Pain clawed at my skull, a white-hot spike that yanked me from the void. My eyes fluttered open, vision a blur of sterile white and gold, like a Cerberus lab left to rot. I was sprawled on a cold, polished floor, its faint hum vibrating through my cheek, alien and wrong. The air stung my throat—ozone laced with a sour tang, like fried circuits and bad decisions. My head throbbed, a pulsar of agony that screamed I'd taken a hit, hard. Where the hell was I?
Flashes stabbed through the haze—jagged, disjointed. A ring of glyphs, glowing like a dying star, pulsing with a rhythm that shook my bones. Whatever I just fell through shrieked as a Reaper's death knell, tearing me apart. A shadow, a rifle's butt cracking against my temple, stars exploding before the black swallowed me. I groaned, my fingers twitching, reaching for the familiar grip of my M-3 Predator. It was there, collapsed to its compact form, holstered at my hip. Whatever this nightmare was, I wasn't naked.
A sharp crack split the air—too close, like a thermal clip unloading in a firefight. My instincts screamed, and I rolled, head pounding, just as a shadow loomed. A figure in dark robes, gripping a clunky blaster rifle, snarled, "Covenant scum!" His pendant glinted, a twisted metal sigil I'd seen before, but I didn't have time to think. He swung the rifle's butt, same move that'd dropped me. Not again. My omni-tool flared, orange light snapping to life as the omni-blade hummed, a sixty-centimeter shard of molten death. I drove it through his chest, instinct overriding the pain. The guard gasped, eyes wide with shock, then crumpled, blood pooling on the pristine floor, his rifle clattering beside him.
I staggered to my feet, breath ragged, the headache a dull roar now. The pendant caught my eye—same as those cultists in Coruscant's underbelly, the Sith Eternal. Fanatics with a fetish for red glowsticks and bad attitudes. I nudged the body, checking the rifle's stock. Scratched, blood-smeared—mine, no doubt. So that's what'd knocked me out. Bastard got lucky once. Not twice.
The chamber was a cathedral of wrongness, all gleaming durasteel and golden conduits that pulsed like veins under skin. Holographic glyphs swirled in the air, their patterns mocking me, like EDI's data streams twisted into a language I couldn't crack. Blasts echoed nearby, mixed with that damn hum—glowsticks, slicing through the chaos. Screams followed, human, alien, guttural, punctuated by the thump of grenades. A full-on assault, a stone's throw away, maybe a corridor or two. My gut churned. Trouble didn't just find me—it always rolled out the red carpet.
I steadied myself against the wall, its surface cool and slick, the hum crawling up my arm. This wasn't my galaxy. The tech, the vibe—it screamed the same star-hopping madness I'd stumbled into on Yavin 4, then Mustafar, then that scrapheap Kaelis. Just a little over a month in this place, and I still felt like a stranger, every corner hiding a new brand of crazy. But it wasn't the Citadel, and it sure as hell wasn't Earth. I wasn't home, and someone still owed me answers.
The battle's din grew sharper—whining blasts, like overclocked mass accelerators, and those glowsticks, their buzz cutting through shouts and shattering metal. I moved to a massive window, its frame etched with more glyphs, glowing faintly, taunting. Outside, a city sprawled, a neon-soaked fever dream that dwarfed Illium's glitzy sprawl. Towers clawed at a smog-choked sky, their peaks swallowed by haze, while holographic billboards bled colors—alien script, garish faces, promises of vice. Swoop bikes roared between spires, their engines a banshee's wail, weaving through air thick with ash and desperation. Below, the streets churned—flashes of gunfire, crowds scattering like roaches under a boot. It was a warzone masquerading as a marketplace, Illium's black-market districts stacked a kilometer high, then left to fester. A banner hung from a nearby tower, some gaudy crest with a slug-like emblem—corporate logo, maybe, or a local kingpin's brand. Didn't matter. This place was a powder keg, and I'd landed in the spark.
My omni-tool pinged, diagnostics green despite the pounding in my skull. My biotics stirred, sluggish, an eezo hum flickering in my veins, like a half-charged battery. The Predator's grip was solid in my hand, its collapsed form ready to snap to full length with a thought. The Wraith hung heavy, its frame scarred from Reapers and worse. I was armed, pissed, and done playing tourist. The fighting was close, a level down, maybe less. Someone out there—friend, foe, or bleeding out—knew something. About this city, the teleporter I must have fallen through, or why these cultists were dogging my every step. I'd fought Reapers, stared down indoctrination, lost too much to quit now.
I stepped over the guard's body, his blood a dark mirror on the floor. The chamber's hum followed me, a ghost in my bones, as I moved toward the noise. Blasts, glowsticks, screams—they called like a siren, promising trouble and truth in equal measure. In my line of work, you didn't wait for the fight to find you. You walked into it, eyes open, and made it regret crossing your path.
The corridor reeked of death, a sour cocktail of blood, scorched metal, and something acrid, like eezo gone bad. My boots crunched on shattered glass, the Predator in my grip. My head still throbbed, a dull pulse from that cultist's cheap shot, but pain was an old friend. I moved low, slicing the pie around a corner, my N7 training a reflex—clear the angles, control the space, kill anything that twitches. The distant whine of blasts and hum of glowsticks pulled me forward, a siren's call through this alien hellhole. Someone out there had answers, and I'd carve them out if I had to.
The facility was a graveyard, its multi-level sprawl gutted by a massacre that screamed brute force. Bodies littered the floor—human, alien, and things I couldn't name, their flesh torn by precision strikes or raw savagery. A mercenary in patched armor lay slumped against a wall, his chest a crater, clutching a vial of glittering dust. Spice, I think they call it. A droid husk sparked nearby, its branding half-melted, like a corporate logo left to rot. Blood slicked the durasteel, pooling under flickering holoscreens that looped garish ads—alien faces, promises of credits, lies in a language I didn't need to understand. This wasn't just a skirmish; it was a full-on assault, the kind that levels organizations. And I'd landed in the aftermath.
A shadow flickered ahead, and I froze, Predator low-ready. A straggler, robed like the guard I'd dropped, pendant glinting. Sith Eternal. He raised a clunky blaster, too slow. My pistol snapped, 'crack!'—a single thermal round, clean through his throat. He gurgled, collapsing, blood spraying the wall. No hesitation, no mercy. The shot's precision mixed with the ever-pressing ambiance outside pulled me back to Illium, to Thane Krios, a drell wraith in the neon haze. I'd watched him drop from vents, scales glinting like polished jade, whispering, "Amonkira, guide my hand." His biotic pulse flared, a guard's neck snapped in a blur, then a pistol round took Nassana Dantius's skull—sharp, quick, lethal, like a prayer answered in blood. "The soul chooses," he'd said later, voice low, eyes distant, teaching me to weave my Vanguard charges with that same cold focus. His craft was art, and I'd carried it here, to this alien hell. I stepped over the body, clearing the next room—empty, save for a shattered console spitting sparks and a corpse with tentacles for a face, its tech rig glowing faintly, like an eezo core twisted wrong. It wasn't my home's tech, but it was close, and that made my skin crawl. These Covenant, or whatever they were, didn't belong here any more than I did.
The fighting's echo grew sharper, a level down, maybe two. I descended a stairwell, boots silent, checking corners. Bodies piled at the landing—more covenant, their salamander-like skin glistening, stasis fields flickering around them, like biotic barriers gone haywire. I nudged one with my pistol's barrel. Dead, but the tech hummed, alien yet familiar, like Cerberus gear warped by a nightmare. I continued on, more of the Veiled Covenant's work, no doubt, tearing through this Sith Eternal nest. Why? I needed more than dead men to tell me.
Another straggler lunged from a doorway, vibroblade flashing. I sidestepped, biotics flaring—a quick barrier to deflect the strike. My omni-blade snapped to life, orange heat slicing through his chest. He dropped, lifeless, pendant clinking. I kept moving, the corridor narrowing, walls scarred by glowstick burns and blast craters. A holoscreen flickered, its ad drowned by static, neon chaos bleeding through a cracked viewport. This place was Illium's underbelly on steroids—towers of greed, streets of desperation, all teetering on collapse.
I cleared another room, then froze. Ahead, a cavernous chamber yawned—a command center, or what was left of it. Consoles lay gutted, screens shattered, bodies strewn like broken toys. The air was thick with ozone and despair, the floor slick with blood and oil. This wasn't a standard C&C. Glyph-etched consoles pulsed faintly, like Prothean beacons gone dark, and a central altar—kyber-studded, glowing red—hummed with a menace that raised my hackles. Relics littered the floor, tablets and fragments etched with star-like patterns, half-smashed. The Sith Eternal weren't just running ops; they were dabbling in something older, darker, something that didn't belong in any galaxy let alone the one I've been estranged in.
A side door beckoned, its frame ornate, like an officer's sanctum. I approached, Predator raised, and eased it open. Inside, a figure worked feverishly—red-skinned, tentacled, his alien face like a batarian crossed with a hanar. A Sith Eternal Darth, in the same robes as the one that killed Revan's knights, shredding records and smashing relics with a manic edge. Artifacts, like the one we bought off of Ryari, crumbled under his boot, inactive but familiar. He didn't see me. I stepped in, pistol trained. "Don't move. Where are we?"
He froze, yellow eyes narrowing, one of those double-bladed glowstick staffs at his side. "...You're.. on Nar Shaddaa...," he said, voice like gravel, confusion flickering. "Why ask, Covenant dog? Is this a test?" His gaze bored into me, searching, then faltered. "You're… outside the Force. Like them."
I laughed, a sharp bark that echoed Revan's puzzled stare back on Yavin 4. "I'm outside your league, pal. Why's the Covenant hitting this place?"
His lip curled. "You're all lying charlatans, swore to share the intel you know we need to bring about our master's plan, then you betrayed us all." His tentacles twitched, rage simmering. "Why these riddles, Ashen."
"What do they want?" I pressed, finger steady on the trigger.
His eyes gleamed, a fanatic's fire, voice rising to a fevered chant. "Tenebrae, Soul-Reaver, shatter the veil! Devourer of stars, in darkness we wail! Eternal, unbroken, your will we obey! Rise, Vitiate, rise, and consume the decay!" The staff's hum flared, twin blades snapping to life. I knew that sound too well. My finger squeezed the trigger—crack. A thermal round tore through his skull, clean and final. His head snapped back, tentacles limp, body collapsing like a marionette with cut strings. Blood pooled on the polished floor, dark and glistening, reflecting the chamber's sickly glow. "Thought you'd sense that, huh?" I muttered, my voice low, edged with grim satisfaction. "Guess those glowstick tricks don't stop bullets."
I holstered the Predator, its weight grounding me. The office was a crypt of chaos—scattered papers, shattered relics, the air thick with the stench of burnt circuits and desperation. I stepped over the Darth's corpse, scanning the wreckage. A datapad glowed faintly on the desk, its screen cracked but alive. I swiped it, skimming the message: "Personal transport detailed, ready in garage bay 7. Prepped for discreet transport." A skycar—probably built for someone who didn't want to be seen. Perfect for a cultist playing shadow games. I rifled through the Darth's robes, fingers closing on a small, metallic key-like device, etched with alien runes that pulsed faintly, like a C-Sec keycard with a mean streak. I turned it over, its weight solid in my palm. Had to be the starter, I figured. If it got me moving away from this carnage, I'd take the gamble.
The desk was a mess, littered with fragments of those ancient relics, their glyphs dim but familiar, echoes of that deal with Ryari on Coruscant. These were dead too, just cold stone carved with secrets I didn't have time for. I grabbed a few intact pieces, their edges sharp, heavy with a gravity that didn't feel right. I shoved more artifacts into my pack, their bulk straining the seams, and glanced back at the Darth's body. His blood was still spreading, a dark mirror under the chamber's sickly light. The faint crackle of blasts echoed from below, quieter now, the fight moving deeper into the facility. Nar Shaddaa's chaos was out there, waiting, and this tomb wasn't giving me any more answers. I headed for the door, ready to find that garage and whatever ride this bastard left behind.
The facility was a tomb, its corridors slick with blood and littered with the broken. My boots crunched on shattered glass, the M-3 Predator heavy in my grip, its frame a cold comfort. That cultist's rifle butt still haunted my skull, a throbbing reminder of how fast things go south. I'd fought through worse—Reaper husks, Cerberus phantoms—but this place, this Nar Shaddaa, was a different kind of hell. My omni-tool flared, orange glow slicing through the dark, scanning for garage bay 7. A ping hit—cluster of vehicles, south, two levels down. I locked the path and moved, low and steady, slicing the pie around each corner. N7 training was my pulse: clear the space, own the fight, end it before it breathes. The crack of blasts and hum of those damn glowsticks called me forward, but I kept my pace tight. Speed kills, and I wasn't ready to die.
The air turned sour, thick with panic and burnt ozone. The fighting, once a distant rumble, roared closer—alien screams, shattering durasteel, a low hum like eezo gone feral. The Covenant's main assault was crumbling, a full-on rout under a Sith Eternal hammer. I hit a stairwell, boots silent, Predator low-ready. Corpses clogged the landing—those salamander-skinned Covenant, their tech rigs flickering with stasis fields, like biotic barriers twisted by a nightmare. One stirred, eyes glinting. Crack—a thermal round through its skull, blood spraying the wall. No taking chances, no regrets. This place was Illium's underbelly stretched to a planet's core, and I was a stranger in its game.
I reached an upper-floor balcony, its open railing framing a vast lobby that dropped twenty meters to the ground floor. The chaos below was a warzone—Sith Eternal warriors, droids, and robed cultists tearing into Covenant elites. Blasts whined like overclocked mass accelerators, glowsticks carved arcs of red death, and screams clawed the air. My target floor, two levels down, was south—a ten-meter drop I could hit if I didn't botch it. I crouched, Predator steady, scanning the mess. The Covenant were breaking, their retreat a desperate scramble, but the Sith Eternal pressed, pendants glinting as they cut through scaled flesh. Those tentacled Covenant caught my eye, their tech pulsing, familiar yet wrong.
Then it hit me like a gut punch. A Covenant elite, scales gleaming under the lobby's haze, raised a clawed hand. A biotic warp—raw, vicious, like my own—ripped through the air, shredding a Sith Eternal soldier into a mess of flesh and armor, dark energy twisting the corpse inside out. My heart slammed against my ribs, eyes wide. That was my tech, or damn close. Memories of the Reaper War flooded in—Liara's warps, my own fists splitting husks on London's streets. Others from my universe, or their toys, were here, and it wasn't a coincidence. I was so caught in the shock I missed the glint of movement on my floor.
A Covenant straggler hissed, scales catching the light, vibroblade raised. I'd tipped my hand, guard down like a rookie. Three more joined, stasis fields flickering, eyes locked on me. I snapped to, Predator barking—crack, crack—two dropped, heads pulped by thermal rounds. The third lunged, blade flashing. I sidestepped, biotics surging, a barrier deflecting the strike. My omni-blade flared, orange heat slicing through his chest, blood spraying as he crumpled.
A figure then stormed the balcony—another Sith Eternal Darth, masked, his single crimson saber igniting with a snarl that cut through the din. The Covenant froze, panic splitting their focus. Two turned on the Darth, blades swinging wild; the last came for me. I didn't blink. A biotic throw smashed the Covenant into a wall head first, skull crunching. The Darth was a blur, dodging their strikes like he was born to it, his blade carving through scales with surgical grace. He was a killer, and I was in his sights.
I charged, omni-blade roaring, aiming to end it. He parried, glowstick meeting my blade with a screech that set my teeth on edge. I poured biotics into the omni-blade, silicon-carbide glowing molten, but it buckled, the plasma edge chewing through after a heartbeat. My arm shook, biotics screaming, and I broke off, stumbling back. The Darth started to advance, blade raised. The Covenant's wild swings bought me a breath, but I was out of time. I vaulted the railing, leaping for the floor I needed was a ten-meter drop with the ground floor's chaos twenty meters below. My biotics surged, a desperate hover clawing at the air, slowing my fall as the lobby's haze rushed past. My boots slammed the target level, knees buckling, heart pounding like a war drum. I'd made it—barely, bones rattling, biotics burning in my veins.
The floor was a slaughterhouse, Sith Eternal and Covenant corpses tangled in heaps, blood and oil pooling under flickering holoscreens. Stragglers fought on, more glowsticks clashing with stasis-charged blades. I pushed through, Predator dispatching a Sith warrior who got too close, his pendant glinting as he fell. A biotic throw hurled another into a pillar, durasteel cracking with the crushed gravity. The garage threshold loomed, a promise of escape. I crossed it, lungs raw, and scanned for the detailing area—five sleek skycars spotted, their tinted canopies and leather interiors screaming crime boss dirty credits. Civilian rigs, but the kind you'd see in the Citadel's elite wards, built for discretion.
I yanked the transponder key from my pocket, thumbing its runes. One of the skycar-lookalikes purred to life, its console glowing. Bingo. I slid into the driver's seat, the door sealing with a hiss that felt like a coffin lid. A steering yoke stared back, straight out of an Earth history vid. I chuckled, dry and sharp. "Grandpa's jalopy, huh? Figures." The console flared red—Authorization Denied. Biometrics Failed. Typical. I glanced back, gut twisting. The Darth, mask glinting, marched through the garage, crimson blade dragging sparks, his Covenant pests gone. I was next
My omni-tool blazed, orange light dancing as I brute-forced the lock. The console blinked, stuck like a loading screen from a bad op. "Come on, EDI'd have cracked this in her sleep," I growled, fingers flying, sweat stinging my eyes. The Darth was closing, his blade's hum a death knell, each step a countdown. A second stretched into a lifetime, then—green. The ignition animation flashed, the skycar roaring like a caged beast. I slammed the controls, its hover lurching forward, weaving through the garage's maze. A ramp glowed ahead, promising Nar Shaddaa's neon-drenched streets. I gunned it, the Darth's shadow fading in the rearview, but this city's filth was just warming up.
The skycar roared out of the garage, its ramp spitting me high above Nar Shaddaa's skyline, a neon-soaked jungle that made Illium's underbelly look like a backwater slum. Towers clawed at the smog-choked sky, their peaks lost in haze, while holographic billboards bled garish colors—alien script, sneering faces, promises of credits and vice. Hovercycle-looking bikes screamed through the air, weaving between spires, their engines a banshee wail. The city was chaos incarnate, a vertical maze of greed and desperation, and I was alone in it, no Normandy, no sign of Galen or Vicrul, just me and a stolen ride. My hands gripped the steering yoke, its ancient Earth vibe a grim joke in this star-hopping nightmare. The console hummed, green lights steady, should be a smooth ride to where-ever the hell I was going.
A glint in the rearview snapped me alert. There he was—that same Sith Eternal Darth, his masked face a shadow of rage, closing fast on one of those hovercycle-looking bikes. Black, angular, it was built for a killer, sleek and mean. That fancy crimson glowstick of his flared in his hand, a slash of death cutting through the smog. I slammed the accelerator, the skycar lurching forward, my N7 instincts kicking in from a hundred Mako runs and that wild chase through Illium's skies after Vasir. Keep the target in sight, weave the chaos, don't let the bastard win.
The skycar screamed, banking hard left as I dove into traffic, more bikes scattering like roaches. The Darth matched me, his hovercycle a dark streak, glowstick slashing at my tail. Screech—a molten gash tore through the rear hull, sparks raining into the cabin, the console flickering. I cursed, yanking the yoke right, threading between two freighters hauling who-knows-what. The city blurred—towers, ads, neon signs shouting Hutt propaganda I couldn't read. I boosted in bursts, the skycar's thrusters howling, dodging a billboard that exploded into shards as the Darth's saber carved it apart. "Nice bike, lousy driver," I muttered, my voice swallowed by the roar.
He was relentless, weaving through traffic with a killer's grace, unable to sense me but not needing to. A crate hurtled from a platform, his Force trick tossing it into my path. I banked sharp, the skycar grazing a spire, durasteel screeching. The crate smashing another skycar behind me. I rammed the accelerator, diving into a narrow alley, walls so close the skycar's sides sparked. The Darth followed, his bike a shadow, glowstick slashing again, another gash, this one deeper, thrusters coughing. Warning lights flared, altitude dropping. I boosted again, pulling up into a crowded sky-lane, traffic parting as I barreled through.
Minutes bled into a haze of neon and adrenaline. I wove through a swarm of some more hovercycles, their riders cursing in tongues I didn't know, using them as shields to break the Darth's line. He carved through, saber a red blur, closing the gap. I twisted the yoke in a hard right motion, power-sliding around a tower's curve, the skycar's nose kissing glass. Another slash—hiss—the left thruster sparked, smoke trailing. The console screamed, altitude hemorrhaging. I rammed his bike, a desperate shove, but he held steady, eyes burning through his mask. "Ok, hell of a driver, I'll give him that" I smirked, banking into a dive, skycar shuddering as I skimmed a platform's edge.
The city's sprawl stretched endless, but a new shape loomed—twin hotel spires for some gaudy casino, their peaks framing a grand waterfall, an artificial spectacle cascading into a dome below. Water roared, a Hutt-funded monument to excess like on one of Galen's holodramas, the gap between the towers barely ten meters wide. My skycar was dying, thrusters spitting, altitude fading fast. One shot. I gunned it, threading the needle, water hammering the canopy like a Krogan charge. The skycar bucked, consoles sparking, but I held the steering yoke, heart pounding. The Darth followed, rage in his eyes, bike screaming through the gap. The waterfall hit him like a tidal wave, ripping him from the saddle. He tumbled, a black speck vanishing stories below toward the casino dome, no body, no recovery—just gone, a shadow swallowed by the city's maw. "Swim lessons, pal?" I quipped, the words bitter as the skycar stabilized for a fleeting breath.
The reprieve didn't last. Warning lights blazed, the console a red mess—Critical Failure. The skycar lurched, thrusters dead, Nar Shaddaa's skyline rushing up. I scrambled, omni-tool flaring, hacking overrides like I was cracking a Cerberus lock. Nothing. The flight sticks were useless, the city a neon death trap. The casino dome loomed, its gaudy spires and holographic signs screaming wealth and ruin. High-roller territory, packed with sabacc tables, Hutt enforcers, and fools too rich to run. I braced, biotics surging, a barrier snapping around me as instinct took over. The skycar smashed through the dome's neon sign, glass and steel exploding, and plowed into the high-roller floor.
The impact was hell. The skycar crumpled, sabacc tables splintered, and screams cut off as patrons—human, alien, draped in credits—failed to clear the wreck. Blood and spice mixed with smoke, the air thick with panic. My barrier held, but my ribs burned, bruised deep, and a cut on my forehead stung, blood trickling into my eye. The concussion hit like a batarian fist, vision swimming, but I was alive. The skycar was a twisted husk, its console dark, the steering yoke bent like a bad joke. Hutt enforcers bellowed, blasters drawn, their slug-like boss nowhere in sight. Nar Shaddaa's chaos had swallowed me whole, and I was still a stranger, battered but breathing, in a galaxy that didn't care.
A Nar Shaddaa's bar hum with clinking glasses and tabac's sting, a fleeting refuge for a man who crashed through its skies, his eyes still burning with secrets from another universe.
-and that's how I landed in this dump months ago," I said, lowering my glass with a clank against the scarred table, the bitter tang of Corellian whiskey burning my throat. The neon-lit bar pulsed around me, a grimy Chora's Den knockoff drowned in pink and green glow, the air thick with spice-laced tabac smoke that stung my eyes like batarian ale fumes. Clinking glasses and alien chatter filled the space, a lively hum of Nar Shaddaa locals unwinding after another day in this neon hell. My ribs ached, the bruises from that skycar crash long faded but never quite gone, and a faint scar on my forehead itched under the bar's flickering lights. I forced a grin, leaning back, a nobody who spun tall tales to keep the Hutt's enforcers off my back.
"Kriff you, Torel, and your stories," piped up a Twi'lek girl across the table, her lekku twitching as she smirked, violet eyes glinting with mock scorn. A roar of laughter erupted from the lowlifes around us—my so-called work friends, a ragtag crew of casino runners, spice peddlers, and dock grunts who didn't buy a word of my tale about crashing that casino dome. They thought I was some drifter who slipped the Hutt's net under cover of night, not the idiot who actually plowed a skycar through their high-roller floor. I laughed back, the sound hollow, shrinking into Torel's skin like I'd done for months, winter bleeding into spring on some distant planets by now while I played this game of lies.
The bar was a Nar Shaddaa staple, a dive where the city's underbelly came to forget. A Rodian drunk hacked through the tabac haze, his coughs lost in the wail of a jazz band, their off-key horns whining like a busted comms relay. Holoscreens flickered with Hutt ads—slug-faced bosses hawking swoop races and spice dens, their voices drowned by the clatter of sabacc chips. A Twi'lek bartender slung glowing swill, her hands quick as she dodged a Weequay's clumsy grab. The smoke curled, glowing faintly with spice, a bitter cloud that clung to my jacket like Nar Shaddaa's own brand of despair. I'd been here long enough to know its tricks—Corellian whiskey as the only drink worth choking down—but I was still a stranger, my bones aching for a galaxy that didn't seem to exist anymore.
I nursed my glass, the whiskey's burn a faint echo of the life I'd lost. Months ago, the crash took everything—my omni-tool, Predator, Wraith, my armor all locked in the Hutt's casino armory, guarded tighter than a Cerberus black site. Hospitalization patched me up, but the Hutts security kept my gear. Keeping me from making any sort of comms back to our makeshift FoB. I was alone, no crew, just Torel, a nobody who everyone believed was just another faceless in a sea of struggle. The lowlifes thought my casino tale was bunk, but it was the truth hiding in plain sight, my only way to survive while I worked to get close to that armory, to claw back what was mine.
The laughter died down, and I drained my glass, the clink of ice against its bottom a lonely sound. I pushed through the crowd, dodging a Rodian's spilled drink, and stumbled into Nar Shaddaa's underbelly. The streets were a maze of flickering lights and Hutt graffiti, the air heavy with smog and the distant whine of swoop bikes. My boots scraped cracked duracrete, each step a reminder of how far I'd fallen. The city's bowels swallowed me, leading to my apartment—a cramped hole deep in its guts, walls stained with leaks, a cracked holoscreen stuttering Hutt propaganda. The bed was too small, creaking under my 6'1" frame, a pathetic throne for a man who'd faced Reapers and won.
I locked the door, the bolt's click a hollow victory. A bottle of Corellian whiskey sat on the table, its label peeling like my resolve. I took a swig, the burn sharp, and sank onto the bed, the frame groaning. The silence was a weight, heavier than the crash, heavier than this city. I didn't know I'd miss them this much—Galen, with his haunted eyes and raw power, Revan, that masked enigma who saw balance chasing something that made no sense to my world. His Knights, rough but loyal, were a flicker of purpose I hadn't expected to crave. And then there was them—my crew, my home. Garrus's dry quips, Liara's steady calm, Tali's spark, Wrex's growl. Miranda, most of all, her sharp edges and sharper heart, the one I'd loved through every hell the galaxy threw at us. London's ruins flashed in my mind, ash choking the air, Reaper drones screaming. "Come back to me, John," she'd said, voice cracking, her blue eyes fierce yet soft, a rare break in her armor. "Always, Miranda," I'd promised, my hand brushing hers, the Crucible's shadow looming. We'd beaten Collectors, Reapers, but Nar Shaddaa's endless grind, Torel's lie—it was a war I was losing, without her, without them. The whiskey bottle slipped from my hand, clinking against the floor. My vision blurred, concussion's ghost or just exhaustion, and I let it take me. No more fear of the Reaper nightmares that awaited me in my dreams. The bed was too small, the city too vast, but I was still here, still fighting, even if it was just to wake up tomorrow. I passed out, Nar Shaddaa's neon fading to black, a stranger in a galaxy that didn't care.