The basic premise is this - imagine that bits and pieces of every Shepard origin got jumbled up in a blender with some omni-gel to fill in the holes, and then a surprise turian dad got thrown in by mistake. The Commander's fight against Saren is heavily shaped by an alternate history of the First Contact War and certain episodes of Shepard's past. As such, the plot will frequently shift gears between time periods, but the driving force remains killing those dang Reapers.

Mature rating is well deserved - although secondary to the plot, there are numerous Femshep/Garrus sexual dalliances ahead, starting sooner than you may expect. Chapters containing sexual content are marked with a precautionary asterisk and include specific preface warnings for those who wish to avoid sexual scenes. In addition, be prepared for violence of all kinds, foul language, infrequent drug use, and emotional g-forces. Things get ugly, and people will die.

Alien vocabulary is translated at the bottom of every chapter - many turian words and phrases are courtesy of MizDirected's turian dictionary, and have been used with her kind permission. Due credit is always included in the translation notes.

01: SHAKEDOWNS
(Revised edition, updated October 2017)

JANE
2183

A sharp voice cut through the after-hours quiet of the cargo bay, but Shepard didn't flinch. She'd been expecting this.

"Middle of the night and pumping iron, with Eden Prime mere hours away. How true to form."

Hackles rising, Shepard slowed midway through a lateral curl and turned her head to meet a pair of prying eyes, a mutual clash of acid-green. She felt her blood slowing in her veins.

The Spectre. Posed thoughtfully in the mouth of the elevator, his gaze zeroed clean onto the center of her forehead, he studied her with the aloof curiosity of a hitman.

"Spectre Kryik," she said. Subjected to such unapologetic scrutiny, it was the most diplomatic greeting she could manage.

Slowly, Kryik stepped from the elevator and toured the aft quarter of the cargo bay. Far from Alliance standard, the area had been jerry-rigged into Shepard's personal training course: a Hierarchy Crucible, laden with turian ordnance and gear. His eyes moved skeptically across the display: the treadmill, the weight bench, the full load-out of Armax training guns, Shepard herself. Looking unimpressed, he mocked her in bland tones: "It's one thing to look you up on the extranet," he said, addressing the exercise equipment rather than the woman using it. "Query Commander Shepard, and you'll return one wild story after another."

Before she could stop herself, she lowered her barbells, rumbling low in her chest.

Kryik's face plates twitched: an almost-laugh. "Yet here you are, flesh and blood. Jane herself, ridiculously true."

She ground her molars, taking his point. Here she was. Awake in the middle of the night. Training before a mission. Heavily fatigued after her second round of PT, grinding through a Crucible. She'd seen plate glass windows less transparent than this display. Less fragile. Of course a turian Spectre had come to give Commander Shepard hell for pretending to be something she wasn't.

She flexed a cramp in her left hand, then stared intently at the floor panels beneath Kryik's casual, contrapposto feet, knowing he was sizing her up. Her neck tensed at the thought; she cracked her bones audibly, showing off. "Fine. What do you want to know?" She threw the words in his general direction. "What lullabies he sang to me?"

Kryik took a half step back. His posture stiffened into a more formal parade rest, surrendering little. Sounding annoyed, he said, "Shepard, please. I'm not here to raise awkward questions about yourfahrtrix—"

"Pari," she spat, voice tightening.

A grim silence followed, broken only when Kryik forced a cough and rerouted to the weapons bench in the forward port quarter, pulling his shotgun from his back. An unnecessary inspection, she was certain - an excuse to look away. Grateful for her own distraction, she replaced her weights and resumed her reps.

Assholes were all the same, regardless of their planet of origin. If Kryik wanted to start something, she'd leave him the opening, if only so it could be finished, and quickly.

A few moments later, he relented to her silence. "I wasn't trying to provoke you," he said, blandly. "I admit to some curiosity about your upbringing. More than a few questions."

Mid-lift, she froze and telegraphed him a dark glare, but he wasn't looking at her.

Eyes on his work, he spoke and dismantled his gun with the same focused ease: methodical, professional, rote. "One of my mentors held a particular grudge against you," he said. "His fury peaked my interest, and I've been a spectator of your progress since… well, since you tore through half the commissioned officers at Cipritine Military Academy to earn your N4. Your record…" He tilted his head, at a loss. "It's attention grabbing."

Her stomach churned. If the Spectre had some personal stake in Shepard's career, this was the first she'd ever heard of it. His manner since boarding the Normandy had been pure professionalism through and through, almost to a fault. Nihlus Kryik: inscrutable and superior, like some kind of armored iceberg slowly chilling the ship. He didn't seem the type to be driven by a Fornax-fueled fetish for squishy human maidens, but it wouldn't be the first time Shepard had been caught unawares.

"I don't appreciate being watched," she said, low with warning.

That struck a chord. He stiffened and shot her a look as hard as any disciplining blow. "Don't misunderstand me, Commander. I'm here for the mission. Exclusively. I came to speak with you about Eden Prime." He possessed a drill instructor's rigidity; a face that screamed straighten up or go home. That, at least, felt familiar. Something she could work with.

Shepard squinted, shoulders tense. "I've never been," she said, rolling a shoulder.

"They say it's a symbol of your people, one of the first stable human colonies beyond the Charon Relay. Proof that you can protect a perfect little world on the edges of the Terminus." He paused, considering his weapon carefully. "But how safe is it really?"

Frustrated enough to spit, Shepard threw both weights to floor and stood. "Enough ballet, Kryik. What are you dancing around?"

He looked in her direction and tilted his head academically, offering no further explanation.

"This is no ordinary shakedown run," she said, rushing at the chance to confront the Spectre about his motives face-to-face. "Even Corporal Jenkins isn't that green. An experimental Hierarchy-Alliance stealth frigate with Captain Anderson and a Council Spectre aboard at zero hour? I don't think so. And then I get the call: reassigned and promoted by Admiral Hackett himself, just like that." She snapped her fingers. "Give me some credit, Kryik, I know I'm not here to smash a bottle of champagne on the Normandy's hull."

She paused for breath, immediately lost her momentum. One sharp, defeated sigh. "Or hell, maybe I am. What's the story this time? Reparations for Shanxi? Some big fireworks display to congratulate the politicians on their latest ass-kissing? Did you smuggle in any reporters for the big circle-jerk?"

She kicked a nearby cargo crate, hard, just to be sure. No startled yelp from within, no hidden camera fell out. Her only reward was silence and a sore toe.

Kryik looked as if he had a great deal to say, but no idea what order to put the words in. On his ordinarily frostbitten face, the lack of sure footing looked almost like embarrassment.

After taking a moment to compose himself, he said, "I suppose it bodes well that the Normandy's crew is smarter than the Council gives them credit for. Anderson knows his people. And he chose the right second in command to back him up. Make no mistake, politics aside, your promotion was his doing." He quirked his head. "...and my own."

Shepard blinked, too stunned to comment, but Kryik didn't clarify. Firmly, he redirected: "Our purpose on Eden Prime is twofold," he said. "First, the Council has asked me to assist Captain Anderson with the covert extraction of a Prothean artifact—"

"Wait." Shepard interrupted, shaking her head. "The Council flew a mint-condition experimental frigate to the edge of the Terminus, just so a Spectre could hand-deliver some… what? Museum piece? Or is this for a private collection?" She snorted, rudely. "Who's buying, the asari councilor? Tevos probably likes looking at art as old as herself."

Kryik's mouth opened, mandibles twitching, but he seemed incapable of finding the correct words to fill the void. Finally, he settled for a strained cough that bore only passing familiarity to laughter, and said, "My my, how insensitive. The artifact is a Prothean Beacon. Rare finds, exceptionally valuable to posterity, and very dangerous. I need to transfer this one to a proper research facility on the Citadel before it falls into the wrong hands."

"What 'wrong hands?' Human ones?"

Kryik was still making a show of cleaning his gun, splitting his attention between the weapon and Shepard with a cold, disinterested look on his face. But the cracks in his veneer were long past showing. When he spoke again, the calm in his voice took on a practiced edge. "The Terminus is a cesspool of pirates and criminals who'd love any excuse to ransack a human settlement," he said. "Batarian splinter groups that haven't forgotten the Blitz."

He slowed, pausing deliberately - a show of force.

Much as she tried to hide it, Shepard felt sure he could hear her heart skipping beats. He knew more about her past than he was letting on.

Whatever his motives, he didn't linger. Dryly, he said, "At best, humanity has a shaky foothold on the Citadel. Last time your people dabbled unchecked among Prothean ruins, it didn't pan out so well. Whatever that Beacon contains, it affects all of us. Technology like this is unpredictable, very dangerous. Which brings me to my second objective."

"And what's that?" she said, hearing the eyeroll in her own voice.

"Evaluating you for Spectre candidacy."

Shepard went still enough to feel her own bones.

Minutes later, still dazed, she grunted. "You just made that up to piss me off."

He chuckled unexpectedly, then immediately stilled. "Strong words, spoken by the impossible human legacy of Albacus Regidonis."

Hearing her father's name uttered aloud for the first time in years, Shepard flinched. She closed her eyes to savor the rarity of the sound. Or to block it out. Or both. "Say I buy this Spectre joke," she said, hissing through a clenched jaw. "Why wasn't I briefed by Anderson on any of this?"

"Alliance brass made that call, not me. You were meant to be briefed at the mission sitrep first thing this morning, once we were in orbit. But since…" he glanced at her Crucible again before continuing, a slow, visible arithmetic behind the movement of his eyes. "…you don't seem bound by Alliance rules and regs, why bother? Whatever gets the job done. When it comes down to it, this mission is Council purview, anyway. It's need to know, and now you do."

"Alright, fine, I follow. But a human Spectre?" Under her breath, she added, "Who's pulling the threads in that spider web?"

"Your people have been pushing for a hand in galactic politics since Relay 314 blew up in your faces, and what better avenue than the Spectres? As to your nomination specifically, I was the one who put your name forward."

She shook her head, agog. "You?"

"Like I said. Your record is attention grabbing."

The twist in her gut returned, redoubled. "No," she said, biting back a snarl. "I won't be paraded around like some show animal just because of my father—"

"Too bad," he said, dropping all pretense. The shift in tone hardly put them on equal footing. Instead, he spoke to her as if she were twelve. "The Council can't wait to jump on a publicity stunt like you. You have frankly unprecedented perspective on interspecies cooperation." Shepard crossed her arms and felt the skin on her face boiling, but Kryik lectured on. "Regidonis is only the tip of the spear, the means to an end. Hell, if you really were turian, you'd have already earned this nomination five times over. Your list of accomplishments is preposterous. The bleeding hearts pinned a medal on you for saving civilians in the Blitz, but I dug up the rest. I know what the Alliance tried to hush up, how far you were really willing to go to take back the Skyllian Verge."

She stared at the Spectre, heart in her throat. He was reading her like a set of first-tier omni-tool instructions, then pushing all of her buttons at once, just to see what she would do. The dim third shift lights had thrown his face into deep pockets of shadow, and she trusted him less than ever.

If Torfan was the moment that made Shepard worthy of being on the Council's short list, then may she rot in Hell.

"That victory was nothing to be proud of," she said, meaning every word.

"Say what you want. An ugly call, but you saved thousands and ended a war almost single-handed. You'd make one hell of a Spectre, species be damned."

Kryik had finally begun to reassemble his shotgun, one piece at a time. As if working from muscle memory, he kept his eyes on Shepard, watching her with an expression that might have meant anything: challenge, acknowledgment, understanding, disdain. No matter how close she got to his heels, he always seemed ten paces ahead and hidden from view.

After a careful moment's study, he slowly added, "I imagine your patrem would be proud of all that you've accomplished."

Her blood froze, fists clenching automatically at her sides. "Proud?" She jerked her head to one side, teeth on edge. "My father would have ripped the Star of Terra right off my uniform and melted it into slag." She stared at her own hand, seeing red. "I promised myself I'd never do anything that ruthless again."

Kryik nodded seriously, then slid his gun into place on his back. "And I risked it all, betting on you. If you're who I think you are, maybe you can prove us both right."

Then he was gone.

HANNAH
2157

Once a Marine, always a Marine. Even mid-slouch, Hannah Shepard was accustomed to looking most men square in the face. Civilian by technicality alone, she had voluntarily discharged years ago, but remained a regular fixture in the Alliance training yard, where she made a name for herself as the "Shepard Scale," deadlifting raw recruits and declaring them weighty enough for the Corps.

In comparison, General Williams had the build of a strategist, not a soldier. Even considering his light frame and ponderous eyes, Hannah could never remember him appearing weak. Now, he looked defeated.

The General was dwarfed completely by a phalanx of fully armored and heavily weaponized aliens who marched in perfect lockstep behind him, filling the city square. The man looked miniaturized in his shame, as if he had been remade in effigy from over-baked clay and might shatter at any moment. It would have been easy to name him a coward, a traitor, but Hannah couldn't bring herself to to do it.

Crowds of anxious civilians watched as General Williams escorted an alien army into the square. The onlookers took turns shrinking into themselves and craning their necks for a better view, their eyes bright with betrayal. Above hundreds of gathered heads, silence reigned.

The absolute quiet brought a new and unfamiliar terror. Since the bombardment had begun, not an hour had gone by without another chunk of the colony being blasted into dust. Constant noise: explosions, air raid sirens, children screaming for their families, the babble of gangrenous Marines begging for their severed limbs. Even in her sleep, Hannah heard that noise. It had rooted itself into the back of her chest, as regular as her own heartbeat. Now - like a blanket of smoke - silence and a kind of terrified awe smothered the last of her resistance to ash.

There was no fight left on the ground; the orbital bombardment had ripped Shanxi into unrecognizable heaps of rubble. Anybody lucky enough to survive the initial wave had been starved into a walking skeleton in the aftermath. Lean weeks without power or clean water, until the miasma of filth had taken almost as many lives as the flaming debris still falling from the sky. Finally seeing the strength of their attackers face-to-face, witnessing the ruthless coordination of their squads and the brute strength of each individual soldier, the reality knocked Hannah dizzy.

Of course Williams had surrendered.

The invaders were huge. That was her first, and for a while, only thought about the alien soldiers as they spread out in unison. A perfectly choreographed occupation of the colony's central square, a military show of force expertly designed to be intimidating.

What chance did humanity have at the mercy of these predators? More to the point, how immediate would this extermination be? How pitiless? Reality sank into her heart with sharpened fangs: humanity wasn't alone in the universe, and the neighbors were a lot higher on the food chain.

Hannah felt a nerve surging up her right arm and flinched. She looked down, rediscovering the death-grip of her baby's fingers in her palm. Soft, damp claws with filthy digging nails, all in dire need of a wash and trim. Hannah stared, trying to reconcile two opposing realities. At her feet teetered three-year-old Jane. Her own child, starved and half-awake, clinging on for dear life. Over Jane's shoulder were dozens of aliens filing into neat military rows, their weapons at high ready.

"Mommy," the little girl whispered, her eyes too big, too afraid. "Lionel is scared."

Even while throttling her mother, Jane was barely managing to keep hold on the stuffed dinosaur she had smuggled under her arm. Lionel: the steadfast companion that Jane insisted on bringing with her everywhere, even to her execution.

"Be brave for him," Hannah said. She yanked Jane up into her arms, cradling her securely against a jutted hip. Just to be safe, she pushed the toy further into Jane's already furious grip.

There had been too much to risk, trying to hide Jane away in the short time they'd had to prepare; it would have been impossible to keep a terrified child quiet or out of sight. Better to face it together, if the worst was about to happen. Impressively, blessedly, Jane had yet to crack. Not one tear, not one whimper. Maybe she didn't understand; after all, Hannah wasn't sure she could wrap her own head around it.

She crushed Jane closer, breathed in the stale, sleepy scent of her hair, and waited.

Holding an assault rifle high across a massive crested torso, one of the aliens slowly stepped forward to stand beside General Williams. At Williams' back, the rest of the extraterrestrials kept their heads obscured by featureless combat helmets, smoke-black and anonymous. The single naked face was impossible to ignore, so inhuman that Hannah struggled to pick out anything except the creature's eyes. Those mercury-bright eyes burned across the crowd, and the silence stretched thinner than ever. It was a primordial stare, like something forged by millennia of evolution to devour them all alive, bowels first.

Every inch of the alien's visible skin looked carved from brackish stones. A row of jagged teeth glinted hungrily through windowed sockets in its cheeks, partially covered by a pair of twitching mandibles. Rigid appendages jutted straight back from the crown of its head like a handful of serrated knives. The cheeks, the forehead, the tips of the spikes, all were carefully ornamented with complex designs. The color: a deep, deadly red. Hannah prayed to God the warpaint was not human blood.

After a long, hungry-looking assessment of the humans quaking in the square, the unmasked alien flicked its head at a smaller subordinate. The second alien approached Williams from the other side and extended an armored left arm in front of the General. A florescent orange holo appeared from thin air, surrounding the subordinate alien's forearm. Unrecognizable script flashed across the glowing display.

Taking a deep, barely steadying breath, Williams began to read:

"As of this moment, I, General Lance Howard Williams of the Systems Alliance, unconditionally surrender the colony of Shanxi into the custody of the Turian Hierarchy, under the command of Acting Fleet Captain Albacus Regidonis, to include all lands, goods, and militia therein, until such time as the Citadel Council declares ceasefire. The Maskim Xul Treatise accorded by the Citadel Council in 300 CE forbids the activation of any uncharted relay without explicit Council authorization. Any violation of this ruling is to be answered with immediate military retaliation and containment procedures. The Systems Alliance must answer for our severe transgression and cooperate with the will of the Council, or risk a quick and sure annihilation."

The General stopped to grunt and shove the alien device out of his face. Hannah flinched, but inexplicably, the turian leader let the outburst go unpunished. After that, Williams spoke in his own words.

"Listen to me. We do this by the book, and we can all make it out of here. Effective immediately, all Alliance personnel on this colony are prisoners of war. That means you are protected. Turian Hierarchal Executive Command 566. Don't resist, keep it quick and sane. Civilians: before 1200 hours today, surrender nonviolently and the turians will ensure you receive adequate food and shelter at your assigned penal enclave. They will distribute medical aid, if you need it. Soldiers: report to your commanding officer and follow all instructions."

There were few Marines left standing on the ground - most of them had been blown from the sky or smashed by orbital debris on desperate supply runs. The reminder of that loss made Hannah's chest ache.

"If you are of sound mind and body, form an orderly queue on the south side of the square. One day's rations and a work detail will be assigned to you. If you can't walk, you will be relocated."

No one seemed willing to move first, so Williams tried again.

"You get one warning, right now. Noncompliance will not be tolerated. We're still alive, people. Let's keep it that way."

JANE
2183

After tossing violently through an hour and change of restless sleep, Shepard still managed to wake forty-five minutes early for the morning sitrep. Knowing this would be her first chance to make a formal impression on Kryik, she took advantage of the extra time. She wouldn't let him catch her out of uniform again.

Quick, dark smudges across the brow to harden her eyes. Thin tinted moisturizer from the commissary to hide the most damning of her freckles. Hair yanked back into an un-flirtatious knot. Last, she slid into something more comfortable. A mismatched set of mercenary armor in her family colors. Bloody crimson, with a crude Red Squad insignia burned into the right pauldron to make it official.

Hardly standard issue, but reg-breaking cosmetic dalliances had become synonymous with Shepard's name. In Basic, she'd nearly been held back for showing up on the yellow footprints with red nails. When she'd refused to scrub off the paint, Sargeant Velasquez had ordered Demon Squad to rip Shepard out of bed at First Call and "scrape the vanity away by force."

Shepard's fingers had bled for two days and she'd felt naked for the rest of training, but by the end of it, she was Squad Leader.

She flexed her hand as she pulled an armored glove over those nails, red once more. A flawless, solid lacquer that matched the Ariake suit by careful design. A gift from a krogan battlemaster, the armor was Shepard's sturdiest and most trusted disguise, and the color made her feel at home. She'd been practically glued into it ever since earning N7.

To avoid looking like an overeager suck-up, Shepard dawdled away her last few minutes before the sitrep. Looking for an easy out, she took a detour by way of the Normandy's cockpit, where she paused to shoot the breeze with the talkative new pilot, Moreau.

He was glowing over a successful FTL jump straight into orbit, and being none too humble about it. "Nothing but net, Commander," he purred to his console, knocking his cap over his eyes.

No wonder everybody called him Joker. She liked him, but unless he really did turn out to be God's gift to aviation, he'd need a bit of knuckle rapping to keep that cheek under control. For now, she let it slide.

At precisely 0700, Shepard walked into the comm room. Anderson and Kryik were already present, deep in conversation. Despite the careful timing, she felt like she was late for her first day of school.

Anderson acknowledged her first. "Good, you're here. Nihlus tells me that the two of you finally got a chance to talk." He allowed a knowing pause, paternal on the verge of condescending, holding two warring children by the ears.

"Yes sir," she said, biting her tongue.

She inclined her head towards the Spectre, whose eyes seemed to be burning brighter than usual this morning, probably to hide an urge to gloat. He'd also donned armor carefully chosen to look big, cool, and menacing, except he had Spectre-grade equipment and therefore automatic seniority. Red and black, and parts that glowed . She pursed her lips, beaten at her own game.

Breaking the awkward silence, Anderson said, "Sorry to keep you out of the loop, Shepard, but my orders came down all the way from the top. Strictly need to know. Nihlus will work directly with you and Lieutenant Alenko to extract the Beacon, he needs to see you in action. Speaking of which."

He'd given her the opening, and she took it. "I'm not sure I'm cut out to be the Council's poster girl. The Spectres?"

"Humanity needs this, Shepard. It's time for us to step up and join the community, and you're our best shot. You'll take the job, kid." He looked at Kryik, then back to Shepard, and sighed good naturedly. "If they'll have you, anyway."

Moreau's voice sliced into the comm room with thinly disguised anxiety. "Captain, we've got a problem."

Shepard barely knew the pilot, but his sudden rigidity struck her right in the gut.

Anderson's face sank. "What's wrong, Joker?"

"Transmission from Eden Prime sir. You better see this."

"Onscreen."

Joker forwarded the transmission from the bridge. Filling the large vid screen on the aft wall, the feed was pure chaos. Marines running back and forth, bullets flying, comms jamming only to break through half garbled. Bits and pieces, all bad. Attack, massive casualties, immediate evac .

Shepard moved closer, straining to see, to hear. Had pirates found the beacon? Like Kryik had predicted, rogue batarians fishing for a hefty ransom?

Then she heard it, a sound that rattled her from stem to stern.

A deep, mechanical crush of noise, too multitudinous to stomach. It augured deep into her brain, settling behind her eyes, burning. Onscreen, above the scrambling Marines and the smoke of the firefight, a titanic shape emerged from the sky. It was incomprehensible: a stormy hand reaching out of the clouds, like God's vengeful fist groping for souls.

The screen turned to static.

"Everything cuts out after that," the pilot said, talking fast. "No comm traffic at all. Just goes dead. There's nothing."

There was a brief pause, then Anderson showed his usual mettle. "Take us in, Joker. Fast and quiet. This mission just got a lot more complicated."

Kryik stepped forward, his eyes flicking between Shepard, Anderson, and the dead air of the vid screen. "We stick to the plan," he said. Decisively, he turned to Shepard. "A small strike team is still our best chance. Tell Alenko to suit up, then grab your gear and meet me in the cargo hold. We'll be going in hot. Follow my lead."

She looked to Anderson, who nodded his approval and added, "Looks like there's going to be a lot of injured people down there, but helping survivors is a secondary objective. The Beacon is your top priority."

Shepard didn't like that ultimatum very much, but she didn't like the look of that giant hand dropping out of the sky, either. She pinged Alenko with her omni-tool.

Going in hot, LT. Civilians down. I need you in medic mode.

Aye-aye Ma'am. Wilco on extra band-aids. Ready in 5.

Kryik tried to rush out, but she blocked him with a forearm, her fist thumping crudely into the keel of his armor.

"Hold it, Blasto. I realize a Spectre's whole M.O. is doing things alone, but if we're going to maintain a three-man strike team against a completely unpredictable force, we need to hammer out thatteam part. Right now. Alenko says you carry enough firepower to wipe out a whole platoon. I need to know how you operate, so I can pack enough changes of underwear for whatever vacation you have in mind."

Anderson's hand smacked the back of her skull as he rushed to take his place in the CIC. Fair.

Kryik shrugged her off and loped to the elevator, but she dogged his heels and slid in next to him. As they descended to the engineering deck, she stepped a few inches into his personal bubble, willing it to burst. Finally, he relented.

"I like to mix and match." He said, knocking his arm against the heavy armor covering her shoulder. He'd noticed her outfit, then. How nice. "Mid-range. Aggressive tactics. Lots of firepower. Shotguns, mostly. Pistols on occasion. I can deploy a tactical cloak, some hand-to-hand tricks if the enemy gets too close."

He pushed the information onto Shepard's plate and waited to see what she'd do with it, Spectre bullshit chafing more than ever. She didn't have the patience for it. Not after that S.O.S.

"That thing we saw attacking the colony is 100% bogey," she said, rounding on him. "Don't try any one-man-army vanguard theatrics on my squad. We stick together. Alenko is light on weaponry, but you'll need his tech and biotics to shore you up if you step into fire."

"Is that so," he said. Voice flat, revealing nothing. "And what will you be doing in all this, Commander?"

"Never met a gun I didn't like," she said. "And I never leave home without a grenade launcher. I'll pack a full load-out and keep you covered."

The elevator opened into the cargo bay, where Alenko was strapping on the last of his emergency response gear. Once the elevator was secured, the top lip of the loading ramp cracked open. As the air seal broke with a rush of atmosphere, Shepard's ears popped, and she flexed her jaw to compensate. She squinted into the pinkish sunrise of Eden Prime, secured her helmet, then turned to Kryik.

"Shall we?" she said, voice barely carrying over the sound of impending landfall.

"After you."

HANNAH
2157

Hannah felt as though she'd been holding her breath since the day she'd been born. In a rush, she evacuated her bursting lungs and triggered a flood of relief so intense that she had to bite back a sob.

Whatever this Turian Hierarchy was, their war games seemed honorable - not entirely dissimilar from humanity's own. Hannah slumped her head onto Jane's shoulder to plant a thankful kiss. Gathering her girl closer, she anxiously turned towards the opposite side of the square to join the other civilians.

Before she took a step, she heard her name floating above the panicked shuffle of the crowd.

"You need Shepard. Civilian - former Marine."

She froze.

Williams was still standing next to the alien leader; she could overhear the General's half of the conversation. Unnervingly, he sounded conversational, practically relieved. "Captain, you've got to get creative. We're starved out. The only functioning supply lines are all tied up in Shepard's depot. Everything else is gone. Civilian or not, she's in charge of supplies and logistics. She'll need an implant to be of any use. Can you do it?"

Whatever blood was still pumping through Hannah's hardened veins, it stopped at the General's suggestion. What the hell did he want to implant her with?

He called for her again. "Shepard. Report."

Fear pierced through her heart, explosive as any bullet. Williams' order was as polite as an order could get, but that didn't make him trustworthy. She wasn't a traitor.

Jane sensed the shift in mood, and misread it with all the precociousness of a child. "Hannah Shepard is my mommy," she announced.

"Shh, Jane. No. Keep quiet."

The General glanced over his shoulder, taking a measure of the remaining civilians as they were coaxed into an unwilling line by the turians, and his nerves seemed to return all at once. When he looked back to Hannah, there was a cornered gleam in his eyes. "I need you here, soldier," he shouted, more forcefully now.

When she refused to move, Williams made an impatient summoning motion, but Hannah couldn't have budged an inch if she'd tried. The cold metallic gaze of the alien at William's side had immobilized her completely. Pinned by that stare, she felt too poleaxed to blink.

It was watching her, weighing her - those hammered metal eyes following her every twitch, her every sweating breath. Approximating how much meat she could provide for its troops, possibly. Heavy as lead, its eyes moved to Jane.

Snarling automatically, Hannah tightened her grip.

Never.

"Mommy," Jane whispered, burrowing into Hannah's neck. "Can we go home?"

A turian soldier approached and nudged Hannah roughly between the shoulder blades with the muzzle of a rifle.

Get a move on , the rifle said. Or die .

With an extraterrestrial weapon thrust mercilessly into her back and a baby girl trembling in her arms, Hannah Shepard finally allowed herself to be forced into enemy hands. Whatever sick thing they had in mind for her, they wouldn't touch Jane. Hannah would kill them first. She'd kill every last one.

As if reading her mind, the alien leader's silvery eyes slid from mother to daughter, then the subordinate gun at Hannah's back jostled warningly. This time, the blow was violent enough to break the skin of her shoulder, but she refused to blink.

Instead, she looked at Williams and spat, "Fuck you, sir."

Jane flinched in Hannah's arms, dropping her stuffed dinosaur in shock.

The General sighed with his entire body and raked a hand through his thick, oily hair. He looked badly in need of a shower, and maybe a spiritual confession.

"Shepard, trust me. I swear to God." He lowered his voice, already tremulous and thin. "I swear on the souls of my own grandchildren. I'm still on your side. This colony is days from starving." He looked at Jane, who shrank from his watery-eyed scrutiny. "The kids will get the worst of it, you know that. Unless you can move some supplies, Shanxi will be dust without the turians firing another shot."

Hannah said nothing, refusing to look at Williams directly. She stared down the silvery-eyed alien to the General's right - watching, and waiting.

"We're out of options," Williams reminded her. "It's cooperation or death. The turians have universal translator implants, but we're not in their system. The software is improving hour to hour, I guess they've had field techs and combat engineers working on it round the clock, but none of our own people."

She could see a small patch of the alien's neck peeking out over its armor. The skin there looked tender and almost human, prone to stab wounds. As the creature swallowed, the flesh shifted and creased like delicate suede.

So, these dinosaurs had soft spots too.

Williams wasn't done. He gestured to the turian she was staring at. "Captain Regidonis managed to broker a temporary ceasefire, but he needs a human liason to make anything stick, and we all need food. Submit to the implant. A few hours in surgery, a human doctor to make things more comfortable, and we can start fixing this."

As Williams rambled, increasingly desperate, Hannah noticed the trail of blood leading from both of his ears. A patch on his scalp had been crudely shaved, the skin cut open, barely healed. He was implanted. The General who had just surrendered Shanxi into alien hands had a fucking mind-control chip embedded in his skull.

"This is insane," she whispered, backing away until her shoulder blades reunited with the unfriendly alien gun. "They've already turned you into their talking meat puppet."

Williams laughed, or he almost did, with a dry, heaving noise. "I've got no proof for you, but I'm still in my right mind." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking unsure. "You'll have to take this one on faith."

There was a brief lull while the General's unconvincing argument soaked in, then all hell broke loose.

Regidonis advanced toward Jane —

Williams' hand flew to his waist, instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn't there. Empty-handed but committed, he threw himself between Jane and the advancing captain.

A turian guard leapt forward, the orange translation holo on his forearm morphing as he moved. The holo solidified into a sizzling-hot, lethal-looking blade, which the guard pressed against William's back, aiming expertly for the kidneys.

With Williams restrained, Regidonis lowered himself cautiously to one knee and groped along the ground for something. Hannah strained to see exactly what, but Williams was blocking her view. A second later, the turian captain returned to full height, met his subordinate's eyes, and hissed aggressively.

After a tense pause, Regidonis' guard trilled and let Williams go without injury. The General still had plenty of the old fight left in him; perhaps not a brainwashed automaton after all. He stood his ground, keeping his body solidly between Regidonis and Jane.

Hannah caught a whiff of her own terrified stink. She felt naked, primitive, a chimpanzee about to be poached and turned into a black market souvenir.

Jane, protected by an infantile lack of experience, was straining against Hannah's grip and reaching fearlessly under William's outstretched left arm. Reaching toward the turian.

When Hannah saw what had caught the girl's attention, she tightened her grip.

Regidonis held Lionel in his gigantic two-fingered hand. Though he was keeping his distance, the gesture was unmistakable. The towering leader of an invading extraterrestrial army held out a raggedy one-eyed dinosaur toy like an anointed peace offering… and waited to parley with a little girl.

If Hannah had been able to breathe, she might have laughed in his face.

Jane didn't hesitate. She yanked her toy out of the turian's grasp, threaded it clumsily under Williams' armpit, then buried her face in Lionel's matted belly, hiccuping with rage.

Hannah glanced back into the turian's face. He was already looking at her.

Captain Regidonis.

He had a name, she reminded herself. An agenda. Theoretically, a soul.

He was inscrutable. But less so, somehow, when standing so close. There had been ample time for him to bite her face clean off, to force whatever implant he pleased straight into her ear canal, but he hadn't made a single aggressive move toward her. Comprehensiveness and control seemed to dictate his every act, the discipline of his posture as otherworldly as it was familiar.

Not a wild animal, but an honest to fuck extraterrestrial intelligence, and one that wanted to reason with her, apparently.

Williams had been winded in the scuffle, and he adjusted the rags of his dress uniform with a dignified huff, then spoke to Shepard.

"I know it seems impossible, but the turians aren't here to wipe us out. They're rational." He glanced at the holographic knife that had almost pierced his kidney moments before. "To a point. Regidonis claims to have made civilian custody and welfare his first priority, at least until the turians hear otherwise from on high. He won't make much headway without you. And I swear, if any of these bastards touch your daughter, you have my permission to fire at will."

She nodded, taking him at his word.

"If you're going to cooperate - and for God's sake, woman, please cooperate - Regidonis needs to pat you down."

She met the captain's eyes one more time, trying to scry anything compassionate behind those glinting irises, but she only found two dark webs of polished aluminum, silvery and strange.

Faith won out.

"I'll be right here, Jane. Be brave."

Doubt finally crept into the child the moment Hannah set her down. Weak with hunger and suddenly all alone, Jane mewled once or twice as she slid onto the ground, and when Hannah let go of her hand, she started to cry in earnest.

"Straighten up recruit," Hannah ordered. "You've got to help Lionel. He's smaller than you; think of how scared he must be."

Jane stared up doubtfully, lip quivering. Hannah sucked back her own tears before they fell, setting her face like a barricade. Straight-backed as any toddler could manage, Jane followed her mother's example. She steeled and looked down at her strangled ward.

"Don't cry, Lionel. Oorah!"

Hannah hadn't had time to change before the surrender - she was still dressed for bed. Her thin cotton shirt and shorts clung like gauze, useless and vulnerable. She raised her arms to signal her consent to the weapons check, and swallowed hard. "Do it."

Regidonis had only two fingers and a thumb. Large, strange digits that felt heavy against her waist, breasts, hips, thighs, crotch - every inch groped piecemeal as he checked for concealed weapons. It was too strange to be embarrassing, all she could think about was how systematic and military it was - no funny business. A small mercy, but one she would take.

He nodded curtly and barked out a clicking, double-voiced word, firmly clapped her on the shoulder, then stepped back to a respectable distance. Was that last pat meant to be comforting? She couldn't think straight anymore.

She looked to General Williams, but he was already ignoring her, lost to a high-priority comm dispatch; a summons for a surgeon and a team of engineers.

This was really going to happen, then. Aliens were going to probe her brain, and she didn't even get the courtesy of being sucked into their UFO first. What luck.

She steadied herself and lifted Jane back to her hip.

When Regidonis seemed satisfied that Hannah and Jane were ready to move, he led the small, strange group away from the city center, marching them past the line of civilians that had finally begun to form on the south end of the square.

Cold, unsympathetic eyes stared out of hollow-cheeked faces as they passed. Dozens of people that Hannah had once recognized as neighbors and friends. Now, there was not a single ally among them. Hannah understood their fear, their righteous hatred, and those stares felt even heavier.

Someone hidden by the rank and file screamed: "TRAITORS!"

A second cry rose out of the crowd, then a third, a fourth - voices like poison darts flying into her back. She kept walking. Curling her arms around Jane, Hannah tried to wall out the screams. Almost there; soon a line of abandoned shops would block them all from view. Just a few more steps and the storm would pass.

Too late. She heard the wet crunch of a human skull breaking to pieces, struck by the heavy butt of a gun.

Jane wailed and covered her ears, burying her sticky, tear-drenched face in the crook of Hannah's neck. Hannah pulled her closer. Buried her deeper. "Don't look, baby. Don't look."

She stared at the artfully arranged weapons that Captain Regidonis carried on his back, and put one foot in front of the other.

Colonists screaming, a stampede at their backs. Shots cracked across the square, breaking the long, fatal silence of the morning.

Hannah had a well-trained ear. Call it surrender; it sounded like war.

Words and phrases courtesy of MizDirected's turian dictionary:
- Fahrtrix: Supporter, mentor, advisor, adopted parent
- Patrem/Pari: Father/Dad