September 25th, 2183

Eden Prime Interplanetary Spaceport

1100 Hours (Local Time)

James Roosevelt stared at the disassembled rifle on his workbench, pacing back and forth as his mind raced. A prothean beacon on an out-of-the-way colony, one of the most tranquil destinations in all of Systems Alliance space. He accepted the mission as soon as he was notified, not really looking too far past the price tag. The only pieces of information that truly registered in his mind were 'Eden Prime', 'prothean beacon', and '2,500,000 credits upon retrieval and delivery'. And therein sat his current dilemma.

The protheans were a technologically advanced, space-faring civilization that peaked fifty thousand years ago before being wiped off of the face of the galaxy… without a trace. The Prothean Archives on Mars, discovered in 2148, were the reason that humanity could even travel through space. Protheans built the mass relays, the giant warp-gates that littered the Milky Way, allowing a ship to travel thousands of light years in a matter of minutes; hell, they were the reason civilization as a whole, no matter the species, existed on the galactic scale. With this in mind, James knew that prothean beacons were not something to scoff at.

The Alliance would be coming for the beacon; it was theirs by right. The Citadel Council would be right on their heels, exploring the information gathered by it alongside their comrades. The Batarian Hegemony… well, if the batarians found out about the beacon, the whole galaxy could be plunged into war. If any pirates that were willing to risk their hides to nab the beacon found out, you better be damn sure that they'd be here too. James himself had probably found out at about the same time as the Alliance; his contacts ran deep. All things considered, he had the advantage. Right? But he was only one man, against the rest of the galaxy. At least… it certainly felt that way.

He clenched his fists, leaving his sniper rifle on the workbench for now and making his way to his quarters. Once inside, he stepped into the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Cold and dull blue eyes gazed back at him, silently judging the scars that lined his face and the grey that was creeping into his unkempt beard. Gods, he needed to shave. He looked over forty, and scoffed as he reminded himself that he hadn't even made thirty yet. His chiseled jawline and dark, wavy hair spoke of a man that practically oozed charisma, but his weary stare and gravelly voice told a grimmer tale.

Two and a half million credits. He could retire, live on a paradise planet and spend his days watching sports and sipping mimosas. He wouldn't have to worry about living in the streets, diving through dumpsters and holding up innocent people for a ten-credit chit. His jaw clenched, a vein in his neck popping as he turned his gaze to the floor, filled with shame. After Mindoir, after he lost everyone he knew and loved, after the doctors and the psych wards tried to pick up the pieces, he was left with nothing. He was nothing.

He looked up suddenly, a fire in his previously lifeless eyes. He worked his way back up. He hurt people, and it hurt him to do so. As soon as he could stop, he did. He built up his savings, he stole artifacts, he assassinated rival gang leaders, he ran some of the most dangerous smuggling routes in the galaxy, but he stopped hurting the ones who shouldn't have been hurt. If he felt any pride in that, he didn't show it. He had no friends, only contacts. He had no family, only his rickety old freighter. He had no crew, only himself. He didn't need pride, didn't need dignity… he needed a rest. Just a short rest.

Almost a decade and a half of death and crime was too much. In that time, he became everything he despised. A thief, a murderer and a hired gun, loaning his weapons out like some prostitute at a brothel. He hated it, but it was all he had. And nearly three million credits was being offered to him. This was it. This was his out. As he stared at his reflection, and his reflection stared back, he made his decision. If he was to die on this beautiful, peaceful planet, so be it. This would be his last mission.

"You and I, old friend, are about to retire," he murmured to his reflection, dousing his head with cold water before heading back to his workbench. For the first time in a while, true purpose injected itself into his step. He reassembled the beaten and battered rifle in under thirty seconds, the blood racing through his veins feeling white-hot. Once his weapon sat proudly on display, he turned to the locker containing his marred, crimson hardsuit. Wasting no time, James assembled his second skin, locking each armor piece into place. Before long, he had his helmet in both hands, staring down at it. He had gotten this set of armor almost a decade ago, and it had stood by him ever since. He put his helmet on and polarized the visor, masking his expressions and emotions to the outside world. He needed no mirror now; this armor had almost as many scars as he did, and he knew the story of each and every one. With one last look toward the cockpit, James grabbed his rifle and strapped it to his back. The twin Predator pistols lying on the bench were soon at his hips, and the man himself was soon stepping off of his modest ship. For the first time in thirteen years, five months and fourteen days, James Roosevelt felt alive.

What immediately struck him as wrong was that the spaceport was completely empty. He knew that Eden Prime was one of the smaller colonies, the pride of the Systems Alliance just because of its inherently peaceful nature. Even so, spaceports were always at least partially inundated with tourists or employees, and today there were neither. James began to make his way outside, his rifle in his arms.

It didn't help that as soon as James stepped out of the stuffy building, he was able to fully take in the foreboding, crimson sky, a byproduct of what appeared to be a particularly nasty storm rolling in. Feeling his stomach drop, the armed man made his way briskly to the tram station, only getting around halfway there before something from a nightmare descended from the clouds.

The sky had darkened further, a massive metal behemoth floating down to the surface flanked on either side by what appeared to be dropships, but he was unfamiliar with their origins. The flagship was shaped like an enormous, black cuttlefish, complete with five tentacles, four legs and a large head that almost looked organic. Shocks of red electricity shrouded the ship, which dwarfed everything that James had ever seen in his entire life, even the huge dreadnoughts that the Alliance had been manufacturing as of late.

Knowing that this was why the spaceport was empty, James skidded to a halt and watched as the metal monster sent a searing red beam straight through the tram station, completely obliterating it. Trying not to vomit, the grizzled mercenary immediately turned and dashed onto one of the loading platforms that were a little ways away from the tram building itself, sinking into the shadows and staying behind as many crates as possible.

So much for the bloody beacon… whatever's piloting that thing probably wants it too. He gripped his rifle the slightest bit tighter.

As the mercenary rationalized that going after the beacon at this point would be all but impossible, and that even if he made it back to his ship and got it in the air (snowball's chance, and all that…), then he'd be shot out of the sky by a giant space laser. So as it stood, James was stuck in place, trying not to vacate his bowels.

It wasn't long before James heard dozens of footsteps heading for his platform, and he shrunk down further.

"Go to the tram station. Make sure every line is destroyed and report back to me. I will be done with the beacon by then…" A grating, metallic voice rang out, followed by the departure of nearly all of the feet that James had previously heard. Hazarding a peek once the sound faded, the mercenary got a glimpse at just who had been giving orders. A turian, a tall alien with three-taloned hands, a set of mandibles around their mouths and a metallic carapace; they looked a lot like what a bipedal raptor might. This one wore dirty gray armor with blue lights and tubing that made him look as though he were on life support. This turian was barefaced, and that had James's hackles raised. He knew a fair few barefaced turians in his life as a mercenary, and he also knew that a barefaced turian was one that could not under any circumstances be trusted. Was this the conductor of that deadly symphony in the sky that was currently blotting out the sun? He had to be, if he was here for the beacon. Before James was able to ponder further, another voice sounded out, still gravelly but much smoother.

"Saren...? What are you doing here?"

Another turian made his way onto the platform. He was wearing black armor with red lights and accents, the colony markings on his face painted white. It looked almost like SpecTRe armor…

"Nihlus… The Council thought you could use a little help on this one," the other turian spoke slowly and deliberately, his mandibles twitching into what James knew was the turian equivalent of a smirk.

Nihlus's confusion was palpable as he turned away from Saren, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's worse than I thought… Geth? They haven't been seen outside of the Perseus Veil in nearly three hundred years!"

James's brows raised at that. Those were geth ships? He knew from his xenohistory class that the geth were a species of synthetic organisms that were created by the quarians three centuries ago to do their hard labor. Originally, they had been simple virtual intelligences, but they shared their processing power; in groups, they grew more intuitive. As the quarians built more and more geth, they became more and more intelligent until reaching true sapience, questioning their existence and purpose in life. The quarians became afraid of the consequences of their actions and decided to exterminate the geth, leading to a conflict known as the Geth War which the quarians ultimately lost.

They were forced to evacuate their home planet, leaving it to the geth and fleeing the system. After the war, the geth were never seen beyond the Veil again. If the geth were here, and they wanted the beacon… gods, what had he gotten himself into? As the conversation between the two turians continued, James turned his attention back to it.

"Don't worry… I have it all under control." James heard the sneer in Saren's voice, and he didn't like it one bit. They were obviously both SpecTRes, judging by their bringing up of the Citadel Council, but he had heard Saren ordering the geth around; he wasn't here on Council orders. That left only one option: Saren was about to betray Nihlus. As much as James didn't want to get embroiled in a conflict that seemed way over his head, a SpecTRe that owed James his life seemed like a good ally to have. He tore out of cover as Saren raised his gun toward Nihlus, the latter unaware of the coming betrayal.

James saw it coming from twenty feet away, though, standing up and raising his sniper rifle, firing a round into Saren's shoulder. The barefaced turian's kinetic barriers fizzled and died, the round powerful enough to break through his armor. Blue blood splattered across the ground as Saren roared in pain. Saren's own attempt on Nihlus's life went astray, the shot hitting the black-armored turian in his lower back instead of the back of his head.

The weapon Saren was using had to have been rather powerful, because it still sent Nihlus to his knees. The betrayer turned to face the new threat just as James got to him, taking a left hook to the face and stumbling backwards. James threw his pistol toward the still-downed Nihlus, raising his fists defensively as Saren stepped forward. The mercenary's skill was nowhere near Saren's, though, and the tall turian sent a kick into his ribs and a fist into the side of his helmet before he could react.

James dropped, head woozy and vision blurry. Saren turned to face him, growling before dashing off toward the tram station. Must be on a tight schedule.

Waiting until he was sure the barefaced turian was gone, James took off his helmet, got to his feet and jogged over to Nihlus, who was applying medigel to his wound and grimacing in pain.

"Who are you?" James asked, kneeling next to him and helping him to his feet after taking his pistol back and holstering it.

Nihlus gazed up at his savior with curious green eyes. "Nihlus Kryik, Citadel Council Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. What about you? Are you with the Alliance?"

James paused before answering. A Council SpecTRe on Eden Prime, he was right. Not only that, but two; one had just gone rogue. This beacon was, as he had expected a few minutes before, far more than he bargained for, and he had no intention of stealing the damned thing now. James also decided that telling the truth to the SpecTRe he had just saved would probably go over better than if he was lying through his teeth.

"James Roosevelt, I'm just a mercenary who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time." Nihlus regarded him with a mix of measured admiration and faint disapproval, his mandibles flaring in what seemed to be a relieved smile.

"Some might say the right place and time, Mr. Roosevelt. Regardless of your background and the crimes you've probably committed, I am grateful. I'm here with an Alliance ship to pick up the prothean beacon that everyone in the galaxy seems to want. That turian you were grappling with is Saren Arterius; also a SpecTRe. Though I suspect once I get back to the Citadel, his Spectre status will be stripped. Damned traitor, why could he possibly be working with the geth?!"

More of James's suspicions were confirmed. "He was a Spectre? No wonder he knocked me flat in three seconds… You said the beacon was prothean? That must be why it's worth so much." James sighed before continuing. "I'm going to be honest with you, SpecTRe Kryik, because my intentions have changed. I came here this morning to steal the beacon for someone who was going to pay me a pretty penny. But… I don't want to throw away my moral compass, especially now that I know what's actually going on. I don't want the beacon, and I don't want the beacon to end up in the wrong hands either. Instead-"

Nihlus raised a hand to stop him. "Instead, you're willing to assist me and those that came with me in getting the beacon back from Saren, in exchange for the expungement of your criminal record. You'd like a clean slate, I can tell. Your intentions are what you say they are."

James blinked twice. And he thought he was good at deducing. "Well… Yeah, pretty much. Wow. You're good."

Nihlus looked the mercenary over for a second or two before nodding and chuckling wryly. "Without you, Mr. Roosevelt, I'd be a corpse on the floor. I'll accept your offer. We need to wait for the rest of my team, though; they should be coming over the hill now."

As the turian SpecTRe finished, two figures crested the hill leading down to the station, weapons raised. When they saw Saren and James they made their way over, lowering their guns. One wore standard-issue Alliance Marines armor, while the other had a red stripe running down the right arm, the vocation N7 emblazoned on their chest.

"Nihlus! We heard gunshots, what happened?" One of the operatives took their helmet off. 'They' was actually a crimson-haired woman, her voice ever-so recognizable. James stepped forward, eyes wide.

"Shepard?"