Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

There was nothing to weigh her down, not really. Two pairs of sensible shoes, a selection of shirts (black or gray) , three pairs of pants, one pair of brand new jogging shorts, socks, underwear, and the usual personal hygiene products: these were the things that Jane Shepard had brought with her onto the ship that ferried her from Earth. She owned little in the way of personal effects. She had no use for sentimental things—no family heirlooms, no trinkets bought on holiday, not a single photograph committed to physical form. The only thing she’d packed besdies the basics was her Alliance service medal, a heavy, brassy thing that had never been removed from its original box, now shoved into a hidden pocket inside her rucksack like a forgotten, ancient talisman.

Leaving Earth was not as regrettable as she had expected. Seven months she’d been unemployed, about the same amount of time since she’d finished serving her last tour with the Alliance, and she was desperate to do anything, anywhere, as long as it meant keeping her nose clean and keeping herself housed and fed.

Hoisting the rucksack over one shoulder, she stepped out of the docking bay and into the breeziness of the viewing deck. The air was different here; she could smell it.  She’d noticed it before, on those odd occasions her unit had been granted shore leave, but she’d given little thought to her surroundings then, focused instead on getting shit-faced at dive bars or patronizing trendy entertainment venues. Now, she took a long breath, as if to memorize the atmosphere of her new home. It was so clean. Everything was clean. Surfaces were perfectly spotless and burnished, the spaces welcoming but uncluttered. Even the passengers in the lounge, or those making small talk by the viewports, were the epitome of tidy. They wore sleek, galactic fashions and spoke in quiet, pleasing tones. Already, she could sense that a new life on the Citadel would be like her first day aboard a starship: shaky, disorienting, and altogether intimidating.

Following a lengthy interview at security—where the turian officer manning the desk asked her to wait as he verified her information with not one, but three different departments—she took the elevator to the transport hub and caught a shuttle. Tradition prescribed guests be received at the docking bay, but her host had been working odd hours for weeks now and instead promised to meet her at a brasserie in Tayseri Ward in another half hour.

* * *

Situated on a high terrace, The Taermin offered a sweeping view of the river and narrow parkland that lined it on either side. The brasserie had occupied this spot for decades according to her server, an austere salarian man dressed in a piped, gold tunic that spoke of discernment and attention to detail.  In fact, the ambiance of Tayseri Ward as a whole was upscale, shades apart from the last place she’d called home. That home had hardly been a home at all; it was simply the place where she’d grown up, if by “grown up” one meant “survived”.

Jane watched everyone buzzing around her: the harried servers sliding past each other with full trays in hand, the irritable customer arguing with the maitre’d, a trio of asari women speaking in excited whispers two tables over. In the near distance, a drowsy looking turian officer sat hunched on a bench as he took an enormous bite of a limp parnix roll that sagged over his talons. And farther away, the joined silhouettes of lovers strolling hand-in-hand along the bank of the river. These would seem like common, unremarkable happenings at first glance, but as she continued to scan her surroundings, her observations began to take on more sinister shapes. What appeared as harmless gossip—the asari women leaning in tight around their table—might actually be conspiracy. Why did the waiters brush up so close to one another? There was plenty of room at the perimeter of the seating area. Perhaps there was some slight of hand, a message or object being passed along. Was that turian officer the target? And those two hanar stopped in the middle of the stairs: they’d been there for over twenty minutes scanning the area, not conversing, all while blocking the only exit from the terrace to the adjacent shopping arcade.

Everywhere she looked, Jane could imagine a scenario where something went wrong. Strangers were possible threats. Environments could be used against you if you weren’t prepared. During deployment or on a mission, a lack of vigilance could get you killed, or worse,  your entire unit. The sinister shapes now morphed into shadows, darkening Jane’s mind and turning it into something sharp and wolfish. But this was no way to live. It was a hazard of her old job. She narrowed her eyes, letting the feeling settle back down, and she gulped down the last of her beer. She was contemplating another when a voice called out.

“Jane. Goddamn. Shepard."

She turned her head, and a familiar woman was standing behind her with arms crossed, a toothy grin brightening her face. “Gianna-fucking-Parasini!” Jane called back. She stood to greet her, but before she could step forward, Gianna had pulled her into a breath-stealing squeeze.

“Sorry, I know you’re not a hugger, but I can't help it!”

At first, Jane’s body stiffened, her skin crawling at the sensation of someone pressed to her, but soon she surrendered and patted her old friend on the back in return. It had been more than ten years since they'd seen each other last; now was as good an occasion as any to make an exception.

“Look at you,” Gianna said as she let go and held Jane’s hands lightly in hers. “Wow. You're all…grown up!”

“You too,” she replied. The Gianna that lived in her mind was still seventeen, enthralling boys with her full, winsome smile. Boys like Vincent deWitt, who had fallen victim to her sweet talk and let them gatecrash his pool party, much to the other kids’ chagrin. All it had taken were a few words and a toss of her bouncy, brown hair.

But this Gianna was sleek and sculpted, and still just as confident. Jane doubted she needed to do much to get anyone’s attention. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear heels before,” Jane said, noticing her shoes.

“Just part of the uniform.” Gianna glanced down at Jane’s bag. “Is this all you brought?”

She patted her hand to it as if to claim it. “When you eat, breathe, and live the military, you get used to packing light.”

“Maybe we should take a detour then? The Citadel has anything you could ever ask for.”

“I’m good, thanks. Only thing I could use right now is a couch to crash on. I’m beat.”

“Your wish is my command. The apartment’s right…there.” Gianna pointed toward the midsection of a glassy complex that spanned at least half of Sector 72.

Jane shouldered her rucksack and smiled at her old friend. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The towering glass doors of Monoceros House greeted them like two silent sentinels. Glazed in an iridescent blue, their textured surface reminded her of the Shaal Salt Flats of Virmire. The stylized unicorn etched across the doors seemed to glow as they approached, its shape rendered in blazing white and punctuated by sidereal points along its outline.

Jane whistled. “Sweet Jesus…”

“Swanky, eh?” said Gianna with a wry smile.

“No kidding.”

“You wouldn’t guess by the look, but these doors are absolutely bulletproof.” She swept a hand through the air and the doors obeyed, sliding open in complete silence.

In the lobby, the asari concierge smiled demurely and greeted them. “I have the permission code you asked for, Ms. Parasini.” She gestured toward Jane. “If you wouldn’t mind presenting your omnitool, please, Ms. Shepard?”

Surprised, Jane stared wide-eyed before comprehending why she was asking. “Oh...oh, yes, of course.” She raised her arm to the desk, suddenly conscious of the thinned, rat-bitten edge of her shirt cuff.

The concierge held a programming unit over the omnitool until it sounded a pleasant chime. “There, all set. You now have access to all entrances and residential amenities. You’re free to make use of our private pool, gym, and sauna. There is a library, as well as shared office space on the 5th floor. Other services such as laundry or courier may be provided to you upon request.” The concierge smiled again, but this time Jane detected a hint of contempt in the pinched corner of her mouth. “Thank you Ms. Shepard.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane, giving her a casual salute, and she followed Gianna toward the bank of elevators at the far side of the lobby.

Upstairs, on the 18th floor, the elevator opened onto an long, white hallway. Every surface gleamed sterile with the promise of vintage, space age luxury, putting Jane in mind of ethereal synthesizers, or of astronauts of old in bulky spacesuits hopping along the surface of the moon.

The spell broke as Gianna’s heels struck the black tiles. “We’re down this way.”

Jane counted seven doors as they walked, three units on the left and four on the right, evenly spaced. Emergency exits at each end of the hallway.  When they got to the eighth door, Gianna held her wrist to the access panel and stepped back.

“Welcome home,” she said when the door opened.

The concealed lighting turned on in a dramatic fade as Jane stood in the threshold, gawking. “Wow. Talk about an upgrade! Nothing like your shoebox in Toronto.”

Gianna gestured for her to enter first, and Jane stepped into the foyer where neat lines of shoes—flats, heels, sneakers, boots, sandals, you name it— were slotted into a built-in unit.

“You really do make good money, huh?” Jane asked, removing her graying runners. Only now did she notice that the small holes beginning to form at the backs of her shoes. She placed them in an empty spot next to a pair of red suede pumps.

“Definitely not bad,” replied Gianna, placing her own shoes in their slot. “I sent a lot home the first five years. But when Dominic and Leo finally landed decent jobs, I started stashing away as much as I could. Least now I’m not elbow-to-elbow with three stinkin’ brothers and my parents.”

“No, you’re just stuck with me,” Jane said sarcastically.

“Stuck with you? Never! Besides, it’s more fun with you here. It’ll be like old times.”

The memory of Gianna’s room was still clear in her mind. It was hard to forget an old storage closet converted to fit a twin bed. Because she was the only girl, as well as the eldest, Gianna’s parents did the best they could to give her some privacy, but that meant when Jane was over, the only place for her to sleep was within the perimeter of a makeshift curtain wall. “Bedspread on the floor?” she asked, facetiously.

Gianna laughed. “No! You’ve got your own bed you dope. There’s a spare room.” She led Jane to the bedroom, opened the door, and made an exaggerated gesture with her arm to usher her inside.

Jane grinned as she stepped into the room and let her bag thump to the floor. “Holy smokes, this is as big as my entire studio.” Stretching her arms out, she fell back onto the bed and swept her limbs along the covers as if to make an angel in the snow. The silky duvet felt cool against her neck. “Now this is what I’m talkin’ about! You’ve outdone yourself, Gi.”

“Glad you like it,” she replied and plopped down next to her. “You know, when you told me you’d left the Alliance, I was kind of shocked. But I just knew I had to get you here.”

The swishing of Jane’s limbs ceased. “It feels kinda weird, getting this job because of you,” she said, staring up at the spangled chandelier ring overhead.

“Nah, I’d talked to Maro about you before—I mean, just chit-chat really—but you piqued his interest. The open position was just a coincidence. When he asked, I endorsed you one hundred percent. But you didn’t get this job because of me.” Gianna leaned back and looked down at Jane. “Besides, how could I leave you in a lurch? You’re my friend. Probably the best friend I ever had.”

It didn’t sound completely unbelievable coming out of Gianna’s mouth—how could it? But Jane still had her doubts. That anyone would hire someone like her to do corporate investigations, and based on her record, seemed a little far fetched.

“Well, thank you,” she said, sitting up, and brushed her cropped red hair away from her temple. “This means a lot to me. A lot.”

“You deserve to be happy, Jane.” There was a warm sparkle in Gianna’s eye as she patted her friend’s hand.

Jane snorted. “Please, just call me Shepard. Jane’s not a name I’ve gone by for a long time now.”

“What’s wrong with Jane?” she asked with a puzzled expression.

“Nothing. It’s just not…me anymore, I guess.”

“Alright then,” said Gianna, rising from the bed. “Up for some grub, Shepard? I know a place where we can get some great patties.”

At the mention of food, Shepard was suddenly aware of how hungry she was. Aside from the beers she’d had at the bistro, she hadn’t consumed anything since boarding the shuttle. The thought of spiced meat and a flaky, buttery crust sent her salivary glands into overdrive. “You’ve got patties on the Citadel? Heh…don’t have to ask me twice.”

Gianna slapped her on the back. “Then onwards and upwards, my friend.”

And with that, Shepard leapt up from the bed and made a rush for the door.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

Gianna slammed her glass down on the table and wiped the beer on her lips with the back of her hand. "Damn if this job doesn't send me to an early grave—either shot by flunky corporate muscle or working myself into an aneurysm. One of them is bound to happen."

“Ah, don't get so down on yourself, Gi. You could bite the dust slaving away at paperwork instead. God knows we’ve got enough to last until we’re a hundred and fifty.”

“Ha ha Shepard, laugh it up." The sudsy chatter of the after-work crowd bounced off the walls of Blu Belle Alehouse. As usual, she scanned the place for any cute turians, but judging from her pursed lips, pickings were slim this evening. “Ahhh, when are we going to catch a break in this case? Tailing a middle aged hanar with a god complex is gettin’ mighty dull.”

Gianna was right, two months without a good lead was starting to get tiresome. Even with her limited experience in corporate investigation, Shepard knew enough about covert ops and intelligence to know when an operation was in danger of becoming irrelevant. “Ever think about asking C-Sec for help?"

“C-Sec? Those stiffs? They couldn’t catch a rat if it scurried across their laps.”

“Might not hurt.” Shepard tossed her chin up. “Didn’t you want to be a cop when you were young? I thought you liked them.”

“Eh, I was too romantic about justice. When you see how it really works you realize it’s not all its cracked up to be.” Gianna eyed Shepard’s basket of wings and stole one. “I do have a couple of contacts. Maybe I’ll ask around. I’m gonna pull out all my hair if we don’t get a lead soon, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty fond of it.” She made a point of throwing her head in a dramatic arc as if she were in a shampoo commercial.

"If this were a military operation, we'd get in, take down the bad guys, and get out. Like nothing ever happened." Shepard flicked all her fingers out to mimic an explosion.

"Yeah, but then you'd have a an entire chain of people telling you what to do and how to do it. Where's the fun in that, eh? Trust me, we can get way with a lot more here. Another few months on the job and you'll see what I mean." Gianna bit into the chicken wing and tore it away from her face. Her expression turned stiff as she chewed, and her cheeks flushed red. Flinging the wing to her plate, she shot a wide-eyed look at Shepard. “For the love of eezo, how can you eat these!”

Shepard smacked her lips. “These? They aren't that hot, are they?” She finished gnawing at her drumette until there was nothing left but a clean, stubby bone.

Sucking air between her teeth, Gianna wiped her brow, then gulped a long swig of beer.

Shepard cackled. She was all too delighted to see her friend suffer. Snatching the last wing from the basket, she gawked at Gianna’s plate. “You barely took a nibble. Come on, you can do better than that!”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten spicy food,” she said through a cough. “I’m a real mangiacake these days.”

“Think of it like training for the Alliance—you just need to increase your tolerance for pain. Bite the bullet, so to speak.”

“Yeah, no, that sounds horrible. That would be why I stayed in the private sector.”

“Well, you landed a good gig,” said Shepard, balling up her used napkin.

“Once I have another case in the bag, I have a chance at lead investigator. Just have to get there.” Gianna twisted the corner of her mouth, then polished off the last of her drink. “Come on, let’s get outta here. We’ve got an early start tomorrow and I don’t need Maro giving me another earful.”

* * *

The next day, after a long day at her bogus day job, Shepard returned to the home office to make her usual reports. The office was a converted warehouse space in Zakera Ward that bore no markings or signag, other than a placard at the front door that read “PRIVATE BUSINESS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY”. It was a rudimentary deterrent, but it kept most of the public from prying, and if that didn’t stop them, their krogan bouncer, Rhal, was there to ensure that they heeded the sign.

Behind two sets of doors was Jara Galactic Consulting, a Citadel based corporate investigations firm and Gianna’s long time employer. Often hired by lawyers, government agencies, or private enterprise, they rooted out all types of white collar crime, whether perpetrated by associates on the first floor or those at the top in the penthouse office. That meant their employees were ex-police and private investigators, as well as the usual forensic accountants and intelligence experts, and at times, ex-military personnel with exceptional qualifications.

Shepard had been assigned her first job at Zilald Exports Unlimited. There, she gathered data and took note of comings and goings by daylighting as a records clerk. Gianna, meanwhile, had been posing as the representative of a wealthy, but demanding customer. It was Jara’s hope that the two could uncover a suspected case of embezzlement by the company’s chief financial officer, Oloor, but so far they hadn’t unearthed much, aside from a minor case of travel funds misuse and the CFO’s proclivity for illegal, endangered fish from Kahje.

Disappointed by her lack of progress, Shepard shuffled into the office’s bare antechamber. She gave Rhal a deflated smile, and the krogan responded with a grunt—the friendliest utterance he could manage—and opened the next door for her to pass. When it closed, she crossed to the reception counter and leaned an elbow against it; her feet were sore from being squeezed into too narrow shoes, and she raised a foot to assess the damage. She let out a punctuated hiss. People weren’t meant to live like this, this was inhumane. Torture, really. As she continued to gripe, the datapad she’d been holding slipped free from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Shit…”

Awkwardly, she tried to squat, but the fabric of her skirt strained against her muscular thighs, and it felt like the garment might rip in two. She stood up again, tugging at the hem. God, she hated these things. The skirt kept riding up, and she found the feeling of free air between her legs unsettling. At least trousers moved with your body; slim skirts were just cages for your legs. She could have sworn the masochist who designed it had looked at their breakfast one day and decided a sausage casing would make for a fantastic piece of fashion.

Shepard peered over the reception counter, but there was no one there. Where the hell was Marianne? Why was no one manning the front desk? Attacking from another angle, she contorted at the waist while bending her knees and reached toward the floor, but her thin heels were making balance impossible. Her fingers brushed the edge of the pad and she grunted, struggling to gain purchase on the slippery casing. Just then, she heard the doors slide open. A pair of scuffed combat boots appeared at her feet, each one host to two toes.

“Here, let me,” said a distinctly turian voice. Three long digits scooped up the datapad and held it out to her.

“Oh…” Shepard’s head shot up. A rangy turian man dressed in a C-Sec uniform was looking down at her with curiosity. His face was a hard-bitten rock gray—typical for a turian—but his eyes were ice blue, a striking but unusual feature she’d never seen in one of his kind. He wore an expensive looking visor over one of his eyes, all but obscuring it. She continued to stare as she regarded the blue markings across his face, and she wondered which colony they were meant to represent. The turian cleared his throat and gestured with the datapad. Quickly, she straightened to standing and smoothed her skirt down at the front with a frantic yank. “Thanks,” she said, taking the datapad back. 

“You know, I’ve never understood how you ladies can stand such restrictive clothing,” he said casually. “Seems awfully impractical. Maybe it’s unfashionable, but I like to be comfortable when I’m working,”

Shepard bristled at the stranger’s judgment. Nevermind that she hadn’t exactly chosen the clothes, or that she agreed with his point wholeheartedly, but it was awfully presumptuous—not to mention a bit sexist—for him to make the comment to her face. “I’m sorry,  I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said with a strained smile.

“Detective Garrus Vakarian, C-Sec Special Investigations. I’m guessing you’re….” His mandibles fluttered slightly as he narrowed his eyes. “Jane Shepard?”

“How did you know?” Shepard stood with her feet apart and crossed her bare, sinewy arms.

The turian eyed her up and down. “Just a hunch. I hear you’re ex-Alliance Navy.”

“I am. Served for over ten years,” she said proudly.

“Oh? Pretty good stint. I’m two years out myself. Been at C-Sec ever since.” He clasped his hands in front of his body and shifted his weight. “My dad’s a long time officer himself, so you know, law runs in the family.”

Was this the guy Gianna had told her about? He seemed a bit full of himself, if not a little overconfident. She indulged him anyway, not wanting to offend someone she might have to work with. “You made it to detective in two years? That’s impressive.”

“Yeah, well…” he said. “Just kind of happened.”

“Just kind of happened?” There was no way detective in two years just ‘kind of happened.’ Clearly, Daddy’s little boy had had some help.

“What just happened?” asked a voice from the hallway. Gianna emerged with a bag of chips in hand and was shoving them into her mouth.

Shepard blurted around the turian, “Buddy here was just sayin’ he became a detective in two years.”

As he turned around to see, Gianna pelted the bag of chips behind the reception desk, then surreptitiously wiped the crumbs from her lips by pretending to cough into her arm. “Garrus!” she said, approaching. She beamed and touched her fingers to his arm. “So, Captain Themis finally convinced you to help us, eh?”

“Mmm…more like threatened. But no, that’s not why I’m here.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not?”

“It’s about a new case. We’ve got a dead auditor on our hands. ”

“Oh?” she asked, leaning in closer. “Do tell.”

“There’s no official announcement yet, but seeing as how we’re contracting Jara…”

Shepard could tell he’d piqued Gianna’s curiosity. She was practically breathing on him now and her cheeks had flushed pink.

“The auditor was found yesterday at a cultivation facility. An apparent drowning in a hanar aquaculture tank. But it looks suspicious, especially considering the victim’s position. He’d been investigating some sketchy capital loans made by a subsidiary of Beckmann Financial.”

Drowning in a hanar aquaculture tank? That did sound interesting. Shepard looked to Gianna for her reaction, but her friend’s expression had frozen, her gaze unfixed.

“Bailey spoke with Maro this morning. I’m guessing you didn’t hear?”

Gianna didn’t answer him. “No, we’ve been working all day. We only just got here ourselves,” Shepard explained on her behalf.

“Then I’m sure he’ll fill you in on the details. It’s a big case, so C-Sec wants to look into it right away. We could use your expertise.”

Her expression still inert, Gianna’s eyes flicked up to the detective. “Did you say the auditor worked for Beckmann?”

“That’s the one,” he said, glancing toward the hallway. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I need to speak with Len right now, but I’m sure we’ll talk more later. Lots to go over on this case.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. We didn’t mean to keep you,” said Gianna, her voice drifting into a murmur.

“I’ll see you later?” Detective Vakarian held up a hand in goodbye to Gianna, who returned it half-heartedly. “Pleasure to meet you, Jane,” he said, turning to her.

“Likewise,” she said with a polite nod. “And it’s just Shepard, if you don’t mind.”

“Just Shepard?” he asked, raising his browplates. His ice blue eyes fixed on hers with an unexpected intensity, and like a scud of wintry air, it quickened her breath.

“Yep, just Shepard.”

“Then—pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shepard,” he said, and walked away with a curt wave.

* * *

Both women being lousy cooks, they ate out for dinner for the fourth night in a row. Spicy dan-dan noodles and savory asari t’nis. It wasn’t the healthiest of meals, but it was late and the food did its job, and neither one of them cared by that point. When they returned to the apartment, Shepard was the first to enter, plunking herself down on the bench near the door. She pried off a shoe and threw the leather pump to the floor.

“Damn, woman! Go easy on those. You’ll still need to wear them another day.”

“Fuck these shoes!” Shepard said, shaking the other shoe at her. “I don’t understand why we can’t wear more comfortable things to the office. All this ‘professional’ dress stuff is bullshit.”

Gianna raised her hands in the air as if to say ‘I have no idea’ and wandered off to her bedroom. When she returned, she was dressed in a pair of plaid lounge pants and a bra, and was pulling an old Raptors sweatshirt over her head. She sat down next to Shepard. Cross-legged on the sofa, Shepard was still dressed in her work clothes, her skirt hiked up to the tops of her thighs as she rubbed the arches of her sore feet and groaned. Gianna pursed her lips. Giving her friend a pitiful head-shake, she turned on the vidscreen.

“Hey, what was that about, earlier?” asked Shepard, now pulling at each of her toes.

“What was what?” Gianna asked back, distracted by the vid menu.

“You! You know, when you were,”—Shepard flipped her hair and ran her hand down Gianna’s arm—“giving gaga eyes to that turian cop. Vakarian. Reminded me of the time you had a crush on Anthony Singh.

“Me? Nah. We’re just friends,” she said, continuing to flip through the menu at a rapid clip. “And by the way, I did not have a crush on Anthony Singh.”

“Yup, you. And I know for a fact you had a crush on Anthony because you wrote his name all over your desk…”

Gianna scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. You caught me.” Her head whipped toward Shepard. “But you’ve gotta admit, Garrus is hot, right? He’s got that whole badass cop energy going. Imagine what he’s like in the sack…”

Shepard squirmed and tucked her legs up behind her. “I…I’m not sure I’m qualified to comment.”

Gianna raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you’ve never…?”

“I’ve never really had opportunity.”

“Shore leave? Joint missions?” Her tone had turned incredulous.

“When I was with the Alliance, most of our encounters with the turians were professional. They weren’t exactly clamoring to fuck humans.”

“Jane. Jane. Jane, Jane, Jane!” Gianna said with a pitiful laugh. “My poor little Jane! You have no idea what you’re missing out on!”

She leaned forward a little, perplexed but intrigued. “Is it that good?”

Gianna nodded slowly, “Tongues,” she whispered.

Shepard tried to picture it, but in her mind could only see their abundance of pointy little teeth.  A shiver of horror ran down her spine. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.”

Shaking her head, Gianna turned her attention back to the screen and scrolled back and forth until she finally selected Survivor: Volus Vs Vorcha Edition. They’d been watching for a few minutes as the volus on screen attempted to kindle a flame on a stretch of desolate beach. But a rival vorcha was looming in the bordering brush, putting out the fledgling fire with a makeshift fan each time it flared. Shepard guffawed at the poor, flummoxed volus, slapping her bare knees each time he looked about. Gianna, however, wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t reacting at all, actually, only staring at the screen with empty eyes, as if she were somewhere else entirely.

Shepard poked her friend in the shoulder. “Hey, you okay? You’ve been a little off  since we left work.”

“Huh?” she said, glancing at her. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine, just a little tired is all. Got an earful from Oloor’s assistant today. She’s such a busybody. You know how it goes.”

Shepard furrowed her brow, skeptical of the way Gianna’s words contradicted her expression. “You sure?”

“Yeah, of course.” She let out a sigh and turned back to screen. “What do you say we just watch some trash tv, then hit the sack, hmm?

Without listening for Shepard’s response, she turned up the volume, and the light of the screen flickered across her vacant face.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

“GAAAH! Go away! You telling lies! Let us go!” The vorcha snarled and spat upon the officer restraining him.

This was the first thing Shepard saw as she approached the station. It was surprising, not because this was her first time seeing this kind of thing—she once witnessed an entire pack of vorcha spew yellow bile on a would-be Omega vigilante—but because the turian officer was so calm, so passive in his demeanor that he could just as well have been handling an overtired fledgling and not a violent, uncooperative suspect. Had his job turned him so jaded? Or maybe it was that legendary turian discipline dictating his behavior; it was hard to tell. 

But this place was was nothing like the cop shops of megalopolis Toronto. As the largest C-Sec station on the Citadel, the Presidium precinct was busy yet orderly. Officers sat behind uncluttered desks on clean floors, with no worry or care for their own safety, projectile-proof glass or kinetic barriers nowhere to be found. Where were all the drunk vagrants? The hooded, petty thieves? The hardened criminals with deadened eyes? Their sally port must be far from the public eye, Shepard concluded. Or suspects were held at another precinct, closer to the Lower Wards, where the Citadel’s gangs and mercs and undesirables congregated. For a moment, she entertained the thought of going there just to see, but she soon thought better of it. Shepard had already seen her share of police stations. 

She was greeted at reception by a young turian who took a moment to find her name in the appointment list, then directed her to a conference room in the east wing. The station was a labyrinth of rooms and hallways that seemed deliberately designed to keep anyone from leaving: banks of doors with no signage, corridors that led to dead ends, others that went around in circles. Apropos for suspects and the people detaining them, an annoyance for the odd civilian who might need a toilet.

When she finally found the room, Shepard peered through the side window. She’d actually shown up earlier than expected; her memory of how long it took to travel between wards had been lost between her fresh training at Jara and the blur of the last two years. No one else had arrived yet. She took the liberty of choosing the best seat in the room—the one closest to the door.

Moments after she’d gotten comfortable, Detective Vakarian entered. He had the indignant, defeated look of someone who’d just been reprimanded.

“Oh, you’re here early,” he said, surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

Shepard shrugged. “I’m not always the best with time. I figure it’s better to show up early than late.”

“Can’t disagree with that logic.” The detective crossed to the other end of the room, where there was a terminal and a display screen projected from the wall. “Don’t mind me, I’m just logging in.”

  Rather than sit, he stood bowed over the keyboard. The enormous hump of his carapace made him appear imposing from where she sat, and his black and blue uniform, with all its swoops and plates and curves and fitted snugly against his tall frame, exuded the same aura of authority as his towering frame. The sight made her jaw stiffen.

He finished typing something and glanced up at her. “I see you took my words to heart, Ms. Shepard,” he said, pointing toward her with his chin. 

Shepard glanced down. Being off-duty, she was wearing her usual choice of outfit: straight-fit cargo pants, an old black tee, and her beaten but trusty runners. “Nah, this is how I usually dress. The skirt’s just something I wear for the fake job.” A stranger’s hamfisted attempt to be helpful had not, in fact, changed her mind overnight. The idea was laughable really, but she refrained from saying so. “Like I said before, just Shepard is fine. If we’re going to be working together, let’s get that much straight. Ms. Shepard—that's someone else,” she said in all seriousness.

Detective Vakarian stopped typing. “Ah…” he replied. “My apologies, Shepard. I must have sounded rude yesterday.”

“Yeah, a little,” she said, surprised at his quick self-correction.

“Where’s Gianna?” 

“Running a little late. She needed to prepare some files for Maro. She should be here soon.” 

That was a bald-faced lie. The truth was that Gianna had been drinking more than usual last night and was nursing a mega-hangover. She had asked Shepard to go ahead of her so they wouldn’t keep the detective waiting. 

“I see,” he said.

A long silence followed. Shepard continued to watch him as he swiped something away on his terminal screen. He typed in a few more things and stopped. He stood staring at the now empty screen, his fingers unmoving and resting on the inputs, as if someone had pressed a pause button and he was caught mid-frame. He glanced up. When his eyes met hers, his gaze drifted to the door behind her, then to the blank wall next to her, but there wasn’t anything to see inside the spartan room save for a stodgy informational poster about proper arrest procedures.

An involuntary smirk crooked at the corner of her mouth. Her earlier impression of the detective had been inexact, or at least he wasn’t as cocky as he’d seemed during their first encounter. Here was a man who found the usual social niceties difficult. He could probably talk shop, sure, but being at ease with strangers was not his forte.

Aware he was still being watched, he held his mandibles tight to his face and stepped away from the terminal, resting his hands on the edge of the table. 

“Sooooo….” he intoned.

Shepard clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “So?” 

“Gianna’s told me you two are old childhood friends. Is that right?”

“We are.”

“And you met at…school?” 

Shepard shook her head.

“Through a friend?”

“Mmm…something like that.” 

“An acquaintance?”

He was already squirming; she could feel it. She shook her head again. “Not exactly that, no.”

Another awkward silence filled the space between them. She was making him uncomfortable, that much she could tell by his rigid posture, but she could no more divine his thoughts than he could hers. If he could read her mind at that moment, he would see that he was making her just as uncomfortable. Being questioned like this—by this man, in that uniform, in this room—had begun to feel like an interrogation. Something about the way he hovered at the end of the table, while she sat at the opposite end in her threadbare street clothes, reminded her too much of troubled times. 

“Not one for small talk, are you?” His voice hitched, betraying his coolness. “That’s okay, neither am I.”

“It’s just…It’s kind of a long story. I’m not trying to be coy.”

The tightness in his mandibles eased. “I think we all have one of those ‘long stories.’”

But this was a story she did not want to tell. There were only two people in her orbit who knew she’d once been part of a gang: her childhood friend, Gianna Parasini, and her former mentor in the Alliance, Captain David Anderson. Neither would ever betray her trust. And if anyone were to ever look into her records, they’d walk away empty handed. Being a minor at the time of her crimes, her rap sheet had been expunged before she enlisted—a miracle if there ever was one.

“What’s with the fancy eye patch?” she asked abruptly.

“This?” Detective Vakarian touched a finger to the frame.

“Kuwashii?”

The detective brightened at her observation. “Impressive. You have a good eye. It’s based on the Kuwashii frame, actually. Custom made, so there isn’t another one like it.” He removed it from his head and strode toward her. “Here, try that on for size.”

Shepard reached out for the visor and affixed it to her head. “Whoa…” she uttered breathlessly. The display on the visor was more extensive than any model she’d worn before.“Cripes, this baby’s got everything! Gravity compensation? Biotic field detection? That’s a new one to me. ”

“You think that’s impressive…” he said with an air of pride. “Wish I could show you the armor hotlink. It provides tracking of incoming fire and corrects shots going through kinetic barriers.”

“This thing must have cost a fortune.”

“What’s that human saying? Something about an arm and a leg.”

“I think you’re looking for ‘it cost me an arm and a leg’.”

“That’s the one. Pretty gruesome saying, but appropriate.” The detective chuckled. “Hell, I think threw in a vestigial tail too.”

Shepard was still marveling at the myriad menus when the door burst open and Gianna’s voice announced her arrival.

“Hey! Look who I found in the hallway,” she said, her face glowing. You could hardly tell the woman had been throwing her guts up this morning. Two more officers trailed behind her, the remnants of their laughter entering with them.

“Ms. Parasini, you never fail to entertain,” said the turian officer. His voice was husky, and his face was noticeably older than Vakarian’s. A superior in all likelihood.

“Well, at least my mishaps are good for a laugh. Ten years in and I still encounter the damndest things.” Gianna always did have a knack for endearing herself to others with her stories. She gestured toward Shepard. “This is our newest associate, Jane Shepard. Jane, this is Captain Themis, he’s in charge of the Special Investigations Unit.” For an instant, Gianna scrutinized her with a quizzical expression, her eyes asking a question that Shepard didn’t understand.

“Pleased to meet you,” Shepard said from her seat.

Detective Vakarian, whose face had hardened, gave a curt nod to his superior. “Captain.”

“Vakarian,” he replied gruffly. Shepard noted the impalpable tension between the men.

“And this is Detective Juarez,” continued Gianna. “He’s the other lead on this case.” 

A slight smile curled at his thick lips as Shepard looked up at him. He was a handsome man, square jawed and fox-eyed like a catalog model. “Hey,” he said, throwing a hand up to acknowledge her.

The three newcomers each took a seat, and Detective Vakarian spared no time getting down to business.

“Now that we’re all here, we can go over the specifics of the case. We’ve got some new findings that might lead us in the right direction. This”—the detective gestured to the photo he’d brought up on screen—“is our victim, Volik Sao. A 38 year old salarian man, originally from Aegohr but residing in the Kithoi ward for the last ten years. He worked as an internal auditor for Beckmann Financial, one of the largest financial enterprises in all of Council Space.”

Just then, Gianna took a sharp inhale. Shepard glanced over and saw her gaze up toward the ceiling, then take another audible breath. Her skin had also taken on a sickly, pale hue. Last night’s shenanigans had come to demand their due, no doubt.

The picture provided by the victim’s next of kin appeared to be recent. Thirty-eight was young by human standards, but in terms of salarian lifespans, the man was positively ancient. The dense network of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave him a dry, puckered look, like the shell of a walnut. In the photograph, Mr. Sao was standing on a beach, surrounded by a clutch of salarian children whose faces had been blurred, presumably his own offspring, as the sun set upon the water behind them. The man looked tired. If that was because of his age, his job, his children, or all three, they had no way of knowing.

“Three days ago, he was found dead inside a hanar food cultivation facility here in the Presidium. The initial cause of death was believed to be drowning, but according to the medical examiner, high levels of a rare, potent toxin were found in his blood.”

Shepard cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of toxin?” she asked.

“Good question.” Detective Vakarian moved onto the next slide. It was a simple informational graphic citing the toxin’s effects. “Scyphozoacin—a natural compound found only in the skin secretions of the hanar species. Mature hanar, more specifically.”

Shepard chimed in again. “So we’re searching for an adult hanar suspect?”  

“Possibly. But C-Sec isn’t ruling out that the toxin was already present in the water. Whether he was poisoned or drowned, the circumstances are suspicious. His last investigation for Beckmann included some alleged irregular loans made to several companies. That’s why we need Jara Galactic—to dig into the particulars of the loans he was investigating. It could give us  a major lead  if we knew more about what he was after .”

“Any idea what was ‘irregular’ about these accounts?” asked Gianna.

Detective Juarez answered this time. “We don’t, which is the first thing we need to know. Who do the accounts belong to? And what did he find? It’s possible he dug up something big and someone offed him because of it.”

“This might sound stupid, but couldn’t you just ask Beckmann for that information?” asked Shepard.

Gianna shook her head. “If the clients have deep pockets, we’re looking at the possibility of co-conspirators within Beckmann.”

“Exactly,” said Detective Vakarian.

Captain Themis cleared his throat. “We think the best way to extract this information is through your specialized expertise. You’ll be able to access more detailed information and faster than C-Sec would ever hope to subpoena. The last thing we want to do is to tip our hand. Then your talented forensic accountants can work their magic.”  

“As you can see from this organizational chart”—Detective Vakarian had gone onto the next slide—“Beckmann Financial has their talon in every fiscal carrax across the Milky Way: wealth and asset management, commercial banking, consumer banking, investment banking, and inter-industry partnerships, with investment banking making up the lion’s share of their business. That’s twelve subsidiaries across different five different star systems.”

Shepard whistled as she studied the interconnected web of names.

 “The irregular loans were issued by Nizurah and Danis, their subsidiary on Illium. Though Mr. Sao was working out of the Beckmann office here on the Citadel, so that’s where we’ll—”

“We’ve advised your superiors,” Captain Themis said, cutting off the end of the detective’s sentence. “We’ll work together to place you in appropriate positions. We may not need both of you at all times, but there will be plenty of opportunity for us to take advantage of your skills. As such, we want you to keep in close touch with Vakarian and Juarez here. They’ll be your C-Sec contacts for the duration of this case. If you need any help regarding protection or law enforcement matters, they’ll be the ones to call.”

“Understood, sir” said Shepard, and saluted in the usual Alliance fashion.

The Captain offered a generous smile. “There’s no need for formality here, Ms. Shepard.”

“Sorry, old habits.”

“My detectives will go over the logistical particulars with you. Now, if everyone will excuse me, I have a debriefing to attend.” The captain stood up from his chair.  “Nice to meet you Ms. Shepard. Always a pleasure, Gianna.”

Gianna responded with a hollow, perfunctory smile, not the kind she would normally use in a professional setting. Shepard worried that she was looking a little worse for wear. Some good, hot soup and a nap would fix that right up.

Before leaving the room, the Captain approached Detective Vakarian and whispered something that Shepard couldn’t make out. The instant he was gone, the guarded expression that had veiled the detective’s face fell away. He’d been steeling himself, she realized, and she had the sense that their rift was deep, deep enough that being in his superior’s presence caused him distress that was hard to hide. It was a feeling she was all too familiar with.

When the briefing was over, the detectives provided the women with two datapads worth of files and apologized for cutting the meeting short. They had three other active cases and were scheduled to speak with witnesses at Chora’s Den. 

“We’ll contact you when we have word about placement. In the meantime, you should familiarize yourselves with Beckmann’s c-suite and department heads,” said Detective Juarez  before making his way to the door. “You ladies have a good day now.” He flashed his brilliant, white teeth and disappeared into the hallway.

Detective Vakarian, however, did not follow his colleague. Instead, he stood in the doorway and leaned a shoulder against its frame and crossed his arms, blocking Shepard from leaving the room. She furrowed her brow. He was grimacing, or at least she thought he was grimacing—it was sometimes difficult to discern a turian grimace from a grin—and she balked at his impudent behavior. Whatever weird power move he was pulling did not amuse her. Didn’t he have places to be? Shepard shot a cutting look at the detective. “Is there a problem?” she huffed.

Gianna, who was still seated at the table, looked up from her omnitool. She shook her head at Shepard like a scolding mother and pointed at the side of her head.“Vi-sor,” she mouthed.

Shepard brought her hand up to her temple and felt the arm of the detective’s visor. 

“You weren’t hoping to just walk out of here with that, were you?” asked Detective Vakarian, who was now grinning with smug amusement.

Shepard removed the visor and shoved it back into the detective’s waiting hands. Embarrassed, she pressed her lips into a tight line. “Forgot I was even wearing it. It fits so well… like it’s just a part of you. I can see why you like it.” Of course, he’d only been joking, but being accused of stealing made a familiar burn of shame roar through her chest.

“I’m never without it. Except when I’m sleeping.” Detective Vakarian affixed the visor back on his head. “Mostly.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, easy thing to forget. I’ll talk to you both soon?” He turned for the hallway, then disappeared in a blur as he bounded away, leaving Shepard standing before the open door.

She gawped at the empty entryway, feeling stupid about her indignation. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Normally, when someone rebutted her, she moved on as if nothing had happened. You had to be tough to survive, and surviving meant saving energy for where it needed to be spent, not wasting it on petty things like pride or embarrassment.

She shuffled through the doorway and entered the hallway without looking back. By the time she realized Gianna hadn’t followed, she’d already reached the end and rounded the corner. She returned to the conference room to find Gianna still sitting at the table, her eyes glued to the datapad the detectives had left her.

“I know him,” she muttered as Shepard came to her side.  A picture of the salarian victim was open on the the datapad.

“Pardon?”

Gianna looked up at her through bleary eyes. “The internal auditor, I know him,” she repeated. “And now he’s dead.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

Valik Sao: lover of old noir cinema, father of eight, internal auditor, murder victim. 

The salarian was a private man. Pensive and taciturn, he preferred the company of a good book over the company of others, but Gianna remembered him as kind and dedicated. She’d worked with him during her early years on Noveria and said he was always patient with the juniors, showing them what signs to look for when working a case and encouraging them to apply for new positions as they opened. He’d been so impressed by Gianna’s quick wits that he pointed her toward a well-paying position at Jara Galactic, under his good friend Maro Tir. As Gianna explained this to Shepard in claggy, strained sentences, a palpable fear emerged between her words. Sao’s death had spooked her.

“I’ve always joked that this job is a cakewalk. That it’s too boring and clean,” she said with shaky breath. “But…murder? My god, I’ve never even considered it could happen. Nothing like this has ever happened in all my years working this business. Nothing…” The bleariness in her eyes turned to tears, and she seemed too choked up to continue.

Alarmed, Shepard placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder and patted slowly a few times. She wasn’t sure what to say to stop her crying. “Gianna, you’re fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Sao was an insider investigating his own people.” This somehow made the tears worse. She could see that her words were not having the intended effect. “You have the protection of Maro and the firm—” she added— “not to mention C-Sec. You trust Vakarian, right?”

Gianna nodded.

“Good.” Personal feelings aside, competent police work is what mattered, and from what Shepard knew of Vakarian’s reputation, he was someone you could rely on to get things done. “Then don’t worry. You’re a professional. You can do this.”

“Thanks, Jane.”

This seemed to put Gianna at ease for the moment. But in the days that followed, she became listless and despondent, spending most of her time eating cereal from the box and watching balmy asari soap operas. Shepard too, by proxy, had lost a bit of her spirit. With no more evidence to go on, and with their new case taking priority, they’d been forced to give up their investigation of Zilald Imports. There was too much time to think, and it was too easy for Gianna to let herself dwell on Sao’s death. This sorry state of idleness was one neither woman was accustomed to. 

When Detective Juarez called a week later, then, a sense of relief washed over like cold ocean water, jarring them back to life. Two possible positions were open, though the detective advised that they would need to apply and interview as normal; it was important to keep up appearances, after all. C-Sec and Jara would do everything in their power to ensure they received job offers.

The friends did as they were told. Call backs didn’t take long. Within the month, Gianna had landed a position as an executive assistant to one of Beckmann’s vice presidents, Ran Koten. As vice president, Mr. Koten was within arm’s reach of the CEO, and Gianna, as Mr. Koten’s assistant, was privy to all executive level correspondence, schedules, and meeting agendas. She wasn’t thrilled to be doing secretarial work again, but it was a job she knew well, which meant she could spend her energy where it counted.

Shepard, meanwhile, beat out three other candidates to land a coveted security detail within the Beckmann circle. In truth, the boost in status meant nothing to her. She was just grateful that “professional dress” meant a discrete layer of armor under a sleek suit. At least she could run if need be.

And if she happened to meet Detective Vakarian while in that suit? Well, he would just have to eat his words.

* * *

An echelon of skycars snaked through the evening sky in a slow procession, their lights inching past the spines of buildings that cut the sky with their silhouettes. They were sharp and glittering, and like everything on Nos Astra, a monument to the power of money. If the Citadel was London, then Nos Astra was Hong Kong: a glamorous megalopolis where intergalactic trade and business were valued above all else.

“Ellen! Please, keep up!” The elegant asari stopped to pull a loose thread from the seam of her tailored red sheath. “Goddess, remind me to give Olatani a piece of my mind. You pay good credits for a custom piece and what do you get in return? Garbage.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Shepard immediately lengthened her stride. She couldn’t help herself, she just had to stop and admire the view. That dynamic skyline, its reflection in the water, the crepuscular rays of sun that gave the entire city an aura of grandeur.

“That’s better. Now, let’s get to The Moonlight. There’s only so long I can keep Cornath waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It wasn’t often that Shepard had occasion to visit Illium. Being so close to the Terminus Systems, Alliance soldiers had little business here, nor had Shepard ever had the means to visit for pleasure. But three weeks into her new job and she’d already traveled to and from Illium three times and once to Thessia. Or rather, Ellen Janeway had traveled to and from Illium three times and once to Thessia. Possessing all the same experience and skills as Jane, Ellen was just as clever and just as lethal, but with none of the heavy baggage or marks on her record.

Her charge was Alanya Seran, urbane businesswoman and daughter of one of the most prominent matriarchs on Thessia. She also happened to be the bondmate of Clay Beckmann, CEO of the financial juggernaut, Beckmann Financial. Though it was Clay’s name on all the buildings, it was Alanya who had made Beckmann’s meteoric rise possible. Growing from Earth-bound venture to galactic-wide player in a handful of years, Beckmann benefited from Alanya’s connections and goodwill, a legacy of enterprise that stretched far back to before Clay was ever born.

As a member of the board of trustees for Nizurah and Danis, she often traveled to Illium to see to the subsidiary’s interests and to attend to her various hobby projects. Like many of her ilk, Alanya soothed her conscience through charitable works, a selfish noblesse oblige that Shepard found vulgar. That it happened to abate the judgment of the less fortunate was by design. Being such a conspicuous figure, Alanya was often the target of threats and attacks, including an infamous incident on Berkenstein where an unemployed actuary had stalked her through the halls of the Fuyū Art Gallery. The disgruntled man hurled a priceless Larry Bell at her head, the corner of the iridescent cube missing her face by mere centimeters. After that, she never went anywhere without a bodyguard. Wherever she traveled, Shepard traveled with her.

As Alanya glided through the tenebrous breezeways and corridors, Shepard’s gaze lingered on the strangers who walked past and on those who trailed behind. She took note of their gait, their dress, the way their eyes moved about the room. She observed onlookers hanging from terraces and balconies. She noted all exits and unprotected spaces. Like any good bodyguard—or like any good soldier—she maintained situational awareness at all times. The job may have been a cover, but it was still a job, and one she needed to keep.

The entrance to The Moonlight would have been impossible to find had Alanya not guided her there. Tucked away between an upscale noodle bar and a private wetware store, the door to the lounge was nondescript, marked only by a simple crescent moon. Alanya waited for a moment as the auto-scanner confirmed her reservation, and the door opened. Together, they ascended the tall, narrow staircase. It seemed to go on forever, but the rug beneath Shepard’s feet was plush and dreamy, threaded with strands of silver through black pile, and the dark walls were lit with soft white light, like reflections of moonlight on water. Was this what it felt like to be welcomed into the folds of heaven?

When they reached the top,  Alanya approached the lounge host and clicked her tongue, swinging her hefty designer bag from her shoulder to her hand. “Alanya Seran. I believe I have a guest waiting for me,” she said tersely, not bothering to look him in the eye. Instead, she fished her lipstick from her purse and gave her lips a quick touch-up.

“Yes, Ms. Seran, right this way please.”

In the past, a place like The Moonlight would have made Shepard’s eyes pop right out of her head: outsized velvet armchairs, mirrored walls, pendulous lighting, and double-digit cocktails to make any common citizen turn heel and run. But she’d been to enough of these establishments now that The Moonlight read like your typical opulent watering hole and not a special place to show off wealth.

The host led them to a table where a milky green salarian man sat perfectly upright, his hands folded in his lap like a knot of six sleeping snakes. He spotted Alanya as soon as they entered the room, and he bolted from his chair to take her already extended hand. Shepard, meanwhile, did her best to blend in with the scenery.

“Alanya, how wonderful to see you again! You’re looking radiant today.”

“Thank you, Cornath, you flatter me.” Alanya sat down, placing her purse on her lap and covering it with a napkin.

The salarian also sat. A self-made shipping magnate, Cornath Yonik was a longtime client of Nizurah and Danis, who had recently branched out into colony and resource development. Shepard recognized him from her pre-op intel and had heard Alanya speak with him over voice call. He was a slight man, but also shrewd, well known for pushing out competitors by undercutting bids and skirting red tape via loopholes.

“I can’t thank you enough for all your…hospitality. I don’t know how we would have made it if not for your special consideration.” The salarian grinned. It was an obsequious kind of grin, toothy and a bit too wide, though Shepard wondered if she didn’t just have a bias against smiling salarians; their normal dourness suited them better.

“Of course. What are friends for?”

“I hope we didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

“Oh no, no trouble at all. We at Nizurah and Danis are confident that your new venture will succeed. We’re counting on it.” At that last sentence, Alanya’s eyes had narrowed and she leaned forward with her hands folded on the table.

The business partners continued to prattle on, exchanging more affected niceties. This was going to be a while. Wisely, Shepard took a seat at the end of bar where she could maintain auditory and visual lines of sight. How she wished she could have a good, stiff drink right now! Listening to Alanya drone on about her trouble hiring gala staff was enough to make her ears bleed, and she’d quickly grown tired of being dragged to every shop and private club in the star system. Her employer treated her more like a personal assistant than a bodyguard; it was always “carry this” or “take care of that”. Or, one time, “see that Zuzu is properly washed and groomed”, after the unruly pet pyjack had gleefully rolled and frolicked in his own filth, a scatological horror show that had quashed any desire to have a pet of her own. The back and forth of it all was exhausting. Shepard already had two jobs as it was; she didn’t need a third.

“May I take your order, ma’am?” asked the soft-spoken asari behind the counter.

“Just tonic water, please. I’m on the clock.”

The bartender looked her over, glanced toward Alanya, then smiled. “Ah, you must be Alanya’s new girl.”

Surprised, Shepard leaned in as she spoke quietly. “I take it she comes here pretty often then?”

“Often enough. She meets a lot of people here.”

Shepard glanced at the woman’s nametag—‘Jani’, stamped in delicate black lettering on gold plating—and made a mental note. “You said I’m the new girl. What happened to the old one?”

“Daeris?” she said, scoffing. Now it was her turn to lean in close. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but she quit when Alanya berated her for bringing her decaf instead of regular. Dressed her down in front of the entire exchange floor.”

This did not shock Shepard in the least. “How do you know that?” she asked.

“Daeris used to date a friend of mine. We went to the same university,” she said as she poured Shepard’s drink.

“Small world.”

“Anyway, I don’t mean to scare you. I just thought you ought to know what you’re in for.” She gave Shepard a sober, knowing look. “Us working stiffs have to stick together.”

“Oh, I’m under no illusions that this is an easy gig.”

The bartender slid the glass across the counter. “Then you’re a much braver woman than I am

Shepard nodded thanks and sipped from the diamond-faceted glass, impressed at it’s hefty weight. You could kill with this barware  she thought. Another typical, morbid caprice from the mind of someone who had taken one too many blows to the head. Vessel aside, the tonic’s heady bitterness gave her the rousing slap she’d needed to reboot. She glanced over her shoulder to see if her boss had finally grown bored of empty prattle, but from the looks of it, more serious business hadn’t begun yet. She’d learned Alanya’s annoyed tells by day three: crossing and uncrossing her legs, giving her nail beds a strangely thorough inspection; short, clipped sentences that bordered on sarcasm.

“How is Byron, by the way?” Shepard overheard her saying. “I haven’t seen him since Decius and Sutavi's bonding ceremony.” Alanya’s face flipped like a playing card, and her eyes narrowed. “Word is that he’s approached you with another proposal. ”

The salarian knotted his fingers in his lap again. “Byron? Oh…well, Byron is Byron. He’s far too busy for someone like me. Speaking of…” His quavering gave way to performative warmth. “Here, this is a for you,” he said, handing her a large, square box. “A gift, to auction at your charity ball next week.”

Alanya lifted a corner of the lid and peeked into the small gap. Her tactful expression remained just so, though her unyielding, almond eyes had widened a touch. “Why, Cornath, how generous of you .” Words of surprise, though not the same in tone.

“It’s my honor, Ms. Seran. It’s the least I owe.”

She set it down underneath the table and smiled, then silently lifted her glass to the salarian before taking a long sip of Erasa—Gold Label, of course— and Cornath did the same, though his tastes, or maybe his wallet, had relegated him to a less ostentatious dram of akantha.

Shepard’s gaze was drawn to the red box resting by Alanya’s feet. It seemed odd that he would gift her something here and not through an official channel, through a courier delivering directly to The Frontiers Foundation. Didn’t these things need to be cataloged and appraised? Or at the very least, accounted for? From what she’d seen, Alanya’s foundation only auctioned the most exotic of pieces, and there was no way this moderately successful businessman had been parading around Nos Astra with a precious turian vase or rare elcor sculpture in a flimsy-looking gift box.

After the hand off had concluded, Cornath hung around making more idle chit-chat. He asked about Clay’s latest acquisition, the Seattle Sorcerers, then changed the subject to Clay’s recent comments regarding the expansion of Illium style indentured servitude. And did what did Clay think of the situation regarding the colonists on Kopanis?

“I don’t know. You would have to ask him about that.” Alanya crossed and uncrossed her legs. “I don’t speak for my husband.”

“Think that’s my cue,” Shepard said under her breath. She nodded her chin up at the bartender, who was emptying used glasses into the built-in sink. “Thanks for the company.”

The asari smiled shyly. “Anytime.”

Taking a standing position by the wall, Shepard waited for Alanya and Cornath to finish their confab. It didn’t take long. Twenty seconds later, he stood up from the table and gave a slight bow to Alanya, who gave a slight nod back, a thin smile compressing her glossy lips.

As soon as he left the room, she raised a hand at Shepard, summoning her to the table. “I need you to hold onto this. I’m off to the ladies. Wait for me outside the door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shepard said, taking the box from her. Right away, she felt the slight weight of it, much too little to be anything that might fill up the space inside. She followed Alanya to the lobby and waited outside the powder room door as instructed.

Something wasn’t right. What the hell was inside? She fixated on the lid as she scrolled through  a catalog of possibilities, but none made any sense. There was nothing stopping her from checking. No clasps or ribbons or ties, no tape or seal. If she got caught, though, that would be the end of her bogus, but lucrative, security job. Bye bye Ellen Janeway.

“Let’s go, Ellen,” she barked.

The unshrinking financier slung her purse over her shoulder, sashayed past her bodyguard, and didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

It was six in the morning by standard Citadel time and Shepard had not gone to bed yet. Detective Vakarian, meanwhile, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for another day of policing. The detective had arrived fifteen minutes ahead of her and was already wearing his trademark visor, as if he might encounter a nest of vengeful smugglers lying in ambush amongst the retirees and shift workers peppering the all-night diner.

“Anything on Nizurah and Danis yet?” he asked, slicing into a blistering hot turian sausage.

“Nothing yet. Alanya’s all over the place—I haven’t spent any time alone at the building.” Shepard watched the steam rise from her cup, then took a long sip of coffee. “But we did have an interesting run in with Cornath Yonik yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Something’s off.” The server came by and deposited a nodding stack of hotcakes at their table. Shepard gave her a flat smile, then prodded the dripping mess with the tip of her knife. “He gave her a ‘gift’ to auction off at her charity ball. No documentation, no receipt, nothing official.”

“What do you think that means?” asked the detective.

“Cornath is definitely paying her under the table.”

“What, like a kickback?”

She folded the first hotcake in half and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. “Maybe,” she said, the word barely making it out of her overstuffed gob.

“Did you see what it was?”

“It was in a box…about that big?” Shepard mimed the dimensions with her hands. “But I didn’t get a look inside. It was almost like there was nothing in it, judging by the weight.”

Detective Vakarian paused mid bite. “Mmm…could be something like a password. If it’s written down, it can’t be traced through digital means. Bets that whatever it is won’t be up for auction at the ball?”

“Heh, that’s easy money. I bet you a million credits, Vakarian.”

The detective chortled as he cut another bite of sausage. “You think I have that kind of cash?” he quipped, then slipped the morsel into his mouth and chewed it thoroughly.

Shepard was tempted to say yes but refrained. She may have grown up dirt poor, but even she knew it was considered vulgar to talk about money in certain circles, and she had a feeling Detective Vakarian belonged to one of those circles. Setting her fork and knife down, she leaned back into the banquette, its cheap faux leather squeaking under her weight. “Do you know anyone with the first name Byron, by the way? Someone in Alanya’s orbit?”

“Byron? The only Byron I know of is Byron Pyrrus. He’s one of the richest humans operating out of Illium. Why?”

Shepard picked up her cutlery again and began hacking the hotcakes into pieces. “No reason, I just heard her mention the name.”

The pair continued to eat in silence, though Shepard was mostly shoving the tiny squares around her plate, letting them soak up the abundance of syrup that had pooled at the bottom. A light jazz song—elcor maybe?—was mewling in the background, the kind of sleepy, innocuous music you might hear in the waiting room of the dentist’s office, played to placate patients. To someone who was already shuttle-lagged, it might as well have been a tranquilizer.

The detective, nearly finished eating, paused to check his omnitool. “Spirits,” he muttered, and swiped the display away with a churlish flick.

Shepard looked up from her plate. She’d been spearing the hotcake squares into rows along the tines of her fork so that the entire thing reminded her of a core sample.

“Sorry, just my dad,” said Detective Vakarian. “He keeps sending me articles about great turian leaders. Says they’re ‘aspirational’. I keep telling him I don’t have time to read them, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Sounds like he just wants to help.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t feel like it sometimes.” He made rough, deep cuts into the remainder of his sausage, maiming it like it might slither right off of his plate. “You know, one time, he signed me up for private drill lessons? I was six. Didn’t even ask, just signed me up and expected me to like it. I hated that damned class. ”

“Private lessons? Aren’t those pricey?” Shepard imagined a fun-sized Vakarian dressed up in his finest armor, clumsily executing a sharp pivot as his instructor barked about form.

The detective shrugged. “Whatever my dad does he does for his own reasons. He has a way he thinks things should be done and he thinks I should do them that way too. End of story.”

“Look, I don’t know your situation, but from where I stand, an overzealous father is better than one who can’t be arsed. Just count yourself lucky. You have one that cares enough to sign you up for lessons or send you articles or whatever.”

The detective’s mandibles swayed pensively. “Neither of your parents ever overstepped?”

Shepard’s darted her eyes away as she pretended to flip through memories in her mind. “No, don’t think so.” God, it was way too early in the morning for getting personal. She slapped her fork down and slouched in her seat. “Hey, I’m still shuttle lagged and all, and you’ve got your shift, so I think I’m gonna head out now.”

Detective Vakarian gestured to her plate. “You haven’t even finished your food. What’s wrong, don’t like me?”

Shepard thought about this for a moment and gave him a sidelong glance. It pained her to leave her meal unfinished, but the prospect of another probing question pained her more. “I like you well enough,” she said.

“A stunning endorsement."

He may have been pulling a deadpan face, but Shepard was sure she’d caught a glimmer of genuine disappointment in his eyes.

* * *

 Having done her due diligence for the detective, she returned to Monoceros House, pausing to consider its big, blue doors. She never could get used to the grand affair of returning home. In some strange way, she missed the group home for troubled teens, with its creaky stairs and cold, rattling windows, and its mouthy inhabitants that didn’t know a floor from a trash bin. Or the numbing familiarity of the Alliance: juiced-up soldiers living regimented lives inside spaceworthy tin cans, eating terrible food for days on end. 

But it wasn’t just the luxury of Monoceros House that made her uneasy, it was the hush that greeted her, the discomfiting emptiness of its rooms and hallways. The missing outlines of people pressing against her at all times. It was the crushing coldness of marble sounding under a single person’s footsteps.

She tugged at the stiff collar garroting her neck and undid the button as she staggered into the lobby.  There, she met eyes with the concierge, the asari who worked the day shift and whom she’d privately nicknamed ‘Priss’. Priss—whose real name was Inea—was dressed in a trim, black dress, with long, gold earrings dangling from her upper lobes. She gave Shepard a contemptuous smile. It was the same smile she reserved for the occasional lost ‘visitor’ or the maintenance staff: in other words, people without status. Shepard returned the forced smile in short order, though she felt her her lips pull back a little too far, like a chimp might do to telegraph distress.

What gave Miss Priss the right to judge, anyway? It’s not like she lived here. She was the fucking concierge, not the building owner. Glassy blue skin and high cheekbones didn’t mean jack in the pecking order, not when your job was to kiss up to people with more money than you. Shepard had nearly convinced herself that Priss had it out for her. Though, admittedly, she conceded, she might be a little overtired and reading too much into nothing at all.

On her way up to the apartment, her neighbor, Zalindir, hovered onto the elevator at the 3rd floor. Zalindir lived on the floor below her, in a wing specially modified to accommodate hanar residents.

“This one greets you a good day, Ms. Shepard.” Their skin glistened as they spoke, their white inner light illuminating  beads of water on their skin.

“Mornin’. Gone for a swim?”

“Yes, this one swims every morning. It finds it a most refreshing way to begin the day.”

Swimming. She remembered that hanar had been provided with their own separate pool. “Saaaay…” she said, snapping her chin up. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but if a human were to swim in a hanar pool, or, say, a hanar were to swim in a humanoid pool, how likely is it that a person could die swimming in that pool?”

Zalindir tentacles swayed. “That is a very strange question, Ms. Shepard. Hmm…this one supposes it would not be likely. Perhaps some mild hallucinatory effects, but only direct contact or high concentrations of toxin can kill. In water, secretions are much too diluted. Why, are you afraid this one has contaminated your pool?”

“Oh, no no. I was just curious.” That confirmed what C-Sec had already concluded: the normal level of hanar toxins present in the water of the food facility would not have been enough to kill Sao. This was corroborated by the medical examiner’s opinion that he did not die by drowning, but was placed in the tank some time after his death. Whoever the murderer was, they had somehow produced or obtained enough scyphozoacin to kill Valik Sao on dry ground.

* * *

The first thing Shepard did upon returning to the apartment was to black out the windows and dim the lights. She kicked off her shoes, letting them fall somewhere in the dark, the ugly, black loafers clunking as their rubber soles hit the floor. She wanted to be in bed and fast.

Armor stripped, gun laid carefully away, she sank into the suppleness of the mattress. She slept like the dead for hours, flitting in and out of dreams that were as absurd as they were disturbing. In one dream, she was back in Toronto, slurping up a bowl of ramen somewhere along Dundas Street—it was winter, the graying snow piled up high near the curb—and she gazed into her bowl, and the noodles began to change, they began to squirm, to screech, the entire meal transmogrified into dozens of fat, greedy thresher maw grubs. She flung the bowl, screaming. Before she could run, the floor opened up,  an endless void with no wind and no sound, and it swallowed her whole.

In the next moment, she found herself sitting aboard the subway next to Detective Vakarian. Dressed in his full C-Sec uniform, he was flicking through something on a datapad, his expression plain and unperturbed. She leaned over his shoulder to see what he was reading. Amongst a slew of indecipherable text, the words robbery and manslaughter stood out in bold, red type, flashing like a lurid sign in a seedy part of town. She couldn’t make out the letters, but she knew what they said without reading them.

“I see you’ve been naughty, Shepard,” the detective said wickedly, the points of his teeth showing as he grinned at her.

“Where did you get that?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to have that.”

“It doesn’t matter. But it’s about time you were punished for your crimes, don’t you think?” The turian hung over her, his sinuous, blue tongue poking out of his mouth and curling at the tip with an expectant flick.

“Detective…” she murmured. She gazed up at him. She should have been nervous. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t afraid. She leaned closer, craning her neck, ready to receive whatever form of discipline he had deemed fit. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, the room was sheathed in darkness. The orange glow of a clock came into focus and she squinted to read the numbers. It was night. Shepard rolled out of bed, disoriented, half-dressed, and strangely aroused. What the fuck was that? Was it that elevator ride with Zalindir? Was she high right now? Had somehow inhaled droplets of water? She did her best to convince herself it was so, but deep down she knew it probably wasn’t true.

When she emerged from the bedroom, the bright lights of the common space stung her sensitive retinas. She held a hand above her eyes to shield them. A wavy figure stood in the foyer, its body outlined by a string of light like a crisp halo. Confused, Shepard waved, and the figure waved back. As her vision began to adjust, she realized that it was Gianna, just arrived home.

“Whoa, what the hell happened to you? You look like a pantsless duct rat.”

“Huh?” Shepard furrowed her brow and ran a hand through her tangled hair. “I just got up. Had a nap after I got home from Illium.”

“Must have been some nap!” Gianna snorted. She raised the sagging plastic bag that has hanging from her wrist. “Ya hungry?”

Shepard stared. Still bleary-eyed from her all day coma, she hadn’t quite processed whether this was real or still part of her dream. “Wha?”

“FOOOOD!” Gianna said, shaking the bag.

“Oh. Yeah, no, for sure. I could eat.”

“Good.”

On her way to the kitchen, Gianna stumbled over one of the loafers Shepard had so carelessly shed in the dark. “Oh what the fuck…”

“Sorry about that.” Shepard retrieved the shoe and scoured the floor for the other. She found it at the foot of the stone accent table, lodged, somehow, between its curved base and the shaggy rug beneath it. She yanked it free.

Meanwhile, Gianna had arranged the takeout boxes in an orderly row upon the kitchen bar. “Marone! I am ready to sleep the weekend away. Gonna do sweet fuck all.”

“Yeah, same,” replied Shepard. “I still have to work on Sunday though.” She put her shoes away and joined Gianna in the kitchen. “Alanya’s got some luncheon or another. A leadership talk? I don’t know, something like that.”

“Jesus, does that woman ever sleep?” asked Gianna, rummaging through the cutlery drawer.

Shepard shrugged.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in a month.”

“That’s because you haven’t.” Shepard pulled two plates down from the cupboard and set them on the bar. “How’s it going with Beckmann?”

“Oh, Mr. Grabby Hands? Tch, the things I endure for this job.”

“What? No, that’s awful!”

“It’s fine, nothing I can’t handle. This ain’t my first rodeo, sister.”

Shepard snarled, “That guy needs a swift boot up the ass.” No one in the Alliance would have dared try that on her. Any potential harasser would have pulled away a stub for a hand.

Gianna’s eyes darted back and forth over the flotilla of food she had purchased, then she scooped a portion of the fried rice, barely making a dent in the streaming heap. She shook her head. “I did it again, didn’t I…”

“Nah, it’s fine. Leftovers, right?” said Shepard, shoveling a mountain of kung pao chicken onto her plate.

“I got a hold of some documents, at least.”

“Yeah? What documents?” she asked excitedly. For all her weeks with Alanya, she still hadn’t come up a hint of anything useful, let alone a concrete lead.

“Statements, schedules, some basic account details. And I’m 90% sure I’ve located Sao’s case files. Can’t get into them, though. They’re locked down by strict access codes. I’m shocked the files are still intact. If the problem’s internal, I’d have expected them to be purged them by now.”

“Someone could be using them as collateral, or protection against something.”

“Mmm, good point,” said Gianna, sticking her head inside the refrigerator. “Oh—did you hear about the big company party at Silver Coast?” She pulled out two beers from the back, set them on the bar, and sat down.

“The casino?”

“Yeah. Clay’s throwing a big bash to celebrate Beckmann’s 20th anniversary. All the subsidiary bigwigs are invited, some other important people.”

“I’m sure I’ll be there then…I think.” Shepard opened both beers and slid one in front of her friend. “You know, for a married couple, Clay and Alanya sure don’t spend much time together. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen them in the same place. I don’t handle house security though, so who knows.”

“When are they ever home?”

“You’ve got a point.” Shepard perched on the seat next to Gianna’s. “So, when’s this party?” she asked through a mouth full of tangy chicken.

“Two weeks from now, on the Friday.”

“Mmm, two weeks…” She opened her omnitool to make a note in her calendar. “Hey, speaking of fancy-pants parties—do you remember the time we gatecrashed Vincent deWitt’s pool party? In Forest Hill? It was that summer I broke my leg. I was remembering that when we met up at The Taermin.”

“Hah!” blurted Gianna, nearly choking on her food. “I haven’t thought of that in years. My god, what a rube. Didn’t take much convincing, did it? I told him that if he let us in, he could tell everyone he saw my tits.” She took a swig of beer. “Teenagers are dumb. We were dumb.”

“Rebecca Ling was so pissed I was there. She told everyone I was going to steal jewelry from Vincent’s parents. And she didn’t like that I wore shorts and a t-shirt instead of a bathing suit.”

Gianna scoffed. “Did you hear she’s real estate agent in Barrie now?”

“Really? Yer yanking my chain…”

“Nope, swear to god. Look her up.”

Setting her fork down, Shepard did a quick search on the extranet and found Rebecca straight away. In her profile picture, Rebecca was posing in front of a run of the mill high rise, her pale blue pantsuit too baggy around the hip, her saintly white teeth fluorescing in the summer sun.

“Holy shit, you’re right.” The next photo was of Rebecca and her much taller wife posing at the base of the newly restored CN Tower. Shepard scrolled through a few more pictures but quickly grew bored.

“I always imagined she’d become a supreme court justice, or some hot shot venture capitalist, not a normie shilling condos in the burbs. Talk about wasted potential,” Gianna said flippantly, gesturing with her fork. “Is it wrong that it kinda makes me feel better about myself?”

Shepard chortled.“Hey, you worked hard to get where you are. You didn’t just coast on Mommy and Daddy’s good fortune. Funny, though, how you fit in with those rich kids. You played the part like it was real. Way better than I ever did.”

“I would have done anything to escape home.” Her voice dipped low. “I mean, you know I did.”

The friends glanced at one another, then looked away. Neither one of them wanted to acknowledge that particular memory, and neither one of them wanted to remember it. It was better to let sleeping dogs lie.

“We were so desperate, back then.” Gianna touched her fork to the plate. “We owed too much money to too many people. We were drowning. We’d come back up for air only to be shoved back down. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I do. I would do anything for them. But the money I earned was never mine, you know? It went to rent, it went to groceries, to Grandad’s medical bills. Leo’s school fees and new shoes for Dominic’s giantic-ass feet. I learned to stretch a dollar real good. But it was a lot to ask of a kid who still dreamt of going to university.”

“I remember.”

“Sorry, I don’t meant to throw a pity party. You obviously had it way worse than I did, and if anyone should be— “

“Just because I had it worse doesn’t meant you didn’t have it bad,” she interjected. “At least you had your family, though. That’s something. That’s a hell of a lot of something.”

Gianna nodded, a faint smile gracing her lips.

“You know what I remember most about that time?” asked Shepard.

“What’s that?”

“Every time I came to your house, your mom would shove food in front of me, made sure I ate. She fed me until I was ready to barf. She almost made me feel like I had my own mom.”

“She still asks about you, you know.”

A long dormant feeling gripped her, nearly squeezed tears from her green eyes. “I might not be alive if it weren’t for her. And for you.”

“Stop it. Don’t get sappy on me now,” said Gianna, lightly slapping Shepard’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Of course you would be You’re too tough. Besides, you’re here now. That’s what counts.”

Gianna was right. After all had been said and done, after all the shit she’d been through, she’d survived. There was no point in dwelling on why or how.

“Now look at us!” she said, trying on an optimistic air. “Working together on the goddamned Citadel.”

“Hell yeah,” said Gianna, and held her bottle up for a toast. “I’m happy you’re here, Jane.”

Tilting her bottle towards hers, Shepard let the two necks touch with a gentle clink. “Me too, Gi. Here’s to us.”

Chapter Text

A beeline of skycars buzzed by. Shepard and Gianna waited just past the taxi stand in their brand new evening wear, heads on a swivel as they scanned the crowds. They were only two stops from the Silversun Strip, but the transport depots were bustling; it was the weekend, and it seemed like every person under 80 was out and about. The line for a taxi went past the Ranthian Theatre, edged along the esplanade, and snaked around the corner to the entrance of a high-end liquor store. But the women weren’t waiting for a taxi. They were waiting on Detective Juarez and Detective Vakarian, who’d been unexpectedly detained by a failed stakeout in the Lower Wards. They were finally on their way with the surveillance equipment the women would need for tonight’s party.

Where on her person this equipment was supposed to go, Shepard wasn’t sure. The dress she was wearing didn’t leave a lot of room for frippery. It wouldn’t have been a problem if she’d been allowed to wear her usual work suit, but Alanya had insisted that she dress up for the event, and when your notoriously over-scheduled boss drags you to the shops, you don’t say no. The afternoon Alanya spent as her personal stylist had been the happiest Shepard ever seen her, and to her surprise, the steely asari had even managed a spontaneous smile or two.

In the end, the dress Alanya picked out was full length and off the shoulder, an emerald green gown she said would show off Shepard’s “unusual” red hair. She felt almost naked with her most of her back exposed, her décolletage too, and with the way the gauzy silk fabric slipped over her skin like a thin cloud. She’d tried to hide her shock when she saw herself in the mirror but couldn’t help but wring her hands.

“No...this is way too expensive.”

Alanya, seeing through this ruse, rolled her eyes. “Dear, I can afford almost anything in this galaxy. What I can’t afford is for my people to look shabby. My treat.”

This she followed with an explanation, emphasizing how important it was that Shepard blend in and not be conspicuous. The attendees would be wealthy clients and other moneyed and powerful types, and for the sake of ambiance, not to mention business, she needed them to feel carefree and relaxed. Humorless security stiffs sporting identical black suits and severe hairstyles weren’t going to do that. Shepard supposed that sounded plausible enough, though she secretly wondered if Alanya wasn’t just using it as an excuse to use her as a living doll for her own amusement.

Now, marked by the spotlight of the Ranthian Theatre, she was regretting her choice. She used both hands to tug uncouthly at the neckline of her dress.

“Shepard, what the hell are you doing?” Gianna slapped her hand. “Quit fidgeting with your boobs. They look fine.

“This dress is cut too low. I feel like they’re going to fall out.”

“They’re not going to fall out,” she said unsympathetically. “They’re too small for that”

“Thanks for your support.” Dressing up for the Zilald Exports job was one thing, but this dress was testing her limits.

“There. There they are,” said Gianna, leaning in to see between the heads of a tall salarian couple. She waved, and Juarez, who regularly sported five-o-clock shadow as a point of fashion, up-nodded back, his normal two-day stubble grown out into five-day scruff.

As they lumbered closer, Shepard could see they weren’t in their uniforms but in civilian wear. They looked like stowaways who’d just crawled out of the cargo hold: hunched, squinting, and a little disoriented, with a distinct aura of stagnant air and cheap takeout.

Shepard raised an eyebrow. “Everything good, gentlemen? Looking a little worse for wear.”

Detective Vakarian stopped and held onto his cowl, stretching his neck. “Sorry we’re late,” he said, rolling his head his head back and forth. “The taskmaster insisted we finish the paperwork tonight.” He stopped rolling his head and looked at Shepard. His tired eyes widened, catching the red glint of the theater’s marquee. He snorted nervously. “Hmmm, looks like we might be a little underdressed, Juarez.”

“Good evening, ladies,” said the grinning detective, who had been one step behind. “And may I say—WOW.” His mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ as he said it.

Gianna shimmied her shoulders playfully. “Why thank you, Detective.”

Detective Vakarian, meanwhile, looked as uneasy as he had on that first day in the briefing room. The plates of his face flexed, and the raptorial slant of his brow betrayed a sharp thought. There was something familiar, even furtive in his red tinged eyes. Shepard met his gaze and swallowed.

“Easy there, Juarez,” he said, his tone cool and practiced. “They’re on the clock, and so are you. Save your ogling for another day.”

Juarez shrugged. “I was just making nice.”

“Are you both ready?”

“Good as gold,” said Gianna, and Shepard agreed.

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

Slack-jawed, Shepard walked down the aisle in a daze. She gazed up at the neatly arranged towers of vintage scotches and whiskeys, then across to the asari honey meads and turian brandy. The generous backroom of Osman’s Spirits was stockpiled with the finest alcohol from every corner of the galaxy, meticulously sourced by the store’s namesake, Osman Rad. The total value of the merchandise was enough to fund a well-stocked mining expedition or feed a small colony for a year. An unusual choice for a staging post. But it was well hidden and close enough to the casino that the detectives would have no problems jogging over if anything out of the ordinary were to happen.

Detective Vakaraian, unmoved by the abundance that surrounded him, complained that the room was too cold and clammy. The room was kept cool by necessity, to protect the many exotic and delicate flavors found in Osman’s collection. Juarez facetiously offered to cuddle for warmth, but Vakarian declined, explaining that he’d already spent 36 hours cramped inside a glorified janitor’s closet, and the last thing he wanted was to get up close and personal with someone who smelled like “cheap cologne and sour armpits”. Shepard laughed but felt bad for them both.

As she turned onto the next aisle, an enormous bottle of kurran caught her eye. The rarified elcor liquor was said to be capable of knocking a human out with one sip. Its frosted glass was encircled with a looping, gilded script she didn’t recognize, and she ran a finger over it, tracing the whorls. A delicate label displayed the translation in several languages. “Dekkuna Gold 00, 2154,” she read out loud. She scoffed. Just as old as she was. Inside, the liquid was a vitreous amber, thick like rays of golden hour distilled into a bottle.

“Damn…” she whispered.

The only time she had ever touched such an expensive bottle was the day she and some other young Reds had been goaded into raiding the cellar of Le Paradis. An initiation rite the Reds had called it. While she’d gotten away by the skin of her teeth, booking it down Bay Street on rangy ten-year-old legs, others weren’t so lucky, and it wasn’t long before burglary graduated to larceny, and larceny gave way to more serious crimes.

A sudden shot of cold air came through the vent from above, and the skin on her arms prickled in defense.

“You don’t mind this, do you?” a voice interrupted from behind.

She started. The bottles rattled under her touch. She turned to find Detective Vakarian presenting her with a small, open box held in one hand.

“No need to be scared. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.” She glanced down at the box, confused, and he smirked, seemingly amused at catching her off guard. “They’re just contact cams.”

She snatched the box from his open palm. “No sweat. I’ve worn these before.”

“If you need a place to clean your hands—”

It was too late. She had already removed one of the contacts and was carefully guiding it into her eye. She stood there blinking as it settled into position, and with her hand still raised to her face, the loose sleeve of her dress slid from her shoulder and down to her elbow.

From out of the marked silence, two softly spoken words: “Your dress…”

The unexpected stroke of a talon traced up her arm, and the silk of her sleeve along with it.

“Ah…it’s, uh, supposed to be like that,” she stammered. A tender warmth pulsed through her, a frisson of strange elation. “That’s the style. God knows why. It’s kind of stupid if you ask me.” Her pulse quickened. “I wasn’t the one who picked it out.”

She was disgusted at the spit of words that had just exited her mouth. He’d caught her off guard again. He was good at that. Nostrils flaring, she jabbed the other contact into her eye and let the tear that followed wash the confusion away.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said. “For what it’s worth, it looks good on you. The dress, that is.”

“Thanks,” she replied, too overwhelmed to look him in the eyes.

“There’s one more thing.” The detective produced another box from his pocket. “We’re going to need some on-body audio, as redundancy. Do you mind?” He gestured to her bodice.

Shepard peered down, suddenly self-conscious of how exposed she was.

“Maybe it’s better if you do it yourself,” he added quickly.

She nodded and took the box with a cold, pale hand.

“Heeeey, what are you two doing back here?” Gianna had wandered into the aisle, hands clasped behind her back. She shot Shepard a curious glance.

“Just getting mic’ed up. Right, Shepard?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she fastened the tiny button to the inside of her neckline as fast as she could and looked up.

“Well, I’m done,” she said with a cagey smile. “Pitter patter lets get at’er!” She blew at the loose hair around her forehead and nudged Gianna with her shoulder as she walked past.

Before they left Osman’s, Detective Juarez reiterated their basic objectives. “Remember, you need to mingle. We’ve got eyes in a few of the public areas, but that’s it. Capture as much audio-visual as you can.”

“We’ll be here watching and listening,” said Vakarian. “If anything goes sideways—I doubt it will—you know who to call.”

“Got it, chief,” Gianna replied and shot two thumbs up.

It was cheesy, a tongue-in-cheek gesture, but she looked like a princess doing it. In her plum-colored gown and low chingon, she reminded her of the women from old movies and magazines. Gianna was breezy elegance, quick wit, and earthy humor.

As the women strolled out the door, Shepard fumbled with the evening bag Alanya had lent her “for fashion purposes.”. It was too big to hold in one hand but too small to carry over the shoulder. She needed at least one hand free to reach for the gun on her thigh. What kind of a bag didn’t have a strap? Flustered, she tucked the stupidly sized purse under her armpit and prayed she wouldn’t sweat too much.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Gi,” she said when they neared the building. “I’m made for the battlefield, not a ball.” For a moment, she considered turning around and spending the rest of the night at Armax Arena. Hanging back as security was one thing, but engaging with the galaxy trotting set was another.

“Relax! You’re just doing your job. Only difference is there’s an open bar.”

“Drinking on a protection job? I don’t think that’s smart.”

“Shit,” Gianna said, sucking her teeth. “Well at least there will be some amazing hors d’oeuvres.” Coming to a stop on the esplanade, she put her hand on Shepard’s shoulder and squeezed. “Seriously, you’ll be fine. Here’s where I leave you.” She winked. “See you in the trenches. Good luck! .”

And just like that, she disappeared around the corner.

Shepard waited before following in Gianna’s footsteps. Then, after a minute or two, turned the same corner. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin as she reached the edge of the forecourt, hopeful she didn’t look out of place amongst the other guests who now flanked her at either side. Beneath the casino’s nitid facade, they were a glistening school of fish in their finest: shifts bedecked with shimmering scales; diaphanous a-lines with glass-beaded bodices; tuxedos in fine wool and structured silk, draping the body to reveal attractive silhouettes. Extravagances meant to celebrate wealth with wealth.

Little by little they swam forward, the lengths of stanchion rope funneling them along the red carpet that had been unfurled from the draped door like a long, velvety tongue. The doorman, a turian in a smart three piece, greeted Shepard as she came to the front of the line.

“Welcome to Beckmann Financial’s 20th anniversary celebration. Your invitation, please?”

A beady red eye peeked out from the gap between the drapery and the wall. It watched her as the doorman scanned her invitation.

“Coat check is located at the top of the stairs to your left. Complimentary shuttle rides will be provided at the end of the night should you need one. Please enjoy yourself, Ms. Janeway.” He tried to smile pleasantly, in the way a human would, but Shepard found the effect off-putting.

An image of Detective Vakarian smiling flashed in her mind. He didn’t smile often, and when he did, it wasn’t pleasant so much as uncanny, but she much preferred his awkward candor over the unctuousness of the doorman. Then she remembered his talon on her arm and her breath caught in her throat.

“Miss?” said the doorman. “You may go in now.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

The doorman stepped aside and she walked past the velvet curtain. The beady red eye turned out to belong to a krogan bouncer; krogans always seemed to be snarling, but this one was extra surly. Despite Alanya’s logic regarding security, she recognized the need for strategic optics. Gotta keep the poors out, Shepard supposed.

She stared up at the casino’s vast staircase, its steps sheathed by the same red carpet from outside. She could make out the scent of something light and powdery, and the dulcet beats of ambient music issuing from upstairs. Above, in the air of the open rotunda, a collection of enormous silver orbs gently bobbed, trumpeting wishy-washy bromides like “20 Years of Excellence” and “Financing the Future”, or Shepard’s favorite, “Beckmann Financial: Infinite Worlds, Infinite Possibilities”.

She twisted her mouth. This whole affair made her strangely nervous, a feeling that baffled her. She was ex-military. She’d experienced every kind of danger imaginable, always with a steady hand and a clear mind. Now, her stomach was puckering into itself and her feet were frozen to the floor. She could only watch as other guests ascended the stairs. They glided past, some arm in arm, others conversing in hushed tones, all arriving at the landing with someone in tow. Alanya’s RSVP had provided a section for a “plus one”, but Shepard, predictably, had left it blank. Inviting a guest to an operation was out of the question. There wasn’t anyone to ask anyway; going solo had been her default mode for so long that she didn’t even consider it.

“Everything okay there, Shepard?” Detective Vakarian’s voice abruptly broke her illusion of solitude. “You’ve been standing in the same place for at least a minute.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, unable to explain anything with the bouncer nearby. Not that she was willing to be honest.

Still staring up, she lifted the hem of her dress and began to ascend, though taking delicate steps in an evening gown was hard to manage when you were used to swift, purposeful strides. A hand to hold sounded like a nice thing to have right now.

When she reached the top, she was greeted by two elegant asari in matching evening wear. They handed each guest a drawn velvet bag—a gift bag, presumably—embroidered with the Beckmann logo. Shepard thanked them, now clutching the velvet bag and her cumbersome purse, and stepped into the breadth of the rotunda. Its back wall was an arc of blooms in pastels and whites, the kinds of lush flower arrangements normally sent as congratulatory gifts.

She surveyed the floor. To her left, an open bar. From the looks of it, they’d already been serving guests. The seats in the lounge were full and both bartenders were pouring. To her right, a host of tables all dressed up for the scheduled formal dinner. In fact, the entire east wing had been reconfigured for the event, a detail she didn’t miss when Alanya’s assistant had given her the rundown on what to expect for the evening.

She was already walking toward the wall of flowers when Detective Vakarian asked her to check on who had sent them. Feigning interest in the fragrant blooms, she brought her nose close and sniffed as she read the attached cards. She recognized most of the names, either clients or business partners, some from friends, even a couple of mid-level politicians, but the card attached to the centerpiece had not been signed. The enormous golden hoop made for an eye-catching backdrop: snow white orchids and ivory roses woven through with bay leaves and bells of Ireland, the stuff of dream weddings.

Shepard quietly read the note out loud. “Congrats and thanks for everything. I owe you - B”.

“B?” said Juarez.

Vakarian’s voice thrummed in her ear. “Hmm…could that be Byron? You said Cornath had mentioned the name. Did you ever confirm an identity, Shepard?”

She opened her mouth to speak but felt the presence of someone behind her.

“Ellen! Look at you, you look amazing!” said a woman’s voice. She turned around. It was Sarissa, Alanya’s other bodyguard.

“Oh, um, thanks. You too,” she said uneasily. “Where’s Alanya?”

Sarissa gestured toward the bar with a cocktail in hand. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s just a spritzer. Though, now that you’re here I might have to have something a little spicy before I go.”

“Anything I need to know before the hand off?”

Sarissa took a long sip as she glanced over at Alanya. “Goddess, don’t get on her bad side today. Nearly tore my crest out for being late. I don’t know what happened, but she’s been in a mood since Clay showed up at their place completely trashed. There was a lot of shouting. And I’m pretty sure someone threw something.”

“Jesus…”

“Like I said, tread lightly.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“You’ve still got, what…” Sarissa looked up at the wall. “Thirty more minutes ‘til you’re on duty? Why not play some tables? Mingle, meet someone nice. Plenty of rich singles here tonight. Or join us at the bar?”

Shepard rubbed a hand over her cinched belly. “I might just find some food. I think my stomach’s been eating itself.”

Sarissa laughed. “Always thinking with your stomach, Janeway. I’ll leave you to it then. Catch up later.” She waved her pretty blue fingers and sailed back to the bar.

“You know, there’s a catering table at the upstairs bar.” Detective Vakarian had cut in without missing a beat. “It’s mostly levo stuff, but the food looks good. Might sate you until dinner.”

“Gianna’s there too, talking to some lady who just said—get this—‘poor people are poor because don’t know how to invest.’” Juarez snorted, then apologized for the non-sequitur. “I mean, come on! The fuckin’ nerve, right?”

That sounded perfectly abhorrent. While it was true she’d forgotten to eat before she left the apartment, her priority was to circulate and observe attendees. There would be plenty of time to eat during tonight’s six course meal. Besides, Gianna had it covered. She had the patience and wherewithal to deal with these people where Shepard didn’t.

After abandoning her cumbersome purse and gift bag at coat check, she made her way to the casino floor. It was surprisingly busy. The room smelled of rich wine and jaunty cocktails. Players and spectators alike crowded the varren races, half empty glasses tipped in their swirling hands as they stifled their excitement and heated curses, verboten as it was to draw attention to oneself at a high-stakes table.

A server, who had been circulating the room with a platter of hor d'oeuvres, stopped in front of her.

“Would you care for hor d'oeuvres, ma’am? Levo friendly.” With one hand held stiffly behind his back, he held the platter out to her with the other.

She stared at the peculiar bites of food. They looked like miniature tacos stuffed with red cotton candy and something that looked like caviar, only bigger, viscid, and much greener.

“Um, what is it?”

“Taler. An asari canapé made with”—he pointed to each component as he spoke—“edava cake, savory runis floss, a hint of scullup jelly, and topped with hand-harvested, sustainable turrut eggs from the Zelara coast. ”

The barrage of words rattled in Shepard’s head, and she smiled stupidly, not having any idea what any of them meant. “Sure, why not. I’ll give it a whirl.”

The server tugged a napkin out from under the platter and passed it to her. She hesitated, unsure of how taler was meant to be eaten. The server cleared his throat and smiled politely.

Before she could ask, she was rescued by Vakarian’s assuring voice. “You’re meant to pinch it between your fingers and eat it in one bite. But don’t slurp the turrut, it’s considered rude.”

She pinched a taler from the platter as daintily as she could and popped it into her mouth.

“Amazing, right?” said the detective encouragingly. “Never been able to try it myself, but I’ve been told it’s delicious.”

The turrut eggs, far from being slimy as she’d expected, burst in her mouth to release a pleasant zestiness. Together with the texture of the floss and the floral sweetness of the edava, it made for a symphony of sensations she'd never experienced before. How had she gone so many years without knowing food could taste this good? Boy, Gianna wasn’t kidding.

“These are amazing,” she said to the server, who bowed slightly.

She snatched up another taler and chomped as she watched the races, or, more accurately, the people playing them. Most of the faces were familiar. They were people she had seen come and go at Nazura and Danis, others she recognized from Alanya’s social orbit. There was Dakni Kur, the volus merchant from Illium, and his business partner Pitne For. Kur was nice enough, though a little meek, but For was a bull-headed ass in Shepard’s opinion, shady even. For, however, was small fry compared to Nara T'Meva. The CFO of Synthetic Insights was easily worth thirty Pitne Fors. She was just leaving the room, with her beautiful wife draped on her arm and enough winnings to play all night and well into the morning.

Shepard had already taken a third canapé when she realized she didn’t know the protocol—ettiquette?—for passed hor d'oeuvres. Was it rude to eat more than one? Did she need to ask first? She glanced at the server, searching his face for clues, but he only stared back blankly and smiled with closed lips.

“It’s considered impolite to wolf down appetizers. I’d lay off until another server comes around.” He’d read her mind, the turian angel in her ear.

A little embarrassed, she thanked the server and ducked out of the room. There hadn’t been much conversation happening anyway. The guests were too ensconced in the dramatic turns of gambling, and what little she did overhear was simple gossip, comprising the usual topics of status and minor personal drama.

Across the way, in the roulette room, things were a little more interesting. Here, stakes were high and faces less familiar. She stationed herself at one of the quasar machines, picking out conversation in the ambient noise of the room.

“Oh? We just closed on a new unit there. The beaches are to die for. Quiet, private, gorgeous white sand, great service. Much better than Rilum. Too many of the wrong sort coming through there these days, you know what I mean?”

“Oh yeah. Tartus and I have talked about selling our place there. We’ve been hanging onto it, but the taxes are just awful. We’re having it professionally managed until we figure out what to do. Save it for the grandkids? I don’t know, I’ll let the adviser sort it out.”

The incessant blip of the quasar machine was beginning to grate on her nerves. Who in the world actually liked to play this? It was mindless, a drowsy game of chicken and statistics. As she hit the button for payout, she caught a glimpse of something from the corner of her eye—a lean figure near the back wall, just outside the spotlight shining from above. The silhouette of a drell man. She glanced at him. He was alone. No food or drink in hand, he was gripping his lapels and watching the roulette table with great interest.

This piqued her attention. It wasn’t often you encountered drell on the Citadel, and never at a function like this. Most of them didn’t have the social capital, or capital, to be invited. It was possible he was one of the casino’s floormen, or another plain clothes bodyguard, but there was nothing ‘plain’ about his appearance at all. She knew right away his tuxedo was bespoke—given away by its tailored fit and subtle sheen, with distinctive coattails that hung down in that stylish, bygone way.

Still curious, she crossed to the roulette table and purchased a stack of chips.

“Hittin’ the big time now!” Detective Juarez teased over the comm.

“Don’t jinx it,” said Vakarian. “You know how to play roulette, right, Shepard?”

Shepard smirked. She may not have known which fork was used for fruit or which for fish, or what a blue chip was, but gambling was one thing she did understand. You don’t spend a childhood on the streets without encountering that timeless staple of the criminal underground.

“Red, ” she called curtly, and placed her bet on outside red.

After two more guests placed their chips, the croupier called “no more bets” and released the ball. Shepard looked up, pretending to watch the numbers flick by.  She could see the keen drell through the holoscreen; he caught her looking at him and pursed his thick lips.

The ball came to a rest at 19. Red. A man with snow-white hair clapped slowly and congratulated the woman next to him, who, from the looks of it, was either his daughter or his date. She couldn’t tell which.

Chips doubled and confidence boosted, she upped the ante and placed a column bet. A less conservative move, yes, but the payout was twice as much. The other woman did the same and put up everything she had—a good shotgun’s worth by Shepard’s estimate—placing her bet on a different column of numbers.

With a coquettish smile, the woman folded her hands on the table. These were the slender, milky hands of someone whose distal bones had never been crushed under a boot, who’d never dug an emergency latrine in the middle of no man’s land with nothing but a standard issue folding shovel.

The results turned up in Shepard’s favor. The woman scoffed under her breath, in apparent disbelief that she should have a turn of bad luck. Her companion wrapped his arm around her waist, squeezed it tight, and kissed her on the cheek, saying “don’t worry, bunny, it’s just some play money is all”, then whisked her away to the varren races. There was one question answered. As for the other, Shepard was beginning to feel like she’d seen this drell man before. Something about him was familiar. His iridescent blue-green skin, the wide dome of his brow. Or, most strikingly, the way he stood stick straight, like a figurine posed on a shelf.

“Nice move, Shepard,” said Vakarian as she collected her winnings. She’d nearly forgotten he was watching. “If you win big, you owe us all a meal. It’s only fair.”

A faint smile crossed her face.

The drell, who was now watching more intently, responded in kind. She raised her eyebrows. The smile hadn’t been meant for him, but there was no harm in letting him think so.

Shepard played and won two more rounds, each with increasing odds against her. A small group of onlookers had gathered, attracted by the jabbering of an overly enthusiastic—read: tipsy—salarian who’d joined her at the table. Her anxiety was beginning to fade. She was relaxing into the moment, emboldened by her streak, roused by the other guests, and she didn’t want it to end.

“I think it’s time to try a row,” she said confidently to herself. She spread a good chunk of her chips evenly across 4,5, and 6. Wide mouth loose and noodly, the tipsy salarian held his glass up to her and beamed, then shoved his own hoard, every chip he had, into the corners of the board for a square bet.

The croupier released the ball. It glowed white like a tiny comet as it whizzed around the rim, circling and circling at an even pitch, lowering as it slowed, until finally it fell out of orbit and plinked into its destined slot.

“16,” called the dealer. A collective “aww” droned about the table.

“Damn,” Shepard hissed quietly. Engrossed in their little drama just moments ago, the onlookers began to scatter, seemingly bored now that the players had bottomed out. The salarian man shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink.

“Better luck next time, hmm?” he said, slapping his empty glass to the table. “This game’s rigged anyway.”

He left the room, and Shepard picked up her dwindled stack of chips—now less than what she’d started with—clicking them together as she thought over her plays. She studied the numbers on the table.

The answer was simple: she’d let herself become overconfident. A rookie mistake. That was that, she supposed. She shouldn’t be wasting anymore time. There were other parts of the casino to attend to and other people to observe.

Her chips were still on the table when the croupier forbade more bets. She’d have to wait to cash out until the round was over.

“That was a risky move you made.”

Shepard snapped her head over her shoulder. The drell gentleman was half a step away, staring with his unfathomably ink black eyes, like pools without reflection.

“You know what they say, high risk, high reward,” she said, turning around.

“Oh I’m not criticizing. But if I may make a suggestion?”

“What’s that?”

Hands clasped behind his back, he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Try 11.” The serrated vibrato of his voice sent a slick heat stealing up her spine.

“Straight up? Those odds are worse.”

“I’ve played a lot of games in my life,” he said confidently. “Games of chance. Luck may be a fickle mistress, but sometimes you have to lose big to win.”

Horse shit. But she wasn’t about to argue with him, not now. This was the perfect opportunity to investigate her mysterious guest.

“I’ve been watching you…”

“You have, have you?” Shepard interjected.

He stepped even closer, close enough that she caught the aroma of something on his skin, undertones of ripe figs and amber, charred cedar. He nodded slowly in reply.

The cocktail of scents scratched at her brain. She was trying to remember what it was when their intimate moment was cut off by her comm.

“Who’s the smooth talker?” asked Juarez.

“Smooth? A little too smooth if you ask me,” said Vakarian, sounding vaguely contemptuous. “Never seen him before. You, Shepard?”

She shook her head in a light, playful manner to make it look natural.  “Alright, I’ll bite,” she said to the drell. “What do I have to lose?”

With the gentleman at her shoulder, she placed her remaining chips on 11 at the center of the board. Again, the tiny ball made its speedy orbit around the wheel, and like Shepard, was brought back down to earth by the inexorable force of natural consequence.

“11,” called the croupier.

She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. There they were, two ones standing side by side on a red square.

“I’ll be damned—” She turned around, but he was gone. She hadn’t even caught his name.

The turian woman next to her canted her head to indicate her congratulations. She had a healthy supply of chips and looked like she might be settling in for the long haul.

The croupier swept away the losing chips and slid Shepard her winnings.

“I think I’ll cash out,” she said, and peered around the room for the drell man.

He wasn’t there. The moment her payout came through, she headed straight to the bar. Not there. Not in the rotunda either. She scolded herself. She’d let herself get caught up in the moment and she’d lost him. How had he gotten away so fast? It was as if he’d melted into the wall or sunk into the floor.

Shepard stood in the rotunda and whispered to her invisible companions. “Did you see where that drell went?”

“I don’t see him,” said Vakarian.

“Not upstairs,” said Juarez. “Gianna confirms.”

“Damn.”

She hurried to the varren races and scanned the tables. No drell. She wandered into a connecting hallway. No drell. She continued to what appeared to be a dead end, a hidden lounge area at the back of the casino. She approached the threshold to enter but was stopped by a balding security guard with big biceps and a slight pooch.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, this is a private area,” he said, holding up a hand.

“Right, sorry.” Her gaze fell over his shoulder and into the lounge. No sign of him there either. She gave the guard a hollow smile, then caught a whiff of something in the air. There was that rich scent again, faint but discernible. A memory slowly began to resurface.

“If you’re looking for the ladies’ room, it’s back that way and to the right,” said the guard, gesturing.

“Oh, yes…right, of course. Thanks.”

Shepard began to walk away, then stopped as she turned the corner.

“The auction,” she blurted.

“What?” said Vakarian belatedly.

"The drell," she said more quietly. "He was at Alanya’s charity gala. I only saw him for a moment, but he and Claywere arguing about something and then he disappeared.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

There was a long silence.

“We need to find him. Now."

Chapter Text

Shepard studied the back of her fork, its tines uncommonly long and thin, and noted the weight of its ornately stamped handle as it rested in her hand. A fine piece of flatware. A fine weapon for stabbing too, if you were the right—or wrong—sort of person. She’d seen her share of silver before. Without knowing the maker’s mark, she couldn’t be sure, but this baby had to be worth at least a couple of thousand on the legitimate market. It almost felt wrong to be eating with it.

For the entire hour before dinner, her stomach had been turning loops. She and Gianna—and by extension, Detectives Vakarian and Juarez—had been combing the premises for their mysterious drell man. The detectives had even gone so far as to search the surrounding grounds on foot, but to no avail. Whoever he was, the drell had done quite the job of disappearing, zapping from one place to another like so much discharge from an eezo core. They’d have to be on their toes for the rest of the night.

So far, nothing cataclysmic had transpired. No one had been shot, maimed, or otherwise harmed, but the last forty-five minutes had been the most torturous of Shepard’s life. (And that was counting the time a few of her nails had sheared off during a free climb ascent of the famous Yarran Cliffs of Gorot II.) Alanya, in her desire to keep security discrete, had assigned Shepard to an adjacent table rather than her own. The seating chart included: the largest salarian purveyor of in-home vernal pools, a pair of volus financiers, an elderly insurance magnate from Luna, and the owner of Thessia’s largest pharmaceutical manufacturer, Matriarch Neeora D’Ven. The Venn diagram of shared interests and conversation topics included exactly nothing Shepard understood, save for the riskiest colonies to insure, something she knew a thing or two about after serving for more than ten years in the Alliance.

In between eating and awkward small talk, Shepard had watched Alanya and Clay play at their roles. They touched and held hands, they laughed at one another’s jokes, did and said all the things they were expected to do. And between Alanya’s cool elegance and Clay’s disarming bravado, they were a force to be reckoned with, their wealth and status on display for all to see. A true power couple. But there were little tells that betrayed them. Blisters in the paint, so to speak. The possessive way Clay’s fingers sunk into his wife’s waist when he pulled her in. Alanya brushing her fingers along his shoulder to gently press him away. The way they both smiled a little too much and for too long.

From what she could tell, her boss was still angry about whatever had happened before they arrived. Alanya was more terse than usual and let Clay do a lot of the talking. Not that anyone else seemed to notice. Shepard spent too much time around these people not to. Too many hours a day devoted to their every move, like a loyal dog or a long shadow.

Shepard had just finished her last bite of fish when the servers began to circulate about the room again, coming around to collect the last of the tableware before dessert.  She quickly gathered the dregs of her sauce into a streaked, brown pool, her fork squealing as it dragged across her plate. Matriarch D’Ven cleared her throat. Shepard looked up. The matriarch was fingering the faceted jewel of her necklace as she stared back, her eyes like two hardboiled eggs protruding from her sunken, ash-blue face. A minor faux pas. Undeterred, Shepard turned her head before savoring the last of the sauce on her fork. The company was dull, but at least the food was good.

She set the fork down and surveyed the room. Most guests were making polite conversation, while some were using the lull in service as an opportunity to order more drinks from the bar. Gianna, who was sitting further back from the stage, had the guests at her table in her thrall. She was telling a story—Shepard could tell from the way she moved her hands, outstretched and waving in that garrulous fashion she’d done since they were young—and her audience listened with rapt attention, a few leaning in, one woman waving her glass about as she laughed. Meanwhile, at Shepard’s table, the salarian man was blathering on about a botched sales report via omnitool, and the volus couple had fallen asleep after too many glasses of volian port, the two of them snoozing perfectly upright in their lifted chairs. She let out a frustrated breath.

“Bored?” said the familiar voice in her ear.

She was practically catatonic. She tapped her finger on the table once to indicate ‘yes’.

“Hang in there, Shepard. Not much longer.”

She wanted to say “thanks, I’m fine”, but how to do it without speaking? What did turians understand as a sign for ‘thank you’? The sign for ‘okay’ was right out. She thought of making a heart with her hands but dismissed the idea immediately. Too specific and laden with meaning. On second thought, would he even know what that was?

In the end, she waved an open palm in front of her, hopeful he would get the message. The elderly insurance mogul gave her a sidelong glance, apparently wary of the strange, taciturn woman seated next to him.

“A little warm in here, am I right?” she said haltingly, scrunching her face at her own dumb excuse.

Just then, the lights dimmed, and the din in the room died down. At the edge of the stage, a sturdy-framed man was shifting his weight back and forth, a restless shuffle that seemed almost involuntary. Shepard recognized him instantly: it was Donovan Hock. Even in the half light, he was as villainous looking as he was in his pictures. With his hooked mutton chops, narrowed eyes, and oddly bald Van Dyke beard, he reminded her of a poorly disguised devil, a rook in an ivory suit who’d convinced everyone that only he held the remedy for the galaxy’s ills. Nevermind that the remedy was in the form of arms, or that he’d made most of his money supplying those arms to some very questionable entities and individuals. Such things could be dismissed when you had enough money to grease as many palms as demanded greasing.

A swell of string music began to play, and he stepped into the light, incongruously pumping his arms into the air as if he were at a rock concert. When he got to center stage, he grasped at the lip of the podium and grinned. He was swaying slightly too; something in his eyes didn’t look right.

“Uhh, is it me, or does that guy look high as fuck?” said Juarez, sounding amused over the comms.

Hock’s off-kilter stance was plain enough that someone in another room could see it. The music faded and the lingering clink of champagne flutes quieted.

“If I may have everyone’s attention please,” Hock barked, leaning down to speak into a non-existent microphone. “My name is Donovan Hock. If you don’t know who I am, what rock have you been living under and how the hell did you get an invitation to this party?” He furrowed his brow before erupting into an obnoxious cackle.

The audience laughed dryly. Shepard cocked an eyebrow. Judging by his muddled accent and wavering pitch, she wondered if this was a put-on or just a result of his inebriation.

“It is my honor and privilege, tonight, to be the first to congratulate my friends at Beckmann Financial on their 20th….is it 20th?” Hock looked beyond the guests’ heads, towards the reception area behind them. “Yes, it says right there on the sign. Of course. 20th year in business.”

The audience was restrained. What should have been rousing congratulatory applause amounted to no more than half-hearted clapping.

“As one of the giants of the financial market, they’ve helped to shape…. to shape… ” Hock’s gaze drifted to the ceiling “Can we get those lights down a little? Blasted things are hurting my eyes.” The lights dimmed further and he continued. “Good. As I was saying…Beckmann is a giant—a giant. They’ve got their finger in all the pies. All of them.” Hock let out a disturbing giggle. “Fingers in pies—I’ve always thought that was a strange saying. Sounds vaguely sexual, doesn’t it? But I digress. Beckmann Finanical is the only galactic financial firm to have a human leading the company. Can you believe that? Just one. Just one lousy human,” he reiterated, holding up a finger. “You know, few people understand what it takes to achieve this sort of success. The hard decisions, the sacrifices. Such a life is not for the faint of heart, let me tell you. Many enemies are made on the path to success. Trust me, I know,” he said gravely, thumping his hand to his chest.

“Spirits, what a blowhard,” Vakarian spat over the comms.

“Think he’s packing?” asked Juarez.

“Packing the pounds, maybe. Judging by his new physique, his only enemy is his refrigerator.”

Shepard, who’d just downed her first and only sip of champagne for the night, nearly spit out her drink.

“Sorry,” said Detective Vakarian.

“People like Clay and I,” Hock went on, “we make it happen. Alllll of this.” He gestured with a sloppy sweep of his arm. “Oh! And how could I forget his very sexy wife, Alanya. Hellooo Alanya!” He squinted, leaning forward and shielding his eyes with his hand. “Say ‘hello’ to everyone, darling!”

He waved at the shell-shocked woman, who waved back stiffly in return. If ever there were eyes that could glow with rage in the near dark, they belonged to Alanya.

“If you ever find yourself in need of another business partner, you know where I live.” He winked, just in case his lascivious comment hadn’t been enough to get the point across.

Shepard was dumbfounded. She glanced in Gianna’s direction. As if sensing her thoughts, Gianna turned and stared back, bemusement radiating through the near telepathic beam of her widened eyes.

“Yikes!” she said silently, drawing her mouth down as if it’d been caught by a fish hook.

“I know, right?”, Shepard mouthed back.

With no one to intervene, Hock continued his bizarre screed.

“These—these people have helped all of you. You, and you, and you and you and you. Yes, I’m talking to you, Zelak, don’t look away! Listen, without their help, my extraction operation in the Caleston Rift would still be nothing but dirt and rocks. Want to know what the secret is? You wanna know?”

Like a vengeful act of god, the abrupt jaunty notes of Bach's Goldberg Variations rose above him, effectively drowning out his voice—a not so subtle cue to vacate the stage. Hock was unfazed. He went on talking, his words unintelligible over the mollifying music. When he found his audio had been cut, he began to shout.

“…so thank you Clay and Alanya. Thank you! Thank you Beckmann! Here’s to twenty more years—no, another six hundred!” He winked at Alanya again and laughed unnervingly. “Shake the tree and rake it in!”

Emerging from the dark like a hero in sequins, an asari hostess rushed the stage, nearly tripping over herself as she hurried up the steps. Shepard read her lips: “Thank you for that lovely speech, Mr. Hock. Why don’t we go get a drink? ”  She hooked her arm into his and tried to lead him away, but Hock resisted, grabbing at her hand to shove her off. The hostess, ever the professional, smiled graciously and whispered something in his ear, then took hold of his arm again. His expression softened. Whatever she said had worked its magic, and he followed her down the steps like a child following after his mother. Classy move, Shepard thought. Though, it might have been more expedient to summon the krogan from downstairs.

In the midst of this spectacle, the audience began a slow, asynchronous clap. They seemed just as stunned as she was.

“What the hell was that about?” Vakarian wondered over the comm.

“What the hell was that about?” grumbled the salarian man at her table.

Shepard shot him a look, paranoid for a moment that he’d somehow overheard the voice in her earpiece.

The volus man shook his head. “I’d heard rumors recently. Just rumors, mind you. I didn’t think they were true. But now…”

“The man is dangerous!” exclaimed Matriarch D’Ven.

“Oh, but he’s good for business,” replied the old man, adjusting his bowtie.

The matriarch scoffed. “He’s nothing but a common thug.”

This was one thing Shepard could agree with her on. Whatever sliver of legitimacy Hock had managed to carve out, he’d all but lost it with his behavior tonight.

“Do you know how many territories he controls?” interjected the salarian man. “You’d be hard pressed to do business without paying a little tribute to Mr. Donovan Hock.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good, but spilling trade secrets in public? He ought to be jailed.”

Ah, there was the rub.

After several more rounds of speakers whose speeches, thank goodness, were painfully dull, the guests were released from their seats, free to stay for drinks until the bar stopped serving. Like any other party, there were stragglers, some of them too drunk to call for their own drivers. It took some gentle coaxing from house security to usher them out the door and see them safely to their provided transportation. The krogan at the front door, who had undoubtedly had a fairly boring night, had to be summoned for Donovan Hock. He and his posse of the moderately moneyed had refused to leave, insisting that he was a VIP and that Clay himself had invited him, and that he was therefore entitled to certain “perks” and “privileges” that included staying after hours. But the gruff krogan was unsympathetic, pushing him and his hangers-ons out the door like so many fleas from a dog. Juarez in particular found this funny, though Vakarian wondered if it wouldn’t come back to bite the krogan in the ass later. “You don’t understand the level of pettiness some of these people stoop to,” he’d said grimly.

Inside, Shepard sat slouched at the bar. She was waiting for Alanya and Clay to finish their closed-door meeting with Elijah Khan, the casino’s owner. The sterile, white house lights had been turned all the way up and the holographic decor turned off, the casino’s ritz and glamour stripped away, replaced by the practical need to see every spill and crumb.

The staff milled about around her, picking up stray napkins and tableware that had somehow migrated from the dining area. The human behind the bar was taking inventory of the remaining liquor when one of the staff returned with a tray full of glasses, most of them still half-filled.

“Great, another load,” the bartender grumbled, shoving a bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy back onto the shelf.

“Think that’s the last of it.”

“ Just set it down next to that other one, I’ll load them in the washer later,”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” the woman said, and began to load the glasses into the washer herself.

“Thanks, Shara.”

She up nodded at the bartender. “Hey, did you hear about the guy that won a monster payout?”

“Which one? The shifty salarian asshole or the one with the arm candy?” he said with plain derision.

“No! Some drell guy!”

“Drell, huh? Don’t see many of them around here.”

Shepard’s head whipped up from her omnitool.

“Simmons said he won upwards of 3 mil on 500 credits.”

“Holy shit. That’s a lot of moola ”

Shepard sat up straighter and leaned in. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but do you happen to know when this happened?”

“I’m not sure,” said Shara. “Had to be at the start of the party—hardly anyone had arrived yet. I heard it from someone who works the late afternoon shift. Why?”

“Oh,” she said, searching for a plausible excuse. “He and I met. Later in the evening, I mean. It seemed like he was really into me, but he disappeared without sharing his contacts.”

“That’s too bad,” Shara said, frowning. “Heard he was super hot.”

Hanging around bars was proving to be more fertile ground for information than she’d realized. She slid her empty glass to the asari and saluted her. “Well, thanks anyway. G’night then.”

Pretending to make her way to the restroom, Shepard stopped in one of the corridors along the way. “That’s our lead,” she whispered. “We need to get our hands on whatever footage we can find.”

“Already on it,” said Vakarian.

She grinned, giddy that they’d found something useful. “Beauty.”

In the end, Alanya and Clay’s meeting with Elijah Khan lasted at least forty minutes. Quite a long time for squaring up at the end of night. Shepard wondered what else they’d been talking about, but no one was privy to happenings in Khan’s office save for Khan himself.

The couple emerged from the casino and into the perpetual night of the Silversun Strip accompanied by Shepard and Clay’s body man, Tarcus. The crowds of the early evening had thinned. There were a few stragglers, some entering the arcade, others blustering amongst themselves at the scoreboard of Armax Arena, but for the most part, members of the public had gone home this late in the cycle.

As the group made their way to the valet stand, a voice called out from the other side of the plaza.

“Not bad Beckmann! Though you should come to my house next time—we’ll have a real party.”

The cartoonish cackle that followed was unmistakable. It was Donovan Hock, surrounded by his acolytes and hangers-ons, idling about the Strip like a gang of common degenerates in cocktail attire.

Clay raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Another time then? I look forward to it,” he said with a forced smile.

Had Hock been outside all this time? In Toronto, a Red would’ve been run off the street for the mere act of looking through the wrong window, nevermind loitering. But Shepard supposed it wasn’t loitering if you were rich. Loitering was their prerogative; they owned everything after all.

The valet came around and handed the skycar off to Tarcus, who slid into the pilot’s seat and raised the passenger door.

Alanya, who hadn’t so much as turned her head in Donovan’s direction, unleashed her venom upon her husband. “Why the fuck would you let him speak?” she snarled, sending her purse flying into the backseat. She tore her shoes off and held them in her hands. “That was a fucking disaster, Clay!”  Light scattered across his cheeks as she pointed one of her crystal-laden heels dangerously close to his nose. “Do you have any idea how much that man has probably cost us? I don’t care if he’s your new best friend or whatever the hell you think he is!” She threw her shoes in after the purse. “But by the goddess, I’ll burn all of Bekenstein before I let that creep anywhere near my company again.”

Noticing a passerby staring at her, Alanya recomposed herself and clamored into the back of the skycar. “Get your ass in here, Janeway. Let’s go.”

It was going to be a long ride home. Alanya only called her Janeway when she was in a destructive mood, or when shares were down, or both.

She strode to follow her into the skycar, but Clay stepped forward, holding a palm up and stopping her in her tracks.

“It might be better if I take her home myself, Ms. Janeway. She’s had a lot to drink. I don’t think she’s feeling very well.”

Shepard peered around Clay’s shoulder to see Alanya scowling as she scrolled through something on her omnitool. What the hell was he talking about? She was fine. She’d had some drinks, sure, but she certainly didn’t seem drunk or incapacitated in any way. She was just pissed and needed to say it to his face.

At that moment, Vakarian’s voice hissed over the comms. “You need to be in that car, Shepard. We need to know what they’re talking about.”

Shepard, aware that insisting would get her nowhere,  dialed up the geniality. “I don’t mind, sir. I’ve taken care of plenty of drunk friends. You know how soldiers are, shore leave and all. Ms. Seran will be no trouble at all.”

Clay rubbed at his forehead and snorted. “I can look after my own wife. Besides, Tarcus is here. He’s security enough. We’ll be fine.”

“But—“

“Listen,” he said, gripping her shoulder firmly. His eyes met hers. His gaze was prolonged and intense, the spangled hazel of his irises as hypnotic as rising fire. “You have the rest of the night off. My treat, okay? Now get some rest. I insist.” Giving Shepard a firm but gentle push, he let go of her shoulder. The effect was chilling.

An alarm went off in her head. She’d never seen Clay so imperious and resolute. He always cultivated an image of the brash, but affable businessman, even in her company. She wanted to push past him, to stubbornly assert herself and her own judgment, but she was beholden to him as much as she was beholden to Alanya, and ultimately, beholden to Valik Sao, the victim whose death had spurred this investigation in the first place.

“Yes, sir,” she said reluctantly.

Without a word, Clay turned heel, slipped into the skycar, and instructed Tarcus to take them home.

The uneven patter of Shepard’s heels echoed through the vacant store as she crossed the main floor. Half the lights in Osman’s had already been turned off, and the door to the storeroom was open. Detective Vakarian, who was slipping his mobile station into its standard C-Sec case, greeted her as she walked in.

“Hey, you survived."

“Yep. Don’t know if my toes did though,” she said, yanking her shoes off just as Alanya had. This shared desire to shed footwear the first chance they got felt like a weird moment of solidarity. The throbbing in her feet eased. Her torso, however,  felt as if had been in a vise grip all night. She groaned loudly. “Can someone please get this thing off me? Or at least unzip it?”

Vakarian’s eyes flicked up as he clicked the latches shut on his case.

“Come ‘ere, ya big baby,” said Gianna, waving her over . She and Juarez had been bent over his mobile terminal in the corner of the room.

Shepard turned her back and Gianna unzipped the first few centimeters, enough to give her some breathing room.

“Ugh, thank god. Thought I might die by suffocation.” Shepard slapped her purse to an adjacent table and let the gift bag drop to the floor.

“Whoa, careful there! There’s some valuable gear in that thing,” Gianna scolded.

Shepard rolled her eyes.

“Don’t give me that. If you want to fit in with these people, you need to start thinking like them.”

“Yeah, exactly,” she said, picking the gift bag up off the floor. She shook it to see if anything had broken inside. “They pretend not to care about this stuff so they can look like they’re above it all.”

Gianna shook her head and snatched the bag from her, crossing to the other side of the room where she’d stashed her own on one of the empty shelves.

Detective Vakarian beckoned Shepard over, wordlessly shaking the empty boxes for the contact cam and button mic in the air. She smirked and crossed the room again, then worked her fingers carefully around the sagging sleeve of her dress. She removed the button mic and handed it to the detective.

“So they wouldn’t let you in the car, huh?” he said, pressing the mic into its container.

“Sorry, I tried,” she said, removing the first contact. “But I don’t think he was going to take no for an answer.”

He held the open box out to her. “Something’s wrong.”

“I know, I get the same feeling.”

For a few moments, they shared a look of understanding, as if their minds were untangling the same length of knotted string. Something crackled in the detective’s eyes—a new idea forming, perhaps—and Shepard held his gaze, confident that she too had seized upon something. But it was a moment too long. She looked away, uneasy at the way he seemed to see through her.

Just then, Detective Juarez called out over his shoulder. “Hey, Garrus? Think I found our guy.”

They both heeded the call, nearly colliding as they scrambled over to the station to see what Juarez had found. Detective Vakarian held his hands up in apology and ushered Shepard forward.

“Footage from the cam was too dark to positively identify, but I managed to grab some shots of him recorded by the jewelry store two blocks away. That’s him, right?”

Shepard craned her head forward. A passport style picture of a drell boy filled the right half of the display. His expression was much more earnest, bewildered even, and he was markedly younger—about fifteen or sixteen—but it was plain as day this was the same man she’d met at the casino. “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Streetwise, but not wise. That and the pouty lips.”

“He’s a little young, isn’t he?” said Vakarian doubtfully.

“Name’s Kolyat Krios. No known criminal record, at least not in C-Sec’s database. Now, get this—” Juarez brought up two case summaries alongside a photo of another drell man. This drell was older, his face more world-weary, more yellow rather than blue, but his features were similar to those of Kolyat Krios. “His father,” Juarez continued, “is a suspected assassin. Thane Krios. His name comes up in a couple of unsolved cases, but he’s never been arrested or charged.”

Shepard raised a brow. Was this some kind of twisted family business? The kid was one thing, but his father was something else, judging by the high profile of the victims who’d been killed.

Gianna, who had been hovering behind Shepard, thrust her face over Juarez’s shoulder for a closer look. “Assassin you say?” She let out a long whistle. “If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the spot.”

Shepard elbowed her in the ribs.

“His son was listed on a passenger manifest when they traveled to together several years ago. Got my hands on his customs file.”

“Are either of them on the Citadel now?” asked Gianna.

“No registration records from the past month, but they could have arrived via private vessel and slipped through the system. I can put out an APB, but since there aren’t any charges, we can’t hold them long. Best we can do is get immigration to put them in detention for visa violations.”

“Nice find, Juarez,” said Vakarian, clapping him on the shoulder.

“It’s more than I found all night. Best I got was the location of Micah Envy’s secret wine bar,” Gianna said ruefully. “And it’s not even that secret! Half of Illium already knows about it.”

Detective Vakarian flapped his mandibles. “Well, I don’t think there’s much more we can do here tonight. We’ll have to sit on this ‘til the morning.”

“Thank fuck,” said Juarez, stretching his burly arms above his head. “I need a shower. Real bad.”

Gianna sniffed around his head. “Yeah, you do. Your pits smell like the trash compactor on a derelict freighter.”

“Stop that!” he said, swatting her away with his hand.

“I’m only being honest, hon.”

Vakarian was already walking back to his station when Shepard tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, do you have a sec?”

He spun around. “Hmm? What’s going on?”

Glancing toward Gianna and Juarez, Shepard ducked into one of the inventory aisles and gestured for Vakarian to follow her. The screwball comedy that had suddenly sprung up behind her was intensifying; they were bickering about something—the word cazzo was used, the word bruja too—but she had no idea why.

She turned to the detective and clasped her hands behind her back. “I just wanted to say thanks. For your help tonight. I’m sure you know, but I don’t really do these kinds of things. I could have made a real fool of myself, but you made it easier. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, it was no trouble at all,” he said, stroking his fringe. “Nothing I wouldn’t do for any colleague.”

Her stomach dropped. What should have been reassuring somehow felt like a let down.

“I’ve had to attend the occasional to-do myself and I don’t find them very pleasant either. If it weren’t for my father, I’d probably have lived my life without ever having to know what a meakra is or the right way to use turian seafood tongs.”

Shepard smirked. It’s not like she knew what those things were either. “Well, thank you anyway.”

“And hey,” he said brightly. “If there’s a next time, maybe we can get the department to assign someone to you. You know, safety in numbers.”

“ ‘Cause you know those rich folks, always getting into fist fights and shooting up private clubs, am I right?”

Vakarian laughed. “Oh yeah, all the time.”

“You ready to go?” a perky voice interrupted.

Shepard started. Gianna had poked her head into the aisle, a puckish grin lighting up her dewy face.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you guys need help packing up?” Gianna asked the detectives.

“Nah, we’re good.” Juarez winked at her and folded up his mobile terminal.

Not forgetting the goodies on the shelf, Gianna grabbed both gift bags and made a lazy salute as she headed toward the door. “See you tomorrow then, boys.”

Shepard followed closely behind, making sure to grab Alanya’s purse on the way out.

“Good night, Gianna,” said Vakarian. “Good night, Shepard. Don’t forget your shoes.” He pointed to her abandoned heels still laying on their sides by the door.

Shepard looked down at her bare feet in confusion. “Ah crap.” Quickly shoving her feet into her shoes, she looked up at him and smiled sheepishly.  “Good night, Detective.”

A gaunt batarian man, dressed in high vis coveralls and scuffed boots, drooped near the sliding doors, looking Shepard up and down as she stepped onto the nearly empty car.

It must have looked strange: two women, fully styled and dressed in designer evening wear, riding mass transit in the earliest hours of the morning. It was a pity they’d been forced to turn down the courtesy ride from Beckmann after such a long night. A brand new luxury shuttle with full sleeper seats? Who would say no? But taking the shuttle back to their building could have compromised their identities, or worse, threatened their case.

Shepard plunked down into one of the hard, plastic seats and leaned back, draping her arms across the top and letting her knees relax to either side, or at least as far as the dress would let them go. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said to Gianna. “One night with these people and I’m wiped. Think I’m down for the rest of the year after that gongshow.”

Gianna shrugged. “I just do what comes naturally. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“True.”

A muffled, high-pitched whine filled the car as the train took off from the transfer node.

“What about you, then? You must have been working some hidden magic, Ms. Assassin Attractor.”

Shepard snorted. “I didn’t do anything special—I was just playing roulette! We don’t know that he’s an assassin yet anyway.”

“Oh yeah, no, for sure.” Gianna’s words came out garbled.  She was pulling the pins out of her updo and holding them between her lips. She teased her roots out with a hand and let her hair fall loose over her shoulders. “But something’s fishy,” she continued, slipping her pins into her purse. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence about his father. Might be a good idea to be extra careful, Shepard.”

“You know I am.”

Gianna pursed her lips and gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not the only one who’s worried.”

“What does that mean?”

She pursed her lips further. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend.”

“What?”

There it was, that teasing glint in her eye that said ‘I know something you don’t know!’. Shepard always hated that look, if only because she didn’t like feeling left out. Though, admittedly, the titillation was often the best part—that moment right before the reveal.

“What!” she repeated.

A loud ding chimed over the intercom. “Now arriving at Tayseri Heights, Tayseri Heights Station. Please exit to your right.”

Gianna grabbed Shepard by the arm and grinned. “Let’s go, I’m hungry!”