Steve had told her once, her Steve of course, that in transit she was as vulnerable as anyone, but on the ground, invincible. She'd laughed at the time, given him the smile he was looking for, but the shadow of a half-million dead batarians had loomed, dark and silent, over every word.
Torfan. Aratoht. Pinnacle Station. Sanctuary.
A quieter voice whispered names, the names of ships, of people, little snippets. Had to be me, she told herself, when she accepted the job. Shepard didn't mind a little blood on her hands. Hell, she welcomed it. Anything, anything to break out of the monotony; Commander Shepard wasn't built for peace. She was a goddess of war. She had killed five people to get here, the foundation of a warehouse. It was built to house coal, four storeys; not the tallest building in town, but it had a squat, toad-like footprint. It was saturated with coal-dust, like cleanliness was only a patina put over a black-crack core. It would burn like a match and blow chunks of charcoal all over the surrounding neighborhood, igniting the town. Shepard had killed five people, unarmed civilians, to get here.
The door guard had seen her, and reacted too slow; she'd crushed his throat with the heel of her hand then brought him down the access ramp. The next four had been waiting for her, unconcerned, waiting to offload their orders, complaining about the hour of the day. She was early, after all.
They weren't ready.
She shot them all, calm, methodical, pop-pop-pop, and when the last one came around the corner to see what had happened, pop. Easy, too easy. Messy. She closed the loading-bay doors, dragged the bodies out of the casual line of sight, noted the locations of the antique security cameras, and went to work.
Simple principle: find the support beam. Where is the floor weakest? Set the charge, don't look up. Focus. Wire the explosives. Check the timer. Hope you weren't followed.
Open to Sam Wilson
Steve had told her once, her Steve of course, that in transit she was as vulnerable as anyone, but on the ground, invincible. She'd laughed at the time, given him the smile he was looking for, but the shadow of a half-million dead batarians had loomed, dark and silent, over every word.
Torfan. Aratoht. Pinnacle Station. Sanctuary.
A quieter voice whispered names, the names of ships, of people, little snippets. Had to be me, she told herself, when she accepted the job. Shepard didn't mind a little blood on her hands. Hell, she welcomed it. Anything, anything to break out of the monotony; Commander Shepard wasn't built for peace. She was a goddess of war. She had killed five people to get here, the foundation of a warehouse. It was built to house coal, four storeys; not the tallest building in town, but it had a squat, toad-like footprint. It was saturated with coal-dust, like cleanliness was only a patina put over a black-crack core. It would burn like a match and blow chunks of charcoal all over the surrounding neighborhood, igniting the town. Shepard had killed five people, unarmed civilians, to get here.
The door guard had seen her, and reacted too slow; she'd crushed his throat with the heel of her hand then brought him down the access ramp. The next four had been waiting for her, unconcerned, waiting to offload their orders, complaining about the hour of the day. She was early, after all.
They weren't ready.
She shot them all, calm, methodical, pop-pop-pop, and when the last one came around the corner to see what had happened, pop. Easy, too easy. Messy. She closed the loading-bay doors, dragged the bodies out of the casual line of sight, noted the locations of the antique security cameras, and went to work.
Simple principle: find the support beam. Where is the floor weakest? Set the charge, don't look up. Focus. Wire the explosives. Check the timer. Hope you weren't followed.
(Know, that you were.)