A parcel finds its way at one of Emil's safehouses, swathed in dark and richly colored paper offset by contrasting gold ribbon. Enclosed is a bottle of Elasa along with a collection of old and classic silent films. Metropolis. Nosferatu. Der letzte Mann. The note attached is a short one, embellished with the scrawling handwriting that could be none other than Durant's: "A little bird told me you're one year older. Enjoy it while you can. -QD"
Kron stares at the note. The sun is setting, but it is ugly and cloudy, and the darkness throws blotches on her note.
A little bird told me youâre one year older. Enjoy it while you can.                                    - Q.D.
Q.D. Quinn Durant. It doesnât take him two seconds to figure it out because, yes, no one else would seriously consider this and damn her for even thinking this was a good idea, because of course he was suspicious, of course he thought it was a trapâa bombâand of course, if he was in his right mind, he would have kicked it to his balcony and nudged it through the gaps in the bars and watched it crash and explode on impact seven stories below, never mind the maybe five dead civilians.
He turns the bottle in his hand. Elasa. He doesnât drink. But it looks nice, he decides. He sets it down and picks up the small bundle of films. Metropolis. Nosferatu. Der letzte Mann. He repeats the names silently to himself, his lips moving without sound. Good. He likes these movies and he can add them all to his collection.
The corner of his eye twitches. I seriously donât like her, he thinks, but whatever. He picks a movie by randomâNosferatuâputs it through his long-outdated DVD player and his couch sighs as he sinks into it.Â
The movie starts. He doesnât leave his apartment the rest of the day.Â
She peers around his shoulder, hoping to gain his attention. If itâs one think Remmi cannot tolerate, itâs feeling helpless when her friends are suffering. She lays her hand on said shoulder, giving him a squeeze.
âBecause you look like someone who found a fly in their soup. Talk to me, whatâs going on?â
She touches his shoulder and in a slow and painful five seconds, he is rigid, quiet, nothing of him moving but the unsettling crawl of his eyes. Thatâs all he can do. Stare.
âTake a shower. Eat something. Get out of that chair. List goes on, take your pick.â Remmi stoops, picking up the paper. She finishes tossing it into the bin. It sounds, briefly, as if she mutters two points under her breath. Then, she turns back to Kron.
âWell? You going to take that?â
âList goes on, take your pick.â
"A list I have no interest in,â he rescinds.Â
He's clean, not hungry, and stays in his chair against it all, busying himself by watching her shadows shift over the floor. His omni-tool beeps again and he can practically hear the man screaming at the other end. Remmi asks if heâs going to answer. Kron glances up.
âNo?" He was straight-faced. It sounded obvious. âWhy should I?â
What Kai Leng is and isnât in the field isnât any of Kronâs concern. Of course, in the event that they just so happened to be on the same team, perhaps then heâd divulge how he felt about the situation. For now, a reserved, barely held in check calm would suffice.Â
But the violence is there. Just beneath the surface.Â
âWe will deal with her like any other traitor,â he says, then pauses. For the first time, he turns to look at Kron directly. âWhy bring this to me, Kron?â
Itâs true that Kai Leng isnât exactly chatty. Nor is he in the business of making friends and divulging secrets. Perhaps there is something more to this. Does he harbor a grudge against Miranda? Or does he have something valuable like information?
âYou have a sinister fascination for her,â he lies. The blue lights of Kai Lengâs visor fall on him. âI hope she has not made it personal--and has caused you to take matters yourself. That would almost be unfortunate.â For her.
He exhales loudly and turns to look back at Kai Leng.Â
It is like staring into Cerberus itself.
He has no interest in Mirandaâs life out of the goodness of his own heart, he can admit that. But sheâs escaped. And if she survives, if he finds her, he canât help but to wonder if she can do something for him. But itâs just that. All speculation.
ââŚThatâs good. What do you want me to do about it?â
Spent and drained, Kron would be damned if he so much as moved an inch, even breathed too much, but there was a crumpled roll of paper on his desk that he hated more. He tossed it into a nearby trash bin. It missed. A ping went off on his omnitool but he was too unmotivated to care about that, either.
   â You have more than you think ââ but, we have more important matters at hand. â Weight shifts, as left hand settles alongside hip and right hand raises to rest casually against her chin, while a sly grin makes its way across her lips. Time was ticking, her next engagement of higher importance ( a citadel savior back from the dead, who would have guessed? ), but this lead was too good to ignore. â Iâll put it this way, I have an opportunity for you, a chance to earn some credits that arenât covered in blood. âÂ
   It was risky, but she had a mission where multiple paths were beginning to collide and she needed the best. â You interested? Or are you going to kick me out? â
She never said who she was. He shouldn't have expected different, really.
âA woman Iâve never met comes unannounced after the termination of my hours,â he summarized, his chest sinking as he exhaled. âNaturally I canât help but to wonder if I should trust in your payment. Or if youâll just run away with it.â
He was picky and fussy, but that didnât mean he wasnât interested. The fact that he didnât kick her out said enough. But it wasnât just the credits or the job he was interested in. She was an unknown, someone who sneaked in without setting off any alarms, and her smile--sly and mischievous--seemed to tease him. He didn't know her and he hated that.
       Her heels are sharp click-clacks on the tiling. If she means to disguise her presence ( she doesnât ), she certainly does a poor job of it, striding over the fallen cup and the scattered medicine not to where Kron reclines but the medical station kept under lock and key. Another round of medicine is produced and in her grasp, extended as her footfalls come to stop beside him. She waits, expectant.
       â The pain will subside. Try again. â
He doesnât take it. Not at first. He has always had a paranoia about taking medication from people other than his doctors, even if itâs just an Advil, a couple of blasted Tylenols, but when the pain throbs impatiently behind his left eye, he throws caution to the wind. He takes it and swallows them dry.Â
âYour organization has menacing purposes,â he tells her. His throat feels tight. âI am a little confused youâve made it as far as you have.â
Because how long have the Alliance tried to take them down? Not that Kron cares much for either side. But Cerberus watched and used him without him knowing it. He isnât bitter. Heâs sorely bitter.
   â So I finally get to meet you ââ how surprising ! â His name had only been a whisper for so long ( much like her own ), but his work was impeccable. She could have used a forger like him, could still use a forger like him ; it was too bad that he was so tied to Cerberus. All those hours spent pouring over documents on her omni-tool, where wistful sighs would escape at the craftsmanship the mystery manâs forgeries would produce from her lips. It was sad, because with Shepard around, such a skilled hand would not live for long ââ not as long as he worked for this organization. â If only it had been under different circumstances, yes? â
@iapux
She blinked into existence without warning and a surge of alarm snapped through him. His gun was there, just a blink away, and he knew this place like the back of his hand; he could cloak and escape in just a second. She knew him. How? She wasn't C-Sec. She couldn't be. Too quiet. An assassin? No. If she was any killer worth her salt, she would killed him from behind before he even heard her. Shot him down, snapped his neck. Anything.
But she hasn't made any moves. Yet. He stayed seated, his face unreadable, and watched.
â...Hello? Who are you?" He made a sound, almost like one of disbelief, and set down his credit chit. "My hours have already expired. I have nothing for you here.â
Kai Lengâs jaw tightens. Whether or not itâs in response to Kronâs words or his presence remains unclear. His gaze doesnât train away from the fixed point outside the view port, but he does make note of his visitorâs movements from his peripheral vision.Â
âNo, it isnât,â Kai Leng says.Â
Itâs a lie.
He loses sleep like trying to grasp flowing water in his hands. Humanity. The Reapers. And now loyalists turning traitor because of people like Commander Shepard. What happened on the Normandy to change her mind isnât clear. Not that it matters.
Heâll have to kill her. He knows this. No one else is as cunning or as skilled to be considered her equal.
And heâll do it without question.
No, it isnât. Of course not. Never. Kron looks at him a breath too long, and turns back to the window.
âA temporary misfortune,â he says. Not about Lengâs apparent apathy, but her disloyalty. âYou are a man of skill and resources. I am sure you can reasonably compensate. And I have never known you to be merciful.â
Because he is going to kill her, isnât he? Behind that visor and the stone-cold face, Kron cannot help but to wonder about the look in Kaiâs eyes. If they are depthless, hollow with nothing but intent to murder giving him the illusion of life. Itâs times like that he is grateful nobody suspects him yet...Â
            ⍠@iapux â ( OPENER )
      SHE STRETCHES OUT, SHAKING OFF THE SYMPTOMS OF AN ABRUPT AWAKENING.  ( incessantly, she is wracked with night terrors that find its silvery, gnarled tree-bark fingers around her throat )  She slithers from the delicious WARMTH of her thousand thread count comforter & begins arranging her things until sheâs fully COGNITIVE.  Finds her datapad sitting atop her night table which fingernails flick to life.  While it starts up, FUMBLES her fingers around in the bottom drawer of desk for a flask half-full of cognac she only cracks open for special occasion. The occasion is special enough, she reasons, as she drains the entire contents of the silver flask. Â
 A holographic contiguous array of GRAPHS appear, her tired eyes take ample time to review the data from Kronâs dossier & bonus content in the form of footage WIRED to her directly from the Shadow Broker terminal.  As any great war ANALYST, Shepard takes away from the entirety of the document some of the more essential data ; the main idea :
Emil Kron. ⢠Earthborn ⢠Swedish ⢠ 36 years of age ⢠ Single, never married  ⢠ No children ⢠ Loose connections outside of ledger  ⢠ Regularly receives ophthalmology care ⢠No military service records before joining Cerberus.Â
Just so, she leans backward into the CUSHIONED leather back of wheeled chair.  Feet propped & crossed on the surface of workstation, next to Private Terminal.  The calm shatters like a thin veil of GLASS in the form of Specialist Traynorâs voice piercing through her intercom.  â ââ Commander, an incoming urgent transmission is available on vid-com in the war room.âÂ
Her GORGEOUS legs carry her further away from the quaint visage of her cabin & down a floor to the tiny expanse beyond the large CIRCULAR console. Heâs there, perhaps a few seconds before she.  & a nagging suspicion churns in her gullet that itâs Cerberus related.  Brushes past him to receive the live video feed.  A RESEARCHER built like a frail skeleton phases into view ; dark brown hair & a wind-burnt face with bushy eyebrows that resembles hedge mazes described in Aridaneâs Labyrinth.  His aquiline, broken nose slopes over paper-thin lips that make him look absolutely reprehensible.  Heâs toying with his hands, as if nervously.  Fidgety.
 âCommander Shepard, Kron ; good.  I was beginning to assume all was lost,â Finally, he speaks. In a whispered intonation of caution.  The accent screams United Kingdom.  An Oxford type.  âWeâve been overrun by Reapers. We donât know how they found out but, they did & now theyâve gone amok, trying to turn all of our people into them!  Head researcher Henry Lawson is still somewhere in Sanctuary, you must get him out of this station. Heâs essential to our mission!âÂ
Such a prominent name strikes a CHORD of familiarity. LawsonâŚLawson.  It takes her a moment to digest the bits & pieces to make the CONNECTION that he is Mirandaâs father.  From what sheâs been told from his progeny, he is the vilest of them all.  A mad man who tries to cross science with Alchemy in order to try & play god.  Why would she wish to extricate him?
   â ââ what were you working on?â she asks.  Â
He looks at her as if heâs TASTED something sour.  Brows furrow. âCommander, please.  This is urgent. Iâm sure Mr. Lawson would love to divulge every single detail when you get him out of the station. Iâve transmitted his location for you.  Please hurry. âÂ
His imagery fizzles out. Â Line, dead. Â
Head swings to her âaccompliceâ.Â
    â âAlways up to something secretive.  Nothingâs ever clear-cut or simple with Cerberus, huh?â
âKron.â Kai Lengâs face, distorted by waves of static, flickers on the monitor and illuminates the pitch black. It is the only source of light. âYou havenât left.â
He stands silent and glances around his room. âNo.â His voice comes out groggier than heâd like.
âYouâre supposed to be with Shepard.â
âOkay. That didnât work out. Itâs better if I just stay here.â
âI didn't ask.âÂ
âYes. Well...â Kron says nothing else and stares emptily into the glowing screen, his eyes too lidded and blurry to make out the fine details. Kai continues.Â
âYou have a new job. Donât mess it up.âÂ
âWe have worked many times together, and I have been a reliable ally for many years,â he says. âThat wonât change.â
âI didnât think so.â
The video zaps off and, suddenly, darkness. He hears his shallow exhales. He tastes the bitterness of annoyance and exhaustion. The electronic letters of his clock, strawberry red, shine angrily in the lonely abyss, and reads fifteen past seven. Heâd better get ready.
The war room is cold. Some of her crew are already inside, smashing away at their holo-keyboards, swearing under their breaths about something. Him, most likely. Heâs too busy thinking about Kai Lengâs message and why heâs here to care, though. Face down and wasting time tracing the floor tiles with his eyes, Kron hears the elevator doors hiss open, but doesnât lift his head to look.
He knows itâs Shepard.
She doesnât bother greeting him. He won't, either.
âCommander Shepard, Kron. Good...â
Just as she works the console, a face blinks into view, wide and stretched in the center of the room. Kron recognizes the man immediately. It is Dr. KovĂĄcs, last stationed in Horizon of all places... He looks thinner, though, and bug-eyed, like he is nervous about something, wringing his hands together so hard that they could snap off like dried twigs at any second. He rambles on about Reapers, Henry Lawson, and needing help. But he doesnât tell her what they were working on. He looks scared. He slams the transmission off fast and a burst of white noise rips through the room before suddenly shutting off.
At once, silence.
Kron realizes her crew is staring.Â
âI suppose,â he says. Itâs a lame reply, like he has nothing to say today. âIt really doesnât matter to me.â
But it probably matters to them. It probably matters too much to her. He slips his hands into his pockets and is aware that she might have questions, that she might be expecting him to give her those answers. Relenting, he swallows hard and fixes the cuffs of his dress shirt. âSo what? What's so damn important?â
   Adaptability is the human condition. Without it, survival falls to the wayside and advancement rots like fruit on the vine. Quinn has long since understood this, following in the coattails and shadow of her parents. She adapts. She grows from it. She learns to live around the proverbial bullets lodged between ribs and the guillotine that hangs over her neck.
   So she smiles, and makes sure that her teeth are white and lipstick immaculate. Red serves a warning just as any other law in the jungle, and even among beasts do teeth serve more as a WARNING than a pleasantry.
   âAnd it would appear that your best bet is hoping that I find a proper answer sooner than they find you. Youâll find me much more agreeable when you play fair.â She turns her datapad over, smooths a hand over the surface before reaching for her wine glass. Heâs a hard man to read, with an angular face that may well be carved from stone and silence. But one thing is certain: stress fractures always appear under pressure one way or another. Itâs just a matter of patience.
   She wonders if her patience can outlive his poker face. She wonders just what danger lies across the table, seated primly and perusing the daily specials.
   âCalmness is a requirement of diplomacy. And whatâs more relaxing than a pleasant dinner between friends?â Shadows shift behind her, but to Quinnâs credit, she doesnât so much as budge. The staff hangs along the periphery; their waiter, three tables away.Â
                              âSee anything you like?â
Some of the patrons are unaware of whatâs happening. But not her. He can feel her eyes on him the way he feels someone watching him in the dead of night and, for some inexplicable reason, he canât look away.
It would feel too much like giving up.
âAgreed. I wouldnât think otherwise,â he says, and he wouldnât.
As she studies him from across the table, something shifts behind her. Theyâre there. Four of them, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves, their heads twisting and their eyes scanning every shadowy face in the restaurant. Relax. Donât show anything. He closes his menu just as the waiter makes his way over and watches the shadows blur behind her, searching, prowling...
He orders the confit de canard out on a whim. The waiter, bowing, scurries off.
âYou have so easily welcomed me with open arms.â After giving her just one answer to one question; an answer that was vague and unclear at best. He wasnât insulting. He was trying to make sense of it. Kron curls his hand over the table. âI am under the impression you would be interested in returned favors."
Her smile and kiss have started inside him mass confusion of a cataclysmic level and he tries, with all of his power, to make sense of it, but much like his love life, there is nothing to make sense of.
Quarians are always bound to their fleet. From his experience, the only time theyâre not is when theyâre young, out on their Pilgrimage, looking to prove themselves and join another fleet. And theyâre always in need of something: a place to stay, a job, credits. So when he noticed KalâReegar out from the corner of his eye, he automatically assumed the quarian was going around begging and was coming for him next. Kron checked his watch. His informant was six minutes late. He drank his coffee and numbed his agitation with the dull satisfaction of thinking heâll go home soon.
âI have no money and very little time to spare, so... you should just go.â That was a lie. He wasnât even looking at KalâReegar. He sat there, idle, with nothing in front of him but his mug.
Kron is arrogant, a shameless asshole, and if he has any qualms about it, he certainly doesnât show it. Surprisingly, though, heâs not so intolerable past the 7-layer dip of glorified douchery.Â
Heâs reserved. Heâs not shy about talking to people, but he keeps to himself and hates wasting words. In a professional setting, he comes off as smug and confident, not charismatic but comfortable talking to strangers.
Strip him away of that professional setting, and heâs different.
I get the impression that, past work, Kron is actually quite socially inept and emotionally inexperienced; his interpersonal relationship skills are stunted at best and un-salvageable at worst. When he was a boy, he never befriended other kids his age. Not because he couldnât, but because he made no effort to, but that was fine--he was perfectly comfortable and content living in his world of films and flashing movie screens. As you might expect, that made him unpopular among the other school boys and girls. He never wanted to hang with them and always rejected invitations to join their little games or groups, and any time they were finally victorious in reeling him in for a conversation, he couldnât talk about anything other than film.Â
He was a social outcast by his own volition.
Which, really, suited his mostly solitary personality just fine. But that self-ostracization also brewed a batch of other generally undesirable consequences. Because he never really made friends beyond his uncle, he never developed the skills to forge any kind of positive relationship. Whenever someone tries to get to know him as a person, he treats it with a sort of apathy and is conflicted about how to deal with it. He canât hold conversations for very long and dishes out short, direct replies that donât add anything meaningful. It makes it socially awkward. To boot, his array of emotional expressions is about as wide as a teaspoon. The result: he comes off as impassive and uninterested.Â
Above is a younger Kron, predictably impassive and uninterested, caring about nothing but movies
This is all very devastating to his romantic and sex life, too. Not that he particularly cares. Kron has never had any interest in a love life to begin with. But any advance made towards him was shot down from the very start, if not because he didnât know how to react, then because he was unaware that there advances even made. He did lose his virginity, though, to a girl in his eleventh-grade class, up in the projectionistâs booth of his uncleâs film house during after hours. Never having even held someoneâs hand before, you donât need me to say that his woefully un-passionate and un-invested lovemaking wasnât the best time of her life, and she never came back to see him. If that bothered Kron in any way, youâd be hard-pressed to have found it on his face. He didnât actually have feelings for her.
But itâs a far cry to say he canât feel anything positive. He can. Despite the fact that he has convinced himself heâs disappointed in Lucas, he loves his uncle very dearly. If he didnât, he wouldnât be carrying--still, to this day, even eight years after Lucasâ death--the lucky coin he was given when he was just ten years old. And if he was so emotionally depraved, he wouldnât have jumped in to help his uncle, wouldnât have felt troubled killing anyone, wouldnât have had feelings for a couple of people in his lifetime, regardless of the fact that he never made much effort to pursue those feelings. Right now, he wouldnât care much for anyoneâs misfortune so long as it makes him a profit, but he is still capable of a wide range of emotions. He can feel hurt, anger, conflicted, and a happiness about something other than the digits of his bank account. Heâs just never gotten close to anyone beyond Lucas that allowed him to explore those feelings.Â
Heâs unpleasant and if you ever wanted to punch that smug, self-contented smile off his face, I wouldnât blame you. Heâs different once you get to know him personally, however, once you see him when heâs not working or has an appearance to keep up. Congratulations. Heâs not as much as a dick as he could have been.Â
In case you guys were unsure how to pronounce Kronâs name.
Emil - like itâs spelled, E--mill. Examples are here.
Kron - like the Swedish krona pronounced without the âuhâ ending. Krona is pronounced like this. He is used to his surname being said like Crohn and Croon, though. Neither are really wrong.
As for his alias...
Christen is pronounced Christ--in, not Kristen. Holst is pronounced how itâs spelled.Â
