He stared at the man in the mirror like he was daring him to comment. The lacquer felt cool and wet on his skin and shone like fresh blood. That it was the color of blood didn't help the illusion. Like he'd painted his face as the tribal leaders of old did, in the blood of their enemies. Back when they all wore the blue of Palaven. Before colonies, before first contact. Hell, back before combustion vehicles even.

The practice had resurfaced during the colonial uprisings and then, curiously, never left. It had become an underpinning of modern society, more fashion than political statement, a custom. But one stigma had never lifted. A bare faced turian was a liar, he was a man afraid of his past, and one who sought to hide that past from everyone who laid eyes on him. Homeless, nameless, honorless. But he wasn't that man any more.

He barely recognized himself in the reflection, instead he saw another man, or rather an amalgam of two other men, an alloy of two metals, two shaping forces, both blood kin to him, both long dead. Briefly, he closed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed for a moment, feeling unequal to the task for just a split second, like he was trying on another man's boots and finding them too large.

His eyes snapped open when someone stepped into the bathroom with him and he slid his gaze sideways to stare at Errol, who stepped up to lean nonchalantly against the wall next to his sink. The other turian nodded in greeting but otherwise stayed silent, a strange flicker in his eyes. Marcus eyed him for a moment before saying, "Thanks for the loan."

"No problem." Errol held his hand out to take back the thing Marcus borrowed, a tool for blunting talons and the man took it and tucked it into his belt. "So I hear they've offered to reinstate you."

He nodded, "I haven't given them an answer yet. Probably won't until...this mission...is over."

Errol winced, knowing Marcus didn't mean it as cold as it sounded. They all missed Susan. It had been over three weeks and while they got closer all the time, they never seemed to be able to pin down the bastards. Liara and Kasumi had taken half the fleet spirits knew where while Kaiden and James and Jack had a volatile three way grudge match for leadership of what remained. Marcus kept them in line with a cool head and good strategies most of the time. Odd how they looked to him now for guidance, but he was the idea man, so he supposed it wasn't that odd.

Errol cleared his throat, "I got offered a job too."

"I heard. Mess Sergeant Errol Tanis. Congratulations."

Marcus turned back to his reflection, carefully correcting a small smear on his lower right mandible. It would take awhile for the lacquer to bond to his plates, especially since he'd gone without for so long. Long enough for his skin to have built layers of natural finish over the etched area. The new lacquer would have to abrade the plates with its slightly acidic nature before the compound could dry without flaking.

"I can't get over how much you look like him." Errol said, running a hand over his fringe in amazement.

"My uncle? Or Archangel?" He watched the other turian carefully for a reaction and smiled when he saw Errol jump slightly.

"Oh, haha, how did you find out about my little theory?" Errol crossed his arms with a slight air of chagrin.

"Hmm. Not a theory. Fact." He said with amusement, then added, "Funny what you can find out by asking the people that were closest to the facts. James likes to babble around his fifth shot and getting Zaeed to tell stories isn't exactly hard."

"Huh, why didn't I think of that?"

"Probably too intimidated by their reputations."

"That's...entirely possible. Most of them scare the shit out of me." Errol laughed, "And yet here you are traipsing about their ship, barking orders and they don't even bat an eye."

"As long as someone's doing it." Marcus adjusted his towel to hang more securely around his hips and gathered his things.

"I can't believe you never told me you were a Vakarian." Errol walked with him to the door, palming it open for the encumbered turian. Marcus nodded thanks.

"You didn't ask and for a long while there, I didn't feel like one." He hung a left to the elevator and punched the button with his elbow, "If it's any consolation, I had to pull the 'family' card to get them to tell me about Archangel."

There was silence for a time between the men, things were said without them actually saying them aloud. Grief over Simp's death, a deep worry over what was happening to their Susan. Marcus shifted and turned slightly to take in the memorial wall, reading each name, lingering over a few, wondering who the rest had been. This ship and her crew had been through a lot, there was a lot of sorrow here. That they soldiered on regardless said something about their spirits. That they'd earned the right to be here and be remembered should they fall.

Would he be put on here with these other honored dead when he died? He didn't think so, not now, and maybe never. But he found himself wanting to be worthy, if not here then in a place of his own. He reached out as though to touch the plaques and imagined he felt their chiseled markings under his fingers. Errol touched his shoulder tentatively and Marcus turned back to him with a puzzled frown. The other turian reached into a pouch and produced a curious thing. A book, hardbound in leather, its paging starting to yellow around the edges. Errol said, "When the Shepards started banning books, this was very nearly the first one they'd eradicated. They sent out viruses to eat them off of every unsecure hard drive in the galaxy. You have no idea how hard it was to find a hard copy of it."

Marcus shifted his burdens around to take what was proffered and nearly dropped the lot when he read the cover. 'The Way.' And at the very bottom, in the tiniest, most modest script, by Taltos Cicero.

His father? Father had written a book? He flipped through the well worn pages with one thumb and gaped when he found the drawings. Sketch after sketch, all in his father's bold pen strokes, most featuring his uncle Garrus in unguarded moments, laughing, drinking, sleeping curled around his sniper rifle like a kid with a favorite toy. He flipped back to a page somewhere near the beginning and read: I asked him once why he believed the heirarchy had to change and he said, 'Cicero, tradition is all fine and good but when it limits personal growth, when it starts making you think there are no other options, that you have no choice, that is a problem. The way I see it, tyranny begins when you try to control the thoughts of your people.' I then asked if he thought the heirarchy was a tyranny and he thought about it for a time before replying, 'In some ways, governments can't help it. Governments govern, that's what they do and when given free reign will govern more and more 'undesirable' behaviors until their citizens can't move for fear of breaking the law until eventually everyone gets fed up and you get revolutions and uprisings. System breaks down, compromises are reached, everything returns to a baseline and we all get on with our lives.' Then I said to my wise friend, 'Where do you think our baseline will be after the war?'

He laughed, that sarcastic chuckle he deployed like one of his proximity mines. Funny how it made everyone around him smile. He said, "If there is an after? I don't know. Lots of things will change, you, me, everyone who survives will be just a little more jaded, more aware of how easy it is to wipe out life as we know it. Will we change enough to take advantage of our second lease on existence? I want to say yes, but I know people. They are petty, cruel, and selfish on the average. But...on the other hand, they can also be so noble, courageous, resilient. So where does that leave us? Probably confused. There's bound to be lots and lots of confusion in the aftermath-'

"The elevator's been open for like five minutes now." Errol's voice cut into his reverie sharply and he started guiltily, then he realized suddenly what a precious thing he had in his hands. Not just the story of his late great uncle but also told in the words of his father, who'd died shortly after his uncle's funeral, along with his mother. Were her words in here as well? So precious, but it wasn't his and he reluctantly held it back out to Errol, who shook his head and pushed it back toward him, "Keep it."

"I...don't know what to say." Moved beyond belief, he numbly held the book to his chest.

"Thanks is the appropriate response, usually."

Marcus favored him a lopsided grin, "Thanks, Errol. I'd hug you, but seeing as I'm naked and all..."

"Yeah, whoa. Hugging's not...necessary." The other turian shifted uneasily before making gestures toward the galley, "Almost chow time. I gotta get to work."

He caught the other turian's wrist before he scuttled off and said, "Thank you, seriously, you don't know what this means to me. Cicero was my father."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that bit out. He mentions kids in the book, but he never named names, or locations. Probably to protect all of you. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to have the book." Abashed, Errol ducked his head.

Marcus let go of the embarrassed man's wrist and stepped into the elevator, saying to the air as the doors shut, "Thanks for holding the door, EDI."

"Yeah, no problem. We only delayed like half the servicemen from getting to the head while you and your friend gabbed." Joker's sardonic voice filled the lift. Marcus hit the button for the cargo hold, where he bunked near the kodiak.

EDI rejoinded, "Need I remind you that it was your idea to delay the elevator's departure. That you said watching Jack's face turn red as she punched at the buttons was quote unquote 'funny'."

"Yeah...I'd prefer it if you didn't mention that to Jack. I don't want to have to go around in a servomech if she spaces my shell, those things always have the weirdest operating systems. I mean, who uses inverted controls any more?" Joker seemed to take a breath. Marcus wondered at that. Was it a holdover from when the man had lungs? How long was the AI going to hold on to those habits? Joker continued, "Anyway, Errol seems to be fitting in well. Helps that he knows that full soldiers are happy soldiers."

"Frigates do not usually have enough crewmembers to require a mess sergeant." EDI stated, a bit quizzically.

"Shh, don't say that too loud. They might take it back. I think Jack and Massani miss Gardner cooking for them and James always leaves a mess in the mess, if you'll forgive the pun. Besides, Errol makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches."

"You can eat?" Marcus said, tilting his head.

"He can not. He says he likes to watch others eat. Likes to comment while they are doing so."

"God, you make it sound so creepy. Like I'm some sort of food voyeur."

"That is the word the ensigns use to describe it, yes. Especially when you tell them to 'chew it slower'."

Marcus laughed, "Yeah, that does sound a little creepy."

"Oh, I'm the weird one? It wasn't me that was asking Wrex about krogan genitalia the other day when he was in the shower. Never saw the guy jump so high in my life. I swear his crest hit the ceiling. He still can't look your shell in the eye."

The doors opened thankfully and he exited, leaving the two disembodied voices bickering behind him and made his way to his bunk, banging on the kodiak as he went past. The hatch lifted and Caesar poked his head out, tongue lolling in a huge yawn. Marcus sat on his bunk and pulled his thin blanket over his nude frame, yawning himself. It had been a long, fruitless day that would doubtless lead to a long sleepless night. He might catch maybe an hour at most.

He pulled the book up onto his chest and considered it for a time, just ran his hands over it reverently. Caesar slinked down onto the floor next to his cot and peered over his shoulder as he opened it to the beginning, "What is that?"

"A book."

"I know what a book is. What does it say?"

"You can't read?" Surprised, he tilted his head to the side and met Caesar's golden gaze.

The being huffed, "Not that language."

A moment as he shuffled this information away into the big file cabinet that contained the things he knew about this enigmatic furry beastman, "It's a story, mostly true, I think, about my father and my uncle."

"Oh?" He set his massive head on the bunk and stared at Marcus expectantly.

"What? Do you want me to read it to you or something?" Marcus said with a touch of sarcasm.

"This taa'ih would be most interested if you would, my sa'diqi."

He kind of felt that this was private, that he'd like to be alone with his memories for a time. But as he thought about it, he saw no harm and it might be...nice to share this with someone. There was a turian upstairs who'd already read this book, and there were many on this boat who already knew most of the story. No, there was no harm. He cleared his throat and read, "Chapter one, 22nd day of the septimonth. Call me Ishmael. Ha, that's my little joke for those of you who read human literature, which I know has become all the rage across the settled worlds lately. Personally, I still prefer the turian classics like 'Homeworld United' or 'Classic War Games of the Hyneian Era.' But I digress.

"My name is Taltos Cicero and I am a junior officer in the 31st Rifle Regiment stationed out of Cipritine and I'll be the first to tell you that I am not the perfect soldier, my insubordination had once again landed me in the brig and there I stayed for a week until this morning. I was yanked out of my cell and shoved into a clean uniform and then was summarily marched out into the yard of the base. At the time, I wondered if I'd finally pissed off enough people to get me executed by firing squad, if switching out my CO's facepaint for bright fuscia was a capital offense, if so, I didn't remember it being in the regs. There was a large procession there. I recognized a few of the other soldiers, some had been in lockup with me. The rest were clearly from off planet and I was shocked to see a full cabal there, in their purple armor, standing in formation with the rest of us like they were regulars.

"There was a podium with a screen behind it set up at the head of this assemblage and we were called to attention just as a man climbed its steps. I was surprised to see that he was young, very young, younger than most of the troops in this strange company. His blue armor was scratched and damaged in places, his face scarred horribly on one side and he looked grim. Grimmer than the grimmest general I'd ever had the pleasure of getting chewed out by. And then, in a day of surprises, the most surprising thing happened. He slouched and...grinned at us. I heard many soldiers mutter around me at this breach of standard protocol and I confess now that I was just as shocked. He leaned on the podium and said, spirits I can't even think of the words to describe how he sounded, it was like low and smooth and...deadly, he said, "Oh, they are in so much trouble."

"My jaw dropped and I thought to myself, "Remember this day, Cicero, it's probably going to be the most interesting day of your life." Marcus paused, then continued, "I went to requisitions to buy this journal for that exact reason. Because as I listened to the turian who was now my new CO, Garrus Vakarian, tell us exactly who the 'they' he was talking about was and that the day that Palaven and every world, colony, spacestation and outpost was invaded and destroyed was drawing ever closer, I believed. You couldn't look into that man's eyes and not believe. I had imagination enough to see the shadow of them there. And it occurred to me that if I died, if we all died fighting these bogeymen from the dawn of time, that someone should make an account of these last days. That we, simple soldiers all, should be remembered for trying."

That was the end of the first entry. He stopped and leaned his head back with his eyes closed, the weight of history dropping onto his tall frame until he felt near crushed by it. He whispered, "You did more than try, dad."

"He was a good man, your father?" Caesar rumbled, eyes half closed as he watched Marcus' memories flit across the surface of his mind. He didn't delve, Marcus wouldn't forgive him this intrusion, he knew. He just observed, sighing at Marcus' deep understanding of these two men and their friendship.

"Youngest general in hundreds of years, retired with full honors, raised a big family as best as he could." Marcus had always had the feeling that his father always felt second and in a way, he was right. Where Garrus Vakarian led, Taltos Cicero followed, though it was in a more figurative sense once his father had struck out as a leader on his own. Later on, when they'd both given up their mantles, he remembered a more relaxed relationship between the two, no longer leader and subordinate, just two old soldiers having a drink together and telling each other war stories.

His omnitool beeped from somewhere in the nest of his soiled garments and he dug through the bin for it, the ultra slim flexible metal band slipping into its customary place around his palm with ease. He opened the message, feeling his pulse pick up as the words registered, his eyes narrowing. Pushing his blanket off, he swiveled, dropping his feet onto the floor and fished for fresh underarmor, pulling it on almost violently, zipping it up to his neck before standing to reach for his armor rack.

His hands ghosted over the armor's new finish, matte black with small accents of blue at the edges and a wolfish grin tugged at his mandibles. Yes, this was more like it. He strapped it on with care, then went to the armory and got the rest of his kit. He picked a generic sniper rifle at random, thinking how he missed his old one and pocketed some mods in his haste. They could always be field rigged easily. He patted himself to make sure he didn't forget anything, then jerked his head at Caesar to get him to follow him to the elevator.

He palmed the panel, which opened almost immediately, like it was waiting for him. Which it might have been, there was no telling with this ship and its sentient minds roaming its silicone veins. Caesar trotted on all fours into the elevator with him and sat as it trundled upwards. "They found it?"

Marcus turned his burning gaze down to his friend, "They found her."