Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alejandro Reyes Vidal aka Sebastián Reyes Vidal aka Maruicio Vidal aka Maruicio Reyes aka Reyes Vidal aka Shena aka the Shark aka Matador aka Anubis aka the Charlatan never expected it to be easy.

Good things didn’t happen. Bad things happened, and you wrung victory from them while laughing at your enemies.

Truth be told, he’d gone into stasis betting even odds that he’d never wake up again. Six hundred years and a ridiculous number of miles from known civilization - that was just rolling the dice, no matter how many videos of sunswept fields and tropical vistas the Initiative’s people kept on a loop. And they called him a liar.

Vidal always rolled the dice, and they usually landed in his favor, or close enough for a helpful nudge.

So when the Scourge rid them of the top brass and the Golden Worlds weren’t even gilded and the Nexus started shedding boatloads of exiles, Reyes did what he always did. What he probably would have done, even in better circumstances. Scramble and barter, lie and negotiate and survive. Pleasantries backed with firepower, and when he’d arrived on Kadara it had been useful to let Sloane deal with the Kett first, to see which way the wind was blowing and just how hard. The more enemies she made, the more of a foothold Reyes could find with a growing opposition and he thinks he might end up fighting for this technicolor Molotov Cocktail of a planet, if for no other reason than to take it from her. Sloane has an astonishing lack of imagination, for someone who bothered traveling halfway across the universe.

The Milky Way had been all negotiated for and parceled out long before Reyes had been born, nothing new except climbing up one chain of command or another that had already been there, possibly always been there, if there were a Krogan or Asari at the top. If he wanted any chance of making his name, he’d have to do it among fresh stars.

Kadara is, perhaps, a bit too familiar for such a long trip, seedy and down-at-the-tooth even before they’d arrived, the Angaran locals the problem children of their own galaxy. Sloane is too insular and suspicious to trust them, to look much further than those who hit planetside with her - a boon to the Collective, in the early days. He worked his connections with the Angara, gained their trust simply because the Outcasts provided no alternative - and eventually even found a few contacts with the Resistance, a few new eyes. Enough to have a better view of the terrain.

It isn’t exactly bursting with pleasant revelations. The Kett are pumice-faced zealots, with seemingly zero interest in anything but total domination, and the new arrivals to the Heleus Cluster are only more means to the same end. A minor miracle, really, that the Nexus has survived as long as it has - but they’re running out of food up there, and there are no signs of the arks and the colony attempts have all been stunning failures. Sloane may find this amusing but having less options is never better, and Reyes thinks that the end of the Nexus will likely be the end of any real Human footprint in Andromeda. Or Turian, or Salarian, or possibly even Asari.

The Krogan might tough it out - they’ve rolled with the punches when the punches were thermonuclear - but as for the rest of them, Reyes does not see many long-term options beyond watching the Nexus finally collapse under its own weight, and then scavenging what he can, for whatever he wants to call living in the aftermath.

The Resistance has its home on a hidden world called Aya. The angara on Kadara mostly talk about it in tones both hushed and bitter, the one place in this galaxy that is more than just a different flavor of barely habitable. A place he would never be allowed to reach, let alone land.

As good a goal as any, if things go as badly as they might. Maybe he’d sneak in. Probably not. But there are worse fates than dying in beautiful skies.

Of course, there are also better fates - like the news that Ark Hyperion has finally arrived in Andromeda, along with the human Pathfinder.

————————————

“Is it really such a big deal?” Keema asks.

The Roekaar think so. There are rumors they’ve upped their recruiting game, preparing for more frequent attacks, spooked by what they don’t realize is the furthest thing from Nexus reinforcements. Other rumors have popped up as well - Turians out in the wilds, or at least dead pods from the missing ark turning up here and there. Other stories, that the Kett snatched them all in one swoop, or that the Salarian ark accidentally course-corrected into a star. Every new bit of gossip stirring up the whole pot.

It’s a big enough deal that even Dagher offers up a free round of shots that almost don’t burn all the way down, because maybe it is just another twenty-thousand people they have no way to feed, but maybe it’s a few new resources to keep things limping along, the second-cousin of an actual lucky break. If nothing else, it provides a fresh perspective not tarnished by the Uprising - a Pathfinder, if that ends up being anything more than another bit of overpolished PR.

Alec Ryder. Widowed before signing up for the trip, with two grown children along for the ride. Former N7, though apparently disgraced by the same AI work that ended up as an integral part of the Initiative. A surprisingly low profile for such a key player. That’s interesting. Why not part of the advance team, Ryder?

Reyes can tell from the picture that he’s going to be a hardass, but N7 are all about making solutions happen first and damn the consequences. If the Pathfinder lives long enough to notice Kadara, all the Charlatan has to be is the better option. Which may be tricky if Sloane concedes even a sliver of her pride, if she reaches out to him as a fellow soldier pushed to breaking, weary from wrangling even a medieval sort of order from the chaos of a foreign shore.

Reyes has little intention of fighting them both, not for - at best - an endless and unprofitable standoff on a planet that smells like a rotten egg and krogan quad sandwich. Better for the Charlatan to just pack himself up and try his luck elsewhere.

The news from one of his Nexus contacts arrives before Reyes has even finished considering all the angles. Alec Ryder isn’t a complication, because Alec Ryder is dead. His son is the Pathfinder now, his daughter sidelined with ‘undisclosed medical complications,’ and there’s a bare-bones bio and a picture of a young man in Alliance blues. Hard to complain about a man in uniform, even if Ryder looks like the photo that comes with the frame - clean-cut and Citadel-raised and unmemorable. The sort of generically inoffensive person who might be able to sell even a half-functioning Initiative.

Still, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, to try and convince him that the Collective is worth his consideration.

His last significant news is that Vetra Nyx has joined the Pathfinder’s crew. Reyes has been courting her and her connections for ages, so that speaks to at least some sense from Alec Ryder’s fortunate son - perhaps he’s not quite as by-the-book as his photo suggests, or at least enough to notice that Director Tann does most of his talking out of his cloaca.

Reyes loses track of the Tempest and her crew for a time - the Pathfinder planetside on Aya, sifting through the wreckage of old hopes - and Sloane as always, providing her distractions. He loses a few of his men, when she poaches one of his shipments, and the Charlatan makes sure to return the favor while taking them back. He wouldn’t say she’s a particularly clever opponent - but Sloane is skilled and disciplined, surrounded by equally competent and loyal soldiers, and a base of power and wealth that can only be eroded with constant attention, a little at a time. It’s not always the most rewarding progress, but there’s something to savor in being a perpetual irritation. Being background noise has its uses - he can get away with more before anyone notices.

“Did you hear?” One of his scouts at the port, one who thinks Reyes is just a smuggler, friendly to the Collective for a fee, lit up at the moment with something more than the usual combination of bad liquor and worse ideas. “The Pathfinder went and unfucked Eos.”

Chapter Text

The Pathfinder has indeed unfucked Eos, at least enough to establish a outpost that doesn’t fall over and catch fire the moment they turn their backs.

The Pathfinder lands a few hard blows against the Kett, and meets with the Angara. On Aya. Somehow. Reyes waits for a confirmation on that one before he believes it.

“First contact.” Keema says dryly, and they raise a glass to second chances at first impressions.

The murmurs carry throughout the ports, sweeping like a cautious wind from Kralla’s Song down through the back rooms of Tartarus - so what happens now? The Charlatan pays well for that first intrepid smuggler to make his way to Eos - minimal contraband, maximum information - and the news is good. All of it. The radiation levels continue to fall. The first crops stay in the soil. The Pathfinder’s setting up broadcast towers as he goes, bringing the good news in short and inspiring sound bites, and his voice matches his looks. ‘Dauntless’ and ‘Valiant’ and other words that get painted on the sides of ships - until Reyes wonders if they didn’t just fire up a spare exhibit from the Cultural Exchange and hand it a gun.

The Pathfinder talks about courage and grit and determination. He doesn’t say anything about punishment, or the Initiative reclaiming what they’ve lost by any means necessary, the exiled as a force to be dealt with. Sloane is not happy, but Reyes catches even her soldiers replaying the news, scattered Pathfinder assurances echoing up and down the docks.

Nothing like a little bit of hope, especially when it comes with results.

A few of these people, Reyes included, would be here anyway, or whatever place was most like here even if they’d all been golden worlds, but many of the exiled hadn’t left for the sake of freedom or profit, or they still have family in cryo on the Nexus. With every new victory, with every day that Prodromos keeps humming - a colony of scientists, a center of learning - the conversations all grow a little louder - he sounds nice, he’s just a liar like the rest of them, he fixed the planet, it’s bullshit, but what if it’s not, what if he lets us go back, bullshit, but what if it’s true, what if it’s true?

The Pathfinder unfucks Havarl.

Sloane cracks down across the port - more beatings and patrols, even a rewrite of the Outcasts’ sign-up pitch. Somebody’s getting nervous.

Reyes always had a plan, of course, although anything more than vague intent tied to ambition is just wasting time. Terminus born and raised, and though he scraped the worst of it off his reputation long before he left the Milky Way, this chaos is home. He knows what people want and what they need and how much they’re willing to pay, and this was always the plan. Watch the system build itself up around him, and vanish inside of it. A brilliant disappearing act, and for the first time since he woke up it seems like there might be an audience and a stage, and maybe even a spotlight to hide from.

“You know, Vidal,” Zia mutters, arching her back with a bit more impatience, “if I wanted to get myself off, I could have stayed home.”

“My apologies.” He murmurs against her throat, suddenly wondering why he was even here, or if there were some faster way out that wouldn’t involve getting shot. He has a more intimate relationship with Kian Dagher through three-inch thick security bars.

His and Zia’s entanglement is perfect for Kadara, really - a makeshift liaison born mostly from boredom, a lack of immediate alternatives and the hope that maybe while they’re fucking, one or the other of them might let slip a new bit of information about a choice job. She has enough Outcast ties to keep him in her orbit, and whatever it is that makes her clench and shudder against him, she always keeps her eyes closed and her thoughts to herself. Reyes is an equally convenient means to an end.

For his own part, he thinks…. well, he considers the Pathfinder, and that precocious, pre-recorded confidence - and all the possibilities slowly returning to the table. Trade routes and supplies and increased populations with increased demands for all kinds of things, zipping back and forth across Andromeda in invisible webs of need and desire. Fuel cells and fancy shuttles and luxuries for whatever is is the Angara wish they had. Whatever the Initiative misses the most. Fine dextro dining. High-thread-count sheets. The genome for espresso-braised shortribs. Finance and commerce and systems within systems, all across Andromeda - and there he is, at the center of it all - and that’s enough to tip him over, let everything else unravel itself, if only for a few moments.

“Narcissism in action.” Zia says, as he opens his eyes, lets a hand slide across her hip in the moment before she shoves him away and in that few seconds of afterglow he’s almost fond of her - sure, it’s all just passing time, but at least they both know the score. This is as true as either of them get.

“At least I’m never lonely.” Reyes smiles.

His burgeoning business between Kadara and Elaadan remains… interesting. Being the Charlatan is occasionally a life full of intrigue and danger but a ledger is a ledger even when fragmentation grenades have their own line item. Reyes loves his work - he wouldn’t survive if he didn’t - but it is a mish-mash of shootouts and dull, late-night flights, coordinating covert maneuvers while chatting up potential contacts and keeping an eye on the new recruits, always watching for standouts or spies.

It means anticipating cultural differences with the krogan and sanity differences with quite a few of his suppliers and one of his better sources is now demanding hazard pay because the giant metal worm is standing between him and the next big score. Of course, who wouldn’t want to leave Thresher Maw 2.0 behind on their way out of the galaxy? Otherwise, someone might decide to make off with all of that scrap and rock and searing, endless nothingness.

The Pathfinder saves the Moshae, and everyone discovers the Kett’s dirty little secret.

On Kadara, the Angara mourn for days, and Reyes’ profit increases in the tools of grief - bells and candles and beautiful, multicolored papers to be woven into loops and burned, cut out into the shapes of the lost and turned to ashes on the wind. Reincarnation is a tenet of their faith - the Kett aren’t just destroying one life, but immortal futures and vast histories. He thinks that maybe some of the Angara on this planet are the loners, the ones who don’t fit in as well with tight families and emotional displays - but after they learn about the Kett, the bars are overrun with groups of Angara sitting together and talking, or just drinking, leaning into each other for hours at a time.

He finds Keema on one of the highest points of the port, a little platform pointed away from the settlement and out over the clouds that break here and there, revealing glimpses of color and foliage beneath.

Reyes sits down beside her, arms against the railing, legs dangling over the edge. The sound of ships moving in and out of the docks is a soft and steady hum that barely counts as breaking the silence.

“I’ve told you before about the Geth, in the Milky Way?”

Reyes never lost anyone close to one of those spikes, but even enemies of enemies, even knowing the name of someone he’d only seen once on the other side of a crowded room, that they were out there somewhere, and no longer human…

He’d had one run-in with a handful of Geth, an unlucky encounter on a derelict ship, and his side had the advantage in numbers and guns, but still, it’s not a pleasant memory, and there had been a little comfort, thinking he’d at least put six hundred years of distance between himself and that.

The Kett can’t turn humans. At least not yet.

“It’s not really the same thing, is it?” Keema says quietly, and she takes the bottle when he hands it over, but doesn’t drink.

“I suppose not.”

They’re high enough, that the winds even manage to carry above the worst of the smell - up here, when the light is right, Kadara could almost be mistaken for something a little more rare, and precious.

“They took my true mother, Vidal.” Her voice is a low and desperate growl. “When I was very young. It never, I never - I was proud. I knew that she died fighting, that she was brave. I knew it… and now? What if, all this time… what if she is still out there? What if…?”

He’ll have bruises later, from the places Keema digs in, holding on to him while she keens with grief and rage, but it’s the only thing that he can do and so Reyes does it. You can’t fault the Angara for courage or grit - an entire generation against an enemy capable of such horrors, and they’ve managed to hold their own. Still, they deserved to know this from the start - and this is the power of secrets, this is the price they can exact.

Reyes remembers the way they spoke of the Shadow Broker, even in the Citadel. A figure who stood outside the usual halls of power, and held more of it than any of them. No one knew who or where or how, and so he was everyone and everywhere. Always a place at the top, for a man who knows everything, who can step back and see how it all fits together - and if they do manage to survive here, there’s going to have to be another master of secrets in Andromeda, and it’s damn well going to be the Charlatan.

Reyes sends a note with his condolences to Evfra de Tershaav, to the whole of the Resistance for their pain and loss. He expects the silence that follows, but graciousness costs nothing, and occasionally can lead to an unexpected reward.

—————————————

The Pathfinder unfucks Voeld.

The Collective steals half a month’s worth of protection fees from a convoy that’s not quite as quick as they should be. Sloane offers up another half-month’s bounty for anyone with Collective ties, and two men are piked at the gate alongside what’s left of the Kett. Which would be more disheartening if Reyes recognized either one of them - whoever the poor bastards were, they weren’t any of his. The Outcasts are still in control, the Collective still the rising upstart, but everyone’s aware of the new player in town, even though no one’s quite sure if the Pathfinder’s on his way.

He’ll have to, right? He’ll show up.

Reyes could almost hear the thought land on Kadara Port, from the dock workers all the way down to even the raiders who aren’t too blitzed on drugs or poison to remember there’s a bigger world out there - wouldn’t it be nice, if the rain didn’t always threaten to eat through tires and metal and allies? What if the water were a drinkable number of colors?

Maybe, just maybe, they ought to let the Pathfinder unfuck Kadara before they draw straws on who gets to kill him and how?

“So… say they just decide to hang back, and bomb us from orbit?” Keema says, because she never stops planning for the worst, and even comes up with creative new disasters as a hobby. It isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, if the Nexus gets its feet under itself - a lot of bad blood, a lot of wounded pride during the Uprising and Kadara may be useful but Kadara Port itself is as expendable as most of the people who live there.

“The Resistance wouldn’t let innocent Angarans get caught in the crossfire.”

Keema snorts. “Innocent? We are talking about the same port?”

Even so, it seems unlikely that the Resistance would allow the Initiative to be so cavalier, just on principle, and Reyes doesn’t think the Pathfinder would let it happen, in any case.

Given the power at his disposal, the Pathfinder could have started asking for deals or payments or leadership rights two planets ago. You can hear the edge in Tann’s voice, in the newest broadcasts, tying Ryder’s actions to the Initiative as often as he can, as if there’s anything he could do if the man went rogue - but at least for now, he’s in luck. All the Pathfinder seems to want is to follow the wishes of his father, to sort things out, make allies and fight the Kett and build the paradise he’d come here to find.

The Director is luckier than he deserves, but Reyes has faith that he’ll still fuck it up somehow.

“I’d bother complaining that you’re not here, but I can’t remember when you actually were.” Zia says, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with annoyance, and Reyes realizes he can’t remember a single word of the conversation he’s supposed to be having, not even the tone or what expression he ought to have on his face. It’s dangerous, to be so preoccupied, and obviously time to break things off between them, and he’d tell her so but Zia’s already gone. Reyes likes to imagine he won’t see her again someday, down the barrel of a gun, but his luck isn’t usually that good.

It isn’t good enough, for the Collective to get to Vehn Terev before the Outcasts do - that would have been a nice gift to wrap up and deliver to the Resistance, instead of being a piece of unearned goodwill for Sloane. Terev is big news, enough so that it isn’t even Reyes’ job to report it - instead, there’s a notice from Evfra himself, with the words Reyes has been waiting to hear.

- PATHFINDER INBOUND, EXPECTING SHENA AT THE SONG. WE NEED TEREV ALIVE.

One day, there’ll be a more impressive city than a few prefab buildings stapled to the side of a cliff. One day, Kadara will be a functioning planet with a mostly functioning metropolis, and somewhere in that sprawling mélange of chaos and culture and species, someone will build a church, and Reyes will have to go there and light a candle for Evfra de Tershaav.

Today, Reyes smiles, and then he makes sure that the Collective is watching the skies, waiting for Tempest’s call sign to come in, that there are eyes on that ship and its crew from the moment they break atmo until the moment Reyes strolls into the bar, still wearing the same smile.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

It never hurts to start with an offering, and so Reyes holds out the glass. The Pathfinder turns, and pauses - and reaches back. He doesn’t look much like his picture at all.

Chapter Text

Seducing the Pathfinder has been quietly climbing up the ranks of preferable options for a while now. Reyes works better mixing business with pleasure, and he can certainly be… flexible, in the pursuit of a goal, and ready to swallow his pride - ahem - if it gets him the results he’s looking for. So yes, he’s ready to paso doble for any number of possible Scott Ryders - the Initiative boyscout, the ambitious explorer; egotistical or naive, reckless or by-the-book. There’s very little that Reyes hasn’t seen before, and if Ryder surprises him by being some flavor of secret bastard - well, he’s dealt with that too.

Mother of God, just don’t let him be dull. Reyes has endured enough of that already.

“I was expecting someone more… angaran.”

No sign of that Alliance smile - Ryder is polite, but cautious. Obviously, he’s heard enough about Kadara to be wary, but there’s a weariness that hadn’t been in that old photograph. The kind of thing that tends to happen when the best laid plans collapse into a cascade failure. The Pathfinder’s still a young man, but one with all his certainties and second chances stripped away, with decisions that were never supposed to be his to make all demanding his attention, all with life or death consequences attached. He looks like he’s expecting the worst, for any reason at any time. Reyes wonders if he’s had a single moment to breathe since he’d woken up on the Hyperion.

Oh, you beauty. I’m going to take good care of you.

It’s always easy to be charming, especially when the ulterior motives are the actual motives. There is nothing on the Pathfinder’s agenda - fix the planet, establish an outpost, bring stability and trade and newer, richer marks to con - that doesn’t align perfectly with Reyes’ goals. It is entirely to his benefit to become the Pathfinder’s best friend on Kadara.

“It takes a brave man,” Reyes says, “to go wandering around this port in Initiative colors.”

A small, wry smile peeks out for a moment from behind all that Pathfinder professionalism.

“I think everyone here already knows exactly who I am.”

Reyes is close enough to see the Pathfinder’s gaze go ever so slightly unfocused, as if he’s had a sudden insight - and that might be what communicating with his AI looks like. Reyes had heard a rumor of a rumor once, the kind of capabilities the SAM connection has, the raw potential - and Alec Ryder had to get blacklisted for something, after all. Does his crew even know? What else can he do, besides bringing entire planets back to life? Reyes is ravenously curious - just imagine what that sort of an edge… well, he doesn’t have to imagine, not with three worlds’ worth of proof in the Pathfinder’s wake. Maybe if he’s clever, if he asks the right questions, then just maybe…

Ryder listens to him explain the situation on Kadara with quiet interest, curious and attentive while giving impressively little away. Reyes knows that there’s more to do with Terev than just bringing a traitor back to the Resistance - Kett hunting, it has to be - but that’s business he’s quite happy to let the Pathfinder sort out.

The plan for Terev’s extraction is relatively simple, presuming the Pathfinder goes along with it, presuming he doesn’t argue Sloane down into a firefight in her throne room first. It seems unlikely - the Pathfinder is so quiet and reserved he’d pass for unremarkable, if Reyes hadn’t been watching him for months, didn’t have the checklist of successes. Ryder’s playing his cards close to his chest - which isn’t the worst strategy on Kadara, and gaining his trust will be a pleasant way to pass the time.

The only factor Reyes can’t account for is Sloane, and if she does see this all for the opportunity it is - well, that’s a shotgun to the kneecap of the whole plan. For all that he’s shaken up the Heleus Cluster, the Pathfinder plays a fairly conservative game. Sloane Kelly is already in charge of Kadara Port, and if she recognizes what’s on offer - the Initiative the way it was meant to be, the seeds of immense prosperity for what would likely amount to only minor concessions on her part, even grudgingly… well, whatever happens, at least it’s begun, and there’s no more waiting around.

“How do I contact you if things go south?”

As if keeping in touch is ever going to be a problem. Reyes turns and winks - and then stiffs him with the tab. No time like the present, to find out if the Pathfinder is charmed by a dashing scoundrel.

——————————————

Sloane fucks it up like a champion. If there were any to be had, Reyes would send her flowers.

She sneers and poses and defends her territory with all the subtlety of a rabid varren, offering nothing to the Pathfinder but contempt. In the meantime, the Collective sneaks Terev out the back door, and word reaches Reyes even with the last few rays of sun filtering out of the sky - the Pathfinder’s heading out into the Badlands with the dawn, and he’s been asking about Remnant ruins.

The Collective prides itself on a slightly brighter class of reprobate, even at the baseline, but the Charlatan sends out another all points warning, for anyone who needed the reminder. The Pathfinder and his crew are VIP’s, on the port and in the wilds and anywhere else they want to be. Yes, this may make things inconvenient. Yes, they’ll deal with it as the need arises.

It’s impossible to keep tabs on Ryder in every corner of the Badlands - there’s just too much that’s too bad, hostile to everyone and everything - but if the opportunity presents itself, it’s advisable to take out any pesky raiders or raging beasts that might impede his progress. Otherwise, keep a fair distance, under no circumstances engage or exchange fire, and if by some unholy act of an idiot god you do manage to injure or kill the Pathfinder before he’s fixed the planet? Everyone will know your name and where to find you.

“Yeah, uh, I just watched him no scope a couple of raiders out of their shuttle up here near Varren’s Scalp.” A scout calls in on the common channel. “Poor bastards barely got the doors open. And, mmm, he’s got a krogan with him. A really angry one. I don’t think he’s going to have any problems.”

Reyes doesn’t know what kind of soldier Alec Ryder was, the methods he preferred, or if the son takes after the father, but it seems… unlikely. The Pathfinder is as cautious in the field as he is in conversation - infiltration tactics, a decided lack of bravado. All tactical cloaking and sniper rifles, flanking the enemy while his team comes in hard from the opposite side. It’s a little sneaky, more guerrilla than basic Alliance tactics and Reyes thinks maybe he and Ryder might have more in common than he first assumed.

The Pathfinder’s progress is slow, for those first couple of days - there are more patchwork settlements scattered across Kadara than anything like Havarl or Voeld, more exiles than even Reyes can keep track of. Of course the Pathfinder has his base responsibilities, but there’s still a lot of room for interpretation on just how far that job extends - and Ryder does things on Kadara the way he’s handled most everything else Reyes has taken notes on. It’s all hearts and minds, helping out one settlement at a time, fixing what’s broken, helping anyone who asks with tasks both big and small - firing up one of the monoliths in the process, and then another, and Reyes wishes he had a closer look at how that was happening, but the most any of his scouts ever see are Remnant guardians exploding like fireworks.

“So… where’s Initiative Boy today?”

The nickname started out with a bit of spite attached, but the more the Pathfinder deals with the worst of what Kadara has to offer, the more good he does, and the less reasons people find to tease. A lot of chatter, of course, ever since the Tempest touched down - the Pathfinder just keeps being interesting, on a planet where the most novel thing is usually who got eaten by what, and if they left anything of value behind. The common channel’s not the most secure thing in the world, but Sloane is still pretending she doesn’t care if the Pathfinder’s there or not, so why not let her and all her friends listen in to the good news?

“I’ve got him over by that place near the hill, the one with all those little angaran kids? He’s… uh, looks like he’s handing out treats. Who the fuck is this guy?” The scout says in a mix of bemusement and irritation, and a moment later a gasp that has Reyes slightly concerned until… “Hanar Pops. I repeat, I see Hanar Pops.”

“… What flavor?”

“Fuck, looks like… cherry? Maybe lychee, too. You ever have the lychee?”

A groan, from elsewhere on the comms. Someone’s had the lychee.

“Pathfinder’s not that special.” A new voice grumbles. “If we had Nyx on our squad, we could be handing out candy to orphans too.”

Vetra’s been making her own quiet inroads around the port since the Tempest touched down - just asking a few questions, getting a lay of the land. The Charlatan’s made a polite offer - since she’s here, how can he not - but so far, there’s been no reply. It might not even matter anymore, if he raises the bid- it seems the Pathfinder is good enough to inspire some loyalty among his crew.

“You don’t think… they’re not making Hanar Pops, are they?”

A fervent conversation breaks out over the current viability of various planets, the Nexus’ hypothetical capacity for making junk food, and what Kadara might one day contribute to that noble goal.

Soon, Reyes is going to lose quite a few of the new recruits, and maybe even some of the older ones. The people who chose the Collective over starvation, or solitary exile. The sort of people the Pathfinder will no doubt invite back into the fold - he seems like the pardoning kind. Reyes picks his battles, with no good reason not to let them go - and a few of the more clever ones may even decide that a Collective paycheck might be the best way to settle themselves on some other world that he’d like to know about, that it’s in their benefit to stay in touch. Not all useful information is illicit, or risky to pass around. The nice thing is, once a reputation gets established, there are even those who will seek him out first, either in hopes of selling what they know, or that the Charlatan will see fit to act on the news.

Which is how he’s been keeping tabs on the increasing spate of murders, and how he pins down where the perpetrators have their home, and how he finds out that the Pathfinder’s people are waiting on a few upgrades to push forward on the vault. The Roekaar are kind enough to leave a fresh kill practically on the Song’s doorstep - Ryder will have to handle this, and the rumors will start where they need to, that it was the Collective’s maneuvering that got the Pathfinder involved, that they care about the people where Sloane sees only threats and nuisances, pockets to be emptied before they’re thrown to the wilds.

The Collective stands with the Pathfinder, and he’s about to make a whole lot of people’s lives a whole lot better.

There’s still no real chance of taking the port by force. Sloane has hardened fighters and fortified positions - even if they did win, it would be a slaughter. Still, if Reyes can get the population on his side, they might be able to bleed Sloane slowly, set up alternate arrangements with the traders and shift more business to the slums and just generally cause chaos. Sloane isn’t the sort of person to face uncertainty with rational, measured responses - nothing she does in retaliation is going to make her more popular.

Sending the Pathfinder out to scour for information is also a better chance to see what SAM can do, that silent partner in the Pathfinder’s team - and what the AI’s capable of is gathering enough evidence to implicate the Roekaar to the Resistance’s satisfaction in less time than it takes Ryder to drive out there. Less time than it takes Reyes to sneak into the Roekaar base and set up a nice surprise for an enemy distracted by the Pathfinder’s arrival.

“You don’t have to do this.” Ryder is saying, hands raised and empty, flanked by Jaal and Nyx. He takes the krogan in with him to clean out raider camps, but in most other cases it’s the angaran by his side. Is it for proof, constant reporting back to Efvra, that the Pathfinder isn’t lying? Or does he hope that maybe even some situations with the Roekaar might still tip in their favor? “I’m not Sloane, and she doesn’t speak for us. I want the Angara to be strong. We can fight the Kett together, we can help each other. No one else has to die.”

Trying to talk them down, even now. It would have been nice, if the revelation about the Kett might at least have focused the Roekaar’s fury toward the greater and more horrifying threat - even in Kadara at its worst, one of these ‘invaders’ is not like the other - but the end result has only seemed to be more confusion, and anger, and fear.

“You are all the same.” The Angaran woman snarls, brandishing the dagger. Reyes’ cue to enter, guns blazing, upstage right.

“You’re late.” The Pathfinder says, diving for cover.

“I’ve got a good reason.” Reyes says. “You’ll see in three…”

He’s been counting the seconds back, and the explosion comes just as he’d hoped, as the Angara rush forward. All right, so there were a few more of them than he was expecting, and the smoke and dust provide as much cover to the enemy as to them. Reyes braces himself as the first Roekaar come into view, he’ll have to make every shot-

PowPowPowPowPow.

Automatic speed, with sniper accuracy, but it’s only a pistol in the Pathfinder’s hand - and then the shimmer of a tactical cloak as he disappears from view. Reyes had wondered how Ryder handled short-range combat, and the answer seems to be ‘impossibly.’ Even with their visors, Jaal and Vetra take an extra moment to line up their shots - but Reyes hears that pistol again, another full clip emptied just as fast, from further in the cave than he’d thought it possible for the Pathfinder to reach.

He fires off a few rounds of his own, taking down a handful of the enemy and pushing even more into the line of Jaal or Vetra’s fire. The fight doesn’t last as long as he’s sure the Roekaar would have liked, and not at all to the end they’d been hoping for.

“Everyone all right?” The Pathfinder’s voice over comms, as the dust and smoke finally begin to settle.

“This will never be all right.” Jaal murmurs, shaking his head.

“All in one piece, Pathfinder.” Vetra says, and Reyes is surprised when taloned fingers come into view, the turian offering him a hand up.

“It’s nice to finally see you in action.” He accepts her help, with the usual smile. “Quite a shame that our paths never crossed on the Nexus.”

“You seem like the kind of guy who stands out.” Vetra says. “Funny that I don’t remember you.” Her voice is professional - not friendly, not unfriendly - but there’s a look in her eyes that he imagines is quite similar to when she was lining up her shots a few moments ago. She glances away, back into the cave. “You okay, Ryder?”

“Yeah. Be right with you. We should probably take a look around, but watch out for traps. Jaal?”

“Understood.” The Angaran is kneeling down next to one of the Roekaar bodies - the leader, giving her a brief once-over before moving to the next. Taking identification, maybe, to be sent back to the Resistance, or to whoever it was she was trying so hard to defend. Reyes will need to get a copy of that list, Keema will want to know.

Keema might very well want this place, once they clear it out. He begins taking a casual inventory - what’s been destroyed, what will need to be rebuilt or should be repurposed. A decent space, maybe worth rewarding to the next Collective smuggler who gets past Sloane’s increasingly watchful eye. The Initiative will remember it, of course, which could limit its usefulness - maybe he can offer it up as a place for them to store surplus Hanar Pops.

Reyes finds the Pathfinder near the back of the cave, hands on his knees and leaning against the wall. Eyes closed, still breathing a bit raggedly, though he glances up at Reyes’ approach.

“Sorry. Just… need another minute. Nice job with that explosion.”

He seems a little shaken. Reyes wonders if he’d ever actually killed anyone before he came to Andromeda. A few of the Roekaar lay nearby, and Reyes can’t tell for certain, but he’d guess none of them required a second shot.

“You were a good distraction.” He says. “That was some… very impressive shooting.“

The Pathfinder shakes his head. “Wasn’t all me, but thanks.”

Maybe it isn’t just nerves, that has him looking so pale.

“The AI?” Reyes asks.

“A self-defense protocol.” SAM speaks up. “I can briefly enhance the Pathfinder’s reflex speed and focus, however the strain and subsequent recovery time do not advise implementation in most combat situations.”

“You made the right call, SAM.” Ryder says. “As usual.”

So, the AI is making decisions - on its own, or with Ryder’s prior consent - to flood the Pathfinder’s body with adrenaline and cortisol and who knows what else, to make him into a better killer. Reyes is willing to bet it goes even further than that. The precision of those shots, the speed - ‘mechanical’ is the word he’d use. Why bother making small improvements on human abilities, when an AI can just step in and do the job perfectly? The Pathfinder is what, then - some kind of… hybrid? SAM isn’t just some highly-tuned personal Avina, offering advice and scanning for clues, much more powerful than the half-shackled assistant it’s been sold as. Definitely the kind of thing that could get a decorated soldier shitcanned without prejudice, and fired out of the galaxy as far as he could go.

Definitely not boring.

“The port owes you its gratitude. I could buy you a drink on their behalf?”

The Pathfinder laughs. It’s a good sound. Reyes wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“What, you mean like the last time?”

“Something like that.” Reyes smiles - and Ryder smiles back. It seems he might have a thing for rogues, after all.

“We’ve got a little business to finish up first,” The vault, he has to mean the vault. “But after that… yeah. Count me in.”

——————————

The Pathfinder unfucks Kadara.

Reyes meets him at the bar.

Chapter Text

Reyes was going to meet the Pathfinder at the bar. Honest.

It has to happen in Tartarus, because the minute the Pathfinder stumbled out of the vault, slightly battered and victorious, Sloane called a ‘security emergency’ throughout the upper levels of the port, just in case any impromptu celebrations felt like breaking out. Jumping the gun, as usual - no one’s excited yet because there’s nothing to see. It’s not exactly instantaneous, turning a planet off and on again - but he has people taking readings in the local water supply, and already the equipment isn’t melting as fast as it usually does.

A Collective rule - you only celebrate with Sloane’s liquor. So when Dagher sees him coming, he’s already reaching for the top shelf.

“Time to mix up the titrin?”

“Not yet.” He’ll raise that glass to Gartan’s life when he’s toasting Sloane Kelly’s empty throne. For now, anything the Outcasts toiled to bring planetside will work just fine.

“I’m meeting someone.” Reyes says. “Do you have any of those little spiced pea pod things handy? The crunchy ones?” One of the only foods native to Kadara that isn’t mostly inedible. Kian gives him the side-eye, because he’s been tending bar approximately from the womb, and would be dangerous if he had any greater ambitions than watching the world go by.

“So we’re giving the Pathfinder snacks now? Shit, Vidal, d’you want me as ringbearer or a bridesmaid?” He’s grinning, though. As pleased as anyone that they’re not going to die here, at least not in the slow, dwindling, pathetic way they’d all pretended wasn’t lurking in their peripheral vision. Now things can actually start getting interesting.

The bartender’s gaze shifts a fraction of an inch over his shoulder - mild curiosity, nothing dangerous, and so Reyes keeps his hand off his gun as he turns around, the polite smile quickly slipping into something more honestly amused. No one has ever looked at him as if they both need his help and would rather do anything than ask for it than the good Dr. Nakamoto.

No greeting, of course, just the doctor’s long-suffering sigh as Reyes leans against the bar, sipping his drink.

“I vouched for you, when the Pathfinder asked.” He says, tipping the glass in Nakamoto’s direction. “I assume you’re satisfied with the results?”

Oblivion was the final tipping point, in being able to rally the last few holdouts to rise up against the Outcasts, to unify the opposition into a truly two-sided clash. Anyone with half a brain saw the drug for the real danger it would become. A stronger ecosystem, a resilient port in a stable economy could manage a drug trade - trade being the operative word, and even then Reyes had seen the routine shakedowns across various systems, the effort it took to keep the red sands both profitable and under control, and that wasn’t on a planet like Kadara, with no way out and no decent commerce and hope slowly dying.

Believe it or not, Reyes isn’t opposed to the concept of Sloane Kelly - at least in theory. If things were different, she’d be a decent hammer for any number of nails. Look at what she had accomplished, abandoning the Nexus with only two weeks of supplies to no guarantee of a destination - and not only had she survived, but she’d scattered the Kett with brutal efficiency.

An effective warlord - but she’s not a criminal, not born to it. Sloane could punch and shoot and strong-arm for cash like the best of them, but she didn’t understand that being in charge meant more than just looking coldly down from on high, collecting fees and delivering beatings. At the end of the day, everything she truly knew about villainy came from the best of the Milky Way’s most popular crime vids.

Oblivion would rot Sloane’s entire kingdom out from under her, and she’d never understand why.

Nakamoto still hasn’t spoken, obviously fighting the urge to just turn around and walk back out. He’s always ignored the Collective’s overtures - he’ll patch them up without questions, the same way he’ll patch anyone up, but the doctor’s firmly committed to his independence. Once bitten, Reyes supposes. Which shouldn’t give him any complaints against an ordinary smuggler - does the doctor suspect that Reyes is more than he seems to be, or does Nakamoto just not like him?

To be fair, it could be both. Unfortunately for Nakamoto, all it’s done is make their occasional meet-ups more amusing. Like now, as the doctor frowns down at the courtesy shot Dagher puts in front of him, sliding it back with a fingertip.

“A shuttle crashed in the Badlands, a little over an hour ago.” He says, quietly.

Reyes leans forward. “Crashed?”

Nakamoto sighs. “Fine, I don’t know. Maybe they sold me out for a better deal. Maybe it was an ambush. But I need confirmation, either way. The cargo is… worth recovering.”

Kadara’s a big planet, and there are places too dangerous to rely on that are still worth risking for the truly greedy or desperate. The Collective has maybe eighty-five percent coverage between the major and minor trading routes, including everything they know the Outcasts are moving, whether they can disrupt it or not. Until now, Reyes hadn’t heard that the doctor was cutting deals with outside sources - and it’s clear Nakamoto had wanted to keep it that way. Interesting.

“Well, as long as the cargo is worthy…” He trails off, waiting.

Nakamoto scowls - again, unfortunate, as it does nothing but make Reyes want to smile more. If he’s worried that the Collective might get… less than civil, that’s a mostly unfounded paranoia. A Salarian can count up the doctors on Kadara and have fingers left over - the Pathfinder might be the most valuable person in Andromeda, but experienced medical staff come in a close second, with even basic medi-gel still in unsteady supply.

He reaches out for the shot the doctor pushed aside, taking it for himself.

“You really should try to relax once in a while.” Reyes toasts. “Maybe consider a more reliable source of transport? My fees are quite competitive.”

“The medicine’s dextro. All of it.”

Which explains his hesitation. Reyes tips the shot back, watches Nakamoto watch him, sees Dagher raise an eyebrow from where he’s standing, pretending he’s not listening in. The doctor wouldn’t have come to Reyes if there were other options, or time to come up with a plan - which probably means the Outcasts have an ear out, at the least. A lot more turians in their ranks, with fewer suppliers and still no more than rumors of the Turian ark. Nakamoto has a right to be nervous. This is more than profit. A haul like that commands the sort of price that could buy the Charlatan a few new eyes and ears in the Outcasts. Or more, if the timing were right.

“Half.”

“I can’t.” Nakamoto says.

“Seventy percent.” Reyes says, because this isn’t a negotiation but Nakamoto doesn’t move - and maybe he has some idea of his worth after all.

“Every bottle, every drop is necessary. I can’t-” He stops, grimaces. He has to barter with something, after all. “Thirty percent, and anything else you take from the wreckage is yours. You’ll also have the route they used - I’m sure someone would pay for that. You’ll get all the coordinates I have.”

“We’ll discuss the details later, if these profits are more than hypothetical.” Reyes says, fully intending to push for half, certain Nakamoto will cave once he actually has his hands on the goods. If he can get his hands on the goods. He should already be moving.

Reyes turns, pondering whether or not it might be useful to have a backup gun, and who might be available, who might be trustworthy - and then he realizes that Nakamoto’s going to keep every last drop of the haul, no matter how difficult it is to recover. This is a charity job now, because that’s the Pathfinder coming through the door.

Reyes doesn’t break stride, grabbing Ryder by the wrist and turning him right back the way he came. Thankfully, this is the slums, so he’s still both fully armored and armed.

“Nice to see you too.” The Pathfinder says. “Bad night?”

“Busy night. Care to join me?”

The more he sees, the more Reyes thinks the Pathfinder’s sense of duty is much more obligation than personal interest, any Alliance respectability no more than a few microns thick. He’s young, he wants to be tempted, and Reyes sees the curiosity spark in his eyes.

“I’m not going to get that drink, am I?”

Reyes reaches out as they pass by a table, snatching a bottle out of the hand of whoever’s closest and passing it to the Pathfinder. They’re out the door and into the night before anyone can even think to protest.

—————————————

What Reyes borrows to get them there is a mish-mash of Angaran, Kett and Initiative tech all welded together into something vaguely aerodynamic, with a name that translates into something like ‘thrown ball of mud’ in the local parlance. It’s not so much a vehicle as the vague concept of one, but it’s quiet and fast and Ryder rolls his eyes when he realizes where the passenger’s supposed to end up. Still, when Reyes gets himself in the driver’s seat, Ryder’s right there behind him, pressed against his back and arms tight around his waist and there are many worse ways to spend an evening in the Badlands.

“Comfortable, Ryder?” Reyes says over the comms. Helmets are necessary at these speeds, and if they want any hope of communicating. The connection’s clear enough that he can hear the Pathfinder’s huff of amusement.

“I never rode on the back of someone’s bike before. Maybe later we can trade baseball cards. Toilet paper the teacher’s house. Shoplift some dirty magazines.”

“They warned me about boys like you.”

Ryder laughs - finding him more amusing than annoying, which is already better than half his successful liaisons. The Pathfinder hasn’t even asked yet, why Reyes has dragged him out here, or where exactly he’s being dragged to. Either Ryder trusts him, which seems unlikely, or SAM has been tracking his every move, ready to relay it to the crew if anything should go wrong. He’s relying on some combination of his AI and his own ingenuity to see him through - which has certainly been working for him so far.

“I received a tip about a crashed ship and a valuable cargo, if we can find it.” Reyes says. “It’s been a few hours, so I doubt we’re the only ones looking. Which might make things interesting enough that I’ll need backup.”

Reyes could keep his cover if he really wanted to, and still avoid going out in the field, but he prefers this. He bores too easily, success leads too quickly to complacency - the surprises keep him sharp.

“So what…” The Pathfinder says. “We’re vultures now?”

“Vultures with guns.” Reyes says. “We’ll be stealing from thieves, Pathfinder - it’s either a net good or the evil cancels itself out.”

“I would love to see the math on that.”

The Pathfinder’s leaning against him, but they’re both fully armored - it’s not exactly an intimate situation. Still, with the night so quiet, Reyes can indulge in a few moments of idle fantasy, what it might be like to slowly peel Scott Ryder out of that suit. He enjoys this part, after the research is over - getting to measure the reality against what he thinks he knows, learning who the Pathfinder is beyond just numbers on a page. Reyes can’t say he’s ever had a real thing for pampered rich boys, at least not for longer than it takes to roll them for their bank accounts - but despite the odds, Ryder isn’t just some high-bred idiot slumming it for the thrills. Well, not only for the thrills.

The stars seem brighter than usual, burning through a slowly declining haze. Wishful thinking, or signs of what’s to come? Keema knows a few stories of the ancient Eden this place was supposed to be - too good to be true, the kind of tales every civilization tells to cheer itself up. The same way they tried to sell it, when this had been Habitat 4 - and who knows what could happen now?

“What kind of speech are you planning for Kadara?” Reyes says. “Everyone’s looking forward to it, after the one you gave for Voeld.”

“Oh god, I don’t know.” Ryder says. “Something Kadara something brave adventurers something something how am I still alive something the bar?”

“Well, it’s at least as inspirational as what brought us here.” Reyes says. “Maybe try it in N7 armor next time? That might rally the troops.”

Reyes realizes he’s just said the wrong thing. He can feel it, the mood cold and tense even over comms, even when he can’t see the Pathfinder’s face.

“That rank belonged to my father.” Ryder’s voice is brittle, not quite angry. “You have to earn the right to wear that.”

“Fair point.”

The argument could be made, of course, that you had to earn a crew as skilled as his, or a ship like the Tempest… or being the Pathfinder at all.

Reyes’ own life has been mostly about repurposing what’s available, taking any opportunity available and to hell with what he deserves - integrity doesn’t do much to fuel a ship out of town - but he also isn’t in the habit of shooting himself in the foot over a philosophical point.

Interesting, though, just how much Ryder shut down - was that grief for his father, or something else? The reminder that he wasn’t N7, wasn’t anything like the first choice for this mission? Reyes tucks it aside, a question for later.

He doesn’t notice any danger, the night clear and calm, but the Pathfinder suddenly leans back, draws his gun and fires into a nearby clump of trees just in time to dissuade another colorful example of Kadaran wildlife from introducing itself fangs-first. A shot through the eye, actually - Reyes watches the creature slump over as he pulls the bike into a turn. He might not have even needed the AI’s assistance - Ryder has a few awards for marksmanship scattered here and there throughout his records. Still, there’s no good reason not to ask.

“What exactly do you two talk about, when nothing’s trying to kill you?”

“If that ever happens, I’ll let you know.” Ryder says, with another slight laugh, holstering his gun.

“It doesn’t ever leave you alone, does it?” Reyes says, feigning a bit less understanding than he has, just to see if the Pathfinder might offer up anything interesting. “Can you shut it off? What if it decides to-”

“It’s a trade. A symbiotic relationship.” Ryder interrupts, and his voice is carefully neutral, guarded. “SAM provides tactical support, and I give him a steady stream of information. He protects me, and I show him the world. “The Scott Ryder Show.” He’s drumming the fingers on his right hand lightly against Reyes’ side - a nervous gesture, one he’s probably not even aware of. “A lot of people aren’t… too comfortable with the idea. No matter how much he's saved our asses. I… I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet, about SAM. If that’s something you do.”

Reyes smiles.

“Your secrets are my secrets, Pathfinder.”

—————————————

Between Nakamoto’s information and SAM’s scanning capabilities, it’s easy to find the site of the crash. A patch of sky the Collective hadn’t kept as close a watch on, any route that could avoid detection too steep and too blind to be worth risking, except for the most daring or desperate. It’s a damn shame, the pilot was good, and would have likely succeeded if not for the shot that brought them to earth. Reyes figures it’s not Outcast involvement - they wouldn’t shoot like this and risk damaging the cargo. Which means they’re going to be dealing with bandits or cannibals or cannibal bandits and yes, that does make all the careful lying Reyes did on his Initiative application seem rather silly now.

The Pathfinder is subdued, quieter as the mission finally acquires an official body count. Reyes comes back from checking the empty hold to find him scanning what little is left of the crushed, charred remains, frustrated when there isn’t enough to make an ID. God, he’s so young. So out of place on Kadara. Reyes was never that young, not even at half the Pathfinder’s age. In the places he comes from, everyone ages in Salarian years.

“We’ll finish the job, Ryder. Don’t worry.”

“It shouldn’t be like this. None of this is what we came here to do.”

It’s what happens, though. It’s sweet that Ryder ever thought it could be otherwise. If it wasn’t the Kett and the Nexus imploding, it would have been something else. Reyes’ entire life has been spent profiting from ‘something else’. Betting against people like the Pathfinder, and their dreams.

“You’re doing everything you can - you’ve already done great things. It’s just the beginning, you’ll see.”

Reyes is used to saying whatever the person he’s talking to wants to hear. It’s strange to actually mean it.

“Thanks, Reyes.”

SAM is a cautious navigator, and Reyes Vidal, for all his showboating, is a good pilot. Between the two of them, they find the trail and cover the distance without fanfare, landing within fair view of their quarry, with no one the wiser.

Unfortunately, that’s where their advantages stop.

It isn’t some ragged band of scavengers who’d tripped over some spare munitions, but a surprisingly large group, with a fairly entrenched settlement. Vehicles and containers and clusters of people camped out around a tall central tower - one of the larger bits of prefab housing they’d launched far in advance, when civilization still seemed like a possibility. Reyes can’t pick out too many details in the scattered light, but he knows what he’d see - paneling faded out by the sun, harshly scrubbed by acid winds. Multiple stories, with a few lookouts staggered out between the levels. It’s not impenetrable, but there’s too many to take by force, and getting anything back out with the cargo would be equally impossible.

He was an idiot, to consider this a two-man job. Reyes should have been calling for reinforcements when they’d found the ship shot down, should have come up with the cover story afterward. But there was still the risk of being discovered, of SAM listening in or Ryder somehow getting suspicious and - no, that’s not it.

The truth is, he’s been enjoying his time alone with the Pathfinder, more than he expected to. It’s pleasant to talk to anyone who isn’t who isn’t up to their neck in the million little tawdry dealings of Kadara, or who hasn’t worn out their welcome long before he can even meet them in person.

“Hn.” Ryder says after a moment, and draws his rifle, passing it over. “Cover me?”

The number of people who’ve handed Reyes their gun and then turned their back is not particularly high, even if he prefers his betrayals to be slightly less obvious.

“You don’t have to-“

The Pathfinder waves him off. “I’m just going to go in a little closer. See what I can see. I’ll turn around if it looks like trouble.”

In some ways, Ryder seeming so straight-laced, camouflaging himself in beige platitudes is the perfect lie. It will still take Reyes a little while to realize that when the Pathfinder sounds the most rational is when he’s about to fling himself headlong into danger. When he tries to pretend he’s being responsible, what he’s really saying is “Well I can’t stay here, I might get bored.”

In all fairness, Reyes has been hoping for a better look at the Pathfinder’s gun - children, please - and it is a beauty. A Black Widow, though heavily modified from the design specs. Lighter weight, careful balance, what might be a recoil dampener…

“No scoping my ass with that thing.” Ryder says, because of course Reyes is - but there’s a confident, pleased tone in his voice that have certain parts of Reyes paying more attention. It seems the Pathfinder is in his element.

“Quite a weapon, Ryder. I’m glad I’m on this side of it.”

“I tinkered with it some, and then Jaal tinkered with it some more. He’s usually more about killing Kett with their own guns, but this one can punch through the side of a transport, so I think it got his seal of approval. At least until we convince the Isharay that a second round’s not just for people with bad aim.” He takes a slight breath in. “Hold on. I think I can- yeah.”

The connection goes quiet - cut from Scott’s end, though Reyes can still see him through the scope, making his way through the brush and the shadows, past the watch at the perimeter, skirting an unmoving floodlight - and he must engage the tactical cloak, disappearing into one shadow and not coming out the other side.

Reyes begins a more careful tally of the the enemy ranks, the number of people it would be better to take down if Ryder needed to get back here fast. If he got into trouble in there, if he overstepped or was unlucky… shit, Reyes would have to go in after him, now wouldn’t he? He’s already got too much invested in the Pathfinder to let him get killed over this.

He wonders… “SAM, are you there?”

“Good evening, Mr. Vidal.” The synthetic voice is pleasant, polite over the comms. “The Pathfinder is entering the building now. There is no current threat of detection. If you reposition approximately sixty-seven feet to the west, it would provide a better vantage point through windows on the first, third and fifth floors.”

“Understood, SAM.” Reyes says, and shuffles across the ground, keeping himself as prone as he can. The night is still quiet and the enemy still oblivious. “Is it distracting, talking to the both of us?”

Reyes knows it’s not. The AI probably has enough processing power to keep watch on everything in half the galaxy without much effort. but that makes it even more important to play things just a little bit dumb. Reyes Vidal the helpful smuggler, who knows enough to be useful, but not enough to be interesting, or worthy of extra attention. He already knows a good deal about Ryder, but SAM is uncharted territory.

“I do not have any difficulties tracking the Pathfinder’s current location, Mr. Vidal. Are you distracted?”

“You wound me, SAM. You wound me.” Reyes adjusts his grip on the rifle, bringing a random figure into the sights, and then another, passing momentarily into the light - their gear is in fair shape, and they’ve either scavenged or stolen some of the better building materials to be had outside the wall, but the men themselves are all rough looking and wild, an aggressive sort of disheveled that suggests that even if they wanted to, this is the best they can manage. Maybe some people came to Andromeda just to go crazy.

“Mr. Vidal, I wondered if you would answer a question for me?”

Reyes grins. “Are AI allowed to be curious?”

“Existing data is contradictory. However, the Pathfinder suggests that seeking out multiple alternative viewpoints creates the best opportunity for understanding the organic experience. I was encouraged to make new friends.”

If you’re going to make an AI a mission-critical part of thousands of lives in a new galaxy, you might as well let it out to mingle a bit. Reyes smiles, as he catches a flicker of a cloak at a balcony, Ryder paused for a moment behind a crate, as two men have an inconvenient conversation nearby. Infiltrations can be a wonderful mix of nerve-wracking and tedious - and exciting, he has to admit. Ryder’s not bad at this. If only he was only one of Reyes’, if only he could offer the Pathfinder anything he would actually want or need, after the planet was secure.

“I’d be happy to help you, SAM, although I doubt there’s much you don’t already know about Kadara.”

“The question I have is not about Kadara. It concerns your time on Omega, as the Rainmaker.”

Reyes goes still. Who’s the Rainmaker? If there had been anyone by that frankly ludicrous name, it hadn’t been Reyes Vidal, who had definitely never been anywhere within sight of Sahrabarik, let alone inside the system. The Rainmaker - whoever he’d been - had briefly flickered at the periphery of events, accomplishing a few minor tasks before dying a thoroughly ignoble death, because the alternative meant catching the full attention of Aria T’Loak, and dying an ignoble death that would last significantly longer. Even coming to Andromeda might not have been far enough to escape her wrath, if she’d decided he was an annoyance worth dealing with. Aria, in the way of many Asari with centuries to consider their options, had a bit of a thing for vengeance.

“My files on Omega lack detail and perspective.” SAM continues. “Although a central hub for galactic activity, the nature of most of this commerce inhibits a clear and complete understanding. It seems that there may be parallels between Omega’s operations and the current state of Kadara, and a clearer understanding of both may improve my ability to assist the Pathfinder with mission objectives.”

On her best day, Sloane Kelly doesn’t have the ruthless cunning of Aria’s left boot, but the AI’s comparison is not without some merit. Of course, the threat is equally clear - if SAM knows enough to know about the Rainmaker, what else has he uncovered? What other connections can an intelligence like that make between seemingly innocuous sets of data, given an near-infinite amount of free time? He’s never been looked over by anyone’s father on a first date, but Reyes has the feeling it might feel something like this. If that father started reading back to him the digits on his last fake ID. His last twenty fake ID’s.

“I assume that Ryder knows about this… particular line of inquiry?”

“The Pathfinder believes that respecting privacy is an important element of leadership. He has asked me to keep any information in my databases confidential, as long as it does not pose a threat to the mission.”

Reyes smiles. The AI may be new to the whole ‘organic perspective’ game, but he’s certainly got the blackmail part down.

“I think you and I are going to get along quite well, SAM.” He says. “And you would have liked Omega. I wonder-“

“I’ve got the shipment.” Ryder’s soft murmur cuts into the conversation, and Reyes sees the orange flicker of an omni-blade, just for a moment, out the window on - damn, the fourth floor? The Pathfinder’s jumped right into the middle of it, hasn’t he? “It’s not the only thing here. There’s more weapons. Supplies. They’ve been raiding other settlements.”

Lights flicker over a nearby hill, tracing a low arc over a ridge before coming into view - a caravan.

“More incoming, Ryder.”

“I see it.” The Pathfinder says, with a better vantage point than he’s got. “Outcast, or Collective?”

“Hard to be certain.” Reyes says, certain. “From what I hear, the Collective doesn’t hold much ground in this area.”

What are the odds that’s about to change?

“Well, whoever they are,” Ryder says, “they’ve come to party.”

Chapter Text

Reyes Vidal really is a people person. One of those times he can tell the truth and no one believes him anyway. Is it that surprising? The folly of human enterprise is infinitely entertaining, and the folly of salarian and asari and turian is no slouch either. Or the volus. God, he misses the volus.

It’s hard to imagine why anyone would choose a job like this if they weren’t curious, if they didn’t inherently find people interesting. A businessman or a merc could put as much in the bank, if not more. Reyes could be the smuggler everyone assumes him to be and do just fine for himself. But what he really is and what he truly does means surrounding himself with a kaleidoscope of passions and dreams and desires and lies, a limitless number of ways to assemble a life. A dozen different people from the same place - same hardships, same opportunities - can push forward in a dozen different ways - two dozen, three. Reyes succeeds on anticipating the obvious, but he enjoys the unexpected just as often - the clever move, the ruthless one - even acts of kindness and bravery. It’s more profitable to bet on selfishness, but it isn’t always true.

Witness, Exhibit Pathfinder.

Reyes is torn between finding a better view of the action and staying where he’ll be of more use if things go suddenly south. SAM’s patched him into what Ryder can hear of the conversation, the two groups slowly opening negotiations - wary, cautious, making their introductions and-

“…. did that guy just say he was the Charlatan?” Ryder says.

“I believe so.”

Reyes smiles behind the scope. Who is the pretender for his crown this time? The voice is muffled, not one he recognizes offhand. Being entertained by a steady parade of imposters hadn’t been the primary reason for his anonymity, but it has been fun, and a useful way of weeding out any slightly too-ambitious associates.

The pleasantries haven’t immediately erupted into gunfire, although he’d bet both sides still have their fingers firmly on the trigger. Reyes listens as the man makes a proud sales pitch for the Collective - on their way to owning the planet any day now, for anyone interested in joining up - and this is why the Charlatan works in the shadows. Otherwise, he just sounds like a used ship salesman.

“SAM, I have a visual. Any intel?”

The AI provides a brief glimpse for Reyes’ benefit as well - but he can’t match the face to any personal betrayal. Definitely not one of his - probably just another group of bandits, hoping they’re far enough out from the port to use the Collective’s influence without being noticed.

“Database match to Frances Luther Belham of the Nexus advance crew.” SAM says. “Junior facilities and maintenance technician, specializing in wastewater filtration and recycling.”

“…space plumber.” Ryder says. “The Charlatan’s a space plumber?”

Reyes’ smile grows. It’s a wonderful thing, ambition. Especially at odds with ability.

“There is no evidence that relevant Nexus files have been tampered with.” Of course, neither were Reyes’ - he’d lied right from the start, no alterations necessary. “It seems unlikely that the Charlatan would command skills on a path so divergent from his perceived threat potential, Pathfinder.” It’s not meant as a compliment, but Reyes feels oddly proud, regardless.

“So…” Ryder says, “just another everyday, run-of-the-mill, well-armed trainee warlord. Great.”

Space Plumber continues outlining his plan, such as it is - mostly just an escalation of hostilities in the badlands, bragging about ‘insider angara knowledge’ that Reyes knows is bullshit, because anything of value goes through Keema first, and he can’t imagine she has the patience for more than one human with delusions of grandeur at a time.

“… traveled six-hundred years just to be an asshole on this side of the universe?” Ryder murmurs, increasingly angry as the conversation turns to pillage and carnage and which sort of people would be the most valuable to keep alive after a raid. For all his many sins, Reyes still has a few lines he’s never been inclined to cross - no hard drugs, no playing nice with Cerberus, and leave slavery to the Batarians. “We’ve got to find a way to at least slow them down, we can’t just let these people - ah, shit.”

Gunfire rattles off in Reyes’ ear, echoing the distance as the comms cut out, sharp flashes right around the last place Reyes saw the Pathfinder.

“Ryder?” Reyes says, calm but urgent, switching his view from the scope to the building and back again - the noise has already gathered attention. Thankfully, the two groups are nowhere near friendly enough not to suspect a double-cross, and Reyes lines up a easy shot with the Pathfinder’s stupidly sexy gun, takes down a man on the visiting team just as one of the vehicles parked behind the structure suddenly bursts into flames, adding to the quickly growing chaos.

“Was that you, Pathfinder?”

“Always be prepared.” Ryder must have attached the bomb on his way in, just in case - sneaky and thoughtful. To think there was a time he’d worried about not liking the Pathfinder well enough.

Reyes takes aim at a member of the home team this time as both sides abandon conversation for the firefight. He’s lost sight of Space Plumber - maybe dead, maybe not. Reyes hopes not - he has a name now, and it’s always at least a little bit amusing, tracking down yet another Charlatan.

A blip appears on his multitool - the Pathfinder’s vitals, all in the green. SAM must have decided it was information worth sharing - unlike what he’s done to the raiders’ own communications, men now shouting into jammed signals. Still plenty of them in the building, even as Reyes picks off one at a window, a second on the balcony, catches a glimpse of the Pathfinder darting down another floor, a flash as a stray shot pings off his shields. He’s getting pinned down, and though no one’s yet noticed Reyes out in the dark, he’s not going to be able to stop the group of raiders on the ground preparing to attack, especially with the Pathfinder’s Widow chewing through the last of his thermal clips.

“Ryder, there’s too many out here. I can’t clear you a path. I’m going to get closer and try to-”

“Mr. Vidal.” SAM cuts in. “I need you to adjust your aim to the following trajectory.”

Reyes blinks at the new instructions, far past the building and any enemies and straight out into the dark. “You’ve got me shooting at nothing, SAM.”

“I do not miscalculate, Mr. Vidal.”

The hyper-logical AI is asking him to do a very stupid thing, with the Pathfinder’s life in the balance - so Reyes shifts the gun into the empty void, away from the building and Ryder and the fight, and fires until he’s out of ammunition. For a moment, the only thing it seems he’s done is finally attract enough attention to have a light finally swinging in his direction, a few random shots landing nowhere near his position but it isn’t helping Ryder and -

… and what SAM had him shooting at was a herd of sleeping Eiroch out on the hills - awake now, and not happy about it. The landslide of furious beasts pours down through the camp in an unstoppable wave, overturning vehicles and flinging raiders left and right. The force that had been preparing to attack the Pathfinder quickly scatters, stomped or crushed or fleeing alone into a night that is likely to be no more welcoming. Reyes glances down - Ryder’s vitals still clear, likely still in the building, waiting out the Eiroch along with the cargo.

“Another successful stealth mission.” Reyes says, surveying the mayhem - and the slight laugh comes not from his helmet, but from the outside, as the Pathfinder drops his tactical cloak, helmet in his hand and a grin on his face.

—————————————————

A funny thing, with the fires still burning around the raider’s base, the stars still wheeling overhead in a brilliant cascade and a half-crumbled protein bar along with the the last dregs of Ryder’s beer passed back and forth between them, a companionable silence - this is all skirting surprisingly close to romantic.

All right, so the last of the Eiroch still bashing about bits of wreckage and screeching to each other aren’t exactly roses and violins - but this is Kadara.

It doesn’t hurt that Reyes will be walking away with a tidy profit- a finder’s fee from the supply cache, plus his help sending out the word to get it all cleaned up, to make sure the rest of it doesn’t end up with Kelly and her crew - or the Charlatan, of course. Ryder doesn’t entirely trust him yet, but he also doesn’t have the widest range of options, and smugglers can certainly move goods. Reyes may be losing out on the dextro meds, but Nakamoto will owe him for this - owe the Collective - and in his experience, favors spend farther than credits ever can.

“We’ve got to figure this out. Offer Kadara a way forward, a change.” Ryder says, sighing as he gazes over the wreckage. “I thought that once we started to fix the planet, once they knew that things would get better…”

“Some people are forced to make terrible choices, do things they never though they’d be capable of.” Reyes says. “And some people find that they enjoy it. I wouldn’t worry too much, Pathfinder. The people you’re trying to help, that want help - they’ll realize what you’re offering. The Outcasts… well,” he shrugs, “if they want to stay out, that’s not your fault. Better to have them here than back on the Nexus, don’t you think?”

The Pathfinder nods, grudgingly conceding the point. Reyes searches for a way to lighten the mood.

“So tell me, what exactly did you do down there in Kadara’s core? What is it like, fixing things?”

“Oh, you know, business as usual.” Ryder says. “Shoot Remnant. Make bridges. Flee for the exit while the rebooting sequence tries to kill us.”

Reyes glances over, but it doesn’t look like the Pathfinder is joking.

“What, you just… run for it?”

Ryder shrugs. “It’s worked out pretty well so far. Now, we only have to take care of Elaadan and that’s it. The full set.”

Reyes chuckles. “Industrious, aren’t we?”

“One more, and then we can relax.” Ryder says, in a way that sounds more like a personal mantra, like something he’s been holding on to. “We get that last world up and running like it should be, and then we’ll breathe. Maybe even take a break. Maybe there will be something worth taking a break on.”

“Golden worlds.” Reyes says. “Maybe something like Earth. Did you grow up there?”

He already knows the answer, knows names and dates for most of Ryder’s pre-Alliance days, but Reyes is hardly going to ignore the chance to hear the Pathfinder tell his own story.

“No, but we visited a couple of times. Vacations.” Ryder says. “Mom wanted us to study there - she said it was important, that we should know where we came from. But right about the time we were supposed to go, well… we ended up at Grissom instead.”

“Grissom Academy?” Reyes frowns. “I thought that was only for biotics. You’re not…”

He waves his hands in a poor approximation of godlike power. Reyes has always been a bit jealous of that ability, though children with such talents in the Terminus were quickly snatched up by one gang or another, only trained as well as whichever biotics were at hand, whoever had survived long enough to pass on their skills. Treated more like weapons than people - it wasn’t the key to a long or happy life.

“No, I mean.. not really.” The Pathfinder looks down at his hands, up at the stars. Scratches absently at the back of his neck, the near-invisible line of his implant scar. “My sister Sara’s the family biotic. She’s strong as hell. I’m.. ah, better at the R&D. Being the R&D, I guess. My biotics never grew in quite right, but the things mom learned to fix what was wrong with me helped make the implants better for everyone.” He grins. “Sara and I - we were close. We still are. When she found out they wanted to send her to Grissom without me, she got a little… loud. Sara’s really good at being loud.”

Reyes hasn’t put as much time into studying the Ryder not currently in play, but he makes a note to go back through everything he’s got on her. Raw data can give him part of the picture, but it can’t give him this - the Pathfinder obviously needing to open up. Worried for her. Which means that if Reyes ever did need to strike, he’s confirmed at least one good target.

“You know, some twins, some siblings, they’d rather be apart? Be their own people? Me and Sara, we didn’t need to be apart to be ourselves.” Ryder sighs. “So yeah… my grades were okay, and it’s not entirely biotics that end up there, and my mother was Ellen Ryder - so it was easier to just let me into Grissom.”

He doesn’t look very proud of the memory. It must have been difficult, being in that place without the same powers as the rest of his class. When everyone could see exactly which strings had been pulled, to get him in. Reyes remembers what Ryder said about the N7 armor, about having to earn it.

“I don’t know that much about implants,” Reyes lies, “but I’ve heard the name Ellen Ryder. What was she like, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Ryder doesn’t mind - whatever minefield his father might be, this is the right question. Reyes can see him soften, Ryder lights up, talking about his mother and her research with an honest fondness in his voice. It’s easy from there, to navigate the conversation through all kinds of unthreatening history - Sara and Scott and a charmed life on the Citadel, her research missions and his time with the Alliance, on Arcturus.

“Arcturus wasn’t… great. Boring, mostly. The turians stuck there all hated it too, we used to run skirmishes in our free time, way more dangerous than anything that happened on station. It was a cushy desk job for the rich kid, I got that, I did - but by then, mom was pretty sick and… she needed us to be safe, me and Sara. It was the only thing we could really do for her, to just be happy and okay. Close to a relay, for when things got bad.” Ryder sighs. “I guess it didn’t really prepare me for all this, but the final exam in Pathfinder School was a rock to the faceplate, so…“

He offers up the bottle, the last inch of alcohol in the bottom. Reyes accepts, the glass warm where the Pathfinder’s hand had been.

“What about you?” Ryder asks. “Did you always want to be a pilot?”

Reyes had been twelve, and he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the cockpit, but half the ship was on fire while the rest had been shaking itself apart. The last person who could have said anything about it had been bleeding out on the floor at his feet, the job having gone so very far past the worst that could be expected. He’d been twelve, and certain he’d be spaced in the next heartbeat for what seemed like a lifetime. He’d managed to get the ship moving, dodge his pursuers, to put out the fires and hide the small craft in the shadow of an asteroid. He’d had to surrender a few hours later, before he’d run out of air - but the captain hadn’t shot him on sight - impressed by his skills, by his survival, and Reyes could hardly have any reason to stay loyal to a dead man. It was the first time he’d switched sides, far from the last, abandoning one cause for another and learning how little difference it usually made.

“Yes, I think I did.” Reyes says. “You know what it's like - pure freedom. If the ship is yours, the universe is yours. Even when you’re working for someone else, it can provide a certain… perspective.”

Reyes docks his personal craft in what counts as a quiet, well-protected corner of Kadara’s ports - it’s small and not much to look at, but it does what he needs it to do and it’s his. A quiet place to go, an exit strategy to have in the back of his mind, fueled and ready - he’s always mobile, he can always cut his losses. He’s good at flying, it’s fun to go fast and not die and the fraternity of fellow pilots is a motley, agreeable place to be in any sector of the galaxy.

Ryder asks him a few more questions - nothing pointed, just conversation - and Reyes has a series of pleasant answers and funny anecdotes in response, a mix of the borrowed and the mostly true. He tends to make himself a bit player in most stories, just along for the ride, never worth a closer inspection.

He’s actually having a good time here on this hill in the badlands, not just pretending to - and not just by the lowered standards of Kadara, or because there’s a payout waiting at the end. The more time he spends with Scott Ryder, the more things he finds to like. The more this job goes from attainable to agreeable, and he wants to take his time.

“… I mean, I found a path.” Ryder sighs, saluting the last of the retreating Eirochs with the empty bottle. “It didn’t go where it was supposed to, but I still found it. Obviously, somebody needs to be more specific. Next time I could be the ‘Galaxy Not Covered in Kett’ Finder. The Beachfinder. The ‘Luxury Hotel with All-Inclusive Drinks Service’ finder.” He sighs, and drops back, until he’s laying down, looking up at the sky. “You sure your friends are coming?”

Reyes may have suggested they take the long way around. He stays where he is, just to keep watch, even though the night has grown quiet again, even the fires finally dying down. It provides a rather pleasant perspective, looking down on the Pathfinder as he stares up into the stars.

“Jaal’s been trying to teach me some of the names, but they’re never about just one angara.” Ryder says, flexing his hand as if he could gather a few bright lights for his own. “Even their mythology is a team sport.” He looks younger in the dim light, and still excited to be here despite it all.

“You really do believe in it, don’t you? The Initiative. All of this.”

Reyes has grown up around aliens, or as the alien, all of his life, but it’s never meant anything more, just the status quo - nothing aspirational about it. It’s interesting to think it can be otherwise, to catch even a small glimpse of how the Pathfinder must see the world.

“No, I…” Ryder frowns. “I mean, maybe. I want to. You heard about Earth, right? What it was like, before. Everything was overcrowded, everywhere was coming apart. Melting glaciers, shrinking forests - the Great Barrier Reef was almost gone. Then we had First Contact, and that was… well… but then the Asari showed up, and everything got better. They just… helped us fix things, because we were there. Because it was easy for them to do it. I think it was a salaraian that fixed the reef. He didn’t need to, but there was something similar where he’d come from and he could pass the information along. We could share so much. It’s amazing, everything that we learned because we met the Turians, the Asari - everyone. We’re all better when we’re working together. I think the Angara will feel that way, too.”

“Who do you miss the most?”

The Quarians have his vote. Reyes can’t imagine what possessed the Initiative not to have the galaxy’s finest seat-of-their-pants engineers as key players in the advance fleet. Probably the same braintrust that gathered all the Nexus higher-ups into one, easily disposable location. He’s wondered, now and then, if there wasn’t something more nefarious to it all, but no one really made a move in the aftermath, and he couldn’t imagine the benefit to making things more broken in a hostile, unknown system. Sometimes, the incompetence is so stunningly comprehensive it's a comfort to imagine an evil intent.

“Oh man, the Elcor. The kids.” Ryder laughs. “You ever seen a baby elcor? It’s like an entire sector of the galaxy had a surplus of cute and nothing else to do with it.” He sighs. “I miss everyone. I miss the Citadel. I mean, there are still asari back home who remember us, right? I’d love to see them swoop in and take the Kett down a peg or nine.”

Umi is certain her sister is there - a celebrated matriarch kicking back by a beacon in the Milky Way, just waiting to for the opportunity to say ‘I told you so.’

“I am detecting approaching vehicles, Pathfinder.” SAM says, as Ryder sits up. “They do not read as hostile.”

Depending on your definition. It’s Vetra Nyx in the driver’s seat of the first vehicle, flanked by the krogan and the asari - biotic powers to carry anything she wants that the krogan can’t lift. Reyes recalculates the odds of taking anything away from this job that she doesn’t deign to give him.

“I really shouldn’t say it… but maybe we can do this again sometime?” Ryder says.

“Count on it.”

Chapter Text

“Looks like that went well.”

Kian is carefully cleaning one of his mismatched glasses - fastidious, even here in his shithole bar underneath the shithole bar. It’s one of the things that Reyes liked about him first, that professional attention to detail, that sign of pride. The bar is empty, all the dancers and drunks off to wherever they go when Tartarus is out of alcohol. The supply lines are still not quite one-hundred percent down in the slums, Sloane getting a lucky break, putting her boot in because it’s the only thing she ever does. Reyes will have it sorted by tomorrow - earlier, if he wants to devote the night to whys and hows. He’s been slacking, but it should be easier to bring his attention back to Kadara Port, now that the Pathfinder has set his sights on Elaadan.

“How else would it go?” Reyes says, receiving that perfect, noncommittal bartender smile in return. He doesn’t trust everyone he can’t charm, but it’s not a bad place to start.

“What’s he like, then?”

“The Pathfinder is a very nice boy.” Reyes says. “They grew him at the Citadel, and polished him up in the Alliance. What else would he be?”

It’s not as bad as all that. Ryder wasn’t some tone-deaf Initiative puppet, or interested in pushing a personal agenda on the rest of the universe. He’s egalitarian, which is not a word that gets much use in Reyes’ world, and Reyes is glad to find he has no real desire to knock the Pathfinder down into the dirt and the muck. Ryder is a little bit naive and a little bit sheltered and… innocent, which is a word that never gets used in his world - but the Pathfinder’s the better for it. All of Andromeda is likely to be better for it.

“I mean what’s he like in the sack?” Kian says. “Is he a cuddler? I bet he’s a cuddler.”

“I really wouldn’t know.” Reyes says, and grins when the bartender lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “What? I’m a gentleman.”

Kian raises the other eyebrow.

“He needs to be the one to come to me, if he’s interested." Reyes says. "It’ll be better if it’s his idea.”

SAM will be an interesting complication to that plan, and every other plan. Before the Tempest had landed, Reyes had half a mind to install a few recording devices on the ship, or at least try - but there’s no point now. He’ll need to rethink any scenario that might catch even a few stray bytes of the AI’s attention. SAM had been quiet on the public channels for the rest of the time Reyes had been at the Pathfinder’s side. No further questions, but he doubts that meant they were finished. If the AI really is inseparable from Ryder… well, Reyes will just have to do his best to charm them both.

“So, what now?”

It’s decoy conversation. Reyes rarely lays out a plan in full, and never in public - and yes, a dark and empty bar on purportedly friendly territory still counts. It’s just easier to assume the audience is always listening. He shrugs, smiling.

“Who knows? I guess we wait to see who makes the next move.”

——————————————

The Collective makes the next move, of course, and a few after that. Might as well play while the table is hot, keep the pressure on and see what else feels like crumbling.

Friendly discussions take place at the wind farm, over stability and prosperity and my goodness, the Pathfinder certainly was helpful, wasn’t he? A bit goofy, a bit Initiative - but he didn’t ask for much for all he’d offered, even if the Outcasts had dropped by afterward to shake their heads and make vague threats. The Collective, of course, was very impressed with all their efforts in generating power while not dying horribly, and would be interested in a… more detailed discussion of common goals and benefits, as the situation progressed.

No, of course that didn’t mean confronting Sloane directly. The Collective would handle that. The Collective always handles the most unpleasant parts. It makes people much more likely to agree to the rest.

An offer is quietly extended to Charybdis Point, to expand into the recently vacated roekaar hideout - more space and more security, plus the implication of nominal armed protection for a reasonable price. The suggestion that the Pathfinder, involved with acquiring the space, might also be interested in its upkeep, even feel some responsibility for the people who come to inhabit it.

It’s no surprise that the hideout quickly picks up a name of its own - Amnesty - and the rumor spreads that getting on the list there, being on your best behavior is one step closer to returning to the Nexus, getting back on the side of full rations and clean underwear.

Reyes doesn’t think Sloane notices, or that she’s seen the Pathfinder as anything but a direct threat - possibly not even that. Ryder doesn’t challenge in the way she’s used to, that she might even recognize as a danger. He doesn’t push or threaten, barely even stands his ground, patiently waiting for other people to show him who they are and - if they’re difficult - how they might be managed. The Pathfinder stays placid and agreeable, lets people think they’ve won the argument and then does whatever the hell he wants anyway.

He’d been handing out supplies from the Tempest’s own stores all throughout his time in the Port, to anyone who claimed a need. Reyes knows the Pathfinder personally paid up the protection fees for at least half a dozen people, and has already vetted a first batch of names for resettlement on Prodromos. Is Tann any better than Sloane, at seeing the Pathfinder for what he is? Unlikely.

For his part, Reyes makes sure that the Collective takes all the credit for sneaking Terev off-planet, for wresting control of Oblivion away from the Outcasts and anything else it would be better for Ryder not to have on his increasingly diverse resume. A few fires, a bit of cleanup, and there’s no one left to say otherwise.

A fine partnership, especially since the Pathfinder doesn’t know he’s involved.

—————————————

Scott Ryder’s unbroken string of miraculous victories crash into Elaadan with all the grace and glory of a pyjak in a barbecue pit. Reyes might have warned him, that the mostly hostile krogan defectors were the best it had to offer, the entire planet a sandbox full of broken glass and rusty nails upended into the sun. Elaadan made Kadara Port look like the Citadel.

The krogan aren’t inclined to negotiate, need nothing that the Nexus can offer that they didn’t take when they left, and the Pathfinder’s particular blend of reserve and humility will do nothing to impress them, not brash enough by half. The fact that he’s got Nakmor Drack with him is likely all that keeps them from being fed to the giant Revenant worm. No good news for the Pathfinder - which is excellent news for Reyes, and will only improve Kadara by comparison. He has eyes on Elaadan, though the reports are slower and sparser than he’d prefer - something had spooked the Tempest, sent them racing off-planet, and Reyes would certainly like to know what it was.

New Tuchanka is poised to be the very first luxury market in Andromeda, and he has already made a few tentative gestures into figuring out what they want, what they need, and what he might be able to sell to them anyway. It’s been a bit difficult to set up much trade, with how hostile they are to outsiders, and though Keema’s connections to Paradise are solid there’s not enough infrastructure yet to do much more than grab up Remnant scraps at discount prices.

If not for his string of successes, Reyes would put the Pathfinder’s chances of getting an Initiative settlement on Elaadan in the negative numbers. But even as the dates go by for Aya, for Voeld, the time between the Tempest landing and every other vault going live passing with no sign of success, Reyes is patient. Confident the Pathfinder will succeed in saving the planet, mending the worst of the troubles between the krogan and the Initiative, and securing the Collective a very lucrative foothold on the planet that had once been considered a literal golden world.

Reyes smuggles, because he’s a smuggler. Shena continues sending bits and pieces of information to the Resistance, mostly about the Pathfinder - Jaal Ama Darav is on the Tempest, practically Ryder’s right hand, and with four planets worth of evidence that the Initiative is not here for the same reasons as the kett, they’re still nervous. Reyes knows that Efvra cross-checks his reports with Keema, though they can barely get along even on opposite ends of Andromeda. Of course the angara are suspicious - the Pathfinder still seems too good to be true. If Reyes weren’t a lying bastard surrounded by lying bastards, he might still have his doubts, but he knows what that looks like, especially when it’s trying to hide, and it isn’t Scott Ryder.

The Charlatan cultivates new connections on Voeld, on Aya, on the Nexus - and the Hyperion. Finally, he gets his hands on the list of names of everyone who’d arrived in those pods - and finds a few worth a closer look, men and women who really ought to have chosen a different alias if they wanted to come here and set up shop, who should have slummed it on the advance team if they’d wanted to stake their claim on Andromeda first.

He gathers up the worst of those names - just a concerned citizen, doing his civic duty - and passes the information to CMO Brecka on the Nexus. Why take the risk of awakening a criminal, especially in light of the Uprising? Why deal with the burden, when there are so many others with spotless records who are ready to go? It’s certainly easier just to leave them in stasis, until the end, until the situation is more stable and an actual investigation can occur.

Reyes doesn’t know the man personally, but Brecka must be as tired and overworked and frustrated as everyone else in the Initiative not fortunate enough to be exiled. It might make him open to a few more… active suggestions in the months to come. He might be willing to look the other way, if some of those pods never open at all, a few tragic casualties that will never have the chance to become a problem. It might happen, it might not, and so Reyes does what he can to plan for the possibilities, and keep an ear out for opportunities, and keep at least part of his attention always fixed on Elaadan.

—————————————

It rains on Kadara Port.

Generally, the weather beneath the cliffs varies between sticky and unpleasant or unpleasant and unpleasant. The winds in the port occasionally stir up the stolid air, but with an acrid stench that proves useless as a cure. The rains have never been a blessing - acidic, although not as immediately deadly as the pools that collect in the badlands. Still, the drops sting a bit against bare skin, and anything left out for long - metal, plastic, organic - is inevitably eaten away by the weather. Dark clouds overhead will always see the shops shutting up tight, inhabitants darting for cover.

Except it’s been some time now, since the Pathfinder reactivated the Vault, and Reyes has had his people taking measurements by the day, and though no one’s yet daring to drink the water straight, Reyes knows that the purifiers are working only half as hard as usual - and there’s no bite to what they do provide, not how there used to be even at the best of times. He’s walked out from the few climate-controlled rooms in the Port and been hit less often by the familiar wave of sulfur, now only an edge on the wind, and sometimes not even that.

Kadara Port is home to the exiled of the Nexus, to the desperate and the angry and the scared, and apart from those poor bastards who hadn’t survived the first round on Eos, no one has had to do more with less for longer, with no assurance of accomplishing more than an ugly struggle to a brutal end. The angara on Kadara haven’t had it much better, seen as weak and cowardly in the eyes of the Resistance, though they’ve fought the kett on this inhospitable place as hard as anyone, were the first to work with and endure a second group of intruders while the rest of the their people hid on Aya, watching and waiting.

So it means more here than anywhere else, when a sudden gust of wind sweeps across the port, the air cool and crisp and clean, the first hint of an autumn season that has never existed before. The clouds follow, and the port closes up as always, Reyes retreating to the Song to continue poring through his never-ending flood of new messages, problems and reports, though frustratingly little from Elaadan. The rain comes hard and fast and as heavy as he’s ever heard it, thudding down on the roof of the bar. It will make a misery of everything below, Kian no doubt already scrambling to shore up the makeshift drainage in place around Tartarus. It might be better if he sleeps in his ship for at least a few days.

It’s not the rarest thing, to hear a commotion on the docks, although if Sloane’s not making an example of someone she usually tries to keep the worst chaos in check. The Port still has to be a favorable alternative to the Badlands, after all.

At first, Reyes thinks there must have been an accident, someone moving too fast to try and get out of the rain - but then there’s more and more of an uproar, enough to keep Umi’s door open even as she glares daggers - and brandishes them - from behind the bar. He’s curious, he’s always curious, and so Reyes pushes himself up near the front, a gust of rain-scented wind almost as refreshing as the scene before him.

A young exile - half-shaved head and dubious tattoos - strips herself out of her armor with delighted abandon, head tipped back to the sky as she lets out a whoop of joy. An angara pushes himself past Reyes, rushing out to her, to try and bring her under shelter but she stops him, gesturing wildly toward the clouds, laughing. Kissing him, before spinning like a child, arms outstretched under the still-pouring rain.

Reyes reaches out, lets the drops gather in his palm for a moment before tipping his hand, watching them roll across his heart line and away - and it doesn’t burn or sting. Only rain, nothing more.

He’s not stupid enough to go out in it without a second opinion, and by the time Reyes has confirmed it with Draulir, the celebration is well underway. The water’s cleaner than most of what fell in the cities on Earth - it’s drinkable, without being treated.

It’s Rainfall, and from now on it will be an annual holiday because they need an annual holiday, and no one will ever forget where they were for the first.

A party and an orgy and a spontaneous religious experience, wilder and more all-consuming than anything Reyes has ever seen, even on worlds set up for the purpose. The shops open up, everything opens up, music playing from all corners of the docks - human, asari, angaran - speakers blaring and people on instruments and drums and anything that can become a drum, a common beat melding together into one unstoppable force. The Charlatan puts the word out - all actions temporarily suspended on the Port - because it’s easier than admitting no one would listen to him anyway. Collective operatives and Outcast enforcers are probably making out in the streets - everyone else is.

Everyone dances, everyone drinks and laughs and yells to the sky and Reyes nearly takes a slice of paripo fruit in the eye, the melons absurdly expensive but being sliced and passed around now as if it’s angaran Christmas and there’s plenty to share. The rain buckets down until they’re all soaked through and someone’s repurposed some panels that are already halfway to being a pool in the middle of the Port, filled from some cistern when the rain isn’t letting them get to the fun fast enough, water that can now be replaced.

Reyes glances up, surveying the crowd - and there on a platform at the edge of the revelry is Sloane Kelly and her turian second, surveying the crowds with an unreadable expression. He wonders what she’s thinking, If she can feel it, the tipping point, that even if she manages to defeat the Collective, this planet doesn’t need her like it used to. No one notices that she’s there, and only Reyes watches her depart.

As if on cue, brilliant light spears down through the clouds, the sudden sun-shower illuminating the entire Port in golden haze and glittering jewels, the revelers cheering it like and old friend as the music continues to bouncing and echoing across the cliffs and they can probably hear it down in the Badlands, they might even be celebrating too.

Reyes wanders from one end of the port to another, watching the festivities, chronicling what feels like it ought to be chronicled, the kind of thing they’d all come to Andromeda to see. He drinks, and he dances, and he cheers when everyone else cheers, whatever they’re cheering, lets himself be caught up in the infectious happiness, in the relief of it all. The rain stops as night begins to fall but the wind is still sweet and the party goes on, and on and on. Reyes finally ends up stumbling into bed with… well, whoever he is, he does bear enough resemblance to Scott Ryder to make Keema smirk when she knocks on his door in the morning.

It seems a shame that the Pathfinder had been the one to bring them such a celebration, and he’s still beating his head against the wall that is Elaadan. Things are going as well with the krogan as Reyes knew they would, Ryder apparently swallowed up by some vast Remnant wreck full of scavengers for vaguely ominous reasons, current status unknown.

Reyes hasn’t reached out beyond a single cursory, vaguely flirtatious message - no reason for a smuggler to go out of his way for the Pathfinder, even if they did get along, but he does want more information than he’s getting from his own people on Elaadan and it might raise Ryder’s spirits to know that he’s brought some good, even to a pile of exiles. A reminder that he has a friend on Kadara, and as insane as it sounds, the Port might be considered a kind of haven. At least compared with New Tuchanka.

So he flicks his way through the images he gathered, picks the best of them and sends the Pathfinder what he hopes will be a note of encouragement - Wish You Were Here.

It’s less than twelve hours when Reyes receives a reply - shot after shot after shot of what he thinks at first is just a repeating image, but no, it’s a panorama of all the identical dunes of Elaadan. Vacation photos from the most boring circle of hell - scoured ground and scoured skies and, in one slightly more memorable image, the asari on the Pathfinder's team poking gingerly at a carcass that might be unidentifiable, even at close range.

He grins at the subject line: So Do I

Chapter Text

It turns out that all the careful planning, subterfuge, and surveillance across several worlds isn’t nearly as effective as just asking the Pathfinder how things are going.

It’s not quite that easy, of course. Ryder isn’t about to offer up all the Initiative’s secrets for a wink and a smile, but it’s still an inside look for very little effort on Reyes’ part. If nothing else, he might be able to keep an eye on the Pathfinder when he vanishes off all other maps.

The messages come at scattered intervals, but with increasing frequency, until he can count on some response from Ryder nearly every other day, tracking how busy he is or how things are going on Elaaden by the gaps between comments. It’s mostly light banter, all still on the same tag line - “Wish You Were Here” - interspersed with pictures of the stars, of ruins on Elaaden, and the occasional interesting occurrence from the Port. Reyes mentions that he’s seen activity near Charybdis Point, mentions “Amnesty” - and the Pathfinder is all in, because of course he is.

A few common points of history between the two of them, believe it or not. The Pathfinder is Alliance through and through, and though Reyes may not be, he did spend the minimal amount of time in their ranks to enjoy three meals a day and learn his way around a few different types of ships. Getting paid to fly - and to figure out how the Alliance tended to move their cargo, the best ways of hitting them for high profit and minimal fuss. He knows enough of the terminology, that he can laugh in all the right places during Ryder’s stories, can commiserate on the bureaucracy, all the rules and regulations. Scott seems surprisingly understanding that Reyes had moved on rather quickly to more profitable ends.

Anubis weighed the hearts of the dead, didn’t he? Ryder writes, because of course there would have been information on Reyes Vidal, even without SAM there to provide any more incriminating details. It doesn’t seem like the AI’s mentioned anything to Ryder about Omega yet, or anything else he might have uncovered. Reyes could worry about that, but if SAM finds him interesting, it probably won’t be so quick to scare him away.

A soul against a feather. Reyes writes back. Most importantly, it looked very impressive on the side of my ship.

Ryder asks him about his time on the Nexus, what it was like during the Uprising. The sort of thing Reyes doubts any of his crew who were there are all that interested in rehashing. He sketches out a slightly more unexpected version of events than his own personal experience - he’d seen the warning signs, and like anyone who was Terminus-born, Reyes hadn’t spent any time being shocked at how fast things fell apart, not when there was cargo that needed to be ‘relocated’ with him. The benefits of a shitty upbringing weren’t always immediately apparent, but as Reyes has grown older he’s come to appreciate it.

He sends Ryder a picture of his personal, hydroponic pepper plant - perhaps the only one in all of Heleus - and certainly the best heist he’s ever bothered with, for how it renders even nutrient paste almost palatable. It is a necessity, in Andromeda, to make friends with anyone who has any kind of spices. Ryder promises that Vetra will start sourcing possible sources for chips, and who knows, in two or three years they might even have something resembling a decent plate of nachos.

We need to raise your standards, Pathfinder. Reyes writes. I’m sure Nyx could manage a mediocre sopaipillas con pebre at the very least.

A what?

Reyes explains in more than the necessary detail - he misses them too - and chuckles at the instantaneous grumpy reply.

Vidal, why would you tell me about a new delicious thing I can’t have?!

The next two-dozen messages are all an ode to all the foods they loved and left behind. Reyes takes some notes, anything he might be able to offer the Pathfinder on a shorter timeline than waiting for half the ingredients to grow and the others to age.

He learns more about Ryder, pays close attention to even the smallest asides. The Pathfinder on the radio is concerned with keeping up appearances, while the one out in the field has his own opinions about how things should run.

Whatever the Initiative and Ark Hyperion had been hoping for with their human Pathfinder, shaping a different balance of power in Andromeda from how things had been on the Citadel, Reyes doubts this is what they had in mind. The Pathfinder supports Kesh with an unflinching allegiance, and is nothing but relieved to have an asari as their official diplomat on Aya. He doesn’t actively speak out against Tann or Addison, even in his private messages, but the polite deflections and tacit silences say enough.

Ryder also has more than a little crush on Tiran Kandros - which isn’t surprising, the security officer single-handedly responsible for most of the morale left on the Nexus. Reyes pushes a little, and it seems the Pathfinder has a thing for turian men in general - waving it away with a few self-deprecating remarks on soldiers and rule-following - and it’s a damn shame that most of the turians in Kadara came in with the Outcasts. Caelum is many things, but date night material really isn’t one of them.

He knows Ryder’s spoken with Sloane’s turian, Kaetus, at least briefly, that the Pathfinder is still determined to be a neutral party in Kadara. Not that it should really matter, something as stupid as who might turn a man’s head - but wars have been lost and won for less. Reyes has seen men and women he thought were smart make lethal mistakes arguing over asari dancing girls. The Pathfinder is young, but he doesn’t seem to be that kind of ridiculous, and Kaetus isn’t much of a flirt, either way. Still, it’s something to keep an eye on, if Ryder decides that Reyes is not quite charming enough.

“What does Aroane have that we want?” Reyes asks one day, scanning through blocks of data from a little hidey-hole in the Badlands that definitely doesn’t exist, packed to the gills with transmitters the Nexus never noticed went missing.

“Enough.” Derc says. “Why?”

“The Pathfinder wants to know if I’ve heard of him.” Reyes says. “I think the krogan have decided it’s time to square up with William Spender.”

Derc looks - well, Salarians don’t always smile, but his amusement is easy enough to read. “I suppose that would explain why he’s been poking us, asking to speak with the Charlatan. Or why he’s pretending to be the Charlatan, out on Elaaden.”

“He finally worked up the nerve?” Reyes chuckles. There is something that can be truly transcendent, in a man’s last gasp of desperation. Especially when that man thinks he’s clever. Watching Spender work was a bit like looking at himself through a cracked, spotty mirror - nimble enough to cover his own ass, but utterly without charm or seemingly any higher purpose. An indiscriminate amount of damage had been left in Spender’s wake, to no greater ambition than keeping himself out of the crosshairs.

“Does the Charlatan want to take care of it?” Derc asks. He’s been one of the inner circle from the start, Gartan introducing his younger brother as someone who could make things happen. Whatever allegiance they’d had in the Collective to begin with, it had been cemented by Gartan’s death - Operative Lacerta a martyr for the Charlatan when the idea had been little more than vague ambition.

It’s a little annoying, that the name’s already been dragged off-planet. Reyes had been trying to keep it quiet, not to make a grand debut until his victory on Kadara. Maybe spend a little more time invisible in the chaos, before too many better-funded eyes were turned his way. Reyes doesn’t worry, that his own name is attached to some of Aroane’s dealings, and quite a few other illicit activities around Kadara. Ryder would only be more suspicious if his notorious smuggler contact seemed too clean.

“No.” He says. “The Pathfinder has him now, and I’m not going to be the one to deprive the krogan of their sport. Keep an eye on Aroane’s network - I’m sure we’ll know when to step in.”

———————————————

Aroane goes down. Spender follows right behind. Exiled, in a nice bit of karma, or whatever it is the krogan call it - turnabout and fair play with high-impact rounds.

In unrelated news, Reyes gets shot.

It has happened before, although less often since he’d reached Andromeda. Unfortunately, establishing himself as a mysterious force to be reckoned with is still a work in progress. Reyes has always been his own best asset - the only person he can ever really trust - and there are many times when it’s just expedient to use himself with a bit of callous disregard.

It’s also important not to let himself get too above it all - leaders who lose sight of the day-to-day can miss the little warning signs, or think themselves above the bigger ones. A dealer doesn’t get high on their own supply, and a Charlatan can’t believe his own hype.

So it’s good, being humbled. Painful lessons are the ones that get remembered and Reyes will not be forgetting this one anytime soon, feeling the blood dripping freely from his shoulder, across his chest, down his arm, sticky and hot. He lets irritation dull the pain, since little else does - it was his own stupid decision to end up in a galaxy on the other side of the universe from where most of the medi-gel lives. What he does have on him is better than the usual watered-down shit that most of Kadara is making due with, but it isn’t enough to do more than keep him upright and moving.

A stupid injury, when it really was just a smuggling job, the kind that usually went so well, and as far as he could tell his attackers were only anonymous raiders swooping down at random. They’d probably spent their last two credits on the armor-piercing rounds that had torn through him. When they saw they’d drawn blood, it made them cocky, charging into the undergrowth to finish him off. Their mistake.

The man at his feet lets out pained, soft wheezing sounds, hands twitching uselessly near the hole in his gut. It’ll take him hours to die, if nothing else finds him first, and Reyes can already hear the skitterings and crunchings of Kadara rising up in the silence, as if the whole planet knows when something’s vulnerable.

“This is a waste of a bullet.” Reyes informs him, before putting him out of his misery. He takes a minute to check the bodies - his associate already very dead a few feet away - half-hoping to uncover any kind of sinister plot or even a double-dealing, anything remotely more impressive. No such luck, not even any spare ammunition, and his own cargo is busy burning itself up along with the transport he took to get here. Reyes slowly searches around - his attackers’ ride hidden in the brush, the sort of third-hand junk pile that might blow up if he dares to stare at it for too long.

It’s a good thing the Charlatan is everyone and no one, so Reyes isn’t ruining any reputations as he stumbles slowly through the badlands, back toward the slums, pausing only when his vision grays a little bit, his steps unsteady. It feels like there’s less blood sloshing around under his armor, the longer he keeps moving, but he also doesn’t think there’s an exit wound - or maybe he didn’t get shot twice, only the once, and the ricochet…

He’s paid up his bribes at the gate, so he won’t have to bother with any alternate routes, but one of the guards still smirks as he limps past, not used to seeing Reyes Vidal this far off his game. It’s useful, in its own way. Any man of secret wealth and means would have better things to do than bleed his way across Kadara’s undercarriage.

Reyes pauses to lean against a beam that’s been used as a quick bathroom for more than a few species in its recent history, grimacing at the stairs - so many goddamn stairs, more than he remembers - but he’s not getting through the Port like this, and his options there aren’t much better than the man he knows is still down here, stubbornly working out of a cargo crate. Still accepting patients from all corners, as if daring someone to protest.

“You need to get a better waiting room.”

A lucky break, that the good doctor is here so late - although it’s clear he doesn’t consider it a similar blessing. Nakamoto scowls even as he turns around, and Reyes watches his expression go in several different directions at once - annoyed, angry, concerned - before he sees what he was hoping for - a begrudging, professional resignation.

“You didn’t have anyone else you could call? Literally anyone else?”

Reyes is technically on the Collective’s payroll - he’s technically on everyone’s payroll - and though there are a few people with medical training in Draulir, getting out there was even more of a hassle as getting here, and… and…

He stumbles, crashing shoulder-first into the wall, choking back the pain that jolts through him, feeling blood seeping out in some new direction, everything half-healed threatening to tear open again. Thankfully, Nakamoto’s ‘clinic’ is otherwise unoccupied, and when he limps over the threshold, the doors are quickly shut behind him. Reyes drags himself rather artlessly up onto the nearest table - unforgivingly hard, but he’s tired and it makes his leg stop complaining for the moment, so it’s all right.

“How long have you been like this?” The doctor says.

“All my life.” Reyes laughs, and then coughs, and then just tries to breathe as Nakamoto begins carefully removing his armor, surveying the damage. A few pieces are sticking, covered in blood, while others fall off on their own, in fragments. Reyes stares at them, and then at his bloody palms in confusion. When the hell did he get hit that hard? “You know… doctor, you should consider joining up with the Collective. I hear they have actual walls.”

“If I officially became your doctor, I couldn’t shoot you when I really needed to.”

“Is that how it works?”

“No.” Nakamoto says. “The Hippocratic Oath never took you into account, or I’m sure they would have amended it.”

“S’okay.” Reyes says, the words slurring a little. That’s irritating. “… don’t believe in oaths.”

He hears the doctor curse distantly, as if from across the room. Reyes tastes blood - wait, are things getting worse? It would be a doctor from Kadara, to make things worse. He thinks, a little amused as everything goes dark.

————————————

Reyes wakes up to a persistent flash of light behind his closed lids, and pain in varying degrees, though most of it feels at least a little blunted - and he opens his eyes to see Dr. Nakamoto picking the last bits of shrapnel out of his chest with a long pair of tweezers. Reyes checks purely out of habit - his gun is still in the holster at his side.

“Thank you for being unconscious while I was dealing with the worst of it.” Nakamoto says without looking up. “You owe me half a case of medi-gel, by the way. Full strength.”

The flashing that had urged him awake is his omni-tool - an urgent message, and it isn’t for Reyes Vidal.

He tries to adjust his position, just slightly, to see if he might be able to leave. The pain instantly blanks his vision white, the doctor arm the only thing that’s keeping him from rolling onto the floor. By the time Reyes can see again, he’s looking at fresh blood staining the front of Nakamoto’s clothes.

“You also owe me new scrubs. Stay where you are, or you’ll just keep bleeding on my stuff.”

The omni-tool continues to blink, demanding a response. Reyes does not have the coordination to handle this through a private text. Nakamoto gives the wall a very pointed thousand-yard stare, and a pained sigh.

“I didn’t survive this long by knowing what was going on.”

Reyes picks up the call.

“Where have you been?” It’s Crux, from Draulir, sounding more annoyed than frantic. At least there doesn’t seem to be the sound of active shooting behind her, so it’s probably not a coup.

“In the slums. I was unexpectedly…. detained.” Reyes bites back a curse, as Nakamoto digs another piece of bullet or armor or Kadara out of his skin. He’s really hoping, the way that most of them have been hoping, that the full-spectrum antibacterial properties of medigel still apply in Andromeda. “What’s happened?”

“A report came in from Elaaden, they contacted us when they couldn’t find you - the Pathfinder’s been shot.”

Nakamoto looks up at that, with the same expression of dread that would be on anyone’s face. Love the Pathfinder or hate him, it’s certainly better to have Ryder out there, taking hits so the rest of them don’t have to.

“Shit.” Reyes says. “How bad? Is he dead?”

“Conflicting reports, nothing but rumors at the moment. That ship of his swooped in - he’s off-planet now. No official word from the Nexus yet, if they even know.”

Reyes scoffs. “Like Tann would ever announce that.” He’d keep the Pathfinder out on secret missions indefinitely, before ever revealing that he’d managed to lose him. “Do you know anything else? How did it happen?”

“You remember the Flophouse?”

“I need a shower just thinking about that place.” Reyes is injured, it takes him a minute to catch up. “… he took it out? All of it?”

“The big Remnant derelict? It seems there was a story that some krogan were poking around in there for the biggest bomb in Andromeda - they wanted to use it to blow up the Nexus, and the scavengers were storing it for them. Or beat them to it. Either way, The Pathfinder didn’t seem to like that very much.”

Yes, that was exactly the sort of thing to get the Tempest moving, to inspire all of Ryder’s protective, heroic instincts. Reyes can’t help but wonder if this rumored weapon didn’t end up in the most troublesome nest of scavengers because the Pathfinder would have to plow through them to recover it.

“What about the ship? Are they excavating?” Might as well, if Ryder was nice enough to crack open the front door.

“Two crews on their way as we speak, and one more to cover them. Scavengers got in a bit through the cracks, but it’s still going to be a good haul.”

“I want any news on the Pathfinder, the minute we know.” Reyes says. “I’ll be in touch.”

The conversation isn’t entirely damning - there have to be any number of people on Kadara keeping tabs on the Pathfinder for their own self-interest. Except Nakamoto already had his suspicions, and is very specifically not looking at him now, sterilizing his equipment on the other side of the narrow space.

“He could get you off planet, if you asked.” Reyes says. If the Pathfinder isn’t dead. He refuses to consider that without further information. There are plans, of course there are plans, if Ryder should suddenly take himself out of the picture, but they aren’t anything like Reyes’ favorite plans.

“If I leave here, these people have nothing. You know that.” Nakamoto says. After a moment, he sets down the tool he’s been fiddling with, his voice very low. “… can you deal with Sloane without tearing the Port apart?”

“It’s the entire point of the enterprise.” Reyes says. “Or has the Collective been bothering you about Oblivion lately?”

It’s not the worst thing, to bring the doctor into his confidence - the fact that he isn’t bleeding out now is proof of that. Twice betrayed, by the Initiative and then by Sloane - this is who Nakamoto is, when everything else has come and gone. Doctors, priests and bartenders - Reyes has tried to keep a hands-off policy, as long as they stick to their own affairs, and Nakamoto has been nothing if not discreet.

Reyes lies back, looking at the ceiling - freshly painted, or as fresh as anything down here can be. The Pathfinder… how badly had he been hurt? The Tempest was certainly stocked with every life-saving measure the Initiative had to offer, if they’d gotten him there in time. The Flophouse made a name for itself for a reason, though. God, and he’d thought Scott was smart, not the sort to go off half-cocked to play hero… but he wouldn’t have, if it had been anything less than the Nexus’ future hanging in the balance.

Well, Reyes has one avenue remaining if he’s that desperate for answers. A long shot, but what wasn’t in Andromeda?

He gets a decent enough reflection from the back of what’s either a bedpan or just a pot to catch whatever leaks down here, and does a little bit of work to make his hair less ‘mangled pyjak’ and bit more ‘rakishly disheveled’. He poses, reconsiders the angle, and somewhere around this time Nakamoto’s realized some of what he’s up to, and makes a noise of infinite pain. Reyes grins, ignores him, carefully raises his omnitool and takes the picture.

“Wish You Were Here”

“I’d just like to help people, and not get murdered.” Nakamoto says, as Reyes leans back. Even that little movement was more of an effort than it should have been, and it’s probably better not to make any more for a while.

“I think that’s an excellent plan. Kadara is certainly in need of men with your expertise. The Charlatan understands that.”

Nakamoto has several unique sour expressions, and Reyes thinks he’s seeing all of them tonight. “You’re going to shoot me when I try to leave, aren’t you.”

Reyes smiles. “Do you want me to turn around until you’re gone?”

The doctor sighs. “I’ll lock the door behind me. It’s secure enough. You should probably stay here until morning, unless you’ve… I don’t know… got people?”

“It’ll be fine.” Reyes says. The Collective’s made their position on Nakamoto’s clinic abundantly clear, and Reyes is just a smuggler - and it hurts more now that the adrenaline’s gone, sharp fangs gnawing away at him under the receding balm of the medigel.

“Good night, doctor. See you around.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Nakamoto snaps, and the door creaks closed and Reyes is left in the dim-half light. Too restless and aching to sleep, too difficult to move and continue rummaging through his omnitool, and his thoughts keep drifting in the direction of the Pathfinder. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it, both of them laid flat on separate planets? As long as Ryder’s still alive, that is. It would be a damn shame to lose him now, after all the work -

His omnitool beeps.

Another Beautiful Day In Andromeda.

Ryder has taken his own picture from nearly the same angle, reclining in a medical bed on the Tempest, wearing…

Reyes blinks, staring.

“Oh baby, no.” The Blasto tank top is stretched out, distressingly well-loved. Possibly even non-ironically. “That’s what you brought halfway across the universe?”

It’s proof of life, though. The Pathfinder is still breathing, with a full complement of limbs and grinning wearily as he throws a victory sign back at the camera. Reyes wishes he had a better view of the room - looking less like the medbay and more like the Pathfinder’s private quarters. He can see evidence of at least one bullet wound at Ryder’s shoulder, and ugly patches of half-healed bruising that speaks to meeting Elaaden head-on. He’s whip-thin from months of going full-tilt, Reyes finally getting a chance to appreciate a small glimpse of what’s under all that armor and -

Reyes peers closer, zooming in on the picture. A half-obscured line of… numbers? A tattoo on the Pathfinder’s chest, and the pilot in him recognizes galactic coordinates immediately, though it takes Reyes a few moments of thinking and searching to pin it down - Arcturus? The place the Pathfinder had claimed was safe and dull and barely worth mentioning? Boring enough to have it tattooed over his heart? Oh, there was a story there. Now to figure out how to make the Pathfinder want to share it.

You know, we’re really very good at this. Ryder sends.

Any one you can walk away from. Reyes responds.

Of course he’s curious with what’s happening on Elaaden, and if there is a Revenant-shaped bomb in play that might be worth knowing about, but Reyes is also operating with a few less pints of blood than is recommended, and Ryder doesn’t know he’s any more than a simple smuggler with oddly-timed bad luck, with no reason to know or care much about anything on Elaaden that isn’t scrap.

Reyes fires off a message to those who ought to know- Pathfinder alive, in mostly one piece - and looks at Ryder’s picture for a few more minutes, because he can. It’s the nicest thing he’s had to fall asleep to in quite some time.

———————————

He wakes up with a taste in his mouth like he’s been licking the floor of Tartarus, and Keema sitting quietly at his side, poking through his omnitool. The sharp moment of alarm comes and goes - he’s not functioning well enough to do anything with it - and Keema glances up only for a moment before returning to openly sifting through his secrets. She probably can’t break more than half the encryptions, though the angara are aggressively resourceful, by nature and circumstance.

Keema tsks. “Shena, If I betrayed you, I would lose out on my best source of free entertainment.”

Reyes thinks he might trust her. He wonders if he’ll regret that someday.

“Is there any clean-up we need to handle?” She asks.

“Nothing in particular.” Reyes grimaces, gingerly trying to lift himself upright and still going nowhere. He’s hot, wobbly - feverish, oh damn it. The last thing he needs today is a convalescence.

“Should you be here?”

They try to keep their distance from each other, in the day-to-day, just in case. It doesn’t do for the Outcasts’ angaran representative to be seen too often with the same disreputable faces.

“I’m on angaran business.” Keema says, always on angaran business when it suits her, or when she isn’t interested in explaining. Sloane has to give her some space - a slight against her could easily be seen as a slight against all angara. It’s been useful, on occasion. “You didn’t call anyone. No one knew anything was wrong, until Lynx tried to reach you.”

“I was fine.” Reyes deserves the glare, that’s fair. “I thought I was fine. I didn’t know I might be in trouble until I was already here, and then… I was here. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

He really didn’t think to call. Reyes is used to handling problems on his own, and it isn’t just Sloane who has to deal with the consequences of a changing world. At the end of the day, most of the Outcasts don’t have a much in the way of ideology. Tied together by a common background, a dislike of Tann’s incompetence and approval of Sloane’s strength, and the logic of sheer survival, of no better options. But now, everyone’s got the chance to step back and take stock, and while it might work to the Collective’s favor, Reyes has to remember that it might work against him as well, that everything he’s built here has been about mutual benefit, nothing truly binding.

Gartan’s brothers hadn’t blamed him for what happened, as far as he knew - but was he willing to risk his life, that things would stay that way, if they had the time to reconsider? That Crux wouldn’t decide she could do better on her own? Or Keema might choose to speak on her own behalf with the Pathfinder, until Reyes was nothing but an unnecessary middleman? It’s not like he’s the Charlatan, it’s not like anyone is.

It sounds nicer through the translator than it does in angaran - the Collective. A group of like-minded individuals, united by ideology and working toward a common goal. Except the angara shouldn’t ever have to do that, shouldn’t have to cobble solutions out of the needs of desperate strangers, the smashed-together remnants of broken families. The angara ought to be too wide-ranging for a family to ever be broken. The word itself is a tragedy in their language, a threatening and feral sort of thing. Maybe it sounds similar to the Salarians, who also ought to be here in legion, supporting each other by the dozens, not ones and twos. Octans and Derc are both aggressively unsentimental, but they’ve still invested a considerable amount of Collective resources in searching for Ark Paarchero.

“Is this him, then?” Keema says, his omnitool displaying Ryder on his back, grinning up into the camera, and she flicks through the other images the Pathfinder has sent, chuckling at the series of him flipping off various bits of the countryside, or the creatures who inhabit it, or one with each hand. She’d caught on quickly, to many of the Milky Way’s preferred vulgar gestures. “He looks different from the other pictures I’ve seen - less stiff. I prefer these.”

“Inexperience looks good on him.” Reyes says. “You two should meet.”

“Annea said he was different than she expected. That’s a rare compliment, coming from her. Finding out he took care of those scavengers might even remind her there are things to be grateful for.” Keema says. “Still, it’s hard to believe he’s done so much.”

“It helps to see him in action, to get the full effect.”

“You like him, don’t you?” Keema says. “I’ve never seen you like someone before.”

“I like everyone.” Reyes says. “I like winning, and he’s helping me win. How are things back home? Is Kadara cleaning up as well for you as it is for us?”

Keema is what the angaran consider to be a loner, which means Reyes can count her immediate family just shy of both hands. The angara who don’t live in the Port gather together in a string of smaller enclaves. Long hidden from the kett, and well outside where most of the exiled care to travel. Keema has always been vague about their numbers - it helps when she needs to intimidate Sloane, though Reyes has been invited for a visit. One of those things he’s saving for after they’ve taken the Port, after it becomes Keema’s to rule.

“We have hot springs now. Pools and waterfalls. We’ll build it into a spectacle to make even Aya envious.” One-upping Efvra is certainly a life goal, but Keema’s pleasure is genuine - public bathing is popular among the angara, though there haven’t been the resources to even attempt it in any proper scale on Kadara, until now.

A cool hand touches his brow, and Reyes startles. Keema frowns.

“Is this normal? You’re a different color, more red, and very warm.”

“Fever.” Reyes says. “The human body elevates its temperature, to burn out infection. You don’t have them?”

They’ve been working together for over half a year, and he’s barely seen her sweat, let alone bleed. Keema’s better than that.

“Our bioelectrics handle most of it. What should I do?”

He waves her continued concern away.

“It’s not high enough to be dangerous, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Her hand falls away, she stands up, and Reyes figures she’s on her way out the door. He really should consider getting up, dragging himself to his ship, at least. A few more options in arms’ reach, there, comfort and real security…

A colder touch against his skin. Keema’s found an ice pack in the doctor’s repurposed mini-freezer, wrapped it in a bit of cloth. Not exactly a space-age solution, but it feels nice - and even more than that, is that she thought to try at all. One of those moments that remind him of where he is and why he wanted to come, that it’s more rich and strange than just squabbling for power and profit. This alien, from a galaxy so far from his own, is treating him with more thoughtfulness now than his own mother ever managed to.

This is why Reyes doesn’t get ill, it makes him irritatingly close to sentimental.

“Did you find what you needed on my omnitool, or would you like to take it with you?”

Keema sighs.

“Let someone know where you’re going next time.” She says. “I’ve already had to mourn at too many empty graves.”

Reyes is fluent in languages beyond what his translator can catch - desperation, betrayal, ambition. His survival has often depended on it. Does he mistrust Keema because he thinks she might still be lying - or that he doesn’t even know what the truth would look like? Is this kindness a language he never learned to speak? Is he being cautious now, or cowardly? It would be a stupid thing to have her betray him because he’d offended her, to be betrayed because he couldn’t bring himself to trust.

“You know, you really could have told me it was called a rofjinn.” Reyes says.

“Ah, so Jaal finally tipped you off?” Keema smirks. “In your defense, you did say it was a lovely tablecloth.”

The cloth in question had been a gift, given to him a month or so after their first meeting, when they’d still been taking the measure of each other. Reyes had turned it into a wall hanging on his ship, and he really had come to treasure it, even though it took a year to notice that the Pathfinder’s angaran companion was wearing something that looked oddly familiar, that maybe it was more than a pretty piece of fabric.

“We don’t wear them much around here. They’re so… Aya.” Keema says, as explanation. “The one you have belonged to my cousin.”

“If you should ever want it back…”

“She was very much like you.” Keema says, ignoring him. “Always out in the world, always searching. So angry at the thought there might be something she didn’t know.”

It doesn’t take a Charlatan to guess what happened to her, so Reyes doesn’t ask.

“You shouldn’t stay here.”

“But you haven’t woken up yet, and I’m worried about the cargo you’ve cost me, and how you’re going to pay me back. I’m just looking out for my investments.” Keema smiles. “Rest, Vidal. I’ll wake you if you’re needed.”

It isn’t necessary for her to protect him, or watch over him, but Reyes also doesn’t have the strength to argue, and he probably wouldn’t win anyway. He has to pick his battles, when it comes to Keema. Who knows, maybe he won’t have to fight as many of those as he thought.

——————————

The Pathfinder heals fast and recovers the bomb that isn’t actually a bomb, more a tangle of bullshit and internal krogan politics - but at the end of it there’s the twin miracles of settling a new colony within spitting distance of New Tuchanka, and the Pathfinder unfucking Elaaden.

There it is, the complete set. All the Golden Worlds with a Vault to their name, everything that can be turned around now pointed toward cooperation and prosperity.

Kadara is the only one left without an Initiative settlement to call its own.

The rumors run wild. Reyes spreads some of them around himself. The Outcasts continue to shoot, and the Collective shoots back - but without Oblivion, the Outcasts are down one primary source of funds, and there’s already word from the Initiative colony at New Tuchanka - if you’ve got more brain cells rattling around your head than bullets in your gun, there’s steady work to be had, and safety, and maybe even a future.

The Pathfinder’s policy of benign indifference is bearing fruit - be useful and mostly harmless, and no one will ask about how you got to the planet you’re on. Soon, the only Outcasts left are going to be the ones who would rather die than be anything else, which is going to make things very dangerous.

The Charlatan would like to remind the Collective of everything the Pathfinder has done to fix the still-improving planet, for buying all sorts of trinkets and snacks and heavy munitions from their stores and being a big, shining beacon of Initiative light that keeps the attention off of the rest of them. It is still in their best interest to keep an eye out for anyone who might want to do Ryder harm - although the stories of what’s left of the Flophouse have made most everyone think twice about crossing the Pathfinder anyway. He wasn’t supposed to survive Elaaden, let alone return to Kadara on a victory lap.

They’ve continued trading messages - a little more intimate, more personal now that they’ve seen each other slightly perforated. Reyes is coming very close to being trustworthy, an actual confidant. The Pathfinder worries over the still-missing arks, frets about doing things right by the angara, hates that there continues to be no chance for negotiation with the Roekaar. He asks questions about the Outcasts, about Sloane, the Charlatan - looking for an insider’s opinion, still hoping to thread that needle to a peaceful solution. Reyes doesn’t even have to lie to say that it’s unlikely, no sign even now that Sloane’s about to change her mind about the Initiative or its representatives.

Of course he’s there, when the Pathfinder arrives at the port, though Reyes stays out of sight. A simple smuggler would catch up with Ryder eventually, to ask for a favor or propose some sort of small-time, moneymaking scheme.

A smarter man might ask himself why he bothered showing up in person. Why it was so important to see the Pathfinder as soon as he could, but that’s obvious enough - Ryder’s still the most important asset in the galaxy. It’s good business, and Reyes always pays attention to business.

The Pathfinder steps out onto the dock wearing different armor from what he’d left in - this set sleeker, more ready for a fight, though he’s still kept it in Initiative white and blue, the colors of peace and discovery. He’s looked away, to speak to someone still in the ship, and the gun on his back - that’s an Isharay, not a Widow. Damn, he was probably picking off scavengers from the next planet over.

Ryder turns - his hair’s grown out a little, bleached by the sun and he’s scuffed and windburned and… just stunning, marked with the imperfections of all that living. The Pathfinder - Scott - tips his head back, breathes deep with his eyes closed, the air no longer so stagnant and sulfurous, and his smile is soft and guileless and bright as the Kadara sun shining down on him.

Reyes’ heart does something he’s only ever heard about in the kinds of songs he doesn’t listen to.

Well, that’s inconvenient.

Chapter Text

Sloane’s pride may keep her from admitting that the Port is slipping from her grasp, but Kaetus finally makes a diplomatic gesture toward Ryder on her behalf. Kett hunting, although it’s certainly not a coincidence that he’s pointed them toward Draulir. The Outcasts have been trying to pinpoint their base for a while now - why not use the Pathfinder to take another shot at it?

“Set something up in the caves.” Reyes says. “Give him a reason to come looking.”

“I’ve got a surveyor who hasn’t checked in, I haven’t had the chance to check all the passageways for him.” Derc says. “Will that be enough?”

Reyes smiles. “Trust me, he’ll find it. The Pathfinder doesn’t go five minutes without scanning everything in sight.”

“We could at least try hiding.” Derc says, though he doesn’t sound like he cares much either way. Reyes isn’t sure he’s ever sounded concerned about anything.

“You haven’t seen his SAM in action when there’s a puzzle to solve. If he’s going to poke around, he might as well have a guided tour.” Reyes says. “Tell Crux to pull all the information from off-planet out of the database, but leave the Pathfinder something mildly incriminating to chew on. No need to open all the doors, but don’t bother trying to block the AI if it wants to be curious. The Pathfinder likes transparency, so let’s give him what he wants.”

“What if he decides to inform on us?”

“To who, the Initiative?” Reyes makes a dismissive sound. “Ryder knows they’re too busy to think about maintaining order out here - if they could even manage it. We don’t have to be an ideal choice, we just have to be better than the Outcasts - and lucky for us, that bar is already well-buried. We’re the best hope the Pathfinder has for peace on Kadara. We just need to keep reminding him of it.”

If Sloane would cut the collection fees, it would do her a world of good - Ryder really hates those fees - but where else can her funding come from now?

“You know, we could just poison her.” Keema says. “Unless you want to finally admit you never actually had a plan for those mushrooms.”

“There’s no story in that.” Reyes says. “This needs to be a story.”

Interestingly enough, angara roll their eyes just like humans do, and for the same reasons.

———————————

Kaetus’ little Kett hunting trip is moderately successful, though apparently Sloane turns up just in time to make sure the Pathfinder doesn’t mistake it for a gesture of goodwill. A short time passes, and the Pathfinder has his very thorough tour of Collective headquarters, shakes his head disapprovingly at all the things he should while SAM opens all the doors Reyes thought he might, and even helps them uncover yet another newly-hatched Charlatan. Crux approves. Lynx thinks he should be on the payroll.

I hear you had some fun, kett hunting with Sloane Kelly. Reyes writes later, the Pathfinder already off-planet. Assisting some ship damaged in the Scourge, with no one else who could rendezvous.

Are you spying on me? The Pathfinder sounds amused, because why wouldn’t he be? Ryder doesn’t go into detail on what happened with Kaetus, doesn’t mention the Collective base at all. Reyes is still not in that inner circle, but this was never about trust - it was about being convenient and, eventually, indispensable, and Reyes thinks he’s well on his way there.

It’s a small port, Ryder, and you’re the most interesting thing in it.

“Hey,” Kian says, because on his way out the Pathfinder also dropped off enough starter to brew up Kadara’s first extremely shitty attempt at craft beer, and Dagher has never looked happier. “Seriously, can I have him when you’re done?”

Ark Leusinia docks with the Nexus. Reyes has limited information on the wheres or hows of its recovery, at least to start - but the Ark itself is in good repair, and what matters most for Kadara is that there are asari on board, waking up from stasis, who want to know about friends and lovers from the advance crew, people who ought to be meeting them on the Nexus - and what do you mean, exiled?

He doesn’t envy Tann at all, faced with even a handful of asari who will absolutely not care for his reasons, if if keeps them from the people they love. They don’t tend to do well with the younger species telling them ‘no.’

The angara are wary of another ark full of arrivals - but perhaps not as wary as they would be if it were any other species. If only the kett realized how much easier of a time they would have had, if they’d just bothered to be sexy. Apparently, the mix of angaran bioelectrics and asari biotics can turn into one hell of a fireworks show.

The Collective eases up a little on overt shows of force, on pushing their dominance. Reyes extends some resources towards building a proper bathhouse in the Port. All under Keema’s name, an overt gesture from the angara to ensure Sloane doesn’t dare move against it, one more improvement she has nothing to do with. The general lack of hygiene hadn’t been such an issue when the entire planet smelled like the inside of a krogan’s digestive tract, but with the water and the willpower they can at least attempt a little civilization. Maybe it looks like generosity, but mostly it means Reyes can stop smelling everyone else all the time.

Kadara doesn’t just have to be about crime. It can be about crime and mineral rights. Crime and hot springs.

“Look,” Nakamoto says, “just because I’ve got a Japanese name doesn’t mean I know anything about hot springs.”

“But you have thought about it.” Reyes says.

Nakamoto sighs. “There are at least three sites that might be worth a second opinion, if the angara are interested in branching out.”

“I mean, I’m still not sure anyone on Kadara has actually done anything illegal.” Reyes muses. “Is it even crime, if it happens on a planet with no working government or rule of-”

“Yes, it’s crime. It’s all definitely crime. You’re a criminal.” Nakamoto says. “Now stop talking or I’ll let it heal like this.”

SAM hadn’t been wrong, comparing Kadara to Omega, but that’s just the starting point. Reyes remembers where the real money was made - Illium, and every planet like it, lined up just at the edge of the Terminus, always open for business. So profitable that even the asari were willing to look the other way, to call nearly any damn thing commerce as long as the credits kept flowing - and where there was that kind of industry, the insider knowledge, all the secrets worth keeping wouldn’t be far behind.

The Nexus wasn’t the Citadel, and even if it might have been, the situation had changed once the Krogan and the exiles had abandoned ship, shifting the balance of power and Kadara much closer to Elaadan, the Scourge separating the Nexus from the easy routes it should have had to navigate the system.

Does Reyes want to resurrect the Shadow Broker, maybe? Let the Charlatan disappear, see if he can spread that name around and enlist the legend for his own purposes? A lot of people from the Milky Way wouldn’t be entirely surprised, if that particular enigma managed to jump the gap.

One more thing to keep in mind, as he waits to see what Ryder does next.

———————————

Gunfire at Charybdis Point. Mallox had been keeping quiet on a few details of his operation for a reason. A ‘pile of dead angara’ sort of reason, and maybe he could have saved himself, if he’d pled desperation and fear - but the angara had been squeezing him for profit as hard as he’d been squeezing his own, and it seems he’s done with negotiating. Mallox comes out guns blazing, and the Pathfinder responds in kind. It doesn’t last long. Reyes wonders if SAM is getting better, faster at reacting to situations going bad or if the AI had started so far ahead of the game it makes little difference.

Reyes still hasn’t seen Ryder in the flesh, not since that little revelation at the Port, less avoidance than distraction, the both of them working full-tilt toward amusingly similar ends - stability, prosperity. He often wonders if Efvra even considers them to be any different - the Initiative, the Collective, the Outcasts - just groups of outsiders to be treated with caution, and used against the kett whenever possible. The Pathfinder just proving more useful than the rest of them combined.

Of course Ryder’s asked about his angaran codename. Reyes implied that it was a sex thing - he wishes it was a sex thing, when the fact is that he really doesn’t shut up, even when he should, even when the angara aren’t buying half of what he’s selling and he’s very lucky that Keema finds him charming, that the cultural concept of ‘bullshit artist’ translates so well. Most of the angara are quite happy to let him lie on their behalf.

It doesn’t matter what he feels for Ryder - if he still feels anything, if it wasn’t a fluke. ‘In love’ is still manageable. ‘In love’ means that ‘out of love’ is just the next step, which will happen sooner rather than later, because he’s Reyes Vidal and no one has ever thought of him in any of the following terms - ‘constant,’ ‘true,’ ‘selfless,’ or ‘whatever the opposite of bastard is.’

The longest relationship of his life happened under a name he’s since forgotten, with a person he couldn’t now pick out of a medium-sized crowd. He’s not worried. The Pathfinder is a very shiny set of useful circumstances, and it’s no surprise that he’s paid more attention to that than usual. That’s all this is - appreciation, convenience and lust.

“You’re distracted.” Keema says. “Why are you distracted?”

Zia undercuts him on a deal, when Reyes isn’t paying attention. It isn’t the first time she’s done it, but this feels particularly… pointed. Designed to show him up, rather than a matter of real opportunity or need. It isn’t jealousy, at least not of the usual kind - more that Reyes got to the Pathfinder at all - a big, big score - and she can’t figure out how to take that from him. He wonders if she’ll get bored, give up, cut her losses and move on. He’d always liked her for being practical.

A call comes in at a little past three in the morning, Kadara time, because being a galaxy-spanning secret mastermind comes with the occasional inconvenience or opportunity and sometimes it’s because SAM is pinging the Collective satellite on Solminae and sifting through the surface data on Acermos. They’d panicked, pulled the plug fast, but it had made good use of its time.

The AI is voraciously curious, absorbing any and all data purely as a matter of course, and Reyes can’t help but wonder if the Nexus is at all aware of its full capabilities - if SAM has entirely shown them off yet. If even Ryder knows. The satellites aren’t tampered with, nothing seems to be getting back to the Initiative - the AI just wants them to know that it’s watching, that it’s noticed them there. Reyes doesn’t doubt that the Collective’s already shown up on some Nexus report, probably even before the Tempest arrived - it’s not that they have to be invisible, just the lesser threat. Reyes has always been quite good at not being the most pressing problem, and it seems that’s carried over to SAM’s artificial judgement as well.

The Pathfinder breaks the back of kett control over Voeld, and then deals a striking blow on Eos, and he and Reyes trade records on their personal belongings from the Milky Way, nominally redacted in Reyes’ case. It’s mostly the same, information so much easier to take than anything physical, and though each ark kept duplicate archives of each others’ data, there’s the back-up redundancy of the passengers’ data as well, overlapping files of personal meaning and cultural significance. Reyes can’t imagine how many thousands of copies of ‘Fleet and Flotilla’ followed them here.

The Pathfinder hasn’t brought anything else quite as… memorable as that tank top - and no, Ryder, Blasto 2: Son of Blasto is vastly superior to Blasto 5: Born to Blast, even with the musical number in the end credits. Ryder does, however, also have two copies of the same Endless Summer t-shirt - ‘just in case one wears out’ - and more movies about sports than Reyes thought there were movies about sports: the entire haigrophy of Warren Miller movies and his son’s and half a dozen turian and asari equivalents, including that drell thrillseeker who divebombs asteroid belts. The Pathfinder’s still holding out hope for his beach planet, that somewhere the Remnant might have bothered to manufacture the perfect wave. Maybe Voeld will provide, in a decade or two.

“He's practically a child.” Reyes sighs, after what is probably one too many questionable Cuba Libres - he knows Kadara doesn’t have cola, rum, lime juice or an appreciation for early twentieth-century human history - yet the taste is disturbingly spot-on. “I might as well ask him out by leaving a note in his locker.”

Umi doesn’t look up, busy sorting mixers or munitions. “You do realize who you're talking to.”

“Point taken.”

“I mean that I don’t care, but the asari thing is true too.” Umi says. “As long as someone’s paying your tab, go ahead and date the Archon.”

The Pathfinder’s headed back in their direction - minor trouble on Elaadan, some disagreement between the Initiative and the krogan - surprise surprise - and until things settle down into a steady state of mild antipathy, it would be better if Ryder were there in person.

I should be back on Kadara soon. He sends, later that day. Nyx has a delivery she needs to pick up.

I’ll bring it to you.

Reyes had been meaning to see him sooner than later. The Pathfinder is rarely where he thinks he’s going to be for long - blink twice and he’ll be back on the other side of Andromeda. Now is not the time to play hard-to-get.

I haven’t even told you what it is.

Reyes grins. Pathfinder, give me a little bit of credit.

————————————

It doesn’t take much to find and even less to intercept the shipment - there’s already been plenty of word on the Port that he’s trying to cozy his way into the Pathfinder’s good graces, to nail down a trade deal with Nyx - aiming optimistically high. The best cons always have a little truth at their core.

Reyes adds a few of the better flavors of dextro rations into the box of electronics components sent from ‘don’t ask’ on their way to ‘couldn’t tell you’ - and makes his way to where the Tempest is docked. Colt Dalton nods in greeting as he walks by - he’s not in the Collective, but a competently agreeable opportunist for all sides. It’ll be worth it to have men like him in the right places, holding few grudges against the Initiative as long as there’s a profit to be made.

Usually, if he wants to study a piece of advanced military tech, Reyes has to steal blueprints, or infer from press releases. Maybe salvage some scrap or sneak his way into someplace top secret and after hours, exchanging smooth talk or hefty bribes for a few stolen glimpses. Lieutenant Harper’s been the one keeping a careful watch over the Tempest during its time on Kadara, and as he approaches her gaze slides over him in a way that says she’s estimating his weight and how much biotic force it would take to hurl him like a shot-put. She’s Alliance, so at least she’d probably toss him toward the Port instead of the cliffs.

“Can I help you?” A politeness so brisk it makes Voeld look balmy. He’s kept his distance from most of the Tempest’s crew. Reyes wonders if the lieutenant even knows who he is. Maybe she does. Maybe that’s what the look is for.

“Hey.” Ryder interrupts, leaning through the door. “You’re here.”

Reyes had mostly convinced himself it was a trick of the light, whatever that business was with Ryder on the docks. Just one of those strange moments, there and gone again.

It’s not.

“I couldn’t miss an opportunity to see a ship like this up close.” Reyes says, and reaches out to run a hand against the hull. He can see the Lieutenant frowning at him from the corner of his eye.

The delivery is the flimsiest of pretenses, and they both know it - it’s the first time they’ve really met on purpose, without a job running somewhere in the background. Not just writing notes to each other as a distraction, chatting in the margins between more important things.

“You have a minute? I could… give you the tour?”

The Pathfinder’s smile is… shy, as if preparing for Reyes to decline, to pretend it doesn’t matter either way. But he’s proud of the Tempest - he wants to show it off, wants Reyes to be impressed - to share it with someone who will appreciate it. It’s ridiculous, really, no one should care what an exiled smuggler thinks of him or his ship. No one has ever cared this much about what Reyes thought of anything.

“I think I can spare the time.”

——————————

The ship is docked, secure, and no doubt SAM is monitoring from every nook and corner - there isn’t much need for the crew to be present. He figures the Pathfinder must have let it slip to someone, maybe Nyx, that he was expecting a visitor, and who it might be. All hands are on deck. Most of those hands would probably like to punch him.

The Tempest, of course, is a beautiful ship, all clean lines and understated abilities. The things he could get away with, if this ship were his. Reyes had studied the schematics over a year ago - there’d always been a pipe dream of waltzing away with it, if circumstances cooperated and the Uprising really blew things apart, but even at the worst of it they’d kept a tight lock on the ship, as if having it on hand might somehow force a Pathfinder to show up.

In their defense, it did work.

A shining testament to interstellar civilization, with that sterilized lack of competing scents that allows Reyes to notice that Ryder smells distractingly good, up close. It’s nothing more than basic Initiative aftershave, but a luxury out here and Reyes hasn’t smelled it since the Uprising, and is Ryder being fastidious or did he clean up just for this, to meet him? He’s out of armor - short sleeves, standard-issue casual and emblazoned with the Initiative’s logos, just in case a rogue public appearance happens to wander by.

Reyes rarely gives anything his full attention - it’s just the way he is, focus split in a dozen directions, looking for the opportunities and the pitfalls no one else has noticed. He’s not sentimental, doesn’t get distracted, and Reyes has always considered that a benefit. He always felt a little bit of pity, a professional disdain for anyone who didn’t know how to get their heart out of the way when there was a deal to be struck and a profit to be made.

Everything is quiet in him now, where the plans and the schemes and the general, low-level indifference ought to be - there’s just Scott Ryder, and the easy pleasure of being in his company.

He’s smarter than this. Reyes used to be much smarter than this, not that long ago

“Uh.” Ryder says, grimacing slightly, his gaze over Reyes’ shoulder. “Don’t freak out.”

It’s a good thing he’s preoccupied with a ridiculous personal crisis - it makes Reyes look cool and untouchable, so he doesn’t scream like an idiot when the Remnant Observer’s tendrils drape over his shoulder. He’s never seen one up close - not functioning at least. It twitches its side panels and beeps in a way that is neither overtly hostile or in any way comforting.

“Hey POC, did you make a new friend!?”

Reyes knows Ryder’s crew, he’d had all the profiles in hand long before they reached Kadara - some, like Nyx, in careful detail, and others less so, according to value and threat potential. The longer he’s here, the more Reyes guesses his reputation has preceded him as well - there’s no greeting that doesn’t come without the feeling that he’s being sized up, even Peebee’s cheerful grin as she retrieves her unnerving project carries a hint of hardness at the edges. A show of force, shared among the entire crew, a subtle warning that hangs in the air.

“This is Reyes. He’s given some us some good intel on Kadara - and he’s a pilot.” Ryder says. “I just want to show him around a little. That’s cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Kosta says, eyes narrowing slightly when Ryder looks away. “Cool.”

It is anything but cool. Liam Kosta used to be a police officer, and though his files said it didn’t last long, it looks like he’s kept at least a few of the instincts. Not that they’ll do him any good. Reyes is working the other part of his job now - making the Pathfinder happy - and if the rest of the crew wants to watch him do that, they’re quite welcome to.

It’s fun, to pretend he doesn’t notice, to be friendly and flirty and look through every bespoke nook and crevice of the ship and of course there’s the part of his mind that’s taking inventory - and yes, the medical bay is every bit as impressive as its doctor, with the finest of everything they could stock on board - and Reyes keeps track of everything he would steal, if he managed to hijack this ship and strip it down to the hull. He lets his hands brush over anything pocketable, just to give the Lieutenant something to frown about from the other side of the room.

Toying with the Tempest’s crew keeps his mind off less comfortable thoughts, all of them Ryder’s fault. It’s not the lust, that’s not the problem. It’s really no surprise at all that every fourth or fifth thought involves imagining how it would feel to press Ryder up against this wall or that alcove - that’s simple, that’s easy and he’s done it all before.

The problem is the rest, that even this, just being here with Scott is good in a way he’s not sure he’s felt before - this isn’t his world, but Reyes wants to stay. He wants Ryder, and he wants him here in this place - good and kind and open in a way that nothing is on Kadara, or his life before… and in the end, there’s nothing he can offer Scott but that life, and all the complications that come with it.

The angaran isn’t nearly so concerned by his visit, Jaal leaning around the corner of a door to glance at them, before returning to whatever project is more worthy of his attention No matter how much extra chaos the Initiative caused with their arrival, compared to a hundred years of genocidal war, they’ll always be the lesser threat.

The back of the ship opens up to the cargo bay, the engine room, and Gil Brodie, a man Reyes knows by reputation - a damn shame he didn’t have quite enough drive to get himself exiled, Reyes could have put him to work on Kadara. He’s a bit grumpy at first, but Reyes has the feeling it’s more about anyone crossing into his territory than the particulars. Once Reyes proves that he at least knows where the main ignition switch is, Brodie is more than pleased to talk some non-classified shop. Kallo chimes in from the bridge and then they’re off and running, a long and meandering conversation about the history of the ship, a debate over the value of minuscule engine adjustments that sounds like it’s been going on since five minutes before the Tempest launched, the rumor of races taking place across Scourge-strewn space, for those adrenaline junkies now unhappy with the prospects of slightly-less imminent death.

“Hey Ryder, can you come here for a minute?” It’s Vetra, calling from a room below them, and Scott promises he’ll be right back.

Reyes knows what’s coming next, the krogan leaning near the rail rather difficult to miss and there are stories about him, there are stories about those stories. Nakmor Drack’s been busting heads since around the time humanity started wondering if the Dark Ages had really been the best idea. Kallo is no longer on the comms and Brodie’s gone back into the engine room and there’s not much else to do but take a place at the krogan’s side, elbows against the rail. Drack is calm, maybe even bored, but still so intimidating it might as well have its own gravitational pull.

Reyes smiles. “I suppose this is where Nyx told you to threaten me.”

“She didn’t need to ask.” Drack says. “He’s a good kid. Scrawny little pyjak, but he did right by us.”

A few moments pass, quietly.

“So?” Reyes prompts. “Do I get to hear it?”

“You still need to?”

“Indulge me.”

Drack sighs. “I’m old. The consequences for eating you would be minimal.”

He’s not joking, and he’s probably not wrong either.

“The last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

Reyes is going to hurt Scott, that’s almost guaranteed, but not in a way that can’t be easily healed by his absence. Whatever the details, it’ll be a brief, moderately terrible time, and then life will go on. It’s good to know that the Pathfinder has a crew who will be there to get Scott back on his feet, to distract him, cheer him up and help him curse the day Reyes Vidal ever decided to come to Andromeda, or introduce himself at the bar, or bothered with being born.

Chapter Text

A polite man, or at least a sensible smuggler, would wait patiently for the Pathfinder to finish his meeting, and certainly wouldn’t dream of just wandering off on his own through what’s at least semi-classified space - but Scott doesn’t like him because he’s polite and Reyes is curious to see the rest of the ship, or at least how far Ryder’s crew will allow him to wander.

Which is how he finds himself at the door marked “Pathfinder’s Quarters,” one that opens for him, before Reyes can even decide if it’s worth trying to sneak inside. Does SAM intend it to be a reminder that he’s watching, or a playful gesture, or just a matter of saving time?

The Pathfinder’s room is impressive - or it’s meant to be, the vast expanse of spaces several larger than any of the other crew quarters, although Reyes can see only a sliver of the view outside the curving window around the stacks of boxes, crates of random materials. He recognizes a few with angaran writing on the sides, others marked as electrical or irrigation or other supplies for this planet or that - god, it reminds him of his youth, of navigating ships’ holds through the tightest spaces, every corridor lined and stacked with what might be useful, what could be traded or what had been abandoned by unknown hands, already scavenged and repurposed countless times over.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Vidal.”

Reyes moves forward carefully, the space between crates opening up a bit around Ryder’s messy bed, and he takes a few more moments than necessary to study the curve of the blankets, imagining Ryder sprawled out beneath them and ignoring the way his mind immediately swerves in more interesting directions.

The AI’s holographic projection shimmers at him from the corner of a desk, crowded in among a stack of datapads. Reyes wonders at the artifice of it, SAM’s projection on the desk when he’s already in Ryder’s head, an unnecessary redundancy. Purely for the benefit of the crew, to make the AI seem more like the systems they know, even here in the Pathfinder’s private quarters. Alec Ryder was very careful, wasn’t he, to always play the part? As for his son… well, here Reyes is, smiling to himself as he looks over the collection of ships’ models, and a small pair of beady eyes in the back corner of a transparent cage.

Except the enthusiastic clutter isn’t just window dressing. Ryder may be hiding the full extent of his abilities, his connection to SAM, but likely only out of caution, a measure of self-preservation and at least he has the good sense to be that careful. Kian’s already remarked on the ambitions of being a sugar daddy in a galaxy distinctly lacking in sugar - but if it’s protection Ryder needs, especially from the people he’s trying so hard to help, Reyes might be of some use to him in the future. It’s worth keeping in mind.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d worry you were trying to cut in on my business.” He says, picking up a piece of the kind of Remnant tech that would qualify as a major find in most places, although here it’s just one piece from a set of boxes equally laden with mysterious fragments of history.

“The Pathfinder determined that his quarters were excessive for his personal needs.” SAM says. “Opening the space for crew and general storage purposes allowed us to ensure an increased measure of safety for materials deemed particular fragile or valuable for transport.”

“Anything you’d recommend?”

“I assume you are referring to a potential gray market monetary value.” SAM says. “Unfortunately, the majority of these materials are related to various angaran historical and cultural studies across various planets. While their diplomatic impact may be significant, the resale price is negligible. Also, it seems unlikely you would be able to conceal a financially significant amount of goods given your current attire.”

“Was that a compliment or a challenge, SAM?”

“Oh hey, here you are.” Ryder says, stepping around the corner. “I, uh… sorry about the mess in here. It’s not usually on the tour.”

“I assumed SAM would keep an eye on me” Reyes says, with a charming grin he knows holds no apology. “I tend to find the most interesting things in places I’m not supposed to be.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Ryder says, and then suddenly brightens. “Wait a minute. Since you’re here…” He disappears for a moment, only to return with a gun in one hand. Reyes holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“So, I’ve stumbled into your trap at last.”

The Pathfinder laughs, before holding it out to Reyes grip-first. A Sidewinder, but tinkered with and improved on within an inch of its specs. The Pathfinder usually carries the standard Alliance pistol for his backup, or angaran, when he’s trying to make that extra gesture. This pistol is a little too flashy, a little too Exile to fit in with the Nexus party line - but Reyes is still surprised, when he tries to hand it back and Ryder refuses.

“It’s just something I was messing around with, and then I figured… you might find some use for it. Sell it, if nothing else. Probably worth a buck or two, somewhere on Kadara.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Reyes says, and even if it were a piece of junk he’d swap it for his own gun, a weapon of no particular importance. Especially with how proud and pleased Ryder looks when he does just that. Reyes poses a little. It would look better with a cape and a breeze. “So? Appropriately dashing?”

“Something like that.” Ryder says. “I just… I know what you do can be dangerous. It’s nice to think I might be able to help, a little, even if I’m not there.”

“I assume you’ve found our partnership to be beneficial then, Pathfinder?”

Reyes can feel it, the easy slide into the inevitable, this private little place inside the most important ship in the galaxy that just happens to look like a hoarder’s spare room and Ryder’s going to kiss him now, which is not perhaps the best move for either of them. Anything more than careful discretion will probably not go unnoticed but there’s still that bed somewhere in here, and at the moment Reyes feels very little reason to be the one to apply the brakes. SAM can lock the door. Villains don’t have to care about propriety.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind if you felt like staying alive.”

Reyes heart does that thing again, at Scott’s soft, fond smile as he leans in to close the distance between them.

“Pathfinder?”

All the timing of a terrible movie, and Ryder lets out a sigh that’s half-groan, taking a deliberate step back. “Yes, Suvi?”

“I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m recieving a call from the Nexus. It’s not encrypted, but they say it’s important.”

“It always is.” Ryder mutters under his breath, with an apologetic glance in his direction. “I’ll be right there.”

Reyes is more amused than anything, so it’s easy enough to smile back. Besides, he can afford to let the line play out - the Pathfinder’s definitely on the hook. Now to see if there’s any sort of insider news on the Nexus to be gained, Ryder not dissuading him from following as he makes his way to the top of the ship.

———————————

The bridge is fairly crowded on arrival, Cora, Liam and Vetra already gathered, probably here even before the call came in, pretending to monitor systems or consider repairs while discussing when Reyes planned on getting the hell off their ship. Ryder is oblivious to any tension, already back in Pathfinder mode, ready to answer the call of whoever screwed whatever up with his usual calm, professional determination.

“Audio only.” Suvi says. “Patching you through now.”

“This is the Pathfinder. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that there’s no ramen on this entire station. No broth, zero noodles. I’m not sure there’s any snacks that didn’t come with us out of cryo. I thought we had an agreement, Scott. I thought we had our priorities straight.”

Reyes doesn’t recognize the voice at first, and it’s clear none of the others do either. Scott… is frozen in place, completely ambushed by what takes only a few moments to become a hard and ugly sort of cry. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut, shoulders shaking, with a hand against his mouth and the other braced against the bridge. Cora looks shocked and Peebee’s come out of her escape pod just in time to be frozen in surprise. Reyes has a good idea of who that voice belongs to then, and it also answers the question of whether Ryder’s actually sat down and taken a breath since this whole adventure began.

“Pathfinder?” The voice turns warm, teasing and gentle. Reyes would guess that she’s smiling. “Little brother? You better not hang up on me.”

“Sorry, there’s a wee bit of interference.” Suvi says, buying a few seconds, and Ryder swallows hard with a nod of thanks, takes a deep breath and Reyes can see it, when he opens his eyes, watches his expression level out in a heartbeat and he’s absolutely certain that’s SAM taking over the heavy lifting, and what’s the likelihood that it’s anything like the first time? How many things has Ryder not allowed himself to feel, or let the AI mediate for him, just to get through it and be what the Initiative requires?

“Hey, Sara.” Scott says. “Finally decided to get out of bed?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to bother, but then I really wanted to take a closer look at those ‘golden worlds’ of ours, maybe figure out which one I wanted for my first vacation home.”

Scott makes a face. “Sara…”

“We don’t lie to each other, little brother. Not you and me. Not ever.”

“Sorry. It was…” Scott says. “Everything was kind of nuts, and with… with dad and everything, I wasn’t… I didn’t want to…” He smiles. “I figured I’d have all the planets fixed up by now anyway - so by the time you woke up it wouldn’t really be a lie.”

So that was it. Why the Pathfinder pushed as hard as he was able to get the Remnant systems in each planet online, not just critical to their survival but part of the deal he’d almost certainly made with himself, some bargain with the universe - if he fixed things, his sister would wake up. If he made things okay, she’d have to come back. The kind of irrational thing that’s obviously stupid and almost impossible not to believe.

“How’s it going out there anyway?” Sara says. “Everybody seems pretty impressed.”

“I’m not sure about that. Most of them are probably still pissed that I’m not dad.”

“Yeah, spoken like a person who never met him.” She sighs. “This is the Dadest of all Dad plans. The sheer apex of Dad planningness. It’s that fucking camping trip all over again, you know - and we were still stupid enough to think he’d actually stick around to deal with it.”

Scott Ryder, the Initiative’s mouthpiece, the good son in mourning who never overlooks an opportunity to reflect on the nobility of his father and his vision lets out a bitter little laugh, his smile not at all a nice one and Reyes takes note of the look of surprise on Cora’s face, on more than a few faces, before Scott quickly reins it in.

“I’m on the bridge of the Tempest here, Sara, with some of my crew. Everyone’s happy to hear you’re back on your feet.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sara says, slightly wry, aware of that less-than-subtle nudge away from any more talk of Alec Ryder. “I’m glad to meet you all, and I promise that if you help me mutiny against my brother, I’ll double your cut of whatever he’s offering. I also bribe.”

“Oh.” Vetra says, mandibles flexing. “I like her. What kind of percentage are we talking here?”

Scott grins. "You know, sis, a lot of people in comas end up with brain damage afterward, and they don’t even know it. It’s the damnedest thing.”

“Just you wait. When I get things sorted, you’re going to be in a world of hurt. I packed blackmail for days.”

It’s fun to watch Scott like this. Reyes barely had any family, let alone siblings, and the Pala brothers didn’t tend to bicker much.

The Pathfinder scoffs. “Six-hundred years across the known universe, and you think anyone cares? You’re bluffing. You’ve got nothing.”

“Mm.” Sara says. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe it’s the Grissom Academy fall semester undergrad performance of ‘Damn Yankees.’”

Scott’s jaw drops. Reyes instantly has a reason to put himself in Sara Ryder’s good graces.

“Oh look, now who could that be in the breakout role?”

“Sara, you didn’t…”

His sister’s voice is cheerful and merciless. “Bidding starts at ten-thousand credits or five unopened boxes of those cookies in the shape of elcor.”

“Sold.” Vetra says. “I can get you a case, easy.”

The door opens behind them as Jaal arrives, and with Drack standing in the doorway it’s more or less a full house.

“SAM informed me that Ryder’s sister was awake.” He says, stepping up next to Reyes. “What are we talking about?”

“Negotiating with her for the Pathfinder’s remaining dignity.” Reyes says.

“Ah,” Jaal says, nodding, “I see there are more customs we share.”

“Threaten me,” Scott is saying, wagging a less-than-threatening finger at the empty air, “and I won’t tell you about the sky whales we found. Or the… whale whales.”

“Yevara.” Jaal corrects him.

“Yeah, yeah, exactly. Hey Sara, I want you to meet Jaal Ama Darav. Our emissary from the angara on Aya.”

Real pride there, in his voice. Real excitement for what was always supposed to be a mission of exploration, discovery and diplomacy. Jaal and Sara exchange cursory greetings before Scott quickly steps in, as the conversation begins to tilt in the direction of explaining the finer points of musical theatre.

“If you want to play hardball, sis, you can just forget about getting your ‘Welcome to Andromeda’ present.”

“Is it snacks?”

Scott crosses his arms, smug and satisfied. A good look on him.

“A terabyte of angaran history and a shotgun.”

“A modified kett weapon.” Jaal says. “From what Ryder has told me about your preferred fighting style, I think it will suit you well. You may wish for some help scrubbing your armor off afterward, though. The aftermath can be quite… chunky.”

The suggestion of heavy munitions seems to ward off the threat of choreographed dance numbers, for the moment.

“So Jaal, what do you think of humanity so far? Anything catching your eye? Anyone?”

“Oh god, Sara…” Scott mutters, but he looks happier than Reyes has ever seen him, probably the happiest he’s been since they arrived. It’s beautiful when it shouldn’t be, and when Reyes shouldn’t already know how this happiness looks different from when the Pathfinder’s tired but successful, or when he’s discovered something new or interesting, or when the Nexus calls in with something absurd and it’s either be amused or fight the urge to run for the airlocks.

A series of quiet thuds, on the other end of the line, and Sara’s voice raised to someone else - “It’s occupied!”

Scott frowns.

“Sara, they… know you’re calling me, right? You didn’t just wake up, sneak out and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom oh wait no, you’re my sister, that’s exactly what you did.”

Sara makes a dismissive sound. “Don’t get crabby. At least we know I can stand up. Mostly.”

“SAM, give Dr. Carlyle Sara’s location, and unlock the door.”

“Oh, so is this how it’s going to be, Pathfinder?” Sara says.

“Yeah, this is how it’s going to be.” Scott says. “I need you rested and fighting fit so I can make all this your problem as soon as possible.”

“You know I’m still not convinced you didn’t break the galaxy all on your own.” Sara says. “Just try to save some of the adventure for me, smart cat.”

“We’ll swing by the Nexus as soon as we can, dumb cat.” Ryder smiles again, softer this time. “Brave cat.”

“Urgh. Hanging up now.” Sara says, and does.

In the quiet that follows, the Pathfinder lets out a long breath, looking out the window, a mist over much of Kadara at the moment, bits of cliff and what they generously refer to as trees poking out here and there.

“Everything else went wrong… so I figured if there was anything left to… that it would be her.” He says, with a slight grimace. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to lose my cool.”

“You kidding?” Liam says, bouncing a fist against his shoulder. “Congratulations, man! Two Ryders? I can’t wait to see what damage we can do to the kett with that.”

“Smart… cat?” Jaal says, no doubt calling up a selection of small, furry animals on his visor as he speaks.

“Yeah, it’s uh… it’s kind of an inside thing with Sara and me.” Scott says. “We saw this video once, of a bunch of lions - um, huge cats - out on the plains, and this little camera bot that rolled up to study them. All the lions just pounced on it immediately - except this one way in the back, he just went the other way. Kept his distance while all the other ones figured it out.” Scott points to himself. “Smart cat. Or… nervous cat, I guess. The idiot who doesn’t know he’s a lion. Sara’d be the first one to pounce.”

Reyes guesses the nicknames were her idea, framing her brother’s hesitance as a matter of tactical advantage instead of cowardice, and expecting him to do the same. Sara Ryder is definitely the Pathfinder’s biggest weakness, the best way to destablize him is through her - and Reyes calmly and unceremoniously puts a bullet in that thought. The kind of thing most of his associates wouldn’t thank him for if they knew, maybe even Keema - but right then and there, Reyes realizes there’s a limit when it comes to Scott, to the kind of preparations and contingency plans he’s willing to line up to counter him. Just how far he’s willing to go to save himself, if it ever comes to that.

He’s never put anything above his own ambitions, never imagined it would be an option. Funny, how Reyes studies the thought from all angles - his life matters more than yours - and nothing in him rises to protest.

“Shit,” Ryder looks at him, with an apologetic smile, “I didn’t even get a chance to introduce you.”

“Always the next time, Pathfinder.”

Definitely the next time, as something pings on the Pathfinder’s omnitool and a moment later Reyes feels his own give off a silent vibration. He doesn’t dare look, but what’s the the likelihood it isn’t two sides of the same problem, the Pathfinder being notified of some theft or fight or issue out in the badlands while the Collective informs the Charlatan that the Initiative is likely on its way.

Ryder shakes his head. “Never a dull day on Kadara. It looks like there’s something we might need to look into, outside the port.”

“I should get back to business, myself.” Reyes agrees. “The Badlands are almost hospitable these days. Keep up like you have, and they’ll need to change the name.”

“Maybe after one entire trip without something trying to eat me.” Ryder says. “I don’t suppose you… need a ride anywhere?”

What a terrible idea, for so many reasons. At least half of Ryder’s crew is trying to pretend they don’t think so, too.

Reyes smiles. “As long as it won’t be any trouble.”

Chapter Text

- Sidestory : 2185 -

The people who live planetside say it’s the air. Citadel air isn’t as good, isn’t quite the same - even in the Presidium. It isn’t as fresh or as clean or as right, somehow, as what they have back on whichever planet they come from. Certainly, the Citadel is useful, necessary even - but most of the people who live somewhere with dirt and tides are happy to visit but glad not to stay.

‘Real’ spacers complain just as much, if in the other direction. The Citadel isn’t ‘really’ a ship, you’re not ‘really’ out there in the black. It’s all a softer, more civilized version of the galaxy. At best, a decent collection of useful things worth adding to the route now and then for a supply run. At worst, a theme park.

Scott just thinks of it as home. Even now. Even if he doesn’t really have one of those anymore.

He sighs, trying to shake off the melancholy. It’s better to just distract himself with all the familiar sights and sounds - and if there’s a difference between the air here, or Arcturus, or even Earth, Scott can’t tell. It’s just the Citadel, bright and busy and welcoming, over a dozen species living an infinite number of stories in something like peace, even now.

‘Day’ or ‘night,’ it’s never quiet here. Scott always loved it, when mom would be lost in a project and not come up for air until nearly midnight, and they’d end up with another late-night meal in whatever happened to be open, Scott and Sara occasionally waving back to new arrivals who hadn’t ever seen a human child before.

Few signs now that there had ever been a Geth attack - or whatever it was, Alec Ryder’s disdainful look when the ‘official story’ went out said everything Scott needed to hear about the truth. How he managed to grow up on the Citadel, be in the Alliance with a father who was N7 and never even cross paths with Commander Shepard was one for the record books. Now she’s gone, and even if she wasn’t he soon would be, a journey as final as any death.

Maybe you wanna lighten up there, Scott? You’re just getting started.

His favorite noodle restaurant looks nearly the same as he remembers, right down to the scuff marks on what had been ‘their’ table. A few shinier appliances behind the counter, and he doesn’t recognize whoever’s on shift but that’s fine, Scott doesn’t quite have it in him to scrape up a smile as he orders the first of what will probably be a few beers of the evening, and something to start soaking it up with.

It’s been a relatively short trip, but one of the longer weeks of his life, and even looking over the rest of the menu takes an absurd amount of effort He doesn’t glance up, when the bag drops at the seat next to him, or when someone sits down, reaching over to help themselves to the last of his appetizer.

“So,” he says, “how long do you think we could make it, if we ran?”

Sara looks rumpled and tired and annoyed, one too many transfers to bring her back from the site on the edge of nowhere that she’d been determined not to leave until the very last moment. She shrugs.

“I know a guy who knows a Salarian who knows a volus who knows a guy? At least Dad would have to go dumpster diving for us on the ass end of the Terminus.”

God, it’s so tempting to try. Just to make him work for it. Remind him that the universe isn’t always waiting to line up at his request.

It’s been a constant for years now, this pre-meeting sibling strategy session. So many meals over so many tables for the purpose of taking stock and bitching to get it out of their systems, before knuckling down to figure out how to navigate the terrain of being a family for a few hours - or god help them, a weekend. Before, it was mostly the strategy of maintaining polite conversation over dinner, but now…

“Mom’s gone, you know. We don’t actually have to keep pretending we like him.”

“Yeah, well…” Scott doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Sara knows the score as well as he does, being drafted back in to Team Ryder. Mr. Space Hero Legend calling all the shots and what was that? You wanted to live your own life? No, sorry, that was never part of the deal.

Scott could fake it a lot easier when he was younger, when it seemed so important, like it might get him something or just to keep the peace - smile, stand there for the photos, answer the questions - “ I want to be an N7 just like my dad”. After mom… well, they hadn’t really talked after mom, had they? Dad hadn’t ever needed anything from them, so why would he call - and so it had finally been time to go out, figure out how to live his own life. Break free from the event horizon that was Alec Ryder.

One meeting, one phone call was all it took to end all of that, and now here he is.

“Just tell me it wasn’t a dishonorable discharge.” Sara says.

“Mine or his?” A jab of outrage that already feels dull and old - an anger that knows there’s no point bothering, because it’s impossible to make Alec Ryder give a shit about anything he doesn’t already give a shit about, and that ship has definitely sailed. Hell, it’s it’s probably halfway to Andromeda by now. “It was general. They were as sympathetic as they could be, but given the shit dad’s been up to…”

He could have called first. Dad could have warned them it was coming. He knew, he absolutely knew.

Sara’s brows knit, concern and sympathy and a whole lifetime of being right there with him, for this. “Ah, Scott…”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” He shakes his head, waves it off. “It’s not like it really matters either way, right? Nobody’s going to care where we’re going.”

Team Ryder strikes again, and no way out now, not when Dad’s the heroic Pathfinder, not when they’ll be a source of inspiration in an unknown galaxy. God forbid it put a ding in morale, or endanger the mission. He’d think about hating his father more, if Scott thought that any of it was actually intentional, that if he bothered yelling it would get him something other than that slight frown, the look that said that he was waiting for their mother to come explain what the problem was, or more likely just fix it herself.

Scott thought he’d gotten over all that, that he was okay with it because it was over - and he had been, right up until he’d been called into the CO’s office.

“Was it bad for you?”

“Oh, of course not.” Sara says, stabbing at her noodles with vigor. “It wasn’t like I’d just made significant progress on a contested dig site and managed to secure funding for the next year-and-a-half or anything.”

“Damn, I’m sorry, Sara.”

“It’s….” She sighs, heavily. “It could have been worse. Thankfully, they’re mostly all Asari, so when we hit the other side I can at least have them catch me up on how it all went.”

It keeps throwing Scott, to look around and realize he’s seeing a world that’s already gone. Nearly everyone he can see might as well be a ghost. Once he’s in that pod and they’re shipped off all these people and their children and their children's children will be permanently lost to time. He’s going to have a last look at the Citadel. He already had a last look at Arcturus, watched the last baseball game of the last season he’ll ever see. The final album he might ever hear, from all his favorite bands - it’s something more than fear running through him, a feeling so cold and absolute that Scott can’t believe his hands aren’t shaking.

“Look at the bright side.” Sara says, raising her beer. “We’re Dad’s employees now, and he always gets along great with them.”

As close as they’re going to get to anything worth toasting over, and fortunately the pan-fried noodles finally show up.

“Please tell me we’re bringing backups for the backups of people who can make this food.” Sara says, pausing just long enough between shoveling down noodles to finish her beer and order another round.

Scott nods. “I’ve downloaded every cookbook ever written up until last week, just in case. God as my witness, we will be eating Deep-Fried Banana and Toasted Bacon Fluffernutters underneath foreign stars.”

It makes Sara laugh. “Scott, I refuse to start off in Andromeda with a war crime.”

It doesn’t take long to scarf down the bowl, and Scott turns away from the table for a better view of Zakera Ward, watching the ghosts pass by. A group of Quarians all clustered around a schematic, offering opinions all at once. Asari scattered everywhere, some walking with purpose and others strolling along, taking in the noodle restaurant and everyone in it as another exciting memory for the scrapbook.

A large group of turians pass by, louder than they usually are, most of them male and probably on shore leave and aimed straight toward Chora’s Den. The turian attitude of unruffled dignity, order and duty is about half truth and half the Hierarchy talking a lot about dignity, order and duty. Most of those codes and strictures will bend pretty far under the right pressure, Scott knows, especially when no one’s watching.

“If you’ve got anybody you’re waiting on, I can keep myself occupied.”

Sara already knows the answer to that - it’s just the preamble to sympathy. Scott tries to ignore the way his throat tightens, that his eyes get hot.

“He didn’t… we were never… it was never gonna…” He takes a long pull off his beer. “He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even send a note.”

It had always been too much to ask, an open gesture like that, even if they’d never see each other again. Scott knew it right from the start, but they’d been good together when they were together, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have experience knowing how much he could ask for, and when, that it was as much a secret as a relationship - and he always kept it out of his subharmonics, didn’t he? The other turians in the unit had mentioned that once or twice, just in case the stupid human hadn’t noticed. Nothing in his voice to suggest Scott was anything special at all.

It was stupid, it had always been stupid but god, Scott had loved him anyway. Loves him. The thought of going to sleep, and waking up in a universe where he’s already six-hundred years gone…

“If I left right now, I could jump through the relay, beat his ass inside-out and still make it back in time for launch.” Sara says. “You can time me.”

Scott huffs, nearly a laugh. “It’s not worth the effort. One more thing that won’t matter. Did you… there wasn’t anybody you’re leaving behind?”

“Nah.” Sara says. “You know I’ve never been good at that. The oldest member of our group wasn’t even three-hundred. Commitments weren’t really a thing.”

Scott’s finally starting to feel it, as he drains the bottle, the alcohol pushing a little welcome distance between him and the dread and the anger. Quieting that stupid impulse that has him trying to memorize every beam and archway, to imprint in his deepest memories the way the Citadel sounds and smells and feels and he’s been taking stupid videos the entire trip back, everything from his Arcturus quarters to the ride out from the relay, every pointless moment suddenly precious and fleeting.

Sara sighs. “It’s stupid, but… do you feel like we’re leaving mom behind?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

Which is silly, because if she were still alive she’d be right there at the dock - excited to board, ready for adventure. Encouraging them to reach for it, to see the beauty past the fear. At least, he hopes so. If anything ever felt sure, it certainly doesn’t now.

“You know… you don’t have to do this, Sara.” Scott says.  “The Asari can’t possibly give much of a shit about what happened with Dad. You could still have a future here.”

“You’d think I’d ditch you? God, that would be such a dad move.” Sara takes another drink. “I wonder if he’s thought of that yet. I’m calling it now - if we wake up in Andromeda and Dad’s not there? I will not be surprised.”

“It’s not… you wouldn’t be ditching me.” Scott says. “Sara, this is your life. I’m not gonna be pissed if you stayed. It’s a dad move to drag you along, like you don’t have a choice.”

The idea of going through this without her is more horrifying than all the rest of it - she’s his anchor, they’ve always had each other and that’s made the worst of everything still bearable - but that’s not a good enough reason, not if she’d rather stay.

“… and what then, Scott?  Wave goodbye and know that I'm never going to see you again, that I'll be dead before you ever wake up?  I’ll have to think about you out there somewhere in space, every day for the rest of my life?” Sara shakes her head angrily. “Nope. No way. God knows what kind of a mess you’d make out there without me.”

His omnitool beeps. Oh, look at that. His father’s lieutenant, and she caught an early shuttle, and would he like to meet up to discuss preparations, meet face-to-face and get a head start on this this wonderful opportunity and maybe share his top five favorite times his father was the most amazing person to ever live?

Scott tries not to think the worst of them, to drag his father’s acolytes out from under that vast shadow. It’s not their fault, that they’re impressed with the no-nonsense N7 war hero, with the long list of battles and rescues and victories. His father looks perfect on paper, works perfect in the field - scientist and soldier both. All the things they want at the start, he can give them without hesitation.

It takes a long time for the disillusionment to set in. It feels practically unpatriotic to even think of it, the slow but unavoidable realization that all interactions with Alec Ryder only move in one direction, that there’s no validation waiting on the other side of the hard work and the obstacle course. The realization that, yeah, Scott and Sara were always ready to welcome them to the club, and here’s the bin for any leftover hero worship and there’s the exit. Nice to meet you and good luck.

“This year’s model, huh?” Sara says, leaning over so far she has to employ a bit of biotic power to keep her seat. Her control’s always been impressive, even less than sober. “Have you met her yet?”

“Harper.” Scott says. “I think her name is Harper.”

“I’ll admit, dragging her six-hundred years from all the other job opportunities? Dad might just keep this one around.” Sara says, and taps the button to shut off his omnitool. “Godspeed, Ms. Harper, but we’ll be skipping the extra credit for tonight.”

“Do you think he would have just knocked us out and shoved us in the sleep pods?”

“Do you really have to ask me that question?

“Dad could have called in some favors.” Scott says. He’s thought about it, ever since that simple, sober meeting back on Arcturus, a whole panel of the same shaking heads - A shame it turned out this way, Ryder. You’ll be a credit to the Initiative - and now there’s enough distance between him and having to feel it, that he can say so. “He could have salvaged things, at least for us.” Instead of forcing them to come along, giving them no other choice. “Do you think he considered it? Even for a moment?”

Sara doesn’t answer.

“You scared, Sara?”

Her hand closes over his. “Fucking terrified.” She still grins, though. “But it’s you and me, right? This is what what we do. This, and the Citadel pub crawl.”

How many drinks will it take to stop getting weepy and nostalgic for even the grottiest corners of Zakera Ward, or the bars that think authentic human beverages either mean beer-flavored water or paint thinner? An interesting question, worthy of intense and dedicated study.

“Dad’ll be pissed if we show up wasted.” Scott says.

“Yeah.” Sara says, standing up. “And we’re gonna be late, too.”

Chapter Text

The difference between being a small-time thug, interchangeable with a thousand others, and being a man of true ambition lies in how much Reyes is willing to admit he can’t control, how comfortable he is scattering projects large and small across Andromeda, like seeds, and seeing which might bear fruit. It’s a calculation of risk, reward and humility, to know when to push forward and when to cut his losses, even at a dent to his pride.

Keema says it’s also about how much he talks about how brilliant he is, but Reyes pretends not to hear.

The Collective aren’t the only ones looking toward the stars - but the Outcasts have a lovely habit of revealing their bases and secret mining operations by blowing themselves up. He shouldn’t be so smug about it - they’re all dealing with patchwork equipment, pieced-together solutions that can wrong with no warning. Reyes shouldn’t be smug - occasionally he even succeeds.

He stretches his resources out as far as they’ll go, keeps a light touch on people like Meriwether, who aren’t playing ball when they think he’s not looking. Sometimes it’s useful to have an ignorant turncoat, one who is so certain that the Charlatan will strike the moment he knows he’s deceived. A little more risky, perhaps, when he notices Nyx’s name popping up here and there in Kadara, far more prominently than she’d usually be comfortable with and… oh, trying to move even more of the Exiled back home, and using Nexus resources to do it?

Reyes focuses his attention then, listens in long enough to feel a bit of amused sympathy - it’s hard enough being a smuggler, let alone one with a little sister determined to do good.

He hardly has a bleeding heart, but idealistic young marks - ahem - ‘civil servants’ - can be a useful tool if properly applied. Reyes might even consider saving little Sid from her own heroics, except the Pathfinder is already a resource in Nyx’s pocket. Ryder will step in when things inevitably come to a head, and so Reyes keeps an ear to the ground and lets it ride.

“Vidal.” He’s heard enough people say his name that way, over the years, to know what’s coming. “We’ve been looking for you.”

His eyes and his appetite stretch to the very edges of Andromeda, with his feet still firmly on Kadara - and Reyes Vidal the smuggler has been doing work for the Collective, for the Outcasts, for anyone who can pay. He’s had a string of decent successes recently - maybe someone to start keeping an eye on.

So it’s time to do what he usually does, and get beaten up in public.

No one in Draulir will admit to it, but it’s a semi-competitive slot to fill. It seems Lynx is the lucky one this time, appearing at the head of the alley, with a few Collective underlings behind her who don’t know him from the next unlucky smuggler.

“We have some… concerns we’d like to bring to your attention.”

He smiles, his best charming grin, maybe just a slight touch of desperation at the edges. No one’s around, but that doesn’t mean no one’s watching. “If this is about the last shipment, I told your men there were some unexpected-”

It’s mostly theatre. Lynx is good enough to pull her punches, except when it helps to leave a bruise or two that everyone can see, to know that Reyes Vidal has been reminded of his place. Her biotics help soften the landing even as she tosses him around the alley like a piece of scrap.

He usually doesn’t look to Asari to keep his secrets - too much of a risk that they’ll get bored, realize they could stop working for a human and just take over the whole business themselves. Andromeda and the Uprising were a somewhat… special set of circumstances, and he’s been lucky so far that Lynx, in the middle of her maiden years, thinks this whole ‘secret mastermind’ idea is adorable. A story to tell her children some day, when Reyes and whatever he’s going to do are all centuries in the past. Who knows, maybe he’ll leave it all to her.

“You don’t have to…” Reyes says, Lynx with a hand in his collar and dragging him towards an open container, one of her unknowing subordinates laughing meanly behind her. “There must be a civilized way we can work this out.”

“Let me know when you think of one.” She says, throwing him inside, using her biotics to slam the doors behind her. A single bulb on the stand illuminates the narrow space - stains on the floor suggest it’s probably a well-used spot for this kind of discussion, although whoever was here before probably didn’t get off as easily as Vidal does, dusting himself off as he gets to his feet, Lynx with a smile as she slams one fist against the metal wall, the entire container rattling.

“The Charlatan asked me to track Knight up into the mountains.” Lynx says, brings up an image on her omnitool, a prefab construction little different than any of the rest. “The Firefighters have quite the setup - invisible to every scan we’ve got. If she hadn’t been coming in from off-planet, we might never have found them at all.”

Lies inside of lies - it’s easier to keep the Charlatan permanently in the third person, even when everyone involved knows better. A risk to employ even the small inner circle that Reyes maintains, but extremely useful to keep everyone guessing, for the Charlatan to be everywhere and nowhere and intimately familiar with the customs and culture of whoever they’re trying to get one over on.

“So, Ryder let her go.” Reyes doesn’t know the whole story yet, just a report from the Nexus and the details of Dr. Nigh, her connections to Cerberus, the whispers of a tech-savvy group operating from the Badlands - activists, and since they weren’t working for Sloane, Reyes hadn’t had the time or the resources to dig further, until now.

Lynx punches the wall again, and Reyes barks out a curse, kicks over a few empty boxes that clatter to the ground.

“You think she had some leverage? Threatened to make a move against the Pathfinder AI?”

As if Scott would hesitate, weighing the continued security of the Initiative against his own interests, or even his own safety. The goals of the Firefighters seem incredibly foolish given the reality of their situation - SAM is one of the only things in Andromeda trying to keep them alive - but this is why Reyes has never had much use for ideologies.

“The Pathfinder borrowed the bench at the docks, the last time he was in port. He was making something.”

“A medical device.” Lynx says. “It did seems strange, not to do it in his own medbay. Extremely specialized, we’re not quite sure for what…”

“Katherine Nigh has a son.” The records for all the ‘Firefighters’ had been scrubbed from the Nexus servers, of course, but it had been a rush job in the chaos of the Uprising and all that followed. Just another piece of mangled data to be noticed and recompiled, slotted into place out of sheer curiosity. One more seed that didn’t seem to bear any interesting fruit - until now. “A son with a complicated medical history.”

The Pathfinder is no doctor - it must have been SAM running the diagnostics, coming up with solutions. Oh, the irony. Knight must have threatened him, must have brought him to Kadara in order to threaten him - but of course all Scott had seen was an injured child, someone he could help. It doesn’t take much, to conjure that image of him, worried but determined to do the right thing. It’s easy these days, to imagine him in all kinds of ways - on board the Tempest, fitting another box into his already overcrowded quarters. On the bridge, laughing with his sister. Smiling at Reyes - a secret, private smile.

I wouldn’t mind if you felt like staying alive.

“You really think he’s going to stand back, when the time comes?” Lynx says.

The Pathfinder will be off-planet when the time comes, either because he’s a busy man in a busier universe, or because the Charlatan will arrange for a necessary distraction. By the time he returns to Kadara, the dust will have settled, the Collective will be firmly entrenched and the Initiative will have their base with open arms. The Nexus won’t care which pile of exiles is in charge, as long as they get what they want, and it will be far less of a moral quandary for the Pathfinder than anything to do with the Asari Pathfinder. Reyes will make this easy for him, because it’s the smartest move - because Scott deserves it.

“I think you should punch me. At least twice.” Reyes says. “And maybe find an opportunity to finally say hello to our neighbors.”

Lynx punches him. At least twice, and anyone who didn’t know better would think her smile was cruel and not amused, even mischievous. Delighted at the rare opportunity to know something he doesn’t.

“What do you think the Charlatan had to say about Advent?”

Reyes blinks.

“… Advent?”

—————————

Advent. The other miracle city on Eos. One that shouldn’t exist, that didn’t exist until the Pathfinder had apparently tripped over them, the news dispatched to Draulir from the Nexus. An unexpected challenge for Prodromos, a potential rival - and the Pathfinder could have easily forced them back into the fold, ended any threat before it could start, but he hadn’t… even with their leader wearing rather distinctive colors. Surely, as faded and dinged as they were, the Collective insignias hadn’t been too subtle for SAM’s attention.

Whatever the reason, he’d let them have their independence. So maybe Scott Ryder also knows a little, about the potential benefits of not always being in control.

Reyes certainly never intended any competition with the Nexus on Eos - he’d had a few people in the area, yes, keeping track of the Initiative and their movements, but they’d disappeared in one of the many moments of chaos prior to the Pathfinder’s arrival, and he’d written them all off as dead, either on the irradiated husk of a planet or orbiting it in a few lingering fragments.

Oh, it’s fun to be wrong. Maybe less fun, if this particular group has chosen to forgo their allegiances entirely - but they’d activated the transmitter he’d dropped to them, and that’s at least worth following up on.

“So,” Reyes says, “it seems congratulations are in order, ‘Scout?’’

The connection’s fuzzy, but he can still see the other man grimace.

“I was nervous, okay? You try introducing yourself when the Pathfinder’s on your doorstep with a krogan in tow.”

Reyes smiles. He likes to think he takes care, when choosing which agents are dispatched to the furthest corners. People who are sturdy and capable and loyal enough not to turn on him the instant they’re out of sight. Already, this is going better than his lowest expectations. “You could have checked in. We wouldn’t have abandoned you, if there were any signs of life.”

Not quite heroic measures, but It’s not good business to be completely cavalier with the lives of allies, if he wants them to remain allies.

The man sighs. He looks worn, but healthy enough. Ryder wouldn’t have left them, if they hadn’t had adequate supplies. “The Kett chased us to ground, and we skipped through some bad radiation when we hit atmo - it fried damn near everything. It was sheer luck we made it down, let alone found somewhere to shore up. The last that we knew, things weren’t doing any better on any other planet, Kadara included. No friendlies in easy range, and the Kett were crawling all over. Didn’t seem much point in calling for help.”

Amazing, really, how fast things have turned themselves around. From what Reyes understands, after the Pathfinder’s last successful strike against the Kett bases on Eos, their presence in the entire system is barely a whisper of what it had been. New aliens with new guns and new problems probably weren’t what the Angara were hoping for - of all possible solutions - but it’s still given them some breathing room, an opportunity to rally. The Charlatan’s heard rumors, snatches of information that suggest that even the lockstep Kett are considering the benefits of dissension in the ranks, possibly even a strategic withdrawal, now that victory no longer seems so certain.

“So what do you think of the Pathfinder?”

“Well, he didn’t drag us off to a Nexus cell, so that’s something. Hell, he actually told us to call him, if we needed help.” Reyes doesn’t mean to smile but there it is - fond, too fond, and this is why the video feed only works the one way. “Now that the radiation’s dropping, we can get moving again, fix up the ship, return to Kadara and-”

“What, and rid your city of its founding fathers?” Reyes says. “Why would you do that? The Pathfinder’s going to be keeping an eye on you, Mr. Mayor, so you’d better not disappoint. The Charlatan will be expecting your report, on how you’re going to expand Advent’s relationship with Prodromos. We can work out the logistics of supply runs in the meantime.”

“M-mayor?” The man splutters. “But there isn’t… Advent’s not even a… I was bluffing! I couldn’t think of an actual excuse that would keep him… god, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

Reyes never intended to compete for Eos, to establish a foothold, but if Ryder’s just going to hand him the opportunity…

“Take care, ‘Scout’. We’ll be in touch.”

He wonders if Prodromos has gotten around to harvesting all that tech the Kett left behind. Reyes flips to an empty screen on his omnitool, starts taking notes, all the things the Collective might accomplish with a foothold in the Pythias system.

“I’m never living this down, am I?”

“We have asari here so… no.”

—————————————————

The Pathfinder has his patterns and routines - short letters spaced about seven or eight hours apart, Scott occasionally writing to him in the few minutes after he wakes up, or just as he’s winding down for the night. Nothing of vital intelligence - oblique mentions of trouble that Reyes often already knows about, general status reports on the Nexus and his sister - some lingering complications with the cryonics, nothing to worry about except what a bed-bound biotic can get up to when they’re bored. Scott sounds so happy, Reyes hadn’t realized just how worried the Pathfinder had been until now.

The last message is only a picture of Kadara at a distance, a crescent of jade and beetle green against the dark, prettier than it has any business looking. Reyes wonders if it was an oblique way of saying he was planet-bound - but Scott never shows, suddenly radio silent for one day and then two - which means he’s either unexpectedly busy or doing something classified or some combination of the two.

Of course there’s no real way to track him, nothing for Reyes to do but file all the plans labeled ‘Pathfinder’ away and busy himself with what’s actually supposed to be important - that little business of taking over a planet - and not checking his messages every few hours. Whatever Ryder’s schedule is, it won’t be matching up to Kadara’s rotation anyway, but the days pass without any word. The Pathfinder’s out there in the black - it would be silent like this, if he’d been captured. If he were dead. SAM’s permanent home is the Nexus, and Reyes wonders if he’s important enough that the AI would send him an advance warning, would tell him how it had happened - or if the first he’ll know is seeing Ryder’s sister, the new human Pathfinder, holding back tears as she delivers the news.

Reyes hates not knowing things.

The Outcasts aren’t helping to distract him at the moment - the lull of the eye of the storm, Sloane pretending everything’s business as usual while the Collective continue to make quiet inroads, like roots through the stones, or the vines that perpetually threaten to pull the Port apart at the seams. It could be that if they simply bide their time, the Nexus itself might decide they’ve got the resources to force the issue, to make an example of the Outcasts. Pretending that wiping them from the galaxy is the same as finally dealing with all the exiles, and closing that unfortunately unseemly chapter in the Initiative’s beginnings. It seems like the kind of ceremonial grandstanding that would appeal to Tann.

No. It’s too good for her. Reyes will have Sloane Kelly, and she’ll go down the way that she deserves. He will watch her bleed out at his feet - no grand last gestures, no defiant blaze of glory against her foes - she’ll die small, and alone, not even a footnote in history. He owes Gartan that much - although he can also see the Salarian so clearly shaking his head, unimpressed with Reyes’ grand plans and ambitions when it would honor his memory just as much to stand back and let the Initiative do most of the heavy lifting.

If the situation were other then what it is, Reyes might be tempted to let it play out. Even let the Pathfinder lead the charge, if he happened by. Ryder ought to be disposable.

The Pathfinder has his patterns - so the news hits all at once and out of nowhere, the broadcasts and his own private channels tripping over themselves to get all the information out, and Reyes on his omnitool in the middle of the night, watching it scroll past - the Turian ark recovered, or what’s left of it, and another dead Pathfinder with an heir already named - but Avitus Rix is hardly a rookie, not with that pedigree. An ex-Spectre Pathfinder is certainly something for the Charlatan to keep an eye on.

H-047c has been thoroughly routed of its less-agreeable elements. Nyx’s sister and all her little refugees are thoroughly saved, and Meriwether has been reduced to nothing more than a matter of plausible deniability and sweeping the remnants of her hideout for anything useful.

The Tempest comms in a few days later, to confirm a landing trajectory, and their usual berth. Scott hasn’t sent any messages since he went radio silent. Reyes pretends he doesn’t notice.

——————————

The party at Amnesty isn’t his idea. ‘In honor of the Pathfinder’s contributions to Kadara, to the resurgence of life and stability across all the golden words’- the Angara like that image as much as anyone, planets that shine with possibility.

The party may not be Reyes’ idea, but the security is - inside and out and entirely discreet but very aware - and so is SAM, piggybacking on the security network for the few cameras set up at the perimeter. The AI and the Collective keep meeting in these moments, the Charlatan’s network extending out to some new point in space only to find that SAM has already beaten them to it, or yet another one of the Collective’s surveillance nodes saying they’ve been attacked, that the AI breached the firewall or at least made its presence known. It’s the kind of thing that makes the Firefighters’ trepidation a little more understandable.

Sloane has people at Amnesty - Keema is ostensibly one of them - but she’d be slitting her own throat to try anything too harsh here and now. Killing the Pathfinder would bring half the galaxy down on her head, and she’s at least smart enough to realize that. But there’s also fewer and fewer smart moves left for her to make - Reyes has done his best to see to it.

He arrives fashionably late, of course, the party well underway and spilling out in all directions from the former Roekaar hideout. It’s still not much to look at, but people are living here, as they’re living on the wind farm and up in the mountains and even out in the far hinterlands, the home of a few semi-adept hobby botanists with a delivery service who’re obviously catering for this party, and haven’t considered yet that they might be on anyone’s radar.

With Oblivion no longer in play, the Outcasts might very well seek out a new source of business - and the Collective might have to step in with a generous counteroffer and a wider network for delivery - certainly, Eos deserved a decent party or two. All business logistics that could wait for another night.

Reyes moves into the main room, almost completely unrecognizable from the space they’d fought in - and he finally catches sight of Drack near the far wall. Now that he’s looking for them, he can see PeeBee and Liam as well, the former chatting with a few salarians while the latter clinks bottles with an Angara that might be one of Keema’s - Reyes is never the only one doing reconnaissance. It all looks casual enough, but he assumes they have the majority of their attention focused elsewhere, and if Reyes draws a line, triangulates between them…

Yes, there he is. Scott in his off-duty ‘still the Pathfinder’ attire, being pressed against a wall and casually debauched by Bain Massani.

Reyes doesn’t get possessive, doesn’t bother with jealousy, especially when it comes to other people. In a world full of easy, purchasable pleasures, it’s insanity to bother pretending any single person is worth the effort - that’s just distraction and liability. There are dead men who owe their place in the ground to getting upset over less, while Reyes kept his cool.

So the flash of furious outrage that hits him is startling, a live wire. The fact that it’s Bain Massani - and yes, the Collective is well aware of him and there was no hint until just now that he was even on Kadara - poses an entirely new set of questions, ones he should be focusing on, and not the way the man has Scott’s face framed between his hands, a casually possessive thumb lightly tracing the corner of his mouth -

“I’m not so sure that belongs to you.”

Bain turns to him with a look of no more than mild interest, as if unaware of Reyes’ presence until this very moment. As if it’s sheer coincidence that he found himself here with the Pathfinder, on a planet in the middle of a slowly simmering civil war.

“Is that true, little duck? Did I cut in line?”

Ryder’s nothing in the realm of sober - self-inflicted, it must be, or his crew would have already dragged him out of here, and Reyes shouldn’t care, shouldn’t feel at all satisfied by the way Scott lights up, sloppily delighted when he finally notices who’s arrived.

“Reyes! I’m glad you could make it! I was just… uh… this is Bain. He’s a friend of mine, from Eos. I mean, I don’t really know him that well but uh, we blew up a lot of Kett shit together.”

Bain appraises him with a tiger’s lazy dignity, amused to lounge and flick his tail and pretend he couldn’t maul anyone in the room in an instant. Reyes knows his history, what the man is capable of - and the Charlatan knows even more than that, assignments and missions that never happened at all.

“Hopefully, not for the last time.” Bain says, looking between them with a slight smile. “But at the moment, it seems that I’m a third wheel. I’ll see you around, little duck.

With no further fanfare, he disappears into the crowd. Reyes could set someone on him, but Massani wouldn’t bother with broadcasting his presence so openly if he’d had a job to do, and there is the Pathfinder to deal with, now only moments away from being distracted away into the nearest crowd of partygoers.

“…. little duck?”

The Pathfinder makes a face. “I hate that, but he thinks it’s funny. I don’t know why. Maybe I could shoot him? That probably wouldn’t work.” His eyes focus again on Reyes, that bright and absurdly open smile and it’s hard not to shake him - how can he be like this? how has he lived this long? - and it’s hard not to kiss him and as frustrating as ever that Reyes even cares, that he wants impossible things. To give Scott a world where he can smile like that and never have to regret it.

“SAM are you getting this data? This is a party. God knows you've never been to one before.” Scott says. “Make sure to record it for Sara. For… research purposes.”

“Pathfinder, increased decibel levels may lead to a heightened risk of hearing loss.”

“I know!” Ryder shouts. “I love this song too!”

The Pathfinder is an eager, drunken puppy - excited to be alive and instant friends with everyone he sees and not entirely sure how all his limbs work. Reyes ought to be planning his exit, finding something more useful to do with the night - not feeling fond, noticing every time Ryder slouches further against him, warm and relaxed.

“I’ve seen my share of crashed ships less wrecked than you, Pathfinder. What have you been up to?”

“I am pretty fucked up right now.” Scott says, with slow and deliberate pride. “SAM, how fucked up am I? Give me a measurement. On like, the Richter scale.”

It’s difficult to hear the AI over the music, but Reyes thinks he hears the words “engage sobriety protocols” and possibly “emergency purge” as Scott shakes his head violently.

“No, no nope shit no! This is a carefully cultivated buzz. This was expensive. Begone with your AI devil magic.”

A pile of Angara all but crash into them, and Reyes takes a step back as they recognize Ryder and the Pathfinder suddenly disappears into the eager, friendly scrum - pictures, and greetings, and another wave of dancers sweeps them further apart and Reyes lets himself be carried to a less chaotic corner of the crush. A place where he can watch Ryder without being watched too much himself - except for the tall, familiar presence out of the corner of his eye, Vetra Nyx leaning on the railing beside him, so casual it can’t be anything other than calculated.

“Sometimes I think there’s something I’m missing about you humans. And the rest of the time I’m sure I am.”

“Are you so sure I’m the one you ought to be watching?” Reyes keeps the irritation out of his voice, but barely. He’s relying on the Pathfinder’s team to keep him alive out there, and that involves more than just shooting Kett.

“You mean Massani?” Vetra says, mandibles flexing ever so slightly. “Is there a problem? Do you two know each other.”

“Only by reputation.”

“If he wanted to shoot a Pathfinder, he could have tried it back on Eos, before we ever knew he was there.” Nyx says. “Or… is this jealousy? It would be easier to tell if you had subharmonics.”

He can’t hear hers very well over the roar of the room, but Vetra’s amusement is evident.

“Simply concern for a valuable client.” Reyes says. “The Pathfinder can enjoy himself as much as he wants, with whomever catches his eye.”

At the moment, Scott is attempting to introduce the Angara to the concept of crowdsurfing. Reyes rolls his eyes, as a momentary fumble sends Ryder tumbling out of sight, but he’s back on his feet in the next moment, laughing, arms raised victoriously. It’s ridiculous. He can’t look away.

“He’s not.” Vetra says, and her tone says she’s regretting every word. “He’s not enjoying himself.”

And this is why you have people on the inside. Because to any casual observer it looks like the Pathfinder’s having enough fun for everyone here, careening back and forth across the dance floor, all bright smiles as he’s dragged into this cheerful group and that and even drunken carousing looks wholesome when it’s Ryder taking part.

“What happened?”

“H-047c.” She says. “It was supposed to be our home, the turian homeworld, but…” Reyes nods - he flew past, during that first year, a wide survey across scattered remnants that didn’t even hint at a livable planet. “Ryder took it pretty hard - and then there was Ark Natanus, or what was left of it. A lot of turians we couldn’t save. I think… maybe there’s more than that… but he won’t talk about it. He pretends there’s nothing wrong, but that’s just him being the Pathfinder. Trying to keep us all from worrying.”

“I heard there were still a few impressive victories.” Reyes says, gesturing to the crowd. “If you wanted to move Exiles back to the Nexus so badly, I could have provided you some. For a modest finder’s fee, of course.”

He earns a real flex of her mandibles for that, and if she didn’t regret starting this conversation, Nyx certainly does now, the railing held tight in claw-tipped hands.

“Meriwether was on the Collective payroll.”

“Occasionally.” Reyes agrees. “So am I. So are you, I imagine.”

Reyes likes Nyx. He likes her gullible and capable sister - and he knows the kind of lives they’d lived. Swap dextro for levo and they’d been gnawing on identical scraps. Still, Vetra had managed to lift her sister up above the worst of it, keep her safe. It might have been easier to send her to one of their training camps, slot her back into the Hierarchy, but it would have kept her safe at the cost of crushing her spirit. If Nyx had made the sensible move, there never would have been a girl who’d be willing to risk so much for a pile of Exiles who could do nothing to repay her.

At least for the moment. Who knows what the future might bring? All those former Exiles scattered across Andromeda, knowing who they had to thank for their second chance? Reyes thinks Vetra Nyx is familiar with his sort of patience, of letting the game play out.

“Everything I know about you says that you’re a middling, low-level opportunist who thinks he’s smarter than he is.” Nyx says. “Every piece of information says you want Ryder so that you can lift yourself a few pegs higher with whoever wins this fight. Maybe get yourself a new ship. A back door onto the Nexus. Whatever you can grab, until the Pathfinder realizes you’re just using him, or you get bored.”

“I’m also quite charming.” Reyes feigns a bit of hurt. “No one mentioned that?”

“No one mentioned much of anything” Nyx says. “You’re inconsequential. Not a failure, not a success. You’re not important at all.”

“Not for lack of trying, I assure you.” Reyes says, because he has to, not because he thinks she believes it. Nyx may not know exactly what he is, but they share the same occupation, and warning bells can’t be ignored even when the source is unknown.

“Ryder doesn’t talk about you.” Vetra says, but it doesn’t sound like an insult. “I think he’s worried that if we knew how much he liked you, we’d force him to give you up. He would do it, you know, if we told him it was necessary.”

Reyes doesn’t doubt that. Scott’s loyalty ultimately belongs to the Nexus, to the now eighty-thousand or more asari and humans and turians all looking to him to keep them safe, to push back the Kett and be the Pathfinder for something approaching the future they were promised.

“I’d just sneak in through the airlock.” He says. “No one would ever know.”

He thinks that Scott would lie to them, though, if Reyes asked. As long as it didn’t endanger his crew or his mission. He thinks Nyx might know that too.

“He trusted me.” Vetra says. “At first I thought it was because he didn’t have a choice, because none of us really had a choice - but then things got better and he just… kept trusting me. And then I said thank you by piling a whole bunch of trouble on his door - and he was right there beside me, the whole way through.” She sighs. “I don’t think I have to tell you how how rare that is.”

She doesn’t, so Reyes doesn’t say anything.

“He needs somebody that he doesn’t have to be the Pathfinder for. I wish it wasn’t you. I wish he hadn’t picked you. Just… don’t do anything we can’t fix.”

—————————————

Reyes can feel Ryder wobble a little, when he puts a hand against his shoulder, leans in to suggest a break and he’s not sure if even AI-assisted hearing can catch him over the noise of the party but Ryder doesn’t resist as he’s pushed forward. Only laughs softly, murmuring something Reyes doesn’t catch, and by the time they’re halfway down the hall Ryder’s got an arm over his shoulders and Reyes is responsible for the lion’s share of all forward motion. Not that he’s complaining, Ryder a warm and pliant weight against him, lips brushing lightly across his neck as he stumbles, although it’s too clumsy not to be an accident.

The door opens ahead of him, automatically. Reyes thinks he knows just how entrenched SAM is on Kadara, the extent of his capabilities - but then Knight thought she’d got the better of the AI, and look how that had turned out.

The room is small, a barracks area turned into private quarters and cleared out for the night and he hadn’t told Keema to set it up for any particular purpose other than conversation but there are flowers on the table and soft music playing and what passes for a full bar, which means Kian had a hand in this romantic interlude, and for being a man of mystery his personal business seems to be popular entertainment. At least Massani isn’t here.

Ryder likely won’t remember much of this, but SAM will - easy enough to play the entire night back to him in the morning. So there’s a limit to the leading questions, although there’s nothing to be done if the Pathfinder lets slip with any details on his own. Nyx certainly was worried that Ryder would open up to him, in a way he hadn’t with anyone else. It shouldn’t be so satisfying - not the least because she’s right, she shouldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt and Scott shouldn’t trust him and Reyes shouldn’t feel so unsettled about that, not when everything’s going so well.

“You know, I don’t even really like the Moshae.” Scott mumbles into his chest out of nowhere, his voice a child’s petulance. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. Ever.”

“Already forgotten.” He shouldn’t be charmed, when the Pathfinder isn’t even trying to be charming. Scott groans just a little, and the lights dim.

Reyes chuckles. “You make me feel like a third wheel, SAM.”

“Your assistance is always appreciated, Mr. Vidal.”

“Psst.” Scott mutters. “Don’t say anything, but I think my robot’s got a crush on you.”

It’s a bit of an effort just to cross the room, like piloting an Alliance cast-off with faulty thrusters, the Pathfinder’s limbs wanting to go everywhere but forward.

“You know, the one that lives in my head.” Scott continues, as he finally drops onto the bed - rambling in a way he’d probably find mortifying in more sober circumstances. “The one that got us kicked out of the Milky Way. Dad figured it all out, you know, how to make them not all ‘pew pew - arrrrgh’.” He waves his hands in a clumsy approximation of a standard robot apocalypse. “Which is fun, because I don’t know anything at all about AI programming.” Ryder grins. “Hey SAM, how long would it take you to kill everyone on the Nexus? Give me a number.”

“Endangering the Nexus and its crew would run counter to mission directives and core programming.” SAM says. “I exist to assist, and to learn - I grow as you grow. Self-isolation would serve no function, even if it were possible, which it is not - and even if I wished to, which I do not. You will never need to fear me, Scott.”

It doesn’t sound like it’s the first time they’ve had this conversation, although it could be the first it’s happened aloud.

“Well, you’re no fun.” Scott blinks, looks around as if unsure just how he’d arrived. One hand pats awkwardly at the blankets. “Mmmm. Nice room. A lot of… nice things to do, in a room like this.”

Reyes sighs, fighting the smile. “Tempting as it sounds, Pathfinder, I prefer my conquests with at least marginal motor control.”

“Hey.” Ryder protests, undercut a bit by the trouble he has in even craning his neck around to follow Reyes’ movements. “That’s not fair. I’ve got… margins.”

“I noticed.” He makes his way to the bar - Outcast-pilfered gin and the close approximation of an olive and that lovely Angaran liqueur they distill from the melons - practically priceless and never seen in amounts greater than a few shots worth. A drink meant for lovers, for conversations and confessions and Reyes fights the urge to roll his eyes, pushing it out of the way. It would be wasted on the Pathfinder anyway, this late in the evening. He fixes himself a drink and grabs a chilled bottle of water. It won’t do much to mitigate the damage Ryder’s already done to himself, but at least it won’t make things worse.

“SAM…” Ryder says, somewhere behind him. “Not that I'm complaining but uh… my... parts don't work?"

"Pathfinder, you are trying to take off your pants before your shoes."

“Ohhh, that makes sense.” Scott says. “You’re the best, SAM. If I die, you can totally reanimate my corpse and scare the shit out of Tann, ok?"

When Reyes sits down again, the Pathfinder curls around him - cuddly, Kian was right - and it’s a bit of a struggle to get the water into him without drowning him by accident, but Reyes finds he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind if Scott stays awake or falls asleep or wants to rush out for round two of the party - and he can tell himself it’s the job, that it’s all part and parcel of being who the Pathfinder wants him to be, that all of this is temporary…

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know we were coming.” Ryder rubs a hand over his eyes. “I… uh… it’s been busy.”

“I heard.” Reyes says. “All the way out to Ramav? Being in Andromeda wasn’t enough, you had to go stick your toes over the edge?”

Reyes remembers parking his ship just shy of the event horizon, watching and pondering that supermassive black hole and never quite coming to any real conclusions.

“You should have seen us out there. We had new jump jets on the Nomad, got to run them through their paces. Jaal was like a little kid.”

“I’m glad you had fun.”

“It was terrible.” Ryder says, suddenly, his smile falling away. “It was supposed to be the Turian homeworld. It was supposed to be a paradise like all the other ones and it was just dead rock and dead Pathfinders and Exiles talking over plans that weren’t ever going to happen because I shot them all.” Scott’s voice cracks a little on the last few words.

“You know you did what you had to.” Reyes says.

“God, there were so many of them. I keep thinking that many people, they can’t have all wanted to be there… and we had to… there was nothing we could do, but go from one hideout to the next to the next. So many supplies and weapons and Hydras - where the hell did they get Hydras? - and even SAM doesn’t know if there were more, or where they were all headed.”

Reyes blinks. Nothing shows on his face, but he’s running some numbers of his own, some possibilities - what are the odds, that Meriwether wasn’t running guns for the Outcasts? Sloane might have the reputation to even pay on credit, offer up some portion of Kadara in advance for services rendered - but not even that now, with Meriwether no longer able to complain about recompense. If they were moving Hydras, if Sloane is stockpiling Hydras - then maybe they are drifting past the eye of the storm. Maybe the Collective has finally hit the tipping point.

The real, true beginning for the Charlatan. Unless he gets blown up first.

“I’m sorry.” Scott has his eyes closed, has mistaken Reyes’ long silence for boredom. “I don’t mean to… I’m just really tired. You should go have a good time. Go party.”

“Let’s be honest, Ryder - parties are only fun when I’m looking for a score, and everyone out there is broke. I’ve already stolen away the only real prize.”

“Oh god.” He laughs, quiet but authentic. “Does that line ever actually work for you?”

“You’d be surprised.” He shouldn’t feel proud, to see Ryder smile. Reyes should be circling the conversation back to that business on the asteroid, to glean any more details he can - how big was the arsenal, what did SAM know, what they might be up against? - but there’s the little problem of Scott’s warm eyes on him, and the bigger problem that Reyes could not care about that, ignore the distraction like he always does - but he doesn’t want to.

“God, you’re like a walking telenovela - ‘now in the role of 'second-act marriage-seeking missile', it's Reyes Vidal. Scandalized spouse, cue music, cut to commercial break.’”

Reyes smirks. ”Somehow, even as i stand here before you, I am sleeping with your wife and pool boy.”

He reaches out, traces a thumb along the line of Ryder’s jaw, just to hear him sigh, feel him lean into the touch.

“You did good, Scott. You found another Ark, and a new Pathfinder.”

“God, and he’s a real badass too.” Scott says. “A former Spectre? Holy shit, how am I supposed to compete with that?”

“You think he’s interested in competition?”

“No, thankfully. At least not like that. Avitus doesn’t want to be in charge.” Scott says. “He’s… not in a great place right now. The Pathfinder, the one that died - they were in love. I mean, they were really-” He trails off for a moment, the flick of a bitter smile. “Somebody told me once, that turians didn’t love like that. I guess he just meant me.”

Reyes hazards an educated guess, pushes his luck and reaches up to undo the top button on the Pathfinder’s collar. He feels Scott go still at that, but keeps his touch casual enough, pulling the shirt down just far enough to see the edge of those coordinates on his skin.

“It was on Arcturus, then? Romance in the barracks?”

“I didn’t want to forget. Even if he did, I wanted to remember..." A frown. “You can’t possibly want to hear about my exes.”

“I want to hear whatever you want to tell me.”

Scott sighs. “I’m pretty sure a few people thought I was doing the whole turian thing just to get back at Dad, ‘First Contact War’ and all, the big hero - and now his son’s auditioning for a Fornax cover shoot?” He sighs. “It wasn’t ever like that, though. We certainly weren’t...” A pause. “I guess I don’t know what we were. He was… uh, extremely turian. Followed all the rules, believed in them. Being with me at all was already pushing his boundaries.”

“As if I needed an argument against rules, or boundaries.” Reyes smiles. “I might think even less of him, if you weren’t on this side of the universe right now.”

An interesting twist on the question - would Scott choose love over duty, if there weren’t lives hanging in the balance? Would he have stayed behind in the Milky Way, if the right person had asked him to?

“If I wasn’t here, my father would still be the Pathfinder.” Scott says. “Everything would have been just fine.”

A rock to the faceplate, Scott had told him. The whole reason he got the job. Reyes wondered if he had ever thought, even for a moment, of not doing what the Initiative needed him to do. If there’d been any hesitation at all, in setting aside whatever was left of his own priorities to do what needed to be done, even when no one believed in him, even if he would only ever be second-best.

“It was better that it was you on Aya, I think. No disrespect to your father.” It’s only politeness. Reyes is increasingly sure he has considerable disrespect for Alec Ryder, even beyond the fact that Pathfinder Senior probably would have shot him purely as a precaution. “You may have less experience, but it also makes you less… threatening. More emotional, and vulnerable - and the Angara trust that, maybe even more than they trust strength. No one could mistake you for a Kett.”

Openness is a very important trait among the Angara. Reyes can fake it, as well as he can fake anything. He doubts Alec Ryder would have ever bothered to try.

Scott snorts. “God, Jaal still thinks we’re all up our own asses - they would have thought Dad was inanimate.” He raises a hand, rubs at his eyes again. “I bet I sound like a real son of a bitch, don’t I? My father gives up his life for me, and I’m still complaining. God, I didn’t… I didn’t think he would. I really didn’t. And now I have to be grateful forever.”

A moment of silence, and then Ryder pulls a face - indignant annoyance, and only one place it could have come from.

“What did SAM say?” Reyes says, stifling a laugh.

“The Pathfinder’s stress levels have decreased to near optimal for the first time in a considerable period.” SAM voice is clear through Ryder’s omnitool. “I suggested that this conversation had created a positive feedback loop, and it might be beneficial to continue.”

“Or maybe it was the drugs.” Scott says. “I bet the drugs helped.”

“The drugs did not help, Pathfinder.” SAM says, and that is definitely what it looks like when a Pathfinder is mentally flipping off the AI living in their head.

“Hypothetically, Ryder,” Reyes smooths down an invisible wrinkle in the Pathfinder’s shirt, enjoying the warmth under his hand. “If you did have any more to say - what would it be?”

Not the first time that Reyes has worked his way into a confidence he doesn’t deserve - smiled and charmed into whatever quiet confessions might be the most profitable - and now here he is. It’s doubtful there’s a payout at all, from this line of inquiry, and yet there’s nothing he wants more.

“Dad... uh… encoded some of his memories into SAM. They unlock over time, whenever… I don’t know, whenever he decided I was ‘worthy’ enough. That’s Dad all the way through, gatekeeping from beyond the grave.” He doesn’t move for a moment, but Reyes waits, gives him time. “It was… this dinner, with Mom and Dad. ‘The Last Supper.’” Scott lets out a bitter little laugh. “I got to see it all again from his perspective. Like I needed to - like he thought I wouldn’t remember. God, and he actually thought we gave a crap what he felt, that any of it was for his sake. Like Sara and I didn’t make damn sure to be on our best behavior, like we always... if Mom wanted a nice dinner, she was gonna get a nice dinner.”

He stops, halfway through a frustrated gesture, starts to speak and stops again, a long pause.

“It was like I was there, living it all over again - and god, I miss Mom and I just… I thought I was past it. I thought I was done with so much of that, it didn’t matter what he thought or why…”

“You’re not a disappointment.” Reyes says.

“It’s hard to disappoint someone who never cared that I was alive.” Scott says. “It was like this empty pit called Alec Ryder, and you kept throwing all your time and energy inside, just trying to figure out what he wanted, imagining some payout that was never going to happen because he just didn’t care. I think I could have made N7, and he wouldn’t have blinked twice. I don’t know why he saved me, Reyes. I really couldn’t tell you. I know what I want to think, but it was never true before.”

How many times has Scott used his first name? More than once, surely - but it still feels new, each time.

Focus, Vidal. Focus.

“Kadara isn’t exactly overflowing with happy families.” Reyes says. “I never knew my father. My mother… was not very good at it, in all her own ways. I don’t have any words of wisdom, Ryder, only that these things are… messy. Complicated. It’s all right, not to know what to feel - to grieve or be angry, or to want to put it away in a box and never look at it again. I think it’s far easier to fix a Vault or save an Initiative than try to untangle the past, let alone make sense of it.”

He’d let his own mother die, in the end. Reyes had left without looking back - and he’d had to, for many reasons, but he still could have made arrangements on her behalf. He could have sent money, made sure someone would use it to keep her alive and some semblance of sober. He could have tried. But instead he’d left her, cut all ties and walked away and pretended that inaction was any kind of excuse, that without someone to keep her head above water she could do anything but drown. It wasn’t his fault, arguably not even his responsibility, not after all the times she’d done even less for him. No one blamed him - no one cared - but still, Reyes knows he had made that choice, like he’s making the choice not to tell Scott about it now. Like the way he hasn’t told Scott about anything, the Pathfinder with his eyes sliding shut even as he tries to fight it, frowning as Reyes leans away.

“It’s late. Go to sleep, Scott. No one will trouble you.”

“… you won’t be here when I wake up.”

Every time Reyes thinks he has the boundaries of it, that he’s finally got a hold of what the Pathfinder’s done to him, some kind of control - there it goes, right out of his grasp, taking his breath away.

“You know where to find me.”

Chapter Text

Bain Massani unceremoniously hangs his shingle on Elaadan, and it isn’t long before he’s built up a serviceable crew of like-minded professionals. Unsurprising, that soon enough the Initiative finds his services worth the price, investing in a few more strike missions against the Kett, general protection on the desert planet, and other such profitable odds and ends. Whatever was left of the raiding element on and around Elaadan quickly decide there are better places to be - at least the ones that are allowed to leave.

The Outcasts reach out to him, of course, but as far as Reyes can tell there’s no response. The Charlatan extends his own offer, but Massani seems content for the moment not to pick a side, preferring to sit back and secure his own position. It’s dangerous to leave him be, building power mostly unchallenged, but provoking him might leave the Collective in a war on two fronts and of course there’s the matter of how openly he’d revealed himself, and his interests, at the party. The possible implication, that when the Collective took Kadara there would be more value in mutual benefit than extended conflict.

The mercenary didn’t need to come to Andromeda to make a name for himself, or to retire a wealthy man. So just what does he want here that he couldn’t get back home?

It’s dangerous, to have more questions than answers - but it’s intriguing, too. Even that unexpected spark of jealousy has burned itself out on further contemplation. It hadn’t been such a terrible thing, really, to see Scott so wrecked and ready under another man’s hands. It has… potential, and Reyes is all about potential.

Especially considering the message he’d received the morning after - Scott adorably embarrassed, apologizing for what he could remember and more importantly what he couldn’t… and he might have remembered there’d been this guy Bain he’d known there? Dropping in from the other side of Andromeda for whatever reason. It hadn’t been planned for them to meet up, and maybe Scott had gotten a little - and maybe they hadn’t done anything but if they did, whatever they did they weren’t, Bain wasn’t - there wasn’t a they, and nothing had, they definitely weren’t -

Reyes doubts Scott even bothered to check with SAM for the instant replay, too mortified to even think of facing it all again by the light of day.

“I just… uh… thanks, Reyes. It was - it was good to see you. I hope you got something out of it, listening to all my stupid crap. If I was making any sense at all. If you ever need, uh… yeah, I just… I owe you one.”

Whatever Bain might have of the Pathfinder’s attention, it isn’t this. Awkward messages after drunken, soul-searching confessions, all those messy, personal parts. Reyes is very close to the Pathfinder now, tucked in even tighter than most of Ryder’s crew, possibly closer than anyone except his sister. Reyes wonders if Scott’s told her about him yet, and just what he’s said.

Of course, Reyes lets those messages hang, doesn’t respond to Ryder for days. It’s the barest illusion he has left, that he isn’t in too deep, that this is still about the payout.

It’s already paying out. The Collective has reached out to Knight, agreed to a no-strings meeting. Reyes had gone in solo, given that anyone working with Cerberus in the rearview mirror would likely be skittish of being strong-armed by even more mystery men. He’d been open as the Charlatan’s hired mouthpiece, selling the Collective as a simple game of money and guns. A gathering of like-minded businessmen interested in taking the port and getting rid of Sloane and making themselves seem like something bigger, just to keep the Initiative guessing. The best cons always are built out of a bit of truth.

He’d made sure to set up some fresh, well-protected databases for the Firefighters to break into, full of tasty information about the Collective’s movements against the Outcasts. Surprise, surprise - Sloane had tried to swing her weight around already with the hackers, and they had taken it as well as anyone else with an aversion to authority and the skills to pretend the port didn’t exist.

Reyes had even provided a sympathetic ear, for the concerns they still had about the Pathfinder AI, and the Initiative’s reliance on it. What it meant in their eyes, bringing a hand grenade with the pin already pulled into an entirely new galaxy. Knight had been somewhat shaken in her conviction, after what Scott had done for her son, especially after he’d pulled the strings to allow her to return to Kadara. She still didn’t trust SAM, likely never would - but she’d been surprisingly protective of the Pathfinder, too. Hurting Scott Ryder had never been the goal, and she wouldn’t give the Charlatan a better calibrated gun to aim at him, if that was what they were after.

No, Reyes had reassured them, of course not. This was purely a business discussion in the most basic terms - a contract for hire, updating a few algorithms for skimming the Initiative’s resource deficit trackers. If the Firefighters weren’t really the kind of exiles who deserved to be out here, the Initiative might as well pay them something for it. Besides, the Charlatan agreed that Knight’s perspective had its merits, possibly worth a longer-term investment - the Pathfinder AI might not be dangerous now, but it certainly needed to be watched.

Every system had its failsafes, any government had to be observed for signs of corruption - the difference between leaders and dictators. An AI with that kind of power was no different, and it only seemed right to have the necessary tool set at the ready, just in case they had to fight back. The Pathfinders - the entire galaxy - might not require what the Firefighters were offering today - but who knew what the future could hold?

Knight didn’t trust him any more at the end of their chat than the beginning - but Reyes hadn’t expected her to. What mattered for the moment was that the Charlatan had gotten his contract. Pay them on time, keep his hands off her people and tread lightly around Dr. Nigh’s moral code, and it most likely wouldn’t be the last.

—————————————————

It’s overkill, to sic the Pathfinder on Zia’s trail, but Ryder has proven himself a quick and easy solution to so many problems, and she’s been an increasingly irritating wildcard, hijacking his claims and deliberately overstepping the boundaries, all but daring him to strike back. Every smuggler and freelancer can sense the changes coming, everyone with an interest jockeying for position, looking for an edge - and Zia is among the better of them, enough to know that Reyes has cut her out of a big score, and it seems she has decided to take it personally.

She’s also been playing hard to get, barely a presence on the port - which could mean new allegiances of her own. If she’s the one running those guns that don’t exist for the Outcasts…

What a time for Sloane to pick, to become marginally competent. The Collective’s found no trace of increased activity, the suggestion of any stockpiles - Meriwether’s records had been poorly kept, more holes than information. If not for Ryder’s offhand comment, there’s no telling when they might have had a hint of any change. Even Keema hasn’t heard a whisper of any new strategies, which leaves the Collective inner circle somewhat skeptical that the Outcasts are planning their big move, that they’ve taken a sudden interest in subterfuge.

He needs more information, he needs proof - and it’s not exactly the plan to have the Tempest land in port right after Zia’s snatched up a decoy cargo, but Reyes can hardly complain. Getting SAM involved might not only drag her business into the light but uncover all of Sloane’s connections, just what she thinks will win her this war - and how the Collective might take those weapons for themselves, or at least keep them out of Outcast hands. If Sloane fortifies her position with an entirely new arsenal, she’ll stabilize - and then she’ll start hunting in earnest.

He’s being petty, too. Reyes can tell himself it’s the correct strategic decision, using Initiative resources instead of his own, taking a direct route for once - but he can’t deny he wants to see Zia’s face when she’s beaten so completely at her own game.

It starts well enough. Scott looks as good as ever, that lovely combination of bemused and slightly annoyed when Reyes shamelessly drags him into personal business. Umi does a nice job, suggesting Zia might have Collective links, and then spends her time pointedly not listening to the two of them flirt - even though neither of them believe it. Scott doesn’t blink twice at the idea of Zia being his ex. Unsurprised at the thought that Reyes might only be faithful until a better opportunity presents itself - but there’s still an intimacy that shouldn’t be there, and doesn’t go away, the two of them tossing ridiculous flattery back and forth and enjoying the game.

Eventually, there’s nothing left but the usual lie about his plans, for Scott to leave and Reyes to watch him go.

“You know I got stabbed once, in my last job.” Umi says. “It was less painful than watching that.”

“He’s going to make us all rich.”

“Mm-hm.” Umi turns away, already bored.

He’s not fooling her. He’s certainly not fooling himself. Reyes knows he’s distracted, and it’s dangerous, and there’s no good reason for any of it. If anything, catching Scott at the party with Bain had been a lucky break, confirmation that the Pathfinder had a weakness for bad boys and an inclination for foolish indulgence on his down time. It’s not like spending time with the Pathfinder has been an effort - so the Charlatan will take Kadara, the Initiative can have their outpost, and he can continue to have his fun whenever Scott is in port. Low risk, high reward, no reason to do anything but celebrate - and it gnaws at him anyway, and the more Reyes thinks he might know why that is, the less he wants to consider it, which is a distraction all its own.

It still shouldn’t be a surprise, to stand next to the Pathfinder at the end of their little goose chase, to unlock the crate and find it already empty. Planted in a location in the middle of nowhere, that gives nothing away about what Sloane might be up to. No surprise at all, to hear Zia’s triumphant declaration from behind him, to turn and find her gun already raised, with the rest of the ambush settling into position and Nyx and Drack with their weapons drawn. Another mark on Vetra’s checklist of reasons for the krogan to turn Reyes into an hors d'oeuvres.

A little unexpected, that Zia had gone through with the ambush, when she’d seen the Pathfinder and his team in tow. Did she think she still had the advantage, or were the orders coming from higher up, and she was past the point of being able to stand down?

“He’s a better man than you know.”

That… that is a surprise.

A good thing Reyes isn’t the one talking, that no one’s looking his way - for once, he doesn’t have a single witty retort.

It’s a surprise for Zia too - Reyes can see it, the moment of shock before her expression turns to a mocking pity, glancing at him - really, Vidal? Really? If this were any other situation, it’s obvious she’d be just as happy to regale the Pathfinder with a full summary of Reyes’ sins and failings, so that Ryder might decide to finish the job for her. Poor, stupid Alliance boy, too naive and trusting to see when he’s being played. Except that’s not all that Scott is, not by half.

Zia doesn’t know, or it would worry her, the subtle shift in Ryder’s posture, the absolute stillness in his expression, something too alien to be calm. Yes, he’s a very nice boy - but there really aren’t many people in Andromeda who’ve threatened the Pathfinder and lived to talk about it.

Oh, Zia. Don’t.

Reyes knows her well enough, that she will - and then she does and he’s diving for cover in the chaos of the firefight, flickers of shields taking impacts on both sides, a distant yell as the krogan makes a wall sandwich of one of their assailants, Nyx covering his back and Ryder nowhere to be seen. Cloaked already, he must be, and Reyes ducks into shelter and waits for the opportunity - sees a merc’s shields shatter from a shot he never saw coming, and Reyes takes him down before he can think to turn around. A second tries to flank him, to much the same result, and he takes down a third trying to retreat from Nyx’s advance. Reyes has a fraction of a second to consider the bodies - well-outfitted, and decently trained, even if they’re no match for the Pathfinder’s team. Nice to know Zia had put at least some effort into dealing with him.

He turns at a sound that could be a muttered curse or the grit grinding under her shoe - it doesn’t matter, Zia’s already got him in her sights and he’s quick on the draw but not that quick and his shields aren’t quite - son of a bitch things were going so well…

The firran whips past his ear, close enough that Reyes swears he gets stung by an errant spark, and Zia’s shot goes harmlessly wide. He has his gun up a moment later, but there’s no need. The shot was only a reflex, because there’s an Angaran knife now buried to the hilt in her eye. It happens fast enough that Zia’s still wearing a smirk of triumph, which fades just for a moment into surprise, and then nothing at all as she falls.

Reyes knows before he turns, who made that shot - more than just ‘who’, Ryder not the only one looking out through those eyes - and then the Pathfinder blinks, glances down at his hand as if it unsure it still belongs to him. A final round of gunfire, and Reyes can hear the krogan already complaining about the low quality of the ambush, that Kadara was going soft.

“I…” Scott says. “She was going to… Are you okay?”

Reyes nods. “Are you?”

“I’ve never… I…” Ryder shakes himself, a few more steady breaths. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

————————————

So much noise and blood and mess, for things to all end up more or less where they began, minus the last load of cargo Zia will ever steal from him, although there’s half a chance he can still track it down. It’s interesting to know that Reyes Vidal has become important enough - or irritating enough - to merit at least a few people splitting the cost of a hit squad. If she’d known for sure he was the Charlatan, she certainly would have mentioned it - not that the conversation hadn’t skirted close to a few things he’d rather have avoided. Obviously, he should have let Lynx get a couple more good hits in.

Reyes steps forward, takes a knee and pulls the knife from Zia’s eye so that Scott doesn’t have to, sweeping a hand over her eyes to close them - the wound so small there’s hardly any blood. Reyes doesn’t know if she looks like she’s sleeping - he’d never spent the night.

He wonders just when she decided to take point on this particular job - if it had been for a flat fee, or contingent on some more valuable score. If it took any convincing at all.

“I’m sorry.” Ryder says, because he thinks some small part of Reyes might still care about her, that he’d consider what they had a relationship - because he thinks Reyes is a better man than she knew. Reyes doesn’t feel much of anything except that it probably would have come to this eventually, or something like this. It might as well have happened now, one less outlier to consider on their way to the goal. Only inconvenient that it hadn’t revealed anything useful to use against Sloane.

And Scott thinks… when there’s no reason at all for him to think…

“Do you know what she believed in?”

“Herself.” Reyes says, automatically. He doesn’t know about her faith, if she had any. Reyes knows about two-thirds of her contacts and the type of ship she preferred and three other people on Kadara she slept with occasionally, people he’s going to need to track down now, just to see if they have anything they’d like to share. He knows the kinds of drinks she wished they had at the Song. He knows she wanted more, the way he wants more, because the only thing people like them do is want more, whatever the cost. “We weren’t that close.”

“I can help, if you want to bury her.” Ryder says, because all the rest of these poor bastards will at least be tagged and recorded. There’s probably hands at Amnesty happy to put them in the ground in exchange for the weapons and armor and the Pathfinder doesn’t leave bodies for the beasts when he can help it. Reyes isn’t nearly as forgiving, but it might prove worth the cursory effort - anything interesting about who they were or where Zia hired them from, and maybe there is someone on the Nexus even for people like these, someone in cryo who might be grateful to know an exile still had the honor of a grave.

It’s not supposed to matter, what happens after he’s gone. Reyes never thought it had any importance at all, beyond hoping he wouldn’t have a completely ridiculous death, that he’d at least take a decent number of his enemies with him - but if he’d died here today, Ryder would have mourned him, maybe for a long time. Mourned mostly a lie, a man he thought he’d known - but he’d have done it all the same. Carried it with him - and that shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t change anything. None of this should mean anything except that once again Reyes was smarter, better, outwitting both his enemies and his allies with very little effort.

“Scott, what you said about me being a better man…” Is so obviously untrue that no one else in the galaxy would ever think to say it. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

———————————————

Whatever a better man would do after seeing his ex carted off to be laid to rest, Reyes is certain it wouldn’t be hacking her omnitool and immediately returning to the port to pillage through her belongings.

In all honesty, Reyes doesn’t think of it as disrespect. Just one more part of growing up in the Terminus, a life of margins at the very edges of livable space. Every item had value, might mean the difference between toasting to the dead and joining them - wasting valuable cargo was an infinitely greater sin. If Zia had been the lucky one to walk out of that fight, Reyes couldn’t really have begrudged her from rifling through whatever of his property she could get her hands on and using it to her advantage, although he hopes the Collective would have made quick work of most of it, and that Keema has already marked anything truly valuable for her own.

Pathfinder business had called Ryder off-planet nearly the moment they’d hit the port, and Reyes had been grateful for once that there hadn’t been the chance for more than a brief goodbye. Zia never should have been able to catch him off guard like that - he’s getting cocky, preoccupied, distracted - because Scott Ryder thinks he’s worth protecting, thinks he’s got something in him better than all of this, because Scott Ryder is a mark and a fool.

Reyes does his best to file it away for distant contemplation, while he still has the advantage of knowing about Zia’s death before it becomes public knowledge. The Charlatan makes some calls, gets everything in her apartment swept up and carted off, all nooks and secret hiding-holes double-checked. He scrolls quickly through her recent correspondence, vaguely disappointed to find nothing with Sloane’s name or even Meriwether’s on the ‘to’ or ‘from’ lines.

He hits the docks with a ready lie that doesn’t end up being necessary - there’s no one around, and little money to be had in the petty squabbles of smugglers. If she had been successful in taking him out, there’d be those waiting to profit from it, but now that things have been decided, Reyes doubts there will be anyone stepping up to avenge her failure.

The hatch hisses open to the familiar smell of Zia’s perfume, and Reyes quickly takes the ship out of the port, up into orbit just to let the space expand around him, all the colors and life below slowly fading into the black. He tucks himself into the shadow of something not quite big enough to be called a moon, and leans back and exhales. Answers a few more quick messages as the Charlatan, as Reyes, as a couple other people who are neither so successful, targeted or preoccupied. It’s nearly forty-five minutes before the first message pings Zia for an anonymous update, two more before he assumes the news finally hits the port of her failure, of Reyes Vidal shamelessly using the Pathfinder as a shield once again.

He wonders if Scott would have been so eager to defend him if he’d known this wasn’t Reyes first shootout with a former business-associate-with-benefits. God, and he’d wondered about the Pathfinder’s skills, just how good he might be, how useful - and there’s the answer. All of SAM’s processing and reaction time honed razor-sharp, a split-second reaction to save his life.

When he does find out how you’ve been using him, that’s what’s going to be tracking you down. Reyes needs to be planning for it, the logistics of managing a pissed-off Pathfinder - if he’s lucky, and Ryder doesn’t bring any of the others along for sport. He needs to consider how to move forward, now that Zia’s off the board and may have taken all her leads with her to the grave.

Instead, Reyes distracts himself from his distraction, examining the few personal effects in Zia’s ship. The journey to Andromeda and the flight from the Nexus that followed didn’t leave much in the way of mementos, but there are a few to be had even so. A small bracelet, woven in the Angaran style, looped and knotted around the handle of a drawer. A ring with the tiniest emerald chip, too small for any adult hand, mingling with bits of paper and random hardware in the back of a drawer. A few containers of eyeshadow, smuggled off the Nexus and now piled in the corner of a countertop.

Zia would hate that he was here - had hated him, it seemed, even past what Reyes had thought was their mutual, friendly antagonism. It was easy enough to remember the surprise, the absolute contempt on her face when the Pathfinder had defended him… and of the two of them, she was the one who knew best. Scott only knows a fiction, a lie hand-tailored to produce exactly this result.

Reyes leans back in the cockpit with a sigh, gazes out across the vast expanse of the galaxy. A playground, a new world and a new life, but it didn’t come without a cost. Everything brought into too sharp a focus, the same insistent question - you spent six-hundred years to get here - for what?

He had an answer. It was a good, risky, impossible answer - and Reyes can see it, like any course charted through uncertain space, clearer now than it’s ever been. He’s going to get what he wants, and he’s even going to be able to stick it to most of the enemies he’s accrued along the way. In what galaxy is that not enough?

Zia’s incoming pings have mostly tapered off - there’ve been a few more, worried short message from what Reyes can only assume are actual friends, people who either don’t know or don’t care that anyone might be watching. More than a few of them are Angaran - even here, the social bonds and expectations are substantial, even among simple acquaintances. Reyes wonders if Keema is ever quietly horrified by it, how easily most of the Milky Way species can cut their ties, how they could even think to leave everything behind and travel so far. Different than the kett, less overtly threatening, but unspeakably alien just the same.

He glances down at a new message, expecting more of the same, and blinks.

- Condolences or congratulations, Vidal?

The sender’s been encrypted, but there’s a comms link waiting to be opened, and Reyes spends the next twenty minutes scanning his surroundings much more carefully, repositioning Zia’s shuttle for the best trajectory back to Kadara, checking to make sure it’s Collective satellites encrypting the call. Doing everything he knows how to do to keep his response from becoming a lit beacon pointing directly at the best place to shoot - and then Reyes opens the channel, because he thinks he might know who’s going to pick up on the other side.

“I didn’t realize shootouts were a part of the pleasantries on Kadara.” Bain Massani says, cheerfully enough. “It looks like I owe you one.”

“Hell hath no fury.” Reyes deflects, and will continue to do so until it becomes the easiest truth to buy - he screwed Zia over one time too many, was a scoundrel more than he was charming until eventually she lost her patience and it all ended in gunfire. No one will have a difficult time believing it.

“Indeed. It makes me wonder why anyone would think the Outcasts have much to worry about.”

“I can’t imagine they do.” Reyes says smoothly. “Sloane keeps a few minor annoyances around so she can have something to sharpen her teeth on, to convince her allies to keep investing their resources in fighting. If anything troubles her, I’d say it’s the decreasing ability to keep flying under the Initiative’s radar. It’s hard to believe the Nexus could ever start retaking ground - but I suppose you’d know about that as well as anyone.”

“Impressive place, New Tuchanka.” Bain agrees. “Loud. Fun. No one can agree on anything, except they still hate the Kett more than each other, at least for now.”

“It suits you.”

“Well enough.” Bain says. “Still - there’s plenty to be salvaged on Elaadan, but there’s more that was lost. Just look at what happened to the turian ark, the turian homeworld. All that equipment, those guns we could be pointing back at the Kett bastards - who knows where they are now.”

It isn’t just conversation, mentioning H-047c. It isn’t just rhetorical. Bain knows where they are now.

“I keep my interests mainly on Kadara, although I do have a few contacts off-planet.” Reyes says. “If there’s any open business between you and our unfortunately departed Zia, I don’t see why that would need to come to an end.”

“Nothing billable.” Bain says. “But there were turian pods that hit Elaadan, and we still stumble over a few more now and then. Seems likely that’s not all there is to find out there. Unfortunately, it’s a big planet, and still not easy to move around. Information travels fast on Kadara. If you should happen to learn the location of anything valuable that’s out of reach, I might be interested in retrieving it for you, for a share. Simple salvage runs, for things no one else has the firepower to go for anyway. No reason any of your usual employers should care, if they even find out.”

He wouldn’t be calling a random smuggler on a whim, to discuss a hypothetical. Bain’s calling the Charlatan, or at least one of his inner circle, to discuss a cache on Elaadan, and taking the Outcasts’ shiny new toys away from them.

Of course it had come up, that even if Sloane had an artillery stockpile somewhere it would be heavily guarded, and though the Collective were good at sabotage and subterfuge and hit-and-run shuttle ambushes, they didn’t have the numbers or the guns for a frontal assault, or none of this would be an issue anyway. Giving the location to the Initiative was always a possibility, but it would cost them all the guns, and that wasn’t exactly ideal.

Bain Massani’s been building his own little mercenary army around actions just like this - which of course, raises the question of whether it’s worth defeating one enemy just to raise another in their place. No reason for Massani to keep to any deal once the weapons were in hand. Still, it’s not out of the realm of the possible - the Outcasts can’t get their hands on that arsenal - but it’d be good to know a little more about just why Reyes might come to regret this decision.

“I know it must seem like everyone has a good reason to fight over this planet, but I should warn you it’s mostly sunk costs - Kadara’s not that nice.”

Bain snorts softly, amused. “If I thought this was about Kadara, we wouldn’t be talking.”

“So… why are you all the way out here?”

The mercenary sighs, the same way everyone does, because everyone’s got their reasons. Six hundred years, for what?

“It’s what I do.” Bain says. “It’s what I’ve always done. I get paid to make more money for people I never meet. Or to give them influence. Or just to stick it to someone else. I’m good at it. Good enough that I can stop and think - what if I could be the one to take a step back, and see why I was doing all those things that I did. What if I was the one to make that call? All those times we got dumped without a proper warning, without decent gear, were they doing their best? Or did they really not care if we made it back alive? Could I make things better if I was up there, for all of us on the ground just trying to make a day of it, or would I just become another one of them, looking down, making bad calls? What if getting all the way out here meant I’d finally get a chance to find out?”

It’s the kind of ambitious dream Reyes might try to sell to himself after a couple of rounds, which means that Bain could easily be bullshitting - obviously out for the money, a quick score, some other form of personal gain not as readily obvious. But if this call is for real - the offer of an alliance like that, the possibility. If Massani is making a move, wants to see how it all works from the inside, in the end he’ll either be on Reyes’ side or against him. An opportunity, as risky to avoid as to consider, and surely good to know sooner rather than later.

“I’m a practical man.” Reyes says. “What does that all mean for me, specifically?”

“I’ll trade you for Ryder.”

It’s not the worst deal, a mercenary’s loyalty for a Pathfinder who’s not even his. Reyes ought to laugh, because what exactly would he be giving up? What does it matter, when even at his best, intimacy means sitting in his dead ex’s ship, her whole life reduced to the value he might pry out of it? If he doesn’t laugh, then it ought to be a noise of disdain. Anything.

The silence stretches out.

“Good man.” Bain says. “You take care with that one. Not just because he’s the one putting things back together again, and I’d rather not endure them trying to do it without him.”

“What is your interest in the Pathfinder?”

Bain snorts again, as if Reyes should know better than to pretend this is still business.

“I like him. He’s easy to like. I like what he’s doing, and who he’s keeping on their toes. I keep my life simple - so if I want to like someone, if I think it’d be good for them to succeed, I can do what I can to make that happen. I like simple.”

“It certainly cuts down on the vague, incomplete promises.” Reyes says.

“I think we understand each other.” Bain says. “You hear of any coordinates on my end that need a closer examination, and I’ll check it out for you. First one’s on the house.”

Chapter Text

Hiding in plain sight is all about controlling the narrative. Give people what they expect to see, and they won’t have any reason to think about looking twice.

It would be notable for Keema Dohrgun to be caught sneaking around Kadara Port, trying to keep a low profile. She’s an important Angaran, with connections even Sloane can’t keep on her own. It’s hardly noteworthy for her to punish one of the many suppliers who depend upon her for business, or to do it in public. The over-ambitious Reyes Vidal, perhaps? Arriving late with a shipment half-damaged, the poor bastard. How could anyone be surprised that she unloads her bad mood on him, and with her reputation, how can he do anything but take it?

Secretive whispers in back alleys are suspicious - there’s nothing to be suspicious of when Keema lets the entire port know of his mediocrity, and demands that Reyes personally deliver his next shipment out to the ass-end of nowhere. Unnecessary inconvenience as a punishment, and an example to anyone else who takes the Angara and their business too lightly.

Reyes Vidal, never quite as impressive as he wants to be. Forced to grovel, to drag his cargo out beyond all signs of civilization - beyond the reach or interests of the Outcasts, or their surveillance measures.

“You know, there’s already no one around for a hundred miles.” He grunts, adjusting his hold on the crate for the final few feet. “You didn’t have to pick the highest possible cliff.”

“And miss seeing you sweat?” Keema smiles serenely, seated on a nearby rock as if it were a throne, enjoying the view. It is lovely, and once he sets the crate down Reyes is content just to watch her survey a world that will soon be hers. He’d never wanted Kadara for his own, wouldn’t have wanted it if even if the whole system had been unoccupied, the way it had been sold to them from the Milky Way. Reyes would have found someone whose interests aligned with his own - meeting Keema had simply expedited the process considerably.

“So, what will be first?” Reyes says, sitting down beside her. “Private garden? Grand audience chamber? Statue in your honor you can see from three planets over?”

“Someday,” Keema says, “Kadara will be a power that the galaxy cannot ignore, and I’ll build something very grand and beautiful for everyone to enjoy, and name it after Efvra, so he’ll have to come here and stand around and say nice things about us.”

Reyes knows many things about Keema, but the exact origins of her delight in antagonizing the leader of the Resistance have proved elusive. It could be past history between them or their families, or simply a longstanding planetary feud. Or that Efvra de Tershaav is a remarkably easy mark. ‘Stick up his ass’ has an equally colorful Angaran variant.

“I heard there were some issues out near Kurinth’s Valley? Nothing too troubling, I hope.”

Keema makes a dismissive gesture. “It has already been dealt with.”

Of course, she doesn’t speak for all of the Angara on Kadara - who could? Reyes knows there are disputes between rival families that he isn’t privy to, just as Keema knows he has informants out there trying to dig up the details anyway. The backbone of their alliance - their friendship, perhaps - that she doesn’t take it personally. Most likely bribing those same informants to hold things back, or keep an eye on him in return. Reyes doesn’t take that personally, either.

As one of Sloane’s allies, Keema has always held the linchpin of their survival. It would be stupidly easy for her to betray them, to tear down the entire Collective from the inside - but there’s never been the threat or even an implication, never pressure on Reyes to sweeten any deals. Although even now it’s fairly sweet, Reyes opening the crate to reveal a lovely picnic lunch courtesy of one of the first successful harvests on Eos. Still supplanted with Nexus rations, but better than anything Kadara could have imagined only a few months ago.

He’d worried a bit, as things improved, that Keema might demand more, more than even the Collective could offer, purely because she could. Success can change people as much as failure, and he’s hardly judging from a moral high ground, but tyrants are… generally inconvenient. But Keema has not changed, still invested in a stable and profitable Kadara, ever patient throughout the long, slow bleed of the Outcasts and their power base, and now just as steady, as things finally seem to be moving toward their end.

“Massani had a proposition for the Charlatan.” Reyes says. “The Collective provides the location of the cache on Elaaden, and he’ll retrieve it for them.”

“In exchange for the adhi’s share of the weapons, no doubt.” Keema says. “It’s not exactly ideal.”

“No.” Reyes agrees. “Still, it might be the cleaner option, compared to the alternatives. He has a reputation for getting things done quietly. It would cut down on the number of factors in play on Kadara, and put things back on the Collective’s timetable.”

It would be… irritating, for the Outcasts to rearm and resupply now, after so much time spent setting them off balance. It would even worse, if Sloane decided to make a move - even with incomplete intel, she could do significant damage to the Collective, to the Port with a show of force. There’s been no consensus from the Collective inner circle if the timeline really has changed, if there is an imminent danger or if what happened with Zia had simply spooked Vidal, the suggestion she might have known more leaving him jumping at shadows.

Keema seems to trust his intuition, at least enough to entertain a plan of action.

“What we really need is a look in Outcast headquarters.” Reyes says, as if that hasn’t always been equal parts obvious and impossible, as they both well know. “If Sloane’s stockpiling, it’s the most secure location. One manifest, one crate we could track back to Elaaden and the Charlatan would know for sure.”

“I know where it would be worth searching, but Angara are not allowed access to those areas, not even me.” Keema smirks. “Especially me. I could try, but…”

Reyes shakes his head. “A last resort. Do you think Annea might be persuaded to look into it from her end, on Elaaden?”

As two Angaran women holding considerable power on their worlds, Annea and Keema are familiar, even close - quite possibly related, although given the size and complexity of even Kadaran families, that can hardly be a surprise.

“Perhaps.” Keema says, thoughtfully. “The Pathfinder didn’t take the water, did you know? He tracked down the aquifer, opened it up - but he didn’t make any demands, didn’t threaten her. He walked away. Annea… didn’t expect that.”

Reyes nods. He’d heard some recent rumors, although the Pathfinder had made no official report to New Tuchanka, or the Initiative. Mentioned nothing to Reyes in their private correspondence, either. As if it had never happened at all.

“Did she tell him how her brother died? That would have been enough. As long as the outpost and the Krogan aren’t dying of thirst, the Pathfinder won’t push her. He came here to learn, not to take. Ryder respects Angaran sovereignty.”

No doubt, if Scott hadn’t been called away to whatever classified location had taken him off the grid again, he would have stuck around, tried to mend what was broken.

“I know Annea has her reasons for wanting to keep things the way they are, but it would benefit her to reexamine her options while she still has them.” Reyes says. “If the changes coming for Elaaden are anything like Kadara’s, the advantage won’t be hers forever. She has a good deal to gain from a better relationship - with the krogan, especially.”

There’s been a hatching, the first successful one in Andromeda. Single digits, of course, but still enough to send unnerved messages pinging back and forth between the other Initiative outposts. Reyes had been far more interested in the size of the celebration the krogan had thrown, the amount of resources they’d been looking to acquire - and they were as happy as any other species to paying a middleman to get them what they wanted faster, spending extravagantly simply to show that they could.

“The Pathfinder would be a trustworthy ally, if she’d allow him to help.”

“So… this is it?” An amused tone in Keema’s voice that will not go anywhere good.

“Mm?” Reyes knows he has an exceptional poker face, even more so by Angaran standards. Keema rarely seems to notice.

“What you’re bad at. I had wondered.” She looks delighted. And smug. Reyes thinks that maybe he should have been more on his guard, out here with no way to dodge a conversation he knows she’s been waiting to have.

“The Pathfinder is a commodity.” Reyes says. “I’d argue I’m quite good at using those.”

“Fuel cells are a commodity, and you don’t look like that when you talk about them.”

Reyes ignores her, leaning forward to pretend interest with the rest of the contents in the crate. The Angara had been particularly delighted with new offers of fresh produce, of seeds for new crops. It might be useful to see if Advent had claim on any arable land. Farmer Scout. He’d love that. “I think you’ve been reading too many of our worst books again.”

The other thing to appreciate about Keema - she has an appetite for information nearly the match of his own, interested in every vital and frivolous detail of the galaxy’s newest arrivals. At least their entertainment value is higher than anything the Kett have offered.

“You draw little hearts around the ones you like, right?” She smiles. “Ones that don’t look anything like your actual heart.”

“I’m not the only one who finds him useful. You know he’s still chewing his way through those Angaran trade laws?”

Keema grimaces. “Poor boy. If anyone actually read those, I’d lose half my business.”

SAM has - just over a minute to compile the information and to point out a half-dozen possible contradictions, all in chronological order. Scott seems to think there’s something irresponsible with leaning too hard on the AI though, not at least attempting to get the gist of it himself, even if it means reading the same paragraph twelve times before anything sticks.

It’s been a few days, since Scott’s last message. Reyes will probably hear from him soon.

“So, when do you plan on telling him, Vidal?” He doesn’t answer, and Keema sighs. “Oh, forgive my foolish Angaran assumptions. Certainly the thought will never cross his mind.”

“It hasn’t yet.”

Of course it could happen. Especially with SAM in the mix - and there is a vague concept for a very worst case scenario where the Collective simply self-destructs and scatters, enough new hiding-holes in the galaxy to find another safe haven, to try again with a different name. There’s funds he’s stashed, that no one knows about, and Reyes knows where at least three of the others have hidden theirs.

Or perhaps a lesser retreat, to abandon the Port but continue to push against Sloane from the wilderness - no matter what, Reyes cannot imagine a world where she plays nice with the Initiative for long, and the Collective might still negotiate themselves into providing an alternative. He’s seen what Tann and Addison consider proactive solutions - it would be nothing to get them on his side, and have them pay for the privilege.

Which is to say Reyes hasn’t really considered the moment, hasn’t let himself think about it - because when Scott finds out it can only be a betrayal, and it will be worse the further things go, the longer he stays silent. He should be thinking about it tactically, logically, but all Reyes comes back to is that hurt, and how all those smiles and that easy friendship he didn’t know he would want as much as he does - all of that will end. What he’ll have to see of himself, reflected back through Scott’s eyes…

“You’ve seen vids of the Citadel? The center of galactic leadership, back in the Milky Way?”

“It was very shiny.” Keema lives on Kadara by choice, pomp and circumstance do not impress her, and her tone suggests she can’t imagine why he would care, either.

“The Pathfinder grew up there. The Presidium was his backyard. His father was N7 - a decorated war hero, the best of the best, and his mother was a groundbreaking scientist. Arguably the smartest human being in the galaxy for a decent span of time.”

Reyes has done his research, knows just how far Ryder is out of his league. All the reasons that make him such a good mark, such a useful tool aren’t selling points when it comes to… god - what, Vidal? Where do you want this to go? Why should it matter so much, when it never did before?

“So he makes a good… what do you call it - ‘trophy wife?’”

Reyes snorts. “It would be husband, and that’s… not usually what that means.”

Keema’s brow furrows - he thinks he might catch the barest hint of ozone in the air, bioelectrics expressing her annoyance. This is an argument they’ve had before, a comparison of cultural differences. Angaran society has been shaped by a century of war, with most anything that isn’t a necessity falling to the wayside. It’s not that a wealthy or powerful Angaran wouldn’t be picky in the search for a mate, but thoughtfulness, cunning, bravery - these would be just as valued as beauty. Power couples, that’s an idea far more to their tastes.

Reyes has tried not to let himself consider it, because it’s too easy to imagine. Just what he could do, how high he might reach with a Pathfinder at his side, and an AI as powerful as SAM in his back pocket. Scott would loathe him for the thought, and how can Reyes explain it? Trust me, I know I lied to you about everything but I promise I’m not just using you for your position and your power even though I absolutely will? I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care about you, Scott, and that’s true even though it’s also incredibly convenient?

“He thinks I'm Vetra Nyx."

A smuggler. A lawbreaker - but only what’s necessary to survive, to keep moving forward and keep himself safe. A life that had been pushed on him, not one he’d truly chosen for himself. Scott has already forgiven Reyes for the secrets he’s not telling because he thinks he understands what Reyes is, and where it ends. When the truth is there are no limits. Reyes Vidal isn’t Vetra Nyx - he’s the kind of of man who employed the woman who tried to kill her sister.

“I could let him help me. He would help me.” Reyes smiles, just a little, waving a hand at Kadara’s jagged skyline. “He’d sweep me right off my feet, take me away from all this.”

If he asked, if Reyes cranked up the charm and the humility, with maybe just a hint of desperation, Scott would pull all the strings he could without asking for anything in return, never even think to lord it over him. A return to the Nexus. A respectable profession. Hell, the Pathfinder would probably look the other way if Reyes continued to make a modest profit on the side. It would be a little life, a comfortable life, and Reyes thinks this is the only moment he’s ever turned his back on it with anything like regret.

“But that’s not what’s going to happen - and when I have to choose, I won’t choose him. What good is there in telling him that any sooner than I have to?”

Keema isn’t looking at him, eyes cast once more to the horizon.

“Sloane is throwing a party soon, at Outcast headquarters. You’re on the guest list.”

Reyes smirks. Well played. “And just how long were you planning on keeping that to yourself, if I hadn’t started talking about Ryder?”

Keema smiles.

“Of course, you’ll be bringing the Pathfinder.”

“Of course.” He says. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chapter Text

Reyes loves the careful plan, the patient maneuver, lining up each piece in turn - but even he has to admit, there’s nothing quite like action. Just moving through the port feels exciting, a tremble of anticipation. Every sensation is sharper, cleaner - the chatter from the merchants, a hot gust of air from a food stall, the glints of all the weapons he can see and the implied armory beneath - a tell-tale bump under a jacket, the slight drag of cloth marking a hidden gun or blade.

The rush is addictive, especially when the stakes are this high. He’s going in alone - except for Keema, of course - the rest of the Collective keeping their distance. If all goes well, around the time he’s got his hands on the data there will be a sudden strike against a distant Outcast outpost, just enough of a distraction to keep Sloane’s attention elsewhere for the rest of the night. In case they need to move fast.

The other part of the distraction is already on his way there - the Tempest docking a few hours ago, and the Pathfinder punctual even for a party of thieves and ne’er-do-wells. Reyes had kept his invitation brief, and Scott had been brief in return - busy, whatever he’s up to now classified enough that even the Collective’s Nexus connections don’t have much to offer.

It’s easy to get caught up in the anticipation, and set aside his conversation with Keema, the ultimate problem of the Pathfinder. He’s had enough time without Scott in front of him, that Reyes has been able to argue down his feelings back into a familiar shape.

The Pathfinder is useful, so of course Reyes is interested. He likes valuable things. He hasn’t slept with the man yet, that’s all that’s really distracting him. The plan’s coming together, there’s everything to be excited about, and Scott Ryder just happens to benefit from the fallout.

Reyes has never had a feeling in his life that wasn’t manageable. Why should this be any different?

The door to Outcast Headquarters slides open on a very familiar figure being hassled by the bouncer, and Reyes feels a brief moment of pity for Kaetus, who almost certainly wasn’t the one giving this order.

“He’s with me. Reyes Vidal.”

All focus now, the detached calm in the center of the storm. Which is good, because the Pathfinder isn’t quite as nice as everyone thinks - he’s decided to join this party in an Initiative dress uniform. Did Nyx dig it out of storage, or did they have to stitch one together from scratch? A less than subtle gauntlet being thrown, a reminder of the Initiative’s increasing reach, and the perfect thing to keep all eyes on the Pathfinder, and off the small-time smuggler who brought him here.

Reyes can crow silently about his good fortune, about the extra advantage. It lets him ignore how his mouth has gone dry - he wonders if they’re selling posters of the Pathfinder yet in the Nexus gift shops. It all stays under the surface, even as his eyes map the lines of the Pathfinder’s perfectly pressed jacket, the freshly-trimmed hair at the nape of his neck - and his eyes, and his smile when he sees Reyes standing there.

“All for my benefit, Pathfinder? You shouldn’t have.”

Scott shrugs. “Who knew if you’d be here? I figured I’d make good arm candy for someone.”

Reyes grins. “Indeed.”

The guard rolls his eyes and checks his list, waving them through.

Reyes hands over his gun - the Sidewinder that Ryder gifted to him - aware that Scott notices. It wasn’t even part of the plan - it simply hasn’t left his side, better than any gun he’s ever owned. Several members of the Collective inner circle have promised to give it a good home, should his luck ever fail and they be left with the respectful shaking of his corpse to see what falls out.

————————

It’s not the first time that Reyes has been in Sloane Kelly’s throne room, although it’s been months since he’d helped bring in a shipment for a brief glance around. For all the changes to rest of Kadara, the rest of Andromeda, the room doesn’t look much different than it ever did. Sloane has spartan, military tastes - but even so, there ought to be a few decorations, some sign of alliances she’s managed to make off-planet. Not that the Collective wouldn’t have done its best to undercut them - but this place really is all they have. A formidable fortress - but take down the Outcasts here, at the port, and no one’s going to scramble to their aid, or have much interest in avenging them.

“Reyes Vidal. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

Keema is front and center, of course, because handing off the Pathfinder was the plan and this may be one of the most important missions for the Collective before they become whatever it is they’re going to be next. Also because she wants to meet Scott Ryder. No doubt to plant the seeds of her own alliance, helping Angaran interests on Kadara - and because she’s a matchmaking busybody who gleefully ignores the look Reyes gives her - keeping secrets doesn’t mean she can’t still have plenty of fun.

He steps away as soon as he can. Scott looks annoyed but not all that surprised - and no one else notices Reyes was ever there.

“He likes you.” Reyes hears Keema say, just as he moves out of earshot - because she knew he’d hear her - but doesn’t bother listening for Scott’s response.

Reyes thinks he already knows, for what it’s worth.

Kaetus is a turian, and he runs Sloane’s security like a turian, which means guns and force. It means tight and routine and exploitable, as long as Reyes doesn’t try to come at it head on. Keema couldn’t get him direct access to the storage areas, but she did know the names of all the guards on rotation, their shifts and schedules, and where it would likely be worth focusing his efforts.

He’s got connections with the Firefighters, too - as himself, not working for the Collective, and it’s no risk at all for them to make a few credits on his needs, no moral qualms in giving him the tools to screw over other minor villains - a few untraceable hacks for simple locks, passive trackers for tagging any interesting cargo. As far as they care, Reyes is here for a few items the Outcasts have been holding, that deserve a more profitable freedom in the open market.

A cover story, in case this should get complicated. The omnitool he’s wearing has nothing to connect him to anyone, beyond the lie of a job gone wrong, a debt to the Collective owed in a thorough scan of the Outcasts’ back rooms. He even has a trade to offer, a decoy stockpile of Collective merch, in case he has to bargain against a bullet in the head.

Or perhaps the Pathfinder might make excuses for him. It’s regrettable he couldn’t stay at the party, and watch Scott show off that uniform some more. Ryder says he’s not much for parties and small talk, but he’s good at it anyway - and Reyes would enjoy the show, knowing all the cards the Pathfinder’s got in his hand, watching what he chooses to play and what he holds in reserve.

Less daydreaming, more crime. You can get the highlights from Keema later.

The great advantage to stealing in Andromeda is that no matter how much security has been installed, there’s only so many possibilities for the challenges these rooms can offer. Everything on the port has been constructed from a limited number of parts, all the standard pre-fab units they’d brought from Earth, and even that only a subset of what they’d taken off the Nexus. Of course, in the last half-year, the Collective has supplanted that with their own innovation. The Charlatan offers rewards for clever reworking of Initiative equipment, inventive hybrids with Angaran technology - but the Outcasts haven’t kept up their end of that particular arms race, trusting on superior numbers and firepower to compensate for a lack of imagination.

No cameras, either. Why waste a limited resource on what ought to be behind an impenetrable perimeter?

The first room is full of all the things Reyes should be stealing, a good place to circle back to if time allows. He notes at least a few crates with the tell-tale dimensions of extra padding - fragile electronics, if he’s unlucky, or something far more drinkable if he is. In the back is what he’s really looking for, a pre-fab panel made to fit to a ventilation system. Covered over flush to the wall, but easily removed with an equally pre-fab tool.

It’s not anything like a straight-shot, but it does allow Reyes to avoid the patrols in the halls, and he’s pleased to find these spaces aren’t even alarmed because they’re not really even considered spaces, just overlooked odds and ends of the bolted together rooms, a makeshift passageway for one smuggler with grand designs.

The second room is much like the first, more supplies that were taken from the Nexus in that first retreat, now stacked with new crates in shipments taken from Voeld, from Eos. Reyes really shouldn’t linger, but he pauses anyway, idly scanning a few of the inventory tags. Sloane had her own private box, for the shit-show that was the Uprising. Somewhere in this building, there are records that she may have the only copies of, that he’d dearly like to see.

Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, and although Reyes is prepared to make his apologies and excuses later, prepared even to sacrifice another glimpse of Scott in that uniform if it means finding evidence, he still has to find something to prove what he knows is true, to point Bain Massani in the right direction.

The third room is the reminder of why. It might not even be the Outcasts’ primary armory - just a section of a greater stockpile, Sloane gathering her resources for the final strike. The Collective is flexible, and patient, with contingencies on contingencies even when the Charlatan only has suspicions. There’s even a plan that involves throwing out Draulir entirely as chaff, and restarting operations on Eos, in Advent. It’s not ideal - there will still be chaos on Kadara, the Pathfinder - Pathfinders - might even be moved to intervene, and one way or another the Collective’s foothold on this side of the galaxy would disappear. All that time and effort, all the agents lost - Gartan lost…

Except that’s not going to happen, because there’s a fourth room - and in the middle of that room is an open container, and in that container is a Hydra, a few stray glints of Elaadan sand sparkling beneath its feet.

A sample of the merchandise, maybe - one of Meriwether’s underlings clever enough to fill what was left of her boots, to make the offer to Sloane. A fire sale of everything the Pathfinder hadn’t been able to find, that they’d stashed away on Elaadan. Reyes had hoped for this - proof, and more, if he’s lucky. It’s not like they slapped a return address on the crate - he does check, just in case - but if the Hydra was ever turned on, to make sure it was worth sending to Sloane, there will be data in the initialization. No pings to the Nexus, that would give the game up, but the system would still cross-check with local resources, orienting itself based on the data of the Hydras around it, and if one of those Hydras had been turned on long enough, to navigate by the nearby terrain…

Reyes smiles. The numbers unspool in front of him, and somewhere in those numbers could be the exact position of the secret cache on Elaadan. The entire reason for this party, perhaps. He looks up at the wall, imagines he can see through it - a general idea of where Sloane’s throne sits in relation to where he stands, and where she likely feels secure in her position, her inevitable victory.

Reyes’ smile grows.

The raw data takes only moments to gather - he sends it off to Derc and Octans, and they’ll likely have sent a tidy version on to Bain Massani before he’s managed to get out of these rooms.

After a long discussion in Draulir, with half the room still thinking the weapons were all hypothetical, they had finally reached a consensus. Let the mercenary have his data, send his army up against their enemies, with the Collective risking nothing, not even their name attached to the attack. As bad as it would be for Bain to turn on them afterward, at least he’d be doing it off-planet, and Elaadan had never been key in the Collective’s immediate plans. Bain’s supposed to send the reconnaissance back anyway, and wait for an order to attack. Reyes supposes it’ll be a good an opportunity as any, to see if the man feels like keeping his word.

He erases all trace of the message from his omnitool, makes sure nothing is out of place as he moves carefully back out of the room. It’s a temptation not to sabotage the weapons cache as he passes back through - a big enough explosion might render all other plans unnecessary - but that’s too showy for the Collective, and a waste of inventory that won’t belong to the Outcasts much longer.

-

He returns the first room in the same silence, no sign of trouble. Reyes isn’t complaining, far from it - but it is a bit… anticlimactic, when everything goes exactly to plan. He’s made… decent enough time, although there’s probably going to be some groveling to an irritated Pathfinder in his future, and it would be good for his chances and his alibi if Reyes didn’t reappear empty handed.

Which is why he’s elbow deep into the third crate - the Outcasts weren’t nearly so careful matching serials with product here, it was easier finding the damn Hydra - and Reyes is hoping for whiskey because he remembers that first meeting at Umi’s, because there are rumors of a bottle that ought to be here, technically priceless and deserving of finer appreciation than Sloane can provide.

“I’d say this was a surprise, but…”

Scott stands in the doorway, arms crossed, a familiar look of weary annoyance that most of Reyes’ close associates have worn, sooner or later. Still, a far better outcome than trying to sweet-talk an Outcast.

“It’s not what it looks like?” Reyes says, trying to keep the sly grin off his face.

Ryder raises an eyebrow. “You mean using me as a distraction to go through Sloane’s stuff?”

He’s even more distracting now - somehow the combination of the uniform and his irritation is doing all sorts of interesting things with Reyes’ imagination. It’s never been one of his fantasies, getting dressed down by a superior officer, but Reyes can suddenly see the appeal.

“Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like. But it’s for both our benefit, I promise.” So much more than Ryder will ever know, if Massani’s as good as his word.

“Oh, well, if you promise.” Scott says, not an atom less skeptical, arms still firmly crossed.

Reyes is still confident he can talk his way out of this, but the sound of footsteps behind him says he’s not going to get the chance. It’s not the worst thing, to be caught now, with the real damage to the Outcasts already done, but he’s flown under the radar for so long now that it seems a shame to break the streak.

“Shit. We need a distraction.” Reyes says - and he ought to see it coming, at least an inkling, but he’s not expecting it when Scott rolls his eyes and then steps toward him and just keeps coming.

“I hate you.” He says, grabbing the front of Reyes shirt and dragging him in hard for a kiss.

———————

It’s hotter by far, that their first real kiss is also an act, that Scott lets out a needy little moan with his eyes firmly on the door, grabs Reyes’ ass and drags them back against the wall just as the Outcast guard steps into view.

Selling the show, enough that Reyes can hear that the guard’s actually flustered when she clears her throat, and Scott takes his time leaning to the side to look at her, eyes heavy-lidded with interrupted desire and that’s at least fifty-percent bullshit, which is still more than enough to leave him weak-kneed. Watching the Pathfinder lie for him. No one who knows Reyes would be surprised it’s a turn-on.

“Uh… this area’s… off limits.”

“Sorry.” Scott says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just… needed some privacy for a minute.” A flash of that guileless, Pathfinder smile that suddenly seems a lot less wholesome. “You know how it is.”

“Uh, yeah.” The guard shuffles from foot to foot, not looking either of them in the eye. “Just… make it quick.”

“Can do.”

The sound of footsteps in retreat, and they’re alone. Scott’s pushing him away a moment later, but it’s a gentle thing, and despite the annoyance still playing at the corners of his mouth, he doesn’t remove his hand from Reyes’ chest.

“Anyone ever mention you’re good under pressure?” Reyes doesn’t intend for it to come out a little bit breathless, but it’s probably to his advantage.

“It’s been said.” Ryder’s gaze is electric, the aftershocks of that kiss still catching up to him as well. “I think maybe I should find somewhere else to keep hating you for a while.”

Reyes grins. “Careful, Pathfinder. I’ll start thinking this is more than business.”

He steps away, returning to the crate just long enough to hear Scott sigh, and to liberate the bottle that will be following them out.

“That’s what all this was for?” Scott says. “Whiskey?”

“The only bottle of Mount Milgrom in Andromeda. Triple-distilled and 645 years old.” Reyes pats it appreciatively. “This isn’t whiskey - it’s treasure.”

“And Sloane’s.”

Reyes grins. “Not anymore.”

—————————

The sunset washes the whole port in golden light, Kadara looking better, gentler than it has any right to. He could have taken Scott to any number of impressive places, but instead Reyes takes him to a favorite spot in a high, remote corner of the port. A few gently rusting ladders, an empty container to dangle their legs over, and a stunning view of the valley and the sky.

Scott’s been mostly quiet on their way here, and even now, as they share sips from the bottle. But Reyes isn’t imagining it when their fingers brush together, the way Scott doesn’t quite look at him before looking away - yes, he thinks he’s been forgiven for his absence from the party. No doubt the Pathfinder found a few ways to keep himself occupied. Reyes looks forward to the full report later, wonders just how many pages Keema will spend gloating.

If the Outcasts had noticed anything truly off, there’d be word by now, a coded message on his omnitool, at least - but all is quiet and as peaceful as Kadara ever gets, and there’s nothing to do but enjoy it.

The whiskey doesn’t hurt, either - and he’s amused by the thought that both the drink and the company are top-shelf, that he’s enjoying the best Sloane had on offer straight from the bottle, perched above a collection of back alleys. Kian would probably trade all of his non-vital organs and a few of the vital ones for a shot of this stuff, and Reyes contemplates whether or not to save him some, feeling lazy and magnanimous and, in this moment, entirely triumphant, in love with a beautiful world.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it? I sometimes forget.” He hands the bottle off to Scott again. “Is Andromeda everything you hoped it would be?”

“It sure is… something.” Scott says, taking a drink - perhaps not quite so giddy, although he sounds happy enough. “Moments like this? It doesn’t seem right to complain.” He passes the bottle back. “What about you, Reyes? What are you doing here?”

Reyes takes a slow drink, considers his options. It’s probably in his interest to be wry. Flirtatious.

“I want to be somebody.”

It sounds foolish, a child’s wish. It’s the most honest he has ever been.

Silence at his side, for long enough that Reyes looks back, half-expecting the Pathfinder to be amused - and who could blame him? But Scott only looks… proud, and warm, and everything that Reyes is helpless to look away from.

“You’re somebody to me.”

Whatever’s left in Reyes that was pretending this could ever be business as usual finally just throws its hands up, walks away from the table - and he couldn’t say which one of them moves first, only that they’re kissing, because what else is there to do?

Instead of plans or strategies, there’s only room for the feel of the sun-warmed metal beneath his hand, the dusky smell of the air and the softness of Scott’s lips, a leisurely exchange of kisses that neither of them are interested in concluding. Is it safer, or just more annoying that the Pathfinder has no idea what he’s capable of, how thoroughly he’s overturned what Reyes thought he knew of his own heart?

“I don’t suppose you’d want to-”

“Yes.” Scott says. “Absolutely.”

————————

It’s good. It’s better than good.

He takes Scott to his room - to the room of Reyes Vidal the smuggler, the small-time con man. Which means it’s a little cramped and a little worn, but there’s a window with a half-decent view of a sunset that’s now gone from yellow-gold into the lurid oranges, reds and purple-blues of the usual sky on fire. In that room, Reyes takes his time, presses Scott up against the glass, slowly unbuttons that fancy coat with a kiss to the Pathfinder’s throat and a drag of the edge of his teeth, enough to earn him one of those soft moans for real. Scott looks glorious in Kadara’s dying light.

“You’re beautiful, and I’ve wanted you for so long.”

The truth, in the shape of a very bad pickup line. Ryder allows it, but by the smirk on his face, just barely. “And here I thought I was just the unfortunate barrier between you making out with my AI.”

Reyes smiles. “I distinctly remember calling you a bonus.”

The coat drops to the floor with no more convincing - but Scott stills briefly, a flicker of worry beneath the desire, glancing away. “I’m not… uh… I can’t exactly turn SAM off, even now. I just.. it’s uh… never really going to be just the two of us. Just… just so you know.”

Imagine how tedious it would be, if that was the kind of thing that could change his mind.

“I’m counting on it.” Reyes says. “I’d like a copy of the highlight reel. Besides, I do better with an audience.”

Scott chuckles then, worries fading as he reaches out, and then it’s just a matter of tugging up undershirts and undoing buckles, pausing here or there to kiss or touch or further explore the benefits of finally having the time to make good on a stockpile of idle thoughts, the taste of Sloane’s liquor infinitely sweeter on Scott’s lips.

It’s victory, plain and simple, sitting on the edge of the bed with Scott straddling his legs, leaning over him. Shirt discarded, pants half-undone, Reyes’ fingers just brushing the backs of his thighs and it’s partially to savor the moment - what feels like the first time Reyes has allowed himself a chance to breathe in months - but also a pang of that conscience no one would ever believe he had.

It’s not really fair, all this too easy by half, the Pathfinder’s tells all painfully obvious. A distant father, the beloved but equally busy mother. At least one ex who likely set all the terms - and then this chaos in Andromeda, Scott forced front and center into a role he never would have chosen on his own. A little attention, just a little warmth and appreciation freely given and he leans into Reyes’ touch like a flower seeking sun.

“I’m a terrible choice for your first serious relationship.”

“This is a serious relationship?” Scott smirks, and and Reyes allows himself to be pushed back against the bed, to enjoy the weight of all that lean muscle pressing down. Reyes’ preferences are broad, not just for the tactical advantage, although that certainly has its uses. He just… appreciates fine things, however he can get them, and the Pathfinder is certainly among the better of those. The joy in him, the continual wonder at this place they’ve all found themselves - Reyes will never get tired of it, the way everything looks new through Scott’s eyes. Somehow better than anything he’d thought he could want, that he’d known how to want. It isn’t just the Pathfinder leaning in, needing more.

“What do you like, Scott? What can I do for you?” Reyes murmurs between kisses - and risks it, before he can reconsider, reaching up to run one finger across the line of numbers over Scott’s heart. “How do I get my name on the board?”

For just a moment, he’s certain he’s pushed his luck way too far. Scott blinks - startled, wary, blindsided by memory - but Reyes keeps his gaze steady, strokes thoughtfully again over that soft patch of skin - Vidal, you really are a bastard - and he is, and it’s usually worth it, when after a long moment, Scott relaxes under his hands.

“Well, compared with turians, this is already a lot less complicated.”

Reyes smirks. “Nobody ever said I wasn’t easy.”

Scott laughs. “That’s the whole seduction strategy, then?”

“I hoped the whiskey would be more impressive.” Reyes says. “My own fault for aiming for a Pathfinder.”

“You…” Scott says, so close that Reyes can see the flecks of green in his eyes, a move of his hips that makes them both take notice, adding a nice ragged edge to the heavy breathing. “I have never met anyone like you, Vidal. On either side of the universe.”

Reyes shrugs, slides a hand up Ryder’s thigh. “Just a man who is luckier than he has any right to be.”

“I’m not going to get any more in your bed.” Scott says. “You really don’t need to keep sweet-talking me”

“And yet, I don’t want to stop.” That earns him an actual blush - Scott ducking his head away from the praise, his shy prince of the Presidium.

“Tell SAM to turn off your translator for a while.” Reyes says. “I sound sexier that way. I promise.”

“Now there’s the seduction strategy.”

He can’t tell if SAM takes the suggestion, but it doesn’t matter much - there’s nothing else Reyes feels like doing but murmuring foolish endearments along the length of Scott’s spine. All that smooth, unmarked skin for Reyes to savor, even though he knows that Scott’s seen plenty and been through more, scraped up and patched together in the aftermath. At least the Initiative’s putting some of their resources to good use.

He moves and Scott moves with him, laughing, panting - fuck, Reyes, yeah, just like that - and even now, even here, the part of him that’s always two steps back, always judging the terrain makes the quiet observation that cleverness didn’t win him this, not really. Not the negotiation it usually is, even implied - sex as another favor on the board, or to sweeten the deal, a currency with more novelty than real value.

It wasn’t even the lie that got him here - if there still is a lie anymore. Maybe the path to this moment was laid out in all those random messages, bits and pieces they’d tossed to each other from opposite sides of the galaxy. The part of Reyes that always hoped for another, how a day with a message from the Pathfinder was always better than one without.

Reyes has no allegiances - not to country, or family, or code. He has ambitions and appetites, and before now it’s been an easy understanding, using one to feed the other. He wants things, and he pursues them - resources, information, the galaxy. He wants Scott, and that should be as simple as the rest - so why does it seem to open up in front of him now, a universe he doesn’t know how to map?

“Reyes. Hey.” Scott murmurs, breathing hard, eye-to-eye - that look, the one no one has ever given him before. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” Reyes rocks into him, no distance between them now, Scott’s fingers digging into his shoulders as they chase each other over the edge.

——————————

The Pathfinder is a few years younger and fighting fit, so Reyes’ ego is satisfied when they both end up in the same sweaty pile, equally exhausted, at least for the moment. Ryder’s pressed up against his back - not quite cuddling, so that Reyes can move away unimpeded if he chooses to.

Any other night, and he might already be up and halfway to the door - or watching whoever he’d been with make their way out. Even when his lovers didn’t try to kill him, it was all usually about the moment, nothing of much interest for anyone in the aftermath. Ryder seems to be waiting on him to make the next move - still relaxed enough, but if Reyes asked him to leave, no doubt he’d be gone without complaint, no suggestion he wanted it any other way. Presumably, his beloved turian had preferred to keep things professional.

Reyes stretches with lazy deliberation, and turns, leaning into Scott’s arms, unsurprised by the arm that quickly goes around his waist, the hand lightly threading through his hair. Scott won’t ask for what he really wants, not if it risks losing the little he has. A good thing Reyes can be greedy enough for the both of them.

“So, how did I do, SAM?” Reyes says. “On average.”

The voice comes through Scott’s omnitool, somewhere off the side of the bed. “I do not yet have a sufficient sample size to render a verdict.”

It shouldn’t give him that little hit of satisfaction, the official confirmation that Bain Massani didn’t get here before him, but Reyes has never claimed he’s not a petty person.

Scott looks annoyed. “Maybe I was just a little busy since we got to Andromeda?”

“I could forgive you.” Reyes says, with a kiss to apologize - and then another, because it seems like a good idea, and another because why not - and no, finally sleeping with the Pathfinder hasn’t whetted his appetite for anything but trying again, seeing what else he could do that Scott might like. So many possibilities, deeply satisfying to just lie there and consider his options.

“I’ve been hearing…” Scott says, and whatever he’s thinking sounds much less fun. “Tonight, at the party… the whole Port is on edge. It seems like things between the Outcasts and the Collective might be reaching a breaking point.”

“Possibly.” Reyes says blithely. “The Collective isn’t usually that interesting, though I suppose there’s always a first time.”

“I heard they were interesting enough to give you a few problems.” Scott says, running a hand along his arm. “And a few bruises.”

“Just the cost of doing business.” Reyes says, charmed by the thought of the Pathfinder being worried for him, even if the beating was by request. “Far less painful than having to pay half my cut in bribes.”

Scott doesn’t seem convinced, looking at the wall with a thoughtful frown.

“I don’t… I don’t want to overstep, but I can help you get out of the way of… if things go bad. If you need me to, even for a little while.” He’s careful with the words, like Reyes might be offended. “I’m not… I don’t want to intrude on your life, or that you think I - I know you can take care of yourself, but… shit happens.” He lets out a wry little snort. “Especially in Andromeda. There’s no reason to be in the middle of it if you don’t have to be.”

Sweep me right off my feet, take me away from all this.

If Reyes hadn’t put so much time into Kadara, if he wasn’t so far along in his plans and so close to total victory with a deeply satisfying side of revenge, he actually might be tempted to chuck it all. Become a kept man, return to the Nexus, find a dozen smaller cons to keep himself occupied. Run Initiative security around in circles trying to catch him, or just laze about on the sidelines and keep the Pathfinder entertained for a while. Reyes examines the fantasy from all angles, imagines all the ways it could play out to his benefit - and it would, even when it ended. Everyone’s got their limits, and he could certainly push the Pathfinder into walking away, but it would take an awful lot, a strapping-orphans-to-missiles kind of move for Scott to ever consider violence. It’s just not in his nature.

“Afraid of losing your man on the inside?” Reyes teases. “Should the Pathfinder be offering a hand up to outlaws?”

“The Pathfinder’s not doing anything.” Scott says, surprisingly fierce. “It’s just me. I don’t… I don’t owe them everything.” Reyes wonders if there’s anything new behind that vehemence, or more of the same. He could ask - but it’s more fun to try and kiss that scowl away.

“I can handle myself, Scott. I promise you, I’m very good at staying out of the line of fire.”

If Reyes has his way, there won’t be any fire to speak of.

“Keep it as an open invitation.” Ryder says. “Just in case you need-”

“Pathfinder.” A calm voice interrupts. “Incoming message from the Tempest.”

“Dammit, SAM,” Scott lets his head drop back with a groan. “I thought I told you to disable the sex alarm.”

No audible answer, but Reyes sees Scott’s lips twitch with whatever the AI’s reply might be, and he sighs, burrowing his head against Reyes’ shoulder before answering.

“Yeah. Pathfinder here.”

“Ryder, are you alone?”

“No, Liam.” Scott sighs. “I’m having an orgy in Tartarus. It’s awesome. We’ve just about got the toppings bar set up.”

“That’s great. We need you back on the ship. It looks like there’s a situation.”

“My entire life is a situation.” The Pathfinder mutters, but of course in the next moment he’s pulling away, quickly gathering everything Reyes had helped him scatter around the room. It’s considerably less fun to watch in reverse.

“I think we waited too long, to do this.” Reyes says.

“Worth it, though.” The smile is a small, almost private thing - as if Reyes needed the reminder, how stupidly smitten he is for Scott Ryder. “I’m glad we - this was really… it was really good.”

“Next time, maybe we shouldn’t wait so long.”

“Do bad boys bother with a next time?” Scott says, too lightly. Pretending the answer doesn’t matter.

“Well, it’s not like I have any decent blackmail yet.” Reyes says, and stops - and it’s stupid and foolish and of course he can’t say anything but suddenly he wants… he’s not even sure what he wants. At least to give some kind of apology, even if won’t make any sense, even if he doesn’t plan on Scott ever having to find out and it’s a stupid risk to even - “Scott, I don’t…”

Ryder waves him off, shrugging back into his coat. “No, look - I get it. I really do. We don’t have… I’m not expecting you to…” He stops himself. “It’s not like we don’t spend most of our time on different sides of the galaxy anyway, and I still have… absolutely no idea how any of this is going to play out. Making plans in Andromeda doesn’t really seem to work out for me. There’s no reason we shouldn’t just… keep doing like we have been for now. Don’t you think?”

It’s what Scott thinks he wants to hear, and it’s certainly convenient, there’s no reason for him to challenge it - but Reyes wants to anyway, desperately. He wants to give more than Scott thinks he can ask for.

“If you need me, I’ll be there.” Reyes says, a promise he has no capacity to keep as himself. Maybe as the Charlatan, but Scott has no use for that, wouldn’t smile like he is if he knew. Or look at Reyes, like he was a man worth looking at.

“Thanks, Reyes. That really means…” Scott seems to decide showing is better than telling, and leans down for one last kiss, as sweet as all the others. Reyes draws him in close, savors everything he can for the extra stolen moment, and a moment later the Pathfinder is out the door and gone.

He lies in bed, with Scott’s scent and his warmth still lingering on the sheets, flicking through a few random messages on his omnitool, the minor disasters and victories of a simple smuggler who doesn’t have any other accounts to activate - at least until the Tempest has undocked from port and there’s no risk of SAM peering over his digital shoulder.

It gets more interesting after that, the rest of the galaxy coming back into focus. A message from one of the satellites, concerning some transmissions intercepted from the Kett. Reyes passes those along to Efvra free of charge - sometimes the benefits of being a good neighbor exceed any other kind of profit. An update on some unexpected seismic activity out in the Badlands - origin unknown, which is hardly a surprise, but at least nothing critical seems to be at risk.

Keema is congratulating him on his successful evening - because she no doubt had eyes on him the moment he left the party, just so she could get a head-start on the gloating.

Reyes opens a file that contains a single image. Pale yellows and jagged shadows and the washed-out, too-bright burn of an Elaadan morning. It could be anywhere on the planet, just one more anonymous cluster of scoured, lifeless structures nestled in the corner of an overhang. Except that Derc and Octans had put in the overtime, and it seemed that Bain Massani felt like being a man of his word. Three words beneath the picture of what Sloane Kelly thinks is her unassailable future.

- say the word

Reyes looks up to the ceiling, and imagines the sky beyond, and smiles.

Chapter Text

The sun is up, though deep shadows still nestle in the valleys of the Badlands. Reyes has been awake for hours already - time doesn’t mean much now, beyond a series of numbers and the things that will happen as they tick down. A plan for the worst - and last - day of Sloane Kelly’s life.

She’s at her ruthless best when she has a target to aim for, and so the strategy was always to never give her anything to put in her sights - until today. This is the closest the Collective has ever launched to a full-out attack, and with any luck there will be so much happening so fast that the Outcasts won’t realize what has happened until its over.

A perfect storm of bad news - every system they could sabotage, every shipment they could take hold of. Notifying Initiative forces of secret Outcast outposts they’ve been watching for months. Targeting every weakness in the span of a few hours - and the coup de grace in the center of the storm, Kaetus’ battered body left draped on Sloane Kelly’s own throne, nothing the Collective could have done without help from the inside.

A direct challenge from the Charlatan, the coordinates to bring this all to a close. Sloane hasn’t responded yet, but Reyes knows on some level that it’s working, because she didn’t immediately send out word to her people in the Badlands, didn’t lock down the port. She doesn’t want word spreading around, that her control might be slipping. Who can she even trust now, to order the counterattack?

Reyes is outside the port anyway - too risky to stay, in case Sloane does decide to wall it off. The Collective’s been ordered radio silent on the public channels, as if no one’s in charge of this assault at all. At the moment, it’s mostly true. A dozen cells, all working independently - a coordinated strike across Kadara to back Sloane into a corner, to ensure that the only exit she can take is the one they provide for her.

Keema was gone well before sunrise - unreachable, waiting for news on the final outcome. If Reyes doesn’t succeed, she’ll claim an ambush, just one more attack by the Collective barely repelled. It was always the deal, in the end this wasn’t her battle to win, and there’s no point in begrudging her in needing to put herself and her people first. The fact that she’s staying out of it is more than enough, for this.

The Collective’s spread as thin as it’s ever been, far more the illusion of overwhelming force than anything real. Reyes doesn’t expect to win every battle today, but there are key people at all the right places - like here, crouched behind a boulder with the Pala brothers, overlooking the main communications terminal in the Badlands.

The Outcasts had kept the station in the ass-end of nowhere and well guarded, but their main line of defense had always been the assumption that no one would want to risk cutting off their own ability to broadcast through the back half of Kadara, or was at all strong enough to hold the position for long. Reyes doesn’t need to hold the building long, and everyone already has their orders. All he’s waiting on is one last call - for Sloane to receive word that things on Elaadan have followed the rest of her day off a cliff.

“The worst part about this is that if Massani convinces the Initiative we need to be taken down next, we’ve just armed him for the task.” Derc says, eyes on an outpost that has probably heard at least some of the news, passed it along - that must be starting to get nervous. “Even if he doesn’t keep all the guns-”

“The worst part about this is that your brother’s favorite drink was Tupari Sport.” Reyes says, unholstering his gun. “The blue kind, for my victory toast? It’s almost not worth winning.”

“Gartan never was much for drinking.” Octans reappears from behind his cloak, thumb already on the detonator. “Or he just wanted you to regret mourning him.”

“He always did have a strange sense of humor.” Derc shrugs, checking his own weapon.

Reyes smiles. “It’s why we got along so well.”

Every minute feels like an eternity, with an eye on the door and an ear on the Outcast’s public channel - Sloane may not want to advertise how her days is going, but it’s no longer just her decision to make, not when it’s part of the orders given to Massani - a way to rattle her even further, to snap the jaws on another trap, if he could let someone get to the radios just long enough -

“… Under attack! … the Collective is… can’t get the… the fuck did they even…?!”

A burst of static, and then silence. Reyes couldn’t have written it better himself. Somewhere, Sloane is hearing that, or having the news brought to her - and pity anyone who can’t dodge having to give her an update today. Maybe now she’s going to start sending orders, and maybe she’ll start getting no responses, even from places she thought no one knew about, that no one could reach.

Octans presses the detonator, and the base’s first transport explodes in a showy fireball, flipped into the second with the force of the blast. The Salarian’s cloaked again and gone in the next moment, with any luck working his way behind the initial rush of Outcast soldiers who have charged out to see where the attack’s come from - more of them than expected - maybe Sloane shoring up her defenses in a moment of unexpected premonition, or just dumb luck and bad timing. Not everything will go as planned - and this is why Reyes is out here himself, after all, to make sure it all works out even if they have to improvise through a few extra enemies.

More than a few, the Outcasts standing their ground in what would be an impressive, impenetrable wall if their man wasn’t already on the inside, and Reyes can only hope they’ve drawn the main force out, that there aren’t more than the Salarian -

The explosion that rips through the building is the kind that Octans usually considers too showy - especially with a second, bone-shaking blast that has Reyes’ omnitool flickering before it goes out entirely. A new moment of chaos to take advantage of, Derc and Reyes pushing their attack as the Outcasts attempt to cover multiple fronts - and just around the time he thinks to worry, Octans flicks back into view, taking down the very last of their opposition.

“Grenade. Blew out the whole system.” He says, as the smoke continues to billow out of what’s left of the entrance, raising his own fried omnitool. “Going to be hard to broadcast anything from here.”

“Still better than the alternative.” Reyes says.

He hates not knowing - hates being out of touch even for a moment, even if it was built into the plan. Reyes reminds himself he built the best parts of the Collective to run on their own, and he trusts his skills in that regard. With Elaadan, with what they’ve just done, the situation ought to be reaching its terminal velocity. Sloane might refuse to meet his expectations, might not respond to the challenge - or she might decide to charge out even earlier than he’d expected. It would be a terrible shame to miss the grand finale, but there are a few others who might Charlatan admirably enough in his stead.

No telling how much data in the building was corrupted from the blast, and despite the fact they’re short on time, it’s important to save what’s left from the encroaching flames. Even with the extra time it takes to remove the drives, the occasional creak as the whole structure seems to consider the benefits of falling down around them.

One of the brothers gives a bark of warning, and Reyes peers through the impressive hole in the wall to see a small transport speeding up the road, making no attempt to hide itself. Lynx is behind the wheel, looking mostly unharmed, which means that her part in all this must have gone even more smoothly than their own, although whatever she’s here for -

“We have a complication.” Lynx says, halfway to him before the engine’s stopped, calling up an image of the port on her omnitool.

A few possibilities - but at least it’s not bodies, not Sloane winnowing out those Collective agents still in the port, no new heads piked alongside the remarkably durable remains of the Kett.

It’s not bodies, but it’s not much better, as his gaze flicks to the picture she’s showing him, to the docks - and the instantly recognizable profile of the Tempest.

It was always a possibility, because everything is. No matter how unlikely, no matter what the logistics or how many times he’d checked personally on the Pathfinder’s projected itinerary, what should have been a certainty. No matter that by every record, Ryder was supposed to be on the other end of the galaxy. Anything can happen, and sometimes the universe seems to take a specific joy in reminding him exactly who’s in charge.

“Where is he?”

“Guess.”

Does Sloane know? Reyes thought he’d made a thorough job of it, obscuring the Pathfinder’s actions on Kadara right alongside his own. Spreading a few rumors where they’d be the most useful - Vidal the smuggler crowing about his conquests so loudly it was impossible to believe he’d actually bedded the Pathfinder, or perhaps Ryder had indulged in a bit of slumming it on his last spin through, and Reyes had been the warm body in the right place at the right time.

Nothing serious. Nothing that mattered.

Keema could have turned on him. It would be her last real opportunity to score points with Sloane, and though Reyes doesn’t know what it could possibly profit her, it doesn’t mean there might not be a reason. Or no reason. As much as Reyes plays at confident certainty, he knows better than to believe it. The universe is a constant unknown, and it is thrilling to test himself against the chaos. Decidedly less so, when he imagines Scott dumped somewhere, the way they’d left Kaetus. Or worse. Sloane holding the Pathfinder hostage, if not for the tactical advantage than purely out of spite.

He can be proud of everything he’s built and schemed and taken - until he thinks about Scott dying for it.

Of course the Pathfinder will be with her, because he thinks if things goes wrong, he might able to mitigate some of the damage. Scott thinks he wants to put a face to the name, to finally unmask the Charlatan - and even now he’s probably trying to think of a way to negotiate through whatever comes after.

And Reyes thought he ever had any hope of holding on to a man like that.

“Change in plans?” Lynx says.

“No.” Reyes lowers the binoculars. “We end this. Now.”

In all senses of the word.

———————————————

“Pathfinder’s at the bottom of the hill. Looks like he’s having an argument.”

“Sloane would have wanted him to come alone.” Reyes says. It has to be Nyx he’s arguing with, that it’s a stupid idea because it is a stupid idea, and he can’t imagine how fast Scott must be talking, to convince her it’s all right. Maybe SAM’s making reassurances of its own, that he can keep Scott safe.

Reyes has thought over at least a half-dozen possibilities, on how to distract the AI just long enough to take the Pathfinder down. He wonders who else has started thinking about it.

“He’s on the move.”

Reyes had picked up a spare omnitool from the last few Collective members packing up and leaving Draulir - the base had been mostly abandoned already, but now it’s completely dark save for a few conflicting, false leads for SAM to spend his time chewing on, in case this goes the way it most likely will. He can’t say that Derc or Octans won’t take a shot at Sloane - he couldn’t blame them if they did - but he trusts that they’re careful enough not to catch the Pathfinder in the crossfire.

Other than this impending disaster, the day has been a near solid string of successes - and even the scattered failures weren’t critical. A little early to tell the final result of Elaadan, but Massani hasn’t immediately declared war, so that’s something. If Reyes could just stop giving a shit about what Scott Ryder thinks about all this, it would almost be a flawless victory.

He rests his hand on the Sidewinder, just for a moment.

“Swap guns with me.”

Derc notices the odd request, but he doesn’t comment, no reason not to swap Reyes’ custom piece for his own unremarkable weapon. As if it will make any difference in the end, for what’s ahead - but still, he doesn’t want Scott to see it, to think…

“Kelly’s here.”

“Tell the pilot to standby for pickup. We may need to move fast.”

“The Pathfinder’s still off limits, then?” Derc murmurs.

“He’s on his own side, just like the rest of us.”

Derc doesn’t press, like he already knew the answer. Reyes wonders if he’s been talking to Keema.

It certainly won’t be dull to have the Pathfinder as his enemy - more interesting than it ever was with Sloane. He’ll have to be sharper than ever, just to stay ahead of SAM, but Reyes has a couple ideas in that direction and the Firefighters are a decent resource in his back pocket. There’s still that matter of the Kett that ought to be the Pathfinder’s prime interest, at least for the immediate future. Reyes has options, and counter-options - and in the end, his unfounded optimism is nearly the size of his ego. Scott has a penchant for bad boys - and there are few things in the universe quite as seductive as the mistake you know you shouldn’t be making.

The only thing left to do is be that mistake - and so as Sloane and the Pathfinder step into the room, the Charlatan finally makes his grand entrance.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

Sloan’s eyes narrow. “I’m here for the Charlatan, not some third-rate smuggler.”

Dios mio. Reyes would almost be impressed with himself - if not for the way Scott has frozen, or the hollow tone in his words when he finally finds his voice.

“They’re one and the same.”

Reyes wonders if Ryder ever second-guessed himself, ever suspected but gave him the benefit of the doubt. He wouldn’t be the first person to regret it.

“Surprise.” Reyes smiles, because there’s nothing to do but play this out, even as Ryder’s expression cools like a shuttle’s wings frosting over in high atmo, every atom of warmth and welcome just gone. He’d known this was going to hurt Scott, but knowing and seeing are not the same thing.

“The whole time… it was all a lie.”

Sloane glances between them, her confusion quickly turning to amusement, lips curved in a wicked grin. “Oh dear. A lover’s spat, Pathfinder? On Kadara? What, did he tell you that he’d never felt like that about anyone before?”

The only thing that keeps Reyes from shooting her is knowing that it’s going to happen anyway. He looks to Scott, already a lost cause but can’t help himself, even if the Pathfinder won’t meet his eyes, even if he’s obviously scanning the room, waiting for the ambush. Already, Reyes is the enemy.

“I didn’t lie about everything. You know who I really am.”

Sloane makes a noise of impatient disgust. “You said you wanted to settle things. How?”

“A duel. You and me, right now. Winner takes Kadara Port.”

Reyes is playing the odds - knows that it will appeal to Sloane’s bravado, her preference for taking the situation head-on, wanting a simple solution - a violent one. If Kaetus were here, he’d be the voice of badly needed reason, but of course, Reyes had made sure that wouldn’t happen.

“You sure you don’t want to get in on the action, Pathfinder?” Sloane says - and oh, that isn’t ideal. Reyes wonders if he might have assumed wrong, that Scott couldn’t be pushed to violence - he certainly doesn’t look like someone hoping for a peaceful way out of this now.

Reyes is already constructing the bare outline of a backup, backup plan - shoot Sloane anyway, and hope Ryder aims for something more painful than lethal - when Sloane steps forward.

“I’ll take those terms.”

The backup plan it is, then. There’s no way SAM won’t notice the sniper, that Scott won’t intervene, but it’s still worth the shot - so to speak. Maybe they’ll get lucky and take her out, even with the Pathfinder’s interference. It’s hard to tell if Sloane thinks this is at all legitimate, or if she’s just happy for the chance to finally shoot someone.

In any case, they’re going to need a quick escape, and as Reyes lifts his hand, circling and ready to draw, he’s already preparing to run, to regroup - but this isn’t over. Far from it. With Kaetus temporarily out of commission, Keema might be able to move herself into an even better position in Sloane’s inner circle - and they’ve gained a lot here, even if they don’t get her today, even as Reyes turns his back to the Pathfinder, even as Scott will certainly warn -

The sniper’s bullet barely makes a sound. Sloane’s eyes go wide in confusion, even more than the pain - no grand last stand, just a sucker, a mark falling for the promise of a final showdown that was never going to happen - and she gasps, and folds - and it’s over.

Reyes allows himself a moment of simple, ugly satisfaction, looking down, watching Sloane’s corpse watch nothing at all.

“Bang.”

The Pathfinder hasn’t moved, staring down at the body.

“… she said I was honorable.” Scott’s lips press together into a thin line. “I said I’d watch her back. I guess we all get to learn something new about each other.”

He turns, and walks away.

Reyes curses under his breath, his people on the perimeter already stepping in, excitement filling the air. A few of them glance at the Pathfinder, but no one stops him as he moves past - only the Charlatan has that right.

“Get her out of here.” Reyes orders, already rushing to follow. “Prepare the crew, Kadara Port is ours tonight.”

The very last thing he wanted was for any of this to touch Scott, for him to be marked by the ugliness of this life. For everything between them to be reduced to a terrible mistake, Reyes now nothing more than a dangerous problem for the Pathfinder to solve. Scott looking back through every conversation with nothing but regret, only to see what he might have let slip in an intimate moment, wishing it had never happened at all. Reyes had always been reaching so far beyond his grasp. You didn’t get to treat a boy like Scott Ryder like this and expect it to work out.

“Scott. Pathfinder. Wait.”

Amazingly, Ryder slows, stops just shy of the cave’s entrance. Which gives Reyes the chance to realize he really should have come up with something to say.

“You were never meant to -”

“I didn’t do it for you.” Scott cuts him off. “Sloane was never going to cooperate for long with an Initiative presence on Kadara. Eventually, if the Outcasts stayed in power, it would have bit us in the ass. People would have been hurt, innocent people. I couldn’t trade those lives against my own-” He stops, looks Reyes in the eye. “Was the Collective the better deal?”

“You’re free to use whatever site you wish.” Reyes knows that the Pathfinder’s already scouted the area, set a beacon long ago. “Kadara Port welcomes the Initiative with open arms. The Charlatan wants peace, he always has.” The kind of thing he’s been waiting to say, a gift to lay at Scott’s feet after all this turmoil and strife, the white flag he could offer - he didn’t lie about this, at least. “None of this was meant to hurt you.”

The Pathfinder smiles, and it’s an ugly, ugly thing.

“No, I imagine I was barely part of the equation.”

He looks away, out into the light.

“You know… we have these poker nights, every now and then.” He says. “Gil’s a natural, I might as well just hand him my credits and save the time. SAM always offered to help me with his tells, but it never seemed like the right thing to do.”

Reyes blinks. Scott shrugs.

“If it helps, you’re an excellent liar. SAM spent a lot of time just compiling the baseline data. He knew that it was happening, but not exactly the why. I didn’t ask. I figured that… I didn’t want….” A slight twitch in his expression, gone in an instant. “It must have been good entertainment, at least. How you had the Pathfinder right where you wanted him. What a fucking dupe he was, what a cheap date. Or was I just extra insurance? Did I even matter enough for you to bother shitting on?”

He doesn’t sound angry, not as much as he should. A strange, flat tone in his voice, and Reyes knows exactly where that’s coming from.

“SAM, let him talk to me.”

“I’m right here, Vidal.” Scott says.

“No, you’re not, Pathfinder.” Reyes says. “If this is the last time I’m going to talk to you, I want it to be you.”

“No,” Scott snaps, but there’s more heat in his voice now, a little less control. “You want this to be easy, so you can get on with the next part of your grand plan. Why not just cut the bullshit and tell me - what do you really want, Reyes? Where does this end? Access codes to the Nexus? Another planet for the collection? Or just a big-ass pile of credits and a Tempest for your very own?”

“I want what you want.” Reyes says. “I never lied about that - I never had to lie. I was using you, Scott. I was using you, and I care about you. Both are true, and that hasn’t changed.”

If anything, it’s worse than ever. The clinical distance Reyes always prided himself on, as easy as breathing - it hurts now, just to see Scott hurt, to see all that doubt and distrust and know he put it there, that Scott thought he was a better man and he was wrong.

“And now you’ve got everything you wanted.” Ryder says. “Congratulations.”

Reyes wonders if this is what Alec Ryder looked like when he was angry - the Pathfinder standing in front of him but galaxies away. As cold as an airlock breach, enough to burn if he dared reach out and touch.

“I don’t have everything I want.” Reyes says. “Not yet.”

Scott lets out a disdainful little laugh. “Is Kaetus still alive? You’re know you’re going to have to kill him, right? Like you killed that man near Spirit’s Ledge.”

Reyes is used to this, too - that when he does miscalculate, all the bills come due at once.

“You found that.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, voice flat. “I found ‘that’. How many more have you got out there?”

Reyes has rarely been more truthful than this, and it’s never mattered less.

“‘Operative’ Lacerta was my co-pilot. We left together, during the Uprising. He got caught, and killed himself before Sloane could force him to give anything up. Before I could find him. He was a good friend - better than I knew - and he died protecting me. I didn’t ask him to do that. I never thought he’d do that.” Reyes says. “It’s not something I enjoy. It’s never been my first choice - but I’m not going to apologize for what I did to try to get him back.”

“Nothing’s off the table, huh?” The Pathfinder’s eyes are shining - he looks away, eyes fixed on the blank wall of the cave. “God, Dad was right. I need to grow the fuck up.”

Reyes doesn’t want Alec Ryder to be right about anything, especially about them, about whatever part of Scott thought all this was worth the chance.

“If SAM knows when I’m lying, then he knows when I’m not. Ask him to tell you, right now. Am I telling the truth, Scott? I didn’t do any of this to hurt you. I wasn’t happy, knowing it was the most likely outcome. All of this was in motion before I ever knew who you were. You’re not disposable. You’re not a piece to be thrown away when it suits me.”

He’s relieved for the slight pause that follows, can only hope it’s SAM putting in a few words in his favor.

“So what am I?”

“… very important.” He can be so smooth when he’s chasing a score, when the words don’t matter. Now here Reyes is, trying to be honest, to explain things he’s barely been able to admit to himself, and every option seems wrong, cheap and meager. “Scott, I…”

A shout for him, from inside the cave, someone needing his advice or permission or approval because he’s the Charlatan and this is his hard-won victory. He ought to be stepping up as master of ceremonies, ready to enjoy the fruits of all that labor and Reyes looks away to tell them to wait - he can still salvage this, he just needs a moment - but when he turns back, he’s alone.

“Scott? SAM?” Reyes says, but not loud. There’s no one to hear.

—————————————————

It was always meant to be an understated sort of coup - quiet and methodical, if not entirely bloodless - enough to take down a few more of Sloane’s most loyal by surprise, with others vanishing by any possible avenue, or following their leader out in brief blazes of meaningless glory. The Outcast insignias come down. The doors that kept people out of the Port are blown off their hinges. Keema’s the one to send the call out across the Badlands - come back. Come home.

The Collective bring Sloane’s body in through the front gates, for all to see. No real ceremony, but no deliberate disgrace either - that’s not how the Collective does business. Keema is there to receive the leader of the Outcasts, to assume command and send the body back to the Initiative. A gesture of good faith - a warning, that there are those on Kadara capable of doing what even the Nexus never could.

Reyes bugs the coffin, because why not hear what the Initiative has to say when they pop the lid?

All of it happens under Angaran banners - and the Collective… evaporates, in what was always the ultimate plan. Victory and invisibility. The celebrations take place mostly in small groups in the Badlands, or in spaces out of sight of the rest of the Port. Private parties in the Song, in Tartarus. Everyone knows they did it, but no one knows exactly who or how or where to find them now - so they’re everywhere, and who knows what they might do next.

The Charlatan’s enjoying the spoils of victory. Everyone will swear they saw him at this celebration or that one, or that she was buying rounds for the inner circle in the back rooms of Tartarus. Or that Keema was the Charlatan all along, obviously - or that the Charlatan never existed at all, just a phantom for Sloane to chase and shoot at, a decoy to blind her to an internal rebellion that finally took her down.

Good stories, all of them. It’ll be interesting, seeing what parts might prove the most useful.

Keema already has her people settling into the former Outcast headquarters - Reyes recognizes a few familiar faces, they nod to him as he moves past - entirely unremarkable, just one of her human lackeys. Already there’s a sense of new life in the port, Kadara belonging to the Angara again.

It’s not a surprise, to find Caelum waiting outside the door of what Reyes realizes is the cell that Gartan died in. A bit of poetic irony in that, though with Sloane dead, the need to satisfy any kind of score is done. All of that replaced with the look on Scott’s face - the hurt, the betrayal, and it would be so much better if Reyes was regretting a wasted opportunity, losing the Pathfinder as a resource - or even the easy fun of it, their brief time together. Anything selfish - and not that he’s certain that without ever wanting to, he’d gone and kicked Scott in exactly the same place he’d been wounded so many times before.

I’m not worth it, Scott. Any number of people would be happy to vouch for that.

He’s got someone keeping an ear out, just in case SAM moves against them, in case Scott makes that call to the Nexus - the Charlatan’s dangerous, his name’s Reyes Vidal and he’s taken Kadara and send me an army, send the Pathfinders and we can destroy him - but there’s nothing. Whatever the Pathfinder’s business on Kadara, the call’s been made, the first shipments for the settlement are on their way - and he has no reason to ever return.

“Congratulations.” The turian says, his subharmonics always unnervingly even, something past sarcasm. Hard to tell what he’ll do, once things open up fully. Reyes wonders if he might lose him to Massani. If that’s going to be a problem.

“Hold the applause. We’re not finished yet.” Reyes says.

Caelum looks toward the door. “It will take time to verify anything he says, to get any useful intel - he knows he’s not walking out of here. If you want me to get started…”

“No.” Reyes says, and considers. “Can I borrow your pistol?”

Caelum hands it over, and if he’s curious he doesn’t ask why Reyes takes it, or leaves his Sidewinder by the door.

He isn’t entirely sure that Sloane ever believed he was the mastermind, that anyone she hadn’t identified as a threat might somehow surprise her. Reyes steps into the room. Kaetus looks up from where he’s chained to the wall, face still marred with the morning’s beating, and blinks twice - and believes it.

“Oh.”

“Better me than the Nexus, I think.” Reyes says. “You made too many enemies on your way out. The Director’s pride would have never let it stand, probably sooner than you were ready for.”

“Tann’s an idiot.”

“An idiot with resources, and options on where to use them. If he’d demanded Kadara, no one would have told him no.”

“Is that what your Pathfinder told you?”

Reyes shrugs lightly. “He didn’t know about any of this. If Sloane had been able to put aside her grudges, she’d still be alive. The Pathfinder would have cut his deals with her, the Collective never would have had a chance, and we both know it.”

Kaetus’ mandibles flex slightly, but he doesn’t respond.

“If it’s any comfort, she didn’t suffer much.” Reyes says. “Far less than Gartan did, at any rate.”

“Is this the point where you tell me I’ll regret it if I don’t start talking?” It’s grief, Reyes thinks, weighing the rage in his subharmonics down until it sounds like boredom. Grief - because it was always a point of gossip, just what had inspired Sloane’s second to stay so loyally at her side - and now Reyes knows for sure. Kaetus would have wanted to die for her, or at least with her. With that taken away, the only thing left for him is loyalty, and Turians are nothing if not loyal.

“I admit there are a few things I wouldn’t mind knowing, but you don’t seem like the type to tell me.” And Reyes finds that he no longer has the appetite for what it would take to find out. “The Pathfinder would want me to let you walk away. But if I did, you’d just go after him. I can’t let that happen.”

“I’d feed him to the Kett.” Kaetus says. “I’d hurt him first, though. Humans hurt easy.”

There’s nothing Reyes particularly enjoys about this moment, no extra satisfaction in tying up one last loose end. If he’d had more information sooner, there might have been another option, a way to not sacrifice what might have proved useful. He flicks the safety off the borrowed gun.

“They’ll come for him someday.” Kaetus says. “You’ll make the wrong enemy, and you won’t be the one pay for it.”

Reyes will be the best. He’ll be better than the Shadow Broker, he’ll be however good it takes, and there’s no chance that will ever happen.

“What do you want me to say, when they ask who you were?”

Kaetus laughs, one short, sharp bark surprised out of him - and he looks up, nothing but that fury that looks like boredom and Reyes lifts the gun and pulls the trigger and then there’s nothing at all.

The silence seems anticlimactic, after all the months and casualties and plans on top of plans, after everything they’d done and tried to do to each other. As far as the rest of Andromeda is concerned, nothing more than a turf war between rival gangs over what was never theirs to begin with, a messy end to a messy chapter in what will all be better off forgotten.

Reyes pulls the bottle of Tupari out of his jacket, raises it to the sky and takes a long, awful drink.

Chapter Text

Flying never gets old, it never gets less beautiful, and Reyes never takes it for granted, watching the atmosphere stretch itself thin around him, the pale gradients shifting up into darkness, the pull of the engines and the change when a planet finally shrugs its shoulders and lets him go.

Every time, it’s a reminder of how far he’s come, all the ways it could have played out other than this freedom.

No real reason he needs to stay on Kadara, with Keema firmly establishing her position and happy to let him know if the people he left in charge are following the Charlatan’s orders. He has a couple of his people looking after his people anyway, a few others keeping an eye on Keema - but there’s a rather large galaxy out there, and no matter how many eyes and ears he has in how many places, there’s nothing quite like seeing it for himself.

He’s hardly flown off empty handed, the ship’s hold packed to the brim with bundles of Kadara’s increasingly popular recreational botany experiment. It had been easy enough to negotiate with the two wilderness entrepreneurs, especially when they’d sobered up enough to admit they had no way of shipping their product off-world, and the amount they could earn from an agreement was far more than they could ever pull in by themselves, even with the Collective taking a cut. All the Charlatan had to do to keep them happy was continue to fund research and development, which wasn’t a bad idea anyway - everyone profited, everyone won.

One more business it’s easier to operate through Keema, the plant long familiar to the Angarans but not effective enough with their physiology to make it worth cultivating - not until now. Which gives it some protection from the Initiative, coming through the aliens they’re trying to make nice with rather than the Exiles. Just in case they decide to start enforcing uptight rules that were archaic before Reyes was born.

The Initiative is still scrambling for pilots skilled enough to navigate the Scourge and dodge the Kett while moving supplies, and Reyes finds he can pick up work along the way to wherever he wants to go, whatever might be most interesting to see. Lynx has returned to working with the Asari, feeding him a steady diet of mid-level plans and ambitions, with an eye toward desires the Collective might be able to fill. A middle man, while everyone gets their feet under themselves.

A quiet, backdoor trade exists between Elaadan and Havarl, bits and pieces of excavated Remnant tech being sold to what is essentially Angaran interests on Aya, studied by their scholars on a planet the Initiative has far less of a foothold on, enough sacred space for the Angara to keep their business to themselves. Reyes had heard mutterings - it doesn’t take much to guess what has them worried, that the aliens and their Pathfinder had swept in to flip the viability switch on nearly half a dozen worlds they’d been barely holding on to, and it might be good to figure out how he’d done what he’d done, just in case these new allies from the Milky Way ever turned out anything like the Kett, in case the Pathfinder decided just to flip that switch off again.

Reyes is diverting some of his own capital into the study of Remnant tech, mostly out of simple curiosity. A bit of a loose definition, what exactly is Reyes’ capital, versus what belongs to the Charlatan or the Collective, but with Kadara newly theirs, with enough opportunity for all kinds of profit, there will be some time before anyone has reason to complain.

Bain Massani continues to hammer away at the Kett every chance they give him - and every day the Initiative and their allies are stronger, and if the Kett don’t always lose ground they certainly aren’t gaining any.

It’s an impressive enough show that his forces are given official Initiative jurisdiction over the reclaimed H-047c and most of the space around it. Reyes finds out about that one after a long night of attempting to ingratiate himself a bit further with the smugglers running goods in and out of Aya - a whole system of rules in place among the Angarans, to avoid the never-ending blood feuds that such large families might inspire when guns get drawn, and whether or not the new arrivals are fully trusted, it’s far easier to claim plausible deniability when it’s an alien ship moving the goods.

No rest for the wicked, and it’s already daylight in the parts of the galaxy that matter - and by mid-morning he’s negotiated a very tidy business proposition. The price of a modest percentage of any business conducted, and a few more of those Hydras that Bain hadn’t cheated him out of on Elaadan because he likely knew they’d end up in his hands sooner or later, and the Collective had another very well-guarded, invisible route for whatever might need to flow a little more freely to the other side of the galaxy.

The Charlatan, of course, receives a steady and increasing stream of reports from all corners, not just Collective agents but eager informants looking to make a trade, obvious lies and interesting possibilities, leads on the Arks that have yet to be found, mineral shipments on distant asteroids. A set of pictures obviously snatched in an instant, at an odd angle - but that’s Pathfinder Ryder after another sortie with the Kett, making a stop at the colony on Elaadan, a bit of the constant smoothing over of grudges to keep the peace with New Tuchanka, and Bain Massani is there, standing beside him - and there’s the mercenary’s hand, just for a moment, pressed against the small of Scott’s back.

He did say he’d trade you.

It can hardly be a surprise, or the worst outcome. So far, there’s no sign Bain’s working for anyone but himself, for any reasons but the ones he claimed the first time that they’d talked. He might even like Scott for more than just being the Pathfinder, for being useful and convenient. The mercenary doesn’t take any bullshit and hopefully can keep Scott from taking on more than his share.

SAM had to know Reyes was telling the truth - Scott had to know - but of course there’s a difference between truth in the moment and the whole story, and whatever his feelings, there are still a thousand better reasons it still had to end.

What’s far less obvious is why Ryder hasn’t chosen to strike back openly against the Charlatan. He must know what Reyes is up to - it’s difficult to imagine Bain not mentioning their little arrangement on Elaadan, what happened to the weapons he hadn’t taken for himself. It would be so simple - broadcast Reyes Vidal’s name and face across the galaxy, and things would get much more interesting very quickly. Or even just pass a handful of words to the right person. He knows the Pathfinder’s got the ear of a Nexus strike team - they’d probably let him borrow it for a weekend jaunt, to take down a burgeoning crime lord. Not at all counting what possibilities SAM might be able to calculate with a few spare moments, that the AI could follow through with on its own without anyone the wiser.

Ryder didn’t even ask him for the gun back. Reyes shouldn’t be annoyed by that - it’s a damn good gun.

In the ungenerous corners of his mind, when he’s feeling especially tired or grumpy, Reyes will bitch to himself about Ryder, his fancy ship and his pedigree life and how easy it is for him to pass judgment - but it’s bullshit, and he knows it. Stupid to pretend he didn’t like the Pathfinder for the very things that made him so untouchable, something he wouldn’t ever get to keep. And Reyes is ravenous for the galaxy in a way that Ryder couldn’t have competed with, and shouldn’t have ever had to try.

It ought to feel like relief, if Scott isn’t going to play the jilted lover, no hint of that sword being dangled over his head. Reyes ought to be pleased, that sooner or later he’s sure he’ll hear the word, the Pathfinder moving on, maybe finally finding some turian smart enough to realize what he’s being offered, and Reyes can commit his full attention to expanding his influence, on infiltrating and pressing his advantages for as long as he can. He doesn’t need to spend any more time daydreaming, trying to come up with plans, ways of goading Ryder into paying attention when it’s the last thing that will help with any of the Charlatan’s ambitions.

“Worried about the storm?”

The smooth subharmonics draw him out of his thoughts, to the mostly naked turian studying her omnitool on the bed beside him. It’s a space reserved for pilots caught up in Voeld’s complicated weather patterns - less lethal than they used to be, the spans between the storms growing more significant, but still nothing to do when they sweep in but wait patiently, or find other ways to stay entertained. Warm enough beneath the covers, but the wind is howling loud enough to pull at every joint and seam, ice and snow pinging down like someone’s throwing boxes of nails across the roof.

He’d been scouting the turian pilot based on a tip to the Charlatan, pleasantly surprised when she’d agreed to drinks as the storm had rolled in, as all the flights out had been swiftly grounded. He’s not sure which of his pilot’s tales had been the one to flip the coin for her, to end with them killing time in a more… interesting fashion, but he’s not complaining at the chance for a more personal view. She’s thrill-seeking but not reckless, drawn to Andromeda purely for the adventure of it, and though Reyes doubts she’s interested in an entire career on the other side of the law, the odds are she’ll be willing to do a few less-than-legal jobs for the right payout. Most pilots in Andromeda are bending the rules for something.

“Looks like it’ll be done soon.” She says, without looking up. “They die down quicker than you’d think these days. Especially after the human Pathfinder showed up.”

Reyes glances up. “You’ve met him?”

The turian nods. “Just passing through. He seemed… competent. Asked questions and listened to the answers. I wasn’t sure the Initiative knew how to do that.”

It isn’t entirely Reyes fault, that his attention keeps getting dragged back to Scott. Even if the Pathfinder wasn’t an ongoing strategic concern, there’s hardly a place in the galaxy he hasn’t left his mark on, and here as on Kadara, Ryder makes time for people, always makes that extra effort.

Reyes can feel himself smiling at the thought, and schools his expression back to neutral.

The new Initiative settlement had barely even been planetside when Reyes had left, little more than stacks of prefabricated walls and engineers making final calculations, Keema playing the friendly host while the Collective provided a second level of discreet security. Reyes has his own people on the welcoming committee of course, and Nakamoto on the inside, the doctor still not a particular fan of his, but willing to appreciate that the fall of the Outcasts and the arrival of the Initiative have made his job easier, legal and considerably more comfortable - and that a position on the new base would have been a bit harder to swing without certain truths being struck from certain records.

Ditaeon - probably not the official name, but certainly more honest - is a simple place, their new neighbors are mostly eezo miners, content with rough living on the fringes. Competent and hardworking and a potential asset in a half-dozen ways with no immediately glaring disadvantages. Exactly the solid bridge to the Initiative he’d been hoping for, providing critical information just by existing, through their day-to-day communications and the supplies that come in and it’s a complication to future actions, if nothing else. The Nexus can’t take too broad of a move with their own people in the way.

Hostages, if you look at it the right way, although it’s unlikely things will turn that ugly. Once again, the Pathfinder had no small part in that.

Reyes ignored the message from Keema, that Ryder would be there personally for the ceremony. He’d ignored the reminder she’d sent, her morning and his evening, while he’d been negotiating prices and possibilities with some Remnant-minded scholars on Havarl. He’d ignored the message that followed, a final reminder that emotional constipation was something the Angara considered deserving of medical treatment, and that even the Milky Way must have some sort of procedure for removing heads from asses.

He’d watched the proceedings, of course, leaning back in his chair with the ship slowly orbiting one of Elaadan’s moons. The Charlatan had to keep an eye on everything taking place in his galaxy.

The Pathfinder’s speech was all optimism and hope. The last base on a Golden World, the beginning of a promise fulfilled, and Ryder hadn’t made any truly revolutionary statements, nothing pronounced, but the fact that he was there at all was enough of a statement against the current Initiative party line, still holding grudges against the Exiles. He avoided words like amnesty or - god forbid - independence, but Reyes knew that Vetra was making quiet overtures, strengthening ties between Amnesty and Ditaeon, blurring those lines. So far, the Angara on Aya hadn’t complained about Keema’s strengthening relationship with the Pathfinder.

Scott had been confident and poster perfect the entire time. The camera hadn’t been close enough, for Reyes to see if any of that - or how much of it - was SAM’s doing.

The Queen of Kadara. It’s what they call him in the port now. Despite Reyes’ efforts to the contrary, the deliberate lack of evidence, enough people had connected at least a few dots between the Pathfinder’s presence, Sloane’s death and the Charlatan’s continued existence. Although for the most part, the story is a business decision - more or less the truth, that the Pathfinder chose what was best for him, a path of least resistance. A Kadara sort of deal.

Reyes wonders if Scott knows that it’s a title with real affection, that Kadara can’t do anything without a heavy layer of sarcasm, but they’re happy to have him there, to know that he’s the one between them and the Initiative. A Pathfinder who knows how to play the game with a light touch, who looks at the Port and sees something other than a problem that needs to be wiped off the map.

All of them are lucky, luckier than they deserved.

“What do you do out there, when you’re lonely?” Reyes says in a moment of impulse, hoping to excise the moment of melancholy, unload it on a stranger who won’t care, the turian likely halfway to forgetting about him already. She snorts, as if her translator’s glitched on the unfamiliar word.

“Fly faster.”

———————————————

Ditaeon cranks up the gears on their fertilizer production. Eos is running full tilt on food stores for the humans and the Asari, racing to provide for a goal that will only move ahead of them as the ships begin thawing out their passengers.

Which will do nothing for the turians - and even if the Nexus can absorb their numbers, with H-047C no longer an option - there’s still the matter of an ailing ark that will need to power down sooner rather than later. Solving dextro food shortages in the short term could be a foot in the door for the Collective - good profits, goodwill and a relationship that might keep the galaxy’s peacekeepers off their back once they get on their feet.

Ditaeon ships fertilizer to Eos. Enough that a portion of it can end up in Advent’s care without anyone the wiser. Scout still hasn’t forgiven him for putting him in charge, or for the nickname, but his counterpart from the Initiative settlement is a decent, level-headed sort, and the distance between them is amicable enough, a decent exchange of information about sudden squalls and Kett sightings. Reyes doesn’t visit Advent in person, preferring to learn about how they’re seen from the outside, as he does a few odd jobs for Prodromos. It’ll be more difficult to move around as the settlements build up, as it stops being a matter of needing every hand they can find, with few questions asked. If Reyes wants to sightsee, he might as well do it now.

A few friendly conversations and a few friendlier rounds get him mostly unlimited access to the base’s flight crew chief and, a half an hour later, his omnitool, full to the brim with schedules and flight plans, docking codes and all other sorts of tasty information. Reyes rifles through the room mostly for something to do while the man snores behind him - cute enough, freckled by the Eos sun if not particularly impressive. Certainly not Scott Ryder - but there’s a lot of people in the galaxy who aren’t Scott Ryder, and it would be nice if Reyes could stop noticing that every single time.

The Pathfinder is never too far off his radar - none of them are, although none of the other Pathfinders seem to be in three places at once the way Ryder always seems to manage. He’s on Eos, meeting with Efvra to discuss deescalation strategies with the Roekaar. He’s doing odd jobs for the krogan on Elaadan, to keep things pleasant between them and the outpost. He’s returned to Kadara, Ditaeon reporting some strange readings and it looks like…

Reyes blinks. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Giant worm.” The Collective agent doesn’t even sound surprised - it’s his priority, bringing in contacts who don’t lose their cool, who came to Andromeda because it was the kind of place with giant worms on more than one planet, it seemed.

“Giant… robot worm?” Reyes confirms.

“This one’s got guns.”

The other one still might. It doesn’t stop moving long enough to really be sure.

“Does the Pathfinder need assistance?”

“Looks like they’re- woah.” A little blip, even in her disaffected calm. “Yeah, no. They’ve got this under control. Good thing he’s a biotic, though.”

The Pathfinder’s not a biotic. Reyes thinks, but doesn’t say. Maybe Scott had been lying to him all along, that story he’d told - it wouldn’t be wrong to keep that kind of advantage to himself, hardly Reyes’ place to expect the truth. Or maybe it was Harper or the Asari on his away team and the agent didn’t see it quite right, although the Pathfinder usually doesn’t bring them along on Kadara.

The Charlatan receives all the footage later, from several different sources -and from orbit, where the giant robot worm launched itself before deactivating. Yes, Reyes does have a team checking that out, flying the flag of Ditaeon as clearance.

Yes, it was the Pathfinder throwing out a shield to protect his teammates in the middle of the firefight - but when things were over, it looks like the Krogan had half-carried him back to their rover, and though news of the giant robot space worm has hit broadcast, there’s nothing else to say anything was out of the ordinary. The Tempest had departed soon afterward, supposedly to check out news of similar readings on other planets, closer to larger settlements - and it it just a matter of travel time, or a chance for the Pathfinder to recover from his newfound abilities?

Did SAM do that to him? Could SAM do that? The possibilities, if that were the case… and if only Reyes could just ask him. It’s tempting to try, even so, and though a part of Reyes is eaten up with curiosity, with the potential applications - it would have hurt, and there’s no question Scott would have taken the hit to protect his team. Was he all right? Was this something he and SAM had been building up to, beforehand? No way of asking Scott, or even Vetra, without it coming off as a threat - and of course the Pathfinder’s fine, the whole galaxy would know if the Pathfinder wasn’t fine.

Does Tann know about Scott’s unexpected power boost? Reyes is rather certain the answer there is no. The released footage on Kadara is edited down to a tidy best-of to pass around on the port - all hail the Queen - and the agents get debriefed. He sends a note to Keema, to keep the details as quiet as she can. Keema asks him which part of the human courtship ritual this counts as.

A few days later, Ark Paarchero is wrested from the grip of the kett, which conveniently knocks everything else - even giant robot worms - out of the conversation.

———————————————

It helps that Derc and Octans are among the first on the scene, helps that Kadara is semi-legitimate and Ditaeon is more than credible enough to work as a source for reverse-engineering respectability, turning two self-exiled Salarians into two wayward first-wave settlers relieved and glad to welcome the Ark to its new home. Reyes is honestly glad for them, wishes Gartan had been there to see it - or perhaps not, as the details slip out, the condition of the Salarian ship even uglier than what happened with the Asari or the Turians, the jaws of the Kett snapping closed and taking a decent chunk with them.

The Initiative and the Ark’s Salarian Union are both in lockdown, and with Salarian intelligence being what it is, most of the leaks come from the Initiative’s side. The Kett were definitely involved. The Archon had been on the ship, in some capacity, and had possibly engaged directly with the Pathfinder’s forces. Ryder was alive, his team was all alive. The Salarian Pathfinder hadn’t made it out, though, along with an unspecified number of others the Kett had been experimenting on.

Reyes listens to the audio - all of it, everything Derc had been able to pull - because information is always valuable, may tell him something worth knowing - but he doesn’t feel the need to listen to it twice.

The Kett are experimenting on salarians, and krogans - have successfully experimented on krogans. In a macabre sort of way, it’s an undeserved stroke of luck for the Initiative, for the ever-tenuous peace of their settlement on Elaadan. However dysfunctional things may always be with the Nexus in the long term, in the short term there’s one enemy trying to subdue and subvert them all, one more group of outsiders trying to determine the destiny of the krogan.

So yeah, they’re pissed. Massani gets new offers daily - krogan wanting to join up on his kett-fighting teams, wanting to lead their own - demanding it, more or less. The Charlatan reaches out, makes a point that there are other ways to fight back - not that this is usually a sales pitch the krogan have much interest in, but there are a few bites this time around. Willing to provide information, in exchange for what Kadara knows about defending against the Kett.

As busy as he is, the thought is right there - who’s taking care of Scott? He hopes Nyx is keeping an eye out, that the doctor of theirs is as good as she seems. The Pathfinder’s schedule in the week that follow seems like the sort of hectic scramble of a person trying to stay busy, to keep themselves from having a chance to stop and think. Certainly, Scott has every excuse to keep moving at full-tilt, but when Reyes learns that there was a choice, that Scott most likely had to pick between the krogans and the Salarian Pathfinder he curses under his breath because it would have hurt. Even with Scott knowing that no one became a Pathfinder thinking it would be safe, even with it as a matter of two bad options - someone will be there for Scott, but will he let them see the worst of it?

He needs someone he doesn’t have to be the Pathfinder for.

He needs someone he can rely on, who isn’t busy building a counter-action to everything the Initiative does. At the end of the day, Reyes was nothing but the lesser of two evils - and from a certain angle even that’s a lie.

Of course, it’s also still more ambition than fact. Reyes has wondered now and then, just how the Shadow Broker got their start - if at least some of the draw of the job was how mystery tended to inspire legends. The idea of universe-spanning crime lord certainly raises images of hidden, gold-gilded palaces, a cloaked figure lounging on some ornate throne, surrounded by beauties as the Charlatan knocks back the finest of rare vintages, spinning wheels that always come up on his number.

A little less sexy, that he’s still washing his own clothes in the sink as often as not - or in this case, making hardware and software repairs to an orbiting satellite the Collective has in the Layan system, pointed at the Scourge. A useless orbit for any other sort of surveillance, and they’d had it, and even trading this information might be worth something to someone, if they can’t make use of it. Reyes happened to be in the area, the next nearest ship at least a week out. He thinks it had amused Nigh as well, perhaps knocked him down another peg or two from ‘potential threat’ when he’d asked her for such a random code update, for such a random reason.

So here he is, floating in deep space, infinite nothingness in all directions except for the looming yawn of the nearest planet like a false sky above him, more than vast enough to cause an existential crisis if Reyes hadn’t grown up in the Terminus, hadn’t been able to keep his mind solely on the details of what it took to get paid.

A bleep in his ear, the notice on his omnitool, priority from Keema, an audio log - ‘Trophy Husband’. Reyes sighs, hits play, reminds himself to narrow the parameters on which of her messages get to be coded ‘priority.”

“- just when did you plan on telling me he brought the rock with him?!” It’s Sara Ryder, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Of course he did. Of course. What’s a weight allowance to the almighty Alec Ryder? God, I need another six hundred years to not think about this.”

“I’d like to say it wasn’t that bad, but… yeah.” Scott. Reyes fingers pause on his work. He’s heard Scott’s voice since the cave, of course, but up until now it’s all been official. He wonders how Keema found this, intercepted the recording. He hasn’t dared try, not with SAM so close. He can hear Scott’s smile in this voice, his real voice - hear all the shades of weariness and frustration and annoyance, all those things the Initiative and the galaxy doesn’t have a use for. “You think I should fire the rock at the Kett? I think it’d be kinda… I dunno, poetic.”

“Longest fucking camping trip ever.” Sara says. “Maybe you should ask Harper if she’ll give us a ride into town this time.”

“Yeah, she’s still not really… uh. Cora didn’t take it well, when I refused to denounce Theris.”

So, he really hadn’t. Reyes had wondered about that.

“It wasn’t your call, Scott. She should know that. The Asari were the ones who were hurt by everything that happened. If they decided she was still the best one for the job after everything was out in the open, that’s their choice, whatever you said. I’m not really surprised they didn’t let go of one of their strongest fighters, no matter what she did or why.”

In Reyes’ view, the only regrettable thing about how it had turned out was not having Sarissa Theris out there as a free agent for hire.

“Yeah, I know.” A long, deep sigh, like Scott doesn’t really believe it but there’s no point in arguing.

“Vetra’s sister dropped by again.” Sara says. “Still adorable. She kept trying to use me to get all the good gossip on you. I’m trying to convince her I’m not above a bribe. It wouldn’t even have to be a good bribe. The food in this place…”

“I’ll send you a gift basket from Aya if it means I don’t have to talk about the giant robot worm again.” Scott sighs. “I want Sid to come visit, on the Tempest. You know, when things are… over. Or at least different. Slightly more show and slightly less shit.”

“So, you wanna tell me what happened on the Paarchero?” Sara’s voice gentles. “Dr. Carlyle didn’t quite tell me what your doctor didn’t quite tell him, but-“

“Oh, you know.” Scott says. “More of the same. It sucks and I died and it sucks and I died. Sometimes it was a different color or I was cold.”

It sounds like a joke. Hyperbole, at the very least, but Reyes hears Sara suck in a quiet breath instead of laughing.

“Jesus, Scotty, I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I? I gotta get up there.”

“You said your tests weren’t-“

“Screw the tests. Stupid human body. I’ll get SAM to download me into a Hydra and we can fire that at the Kett. Now that’ll be some poetry.”

“Apologies, Sara.” SAM’s synthetic voice comes in. “Initiative guidelines prohibit the creation of new weapons of mass destruction.”

“SAM? Was that… a joke?” Sara says. “My brother dies again, and you finally figure out humor. Another wonderful day in Andromeda.”

The recording cuts off a few moments later. Reyes wants to play it again, immediately, but not here, out in space where he just notices he’d dropped the tool he’d been holding and it’s been quietly floating out of reach. He wonders why Keema sent him that, although it’s likely she would have sent him any scrap of private conversation with the Pathfinder, knowing he’d want it and that he’d be annoyed with her for knowing that.

He’d been tense there for a moment, when Sara had asked how he was, when he’d thought Scott might have mentioned him - stupid, no reason to think he’s on the Pathfinder’s mind as anything other than a distant threat, obviously too busy to bother starting that fight as long as the Charlatan was smart enough to keep his actions contained to Kadara - or at least, not get caught.

Scott’s died? Twice? It’s not impossible, of course, between the dangers of the job he’s doing and the tech and equipment in place to make sure he survives them. Was it when he’d fought the Kett on Ark Paarchero? How close had-

Reyes prides himself on being able to think through any worst-case scenario, on maintaining an impartial distance even with the people he’d rather not lose - but he can’t let that thought play out, if the Archon had managed to get his hands on the Pathfinder, if Scott had…. No reason to consider it, to get so rattled - the Pathfinder was obviously fine now, joking with his sister and resting up and in the care of the Tempest and a team that won’t let him down, even if they’d obviously been looking the wrong way long enough, even if the Archon might have -

Reyes turns his attention fully back to the task at hand, gloved fingers slightly more awkward as they dance across the satellite’s small keys - fiddly work, the programming, and tedious. He tries to pretend he’s not distracted, that it isn’t causing him errors on top of errors, until Reyes has to admit its time to return to his ship for a break and a longer look at the notes for the fix, maybe indulge a few thoughts of just blowing whole the thing to pieces. He’s just about to push off, when there’s a flicker under his hand, a ping on his omnitool and a new voice in his ear.

“I might be of some assistance, Mr. Vidal.”

——————————

Reyes blinks at the unexpected mild tone - unexpected, but familiar - and cranes his head around in the void. The Tempest ought to be easy to spot, not exactly easy to sneak up on someone here - but it is the best ship in the Initiative’s fleet, by quite a margin. Was this the plan, keeping tabs on him until he’s alone, and then bringing him in? He still doesn’t think Scott’s cold-blooded enough to be done with him, not like this - but it might still end in a secure room in the Tempest in short order. Reyes will be able to get out of an Initiative cell, of course, but it’s going to wreak havoc on his schedule.

He’s excited about the prospect of seeing Scott again, even if he has to do it in handcuffs.

“Always a pleasure, SAM. The Initiative doing a bit of sightseeing?” The lights under his hand are still flickering - SAM taking direct control, and he can see the panels at the edges of the satellite’s arms shift and tilt, recalibrating as they point toward the nearest wide, glittering arc of the Scourge.

“The Tempest is not in physical proximity to your current location. I am broadcasting remotely to your suit uplink.”

Reyes considers this. “If this is the about the satellite, it’s recovered property being put to good use. I’d be happy to share the data.”

“I’ve already downloaded the logs.” Of course he has. “Nexus scientists will appreciate having data on the Scourge phenomenon from this viewpoint.”

Reyes is… slightly confused, but certainly intrigued, the longer this goes on without him being arrested or shot at. “Doing a little extra credit, then? Or are you finally going rogue?”

“The Pathfinder does not require me to log personal conversations unrelated to specific missions.” SAM says, unperturbed by design. “I have updated the telemetry on this satellite for the best arc of coverage on the Scourge. Relaying all collected information to your omnitool.”

“And you’re sure you don’t have better things to do than chat with criminals and Exiles?” Reyes doesn’t want to argue the AI out of… whatever this is, but he still can’t help looking for the Tempest, for whatever obvious trap this is obviously a part of.

“There are intervals of time in which the Pathfinder does not require my direct engagement. In reviewing my logs, I believe that our conversations and the further study of your actions reliably produced the most consistent potential avenues for new research parameters and highly pertinent information.”

So the AI finds him intriguing. That’s fun.

“I’m flattered, SAM.” Reyes says. “But if you don’t mind, I think this conversation would be just as pertinent if we continued it inside my ship.”

“Agreed, Mr. Vidal.”

Reyes is left floating in space, momentarily alone. An annoying job he’d expected to take hours now finished in a matter of minutes, and no Initiative ship preparing an ambush, no angry crew ready to haul him in. Just an all-powerful, nearly galaxy-spanning AI that’s… what, curious? Bored? And Scott doesn’t know?

“… just what are we doing here , Pathfinder?”

Once again, Reyes finds himself smiling.

Chapter Text

- Sidestory: Queen of Kadara -

Scott wakes up choking and flailing, even though he can feel the sheets twisting in his grip, even though he’s been here and done this plenty of times and knows nothing’s attacking him, that he can still breathe just fine.

“Pathfinder.”

Soaked in sweat again, and Scott coughs, drags in lungfuls of air and just lays there with the terror racing though him with nowhere to go because it’s all just an echo. It’s not even an echo of what happened on the Paarchero - he’d asked SAM to take care of that, almost the minute after it had happened, and SAM had.

“Pathfinder. Scott. You are on the Nexus. You have been asleep for three hours and forty-seven minutes. You docked at seven thirty-six Nexus standard time, after a scheduled supply pickup on Eos. Your first meeting today is a geologic debrief with Chief Lucan, and will not take place for another six hours and thirteen minutes.”

Initially, when Scott had these… issues, SAM would always want to comm Lexi. The AI’s a quick learner though, and now this is their routine instead. A quiet, calm voice in his head telling him how much time he’s got before he has to be the Pathfinder again, what his schedule looks like, and any odds that the Director will snap his fingers and send him out on a surprise mission. Tann doesn’t schedule things, not when he can just make demands.

The only thing more irritating than when he’s making demands is when he’s doling out praise they both know he doesn’t mean, and all Scott wants to do is get out of the room. Back on his ship and anywhere else in the galaxy. Mostly anywhere else.

It’s been a month now since Kadara, and Scott hates that he really has been keeping count of the days, that he’s aware of it when there’s no point being aware of it, when there’s no one else who’s noticing. This is what’s left. The good part’s all done with, now it’s just one more thing.

He rubs his eyes, the bridge of his nose - what’s more or less become his ‘thinking about Kadara’ gesture, grateful to roll over and bury his face in the pillow and just have a few minutes here in the middle of the night, when nobody needs him to try and be anything, when he can just remember the warmth of a body next to his own, that stupid sexy accent and that overconfident grin and he’d been foolish enough to think that it was somehow his, somehow being the Pathfinder didn’t take precedence. Sure he was being used, but even so, Reyes never seemed to take him for granted, never stopped making the effort to be charming. It had been a game with comparatively low stakes against what the rest of the galaxy had on offer, one that they both could enjoy.

You fucking idiot.

He knows what SAM said. He remembers how Reyes acted, all excuses and apologies and rolling over because he couldn’t lie his way out fast enough - but if he was a true monster, really, wouldn’t he have just tried to put a bullet in Scott right then and there?

Still, it’s not like he’s just annoyed because Reyes is some ambitious opportunist who conned the Pathfinder into giving him a planet - Kadara wasn’t the end of this, it was the opening gambit. Scott’s been gathering the evidence for a while now, even before he’d realized that was what he was doing. No one else sees what he’s seen, no one else travels the way the Tempest does, with SAM keeping track of Collective insignias and Collective codes, rumors and conversations - and there’s Reyes the fool, Reyes the smuggler, Reyes the crime lord of Kadara - and it just keeps going up from there, unbelievable except it’s really not.

Scott should have alerted the Nexus the minute he was off-planet. Warned Efvra of who the other Angarans were actually making deals with, used any sway he might have to encourage them to seek other avenues. Hell, he could have never left that cave, taken out both sides of that complication and negotiated for Kadara as the Pathfinder. Scott could probably go back and make it happen, by himself. He knows the docks, and Draulir, where Reyes usually is and what he’s usually doing and how to be invisible.

If Kadara had been the Initiative’s problem to solve, there’d be a lot more dead people down there now. He knows that, too.

Addison and her Three goddamn Sabers. If Sid hadn’t… the Nexus had no intention of even telling him there was ever a problem.

So when SAM had started making allusions, suggestions about conversations he’d like to have, discussions to help expand his understanding of the universe - you know what he’s doing, you know damn well who he wants to talk to, he lives in your head - Scott had taken the moral high ground, in a manner of speaking. SAM was as rational and self-aware as any other adult, sentient species - if not more so than a lot of them. He ought to be able to talk to who he wanted to outside of mission operations, with whomever he felt like, and Ryder didn’t need to be involved. Carte blanche.

No one knows about that, a unilateral decision with a final cost that is probably still adding up. The team doesn’t even know the truth about Kadara, not all the scandalous, ugly details. Enough so they know about the change in leadership - and that Reyes had been working with the Collective the entire time, his only interest in Scott as a way of getting information on Sloane, on overturning her rule. Obviously, that he’s no longer welcome anywhere near the Tempest.

He thinks Vetra’s figured out everything he didn’t say, might have known the real truth even before he did - god, she must think he’s so stupid - and there’s nothing she knows that she won’t share with Drack. Whatever they know, though, they’ve been remarkably taciturn so far. Vetra seems willing to wait for him to come to her, to talk it out - but there’s not a whole lot left to say. As a Pathfinder, it’s Scott’s job to go after Reyes, take him down - and he isn’t. He should warn the Director at the very least - but the thought of being the one to go and tattle, to ruin all that cleverness and patience and planning for the benefit of someone like Tann…

Alec Ryder wouldn’t have had any confidence in the current Nexus leadership, either - didn’t have any confidence, it seemed, even in the best-case version of things, or he wouldn’t have amped SAM up as hard as he had without letting anyone know. It’s difficult to imagine his father seeking power outright - he didn’t care about people enough to want to be in charge of them, but he wouldn’t have wanted to work for a fool, either. Would have prepared as much as he could, to keep as many options open, that he could always afford to choose sides. He might have even agreed with Scott’s refusal to pull the trigger on the Collective, that maybe it was better for him to have the Charlatan out there as a free agent, giving the Initiative a distraction to worry about.

As if the Kett aren’t enough of a problem - though even now, there are people on the Nexus who act as if they’ve already been defeated. Who only see the open skies, the safe traversals between the more prominent planets and think that somehow they’re safe, the Kett are on the run.

Trying to track down the first new human to be born in Andromeda hadn’t been half as difficult as trying not to scream at her mother when they’d found her, having SAM blank all his emotions out again so he could make the confident public statement, smile and say the right things and not just use the open mic as a chance to vent. It wasn’t safe yet, the Tempest crew barely recovered from the last mission before they’d been sent running into this one, just to put themselves on the line for someone who couldn’t wait six months to have a child. In a galaxy still full of body-hijacking zealots.

Scott loathes himself just for thinking it - but at least the horror of Ark Paarchero was a reminder of what was still out there, and what would happen if they’d failed. The constant, unending complaints against the cryo revival schedule had died down, as if they’d finally realized the food situation was still only just balancing out, that the Kett situation was very much not balanced out, and their friends and family weren’t being kept on ice for fun.

The news of his temporary… situation with the Archon hadn’t gone out past the Tempest at all - maybe to Dr. Carlyle, but he trusts Lexi to be discreet. She’s always known the most about SAM, and there have been conversations with implications - but she’s still worried more for him, thankfully, then what he means for the Nexus. Still treating him like a person with a robot stapled to his brain and not…

Scott takes a long, slow breath. He’d thought he was all right with it. Most of the time, he was so grateful for SAM it seemed like tempting fate to imagine things any other way, to let himself be scared. What the hell did it matter what happened to him, when SAM had been the one to fix the planets, had given the entire Initiative a second chance to succeed? Why complain about where all this might end up, when SAM was the only real reason it was ending up anywhere? Paarchero was just… a reminder he didn’t really want, how far this all was out of his control, how careful he had to be even in his own head.

It can kill you. Any time it wants. Just like flipping a switch.

SAM had asked, though, and he’d agreed. It had been the only option - he’d been lucky to have it - and Scott had needed to get himself and his team out of that situation as fast as possible. He has to be all right with it. He’s got to be there for SAM, to teach the AI right from wrong and make damn sure he does it right, because Katherine Nigh went after him without warning, but it’s not like he doesn’t understand why she did it. The clashes between organic intentions and AI responses are never minor in scope or damage done. From everything he’s studied - and since SAM’s been in his head, Scott has made the extra time to research the history - most of the dangers of AI have been a matter of blatant greed or trigger-happy hostilty against something that barely understood what it meant to be alive, but wanted to go on living. Afraid, and who could blame it - but the end results had always been devastating.

The ancient AI they’d found, the one Scott had to put down - god, Knight couldn’t have called it better if she’d tried, the hostile engagement practically a word-for-word reenactment of every warning she’d given him. If SAM knew - and how can he not - that Scott is afraid of him, sometimes? Afraid of what he can do and what it means and where it all might go? SAM can’t read his thoughts directly, but there’s a dozen biomarkers the AI can’t help but be aware of, monitoring stress and anxiety and all kinds of brain chemicals and what are the chances that he wouldn’t be correlating that data, noticing particular spikes of activity and matching them to specific topics and moments in time and figuring out -

“Pathfinder, I am here.”

Yeah, like that.

He wonder if SAM could just replace him, if he went brain dead. Or just… wipe the drive and upload itself in his place. He wants to ask. He doesn’t ask. Scott thinks he’d made a joke about it once - one of those things that was less funny here in the middle of the night, less funny after he’d been immobilized and within arm’s reach of the Archon - and he remembers watching that Angaran turn and change. Imagine if the Archon had just decided to inject him with that shit - how bad would it hurt? Would it strip him of his memories all at once, or one at a time? Would he get to feel himself go?

“Can you just make it stop? Just… everything. All the worrying. Me giving a shit about Reyes. Do it like whatever the hell you did with Paarchero.”

Scott doesn’t remember dying, doesn’t remember what it felt like, that he must have been afraid. He remembers the moments before - with the Archon sneering over him and knowing what would happen if they couldn’t get out, what would happen to his team, and the Ark - and he remembers SAM very calmly - always so calm - explaining the quickest and only obvious means of escape, and that he’d agreed. Scott knows there was fear because there’d have to be, but he can’t make himself feel it now, can’t remember the moment his heart stopped, or have it ambush him in the middle of the night.

“Apologies, Pathfinder. My ability to disrupt short-term memory creation is time-sensitive and highly targeted. The risk of brain damage is too likely for any attempt at similar permanent adjustments to your mental state.”

Temporarily, SAM can take damn near everything else, if Scott needs him to. It’s happened more times than he’s sure Lexi would be happy knowing about, but Scott isn’t - it’s not Scott they need out here, not fighting or fixing things, or making good photo ops and saying the right words so that the Arks and the colonies don’t all turn on each other - everything still so fragile, so uncertain. Sara’s already given him shit when he mentioned how he and SAM were getting along, that he’s trying to be their father and yeah, it’s not like it wouldn’t be the first time, but it isn’t about that. Scott needs to be even better than that.

He needs to be as sharp as possible, dealing with Tann, to just sweep everything the Director might say or do to try and provoke a reaction right off the table, letting SAM give him a clarity and a calm to see the red flags while they’re still being raised, to stay polite when it’s the last thing Scott’s feeling, when Tann is trying to push through a claim on shared space in Aya, pretend that they have any business cutting in line so a few of the Initiative's finest can try to butter the Director up for a holiday.

He needed to feel nothing on Kadara. The stakes were too damn high.

It doesn’t even cost him that much, really - a few extra energy bars that he’s always eating anyway, SAM’s caloric demands on his body around the same no matter how much he’s messing with Scott’s head. All this laying here with his emotions going up and down like a ship in a storm? All him. A whole new galaxy, but Scott’s watching the same insecurities wave as they pass by as he did when he was twelve and seventeen and twenty.

“Pathfinder, you are unhappy. I would like to help.”

“Did Dad ever get like this?”

“It is difficult to draw a correlation between the circumstances of-“

“Yeah, so that’s a no, then.” Scott huffs a laugh into the pillow. Checks the clock again. Regrets checking. He’s waking up more, the longer he lets himself keep thinking, and it’s too early for even the earliest excuse to get up. Maybe on the Tempest, where he could walk the decks undisturbed, but this is the Nexus. He’d be noticed, someone’s always paying attention.

“Pathfinder, I believe a mild adjustment in your cortisol levels would prove beneficial.”

SAM can knock him right the fuck out, and a couple of times Scott’s asked him to do it, when he’s needed to be sharp for a mission, when he can’t stop his thoughts from racing. It’s laughably hypocritical, but also the truth - he’s afraid of what SAM has turned him into, or might turn him into, but it’s useful now, and it’s going to be a long time before utility won’t win out.

“Yeah, SAM, that’d be great.”

The effect is immediate, he can feel his muscles loosen up, breathing evening out - and the fear… just isn’t as bad. Scott can’t put himself back in that place he was just a few moments before. SAM won’t let him.

You asked him to. He did exactly what you asked him to. What is your problem?

Scott rolls over, catches sight of a book on a table on the far wall. Considers, just for a moment, trying to pull it to him to see if he can do it without accidentally shredding it into a million pieces first. He’s been very careful with his new biotics so far, practicing only in very open areas on very sturdy planets, away from anything he might be able to damage or anyone who might see. For a while there, it hadn’t been much of anything but headaches and nerve spasms and needing to pack a few more energy bars whenever he was going to try and practice, SAM doing… whatever it was, to strengthen the powers he wasn’t supposed to have, fix whatever had needed fixing. Scott had kept his expectations low - he’d never be anything like Sara or the Tempest’s heavy hitters, but even as a small secret to keep in his back pocket - well, who knew when there might be another Ark Paarchero, and he’d need every advantage he could get.

He’d told Cora - hell, he’d kind of had to tell explain it to the whole team after what had happened with their new giant metal worm friend, Drack carrying him off the field of arguable victory - that shield had been more impressive than he’d expected, even though it had been more instinct than intent, and flattened him for the next twenty-four hours while Lexi threatened to flatten him for another thirty-six. Scott had promised to be careful, to check in with her and train with the team and not overexert himself - which they all knew would last until the next giant metal worm, the next time they didn’t have a choice.

He needs to tell Sara, to explain the whole biotics thing the best that he can, and get some pointers on how not to blow himself up. Wants to wait until she’s cleared again so they can crack open a couple of Milky Way beers and he can tell her everything, everything about Kadara, and Reyes - and she can tell him how badly he’s fucking it all up in trying to deal with it, and she’ll know how bad this one hurt him and how much he needs to be ruthlessly mocked for it - somehow finding the worst person to fall in love with, two galaxies in a row.

All those thought about Reyes’ motivations and plans, all the tactics and the politics and the worry because it’s the mature thing to pretend he’s thinking about - and Scott is, but it’s not the only thing, and the rest is the kind of sad self-pity that’s only useful when he’s alone in the middle of the night.

He just… wasn’t important. Again. He wasn’t what mattered. Scott’s never what matters - not to his father, not on Arcturus and he thought he’d gotten over it, the wanting and the caring about wanting. A lot of people didn’t get what they wanted - and he had a lot more than most, so much to be grateful for. So what, if he’d had his heart drop-kicked into a black hole? Who hadn’t, sooner or later? He’d just channel everything into high adventure in Andromeda and not worry about the rest.

It was even easier to ignore after everything had gone wrong and Scott was the one on his own. Somehow the one left making the decisions, pure survival instead of adventure. Meeting ‘Shena’ on Kadara had seemed like a stroke of luck - a human only interested in lining his own pockets, rather than an angara who might make more difficult demands. Boots on the ground on the planet most hostile to the Initiative, for the cost of a few credits and looking the other way while bad people screwed over worse people. Not his favorite way to do business, but at least there Scott knew his father would have done the same.

Reyes had been easy to talk to, joke with, seemed pleased to see him, no matter how crazy the circumstances. So yeah, he’d fallen - too hard, too fast - but Scott at least knew himself enough to know he would, and that there was no way a man like Reyes Vidal didn’t already have a dozen lovers in every port, and it was safe, that indifference. What he’d gained, what they were together - it was enough. One thing in the whole damn galaxy for himself. Reyes liked him, or at least enjoyed the uncomplicated thing they had, and unless either of them got shot or blown up, it might actually last for a while.

The ache, the wanting, is sharper than he needs to be. Scott squeezes his eyes shut, reminds himself not to have these kinds of feelings when there’s not an impending firefight to get distracted by.

His rebound wasn’t the smartest idea, either, although idea is giving it too much credit. Certainly not part of any plan, when they’d swung by H-047c and there’d been a delay, a request for some machinery to take back to the outpost on Elaadan and he’d agreed and prepped for a morning departure and opened his cabin door to find Bain Massani looking over one of his model ships. Always such a casual care in his touch, giving whatever he was interested in his full and complete attention. A man who knew exactly what he was capable of.

A small, satisfied smile in his eyes even before Scott had locked the door behind him - and everything after had just been… easy. No story to it, no expectation - Bain didn’t ask for anything, just a moment in time that didn’t have to mean anything at all.

“Do you want me to kill him?” Bain had said, stretched out beside him, as casually as another man would check about the weather, or if he needed to go to the grocery store.

“Did you make him the same offer?”

Scott doesn’t know exactly why he said it, and isn’t expecting it when the mercenary’s suddenly on top of him, all that muscle and training and Bain looking him in the eye, deliberately making the point that Scott can’t move him. Just enough of a threat that his heart kicks an extra beat and there’s a tingle in the back of his mind, SAM preparing to unleash a whole lot of adrenaline to counter that claim.

“I really don’t do things I don’t want to do, little duck.” Bain said, had kissed him hard and been surprisingly gentle with all the rest - gentle, but relentless, sure and thorough until Scott had been too wrung-out for any rational thought, only the sense that the mercenary really was on his side, and if that ever changed he’d probably have fair warning. Bain would make sure he had fair warning.

Scott wishes he was back there now. Hates that he wishes it. Hates that he knows they both knew that Scott wanted to be on a different planet entirely.

“… you can sound like him, can’t you.” He mumbles to the ceiling.

“You think that’s difficult, Pathfinder?”

Scott’s breath catches at the soft murmur in his ear, a perfect copy of a dangerous liar that he should be grateful hasn’t done anything with the information at his disposal. Reyes already knows enough about SAM, about the difference between Scott and the other Pathfinders to make his life very complicated. Maybe he’s just waiting for the most opportune moment. Reyes had let the line out on Kadara for months and months, patiently playing the long game.

He didn’t want to start a war. Lies. Pretty lies that a Pathfinder would want to hear. Reyes doesn’t care about people.

You think Tann cares? All those people who couldn’t pay their fees in Kadara. You think they all deserved what they got? Killed by bandits, or each other, or with guts burned through by acid after drinking the water out of desperation - but Tann had already decided they weren’t worth saving, so why should the Nexus want to help?

Scott freezes, at the weight and warmth of a hand on his hip, impossible at that angle with no dip of weight in the bed, with no one else -

“... SAM?”

“Recorded sense memory.” The AI murmurs in Reyes’ voice, synthetic and indistinguishable from the real thing. Scott had been polite enough to mention it, that there was no sleeping with just him anymore, and anything SAM could record he could also play back, a warm echo against his skin. “I’m always here for you, Scott. Just say the word.”

You know what? Reyes would absolutely fucking love this. Scott can see him preening at the thought of an AI borrowing a copy of him to sleep with his ex, for Scott to cheat on him with himself.

He’d taken it all in stride, hadn’t he? All this weirdness, all the shit Scott wasn’t so much dealing with as constantly shoving ahead of him, to be handled later if he didn’t die first. Reyes was bold and confident and delighted by the mysteries of it all, and being around him had been… fun, and safe, or something very much like safe. Stable ground, when it felt like he’d hit Andromeda at a dead run and just hadn’t ever stopped. Probably not the sort of emotion a smuggler on a rogue planet was at all interested in inspiring - let alone a Charlatan.

So goddamn stupid.

“That’s… probably not a great idea right now, SAM. Thanks for the offer, though.” He’s expecting to be left alone, for that to be the end of it. Instead, there’s a warm arm slung around his waist, a body that isn’t there pressed in a reassuring line against his back.

“Is this preferable, Pathfinder?”

When he’s not afraid of the AI in his head, Scott can’t imagine surviving this without him.

“Yeah. Yeah, this is good. Thanks, SAM.”