Flecks of gold light lashed at Jack's ankles. All around him he could feel a crinkling, burning sensation, like sunburnt skin folded in on itself. Closing his eyes did little. Everywhere he turned, an accursed sun blasted heat into him, into his mind.

A cruel wind blew through it all, dry and whistling. Jack's clothes billowed as he took every hesitant step forward, feet planted firmly in the hard ground beneath him. Behind it all, distant yet ominous like bellowing thunder, Jack could hear the muttering of words, interrupted by harsh barks of laughter. One voice he remembered all too well. The one who marked him. The other…

"You would be the first in so long … but think of what is to be gained."

The golden light pulsed crimson. Jack took a long and shuddering breath. The world waited for an answer.


Soft light beamed in from the lofty window. It took a moment for Jack to realize where he was, and why he should not be afraid. He lifted himself up above his pillow, smelling the familiar sterility of the apartment, so forcibly detached from the detritus outside. Gradually, beat by beat, his heart slowed back to how it should be.

Three weeks. He had counted the days. Three weeks of nights filled with gold. Three weeks of uneasy sleep and the muttering, sometimes pleading voice of the Outsider. The creature never had words for him. Just howling wind and an uncaged sun.

Three weeks since the general died. The galaxy did not look the same as it did.

Jack's thoughts slid around for a while, unfixed on any particular point. A clock chiming twelve. A turian plummeting into the sea. His hand, outstretched, burning with the accursed markings. He shut his eyes, but they still skidded around under the lids. His head pounded. He needed water.

"Outie – update on the situation." Jack rose from the bed, sheets scattering in his wake. The clockwork automaton whirred as it followed his motions with its oculus, clicking as Jack departed his bed for the sink.

"Curfew has been declared for all humans on the Citadel. Human and turian businesses throughout Citadel space are being targeted for both peaceful and non-peaceful demonstrations."

Curfew? Jack cupped his hands and ran the tap. The water felt lukewarm in his palms and left an unpleasantly chalky aftertaste in his mouth.

"The Ecclesiarch has again stated his intention to avenge the great turian general, Desolas, regardless of whether Saren Arterius is released for baring steel on David Anderson. High Overseer Boyle has again called for peace between the Ecclesiarchy and the Abbey. He appears to have gone ignored."

"I'm not sure who I hate more, Outie," said Jack, staring out the window and into the smog-strewn horizon. "The turians hell-bent on exterminating us, or the "brothers" determined to apologize for them."

Outie had no response. Jack's words fell well outside any preprogrammed parameters.

"Well." Jack drew more water, rubbed it over his face, feeling his thoughts solidify into something almost coherent. "At least it's one less turian, now."


Standing inside the Hound's headquarters, it was hard to see what had changed. People still milled about in the dusty proving grounds, testing their steel against one another. People faded and reappeared at loftier vantage points, watching for movements in the radioactive wastes. Hounds barked laughter behind thick masks. They saluted at Jack's approach. The rabble remained content in their mission and purpose.

Those adorned in crimson were another affair, once the curtains were drawn and the table was set. The Citadel hung in gleaming turquoise above the table, each ward's name listed above the hologram's arm. As Jack closed the curtain, he stared at his three companions, the first. Well, sans Banes. But Banes was yet to return.

"Your wounds?" Kai Leng and Miranda looked up at Jack, their expressions almost sullen. Miranda still looked paler than Jack was used to, and Kai Leng walked with a limp when he thought no one was looking.

"Never thought I would taste an Inquisitor's blade." Miranda shrugged carelessly, but Jack noted the slight wince. "Didn't hurt as much I thought it would. It just aches. I'm … fine."

"Bring me another Inquisitor, this one was lacking." Leng grinned like an Overseer's hound, but his eyes remained drawn. His careless wave looked stiff and unconvincing. Jack glanced to Oleg. Despite remaining untouched, his hair and skin never looked grayer.

"This is bad, Jack." Oleg cut to the quick. Jack glanced at the other two, who averted their eyes.

"The money came through," said Jack staring Oleg down. "Shanxi was avenged."

"We killed a general," said Oleg simply. "That seems a small victory in the face of all this … let's see." Oleg clenched his fist, and began raising fingers as he made his list."

"The general's brother – his Inquisitor brother – has been imprisoned by the Empress's order." One. "We've got batarians on one side, urging the Empire to secede, and turians on the other, arming themselves and preparing to raze Dunwall itself." Two, three. "The Empire is split down the middle between Citadel loyalists and nationalists who would tie themselves to the batarians, and the regiments have been dispatched to seven colonies." Four. "And now there's a curfew for all humans dwelling in citizen space. Just the cherry on top." Five.

"They won't attack the Empire," said Miranda, but she didn't quite meet Oleg's gaze. "They can't."

"They want to," replied Oleg. "And who is to say what the birds are capable of? Regardless of the outcome, can you imagine the number of the dead?" Oleg spat on the ground. "They will be measuring the slaughter in Shanxis by the end of it."

"You lost your nerve, old man?" Oleg rounded on Leng just in time to see him smirk. "We've killed one general already. If it comes to that, we can just get our hands dirty."

"So you think we can just assassinate our way to victory?" Oleg snorted. "Yes, we happy thirty-odd, against the might of the Turian Ecclesiarchy who train their people, from birth, to recognize the Outsider, to hate him, and how best to fight him. I see the way you walk, Leng." Oleg took a step towards Leng, jabbing a finger at him like a lance. "The sloped shoulders. The labored breathing. Are you so keen to fight against more people like Saren, whose blades are etched with ancient mathematics?"

"Oleg's right." Miranda and Leng's heads snapped to Jack, startled. He took a deep breath, his chest shuddering slightly. "If there's a war, it's not one we can fight. And … things are getting worse. I've had only silence from Azerah. If we fought for the Empire, I imagine they'll thank us for it by siccing the Abbey on us." We … I can still fix this. And it was worth it. Had to be worth it. He remembered how the Shanxi abbey shook as the cannons struck home…

Oleg pressed his palms against the table, staring at the blue outline of the Citadel that hovered above it. He stared at Jack through the hologram, heavy eyebrows furrowed.

"Well. At least you admit to that wrong." Jack's fists balled.

"Desolas deserved it," he snapped. "It was just the time and place that was wrong. We … really didn't need an Inquisitor there." Especially not that one.

"Deserved it," repeated Oleg dully. "Certainly. Shanxi was a disgrace. But who gave the order?"

"To launch the shuttles and drop pods?" Jack scowled. "Desolas. The order to march? The Ecclesiarch. But we can't touch him."

"Ah. So degrees of guilt are determined by expedience. By whom we can punish." Oleg pushed away from the table. "Jack … we've made the galaxy a dangerous place for humanity. And for us in particular. Do you intend to do anything about it?"

Jack stared at the Citadel. Curfew … I can't believe that. There's not even a proper day and night cycle. His fingers twitched. His last words. An apology. Why?

"This is my mess to fix." Oleg nodded at this. "Oleg – have you made any headway into where the batarians got that intel?"

"No." Oleg shut his eyes briefly. "But … a certain C-Sec officer made contact with me when he heard I was asking about Ecclesiarchy security leaks."

"Which one?"

"The one who keeps asking for your mark, Jack." Oleg rolled his eyes. "The one who fancies himself as "Fade.""

Jack nodded to himself. Old Harkin. Self-interested as they come. But smart enough not to get my attention unless he knows he has something worthwhile. Jack's mark itched. He stared at Miranda and Leng, at their slightly hunched postures.

"I will be handling this one myself." He pointed to Leng. "Bed rest. Drink your tonic. I'll need you fighting fit soon enough." He pointed to Miranda. "Same. Drink plenty of water." He glanced to Oleg, raised a finger.

"I … need to visit the Citadel, actually." Oleg did not meet Jack's gaze, instead fixing his sights on the Presidium. "Personal matter."

Personal matter? Jack wracked his brains for what, if anything, Oleg could possibly consider personal. His life was the Hounds, and before that, the Abbey. No family, aside from them. No friends. There was only strategy and the very occasional blade work.

"You finally found someone who likes that little brand of yours, old man?" asked Leng. "Or do you just wear a bag on your head during?" Oleg did not even blink. He just waited for Jack, who made a swift cutting gesture at Leng, palm flat.

"Fine," said Jack. "I hope you resolve this matter in a satisfactory fashion."

By which of course, I mean that I will tail you until I find out what you're hiding from me, choffer.


Jack could not recall the last time he had brought Oleg along anywhere. The man almost seemed like a fixture of the headquarters instead of an inhabitant. He arranged the purchase of supplies, the procurement of maps and building schematics, and kept up with their contact for other jobs. Oleg lived and breathed strategy, the life Jack had fought hard to provide for him. Seeing him sit beside him on a crowded shuttle, dressed in a thick coat, makeup applied thickly to his face, felt surreal.

Oleg seemed to feel it too. He spoke little, to Jack or anyone. He pulled his coat to himself over and over again, as if fighting off a chill. And his eyes wandered, mostly to other humans, occasionally to turians. Yet his face gave barely a flicker.

Something's wrong. But it was so hard to say what. Jack could spot the telltale signs of Miranda or Leng experiencing distress from a mile off; their strops were both frequent and apparent. But Oleg … Oleg was the one who would calm them down if Jack was not there.

Well. It's not as if he does not have good reason. He warned me against this. All of it. Jack yawned and stretched. The afterimage of brilliant gold light rebounded into his skull as he blinked. Oleg watched him, but said nothing. The shuttle began its descent.


Jack adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose. The two of them stood on Zakera Ward, all gaudy neon and grinding clockwork. Turian C-Sec officers watched them with barely concealed contempt from the security checkpoint behind them. Oleg stood side by side with Jack, a small suitcase in his left hand. He heaved a heavy sigh.

"Don't get caught past the curfew, all right?" Oleg hesitated and then extended a gloved hand to Jack, which Jack shook. "And thank you, for letting me do this."

"I wish you luck with … whatever this is." Jack gave Oleg a small smile. Oleg looked deep into his eyes and through the glass, into the bright blue. His lips did not so much as twitch.

"Thank you. For everything." How oddly … final? With a squeak of his boot, he turned on his heel and marched off, back burning with a rune only Jack could see. One more thing to keep track of.

If it were any other Hound, even Jacob Taylor, Jack would have no difficulty knowing where they were on the Citadel. But Oleg, unmarked and unbound, required a different approach, one that could be considered outright invasive. I'd feel bad if you weren't blatantly up to something.

But Jack had his own suitcase, and a shuttle to catch. He dusted off the sleeves of his suit and set off, watching the Citadel move around him.

Keepers turned ancient cranks in silence, sending the gears spinning. Always, the cranes and pulleys of the Citadel remained in motion, hauling a turian warship here, a dripping whale carcass there, the occasional bound and glowing shipment of eezo. Between the cracks, the place glowed with the deep purple of the nebula beyond the great walls, glimpsed only occasional through the odd tourist-riddled viewport.

Once in a very long while, a massive grinding sound would tear through the air, like clockwork trying to grind through thick wire caught in its gears. He would shudder and look for the disturbance, but could not find the origin. No one else seemed to notice. There's a reason I hate visiting this place.

The structure remained the same, but the people had changed. C-Sec officers moved in patrols of five rather than two, their hands always near their scabbards. Ecclesiarchy marines now supplemented existing security forces at key checkpoints. They spoke little, but the repeaters held close to their chest said much.

Last time Jack had visited, aliens mixed freely with each other. Now they moved in clumps, sullen salarians here, gabby asari there, a lone elcor striding through the crowd. Humans were not much in evidence, something Jack did not notice until he stepped on the tram. A sea of alien faces stared back. One of them, an asari, tapped a watch, looking apologetic. Jack nodded back. Don't forget. As the tram ride went on, his face began to redden. None of the turians would look away.

Flux lay like a beating heart at the center of the Zakera Ward markets, the pulse of its music felt through Jack's feet long before the club came into view. He didn't need to follow the purple neon arrows. Just the rhythm and the faint distortions in the air.

Deep in the distance, some impossibly huge machine came to a grinding halt. This time, Jack just clenched his teeth and moved onward, not wanting to draw attention to himself so close to his informant. As he stepped up the ramp, a krogan bodyguard clad in brilliant pink armor nodded at him. Jack nodded back.

"The clock will strike twelve," rumbled the krogan confidently. The hair stood up on Jack's neck.

"Sorry, what was that?" Jack leaned around the corner of the doorway. The krogan leered at him through bright red eyes.

"I said it's almost twelve, humie. Don't think C-Sec won't find you in there. Move your ass."

"Right. Sorry." Jack turned to face the teeming masses of people. The air practically distorted with the bass of the music, some incomprehensible salarian piece. Most of the dancers were asari, naturally, showing off the dance of their people, which was to say, all dances. A handful of humans stepped nimbly with them, their own undershirts and trousers looking distinctly dull next to the asari's.

And there, amongst the rabble, a lone volus danced inexplicably, waving his stubby arms in the air. A small crowd of asari gathered around him in a circle and clapped.

"A rare day! You came while the owner is in!"

Jack almost didn't realize someone had yelled at him at first. He turned, only to have a shoulder unexpectedly clap him on the back. A tall balding man wearing a C-Sec cap grinned at him, showing yellowing teeth. Jack stared at him pointedly, and slowly slid his hand from his shoulder. The grin did not fade.

"I got us a table!" Harkin gestured to a … well, anywhere else it would have been a quiet corner. Here it was merely a booth positioned somewhere slightly less deafening. "It was pricy! I expect to be reimbursed!" His watery eyes glanced at the suitcase. Jack resisted the urge to snigger. The two of them stepped through the crowds to their … quiet corner.

"This loud enough?" Harkin no longer had to bellow, but Jack was still getting more out of reading his lips than anything. Jack nodded.

"Good." Harkin glanced at Jack's suitcase again, his wormlike lips twitching as he contained his grin. "Didn't think I would get the man himself. You hear about the curfew?"

"Yes." Jack made sure to nod to make sure Harkin understood him.

"Right." Harkin leaned in, eyebrows wiggling in a pathetic farce of a conspiratorial manner. "I've got my badge to make them look the other way. And you've got … yours. You just don't wear it on your chest."

Jack stared at him for a long time. Moments like this made him want to take off the glasses and give people a good idea of just who he was. Harkin seemed to understand, though. He coughed awkwardly and looked away.

"To business, then." Harkin spent a few seconds looking away from Jack, brow furrowed. The grin came back as his eyes met Jack's. "Your boy Oleg told me to keep an eye on things … and I have. What's your standing policy on, uh, wire charms?"

The clock … Jack gritted his teeth. The screams of the creatures back at Dunwall rang through his ears. The fruit of wire charms.

"The trade of them is unwise. Their use, unthinkable." Jack kept his face still as he said this. "I don't kill many people for free. Wire charm smugglers are sometimes worthy of an exception."

"Only sometimes?" Jack nodded. Harkin's fingers drummed on the table to the beat of the music. After a moment, he leaned in. "Well, there's been a massive intake on, uh, wire charm imports here. C-Sec has been busting people left and right." Jack's heart beat a little faster.

"And no outbreaks?"

"None. And it's got the Executor worried." Harkin grinned again, but this time no mirth reached his eyes. "Y'see, it's organized and widespread. People who are caught don't grab the charm and go for a last stand like they normally do. They just fight the regular way or run. Nor are people sneaking them in to populated areas and planting 'em. We've been catching them hidden in hotel rooms, in the service tunnels, aboard Defense Fleet ships…"

Jack tilted his head. The Defense Fleet is compromised?

"Yeah," said Harkin, as if he heard Jack's silent question. "It's systematic. Someone's planning something. And worse, the uptick started about three weeks ago." Harkin leaned in. Jack could smell garlic on his breath.

"Do you believe in coincidences, Jack?"

"Batarians could never smuggle wire charms here. And humans would lack the network."

"Most humans, yes. But with a little outside help, anything's possible." Harkin shrugged and glanced at the suitcase again. "Ah – I can give you a name. He's an intermediary at best, but we all have to start small, don't we?" He glanced at the suitcase again.

"It'll be sent electronically, Harkin." Jack smirked at Harkin's reaction. "The suitcase only has … tools. Trying to take several thousand credits through customs leads to awkward questions." As a C-Sec officer you think he would know that. But then, no one ever said Harkin was a particularly good cop.

"Right." Harkin licked his lips. The stench of garlic grew a little stronger. "They call him Fist. Runs Chora's Den, if you've ever been. He's running wire charms out of that establishment, not sure how. Or why. But he's just a middleman, like I said. I uh, I don't actually think he's thrilled about what he's doing."

"But he does it anyway." Jack rolled his eyes and stood. "Why haven't you gone to your superiors, if you knew this?"

"Because they would ask me just who my sources were, and those bastards would murder me in prison." Harkin shifted in place, his guard uniform suddenly looking too big for him. "And they'd chop off the head of the flower, but fail to dig up the roots, if you know what I mean."

Harkin stood, looking pleased at the metaphor, extendeding a bare and sweaty hand. Jack shook it firmly, happy to be wearing gloves.

"If you do want C-Sec in on this … hang on." Harkin released his grip and tapped his omnitool. Jack waited patiently.

"Here." Jack's tool pinged. A number and a picture of a turian came up. "Officer Garrus Vakarian. Trying to bludgeon through red tape to nail Fist on separate charges. If you want this done properly, he would be a good choice." Harkin glanced at the suitcase one last time. "Of course, you do got your … tools."

Jack glanced at the suitcase, then back at the number. He shrugged.

"You'll get your payment," repeated Jack, and left Harkin where he stood. The krogan bouncer grunted as Jack passed him.

"Twelve," he reminded Jack. He knew better than to ask what he meant.


Almost twelve. Jack looked away from his watch and back to the task at hand. Were it not for the wretched curfew, he would just nonchalantly walk into Chora's Den and start probing the place for weaknesses. Instead, he would have to take an alternate route, which required a good deal more effort.

Jack could feel Oleg meandering about the hotel room in the back of his mind. He'd checked on him twice in the last hour, focusing himself and looking through his old friend's eyes. Petrovsky spent a lot of time looking at the mirror, tracing the faded brand across his face with a trembling fingertip. Watching it made Jack feel unclean – but at least he knew he had time to finish the task at hand before Oleg made his move. Whatever it was. He looked down at the target location from his vantage point, a keeper tunnel thirty feet above.

Chora's Den pulsed with a lower beat than Flux, and the people who walked in and out invariably wore thick coats and anxious expressions. I suspect idiots go in there to make deals. Common knowledge would say such places were rife with criminal dealings, clandestine agreements made at smoky tables. All Jack could wonder, looking at the establishment, was how many of the people stumbling in and out of the place were undercover C-Sec. Flux, out in the open and loud, loud, loud, was a far better choice for making deals.

Jack could see only one entrance to the Den, which flashed continually with reds, blues, and purples from inside the club. A salarian and a turian flanked either side of the establishment, hands on their sword-hilts. The salarian hissed a hurried warning to a human who staggered out. Yeah. You're almost out of time, friend.

Jack passed his left hand over his eyes and felt them spasm in pain. Chora's Den writhed in electric activity, thick crowds of aliens pressed together and moving quickly. Wires crisscrossed through the walls and ceiling, leading to cameras and sound systems. In the back, away from the motion, pairs of armed guards stood beside the back doors. The wires ran all the way back and into the office. And it looks like the manager is in. That could be exciting.

Jack bit his lip and stared across the void between himself and the keeper tunnel he would need to access. Nothing stood between it and the floor below. It was either take a flying leap or pray that the guards would not take offense to a strange armed man appearing and disappearing in what was clearly Outsider magic. Theoretically he could stop time and the guards would not see him … but things tended to happen when he stopped time on the Citadel. And there were good odds on an Inquisitor noticing. More reasons I hate visiting this place. The sound of distant grinding gears arrived as if on cue. Jack sucked in a deep breath. His knees bent. He sprang.

The Void whispered in Jack's ears as it propelled him up, far beyond what any unaugmented human would be capable of. The ground shrunk beneath him and he chuckled at the weightlessness he felt as the leap met its apex. Then came the tug of gravity. Jack clenched his left fist.

Time halted. Almost immediately the air became thick with orange residue, as if the Citadel were some Pandyssian Flyrap, and Jack a hapless insect about to be snared. The sound of ringing bells filled Jack's ears, and the sensation of being watched by a vast crowd of incurious eyes came over him. Jack reached out for the lip of the keeper tunnel and released.

"Hngh." A flare of pain stabbed Jack's chest. He clutched it with a gloved hand, wincing all the while. For a moment, his heart beat out of control, but a few deep breaths calmed it down.

That's new. And unwelcome. Jack looked back at the patch of air from which he came. For some reason, it made him feel uncomfortable to look at, even though nothing remained of … whatever it was. He flexed his left hand, trying to remind himself of the scores of men he killed, of what that made him. And who knows. The list may grow before the night ends. The music pulsed beneath his feet. Jack heaved a sigh and turned on the vision once again, following the wires where they led.

The keeper tunnels ran all over the Citadel, and not in any way that made sense to Jack or anyone else who frequented them. They often came to inexplicable dead ends or sudden drops that inevitably seemed to lead into either open space or sizzling protein vats. Some of them just ran on and on, spiraling ever downwards without any apparent end. Jack had heard a salarian team had even sent crews into the guts of the station, centuries ago, and reported that, by their measurements, the tunnel had easily surpassed the supposed length of the entire Citadel and just kept going. Some iterations of the story claimed the team had reported being followed the whole way. Every version ended with the team ceasing contact, never to be seen again.

Jack hoped this was just a story. He preferred to use the tunnels sparingly, regardless. There were underground ruins on mainland Pandyssia better explored than some of the keeper tunnels. At least the ones close to inhabited areas had lights.

Chora's Den screamed and writhed beneath him. The cold wires led onwards, past the floods of people and into the back spaces where Fist did his paperwork. Here, Jack could see how crimes could be committed in secrecy. Still, anyone who walked back in here to chat with the boss would do so in full view of probably a dozen undercover guardsmen.

A small hole ran off from the tunnel Jack stood in, covered only by a small fan. Vent. Beneath him, a glowing figure sat at a culmination of wires and moved his fingers back and forth. Fist. At a computer. Jack grimaced, knowing what he had to do. Keep it quick. He reached with his left hand and pulled time to a halt.

His vision filled with a sickly orange. The fan blades stopped in place, letting Jack sneak his gloved fingers into the mesh beneath. He felt his mark flare as he tugged, letting the Void's strength surge through him. With a pop, grind, and snap, the mesh and fan came loose, disconnecting with a spark. Jack barely heard it over the sound of bells. He relinquished his grip of time with a gasp.

As time snapped back into place, Jack looked down. Fist glanced up at the ceiling, fingers stopped mid-dance. For a long moment, Jack held his breath.

Fist lifted his arms and yawned. Jack could even hear it from below, faintly. Jack ended the vision and crept forward through the fresh gap in the vent, trying to keep his shuffling as quiet as humanly possible.

The vent terminated quickly in a sudden drop, leaving Jack to go to his belly and peer faintly through the gaps. Fist sat at his chair, a blaring computer casting his features in blue. As Jack watched Fist, the man raised a gilded sleeve and wiped his brow. His eyes featured bags and his right leg juddered out an unsteady rhythm on the floor. Guilty conscience? Or worried about getting caught? It was always the middlemen with the nerves.

Jack activated his vision again. Fist's quarters lay beyond, to the right of where the man sat. Only a few wires ran in there, and none to what could be a computer. So I need that one. There were a few ways to go about this.

The first that came to mind was the Leng way. It involved a great deal of threatening, hitting, and a rather bloody finish. The Leng way had its uses. Middlemen rarely had much stomach for being threatened with disembowelment for their boss's crimes. It would be quick, certainly. But it would mean needing hasty escape from the Citadel.

There was also the Oleg way. That way was slower. It meant finding more people like Harkin, gradually building a fine snare of blackmail and thinly veiled threats of being violated by Void magics. The Oleg way was typically expensive, although thanks to the batarians, that was not much of a concern. But time … time they did not have much of, given that Jack was crouching in a vent trying to avoid a fucking human-only curfew, of all things.

Then there was the Jack way. It required a bit of thought and luck. And magic. Just a bit of magic.

Jack checked the wires again, hoping he could find the generator. Unsurprisingly, the thickest wire ran under the club portion of Chora's Den, which gave Jack a headache just to look at. It seemed they had stored it in part of a keeper tunnel. The whale oil glistened from within.

Jack sighed and left a burning rune on Fist's head, feeling the back of his mind pinch again, this time harder. Running two at once – especially over such a distance – tended to leave a migraine if left for too long. But the Jack way demanded no less. He shuffled backwards, as carefully as he could. Then he followed the tunnels down, hanging a right, then a left.

If walking above a large number of dancing aliens was loud, walking below their thundering footsteps was a maddening cacophony. Jack looked up once just to check they weren't all elcor and krogan. Nope. Mostly asari. It did not dull the throbbing in his head. The generator ran ceaselessly beneath them.

Jack opened the panel with a hiss, revealing a half-empty canister of glowing trans. With a final glance upwards, he pulled the tank from its receptacle.

Immediately he heard screams as the lights went out above, but at least the thundering ceased. Hoarse voices shouted out over the crowd as the krogan bouncers tried to restore calm. Jack waited for a handful of moments, feeling oddly pleased with himself. Then he shoved the canister back inside and closed it. It would need manual restarting of course, but he did not intend to do that himself. He strolled calmly away from the generator while the ruckus died down, and someone moved to the hatch that would take them down into the keeper tunnels.

Once he'd put a bit of distance between himself and his crime, Jack closed his eyes. Fist's tattooed arms waved in his vision as he screamed obscenities at a blank-faced turian cast in red emergency lighting, who only shook her head when he asked what was going on.

"Is it C-Sec? It's that fucking turian again, isn't it? The cheeky one with the visor. I swear to the Outsider I'll calibrate his-"

"This isn't C-Sec's style, sir." The turian maintained an impressive bearing, Jack had to admit. He thought he saw some of Fist's spittle land on her armor. "Dulg went down to check the generator. It should-"

With a clunk, the lights came back on. It felt oddly surreal to see the pulsing colors in action without anyone screaming or flailing their arms beneath them. From behind the turian, countless alien eyes gazed stonily at Fist.

"I want a report!" Fist shook his, well, fist in the turian's face. "This cannot happen again! Understand? It's bad for business, and it's bad for … well, business, do you get me?"

"I understand, sir." The turian turned on her heel and strode off. Fist stood in place for a few moments, wiping his brow. Jack could not feel it, but he could imagine the heat pouring off him.

"Void damn it all." Fist gave an angry wave of his arm at the salarians still staring at him from the club and stormed back into the comparative dark of his back areas. The krogan bouncers at either side of his door stiffened as he approached.

"No more interruptions. I intend to go to bed shortly." The krogans grunted. One scratched the glowing orange runes snaking up his muscled left arm. Jack had always wondered just how the Mark of the Eaten felt on them. Apparently, it itched just like his own mark did.

Fist pushed the door into his room with a weary sigh, slamming it behind him. As he sat down at his desk, he gave his computer a light kick before starting it, his fingers drumming impatiently against the wood of his deck.

"Work, damn it." The screen came alive. Jack sucked in a breath and narrowed his inner eyes. Moment of truth, here.

Fist paused as the screen demanded a password, the account name already filled in. His fingers moved quickly, but this was hardly the first time Jack had done this. And passwords are hardly the most arduous things to memorize. Memories of a cold cottage on Whitecliff flashed in his memory. No. Not who I am any longer. Who I ever was, really.

"UtterBedlamVoid97," muttered Jack, solidifying it in his memory. "UtterBedlamVoid97." He could not help but be slightly impressed. He was expecting "1234" or perhaps "Password" if Fist considered himself a wit. There was at least some variance in capitalization and the inclusion of some numerals.

Jack waited inside Fist's vision with a growing headache. Fist kicked his computer again as he waited for the desktop to load up. To Jack's growing gratification, he immediately moved to open his email. Jack readied himself for another password … but the fool had left the autofill options in. A sea of what Jack hoped was compromising information stared back at Jack, who released his grip on Fist's vision with a smile. He returned to his vantage point in the vent in no hurry at all.

Fist took longer to go to bed than Jack had expected. Jack occupied his vision a few more times before giving up. Whatever the man was up to, it seemed his primary concern at present was loss of overhead due to the human curfew. Then, just to top things off, he started looking up rather … lurid images on the extranet. That made Jack feel uncomfortable in too many ways to express. So he waited, patiently, letting the time tick on by.

Eventually, Fist stretched his legs out, this time kicking his computer on accident. He swore loudly, standing from his chair and powering off the computer by holding down the button. Jack's opinion of the man lowered accordingly. Then he shuffled into his quarters with a yawn, looking red-eyed and disheveled. The door closed behind him. Jack waited a little longer. For all he knew, the man had left something in his office to return for.

Nothing. Jack checked his vision and Fist was, well, in his bed at least. He'd have to get closer to check if he was sleeping. Jack reached for the vent cover and wrenched it free with a snap before dumping it behind him in the tunnel. He clenched his left fist and released it, finally standing before the computer.

Jack booted it up, switching his vision on and off to keep an eye on the guards outside. No movement.

"UtterBedlamVoid97," said Jack, typing it in neatly. The desktop booted up. He knew just where to go … but emails were not the first thing that appeared on the extranet browser. Jack's lip curled in disgust as he searched the history. The emails booted up without a problem.

"The Jack way," muttered Jack. Quite a few things could have not gone in his favor, there. No guarantee any of what he did would work. But the chance to get in and out without anyone being any the wiser … well, it was worth trying for, at the very least. And I was the right man for this. None of the Hounds could have done that. Not that some of them would want to, even if they were capable…

Most of the emails were mundane, if somewhat foul. Fist kept an unsavory relationship with some of his "dancers," and he appeared to be running a protection racket. Remembering a certain C-Sec officer, Jack kept track of those emails. But this one…

"Dantius." Jack knew that name. That was a name that got passed around in contracts a lot, usually with a steadily increasing bounty. Nassana Dantius was one paranoid bitch, which given her wealth, was understandable. Plenty of Illium CEOs employed massive security outfits. Using said outfits and the occasional mercenary group to bump off competition, the families of competition, or people who one day might be competition however…

"Warehouse B97, Kithoi Ward." Jack knew that location. He himself had once been smuggled through there, during a particularly, um, spirited bout of Inquisitor activity. It was the only time in recorded memory Justicars had been let on the Citadel, and Jack was having none of that. This would have been a good place to start looking. Jack wrinkled his brow. Well, "start." The place is massive. The email had lists of specific shipments. There was little else there, however. Not even a friendly hello. Or a massive tirade to keep his operation secret.

Jack checked for other emails from the asari. The first went several months back as the two apparently established a clandestine partnership. The first shipment however? Three weeks back, to a certain day of shame.

"Dantius." This made little sense. An asari was moving wire charms through a human contact in the Citadel, starting coincidentally on the same day Jack murdered a turian general. Of course, plenty of other things had happened that day in the galaxy. Or at least, Jack assumed that was the case. It wasn't like he had checked. But … one did not simply decide to ship crates full of wire charms into the most densely populated space station in the galaxy. Especially someone like Dantius, who stood to lose more than a great deal should she be discovered. And what to gain, exactly?

Jack's fingers tapped against the wood, only to stop when he realized his fingers rested against the same place Fist's had. It could all be a coincidence, certainly. It was at the very least, a stretch. But he had been meaning to pay the bitch a visit for a while now…

That just left Fist. And his operation.

Jack ticked the Dantius emails, then hesitated. The wire charm op needed to be busted, but Illium technically sat outside the Citadel and things would get … messy, there. Justicars would almost certainly get involved, and Dantius had answers he needed and a bounty he wanted. Jack unticked the emails and instead selected everything else that was incriminating instead. He pulled up Officer Vakarian's information. Then he typed in a quick message.

Wire charm leaks are in Warehouse B97, Kithoi Ward. Be careful. Don't rush in all at once.

Jack could not be sure how long it would be before the guards would bust in the doors and arrest Fist, nor how long it would take them to find the Dantius emails. He suspected he would have to take a direct flight to Illium and just ask his best Hounds to meet him there. Miranda, definitely. Banes, if he's back. Leng … perhaps.

He sent the messages, all of them. As he turned to close the page, he felt a sharp shock as Vakarian returned one.

"Rarely are criminals this considerate," read Jack under his breath. "Thank you! See you soon 3"

It was a mild case, but a turian with a sense of humor fell outside Jack's ken. He deleted the email and hoped the smartass would not send anything else. After shutting down the computer, Jack looked back to the vent. With a whisper, he found himself in the vent. He fixed the vent cover back in place as best he could. It at least held there, if slightly lopsided.

Well, another lead, and a criminal operation dismantled. Hopefully. Jack felt for the hilt of his blade. Not a drop of blood spilled. Hopefully. Truth be told, Jack normally preferred to handle things a bit more personally and thoroughly. But there isn't time, and wire charms should get C-Sec's blood up. He'd leave it to the law, this time. Dantius on the other hand…

Jack faded back into the shadows. Chora's Den droned on in blissful ignorance, its owner sleeping fitfully, completely unaware that his life had just ended.

Target Neutralized: Fist


The asari receptionist smiled in warm understanding as Jack staggered in to the hotel lobby, trying to look as drunk as possible.

"What room, sir?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"The one with Shamuel Petrovshky in it!" Jack replied with inappropriate loudness. "Y'know, it's … it's on the third?"

"Let me get that." The asari, face flushing slightly, turned to her computer. "You're Jake? Jake Carter?"

"Yeah!" Jack put a hand to his mouth. "Sorry. I know … I know. I have to shh. I got an ID!" Jack handed it over, making sure to shake his hand a little.

"You have to shh," agreed the asari, drawing a keycard from somewhere beneath the desk. "Take the elevator and … please don't vomit, okay? We'll just forget all of this. Third floor, like you said."

"Don't forget me!" said Jack indignantly, but offered a wide smile. The asari's returned smile did not look genuine. Jack shambled off, grumbling about overpriced hanar cuisine and stupid curfew laws. The last part was at least genuine.

The elevator ride did not last long. Jack stumbled to the door and unlocked it, knowing Oleg was both inside and awake. Does he know I know? Jack paused. Am … am I actually drunk? Jack opened the door.

"You're alive." Oleg did not sound surprised, but there was some genuine relief in there that made Jack stand up a little straighter and give a genuine smile. "I was wondering; it was getting late."

"Alive and victorious." Jack removed his glasses and flung them aside, wiping his eyes. He snapped the door shut behind him. "Wire charms are being snuck through the Citadel by a night club owner named Fist, soon to be arrested. Nassana Dantius was arranging it. We'll be paying her a visit next. C-Sec's been alerted."

"Dantius?" Oleg tilted his head. "But … why?"

"Choff if I know." Jack kicked his boots off and flung himself down on the bed. The white ceiling stared back at him. He unbuckled his belt and let it slide off the edge. "We need to get to her before C-Sec moves in and the Republics sic the justicars on her."

"You should clean your blade, Jack," said Oleg. "I know you're tired, but-"

"I didn't kill anyone." Jack shut his eyes. "The blade is clean."

Jack did not hear any response for a good while.

"Well … that's good. Fewer messes to clean up." Jack heard the shuffling of feet.

"You taken care of that thing yet?" Jack asked, eyes still shut.

"Tomorrow." Jack heard the flutter of garment, likely Oleg removing his shirt. "Again, thank you. What's your next move?"

"Get ahold of the Hounds. Meet a few of them at Illium." Jack rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "Collect on that bounty. I know we were considering it. If you've got any data on the towers…?"

"I'll dig up what I have." The blankets shifted. "And … thank you. Again. When do you plan on leaving."

"Tomorrow. Hounds always find their way home. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Oleg paused again. Jack thought he heard a sharp intake of breath, as if Oleg were about so say something, but instead the light from the other side of his eyelids abruptly disappeared.

"Good night, Jack."

Jack waited, but there was nothing else. In the distance, a massive gear ground to the halt with a rending scream, yet only Jack stirred at its passing.


"Tonight." The Void, howling with an eldritch wind, lamppost studded rocks hanging in an impossible chasm. "Now." Gold caught on the otherwise invisible breeze, leaving blazing afterimages on Jack's retinas. The Outsider stared at him from atop a ruined gazebo, his legs crossed and his eyes cold.

"It's been a long time," said Jack, stepping forward, but no sooner had his foot met the ground, it split with a thunderous crack. The Outsider drifted away on his own chunk of rock, stopping about ten feet away from Jack, whose toes hung under the edge. He met the Outsider's gaze dead on.

"Long for you, perhaps. To me, it was only moments ago when you were still … interesting. Fraught with possibility." The Outsider offered an annoyed shrug. "Now you have become a nuisance. You will never be able to understand the scale of your incompetence. Of how much you ruined."

"I told you that sooner or later I would kill someone important." Jack smirked. The air grew colder.

"Does that amuse you? To hack away someone's future and cast them screaming into the Void and feel righteous about it?" The Outsider cocked his head. "You are reveling in your own destruction. This will be the last time we speak. But first – gaze upon what you have wrought, and understand there is no undoing what has been done." The Outsider lowered his head, casting his black eyes into shadow.

"There is no stopping what is coming."

Jack opened his mouth to retort but instead began to scream as the gold closed in, running into his eyes, his mouth, down his throat-


"The Empress can't show weakness," said Bletchley, cards cupped firmly in his hands. "That choffer has to rot until she can release 'im and make it look like mercy, not cavin' into the Council."

Privately, Sam agreed, but it was more than her job's worth to speak up. Frankly, even Bletchley shouldn't be saying shit like that, but he'd had Coldridge management by the balls ever since the railing snapped and he'd tripped down the stairs. He still walked with a limp … when the captain was looking.

"It's still a fucking stupid idea," retorted Sergeant Ming, cigar held stiffly to the side of his mouth. "I mean, one, it looks like we just hate turians which, to be honest, I do, personally … but the Empire can't run on that, the Citadel would gut us! Two: He's a bleedin' Inquisitor? Have you seen his eyes? Any day now 'e'll break out of there and kill the lot of us one by one."

Privately, Sam disagreed, but she knew better than to argue with the sergeant. To her, it seemed like all the fight had been sucked out of the poor turian by the time they brought him in, like the death of his brother had broken him. He didn't speak to any of the guards. He barely ate. He spent most of his time sleeping … and talking in his sleep. Well. More like screaming. Praying. Occasionally begging. "Please, just bring my brother back…"

"Hackworth? Eh, Hackworth!" Sam shook herself from her thoughts, glancing to Bletchley. "Stay?"

"Nah." Sam flung her cards down. "Fold."

"Not your day, huh?" The sergeant chuckled. "Ah well. I'm sure even losing at this shit beats staring down that psycho."

"He's been very polite, actually," replied Sam, feeling an odd urge to defend him. "I uh, I sort of feel bad for him, really. He calls out for his brother in his sleep."

The two men glanced at each other. The sergeant shrugged.

"You don't bare steel on a servant of the Empress in her own bloody palace and get to walk free," said Bletchley with all of the certainty of a man content in not knowing anything more in life than he'd already learned. "Shoulda tried fighting off that heretic, eh? Instead of trying to set up a hostage scenario."

Sam shrugged. Perhaps it was foolish, but she'd actually tried talking to the turian on some of the midnight shifts when no one was around. Just questions about his wellbeing, whether the food was good, any requests, that sort of thing. The only time she'd got any kind of reaction was when she told him she hoped he didn't blame himself for his brother's death. His head had snapped to her, and he opened his mouth … but still he said nothing. At any rate, he was much easier to handle than basically every other male prisoner in Coldridge.

One thing did frighten her, though. Despite being an alien, she could recognize the hard flatness of a killer's eyes. She saw them everywhere she went, as part of her job. How many have the Council had him kill? It was one thing to hold unlucky members of the Bottle Street gang. It was another to catch the occasional hitman. It was something else entirely to hold a Council-licensed assassin and witch hunter.

"He'll rot until someone of importance says otherwise," said the sergeant, not sounding happy about it. "Or until someone sh-" He paused. Sam looked up, ears pricking. Something had banged open in the distance. Loudly. Then she heard a shout.

"Up! Up!" Alarms began to sound, filling the prison with an awful ringing. Prisoners in cell blocks shouted in fright or began to jeer from the upper levels. The three of them drew steel and waited for the intercom. If it was a prison break, surely someone would let them know.

"Prisoner 627 is loose," said a man's shaking voice over the intercom. Sam's heart froze. "Repeat: the turian is loose." The intercom shut off with a snap.

"Form up!" The two of them followed the sergeant, blades at the ready. He looked back as they reached the blast door where a horde of other guards gathered, an officer placing his cap firmly on his head while his omnitool fired up.

"Stay together; don't try to take him alone."

Sam nodded. Then she sniffed.

"Does anyone smell … smoke?"

The blast door banged, making them all jump. The officer looked up and frowned.

"He doesn't think he'll break through, does he?"

"Is that him already?" asked Bletchley, going white. He looked at Sam. "There were at least twenty people between him and that door!"

Sam grimaced and gripped her blade tightly. She wasn't imagining it. Smoke was billowing through the bottom of the door, a steady stream of black. A fire? How?

The door banged again, more lightly this time. The officer banged back, snarling.

"If he's trying to play silly buggers, I'll have him-"

With the sound of a kettle abruptly reaching a boil, the door exploded outwards in a shower of gold. Sam had just enough time to cover her face before being knocked backwards by a splinter of metal grazing her arm, leaving a searing mark. Guards shouted and screamed as they were blasted by the heat and debris. Sam's vision blurred as she sat up, sword flung uselessly from her grasp. Smoke poured through the open hole now, and the bisected officer grunted his last, his legs and lower torso caught under the door, exposed guts catching fire from the heat.

A figure strode through, left hand dripping with blue blood, a barbed turian blade clutched in his right. As Sam watched, the figure snarled and scratched his left hand viciously with his right, causing more blood to fall to the floor and sizzle.

An Outsider's mark blazed through the self-inflicted wound. His left hand glowed a brilliant gold. His eyes shone with it. Saren Arterius, servant of the Outsider, stepped forward with an expression of pure hate, for himself and everyone around him. The first guard he came across, still reeling, felt for his pistol.

"Stay back!"

Saren sliced once, his blade catching flame as it whipped out. The man screamed and fell to the floor, a smoking cleft in his torso, down through to his heart. Saren did not look back and did not slow.

"Volley! Give me a volley!" A line of guards, those who had stood farthest from the door, held the line between Sam and Saren, pistols already drawn. They aimed them square at Saren's chest. Saren lifted his left hand, the blue still dripping from it. The sun blazed from his open palm.

"Fire!" The guards shot in unison. The bullets, as if drawn by a magnet, flew into Saren's palm. He did not slow. For a moment the bullets hung there. Then Saren closed his palm, and they shotgunned out as if fired by a cannon.

Sam screamed as the guards fell backwards into moaning heaps, their shields triggering but the wind still utterly knocked out of them. Saren made a swiping motion with his hand. A wave of searing yellow swept over the prone bodies. The screaming became visceral, sickening to hear. The smell of cooked flesh and hair overcame the scent of heated metal. Sam coughed, a small surge of vomit clawing its way from her throat.

Thundering footsteps erupted from behind her, but Sam could not tear her eyes from the turian, could barely remember how to move. Shouts and screams followed the footsteps. More guards. Lambs to the slaughter.

Saren clenched his fist. Sam expected death to follow, but that was not what she got. Brilliant silhouetted wings sprouted from his back, both the same brilliant gold. Then Saren rushed forward, leaving only an afterimage.

Sam could not follow the carnage properly. She turned her head. The blazing blade struck here and there, cutting through shield, metal, and flesh with unnerving ease. Limbs, heads, and sparks flew as Saren flitted back and forth like some nightmare bird born of Pandyssia. Shots went wild and careened into other guardsmen. Swords fell on empty air. Officers bellowed orders only to be set aflame by the next blow. Blood flowed down the ramp to where Sam sat, dazed and afraid.

It took only a minute. Saren, drenched head to toe in red, stood alone in a pile of charred limbs and torsos. A guard gurgled and crawled away from him towards the remnant of her detached left leg, only for Saren to absentmindedly drive his blade into her back, pinning her to the floor. She let out a surprisingly quiet whimper, and then fell silent.

Saren swept his golden eyes over the ruin he had made. Sam kept perfectly still, some small remnant of her mind telling her it would be best to remain very, very still. Saren's eyes met hers. She began to shake.

The turian stepped forward, the wings folding back into his back. He stared down at her, the gold fading somewhat. His mandibles twitched. He scratched the back of his left hand, making the blue flow freely again. For a long moment, she held his gaze.

Then he turned away, saying not a thing. Sam watched him leave, leaving sticky red bootprints where he trod. He paused at the next security door before readying a fist. Sam, barely able to breathe and overcome by the stench of billowing smoke, naked sorcery, and burning steel, coughed once and let her vision go black. The last thing she could hear was an enormous boom. Then fading screams.


Jack awoke, the heat still on his face. Gold. Brilliant gold.

His mark burned fiercely, glowing even though he had called on no magic. He sat up from his bed, breathing heavily, facing the hotel mirror and staring at his own pale face. His heart did not slow. In the back of his mind he could feel Oleg, tossing and turning, still fast asleep.

But now, across the galaxy, he could sense something else. A livid hate. The first turian servant the Outsider had acquired in centuries.

Jack stared at the mirror and knew at long last what it meant to be marked for death.