She hoisted her tiny drawstring bag up onto her shoulder.
The streets were damp and dark, probably from the water-sewerage system that was not far away. Steam was vented from the back of buildings as Laurel Westfahl crossed through another shortcut that she felt to be reliable. She tried to ignore the look of the homeless batarians and vorcha on the floor, or by makeshift fires tucked in a sinister corner. Meeting eyes would certainly lead to a fight of some kind and she hadn't the energy, not after today. It was becoming taxing to have to defend herself physically each and every day after a ten-hour shift. Half the time she felt like she was working night shifts, as Omega did not have light and organised schedules like the Citadel. It was, all in all, a bloody nightmare.
The only thing the Omega did have was the 2600-hour clock, which required at least two hours extra work from her. She returned five nights a week, usually after having being coerced into either fighting or defending herself. That was one good thing the Alliance had given her – extensive physical combat and weapon handling. She wasn't sure how she coped but the long shifts, the weekends spent selling drugs and then consuming drugs helped take her mind off the dark corners that it liked to visit very often.
When the drugs made her unable to work, she was sacked almost immediately and she had to force herself to quit and start again. Now she just sold the drugs. Laurel pulled out her apartment's card key after fiddling in the bottomless pit that was her bag. Her apartment, devoid of windows (apartments with windows were more expensive) was simply furnished with its joint living area and kitchen. One tiny bedroom, with an uncomfortable bed. She peeled her jumper and work dungarees off, wandering to the bathroom just in a camisole and pants.
Splashing water on her face she looked at her thin, ashy face. When had she become so ugly? Her life had been a disaster so far: a rebellious adolescence, not helped with stiff, aloof parents and a military career cut disastrously short. No friends, no partners for years now, and she had lost contact with Jon since she left the Citadel. She was merely existing and not living, but she couldn't bear to live, not as herself. But somehow, the will to solider on was there, although she had no idea why. Laurel ran a bath and sat in the hot water. She cried until there were no tears left. When she'd finished heaving and sobbing, sitting there in the now cool water feeling sorry for herself, she caught sight of a packet of red sand on the nearby sink.
"Why the hell am I still on this shitty station?" she murmured.
She hadn't cried like that for many years and it surprised her. A small weight had been lifted from her shoulders, but she still carried the heavy burden. It wasn't like she was able to catch a flight off-station, not at the prices they were charging. To return to Earth or the Citadel? She found it easier adapting to a space station than a colony – there was something too off-putting for her about living on another planet. Too alien. Whatever it was, she knew she took herself with her wherever she went.
That was, indeed, the problem.
Notes:
Hello fellow fanfic readers. Thank you for the faves, follows and that you're continuing to read. Duererfan I'm glad you're addicted - thanks for the reviews! Enjoy these chapters :D
If there was a soundtrack to this story, 'The Drugs Don't Work' by The Verve would be the song for this chapter. 'Love and War' by Rilo Kiley is perfect for the whole story in general (my favourite band ever, btw).
*The drugs vallex and rarm mentioned are made-up (by me) and not featured in the ME universe. Red sand is immune to batarians as I found out on the ME wiki. Many other drugs also mentioned there are not particularly 'suitable' in this setting.