- Alimentary, My Dear - Part I: Gut Reaction -
It was a waking nightmare for Eric. Since his return to the Citadel, everywhere he went there was no escaping the news:
“… an unprecedented act of terrorism committed by the so-called 'hero of the human race…'”
“… an estimated 300,000 lives that were lost in a catastrophic explosion…”
“… Alliance representatives offered their sympathies but have yet to release an official statement…”
“…Commander Shepard surrendered to authorities yesterday without incident…”
“… how could Shepard do this…? Why…?”
“… Hegemony officials have refused to speak with our correspondents…”
“… millions are in mourning, trying to make some sense of it all...”
“... Shepard, Savior of the Citadel, once considered the best of humanity… now the worst mass murderer in galactic history...”
Eric also needed answers. There had to be a good reason why it happened. The Reapers had to have been planning something so diabolical that Shepard saw no other way to stop it than to destroy a mass relay and an entire star system with it. He was not prone to psychotic behavior and he was definitely no shill for Cerberus despite what Alliance Intelligence believed. No longer part of the N7 fold, Eric was limited to the reports and rumors around him.
People gathered about news screens to weep, speculate or use the event as an excuse to rant against the latest addition to the galactic populace. People that once lauded Shepard now had "hindsight" as to his motivations: he took advantage of his position as the first human Spectre, he was a mole for pro-human interests or he had simply seen and done too much and snapped. Eric listened in anger to each pontification wanting to set the self-proclaimed experts straight but restrained himself feeling partially to blame – he was Shepard’s N7 mentor. Sometimes the rumor mongers would notice Eric standing nearby and give him a look. He quickly stormed off to avoid confrontation; if they knew of his relationship to Shepard he would also be made a pariah. The demo expert failed to notice the explosive under his wing, they would accuse. Eric boarded a rapid transit cab and set the destination for Alpha Row in Bachjret Ward. His original plan for R&R would be modified to intelligence gathering. Failing that he would spend some time down a bottle hiding from the insanity.
As promised by a human C-Sec officer – Eric refused to consult any of the Aveena kiosks – the interior of Duscaat’s was a trip back to late 20th century Earth. Everything from the wood floor, seats, tables and wall decorations were accurate to the period, even the music playing over a jukebox from that time. Eric shook his head, chuckling to himself. He had seen places like this in the ancient vids he enjoyed with his uncle Simon. Now he could reenact some of those scenes if he chose, perhaps not the violent ones anyway. A more important matter drew him to this theme bar: word around the Lower Wards was that Ashley Williams, once part of Shepard’s crew, frequented here to play pool between missions. She was a formidable player with an undefeated record; Eric saw an opportunity to pit his own skill against hers, maybe even best her and gain enough of her confidence to find out if she still kept in touch with Shepard. He sauntered up to the counter to have what little smile he had fade as he beheld the viewscreen on a wall with yet another report on the fallen N7, the volus bartender watching attentively. Eric felt he could be doing something more worthwhile like attending his customers.
“Ay, barkeep!”
The volus shuddered and whirled about to see Eric seated on a stool leaning over the counter. He rapidly looked back and forth between the screen and his face a couple of times before taking the hint and changing the channel.
“The name’s Vale Duscaat, Earth-clan,” the volus breathed through his respirator. Vale then took more notice of Eric’s features. “What can I get you?”
Eric eyed the pool tables in the alcove at the rear of the bar. A few people surrounded them. None of the women present seemed to be playing, however.
“Ashley Williams back there? Was hopin’ ta challenge her to a game.”
“Sorry,” was Vale’s reply. “She hasn’t been here the past few days. Not since… can I help you with something else?”
Eric looked upon Vale again, Vale’s head tilting in examination. So much for plan A.
“Whiskey, neat… and leave th’ bottle…”
Vale stood in place. Eric brought out a credit chit and placed it on the counter to motivate him.
“I can buy out th’ whole bar if I wanted - what’s th’ problem?”
After a second’s more hesitation Vale moved to another section behind the counter. There was a clinking of glasses followed by the sound of a tap dispensing. Vale set the filled glass of amber, sudsy liquid before an exasperated Eric.
“Ginger ale?!” he pointed to his beverage.
“I thought you looked familiar. You’re Eric Lysander, aren’t you? ” Vale justified his choice of drink. “I was warned about you. You’re not causing trouble in my place if I can help it!”
The dissatisfied customer squinted. “Who warned ya?”
“The last place you were barred from. Regetti’s?”
“Regetti’s… ?! I’ll have ya know that in my entire life I’ve been in…” Eric did a fiddling count on the fingers of one hand. “Eleven bar fights. Five of which I started but none of them here on this station!”
Vale did not relent. “Maybe so. But they say when you get drunk you get confrontational, flirty… or in Regetti’s case, paranoid.”
Eric strained to recall what the bartender was describing. He folded his arms on the countertop.
“Whad I do?”
“You somehow were convinced there was a bomb somewhere on the premises. You started… scanning things…”
“Like?”
Vale recounted the bar owner Regetti's grievance. "The chairs, the tables, the beer taps, the karaoke machine… the stalls in the men's room... a human woman's chest..."
Eric shuddered and wheezed. The last item sounded like something he would do given the right mood.
"They... I probably though they were too perfect ta be real-"
"A pregnant asari?!"
This next example surprised Eric, prompting a swift defense. "Hey! She had no business being in a bar with a kid on th' way!"
"You told the father it wasn't hers!"
The brash ex-marine dropped his eyes and finger in shame. Vale then added "The scary part...? Turned out you were right..."
A faint blush came over Eric as he slowly took up the proffered glass of ginger ale and sipped tepidly. "... 50-50 guess, really... maybe I should... take it easy t’night..."
"Commander Lysander...? It really is you!"
Eric turned to the bar patron behind him. It was a krogan, younger than what Eric was used to seeing in his travels. The salarian genophage saw to thinning their numbers. This particular krogan was dressed partially in plating and leathers from his homeworld and human-styled clothing retailored for his build. The feature that had Eric smiling in spite of himself was the Chicago Cubs 2174 Championship baseball cap on his head.
"W-who're you?"
The eager youth held out a hand and spoke in a gruff voice tempered with a fan's enthusiasm. "A few years ago, during those pirate attacks, I was one of the crew on a freighter you and some army guys rescued from 'em. Probably don't remember me at all but I sure remember how you kicked their ass!"
He took Eric's hand and shook it heartily. Eric offered no resistance, still trying to recall the krogan from his days on active duty. More often any krogan he came across were on the pirates' side rather than among their targets.
"Thanks, buddy!"
"... glad I could... help," said Eric awkwardly.
The krogan stepped up further to the counter and put an arm around Eric's shoulder before he could get a word in edgewise and declared to Vale "If this guy wants a drink, I'm buying. I'll make sure he stays outta trouble and gets home safe." He tightened his arm and patted Eric's shoulder. "This human's a certified badass with a planet-sized quad ta boot! It'd be an honor to drink with him!"
Feeling strange from such shameless adulation Eric shrugged off the youth's arm and held up his palms as a sign to not touch him again.
"Hey-hey-hey! Look... I know you're really grateful n’ I think it's real nice o'ya to treat me n' all... ya haven't even told me yer name-!"
"ERIC LYSANDER!"
The man in question arced his torso away from the counter past the krogan, annoyance on his face. Vale hobbled about as well to see the entourage assembled at the entrance. Four humans, a young and older male along with a young and older female, all wearing N7 jackets. They had come to Duscaat's to relax and gripe about the actions of the most infamous of their brethren. The tallest and most senior of them - the group leader - squared his jaw even more and made it plain that it was he that called out Eric.
"Look who decided to show his face!" The man paced in slowly with his group in step behind him.
Eric turned to the counter. "...hello, Mason..."
The krogan youth maneuvered to one side of Eric, prompting Mason and his followers to stop a respectful distance from the Alliance dropout. However the ploy did not dissuade Mason from taking verbal swipes at his former compatriot.
"Hello, Lice... still like blowing shit up?"
"Still like being an asshole?" Eric retorted, surveying the faces accompanying his rival. "And now you’re corrupting young minds, too."
"Molding the next generation of soldiers, Lice. Passing the torch…"
Mason put a loose arm around the shoulder of the grave, dark skinned young woman with a black fade cut, indicating his N7 initiate. While the other pair smirked along she gave the sense that she did not approve of her mentor's attitude or actions. Mason pointed out Eric to his charge in a mocking tone.
"That's the man himself, in the flesh. The man who turned geth into beer cans. The man who brought down Luther Zaicress while the turians tried to pound him to death... the man who gave us Commander Shepard!"
Mason removed his arm from his initiate, to her small relief, and slinked over to slap a hand on Eric's back. "Yeah... Shepard outdid him in every way. Got his own ship. Got promoted to Spectre. Damn sight better looking... he even blows shit up bigger than you..."
The krogan youth bared his teeth. Mason merely sneered back. Eric raised his eyes, seething but still looking towards the back of the counter.
"I'd seriously consider takin' yer hand off me," he warned.
Mason doubled down. "But honestly, I'm not sure how to feel. Shepard really fucked things for humanity... but then again it was just a bunch of batarians."
"Say that a little louder," Eric egged on. "Everyone here should know 'bout the RACIST IN THE BAR!"
A few startled and curious heads were attracted. Mason removed his hand.
"You actually care about them four-eyes? Please...! You've always been jealous of Shepard leaving you in the dust. But it's all over for him now. He's neck deep in shit with no way out... I guess Shep finally did learn something from you!"
Eric bolted from his stool to his full height inches from Mason's jutting grin. The gloating N7 braced for a fight, his supporters flanking him. The dour woman turned her back.
"You're as responsible for Bahak as he is!" Mason continued. "They should bring your ass in, too!"
The krogan rolled his shoulders, ready to aid his savior. "We can take 'em, Eric!"
Mason stabbed a finger at the youth. "You keep out of this, toad boy! Humans only!"
"He's not worth th' jail time - leave 'im ta me," Eric added, putting an arm in front of the krogan's chest to have him step back as he quipped to Mason "You really wanna eat through a straw, dumbass?"
"I can take you anytime, anywhere, Street Rat-!"
"GENTLEMEN!"
The outcry and a cocking noise made all pay attention to Vale at the counter. The volus had propped himself up on a small Bultas crate and brandished a biotic glow and a large shotgun. He had enough of human bravado and bigotry.
"... I think you should take this outside..."
Mason cackled at this display. "Careful you don't pop, Pops! All it takes is one shot."
Vale was unfazed. "Good advice for you... Pops. I could call C-Sec but their average response time is two Standard minutes. More than enough time for you two boys to cost me a fortune… not happening."
Inwardly Eric took a liking to this volus. He spent years transforming a fascination with Earth culture into a thriving business and he was not about to have anyone take that away without the offenders taking a round.
Calming down and not wanting to learn the hard way how much of a hair trigger Vale or his shotgun had he said "Nothin's gonna happen, Vale. And you people should know better. He’s sposta be settin’ an example, not draggin’ you along fer bail money. If any o'you are worth those jackets you're wearin' you'll report this shithead for a reprimand. N7 must've really gone to hell if they thought he was mentor material!"
The girl with the fade cut found a bit of encouragement; ironic that a dropout would have more sense than an enlisted man. She grabbed Mason's shoulder to direct him out of the bar. Her mentor elbowed her away.
"At least I ain't a quitter like you! We're not through yet!"
Eric assumed a smug aspect as he sat on his stool again. "Said the idiot with a shotgun to his head."
Vale tucked his head into his shoulder, taking aim. Mason did not budge. His companions fidgeted, waiting for him to lead them anywhere out of muzzle range. Eric exhaled loudly and took charge.
"Well, well, well. Another bomb to defuse - fine. You wanna rumble, pal, I'll oblige ya. Anybody can swing a fist and knock heads around. How 'bout we settle this with somethin' with some actual skill involved? A round o'pool... whaddya say, Mace?"
Mason wheezed with laughter. "... real sporting of you, Lice. Challenge me to a game you can kick my ass in! I say we arm wrestle instead, loser's banned from the place. How about that?"
Eric rolled and massaged a shoulder. "With all the ground up tiger balls you snort? You're kiddin' me, right?" The ex-marine thought a second before his eyes went aflame with inspiration, burning them into Mason's own stare.
"How 'bout a real test o'guts...? Ryncol shots!"
Mason cackled in approval. Vale was not so sure that was the best idea, knowing the effect ryncol had on anyone other than krogan. Eric made a slight change to his proposition.
“Somethin’ almost as strong, then... with a lil' dash o'irony… batarian ale.”
The bar owner was not keen on that choice either. “I don’t serve batarian ale.”
“Sure ya do.” Eric was locked in a staring contest with the square-jawed N7.
“What makes you think that?”
A corner of Eric's mouth skewed up. “… the permit behind the hula girl….”
The gathering’s eyes followed the diminutive volus as he lowered his weapon and tilted to look over to where Eric had indicated. Sure enough there was, obscured by an old plastic wobble figurine of a topless human female in hula dancer garb, a silver placard with the batarian Hegemony seal upon it affixed to the mirror. Vale cursed to himself then hopped off his crate, put away his shotgun and went to fetch a bottle.
"Piot!" he called out to one of his barhops, a salarian. "Bring out two shot glasses...”
The combatants sat down at the center table, their respective supporters behind them. Word began to pass around the rest of the bar of the brewing contest and they gathered around. Only Mason's initiate remained at the counter, not wanting any part of it. The audience was ready as were Eric and Mason. Vale set the bottle of batarian ale by Eric and looked to the young krogan, reminding him of his earlier pledge. The youth with the Cubs cap nodded. The barhop Piot looked at the two seated humans with an air of contempt, his attitude better suited for a maître d at a four-star restaurant than a bar. He set down the first shot glass by Mason with a knock. Piot then regarded Eric for a moment. Before Eric could react the salarian's hand thrust outward and placed the last glass in front of him before disappearing behind the crowd. Mason pulled the bottle to his side.
"Since this was your idea, you should go first," said Mason.
Eric patted his jacket pockets looking for something. He reached inside one, brought out a metal flask and unscrewed the cap. He took a long sniff of the liquid sloshing around inside.
"Yes, I should... one second..."
The crowd was stunned as Eric downed the contents of the flask in one sustained gulp. Even Mason's brow raised in surprise as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle of ale. Eric capped the flask and returned it to its pocket, turning back to Mason again to gasp with satisfaction.
And let off a burp.
"I'm soo sure I can beat ya," he pointed to his opponent. "I'm gonna do it with a handicap!"
Mason angled the ale into Eric's glass, grinning wickedly as he poured out a half measure. "First three for you will be half shots then. I'll take whatever you pour. Don't wanna knock you out too quick!"
Eric held up his glass. "No we do not," his voice became a parody of a Roman consul. "The people have gathered for blood... and they shall have it!"
With that the first shot of ale fired past Eric's lips.
He could not place the exact flavor. Malt? Penyo berries? Paper bag? Battery acid? Whatever it was it was pretty strong, the vapors going up and down his esophagus, through his sinuses. Eric shuddered away the sensations and sat looking at Mason across the way, clicking his tongue.
"... not too shabby," said Eric, grabbing the bottle and filling up Mason's glass to the top. "Yer turn, dipshit."
Mason swiftly drank his shot. But as the ale went down his throat the head of the square-jawed N7 became a circle then a rectangle, his face stretching and squashing as he coped with the non-human intoxicant.
Eric laughed through his nostrils. "Grabs ya by the boo-boo, don't it?"
Mason's countenance normalized. "Round two... my serve."
Eric's hands parted towards Mason in a "be my guest" gesture...
A second bottle of batarian ale had to be brought out as neither contestant, woozy and vacant as they were, conceded defeat after emptying the first. Mason's lips vibrated with his forced exhale, head rocking all about looking for something to focus on. Eric hunched over the table coughing, shaking as though he were cold. Some among the crowd whispered about how he probably should not have taken a swig from his flask earlier as the human's palor seemed a little jaundiced compared to Mason. The young krogan was very concerned for his hero.
"Ya loouk ligh shid, Lize," Mason slurred, forcing a smile. "Maaaghe -hic- makid eazze un yerselfuh."
Eric coughed heavily into a fist and steadied himself over the table with his elbows.
"Naaght... goin dauwn... til' yu doo..."
Mason only looked at his glass, spurred to action when Eric pounded his fist.
"DRINKID!!!"
Mason's mouth was a smarmy line as the latest full shot of ale vanished behind it. The line was frozen to his face as he ceremoniously set down the shot glass, sat back, threaded one hand under his belt and exhaled.
Then keeled over his left side onto the floor.
The crowd half cheered, half gasped with relief that the battle was finally over. The more willing cohorts of Mason’s entourage peeled him upright, trying to decipher his moans and babblings as they walked him up to the counter. His initiate turned away from him to glance over the crowd. Eric shook and laughed in his seat, squinting and smiling brightly.
"Iye saee...<cough> Iye saee iyed bee ya wi a haneekap <cough> ann iye <cough> did <cough>..."
Since the midway through the first bottle, Eric's throat and stomach developed a strange sensation. Had he been sober he would have realized that this should not be happening; something was amiss. Just as Vale had claimed Eric’s competitive side took over and dismissed it as effects of the ale - someone in the crowd noted it was the uncut variety. The spinning feeling then became burning. Then poking and jabbing yet Eric soldered on, determined to beat Mason…
Eric coughed and hacked violently, then doubled over and collapsed on the wood floor. The victorious N7 spasmed while the krogan gathered him in his arms. Mason's N7 initiate ran over and knelt by his side.
"I think he needs a doctor... he needs a doctor" said the krogan, trying to solicit additional help from the other patrons.
Something inside Eric’s gut grew steel teeth and claws and was shredding his insides. Eric wheezed heavily, growling and gritting against the pain. Then he pointed his head at the floor.
And coughed out blood.
"CALL MEDICAL RIGHT NOW!!!" screamed the initiate.
Some bar patrons were stunned and immobile. Others swiftly gathered up their belongings and went for the exit. A few others activated their comm sets to notify C-Sec of the emergency. Vale and three other barhops tried to reassure their remaining customers.
The salarian Piot was nowhere to be seen.
Eric tried with all his might to stay conscious but was losing by the second. The feelings of agony, of his body curled up in the krogan's arms who rocked him, of Mason's initiate holding his head and cleaning off his mouth were all slipping away.
"Sir...! Stay with me, Sir!"
"Hang in there, buddy - help's comin'... help's comin'..."
"Piot...? Piot, where the hell are you...?"
Then silence.
And darkness.
- End of Part I -
[Author’s Note: Part II is coming up in a bit. Afterwards characters will be able to interact with Eric… seriously, he’ll live through this!]