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The Justicar's Dog of War	By : Doirly_No Category: +M through R > Mass Effect Views: 55026 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Mass Effect, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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- 25
note: Rather than make up a bunch of completely original characters, I adapted Dragon Age characters. Not that you need to know those games at all, though looking them up on the DA wiki may help with visuals. Their characterizations are mostly the same as in DA.
After an initial stumble caused by their inability to predict the pervasive paranoia on a resort station, the Spectre and Justicar with information provided by the Shadow Broker were able to identify a weakness in the security they hopefully could exploit. A near three-hundred year old weakness named Nakmor Scipp Breka’Siris nar Shellen; an odd maiden from ancient money who was an easy read for Shepard and Samara. And like many a spoiled, rich girl she used her mother’s credits to open her own club; though to be fair she had been running it successfully for over a century even if she often prioritized creating her own paradise over profits. Despite, or maybe because of, this selfishness she had gathered a good number of fans. The loyalty of her friends and allies however, came from a place that her rambling, given name hinted at it.
Her family had been philanthropist for several millennia, always wanting to help the downtrodden, which led to her grandmother joining with a krogan shortly after the rebellions and her mother joining with a quarian shortly after the geth uprising. However, the name also pointed to them being out of touch as they weren’t truly apart of the Nakmor clan or from the Shellen liveship, even if their fathers happen to be. Their naivety and want to be a part of these outcast groups were endearing in their own way though. So, it was little wonder that she took interest in humanity after the First Contact War. Renaming herself and her club to reflect the latest fad she’d glommed on to; a not uncommon occurrence.
First she tried the moniker Osiris, unable to pass up the correlation of her given name, the name of an old Earth god and the word for her race in the human tongue. After a few months she had to find a new one though; a glitch constantly translated it to ‘Asari’ which was both extremely annoying and confusing. She then searched through some pictures and picked the coolest looking member from the same pantheon, Horus. A week and a half later the origin myth was brought to her attention or more specifically the parts involving necrophilia and a golden phallus. So she changed it again, the choice simple once she found out his awesome appearance was modeled after an actual animal and immediately adopted the nickname that would stick for twenty years and counting, Hawke. Her club then became The Pearl, for even more convoluted reasons.
Shepard had figured the staff for the lurid establishment buried deep in the darkened city of debauchery would be entirely populated by her own kind and while humans did dominate the stages and floor, they were not the sole attraction. Too many resources had been poured into the previous theme to be completely abandoned. So along the walls and hanging from the ceiling were bubbles and chambers containing gyrating quarians. For sanitary reasons the immune system deficient aliens couldn’t risk bringing clothes into their personal environments so they all were entirely nude. Their lithe bodies so perfectly suited for dancing. The gravity had been altered for some so their flowing manes would float around their heads like clouds of silky strains.
Despite how wrong she felt for it, Shepard couldn’t help but hark back to her final party on the Citadel and imagine the cute, young, lavender girl with the apple shaped bottom over the bar was Tali. They were on a mission though, without time for distraction and had to journey further into the upscale, exotic club that was reminiscent of the Purgatory Bar with its lighting, music and multi-level design. The grand hall The Pearl occupied was divided into five terraces; the bottom three each having its own bar and stage, the fourth being for private dances and the top contained the VIP area as well as the door to Hawke’s office.
They brushed through the blue crowd on the first two levels arm-in-arm with only a pair of gropes to Shepard’s ass, even though she wasn’t dressed anything like the scantily clad waitresses. Their objective in mind they had kept their outfits simple but adjustably alluring. Samara wore a shelf corset accentuated maroon gown that covered all but a tasteful amount of cleavage through a moderate sized window; one her pet had packed for her so she would probably have to lessen the looming punishment. As the matriarch’s escort Shepard dressed more sedate so not to outshine with a black leather outfit complete with tight pants and loose jacket. They looked stunning without garnering too much attention to themselves. Though even if they were nude they wouldn’t have gathered too many glances on the third tier as all eyes were on the stage, including their own.
The house music softened a moment so the DJ could excitedly announce, “Can you hear the Siren’s Call!? Because right now coming to the stage closest to heaven the demon of lust, the mistress of the one-on-one duel, the Pirate Queen herself… ISABELA!”
A hard guitar riff pierced the air to champion the arrival of the voluptuous, richly-bronzed woman in thigh-high boots erupting from behind the curtain. With a bounding step that caused the bounty of her bust to bounce beautifully she marched down the catwalk with all the confidence in the galaxy. At the end of the ramp she dipped her hips low enough to allow everyone a look under the tunic she used as a dress at the blue panties which matched the color of the scarves around her head and waist. She then popped back up with a spin violent enough to cause the flaps of fabric covering her crotch and rear to rise; fully displaying the boyshort cut of her lingerie.
Shepard stood enraptured as the exotic dancer went through her routine shedding clothing. The corset and tunic didn’t last long, revealing the blue, satin underneath. The plethora of costume jewelry dangling from her arms, wrists and neck were thrown to the frenzied asari audience; as if sharing her ill gotten booty with her crew. Once the bits of gold and silver were gone she teased what would go next for a few minutes before pulling a knife from her boot. She licked the ornate, onyx blade then ran the tip along her cheek, down her throat to her cavernous cleavage. Pausing there, she looked up to the crowd with a quirked grin as if asking if she should. A roar gave her a resounding yes and she flicked her wrist. The brassiere practically exploded from Isabela’s massive chest to expose the dazzling pasties capping each of her dark nipples
“We should move on,” Samara whispered into her companion’s ear.
Shepard’s head snapped away from the stage for only second before snapping back. “Aww, come on. Can’t we see her finish?”
Dragging the woman along the matriarch suggested, “Perhaps later.”
“But she’s right there, right now,” she continued whining, only getting more despondent when she looked back to see Isabela had turned around and was using the knife on her panties. “Just one more minute. Please!”
“It is best we stay focused.”
“Yeah,” Shepard conceded as they started up the stairs to the forth tier.
There wasn’t much on that level for those not paying for a private dance. Surrounding them was a maze of sequestered tables with a jumble of various muted songs seeping through the partitioning walls. As they wound around the corner and saw the final staircase at the far wall they realized getting to the VIP section may not be so easy. Two of the largest, most imposing asari Shepard had ever seen stood guard turning away the unworthy with little more than a glare. Both had to be over six foot and each wore commando leathers comfortably, though neither was armed.
“How should we approach this?” Samara asked while feigning interest in the green bubble overhead containing a nude quarian girl.
“Tits out,” Shepard half joked. “I’m sure a matriarch with enough cleavage and an all access pass won’t be turned away.”
“True, the passes should get us in.”
“What about the other half of my suggestion?” the woman asked before they started their approach.
“Better safe than sorry I suppose,” Samara responded with faked annoyance, then seriously added, “Some suggestiveness could help with Hawke though.”
The matriarch touched the inside of her wrist and strains realigned to expand the window in the chest of her gown. With the way the built-in, shelf corset pushed her breasts up and together she could have stolen Aethyta away from Benezia. As gorgeously as Samara filled out her dress she doubted it would completely enrapture one of her own, though luckily she had just the right bait for an asari with an Earth kink. She grabbed the zipper of her pet’s jacket and pulled the slider all the way to the bottom to reveal the scarlet top beneath, which was little more than a bra.
The all access passes turned out to be all the bouncers long numbed to the sight of all levels of feminine skin, needed to designate the incognito vigilantes as VIPs. On the top level the ratio of employees to customers was near even as practically every asari had at least a waitress paying attention to them and quite a few blue laps were filled by scantily clad human rears. A prerequisite bar and a large dance floor took up a fair amount of space but it was the numerous luxurious, crescent sofas that dominated the highest level. Many had circular barriers projected in their centers for drinks, snacks and strippers.
Her mind set on business Shepard had little problem keeping her focus, but still it was hard not to notice the multi-colored booths lining the walls that she read about in the dossier and yearned to sit in. Each customer who sat in the individual cubbies was getting a lap dance from a quarian through use of state-of-the-art barriers that only The Pearl had. Not that the technology wasn’t available to other businesses, it was just that Hawke was the only owner willing to pay for it.
Between the instillation; licensing and rental agreements; power bills; salaries for the skilled technicians who maintained the sophisticated VIs and hardware; and higher than average wages for the hard to find dancers, it would be another fifty-three years before she started turning a profit on the booths. That figure assumed each had a paying customer every hour of every day, which they didn’t. Plus on top of the stark costs, one couldn’t actually feel anything through the shielding, so few saw the point. Unlike most of her peers however, she could always just ask her mother for money if her club ever went into the red. What was really important to her was popularity anyway and having something unique was worth any price.
This desire for the exotic was what the vigilantes were counting on to get them through the last gate separating them from the spoiled, young socialite. Matriarchs were a rare sight on the station outside the section dedicated specifically to them. The hope being an elder asari escorted by a member of the species and gender she fancied would peak Hawke’s interest enough to want to meet with them. So Samara looped her arm through her pet’s elbow and with a sway to her hips approached the young human guarding the door.
Nowhere near as imposing as the pair of asari below, the woman casually sat on a stool leaning against the wall next to the door partitioned by a velvet rope. Hawke didn’t want any of her elite patrons to be anything but entertained and thought having a scary looking bouncer on the floor would hinder that. So, instead of an overt hard-ass she employed a well-built redhead wearing most of a tuxedo, a bustier and a bowtie choker who could provide some extra eye candy. Having little work to do, the underdressed guard was busy messaging with a friend on her omni-tool.
It took Samara clearing her throat to get the attention of the distracted bouncer who unenthusiastically said, “Sorry, I don’t do lap dances.”
“I am not here for one,” the matriarch replied. “I am curious what is beyond this door.”
“It’s my boss’s office,” the distracted guard had yet to look up.
“Oh, is Hawke in there now?” Samara already knew the answer. “I would just love to meet her.”
“Sorry, that ain’t happening.” The young woman closed the line to her pal and made a show of checking the day’s schedule. “I have no names on my list and only those on my list get through. You should have made an appointment.”
“But if there are no names on the list, how busy could she be?”
“That isn’t the point.”
“But I have an all access pass.”
“That doesn’t include private areas.”
“You are being rather rude.”
“I’m not paid to be polite. I’m paid to be the biotic guarding this door,” the woman subtly threatened, her back leaving the wall.
Samara just smiled. “A biotic, really? Perhaps I could show you a trick or two. Assuming you do not mind learning from an old matriarch like me.”
“Matriarch? Uh, hold on a sec.” The bouncer took an aside with her omni-tool for several seconds before reversing her demeanor and cheerily saying, “I’m terribly sorry about the misunderstanding Matriarch. Miss Hawke would love to meet with you. Please go right in.”
“Thank you. We will,” the elder asari said demurely with a slight bow as the door opened and the velvet rope was lifted.
“If there is anything I can do to make up for my rudeness…”
“Perhaps you can give me that lap dance sometime.”
Through gritted teeth and a pained smile the biotic guard responded, “I would love to Matriarch.”
After the door closed behind them and they were alone in a short hallway Samara and Shepard exchanged a brief laugh. Their momentary merriment quickly ended as they still had business to attend to; not that the space they entered seemed designed for it. Oversized fountains, sunken couches and blaring screens dominated what the bouncer outside referred to as an office. At least there was a desk, tucked in the back. In fact there was such clutter that it took an abrupt vulgar scream to draw their eyes to the room’s occupants; the blue-grey club owner sitting on a couch to the far left facing the other way and the petite quarian trying to get her attention.
The girl in the white enviro-suit glanced up to the visitors, made another attempt to divert the maiden’s interest before giving up and approaching with a greeting, “Hello, I’m sorry but Miss Hawke is busy at the moment. You see I didn’t actually ask if she wanted to see anyone, I just assumed she would since you are a matriarch and matriarchs are really important, right? Oh! I didn’t have Leliana ask for your name. I’m sorry.”
“It is quite alright. I am Matriarch Samara. And you are?”
“Keelah, I’m such an idiot.” The excitable quarian perfected her posture before replying, “I am Merrill’Sabrae vas Pearl, but please call me Merrill.”
“But The Pearl is a strip club,” the elder asari commented.
“Oh no,” she said with a flail of the arms. “I mean yes, it is a club but that isn’t where my name comes from. You see I met Miss Hawke while I was on my pilgrimage and being part quarian, I think, I’m still unsure how that works, but anyway she knew about me needing a gift and wanted to help me so she bought me a ship which I returned to the fleet with. I missed her though so I came back and that’s when she bought me another ship. It would have been weird to name it myself and thereby give myself my own name. So…”
While Merrill was rambling through her life story Shepard drifted toward the maiden, who screamed when she grew near, “By the goddess! Stupid fucking elf, asshole.”
The woman leaned against the back of the couch and watched over the asari’s shoulder a minute before asking, “Have you downloaded the patch?”
“What?” Hawke turned shockingly unsurprised; revealing the odd, horizontal swath of red halfway down her nose to the human.
“You’re trying to use Theron as your healer, but he keeps running in to melee, right?”
“Yeah,” the maiden said intrigued.
“Theron should be a mage, but the programmers accidently gave him a tank VI. Download the patch and he’ll stop being a stupid asshole.”
“Awesome.” Hawke quickly told the game to look for patches then finally diverted her attention from the screen and stood. “So, who are you and why are you here?”
“Oh, sorry!” Merrill suddenly came running up. “I invited them in without asking you. This is Matriarch Samara and… Keelah, I forgot to ask her name.”
Looking the young asari in the eye completed the picture for Shepard. She had read all about the finicky maiden that more than one person labeled a pampered, spoiled, little brat who cared only about her own pleasures and fancies. Thousands of tabloid articles and blog posts could attest to that, with only the prerequisite charity fundraisers and donations running counter. However, if she were so selfish and self-consumed then her actions during the war would make no sense. While the rest of the rich and powerful on the station prepared to turtle up, protect their interests and go into hiding around Egalic she volunteered to join the resistance on Niacal with what some commentators deemed fantasies of heroism.
Hawke naively thought being a skilled biotic was enough to make her an asset in battle and while one day she would be a force to be reckoned with, she had no combat experience. She was denied even rear duty, no one believing her mentally or emotionally fit to be anywhere near a fight. If she truly was trying to indulge some delusion of grandeur she wouldn’t have so readily accepted the wisdom of those in charge or would she have so immediately and adamantly started perusing other less flashy, more sacrificial means of assisting. She did everything she could to get as many refugees on the station as possible; including jamming every square foot of her club, office and home with cots and sending her own fleet of cargo ships to ferry civilians then handing them over to the resistance to use as they saw fit, forfeiting the ability to flee if the Reapers threatened. Unconcerned for her own safety she also freed any employee with military training who could have protected her to fight on Niacal.
Though too immature for her age Hawke was well-meaning and big-hearted. Myopic, self-indulgent and detached from the concerns of the galaxy she rarely considered the problems of others, unless they were brought to her attention. She never thought about the plight of the quarians until she met one, but once she did she began giving money to medical research to help the nomadic race with their atrophied immune system. It was why it was so hard for Merrill to leave her and why two former asari commandos and a powerful human biotic, amongst others, willing took jobs that were perhaps beneath them being her bouncers. Sure she treated all her employees extremely well, often overpaying them and refused to fire anyone for anything less than a major infraction, but that was only because she childishly thought of everyone who worked for her as a friend. All those around her in turn felt a need to protect the naïve, little maiden.
So the infiltrator had few doubts saying, “I am Commander Shepard, this is Justicar Samara. I need your help saving my friend from assassins.”
“Wow,” Merrill gasped.
After letting it sink in for half a minute Hawke asked, “You’re like really The Commander Shepard?”
“I am,” she confirmed with a smile. “I need access to a terminal that is connected to the station’s main server to find my friend.”
“Oh, I have one of those right over there,” the maiden pointed, still starry-eyed as she recognized the human once she got past the hair.
“May I use it?”
“I could get in a lot of trouble. You wouldn’t believe how strict the administrators are,” Hawke’s eyes nervously flicked back and forth between consol and commander. “You’re like totally sure she could die?”
“Not entirely,” Samara stepped in with a slightly new tact. “The enemy knows she is here, but do not yet have an operative on the station. We have time and can go to someone else if need be, though you are our first choice.”
“You really came to me first?” The maiden began leaning toward lending assisting. “You just need to find her? Like look through employee records?”
“Yes, it should only take a minute,” Shepard assured.
Suddenly Hawke’s eyes lit up and grew a smirk. “What do I get out of this?”
“Get?” The woman’s brow tightened. “You’re going to make me pay you to save my friend?”
“No, I mean,” the young asari floundered. “You have to at least complete an assignment or side mission or something, right? Isn’t that how it works?”
Shepard sighed, “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Like, how do I know you’re the real Commander Shepard?” Hawke probably should have been truly asking that question. “You have to prove you’re really her.”
“What like a medical scan?”
“No, that’s dull,” and the maiden began to ponder.
Shepard was utterly amused by now, “How about a game?”
“Right and we bet on it.”
“So if I win I can use the terminal?”
“No no, I’ll host a little party afterwards, forget to log out of the terminal and be too busy with hosting duty to keep track of everyone for every second.”
“Party?” a new voice interrupted. “We’re having a party?”
Everyone turned to the newcomer entering the room from a side door hidden behind a massive fern like plant. Shepard’s composure nearly cracked as she immediately recognized the buxom dancer from the third level, wearing a short, beige robe. The thin cotton clung to her curvaceous, sweat-drenched form. The sway of her bust and appearance of their air stiffened tips made it hard to imagine she wore anything underneath. With a practiced seductive saunter the olive woman went to Hawke. She pressed her chest into the shorter asari’s side, looped her arms over blue shoulders, and stole a smooch before blowing the nearby quarian a kiss.
“Hopefully.” Hawke’s hand finding its place at the small of the shapely woman’s back. “This is Justicar Samara and The Commander Shepard and they need MY help.”
“Commander Shepard? Really?” Isabela broke away to extend her hand. “You must hear this often, but I just want to thank you for all you’ve done. Thank you for saving us. Thank you. It’s such an honor.”
“You’re welcome,” she awkwardly accepted, her eyes and thoughts drifting to the dipping collar of the not so tightly cinched robe.
The busty woman did not let the leer go unnoticed, “Perhaps I could show you my proper gratitude…”
Before the sentiment could be completed the maiden left in the lurch gave a one handed shove and reminded, “Hey, I’m standing right here.”
With a husky chuckle Isabela spun away and collapsed onto the nearby couch, her robe slipping a bit further open. “Like you wouldn’t be begging to join in.”
“Anyway.” Hawke shot her lover an annoyed look before returning to the subject at hand, “It seems you’re interested in Isabela’s offer, so maybe the wager could involve some sexy stakes?”
Shepard could see a lot of hope in the young asari’s eyes, “First how about we specify the game?”
“Oh, right…” she trailed off to think a moment before exclaiming, “I know! I saw a few of your matches in the Armax Arsenal Arena on the Citadel and would love to see that again and there is a similar combat arena on the station.”
“So, us versus you and a partner?”
“Goddess no, I’d like a chance to win.”
“I am not much of a game person, so perhaps it best I do not participate,” Samara chimed in. “A squad against Shepard seems more even anyway.”
“Great!” Hawke jumped at the handicap. “The stakes?”
“Losers provide the entertainment at the after party,” the elder suggested.
“Mmmm,” Isabela hummed. “I would love a lap dance from a matriarch.”
“We have a deal then.” Hawke confirmed, “Three of mine versus Shepard in a Strip Arena Match.”
The matriarch shook the presented hand to seal the deal, “Very well.”
“Wait, what the hell is a Strip Arena Match?”
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The Justicar's Dog of War