A startled yell rumbled out of her lungs as a gunshot rang and the man on top of her slumped forward, warm fluid spraying all over her face. Blood? She didn't have time to think as she heard another gunshot, followed by the crackle of bone and the sound of bodies slamming against the floor with a sickening thud. Tears blinding her, coupled with the drug impairing her vision, she registers nothing but a dark, humanoid silhouette, rays of red lights shrouding it ominously.
Are these the Valkyries dad told me about?
Gasps of terror choked out of her throat when the figure took a step towards her. They turned into frightened sobs when the footsteps didn't stop, the stranger closing the distance between them. Contemplating suicides in the past, the dancer suddenly didn't want to die, at least, not when her body is writhing in pain and her head clouded by a drug.
Warm fabric covers her cold, exposed body. A musk perfumed it, alien, but not unpleasant; it is almost spicy, with a hint of mellow sweetness. It brought her comfort and stirred her curiosity, distracting her mind from the pain her body felt. What the hell are you? Flinching as lean arms took her fragile form, salty tears starts to stream from her bloodshot eyes once more.
"Please, don't hurt me," she begs, struggling to say the words as she trembles in the stranger's hold. Eyes almost blinded, she tries to discern its face, but fails. In compensation, her small hand reaches for it, landing on its cheek. She continued to probe and gasps; this definitely wasn't human, with its scales gliding under her touch. However, she is certain that this person is masculine. Warm against her cold fingers, tranquil wrath twisted his features.
"Amonkira must have been guiding you tonight."
Who?
But she didn't have the energy or capacity to think more; the drug and her injuries are preventing her from forming coherent thoughts, and more sentences. She can feel her body adrift the sinewy arms that carried her, then put down on a soft surface, arms folded into a peaceful manner, and the fabric draped over her tucked around her broken form to keep her warm.
"I am not sorry for making it sooner."
Before drifting into unconsciousness, her last thoughts were of the angel of death who carried her to her final rest.
Crisscrossing wounds brought by nails covers the commander's skin, some from Morinth, some inflicted by herself in a fit of traumatized terror. The Hallex is in full effect, and it's making her see and feel things that are not there. Sinewy arms held hers in place, muscles denser than hers, preventing her from hurting herself any further and grounding her back to reality. Tired feet that dragged across battlefields are swept from the ground once more. Mellow sweetness and spice that emanated from the skin of who bears her weakened body brought some sense of familiarity that made her cling to the exposed, scaled chest that her head rested against.
Trying to placate the drell, Samara steps closer and places a hand on his shoulder, which he coldly shrugged. Indignation setting in, he gives the asari justicar a glower, spurred by the shallow, anguished breathing of the human woman who he came to love. In their predicament, Samara's claim of his affection for Shepard becomes closer to the truth.
"I hope you see the gravity of your actions, justicar."
With astonishing speed, Thane stormed out of the ardat-yakshi's apartment with Shepard in his arms, clutching her tightly and not minding the burning in his lungs. Samara catches up, until they reached the elevator where Thane almost smashes the controls with a kick, a medley of contrition and ire beginning to plague his heart. He softens when Shepard's freezing hand brushes against his face. Mustering all the courage he can, he looks at her. Her black leather dress askew and drawn over her legs, it was more than enough evidence of the ardat-yakshi's work, but he saw more that made his heart constrict with pure anger. Lipstick stains and bites are spattered on her chest. Scratches on her face are weeping blood, and her onyx eyes are weeping as well, pupils dilated and sclera bloodshot.
At that moment, he didn't see the Hero of Elysium, or the first human Spectre, or the Savior of the Citadel.
Thane sees the dancer.
Sky the color of rust and brown smoke, the streets of Gozu District were littered with its residents and their refuse. Thane glances over his shoulder, checking on the dancer as he drove his shuttle through the streets of district, and relief replaces his disquieted disposition as he saw the rise and fall of the dancer's chest. Safe house (originally a tenement repurposed as such in his temporary stay) in sight, he pulls over a secluded spot, away from the foot traffic of the souls of Omega. Discreetly, he carries her inside, the reinforced security lock turning red as the door whooshed shut. Once inside, he sets the human dancer on the single bed. It is a small safe house, and it can barely be considered as such, being more similar to a cramped apartment with minimal decoration and furnishings: whoever comes in is greeted by an electric burner for cooking meals and a small refrigerator beside a single counter in the makeshift kitchen, a toilet, a shower stall and sink in a small bathroom, and strongboxes underneath a bed that stored his weapons at the far side of the room.
Confined and restricted, the tenement struggles hold two people inside, but it's still far better than the living conditions of most of the inhabitants of Gozu District. Thane isn't intending to stay in Omega for long anyway, and as a matter of fact, had it not for his contacts informing him that Novak happens to be in Omega, he wouldn't have stayed in Omega for almost two months; a hitman would go hungry, for the locals does the killings themselves, something he learned the hard way when he came to find work. The people who does require his services are people he never wants to work with. Novak was one of such people. An assassin is a weapon wielded by the person who pays for his service, and being a weapon for the scum of the galaxy is something he doesn't intend to be. Thugs and mercenaries are such people.
As soon as the human dancer is safe on his bed, he fled to the bathroom to rummage for medi-gel, and silently thanked Arashu when he found his supply in one of the cabinets. Quiet footsteps quickened as he went back to the dancer, he leans over her broken form, and manually applies the medication over her cuts, watching her wounds close slowly as the gel clamps her skin together. One of the few other gifts Thane had aside from his penchant for assassinations is keeping himself alive, and now he prays to Arashu that this skill can keep the dancer alive as well, folding his hands together.
"Arashu, benevolent mother, I beseech you. By your grace, I ask for this innocent soul's protection. Guide me in bringing her back from the brink of the deep. Aid me, merciful goddess, in pulling her back to the shores of the living."
A mumble bubbles from the dancer's lips.
"You're still awake," Thane simply says, standing up from kneeling over the dancer and moving to the makeshift kitchen to get her a glass of water. "Usually a person taking such punishment would be unconscious by now. A drugged person, more so."
Condensation around the cool glass touched the dancer's lips and she struggled to take a sip, her face still numb and vision still blurred from Novak's drug. She squints at the figure, the room's low, reddish light not doing her any favors. Warm fingers glide over her eyes, gently closing them for her. "Sleep. I will watch over you."
"Not yet," the dancer croaks out, eyes gently fluttering open. "I need answers, please."
"I will answer them as soon as you are rested," Thane replies. Her face is still swelling and her features are still unrecognizable, but Thane could clearly see the furrowing of her brow. Leaning against the bathroom door across the single bed, Thane merely observes her.
"How will I know you won't leave me? Please, just a few answers. I'm scared."
Thane silently reconsiders.
"Very well. What do you wish to know?"
"Why save a worthless dancer from the streets of Omega?" the dancer asks, curious and honest.
Unsure how to respond, Thane stayed in his spot, examining his conscience. As an assassin, his flesh and reflexes are honed to hurt and kill, innocent or otherwise as long as he is paid (even though he preferred performing hits on men like Novak), and it wasn't in his training to protect someone unless required for the job, but it was in his nature, hence why the innocent human girl is with him right now. Perhaps I'm trying to be like Irikah, or saving this human will quench my need to atone for the evils I had done. But is it worth telling?
"Are you even still there? I still can't see, goddammit. I'm scared enough already," the dancer said, lips trembling and the tears in her eyes threatening to spill again. She feels the wind around her shift and the scaled hand wipes the tear off of her blood-smeared cheek.
Small hands, now a lot less cold than it was minutes ago, grasp at the bedsheets until one of them touches Thane's.
"Apologies. I am unprepared to answer your question. Kindness is rare in worlds such as this, so I understand your suspicion."
Both the drell and the human are silent for a long time. Thane was lost in thought when the dancer groaned and tried to stand from her bed. Pressing a firm hand on her abdomen, he pushes her down, his wiry strength no match to her numb muscles. "Sleep."
Despite all of it, the dancer still pushed forward. "No," she snaps, trying to claw his hand off of her. "I want to get up."
"I can see why you survived," Thane said, removing his hand and letting her rise unsteadily to a sitting position, limbs straining and shaking. Out of respect, Thane repositioned his jacket so it will continue to cover her for modesty. "You are stubborn. Persistent. You have a strong spirit," Thane continues, steadying her as she tried to stand up.
"I didn't go through all that shit in my life just to be held back by a coward's drug," she said. "Thanks, by the way."
"It's my pleasure," Thane replies, placing one of her arms over his shoulder, and awkwardly so due to the differences of their heights. "What do you need?" he asks.
"I need a shower," the dancer replies. Her words hitching in her throat, she pauses to take a breath. "I can still feel their hands on me. Disgusted with myself."
Giving her a sympathetic look, Thane obliges, opening the door to the small bathroom and pulling her inside. "Thanks again," the dancer says, one hand palming the walls, the other gripping Thane's vest. "I can take it from here."
Raising a brow ridge, Thane refuses to let go. "Novak used a paralytic, vision-impairing drug. You might hurt yourself," he argues, propping her against the wall to keep her steady. "Damn. That explains why I feel like ass," the dancer replies, managing to chortle through the physical pain and psychological trauma. "My limbs feel heavy and I can't see clearly, but I can move and I'm not blind. I'll manage," she argues back, rubbing her eyes as she tried to discern the features of the person before her. Though her eyesight still ailing, she confirmed that this person definitely isn't human. The stranger is nothing like she's ever encountered before, he piqued her curiosity, and she silently thought to herself that it's a shame that she couldn't see his face. She wanted to remember him.
"Just trust me on this. I don't mind sitting on the floor if my body can't stay up as long as I get to rinse off," the dancer said, and Thane lets go of her, then steps out of the room. The dancer allowed the jacket to fall to the floor, and Thane looks away from her as he picks his jacket up. Her body slides down against the wall and she sits down, reaching for the shower handle and letting the warm water wash away the blood from her skin; Thane sees it as an inky, black color. The dancer looks up and sees his silhouette against the door, prompting her to wrap herself in a fetal position.
"A little privacy please?" she requests. "Apologies. Are you certain you will be fine without me guiding you?" Thane asks, closing the door. "Yes, I'll be fine."
"I'll stay within earshot if you need anything," Thane said.
Thane leans against the door, listening to the stream of water from the other room. Activating his omnitool, he reads his contacts' notes on the drug, letting out a soft hum as he reached the section that describes how long it is effective on humans. Two hours passed since she consumed it and she shouldn't even be moving for the next six hours. Remarkable. Light from the omnitool dying as he powered it down, he glances to the door behind him when a small rasp came from the other side.
"Do you need anything?" he asks her.
"You still haven't answered my question," the dancer said, leaning herself against the wall and the door. Warm jets of water continued to stream down her face. "Why save me?"
"The man who sought to victimize you was my target. You are an innocent, and you needed protection," he responds coolly. "Oh. Are you some kind of vigilante or hitman? I promise I won't go anywhere if you are, I can barely hold up my own weight," the dancer said, chuckling in the end. Thane raised a brow ridge at her words. "You're beaten, and assaulted, and yet you laugh," Thane says, confused.
"It's a coping mechanism, buddy. Not the first time I used humor to ease the pain."
"I see."
"So, what are you?" the dancer asks again, tone more insistent.
"I cannot say."
A groan reverberated from within the bathroom. "I'll just call you a vaguely humanoid angel of death then," she grumbles. In his amusement, a puff of air escapes Thane's lips. "That's not inaccurate, but I'm far from the description of an angel."
"You are starting to scare me."
"When you're alone and vulnerable with a stranger, fear is logical."
Laughter rang from inside the bathroom. "If this wasn't real life and we're in an old, cliché thriller-action vid from Earth, I'm guessing you're a hitman," the dancer said. Murky waters continued to flow to the drain, grime from the dancer's hair and more caked-up blood muddling the tile. "A hitman with a heart, killing evil men, then discovering that they have a hostage, a child or a female hostage in particular. Bonus points if both. Ugh. God, this situation is a typical plot of a hitman vid and I hate it."
"From what you're telling me, it seems humans tend to romanticize this profession in the works of fiction they create," Thane comments, the edge of his mouth tugging. Whether it is a grimace or a ghost of a smirk, another soul couldn't tell.
"And from what I can piece together so far, I'm guessing that you are a hitman, and that you aren't human," the dancer triumphantly exclaims, leaning her head against the door with a small thud. There was no denying that Thane chuckled.
"Well played, Miss…?"
"Now hang on, I'm still the one asking questions. Why would I give you my name if I'm not even sure what you're planning to do to me? You must have an angle in this. Is this about sex? I look like shit, so that can't be it. Money? I don't have any credits to pay-"
"I understand your caution," Thane interrupts as he folded his arms together. "Be assured that helping you is a conscious choice that I have done out of pity for an innocent. Nothing more."
"Altruism? In Omega? Am I alive?" the dancer asks rhetorically, but Thane had a response.
"You're here and not in the sea."
"Pardon?" she asks once more, not understanding his choice of words. "My mistake. I did not consider that humans have their own idea of an afterlife," Thane corrects himself.
"I don't believe in an afterlife. Surprise." the dancer replies, reaching for the soap on the rack placed over the closed toilet. "People usually think I'm a freak when I say that, so I understand if you do."
"Not at all. I find it intriguing."
Bar the flowing water, the tenement is silent.
"There must be something I can call you," Thane breaks the silence. "Can I just use any name?" the human on the other side of the door responds.
"You may," Thane replies, letting his arms fall from his chest to his sides. There is silence again. Thane assumes that she is thinking.
"Kara. Call me Kara."