CONTENT WARNING: Contains graphic sexual content between women. You have been warned.

NOTES: Instead of going with a 'I can hypnotize you with my ~mind~' magical-seductress mainstay (though that obviously plays into it), I decided to go with a more basic idea of standard, tried-and-true manipulation. 'Cause, hey, when you've been watching people for nearly four centuries, you don't always need your snazzy tricks to run pick-ups.

Worth mentioning that this is an alternate version of how Samara's loyalty quest goes, presented in a way that delves more into Morinth's 'acting like a seasoned predator' side- actually observing the people she goes after- as opposed to the self-absorbed "not trying too hard" front you see in-game.

[ 1 :: A Risk Worth Taking ]

Morinth watched her from the moment she came in. A human female that had promise, but it had yet to be seen if she was worth the trouble.

Based strictly on appearances, it would've been an easy decision to make, if she was feeling up to a lengthy seduction; the newcomer was hardly a beauty queen, possessing both the scars and the severe look of a weathered combat veteran, but she wasn't without her attractive qualities. Still, both it, and her manner, indicated a pleasant lack of vanity, saying nothing of irritating pretense.

The woman had angular features, a defined jawline, still feminine beneath the trained bravado; tall, thinly muscled, pale, a short-cropped, easily-maintaned hairstyle- all of it capped off with clothing that solidified the impression of being something other than a common club-goer. Not a standard merc, either, if indeed this was a merc at all; male or female, human or batarian, asari or turian, they all had a swagger that denoted street-wise confidence, with only a few displaying the kind of hard-bitten control she saw playing out in front of her.

So, no. Not a merc. Soldier-turned-merc was far more likely. That much was confirmed by some of the more subtle details; the clothing the woman was wearing matched some of the clean-pressed attire Morinth had seen military types wear before, usually after galas they were forced to attend on account of their superiors.

Or, so she'd heard from a former suitor.

Not a social butterfly, then, if she had little interest in playing dress-up with anything except what she had on-hand. The uniform's jacket was absent, of course, leaving the usual dress shirt and slacks, the well-polished shoes, all immaculately maintained- meaning they were almost never used, or they always were. Morinth was betting on the latter.

Appearances still mattered, of course; Soldier Girl maintained a posture that was both confident and meant to intimidate, in spite of being a size that was slighter than the common krogan, or turian clientele. Worldly, besides- seemed to know which cues to pick up on from the varying species, enough to know when to get under their skin, and when to avoid conflict.

It was all perfectly manufactured; all a smartly put-together facade. That alone might have been enough reason to be wary, all told, as Soldier Girl hardly looked like the type to go slumming around Omega bars; that alone usually denoted some kind of ulterior motive. In this case, there was a distinct lack of focus, a sense of being far removed from one's element- based both on posture, and the obvious desire to assert herself in situations where a fight was guaranteed to happen- that made this particular visit seem like a 'special occasion.'

Beyond that, the woman was only too happy to visit the bar. Someone with a cause didn't want their senses dulled; someone with something more personal in mind, did.

Something had to have drawn her here; something powerful enough to make her stay. Looking for a few more fights, maybe, a chance to blow off steam... or was she more interested in companionship? She wasn't shy about looking at the dancers, but Morinth could see that what attention was paid to them was unfocused; not disinterested, necessarily, but still a dismissal. A hint of self-consciousness, maybe...?

No. Not likely. The woman's approach was too assertive for that. She was looking for something she wasn't seeing; something the dancers didn't possess. For as attractive as the asari hired to put on a show were, they didn't offer much in the way of novel experiences.

Morinth smirked, raising her drink to take a sip as she watched. If novelty was the goal, then it seemed they had a similar agenda in that respect.

Ever more curious, Morinth continued to observe from as close as she dared to get, noting every tic, every detail, that seemed like it might yield something useful. And, even at a distance, those details were already rising to the surface. Soldier Girl was taking shots of pure alcohol, by the look of it, avoiding the alien liquors and instead ordering spirits that came from human distilleries; that much was easy to tell by the bottle type. Those weren't easy to come by on Omega; meant she had money.

Former soldier, then, Morinth reasoned. She'd been around those types long enough to know that only elite officers were in the kind of pay grade that allowed them to knock back that kind of booze without blinking, and most of them wouldn't be bothering with a VIP club on Omega, no matter how deviant. Made her wonder what had driven the woman out of the service. Someone with that kind of look and demeanor was the type to stay in for life, not high-tail it for a few easy credits- though, whoever Soldier Girl was working for now was paying her quite well, apparently, and they didn't like leaving tracks. That much was evident by the woman's use of credit chits with set limits- ones that wouldn't be linked to an account. Could always tell which were which by subtle deviations in the color.

Meant asking the bartender for a receipt under false pretenses wouldn't win Morinth a name to run through an extranet search. Smart move, in a place like the one they currently occupied.

It was after what she assumed was the second shot of alcohol that she began to see the more- personal side of her mark, a loosening in tightly-wound shoulders as those shadowed eyes turned to look at some of the club-goers. From a distance, some of the nuances in Soldier Girl's expression weren't entirely legible, but enough of it was. There was a longing there, subtle- clouded by a peculiar kind of apprehension- but identifiable. A brief moment of looking at people who were only too happy to let go, to cast off the chains they wore outside the club's threshold and allow themselves total immersion into the beat, the atmosphere.

Some part of her wanted that, clearly, even if it wasn't about to take the form it did with some of the others. She didn't want to dance, didn't want to converse with the drugged-out celebrants, didn't seem to want anything more than to slake aggression, here and there, and even that didn't seem to be enough. That was the usual method; tonight, she wanted something different.

And there it was, Morinth thought. That was her in.

She's tired.

Tired enough to be coaxed; to drag into spontaneity- hardly so drunk as to be anything less than a genuine challenge, but drunk enough on the liquor imbibed and the promise of a new experience that she wasn't likely to refuse.

Now, all Morinth needed to know was whether or not the woman's words were as sharp and articulated as her demeanor. If they were, she had her mark. If not- well. Maybe it was still worth the change of pace; she'd had plenty of tender, artistically driven souls, easily shattered, come to her beck and call, though they often required an emotional investment to facilitate that, however fake that happened to be. This mark did, too, clearly- but it was different.

Soldiers liked their emotional connections to happen at a comfortable distance, she'd found; preferred to have something to relate to, rather than something to bolster them. Preferred to have an outlet, not inspiration. They were tougher to crack, but once they did, their intensity was always well worth the effort.

A risk worth taking, then; well worth ditching out on her usual dose of Hallex for the evening. And if it ended up falling short of expectation, there were always other nights, and far easier prey to follow up on.

[...]

From start to finish, the entire thing had felt awkward.

Listening to Samara's descriptions of what was in store for her had been strange enough for Shepard to sit through, the entire set-up continuously providing reasons for uneasiness. The matriarch had taken note, of course, had stated more than once that nervousness would be a point against the ruse they were planning, and, as such, hardly seemed to object when Shepard raised the possibility of hitting the regular Afterlife bar for a drink.

Samara had, however, warned against over-indulgence. "There is a fair chance she will lose interest if she feels you are too off-balance," the matriarch said, using a measured tone to keep from sounding in any way judgmental.

"I won't be," Shepard assured her. "Trust me. But if you want this to look 'natural,' I'm gonna need some outside assistance." Pausing, she shook her head, and said, "Honestly, Samara... am I really the right person for this? Miranda's the one that's got a head for art, music- Well. Maybe not elcor art, but-"

"Miranda is also far more likely to want Morinth captured, and studied, rather than killed," Samara pointed out mildly, using little more than a raised hand to stop Shepard's attempts to weasel out of the idea in its tracks. "More importantly- though I hope you'll forgive me the imposition- you are the only person I feel comfortable sharing this with."

"Well. Just so you know? Hooking up with a jarhead at a space port PX is a lot different than luring in a connoisseur of the night club circuit. Groundpounders are easy- but this?"

Samara had taken the chance to, once again, assure her that everything would be fine, but Shepard doubted that the matriarch was in any way aware of just how rusty- or, non-existent- her 'dating' skills were. Still, she did what she was told, eager to get things moving, and over with, hoping all the while that she didn't completely ruin the singular chance Samara had been given.

Thus, as instructed, Shepard had made her rounds- offering help, breaking up a bad situation just waiting to happen, getting into knock-down drag-outs where applicable- and the longer she went, the more tense she became. She was certain she'd done everything she needed to, everything that would attract the right kind of attention, but so far, it was only some of the employed dancers, ones who had witnessed her standing up for one of their colleagues, that had offered her any obvious appreciation.

Well, save for the man who'd flatly stated that she'd be pretty if she didn't remind him of his older brother.

Returning to the bar, her uncertainty ratcheted up, she hadn't even opened her mouth to order another drink when the bartender surprised her with the one sign of progress she'd seen since this little charade began.

"The lady in that corner booth over there," the man said, nodding in his head in the direction of a small grouping of tables, "wanted this comped. Said to join her when you get a chance."

She accepting the glass without looking at it, instead turning her head just slightly to glance towards the corner booth, looking for whomever had sent it out of the corner of her eye. It could be a Blue Suns merc who'd recognized her, a member of Eclipse maybe... Not Blood Pack, though. The only krogan present had been the one at the bar, the one who'd tried to challenge her to down a glass of ryncol; same one that backed down when she'd stated that, if she was still standing by the time she'd drank it down, he'd have to hand over the fancy, engraved blade at his side for collateral. His only excuse for wimping out was something about it being a family heirloom, that it 'wasn't worth it' to gamble on for the sake of seeing a human make a heroic effort to keep from puking her guts out.

But that was neither here nor there- it was a distraction. Still, better to ask for verification, rather than walk into a trap. Or... the wrong trap, as the case may be.

"You don't happen to know who it was that sent the request, do you?" she asked, turning her attention back to the bartender.

"Some asari that's been in here a lot lately," the bartender said, waving a hand dismissively. "And- just some friendly advice? Don't gotta take if you don't want to, but, if you know what's good for you, you'll be careful. Somethin' about her..." He shook his head. "Don't know. Doesn't sit right with me."

"Thanks for the tip," Shepard said, the word reminding her to drop down a couple stray credit chits as 'thanks' for the man's service, "but I can handle myself. Don't worry."

"Yeah, well. Do me a favor and don't tell her I said anything. She's one of the only people in this dive that tips well. Well. Aside from you, anyway."

She merely nodded, at that, glancing down at the glass in-hand before taking a sip- and paused.

The drink was bourbon, same thing she'd been ordering all night. Without thinking, she'd raised her eyes to look towards the corner booth again, wondering just how long her 'benefactor' had been watching. And, judging by the bartender's 'description' alone- a distinct sense of danger- she was betting that the woman responsible for the free round was the one she was looking for.

That alone was enough to snap the moment into focus; that this was really going to happen. The news was both a relief, and a reason to allow for a brief case of nerves. She could face impossible situations, run up against enemy fire with the same kind of suicidal bravery Samara had said to put on display for their target audience, but entering into what promised to be a vapid conversation about subjects she couldn't care less about?

That was daunting, in a way. More daunting was the knowledge that, this was where she'd either make or break Samara's plans- and more than anything, she wanted to make sure those plans worked out, in the end. Knew how profoundly important they were to the justicar- important enough to agree to put herself in a position that could end up being profoundly humiliating. Granted, she'd always had a fondness for the matriarch, be it out of pure respect, or simple attraction, and the idea of failing the woman in no way sat well with her, but as the reality of the moment solidified, she had to chide herself for just how far she was apparently willing to run with that lofty ideal. As she'd pointed out before, to herself, and to Samara: this was a situation where she could fail, and fail horribly.

Still seemed a bit backwards, though, how something as simple as a quasi-date could put her on edge- but then, she reasoned, that's probably why she never bothered dating in the first place