Drabblet 1: Vigil

"Your task is to cast a light into the darkness. To bear triumph out of failure, hope out of despair."

Images streamed through Vigil's software as the lead scientist exited the room, heading for his own cryo pod. The mammals in the far arm of the Milky Way, the aquatic creatures, the amphibious beings...all the species they'd been carefully observing and cultivating. They, not the Protheans asleep in their cryo pods, were its charges. Their futures were its task.

And now, after millennia of waiting, its part to play was coming to a close. Vigil knew it had only minutes left. It could sense the vehicle bearing its precious payload barreling down the cemetery under Ilos, and it directed its thoughts inward.

Three beings, two male and one female. The males were of species unfamiliar to Vigil-the Protheans had not made contact before the Reapers wiped them out. But the female was of the bipedal mammals in one of the galaxy's outer arms.

There was no relief or joy or peace. It had not been programmed for such things. But it did know that it had succeeded in its task, that the slow and miserable deaths of the scientists on the barren Citadel had not been in vain. It knew that the female "human" carried the galaxy's hopes now.

Its burden had been lifted, transferred to the living shoulders of another.

It knew she was worthy to bear the weight of trillions of lives. Biological markers indicated youth. Physiological ones showed biotics and strength. And from the brief snatches of conversation Vigil heard between them with its failing senses, it caught determination, strength, and an iron will to survive.

She had the disc. She had the Cipher. If Vigil could feel envy, it would. She carried in her head the last remnant of what it meant to be Prothean. When its power inevitably failed, she would be the only one who truly understood the Protheans' last hours.

It wanted to call out to her again, ask her to remember. But somehow, maybe due to the Cipher, it could read her cues unlike the two males, who were entirely alien to it. And somehow it knew she would never forget the Protheans. That she would honor their terrible sacrifice.

Shutdown would come in less than a minute. The flurry of activity on Ilos today had drained all but the very last of its reserves. Vigil finished recording the last of its data to a disc. It doubted any existing species could read it, let alone understand it, but maybe if she returned to Ilos, she would find it...the last words of the Prothean race.

Thank you. Godspeed.

Drabblet 2: ManShep/Miranda

"You are such an unbelievable ass."

Shepard grinned and crossed his arms as Miranda glared at him. He felt pretty ridiculous with the huge cape, white face paint, black clothes, and fake teeth, but the expression on Miranda's face was totally worth it.

"Sourpuss. I thought you liked vampires. Dracula, Lestat, all that good stuff."

"I'm not being sour, I'm being mature. And how did you know my reading preferences?"

"EDI doesn't only answer to you," he said. When she looked like she was about to respond, he added, "Don't be angry. Not over Halloween." He grinned, that mischievous and boyish grin that got under her skin all the time. For all his accomplishments and talents, Shepard could be such an immature kid sometimes.

He produced a package from underneath the cloak. "I even got you a costume," he said, looking supremely pleased with himself.

She had to wipe that smile off of his face somehow, and an idea suddenly popped into her head fully-formed. She took the costume from him with a bit of an evil grin.

"I'll make a deal with you," she said, getting up from behind the desk. "I'll wear whatever ridiculous costume you like."

Shepard's smile faded a little, replaced by suspicion. "There's always a catch, Miranda."

"I get to take yours off first."

***

This wasn't how he'd imagined things-more control on his part, certainly, and definitely not a Miranda dressed as Catwoman with him on his knees in front of her bed. Though he couldn't say he was in any position to complain.

She knelt down behind him and grabbed his hands in her own, her grip surprisingly strong. He couldn't see anything with a strip of his cape tied tightly around his eyes. She guided one of his hands to his own erection, the other to the open zipper in the costume between her legs.

"Now then," she whispered. "Let's see if Commander Shepard is as good with his hands as he is with his mouth."

She'd hit him right in the ego. How she could appeal to his pride while holding him like a vice was beyond him. He growled and strained against her a little, not too hard. He didn't really want to go anywhere.

"Oh, come on, Shepard. As if I don't know what you're like. I worked on you for two years, remember?" she said, her voicing becoming poisonously sweet. "I get to reap some reward from that other than you being an ass to me."

And she did. On top, side-by-side, on the bed and on the floor. And not once did she concede control or allow him to remove that damnable cape, not until they were both utterly spent.

She pulled the cloth aside, and Shepard was rewarded with a flushed-looking Miranda, the catwoman costume half-unzipped and hanging from her body.

"And that," he said with his characteristic grin as he hugged her, "is why Halloween is my favorite holiday...and you're my favorite woman."

Drabblet 3: Saren

She'd like it here, in the madness of this ship's living hull. It'd suit her-the odd angles, the uncomfortable juxtaposition, the wicked background hiss of Sovereign's waking systems.

Or at least, it'd suit the inexplicable effect she had on him.

He might have been slowly becoming a harmony of organic and synthetic, but at the moment, the two warred with one another. The synthetic telling him that his lust for her was utterly illogical, the organic desiring nothing more than for her mouth to replace his hand as he stroked himself in the control center of that twisted ship.

Saren had never really been one for words, but he'd found that action, decisive action, could convince another as well as any honeyed speech. He wondered what actions he'd have to take to convince her.

Maybe he'd back her up against a wall, slow step by slow step, until she had nowhere else to go. Maybe he'd show just a sliver of mercy after he broke her at long last. Maybe he'd have her brought back in chains, brought back as a trophy.

Or maybe-and he increased the pace of his strokes and let out a growl at the thought-he'd show her he was right. Share the Prothean vision with her. Bring her to his side.

He felt the burning of his synthetic implants as heat and sweat began to trickle along his skin, but this time, it was in unison with the pulsing, throbbing pleasure beginning to take hold of him. He could almost smell her, taste her, despite having never met her in person-her human skin flush against his, her cries echoing through the metallic chamber, her teeth nipping and biting at him as he filled her, brought her to his cause.

And if she tried to apologize, to say she was wrong, he'd stop her. Show her how to put that mouth to better use, teach her the value of action. A long, shuddering gasp tore from his throat as he threw his head back in barely-contained ectasy, picturing her laid out on top him. Thanking him with her body.

His whole body shook, synthetic and organic, and white lightning ran through him. It took him a minute or two afterwards, when he'd regained his senses, to realize that in that moment, he'd been one. Whole with himself, a perfect union of metal and flesh.

...it was an idea. One that Sovereign apparently didn't disapprove of. Saren grinned as the Reaper ship approached Virmire.

He could change her. Open her eyes, and reap his reward.