Mystery to Me

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Bioware owns all. (Except for the crazy stuff that came out of my head.)

Thank you for looking at, and hopefully reading my musings. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy the ramblings of a not entirely sane mind….

Rebecca Tucson Shepard slammed back another shot of JD and coke. More JD than coke really as it burned its way down her throat. But she didn't notice, didn't care really. A few more shots and she'd be too shit faced to give a damn about anything.

The Dark Star Lounge on the Citadel was in full swing tonight. Over half of the Normandy's crew were here blowing off steam. They deserved a little R&R after the events on Horizon.

Horizon… Damn Kaiden Alenko to hell. Son of a bitch…

Dressed in her most comfortable old jeans and soft, black leather sleeveless vest, scuffed, worn cowboy boots from earth, and an antique cowboy hat drawn low over her forehead, she didn't look like a typical patron of this particular bar, but then neither did she resemble Commander Shepard, Savior of the Citadel, aka the Butcher of Torfan.

Shepard was seated by herself in the back of the darkened bar, facing the entrance, the wall at her back as she tipped her chair back and studied the surrounding area. Loud dance music pumped from hidden speakers and strobe lighting cast shadows in every corner. From here though, she could see everything going on, open lines of sight to the left, right, and straight on. Knocking back another drink the waitress had just left, she again thought it was a good thing she'd already reserved a room in the hotel upstairs from the bar.

The buzz in her head grew louder the longer she sat there drinking. Several crew members stopped by to chat. Jacob and Garrus had even asked her to dance. A small crazy giggle slipped from her lips as she thought of Jacob and Garrus dancing together. Oh shit – Who would lead? Oh yea, the JD was finally doing its job. Now she was just getting plain stupid drunk. Sure beat crying into her drink. She snorted into her drink and sloshed a few drops onto her jeans. She signaled to the waitress for a refill.

A few of her crew were seated at the table on her left. They, too, were getting shit faced and it looked like Gabby and Kenneth were going to wind up either making out on the table or hopefully they'd at least wait to get back to the Normandy.

On her right a man sat nursing a drink, some green concoction. Probably Krogan Ryncol. Maybe she'd have one of those before heading up to her room. Wanted to make damn good and sure she wasn't able to think when she fell into bed.

She couldn't help looking back at the guy seated at the next table. Like her, he was seated with his back to the wall. A long dark leather coat and matching pants covered a body that looked honed and lean, the open collar displaying a broad chest with well defined muscles. It was kinda funny, his drink almost matched the color of some of his skin. He glanced up from his own musings and caught her looking at him. He raised his glass in a mock salute before taking another long drink. Large dark eyes held hers a moment longer before he returned to scanning the bar. Definitely a hired gun of some type. Too much unconscious tension coiled in his body, in the way he studied the room, the people. He was a Drell, she realized, having seen one or two in her time with the Alliance. Oh fuck, the Alliance… Kaiden... God damn it…

The front legs of the chair hit the floor with a thud. Too drunk to really care or think about her actions, she got up and walked on surprisingly steady legs over to his table. Turning the chair nearest him around, she straddled the seat and pushed her hat back on her head, leaning forward to rest her arms on the back of the chair. "You should buy me another drink," she said without preamble, her gaze frank and interested.

Shit, his contact hadn't shown. He'd been here most of the evening and there was no sign of the Batarian he'd been scheduled to meet with. Just as well, he rationalized philosophically. His next contract was particularly hazardous, and he hated to commit to another job knowing he might not be able to fulfill the contract. Professional ego getting the better of him at the moment, he laughed mirthlessly at himself. Prehaps if the Gods allowed him to make it back from Nos Astra in one piece…

Seated in the back, in the darkest part of the Dark Star Bar on the Citadel, Thane Krios surveyed the others around him with thinly disguised disinterest. Years of living on the edge had honed his senses to a fine point, the ability to sense undercurrents, discern danger from subtle shifts in patterns, these were the skills that had kept him alive.

Well, they had kept his body alive. He considered his soul already dead. Without her, there was no him. He was merely an instrument of death now. A hired assassin contracting out to the highest bidder. But even now his body was failing. The specialist he'd seen just that morning had merely repeated the exact prognosis he'd given six months earlier. The Kepral's Syndrome was progressing as expected. His lungs were failing and more than likely he would return to the sea within a year.

The table on his right was occupied by four Asari drinking wine, talking, and gesturing wildly. They occasionally got up to dance, either together, or with any number of other species that stopped by and asked them. Definitely not matriarchs. Probably only a few centuries old. They presented no danger, they held no interest for him.

The woman seated on his left however… Dangerous? Not the "threat of imminent attack, gonna kill you" kind of dangerous. More in a subtle unconscious way, like she too lived on the edge. Like him, she'd chosen to sit with her back against the wall. And the way she studied her surroundings… Even with the amount of alcohol he'd witnessed her consume throughout the evening, she was still more alert to what was happening in the bar than most sober security professionals.

The effects of his own Krogan Ryncol were muted. He'd been sipping it, slowly. After coming to the conclusion the Batarian was a no show, he'd just wanted to be numb. He had a two day layover before catching his flight to Illium, and after the visit with the specialist this morning he'd tried meditation and prayer to calm the memories. Seeking solace in solitude and introspection was as natural to him as breathing. It was ironic that even the breathing thing was getting harder. They usually worked, usually. Not today, though, hence the foul green concoction in front of him.

Two different men had asked the woman to dance. One had been human, dark skinned and wearing some sort of uniform. The other had been Turian of all things. She seemed to know them, but she'd turned them both down, just leaning back, her chair propped up against the wall, gesturing for them to leave her be. Well, it had seemed more like a command… The waitress had delivered a steady stream of some dark liquid that she'd knocked back without the slightest hesitation…

He had long ago given up fighting against his body's physical needs. In the years since her death, his body had sought release with occasional women, usually Asari prostitutes working the space ports or bars. No connection, just the most neutral of memories associated with physical pleasure. The body was separate from the soul, and his soul and heart had slipped into the sea with her all those years ago. But still, his body occasionally wanted release, his mind wanted release from the constant perfect memories, some that threatened to cripple him.

His body was acutely conscious of her… Human… Fair skin, light hair, a body similar to Asari, but not as soft. A fighter's body, a warriors body. A look of interest in her eyes... He raised his glass in a mock salute and took a larger pull from the glass… After a lingering glance, he returned to looking out over the bar.

He heard the chair legs bang against the floor and without looking, knew she was pulling a chair up.

"You should buy me another drink."