A/N: Yeah... so, the reaction lasted much longer than I hoped. To make up for my inability to post seven days in a row, I'm going to tack a few extra days on this. Besides, I'm not done yet. Enjoy!


Low, pulsing music with a driving beat that somehow managed to sound dirty came from a single beat-down old radio that had seen its fair share of brute force. The fact that it even worked at all was amazing since it looked older than the asari bartender with a severe case of resting bitch face, and she had to be a matron, at least. The music was necessary; just enough ambient noise to drown out the hushed voices of nefarious business taking part within the small groups of people huddled together around stained, battered tables. Tartarus was a neutral zone – a place the scum of the Citadel were not only welcomed, but preferred. Chances were good there wasn't a single innocent person within the establishment, which was perfect. Distinct color combinations of the well-armored patrons were a dead-giveaway to anyone with even rudimentary knowledge; almost every major mercenary group was present in the bar, and the perceived privacy was the only thing keeping the peace aside from professional courtesy, and that only counted until your back was turned.

Despite being pissed and probably scared shitless, the pickpocket really delivered with the bar recommendation. Or maybe it was because of those conditions – some sort of vendetta that fell short by playing directly into her hands. Either way, Tartarus was exactly what she was looking for.

Shepard leaned into the sticky bar and stared at the drink in her hands. Doubt began to flicker deep within. Maybe they were right. The blood, other people's blood, darkened her fingernails and told the true story of the night thus far. Maybe she was a monster. Or maybe her place in the universe disappeared with her death and her presence now was a huge mistake. It didn't matter in the long run; the mission to stop the Collectors was suicide run and she knew it. Might as well have some fun and take out some assholes while she still had time.

"Are you sure you belong here?" the human waitress asked hesitantly as she collected the small mountain of glassware from the bar. She had the distinct glassy eyes and discolored teeth of an addict – red sand from the looks of it. Was she a result of the pick-pocket's handiwork? Maybe dancing was too much once full addiction hit so they sent her down the totem pole.

Shepard stared dispassionately as she slammed back the muddy fluid and set the glass on the already full tray. Eventually the waitress got the drift and turned away. Disgust swirled in Shepard's gut as she watched the downtrodden woman disappear behind the bar. That prick pickpocket deserved so much more than a few broken bones, but he was a small fish. Now she was in the mother of all aquariums and she was going to do what she did best – kill all the fish.

The door opened and all eyes turned to stare down the new arrival, just as they did every time. A lumbering krogan warlord in angry red armor stared back, his scarred face twisted in anger. "Alright, which one of you pyjacks did it; who killed my crew? I know it was one of you, so don't try to hide it. I heard the fat human say their attacker came here," he bellowed as he stomped into room.

Showtime.

"I did." Shepard called out and then gestured for another drink. The surprised stares burned hot on her back, but she didn't turn around. This was part of the game. The bartender set a fresh glass down and scurried out of the way.

A few disbelieving laughs echoed through the silence but died away almost instantly. Anyone crazy enough to keep their back to a rampaging krogan after claiming responsibility was someone too crazy to be laughed at… or more dangerous than anyone anticipated.

Alcohol sloshed within the glasses on the bar as the krogan stomped over, so Shepard picked hers up and drank slowly. She was never one to waste alcohol, even low-grade swill like this. The footfalls stopped next to her, but she didn't react. She sat and enjoyed her piss-water until the barstool flew out from under Shepard with one swift kick of the tree-trunk leg, but she was prepared. Her feet hit the ground and she turned to face the Blood Pack leader with practiced boredom.

"Did you need something?" she asked with disinterest.

"You killed three of my men. What do you think I want?"

"Two, actually," she corrected, "the vorcha was an inside job, but I was totally willing to do the deed myself."

"Then you owe me two lives," the krogan sneered as he pulled a knife free. "I'm sure I could get my money's worth out of you."

"Is that so?" she asked casually. Nauseated panic crept through her stomach at the way the krogan's eyes leered at her figure, but she never showed it. While krogan-human relationships were almost unheard of, this was most definitely not romantic. Besides, who could really blame him? Krogans dug scars. The idea of a second rape attempt that night was not a fun one, though, especially with so many others watching a little too closely. Chances were good it would turn into a group activity, and that just wasn't going to work. This train had to be derailed immediately.

A hard right hook caught the krogan under his eye, sending him stumbling back a few steps to catch his balance. That was all it took. His shit-brown eyes burned with murderous thoughts as he rushed forward and pressed the knife into the bare skin of Shepard's upper chest just below her left shoulder.

"Ready to die, puny human?"

Shepard's right arm shot out and caught the front of the krogan's armor, the movement little more than a blur, then yanked him close. "I already have, thanks," she murmured into his ear as their bodies pressed together against the bar, plunging the knife into her body. "Now it's your turn."

Shepard's scream filled the bar, the sound too disorienting and the movements too fast to follow. The next thing everyone knew, the krogan laid lifeless on the floor, pinned in place by the knife protruding from his head. Shepard stood over him, her eyes glittering dangerously as bright red blood ran freely from the gaping wound and spilled to the ground.