Grains of Sand
Amber Penglass
Chapter Three
Word got around.
Three days ago, Archangel had killed three mercs with one bullet.
Not sure the third should count, Shepard thought to herself. He died of a heart attack.
Not that she could tell anyone how she knew that. Kenn had his suspicions, she thought. Afterall, he'd known she'd been at the store in question in the same general timeframe. She'd told him she'd left before the altercation, though just barely, and technically it was true. She just left out the part about doubling back.
She'd wondered, briefly, if the turian she'd met had been part of the whole thing. The coincidence didn't sit well with her, but neither did it make sense that he'd had any sort of stake in the altercation. If he'd been with the mercs, why send her to them to potentially fumble their plans? If he'd known of their intentions and wanted to stop them, it would have made little sense to redirect a lone, poorly armed human when he himself had been decked out in full armor and armed to the teeth -literally, in a turian's case.
She'd mentioned the encounter to Kenn.
"Sounds like Gavorn," said the quarian, while packing up a repaired VI module the batarian on the other side of the counter was picking up. "Aria keeps him around for his, ah, extermination skills."
"Extermination?" She echoed, one eyebrow arching. They had grown in over the past two nights. No such luck for her scalp, however; it was still smooth as an egg. She'd taken to wearing a dark knit cap she could pull down past her ears. It made her look even less like Commander Shepard than ever, which she told herself was a good thing.
The batarian was nodding. "Damn vorcha are vermin," he said, reaching for his package. "If I had Aria's ear, I'd tell her to round them all up, push them all out the nearest airlock." His gaze flicked to her, and his grin went malicious, sharp teeth filling the widening gap between his lips. "Humans, too."
"Well, at least we're the second vermin-qualifying race to come to mind," she replied, voice too low to be mistaken for true amusement.
"I didn't say that, human," the batarian leered. "Suit-rats take second. You get third. Congratulations."
The batarian laughed, and left. Beside her, Kenn had done a remarkable job of not reacting. No slumping shoulders, no stiffening like she had displayed.
"That must get old," she offered.
"You get used to it," he sighed, shifting awkwardly. It was a subtle movement, one that most people would likely mistake for an attempt to correct an itchy patch of suit, or an uncomfortable seal. Most people also hadn't spent time watching Tali'Zorah try to be friends with a mildly xenophobe of a Gunnery Chief.
"What's on your mind, Kenn?" She asked.
"Xeno hating batarians aside?" He asked.
"Batarians aside," she agreed.
Kenn lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Just...missing the Flotilla, is all. It wasn't so bad, actually, when I was alone. I got used to it."
Smiling, Shepard turned and leaned one hip against the counter, crossing her arms and settling her weight back, a comfortable position that let her keep both Kenn and the marketplace in view.
"Then I came along? Getting attached already, Kenn?"
He laughed, the sound reverberating out through his suit's audio ports. "It's...nice to not be alone. And you haven't backstabbed me yet, or, you know, loosened one of my seals while I slept, so so far so good."
Shepard snorted. Beneath the kid's jovial tone had been a note of seriousness that was sobering. For all he was doing his best to keep her at arm's length, as much as he could, he was also lonely. Cramming an entire exiled species into a single -if vast- fleet meant social ties were strong and deeply ingrained. Tali had once told her that the reason she liked engineering so much was that it was never empty.
Shepard exhaled through her nose, tapping one finger against her elbow.
"How much longer til we can fence those parts, do you think?" She asked. She had her own estimation, but something she'd learned hard and well was how to trust the advice and opinions of someone who'd been doing something longer and better than she had.
"A few days, at most," Kenn replied. "Karoon has already sent out another message to all the local dealers, this morning, looking for something else. His focus has shifted. I figure another day or two to be safe…"
Shepard nodded, partly to herself, a plan forming in her mind.
She missed her people, too. And that bottle of levo whiskey was still stowed in her locker, missing a dextro counterpart; drinking alone was no fun.
"I'll be back in an hour," she told him. Then, remembering their supposed employer-employee arrangement, she added, "If you're done with your repairs and don't need me to man the counter?"
Kenn waved a hand at her. "With you here, I've been getting my client jobs done in half the time, so I'm all caught up. Go on."
Just as well she was headed out to get something for him- she felt she owed the kid for being so willing to let his new business partner out of his sight so often, and for no reason. Not for the first time, she really wondered how he'd lasted so long with such a trusting nature. How did he know she wasn't going to meet some nefarious consort, bent on ruining him? Not that he was really much worth ruining… His little corner shop was hardly a blip on the radar.
Thinking of business sabotage made her think of the numbers they'd gone over just that morning. He'd been right about his ability to churn out more repair jobs with her there to keep an eye on other things. In just the past few days -had she really been here a week?- his profit margin had widened considerably, and even without the sale of the parts she'd pilfered from the shuttle, they'd have enough for tickets in another few weeks. Not that either of them were willing to wait that long, if they had a choice…
The asari-owned corner store was empty. No rough-clothed matriarch shopkeeper, no smart-mouthed maiden daughter. The shelves were completely bare, the windows were broken, and the sign above the door was dark. She frowned at it, wondering if the family of two were all right. Also wondering where else she could go to find a bottle of dextro liquor she could be reasonably sure wasn't some sort of watered down antifreeze.
Over the past week, she'd explored Omega a few times, listened to rumors and whispers. She knew there was one place she could go and be reasonably sure what she was getting wouldn't be mostly worthless, or poisoned, or both. That would be the throne of the Queen of Omega herself, the Afterlife club. No one would dare try to pull anything right beneath the asari biotic's nose.
Shepard wouldn't be permitted into the main portion of the club itself, of course, not looking like she was and without an invitation. There were, however, satellite clubs attached to the main one where more ordinary denizens willing to settle for seedier surroundings might manage to wiggle their way in.
Shepard didn't bother with the wiggling. She just walked in. The batarian guarding the door glowered at her, but said nothing. There was a rhythm to Omega, an ebb and flow that superseded the pricetag of one's armor, or the hash marked kill scores on a gauntlet. It was the give-and-take of knowing where you belonged, knowing what you could and couldn't handle. Shepard's stride and her hand's casual proximity to her weapon, without actually needing to fondle it, was as good as an invitation or a password in this particular echelon of a place.
"Careful," the batarian said as she passed him. "Forvan is working tonight."
Even without being sure of what he was talking about, she gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement before moving past him. No need to be outright rude, and he'd sounded like he was actually trying to deliver a genuinely helpful warning. Interesting.
Only the name above the door would tell someone this place was technically part of Afterlife. Despite never having seen the inside of the main club, Shepard would be willing to bet it wouldn't have the stained and sticky floor, the too-dim red lights, the dancers with blown-out pupils who trembled more than they danced. The bar looked sufficiently stocked, at least, which was all she cared about.
"Turian brandy," she said when the batarian bartender glanced her way and jerked his chin at her in a universal 'what do you want?' gesture. "A bottle. A sealed bottle."
The batarian gifted her with a wide, noxious grin. Over his shoulder he hollered her order back to someone else, some sort of barback, she assumed. He returned to his previous task of wiping out glasses -which didn't look any less grimy when he was done- and completely ignoring anyone not actively paying or ordering.
She didn't sit, not wanting to give the impression she was staying and perhaps invite unwanted company- the turian in red seated a few stools down to her right was sending her sidelong glances she didn't care for. She kept an eye on him out of the corner of her peripheral, and saw when he raised two of his three digits towards the bartender, then gestured with one digit to himself, and then down at her. The batarian didn't give any overt sign of acknowledgement, but he put down two tumblers with colored rims, one red and one blue, dumped in some ice and filled them from different bottles. He shoved one towards her, and the other towards the turian. The red-rimmed glass slid across the damp bar and came to a rest near her elbow.
She glanced to it, then to the turian in red. He raised his blue-rimmed glass, grinning at her. She kept her fingers still with an effort; the more she thought, the louder they wanted to drum on the nearest surface. It was a habit she thought she'd kicked in her teens that she'd noticed returning in force since...well, since coming back from the dead. Or out of a coma. Or whatever state she'd been in the past two years.
Two years.
Every time she thought she'd managed to forget, to put it aside to deal with later, something brought it roaring to the front of her thoughts, and her gut twisted like she'd chugged ryncol. She eyeballed the red-rimmed tumbler, and suddenly she wanted its contents more than anything else.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this had been a bad idea.
"Here." The bartender's voice cut into her impromptu inner-demon-wrestling match, and set down a long-necked blue bottle with a thunk. She passed him her credit chit. He frowned at her untouched drink.
The turian in red had moved, and she silently urged the bartender to go faster with that damn credit chit as her unwanted drinking buddy settled into the stool next to where she stood.
"If you're not into brandy, I think this place actually has a bottle of human wine somewhere," he said, subvocals vibrating across her skin in a way she did not like. She sent him a cool sidelong glance. She was in no mood to be polite, but she also wasn't of a mind to earn an enemy, even one as basic as a spurned bar patron.
For someone who seemed to have a human fetish, the turian certainly misread her expression. Or he didn't care. Without waiting for her to respond vocally, he turned to the bartender and waved to get his attention.
"Forvan! Do you still have that bottle of burgundy?"
Shepard blinked. Forvan? That was the name the door guard had mentioned. Her this-is-not-a-good-scenario meter pinged up a notch.
"Don't worry about it," she told the bartender. "Just finish up our transaction and I'll be on my way."
"At least finish the drink I already poured," the bartender groused, a tone of stung pride making its way into his voice. He returned with her credit chit and held it up, looking pointedly at the glass at her elbow. Shepard grabbed for the bottle with one hand, the glass with the other, downing the second in one long gulp before flipping it and placing it back on the counter with a little more force than was necessary.
"Gentlemen," she said, and turned to leave.
"A round on the house!" The bartender announced behind her. She didn't really pay attention, she was too busy pretending not to hear the red-clad turian's dismayed calls. "To the victims of Torfan!"
Shepard paused at the door.
Torfan.
It had been awhile since she'd heard that word. That name. Nasty business, any way it was looked at.
With a sick feeling twisting her gut, not born solely of sudden intuition, Shepard turned and pinned the grinning batarian with a stare she usually reserved for people she shortly intended to introduce to the business end of her rifle. Forgotten, the turian in red was frowning, looking back and forth between her and the bartender.
Shepard turned away again, walking outside with quick, measured strides. She ignored the door guard's pitying stare as she began to fight with her increasingly uncoordinated feet, her vision swirling with too-bright colors and streaks of blurs. She found an alcove filled with trash, and she used the horrid smell of rotting she-didn't-want-to-know what to help her accomplish her goal; immediate, aggressive, projectile vomiting. Bile and booze burned its way up and out, filling her nostrils with the acrid stench. Was it just the mixed acids she was tasting, or could she actually pick out the poison now that she knew it was there?
She managed to not pass out. Barely. She wasn't actually entirely sure she didn't dip in and out of consciousness, just never long enough to fall face first into her own mess. She had slumped against one wall of the alcove, and was doing her best to maintain what awareness she could while also trying to figure out if she was in any actual danger of dying. It was hard to tell when most of her body was numb.
"Impressive," said a voice from behind. Shepard managed to push herself upright, even going so far as to make it to her knees.
"So glad someone enjoyed the show," she coughed out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Numb feet or no, she was going to stand.
"I meant your continued status among the living," the voice continued. Human. Female. Shepard's blurry vision told her it was a lanky blonde in a dented blue hardsuit. Faintly, she realized she recognized the model as an old Alliance issue. Not that that meant anything, she told herself before she could hope. Military gear had been ending up in the aftermarket surplus stores, purchasable by civilians, before time immemorial.
"Does the bartender pull this stunt often?" Shepard asked, her voice hoarse.
"Not often enough to attract Aria's notice. She'd skin alive anyone she caught murdering her patrons." The blonde shrugged, leaning casually against the wall beside Shepard. "But yeah, you're not the first, if that's what you meant. The first to survive, though."
"I'm an overachiever," Shepard quipped, finally beginning to catch her breath. She leaned her head back against the wall, shutting her eyes against the pounding migraine that was building.
"If you've got a safe place to stay for the night, I can help you get there," the woman offered, the implication being that was where her help would end. It was more than most would offer without some sort of inferred compensation.
"I can get there myself, thanks," Shepard replied, using the wall to push herself to her feet, finally. She still could barely feel her toes, but her feet and legs had been upgraded to 'painful tingling,' which she could work with.
The woman gave a short laugh that was half derisive, half impressed. Shepard gave her a look, hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.
"Not as stupid as you look," the hardsuited woman said with a smirk, then reached for Shepard's arm and pulled it over her shoulder. Surprisingly, Shepard had managed to keep her other hand firmly around the neck of the bottle of turian brandy.
There was a pause as they lumbered up a flight of steps. Then, "Call me Monty."
"Red. Nice to meet you, Monty."
"Red? What's that supposed to refer to?" Monty was snickering, glancing pointedly to Shepard's distinct lack of anything red, specifically hair. Her hat had gone missing at some point.
"What's Monty refer to?"
"Monteague," was the immediate reply, the tone daring Shepard to say anything.
Shepard wasn't exactly thinking clearly. "Is your boyfriend's name Capulet?" Her face hurt from grinning so hard; apparently, some of the poison had made it to her brain.
"Capulet was Juliet, smartass."
"Allright, so is your girlfriend's name-" Shepard's retort was cut off abruptly when Monty's free hand whipped around and bludgeoned Shepard upside her head. It had been a decently solid blow, one that would have smarted even if Shepard hadn't been attempting to forgot she had a head at all. As it was, she gave a sharp grunt as multicolored stars exploded behind her eyes.
"Not sorry," Monty informed her.
"Wouldn't expect you to be," Shepard replied, trying not to sound breathless. It really was a spectacular headache.
Monty seemed surprised when Shepard directed them to stop in front of Kenn's.
"You're Kenn's new shop girl?" She said, incredulous.
Girl? Shepard blinked at her. Girl?
Later, she would tell her that the combination of headache and insult was what distracted her the extra half a moment it took her to notice that Kenn's shop was...empty. The kiosk on the counter was dark, the carts of junk and outdated tech missing entirely. Kenn himself was nowhere to be seen.
Shepard pulled herself free of Monty's supportive assistance. He must have closed up shop early- why? Had Karoon found him? She went to the door at the back of the shop, palming it open while ducking to the side, remembering the turrets. When there was no whine of laser fire powering up, she poked her head around to see inside.
The turret shelves were empty. She could see her footlocker from the doorway. It was open, on its side, and also empty.
Shepard blinked.
Well…. Damn.
"Looks like the kid finally scraped together enough to get off this rock," Monty said casually. "Good for him."
Shepard palmed the doors closed, then lifted her free hand to push the heel into the space between her eyes, feeling the bridge of her nose compress. She inhaled deeply, pushed the pain of the headache and the lingering poison aside, then dropped her hand and straightened. She looked at Monty, grinned wryly, and held out the bottle.
"Got any dextro friends who'd appreciate this? Seems I'm short one."
He'd left the levo whiskey, at least. That was something.
True to Monty's implied word, she'd left after making sure Shepard had somewhere with a door that locked to recover before taking off, citing prior appointments. After barricading herself inside the little studio apartment, Shepard began taking inventory of what was left. She'd have to start from scratch, but that was fine, she'd been in worse spots. Ilos. Eden Prime. Virmire. Hell, Alchera.
And those were the recent ones.
The furniture remained, of course, and Shepard's borrowed blanket. The empty footlocker. Her boxes of rations, one of which was pretty much empty. A few more boxes of odds and ends, wires and connectors hanging out. She found the whiskey in the refrigeration unit, which had been turned on when it never had been before.
Odd.
Shepard tapped a finger against the fridge door, staring at the bottle. The light behind it illuminated the dark liquid inside the clear bottle, and Shepard's frown deepened when she noticed the seal had been broken, but the bottle still seemed full. Another attempt at poisoning?
Shepard pulled the bottle out of the fridge and held it up to the light. There was something in the bottom, something that hadn't been there before. She found a metal bowl in one of the cupboards, and poured out the whiskey. She'd be damned if she was going to waste the stuff, but she also couldn't afford to drink it, not when she was becoming more and more certain by the second not all was as it seemed.
An omnitool implant fell out of the bottle and landed with a splash in the bowl. Droplets of whiskey hit her wrist, and she drenched her hand further when she dipped her fingers into the bowl to fish out the chip. She bounced the small thing, no bigger than the first joint of her thumb, on her palm and frowned at it. The highly versatile bit of tech had been one of the first 'weapons' the Alliance had reverse engineered during the First Contact War, and they had only improved with time. This one, however, was a quarian design, meant to be inserted into an external port on a quarian suit. Shepard had no such port in her own flesh and blood and bone wrist, so she wasn't quite sure how to-
She paused, and her gaze snapped to the boxes of miscellaneous junk she had spotted earlier. Sure enough, halfway through digging through the second one, she found a human omniband. She clicked the chip into place, then snapped the narrow cuff around her left wrist, the chip's port pressed against her inner wrist. It wasn't the most advanced model, certainly nowhere near the grade of quality she had been able to acquire under her Spectre authority, but it was better than nothing. She fired up the luminous orange interface, and thought it felt like having sensation restored to a previously paralyzed limb.
Almost immediately after the interface fully actualized, a startup message popped up.
'Get out. -K'
Shepard blinked, looked around, frowning. Then she dismissed the glowing orange interface, grabbed her empty rucksack from the couch, tossed in her rations, and then she damn well got out. She'd never been one to ignore a warning that had clearly taken effort to leave behind.
She paused at the doorway, looking back at the bowl of whiskey and the empty bottle. She couldn't believe she'd almost forgotten-
A line of fire zipped across her cheek, and without consciously planning to do so Shepard dropped and rolled, coming to a hard stop behind the shop's counter. She planted her back against the hard metal and drew her M-3 from her thigh, checked the Kessler at her opposite hip -the one she'd taken off of heart-attack kid- and waited.
When an incendiary round zipped overhead to explode against the far back wall of the shop, she was ready, and didn't bolt. Flames exploded across the corrugated floor, but without anything to fuel it beyond its initial impact, it fizzled out. Shepard calmly pressed a wetted thumb to the smoldering bit of debris that had found purchase in her other sleeve, snuffing out the little red spark before it had time to do more than blink.
"You'll have to do better than that!" She shouted. She rose into a crouch, careful to keep her head down below the counter. "What did you do with the quarian?"
No response, of course. Shepard ran over the options; Karoon, Cerberus, or a third unknown party. Or a fourth, for all she knew, someone with no prior ties to either her or Kenn but who might want this spot, or competition eliminated, or any other number of scenarios. One thing she was certain of, whoever was shooting at her was responsible for Kenn's abrupt disappearance. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was; people who cared enough about who they were leaving behind to give a hidden warning were not people who left without a farewell, not if they had a choice. Kenn was in trouble.
"You know, there have been a few people in my life who have thought messing with me and mine was a good idea," she said, her conversational tone marred somewhat by the volume. "Care to guess how it ended for them?"
"No need to guess," came, at last, the reply. "I'd wager I know the manner of their demises as well as you, Shepard."
Shepard's hands, occupied with checking the viability of her M-3's heatsink, went abruptly still.
"Not sure where you're getting that name," she replied back. "Don't see any goats or sheep around here, do you?"
"Amusing, Shepard," came the same voice. Female, human, lightly accented with something...european? Shepard's last trip to earth had been long enough ago that she couldn't quite be sure. Australian? Didn't much matter, really.
"I'm only going to ask once more," Shepard shouted back, sidestepping the name thing completely. Arguing the point would only cement their confidence in her identity. At least now she was pretty sure who she was dealing with. Only Cerberus could be so certain of who she was, when the rest of the galaxy thought her dead.
"Where is Kenn?"
"Kenn'Raan nar Tonbay has been aided in the completion of his pilgrimage and is on his way back to the Flotilla."
"Nice little happy ending. Too bad I don't believe you." Shepard's eyes landed on a broken bit of reflective metal, and toed it within reach of her hand. She lifted the metal, edging it up above the edge of the counter with slow, deliberate care until she was able to catch a glimpse of what was on the other side and across the market-
The bit of metal shattered, another shot tearing it from her hand. She snatched her limb back down to safety.
"Really, this is a waste of everyone's time." The voice sounded exasperated, now. "We mean you no harm, I swear it."
"Funny way of showing it," Shepard retorted. "What with the liberal use of bullets and all."
"An overzealous operative," was the reply, and it was icy. "Who shall be dealt with accordingly once this is all explained."
"So explain," Shepard said. "I'm good right where I am until then."
"Shepard." The cultured tones were marred by audible impatience, and some annoyance. "This is a waste of everyone's time."
"Now that we can agree on," Shepard replied. She shook out the fingers that had been holding that bit of metal- they still stung. "Surrender now, and I'll let you leave peacefully."
"Red?"
Shepard frowned down at her omnitool as a small orange square flickered into visibility, indicating she was receiving a communication.
"Red, are you there?" It was Kenn. Shepard breathed a silent sigh of relief. Not wanting her Cerberus friends to hear their conversation, she brought up the manual input screen and typed out her response.
I'm here. Met the friends I think you tried to warn me about. -R
This time, Kenn's communication was typed, also, Sorry about that. They made it very clear I was to go and not come back. Pretty sure I'd be dead if I'd argued. Plus, they paid me a ridiculous sum to clear out. So, good news, once we get you out of this, no need to wait for those parts to cool down for fencing. -K
Shepard grinned. Good to know. -R
Then, We? -R
Kenn replied, Sending some friends who owe me a few favors. You've met one of them. -K
Shepard blinked at the screen, then her grin broadened.
God, she loved quarians.
See, now I feel bad for giving away that bottle of turian brandy I got you. -R
You'll make it up to me. Now get ready, my friends are almost there. They want to know if you can arrange a distraction? -K
Consider it done. -R
Shepard pitched a loud, drawn out sigh. "Give me something, here," she said to her Cerberus audience. "You can't really expect someone you just shot at to give in after a little sweet talking."
There was a pause, then, "Reasonable enough, I suppose. Did you have anything in mind?"
"Sure. How did you find me?"
If Shepard got out of this, that would be the most useful bit of information. It wasn't the question she wanted to ask -how am I alive? was I ever really dead? what the hell did you do to me?- but it was the one she needed to ask.
"It was simple once we realized you had actually come here," the Cerberus woman replied. "I had argued from the first you'd flee to Omega, but I was...overruled. We found the docking bay 'attendants' you'd dealt with upon your arrival. Their leader was most amenable to answering our inquiries once we compensated him for his 'losses' at your hands."
Shepard closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the counter. She had thought she'd been careful, clever. Apparently, she'd been neither in sufficient quantities. For a heartbeat, she was painfully glad she was more or less alone; miscalculations like that were what got people killed.
"I'm coming out," she shouted, and she didn't need to force the sound of frustration in her voice. "I better not see a single scope."
She tapped a quick command into her omnitool, then let her left arm fall down by her side, her index finger curled against her palm the only thing not relaxed. She stood slowly, hoping she wasn't miscalculating yet again, and stepped clear of the counter with her M-3 Predator held up in the universal position of compliance.
Across the empty marketplace square, a bay of crates -she thought all the crates in the galaxy went to Omega to die- shielded a handful of humans in unadorned, unmarked grey armor. A tall, svelte woman in a form-fitting combat suit of expensive textiles stood out in the open, hands empty. Her red-brown hair curled softly against her shoulders, bright eyes tracking Shepard's slightest move.
"Thank you," the woman said. "I'm Miranda Lawson. I promise, I'll explain everything once we get you away-"
Without waiting for the completion of the empty pledge, Shepard pressed her index finger against the glowing orange pre-set command on her palm, triggering the surge of combined mini EM pulses and junk data. Without time to set a targeting vector, she couldn't aim for the Cerberus operatives' shields. Instead, the Omega Marketplace sign directly above them sparked spectacularly, raining down a shower of glass and fire and luminous red-orange fluid that sent the terrorists scampering. Behind her, even Kenn's kiosk popped open with a small explosion.
Almost indistinguishable from the pop and crackle of the exploding signage, the rat-a-tat of gunfire filled the air, most of it aimed at the Cerberus operatives. One of them looked to Shepard, and managed to take aim with his rifle before a neat little red hole in his forehead made him fall back. Shepard dived to the side, back behind the counter at the same moment a sharp pain dug into her arm. She grunted as she hit the corrugated floor, hand reaching out to smack at the ember that must have caught her sleeve. Instead of encountering a spot of heat, her fingers tangled with a small syringe, its needle plunged deep into the flesh of her bicep.
This time, there was no fighting the pull of unconsciousness.
In case you couldn't tell, this chapter was originally supposed to be two. First half felt blah without the second, though. Thanks to everyone who pitched in with advice for the squad arrangements! Monty's inspiration was my recent reread of Garrus's issue of Homeworlds, 'A Bullet for Your Sins.' In one panel, there are a few of the squad members standing in the background, and one of them is a human female with short blonde hair. And yes, I am aware she spells her name differently (or rather, BW spelled her name differently) than the traditional character from Romeo and Juliet.
Hope you enjoyed!