A/N: This takes place before the events of Mass Effect 1, right before the batarian Hegemony leaves Council Space.

Even without a day cycle, the keel docking bays of the Citadel Wards had their lulls in starship traffic. And for one hour each day the shadowed, soft blue glow of Tayseri's lowest bay held very few ships or people. It wasn't quiet, because the Wards never truly were, but it could have passed for calm.

And morning had always seemed the best label for that hour to salarian C-Sec constable Vel Selar, who was watching a hanar sell cheap merchandise at the far end of the bay. Selar had never experienced a real morning before, not in the dusk of the Wards, but he had watched them, with rain and sunshine and clouds, on orange tinted vids.

The hanar's stall was separate from everything, from the thin crowd and the cluster of cheaply constructed market stalls designed to greet tourists with dim orange lamps and the smell of food. A yawning asari walked by it, with her black skirt tilted precariously on her thighs, and a salarian businessman was playing a game on his omni-tool while he waited for a transport nearby. Everyone ignored the hanar, but it illuminated itself to them all as charmingly as it could.

"Find out what the Enkindlers have in store for you," it kept calling out, "on the station that is their masterwork. One hundred credits for a prayer! Two hundred for a blessing endorsed by the Primacy itself!"

And unlike the other aliens working the market cluster, the hanar lacked a slender stem of red flowers on its counter. There were postcards and vids, trinkets and religious texts that only a hanar could read. There were cups full of spiced candy. Above everything, a holographic flag glowed purple and displayed its shop sign.

Opel's Citadel Greetings! Souvenirs for friends and sweetie-hearts! Authentic Enkindler Memorabilia!

But there were no flowers.

"That's the second day without them," Selar said, leaning against a metal bulkhead with crossed arms and watching the display with his turian partner. "Maybe it just doesn't like red."

The turian, a C-Sec investigator named Beran, took a swig of steaming dextro coffee. His face plates were dusted with a copper rust of old colony markings and his left mandible hung too low, fully inert after an injury during his required stint in the Hierarchy's military.

"It might know something," Beran grated out. He flicked his right mandible out a single time. "Let's go."

The hanar perked up as they approached it, then shifted a veil of electric light over its pink skin. "Esteemed Officers," it said slowly, "this one believes a charm from the ruins of Mount Vassia would suit you. Or perhaps an engraved seashell from the depths of Kajhe itself?"

Selar said, "Not today, Opel," with a quiet voice. He tilted his blue-green horns forward in a friendly way, tugged on his jacket. "How's business?"

"The Enkindlers bless this one even when they withhold," Opel replied. "Business is as they intend it."

Beran pulled a stack of photos out of his cowl and they landed on the counter. "You know anything about this?"

Opel stared down at pictures of flowers and various illegal weapons, as much as Selar suspected a hanar could truly stare at anything. The illumination on its body swelled, faded, and then swelled again even brighter. With a flourish, it lifted its tentacle and pushed a small button on the counter. The shop sign above it dimmed and then renewed itself with a flash of blue light and scrolling yellow text.

Famous Information Broker! Finance stocks adrift? Bondmate following a stray tide? Consult today!

"It will cost a fee," the hanar informed them.

Selar asked, "How much?"

"Five thousand credits," it replied.

Selar let out a long, slow exhale. "The Enkindlers must be withholding a lot, Opel."

Beran scoffed at the price and narrowed his eyes. "Do you even have a license for brokering information?" he asked. "More importantly, do I look like a tourist from the rim itching to get fleeced?"

Opel wiggled, shifted from side to side. "This one is dismayed that the Esteemed Officer would insinuate such a thing. This one's information license is endorsed by every province on Rhakana."

"That's great. Rhakana's a wasteland and you know it."

"Rhakana is eternal in the eyes of the Illuminated Primate."

Selar's mouth settled into a frown and he glanced at Beran, who snorted with a sub-harmonic hum. But there might actually be something to the flowers if Opel badgering them for credits was any indication. And it was a better lead than anything else they had encountered so far.

Citadel Security had been finding itself on the less armed side of criminal altercations in Tayseri's foundations, and Madam Sergeant T'Ven was in a rage now that an investigator from her precinct had landed in the morgue because of it. The victim, an asari named T'elis, had been mauled by a pit nathak during a sand bust. And so Beran and Selar had been assigned to search the edges of the Ward for any information about the surge of new contraband being smuggled in.

But there was nothing to find. Beran had begun resorting to his favorite conspiracy theories along with enough dextro coffee to power a small sun. His latest theory was that the flowers were some sort of signal.

Selar sighed and he picked up a holo-vid from one of Opel's displays. "How about this," he began, and set it in front of the hanar. "What I'm going to do is buy this vid from you for five hundred credits and fail to notice that you're selling kitchen swill labeled as shrine water. What you're going to do is help my friend here with his pictures."

And then Selar waited. His finger remained on the vid.

Opel glowed with waves of luminescence while it contemplated the twenty-third installment of Flotilla of My Yearning Heart placed in front of it. The Illuminated Primacy had set strict rules for the only shrine located on the station, and one of them was that no one could take water from its pools without an endorsement from the hanar embassy itself. So there was a high chance that Opel was selling water from a sink in a nearby restroom because it couldn't afford to buy the endorsement.

And that was intensely embarrassing for a religious hanar, on top of being a more common occurrence than its highest Illuminated Primate liked to admit.

"That is a fair trade," Opel said after a long moment.

Selar nodded and pulled his hand back. He didn't press about the glittering vials sitting next to a cup of candy.

Opel's tentacles sifted through the stack of photos. It lifted and turned them all around before setting them down again with a soft slap of noise. "The others place them at the direction of an old batarian woman. She began appearing two weeks ago."

"That's right when it started to get bad down there," Beran said, glancing at Selar. He moved his attention back to Opel and pointed at the photos of the weapons. "Do you know anything about these?"

"This one does not."

Selar asked, "Why don't you have any flowers?"

"...This one may have insisted on more credits than she offered for the display," Opel replied glumly.

Selar shook his head and reached into his pocket. He placed a credit chit on the counter, slid it across the distance. "Thanks, Opel," he said as he turned away. "See you around."

Beran was already relaying the piece of information to C-Sec on his omni-tool. He was headed toward a coffee kiosk while humming roughly and Selar followed after him.

"Esteemed Officer," Opel called out. "You have paid without taking change." Its voice rose when Selar didn't stop or slow down. "The same thing happens on the Presidium near the cafes," it said more quickly.

Selar blinked in surprise, almost ran into an elcor with a luggage case atop its head. People from lower Tayseri didn't go up to the Presidium. "What were you doing up on the ring?" he said as he turned back.

Opel was shimmering again. "The zocalo approaches us."

Selar's translator fumbled over the word, which was unusual. But when he asked for clarification the hanar immediately busied itself switching its sign back as if it had said nothing at all. It called out to a pair of humans who were wearing expensive suits and had their white hair tied up into elaborate shapes. They gawked at everything with open mouths, including Selar.

Selar frowned at them and turned away. There wasn't anything unusual about that part.

The Council's sprawling station called the Citadel had five city-sized Wards and a ring called the Presidium joining them all at its center. It was an average temperature, one that was equally uncomfortable for every race within it. The air was like the elevator music and it was like the nutrient paste in the vats. But the humans, who were the newest race accepted into Council space, hadn't had an embassy long enough to find the Citadel anything but novel.

So there were a lot of broke ones pouring in to eat free nutrient paste, and a lot of wealthy ones with their mouths stuck open while they stared at everything.

And they'd get tired of it, Selar thought. Sooner or later. He followed after Beran again, pulled his jacket tight against his shoulders. Whatever the hanar had meant by zocalo, it sounded vaguely ominous.

When Selar caught up at the coffee kiosk Beran gestured with his cup. "You forgot your vid," he said.

"I've already seen that one," Selar replied. He pushed a few buttons, slid a card he kept in his pocket through the kiosk's credit reader. A white paper cup dropped down with a pop of noise and levo coffee poured into it.

"Spirits," Beran muttered. "Of course you have. You're a marshmallow for that gooey schlock." He shook his head, tucked the photos back into his cowl. "I bet you've seen the entire heartwarming, romantic series."

Selar took a drink of the coffee and didn't answer.

Beran shook his head again and grated out a small laugh, but he didn't look surprised. Citadel Security had taken to pairing various enforcement officers with investigative officers on the daily beat to prevent cliques from forming between precincts. And the first time the turian investigator from the middle Ward had met his salarian partner from the lower Ward was off hours in a bar, two years ago, when Selar had been on a date with a very affectionate drell named Teelah.

And there had been an ocean of little green stars, all falling from nowhere and ringing like bells around her. Less experienced than he was now, Selar had believed that meant he was in love.

It didn't, as it turned out. It was the bufotenin excreted by her skin.

Beran had ribbed him about it for weeks, particularly after Selar's doped up smile had worn off and Teelah had dumped him. But Selar entertained Beran's wilder conspiracy theories about the Wards, of which there were many, some of which were true, and Beran kept quiet at the precinct about Selar's penchant for alien women.

They got along.

Beran crumpled the cup, tossed it in a wastebasket that was being slowly emptied by a keeper. "How's the thing with Amalthea going?" he asked. "You watch all that stuff with her while you snuggle on the couch or something?"

Selar glanced away uneasily, watched the keeper click and wander on six legs with its trash bag. "She moved out," he said.

Beran choked a little in surprise. "What? When?"

"A few months ago."

"And I'm just finding out now?"

The keeper emptied another trash can at the edge of the walkway, very methodically, and headed toward another. Selar said, "I didn't really feel like talking about it."

He still didn't. The last time he had seen Amalthea was when she had been a silhouette in his doorway, dark against the yellow lights of the hallway and speaking to him with low subharmonics and a smooth voice that pierced him through. His apartment was still missing half its furniture because of it.

Beran got another cup of coffee. "You find someone else yet?"

"No." Selar leaned against the kiosk. "I'm done with it for a while."

Beran sighed. "Maybe it's for the best," he said. "Look, I know you're really into love for the sake of love or whatever, but not a lot of women want to live a domestic, settled life with a guy who's got twenty-five years left at best and might get knifed on the job. This serial monogamy thing you do is weird considering the circumstances."

"I just like having someone around after a shift," Selar said.

"Then get a roommate," Beran said. "Hell, get a friendly VI. It'd be sweeter to you than Amalthea ever was."

Selar looked down at his coffee. The appeal of caffeine had never revealed itself to him, but he took another taste to try again. He swished it around in his mouth, swallowed, and when he felt nothing at all he said, "Are you trying to give me a pep talk?"

"Yeah. I'm no good at it." Beran swigged his own drink down and crumpled the cup, got a new one and filled it up again.

Selar looked up after a while. "Do you know what zocalo means?"

Beran glanced at him in surprise. "No idea. The jelly say that to you?" When Selar nodded he said, "Hell. Maybe someone else knows."

They dropped their cups into the trash can, where Selar's landed with a wet splash, and then they split up to cover the docking bay as quickly as they could. Starships began to crowd the docking bay as they questioned workers, then long lines began to form at the customs kiosks. The Ward swelled to life around them as they worked.

But no one seemed to know what zocalo meant.

A group of volus lumbered by Selar with their spouses and small children in stretchy enviro-suits, obviously on a family vacation, and they queued at the end of a line. As he moved aside to slip past them all, Selar bumped into a human woman. She let out a small cry of surprise and the volus family sucked in a unified breath. They all stepped away from her with tiny feet.

"My apologies," Selar said immediately. He picked up a brown suitcase that had fallen from her arms and handed it to her.

She clutched it and looked up at him, her eyes wide when they met his. "I suppose I'll forgive you since you're cute," she said softly.

Selar smiled at her, as he had seen humans do sometimes. He moved on in the crowd.

Beran was questioning a group of quarian pilgrims when Selar found him again, and then they teamed up to corner an executive from Illium who was taking advantage of the cheap travel fees in Tayseri. No one knew anything about the flowers or what the word zocalo meant. An asari carried a box that smelled like fruit and cloves under her arm and she murmured that the flowers looked surprised to be in such a worn out place.

And Opel called out to everyone, praising the Enkindlers while its voice was smothered by the noise of starships. It wouldn't speak to them again. The day wore on and it seemed the flowers were a dead end, for the moment. A conspiracy theory. But just as Selar and Beran were about to head back to the lower precinct to continue from there, Selar's omni-tool lit up with a call.

Madam Sergeant T'Ven's voice was littered with static and irritation when he answered. "Are you two still at the docks?" she asked. "We've got a call about an incident over in customs with a diplomat. I need you to take care of it."

Selar glanced at Beran, who shrugged. Selar said, "We can get there in a few minutes. Why aren't they leaving it to a customs officer?"

"There's already one there," T'Ven replied. "Beran," she continued, assuming he was nearby, "do you have a problem with humans?"

Beran said, "Not as much as that officer probably does if you're calling us about it. Turian or batarian?"

T'Ven's voice grew even more irritated. "Turian," she said. "Look, get over there and take care of the chip on his shoulder. There's a political hearing starting soon and I don't want the suits on the ring throwing a fit over an empty chair."

She immediately cut the connection.

Selar tapped his omni-tool's screen, read quickly as the report from the call scrolled by. It was brief, probably anonymous. And it wasn't as surprising as it should have been. The rapid, almost frantic colonization of the Skyllian Verge that the human Alliance was engaging in had taken an unwanted spotlight on the galactic stage now that the batarian Hegemony was verbally sparring with them about it. There were many diplomats and council employees congregating from all over the galaxy to deal with it.

On top of that, the Relay Three Fourteen Incident, in which the Alliance had skirted far too close to starting a war with the turian Hierarchy for anyone's comfort during their first contact, was receiving an encore of attention. The tensions were high and spilling out from the embassies into the evening news. Anti-human sentiments were common.

"What's your take on it?" Beran asked. Beran always asked him that.

Selar closed his omni-tool. "A career guy who wouldn't set foot in the Verge if his life depended on it," he predicted. He didn't particularly care who it was. "They confiscated his hallex and he wants it back."

"That's so negative," Beran replied with a low hum. He shook his head and said, "It's gonna be a beautiful woman wrongly accused of a crime and you're gonna fall head over toes for her."

"I see you actually watch Flotilla of My Yearning Heart," Selar replied with a glance.

"Like hell I do," Beran said. "But I'm a genius about this kind of stuff."

When they reached the employee entrance beyond the kiosks and lines, they scanned their identification cards and headed inside.