Valentin Saint-Martin (Tintin to his friends) is, without exaggeration or boast, one of the best journalists in Citadel space.

He's good at a lot of other things: tech, biotics, doubles skyball. He still wears the N7 jacket from his ill-fated stint in the Alliance military, sometimes. But he wasn't made for the chain of command, or for gunning down Batarians too unlucky to be born into a society that isn't a heaping trash fire. So now he's an investigative journalist - the only one who could survive the stories he takes on.

But being a journalist is more of a calling than a day job. (He's a freelancer, he can't abide sitting in an office.) The rest of the time, he does odd jobs. More often than he'd like to admit, he's a relic hunter.

Currently he's tracking down a Prothean orb stolen from the Illium Museum of Antiquarian Arts and Technologies. The culprit was a Salarian who thought he was much more clever than he actually was, which is not uncommon for Salarians. Tintin beat seven kinds of Hell out of him and found the artifact "hidden" in a fishtank in his apartment. Sighing, he reaches in and grabs it - 

- and suddenly he's somewhere else. A desert. It's dark, even with a bright moon overhead, and his eyes adjust after a few seconds of near-total blindness.

"Milou, where in the blazes am I?" he asks his omni-tool, looking around wildly. One moderately sized white moon, habitable without a suit... but it can't be.

"Downloaded star charts indicate North Africa, Earth, Sol system, Local Cluster," says his VI.

"How did I get to Earth from Omega?" he asks rhetorically. "-is there even anywhere on Earth with this little light pollution? Send a message to Haddock asking him to pick me up."

Milou hums, then stops short. "Extranet access unavailable," it says sadly.

"-on Earth?"

"Extranet access unavailable," it repeats.

He sighs, and checks himself over. He's got his backpack, which mostly just contains snacks and extra canisters of medi-gel and omni-gel. He's got his heavy pistol. He's got his omni-tool. Which is all he should really need.

He sighs, and starts walking in a randomly chosen direction.

Valentin Saint-Martin (Tintin to his friends) is, without exaggeration or boast, one of the best journalists in Citadel space.

He's good at a lot of other things: tech, biotics, doubles skyball. He still wears the N7 jacket from his ill-fated stint in the Alliance military, sometimes. But he wasn't made for the chain of command, or for gunning down Batarians too unlucky to be born into a society that isn't a heaping trash fire. So now he's an investigative journalist - the only one who could survive the stories he takes on.

But being a journalist is more of a calling than a day job. (He's a freelancer, he can't abide sitting in an office.) The rest of the time, he does odd jobs. More often than he'd like to admit, he's a relic hunter.

Currently he's tracking down a Prothean orb stolen from the Illium Museum of Antiquarian Arts and Technologies. The culprit was a Salarian who thought he was much more clever than he actually was, which is not uncommon for Salarians. Tintin beat seven kinds of Hell out of him and found the artifact "hidden" in a fishtank in his apartment. Sighing, he reaches in and grabs it - 

- and suddenly he's somewhere else. A desert. It's dark, even with a bright moon overhead, and his eyes adjust after a few seconds of near-total blindness.

"Milou, where in the blazes am I?" he asks his omni-tool, looking around wildly. One moderately sized white moon, habitable without a suit... but it can't be.

"Downloaded star charts indicate North Africa, Earth, Sol system, Local Cluster," says his VI.

"How did I get to Earth from Omega?" he asks rhetorically. "-is there even anywhere on Earth with this little light pollution? Send a message to Haddock asking him to pick me up."

Milou hums, then stops short. "Extranet access unavailable," it says sadly.

"-on Earth?"

"Extranet access unavailable," it repeats.

He sighs, and checks himself over. He's got his backpack, which mostly just contains snacks and extra canisters of medi-gel and omni-gel. He's got his heavy pistol. He's got his omni-tool. Which is all he should really need.

He sighs, and starts walking in a randomly chosen direction.

Valentin Saint-Martin (Tintin to his friends) is, without exaggeration or boast, one of the best journalists in Citadel space.

He's good at a lot of other things: tech, biotics, doubles skyball. He still wears the N7 jacket from his ill-fated stint in the Alliance military, sometimes. But he wasn't made for the chain of command, or for gunning down batarians too unlucky to be born into a society that isn't a heaping trash fire. So now he's an investigative journalist - the only one who could survive the stories he takes on.

But being a journalist is more of a calling than a day job. (He's a freelancer, he can't abide sitting in an office.) The rest of the time, he does odd jobs. More often than he'd like to admit, he's a relic hunter.

Currently he's tracking down a prothean orb stolen from the Illium Museum of Antiquarian Arts and Technologies. The culprit was a salarian who thought he was much more clever than he actually was, which is not uncommon for salarians. Tintin beat seven kinds of Hell out of him and found the artifact "hidden" in a fishtank in his apartment. Sighing, he reaches in and grabs it - 

- and suddenly he's somewhere else. A desert. It's dark, even with a bright moon overhead, and his eyes adjust after a few seconds of near-total blindness.

"Milou, where in the blazes am I?" he asks his omni-tool, looking around wildly. One moderately sized white moon, habitable without a suit... but it can't be.

"Downloaded star charts indicate North Africa, Earth, Sol system, Local Cluster," says his VI.

"How did I get to Earth from Omega?" he asks rhetorically. "-is there even anywhere on Earth with this little light pollution? Send a message to Haddock asking him to pick me up."

Milou hums, then stops short. "Extranet access unavailable," it says sadly.

"-on Earth?"

"Extranet access unavailable," it repeats.

He sighs, and checks himself over. He's got his backpack, which mostly just contains snacks and extra canisters of medi-gel and omni-gel. He's got his heavy pistol. He's got his omni-tool. Which is all he should really need.

He sighs, and starts walking in a randomly chosen direction.