[Illium, Nos Olmos] So A Drell Walks Into A Hotel Room...

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

A tired sigh escaped Cerastes as he set his briefcase down in the entryway to his hotel room, his eyes adjusting readily to the darkness the space afforded. After a day spent maneuvering through a city of neon lights and flashing billboards, the distinct absence of light was comforting to him. He could already feel a headache throbbing in his temples from the obnoxious advertisements that had bombarded him on his way, the constant hum of hundreds of thousands of aliens talking all at once.

Resolving to swallow a handful of pills later, the drell ducked into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. A shower would do him well - the warmth would ease the tension from the muscles beneath his scales, perhaps encouraging the sleep he needed so desperately. Working for Shirin Vedral had proven to be tasking, but the credits were too lucrative for him to ignore. Rest would come when Suri'Neyvi's head was mounted in Shirin's bedroom.

The hot water had just begun to descend when a resounding knock sounded off at the front door. Cerastes paused, fingers still fumbling with the top buttons to his shirt, and stared tentatively at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like shit.

No time to improve. The drell ducked out of the bathroom and, after checking to ensure the safety was off of his pistol, opened the door.

"I'm afraid it's a bit late for company, Ms. V--"

Oh.

That wasn't Shirin at all.

"... Good evening, Ms. Suri'Neyvi."

The rumors were true, she was tiny.

It really shouldn't have surprised anyone, in fact, in most modern warfare exceptional height was a disadvantage: all it did was give people more mass to aim at. Yet it constantly did surprise people. Perhaps it was because everyone still measured combat prowess based on stone aged thinking, where the ability to heave heavy rocks was still essential to battle. Perhaps it was because people were influenced by sims and holos, where even the tiniest star stood like a god amongst mortals. Perhaps, it was simply one of those notions that came from built up coincidence, a little idea that built up over ages of accidental comparison, a stereotype.

Whatever the reason, Suri'Neyvi cut an unimposing figure in comparison to whatever amazon ideal most would ascribe to someone like her. Her eyes glowed with a gentle hint of luminosity, her mouth, hidden beneath the visor, held a hidden smile. The smile was the plastic kind, the sort every saleswoman in the galaxy forced themselves to wear, the lips held tightly open in a brittle and empty construction, ready to snap and shatter at any moment.

“Good evening,” she said.

She cocked her head and a finger tapped at her vocalizer. The drell was well informed, but his body was tensed. Grom's description had been more flavorful than Suri's would be, he didn't seem the drell with a boner for holovision mystery aspect of his job that the Krogan made him out to be. The subject was tired and stressed. Her presence likely jumped that level of stress by a hundred fold. Stressed and desperate people did irrational things, she knew that all too well. Best to proceed with caution.

“It is late, but I hope you don't mind if I impose, it seems we have a lot to talk about,” Suri said, the way his arm tensed, ready to grab at the pistol irritated her. A gun hung at her side, but it was buckled down. Her knife was more accessible, but sheathed. Neither would be touched if he went for the gun. A joint lock would be sufficient.

She gestured to the hotel room beyond the door. “May I?”

Even though he already knew full-well what Suri'Neyvi looked like (down to her precise height and weight), Cerastes found himself cocking an inquisitive brow towards the quarian that stood before him. She seemed much tinier than any amount of words or pictures could convey; from what he could tell through the suit, her frame was lean, not particularly curvy, and small enough to lend itself well to athletic endeavors - she'd be quick in a fight.

The pistol was therefore useless at this range. With a sincere "beg pardon" and a thin-lipped smile, Cerastes holstered his pistol and nodded to his newfound company.

"Of course, ma'am," he said. "You'll have to forgive me, but I've only just arrived. I'm afraid my manners may be lacking."

A deft step to the side opened the doorway for her to enter. As she passed by him, the drell's eyes followed: the cloth she wore over her envirosuit was expensive, hand-woven; he knew immediately which planet she'd imported it from. She had expensive taste, which extended to the weapons she held on her person. Each step she took was as silent as it was confident; she was no child, not that he'd ever underestimated her.

Abattoir had that effect. Death did nothing to stave it.

As usual, Suri's species wreaked havoc with the affairs of being hospitable. No drinks could be offered or received on her end. When dealing with hosting clients or coworkers, she usually made a dry joke of this. This was the type of matter where levity might be needed, but the gravity of the situation prevented it.

She slid past the drell, there was no way to move past him further without turning her back to him, or walking backwards. That was bad practice. Instead, she slid into the kitchenette, and played the role of host. From there, she could keep an eye on the exits, the door and the windows.

“Well, you're the one in my territory, so to speak, so in a way, I'm the host here, and you're the guest, so we'll let it slide” She said, and retrieved a glass from the right cupboard, she was clearly already familiar with the layout of the room. “So don't worry so much, it's bad for your health.”

She placed the glass and her hands on the table, and her eyes settled on the drell once more. “The Lac is nice, but I prefer the Jalan. They're even introducing quarian rooms, for reconstruction delegations, I hear. Hoping to get geth workers in the terminus. Fools errand. Drink?”

For however much shit the extranet might have given her, Suri'Neyvi was remarkably intelligent. Although she'd briefly exposed her back to him - he could have quick-drawn, but he was in her territory, as she pointed out - she instantly recovered by ducking into the alcove of the kitchenette, where she could have easily ducked behind the counter island for cover. He, on the other hand, would have to either dart into the bathroom or back towards the windows, which left him trapped either way.

The girl might have been young, but he had to give her credit where credit was due: she knew what she was doing.

With the strategic disadvantaged developed, Cerastes offered her another smile, mirroring the one she'd given him upon her arrival, and casually approached the island. He took a seat and folded his hands atop the counter.

"How gracious of you," he remarked. "A black batarian will do fine, if you know how to make it."

He hadn't had one in years, but the occasion seemed fitting. The air was wrought with tension as Suri'Neyvi explored the bar, stocked complimentarily by The Lac. It was now a matter of precious moments until one of them brought up what they were really here for; Cerastes decided to allow her the courtesy.

The quarian took a moment and surveyed the ingredients at her disposal. The drell, of course, probably knew all the liqueur available from a glance. He could have picked the bottles from memory, without looking at them. She had no such advantage, and a gray box was still a luxury she could not afford. The steam of mild embarrassment at being less then him at something was hidden beneath the suit. She felt slow and stupid, and she hated him for it. That was her disease talking though, the voice of the unreasonable beast that lurked beneath the surface of the girl. It was quieter now, it's voice-box worn down from the effects of medicine and time and training. It no longer shouted in her ear and drowned out the world. She couldn't shut it out, but she could ignore it, defy it.

Besides, she had her own advantages. The HUD projected in her suit allowed for limited extranet capability, and she could shut off her vocalizer and give her suits computer silent commands. The instructions for making a Black Batarian appeared before her, invisible to him.

Several bottles plopped on the table, and she mixed. A bartender Suri'Neyvi wasn't. What would've taken an experienced bartender thirty seconds to mix took her about three times that. Again, the whispered growls, again she ignored them.

She placed the glass before Cerastes. “ So, did you kill Anbel?”

A falter, a crack in the ice.

Across the island, the drell watched Suri'Neyvi with plaintive eyes, his gaze following her every move. Suri might have been well-versed in tactical arrangements, as was to be expected, but she was strangely inept when it came to alcohol. Her youth was showing.

"Typically," he began, ignoring the question at first, "One pours the kiran more slowly. A few drops layered between it and the vodka will blend the liquor better, but for your first time, you did a fine job. Thank you."

The glass was raised to his lips. He hesitated briefly, still watching, then took a tentative sip. She was waiting. For a few terse seconds, he withheld his judgment, only allowing himself a second taste after a sufficient amount of trepidation had been built.

"Indirectly, I suppose I did." A clink broke the air as the glass was set upon the counter-top. "I can't imagine you're here on his behalf."

The beast reared and snapped. A crack formed in the brittle smile.

Suri's smile held. Composure was always difficult in high stress situations. The drell was rattling her cage, to see what happened. He only suspected the beast lurked within. He didn't know for sure. Perhaps he was testing to see if she would snap so easy. It wasn't hard to imagine, what with the recent incident with Anbel. The pause was noticeable. She forced herself back on track.

“You probably won't tell more without money, I suppose,” She said, and stared down at the bar, “A shame, I spent a little too much time trying to drive that old bastard nuts. Just as it looked like it was about to pay off, he goes and gets himself killed. A pity, whoever killed him lacked imagination. No art to it at all.”

She pushed herself away from the bar, letting her arms fall loose and free. The pulse of anger and shame that came with her failure to do perfectly with the drink had abated somewhat. Her shoulder hurt. She rotated it, but that just made it worse. They said the muscle weave would make everything better. Liars. Pain was a constant in her life, and it didn't really bother her too much. Worse was the discomfort. There was no right way for her shoulder to sit anymore, any way she shifted it, there was still a strain that felt unnatural and pinged at her consciousness.

She rested her back against the refrigerator, her arms folded. Her shoulder ached. “I'm in grave danger, I'm told.”

"I won't, and agreed."

Truth be told, she performed better than he expected. Cerastes allowed himself a breath, then raised the glass to his pale lips once more and took another sip. The liquor was settling; he stirred it with a finger, then licked a spare droplet off of his scales in a show of bravado. It was rare of him to posture, but if Suri'Neyvi had a weakness for competition, he was going to exploit it. The galaxy had done the same to him for the past decade of his life; he saw no reason to spare her the same treatment.

A legitimate calm was settling over him. He let it sink in as his attention honed in on the odd way that the quarian moved, the rigidity in her shoulder - a long-term injury, and another thing to tell Shirin, should he survive the encounter.

"Typically, I'd play innocent at this point," rasped the broker. The glass was rotated calmly in his grasp. "I'm not about to insult your intelligence. Hyperbole might have been applied in my conversation with Mr. Grom," that rat-bastard, "but unsurprisingly, you have made some enemies in your time, whether you meant to or not."

“I think it was... Two weeks ago?” Suri said, “Maybe more. I was out shopping, testing new market weapons that get dumped on Illium from everywhere, as proving grounds. Eclipse is always looking for an edge. I really didn't find anything that caught my eye, so I started down to the food court so I could sit down, make some calls. Out from nowhere springs a Batarian who starts shouting about how Abattoir burned down his orphanage. Pulled his gun, and I had him pinned before you know it. Thank the ancestors for wartime pardons, else I would've been hauled off in irons with him. He'll be back when he gets out on parole in five years. People like that don't ever give up.

“A month or two before that, I had a asari who couldn't've been less then a century old tell me she was Abattoir's true heir, birthed from his loins and that I was a pretender. After she failed to hit me with the sniper rifle the first time. That was off Illium, while I was doing a stint helping clear out some militias on some ass end world. She won't be coming back.

“Besides that, I know warlord John Smith wants my head for breaking his insane contract. I assumed that thing about no shoes in his office was a joke. Bas Rand's family somehow survived the war, and want a chunk of my ass. Julkik of Dis thinks I'm responsible for Bas Rand's insanity. Every investor who put any money into Narth hates my guts, even though that was a retaliatory strike. I've slung a fair amount of mud at crimson chains after they kicked me off Omega shortly after Abattoir retired, but that's never gone beyond words... And I think I even have a few bounties on my head from former child soldiers advocacy groups.”

“That's the short list, I think, Anbel just got scratched off it,” Suri shrugged, “So yeah, I've got enemies. Plus everyone who hated or loved Abattoir on top of that. I've managed pretty well so far. And here you show up to tell me about an enemy, and likely charge me for the privilege. Perhaps I can keep you on retainer to keep the list straight. Who warrants such urgency, or are you just looking for an excuse to go through my jettisoned scrap to see if some blackmail material turns up?”

He listened. If there was ever something Cerastes was good at, god, was it listening. By the time Suri'Neyvi finished her speech, he'd made it halfway through the black batarian, but his gaze had remained steadily locked on her the entire time, unblinking, his face a blank slate. Most aliens might have found the stare unnerving; Suri, he knew, was not in this majority, nor was she immune to pride.

The warlord he knew of; information like that was easy to find. The asari, well, her rotting carcass would be of no concern to him now. The batarian might be useful later, perhaps as a pawn. As Suri capped off her monologue, Cerastes treated her to another of his smiles, the sort that fell far too short from the eyes, but lacked the threat of snapping at a moment's notice like hers had.

"What a busy little bee you are."

With the liquor to his drink settling in the bottom, he set the glass aside and stood, his movements purposefully slow. Once he was certain that Suri was not about to draw on him for twitching, he swiveled around the kitchen island (his knee, the fire) and honed in on the coffee machine beside the refrigerator. The Lac wouldn't have the same quality of brews as he did on the Eidolon, but anything would do at this point.

Keeping his eyes on the machine, an air of calm settled about him. He was accepting the potentials, the risks.

"In my line of work," the machine sprang to life at his touch, water heating instantly, "betrayal is a serious concern to both client and agent. The phrase 'you get what you pay for' applies very well to this business, and while brokers may lack much of the morality that one would expect from the average living being," he watched the steam burst to life around the thin stream that dripped from the nozzle, "we are well-versed in probabilities.

"Now, to be perfectly fair, you've served as an outlier to my expectations thusfar. I anticipated that you might wait, oh, half a day before seeking me out, perhaps due to the late hour. Everyone needs sleep, after all." The stream petered out, sputtered as the last few drops descended into the mug. "However, your attempt to buy me off is... of little surprise. It's always the same: so you've found me, who was it, I'll pay you twice what they're giving you. I've heard it all, so why, Ms. Suri'Neyvi," he swept the mug from its place, "should I betray my client to you? Please keep in mind, before you start, that I am well-aware of the physical atrocities you cold commit upon my person, but let's be sensible - you'll lose everything if you kill me, which would leave you at a rather penetrable disadvantage in terms of preparations."

Suri's hints about blackmail went over with nary a blip. Instead the drell picked up the notion of bribery, something she hadn't even strongly considered. This was different from expected. The drell's talk of an enemy, while inflated, were his likely motivation. His client was likely said enemy. Suri relaxed a little. The loosening of tension reduced the discomfort in her shoulder. She resisted the impulse to snort.

He was well within range now. Guns wouldn't be required, which was a relief. She'd prefer to do things silently, if it came to that. She kept her back to the refrigerator, certain she'd pick up the blur of motion from her peripheral vision should the drell try to attack. Best to keep an eye on the exits. Reinforcements to a limited space like this were more dangerous than one drell.

“You misread things. I can see why, since things are backward, like how I am host and you are guest, despite how it may seem,” Her fingers drummed across fridge, “I am not a cornered client, begging for a handout. I'm an indifferent customer and you are the hovercar salesmen, and I'm not impressed with the hovercar you're trying to sell me. Killing you would be counter-productive, but it seems to me you were expecting someone who wasn't me when I first arrived. A Ms. Vuh? You don't strike me as the sort who'd want to entertain prostitutes so soon after spacelag.”

The smile turned real, feral and wild. “So, let's put money off the table for now. I could find my enemy, or his or her agent, it seems, by kidnapping or killing you. This mysterious Ms. V might be by to visit later. Assuming she's the actual threat, a picture from a drone would be sufficient, provided she has enough infamy. Again, though, killing you would be counter-productive. I imagine your omnitool has a deadman's switch, but I also imagine I could keep you alive long enough to crack it, or you.”

She turned her head to be able to see the drell, betting on peripheral vision for handling the indiscretion. Suri tilted her head against the fridge, so that her eyes looked up into his. The void of his eyes met the glow of hers. “So then, Mr. Cerastes. Care to actually sell me your hovercar? Perhaps we'll put money back on the table if you manage to make me quake in my envirosuit enough.”

Once more, hubris was the downfall of man. Cerastes had reached too far too quickly, and now he was paying the price in the form of a girl half his size; how utterly humiliating. Although his poker face was nigh-unreadable, there was a subtle twitch in the dark, folded skin beneath his eyes.

In the background, the shower was still running, setting a strangely soothing backdrop to the scene that was playing out a mere ten feet away.

His omnitool buzzed suddenly.

"You are the fucking worst," it read. Cerastes stared at it in bewilderment; what the hell was that about? Was Shirin in the room without his knowing? Red eyes flicked from his wrist to the bedroom around the corner, but nothing stirred in the shadows beyond. Son of a bitch.

If he betrayed Shirin, he'd have the daughter of a legend, a six-hundred-year-old krogan, a tech genius, a sniper, and an unhinged biotic on his tail for the remainder of his life, on top of the permanent burden of being known as a traitor to the entire galaxy. If he didn't betray her, and Shirin wasn't here, he was going to be tortured, killed, and dropped off in a hole somewhere, never to be seen again.

But if he didn't betray her, and Shirin somehow knew, as she so obviously did...

"I'm afraid we're going to have to play this the hard way, Ms. Suri'Neyvi."

The orange screen of his omnitool flared bright red as it locked, one encryption after another rapidly spidering to guard the data held within. He was going to regret this. God, was he ever going to regret this. The drell stiffened in advance and set the cup of coffee on the counter behind him; at the very least, he figured he might be able to avoid having a scalding hot beverage tossed in his face.

"A pity," she lied.

She moved from the fridge in languorous motion. If he had any martial arts training, he didn't show it. He'd go for the gun first, it was his best chance. Hers would remain safely holstered in place. She'd get him in a joint lock when he grabbed for the gun. From there it would just be getting him to the window. She dropped into a ready stance.

"Let's dance."

No words were spoken; it was all motion, now.

The dance was all too familiar to him. As Suri whipped forth like a viper, the drell slid to the side, leaning heavily on his bad knee in order to avoid the brunt of her assault. Even so, he felt her small hand clasp around his wrist a second later, its grasp reinforced by the suit she wore.

Violently, he tore his wrist towards her thumb and continued to try to escape, his body lunging towards the entryway. Small and young though she might have been, Suri was no opponent to take lightly, and he knew it; her youth, in addition to the synthweave that ran throughout her musculature, was far more agile than his own physique.

Thing went off not quite as she'd expected. He'd gone for the dodge instead of the weapon. It wasn't hard to recover, and her fingers clasped and she twisted the wrist as she came up behind him. The Drell snapped free from her grip, and pulled forward, but her other arm was already snaking around to choke him. Cerastes lurched right into the crook of her elbow. The now free hand came up to complete the motion into a proper rear naked choke.

He struggled beneath her. He had the strength borne from desperation, Suri gave him that much. He might've pulled her arm free from her single armed strangle. Now she clasped hard on his neck, and prevented blood from flowing to his brain.

"Sssh," She whispered, "Sssh."

No no no anything but that anything no no NO NO NO NO

Spots of apoxia flooded Cerastes' vision as the petite quarian pulled him back, her artificially-enhanced muscles tightening around his neck and forcing him into a blood-choke. It was a matter of seconds now; instinct directed him to claw at her forearm first, desperately searching relief while an all-too-familiar fire stirred within him. Out of desperation, he lurched forward and pulled her partly up onto his back, but it did little to relieve the pressure.

why did he do this, why, he'd died so slowly over the past two decades, hands everywhere, the muzzle pressed to his hip as he screamed no no don't anything but that i can't i can't PLEASE NOT AGAIN

The tile slammed against his cheek as he fell, cold and unforgiving. Suri was the spider at his back, clutch against his throat as he strained for air, for relief. Operating on pure adrenaline, he slammed his elbow against her ribcage and bucked underneath, fighting like a wild animal, something unhinged and driven by blood.

He was a spirited little fish, Suri'Neyvi had to give him that much. The elbow dug deep, but the suit muted the impact. There was pain, but when wasn't there pain? He attack was too far off the mark to knock the wind out of her. She squeezed harder, not blocking the air, but constricting the blood vessels. Her legs slipped underneath his, inter-locking his legs with hers in a tangle. There was no strength for him to kick anymore.

Suri waited until she felt the arm that gripped at hers fell limp before she let go of the lock. She only had a few seconds to work until he regained consciousness. Hopefully she hadn't caused any brain damage. It'd be unfortunate to be unable to interrogate him because he could no longer speak.

The price for the micro-weave sash and hood had been exorbitant, but its purpose wasn't only for decoration. The tensile strength was also exorbitant. She pulled off the sash. It would be best to restrain him first, and then blind him.

She hummed as she started to work, rolling up the sash and preparing to tie his hands. A lullaby tune from long ago, one like her mother had sung.

The shadowy tendrils pulling at the edge of Cerastes' vision overcame him far faster than he could have imagined. One moment, he was biting and clawing at the woman on his back, and the next, he was out cold. The drell's body fell flat against the floor, helpless, limp; pathetic.

Black.

As the next thirty seconds slowly ticked by, he did not dream. Suri's hands worked swiftly at his wrists, her humming voice drifting into his subconsciousness every so often. It was only when the knot was pulled tight behind his back that Cerastes' eyes snapped open once more, brimming with bestial fright, but this time they saw nothing - only darkness.

For the second time that evening, he bucked beneath the quarian, this time arcing so that he could attempt to slam her back against the refrigerator. It was clear that this was his last attempt; he felt heavy, drunk, but the spark that clung to all survivors was still urging him to at least try, to go down fighting. He'd lived through worse.

Suri's back hit the refrigerator with a thump. The pain was mild. Perhaps he'd hoped she's slam her head, but the helmet reduced the risk of that doing any significant damage anyways. His arms subdued, she could easily choke him out again, but that probably wasn't the greatest idea. She could break one of his legs, but that would again, limit his mobility.

Instead she continued where she left off, her hummed tune only broken briefly by a grunt of pain from the impact. She pulled off her caplet hood, and slid it over his head, the wrong way, making an effective bag to conceal his vision. Her legs still locking his, her arms felt between their bodies, and then pulled her blade from the sheath.

The sharp point of the knife kissed his throat, not hard enough to cut, but enough to make its presence known. Her legs unfurled themselves. Her tune tapered off. Her smile hardened, and became like plastic once more.

"Now stand. Slowly," She said, "Move too fast and it'll sink in. That would be very bad for you."

Underneath the armor of Suri'Neyvi, the girl worked at her hidden terminal. Silent voice commands made a call go through. Time to finish things.

"Miza?" She asked, in her hidden silent abyss, "Yes. No, he was here for me. Sort of. I got him. No, alive. The window, yeah. See you in a bit."

The smile faded, and her invisible face turned hollow and empty. The mask was discarded like all the rest.