Chapter Text
“All we really have for you is a word: ‘Zaun’. Meaning unknown, but our sniffers automatically triggered a Council-level alert as soon as it showed up. Citadel Archives only have a single reference, a particularly messy raid on an illegal weapons research lab five years ago in the Kepler Verge. Planetoid wasn’t even properly named. A2172-Lanes barely existed as anything more than a navigational hazard.”
Caitlyn manipulated the holographic survey on the vidscreen at her cabin’s spacious desk. It really was just a bare rock, with a perihelion far outside the habitable zone of the Herschel System. Her clearance returned a single area of note- a sizable collection of prefab structures near the northern pole that presumably hosted the raid.
“What exactly do you mean by messy, Councilor Talis?"
She could hear Jayce swiping through data on his end. He still had that habit of licking his thumb before paging down, even on screens. Mel hated it. Or maybe she’d just have an aneurysm on the spot at Jayce setting down the act of all-knowing omnipotent being all Councilors showed to the public.
“Comms failures, dozens of casualties both friend and foe, and most of the material involved was destroyed either before or during the firefight. The extrapolated timeline gets confused to say the least, complete chaos from the get go. Only a handful of drives were more than slag, but our techs managed to put together enough to get us that word, Zaun, and a partial manifest of what the lab had been working on. Also, you know you can just call me Jayce when the rest of the Council isn’t here, right?”
Caitlyn smirked. Mel would definitely have an aneurysm at that sort of casual tone. Best to shield herself from the tirade.
“Not when discussing operational details, Councilor.”
“Alright alright, Cai-Operative. Right, anyway CSec intel about their funding was severely incomplete; this group had access to mass driver schematics, weapon blueprints up to the anti-ship level, and exhaustive logistical documentation. Supply chains, smuggling routes, black markets, the works. Even worse, biological and chemical weaponry, rootkit hacks for industrial infrastructure, there’s even scraps about those batarian slave collars.”
Caitlyn’s blood froze, then boiled. So far her assignments as a Spectre had not brought her close to the barbaric practice of slavery and abuse the Batarian Hegemony saw fit to visit upon independent colonies around the Traverse or Terminus sectors. A small but vocal part of her almost hoped it would someday. She’d seen enough survivors on the Citadel while working for CSec. The lucky ones. Some were permanently disfigured, eyes darting about constantly, still trying to find where the pain would come from next. Others had to build lives in an alien world, having lost decades doing hard labor or worse. Her grip tightened on her armrests. The lucky ones indeed.
“Possible connection to the Hegemony? Deadhand protocol of some kind if the Alliance ever invaded?”
“All evidence points to no. In all honesty, my read on it is that our intelligence was so bad in part because these people don’t seem to have roots in any known government, polity or criminal organization. Which is what really scares us-the Council that is. With this sort of ordinance, the level of planning involved, the scope of it all, if they’d wanted to, this ‘Zaun’ group could make the Skyllian Blitz look like a particularly rough biotiball match by comparison. And if it weren’t for an anonymous tip to CSec two weeks before the raid, we’d never have known a thing about it.”
Caitlyn frowned. That was surprising. The Council’s network of spies and wet-work agents was legendary. A veritable panopticon, or so the Council wanted everyone to think. To have missed something of this caliber… it was practically unheard of.
“Indeed… five years ago, that was during Councilor Medarda’s tenure, correct? Has she suggested any avenues of inquiry?”
It was only a fraction of a second. Hesitation. She’d known Jayce since they were both grubby kids sneaking into R-rated vids together. She knew his tells well enough to recognize a tonal shift. What could make him twitch?
“Only one. Off the record. Apparently there was a prisoner taken alive, name not given, but surrendered willingly to the raid force. Didn’t know anything of use about our mystery group, so they put her in a hole and forgot the key. She’s at Stillwater. Prisoner #516.”
Surviving half a decade in any prison for violent crime was a feat by itself. Surviving Stillwater for that long was an aberration, the sign of someone with either an unending will to live, or someone completely unhinged. Whoever this Prisoner #516 was, a pushover they were not.
“Five years is a long time out of the loop. Even if the group we’re seeing now is the same one from the raid, what makes you think she knows anything of use?”
“Well, the Spectre in charge of the raid, Grayson, had got it in her head that this 516 knew a lot more about Zaun than she let on. Weirdly though, Grayson didn’t push her on it, and even tried to get the Council to just let her go. Her helmet cam captured most of the raid if you want to review it.”
Let her go… no strings attached? The Council was certainly not the thuggish entity fringe systems painted it as, but letting your only possible source of intelligence walk? What had Grayson seen on that rock?
“I’ll review it on the way to Stillwater- you said Grayson wanted to just cut her loose?”
“You heard it right. Like I said, this one is a bit of a dumpster fire, but at least you can see a dumpster fire for what it is. Frankly, we’re not quite sure what we barged into on Lanes. It’s the type of op you prefer to sweep under the rug and lose sleep over, hoping whatever you missed-and we definitely missed something on Lanes-isn’t going to sneak up and bite you.”
More likely someone trying to hide the embarrassment of having so thoroughly fumbled what could have been a massive informational windfall. The Council might not be a thug, but it wasn’t an angel either.
“Is this Grayson still around? With all due respect, I feel as though I should be talking to her about this.”
“I figured you might. She left the Spectres three years ago, about a year before you were inducted actually. Went to the private sector. Does high level security and law enforcement consulting for Clan Urdnot of all people. You’d need to go through them to talk to her, and while Urdnot Wrex has something of a soft spot for Spectres, might not push your luck.”
Caitlyn’s mother for certain would probably gasp dramatically at the thought of her precious daughter visiting Tuchanka to begin with. All the more reason to go, in Caitlyn’s mind. Teaching policing to the krogan? It was something that absolutely needed to be done, after thousands of years spent either under the thumb of a Council peacekeeping force or engaged in what could conservatively be called frontier justice, she’d be surprised if there were any krogan alive who’d ever seen a krogan police station. Or a court. Plus, anyone with the brass to try and instruct a krogan battlemaster eight times their age in de-escalation techniques was someone Caitlyn really wanted to meet. Eventually.
“I think I’ll start with this mystery prisoner. If Grayson was right, 516 will know more than she would anyway. Plus, no thresher maws to deal with in prison.”
“You saying that like it’s a normal everyday threat one deals with in the course of their job sounds so strange, you know that right? I get the same energy from other Spectres but, from you it’s like listening to my sister complain about volcanoes during her commute.”
Alright. Now Mel was definitely going to kill him for lack of decorum.
“Will that be all, Councilor Talis?”
She hears a faint sigh, then a chuckle.
“That will be all, Operative Kiramman. You can- Oh actually, I need to end the call, last security update removed the option for the receiver to hang up. Not sure why anyone would hang up on a meeting with the Council, but, there you go. Good hunting, Cait.”
The connection went dead a few moments later. Caitlyn smiled to herself. The Alliance Parliament really had no idea what they’d unleashed appointing Jayce Talis to the Citadel Council. She stood up from her desk, rubbing her elbow. Her cabin on the SSV Ranger was a bizarre mix of the extreme spartan neatness that came from years in the Alliance Navy, juxtaposed by several impulse purchases born out of the newfound freedom that came with both a Spectre’s discount at most arms manufacturers and being technically outside the chain of command. Nobody could order Caitlyn to get rid of the antique ‘bean bag’ chair next to her bed.
It had taken getting used to, working out of the strictly regimented schedule of the Alliance, the intense operational scrutiny of CSec. Not to mention living on Piltover in the Kiramman estate. Freedom was more of a stranger to her than confinement.
Caitlyn frowned.
She’d only been a Spectre for a bit under two years. Caitlyn did know the exact number of days, but that wasn’t what people were expecting when they asked how long she’d had the job. She also knew that of the various encounters she’d had on mission, both hostile and otherwise, of the somewhat worryingly small fraction that survived the interaction, she’d only ever seen a sparse handful of them more than once after the mission ended. It had been easy enough to simply let their memory flitter out into the past like leaves off a Piltover near-evergreen in autumn. But this Prisoner #516, they had been living through the consequences of a Spectre’s decisions for almost five years. No trial, no jury. One moment free, the next in an interrogation room, then the following half of a decade in a cell.
What does that look like?
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*BZZZZT*
Vi gasps awake from a dead sleep. Her heart pounds all the way to her toes. She gulps in a breath, hisses it out through her teeth. Big inhale. Slow exhale. Between the dried tears and the cold sweat, she's definitely dehydrated. Vi sighs into her palms. Big inhale. Slow exhale. For the first few months Vi woke up panicking, not knowing where she was, where Powder was. Now, when the buzzer sounds morning meal time, she wakes up panicking because she knows exactly where she is.
The electronic cell doors slide open with a muted whirr. Loud voices echo across the hall, inmates itching to get back into the fray. Vi sits up on her bunk, swinging her legs off the side with an ease born of repetition. Big inhale. Slow exhale.
Her cell looks remarkably dirty for how sparsely it's furnished. A thin foam mattress with a plastic cover sits on a seamless block in the corner furthest from the metal door, which when closed sports a single one-way viewport. A bipedal-type toilet is bolted opposite the bed, next to a sink which squeaks when used. Vi hates the noise it makes. She hates eating at the cafeteria more.
To the rough plasteel mirror above her sink, Vi quietly whispers The Mantra.
"Powder needs Vander. The Council needed a scapegoat. This is how we survive. You’re right where you need to be."
She cups water into her hands. Drinks it down quickly to mask the slightly metallic taste, slicking the remaining moisture backwards into her spiky pink hair, encouraging it to stay out of her eyes. Lifting her arms above her head, Vi pops the joints in her shoulders and neck, working out the kinks to a full range of motion. Toward the same end, the top of her prison vacsuit (so old and stiff as to be useless in a true depressurization) is tied around her waist, a sweaty gray tank top partially covering the elaborate tattoos spread across her back and arms. A surgical scar near the top of her neck marks where her biotic amp once sat, now and likely forever an empty port.
By now her pulse is down to an anxious jog, which is about the best she can ever hope for in a place like Stillwater. Passed over by the mining corps as barren of resources, ignored by the colonizers as inhospitable, Stillwater was a 'garden' world in only the loosest definition, just close enough to the system's tiny red dwarf to rely on solar power and barely massive enough to not need expensive reactors for artificial grav.
As Vi saw it, this was the true melting pot of the famed "galaxy of progress" touted by the Council. Whoever you were before, wherever you'd come from, whatever you'd done to get here, this cauldron boiled you away just the same.
A harsh Turian voice crackled through ancient speakers in the hall outside her cell, announcing morning rec hour for her block. Some of the other inmates called it happy hour. Vi called it The Danger Hour. She rolls back on her heels, tapping synthcotton-wrapped palms against her hips. Nothing compared to the custom biotic bracers Powder and Ekko had made for her what feels like a lifetime ago, but the bandages she'd pinched on one of her frequent visits to the prison infirmary got her the closest she could be to not feeling naked. As prepared as she could be; which is to say not ready at all, as told by the track record of minor scars on her face. Big inhale. Slow exhale.
Fifty percent chance she makes it to the prison gym and punches a bag until her hands start shaking. In all the other possibilities, the bag is replaced with someone's face. Big inhale. Slow exhale.
Person Vi gets put into a little box. Con Vi takes the reins. Shrink Vi wonders if naming her code-switches means she's losing her mind. Big inhale. Slow exhale.
Prisoner #516 steps out of her cell.
*pock*
*thunk*
*thwap*
She doesn't remember where she got the ball. It's a little solid rubber thing, faded blue. More trash than contraband.
*pock*
It bounces downwards off the metal wall.
*thunk*
Upwards off the plasteel floor.
*thwap*
And back into Vi's other hand. Within each circuit, she has moved a few steps forwards, eyes scanning the hall in front of her.
*pock*
A scarred Turian woman growls at Vi from the floor, stooped down over a magazine. All bark, no bite. Not a threat.
*thunk*
Three humans with matching Blue Suns tattoos on their forearms stop talking to stare at her as she walks past. Eyes locked on her hands. Just looking out. Not a threat.
*thwap*
A pair of Vorcha gesture wildly at each other, half-shouting in a guttural language Vi’s outdated translator doesn’t parse. For their part, they don't even seem to acknowledge her. Not a threat.
*pock*
A passing Asari looks her up and down and smiles, apparently liking what she sees. Person Vi feels flattered. Con Vi notices the smile never reaches her eyes. Creepy, but not a threat. Yet.
*thunk*
Vi reaches the unit serving double duty as rec room and cafeteria. The gym sits down a hall on the opposite side, past several rows of circular tables partially occupied by the most shameless convicts in her block, hungrily slopping up the basic nutrient paste served at Stillwater. It'll fill you up, but leave you empty at the same time.
*thwap*
A glitchy vidcast barks from its mounting near the ceiling on the left wall, showing a grainy live feed of a Varren race on Omega. Nearly two dozen convicts sit watching the race, murmuring bets and predictions to each other. Once, nearly a year ago, some crazy vorcha the block nicknamed Fling had thrown (hence the name) a bench into the screen, shattering the tempered glass and putting the unit out of action for nearly three days. Fling hadn't survived to see it turned back on.
*pock*
The screen shifts to an overzealous human announcer, listing off the various breeding history of each racer alongside statistics of past performance. A distant shot shows a somewhat bored looking Asari in a white jacket and commando leathers watching the event from a thronelike couch above the main seating.
*thunk*
Feet scrape against the floor as someone stands up behind her and slightly to the right. Footsteps fall in with hers. One threat.
*thwap*
A batarian moves to block her path. Blind in both his left eyes. Favors his left leg, probably a bum knee. One good shot to his right and he's out. Two threats.
*pock*
Movement registers just inside of her peripheral vision, two more shapes forming up. Four threats.
*thunk*
The batarian raises an arm towards her like he's telling her to stop. He's actually measuring the distance, his reach, difficult with... how does depth perception even work with only two of your four eyes?
*thwap*
He opens his mouth. He'll say something to focus her attention on him, one of his friends will take the first swing, probably the one behind her. Wolfpack tactics. Once she's on the floor, they'll all move in. Depending on how drunk the guards are it'll be at least a couple minutes before the fight's broken up. Back on the screen, the varren race is set to begin. The announcer inhales to launch into his next spiel.
*SMACK*
Vi's blue ball nails the batarian directly in his healthy right eyes. Not bad. Not good either. She'd been aiming for his nose.
"AND THEY’RE OFF!"