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Mass Effect: Absolution
Thanatos
Thaddaeus Shepard wasn't... comfortable. That was putting it mildly, really. He was, in actuality, so very uncomfortable with his current situation that he was looking for even the slightest hint of malignant intent in the room around him, happy to use it as an excuse to reach out and rip the laboratory, its contents, and those within it, to shreds-with his mind if he had to, although he knew that he'd be suffering from migraines and weeping blood for weeks afterwards...
That was assuming, of course, that he managed to successfully fight his way off of the base filled with the Alliance's very best operatives, steal some form of transport in order to escape the almost entirely uninhabited planet the base was on, and drop off of the galaxy's radar without having it all curtailed by an unfortunate shot to the face. He didn't like the odds, which was one reason why he was sitting here at all, but he would at least attempt do so with no uncertain amount of relish if the scientists that intended to poke and prod at his brain and central nervous system seemed to do anything beyond their remit.
This was also why he had refused sedation or any form of anaesthetic, a decision which some parts of him were currently regretting, although the rest of him was more than capable of shouting those pathetic fools down.
He was in a Magnetic Resonance Imager, or MRI, which wasn't the reason for the pain in and of itself, the scanning procedure was harmless, although it was somewhat cramped and Thaddaeus had never liked being restricted as far as his movements were concerned. No, the reason for the pain was the stimuli that the scientists were using to observe the reactions in his brain and his CNS (central nervous system), in order to attempt to understand his biotic abilities.
That was the other reason why Shepard was willing to lie in the machine and allow himself to be experimented on; his biotic abilities were somewhat unconventional. Rather than having actual nodes of element zero in his body that he could use to manipulate gravitational fields and dark energy via his nervous system, the 'eezo' was present in his very DNA, due to a highly improbable genetic mutation. While unusual, what was more peculiar was the fact that, for reasons that were what the scientists were trying to ascertain, for the first two decades of his life, Thaddaeus had never been able to consciously use his biotics, instead using them as a crutch in more or less everything he did, and, for most of the time, entirely unaware that he was doing it.
Recently, however, that had changed. He had been on the planet of Elysium, awaiting his court martial for some apparently 'unorthodox and unethical' things he had done whilst on the Torfan raid, which had earned him the irritatingly inaccurate nickname of 'Butcher', when batarian mercenaries, slavers and privateers launched a vengeance raid on the colony at the behest of their vengeful government. Shepard, naturally, had managed to persuade his captors (eventually) that the adage 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' was appropriate here, and went on to ensure his survival and save a good number of civilians, finally culminating in a fight against a force fifty strong when he was (as far as the Alliance knew at least) entirely alone. During the fight, with his back to the wall, Shepard had managed to use his biotics consciously to inflict a massive brain haemorrhage on a foe, but had in return suffered nigh-cataclysmic pain in his skull, as well as bleeding copiously out of his eyes and nose; he had no intention of doing anything of the sort again until he understood his abilities and their limits, even if that meant being experimented on in a lab.
Of course, his survival had been facilitated throughout the debacle by the Cerberus Operative Miranda Lawson, with whom he had been intending to take his leave of the planet and join her organisation. Again. And again, of course, someone had interfered at the last possible moment; David Anderson of the N7 Marines, at the behest of Admiral Hackett, at the suggestion of Shepard's other hidden benefactor, Henry Lawson.
The two had had an uneasy and indirect association that Shepard would rather have been without; there had been hostilities between him and Lawson's men, however, instead of ending Thaddaeus' fifteen year existence when the man had had the chance, Lawson had instead offered to spare him as long as he went to work for the Alliance, with whom Cerberus acted unofficially as a black ops agency, although things were becoming complicated in that relationship now that Cerberus was being labelled a xenophobic terrorist organisation.
In any case, Lawson had suggested, and Hackett agreed, that Shepard was simply too valuable a resource to waste if he survived the hostilities, and that the conflict provided a perfect opportunity to remove him from the public eye.
And so, Corporal Thaddaeus Shepard, the Butcher of Torfan, was martyred as a hero, and whisked away by Anderson to work for the N7's covert ops division in return for clean records under the same name.
The training had been a mere formality that Shepard had simply breezed through, having already been a killer for over a decade. Then came the necessary evaluation of his biotics, first observing their subconscious use, then the more conventional equivalent.
The pains in his limbs, head and torso, both chemical and genuine, finally ceased, and a voice spoke over the speaker from the observation room.
"Shepard; we need you to access your biotics consciously."
It was somewhat more difficult than it had been on Elysium; the life and death situation had added urgency to the process that facilitated his efforts, whilst now he was in controlled, 'safe' circumstances. Recalling the process, he battled to tune out the endless thudding of the MRI, closed his eyes against the harsh white glare of the laboratory lights, and attempted to focus his brain.
Frustration built as his efforts had no effect; there was no pain in his skull, no building feeling of charge in his body. He needed a target, something to concentrate on, something to focus his attentions.
The scientists knew better than to offer encouragement; he had explained to them in graphic terms that very few could actually have understood just what would be the result if they managed to irritate or inconvenience him in any way.
He massaged his temples, knowing he wasn't supposed to move during the scan but at this point not caring, fighting an irrational desire to cause some destruction, to wreck this machine and its lab and its occupants for wasting his time-
He opened his eyes. The pain was there, mounting in the front of his skull, the first indication of progress. He grinned slightly, and realised he could taste a metallic tang in his mouth, brought his hand away from the temple and focussed on it, and watched as it seemed to burst into blue flame.
"Excellent!" A scientist exclaimed over the intercom. "That concludes our business here, Shepard, you can leave the machine."
The thudding of the scanner ceased, and Shepard was drawn back out of the machine, his hand still glowing with a fierce intensity, reflecting his craving for release. Not knowing of any other way to relax his grip, with a forceful gesture he thrust his hand out at the door to the lab, and watched as it crumpled, before doubling up in agony at the backlash within his skull, feeling moisture flowing from his eyes and the taste of his own blood coming to the fore in his mouth. He swallowed, and staggered upright, before managing to make his way, unaided but not unescorted (he wasn't trusted just yet, particularly after that little gesture) back to his quarters.
He failed to get more than four hours of sleep, as with most nights, instead lying in the dark, listening to music, an interest he had cultivated during the three years Henry Lawson had held him until he was of the necessary age to join the Alliance. His tastes varied widely, and fluctuated somewhat with his state of mind, but that night Saint-Saëns appealed most, the complex, somehow gleefully insidious melodies rippling through his brain, leaving him in a meditative state that was never quite as restful as actual sleep, but allowed him to function.
Late in the morning, he was escorted by a pair of somewhat apprehensive security personnel from his room, though the network of corridors, towards the operations centres in the base. Shepard's identity was apparently common unofficial knowledge throughout the base, something that didn't surprise him; amongst the best the Alliance had to offer, particularly in the covert operations division, there had to be at least one deviant individual with a habit of viewing information that he didn't have authorisation to access. And of course, if there hadn't been before, there certainly was now.
His guards gestured for the psychopath to enter through a door to his left; he raised an eyebrow and complied, finding himself in a somewhat unremarkable office, with an aging man behind the desk, a glass of what was presumably some variety of spirit before him. He appeared to be in his sixties, with short but mildly unkempt grey hair, a wide jaw, short, carefully trimmed facial hair around his mouth, thin, pale lips that were quirked in a slight smile and grey-blue eyes that gleamed speculatively as they watched Thaddaeus enter.
"Shepard, my dear fellow." He greeted the younger man in a slight Irish accent, gesturing to the chair opposite. "Take a seat. Major Michael Hogan; I'll be acting as your commanding officer."
Thaddaeus took the seat offered, vaguely impressed with the affable efficiency by which the man had carefully taken control of the situation, in a way that didn't give him an opportunity to respond.
"The scientists have reported back on the results of your scans." Hogan informed him. "Quite frankly it's fascinating stuff, Shepard; useful genetic mutation in this day and age-well, I don't need to tell you just how incredible that is. Even with the results of the scans, we're moving in uncharted territory, and the boys tell me they've been having to resort for the most part to educated guesses, but from that we've got a good idea of your situation."
"As you know, as opposed to having element zero concentrated in nodes around your body, it's been distributed evenly throughout your body in your DNA as the result of random genetic mutation. This, of course, means that potentially, even despite the fact that implants are essentially useless in your case, you could be the most powerful biotic in the galaxy, rivalling even the pompous asari, due to the sheer quantity of eezo in your system, as well as the fact that potentially all of it can be harnessed due to its even distribution. However, this has resulted in a rather significant issue."
"As the first stage in a new genetic leap in human evolution, your body hasn't entirely adapted to the changes. Your subconscious use of biotics is essentially the result of element zero being activated as a result of actions ingrained in muscle memory, which is reflexive and often bypasses the brain entirely, operating solely via the central nervous system, meaning the element zero in your brain isn't activated as a result, so you can use biotics as a crutch to your heart's content."
"However, when you begin to use biotics consciously, which you were forced to do during the events on Elysium, you activate the element zero in your brain as well as in the area you wish to manipulate, which results in the harmful side effects you've been experiencing, which correlate directly to the amount of power you expend. Thus, I regret to inform you, excessive conscious use of your biotics could result in irrevocable brain damage and death."
Shepard digested the information. It wasn't much of a surprise; he'd hypothesised that something along these lines might be the case, however, it had been necessary to know where he stood for certain. Curiosity, however, prompted him to inquire "I was under the impression that all asari are latent biotics as a result of a similar genetic mutation. How did they avoid similar problems?"
Hogan pursed his lips thoughtfully, and took a sip from his glass. "As I said, this is all theoretical, but it seems that through a fortunate secondary genetic mutation, their DNA became differentiated if it was intended to become neural tissue, resulting in a lack of eezo that allows them conscious use of their biotics, but also seems to prevent them from the subconscious use you demonstrate as a side effect."
"Some people have all the luck." Shepard commented wryly.
Hogan leaned forward in his chair, gesturing thoughtfully with the glass. "There are schools of thought that have put forward the hypothesis that it wasn't luck, but design. Not a deity, of course." He hastened to add as Shepard quirked an eyebrow. "Protheans."
"Entirely possible." Shepard conceded. "Though their motives will remain a mystery, I suppose..."
Hogan nodded. As an intelligence officer, and a damned good one, his sense of curiosity was acute, and leaving it dissatisfied wasn't a habit of his; which was why he dealt in espionage, not history or philosophy.
"Well, now to the main business of the day. As you no doubt expect, you qualified for N7 designation with no trouble whatsoever, however, as formalities go it was an important one in order to build up a convincing past for you that won't result in any... unsavoury allegations. You will be operating under my command, as I have already informed you, and as I'm sure you'll be happy to hear, you won't be expected to work alongside any other operatives. In fact, given the trend that your former comrades followed, and your unfortunate level of notoriety, your primary directive is to operate alone."
Shepard's lips quirked in a satisfied smirk, one that Hogan mirrored as he continued. "As such, I'm bestowing upon you the rank of Lieutenant Commander, in order to facilitate autonomy in the field and give you the requisite level of authority to access Alliance resources to facilitate your operations. Congratulations, Commander Shepard. I'm sure that you'll be happy to hear that a jump from Corporal to Lieutenant Commander is unprecedented."
The mirrored smirks grew wider. "So, the only remaining issue to deal with before you become a fully functioning N7 is to give you an operational designation. Any suggestions?"
"Samael." Shepard supplied without hesitation, openly grinning now; the Major's company was rather enjoyable, to say the least.
"An apt choice; the angel of death, harbinger of destruction, and as often a demon as an angel. I'm afraid it's taken, however." Shepard's grin shrank, somewhat. "Now, Shepard. You're a thoroughly interesting fellow in my view, and in many ways unique. But you're not alone. There are at least two other individuals in the universe to whom you could metaphorically be related, at least in your approach and attitudes, and one of them works for me, which is why you've been placed under my command. He is Operative Samael. However, I believe I can suggest an acceptable alternative; 'Thanatos'."
Thanatos. The very embodiment of death in Greek mythology; not a major player, more of an enigma, but undeniably the being with the largest body count, even if he had been outwitted once or twice...
All in all, it was rather appropriate. Shepard inclined his head in deference to Hogan's suggestion. The Irishman's lips quirked again, but he didn't move to input the details into the database; Shepard realised he'd known he would consent. He shook his head wryly, realising he had a very definite foil for his intellect in his new commanding officer.
"You mentioned two individuals that share certain aspects of my personality." He said carefully. "May I enquire as to the identity of the other?"
"You may indeed. Why, he's the man I'm sending you to kill..."
Author note: My apologies for a few distortions of scientific reality, if anyone was meticulous enough to spot them. However, the fact that you're reading science fiction at all means that you're willing to sacrifice some plausibility for a decent story, which, I hope you'll agree, I am providing.
Whether you agree or not, there's a rather large button beneath this segment of text that enables you to tell me about it; use it. Please?