The Insider

I am dying. I have been fortunate enough to reap a few rewards from my efforts, and my life has been full. Not so great, but diverse. One of emotion and caprice – typical wonted adventure and struggles.

My name is Parrin Malraux, Salarian Spectre. O' how grand a title. It would seem fitting of you to think this is as another grandiose tale of the exploits of some other hero. Yet I may disappoint you. In recent ages we have not only been in the presence of some true heroes, but, legitimately, true legends. This is a rare case, in fact, considering history. In this era – this cycle – we stopped a billions of years old insurmountable threat. I played a part – but my work folds in light of a certain Commander.

In this biography I may reveal some secrets that would have me killed. Though my position is fortunate as death will be nothing to me now.

I was born in 2158, on Sur'kesh, in a sleepy and quiet suburb of the capital – Talat. My parents were customary. Nothing un-ordinary, and almost rather tedious in their affectations of common practice. From youth I had a keen interest in philosophy, and specifically the myths of other species. Since the advent of humanity unto the galactic scene, we have had some sort of resurgence in nearly all fields of the intellectual and social game. They are a tenacious and head-strong species. This can be at their detriment, but they have had an undeniable impact on the galaxy in the past 60 years. Maybe more in 60 years than the turians, asari, or salarians have had in 1000. Commander Shepard is now, of course, legendary. With that amount of influence and sway, the goals of the now defunct Cerberus would seem somewhat, somehow, justifiable. Though I dare not go so far. One's of supposed noble goals but disgusting methods are not commonly successful – intellectually at least.

With this, I have had an almost fetishistic fascination with Homo sapiens. This is odd granted salarian biology and rigorous cultural conditioning, but my difference is a point of slight pride. I even had a brief but thunderous affair with a particular Systems Alliance captain. The most marvellous of women.

But that is a story for later.

At age 16 I completed a thesis on ancient human philosophy (neo-platonism in a bohemian relation to the 20th century French existentials) and became a political liaison to the System's Alliance – via a department of The Special Tasks Group. I had some basic military training with STG, but trained myself, daily, in a specific and ancient form of salarian martial art called 'forvsar', as well as some human art forms from the country of Japan.

My political duties consisted of rather monotonous administration requests – more distinctly issues of human immigration and asylum to salarian colony worlds (and vice versa), as well as mutual military co-operation between the Alliance and the Salarian Union.

Politics is a career for the mediocre. It is a sly game of profligate organs with little real life blood. Not much needs to be said of it that has already been said. It was dull; so I exercised daily in a gym in the upper wards of the Citadel, I continued reading a wide library of various old books, and worked up relations with many contacts in various cafés on the Presidium. This was my life for a few years. No real adventures, the same scene Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

One day, the stage set collapsed; and I was near oblivion. Something of a terrible dream-state. The task was exposed for a travesty in concern of salarian lifespan. Yet a stroke of indifferent wonder made its way to alleviate my industrial stupor.

Some day in the summer of 2180, there was a (now covered up and forgotten) small skirmish in the lower end of the Zakera ward. A nefarious group of pirates from the Terminus Systems had smuggled themselves onto the Citadel and, for no particular reason other than criminal desperation, had kidnapped some turian shopkeeper, her staff, and some customers (including a salarian diplomat) – holding them for ransom. A C-sec officer was seriously injured and the pirate gang had locked themselves in the electronics shop. The leader of this posse, a staunch asari maiden with an eccentrically gruff voice, demanded 60,000 credits for the release of their 16 hostages. Citadel security were trying dismally to deal with the situation.

This is were I came in.

I was unaware of the on-going struggle when I stumbled behind the shop. The diplomat currently stuck inside was late in collecting some confidential papers, so I took it upon myself to deliver them. At the back entrance, a C-Sec officer updated me on the situation.

"There's a situation here friend. Sorry. No access."

Needless to say I was bothered. These papers were important and I did not want them languishing on my desk.

In a strike of uncertain inspiration, I moved. I am not sure what reasoning I contended with that day, but I let go to the unsympathetic irrationality of my egotistic sense.

I bundled the papers into the pocket of my jacket (yes, I was one of the few salarians to own a trench-coat), and sneaked past the oblivious officer and some of his colleagues. Somehow nobody noticed.

I forced my way through the door by breaking the door-pad (one learns a few tricks in STG), and tip-toed into the back room.

The room was dimly-lit and narrow, a back entrance to something of a storage compartment. A burly batarian stood at the other door at the end of the narrow room into the main shopping area. Hiding behind a stack of boxes, I took my chance to incapacitate him.

I crept up slowly and then leapt at his face, forcing it against the wall. There was a sickly cracking sound as I judged the punch to his face in a way that resulted in him colliding with a shelf corner on the end wall. He fumbled in a heap of pain – too dizzy to react coherently, he fainted. I shoved him into a box with a brief struggle, picked up his dilapidated Avenger assault rifle, then proceeded to hide behind the shop counter as I stepped into the main room.

The captain was shouting incomprehensibly – in an almost drunken haze. Her men asked her to repeat her orders, which only made her more angry – resulting in a biotic kick to an unfortunate human's testicles.

At that moment the gang turned around to notice their batarian friend was not guarding the back door of the shop.

"Galk!", shouted the asari (her name has left my memory). With no response from "Galk" she strode towards the door – hitting a hostage across the face as she passed. I had to act. Quickly. I thought I had no chance; what was I doing? I try to embody the Salarian maxim of winning a war before it had began, and acted in a varren-like rage.

As the asari turned around the corner of the counter, I ran towards her in a rambling movement. The butt of my newly-acquired gun impacted her face with a satisfying click. Taking advantage of the shock I jumped-kicked the woman as she staggered backwards, distorting her face as her nose broke against my foot. With her on the floor I, foolhardily, shot her in the leg. Her howls of pains triggered the late reaction of her compatriots, who now blundered towards me. A swift shot from the Avenger hit my first target, the human's knee cap shattered. Somehow I moved at lightning pace to the other side of the shop, ending up guarding a hostage in the corner. As I sprinted I had, with scientific precision, swung the rifle into a pirate's turian's neck – winding him. I shot another member of the gang in the stomach then took out another with a few swings. There were a few of them, all well armed, but somehow I was working easily. The hostages were in shock. They screamed as some mad salarain in reckless abandon calculatingly took-out their oppressors.

While writhing on the floor, the asari fired a biotic warp towards me. I slid underneath the warp with a quick step, and slid into the stomach of the asari leader. The biotic impact reverberated the wall behind us. In the awkward position on the floor, I managed to push her down a step behind the counter, and finally crippled the women with an ugly kick to the face.

Silence. The gang were out of commission. Somehow I had done it. This daredevil act of wishful showmanship had actually worked. I got up and tended to one of the hostages. "Your papers", I whispered to the salarian diplomat as I passed him (obviously handing him the papers). After bidding the freed hostages well, I went towards the door

Yet before I could, a high-ranking C-Sec officer barged in and pushed me.

"Who the f*ck are you?! What was that!?" shouted the angry turian with distinctive red face paint.

"I was just taking care of your business", I said casually, gently pushing past him. Another officer grabbed me and tried to force me into hand-cuffs, but fortunately, before she could arrest me, a charming and suave looking salarian walked purposefully towards me. He told the officer to let me go. The officer complied begrudgingly, and walked into the shop to help the hostages.

"That was reckless", the salarian quipped. "But...very surprising. We have been after those pirates for 7 months, and you clean them up in less than 20 seconds."

I was modest. "Well, I was not palpably sure what I was doing. I have no clue what motivation was governing me."

"Don't give me that", he replied. "How you moved...such grace, it was like a dance. Simply exquisite. Who are you? Did you...Did you happen to train in STG?"

"Yes", I responded. "But I work in administration. This is not exactly my forte."

"Forte?! You made that look like an art! Don't be so humble."

"Okay, okay", I said. "I am Parrin Malraux. Political liaison for STG"

"My name is Jondum Bau. I'm with Special Tactics and Recon."

A Spectre? I was in awe. A childish sense in me was tingling – I wanted to ask so many questions. But I restrained myself.

"How you fought in there. That was beyond the skill of some admin. This might sound mad, but why don't you come with me. I might have a job for you".

"Are you sure? You hardly know me?"

"And vice versa", Bau said. "Take it or leave it."

What could I do? I had to accept. I followed Jondum down the spacious corridors of Zakera. He complimented my jacket and we participated in small talk. That day would be the start of a grand and dangerous journey. This, one may say, is where my story truly begins.