Nick sat with one arm resting against the door as he leaned to peer out the window.
So far, the ride to meet Mr. "Von" had been quiet. The corpsman sat in the back seat, and looking around it was clear that the transport was well-used, but had been carefully cleaned and maintained to keep the interior almost spotless.
The courier who had met him in the Wards sat in the driver's seat, naturally.
The…salamander?Vandas scowled. No, that wasn't even close—in fact, it sounded a bit derogatory.
The alien hadn't attempted to make small talk during the trip, which was more than fine by Nick. Instead, the newly-minted Alliance marine sat in quiet contemplation as he gazed out through the vehicle's glass canopy.
It was almost surreal, being able to look out through the Citadel's artificial atmosphere at the arms of the station standing above like high walls, bustling urban skylines reduced to distant lines of hazy orange light.
They were in the skycar lanes above the Presidium which, according to the cheerful purple hologram that had served as a virtual tour guide during his taxi ride to the supply office, was the heart of the station. It wasn't hard to see why, either.
Peering out the window at the business district below, Nick was struck by how different it looked from the other parts of the station he'd been in.
In contrast to the austere towers of lusterless steel in the Wards and the jagged, functional structures of the docks, the buildings in the Presidium were constructs of streamlined silver, smoothly blended into the Citadel's architecture until it was hard to differentiate between the balconied offices and the canyon-like walls of the station.
The populace, reduced to tiny colored specks far below, navigated a maze of white walkways that spanned in every direction. Laid out across the Presidium was a vast parkland, dotted with orderly flowerbeds and neatly trimmed stands of trees where a handful of residents strolled in the shade.
At the sight of it all, Nick simultaneously felt a pull in his gut and a weight being placed on his chest.
It was overwhelming in a way, to imagine that mankind as the young marine had known it had ceased to be some thirty years ago, irrevocably altered by their first contact with sentient life amongst the cosmos. The galaxy was no longer an empty expanse or a place filled with strange and enigmatic "aliens"—it was a sea of stars filled with billions upon billions of living, breathing beings.
"Quite the view, isn't it?" The skycar's driver chimed in, noticing his passenger's awestruck expression.
The corpsman could only bob his head in agreement, worried he'd ruin the moment by saying something utterly stupid if he opened his mouth.
It was simply too much to process all at once.
The transport banked gently and began to descend, approaching a landing pad situated alongside a pedestrian walkway. The car settled heavily and Nickeli clambered out as the canopy rose, his escort climbing out a moment later.
The air of the Presidium was fresh and inviting, complimented by the warmth of the station's artificial sunlight. Overhead, a line of traffic zipped by, the whine of their engines fading into the ambient noise of the cityscape and lost amidst the footsteps and murmur of the passing crowd. Despite its status as the seat of political and economic power in the galaxy, the Presidium had an air of tranquility about it.
Gazing out over the parking area's railing at the commons, a small smile found its way onto Vandas' face.
It was a gorgeous view, there was no denying that. As incredible a sight as it was from the air, from ground-level the rolling green expanse of Presidum's parklands seemed almost strikingly familiar, as if he might be overlooking a park somewhere back on Earth.
The driver, now dismounted, loudly cleared his throat. "Mr. Vandas,"
When the medic turned, the messenger offered a sweeping gesture toward the entrance of one of the buildings along the promenade and Nick obligingly followed him to the door.
A voice greeted the corpsman warmly as he stepped inside. "Ah! Mr. Vandas, I'm very glad we could meet on such short notice."
His eyes adjusting to the somewhat darker interior, Nick surveyed the room and was surprised to find that he had stepped directly off the street into a private office. The room, while far from spacious, was large enough to contain a few potted plants on either side of the door as well as a coffee table and a trio of armchairs arranged in a small sitting area off to the left, though it looked as though they didn't see much use.
At the back of the office, situated behind a large desk covered in all manner of displays and datapads and outlined by the wall of digital displays and scrolling text to his back, sat the agency's proprietor, a stout, rotund creature that observed the arriving corpsman with two eyes like frosted white glass.
The medic hadn't a clue what the name of the stocky extraterrestrial race was—he'd only read up on a few of the more prominent races during his downtime at the Irin Center and he was having enough trouble recalling most of that.
"Thank you, Sulik. That will be all." The agent stated, his sentences punctuated by the muted rasp of a breathing apparatus. Nickeli's alien driver gave a bow of the head before departing, and as the door closed behind him, the seated businessman turned his attention back to his human guest.
"Please, take a seat, we have much to discuss." The creature beckoned, indicating a chair opposite him.
The enlisted man hesitantly accepted the invitation, getting a closer look at his host as he sat down. To his surprise, the medic realized what he had initially thought to be the alien's jacket was in fact the brown, leathery exterior of an environmental suit.
"I apologize for the intrusion," the stout alien began politely, folding his arms across his stomach and interlacing his small, hook-shaped digits. "It's unusual that I have to send a car in order to meet with one of my clients, but I was uncertain how else to contact you."
"Yeah, of course." Nick replied after a moment. "I assume you must be Barla Von?"
"Ah, it seems I've gotten ahead of myself." The businessman tsked. "I am Barla Von, and this is my brokerage office. I serve as a financial advisor to much of the Citadel's elite. Welcome, Earth-clan."
The corpsman gave the alien a quizzical look. "Earth-clan?"
"It is how my kind refer to the other races—it's the name the Vol-clan know all of humanity by. You might know us better as the 'volus'." The broker clarified, "Forgive me, I'd forgotten you were a newcomer to Citadel Space."
"You seem to know an awful lot about me." Vandas observed, the way he shifted in his seat betraying his discomfort.
"It's the nature of my profession." The volus declared simply. "Finances may be my occupation, but information is my craft."
Barla Von made this last statement with a grand, sweeping gesture across the stacks of datapads and holographic displays on top of his desk, as if he were a sovereign, casting his gaze across his domain.
Settling into his seat once again, he gave a shrug. "Though I do not know so much about you as it may seem." The agent admitted modestly, the soft hiss of his breathing filling the silent office. "You hail from Earth. You are enlisted with the Alliance aboard the Normandy. This is your first documented visit to the Citadel."
The broker shook his head slightly, swiping aside the glowing orange screen he had been reading from. "There is more I could find, I am sure. The other ships you've served aboard. The medals you've won. But military intelligence is of little interest to me—I deal in the realm of the Citadel's politics and diplomacy. The information is more profitable and less…hazardous to uncover."
"So you sell information." Nick agreed, leaning forward in his chair. "But what's that have to do with me? Why send a car to pick me up in the Wards?"
"Several solar days ago, a considerable sum of money was transferred to my brokerage under your name." The volus summarized, tapping at the console on his desk. With a few keystrokes, an orange screen materialized in front of Nickeli.
Scanning through the text as it scrolled by, the medic felt his jaw slacken. After pausing to ensure he hadn't misread, he attempted to compose a reply. "That's—umm—wow…"
The stout accountant hadn't been exaggerating—the marine was a little hazy on the exchange rate, but the number before him was staggering. To someone living as modestly as the young serviceman had been, it was obscene, even.
"And…and you said this was several days ago?" Nick managed at last. His mind was a torrent—confusion, disbelief. Worry. A few days earlier he would've put him on the Normandy, maybe even on Eden Prime, depending on the exact timing. So who the hell could've been using his name to move money around?
"That is correct. I've been attempting to contact you since."
Vandas smirked. "It was that unusual, huh?"
"It is far from the largest account in my charge, but the opening of new portfolios is usually premeditated by a consultation." The volus explained. "And it also struck me as considerably more than someone in the employ of the Alliance Navy could reasonably inquire." He pointed out astutely.
"So what happens to the money?"
"In truth Earth-clan, in your place, I would find the affair more foreboding than fortunate," Barla Von confessed, folding his hands. "But, so far, I have found no cause to reverse the transaction. The funds will be tracked and added to any of the number of mutual funds my brokerage manages, as per the instructions included with the transfer."
Nick paused, considering this for a long moment. The whole situation put a knot in his gut, but then again, the last few days had been nothing but a long series of things he couldn't explain. He'd just have to adapt as best he could.
"That money…it's mine?"
"It is in your name, yes."
"And you've got no idea how I go it?"
"No, I do not."
"Or where it came from?"
"Not in the slightest." The volus stated bluntly.
Vandas sunk into his chair, a look of worried confusion on his face as he tried to comprehend everything he'd just been told. Here he was, on an enormous space station a couple thousand lightyears from anywhere that resembled home, about to be handed an obscene amount of money for no discernable reason.
In hindsight, the confounded young marine rather wished he had gotten himself kidnapped in the Wards. At least it would've been straightforward.
Then again, by all accounts, he'd had a mortar dropped on him, but that hadn't prevented him from waking up a century and a half in the future to fight killer robots on an alien world. So maybe he should stop banking on reasonable expectations, given how they'd been working out for him as of late.
Nickeli turned his attention back to the stout alien behind the desk, regarding him with a skeptical frown. "And none of those things concern you? You don't feel obligated to call someone?"
"In my line of work, discretion is as much a necessity as breathing," The round broker asserted. "And my personal reservations are unimportant. If I'd had a reason to believe your account would cause me trouble, I would've asked you to take your business elsewhere. Aside from that, you will have my services for as long as I am paid."
Considering this for a few moments, Vandas bobbed his head in agreement, seemingly pleased to finally be told something he could understand.
"Then I guess I'd like some of that money to use." The enlisted man mused aloud. He glanced up at the volus. "Say…sixty-thousand?"
It was a modest withdraw when compared to the size of the account, but it was still considerably more than he made in a year.
The financial advisor nodded, tapping at his console. "Very well. Was there anything else?"
Nickeli paused to consider. This kind of money didn't just 'appear' without a lot of strings attached, but it seemed he was stuck with it. The timing of it all was the most baffling part. He was obviously being used, for what he hadn't the slightest clue. But the funds might also be the means by which he figured this thing out. He looked to the stout agent. "Your information services, they're for hire?"
"I would be a very poor information broker were they not." The agent quipped.
"Good. I want you to dig up everything you can about this money." The private first class instructed. "Where it came from. Who had it. Why they sent it to me. I trust the account will be more than sufficient to cover your fee."
There were a lot of things Vandas wasn't so sure about, but he agreed with the alien—this money meant trouble. He didn't believe for a second that he was just a shill for someone trying to hide some cash, the timing was too convenient. It was high time Nick got some answers—not just about the funds, but about everything, what had happened at Paladin, how he'd wound up here. Tracking down whoever had moved those funds seemed like a step in the right direction.
The volus nodded, rapidly typing at his workstation. Closing the interface, he glanced to the human. "It will take time, but I am confident I will find something. In the meantime," he tapped another key and the medic's omni-tool flashed. "There are the funds you requested, in addition to a means by which to reach me. I understand you will be leaving the Citadel soon, but I will contact you when I have something."
"Thank you, Mr. Von." Nickeli said, rising from his chair. "You've been a tremendous help."
"It was my pleasure. If there is any other way I can be of service, please do not be afraid to ask."
"Ya' know actually, there was something I was looking for…"
The skycar settled heavily on the landing platform, and Nickeli quickly paid his fare and climbed out as the canopy rose, ignoring the cheerful, synthesized voice coming from the on board computer.
At Barla Von's suggestion, he'd taken a cab to the Lower Wards to seek out a gunsmith there. A half hour taxi ride had been more trouble than the marine was hoping to have to go through to find some spare parts for his Beretta, but the information broker had been insistent that Ferrarius was the man he needed to see.
It may've been for the best—Nick hadn't planned to do much more than figure out the least expensive way to keep his sidearm serviceable, but now that he unexpectedly had some money in his pocket, he might end up doing some shopping while he was here.
At any rate, once he got this errand out of the way he'd have to hunt around for some street food that wouldn't kill humans—it was well past lunch by now and his grumbling stomach was becoming impossible to ignore.
Shifting back to the task at hand, the young marine frowned.
The shop didn't look like much from outside. Denoted by nothing more than a small sign proclaiming the establishment to be 'Invictus Armaments' in red neon, the entrance blended seamlessly into the dusky blue shadows of the Lower Wards.
It would've been a hard place to find if he hadn't been directed there, and while a part of him wondered if it wasn't by design, Vandas couldn't help but survey the dirty street around him and feel somewhat skeptical of the broker's glowing recommendation.
A chime sounded as he entered, and he was met by the sound of whirling machinery coming from somewhere in back. Nickeli found himself in a well-lit showroom, the walls lined with metal cases displaying a range of rifles and other firearms, each weapon polished to a gleaming finish. It was warm inside the shop, and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of cleaning solvent and machine oil.
The medic was alone for a few moments before the sounds coming from the back abruptly ceased and a figure stepped through the curtained doorway behind the counter.
"Ah, I knew I heard someone come in." The turian shopkeeper remarked, pulling off his heavy, three fingered leather gloves and setting them aside.
"Welcome to Invictus Armaments, my name is Ferrarius." The gunsmith greeted, flashing what Vandas expected passed for a smile amongst the avian race. He looked to be a bit past middle age, if the weathered appearance of his plates and frayed tips of his bony mandibles were anything to judge by, but narrow, alert eyes the color of gold leaf studied Nick intently. After a brief second, the friendly expression was replaced by a thoughtful look. "Forgive me, but I don't believe we've met before, human."
"No, uh, we haven't." The medic replied. "I'm Private Vandas. There were some parts I need for a handgun and, I was told you were the man to see."
The turian returned an expression that he imaged equated to a quirked eyebrow. "And who told you that?"
"A volus named Barla Von?" The marine ventured, hoping a wrong answer wouldn't get him thrown out.
"Barla Von, you say?" The gunsmith chuckled dryly, seeming to consider this for a long few moments. "Well, then I suppose you've come to the right place. How can I help you?"
"Well, I was looking for some stuff for my sidearm," Nick explained, beginning to pull the weapon from his thigh pocket before sheepishly stopping. "Umm, may I?"
The turian nodded, pulling a rectangular piece of fabric from a drawer and unfolding it across the glass countertop as the medic removed his sidearm from his pocket.
Locking back the slide, Vandas laid the pistol down on the felt pad. Digging into his left pocket, he quickly produced both of the weapon's magazines, one empty and one partially full, and set them down beside it.
The shopkeeper watched this with a look of intent curiosity, one arm folded across his chest as the other rested beneath his jaw, one pointed digit tapping slowly against his chin.
Nickeli's Beretta was by no means in great shape—it had been in service with Marine Corps longer than he had, and had been torn down and rebuilt more times than he could count. Still, despite a bit of missing paint and a grip that had been worn smooth by countless pairs of calloused hands, he'd carried one at his side in every wadi and mountainside village he'd found himself in. After nearly four years, he'd become pretty adept with it.
"That's quite the interesting piece." The gunsmith remarked. Activating his omni-tool, he waved it over the handgun and an image of the weapon appeared on the console beside him. "Hmm…human…late twentieth century design, chemical propellant, rifled bore…how novel."
"Can you work with it?"
"Well, to be truthful, I'm more familiar with black powder weapons of Batarian origin than human—they're more prevalent in the Hegemony and Traverse than in Citadel space, but a fair few still find their way onto my workbench." Ferrarius confessed. Lifting the weapon from the counter, he began looking it over, his trio of pointed digits manipulating the firearm with surprising grace. Testing its weight, the clerk gave an approving rumble. "But it seems to be in good condition considering its age, and seeing as I've been building guns since before your kind was walking around the Citadel, I'm confident it can be done. What were you looking to do with it?"
Nick shrugged. "Parts, ammo, cleaning supplies."
"Parts are easy enough," The turian began, pointing the weapon towards the ceiling to peer down the length of the barrel. "I can create a production schematic from these scans and you can fabricate them on demand. The ammo situation is a bit trickier."
"Since I assume you want to carry it into the field—and I know you do, because there's still fresh carbon residue in the barrel and you didn't bring it in in a case—then my advice to you would be to put it in a box someplace and get yourself a sidearm produced some time after your people discovered the mass relays."
The medic gave a sheepish grin. "Well, I had been hoping…"
"I know you were," The shopkeeper continued, though Vandas could've sworn he heard a sigh in the old craftsman's voice. "Which is there are other solutions."
Tapping at the holographic display, the image of Nickeli's weapon came apart, separating into its various components as the turian carefully observed. "I can get you schematics for more ammunition, but with modern materials and propellant, they'd have a markedly higher muzzle energy. As is, the amount of stress the rounds would subject the weapon to would be more likely to cause the recoil spring to fail and would eventually warp the frame. That can be remedied with a complete overhaul of the action and frame using modern materials to make it suitable for field service. It won't quite match an equivalent mass driver weapon, but I can guarantee it'll shoot straighter and hit harder than the day it was made."
"That sounds expensive."
Ferrarius gave a nod. "And time consuming. Fabricating the parts won't take long, but refinement may be another matter."
"So what's your estimate?"
"Four-thousand credits and a week." The turian stated, laying the weapon back onto the pad. "Roughly. I've got several other orders right now, I may not get to yours right away."
Nick frowned, his hands tucked in his back pockets. "My ship might be leaving as soon as the end of the week…"
"Three days?" The gunsmith asked skeptically. Considering this for a moment, the craftsman shrugged. "I suppose it might be possible, but I have considerable surcharge for expediting projects."
"That's fine. Can you do it?'
"I can't make any guarantees but, I'll see what I can do. Now, if that was everything, there are a few forms to attend to."
It had taken roughly another fifteen minutes for Nick to escape the shop, time the gunsmith had spent trying to sell the medic a battle rifle while he signed paperwork. The turian had seemingly warmed rather quickly to the young marine, which Nickeli attributed to the considerable amount of money he'd had just spent in the gunsmith's store.
He had ended up ordering a new holster to replace the one he'd ruined on Eden Prime as well as a small storage case that had caught his eye, both to be delivered to the Normandy with his rebuilt handgun. Having offered his assurances to the clerk that the shop would be his first stop the next time he was on the Citadel, the corpsman departed, pondering how he'd spend the rest of his afternoon.
He had considered taking a taxi back to the Presidium and just spending a few hours walking the maze of pathways and grasslands he had seen from the air, but his rumbling stomach reminded him once more of his priorities, so instead he set off down the avenue, beckoned by the distant glow of neon lights.
Walking the Lower Wards wasn't exactly taking scenic route, even compared to the commercial district where the Alliance supply office was located. The metal of the narrow walkways was marred with discolored blotches, and the passing of a distant skycar sent the howl of its engine reverberating through the steel canyon.
Nick tucked his hands into his pockets as he continued down the empty street, warily glancing into each branching alleyway and darkened doorframe as he passed. He encountered only a few other pedestrians, none of whom seemed to pay him much notice as they went on their way.
As massive as the Citadel was, it didn't take much to imagine it must have been rife with areas like this, the shadowy underbellies of the gleaming station.
Nick frowned, peering upward to see no sign of the purple sky.
Crime. Poverty. Desperation.
There was something grimly telling to think that for as wildly as the various races and their societies differed, they shared many of their flaws.
It wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, but the young marine supposed that the fact the world still needed guys like him was proof enough that things weren't really all that different.
Following the neon signage and growing sounds of activity a few more blocks along the darkened walkway, Vandas rounded a turn to find himself in wider part of the street, an array of market stalls arranged either side.
Merchants of every race hawked their wares to the varied crowd of passersby, waving the latest tabloid on a datapad or ushering pedestrians towards racks of clothing set out for display.
Surveying the scene, Nicklei spotted only a few humans present in the sea of alien faces, and realized with some surprise that this was the first area he'd been where humans were a minority.
He caught glances of turians as he navigated his way through the bustle, their angular faces painted in an array of patterns and colors, each of which the corpsman imagined held some special significance. Asari appeared as glimpses of violet or blue, their somewhat smaller stature making them harder to see in the crowd. He spotted a number of the slim, fork-headed aliens whose name he still couldn't recall darting through congested street, all seemingly in a hurry to be somewhere. Another race, lumbering grey creatures half again his height, plodded through the market on four massive legs, the crowd simply parting before them as they trudged along.
He was surrounded by thousands of years of niceties and cultural nuances that his reading had hardly scratched the surface of. So as disorienting as it probably was to your average human tourist, Nickeli had literallystepped out of a different century.
His worrying was halted when he suddenly encountered the rich aroma of street food being prepared, prompting him to quickly search his surroundings for its source. Inhaling deeply, he found himself oddly soothed by the smell of seasoned meat being cooked somewhere in the market. Well, soothed and also increasingly hungry.
An uncertain look on his face, the marine considered his options as he continued to walk with the flow of the crowd.
He was out of his depth, that much was clear, but it was still a market, and he still had some money in his pocket. He'd found himself in similar situations in the markets of an Afghan village once or twice before and, despite the fact he didn't speak more than a few phrases of Pashto, he'd more or less managed to feel things out. Here at least the microcomputer on his forearm meant he spoke the language.
So for now he'd see if he could track down a food stand in the Lower Wards. Unless he somehow inadvertently started a riot in the process, it seemed like a reasonably simple start.
Pausing a moment more to check the time on his omni-tool, the young man set out.
Some twenty minutes later, Nick had wandered into a quieter section of the plaza and situated himself on a bench near a taxi stand. His scouring of market had borne fruit, apparent by the generous skewer of meat that currently had him preoccupied.
The cheerful asari running the food stall had explained to him exactly what it was when he'd bought it, but, in earnest, the medic didn't recall all the much of what she'd said. The dark red chunk of unfamiliar meat was slightly sweet and tore away in long, tender strips, leaving Nick's fingers covered in the sticky marinade. He was doing his best to pace himself though, both because he wanted to savor his snack and because he'd bitten the plastic skewer twice already. It was delicious though, so much so that he wondered how much trouble it would be to backtrack and purchase another piece.
Though seeing as he'd gotten himself fairly turned around in the crowd while he was distracted with his treat, he'd be quite lucky to find his way back to the same section of the market, let alone the same food stall.
The bazaar had been larger than he'd initially realized, spanning across two or three decks and boasting everything from peddlers with their carts to kiosks selling high-grade weapons and tech. Between the glare of the neon signs that lined the walls and the press of the crowd, Nickeli found the market rather disorienting to navigate.
The medic was shaken from his thoughts by an electronic chiming, originating from a glowing orange circle on the back of his left hand. After a confused moment, he tapped at his omni-tool.
"Hello?"
"Nick!" Shepard's voice cried from the other end of the line, making him jump. There was the indistinct noise of someone else shouting in the background and it sounded like she was running.
"Commander?!"
"Listen! In an alleyway three blocks east of you there's a quarian with information we need—she's walking into a trap!"
The marine shot to his feet, his kebab meeting a rather unfortunate end on the ground next to the bench.
"I'm on my way!" Vandas declared, though Shepard couldn't have missed the bewilderment in his voice.
The call ended without further explanation, the compass on his omni-tool springing to life to guide him as the baffled corpsman took off at a run, his boots sounding a heavy beat on the walkway.
He skirted the crowd as he ran, avoiding were it was thickest and making good time down the bustling avenue. While the young marine garnered a few strange looks, most of the milling pedestrians didn't even seem to notice him.
However, despite having a decent sense of where he was going, there remained a number of questions that Shepard's curt message he left unanswered—not least of were what a "quarian" looked like, and how the Commander had known he was in the Wards.
In the meantime, the young medic was simply sprinting down the street with a hazy notion of what he was supposed to do once he found the alleyway in question.
Three blocks later, Nick practically skidded to a halt, nearly overlooking the unmarked access door tucked amongst the market stalls. Ignoring a turian merchant that was loudly cursing him out after he'd nearly bowled one of his customers over, Vandas ducked between the kiosks and made for the alleyway.
The door, a worn access hatch with a dark streak of rust running along one side of the frame, gave a strained protest but finally opened, bathing him in the bleak red glow of the corridor's auxiliary lighting.
The bustle of the market disappeared as the door shut behind him, and there came the muted sound of conversation from somewhere further down the alley. Too far away to make out what was being said, Nick crept along quietly, his racing heart gradually slowing as he caught his breath.
Despite the tangle of pipes and electrical conduits suspended high overhead, the service corridor was narrow, perhaps only a dozen feet across, and the stale, damp air reeked with the coppery tang of rust and decay.
He snuck down a short staircase in silence as the unknown voices grew nearer, grimacing when his boot scuffled audibly against the worn deck plates. After a few tense seconds, Nickeli found cover in the shadow of a large pillar, the voices sounding very close now.
"-adow broker's contact?" A woman's voice asked. There was uncertainty in her tone.
Peering around the corner, the medic found the source.
He hadn't really done any reading about the quarians. There had been a scant footnote in the history book he'd read while at the Irin Center about a war they had fought at some point in the past, but Nick had admittedly been more interested in humanity's history for the two centuries or so that he had been absent.
Their physiology was dextro-amino based like the turians. He recalled that from the xenobiology manual he'd slowly come to understand during his detention. Still, Nick found himself surprised by how human they looked.
The quarian looked to stand roughly Nick's height, her slim frame clad in a dark colored environmental suit, a trait they shared with the volus. Despite this, he might've mistaken her a human in the darkness of the alleyway.
"Where's the Shadow Broker? Where's Fist?" The woman tensed, a small light on the lower portion of her helmet glowing when she spoke. The turian she was addressing mumbled a placation, his predatory smile revealing a row of jagged teeth. Overfamiliar hands worked their way down the quarian's arm in a way that made Nick's skin crawl.
There was movement in the shadows, and the marine withdrew slightly further behind the pillar when he spotted a pair of salarians waiting restlessly nearby.
Salarians. Of course he'd remember now.
Nickeli slipped back into cover, giving the omni-tool on his wrist an urgent look.
He wasn't sure where the Shepard was, but this was almost certainly the quarian she'd spoken about, and if the commander had been right, he couldn't afford to wait much longer.
Taking a moment to steel himself, the marine reached into the cargo pocket on his thigh….
And found nothing.
His expression cycled rapidly between confusion and alarm as the medic quickly patted himself down for the misplaced sidearm.
Finally, a look of deep concern settled on his face as recalled his earlier trip to the gunsmith. Easing himself back against the pillar, Nickeli silently cursed himself. It hadn't been enough that he'd charged headlong into an alleyway of full of armed thugs, he'd had to do so completely unarmed—in case anyone had any lingering doubts about how poor the marine's judgement was.
Deciding now probably wasn't the time to start kicking himself, Vandas quietly took stock of the situation. No gun, not even his knife, and no idea when Shepard would be arriving.
The medic grimaced.
It would have been generous to say that he was going to have to "wing it", since the term usually implied one had an end goal in mind. Given what he had in mind, it was likely more appropriate to call it prayer.
Pushing himself off the pillar he'd been leaning against, Nick rounded the corner without even the faintest semblance of a plan, a pit growing in his stomach with every step.
The two salarians that had been lingering near a stack of crates turned at the sound of his approach, their bone-colored armor a ghastly crimson beneath the emergency lighting.
A lump grew in Nick's throat, but he forced himself to keep walking, ignoring his thundering heart. He might've really fucked up this time.
"No, the deal's off." The quarian hissed, drawing Nick's attention.
Batting away the turian's wandering hands, she retreated a step, provoking a vicious scowl from the avian goon. The woman's eyes widened as the criminal reached for the pistol on his hip.
She seemed young, Nickeli realized suddenly. Around his own age, perhaps even a little younger, if he had to guess. Whatever this information was, these men were clearly prepared to kill her for it. The poor girl had probably only meant well.
As the turian's pointed digits closed around the grip of his weapon, the corpsman rushed forward, closing the distance between them in two long strides before his feet left the ground.
The jarring impact as the marine's flying tackle caught the imposing alien at the waist was enough to make his teeth rattle, and it occurred to him that he hadn't appreciated just how hard the race of plated creatures were.
The pair landed in a heap, the unwary turian slamming roughly into the ground as the human's weight came down on top of him. The weapon shot from the thug's grasp, its polymer frame clattering loudly across the deck.
Recovering quickly from the dizzying collision, Nick scrambled after the pistol.
From behind, there came the crack of a gunshot, the hypersonic round snapping as it whizzed by. Collecting the thug's handgun, Vandas swiftly turned and took aim at the pair of armed salarians, the weapon's crude iron sights sufficient at such short range.
Spotting the quarian still hurriedly trying to escape the line of fire, Nickeli hesitated for a split second, quickly sidestepping behind a stack of crates as the alien goons unleashed another volley.
Flinching as a slug passed dangerously close, he leaned from cover and fired twice in rapid succession. The shots missed their mark, but sent the thugs darting to opposite sides of the corridor to get out of the open.
By now, the turian had climbed to his feet and was making a hasty withdraw. He had nearly reached the stairs on the far side of the alley before Nick felled him with a well-placed shot.
Turning his attention back to the remaining two, the marine fired thrice more before the pistol seized up, throwing off heat in shimmering waves as it bleated pitifully.
Nickeli cursed, ducking behind the pile of crates as he waited for the weapon to cool. He'd just have to pray neither of the salarians were feeling brave enough to rush him while they had the advantage.
Still, the situation was deteriorating rapidly—the element of surprise had bought him time to arm himself and given the quarian a window to disappear into the shadows, but now he was pinned down. The turian may have been wearing only street clothes, but his companions had come sporting armor, and their kinetic barriers were batting away any of Nick's shots that got close.
The corpsman figured he could hold his ground for another minute or so before he was left with no alternative than to make a blind dash for the exit. If Shepard didn't show up before then…
Vandas peered down the alleyway as another shot ricocheted loudly off the bulkhead, morbidly wondering how far he'd get.
Taking aim once more, Nickeli caught one of the salarians in the open as he dashed between cover, but five shots from the underpowered sidearm only managed to bring down the thug's shields before he found refuge behind a support pillar. It seemed the marine had been optimistic in his estimate—they had closed to within a few yards.
Giving the pistol a few moments to cool, the young marine laughed bitterly. Here he'd been losing sleep wondering why everything hadn't ended with that mortar at Paladin just to buy it trying to play the hero in some dark alley. Showed what he knew.
To the medic's surprise, the firing abruptly ceased and there came a cry of alarm from the direction of the column where one of the salarians was concealed. Chancing a look, he poked his head from behind the stack of crates.
Astoundingly, the quarian was there, and he watched with disbelief as the slender woman closed with the armed mercenary, sweeping low to deliver a swift kick to the salarian's midsection. In a blur, she brought up one arm to block a wild swing as she rotated inward, slamming her other elbow into the amphibian creature's prominent left eye. The blow staggered the scrawny creature, giving the quarian a free hand to grab him by the fork-shaped horns atop his head and drive the point of her knee into his throat, the thug giving a strained croak.
Quickly producing a flat, palm-sized disk from her belt, she slapped it onto the back of the salarian's shoulder and shoved him into the path of the other onrushing mercenary before making a hasty retreat.
Nick stepped from cover to take aim at the now exposed thugs when the device the quarian had adhered to the back of the staggering goon's armor detonated, the concussion enough to send the marine tripping backwards over his feet as the sound echoed thunderously against the metal walls.
Vandas landed hard, the back of his head meeting the deck hard enough to make his vision flash momentarily. Slowly easing himself upwards, a bolt of pain shot through the left side of his head, accompanied by a piercing ringing sound.
When his pinky came out of his ear bloody, the medic mumbled a string of curses. A punctured eardrum probably explained why he wasn't hearing much of anything to that side, and it was also likely the reason everything was spinning. Fortunately, a quick check revealed no other injuries, and he delicately got back to his feet.
Despite the invasive throbbing in his head, Nickeli breathed a sigh of relief. He had enough experience to know that he'd gotten lucky—much closer to that blast and he would've had more serious problems.
His balance was shot, though, something a few wobbly steps more than proved. He'd probably just find a place to sit down until Shepard showed up before he wound up falling on his ass again.
The marine wasn't overly concerned about what had happened to the salarians—the stack of crates he'd used for cover obscured his view of where they'd been standing, but he expected the fresh splatter across the nearby bulkhead was his answer. In a way, he supposed the harsh red emergency lighting actually made things look a bit tidier.
Nick felt, rather than heard, the rapid footsteps coming his direction, and turning unsteadily, he caught sight of the quarian dashing past.
"Wait!" The medic called, reaching out and catching her by the upper arm. "I'm here to-"
The woman deftly spun from his grip and Vandas recoiled, spying the glimmering edge of a dagger coming his direction. The young marine narrowly avoided a fatal slash, the blade biting into the flesh of his shoulder instead of his throat.
The corpsman gave a pained yelp and lost his footing, falling backwards until his back slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
Head spinning, ears ringing, and with one hand clamped over the bleeding gash on his shoulder, Nick could only a watch as the quarian disappeared in the direction of the street, a low, defeated curse slipping from his lips.
Grimacing, the medic elevated his wounded arm, resting his hand on the top of his head while the other applied pressure. As much as it hurt, he judged the glancing blow likely hadn't done any serious damage. Resting his head against the cool metal wall, he closed his eyes. Once his balance recovered a bit he'd try to raise Shepard, but for now the throbbing in his head was unbearable.
It wasn't exactly how he'd envisioned his little "rescue" ending up. In truth, he'd expected to emerge from the shadows with his Berretta, utter something witty, and plug the bad guys full of lead like he'd stepped out of an action movie. Admittedly, he knew better, but things had been rather spur-of-the-moment.
Shifting wincingly to better inspect the steady rivulet of blood running down his shoulder and into his armpit, the marine shook his head, reclining once again.
The quarian stabbing him had come as a tremendous surprise, though.
Sensing the fall of heavy boots close by, Nickeli's eyes fluttered open once again and he glanced up.
An enormous creature stood over him. Rising easily above seven feet tall and clad in battered red combat armor, the towering alien cast a sinister silhouette in the grim red light of the alley. In one hand, the being clutched a shotgun half again the size of the marine's carbine, and Vandas feebly raised good hand in surrender.
Round, wide set eyes giving the wounded marine a once-over, the massive warrior gave a snort, sounding almost amused. "This one of yours, Shepard?"
"Nick!" The commander exclaimed, suddenly appearing from behind the well-armed stranger. Spotting the blood dripping from his sleeve, she fell to one knee beside him. "Alenko, give me some light!"
The brown-eyed biotic materialized from the shadows, a beam of light cast from his omni-tool. Vandas reluctantly removed his hand from his injured shoulder, his palm glistening with fresh crimson and the sleeve of his uniform stained black.
"Shit," Nick hissed as Shepard probed the wound, pulling a foil packet of medigel from her armor. Producing a utility knife, she hooked it in the collar of his shirt, carefully cutting the bloody garment away until his arm was bare to above the shoulder. It was a pity, really—he'd been breaking it in and it had just started to lose that new, starchy feeling.
"We're clear here, commander." An unfamiliar voice said. "There's no sign of her."
Looking up from his wounded arm, the corpsman found Gunnery Chief Williams and a turian clad in royal blue armor had approached to complete the loose semi-circle around where he was slumped against the wall.
"Nick," Jane turned, momentarily pausing her treatment to meet his gaze. "What happened? Where's the quarian?"
Vandas gave her confused look.
"I said, where's the quarian?" The officer repeated, a little louder this time.
"She set off a grenade and ran toward the markets," The medic answered, using his bad arm to weakly gesture down the corridor. "When I tried to stop her…she stabbed me. Sorry, commander."
The turian, a C-Sec officer by the mark on his shoulder, spoke. "Commander, if she made it to the market district there's no way we'll be able to find her in the crowd."
"Damnit." Shepard cursed lowly, surveying the messy remains of the group of thugs. Turning back to him, she gave an approving nod. "You probably saved her life, Nick. Well done."
The bloodied trooper only nodded slightly, deciding now probably wasn't the time to point out that the quarian had seemed quite capable in her own right.
Jane returned to dressing his wound, in short order smearing a layer of medi-gel across his shoulder and applying a trauma dressing, the elastic bandage winding tightly across his shoulder. Pulling Nick back to his feet, the commander gently steadied him when he wobbled slightly.
"How're you feeling?"
"Dizzy." The corpsman admitted. "And my head hurts."
Shepard frowned. "Alenko, give me a hand here—we'll go to Michel's clinic, it's closer than the Normandy. Williams, take Wrex and Garrus back to Chora's Den, make sure we didn't miss anything."
With a chorus of acknowledgments, the group dispersed, Kaidan placing one gauntleted hand on Nickeli's back to carefully guide him down the alleyway.
Shepard lagged behind, surveying the ruined alleyway with a frustrated sigh. That quarian was their only lead on Saren, and they needed to find this girl before that data cost her her life.