Author's notes: Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3 and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive themes.

Echoes

Chapter 1

The sun beats down heavily on your head, encasing your mind in the thick, smothering fog of exhaustion as your feet touch down lightly on the brittle surface of the plain, occasionally breaking through the crust of salty deposits with a loud crackle that makes your aural flaps twitch in surprise every time. Both your primary and secondary sets of kneecaps twinge a little in the fierce heat, just another sign that your body is not well-suited to this kind of environment. And yet, as unbearably hot as it is, the inhospitable inferno of this planet's toxic Oxygen-Nitrogen atmosphere has yet to reach its midday peak temperature, when even your robust enviro-suit will be pushed to its very limits to keep you alive.

The reason why your superiors decided to commission an expedition to this forsaken planet still eludes you, although you did find the allure of discovery and abundant wealth soon after quite hard to turn down. That, along with the promise of continued employment. Better to be among the stars enduring the occasional undesirable assignment than to spend your days scraping together a living in the under-streets of the sprawling megalopolis that encompasses your homeworld, or even than managing to muster together the means to survive in the slums of the Citadel, avoiding being dragged into the protein vats at the station's core by its strange Keepers.

Even the thought of those eerie, bipedal creations with their single pair of eyes and odd furry growths causes you to shudder. They wander the halls of the Citadel silently, almost unaware of the races walking through the hallways alongside them as they go about purposes whose natures have so far remained undiscovered by the Citadel's Ruling Council.

You dismiss thoughts of the frightful creatures, turning your attention and your four sets of eyes back to the matter at hand. Ahead, looming above the salty plain like some kind of monolith, the tower that houses the machinery to power the drill that is the focus of your enterprise waits for you. It currently sits over a narrow shaft, roughly twice as wide as you are tall. Inside that shaft, your comrades have been working tirelessly, creating all kinds of branching tunnels that lead off in every direction on the compass, seeking rare minerals and the occasional fossil of a bygone age, each one of the latter being instantly left where it is found until a follow-up archaeological expedition can catalogue it and search the nearby rock and soil for yet more artefacts.

You finally arrive at the mouth of this shaft into the planet, gazing down into the sheer blackness below. Even from the surface, you can still make out a few tunnels branching off from it, faint light flickering down each one as your colleagues go about there business.

A moment later, just after the sweat begins to collect at the base of your spine, you finally catch a glimpse of a shape moving up the main shaft, the faint outline resolving itself into the form of the platform that carries tools and personnel down into the shaft and returns with cargoes of precious rocks and minerals. Currently it carries the cargo of one of your fellow workers, his face creased with a mixture of equal parts concern and excitement. His hands mesh together anxiously, the thumbs pushing against one another hard, a clear sign of unease. You wait the final few moments as the platform completes its ascent, tension growing in your belly as you wait for the information that required your attention now, halfway through your sleep-cycle.

Your colleague waits for you to step aboard, and then the platform resumes its descent into the planet. He passes you an info card, which you slot into the palm-mounted reader you are wearing. You then raise your hands, holding them about one arm's length apart. A flickering holographic interface appears between them, its optical interface reacting to the microscopic implants in your retinas and optical nerves to allow you to control the information displayed with nothing more than a twitch of one eye. You scan the data presented to you, taking it all in without a word. Reports of mineral deposits found, but inaccessible at this time, others already tapped and yielding resources well within expectations, the occasional mention of an altercation between work-mates, you've seen so many reports identical to these, so you scroll through them with nary a glance. Finally, you find what brought you here. A massive object detected far below the surface, just brought to light as the drill proceeds ever further downwards. Discovered mere feet from the main shaft, a tunnel was dug to it as your comrades waited for you to arrive. Speculation abounds as to what it could be, with some whispering a single word, a somewhat revered word: Prothean. That word may not have much meaning for yourself, but there are many that assign it great honour. After all, every race that comes to the Citadel assigns a word with similar meaning in their own language: Those who came before. Even new-born hatchlings learn of the ancient race that handed down the gifts of technology and knowledge to the younger races, then suddenly vanished, leaving little behind to give a clue as to their fate. Cultural and scientific value aside, you know that your employers will pay a great deal to the expedition that uncovers such a find. But before you submit your report to them, you must have a look for yourself.

You are drawn out of your thoughts as the platform comes to a sudden, shuddering halt. Your colleague gestures for you to follow him, and you set off down a tunnel that appears to be identical to the others. Identical, that is, until it curves around suddenly to come to a sharp halt at a square hole in the rock, the tunnel beyond nothing but a black passage lined with what seems to be metal. Corrosion coats the floor, walls and ceiling, but you can make out the outlines of worked sheets of material, the light your work-mate carries barely piercing the gloom. Silence rules in this new passage, not even the drips of moisture present within to break the dominance of the murk.

Feeling a swell of trepidation in your soul, you glance to your comrade, accepting the light he passes to you. Taking a deep breath, you step forward. If you were to back away now, you'd likely never get the chance to see what was contained within again, a team of scientists and archaeologists stealing all future opportunity away from you.

The metal groans underfoot, but it takes your weight as you move into the metal tunnel. Another step summons forth a gut-wrenching shriek that tears at your ears. Your colleague wisely chooses to wait a few moments so that you don't put your combined weight on any one piece of the floor. There's no telling what could await you on the next level down, or even if there is another level below, the possibility of a chasm so deep as to feel bottomless right beneath your feet causing not a little anxiety on your part. You flinch at the creak of your work-mate stepping in after you, but then feel a swell of irritation at him. Of course he wouldn't want to step in first. Much better to let you prove that it is safe before he risks his own life.

Regardless, you move on, step by cautious step. The passageway soon terminates where it meets another one, a mere handful of paces into the structure. This second passage runs across your path, leading off into blackness on either side. Tentatively, you step out into this junction.

Just as your eyes begin to pick out details on your right, faint shapes that sit sullenly in the shadows, a scream of tearing metal rips at you as the entire scene jolts. Your innards lurch as gravity pulls at you and, before you even know what is happening, you have dropped down onto the level below, the breath escaping from your lungs as you land on your back.

You gaze about dazedly for a moment, your light source rolling away from you to stop with its beam of light striking your eyes painfully. As the sounds of the collapse recede, all you can hear is the pounding of your comrade's feet as he races away back up the tunnel in terror, leaving you alone in the darkness. His shouts of panic echo on for quite some time.

You lie still for some time, waiting for your blood to cease pounding in your ears. You swat at the light, trying to grab it but unable to see properly with the full force of the beam blinding you. Your hand catches it, but only manages to send it skittering, the intensity of its beam lessening somewhat as an internal component is knocked loose. Finally it comes to a rest pointing away from you, illuminating another segment of your new surroundings.

You're in another passage, low-ceilinged like the one you have just left behind, but wider. As you carefully stand again, you find that you can make out a few strange shapes in the gloom. Cylindrical pods line the walls on either side, some intact, most damaged in some way. Not one is occupied. Retrieving your light, you choose to proceed deeper into the structure.

The passage continues for some time, the metal still creaking under your feet but seemingly more sturdy than the passage above. Eventually, you find yourself in a wider, almost cavernous room. Your light does little to highlight the exact extent of it, but you catch sight of an overturned table, along with a drift of debris that have been dislodged from it. A flash of reflected light from within this pile catches your eye.

Stepping over, you kneel next to the pile and begin digging. After a moment, you uncover whatever was bouncing back the light.

Your stomach lurches as you realise you have dug up a bone. Considering the fact that you're no xenobiologist, you'd find it difficult at the best of times to determine the species of its owner. As it is, in this darkened room with no equipment beyond the small light, you have no clue who might have once been the owner of this bone. What's more, the bone has broken in roughly its centre, a jagged fracture causing long cracks to run its length, making the job of identification even more difficult. Carefully, in case the deceased creature happened to be sapient and capable of having an easily offended spirit, you return the bone to the pile, dislodging another item.

This second item is, in fact, something you recognise, at least vaguely. It resembles the data crystals your palm interfaces can make use of. Normally quite a rare find, you know that these devices will last essentially indefinitely, and this one could easily have endured the millennia of decay you see around you.

Unable to resist, you place the crystal in your upwards-facing palm, allowing your interface to read it. It takes a few moments, but eventually your device is able to decipher some of the information locked within the crystal. As it works to decode the entirety of the crystal's contents, you choose to review what you can take a look at at this present moment.

Your device informs you that the data has been stored in the form of a holographic recording, so you raise your free palm, pointing it out and away from your body. You tremble a little as your palm glows, the projector in your device warming up. You've never heard of an intact Prothean message being found, with most discoveries from their era turning up in the form of screeds of text on Dark Energy theory or research into improving biotics. To actually find something like this, to be the first being in your epoch to hear the voice of a Prothean… you shudder at the thought. Such an honour would never be extended a second time.

Your palm device chirps, refocusing your attention, then a shape finally appears in the air before you.

At first, you are disappointed. The data is corrupted, although your device is doing its best to fill in the blanks. Thus, your device has rendered the speaker as nothing but an amorphous mass, a swirl of light and confused information that the eye cannot focus on. After a second or two, the mass begins flickering as strange, skewed sounds echo around the dark room.

"Nyeszt- Sybod… kerni-"

The words coming from the projection are like nothing you have ever heard before. At first, you think that it may simply be white noise, not meant to be understood. Then, at last, your device's translator software kicks in, having analysed enough of the recording to decipher what language and dialect was being used. The words begin anew, this time in a language you are able to understand.

"-g entry two-one eight-five point one-one seven. We've put in at the Citadel for vital repairs. The Illusive Man is still footing the bill, fortunately, but I don't know how long his goodwill is going to hold out for. I mean, he can't be that pleased with our results. I figure it's only a matter of time before he sends a few of his operatives after us. And in our current state, how can we hope to fight off Cerberus' entire military force?"

The hologram flickers, momentarily taking on a bipedal shape, but before you can focus on any features, the image is lost again. The voice drones on, flat, colourless. The speaker seems to have had all of the life sucked out of it, an ultimate despair gnawing at its core.

"Then again, is there even any point now? I mean, sure, the team managed to stop the Collectors, but I figure that'll only delay the real monsters a little bit. And nobody wants to believe that giant space monsters are about to descend out of the sky to kill us all. Feels like the Illusive Man and his cronies are the only ones who give a damn. Maybe we should just keep working with them to make sure we're ready."

You wonder at that name you're hearing, Illusive Man, having never come across it in all of the stories you've heard of the Protheans. From the way the voice speaks of this being, it must have been important.

"But…"

The voice pauses, the recording hitching as your palm device finally decodes enough to resolve the image. A shape takes form before you, tall, bipedal. The features slowly take shape, two eyes, a wide slit running horizontally that could be a mouth, although you can't be certain. Some kind of short snout juts out in the centre of this face, an ugly little pyramid that you've never seen the like of before. A ledge protrudes out over these features, a flat surface just above the eyes. It seems to be a part of some form of helmet that encases the upper portion of the creature's skull. As you examine this, you realise with a jolt that from underneath this helmet sprouts a series of furry tufts. You've only seen this kind of thing on one creature before, and when you double check its limbs you realise that its hands are indeed adorned with five digits each. There can be no other possibility. The creature before you is a form of Keeper, albeit one with a different kind of face to the smooth mask exhibited by those that stalk the Citadel. As you look closely, you realise just how similar the figure before you is to the mindless drones, from the two eyes to the proportions of the body. Countless possibilities race through your mind, none of which can explain this talking, seemingly more intelligent ancestor to the servants of the Citadel. As you try to decipher the facts presented to you, the recording resumes, absorbing all of your attention once more.

"But Shepard is dead. The team is dead, all left behind on that damn Collector Base. Without them, we don't stand a chance against the Reapers."

The creature in the recording sighs, looking down at the floor despondently.

"This is Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau, signing off."

Author's Note: Okay, so this was a little different for me. I enjoyed writing the second person perspective, and it was fun to focus on something completely different here. I don't have to write from the perspective of Shepard or one of the main squad, for one thing, and trying to make it clear enough to actually tell a story while being vague enough to make the second person perspective work was really fun.

Please let me know what you think. Who knows, if this goes down well, I may continue it!

Fainmaca Out.