Chapter 2: The Bartender's Mercy
POV: Anto
The smell hit Anto first—blood and ozone, the distinctive scent of someone who'd been close to high-powered medical equipment. Then he saw the body sprawled behind the dumpster in the alley beside Afterlife's service entrance: human, young, wearing what looked like medical scrubs torn to hell.
Another victim of Omega's casual brutality. Anto had seen hundreds over his forty-two years on this station. Standard protocol was simple: check for anything valuable, report to cleanup if the corpse would attract vermin, otherwise let the scavengers handle it.
But this one was breathing. Barely, but breathing.
Anto crouched beside the human, his mandibles clicking in what might have been annoyance or curiosity. The kid—he couldn't be more than thirty—had fresh scars along his arms that looked suspiciously like surgical incisions. Recently healed surgical incisions, which didn't make sense if he'd been dumped here bleeding.
"Poor bastard probably escaped from one of the body shops," Anto thought. The illegal clinics that modified people for credits or used them for parts were scattered throughout Omega's underground levels. Most escapees didn't make it far.
The human's eyes opened—brown, dilated with shock and exhaustion. He tried to speak, managed only a croak that sounded like "help."
Anto should have walked away. On Omega, helping strangers was a luxury that got you killed. But something about the kid's expression reminded him of fresh recruits he'd seen during his military days—scared, lost, trying to be brave despite having no idea what they were facing.
"Spirits damn my soft heart," he muttered in Turian, then switched to accented English. "Can you walk?"
The human nodded, tried to stand, nearly fell over. Anto caught his arm, feeling the tremor of someone running on pure adrenaline.
"Service elevator's twenty meters. Try not to bleed on anything expensive."
POV: Marc Wayne
The room Marc woke up in was small, cluttered, and smelled like alien alcohol. Not unpleasant, exactly, but sharp in a way that made his nose wrinkle. He was lying on something that might generously be called a couch—more like cushions arranged on a crate.
Bass-heavy music thrummed through the walls, and through a grimy window, he could see the neon-drenched chaos of Omega's lower levels.
"You're awake," said a voice with the distinctive harmonic undertones of Turian speech. "Good. Wasn't sure if you'd wake up at all or if I'd just delayed your expiration date by a few hours."
Marc turned his head to see his rescuer clearly for the first time: a Turian with blue-gray plates marked by old scars, the kind that spoke of military service. He was wiping down glasses behind a makeshift bar, movements economical and practiced.
[ENTITY SCAN COMPLETE]
[TURIAN MALE, ESTIMATED AGE 42 STANDARD YEARS]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: NON-HOSTILE (97% CONFIDENCE)]
[DESIGNATION: POTENTIAL ALLY]
The relief that flooded through Marc was so intense he almost cried. Someone who wasn't trying to kill or experiment on him. Someone the System actually tagged as safe.
"Thank you," Marc managed, his voice still rough. "I don't have credits to pay you back, but—"
"Made a poor financial decision, I did," the Turian said, not looking up from his glass-cleaning. "Name's Anto. I run the bar on this level while the high-class types drink upstairs. You got a name, or should I just call you 'human who bleeds in my alley'?"
"Marcus," Marc said, using the name from his new identity. No point in confusing things. "Marcus Wayne."
"Well, Marcus Wayne, welcome to the armpit of the galaxy." Anto set down the glass and turned to face him fully. "You're on Omega, specifically the lower levels of Afterlife, specifically in my storage room because you looked like death and I apparently have a defect in my survival instincts."
Marc tried to sit up, winced as his muscles protested. "Omega. Right. And Afterlife is..."
"The biggest club on the station. Aria T'Loak's territory." Anto's mandibles twitched in what Marc recognized as the Turian equivalent of raised eyebrows. "You really are new, aren't you? Most humans who end up on Omega at least know the name of the person who could have them spaced for looking at her wrong."
"I'm new to the area," Marc said carefully.
Anto laughed—a harsh sound with harmonic overtones. "Kid, everyone's 'new' until Omega kills them. Some last weeks, some last hours. You've got the look of someone who just found out the universe is a lot bigger and meaner than they thought."
The assessment was uncomfortably accurate. Marc struggled to his feet, testing his balance. The Vorcha regeneration had done its work—he felt stronger than he had any right to after his escape from the lab.
"What do you know about Omega?" Anto asked, settling behind his bar like a bartender ready to dispense wisdom along with drinks. "Basic survival stuff. Don't want you dying stupid."
Marc searched his game knowledge. "Don't mess with Aria T'Loak. Don't go to certain districts alone. Watch for gang colors." He paused, thinking. "It's like Mos Eisley, but worse?"
Anto stared at him. "What's a Moss Isley? Some kind of disease?"
The cultural disconnect hit Marc like a slap. Of course Turians wouldn't know Star Wars references. None of his Earth pop culture existed here. He'd have to be careful about that.
"Never mind. Bad comparison." He tried to think of another way to explain his understanding. "Dangerous place where the desperate come to hide or die?"
"Better." Anto nodded approvingly. "Rule one: keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your weapon close. Rule two: don't trust anyone completely, especially if they're offering something for nothing. Rule three: respect the hierarchy. Aria's word is law, the gang leaders are her lieutenants, and everyone else is expendable."
Marc absorbed the lessons, filing them away next to his game knowledge. Some things lined up with what he remembered, others were new details the games had never covered.
"What kind of work is available?" he asked. "I have tech skills—"
"Tech skills pay well if you can prove them," Anto said. "Problem is, most people with real tech skills end up working for one of the gangs or disappearing into corporate black sites. You sure you want to advertise abilities that might make you valuable to the wrong people?"
The warning was pointed enough that Marc wondered if Anto suspected where he'd come from. "What about bar work? I can wash dishes, serve drinks..."
"Can you keep your mouth shut when drunk mercs start bragging about things that could get people killed?"
"Yes."
"Can you stay calm when someone pulls a knife on you for serving them the wrong brand of beer?"
Marc thought about his panicked escape from the lab, the way he'd thrown that datapad at Dr. Cole's head. "I can try."
"Can you—" Anto stopped, staring at something behind Marc.
[QUEST GENERATED: SURVIVE YOUR FIRST WEEK]
[OBJECTIVE: REMAIN ALIVE FOR 7 CONSECUTIVE DAYS ON OMEGA]
[REWARD: +500 XP, UNCOMMON GENE UNLOCK]
[FAILURE CONDITION: DEATH]
[TIMER: 7 DAYS, 0 HOURS, 0 MINUTES]
Marc tried not to react to the translucent text that had appeared in his vision. Anto was still staring at him with an expression that suggested he'd seen Marc's momentary distraction.
"You all right there, Marcus? Looked like you were seeing things for a second."
"Think fast, Marc. Come up with something that doesn't sound insane."
"Still a little shaky from... whatever happened to me," Marc said. "Sometimes I zone out for a second."
Anto nodded slowly. It wasn't entirely believable, but it was better than 'I have an AI in my head giving me video game quests.'
"Right," Anto said. "Well, if you're serious about the bar work, I can use someone to wash glasses and handle the overflow when we're busy. Pay's not much—enough for a cot in the back room and two meals a day. But it keeps you off the streets, and working for me means the gangs leave you alone. Mostly."
"What's the catch?"
"Smart question." Anto's mandibles clicked approvingly. "Catch is, this bar serves everyone. Mercs, gang members, refugees, traders, people you probably don't want to know exist. You'll see things, hear things. Keep them to yourself or you'll end up as another stain in the alley."
Marc considered his options. He could try to find work elsewhere, but Anto was offering shelter, food, and protection. On a station where his survival chances were rated at twelve percent and dropping, those weren't luxuries—they were necessities.
"Deal," he said.
"Good." Anto reached under the bar and pulled out a worn towel. "Start with those glasses. Try not to break anything—I'll dock it from your meals."
As Marc began working, muscle memory from part-time jobs during college kicked in. The motions were familiar, soothing even. For the first time since waking up in the lab, he felt like he might actually survive this.
"Anto," he said after a while. "Why did you help me? You said it was a poor financial decision."
The Turian was quiet for a long moment, polishing the same glass with unnecessary attention. "Had a squad mate once. Human. Good soldier, but green as hell when he transferred to my unit. Kid had the same look you did—lost, scared, trying to be brave when he had no idea what he was facing."
"What happened to him?"
"Got himself killed in our second engagement. Charged a fortified position to save a wounded teammate." Anto set down the glass and looked directly at Marc. "Stupid, heroic, and exactly the kind of thing that gets you remembered well. Maybe I figured if I'd helped him when he needed it, he might have lived long enough to make different choices."
Marc felt a pang of something—guilt, gratitude, or simple human connection. "I'm sorry."
"Ancient history. Point is, sometimes you get a second chance to make a better decision. Don't make me regret this one."
That evening, as Omega's artificial night cycle dimmed the neon chaos outside, Marc lay on his makeshift bed and stared through the grimy window. The System helpfully identified species walking by—Turian, Asari, Salarian, Batarian—like a xenobiology textbook come to life.
But along with the wonder came the crushing weight of knowledge he couldn't share. He knew what was coming. The Collectors. The Reapers. The systematic extinction of every organic species in the galaxy.
He opened his mouth to practice warning Anto, to see if he could find a way around the speech curse the System had mentioned in his character files.
"The Reapers are coming," he whispered.
What came out was: "The Reapers are coming to open a chain of luxury hotels!"
Marc buried his face in his hands. The curse was real, and it was actively malicious. Any attempt to warn people about future threats would be transformed into something harmless and absurd.
He was trapped in a universe hurtling toward extinction, armed with knowledge he couldn't share and a body that was no longer entirely his own. The System's assessment of his survival chances hadn't updated since his arrival at the bar, but Marc suspected it wasn't improving.
Outside his window, Omega turned its indifferent face toward the stars, unaware that somewhere in the dark between galaxies, ancient machines were stirring.
Marc fell asleep to the sound of alien voices and the distant hum of machinery, while deep in his modified cells, Vorcha regeneration worked to keep him alive for whatever tomorrow would bring.
+1 CHAPTER AFTER EVERY 3 REVIEWS
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron . PS (One patreon member can make this or any of my fanfic update weekly since some will stop after hiting 20 to 25 chapters.)
Love [ Mass Effect: Adaptive Predator ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ Mass Effect: Adaptive Predator ] with exclusive access to 20+ chapters on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!