WARNING!
This fanfiction may not be suitable for all audiences, viewer discretion is advised
Blackbox Incorporated presents…
A ReppinOrphanTears24 Production…
With special thanks to Bioware who owns everything in the Mass Effect Universe…
MASS EFFECT
INFECTION
PROLOGUE
In 2022, after nearly a decade of warfare, the empire of man has crumbled and fallen. The attack came swiftly and merciless and consumed the globe in a fury matched only by the gods themselves. Very few remain to show that on the third planet from the star, Sol, there was a civilization of peoples with infinite potential. Sadly, it was that potential which destroyed them.
Elsewhere, the mighty and powerful galactic government called the Citadel Council, has finished fighting a war of attrition against a feral insectoid species called the Rachni. Instead of retreating behind the massive Mass Relay constructs and cowering in fear over more exploratory expeditions similar to the one that unleashed the Rachni, the Council has decreed that in the effort of Galactic stability, any and all threats to the sovereignty and safety of Citadel space with be met head on to provide further warning and prevent more loss of life.
It wasn't soon after that a Salarian exploratory probe discovered a relay hanging on the fringe of what was deemed the Local Cluster, due to its close proximity to the Citadel. The probe activated and went through the relay, thawing out the relay's hidden sister in low orbit of a astral body.
The probe went further into the solar system, mapping the planets and their moons until finally coming to live manifestation of the Garden of Eden.
News spread quickly across citadel space of a new beautiful planet, ripe for colonization. But what was really exciting were the various ruins scattered over nearly every square inch of the planet.
Plans were quickly drawn up to investigate the small blue-green planet, but no one knew exactly when they would send people there to find out who this lost civilization was.
CHAPTER ONE
Earth
Location Unknown
Date Unknown
The room was dark. The only illumination came from a small flickering candle on an equally small fold up table, causing shadows to jump and dance across the rust colored walls. The candle was small and threw no light farther than a one meter radius. Any areas not touched by the light were engulfed in darkness.
A lone figure sits, just outside the candle's radius, with legs crossed and hands held in a meditative manner. The figure seems to be uttering something under its breath but it is too low and comes off as incomprehensible mumblings.
A soft beeping interrupts the figure who opens his once closed lids to reveal a matching set of sea colored eyes that in the light can come across as a mild electric blue.
It's brows furrow as it glances at the waterproof sports watch slapped across its wrist. It absentmindedly shuts off the beeper and stands, licking its thumb and pointer finger before extinguishing the small candle's flame.
Darkness takes over the room instantly. Before it can be more unbearable, the figure opens a metallic shutter covering a nearby window to let in warm illuminating rays of the rising sun.
The figure, now to be a man, takes in a deep breath of morning air.
The man's face is covered by a spade shaped beard that falls halfway to his chest. His hair is even longer, falling across his shoulders in tightly tied dreadlocks. The only parts of his face visible are his electric eyes that seem to take more in a quick glance that other people would need several minutes of gazing to comprehend, and his slim nose that appears to have been recently broken and reset.
He takes a step back from the window allowing more light to shine upon his bare upper torso, save for a glittering set of dog tags that, now visible, look scratched a burned or otherwise damaged. All across his neck, back, chest, stomach, arms and wrists and various scars each ranging from three parallel or single scratch marks, to more smaller circular ones that are no bigger that an American quarter, and finally to frightening jagged ones most commonly associated with bite victims. Each one's ghastly appearance is amplified by the amateur stitch job the man had must have done himself.
The man turns a full 180 degrees from the window and exits a now illuminated 'safe' room which is adorned with deactivated monitors and a single table adjacent to a lone mini refrigerator.
The man proceeds down a small hallway, glancing slightly upwards at a motion security camera that follows him as he enters another darkened room.
The man enters and repeats his previous action of opening a metal shutter, although this one covering a bay window.
Now exposed to the suns light, the room reveals itself to be an elaborate work out facility composed of weights, a boxer's heavy bag, a rowing machine, and a treadmill. The wall to the left of the door is decorated by mirrors that present a backwards world for the man to watch next to the flat screen television hanging nearby.
The man passes the work out equipment and stands before a radio. He leans down and grasps the musical device waiting patiently in the radio's port and shuffles through the various menus until coming to the playlist he had chosen for today. The sounds of heavy rock and roll echo in the small room not much later.
The man continues turning the TV on to be welcomed by an episode of sports center, albeit on pause. The man pushes play and mute in quick succession before heading to the treadmill. He starts off with a brisk trot before evolving into a steady jog, expertly keeping his breathing under control, his dog tags swaying back and forth with each plant of his foot. Although the top of the screen reads live, the man seems to be able to follow what the anchors are saying as they say it.
An hour later and now covered in sweat, the man turns off the treadmill successfully completing his five mile run. He waits for the treadmill to slow to a crawl before jumping off and turning the radio off. The silence in the room is interrupted as the man un-mutes the television, audibly paying attention to a quarterback announce his plan to stay in the NFL as the Minnesota Vikings new staring quarterback.
The man laughs as his begins pushing his body through a series of work out techniques with a pair of matching dumbbells.
"Shoulda' stayed retired," the man comments, he voice sounding raspy in its early hour state.
After another hour of work outs utilizing the row machine and a lifting bench, the man walks over to the dumbbell rack and puts on a set of boxing trainer's gloves. He calmly approaches the heavy bag dangling from the ceiling, it swaying ever so slightly in harmony to the rotation of the earth.
The man proceeds with the final stage of his work out, putting the heavy bag through a series of beatings that would kill a normal man, using a variation of mixed martial arts and marine hand to hand combat.
Finally done with his morning exercise, the man shuts off the TV, the lights and window, in that order before exiting into the hallway, the motion camera capturing every second of it.
The watch on his wrist sounds off again alerting the man to the next objective of his morning routine.
Jumping into the shower, the man lathers every inch of his body, even taking a few precious seconds to appreciate the luke-warm water running over his nude body.
Done with his shower, the man heads to the adjoining room. This next room is completely unlike the others. Where before it was obvious the man had put productivity before comfort, this room is the polar opposite.
A Spartan bed sits near the entrance face horizontal with the door frame, flanked on one side by a nightstand adorned with a lamp, a book titled Anarchist's Cook Book and finally the most out of place item, a 9mm handgun, with a pump-action 12 gauge shotgun leaning close by. On the other side is another nightstand decorated solely by a clock radio that shows in bright green numbers the time, 8:45 am. Resting above it is a historical painting of Napoleon's battle at Waterloo
The man passes by the bed to another desk that faces the bed completely. It is adorned with pictures and medals as well as another flat screen TV although this one is a full five inches larger than its counterpart in the exercise room.
The man stops abruptly, his eyes catching a single picture from all the rest.
The picture displays three soldiers, two male, one female, in full body armor usually present on all combat soldiers. Their matching red and black berets obscured slightly by the burning cigars held proudly between their lips as they rest upon a destroyed Iranian tank. Their arms are wrapped around each other in an uncompleted group hug as they smile for whoever is taking the picture.
The man smiles at the memory, his eyes catching another picture frame holding a red patch with a black center, the symbols N7 and crisscrossing rifles displayed in white.
He stands fully upright and resumes his interrupted routine, arriving at a slide open closet. The man is present with a pathetic array of clothing, all the same type. All shirts are long sleeved and black or are just regular white tees. All the pants are loose fitting blue jeans with several sets of black leather steel tipped boots. Even more, hanging nearby as if a common sight in ones closet are a gas mask, a worn leather trench coat, and two pairs of Kevlar vests, one painted for desert environments, the other for a more urban setting.
Most notable is an all black skin tight bodysuit, which is the first thing the man puts on. Although similar to what a diver would wear in shark infested waters, the man's appears to be more flexible and customized with tear resistant Kevlar webbing.
After the bodysuit, the man adorns himself with a pair of blue jeans, a white tee, and a set of boots. Before sliding the closet closed, the man slings the urban Kevlar vest and trench coat over his shoulder and exits the room.
The man enters the same hallway from before and begins walking towards its end. He once again is interrupted when his gaze locks onto a door that looks like it hasn't been opened in years. One the door hangs a pink porcelain unicorn with a cartoonish smile. His hand grasps the handle but he does not open it. Instead he stands there, his breath growing short, and his hands getting sweaty as he mentally debates whether or not to open the door.
Finally he lets go of the handle and continues down the hallway to its end, coming to a T intersection. The man takes a right, passing a sturdy metal door that appears as if it belongs guarding a stash of gold or other pricless valuables, before ending up in a kitchen.
The kitchen is nearly spotless with its white tiles and matching cupboards, refrigerator and counters. The same as before, the windows are all covered with metal shutters to which the man opens.
Among the appliances decorating the counters include a coffee maker, a toaster, a microwave, and toaster oven. In the immaculate stainless steel sink sits the man's plates from the previous night, a bit of residue from the meal still clinging the plate and a few drops of whatever he was drinking stuck at the bottom of a clear glass. The man unloads his vest and coat onto one side of the table. He walks over to a cupboard and opens it retrieving a box of oatmeal and a bowl. He opens the drawer directly underneath it revealing various sets of forks, knives, and spoons. Standing out among them all is a .45 caliber handgun.
The man grabs a spoon and closes the drawer. He opens the box of oatmeal, pouring its contents into the bowl. He leans over to the sink and turns on the faucet. A loud groaning nose rumbles through the entire house. The man seems unconcerned and proves his reaction the correct one as crystal clean purified water streams from the faucet into the oatmeal filled bowl.
With his breakfast nearing completion the man places the bowl into the microwave. He checks the box for the correct amount of time he must cook it for and sets the microwave accordingly. The microwave turns on with a hum and the man leans backwards onto the table as he waits patiently for his breakfast to finish heating.
Smacking his head as if he forgot something, the man trots the short distance over to the fridge and produces a small container of fresh strawberries.
The triple beep of the microwave indicated to the man that his oatmeal was done. Opening the door to the microwave the man was gifted by a wave of hot steam. Using his shirt to dull the heat between his hands and the bowl, the man quickly places the bowl onto the table next to the strawberries. Finally ready to eat, the man adds his choice of fruit and begins to eat.
After breakfast, the man places his dishes in the sink after filling it up with water to loosen the food residue and puts the remaining strawberries in the fridge.
He returns the way he came but this time stopping at the broad metallic door. He pulls away a picture a man woman and child posing for a family picture to reveal a hidden keypad. He punches in the appropriate code and the door opens with an audible pop.
The man opens the door fully and descends a flight of stairs into darkness, counting each step he takes softly to himself.
Going more by instinct and memory than sight, the man reaches the bottom. He fumbles along the wall for a moment before his hand finds the light switch. Flipping it on, the room he has now entered in slowly reveals itself to be a basement as each light flicked on, one by one.
When all lights present have turned on the man takes a look around the basement which has been split in two by a large white sheet. The one side he can see is adorned with state of the art medical equipment including an operating table, I.V.s, surgical equipment, an EKG heart rate monitors, a cabinet of various types of blood contained in glass phylacteries, and another cabinet filled with tweezers, scissors, several rolls of thread, a clothing iron, various sizes of gauze bandages, hypodermic needles, rubbing alcohol, a bone saw (which thankfully looks as if it hasn't been used yet), and various other medical utensils one would find in either a hospital or med-kit. Standing proud by the operating table is a bio-hazard trash bin.
He walks by all of it, stopping only when he realizes that he seems to be running low of several different types of vials marked MORPHINE. He curses and proceeds past the sheet.
He is greeted with an armory. A couple of assault rifles, a mean looking sniper, several handguns, an assortment of shotguns of different lengths, and a grenade launcher. The weapons are all displayed on the wall, hanging from hooks, their corresponding attachments and spare part sitting under them in perfect order, the ammunition stacked neatly in the drawers and on shelves.
On an adjacent metal cabinet rest several the explosives ranging from grenades to claymores, 20mm HE rounds to homemade Molotov cocktails. The display of firepower would make any sane person shudder and any other smile with glee. To his left is another desk that is covered in tapes and other video appliances. Each is marked by a certain date with a black marker.
The man selects an assault rifle first, grabbing three banana magazines and tapes the magazines together. He then attaches a laser dot scope and grabs an extra box of extra ammo. Utilizing the strap hanging from the stock to the beginning of the barrel, the man slings the rifle over his shoulder and puts the clips and box into a duffel bag.
Next he grabs a leather harness and straps it around his torso like a vest. He then snags two identical sawed off shotguns, placing the in them in the holsters attached to the leather vest. He grabs a bandolier and begins placing 12 gauge shells into the slots spread along the width of it. Finished, he places the bandolier into the duffel bag as well.
He then straps two, smaller holsters to each thigh and places a 9mm handgun in the right and a .44 magnum six shooter in the left. He takes four clips of previously prepared 9mm rounds into the bag along with a box of .44 rounds as well.
After that is completed, he reaches down and opens a drawer. Inside rests a machete in a leather sheath. He takes it and attaches it to the small of his lower back horizontally, tightening it so there is no unwanted movement. He then places four fragmentation grenades into the holsters provided on his vest.
Finally done arming himself, he picks up the duffel bag and places it on the counter.
He turns his attention to a small camera sitting nearby. He walks over and turns it, flipping the view screen vertically so it now faced him. He plays with the positioning a little before satisfied with the camera's placement and pushing the record button.
The camera silently records as the man pulls up a chair and sits down, clearing his throat.
"My name is John Shepard," the man introduced, "today is the 6th of March in the year 2032. I am 42 years old, and I was born in the year 1990 on this very date… making today my birthday."
The man's eyes dart away from the camera, glazing over slightly in remembrance.
"I remember my wife Gianna would always through me these little kid's parties, ya' know, cakes, balloons, pointy party hats. My daughter Ellie would always…"
The mention of his daughter causes Shepard to stop mid sentence. He looks as if he were to shed tears, for a moment, before shaking head, looking as if he flipped a mental switch, returning to normal.
"Let me start over," he said clearing his throat and shifting in his seat, "My name is John Shepard, I was born 42 years go in Des Moines, Iowa. I had a wife named Gianna, a daughter named Elizabeth. My father's name was Jim, my mother's was Hannah and my sister Jane. They were farm people… I hope… that someday if someone finds these taps, you will know what I've tried… am trying, to do…"
Shepard looks like he's about to zone out again before his eyes snapped over to the camera with lightning speed, replacing the old one with a look akin to a predator.
"I think I killed eight yesterday…"
Author's Note:
So, here we are, sorry for the long chapter. I don't know if they will all be this long but I am sure that I will be updating either once a week or bi-weekly.
Next chapter will introduce our other major character.
I'm sure you can all guess who Gianna is. I needed someone to fill the role as Shepard's wife and she seemed to fit. Don't worry, she'll make an appearance later. Elizabeth, Ellie, is an OC.
I made Shepard from Iowa b/c a writer here is an avid Star Trek fan, much to my annoyance, an I promised that I'd throw a shout out somewhere in this chapter.
Many of you are probably confused on what the fuck is going on… don't worry, you'll find out.
So long everyone and stay tuned for ME Infection Chapter Two!
