Author's Note: And we're back. I'm so, so sorry for taking so long. I could go on and on with my reasons and excuses but, TL;DR, I've had less time and less motivation to write. That's the long and short of it. I honestly didn't think a year and change would pass before this chapter was posted but that's ultimately what happened. As it stands, I don't see that changing in the foreseeable future.
So I'm going to make an effort to finish off Tales from the Citadel and wrap up a few lingering plot threads that I've started (or, at least, bring some kind of closure to them), rather than leaving things hanging forever. I can't guarantee when that will happen, but I will do my best to make it happen. For those of you still sticking around and reading this after all this time, thank you for your patience and understanding.
A big thank you to Chris Dee for providing a much-needed sounding board and providing the insight needed to get me out of my rut (for a few weeks, anyway).
Tales from the Citadel
Chapter 22: Shepard versus the Heist
I had to go to C-Sec. No, I wasn't in trouble. I think.
Bailey asked me to visit C-Sec HQ to help close a few files. Mostly involving incidents I'd somehow become involved with despite my best efforts. What can I say? I lead a charmed life. A charmed, screwed-up, odds-defying life.
"Shepard," Bailey greeted me with a firm handshake.
"Bailey," I returned. "Good to see you. How are you doing?"
"Up to my eyeballs in work," he replied, motioning me into his office. "Everyone's screaming for more boots on the ground, more patrols, faster responses to this and that. Every event needs C-Sec to coordinate crowd control, if not provide actual protection. And no one seems to realize that we're understaffed—we have been for a while now, even before Cerberus tried to take over the Citadel. So we're stretched thin. Way too thin."
I winced. "Sorry to hear that."
He waved it off. "It is what it is. Sometimes, it's actually better than the beginning of the war, when half of my time was wasted on political bullshit. Besides, things might be turning around. Got a lot of people looking for work—veterans discharged from the military, kids looking for a long-term career, that sorta thing. If even half of them make it through recruitment and probation, we might be in good shape."
"And what about your family?" I asked. "Any word from them?"
He visibly sagged in relief. "Thank God, yes. They were living in a building complex in Ontario when the Reapers attacked. Spent the war cooped up inside, but they had shelter, power and food—thanks to direct underground access to one of the supermarkets. Best part was that, somehow, the Reapers were so focused on the Greater Toronto Area that they ignored the building completely. Bottom line: they're safe. They all need counseling—God, who doesn't—but they're okay."
"Oh that's wonderful news," I beamed. "Any chance you can visit them? I mean, it's not like you have to jump through a few mass relays or anything. Earth is literally below you right now."
"I wish," he laughed ruefully. "If I'm really lucky, maybe I can clear up a few days. I just need to make some headway in all this paperwork. Which is where you come in."
"Right," I nodded. "Though I'm not sure how I can help."
"Your name's come up in a number of reports. I just need to ask you a few more questions, see if there's anything new you can provide. If not, then we can officially close the files."
"Bailey, I may not know much about law enforcement, given that I enlisted with the Alliance and became a Spectre, but I do know what usually happens when a detective tells someone 'Help me finish up the paperwork so I can close the file': paperwork leads to bombshells, said someone becomes a suspect and lawyers get involved. Do I need to make a vid-call?"
"It's nothing like that," he laughed, motioning me to a chair as he settled behind the desk. Once I was seated, he pulled up one of several open data files. "It's just that, in all my years in C-Sec. I've dealt with a lot of crap. Surveillance on a suspect, sure. Getting all kinds of warrants? Just another day at the precinct. Dealing with politicians and military brass or tackling terrorist threats? Yeah, that comes with the territory. Processing all the refugees fleeing from Reapers and fighting off a coup attempt? Okay, that was a new one. We really had to adapt on the fly, there. Even having the goddamn Citadel being swept across the galaxy and parking next to a new set of planetary neighbors? Well, that was a headache."
"You've dealt with a lot," I acknowledged.
"I've dealt with a lot. I'd seen it all. Then you got out of Huerta Memorial and had an… incident. Let me tell you, I have never faced 'paperwork' with that many security clearance flags."
Oh. Right. That one.
"Some unidentified individual who hired CAT6 to kill you and your friends, steal your identity and hijack the Normandy."
"Yeah… that was a doozy."
"Sure was. Thankfully, we finally apprehended the surviving mercs—all three of them. They confirmed the report you gave our investigators. Seems like CAT6 will be on our list of groups to monitor for the foreseeable future. Anything else you can add?"
"No, that's about it," I admitted.
Bailey gave me a look. "You know, most reports don't have an official and a high-level security clearance-only version of events. And I can't think of any report that involves an ex-Cerberus terrorist and a clone involved in both first-degree murder and identity theft. I asked you hear in person so we could talk face-to-face. Are you sure that's what actually happened?"
He meant he wanted to look me in the eye when I said it, which I guess I could understand. I spread my hands helplessly. "I still can't believe that happened, much less to me, but that's literally what happened. An ex-Cerberus terrorist honestly stole a clone of me, taught him everything she knew, hired a bunch of mercs and sent them to kill me, kill my friends and take over my life."
He shook his head. "I'm sitting here, hearing you say it with my own ears, and I can't believe it either."
"Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction," I shrugged. "Hey, what happened to that sushi restaurant? Ryuusei?"
"Still in the midst of extensive repairs and renovations. It might be reopening next year."
Damn it!
Bailey closed that file and opened another. "Moving on: a piano concert involving Amadea M'Zara and Saliri Notis that turned into one big biotic brouhaha."
"I was only there because my friend had a spare ticket," I replied. "All I wanted was to listen to some music." Though it wasn't a complete waste: I got to hear Liara play the one piece she learned, thanks to an archaeological dig she worked on a long time ago. "What happened to M'Zara and Notis?"
"They had to pay for damages to the music hall. Their lawyers objected, but mostly for formality's sake: with all the witnesses and recordings floating around, there was no way they could get away with it. Most of the hassle came from figuring out who bore more responsibility for the fiasco."
"As in, who should pay more fines," I interpreted.
"Exactly."
"And?"
"They each paid an equal fine. 50:50."
"Nice," I approved.
"Finally: a report involving several krogan who pled guilty to damage of public property, vandalism of public property, vandalism of a law enforcement vehicle, grand theft of a law enforcement vehicle, dangerous operation of a law enforcement vehicle, destruction of a law enforcement vehicle, fleeing/attempting to elude a law enforcement officer. One of them, an Urdnot Grunt, requested your presence. You were kind enough to pay for all the damages."
Kind. Sure. Let's go with 'kind'. "Oh boy. Yeah, that happened. I understand Urdnot Wrex managed to help you figure out some kinda community service thing?"
"Yeah, he got them to rid the Presidium of a pyjak infestation. That was only supposed to last a couple days, but it stretched to a full month. We had no idea how far the pyjaks had spread, but it was bad. After that… honestly, the consensus was the krogan had paid their dues. We had them assist C-Sec with a few patrol duties here and there—you know, cuz we're short on officers—but that was about it."
"Well, then. All's well that ends well."
"If only it was as simple as that." Bailey closed the last file before turning towards me. "And that's it. We're done."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Apart from the clearance one, we really could've done them over the comm or via e-mail or something."
"Procedure," Bailey shrugged.
Oh. That ol' thing. I shook my head in commiseration.
"Besides, it gave me an excuse to put off a meeting to arrange a meeting to cover a review of performance reviews."
I blinked. "That… sounds redundant."
"Welcome to my world," he said dryly.
"Well, I'm glad I could help you close a few files and stave off boredom," I chuckled. "Anything else I can help you with? You know, to drag things out a little longer?"
"Unless you can help me nail Katerina Sorokin to the wall, no."
"Who's Katerina Sorokin?"
"Officially, an art appraiser specializing in twentieth-century European pieces. Unofficially, one of the most notorious black market art dealers this side of the Milky Way. Her clients included the Dantius sisters—before they both died—and Donovan Hock—also dead."
Dantius. Hock. Hoo boy, I remembered those names. Each and every one of them a piece of work.
"As it turns out, she's on the Citadel right now. We believe she's trying to sell more artwork—preferably to clients who won't die under violent circumstances."
He gave me a look. I had no idea what he was implying. Honest.
"So what's the problem?" I wanted to know. "Having trouble making a case against her?"
"Pretty much," he admitted. "She's rented out a small warehouse on the Docks. Like I said, we're pretty sure she's using it to showcase illegally acquired art and sell it to… private parties. Problem is, she's careful. Damn careful. Makes sure every form is filled out in triplicate and everything. Legally, we don't have any reason to search her warehouse."
"Is this where I come in?"
Bailey shook his head. "Unless you can figure out a way to cut through that legal red tape without invoking your Spectre status, no. Believe it or not, C-Sec has rules about working with Spectres—especially when it comes to using Spectre authority to circumvent or override established law. Galactic security is one thing. Art crime's another, no matter how notorious the perp. But thanks for asking."
"Of course."
"So. What's next?"
"I got my marching orders from the Alliance," I replied. "Shore leave's over. We'll be departing the Citadel and heading off to our next assignment."
Hard to believe, I know, but shore leave usually lasts several days. Maybe a week. This one seemed to last months, if not years. Not that I was complaining. I hadn't had any R&R in… well… unless you count those years spent being dead, I honestly couldn't remember. And no, recovering at Huerta Memorial didn't count. Nor did being locked up during my court martial. Just about every time I'd gone planetside was for a mission. So… yeah, it had been a while since I could just rest. Relax. Recharge.
Besides, the Normandy hadn't received any major maintenance since the start of the Reaper War. She'd participated in combat after combat, including Operation Return—the battle to retake Earth, activate the Crucible and defeat the Reapers once and for all. She'd crashed on a planet when the Crucible's energy wave knocked her off course. And then after some hasty repairs, she'd been hurriedly been pressed back into service, where she'd tried to keep some semblance of peace throughout the galaxy—until one last fight in the Attican Traverse that fried several plasma relays and shorted out the primary life support. That was the point where someone in the Alliance decided that the Normandy was long overdue for some TLC. So the Normandy began a series of long-overdue repairs, which meant her crew got to enjoy a long-overdue break.
Alas, all good things must come to an end. As soon as the final repairs were complete, I'd be off to some random place where I'd have to do some random thing involving bullets, piping-hot plasma and rampant kleptomania.
"Oh thank God," Bailey told me. "No offence: I know you've been through a lot. And after everything you did to fight the Reapers and save our bacon, no one deserves a break more than you. But I gotta say: trouble follows you like a goddamn dog. Ever since you got out of Huerta Memorial, I've been wondering how many crimes and investigations would occur involving your ass. I can't believe I only had three reports with your name attached to them. I really don't want to see a fourth before you haul ass outta here. Again: no offence."
"None taken," I chuckled. "If I were in your shoes, I'd feel the same way."
By the time my chat with Bailey wrapped up, it was time for lunch. Alas, the fridge was kinda bare. I'd have to stock up a bit before I left. Hell, if Joker and some of the other squadmates were serious about me throwing some kind of event or party, I'd definitely have to get some groceries. And alcohol. And knowing my luck, and my friends, risk showing up in another report on Bailey's desk. But that was a problem for another day. For now, I was a lil hungry. So I decided to visit the Silver Coast Casino.
Yeah, yeah: it feels like I'd gone there a lot. And maybe I had. But it really had been some time since I had gone there for a meal. Besides, I'd visited plenty of other food kiosks, cafes, and restaurants. More importantly, I just didn't feel like picking something up at the local market, be it a ready-to-eat meal or ingredients to throw together.
As I entered the Silver Coast Casino and began walking up the stairs, I noticed a group of people ahead of me. A human, a salarian, an asari and a turian. Nothing strange about that, especially in a place as cosmopolitan as the Citadel.
What caught my attention, though, was the human's voice. Husky, quiet and very, very familiar: "All right, people: it's show time. Senek, hit the comms. Tianna, distract the bouncer."
"Got it," the salarian murmured.
"Of course, darling," the asari purred.
"Urch, you take the vault. Avoid the thermal sensors—they trigger the lockdown. We don't need to go that far. Just hit motion sensors and that'll alert security."
The turian didn't respond, other than a grunt.
"Vurk, where are you at?"
"Just reached the laundromat. Traffic was busy."
"Well, what's done is done. Steal a C-Sec uniform and get here ASAP. You're gonna go in as security when the alarms are triggered to make the 'arrest'."
"There's a chance I might still be at the laundromat when the alarms go off."
"Stall," the turian suggested.
"Yeah, we'll have to mingle and wait until Vurk is in posit…"
And that's when Kasumi noticed me. "Whoops," she said. "I seem to have the wrong casino."
"Kasumi?" I blurted.
"Take a walk, guys," she sighed.
The other three immediately split up and scattered. Considering they were probably up to no good, I couldn't blame them.
"Hey, Shep," Kasumi said cheerfully. "Good to see you on your feet."
"Likewise," I replied. "So… what brings you here? Business or pleasure?"
"Both." Kasumi paused and gave him an assessing look. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
"I believe I hired you because you were the best damn thief in the galaxy," I confirmed. Okay, technically it was the Illusive Man who had hired her on my behalf, but why quibble?
"Sweet talker," Kasumi smiled. "Care to walk?"
"Sure," I shrugged, falling in line beside her. "Are you hard up for credits or is this just to stay in practice?" he asked.
"People are having a rough time out there," Kasumi replied. She casually flicked her omni-tool at the quasar games as they walked by, causing them all to spontaneously declare jackpot. As customers began running to the terminals and talked excitedly, she continued. "Especially the ones who don't have a home anymore. This place has more money than it knows what to do with. It could help those refugees survive. And it's not like the owner can spend it anymore."
"Right," I said slowly. "I heard about Khan. Shame, really. But back to why you're here: you're robbing the rich to help the poor."
"I'm doing what I do. Raiding Cerberus bases and infiltrating Reaper-held locations was fun. Terrifying, but fun. At the end of the day, though, I'm a thief. Casing a joint, sneaking in and stealing… that's who I am. It's what gets me up in the morning, you know?"
"Yeah, I think I do."
Kasumi paused awkwardly, as if steeling herself to ask a difficult question. "By the way, I have to ask: are you gonna call security?"
"After all we've been through?" I asked, doing my best to look wounded. "After we fought against mercs, geth, husks and Collectors?"
"Well—"
"After I helped you break into Donovan Hock's mansion?"
"That's—"
"After we survived a freaking suicide mission together? You still have to ask?"
"Okay, I—"
"Even if I didn't have the decency to stand behind someone I'd survived a suicide mission with, turning snitch would involve my name on a C-Sec report that I absolute—"
"Okay, okay, you've made your point," Kasumi said. "I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted. Look, Kasumi, I am not going to give you up, but—"
"There we go."
"Hey, you did hurt my feelings by asking."
"Fine," she sighed. "I can tell there's a catch by the look in your eye and that smart-ass grin on your face. Name your price."
"I'm assuming you know the warehouse Katerina Sorokin is using by the docks."
"Yeah."
"Let's say if, an hour or so into the clean-up of whatever happens here, C-Sec were to find something that gave them probable cause to search it, it would make me very happy."
"Something like an address on a cocktail napkin in the pocket of a stolen uniform?"
"I leave that up to you."
"It could be arranged. Anything else?"
"I'm having a party before the Normandy ships out. If you're still on the Citadel, you'll come?"
She smiled. "I wouldn't miss it. Anything else?"
I smiled back. "Just don't get caught, okay?"
"Hey, come on," she grinned with just a bit of bravado. "It's me."
A bark of laughter escaped his lips. "Right. Well, I guess I need to clear out and establish some plausible deniability. Nice to not run into you."
Kasumi paused by the closest varren gambling table and as I turned away I heard her address her crew "Okay, guys. Show's on."