A/N: I'm not dead, but I have been busy!
Long story short, between starting college, volunteering at Burning Man, learning to ride a motorcycle, building an art car, going on vacation, a death in the family, and taking over as gamemaster for a Shadowrun campaign, I've been too busy to write.
Luckily for all of you, Burning Man is over, my dead cousin isn't getting any more or less dead, and I've given up my position in a heroic WoW raiding guild. The practical result is that I actually have more free time than I used to have... and I've started writing more! Expect updates on a semi-weekly basis from here on out instead of bi-monthly, assuming all goes well in college.
As for this chapter... contains non-funny references to rape. You have been warned.
"All I'm saying, ma'am, is that I don't trust her."
Shepard rubbed her temples in exasperation. "Because she's new, because she's asari, or because she's the matriarch's daughter?"
The morning had started pleasantly enough: She had woken up, stretched, taken her typical extra-long shower, gotten dressed, and gone to snag her biotic-sized breakfast when Williams had approached her with 'a security concern.'
Which, in Shepard's eyes, was nothing more than racism hiding behind a mask of well-intended practical security concern. That was the only way it could survive out in the open, these days. Humanity had, as a a general rule, moved far enough forward that out-and-out racism simply wasn't socially acceptable. It wasn't gone, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hidden away, tucked out of sight behind phrases like "security concerns" and "foreign intelligence operatives."
Ashley at least had the grace to be offended by the implication in her question, even if she wasn't willing to out and out say why she didn't trust the doctor. "Because of her mother, of course," she answered with a indignant scrunch of her face. "Do we really know that she's on our side?"
Shepard set her fork down. "Chief, one of the advantages of being a Spectre is that when you ask an Intelligence agency to jump, they ask 'how high," she said. "Citadel Intelligence and the STG gave me all they had on her – which was quite extensive, by the way – and the Saints are doing their own inquiry. So far everything they've turned up agrees with what the others are saying: She really is exactly what she looks like, Chief."
The Systems Alliance Intelligence (SA-INT, or colloquially, the Saints) was the intelligence and spy organization that grew out of the various pre-unification national spy agencies. While nowhere near as clever as the STG or as wide-reaching as the Citadel Intelligence, they had made a name for themselves early on for high risk tolerance and a willingness to work with less than savory assets. Shepard knew them well, for she had been one of those 'unsavory assets' on more than one occasion. More than a few of the jobs she had undertaken for the Navy had really been organized by the Saints.
Jobs like Torfan.
She picked up her fork and stared at it contemplatively. "I understand your concerns, Ash, I just don't think she's on Saren's – or Benezia's – side. Neither do the intelligence agencies that have reported back to me so far."
"But it's her mother, Commander," Ashley argued. "If I was about to go hunt down my mom, you can bet your ass I'd be more broken up than she is."
Because every species behaves like humans do, of course... "First off, Ash, she's not human. Expecting her to react the same way is... well, I won't go there. Second, she's twice as old as you and I put together. I have a hard time believing that, even sheltered as she is, that she didn't learn not to wear her heart on her sleeve."
Ash opened her mouth when Shepard paused before the Commander stilled her. "But if you feel that blood ties trump common sense, basic decency, and simple logic, then I suppose I ought to ask you how closely you plan in following in your grandfather's footsteps... Williams."
Ashley jerked back from the table like she'd been slapped, a mixture of shock and anger fighting for control of her face.
"Well?" Shepard pushed, setting down her fork and steepling her fingers on the table. "I'm waiting."
To her credit, Ashley took a moment to get her emotions under a semblance of control before responding to the Commander's taunt. When she finally answered, it was hissed with barely contained anger through gritted teeth... but the words weren't disrespectful. "I have no intention of following in my grandfather's footsteps. I have nothing in common with that coward. Ma'am."
Shepard leaned back, shaking her head with a quiet tsk. "How disappointing."
Ashley blinked in confusion, her rage fading slightly. "Ma'am?"
"Your grandfather was one of the greatest heroes the Alliance has ever known," Shepard said. "Faced with a situation far more dire than he could have ever reasonably prepared for, he conducted himself in such a way that would save as many lives as he could."
"But-"
Shepard jerked her hand through the air in a cutting motion. "But nothing, Chief! The turians had him outgunned and surrounded. He could have gone down in a blaze of glory, getting himself and his people killed for nothing more than misplaced praise from the historians. Instead, he made a greater sacrifice: He gave up his reputation, his dignity in the eyes of his peers, and his pride in order to do his duty. To protect the people in his care."
"And you," she continued, ramming a finger into Ashley's sternum, "are helping perpetuate the myth that he was a coward and a traitor! The man endured far more than a quick death for his duty, he endured an entire lifetime of scorn and disdain! He didn't just sacrifice his life, he sacrificed his name, his family's name, and the reputation everyone remotely related to him for generationsto come."
She pulled back from the shocked gunnery chief. "We're soldiers, Ash. Dying for our cause, to protect humanity and its allies, is something we know we might have to do. It's something we prepare for every time we suit up and head out into the field. Taking stock of a situation, weighing the options, and making the hard choice to live for a cause after giving up everything else can be harder for us than dying for it. Your grandfather made the right choice when it was demanded of him. I hope you will, too."
Ashley's eyes went wide, and snapped to the small door at the back of the medical bay. Shepard smiled knowingly.
"Notice the parallels, did you?" she asked, skewering another chunk of egg. "An intelligent and proud figure, thrust into a situation far outside his or her field of expertise, forced to make a horrifying choice between the unacceptable and the unforgivable."
She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed while the Chief continued to stare. "Yet she presses on anyway, in spite of what people think or how she feels personally, because she knows she's doing the right thing."
Ashley slumped in her seat, burying her head in her hands on the table.
Shepard said nothing, letting the young woman think things over while she quietly finished her breakfast.
Sometimes no words were necessary.
Half an hour later, Shepard was still seated at the mess table going over the day's itinerary when a bleary Kaidan stumbled into a seat. "Commander," he grunted absently, nursing a steaming cup of coffee.
Definitely not a morning person, she mused, refraining from comment while the biotic figured out which way the artificial gravity was configured.
Instead, she turned back to the data slate sitting next to her empty tray. It was, unfortunately, already turning into an insanely busy day. She needed to go check up on the injured marine and make sure he got settled in the hospital, talk to Personnel about finding a replacement, go with T'Soni to get her proper equipment (and replacement clothing, as she doubted the asari would want to wear borrowed things forever), figure out who in Requisitions she needed to talk to in order to get her Mako replaced and her shuttle repaired...
She scowled. It was going to be a full day, and that was assuming she didn't run into any delays while getting things done.
There were always delays.
"Problem, Commander?" Kaidan asked, the coffee apparently starting to work its magic.
She sighed. "Just a lot on the to-do list, is all. How's your head?"
Kaidan was one of the fortunate L2 b iotics that 'only' suffered from migraines, as opposed to spiraling into dementia or having psychotic breaks. He could work with them, most of the time, but Shepard disliked doing that unless there was dire need. It didn't pay to overwork one's tools, and the lieutenant was far too valuable to risk incapacitating.
He brightened slightly at the question. "Actually, ma'am, no headache at all today. It's nice."
"Good," she replied with an evil grin and tapped the data slate. "Then you can help me work through the to-do list."
His cheerful expression caught for a moment. "Er... I mean, woe is me, I think I need to visit the doctor?"
"Nu-uh. Too late. You're roped into it. Here," she said, sliding the slate across the table at him. "That's the to-do list so far. Anything strike your fancy?"
He hummed, tapping his nose absently while he read. "I'll go check in on Tanaka," he said quietly. "He was hurt on my watch. I owe him that much at the very least."
She nodded.
"I, ah, may owe an apology to the logistics manager, as well," he said, rubbing a hand on the back of his head. "I'll take our QM and Adams over to see about getting some replacement gear while I'm in the neighborhood."
He handed the slate back to her and she nodded, adding a couple notes. "Right. Vakarian and I will go get T'Soni fitted for some armor and find a proper sidearm she can use."
"She's going to be staying on, then?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "She requested it, and Wrex is right – adding another biotic, even a self-trained one, to the crew is a huge win. Not to mention her prothean expertise and possible connections to Benezia."
"Makes sense. What's the next step?"
"You mean for the mission?" she asked, and he nodded. "I don't know. Therum didn't quite pan out like I'd hoped, at least with regards to Saren, so we're really back to square one in a lot of ways. The Alliance still wants me to go check out Feros about a geth sighting near a colony that dropped out of contact. Noveria's still on the books as an option, too."
"You know," he said slowly, tapping the side of his jaw. "If all else is equal, I bet we'd have a much easier time getting expedited resupply if you let slip the fact that we're going to go check out a human colony that was attacked. Especially if the alternative is kicking up a hornet's nest over on Noveria. You know how much influence the PMCs have in the Navy."
"I don't think I can get out of this one without stepping on toes," she grumbled. "I have a very politely worded letter from ExoGeni in my inbox telling me that my assistance in the unfortunate matter at Feros will not be required and that they've already dispatched a team to investigate the matter."
"Ouch," Kaidan said with a wince. Of all the crew on board the Normandy, he was by far the most aware of the political side of the Systems Alliance governance and military. As a result, he knew exactly what it meant to step on a corporation's toes. Most large companies had something to hide, even if it was just simple tax evasion... and Shepard was sure all of them were scrambling to figure out exactly what kind of Spectre she was.
Of course, they wouldn't believe me if I told them I didn't care about their petty money-making schemes. She snorted. Their whole world is nothing but ambition, achievement, and the great game of rank-by-money that they play. Imagining someone who doesn't care at all...? Preposterous!
"Well, it is what it is," she said philosophically, picking up the slate and checking it one last time. "Alright. I'm going to go wake T'Soni up and get started."
"Murd ruck, C'mndr," Kaidan mumbled through a mouthful of toast.
The tunnel was silent this time, silent and dark.
The echoing crackle of gunfire was missing, as was the faint whooshing of air through the mine. Even the electric hum of the prothean barrier was gone, replaced instead with an oppressive and terrifying emptiness.
Liara huddled closer to the shrinking blue glow of the prothean barrier curtain, the only respite in the hellish pit. Outside the barrier, faintly illuminated by the curtain, the geth stalked. They kept back, out of the light, but she knew the light's end would be her own as well – knew it with a certainty that defied consideration.
The thought sent another shudder of dread through her, and she redoubled her efforts to call upon her biotics as she huddled against the curtain. But for whatever reason, her innate abilities failed her, all her effort netting her nothing more than a splash of faint blue light drifting into the darkness before vanishing completely.
Is my amplifier broken? She wondered, trying to reach a hand around to the back of her neck where the small implant rested. Her arm reached halfway there before she lost the strength to lift it, and shrunk against the small console even more.
A staggered rumble echoed through the otherwise dead-quiet mine, and the barrier curtain flickered in and out of existence. She knew the... things... were approaching again and reached out desperately, grabbing at the curtain with all her might. It bent, impossibly, around her hands, wreathing her tired fingers in a blue nimbus.
Blinking at the impossibility of it, she pulled back, only to have the seeping horror crawling its way through her stomach surge forth once again as her hands refused to move, her muscles somehow deprived of all their strength while wrapped in the impossible field. She twisted desperately, trying to move away while the barrier tugged away from its emitter in the wall, wrapping itself around her arms and rendering them immobile.
The rumble echoed again, and she flinched in downright panic when she saw movement on her side of what was left of the barrier. Impossible, she thought numbly, how did they get through the other barriers?
But this figure was no silent automata. It was, to her surprise, a woman – a human woman, dressed in armor and glistening slightly in the flickering light.
"Wait, Shepard?" Liara asked the silent figure. "How did you get past-"
She trailed off in horror when the woman stepped closer to her, a soulless smile on her face. She lifted her hands toward Liara's face, gently caressing the sides of her jaw with hands that were coated in what Liara now realized was blood.
She tried to scream, but her breath wouldn't come, and she could only gasp weakly in abject terror as the world faded around her.
The last thing she saw was the Commander's empty, expressionless green eyes.
Liara T'Soni woke with a start, gasping and flailing on the small military cot tucked into the back room of the Normandy's medical bay. Disentangling the heavy blanket from where it had gotten wrapped around her arms in her sleep, she hurled it – and her suffocating pillow – away from the bed as hard as she could.
The motion was slightly more vigorous than was prudent, however, and she felt the small cot overbalance almost immediately. She quickly flopped back toward the center of the portable bed, but the damage was done, and her motion only accelerated her half-meter trip to the cold deck.
In the hard-walled space, the crash of the capsizing cot was painfully loud.
"Liara?" Shepard's concerned voice called from the medical bay. "Are you alright?"
Goddess, what did I do to deserve this? She thought with a groan, waiting while the unpleasant combination of adrenaline and typical foggy-headedness to fade before she started to pick herself back up.
"I'm coming in," Shepard announced through the door.
Liara's eyes widened. "Wait, no, don't-" she began, and the door hissed open.
The lights in the back room activated automatically with the opening of the door, and Liara blinked painfully up at the human.
A purple blush spread slowly across her cheeks as she realized just what a scene she must look like, sitting on the deck of a storage closet in the ruins of her bed with only what the Goddess gave her at birth to wear.
Shepard quirked an eyebrow at Liara. She couldn't help it; she screwed her eyes shut and turned her head to the side. No, don't look at me...
The seconds passed like days.
"Well," Shepard said dryly, "I suppose I can skip asking you how you slept. Here."
Liara forced herself to look up. The human had turned to face the wall, apparently out of respect for her privacy, and was holding out the borrowed jumpsuit from the previous day behind her.
Mutely, she took the garment and began putting it on.
"I'd have let you rest longer if I could," Shepard said, "but we've got a lot to take care of before we set out again."
Her mind flashed back to the dark ruin that had occupied her dreams and she shuddered. "I was waking anyway," she said. "What is it that you need my assistance with?"
"Well, truth be told, T'Soni, I really just need your body," she deadpanned, and Liara dropped the jumpsuit. What?
The Commander chuckled at the sound of the falling garment. "We need to get you fitted for armor and a have you pick out a sidearm, Doctor," she explained. "I mean, I could have just asked for your measurements and preferences, but armor's something you really want to get fitted for properly. Otherwise it chafes and binds in all the worst places."
"I- I see," she muttered faintly. It made perfect sense, of course, but did the Commander really have to phrase it like that?
"We'll also want to see about replacing some of your personal effects," she continued. "Unless you want to be wearing a borrowed jumpsuit for the rest of the mission?"
The reminder of what she had lost sent a much more familiar pang of loss through her. It always hurt to see opportunity wasted, and losing the entire Therum dig site was a loss that would sting for some time.
"I would certainly appreciate the chance to purchase some asari wear," Liara admitted. "Human females are not quite the same, and this jumpsuit is... ill-fitting, in places. Not that I'm ungrateful," she added hurriedly. "You have been very kind to-"
Shepard waved a hand in the air. "Don't worry about it, really," she said. "Doctor T'Soni – Liara – you're going to be with us risking death and worse to track down Saren and Benezia. We would be very poor crewmates if we'd refuse to loan you an article of clothing after you volunteer to make that kind of sacrifice for us."
Liara blinked, her vision blurring a slightly.
The Commander paused, noticing the sudden lack of movement coming from behind her. "Liara?" She asked, a tinge of concern in her voice, "is something wrong?"
She didn't know if she could put it to words. It wasn't the clothing – the Commander was right, of course, and the loan of a mere garment was hardly something worth breaking down in literal tears over. It was something else, something implicit and fundamental to the entire point of view the offhand comment expressed:
Trust.
Shepard, no matter what anyone else on board thought, had apparently decided that she was trustworthy. She had stared at the doctor the night before, pondered the different pieces of information and opinions others had undoubtedly given her, and made her choice: That she, Doctor Liara T'Soni, was a member of the crew. Not some probationary alien to be put under constant guard, no matter how justifiable such an action might be. Not a useless tag-along, brought only for her name and parentage. She would fight alongside the others, contribute to the best of her knowledge, and share in their victories and (Goddess forbid) their defeats.
It was a... humbling experience.
She blinked her eyes quickly to clear them. She certainly didn't want to give the impression that she fell to pieces all the time!
"Ah... it is nothing," she said thickly. "I am fine."
Shepard's tone was dubious. "If you're sure..."
Liara took a couple deep breaths and finished fastening up the jumpsuit. "There," she said at last. "I am ready."
Shepard turned around fully to face her. "Excellent," she said with a smile. "In that case, let's grab you a quick breakfast and get started."
"Human food is so strange," Liara murmured as her stomach gurgled while they waited for the airlock to cycle.
Shepard glanced over at her. "Breakfast not agreeing with you, Doctor?" she asked sympathetically.
Liara blinked. "Not... agreeing?"
"Human expression," Shepard explained. "When we say 'something disagrees with you' in reference to food, we mean that it's causing indigestion."
"Ah," Liara said, gently rubbing her stomach through the jumpsuit. "No, I do not believe so. I am merely unaccustomed to human cuisine, that is all."
"Some of it is pretty strange, Commander," Garrus teased. "I mean, milk? Really?"
Shepard cocked an eyebrow at the turian. "I'm sorry, the gentleman that eats rocks with his meal doesn't get to talk about the odd eating habits of others."
Garrus bobbed his head, and Shepard wasn't sure if he was trying to stifle a laugh or if he was just conceding the point.
Shepard flash a smile back at him before turning to the asari. "In any case, Liara, I asked Kaidan to snag some asari rations from the quartermaster while we're out and about."
"Speaking of being out and about, where are we headed first?" Garrus asked. "Most of the shops I know are in the wards."
Shepard pursed her lips. "Well, our first stop is obviously the C-Sec armory. They mentioned having some asari sidearms there last time I was in, and I want to see if they're something Liara can use. After that we can head for the wards."
"Understood," Garrus said, shifting away from the wall when the airlock began to slide open.
"You know, for an armory that professes to equip some of the most prestigious law enforcement agencies in the galaxy, the C-Sec armory doesn't seem like a whole lot," Shepard grumbled as they walked down the length of the Wards.
"It's not so bad," Garrus demurred. "I mean, humans arrived on the galactic scene relatively recently. Bureaucracies take a loooong time to change. And besides, you should be happy – that was downright speedy compared to my usual form-laden expeditions."
"Funny how phrases like 'cash payment' tend to speed things along," Shepard said. "If C-Sec is anything like Alliance requisitions getting gear – or compensation for purchased gear – is like pulling teeth."
"Pulling teeth?" Garrus asked, canting his head to the side. "Ah," he said after a moment when text flickered over his visor. "Yes. Apt."
"Wait a minute," Liara said. "Cash payment? You paid for all this?" she asked with concern, gesturing down at the armored cases carrying the combat environment suit and compact – but powerful – sidearm she had selected.
Shepard waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Now, our next stop is-"
"Shepard, I may have come from a noble house, but the market price for this..." her eyes flicked back and forth for a moment while she tallied the sums, then widened in alarm. "Goddess, you paid nearly sixty thousand credits for this!"
The Commander shrugged. "Really, don't worry about it. I'm not exactly hurting for funds," she said dryly.
"But this..."
"Look, Liara, if I was operating on the budget of an Alliance Commander, you might have a point, but I'm not," she said. "Hell, the mining conglomerate I made a deal with gave me a hundred and twenty thousand credit advance based on ten-year old survey data I sent them before we left the Citadel."
Garrus coughed. "Ah... isn't that data supposed to be classified by your government, Commander?"
"It is," she said with a grin. "Luckily, Council edicts trump Alliance classifications, and I'm explicitly empowered to do anything in my hunt for him. They might complain now, but in the end I think having Saren dead by my hand will matter more to them than having a secret supply of low-cost zinc."
"When you put it like that, I guess they can't really object."
"It is still an outrageous sum..." Liara protested weakly.
Shepard sighed, then stopped walking to turn and face the guilt-ridden asari. "Liara, money is a tool, just like my weapons, my armor, and my ship." And my crew, but most of them don't like being called tools. "It took me a couple hours, in total, to get the kind of money we just spent on your gear. It's there to be used, and it's up to me to decide how to use it. I think you're going to be an important asset on this mission, and I want that asset protected."
"But-"
"No 'buts,' Doctor. Now, Vakarian, take us to that shop you were talking about."
Garrus smirked. "Aye aye, Commander."
"Polonium rounds?"
They were standing around a small, hole-in-the-wall shop that was little more than racks of boxes, a wrinked salarian, and a battered kiosk.
"Huh?" Shepard peered over the box Liara indicated. "Oh, yeah. Kind of a gray area, legally, but they're real popular with the gang fighters since even a weak hit's likely to kill your target... eventually."
Liara shuddered and set the box back on the shelf in a hurry. "Goddess, that's horrible."
"That's sort of the point," Garrus said quietly from the next row over.
Liara shook her head.
"Still, they're not very useful for us," Shepard said, shifting down the aisle. "Shooting polonium at the geth just makes the cleanup crews sick."
"So what are we looking for?" Liara asked.
"In a perfect world? We'd find an Alliance rifled microgrenade launcher and a few cases of combination AP-CF rounds. Since there's no way this guy will have that, the next best option is some tungsten bricks for our current weaponry."
The microgrenade launchers were a throwback, in a lot of ways, to the pre-contact weapons of old: Instead of shaving a tiny sliver off of an ammunition block, melting it to shape, and firing it at hypersonic velocities with a mass effect driver, they relied on relatively large custom shells. The shells still used a modern driver, but the bulk of the ammunition blocks meant that running dry was a very real concern.
The advantage, of course, was that it was possible to carry vastly more firepower, including some very potent utility weapons. The AP-CF shells were one such utility round, consisting of an armor-piercing tip in front of a hollow container packed with carbon fiber. The round would expend its sabot on the front side of whatever armor it struck, letting the packed canister into the target. Upon traveling through the target, the blunt canister would hit the rear armor and shatter, driving countless carbon fiber fragments into the back side of the target.
The practical result was the ability to deal devastating damage to synthetic targets: Both by driving a huge round through their internals, and then by slicing through all of the delicate circuitry on the backside of the target. They weren't too effective on people, aside from blowing a huge hole in them, but there were far more efficient ways to do that.
The Alliance kept them... well, secret was the wrong term, but definitely out of the public eye. By substituting a high-explosive charge in place of the carbon fiber, it became a horrifying weapon verus turians. In ballistic dummy tests, rounds fired at center mass would reliably blow the spines out of any hardsuit-wearing turian.
That was also one of the least offensive uses. Shepard remembered reading a proposal for EVA space combat where the driver was turned way up and the armor-piercing header was replaced with an explosive charge in front of some mechanically separated fissionables. Upon impact with a hard target – say, a spaceship hull – the combination of the blast from the high explosive and the inertia imparted by the launcher would be sufficient to trigger a nuclearreaction.
It was probably not in the Alliance's best interest to let the other races know they were working on a rapid-fire, man-portable nuclear weapon.
"Inspector Vakarian?" Liara asked after they went through another row.
"Garrus, please," the turian replied. "What is it?"
"Why here?"
He chuckled. "Let's just say that I know the fellow who runs this shop. He's got quite a few... connections... in the underworld and in corporate offices. Sometimes gear that isn't really supposed to be available to the public winds up here."
"I am surprised C-Sec hasn't shut him down," Liara said.
"They tried, a couple times, but he's pretty good at hiding and we never could pin him with anything hard. Besides, he's strictly small scale, and since he's out in the open we can at least keep an eye on him. Not an ideal solution, but... it works."
Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, Shepard mused as she browsed the shelves.
It was odd, she realized, how much more comfortable she was in a place like this than the vaulted halls of the Spectre headquarters or the gleaming causeways of the Presidium. She wasn't specifically uncomfortable in those places, but it was interesting to realize how much more at ease she was down in the midst of the battered muck and desperate souls than she was in the 'civilized' world.
People are more direct here, she thought, more upfront. People don't pretend to be kind and nice.
"Oooo, Commander," Garrus said, interrupting her reverie. "Take a look at this."
She peered over the box in his talons. "Phasic rounds?"
He nodded. "Shield-piercing. Not at full strength, but if you're good... or lucky, I suppose... then you can take down a geth without bothering to chip through its shields first."
"Nice," Shepard said. It wasn't really her style – shotguns weren't exactly precision instruments, after all – but Garrus was a trained marksman, and Kaidan wasn't a bad shot himself. "Grab those and the tungsten mods and let's get going. Tali asked me to pick her up some tools, and we still got to replace Liara's personal effects."
"Oh... that isn't... I mean, you don't..." Liara tried to say.
"Nonsense," Shepard said firmly. "I know that jumpsuit doesn't fit you, and unless you're willing to take a page out of book of the asari from Chora's Den, you're going to need new things."
To her surprise, the asari didn't blush, but smiled faintly. "I imagine some of the crew would find that distracting."
I need to remember she's not a blushing kid in all things, Shepard reminded herself.
"Just a little," she conceded. "Garrus, find anything else?"
He shook his head. "Negative, Commander."
She shrugged. It was about what she had expected, and the phasic rounds would give Kaidan something to play with. "All right. I'll go pay for this, then we can get out of here before the poor salarian has a nervous attack or something."
"He has been wringing his hands a lot, hasn't he?" Garrus cackled. "After you."
It was then that things started going wrong.
"Okay, let's see... the last clothing stores I saw here we located on the presidium. Do either of you know of any others?" Shepard asked while tapping queries into her commlink.
Liara shook her head. "I have not spent much time on the Citadel, so I am afraid I do not know," she said.
"I know of a couple," Garrus said slowly, "but I don't think I'd want to recommend them. They're not the most... reputable... establishments."
Liara glanced curiously at the turian. "Do they not treat their employees well?"
"Ah, no," he coughed, "we've busted a couple of them for putting cameras in the womens' changing rooms."
"I see," Liara said in a voice that could have desiccated a desert, and Shepard grinned.
"Anyway, I'd suggest avoiding the places if possible... if only not to spend money at a place that's willing to do that sort of thing," he said awkwardly.
"It's fine, the stuff's better on the presidium anyway," Shepard reassured him. "Let's see... nearest mass transit terminal to here is outside Chora's Den, right?"
Garrus glanced around the alleyway. "Yeah, unless you want to go through the markets again."
Shepard shook her head. "I'd rather not have to deal with any more vaguely creepy fans, thank you very much."
"Yes, he was a bit... forward, wasn't he?" Liara asked thoughtfully.
"More than a bit," Shepard said. "Okay. Chora's Den it is. I wonder if they're under new management?"
Garrus gave a bitter sigh. "I doubt it," he almost snarled. "Those bastards always have a way of not being directly associated with the things their employees do."
"We could always pay him a visit," Shepard stage whispered at the turian with a gesture to the Spectre insignia sewn above her armor's breast.
"Ha!" the turian barked a laugh. "Don't tempt me."
They were just walking up to the mass transit terminal when a voice called... no, drawled to them from the shadows. "Now there's a face I ain't seen in a long time," it said. "Lookit you, all grown up."
A trickle of ice ran down Shepard's spine. No, it can't be...
Quickly schooling her expression into one of polite curiosity, she turned to face the source of the voice and waited for her vision to adjust. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked.
A heavily scarred, stubble-bearing figure dressed in a fashionably battered red jumpsuit stepped out of the corner. "You don't remember me? Ah, now that hurts, that hurts real deep," he said, clearly not hurt at all. "Allow me t' remind you, then. M' name's Finch. I used a little, ah, organization a' folks back on the north side, nearabout tenth street? Ring any bells?"
She couldn't help it, her eyes widened as memories returned in a rush.
It would be a simple deal, he'd said. They just needed to keep a shipment safe from prying eyes they'd get paid handsomely, far more than they'd ever make in any of their normal 'enterprises.' The money would pay for more security, bribes to the cops who rolled through, better food when the pickings were otherwise slim... all the things they'd lacked in life. And all they had to do was hide a package for a few weeks while the heat died down!
Shepard – of course, her name hadn't been Shepard then, it had still just been Elle – had questioned the deal. If they were paying so well, it followed that it had to be dangerous. That, or the package itself was a trap. Maybe the people offering it were cops. Maybe they meant to get the Reds hooked on whatever it was they were selling. Maybe they wanted to turn the Reds into a distribution and pushing network for them. There were countless good explanations why they'd risk contacting a small-time protection gang of kids for help, none of which included 'Red Sand smugglers are naturally benevolent and altruistic and want to help us."
So she'd protested. Argued, as best she could. Then he'd dropped the bombshell: It was all for naught, he'd told them, because he'd already accepted the money. That had rankled more than a few; his leadership had never been set in stone, and putting them all at risk without involving them in the decision wasn't something they approved of.
Then he'd offered the money.
It was just a taste, he'd said, of what was to come to the Reds on their path to a brighter future. The cold hard cash on the table had changed a lot of minds very quickly. Vocal opponents had turned into staunch allies when he had the money to back up his claims of things getting better... never mind that the future almost certainly ended with all of them dead, arrested, or enslaved.
Fine, she had told him, she wanted out. She'd take her chances out on the street alone over risking getting involved in Red Sand smuggling.
He told her she didn't have a choice. She was part of the family, had been as long as she'd been alive. She owed them big for what they'd done for her, for hauling her out of that dump and nursing her – literally – to health. Besides, he'd gone on, where would she go? It was the middle of one of the hardest winters Vancouver had ever seen, and a fifteen year old girl with no ID and no resources wouldn't last a week out there.
She didn't care, she'd stubbornly repeated. They could keep 'her' share of the money, she didn't want it anyway. She hadn't wanted to be a part of what she knew was coming – maybe not soon, but later. Too many other gangs had dissolved, victims of the drugs they peddled or the lack of wisdom to handle the sudden change in fortune. She'd rather start over from scratch than get trapped like that.
That had been when the threats started.
She'd killed for them already, he'd reminded her. Charmed her way into the good graces of their family's enemies to murder them in cold blood. He couldn't guarantee that the identity of the person responsible for those killings would stay secret if she left the Reds. Besides, he'd gone on, she was such a sweet young thing, with her brilliant green eyes and lock of fire-red hair... quite the morsel, didn't you think, for those with certain appetites. It'd be such a terrible shame if something ended up happening to her, wouldn't it? Better to stay with her family, who'd never think of doing that to her, than to risk it out on the streets alone.
That had been the moment when she knew for certain. Realized, as her gaze swept the assembled 'family' of half-starving orphans, runaways, dropouts, low-lifes, thugs and thieves, that even if she capitulated immediately that she had gone too far, challenged him too directly. That she'd be 'made example of' to the rest of the gang. Maybe not lethally – her talents were useful, after all. Maybe she'd wake up one night in her little sanctuary with some of the older boys who had looked at her with that sick hunger in their eyes pawing at her while they held her down, or maybe they'd try to get her hooked on the very stuff they were watching over, or maybe they'd just 'forget' to mention something important about a job they wanted her to do and let her suffer the natural consequences of being unprepared.
No.
The problem, she had realized immediately, was that she couldn't escape. Not with the twenty six odd gang members together in one room. One on one, she could take any of them. Even two or three at once wouldn't pose a problem. But twenty six of them, with some of them even decent fighters, would absolutely crush her. Fighting, or overtly fleeing now, would be suicide.
So she'd made a show of losing the argument. She had let him win, let him think he had beat her. Raised objections that were sillier and sillier, rallying support behind him, until the crowd had nearly been shouting at her to sit down and shut up and take the money. She'd feigned a struggle with her desire for the cash offered to her and her fears, before finally 'giving in' and taking it, to the raucous cheers of all.
It was almost depressing, how easy it had been.
She'd stayed awake that night, until the party – such as it was – died down, and the house went to sleep. Waited until the wooden panel that was the door to her little hideout was quietly pushed aside, and for a pair of masculine silhouettes to slip inside. She'd even pretended to be terrified when one of them covered her mouth while the other pulled her blankets aside and yanked her worn out jeans and panties down around her ankles.
Then, when the one who had apparently won the honor of going first was fiddling with his zipper, she had struck.
Her biotic powers hadn't been anything spectacular, especially compared to those of even the weakest properly amplified biotic, but they had been more than enough to make a knee massive enough to strike with the force of a sledgehammer... and a sledgehammer applied directly to the testicles was quite an effective deterrent. The small shiv she'd kept under her pillow was even more so.
It had been a messy, brutal, and blessedly brief struggle ending with both of them dead on the floor of her basement alcove, their blood slowly seeping into the carpet she had put down earlier that evening to deaden the noise of the inevitable fight.
She'd waited in silence, but if there were any more, they were staying quieter than she had been.
She had weighed her options.
The easiest option would have been simply to run. To quietly pack her bag, take her share of the cash advance the smugglers had given her, buy a fake identity, and run. The problem with that plan was that while Finch had been stupid, he had a certain charm and base cunning that carried him far in the underworld. When he had said that he had evidence of what she'd done for them, she didn't doubt it, and if proof of her actions had made its way to the police... well, there was no denying that she had been distinctive.
She had needed to get rid of them, then. All the ones who knew, the ones who could prove who she was and what she had done. It was the safest route. Forensics might let dead men tell some tales, but she wasn't worried. For whatever reason, she'd never been in any official systems, so any forensic evidence she might leave behind wouldn't turn up any matches.
Even so, it never paid to be risky. She had certainly been capable of cutting everybody's throats in their sleep, but that was fraught with peril even with most of the gang passed-out drunk. Shooting them was out for the same reason, also, she hadn't had a gun. No. The best option was fire.
The gang kept gasoline in containers to power an old wheezy generator for the times their taps on the electrical grid failed or were removed, and an enterprising young gang member with a head for plumbing had managed to tap in to the local gas line. They couldn't draw too much, or people would come looking to figure out what the pressure drop was from, but a hot shower was one of the rewards the gang had offered for jobs well done.
Soak the walls in gasoline, cut the line, and make a spark...
She had spent the next half hour tip-toeing around her drunken fellows, placing five gallon containers of gas around where she thought it would be important to have fire, sloshing a little around to ensure stuff got started. Then she'd snuck down to where the tap was, carefully undid the connection that led to their water heater, and opened the valve. The hiss had been loud, but not that loud, and most people stayed out of the basement anyway. The final steps had been to make a molotov cocktail and tie all the doors shut. The windows had already been barred on the inside by the gang as a security precaution, which was about to become highly ironic.
She remembered standing across the street, on an abandoned lot in the snow. The faint blue tinge of her biotics had merged with the flickering light of the molotov to form an eerie purple, and she regarded the home and family she had spent her whole life with a moment longer.
Then she threw the bottle.
"Ah, I see ya do remember me," Finch said with a humorless smile. "Let's talk."
Is that a cliffhanger? Oh snap! I think it is!
Don't worry, next chapter is well underway and won't be six months in the writing. The main reason I'm splitting them here is because it's 1:52AM as of typing this and if I stay up to finish the section I won't be asleep until five and I ride a motorcycle to college. Motorcycle + zero sleep = unsafe!
Catch you all in a few days.