Parsing through terabytes of data, reading hacked correspondence and listening to communication intercepts was something Liara T'Soni was well-accustomed to. She'd spent countless hours toiling over the half a dozen intel-consoles that gathered and collated data and information that flowed in from her web of contacts spread out across the galaxy. After all, she was the Shadow Broker and there was still plenty of demand for her services. Yet that monumental responsibility was hardly at the forefront of her mind. She was focused now on finding John Shepard; an Alliance Marine and a man with an uncanny ability to risk it all and win. Almost.
He'd lost once against the Collectors and Liara had saved him. Cerberus brought him back from the brink and the goddess Athame had allowed her the tenderness of his caress and the exhilaration of his kiss once again. The Reapers had taken all of that away, however, and Liara had been living her days since then in a stormy cloud of dejection. The world was grayer and the future more grim for her- because she couldn't share it with him. There had been an immense joy that blossomed from her heart when she knew they had won, but as time passed and it became apparent that Shepard had died to give them victory that joy was replaced by a marginal feeling of relief mixed with bitterness. At least the galaxy could enjoy their hard fought victory. And perhaps someday the immeasurable pain and feeling of loss that seemed to consume her would fade. She certainly had enough years left in her life. But she doubted anything would change.
Now she sat indolently upon the firm mattress in her quarters skimming through reports she'd collected on profitable scavenging rings. It hadn't taken her long to crack the community where the business, its operators and its customers resided. She had found multiple web forums, addresses and net mail that allowed her an inside look into an industry whose size was startling. The demand for scrap materials, be it starship parts, weapon components, armor remnants or even building debris was vast. The Reaper war had left hundreds of thousands of people without homes or the necessary materials to rebuild what was destroyed. The governments of all races were still reeling and unable to cope with the immense amount of homeless, dispossessed and displaced. The destruction was so colossal- infrastructure so crippled- that people shouldered the burden themselves by purchasing what they could from those willing to go out and get what they needed. She felt slightly embarrassed after she realized that, in many cases, these scavengers and the goods they sold were the only things keeping some distant communities afloat. It was another lesson learned. Not everything was as terrible as it seemed on the surface. But they took Shepard. They took him from her. And there was no justification in the world that would be suitable enough for her.
"Dr. T'Soni," Glyph, the asari's automated virtual intelligence spoke up. The small, brightly lit orb drifted over to her. His speech had interrupted the song he played for her; the remnant of an old memory she and Shepard had shared in Admiral Anderson's apartment on the Citadel. "Another transmission has been broadcast using the frequency that you directed me to monitor."
It took a moment for Liara to process the information. She was so deeply submerged in the work she was doing. She blinked, and then wheeled around to address Glyph. "What? Trace the signal!"
"Specialist Traynor is currently in the process of analyzing and tracing the signal in order to determine the point of origin," Gylph explained robotically. The VI had some degree of inflection in its tone, as if its voice emulated sapient life to a tiny degree.
Liara didn't waste any time discussing it with the VI. She leapt from her bed and sprinted past the little drone. "Have a nice day," she heard him say cordially as she dashed out of her quarters and toward the elevator.
In the CIC she saw Traynor listening intently to the headset which piped the intercepted message into her ears. She was simultaneously typing furiously away at the glowing haptic display that bathed her in a warm luminescence. When the Normandy flew Systems Alliance colors the CIC's lighting was kept much dimmer than when she had been a Cerberus ship. Liara never really understood why, but at the moment she didn't care.
"Traynor," Liara blurted as she stepped out of the elevator. But the Specialist didn't hear her. She was too concerned with the task at hand. It was an admirable quality the young Alliance officer possessed, but her inability to multitask at times could be frustrating.
The CIC was a hive of activity, despite the Normandy's depleted crew complement. The tasks they performed were even more important since the loss of EDI. Sensors, communications, damage control, static build up in the drive core and so much more all had to be monitored and managed by the servicemen and women aboard the Normandy. EDI had been so proficient at the task the Normandy did not have the crew size normally allotted to a frigate of her size. They paid for that now in sweat. Sleepy-eyed Alliance sailors toiled behind controls, struggling to prevent themselves from nodding off. Their shift rotations were long and arduous and the respite that came when watch was over was far too short. But they soldiered on.
Liara was beside Specialist Traynor in a flash, but the hulking enormity of Lieutenant James Vega appeared suddenly from the war room. He strode up beside Liara—his excitement barely contained. He hardly seemed aware of his own bulk as he nearly bowled Liara over.
"Sorry, Doc," he apologized to the asari. "What have we got, Traynor?"
Perhaps it was because James Vega was a part of her chain of command, or maybe it was the command tone in which he questioned the young woman, but she answered him. "Just some chatter about their arrival. They said they've been having trouble with their core and might be a bit later than expected."
"Do we have a fix on where they're headed?" Vega asked. Any further inquiring was silenced as Specialist Traynor raised her hand as if to indicate she needed silence.
Liara and Vega stood like silent sentinels waiting for the Specialist to reply. She was fixated on what she was hearing in the headphones and Liara could tell Vega was getting impatient as he shifted his sizable weight from one foot to the other and then back again. His gaze was hard on Traynor as he edgily waited her response.
"Just their boss telling them to hurry up. They're telling him to keep his pants on and calm down. He's telling them not to tell him what to do… Just a second," she began. She punched a few commands into her console. Then her face lit up. "Got it. I've got a fix on the point of origin. It's coming from the Malgus system in the Eagle Nebula… coordinates match a planet called Wrill."
"You," Vega's voice boomed over the bustle of the CIC. A mousy looking female crewmember with short brown hair jumped at the sound as he was clearly addressing her. Vega regretted the bark, realizing he didn't remember her name. "What have you got on Wrill?"
The young crewmember worked hastily behind her console. Her nervous eyes glanced up Vega from time to time at the mountain that was Lieutenant Vega; as if she assumed he was an intolerant man by the way he carried himself. "Hot planet, thin toxic methane-ethane atmosphere. There are krogan and vorcha habitats all over the surface and gang warfare is prevalent," she explained tensely. She glanced back at the Lieutenant; curious to see if that was good enough.
"All right, thank you," Vega acknowledged with a nod. "I guess we know where we're headed. Joker, set a course for the Eagle Nebula—planet Wrill." Deep within he could feel his heart tighten like a knot and he wondered if Admiral Hackett had been right to put him in charge. He hadn't led anyone. Not since Fehl Prime.
There was a moment of silence before the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Uh… okay, you got it."
Later that evening Garrus made his way into the lounge, used by the Normandy crew for a bit of respite from the stresses of life aboard a warship, and was surprised to find James Vega seated alone at the poker table. The bulky Marine often spent his time on the Citadel in seedy joints in the lower wards or in the holding area near the docks.
Curious, Garrus made his way over to the table. The scarred Marine sat pensively shuffling cards and then dealt them out to no one in particular. He repeated the same motions over and over. Garrus found it odd. Beside the Marine he noticed a bottle of scotch. James had finished about half of it already.
"Everything okay, Vega?" Garrus queried lightly. He left the concern out of his voice. Vega was a warrior and more often than not warriors became introverts when people seemed overly concerned about their wellbeing. He wouldn't be willing to appear vulnerable.
"Fine, just collecting my thoughts I guess," Vega allowed as he dealt another few sets of cards. They flopped noiselessly onto the felt of the table and rested there only a moment before Vega corralled them in his big, calloused hands and shuffled them once more. "We're going to Wrill. We're going to get Commander Shepard back."
Garrus glanced behind him at the sealed door of the lounge. "Yeah, Joker told me," he began as he edged toward the table. When he drew closer he could see a datapad that had lost its charge sitting idly beside Vega. "What's that?"
"Intelligence and advisory reports on the planet," Vega informed him. He had combed through every piece of data on the planet, read the reports and committed them to memory and then read them again before it finally went dead. "Just doing some research."
"Learn anything?"
"Wrill is a haven for broods of angry, violent vorcha. They're all over the planet," Vega remarked unenergetically. That was an oversimplification, but it was suitable at the moment. It meant they were probably going to face some resistance once they touched down planet-side.
"Should make for a fun afternoon," Garrus joked, trying to sound positive.
"I just…" Vega trailed off. He glanced over at the half-drunk bottle. He scooped it up into his firm grip and took a lengthy pull of the stuff. His face contorted into a slight grimace as the fiery liquid coursed its way down his throat. He returned the bottle to its place on the table and continued to shuffle his cards. "I just want to do it right out there."
Garrus cranked up a brow. "What do you mean?"
The Marine set his deck of cards down and let out a sigh. Weary eyes, concerned eyes met with Garrus' own. "Admiral Hackett put me in charge," he explained worryingly.
"Ah, so that's why you're celebrating," Garrus mused as he gave a nod to the bottle of scotch.
Vega chortled. "I wouldn't call this a celebration."
"So congratulations aren't in order? What's the problem?" Garrus questioned. He crossed his lengthy arms and leaned against the ship's bulkhead, patiently awaiting Vega's response. He understood the Marine's hesitation to assume the mantle of leader and the responsibility that came with it. Garrus had his own experience with leadership on Omega and despite early success, things had not ended well for any of his subordinates. He was vaguely aware of James's history on Fehl Prime too.
"I'm worried," Vega admitted. "I'm not the Commander."
"No, you're not," Garrus acceded bluntly. "But that doesn't matter. You're a capable Marine, Vega. You know what you're doing. We'll get it done. Whatever it takes."
James cracked a slight smirk. Garrus' approval of his leadership meant a lot. But inwardly Vega knew he had to earn the turian's respect. Garrus was an adept soldier and well-accustomed to good leadership. Hell, he was more than capable as a leader himself. Now he was willingly making himself subordinate to Vega's command. Maybe he was doing it as a favor for Shepard, but James wanted to ensure he wasn't making a mistake by doing so. "Thanks, Scars."
"No problem," Garrus nodded. "You know I almost forgot we're out of the stuff I can safely enjoy." He pointed at the scotch. "I can't drink that swill and it wouldn't be fair if me and the other dextro on this boat didn't have any libations to enjoy. As the boss it's your job to keep me sated with every one of my needs and wants."
Vega chuckled and glad for the levity. "Every one, huh?"
"Well, maybe not every need or want, but at least enough to keep me comfortably drunk when I'm not on watch," he joked. He was sure Tali could help him out with any other needs or wants.
"I'll make a note of it. We'll see if the requisition officer can put in for some Ryncol the next time we're in port," Vega assured the turian with a toothy smile.
"Trying to get me killed already? We haven't even left the ship," Garrus shot back.
"C'mon, Scars, I thought you could handle your booze," Vega accused with an amused grunt.
"Whenever you want to go toe to talon with me, Vega… I'll drink you under the table," Garrus professed, motioning to the card table James was sitting at.
Vega smiled broadly. Vega was beginning to see him as more than just a skilled and competent soldier. He was a good friend. And he understood now why Shepard had so thoroughly trusted him. Being around Garrus made it hard to fathom how anyone could be distrustful of aliens. Vega's muscular frame rose from behind the card table. He capped the bottle of scotch. "I think I'm going to get some shuteye," he told the turian as he made his way toward the lounge's exit.
"Big comfy bed in your new quarters calling to you, eh?"
Vega stopped just past Garrus. "No way, amigo. That's the Commander's quarters. I'll stick to my cot down on the hangar deck." They were silent for a few moments before Vega stepped toward the exit once more.
Before Vega stepped out Garrus spoke up. "Whatever we get into down there, all you need to know is I'll be right behind you. And so will the rest of the team."
Vega stopped short once more and was silent again. And then said "I know Garrus… and thanks… for everything."
"Anytime."
