Upheaval – Zaeed Massani
–
Zaeed hated batarians.
He hated a lot of things, of course. You didn't earn a reputation as one of the deadliest mercs in a galaxy of a trillion beings without enduring a little hardship, and you didn't endure a little hardship without finding something to hate about it. In six decades of hard living Zaeed had come up with quite a list: he hated deserts. He hated being sick. He hated the salarians' pitiful excuses for food. He hated radios that only picked up static and propaganda for month after month. He hated fat slobs who thought the universe was a tourist trap. He hated bloody goddamn eye injuries. Hell, he'd managed to hate more than a few people in his life.
But goddamnit if he didn't hate batarians. Filthy, ugly assholes just about topped the list. Right below Vido. Their black, lifeless eyes filled his dreams some nights.
Nightmares, the lot of them.
Still, Zaeed didn't let it get to him. Hating things was a coping mechanism. Complaining while you spent ten months up to your ass in mud on some hellhole planet waiting for your target to show himself kept you sane. It only became a problem when you hated something so much you forgot about the things you didn't hate.
Shooting batarians, for example. Just the thought brought Zaeed's scarred mouth into a rictus smile that would send most people running for their lives. Good times.
His grip was tight around the back of the batarian's neck as he half-led, half-dragged the sorry sack of organs through the streets of Omega. Zaeed kept his gun firmly planted in the small of the batarian's back, concealed as a matter of habit, though of course nobody on Omega would have given him a second glance if he'd shot the batarian then and there. The bullethole he'd already placed in the back of the batarian's knee bled profusely, leaving a black-brown trail everywhere they went, but Zaeed showed no pity. Every time the batarian stumbled, Zaeed gave him a solid kick to speed things up.
"Up we go," Zaeed muttered as they approached a flight of stairs to one of Omega's docking rings. The batarian groaned. "Not sure what you were thinkin', mate," Zaeed continued, enjoying the alien's defeated expression. "Comin' to Omega. Practically handed yourself to me right there." He shook his head as they passed lines of brightly lit shops set between the docking causeways. "Goddamn stupid idea."
He stopped at an intersection, ignoring the stares of a pair of shifty-eyed salarians. "Let's see," he said, and tossed the batarian unceremoniously onto the ground. He consulted the beat-up datapad in his pocket. "Bay ninety-four, says," he told the batarian. "Suppose that's just down this way, then." By this point the batarian knew enough not to struggle when Zaeed stooped to drag him back to his feet.
"About time for us to part, you ugly sonofabitch," Zaeed said cheerfully. "Already called it in to your salarian pal. He sounded real excited to see you." The batarian groaned again and Zaeed chuckled.
Bloody hilarious.
They reached docking bay ninety-four without incident and found Zaeed's contact waiting for them in an unremarkable hovercar. A turian attendant, impeccably dressed in black armor that looked more suited for a dinner party than a battlefield, rapped on one of the tinted windows as they approached. The window rolled down, revealing an impatient salarian.
"Got a present for you. Alive, like I said," Zaeed said, shoving the batarian to the grating beneath the car. He holstered his gun, crossing his arms arrogantly across his armored chest.
The salarian's big eyes flitted across the batarian, and then back to Zaeed. He frowned. "Not unharmed, like I said."
"We agreed not dead. He ain't dead. Care to make an issue over it?" Zaeed asked. "Wanna see if your butler here's worth the money you pay him?" Zaeed fixed the salarian with his now infamous two-toned granite stare. He didn't draw his gun – he didn't have to. He might have looked worn down next to the gilded armor of the turian guard, but he was one of the deadliest bastards around and everyone knew it.
"That won't be necessary," the salarian said, blinking rapidly. "I hold your obligations fulfilled. Yotus!" the turian stepped forward with a mechanical salute. The salarian flicked his head towards the batarian. "Toss this trash in the back. We'll deal with him back at the compound." Zaeed stepped aside as Yotus manhandled the batarian into the vehicle's rear seat. The salarian stared at him. "I've transferred the rest of your fee into your account."
Zaeed knew better than to trust anyone on word alone, and drew out his datapad again. He frowned at the numbers on the screen for a half second before drawing a pistol and aligning it with the salarian's face. The salarian's eyes widened in shock.
"I'm a merc," Zaeed growled, "doesn't mean I can't count. Let's see the rest of it."
"I… I don't…"
"Fix it. Now. Or we'll see what your half a brain looks like smeared across the dash."
The salarian swallowed nervously. "Of… of course," he said, calling up a haptic holo-display on his dashboard. His hands shook as he rapped in a few quick commands. Zaeed's datapad gave a beep and displayed a more satisfactory sum.
Zaeed smiled and bowed his head. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said, holstering his pistol. "Have a nice day."
–
Zaeed lit up a cigar on his way back to the alley where he'd met Shepard. He savored each puff.
Hopefully Shepard wasn't the sort of asshole boss that expected him to give up smoking and drinking while on the job (another one for the hate list, incidentally). Obviously Zaeed wasn't dumb enough to fight drunk, but some bosses had their heads far up enough their asses to think a little substance abuse in down-times was counterproductive. Bloody lunacy, in Zaeed's opinion, but he was a professional. If Shepard told him his favorite vices wouldn't be tolerated on the Normandy he'd pack them away without a second's hesitation. Considering how much he was being paid, he figured he could survive a little discomfort.
Still, it hadn't stopped him from stocking up. He'd made all the arrangements while hunting the batarian across the station, and by the time he'd reached the Normandy all of his supplies were waiting for him. Five or six crates of weapons, mementos, fine cigars and imported booze. All around him, black-and-gray clad crewmembers ignored him as they bustled about like a hive of insects, loading dozens of shipping containers of various sizes. Zaeed recognized some of the company logos printed across their sides from back when he did corporate security – wealthy instrument manufacturers, mostly. Someone on the Normandy was doing some serious research spending.
Zaeed leaned against the crates and absently puffed his cigar, staring up at the ship's underbelly with critical eyes. Definitely the prettiest ship he'd ever served on. Brand new. Hardly a scratch on any of her jet black armor plating. Not generally a good sign, in Zaeed's experience – he'd take a beat up old bitch of a ship over top of the line lab-grown tech any day. He made a mental note of it but shrugged it off – he was here for ground-squad combat, not logistics. He'd just have to trust that Cerberus had spent as many credits finding a decent pilot and crew as they'd spent on him.
Crushing the smoldering remains of his cigar underfoot, Zaeed shouted down the nearest crewmember. The man blinked and stared at him in confusion.
"Who are you?"
"Zaeed Massani, killer for hire," he boasted, leaning against the stack of crates for effect. "Call me Grandpa and I will shoot you in the mouth. Now help me with my effects." He thrust a thumb at the crates.
The man looked confused at first, but Zaeed's armor-clad form did not cut a figure with whom to be argued. In a moment he had summoned three others to help him and each grabbed a crate. Zaeed followed them up the Normandy's loading ramp, lugging the crate that contained his beloved Jessie.
"God help you if you drop anything!"
–
Zaeed was an adaptable man. You had to be, in his line of work. A freelance merc might be building barricades on some godawful methane world one day and hijacking slave trade ships the next. It was hard, unforgiving work and at the end of the day you didn't always get a bunk to lay down in, so being set up in one of the Normandy's cargo and utility rooms was more than good fortune as far as Zaeed was concerned. He'd wasted no time in setting out his favorite war trophies, hiding his cigars and alcohol, and stacking up the rest of the crates in neat piles, and by the time Shepard came to visit him that evening, he already felt right at home.
Zaeed's eyes followed Shepard, sizing him up. He'd heard of the man, of course – you'd have had to be damn blind not to have seen the news reports about John Shepard after the geth attack on the Citadel (or the Blitz, for that matter), and Zaeed was, cyclopic or otherwise, most certainly not blind. Seeing the supposed hero in person was an entirely different matter, however. Frankly, Zaeed was unimpressed. Though he looked a little ill and scars lined his face, Shepard looked more like a movie star than a battle-hardened soldier. Practically a goddamn kid.
Still, appearances could be deceiving, and Zaeed did not miss the steel in the commander's eyes as he looked around at Zaeed's setup for a moment. He met the mercenary's gaze without flinching. Zaeed respected that.
"So. Zaeed Massani," Shepard said.
"Aye," Zaeed replied, absently chewing on the end of his cigar. If Shepard was upset by his curtness, he didn't show it.
"I see you've made yourself at home."
"That a problem?"
"No, no problem. Not a fan of shared crew quarters, I'm guessing."
"Hell no. I keep my back to a wall at all times. Besides, I've slept on worse than this," he indicated the steel flooring with the toe of his boot.
Shepard nodded his understanding. "I didn't have time to go through all of your dossier," he said.
"In short, it's damn impressive," Zaeed interrupted. "I'm the best there is. Everything else is details." He puffed arrogantly.
Shepard ignored the interruption. "I'm just trying to get a sense of what you're good for," Shepard said, eyes not leaving Zaeed's.
"Anything you need, Shepard. Especially if that involves killing. I pull my own," Zaeed promised.
Shepard did not acknowledge, merely crossed his arms and stared expectantly at Zaeed.
"In the mood for a story?" Zaeed said. "I can work with that." He sat up and paced for a moment, trying to decide how to begin. "I've been freelance across the galaxy for twenty years now," he started, "ran with a private army for ten or so before that."
Shepard stared up at the ceiling, calculating. "That would mean…"
"Yeah, right around First Contact," Zaeed said. "On Earth. Before that I was a soldier in CASAI for a few years, fighting the riots in Africa. Mostly Namibia, some in South Africa then up in Sudan. Trained with EU elites as a shock trooper. I know guns, I know explosives, I know a half dozen ways to kill a man with a goddamn pocketknife." He grinned arrogantly at the commander. "I've seen it all, Shepard. Things you can't imagine."
"A lot of people here are ex-military," Shepard pointed out, unimpressed. "Myself included."
Zaeed scoffed. "You ever been to Earth, Shepard?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"A few times."
"Good to hear. Where at? Havana, got to assume," Zaeed guessed. Havana Spaceport was one of Earth's largest military facilities and a major hub for Alliance activity on Earth. Zaeed had been through it a time or two while still employed with CASAI, but of course it had been years since he'd willingly stepped anywhere near Alliance personnel.
Shepard nodded. "A few times through Havana when my parents got called in for some kind of assignment. Then once on a vacation. Landed in Albuquerque." Albuquerque was Earth's oldest and largest publicly-owned spaceports, a tremendous center of interstellar commerce right in the middle of the American Southwest.
"Right, Albuquerque. Been through there," Zaeed said. "Beautiful city. Food, music. Sunsets, right?"
Shepard nodded.
"Bloody goddamn cultural hub." Zaeed fixed the man with a hard glare. "Let me tell you something, Shepard: Most of Earth is nothing like Albuquerque. Get away from your posh cities and it's a goddamn warzone. Violence and crime and disease and starvation the likes of which make Omega shudder." He jabbed his cigar towards the commander. "You spend a couple tours on the ground in Namibia then tell me ex-CASAI's the same thing as the ex-Alliance. We didn't get armor suits and air-conditioned barracks and kinetic barriers and medigel. They gave us a goddamn slugthrower and half a canteen of water and kicked us out into the sand! Every other bullet our guns jammed and we had to kill with our bloody fists!" Zaeed took another dramatic puff of his cigar, really getting into the story. It might have been a little exaggerated, but it had been a hell few humans in space knew still existed, and Zaeed felt a sick pride in having endured it.
"I see," Shepard said.
"You're military, Shepard," Zaeed continued, "so I don't need to tell you how it feels to go to bed with an empty stomach. But try doing it in sixty degree weather while your mates are catching cholera and shitting themselves to death all around you."
"I guess I didn't realize the situation was so bad," Shepard said.
"You're not alone, Shepard," Zaeed replied, waving his cigar hand dismissively. "You were born in space worrying about goddamn aliens and whatnot. Who cares about the poor bastards down on the ground?" Zaeed grinned wickedly. Spacer-kids were always so taken in by the sterile efficiency of Alliance spacecraft, convinced that that was what all of humanity was about. Zaeed loved the look on their faces when he told them how wrong that was.
"That hardly seems fair," Shepard said, frowning. "The Alliance has worked with planetary governments for decades to improve living conditions on Earth. It isn't perfect, but it isn't like we abandoned them. Besides, if you're so worried about them, why did you leave?"
"Weren't you listening? I just said Earth was a goddamn hellhole! Soon as me and my mates found us a ship, we got the hell off! Never looked back. The poor bastards on the ground can keep it far as I'm concerned."
"How noble."
"I'm a mercenary," Zaeed pointed out. "Noble's above my pay grade."
"Fair enough," Shepard said. "But how can I trust my crew's lives in your hands, then? What's to stop you from leaving us to rot when we get inconvenient?" Shepard had a self-satisfied look on his face, like this was the real reason he'd come to talk to Zaeed at all.
Zaeed rolled his eyes. "This again. The loyalty talk, right?" He returned his cigar to his mouth and mimicked Shepard's obstinate posture. "Listen Shepard, I'll tell you what I tell everyone. I will do what I was paid to do. I don't accept other offers 'till I'm through with you. I'll do whatever I'm asked, damn as well as I can do it. Anybody looks at you or your crew wrong and I'll put my boot so far up his ass it'll scuff up his tonsils. And I won't shoot you in the back. Trust me, I got a lot riding on this mission's success." He cocked an arrogant grin. "A whole lot."
"Not a particularly reassuring attitude, even so," Shepard said.
"Don't give me that. Everybody's loyalty has a price. I just happen to know mine. And it's got a bunch of zeroes in it."
"Some people don't care about money, Zaeed" Shepard said. Zaeed did not miss the fact that Shepard made no such claim for himself.
"Didn't say the price had to be money. But you tell me there's nothing that could buy you off and I'll kiss a batarian." He gave Shepard a lopsided smile. "Usually easy enough to guess it. You got a girl?" he asked. "Say I put a gun to her head and tell you to quit the mission or I pull the trigger. Would you do it?"
"I don't have a girl," Shepard said.
"Damn good for you. They're a pain in the ass, the lot of them. Point still stands though, Shepard. You got something or someone out there that matters more to you than anything else. That's your price. It doesn't mean you're gonna betray your allies. And it doesn't mean I will either." He stared at the commander, daring him to disagree. Shepard stared back hard, as if trying to see the honesty in Zaeed's mismatched eyes, before nodding, apparently satisfied. He reached to his back pocket and produced a datapad. He tossed it on the table next to the surveillance monitors. Curious, Zaeed's gaze flickered across it long enough to read the first few lines.
"Jack?" he asked.
Shepard nodded. "Keep reading."
"Jack on Purgatory…" Zaeed said, realization dawning.
"It's her dossier. She's a super biotic – probably the most powerful human biotic in existence." He looked at Zaeed. "I want you to read it and tell me if recruiting her is as stupid as it sounds." Zaeed eyed the length of the document – it was quite a few pages – then looked skeptically back at Shepard.
"Reading isn't really in my job description."
"You can't read?"
"I can read, jackass."
"Then read it. You said you'd follow my orders. I'm ordering you to read it and tell me what you think." He held up a hand to silence any further protests. "I have no lack for talented fighters on my team, Zaeed. If all that time in Namibia didn't leave you with any useful advice, what good are you? Read it. Tell me what you think."
Zaeed stared at the dossier like it was a cobra that might bite him. "…Roger that."
–
It never ceased to amaze Zaeed how much goddamn waiting he had to put up with as a mercenary. You'd think with the kind of money he was being paid Shepard would keep him busy, but no… Three hours now Zaeed had been stuck sitting on a barstool in the Afterlife waiting for Shepard to finish bargaining with Aria. Three bloody goddamn hours.
Zaeed tried to take it in stride. All he had to do was imagine the money again. He didn't care enough to figure it out in his head, but he guessed he was making more money hour-for-hour sitting on a barstool than a goddamn brain surgeon got for saving peoples' lives. That thought made him laugh.
His gauntleted hand clenched around his drink. He'd hardly touched it – he'd only ordered it to avoid suspicion – for as much as Zaeed enjoyed his creature comforts, he wasn't dumb enough to be drinking out on the field, and on Omega no less. Humans who let their guard down here were practically begging to get a knife to the kidneys. Even with Shepard's pet turian – Gary or something – standing watch on the far end of the bar, Zaeed wasn't about to risk it. He had to watch out for himself.
It was funny in a cosmic kind of way. Practically everyone he ever worked for expected him to stab them in the back at the first opportunity, and yet they treated him as expendable. Goddamn hypocrites. Zaeed hadn't lied to Shepard about protecting him and his crew – he was quite prepared to take on the whole bar to protect Gary if the need arose, but would the turian reciprocate if he found trouble?
Not a chance. He was on his own, like always.
Luckily, it wasn't much longer before Shepard finally descended the staircase leading from Aria's perch, a glum look on his face. Zaeed tossed back the rest of his drink and stood, listening to the gruesome wet pop of vertebrae in his back – his body telling him he was getting too damn old for this. He silently bade his body to shut the hell up and mind its own goddamn business as he strode over to join the commander and Gary at the stairs to the bar's lower level.
"How'd it go? Was she able to find it for you?" Gary was asking.
Shepard shook his head wearily. "She says she has contacts that could dig it up in a day or two but she didn't like what I had to trade. She was interested, but at the end of the day, Tarak, Garm, and Jaroth are dead, Garrus. Details of their plans to overthrow her are a little bit moot at this point."
Garrus' mandibles flickered.
Zaeed's surprised gaze traced over the turian's face. He'd heard about all that – all of the major gang bosses on Omega dying inside one day. Killed by Archangel. A turian. Could it be?
"That makes sense," Garrus said. "Damn us for being such efficient merc killers."
Shepard nodded, managing a toothy grin.
"She did, however, suggest another favor she might be willing to part with some information for," he said. "A hit's gone out on a friend of hers and she wants him brought into hiding." Shepard made for the lower level of the club, Garrus and Zaeed following behind
"Pardon my saying so, Commander," Garrus said, ducking under a low ceiling, "but that sounds like a suspiciously small price for access to her intelligence networks. Could be she's just stringing you along." Zaeed thought the turian had the right idea. Aria didn't do things without good reason.
"Could be," Shepard agreed. "Or perhaps she aims to make an ally out of me. She's been surprisingly helpful so far. In any case, we'll find out. She'll help me find what I need or she won't. Either way, we've got a krogan to save."
"Commander," Garrus said, stopping Shepard with a taloned hand on his shoulder. "Would you mind tackling this one without me? I have some… things I would like to check on before we go."
Concern dotted Shepard's face. "You sure you'll be alright?"
"Please Commander. I've been on Omega for almost two years. I think I can handle myself." Shepard gave him a hard look, and Garrus' mandibles fell sheepishly. "Alright, point taken," he said. "I'll be more careful not to piss off every merc on the station this time." Shepard smiled and nodded, and in a flash Garrus had disappeared down a nearby corridor, leaving Shepard and Zaeed alone.
"Holy shit," Zaeed said, causing the commander to stare at him with raised brows. "That was Archangel, wasn't it?"
"'Course not," Shepard said, winking. "Archangel's dead." Shepard continued down the path to lower Afterlife, leaving the mercenary gawking down the corridor Garrus had disappeared into. Zaeed nodded, impressed, before turning to follow.
"Riiight," he said, jogging to catch up. "Either way, he's right. You ever hear the 'first rule of Omega'?" he asked. Shepard nodded. "You said you were out for useful advice, well here you go. Keep that rule in mind. Asari like Aria are bad news. Long memories."
"You're not afraid of asari are you?" Shepard asked, the ghost of a grin on his lips.
"Hell no," Zaeed boasted. "Just don't like picking fights when they aren't needed. Frankly, I'm tired of biotics treating the rest of us like we're just kids playin' in a goddamn sandbox." Shepard just grinned as Zaeed launched into his rant. "They think we don't pose 'em any threat. You wanna kill a biotic, just buy you a damn sniper rifle and some armor piercing rounds. Shoot 'em in the goddamn head before they got the chance to put up a barrier and grind you into paste. Easy."
"Better not miss," Shepard observed
"You miss then you deserve to be ground into paste," Zaeed said. "But standard procedure if the shot doesn't kill 'em? EMP. Most amps'll fry easy enough, unless they're the fancy hardened military ones. Then just put a round or two into their face. It's just not that big of a deal. Really, everybody says asari are the galaxy's best warriors but hell if I can see that."
"Who are the galaxy's greatest warriors then?" Shepard asked mildly, poking his head into each of the smaller lounges on the lower level and clearly only halfway listening.
"Lot of smart people would say krogan," Zaeed said, unbothered by the commander's inattentiveness. "Big goddamn lizards pack a punch. Asari can bite it, bunch of skinny blue bitches. Face five hundred kilos of angry meat and bone and then tell me biotics make the warrior. It's bullshit."
Zaeed's rant was temporarily cut off when Shepard finally found the room he was searching for. An ancient, cataract-eyed krogan stared blearily out at them. As Shepard launched into his usual brand of charm, Zaeed immediately fell silent and took up position at the door, eyes scanning the bar for any potential trouble. He doubted anyone was dumb enough to come after someone in full N7 armor – let alone someone with Zaeed goddamn Massani at his back – but it didn't do to be incautious. He mustered his most intimidating glare at a couple of batarians sitting at a nearby table.
Shepard spoke to Aria's friend for several minutes. Zaeed didn't bother listening in, but couldn't help but overhear the ugly lizard's stern proclamation that he was going nowhere. Shepard's charisma had little effect on him and, after several attempts to change the beast's mind, Shepard emerged from the room, defeated.
"Looks like we're krantts now, whatever that means," the commander said with a sigh. He made for the exit.
"Krogan term for ally. Something like that," Zaeed supplied helpfully, following behind. "Assume we're killing some mercs now."
"Sounds that way," Shepard agreed. "Though we'll see if we can't talk them down first."
Zaeed nodded. "Like I was sayin', Shepard," Zaeed said, eager to finish his rant, "krogan like Ugly in there seem like the obvious answer, but that's wrong too. Right answer's humans. Humans are the greatest warriors, bar none." Shepard did not respond, but Zaeed continued anyway. "Because we're the meanest bastards out there and everybody knows it. You ever met a human who wasn't plotting the demise of everyone around him? We're pitiful, petty little jackasses and it makes us dangerous."
"Maybe you are, Zaeed," Shepard said. "Besides, krogan fight all the time."
"Krogan fighting is like line dancing. It's part of their culture. Every clan fights all the others for territory. Sensible. You put two krogan in a room, they're gonna duke it out until one of them admits the other's boss, but then they stop. Humans fight for no reason. Allies, enemies. Whatever. Put two humans in a room and even if they're best pals they'll be sitting there plotting how to screw the other guy. And humans are damn good at figuring out clever ways to screw people."
Shepard didn't get a chance to respond as the club's exit door folded away, revealing a pair of massive krogan in black-and-red armor. The white skull insignias on their shoulders identified them as Blood Pack mercenaries and the guns in their hands identified them as on business. Shepard stopped fearlessly but Zaeed kept walking without a second glance, pushing past Shepard and the mercs as if he had something pressing to do in the market district. The krogan snorted in anger (and Shepard gave him a look of bewilderment), but Zaeed kept up the act and kept walking until he heard Shepard start to talk.
The krogan turned all their attention to Shepard. It had worked. Goddamn stupid krogan.
Zaeed turned around and drew his rifle before sneaking up behind one of the mercs. In the keyhole of space between the mercs' armored bodies he flashed Shepard an arrogant grin. Shepard, to his credit, did not betray any sign that he'd seen Zaeed and continued trying to convince the krogan to back off. He held out his hands in a gesture of peace as he talked, appealing to their sense of battle-honor, but the krogan were having none of it. They growled and threatened and stamped their heavy feet, promising death on Shepard and ten generations of his family and all other manner of belligerent exaggeration. Shepard bore their bravado in good humor for while, but after a minute or two had passed with no progress made, he caught Zaeed's eyes again and gave a quick nod.
Zaeed and Shepard opened fire simultaneously. Zaeed's carefully-positioned shots hit true on the weakest spot on the rear of one of the merc's skulls, killing him instantly. He slammed to the ground and Zaeed turned his rifle to bear on Shepard's target, which bellowed and died in seconds under their combined fire.
The echoes of the mercenaries' dying roars faded, and Zaeed and Shepard stood triumphantly over the ton of armored reptile they'd just slain, gun barrels still smoking. Dirt-stained vagrants crowded around the far end of the hall, staring curiously at the carnage, and Zaeed tossed Shepard a grim smile.
"Nice trick," Shepard said, wiping the sweat from his face with one armored forearm.
"Like I said, Shepard. Humans."
–
"Mr. Massani."
Zaeed creaked open his good eye from his position face down on the desk, a deep scowl on his face.
"Mr. Massani," the voice repeated.
Zaeed grunted angrily and tried to get back to sleep.
"Mr. Massani."
"What!?" he demanded, sitting up from where he'd fallen asleep atop Jack's dossier and glaring at the blue orb casting the room aglow from atop the projector on the wall.
"I apologize for waking you, Mr. Massani," EDI said, "but Operative Lawson would like to see you in the port storage bay." Zaeed glared at the clock on his busted old datapad. Three hours into third shift. Bloody center of the goddamn morning. He'd spent the day touring Omega with Shepard and half the night forcing himself through page after page of Jack's medical and police reports and they couldn't give him two bloody hours to sleep? Goddamn slavedrivers, the lot of them.
"You woke me for that?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Operative Lawson is the executive officer of this vessel. I am compelled to comply with her orders. I apologize for waking you. She would like to see you in the port storage bay."
"Alright, alright, I'm going," he groused, rising to his feet. He grabbed the assault rifle by the door on his way out, latching it onto the magnetic clips on his back.
It was the quietest part of the ship's artificial day, and the Normandy was staffed by only a skeleton crew of engineers and technicians. It wasn't a loud ship by any means – even at the height of activity – but it felt like a tomb as Zaeed walked the hallway to the other side of the deck. Zaeed approached the door to the port storage bay and knocked quietly. It folded away, bathing him in bright light.
The room was full of great stacks of cargo, and yet utterly dominated by a clear tank in the center. Zaeed whistled in appreciation at the sight of the krogan floating within. It was a young one – he'd guess no more than thirty or forty years old, based on the separated head plates – but one of the largest he'd ever seen. Miranda was hard at work, running her omnitool over the tank's surface, but even the sight of her backside was not, at the moment, enough to draw Zaeed's attention. His mind was too far off imagining fights between the krogan and himself. They would be goddamn spectacular, no doubt about that.
"Quite a beauty," he managed to say eventually. Miranda turned and fixed him with a disapproving glare. He caught her look and smirked. "Don't flatter yourself, Sweetheart," he said, pointing up at the slumbering alien, "I was talking about the lizard."
Miranda's frown only deepened. "It's Shepard's newest pet alien," she said, tone frustrated. "But that's not important right now. I want you to tell me what happened on Omega."
He finally tore his gaze away from the bottled krogan and met her blue-gray eyes again. "Same as always happens on Omega. That place never changes."
Miranda rolled her eyes. "I mean today. Shepard took you and Garrus onto Omega without telling anyone why. He isn't talking to me. I want to know."
Zaeed shook his head. "Not a chance. Shepard holds my contract, lady," he said. "If he didn't trust you enough to tell you what he's doing, then neither do I."
"Shepard is not paying your fee. Cerberus is," Miranda said. She summoned her omni-tool and, with a couple of key presses, conjured up the contract he'd made with the Illusive Man's agents a few days previously. She held it triumphantly in front of him, a smirk on her face. "And you will call me 'Operative Lawson' or 'ma'am'."
"My mistake, ma'am," Zaeed said, taking on a more respectful tone. "I'm afraid I don't have much for you. I spent half the day sitting in the Afterlife while Shepard talked to Aria."
"Aria? Why was he talking to her?" Miranda asked, brows narrowing suspiciously.
"Needed her contacts, best I could tell. After some information. Had some in trade for it, she didn't bite. So he and I went and did a little of her dirty work, and I spent a few more hours sitting on my ass while Shepard talked."
"Cerberus has some of the widest intelligence networks in the galaxy," Miranda said (though Zaeed got the distinct impression she wasn't talking to him anymore). "Why didn't he just ask me?"
"No doubt he wants to know something you'd rather not tell 'im," Zaeed supplied.
"Obviously. And you have no idea what he and Aria spoke about?"
Zaeed shook his head again. "Other than that he left with her promise that she'd find out what he wanted, not a clue."
Miranda sat lightly on a chair and rested her chin in one hand, her frustration clear. She sat like that for several minutes, just thinking and compulsively pushing a strand of hair out of her face while Zaeed stood silently at the door. For his part, he passed the time pretending to be attentive and undressing her with his eyes – even though he only had one that worked, her choice of outfit made it an easy job.
At length she looked at him again. "Shepard and I have had some… disagreements," she said. "Regarding the chain of command." Zaeed said nothing. "Technically Cerberus wants Shepard making the decisions – there's a reason we hired him – but he has gotten it into his head that we aren't to be trusted, and he's been rebelling against our objectives. We are worried he is putting the mission in danger."
"Put your boot down then, ma'am," Zaeed said, sensing that she expected some response. "If you're paying the bills."
"Shepard is a charming man," she continued, ignoring his suggestion. "He has a skill for forging alliances. But he is stubborn – even stupid – after he's made up his mind. He will try to rally the crew against Cerberus." She gave him a hard glare. "When he does, I expect you to remember which side you're on."
Zaeed rolled his eyes, frowning. "What do you want me to do, start sneaking Cerberus propaganda into my war stories?" he asked sarcastically, forgetting his respectful tone. "'Hey Shepard'," he said to the ceiling. "'Did I ever tell you about the time me and Cerberus killed forty-five batarians with a hairbrush and saved the universe? Boy Cerberus, I tell you. They're right decent people.'" He stared at her, trying to remind her with expression alone how many Cerberus agents he'd personally killed (Three? Ten? Hard to know. However many he'd run into, anyway).
"If that's what it takes," Miranda said, ignoring his mockery. "This mission is not going to succeed if Shepard does not trust his crew. If you should see an opportunity to foster peace between him and Cerberus, I order you to pursue it."
Zaeed grimaced. "Yes ma'am," he said to her cocky smile, hating it.
"You may go," she said.
As Zaeed stomped out of the room, he couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. One wanted him to read, another one wanted him to be a goddamn counselor. When would someone just ask him to go kill stuff?
–
Zaeed didn't see Shepard for two days. Almost nobody did. The commander spent most of his hours locked in his quarters, only resurfacing to grab the occasional meal and retreat back into solitude. EDI assured the crew that he was in good health, if somewhat obsessively fixated on a pile of datapads with contents unknown. Dr. Chakwas – who'd managed to visit the man once under the pretense of medical reasons – said much the same. The commander was simply pondering his next move in solitude, as he had often been wont to do on the original Normandy, and between them Chakwas, Joker, and Garrus managed to keep everyone – even Miranda – from disturbing him.
It was not hard to guess what decisions might be weighing on Shepard's mind. Things were piling up. Mordin had okayed the krogan's health, and the thought of working alongside a half-ton alien loomed over the crew's mind. Miranda had, of course, made her objections to waking it abundantly clear, but the crew had largely agreed that in doing so she had virtually guaranteed that Shepard would release the krogan, if just to spite her. The fact that their next mission would take them to a high-security orbital prison to retrieve a dangerous (and dangerously powerful) psychopath did not go unnoticed either. Nervous whispers about the dangers of aliens and unstable biotics traveled through the ship like wildfire. Perhaps worst of all, the weight of their ultimate goal hovered over the crew like a cloud – whatever Shepard chose to do about Jack, she was the last of the Illusive Man's dossiers. Once she was dealt with – what then?
Nobody begrudged Shepard his space.
Zaeed was just coming up from weightlifting in the hangar bay, a thick coat of sweat gluing his undershirt to his tattooed skin, when he heard a crash come from his room. His thoughts flew immediately to his beloved Jessie and he practically sprinted the rest of the journey, heart pounding in fear.
Had it been anyone else, Zaeed would have put a boot up their ass for even making him think Jessie was in danger. But when the door opened to reveal Shepard, on his knees and rifling through one of Zaeed's crates, the grizzled old mercenary just frowned and crossed his arms disapprovingly.
"Speaking of trust…" he said. Shepard ignored him and, apparently not finding what he was looking for, moved on to the next crate.
"Shut up, Zaeed," Shepard grunted. "It's my ship."
Zaeed just shook his head. Based on the exhausted look in the commander's eyes and the three days of unshaven whiskers on his face, it wasn't hard to guess what he was after. Zaeed strode wordlessly to the rear bulkhead and pulled the emergency medkit out of its compartment. Unzipping the red bag, he pulled out two steel cups and a bottle of bourbon.
Shepard looked at him, a mixture of shame and amazement on his face, as Zaeed poured them a drink. He set Shepard's atop the table. "The med kit, Zaeed? Really?" Shepard asked, staring at the amber liquid as he rose to his feet. "What if you'd needed it?"
"I took the parts I wanted," Zaeed said. He paused, taking a mouthful of bourbon and savoring it on his tongue. He swallowed. "But let's be real here, Shepard. If I don't make it back from this mission, Cerberus doesn't have to pay me a whole shitton of money. Medkit doesn't do me any good if nobody's gonna use it on me."
Shepard shook his head. "That's pretty grim, Zaeed."
Zaeed shrugged. "That's life. I'm not your friend and you're not mine, Shepard. I know that. Things go better when we act civil, but I've got even less reason to trust you than you got to trust me. Now you wanna tell me why you're breaking into my room looking for booze?"
"There isn't any in my room," Shepard said simply, still staring at his untouched drink. "Let's say I'm here to ask if you finished reading Jack's dossier and leave it at that, shall we?"
Zaeed nodded ambivalently. He didn't need to hear the commander's sob story. The man could keep his private demons private as far as he was concerned. "Fair enough. Yeah, I read it," he said, strolling over to the desk and tapping the datapad. As strange as he'd found it, Zaeed had taken the assignment to heart, and had read the dossier front to end. He'd even reread choicer parts.
"And?" Shepard asked.
"Is recruiting her a bad idea? Short answer: yes. Long answer: hell yes."
Shepard nodded. "Kindof where I'd arrived too."
Zaeed frowned as he remembered Miranda's orders. "Still," he said, settling for an honest approach, "on paper the krogan looks like a bad idea too and I'm still looking forward to seeing him put through his paces." Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Figure you can control just about anything if you know how," Zaeed continued. "Most powerful human biotic in the galaxy, right? A challenge, but still. Tempting."
"I suppose," Shepard said. He stared blankly into the depths of his drink. "I guess it's what you said before," he said after a moment. "Just about finding her price, not necessarily being her friend."
"Exactly," Zaeed said, nodding. "If this was about friends, you'd have gone to your turian pal. But you came to me. You came lookin' for a drink, and it turns out I'm the only supply in town. Same thing with Jack – you need a super biotic, and she's your best option. Find a price and buy her help. Friendship not required."
Shepard cracked a weary smile. "I admit I'm not used to that strategy."
"Way the galaxy works, Shepard. Loyalties always rest on top a layer of greed. You know what people want, you can get along. Cerberus are a bunch of bloody terrorists – one of the few sorts that leave a bad taste in my mouth – but they want the collectors dead and they know you're the man to do it. They aren't gonna stab you in your back, mate."
"I suppose," Shepard said again.
"Have any of them stabbed you in the back yet? Or are you just pissed off with Miranda because she's a bitch?"
Shepard actually chuckled. "I guess you're right," he said. "It's not like any of my old allies are lining up to help me. Might as well give my enemies a chance."
"Exactly," Zaeed said, happy to be able to claim he'd actually tried to follow Miranda's orders.
Shepard frowned. "Still," he said, "Aria snuck a message to me. Her informants managed to dig up what I was looking for." Zaeed's eyebrows raised in curiosity. "One of my old teammates. One of my best friends. Or used to be, anyway. Not sure if she'd come with me." He swirled his (still full) glass absently.
Zaeed's mouth just hung open. He recognized the look in Shepard's eyes. "Goddamnit Shepard if you aren't pathetic!" he shouted in disbelief. "You've been sitting up in your hole for two bloody days trying to decide between adding another psycho biotic bitch to your crew or one of your old mates? I'm not trying to be sentimental here but wake the hell up."
Shepard stared at him, shocked. "But you just said…"
"You sorry sack of crap. Forget what I said, and forget Cerberus! Man up and go get your girlfriend, you pansy." Shepard opened his mouth to protest but Zaeed cut him off, pointing angrily at Shepard's untouched glass. "And drink that goddamn bourbon before I flip out and force it down your throat. I didn't get it shipped all the way from Earth so some lightweight could watch it make bubbles."
Shepard stared at him in silence. For a moment, Zaeed half expected he would get angry at him for overstepping his boundaries, but at length, the commander rose to his feet. His gaze was hard, deep in thought, as he held out a hand. "Give me the bottle," he said.
Zaeed's eyes flickered down to Shepard's untouched glass then back to his face, confused. "Drink what you've got."
"You drink it. I want the bottle," Shepard demanded. The two men stared at each other in silence for several pregnant moments, neither averting his gaze. Time slowed to a crawl.
Zaeed blinked. "One time only, Shepard," Zaeed grunted at length, slapping the rest of the bourbon into the commander's hand.
–
Hardly ten minutes later, as Zaeed made his way to the crew deck for a much-needed shower, EDI announced that they'd set course for Haestrom.
–
Codex entry: Kalahari Krogan (part 1) by Estelle Sachin, first published in Pan-Humanity Magazine, September 2177.
You've all heard the stories, but I'll tell you one more:
It is dawn on the Kalahari Desert, in southern Namibia. It is a harsh land, with temperatures regularly soaring into the triple digits. The sun can be unbearable – deadly, even – the sky's blue mixed with the crisp whiteness of sun-bleached bones. What life can survive the extremes is hostile, covered in poisonous barbs or armored pincers. To look at it, it is an alien world – unearthly and terrifying, no place for humans. And yet it is one of the most Earthly places still standing. Its relative dearth of resources largely protected it from humanity's expansion, and it is one of very few unspoiled lands on the planet.
Humans live in this alien world. They are largely primitive by modern standards, the descendants of Bushmen who have inhabited the region for tens of thousands of years. Their villages are small, and teeter always on the edge of destruction, and yet somehow they persevere.
The heat is one enemy of many. The landmines left over from CASAI's brutal war are just another. But perhaps the worst are the true aliens – some eight hundred krogan make the Kalahari their home. They are poor neighbors, by any reasonable definition. More than fifteen years after the riots ended, the krogan hold the region in a state of constant conflict. Skirmishes over resources are almost invariably bloody – the well-publicized 2171 krogan attack on Karasburg resulted in the deaths of over three hundred humans, mostly poorly-armed farmers and merchants, at the hands of twenty-eight krogan warriors (the krogan involved in the attack were ultimately hunted down and exterminated by South African private armies). The krogan prove fantastically well-adapted to Namibia's harsh climate and, with local warlords (human and krogan alike) in need of a constant supply of mercenary force, do not lack for work. They have found a permanent niche, and unless the Alliance's official policy on their presence changes, they are here to stay.
This is a popular story – aliens are here, on Earth, right now. Fighting and killing humans. It is a chilling thought, no matter your politics. None will remind you of this more frequently – or more fervently – than the Terra Firma party. Initial outrage over CASAI's 2159 decision to hire krogan mercenaries in a last-ditch (and ultimately futile) effort to rescue their failing defenses gave Terra Firma the political momentum it needed to win critical elections in several African states and may have singularly solidified the party's wealth and influence.
As I said, this is just one story of many that Terra Firma likes to tell. The details vary (as of this writing, the current TF ads focus on this year's tragedy on Akuze) but the moral is always the same:
Aliens are dangerous.
There is no question that the krogan are a destabilizing force in an already unstable region. The inability of the Alliance or its member states to combat the problem is sickening and unforgivable. However, I have to wonder, are we looking at this the wrong way? Does the krogan cause the war, or does the war cause the krogan? Would killing the krogan (as Terra Firma has repeatedly demanded we do) really solve Namibia's problems, or are they simply a distraction from some deeper problem, some problem inherent to our world?
Namibia sports a working population of an estimated six hundred thousand mercenaries. Less than a thousand are krogan.
To answer my questions, we have to take a trip back in time. Not to 2159, when the first krogan soldiers stepped off of a CASAI transport into the Kalahari's harsh sun, but to almost a century earlier.
Let Terra Firma tell you what they want – this is a story about humans, not krogan.
CASAI, the Coalition for the Advancement of South African Interests, was not officially named until 2140, but its origins are to be found much earlier. In the twenty-first century, before the formation of the super-national organizations, South Africa was in the midst of a crisis. The country had made enormous leaps in solving the political, economical, and medical problems that plagued much of Africa and yet 'brain drain' – the emigration of its wealthiest and best educated citizens to more developed countries – threatened its long-term position in the global stage. In an attempt to combat the trend and attract foreign investments, the country began a program of lucrative incentives for scientific and technological firms. New facilities and massive tax breaks meant research in South Africa was faster and cheaper than anywhere else in the world.
The program worked – perhaps too well. In less than fifty years, hundreds of high-tech firms from around the globe relocated to South Africa, bringing with them more than a trilliondollars in assets and foreign money investments. South Africa quickly moved to the forefront of human technological and scientific advancement, with critical discoveries made in subjects as diverse as communications, renewable energy, and genetic engineering.
Near the end of the twenty-first century, super-national organizations began to gain power worldwide. The United North American States and the European Union led the charge, giving their member nations unprecedented military and economic security. The pressure was on the rest of the world to follow suit. The African Union, initially comprising the entirety of Africa as well as several islands in the Caribbean, was officially created in 2104. In the following decades, the AU would make enormous progress in improving the African standard of living. Massive public health campaigns, deployment of peacekeeping forces, and funding for public infrastructure were extremely effective, and Africa entered a period of prosperity it had not seen in millennia.
Unfortunately, it was not to last. The AU's projects, while effective, were expensive, and depended primarily upon fees levied upon its member states. Among the measures that the AU approved to fund public advancement were taxes on the enormously successful major science firms throughout much of the southern half of the continent. The proposals caused an immediate uproar among foreign investors, scientists, and entrepreneurs, many of whom had grown incredibly wealthy under South Africa's lax policies.
CASAI was formed in 2140 by a coalition of the mega-rich and technological from five African nations, who claimed that the AU had illegitimately infringed upon their rights as member states and had to be replaced by a super-national organization that would 'better represent its people'. Enormous monetary assets and support from foreign governments (including the UNAS and EU) invested in South Africa's research allowed CASAI to quickly gain legitimacy on a global stage. CASAI was from the start an aggressive organization, and its member-states immediately put the pressure on the rest of the continent with restrictive trade embargoes, taking with them more than half of Africa's GDP.
The riots were not long in coming...
–
UPDATED 10/07/21 – Mostly formatting and grammar. A few minor worldbuilding issues centered particularly on datapads.
A/N: So... Zaeed! I love Zaeed. I think his lack of Normandy dialog wheel (which I agree is a travesty) has engendered a lot of hate for him, but I find him extremely cool. Hopefully you agree!
I've decided to put Haestrom before Horizon. Another canon change, I suppose, but I'd argue a minor one. Sorry to Jack fans – I will, of course, get her on board eventually, but I think it makes sense that Shepard might be dragging his feet on grabbing a deadly psychopath. If you need a Jack fix go read Rock Steady, which is awesome.
The codex for this one is a bit long and dry again. Obviously there is a lot more to my backstory for Zaeed's early life, but I felt it was getting too long-winded and decided to cut it off. Perhaps part 2 of this codex will appear the next time I write Zaeed, if people are interested.
Chapter 9 is also quite long (and focuses on two more underused characters that I really enjoy).
And finally, another thanks to my beta and to all my readers and reviewers. As always, I appreciate it a great deal, and love hearing from you.