Chapter 9: The Queen's Court
POV: Marc Wayne
Afterlife at night was a sensory assault that redefined excess. Music pounded through Marc's bones with frequencies that seemed designed to scramble thought, lights strobed in patterns that left afterimages burned across his expanded visual field, and the press of bodies carried enough weapons to start a small war. Every breath tasted of alien pheromones, synthetic intoxicants, and the ozone scent of barely restrained violence.
Marc climbed the stairs toward Aria's throne with the sensation of every eye in the club tracking his movement. His Four-Eyed Vision catalogued threats automatically—a Turian mercenary with hand cannons, an Asari biotic whose aura flickered with contained power, Krogan bounders whose scarred hides spoke of centuries spent solving problems through superior firepower. The System overlaid threat assessments faster than he could process them, painting the room in gradients of danger that ranged from "potentially lethal" to "absolutely fatal."
[SOCIAL ENCOUNTER: MAXIMUM DIFFICULTY]
[TARGET: ARIA T'LOAK - THREAT LEVEL UNKNOWN]
[GUARDS DETECTED: 12 VISIBLE, ESTIMATED 6 CONCEALED]
[WEAPONS SCAN: ARMORY-LEVEL FIREPOWER]
[RECOMMENDATION: CHOOSE WORDS CAREFULLY]
Aria T'Loak occupied her throne like a force of nature given physical form. She was smaller than Marc had expected—Asari elegance rather than imposing bulk—but presence had nothing to do with size. Power radiated from her in waves that made the air itself seem denser, more charged. When her dark eyes fixed on Marc, he felt the weight of absolute authority backed by centuries of experience in turning challenges into cautionary tales.
"So," Aria said without preamble, her voice carrying easily over the club's chaos. "You're the human who heals."
It wasn't a question. Marc stopped at what he hoped was a respectful distance, close enough to show he wasn't afraid, far enough to avoid seeming threatening. The balance felt impossibly precise.
"I am," he replied, opting for honesty stripped of specifics. "Cerberus experiment. I escaped. Now I'm trying to survive."
Aria's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Everyone on Omega is trying to survive. What makes you interesting is how."
She leaned forward slightly, studying him with the focus of a predator assessing prey. Marc felt his enhanced senses cataloguing details about her—the way she held herself suggested biotic training, the slight discoloration on her fingers indicated regular exposure to weapons discharge, and her breathing pattern spoke of someone perpetually ready for violence.
"You helped a Vorcha," Aria continued. "Kreek. Blood Pack property. Caused them to reassess their ownership policies through superior firepower." Her smile held no warmth. "Expensive lesson."
"He was dying," Marc said. "Helping him seemed like the right thing to do."
"The right thing." Aria repeated the phrase like it was a foreign concept requiring translation. "Omega doesn't run on right and wrong. It runs on strong and weak, smart and stupid, useful and expendable. Which are you?"
Marc felt the question's weight settling around him like a closing trap. This was the moment that would define everything—his survival, his freedom, his future on the station. The Patriarch watched from his corner with that knowing smile, offering no guidance.
"I'm someone who adapts," Marc said finally. "I learn fast, heal fast, and solve problems that others can't. Whether that makes me useful depends on what problems you need solved."
"Honest," Aria observed. "Refreshingly so. Most people who seek my attention come with elaborate lies about their capabilities." Her guards shifted positions with subtle precision, and Marc's enhanced vision tracked their movement. Each "wrong" answer was apparently being calibrated in real time.
"You regenerate," she continued. "Batarian vision enhancement. Probable additional modifications not yet displayed. Cerberus doesn't create simple projects—they build weapons with very specific purposes. What were you designed for?"
The question struck at the heart of Marc's existential uncertainty. What had he been designed for? His transmigration, his System, his ability to acquire alien genetics—was it random chance or part of some larger pattern?
"I don't know," Marc admitted. "My memories from the lab are fragmentary. I know they were trying to create something, but the process wasn't complete when I escaped."
"Unfinished weapons are often the most dangerous," Aria mused. "They evolve in unexpected directions." She stood from her throne with fluid grace, descending the steps until she was close enough that Marc could smell the faint ozone scent that clung to powerful biotics. "Show me."
"Show you what?"
"Your healing. Prove it works as advertised."
Without warning, a vibro-blade materialized in her hand, its edge humming with lethal energy. Before Marc could react, she drew the weapon across his forearm in a precise cut that parted skin and muscle with surgical precision.
Pain flared white-hot, followed immediately by the familiar warmth of Vorcha Regeneration engaging. Marc watched, fascinated despite himself, as the wound began closing with visible speed. Flesh knitted together, blood stopped flowing, and within thirty seconds only a thin pink line marked where the cut had been.
Aria nodded approvingly. "Efficient. Practical. The kind of modification that keeps useful people alive longer." She made the blade vanish with the same casual ease she'd drawn it. "I have a proposition."
"I'm listening."
"Omega has biological problems. Diseases that don't respond to standard treatment. Creatures that shouldn't exist but do anyway. Experiments that escape their creators and threaten civilians." Aria's voice carried the weight of accumulated frustration. "Most of these problems require someone who can survive close contact with dangerous biology long enough to understand and eliminate it."
Marc felt the trap closing around him with inexorable precision. "You want me to be your biological weapons specialist."
"I want you to be a tool that solves problems I can't solve through conventional force." Aria returned to her throne, settling back with predatory satisfaction. "In exchange, I provide protection from Cerberus, the Blood Pack, and anyone else who might find your capabilities... commercially valuable."
[QUEST OPTIONS DETECTED]
[ACCEPT: Gain powerful ally, lose personal freedom]
[REFUSE: Maintain independence, lose protection]
[NEGOTIATE: Unknown outcome]
The System's analysis was brutally simple, but Marc found himself choosing the uncertain option. If he was going to survive long enough to prevent the galactic extinction he knew was coming, he needed allies—but he also needed room to maneuver.
"What do I get besides survival?" he asked, the boldness of the question surprising even him. "Information? Resources? Training?"
Several guards reached for weapons, but Aria raised a hand to stop them. Her expression shifted from predatory to genuinely amused.
"You want to negotiate with me. On my station. In my court." She laughed, and the sound held actual warmth. "I like that. Most people either grovel or posture. You're asking for fair value."
Marc felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. "I figure you wouldn't want to waste a useful resource through poor motivation."
"Correct." Aria leaned forward, her attention focusing with laser intensity. "Here are my terms: You handle my biological problems when they arise. In return, you get my protection, access to my information network, and assistance understanding your own capabilities. I don't own you, but when I call, you answer."
It was more than Marc had dared hope for—the protection of Omega's ruler without complete servitude. But he suspected the real cost would reveal itself later.
"And if I refuse a particular assignment?"
"Then we discuss why, and possibly renegotiate terms. I don't keep pets—they require too much maintenance. But I do keep useful tools, and useful tools deserve proper care."
The distinction was subtle but important. Tools had value, could be maintained and upgraded. Pets were disposable luxuries.
"I accept," Marc said.
"Excellent." Aria's smile was sharp and satisfied. "Your first assignment: Eclipse mercenaries are moving something biological through Omega's lower levels. People in those areas are getting sick—fever, disorientation, respiratory distress. Find out what they're transporting, stop it if you can, report everything either way."
[NEW QUEST: ECLIPSE'S CARGO]
[OBJECTIVE: Investigate biological threat]
[WARNING: Unknown pathogen detected in lower wards]
Marc nodded, already running tactical assessments. "Timeline?"
"Soon. The sickness is spreading." Aria studied him with renewed calculation. "And Marcus? That thing you do when you heal—that makes you valuable alive. Don't make yourself so valuable that someone decides to dissect you to figure out how it works."
The warning carried the weight of genuine advice, as close to concern as someone like Aria was likely to express.
As Marc turned to leave, the Patriarch spoke from his corner: "Patterns within patterns, boy. The wheel turns faster now."
Aria silenced him with a look, but didn't contradict the ancient Krogan's words. Marc descended the stairs feeling the weight of new obligations settling around his shoulders like armor—protective but restrictive.
[REPUTATION SHIFT: ARIA T'LOAK - NEUTRAL → TOLERATED TOOL]
[PASSIVE BENEFIT GAINED: ARIA'S SHADOW]
[HOSTILE FACTIONS LESS LIKELY TO ATTACK OPENLY]
[+200 XP - NEGOTIATION SUCCESS]
The club's chaos seemed less threatening on his way out, the predators giving him slightly more space. Word was already spreading through the networks of power that the regenerating human was under Aria's protection—not complete immunity, but a significant deterrent.
Marc found Anto waiting outside Afterlife with the patient expression of someone who'd been expecting this outcome.
"Still breathing means she found you useful," the Turian observed. "Congratulations—you're now one of Aria's complications."
"Better than being one of her problems," Marc replied, though he wasn't entirely certain that was true.
They walked back through Omega's neon-lit corridors in companionable silence, past the dealers and dancers and desperate souls that populated the station's eternal night. Marc's reflection caught in a shop window—human features, but enhanced in ways that were becoming increasingly obvious. Faster movements, more precise gestures, eyes that tracked threats with inhuman awareness.
The System displayed his current status like a progress report: three active quests, two faction relationships, one impossible future to prevent. He was no longer just surviving on Omega—he was becoming a player in its deadly game.
The question was whether he was a piece or a player.
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