Mass Effect: Void (In Character)

[Dervish]

The various members of the MV Cha-Thrah set about their duties and down time, and Tanya was sure as hell not going to let anyone else muck about the machines before she had a chance to. It was a well-known fact that anyone who tried to make changes and repairs before you did were likely incompetent, or at least she told herself. Tanya didn’t know what the other mechanics were like or how skilled they were, but she’d had her share of experiences fixing mistakes made by other so-called mechanics that in the end only cost more times and headaches trying to mend. Some probably didn’t know their way around a torque wrench, let alone how to ensure the mass effect drive core did its job and not catastrophically fail, resulting in the deaths of everyone on board. The genius who almost managed to accomplish that feat spent the next ten minutes picking his teeth off of the pavement. Wanker.
Tanya felt weird knowing she was going to be working with others, and it was certainly lucky for them that she’d learned how to handle and manage her PTSD to a degree where it was hard to tell she was carrying some serious mental and emotional trauma locked away in her head, except for some brief relapses. Drinking never helped, and there was nothing to be done about nightmares. She hoped that it wouldn’t result in her shaking, talking, or screaming in her sleep. That had been enough to scare off potential boyfriends in the past, because apparently they didn’t like sharing a bed with someone who relieved Mindoir and countless other battles a few times a week. Funny, if the Extranet was to be believed, most guys liked a screamer.


The batarian buggies, light APCs, really, were lined up in pairs of two with about three meters between each vehicle. They were robust things, capable of carrying 8 people, including the driver and front-seat passenger. A light machine gun turret mount sat unoccupied on the top. Unlike Nova, it appeared the crew of the Cha-Thrah didn’t leave their weapons mounted on the vehicles. With the shady assortment of characters aboard,Tanya really couldn’t blame them. The engineer activated her omnitool, casting the area around her in the familiar yellow-orange light, and rapidly input a few commands. Before her in the air, a volleyball-sized combat drone assembled itself almost faster than the eye could register. “Hello, Shithead. Access music. Artist, ‘Flames over Tuchanka’, album ‘Horizon’, track ‘Unforgiven’. Shuffle, play.” She said, and the drone followed her around, beginning to play a procession heavy music track with the closest thing to a krogan analogue for a guitar and other stringed instruments. It was menacing, and likely horrible to anyone who wasn’t into alien adaptations of metal music, or krogan vocalist. A few of the crew members shot her a few looks, some even edging away. Wait and see how they handle Elcor Apocalypse. she thought with a wicked smile, recalling the elcor death metal band that she originally started listening to as a joke to annoy the crew of the Tyrus, but ended up growing to like it.


As the krogan vocalist growled about seeking vengeance against another clan’s member slighting him via attempted murder and taking a female, Tanya ran her omni-tool across the width of the first buggy, reading the diagnostics of the machine and getting a layout of the parts. In her equipment was a computer with the schematics of almost every known vehicle across the galaxy, and as she walked around the vehicle, the information, including comprehensive parts lists, eezo connections, and so on. She had one of her tool boxes open and pulled a single-eye visor that mounted to head out from the box, activating it and linking it to her omnitool. It registered where her eyes were looking and highlighted individual pieces and alerted her to any wear, damage, or other issues that would effect performance, among other things.


“I drove the knife through his chest, twisting until I remove his hearts! Never will he rise again, I swear this day his clan will end!” she growled along with the song, continuing her rounds, thoroughly enjoying herself and the discomfort of those around her. Except for the few krogan still milling around the cargo hold, who largely seemed amused. Aliens didn’t take much of an interest in krogan culture, which was a shame. They were a practical people who didn’t mince words and got shit done. Music wasn’t a common thing on Tuchanka, but there were a few krogan who, like all species, found means of expression and relative fame in music. ”The ruins of my people give me rise, I will not compromise until the last of their line is extinguished, and in agony they will languish until Aralakh rises over their home that is now their grave, a suitable fate for those so depraved, they struck out against those who are peerless, and our retribution was swift and merciless!” she sang, noticing a slight bend in the third buggy’s suspension and a depressed spring, likely from taking a jump a bit too hard and landing almost exclusively on the one wheel. She jumped down to a push-up position, rolled onto her back, and crawled under the buggy like it was a row of barbed wire using her shoulders and feet to propel herself to the strut in question. Shithead followed, reconfiguring itself so it folded down to a bit over half its regular size. “Shithead, light here.” She said, pointing. A bright, wide white light shone out from the drone, lighting her work area. After a quick visible inspection, she noticed a pair of boots belonging to a human male out from under the vehicle. “Hey! If you’re an engineer, go to my tool kit and bring me my cutting torch and that powered grip set. I need to straighten something out under here.” She called out to the man named DeWitt.

[Sundered Echo]

Clearly she'd found a topic that the Krogan would speak about to anyone. She made a mental note of it for future reference while she listened to him describing his job. He thought the planet would be fairly inhospitable, but it didn't bother her overmuch, since to a Quarian, basically everywhere was inhospitable. She wore an environment suit all the time, what difference did it make to her if it was negative fifty degrees or one-hundred and fifty? A few minor suit mods. That was it.

But she did listen closely when he mentioned the possibility of Geth. It hadn't really occurred to her that they might encounter the Quarians long hidden archenemy on this mission, and it concerned her that the Krogan thought she was here as an anti Geth specialist. Sure she knew more than a lot of the other people on the ship about them, but not by much. She was a Migrant Marine combat engineer and she killed with the skills she'd learned while with the Blue Suns. That wouldn't be of any more use than anyone else in the ship if they did come up against the Geth. Maybe the other Quarian would be of more use in such a situation, but she certainly wouldn't.

Karnak finished talking about the likelihood of Geth, but before she could respond she heard Saren begin talking behind her. She turned and listened to him, eager to get some knew information about the mission. She was disappointed in that desire.
What she did ascertain, however, was that her being here might be able to influence the Council's opinion of the Migrant fleet. Suddenly, the void that had been created with the death of her friends was filled, a glimmer of purpose filling her for the first time in the two weeks since she fled the scene of the murder of her crew. If the Council could be convinced to assist the Quarian race, then maybe their existance wouldn't be so pointless.
The fact that she would have to work under the borderline fanatic and ruthless Spectre was just the price she would pay.

Once he'd ordered them to go lift off and left, Kasyra was slightly confused as to what to do. She remembered how to operate many of the fittings on a Batarian ship from her time on the Ryushei, but she hadn't been hired to man the CIC, she'd been hired as, essentially, a skilled thug with a gun. She waited a moment or two as other in cargo bay went to their respective stations or stood listless as she was. After a minute or two without being paged to go to the CIC, she decided to explore the ship a little. She went to the lift and keyed it to go to deck two. Moments later, she stepped out into the crew deck, and was impressed. The other races aboard would probably find it small, even cramped, but having just served aboard a Quarian ship, Kasyra saw it as positively roomy. That, and it had fittings for a number of different kinds of entartainment, even a bar. She doubted she'd get to make use of that particular feature, as they probably didn't have any purified Turian alcohol. However, it did have an observation room, with a wall sized window looking out into space. This was a luxury rarely afforded on most Quarian ships, one usually had to go to the liveships for such a thing. She sat down on the couch and looked out at the endless black of space, with the Grey-green planet of Anhur below them, getting smaller by the minute.
She already knew where she'd be spending most of her downtime.
She stretched and lay down with her head on the arm of the wide chair. It was comfortable enough, and she was glad for a moment of peace and a chance to properly relax after more than a week of constantly watching her back.

[Grif of Hearts]

Ingrid had spent the last few moments organising her things. There wasn’t much of it, granted. The Shadow Broker hadn’t allowed her to pack many personal items for the event. What she did need to move upstairs to her quarters had been separated into one container small container, while everything else surrounded her work place.

If she had been given the choice, Ingrid would have chosen to work specifically on VI programs and the various systems that kept the ship afloat. Unfortunately, she doubted that Saren would allow an unknown engineer with a well censored history, let alone a human one, anywhere near the ship’s VI core. Instead she had been stuck working on base level VI programs that could have been done by a lame varren. She fully expected most of the work to be telling Reginald, her own personal assistance VI that had gone through more coding alterations than Ingrid could count, to change the auto-targeting alignment of an assault rifle. Unfortunately for Ingrid, that was exactly her job description.

In fact, she had already begun. Not on the crew’s equipment however, but instead her own. Ingrid sat on one of the work benches, hands clutching tightly to the edge of the table. She looked down and tossed the end of her ponytail over her shoulder, bearing the back of her neck. The tiniest VI drone hovered at the back of her neck, a flickering sphere of pale blue. Every other second the tiniest light flickered up on the back of Ingrid’s neck. Her finger twitched every time it did, or occasionally her foot. Once it made her entire body shiver.

“What did I tell you about being careful?” Ingrid barked, tightening her grip on the work bench as a sharp pain ran down her spine. The VI gave a low whistle, before continuing its process. “Go on. Keep going,” she continued, and Reginald continued his own work. This continued for another minute or so, tingles dancing across each of Ingrid’s limbs with each flash.

When she heard a voice, female although anything but feminine, Ingrid held back the urge to twist her head towards it. Her figure held perfectly still, Reginald continuing to work his magic. “Just give me a minute, ma’am. My bio-amp’s been all over the place these last few days so I’m just having it recalibrated. Very bad idea to move.” Ingrid kept her teeth clenched tightly together for a few moments, until Reginald left his position, fluttering in front of her face.

Unlike most her age, Ingrid was fitted with an L3-R. As one of the earliest human biotics she had been originally fitted with an L1, which was a pathetic excuse for a biotic implant. Thankfully her position in the agency had earned her a few favours, and with the Shadow Broker’s resources she had managed to smooth talk her way into a retrofit, and one with a far higher success rate than a typical Alliance operation. While her powers would never be up to scratch compared with an asari or those originally fitted with the L2, mostly due to the L1s being fitted long after the optimal time for a biotic amp to be implanted, she wasn’t completely hopeless with her abilities.

“Calibration has been successful to the best of my ability, miss Lousk. If problems persist, repeat calibration will be necessary,” chimed the VI before flickering and vanishing.

“Then it better have been successful.”

The human woman dug her fingers into the bright pink locks she called hair, wove her fingers into the elastic hair bound it and pulled it out in one tug. She ran her fingers through her hair again, shaking her head and turning the otherwise straight, if a little ragged, strands of hair into a complete mess. If anyone asked why, she wouldn’t have a sensible answer.

Ingrid pushed herself off of the work bench, her boots landing against the metal floor with a soft thud. An asari stood before her, a behemoth of a woman who must have been a foot taller than Ingrid herself. Ingrid felt as if she was going to have to crane her neck to have a decent conversation with the woman, but other than that she seemed… friendly? Ingrid was never particularly good at reading other people, much to her dismay. “Side effect of having enough volts running through your system to kill a volus, I’m afraid. You’re lucky you don’t need a bio-amp. ” she said, shaking her limbs out. They still quivered. “I’m Ingrid.” She held out her hand to shake, an overtly human gesture.

“What can I help you with, hmm?” she asked, pausing for a moment. Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes. You asked me if I needed any help. No, I don’t. I would ask you to move my things to my bunk but I can do that later.”

[Sundered Echo]

“Isn’t it funny how people stumble across each other so often?” Ingrid had finally arrived. Apparently she'd thought Zhar the safer prospect for conversation. She was probably right. After all, at least half the people in the room had good reason to kill her.
“…Especially with a criminal organisation breathing down the back of your neck.” What she had said was technically true, and they were technically breathing down his neck as well, but really, right now, that description was best applied to her.
Indeed, she was lucky to be alive.
He was about to respond with 'I prefer to think of it as an entrepreneurial association' when Saren entered the room, and everything fell silent.

Saren was quite the imposing sight. Despite being shorter than Zhar, the Turian carried himself as if he was an unstoppable force of nature, but also as though he had the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. He was the examplar of the Council's best, a living legend, and he knew it. Though he did not show it, Zhar couldn't help but be awed by the Spectre, and maybe a little afraid.
Saren began to 'explain' the mission, as he walked past each of the mercenaries he had recruited, examining them as one would an ant. As he got to the topic of payment, his gaze lingered on Zhar. Zhar stared back, refusing to show weakness under the Spectres gaze.
Zhar had been wondering for awhile now as to what the Spectre might have planned as a reward for him. After all, money was not an issue for Zhar. The thought was quickly interrupted however, as Saren continued his speech, now explaining the cost of disobediance. His 'terms of employment' seemed much like those of the Shadow Broker, only he was more overt about it than the Broker, and probably didn't give second chances or bother with torture beforehand.

No-one seemed cowed by Sarens threats, and he appeared to be happy about that particular fact. Zhar suspected it might even have been a test of their will, or something to that effect. What he then said was of potentially much greater import. He was going to be considering the people on the mission to be examplars of their race, and would color future council decisions based on how they acted. Most Krogan would leap at a chance to prove themselves worthy of a potential way to cure the Genophage, but not Zhar. He didn't care if his race died out, if they did, it would be their own fault. If they stopped killing each other for a few days and started trying to figure out the Genophage themselves, they might get somewhere, and they might get Zhars respect. But the Krogan where still quite busy killing each other for no more reason than hurt feelings and petty insults.

Having given his speech and made his prescence felt, Saren left, leaving the mercenaries with no more information about the mission than they had had when they arrived. All he'd really done was give them a reason to follow him, without telling them about the potential dangers. It was a skillful manipulation of their hearts and minds, though Zhar saw through it. That gave him no real advantage however, as he was here for reasons equally as compelling as any the Spectre could provide. He had at least given them the order to leave, and so now Zhar had direction as well as a reason to avoid socialising with hired guns and former Nova members that currently filled the cargo bay.

His hovering suitcase still in tow, he went to the lift and told it to take him to deck two. He quickly found his quarters, and, small though they were, placed the large case against a wall to be properly ordered later. He then returned to the lift and went to deck three to report to the CIC. As a manufacturer of this exact type of vessel, Zhar was quite familiar with their operation, and so had been assigned a position on the Bridge for the time between any deployments.

Upon arriving at the ships Bridge, he was met by a female Turian with a dark carapace and pale blue facepaint was waiting for him.
“Mr Zhar, I am Aelia Paetina. I am the Navigator on this ship, and you will be assissting me.”
The Turian didn't try to make any sort of formal greeting, she was straight to business, just like a typical Turian. She showed him what he would be doing, and then left to direct the ships mainly Batarian crew to their mystery destination. Once she had gone to attend to her own duties Zhar began covertly looking around the bridge for any listening devices or other observation tools. More importantly, he looked for place to put his own. This was the bread and butter work of Shadow Broker agents, and centuries of experience had made Zhar rather good at it.

[Tick]

Otho passed through another entrance as it stretched open with the door's recession, into what appeared to be the break room. After the passing, crowded bedroom the crew would be lodged in and a similarly sparse, practical, and frugal design throughout the ship thus far, he appreciated the space's relatively finer aesthetic and variety. The turian had become accustomed to and fond of pleasant, easy living, even when the living was more plain.
It wasn't likely a place Otho would see often with so many on board, but at least it was there. And, at the moment, quiet.

Nearing the wide window of the observation room that exposed the vast, black space and the shrunken planet beyond the ship, the cloaked top of a helmet edged beyond the back of a couch. The turian ambled closer toward the window, and at second glance saw a quarian nearly adjacent, idly laying across the seats. It wasn't Tzvi. The distinguishably different cloth made that clear – one detail Otho had long trained himself to watch when interacting with faceless individuals. The stranger was loosely stretched out, lax, vaguely focused on the sights in front. The first thought was that she was either brazenly apathetic to Saren or others' issue with skirting duties, or left without anything to busy her. Both possibilities got his curiosity.

She heard the door slide quietly open behind her, and listened for the footstpes that would surely follow. One, two... She wondered if maybe she should activate her defense drone, just in case. Three, four... the person was fairly close now. She considered whether she could get to them with an omni blade before they reacted. Then she caught herself in mid thought. What was she thinking? This was no hostile environment. No-one here was out to get her. The person spoke, revealing himself as a Turian.

“Nice view,” he quietly mused, seemingly half to himself, “quite a perk to the job.”

Otho shifted slightly toward the other individual. The turian spoke in a calm, genial voice, and his expression subdued in his polite manner. He mentioned, “I just started a sweep through the floors to become familiar with the ship, before reviewing the work I will be doing; I wasn't expecting to see much of anyone here. Would you know any details about the layout or the ship itself?"

“No.”

Her terse, almost tired answer showing her displeasure at being disturbed so soon.

“I came here because I thought I'd be free of interruption for a while. It is a rare mercenary who can appreciate the stars.”

She wasn't giving the Turian any more than that. Maybe he'd go away if she didn't respond with useful information. Despite not talking to anyone about it, she was beginning to remember why she was so willing to throw her life away on Omega now, and she didn't want to break down in front of any of the crew.

The suddenly taut, curt reply caught Otho by surprise, his brows raised slightly and his back subtly leaned away, gusted. The sharp bitterness made the turian consider if he had wronged and robbed the quarian with the unwelcome company. 'A mercenary..Certainly in no mood to chat, anyways.' It was possible she didn't have a great deal of spare time. But the palpable strain and resentment failed to brush him outside again, and the momentary crack flickered away.

"I didn't fully realize the inconvenience I caused, I apologize. I'll have to make up for it; owe you a favor."

"Keep your favors Turian. I don't deserve them."

Death followed her like a plague. She didn't want this Turian to end up dead because he felt a need to be polite.

That was one of the stranger dismissals he had heard, though perhaps not entirely unfamiliar. His mandibles twitched and his jaw briefly chewed something invisible to mull over a thought. With a strange, affable humor, he compromised, "A small favor, then. It's hard to predict when you may need it, and you could always 'redeem' it later."
His eyes smiled as he asked curiously, tilting his head toward the stars, "Do you look at them often?"
"I don't look at them nearly often enough. Usually I don't have time to look up, burying the dead can take quite awhile. Forgetting them.... even longer."

If he wasn't going to go away, she may as well at least inform him of what her usual passtime had become. Just as long as she held it together. She tried to focus on the glimmer of the stars so as not to remember the scout ship that had been her home before this.

A soft, "hm" tentatively rumbled through Otho's throat, more of a blip in conversation than conversation. Death wasn't a common topic, let alone a topic with a stranger, and an illness pervasively wrangled his throat and clasped around his body, its nails thinly rubbing the inside walls of his stomach. Otho's face cringed and crumpled, straight brows tightening downward and jaw snapping shut. There was a lame, speechless nod. He was mute, for a pause far too long, until he ashamedly realized he was dumbly standing there, behaving inappropriately and ungracefully about an issue one couldn't afford to fumble with. The military officials back home would have been infuriated and disgusted, indignant, to see a turian stare at death with anything other than an oblivious, steadfast calm, let alone discuss it. And in trouble for failing to instill it in him.

Perhaps if he were younger, it would seem strange that a likely much younger quarian had dealt with it far more than he.


The Turian had stood still and silent for a long while at her mention of death. He was obviously unsettled by the direction she had taken the conversation. She didn't care. He was the one insisting on talking to her, and right now, she didn't really have anything else to discuss. Eventually he replied, still clearly somewhat put out. Still lying down on the couch, she couldn't see his face, but part of her wanted to see the revulsion and shock etched into the Turians features at that very moment.

Otho bowed his head and forced a hard swallow, as if eating carrion, and took a breath of the clean air. In a wave of calm, he focused enough to largely recompose himself, relaxing his expression and regaining a quiet confidence.
"I imagine it would.." he said. The turian avoided expressing pity, few seemed to appreciate the almost patronizing or assumptive sympathies, and of someone who did not relate similar struggles.
"You buried them? It typically seems that mercenaries leave that business to others."

Still reclined, she replied "An astute observation."
The Turian wanted to know. He wasn't giving up. 'I'll tell him, emotions be damned, mine or his. Maybe it might even do me some good' she thought. She sat up and turned to face him, and for just a moment, gazed at his pale features recovering from revulsion. The stark contrast of his Blue facepaint on the near white carapace suddenly reminded her of the similar contrast of the blood of her shipmates on the white cloth she had been wearing at the time. She made herself keep eye contact with him though, despite the memories.

"I don't bury the ones I kill. If they were foolish enough to end up dieing by my hand then they don't deserve a burial."
She paused for a moment to let her words sink in.
"I buried the ones that died because of me. Died... when it should of been me."
She stood and walked to window, acting like she was looking out at the stars, but in reality to hide the tears that where beginning to form around her eyes. Not that the Turian would see anyway, with her mask to hide her face.
"I sent the ship with the bodies of my shipmates... my friends... back to the Migrant Fleet. They can do with the remains what they will. I hope it brings them more peace than it has brought me."
Despite her tears, she kept her voice relatively level, careful not to let the Turian know exactly how bad she felt.
"They died because I was too good at killing. And now I'm here for exactly the same reason."
She wheeled around on the spot, looking directly at the Turian, now angry at herself for accepting this mission and at the Turian, because she needed a target for her anger and he was there. Her tears were now of rage.
"Everyone I've ever taken the time to know is dead! Some of them I even killed with my own hands! So you'll forgive me if I don't try to know you. It's for your own safety."

The quarian's cold stoicism, which she had mostly maintained before, completely collapsed with a sudden rush of anger and despondency when she shot what he suspected was a glare. Otho heard her voice waver or falter faintly in her yelling. But despite the abrupt snap and breakdown, Otho didn't wince or gawk at the display. He stood still, and his brown eyes coolly and steadily looked at her as he remained silent.

She turned back to the window and put her head in her hands, suddenly hating her helmet for getting in the way and keeping her apart from the world. She spoke quietly then, her anger spent.
"Keelah... I'm sorry. If it weren't for Saren recruiting me, I'd most likely be lying on the top of a pile of Blue Sun corpses right now."

Although Otho hadn't assumed a specific answer, he hadn't expected the answer he received. In a few minutes, he knew of the serious struggles troubling a stranger that hadn't even stated her name yet, and didn't know his. She probably wouldn't have shared in normal circumstances.
Still, it was unusual to see a mercenary show any pain. Most he had seen laughed at it, or brushed it off and neglected it with their best efforts - 'Like Tzvi seems to.'

It was life for a mercenary, but it clearly didn't justify to the pained quarian the death of her friends.

A moment after she finished speaking, Otho responded, “From what I gather, you've had a great deal of difficulty recently – there's no need to apologize.”

Suddenly her outburst felt silly and ridiculous. She had been trying to avoid telling the crew of the Ryushei this exact thing, and now she'd gone and told the first Turian to walk into the room and ask her a mundane question. Utterly ridiculous. But nonetheless, she felt better for having told someone who she didn't know and wouldn't have to know after this mission. Telling a Blue Sun would get her laughed at for weakness, and telling another Quarian would have them comforting or judging. Or both. The Turian, however, was mercifully lacking any sort of judgement, though, that might of course change if he found out why it had all happened.

He slowly approached the tall quarian, suddenly smaller with her hands protectively wrapped about the mask of her drooped head. Otho was careful not to startle someone with already frayed nerves, and lightly rested a hand on her shoulder.

“It's impressive that you've handled it as well as you have. And, look, if you were to seemingly put me at any risk by mere conversation, it's more likely this mission is already high-risk as is. If you want to chat, I always enjoy talking with someone else in the same project as myself.”

Through her suit she felt the Turians hand on her shoulder. The touch reminded her of another of her crew, who often carried out a similar gesture. The memory seared her mind, but she made a conscious effort not to flinch. If she didn't react, she thought, maybe she'd be able to associate something other than her dead crewmate with it.
The Turian had complemented her on how well she'd handled it. He didn't know the half of it. She felt like shouting at him about how she'd abondoned her post, that even being here was dereliction of duty, like screaming at him that she'd run to Omega and attacked a whole district of Blue Suns in a vain attempt at suicide-by-merc-squad.
But she didn't.
Instead, she replied with a half-hearted "Thank you"

He glanced at his omni-tool without raising his arm, checking the time. His voice ebbed to a lighter tone, “I need to attend my job in a short while, as our benevolent employer has..high expectations of his staff,” he breathed a laugh, “but I'd be happy to continue speaking with you when I leave, if you don't mind walking toward the CIC, or some other time soon, Miss..?”

"Kasyra"

She told him her first name, but she still couldn't make herself acknowledge her ship name, it wasn't as difficult now, but it was still too much.
"I'd rather take a moment here... in the quiet. Maybe... maybe I'll take you up on your offer later."
She sat back down on the couch and looked out at the stars past the Turian as he nodded and left. Anhur was barely a glimmer in the distance now as the ship approached the point at which it could engage the Mass Effect core and travel at faster-than-light speeds towards the Mass Relay.
As she began to regain her composure she said, by way of farewell, "Enjoy your work. Hopefully our next conversation will be less... emotional." And Otho's chuckle could be heard just outside the door.