hands through it.
I return to the living room to see Bray lounging on the sofa. I'm about to ask him where the buckets of water are when I see three wooden buckets in front of him.
"All right," I say. "Let's get her up."
Bray rises from his horizontal position and grabs the handle of one of the pails. He stands in front of Miranda's sleeping form. I gesture for him to go ahead with a wave of my hand. The cold water sloshes onto Miranda's face and she wakes up with an enormous gasp and a coughing fit.
"What the hell was that for?" Miranda demands, spitting water out of her mouth.
"You're hardly in a position to be asking anything, Miss Lawson," I tell Miranda.
The bound woman struggles against the rope that inhibits her movement. She grunts in frustration when she realizes she can't escape. I sit down in the arm chair across from her.
"You can go, Bray," I say quietly. "I'll handle this from here out."
Bray walks out, his steps muffled by his cloth shoes.
"I'm sure you like the sight of me being tied up, don't you?" she asks indignantly, after the door shuts.
A large smirk crosses my features and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I'm sure you'd love to know." Truth is, something stirs in my lower abdomen at the thought of having her subjected to my will. I mentally shake myself to dispel these thoughts.
Miranda sneers a bit, like she knows what just went through my mind. "I don't need your answer on that. I already know."
"Go fuck yourself," I snap.
"A bit hard with these bindings on. Want to do it for me?"
I roll my eyes and change the topic. "So why do you insist on trying to murder me?"
"I told you already. I won't stop trying until I succeed. And I will eventually." Her expression is one of pure conviction. Her pale blue eyes bore into mine.
"Let me rephrase that. Why don't you just lay off my ass and stop trying to kill me? Why don't you utilize your skills for me? I really could use someone with your obvious talent." I toss a smile at her. "Plus, I pay a lot better than anything your boss could hope to pay you."
"I'm not you, Aria," Miranda states. "Money doesn't matter to me."
"Then what does matter?" I ask. I don't like the note of sincerity in my voice and I know Miranda will notice it.
"What matters to me is loyalty," she replies. "If you can somehow gain my respect for you, then I'll come work for you and stop trying to kill you. But not a moment sooner."
"And how is it that you want me to gain your respect? What miraculous task must I perform for me to earn that?"
Miranda considers this for a time.
"Prove to me that you're willing to drop everything at a moment's notice to help someone in need. And you have to help them from the goodness of your heart, not so you can profit."
"And here I thought that your request wouldn't try to change me." I shake my head in disbelief. "Who am I supposed to find that needs my help? Why should I bother helping them if it doesn't help me?"
"Your attitude right now is definitely not serving your case positively. If you keep going like this, you'll never gain my loyalty."
I feel myself wanting to gain this woman's respect at any cost, even if it means changing where my priorities lie. This urge is so out of character for me that my mind tries to dismiss the irrational request. Why should I want to please the woman who sits in my living room, tied up and who I can bend to my will if I need to? Why does some part of me desperately want to keep her around, if only so I can hear her melodic voice? Why does another part of my mind think she looks very appealing in her toughened, black armor? Why do I feel like she's the one who needs my help, not some stranger? Most importantly, why have I not been able to get this woman off of my mind?
"Okay, fine," I snap, highly irritated from my conflicting thoughts and emotions. "Just tell me who I need to assist. And how the fuck do you get to demand things from me? You're the one who's bound to a chair, not me."
"You'll find someone who need help a lot sooner than you think," Miranda simply says.
"One more thing. If I let you out of those restraints, are you going to try and kill me?"
"How about you don't be a little chicken shit and find out?" is her snarky response.
I seriously consider leaving her in the chair, but my newfound better judgment propels me to rise from my chair and undo her bindings. I start with her legs, untying the large knot that Bray put in place. I note that the pants have what look like reinforced knee pads and cargo pouches on the sides of the thighs. I also notice that there's six knife sheaths on both pant legs. As I move to undo her wrists, I examine the chest piece of her armor. Numerous belts and buckles secure the piece to her torso. Along some of the thicker belts are more small pouches that seem to have something stored inside them. Once I'm done with untying her hands, I move around to the back of the chair and unravel that knot.
"There," I say, stepping away from the chair. "You're free to go, unless you want to keep investigating ways to kill me."
Without warning, Miranda leaps out of her chair and at me. I'm not quite sure how she manages to do it, but somehow she does. Her impact makes me fall to the ground, hitting my head on the corner of a table on the way down. I land facedown and quickly attempt to get up again. No such luck. A heavy pressure, a knee I assume, pushes me back down to the chilly, marble floor. I feel a slender pair of hands grab at my chin and shoulder. There's a sudden yank, a loud snap, and a shit ton of pain.
Bitch. She just broke my neck.
A series of sickening crunches follows in the short seconds after that. My neck heals itself, though it still hurts a great deal.
I really need to practice fighting again. It would seem as though I'm a bit rusty.
Dark, hot energy courses through me and I decide to utilize it. An azure aura surrounds me and heats up my eyes. I'm sure that my eyes now match the deep blue hue that envelopes me.
I push myself up with the preternatural strength that flows in my veins. I quickly twist around and snatch Miranda up in a stony tight grip. She squirms but I only squeeze my arms tighter. I lean my head back as far as I can to distance myself from her flawless face and full lips. Some part of me, the part that desperately wants to gain her favor, wants to close the distance between us but I refuse. And not without effort.
A piece of her coffee brown hair falls into her eyes and she futilely tries to relocate it by blowing up at it.
"Snapping my neck doesn't work," I say, my voice rough with both annoyance and pain.
I feel something sharp slice a deep path across my stomach. The pain is white hot and enough for me to let Miranda free herself from my grip. I double over and grip my stomach, waiting for the wound to seal up. It does after a moment. Now, the only thing I'm left with is a torn robe.
Which is about to fall off my body and leave me exposed.
Miranda catches me off guard once again with a well-placed blow to my shoulder, effectively dislocating it.
"I swear to the gods," I force out through gritted teeth. "If you break any of this furniture, I will have that gorgeous face of yours for a plaque on my trophy wall."
"Finally you show some fight," Miranda exclaims. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd lost your sense of ruthlessness."
This woman is seriously starting to piss me off. I jerk my shoulder back into place with a low groan. I then shoot myself at her, feet first, and connect squarely with her stomach. She flies into a nearby wall and thuds onto the ground. When she slides down, I see a web of cracks spreading out from where she hit the marble. She scrambles to her feet and shakes her head, probably to dispel stars in her vision. She attempts to run at me and stumbles from her delirious state.
"That is enough!" I bellow. The unearthly energy that still exists in me amplifies my voice. She stops in her tracks. "Just…enough, already. We've established that I can't die from anything you've tried so far. No knives, swords, poison, and not breaking vital bones in my body. You won't find out how to kill me, not now and not ever. I will not perish by your hand, Miranda. And you're staying here tonight." She begins to protest by I cut her off. "You're in no shape to be walking anywhere, especially not in my city. Now come on, you're using my bed. I'm sure it's better than whatever wooden cot you've been sleeping on lately."
Miranda walks, supporting herself with the edges of the furniture. I notice she's quite shaky on her legs and before I know what's happening, she's fallen on the ground.
I swear colorfully and rush over to pick up her unconscious, again, form. Her dark brown hair is scattered in a mock halo around her head. I put one arm beneath her knees and the other around her slender shoulders. I pull her body flush against mine and her head rests on my shoulder. I'm suddenly very happy that my robe is staying on.
As I walk down to my bed chamber, I try my best to ignore how natural it feels to hold the woman in my arms. Unwillingly, I smell a faint aroma of vanilla and something darker, some scent that I can't identify. And, more against my will, the smells send shivers down my spine.
I nudge the door to my bedroom open with my toe. I stride over to the luxurious bed and lay Miranda down on the covers. I walk to the other side and pull down the rich fabric. I move Miranda's comatose form under the silken sheets and pull them over her. I realize what I'm doing and roll my eyes.
I just tucked my assassin into bed.
I go to the closet and toss my new ruined robes on the pile with my other torn clothes. I choose a simple, sleeveless red shirt and matching shorts that come below my knees. I also grab some underclothes and put them on. As much as I love cotton fabric, I enjoy satin more because of how heavy the material is and how it folds perfectly over my figure.
Walking back out of the closet, I steal a glance at the person asleep on my bed as I turn out all the oil lamps but one. A part of me wants to lay on the bed next to her and another, more sensible, part wants to be as far away as possible. I decide to compromise with both parts and I take up the position I had sat in two weeks ago. I grab a few pillows from the unused side of the bed and spread them out on the bay window sill. I sit down and prop up one of the pillows on the paneling again. I lean my head back against the paneling and cross my legs.
As I stare out the large window at the main plaza and the enormous fountain of the howling crystal and obsidian wolf, I get lost in my endless train of thoughts. I wonder why I'm becoming soft-hearted towards the woman in my bed, however incriminating that sounds. I wonder why after tossing her into that wall, that I now need to fix, I felt a twinge of regret. I know she feels nothing of the sort towards me. I'm just another target for her to kill. I feel like she secretly enjoys tearing apart my clothing. Which is odd. And not something I want to think about. I change my train of thought to something not as serious.
Who in the world am I supposed to help? Who does Miranda expect me to help? The poor? That won't happen. Does she expect me to get rid of the black market here in Varris? That isn't happening either. Am I supposed to pick up a child's sweet treat off of the ground and dust it off for them? Am I supposed to give counseling to a married couple that's going through a rough patch in their relationship? I suppose I could free any and all indentured servants. And what if it's Miranda herself that needs to be helped? How on earth could she need my help? I speculate further on this train of thought. I have no idea how Miranda could be in trouble, unless it was with the law. That seems obvious, given her profession.
Who needs my help?
More importantly, how can I help someone when all I know how to do is encourage corrupt and immoral behavior?
I rub my eyes and sigh in frustration.
This is insane. I'm not going to change who I am and how I act just for one person's trust and loyalty, even if it means she stops trying to murder me. I don't need to do it. I don't need to help people. I already have everything I need.
But I've already begun to help people. I helped her just now by telling her she needs to stay here so she doesn't get assaulted on the streets. I'm letting her sleep in my fucking bed, for crying out loud. And she knows all of this. She knows I'm getting soft and I can't stand it.
I'm Aria T'Loak, Pirate Queen of Varris and Empress of the Fringe. I can't afford to get soft.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I whisper desperately.
"You do what your heart tells you," a deep, ethereal voice says. It originates from near the writing desk by the window I'm sitting on.
I turn my head and look at the newcomer. I see a much smaller version of the howling wolf from the center plaza resting on his haunches. His diamond and onyx stone fur shimmers in what little light there is in my room. His eyes, instead of being black or white, glow a rich green color, similar to spring leaves. His sharp claws are made from crystalline diamonds as well, sparkling in the lamplight. Even sitting down, the wolf is as tall as I am standing up.
"Thane," I acknowledge quietly. "The only being in the world that has both my trust and life in their grasp. I did not anticipate you showing yourself any time soon." Even in this visage, the wolf was as stunning as his three-story form outside my window.
"Perhaps," he affirms. "It seems as though I am not the only one doing unexpected things." His vibrant eyes have a knowing glint to them.
I don't answer him.
"I feel great waves of confliction emanating from your mind and body," Thane continues. "After all, we are connected. But that is not the issue." He looks at the sleeping form in the safety of my bed. "She is. She is the root of all of your internal and external conflicts as of late."
"Tell me something I don't know," I mutter dejectedly.
"Try to do ask she has asked." Thane ambles over toward my side and sits down once more. "You have already begun the process. Simply continue aiding those in need. You know who they are."
I exhale greatly and begin to pet the wolf sitting next to me, not caring that his body and fur are made from gemstones and crystal spikes. I let the cold stones slide under my hands.
"I swear that you know me better than I know myself," I think aloud.
"That is because I see your predicaments both objectively and personally. We are each other yet we are separate. I know the pain and suffering you refuse to admit to yourself, just as you know mine. We are connected in every way, yet separate in all of the same ways. Our bond is a unique one, one not seen for many millennia. Because of this, I will know the moment you fall for this woman. And you will."
"And this is why you're my curse. Because you're my conscience." I ruffle the small, spiky fur behind his ears and he hums in response. "Okay. I'll help people. But only because you said so."
Thane lithely jumps into the roomy window sill and lies down next to me. I resume stroking his fur as he leans his extremely dense body against me.
We stay like this until the sun signals a new day.
AN: I decided to make Thane the wolf because he's always seemed like that kind of creature to me. I honestly couldn't think of any other character more fitting and I hope you guys like the fact that I chose him.