(no subject)

[redfirelight]

The first visitor to the repair bay was somewhat expected. Especially given it was the day after his day off. He always staggered in at some point, always some shade of spaced out or hungover. Without fail. But it wouldn’t really be the start of a new work week without that shambling, groaning shape dragging his ass into the repair bay, lacking a single scrap of sense for what would be going on in there.

How he never got hit with a crane or tripped over a power cord, they would never know. They’d asked him once, and been told simply: “The power of a ... what do humans say? A man slut!”

They’d told him that wasn’t even remotely the phrase, but he’d only laughed, and returned to sprawling limply over a pile of packing material they had set out to dispose of later. Maybe they should have been more concerned about the whole thing, but really, this way they knew exactly where he was after his binges through the lower bits of Nos Astra. They never had to worry about getting a call he’d fallen off some balcony, or gotten on the wrong end of a bar brawl. As long as he came into the repair bay the next day, their nerves remained calm and steady. He was an idiot, but he was the closest thing to family they had out here.

Ciranus Venari, the man himself, was an absolute mountain of a turian. The species was already in the upper bracket for height among the Milky Way races, but he pushed that envelope even further. Filling out the height with enough muscle to make a young krogan pause. He was pale, colony markings an even paler shade of tan across his face. Sometimes, it seemed like the only color in his whole body was that of his eyes - two bits of vibrant, slit-pupil green. Granted, said eyes were currently squeezed shut, one heavy arm thrown across his face where he reclined.

“You’re getting glitter on my toolkit.”

His answer was a groan, and a slight shuffle to one side. In response, they prodded him with their boot until his other arm flopped out of the way of their tools. Then, as if nothing of note had just happened, they picked up the torch they’d been after, and went to work sealing a crack in the taxi.

“I told you no more levo bars, by the way.”

That got him to lift his head, squinting. There was more glitter still, stuck in between the plating of his face. “How’d you know where I was?” Another suspicious pause. “Maran, are you reading my mind?”

Maran flung a rag at him. It was only slightly assisted with a gentle biotic push. Despite their own heritage, that little nudge was about the extent of their ability - that, and a decent enough barrier. So it was probably best they had shunned the typical “maiden-matron-matriarch” bullshit (their words), in favor of playing to their strengths. Maran Z’Tess, asari mechanic, had a certain hilarious ring to it. Their quarian parent - a botanist back aboard the Migrant Fleet - couldn’t be prouder, and, frankly, that was all Maran really gave a shit about.

“Look at you, making a name for yourself on Illium,” the last message had said. Just like every message before that. Like Ashil’Zor wanted to hammer home how much her child’s meager success meant to someone not even allowed to set foot on the planet. Especially in the absence of their asari parent. “There is always a place on the Fleet, when you feel you’ve accomplished your goal.”

Translation: when Maran felt they’d finished their decades long Pilgrimage.

Another slap to the face of asari culture, they thought, with a touch of smug pride. Stepping over Ciranus again to finish smoothing out the taxi’s peeling panel. It wasn’t the asari who raised them, after all. It was the quarians - a logistical nightmare for their entire family, sure, but they’d done it. And now, Maran was bound and determined to find a way to repay it all. No matter how long it took - they had centuries to figure it out.

“Hey - Maran.”

Right. Ciranus had asked them a question. They rolled their eyes, looking down. “No, dummy,” they said. “You’ve still got the stamp on your hand from the bar.” They grimaced. “‘Humps And Heartthrobs’, Ciran? Really?”

That set him off into a cackle. “I’m a size queen,” he drawled. “And the krogan are really... really - Ow! Shit!”

They had stepped on his hand. Hard. “If you’re going to stick around here being annoying, go lay somewhere else.” His inane commentary, they could pretty much tune out, but he was laying right in their work area. A hazard. “Next time I step on you, it’s not going to be so gentle.”

He grumbled. Groaned. And eventually shambled off to go curl up and doze off his hangover by Maran’s workbench. Or, more precisely, under their workbench. In a few minutes, his snoring cut through the relative quiet of the repair bay.

It was fine, they didn’t need to do any small repairs on the taxi. This was all just exterior damage. Someone had apparently taken the thing for a joyride and nearly run a head on collision with a truck. Whoever it was, the company was going to be billing Maran’s overtime to the dumbass. They wanted it back in service as soon as possible. Something about tourism contracts.

Whatever - this was a simple enough job, albeit lengthy. They’d have to get Ciranus to pick up food when he finally recovered enough to function. When he wasn’t on his partying binges, he was dependable like that. And at least he kept that kind of thing to the clubs, to his various dates’ residences and occasionally those hourly motels. Their little hole of an apartment was nowhere near large enough to soundproof for the kinds of things he got up to. The couple times he had brought someone home, it was to shower, or to actually, literally sleep. Maran couldn’t fault him for that.

Honestly, as far as roommates went, they were pretty damned lucky. There were horror stories all over the extranet from asari who had roommates who expected certain benefits, and when reality sank in, things turned ugly. Fast, in some cases. Even if Ciranus’ tastes were to other men, he easily could have been a leech or brought over partners who were looking for a third. Instead, the worst thing he ever did to their living quarters were using too much hot water. He never talked much about his life before running into Maran, and they didn’t pry. Whatever it was, it had definitely drilled communal living etiquette into him.

Military, probably, Maran thought - finishing up the panel and moving on to some of the more cosmetic issues. That was a turian thing. Everyone was in the military at some point. But hey, he didn’t ask their story either. Didn’t question the green and grey scarf they always wore, or its obvious quarian patterns. He was like a brother, honestly. And...

And the second visitor to the repair bay made themselves known. Or, rather, visitors.

Heavy footfalls announced the small pack of thugs. A couple batarians, a human, and a vorcha, of all things. None of them wore anything like a uniform, so they weren’t with the repair shop, or the taxi company. Dread flickered in Maran’s chest - kindling to life when they noticed every one of them were also, undeniably, armed.

Shit, shit, shit...

“Can I help you?” They asked, and tried to force their voice to steady. Their mind was already racing, trying to remember the mostly unused defense skills their family had drilled into them. They only had a torch in hand, and while heavy, it was going to do shit all against firearms. “Are you with the taxi-“

“Open it up,” said one of the batarians, cutting them off. “The engine block. Open it.”

“If you want to look at the engine, it’s - “

“Shut up, girlie.” The human snapped. He nodded to the others. His face was mostly unremarkable. Brown eyes, brown hair. Nondescript as a human could be. Damn, that would make him harder to identify. The batarians started for the taxi, the vorcha moving to circle Maran. “Friend of ours left something behind. We’re here to pick it up. Shut your mouth, do what we say, and you’ll get back to table dancing before the night’s out.”

The rest of them chuckled. The vorcha made some kind of gargling noise. “Like her!” It - he? How did you tell with vorcha? - jeered. “Strong! We like!”

There was indignation smoldering under the fear. Not she, Maran wanted to scream. Wanted to lash out with some kind of biotic charge, or something. I am not “she”.

“Get the goods first,” the human ordered. And while the batarians clearly followed direction, the vorcha didn’t seem to want to follow suit. Instead, it sidled up behind Maran, close. Too close. They could see the razor maw out of the corner of their eye.

Never she.

It was stupid.

It was so damned stupid. But the rage boiled over. Maran’s arm moved almost without their brain saying anything. The torch they still held tight in one hand was no good against a firearm, sure, but against a vorcha’s unprotected eye? It worked wonders.

The vorcha howled. It shoved at them, and Maran went stumbling into one of the batarians, even as they tried to right themselves. He swore at them, and whipped around in a backhand that caught them across one purple cheek.

They could hear the human snarling for the others to hurry it up. To leave “the little bitch” and get what they’d come for. That he would “deal with her” in a minute, because how dare someone cross their gang. That Maran would remember this - would remember the name of the gang they’d dared lash out against.

Whatever that name was, Maran never actually found out.

They never found out because a shockwave of blue and purple light whipped across the floor, hitting the human and detonating with enough force to send him flying into the taxi. The batarians yelled, bringing their weapons around to bear, only to be caught with two more flares of biotic energy. Lifting them into the air where they careened off the ceiling, unable to even scream.

That was the other benefit of Maran’s roommate.

Ciranus Venari had risen from under the bench, sometime in the confrontation. Blue and violet warred in a corona of light around him. Bits of energy flickered around him, surpassing the corona, and setting the smallest bits of repair bay debris to levitating a few inches off the ground. Even his eyes glowed, their usual green transformed to brilliant white with the biotic force surrounding him.

He didn’t walk. He didn’t run. He stalked across the floor, to the screaming vorcha, his hangover apparently obliterated. All replaced with the grace of an angry predator. His mandible pulled down, flared out, exposing the long lines of teeth in his jaw. With the pale color of his plating, he looked like some other worldly demon. Some creature out of fantasy given flesh, bone, and biotics.

The turian reared back a huge, taloned fist... and slammed it into the vorcha’s skull. The screaming abruptly stopped.

The two batarians dropped with sickening crunches on the repair bay floor, leaving only the human, staggering to his feet, trying to snap his gun up before Ciranus noticed. He only got it partially aligned with the angry turian before another surge of purple-blue energy shot him across the room, with barely a flick of a wrist. This time, the man stopped moving altogether.

Silence.

An alarm kicked off somewhere. All the commotion must have finally tripped a security system.

Maran didn’t flinch when he lowered a hand to them. Even with the slimy red vorcha blood clinging to his talons. Better than glitter. “How bad are you hurt?” His voice showed no trace of the earlier lethargy, or even giddiness. The undertones of it, the echos, were all concern. “Sorry - I was out cold until the vorcha was screaming.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, not entirely. Their face hurt. Their pride hurt. They tried to reason with their own head - nothing like this had ever happened before, not at this shop, and not over a taxi, of all things. It had to have been small timers. If it had been Eclipse after the stupid vehicle, neither of them would have gotten out in one piece. Not that it helped much. “It’ll bruise. That’s all.”

Ciranus kept hold of their hand for a bit longer than necessary, looking them over. The corona had faded, and his eyes were back to their normal green, boring into Maran. “Let’s get you home,” he said, finally. “I’ll stick around. I can talk to anyone who comes checking.”

When they tried to protest, he shook his head, firmly. “I can sweet talk the pants off a krogan, Mar, I can tell an investigator my roommate needed to get home to do a little self care for themselves.”

There was no stress on the final word. None of it in his main voice. It was all below. The air practically thrummed with the weight he put on it.

Never she.

They relented. Slapped his broad chest with their free hand. “Thanks, you big meathead.”

“You got it.”