Author's note: This was an idea I couldn't get out of my head. I've done some digging and it hasn't been attempted yet (as far as I'm aware of), so we're going to see how well this is received. I've got quite a bit of it already written so don't worry about updates.

Setting: Post-Mass Effect 2. One week after the Collector base but before Hackett contacts Shepard about Aratoht. Cool?

Enjoy the prologue. Enjoy this whole thing, really. I know I'm having fun writing it. Kisses!

As Nathan sprinted down the sidewalk, he tried to remember the last time he'd been properly stabbed.

It was probably that time when he was ten, if his memory served him correctly. Maddox hadn't been happy when he found out that Nate had eaten the candy bar they'd stolen off a tourist earlier that morning; it was one of those king-sized cookies n' crème Hershey's Kracklebars and Nate just couldn't help himself. When his sister found him later that night, crying and stumbling down the sidewalk with a switchblade jammed deep into the flesh of his thigh, she'd stitched him back together with the super-sturdy dental floss she always kept under her mattress and sent him back out to keep working until late evening. "We don't have time for this, Nate," she scolded, sewing up the wound with jerky movements. "If you can't run, you're useless out there."

He wished she were here, even if it was just to slap him upside the head before dragging him by his collar to safety—not that he'd ever admit that out loud.

Nate gripped his bicep, fighting the hot slick of blood that threatened to dislodge his fingers from their makeshift white-knuckled tourniquet. He hadn't recognized the man who'd gotten close enough to jab the small omniblade into his arm during the scuffle—then again, Nate hadn't recognized any of the people who'd jumped him. Maybe they planned it that way. No familiar faces, no leads to follow if he got away and went to the authorities.

Or maybe all those once-familiar faces were dead. It had been years since he and his sister went into hiding, so anything could have happened since then. He tried not to think about it.

Breathing hard, Nate turned sharply to the left and vaulted over a pile of compacted garbage cubes that littered the entrance to the nearest side street. He didn't know this neighborhood as well as he once did—too many new stores, too many abandoned ones. The landscape appeared to have shifted into a deeper state of disrepair over the past several years, if that was even possible. The windows of the apartment complexes that towered above him were filthy, coated with years' worth of smog and soot, and the ones that weren't dirty were smashed and covered with spider web-like cracks, making them impossible to see through. Neon storefronts and larger-than-life advertisements flashed in Nate's peripherals, almost giving him a headache with the bass-heavy music and gyrating asari dancers splashed across the giant screens. He remembered the neighborhood being bright and annoying at night, but this was…incessant. Irritating. Almost painful to be around.

Nate yelped out an apology as he jumped over the legs of a homeless man laid out on the sidewalk, clearly drunk and rambling about a man named Fitzgibbons who happened to owe him lots of money. The poverty-stricken people who seemed to spill out of every crevice of the street didn't appear to notice that Nate was gushing blood from his arm and was clearly in a fight for his life. This was probably a regular Tuesday night for most of them. Nate was too winded and light-headed to feel anything close to anger at their indifference. He instead settled for mild disappointment mixed with a dash of overwhelming panic.

The clamor of footfalls behind him only seemed to get closer. For a second, Nate swore he could feel the tips of their reaching fingers brush the back of his neck, but maybe he was going crazy with exhaustion and blood loss. He couldn't be sure. Nate reached the corner of the throughway and darted left into the bustle of the pedestrian-filled street, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a messenger on a sleek silver hoverboard. One of the newer models, he noticed. Nate ignored the obscene gesture that was sent his way and shouldered his way through the crowd of laughing people, occasionally catching a glimpse of a few scantily-clad asari hookers who had just picked up some business from a group of rowdy young gentleman nearby. Wincing as his foot caught the edge of a loose manhole cover, Nate stumbled past the (extremely illegal) business exchange and joined the flowing current of people who were all heading north, silently hoping he could lose his pursuers in the bustle of the city's nightlife.

He was weaving through the crowd, muttering apologies and being careful not to get blood on anyone. No one took much notice of him; a pair of salarians glared when he stumbled in front of them, a few people not-so-subtly averted their eyes from the garish red stain that was flowering across his shirtsleeve, pretending not to see his bloodless lips and haggard appearance. Several people outright stared, but merely pointed and said something to their friends who, once again, did absolutely nothing to help. Violence was a regular occurrence in this part of the city. Unless Nate flat-out died in front of them, he knew no one would lift a finger to help him out.

His sister had been right, he realized grimly. No matter how many years passed, coming back to the city would never be safe for either of them. Even with new identities, their faces were too recognizable. He should have skipped the interview, stayed home, and gone to dinner at his uncle's house like he did every Thursday night.

He was supposed to be eating mashed potatoes and watching Wheel of fucking Fortune right now, not struggling to stay alive.

He had to keep going. It was only a little farther to the subway station where Nate knew he could lose his pursuers long enough to get to a hospital and go home. Gritting his teeth, he put all of his remaining energy into forcing his legs to move faster as he gradually neared the edge of the raucous horde.

Finally, Nate burst through the surging throng of people, feet pounding against the pavement as he darted into another side alleyway. The roar of the crowd dwindled into a low buzz and the bright advertisements that lined the walls of the buildings cast eerie shadows on the path before him. Just a little farther, he thought grimly.

He got halfway down the passageway before his luck jumped ship. Nate's foot caught on the rungs of a metal drainage grate that had been hidden in shadow and he felt his ankle twist and crack sickeningly. Nate yelped and tumbled forward, curling inward as to not land directly on his face or the gushing wound in his arm, instead landing on his uninjured side. He found himself in a puddle of warm liquid—it smelled suspiciously like urine, he thought—which began to seep into the front of his dress shirt. His ankle was in incredible pain. He fought the urge to vomit.

Scrabbling for a foothold, Nate lurched upright and clutched at a nearby drainpipe for support. The pain in his ankle was indescribable, but not nearly as bad as the gash in his arm. It helped keep things in perspective. He had to keep moving, he knew. Nate's vision was swimming and filled with spots that he tried to blink away—not a good sign. With great difficulty, he put one foot in front of the other and moved forward slowly, dragging his shoulder against the grimy wall of the alleyway as a guide.

Loud footfalls echoed around him, slow and deliberate. They weren't hurrying; they were savoring every moment and torturing him at the same time. He couldn't run anymore. They both knew that. Still, Nate groaned and staggered forward, ignoring the slow burn on his shoulder from the wall he was sliding against.

The shadow of a man came up behind Nate, reaching out. He didn't bother to turn. He knew what was coming next and was strangely okay with that.

Nate thought of his sister.

Fuck you, Janie. Fuck you for leaving me.

Pain exploded at the back of Nate's skull. He welcomed the darkness.

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