Grim. That's how the skyline looked as Jack set her eyes upon it. But she was apathetic. Another devastated city on a planet wrecked by war hardly fazed her. She was wholly consumed with the idea vengeance. This city was just another pale, blurred background to the canvas of her life. The foreground of which was spackled with vivid, bright hues of blood red. Rage was an emotion she knew all too well.
The Golden Gate Bridge had been pedestrianized and made into a greenway sometime in the early 22nd century with the advent of air-cars. It was no longer necessary to drive across the grandiose suspension bridge in order to reach Marin County. So the bridge became a 2,737 meter long park for citizens and tourists alike to enjoy. Its once quaint, peaceful walkways and elegantly manicured gardens had been roasted to ash alongside whatever unlucky revelers happened to be present when the Reapers attacked. It was a grisly scene—one that Jack was numb to. It was the same scene she'd witnessed on half a dozen worlds on a half a dozen of battlefields. She wasn't sure she was even capable of feeling the sadness that had encapsulated her own student's experiences throughout the war. But their demise had struck a deep chord within her. It boiled her blood.
The bridge rose like half-assembled scaffolding from the murk of gray fog that rolled in over San Francisco bay. A gnarly gap in the center of the bridge left brittle looking, jagged beams strutting into the salty ocean air. Both iconic towers were scorched black, apparently having been targeted by the Reapers. A smattering of air-cars lay as smashed up refuse on the bridge's surface.
Debris and wreckage was afloat in the bay itself. There were destroyed boats and ferries, remnants of Alliance troop transports and gunships, shattered civilian aircrafts and detritus from the decimated cities that encircled the bay. Grisly, bloated corpses could be seen caught in the currents which trapped them in the bay. Some were pecked at by seagulls, who had not been frightened away by the Reapers campaign of slaughter. Nevertheless the birds had such a selection to feast on that even months after the war there were still lost souls adrift which the ravenous birds could descend upon. Some said they'd acquired the taste for human flesh and weren't averse to attacking the unwary in savage flocks.
San Francisco was far behind Vancouver on the path to recovery.
Walking the cracked sidewalks and stepping over the charbroiled skeletons of the poor civilians that never made it out didn't make the scene much brighter. But like Vancouver, San Francisco already had its own budding unofficial economy. People were hawking goods; scavenged materials, jury-rigged electronics, firearms, fish of questionable quality caught from the bay, and more.
Jack's boots kicked along pebbles as she made her way across one of the old piers that had been transformed into a local market. But there was a nefarious edge to the place.
Vendors dealt in human flesh—apparently slavers taking advantage of the lack of government oversight or restriction. Jack could see stalls of beaten and broken people corralled together and looking miserable. Refugees from the war. Well-armed, disparate guards with second-hand arms and armor protected the stock. It was the sort of thing she was accustomed to seeing in the torturous years of her youth. The scum preyed on those too weak to protect themselves. Assuredly, this would end when the Systems Alliance or local government returned to power. But who knew when that would be. And whenever it did happen the scum would have made plenty of money off their trade and the slaves will have been shipped off-world to whatever terrible fate awaited them.
"This place is wretched," Jason Prangley remarked glumly.
"This is what most of the Terminus and the Traverse look like, kid," Jack told him pointedly. "People aren't nice…" Her voice was low, but seething.
As they moved into the city a dense warren of makeshift hovels and ramshackle tents sprung up around them like mushrooms in the gloom of the shadows of fallen skyscrapers. Wretched people shuffled past, dressed in filthy rags and looking emaciated. There were no Alliance food centers here, only the misery of the war.
San Francisco, the entire Bay Area for that matter, had prospered in the 21st century as the center of the world's development of quantum mechanics and related technology. The entire region had become a centerpiece of research and technological development. More than a dozen major corporations that dealt with interstellar travel and twice as many defense contractors called the Bay Area home. It had been a lively and thriving economic center with a population well over eighteen million. The Reapers targeted it for these reasons. It was an alluring target for their harvest.
"So what are we doing here?" Prangley questioned annoyingly as they made their way beyond a few vendors selling dismal looking produce.
"Looking for someone that can tell me where flights off-world can be chartered."
"But why?"
Jack sighed. "Because that asshole I smoked in Vancouver said his team was using a transport service here in Frisco to get David out of the system."
"But why San Francisco?"
Jack stopped abruptly and wheeled on the youngster. "Because look at this place! It's a fucking shithole, Prangley. Do you see any cops or soldiers around here? Any Alliance uniforms?"
Prangley blinked several times, somewhat taken aback by the sudden burst of emotion. He knew Jack was volatile, or he had heard that. But she'd always managed to maintain her cool in front of her team of biotics. "No. No I don't," Prangley admitted quietly.
"Exactly, it's the perfect spot to smuggle someone you kidnapped. There can't be many sophisticated services operating out here. We're looking for something like a tramp freighter."
They continued along, picking their way through the slum-like remains of San Francisco. They casually walked along an avenue lined with booths that had stools pulled up alongside. Revelers and drunks sat perched like gargoyles upon them, sipping at a myriad of cocktails and beers—whatever could be salvaged and sold after the war. Two husky men turned dreamily on their perches; lips trembling from intoxication, eyes glazed over from hallex but watching hawk-like as Jack passed.
"Hey," one of them slurped from drooping jowls. A sheen of sweat glossed over his doughy features.
"Hey!" the other shouted as Jack continued to walk. His face was pockmarked, eyes sullen with lids fluttering from the excess narcotics. There were pouches of purplish flesh below his bloodshot eyes. "He's talking to you, girl."
Jack reluctantly stopped. Her mouth was mottled in an angry frown, but she hadn't turned to face the motley pair.
"You're not bad," the first said in a slurred tone. "How much for both of us?"
Prangley's mouth was agape and he stood frozen for a moment, awestruck at the audacity of their proposition.
"C'mon girl. We've got plenty of credits," the second man sneered. His high-pitched voice was like nails on a chalk board.
"Why don't you to polish each other off instead?" Jack queried dryly.
The first man recoiled at the jab, his jowls swayed ever-so-lightly from the head jerk. "You bitch."
"I don't know who you think you are slu-" His voice swelled into a high-pitched squeal. As he was lifted from his seat, an ominous purple aura surrounded his slender frame.
"You have something to say, dickhead?" Jack asked. She finally turned her head to the man floating ten meters over his friend yelping. "Didn't think so."
With a flick of her wrist she brought the thin-framed man down hard. His torso crashed into the bar, shattering two of the cocktail glasses there. His legs clattered into the stool he'd been sitting on. It teetered over forcefully and he let out a heavy sigh as the air escaped his lungs. Before his body came to a full rest, another flick of Jack's wrist sent him careening over the bar into a shelf of liquor. The bottles shattered, drenching the man in alcohol and shards of glass.
The one with the jowls leapt to his feet, more from fright than any intention to menace the powerful biotic. Jack's power surged only marginally as she yanked him toward her with a biotic pull. He howled as he felt his feet lift off the ground. His bowels sloshed around inside as the feeling of weightlessness took hold. Then, just as it did, a shockwave slammed into his portly frame. He launched backward, hit the bar, and spun over it starfish-like where he joined his friend in the shattered remnants of the bar's liquor stock.
Nearby patrons stared at Jack in trepidation, others snickered with amusement. But all were certain of one thing: Don't mess with that one.
"Let's go, Prangley."
Further along the deep thrum of base and heavy electronic synths vibrated the cracked asphalt. Neon lights and bright paint advertised a club called Hades. A distressed wall with deep fissures and a lot of graffiti framed a freshly refurbished and ornately designed entrance that acted as the gateway into the music-fueled halls of deprivation beyond. Jack stopped outside and glanced at the entrance, stylized by huge round arches decorated with thin veil like material whose lavender color blinked in a myriad of tones, reflecting the bright lights inside.
"No cover for ladies," the krogan doorman said gruffly. "But that kid needs to pay twenty credits."
"What are we doing?" Jason questioned confusedly. I thought we were here to find David, not dance. He thought.
"We need someone with information," Jack told him with a wave of her hand. "Information brokers are always hanging out in seedy places like this."
"How do you know?"
"Well, aside from all my years of experience?" She looked over at the krogan doorman. "You guys have asari dancers?"
"We do."
Jack turned back to Prangley. "That's how I know."
Prangley paid the doorman and the two stepped inside. The hallway was alive with undulating cones of lights in multitudes of color. They were bathed in the light which swirled around them, blinking to the beat of the bass that writhed up from deeper in the bowels of the club. As they continued on, down a winding set of stairs and another lengthy hallway they began to see some of the club-goers. Pairs and even trios of hallucinating partiers too consumed by the booze or drugs they'd induced to be interested in Jack and Jason gyrated against one another to the beat of the blaring tones that coiled upward like thick clouds of smoke from below.
Jason's eyes were drawn to a pair of girls in tight-fitting club dresses writhing against one another. His lips parted slightly, but no words were uttered. Not far off a seedy looking human in shades and a cheap suit watched like a sentinel on duty.
"Keep moving, idiot," Jack told him. "You can't afford those ladies."
"What?" Prangley blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You think what you see in here is free? Everything is for sale."
"Even them?" His head gestured toward the two girls whose eyes seemed to beckon the young biotic toward them. One reached out with a wanting, slender arm.
"Especially them," Jack said over the sound of the music. She nodded toward the sunglass-wearing human in the shadows. "You can pay him if you've got the credits."
Prangley shook his head. This was a world he didn't understand. "I'm good."
Jack chortled. "I figured. C'mon."
The hallway opened into an expansive hall where the music fluttered out in amazing fidelity washing over the myriad of dancers like a pulsating wave of fluctuating tones. They skirted the throng of partiers who swayed to the sounds, too high or drunk to care about the dismal world outside these walls.
At the bar an unlikely salarian with a scar over his right eye was polishing a few beer glasses. "Drink?" he questioned simply. The vibrant lights bounced off his deep black eyes.
"No. Information," Jack said simply, leaning toward him.
"What sort?" the bartender responded with a tilted head.
"About freight shipped off-world."
The salarian sniffed the stale air, but didn't respond. Instead he continued to clean the glass in his hand with an old rag. Jack slid some credits across the bar. "Head around there," he motioned toward a row of booths nearby. "There's a volus. Might be able to help you out."
"Thanks."
The booths were filled with yet more entranced customers, consuming beverages and libations. Others were snorting red sand directly from the glass and mirrored tabletops. Women in short dresses and asari dancers wearing even less twirled to the beats high overhead on platforms, while still more oscillated on poles nearby.
Then the aforementioned volus, presumably, came into sight. He stood next to an empty booth nodding his head and tapping his foot to the speedy beat of the charged music. His diminutive little form was clad in a reinforced pressure suit. Jack's eyes locked on some of the more overt features; reinforced joint coupling, armored torso carapace and larger capacitors for shield boost tech. He was ludicrously armed too, packing an M-23 Katana shotgun, two bandoliers of grenades, recon mines and a customized M-77 Paladin heavy pistol to top it all off. Despite the fearsome appearance he was hoping to craft it was more comical than anything. He'd even wrapped a red bandana around his suited forehead.
"I hear you've got information," Jack said as an introduction as she and Prangley drew up behind him.
The volus shot out an open palm as if indicating he couldn't be bothered. As the music began to crescendo his head banging became more intense. The tapping of his foot ran up the length of his leg and suddenly that was bobbing to the beat too. Then his hips began to sway and before long he was shaking his weapon-laden butt around in front of Prangley and Jack.
The two humans watched, aghast, for a few moments as the little volus shook his money maker in front of them.
"C'mon, this guy doesn't know shit," Jack commented. The song was drawing to an end as she turned to leave.
"What can I do for you, Earth-clan?" the volus suddenly asked through the mechanical grating of his suit's voice box. "I apologize for the delay –kttch—but I love that song."
"Uh, okay," Jack stammered, turning back to address the peculiar volus. "Are you an information broker?"
"I am. Of sorts."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I can get information you seek –kttch—if I don't already have it," the volus replied.
"I need information on people transporting someone off planet," Jack explained. "Who provides that kind of service around here?"
"An unpleasant group called Lexington –kttch—does," the volus remarked amid the ratcheting sound of his breathing. "They offer trips via contracted flights, –kttch —principally for people who want to avoid discerning authorities."
"Looks like we have some skulls to crack, Prangley," Jack commented, looking back at the younger biotic.
"That won't –kttch—be a very wise course of action," the volus said. "You might get past their security, but they won't –kttch—give you information willingly."
"I can be very persuasive," Jack told him menacingly. She closed her fist which ignited in a purplish ball of biotic luminescence.
"Be that as it may, -kttch—the information is encrypted in their systems. VI protocols prevent any –kttch—unauthorized access. I can help with that, -kttch—for a price."
"What is that going to cost me?"
"We can discuss that –kttch-," the volus said as he offered a stubby hand with equally stubby fingers.
Jack hesitantly grasped his little hand.
He shook hers with surprising force.
"You can call me Dabney Kur."