Chapter 5: Fast Food and Faster Skycars

It was quiet at first.

Part of the reason was because of technological progress as far as skycars were concerned. The one we had rented was very new. Come to think of it, all the skycars presently in the air around us were very new. (1) Top of the line. Faster, more efficient and quieter than the vehicles you'd find on any other world. It wasn't completely silent—the propulsive drive at the back gave the usual whine you'd hear around contragravity vehicles. But it was fairly quiet nonetheless.

The main reason was the fact that Miranda and I were occupied with our own thoughts. Chances were pretty damn good that we were thinking the same thing: Why did our contact establish, well, contact two days ahead of schedule? Why did he or she want to meet at some fast food joint instead of somewhere inside the Grand Mirage as arranged? How long had our contact been on Illium? Had he or she been watching us all along? Did we slip up somewhere? Why wait until now to contact us? Why contact us two days early? Why change the meeting location? Had our contact been on Illium the whole time? Did we…

…round and round the wheels in my noggin spun, questions churning away. Sometimes they changed, but the gist was always the same. The worst part was that we had no way of knowing. The only way for us to find out was to go to the closest Fishdog Food Factory, meet the contact and play it by ear.

That's usually my forte. Playing things by ear, I mean. Taking in the situation at hand and the overall objectives given to me, devising a plan on the fly, adapting it as needed—which usually occurred when the best laid plans of the brass went south. (2) And this definitely qualified as a set of plans that had definitely gone south.

In an effort to extract myself from the never-ending cycle of question, I checked the chronometer. 1539. Eleven minutes to get to the new meeting spot. We would probably make it without breaking any local speed limits, but it would be pretty close. No time to sit down, contact the squad and make a new set of careful, well-thought out plans. No doubt that was the point. All we had time to do was go back to our room—ostensibly to put away a pricey knick-knack and let Miranda change—and move a few dresses and blouses around. Adapting a pre-arranged signal system as needed to fit a new scenario. But it cost us a few precious minutes.

Still, we could probably make it on time.

"Will you please stop that?"

Those were the first words Miranda had said since we'd taken off. Which made the terse, snapping tone in her voice all the more startling. "What?"

"Tapping on the door. It's distracting."

I looked at her blankly, then turned my attention to the skycar door. Sure enough, my hand was drumming on the door in a steady, repetitive pattern. Nervous twitch, I guess. (3) How long had I been doing that? "Oops," I winced, jerking my hand away. "Sorry."

"Honestly," Miranda said exasperatedly. "I know you're not driving, so you don't have anything to do with your hands—"

"There is something that comes to mind," I interrupted, "but then you'd get distracted and we might get into an accident."

Miranda ignored that and continued "—but can you find something else to do that's less annoying?"

"This is the song that never ends… it just goes on and on my friend…" (4)

"I said less annoying, not more annoying."

"Oh."

"Can you please take this seriously?"

"I am."

"Really?"

"Well… okay," I admitted. "No, I'm not. Just worried about the possibility that the mission is blown, I guess. There's a chance that we're worrying over nothing and the original plan will still work. Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of this."

"Maybe you are," Miranda said. "There could be a simple and innocuous explanation for why our mysterious contact moved up the day of the exchange and changed the location without any warning."

I shot her a look. "But you don't believe that. Do you?"

Miranda sighed. "Based on what little information we have, I think it's just as likely that our cover identities and our mission have been compromised."

"What I wouldn't give to have Legion run the numbers," I said thoughtfully. "Or even EDI."

"Focus, Shepard."

"Right. Focus. If we go in looking nervous and twitchy and the contact didn't suspect us, then he or she will wonder why we're acting so odd, which could potentially tip him or her off. For now, the best thing we can do is go in as if everything's okay and going according to plan."

"Agreed."

"But, on the off chance that the jig is up and Plan A's a loss, we need a new plan that we can implement on a moment's notice."

"Yes. A plan that takes into account the lack of hardsuits."

"Which wouldn't matter considering how long it takes to get into those things," I reminded her.

"I've been thinking of a way to address that."

"Really?"

"Still in the planning stages. Nothing concrete."

"Damn it."

"I know."

"Well, we can factor in the lack of sniper rifles, submachine guns, test-tube krogan and other backup. So what do we have?"

"My biotics," Miranda started.

"My cloak—all six seconds of it," I added.

"Our pistols—with disruptor mods."

"Our omni-tools."

"We can do a lot of damage if we have to."

"And we make a good team."

"But there's no denying the fact that we may be walking into a trap."

I'd been thinking the same thing. "Change of venue to something we haven't even begun to map out yet."

"And we're operating on the contact's schedule."

"His territory. His timetable. His rules."

"Or her," Miranda was quick to point out.

"Or her."

"We're playing a whole new game here."

"Whose rules we don't even know yet."

"So either we have to be really fast learners…"

"…or we'll have to change the game."

That gave me an idea. I leaned forward and activated the skycar's operating systems. "Shepard?" Miranda inquired. "What are you doing?"

"Preparing to change the game if we have to."

"Plan B?"

"Plan B."

"Which involves tinkering with the operating systems?"

"Yep."

Miranda thought about that. "All right. Just one question."

"Yeah?"

"Do you have to do it while I'm driving?"

I think Miranda was concerned that my tinkering with the skycar's operating systems would somehow cause the software to crash, which would mean that we would crash. As if that would ever happen. It's not as if I was writing a brand new code, after all. I was just taking advantage of the existing software and functions and making a minor tweak or two when needed.

Still, I had to concede that Miranda might have a point. And this was the first time she'd been driving in at least a year, if not two or three. So I decided to sit back, study the user's manual, and restrict my preparations for Plan B to the simpler, safer stuff. The trickier parts, the things that required circumventing or flat-out deleting certain protocols, I saved until after we arrived at our destination and touched down.

I know. I'm so kind and generous.

By the time I was done, we only had a minute left. This might've been enough time if it wasn't for the fact that our meeting location was conveniently located at the end of a cul-de-sac, one that was a hundred metres from where Miranda had parked—there were a lot of skycars parked there. Probably because this was one of the few streets of Nos Astra that didn't have parking meters.

My eyes quickly cased the room as I entered Fishdog Food Factory; partly out of habit, partly because the back of my neck had begun to tingle. A pair of customers at eleven o'clock, eating at a table near the front counter. Another pair of customers munching away near the cashier stall at one o'clock. Over at three o'clock, five customers were chatting away at a large table. Two more customers were nursing their drinks, taking advantage of their window seat location—located as close to six o'clock as possible without actually blocking the door—to admire the wonderful sights of the dead-end alley. Yet another customer was just sitting down with her order at another window seat location; this one at seven o'clock. And then there was the trio at ten o'clock who were too preoccupied with their omni-tools to eat. (5)

Finally, there was the customer sitting at a table that was more or less in the centre of the restaurant. Human. Male. Looked kinda bland and nondescript. In fact, he'd probably blend into any crowd, if it wasn't for the cap and oversized jersey that proudly displayed the neon colours and butt-ugly logo of the Washington Hackers biotiball team—the prearranged clothes that our contact was supposed to wear.

The tingling at the back of my neck escalated to a frantic tap-dancing. Our contact was in the middle of the restaurant. All the other customers just happened to be sitting around him, positioned in such a way that they could have a clear line-of-sight at the contact's table without accidentally shooting each other. Of course, it could be a coincidence. Maybe they weren't all working together. Maybe they were all nothing more than fifteen oblivious civvies. Maybe the customers-slash-potential-bad-guys didn't outnumber Miranda and I by a ratio of eight to one.

In my experience, the universe is never that accommodating.

Only years of training and bloody experience kept me from reaching for my pistol as I walked towards the contact. Only my well-honed lack of self-preservation kept me from doing the smart, sensible and sane thing—running out the door screaming and babbling at the top of my lungs. (6)

"Hi there," I said. "Hackers fan, huh?"

"That's right," the contact said.

"Think they'll ever beat the Usaru Maestros?" (7)

"Maybe not. But I've always found it more rewarding to root for the underdog."

Well, now we'd exchanged the correct phrases—including the obligatory dog reference because Cerberus is, you know, a dog—which meant that we weren't talking to some random biotiball nut and he wasn't talking to a random pair of civvies. Seeing the seats that were conveniently pulled out for us, Miranda and I sat down.

"You two hungry?" he asked. "There's a lot of stuff here. Varren burgers. Varren nuggets. Pyjak burgers. Pyjak nuggets. Roast varren leg. Or if you want, they've got a hampyren special."

"'Hampyren'?" Miranda repeated.

"Space hamster stuffed inside a pyjak stuffed inside a varren," I whispered. "Galactic version of a turducken." (8)

"Marvelous," Miranda deadpanned.

"But if you ask me, nothing beats a good ol' fashioned human cheeseburger." To demonstrate, our contact took a healthy bite out of his good ol' fashioned human cheeseburger, groaning in delight with every chew. Which reminded me that I hadn't had anything to eat since the all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast at the Grand Mirage. Another reason to dislike this guy, aside from his affiliations.

"Sorry for not waiting for you," he apologized. "I was starving."

My stomach chose that moment to make its simple, primal desires known. Very loudly.

"Guess I'm not the only one," he grinned. "Come on, order something."

"We can wait," Miranda said firmly.

"She's not very fond of this establishment," I lied. "Last time we were here, she asked for a varren burger—medium rare, extra pickles. And, well, let's just say she didn't get what she wanted."

"The burger was so well done it was overcooked," Miranda played along, adding a very convincing scowl. "And it didn't have a single pickle. At all."

"Blasphemy," I whispered to the contact, pretending that I'd just divulged a great secret. Then I winced—no need to pretend there. Miranda was wearing heels, you see, while I… I was wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers. Rather than the armoured boots that came with my hardsuit. Yet another reason why I felt so exposed. "Um, I mean, terrible, terrible service," I tried again, shaking my head gravely. "I ask you, what happened to customer service? What happened to the customer is always right? No one cares about that any more. It's a crying shame, let me tell you. Why back in—"

"You'll have to excuse him," Miranda interrupted. "He gets a little overboard when he's blatantly backpedalling."

"Really?" the contact said, glancing my way and almost succeeding in masking his contempt. "You don't say."

I'd be offended, but at some point I'd apparently decided that Ben Pillar was an embarrassment, blundering idiot and all-around nincompoop. Maybe I was laying it on a bit thick, but who's to say that TIMmy didn't drop the ball from time to time and hire the occasional dim bulb to join Cerberus's ranks?

"So if you can put down your cheeseburger for just a moment, maybe we can get this over with," I suggested. "Sooner we wrap up this meeting, sooner I can get something to eat. Somewhere that doesn't put me in the doghouse."

See? I can slip in Cerberus-approved dog references too. Go me.

"I'm afraid we can't do that," the contact sighed, putting down his cheeseburger.

Aw, crap.

"Why not?" I asked, ignoring all the alarm bells in my head. "Don't tell me it's because we're late."

"We were only late by a few seconds," Miranda added.

"Traffic sucked," I explained.

"So did the parking," Miranda grumbled.

"Which wouldn't have been an issue if we'd met somewhere at the Grand Mirage."

"Like we'd originally planned."

"True," the contact interjected, rudely breaking up the back-and-forth rhythm Miranda and I had established. Reason number three not to like this guy. "But it's easier to lock this place down than an entire hotel and casino."

I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if my simple, boring, wonderfully peaceful Plan A cried out in terror… and was suddenly, abruptly and very rudely silenced. (9)

"And why would you want to do something like that?" I asked innocently.

Our contact chose to answer my question with another question. "You know why I asked the two of you to arrive early?"

"Nope," I replied.

"Do tell," Miranda implored.

Apparently the contact had never read the Evil Overlord List, because he promptly complied. (10) "I was concerned that the two of you might be followed. Despite its numerous achievements and accomplishments, Cerberus has suffered a number of setbacks over the years."

Yes. Because experimenting on kids was a great achievement. Fooling around with geth, Thorian creepers and rachni were all wonderful accomplishments. And consistently losing control of all those projects, racking up a body count and forcing yours truly to clean up the mess was just a setback.

"I thought it might be wise to watch your backs and make sure no one was following you. Say, an Alliance spec-ops squad. Or one of the Special Task Groups. Or a damn Spectre."

Which should have been really difficult, if not impossible… unless he knew what Ben Pillar and Katie O'Connell looked like. Maybe he'd met them before. Which meant he made us from the beginning. Which meant that any faint hope I might have had of salvaging Plan A had now been thoroughly trampled.

Our contact chuckled. "You know, I had hoped to arrive before you guys. Do some initial reconnaissance, that sort of thing. But that didn't really pan out. Can you believe my freighter's coolant systems seized up mid-flight? We were drifting for almost a day while the crew made repairs. I can't tell you how relieved I was when we finally landed at the spaceport this morning."

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad after all. Sounded like he hadn't been watching our every move from the moment we'd set foot on Illium. Unless he was lying. There was that horrible possibility. But the contact's clear desire to brag about his foresight and initiative and all-around brilliance suggested otherwise. Besides, the sensation at the back of my neck had slowed down to a tingle.

The contact's eyes narrowed. "Imagine my shock when I found out that the man and woman checked into Ben Pillar's and Katie O'Connell's room were not Ben Pillar and Katie O'Connell."

"Surprise!" I offered.

He didn't seem excited. What a shame.

All right. So the contact hadn't beaten us to Illium after all. Didn't mean we were out of the woods yet. (11) We still needed to know whether we were just slightly screwed, screwed, seriously screwed or catastrophically screwed. With my luck, it'd be the last one. "So what did you do next?" I asked, leaning forward as if he'd been telling me an exciting and suspenseful tale.

The contact leaned forward as well, mirroring my movements. "Well I was going to follow you. But I had to wait for you to leave first. Either you two were sleeping in—which is not like Pillar or O'Connell, by the way—or the two of you were screwing each other's brai—oh for God's sake! You were!"

Um. Oops. Slight lapse of discipline and tradecraft there.

"Well I have to give you credit for going the extra mile," the contact shook his head. "Been a while since I saw anyone go that far for the sake of the cover."

"Perhaps you weren't looking very hard," Miranda suggested. "So you made us. And you waited for us. Then what?"

"Well I followed you. Or I tried to. Not sure if you're really good at losing a tail or you're that bad a driver."

Choice number one. Obviously. (12)

"Once I lost you, I knew I needed a new plan to figure out what had happened and where the real Pillar and O'Connell were. So I laid a trap."

"A trap?"

The contact gave me a withering look. "Please. You replaced Pillar and O'Connell, passed yourselves off as them—right down to all the frequent sex—and you managed to give me the slip. Don't pretend that you're surprised."

Yeah, the nincompoop routine had run its course. "I'm guessing that some of the people here are interested in more than a bit of varren?" I offered with a smile.

He smiled back. His smile was a bit colder. "Try all of them."

Okay then. Intel gathered. Level of SNAFU established. (13)

Just then, the doors opened. Two humans walked in. Their eyes were hard. As hard as the contact's. And the other fifteen 'customers,' all of whom had suddenly found the two of us very, very interesting. I hoped my hair wasn't dirty or something. "They came alone, boss," one of the newcomers reported. "No one was following them."

That was apparently a cue for the so-called customers, all of whom got to their feet. Proof, if any was needed by this point, that we were on our own. The odds had just gone up to nine to one. Story of my life.

Could be worse, I suppose. The hired goons had one thing in common with us: they had to remain as inconspicuous as possible. That meant they couldn't protect themselves with military-grade hardsuits. Nor could they pack heavy weapons, sniper rifles, assault rifles or shotguns—not if they wanted to pass themselves off as random customers. All they could do was walk around in civvie jumpsuits, bring portable shield generators and stuff pistols in their pockets—just like Miranda and I had.

Besides, it was a safe bet that none of these guys had anywhere near our combined battlefield experience. They probably hadn't gone up against geth or Collectors on more than one occasion. They probably hadn't fought together so often that they knew each other's strengths and weaknesses. Or how the other guy might react in any given situation. The best way to compensate for any mistakes or take advantage of an opportunity. They sure as hell hadn't faced a constant, daily stream of life-or-death firefights where the odds were vastly stacked against them.

And they didn't have a plan B. One that should be starting right about now. All I had to do was stall a little longer. I turned my attention back to the contact, who had a wide grin on his face. "So the two of you came all by yourselves," he said. "Perfect."

"Friends of yours, I take it?" I guessed.

"It's amazing what—or, should I say, who—you can find when you put your mind to it," the contact replied.

"You just grabbed random thugs off the street and hired them as extra muscle?" Miranda sniffed.

"Hardly random thugs," the contact corrected me. "Eclipse isn't the only game in Nos Astra, you know."

True. But even Eclipse had nonhuman members. The fact that every one of the contact's backup were all human was quite striking. "I know Cerberus can move fast, but even they can't move that fast," I said.

"Sadly, you're correct," the contact sighed. "Fortunately, I found some allies who were… acceptable."

Interesting.

"Now then. I'm sure the Illusive Man will be very interested to meet the two of you."

He had no idea.

"But before we take you away, I have one question: who. are. you?"

"The name's Carmichael," I lied. "Charles Carmichael." (14)

"Sarah Walker," Miranda introduced herself.

"We're with Alliance Intelligence," I said. "And you're in big trouble."

There were a lot of chuckles. "Really," the contact stated. "You don't say."

"I do say," I insisted.

"He does," Miranda chimed in. "He really does."

"Explain," the contact demanded.

"Sure," I shrugged. "After you answer my question. Seems only fair. We did just answer yours, after all."

The contact rolled his eyes. "Oh for the love of—what is it?"

"Does this place have insurance?"

The contact looked confused. "What do you—"

"Hey, what's that light?" one of the contact's hired goons interrupted.

"Is that a—"

"MOVE!"

That was the only warning TIMmy's stooge and his guns-for-hire had before our rental skycar crashed into the restaurant. It took out the doors, shattered all the windows and hit four of the contact's rent-a-thugs. Those unlucky souls soon discovered firsthand the limitations of portable shield generators—they were designed to deflect bullets, not rampaging vehicles following preprogrammed routes. Or vehicles whose safety protocols had been disengaged.

Hee, hee.

Those four thugs went flying like bowling pins. Their ribs, limbs and necks made a nice snapping noise as they hit the walls of the restaurant—or they would have, if all the commotion caused by the hacked skycar didn't drown it out. Not that we had the luxury to listen, since everyone was jumping, leaping or diving out of the way as the skycar continued on its course.

Well, some people did a bit more than that. As the skycar blithely plowed over and through every chair and table in its way, Miranda scrambled to her feet, snapped her wrist up and launched an EMP, frying the shields of the three bad guys who'd been sitting at 10 o'clock. While their shields shorted out, she made a break for the jagged hole where the door used to be, whipping out her pistol and firing at the seven o'clock thug who had the misfortune of being in the way. As the skycar hit the front counter and turned it to smithereens, I snapped my own wrist up—not as stylishly as Miranda, but it was good enough—and launched a ball of plasma at the suddenly vulnerable mercs before pulling out my own pistol and following Miranda's lead.

Unfortunately, things didn't go quite as planned. True, the thug we'd targeted took several hits. But none of them were kill-shots—trying to run and gun with any kind of accuracy is extremely difficult, if not impossible. To make matters worse, the remaining ten guys—the contact had pulled out a gun of his own and joined the fun—had recovered remarkably quickly and were now firing at us. No way we could get out of here without getting mowed down.

Skidding to a halt, I quickly knocked over a nearby table. As Miranda and I ducked behind the improvised cover, I assessed the situation. The skycar had finally come to a stop somewhere in the bowels of the Fishdog Food Factory kitchen. We had four deaths by vehicular homicide and three deaths by burning—no, one of them was staggering to his feet and slapping out the last couple licks of flame. I fixed that with a couple well-placed pistol shots when it looked like they'd slapped out the worst of the first. All right: seven down, eleven to go. Just over five-to-one odds. Not bad, all things considered. But it wasn't great by any stretch of the imagination.

"Any ideas?" Miranda asked.

"Blow up the skycar to even the odds?" I suggested.

"In an enclosed space," Miranda stated flatly. "With the two of us in it. There's a very high chance that we'll die immediately in the explosion. Or there's the high chance that we'll die in the very short term from fourth-degree burns, smoke inhalation, shrapnel damage and blunt force trauma. Or the moderately high chance that we'll die a slow and prolonged death by cancer, thanks to the prolonged and concentrated exposure to element zero dust that will be released from the skycar's propulsive systems."

"Well, sure it sounds bad when you put it that way," I frowned. "I see your point, though. We'll table that as Plan B."

"And Plan A would be…" Miranda prompted.

"Shooting our way out," I shrugged. "Just to try something new."

"There's nothing novel about that," she pointed out.

"We can light them up with plasma."

"Nor that."

"Biotics?"

"Still the same."

"We did take out four guards with the skycar," I finally tried.

Miranda thought about that one. "All right, I'll give you that much."

"You're so kind."

"I try."

"From three?"

"Sure."

I held up three fingers, silently counted down and pumped my fist at 'zero'. Miranda hit the closest bad guys with another EMP while I distracted the others with my appalling lack of fire discipline. (15) Then it was Miranda's turn to cover me while I turned the pair of thugs she'd attacked into human flambé.

Nine to go.

Realizing I was low on bullets, I ducked down. I quickly consulted my HUD before leaning out to the right and targeting the seven o'clock thug. Well, he used to be the seven o'clock thug. Now it was more like eleven o'clock, but you get the idea. Using up the last couple shots of my thermal clip, I managed to take him down.

Eight to go.

Then I pulled my head back, ejected the spent clip and slammed in a new one. That left me with one clip loaded and… one clip to spare. "Two clips left," I hissed to Miranda. "You?"

"Three."

A telltale glint caught my eye. "I'm going for more clips," I whispered, motioning to my right. "Cover me."

Miranda nodded before lifting up from a crouch and snapping off several shots, each scoring a direct hit despite the supposed randomness. I lunged out towards the two clips I'd spotted, grabbed them and somehow got back under cover intact and unharmed despite the ridiculously obvious target I'd just offered.

"Don't let them get away," the contact snapped. "Spread out and advance."

The bad guys immediately complied. Four of them moved forward to their right—our left—hugging the rear wall, moving towards a hallway at the back, which led to the kitchen, the bathrooms and, more importantly, the rear entrance. The contact and the remaining three guys went the other way.

I bit out a curse as I saw what they were doing. Realizing that their advantage in numbers was quickly dwindling, they decided to adopt a more aggressive tactic. One that would quickly cut off any escape route and allow them to close in on our position. Well, positions plural considering that Miranda and I were hiding behind different tables. But the bad guys still had enough manpower that they could afford to split up and advance. And they had enough firepower to keep us pinned down.

Miranda saw that too. "Any ideas, Carmichael? Besides Plan B?"

Even when under fire and facing impending capture and defeat, she had the presence of mind to maintain our—new—cover. Not everyone can be cool under pressure like that. Just another sign of how remarkable she was.

But I digress.

If I was alone, I could make use of my cloak. Six seconds wasn't much, but I could get a lot of mileage out of the resulting confusion and hesitation. But that would mean abandoning Miranda to the Cerberus contact and his cronies. Somehow, I didn't think they were going to be gentle and understanding to her, not after we'd killed ten of their guys. And I really didn't want to think about what TIMmy would do once he got his manicured hands on her. I looked around for an idea. Broken doors and windows with spider web-cracks? No, I think the cost of paying for all the damage wasn't going to dissuade them. Broken tables and broken chairs? Somehow, I didn't think those sticks were going to break any bones. (16) I continued my visual sweep, firing off random shots and ducking my head to avoid all the return fire.

Then I got an idea. Call it Plan B 2.0.

I lifted my arm to launch another fireball, only to have my aim spoiled by bullets ricocheting off my rapidly dwindling shields. My arm jerked, scorching the ceiling instead of some hapless thug and setting off one of the sprinklers. The contact and his buddies took the indoor precipitation in stride and kept advancing step by step, laying down a steady stream of cover fire. As for the group that was getting drenched, well, they didn't let a silly thing like being water-logged slow them down.

Which was too bad, considering they were moving past the range of the sprinkler I set off. I tried to slow them down with a couple gunshots of my own. Unfortunately for me, it's not that effective when you're outnumbered four to one and have to constantly stop and duck because your shields blinked out again. And you can't afford to sit and wait for your shields to recharge because you'll have eight trigger-happy goons breathing down your neck.

Oh the joys of being me.

Casting a quick glance at my omni-tool, I saw that another dose of hot, hot plasma was ready. I didn't even aim this time. Well, I did, but I made it look like I was blindly waving my arm around and firing off a snap shot. Turned another section of ceiling black. Set off another sprinkler. Lost my shields again. And…

"Damn it!"

"What?"

"Bullet tore my sleeve."

"Are you hurt?"

"Um…" On the pretense of checking my HUD for the location of the bad guys and my omni-tool to see whether I could play another round of pyromaniac, I checked my arm. "No," I said at last.

It was only the latest threat of impending doom that spared me from one of Miranda's withering stares. "We're taking heavy fire. We could get captured. And you're upset because your clothes got torn?"

"Hey! This is expensive stuff!" I protested. "I've never spent this much on clothes before!"

I'm sure Miranda was rolling her eyes. "Believe me, I know. I can't believe you haven't heard of those brands or those designers before."

"I could offer a perfectly reasonable explanation for that, but I think it's time for you to do your thing."

"How convenient."

"No, really, it's time."

"Not yet."

"Miranda…" I flinched as a stray bullet chipped the table. You know things are getting bad when your supposedly indestructible piece of cover starts falling apart.

"Wait for it…"

"While we're young? And alive?"

"NOW!"

Miranda finally fired a modified pulse from her omni-tool. One that was recalibrated to deliver nothing more or less than a raw burst of electrical voltage. One that was aimed at the four hapless thugs who were completely soaked, sloshing through a puddle of water and were still getting rained on from above.

Suffice it to say that any threat they might have posed abruptly disintegrated. Along with their shields. There was some twitching and shaking and jerking about too. Maybe some smoke.

Somehow, I resisted the urge to make a cheap joke involving the words 'shocking' or 'electrifying.' Or watch the free albeit morbid entertainment. Instead, I leaned out and opened fire at the remaining group of bad guys. The things I do to save my ass…

Of course, my shields drained in the blink of an eye—and after all that waiting and sweating I did to let them recharge in peace. But I managed to knock out another goon's shields, which meant my next fireball set his clothes—and skin and hair—on fire. Eleven down, seven to go.

Miranda helped a bit. Mostly she was preoccupied with keeping an eye on the quartet we'd just electrocuted and putting them out of their misery. Six bad guys remaining… five… four… three…

We'd basically evened the odds by this point. The contact and his surviving buddies knew that, judging by the way they suddenly dove for cover. Time to turn the tables, I thought. Miranda had the same idea. "Cover me?"

"Of course."

I emptied the rest of my thermal clip to keep them pinned down. That gave Miranda the freedom to stand up, get an optimal angle and fire another EMP to fry their shields. Before they had a chance to realize what had happened, I popped to my feet like a jack-in-a-box and set them on fire. (17)

After all that, wrapping things up was fairly anticlimactic. More pistol shots, only this time we had the luxury of waiting for the optimal shot without worrying about losing our shields, getting our clothes torn or suffering a premature death. Once all the bad guys were down and most of the plasma fires were put out, I headed over to the contact, meandering around debris and scooping up the odd thermal clip along the way.

Somehow, the contact was still alive. Barely.

His hair was more or less burned off. Along with one of his eyebrows. And his clothes were definitely singed. He sported some nasty burns too. And if the bio-readings from my omni-tool were any indication, he wasn't doing so well. "So," I said. "That went well, huh?"

He glared at me.

"Now then. Maybe we continue where we left off."

More glaring.

"You know," I prompted. "We met. We chatted. Now you hand us something."

"Not happening," he gasped. Seemed to be having trouble getting his words out.

"Fine," I sighed. "We'll have to grope around until we find it. Hope you don't mind."

"Grope all you like," the contact said. Whatever he was going to say next was drowned out in a fit of coughing. Once the hacking and wheezing subsided, he continued. "Don't have it."

"What do you mean," I frowned.

"I mean, I... didn't... didn't bring it with me," he wheezed, his face slowly turning blue. "I... I hid it. And I've... alerted Cerberus. By now, backup plan's... acti... activated. You'll... never... find it."

That was all he managed to force out before he started convulsing. Foam bubbled out of the side of his mouth. I reached forward to do... I dunno... do something. Bring him around. Miranda grabbed my arm. "He's gone, Shepard."

I checked my omni-tool. She was right. The contact's life-signs had flat-lined. He was gone. The mission was blown.

Now what?

(1): The average age of a skycar on Illium in 2185 was nine months.

(2): A reference to the poem 'To a Mouse' by human poet Robert Burns, specifically the lines 'The best laid schemes of mice and men / Often go awry.' Shepard is explaining that no matter how carefully one plans an operation and attempts to address all possible contingencies—as he and the squad clearly did—unexpected developments inevitably arise that require adaptation.

(3): I would tend to interpret this as a sign of Shepard's comfort around Miranda that he was willing to let down his guard to this extent.

(4): A self-referential and perpetually repetitive children's song consisting of a single verse that naturally flows in a cyclical, infinite loop, written by the human writer/composer Norman Martin in 1988. Shepard knew that this was not what Miranda had intended. I believe this is an example of his usual coping mechanism: humour.

(5): A method of outlining the position of others in relation to oneself, using archaic analog chronometers as a guide. Twelve o'clock would be directly in front, three o'clock would be to one's right, six o'clock would be directly behind you and nine o'clock would be to one's left. Readers should be aware that two complete rotations, or twenty-four hours, comprised a standard human day, before humanity adopted Galactic Standard Time.

(6): Another example of humour, as the supposedly 'smart, sensible and sane' course of action he mentioned would actually increase the odds of getting him and Miranda killed.

(7): This sign and countersign exchange was quite timely, as the Washington Hackers had just played against the Usaru Maestros. While the Hackers did lose, they set a new record for the longest game ever played in the history of biotiball.

(8): A dish consisting of de-boned Earth birds—specifically a turkey, duck and chicken—which are stuffed inside each other. Contrary to what the name might suggest, the duck is actually stuffed inside the chicken, which in turn is stuffed inside the turkey. I should also note that Shepard found the very idea of the 'Hampyren' mildly disturbing, but only because he had a pet space hamster in his cabin.

(9): A modification on a quote from the 1977 human movie 'Star Wars,' which goes as follows: 'I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and was suddenly silenced.' Vid aficionados may be interested to know that, while this was the first Star Wars movie produced and released, it is the fourth movie in terms of chronology. I have been told, however, that true Star Wars fans consider the 'first three' movies—which formed a prequel trilogy—to be vastly inferior to the original trilogy, to the point where they'd rather pretend it never happened.

(10): One of several lists of suggestions, recommendations and actions for a competent villain—the aforementioned 'Evil Overlord' to avoid the mistakes and errors so frequently committed by super villains in human fictional works that they became well-known clichés. While the original lists were developed separately and independently during the early 1990s, they subsequently exchanged a great number of ideas until the two were effectively identical.

(11): A human saying to indicate that one continues to have problems or difficulties, despite the relative improvement of the situation.

(12): Most people, I'm sure, would beg to differ.

(13): A human acronym for 'situation normal: all fucked up,' though it can be modified to 'all fouled up' or some similarly inoffensive phrase. Originating from the military, it suggests that the present state of affairs is bad but, sadly enough, there is nothing new or surprising about that. The term 'snafu' can also be used to describe a large and unexpected problem. In this case, however, Shepard clearly meant the former and original expression.

(14): It took a lot of investigation, but I eventually found out that 'Charles Carmichael' was, in fact, a legend Shepard employed during some of his N7 missions.

(15): A military term meaning to fire the least amount of bullets required to accomplish your objective in order to avoid running out of ammunition at an inconvenient or potentially fatal time.

(16): An allusion to a human children's nursery rhyme that advises someone to avoid teasing or taunting, no matter how hurtful. One version, reportedly appearing in an 1862 issue of The Christian Recorder, goes as follows: 'Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me.' Another version—'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me'—appeared in the 1872 collection of short stories 'Tappy's Chicks: and Other Links Between Nature and Human Nature,' by Mrs. George Cupples. The phrase 'Sticks and stones' was subsequently used in songs, album titles, vid-show episode titles and even the occasional novel.

(17): A human children's toy consisting of a box with a crank. When the crank is turned, the box plays a melody. At some point—usually, but not always, the end of the melody—the lid pops open and a figure pop out of the box.