Chapter 3: Learning to See
POV: Marc Wayne
Three days into his new existence as Anto's reluctant bar help, Marc discovered that washing glasses while secretly cataloging alien DNA made him look like what Anto charitably called "a creepy stalker with concentration problems."
"You're doing it again," Anto said, not looking up from inventory lists. His mandibles clicked in what Marc had learned was amusement. "That thousand-yard stare you get when you think no one's watching. Like you're trying to see through people."
Marc jerked his attention back to the glass in his hands, realizing he'd been polishing the same spot for thirty seconds while his System quietly catalogued the Batarian smuggler in booth seven.
[BATARIAN GENETIC SCAN: 67% COMPLETE]
[ESTIMATED TIME TO FULL ANALYSIS: 2.3 HOURS]
[POTENTIAL GENE DROP: BATARIAN FOUR-EYED VISION (UNCOMMON)]
[DROP PROBABILITY IF KILLED: 8.2% BASE + LUCK MODIFIER]
"Stop thinking about killing the customers," Marc told himself, forcing his eyes back to his work. "That's not normal bartender behavior."
The System had been a constant presence since his awakening, overlaying his vision with data streams, threat assessments, and genetic cataloguing that felt both invasive and essential. Every alien patron was a walking database entry waiting to be completed. Every conversation held the potential for valuable intelligence or fatal miscommunication.
The Batarian—a scarred creature with four eyes that tracked independently—was arguing with his Turian companion about shipping routes through the Terminus Systems. Marc's enhanced hearing caught fragments: "—told you the Collectors have been hitting ships near—"
"Collectors?" The Turian's sub-harmonics carried skeptical undertones. "That's spacer talk. Ghost stories to explain missing cargo."
Marc's blood chilled. The Collectors were real, and according to his game knowledge, they should be ramping up their activities soon. But he couldn't warn anyone without his speech curse turning the alert into gibberish about galactic hospitality services.
A new patron entered—an Asari dancer from Afterlife's upper levels, her blue skin gleaming under the bar's harsh lighting. Marc's System immediately began its work.
[NEW SPECIES DETECTED: ASARI]
[INITIATING SCAN...]
[PROGRESS: 0.1%... 0.2%...]
[ESTIMATED COMPLETION: 8.7 HOURS OF PROXIMITY]
The Asari approached the bar with liquid grace, and Marc found himself staring—not at her obvious beauty, but at the way his System highlighted thermal patterns in her skin that indicated biotic potential. She was a weapon walking around in an elegant package, and the System was eager to learn how she worked.
"Water, ice, no flavor additives," she said, her voice carrying the melodic tones of her species. "I don't drink before work."
Marc poured the water, hyperaware of how his hands trembled slightly. The Asari noticed, her dark eyes studying him with curiosity rather than alarm.
"You're the human everyone's talking about," she said. "The one who heals fast."
"Oh no." Marc's reputation was spreading faster than he'd hoped. "I'm nobody special. Just work here."
"That's not what the Vorcha say." The Asari smiled, and Marc caught a glimpse of the predator beneath her dancer's facade. "They call you 'adapt-friend.' High praise from a species that judges everything by survival ability."
Before Marc could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal more secrets, the bar's atmosphere shifted. The Batarian and Turian had stopped arguing. Every patron's attention focused on the three figures who'd just entered: a massive Krogan flanked by two Vorcha, all wearing Blood Pack colors.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: CRITICAL]
[KROGAN BATTLEMASTER DETECTED]
[SCANNING... THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]
[WEAPONS DETECTED: MULTIPLE]
[RECOMMENDATION: IMMEDIATE EVACUATION]
The Krogan's eyes swept the bar with predatory focus before settling on Marc. The alien's scarred face split into what might have been a grin or a threat display.
"Small human," the Krogan rumbled, his voice like grinding stone. "You're the one who steals Blood Pack property."
Marc's mind went blank. Every tactical suggestion the System offered—throat strikes, weak points, escape routes—felt utterly useless when facing nine feet of armored extinction. This wasn't a video game where he could reload from a save. This was reality, where mistakes meant permanent death.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Marc managed, his voice steadier than he felt. "I just work here."
"No misunderstanding." The Krogan stepped closer, and Marc caught the scent of cordite and old violence. "You helped Vorcha. Vorcha belong to Blood Pack. Therefore, you steal from us."
The logic was simple, direct, and completely insane by human standards. Marc opened his mouth to explain, but Anto's voice cut through the tension.
"Garm." The Turian's tone carried the flat authority of someone who'd faced death before. "This is neutral ground. Aria's rules."
The Krogan—Garm—turned his massive head toward Anto. "Aria's rules don't cover thieves, bartender. This human took what belongs to Blood Pack."
"The Vorcha was dying in the alley," Marc said, finding his courage. "I gave it medical aid. That's not theft, that's—"
"Weakness." Garm's laugh was like armor plating scraping concrete. "Soft human sentiment. On Omega, weak things die. Strong things take what they want."
Marc felt his regeneration gene pulse with sympathetic recognition—the Krogan carried similar adaptive traits, enhanced by centuries of violence and genetic modification. For a terrifying moment, he understood the appeal of Garm's philosophy. Why struggle with diplomacy when superior firepower settled arguments?
The thought horrified him. "That's not me. I'm not a monster."
But the System's assessment was coldly practical: the Krogan was a walking armory with backup. Fighting meant dying. Running might mean surviving long enough to die later. The optimal solution required—
"This has gone far enough," the Asari said suddenly, rising from her seat. Blue energy flickered around her fingers—biotic power that made Marc's hair stand on end. "Garm, you're scaring the customers."
The Krogan's attention shifted to her, and Marc saw something unexpected in those predatory eyes: wary respect. "Dancer. This is Blood Pack business."
"And this is my place of employment." Her biotics intensified, surrounding her with an aura of barely controlled power. "Find another bar for your recruiting speeches."
The standoff stretched across seconds that felt like hours. Three species, three approaches to conflict—Turian military discipline, Asari biotic supremacy, Krogan direct violence. Marc stood in the middle, cataloguing it all while his System provided tactical analyses he prayed he'd never need to use.
Finally, Garm stepped back. "This isn't finished, human. Blood Pack remembers debts."
The three Blood Pack members left, but their threat lingered like smoke in the air. Marc realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale slowly.
"Well," Anto said dryly, "that was educational. Most humans on Omega last a week before someone marks them for death. You managed three days. Impressive efficiency."
The Asari settled back into her seat, her biotics fading. "You've made an enemy. Garm doesn't forgive, and he doesn't forget."
"I was trying to help," Marc said, the words sounding pathetically naive even to himself.
"Help gets you killed on Omega," the Asari replied, not unkindly. "But sometimes the galaxy needs people stupid enough to help anyway. My name's Shiala."
[ASARI GENETIC SCAN: 12% COMPLETE]
[PROGRESS ACCELERATED BY PROXIMITY AND BIOTIC ACTIVITY]
"Marcus Wayne," Marc replied automatically. "And I'm beginning to think stupidity is my most defining characteristic."
Shiala smiled—genuine warmth rather than predatory calculation. "Stupidity would have been picking a fight with Garm. You chose de-escalation. That shows tactical intelligence."
"If only you knew how much tactical intelligence I'm getting," Marc thought, watching the System analyze threat patterns and social dynamics in real-time. "Or how little of it I actually understand."
That evening, as Marc cleaned up after closing, he found a package outside the storage room door. Medical supplies, again. Clean clothes in his exact size. And the same encrypted datapad, its screen flickering with corrupted Cerberus symbols.
Anto walked past, saw the package, and stopped. "Third time this week?"
"You saw who left it?"
"No. And that's the problem." Anto's mandibles clicked thoughtfully. "On Omega, invisible benefactors usually aren't benefactors. They're collectors preparing to call in debts."
Marc picked up the datapad, feeling its weight. The screen flickered again—for just a moment, he glimpsed what looked like video footage of himself in the bar, taken from an impossible angle. Then static consumed the image.
[SCANNING DEVICE...]
[ENCRYPTION: MILITARY-GRADE]
[ATTEMPTED DECRYPTION: FAILED]
[WARNING: DEVICE MAY CONTAIN TRACKING PROTOCOLS]
"Someone's been watching," Marc said quietly. "Recording."
"On Omega, someone's always watching. Question is why they want you to know about it." Anto paused in his cleaning. "Marcus, whatever you were before, whoever's looking for you—it's catching up. You can feel it, can't you?"
Marc nodded, unable to deny the growing sense that his past was hunting him. The Cerberus symbols, the precise knowledge of his needs, the surveillance that bypassed Omega's security—someone with serious resources was playing a long game.
That night, he lay on his makeshift bed and stared at the datapad's dark screen. The System had catalogued five species partially, gained experience from surviving social encounters, and unlocked new scanning protocols. But with each passing day, Marc felt less like a person and more like a specimen being observed for future study.
[QUEST UPDATE: SURVIVE YOUR FIRST WEEK]
[PROGRESS: 4 DAYS COMPLETE]
[REMAINING TIME: 3 DAYS]
[WARNING: THREAT LEVEL ESCALATING]
[RECOMMENDATION: PREPARE FOR CONFLICT]
Outside his window, Omega's neon pulse painted the walls in shifting colors—blue, red, alien yellow. Somewhere in that maze of metal and desperation, Garm was planning his next move. Somewhere else, an invisible watcher was compiling data for unknown purposes.
Marc closed his eyes and dreamed of Miranda Lawson's cold blue stare, unsure if it was memory or prophecy. When he woke, the quest timer showed: 72 hours remaining. Three days to prove he could survive in a universe that wanted him dead or captured.
The game was becoming real, and Marc was no longer sure he was the player.
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