Cenotaph I: The Morrow

by Rob Sears

Roahn'Shepard was always doomed to an abnormal life. As the daughter of John and Tali, she would always be overshadowed by her parents' heroics, but at home... her father is no hero. He is distant. Withdrawn. But when a new threat arises, she and her father are forced to confront their differences and Roahn will soon discover what it means to be the daughter of Commander Shepard.

11. Chapter 11: Where the Wild Things Are

"How would you define Chimera's work culture, Mr. Koenig? Or, in being a little more specific, how would you imagine the ideal work culture that Chimera should strive towards?"
Sen. Oteino – Kenya

"I should imagine emphasizing a culture that provides a welcoming atmosphere to its employees, and that the duties of its workers should be carefully balanced with aspects of their personal lives, with a management team that is honest and empathetic."
Erich Koenig, CEO – Chimera

"That's all well and good, Mr. Koenig, but… somewhat surprising in hindsight, given your rather run-of-the-mill response."
Sen. Oteino – Kenya

"Surprising? How so?"
Erich Koenig, CEO – Chimera

"When comparing your statements to the anonymous reviews that Chimera employees have been posting on job sites, it seems that there is a catastrophic disconnect between management and regular employees—which is in direct contrast to your initial claim. Take, for example, the aggregate score Chimera has garnered on one such site. A C-minus. Specific emphasis from many of these employees point out that Chimera's work-life balance is, in their own words, atrocious. Also, it appears that the hierarchy of Chimera lends itself to enable a practice of 'kingdom-building' in management, which is a term used in organizations to refer to individuals attempting to obtain greater authority by utilizing underhanded methods. Kingdom-building is apparently used by some of the more powerful individuals in an organization to maximize their own job security, by hoarding credit over their teams and projects, which in turn causes the effectiveness of the team, and therefore the organization, to suffer. And this is a problem that is apparently rife within Chimera, so why is it that you seem to be completely ignorant of what's occurring within your own dominion?"
Sen. Oteino – Kenya

"Senator, though I may be CEO, the day-to-day duties of people several rungs below my level are usually never communicated up to someone in my position. This happens in many large companies and is not an unusual concept. Now, if some individuals happen to be misusing their power and authority in an effort to garner extra points in an unfair manner, I would expect someone to make a complaint to HR if that was the case. Chimera's structure is explicitly designed to punish those that try to game the system, for without it, everything would fall apart."
Erich Koenig, CEO – Chimera

"Pardon me, Mr. Koenig, but as the CEO, shouldn't the burden be placed on you to ensure that the system was built correctly in the first place? Or are you content to sit on something that's broken until it's so far gone that it's irreparable? Is there a limit to when you yourself are going to step in?"
Sen. Oteino – Kenya

---

Omega – Dock 13
Sahrabarik System

Shepard could only stare at the inside of the cabinet for a long while, his mood ranging from being fairly worried to a dark cloud of outright dread. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest as he appraised the cabinet in the kitchen of his spacecraft, finding that the cramped walls of the ship's interior seemed to be closing in on him in a taunting gesture.

Normally, the inside of this particular cabinet would not be much of an issue nor a topic of interest, except for the fact that the cabinet itself was empty right now.

Empty, when it should have been filled to the brim with vials akin to the one that Shepard was holding in his hand. Vials that held the medication that he needed to function properly.

Entolimod. Otherwise known as CBLB502 in medical circles. A powerful medicine that specifically agitates immune-response receptors in the body, quelling any side-effects garnered after Shepard's years of traversing hazardous environments. The recommended dosage was one vial every three days, lest withdrawal symptoms would start to crop up which would include cramping, indigestion, and in some rare cases, even death. Entolimod was not a medicine that Shepard could ever be weaned off of—he had to take it for life, and since his stockpile was at a critical level, he was out of options at this point. He needed to refill his stores, and fast.

Shepard had been dreading this eventuality. When the Legionnaire had destroyed his home on Rannoch, he had destroyed his personal cache of entolimod along with it. Shepard had allocated a few handfuls of the medicine in different places, one of these places being his ship, but these were paltry proportions compared to the main lode he had built up back in his house. On the ship, he had only enough entolimod to last him a few weeks at best. A mere stopgap compared to the amount he had previously accumulated.

And now, he was out. Only one vial left. That gave him a seven-day window, at best, to find more before any debilitating side effects would overtake him. These side effects were also not all that considerate because if Shepard missed his dosage window by even a day, they would proceed to immediately crop up and cause him to be in excruciating pain, which was not something that Shepard was willing to subject himself to. Especially now. People were counting on him and that meant that he needed to be at his best.

But even his best now was a fleeting shadow of the man he had been, a reminder of the fact that he had seen better days once before. He had been unstoppable at one time. No longer.

Which is why Shepard had no choice but to bite the bullet and make a beeline for the closest place (at least in the relative proximity to Alchera), planet or station, that he figured would sell such a substance such as entolimod. FTL travel consumed a lot of hours while in transit, which had forced Shepard to pick his next destination quite conservatively—resulting in a conclusion that Shepard was not all that pleased to have made. All things considered, he really would not have wanted to even take another step on board this next place, his selected harbor, had his life not depended on it.

Because the closest port, and the haven Shepard had chosen, was Omega.

The de facto heart of the Terminus. A hive of villainous scum and home of some of the most notorious gangsters that the galaxy had ever known. If there ever was a hell, Omega would be a good place to garner a fitting impression of the inferno that potentially awaited.

Omega was a gigantic space station crudely planted into the middle of a weathered and metallic asteroid in the Sahrabarik system's main asteroid belt. The depths of Omega, deep within the asteroid itself, contained rich veins of element zero, a resource that had only been available to be mined when another asteroid had slammed itself into it thousands of years ago, cracking the previously impenetrable rock in half and exposing the eezo. Omega's element zero resources were so vast that the person in control of the entire operation would theoretically be one of the most powerful in the galaxy, in terms of estimated net worth. Like clockwork, when Omega's eezo stores had been discovered, and the promise of riches reached the ears of the private corporations, they had naturally raced over to secure a deposit of their own. However, since Omega itself was located in the Terminus Systems, outside the influence of the Citadel Council worlds, gangsters and other unsavory types quickly drove out the venture capitalists by force and took control of all mining operations. The gangs still ran Omega today, but their continuous squabbling over land in the form of minor skirmishes prevented any Omegan group from accumulating a solid presence outside of the Terminus, but that would make Omega only the more dangerous to outsiders.

As Omega grew in population over the centuries, so did its size. A metallic spindle, several kilometers in length, began building outward from the surface asteroid as mining picked up, looking like someone had driven a giant metal stake through the heart of the rock. Several gigantic mass effect field generators were also inserted in wide angles between the station and the asteroid, acting as a shield to protect Omega from wayward space debris, giving the entire station the look of a monumentally large jellyfish.

Despite its impressive size, Omega's expansion projects were notoriously crude and haphazard, as the quick and hasty construction was specifically done to increase the amount of volume available to the station without giving any regard to the safety of the station itself. Construction workers responsible for expanding Omega were said to have a mortality rate of 35% while working in the zero-g conditions for awful pay. Then again, where would the workers complain to about their poor working conditions? Neither human resources nor unions had any power in Omega, so potential job candidates simply had to suck it up and go with the flow. If they died, then they died. Simple as that. There were always willing bodies to replace another, even for the pathetic table scraps that was billeted as a salary.

Omega was an outlaw's paradise. It had no central government, no police force guarding it, or for that matter, any written rules for the inhabitants to abide by. Most people living on this station were either civilians looking to take on grungy work in exchange for the exorbitantly low cost of living, or mercenaries looking to cut their teeth in one of the station's many gangs, the most notorious of which was currently headed by Aria T'Loak, the "pirate queen" of Omega. Not exactly an enemy to Shepard as they had collaborated many times in the past for their own mutual benefit, but he would rather not involve himself with Aria if he could help it. The asari tended to be a bit too acerbic for his tastes. She had a habit of really getting under Shepard's skin because of her propensity to engage in trades that were morally reprehensible to Shepard's own complex. With Aria, violence and killing came to her casually while Shepard preferred to avoid it unless absolutely necessary.

Not managing to get entangled with Aria would be a tricky prospect. If there was such thing as an authority on Omega, Aria was it. As the asari had so tenderly pointed out years ago, the only rule of Omega was "do not fuck with Aria."

A succinct rule, no doubt, yet it also hinted at the fact that Aria had her fingers in all the pies. Operating under the radar would be difficult, but not impossible. Fortunately, Shepard's weathered appearance and his discreet method of transportation would dissuade any prying eyes from peering too closely at the veneer he had established for himself. The only reason why Shepard had never been bombarded by would-be fans, even on Rannoch, was that he looked a far cry from his poster-boy days of old. Growing his hair and beard out, combined with the shocking color of gray in them, helped sell his chameleonic appearance.

Shepard ran through the laundry list of items he needed to accomplish while he hurriedly shouldered on a jacket. He only needed to procure the medicine he sought while, at the same time, trying to diminish his presence upon Omega as much as possible. Fortunately, medicine was the only item on his list—the ship still had enough provisions on board to last a month, and fuel could be purchased here without him needing to take a single step off-board.

Venturing off the ship was where things would get a little dicey.

To top it off, he had his daughter to contend with. Speaking of which…

"I want to come with you!" Roahn piped up as she leaned her head from her room, her sehni slightly askew as a result of sleeping on her side and only now just coming to.

Shepard looked up from zipping his jacket and gave his daughter a stern look. Maybe if Roahn had made the request a second time, he would have guffawed about the ludicrousness of her timing. "Absolutely out of the question," he shook his head emphatically and immediately. "There is no way that you're setting foot on Omega."

Roahn glared at Shepard, the glow of her eyes narrowing into slits, as her hands reached up to adjust the sehni atop her head. "When you said that you would take me to the places that meant something to you—"

"—Omega was not one of them," Shepard interrupted for the sake of clarification. "We're not here by choice, I assure you. This is not somewhere that I'd like to be, nor is it any place for you especially."

Roahn was not privy to the exact reasoning why Shepard needed to stop here in the first place, but that was not going to be something that Shepard wanted to admit to her right now. On the other hand, his tight-lipped-ness was resulting in his daughter putting on a very stubborn front. She never did like to be told no without adequate reasoning.

"Still," Roahn pouted, "I'd like to see it."

"See what? A dying station filled to the brim with cutthroats and lowlifes? Surrounding yourself with killers, prostitutes, and drug dealers? There is no way, I repeat, no way in hell that I am going to let you off this ship onto this station."

"Why? Do you not think that I'm ready for it?"

Shepard gave a long look to the ceiling, trying to conjure up Tali's infinite calmness to properly deal with his daughter so that he would not make a complete hash out of things. The last thing that he needed right now was to lose himself to frustration. A long breath helped and he felt his temper summarily cool.

He nodded, breath echoing faintly within the ship. "In a sense, yes. I don't think you're ready. But," he spoke before Roahn could protest some more, which from looking at her, she was clearly about to do, "that's not really what you should concern yourself with. Omega is not a nice place. It is unlike anywhere you've ever been before. It isn't sanitized like the Citadel. A child like you would only be in great danger if you were to venture out of this ship. Omega's not a place for good memories. For millions of people, this is rock bottom. As low as it gets. From the handful of times that I've been here, I've never had a good memory of this place. It's just too much, too intense, for you to handle. That's not something that someone as young as you should live with."

"Yet children live on Omega just as well," Roahn pointed out, but she was merely reaching at this point.

"At a lower quality of life. And I also doubt that they would live to reach their thirties."

"But—"

"No more," Shepard gave a firm wave of his hand, cutting Roahn off. "My mind on this was made up hours ago, before we even entered the system. I will be leaving for a little bit and you are to stay here until I get back. No exceptions. Am I understood?"

To Roahn, it was like facing an enormous brick wall. No way to scale it or go around it. It was clear that Shepard was quite serious with his intentions, showing no signs of budging. A bit disappointed, Roahn gave a tiny sigh and a miniscule bob of her head, which caused Shepard some relief at least.

"I won't be long," were his parting words to his daughter as he turned on his heel in a single maneuver, a holdout from his days as a marine, and walked out of the door to the airlock, pausing for a few seconds to let the room decompress so that he could exit.

Roahn just stared at her father as the craft's door closed between them.

Once outside, Shepard also gave the airlock door a long appraisal, listening for the telltale whirr of the vacuum seal of the exit compress, giving his craft an encased atmosphere. He then noted the time on his chronometer and mentally allotted himself one hour to complete his task. One hour. He figured that was enough time to grab what he needed.

He did not think that he was being all that restrictive with his daughter. What Roahn did not have were the years of personal experience that Shepard had accumulated from sojourning to Omega every once in a while. Each time he had set foot on this station in the past, he always ended up drawing his weapon. The threat of violence here was simply too pervasive to risk Shepard bringing his daughter into the heart of Omega. He felt that he would be a pretty irresponsible parent if he had given in, at any rate.

Why couldn't he make Roahn see his point of view?

Shepard, vulnerable to his morose thoughts, then proceeded to walk down the walkway of the docks, taking stock of the multitude of ships parked on the same level before he headed into a nearby hallway that was encased by reinforced transparisteel plates. A couple mercenary guards, both batarians, stood watch at the dock exits, looking altogether disinterested, but snapped to a more stable level of alertness when they saw Shepard headed their way.

One of the guards raised a hand in a stopping motion and Shepard halted just mere feet away. However, Shepard did not speak first, waiting to see what the mercenaries had to say before any action was to be taken.

"Identification," one of the guards said brusquely. A helmet covered his face, the visor darkened to cover all six of the man's eyes and obscure his expression.

What the hell? This was new. When did Omega start caring about security? Most times, anyone could go wherever they pleased on this station. To an extent, at least.

Shepard just narrowed his eyes. "Why?" he asked, keeping his tone flat.

"Orders from Aria. You don't show ID, you don't enter Omega."

"Uh-huh. And when exactly did Aria tell you to start shaking down people who wanted to enter Omega? Last I heard, this was an open port."

"Recent development. Aria's been rather cautious lately. Said to close everything off to people who couldn't show ID or pay the entrance fee."

Okay. Shepard saw where this was going. Classic blunt obstacle move. He nearly rolled his eyes in front of the two mercs for how brazen of a strategy this was. Extorting money from visitors was a new low, even for Omega's gangs. In fact, there was something about these particular gangsters that felt off to Shepard and he tightened his body in preparation.

"Why the hell are you eying our uniforms?" the other guard bluntly asked, the gauntleted hands gripping his rifle starting to clench harder on the stock.

"Just curious," Shepard responded airily, face still grim. "You said that you worked for Aria, right?"

"Do you know of another Aria?" the guard gurgled a sickly laugh.

"No, it's just… it's weird. Your insignia. It doesn't match Aria's at all." Shepard then lifted his head, his beard hiding a vague smile. "She didn't happen to go through a brand redesign since I was away?"

The guards, caught in the act, looked at each other for reinforcement, clearly dumbfounded that someone had come along with the gall to question their little operation. Then they started to raise their weapons, now determined to use force to squeeze out every little bit of money from Shepard's pocket. But the guards were untrained novices compared to Shepard, clearly telegraphing their every intent, and Shepard utilized that to his advantage.

At the barest twitch of a muscle from the closest guard, Shepard was already several steps ahead. From the holster concealed by his jacket, Shepard whipped out the pistol, the one he had taken back from Roahn on Rannoch, and swung it, grip-first, into the head of the closest batarian. The guard's helmet was designed to protect against physical attacks but at the speed and strength that Shepard had hurled his arm, the glass visor might as well have been paper in the path of the onrushing blow.

The grip met the visor and the glass shattered upon impact, spraying forth a silvery cloud of shards and dust. Then there was a meaty thump as the momentum of the grip smashed into the batarian's nose, breaking it, and sending a gush of blood to the ground.

The batarian squealed and dropped his rifle, holding his hands against his nose to stem the flood of blood. All violent tendencies vanished in an instant from the alien. Very quickly, the chin of the guard's helmet was stained red as well as his chestpiece, all six of his eyes wide in horror and in pain as he knelt down to the ground while blood gurgled through his clenched fingers.

By this point, Shepard had flipped the pistol in his grip so that his finger was firmly on the trigger, the sights aimed right at the head of the man's cohort. The second guard had not even managed to get his weapon up either, for Shepard had been so fast. The other batarian froze, clearly hesitant, while Shepard maintained the same blank look as he leaned in with his gun.

"Don't even try it," Shepard said, his voice now taking on a commanding tone. "Weapon. At your feet. Now."

Meekly, the batarian immediately complied. Smart of him, Shepard figured. Mercs with a sense of self-preservation. A nice change of pace from the regular berserkers. Shepard kicked the offending rifle away, well out of reach.

"I'd suggest you get out of here before Aria finds out what you've been up to," Shepard said, finding it ironic that he was speaking on the pirate leader's behalf, despite his misgivings. "You'd probably live longer that way."

To their credit, the batarians took Shepard at his word, with the uninjured guard having to help carry his staggering companion away, leaving a trail of blood spatters behind.

Now alone in the hallway, Shepard sagged against the wall in relief as he slotted the pistol back into his holster. Skin clammy, he wiped his forehead, his palm coming away shiny with his sweat.

He had not yet reached Omega's marketplace and had already pulled out his weapon. Damn it, this was not going to be an easy slog.

His instincts were still there when he needed him most, he mused. All those years of combat experience drilled into him over and over again. The reflexes. The quick thinking. His previous life had never left him. Even after all this time, he could rise to the occasion in order to defend himself and his family. He could still rely on his muscles never being a millimeter out of place, each movement a carefully choreographed routine that he followed to perfection. A well-oiled machine, still fulfilling its purpose.

Shepard clenched a fist regretfully. Had there been a way to resolve this encounter without resorting to violence? Sure, he could have paid the fee, but would the hit to his pride have been worth it just to avert conflict? The back of his teeth began to ache. Worrying about this was taking his toll on him, so he vowed to purge it from his thoughts as quickly as possible. For his sake, and for the sake of others, he needed his head to be clear.

Still, Shepard did not like the fact that he was so quick to violence at the drop of a hat. He wondered if this was the true person living within his body, the persona of the Commander, that acted as his true definition of his very self. That Shepard could wave a gun and destroy his enemies with a mere thought. He had committed genocides and various atrocities under the guise of his former moniker. People were nothing in that barbarian's wake. Rivers would run red with blood and mountains would be made out of corpses before his will would give out. The Reapers had fallen victim to his true strength, the might of the Commander.

But the Commander did not exist anymore. His true heart, his very soul, had been coaxed out by the only person he had fallen in love with. His warrior mentality had been assuaged in light of a grand future with his beloved, his Tali. Thanks to her, he became something more, something greater and pure. He was a father now. He had a daughter, someone whom he was responsible for. He had to be better than that.

How could he justify his instinct for violence when his love was needed more?

Once he had calmed down from the ordeal, Shepard mustered up his courage, putting his blank face on once more, and finally stepped through the partition that separated the docks from the main station, savoring a deep breath of stale air. He was going to need all of his mental fortitudes working properly from here on out.

As ugly as Omega's reputation was, Shepard had to admit that there was no other place like it. The setting of Omega was entirely industrial, with large tangles of piping and wires exposed everywhere, bolted onto the sides of buildings and hanging across alleys in thick tangles reminiscent of vines. The entire aesthetic of the station was comprised of a dirty-bronze metal, lodged into the very rock of the asteroid. Hell, if Shepard even craned his head upward, he could see the ceiling several kilometers up, of the metallic space-ward stone that housed this place. That is, if his vision could pierce the copper cloud of dust and smog that clung upwards in a sickly mist, keeping his view heavily obscured. A multitudinous crowd of people aimlessly wandered upon the cramped walkways and plazas, many of them looking drained from being overworked or from the fact that they were on some sort of questionable substance. As this was Omega, the latter was not all that of an uncommon occurrence here.

Omega was segmented into thousands of vertical metallic pillars, dozens of miles long and none of them alike, that very specifically connected the station to the actual asteroid, leaving space in between for skycars and other airborne ships to traverse. These pillars were also divided into specific districts that various gangs held dubious claims to.

The interior of the station was very dim, the only lighting coming from artificial bulbs out of windows, smudged outdoor lamps, or from the undulating neon images of holographic signs adorning the various storefronts. But the bulk of the illumination came from the forges deep in the heart of Omega. They burned the color of a healthy star, millions of degrees in heat, as they worked to smelt the raw element zero that was continually pulled from the asteroid every waking hour. The light spread like a wildfire, calmly warping its way through the hundreds of levels on the station in ambient waves. The result of which was a constant amber tint that permeated every corner of the station, oozing and searing itself into Omega's existence. The permanent reddish tinge that swirled around in a grandiose soup gave Shepard the impression that the station was constantly ablaze, which was technically correct in a sense.

A continual haze enveloped the entire interior of the station. It darkened the already gloomy station, leaving the spotlights of the metallic pillars as the lone beacons that speared through the ever-present night. This smog was not something that could be dispelled so easily. The haze was in every single square inch of air that people breathed. It was smoke, ozone, and deadly asteroid dust all in one toxic mix. People who lived on Omega long-term frequently developed breathing problems, and the ones who managed to fare without gaining a chronic cough only did so by frequently dosing their lungs with powerful medication.

Even though he had only been on Omega for a few minutes, Shepard's lungs were already feeling the strain. His breathing was starting to get a little ragged, like his chest was having to push against a weight holding him down. Shepard tugged at his collar, gritting his teeth, now more motivated than ever to find what he wanted and to get the hell out of here.

Fortunately, Shepard knew where to go to get his medication, his memory serving him well. From what he could recall, he only needed to walk for a few minutes to the relative right of the docks in order to reach the Carrd district. That area was controlled by the elcor and was seen as one of the safer places on Omega due to the fact that it was a district in which many merchants had set up shop there. If Shepard couldn't find his entolimod there, then he knew that there would be no other place on Omega that he could procure it.

Entering the district, Shepard ignored the majority of the merchants that were vying for his attention and instead headed over to the largest stall in the marketplace, which was controlled by a particular shopkeeper known as Harrot. Harrot, an elcor, had a low profile within the entire district, but he was actually the head of the whole commerce forum within the Carrd district. A small-time gangster, he was a close ally of Aria who let him operate within her turf in exchange for a percentage of all profits garnered. As such, Harrot was rumored to be a bit of a hardass with regards to how he ran his shop, but Shepard knew, from his brief interaction with the man, that Harrot could be rather amenable and helpful given the right circumstances.

Hopefully he would catch the elcor in a reasonable mood today.

Lo and behold. Said elcor was in the same place that Shepard had last seen him: behind the counter of his stall, smoking a cigar.

The elcor's dark eyes immediately latched onto Shepard as he approached the counter and Harrot angled himself with his long front arms so that he was facing the human directly. Not an easy task, as the elcor had to lumber around a bit before he felt that he was properly oriented.

"Genuinely: Welcome, human," Harrot greeted, monotone. "If you are seeking something that is not on my list of wares, I would be happy to help."

The elcor were an odd race. They stood on all fours and had the build of a gorilla, but without any discernable neck. They were hairless, colored a mottled gray. Their hide was as thick and tough as an elephant's and their mouth consisted of a series of flaps on their face that reminded Shepard of gills.

What was most distinctive about the elcor as a whole, other than their appearance, was the way they talked. When elcor talked to other elcor, they had other means of communication to rely on besides vocal tones, as they punctuated their words with scents, microscopically small body movements, and infrasound frequencies. However, most species were not attuned to pick up on any of an elcor's other methods of communication thus, if an elcor were to talk to another alien race utilizing a proper conversational format, their overall intent would be untranslatable and misunderstood. This was why elcor tended to punctuate their sentences with their intended emotional state, as they did not have the ability alter the pitch at which they spoke otherwise. As a result, speaking to an elcor was disconcerting at first, but one quickly got used to it after a time.

Harrot was no exception to this rule. If Shepard were to give a mere glance at the alien, he would swear that the elcor would look relatively placid. Even if the elcor had been angered beyond all reason, it would still appear to Shepard that Harrot would seem unearthly calm.

Aside from that, as Shepard took stock of the elcor's appearance, he wondered why Harrot would go to the trouble of smoking a cigar. Obviously, the complete picture here was quite weird. Elcor lungs were much larger than human lungs. Was there enough nicotine in a cigar to give an elcor a decent fix? And how could an elcor light a cigar with those unwieldy hands of theirs? Shepard could never figure that little tic out and he reasoned that it would be a mystery that would never be solved.

Despite having talked with Harrot in the past, the elcor did not seem to recognize Shepard past his thick beard. That was good. Shepard was hoping to capitalize upon that for as long as possible.

"I need a list of the medication you have in your stock," Shepard said, taking wayward glances to the side, keeping his head on a swivel.

"Cordially: Of course, human," Harrot said. "Proudly: As you can see, I have a wide variety of substances for you to use. Red sand, fentanyl, methotrexate, salvia, lysergic acid dy—"

"No, no," Shepard quickly halted the elcor. "I don't want any illegal drugs. I'm looking for more of your legal wares."

"Apologetically: Forgive me, human. I misunderstood what you wanted," Harrot said in his slow tone, his expression ever unchanging. "Cheerfully: I have an even larger list of medicine on call. Prescription and over-the-counter. Are you looking for a specific medication or a broad spectrum of similar medications?"

"Entolimod," Shepard took a little step towards the counter, well aware that his own voice had dropped in volume.

The elcor did not respond for a bit, looking lost. Shepard had to force himself not to either frown or bite his lip in concern. Something was amiss, here.

"Meekly: I am sorry, human, but I do not carry entolimod here."

Great. Just great. Of all the rotten luck that the one medication he needed was not here.

"You know of anywhere else in the market that sells it?" Shepard scratched at his beard, trying not to show his irritation, already fantasizing himself throwing a quiet fit back in his spaceship as he would no doubt have to think of another place to get the medicine he needed before the side effects of his condition took hold.

"Candidly: No one in the marketplace or any forum on Omega sells it. We're not allowed to."

Shepard was about to throw his hands up in despair, an uncharacteristic move but one that would be necessary to emphasize his overall frustration with how this day was turning out. But then he halted, playing back Harrot's words in his head.

"Who…" Shepard started, "…who dictates that you're not allowed to sell entolimod?"

Shepard had the feeling that Harrot would be glaring at him in his own annoyance at his incessant questioning, if only the elcor had a humanoid face. Smoke from the cigar blew through the alien's flaps, obscuring Shepard in a thick cloud, only adding to the pollution that Shepard was breathing in.

"Bluntly: Aria T'Loak, of course. She controls the entire market for entolimod. All licensed dealing goes through her."

Shepard's fingers beat an erratic tempo upon the counter as his eyes lost focus. Wearily, he glanced back towards the entrance where he had just come from, recognizing the destination that his path would have to lead him towards. For if he wanted to leave here with his necessary items in tow, it looked like that he was going to have to deal with the notorious pirate queen herself for them.

He should have known that it was going to come to this. If Aria was really as involved with every aspect of Omega as she had once said to him, then it was only a matter of time before their paths would cross once more.

"Aria T'Loak," Shepard sighed to himself as he pushed his body up and away from the counter, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. "What a shocker."

---

Meanwhile, back inside the ship, Roahn was pacing back and forth, bored out of her mind while waiting for her father to return. She could not help herself. She was naturally restless, the network on her omni-tool was not functioning properly—meaning that she could not access the extranet to distract herself—and on top of all that, there was a brand new space station just outside the door begging to be explored!

Why shouldn't she be antsy?

Until a week ago, Roahn had never been off Rannoch before. Nine years of staying on the same world tended to build up her impatience, her desire to explore more of the galaxy, to branch out from the little bubble that she had been placed in for her whole life so far. She could not just read about what was out there, she needed to see it!

When the need had presented itself to her and her father, the drive to finally escape her homeworld, Roahn's head had been reeling from the bevy of sights that had been presented to her as her hopes and dreams had been summarily fulfilled. The infinite black of space. The swirling dust clouds of nebulae. The searing glow of a mass relay. The firestorm whirling between a binary star. The tropics of Virmire. The snowy plains of Alchera. All so… different. Different than anything she had been exposed to before. She wanted more.

No, she craved more. This was no fleeting shadow of a phase. This was a hunger that festered and grew within her, nudging her towards an irresistible restlessness. There was a whole new side of the galaxy just feet away from her, begging to be glimpsed.

But her father said that she was not ready. He still held the power to dictate her life as he saw fit.

How awfully unfair.

Speaking of which, how long had he been gone? Roahn tilted her wrist to check her chronometer.

Ten minutes?! Roahn nearly choked on her own spit. Only ten minutes had elapsed and she was already wandering around every square meter of the ship that she could cover. This was just a disaster.

"I can't take it anymore," Roahn groaned out loud, not caring how noisy she was. After all, who could hear her in here? "I've got to get out, just for a little bit."

A sly, mischievous smile spread across Roahn's face as her heart rate began to increase, tense with anticipation. All alone in the ship, she suddenly felt even tinier, as she instinctively quieted her breathing, just in case her father was lurking outside of the door of the ship to see if she would disobey his orders.

He probably would not do something like that… but that did not mean that she was naturally beholden to comply with his wishes at all.

"I won't be long," she reassured herself, bouncing upon her heels in preparation while she faced the airlock door. "Just a few minutes. That's all."

Sneakily, for no other reason other than to help sell her headstrong attitude, Roahn crept over to the airlock door and palmed the cabin release to open it. As expected, the lock flashed red and blared an alarm at her. Her father had locked it from the outside, as a precaution against her violating his rules. Typical, she figured, but not debilitating.

What Shepard had not taken into account was that a simple airlock door utilized software that could easily be broken into and abused. Roahn, knowing her father, already was familiar with the fact that her father could not code to save his life, and as such would have no way to tell that she had the ability to break out of this ship whenever she pleased. If Tali were here though, she would have been in trouble. After all, who else would Roahn have learned the language of programming from?

Roahn opened her omni-tool and began scrolling through the list of cracking programs at her disposal. She selected one that was compatible with the software that the airlock door used and successfully synced the two devices together. The crack tore through the firewalls in mere moments and five seconds later, the lock flashed green.

With a violent hiss of air, the door depressurized and slid open.

"Too easy," Roahn chuckled, pleased with her success.

She then delicately lifted her foot and placed a single toe upon the walkway of the ramp.

One small step…

"Sorry, dad," Roahn hissed in triumph, "but I know when I'm ready."

Then the girl hopped out with a laugh, planting her feet now firmly upon the walkway. She was now on Omega!

Giddy from her rule-breaking and flushed with excitement, Roahn began to jog down the walkway, taking the twisting turns at a careful pace as she headed through the docks to the exit. She was so caught up in her little traversal that she failed to notice, near the door that lead to the open Omega plaza, that there were little shattered bits of glass strewn upon the ground along with tiny bloodstains that had been splattered in a dripping pattern. There were just too many things on her mind for her to take stock of that such tiny details managed to pass her by.

Her attention span would be worsened even more by the time she made it through the door and out onto the open area of Omega's main plaza.

"Keelah," she could only say.

Just the sheer number of people before her eyes threw Roahn for a loop. So… many… people. All in one place! Sure, there had been areas on Rannoch that had a plentiful number of inhabitants wandering around, but that crowd was relatively thin compared to the throng of living beings all congregating around her.

Asari. Humans. Turians. Elcor. Salarians. There was even a hanar or two! Roahn had never seen such a vibrant conglomeration of races coexisting together. They all lived here, on this station! Being confined to a sparsely populated planet for all her life, the antitheses of her upbringing in living color was mind-boggling for Roahn to behold.

Things got even more wondrous for her when she looked up and was barely able to see the ceiling, as the metallic pillars rose up all around her like towering skyscrapers, boring deep into the rock far above. She rotated on the spot, eyes wide, as her legs became wobbly in awe at the sight.

So, this was Omega.

Grinning madly to herself, Roahn had to fight to control herself as she stood in the middle of the chaotic plaza. So many sights to see, all right here. Simply people-watching was fascinating in of itself, but it was the intense urban life of the station that really drew Roahn in. She could never get tired watching the same holographic advertisements blare themselves on repeat, drawn in by the intense colors and shapes. She listened with a keen ear in fascination, at the muted conversations that passerby had with each other. Most of the snippets that she heard had either to do with a hard day at work or the prospect of spending time at a club somewhere. Nothing particularly interesting by itself but, as a collective, enthralling.

Everything was just so unbelievable to witness. This place was just so foreign, but that was part of the appeal to her. Roahn loved seeing new things and her eyes soaked up every detail as fast as she could muster.

Picking a lane to go with the flow, Roahn slipped into the crowd, the rest of the passerby not giving her a glance in her direction. Roahn smirked. She was invisible here. No one paid much mind to a child on Omega, much less a quarian. To them, she was probably just another street urchin that made a living begging for scraps. Just the kind of person the average Omegan citizen would want to ignore.

The streets were irregular here, twisting and turning from one corner to the next. If it weren't for Roahn's HUD keeping track of her position, she would have been lost in moments. The air had an orange haze the further she looked, a fine coating of copper dust sticking to her visor. The air filters in her helmet did an admirable job in sterilizing the air for her, but there was still a taste of iron upon her tongue whenever she took a breath. A metallic taste, lingering in the back of her throat.

Much, much more different than Rannoch.

Suddenly, a leering turian jutted out from the crowd, towering over Roahn. His hands were scarred, with pieces of his carapace missing, exposing soft flesh underneath. His eyes were bleary and watery, the sclera bleeding into the corneas. The alien held out a single-use syringe to her, a gurgling laugh coming from his throat.

"Hey there, little girl," the turian uttered. "Need a fix?"

Roahn was so appalled at the offer that she instinctively recoiled, making a noise that sounded like 'Urk!' Involuntarily panicking, Roahn shot back into the crowd, well away from the turian, already hyperventilating at what had just happened.

Why would someone do that to her? She was just a kid. What monsters would sell such horrible stuff to someone like her?

Unfortunately, Roahn would soon receive a more direct lesson on Omega's culture, much to her detriment.

To hammer that point home, a gagging human, thin and gangly, stumbled over from an outdoor noodle bar before he doubled over and started to cough his lungs out next to her, spraying spittle near Roahn's boots. Roahn jumped back in surprise, and the sick man blearily lifted his head, briefly making eye contact. Roahn was shocked at how red the human's eyes were, blurry and swollen. The human had an unkempt beard, his skin was oily and covered with bruises, not to mention that he looked practically malnourished.

The human broke their mutual stare as he fell to his knees so that he could continue to dry heave. Roahn glanced around in worry, finding that none of the pedestrians were paying the sick man any mind. They were content to disregard the misfortune of others as long as their own lives were not impacted.

She took a tentative step forward, her hand outstretched as she tried to look upon the man, wanting to help.

Just then, the human reared his head, pupils dilated, and without warning, explosively vomited blood onto the ground. Roahn shrieked and jumped back, colliding into a passing asari, who grunted and shoved the girl away with a rough move. Roahn tripped and fell to the ground with a grunt, mere feet away from where the stricken man was. The ailing human's eyes then rolled up into his head and he passed out in his own gore, his chin so bloody it took on a slick color of black.

Roahn, on all fours, had her mouth agape as the fierce red color became permanently seared in her brain.

"Another junkie," Roahn heard someone gripe.

"…Third OD I've seen today…"

"…ridiculous. What a waste…"

Panting, Roahn clutched at her chest as she rapidly stood back up and backed away from the unconscious human, who was most certainly dying in front of her. She froze in place, the throng of people moving around her dispassionately, as if she was but a rock planted in the middle of a river. Everyone stepped over the man, over the puddle of blood, and carried on without bothering to help him. Roahn snapped her head back and forth, desperate and hopeful to see someone come from out of the crowd to lend the man aid.

But no one stepped forward.

The human would die with all of Omega watching.

Feeling sick, a churning feeling growing in her stomach, Roahn backed away from the limp body as she rejoined the flow of traffic, her body moving of its own accord. It took all of her strength to tear her eyes away from the motionless human but she was able to with a wrenching motion, the action bringing stinging tears to her eyes.

She then proceeded to run through the crowd, half-blinded by her terrible grief. She pushed through a jungle of arms and legs, trying so hard not to cry, ashamed at the dispassion that everyone had showed, unwilling to help a stricken man when he had needed help the most.

Yet Roahn realized… she had done nothing either. She had stood by and watched, like the rest of them.

Was she as much to blame as everyone else?

Overwhelmed with regret, Roahn shot her way through the crowd until she was back in the plaza from which she had initially entered. Running until she was in a clear area, Roahn spotted an empty bench and made a beeline for it, no longer caring about the strange setting that she was situated in. Plopping down in relief, Roahn drew her arms around herself, finding that she was shivering unconsciously, the images of the crimson blood refusing to leave her mind.

It wasn't your fault, Roahn tried to tell herself, though she didn't completely believe her own words. There was nothing you could have done.

But could there have been something? Could she have moved faster, maybe have found someone that actually would have been able to save the man? The possibilities were endless and Roahn found her guilt merely compounding as she cursed her idleness.

Perhaps her father had been right after all. Omega was not a place for good memories. It would be a long time before Roahn would forget the sight of the human's dead eyes, staring helplessly up at her from the ground, the light leaving him in seconds.

Roahn gave a tiny heave, her eyes feeling hot. Her throat trembled and she drew herself in even closer.

I'm done here, she silently declared. I'm going back.

Sullenly, Roahn hopped from the bench, vowing never to disregard her father so blithely again. Her arms hanging limply at her sides, Roahn began to trudge over to the doorway that led to the docks, hoping that she had not been gone long enough for her father to notice that she was missing.

However, that would be the least of her worries, for Roahn soon felt a powerful hand grip her shoulder, hard enough to halt her in place. Roahn staggered, the breath vanishing from her throat in an instant, completely robbing her of her ability to cry out for help.

"This is no place for a girl like you to be," Roahn heard a light voice murmur into her ear. "Someone like you could get into trouble quite easily here."

Teeth chattering, nerves ablaze, Roahn's neck felt like a rusty hinge as it took a great deal of effort to look up at the person who was tightly clamping at her shoulder.

Air flooding back into her lungs, she made a loud gasp.

---

Aria T'Loak may have been the most powerful individual on Omega at the moment, but that did not mean that she was not predictable to a fault. Everyone on the station knew that Aria liked to spend the bulk of her free time in her own private suite in the most expansive club on Omega: Afterlife. It served as a kind of throne room for Aria, a place for her to take stock of the subjects below her while also partaking in the usual rounds of amusement that such a club would usually have to offer. Dancing, drinking, the works. A contained microcosm that was a perfect simulation of the larger station that held it amongst its ore.

Shepard figured that was the best place to start looking.

The entrance to Afterlife was clearly marked, seeing that the imposing triangular front had the name of the club emblazoned upon it in towering letters. A line that curved around the block was made up of frequenters looking to enter, admittance only being allowed by a rather impassive elcor. A set of shallow steps led up to the main door, where a couple batarian bouncers were posted. And none of it intimidated Shepard in any way.

Shepard, not wanting to waste any time, skipped the line entirely and walked right up to the front door, noting a few angry grumbles emanating from the people who had been waiting in the line for hours already. Such a brazen move was inevitably going to be noticed and the batarian bouncers swiftly stepped in front of him before he could enter, their faces twisting into sneers.

"And who might you be?" one of the bouncers crossed his arms, not recognizing Shepard with his beard. Tough break, for had they been a little more observant, they would have identified the human in seconds.

"The Duke of Edinburgh," Shepard drawled, his flaring anger already getting the better of him.

The second bouncer snorted. "A comedian. Nice. Get back in the damn line, vagrant."

Shepard glared at the alien who had just spoken. "I'm not just any transient in the crowd. I have business with Aria," he responded sharply.

"Everyone has business with Aria. See everyone here before you? Where do you think all of their taxes go?"

"I think she'll make an exception for me."

"Not unless we know who you are," the batarian hissed.

Shepard could have rolled his eyes and simply gone ahead in punching the two bouncers into submission, but he quelled that desire for as long as he could muster, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Fine," Shepard sighed in a rather dramatic fashion, before tapping his own chest. "I'm Commander Shepard."

The tone that Shepard had used had been so utterly bereft of any dramatic heft that he knew that the weight of his statement would be completely lost on the two. It was what he had intended and had resulted in the predicted outcome.

Both bouncers struggled to hide their surprise and amusement at that. "You're the third guy today to use that excuse on us," the first batarian said. "Everyone always wants to jump the line by claiming that they're 'Commander Shepard.' It's getting quite old, believe it or not. You and the array of idiots need to get some new material."

Again, Shepard's bedraggled appearance was working both for and against his favor.

Shepard just kept his hands at his sides, trying to think of the next move he should take. He was considering just ducking into a shoulder charge, ramming the first bouncer through the door, drawing his weapon on the second, and making his way to Aria's perch before anyone could raise an alarm as his current plan of action. He could already envision the carnage and the sound of bones breaking in his head, his mind appearing to calm, to be at peace, as he slowly accepted the inevitable that violence would be the only language universally understood on Omega.

This place was cancerous. All of his bad habits were being drawn out like poison into a well. The essence of brutality; just the sort of mindset the Commander thrived in.

He would have enacted his savage maneuver too, but one of the bouncers unexpectedly received a call on his omni-tool at that time, causing Shepard to hold off for the time being, awaiting new data.

The first batarian gave a shifty-eyed glare at Shepard before he answered the person who was calling him. The conversation did not last long and the bouncer said not a word, but Shepard did notice that the alien's expression was constantly drooping lower and lower the more the person on the other end talked.

Fifteen seconds later, the bouncer deactivated the call and, with a gesture of acceptance, shrugged his shoulders. "Aria says that you can come through," he told Shepard.

In a flash, the Commander's presence faded from Shepard's head. Raw, unfettered emotion flooded Shepard, causing him to take a grateful gasp of salty, silt-filled air. His head hurt from all the blood pooling there and his temples throbbed angrily.

But calm still lingered. That was perhaps the most fortuitous outcome of the day so far.

Their antagonistic expressions abruptly lifted, the two batarians stepped aside, already putting Shepard out of their thoughts. The human faltered for a moment, a bit startled at the sudden capitulation, and lifted his head upwards, spotting a security camera nestled into a darkened corner there. Someone must have been keeping tabs on him the moment he stepped onto the premises. Not giving the batarians any acknowledgement, clearly not wanting to test his newfound luck, Shepard quickly stepped through the door and into Afterlife.

The hallway beyond was shaped like a trapezoid, acting as a lobby of sorts that provided some sort of quiet from the pounding music that Shepard could discern from just beyond the next door. The floor was comprised of a metal that looked burnt red in the dark lighting. Stiff sofas flanked the aisle, and the words "AFTERLIFE" blazed gloriously at the far end of the room. The walls were coated with holographic flames that simply served to hammer the idea home of descending through the fires of hell to reach the goal at the end. It certainly cemented the evil atmosphere that this place exuded, but Shepard knew it was all theatrics and that nothing here should be taken too seriously.

As Shepard entered Afterlife, he had a brief moment to savor the relative ease of the environment in which his ears were currently functioning in, before a wall of bass-heavy sound came in and smashed Shepard full-on in the face.

He squinted his eyes and yawed his jaw at the noise. Dance music. Bass pumped up on full. Trebles so warped they sounded scratchy. Throbbing in the eardrums. What a dreadful cacophony.

The very air seemed to vibrate from how loudly the music in the club was pulsating, but it was an aspect that Shepard was determined to muster himself through. In any case, he proceeded to walk through Afterlife, making his way over to the private staircase that led to Aria's level.

Afterlife was something of an outlier compared to Omega's usual aesthetic. Whereas the majority of the station was run down, decrepit, and dust-covered, Afterlife was a polished and lethal machine. While by no means sparkling clean, Afterlife had enough care looking after it to make the club into a place that people actually wanted to go to. The music, while admittedly terrible, was popular enough with the locals that they relished the chance to let loose on the dance floors in time to the backlit tiles in the floor that took on the appearance of dirty ice. Cheap booze and a lively drug scene made it hip with the younger folks who were looking to get trashed after work, eager to get themselves wrapped up in an overdose.

Shepard did not really care for this place. Afterlife, like its owner, was a little too intense for Shepard to remain here comfortably for long. Everything was just too in-your-face here, from the gigantic holographic pink tower in the middle of the club that synced music videos along to the assigned beat, to the pulverizing spotlights that did nothing but blind everyone, and to the crazy torches that fanned huge flames close to the ceiling. It was all too… much, and that was not even discounting the clientele, which Shepard knew could be boorish and hostile if one picked the wrong fight here.

Aria's booth was on the opposite side of the club and there were always guards from her outfit that were flanking the stairwells. However, the mercenaries must have been alerted ahead of time that Aria was to receive a guest and they gave Shepard no grief as he started the ascension.

Upwards towards the end. The end of Omega.

At the top, the resulting booth jutted partially over the dance floor, giving the occupants inside an unobstructed view of the people down below. Four people were currently in the booth, two more guards, a young human woman, and an asari. A U-shaped couch, made out of fine leather, wrapped around the ends of the booth, and sitting right in the middle, with the human girl cuddled right next to her, was the pirate queen herself.

Aria T'Loak.

She had not aged a day since the last time Shepard had seen her. Expected, given the long lifespan of asari. Her skin was a deep purple color and tribal markings adorned her eyebrows, temples, and even her lip, breaking up her otherwise smooth pallor. Aria was clad in her usual style of wardrobe: a partially revealing jumpsuit in which belts wrapped all around the asari's body for a snug fit but leaving slits of the skin of her sides out in the open, and a white jacket, also leather and emblazoned with the Omega logo, donned on top of it. She exuded sexuality, but Shepard knew that it was all psychological on Aria's part. The asari had gotten to where she was through centuries of experience and she was going to exploit every edge she had to get out on top, no matter what. If choosing to wear a provoking attire was going to give Aria an advantage over anyone who might be more responsive to carnal desires, then Aria would be a fool to not dominate such an encounter.

Shepard was not particularly worried about his safety here. Since they last spoke, the two of them had parted on civil terms after Shepard had lent his aid in taking back Omega from Cerberus twelve years ago, which had allowed Aria to resume her position of power here. During the siege, Aria had explicitly pressed to Shepard that she had wanted to create a bloodbath of epic proportions with the occupying force, but Shepard, averse to such wanton violence back then, had managed to talk her out of it. That alone had not been a simple task to achieve, as Aria was one of the most stubborn people Shepard had ever met, to the point where they tended to butt heads on the most trivial of topics from time to time. Aria did not like being told what to do, especially when it came to criticizing the level of violence she employed. Shepard thought Aria to be a menace and Aria thought of Shepard as soft. But because Shepard had held up his part of the bargain by assisting Aria from beginning to end, he had gained a significant portion of the asari's respect, which was not something to be discounted lightly. Aria was not the most trusting of people to begin with, so having her as a staunch ally was a rare distinction given to few.

Aria did not say a word just yet, but the look in her eyes was hard and piercing, directed right at Shepard. Immediately, he knew she recognized him. He swallowed, despite himself, as he tried to steel his mind.

Still remaining maddingly silent, Aria gave a quick movement of her hand, a brushing motion, and without needing to be told, the guards walked down the staircase that Shepard had entered, giving the two some privacy. The human girl that was still cuddled up to Aria, scantily-clad, did not seem to grasp the situation until Aria rudely jerked her shoulder, causing the girl to bounce upright. Aria then soundlessly tilted her head, an order for the girl to go off and occupy herself. With a pitiful sigh, the girl stood and sauntered past Shepard, but not before she winked at him and sashayed her hips in a playful manner as she went by. The action from the girl perturbed Shepard slightly. He also found it slightly disconcerting that the girl was decked out in a dress that barely went below her hips and that he had more of a view of her than he would have liked when the dress hiked up as she walked. Shepard ruffled himself all over and trained his blue eyes back onto Aria.

"You like her?" Aria finally spoke, her tone hinting at amusement as she referred to the young girl who was now nowhere in sight. "She calls herself Emma. You can have her, if you want."

Trying not to let his disgust show too much, Shepard just shook his head. "She's not exactly my type."

Aria gave a pensive nod.

"Good answer," the asari grinned. "She's with me at any rate, no matter how… promiscuous she might seem. Well, I can always call a girl over for you if you want, if you're interested."

"That's quite all right," Shepard said evenly. "Won't be necessary."

Aria bared teeth in a wide smile as she folded a leg over the other and leaned backwards onto the couch. "Ah, yes," she pretended to remember. "I forgot. You're spoken for now. Or, should I say… were."

Shepard felt a pressure in his temples flare at the same time his vision turned slightly red. "I'm not here to discuss my family with you, Aria."

"Sore subject? I wouldn't understand your life anyway. Never had the inclination to 'settle down' as one tends to put it. But maybe you can help me understand something. How content are you now, being a widower?" Aria arced what would constitute as an eyebrow, clearly enjoying pushing Shepard's buttons.

Shepard did not respond right away, knowing that a murderous glint was probably inhabiting his eyes right about now. A potentially fatal mistake—Aria was one of the most powerful biotics he had ever seen, and if she so much as detected a whiff of violence directed at her, she would be liable to rip him apart, their previous association be damned.

But Aria laughed first and gave a dismissive wave, breaking eye contact first, enjoying the pained look on Shepard's face. "Ah, you're no fun," she pretended to gripe. "Still the same… serious… damnable man." She eyed Shepard up and down. "But I don't think I'm wrong in saying that you look like shit, Shepard."

Nice, Shepard thought. Appreciate it.

"Happy to have disappointed you, Aria," Shepard gritted out in relief, his throat already feeling sore.

The asari continued to smirk as she patted a spot upon the sofa cushions, an obvious sign for Shepard to take a seat. Some solidarity, at least. Maybe now he could get down to business. Shepard, despite all his fortitudes, knew that refusing Aria this simple request would be taken as an insult to her hospitality, so he dutifully complied, but only after he waited a few seconds to show his restraint.

Aria loudly tapped her fingers upon the hard leather of the couch as she continued to appraise Shepard's appearance. "Your arrival is an unexpected surprise, Shepard," she said. "Not only has no one seen you for—what was it, at least a decade now?—but the very fact that you choose to show up on Omega first is… interesting. What, are you going to tell me that you missed me after all these years?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Aria," Shepard said sharply.

"My, my. Testy, aren't we? You should be a little more considerate. If anyone else used that sort of tone towards me, I would feel rather inclined to have their tongue cut out simply for my amusement."

Shepard's hands curled in as he leaned forward. "But you and I both know that I am not just anyone else."

"As if I could forget?" Aria's wicked smile broadened. "Please, Shepard. I haven't gone senile just yet. But you and that fat fucking bleeding heart of yours haven't really done wonders for the upkeep around here. After all, you were somewhat of a hindrance to me the last time you were here, remember? When we were both kicking Cerberus off my station? The entire time you were trying to control my… what was the phrase you used? 'Manic bloodlust.' And like a waif, I let that do-gooder behavior take hold of me, so… thanks for that."

Judging from Aria's expression, the asari was not very thankful.

"If I recall correctly," Shepard corrected, "you were busy fantasizing about the dozen different types of ways that you were going to torture and mutilate the leader of the occupational forces here. One method in particular that you seemed to have your heart set on was that you were going to remove Petrovsky's digestive system violently through his mouth and place his organs in a jar of formaldehyde. Pardon me if I did not want to be involved in something like that."

"Shepard, your ignorance is showing. The whole need for violence was not something that was entirely up to me," Aria pointed out, strobe lights flaring behind her head and casting large shadows on the wall beyond. "The flagellation of Cerberus needed to cement my rule on Omega, yes, but it would also have served another purpose, one you civilized outsiders have never understood."

"Why don't you enlighten me?" Shepard's face turned dark at the same time the music temporarily dropped out in the distance.

"Simple. You don't know Omega. We're not beholden by your rules or laws. In the Terminus, the law is dictated by the strongest. To do that, shows of force are sometimes required. If some people need to be murdered in the street for the greater good of keeping order, then that's the way it's going to be. Turns out that, when people get used to all the killing and the slaughter, they become desensitized to it. They start to crave it themselves. So, we might as well capitalize on this mindset. Throw the civilians a bone every now and then. Stage a public execution—make it extremely gory—and give people something outside of the norm. They all love it. People flock from every district just to get a glimpse of blood when they hear us offering it. It's a facet that's engrained into each pathetic little worm that lives upon this station."

Shepard could only shake his head, his frown deepening. "The devil you know…" he mused.

Aria explosively sighed. "Oh, stop judging me, Shepard. It won't do you any good here. You knew what you had signed up for when you accepted my invitation to get a little payback on your progenitors. And you completed your task, quite admirably, I might add. I'd even go so far in saying that no one's given me as much effort as you have, and it would not behoove me to forego demonstrating my gratitude to you for the rest of your natural life."

"The gratitude of Aria T'Loak, eh?" Shepard tightened his hands together as he looked upon Aria with the barest shred of mirth.

The asari shrugged. "Not something that can be trivialized, you know."

Shepard understood that clearly. He knew that Aria had the ability to accomplish tasks that very few people in this galaxy could. With a mere snap of her fingers, Aria could raise an army to fight upon his behalf, lock down the entire station at a moment's notice, or even command someone to kill themselves for an ideal, all because of the power she had as Omega's self-appointed ruler. This was a person that people would unquestionably die for to gain notoriety or respect, perhaps both. Such devotion was highly impressive… but that was not the sort of aspect that Shepard was looking for.

"I'm only here because I have little choice," Shepard responded. "Believe me, Aria, I didn't come here to partake in Omega's… neighborliness."

"No doubt. Such a responsible man like you would probably not want to hang out here anyway. But the question still stands: if you aren't here to reminisce about the good old days, why are you here?"

Down to business. That was the side of Aria he could deal with.

"I was told that you're the only controller of a certain substance I… need," Shepard said, keeping his voice low, as if quieting himself would give Aria the impression that he was bringing her into his confidence. Aria liked it when people trusted her with information—it made her all the more pliable to flattery and logic.

Aria gave an amused look but did not rise to the obvious prickle. "Go on."

"I need to know if you have what I'm looking for."

"Then spit it out! What is it? Drugs, people, money? I can't help you if you won't tell me what it is you're looking for!"

Shepard was stone-faced as he edged closer to the asari, blinking as another spotlight drifted too close to his face. "I don't want any questions from you. All I need is a drug."

Aria nodded, suddenly serious. "That can be arranged. What drug did you have in mind?"

"Entolimod."

The asari blinked before she screwed up her face in incredulity. She then shook a few times from soundless chuckles. "That's it? Shepard, I'm almost disappointed that you constantly undervalue your worth to me. The debt I have to you is worth far more than a drug like this. Entolimod's really all you want?"

"I wouldn't ask you for this unless it was important," Shepard said plainly, the image of his wife frustratingly lingering in his mind right now. "Such a request doesn't cause you to bat an eye?"

"Hell, if you asked for a 5% cut of all my profits, I wouldn't bat an eye even then."

In no time flat, an out-of-breath turian came from up the staircase, trying very hard not to pant out loud, with a medium-sized metallic box clutched between their hands. Another one of Aria's endless cadre of mercs. The turian set the box down next to where Shepard was sitting and slunk off after receiving a nod of approval from Aria.

Shepard partially slid the top of the box open, revealing the top row of clear packages made out of hard plastic, each one containing vials of the medicine. There had to be around sixty vials in all in the container. Satisfied that he had gotten what he had asked for, Shepard slid the box closed again.

"I must say," Aria spoke up once more, "I'm not finding you odd that you're here asking me for medicine. But what is odd is the fact that you're asking for a countermeasure against radiation poisoning."

"I told you," Shepard looked up from the box, "I only wanted the drug, not an interrogation."

"Fine, fine," Aria held up her hands in a dramatic fashion, voice cool. "No need to explain. I already have an idea for why you need it. Just found your demand intriguing, especially since entolimod is an extremely limited product on Omega, not to mention highly in demand."

That gave Shepard pause and he felt something hitch in his chest. "How in demand are we talking?"

"Enough to know that there's not nearly enough supply to fill it."

Just sitting next to this box was starting to make Shepard feel tainted. He screwed up his face as he laid a hand upon the cold metal top, his gaze sinking to the floor as his head felt several pounds heavier. "People really need it badly over here, then?"

"They're not taking it to get a fix, that's for certain. Come on, Shepard, the main source of income on Omega stems from its eezo deposits, and what do you think brings the most jobs on Omega? Working in the eezo mines, that's what. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but Omega's rather volatile and lawless reputation kind of extends over to basic job functions, or to be more specific, our safety net. Let's face it, our job security over here is not going to be winning any awards anytime soon. With the lack of failsafes and that our anti-rad suits are not as new nor as advanced as anything the Alliance has in its stocks sort of put a hamper on one's lifespan. Combine that with the fact that eezo is fiercely radioactive, and… well…"

"You've made your point," Shepard brusquely cut Aria off as he opened the box again, this time withdrawing the felt sack that came included with the package, and grabbed a few handfuls of the container's contents, dropping them all into the sack. After taking a mere third of the box, Shepard closed it and stood from the couch with only the bag in his hand. "I can get by with just this."

Aria glanced from the two-thirds full box that was being left behind and back to Shepard, her lip curling in levity. "Never patched that bleeding heart up, eh, Shepard?"

"Save it, Aria," Shepard rolled his eyes. "We're finished here."

Shepard then started to head down the shallow staircase but not before Aria called out to him one final time.

"Before you go, do you want to see something interesting?"

Shepard took his time in turning back around. "What could you possibly have in mind?"

A narrow smile appeared on the asari's face as a flash of cruelty came across her features. "Call it a stroke of nostalgia. All you have to do to experience it is to follow me."

As Aria brushed by him and headed towards a hallway off to the side, Shepard was feeling very wary about taking the asari up on her offer. Aria always had an ulterior motive to her requests. She was a very blunt individual, but that did not mean that she had no enjoyment for toying with other people. The fact that she was being rather tight-lipped with him right now was sort of an indication that she had a surprise up her sleeve.

Yet against his better judgment, he followed.

With the sack full of medicine slung against his back, Shepard closely walked behind Aria as they traveled down a sloping hallway with a low ceiling. Dim halogen lamps provided just the barest amount of illumination so that Shepard would not smack his head against a stray beam. The floor beneath them was an oily grate and the acrid smell of ozone was more apparent here.

Shepard guessed they were taking a walkway between two pillars. That would explain why he could get a clearer whiff of the eezo smelters—poor ventilation here. The iron taste on his tongue was back and he tried his damnedest to keep himself from gagging, not wanting to show discomfort in Aria's presence. No telling how she could use that against him.

Just as Shepard was about to ask out loud how much further they were going to walk, the shaft levelled out, the two of them coming to a junction with a much wider avenue of traversal, yet still terribly lit. Aria took the first door on the left, expecting Shepard to be right behind her, which he still was. Cold, blue light wafted from the interior of the room, as well as a sizzling noise… and the muted sound of screaming.

But who was the one screaming?

The room beyond was small, barely large enough to fit four standing people comfortably. It was sparse of any equipment save for a singular table and was utterly featureless and unremarkable. The only distinguishing aspect was a large window on the opposite wall that spanned its length. Through that window, inaccessible from this room, was another chamber, the source from where the harsh blue illumination had been blaring. That seemed to be the area that Aria had the most interest in, evident in the way that she stood up to where her nose was nearly touching the glass, her arms crossed over her chest expectantly.

Shepard maneuvered from behind the asari for a better look. What he saw chilled him right down to the bone.

Two other people were in the room—one turian, the other human. The turian was pacing around the circular room, a callous look of greedy revelry in his eyes. He had a bloodstained knife in one hand that continued to drip upon the floor as he walked around the human, who in contrast was situated in the center of the room. The human, dressed in only the lower half of a form-fitting bodysuit, hung suspended on his stomach in the middle of the room, his limbs splayed out in all directions. He was young, in his late twenties or so, with short brown hair, and a plain face, although his expression was distorted in one of pain as inhibitor gauntlets stretched out his limbs and kept him hanging in midair, slow bolts of soft-looking electricity gently arcing from the gauntlets to the generators hanging on the ceiling.

It soon became apparent to Shepard that he was bearing witness to a torture session after, upon closer inspection, he spotted a bevy of cuts marring the human's torso, many of the wounds still weeping blood. The human yelled in pain as the turian bent down to nick at a spot upon the man's shoulder, creating a fresh slew of fluids, his screams muted behind the window.

Disgusted, Shepard took a step back, staring at Aria in astonishment, who was conversely not at all affected by the gruesome sight.

"What is this?" Shepard asked in horror, torn between looking at Aria's gaze of malice and the screaming of the human beyond the clear partition.

"A case of me having to repeat a lesson," Aria simply said as she reached over to a nearby desk, flimsily made out of aluminum, and tossed an object over to Shepard. He caught it in a one-handed maneuver, finding that the object was heavier than he thought. Piece of armor—a shoulder plate. Explained why it weighed a lot more than he figured upon first glance. He turned it over in his hands and spotted a circular insignia, one that was more than familiar to him, within was printed a stylized seal of the heads of three animals: a lion, a goat, and a snake.

Chimera's logo.

"Recognize it, do you?" Aria asked, still watching the turian scrape at the bound human, not paying Shepard much mind.

Unseen by the asari, Shepard nodded. "Chimera." He then looked out to the prisoner, his features starting to harden as well. "Was he the one wearing this?"

"Him and a squad of three others," Aria scowled. "Apparently they didn't get the memo from the last organization that tried to occupy my station. At the very least, I won't make the same mistake of being too lackadaisical this time around. I'm nipping this problem in the fucking bud right here, right now."

Now there was a sizzling noise and Shepard looked over just in time to see the turian apply a shock stick to the human. The prisoner yelled and convulsed, and dark smoke began to rise from his body. Shepard wrinkled his nose, almost imagining the smell from the man's cooked flesh.

"What are you hoping to accomplish with this?" Shepard asked, his eyes squinting in a grim fashion.

"What do you mean?" Aria shrugged nonchalantly.

"This. The torture. You trying to divulge intelligence out of them? I don't see your man in there asking any questions."

"That's because these idiots don't have any intelligence that I want," Aria growled. "That man in there, the one I have all trussed up, he's just a grunt. Residing at the bottom of the food chain. He's not privy to any information that I would consider important. At this point, all I can do with him is make him and whoever is dumb enough to set foot onto my station into messages."

"Corpses, you mean," Shepard sighed.

Aria shuffled around, giving Shepard quite a stiff frown. "Cerberus, Chimera, they're all cut from the same stock. They're both ambitious and stupid enough to try and thumb their noses in my direction. Which, essentially, means that they're breaking the one rule on Omega. If I turn a blind eye to these people moseying about wherever they please, then how would I look if that one rule is to be so brazenly broken by these interlopers?"

As cruel as it sounded, Shepard did have a good idea where Aria was coming from. Twelve years ago, Aria had been ousted from Omega by Cerberus forces in what had been a sneaky yet decisive coup for the organization. Aria had been caught off guard when Cerberus had enacted its plan to take over Omega and had been one of the asari's rare defeats in her life. Unwilling to be cowed, Aria had vowed revenge for months until she had amassed enough forces to take Omega back, in which she did so quite handedly. But in the long run, Aria would possesses a huge mistrust of any private military organization or gang other than her own, showing instead to demonstrate wanton and immediate violence towards any hapless antagonist that would dare cross her borders. An overreaction most likely, but considering Aria's collective experiences, sadly understandable.

It seems that Shepard was getting a firsthand taste of what happens when someone dared to try and test Aria's mettle. Fortunately, he had enough experience in dealing with the asari to know that Aria tended to back up her words with the force to match. A most violent force, definitely.

The turian torturer then approached the human with what appeared to be a large, metallic armband. He then proceeded to fasten this armband around the human's upper right arm, yanking it so tight that it was nearly cutting off the blood flow to the limb.

"Ah," Aria sighed in delight. "Finally, something interesting. Have you ever heard of a nurkar-tarr band before, Shepard?"

"Can't say that I have," Shepard admitted, his glassy eyes unable to be torn from the scene.

"Oh, it's a fascinating little gadget," Aria gleamed. "It's a very old krogan torture device. Invented to inflict a large amount of pain without killing the host… within reason. You'll see what it does in a moment. Basically, it wraps around a limb of your choosing, and there are little teeth upon the interior of the band that press against the skin. The band can be activated, and the teeth move, sliding along the band in a circular fashion, slicing the flesh in such a way that it strips it away from the muscle whole, like removing a glove from a hand. Leaves everything immediately below the skin intact, funnily enough. The band automatically moves down the arm, taking the skin off as it goes… until there's nothing left but exposed muscle and bone. Point is, when it's activated…"

A buzzing noise then sheared its way through the glass window and the human immediately spasmed, his limbs trying dreadfully to shake in all directions. The human screamed, but the air had left his lungs in a pathetic wheeze, and his face became frozen in a wild and horrendous expression to the point where his eyes were bulging out of his head. The man's fingers twisted into claws and finally, a horrid howl of agony began to sound, a desperate shriek as the nukar-tarr began setting to work.

"…it's not usually a pretty sight."

A deluge of blood immediately splattered the ground and continued in running rivulets. The nukar-tarr placidly droned as it moved down the human's arm, impassive as its metallic face became stained red. Blood began streaming down the human's arm in wide waterfalls, right down to his fingers, looking like his limb had been dipped in red paint.

But as the nukar-tarr whirred and crunched, the color of red became less and less pronounced. As it pooled on the ground, it congealed and blackened, spattering the grating below where the prisoner hung.

As the nukar-tarr slipped down a few centimeters, Shepard's mouth hung agape as he spotted the first hint of ragged sinew and bloody muscle from the stripped arm. Slick cords of raw meat glistened in the low light. White deposits of fat nestled amongst the ligaments. A sharp knob of bone gleamed shockingly white. Blood poured from the newly exposed wound and dribbled in a constant stream.

The band moved down another inch.

Shepard had to turn away, nearly gagging at the sight.

"Have I offended your sensibilities?" Aria smirked, no doubt enjoying the fact that she was causing Shepard to be so uncomfortable. The prisoner was still screaming through the window as his arm was being de-gloved.

Shepard wiped his mouth and took a deep breath before straightening up. Minutely shuddering, he forced himself not to look directly at the howling man while more and more of his flesh was being stripped from his body—not all that easy, as the thrashing form in the corner of Shepard's eye was proving to be distracting. Keeping his consciousness at rest, Shepard just stared daggers of his own right back at Aria, silently cursing her for subjecting him to this monstrosity.

"Come on, Shepard," Aria taunted. "This is the part where you're going to try to appeal to my better nature, to try and convince me that there's another way to get what I'm after without using violence. Where's that prim and proper commander that I've gotten used to?"

"Why bother?" Shepard snapped back, trying not to wince at the echoing screams. "Nothing that I can say is going to change your mind now."

"Not even going to try?" Aria chuckled.

Shepard slowly shook his head, a great effort, one so monumental that he nearly had to hiss in pain of his own. "I'm not going to stoke your ego, Aria."

Aria beheld Shepard for a long while until she clucked her tongue and gave a miniscule shrug. "Maybe you do know me better than I thought. Interesting."

Next to them, the prisoner kept bellowing as the nukar-tarr now made it down to his elbow. The torturer was simply stading by, placidly observing the results of the torture device, his expression ultimately disinterested. Shepard continued to ignore the sight, keeping his concentration firmly focused on the asari in front of him.

"Honestly," Shepard spoke laboriously, "it's not that hard to have you figured."

"Do tell."

Shepard took a wayward glance at the prisoner for as long as he dared before he lost his lunch, using the moment to suck in a foul breath, radiating a loathing so perverse that he hoped Aria could detect it wafting off of him in waves.

"It's the presentation, more or less," Shepard gritted. "It's always been the same with you, Aria. Like this game right now. You toy with living people and show the whole thing off to me in order to provoke a reaction. It's something that you've been trying to do to me ever since we first met. It's as if you've never really believed in the tenets that I've staked my trust in and, therefore, you've been trying to pervert my beliefs in order to see if I'm not at all the stellar 'golden boy' you constantly deride me to be." Shepard crossed his arms while Aria's face twisted unpleasantly. "It was never difficult to see what you were doing. The problem was trying to withstand your patient attacks. The overall point to all this is that you're in denial about one thing, and that's the fact that we have very little in common. Face it, Aria, we're never going to completely like each other, but it seems that you always had trouble in accepting that fact."

The human prisoner in the back, finally forgotten, let out one final keen before his body slackened and head drooped completely, having fallen unconscious from massive blood loss. The nukar-tarr slipped from the man's arm to the floor with a clatter, encrusted with dried blood.

From the triceps to the fingers, the prisoner's dangling arm, the exposed muscle radiating fire, dribbled blood from the stripped fingertips. The tormented nerves caused the arm to quiver, exposed cords trembling in the warm air. The pain must have been excruciating.

"I've had men killed for less than what you've said to me," Aria uttered, the amusement having fled her eyes.

"Yet we both know that you take my frankness as a virtue," Shepard retorted in kind.

"If it weren't for your ability to be so infuriatingly correct…"

"Fortunately, I have a talent for discretion," Shepard inserted with a smirk of his own.

Aria nodded curtly, now apparently taken with a healthy dose of impatience now that the tide of their dialogue had fled from her shores.

"You know your way out?" Aria simply asked, her tone light enough to dictate to Shepard that their conversation had mercifully come to a close.

"I think I can find my way back," he affirmed.

The asari then tilted her head to the passed out prisoner in the other room. "You still have one last chance to pester me with your ideology. No remorse in the face of mutilating one of your own kind?"

Shepard sighed, palms sweaty as he felt his hands morph into fists once more. Aria was relentless but her bait was easily slapped aside this time. It was simply the fact that she never quite knew when to quit that irked him so.

Now he had an idea what Cerberus had been up against when they had made an enemy for life in the asari. He was at least thankful that their relationship had not devolved to such a state just yet.

"For him?" Shepard briefly turned away from the door to give Aria a parting, yet slightly mocking salute, "Just my sympathies."

Aria laughed at that, and even Shepard gave a grim smile before he ducked his head and made it back out into the hallway, lungs burning and head abuzz with activity.

Sympathies. What a useless gesture.

---

Paris
European Union

Fernand Sarraf yawned as he waved his omni-tool in front of the ident lock of the office building on Rue d'Enghien. It was five in the morning in Paris, with brief spatters of sunlight dotting the clouds above. It had snowed last night, judging by the light dusting that coated the ground, causing the concrete walks to become rather slippery. Sarraf shivered in the cold air. He had not brought the right coat today. He had been counting on staying mostly warm throughout his commute, which did not require him to venture outside for most of the trip.

Fortunately, it would be warmer inside the building. Sarraf was grateful for that.

The lock outside of the building gave a singular beep before it flashed green, allowing Sarraf to step inside and take refuge from the blustery winds that bit at his cheeks, turning them to ice. He shook himself off, causing tiny dust puffs of snow to flutter to the ground and melt upon touching the floor.

Sarraf walked past the front desk, where the receptionist would usually be to greet him, except since it was so early, no one was at the desk at this time. The earliest shift usually began at nine. Sarraf was only here because he and his team had been working around the clock at compiling a particularly sensitive portfolio of data in preparation to send it out to their buyers.

"Welcome to Pax Informatio," the overhead speaker sounded as Sarraf stepped into the elevator, the ubiquitous greeting for every employee who came into the office.

It was the same greeting that Sarraf had to endure since the day he started here. What a mind-numbing blurb.

Pax Informatio was one of the leading consulting firms in the European Union, perhaps even in the world. They were the political arm of their parent company Egeria, who had diversified holdings in relation to the collection and dispersal of data spread across other corporations. Pax Informatio's services were expressly reserved for political campaigns and occasional forays into cryptology for the military. The work that they did was almost always sensitive. Compiling information on such public-facing individuals would doubtless have the risk of being secretive or damaging, perhaps even both. Yet, even in this business, the company had a good reputation for being very tactful with the intelligence that they had garnered. It was why they had such a high recommendation rate. They were the pros in the information game.

Sarraf was just one of many managers based in the Paris building, but in his line of work, the level of responsibility that was placed upon him technically gave him the impetus of control in a manner that would befit the ruler of a small country. In theory, Sarraf had the ability to make the lives of millions of people into a living hell—just with his keycard access alone, he could be able to access pertinent information of anyone he so pleased, such as either bank records, birth certificates, pension plans, sales of shares, right down to classified government documents. However, Sarraf prided himself on having such a steady moral compass that he was not concerned with his ability to wreak havoc just by sitting at his computer and sending out the wrong file. He was too far at peace with his current means of living to even think about shaking up society, even just a little bit. Tranquility certainly had its benefits.

However, the responsibilities that were currently on his head had grown lighter over time to the point where Sarraf tended not to consider the ramifications of the information he had at his disposal. Musing on such matters was only a distraction. He was here to work. Clients paid him for data and that was what he and his team worked on by themselves. And, from the indication his omni-tool his sent him an hour ago, every member of his team appeared to already be in the building. Apparently, they were all eager to be working on this project together.

Sarraf smiled. It felt good to be in charge of people who took the initiative. He so loathed slackers or people who failed to live up to their potential. Having an adaptable team made his job all the more easier.

But Sarraf was still so tired from having just woken up and from not having a stimulating drink, as it was still so early in the morning, that he did not realize at first, once the elevator doors had opened onto his floor, that the lights to the next level were still off. Not only that, but they were flashing weakly, in a broken manner. In his drowsy state, any deviations to his routine were easily discarded. It was only after he shouldered aside the glass door separating the elevator lobby from the work area did his ears pick up on something long before his eyes could confirm things.

It was quiet. All too quiet.

That was the first indication to Sarraf that something was amiss, and he gave himself a full-body shudder again, keen to wake himself up. His eyes were not deceiving him, as he sharpened his focus. Not only were the lights to the floor completely off, the only source of luminescence trying to squeeze in between the drawn blinds of the windows, there were also no voices to be heard in the air. That was quite odd. The work area was not a quiet place by any means. There would usually be a steady level of chattering from multiple voices, the muted tapping of hands at glass consoles, or from the constant beeping of the machinery dispensing notifications to each desk. Right now there was… nothing.

"Hello?" Sarraf called as he stepped out onto the floor, waiting for the automatic lights to flicker on and ultimately being disappointed when he was still being doused in darkness. "Benji? Irina? Anyone here?"

Of course no one answered. Sarraf bit his lip as he began to walk through the first rows of cubicles, his shoes treading lightly upon the carpeted ground. Broken glass crunched under his soles, giving Sarraf pause. He crept forward, an unfamiliar oily smell coming to his nostrils.

A thick smell. Tangible. Metallic. Sarraf wrinkled his nose.

Where the hell was everyone?

Yet as he peered through the openings that the cubicles afforded, Sarraf felt himself seize up as a limp hand, splayed out upon the ground, slowly came into view in front of one of the desks. It was hard to see, what with the contrast between the light from the windows desperate to enter and the darkness strong-arming his eyes into submission.

But that hand… that hand…

Sarraf could not see who the hand belonged to. He ultimately would rather not look. All he could tell, from this distance, that whoever was lying on the floor of the ground that cubicle was in serious trouble, and that the skin of the hand was flecked with a dark and liquid substance.

A body.

Oh god, Sarraf thought, frozen in place. His first line of speculation automatically directed to grave portents. An intruder. A crazed gunman or something of that ilk. Here in the office. It explained the disarray… and the body. But Sarraf's mind was in such turmoil that, even though he was coming up with such conclusions, he was running through his thoughts so fast that he barely took any time to consider them.

That was why he barely moved until a banging noise from down the hall suddenly resounded, finally getting him to jump.

"Who's that?" Sarraf called, momentarily forgetting the fact that he was in danger before adding, "I warn you, I'm armed!"

That was a lie. The only thing that Sarraf had that could be considered a deadly weapon was a meat cleaver, and that was back in his apartment.

"Fernand?!" A woman's voice, hysterical, resounded through the room. Muffled, as if was coming through a door. "Fernand, is that you?!"

Sarraf recognized the voice. It was Rebekah, a woman he worked with. Her voice was coming over from the woman's bathroom, as well as the sound of her fists pounding upon the door.

"Rebekah?!" Sarraf uttered, more loudly this time, as he shot over to the bathroom door. "Rebekah! I'm here! I'm here! What's going on? Are you all right?"

"Fernand! Fernand, help me!" the woman was on the verge of shrieking. "He found us! He's trying to kill us! Get me out of here, please! Before he comes back!"

Rebekah was even more agitated than he was, and her use of vagaries was only complicating matters further and driving Sarraf's own hysteria up as well. Not only had he barely any clue what Rebekah was hawing about, but the urgency in her voice was making him think that he had wandered into danger and, like an idiot, had not realized it until it had been pointed out to him.

Hurriedly, Sarraf felt around the door like a drunkard, searching for the manual door lock. Every automated door had a failsafe that prevented the door from opening itself and thus requiring manual input. However, after a few seconds of blindly groping, Sarraf felt himself quickly losing patience.

"Hurry, Fernand! Hurry!" Rebekah cried behind the door.

"I'm trying!" he gritted his teeth. "I can't see where to turn the lock!"

There was a noticeable pause as Rebekah tried to think this through. "Are you standing in front of the doorway?"

"No, I'm more to the right of it. Why?"

"Just keep still."

Sarraf was about to press Rebekah for clarification when there was an explosion in his ears, his face was suddenly slashed by whirling objects, and something heavy hit him in the shoulder. He was spun nearly around, stars smashing into his eyes, and he fell to the ground with a wheeze. His left shoulder was throbbing something fierce—Sarraf tried to raise his arms to determine what was paining him, but only his right arm was working. The other one was limp as he laid upon the ground, suddenly drenched by a pool of blood—his blood—rapidly spreading from where he had fallen.

Peeling his hand away from where his shoulder had been hit, Sarraf saw that his palm was coated with redness, wet and slick. He uttered a miniscule groan as he pressed the hand back over the wound, trying to stem the gurgle of blood as it rushed past his fingers.

With a cavernous grinding noise, the bathroom door, now having a massive hole in it from something have blown out from the other end, was quickly rent aside as a large arm reached through the opening, shunting it so that the person on the other side could make himself known. The largest man—or was it a thing?—that Sarraf had ever seen stepped into the office, a large smoking pistol clutched in a vise-like grip. Sarraf tasted the smoke of the pistol's blowback, finding himself shrinking in the face of a series of red-orange eyes, devil-like and omniscient as the mottled and uneven strobes of broken lighting smeared across the polished plates of the cyborg's chassis.

The enormous metal monster stepped around Sarraf, one of its heels splashing into Sarraf's blood, staining its foot and smearing Sarraf's life underneath.

"Did you like my impression?" the Legionnaire taunted, still using Rebekah's voice.

Helpless, only Sarraf's eyes could open wide in the face of the demonic construction.

Without waiting for an answer, the Legionnaire bent down and grabbed a fistful of Sarraf's shirt, using it to haul the man to his feet. Sarraf winced as he felt shattered bone shift in his shoulder, bringing forth a fresh stab of pain that left him nearly breathless. The Legionnaire then carried Sarraf across the hallway, dragging the man past a few more motionless corpses that Sarraf had not even seen yet before he was rudely deposited into an empty chair in front of an activated console.

Wheezing, Sarraf resumed holding his hand against the gunshot wound in his shoulder, feeling the pain burrow like a fiery drill, deep beneath his skin. All he could think about right now was lessening the agony he was in. He closed his eyes, listening to his own shallow breathing, as the hoarse hisses from the cyborg echoed in the expansive room.

"I should have known…" Sarraf coughed, wincing as every rasp of his lungs felt like he was cracking more bones open. "Hackett's dossier. It was obvious that… there would be people after it. People like you. When he was killed… I should have sent it out to everyone."

"Then we should be thankful that you did not possess the virtue of foresight then," the Legionnaire said, now reverting to his usual two-timbered voice, one whisper and one growl eternally clashing against one another in an otherworldly rumble. The cyborg nudged Sarraf's chair closer to the console. "You know what you need to do."

"The… dossier?" Sarraf slurred. "You don't want just that. Once I give it to you, you'll just kill me. Like you killed everyone else. I know… how this works."

The eyes of all of Sarraf's colleagues were clumped together in the cubicle across from where Sarraf was currently sitting, their dead expressions looking dazed and filled with agony… yet their gazes all congregated on Sarraf. They silently pleaded for vengeance, but for him not to suffer as well. To be spared from the pain and the fate that had befallen all of them. Every one of their heads appeared to be blown out, with clear sections of their skulls just… missing. The result of high-powered slugs at close range. Empty heads and broken bodies. The blood and gore that stained the floor around the pile of bodies had already congealed, blackened with time. Sarraf could only blankly at the glassy orbs of the real Rebekah just a couple meters away, her auburn hair matted to her scalp, sticky with her blood.

The Legionnaire also followed Sarraf in staring at the deceased men and women. However, instead of trying to explain his reasoning for keeping Sarraf alive, the cyborg simply reached out a hand and harshly clamped it down upon the entrance wound in Sarraf's shoulder, squeezing tightly and causing the shattered bone to shift horribly around within the man's body.

Sarraf screamed as the Legionnaire's grip tightened. Blood spurted from between the metallic fingers, and the Legionnaire began to grope inside the wound, tearing the muscle and fat further, causing more blood to spill. The Legionnaire also flexed his hand, which snapped the already broken bones even more, splintering inside of Sarraf's shoulder and causing burst ossein fragments to create micro-tears in the man's body. Sharpened bone shards sheared against one another in a grinding fashion, agitating the bundles of nerves there. The result was a conflagration that practically detonated inside of Sarraf's shouder, and the man howled as his entire arm quickly became engulfed in his own blood, dripping profusely off the fingers of his lame hand.

"Stop!" Sarraf yelled as he futilely tried to pry the Legionnaire's hand away, smearing blood upon the ice-cold limb. "Stop! I'll… I'll give it to you! I'll give you the dossier!"

For some, pain was a terrible motivator.

Immediately the Legionnaire's hand sprung loose and Sarraf gave a hard gasp as the pain came to an end so suddenly that tears sprang up in his eyes. He touched his shoulder gingerly, finding it nearly numb from all of the torment inflicted upon his injury.

"Go on," the Legionnaire then said behind him, the unusual voice now a gliding rasp. "You know where to find it."

Sarraf indeed knew where he had placed Hackett's dossier within the central memory, and, not wanting to be subjugated to such torture again, he navigated to the file in moments once he had caught his breath. But when he had the edit screen up on his terminal, his hands poised at deciding the fate of the file, he hesitated. For all he knew, what Hackett had sent him and Pax Informatio was a literal goldmine. Hackett had indicated in his initial message that he had sent over the missing link between Chimera and a notorious Alliance politician, with more evidence to come later. A vast conspiracy in the government, with this being the only shred of proof Sarraf knew of, and he was about to hand it over to the people who would almost certainly be damaged from its public release.

Sourly, Sarraf took stock of his options. The outbound extranet connection had been severed, so there was no way of sending this dossier out of this building. The only connection available to him was the Legionnaire's personal omni-tool, which was open and awaiting the file. It seemed that in order to survive, or at least to capitalize upon the vague notion of being virtuous, was to do something… outside the norm. Something bold.

To take a chance.

Immediately, Sarraf slammed on the delete key and the entire dossier vanished from Pax Informatio's servers. The Legionnaire could only watch as the icon of the file disappeared without fanfare, a soundless blip that led to a white expanse upon the screen.

An electronic warble escaped the Legionnaire's vocabulator.

With a sigh of finality, Sarraf slumped in his chair, utterly drained. "There it is," he proclaimed tiredly, his blood already causing his shirt to stick to his skin. "You'll never get it now. If nothing else, you've wasted your time by coming here."

Sarraf was too weak to turn in his chair to take stock of the Legionnaire's reaction, but after he heard the first soft hints of a ruthless laugh behind him, the icy cold tendrils of dread began to claw at Sarraf's heart.

"Intriguing," the Legionnaire only whispered. "I never indicated that I wanted to take the file back. You've simply made it certain that Hackett's last wish will never come to fruition."

The second-to-last thing that went through Sarraf's head was the surging jolt of regret and horror from the very knowledge that he had been baited. The imaginary cries of shame from his dead colleagues seemed to rise up in a haunting chorus, inviting him to join the damned alongside them.

The bullet from the pistol was the final thing to run through Sarraf's head.

Blood sprayed in a wide arc, misting the screen of the terminal. Chunks of the man's skull soon splattered against the far wall as the bone of his head erupted, the gas buildup having pressed against the interior of Sarraf's head, blowing it out and cooking the brain within.

Sarraf's body hit the ground, with most of his head missing.

The Legionnaire smoothly holstered his weapon, appraising the corpse of Sarraf as callously as one might appraise a sack of luggage. Now disregarding the wanton violence he had left in his wake, the cyborg casually strolled over to the elevator bay, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind.

Before entering the nearest elevator, which was on standby, the Legionnaire raised his fist, clad in the golden light of his omni-tool, and clenched his hand once, starting a chain reaction through the air. The invisible signal, searching for its destination, raced towards a receiver that answered its silent call. A separate terminal caught the inbound signal and interpreted its intent in nanoseconds, automatically starting a timer for ninety seconds that then proceeded to count down towards an inevitable conclusion.

The terminal that had proceeded to interpret the Legionnaire's signal rested within an offshoot of a hallway within the Pax Informatio building, which the Legionnaire had frequented before Sarraf had entered the premises. Several kilograms of FOX-7, a crystalline/polymer mix and insensitive high explosive, had been placed in two barrels that were linked up with the terminal at the end, slaved to the countdown, which was rapidly progressing towards 0. The Legionnaire had specifically picked FOX-7 for a reason, as it was an easy explosive to transport and it was specifically designed to be utilized for controlled demolitions; in a city where there was a lot of potential for collateral damage, utilizing FOX-7 in this case would have far less political blowback, not that such an aspect was of the Legionnaire's concern. In this case, the Legionnaire was far more focused about the decisiveness and success that detonating such a powerful explosive would naturally entail—namely a directed explosive shock front and supersonic speed of the explosion, which would either incinerate or obliterate any evidence in its path rather than resorting to such crude options like a dirty bomb. The Legionnaire was pragmatic and knew when not to apply an elephantine approach to certain situations.

The Legionnaire had cleared the building well in time before the explosives detonated and he took a moment to position himself into a shadowy corner to watch the results of his handiwork, the snow having washed the blood from his boots as he had stomped across the thin road.

Pax Informatio was a firm that had been under scrutiny for years, the Legionnaire knew. They had been on the receiving end of many an inquiry to the point where many people believed that the firm was at the center of dozens of separate conspiracy theories. The eventual destruction of Pax Informatio would only invite more perusal and speculation, and the authorities would be distracted by any particular motive that would have warranted the outright destruction of Pax Informatio's headquarters. Blowing the place up may have seemed like a stupid and blindingly obvious offensive maneuver on his and therefore Chimera's part, but the Legionnaire had already realized that there were many more enemies on Pax Informatio's list that would have wanted to see this place burn well before Chimera.

It would be a distraction like no other, the Legionnaire silently reveled. Like lighting a decoy fire to enable Chimera to creep away under the cover of darkness.

No rules this time. Just results.

Ah, to be let off the leash, the Legionnaire thought.

And at exactly thirty-seven minutes past five in the morning, the detonators to the FOX-7 barrels ignited and blew, sending a shockwave of fire and noise rippling out of the windows of the building, ripping the roof off, and causing smoke and debris to belch into the air. All of the windows in a half-mile radius flexed and shattered from the force of the explosion, causing glass to rain down upon the streets in a deadly hail. Snow shook from the ground as heavy vibrations rumbled through the earth, an event not unlike a moderately severe earthquake.

But the flame quickly withdrew as quickly as it had expanded, leaving only a column of smoke and curtains of dust to obscure the Parisian air.

As sirens in the city began to wail in response to the attack and as the fire hissed, crackled, and snapped within the obliterated remains of the building, the Legionnaire slunk into the alley, the glow from his optics the final light the frigid morning would have to witness.

---

Omega

Shepard spent the whole trek back to his ship in stoic silence, unnerved from the events of what had occurred over the past few minutes. He could not get the images of that trussed up man, drenched in his own blood, out of his head. Just thinking of that device peeling the skin away from that prisoner's body was making him queasy all over again.

He had seen people in pain before. It was all part of his profession, being a soldier. But never had he ever resorted to such brutality in his life. Hurting people for pleasure. It was a foreign source of enjoyment, one that he would never understand. Shepard could shoot a person from a mile away with a sniper rifle, but he knew that he would not have the heart to willingly dispense gradual pain just to get his rocks off. That required a completely different mindset.

Thankfully, once he was clear of this wretched place, perhaps his bleak thoughts would also beat a similar retreat. What he did know was that there was still someone in this galaxy that he could look upon and realize some semblance of hope. He knew he could still find optimism, even after all these years.

That was whom he was headed to right now.

Darkly, Shepard shouldered his way past the patrons of Afterlife once he had exited from the maze of Aria's hideout, shuffled through the fire-branded hallway, and out into the stuffy, silty air of Omega proper. The docks were only a short walk away, which was good for Shepard as he particularly wanted to get out of here now that he had gotten what he had come here in the first place for.

Fortunately, Shepard managed to traverse his way through Omega without getting accosted anymore. The sack with the medicine he needed jostled against his back, the strap tugging at his shoulder. Shepard inhaled through his nostrils, almost coughing as a fair amount of dust tickled his sinuses. He cursed as he rubbed at his nose—he really should have brought a rebreather mask with him.

The ship was mere meters away, ready for him to hit the engines and get the hell out of here. Not a moment too soon, in Shepard's opinion. The airlock door slid open once his omni-tool got within proximity to the sensor, allowing him to enter unimpeded.

"I'm back," he said aloud, his voice raspy and congested. Warily, he perked his ears, trying to discern any noise from inside the ship. "Roahn?"

Silence greeted him. Shepard frowned. Was Roahn still disappointed in him? He fought to contain his sigh. How was he ever going to live up to that girl's expectations? There was still so much that he had to learn. He just wished she could see that he was trying so very hard.

Because he was. Damn it, he was.

"Roahn?" he asked again as he slowly made his way over to his daughter's room, his breath bated.

But when he turned the corner, there was no one inside. No one else was in the ship.

"Roahn?!"

---

A/N: If the length of this chapter is rather staggering to you, you're not crazy. I thought I'd be churning out a 15k word chapter, taking into account previous postings, but it turns out that none of the stuff in this chapter could be cut out and placed elsewhere, so it all just happened to funnel here. Fun fact: this is now the longest chapter, at 20k+ words, that I've ever written. But hey, you guys get more content out of chapters like this, and isn't that just better than receiving a paltry 5k word update?

I really do feel that I have to keep showing my appreciation for the level of support you guys have been giving this story. Believe me, I couldn't be happier at the reception that Cenotaph has been receiving thus far, and I'm simply chuffed that you're enjoying it so much. To that point, I'd really like to know what exactly about Cenotaph is compelling for you, be it the overall plot, characters, or what not. And in the spirit of constructive criticism, if there's anything you think that needs to be worked on in this story, let me know! If you point something out to me that makes a lot of sense, I'm only too happy to oblige.

But now for some bad news, and don't worry, it's not what you might think. In a week and half, I will be going on vacation for a week, and that means that I won't be able to write for that span of time. Before you ask, no, I do not have the mental capacity to write while I'm on vacation (I get too distracted), so no progress on this story will be made at all during that time. I might or might not have another chapter posted before I leave, but in the event that I don't, I just want to let you guys know that I haven't been killed or kidnapped.

Yay for happy thoughts.

Playlist:

Arrival on Omega: "Disc Wars" by Daft Punk from the film Tron: Legacy

Roahn's Awe/Horror: "Grace Omega" by Hajime Mizoguchi from the film Jin-Roh: The Wolf Brigade

Afterlife (Source Music): "PETROL" by Orbital as featured in the film Pi

Torture Chamber: "Anvil (Remix)" by Sean Murray from the game Call of Duty: Black Ops

Destruction of Pax Informatio: "Distance" by Lorn from the video game Killzone: Shadowfall