I do not own anything originating from Mass Effect series. They are the sole property of Bioware. The characters and ideas are a collaborative effort of myself and my dear friend nuttex. We hope you enjoy!
Unexpected
Space is only empty between the wonders that fill it. The galaxies far beyond the Milky Way twinkle in the back like tiny diamonds displayed on a jewelers cloth. The quiet humming song of each world is lost beyond the atmosphere to the void. Life is slowly reclaiming it's right to exist. The road is not easy and the path is ill lit. Those that remain pioneer a new beginning for the entire galaxy. It is no small task and the obstacles prove challenging. The long war against the Reapers ended more than three decades ago, yet the wounds remain un-healed and new wounds are made. The galaxy may yet parish as it slowly bleeds the struggle for survival.
The dim lights shine as the sun in his face when the alarm on his watch beeps and activates the sound triggers. Groaning he rolls over and fumbles with the family heir loom on the bed side table.
"Ещё одно раннее утро, Дедушка?" He asks, looking at his grandfather's watch as if he were complaining about the early start directly to the old man.
"Я думал мы не собирались рано вставать." (I thought we weren't going to wake up early.) He grumbles, then rolls out of the bed and clasps the swiss made antique to his thick wrists.
"Ah, it is just as well. After all, I have no девушка to cling to."
The young man heads for the shower. He doesn't know why he puts on the watch only to remove it to cleans himself, but it has been his habit for many years, one of just a few he keeps to for his sanity. He sets the watch down with care of habit on the metal shelf over the sink with a clank. The water starts as soon as he enters within the clear glass walls. It's already warm. It was not a large apartment, but it held all the most luxurious amenities. Most people would enjoy the refinement no matter how it was earned. For Alexander Nechaev, however, every comfort is a reminder of the suffering others were at that very moment enduring for his selfishness.
The water is not soothing, as it should have been. The towel is rough and scratchy though made of the softest materials. The soft lighting is harsh in his eyes. Instead of the handsome reflection he should see staring back at him in the mirror, he only sees the scar that mars his features. He puts the towel over his back to hide the tattoo of his family crest so as to avoid catching a glimpse of in any reflective surface. He is not worthy of the honor to carry it upon his skin. Alex takes the watch from the shelf. The sound of it sliding over the shiny gunmetal surface grates on his hearing. He puts it on, another honor he does not deserve. He looks down at the watch then moves across the room to the small dresser. Duplicates of the same military style shirt and trousers lay inside in three different colors; dark grey, black, and oxford blue. He selects the blue shirt and grey slacks that day. He needs to look his best, even when he has nothing to do.
The list he keeps on the top of the dresser at all times reminds him that he, in fact, has much to do. The names of everyone he betrayed. If he scrolls through the list he will see the image of a woman he knew long ago. He does not look at it anymore. The pain is buried deeply enough now that he can resist the urge. His hand hovers over the data pad, then takes the gun out of the dewar instead. He tucks it in the old style leather holster and straps it about his hips. It earns him stares to dress the way he does, but he is Русский, and he does not need the petty одобрение others. His concerns lie in earning back the honor of the family name, even if it is only for himself. It will be for his children if he allows himself the pride of a family of his own. It's hard to find a good woman in a galaxy of every species frantically trying to increase the numbers of it's own kindred. Thanks to the infamous Spectre Nihlus Kryik and Captain Sonya Shepard there was a new race added to the frenzy. It remained nameless, belonging to neither humanity or turian cultures even decades from the time of it's creation. Decades later the features that define them as being different have not been breed out. The Hybrids were here to stay, capable of mating with any other species. The asari are not happy about the competition.
Alexander pauses by the mirror, but he doesn't bother to look into it. He knows what he will see in the hard, dark eyes that were once his own. He strings up his black military boots and secures the combat knife in it's hidden sheath. Whatever awaits him this day he will be ready.
Palavan is hot, but this isn't new. It is always hot on the radiated world, but not intolerably so. Akallys hides behind a stack of crates waiting for the back doors of the kitchen to open. It will be her opportunity to sneak inside and steal some food. It shames her to live this way, but she has little choice. The wealthy and powerful name of Kammen is no longer such. The batarians have seen to that quite effectively. It has been years since she has slept in something better than a cot in a shelter. The dirty looks, the disapproval, the snide comments as she passes on the street ware on her. Being the only surviving member of her family and being too young to have yet received her tattoos when the tragedy befell her house, she was often turned away from the shelters or the charities. A bare-face is not an easy life on the turian home world. Her last hope rests on finding a way off of Palavan. If she can find others like herself or if she can find the Hybrids, perhaps then she will find a home again.
The door opens. Akallys' attention snaps to the polished knob that has dulled over time. She waits for the cook to throw out the trash and slip back inside. She is limber and thin. Her body has been trained through experience and hunger to be quick for survival. Talons like the head of a serpent lashes out and silently catches the handle. She lets the door follow it's natural gravity to close, but not shut. She waits and listens for the foot steps on the other side to move away. She may have to crawl like an insect to slip inside, but the reward of nourishment just out of reach is enough to drive her past her fear. She slips her lithe form through the thin crack as she opens the door. The restaurant is closed and all of the employees are busying themselves with clean up and morning preparations. Only a few steps away is a row of roasts, thawing for the next days breakfast orders. She tentatively steps forward, careful to keep her talons from clicking on the smooth hard floor. She can smell the sweet scent of the meat on the sanitary counter, almost tasting it's decadence. She grabs two and runs out the door. By the time the metal slams shut against the painted frame she is nearly a block away. Her only thoughts are of finding a safe corner in which to hide and gorge herself on the rare treat she has earned this evening.