Disclaimer: The Mass Effect franchise and all relevant characters are property of BioWare Corp. I assume no ownership of either by writing this piece.

Lawyer-talk is so much fun to write.

War Stories

It's a Saturday night.

I can tell because the Blue Hawaiian is full to the brim with Marines and sailors on liberty, drinking, playing darts, pool, and whoring their hearts out. It's one of the most popular bars on Okinawa, and it's only gotten more popular since the Alliance established a permanent presence here in 2157. The place reeks with the scent of stale sweat and spilled beer, and a baseball bat sits on a rack behind the bar – Mitsuko, the barmaid, has used it more than once to beat the shit out of an unruly jarhead. Some squid is trying his hand at the karaoke machine and failing miserably. The poor bastard's tone deaf, but that doesn't stop a Marine from hollering at him to shut the fuck up, 'less the next dart he's gonna throw'll be right between his eyes, you copy?

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. It's PJ, my spotter. Phillip Joseph Mailer is his full name, but only his mother and superior officers are allowed to call him that. He's from California, and it shows – he's got a broad, full face, tanned even darker by the Okinawan sun, a small, sharp nose, and tousled brown surfer hair just past regulation length. He's got a mug of beer and the biggest shiteating grin that seems to say Screw you, world, I'm 22 and serving with the meanest, baddest motherfuckers in the galaxy, I'm fucking invincible, just try and take me, try it.

"Get any tail yet, bro?" he shouts over the karaoke.

"No dice. You?"

"Nada! I think all the hot chicks got word your ugly ass was coming! It's starting to piss me off, y'know? I go on deployment for six months, finally get some goddamn libo, and I can't find one decent lay!"

"Christ, dude, there's a bordello at the end of the block if you're that desperate."

"What, and get the clap just before we head out to Elysium? Not looking to get VD after that last time. You feel me, bro?"

"Your call, man."

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, Shepard, you got plastered on Okinawa. Get to the good part already."

"Hush, Zaeed," Tali says.

"Jus' saying. None of this bullshit filler in any of my stories, I'll tell you that much."

The Normandy crew deck is quiet, save for the clacking of poker chips and the soft rustle of playing cards. What had started out as a quick game between Tali, Gabby, Ken, and I has turned into a shipwide tradition. Garrus, Grunt, Jack Kasumi, Legion, Mordin, and Zaeed, along with us four, are seated at the mess table.

"I call and raise, Mordin. You finished, Zaeed?" I ask, gnawing on the unlit cigar in my mouth.

"Finished? I'm about to gorram nod off from the boredom, hell yeah I'm finished."

"Works for me."

Elysium. Home of Jon Grissom, the first human through the Mass Relays.

That's pretty much it.

Seems to be enough for the five million people here, though.

I'm in another bar because hey, bars are grunt magnets. I'll probably end the evening passed-out or brawling with the MPs – might as well get a head start on it. None of the liquor is particularly appealing, though, so I'm playing pool with a salarian who's obsessed with Playboy.

"But why is there a rabbit on the front cover? I've looked through a few copies, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the contents whatsoever!"

"Sir, I don't know. I'm just a grunt." What I really want this guy to do is shut up and let me line up my shot. Almost got it…

"You don't know? How could you not know? It's a well-known publication among your species, yes?" Oh, Jesus Christ…

"Yes sir, Playboy is well known among humans." Now would you shut the hell up so I can line up my shot?

"And the rabbit is a species native to Earth, correct?" Goddammit.

"Yes sir, the rabbit is native to Earth."

"And it has no erotic connotations whatsoever?" It takes all my will not to drop my cue and strangle him.

"No, sir, it does not."

"So why would such an innocuous terrestrial lifeform be plastered across the cover of a pornographic magazine? It boggles the mind!" I hang my head and sigh. This is going to be a long goddamn shore leave.

"Sir, I told you already – I. Don't. Kn-" I'm interrupted by a huge CRASH and a BOOM. The bar shakes; shelves of liquor fall to the floor and shatter. The lights flicker and die.

"What the fu-" Another CRASH, another BOOM.

"- was that?" someone says. I rush to the door – nearly tripping over a few dazed patrons on the way out – and kick it open. The light's blinding, but my eyes adjust quickly.

To say the streets are in absolute chaos would be an understatement. Half the block's demolished; everyone out here is either dead, wounded, or screaming their lungs out. I hear the wail of sirens in the distance. I reach into my pocket, grab my vid phone, and dial up PJ. He picks up on the first ring, thank Christ.

"PJ!"

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck's going on?"

"Not a goddamn clue, bro. I was talking to this one chick and the whole block just went up in flames. TARFU, I guess."

"Roger that. Meet me back at the Tarawa. I'll ask around."

"Lima Charlie, bro. On my way."

"The Tarawa? That was your ship?" Tali asks.

"Yeah. One old girl, but she served us well enough."

"I bet ten credits," Garrus says, sliding a chip into the pool. Zaeed guffaws.

"Jus' ten? You're willing to take on a Mantis with that dinky little rifle of yours, but you're afraid to bet more than ten credits?"

"My rifle's not 'dinky'. And I don't want to risk losing too much."

"You know that we've got practically unlimited funding now courtesy of Cerberus, right?" I ask.

"I know. I'm just saving up." Zaeed butts in.

"For what? A trip to the Consort?" Garrus glares at Zaeed. Jesus, if looks could kill…

"It's personal," Garrus hisses.

…then Zaeed would be dead about twenty times over. And on fire.

"Have also wondered as to origin of Playboy mascot," Mordin says. "Rabbit symbolic of fertility? Endurance? Speed? All the above?"

"Not the time, Doc."

"Apologies, Shepard. Continue."

I meet PJ at the gangplank. His usually jovial face is dead serious – no smile, no laughter, no bad jokes. Around us, it's chaos – civilians are closing up shops, piling everything they can fit into dinky little shoulder bags. Paramedics and some of our corpsmen are working on the wounded, grunts are rushing back up the gangplank into the Tarawa, cars are zooming about on the streets, offering to evacuate anyone who can pay, and all throughout this, our officers are yelling at us to GET MOVING, to SUIT UP AND PREPARE FOR COMBAT OPS, YES, PRIVATE FLEMING, THAT MEANS YOU GODDAMMIT, GO, GET YOUR SORRY ASS UP THAT RAMP. We haul ass up the gangplank. What choice do we have?

"What's the word, PJ?"

"We've got incoming. Pirates and slavers. They're mounting an assault on Elysium."

"Bullshit." He shakes his head.

"Recon drones confirmed it. They'll be here within the next 90 minutes."

"How many?"

"Ten regiments. At least ten. Seven more probable, and six more unconfirmed on top of that." We're inside the Tarawa now, heading for the armory.

"Give me a number, PJ."

"40,000. Confirmed. And 4,000 of us, including the garrison."

"We're fucked."

"Pretty much. El-Tee says there's no time to suit up. Grab your rifle, K-pot and shield harness. I'll get my spotting scope."

"We're gonna fight them?"

"If you've got a better idea, Shepard, I'm sure the El-Tee'd love to hear it. Company's assembling on the main street in five mikes. Better hurry."

Zaeed lets out a low whistle. "Ten to one. Goddamn, Shepard."

"Really made you work for that Star of Terra, huh?" Kasumi chimes in.

"Killing's not work, Kasumi," I reply.

"If it's not work then what the bloody hell'm I getting paid for?"

"Zaeed, you're getting paid by the mission, not by the body."

"And what do we do on those missions? Hand out rice to starving Indonesians? Build schools for impoverished batarians? Fuck no. We kill. I call, Kas."

"Me too."

"Five mikes out! Charge and lock!"

I pop out the scope on my Avenger and work the bolt – not an easy thing to do in a Grizzly making 150 KPH on an unpaved road. The shock absorbers broke down months ago in this Grizzly. As far as I know, it was put on the mechanics' 'to-fix' list, but some POG colonel's hovercar got in ahead of it. As a result, we feel every bump and every pothole, and there's no shortage of either here near the outskirts of the city. It's all I can do to hold on to my teeth.

Good to know the Alliance still loves screwing over us 0300 types.

The lieutenant briefed us just before we got into the Grizzlies. Once the Grizzlies drop us off, PJ and I are to set up in a church tower and provide overwatch for the company. Since we've got the high ground, we're also responsible for calling in fire missions along the battalion's MLR from a mortar battery set up on a ridgeline a couple of clicks back. It's pretty big stuff – 120 mike-mikes – but I'm still not real confident about our chances. PJ's sitting across from me, the spotting scope laid out on his lap. I almost manage to nod off when PJ's voice wakes me up.

"Hey, Shepard." I grunt in response.

"You got any smokes, bro?" I dig into the chest pocket of my utilities and come out with a pack of Alliance-issue cigarettes. I toss them over to PJ.

"Thanks, man." He takes one out and lights up.

"You nervous?"

"Is that rhetorical?"

"Why would it be?"

"I'm shaking in my goddamn boots, bro. We've got better training, but they've got better numbers."

"What about those mortars?"

"What about 'em? I guarantee they'll overrun us by the time you register the goddamn things and put in a call for fire. This whole thing's FUBAR, bro. We're going to be calling in fire missions and sniping from the most exposed place on the entire MLR. What if the pirates have arty of their own? What if they got armor? Shit, what if they got air support? What we should do is get starside, blow their shit away with the Tarawa's main cannon."

"What about the civvies?"

"I've seen how those slavers operate, Shepard. So have you. A misregistered cannon shell's quick and painless. Can't say the same for slavery." He leans toward me. "Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees, bro."

"Dying's dying, PJ. Nothing good about it."

"Shakespeare said we owe God a death," another guys pipes up. One of the FNGs. Legault, I think. Figures.

"Well, I wouldn't mind Him extending my line of credit for a little longer. What about you, PJ?"

"Fuck no. I ain't dying here. Not my time, not my place. Oorah, bro?"

"Oorah."

A/N: My first Mass Effect piece! Yay! And I finally figured out how to insert horizontal rulers! Double-yay!

I have to say, posting here is a whole lot easier than posting on BioWare Social Network. The formatting there is SUCH a pain in the ass. I spend almost as much time realigning paragraphs and reapplying bolds and italics as I do writing the gorram thing.

This is also my first M-rated story, because, well...it's the War Hero background, what do you expect?

Oh, and here's a Gruntspeak Glossary for those of you who got lost in the constant barrage of military jargon:

0300: The infantry Military Occupation Specialty series.

El-Tee: slang for a lieutenant, usually a 2nd Lieutenant.

FNG: Fucking New Guy.

FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. When a situation is just that screwed up.

K-pot: a Marine's helmet.

Lima Charlie: phonetic shorthand for loud and clear.

Mikes: phonetic shorthand for minutes.

Mike-Mike: phonetics shorthand for millimeter.

MLR: Main Line of Resistance. Where the bulk of a defender's forces are concentrated in opposition to an attacking force.

MPs: Military Police. Responsible for disciplining unruly Marines on liberty, among other things.

POG: Personnel Other than Grunts. A pejorative acronym for rear-echelon personnel.

TARFU: Things Are Really Fucked Up. When a situation is worse than SNAFU, but not quite FUBAR.

As always, reviews are welcome, constructive criticism even more so. Flames are, too, if you feel obliged.

Here's hoping this gets linked to TV Tropes.