“Fancy meeting you here.”

Stepping out into the open, Reyes came in with his palms open. He’d seen this man before. Boba Fett, a bounty hunter with no real allegiance--not to the Collective or the Outcasts--and with probably half of Kadara in his cross-hairs. Maybe even himself. Tucked away and hidden in the shadows were the three crates his client told him to pick up. But Boba was there, too. Looking to intercept his cargo? But they were also alone. Armed. It could be a setup. A shootout. Or maybe something else.

The stars above lit the darkness. Reyes smiled, cool and easy, considering the options.

"Job isn’t big enough for the two of us.”

galaxiiie:

He smirks. "But not the last one.”

Because she’s still here. She still let Sloane die, still chose him, still accepted this dance. He twirls her and she spins fast, her long hair swinging in the momentum, and as the deep reds and purples pour through her lashes and down the narrow expanse of her shoulders, he reels her back in. Fast, fluid, no missed steps. The music is slow like a burning funeral pyre, and he can tell she’s watching the people. They’re watching, too.

Methodical, Siobhan. Nothing escapes her. Her tongue slips to Spanish, all deliberate like the rest of her. He can’t help but to like that.

“I’m always efficient. You’ll see.” One corner of his lips tugs. She sweeps a strand of hair from his forehead, the tips of her long nails grazing his skin, and his eyes, dimmed in the darkness, catch light. “Between you and me, Ryder, what the people are saying--that you can’t be trusted here in Kadara. That’s not true.” She has a violinist’s hands. He holds her, they sway, and in this careful distance, he smells it--the wild violets, coconut, spice--even through the club’s fog of alcohol. Shadowy figures pass, observe. He's aware. "I had a good feeling about you.”

The thing is: People notice successful. People crave it. And they’re jealous of those who are.

It means she’s doing something right.

gcrdener:

“Not the only reason.”  Some people close to them were watching... Eyeing. Reyes slips in a space beside her and Umi, behind the bar, grouses just as he steps up, knowing full-well he never pays for his drinks. She slams down an Elasa for him, anyway. She groans.

“You again.” 

“The one and only,” he says, unfazed much to her annoyance. He looks to Yumi. "My--friend has it covered.”

Zia was a mess. She was too ready to bite, had too-steady a trigger finger and a temper that burned too hot, too soon. Even now as he took her down the fields of Kadara, he imagined her gasping to life, pulling out her pistol, and cursing him straight to Hell--she’d rather rot in the blistering sun than be touched by him again. But it wasn’t her call. Reyes stopped near the edge of a lake and set her down. Damn, this was not part of the plan.

Something rustling caught his attention. His hand twitched for his rifle, but the sound was familiar. He saw Ryder coming close.

“Never a dull moment, is there?” He sighed, but he wasn’t looking for an answer. “Hate to say it, but I thought you’d be on your way by now.”

The crowd was buzzing and a slew of people were swaying back and forth, thumping to the music with their mugs raised high and froth spilling haphazardly on the floor. The Vortex was packed, filled to the ceiling, and Reyes was with another glass of--what was it again? The Dirty Squirrel? Whatever. With enough drinks, maybe he’d forget the name.

“Pathfinder! It’s all you can drink, thanks to you!” a man roared. Reyes turned his head and, in the distance, was Sophia in a sea of raving people trying to shove her forward. He had to wink. For old time’s sake. 

"Ryder--You and that perfect timing of yours,” he said, flashing his usual half-smile. “Thought I might find you here.”

guidedbyheart:

“Nothing wrong with that view.” He’s teasing. But joke’s side, Scott has a point. It is beautiful, and high off the ground and nevereverdrunk, Reyes actually likes the smeared pinks and oranges that had begun seeping into Kadara’s skies. It’s surreal. 

Might be the company after all. He takes the whiskey, and the shadows crawl over his heavy-lidded eyes. “Careful--People will start talking.”

And that would be bad news, wouldn’t it?

“You and your ideals, pathfinder,” Reyes continues, somewhat amused. “Since the uprising, the people want nothing to do with the Initiative. It’ll take a lot more than chance to clean all this shit. But you, I'll be more than happy to bet on.” At least Ryder’s genuine about wanting the best for Kadara, actually doing something to help even if he's still in the dark. And even if he’s too clean, too good and too moral for everyone here, he has his heart in the right place. That counts for something.

“What you said just now... this--dream of yours. What was it?”

NAME OF YOUR MUSE: Reyes Vidal ONE PICTURE YOU LIKE BEST OF YOUR MUSE: (obligatory lazy graphic)

TWO HEADCANONS YOU HAVE FOR YOUR MUSE YOU NEVER TOLD ANYONE:

synthmama:

A little retort. He chuckles quietly and picks up his glass. “I’d rather let you think on that one.”

It doesn’t escape his notice. She takes her drink but she never brings it to her lips, never even considers it. Probably doesn’t trust the people of Kadara. Smart. He knocks back some of his whiskey then sets it back down, watching her watch him with those cutting, cold eyes. She has the look of someone watching you from the shadows. But so can he.

“See something you like?” she plays along.

“That would be telling,” he quips, a roguish smile on his face. Reyes leans against the bar counter and considers her for a moment. “Our man--Caius Alves--what he lacks in charm, he happily makes up for. And he never misses. It’s better if I go. I doubt letting him shoot you wins us any favors.”

galaxiiie:

She takes his hand and squeezes too hard, too firm. So that’s how it is.

“You know I could never resist a good show.”

He looks at her, takes her in for a fraction of a second. Is she trying to think of what he’s doing right now? What he’s thinking of? If what he knows about her so far is right, then she is. The music thrums through the club, slower than normal, and the lights flash on and off, bright and dark, his face clear one second and obscured the next. He draws her in close, but there’s a world of distance between them. He scans the shifting crowd.

“That business we took care of with Sloane--the people are talking.” His hand trails down to the small of her back. Everything he does is deliberate, and in between the chatter, music and flowing alcohol, no one could hear them. Not even if they tried. “Word is you had the most to gain. And the locals are betting you pulled the trigger. Not that I had any say in it, but Sloane’s people? They grow restless by the minute.”

guidedbyheart:

“She’s right about one thing.”

Scott is stubborn. But that stubbornness has kept him alive in Kadara so far, and despite having enough alcohol in him to catch fire near an open flame, he hasn’t lost his balance--probably a symptom of the whole Krogan theory. Taking the whiskey, Reyes knocks back a drink. Scott looks at him with his wide blue eyes, excitement crackling in them, and he has no idea.

“I’m full of surprises,” Reyes says, returning a grin. He hands the bottle back, the alcohol still warm in his throat, and lets out an airy chuckle. “Come on, Ryder. You and the people don’t exactly see eye to eye. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re here for more than drinks.”

Scott, the poster boy of the Initiative, partying with exiles? Kicking back whiskey with a smuggler? Unthinkable.

roadsonward:

"That’s putting it lightly.” The man crumpled beside him groans in pain, barely conscious and dribbling, then smacks his head across the floor, out cold. If Reyes didn’t know better, he’d say it was Drack who littered the bar with a quarter of Kadara’s population, but big things come in small packages... and Ryder has a talent for proving people wrong. 

Reyes makes a face of pure, fake exasperation.

“That’s the last thing I want,” he exclaims, feigning innocence. “There’s no shame in being the delicate one.”

It was late. Whiskey swirled hot in the pit of his stomach, Kadara’s breeze swept over his skin, and on his tongue, the taste of sun-baked sand. It was like a new world, really. As Sloane’s party droned on and the nighttime drunks started casting shadows in the neon lights, he was way up here, two stories high with a bottle of Mount Milgrom and Scott Ryder.

He was feeling introspective. He blamed it on the alcohol. 

"Always the man of honor,” Reyes half-joked, still sober by some maddening twist of fate. He passed the bottle over. “I have to admit, a--part of me thought you’d change your mind. Coming here.”

The bar erupted. A turian sprinted right for him and he jumped out of the way, quick, just barely made it, and they smacked hard against a chair, toppling over. From his blind-side, a salarian. They lunged from behind and wrung their arms tight around his neck like a noose, screaming until his ears buzzed, and in a split-second decision Reyes jammed them hard against a wall until they croaked and fell off. More were coming. He got punched, threw punches–

Then, in his peripheral vision: Cora.

“It's good to see a familiar face,” he breathed, heavy and urgent. There was blood on his gums. They started regrouping. “I could use those fancy biotics right about now.”