I've spent a lifetime wandering, going from one bloody shore to another, like a ghost haunting his own path. I hung from chains, suspended over the edge of death, the metal biting into my skin, the cold digging into my bones. Nine days I was there, the Turians thought they'd break me, bleed the defiance out of me drop by drop. They didn't know that some men don't find strength in comfort. Some of us only grow sharper on the edge, hanging between life and death.
I've died twice now, staring into that void with nothing but my own battered bones holding me up. They say death is an end, some kind of final peace. But I've seen it, twice, and there's nothing there waiting for you. No gods, no salvation, just a yawning abyss, waiting to take you in. Maybe it's fitting, then, that I've spent my life wandering, searching without knowing what for, moving between worlds like a man out of place in his own skin.
People don't understand what it means to walk this path, to keep moving forward with no roots to hold you, no ties to keep you steady. They think strength is standing still, finding a place and calling it home. But strength is hanging from that cliff, blood pooling at your feet, and choosing to hold on anyway. It's looking into that empty dark, dying and coming back, and knowing that the only thing you gained was the knowledge that there's nothing out there but silence. And still, you choose to rise, to keep going, even as the shadows close in.
The old stories, they say some men wander to find wisdom, that sacrifice brings you closer to truth. But the truth I found is harsh, unyielding. The world doesn't care for sacrifice; it doesn't reward pain with enlightenment. Pain just is, like gravity or time. And in my own search, I've learned that wisdom isn't a gift, it's a curse. It's knowing that there's no justice, no destiny, just the chaos of survival. And yet, here I am, clawing through it all, with nothing to guide me but a battered will and an old fury I can't seem to shake.
People call me a nomad, a drifter, a Merc. They don't know that I chose this path because I saw what lies behind it all. I've been to the edge, I've looked down, and I know that what's waiting there isn't some welcoming afterlife, but a chasm where meaning dissolves. And yet I walk, maybe because I've come too far to go back. Or maybe because there's a defiance in me that refuses to let the darkness have the final word.
I've lived as the condemned live, tasting death and walking away, carrying the scars as reminders. I've hung from chains, faced torments that would've sent others into madness. But I'm still here, walking this path. They say the gods sacrifice themselves to gain power. I've sacrificed everything, bled out every part of me, and what I've gained is nothing but cold, harsh clarity.
So I'll keep going, wandering through this endless gray, a nomad bound to nothing, a man who's tasted death twice and come back. I carry my scars like runes, marks of what I've endured, each one telling the story of battles fought and wars waged, all for the sake of nothing but the sheer, stubborn need to survive.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Athria pushed through the Andromeda Initiative's HQ doors, barely slowing as she passed the reception desk in the lobby, her boots hitting the polished floor with a determined rhythm. The space was coldly efficient, all clean lines and muted tones, with bright overhead lights that bounced off the white walls, making everything seem overly clinical. Beyond the lobby was a sprawling sea of cubicles, populated with researchers and staff huddled over terminals, each oblivious to her urgency. Surrounding the back of the room were glass walls, transparent enough to show the private offices and the conference rooms beyond, giving the entire setup a fishbowl effect. It made her feel as if every secret, every confidential conversation, was precariously exposed.
She had sent a message to Derek en route, asking for a meeting with Alec Ryder or Jien Garson, if either of them was in. But the silence on her omni-tool had only fed her frustration. Without slowing her pace, she pushed toward the back offices and found Derek in his small, cluttered office, sipping out of a ridiculous mug that read "Duck'n Number One." The moment he saw her, he nearly choked, scrambling to swallow his drink without making a mess.
Athria stood there, arms folded, waiting as Derek coughed and tried to catch his breath. Humans, she thought, exasperated but slightly amused. "Well…?" she said, her impatience showing. Derek cleared his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah…" He paused, swallowing again. "Alec isn't available, and neither is Jien. But Matriarch Nuara is here and waiting for you in the conference room. I don't know much, though. No one's told me anything." He finished with a shrug, clearly uncomfortable under her intense gaze.
Athria rolled her eyes and turned, heading back down the hall without a word. Behind her, Derek's voice trailed off as he muttered, "Jeez, Athria, not even a hello?" She didn't bother responding. The door to the conference room slid open, and she took a deep breath before stepping inside. Her gaze landed on Matriarch Nuara, who stood in the softly lit room, slowly turning to meet her with an unreadable expression.
"Athria," the Matriarch greeted her, her tone neutral, tinged with the gravity that only centuries of experience could convey.
"Matriarch," Athria replied, keeping her voice steady, respectful but resolute. She wasn't here for pleasantries. "I need information on the Turian frigate incident over Elysium." The Matriarch tilted her head, studying Athria with calm, calculating eyes. "And why do you need this information, child?"
Athria hesitated, weighing how much she could reveal without risking Martin. "It's… related to something I'm working on. A lead." Nuara raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the vague answer. "That's sensitive information, Athria. The incident was highly classified, and I don't release classified information on 'leads' without a better reason."
Athria opened her mouth to explain, but before she could get a word out, the door opened, and Alec Ryder stepped in, looking slightly harried but otherwise composed. "Apologies for the delay," he said, quickly crossing the room and taking a seat at the table. He glanced between the two as he settled in, then looked directly at Athria. "Now, what's this about?"
Athria exhaled, thankful for his presence. "Someone I know is being hunted by Spectres, and I think information about that incident could help him clear his name."
Alec's expression shifted, a flicker of realization crossing his face. "Are you talking about Martin Winters?" Athria nodded. "Yes. He's alive, despite what we all thought. And he's on the run."
Alec sat back, visibly processing this, and was about to respond when Matriarch Nuara gave him a pointed look. "This information is classified," she reminded him in a firm tone. "We cannot simply disclose it on a whim."
Alec's expression hardened slightly, but he nodded respectfully. "With all due respect, Matriarch, I think Athria deserves to know what we're dealing with here." He turned back to Athria, his gaze steady. "Martin was chosen for the Initiative to help secure an artifact that could have fallen into the wrong hands. My orders… well, they may have set off a chain of events that led us here."
The Matriarch sighed, clearly not pleased with his decision but not pressing the issue. "The Alliance found evidence on the remains of that Turian frigate," she said, her tone resigned. "The Colonel was attempting to provoke the Alliance into war, leveraging what some in the Turian government saw as a response to 'human aggression.' There are Turians who have never quite gotten past the impact humans made after the Battle of the Citadel." Athria's mind raced, piecing together the implications. "So… the Colonel wanted to provoke a conflict with the Alliance?"
The Matriarch nodded. "Precisely. The Colonel had planned to present a… message, so to speak, by handing over a bloodied human corpse to the Alliance. The aim was to stir up human pride, to draw out their fury once they saw the evidence of torture on one of their own. He believed it would force a confrontation that would 'curb' humanity's ambitions. And the artifact? He planned to bring it back to Palaven, where it could be weaponized to give the Turians an advantage." Athria's expression darkened. "You mean Martin's corpse."
Alec's face tightened as he nodded. "Yes. But when Martin killed the Colonel on Elysium, it threw the Colonel's entire plan into chaos. The Turian government was forced to disavow the Colonel's actions and sweep everything under the rug." Nuara added, "The Turian government moved quickly to purge this faction. Or so they claimed. It was a brutal internal matter, one they resolved without much public knowledge."
Athria absorbed their words, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place. "Someone's setting Martin up," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "On Illium, he killed a Spectre in self-defense, but now they're spinning it to make him look like a Cerberus operative, like he's a threat to the Council itself." The Matriarch fixed her with a piercing gaze. "And is it possible, Athria, that the Council isn't spinning anything? Perhaps Martin is what they say he is, and you simply don't know him as well as you believe."
Alec shook his head, leaning forward with a quiet intensity. "There's nothing in his file that would support that theory. Martin has been hunted by Cerberus for years. If he's a threat, it's to them, not the Council." Athria looked at Nuara, her voice steady. "Martin despises Cerberus. He hates everything they stand for. They took away everything he valued, stripped him down to nothing. If there's one thing I know for certain, it's that he wouldn't work with them, not for any reason."
The Matriarch watched her in silence, her expression skeptical but listening. Athria pressed on, feeling her words grow heavier, more urgent. "This isn't just about Martin. I have a duty, a responsibility to protect someone who's been targeted for something beyond his control. He's not some rogue agent out to topple governments."
When Nuara's face remained impassive, Athria turned to Alec, her voice firm. "You know what's right, Alec. I need this information if I'm going to keep him from being hunted down like an animal. If there's anything in the files that can prove he's not a threat, I need it." Alec regarded her, his expression torn, and after a moment, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small datapad, extending it toward her. "Here. It's not much, but it's everything we have on the incident and the Colonel's intentions. It might not be enough to clear his name outright, but it's a start."
The Matriarch sighed heavily, her eyes narrowing as she watched Alec hand over the files. "This is highly irregular," she said, a note of disapproval in her voice. Alec met her gaze, unflinching. "Sometimes, doing the right thing is more important than following protocol." Athria took the datapad, nodding in gratitude to Alec, and tucked it securely into her coat. "Thank you," she said quietly, feeling the weight of the data pad settle heavily on her shoulders.
Athria exited the conference room, her fingers already moving over the datapad Alec had given her, transferring the files onto her omni-tool as she walked briskly down the hallway and out of the HQ. She didn't dare let the information go unbacked. If something happened, if the data was wiped, confiscated, she'd need a copy. Martin's only hope might depend on it.
The Citadel's artificial sunlight hit her as she stepped outside, the cool air a stark contrast to the tension still burning through her. She quickened her pace, the datapad held tightly in her hand as she moved toward her skycar. She opened the door, climbed in, and slammed it shut behind her, exhaling sharply. She glanced down at the datapad once more, scanning the words, feeling the weight of each damning detail as she absorbed the full picture.
Just as she lowered the pad to her lap and reached out to run her hand over the console to start the vehicle, a cold, three-digit hand closed over her wrist, halting her movement. Athria's heart leapt into her throat, her entire body going still as her mind raced to process the shock.
Turning sharply, she found herself face-to-face with Vyras Daxus, seated in the passenger seat, his face set in a calm, cold mask of restrained anger. His other hand rested on a pistol, casually placed on his lap, but his grip on her wrist was unyielding.
"Athria Kyrsan," he greeted, his voice smooth but laced with an icy edge. He held her wrist just firmly enough that she could feel his strength, the unspoken threat that he didn't need to voice.
Athria's mouth went dry, her pulse pounding in her ears. She forced herself to swallow, willing her voice to remain steady. "Spectre Daxus."
Vyras's gaze stayed fixed on her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You've been very busy, Athria," he said, each word measured, controlled, as though he were weighing her guilt with each syllable. "Interesting… how quickly you left that conference room. And with a data pad in hand." His grip tightened just a fraction, and his gaze flicked down to the pad resting in her lap. "Care to explain?"
Athria's mind raced, her heart hammering against her chest as she tried to think, tried to assess her options. She was cornered, utterly and completely, and Vyras Daxus wasn't the kind of Spectre to let something like this slide. He despised liars; everyone knew that. She had to play her cards carefully.
"I… I was just, " she began, but he cut her off, his grip tightening to the point of pain.
"Spare me," he said, his voice low, disdain coloring his tone. "I have no patience for lies, Athria. I'm not one of your backroom contacts. I know what you're doing here." His free hand extended, palm open. "Hand it over."
Athria's throat tightened, and with no other choice, she reluctantly lifted the datapad, placing it in his open hand, all while struggling to keep her face composed. She tried to look as defeated as possible, letting her shoulders slump, her eyes widening with a hint of fear and resignation. She watched as he took the datapad, his gaze moving over the screen as he scanned through the files.
He read silently, his face revealing nothing, though his grip on her wrist never loosened. She forced herself to remain still, letting her eyes fall to her lap as if she were completely broken by his discovery. She had to sell this, make him believe she hadn't thought to copy the files, that this was her only source.
After what felt like an eternity, Vyras finally looked back at her, his face impassive, but his eyes glinted with something dark, something that made her blood run cold. "So," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur, "you're willing to risk everything for a man like Winters. I wonder… what is it about him that makes you so willing to lie to me?"
Athria didn't answer, fear and defiance warring in her mind as she held his gaze, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of explaining herself, of justifying anything.
Vyras watched her for a moment longer, his gaze as unreadable as ever. Then he let out a slow breath, clearly unimpressed. "You Asari… always think you can deceive with a look, a posture, as if I can't see through it." He leaned closer, his tone dropping, "If you think this little performance convinces me, you're gravely mistaken."
Her heart skipped, but she kept her expression steady, forcing herself to hold his gaze, hoping to appear vulnerable enough to dissuade him from probing any further. She sensed that if she gave even a hint of resistance, he'd tighten his hold, press harder. She had to sell the part of a cornered woman, no fight left in her.
Vyras studied her for another lingering moment, then finally released her wrist, though his other hand moved to grip the pistol in his lap, his finger resting near the trigger. "You'll drive," he said, his voice as cold as ice. "And you'll take us wherever I tell you. You and I are going to have a much longer conversation."
Athria swallowed hard, her hand trembling as she reached forward to start the skycar, Vyras's cold gaze still fixed on her. She knew she'd have to play her cards carefully if she wanted to survive this encounter, because one wrong move, and Vyras Daxus would end her without a second thought.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Martin wove through the bustling crowds of Bachjret Ward, his gaze flicking over the milling faces and noticing C-Sec's increased presence. They weren't coming after him directly, but he saw the way they hovered near the skycab depots and watched every entry point out of the ward with hawk-like precision. They're tightening the net, he thought grimly. But if they weren't actively coming for him, it meant the Spectres were still working their own angle. The salarian's around here somewhere, he reminded himself, and a cold sense of dread pricked the back of his mind as he realized he hadn't seen the other two yet.
Where the hell are they? He forced himself to stay calm, blending into the crowd as he kept an eye out for any sign of them.
Just as he was scanning the crowd, he spotted a familiar silhouette. The salarian, Kol, was coming straight toward him, and Martin tried to disappear deeper into the mass of people. But as he glanced back, Kol had already stopped and locked eyes with him, a cool, calculating stare that told him the game was up.
Shit. Martin tensed, his heart pounding as he darted his gaze around, spotting an alley just ahead. He started moving toward it, but the thought hit him fast: This could be a trap. The last thing he needed was to be funneled into a dead end where Kol and his Spectre pals could close in. Instead, he turned abruptly, heading straight toward Kol, meeting the salarian's gaze with a cold, unblinking stare, his hands flexing as if daring him to come closer.
Kol faltered, taking a step backward, and raised his hand to his comms. Martin smirked, muttering under his breath, "That's right, bitch, call your friends. Let's make a scene in front of everyone here." He knew Kol would have to tread carefully, not wanting to risk a public firefight with civilians all around.
But the salarian didn't take the bait. Instead, he bolted, sprinting through the crowd with practiced agility. Martin felt a thrill pulse through him as he broke into a sprint, weaving through people as he pursued Kol. "Run, run, little frog man!" he yelled, his voice filled with mockery.
Kol was fast, darting through the crowd with practiced swiftness, his movements agile and precise. But Martin kept pace, his long strides covering ground with ease. He wasn't trying to catch up—he wanted to wear Kol down, to exhaust him, force him into a corner. He knew from experience that salarians had remarkable bursts of speed, but their stamina could wear thin if pushed too hard. The memory of fighting another salarian on Omega resurfaced, a slippery bastard who'd used every trick in the book to dodge and weave. Spectre or not, Martin thought, they all have their limits.
Then, just as he thought he was getting close, Kol skidded to a halt and whipped out his sidearm, aiming it squarely at Martin's chest. Martin didn't hesitate—he ducked into a crowd, blending with a group of aliens, knowing Kol wouldn't dare shoot into the mass of civilians. Imagine explaining that one to the Council.
Staying with the group, Martin edged closer, his eyes never leaving Kol, whose gun lowered reluctantly as he scanned the crowd, clearly frustrated. Perfect. Martin slipped out from behind a tall batarian, moving into Kol's blind spot as he prepared to close the distance. But just as he shifted to confront the salarian, something hit him with the force of a freight train.
He was thrown backward, the impact sending him hurtling into a crowd of people, the bodies cushioning his fall as he tumbled to the ground. His head spun, the world tilting as he struggled to regain his bearings. Pain flared through his shoulder, and he pushed himself up, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.
Standing a few feet away, marching toward him with a cold, calculating gaze, was an Asari in dark blue and black armor, her face twisted with a scornful sneer. "You think you're so damn slick, don't you, Cerberus asshole?" she spat, her voice laced with contempt.
Martin gritted his teeth, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his black pistol in one swift motion. He fired off a few rounds at her, watching as she raised her hand, a biotic barrier springing up in a flash to deflect each bullet with ease.
"Fucking space magic bullshit," he muttered angrily, watching the rounds spark uselessly against her barrier. "Every damn time." He holstered the pistol, preparing himself for her next move, sizing her up.
Without warning, her entire body began to glow, an eerie blue light surrounding her as she channeled her biotic energy. In an instant, she rocketed toward him, propelled by a surge of biotic power. He barely had time to react, dodging to the side, but she clipped him hard, her shoulder slamming into his ribs with enough force to spin him around. Pain exploded in his side as he was thrown several feet, skidding across the floor and nearly knocking over a group of onlookers who scrambled to get out of the way.
Groaning, Martin pushed himself up, every inch of him aching as he turned to face her again. The Asari was relentless, her biotic aura flaring around her as she prepared for another charge. Great, he thought, she's the bruiser type.
"You're gonna have to do better than that, princess," he taunted, gritting his teeth against the pain radiating through his side. His mind raced as he tried to come up with a strategy, knowing his pistol would be next to useless against her biotic barriers. He'd have to get close, find a way to break her concentration—but with Kol lurking somewhere in the background, he knew he'd be in for a brutal fight.
"You want a fight?" she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "I'm going to enjoy wiping that smug look off your face." She lifted her hands, biotic energy swirling around her fingers, the blue light casting eerie shadows across her face.
Martin took a steadying breath, his mind focused, his muscles tense. So be it, he thought, bracing himself for her next move. He had no intention of going down without giving them hell.
As Martin braced himself, the Asari's eyes glinted with cruel amusement, her body still radiating biotic energy that flickered and pulsed, casting a blue light over her armored form. The crowd around them had begun to scatter, screams echoing through the wide thoroughfare as civilians scrambled to get out of the way. Martin took a step back, still calculating his next move, but before he could blink, she was on him again, her body surging forward in another biotic charge.
She slammed into him like a missile, the force of the impact knocking the wind out of him as he was hurled backward, crashing against a metal bench with a sickening thud. Pain exploded along his spine, and he rolled off the bench, gasping for breath, his vision swimming.
"Thought you were tougher than this, Cerberus scum," she sneered, stepping forward, her stance predatory. She flexed her hands, and he could see the biotic energy gathering around her once more.
Martin spat blood onto the polished floor, pushing himself up with a grimace. "Cerberus? Lady, I'm the last person who'd work with those bastards."
She laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "They always say that. But I know a liar when I see one."
Before he could respond, she thrust her hand forward, sending a concentrated wave of biotic energy that hit him square in the chest, flinging him back several feet. He crashed into a wall, the back of his head slamming against the hard surface. Stars burst behind his eyes, and he stumbled, his body aching from the repeated impacts.
"Stay down," she snarled, walking toward him. "It'll make things easier for both of us."
Martin forced himself to his feet, pain flaring through every muscle. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, his voice tight with sarcasm. "Not really my style."
She rolled her eyes, unimpressed, and surged forward again. He barely dodged her this time, twisting to the side as she barreled past him, her biotic aura leaving a faint trail of energy in her wake. But she pivoted quickly, her foot swinging out in a brutal kick that connected with his ribs, sending him sprawling.
Martin gasped, clutching his side as he rolled onto his back, every breath coming with a stab of pain. She was on him in an instant, her foot pressing down on his chest, pinning him to the ground as she leaned over him, her eyes cold and unrelenting.
"Give up," she said softly, almost as if she were speaking to a wounded animal.
Martin gritted his teeth, pushing against her weight with all his strength, but her biotic-enhanced pressure was relentless. "Not… in my vocabulary," he spat, managing a defiant glare.
She scowled, tightening the pressure, and he could feel his ribs creaking under the force. Desperation flared within him, and he reached for his pistol, aiming it up at her. Before he could pull the trigger, she lifted her hand, another biotic wave sending the weapon flying from his grip, clattering across the floor out of reach.
"Is that all you've got?" she taunted, lifting him with a biotic field and slamming him back against the wall, his body hanging suspended in the air. He struggled against the force, feeling like he was being crushed from all sides. She smirked, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she held him there, his body immobilized.
But even as the pain roared through him, Martin's eyes darted around, searching for an escape. He noticed a storefront nearby, a small electronics shop with rows of shelves and narrow aisles—close quarters, where she'd have less room to throw him around like a ragdoll.
With a surge of adrenaline, he gritted his teeth and forced his arm free, grabbing a small knife strapped to his belt and hurling it at her. She flinched, her concentration breaking for a split second as she dodged the blade. Martin dropped to the floor, landing hard but rolling to his feet, ignoring the agony radiating through his body. He lunged for the storefront, slipping inside just as she regained her focus.
He heard her growl in frustration, her footsteps following him into the store. Inside, the cramped space forced her to maneuver more carefully, her biotics flaring less intensely to avoid accidentally hitting the rows of merchandise that surrounded them.
"Running won't save you," she hissed, advancing slowly, her body tense, coiled like a predator ready to strike.
Martin smirked, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow. "Running? I was just giving you some room to breathe." He braced himself, ducking behind a shelf as she lunged at him, her fist connecting with the metal, sending electronics clattering to the floor. He used her momentary distraction to land a punch to her side, driving his fist into the soft spot just below her ribcage. She grunted, stumbling back slightly, but she recovered quickly, swinging her arm up and releasing a biotic pulse that struck him in the shoulder, forcing him to stagger back.
The close quarters gave him a fighting chance, but she was relentless, her fists a blur as she landed blow after blow, each one laced with biotic energy that made his muscles scream in protest. He fought back, blocking as best as he could, landing a few solid hits, but she shrugged them off with a sneer.
Just as he was beginning to gain ground, another figure appeared at the entrance of the store—Kol. The salarian moved quickly, his weapon drawn, and Martin barely managed to duck behind a shelf as a bullet whizzed past his head, shattering a display case behind him.
"Two against one, huh?" Martin muttered, catching his breath as he crouched behind the shelf. "Guess I should be flattered."
Kol's voice came from the other side of the aisle, calm and precise. "You are an… anomaly, Winters. A problem that needs a solution."
"Funny," Martin called back, grabbing a fallen piece of metal and gripping it tightly, "I was just thinking the same thing about you."
He hurled the metal, forcing Kol to duck, and then lunged forward, taking advantage of the momentary chaos to close the distance between him and the Asari. He managed to land a solid punch to her jaw, her head snapping to the side.
Kol advanced, his gun raised, and Martin spun, using the Asari as a shield. Kol hesitated, unwilling to risk hitting his ally, and Martin seized the moment, kicking her in the chest and forcing Kol to stumble. . His enhanced strength surged through as he grabbed Kol's arm, dopping the gun and twisting it then slamming him face first into a glass display case, the glass shattering around them.
Kol struggled, fast and slippery, but Martin's had a firm grip. He slammed the salarian's head against the broken display, shards of glass digging into Kol's cheek as Martin pinned him down, landing a series of punishing blows to the back of his head and kneeing him in the chest, Kol let out a strangled gasp.
But before Martin could finish him off, the Asari recovered, a fierce snarl escaping her as she charged forward, her biotic energy flaring. Martin barely had time to react, pushing off Kol as she aimed a vicious kick at him. He dodged, but her foot clipped Kol, sending him into the ceiling and back down on the display case. She didn't give it a second thought as kept on Martin.
Breathing hard, blood dripping from his nose and cuts across his face, Martin steadied himself, his eyes narrowing as he faced the Asari. Kol lay crumpled behind the display case, groaning weakly, and Martin knew he only had a small window before the salarian recovered.
"You're persistent, I'll give you that," he said, his voice low and taunting, watching as she wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth. "Most Asari start crying at this point."
She glared at him, her fists glowing with biotic energy. "And you're as reckless as they say. I'm going to enjoy putting you down."
Martin shrugged, rolling his shoulders despite the ache that throbbed through him. "That sounded a bit sexual," Martin smirked.
She lunged at him, swinging with a biotic-charged fist, but Martin sidestepped, grabbing her wrist and twisting it behind her back and kicking out her leg forcing her to stumble. He drove his knee into her ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch of impact before she broke free, spinning around with a wild swing that he barely dodged.
The two circled each other in the narrow aisle, both battered, both breathing heavily. She charged him again, but this time he was ready, ducking low and grabbing her around the waist, using his momentum to slam her into a nearby shelf. Merchandise scattered, the shelf buckling under the force, and she let out a pained gasp as he pinned her there, his fist connecting with her jaw in a brutal punch.
Just as she was about to retaliate, Kol let out a strangled shout from behind, lunging at Martin with a piece of glass in his hand. Martin twisted, grabbing Kol's wrist, slamming him down onto the floor, pinning him with a knee pressed to his chest. The salarian struggled, but Martin drove his fist into Kol's face, the impact cracking against bone. He hit him again, and again, each punch leaving Kol weaker, blood trickling from his mouth.
With one final punch, Kol slumped, barely conscious, and Martin released him, staggering to his feet. He turned back to the Asari, still on the floor, groaning and stepped over her walking out of the store, Bloodied, and bruised as he shook the pain from his hands. He walked into the throughway and picked up his pistol before casually walking off.
