Blue eyes nervous, darting, sleeves falling off of hunched shoulders as she hands me the datapad. "You didn't get this from me." She says, sniffing loudly. "Now where's the money; you promised me money." I thank her, transfer the credits into her account. She'll use it for red sand; I can smell it on her skin, see it in her chipped fingernails, her darkened teeth. She mutters something I cannot catch and shuffles down the alley, swallowed up by darkness.

Thane did not usually use those consumed by drugs to funnel him information—it was careless. Those who let their appetite control their reason, like the human woman he had purchased the information from, were apt to betray the hand that fed them if the offer was high enough… or they were desperate enough for another fix.

And, truthfully, a large part of him was disgusted at the thought of providing the means for these hapless creatures to continue destroying themselves. He was under no illusions, of course—if they did not get the money from him they would get it from someone else—but the interaction always made him feel unclean, soiled; the air around them was sour and poisonous. After he had memorized the data the addict gave him, he washed his hands for several prayer cycles, stopping just before his scrubbing could completely desensitize his fingertips.

But all of that didn't matter now. He was running out of time. It was true that he still had months—if the gods favored him, a year—but he would normally spend at least a month researching one target, and he had decided that he would rather try to remove as many spots of darkness as he could rather than obsess over doing a job perfectly. He didn't have to worry about his reputation anymore, after all. What was vanity to him? Thus, he didn't allow himself the luxury of leisurely pursuing information on his targets, of tailing them for weeks, walking in their footsteps, watching them with friends, family, memorizing their routine, knowing their next move before they knew it themselves, and finally taking their lives—sometimes in a swift, silent shot from a distance, other times a subtle poison while they broke their fast, or, his preference, bare hands around their neck, a sharp crack letting him know that the deed was done. Clean.

He would not know his target as intimately as he would like, but this asari, this Nassana, would die nonetheless. He had no idea how the human had obtained the information for him—schedules, maps, personnel rosters—which was another cause for alarm, but it would have to do.

He'd had his eye on Nassana Dantius since she escaped conviction for the deaths of two rivals in a competing biotic research corporation. The more he had looked into her so-called business dealings, the more death and corruption he uncovered—some even involving her own sisters—but what had driven him to really decide to pursue her was when he had discovered she was using indentured servants—slaves—to test new pharmaceuticals, often resulting in their death or severe impairment. She took advantage of and murdered the weak and downtrodden. He didn't care if the so-called contract she had with them made it legal. Legality and ethics often didn't coincide on Illium.

The towers were difficult to penetrate, but not impossible. There was a small drainage pipe that ran out into the sewers that had been unhinged for repairs for weeks—there was some sort of bureaucratic tie up in the city council that prevented the contractors from getting paid, so the job sat half finished while Nassana bickered with another set of contractors working on a different section of the building. While it would be a tight squeeze—even for him—it was an extremely fortunate development, and he had spent an evening in prayer to thank Amonkira for His boon.

He could take the pipe up, up through the building, stopping only to move to a maintenance shaft on the fifth floor, and then slip through that until he reached an air vent directly over Nassana's desk. It was the end of the week, but she traditionally worked late. She also apparently believed that disgruntled siblings might seek the end of her life; as a consequence, she had become paranoid and doubled her guard accompaniment. It would be difficult, but there was a small window of opportunity where her guards changed shifts—he would have about thirty seconds in which the asari was unguarded, defenseless. It was more than enough time for him to finish the job.

Whether he'd live long enough to feel the satisfaction of a completed mission was another problem altogether. If everything went according to plan, he could be back up in the air vent before the new guards checked in. He would have to hurry out of the building—there was little he could do to hide a body in that amount of time—but according to his calculations, he could be back out on the street in a mere four minutes and back to his room in twenty, in plenty of time for his evening meditation. But... he knew the odds. Nassana's guards would be swift. He would just have to try to be swifter.

His eyes drifted over to his rifle, nestled in its case next to his pistol. He would bring neither of them with him tonight, and he already felt their absence as keenly as that of an old friend. They would be too cumbersome to bring through the drain, though, and if perhaps something did go wrong, he could always procure weapons on-site. Instead, he took with him three slim blades—small, silent killers. He ran his fingers over them, sliding his scales over the smooth, cold metal, resting lightly on the alloy of the handle. They were familiar, comforting, having defended him in tight spots many times, spilling the blood of his enemies. They were adequate substitutes to have at his side in the unfortunate event that his mission actually disintegrated into hand to hand combat.

He knelt on the floor, legs folded underneath him, whispering one last prayer to Amonkira for his success. This woman was a menace. She had to be stopped. If the Lord of Hunters chose to grant him success, he would be satisfied, even if Kalihira also chose to take him to the sea in the same evening.

He was ready. He slipped the blades into his coat, snapping the weapons case shut and sliding it under the bed. Twilight approached. It was time for him to move.

If this mission had occurred even two years ago, he would have turned around as soon as he laid eyes on the building. Things were wrong - the air was bitter, the light harsh, falling on his skin like a burden rather than a gift. He spent several moments simply staring at the entrance—his way in was around the right side—but there was something off about the main doors, something that he would have known immediately had he spent the required time doing proper research. As it was, the doors plagued him with a vague feeling of unease that he could not place.

But when nothing manifested itself, he shook himself loose from the stillness he had fallen in, striding across the street. He liked Illium—the social structure was so clearly defined. It was apparent in the clothes, the manners, the scents and taste of the air around those that fortune had chosen. The light held those in her embrace, but she did not hold the poor to her bosom. Thane, with his nondescript leathers and downcast eyes, drew the attention of no one of consequence. He scented the air with a pale nothingness that was easily forgotten.

The drain was tighter than he had thought, and he let out a long, slow breath, lungs hitching a bit as he let the air out of them, compressing his body even further as he slipped in. A sharp memory of his training flashed behind his eyes…

Master directs me toward the hole, barely five hand spans across, and for the first time since Mother and Father gave me to the Compact a year ago, I balk, stopping in my tracks, forcing Master to drag me toward it. I kick, scream, struggle; Master is so strong, forcing me in; the walls scrape against my scales, ripping some off and I beg, plead, cry out for Mother, and then the door is shut, and there is nothing but the slick wetness of my tears, the sound of my ragged breathing and soft whimpers. My hands slap ineffectually against the smooth walls, scraping my nails along the surface, and I am suddenly struck with the thought there is not enough air…

When they had let him out of the tunnel two days later, Thane had been quiet, subdued. He had adapted. His master had not spoken of it again. And now it was easy; his eyes adjusted quickly to the inky blackness of the pipe as he slid along, ignoring the dampness of the air that slithered its cold, moist fingers over his skin.

His path was smooth, and he felt himself near the maintenance shaft with an efficiency that made him smile. His fingers touched the seal—he ran them along its rough edge, worn with the hard minerals in the water, despite its new construction, and with a few grunts and strained maneuvering, he brought his omnitool up. He typed his commands in its violet shimmer, tapping into the network to override the security—it was simple; the restrictions were only there to prevent the seal from accidentally opening and letting water into the maintenance shafts. The seal opened with a hiss, and he gladly extricated himself from his damp environment, sliding on his belly until he was all the way in, closing the seal behind him.

He rolled over on his back and took a moment to stretch out as much as the shaft would let him—he felt like he was in grand, open hall compared to the pipe he had just left. The map was bright in his mind—third branch to the left, ladder up until dead end, then right until another ladder and straight on up to Nassana's office. Simple.

Then he heard the gunshots.

For one wild moment, he thought he had somehow been spotted— perhaps thermal detectors, perhaps an automated security system his intelligence had not covered— he sprung up on his hands and knees, ready to fly down the shaft, but then he paused, considering. The shots, he could tell they were from an M-8 Avenger, were not near him; they did not pursue him, and the screams, shouts…

There was a grate about ten yards ahead of him, and he wasted no time getting there, peering through the slats to discover the reason for such an unwelcome development.

Eclipse mercenaries. Three of them. Two ground troops and one engineer. They had cornered four salarian workers—part of the contractor's force, it seemed, dressed in blue and white, tools scattered at their feet—and were shouting orders to leave, brandishing their weapons menacingly. One salarian already lay dead on the floor, three shots to the chest. The other workers were panicking, unsure where to go, confused by the shouts of the mercenaries. They were going to be shot.

They were going to die.

A knife is in each hand before Thane knows what he is doing. No time for subtlety. No time for silence. He kicks the grate out, falling on the shoulders of one of the troops. He wears a helmet; it is going to be hard to snap his neck; no matter, knife between the third and fourth rib, through the joint in his armor, slide it in and out, slash at the heart. Throws second knife to catch the engineer between the eyes; takes the gun from the dead man's hand, last one down with a head shot.

The salarians stared at him in wide eyed horror. It bothered him for a second before he pushed it away to focus on the problem at hand. "Do not fear me." His voice was quiet, calm, despite the rush he felt in his chest. He could taste their fear and panic, the delicate scent of desperation tickling his senses. He dislodged his blades as the first mercenary gurgled his last, then wiped them down, running his fingers over them, delighting in the lingering warmth along the blade, and returning them to their sheath. "What happened? Why were they going to kill you?" He strapped the discarded pistol to his side—the unfortunate man would not need it anymore.

One of the salarians blinked large eyes and took a tentative step forward, twisting his hands together. "Nassana's spooked about something, someone… she's having the mercenaries clear out the building. We… wanted to take our tools with us, but they grew impatient. They… they killed Narin."

Thane looked away, hands curling into fists as the salarian grew choked with tears. He didn't know if Nassana had discovered that he was coming or if she was still paranoid about one of her sisters. It didn't matter. His eyes lighted on Narin, on the slack jaw and open, unseeing eyes, and he murmured a quiet prayer. He should have been faster. He should have anticipated that Nassana would do this. If he had properly done his research none of this would have happened. He could hear his master's voice echo in his head: Failure. Disgrace. Dishonorable. Worthless. Anything less than perfect was unacceptable.

He would no longer be able to reach Nassana unnoticed. The guards were on too high an alert. She would not be alone, not even for a moment. There would be no window of opportunity. Suddenly what had seemed like a conventional job with an acceptable risk became much more dire. He faced the near certainty that he would die in this tower. Two choices were before him—he could retreat now and allow these workers to be slaughtered but live another day, or he could press on, saving as many as he could, finish the job, and in all likelihood die in Nassana's office.

It really wasn't a choice at all.

"It's…" A small voice broke through Thane's thoughts. "It's you, isn't it? She's afraid of you."

He took a quick step toward the salarians, who collectively moved back. "It is not safe for you here." He stepped toward them again, herding them backwards. "Stay silent." They realized at the last moment that he had cornered them in a maintenance closet, and before they could protest, he shut the door, jamming its security protocols to prevent them from opening it again.

He sighed, jumping up to haul himself back into the shaft just as he began to hear more gunfire farther in the complex. Thane let out a soft curse, scrambling through the tunnel. This was turning out to be a disaster.

But when he investigated the source, ready to come to the rescue of more workers, he found instead a human woman, a turian male, and a young krogan, the latter two laying down suppressing fire while the woman let loose a biotic wave, throwing several LOKI mechs crashing into a wall. The team dispatched a wave of mercenaries in short order, and Thane found himself watching the human with some interest—she looked exactly like that Spectre that had died…

"Shepard," the turian said, slamming a fresh heat sink into his rifle. "If we have to keep going through all these mercenaries, this drell assassin of yours is going to be long gone by the time we arrive."

"You don't think I know that, Garrus?" Her voice was terse, stressed.

"Well, we can stand around complaining about it, or we can go kill ourselves some more mercs." The krogan growled, stamping his feet impatiently.

They said a few more inconsequential things, and moved on; Thane was already pressing forward, quite concerned. It was already disturbing enough that Nassana had begun killing innocents outright, but now this trio apparently knew he was here. His carelessness was embarrassing. Compounding the issue was the fact that a supposedly dead Spectre (he had dismissed claims of her return as mere foolish optimism, but it was impossible to deny such physical evidence) was now on his tail—did she want to kill him? He couldn't think of any particular reason why she would want him dead—he had, of course, made quite a few enemies over the years, but to his knowledge his actions had never adversely affected the Council or its agents.

But he adapted. The situation did not have to be as grim as it appeared on the surface if he were able to use it to his advantage. Nassana had shattered under the pressure—an unavoidable fact. But, she also now knew that Shepard and her team were here. They could prove a valuable distraction for Nassana's guards, allowing him to slip relatively unnoticed through the shafts. The only problem was that he had to reach the asari first—his ability to get out of the tower alive hinged on the fact that he would be able to slip in and out of her office unnoticed. A small part of him admitted that he also just couldn't stand the fact that—out of this entire destroyed mission—the last moment of victory, triumph, might be claimed by another. He could still salvage this. He could still get to Nassana first.

He ghosted ahead, leaving Shepard and her team behind him, feeling more and more at ease with each floor he put between them. His progress was impeded only once by another group of salarians in trouble—it was simple to sight the mercenary's head with the pistol he had lifted off of the dead one, the target's skull bursting in a satisfying cloud of bright red. It was only when the blood began to cool that it faded to gray in his eyes, and he enjoyed the momentary splash of color far more than was appropriate.

He locked those workers in an enclosed space as well before moving on, but he had only moved up one floor when, to his disappointment and surprise, he heard more gunfire and shouts behind him—he could distinguish the turian's flange out of the smattering of asari and human. Shepard moved faster than he thought.

Thane hesitated a moment, hand on one smooth rung, about to ascend to another floor, but his curiosity was too strong—he slid down to the previous level, peeking through a grate to watch his potential enemy in action.

She was a goddess in motion—all fire and energy and destruction. She showed a sharp duality of nature; part of her was calculated and reserved, taking careful aim and ensuring that not a single shot was wasted. He appreciated her economy. The other part was joyful chaos, a gleeful appreciation of the slaughter. She enjoyed killing the mercenaries.

That was... distasteful to him. She did not separate herself; rather, she lived in the moment, each fallen enemy another priceless victory, an opportunity to share a fierce grin with her turian comrade. But he could not discount her skill. He knew from the vids that Shepard was thought to be a formidable human—so different from those he normally faced—and now that he saw her in person... he had to admit that the vids had not exaggerated. Or, at least not as much as he'd thought they had.

If she proved to be his adversary, it would be... problematic.

A low rumble vibrated his core. The longer he sat around watching, the more likely that they would have to face each other. He had to move.

And she was hot on his heels, giving him the illusion of being ahead and then she would be right on top of him, and it was infuriating. He clamored through the tunnels, clanging up the ladders, not caring what sort of noise he made anymore; Shepard more than covered any sound from him.

He finally reached the vent over Nassana's desk, but he savored victory for only a moment before Shepard burst in, striding confidently into a room full of enemies. They exchanged barbs, but Thane cared little for them, instead focusing on the resistance in the room.

Three guards. Two human. One asari. Armed with standard Eclipse fare: the M-8 Avenger yet again. No helmets. Stupid. Careless. Advantageous.

Thane's focus changed sharply when Shepard responded to Nassana's question on why the Spectre was there—to 'look' for someone, him, apparently. Interesting, but irrelevant for the moment.

He shifted his weight, wincing when the metal sounded under his knees, giving another turn to the screw, tightening everyone's tensions.

The asari guard stalked away from her fellows at Nassana's command, to check other entrances. A fatal move.

Time slowed, his senses singing with anticipation…

…and he drops down, padding lightly up to the first human, hands wrap around his warm, soft skin, and then the man is gone; the second is aware only for a moment of his impending demise, and his weak throat is destroyed, holding the shoulder, preventing the body from absorbing the blow, the windpipe collapsing, vertebrae snapping under the pressure. The asari turns around, taking in a half a breath to shout a warning; it is all she can do; her death comes quickly in one shot.

Nassana.

She's already drawing, already bringing the pistol down to bear on him, but he grips her wrist, pressing down on that one point that makes her fingers go limp, pulling her close, settling his own stolen pistol against her abdomen. He lets her come to the realization of her death for one, long second—it seems an eternity to him, her eyes wide, the fear creeping in, acrid on his tongue, pricking his nose. This one moment, her last moment, will live on in him; he will carry it for her, remember it for her, and in that way, she will not have died alone.

And then he fires. An artery is severed—he makes sure of that—and he cradles her, murmuring a soft word in her ear to calm her wet whimpers, laying her across her console, folding her hands across her chest. The blood spreads quickly. She is dead in moments.

He hears the whine of a rifle powering up.

Thane blinked both sets of eyelids to focus on the turian sighting him down the barrel of a sniper rifle—an M-97 Viper. Excellent choice. He knew that he should feel fear, but Shepard had not drawn her weapon, and if she had not openly engaged him in hostilities, then he had no immediate worry.

There were more important concerns, after all. If he was about to meet his end, he would not do so without a last prayer for forgiveness, and, folding his hands carefully together, he began reciting them in his head, feeling his heart rate slow as the familiar pattern moved through his thoughts, his throat expanding ever so slightly as he let out a light humming song to accompany them.

The sunset colored everything in the room, the light warm and soft on his skin. The Goddess embraced him. He felt welcome, at peace. The air tasted like sun-kissed waves.

But it seemed that Shepard was not interested in killing him yet. "I was hoping to talk to you." Her voice was low, reasonable. It was not as high pitched as many females of her species, more comfortable to his ears.

She was civil. He could be too. "I apologize—I do not mean to seem as if I am ignoring you. But prayers for the wicked must not be forsaken."

Her lips tightened, was she angry? Had he unwittingly offended her? He recalled little Mouse's expressions. Perhaps she was confused. Her response confirmed his conclusion. "Why? Do you really think she deserves it? I had dealt with her before—she's a nasty piece of work. Or..." Her mouth quirked. "...Was."

"Not for her." He clarified, a part of him amused with the thought of explaining this to a potential executioner. "For me. The measure of an individual can be difficult to discern by actions alone. Take you, for instance." He gestured around the room for an example, although aware that the current carnage was all due to him. "All this destruction, chaos." He recalled her countenance when she gunned down the mercenaries and his voice grew bitter. "I was curious to see how far you'd go to find me. How many you would kill in order to reach your goal. Well... here I am."

She appeared to sense his displeasure, but if it affected her, she did not let on. It seemed that she was not as emotionally explosive as the rest of her species. "You expected me? I didn't know I was that obvious. How did you know I was even coming?"

Thane hesitated a moment, unwilling to admit that he had been surprised by her. Failure. "I... didn't. Not until you marched in the front door and started shooting. Nassana had become paranoid. You saw the strength of her guard force. She believed one of her sisters would kill her." He left out the part about the salarians. He wasn't willing to discuss that at present. "You were a valuable distraction." He said instead.

That got a rise out of her. "You used me?" Her voice rose, a pitch that did become a little grating on his hearing. "So you could kill her?" She stabbed a finger at the dead asari.

He regretted antagonizing her. "I needed a diversion," he explained in a reasonable tone. "You needed, apparently, to speak with me. You have certainly fulfilled your end of the bargain." He held out his hands, wrists up in an attempt to placate her. "What would you like to discuss?"

She relaxed, and Thane lowered his hands to clasp them behind his back. "Someone's been abducting human colonies." She explained her mission, and Thane found himself liking it more and more with each passing moment. A suicide mission to save the galaxy? He felt a sharp pulse of gratitude—while he knew he was doing good by taking out those like Nassana, he also knew that the power vacuum would inevitably lead to someone just as ruthless taking their place. His victory was transitory.

But this. This was entirely different. Passing through the Omega-4 relay. Fighting and defeating an obscure and terribly powerful species. Saving the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocents.

Shepard seemed to feel that the revelation of the nature of the mission would be a detriment, though. She squinted those small, shining human eyes of hers, green like sea kelp.

"I am dying."

There it was. He saw her blink with shock. He had told only a few people before her, and it always interested him to see their reaction. It revealed a lot about who they were, and if he was going to work with this human, he was very interested in knowing who she was.

"Low survival odds do not concern me." He continued. "The abduction of your colonists does." He rocked back on his heels, awaiting her response.

She hesitated only a moment. "Are you contagious?" Very practical. "How long do you have?" Extremely practical.

It pleased him. He hated pity. He would have thought even less of her if she had offered it—she did not know him. She had no reason to care about his fate unless it affected her mission. "If you wish to know more about it, we can discuss it later on your ship. I am not contagious, and," he looked pointedly at Nassana. "It will not affect my work."

Shepard looked unconvinced, but finally she nodded. "I hadn't heard that you were sick. Can I help at all? Will you need accommodations?"

"No, giving me this opportunity is enough." He let his gratitude color his voice, humming deeply. "The universe is a dark place, but I am trying to make it brighter before I die." He glanced out at the sunset; it had nearly slipped below the horizon. The salarian workers again came to mind. "Many innocents died today." He murmured, unable to stop the words. "I was not fast enough, and they suffered. I must atone for that." Along with so many other things.

Shepard regarded him again with those tiny eyes—they were so strange and pale. Unnerving. She salted the air, reminding him of the ocean. Kelp eyes. Scent of cold sea spray. Pale sand skin. Blood strand hair. She was death personified.

He suppressed a shiver, hoping that the gods were delivering him into salvation and not destruction. He wanted to atone. He wanted to be better. He could be better. He was trying so hard to prove it to them.

"I will work for you." He said, to break the silence more than anything. "No charge." He mimicked a human gesture, shaking her moist hand.

The gods worked in strange ways.

A/N: To those who are experiencing my writing for the first time, I highly suggest that you read the companion piece to this first, "For Such Loss, Abundant Recompense". To those who have faithfully followed me from that first story, welcome! I hope you enjoy this one as well.

My beta rides shotgun with me on this one too, so you should all thank her if you like what you read! And, just as with the last one, a poem sets the foundation here. Thus, to get a deeper understanding, read T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land". Everything else belongs to Bioware.

Just to alleviate any confusion: the italicized paragraphs are memory flashbacks, and the switch to present tense during the battle scenes is deliberate. ^_^