Author's Note: I would like to once again thank other fanfic authors like R3dRaven for inspiration with the story. His fanfic, Mass Effect: Raven, showed me the potential this genre of fanfic had. When done correctly and realistically, a truly amazing story can be created!

I would also like to get this out of the way: I do not own Mass Effect or any of it's characters and settings. The source material is strictly owned and developed by BIOWARE and Electronic Arts.

Author's Note #2: For all you readers, I hope you like what I am writing here. I won't try to take too long with the chapters, either. I will be skipping over any events that do not necessarily need to be gone over and, if important enough, they will instead be merely mentioned at the beginning or end of a chapter. I plan on going through all ME games with this story, same as The Hunt, so I don't have time to waste.

Now with that being said, enjoy!

Chapter One

Means of Survival

Shit. Shit. Shit! SHIT! I had been running, eyes wide and mind clear, for the past half an hour. I had absolutely no clue where the hell I was going. The only thing I did know was that I needed to get as far away as possible from the two Turian C-Sec agents chasing after me. It wasn't really surprising that at least one of those Asari that saw me rise out from the dark alley ended up calling the cops. But dammit, I had just gotten here! What made it even worse, at least in my perspective, was that I used to be a near perfect example of a model law abiding citizen my entire life back in the real world. Back in New York City. Not once had I ever gotten in trouble with law enforcement, pranks and childish behavior with friends aside. But this? I sure as hell was not about to get detained by alien police officers who I was still trying to accept were real. I was still trying to accept any of this was real. Like seriously, this was something straight out of a crappy B-movie. Or ripped straight from Tron. Yeah, Tron was a decent comparison.

"You're only making this worse for yourself," one of the Turians yelled over the crowds, pushing aside anyone who got in the way without remorse. I didn't have a single idea what he ‒ or she ‒ was saying in the alien language, but it was not like I had never seen cop shows and movies before. I had a decent idea what they were probably saying. "Just give up, Human," demanded the other officer. That time I caught the word 'Human' and had a pretty good understanding of what he wanted from me. And that he sounded really damn pissed.

Being in the middle of a heavily crowded area, which I could only guess was somewhere on the Citadel, ended up being a life saver. The games never showed or talked about it, but those Turians were able to run fast. Like, a Human Olympic runner fast. I might have even given it some serious thought and connected it with the fact they were a predatory species on their home planet ‒ had I not been too busy fleeing to give a rat's ass. If it had not been for all of the humanoid obstacles they had to pass through, they surely would have caught me long before I got this far. In fact, they almost did when they first found me earlier. The chase continued on like this for another ten minutes before my stamina began to seriously take its toll. Adrenaline pumping or not, going at full sprint for such a fairly long time would drain the energy out of any normal Human person. By then I had turned too many corners to count and must have traveled four or five floors lower. Running out of options here, I mentally yelled at myself. C'mon... there!

Coming up thirty yards on my right was what looked like another dark, narrow back alley between two mediocre-looking store fronts. Ducking down to take advantage of the still fairly thick crowd and hinder the line-of-sight the C-Sec officers had on me, I pushed through my gradually growing fatigue and sharply turned the corner into the alleyway. Now I wasn't stupid ‒ I knew that, even if they hadn't seen me make the turn, they would realize I had stopped running in the same direction. I doubted they would fail to notice something as simple as that, and so, through panting and pouring sweat, my gaze wandered around my new surroundings. After a short moment that felt more like an eternity, my eyes rested on something that could only be assumed to be a sort of large, industrial garbage bin. Something you would see in the back of restaurants and grocery stores. The world is so cruel, I thought to myself as I stared at my only form of possible salvation. The voices of the two Turians getting closer snapped me out of my thoughts and, after only one more brief hesitation, I opened the bin's top lid and climbed inside.

The horrid smell and physical sensation of rotting food and other undesirables instantly overcame my senses. It was so foul, I almost vomited on the spot. To say this was one of the most awful and, frankly, humiliating experiences in my life so far was an understatement. Push through it, I mentally yelled at myself some more. Garbage is better than a jail cell! I closed the lid above me and once again was encompassed by darkness. After a few more long moments of covering myself in substances I did not even want to describe, the sounds of rapidly approaching footsteps stopped close by. "Where do you think the Human went," asked one of the officer's voices.

There was a short pause before the second answered, likely for some time to think about his or her response. "Split up. He could have gone either way." Immediately afterwards, I heard the two sets of running feet drift apart from each other. One sounded like it continued onward through the busy streets. The other, however, was slowly coming closer into the alleyway. I'm screwed, I thought to myself after hearing the Turian stop in front of the garbage bin. There's no way he's not going to look in here. With no other option left, I closed my eyes, put my clean(er) hand over my nose and mouth, and sunk down beneath the waist-high layer of garbage. Not a second later did I hear the bin's lid open and instinctively reach for my hip. Don't do it. Doing some stupid shit like that is only going to make things worse. I pulled my hand away just as the sound of the lid closing echoed into my ear. I waited for the officer's footsteps to drift further away and eventually disappear before jumping up out of the muck with a deep breath. A nauseatingly putrid breath that I instantly regretted, but one I nonetheless needed to take.

Though I most certainly did not want to, I waited for another five unbearable minutes of swimming through the garbage. I needed be sure the coast was clear. Once I was, I carefully pushed open the lid and crawled back out into the alley. A long awaited sigh of happy relief, albeit a weak one, escaped my lips when I collapsed to the ground. I was absolutely exhausted and, at the moment, barely cared about wearing a new coat of garbage from the stomach down. For everything that was happening, I just needed some time to think.

—

I stared at the items now laying on the ground directly in front of me in a deep, calculating mindset. My face stiff and momentarily empty of all emotion. My wallet... an analog wristwatch... my smartphone... sixty-four United States Dollars... which was more than I expected to have after last night... thirty cents in change... my house keys... my hands subconsciously rised to my neck... my golden cross necklace... and finally... I reached for my hip, unbuttoned the sidearm holster strapped to my waist, and pulled out the pistol inside... my Model 1911 Colt .45.

I was never once in my life a truly stupid person. I may have done stupid things with my friends, but that was just living a young life in a perfectly normal way. At the end of every day, I was very much the opposite of ignorant. New York City, no matter how much I loved it as my home, was a place I considered an American Liberal fuck-land. Now I was a very open-minded person; neither completely Liberal or Conservative and somewhat holding an animosity for both. But I thought the Far Left was the worst of the two sides. At least self-defense and the US Constitution's 2nd Amendment wasn't threatened by the Rightists. The left's arguments against guns were, more often than not, comparable to a toddler's level of intelligence. Reality was not some peaceful paradise; it could be gritty and unforgiving. Bad things happened to good people all of the time and there was no better way to prevent the worst from happening then owning a firearm and learning how to properly use it. And that is why I owned a pistol. Because the safety of not just myself, but my family, friends, and even fellow countrymen were my top priority. I did, of course, own it legally. And it was definitely not an easy task to achieve. Obtaining a CCW ‒ Carrying a Concealed Weapon ‒ permit was very nearly impossible for the average New Yorker. Fortunately, and in no small thanks to the influence of some certain relatives with connections, I was able to get one.

My gaze never left the aging pistol and its two spare 7-round magazines as I slowly and carefully examined it. The old weapon held deep, sentimental value to me and not just because it was the first gun I ever owned. It was, in fact, a true survivor of the Second World War. After my eighteenth birthday, when I applied for and was practically guaranteed the CCW permit by my lawyer of an uncle, my dad entrusted me with his old, but refurbished Colt. Its original owner was actually my great-grandfather, may he rest in peace, who served as a Marine fighting against the Japanese in the Pacific theater of World War 2. From him, it was passed down to my grandfather who served in Vietnam, then my father who served in Desert Storm, and then finally to me. This 1911 was essentially a symbol of my heritage and where I came from. And I had quite happily treated it as such since given the responsibility of taking care of it.

Which brought up an entirely new question that was really nagging me. How the hell did I even have it on me? I had left it home, inside its protective case, when I went off to join my friends in Manhattan. Maybe I did get home last night and, for some drunken reason, decided to take it? It was hard to believe I could be that stupid when wasted on alcohol, but then again... Needless to say, it would probably end up helping me in the long run, so there wasn't any real reason to complain. Also, if I was really going to be stuck in this world, I was happy to at the very least be able to hold onto something that made me feel close to my family.

I silently holstered the pistol and its magazines with a sigh before looking back over the other items that simply happened to be in my black jeans or hoodie when I was... transported to Mass Effect. No food. No Water. I certainly did not have any form of official identification or currency that was worth a damn thing in this time period. Things were looking awfully grim; I sure as hell did not want to go and resort to mugging random people with an incredibly outdated sidearm just to simply survive. But... I knew what kind of person I could become if it was needed. Adapt and overcome. The unofficial motto of the United States Marine Corps had continued to whisper in my head since the day my father and grandfather ingrained the core idea of it into me. No, I told myself. That doesn't mean they would have wanted you stealing from innocent people! But it did not change the fact I was a person who needed to eat and sleep every day in order to live.

I was solemnly returning my personal belongings back into my pockets when an idea suddenly hit me like a rock. And I swear, there could have been a glowing lightbulb over my head.

—

The balding man looked at me as if I was the craziest thing he'd seen all day. To be honest, I probably was. You don't tend to see a young man wearing clothes from the early 21st century and half covered in garbage walking into a late 22nd century store on a normal basis. "You okay, kid?" He was slowly scratching his partially graying beard as he asked me. One of his tired brown eyes was cocked in suspicion. "You look like shit."

"I feel like shit," I admitted with a lazy nod. "But how about we cut the pleasantries?" Without an ounce of hesitation, I plopped all of my things ‒ besides my wallet, watch, and M1911 ‒ onto the shop counter. "No names, no I-Ds, no questions asked, right? So how many credits can you give me?"

His eyes widened for a split second in brief surprise of what he saw placed down before looking at me with an amused smirk. "What is this crap?" He pointed at my cell phone and began laughing. "Is that one of those twenty-first century 'smart phones'? Where did you even get that?" He turned to look at my face, but when he saw the blank stare I was giving him he simply closed his eyes, shook his head, and shrugged. "Listen, kid. You look like you really need the money. Hell, you need some clothes. So I'll be honest with you. I can't give much. Not because some of this wouldn't be valuable, but because all I do is own a small pawn shop in the darker parts of the Wards. Not enough business comes my way to have the money for some of this stuff you have here." Shit. This was not going as planned and the fact I began groggily rubbing the bags beneath my eyes while bitterly frowning was proof of my frustration. The shop owner must have noticed, because he soon shrugged with a sigh. "Like I said, kid. I'm just being honest. If you didn't look like that, then I would have happily stayed quiet and bought this stuff off you for no more than a few dozen credits."

The old man's honesty was appreciated, but it did not stop me from nearly erupting into a fit of hysterical laughter. I had just finished spending nearly nine hours trying to get to this place. Five or six of those hours were me simply trying to travel to these parts of the Wards without being detected by C-Sec. The last three or four were then spent attempting to find a decent pawn shop owned by a Human who not only spoke English, but was also the more... shady type. A 21st century New York State ID was obviously only going to cause problems and it was not like I had an Omnitool to translate other languages, much less alien ones. Finally, after finding a lone Human who spoke English about a kilometer away from here, and telling the person a convenient lie that I got mugged by a group of Batarian thugs, I was pointed to this shop that was known to care less about who it did business with. If you were a paying customer, it was said the owner didn't even care if you were a Quarian. So there I was, believing I could fill my aching stomach, put some fresh clothes on my back, and maybe even spare enough money for a motel room to stay in. If they even had motels on the Citadel. "Can you..." I could barely talk through my chuckling. "Do you at least know where I can get some money for this?"

The pawn shop owner opened his mouth, but did not say anything and closed it a few seconds later. After several moments of just quietly staring at me, as if he was internally debating an important decision inside his thoughts, he rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head with another shrug. "How old are you, kid?"

"Twenty-one," I replied after silently contemplating whether I should answer truthfully or not. "Yesterday was actually my birthday."

A smirk spread across his face as he nodded. "Must have been one hell of a night!"

I could easily tell from a mile away that he was trying to brighten up the conversation a little bit. And, believe it or not, it was working. "You have no idea," I declared with a brief, but genuine laugh.

Even he snorted in amusement. "You might be surprised, kid. I've seen some dumb shit in my time. Done even stupider."

I really started chuckling now with a warm smile on my face. Yeah... but I still think I'd beat you by a long shot. "You know what, old man? You're actually pretty cool."

That actually elicited a serious laugh from the shop owner. "I wouldn't speak so soon, kid. We still haven't negotiated prices." Now it was my turn to be taken aback and cock an eyebrow. He caught on to my confusion fairly quickly. "What? I didn't say there wasn't something I'd buy from you." He hastily looked over the few items resting on his store counter before picking up the key chain and necklace. "I can give you a decent amount of credits for this crap here."

For a few seconds, I simply looked at the golden Christian cross hanging from the 14 karat all-gold necklace as it swung slightly from side to side. It really was a beautiful piece of men's jewelry, having been given to me as a gift by Michael and the crew on my eighteenth birthday. It apparently cost them a collective price of over five hundred dollars ‒ mostly due to the solid piece of polished gold that was the cross pendant ‒ and I hated the idea of pawning it. But... it had to be done. "How much can you give me?"

He put the keys back down and used a minute to examine the necklace. "I can give you one-fifty for the gold."

I had to hold in a raucous laugh. "That pendent right there alone is a solid piece of fourteen karat polished gold. Four hundred credits." Out of the few things I had ever searched the Mass Effect wiki for out of sheer curiosity, the comparison of the ME credits to real world currency was one of the articles I remembered relatively well. If all of the prices of weapons, items, mods, etc. were compared fairly to real world items and their prices, the Credit used in Mass Effect was roughly equal to a single USD. Which was surprising, considering Bioware was a Canadian company...

The shop owner shook his head and squinted his eyes. "You see what prices for Gold are in today's market? Two hundred."

"I haven't, but I'm pretty sure you're still trying to be cheap with me." I crossed my arms and shot him a deathly serious face. "Three-fifty."

Another smirk formed on the man's face. "I like your spunk, kid. Two-fifty."

"Three twenty-five."

"Don't push your luck, now," he warned, though still with a small grin on his face. "Two seventy-five. That's as far as I'll go."

"C'mon, you can do just a little better than that, old man. Three hundred sounds fair, since that's almost half the price I actually bought the thing." Of course, I didn't mention that was with a different, much older currency. But it was not technically a lie, either, since I knew the rough estimated values.

"You're a stubborn one, kid." The smile on the shop owner's face never faded even as he continued. "Two-ninety ‒ take it or leave it."

I shook my head, grinning and feeling good to be able to laugh like this. I never would have expected it to happen in this kind of situation, especially with the owner of a pawn shop no less, but it was most certainly welcome regardless. "Alright, deal. I take back what I said about you being cool, though."

"I'll live," he said as he opened a draw on his side of the counter and pulled out an empty credit chit. He put the device through some sort of scanner at his computer terminal, pressed a few buttons on the holographic keyboard, and then handed me the chit. "There, now you can buy yourself some decent clothes."

"That's the plan," I snorted and took the chit. "Maybe some food too while I'm at it." My gaze drifted to the key chain. "So what about the keys? Can't be worth much, can they?"

He motioned his head to the sides a few times in thought. "I'd say about fifty."

I was fairly surprised by that price. "Really? Just for a few useless metal keys?"

The shop owner crossed his arms and nodded. "You'll actually be surprised how many collectors are out there. Salarians especially seem to like collecting sets of old locks and keys made by the other races. No idea why." He shrugged. "But it's not any of my damn business anyways. Not me to complain about earning some extra credits."

"Hey, I'm not complaining either. Fifty credits are fifty credits." I suddenly laughed a little out loud. "I'm not even mad that you're probably conning me for a low price again. Five or ten credits was the most I thought I'd get out of them."

He snickered. "Damn, should've aimed lower, huh?"

I nodded with a half-smile. "Yep. Wouldn't have even blamed you, old man. But it's too late for that now, so hand over the fifty." After he resigned and gave me a second credit chit, I looked curiously at the small card-like device before turning back to him. "Why'd you give me two chits? Can't you just put the fifty credits on the first one?"

"I could," he admitted. "But that's never a smart move. If all your money is on a single chit, and you lose it, then you're shit out of luck. If you have two and you only lose one, well... you get the idea."

"True. You have a pretty good point," I said matter-of-factly with a nod. Atop the counter, however, there were still the other items ‒ the paper USDs and the obsolete smart phone. My smile disappeared as I sighed and put the second chit in my jeans. "So what should I do with these things?"

The pawn shop owner returned his hand to his beard, which stretched down the length of his neck, and began scratching it again. "For that old money currency? I can give you the names of a few private collectors if you don't want to go through public channels. They'll still pay pretty well, maybe even more." He then looked at the smartphone, a Samsung Galaxy S6. "As for that hunk of junk, it really is useless. But a lot of Salarians love that kind of stuff." He reached up and briefly scratched the back of his head before mumbling to himself. "I'll never understand their fascination with old Human tech." He shook his head. "Same as before: I can give you the names of some collectors who'll pay a decent amount of credits. The payout won't be nearly as good as the money currency, but it should be a lot better than what you got from me, kid."

A small smile began appearing on my face. So hope isn't lost just yet! To be able to speak to any of those collectors, however, I was going to need some essentials. More specifically, a cheap omnitool and translator software. "Sounds good, old man. Before you give me any names, though, I'm gonna need to buy a few things off you..."