Chapter 6

"Hrrrghhh. Take all there is. We sell, make profit, ghhrnn." The turian's head was splitting, his vision clouded and bleak. Garrus was at a slight loss for what had transpired, only the fact that he could see his hand in front of him, his body quite awkwardly laid out on his stomach. An ambush, he recalled. Feet fumbled and scratched at the floor ahead, clawed hands sifting through the piles of upturned items and broken pieces.

"Him too," another gruff voice, wet and guttural pointed out. Vorcha, Garrus realized, more and more of his aches and pains beginning to register. One of his mandibles was practically glued to his face by something sticky and crusted, and his targeting display lay in pieces next to his face. He wiggled his fingers, glad to see his hand moving in front of him, realizing all too late he probably didn't want to attract attention to himself.

"Did you see, hrrmnn... -that?" There was a sound of gnashing teeth and strange, sucking noises, like that of trying to suck in the dribbling snot of a runny nose.
"What?" A second vorcha snapped. No doubt the scavengers hadn't been here long if they hadn't had a chance to grab the clothes off his back yet. From the sound of it, they were attempting to grab whatever they could before authorities had a chance to show up. The turian managed to shift his head just slightly, catching a glimpse of three vorcha males huddled apprehensively around a pile of items they deemed worthy enough to make a profit off of. They'd probably kill each other off for it by the end of the day.

"Movement. The turian!" the first one spat; literally. Flecks of spittle flew onto his companion's shoulder, a third male that had not had much to say. From his stature he was the largest of the lot, even though he was hunched over, and most likely their leader. He merely hissed in return, hastily wiping the phlegm off his skin with a scrap of cloth, those nasty, pointed teeth drooling with enough of his own saliva.
"Haargh, then check him, lazy oaf!" He spoke. "Go! No more time wasting!"

His two subordinates looked back and forth from one to the other, hissing and leering until one lashed out. The second flinched but failed to retaliate, realizing it was now his duty to go and find out if Garrus was still a half walked, half crawled on three limbs over to the turian, Garrus quickly shutting his eyes and laying still. He could hear the vorcha snuffling, his snub nose getting closer and closer to his face. Bits of drool and mucus smeared across his arm and the vorcha practically bristled.

"Hraggh! It's al- GHERGH" In that moment, Garrus had twisted on his back, his hand clenching around the scavenger's slender neck. He had no weapon on hand, but through the vorcha's flailing arms, had managed to grab a shard of glass from a broken mirror and plunge the makeshift knife deep into the creature's eye socket, twisting the shard. Pained, the vorcha twisted and turned, managing to break the turian's grip on his neck, relentlessly scratching at the turian with whatever limb he could manage. His hands found purchase on one of Garrus' mandibles, attempting to scrabble at the piece no matter how hard the turian pressed it shut.

"Get him!" he screamed to his incoming pals, blooding oozing from his eye socket, smeared by his hand across Garrus' chest. The vermin had a naturally high pain tolerance. Having his eyes nearly gouged out had hardly cause more than a bitter, twisted growl. A second vorcha had spotted Garrus' discarded handgun, dropped from his hand in the earlier firefight. He lunged, scrabbling to make for it in time. Catching his gaze, Garrus reached out, hand falling just short enough of the weapon no matter how he reached; the first vorcha's grip had his neck twisted in such a way that it would be more than painful to go any further. He lunged yet again, the butt of the gun falling under his talons, knocking the weapon away from him, but also the incoming assailant. No, no! he thought, bringing his legs back and under. With a jerk of his hips, Garrus managed to plant a leg against the vorcha's chest, sending the first perpetrator flying overhead and into the wall behind him. His body landed hard, forcing the vorcha's neck into an awkward position. The turian had a doubt however that it would somehow be too good to hope the damn thing's neck had snapped.

It wasn't for long, for the scavenger was back up and rushing to him, but enough to give Garrus enough time to flip over twice, his arm smacking the second creature across the face. It stunned him enough that he wrenched the weapon from his loose hold, bearing it around in a large circle. With his body flat on his back, the turian braced himself against his shoulder blades, finger squeezing the trigger.

One shot. The first vorcha keeled backward, a spray of blood escaping from his loosely hinged jaw, half mutilated by the closeness of the blast. He was quite dead, falling at the feet of their leader, who had finally seen fit to come rushing in. The second scavenger, recovered from the smack was lunging toward his arm.

Two. A second bullet found a mark in his chest, the turian propelling himself to his feet at the same time that the leader lunged forward, past the falling body of his comrade. His bulk smashed into Garrus' chest, sending him off balance and flying into the wall. "Filthy turian!" The vorcha screamed, brandishing his close dangerously close to Garrus' face.

"Wrong," the cold response came. Three. Eyes wide in disbelief, the vorcha took a casual step back, surveying the bleeding wound in his abdomen with disbelief and a sense of impending death. Garrus' arm, bent in close against his side had managed to place the handgun against the creature's stomach.
"Bastar-grh..." Four. Five. Six.

Even after the weapon had stopped firing, cartridge ejected from the build-up of heat, Garrus continued to fire, hearing the familiar empty click associated with a of lack of ammunition. He was breathing heavily, staring at the bodies in shock as the adrenaline began to drain from his system, chest heaving with every breath. Shepard was gone, he realized, his senses returning to him and a new fear gripped him, stronger than the pain in his jaw or his pounding headache. Tentatively, he reached up to the side of his face, feeling the wetness of both old and fresh blood. Some was his, for the blue, syrupy liquid clung to his talons, mixed in with the thin, orange-red droplets of vorcha blood.

He wiped his hand against his thigh, convinced enough that he wouldn't bleed to death, walking over the bodies to check the room. There was no trace of either Shepard, nor the two dead mercenaries from before, but enough blood smears to indicate the bodies had been dragged from the doorway. One trail was blue, but the second was far too brown to be human blood; batarian. So she was still alive then, if everything fell into his favour.

...

1 HOUR BEFORE -

For vanity's sake, Miranda took an extra moment at the threshold to the small, surprisingly posh and overpriced restaurant aboard Omega. A five-star establishment that had no qualms about the surrounding squalor and rather delighted in the lack of trade, poaching and import restriction. Even crime lords had to have access to such a fine gem of quality dining and catering; not like their money was worth any less than all the rest of the galaxy who earned it legitimately.

There was a full-length mirror here and she carefully adjusted her own 'establishments' and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, smacking her lips and batting her eyelashes at her own reflection. A rather silly female custom she somehow always found herself doing, as if her sexual charms were any more useful in swaying the conversation her way. Mind you it generally did when talking to men, but her colleague was female and similarly attractive to the point that there was a sense of loathing between the two. Perhaps then the preening ritual was merely a way to gain a leg up on one another.

With a smug look, Miranda finally entered the restaurant, Ambertrine, greeted by the warm, cozy environment. Orange lamps provided dim lighting, glinting off the backs of the leather, mahogany seats. Antique, starched tablecloths draped to the floors, each table sporting an arrangement of faintly luminescent asari flowers found only on their homeworld of Thessia. Each pod-like structure thrummed with a blue glow, casting a complementary hue against the center of the tables. There were several patrons seated already, mostly fancily-dressed turians and a human or two sitting with some asari escort. A krogan was also crammed into a seat off to one side, happily licking his lips at an incoming plate of steaming, boiled fish with mountains of peeled shrimp and a shredded radish garnish. Admittedly, it looked quite delicious, though far too massive of a portion for Miranda's taste.

A posh looking batarian in a tux was striding toward her, clutching a datapad in his arms, nose quite pointedly raised into the air as if to exude self-importance. She couldn't quite take anything with crap for a face as serious, no matter how noble he attempted to be. "Madam," he gruffed. "How may I help you?"
"I have a reservation for Lawson?"
A few taps on the datapad followed a terse, "One moment, please," and with a nod that indicated he found what he was looking for, stretched his free arm out to welcome her in. "Right this way. Your friend is already seated."

He worked his way through several tables to a more secluded corner of the restaurant where a small fountain gurgled with a thick, syrupy liquid that flowed in tiered, orange waves. It was settled on a low coffee-style table placed between three sizable armchairs flanked by two trays of assorted cream puffs, delectably tiny jars of raspberry and lemon confiture, several sorts of sliced fruit and an array of chocolate dipped, coconut macaroons. There was a woman already sitting in one of the armchairs, her hands neatly folded in her lap and one leg crossed over the other. Her beige and black dress was form fitting but resembling a one-piece variant of a blouse and pencil skirt. It fell to the knee, the high neck pushing up against the underside of her chin. Unfortunately, her attempt at formal dress was thwarted by the keyhole style cutout against her chest, visibly displaying her cleavage. She was still wearing her lab coat, so Miranda figured she had only just left her pharmaceutical business Cerberus used as a cover-up for operations on Omega.

"Miranda," she smiled sweetly, flipping a lock of platinum blonde hair out of her piercing green eyes. Like the Illusive Man, she had ocular implants to correct her vision, the shimmering glow rather bright in the dim lighting, though for some odd reason, she preferred to sport a pair of eyeglasses on her nose. The lenses bore no prescription whatsoever, merely there for vanity.

"It's been a while, Vala," Miranda greeted somewhat frostily. The batarian host interrupted briefly to ask if either of them would like to partake in a meal or preferred something to drink. Both women respectfully declined, but Vala paused to ask him for a cup of sweetened black coffee. Almost as an afterthought, Miranda added, "me too."

The Cerberus scientist across from her cocked an a finely-groomed eyebrow in reply. "I thought you hated coffee, Miranda. At least, that's what you told me back during training." She smirked, leaning herself back into the seat enough to fix the alignment of her shirt. At one point in time, both she and Vala had been very good friends. The two women had done the training together, sharing almost every project until the announcement of Project Lazarus. An inevitable split happened there and she and Vala had never again seen eye to eye.

Professor Vala Thoresen was a highly decorated member of Cerberus. much along the same ranks as Miranda. So much so that the Illusive Man had chosen her to specially head the pharmaceuticals division aboard Omega containing a staff of more than 100 Cerberus operatives acting as medical doctors and researchers. While Transcor Pharmaceuticals did indeed specialize in the production of commercially marketed medications for humans and asari, there was no denying the darker side of the business' true purpose; fabrication and production of numerous biological compounds and lethal organic chemicals. The most dangerous and prominent in production was a nerve gas, Tetrachlorozine, which if condensed into a liquid acted as a dangerous neurotoxin capable of incapacitating even a krogan. The company would have fared equally well with Illium's relaxed trade laws and indentured slave labour, but Vorcha were a popular test subject, and given the number and density among Omega's lower districts, no one quite noted the fact that hundreds would disappear at a time. There was also the added possibility that whatever authorities Aria had, they were turning a blind eye to the fact. No one cared what happened to the filthy vermin.

The batarian had returned with the coffee, each delicate cup balanced on a saucer. He placed one in front of Miranda, handing Vala's set over into her thin, slender hands. They kept silent while he shuffled a small vessel of cream among the desserts and continued to do so until he was well out of earshot. "You haven't even touched yours," the professor pointed out, taking another sip. She had deposited a macaroon drizzled with some of the fountain's orange-spiced, cinnamon honey onto her saucer, and was carefully nibbling at it in between bites, much to Miranda's distaste, who regretted taking her large sip from the cup. Always so cute, Miranda leered, popping an entire cream puff into her mouth to drive the bitter taste of coffee away. She'd been baited into that; Vala had always played these ridiculous mind games so well.

"Either way, I assume you didn't call me up to upstage me over dessert," Vala noted.
"Definitely not. I need a favour." Miranda wanted to slap her senseless when she started snickering over another bite of macaroon. Instead, she picked up the cream and deposited a heavy amount into her cup.
"Favours? What makes you think I would give you any favours after you sabotaged my shot at Project Lazarus?"
"Please, Vala," Miranda cooed in a derogatory sort of tone, the sound of her spoon hitting the edges of her cup clanging away. "Don't blame the fact you didn't get picked over me. Your area of expertise would have been far more useful where it was: making chemicals. Since when have you been a leading expert in biomedical implants?"

Keen to avoid a scene, it was the Professor who stepped down, leaning further back into her seat in utter disinterest. Miranda was welcome to act like a little child all she wanted. There was no way Vala would stoop down her level. "Doesn't matter," the Professor indicated tersely. "Tell me what you want."

"A cargo spot on your next shipment."
"Cargo room? Now tell me, Miranda, what for?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me." Judging from the fact the Professor had sat back up, back stiff as a board, she was clearly more than interested in the matter.
"Starship parts," the operative relented.
"Hah!" Vala scoffed, setting her saucer and cup onto the coffee table gingerly. She picked up the white napkin and dabbed at her lips with it, taking a moment to consider the request. "No." She spoke at length. "No, no. Absolutely not. That would be half my shipment."
"It doesn't matter. I'm willing to make it up to you."
"How?" There was a curious glimmer in her eyes. After all, what could Miranda Lawson possibly offer her.
"Your chemical, the Tetrachlorozine? I have proof that it can be counteracted."
"Can't be!" She hissed. "There is no method of removing it from the system once it had been inserted."
"Are you willing to bank on that?" Judging from the way her brows furrowed and her small nose wrinkled up, no, she was not.

...

Comm static buzzed on his line no matter how many frequencies and channels Garrus had his omni-tool cycle through. The Normandy had either been cut off or something was wrong with his equipment, perhaps damaged in the firefight. There was no possible way for him to contact either Miranda or the crew about Shepard's abduction. He had no idea how long it had been since she had gone missing. Anywhere from ten minutes up to an hour since her disappearance. Honestly, he could have been out cold on the floor for days, for all he could trust the readings on his omni-tool at the moment.

The turian had sifted through the crime scene for clues, much like the old days as a C-Sec officer on the Citadel. There was little to nothing that he could find and his wounds made it hard to move about. His head throbbed and the room was nearly spinning, giving his stomach a serious sense of upheaval. Scattered around him were several dozen slivers of ammunition, blood stains here and there and, of course, the unlucky vorcha who had decided Garrus would be better off dead, without giving much consideration to the fact that it could be the other way around. They'd made a sure mess of the place. Everything that hadn't been upturned in the ambush had definitely been rooted through and whatever information or residue that might have dropped from the Blue Suns mercenaries was lost.

And his luma-gel eyepiece was broken beyond belief! He had the smashed eyepiece dangling from his hand, the expensive display strip snapped in half. Hopefully, there was something he could salvage from it, for he certainly didn't have the credits to replace it entirely. You idiot! he berated himself. Shepard is gone and here you are griping over a piece of equipment.

There was no more sense in staying here, more so if there was a chance that security could show up at any second. Skirting the dead bodies, he ducked through the doorway, observing the burn marks from the charges used to break down the locked, titanium plate doors. The salarians had taken their security to heart, though obviously not enough. Not many people prepared against mercenary ambush every moment of the day, but the fact that they had gone even to this much trouble proved there was something fishy about the situation to begin with. He recalled Shepard mentioning she had assisted two salarians involved in certain matters that could get their ass in the fire some weeks ago, before the attack on the Collector base had ever taken place. If these two were the very same salarians, Shepard should have never attempted to contact them a second time. She was too trusting, he reasoned, more upset with himself at his inability to protect her.

Battered from the encounter, Garrus stumbled his way into the corridor, greeted with screams from a young human female dashing through. He didn't realize the frightening sight he was, smeared in his own blood and that of the vorcha he had just turned into pasta strainers. His scarred face, one mandible practically hanging slack-jawed from his cheek, throbbing from the pain, gave him a crazed expression, his body half hunched and dragging himself toward the ship docks.

Through some sheer stroke of luck, he managed to avoid security the entire way. His luck ran out at the catwalk to the Normandy airlock. "Hold on a sec there mate!" The turian security guard from earlier exclaimed. "Where do you think you're going?"
"The ship," Garrus snapped, his words rather slurred. "I'm part of the Normandy crew."
"Oh yeah? Wanna tell me what trouble you went and dug up there, Liberace?"
Telling the truth would have been stupid, Garrus reasoned, his mind quickly working up some sort of white lie to go along with his. Outright lie, more like, given the unbelievable bullshit that came out of his mouth next. "Bar fight," he grunted.
The guard laughed outright, but nevertheless seemed to buy it. I guess I look that damn terrible, Garrus thought.And drunk.

He was glad to see the familiar interior of the Normandy. Garrus picked up pace without even realizing it, practically jogging down the halls, impatiently pacing in the airlock while the locks cycled shut behind him. He emerged on the Command deck, greeted by horrified looks from the crew sitting in the immediate vicinity.

"Get the doctor!" Michael, a tactical logistics office serving under Joker began to shout. He was the first up, despite his dislike for turians, grabbing Garrus' arm to support his weight and give him a bit of a break.
"Garrus?" It was Joker, alerted by the shouts, who came hobbling as fast as he could toward him. "What the hell happened? Why didn't you contact us?"
"Communications are down," the turian gasped, resting a taloned hand on Michael's shoulder for support. "Couldn't."
"No, they're not." Joker was visibly perturbed by the prospect, given he had not noted the malfunction Garrus spoke of.
"Mr. Moreau is correct, Officer Vakarian." It was the monotonous speech of EDI's voice that offered that particular sentiment. "My sensors are showing that all communications systems are online and have not suffered any downtime within the last 45 hours, 29 minutes, 51 seconds."
"I couldn't contact anyone," Garrus sighed. "Is Miranda back?"
"Yea," Joker replied, his confusion evident. "Garrus, where's Shepard?"
"Gone," he stated, swallowing uncomfortably. "Mercs took her."

A/N: First of all, thank you very much to everyone who reviewed and the rest of you lurkers who have favourited the story and have set up a watch. It means a lot to me to know I have your support and I am always very excited when FF sends me those notifications. :)

Secondly, thanks to Quietly-Confident for pointing out that FF was somehow eating my formatting. It seems like four dashes in a row center aligned to create a pause (the technical name is eluding me and on the tip of my tongue; bonus points to whoever tells me what they're called) get eaten up by the formatting tool and become... NOTHING! So in lieu of those, I will start using 3 dots.

...because 4 dots also get eaten.