[Flashback: 14 years before ME1]
(TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT)
Shepard pulled her white tank top down over her bare torso and cast around for her jeans. Beside her, the semi-naked, blond man with the scraggly whiskers stretched contentedly and lay back against the sofa. The room was cluttered and bordering on unhygienic. Half-eaten food, drug paraphernalia, and dirty clothing littered the floor. There were no windows and only one door, and what passed for decor was a ratty leather sofa and a table with four mismatched chairs. Shepard had come to loathe the sight of it.
Two years of the streets. Two years of stealing and scrounging. Two years of hungry days and dangerous nights. The Tenth Street reds had become Shepard's meal ticket, her means to survive. A small gang of lowlifes in the slums of New York City, living off of thievery, prostitution, and drug distribution - the Reds had taken in Shepard and her young friend Kitt when they'd had nowhere else to go. Of course, there was a price. There was no such thing as charity in Shepard's world. Everything came at a price.
"You haven't been bringing in your share lately, Shepard," breathed the unkempt young man. He scratched his chin. "Monk and Kastner ain't happy…"
Shepard leaned over the arm of the sofa and snatched up her discarded jeans. She glanced back over her shoulder at the man and found him eyeing her naked backside. With a barely contained shudder of contempt, she sat back in the seat and began to drag her jeans up her legs.
"Are you kidding me?" she grunted, wriggling into the stiff denim garment. "The nasty shit I do for you, Veeke… I ought to get a reduced rate of membership."
Veeke shrugged. "That's a whole 'nother deal," he reminded her callously. "I get my regular from you, and Kitt stays clean."
Bastard. She remembered the night she made that disgusting "deal". Young Kitt had suffered enough two years ago, before Shepard had rescued her from the hands of those sick traffickers. Barely nine years old at the time, the girl had latched on to Shepard as her savior and only friend. She was almost twelve now - still just a child. Shepard would do anything to keep her from reliving the horrific experiences again. And that "anything" had been demanded.
"Don't touch her, please!" she begged, as the gang pawed lecherously at little Kitt. "I'll do whatever you want, just leave her out of it!"
She remembered Veeke calling off the attack. Striding towards her in that gloomy alleyway. Circling her. Examining her like a piece of meat.
"All right," he told her. "Nobody touches the kid, and we own your sweet little ass."
"Grow her hair out and she'd make pretty good bait," another gang member noted.
Veeke unzipped Shepard's jacket and slipped a hand inside her vest. She remembered what it felt like the first time he touched her. She had retreated into her own mind, blocked him out, the way she had learned to do long ago.
Looking over at him now, this dirty, good-for-nothing drug addict, Shepard felt no shame over the things she'd done. She felt powerful. She could use her body without involving her heart or mind, to get what she wanted, to keep a roof over Kitt's head, to survive.
"The boys have a job lined up for you," said Veeke. "A way you can make us some credits."
He reached out and flipped her tangled black curls across her face. She shook it off and stared him down.
"No problem," she replied coldly. "When do I start?"