A/N: So. If you're wondering, Chaos Effect: First Contact is a sort of AU prequel to the Mass Effect universe. All OC characters, it's a tale of many told by one quasi-protagonist. It could be criticized that Forrest Jackson is really an SI, but I would argue that he's an OC like any of the rest (and the name and any remote likeliness came from an initial lack of inspiration).
Alright; on a side note; this is the last time. I promise. I've gone through for once and for all and done some hefty editing. The story is the same, but I've (hopefully) bumped up the polish several rungs. It's been almost three years since this story was started, and it was just an experiment. Now it's a full story, and one that I'm pretty proud of writing.
A few disclaimers, and may you read these:
-Mass Effect and all dat jack is property of Bioware. No infringement intended.
-Chaos Effect and all the OCs within are, well, mine.
-Story begins in 2011. And stays chronological.
-Profanity, violence and sometimes tasteless humor contained.
-CE:FC is about 500,000 words long. Get comfy.
So, without further mucking around, let's get into this. If the read keeps you around and you have any comments, feel free to leave a review or PM me. Cheers!
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Chapter 0: Prologue
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Normal.
Few things in my life had been. Seventeen years spent in various places across the United States – Chicago, New Mexico, California, Colorado, just to name a few – had provided me with an odd foundation. The structure I built and continue to build has only become more bizarre.
Many aspects of that building have garnished notoriety as setbacks by others. Like being homeschooled for twelve years. Or living all but three months without a television. Or maybe that we chose to live with the nearest neighbor 18 miles away. Or even living outside of phone service. Maybe a bad thing for others, but definitely not for me. Those conditions fuelled my passions, not cabin fever.
My home for the past eight years rested in the mountains of Colorado. Only my parents, some various animals, and me. During the summer we ran a guest ranch and any odd jobs we could pick up. Infamously, that included maintaining a ditch with shovels. Hard work, but rewarding. Any chances of getting soft were quickly crushed under the 3,500 calorie diet and 10 hours of work a day.
Then winter. Things went into a sort of stasis. Everyone else left the mountain; the snows set in. I was reduced to textbook assignments and term papers. Ah, but the snows. It seemed like I was able to revolve my entire year around the five months that crystallized water graced the ground. Like almost anything else, I didn't get into riding – I became obsessed.
Mechanics and riding loud machines were one side. The other was poetry. I gave up trying to understand how I could follow two completely opposite paths long ago. Now, I just made the most of both. My riding had scored a short segment in a snowmobiling movie. The poetry found its place in a few books and magazines. Yet still I couldn't understand where it came from.
Physically, I was suited for this lifestyle. Standing at six feet tall, I was built skinny as a rail. Try as I might, the only weight I could gain was in the form of lean muscle. Between manual labor and outdoor life, I was in pretty good shape. Not a beast by any means, but fit. I had cut the dark brown hair back to a Rollins-style look, and similarly had pretty simple taste in dress. Usually jeans and a t-shirt or hoodie. Or riding gear in the colder weather.
And that was my life in a nutshell.
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A mile from home was like my backyard. I knew it equally as well, and I spent almost as much time out there than I did inside working on physics, biology, literature, and of course, Algebra II. Three feet of snow on the ground gave me an unofficial license to go where ever I could on snowmobile. Or sleds, as we referred to them as. Either way, they were only needed for transportation.
And yet… it didn't work out that way. Riding became second nature and invaded my free time and personal life. I had always been slightly infatuated with snow. And sleds only made that worse. When I could, I rode for fun. "Fun" might not be the right word by many standards; it was rather pushing my own limits however I could. Waging war on gravity by jumping further, climbing higher, taking crazier lines through the trees, or just riding normal terrain with an added aggression.
I wasn't reckless. I knew my limits and learned how to push them without facing the serious consequences. In a way… this was a battlefield. There were hundreds of ways the mountain could strike you down should carelessness take hold. It was a management of risks. Most times, my judgment would win out – allowing me to progress without breaking myself. Not including the countless times of getting stuck or just falling off. I had that technique down. Even after progressing to the point of hitting metal comp ramps, the worst I faced was a compressed back. All things considered, that was a reasonable price. I had learned how to reallocate fear –using it to keep me from doing something stupid rather than slowing me down or holding me back. All too many times I would just go for something before second thoughts and doubt could make their way into my mind.
Which brought me back to the present. Here I was with grain shovel, piling up a snow kicker (aka a big jump) about halfway up a decent hill now in the second afternoon of progress. It seemed like a strange way to spend two hours of the day. But everything in stride. It was the work to reap the reward. As I began to put the final scoops to the jump, I couldn't help but feel a giddy sense of excitement for hitting it tomorrow. A cold Colorado night would freeze the snow in its new position, solidifying my work. For now, there was a focus on every little angle. Sadly, I knew how to build these quite well – mostly learned from experience.
I took a step back to reexamine the in-run. I was particular about that. I didn't care when I was hitting natural terrain, but when I took a shovel to it… it had to be perfect. And it was almost there now. Just a little more work, then it would be ready for tomorrow. I could even rip a little more before heading home for the day.
It was a typical Colorado January afternoon: Sunny and warm. At least by my standards it was warm enough to work in a t-shirt. My jacket and helmet sat on the sled several meters away. Even with goggles over my head, it was bright as hell out. Glancing up briefly, I guessed it was about two pm. There would be maybe two more hours before the sun disappeared. Then, it wouldn't be so warm. And I still have to get firewood in. I reminded myself as the shovel compressed the snow down with a smack again.
After a little bit of consideration, I figured the nearest human being was about twenty-six kilometers away. My folks had gone to town earlier to run errands and – unfortunately – go to the dentist. I felt bad for them. I really did. Today was gorgeous. Not a cloud all day. They were supposed to make it back tomorrow, but still. And with them gone, responsibility of the whole operation fell into my hands. That was nothing new; I was used to taking care of the ranch, and it was pretty easy to do this time of year. Just throw out some food for the horses, put the chickens up, and then I could get my own dinner.
There… that looks pretty good. I walked a short distance away to inspect my work again. A little crooked towards the top still. Dammit. Back to work again. Thanks to stiff boots, I was reduced to a hobble as I climbed back up to the lip. A few scrapes here, a scoop there… Well, that about did the trick. I could always put the final touches on it tomorrow when the snow had set up in its new form.
I proudly strapped the shovel back on my sled, then reached for my jacket. After tugging that on, I began fumbling with the goggles and helmet. Then a sound caught my attention. My first thought was an airplane. In this silence, they could be quite disturbing. I searched the sky, looking for the white tracer. None to be found. And it was too high pitched to be a chopper. I grunted, somewhat annoyed. I just wanted to ride, but I was also curious as hell.
And then it came to my attention; flying not too high above the aspen trees on the far side of the open area. A few things began going through my mind. Despite my logical protests, it really looked like a military grade shuttle from the video game Mass Effect. Small, grey. No wings. As it drew closer, it seemed focused. My humored lip-biting came to a halt. It had definitely spotted me, coming now to land about twenty meters away.
I shook my head vigorously. Maybe I stayed up too late the night before and that shuttle was only a hallucination. But it didn't go away. This… this was real, wasn't it? I plastered a handful of snow against my forehead just to be sure. No, it landed in the snow and the occupants began offloading. Five of them total; all in unmarked, grey armor and helmets. If I was really seeing this, there were two Turians, two Batarians and a single Salarian – all standing tensely, but with their weapons holstered.
They looked at each other, nodded a little, and quickly spoke a few lines of dialect completely unintelligible to me. One of the Turians held a hand up to the side of his helmet. He nodded a couple of times as I took a step forward. I was in complete shock. Trying to understand what I was seeing aside, this was incredible – likely the first contact with a race of aliens that I had ever heard of. But my awe turned into alarm as the lead Turian dropped his hand and uttered a single command.
All five drew assault rifles.
I wasn't one to run, but I ran. My helmet ended up fumbling onto my head as I swung a leg over my sled. Here's hoping it starts on the first pull. Panicked thoughts made their way through my head, but the engine roared to life. I abandoned all protocol of letting it warm up first and just pinned the throttle.
The ravine ahead looked like good cover. I crouched down in case they had opened fire. A tap and shred against my helmet answered that question. Thankfully, the depression ahead got me out of the open, and I could cover quite a bit of distance before popping back up.
That wasn't what I had expected. I made it about five hundred meters down the way before finally jumping out of the ravine. In midair, I looked back to where the shuttle had been. It was gone. The flat landing came in hard. I hadn't paid any attention to my speed coming out of the gully and the impact jarred my wrists. But I held on and looked back again.
I didn't have to look back very far. The shuttle was already on my four 'o'clock, about fifty meters away. After a second, I realized one of the mercenaries (I assumed they were mercs, at least) was hanging out of the open door. Just as I dove back into the dip, something tore by overhead. As it impacted the bank next to me, I realized it was a bloody missile. These guys weren't fucking around.
I broke into the best, improvised evasive pattern I could think of, running up on one side of the ravine, then the other in a slalom pattern. I bailed back out just as another rocket hit the bank immediately behind me. But once more, I rode it out – just pinning it as soon as I was back on the ground. The crest of a hill came all too fast and I before I considered slowing up, I was well off the ground.
The landing was even rougher this time, slamming my head into the handlebars as sled and rider landed ungracefully. I was jarred and under normal conditions would have paused for a moment to collect my wits. But the stakes were way too high now. I held on for dear life. The road into the trees lay ahead by about three hundred meters. Without warning, I pulled into a hard left turn, cutting in front of a small willow bush sticking out from the snow. No sooner had I passed before the tangle of bare branches ensnared another missile. Straightening out, the run was back underway.
I had almost made it to the cover of trees. I dropped off the final hill with a bit more care, then slammed on the brakes and slid onto the trail sideways. For the final time, I pinned it out. Almost to the shelter….
Right then a flash of movement registered out of the corner of my left eye. Not a moment later, my world exploded. I was sent flying away as a missile impacted the side of my sled. Then 46 liters of gas ignited at once. I flailed wildly through the air, flying clear of the downhill side of the road - unable to do anything but watch from a distance as my sled burst into flames.
I came down in a pile. The impact barely registered in the conscious thought.
Nothing seemed to focus – mind included. I lay on my back in a daze, motion fluttering around without recognition. This was definitely a dream, consciousness fading in and out. I was almost happy as I gazed to the blue backdrop. Until an outline interrupted that haze. My vision remained blurry but I could make it out clearly enough.
One of the aliens stood over me, a pistol pointed down. This… wasn't how I had envisioned it ending. At least I gave them a run for their money, dammit… Then without warning, a dark blue mist tore out the side of his head. Through my last strands of awareness, I saw him fall out of my field of view. But my world quickly faded into total darkness… almost peacefully.
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