"The road to hell is paved with good intentions"
- Originated by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, circa 1150 AD)
Systems Alliance Base (SAB) – New Paris
New Paris
Eden Prime
0600 local time
Ashley Williams' lungs burned as she started the final lap. Her heart pounded in her ears and her feet pounded the rubber floor as she pushed herself to her limits. Her eyes focused on the finish line which appeared so close and yet so far to her adrenaline-addled mind.
Twenty Seconds left. Twenty seconds to pass selection, twenty seconds to redeem herself, twenty seconds to get off this rock. Her heart began race as she poured every last remaining ounce of her will into her strides, as she began to speed up despite her exhaustion.
Finally she crossed the finish line, a wave of exhilaration sweeping over her as she held her hands high triumphantly. She did it! Two miles within 9 minutes and…. She glanced down at the old-style chronometer strapped to her wrist. Formerly belonging to her father, she had inherited upon his death as he had from his own father. It was a Williams' tradition; to reject fanciful, new technology for rugged tech that had stood the test of time. In the dark hours of the night, the rugged old watch comforted, as it promised that whatever happened; the family tradition would always stand behind her.
But now, it merely taunted her. Ten seconds. Ten seconds over the minimum standard required to pass 'selection'. Ten seconds over the minimum standard set by the legendary "N-School".
Exhausted she slumped to the ground, her arms bracing to prevent her head from slamming against floor. Defeated and exhausted, she lowered her head to the floor, praying that no one would walk onto the track and see her moment of weakness.
Why? Why was she doomed to be stuck on this planet? Why no matter what she did, fate conspired to keep her relegated to planet-side postings? Why whenever someone looked at her, they didn't see her but her family's tainted legacy.
A polite beep chimed from her chronometer and she glanced at it. Time's up. It was morning on this corner of Eden Prime and she had duties to perform. At least they trusted her with that much.
Surrounding Forests
SAB New Berlin
Eden Prime
Jacob Taylor ducked under hail of fire that cut across the field and then gestured once with his fist. A biotic aura materialized into existence around him and then solidified as a new hail of fire slammed into it.
Protected by a biotic barrier, Jacob sprinted across the field towards cover, as he pulled out his assault rifle. A drop of sweat crossed his bow, as the volume of fire increased and began to sap at his will. For all their so-called 'realism', the simultisms never did depict how truly taxing it was to maintain a biotic barrier.
Sliding into cover, he let out a gasp of relief as he mentally relaxed his concentration, finally allowing the biotic barrier to vanish from existence. His hands shook once and then stilled as his body recovered from the physical and mental strain of maintaining his biotics. They said that the asari commandoes' biotic made them the deadliest warriors in the galaxy. But Jacob hadn't survived so long, by being dependant on his biotics.
Grabbing a grenade from his bandolier, he peeked once over his cover and then chucked it. The cylindrical sphere arced above the boulder that sheltered him and then dove towards his opponents, whom were at that very moment trying to flank him.
Ducking away from the grenade, his opponents were able to avoid most of the electric blast from ripping them to shreds. But their manoeuvres left them exposed to Jacob's fire.
Leaning out of cover and then aiming down his rifle, Jacob fired a flurry of rounds that caught one of the individuals straight in the chest and then tore through his weakened kinetic barriers. With a cry one of the opposing soldiers fell to the ground, their weapon falling away from nerveless fingers.
But his buddy was quicker on the mark and chucked a grenade towards Jacob. Dodging the grenade, Jacob sprung from cover, his hands clenching once more as he summoned another wave of biotic energy.
The hairs on the back of his head rose, as his biotic implants surged with energy. A biotic orb shot towards his target and then enveloped them in blue energy. Struggling helplessly, his opponent was yanked from his feet and then towards Jacob.
Jacob let a small grin cross his face, as he savoured his victory. He still had it.
Suddenly his back exploded in agony and he stumbled once and then crashed into the ground. A few metres in front, his opponent was suddenly freed from Jacob's biotic grip and was unceremoniously dropped into the dirt.
Jacob struggled to breathe, as he struggled for his sidearm. A new figure wielding a shotgun loomed menacingly over him, its shadow falling across his face. For a few seconds it aimed down its sights and then finally released a sigh.
"You're not going to try anything stupid are you?" It queried conversationally, as if they were sitting in a café.
Jacob grunted in defeat, as he relaxed and allowed his nerves to recover from the short-range blast to his back. It was true what they said; training rounds didn't kill you, but they hurt like a bitch.
"Alright gents, endex." The figure tapped its omni-tool and then gestured at the others. Ahead of them, Jacob's formerly ensnared opponent, shakily rose to her feet and then staggered towards her buddy and helped him to his feet.
Jacob himself was pulled to his feet and finally he was able to regard Staff Lieutenant Richard Mansbridge in the eyes. A short, stocky man who hailed from Earth, Mansbridge had been assigned the task of evaluating Taylor after his Corsair assignment. A broad grin crossed his face, as he gave Jacob a friendly slap on the shoulder.
"There you go, Taylor." Mansbridge's cheerful voice hid that fact they had just taken out a biotically powered opponent, an occurrence that had that most regarded as impossible, "Nothing like a shotgun blast to wipe the sleep from your eyes, eh?"
Jacob merely groaned in response, as his tired body howled in protest. For the past six hours, he had worked his way through the forests of Eden Prime as Mansbridge's team pursued him. Armed with only his armour, rifle and his wits, Jacob had pushed his body to the limit in order to reach the final objective; a small ramshackle hut at the end of the field.
"How did I do?" Jacob couldn't help but ask. Ever since he had left the Corsair program, and requested a transfer back to Alliance Special Forces, he had been stalled by bureaucrats and suspicious officers whom suspected his loyalties. After all there were rumours that one of their own elite brethren had defected. To whom, no one knew.
Mansbridge's smile disappeared and he dropped his voice to a whisper.
"Wash yourself up and then meet me in the pub"
Virmire
1200 local time
Saren Arterius stood perfectly still in the jungle clearing, his hands held contemplatively at his side. The air smelt rich and alive through his nostrils and the distant sound of avian animals and simians gave the entire tableau a sense of peace that he had sorely missed. Yet at the same time it reminded him of what he had to lose, if he failed in his task.
How long had it been seen those fateful days? Once upon a time, he had been an ambitious turian, eager to use his new position to ensure that the Turian Hierarchy maintained its role as the galaxy's defender of stability. Once upon a time he had believed in the righteousness of his cause, believed that it would forgive whatever methods he used to protect the galaxy. But now…the stakes were so much more higher, much higher than the Hierarchy or even the Council itself. No, what he was playing with, could determine the entire fate of life itself.
Something snapped in the trees that ringed the clearing and Saren's senses were instantly up. He was not alone. Good. He had work to do.
The lumbering krogan burst through the trees at Saren's rear, emitting a deep, bass roar that shook the ground beneath his feet. Towering at over eight feet, this bloodthirsty specimen was a fine example of his species' warmongering abilities. Relentless as the tide, strong as the mountains and imbued with enough bloodlust that would put the hyenas of Oma Ker to shame, the Krogan were the perfect race of warriors. But that did not make them soldiers.
Saren pirouetted on his foot and then ducked under the first shotgun blast, which came at him from ten metres away. Bereft of binocular vision that the turians enjoyed, the krogans preferred close-range weapons enhanced their brutality in such confines. It only enhanced their lethality, but it came at a cost.
Slipping out of the krogan's left field of vision and positioning himself in the gap between its two eyes, Saren charged towards the krogan, constantly shifting to remain between its two cones of vision, as he close the gap to five, three and then one metre. Moving its head from side to side, the krogan finally spotted Saren and fired once more, as he closed in for the attack.
This time, Saren let his synthetic arm, a gift from the geth, absorb the blast. His arm rippled in shock, but by then Saren was already moving. Lashing out with the same arm, he swiped shotgun from the krogan's hands and then clambered up the still moving beast.
With a furious bellow, the krogan dove towards the ground, seeking to crush Saren underneath its enormous, muscular bulk. But the Spectre was already moving. Grasping onto his opponent's massive head, he flipped himself over and then behind the krogan.
Even as his feet touched the ground, he lashed out once more. An armoured boot slammed into the back of the krogan's knee, sending the enormous beast toppling to the ground. Moving before the krogan could react, Saren's arms moved once more and pinned his opponent's arms behind its back.
It's gargantuan weight pinning it to the dirt and unable to use its powerful arms, the krogan struggled viciously as it tried to buck the turian off it. But Saren had not become the longest serving Spectre, only to be taken down by a mere krogan warlord.
Constantly shifting his weight to stay on top of the bucking krogan, Saren raised one arm and then jammed it into the back of the krogan's head. By nature, krogan hide rivalled the armour seen on most tanks, but Saren had just deployed a localised and very concentrated biotic warp field that began to tear apart flesh and bone.
After a minute of staying on top of the krogan, Saren decided he had put on enough of a show. It was time to end this little exercise. Raising his bionic fist once more, he slammed into the back of the krogan's skull. Synthetically enhanced musculature crushed its scales, shattered its bone and pulped its brain tissue.
Finally Saren rose to his feet, with nary a sweat creasing his brow, as the krogan's shattered skull leaked blood and viscera into the jungle soils of Virmire. Casting his eyes around, he patiently waited for his audience to reveal themselves.
Finally, the hulking figures of the spectating krogan mercenary band detached themselves from the shadows and moved into the sunlight. Standing at over eight feet at the minimum, some of these specimens dwarfed Saren's now deceased opponent. Yet Saren knew that a krogan battlemaster ruled through force of will and fear. He would have to set a good example.
One of the krogans approached him, glancing once at the remains of his leader. The second-in-command to his former battlemaster, he had not lifted his finger to aid his superior's personal duel with Saren. It was the krogan way; you solved your own problems.
A sly grin began to spread across the krogan's face as he nodded at the turian and Saren was once more reminded that the krogans placed little stock on civilized concepts such as honour or loyalty. Turning around to address his compatriots, he was still smiling as the high-powered slug tore through his hide and severed his dual nervous systems.
Now for the first time, the krogan's reacted as they glanced in shock and fear at the image of Saren coldly staring at them, as both their leaders lay dead at his feet. A high-powered pistol was held in Saren's hand as he regarded them and with dismissive snort he chucked it to the ground.
Each of the krogan had at least half a century's worth of combat experience, whether fighting in the dozen of brush-fire wars that plagued the Terminus systems or brawling in the confines of Omega, but seeing both their leaders killed so quickly and by a single turian, set them aback.
"That is the punishment for betrayal." Saren finally spoke, as his hard, metallic accent carried forward on the still air towards the krogan's ears.
Seconds passed and finally the remaining krogans began to nod in understanding. Good. Sometimes the best lessons were the one that didn't need to be spoken.
Marching forwards, he cut his way through the group of krogan, who parted before him, casting their eyes downward in submission. The krogan would be useful as tools for his plans for the galaxy. Plans that could very well save them all.
This fic originally started out as a bed on the Ashley forums about whether we could publish a better story that Foundations #3. To that end, I have avoided the comic for the time being and am doing my own take on the Geth attack on Eden Prime.
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Big thanks to for proofreading