Author's Note: Sorry for the delay for this chapter. Haven't been feeling very well lately.
As Shepard inserted the OSD into the slot, a list of dates and call codes appeared, glowing softly in the middle of the console display.
She sat back a little. A phone log, spanning over ten years, with the latest call record listing exactly one year after the date the Normandy was attacked. Not exactly what she'd expected. Curious, she reached forward and selected the first and oldest call on the list.
The screen darkened a moment, then brightened as an image took form. Shepard lifted her brows as she was confronted with her own face, much younger. A bustling city street was behind her, showing the call was made from a public terminal.
She could see only the video from one side of the call, but the audio from both sides had recorded. Hearing Nancy's voice again tightened her chest, even as she regarded a girl that had already gone through so much fire…and had no idea how much was still in store for her.
"Del, dear, there you are. I was getting worried!" Nancy's voice chirped. "Well? How did it go? Where's Paul?"
"He's getting an ice cream," her younger self answered, jerking her chin to one side as she looked at something off screen. "Don't worry, I can see him."
"I never worry when he's with you. So? Don't leave me in anticipation here. Tell!"
The younger Shepard rolled her shoulders a little, glancing off vid again a moment before seeming to look directly at her older counterpart. A thin, cocky grin appeared. "Well, I won't know for sure for a few days still. I have to get a fuck- uh…stupid physical, but-"
"Oh! Del, that's wonderful news! Oh, I'm so proud of you darling! Are you going to be home soon?"
"Paul wants to take a victory lap around Central Park and see the monkeys. I promised him. Shouldn't take too long. We'll be back by dinner."
Before Nancy could respond a second face appeared, beaming a grin from ear to ear. A pair of hands held dripping ice cream cones as Paul flung his arms around the young Shepard's neck, making her laugh.
"Momma! Did you hear?" the boy gushed, the sight of his bright eyes and all but glowing expression immediately bringing heat to the back of older Shepard's eyes. She had no pictures or vids of Paul. The crayon drawing was the only thing she could stomach keeping. Nan had plenty of photos and had offered them to her more than once but she'd been unable to stomach the thought of looking at him like this…looking at him so sweet and happy and alive, and knowing he wasn't any more because of her.
"I heard! Be careful, you're going to get ice cream all over Del's shirt!"
"Del's gonna be a hero!" he blurted, ignoring his mother's gentle admonition, before planting a sloppy kiss on the younger Shepard's cheek, making her giggle again.
"All right, all right, let up chowder-head," the girl joked, relieving the boy of one of the cones as he loosened his grip on her. "We'll be back soon, Nan."
"Take care you two!" Nan cooed happily. Paul's face filled the screen dramatically, before he pursed his lips and planted a kiss on the vid camera. The older Shepard couldn't help a faint chuckle at that as the younger admonished the boy before hanging up.
"You can't do that, Paul, you don't know what icky shit is on that camera!"
"Ooh, you said shi-" Paul chortled, just as the call disconnected. A moment later, the image returned to the log menu screen.
Shepard well remembered that day. It was the same day she had finally gone to the Alliance recruitment station, and taken the first steps to joining up with the marines. She'd gone to her physical two days later, and within a week she'd gotten her acceptance letter and her orders to report to boot. Six months after that, she'd been doing push-ups in the mud as some fucking drill sergeant screamed in her ear and called her worthless, while Sperry and his boys ambushed Paul, demanding to know where she was…and then beating him when he couldn't tell them fast enough or adequately enough for their satisfaction.
Beat him so badly they'd had to identify his body by a DNA sample.
The list of other calls waited patiently, and after a long while, Shepard selected the next one, and then the next.
All, save the last, were calls between her and Nan. She watched as her younger self grew slowly and progressively older, more mature. Most were just conversations to catch up while she was on one ship or another.
One was particularly difficult…so much so that Shepard couldn't watch the entirety. It was a call from Shepard to Nan shortly after being released from debrief on Torfan. In this one an extremely exhausted, shaking Shepard had broken down with grief and fury, alternating between spitting epithets and sobbing about how she wasn't a murderer.
That Nan had kept the log of this call, one of the longest in the list, disquieted her a bit. Nan's soothing voice did little to help, and she switched the call off before getting through a third of it.
The problem was, Shepard had felt like a murderer, no matter how adamantly she told Nancy and her commanding officers she wasn't. Not because of the men and women under her command that she'd sent in to their deaths. Not because of the defiant, arrogant batarian slavers whose skulls she'd aired out even when they were finally disarmed and on their knees in front of her.
No, it was because of that one boy…that single young batarian boy who had looked her in the eye and told her he was sorry for what he'd done.
A kid, a child, not yet a man…honestly regretful for actions he'd probably been forced into anyway. He hadn't begged, hadn't whimpered. He'd accepted his fate with more grace than his older counterparts, and the only message he had wanted to convey was his regret.
And Shepard had shot him anyway…blown him away with a fury, a blind rage so deep all it wanted to do was hurt, to make someone pay, even if that someone was just a helpless kid.
A helpless kid, like Paul.
And this is what they saved, what they think is a goddamn hero. An angry murderer who shot an unarmed boy on his knees.
Passing over the remaining calls, she selected and clicked on the last. She had no doubt the calls in between were all her and Nan, but the last call made her curious. She'd been dead a year when it was made, yet Nan had thought it important enough to save to the same OSD.
The call loaded, and when the figure appeared on the screen, Shepard abruptly sat up.
It was Liara. The asari looked just as she remembered her…and yet different. There was a weary cast to her eyes, to her bearing…as if the colors of her being had been ever so slightly faded. The slightly darker blue rims of her eyes told she had recently been crying, and she looked tired.
"Nan, I hope I am not bothering you," she began, her sky blue eyes seeming to focus on Shepard though, of course, it was Nancy who she saw. As with the other calls, Nan's voice was clear in response though no image could be seen of her.
"Of course not! You are never any bother, darling…are you all right?"
"It has…been a rough day," Liara admitted.
"I know," Nancy murmured gently. "Everyone here has been so understanding…a bit too understanding, actually. They keep offering well-wishes, acting like if they say the wrong thing I will break somehow."
"Yes," Liara said. "I keep trying to forget and yet…I cannot."
"Don't try and forget, sweetie," Nancy soothed. "Might as well try and empty the sea with a teaspoon for all the good it will do you. Just…try and remember with happiness. Honor who she was."
"And what was I, Nan?" Shepard murmured tiredly into her palm. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Liara's face. The pain was not the stark raw of a fresh wound but it was there, floating beneath the surface of the asari's blue eyes. Something had been subtracted from her, taken away, and knowing that it had been her doing felt like a knife in Shepard's gut. The last thing she'd ever wanted to do was to hurt Liara.
Liara nodded slightly in response to Nancy's advice, then lifted her gaze. "I got the package that you sent. It was very sweet of you, Nan. Shepard…would have loved it. Especially Odes of Memory…I could listen to only that song for hours on end."
"Well, Del always did have a crush on that man's voice. Charles Flatwood may as well have been a god as far as she was concerned. I'm glad you are enjoying it."
Liara inquired about the colony and things dissolved into polite chit-chat for a few minutes as Nan talked about her gardening, various gossip about the colony.
"Listen to me, going on like this," Nancy finally said. "How has your own work been going, dear? You don't look like you have been sleeping."
"I…am all right," Liara murmured, clearly no better of a liar than she had ever been. "Work is steady enough. I have been keeping myself busy. It is just with…this anniversary today and…and Feron. I just feel as if I am letting him down, just as I let Shepard down."
Shepard felt her stomach clench a little at the name, the same name the Illusive Man had mentioned.
So, he was right. She has found someone else.
Reaching out she shut off the call, unable to bear any more of it. "You didn't let me down, Tianlán," she murmured to the dark screen. "I let you down. I'm so sorry, Li. I'm so sorry…"
The biotic fire was like a storm that erupted from clear, static laden air. Licks of twisting blue shot out of the pit, riding on a burst of displaced air so strong the five krogan warriors were not only lifted from the ground, but thrown clear of the pit altogether.
They were the fourth group to have entered. Two warriors lay dead. The rest were exhausted and unquestionably defeated.
Dundrin Buhto, son of Frek and a well-seasoned warrior in his own right, glowered at his father and then strode toward the pit, leaping down without hesitation.
"Just one this time?" Thug asked with amusement, rising from a crouch. Eír paced beside him, her hands wreathed in blue flame.
"I am Dundrin Buhto," the elder announced, regarding the two. "Son of Frek, grandson of Chuggo, who killed forty asari warriors on the Plain of Tsilos. I have trained the young warriors of Dundrin for four centuries."
"Then you have done a poor job," Thug snorted. "We have tossed every one of your so-called warriors like they were paper dolls."
"You are strong," Buhto admitted. "I have been watching you. Your biotics are powerful but I wonder…can you fight me without them?"
"I can defeat you without them," Thug bragged.
"We shall see," Buhto told him. "We will fight. You and I and your krant. No biotics, no weapons."
Thug narrowed his green eyes a little, then glanced up to the edge of the pit where Gellian stood with the rest of the observers, watching them. Gellian gave the slightest nod, and Thug grinned and turned his attention back to his opponent.
"Done," he agreed, then lowered his head and charged.
The impact of his skull-plate against the rock wall of the pit rang like a loud clap of thunder through the cavern and Thug stumbled, dazed. Eír's eyes widened in surprise and alarm. "Thug!"
Furious, she glared at Buhto. "Coward! Why didn't you meet him fairly?"
"All I did was step to the side," Buhto told her. "He is strong but he is hot-headed. He needs to focus his energy on his enemy, not his blind superiority. Do you think every enemy will merely stand and wait to be hit? Only fools do this…and only fools expect them to."
Scowling, barely remembering not to use biotics, Eír rushed forward toward the male, fist cocking back and swinging. Again, Buhto stepped to the side but Eír was on to that ruse. Using her momentum she rolled and swung her leg, slamming the heel of her foot into the krogan's gut. Armored as he was, the male nevertheless grunted, stumbling back a step.
"Not bad, little girl," he half-coughed, half-laughed. "You are strong for an asari, even without biotics. Now, can you hit me again?"
He heard the faint whistle of air and turned, missing the fist that sailed past his face. Thug had recovered his wits and rejoined the fray. Bellowing, the young male slammed his head –plate into Buhto's, trying to stun the larger male. It was of surprising force, enough to make Buhto blink, but he had not trained hundreds nor lived as long as he had by being easily stunned.
The boy was definitely strong, however…remarkably so. Buhto had never seen another like him, not of his age.
Strong physically, strong biotically, he has the makings of a great battlemaster, Buhto thought, then smirked. But not the training. He relies too much on power, and has no idea how to properly wield it.
The boy, encouraged by making his opponent stagger, foolishly attempted the same move again. Buhto met him with a two fingered jab directly into the throat…one of the only vulnerable spots on a krogan's body. Immediately Thug gagged and gasped, falling to his knees as he clutched at his neck.
The asari was on Buhto the next moment, but that was expected. Just as strong, but just as young and inexperienced. He caught her as she tackled him and did nothing other than squeeze. The asari squirmed, gasping as her air was constricted. Struggling she tried to break free but the male had her in a secure grip, and only squeezed the harder.
She felt sharp pain as her ribs were compressed nearly to the breaking point. Only when she was on the verge of blacking out did Buhto release and drop her, leaving her to gasp beside her brother.
The older krogan gave a grunt of amusement, then looked up at the others. The human woman looked concerned but unsurprised.
She expected me to defeat them, he thought, before looking at his father.
"I will train them," he stated. Frek bobbed his grizzled old head.
"The boy and his krant are worthy of Dundrin," he stated. "And worthy of Buhto's training. Boy, get to your feet."
Thug struggled to rise, grimacing. He glared at Buhto, then turned to face Frek, standing as tall as he was able.
"You are now Dundrin Thug," Frek stated. "Be proud. Misguided and foolish as most of Tuchanka has become, we remember our strength, our truth, and our name still means something. Be worthy of it, or I'll take your head off myself."
"Commander Shepard, we are an hour out from Omega," EDI's voice stirred the thick silence in the Crow's Nest, barely drawing a blink from the woman who sat at the desk, head propped in her hand as she stared at nothing. "The doctor would like to see you down in the infirmary."
Silence. The blue orb seemed to pulse expectantly for a moment, then tentatively repeated her name. "Commander Shepard?"
Sitting back, she let her hand drop to her side. "Yeah, all right," she murmured. "I suppose I should see the rest of the ship anyway."
"Are you all right, Commander?"
"Are you programmed to be concerned for my welfare?"
"I am programmed to assist in any capacity in which I am needed aboard the ship," EDI responded. "I am also programmed with a rudimentary personality which leaves room for growth and individual development. My concern for your welfare stems from both directives."
Shepard waved her hand a little as she got to her feet, a dismissive, disinterested gesture. "Concern yourself with more important things," she grumped. "I'll go down and see the sawbones."
Stepping into the lift Shepard straightened and arched a little as the doors closed, her back cracking loudly. She gathered up her hair, the locks still much longer than she was used too, and pulled them back, tying them in a loose knot again. She probably should just get it cut. While Alliance dress-codes did allow women to have longer hair, they were also required to keep it pulled back when on duty. Long hair was a liability in combat, not only getting in the way but also creating a point of grip for an enemy. Since she was seventeen, Shepard had kept her hair cut no longer than her collar.
I may no longer be Alliance, but I'm still a soldier, goddamnit. They can't take that away from me at least.
Emerging onto the crew deck, Shepard was once again struck with the similarity to the original Normandy. Looking out over the mess she saw several crew men glancing curiously at her, a man in the small kitchen peering up through drifts of steam from his cooking. Ignoring them, she turned toward what would have been the infirmary on the original ship…and therefore was doubtlessly the infirmary on this one.
Stepping in the door proved her right. The infirmary was surprisingly bright, cheerful and shining with white and polished metal. As she stepped in, the form sitting at a nearby work-station turned and looked at her, then rose to her feet.
Shepard stared. The woman smiled a little, then folded her arms. "I told you I was going to start thinking you had a crush on me, if you kept walking into my infirmary," Dr. Helen Chakwas teased. Shepard shook her head with a snort.
"And I told you, you're way out of my league," Shepard replied. "Qing wa kao de liu mang!"
Chakwas blinked, then laughed. "I'm pretty sure the only word I understood there was 'frog'…and I'm not entirely sure how I even understood that much. It's good to see you again, Shepard."
"It's good to see you too," Shepard told her. "I can hardly believe you're here! You left the Alliance for Cerberus? Why?"
"Well, long story short…I left for you, Shepard."
"I…think I'm going to need the longer version," Shepard replied, confused.
Chakwas gestured to a nearby chair, then sat back down in her own. As Shepard sat Chakwas shook her head sadly. "Oh, it was such a mess after you'd gone," she said. "I'm sure Jeff has told you some. The whole crew was grilled, interrogated endlessly and finally scattered to the winds. I was remanded to some small little clinic on the edges of nowhere…performing vaccinations I think was the most grandiose aspect of the job. Then a year ago Joker contacts me, out of nowhere. Tells me that the Illusive Man approached him for a job at Cerberus and said that he was going to try and get them to approach me as well. Well, I was startled and confused, to say the least, but he wouldn't say anything more, just that it was something I had to do, that it would be worth it."
She shook her head and smirked a little. "Poor Jeff. For weeks I thought he'd gone completely off his rocker. No word for a year from the man, then suddenly that call, and then he vanishes again. Then to my surprise, I'm contacted by Miranda Lawson and was encouraged into a meeting. That's when they told me about you."
"Joker didn't contact Anderson? Hackett?"
"To do so would have undoubtedly put them in a very tough spot, if not in outright danger. Not to mention yourself. If the Alliance had discovered that Cerberus was in possession of your remains and were working to restore you from death itself…well. Joker took a risk even contacting me. I don't like Cerberus, Shepard. I don't think I'll ever really consider myself one of them, but that's not why I am here. I'm here for the same reason you have chosen to stay. Because this is the only way afforded to us right now. If I know you as well as I think I do, then I know that Cerberus will be out of the picture as soon as they outlive their usefulness. I also know that you'll be throwing yourself into so many fires that I'll have my hands full stitching your hide back together again. Much more interesting than vaccinations, I think."
Shepard gave a tired version of her lopsided smirk, nodding before she ran a hand over her face. "You don't happen to know-"
"-where Liara is? No, I'm sorry…I haven't seen her since the memorial service on Torfan."
Shepard sat back with a scowl. "The what? They held my memorial on…why on Torfan?"
"The colony there petitioned the most strongly, I suppose," Chakwas told her. "They never forgot what you did for them, and from what I understand, it's become a much needed boost to their tourist trade. Your memorial is quite the popular wedding location."
Shepard groaned. "Unreal. Fucking unreal," she murmured.
{Commander, we're about twenty minutes away from Omega dock,} Joker's voice broke in.
"Thank you," she barked back. "I'll be up in the CIC in a minute."
"Have you talked to Jeff?" Chakwas asked gently. "It's understandable that you be angry with him but he has been beating himself up over it for two years now. I hope you weren't too hard on him."
Shepard rolled her shoulders. "I broke his nose," she admitted, then shook her head. "He's punishing himself far worse than I ever could. And if nothing else, I know for a goddamn fact he'll never pull something like that again. I don't care who commissioned this ship, if I didn't trust him he wouldn't be at the helm."
Chakwas smiled slightly, searching Shepard's face a moment. Shepard didn't blame her. If a friend of hers had died and then been rebuilt, she probably would have stared a little too. Then the older woman leaned forward, reaching out and laying her hand over Shepard's.
"It is good to have you back," she said. "With you around, I know things will somehow turn out all right."
Shepard bobbed her head. "Even if I have to set them on fire to do so, right?" she teased. "I hope that's true, doctor. Because right now, things feel…very far from all right."
Setting foot onto Omega was like returning to the old neighborhood back in New York…if it had been closed in and sunk a hundred feet underground first. The station, built into the remains of an enormous asteroid, somehow gave the impression of being subterranean even though grimy windows showed distant structures and the starry expanse of open space.
Shepard had never before been to Omega but she knew the place. Its heartbeat, its soul, was as familiar to her as her own. She slipped into the atmosphere like pulling on a well-worn coat, noticeably more at ease than both Jacob and Miranda.
Jacob couldn't help the faint grimace as he looked around the wide plaza just off the docking bay. Shepard had pegged him early and correctly as a boy scout, and his expression only proved it the more. He liked things clean and ordered, liked men who knew what manners were and women who still had a desire for chivalry. Honest, open, upfront to a fault, he couldn't help but be uncomfortable in a place where honesty was taboo…where the native tongue was deception and everything came with a price.
Miranda's behavior was more that of a scientist studying a new virus…aloof, fascinated for educational purposes but thinking only in terms of danger, containment, and eradication before the lower life forms she scrutinized escaped to spread their plague.
"All right. Dr. Solus should be a few streets over, in the lower slums. He has a clinic there," Miranda began, then blinked as a very large, gruff looking batarian seemed to zero in on them.
"Hey, you…Shepard," he grumped, not bothering to even glance at Jacob or Miranda, all four of his eyes fixed only on Del.
"Hey, you…asshole," Shepard replied casually. She was surprised both that the batarian had approached and that he knew who she was. One usually didn't expect to see marines who'd been dead for two years come striding onto a space station. She wasn't about to show her surprise, however. Shepard had danced around back-street politics for most of her life. She knew its steps well, and one of the first rules was that you never gave anything away, never showed surprise, fear, or intimidation.
Poker face, always.
"Aria T'Loak wants to see you," the batarian replied sternly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a very large club on the other side of the plaza. Neon flashed and even from here, Shepard could feel the booming bass of hard sensory music, like the distant pulse of some aggravated predator. "Now."
"Everyone wants to see me," Shepard said with a casual, shit-eating grin. "I'm a popular gal. I'll try and fit her in."
"You want to keep your spleen, you'll see her now," he growled back. Without waiting for a response he turned and strode away.
"It's not good that Aria T'Loak knows who you are and that you're here," Miranda said. "She could make this extremely risky for us."
"Let me guess, she's the biggest wig in this place," Shepard grunted. "Don't worry. I got this. Give me five minutes with the bitch."
"Meeting with Aria will be very dangerous," Jacob warned. "She's a criminal, a thug…she makes the mafia crime-lords back home look like school kids."
"No sweat. You two just keep your mouths shut and follow my lead, ok?"
Shepard strode off across the plaza toward the indicated club, leaving the pair with little choice but to follow her or lose her altogether.
The club was apparently quite popular, an elcor bouncer keeping a line of hopefuls in check…a line that stretched a good block. Despite the fact that Shepard was in armor with a pair of machine pistols strapped to her hips and a serious Miitgard rifle slung over her shoulder, the elcor didn't so much as cast her or the other two a glance. Neither did the two well armed turians flanking the actual doorway. Shepard strode right up the stairs and past them as if she owned the place.
Just inside, a long anteroom lead into the club proper. Vid screens lined the walls, alternating between showing images of flame and fairly graphic scenes of both sex and violence. The music was almost a physical push now, a pounding drive of sound that only accentuated and highlighted the vids.
Benches and cushioned couches lined the anteroom, allowing patrons a slight escape from the heat of the dance floor without actually leaving the club itself. Shepard strode past writhing forms of couples, most drunk or high, doing everything short of stripping naked right out in the open.
An archway divided anteroom from the main club and as she stepped inside she looked upward. Dancers, most asari and most wearing what could only barely be termed clothing were writhing around on a circular stage a dozen feet above the dance floor. Huge vid screens showed the same scenes as in the anteroom, interspersed with close-ups of the dancers themselves. On the floor, the mass of patrons was so tightly packed it was almost impossible to tell where one person stopped and another began.
A set of stairs led up to a second floor, to an enclosed sort of viewer's box. Even without the armed guards standing at the base of the stairs Shepard would have known that T'Loak was up there.
Edging around the worst of the crowd, Shepard once again didn't pause in her stride as she went right past the guards and up the stairway. As she'd known would happen, they didn't so much as twitch.
Every world had its culture, even the underworld. Once you understood its customs you could navigate, and one dictate of the underworld was this; if the big boss sent for someone, you did not get in that someone's way…not if you were just an expendable grunt set to guard a fucking set of stairs.
An open door waited at the top of the steps, and she passed through it into an elegantly appointed room. The moment Miranda and Jacob were clear as well, the door slid shut, sealing out almost all the thunderous sound and replacing it with silence.
Half a dozen men, batarian and turian, stood scattered about the room…all armored, all carrying, and all looking about as rough as a bad night on the strip. A large set of windows flanked a curved velvet sofa large enough to seat a dozen, and on platforms at either end two dancing girls moved and gyrated to the now barely audible music…nothing more than living furniture, artwork in their own right.
The only form seated on this sofa was an asari woman. Her clothes were fashionable and tasteful, the expression on her face not only one of scrutiny but of cool indifference.
"Stay here," Shepard murmured to her companions, then strode forward.
"That's enough," the asari said quietly, but as if she had barked an order Shepard's way was suddenly blocked by two of the armored men.
"Don't move," one snarled, and activated some kind of scan. Shepard arched a brow but said nothing. Clearly, they were not looking for weapons as hers couldn't be more blatant. The only weapon even remotely hidden was the knife in her boot.
"She checks," the scanner said after a moment, powering off his device and stepping away. Shepard made no move to go forward.
"How interesting," the asari murmured, a faint smirk appearing. "You are exactly what I expected, Shepard…and yet completely unexpected."
"I take it you weren't sure if I was really me," Shepard said, jerking her chin at the thug with the scan.
"A little insurance is never amiss, Commander," Aria replied. "Please, come and have a seat. I'd like to talk a bit."
Moving forward, Shepard sat down, close enough to talk but not within reaching distance of the woman. Aria sat up a little, measuring the human woman before snapping her fingers. Out of nowhere an asari girl appeared, moving up with a tray in hand.
"Have a drink," Aria offered as the girl half bowed, presenting the tray to Shepard. On it were several glasses, each filled with a liquid. Without hesitation Shepard reached for the middle glass, one containing a faintly luminescent green-yellow fluid. As she took it, Aria lifted a brow.
"Are you sure you want that one?" she asked. "It is quite strong."
"To your health," Shepard replied, lifting the small cup in salute a moment before downing its contents. When the human didn't sputter or choke, Aria finally shed her cloak of disinterest, actually smiling.
"Bravo," she lauded. "It's a rare human that can hold their pris para. Then, it is a rare human that can return from the dead, as well."
"I must be a rare human then," Shepard told her, setting the glass down. The servant scurried away at a flap of Aria's hand.
"And an intriguing one. Tell me, Shepard. What can I do for you?"
Shepard wasn't fooled. The offer was so casually made but Omega was like another other slum. Favors were never given. Payment was always expected, in one form or another, sooner or later.
"I am looking for a few warm bodies," she said.
"Warm bodies we have plenty of…and cold ones," Aria hedged. "These bodies have particular names?"
"Let's start simply," Shepard told her. "Archangel."
"You want him dead too?" Aria asked, eyes drifting to watch the dancers, one finger trailing over her lips.
"Maybe," Shepard shrugged. "I hear he's been stirring up trouble, kicking the puppies of poor little boys and girls around Omega."
Aria chuckled, then gestured at the dancer. "Isn't she lovely? Her name is Vira. Only ninety years old. I hired her six months ago and so far she's worked out beautifully. She's like a sculpture brought to life, isn't she?"
Obediently Shepard glanced at the girl. "Very graceful," she admitted, before looking back at Aria silently. This was all still part of the dance, part of feeling each other out. Aria was trying to decide if Shepard was an asset or an enemy. There were only three kinds of people in Aria's world, after all…people who could be of use, people who needed to die, and little people completely beneath her interest. By virtue of who and what she was, Shepard was firmly out of the 'disinterest' category.
So Shepard could either prove herself an asset or a liability. The smallest gestures, such as the offer of the drink, meant volumes. Had Shepard refused the drink it would show disrespect and distrust, and the only response could be offense. One didn't refuse a gift in this culture from anyone with even a small amount of power. To do so was to make an instant enemy. Countless people had died over something as simple as refusing an offered drink.
Choosing the pris para showed that Shepard not only respected the asari culture but that she wasn't weak, didn't shy from pain. Drinking pris para was much like sucking on acid that was mildly cherry flavored.
Now, after Shepard's inquiry over Archangel, Aria had off-handedly mentioned her dancer. There were nuances of answer here, as well…ones that could get her instantly shot, or ones that could earn a huge amount of respect.
To brush off Aria's inquiry and try and force the conversation back to Archangel would have shown that Shepard felt Aria was beneath her, a subordinate to be bullied. It would show she was attempting a power-play, to undermine T'Loak's authority in front of her men. That scenario would have ended very badly, probably with first the poor innocent dancer being shot, and then Shepard.
To gush over or show far too much interest in the dancer, however, would show weakness, insincerity. Aria could assume Shepard was desperate, which would give her far too much power and leverage. Or she would decide Shepard was ego-stroking, flattering, nothing but an ass-kisser hoping to manipulate her. That would have incited her anger and disdain.
Of course, Aria could also have decided that too much interest in the dancer was an opportunity. It wasn't unheard of for pirates and crime lords in her position to ensnare with gifts, even gifts of other sentient beings. Aria could offer the dancer to Shepard, a scenario that had no good ending for anyone involved save Aria. The dancer could not refuse if she valued her own life or her family, so it was little better than slavery. Shepard could not refuse the gift without creating offense and she could not accept without creating obligation.
Shepard's goal was, of course, to stay on even ground. Her every action was designed to send the message that she did not consider herself above or below Aria but rather a respectful equal willing to defer to her in her own territory, under her own rules. Defer…but never bow.
And so, her response. Respectful enough to allow the deflection of conversation and to agree with Aria's choice in dancer, yet discouraging a full derailment of their discussion off what she needed. After a moment's pause (to show, of course, that Shepard as well could not just command her attention and therefore, gain the upper hand), Aria looked back at her and resumed the conversation, further securing the human's footing in their dynamic.
"Archangel has been making himself a pest, it's true. He's got idiots like the Blood Pack and Blue Suns all but chasing their own tails in frustration. He's a smart boy, though. Doesn't mess with me. The gangs have him cornered in some dead-end in the lower district. Even backed into a hole he's been biting every finger they stick in after him. It's driving them mad they haven't routed him out yet. I believe they're using one of the lower lounges in the club to recruit more freelancers to throw at him. I just want business to keep moving and the mutts to stop barking."
"Sounds like I should go and talk to the recruiters then."
"You do that," Aria smirked. "If you get him dead or off my station, all the better I think. Is that all you needed?"
"For now. I don't want to take up more of your time."
"Hmm," Aria half nodded. "I trust you can find your own way out?"
"Indeed. Thank you for the drink, and for the help."
Aria said nothing, only resumed watching the dancers. Rising Shepard walked down to the door, Miranda and Jacob following her silently.
The noise of the club erupted on them fully again, once out of Aria's lounge.
"That went…oddly well," Jacob shouted over the music as they reached the lower level. "I'm surprised she just gave you that info about Archangel and didn't ask for anything in return."
"She did," Shepard shouted back. "She wants him dead or off her station. No matter what else happens, if I don't make him gone very shortly Aria will be certain to make her displeasure at me clear."
"Are you sure? It just sounded to me like she was just kind of…hoping that would happen."
"Trust me, when dealing with crime lords, there are no allusions or vague hopes, there are only what you better do if you don't want a lot of bad to rain down on your head," Shepard replied.
"Just so long as we don't piss her off. This mission is going to have enough obstacles without throwing Aria T'Loak in on top of them," Miranda interjected.
"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. Trust me, so far I'm fucking golden as far as she's concerned. Looks like that's where they're talking to recruits, over there. C'mon."
Abandoning any further attempt at conversation, Shepard headed on a weaving course into the oblivious crowd.
