[Aranthos] Non-State Actors

A year ago, Cerberus had made an honest-to-god bid for galactic dominance, the kind you usually just read about in thrillers. Within days of the war starting, they'd openly sabotaged the efforts against the Reaper invasion and moved to enact all kinds of blatant attempts at political takeovers. They had seemingly unlimited resources, a remarkable number of foot soldiers for a supposed clandestine terrorist group, a whole fleet of ships and mechs, and the backing of more than a few traitors with more power than necessary.

How the wheel does turn, Shirin Vedral thought, and the smile it brought to her lips was anything but pleasant.

"Corvette 1185, this is MSV Azure Wheelbarrow, responding as agreed-upon to your distress call."

And now here she was, extorting intel from the fractured remains of Cerberus in their hour of need. Splendid. To say that the organization was totally in ruins was a bit exaggerated; Shirin had no doubt that plenty of remnant cells like this one existed in the galaxy, and furthermore that they had plenty of resources. But they'd had their shot already, and it was over now. The dream was dead. A more effective blow to Cerberus, really, than anything a fleet of ships could've inflicted.

"We'll maintain distance for the moment. You should be able to pick us up on your short-range scanners; there's no other ships in the area. Commendable job on hiding, on that note."

That didn't mean they couldn't still be useful. Once the drell had established to her crew that their clients were not to be trusted under any circumstances whatsoever (and, indeed, rigorously driven a set of contingency plans into their heads), she had allowed herself to dwell on some of the possibilities. The intel they'd be getting was primarily based around former Cerberus facilities - military bases, research installations, and so on - and the potential profit was considerable, if their luck held.

"Acknowledge, and we can get down to discussing business."

Working with Cerberus wasn't exactly a detail Cerastes had planned for himself as a child.

That said, he hadn't counted on becoming an information broker, either. A few feet behind Shirin, the broker leaned quietly against the wall, listening with intent as she rasped over the radio. The approach had gone smoothly thusfar, and, with such a competent captain in place, he had little doubt that extraction would be a breeze. All the same, his red eyes flicked towards the captain of the MSV Azure Wheelbarrow, examining her closely as she radioed in.

"Where do you want me?" he asked, once he was certain that the comm had ended. The stealthsuit he wore beneath his usual attire spoke volumes on its own.

"Cerastes..."

She suppressed her agitation. This was really not a situation that would benefit from lack of communication, at all. Considering it was Cerberus, the odds of shipjacking, mad science, or attempted power plays were substantially greater than zero, and Shirin preferred not to take her chances.

"Keep an eye on them during the initial boarding stage; they've been informed ahead of time that everyone who isn't Operative Mirice is staying in the inner and outer airlocks. So make sure they follow accordingly. Afterwards, you're doing floating surveillance - most of the time, I want you keeping an eye on the clients with Kirok, Ana, and Aliquam, but if you feel they've got the situation under control, feel free to help Jil watch our VIP."

Behind her, the white drell nodded.

"Understood."

Ironically, Operative Isabelle Mirice was thinking much the same as Shirin.

The last time Corvette 18115 had access to the extranet, Cerberus was ascendant throughout the known galaxy. They'd struck at least two alien homeworlds, narrowly lost control of the Citadel, thrown Aria out of Omega and had almost turned the Reapers' own technology against themselves.

...and then, well, it had all imploded. Mirice had already made a mental note - in very big writing underlined twice - to never experiment with indoctrination.

We'd have had it all, if we'd been more careful.

Her reverie was interrupted by Sonia's arrival from the bridge. "Operative? We're being hailed. It's those rescuers you contacted."

"Excellent," she replied, striding from her quarters and towards the bridge, "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

---

"Acknowledged, MSV Azure Wheelbarrow. Corvette 18115 reads you loud and clear." Over the comm, Isabelle's voice was like a shard of glass in an ice bucket - cold and unexpectedly sharp. "To business, then. How close to Shanxi can your ship take us? We are prepared to offer the previously-agreed-upon sum of credits once docking procedures have commenced, as well as whatever information you deem necessary."

It galled her to be reduced to this, begging aliens for help from the bridge of an empty ship, but to say that she didn't have much choice was an overstatement. Faced with the complete destruction of everything they held dear, not to mention the very real prospect of death by starvation, the surviving crew had backed her play.

They weren't happy about the airlock thing, but hey.

---

A quick scan of the ship - bone white and flying the Cerberus logo proudly (which might have explained the lack of jokes about the Azure Wheelbarrow's name, given the similarities) - didn't reveal much.

Weapons system? Down.
Kinetic barriers? Down. They'd hold up against debris, but little else.
Engines? Down.
Electronic warfare suite? Down.
Lights? Down.
Life support? Just hanging onto the 'existent' side of 'non-existent'. They clearly had oxygen, heating and water, but likely below the baseline for humans.

No wonder they hadn't kicked up a fuss about the airlocks.

"Shanxi is doable. It's a little too far into Citadel-affiliated space to be seen unloading a bunch of Cerberus, mind, but I think that can be circumvented. Here's my proposition: Illium, and we'll set your crew up with a sponsored direct shuttle the rest of the way." A pause. "With a secure cargo container, since I'm guessing you're probably going to transport some things that you don't want anyone looking closely at."

This first phase was going to be the most important. Not because if anything went wrong, it would go wrong here. No, if anything went wrong, it'd be halfway through, at the most dull part of the trip, when suspicions were ostensibly lowest. Still, first impressions meant a lot - this was her first real chance at spotting any potential treachery, and an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. Paranoia was hard-wired into Shirin's DNA, and as a career terrorist of sorts she was well aware of what properly-trained people could do in an unsupervised moment.

The ship itself, at least, didn't look like much of a threat. Jil's scanners suggested their problem was both legit and extremely dire, which helped dispel any suspicions that they were lying in ambush.

"We're approaching. Stand by for docking procedures."

As the AzWheel extended its umbilical bridge, Shirin allowed herself a sigh. Now came the hard part.

"All right, I want all of you watching our 'clients' for the rest of the trip. Kirok especially. It's only a day and a half or so, but I don't think I have to warn any of you about what we're dealing with here. They're already aware that their reputation leaves them on thin ice, so don't hesitate to vent them if they start getting mutinous."

The scientists were just tools, really - their only strength was in numbers and opportunism, and Shirin wasn't particularly worried about them. Operative Mirice, given her leadership role and probable experience, was much more of a potential threat, which was why Shirin had 1) brought Min along and 2) decided to go greet their guest in person.

Besides, it was her duty as host. Hospitality was important; you couldn't get away with slipping a knife between your guest's ribs more than once every eight or nine years, or else your reputation would start suffering.

If Min could be described as anything, it would be restless. As much as she liked to pride herself on her self-control, her agitation over their new arrivals was becoming more apparent with each passing moment. It took a real effort to keep herself from pacing the floor. Cerberus was gone. Dead. She sold it out herself. But it was hard to get around a tumultuous sense of anxiety as the Azure Wheelbarrow made its' approach. Shirin had offered her a talk with Mirice, and frankly, she didn't really have a game plan for it. It wasn't that she was unfamiliar with her sort - she was a dyed in the wool humanity first type, and hardly rare in an organization that identified under such rhetoric. It was more that Min had no clue what she even wanted to talk to the operative about. There was no doubt she wanted to do it, but all of a sudden it was becoming very clear that she'd be making this up as she went along.

Mirice trying to strangle her the moment she was alone with her wasn't entirely off the table, either.

As Shirin exchanged words with the operative over the radio, Min gestured towards the hallway.

"I'll wait by the airlock. It'd be best if a human were spearheading the welcoming committee."

Min's anxiety spread over the room like a cloud.

Cerastes watched the human closely as she paced, quietly taking note of her nervous habits. Alright, so she had every reason to be anxious, frightened, angry, whatever it was she was feeling; taking on a crew of true, god-forsaken Cerberus wasn't a day-to-day chore for any of them. Still, as the drell watched her disappear down the hall, he felt a pang of age-old wariness himself.

"Think she'll be alright?" It was a question born more out of concern for the operation than the individual. "She handled Clover fine, but this must be personal for her."

“Y’know, I really don’t think it matters,” piped up Ana, who was busy slinging a lethal-looking shotgun over her shoulder. “They got a helluva choice anyway, right? Say, either the aaaaaaliens they screwed over, or, heh, the humans they, y’know, screwed over.”

Obviously no one had clued Ana in on Min’s previous affiliations.

“Either way, they’re lookin’ to get screwed - am I right’re am I right?”

Kirok shouldered Ana aside as he stomped into the room, shotgun loaded and pointed to the floor, bayonet stuck to the end like the spear of an angry god, his armor fitted with heavy durasteel plating for close-quarters combat, a surly expression in his terrible yellow eyes. Interestingly, there was a new decoration on his armor, a black-line logo on his left shoulder - a crowned skull on a bed of laurels, smoking a cigar.

"Fuckin' cerbs," he growled as he checked his grenade belt and loosened the twin carnifexes in their holsters. "Can't trust 'em far as y'can throw 'em. Goddamned mutant cyborg-headed husk fucks. I hadta fight my way off Omega when them shits invaded, an' lost some friends doin' so. I unnerstand dis is bidness, Shirin, but they so much as think 'bout pissin' me off..."

He left the threat hanging in the air as he rolled his neck, the vertebrae cracking like rocks.

The pause at Mirice's end stretched on. And on, and on.

If the operative knew that she was using the same argument as Analina, of all people, she'd likely have shot herself in the throat and had done with it all.

---

The AzWheel's docking bridge was nearly touching the Cerberus ship when the comm finally sounded into life again.

"Very well, Ms. Serpente Verte, Illium is accepted, as are the rest of your suggestions." A distant thud reverberated over the system as the umbilical bridge connected to 18115's airlock. "We are loaded up and ready to board, Azure Wheelbarrow. Six technicians, all armed, one hovertrolley and myself. Our airlock is open, awaiting your permission to board.

"And Ms. Serpente Verte?..." There was a faint choking sound, akin to somebody taking a swallow from a hip flask of battery acid. "...thank you."

---

When the Cerberus crew did cross over, it would be readily apparent that Mirice hadn't been lying. Six technicians, only four of them wearing proper hardsuits, clustered around a hovertrolley full of... Well, 'technical stuff' would be an appropriate description, although 'technical stuff covered in Cerberus logos' was much closer to the mark.

One of the hardsuit-clad scientists did look a bit out of place, though. This woman stood a full head taller than the others, and she cradled the Falcon rifle in her hands with a lot more confidence and ease than her partners did their pistols and SMGs.

The woman in the lead was, without a doubt, Operative Mirice. She leaned on the short side, for a human, her Andean complexion clashing with the white and orange Cerberus armour she was wearing.

When the airlock doors did open (and close, because, you know, airlock), her first words were "Operative Mirice and the crew of corvette 18115. Who's in charge around here?"

"You're welcome," Shirin said cheerfully, and then threw an "Almost definitely" over her shoulder at Cerastes as she left the bridge.

The question was not how Cerastes knew Min was ex-Cerberus; to assume so was a fallacy, even though it was his job to know things. He could've just been talking about her level of anxiety. As someone who had answered "How did you know _______" with "Because you just told me" more than once, Shirin knew better than to investigate.

Besides, she had substantially more important things to worry about at the moment.

---

As it turned out, there was not a lot to worry about re: the Cerberus.

Sure, to underestimate them based on numbers would be a grave mistake - Shirin herself was proof of what a well-trained operator could accomplish with a team that small - but these humans were wretched, tired, hungry, and most importantly, demoralized-looking. They weren't likely to pose much of a threat. ("Not likely" was not the same as "certainly not", of course, and so the plan would proceed as normal.)

The one asking for her was in charge - same voice, and no way to mistake that aura of command. "That'd be me," she offered, stepping up between Kirok and Min. "Shirin Vedral - I'm the HBIC as far as this operation goes."

Fun Fact: "HBIC" was Shirin's actual job title, as listed on the haul division records.

"The krogan's my SIC, and this is my corporate liaison, Mei Zhang. Welcome aboard, Operative. My men will make sure yours are provided for - in the meantime, I thought I'd invite you to sit down and have a drink."

Kirok had no idea what SIC meant, but he wasn't going to let a little thing like not understanding something interfere with his job. As far as he was concerned, 'his job' right now meant 'keep an eye on the cerbie bastards and plug 'em as soon as something goes wrong unless Shirin says otherwise.'

"Ya'll fuckers don't go anywhere, y'hear?" Kirok said as he grinned through the transparent durasteel of the airlock's inner hatch. "Don't need ya'll... wandering off."

The looks he received just ignited the sadistic streak in the krogan. He glanced down at the Big. Red. Button next to the airlock.

"C'mon, folks. Just smile a little. After all, you've gotta enjoy what time you've got left. One little mistake, an'... poof"

Cerastes knew desperation when he saw it.

With that said, it wouldn't be too far-fetched to imagine that the Cerberus team had likely been on the verge of contemplating cannibalism before their signal had been picked up. Knowing that of all the aliens on the ship, the sight of him was probably the most likely to illicit disgust, the drell stood quietly in the background, red eyes keen on the new arrivals. He'd have to plan his words carefully in order to avoid conflict.

Shirin, at the very least, appeared to be handling things well, but Cerastes had something other than establishing hierarchy in mind.

"I'll be back in a moment with water," he rasped, nodding to the humans as he turned towards the kitchen. "Clean and fresh."

Mirice's eyes narrowed, barely perceptible, at the ensemble of aliens rescuing them.

Drell. The only one I've seen was rather competent for a child soldier, so don't rule anything out. Krogan are... Well, krogan. Biotics are tricky, but Sonia can deal with that, and the Cause started off killing turians, so-

She shook her head, hoping it would come off as weariness rather than, well, cognitive dissociation. The last time she'd seen anybody not wearing Cerberus colours, the standing orders were summary execution with optional forcible integration.

But times have certainly changed. Sadly.

And so it was that Operative Isabelle Mirice closed the distance between herself and the Band (slowly and calmly, with pistol holstered and both hands open and visible), until she was barely a pace away from the interior airlock door, staring through the durasteel. "A pleasure, Ms. Vedral, Mr..." Krogan? "And Ms. Zhang. I can't thank you enough for the lift."

What was that expression, as her eyes drifted over Min's? Who knew.

"I'm not sure if introductions are necessary on our end, but I'm Operative Isabelle Mirice, and Ms. Bompastor there-" one hand pointed to the tall lady with the grenade launcher, "-is my second. Any and all requests you require to make to my people should be directed to her."

For her part, Sonia Bompastor nodded. Not much of a talker, that one.

"But with all that in mind, a drink sounds lovely." And far more civilised than she'd expected, she must admit. Wheels were turning behind Mirice's gaze as she waited for the inner hatch to open.

---

Her crew were... Well. There are a lot of antonyms for 'composed', and any of them would fit nicely. The technicians and researchers stayed close to the 'trolley, hands shaking but fingers well away from the triggers.

The only exception was Sonia, Ms. Bompastor. After nodding to Cerastes at the offer of water, the Frenchwoman locked eyes with Kirok through the hatch.

...or tried to, at least. It was hard to tell what she was looking at, with that four-eyed helmet.

Their new arrivals could have looked more pleased about rescue. Min supposed she couldn't really blame them, though. As far as they were concerned, they were on top of the galaxy before the galaxy stopped calling back. Now they were suffering the mercy of the people they'd fought their war with, and they couldn't afford to be picky. Still, she didn't give them a second glance. That was Kirok's job. Min nodded towards their new guest, locking eyes with her through the reinforced glass. This was all too familiar. The aloof expression. The practiced smile. Basic language in Cerberus - that smile she was giving the welcoming committee was one she'd worn herself. Still, it was obvious that something in Mirice was fraying, and it wasn't hard to guess why. That ship would've been a casket in a month. Trying very hard not to come across as uneasy, she offered the operative the very same smile.

"No need to thank us, Ms. Mirice." It was doubtful that either party wanted one.

And the hatch hissed open.

"Splendid."

The observant viewer would not fail to notice that Shirin's hands remained behind her back the entire time the interior airlock door was open, right up until it closed again, and although it was a very passable (and clearly practiced) parade rest, she was probably not motivated by decorum in doing so. Hospitality or no, Cerberus had something of a stained reputation.

"Mr. Kirok, ensure that they get the food they need. You know what to do if there's trouble. Ms. Zhang, if you would?"

It was likewise notable that she let Min go first, with Mirice between them, and brought up the rear. Still, even as she idly fingered the enormous handgun behind her back, that pleasant tone never quite dropped. The smiler with the knife is the one you respect, as they'd always said back in training.

Plus if things turned out to go well and she'd been rude anyway, well, that'd just be embarrassing.

---

"--and since several of the smaller carriers on Illium owe me a favor or two, we should have your connecting shuttle to Shanxi arranged by the time we land."

Having reheated and reprepared last week's cervelle with a hot picante sauce, Shirin was finding it a lot more tolerable. Mirice, granted, would probably not be interested in haute cuisine (particularly not this batch, for reasons that the drell found privately amusing), and besides, she needed something more substantial after basically starving. As such, they'd brought out thinly-sliced maanru filet from Thessia, served over rice - protein and carbs, designed to hit the spot just right.

Having not eaten herself yet, Shirin figured she'd at least wait until she'd finished eating and gotten to feel out the client a little before leaving Min to her reminiscing.

"So, if it's not overly personal, what were you before Cerberus? Like, training-wise. O7, AIS...?"

This would normally be the point at which Ana would make some offhand comment that incensed Kirok, but she was a bit busy fulfilling her other role – that is, stuffing a cigar in her mouth as she both cut and lit it with a still-searing omni-blade. As the hook-like talon shinged into existence, she took a few puffs…and slowly dragged it across the durasteel, carving out a crude, yet altogether familiar symbol.



The blade scraped loudly as she drew, and when she was finished, she snapped the blade and let it fall. Cocking her brow, she exhaled against the bulkhead just long enough to highlight the brand…and then she turned, taking up her position just out of sight.

When Cerastes returned, it was with good tidings for Cerberus.

Said tidings required two trips: on the first, the drell came carrying three pitchers of water (one in each hand, the third pressed against his chest and arms), which he set upon a table off to the side in the room. On the second, he arrived with a large, cardboard box, hastily labeled 'DO NOT EAT UNLESS YOU BOUGHT EM!' on the side. The box was full of protein bars, its top laden with plastic cups.

"If you've been on rations as long as I suspect you have," Cerastes began, "your stomachs have shrunk, and your insulin levels are going to be out of sync. Now, what this means for you is that we can't just give you a plate and let you at it; you risk rupturing your stomach if you eat too much too fast, and you're going to need more vitamins than you can get out of normal food. Luckily, someone on board has a penchant for protein bars. For now, you're going to have one a piece. You'll likely experience stomach cramping, possibly diarhhea, both of which are perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of."

How the hell did this guy know so much about starvation?

"If the latter occurs, I'll need to be informed immediately, as you're going to need additional water - which, if it tastes sweet to you, is due to the sugar I mixed in. It will help." He glanced off to Kirok, then to Ana. Shirin, Mirice, and Min must have wandered off to talk business. "Ms. Ana and I will escort like-sexed persons to the bathroom. I expect you'll be willing to drop your weapons for the occasion."

A pale hand gestured to the 'meal' at the table.

"Whenever you're ready, Ms. Ana."

"Dunno why ya'll're gettin' so worked up over dis," Kirok snarled, bringing out his shotgun and checking the heat clip again. "They're in an airlock. Ain't much they can do. Luckily I always come prepared."

The krogan then let out the most ear-piercing whistle heard, a thin, high screech of a sound that reverberated through the walls and bulkheads of the ship like a pinball. There was silence for a moment. Then, a cacophony of growling, spitting, and snarling picked up, a storm of bestial noise running through the ship like an angry tide. Within seconds, no less than ten large, scarred, well-muscled and well-fed attack varren - led by a very proud and friendly looking Whitefang, no less - scraped to a stop near Kirok's feet, all looking up at him with the same inquisitive, rapacious glare. One varren by itself was intimidating. Eleven well-trained and obviously battle-ready varren were rarely a sight many people even got to LIVE through.

"Meet th' Brood," Kirok said proudly, gesturing expansively. "Courtesy th' greatest Beastmaster what ever was grown up on Murtag soil. That's Redscale, Armageddon, Slaughter, Lucifer, Bluetongue, Stinger, Blackfang, Reaper, Hound, an' Mean Joe. Deadly, well-trained, lethal, an' above all else, smart. I tell 'em t'keep an eye on dem Cerbies, that's what they'll do. The instant one'a dem gets a whiff of somethin' funny, I'll know. Long as we got them as our eyes, ears, an' talons, we kin feed th' fuckin' skeletons inside without worry."

The Brood looked as one into to the airlock, ten pairs of flat blue reptilian eyes staring down the hungry soldiers within. They'd just been fed, but they could always make room for more.

Whitefang, however, was busy getting pets.