They're not in the air more than two minutes this time before the cop—Vakarian—is on the horn again. Shepard rolls her eyes as hard as she can and collapses sideways onto the bench seat in the back of the car.

Three public disturbances, two groups of vandals, a drunk and disorderly, a robbery, and one very publicly indecent krogan. She should have been at the station an hour and a half ago, through processing and on her way to a nice, comfy cell for two to four years of contemplating what she'd do with the massive paycheck she'd just scored. Instead, Vakarian had apparently taken it upon himself to right every wrong in Shalta Ward. Probably in an attempt to bore her to death.

The skycar slows and hovers over another section of the ward, further towards the base of the Citadel. They slowly descend through the artificial atmosphere before touching down in the middle of a small but busy market. Vendors selling every variety of cuisine from every world in the galaxy line the edges, while on the level above numerous shop fronts blare slogans while flashing holo-signs advertise the latest in electronics, apparel, or liquor.

Vakarian kills the engine and opens his door. "Won't be a minute," he says, sparing her a cursory glance. "Don't go anywhere."

Shepard frowns and puts her feet up against her window, crossing her legs. "Wasn't funny the first time, asshole."

"Not to you," Vakarian says dryly before slamming his door shut. He marches down a small thoroughfare in front of the car, gently pushing his way between pedestrians while Shepard stares daggers at his back.

She'd run into bad cops before. Bad, she could handle. Even use, once in a blue moon. Good cops were another thing entirely, but thankfully a hell of a lot rarer. Especially in the kinds of places she usually plies her trade.

Vakarian is the biggest Boy Scout she's ever seen. Or would be, if he hadn't stormed into a fight, gun drawn, without backup. And if he hadn't taken that shot that would have blown her head clean off if not for her overclocked shields.

It doesn't make sense. Either he's a straight-lace, by-the-book son of a bitch, or he isn't. And Vakarian doesn't strike her as someone who does anything halfway.

Hell with it, she thinks. Who cares? Once this long and interminable night is over with, she'll never see Vakarian or hear his smug-ass voice again.

Shepard tears herself from her idle thoughts long enough to notice an asari maiden is standing next to the skycar, staring through the window at her curiously.

She kicks hard at the reinforced glass and the alien jumps back, startled.

"Park your azure someplace else," Shepard barks. "I'm tryin' to relax."

The maiden promptly hurries off. Shepard leans her head back and sighs in exasperation. She'd tried to nap at their last stop, and that had been totally unsuccessful. Didn't look like it was going to work any better this time.

She sits up carefully, maneuvering her cuffed hands behind her back, and rolls her shoulders to work out the kinks. That's when she sees her cop down the street. There's a small crowd around him, a few sticking their heads out of nearby windows. He's got his arms crossed and some other turian with silvery plates and poor dress sense is shouting at him. Flailing his arms around.

Probably yet another drunk and disorderly, Shepard thinks bitterly. Until the man tries to reach around Vakarian to grab at... someone? A woman?

Vakarian lays him out in half a second, too fast and too far away for her to catch exactly how. Then he climbs on top of the poor bastard and yanks on his cowl. Even from this distance, Shepard can tell that he wants to break the guy in half, but instead, he's definitely giving him an earful. When he shoves him back to the ground, the other turian crawls away as fast as he can.

Another skycar descends, landing next to Vakarian's, and a single human patrolman steps out and heads down the thoroughfare. Vakarian starts heading back, and laughs at something the human says as he passes him.

He opens the door and settles back into the pilot's seat. "Miss me?" he asks.

"What was that about?" Shepard asks, knowing the answer.

"Domestic dispute," he says simply, starting up the engine. "Second time there's been a call here. Won't be a third."

"Oh yeah? What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd be very upset if there was."

"Ahh," Shepard says knowingly, settling back in her seat. "I was wrong earlier. This is how you get through the day."

Vakarian's reflection in the windshield gives her a glare. "This is how I do my job."

"Uh-huh," she says skeptically. "Then you must love what you do."

"I wasn't kidding about the gag, you know."

"And I wasn't kidding when I said this was the worst arrest I've ever had," she retorted. "A ride with a cop who gets off on his authority is not my idea of a wonderful evening."

"Just because I give a damn doesn't mean—" He stops, frowning and shaking his head as they rise and bank into traffic. "I don't know why I'm even talking to you. You don't care about anyone but yourself."

"Oh really?" Shepard asks, barking out a humorless laugh. "When'd you figure that out?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says, taking up her sarcastic tone, "maybe when you started shooting up a crowded bar to get yourself paid."

She leans back and rolls her eyes. "Oh my god, they were concussive rounds."

"Beside the point!"

"Like hell!" Shepard leans forward, nose almost to the cage. "I stocked up on those special before I came here! I wasn't about to kill anyone!"

"And what about stray rounds? Ricochets? You can't account for those!"

"And you can?!"

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Shepard grins, relishing in her victory as he fumes for a moment.

"Changing the subject," Vakarian says, still angry, but calmer. "You only care about the money."

"How would you know?"

"You're a bounty hunter."

She laughs. "No prejudice here, I see."

Vakarian opens his mouth but she cuts him off.

"I do what I do, some low-life son of a bitch gets what's coming to them, and I get paid. You're telling me you don't get a salary?"

"That's different."

"Is it?" Shepard leans back, hands bunching up behind her. "You ever make a mistake? Shoot the wrong guy? Let one get away?"

He stares straight ahead and says nothing, hands gently maneuvering the controls.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," she says. "Well, join the club. There's jackets."

Vakarian's reflection frowns, and his browplates furrow. Shepard sticks her feet up against the cage and crosses them again.

"Don't presume you're the only sentient being in the galaxy who gives a shit," she says seriously. "And don't presume that you know the first god damn thing about me."

The silence after that is tense. Vakarian opens his mouth again, but he's interrupted by another tinny voice on the comm. This one is more abrupt and less bored.

"Three-two-one-niner, sector eighty five, Shalta Ward, shots fired, repeat, three-two-one-niner—"

"Vakarian here," he says, keying the comm. "I'm on my way. Less than two klicks, ETA one minute. Anyone else close?"

"Negative," the voice says. "Nearest unoccupied is across the station, Zakera Ward. Mobilizing tactical unit, but–"

"Yeah, I know," he says. Then he releases the comm and curses under his breath. "They take their sweet time."

The skycar accelerates hard, and Shepard takes her feet off the back of Vakarian's seat. She'd complain again about the detour, but whatever was happening sounded like it might be serious.

Or, at the very least, interesting.