If you have a story make sure it's a complete one, with details close. It's the difference between a successful lie and getting caught.

The Reclamation Effect

Chapter One

com·pe·tence (noun)

Having the necessary ability, knowledge, or skill to do something successfully.

"Omega. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy." I quote, distastefully flicking a mote of God-knows-what off my finger. "This is your lead."

Liara has the grace to look slightly embarrassed but she steels herself and nods.

I take a long look at the space around me, a place vastly different from anywhere I've ever had the displeasure to be. A dull red light permeates the massive city-asteroid, tinting everything the colour of dried blood. The ground is made of dull, dirty steel; originally grey now dyed a black-brown by uncountable layers of filth.

The two of us look identical to the other new arrivals, shabby clothes and shifty eyes. No, I take that back. Most of the people off our ship look tired and sick, but the two of us are at least hale. The humans have dark circles under their eyes; the Turians look thin and frail; Asari head crests droop; Salarians look slow and brittle. Most carry suitcases of some kind, we aren't any different in that respect. My bag is heavy, but Liara's nearly bends her over double. We look like refugees, just like the countless victims of Saren's attack on the Citadel.

Rubbish and debris sits in untidy piles in the corners and some of it looks years old. There's no sky, no view out to space, just more dirt and mess. Even the air seems tainted and I feel like I need a shower and an oxygen mask to avoid catching anything. Maybe it's because we're coming from the pristine Citadel, but everything of this place just makes me feel… unclean. Maybe I should have worn my armour instead of just carrying it around.

Sick or not, a lot of people are carrying some sort of weapon. Neither of us can use anything larger than a pistol competently, and there are so many people walking around armed we'd almost be in the minority if we weren't armed. Our guns look significantly better maintained most and I catch a few appraising glances being sent our way. I've never been in a place quite like this one. It has me on edge.

It's the sound, too. A constant wail of aircars and commerce and machinery and music and arguments and people. I consider myself a fairly simple person as far as my tastes go. I like peace and quiet, wide well-lit open spaces and only dealing with other people if I absolutely have to. I am an introvert's introvert and I enjoy it. The moment I set eyes on Omega I know it's full of everything that annoys me to no end. Now that I'm here I find myself proven unilaterally correct. Wonderful.

Humanity calls it Omega, 'the end of all things'. To the Asari, it is 'the heart of evil'. To the Turians, 'the land without law'. To the Salarians, 'the place of secrets'.

Oh, and the Krogan call it 'the land of opportunity'. Fantastic.

"And who is this mysterious contact of yours?" I ask semi-sarcastically, curious to see how she responds.

"My family has been one of the Thirty Families of Thessia for a long time," she explains. "Over the course of the years my mother gathered some less than reputable employees. The report came from one of them."

'Employees'. As if anyone who worked with information trafficking on Omega actually worked for just one person. Except for Aria's underlings, potentially. I can't help but grimace. I haven't had many dealings with independents, but the impression I've gathered is that many of them are shrewd, cunning and only loyal to themselves.

So caution will be the watchword of the week. Considering that Shepard's team isn't exactly flavour of the month with the Council, they might not mind if we wind up on the wrong end of a knife.

Which brings me to another thing about Omega, the people. Intellectually I know that the vast majority of the space station's inhabitants are impoverished civilians but most of the people in the dock look like they'd stab you for looking at them the wrong way and be happy about it. It's a different set of rules from what I'm used to, that's for sure. Now all I have to do is figure out what the rules are before I antagonise someone enough that they try to kill me.

"How well do you know this contact?" I ask guardedly. I would have asked on the shuttle but there were too many people for me to talk openly. I doubt anyone there was even trying to overhear, but still. Old habits. I cast another look around to see if anyone's acting suspiciously.

After a few seconds, I decide to just look for anyone screaming and charging at us with a knife.

Stupid Omega.

Wearing armour would have attracted too much attention. Most of the people I can see are in threadbare clothes, gaunt-faced and thin. Others wear mismatched light plating, a lot of it chipped and cracked, probably of minimal use. Very few people have complete, functional suits and those that do are mercenaries or exclusively accompanied by flunkies. Even the few mercs are left alone, carefully watched and feared by the regulars.

Sure, this isn't an undercover thing or anything, there's no definable reason why attracting attention is a bad thing. I just don't like people looking at me, thinking about me. I doubt many people here would care I was a part of Shepard's crew, even if they do recognize me. It's just that kind of place.

"Well then," I grimace. Might as well get this over with. I hate being dirty and as far as I'm concerned the less time we spend here the better. It wasn't that I wanted to go back and kill the Council, not at all. "Where are we going?"

Liara half-smiles hopefully. "I… am not sure?"

I really hate working with amateurs.

"Alright," I say, heaving the word out through a gargantuan sigh. "What's the guy's name?"

"Feron," Liara replies dutifully, by now suitably chastised. We've found a little hole-in-the-wall place to sit down, though I don't even bother looking at the menu. I have no desire to catch something.

"Species?" I ask. She flushes, looks at the ground. Wonderful. "And you don't know where to meet him because…?"

The archaeologist flinches a little in front of my gaze. "Well, the message I got from him said to meet in the usual place as per normal…" Standard procedure, you never mention the actual name of the meeting place over an unsecured line. "…But when I messaged back asking where to meet him he refused to name anywhere." Terrific. "So I tried to go through my mother's files to find where the usual place was, but many of the relevant directories were inaccessible."

"And you didn't tell me any of this?" I groan. Freaking amateurs. First Shepard and now Liara, can't I work with someone who doesn't need me to hold their hand?

The sheltered doctor blushes again. "I was confident I could break the encryption before we arrived. Don't you have people you could ask? I imagine an information trader would not make himself hard to find."

I give her a long look. "Of course I do." Not that I know any of them, but why do you need the touchy-feely emotional stuff when you can just pay them? "But everyone I might know to talk to would sell us out to the Shadow Broker and then it would be open season. Omega, remember? There's got to be fifty thousand assassins on this rock."

Maybe if I had some reputation of my own or friends who would avenge me, but with Shepard dead I'm a loose end swinging in the breeze. A loose end with a nice juicy bullseye on my back, to be precise.

"Oh." Liara responds. She obviously didn't consider that the Yahg and I are at odds. "Then what do we do?"

And now it's my problem. Of course it is. I'm amazed I still have hair. "Omega doesn't really have any laws, but it does have leadership, kind of. Aria would know every person of note on the station. Not that that's an option, because she runs her HQ out of a massive club called Afterlife."

My Asari companion tilts her head in confusion. "Why is it not an option?"

I grit my teeth and try to form the expression into a smile. I don't think it works. "Because it's a club. A big, noisy, busy club with hundreds of people every night. There are so many people that go through those doors it's impossible the Broker doesn't have his hooks in it. Even if Aria could somehow stop moles in her staff, the patrons are going to be leaking information all over the galaxy. Nothing secret happens in Afterlife. From there, see previous problem. Plus we don't have anything to trade and I imagine Aria's fees are more than we can pay."

Liara frowns at my blunt description of Omega's biggest nightclub. "That sounds like a very inefficient and hazardous way of running a regime."

"It is," I agree. Personally, I have no idea how Aria's managed to stay on top for so long but props to her. That's one woman I do not want to cross. "I assume what Aria says to people isn't so public, but who she sees is. She's almost like espionage Switzerland."

My companion's brow furrows in confusion. "Country on Earth," I elaborate quickly. "Famous for not taking sides ever and as a result being too useful for anyone to attack it. Basically, Aria must be insane to get her kicks playing chicken with everyone in the galaxy at once. Yes?"

At least it looks like she gets it now. Then she pauses, tilts her head. "Wouldn't the Shadow Broker be Switzerland?"

I shake my head. "Too ambitious. The Broker meddles in everything, asked for or not. Aria just reacts, most of the time. That's the important part. She knows everything about Omega and she's got no reason to care for our health."

My companion offers a small shrug. "I do not see any other option available to us."

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? There really is only one way to find Feron from the position we're in now, and it's at Afterlife. The only other option is to call the whole thing off but we're here now. I am not going to Omega and finding out just how crap it is so I can turn around and leave.

I sigh in resignation. "Fine. Let's go."

Now all I have to do is hope I don't get drawn any deeper into this web.

What was I thinking?

The night before the funeral…

The call comes in a few hours after midnight, interrupting my tossing and turning. I blearily look over at the clock. Three ten in the morning, according to the Citadel's day/night cycle. David Anderson is on the other end of the line.

"Tobias Parker?" He asks. He sounds haggard, worn out. Still, I recognise the voice. It figures he'd still be awake.

"Councilor," I answer. It's the first I've said to anyone since talking to Liara, and even to my own ears my voice sounds dead. Flat, emotionless.

"I'd… like to talk. Do you have a moment?"

What the hell. I'm not sleeping anyway. "Yeah. I'm on my way."

I knock briefly on the door to the new politician's residence and he lets me in without a word, a bottle of scotch held in one hand. I feel flat and tired and worn down but Anderson just looks like he's given up. The bottle in his hand isn't small and it's more than half empty. His collar and top button are undone, shirt marked with spilled alcohol.

Anderson's new penthouse is spartan but I suppose just having a new apartment when the rest of the Presidium was in shambles was impressive. It's not with the other councillor's apartments either, so it's probably a temporary lodging more than anything else.

"You ok?" I ask, more out of habit than anything else. Of course he's not. None of us are.

He shakes his head heavily, collapses back onto a couch that looks like it was pulled out of a fire. "She was like a daughter to me, you know." A wave of anger and pain hits me; I close my eyes and push it down. Shepard. It's always about Shepard. Who she was, where she came from, what she did. What she needed to do and what she failed miserably at.

I don't want to hear it. There's nothing for me to gain. All it does is hurt.

Anderson breaks off his soliloquy, takes a look at my face, and pours me a glass. "You look like you need it," he says, raising the glass to his lips. I'm amazed he's not on the ground, but whatever. I leave it alone. I've never really been one for drinking, just never got into it.

"Why me?" I ask. "Why ask for me?" Why not someone else in the military? Hackett? An old war buddy. Anyone should have been preferable to me. Leave me alone!

"Annie told me you did some strange things when you were with her," he says, eyes suddenly crystal-clear. "Things like working for the Shadow Broker and killing POWs. I don't think you had anything to do with what happened to her, or you wouldn't be on the Citadel. But you will tell me everything you know. Immediately."

So much for fucking secrecy. She couldn't even keep my dealings to herself, fucking hell. "What do you want to know, huh? You want to know how I did everything I could to stop the Reapers from tearing Shepard a new one? Because she was going to do the nice thing and extend a hand of peace and let them hack it off. You want me to apologise for going to the Broker to stop Cerberus when the Alliance dropped the ball? I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, Councilor. I'm sorry for you, because if she was like a daughter to you then you should have raised her to know that a fucking queen doesn't trade herself for a single crippled pawn!"

Silence reigns for what seems like an eternity. I came to my feet sometime during my outburst, though I can't pinpoint when. I grab the drink from the table and down it in one go. It burns. What do I care?

"So that's why Hackett got the tip from the Shadow Broker," Anderson says. "That was payment for your services."

I nod, jaw still set. "Yeah, that was me. I clued the Broker in on Saren's moves and motives, information straight from the field, unedited. In return, the Broker went through his connections and found the spy Cerberus had planted on the crew. Nothing more, nothing less. He probably thought we'd fail and die, and then the Broker would square things."

The former admiral squints at me. "Why would the Broker want Saren dead?"

"Saren subverted Fist, remember?" I point out. "If it can happen to one, it could happen to others. I doubt the best information dealer in the galaxy would look kindly on Saren poaching his people. All I did was make everyone happy and suddenly I'm a lynch target."

Earth's councillor nods slowly in understanding. He collapses back into the cushions, resting a hand over his eyes. "You said the Alliance dropped the ball?" He asks slowly.

I raise an eyebrow in disbelief. Surely he knows just how much damage Cerberus did to AONI. "Seriously? Half the galaxy knew just how badly you were infiltrated."

Anderson refills his glass, downs it in one practiced motion. "The Alliance Office of Naval Intelligence no longer exists," he states quietly. "My clearance level has gone up recently. When I found out just what had happened… I was shocked."

"What was it?" Ha. Even now, I just want to know things. Guess my personality can't be completely squashed after all.

"We thought Cerberus had seeded a few agents of theirs amongst our own people," Anderson explains, slurring his words slightly. "It happens in information-gathering groups, or so I'm told. But when Cerberus broke its cover and recalled its agents, seventy percent of all AONI agents vanished without a trace. All of the executive board, the chief of service. Almost all of the most senior agents. Cerberus didn't just grow within AONI. They killed it and wore its skin as a disguise."

Bleeding hell. Talk about disasters. The revelation cuts through the growing anger and tension in my body, spilling over me like a waterfall. "Grow within? You think Cerberus was a splinter group of your intelligence agency?" Anderson nods. Dear lord. They got played so hard they don't even know what the rules are, even now.

The worst part is we need the Alliance. We need the whole galaxy. "Let me clear a few things up for you, ok? First, Cerberus is not and never was a splinter group of your intel division. Cerberus is and always has been a human-supremacist paramilitary organization that was founded immediately after the First Contact War. They didn't 'grow inside' AONI, they straight-up infiltrated it and turned most of your people. In fact, you should have been prepared after the SSV Geneva was targeted by thieves in 2165; they named their sponsor as 'Cerberus'. The fact that you still have no idea about them just means that they were pulling all the intelligence strings for at least that long. Yes?"

Anderson just stares at me. "But that… you... How do you know that?"

I stare back in disbelief. I thought the Illusive Man was giving the Alliance the runaround, but I never thought it was this bad. "The Alliance is the only one in denial about all this. I mean, they wrote a freaking manifesto. And published it. You can't get much more open than that. Cerberus' origins are almost public knowledge by now." I spread my hands, still amazed at Anderson's, and by extension the Alliance's, ignorance. "Unfortunately, after that lapse and since 2170 or so, Cerberus clamped down. Nobody knows who leads them, where he is, or what they're up to."

"I'll have to speak to the Council," Anderson starts. I have to fight down the urge to punch him.

I can feel the pure frustration in my voice. I feel like I'm beating my head against a freaking wall here. "Have you even been listening? They know already. They thought you knew!" Now I'm shouting, frustration and anger finally spilling over. "Everyone thinks you know because there's no way in hell you could have actually been that fucking dense!"

I'm pissed off. I'm royally pissed off. This shouldn't have happened! Nothing is going right!

I slam my fist onto the table, staring at the crack I just made. Anderson flinches in surprise. "Why is everything I try useless?! Shit! The Broker, Cerberus, the Reapers, and now Shepard's gone too! Everything's worse than ever!"

"What do you mean?" Anderson asks, leaning in slowly.

"Cerberus," I sigh, falling back into the chair. Suddenly it's hilarious. It's just too fucking funny. "Going to the Broker, fishing out the mole, all that risk I took, all the goodwill I squandered, you know what it was worth in the end?"

"What?" He asks. As if he doesn't know. Ha-de-fucking-ha.

"Nothing! Absolutely, completely nothing. I screwed up. I overestimated the threat. I paid at a premium to remove something that wasn't even that dangerous and now I'm paying for it. I could have avoided all of it."

Really, what would have happened if I'd let Pressley do his thing? He would have reported to the Illusive Man, whoop-de-fucking-do. Hell, he might have even had a change of heart and come to like nonhumans. All I did with my witch hunt was force him into a corner and make him even more bitter, more determined. It's just too funny. I know everyone thinks I'm some massive security threat, some big leak that needs to be plugged. I'm a screw-up. A failure. A reject so useless he can't even die properly.

Wave after wave of self-loathing washes over me, stronger than ever before. Reject. Idiot. Fool. Lazy, incompetent, useless. And I was trusted with something? Whoever brought me to this universe was mistaken.

Oh, I don't hate myself. Hate is too weak a term.

Unintentionally, I speak one of the thoughts ripping my head apart. "If I can't handle this, how am I supposed to handle the Reapers?"

"You mean that thing that worked with the Geth? The super-dreadnought?"

I look forlornly at him. "Yes. That. There will be more. A lot more, I think. Nazara's whole goal was to summon the rest of them back from dark space. Now they have to take the long way but they'll get here sooner or later."

I can see the military man trying to put that into a context he's more familiar with. If one Reaper could take on multiple fleets and make them work for a victory, what could a dozen of them do? Let alone a hundred.

Finally, he shakes his head. "If it were anyone else, I'd have called them deluded. But Shepard believed it, didn't she? We'll need to step up our production and research."

Again, a long silence reigns over the room, while I wonder if cutting my throat would kill me or just force me to be reborn.

The only thing stopping me from planning suicide is fear of living. Isn't that funny?

I'm not laughing.

"I'm going after her body after the funeral," Anderson says quietly.

"The fuck you are," I suddenly snarl at him. He blinks at my words, probably wondering how I can say that to the Councilor of Earth. "You're staying on that comfy-ass seat whether you like it or not, because if you quit then Udina takes over the job and if Shepard did one thing right it was put you in that chair. I'll go after her, and I promise you I will find those responsible and personally send them to the ninth circle of hell for all eternity."

His eyes blaze at that, and his face sets in a hard line. "I like the sound of that. But that's something I'll do with my own hands. Why should it be you?"

I wonder for a second how best to answer. "How much do you know about what happened on Noveria?"

"Nothing from the official report. But Shepard mentioned in a personal call that you had been grievously wounded and had made a miraculous recovery. Is that what you're referring to?"

So he knows at least part. That would do. "I was fatally wounded by Matriarch Benezia when we fought her and her bodyguard. The last Rachni Queen was witness to the fight. Rachni have incredible regenerative abilities, and the Queen offered to restore me if Shepard would free her. Thanks to that, I survived. The process had a few side-effects but in this case the most important one was psychological dependence on a Queen-figure. Shepard."

Talking that logically, that rationally was almost impossible. Divorcing myself from the situation, usually so simple for me, was an exercise in futility. My Queen was gone. Why should I not turn the galaxy to ash and die? What was left for me and my kind?

"You… depended on her?"

"Too weak a term. After that, she wasn't a commanding officer to half of me. She was royalty. Absolute majesty."

"And now?" he asks warily.

"I'm going to destroy something," I acknowledge, feeling that pent-up destruction ceaselessly building. Slowly, but never abating. It's just a matter of time. In the end, it will most likely be myself. "I'd rather it be the ones responsible for her death."

Anderson closes his eyes. Now he just looks tired. "Very well. You're right. I have things I need to do here," he says. "You go. On one condition: you report to me. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly," I agree. Whether or not I mean it, even I don't know.

Omega is a big place, but it's also small. It's big because there are a million and one uninhabited twisty little paths worn through the hollowed-out asteroid to get you lost until you starve to death, each older and stranger than the last. It's small because for all the people eking out existences in it, the entire station is less than fifty kilometres long. It would take you a week or so but you could conceivably walk from one end of Omega to the other.

Most of the spaceports are around the centre of the station, like the rest of the infrastructure. Afterlife follows the trend but unlike other districts in the station it also has no competition. There aren't any other clubs near Afterlife simply because Aria doesn't allow it, apparently.

Liara and I join the line of bored people from all races waiting to enter. An Elcor at the head of the queue looks to be the bouncer and a Krogan with a riot shotgun watches the crowd from the top of the stairs.

"How long will it take us to get in?" Liara asks quietly.

"How should I know?" I whisper back. "I've never been in a club before." Unless you counted the one time at Flux, but to be honest I didn't enjoy that at all. There was that time with Chora's Den back on the Citadel, too. I don't think that counted though because that was just a firefight.

One patron makes it clear of the line and the doors of the club open momentarily, just long enough for him to slip inside. It was only for a second, but the music of the club, which appears to be sex noises over a bass line, hits me in the face like a wet fish. I just know I'm going to have a headache by the time this is over. It's official. I hate clubs.

Despite all my griping, the line keeps moving forward until we reach the Elcor bouncer. For a long second I look at him and he looks at me. What am I supposed to do? Is there a door tax or something? I knew I should have figured out how the nightlife worked.

Well, I certainly have no idea what to do. And like hell I'm going to make an ass out of myself saying the wrong thing. So I'll wait for him to speak first.

For future reference, never get into a patience battle with an Elcor.

By now, the people in the line behind me were starting to get antsy. I hear Liara sigh behind me and lean heavily on my shoulder. She flips a credit chip at the Elcor, speaking in a breathy falsetto. "You'll have to excuse my associate; he's a mute you see. Now, can we please go inside?" She winks at him and the Elcor's eyes flick to the side to check the sum on the chip.

The big alien snorts and takes a half-step to the side, allowing us forward. The thumping of the music only gets more and more invasive the closer we get to the door and as the portal slides open a wave of smells hits me. Dried sweat, alcohol, vomit. The scents assault my nose; the heat is stifling. The sound is equally abrasive, a constant pounding so loud I can barely hear myself think and I certainly can't hear myself speak. The light flickers to the dance of holographic flames and a garish advertising tube displaying provocative Asari dancers is almost blinding to look at directly.

People do this for fun? Good grief. I thought I was the crazy one.

"Where's Aria?" Liara shouts over the roar of the club. I barely hear her. This place must be murder on eardrums. Don't people care they'll go deaf?

I point up through the haze of smoke and who knows what else. There's only one booth thing looking out onto the floor, and everything I've heard about Aria T'Loak suggests she's fond of drama and potentially megalomania. If anyone's going to have their own private area overlooking everyone else, it's her. "Probably up there," I shout back.

"Nobody just goes to see Aria," a dry, rasping voice comments. Not a loud voice, either. But it's distinctive enough to be heard despite the pounding music and I try to squint through the darkness to see the speaker. This place would seriously be the perfect place for an assassination. Sudden disorientation to the eyes, ears and nose, so many people that you could never keep track of all of them at once and Omega's gun control is nonexistent.

"Sit down." This time, I catch the speaker. A Drell, a rarity in Citadel space. I've only seen a few in my life, but this one isn't an exception to the picture I've formed. A touch shorter than the human average, tan scaly skin and large black eyes. Those eyes gaze intently at Liara and me, but not maliciously. Just genuine interest. "Have a drink."

I sit. There isn't really a reason to hurry, and besides, my ears are killing me. Liara catches on a second later and hesitantly stands behind me. "I'd prefer to start with names," I hedge, still watching the drink the Drell offers.

The Omegan smiles placidly. Or maybe it's just how Drell smile. I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, not knowing how to interpret their facial expressions. "As you wish. Feron, though you knew that already."

I didn't, though Liara should have. This is our informant, then, and apparently Afterlife was the assigned meeting place. Part of me thinks it's too convenient, but I can't really think of another place to meet without worrying about ambushes. Afterlife at least is policed by Aria, so it's effectively neutral. Unless you start something, I guess.

"Parker," I reply. Liara introduces herself as well.

The pounding of the club makes it impossible to overhear; the Drell continues with a small smile. "I suppose we should start proceedings, then. How can I be assured of payment?"

Liara starts to speak but I shoot her a glance and she subsides. There are a thousand reasons that I should handle this, especially if Liara's trying to play a stupidly rich Asari heiress.

"I'm sure you know of Matriarch Benezia's death, and that Liara is her sole heir to the entire T'Soni estate. You'll get your money." I'll leave it unsaid that the entire T'Soni estate is virtually nothing, thanks to Benezia squandering it all on Saren's biotic Geth project.

Feron smiles coldly.

"Perhaps. But if that were the case, surely you would have recognised me on sight… or at least known where to find me." Crap, he noticed. Well, we didn't handle it well at all. Stupid clubs. "If she can't access Benezia's files, what's to say she can access the money?"

Fair point, and unnervingly true. "You'll get paid," I assure him. Even if it's a lie, we need the information Feron has or this trip will be worthless.

"I should tell you before we start that if you don't pay me I'm required to make sure you die. Nothing personal but if I can't collect on my debts then I'm not very good at my job. But since I've worked with the T'Soni family for a while, I'll accept payment after the job's done. Those are the terms. Agreed?"

I glance at Liara, whose lips are pressed together in trepidation. But she nods and I turn back to the mercenary. "Done. What do you know about the body?"

The Drell's attitude changes, going from casual to professional in a heartbeat. "Not here. It's safe, but too many people could listen. You have your equipment?"

I heft the bag I've been carrying over my shoulder since we got off the shuttle. Liara has hers, though it's not as big as mine. "Everything we need."

"You may wish to get changed. I assure you, such attire will be unremarkable. Follow me."

Feron leads us to a smaller, enclosed space, not sectioned off but out of the way enough that it has a modicum of calm. The Drell shields us from the movements of the crowd while the two of us empty our packs.

On a normal trip you might pack something like changes of clothes, books, things to entertain yourself or pass the time. On this trip, the two of us packed something more practical. Silently the two of us take pieces of armour plating from our bags, fixing them securely to our bodies. I can't say for Liara, but after the Battle of the Citadel my armour was wrecked. The Geth's ambush in the Council Chambers literally crushed my armour, leaving the more important pieces of it warped and useless and the rest cracked and broken.

So when I was looking at getting a replacement suit I allowed myself to, just once, use my status as Shepard's crewmate to my advantage. Finding an armourer to supply me with new equipment for free was simple and getting it made to my specifications wasn't much harder. So long as I'm careful not to break the last thing in my bag, everything is perfect.

Unlike the armour I was using at the end of the battle against Saren my new hardsuit is lighter, sacrificing some protective power for greater flexibility and agility. It's also portable, which was the deciding factor behind my choice. Liara's armour is the same, lighter plating designed for skirmishing instead of heavy fighting.

As far as colour, Liara's armour is the same sky-blue but the material is finer, the workmanship obviously high quality. My own armour is similar, but coloured a navy blue so dark it's virtually black. Moving through the crowd is much easier with the added bulk of the armour, though the intimidation factor probably helps too. At least with a proper magnetic clip I don't need to worry about someone stealing my pistol as I walk past.

I hesitate a second, wondering if this whole thing is a trap. Maybe it's just Omega and maybe it's the oppressive feeling of Afterlife, but I'm even more paranoid than usual. Well, no risk no reward. I follow the Drell out of the club, happy to leave the booming music behind.

"We're being followed," Liara notes tensely after a few minutes walking, while a tight-lipped Feron just nods. Is he in on it?

"They must be locals," the Drell whispers. "Most would be lost in the maze of pathways," I can see what he means; without a guide there's no way I could make my way through the labyrinthine passages without stopping to check the map every five seconds. Plus sound gets bounced every which way, making it virtually impossible to use it to pursue a target.

A shadow falls over the dirty steel and we come to a stop. "More ahead," I grunt. Surrounded. Wonderful. A firefight in these narrow passageways with no cover and enemies both in front and behind is a recipe for disaster. I clench my teeth. Whoever set this trap up, they know their ambushes.

Our pursuers are all humans, three in front and three behind. All wear various styles of cast-off and second-hand clothing, mismatched in the style of long-term Omega survivors. All of them carry guns, rifles and pistols seemingly at random. Their weapons are battered and stained, haphazardly patched together, so dented that I wasn't even sure they'd fire. Even if they did manage it, I'd give equal odds of the gun going up in a ball of fire as the heat sink fails.

"That's some nice equipment," the leader says, one of the three that had been lying in wait. For now their guns are pointing to the sides, that could change in a heartbeat. Despite the quality of their weapons, I'm not too fond of our chances if the bullets begin to fly. The corridor is dark and barely lit; most of my body was in shadow. I begin to inch my hand toward my pistol; from this distance even I won't miss.

"Don't," Feron says softly. I shoot him a look, clenching my hand in anger. These vagrants are wasting our time. We should just kill them and move on…

I catch myself as my thoughts begin to run. Kill someone for the grievous wrong of holding us up for a few minutes? That's a Rachni impulse.

"I will handle this," our guide says in that quiet, firm tone. Liara steps up beside me, hand near her own weapon, trying to watch the front and rear at the same time. She looks as tense as I am and we quietly turn to face both groups of ambushers.

"You like our equipment?" Feron enquires calmly, this time loud enough to be heard.

"You should leave your guns and armour," the leader says tightly, motioning to the floor with the tip of his gun. "Continue on without them."

"You make no sense," Feron continues, still speaking politely. "If you desire our weapons and armour, you imply that our combat strength is greater than yours. If we were to fight, you would lose. You see?"

"There are more of us than you, Drell," the leader whispers, eyes wide. His knuckles whiten with the force of his grip, and suddenly I see what Feron is trying to do. These people aren't soldiers, aren't mercenaries. For once in my life, the person holding a gun on me hasn't trained how to use it, or how to deal with death. This is the vaunted terrifying occupants of Omega?

"There are more of us than you, and we're ready to die," the leader repeats, louder this time. "Are you?" Even with my Rachni-altered perception, a shiver runs down my body. I was wrong. I didn't understand. The scary thing about these people isn't their equipment or their training, it's their mindset. They move as one group, one organism. They must depend on each other and nothing else for everything in their life. Our equipment will increase the chances of survival for the whole group and none of them would hesitate to throw away their life if they could win.

It's almost Geth-like, in a way. In organics, it's just scary. People don't just throw away their lives like this.

No. I lie. I almost did the very same thing with Udina. Irony at its finest.

"You didn't attack us from ambush," Feron points out. "You hope to end this without bloodshed."

The leader of the thieves doesn't reply.

"It's most considerate of you to offer this chance," Feron says. To my astonishment he actually sounds genuine. Considerate? This group? The Drell must be a much more competent liar than I thought, or he's insane. "You have shown us honour by not attacking. I thank you."

"The guns," the thug says warily, thrown off by Feron's politeness.

"We cannot give them to you," the Drell responds. Good. For a second I thought he was going to capitulate. "We have need of them. Regardless, if we were to give them to you, it would go poorly for your people. Others would see them and desire to take them, much as you do now."

The leader takes an awkward half step, checking behind him. "That's not for you to decide. The guns. Now."

"Aria will be most displeased," Feron says and the leader stiffens immediately, sudden fear in his eyes. Even though we're no longer in Afterlife, we're still in Aria's district and thus under her aegis. Not that she would care about us personally, but they don't know that.

Even so, the human doesn't back down, just levels his aim as best he can at the Drell's chest. The effect is somewhat spoiled by his trembling and he licks his lips nervously. "You can't tell her if you're dead."

Shit. If Feron's bluff was designed to force them to back down, it's failing miserably.

"In recognition of the consideration you have shown us," Feron continues, only the barest hint of tension in his voice, "I propose a compromise." The Drell reaches into his coat and withdraws a pistol, identical to his holstered weapon. My eye twitches; that draw was so fast I couldn't follow it. "I shall leave you this weapon as a gift. In addition, I shall see you are rewarded with additional weapons at a later date."

The thug's eyes twitch to the side, flicking to his friends. On his decision they would live or fight and die and this isn't something that can be postponed. I was fairly certain what he would choose, though. Groups like this died when people like Aria became even slightly annoyed and there wasn't anybody to speak for them at that level.

"Your word?" the leader asks sharply. Feron bows his head in confirmation. The human swallows as if taking bitter medicine, a look of confusion on his face. "All right. Deal."

The human leader steps forward, hand out in the human symbol of a pact sealed. Feron clasps his hand with a smile, showing him his omnitool screen. The human's eyes go wide and I manage to snatch a glimpse of the screen. I don't even know if these people know how to use two dozen Mattocks.

The human looks up at Liara's contact with an expression akin to awe; Feron smiles politely. "My name is Feron. I trust you will be able to repay the debt in time?" The human nods nervously. "Excellent," the information broker finishes.

And with that, we just… leave. And nobody stops us.

"Are you insane?" Liara hisses. "You let them point a gun at your heart!"

"Bulletproof lining in the coat," I guess. "Probably only good for very small calibres though. Kinetic barrier too?"

"Parker is correct," Feron comments dryly. "There is a small kinetic shield generator sewn into the back of my coat. The rest of it is indeed lined with anti-ballistic fibres to stop any round that penetrates the shield. I have found it to be effective thus far."

"That's not a reason to let someone shoot you!" Liara exclaims, still visibly distressed.

"They had no intention of killing me, and my preparations prevented a luck-based killing," the Drell reasons. "This defused the situation without unnecessary death. Is it not the best solution?"

"And you have people who owe you a favour, people who can move quietly and see a lot more than they say, now heavily armed and most likely extremely loyal." I point out. Feron just smiles. For an information dealer like him, favours are hard currency. He's dangerous.

He takes us to a derelict alleyway, wide, empty and dirty. There are buildings on every side but it doesn't look like anybody has lived here in quite some time. Broken glass and litter cover the steel walkway, crunching softly under our boots. A good place for a quiet meeting. Or an ambush.

"So," Feron begins. "The corpse of the heroic Commander Shepard. It's the strangest things that get attention but that's not my place to judge. The Normandy was shot down in the Amada system of the Omega nebula, quite close to here. Most of the wreckage landed on the planet Alchera but many pieces of the ship were left to drift. One of them was the object of your interest."

Liara crosses her arms in irritation. So much for playing the idiot heiress. "I was there, Feron. I know where we were when those ships attacked. We want to know where it is now."

Feron smiled. "The body was initially claimed by Vorcha scavengers. They had no use for it, so they sold it for a pittance, apparently. You should be thankful that she was frozen by space; they might have eaten her otherwise. Shortly afterwards the corpse was 'acquired' by the Eclipse and its previous owners killed. My informant in the company has notified me that in a short period of time, the Eclipse will be selling the body to the Shadow Broker for a rather exorbitant fee. Is that sufficient?"

I trade a look with Liara. That's better than I'd hoped for, honestly. But that also means that by trying to reclaim the body, we'll be pissing off both the Eclipse, one of the biggest mercenary groups in the galaxy, and the Shadow Broker yet again. Well, I don't suppose he can get any more pissed.

"I have a question," A very important question, actually. Feron glances at me curiously, a trace of a smile on his lips.

"Please, ask."

"Why not side with the Broker?" I ask guardedly. The whole attempted mugging in the alley was convincing, but I need a guarantee. "I'm sure he'd be appreciative; he'd probably even pay you for this information. Why come to us?"

The Drell smiles lazily. "I happen to be quite avaricious," he states simply. "I want more than the pittance the Broker would shell out. I thought Liara T'Soni would be interested, so here we are. Are there any further questions?"

Well, greed works better as a motivation than just about anything else. On Omega, that's probably truer than ever. Fine, I'll trust him. Cautiously.

"When is the handover?" Liara asks. "And where?"

Again, the Drell smiles. I wonder what he's really feeling. "When and where the handover will be, I'm afraid my contact wasn't advised. However, I do know where the Eclipse is keeping the object for the moment. It's a few hundred levels up, one district over. Assuming we move quickly, we should be able to avoid the Broker's attention."

Almost on cue, my omnitool pings with a message. Only nine words, but they chill like vacuum.

Hello, Operative Shinga. I have an assignment for you.

A/N: Woohoo, we're on schedule! Mostly. Well, it went up before midnight, it's technically fine! So there.

In other news, Recluse is wonderful. I kind of gave her no time to edit this, and she still managed it amazingly. So, she's absolutely amazing and I'm not afraid to admit that without her, this story probably wouldn't exist.

On a more plot-related note, the Broker is back! and we're on Omega! And Feron's here! Basically, stuff will start to happen as soon as next chapter. I don't anticipate having a long start-up process for this particular story, I'm going for a more punchy, fast-paced story this time. Whether that'll come thrugh or not, you be the judge. Let me know what you think, drop me a line, review or PM or something. I like knowing what people think!

Until next time, you stay classy.