"Just because something isn't a lie does not mean that it isn't deceptive. A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of truth in order to deceive is a craftsman of destruction."

― Criss Jami

Barracks, Top Floor, Archangel's Base
Lantar Sidonis

The privacy provided by two layers of blankets and the dead of night allowed thoughts to flow freely. It was the only time for reflection. For truth. When dawn broke, his mandibles could no longer twitch with anxiety. His brow couldn't furrow at the team's sight. And everything that had passed between him and Tarak could not be entertained, even for a second, if he wanted to maintain his cover.

Piece by piece, it was killing him more every day. When the Suns cornered him, said they needed his help taking down a rival gang, he figured they'd be another bunch of assholes. Not a group of ordinary people standing up to the violence and mayhem that hung over Omega like a toxic cloud. Even then, without knowing the squad, he hadn't agreed. It sounded dangerous. He didn't like that idea. Keeping his head down and minding his own business was how he got by. If it wasn't his problem, he went on his way – no use stirring up trouble.

But the Blue Suns wouldn't take no for an answer. It was his morning shift. The asari dancers were still shaking off the previous night's levity, readying themselves for another work-filled evening. They nabbed him backstage, quickly shoving him into a supply closet and out of sight. Demanded he quit. "Keep the uniform." A thug jeered as he kneed him in the gut. "Gonna need it." Then they left as quickly as they came. And Sidonis trembled on the floor. Gradually willing himself back to work. For whatever reason, he chose to ignore their demands, hoping they'd simply forget and find another stooge. Whatever they wanted would be dangerous. And he really didn't like the thought of that.

Big mistake. The Blue Suns wanted Archangel. And they wanted him bad. They snatched him on his walk home and dragged him off to one of their hideouts. A dank room with only a table and a couple chairs for furnishing. That's when he had the misfortune of meeting Tarak. The batarian began playing some human game, Russian Ruelette he called it, with his digits as the tie breaker. On the third stab, he'd had enough. The blade had cut clean through the talon bed into the tender flesh beneath. He begged them to stop. Agreed to whatever they wanted. Instead they chose to leave him bloodied and broken. Periodically they'd return, ask him a few questions about who he worked for. "You! I work for you!" He'd beg. Only for them to growl as the beating continued. No food or water was given. And the questions never ceased. "Who do you work for? Where are you from?" Ironically, they were searching for the truth – for the story he'd tell Archangel. They were merely teaching him how to blend the lies behind a mask of truth. "I'm no one. Just a security tech who took a wrong turn. I wish I never came to this rock!" They gave him a few strips of qualisi for that utterance. A mug of water too.

But it was another three days before they patched him up. And when they finally did, he crawled at their feet, embraced their niceties, vowing to do whatever they asked. The medi-gel was like a goddess ambrosia across his broken plates. He thought that was the end of it. How woefully wrong that assumption was. "No evidence of torture can remain," Tarak said, inspecting his talons, now healing at an alarming rate thanks to the gel. "But Archangel is a smart guy. Make sure it's convincing." Two krogan pounded into sight. And his bowels turned to water. "T-they're Blood Pack." Sidonis spoke, as if his pathetic mutterings would alter the course before him.

Still, he hadn't expected this. This… acceptance. When his background check cleared, (And why wouldn't it? He was a nobody.) the entire team welcomed him with open arms. Literally. One of the squadmates even brought his wife to live on-base. She was a delightful woman. Tall for a human female. Willowy. With a patch of curly brown hair beneath the gray. To know responsibility for her death would rest on his shoulders was almost too much. Almost. For the thoughts that followed, were of rancid contempt. What were they thinking? These fools who dared stand against the gangs. It was idiocy. A delusion of grandeur. And pure folly. On Omega, the only power greater than the gangs was Aria and she allowed them to run rampant in the name of freedom. If not him, then some other stooge would infiltrate and betray this group. Tarak was relentless. And he knew he was not the first mole they tried placing. Only the first to survive. Who could blame him for saving his own hide?

He clenched his jaw and vowed to shroud all wayward thoughts. Ill intent would never be discerned on his face, of that he'd made certain. In order to deceive, he abandoned all notion of escaping Tarak's will – just as he was taught. Allowing himself to be guided, his mind molded, his tastes formed, and ideas suggested along the lines Garrus believed to see. It was a subtle, delicate act. One of constant vigilance against traitorous thought, lest his building guilt betray him.

The alarm blared. 05:00.

Had he slept at all?

Ripper playfully tossed the clock at Butler, whose snoring didn't even pause on contact. "Sometimes I's thinks he's a deadman when 'e sleeps. You get a wink?"

"Barely." It was true, even if the reasons differed. "He is pretty loud."

"Eyyy. I'll gets ya earplugs. Add in some good beats and it'll tune that shit right out."

"Thanks but I'm good."

"Don't treat that shit like it's nothin' sleep dep will get ya every time."

Sidonis shrugged. "I guess. Anyhow, I'm heading to the kitchen. We still have that meet later?"

"Sooner actually. Boss needs to update us on some new development. Been up with Krul all night plannin' today. Gonna be a good fight, I's think."

Sidonis turned under the guise of arranging his armor, allowing him to internally wince at that. He'd been avoiding the batarian. Tarak himself said that his kind were all but impervious to lies. And to ensure he had all his chicks in a row before so much as glancing at the batarian. Thankfully, Krul was far too preoccupied with his own misery, and largely spent his time either drunk or sleeping off the latest bender. This would be the first time he'd face the sober version of this man, however. And he had to ensure his face maintained its carefully, crafted mask.

As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. The batarian was aged. And not well. Before he even noticed his entrance, Krul excused himself to bed. "Been up all night with this shit. Need to catch some shut-eye. Good luck. Don't wind up dead." And then he shuffled off without so much as a glance in his direction. His keen hearing could discern the creak of joints. The arthritis in his knees.

"Morning." Garrus passed him a sweet-marrow cake. One of Nalah's delectable concoctions. "Meeting in fifteen men. Eat fast. It's a big day." Only then did he notice the rest of the squad arrived. Once the kitchen table was at capacity, the remaining members sprawled out on the couch, chowing down as they shook the last remnants of sleep from their bones.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Garrus called them to attention. "There's been a change in plans today. That quarian lunatic, Zel-something or other, needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Mordin just forwarded us intel on his current batch of viruses. Zel is almost finished developing several sicknesses that could spread through this station like wildfire. And he'll be ready to deploy his gifts within a week. We can't let that crap out of his lab."

"Uhh… How… are we gonna fight something like that?" A nervous question. Sidonis twitched as it was asked.

"We've been planning for all possibilities. Mordin has studied these viruses and will be finished synthesizing treatments soon, so should any of us fall sick, he and his staff will be ready." Garrus sighed. "Zel's developed three different levo-plagues, and a dextro version made special for us turians. He's killed using synthesized viruses before, but the products were so lethal that they failed to spread. According to Mordin, the new strains are more infectious with a longer incubation time. Meaning this crap is capable of spreading before people even know they're sick. Zel always targets council races – salarians, asari, and turians usually. But it looks like he's branched out and incorporated humans. That said, Melenis, I want you to remain vigilant. Breather on at all times."

"Of course." Melenis nodded.

"I wanted to talk to everyone about this. But once we infiltrate his hideout, we'll have to choose someone to enter the hot-lab where the viruses are stored. We don't know Zel's containment procedures. And that envirosuit keeps him safe. So, it's possible that he's warded against attack with contaminants. Given that several viruses are airborne, merely entering is a risk. Ideally it would be someone who is immune to disease. Someone like that vorcha we met with Sidonis here. But considering he's such an … unusual character, I wanted to get everyone's opinion first."

Lantar blinked, knowing some of his anxiety would be seen. He had no idea how much that vorcha had witnessed. But he didn't allow his mind to take another step. Aligning himself with the group's thoughts. It's a vorcha, after all. Could they trust him?

"Sidonis, you look like you have something to add."

"Well I uh… It's not like I should criticize. He saved my life..."

"But?"

"Vorcha make me… nervous."

There was a round of snorts and guffaws. "Yeah I think we can all agree with that sentiment."

To argue against bringing in the vorcha, especially considering what they faced, would seem suspicious. So he let the matter slide. It's not like his word would be completely destroyed by the creature. If it came down to it, he was fairly certain he could persuade Garrus that the thing was deluded, possibly dangerous. And besides, this could be an opportunity. The sooner the Suns received their weapons, the sooner he would be free of this place. Then he could put all of this behind him. And run.

Garrus descended from the catwalks with Mierin and Sidonis in tow. He was proud of the latter's initiative. Lantar had really stepped up since his recruitment. When he relayed what they understood about the vorcha species, how presenting a united front would be ideal, Lantar immediately volunteered.

Garrus could always count on him bright and early, ready for drills. Most of the men required a period of adjustment when they first came to the base. But Sidonis made a true effort to adhere to their schedule and methods. All the same, he kept a close eye on the turian. He was a bit blue under the collar. A human would probably refer to him as green. Anxious. But the man tried. And that meant a lot.

The rest of the team was lurking behind, able to cover their retreat should the need arise. The full-turian squad was necessary in this realm of Omega. Clan and kin were how vorcha survived. A multispecies team would be an unfathomable sight to them. And the last thing he wanted to do was invoke suspicion this deep into vorcha territory.

Like the rest, Vortash lived in the depths of Omega. His location was on the datapad along with crucial intel regarding the Blood Pack. It led them one of their largest arms factories, which was quickly annihilated. Garrus hit them right where it hurt. Their pocket. Now they were forced to scramble for weapons on the black market. The blood thirsty gang was practically bleeding money at this point. Perhaps he had been hasty writing off the vorcha. He clearly had issue with the gangs if he handed over that level of information.

Still, the beast-men didn't exactly put him at ease. They occupied every dank corner, and sewer they could find. Rapidly adapting to the environmental hazards. It didn't take an expert to see that they remained a primitive species. As they traveled deeper into the center of Omega, down through the sewers, Garrus could feel those beady eyes tracking their every movement. And had to constantly remind himself that his team was at their backs. One signal and they'd descend. But he didn't want to bring his entire force. It could spook them. Possibly provoking the vorcha to attack. And they'd be heavily out numbered. There was the distinct possibility that his men wouldn't be capable of cutting through the chaos in time. Sure Sensat was armed to the teeth, but using explosives meant casualties on both sides, or at the very least, some nasty injuries. So he kept his rifle holstered. Even if it made his plates itch, anxiety increasing with every step.

A vorcha suddenly materialized from the shadows, hissing. "Captain Gavorn. Captain Gavorn. No kill today. We no kill!"

"I'm not Gavorn." Garrus answered. "I'm a friend of..."

"We no kill anyone! LEAVE!"

There was a clang at their feet. And four other vorcha emerged from a storm drain. Despite being a space station, such drains became a frequent sight the deeper one traversed Omega's bowels. They served as a precaution for the outdated infrastructure that frequently lead to broken, pipes and other plumbing issues. The fetid water traveled downwards, picking up debris, oil, and every other type of refuse. Eventually draining into the lowest region, which was periodically ejected into space. However, these drains also served as hiding places, provided one didn't have any issues with refuse or potentially drowning at a moment's notice.

Two others surfaced coming to a halt beside the first, forming a barrier of beast-men. He lurched forward protectively, placing himself between harm and his men. One of the vorcha twisted its head 180 degrees around, snarling. An unnerving sight. "Our territory." It hissed.

"Just want to talk to someone."

"Our territory."

"And I acknowledge that. But I need some help. I'm looking for a friend."

One gnashed its teeth and spat.

"No believe you." Another chimed in, licking countless needle-point teeth as it spoke. A glob of flesh dangled from one of its canines, a grisly reminder that the beast-men cannibalize their dead. He could still see the tan of skin. The muscles' sinew. And his craw constricted at the sight.

Garrus had one hand on his com, ready to give the signal, when another vorcha crawled out of the sewer. "Friend, friend," it hissed, clawing its way topside. "No here, friend. Go up up up."

No arguments there. Garrus quickly integrated Vortash into their huddle and made for the exit. Every step of the way, he could feel those eyes at his back. Little pinpricks invoking something dark and primal deep in his core. By the time they made it to the top level, Sidonis was gasping and sputtering, trying to shake the stench. Mierin helped steady him before they reached the markets. But they were all rattled. "Alright men, you can join up with the rest while I have a little chat with our new friend."

He found an out of the way table in the cafe. And sat down to do something he never thought he'd do – that he highly doubted any turian had done. Had a conversation with a vorcha about joining his team. Absolutely no way would he let this beast-man near the base, or Nalah, but perhaps he could be of use. Perhaps they could help each other.

Garrus waved down a waiter, and told Vortash to order whatever he pleased. "My treat." He said.

The vorcha chose raw fish heads with a side of rat tails. He didn't even know those were options. Leave it to Omega.

"So..." He started, only to be met with a hiss. "Alright then, I'll… let you finish."

It was disturbing watching him eat. He snatched food from the plate with his hands, stuffing the tails in his mouth at a break-neck pace. The meaty-ropes jiggled with every bite. Garrus swallowed a bit of nausea and placed an order for seltzer water. Regardless of chirality, all life required water. It was something that was shared among every species in the galaxy. And rather fascinating. Light years apart. Evolving on drastically different worlds. Yet, everyone needed water. Everyone. That topic was far more palatable to focus on than the carnage happening before him.

Eventually, a sharp pain jostled him from his musings. A bit of blue blood stained Vortash's claw. Along with a matching laceration on the back of his hand. He snatched the now bleeding appendage to his chest, dabbed on some medi-gel, and replaced his mitts. Who would've thought that taking one's gloves off was such a risk around vorcha. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Helping." Vortash hissed.

"You… think that cutting someone is helping?"

"Grow stronger. Better."

"Right." Garrus drew in a breath, easing his nerves. It was now or never. "If you want to help, I have a mission I could use you on. But I'd also-"

"Yes! Yes!"

"You haven't even heard what I have to say. What if my mission goes against your beliefs?" If he even has beliefs, an internal voice questioned. "Do you … care about anything?"

The vorcha cocked its head. Vicious, blood-red eyes gazed back. "Yes."

"How about we start there. What do you care about? What do you fight for?"

"Kin."

"You have a family?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell me about them?"

"Many broods. Two splits. Too many for counting. Some die. Some eaten."

"You… ate some of your children?"

"Already dead. Waste nothing."

"How about we… try another topic." Garrus shifted, gripping his seltzer water. "Why do you hate the Blood Pack so much?"

The eyes that glared back at him were hard, violent. How much intelligence was behind those eyes? How much civility? The vorcha were a primitive species. They hadn't achieved spaceflight. In fact, they hadn't even formed a government. Not once in their entire history. Could Vortash conceive of society? Of laws? They spread through the galaxy by stowing away on ships that had the misfortune of landing on their home-planet. At least, that's what he understood about them. "No like Garm."

"Did he… do something to you?"

"Kill kin. Understand need-kill. But not that. Not that!"

"Not what?"

"Garm kill with no need. Fun."

"And what makes you think I'm different?"

Vortash pulled a metal spike-thing from one of his pockets and began dislodging bits of flesh stuck between his teeth. He made high pitched hissing sounds as he blew spittle through said teeth, ensuring they were clear. "Kill for need. That you."

"But how do you know that? Why do you trust me?"

"Blood Pack hates you. All gangs hates you. If not you, who? No one else."

Spirits, he may just be starting to like this vorcha. "Alright. So, you still up for joining a few missions?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Do… you need anything from me?" Confusion on a vorcha was almost cute. Animalistic by nature. But cute. "Most of my men had something they needed me to do for them."

"Food good. Work for food."

"That's… all you want? Food?"

"Yes!"

"Alright, let's put in an order. We can pick it up later tonight when we're finished. How about enough to bring home? Feed your whole family."

"Yes yes," The beast-man said, as they approached the counter. They placed an order fit for an entire vorcha clan. It drained his account of nearly 2,000 credits and eased his concerns that they were using Vortash. The apprehension Garrus felt was quickly being replaced with a sense of responsibility. True to his nature, Vortash was savage, barbarous, and a bit terrifying in his bestiality. But there was also a naivety about him. Maybe it was born of lower intelligence. Yet, that also called into question what defined intelligence. If someone is uneducated but retains the capacity to learn, does that make them less intelligent? Jane not only showed him a different type of strength, but how someone lacking in knowledge could be incredibly wise. Maybe Vortash would surprise him as well. Either way, he was someone who could be taken advantage of.

A fact that would haunt him. A fact that he neglected. A fact he should have paid closer attention to, along with his own hangups about the species.

Why didn't I see it?

How could I have been so blind?

Mistakes are the way of life. No one learns to walk without falling. But the consequence should have been his to bear, not his men.