#awkend

𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙇  ⇢ @awkend​

    𝑷𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑳 𝑰𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑭𝑻𝑬𝑫 and her teeth grit hard enough to make her jaw ache, unflinching gaze centered down the barrel. hardly the way shepard prefers to make an introduction, but her heart is racing within the confines of her ribs, pounding up all the way to slender throat. “just...just who, what, are you?” she suspect she knows the answer already, but even her instincts aren’t to be trusted on omega. 

    “you? you’re the one helping those kids?” mind rushes with equal confusion and curiosity, though features remain stony, unyielding. however, the pistol lowers a fraction of an inch. good work is good work, regardless of who’s doing it. “let’s have a chat.” 

❝  maybe,  ❞  he  admits.  it's  true.  very  few  are  able  to  do  what  he  does  and  get  away  with  it,  unscathed,  out  of  harm's  way.  dodging  gunfire  and  whatever  else  might  get  thrown  at  you  in  the  wide  expanse  of  the  galaxy  is  not  a  talent  that  comes  naturally;  it  has  to  be  learned.  he  doesn't  think  he's  ever  fallen  down  on  account  of  his  own  clumsiness  in  his  entire  life.  thane  can't  help  the  look  he  gives  ilyan:  once  quickly  up,  once  quickly  down,  appraising,  considering.  ❝  i  could  try  teaching  you,  if  you  wanted.  ❞  he's  taught  others:  mouse  comes  to  mind,  alongside  other  drala'fa,  who  needed  to  know  their  way  around,  how  to  bend  and  not  break.

𝚂𝙷𝙴’𝙳 𝙷𝙰𝙳 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳.   There were few things that bothered her quite as much as not knowing something ;  information was power,  and there was no individual on Omega that had as much power as her.  For a while,  she’d skirted along on not knowing the specifics of this situation — a Collector on Omega,  no wonder people were talking — but it had gotten to the point where not knowing more was getting under her skin.  Henchmen turned up dead or without information or proof,  the subject — the supposed rogue Collector — yet again elusive,  enigmatic.

Ironic that it would be a child that would lead her to it.  So much for the competence of her lackeys.

Aria is in a rare position ;  away from her perch at the top of Afterlife,  somewhere in the dingy catwalks and streets between apartments.  In her right hand is a tinier one,  grimy little chitin-y clawed fingers held in hers. A turian child,  leading her to a supposed insectoid friend,  all too happy to help her,  a woman who was not unlike a super-hero of sorts  (their word,  not hers)  to the street-rats in every other alleyway.