“So, Liara. Let's count the ways things just went and screwed
up.”
Tips the glass back, feeling the blue...liquid? Is it liquid? It's
her third shot, so she has no idea. Tipping the glass back, she
feels it burn her throat, the dim red and blue lights of the
corner booth she's occupied at Flux- the most expensive bar in the
Wards she could find that doesn't smell like Krogan- helping to
disorient her more.
At least her personal funds weren't frozen, even if Benezia's were.
So she can go and get herself absolutely hammered after today's
events.
“First,” she says, leaning on her hand, fingers splayed over her
freckled blue face, “Mother has gone and joined a genocidal turian
Spectre who wants to kill everything.”
She downs another shot. She's not quite sure what she ordered,
outside of telling the waiter 'Enough to kill me, and take away two.'
“Also, the theory you had? About genocidal outsiders who wiped
out the Protheans? Turns out to have been absolutely right. Except
they're also 2 kilometer long dreadnoughts, there are thousands of
them, and Mother is now allied with the genocidal turian Spectre who
is allied with them.”
She downs another shot. Mother, Mother, Mother, she thinks, She
probably has to find this amusing. Eager and intelligent Liara,
celebrating her theories being right by getting herself shit faced at
a high class bar on the Citadel.
“Oh, yes,” Liara says, downing another shot, coughing, “You
also met a Prothean. Who knows nothing about Prothean culture,
history, science, or anything other than this 'cosmic imperative'
that you read about in a Krogan love letter on Illium. So no, the
Protheans may have been a wise, intelligent, guiding race. But the
Prothean that survived to the present day? An asshole.”
She downs another shot.
“And on top of that, Mother, or her genocidal turian Spectre
boyfriend, may have sent Geth and a Yahg to kill you,” she says.
She sighs. “I should have been a dancer.”
She downs another shot. Leaning forward, she presses her palms
against her forehead, slowly massaging her face. In the past day she
has been shot at, trapped, had her entire world shaken, and learned
that she, while smart, is not wise. She has been enlisted
into a fight against the forces of evil- which now include Mother-
and has been nearly killed so many times in the past day that she
can't count them all on one hand.
“Ma'am.”
She peaks a blue eye out from between splayed fingers. A quarian,
one of the quarians on the Normandy that they picked up on Therum, is
standing at her table.
“Yeees?” she slurs.
“Seems to me you've been having a rough day, ma'am,” he says,
sliding into the booth, “Just wanted to make sure you didn't get
yourself hurt.”
She blinks. She smiles, albeit shakily. Or perhaps she is shaking,
and swaying a little.
“Don't think we've met,” he says, “Kal'Reegar.”
He extends a hand. She smiles, takes his. Not sure if she's
shaking his hand or just shaking.
“Liara,” she says, “I...well, I can handle myself.”
“More's the merrier,” he responds with a shrug, “Sides which,
that turian over by the dance floor was saying her was going to make
a move on you.”
“The one with the black eye?”
“Yep,” he says, bringing up two fingers on his right hand,
waiting as the waiter comes over with a smaller tray of two drinks,
“Talked him out of it. Pretty sure we need to both be, y'know, at
our best tomorrow so I thought you'd need a designated walker.”
She nods. Walking may not be her strong point, right now. Or
sitting, she realizes, as she collapses sideways, her head on the
shoulder of the quarian marine as he pops the straw out of his
mouthpiece.
“Never got drunk before, have you?” he asks.
“Nope,” she mutters, “Mum never went evil before, either. I
think today's gotta lotta firsts.”
up.”
Tips the glass back, feeling the blue...liquid? Is it liquid? It's
her third shot, so she has no idea. Tipping the glass back, she
feels it burn her throat, the dim red and blue lights of the
corner booth she's occupied at Flux- the most expensive bar in the
Wards she could find that doesn't smell like Krogan- helping to
disorient her more.
At least her personal funds weren't frozen, even if Benezia's were.
So she can go and get herself absolutely hammered after today's
events.
“First,” she says, leaning on her hand, fingers splayed over her
freckled blue face, “Mother has gone and joined a genocidal turian
Spectre who wants to kill everything.”
She downs another shot. She's not quite sure what she ordered,
outside of telling the waiter 'Enough to kill me, and take away two.'
“Also, the theory you had? About genocidal outsiders who wiped
out the Protheans? Turns out to have been absolutely right. Except
they're also 2 kilometer long dreadnoughts, there are thousands of
them, and Mother is now allied with the genocidal turian Spectre who
is allied with them.”
She downs another shot. Mother, Mother, Mother, she thinks, She
probably has to find this amusing. Eager and intelligent Liara,
celebrating her theories being right by getting herself shit faced at
a high class bar on the Citadel.
“Oh, yes,” Liara says, downing another shot, coughing, “You
also met a Prothean. Who knows nothing about Prothean culture,
history, science, or anything other than this 'cosmic imperative'
that you read about in a Krogan love letter on Illium. So no, the
Protheans may have been a wise, intelligent, guiding race. But the
Prothean that survived to the present day? An asshole.”
She downs another shot.
“And on top of that, Mother, or her genocidal turian Spectre
boyfriend, may have sent Geth and a Yahg to kill you,” she says.
She sighs. “I should have been a dancer.”
She downs another shot. Leaning forward, she presses her palms
against her forehead, slowly massaging her face. In the past day she
has been shot at, trapped, had her entire world shaken, and learned
that she, while smart, is not wise. She has been enlisted
into a fight against the forces of evil- which now include Mother-
and has been nearly killed so many times in the past day that she
can't count them all on one hand.
“Ma'am.”
She peaks a blue eye out from between splayed fingers. A quarian,
one of the quarians on the Normandy that they picked up on Therum, is
standing at her table.
“Yeees?” she slurs.
“Seems to me you've been having a rough day, ma'am,” he says,
sliding into the booth, “Just wanted to make sure you didn't get
yourself hurt.”
She blinks. She smiles, albeit shakily. Or perhaps she is shaking,
and swaying a little.
“Don't think we've met,” he says, “Kal'Reegar.”
He extends a hand. She smiles, takes his. Not sure if she's
shaking his hand or just shaking.
“Liara,” she says, “I...well, I can handle myself.”
“More's the merrier,” he responds with a shrug, “Sides which,
that turian over by the dance floor was saying her was going to make
a move on you.”
“The one with the black eye?”
“Yep,” he says, bringing up two fingers on his right hand,
waiting as the waiter comes over with a smaller tray of two drinks,
“Talked him out of it. Pretty sure we need to both be, y'know, at
our best tomorrow so I thought you'd need a designated walker.”
She nods. Walking may not be her strong point, right now. Or
sitting, she realizes, as she collapses sideways, her head on the
shoulder of the quarian marine as he pops the straw out of his
mouthpiece.
“Never got drunk before, have you?” he asks.
“Nope,” she mutters, “Mum never went evil before, either. I
think today's gotta lotta firsts.”