Spectre

"Ghost Number 1530, please step forward.

Ghost Number 1530, or "Shepherd" as his codename read, obeyed General Horace Warfield without question. Not because he was compelled to (which he wasn't), not out of fear (Ghosts didn't really fear people-they invoked it) but out of genuine curiosity. And as dangerous as that could be for someone trained to control their thoughts, to use telepathy only when it served the interests of the Terran Dominion, the teep reasoned that in Warfield's personal quarters of the Hercules-class battlecruiser Siren, he was probably free to let curiosity take over.

Besides, Warfield has a psi-screen, Shepherd observed, noting the small device nestled by the general's ear. How predictable…

Having served even in the days of the Confederacy and subsequently transferred to the Dominion with minimal modification t to his neuro adjustor, Shepherd reflected how it might have been nice to see such loyalty become manifest. Still, with the 'restructuring' of the Ghost Program a year ago and 281 Ghosts achieving a literal state of existence, not to mention the return of the zerg, perhaps caution was warranted.

"I received your report from your reconnaissance on Bel'shir…" said the general slowly, holding a digi-tome with one hand while stroking his black beard with the other. "Your level of detail is quite adequate and with the protoss and zerg still unaware of our presence, this will only make our operations much easier."

Ghost No. 1530 remained silent. He wasn't used to compliments, but he didn't let them get to his head. Besides, his eyes had been replaced by ocular implants years ago. Seeing things in detail was his job. Or his life, technically, if he could be said to have one.

Well, I did once…thought the assassin. A life four centuries in the past, with…

Shepherd shook it off. The crazy flashbacks, of alien races and advanced technology…all a side effect of his psionics. He couldn't dwell on it. He was a Ghost, not a commander of an advanced frigate that put terran technology to shame.

"And above all else, the terrazine shrines you mentioned are certainly worthy of continued investigation," continued Warfield, the mention of the mysterious compound bringing Shepherd back to reality. The general closed the digi-tome and locked his organic eyes with the agent's cybernetic ones. "Investigation that we'll get right onto. In the meantime though, I wish to use some of it on yours truly."

If he'd been capable of such a thing, Shepherd would have blinked. However, while his eyes had gone the same way as the Confederacy, his tongue fortunately hadn't.

"Use…use terrazine?" the Ghost asked cautiously. "On me?"

"Yes, number 1530, on you," repeated Warfield, all pleasantries having been dispatched. "A surprise to you I'm sure. But in these trying times, and given your exemplary service record, I feel that you should be given all the powers of a Spectre, effective immediately."

Shepherd felt a headache coming on and it wasn't just because Warfield suddenly looked like a blue-skinned female wearing robes, if only for a moment. He'd heard tales of Project Shadow Blade, had even heard tales of rogue Spectres at the beck and call of some rogue Ghost currently part of Raynor's Raiders. And in all the tales, some things remained constant-supernatural abilities and a lack of free will.

In an instant, Ghost No. 1530 decided that he would rather be a simple Ghost than a malevolent spirit. And in another instant, he decided to try and steer Warfield away from his plan.

"General, my opinion, for what it's worth, is that this isn't the best decision…" said Shepherd cautiously. "My abilities-…"

"Have been forged in the fires of battle, elevating you above the rank and file" interrupted Warfield, suddenly looking like a gray alien wearing dark robes. "Spectres aren't trained, Shepherd. They're chosen. And as chief commander of the armed forces of the Terran Dominion, I'm choosing you to be one."

Shepherd wanted to say something, anything to take a time-out. Bad enough that the drab walls of the battlecruiser were 'phasing' between their current state and ornate architecture, but Warfield had switched back to the blue alien in his mind. The visions, the nightmares of the past were becoming the present and the Ghost could do nothing about it.

"So, when you go back down to Bel'shir, you will be a symbol, an ideal," continued Warfield the blue alien. "You will be the right hand of the Dominion, an instrument of Emperor Mengsk's will."

Shepherd simply nodded. A lifetime of training as an assassin and commando had made it instinctive not to question orders. And while he wanted to, that Warfield the blue alien had transformed into Warfield the mandibled alien kept him silent.

"As a Spectre, you will be our first and last line of defence," said the general. "A burden to be sure. But one that you are obviously capable of handling. Your accomplishments and services to humanity will not go unnoticed, Spectre number thirty-five."

Shepherd remained silent. His mouth had gone dry, his ears were ringing and the organic nerves around his ocular implants were burning. He felt ill, and not even a return to the year 2505 from an event that seemed to have taken place exactly 322 years ago was enough to raise his physical health back up to optimal levels. And in a rare display of concern, Warfield seemed to recognise this as well.

"You alright, thirty-five?" the CO asked. "You seem to be-…"

"John."

Warfield remained silent. And while the Spectre couldn't read his thoughts, he didn't need to in regards to sensing his unease. Still, that didn't matter. He only had one thing left to say to him, something that stemmed from a source far beyond this point in space and time.

"My name is John…"

A/N

So, in the spirit of basing crossovers based on noticed similarities, the similarities in this case were...well, nothing more but one similarity really, namely how both the Dominion and Citadel Council employ Spectre agents. Still, as little as that was, it was enough to spark an idea.