Amalgam

by OhSoDeadly

Saren believed in the superiority of flesh and blood over machine, even as he served Sovereign. The difference was slight, but it was his shield. That was before he lost his arm. One-shot.

The needs of the individual are always subservient to that of the group.

So ran his creed, and while it did not cleanse his hands of blood, it surely exculpated him responsibility of those who had owned it.

Saren Arterius, the Council's most deadliest Spectre and a turian patriot to boot, strode down the corridors of the Indomitable, a frigate in the Turian Hierarchy's vast fleets. It was a journey he'd made many times, on many different ships, in many different systems, but always it had been amongst turians. His own kind.

Now, to see their bodies littering the smoke-filled passageways and fighting vainly against the attack on their vessel, he was surprised (disappointed, even?) that he did not feel a hint of remorse. His philosophy was working, it seemed. One he had nurtured over time, ever since he'd entered the prestigious ranks of the Council's top operatives...and used heavy-calibre bullets so they would drill through the chest of the human hostage that batarian crime lord was holding as a living shield, and through his own. A mere detail, that.

The crew of the Indomitable hadn't done anything wrong. They hadn't attacked him, nor were they preparing to do so. A routine patrol through the Vetus System was a walk in the woods for any turian soldier-boring, but tolerable. He vaguely remembered his first tour through the Skyllian Verge: he'd been so proud, finally having the chance to serve the Hierarchy like his famous older brother, Desolas. Spirits knew, there were probably recruits amongst the dead, or the few still left alive. Unlucky enough to have been assigned to this vessel. But even as he thought of this, his interest was dull, minimal-like that of someone watching ants being burnt under a magnifying glass.

Was this how he'd always felt? Maybe he'd spent too long in the company of desperate men, men with nothing left to lose. But...that wasn't right. He was doing this for the right reasons. Wasn't he?

A metallic squawk behind jerked him from his thoughts, and he turned to see what had made the noise, Avenger assault rifle primed and ready. When he saw them, his finger did not immediately ease from the trigger. It hadn't been that long for comfort and ease of experience to set in, and the sight still disturbed him somewhat.

Geth synthetics. Five of them, a squad that had been sent ahead of the main fracas in the hangar bay to support him. Their "flashlight heads" cocked towards him in some mechanical facsimile of curiosity. Slender fingers clutched geth pulse rifles, which swept back and forth searching for new targets. Apart from the occasional stuttering sound, the five machines were utterly quiet. No fervour of battle infused these. No anger, fear or any other emotion that an organic would feel in the midst of battle. Just cold precision and will.

As a living, breathing organic amongst these automatons, Saren imagined he should have felt uneasy, repulsed even. To have allied with the geth, the AI scourge of the galaxy mentioned only in tales and bogeyman stories by the quarians, should have induced...something. But he simply did not care. Maybe he was getting more used to them than he thought.

And of course, there was the fact they were nothing compared to what he'd seen. Back on Sidon. Entering the facility, mind entirely elsewhere, until he'd stepped into the subterranean cavern and seen...it. The machine. The all-knowing, all-consuming Sovereign. The ship that lived, and thought, and demanded things of its minions. Was he such a one?

No! He snarled inwardly and shook his head. Sovereign is a means to an end. Nothing more. Besides, keeping my distance from its will is not difficult...I merely have to remain as I am. A flesh-and-blood organic, co-operating with machines. A divide. Not difficult to maintain at all. Yes. I am strong enough.

Momentarily satisfied with that, he eyed the lead geth soldier, bedecked in the heavy red armour of a Prime. "Well?" he barked. "Report."

It warbled at him. Through his audio implants, a translation wheezed out in a tinny metallic voice. "Ship is under our control. Mass effect drive core at minimal power. Enough to maintain stability. Hangar battle almost concluded. Few stragglers throughout the ship. We have sent several dozen runtimes to infiltrate ship systems."

We. Our. Us. It constantly interested him how the geth refused individuality, and always remained as a collective. No doubt, as machines, they were incapable of anything else. Still, the concept was sometimes difficult to apply. "Does that mean your soldiers in the hangar have gone offline?"

It shook its head at him. "Collaborative infiltration effort. 5.3 runtimes per mobile platform. Effect is cumulative. Efficient. Turian systems not equipped with geth countermeasures. A consequence of our absence from the galaxy. Sovereign will show us our future."

The Spectre grunted non-committally, not wishing to respond to that. "Good. What can you tell me? Access crew lifesigns."

"Ship's complement numbers three hundred, including officers, security, support staff. Currently numbers less than forty. Mostly concentrated in the engineering section. We believe they plan to barricade themselves in, wait for answer to distress signal. It will be a battle of attrition."

He laughed at this. Surely they did not expect to escape him? Me, a Spectre! Besides, the geth had already jammed their communications. No help was forthcoming, and even if it did they were more than capable of handling it. More synthetic warships were emerging from the Perseus Veil all the time. "Who remains in command of them?"

The geth was silent a few moments. Then it tapped the in-built omni-tool on its arm and projected an image. The violet light glimmered off the bulkheads. "Jorven Medolkus. First Lieutenant. Executive officer to Captain Windol Trentus, now KIA."

For a moment the blaring of the ship's alarms, the clanking and buzzing of the geth and even the ominous whispers of Sovereign's voice dissipated. He stood in shock, eyes fixed on the rotating image before him. That face. It was older now, certainly, and carried more scars; but it was unmistakeably him.

Jorven. The pair had been inducted into compulsory military service at the same time, in the same training camp in the province. At first, they had disliked each other-Saren thought him a coddled fool, and Jorven thought him a pompous upstart-but after the sweat, blood and curses of the program, the two had learned first tolerance, then grudging respect, then friendship. Their first mission (a standard raid on a Blue Suns smuggling ring that had gone haywire) had cemented a bond between them. They had each other's backs, forever and always.

Then, after four years of service, Jorven had been critically wounded in the First Contact War against the humans. A human gunship had caught their platoon out in the open while on long-distance reconnaissance through some marshland. Only Saren and Jorven had survived, by pulling the bodies of their comrades over them and remaining silent and still for hours. And even then, Jorven had suffered third-degree burns to his upper torso and face, not to mention a butcher's bill of bruises, fractures and abrasions. When the tide turned later that day in favour of the Hierarchy's forces, Saren had signalled an evac shuttle to come pick them up. He'd held Jorven's limp hand the whole time, silently willing his friend to hold on and cursing the human bastards who'd done it.

Jorven had pulled through, but required eight months of healing, recuperation and therapy. Saren had been moved to another unit, which meant even when Jorven came back, they were unable to see each other. Even after the brief war ended, it was difficult to find him: Jorven had been relegated to a stealthier unit, and was working in the Terminus Systems. Saren remained in Council space, until the offer to join the Spectres came up. The rest was history.

Now, to find him here on this ship, in a remote system, Saren wondered if this wasn't all some big practical joke. He half-expected the geth to say, "Error", or that he'd misread the projection, or this was another turian with the same name. Allying with Sovereign and the geth...that had been a step towards what some might have called treason. (It was not!) But finding and killing an old friend? That...that wasn't his way. Nor was it the method of a Spectre.

But what choice did he have? None of these turians could escape, to say what they had seen-

With a yell he slammed his fist into the wall, screwing up his face. The geth watched him without response, though one tilted its head to one side. He faced them and glared. "Broadcast a message of parley to the survivors. Tell them I wish to speak to Lieutenant Mendolkus. Bring up more Primes from the hangar bay. We will try...diplomacy."

The lead Prime looked almost disapproving. "Sovereign's wish is that these organics are eliminated. The god's will cannot be denied-"

"You dare question me?" Saren leaned right into the Prime's cranial area. "I am Sovereign's will, you stupid machine!"

It did not lean back in surprise, or flinch, or react in any way. It simply stared. Indeed, the glare of its singular optic was hurting his eyes. Spirits help him, he hated them already. Them and their damned machine devil of a god-

He caught himself just in time. He could not let his thoughts wander like that again. He leaned back, and modified his tone. "Do as I say. Or I will speak to Sovereign about your difficult nature. Do you want that? Well?"

The geth buzzed three times. "Your orders are being carried out. We will not forget this."

He did not respond to that. He was sure that he wouldn't be forgetting this either.

********************************************************

Throughout his career, he'd faced down some pretty bizarre shit. First getting attacked by that new race, the humans, and getting the tar beaten out of him. Then there was that weird hanar cult, who had seemed harmless but then started preaching about galactic doom and tried to nuke themselves into paradise before it could get them, and finally facing down a thresher maw in space. The odds had been against him many times, but he'd always managed to come through. But this?

Geth. No-one had seen them in the galaxy for centuries, not even the quarians, who seemed to have the biggest damned chip on their shoulders when it came to the synthetics. Yet here they were, attacking the Indomitable. And while he would fight and continue to fight, he had a feeling that none of them were going to make it out of here alive.

Lieutenant Jorven Mendolkus sighted down his rifle, past the mangled blast doors and to the burning corridor beyond. The other two apertures into engineering had been sealed and barricaded, so this was the only place they had to defend. It was not as easy as it sounded. They'd killed plenty of geth, as the sparking machine corpses scattered everywhere tended to suggest, yet there'd been many turian casualties too. Among them, his superior and longtime friend, Captain Windol Trentus. Blue blood slicked the walls and floor, and the bodies had been taken to an adjacent catwalk, laid out in rows.

The last of the crew, barring a few other pockets of resistance, were huddled around the mass effect core, the metal cowling providing a great defense against their attackers. Only eight of them were seasoned fighters-the rest were support staff or bridge officers, trained in combat but unused to actual fighting. Ammunition was running low and the number of wounded were piling up too.
"Get that turret up and running!" he shouted at a pair of engineers, whose talents were now being aimed at mechanical combat. They'd managed to steal the compact device from a geth combat technician that they'd taken down on their way here, but trying to get it to work was turning into a real pain in the ass. Twice it had nearly gone rogue and fired upon them, courtesy of the geth software still inside it.

"There's more!" A crewman pointed-through the smoke, he could see another three geth running toward them, pulse rifles charging. What he wouldn't give to get his hands on one of those guns-the bloody machines sure knew how to manufacture good hardware. "Take 'em down! Chuck a grenade through that doorway before they get close!"

A thermal grenade sailed through the hazy air, and detonated at the feet of the geth. Kinetic barriers flared and died. A volley of gunfire from the turians took the rest of them down, but not before one of them fired his rifle. The laser burst struck a crewman standing next to Jorven in the chest, sending him down with a burning hole in his torso. The screams sounded unnatural, and they hurt his ears. Jorven shook it off-just as he had with the attack, and the alarms, and the sight of Windol's body sprawled on the ground, empty eyes staring up at Jorven as if accusing-

"Medic!" He threw himself down beside the wounded man, and immediately applied pressure, ignoring the sting of the burning wound. "Omni-gel, now! Cover the doorway!"

A medical officer hurried over. "That shot tore him up pretty bad. He won't survive long without proper treatment-"

"Just do what you can for him." Jorven gave the wounded crewman a reassuring pat on the shoulder and half-ran, half-hobbled his way over to the forefront of the barricade. Here, Sergeant Talthius and his men were holding the line. "Status, sergeant?"

Talthius spat a stream of blood to one side and wiped his mouth. "Before our instruments got jammed, there had to be around three geth vessels out there. They've got plenty of manpower. Worse, they're blocking our distress signal. We're stranded out here, sir, and all they need to do is wear us down one at a time." He shucked the pump of his Katana and fired another shell through the doors.

Jorven nodded grimly. "I know. I know. But all we can do is keep fighting. Maybe we can earn a respite, get to the hangar. Might be able to find some communications equipment the geth haven't compromised yet." He caught the eyes of every veteran there, giving each a nod. "Just hold the line, men. Earn these uniforms-"

"Heads down, heads down! Got five more geth, including a Prime!" True enough, more synthetics were headed their way, the bulky body of a Geth Prime leading the way. Every gun grasped by turian hands pointed and fired.

But before the projectiles could impact, the Prime tossed a spherical object to the ground. Immediately, a purple-blue field shimmered into place and interposed itself between the turians and the geth. The gunfire slammed into it and did nothing. An impenetrable barrier. It had to be of geth origin-nothing they had could do this. Jorven raised his hand, staying his men. "Hold fire! Won't do us any good. Let's just wait and see..."

One of the Primes moved to the forefront of the barrier and looked directly at him. Then something happened he couldn't believe. It spoke, dull monotone echoing through the space.

"Hostilities have ceased for the moment. There is someone who wishes to parley with you. Standby." It stepped to one side, as did its fellows. Someone threaded their way through the intimidating behemoths and up to the barrier.

The pit dropped out of Jorven's stomach, and he felt his jaw sag. First a geth speaking, and now... "Saren?" he whispered.

"I know that name." Talthius stood upright now, a dark glare on his face and fists bunching around the stock of his weapon. "Council Spectre. Supposed to be one of their top operatives, but a real cold son of a bitch. Doesn't care much for the lives of others." He shucked the pump of his shotgun. "And now he's here with the geth. Why am I not surprised?" He prepared to fire.

"Just wait!" He motioned for the sergeant to stand down, and faced-an old friend? Maybe...
"What the hell is going on, Saren? I haven't seen you in..." He fell silent, then started again. "You're working with these things?"

Saren had the look of someone trying to twist and turn to avoid an unfortunate truth, jaw clenched tightly and eyes downcast. "Jorven, I...yes. I've...I've struck a deal. It's difficult to explain. We just need to work out some terms and I can-"

"Terms?" Jorven stared at him. "What do you mean?"

Saren gestured at the last of the crew. "Your men. They are now...party to a larger scheme of things. I'm afraid they cannot be allowed to-"

His old friend made a snarling sound. "To live, Saren? You plan to murder the rest of the crew so you can keep your Spectre secrets? We have done nothing!"

"It's not like that, Jorven! I didn't want to have to attack your ship in the first place but...it was necessary. This is bigger than any of us. Bigger than me, even. I'm willing to let the rest of the crew live. But they will be taken as hostages in the meantime. No harm will come to the, I give you my word. This ship's data drives also have to be wiped. Nobody can ever learn of this." He paused for a moment, then said: "I'm sorry."

For his part, Jorven listened to all this in silence. Then he replied, "Step through the barrier, Saren. You and I need to talk in private. Now." He made to exit the barricade, only to be stopped by Talthius. "What are you doing?" he hissed. The faces of the crew were shocked, bewildered; they had no idea what was going on. Neither did he, for that matter. But if they were going to die...he had to know. He shook off the grip on his arm. "I'm going to parley. See if I can't work out a truce." That was only partially true.

Saren stepped through the glistening field, and the pair met near the blast doors. As a reunion, there should have been pleasant surprise, exclamations and slaps on the back. Not this. Jorven looked for any sign that his old friend was still there, the one he'd fought alongside during the war, but there was precious little to find. The young, idealistic turian warrior had been swallowed up by Spectre Arterius, shadowy operative and with ice water for blood.

On Saren's side, his eyes immediately roved over Jorven's form, checking to see if he was wounded in any way. Apart from a few laser burns, this did not seem to be the case. He looked him in the eyes and tried to smile. It did not come. "I'm glad you survived the attack. I don't know what I would've done if I'd..."

The young lieutenant pursed his lips and folded his arms. "Spare me your pleasantries, Saren. You can't be absolved of this. You attacked a ship of the Hierarchy, and that holds true whether or not you knew I was on board. This...this is unforgivable. The Council won't let you get away with this one. Even if you keep your beloved secrecy."

The Spectre grimaced. "I know this is hard, Jorven, but believe me, my reasons are sound. I have not gone rogue in any fashion. This is all for the greater good of organics everywhere, you have to understand that!"

"Are you sure about that?" Jorven waved a hand at the Primes. "You ally yourselves with machines, you slaughter your fellow turians without mercy and you claim you're doing this for our benefit? Think, Saren. This isn't right. What's twisted your mind to act like this?"

If only you knew, friend. Actually, no. You're better off not knowing. He shook his head frantically, trying to throw off the insidious whispers that had started to coalesce in his head. "Listen to me-just listen, damnit. There's something...here in the Vetus system. On Sidon. More important than you can imagine. But no-one can learn of it. That is why we attacked your vessel. It was entirely possible you would discover it, and report your findings. I couldn't let that happen. Even if you were just doing your job. It's not an excuse for all the people who have died today, but it's as close as I can arrive at one."

Jorven stared incredulously, then snorted in disgust. "More blood on your hands, Saren? You're a Spectre, what's a little more, is that your thinking? My crew aren't hapless pawns for you to destroy on a whim. We have a right to survive, and a right to freedom!" Some of the crew shouted in agreement, upon hearing this.

You only possess that which we allow you to possess. Saren flinched as Sovereign spoke in his mind, his voice sounding like a thousand grinding stones. And we can remove it in the work of a moment. Your posturing does not impress us. Your usefulness is at an end. It was patently obvious what the Reaper wanted Saren to do. But no! He was the one in command here, even as the machine murmured words to the contrary. He tried a different tack.

"Jorven, look around. Your men are defeated, and there are too many geth to beat. Do you really want to throw their lives away, and yours? Enough blood has been spilt today. Please, let me take your crew into custody. They will not be harmed, I swear it! The geth answer to me, you can count on that. And I say your crew shall live-if you just agree to my demands."

Even as he spoke, he knew it for a lie. Even if the geth didn't kill them, Sovereign's poisonous influence would turn them from proud warriors into mindless husks. It was inevitable.

Then why are you doing this? His mind asked. An indignant wave of responses rose up, but he beat it back, beat it all back. There were bigger issues to handle right now. He refocused on Jorven, who was shaking his head.

"No, Saren. I won't do it. Neither will my men." A fire came into his eyes. "But you have a choice as well. Just leave. Let us all go, and keep your secrets. We don't care what it is you're hiding. Leave, and I'll make up some story about smugglers or pirates." He lowered his voice. "I owe you that much, my friend. I'll risk the dishonour."

Saren was speechless. That his old friend would risk this much, for him. But... "I-I don't have a choice, Jorven. You can't understand it but I have to-"

"Remember that time on Shanxi when we found that human farmhouse?"

The words, and the memories they carried, stung him deep. He looked off to one side, avoiding eye contact. "I remember."

Jorven kept talking, relentless and inexorable. "There was a family there, sheltering wounded Alliance soldiers. They were just civilians, they'd never done anything wrong. We could have killed them all if we wanted-there weren't any rules about non-combatants. Hell, any chance of that went out the window as soon as we destroyed the first human scout ship. But we didn't, did we? We let them take supplies and leave unharmed. You were pretty pissed off, as I recall. Fractured your hoof kicking a chair."

Saren chuckled at the memory; it was the first real one he'd had in years.

"And do you remember what I said? I said, "We had a choice between being good men and bad soldiers. And we made the right call. You might not see it now, but you will later." And it is still as relevant now as it was then. You can make the right call now, Saren. You can still redeem yourself! Please!"

He was so tempted, it almost physically hurt. To let his old friend leave, with no bad blood between them and having done the right thing...he could almost taste it. But just as he was about to signal the geth to return to their ships-

THIS IS NOT YOUR DECISION TO MAKE, SAREN. IT IS MINE. SOON WE WILL BEGIN OUR WAR, BUT UNTIL THEN, WE MUST BE DISCREET. KILL THEM ALL. OR THE NEXT ONE TO DIE WILL BE YOU. They weren't words. They were certainty in verbal form. He knew he was doomed then.

He looked at Jorven, his friend and brother in arms, the one he would have died for, and said, "I'm sorry. But it is too late for me." He raised his weapon.

With a roar, Jorven tackled him, slamming into the wall. The Primes moved to assist, but Saren yelled, "Get to the crew! Finish them off!" The synthetics lumbered forward, pulse cannons charging. The crew opened fire, but these were heavyweight geth, and it would take much firepower to bring them down.

"You fucking cruel bastard!" Jorven drove his fist into Saren's gut, making him double over. His old friend was bigger than him and angrier too. "I stood by you all those years, and this is how you choose to end it?" He grabbed Saren by the neck and threw him to the floor. Baring his teeth, Jorven stood over him. "Well, I'll make sure you won't be around to see it."

Saren flexed his legs and shot up to his feet, launching a series of strikes at Jorven's face. He deflected all but the last, which caused his eyes to roll back and disorientated him. The Spectre took advantage of this and, grabbing him by the back of the head, slung him into the wall. His face collided with it loudly, and a loud groan was heard. That had hurt him badly.

But he was a turian, and far from done. He recovered, pulled a pistol from his belt and fired. Saren ducked under the first two rounds, trying to get in close, but a third shot drilled through his chestplate and agony blossomed through his frame. He cried out, a noise drowned out by the still-blaring alarms and the sounds of battle in the next room. Dropping to one knee, he drove an elbow into his friend's knee, making him drop to the floor as well. But before he could attack again, Jorven headbutted him in the face, and he fell to the floor. The sparking fluorescent lights in the ceiling blotted out his vision, until a shadow fell over him. Jorven.

The blows began to hammer into him, one after the other, punctuated by the grunts and snarls of his old friend. "You-are-a-disgrace-" He blocked a feeble counterattack by Saren and slammed a fist into his windpipe-"to everything-we stand for." He stood up briefly, looked down with contempt. "Call yourself a turian? You're not fit to lick a varren's ass." He picked up his pistol from earlier and squeezed the trigger. "Goodbye, Saren."

But before he could complete the deed, something infused Saren's body, filled it with cold, murderous energy. And his voice grated out from between bloody mandibles: "Enough of this." It did not even sound like a person.

Saren rose up, faster than thought, and punched his old friend square in the chest. The blow had unnatural force behind it and sent Jorven flying into a bulkhead, where an errant spar of protruding metal was waiting. A dull crunch of tearing bone and flesh, and Jorven sat dazed on the floor, blood spreading from the gaping wound in his chest. A small nub of metal poked out from between his ribs. He coughed weakly.

Saren picked himself up, the sudden surge of adrenaline gone. He did not want to think too much about how it had happened. He staggered over to his old friend and gazed sadly at him. "Why-why did you not listen, Jorven?"

Jorven choked briefly, then spat out blood. "I listened. I wanted peace. But you could never let these things rest." And he suddenly lunged forward, omni-tool blazing brilliant amber.

The omni-blade coalesced into a diamond-hard edge and ripped into the muscle of Saren's left arm, carving neatly through it. In a matter of seconds, his left arm was twitching on the floor, blood fountained from the gaping wound and Saren screamed in pain. Loud enough to drown out the gunfire, and enough to make one of the Primes turn and look to see what was happening.

This turned out to be a mistake, as Sergeant Talthius, crewmember of the Indomitable, flung himself at the synthetic with a raw yell, a pair of primed grenades in his hands. The blast vaporised him and blew the Prime to pieces, sending a shockwave through the room and killing the few remaining turians left alive. The battle for the Indomitable was over. The ship was theirs. A great victory.

Unable to sustain himself after heavy blood loss, Saren passed out. His last thoughts, before being enveloped by the void, were: I am sorry, my brother. But it is too late for me.

As for Jorven, he did not die quickly. The blood oozed out, lapped at his feet. But the entire time, he gazed at Saren's supine body, with an odd expression on his face. It may have been a smile. It may have been gloating. There was no-one around to see it.

***************************************************

When he awoke next, it was to loud beeps and the whirring of machinery. Groggy, he peered about, and saw the familiar, alien shape of the rooms inside Sovereign. He was back. In the belly of the beast. His mind immediately became partly occupied, sharing space with the weight of the Reaper's presence. He twitched, frowned.

Then he remembered. The fighting, the screams and boom of gunfire, the melee between him and Jorven. Jorven, who had been his comrade through thick and thin. Jorven, who had bled out and died alone. He dropped his head in anguish.

He was an obstacle in your path. One to be removed. Nothing more.
More than anything, he wanted to tell the mechanical bastard to shut up. It was not the first time. But to do that would invite the full brunt of its technomental wrath, and he did not want that. He sighed, and looked down.

And instantly screamed. Where his left arm had been, there was now the dull, wrinkled surface of a synthetic arm, complete with shoulder pauldron. No, a geth arm. Tubes and wires snaked out of it and into his upper torso, where blue lights glimmered. The entire thing was cybernetic. Even as he flexed the hand, he was repulsed, like watching a spider crawl up it. Even as he breathed, he felt the various inner parts humming in sync.

A door slid open, and a geth walked in. Its light was dimmed, as if respecting the sanctity of its god. "Do you require further medical attention?"

He was lying on a gurney, hooked up to a medical machine. Of course. But there were still questions to be asked. "What happened to my arm? What did you do to me?"

The geth tilted its head. "The turian lieutenant you fought activated an omni-blade and severed your left arm. Blood loss was extreme. We moved you back to one of our warships and administered medical aid. You were then brought here for cybernetic implantation."

He stared. "Implantation? Where?"

"Sovereign demanded that you receive specialised implants in your chest that would allow you to focus better. It was Sovereign's will. Not yours. We do not answer to you." The geth turned and left.

He sat back in the bed, still engrossed by his left arm. He bunched his hand into a fist, and watched the artificial muscle bulge. He was stronger than he'd been before. He could probably kill a krogan with one punch now. And then there were these implants. No doubt he'd be faster, more deadly. All of what Sovereign had promised.

But what had it cost him in the process? He felt nothing but ashes. There was truly no going back now. Jorven was dead, killed as surely as if he'd put a bullet to him. One of the last remaining ties to his old life, where he'd just been a wide-eyed young soldier, cut. And a whole shipload of turian servicemen with him. All for patrolling in the wrong system. He was a disgrace to his title as a Spectre. The honourable thing would be to kill himself now.

And yet...As he thought more on it, and as the time passed, wasn't it clear that he'd done the right thing? True, those turians had been innocent of any wrongdoing here, but he couldn't avoid facts. They were soldiers, trained to kill. For all he knew, they'd been coming from a massacre of batarians, or vorcha, or krogan even. Those races were hardly clean themselves, but down that road lay circular ethics. Besides, wasn't it a good way for turians to die?

And on a bigger note, weren't their sacrifices part of a greater scheme? A few would die now, so many would live later. He was living proof that the Reapers weren't intent on destroying all organics. Most of them would die, yes, but those who made themselves useful...

The more time he spent there, in that room, the more it made sense. And by the time he was well enough to move and reassumed command of the geth, his thoughts were cold and clear. All of his focus was directed on their next mission. The geth had intercepted transmission regarding a smuggling ring in asari space. Something regarding Prothean transcripts. These would be required to build on the next phase of their plan.

Jorven was slowly forgotten by Saren as he travelled across the galaxy, working for-with-Sovereign. At first he was still sorrowful, but soon he gave it no more thought than he would the weather. Everything he had once aspired to-being a Council Spectre, safeguarding the galaxy, delivering justice-seemed to become dull and unimportant. Strangely, he was more comfortable with the geth than he had been before. A voice in his mind told him this was due to the new arm and some malefic force it contained, but this was swept aside.

Saren had found his purpose, just like any other machine that was driven by singular intent and focus. But his mind was still his own. He would not fall prey to the Reaper's whispering. He would not.

Deep in its core, shaped in the likeness of a long-dead race, the being known as Nazara by its own kind laughed coldly to itself. It would not be long now.