Picking Up the Pieces

3





She left the door open when she exited the room. Thane found it a ridiculously foolish thing to do, especially after what he had almost done earlier that evening. He had acted out on instinct, like an automaton, his only wish to kill this person and flee.



When the slaver had led her into the room with his cage he hadn’t looked up at first, disinterested in the potential buyer. There had been other buyers before that, many of them, and all had immediately scrapped the idea to buy him after they heard about his previous occupation, conditioning or no conditioning. Sometimes he wondered why the slavers didn’t just kill him. Was their need to torture and humiliate him greater than the expense of his upkeep for all these years? Not that they spent too much money on him – he was barely fed as it was – but it had still been years.



The Batarian’s voice elaborating on Thane’s uniqueness had piqued his interest and he had looked up, meeting a pair of steely grey eyes. The client was a female human, dressed in a clearly expensive and stylish dress of Asari silk with voluminous long sleeves and elaborate scrollwork down her slender hips. He had little understanding of human attractiveness, not to mention that after years of isolation he had barely seen any humans, but from his limited knowledge he concluded that other probably humans found her more handsome than pretty with her chiseled features and sharp jawline. Short fiery curls of hair framed a face with freckled skin and the aforementioned grey eyes that regarded him with mild curiosity. Those eyes enthralled him in a way that was disturbingly familiar – there was no pity there, nor cruelty, just fierce determination and iron will. No one had looked at him that way for a very long time. He returned the gaze with equal fervor, the memory of another pair of eyes looking at him in the same way rekindling something of the old Thane in him. He wanted her to buy him, he wanted to get away from this place, to go wherever the stranger brought him – because anywhere would be better than here.



The trip back to her hotel was a blur to him, the sights and smells, no, stench, of Omega was too much for him, overwhelming him after spending so long isolated from the outside world. He hadn’t been able to handle it, he realized, not right away, being under the open air again, after spending an eternity curled up in a cage too small to even lie down in it properly, often tied up in a way that left him aching for hours afterwards. The sudden freedom from the cage both terrified and exhilarated him and when she led him back inside his only thought was to go back out. He needed to go back out, even if he felt that he was going to fall into Omega’s artificial skydome.



He had acted on instinct, the moment they remained alone in her apartment, away from the obviously well-trained Turian, his hands tightening around her soft-looking white throat and squeezing, pressing against her neck in a desperate attempt to break it and free himself from her control. He hadn’t expected the fierce resistance, nor for her to have enough presence of mind to look for the device the slavers gave her and to press the button. For a long, agonizing moment reality blurred around him and he was squeezing Irikah’s throat, her much smaller body writhing in fear in his grip, rapidly weakening, life slowly seeping out of her… The thought of it was so horrible that he let go, recoiling both mentally and physically from that experience.



With a sharp gasp Thane returned to the present and blinked at the still open door. He got up and strode towards it, then purposefully closed it shut.



Releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he returned to the bed and sat down, looking down at his bare feet.



Was this woman… Shepard, telling the truth? Would she really release him, after all of this was over? If she did, then what? The thought of returning to Kahje, to Kolyat, was so horrible that he physically recoiled from it as if struck. He could never see his son again, not after what he had done. Not after…



Large, sunset-coloured eyes blink tears away as he finds her under the bed and forcefully drags her out of there. She’s shaking in his arms, so much smaller than him, terrified out of her mind but still fiercely determined. It makes him angry that she would defy him so.



“Where is the boy, bitch?”



Her lips thin but she does not respond, the set of her jaw stubborn.



“I know you’re hiding him in here somewhere. Tell me where and I’ll give you both a quick and painless end.” He threatens, his voice so low that it’s barely audible. Suddenly she spits in his face, a desperate act of defiance and his long-simmering rage explodes as he strikes her across her jaw and she reels back onto the bed, stunned and confused by the blow. He’s on her in a moment and growls:



“You’ll regret this, you little viper!”



With a moan he dragged himself out of it and collapsed back onto the bed. The torment continued, even when he’s awake, even when the damned device was dormant, he could never escape from the horror of it, just like he couldn’t escape from the trap of his own mind.



It was early morning when Shepard woke up – or at least the alarm clock on her bed stand said so. She knew that if she looked outside her window Omega would look exactly the same as it did in the middle of the “night”. There was no artificial sky here, or artificial sunlight, or simulated wind – just an endless twilight filled with monsters under the bed.



She smiled mirthlessly at her own thoughts – Omega hardly deserved such a poetic description. With a sigh Shepard dragged herself from the large bed and headed for the adjoining facilities. Finishing her business there, she stepped into the shower and spent the next ten minutes relaxing under the hot water. It was going to be a long day today and she was determined to make the best of whatever free time she had.



Wrapping herself in the fluffy white bathrobe the hotel staff had left for her, she left the bathroom and headed for the dining room, only to stare in surprise. The table was set, covered in various breakfast meals – juice, coffee, toast, bacon, eggs, cheese, fruits, jam – things you could buy on every street shop on Earth but things that cost a fortune here on Omega. Her mouth watered and she approached, wondering if the Drell had woken up before her and called room-service, determined to thank him for it. She wasn’t expecting, however, to see him kneeling next to the table, hands demurely resting on his thighs, head bowed submissively. He was once again dressed in the simple leather pants he wore yesterday, naked and barefooted otherwise. Her eyes roamed over the diamond stripes that ran across his toned shoulders and abs and the shock of arousal at the sight surprised even her. She knew her tastes, the games she liked to play, and she had reacted on instinct at the sight of such perfect submission.



It took her a moment to remind herself that this man wasn’t a willing partner, far from it, he was a victim and thinking of him in that way was deplorable. Ashamed of her own thoughts she quickly gestured for him to get up.



“37, what are you doing down there? Get up.” She ordered and it was followed without a question. “Take a seat and a plate, we’ll have breakfast together.”



He looked up then, seemingly surprised despite the dinner they had shared last night. Still, the Drell didn’t dare arguing with her so he just followed her instructions without a word and grabbed a plate and utensils from the tray floating next to the table and sat down.



“You don’t have to do that again, at least not in private.” She informed him as he took an apple and began cutting it in pieces. He looked up curiously.



“Do what again, Mistress?”



“Kneeling. I don’t want you to kneel for me.” She said. ‘Liar’ a little voice whispered in the back of her mind but she ignored him. “Nor do you have to order me food or serve me or anything of that sort, okay?”



He nodded.



“Are you going to punish me then, Mistress?” he asked mildy.



She almost choked on her coffee.



“No!”



To his credit, he did not flinch. She took a deep, calming breath.



“Of course not. 37… you’re my guest, not my prisoner, do you understand that?”



Another nod. She pressed on.



“The only reason why I’d hurt you in any would be to defend myself.”



“I understand, Mistress.”



“Good. Now, eat your breakfast too. Later, when my partner arrives we’ll go to my ship to visit my physician.”



It turned out that 37 had nothing else to wear than the clothes on his back and Shepard made a mental note to dig through the clothes she had on the luxury yacht the Council had provided to keep her cover as the Normandy was too high profile – his body shape was so similar to a human, surely he’d fit in their clothes, at least until they found the time to go shopping. As it was, the thought of walking around Omega almost naked didn’t seem to bother him all that much.



The doorbell chimed and went to let Garrus in.



The Turian was dressed in his usual blue armour, thankfully having bought a new set that didn’t spot a jagged hole on the collar. Over a head taller than her, heavily armoured and armed as he was, her friend presented an imposing sight.



“Shepard.” He began and then his eyes fell on her throat. It suddenly it occurred to her that she had forgotten to apply medigel on the bruises caused by the little accident the previous night. She knew that it looked worse than it actually was – she always bruised easily, implants or no implants – and Garrus’ blue eyes immediately zeroed on the mottled blue spots.



“Where is he?” he growled, his entire body tensing, ready for a violent confrontation. She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed through his armor.



“Don’t. It was a misunderstanding. I am fine.”



“What happened?” he demanded, the flanging in his voice deepening.



“He thought me for another abuser and tried to escape before I could explain. I can’t say I blame him for it.”



Garrus slowly deflated under her touch. He had spent enough time on Omega and other places like it to be well-aware what slavers did to their victims.



“If he tries something like that again, I’ll rip him limb from limb.” He stated, tone surprisingly calm and even.



She smiled and patted his shoulder soothingly. She was knew that Garrus was almost painfully attached to her. He viewed her as something more than a friend, more than a mentor – someone he could trust with his darkest secrets and not be judged for them. It made him quite protective, though she knew he struggled not to overwhelm her, not to mention that he did respect her ability to take care of herself. They had gone through hell together not once, but twice, and Shepard knew he would readily follow her back into it again without even a shred of hesitation. It was remaining alone that scared him, without the one person in his life he could trust so implicitly. The thought of it humbled her.



“He won’t do this again, Garrus.” She reassured him and he slowly nodded, willing to let it go, at least for the moment.



The Drell was waiting them in the dining room, though he was no longer sitting at the table, but standing by one of the windows, looking down on the busy streets of Omega. He turned around when they came in and bowed to Garrus when they approached.



“I didn’t introduce you two properly last night.” Shepard began. “This is Garrus Vakarian, my friend and colleague. He’s working with me on this case. Garrus, this is…” she cleared her throat. “this is 37.”



Garrus nodded in greeting, though his eyes remained as cold as chips of ice as he stared down at the Drell, who bowed again. If he was curious about the strange moniker he didn’t ask about it and Shepard decided to let it go for now.



After she changed in another borrowed dress they headed down to the hotel parking lot where their hovercraft was stationed. Garrus slid into the driver’s seat and waited for them to get settled in then revved up the engine.



No one spoke during the trip to Omega’s docking area, though the silence was much more comfortable now than the previous night.



Finally, they arrived and Garrus landed the hovercraft, then led them away and towards their ship. Shepard could feel eyes on her as they walked, some curious, other envious, most greedy, but no one made an attempt to bother them. They must’ve looked quite impressive – a large, heavily armed Turian obviously guarding a well-dressed human woman and a half-naked Drell that followed them, looking somber, his head bowed submissively, presenting the public with the perfect image of an obedient slave. Good. Let whatever eyes and ears the slavers had posted on the docks bring the news to their masters.



As they walked down the corridor and passed by a pair of shifty-looking Salarians Shepard saw their new ship – a large, slick yacht, gleaming silver under the sharp artificial lights, all smooth curves and elegant angles. She was a work of art, even if Shepard would’ve preferred to have arrived on the ship she knew best.



The Normandy was safely docked on the Citadel under captain Bailey’s watchful eye. Her current ship, despite her decadent appearance packed quite a punch, not to mention that EDI’s hardware had been temporarily moved, courtesy of the fact that Shepard owned the second Normandy and could do whatever she damned well pleased with her.



The inside of the ship looked as luxurious as the outside – where the Normandy’s corridors were all gleaming, but utilitarian metal, here everything was covered in rare wood and expensive, hand-woven cloth, different works of art decorating the walls.



Not for the first time she wondered just where had the Council gotten a ship that displayed such opulence – even more so than a diplomatic vessel did. Perhaps it had belonged to one of the Red Sand-selling drug lords C-Sec had taken down over the years. It certainly looked like something of that sort – gaudy and displaying wealth in an almost obscene manner.



She led Garrus and Thane to the Infirmary and the adjacent Med Lab where both Chakwas and Mordin were stationed. The human doctor looked up when they entered and smiled welcomingly at her commander who waved at her and proceeded to the Med Lab. Mordin, as usual, was tinkering with the equipment on his worktable, looking like he was trying to unlock the secrets of the universe – which was probably exactly what he was doing. He did look up though when they approached.



“Ah, Shepard! I expected to see you. Officer Vacarian called last night. Said that everything was successful.” His eyes fell on Thane. ”That is the subject?”



The Drell was eyeing the doctor with an inscrutable expression on his face and showed no discomfort when Mordin moved around his worktable and approached him.



“Drell, approximately 35-40 standard years of age, obvious malnutrition, no visible signs of further physical abuse though.” He paused. “Needs new clothes. Must be cold, Drell used to much hotter temperatures.” He concluded.



She turned to 37 in surprise.



“Are you cold?”



He shifted his weight from one leg to the other before responding.



“Yes, Mistress. A little.”



“And why didn’t you tell me?”



The only response was staring at his own toes, obviously uncomfortable.



“You thought that I wouldn’t care.” She said, struggling to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice and failing. He shrugged.



“I thought that it wasn’t important.” The Drell pointed out mildly.



She reached and touched his bare shoulder, suddenly realizing how cold his scaly flesh was.



“I’ll go search for something suitable for you to wear while Doctor Mordin examines you to see if you have any other medical conditions resulting from your captivity that need to be addressed.”



He nodded. She beckoned Garrus to follow her and left the Infirmary. As they walked towards the storage area she spoke to the Turian:



“After Mordin’s done with his exam I’ll stay for a while to talk to him. You bring our guest to my quarters and begin debriefing him about whatever information he might have on the slavers. I am sure that someone with his profession would’ve been trained to be observant. Hopefully we’ll learn a lot from him.”



Garrus nodded thoughtfully.



“What are you going to do with him?” he asked as they entered the storage area and Shepard began to rummage through the various crates, looking for something that would fit the Drell.



“I’ll let him go, of course, once we’re done with them.” She answered, tugging a pair of pants that looked like they’d both be too loose on the Drell’s narrow hips.



“And if he wishes to leave sooner?”



She paused. The same question had been bugging her ever since they had hatched up this plan for Shepard to present herself as a potential client. She couldn’t force the man to stay with her, she wasn’t that kind of person. However, she did need to maintain her cover and that meant owning slaves. Using them too, to convince the public and whatever spies the slavers had sent to observe her that she meant business. Taking down those bastards was the most important thing right now, and as much as she hated the thought of it, she needed the Drell to maintain her cover. His leaving would greatly complicate things.



“I don’t know, Garrus. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”



He remained quiet for a while, standing behind her like a silent sentinel as she kept digging in the crates.



“We need to finish this mission at all costs, Shepard.” He pointed out after a while. She turned to look at him and noticed with relief that despite his words distaste was written all over his Turian features.



“Even if it means forcing him to stay?”



Garrus’ mandibles pressed tightly to his jaw – the Turian equivalent of thinned lips – as he replied:



“These bastards have already taken thousands of people – men, women, children – and sold them like cattle. Stopping them from continuing this is more important than the happiness…” he took a deep breath “… or the well-being of one individual.”



“Is that the Turian soldier speaking or the former vigilante?”



“The former C-Sec officer.” Garrus replied.



She moved to open a new crate – all these clothes were unsuitable – too large, too small, too tight, ridiculous colour – she had noticed that the Drell’s figure, despite the malnutrition, was shaped like the perfect male human figure- wide shoulders, narrow hips, v-shaped back, long, slender legs – almost too perfect, and that made it difficult to clothe with what she had here.



“Shepard?”



She finally found a suitable shirt, now all she needed was pants. His feet were too small to fit in a standard human male shoe, which meant that he’d just have to go barefooted until they visited a shop. There was no way she was parading him around Omega wearing Kelly’s stripper boots.



“I know.” She said finally. “It feels wrong though, even just thinking about it, let alone doing it. That could’ve been my parents. Or even myself, had it not been for the patrol ship that rescued me.”



A three-fingered hand settled on her shoulder soothingly and she turned around to look at him, suddenly feeling old and jaded. For her short 30 years she had seen more, done more, accomplished more that what some Asari did during their whole lifetimes. And yet, the thought of forcing an already abused and traumatized individual seemed like the worst of all she’d ever done.



“It may never come to that.” Garrus said, obviously trying to comfort her. She gave him a wan smile.



“Let’s hope so.”



When they eventually returned to Mordin’s office it turned out that the Salarian was still busy inside and they settled in the Med Bay to wait for him, the Drell’s new clothes neatly folded in Shepard’s hands. After almost an hour the doors slid open and the Salarian accompanied his patient out, handing him a small jar of pills.



“Take one every morning and every evening. That should help.”



“Thank you.” 37 said and bowed his head respectfully.



“There you are.” Shepard smiled as he turned to her and she handed him the clothes. “You can change here and then you’ll go with Garrus to tell him all that you know about your captors. I’ll speak with Doctor Mordin, then I’ll join you.”



“Yes, Mistress.”



She nodded, then followed Mordin in his office.



“Well? How is he?”



“Physically, remarkably well, considering his ordeal. Mentally, will need more time to observe to make a valid conclusion. When captured the patient was on the verge of developing Kepral syndrome… Removing him from Kahje’s humid climate probably saved his life.”



“Kepral syndrome?”



“Drell lung degenerative condition. Not communicable. Untreatable. Caused by high humidity – Drell are species that evolved in arid climate.”



Fate had a funny way of fucking with people, Shepard thought.



“So he had no signs of physical abuse?”



“He did.” Mordin noted as he moved behind his table again. “Patient has marks of both brutal physical and sexual assault.”



She gaped at him for a moment.



“But you just said…”



“Scarring is old. Quite old. Probably incurred during the first days of his captivity. Before Batarians figured out physical torture doesn’t work on Drell.”



“It doesn’t?”



“Drell minds different than human.” He began. “Drell capable of recalling any event of their life with perfect clarity. Memory is as real as present experiences. So real that some lose themselves to it. Drell are taught ways to avoid that from early childhood.”



She nodded, unsure where he was going with this.



“However, under physical extreme duress, they are capable of doing the opposite. Deliberately withdraw from reality into their memories. Withdrawal is a coping mechanism. Patient probably did that when the Batarians tortured him.” The expression on his face was enough to tell her what he thought of said Batarians. Mordin, she had discovered early on, had about as much love as her for people who tortured captives.



“So they came up with the neural implant.” She stated, lips curling with disgust.



He nodded.



“But wouldn’t he able to learn to block that too, even if it directly stimulates his brain?”



“Yes, he would.” Mordin confirmed. “Patient’s neural implant not connected to brain pain receptors. Scans showed as much.”



“So it’s not causing him any physical pain when it’s used?” she asked, growing more and more confused. Mordin shook his head. “Well, then what does it do?”



“Uncertain. Could not draw any valid conclusion from scans performed with this equipment and patient refused to cooperate when asked about it. Further analysis needed.”



“I see. Can you remove it?”



“Not in this facility. Procedure dangerous and invasive.”



She took out the remote from her pocket and handed it to him. She had not wanted to give it to him initially, at least not when the Drell could see her. It almost felt like it was an invisible leash connected to a collar that she was handing over.



“Would this help?”



He turned it around in his hands before sighing sadly.



“Not very likely. But will see what I can do. See if you can convince him to tell you about it.”



She nodded.



“I will.”