The Importance of Spelling
Commander Bob Shepard woke slowly from what felt like a very long set of unhappy dreams to find a tall brunette looking down at him with a Mona Lisa smile. "Good, you are back with us. I'm sorry about this, but you have to get up now. There's very little time."
"Is there ever?" Bob groused to himself. Oddly enough, he was fully dressed. Last thing he was sure he remembered, he'd sent off the last escape pod from the dying Normandy then been caught by a secondary explosion as he tried to escape. He remembered fighting against the blissful lethargy, knowing the cool feeling at the back of his neck was actually the life-giving air escaping his suit.
"The one thing I never understood is why you risked your life going back for The Joker," the brunette was saying.
"Joker, not 'The' Joker," Bob corrected her.
Her expression cleared. "Oh, that makes so much more sense!"
There was another person in what Bob was starting to realize was a fancy medical facility. "It's not safe to go alone," the other man pitched in. "Here, take this."
"This" was a familiar looking pistol. Except for the magazine, which was totally not part of any Alliance sidearm when Bob had closed his eyes somewhere between the wreck of the Normandy and making independent orbit about an uncharted world. What was weirder is he already knew it was called a "thermal clip" — which in itself was a bastardization of the proud history of military terminology.
He was on his feet and already following the others through yet more of those familiar corridors and yet another set of robots with really poor aim before he picked up on the insistent black-and-yellow symbology on everything, from folders to doors to the clothing of his new squad and…he looked…he himself.
"Cerberus!" he said aloud.
"Cerebus what?" the woman asked, resting for an awfully long time between each burst of biotics.
"Cerberus the terrorist organization named after the three-headed hound of hell!" Bob said. "Cerberus that I've just spent a year smashing up."
"You're pronouncing it wrong," the woman said. "Never mind, it will become more clear when you speak to him."
"Him who?" Bob asked. The brunette was no help. He turned to the guy, who had finally figured out that "thermal clips" meant there was no point in waiting for his equally weak biotics to recharge. "Well…?" Bob pressed.
"Might makes right," the guy said. "Right makes might."
"Fight fight fight," the woman added helpfully, in a peppy cheerleader sort of way.
They finally made it through whatever random thing had decided to slow down Commander Shepard this week, and got to what the two in the terrorist organization uniforms claimed was now a safe place. "Is this where I finally find out what Cerberus is all about?" Bob asked.
"Yes," the brunette replied. "He's eager to meet you." Her brows wrinkled. "And you're still pronouncing it wrong."
"Fight makes might!" the other man was softly chanting.
Bob Shepard was motioned into a darkened chamber. It took a while, and various dramatic music cues, before it finally turned on a simple holographic communicator. A glowing sun filled the backdrop, dimmed just enough so the man in the chair in front of it wasn't just a strangely-shaped sunspot.
"Man" was the wrong word. It was short, and covered in gray fur. It had a big nose and long ears and looked like a cartoon. Bob rubbed his eyes. The only thing he could think of was a Volus in a fur suit.
"The word you are searching for is 'Earth-pig.'" the figure said. "Cerebus," it continued, "is glad you are finally here."
An…aardvark?
"Pay attention," the figure said. "Cerebus has been fighting these Reapers but time grows short. Cerebus needs you, Bob Shepard, to form a special team. The first person on your list goes by many names. So many, many names. But Cerebus knew him as Artemis Roach…"