"Disclaimer: The hacking mechanics you see in Mass Effect 2 are simplified visualizations of a brute-force attack. Had the developers done more research, they might have been able to implement more accurate simplifications of this activity, as well as modify the existing mini-games to reflect more varied techniques, such as password cracking, packet analyzers, phishing, keystroke logging, rootkits, Trojans, or even social engineering. For a list of games that do acknowledge the multiple facets of hacking, please visit our website at: [URL REDACTED::ILLEGAL ASSOCIATION]"

The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)

Citadel
Presidium – Chimera HQ

"Mr. Christenson will see you now, Representative."

With the sort of smile that represented chivalry out of an occupational requirement rather than genuine feeling, the receptionist led Cirae Idetha past the outer doors that bordered the office of Chimera's CEO once the human woman's console had quietly chimed to indicate the executive's readiness.

About damn time, Cirae thought to herself, as she had been waiting in one of the stiff velour chairs for almost half an hour. She had been early to the meeting, admittedly, but even so she had expected an executive of a billion credit company to possess even a modicum of timeliness. They passed by a thicket of fake bushes that flanked the tall walnut doors that swung on a hinge—Chimera's logo was burned onto the paneling that served to remind Cirae of where she currently was.

Cirae's eyes flicked to the plastic smile etched upon the receptionist's face and walked past her with nary a grunt. She lifted a blue-scaled hand and pushed the door open with an indelicate shove, her breath having resided in her throat the entire time she had entered the building. For good reason, too. Cirae had never been in the office of a PMC before and she had thought that she would never take such a chance in her lifetime. Not only that, but Chimera was perhaps the most notorious out of all the PMCs after the mess they had made on Earth many years back. They were a human-centric company, with no love for asari certainly, so it certainly registered upon her that being here was akin to walking into a thresher maw nest.

Considering the fact that the people in this building represented the worst of what the galaxy had to offer—mercenaries and opportunists reveling in the taking of lives and the ruination of order all to maintain a profit—Cirae probably would rather take the thresher nest.

Cirae's heels first met a stone floor made of cracked granite the color of dark chocolate. She tried not to react as she took in the quiet affluence of the room. Directly in front of her, four couches of warm brown leather flanked a miniature coffee table the color of soot. A couple of books on business and world leaders adorned the table next to an empty tumbler and two upside-down glasses. The wall to her right was comprised entirely of wood panels—perhaps the most expensive part of the room as wood was not cheap in this day and age. The desk at the back of the room was made up of the same wood and granite that comprised the place's dimensions. Christenson apparently had gotten an interior decorator to help with the room. The wall right behind the CEO's desk was also wrapped with plush leather and draped by two stone columns. To Cirae's left was a windowed balcony that gave Christenson an unobstructed view of the Presidium. No surprise there, she thought. CEOs loved to have a room with a view.

Weirdly, at first glance there appeared to be nothing that stood out to Cirae that would otherwise indicate this was the office of a CEO of a PMC. At the very least, she had been expecting a few trophy heads adorning the wall. A gun case, most definitely. And… perhaps even a taxidermy-d creature somewhere in the corner.

Christenson was a reedy man of seventy, his cheeks already lined with the canyons that came with age despite the fact that gene therapy should have held off such pronounced aging. His thin hair was combed immaculately, parted at the side. He wore a suit that Cirae estimated cost more than her own annual salary. He was not a particularly intimidating looking man with a thin build, a weak chin, and jumpy eyes. Way too jumpy, Cirae noticed but she gave no reaction to that even though she was harboring her reservations.

"Representative Idetha," Christenson greeted as he stood from his desk to shake the asari's hand. "Lars Christenson. I hope I wasn't keeping you too long. I was on a personal call with my son—he was asking me for a recommendation for a breeder to help with his Arabian over in Barcelona. Which means I'll have to apologize in advance, for it looks like we'll have to cut this meeting short as I have a business matter to attend to in the next half hour. You'll understand completely, I hope?"

Cirae dearly wished that she could utter some snarky quip right about now. Christenson had the air of someone who relished rattling off a series of glitzy-sounding words that eloquently communicated his superior financial position to anyone within earshot. It was outrageous at how well PMCs paid their executives and the man's utterly dismissive attitude already made Cirae hate him outright, not that she was ever planning to like him.

"That's quite all right," she managed to pull an empathetic face in time. "I don't foresee this tacking too much of your time, Mr. Christenson. As I said in my message, I'm only here as a formality."

"Lars, please," Christenson gave a graceful wave of his arm as he sat back down on his chair while Cirae took the one on the opposite side of the magnificently constructed desk. "Do you know anything about horses, Representative?"

Cirae's brow furrowed. "Horses?"

"Yes. Horses. I mentioned that my son is in the process of training his Arabian, which is a type of horse. Very loyal and built for endurance. Beautiful creature. Cost a fortune these days, sadly. They all do, but the Arabians are prized higher than most."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about horse breeding or racing," Cirae admitted, hating to have to be so forthcoming right off the bat. "It's not exactly a sport that would cross into my circle, Mr. Christenson."

"Representative, I just said that you could call me Lars."

The asari just gave a cool smile, her eyelids squinting ever so slightly. "Mr. Christenson, do you mind if I record what we say?" She lifted her arm, omni-tool activated upon it, for emphasis.

Christenson lifted a hand an inch off his desk, having given up on trying to correct the asari. "That depends," the man said as he reached into his desk and withdrew a bottle and poured himself a glass of caramel-colored liquid. "You're planning on sticking to the topics as you outlined in your meeting request?"

"It would be poor form of me if I were to deviate."

Christenson found that acceptable and lifted the bottle to Cirae, a silent offer. The asari respectfully shook her head, not at all interested in having a drink this early in the morning. As Christenson put the bottle away, Cirae took the time to scan the contents of the man's desk. More books, a couple abstract paperweights, and a coaster for drinking glasses. A rather threadbare presentation, all neat and tidy. Cirae had heard a story from some of her colleagues that one of Chimera's early CEOs had adorned his desk with a metallic reproduction of his own genitals in a misguided display of manliness. While such a trinket would have been vulgar and inappropriate anywhere, no matter how one looked at it, Cirae was almost disappointed she did not see anything of the sort under Christenson's tenancy as it would have made for a great story, albeit in retrospect.

"I have to admit that I was curious when I received your message," Christenson said as he swirled the contents of his glass absentmindedly. "After all, it's not every day that someone from the Council wishes to request a meeting with me. At least, not in the expedited fashion you've demonstrated."

Cirae was prepared for this and offered a calm look in riposte. "I can understand your confusion to that. The best answer that I can give you is that the shifting priorities of the legislature—in my case, the General Assembly—sort of tends to be a bit haphazard with its overall focus when viewed from outside. Hundreds of people, hundreds of opinions. Nothing is ever decided upon unanimously. That would take a miracle far beyond any deities making themselves known to us." She paused as Christenson laughed. "The only way anyone in my position can get anything done is to find the time to sit in a committee that is dedicated to a specific subject, which does require of its members to get a little… proactive, shall we say. Hence, why I'm here now."

"I see," Christenson answered, though Cirae knew he did not really see because she had just spun an elaborate non-answer that essentially told the man nothing about her.

Politics had provided her with the chance to develop her circular discussion abilities, most certainly.

"To that end," Cirae continued, "I'm here because I wanted to open a dialogue with you, Mr. Christenson. Chimera has been a dutiful supplier for the Council for the last ten solar years and your relationship with us would undoubtedly serve as a template for how us—the Council, I mean—can strengthen the chain of information and finances between us. A sterling example for which we can figure out where our data bottlenecks in our other partners lie."

Christenson set his glass down in interest. "So what you're saying is that you want to use this as an information-gathering session so you can discern the partnership that ties Chimera to you as a way to… improve other providers in your network?"

"Yes, that about sums it up."

"Hmm," Christenson mused, flattered at the insinuation. "Which committee did you say you were part of, again?"

"Oh, the committee hasn't been formed yet," Cirae answered effortlessly, having practiced her response over and over again in her head for the past hour. "In order for a new committee to gain approval, we need to produce valid research and initial conclusions that have been performed on our own expense. You're one of the corporations we decided to go to first, as we are confident that your disclosures will provide us with enough material to make this committee official."

There was some truth to what Cirae had just said. While many of the large committees in the General Assembly were vital to the legislative process and heavily scrutinized by the public, there were dozens of smaller committees that kept low profiles or were otherwise hidden off the rolls either due to the tiny number of members in their ranks, the secretive nature of their research, or the fact that they had no findings to release at the current point in time. In short, Cirae's nonexistent committee was all a fiction in her head but could still theoretically operate in this gray area where many other committees technically resided.

"And when you do finally wish to make your mandate public," Christenson leaned forward, "what will your committee be about?"

"Oversight of ethical responsibilities within Council-affiliated partners," Cirae offered immediately, the lie still coming easily. By the look on the human's face he had not discovered that Cirae's answer was technically an insult. His loss. "We're still trying to find a suitable acronym."

Christenson swallowed the fib hook, line, and sinker. "You know that this corporation has already cooperated extensively with Council representatives such as yourself. Why not go to them first to obtain the information you're looking for?"

"You'll probably have to think of the Council as a rather siloed organization. Every individual group and committee acts like their own kingdom and guards their information quite jealously. I suppose an apt comparison is for me to ask if you would be comfortable heading over to that building across the way," Cirae pointed a finger out the window, "to your competitors at Zero Sum and ask them to pass over copies of their financials."

The executive gave a hearty laugh at that. "You bring up a good point, Representative Idetha. Can't say that I would find your task enviable."

"It's not something that benefits from procrastination, unfortunately."

"Indeed. Well, you have fifteen minutes, Representative. You may go ahead with your questions."

"I don't have very many," Cirae booted up a small screen on her omni-tool, even though she already had her questions memorized—this was all to keep up appearances to Christenson to make it seem like she was shaky on this subject and had not come here with an ulterior motive… which was the case. "I will say, of course, that you might have heard some of these questions before. If I happen to ask you something that might have overlapped with an answer you've given before, I apologize but these questions are all merely to perform a proper accounting."

Christenson gave a helpful nod. "I'm fine with that."

Cirae then pretended to read from her omni-tool, pursing her lips for effect, before she dove right in. "When the Council formally announced their partnership with Chimera a little more than ten years ago, I think I'm correct in recalling that this did not come without controversy. While Chimera was only enlisted to provide provisional and logistical support before branching out as a supplier of military equipment, most people only knew about Chimera from that high-profile event down on Earth seventeen years ago when several of its contractors were involved in a very dangerous and expensive chase with Commander Shepard in the streets of Berlin that ended shockingly with Shepard being arrested, Chimera's CEO at the time being murdered in a hospital bed, and a prominent human senator momentarily disappearing before turning up in his home, also dead from a heart attack. To that end, what changes can you say that Chimera has made in order to distance itself from that event?"

"I had a feeling the Berlin Pursuit would be one of the items on your list," Christenson mused after a few seconds.

"That's something that people ask about often?"

"More often than you'd imagine," the human considered. "But I have no trouble recounting the details to you. You see, that particular CEO of Chimera, the one who was in my position during those regretful events, was an arrogant young man by the name of Erich Koenig. Apart from being constantly in legal hot water as an adult, he was also a terrible businessman. He nearly brought Chimera to the brink of bankruptcy several times before a corrupt senator—Raynor Larsen, if I'm remembering his name correctly—decided to step in and use the company for his own plans."

Cirae looked up from her tool. "Why do you think a senator would ever need the services of a private military, Mr. Christenson?"

The man spread his hands, helpless to answer the asari's question. "I can only surmise his intent, Representative."

"Then I'll take a conjecture in the absence of a certainty," she shrugged with a crafty glint in her eyes.

The glass with the alcohol in it found itself in Christenson's hand once again. "If you've done your homework, you should already be aware that Senator Larsen was particularly hell-bent on obtaining enough influence in his political circles to rise to the next rung from his station. He had no qualms on gathering more power and would run roughshod over anyone just to get even the slightest edge. His attempts to besmirch Commander Shepard—of all people—should prove just how crazed this man was in the long run."

Cirae did indeed recall her own opinions of the contentious senator being not at all flattering during the events of the Berlin Pursuit. She had watched the newsfeeds endlessly the day the story broke. Seeing Commander Shepard and his crew tear down the streets of an old Earth city with wave after wave of military ordinance coming after them was surreal to behold. She had clasped a hand to her mouth as she watched Shepard and his crew flip Makos, pluck Mantis gunships from the sky, and down Hammerheads as thought their armoring was made of foil. Not to mention, several camera drones had captured glimpses of a frightful personal battle between Shepard and what looked like a metallic combat droid on the steps of the Earth Senate, clashing between massive stone pillars before their fight spilled inside, beyond the gaze of the cameras.

Seeing as all that had been the results of Larsen's ambition, crazed was definitely the right word to describe the man.

"And the fact that Koenig was shot dead in a hospital bed elsewhere in the city shortly afterward?" Cirae pressed, arching her brow. "Does that sound like Larsen's brand of foul play to you?"

Christenson nodded. "It was well documented that Larsen and Koenig did not particularly care for each other. I can only guess again but I do seem to recall that the theory the investigators were floating was that Larsen organized the hit on Koenig in an attempt to prematurely silence him in case he was arrested after the chaos in Berlin."

"Do you find it remarkable that Chimera managed to stay in business after that whole incident?"

"Yes, actually," Christenson answered honestly. "The PR that directly followed has still not been shaken off, not to mention we're still frequently made the butt of the jokes among our competitors. But to answer your initial question, it was not hard to make the changes to Chimera's executive structure in order to put it back in everyone's good graces. Mere weeks after the events in Berlin, the company's underwriters brokered several deals with private investors that managed to keep Chimera from becoming insolvent. Not a particularly difficult prospect to present, as Chimera's valuation had plummeted the day after the crisis in Berlin. Yet those new investments allowed Chimera to keep operating as a private company but it also meant that we had a new board of directors to guide the company's direction for the time being. And the directors did a remarkable job—they fired anyone who was close to the previous executive team and brought on illustrious men and women that were responsible for steering the ship in that right direction, pretty much helping to keep Chimera out of any more headlines of Berlin's ilk."

"So you're saying that completely switching up the leadership allowed Chimera to operate more ethically?"

"I can't see any other reason why Chimera managed to survive. Our new directors had successfully enacted a culture shift, which in turn attracted more ethically-minded employees that—in turn—contributed to changing Chimera's image. Mark my words, had Chimera not received such a substantial investment with the intent on turning the company into a success story, you would not see any of our competitors try to replicate our company model at all."

Cirae honestly doubted that the other PMCs were quite keen on following the supposed template Chimera had set for everyone in its market. She was not stupid—a business that focused on being ethically-conscious typically spent quite a lot more in terms of its annual expenses. It was far cheaper to be ignorant of the health and well-being of a company's employees. Companies like Chimera, ones that thrived on churning out contractor after contractor and that looked at people like data points, probably did not have it in their best interests to give their employees more legal power. No, the whole changes that Christenson was alluding to was that the PMCs were now making efforts to downplay their inherent corruption, or at least display it not as blatantly. But he was never going to spell that out loud to her, of course.

There was also one little tidbit that Christenson had mentioned that gave Cirae pause for a moment. He had said almost idly that Chimera continued to operate as a "private" company to this day as a result of the generous investments the corporation had received. That could be a complication in the future, she glumly noted. Private corporations could keep their entire financial records sealed to the public and any governmental body. Unlike a publicly traded company, these corporations had no obligation to disclose their financial performance to any individual or incorporated entity unless they were under audit, and one needed to jump through a massive amount of hoops to even enact an audit on a corporation. If Cirae was going to discover any proof that Chimera was illegal funneling payments to fellow representatives in the government, it would not be from a juridical acquisition of Chimera's economic records. That way—the easiest way—looked to be completely barred to her.

You've still got time, Cirae had to reassure herself. He's not tight-lipped, this one. Miranda said that he puts on a focused front, but that he's really an idiot underneath. Let's see if I can prove it.

"I would probably guess that Chimera's income had a bit of a shaky start relying solely on investments. A company that size, contributions can only go so far."

The human shrugged. "Many of our investors knew going in that their contribution was going to pay off in the long term only. We were very up front about this pattern of growth with them and they rewarded our frankness with their trust. I would say that the initial cash boost helped Chimera get on its feet long enough so that we could enact a deal with the Council. We were undervalued and they were looking to horizontally integrate."

What, and the Council could not handle its own military solely by itself? Cirae thought sourly.

This conversation was only making her more and more disappointed with her peers for letting this deal with Chimera go through. They should have known about this PMC's dodgy history and they certainly did not need any help managing their own military, so why the hell did this deal even materialize in the first place?

"So I'm assuming that this newfound culture shift combined with a more pragmatic leadership led the way for Chimera securing a foothold as a support provider to the Council?" Cirae crossed her legs as she typed out a few notes on her omni-tool without looking at her keypad, her face completely level. "Or were there any other factors that led to this partnership?"

Christenson glanced upward at the ceiling in thought. "Not to my knowledge. The deal with the Council was finalized before I was elected as CEO, to be fair. From the documents I was given, the Council was impressed with Chimera's dedication to shaking up the areas that needed attention and, after a series of meetings that lasted for nearly an entire year, we were awarded with an exclusive contract to do business with the Council in ten year increments."

Cirae was about to proceed onwards to her next question, when something the human had said momentarily stalled her train of thought.

"…awarded with an exclusive contract…"

"…exclusive contract…"

"…exclusive…"

Tangled images symbolizing her racing mind flared into her head all at once in a kaleidoscopic burst of muted visual noise. Cirae had to struggle to keep her expression from wandering too far from her composed stature, but it was very hard to do so now that she had finally managed to get her bearings within her mental plane.

Wetting her lips, she took a slow inhale through her nostrils before she spoke. "I had no idea you solely relied on the Council as your only customer. Companies in your industry tend to market themselves to a wide variety of demographics."

"It isn't an uncommon arrangement. Most private military corporations tend to seek out deals with the Council or other governments. It provides them with a steady cash flow and a guaranteed line of business for years and years."

"And… is the maximum contract allocation limit of 750 million credits enough to maintain Chimera's exclusivity to the Council?"

"The exclusivity applies to certain business sectors, representative, or even certain products or services that we might offer. Being exclusive is just a buzzword, it just means that they get the first pick and the quickest response time from our services. We might be outsourced to a variety of customers, but in this case, the Council is our largest and most important partner."

Cirae nearly leapt up from her seat and flipped the table over in a rage.

If Christenson had an IR sensor lying around, looking through it he would have noticed that Cirae's head would have been lit up bright volcano-red, close to erupting. It took everything the asari had to hold in her violent outbursts, for she was so dumbstruck that decorum was in a panic trying to hold itself to her presence.

Now she understood why Miranda had recommended that she visit a PMC before making any of her planned moves. What Christenson had said to her would normally be considered a confession in any court of law, but his overall tone was relaying it as a subtle boast. He was proud of his company, despite its dastardly profession, and such pride was embedded in every word he uttered even when he was lying to Cirae's face.

A junior politician she may be, but Cirae knew enough about finance laws to recognize egregious transgressions when they chanced upon her. It was unequivocally true that the Council could only dole out a certain annual stipend as part of awarding contracts to suppliers. 750 million credits was the most the Council could spend on the companies it partnered with, legally speaking. This was the case in every government as maintaining contribution limits helped tamper down on contract abuse by way of nepotism or corruption. For a company like Chimera, the maximum limit of 750 million credits a year would in no way be enough to support their entire scope of operations. This would not include the billions of credits worth of equipment they were ostensibly selling to the Council, but even so they would be operating at a severe loss. There were manufacturing, logistics, personnel, and upkeep expenses to consider when running a business as a defense contractor. Running a PMC meant that one had to overcome a high barrier of entry in order to be successful.

Which meant that, considering everything Christenson had told her, Chimera's partnership with the Council should in no way be remotely profitable enough for them to maintain an exclusive contract.

But Chimera was getting the bulk of its money from the Council.

So… how was Chimera legally acquiring enough in funds to support itself outside of the 750 million credits it received each year that did not include business earnings?

Cirae felt that she already had the answer in her head before she could give it serious consideration. It was so simple that she was almost aggrieved at having figured it out in an instant.

Nothing about it was legal at all. Though she had no definitive proof, the narrative had been spelled out so clearly for Cirae that she could recount its most likely trajectory right off the bat. The Council was indeed fronting the majority of the cash flow, but Chimera was getting more funds than what was legally allowed. There was no other alternative but to surmise that an improperly monitored account within the Council was the source of these massive payouts.

And thus, the truth came ever clearer.

The Council had a slush fund that it was using to pay private military corporations.

Everything was starting to click for Cirae. All this time she had been railing against the PMCs during her tenure in the Council, hoping to discover the entity that was responsible for providing financial support to them, except that the entity in question was the Council. For some unknown reason, they were paying the PMCs under the table, potentially an effort to keep them in line, while turning a blind eye to their other, more questionable, customers. Whether there was one entity above it all pulling the strings was irrelevant. The Council was the next link in the chain that was doling out the money.

That was why there was no oversight, no punishments to be delivered. The PMCs had the protection of whatever government was employing their services, ensuring that no one on either side would take the fall for whatever mishaps might occur from the corporations' misdeeds.

The Council paid the PMCs. The PMCs then used that money to pay off the representatives back in the Council. It was a constant loop that demanded absolute loyalty all for the promises of extra profits. A horrible cycle that churned around cash as outside forces fed the starving war machine.

Someone had started this corrupt epoch though, and Cirae knew it could not have come from the Council. The government was still struggling to pay off the damages from the war, no way could they have found the cash to keep this thing going. Her initial theory that she had Miranda still held water—an unaffiliated entity throwing tinder to the fire, impassively watching the entire foundation burn to the ground. But Cirae was now diving back into conspiracy territory with this line of thought. Where was the proof to cement her thinking?

For that matter, where had common sense gone to in this galaxy? Everyone was back to making the same old mistakes.

It was like everyone was keen to forget everything the war had ever taught them.

Returning to her senses just in time to stop herself from destroying Christenson's office, Cirae fluttered in a breath that filled her lungs with stuffy air and a rather medicinal tang embedded itself into her tongue. Her eyes refocused to find Christenson having stood from his chair, whistling a tune as he was in the process of putting his jacket on. Momentarily confused, Cirae remembered that she was out of time with her interview and similarly stood, deactivating her omni-tool as she tried very hard to keep her fingers from shaking.

"I regret that we did not have more time to converse," Christenson ambled forward and stuck out his hand for Cirae to shake. "These war room meetings that I have every week can't really be pushed around—we're connecting calls from our execs in different sectors of the galaxy simultaneously. Not an easy thing to do, even with the proper tech."

Cirae distantly nodded, her handshake limp against the human's bony hand. The executive was prattling on, enjoying hearing himself talk instead of trying to gauge the asari's mood at the moment.

"Now," he was saying, "if you have any further questions for me, you can relay them to my secretary and she'll forward them over to me. I'll try to answer as many as I can if I have the time. Alternatively, I would also be open to having more discussions like this one. Do you think you'll be coming back sometime in the future?"

"It's hard to say at this point," Cirae said, after ensuring that no tremble entered her voice. "After I… meet with some of the other corporations, I might come up with a few more questions that I might not have thought to ask you. For something like this, being as thorough as possible is paramount to the success of this committee."

"Of course, of course," Christenson said as he walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Cirae as they headed towards the tall doors with the large metal handholds that marked the exit to the office. A few paces away from them, the human gave a quarter turn of his body and held up a hand that partially blocked the asari's path. "Now, I have to wonder, Representative," he mused out loud, momentarily raising Cirae's pulse, "the sort of information that you're gathering… how clandestine are you planning to classify it within your legislative branch? I mean, in our line of work, confidentiality is part of the name of the game here."

The asari gave a nod of assurance as she managed a tight smile. "I would advise you to rest easy, Mr. Christenson. The data that we collect will not be freely disseminated and will be heavily modified and redacted to achieve any sort of viewing status. Anything you say to me will be privy to only the committees the data pertains to, and one has to be proven to be of a furtive sort in order to be honored with that kind of duty."

The human was pleased with that answer and lowered his hand to his side so the two of them could continue out the doors and towards the lifts. "I'm glad you said that, Representative. To be frank, the work we do naturally comes with a boatload of obstacles that requires some precise traversal, be it legal or financial. Every year we get briefings from the Council that advises us of the penalties if we let any information slip to the public. Legal action, removal of funding, and prison time are always the most common punishments that are dangled above our head at any point." He gave a nervous laugh. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Council sent one of their Spectres to right the ship should a leak be sprung. But seeing as we've come this far without incident, I'm quite optimistic for the future."

For the umpteenth time today, Cirae had to hold back a snort. Without incident. As if Christenson had already forgotten about the crimes Chimera had on its rap sheet—did all of the killings and the rapes against the innocent civilians, not to mention the violence against the most celebrated individual in all of creation, simply not register in this man's head? The lack of self-introspection was so strong it was almost comical to Cirae. Had she not been occupying a dignified position, she would have thrown up already out of sheer anguish.

She needed to get out of this building. Right now.

Cirae had to walk several blocks away from the headquarters before the chilling teeth that seemed to nip at the nape of her neck faded away into nothingness. The glow from the Presidium's artificial sun seemed to take on a halogen glow, phony and not at all soothing. It was an effort to move her eyes in her sockets—the fleshy organs seemed to scrape against the inside of her skull if she dared to look away from the ground in her immediate vicinity.

She walked over to a skycar stand and requested a lift to the Citadel docks. One of the automated transports peeled away from the hovering traffic lines a quarter of a mile above her head to float down to the little landing pad that protruded over one of the crystal clear lakes that split this section of the Citadel in two. The asari clambered into the vehicle after the doors had opened wide to allow her access and as soon as she had settled in, the skycar lifted away from the ground to rejoin the chorus of commuters that were being whisked to and fro in their own personal craft.

As the searing splendor of the Presidium was replaced with the unprotected view of Sol creeping around the edge of the Earth, Cirae quickly began a call with one of her contacts in her tool, making sure to activate her private monitoring software before initiating it, like Miranda had taught her.

The call picked up on the second ring. Cirae fed the audio to her embedded earpiece, courtesy of her implants. "I was wondering when I was going to hear from you next," a male voice spoke. "Sometimes I get the feeling that when you want to talk to me, your only intention is to use me."

Cirae flashed a grin at the man's teasing voice. "Well, that's unfortunate, Avi, because I was actually calling you to see if you wanted to be used for a little bit. I've come across something that I think you would like to learn more about."

Avi Ben-Zvi and Cirae had previously been introduced to each other shortly after Cirae had won her election as a representative to the Assembly. Avi was a reporter for the Times as well as a renowned biographer. The two had actually met during a junket that was celebrating a reprinting of one of Avi's most famous works: a complete biography of the late Tali'Shepard (nee Zorah). Cirae had been impressed at Avi's candor and he in turn had admired Cirae's strive to maintain a solid moral direction during her tenure.

Since Avi's main job was working a reporter, he would occasionally come to Cirae to use her as an anonymous source for any rumblings behind-the-scenes of the government that she happened to be aware of. She was only too happy to oblige, considering that Avi was quite transparent at his work in promoting a straightforward portrayal between the contrasting goals of the government and the constituents, something that Cirae had been wanting to correct ever since she had arrived on the Citadel. She would also feed him snippets of unrelated information every once in a while for him to assemble background information on as a token of her trust. Said trust was not solely limited to their professional lives—usually when they were corresponding on topics together, the two would inevitably engage in sex in cramped and cheap hotel rooms. The relationship was not based on love, but by a profound mutual respect that just so happened to entail some semblance of physical attraction. It was hard to tell if Avi felt that there was something deeper between them, but he was demure enough to not bring anything up after a night of coitus. Besides, Cirae felt that things were already complicated enough between them. Best not to dwell on the minutia and risk complicating things further.

There was the discrete sound of tapping fingers upon a glass keyboard on the other line as Avi was ostensibly jotting down some notes. "Consider me a sucker, then. What've you got? How big are we talking?"

"Not over a call. I'll meet you face-to-face to discuss it. I'm on my way now."

"Wait, you're coming to New York?"

"Why not?" Cirae shrugged as she looked out the window to peer at the maze of yellow gridlines that burned brightly upon a corner of the continent like a giant wildfire. "It's not like you're far away or anything."

Avi laughed. "Force of habit to ask, I suppose. Well, you know where I work. When do you think you'll arrive?"

"Maybe in a few hours. I need to book my flight first. You're not currently seeing anybody right now, are you?"

"Now? No, not right now. Why?"

Galactic signs of neon advertisements washed past the windshield of the skycar like foamy liquid. In her seat, eyes glazed as the megalopolis of the Citadel arms faded against space's black backdrop, the windows of the buildings camouflaged amongst the stars.

"Think we can talk at your apartment this time?"

Menhir
Roahn's room

The lonely gaze of the ringed lamp shone a halo upon Roahn's prosthetic limb, detached from her arm as it lay palm-up on her desk. The stump of the quarian's arm remained empty, pressed to her side. Roahn hunched over her prosthesis as she lightly positioned the overhead lamp to give herself a little more illumination, picking up a socket driver so that she could spin it in the fingers of her remaining hand.

The maintenance activity was also instrumental in killing time for Roahn. The Menhir was currently en route to Berlin and by her count there were still a few hours left of travel time before they docked. She was too alert to sleep so she might as well do something productive. She had plenty of time to complete her tasks.

One of the panels in the forearm of the prosthesis had been popped open from Roahn's handiwork, exposing an intricate set of pistons, gears, and toughened polymers and alloys that formed the skeleton of the precise instrument. Light that glinted off from the silver fingers, already scratched after her couple of campaigns, bounced off her blue visor, terminating in a lens flare effect off the edge of her helmet. She hummed a little tune as she worked within the solitude that her room afforded.

There was nothing wrong with the prosthesis that warranted its disassembly. With some of the free time that she had to herself, Roahn had recently gotten the idea if there were certain areas of her arm that she could make any improvements to. The prosthesis was a device and most devices could be upgraded. No harm in checking it out. In the corner of her visor, Roahn had put up a little box that displayed a magnified view from her suit cameras, giving her a more detailed look that would circumvent any difficulties stemming from being suited.

To her surprise, her quick look under the hood provided no indication that the prosthesis had any area that she could enhance. When Sam had initially told her that all the technology that had gone into it had been top-of-the-line, he had not been lying. The intricate metal pieces were mostly made out of titanium, magnesium, and there was even silver and gold used for conducting currents, not to mention there being an excess of carbon fiber in the chassis to make it light. The individual finger motors were positioned optimally to capitalize on weight distribution. The most advanced microprocessors that monitored the position and control of each finger had been installed in the motor assembly. Bebonic sensors and auto grip programs had already been included in firmware packages within the arm's native software. In short, there were no radical changes Roahn could hope to make to this arm in order to have it work any better.

There was a knock at Roahn's door. She was so distracted by her work that she nearly missed it. "Come in," she called hastily after barely positioning her head around to see who had come calling.

The door opened and Skye poked her head inside, her tuft of scarlet hair bobbing in her wake. "Hey," she softly greeted. "I haven't… talked to you in a while. Did you want some company?"

Roahn turned in her chair, hand on her knee to look upon the woman. She weighed Skye's offer in her head, trying to gauge the woman's intent. Determining no malice, the quarian's posture relaxed as she was helpless to recall a moment lying side-by-side with Skye during their training, sharing a private joke as they nestled within each other's heat. It would be a relief to be able to have more of those memories.

"I could use someone to talk to, yes," Roahn said as she gestured for Skye to take a seat on her bed.

The human graciously did not revel in this minor victory and took the offered seat with silence and humility. She leaned over Roahn's shoulder, spotting her friend's detached arm on the desk. "It's just so bizarre to see something like that," she said.

"Why?" Roahn asked mirthfully. "Do you never take the occasion to detach your limbs for a closer look?"

"You make it sound so morbid, Roahn."

"It's my routine now," Roahn said as she now aligned the forearm panel and began to screw it back into place. "I have to find the normality in it somehow."

Skye blew a long breath from her mouth as she flopped onto Roahn's bed, splaying out her arms as she gripped the edges of the mattress. "They gave you a comfier bed than me," she noted out loud, changing the subject. "I guess that's one of the perks of being in command."

With her arm reassembled, Roahn lifted the prosthesis up and attached it back to the port at her arm with thick locking sound. She waggled her fingers to ensure that there was a good connection and gave a nod of confirmation once she had declared herself whole for the most part. "Take it up with logistics, Skye. I'm not the one who goes and furnishes this ship."

"Maybe I just like to gripe without coming to a reasonable solution."

"Sounds more frustrating than fun." Roahn stood from her desk after switching off her lamp, the muted glow from the interior lights casting the two women in blue-tinted shadows. She approached the edge of the bed, a hand on her hip as she looked down onto Skye, who was now lounging on the bed with her hands raised back, between her head and the pillow.

Skye, pretending to rest, cracked an eye open. "You don't need my permission to use your bed, you know." She patted the empty space next to her.

Roahn held her ground, her eyes clearly visible in the low light. She took conservative breaths, remaining silent as this was causing her to undergo some serious déjà vu.

"Come on," Skye urged as she smiled welcomingly. "I won't bite. I won't even say anything if you want."

Perhaps if Roahn was in a more irascible mood, she might have just taken Skye up on that request. Even if she had, that would just be her retaliatory side exacting its will over what appeared to be a genuine effort from the human to make amends. After her telling-off a week ago, Skye had been considerably less obnoxious as well as less aggressive in her interactions with Roahn. There was no question that the woman was sincere in her stance—and she was a crewmember on board her ship so what kind of sense would it make to be openly antagonistic to her still? Yet she knew that the woman's desires could not be changed that easily…

Rolling her eyes, Roahn accepted the invitation without a word. A grinning Skye scooted over to make room for the quarian as she lied down on the bed next to her. Both women took the next couple of moments to settle in, staring silently up at the ceiling as the interior was filled with the sounds of their quiet breathing: Skye's slow inhales mixed with Roahn's synthesized sighs.

With her hands folded over her stomach, Roahn turned her head to find Skye's limpid eyes staring back at her. "I don't want you to stay quiet," she said.

"I'm glad," Skye's expression broadened. "I like talking to you."

"And I liked talking to you too," Roahn admitted, hoping that her usage of the past tense would be a clear indicator to the human. We had something together, damn it. Why did you screw it up? "I'm also… grateful that you're here, Skye. I know I might have looked like I was trying to give the opposite impression for a while, but that's the truth."

"Why do you say that?" Skye asked honestly as she turned on her side, now propping her head up with a hand. "Just relieved overall to see a familiar face?"

Roahn mustered a croak of a laugh. "Something like that. With all the craziness that's been going on in my life, some semblance of familiarity is… appreciated."

"Maybe you just needed some time to warm up. Yeah, you're much less standoffish now than you were at the start."

Glistening ovals of mercury behind blue composite glass glanced downward before meeting Skye's eyes again. "Only for you, Skye. I'd… like to think that I've had a more welcoming mood for the other crewmembers."

Skye smirked. "But it's all right to snap at me, though?"

"I didn't say that," Roahn defended but the human was already laughing.

"Teasing, Roahn. Just teasing."

The quarian began to lift herself up from the bed. "I don't want to give people the impression that I'm some obstinate battleax. The personal history we have between us… sometimes it's just too much to discount. It makes it hard to think around you."

"You're not that kind of person," Skye uttered hurriedly, her words stilling Roahn in place and preventing her from leaving. "You're a sensitive and kind quarian to the point where my self-deprecation probably causes you more grief than I intend. You've never liked it when I do that."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're joking."

The human's hand twitched, almost as if Skye wished to touch Roahn, but she kept the impulse in check. "You know I hate to see you so forlorn. You've gone through so much shit already—and admittedly, I probably haven't helped much—but I just want to see you content. I just… there's so much on my mind already. The weight has only grown heavier since I've been around you."

"You always had a soft spot for me."

"No, I need to tell you more. Ever since I set foot on this ship my past mistakes have been screaming at me, reminding me over and over that I made a mistake. In the past month I've relived every one of my regrets from what I did to you and… I've been able to put everything in perspective. I think I've always known, Roahn, and I couldn't find a way to say it to you properly."

Skye, please… Roahn miserably thought.

"Roahn, I'm still in love with you," Skye said.

The cavernous vacuum manifested into a groan in Roahn's ears. Her head tilted away from Skye, she gave a slow, tortured blink, her heartbeat making pronounced thumps against her ribcage as she remained frozen in her half-risen state.

"You really do believe that, don't you?" Roahn whispered.

"Of course I believe it, and I know what you must be thinking—"

"Do you truly know? Or are you just telling me what you think I want to hear?"

Skye now looked like someone had just stepped on her dog. "Are you saying you don't feel the same?"

"That isn't the point, Skye," Roahn sighed as she lowered herself back down to lay on her side, mirroring the human's position. Her voice was tinged with sadness, her clouded expression drooped with regret. "We've both been dealing with this in our time, in our own way, nearly five years after it happened. I don't think you know me as well as you say you do when I know for a fact that I still don't have you fully figured. There was a time during boot camp, around the first week that we met, that I was unsure if you were really interested in me—personally—or if you just wanted to sleep with me. It took me a long while to fully figure out your intentions… but when I thought I finally knew you, I felt safe. Comfortable. Like I was flying high and in no danger of falling."

"When… you mean…"

"I fell hard for you, Skye. I really did. I wouldn't have had a problem if you were solely trying to get me into bed but it was the fact that you had your own special way of caring that caught me off guard. It only made things hurt so much more when we separated because I had thought that I could trust you. I fell into a depression after that, Skye, which was something that had never happened to me before."

There was no point in trying to remind Skye of the night that had found itself witness to their somewhat mutual split. Intrinsically, both of them had understood that they had reached a crossroads that could not be traversed easily without an undue leap of faith, one that Roahn had not been comfortable in committing to. The choice had been simple one that Roahn had ultimately decided on—though she knew that she would immediately feel the pain from separating from Skye, choosing to stay had been a path that had seemed tantamount to craziness. Her mind would have been performing backflips in attempting to justify Skye's stance within her own head.

Roahn had the tendency to revisit the events of that fateful night nearly every day, the events coming to her more and more vividly ever since she was within close proximity to Skye again. Not by choice, for the most part. Her memories had a habit of intruding into her consciousness without being prompted.

The direful day had begun and had proceeded somewhat innocuously. Roahn had been stationed on one of the dorm platforms that orbited around Luna as part of her rotational training, occupying real estate in close proximity to the Alliance's N7 facility down on the cratered moon, actually. Everything had gone according to the schedule: calisthenics, breakfast, zero-g maneuvers, studying, lunch, more calisthenics, being taught navy battle tactics, down time (Roahn usually spent this allotment with Skye), dinner, and finally the end of day activities. It had been Roahn's turn for fire-watch in the dorm corridors, basically acting as a glorified hall monitor. She would not get to sneak into Skye's dorm for some company tonight as she had to procedurally sweep the halls to make sure that no one was sneaking out of bed after-hours. Roahn did take stock of the hypocrisy. It was a dull assignment and barely any excitement happened during this time, but it was basic grunt-work and it was something that everyone had to do sooner or later. Mundane responsibilities were a constant in any military.

As Roahn had turned one of the corners, she had noticed a flicker of shadows coming from one of the selfsame doors that lined either side of the hall. Roahn's heart had skipped a beat. A person sneaking around past curfew. This had been a first for her. Now, protocol in this case was to take any offenders into custody and present them to the commandant of the ship to have a punishment levied. Roahn had the rulebook of her station in her head down pat and had briskly moved into a fast walk to begin the apprehension process when she suddenly stopped in the middle of the hall, recognizing the person in their failed intrusion.

Skye had been pressed to the wall, her expression morose, her hair askew. She was barefoot and her clothes were rumpled. Nothing about her appearance was in line with the prim and proper presentation honed into them as part of the Defender creed. The first thought that had come to Roahn's mind was that Skye looked like she had just gotten laid.

The idea stewed in her head darkly as Skye, already noticing she had been caught, slowly treaded her way towards Roahn, lower lip trembling.

"I just want to explain myself," Skye had whispered in the blue darkness of the cold hall. "That's all I ask from you, Roahn. Please."

The positioning of Roahn's eyes behind her visor was so icy that it looked like her entire face had been superimposed within a frozen block. However, she did not want to try to justify holding a conversation in the middle of the hall in case someone else kept walking by. She had then motioned with a finger for the two of them to take refuge in the shadow of a doorway, the blinking light from Roahn's vocabulator the only thing that gave the two of them away.

"So," Roahn had said, her voice even and freezing. "Start."

"I want you to know that I did this with the best intentions, Roahn. I didn't want you to find out because I didn't want to see you hurt—"

"You were sleeping with someone else," Roahn's voice had stung with a chilling judgment.

"Y-Yes, but—"

Roahn had turned away in disgust, cramming herself into the corner as a bout of nausea immediately slammed against her.

"—But I had to!" Skye had continued to defend herself. "It was Byers. You know, 'Babbling Byers'? The one who loves to snitch on everyone? He found out about us, Roahn. He knew that we were sleeping together. You know that personal relationships are not allowed in this stage of boot camp. He was going to go to the ruling board to rat us out! I had to stop him… to save us!"

"So… you're saying he blackmailed you? He pressured you to sleep with him for his silence?"

"Well…" a hitch had entered into Skye's breathing. "Not exactly."

"What? Did he rape you?"

"No! No, no, no. Nothing like that. It was… it was all my idea."

Now Roahn had slowly turned back, keeping a hand upon the doorframe to steady herself in case her legs gave out.

Skye had made a large gulp. "I… was the one who suggested that if I sleep with him… he would leave us alone. That's… that's it."

The quarian had made a noise of disgust, perhaps louder than she had intended—the noise had echoed down the empty corridor in a steady growl. "You think so little of yourself that you would trade sex so callously?"

"I did this to protect us." Skye had sounded almost proud at having come up with a solution, unaware that she had only been making Roahn angrier with her excuses.

"You…" Roahn had been so overwhelmed that she had to shake her head before constructing her reply. "You didn't even think to tell me what you were planning to do, what you thought was going to happen. We could have prepared for this, you and me. Instead… you just decided that the first idea you had was the way to go. And you don't even seem disgusted with yourself."

"We would face repercussions, Roahn! When Byers was going to report us—"

"With what proof, Skye?! Who gives a shit if he knew—he certainly would not be able to prove it! We were so careful outside of our rooms and certainly Byers would not have been stupid enough to plant a recording device in either one of them which, in case you forgot, is illegal and a much more serious violation of Defender bylaws! It would have been so easy for us to deny this and ignore a jealous little runt like that man. Instead, you slept with him because you were panicked without even giving a thought as to how I would feel."

Skye had started to cry at this point, keeping her sobs silent but her tears were glittering in the uneasy shadows. "Not once did I ever stop thinking of you."

But Roahn had not wanted to hear it, for she had been so put off from the idea that Skye willingly shared herself with someone else, even if she thought it was for a good cause, that it was causing actual anguish in the quarian. This was not what Roahn had wanted for them.

As the seconds ticked on by, Roahn's silence merely exacerbated Skye's sorrow. The human was now visibly shaking in her sorrow while Roahn maintained a stoic and angrily thoughtful front.

"Roahn…" Skye had motioned her fingertips forward. "I…"

But the quarian had edged herself out of the way, not even sparing Skye a look. "You'd better get back to your room before someone else sees," she had coldly said.

"No… no, Roahn, don't—"

"I'll come by tomorrow to collect my things that I left behind," she had said, staring off into the distance and ignoring Skye's pained face. "After that, I'm going to put in for a transfer." She finally turned her head over, no sympathy gracing the light in her eyes. "Then I never want to see you again."

It would be too painful to linger after delivering that last sentence and Roahn had not been in an especially compassionate state of mind. Skye had doubled over from this news like she was about to vomit; she was holding her stomach and rocking back and forth while keeping her stifled sobs from being audibly registered. Roahn recalled looking down upon the pathetic woman, almost driven from an impulsive and affectionate urge to place her hand gently upon Skye's head, perhaps as a way to reassure her that she would be all right from this, but the urge quickly faded before Roahn could take action on it. Instead, she turned on a heel and left the human there, not looking back and feeling strangely hollow and weightless as she floated though the endless halls, a part within her torn asunder.

It was clear that neither Roahn nor Skye relished being able to relive such a painful part of their lives, but while Skye seemed to be wallowing in her own self-pity, Roahn's confidence was unwavering. Even today, the quarian believed that she had made the best choice possible in order to distance herself from Skye's toxic behavior. She had hoped that the human would have been able to focus inwardly and to adjust any areas that needed work since then.

To be fair, looking at her now Roahn could see a definite improvement. A dogged impulse to repair what had been broken resonated within Skye. But would it be enough to make Roahn forgive and forget completely?

Skye seemed to be stunned into a contemplative silence. "Damn… I… I had no idea…" she said lamely.

"I wouldn't have told you in any case. But you still need to find out for yourself if what you feel to me is really love or some twisted urge to mend what you broke in me. Because those two things are not the same."

"I know…" Skye hung her head, contrite. "I know."

Roahn nodded. "I hope you can recognize the difference. If you truly mean what you say, I'll probably see it in you eventually. But I can't take things as fast as you want, Skye. Because… honestly? I'm terrified that I'm going to love you again."

Upon that bed, feet nearly touching, the quarian and the human stared intensely at the other, barely blinking, breathing now locked in sync. There was a tender buzz that seemed to tie them together, a fizzing sensation in their chests, just above their sternums. Roahn tilted her head a tic, watching Skye's hair flow onto the pillow like ribbons while the warm chocolate of the human's eyes melted into a truthful gaze.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Skye whispered tenderly, her voice low enough to produce intense sensations of intimacy long past in Roahn.

Feeling her breath scrape her lungs, it was an effort for Roahn to even shake her head to the barest millimeter. "Perhaps not."

Skye smiled and finally raised her hand, the tips of her fingers barely brushing the sides of Roahn's helmet. The quarian suppressed the instinct to jerk away but quickly relented into the needful touch. Skye explored the outline of Roahn's helmet respectfully, her fingers never encroaching farther than they should. Roahn kept ramrod still, only her eyes moving, while her breathing filled her body so deep her ribs nearly snapped.

The brown of Skye's eyes met the indeterminate green of Roahn's. "Do you think I will ever get to see your face again?"

Now Roahn lifted a hand and gently pried Skye's away, but not before she gave a reassuring squeeze. "I hope so."

The muscles of Skye's mouth nearly tugged to reveal a wide grin. She had to dip her head to hide the reaction, keeping herself composed (which Roahn found to be quite thoughtful).

"I won't trouble you for the rest of the day," she unexpectedly said as she swung her legs off the bed and gave Roahn's shoulder a pat before she left. "I hope you find what you're looking for down on Earth. Be sure to keep me updated, okay, Ro?"

"Yeah, sure," Roahn muttered in a daze as she too sat up, nearly too late to watch the slender outline of the human glide out the door, leaving her all alone in a fruitless cloud of confusion. "I hope so too," she repeated, unsure as to what she was referring to, exactly.

Petra Nebula
Hatay Station

James had to duck as he left the tram car while Jack and Phoria, being half a head shorter, moseyed on by without making any similar accommodations just behind him. The sparse and seedy interior of Hatay Station did not exactly project an inviting aura. The station itself had been carved out of an asteroid in the lone belt of the Petra Nebula, intended as a waystation for miners and travelers. The belt was rich in heavy metals and eezo, making Hatay prime real estate for any mining corporation to base a remote office.

Hatay was riddled with a network of vacuum tubes that acted as the tram lines. There was no atmosphere for skycars to operate. The trams also had no windows as the only view would have been rock or industrial segments whizzing past just a few centimeters from the hull. Instead, large screens gave rundowns on news all over the galaxy mixed with advertisements for taking in entertainment at one of the two casinos on this rock… or to peruse the gallery at the local strip club.

Choices, choices.

From first glance, it was clear that Hatay was nothing like the Citadel. Whereas the Citadel was clean, composed, and had a wide amount of open space, Hatay embodied the opposite of those traits. Space was at a premium on this asteroid which in turn demanded a clustered and cramped grid of industry to intermingle with the population. Clutter naturally led to uncleanliness which in turn fostered a seedy and roughened culture. The décor was nonexistent—concrete floors and walls with very little effort being made to display slight hints of ostentation. A fake plant here would be the determinant factor between a crappy bar and a somewhat respectable restaurant.

Truthfully, Hatay would not have been James' first choice as a place to lay low for the moment, but it was all he had. Hours ago, he had just received an encoded and fragmented message from the human councilor that had gone directly to his omni-tool the moment Phoria's vessel came into range of an extranet beacon. It read, PTR NEB::HTY STN::AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS. The directive had passed all the proper clearance checks and then some. The encryption on the message had been so thorough that, to his embarrassment, James had had to ask Phoria for some assistance in decoding it, to which the quarian had obliged with some bemusement.

It did make sense why James would have been ordered here until the councilor would surreptitiously give them a ride back to the Citadel to be put into protective custody. The Petra Nebula was under Alliance control and still in quite friendly territory, so to speak. The last major ruckus that had occurred in this sector, besides the war, had been the pirate attack on Elysium nearly forty years back so there was no reason to think that any major surprises were due to spring up at any moment over here.

Besides, it was a rough galaxy out there. Any shred of sanctuary was to be taken advantage of.

Bright LED lights atop bar entrances beckoned. They glittered and flashed in a seizure-inducing display. All of the watering holes in the sector of the station looked to be packed full, full of bouncers, scantily-clad serving girls, and patrons in all stages of intoxication from mildly buzzed to being completely passed out in their own vomit. What a charming location.

A quick extranet search showed that Hatay's ritziest hotel was a few blocks down the main avenue. James motioned with a finger and the trio headed off in that direction. He hoped that the three of them did not look too conspicuous, though just in case he sandwiched Phoria between him and Jack, hiding the diminutive alien behind his broad frame, because there were still places in the galaxy that held an anti-quarian bias. He did not want to attract any undue attention. On spaceward stations alone in the dark like this, unsavory types like bounty hunters and criminals had a tendency to congregate with the watchful gaze of the law having slipped this place from its domain. Anything could happen here. They just needed to be careful.

The hotel at the end of the street was not part of a well-known chain, unfortunately. The entrance barely looked different from the bleak and bare trappings that adorned the front of the bars on Hatay. A thin and sallow woman with yellowed cheeks manned the front desk. James took charge of arranging the rooms while Jack and Phoria lingered behind. After confirming that the payment went through, James received his room assignment and beckoned his companions over. They took the lift up one level and came to a sad and dusty corridor that seemed to stretch on for half a mile in one continuous direction.

Jack glanced at the room assignment still being projected on James' omni-tool and lifted a hand to palm the first door they came to, but James reached out and clasped her wrist in time, giving a stern shake of his head. Unbothered by his confusion, they walked one more row down before he reached the next door. This one he did push against and it opened with an unhealthy creak.

"You must be joking," Phoria bemoaned upon seeing the state of the room.

Two thin beds lay nearly side by side next to the far wall, the blankets crumpled and unfolded. There was no window. No remote media station, either. The sliding door to the closet was half open, revealing a space barely large enough to hang clothes for a nice Sunday dinner. A glance inside the bathroom did not make matters better—the toilet and the sink were both brushed steel and the shower was a thin cylinder crammed into the corner that could not hope to accommodate a human on the larger side. All had several discolored stains upon them—James did not particularly care to imagine what they consisted of.

"Get over yourself," Jack snapped at the quarian as she rudely brushed past to claim one of the beds for herself. "Believe me, it's better than a prison."

"It looks like a prison!" Phoria gaped.

"Then you can take your chances at another hotel because we're not switching," James said as he closed the door behind him. "Or if you'd like to chance bunking in the ship, probably the first place a bounty hunter would go if we were being tracked…"

He let the statement hang, hoping that Phoria would get the message.

The quarian gave a huff but started to tread around the tiny room to take stock of the place. She flicked random switches, finding that all the lights to the place worked, to her surprise. She twisted the tap to the sink and refiltered water gurgled out.

"I suppose it's too much to ask if they have a sterilization unit installed," she grumbled.

Jack scoffed as she reclined on the bed. "Even if it did, would you really want to chance it?"

"Probably not."

James took a few minutes to take a thorough accounting of the room. He got on his knees and checked every nook and cranny in the area—not hard considering that the place was light on furniture. He even booted up a program that could detect planted audio bugs and gave the place a few sweeps, finding nothing.

Phoria had tentatively taken the other bed, though she sat rather stiffly upon it, as though as she was too proud to touch the sheets which, by the look of things, had not been washed between tenants. She was clearly out of her comfort zone, putting her in a state of agitation. James could not feel too sorry for the woman as it kind of was her fault that all three of them were in this mess, to some degree.

Glancing at his chronometer, James then walked over to Jack, who had her eyes closed, apparently asleep already. He raised his foot and gave her boot a nudge.

"Go away, you bastard," Jack grumbled, not even bothering to open her eyes.

"Get up," James said. "We need to get some provisions."

"So? Go back to the ship and get some."

"Not a good idea. The docks are too far away. Besides, there's a shop just across the street."

"Don't bring me. Bring Phoria. Have her tag along with her."

James looked over just in time to see the quarian straighten where she sat, as if she was surprised to be mentioned by name. Clearly the elder woman was torn at the prospect of having to slum it among people that were of a lower class than she was. Or perhaps she just did not like being referred to in the third person.

He shook his head. "We're not taking her out in public if we can help it. There are too many eyes on the street. You going to help me out here or not?"

Finally, Jack's eyes snapped open and she gave a needed stretch, the tattoos on her wrists scrambling past the sleeves of her jacket. "Fine. Fine. Whatever you say, marine. You're relentless."

"How many times have I been told that before?" James ruefully muttered to himself but gave a small smile as Jack gradually rose from the bed.

Phoria frantically looked back and forth between the two hardened humans in a panic. "Wait… wait, wait, wait. You're not thinking of leaving me here by myself, are you?"

Jack looked to James, feeling that the quarian had a point.

James, however, kept up his reticent expression. "There's only one way into this building and we're only going right across the street. We'll have an eye on the hotel entrance the whole time."

"Oh no," Phoria rose, waggling a finger. "No, Captain Vega. I'm not going to stay in this felta rhaana room by myself, waiting for some mercenary to gut me! If you leave me alone, you've as good as killed me."

An apathetic Jack shrugged. "If only you had a private army that you could call on in this trying time."

Phoria's eyes diminished into slits, not amused at being mocked.

James continued to remain steadfast. "I think you'd better come to terms that you'd be in the same amount of danger wherever you step foot on this station. In here, out there, it makes no difference. Jack and I have things covered—you'll be well protected for the whole duration. Here—we can even set up a code knock that lets you know it's either one of us before we enter your room. Let's go with… two, one, two. Got it?"

"Two, one, two," Phoria repeated, but she did not sound assuaged.

James knocked on the wall for emphasis, letting the brevity of the anthem ring hollowly in the land where no echo dared to venture.

"I don't like it," Jack said.

"What's to like?" James answered as he shimmied his way between the crevasses that were the rows of the market. Cans covered in asteroid dust lined the shelves of the establishment, which were badly lit by over-exerting halogen lights that made his skin feel burned.

Jack rolled her eyes behind him as she grabbed a few crumpled packages of freeze-dried fruit. "You know. Phoria. It wasn't a good idea leaving her alone back there."

James glanced out the window of the market, able to easily find the front of the hotel a dozen meters away across the footpath. The woman at the concierge desk was aimlessly watching something on an illegal channel, the traffic pretty much dead at the establishment, which happened to be the exact same view he had looked upon for the last three minutes.

"Concerned for her well-being now?" he asked as he took the foodstuffs that Jack had procured and placed it into the basket where their collection of provisions was growing.

"Just because I don't like her doesn't mean I want her to end up dead," Jack defended.

"Jack, you don't like most people," James pointed out. "To be frank, the line for where you decide whether someone lives or dies is kind of blurred in your head."

Jack looked upward at the ceiling, trying to see if there was any part of James' statement that she could refute. When she finally came up empty-handed, she mustered a one-armed shrug. "I admit, it's a toss-up."

James shook his head as he added more items to the basket. "Yeah. Big fucking toss-up."

"Did I do something wrong?" Jack asked as she watched the marine's face furrow in frustration.

"You're asking the wrong question," James said. "More like, did we do something right? Did we do anything right?"

"James…"

"No, I'm being serious," James turned around in the aisle. Considering its width, this was not an easy endeavor. "Whenever I've had to make a decision where lives in the balance, I end up paying for it in some way. Every time, Jack. Every time… I've always gotten into trouble for it. I've made choices that required better minds than mine. Now look. The both of us are fugitives, hiding a whole solar system away from Earth, and we have the former head of a PMC as our travelling companion. If only I had kept my mouth shut during that party with Phoria and had minded my own business."

James then looked down as he felt Jack's hand clamp down hard on his wrist. His eyes widened slightly in surprise. Lean and bony though she may be, Jack had one hell of a grip—his fingers were turning a slightly darker shade of pink as the blood was squeezed into them. He then took a moment to focus on Jack's face. Her shadowed eyes retained a steely but malleable vulnerability. Her dark lips remained set and expectant. James now noticed how Jack apparently let a few strands of her hair dangle from her bangs, deliberately out of place from her otherwise combed back look. The tattoos at her neck and at the sides of their scalp seemed to lose their edge. There was no anger. Just sadness and disappointment.

"You know, marine," Jack said, "you really are the most morose do-gooder I've ever known. And I've worked with Shepard."

James' face darkened. "I just want a sign that I've done something right, Jack. I don't want all this—what we're doing—to be some footnote on a threadbare wiki page. I want to know… is this the right thing?"

The frosty look in Jack's face warmed as she smiled ever so slightly.

"Oh, so you just want me to give you a pep talk?"

"Forget it," James sighed. "Just… forget it. It won't be sincere anyway."

"Hey," Jack urged as James tried to slip out of her grip, but she tightened the hold she had on his wrist hard enough to cause the man to wince. "Hey. Just because things are shitty for us doesn't mean that you're not right. You still have someone who believes you."

James arched an eyebrow but he had to break eye contact as Jack finally released his wrist, which caused him to gasp in relief. A white ring now encircled his arm and he rubbed at the afflicted area.

"One person out of a thousand," he said.

"And that one person is the person you know the best out of all of them," she retorted.

"So that's your motivation for sticking with me on this? You also believe that what you're doing is the correct choice?"

"Please," Jack chuffed. "Don't make me out to be some noble bitch. You'd think I'd tag along only because I wanted to fight for the right thing? Hold aloft the sword of truth and justice or some crap like that? Shit, marine. You might be denser than I—what are you looking at?"

James had been barely paying attention as he was noticeably staring back towards the entrance to the hotel again, his eyes darting to and fro as he swayed his head in agitation. Jack mimicked his movements as she turned in the direction he was looking and immediately honed in on the distraction in question.

A salarian in full combat armor, complete with helmet, had walked into the lobby and was now talking to the receptionist. The woman did not seem to be fazed as she conversed to the thin alien with the darkened faceplate obscuring their features. The salarian had not seen James or Jack on the other side of the street even though it made a few furtive glances back the way it came to ensure that he had not been followed. A few seconds later, the alien in the yellow and black armor turned and headed further inside the hotel, towards the lifts, the brief glint of a submachine gun pinned to his thigh immediately visible to the two humans in the market.

"And there we go," James urged as he surged forward towards the exit, unceremoniously dropping the basket of food on the ground.

"We're just going to leave it?" Jack asked as James led her outside, referring to the food.

"We'll get it later. Draw your gun."

The two hurriedly darted across the boulevard with none of the pedestrians sparing them a second glance. In a rough-and-tumble place like this, two people with drawn weapons was not enough to set off a panic. James and Jack reached the hotel lobby and, as casually as possible, proceeded at a fast walk towards the elevator at the end of the hall. They sidled into the first available tube and punched in the number for the next floor up.

They had their arms outstretched, guns pointed straight, by the time the doors opened seconds later. Immediately on the other side was an elderly man with a checkered fedora, with a corgi on a leash, waiting for his turn to go down. James and Jack hastily pulled their weapons back, but the man just stared at them with an exasperated expression, like all this was old hat to him.

"Not again," he groaned with a dejected sigh.

James sidled past and gingerly guided the man and his dog into the elevator, trading places. "You don't want to be around here, old man," he said with as much sensitivity as he could muster. His kindness was rewarded by a discombobulated stream of expletives, something about the 'uppity youths' or maybe he was saying something else. Hard to tell exactly—the man was not enunciating all that well.

Jack peered around the corner and pulled her head back when she spotted the salarian standing in front of one of the doors down the corridor. "Get back," she whispered to James. "He's there."

James switched places with Jack and edged his head out as much as he dared. The elevator bay was the only cover between them and the alien—venturing into the hall would get them spotted immediately. Yep, the salarian was definitely going after Phoria. He was right around the area where she was holed up in. Who did this guy work for? A PMC? A freelancer? The salarian still had not noticed that he was being watched. Very slowly, the thin alien unlatched the submachine gun from its holster and lifted it up towards the door. The weapon was sleek, showing evidence of extensive modifications. A silencer had been fitted at the end of the barrel—those were illegal for civilians in Council space. Even at this distance, James could hear the tiny snap of the safety being switched off.

"Wait…" Jack muttered as she took a closer look. "That's… that's not the room—"

"Quiet," James shushed her as he too flicked off the safety to his pistol. "As soon as he enters…"

The salarian shouldered the submachine gun with deliberate precision and aimed down the sights towards the door latch. The air was split apart with the nearly silent concussions of bullets ripping through the air as shredded woodchips splintered into dust, the lock pulverized in an instant as eight rounds bent it out of shape. Expertly, the salarian kicked the door in, gun at the ready as the alien moved through the nearly invisible dust cloud it had created.

"Go," James said before hurrying at a light jog, taking care to keep his feet silent as he approached the rudely opened door, Jack at his heels.

James motioned for Jack to slow as they were within a few feet of the opened portal. He peeked his head in and, in a fluid motion, brought his weapon to bear as he stood fully within the threshold. The salarian's back had been turned to him this whole time, the thin alien apparently nonplussed when it had entered the room and had found no one inside.

"I think you had the wrong room there, buddy," James could not resist saying.

Immediately, the salarian whirled, white-hot fire spewing from his submachine gun as the walls became pockmarked with hip fire. James sent three rounds flying from his own weapon, striking the salarian in the center of mass, but the sudden flaring of blue hexagonal energy told him that he merely struck the alien's shields. Still, that was enough to throw off the alien's aim—the bullets it sent in James' direction went high, shattering one of the light fixtures and causing frosted white glass to sprinkle to the concrete floor.

James ducked behind the doorframe, momentarily protected by enemy fire. He leaned out to open up on the salarian again, but the alien had taken cover behind the bed, having kicked it over to act as makeshift cover. Not that it mattered—the bullets from James' gun could easily penetrate an obstacle like a bed—but it was the fact that he had no idea where the body behind it was positioned… and salarians were quite thin.

From his position, the salarian answered back with a rapid chatter of automatic fire, forcing James to leap back into the hallway to nearly collide with Jack, who was struggling to get a shot but could not without risking hitting James. The wall beyond was scarred as bullets distorted its shape. The smell of cordite reached James' nostrils. His eardrums felt abused—even though the submachine gun was silenced the concussive shockwaves the bullets sent through the air were enough to punish the soft tissues of his head. He felt like he had just staggered home from a concert in which he had been spending the majority of the time standing in front of the speakers.

The door to adjacent room opened and a white-crested helmet poked out. "What the hell is going on?!" Phoria screamed as she saw Jack.

The biotic did not answer her verbally. Instead, she screwed up her concentration and focused her energy into a simple push. The scythe of biotic force pressed into the door, swinging it closed again, but not without conking Phoria right in the center of her helmet, knocking her flat on her back and causing her to roll around on the ground back into the room, dazed.

Ignorant to the quarian's plight, James leaned out of cover again to answer back with his own volley. However, his gun ejected a spent thermal clip after he had delivered three bullets… and the slide did not cycle back all the way.

"You've got to be fucking kidding," he muttered. Of all the times to have his pistol jam! A clip was wedged between the magazine and the slide, metal grating on metal.

That did not seem to be a problem exclusive to him. The salarian sat back up and fired several more rounds before his gun clicked open too. The helmeted head dipped down, confused, and found that his weapon had encountered a catastrophic overheating event. Some of the softer metal parts within his weapon had melted, rendering it useless.

Aware that it was in a vulnerable state, the salarian stood and chucked its ruined submachine gun like a frisbee in James' direction. He ducked behind a corner to avoid the projectile in time. Enraged, he too stepped out of cover and pretty much hurled his pistol back at the salarian. The air-bound grip of the gun hit the corner of the alien's visor, cracking it, and causing the salarian to fall straight on his ass.

James saw his chance and took it, bellowing like a lunatic as he barreled through the doorway to erupt in a full-on tackle against the armored salarian. Seeing he was only wearing a shirt and pants up against a fully armored foe, there was quite a lot of pain involved on James' end as his body smashed against the protected coverings the alien wore.

"James, get out of the way!" Jack screamed as she tried to get a clean shot.

Tightly locked together, the salarian suddenly found an opening and reared its head back before throwing it forward in a ferocious headbutt. The forehead of the helmet knocked against James' skull and he almost let go of the mercenary. Blood poured into his eyes. Stars like cigarette burns marred his vision.

The salarian did a complex twist and the dazed James found himself on his back. The alien reached to his side to draw a wickedly curved knife, tribal etchings shaping the blade into a tempestuous curl.

But that was the opening Jack needed. She levelled several shots at the salarian, all of them hitting him in the chest. The salarian jerked back with every blow, frightful blue static of its shields erupting in an earsplitting tempo. One such hit bucked the alien's torso nearly completely upright. Jack then lunged forward and swept her hand in a wide arc, a fan of purple kinetic energy surging from her fingertips, which caught the salarian in the middle and sent him careening into the far wall, which erupted in a dusty shockwave from the impact. Bits of shattered concrete tumbled down around the felled mercenary, exposing the pale glint of rebar.

James sat up, blood nearly encrusting one of his eyes shut, at the same time the salarian was shakily getting back to his feet. He saw the alien make a fist with its hand and a short dagger sprang out from a hidden slit in the armor of its forearm. Alarmed, a burst of adrenaline flooded his brain, forcing him back to his feet so that he could spring forward and slam the salarian back against the wall, grabbing for the knife at the same time. He could hear the alien's grunting coming from the helmet's vocabulator as the two struggled for the weapon—the salarian was using both hands to bring his arm closer and closer to James' face with the point of the knife inching closer and closer to the human's eye.

The marine could not believe it. The cords in his muscles were bulging past his skin but the salarian was nearly as strong as he was.

With a bellow, James abruptly grabbed at the collar of the salarian's armor and pushed off with his feet in the opposite direction, hurling the two into the other wall. The drywall cracked and caved in, showering the two combatants with white dust. Bruised, bleeding from half a dozen cuts, but otherwise intact, James grunted as he now pushed back on the salarian, sending them toppling into a dresser. Objects on top of the furniture fell—there was a crack as something shattered. The salarian was furiously jabbing with his arm now, trying to stick James in his side with the knife, between his ribs to puncture a lung or perhaps cleave his heart in two.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

James managed a wide enough opening so that he could plow his fist into the salarian's partially armored gut. There was a dull snap as James realized that one of his fingers had just broke, but the force of the blow was strong enough to send the salarian doubling over for breath. The alien was still holding onto the human with its free hand. To shake him off, James grabbed at the salarian's frame and embarked into a charge against the connecting wall between the two rooms, looking to smash his opponent directly into it.

But, with a terrific crash, the two burst right through the wall into the other room! The uncarpeted floor was suddenly sprayed with debris as the human and salarian tumbled onto the ground, both shocked, and lay where they had fallen for a moment.

The salarian was the first to rise back up, but his attention was momentarily distracted as he spied the prone body of Phoria, still prostrate on the ground after being smacked in the head, softly groaning as her hands clasped her helmeted temples.

"There you are," a breathy voice burst from his helmet, the first audible sound he had made.

Phoria looked up and uttered a terrified cry of fear as she saw the salarian struggle to rise, knife extended from his armor, as she knew what was about to befall her.

A shadow then moved behind the salarian in the form of an enraged James. He hurled himself onto the mercenary, crushing the alien to the ground, before the two of them engaged in another bout of frantic punching, kicking, and muted cursing as the flash of the knife glittered this way and that, desperate to taste blood. James felt a white-hot line cut across his bicep. Red droplets streaked the wall and ground. The pain kicked in a few seconds later. It was a shallow cut, easily ignored. If anything, it made James even angrier.

Rolling and throwing blows without rhythm, the two savagely found their way into the bathroom where their limbs smacked into the shower, the sink, and the toilet. All of the appliances had been bolted into the walls to prevent vandalism. They did not budge. James and the salarian did.

On that stained and dirtied tile floor, James finally got a lock around the salarian's knife arm. He scrambled to his knees and savagely banged the alien's wrist on the edge of the sink several times until the knife broke off at the hilt to clatter to the ground. James kicked it away. The salarian tried to stand on his own accord, but James quickly grabbed him and tried to put him in a headlock. Soon the human realized this was impossible—the armor had several notches around the collar that prevented his arm from choking the salarian's neck. The salarian knew what James was trying to do and was yanking at his arm with all his might, making muffled yells as his feet scrabbled a dusty tattoo on the tiles.

James caught his reflection in the rusty mirror. He took a step forward and plowed the salarian's helmet right in the middle of it. Reflective glass shattered around the helmet, scattering onto the floor. James smashed the helmet against the cracked wall again, denting it. And again. And again. And again. By the time he finally pulled back, the visor was a whitened mess of spiderwebs, the black paint scratched and gouged like a wild animal had been clawing at it.

The ruined helmet, the seals now loose, tumbled from the salarian's head. James only had time to behold an amphibian face with mottled brown and burgundy skin before he dropped to the ground and plunged the salarian's head into the toilet, completely acting on chemical instinct now. Musty water overflowed around the bowl, splashing everywhere. The lights overhead seemed to flicker sinisterly. Limber hands tried to beat James away, but he was in too strong of a position. Bubbles and gurgles trickled from the toilet, the awkwardly bent legs of the alien desperately pushing at anything, trying to escape.

There was a noise behind James. Jack was standing in the doorway, watching what was happening. She might have said something to him, he could not really tell. She only occupied a small part of his subconscious—his focus was right here in this bathroom… with his hands around its neck.

More foul-smelling water frothed angrily as James held the salarian still, but the savage flurries of effort were beginning to diminish. James counted down the seconds, each one feeling like it lasted a lifetime in his head.

The blows to his head and arms were slowly fading.

The motions of the salarian's feet were halting and erratic.

There were hardly any more bubbles surfacing from the toilet.

In mere seconds, it was over.

For several more minutes, James continued to hold the head in place, knowing that it took a long time to thoroughly drown someone. His kept his body rigid, his muscles still exerted, as his breath surged out in wheezes.

Finally, he let go, and the body dropped to the floor, head dripping fluid.

James now tilted his head to look at the man he had just killed. The color had appeared to drain from the salarian's face. One of its eyes was completely bloodshot—a dark olive green color. A thin trickle of fluid wept from the alien's mouth, its lungs waterlogged.

"Is it over?" Jack asked, causing James to jump, not yet comfortable in stowing her pistol.

The panting human turned the body over, his face coated in blood and sweat. "For now…" he breathed.

"I guess it was just good luck that this moron picked the wrong room Phoria was in, huh?"

"No," James shook his head. "He guessed correctly."

Jack blinked, uncomprehending. "Wait… but how…?"

"I booked more than one room," James smirked. "I had a suspicion that my credit chit was being tracked, so I hedged a bet that any methodical bounty hunter would check any room that I put down under my name. I used one chit to pay for this room and I used an unlisted chit for the other."

Phoria then choose that time to come around the corner, groggily still keeping a hand to her head. "So, you used me as bait," she stated. "That was why the both of you left me, so that you would be in a better position to ambush anyone who came by."

James nodded matter-of-factly. "I took a gamble."

"You were playing with my life."

Jack then turned around and prodded Phoria hard in the chest. "Keep up the fucking hypocrite act and see how far it gets you." She then looked at James, who was still hovering over the body. "James, we need to leave. There could be more on their way right now. What are you doing?"

"Just need to… find out who he works for," he said as he ran his hands frantically over the salarian's body, searching for anything he could find that would provide identification.

With some effort, he snapped away one of the salarian's ID chips from his hand terminal and inserted it into his own tool. Immediately, upon activation, a blazing yellow icon appeared over James' hand: a sequenced set of wings positioned in a "V" shape atop a hovering ring. One could hear James and Jack's jaws drop a mile away as they recognized the insignia.

"Oh… fuck," Jack blurted out.

"Goddamn it," James hissed.

"What is it?" Phoria groaned, barely paying attention.

James appraised the corpse again, taking no comfort in staring at the man's lifeless eyes, trying to figure out how their paths had gone so wrong when they had crossed and if there could have been an opportunity for them to find a peaceful resolution to their differences.

"Spectre," James grimaced as he stood. "We've been sold out."

A/N: A little bit of everything in this chapter. Politics, romantic angst, and a violent fight scene. What's not to like?

Also, I can confirm that the next couple of chapters will be Roahn-centric, so if you've been awaiting that sort of chapter, then you're in luck. Especially since this next one is rather important to the story at large, but any more I say would be venturing into spoiler-territory... and you know how I feel about that.

Playlist:

Chimera and the Council
"Incubation"
Jed Kurzel
Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

Bedside Discussion
"Never Give Up"
Clinton Shorter
The Expanse [Season 3] (Original Television Soundtrack)

Bad Housekeeper (Spectre Fight)
"Forced Entry"
Max Richter
Ad Astra (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)