place, working himself up into a fever, determined to take it out on the unfortunate human girl who was about to become his victim for the evening.
He wasn’t physically attracted to humans, female or otherwise. But this night wasn’t going to be about sex. Groto simply didn’t like humans. They bred and spread like vermin, swarming out across the Verge, gobbling up colony worlds and forcing other species out — like the batarians. The humans he worked
with in the Blue Suns knew how to handle themselves in a fight, but like all of their kind they were arrogant and self-important. Tonight he would take one of that proud species and make her suffer. He would humiliate, degrade, and punish her. He would break her!
There was a knock; soft and timid. He pulled open the door, reaching out to grab the woman’s wrist and yank her into the room. But he froze when he saw a male turian standing there.
“Who are — urk.”
His words were cut off as the turian punched him hard in the throat. Choking and gagging, Groto staggered back and fell onto the bed in the center of the room. The turian calmly stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Groto heard the lock click into place, sealing the pair of them in together.
Somehow scrambling to his feet, Groto struggled to catch his breath as he brought his fists up, waiting for the turian to move in and try to finish him off. After locking the door, however, the turian just stood there.
“Who are you?” Groto finally gasped. “Saren” was the one-word reply.
Groto shook his head; he didn’t recognize the name. “How’d you get past the guards?” he demanded.
“They didn’t try to stop me,” Saren replied, his voice relaxed. “I think they actually wanted me to come in here and take care of you.”
“What… what do you mean?” Groto’s voice was shaky; the unnatural calm of the turian was unsettling. He kept his hands up, poised in case the intruder made a move.
“Are you really that stupid? Don’t you realize they knew exactly what you had planned for tonight? They knew what you were after the moment you asked for a human consort.”
“What… what are you talking about?”
The turian took a single step forward. Groto scuttled two steps back, his fists raised and ready. He would have retreated further but he had reached the wall on the far end of the room — there was nowhere left to go.
“The Sanctuary does not allow its consorts to be harmed or injured,” Saren explained calmly. As he spoke he began to slowly advance, one deliberate step at a time. “They were monitoring the room.” Step. “The moment you laid a hand on that woman, an angry krogan would have burst in and ripped your head off.” Step.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t even do anything!” the batarian protested, finally dropping his fists. He felt like a fool waving them around when the other man seemed so calm.
Step. “I convinced them to let me handle it instead,” Saren continued, ignoring him. “They were concerned about bothering the other guests.” Step. “Then I reminded them that the walls are completely soundproof.” Step. “And you’ve already paid for the room.” Step.
The turian was directly in front of him now, though he still appeared completely relaxed. Groto brought his fists up again. “Back up or I’ll — ”
He never had a chance to finish the sentence as Saren delivered a solid kick to his nether regions. Blinding bolts of furious pain shot up through Groto’s bowels and stomach. He collapsed to the ground, the agony so great he could only whimper.
Saren grabbed him by the material of his newly purchased suit and yanked him back to his feet, then jabbed his thumb into one of Groto’s inner eyes, rupturing the orb and blinding him with a single blow. The batarian fainted, lapsing into unconsciousness from the sudden shock and pain.
Seconds later he woke screaming as Saren broke his right elbow. Howling in agony, he curled up into a ball, rolling back and forth as his body experienced physical suffering beyond anything he had ever imagined.
“You disgust me,” Saren whispered, kneeling down to grab Groto’s left wrist. He extended the batarian’s good arm, locking out the joints, and began to apply pressure. “You wanted to torture an innocent victim for your own pleasure. You sick bastard.
“Torture is only useful if it has a purpose,” Saren added, though his words were drowned out by the crack of Groto’s left elbow and the subsequent shrieks.
Saren stepped back from the convulsing man, letting the waves of pain rack his body. It took nearly a minute for shock to set in, numbing his mangled limbs to the point where Groto could finally speak.
“You’ll pay for this,” Groto wailed up at him from the ground, sobbing freely. Tears and mucus mixed with ocular fluid from his blind eye, dribbling down into his mouth and slurring his words into a blubbery parody of a threat. “Do you know who I am? I’m with the Blue Suns!”
“Why do you think I followed you here?”
A look of horror spread across Groto’s face as he finally understood. “You’re a Spectre,” he mumbled. “Please,” he begged, “tell me what you want. Anything. I’ll give it to you.”
“Information,” Saren replied. “Tell me what you know about Sidon.” “We were hired to take out the base,” the crippled man admitted.
“By who?”
“I don’t know. I only dealt with a go-between. I never saw him, never heard a name.”
Saren sighed and knelt down on the floor beside Groto. There were many exotic methods of interrogation, a million ways to inflict pain and punishment on a victim. But turians were a practical people, and he personally preferred the brutal effectiveness of simple, basic techniques. Grabbing the man’s dangling left arm by the wrist, he took a firm grip on one of his fingers and began to bend it backwards.
“No!” the batarian screamed. “No! Please… it’s the truth! That’s all I know! You have to believe me!” He stuck to the story even after three of the fingers on his hand were broken at the middle knuckle,
convincing Saren he was telling the truth.
“How did you get inside the base?” Saren asked, changing his line of questioning.
“The man who hired us,” Groto muttered, his voice raw and raspy from the fresh round of screaming that had torn up his throat. “He had someone on the inside.”
“Give me a name.”
“Please,” he begged in high-pitched, mewling whine. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even there.” Saren grabbed another finger, and the words began to pour out.
“Wait! I don’t know the inside man! But… but I can tell you other stuff. After the attack we brought in an outsider. A freelance bounty hunter. A big krogan named Skarr.”
“Good,” Saren said, releasing his hold on the uninjured digit. “Keep going.”
“Something went wrong at Sidon. Someone survived the attack. A loose end. Skarr was hired to hunt her
“What else? Why were you hired to attack the base?”
“I don’t know,” Groto whispered fearfully. “We weren’t given any details. The moneyman was afraid someone would talk. He didn’t want… he didn’t want the Spectres to find out.”
Saren broke two more of his fingers just to be sure.
“Please,” the batarian sobbed once he’d stopped screaming. “It’s not me you want. There was a meeting at the warehouse with Skarr and the man who hired us. Talk to someone who was there.”
The turian wasn’t surprised his victim was offering up someone else. It was a common reaction in most subjects. Typically it was a sign the interrogation was nearing an end; once the subject realized they were running out of useful information to surrender, betraying their allies became their only chance of avoiding further torture.
“Where can I find someone from the warehouse?” the Spectre demanded.
“I… I don’t know,” Groto admitted, his voice trembling. “They’re with the moneyman. He hired them on as his personal bodyguards.”
“Guess I’m stuck with you then,” Saren replied.
“That’s all I know,” the batarian protested weakly, his voice completely devoid of guile, subterfuge, or hope. “Even if you break every bone in my body, I can’t tell you anything else.”
“We’ll see,” Saren promised.
It was a long night for Saren. The batarian went into shock and passed out three more times during the interrogation. Each time it happened Saren would have to sit down and wait for him to regain consciousness —
