On the edge of the solar system, a slow-moving vessel signalled its existence with a single light flashing on its port bow. It had a name as well, but the lettering spelling it out had long worn off. No one had bothered to restore it. Anyone who already knew how to find the ship did not need it. Anyone who did not have the contacts to learn its trajectory, likely wouldn't be welcome anyway.
The ship was followed by a fleet of assorted smaller vessels at any given time. Some were semi-permanent fixtures, others came and went. They matched the craft's speed and course for the duration of their stay, while their crews hopped between the flagship and their own.
The ship's belly was rounded like a zeppelin. Its back extended into a balcony, which gave access to an aperture door. After passing through the airlock, the silence of space was obliterated by the cacophony of the room beyond. Footsteps formed a beat on the sheet metal floor. Competing voices tried to draw the attention of potential buyers. Sizzling bangs and whirring machinery flooded the soundscape. Drones with fluorescent lights hovered above, alternately illuminating half of the chaos while shrouding the rest in shadow. Rows of stalls spanned the space — side by side, back to back. Not an inch was wasted, leaving the visitors to bob and weave between the traders peddling their wares.
Sharp-eared, lanky types pushed the same authentic relics as the guy three stalls over. Short, stocky folk bargained fiercely over their spinning gizmos and scrap metal parts. A couple of ox-like people stoically showed off new gun designs and explosive samples. Men and women from the various colonies sold dehydrated food, apparel, medical supplies and anything in between.
Straight across from the entrance, near the apex of the vaulted ceiling, a large office overlooked the hall. The window reached from wall to wall and top to bottom, giving anyone inside a bird' s-eye view of the commotion beneath. Close to the window stood a set of comfortable leather couches, centred around a low coffee table with a black, glass top that reflected the swaying lights outside. Multiple bookcases lined the walls on either side, each filled to the brim with works from across the sector. On the far end of the room, facing the window, stood a large mahogany desk — by now, one of its kind.
It was here that the owner of the wandering trading post sat, poring over long lists of numbers by the sheen of a flickering bulb. He rapped the lamp sharply without looking up from his work, the metal of his hand ringing clearly against that of the stand. The light stabilised for a minute then died out. He gave it a reprimanding glare. Before he could punish it further, however, his attention was drawn to the display on the wall behind it.
The regular programming, showcasing the various bounties that were currently up for grabs, had been interrupted by an emergency broadcast. Even with the sound turned off, the visual was informative enough. A blue flash had cut across the picture, briefly lighting up the void. A string of short explosions followed, dying quickly and sending shrapnel propelling in all directions. Based on the time code displayed in the top, the footage was a few hours old. Text crawled along the bottom of the screen, describing the havoc the debris was currently causing on the planet below.
"Well," the man murmured, "Shit."
The door to the office opened. A hulk of a figure stepped inside, ducking low to fit his curved horns through the entryway. The man behind the desk had offered to enlarge the entrances, which were more suited to his shorter-than-average stature, but the other had refused. It seemed he enjoyed living in an environment not designed for someone his size — it made him look bigger.
He carried several crates of liquor and put them down in the corner with surprising gentility. The ox-man then stretched his arms overhead, hands the size of trashcan lids easily reaching to the ceiling.
"You seeing this, Boss?" he asked, nodding at the screen.
"I see it, Bull."
"Pretty messed up." The giant named Bull walked towards the television. "Heard some folks talking of it downstairs. They say someone crashed a ship into it."
"Rather a rigorous way of making a point," the boss murmured.
He looked away from the newscast and to a smaller display on his desk. With quick swipes, he flicked through the information — flashes of news from the various planets, calendars of events, weather reports. He halted on Ferelden, the site of the attack. Its primary landmass was currently in the middle of springtime, celebrating a week-long festival. With any luck, the station would have been mostly empty. Perhaps, if he dared to give credit to someone who would commit such an act, they had planned it as such.
The broadcast ended, and the network returned to its regular programming. The Bounty Hunt hosts mimed their sorrowful responses to the newsflash, then diverted themselves by returning to the topic at hand. They gestured to the large screen behind them, which showed a hefty reward amount plastered across the computer-generated image of a dark-haired woman. Bull huffed at the likeness, which did little justice to the original.
"Bela's gonna be pissed when she sees that," he said with a rumbling chuckle, "They messed up her nose again."
"She can add it to her collection," the boss replied. "Keep an ear open about this attack, Bull. Something this big is unlikely to leave us unaffected."
"Sure thing. On that note, she's downstairs at the moment."
"Again, or still?"
"Still — she's alone. Can't find anyone who knows who she is or where she came from. I guess she hitched a ride in someone's cargo to get here without them even noticing."
Boss got up from his chair. He stepped out of the office and unto an elevated walkway, his boots clunking hollow on the metal grid. The familiar sounds of a chattering crowd, clinking glass, and the smooth notes of saxophone and strings drifted up to greet him. He took a deep breath, smoke and the scent of alcohol tingling in his nostrils, and sighed in satisfaction. Of everything he'd built, this was his favourite part.
The blue and purple neon hummed in the dark, highlighting the stage and the bar while obscuring the patrons. The band was playing a mellow tune to accompany the velvety sound of the singer, who glanced up at his appearance. Her red hair shone brilliantly in the spotlight, her long dress was as black as the void outside. Boss inquired after her night with a nod. She answered with a wink, then returned her attention to the audience.
As usual, the club was full of people — drinking, gambling, and doing other things they soon wouldn't remember. They sat around the stage at small tables with plush seating, designed to facilitate prolonged comfort and excessive consumption. For those seeking more privacy, there were the lower floors, accessible via a winding staircase leading down from the corner of the room. For some, they provided a break from their crews. For others, the company to alleviate the loneliness of longer journeys. All, of course, at a competitive price.
While it was a persistent myth that pirates buried their treasure, that didn't make it any more valid. Like anyone else, they spent it. Primarily, they spent it here.
At the bar, her face shrouded behind short locks of raven hair, sat a woman. Though she was surrounded by people, her stance ensured that she was alone. She had arrived a fortnight ago, but they hadn't uncovered much about her. Any attempts by the staff at engaging her had been met with sarcastic retorts and very little information.
"Anything new?"
"Quite a bit." Bull leaned on the bannister to be at eye level with his employer. "Red received a relatively warm welcome." He nodded towards the singer. "But she still didn't get any information out of her. Sent one of my boys in a couple of days ago to try his charms on her. He ended up with his arm twisted behind his back and his face on the bar."
"Unless you've got more than that, I suppose our definitions of 'quite a bit' must differ."
Though the eye patch he wore could make Bull hard to read at times, it did nothing to hide the smirk pulling across his face. "She's had combat training," he said smugly, "and you owe me a hundred."
"Ah…" he said softly. "Do I now?" He spun his ring, a plain brass band, around his finger. "I see. Good work. Take it from the account and bring her up, will you?"
Bull nodded and made for the stairs. His boss went back inside and strolled to the window, evaluating the possibilities brought on by this bit of news. He heard his right-hand man return soon after, accompanied by the offended tones of a young woman's voice. Her steps were light, barely audible next to Bull's as he ushered her inside. It reminded him of a cat. When the door closed behind them, drowning out the sound from downstairs, she quickly fell silent like one as well.
He welcomed her with a smile. Her jaw tightened in response, but she did little else to return it. He wasn't bothered by her presence on board, not as long as she settled her bill. Instead, he'd been rather intrigued. Seeing her staring daggers at him from across the room, radiating defiance like an angry furnace, only piqued his curiosity further.
She was tall and somewhat curvy, though leaner built than he preferred. The shapes of her upper body were masked by a black bomber jacket, the collar of which was lined with grey fur. The rest of her outfit, tight denim trousers and knee-high boots with integrated magnets, was similarly dark in tone. Anything to reduce attention to herself and blend into the background, he guessed. Unfortunately for her, her fair skin and piercing blue eyes likely made that impossible most of the time. Despite her best efforts, she was the type one would notice as soon as she entered a room.
"What do you want?" she demanded, speaking in the accent-less dialect of someone raised on a station.
"Nothing to be worried about," he asserted, holding up his hands. The woman's eyes flashed to his left arm, which gave off a slight hydraulic hiss as it moved. "I just wanted to have a little chat with you."
"I'm not one for chatting."
"So it would seem. After two weeks aboard I usually know everything about anyone who walks in here and their mother. Throw in their second cousin, college roommate and exhaust cleaner, if they have 'em. You, however, remain a mystery."
"You're one to talk," she countered, crossing her arms, "Two weeks aboard and all I know is there's some guy named 'V' running the place. I assume that's you? Don't you have anything better to do than send your goons to investigate every random traveller who comes through here?" She cast a reproachful glance at Bull.
"Gathering information may seem like a waste of time to you, but it is the most valuable commodity in stock here," the man who was indeed V pointed out. "Now, most travellers are here for either pleasure or business, yet you appear interested in neither. Instead, you sit at my bar in your shroud of gloom and drink away its contents at an agonisingly slow pace."
"As long as I pay for it, I fail to see how that is any of your concern."
"It's not. Yet, while I agree my establishment is perfect for drinking your life away, I can't help but think you might want to do something more fulfilling."
She considered him, eyes narrowing, but didn't speak.
"How about we start by getting to know each other?"
He sat down on one of the couches and gestured for her to take the other. Another moment of silence reigned until she unfolded her arms and sauntered over. She sat down, leaned back, recrossed her arms and tossed one leg over the other. Something flashed on the inside of her calf, signalling the blade hidden in her boot. He didn't allow weapons on board. She'd managed to sneak this one in, and she wanted him to know. He smiled to himself.
"My name is Varric," he offered, "Tethras. What's yours?"
"… Hawke."
"Anything else to go with that?"
"No."
"Okay."
He scratched his chest, but she didn't take the bait. Her gaze remained fixed on his face, ignoring the deep v-neck that tended to elicit some kind of response — good or bad — out of most women.
"Well then, Hawke, what are your plans?" he asked. "Considering you don't seem to have a ship or a crew, your funds will likely run dry before my supply of alcohol does."
"They might." A hint of a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. "I figured I'd run up a tab and stowaway before you'd realised."
"You'd be cheating yourself out of a chance to come back here."
"Maker forbid."
He chuckled. "For argument's sake, let's say I won't come after you for this hypothetical tab. What would you do next?"
"I'll figure it out as I go," she shrugged.
"Indeed," he murmured, pressing his fingertips together. "And the greater purpose in drifting through the galaxy like this? Sightseeing?"
Hawke pursed her lips and looked away. Though he couldn't see much of her skin, the burn mark across her nose and webs of scars on her hands suggested she'd been through some hairy situations. He'd wager her trust was not likely to be easily earned.
"I… dropped out of training," she admitted. "Couple of months ago. I figured I should disappear for a while."
"Well, you've come to the right place for that. Pilot or engineer?"
A hint of danger flashed in her eyes. One of her hands moved to the collar on her jacket and habitually pulled it closer against her neck.
"Bull here saw your implant when you tossed one of his boys onto the bar," Varric explained. "You've got a bit of a temper, you know?"
Hawke glared at him, then huffed a laugh. "Fine." She lifted her chin. "Trained as a pilot, but I've learned my way around an engine room. What's it to you?"
"Oh, it's everything to me," he smirked, cocking his head to the side. "A good Catalyst is hard to come by. I am always on the lookout."
"How do you know I'm good? You know nothing about me."
"I know what it must have taken to leave everything behind and make it here in one piece. However you did it, it means you have the kind of skills I need."
"Need for what?"
"Just the odd job here and there… simple enough. Pickup and delivery, mainly."
"Debtors?"
Bull chuckled from his position by the door. "No," Varric said, shaking his head. "I have enough people for that. For you, I have things in mind that require a bit more… finesse."
He paused for effect. Her next response would determine whether she was, indeed, the person he hoped she might be. Most people had called him crazy for even suggesting what he was about to ask of her. Then again, most people wouldn't have made it here alone, especially not a Catalyst running from the authorities.
"I'd like you to go into the Belt," he said casually, "Discreetly."
"The Belt?" Her brow quirked up. "Lyrium then?"
"Not exactly. I can't reveal all my information until you agree, as I'm sure you can understand."
"Fair enough…" She studied him. While she'd been wary before, now she was scrutinising. Despite him being the one recruiting her, suddenly he felt like he was the one on display. "Something big though, I imagine, if you're considering going there," she mused. "You trust that to a random Catalyst who walks into your bar?"
"You say that as if it's an everyday occurrence," he laughed, "The Chantry usually keeps a pretty tight lid on your lot. Here, let me explain."
He leaned forward to press the hidden panel on the coffee table. It clicked open, revealing the controls. After a few button presses, the surface of the table lit up, turning the black mirror into a vivid display.
A highly detailed simulation of the solar system came into view. The two blazing suns lazily revolved around each other in the centre, while all planets, moons, stations, gates, and any manner of man-made debris circled them in turn. Border patrols were marked with red dotted lines, trade routes in blues and greens. The station that had been on the news before still hung happily in Ferelden's orbit, the third planet from the second sun. The event of its destruction hadn't made it into all databases yet.
"We are here," Varric said, pointing out the icon representing his ship. Hawke leaned in slightly to look at it. "The target…" He tapped one of the larger asteroids in the Boeric Belt. The route between the two points appeared automatically with a white line. "… is here."
"Those patrols would be an issue," Hawke observed, eyeing its trajectory. "You'll want to go in with a stealth vessel."
"Exactly, and the trip through the Belt is a tricky one."
"I could do it," she stated, her confidence briefly overtaking her reservations.
"Then you are interested?"
She caught herself and slid back into her seat. "Perhaps. What do I get out of it?"
"Protection," he said easily, "As long as you work for me, no one will touch you. Plus a ten per cent cut from the job."
"That's not much of a cut."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have many competing offers?"
She wasn't impressed. "Thirty."
"Fifteen," he smirked. "But I'll make you a deal. Work with me for a year. After we're done, you get to keep the ship. You'd be free to go wherever you want."
A deep frown creased her forehead. She glanced at the room around her, at Bull, out the window, back at him. The interior of his office was primarily designed for his comfort, less so to impress visitors. It was only on rare occasions that he brought them here since most of his business was conducted in the bar. He wondered if the surroundings were enough to convince her of his worth.
"You can keep the Chantry off my back?" she inquired sceptically.
"I can."
She huffed through her scarred nose. "How? They don't let go of Catalysts so easily."
"If you know the right people — and you will, when you have me on your side — they won't be able to take you back," he assured her. "Not legally. If they try another way… well, I can help with that as well."
Hawke leaned in, fixing him with a steely gaze. "Prove it."
"You want a guarantee?" he asked innocently, "I'm not sure I can give you one. We work based on mutual trust here — I need to believe you won't simply take off with one of my ships."
"I'd be in trouble as soon as I am out of fuel," she contended, "You, however, can string me along for as long as you need me. Show me you can deliver, or find someone else."
Varric rubbed his stubbled chin, assessing risk versus potential reward. Catalysts didn't waltz onto his ship every day — an unfortunate reality of the current system. While it wasn't impossible to find them outside of Chantry control, most would go into hiding on planets or get captured by pirate crews. Of course, while their abilities were always an asset, they were no guarantee for wit or strength of character. Despite her air of self-assurance, this girl was cautious. It signalled a certain level of intelligence, at least, which he appreciated. But while his offer was certainly not without danger, neither was continuing to take her chances alone. Most would jump at such an opportunity, even if it was a bargain for him, and yet… he didn't doubt that she was ready to walk if he didn't make a few concessions in return.
"Very well," he decided, clapping his hands together. "Look over there." He dug the remote out from between the couch cushions and pointed it at the television. The sound came on, letting the blaring voices of the hosts into the room.
"Look at that face, Josephine," the male host said to his colleague. He gestured at the screen beside him, which showed the picture of a large, dark-skinned man with white hair glaring at the camera. "That is the face of a killer."
"How very unpleasant, Thom," she replied, "Let's hope the good bounty hunters out there will catch up with him soon. Capture is preferred, dear hunters, but the Chantry urges caution in approaching this target."
"Indeed, indeed. On to the next one, a familiar face." The render of Bela, based on second- and thirdhand accounts, slid into view once more with a bounce. "Captain Isabela, the scourge of the sector. She's been sighted again, folks. Start your engines — the price on this one is hefty indeed."
"Why am I looking at this?" Hawke asked dully.
"Would be wise to pay attention to it," Varric murmured, fiddling with the communications interface integrated into his arm. "You might show up there any moment if they don't find you soon. Just keep watching."
"I have to say, Thom, there is something romantic about her, isn't there?" Josephine cooed. "No harm ever befalls the crews she targets. Many report… quite positively about their encounters with her."
"She is a criminal, Josephine," the male host said sternly, a little affronted by her swooning over the pirate queen, "One who has thwarted the Chantry time and again — hence the high reward."
"Oh, but the thought of someone so beautiful, flying through the sector… Did you know her ship is called the Siren's Call? The image that brings to mind —"
Her musings were interrupted by the screen flashing from red to blue. The letters changed from 'WANTED' to 'CAPTURED', and the reward amount disappeared. The sound of trumpets played in the background, accompanying the sad sizzle of the sparklers lighting up on either side of the display.
"Oh," Josephine said with sagging shoulders. "Seems like she's been caught."
"It would appear so," Thom stated, much happier. "Good riddance! Congratulations to the bounty hunter who made that capture. Enjoy your reward, you've done Thedas a great service! Now, on to the next —"
The sound muted again at the press of a button and Hawke turned back towards him. "You had her captured?"
"No," he chuckled, "I had her status changed in the Chantry database. Like I said, you need to know the right people."
"You'll have me listed as captured?"
"I won't have you listed at all if I can help it. Can't do it with that one," Varric explained, nodding to Bela's picture still on screen, "She makes herself far too visible. In your case, we'll need to make your departure legitimate, and they won't be able to do a thing."
Finally, he had her full attention. Hawke bit her bottom lip, her blue eyes near slits. They scanned him in a slow sweep — assessing the scuff marks on his boots, the sheer exposition of his chest, his bionic appendix, and the sincerity behind his most charming smile. He could see her weighing the pros and cons, running the possible outcomes through her mind.
"You'll give me a ship?"
"You can have your pick," he confirmed. "Don't want you heading into the Belt in any old thing."
Her lips curved into a fearless smirk, dangerous in its appeal. "Alright." She extended her hand. "One year."
Though he would rarely admit it to others, Varric knew well that he was a man of many flaws. It could be said that trusting people too easily was one such a shortcoming. He took her hand, finding her grip firm but not tense. The blue eyes looked straight into his, making him the silent promise that she would ensure he kept his. Perhaps it was foolish to take her on, considering what little he knew of her. Yet in a world where everyone knew everything about anyone, that lack of information only spoke in her favour. A small voice in the back of his mind warned him against liking this girl too much too quickly, though he could tell something about her would leave him little choice.
"Deal," he said, shaking her hand. "One year."
Despite his inner voice's objections, he was looking forward to it.