February 3, 2170

Alliance Outpost, Mindoir

Mindoir. A small, practically worthless colony (in the unsaid opinions of the heads of the Systems Alliance) that had a population of around three hundred (not even enough for a spot on the Alliance Parliament), with minimal defenses (the so-called base ten minutes south of the colony proper was barely able to pass as an outpost with fifty defenders, laughable in the event of a half-determined attack) and not much to do there. Tourism was out, since Mindoir didn't have the glitz and glamor that Elysium or Earth had, and the natural sights there were…mundane, at the very best.

When he first received his orders to be stationed in this backwater pissing hole (unlike the big cheeses on Arcturus and Earth, marines weren't very politically correct), Corporal Andrew Peres was livid and pissed. As far as he knew, he had not pissed off anyone important, so a vengeful senior officer didn't seem like the reason he was there. On the other hand, his record, while not immaculate, had not led to his blacklisting, so it could not be because of his service record. In the end, it was all down to shitty luck…or so he had thought.

Mindoir was not all that bad, really. It was idyllic, quiet and peaceful…not on the Terminus' borders, but not that far from the frontier either. Batarian pirates and slavers tended to prowl the border regions, and since Mindoir was both too small to matter and not even on in the identified hot-zones, the brass at Arcturus did not bother with stationing any ships, or a large ground-based contingent. A patrol of frigates and corvettes would come once in a while, but other than that raiding Mindoir would have been like stealing candy from a freaking baby.

Peres didn't mind this, as the entire garrison had come to the conclusion that raids on Mindoir would have been a waste of money anyway. Admittedly, they had gone complacent, but it was rather hard not to in a place where battles seemed as likely as alternate dimensions existing (then, alternate dimensions were labeled Science Fiction, kind of ironic due to the fact that the presence of one is a definite already).

The local administrators were rather lax in their job of keeping records, evidenced by the fact that there were more than a few households not on the colony's rather incomplete database.

As of the moment, Peres was outside the marine outpost, which didn't really fit the name. It was essentially a set of prefabricated structures with a two-floor house as the command center. A few flimsy walls surrounded it (a shot from a pre-mass effect discovery rifle had a fifty-fifty chance of piercing it), and there was an ancient Grizzly APC there (as in, really, really, really ancient, from before First Contact). The weapons used by the garrison were all old, some of them dating pre-first contact, and the kinetic barriers their substandard armor had were so weak that it was akin to civilian grade ones (in other words, it would be like wearing paper to protect oneself in a gunfight where bullets flew at ludicrously high speeds). On top of that, most of the garrison had poor accuracy, and team cohesion between the three squads (each with 12 men, and 14 base staff) was mediocre at best, a cockup at worst (unfortunately, the latter case was the more prevalent one).

The helmet of the armor (in his opinion, also useless) was hooked on his utility belt, and a cigarette was clenched between his lips. The corporal would find it as a sick irony that the only reason he survived the coming storm was because he was out for a smoke, which, theoretically, was against the rules and regulations (which sort of flew out of the proverbial window the minute he had set his foot here).

Main Colony, Mindoir

Sixteen-year old Abigail Shepard just gawked at the sound of the loud bang for a moment, before an earth-shattering and ear-piercing boom announced the start and end of the rather brief orbital bombardment by the slaver frigate.

In the short distance away, just barely visible over the rise of the nearby hill, the location of the Alliance outpost that hosted the fifty marines who were Mindoir's only defense against hostiles, long, grey streaks of smoke and smog informed the citizens of Mindoir of the fate of the outpost.

Hearts sinking from the fact that the outpost was gone, and that they were defenseless, panic began sinking into the nearby colonists, and hysteria seemed a short distance away.

"Sis!" came the shout of a familiar voice, small hints of panic inside it, but overall still in control of himself, unlike the others (who were now running around in aimless circles).

Shepard gave a sigh of relief as she saw her twin brother (who was younger than her by a scant few minutes, much to his apparent dismay, and to her apparent amusement), rushing past a few of the running colonists.

"John," she greeted him, albeit in a rushed manner. "Where's dad? And where's Eddie?" The last part was said in a more worried tone. It was understandable, really. Edward Shepard was still twelve, and despite the fact that the stubborn boy (it was a source of humor for John, due to the fact that in his humble opinion, Abby- who hated it when he called her that- was just as pig-headed) insisted on his ability to take care of himself.

"Dad's in the house with Ed," John alleviated his sister's fears, before a large boom and its accompanying explosion interrupted whatever he was about to say.

On the opposite side of the now-demolished outpost was a small house. Its owner wasn't really known to the colony's inhabitants, just that it was a male human (everyone on Mindoir was human, aliens tended to go to their own backwater colonies if they wanted remoteness) that was definitely younger than twenty. He had arrived some time ago, and so far the only Abigail Shepard had even attempted to know who the man was, being the extrovert that she was.

Not that she was very successful in doing so…

Mindoir Safe House

Two Minutes Ago

The ear-shattering sonic boom and following explosion spurred me into action. Gone were the thoughts of blasting my own head off, and as adrenaline began pumping into my veins, the augmented brain those Dominion mad scientists had worked so hardly on began analyzing everything I had heard in the past seven or so seconds.

The explosion sounded like an orbital strike, though I would not know, what with being in a new, unknown (mostly, I will be the first to admit that reading the galactic Wikipedia…or codex, whatever the hell they call it, was not on my to-do list, sue me) universe (or should it be galaxy?).

The boom meant supersonic projectiles, which was kind of a 'no-shit Sherlock' thing for most, if not all advanced ship-based weaponry.

While my brain finished its painfully incomplete analysis of what just occurred, my arms were already working on checking the 'kinetic barrier' I had acquired during my earlier days here. It began powering up, the soft whir that it emitted supporting the assumption.

I then slung the barrier's (which I shall refer to as a shield henceforth) generator (which was small considering that this was an admittedly weak one) over my back, before making a short sprint to the window to find out what the heck was going on.

Had I been a mere colonist, or a greenhorn marine that did not know how war worked, I might have panicked at the sight I saw.

Horror might have struck me too, had I been the FNG (Fucking/Freaking New Guy) I was long, long, long ago.

A whirlwind of thick, black smoke was rising up into the air, originating from the pitifully small Alliance Marine Corps outpost that consisted of the backwater colony's only defenses. A loud rattling noise then burst forth from the window panes, originating from up high. A crane of my neck and the sight of five…alien, I guess…ships descending from the clouds allowed me to piece together whatever had just occurred.

While I may have been slightly (okay, a bit more than slightly) ignorant on the world around me, I knew the basics of many things here. One, was that Mindoir was a tiny shithole with little to no protection, due to its widely accepted status as a settlement too tiny for a slaving raid to be profitable. Two, was that due to the reasons stated in '1,' the Systems Alliance head honchos decided not to place Mindoir within effective range of their main fleet nexus points. Three, was that Mindoir, due to being near the Terminus Systems' borders, was more of a warning post than colony for the Alliance. Since it wasn't on the border to the Terminus, the Alliance didn't have a viable 'reason' to station a large force there, or the Citadel Council would make a hissy fit and start warning the Alliance on the dangers of 'provoking' the Terminus (really, even with my hate of the Dominion, I have to admit that they didn't take shit from no one…this Alliance was like a chew toy for the Council…but that might be my xenophobic tendencies speaking).

Before I could continue on my thoughts, which simply boiled down to '1' is evidently wrong and that Mindoir was being raided by pirates/slavers, my instincts began screaming 'danger' and I let my body take over.

A supercharged psionic barrier formed above me, around me, actually, and began taking the shape of a dome.

If I was right in my suspicions, and I usually was, then a shell from one of those ships just now was about to hit me…and as ineffective as the dome-shaped barriers were, they were the only ones that ensured that my organs would stay intact after the hit happened. It was only a suspicion, but I had seen Ghosts, overconfident ones at that, form skin-hugging barriers to deflect an artillery (that is, Siege Tank in siege mode) strike and succeeding in deflecting the hit…only to have their inner organs ruptured into gooey mush by the sheer kinetic force of the hit. As you may tell, a strike from a ship would, in most cases, be stronger than one from an artillery piece. And despite my suicidal dilemma earlier, I was not very appreciative to the idea of death by kinetic strike.

So…thus the dome.

The shell fired by the ship (I would later find out that it was a batarian frigate-class warship) then hammered through the roof of the house, landing (just my fucking luck) right above me.

The sheer force of the hit began depleting my barrier at alarming rates, causing me to instinctively put extra power into it, straining and draining my psionic reserve. Then the kinetic force of the actual strike came onto the barrier, and it drained even further.

A lesser Ghost, a Class 7, 8 or 9, would have either burned out or died by now, such was the amount of pressure exerted onto the psionic abilities I was using.

Hell, most Class 10s would be dead as well.

Then again, not one of them even came close to being as stubborn as I was in sheer willpower (that might be my ego too).

Darkness began settling in, and the edges of my vision began becoming blurry, before reddish hues appeared in my sights.

'Shit,' I cursed as I desperately pushed by reserves to the very edge of its breaking point. Soon, the blurriness increased, and darkness overtook me.

The one thought before that occurred?

'Live, dammit, I am NOT going to DIE here!'

Approximately 11 Months Ago

Unknown Location

I opened my eyes, half-expecting to be dead and in whatever the afterlife consisted of, whether it was Hell, Heaven, Elysium, Valhalla or the plethora of afterlife scenarios that could exist. The other half was expecting to wake up on the ground of Roan Ives now-destroyed home.

I tried opening my eyes, but they were immediately filled with searing bright lights as soon as I did so. As you could imagine, this was far, far from pleasant.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered in agony, which was thankfully brief. The numbness surrounding my body was already beginning to dissipate, and my crude psionic 'radar' was already 'mapping' out the surrounding area.

Psionic Mapping was what I named it when my brain stored the data on my surroundings, which could be collected by sending psionic pulses in all directions, before the said pulses would bounce back and present a crude, but useful, 'radar' and map. Normally, my Heads-Up Display on the helmet would have provided the information I needed, but at the moment it was blinking the words 'error' and 'system attempting to reboot' repeatedly.

A jolt of electricity, a psionic-based one at that, provided the charge needed to boost the Hostile Environment Suit back to power, and the armor's systems began rebooting.

I paid it little attention, as the majority of my concentration and focus was on the results of the mapping. While I could concede that the scans would not have been very accurate, it was usually reasonably correct in its end result. This, though…I would have been able to see the layout of Ives' house, but instead I felt…grass? Grass, not one I was familiar with, and a few stones and pebbles here and there. Ives' home was in the middle of a trailer park of some sort, with concrete and cement providing the groundwork…so unless that weapon the hostile had shot me with was a plant-growing gun…

Then the memories came crashing in, as if the floodgates had opened. Everything from my childhood…to the forced conscription…to the Initiation. Then came the memories of the missions. Aegemon IV…Vekta III…New Edanus…Agria…Dead Man's Port…Port Victory…

Every singe operation I had taken part in began flooding my mind, and the sudden intake of information nearly overwhelmed me.

I was so engrossed and preoccupied with the info flood that I had all but ignored the fact that my eyes and HUD/armor systems were back to normal working capacity.

My heart broke a little when I saw the memories of the forced conscription, the looks of sadness and grief in my parents' eyes, before it turned to anger. Then it turned to anger and hate as they defied the (at the time) Confederacy's attempt to conscript me.

Of course, defiance to a tyrannical government wasn't a path to longevity, and soon the marines accompanying the Confederate officer just raised their rifles and hosed my brave parents down with bullet fire. I was six at the time.

Then the memories of pain, when the Confederates placed me into their Ghost-II Program, meant to be the enhanced variant of the Ghosts. Genetic augmentations, psionic boosters and brain augmentations were just a few of the things there that I saw…and all of it was painful.

There was training, before the failed mission on Aegemon IV, where the rebel group, which had been labeled as a 'terrorist organization' the Confederacy, named the Sons of Korhal (led by the man who would rule just like the Confederates in the future as an emperor) managed to capture me and dump me into one of their psi indoctrinator vats.

Brainwashing took place then…and afterwards I became one of the rebels, assisting the revolting colony of Vekta III. Then the fall of Tarsonis occurred, which was caused by Arcturus Mengsk, the future emperor and then leader of the Sons of Korhal. Billions died that day, slaughtered by the Zerg Swarm.

Operations on New Edanus and Agria where I killed innocents in cold blood, even ordering a nuclear strike just to eliminate a fugitive…

Then Dead Man's Port. I was tasked with eliminating a rogue general who had defected from the Dominion…

I hunted down his family, using them as bait…and after the general was captured, I mercilessly shot his family in front of him, before giving him a painful death (as ordered by the emperor) through the acid lakes that were the norm on the lawless world of Dead Man's Port. Then Port Victory…

And for the first time in nine years, I, Lieutenant Alexander Miller, Ghost of the Terran Dominion, wept in the guilt of what I had done.

Ruins of Safe House, Mindoir

The shrieking, bright white noise that was continuously ringing in both of my ears was the first thing to greet me. That little flash to the past stirred some unwanted memories, things I wanted- no, needed- to bury.

A groan escaped my lips as my eyes began adjusting to the burning inferno that surrounded me. Not quite hell, but it definitely looked like a page out of those records on the Brood War.

Jesus H. Christ.

I began hauling my sorry ass up, shuffling to the nearest solid surface to support myself. My psionic reserves were drained, and drained badly. I could hardly form a psionic shield if I tried, and even walking was already taking its toll on me.

A nap would be so...

No!

Focus, dammit!

Shaking my head in frustration at the attackers and my own moment of weakness, I began leaning on a support pylon, my augmented and upgraded eyes trying to spot anything that could have been of use to me.

A reflection of so caught my eye, the gunmetal grey of a rifle case standing out from the red and orange glows. I trudged to the rifle case, popping it open to reveal my C-22 Canister Rifle, which was in impeccable condition. I sighed as I hefted it up. I swore that I would not use this rifle again, ever again in my life, but it seems that that pledge was going to hinder my chances at survival here.

Finding three spare clips, all full with the ammunition for the upgraded and modified rifle, I began searching for anything else that could be useful to me.

A dark green box was also sitting there, and once again I found myself popping it open. Inside was a set of needles and vials, some of them marked 'Adrenaline' (essentially the non-addictive version of Stim Packs).

Exactly what I needed…most of the time, only marines and marauders used these adrenaline shots, as psionic adepts usually had higher endurance levels than normal, regular humans.

But the tired state that I was in meant that it would have to do, and I jabbed the needle, still clean and functional due to the foolhardy nature of the container (terran things were always built to last, as wasting resources was simply not possible). The shot of adrenaline, artificial as it was, began coursing through my veins, and I felt rejuvenated, if only partially. It was enough for the moment, though.

Finding a rucksack that miraculously survived the hit, I placed the ammo clips and other med-kits I had left into it. Then I slung it over my shoulder. The Kinetic Barrier's generator was surprisingly in working condition, a miracle in its own right…ah, well, thank whatever higher power is out there for the small miracles.

I looked at the supplies I had. I needed two essentials now. Water, and food. Both of which weren't present anymore here. The kinetic force and heat caused by the strike would have shattered and burnt any food or water that was still here, so my only choice was to scavenge…and the only place nearby to do so would be the town (the surrounding area, which I had mapped before, had no rivers, ponds or lakes, only plains that went on for miles).

The town was probably getting swarmed by slavers and pirates now…but I simply had no choice.

I took a few fleeting glances at the rising pillars of smoke originating from the Alliance outpost. No one would have survived that hit…poor bastards.

I shook my head, forcing out the pity for the dead defenders who were killed by an unseen enemy. I needed to go into Ghost mode now…cold and decisive.

I began my trek to the town…how do these humans here say it? Out of the frying pan, and into the fire…too right.

AN: Here's chapter 2...a bit of a filler, but more action, wanton destruction and blazing guns will come soon! Speaking of wanton destruction, lovers of destruction should go check out TheBleachDoctor's 50 shades of overkill...utter, total destruction porn!