Imbroglio


Milgrom Interstellar Space Port – Terminal B, Bekenstein, Boltzmann System
December 20, 2183


Dr. Piotr Boaz stepped out of the airlock with the rest of the passengers of interstellar flight 6732, giving one last stretch of his back and neck. Traveling first-class had its advantages. The long flight from the Widow mass relay had given him a serious case of space lag; had it not been for the onboard recreational room, his muscles would have cramped up the second day of interstellar flight. He was among the few passengers who could afford the first class accommodations instead of the coach-class cryo-stasis.

He checked in with customs and collected his bag at the terminal. He would be meeting his contact later that evening to collect the necessary systems needed to remove and install surveillance, and wanted to grab a bite to eat before doing so. Dr. Chakwas had recommended a diner just outside the space port.

No one other than the Illusive Man and several top Alliance officials knew he had left Arcturus for the safe house just outside Milgrom's sprawling city limits. There was no need to draw attention to the doctor by providing an armed guard, and it made meeting his Cerberus contact easier. And not even the Illusive Man knew the co-ordinates of the safe house. He was supposed to get those upon arriving, but they had yet to come over his omni-tool.

Dr. Boaz approached the quaint little hub and perused the menu to find an array of interesting dishes. The restaurant served a mixture of Thai, asari and vol dishes with dextro-amino versions for its turian patrons. The dishes took advantage of the human-grown cilantro; vol-grown urchu root, adding a bitter but spicy flavor; and the asari-grown salstas, adding a robust oaky spice. Vol and human dancers entertained guests while an all asari band performed folk music ranging from Thai to vol tribal dance to asari electro funk improvisation.

The exact co-ordinates came over the secure text messaging program on his omni-tool as he finished his meal, taste-buds tingling while he dabbed his mouth with a colorful napkin.

He downloaded the co-ordinates, paid his bill and left the diner, feeling alert and somewhat euphoric from the hallucinogenic urchu root. As the taxi began its ascent into traffic, his thoughts focused on Operative Chambers. He hoped that she would arrive in time for him to give her the final dose of medication. Her last DNA scans had vexed him. The virions should not have been evolving at such a rapid rate – it was only a matter of time that they would no longer be viable against the intended target and instead cause an epidemic. The Illusive Man had made it clear that creating an epidemic would complicate things – what things, Piotr wasn't sure, but he didn't wish to find out. Angering the Illusive Man was not healthy. Many operatives had disappeared at the Illusive Man's whim due to failed missions.

Placing the thoughts of the Illusive Man's chief enforcer aside, Piotr knew that if he gave Ms. Chambers the neuraminidase inhibitor he kept in the small black case in his bag, then the problem would be solved somewhat, but he was loathe to do that. Inhibiting the neuraminidase proteins would keep the virus from replicating and thus prohibit the gene therapy from occurring. Chambers' anti-bodies were already posing a problem – in fact, he suspected it to be the chief problem; however, any further suppression of her immune system would draw unwanted attention.

He shook his head. This dilemma was better suited for a microbiologist. He was a surgeon who specialized in nanology and neurology, not viruses.

The taxi stopped before a plain but quaint home nestled in a thicket of strange-looking trees. He assumed they were trees – he had no other definition for them. Tall plants seemed too vague a description. The stalks were no bigger round than he was and covered with what resembled dark-brown, mottled bark, like earth trees. The trees had yellowish, needle-like leaves situated at the tops of their tall stalks. The more he looked at them, the more he was reminded of cotton swabs. Yellow and brown cotton swabs…

He put the thoughts aside as the taxi touched down and the door opened automatically, swinging out and up. The air, different from the recycled air of Arcturus and less metallic than the space port, smelled faintly of what reminded him of lemon balm and lavender.

Piotr grabbed his bag, mind wandering to the conversation he and Chambers had had days ago before he'd booked his flight, but stopped mid-thought when he turned around, his gaze falling on a large man in armor who was making his way toward him.

Swallowing the sudden fear to flee, Piotr took note of the man's relaxed gait, the hodge-podge armor, and the multiple tattoos on the exposed right arm, the great scar ringing the side of his age-lined face. The doctor recognized the cheap ocular implant replacing the man's right eye – a vol creation.

"Hello," Piotr greeted, his leg twitching from nerves. "You must be—"

The words stopped in his throat as the stranger pulled his weapon, fired two consecutive shots. Instant pain, sudden darkness, the doctor was dead before he hit the ground.


Boötis Medical Center, Arcturus Station, Arcturus System
December 20, 2183


Joker awoke slowly, his head foggy and pounding, his mouth paper-dry. A shrill ringing resounded in his ears, his skull. It hurt to breathe, to move, to think. He tried to swallow; his throat ached with the effort.

Eyelids slipped closed, screwed shut a moment, and opened again to reveal green pupils against bluish-tented whites, the sclera of his eyes having long ago transformed by his body's inability to produce the proper amounts of collagen.

Something was on his hand. The pressure was uncomfortable, but it was warm, almost soothing, like someone was holding his hand. Mom?

He breathed a deep shuttering breath. The pressure eased. Blurry sounds ranging from high-pitched tones to softer, huskier ones assailed his ears. Momentary panic increased his pulse – he'd had the corrective surgery when he entered the military, he thought; he wasn't supposed to go deaf now; they'd fixed it and promised him… wasn't supposed to… promised him… promised…

As he tilted his head, spikes of pain lanced through his neck, his skull, down his spine. Joker let out a grunt, the shrill ringing growing louder in his ears. It would be so easy to just let go. Just sleep and never get up again.

A blink. There were figures in the room, lights, blurred images that moved, danced to-and-fro – dark eyes, genial lips turned into a frown. The uncomfortable pressure was back on his hand. It was warm.

Another blink. The room faded to gray. To black. The images were gone; the pressure remained, then that, too, began to fade.

"We're losing him," a voice said, high-pitched, concerned... an annoying buzz on his already overloaded senses. It jolted him back once more, and he opened his eyes once again. The world went from black to gray to colorful and blurred. A blink, then two. A breath of air left him as the intensity of the pressure overwhelmed him. The dark eyes were still on him, closer this time – the fringe of her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Ashley?

"Don't you dare leave me, Moreau." A warning.

The world grayed out a final time. His eyelids slipped closed again, and he heard no more.


[Data Corrupted], [Retracted], [Entry Error]
[Date Stamp Corrupted]


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