He arrives on Omega without an objective. His purpose is gone, withered and buried in a C-SEC file drawer, blown to pieces in the dark of space, frozen solid in Alchera's ice.

The mercs, in their own way, are a blessing.

He makes lists. He plans. He does what he does best.

His lists keep him tethered to a world that's slowly fading. They give him order, something to hold on to when he so often feels like he's standing beside himself, watching a stranger research, form a strategy, pull the trigger.

Omega ownership: Blue Suns 50%. Blood Pack 30%. Eclipse 20%. Aria T'Loak 100%.

He has a squad again. Not part of the plan, but useful nonetheless. They can pull off ops he could never accomplish alone, and their chatter fills the silence that rings in his ears. He doesn't learn their names, and doesn't tell them his.

Nicknames: Chief. Boss. Archangel. That Crazy Asshole.

Eventually, he learns them anyway. He plans bigger and better.

Trustworthy: Vortash. Monteague. Sidonis.

He leaves eleven men in a safe house, and returns to ten already-cold corpses. He washes the blood from their faces and closes their eyes.

He writes ten letters. None of them say what he wants to say.

Kill list: Rhi'hesh Shurta. Selkeet Shirion. Kron Harga. Har Urek.

He scouts the building and doesn't worry about being seen. The message, he hopes, is clear: come and get me.

He'll take as many of them with him as he can. For whatever that's worth.

Weak spots: Second floor back door. Third floor bay window. South entrance.

Everything he owns fits into one box. He marks it C/O S. Vakarian and scribbles an address he's never forgotten. He'll send it out before he leaves. Maybe it'll even get there.

Priority targets: Tarak. Garm. Jaroth.

He thinks about going out in a blaze of glory, but he knows there's no such thing. Just a pop like a firecracker and darkness, forever.

There are worse ways to go.

He makes one final list.

Remember: Butler. Weaver. Erash. Sensat. Mierin. Shepard.

He checks his perimeter one last time, then settles into the sniper's nest he's rigged up over the bridge. The weight of his rifle grounds him. He waits.

It's the right thing to do.

This time, he's sure.