James doesn't let anybody but his uncle Emilio (and maybe he might've given Shepard permission that one time they squared up mano a mano... whatever) call him by his first name. Yeah, some of the Normandy crew got away with it; who's gonna say no to Liara? And Garrus' suggestion of Jimmy Vega? Maybe he thought that was kinda funny, Omega stripper-like or not (plus those dancers make a pretty good pile of creds if they really put their backs into it - and James knows a thing or two about Omega). Besides, Shepard's crew are different. There's a pang of longing that drops heavy in his gut and grows, the sense that he's left his squadmates, his friends, and Shepard, his leader, facing the Reapers alone can't be dulled no matter how many cervezas he knocks back.
Officially he's Lieutenant Vega, but he's learnt fast this isn't an Alliance ship, so though he hasn't introduced himself to anybody but the mercenary from his own universe, Zaeed Massani, he's just Vega here. The frustration he can feel still tearing his stomach into shreds is still caged up inside of him, the only frayed edges on display the bottom of his standard issue Alliance shirt. Crawling around unfamiliar ships is like second nature to him by now, but here he has nothing but a jumpsuit he's not gonna wear to change into. So he rocks up to this bar they're talking about on the network looking every inch (and there's a few of those to Vega) like he's been doing battle with tight spaces and places he probably should've steered clear of. What he'd like now is a beer, cold as they come, condensation rolling down until it collects in a circular pool under the base of this perfect bottle. He's been in the Alliance too long to not expect something less perfect, but a guy can imagine. Space rations, hard beds and showers that run cold because the guys who got there first use all the hot water aren't strangers to Lieutenant Vega; but warm beer is the least of his problems.
His massive form takes up a spot and a half at the bar, one scarred at the knuckles hand rests flat, open and unarmed on top of the surface, and his eyes roam the bottles for something that looks like it just rolled right outta his dreams.
Just one for the road... for the shuttle back to the Sol system. Back to Earth.
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Officially he's Lieutenant Vega, but he's learnt fast this isn't an Alliance ship, so though he hasn't introduced himself to anybody but the mercenary from his own universe, Zaeed Massani, he's just Vega here. The frustration he can feel still tearing his stomach into shreds is still caged up inside of him, the only frayed edges on display the bottom of his standard issue Alliance shirt. Crawling around unfamiliar ships is like second nature to him by now, but here he has nothing but a jumpsuit he's not gonna wear to change into. So he rocks up to this bar they're talking about on the network looking every inch (and there's a few of those to Vega) like he's been doing battle with tight spaces and places he probably should've steered clear of. What he'd like now is a beer, cold as they come, condensation rolling down until it collects in a circular pool under the base of this perfect bottle. He's been in the Alliance too long to not expect something less perfect, but a guy can imagine. Space rations, hard beds and showers that run cold because the guys who got there first use all the hot water aren't strangers to Lieutenant Vega; but warm beer is the least of his problems.
His massive form takes up a spot and a half at the bar, one scarred at the knuckles hand rests flat, open and unarmed on top of the surface, and his eyes roam the bottles for something that looks like it just rolled right outta his dreams.
Just one for the road... for the shuttle back to the Sol system. Back to Earth.