Message in a Bottle

Trex was bored. Bored, bored, bored.

Vindi's stupid boyfriend Arx had informed Vindi about the civilized punishment called "grounding", and right now, Trex would rather have had to inspect a hundred boxes of ammo than be faced with the prospect of confinement to the range with absolutely nothing to occupy her time. She'd already burned through all the ammo she was allowed to use on the range, and the laser sims just didn't feel authentic.

She was now sitting at a computer station in a side office, noodling around on the extranet, but even Cerberus Daily News was failing to entertain her. What to do, what to...

An idea crossed her mind.

Boredom was a curse.

There was only so many times in a singular hour one could possibly gaze into the abyss of datapads on her coffee table. Yes, she could work, but a mental vacation from Jin'gali translation and salarian notes was an unfortunate necessity. She had little desire to go over Dr. Nedri's notes for the fourth time in the day, and editing her grant proposal was less then palatable at the moment.

In an age where cancers had been eradicated, the common cold was eluding everything from medicine to her husband's less-than-infamous chicken soup, and Niamh Callaghan would very much prefer do be doing something other than eyeing the cooling broth distastefully while wrapped in blankets with a bad dose.

So when her omnitool blinked with a message from one of her encrypted accounts, she sighed with relief...and then blinked, reading the message several times.

Turians. Ifreann na Fola.

Ah, the joys of emailing with young teens.

When she had first contacted the turian teenager, it had been done out of pure concern. At fourteen, Niamh looked towards the future with hope, but the realities were different, particularly on Omega. Trex had options, and someone had to be responsible enough to point them out to her - someone without the force of parental authority.

She had not exactly been prepared to fill in the role that her guidance councilor was clearly not.

Niamh briefly entertained the idea of a relay chat, but almost immediately dismissed it. Someone within the Sundowner halls had extraordinary technical skills, and while she liked to consider herself good, she had no intention of testing her boundaries within Valrix's home more than she already had.

Niamh paused before tapping the send command, pondering for a moment whether or not this was, indeed, the best course of action. It would fly in the face of discretion, certainly, and without knowing entirely about the former Omegan citizens - Trex excluded - that occupied the range and its halls, there was a small chance, impossibly so, but still, that she would be recognised.

Add into question the likelihood that the topic of their discussion would most certainly recognise her should he be around, and her own uncertainty about how much her former client would appreciate her interference, and the fact that there would be a definitive connection drawn between herself and Mr. Trulion/Khutonax/Didonas and other former denizens of that godforsaken rock...

The risk was enormous.

However, there was also Trex, and there was Valrix himself. Niamh had no delusions of being anyone's guardian angel, but there were clear cries for help that she was not certain anyone else could answer, not at the moment, at least.

So it was Niamh found herself, two days later, sitting in the corner of Minefield's dining area, picking at the fries in front of her while she waited for the young turian. She had plaited her dark hair, pulling it through the green cap she had told Trex she would be wearing as a means of identification, and the long coat was probably drawing a few odd looks in the warmth of Tayseri, but the cold had left her with remnants of shivers.

Stares were thus rewarded with piercing emerald glances.

The food, however, was surprisingly delicious, and she smiled a little as she leaned back, biting into a fry as she picked up the datapad she had brought with her.

Trex slips into the restaurant, drawing no notice at first - she's a common sight, she's not very big and she moves quietly. A few nearby diners stare, though, at the big wet spots on the elbows of her jacket, and the long, oily streaks on her pants.

It's hard to wriggle through a duct and stay well-turned-out.

Trex is on the short side for a turian and wiry-lean like a distance runner. She's very much the kind of personality that's "bigger online."

Trex takes off the jacket - a bit too big for her - wads it up, and tosses it into the booth. Her shirt underneath is clean, if not particularly tidy - sleeves hacked off, edges frayed, probably started life as a turian military work shirt before it was dyed grey and repurposed into a sort of utility vest. It doesn't draw any attention here, though. Minefield has always been a burger joint in Merc Town. Sitting at the table, the marks on her cargo pants are mostly camouflaged.

She smells like gunpowder, ducts, and the kind of cheap body spray that's fashionable among young female turians on the Citadel.

"Er, hi," Trex says.

There's a small bloody scratch on her cheek. She rubs it absentmindedly as she asks the waiter for a burger and fried root vegetables.

Now that she's gone to all that trouble to line up this meeting and sneak out of Sniper's Touch...now she finds herself at a loss for what to say.

"Hey what do I call you, anyway? Because if you don't say, your new name is "Dad's weird friend."

She was not entirely sure what she was expecting, but...

A Mhuire...

It was looking into a mirror - ten or twelve years ago, and if she had been turian, rather than human. There had been Sundowners on Omega then, too.

She set the datapad down, studying the young turian. They were one of the harder species to read, save perhaps hanar - asari, batarians, drell, salarians, all had visible muscles in their faces, made it easier to see nervous ticks, read moods.

However, awkwardness was universal.

"Seeing as we are in a far more civilsed area," She had expected the question, and had debated on whether or not to give her real name - in the end, practicality had won over. This was the Citadel, and while Merc Town was a far cry from the Arts District, the Ward was still her home. No point in playing with fake names and cover stories. "Dr. Callaghan. Niamh, if you prefer."

"This place isn't civilized, it's Merc Town, I mean Vindi doesn't like when people call it Merc Town, but it basically still is, either that or Little Solregit, I've heard that too, which is also really not true because most of the people here aren't from Solregit, but Vindi thinks that's more acceptable, and....frag me you're a doctor??!" Trex suddenly squeals and sits bolt upright.

Doctor. It's a matter of instant respect. Medics are the people who run out to save the lives of bloody broken shooters like her. Medics are the people who charge enemy lines with med kits in hand, instead of guns like any sane person would carry. Doc at the range had long ago abandoned his real name to go solely by his title; Trex doesn't know his real name, doesn't know if anyone does. He did a good job of sewing her up after the Reaper War, though. ...the Reaper War, and her little showdown with Vindi.

"Dad never said you were a doctor," Trex repeats in awe. She licks at her lower lip, moistening the hooked red tattoos that are her battle teeth, the extension of the stylized-sunburst that is the North Solregit facial tattoo, and she wonders if Doc Callaghan knows what they mean.

The possibility of Niamh being anything but a combat medic or trauma surgeon utterly escapes her.

She had not been expecting a reaction like that.

Usually, when people reacted to her title, it was because she looked younger than most of her peers, her age. However, perhaps she should have amended the degree to said title. Trex's reaction, enthused and awed, was flattering, though she was pretty sure it was born out of a respect for something she was not - MDs were well respected in certain cultures, and apparently, the Sundowners were one of them.

She was not that kind of doctor.

"Of xenopaleoarchaeology and linguistics," she corrected. Best not take the awe meant for others. "Apologies for not clarifying. Your father appreciates my need for discretion."

Which is probably why Valrix never gave Trex her name, let alone reveal her occupation. Hopefully, Trex could understand that, as well.

"What's xeno...zemo...zemopiology?" Trex asks, awed, wondering what type of bizarre human organ that could be. Or...wait. "I thought linguistics means languages and stuff?"

Maybe Doc Callaghan is a voicebox doctor.

Whatever it is, "If your job is secret then I won't say anything." She itches with curiosity. "Can you tell me why it's secret? I mean what would the enemy do with doctor stuff? Kidnap you? Is...is Dad a doctor too?"

If she were asked, Trex would have no idea what "The enemy" actually means. On Solregit, it meant Hierarchy. On Omega, it meant whoever Quatra was pissed off with that week. On the Citadel it's become even more meaningless as a term; but in Trex's head, there are Bad Guys who are Against Everything Good, and whoever they are, Trex is going to be ready for them.

"Can you at least tell me if Dad is a criminal?" She really, really doesn't want to think that about him...unless, like with Vindi, there was a highly compelling reason why someone in the Hierarchy decided that Notras needed a minder. As though they didn't trust him to fit into society without a cautious watch kept on him.

Oh dear.

"Xenopaleoarchaeology," she repeats slowly, restraining herself from the involuntary burst of laughter. "I study cultures that are many millions of years dead and gone, and their languages. I have a doctoral degree from Serrice, which is why I am allowed to call myself 'Doctor'. Nothing medical beyond the occasional mummy, I am sorry."

As for why her job is a secret, that is a far more complex explanation, and the reminder of 'the enemy' is enough to make her wonder if she had been too available with her personal information. Yet, the damage has already been done, and Niamh leans forward - curiousity killed the cat, and curiosity is about the only turian emotion she can read. Valrix might not be blood to Trex, but she is still his daughter - their mandibles flick the same way when they want to know, but are not entirely sure how to ask.

"...I like to keep my lives separate," she starts. "Who I was when I met your father is...very different from who I am now. And there are people from back then - my enemies, if you will - who I would very much like to keep at a far distance from the people I care about now." And a reputation to keep, as well, though she would much rather lose her degree than feel the pain of losing Eiji. A small smile plays on her lips as she toys with the mental image of Valrix as a doctor of anything.

"Valrix is no doctor, that much is certain. As to what he is, I could not say - former Hierarchy, certainly, probably Special or Black Operations. And certainly no criminal, not now - no more than you or I, at the very least."

Which meant, ultimately, admitting to themselves whether or not their past deeds made them criminals in the first place.

Flick.

Flickflickflick.

"You rebuilt," Trex breathes, truly fascinated now.

"You did it. You came here to the Citadel and started again. Became something different. That's why you bothered responding to me. It's because you did it, in a way my sister never could."

It means it's possible. The thought gives her hope.

"How do you...I mean...how do you change the old thinking? How do you deal with that part of yourself that still wants to..."

She hesitates. She can intuit that Niamh's old life had its dangers, but that doesn't make Ni a killer, with a killer's instincts. Humans aren't obligate carnivores the way turians are.

It's a relief when the waiter drops off her food, to fill the silence.

There was blood on her hands. She had killed when it became necessary to survive, when it became either her life or that of whomever held the gun aimed at her, or to save someone who needed to be saved. Only once had it been execution, only once had she not given the person - batarian - a fighting chance.

However, she could count on her hands how many times she had spilled blood, and still have fingers left to count with. But she and Trex had lived different lives on the station. Trex was a sniper, killing was nature, part of the work. Niamh had been an informant, a low-level information broker without the net of contacts and surveillance - if she had to take a life, it was because something had gone very, very wrong. Such things were more Aedan's domain, and such things gave him enough nightmares.

She waits for the waiter to leave and for Trex to inspect her food before she talks again, voice soft. "Wetwork was not my forte. Information did not mean I needed to use my pistol as often as you needed your rifle." She glances around them, then scoffs a wee bit at her own irony. "You never truly leave it behind, even so. I still look over my shoulder, still worry about the consequences of my actions, close my eyes and tune in to all the things people say that may or may not be important in the future."

The hyperparanoia and anxiety had only been compounded after Aedan's death triggered...

No.

She takes a deep breath. Refocuses. "Archaeology teaches us that the past can never be forgotten, but it also teaches us to be aware of what we leave behind for the future. I chose to leave behind something better than what I was, something I would be proud of history to remember me for."