Sins of the Father, Sins of the Flesh
folder
+M through R › Mass Effect
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
3,740
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
+M through R › Mass Effect
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
3,740
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
All Mass Effect intellectual property reserved to Bioware and Electronic Arts; I make no claim to ownership and make no profit from this fiction.
Helpless in the Face of the Foe Unknown
Flex. Release.
Commander Shepard’s hands gripped the edge of the gunnery console. She was standing where he’d stood, touching what he’d touched, hoping for some mystic sense to activate and tell her: you can find him here.
Flex. Release.
It had happened on Illium. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. Garrus had even told her once that the place was as bad as Omega in its own way, maybe worse, because Omega was at least an honest shithole. At least she could have shot her way to the answers there.
But on Illium, even her hands were tied. More loosely than anyone else’s, perhaps, but tied they were and fucked she was, because she and her crew had spent close to three weeks tearing Illium apart and had turned up no clues, no leads, nothing.
Flex. Release.
After it happened, she’d set them loose. They’d worked the place high, with Miranda in her littlest dresses and handsome Jacob on her arm, in the best clubs and the penthouse apartments, where secrets worth millions spilled from the loose lips of idiots plied with drinks and drugs and whispered promises. They’d worked the place low—Grunt, Jack, and Zaeed—in the back alleys and the underground rooms, where you could find anything you wanted, provided it didn’t find you first. They’d worked it in secret, Thane, Samara, and Kasumi fading into whispers and shadows, and they’d worked in the open, Tali and Mordin down on the trading floor, talking of meaningless things while they walked and their tech tore open every data stream it could find, then sent it back up to EDI and Legion to rip even further apart.
But Shepard had let none of them, save herself, work it alone.
She’d gone to Liara the day after it happened and asked her, almost begged her, to work with them. But Liara refused, her face set hard as she fed Shepard the same vague explanations about the Shadow Broker and the friend she’d lost and the price she had to pay, and how she’d do what she could.
Shepard lost control then. She’d vaulted over the desk and grabbed Liara—her friend and once lover—wrapping her hands around the Asari’s throat. Then Liara’s mask had dropped; Shepard saw tears shimmer in her eyes, saw the sweet naïf the hard woman had once been. She dropped her hands and turned away in shame, but Liara stopped her with five words that gave Shepard faint hope all might not be lost: I will look for him.
Then she’d gone to Detective Anaya. She didn’t expect much, and that’s what she’d gotten. Shepard had yanked the only string she had—that she’d gotten Samara offworld before the Justicar turned the detective, her station, and a large portion of Illium into a butcher shop—and she’d yanked it hard, but Anaya said there was nothing to tell her and nothing to be done, except perhaps a missing persons notice.
She’d even gone to Aethyta. Matriarch or no, Aethyta did what good bartenders do best: listen. She’d even given Shepard free drinks, wiping the bar down while Shepard talked and talked and eventually wound down. And when she finished, Aethyta had promised to keep her ear to the ground and given Shepard a tight hug.
Flex. Release.
Slam.
Shepard’s fist came down hard, splintering the gunnery console.
Garrus Vakarian had gone missing twenty-one days ago, and she’d never felt so helpless in her life.
Commander Shepard’s hands gripped the edge of the gunnery console. She was standing where he’d stood, touching what he’d touched, hoping for some mystic sense to activate and tell her: you can find him here.
Flex. Release.
It had happened on Illium. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. Garrus had even told her once that the place was as bad as Omega in its own way, maybe worse, because Omega was at least an honest shithole. At least she could have shot her way to the answers there.
But on Illium, even her hands were tied. More loosely than anyone else’s, perhaps, but tied they were and fucked she was, because she and her crew had spent close to three weeks tearing Illium apart and had turned up no clues, no leads, nothing.
Flex. Release.
After it happened, she’d set them loose. They’d worked the place high, with Miranda in her littlest dresses and handsome Jacob on her arm, in the best clubs and the penthouse apartments, where secrets worth millions spilled from the loose lips of idiots plied with drinks and drugs and whispered promises. They’d worked the place low—Grunt, Jack, and Zaeed—in the back alleys and the underground rooms, where you could find anything you wanted, provided it didn’t find you first. They’d worked it in secret, Thane, Samara, and Kasumi fading into whispers and shadows, and they’d worked in the open, Tali and Mordin down on the trading floor, talking of meaningless things while they walked and their tech tore open every data stream it could find, then sent it back up to EDI and Legion to rip even further apart.
But Shepard had let none of them, save herself, work it alone.
She’d gone to Liara the day after it happened and asked her, almost begged her, to work with them. But Liara refused, her face set hard as she fed Shepard the same vague explanations about the Shadow Broker and the friend she’d lost and the price she had to pay, and how she’d do what she could.
Shepard lost control then. She’d vaulted over the desk and grabbed Liara—her friend and once lover—wrapping her hands around the Asari’s throat. Then Liara’s mask had dropped; Shepard saw tears shimmer in her eyes, saw the sweet naïf the hard woman had once been. She dropped her hands and turned away in shame, but Liara stopped her with five words that gave Shepard faint hope all might not be lost: I will look for him.
Then she’d gone to Detective Anaya. She didn’t expect much, and that’s what she’d gotten. Shepard had yanked the only string she had—that she’d gotten Samara offworld before the Justicar turned the detective, her station, and a large portion of Illium into a butcher shop—and she’d yanked it hard, but Anaya said there was nothing to tell her and nothing to be done, except perhaps a missing persons notice.
She’d even gone to Aethyta. Matriarch or no, Aethyta did what good bartenders do best: listen. She’d even given Shepard free drinks, wiping the bar down while Shepard talked and talked and eventually wound down. And when she finished, Aethyta had promised to keep her ear to the ground and given Shepard a tight hug.
Flex. Release.
Slam.
Shepard’s fist came down hard, splintering the gunnery console.
Garrus Vakarian had gone missing twenty-one days ago, and she’d never felt so helpless in her life.