Chapter 13: Apple of Sodom

I am Omega.

Its shadow is my own.

Its curves are my body. Yes, every room and hall. Its cameras are my eyes, the glowing screens my face. Doors are locked because I will them so - opened only with my voice. And as I close my eyes in the night which lasts forever here, I am never quite alone.

I am where they go to find the things their world denies them.

I am where they go to feel alive. To remember.

To forget.

I hear their voices calling me. Praying in the dark. Begging me please.

I hear you, little pawns. I will take your crosses, your burdens, so heavy. You can leave them all with me.

You need only to ask to receive.

You can have it all. Anything you want. The things only I can give.

For a price.

Because I am merciful, yes...merciful.

And you are the blood which gives me life.

And I..I am your Queen. My throne is information. My kingdom is desire.

So when I see a stranger sitting at my bar.

Well.

I find out who the fuck he is.

I was tired. Ten and half hours of club music blasting in one's ears while a grown-ass krogan gang-lord whines like a infant over his fourteenth lost shipment of sand or guns or whatever the fuck – well, you tend to get a little thirsty. You want out. A little 'me time'. I don't caaare about your misplaced shit, Garm. The inability of the Blood Pack to watch over its own property simply does not concern me – sorry. Don't have anything to trade? Mmm. Oh well. Then fuck your lost shipments, less competition for me. Don't take it personal.

It's just business.

Really.

You surreptitious, backstabbing son of a bitch.

Suffice it to say a lot of people don't know two key facts about the illustrious, notorius me – with very good reason, I might add. And those two key facts, along with a whole army of other aces up my sleeve, are what separates me from the animals. However, because I value our trusted friendship, (I really do) I'll let you in on a few vital points. Just for fun.

Number One: I started my career as a dancer.

Number Two: I never exactly quit.

So after I shooed the little flies away, I slipped through the private door in the back of my office, down a narrow flight of stairs edged by my favorite boys, and disappeared into my inner sanctum as quiet as a lamb. The room is sex incarnate – black leather everything, wreathed in digital fire. Even the drapes and my vanity – yes, the rumors are true, I'm vain. So what. I work an eighty hour week, and that's when things are light. You just don't get to be the undisputed kingpin of the Terminus System shadow world by being idle.

So when I play, I play hard.

Even though I'm technically still working.

I stripped off my clothes, tossing my finery on my chair and slipped into my shower to rinse all the filth of my world from my flesh…but I suppose there's a layer that never really washes off. I've been told it's what gives me my certain glow. That eh, je ne sais quoi as the humans say, that pins men right into my palm, and in due time, beneath my heel.

Where they belong.

Thank the Goddess I have a nice ass. It's made my job so, so much easier.

Males of any species are hilarious creatures. I've had centuries to observe their bestial tendencies. It's their constant, unyielding predisposition to underestimate me that has secured my holdings time and time again. They all want the same thing; no matter how nice or how caring they pretend to be. And it's not just sex - that's only the short answer. It's also not just that they want you to be their mother, that's still short term thinking. What men want, more than anything else in the galaxy – and I've seen it my whole life and made an empire out of it – is control. Plain and simple. Find out what a male wants to control, and you control him. And why does it work like a charm time and time again?

Because they are actually stupid enough to think that we don't want exactly the same thing.

I laugh. I laugh at their idiocy.

So ladies, take it from me. The key to a man's heart is pretty straightforward, but there are a couple of different doors. You can go through his stomach, if you're a pussy; you can go through his loins, if you're daring, or you can go through his ego, if you're smart. And this is what leads me back to dancing. Why am I, the most powerful Asari in the galaxy, still performing - I can hear you ask?

Because, my children, it's amazing what men will confess when their trying to get laid.

Truly amazing.

I swear to the Goddess there is no end to their ignorance; every single species – they're all the same. The exact fucking same. Thank you, Goddess, for testosterone. Get them worked up and they'll say anything – even cut off their leg, haha, funny story there - but I digress. So another pathetic tidbit is the fact that they are quite literally all blind, laughably so when they're good and drunk. Apparently, my ass and tits are so interesting that they have absolutely no concept that just a layer of paint over my ink with some extra swirls and shit, stilettos and a set of contacts are the only disguise I need to become completely invisible. Just another blue body in the dark. So convenient that their objectification of us is so strong they literally can not see enough difference between us to know when death is sitting in their lap.

And so when I get them to that special place where vision goes fuzzy and touch governs all, the place of no thought, where existence and logic melt into nothing more than the most base of urges - that is where my talents truly shine. Give me your tired eyes, your sore muscles. Give me your absence of faith – let me help you. Let me fill you. Let me hold you. Tell me what frightens you. Tell me what you want. Whisper it to me, beg me please, please "save me". Whisper it with your eyes. Whisper it with your body. Just say the word. I can make you strong through your weakness.

I can even make you forget.

Just let me in the door.

Go on.

You just have to invite me in.

And they do. Even though they know, deep down beyond their reason, how it's going to end. They just can't stop themselves.

It would be insulting if it wasn't so profitable.

Nobody knows I do this; nobody. Not even my double. Even she's too stupid to realize that it's her boss up there, upside down on that pole, making more money for this place in one night that all the rest of the dead weight combined. They say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. There isn't much that's closer than a lap dance to let you see someone's true colors.

Well, actually there is, but I reserve that for especially difficult cases.

So, some more advice, my darlings, my final piece, and listen close. It's impossible to judge someone by how they treat their superiors (that's me) because everyone's an ass kisser when they're either afraid of you, or trying to get something from you – and in my case it's usually both. And that's why when you really want answers, in all their ugly truth, you have to put yourself below your mark.

In a man's eyes, there isn't much that's lower than what he considers to be a whore, even if that is precisely what he wants. And there's nothing more that a man loves and hates and hates to love more than just that.

A whore.

That is why I never quit.

And that is why I'm Queen.

I emerged into my underworld, the vision of sin. The beat fast and the bass down low, I glistened in black latex with a crimson bar across my eyes; sweat and sex in my six inch heels. I spotted him seated at the bar, his long body leaned over, staring into a Palaven Sunrise (how befitting); mind and eyes drifting in the vastness of his glass, swimming in its secrets. He wasn't drinking cheap, which was my first clue. And I'd seen him around, and yet he never came to see me. Well, the other me.

So what the hell was he here for?

I moved my hips with the music, one foot before the other. All asari can do this, don't let the prude deniers of our natural gifts deceive you. Even the most scholarly little virgin knows how to cross (and uncross) her legs. It's our birthright. Our survival. He saw my approach (how could he not?) but didn't falter. Good, a challenge. I draped myself over the seat next to him, and touched a pointed black nail to the bar. A drink appeared. I leaned in close, my eyes searching his face, which gave so little away in its mask of fire light.

"Homesick?" I asked, my voice sweltering.

He turned his eyes and stared me down, his gaze brimming with intensity.

"Hardly."

I smirked, tracing my nail over a salted rim.

"A turian on Omega...So what is it, sweetheart? Too many rules? Just couldn't take being just another gear in the machine?"

His eyes traced over the arc of my spine, almost with an air of disinterest. Almost.

"Something like that. Especially when it was broken to begin with."

I drank, my eyes black slits. I leaned in close, my nose grazing the flesh beneath his fringe, as he turned his head away from me.

Silly Turian, no one turns away from me.

"You smell like frictionless lubricant. So...are you a freelancer or just lonely?"

That got a smirk. He took a sip, and set his glass down, unmoved although his voice flanged low.

"A little of both, I'm afraid."

"Nice rifle. Perhaps you can show me how to use it later?"

He eyed me with a deadly glare.

"I get the feeling you're dangerous enough."

How could I not smile.

"You feel correctly."

His mandible twitched. He was thinking behind those ice cold eyes.

"...I don't want a dance."

"Neither do I."

Our eyes locked. There was only the music. A heartbeat in the tension.

"I'm not interested."

"Your tongue denies what your eyes desire."

"Really? And just what is that?"

"…Company."

A blue inferno in his lenses, his body radiating heat as I leaned in close, drawing his scent as I slipped my face down his long neck, their skin more sensitive than you would believe. That's what I always liked about turians. It was so easy to tell when they were aroused.

"So…how long has it been?"

"That…is not for you to know."

"Just thought I would ask," I recrossed my legs and leaned over the bar, mimicking his body language, "You look like you could use a friend."

Pain glimmered, so fleeting, across those lenses for just a moment, but he swallowed it, unyielding. Controlled.

He let out a soft snort, and raised his glass to his mouth again, staring off into the void.

"The last time I asked an asari for something, well. I got what was coming to me."

"Punishment?" I probed, leaning in again, smiling, whispering. "Were you bad?"

He glared at me, and turned his eyes away, saying nothing.

Go on, keep playing hard to get.

"There's an interesting thing we say about this place. An insightful cultural difference; in the asari tongue, it translates to "Heart of Evil"...yet I have heard your kind refers to it as "The Place Without Law."

I was getting close. But he was patient, and disciplined.

I hate that.

"You can ignore me if you like. But its written on your face."

His eye darted to me, cleaving his wall of stoicism.

"Indulge me."

I slowly flicked my glance back this way, and entered him through his eyes, pouring myself through, earning the deep set linger of his gaze.

"Your scars. You've been burned."

His plates crossed, considering me carefully with a expression that spoke of curiosity.

"I don't have any scars."

"Not on the surface. But spend enough time here and that's destined to change."

I drank deeply, and turned away from him, playing the game.

"Don't worry turian, soon your outsides will match your in." I remarked, my voice slipping soft and low.

"Is that so?" he asked, in intrigued vibrations.

"Yes. And then you'll have no problem keeping company,"

I tossed a sly glance back over my shoulder. His eyes blazed, squalls of impenetrable thought. My teeth moved, my forked tongue working within them.

"…Some women like scars."

Heated quietude. Yes, drink the nectar and slip into my pitcher. You'll find that it's warm there.

"And what kind of women are those?" asked he as he watched me roll my neck, displaying its sanguinary grace.

I turned back away, the smile still clinging to my lips as I drained the thin remainder of my glass.

"Only the dangerous ones."

I played with the ice cubes, clinking them around. I watched the other patrons, oblivious to my aim. The bartender, watering down the drinks of the inebriated. The women, which worked their charms. The idiots that fell for them; so hollow, so transparent.

After what felt like the perfect length of silence, I arched my spine and slowly cast my most smoldering of glances over my shoulder once again.

Where it fell upon an empty chair.

I blinked. I stared.

"What the…f…"

I stood up, eyes searching, my heart suddenly furious with adrenaline.

Gone.

He was fucking gone.

I raced to my security terminal through a back entrance; and scoured, the rage rising from my gut to my throat in a caustic tempest .

The video was blank.

Blank.

Motherfucker.

The door to the safe house glided open. Archangel slid in, as silent as the night. Eleven sets of eyes dropped what they were doing and glanced up, reverent in the bated quiet, as he stormed the room, his deep voice slicing through the dark.

"No more down time in Afterlife. Aria T'Loak is posing as a dancer now."

Author's Note:

"The best way to drive out the devil...is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn."

- Luther