The voices echoed in his mind. Voices he did not recognize. They could not be his own, neither thoughts nor voices. They existed without his effort, as if they were placed there. He could, however not remember anything that suggested the origins of these voices. He could not remember anything, nor remember who, or what he was.
Who was he?
He could perceive glimpses of what could be rememberences. But were they his own? He could not know. They were distant, blurry and brief and he could not comprehend their content. But he felt some kind of correlation to these shards of memories, like some kind of limb which he had lost the link to.
He could not focus them. He wanted to, but he could not. The voices were too loud and too plenty. They attracted his attention from the memory shards. These were not coherent either. They spoke of different matters, they spoke in different languages, they spoke in different tones and all spoke at once. Each tried to howl down the other – desperately trying to earn the attention of him who could not retain his own identity.
They shouted, they shouted, they shouted. Why would they not stop shouting? What did they want? He just wanted control, control over his own mind, knowing who he was. He just wanted the voices to go away; cut them loose like an aching limb.
They did not want to go away. They kept adding to the chaos and the shouting became louder and more plenty. The images of remembrance kept fading away but remained as he would not let go of them. He wanted to see them, to know who he was, but the voices kept pledging for his attention.
He wanted the chaos to end. He was exhausted and badly wanted the chaos to end. He wanted the struggle to end. He let go of the remembrance and they was lost in the tumult of his mind. Go away! Just let me die!
The voices were muted. They decreased as one after one was muted and soon all was quiet. The remembrance was left, but it was yet far away, distinct. The memories themselves were incoherent and he could not comprehend them. Who was he?
Who he was had no longer importance. Who he was would only remain as a vague memory, like a scar.
A voice remained in his mind. Not a chaos of voices, but one solid. It was calm, as if it knew that it had monopoly in his mind.
Life was chaos and chaos was diversity. Diversity was a struggle. These voices, all these images of him, all the roles and ideals he was, all could not be. Only one could. One would bring order to the chaos. One would eliminate the others and the strong would remain. They could not exist together, not apart, not in the same space.
The remembrance told of a turian named Saren Arterius, known in his life as his role as a Specter, a role as bidder for a council of a cooperation made out of several civilizations. But this was no longer of essential meaning. What he used to be was not what he was, nor what he was going to be. His new role, his new meaning was independent from his previous existence. For one to exist, one other would not.
During his new role, he would be called by his old name by those who remembered him by what he used to be and he would respond, but not as Saren for he was no longer him. Who he was now did not matter, only his purpose.
He would be given the tools to fulfill his purpose, his destiny. Freedom was a lie to all beings. He would be a servant just like he was in the life before he was reborn, before his new call. He would be given sight to see the path to his fulfillment. He would be given legs to journey towards fulfillment. He would be senses to detect obstacles and arms to bypass these.
The solitude in his mind cleared and he was given control over a body made out of flesh and metal to play his role. Senses came over him; pain and discomfort, but this was welcoming. He was alive and would be able to strive toward his purpose. He had a purpose. The chaos was gone and one voice remained.
He had to fulfill his purpose.
With a long clutched jaw, he muttered "the cycle must continue".