"Mass Effect 2 supports a variety of play styles, except for kamikaze. You'll quickly find that charging an enemy, especially on higher difficulties, will be a surefire way to get yourself killed. That is both not a legitimate strategy in real life and not a legitimate strategy in this game."

The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)


SSV Denali

Fat beads of water dribbled off the matte black blade of the knife as Huston held it under the faucet. The bottom of the sink was spattered with thin tendrils of red. The blood had mostly dried upon the knife already and was slowly seeping towards the drain—Huston had to use soap and a sponge to scour the knife's surface clean.

Once that was finished, the only lingering sound in the bathroom was the faint gurgle of liquid that emanated from the deep recesses of the piping up through the drain. Huston cradled the knife in his hands, holding it almost as if it were a scepter for a king to scoop up and bash some malfeasant's head with.

The knife itself was nothing extraordinary. It was a standard-issue MK21. Laser cut blade, black Sytec coating, Westernized tanto shape made out of stainless steel, and an ergonomic handle that was ambidextrous to boot. All incoming grunts were handed one of them as part of their basic training. They were more common than toothbrushes. On the blade itself were etched both "MK21" and the Alliance supply number. All in all, an utterly unremarkable weapon.

The blade had not belonged to Huston initially. When he had first joined the service, extraterrestrial contact had not even been established yet. They were still handing out Ka-Bars and KM2000s back then depending on which region one signed up for the service on Earth. This particular knife, the MK21 had begun production decades later, and had first been given to Huston's son, Mark, when he had signed up shortly after that fateful day of first contact had occurred.

Mark. Thinking about the boy threatened to tear open Huston's grieving process. His son had been destined for great things, but Huston's plans for the young man had been upended too early, too suddenly.

Mark had been killed two months before the Reaper War started in full. Shot during a military raid gone wrong in which his company boarded a ship trespassing in restricted space. The ship had been carrying private army contractors and they had been too undisciplined to surrender in the face of overwhelming odds. They had opened fire on the first Alliance soldiers they saw. Mark's body had been too mangled for an open-casket funeral. His knife was the only item on his person that had not withstood any damage from that encounter.

Huston had always been bitter at the unfair timing of his son's passing. Mark had been lost before there had been any chance to make a name for himself. No opportunity to carve his own history through glorious battle. Whatever commendations Huston himself had racked up, they were only painful reminders that his son was missing out on these chances too, chances he would knowingly have used to have made his father proud, to carry on the Huston legacy of producing able-bodied heroes for humanity.

It was perhaps a daily occurrence when Huston reflected what kind of a man his son would prove to be during the war. Would he have used those fateful moments to find fire within his heart and to show his species what bravery and courage could look like if they embodied a person to the full? Or would he have faltered in place, as so many did, upon first glance at the machine demons that emanated from the dark? Huston liked to believe that Mark would have been in the former camp, though he knew there would never be a way to be completely sure.

Another memory he had been robbed of.

The knife had remained on Huston's person after he took possession of it, knowing that Mark would have wanted it to remain in service with a family member. And what better member to hold such a weapon than his own father? Huston was proud to carry his son's knife, though he had never had a chance to draw it in battle. He had spent the majority of the war from behind a viewport, or hunkered in a battleship's war room at the far end of a solar system. At no point did he ever set his boots on solid ground to participate in land combat at all. No, his specialty was in the void. In space. Where his skills could be put to their best use.

Perhaps today was the first time the knife had ever actually tasted blood. That metal had no other moments to latch itself onto. Today was its official christening, apparently.

It had been a long time since Huston had killed someone. In person, at least. He had certainly never done it with a knife, let alone slit someone's throat in cold blood. Huston had been shocked at how easy it all was—it felt like the blade, pristine from never being used, had simply glided across Phoria's throat. One second of movement and it was all done for the quarian. Watching the dying body of Phoria twitch at his feet, Huston was slightly alarmed by the fact that he should at least feel something for what he had done to this woman, except there had been nothing. An absence of emotion. He had been left stark quiet all the way through when the light left the quarian's eyes. In a way, it had been interesting watching her pass. Being behind the command of a dreadnought for most of his career, he only saw death when he razed the hull of an enemy frigate. A spectacular explosion or a gentle puff of pyrotechnics. Magnificent to look at, but oddly impersonal.

The knife went back into Huston's sheath as he walked back to his desk in his office. The lights had gone down to set a stark contrast amongst the shadows of the room. It was as if the room was taking great pains to remind him of its overall austerity. The admiral sank into his chair, a hand rubbing the bridge of his nose as he was contemplating his next moves. He already knew what was going to happen in the next few minutes, but he certainly was not looking forward to it all that much.

He had to boot up his console to locate the address he was told never to use, except in extreme circumstances. Huston figured this was one of those circumstances. With one hand, he typed in the lengthy QED channel to his personal screen and pressed the connect button, making sure to sit up straight right as he did so.

It took a minute for the call to connect. The holopad in the center of Huston's desk began to glow an eerie blue. A figure about a foot tall materialized upwards from the lens, spider-like limbs all moving independent of one another and a head that only manifested a singular and frightening glow, obscuring whatever nonexistent facial features its body possessed.

"Ah, Admiral," the Cardinal folded two of her hands together eagerly, as if this call had been a pleasant surprise. Her head dipped downward menacingly. "You had been instructed to not use this address. Declare your reasons for breaking protocol."

"I need to speak to him," Huston said gruffly, hoping the cyborg would note the usage of "need" instead of "speak." As an admiral, his command generally demanded immediate results, no matter the affiliation.

The Cardinal did not seem to be impressed or intimidated. "You may speak to me instead."

Huston's expression darkened. "What I have to say concerns him alone."

"I will relay your 'concerns' to him after our conversation concludes, if I determine that it does require his consideration."

Huston did not like the way this creature was speaking to him, especially with its usage of the word "if". It was as if the Cardinal was deriving some tormented pleasure from denying him his wishes. Sad to say, she was the one who held all the power in this case, not him. Huston had the inclination that he should press his case again, but he figured that the Cardinal could merely deactivate the call and cut him off from this line permanently if she felt that he was wasting her time. He needed to play along.

"The… timeline of his program has run into some setbacks," he began, staring intently at the top of his desk as he talked.

"Describe these setbacks."

"Fostering the relationship between the Alliance and the company he selected—CytoSystems—did not manage to escape attention. I just learned today that individuals within the Alliance managed to locate irregularities in the deal both by combing through the public financial records and from open conversation with CytoSystems' CEO."

"How unfortunate." The Cardinal did not seem all that choked up. "It had been assured to us that there were no weak links in this chain."

It took everything Huston had to not screw up his face in distaste. "I know. I was assured of the same thing as well. I have already begun taking steps at rectifying these lapses. The individuals who learned of this program's true intentions have been detained."

"And the CEO? If they revealed any information, they must be disposed of."

"That has already been handled," Huston affirmed with a grim nod. "You won't be having a problem with her from now on."

The figure of the Cardinal seemed to unfurl like a flower at the touch of dawn. "Proactive of you."

"And the fact that others could somehow learn of what he has planned?"

"Irrelevant. Everything is already in motion. It is too late to stop the Tranquility. Others may foolishly try to stymie the oncoming tide, but they will soon realize that their strength cannot hope to match the power behind the wave."

The Cardinal's proclivity to speak in metaphors irked Huston somewhat. He tended to attend a more blunt and pragmatic school of thought. This cyborg was showing off a more flowery language either in an attempt to seem worldly and more intelligent, or to otherwise convey her displeasure at having to communicate in such basic and guttural phrases with the human.

Huston leaned back in his chair, brows lowered in distaste as he steepled his hands together. "I assume that your master is still planning to uphold the deal that he brokered with us?" A cruel smile reached his face. "Or is that something that you're not privy to?"

The Cardinal was unwavering in the face of the subtle slight. "I am aware of what accords he proclaimed for your benefit. You will be pleased to know that he has no intention of modifying them."

"Yes, but," Huston leaned forward, his façade cracking a bit, as he tried to scrutinize any vestige of humanity he could from the cold embrace of whatever chassis was holding the Cardinal's organs in place, "what he's doing now… seems almost antithetical from his desired outcome. A mere duplication of his own efforts, to be precise. If you don't already know, ask him what maintaining these relationships between PMCs and the Alliance is expected to accomplish. The corporations are already sowing disharmony in the galaxy, undoing what we're trying to hold together, and I know he's the one behind their financial backing. Behind nearly every single PMC. It can only be him. All of this manufactured chaos has been from his making from the very start. If his Tranquility is somehow the answer to this disharmony, why all the tradecraft?"

There came a derisive chuckle from the Cardinal, one that Huston felt was a taunt aimed squarely at him.

"It is not up to me to describe what our lord has concocted, human. Simply feel assured that the Tranquility is, above all else, an equation. An equation that balances all the variables into one single and harmonious whole, which takes care to include any variables that you might not have regarded… or were otherwise unable to cogitate."

Now Huston knew that the Cardinal was openly insulting him.

"And what might those variables be?" Huston asked, feeling his face grow hot.

"Those that might exist beyond your singular view," the Cardinal said. "The Tranquility is a means to an end. We have our parts to play in the ensuing aftermath—it has been planned out accordingly. We are all pieces on a game board being moved into our optimal positions. You are one such piece, as are the salarians, the asari, the turians, and every one of the species you can imagine."

Huston's mind went momentarily adrift. "Every one of… you've been repeating your efforts for all the other races?"

"Of course!" was the Cardinal's matter-of-fact response. "Did you think that CytoSystems was the first corporation we introduced to a galactic government as part of a system-wide integration? Did you think humanity was special because of the supposed precedent that deal would set? All part of the plan, human. Call this a little… friendly competition amongst allies. After all, to achieve the greatest probability of harmony, there must be an equal amount of disharmony before it can take hold."

Huston's next instinct was to press the cyborg for more information, but the Cardinal simply cackled before one of her many arms moved to touch a control just out of view of the lens. "Do not fret about this turn of events, human. You are not as special as you want to believe."

With a wink of sapphire light, the image of the Cardinal evaporated into thin air, leaving Huston behind with his heart pounding furiously as he stared helplessly at the empty space.


Factory District
The Citadel

Of all the places that Shepard would rather avoid on the Citadel, the Factory District was certainly high on his list. This was not a section of the station that had been all gussied up to potentially invite foot traffic for commerce, this was the part of the Citadel that was specifically devoted to manufacturing, shipping, and development towards most of the stages on a product's supply chain. Otherwise known as a visual blight upon the very station it inhabited, though it was necessary in order for the millions of people to live their lives as it did provide a solid number of stable jobs and helped maintain the Citadel's reputation as a nexus for fair trade.

There were endless plateaus of levelled cargo ports with automated cranes whisking all over the place, carting crates of cargo from endpoint to endpoint. Towers upon towers of these crates created mock skylines that served as impenetrable walls for those that stood down at their bases. The district was a maze of several hangar bays that acted as glorified repositories for the cargo, all interlinked by a webbing of walkways that stretched out like threads of black silk.

The shipping process here was entirely automated—armed drones patrolled the perimeters of each company's respective dock. Squabbles between the shipping companies had become something of a staple from port to port over the years. Fighting over valuable contracts led to desperate acts such as the sabotaging of cargo. Thus, a more aggressive defensive cordon had gradually been deemed acceptable as a means to prevent any transgressions.

Fortunately, Shepard did not have to get himself embroiled into that type of infighting. Flanked by Garrus and Grunt, the three of them had been heading down a long alley, approaching one of the few bars for dockworkers on this level, well away from the drones though still deep within the maze of cargo containers. The alley here was thin, draped by colorful graffiti, with puddles of multicolored liquids dripping down from the tall walls that acted as brief obstacles to be traversed.

The bar had no signage indicating its name as the trio arrived at the threshold. They stepped inside somewhat hesitatingly, abruptly finding themselves parked in the middle of a cramped and fairly populated establishment. It reminded Shepard of those old-time saloons he saw in the films as a kid. Barely washed floors, stained counter tops, seedy-looking people of all shapes and sizes crowded over drinks, cards, or lost in a cloud of vapor. Conversation was loud and boisterous. Several vidscreens hovering around the main areas were showing the various sports games taking place around the galaxy. The sound of money being slapped onto the table was noticeable as bets were laid and lost.

A holo-placard on a front-facing pillar caught Shepard's attention.

FIREARMS STAY HOLSTERED, it read. DRAW FIRST, WE DRAW ON YOU.

Shepard squinted his eyes as he peered around the place, finding it to be an appropriately dreadful tavern. "You're sure we'll be able to learn something here?" he asked Garrus.

"According to C-Sec chatter, this is a well-known spot for PMC contractors to hang out," Garrus said as he walked up to stand beside Shepard. "And there have been rumors that people affiliated with Dark Horizon have visited this bar. We'll need to ask around."

"Carefully," Shepard said as he noticed a pair of asari in Zephyr Services armor over in a nearby corner start to compare their wicked looking combat knives. "No telling who we'll run into in this place."

"That's why we brought our krogan along," Garrus smirked as he tapped Grunt's enormous arm.

Grunt gave a noise of acknowledgement as he was mentally sizing everyone up, his nerves on edge in preparation for someone to start something foolish. It would certainly take a fool to come up against someone like Grunt—the alien was probably the tallest one in this bar by about a full head.

Shepard nodded. "I'll take the bartender," he said as he already headed in that direction.

The main bar was backlit by dark red bulbs so intense they washed out every other color. Liquor bottles rimming the back shelves all looked the same, as did their contents, underneath such a vivid hue. A turian manned the counter, his facepaint slightly glowing from the UV lights implemented in the fixtures. His eyes glanced upward as he saw Shepard coming over, an unsurprised look on his face.

"Fix you a drink, Commander?" the bartender asked as soon as Shepard was within earshot.

Shepard frowned in surprise. He did not think his appearance would be recognized so easily. Most of the casual feeds from his days in the limelight during the war showed him clean-shaven, clad in his heroic N7 armor, and his hair had been shorn and cropped close to his skull. Right now, he was dressed in a casual jacket, eyepatch around his head, and he had let the hair of his goatee and head grow out some and look shaggy, colored nearly stark white from radiation poisoning. A far cry from his glory days, he figured.

The turian snuck a grin as he noticed Shepard's befuddled expression. "Come on, you think that you'd be able to sneak around the Citadel as you are? I bet most of us had you pegged the moment you stepped in here. But if you'd rather not have any attention drawn your way, we'll all comply." The bartender then straightened after he sensed that Shepard had gotten the message. "Now, do you want a drink or not?"

The commander narrowed his eyes before shrugging. One drink certainly could not hurt and it was bad form to refuse one in a bar anyway.

"Bourbon in ice," he said. "A clean glass would also be preferable."

The drink was offered to him after Shepard had settled out his tab. He tried to inspect the bourbon itself but the stupid red lighting was so overwhelming that he could not tell if he had been given liquor or engine coolant. He took a careful sip. Dark, smoke, and oak. Some relief, at least. He let the bourbon rest on his tongue until the alcoholic burn had passed. His gullet felt warmed already after the first swallow.

The bartender was eyeing Shepard throughout this period of time, perhaps savoring this moment in getting to see a bona fide hero in the flesh. "Looking for information, I take it?"

Again, this turian seemed to be clairvoyant to Shepard. "Perhaps. What makes you say that?"

The bartender seemed almost offended at the question. "Why else would you be down here, Shepard? Away from civilization and order? People like you would only come here either to find something on the unofficial channels if C-SEC isn't able to provide."

"Very well," Shepard set his half-drained glass down on the counter. "I'm looking for information on a PMC."

"Looking to hire one?"

"Just intel gathering," Shepard emphasized firmly. "One in particular's caught my interest. Dark Horizon. Heard of them?"

The turian shrugged, the movement nearly unnoticeable in the low light. "Couldn't really say. They all start to sound the same sooner than you'd think. You know that a new private military gets incorporated every week? At the same time, another one goes under. Too many names to keep up with, Shepard. My priority here is to pour drinks, not act as an information broker."

"All the same, I've heard Dark Horizon's supposed to be pretty notorious."

"They all like to say that," the turian snorted. "How do you think these firms like to attract business? By marketing themselves as the toughest and the nastiest outfit around. Folks that hire a PMC may be looking to get a job done first and foremost, but a big reason why they hire them is all based on their perceived reputation. When you're part of a PMC, you're now involved in the galaxy's deadliest popularity contest. There's all sorts of backstabbing and roundabout politics that have infected every single one of them. Not a nice business, but for some reason, many in that industry find their way here. Don't know, maybe they see this as a haven of sorts. A place to relax without feeling like someone is going to knife them in the back. I've found that it's best for me if I just stay in the background, pour the drinks, and let everyone else carry on with their lives."

Shepard tapped his fingers on the counters, his lone eye tracking the mirrored back wall of the bar, partly to check in case anyone was sneaking up behind him to knife him in the back. "And if I was inclined to find out more, anyway?"

The bartender squinted before he lifted a mottled finger, pointing towards an eclectic group of mercenaries situated around a circular table behind Shepard. "You might try your luck with them. They keep their ears open to that sort of business."

"Appreciate it."

Picking up his drink, the commander followed the direction the bartender had indicated, now approaching the table in question. A particularly grizzled human with a magnificent salt-and-pepper mustache sat with his back to the wall, a batarian and another turian flanking him. They all wore armor of differing colors indicating their respective outfits. The three were playing cards—a pile of credits gleamed underneath a singular lamp, spilled between the triangle of drinks that had been arranged between them. The human mercenary's eyes glanced upward as Shepard came up to them, interest lining his face.

"Evenin', Commander," the man gave a solemn nod. He was chewing the end of a ragged-looking cigar. A careful wisp of pungent smoke extended from the lit end.

Shepard's mouth thinned. The bartender had been correct when he had mentioned that he had most likely been pegged from the outset.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he began, making sure to look at everyone in the eye as he slowly rotated his gaze.

"Help you with something?"

"I certainly hope so." Shepard took an empty chair at the table and proceeded to occupy it, but not before setting his half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him. "That is, if you know the answers to the questions I have."

The mercenary let out a puff of smoke. "Depends on the questions."

"Say I wanted to locate a PMC. One that operates in all black armor. Goes by the name of Dark Horizon. Would that fall under the purview of what you know?"

No one at the table immediately spoke. The salarian munched on a Benzedrine pill. The turian inhaled a vial of spice dust. The human considered the question as he momentarily laid his cards down. "Information's not gratis under this roof."

"I can pay."

"I don't doubt it. But the tradition here is to earn the information before it is distributed. Handing over credits isn't enough."

Shepard smiled. "A code of honor, then. All right, any suggestions on what I can do to earn what I'm looking for?"

The mercenary shrugged. He then reached over to the card deck, took the two top cards, and slid them over to Shepard. "Win a hand."

The commander's fingers touched the offered cards, but he did not look at them just yet. He had the sense that this was the lead in to a trap of some kind, but he was being driven more by curiosity than by actual alarm right now.

"That's it?"

"That's it," the mercenary affirmed.

Shepard kept himself statuesque for five whole seconds before he gave a brief dip of his head. A silent agreement. "Very well," he said as he straightened in his seat. "What are we playing?"

"Local hold 'em. You ready?"

Truth be told, Shepard's specialty was in Skyllian-Five poker and it had been years since he had been in a real match. He knew the rules to both variants quite well, though the real challenge would be in figuring out his opponents' strategies. This was not like blackjack in which a little luck was required to win a certain hand—poker called upon a type of mindset that actively worked to guard one's reactions and approaches. Having the best hand right out of the pocket would not guarantee a win, which was why these variants were so popular to begin with.

"Go ahead," Shepard said.

The human mercenary handed out cards in turn to the other players. Shepard reached into his pocket and produced a modest stack of credits, showing that his presence at the table was indeed warranted now that he had the money to play.

Shepard glanced at his cards. Four of spades and king of hearts. Not a great hand but not a terrible one either. He was the big blind so he had to put credits in either way. He tossed the required amount into the pot. Everyone else at the table called. The flop was then displayed in the center of the table—Shepard had a match with his kings but not much else.

"New sort of business you're into, Shepard," the human merc observed, his eyes locked on his cards. "Heard you've been taking an interest in corporations. Seems you're not on speaking terms with them, though."

"New wars bring out new foes," Shepard answered as he checked, keeping his money where it was. "We all have to make a change sometime."

The hand was now at the salarian, who also checked. The human mercenary considered his hand before he tossed in a hundred credits. "Change is a good way to put it. We've all been hit by it. The jobs we once had have dried up, if not obliterated by the bastard Reapers. Lot of good folks needed to make some cash once the dust settled. Decent, hard-working folk. You planning on going after them too?"

The batarian called after a moment's hesitation. Shepard pretended to mull his choice over before he too tossed in his chips. "The individuals aren't the concern. It's the larger picture."

The mercenary stabbed the air with his cigar with a wary smile. "The larger picture still affects the individual, Shepard. Dissolve one company, you put thousands of those decent, hard-working men and women out of business. Some of us have these companies as our only link to a stable income. Myself, I was a marine for a good portion of my life. Mustered out after the war but realized the job market was scarce because the infrastructure had not been repaired enough yet. Company called Renn Affiliates said they were hiring ex-military members and would pay handsomely." The man nudged the batarian next to him. "Tell the commander how you got involved."

"MGH Communications," the batarian grunted. "Joined after the Hegemony folded. They offered me 5,000 credits a week."

Everyone then looked to the salarian, who piped up, "Sandbridge Corporation came to me when the war ended. 300,000 solar year salary."

The human merc then spread his hands wide in a large shrug. "We all thought the paydays were too good to be true. We shut our faces once we saw the increments to our accounts, though."

The turn, once displayed, did not help Shepard's hand any. He still raised anyway, half-paying attention to the movements his hands were making while he was listening to the other members at the table.

"If Dark Horizon isn't affiliated with either one of your companies," Shepard said, "then what's the risk in helping me out?"

The mercenary smirked. "Never know what consequences might come down the line. It's a volatile business, private security."

Yeah, no kidding.

The river was the queen of spades. Shepard looked down at his hand and saw that the only thing he could hope to have on the table was his initial pair of kings. Considering what else was left, there was a good possibility that someone had a straight or even a three-of-a-kind. Shepard folded and slid his cards into the discard pile.

None of the others derived any pleasure from Shepard's fold. This was poker, folding was not a sign of weakness. The other three bet and called one another before showing their cards. There was an initial rise of chatter as they all worked out which hands had prevailed and which ones had not.

"You went all the way with that hand?" the human was humorously chiding the batarian as he scraped the pot over to his side. "Dumb bastard."

The batarian stood up from the table and left, muttering indiscriminately. No doubt he was feeling miserable because he had just lost all his money. The human merc watched him leave and blew a silent laugh from the corner of his mouth. He looked back at Shepard and bumped his eyebrows. "Another hand?"

Shepard nodded as his eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm in."

The cards were dealt out accordingly. Shepard had been given a four and a jack of diamonds this time. He set the cards face-down in front of him without changing his expression. He studied the faces of his opponents. The salarian had a little twitch down in his lower lip and his index finger was shaking ever so slightly. Agitated at being given such a crap hand or simply ecstatic from the anticipation of such a good hand right out of the gate? Hard to tell. The other human was more subdued with his reaction. His eyes were calm and controlled. Nothing about him could be easily read. Shepard felt he had to watch out for him most of all.

The human merc matched the big blind that had been set by the salarian. Shepard did so as well but added two hundred extra credits to the pot. A raise.

"Think you have something there?" the human's eyebrows rose.

Maybe that's just what I want you to think, Shepard thought, but did not say it out loud. Any statement could potentially give his opponents an edge here. All one had to do was to decipher the underlying intent inherent in each word, each inflection. Words could be one's Achilles heel in a poker match. The talkative tended to burn out quick.

The merc noted the commander's silence and called after the salarian had folded his hand. Now the flop was splayed out in front of them. Three of diamonds, king of clubs, and ace of spades. It was the merc's turn to start the betting—his eyes were particularly focused on Shepard's chips. His lips moved silently in a quiet count. He then took a significant chunk of credits from his own pile and slid it over to the pot.

"One thousand seventy credits," he stated. "That'll be all-in for you."

Shepard did not bother looking at his cards, noticing that both Garrus and Grunt had gravitated over to the table to watch the match in interest. They said nothing to Shepard, keeping their attention focused upon the table, as if that had become the whole world to them.

A clatter of credits and Shepard shoved his entire stack into the pot. "All-in, then."

"Showdown."

Shepard flipped over his cards at the same time the merc did. The commander's opponent had a two of hearts and a four of clubs. Shepard's pulse made a minute raise upon noticing that the merc needed only a five in order to get a straight. Right now, Shepard did not have anything that could possibly win this hand.

The human mercenary did not let cockiness come to his face just yet, but there was a slight shift of impishness that faintly crossed his features. He then dealt out the turn, which was a seven of diamonds. Shepard leaned forward in anticipation. Now they were both one card away from obtaining hand values of their own. The air around the table had seemingly gone electric. Both opponents grew quiet, realizing the futility of levelling simple taunts at one another, a childish pastime. A low thrum occupied the lower recesses of Shepard's ears. He breathed in and out, nice and easy.

"Ready?" the merc asked, his hand hovering over the deck.

Shepard smiled. "Yeah," he said.

The river was flipped over and displayed. Hushed murmurings of admiration passed in a low ripple around the table. A pregnant pause stilled Shepard's heart, only subsiding when he was finally able to ascertain what was in front of him.

Five of diamonds.

Shepard had gotten the flush.

The human mercenary was chuckling in approval as he lightly tipped his cards away. He had gotten a straight, but that had not been enough to counter Shepard's hand. He gestured towards the pot, indicating that for the commander to take. No stern feelings of disappointment registered on his face—sometimes playing in a particularly intense match was a reward enough for those whole lived their whole lives behind a deck of cards.

"Well fought," the man congratulated. "You have a lucky streak about you, Shepard."

The commander tried not to let his eyes display his cold exhilaration as he scraped all the credits towards him. "Not just for me. Neither of us had anything until that last card."

"Yes, but you stood to lose a whole lot more if the cards hadn't come up the way they did."

Shepard sagely nodded. "Dark Horizon. What do you know?"

The mercenary looked up at the ceiling, as if the overhead sprinklers were of particular interest, before he stubbed out his half-burnt cigar into the ash tray in front of him. His eyes then shifted over to a stark corner of the bar, his chin surging downward in a subtle bob of his head. Shepard followed the merc's gaze and spotted a man at the bar, hunched over a small glass. The man was dressed in combat pants and a flight jacket. His hair was cut very short to his head, but with his back turned, Shepard could not see any distinguishing features.

"He's affiliated as they get," the merc affirmed.

Shepard turned back to his card opponent. "What makes you so sure?"

"Seen him around from time to time. Yahoos occasionally try to proposition him to have a chance with his outfit. Never have a chance, you see—the private military he's associated with is exclusive. They don't just let anyone in. 'Dark Horizon' is the name that gets thrown around whenever this guy's in the place. You want to find out more? He's your best bet."

Shepard had to admit that this whole code of being quite unforthcoming with information in this place would be more of a hindrance if he had less patience for dealing with this sort of thing. He accepted this new tack of knowledge in stride, now proceeding to collect all his credits and his drink before heading back over to the bar to talk with this mystery person. He gave a motion of his head to Garrus and Grunt, who followed him over.

It was still difficult to get a good picture of this person as Shepard approached. This man's flight jacket looked like it had a stiff endoskeleton underneath to give it more angular contours. Two submachine guns were strapped at his waist, shadowed by the dim lights. Shepard kept his footsteps silent as he approached the Dark Horizon mercenary, but his target's head perked up once he was within a few feet of him anyway.

"Not hiring," the man grunted, his voice light and raspy.

"Not networking," Shepard responded as he took a last swallow of his bourbon before he set the now empty glass down on the counter. "But I am interested in what you do."

The man rotated on his stool, giving Shepard his first look at him, and straightened once he realized who he was talking to. "Had a feeling there'd be someone asking me these questions one day. Never thought it would be someone like you, Shepard."

He was an unremarkable example of a human that Shepard could imagine. The man had pale skin, a square face with a strong jaw that resembled something akin to a troll. There was little humor that lived within his gaze. He very well looked as if he could have been chiseled out of stone. The flesh of his face was unscarred, odd for someone in the employ of such a vicious outfit. Shepard's eyes flicked immediately over the man's head, where several ornate logos of the various PMCs had been hung. Strange trappings for an equally strange bar.

Shepard felt safe as he had the implicit notion that Garrus and Grunt were moving closer behind him, providing ample support. "You part of Dark Horizon?"

"Perhaps," the man said.

"It's a simple yes or no question."

The man shrugged. "Policy for Dark Horizon contractors is to not advertise their assignments."

"Yet somehow these people know who you're with." Shepard gestured around the bar.

"Can't speak for them. Sometimes people can let their imagination get away from them," the man retorted.

Not very forthcoming, this one, Shepard sourly thought. He then noted the man's complexion, his sturdy face unwavering underneath the harsh glow of the bar. "You ever spend time in the service?"

"When I came of age."

"When was that?"

"2195."

"Then you weren't in the war if you were that young," Shepard noted.

The man took on a far-away look in his eyes, turning suddenly pensive. After a careful sip of his glass, he folded his hands together, as if this was something that had immediately made him uncomfortable. "Missed out, is all. Just unfortunate timing on my end. All the conflicts had been rectified by the time I was old enough to pick up a gun."

"Felt that there was more action to be had in a private military?"

"Of sorts," the man shrugged. "There was an opportunity, let's say."

Shepard continued to study the person he was talking with, something about him making the commander feel quite uneasy. "Was there? It looks like you've avoided injury, for the most part." He gestured about his own face, referencing the lack of scars or nicks on the mercenary's otherwise pristine head.

The man gave a polite chuckle. "Call it a matter of luck, Commander. Or skill, depending on what you'd think. Everywhere I've been, everyone I've faced, no one's been able to touch me. No one."

Now the mercenary was turning more boreal by the second. Something in the man's eyes was gradually transmogrifying into a vague and grotesque frontage. Shepard felt an ominous presence close around him, a sixth sense causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Something was quite wrong here, but for the life of him, he could not put his finger on what it was.

Something then clicked in Shepard's mind, causing him to turn inflexible. "Then your services are valued appropriately, I take it. Payday for your outfit's got to be good, right?"

The man's grin broadened. "Lucrative. But why're you asking me that? I just told you I'm not hiring."

"And already I told you I'm not interested in that," Shepard sighed, but he also noticed the man's usage of himself as the sole hiring contact. "'You're' not hiring?"

The mercenary's smile held just the barest semblance of sincerity. "A slip."

Shepard was not convinced. "If you run the hiring operations, you must be acquainted with whoever runs Dark Horizon."

"We keep in contact, yes."

"Know if he's been to Luna recently? My daughter was fighting over there at one point."

"Luna… Luna…" the man screwed up his eyes in concentration, though Shepard clearly saw that this was all an act. "Sounds familiar. Heard there was a skirmish over there a few months back. Your daughter… human?"

Shepard blinked. "No. Quarian."

"Quarian… ah, yes," the man bared a wolfish grin. "Funny thing. I believe I met her at one point. You see, I was the one who shot that bitch's hand off to start."

The next instant found Shepard unable to breathe in the face of the sudden admission. He heard Garrus next to him utter a startled cry, but his ears had adopted a deafening drone that reduced all background noise to fuzzy warbles. Every little motion his body made felt tender and agonizing, as if pulling on every solitary muscle strand raked razors underneath his skin.

The man's smile was permanently etched on his face as he touched a hidden control on his wrist. In seconds, a black carbon fiber helmet with aquamarine lenses folded from the compartment at the back of his neck, hidden by his jacket, and completely encased his head. From the back of his flight jacket, a heavy metallic mass burst out like a carnivorous parasite. The mechanism that his jacket had been hiding quickly folded into place, adopting the shape of sharp edged wings. Twin rockets on either side flared a royal blue. The air around the man seemed to shimmer, like how air would behave on a hot day.

"More than you bargained for, eh, Shepard?" the Aeronaut taunted, his voice filter devolving his already light tone into a breathy rasp, bolstered by the faint bass tone that gave it a texture akin to boots treading on barbed wire.

Shepard looked down and saw that the two submachine guns were already in the Aeronaut's hands.

There was no time to say anything, for the barrels of the guns exploded in two walls of searing, blinding, white-hot flames. The high velocity rounds split the very air, rippling shockwaves from the reports distorting fat and body mass.

Garrus had tackled Shepard to the ground just in time, a shield having erupted from his omni-tool that protected both their torsos. The shields strained in protest as the bullets slammed against the face, nearly diminishing it down to a quarter strength. The air strobed with noise and light. The Aeronaut was backing up while everyone in the bar dived for cover as he continued to fire upon Garrus and the others. Whirls of smoke streamed around him carelessly. But he had apparently been overzealous in his attack—his submachine guns soon spat useless steam, the barrels burning red hot, overheated.

Shepard choked and gasped as he reeled in the shock of such an unexpected assault. Garrus used the time to grab his old friend and to get him behind the bar, behind cover. He noticed that Shepard was clutching his wrist, teeth gritted in pain.

"Were you hit?" he asked in alarm.

"Fell on it funny," Shepard shook his head, voice sounding tight. "Think it's broken."

Meanwhile, the Aeronaut's guns had cooled enough for him to open fire again. Frustrated at his chance being thwarted, he resorted to shooting up the bar counter as best he could. Liquor bottles shattered behind Garrus' head, soaking him in alcohol. Sparks flashed in blinding strobes along the walls, accompanied by the harsh sound of breaking glass.

The Aeronaut ejected his spent heat sinks before reloading. A momentarily lull in noise fell over the establishment, nearly drowning those with tortured ears. He looked out over the bar, taking stock of the worried expressions he saw. "Stay down or leave," he warned. "Do not direct my interest onto you. You're not involved here."

A few brave souls poked their heads out of the makeshift cover they had quickly crafted for themselves—overturned tables and stage risers being the most common items. Their timid expressions soon turned more and more courageous as they stood, not to leave, but to slowly advance upon the man terrorizing the entire bar.

The Aeronaut swung his guns over to the crowd. "Get the fuck back! I only want Shepard."

"Oh, fuck you!" someone cried out from the back in a strong accent. "You read the damn sign when you walked in here! You have guns—we all have guns! You're fucking dead, you cunt!"

The mercenary appeared to be stumped by this turn of events as he suddenly found himself closed in by every combination of armor coloration as the irate crowd slowly came at him. He looked from person to person, finding only irate anger in their eyes, and realized that this faux pas he had generated would prove to be rather inconvenient to his timetable.

"Then let's get this over with," the Aeronaut growled as he cracked his neck. "Come on!"

Two humans broke from the crowd to charge the Aeronaut, pistols in their outstretched hands. The Aeronaut turned on a dime and opened fire. The humans' faces exploded in bloody pops, spraying bone and brains onto the people behind them. The partially liquefied remains of the men collapsed on the ground wetly, their skulls now cavernous openings rimmed by shattered teeth in mirror-like bloody pools.

"Get him!" a krogan in the back roared and the crowd surged.

The Aeronaut's guns began firing indiscriminately into the horde. Men and women screamed and groaned as bullets punctured shields, armor, and flesh. None of them even had time to get a shot off—most of them couldn't, not without hitting their own allies. Many fell, their blood mixing to turn the same shade of dark black upon the dimly lit ground. Plumes of brilliant fire were flung from the guns of the winged mercenary, shredding skin and bone, preventing anyone else from lifting a weapon in his direction.

But there were just too many people in the crowd. In moments, they had all stepped over their fallen comrades and had reached the Aeronaut. But the mercenary was not fazed. Before the tide of groping hands could reach him, he stowed his guns back into their holsters and seemed to shake all over like a dog. With a series of splintering noises, the Aeronaut glittered as blades suddenly jutted out from every joint in his body—at his wrists, knees, the tips of his boots. He now even held a wicked-looking combat knife in a hand.

"You're so fucked now," the Aeronaut cackled.

Bristling like a porcupine, the Aeronaut let out a warlike howl as he dived into the crowd. Everyone saw the danger too late and tried to backpedal in panic, but there was nothing that could be done.

The armored denizen was a blur as he twisted this way and that. Hands reached out, trying to grab him, but clumsy fingers slipped and slid over his protective coverings. The Aeronaut leaped, kicked, and slashed. Blood flew in slick gouts as his blades found flesh. One the Aeronaut's cuts sliced across a mercenary's neck, nearly tearing his head clean off—a spurt from the sheared artery caught a human woman in the face, drenching her with the color red. Severed fingers, cut from the Aeronaut's whirling assault, tumbled to the ground as he hacked his assailants to pieces. Lunging and stabbing, his knives violently punctured organs and chest cavities. More toppled to the ground wheezing, blood blistering and bubbling from their mouths as their lungs filled with fluid in the seconds right before they died.

Several punches were aimed at the Aeronaut, but he ducked them all, despite being jostled around in the middle of the crowd. While crouched, he swung at several unprotected midsections with his knife, which caused his victims to emit brutal screams as their guts poured from the ragged cuts in their bellies. Gore had now stained the floor so much that it was nearly impossible to keep one's footing. Bile and stomach acid rose in a massive stink amongst the spilled organs.

A salarian tried to dive at the Aeronaut. He kicked upward with his bladed boot, finding home between the alien's legs. He pulled his foot free, sending a gush of green blood spewing to the ground.

An asari tried to biotically lift the Aeronaut away. The winged mercenary noticed the movement and the telltale glow of energy and he swung with his knife, cutting the asari's hand from her wrist. While she was in the process of screaming, the Aeronaut curved his hand into a hook shape before shoving it forward. His fingers reached out and ripped out the asari's eye, causing it to hang from its socket.

A turian approached the Aeronaut and grabbed him in a half-bear hug, his other hand preparing to stab a blade down into the mercenary's neck. The Aeronaut looked up in time to see the knife and grabbed the turian's wrist before he could strike. He twisted his grip and the turian's wrist cleanly broke. Whirling, the Aeronaut head-butted the turian, smearing his helmet blue with blood. As the turian reeled back, the Aeronaut sliced the knife clean across the alien's neck, sending a cough of blood scything through the air before the turian collapsed.

"Hey!" a loud voice bellowed from the bar.

The blood-stained Aeronaut looked up, over the heads of the horde, just in time to see Shepard behind the bar counter, his wounded arm pressed against his chest, level a monstrous pistol at his head. There was an explosion and the Aeronaut's head reeled back. His shields had gone up just in time to absorb the majority of the kinetic energy. One of the lens of his helmet had not gone unscathed though—broken glass from a shattered circle sparkled the ground at the Aeronaut's feet.

Momentarily stunned, the Aeronaut shook his head to clear it. He did not have enough time, because Garrus had shot through the crowd and had plowed into the man in an enormous tackle. The two slammed to the ground together, trading blows. Garrus had to bob and weave his head to avoid being sliced by the Aeronaut's many knives. However, the turian was able to get a grip on the man's chest so that he could deliver punch after punch to the man's helmeted head, knocking it back to the side with each successive hit.

"I want Aleph, you bastard!" Garrus was screaming in the Aeronaut's face. "Give me Aleph and—" The turian's face tightened as he felt something sharp and cold enter his body. With a grimace, he looked down and saw that the mercenary had slipped a knife straight through his armor into the meat of the turian's thigh.

Garrus was still fighting mad though, and he immediately reached down and clamped his hand over the Aeronaut's, slowly pulling the knife free from his leg. The human growled as he struggled to hold the blade in place, but the metal was slowly being wrenched from Garrus' body, centimeter by centimeter. The blade finally wiggled its way out, followed by a warm spurt of the turian's blood.

But the Aeronaut seized his chance. He wound back an arm and cracked a fist across Garrus' face in an enormous blow. The turian was knocked onto his back in a daze. The Aeronaut stood back up, panting, as he twirled the knife in his hand.

"Not bad," he snarled. "But you thought I'd ever sell out Aleph to you?! You are stupider than I thought, Vakarian. When I finally tear out your heart, maybe you'll just realize how insignificant you have been!"

The Aeronaut took a step forward, then suddenly halted as his legs unexpectedly began to kick out in midair. The mercenary tried to look around in a panic, only to find that a pair of ludicrously large and orange-brown scaled hands had gripped themselves tightly onto his jetpack's wings, bodily lifting him up into the air.

"Not if I tear out yours first," Grunt growled right before he twisted his body and hurled the Aeronaut through the air. The dark shape of the airborne man went sailing over several people before he impacted heavily into the wall with a crash. He slid to the ground with a groan, his helmet dented and armor scratched. A few sparks blistered from his jetpack as the smell of fuel slightly overpowered the iron tang of spilled blood.

The krogan bodily pushed his way through the crowd to deal with his disengaged opponent, but the Aeronaut had stumbled back to his feet by then, looking rather worse for wear.

"Clever," he coughed as he staggered his way towards the exit. Bolts of electricity wept from his smashed lens. "But I don't aim to give you the advantage for very long."

With that, the Aeronaut wheeled on a heel and sprinted out the door into the open air of the Citadel. Twin columns of flame burst from his jetpack and his feet soon left the ground of his own accord. Leaving a trail of smoke behind, the Aeronaut flew into the industrial space, dodged several skycars before banking around a corner and disappearing from sight.

Grunt pushed his way out from the bar, a wounded Garrus and Shepard hobbling after him while they supported each other, and searched the skies frantically for the mercenary.

But it was of no use. The Aeronaut had slipped away.


Menhir Docks

Roahn and Taylor moved in for one last grateful hug as they found themselves at the nondescript gateway that led to the Menhir. The large poster windows here offered glimpses of both the ship and the superstructure that it was docked with, but neither of them were paying any attention to the scenery.

Taylor's eyes were aglow as she broke away from the hug, her hand still touching Roahn's arms. "Don't wait long to give me an update, Ro. I want to know that you're safe."

Roahn nodded, saddened to leave her friend here but knowing that the demands of her duties necessitated her departure. "I'll try," she said. "Messaging's never been my strong suit."

"Think you can change that for me and be a little more communicative?" Taylor tilted her head. "You have people that worry about you, you know."

"I do," Roahn looked downward shamefully for just a moment. "I'll keep you up to date of what I'm doing, Taylor. I promise you that."

Taylor beamed and bounced on her toes. "That's all I ask," she said.

"Taylor," Roahn touched the other quarian's shoulder. "You could ask for a whole lot more and I would give it to you."

"I would never doubt that. Good luck out there, Ro. Please be careful."

The two dear friends parted with another hug and a silent pledge that they would see each other before long. Taylor also delivered a final wave to Skye and Korridon, who had been waiting in the middle of the walkway for Roahn to join them. They had not been close enough to hear what the two quarians had been saying, for they knew that there were some matters that were clearly to remain private.

As the three walked back into the Menhir, it was clear that not everyone had returned from their shore leave—several of the tech chairs were empty and the CIC did not have the usual sort of bustle present at this time. They all made their way to the staircase and traveled one level down to the ship's commissary. Roahn and Skye grabbed bottles of water for themselves while Korridon kept on heading down to the next staircase.

"I'm going to go run some more tests on the artifact," he said to them by way of parting.

Roahn would have dearly liked to have told him not to take too much time as Korridon's shore leave had not officially ended, but a part of her stomped that notion out, knowing that anything that the turian could derive from his research that proved to give them an edge on Aleph's intentions could not be discounted. Time was of the essence and the two of them knew that.

Instead, she fixed a silent nod in his direction, unable to produce any meaningful words that would give the scene some closure.

Roahn headed back to her room, fully intent on collapsing upon her bed and obtaining several fulfilled hours of restful sleep, but she soon had the dim realization that she was being followed. She turned her head slightly back around to see Skye slowly ambling after her, a somewhat obsequious expression on her face.

Upon reaching her door, Roahn turned around to face Skye. The human's hands were behind her back in a self-assured posture.

The quarian pointed lamely to the door. "This is my room."

Skye's mouth flattened and she shifted her eyes back and forth, as if she thought this was a trick statement. "Yes… I can see that."

Roahn was not sure if Skye had gotten the hint or not. Then again, she did have to consider the fact that she was not being clear enough with her intent, but rather than refining her meaning, she made a stuttering noise—both of frustration and of finality—and walked through the door, not really caring if Skye was going to continue to follow her or not. At some base level, past all her bluster and defenses, she liked the human's company. Her drowsiness was the one thing that was limiting her patience for conversation at this point, not her underlying emotions for the woman.

The lights to her room automatically turned on as she entered. Roahn turned them back down. Skye moseyed her way on in, picking at the bare trappings of the area.

Roahn momentarily entered the bathroom before exiting back into the bedroom. The quarian's helmet was now bare, her sehni in her hands. Skye almost gave a physical start at seeing Roahn like this, but Roahn was not acting as if she was committing some sacrilege by letting others see underneath her sehni. All that was under there were several lengths of tubing that connected to the back of her helmet and snaked from the corners of its jaw, pumping filtered oxygen and sucking out carbon dioxide. A cleaning cloth was held in a three-fingered hand and Roahn sat on the corner of the bed so she could rub at a spot on the purple fabric that had a spot of grease on it.

"I really liked Taylor," Skye said as she took a seat next to Roahn. The quarian did not seem to mind. She was continuing to dab at her sehni while the two sat together.

"I'm glad," Roahn finally said. "Taylor liked you too. The both of you got along really well."

"Worried that we might not have been so friendly to the other?"

Roahn shrugged. "There's always that to consider. Fortunately, there turned out to be no cause for alarm."

Skye laughed flippantly as she waved her hair back over her shoulders. "Nah, she was great. Can't believe she's related to Sam, though. She seems to have a cooler head on her shoulders."

"Believe me," Roahn laughed as she leaned over so that she could place her sehni on her desk, "Sam may have enough vitriol to overcome everyone on this ship, but he saves all his snark for his colleagues, never for his family. If you've ever seen him at home with Taylor, you'd know. It's like a switch flips in the man. He can go from levelling a bevy of sarcastic comments at your face, but in the next moment he'll be chatting gently with his wife and daughter. It's kind of funny, actually."

The quarian sighed as she leaned back on the bed, her hands indenting the mattress slightly. She looked over at Skye, giving the human a once-over. "I had a good time today. I needed this."

"So did I," Skye said as she mimicked Roahn's movements. The human's hand went back a little too far and accidentally nudged Roahn's finger, but neither woman made a reaction just yet. "I was in the mood for a good distraction."

"Distraction…" Roahn repeated slowly, as if the word left a bad taste in her mouth. "Yet tomorrow it all starts back up. Our hunt, the fighting…"

"Will you being moody also start back up?" Skye levelled her head expectantly.

Roahn's eyes narrowed into glowing slits. "Don't start with me."

"I'm not trying to start anything. It's just… you get so focused on this one thing, finding the man who hurt you, that you start to scare me sometimes. I don't like seeing you when you're like that, Roahn. I look at you then and I don't see the person that first caught my eye."

The quarian then turned her lower half so that she was now mostly facing the human on the bed. "You say that like you've only just remembered to care about me."

"Roahn," Skye sighed as she now reached out and grabbed the quarian's right hand with her left. There was no resistance—Roahn instead instinctively tightened her grip around the human's five fingers. "I never said that I stopped caring."

Something unclenched within Roahn's chest and she raised her prosthesis, her metal fingers glinting in the low light, and brought it inches from Skye's unblinking face. Her hand trembled in midair, torn between several choices, until Skye moved her face forward so that Roahn would be able to cup it with her fingers. The human gave a brief shudder from the cold alloy against her warm cheek, but to Roahn the touch felt so familiar, so magnetic, that she nearly gasped from the ease at which her mind was able to accept it. Electric signals from her prosthesis to her brain were firing rapidly, creating a tingling sensation at the very tips of her fingers.

Roahn gently moved her thumb back and forth upon Skye's cheek, the prosthesis having been warmed now from her body heat. The human gave a gentle murmur from the gesture, her eyes momentarily lidding closed in joy from Roahn's attention.

The quarian shook her head. "Skye. Skye. Things could have been so much easier. Why couldn't things have stayed the way they were between us?"

Tiptoeing fingers crept their way up Roahn's arms. She gave a shiver. Skye's hands soon drew themselves up Roahn's neck until, excruciatingly, they arrived at the chin of her helmet. The human held the quarian's head, a kind and comfortable hold upon which a dear and longing emotion plunged from both of their eyes and met in a tortuous and fiery embrace.

"Who says we can't go back to that?" Skye whispered as she brought her thumbs up closer to the corners of the jaw of Roahn's helmet. She held her grip there, her fingers daring not apply any more pressure, as she waited for a sign, no matter how slight. Her lips parted longingly, a silent plea to confirm that her instincts had not been mistaken.

Roahn froze, breath dwindling down to a slither. Her heart thumped rapidly against her chest. Three beats in less than two seconds.

Then she spoke, but not with her words. Rather, she lifted her hands and gently placed them upon where Skye's were. Roahn held both their hands at the jaw of her helmet for a moment, both never breaking eye contact from one another.

"I… figured out what I wanted to put down as my wager," she finally croaked out, making a move before Skye could suitably respond.

Roahn pressed down on Skye's thumbs, causing the human to push upon the clasps that attached the quarian's visor to her helmet. There was a swift hiss of escaping gas, but the moment faded before any of them had time to take stock of what had just happened. Roahn, still in control of Skye's hands, gently pushed away, her visor tightly gripped in the human's fingers. She was smiling as the covering lifted away from her face, more or less grinning at Skye's particularly dumbfounded expression as her features came to light. Her visor soon dropped from Skye's numb fingers, landing gently upon the sheets of the bed with a soft thump.

The quarian shyly blinked as she watched Skye gape at her. It had been years since the human had seen her face, and she knew that while she may have visibly aged in that time it would be impossible for Skye to forget what she truly looked like. Roahn had always found it funny that humans always seemed to be the most dumbstruck when they looked upon her unmasked face. After all, there was very little in the way of differences in their facial structure that separated them. Apart from her skin tone, eye color, and the elongated shape of her ears, her species was the closest visual relation to humans in the galaxy in terms of facial shape. Yet it remained a point of solemn consideration for humans upon realizing just how analogous they were. Perhaps they felt that, barring certain circumstances, their fates could have easily been switched. They could very well have been a species that needed to wear protective enviro-suits as well.

Roahn's gray lips parted, showing immaculate white teeth. Skye still looked particularly stupefied, which the quarian did not know if she should take as a flattering sign quite yet.

"I didn't get any younger since our last time," she softly laughed, trying to break the perceived tension.

Skye then reached out and clutched at the back of Roahn's helmet.

"Like that matters," she murmured before she brought her head together to deliver a furious kiss.

Roahn felt her lips part immediately as she felt the human's mouth on hers. Already their tongues had met, any notions of cross-species sickness being completely disregarded as their fumbling hands struggled to bring the other closer, tighter, to embrace and find relief in such a weary galaxy. Muffled moans went nowhere as the two mashed their mouths together, bringing an intoxicating heat to flourish. The quarian's eyes lidded closed, delirious, as she opened herself up to the sensation of Skye's lips, the taste of her mouth. Her senses exploded in a consuming and unexpected swell that drifted down her throat, past her stomach, and settled at her waist.

Roahn shuddered deeply, needing to take a breath. Their lips parted wetly, thin strands briefly connecting their mouths before snapping away. Skye was similarly breathing hard, her lungs struggling to find air. They rested their foreheads against one another, enjoying this momentary lull, as if they could sense each other's pulse, their shared desires. Their heavy eyelids then opened. Roahn's fish egg green eyes found Skye's deep brown ones.

"I…" Skye whispered, "I just wanted to…"

"Stop talking," Roahn interrupted right before she fiercely kissed the woman.

Their vibrant embrace, so intense it was almost angry, had mounted whatever barriers had been erected within both women. Something had changed inside them. A defense had crumbled, allowing the dammed emotions behind it to rush in with a vengeance. They kissed, hugged, and grabbed at each other, far beyond anything resembling grace. These were not actions that nurtured fragility. These were the desperate acts of a nameless hunger, one that had been festering for a long time and only now could be satiated.

Roahn's fingers snaked to the collar of Skye's shirt, unbuttoning it with a series of snaps. She yanked, loosening the garment right down to the human's waist, exposing the pale skin of her stomach and a utilitarian black undergarment over her chest.

While she was doing that, Skye was pulling at the rest of Roahn's helmet, toppling it off her skull. Roahn's crumpled black hair was thrown free, a few inches short of her shoulders. The quarian tossed her head, giving her hair a shake, reveling in the cavernous sensation of open air around her ears. There was barely any time for her to enjoy the newfound freedom though—she helped Skye loosen sections of her suit from her neck down to her waist. A hidden control on Roahn's omni-tool was toggled and the elasticity of her enviro-suit suddenly loosened, no longer taut. The quarian unclipped a few of her fabric trappings that wrapped around her arms and waist, unclipped the faint silver accented armor that encased her throat, and stretched her shoulder blades so that her suit was able to split at the seam along her back. Her gray spine poked through the new channel that had rifted open, causing a cold breeze to ripple along her exposed body, giving the quarian a shiver.

Skye reached around and practically raked the quarian's enviro-suit open, splitting it so that Roahn's skin was freed from her shoulders to her waist. Roahn pulled backwards, wrenching the suit from her arms (she had to momentarily detach and reattach her prosthesis as the suit came away from her stump). The protective suit folded around Roahn's hips, leaving her upper half bare while she simultaneously tugged at Skye's shirt before unclipping the human's bra.

The two were now midway from being completely undressed, but they did not seem to be concerned with going all the way just yet. Roahn's hands greedily went to Skye's chest—and the human did the same to the quarian. Both gave longing moans as they felt the other's touch, Roahn more so since her skin was naturally more sensitive.

Skye looked down to see one of Roahn's metallic fingers gently circle a nipple, the tip which momentarily felt like ice before it absorbed the human's warmth. Her gaze drew upwards, following the contours of the quarian's prosthesis before seeing it terminate right where the remains of her arm had been cut off. She had seen several amputees before but it was all the more sobering when the person affected was your friend. Skye smoothed a hand over the quarian's artificial arm, her fingers rubbing across cool metal, and she lightly touched the boundary between metal and flesh. Roahn observed Skye satiate her curiosity, neither of them saying anything at the moment, content to let this moment continue unabated.

The human then gently lifted Roahn's prosthesis so that she could deliver a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. Roahn gave a little start, blinking in confusion, but Skye was caressing the arm lovingly, as if to say the injury was no big deal, that all the hurt she had gone through could be forgotten in these tender minutes. In Skye's eyes, she was no less complete than the day they had first met.

Almost without thinking, Roahn reached out and lightly pushed at Skye's collarbone, pinning the woman to the bed. The quarian swung her leg over so she was straddling the human, grinning like an idiot while her hair was falling around her eyes. Skye was smiling radiantly as well while her hands reached up to Roahn's chest to grope and play with her breasts. Encouraged by such a palpable display of physicality, the half-unadorned Roahn let the next layer of her inhibitions slide away and she dove down to attack the side of Skye's neck with her lips and tongue. She kissed and licked a trail upward to the woman's jaw, nibbled at her earlobe (this caused Skye to groan and arch her back), and finally reuniting her lips with Skye's as the two became locked in their ravenous position.

Both of their hips were making slight rocking motions, unintentional instincts. Their shared slide into sexual delirium had been made wholeheartedly as the half-naked women lied on that bed and made out joyously.

Roahn then broke the kiss and lifted herself up partway. Skye's hands were still on her breasts. She looked down at where Skye was touching her and back up to the woman's face. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Very," she said with a hefty dose of amusement. "I missed this."

"I can tell, you bosh'tet."

Skye's shoulders bobbed in a shrug. "I'm not bragging. I just like being here with you."

Roahn gently brushed a strand of the human's auburn hair out of her eyes with her right hand. She let her fingers rest momentarily on Skye's forehead before she trailed them down to her jaw, to the nape of her neck, back up to her chin, and finally to her lips. Skye's tongue snaked out and caught the tip of Roahn's fingers as she gave an impish grin.

The two woman quietly laughed.

The quarian adopted an expectant guise. "I'm assuming you want to go further?"

"Well, your suit's mostly off already," Skye said sheepishly. "I think we're kind of past the point of no return there, Ro."

Roahn looked up at the ceiling before admitting to herself that the human had a valid point. She gave a shrug.

"Fair enough. Take off your pants."


Roahn woke several times during the night. She had never gotten used to sleeping without a suit before. The feeling of bedsheets against her skin just felt weird. Plus, having someone else's body heat in close proximity might be fun for an hour or so, but later on it tended to just make her overheat in bed.

Comically, her sleeping schedule alternated between resting both inside and outside the sheets as she struggled to find a location that would bring her some form of temperature equilibrium. She would be sweltering under the covers at one point and then absolutely freezing on top of the bed at another. Also, this added stimuli had an effect on her ideal sleeping position. Every new contour she forced herself into brought a new slew of distracting sensations on her body. A touch here, a touch there. Every little adjustment she made brought different tactile response. So many things to consider!

Finally, Roahn decided that sleep was just going to become a difficult prospect for her tonight. She sat up in bed, the covers falling to her waist while she propped up a pillow so she could sit upright. Enviously, she gazed upon Skye lying next to her, who was currently sound asleep on her stomach, the skin of her back still glistening.

Muffled snores wheezed through Skye's open mouth. The human had never been a particularly pretty sleeper, Roahn remembered. Skye would always been the first one to conk out and she was not one to usually sleep in a graceful position.

It's never simple, Roahn thought as she gently ran her fingers across Skye's exposed back. The human mumbled in her sleep before smacking her lips, quieting after fidgeting for a moment. Roahn kept her hand upon Skye, a slight fascination with the similarities in their bodies stilling her mind.

What they had experienced a few hours ago… Roahn could not begin to even describe it. She had to tilt her head back to let out a quiet but longing sigh as her imagination threatened to take over. Their bodies had felt like they had writhed together for hours. Simply mind-blowing sex. Nothing had been straightforward about it. A selfless trade of one person's pleasure to another before both embarked on a mindful journey to bring each other home. The closeness. The heat. The feeling of Skye's hands gripping hers, her belly pressing against hers, her mouth closed upon hers. Her moans at her ear. Nails raking her back. The loping shadows falling over her face as Skye moved up and down above her. Thinking about it was making Roahn squirm slightly in bed right now, the corner of her mouth lifting in a sheepish smile.

But there was still a weight gripping her, keeping her looking at Skye, as though as if Roahn expected this entire scene to be rendered to bits at a moment's notice. A fever dream, brought on by a fit of the imagination.

Was there really a future to be had with this woman? Roahn felt her head droop down as she seriously tried to consider this. They had been down this road before, her and Skye, and things had ended in disaster. Was this simply an exercise in insanity or could there be the potential for something different to arise? Had Skye become different enough to warrant her devotion?

It troubled Roahn that she could not give herself a definitive answer.

Thoughts suddenly dark, Roahn morosely slid back under the covers, only her arms and head peeking out over the sheets, as an encroaching fatigue began to wash over her. She turned on her side, Skye at her back, and faced the wall.

Through the dim shadows, Roahn swore she could see the gloomy outline of a large object. No… not an object. A… person? Draped in armor?

Roahn rapidly blinked. There was nothing there. Just an empty corner. It had only been a trick of the light, nothing more.

She was only imagining seeing him in this sacred place, at a time when she was most vulnerable. She would not give into the demons that tortured her very mind. He would not be able to hurt her here!

The incubus inside Roahn's head taunted with vagaries and wraiths, but Roahn had nearly drifted off into a dreamless sleep by then, leaving her final unconscious thoughts bemoaning the nightmares that her imagination was infecting her mind with.

To the shadows, she whispered, "I'm coming for you. Wherever you are, I'll find you."

And the shadows whispered back.

"Good."

But Roahn's eyes had lidded shut, leaving the word and its cruel intentions floating away into nothingness. The sound, if had even existed at all, would never be registered.


A/N: Being under a shelter-in-place order is never any fun, but I guess it gives me more time to write. After all, what the hell else am I going to do? Might as well do something with my time.

Speaking of, there might be a slight shift in my schedule going forward that has nothing to do with the current political/viral shenanigans. Somehow I managed to snag a job after being unemployed for a brief spell - of course I'm overjoyed to be making some money again but this does come with the snag that I might not be able to release chapters as often as I'd like. So, if it seems like this story goes quiet for a bit, don't worry. It is far from being dead. I've written most of the story already so there's no reason in abandoning it now. I haven't even gotten to the fun part yet, no way am I ducking out at this point!

Stay safe out there.

Playlist:

Cardinal (Atmospheric)
"Phazon Mines"
Kenji Yamamoto
Metroid Prime (Original Soundtrack)

Aeronaut Scuffle
"High Speed Maneuvers"
Henry Jackman and Hans Zimmer
Captain Phillips (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

A Night Together
"The Ocean"
Clinton Shorter
The Expanse [Season 2] (Original Television Soundtrack)