[hr]

The inside of the apartment was cold and the walls seemed only artificially cleaned down. Beneath the cheap lacquer there was all kinds of filth. It was a sparse space, and the furnishings were basic, but comfortable enough. The only thing that appeared out of place by its apparent quality was the single bottle of mezcal set on the desk, a glass beside it with a neat lipstick stain around the rim. The sterile atmosphere of the room was harshly warmed by the bright and intrusive lights that filtered in through the window — the red glow of the station burning through. For anyone who was even remotely sensory sensitive, Omega would be a migraine inducing hell to them. 

Odette stepped out of the shower, letting her bare feet touch the mat that lined the floor. The woman left behind a series of wet footprints and she made her way to a mirror, wrapped in her towel. Meeting her own reflection, she observed the way that the blue of hair darkened when wet, and that with each wash it seemed to strip back the synthetic colour, she had even watched the steady stream of blue-tinged water circle the drain. 

It had been two days. Two days since she’d left Callan’s warehouse, and for the most part she felt more settled now. That wasn’t to say that the aching wound their tense reunion had left her with had closed in anyway. If anything, she could feel it bleeding still, a throbbing sore that she had to tend to before she could leave. The operative knew she had to leave soon, too. 

[i]Dead or alive.[/i]

She knew it was one or the other. If he was even still there. Who was to say he hadn’t left? Two days would be enough time, surely, to do a disappearing act. Callan had done it before, upped and left. At the thought, she tilted her head, lips tugging to the side too. Her reflection suddenly bored or frustrated her -- it was hard to discern what the feeling was. Off she went hurriedly out of the bathroom and into the tiny box space. Toward her antiseptic. The mezcal, in its bottle with the sharp edges, the rich, smoky heat took the edge off the raw nerve for a while. 

That had been the time she had spent, it was hardly wise but at least she was hidden from sight to wallow, and think, and philosophise on the situation. Before she knew it, the bottle was drained dry. 

Cerberus would need an update soon enough. The Illusive Man would need a report of her progress, or lack thereof. It was written up already, a wonderfully spun lie about reconnaissance to keep them off her tail for the time being. It would buy her only a few more days, and still she wasn’t in any way closer to a solution, not without more answers. 

Odette had too many questions still, and she’d been unable to ask him then — but perhaps now? The smartest thing to do was to initiate a parlee. A discussion, on common and calmer ground. Her cold eyes gazed out of the long window, as the ships passed by, creating dancing images with their coloured lights on the walls of the apartment.

It was a shuttle that skirted past, and Odette lazily watched it, turning the empty glass in her hand to let the last bead of mezcal draw itself a circle around the rim. As the lights of the ship moved into the room like flare, as if the woman really was a shadow, it sent her away - an instant disappearance from the empty square.

She had to find Callan.