(A/N): Here comes the final chapter, slightly delayed due to the monotony of preparing for uni!

Last time, eight mercenaries landed on a seemingly uninhabited planetoid to investigate a docked Reaper ship they were after. However, after a series of unclear events a sizable chunk of the gang was killed in a gruesome manner off screen that conveniently left only the main cast as survivors.

The cause of their demise quickly made itself known as a Banshee wandered into the fray, and after Farah - filled with some surge of emotion - missed possibly the easiest headshot this side of Call of Duty auto aim or Killing Floor 1's Doom Map, Saxon and Swinks were left with no other choice but to run for cover from the Reaper-fied monstrosity...

... And now they're kind of cornered!

WARNING: Spelling errors, OCs, language, backwards attempts at being funny and dramatic at the same time, an inaccurate portrayal of autism, probably a bunch of lore contradictions, pop-culture in the future, terrible accents, changing the describing word of a Banshee from "her" to "it" constantly because it's really hard to constantly fit the word "it" into a sentence... You get the picture.

Chapter Three: Repentance

When he was five years old, Alfred Saxon was a right whinger. He was that little kid on the bus who'd be perfectly content for hours on end, only to suddenly burst into a chorus of snotty tears that would last until the end of time. He was that boy at the shop who'd be rolling about on the aisle floor about action figures or some shite while his father nervously stood nearby, hoping that no one accused him of being a rampant sex offender on the loose.

So you know when your no-nonsense mother, the trials of child birth having diluted all sense of subtlety in her blood, grabbed you by the scruff of your collar and dragged you kicking and screaming to the car for your own good? You know how much you hated her for that at the time, even though in reflection she was doing you one hell of a bloody favour?

That was the situation right now.

Bumbling forward like male prostitute with a sore bum after his first night, the collected Salarian Ferlorn Swinks continued to haul his terrified colleague forward like a sack of potatoes. They'd taken three lefts and five rights within the last two minutes, losing their pursuer - for the moment - in the intestines of the Turian Corvette.

Finding yet another conveniently spacious loading bay filled with plenty of spots to set up a nifty looking set piece, Swinks at last plopped his friend against a container and scanned the room with urgency in his eyes. Saxon watched on helplessly, his helmet preventing him from kneading his tense brow.

"No sign of battle." Swinks noted as he examined the area, reflecting on not only their current whereabouts but also the state of the bay in which they'd found the juicy bits of their hirelings. "Mercenaries likely ambushed. Unaware of Banshee's existence." he inferred. They were slaughtered so quickly that they didn't even fire a shot - all five of them. As if foregoing that information, the alien clapped his hands like a flatulent baby. "We have the advantage."

Saxon didn't respond, not sharing quite the same amount of enthusiasm as his chum. His shoulders sagged like the underarm flaps of an old lady, his cranium ringing with the sort of pain you usually felt during the middle part of a dull university lecture when the bell rang.

"Additional." Swinks added additionally, noticing the general grimness in the room. "Lack of gunfire suggests that Banshee is the sole inhabitant of ship." he stressed, like a veteran teacher trying to subtly give the answer to the thick student when the inspectors were around. Just like in that shoddy analogy, it didn't work. At all. "We have initiative."

"You tellin' me a single one of those things took over this entire ship?" Saxon asked, clutching onto his rifle tensely. He'd been led to believe that all the Reapers did was send hordes of clumsy zombies running at you like they were evacuating a poorly acted cinema performance. Now all of a sudden they had super mega death thingiemajiggers? Towering biotic warriors with the sort of long and slender legs that only a healthy diet of malnourishment and human innards could get you? "That skank is the only Reaper on board?"

There weren't many other words to reply with, so Swinks went for the simplest response. He nodded quickly. "Correct."

"Bugger me silly." the desk worker said, leaning back against the wall. It was probably cold, but all he could feel through his suit was that it was about as comfortable as revealing your sexual preferences in the middle of a Catholic dinner. A Banshee. He knew of them, but not in explicit detail. They were the Off-Side rule of the Reapers, as it were. Everyone knew of it, but not about it. "... Just what is that thing bloke?"

He began to quote from his mental encyclopaedia as he rummaged through the bay's containers, no doubt looking for a maguffin that could cure all their ills. "Asari, once. Ardakt-Yakshi." he pronounced in a way only an alien could pull off. "Possess enhanced biotic capabilities, including rapid biotic jumping and high powered rending."

Of course he knew what the Ardakt-Yakshi were. The Citadel's porno stores sold a wide arrange of data discs, and it seemed the whole "femdom Asari that slowly kills you by shagging you" thing was a pretty popular fetish around the Aethon Cluster for some bizarre reason. Suddenly the slogan "our tapes are to die for" made a hell of a lot more sense. "Trapped in a derelict ship with a giant, naked Asari." Saxon grumbled, crossing his legs for some unannounced reason. "I thought I'd like a day like this. This is great."

Swinks raised a finger as he worked, maintaining his search. "This is not great. Not at all."

The pair shared a reserved smirk, doing their best to give the air a whiff of optimism and positivity. The pencil pusher could tell that his Salarian colleague was simply trying to calm him down, and it was surprisingly working its magic. He could feel the power of sarcasm and apathy flooding back into his foggy mind like a lighthouse amidst the thrashing sea. It felt pretty freakin' pure.

It was good to know that regardless of the stakes or their height, he was dealing with the same Swinks as usual.

Saxon pressed the butt of his rifle against the bay's lovely panelled floor, pulling himself to his feet. He should've gotten something similar for his room. "So what's the plan?" he exhaled, giving his weapon a once-over. "Stand and fight? Give'em an Alamo, or a Rorke's Drift?"

He was graced with a nod as the merchant span to face him. "Catch it in crossfire." Swinks dusted his hands like he'd just taken out the trash, reaching for the pistol strapped higgledy piggledy to his waist. "Potential to defeat."

There was a gorgeous chorus of guns cocking that made the testosterone level in the pair skyrocket. All of a sudden Saxon wanted to watch football at a pub with the boys, drowning himself in hooch and throwing abuse at women. So the plan was to shoot the Reaper up all gang-land style? That didn't sound too impressive. "Yeah, and what if that just pisses it off?"

"Then run." Swinks said.

Wasn't like he'd come up with anything better. He slapped the Salarian's shoulder jovially, "Good to have you on board. You're like a box of tissues in a middle aged woman's purse."

With that awkward analogy up in the air like a university student's dumb hat, the pair began to set themselves up in strategic locations behind the bay's helpful arrangement of goods. It'd be safe to assume that the crates and containers they huddled behind were laden with volatile goods - weaponry, ordnance, explosives, fuel. You'd think that it'd give them second thoughts, but to hell with that.

They hid on their own sides of the bay, leaving a large avenue between them for the monstrosity to strut down. They'd rolled out the red carpet for her - she'd better attend if she didn't want people blogging about her absence on social media for weeks on end.

There was silence, save for that paranoia inducing sound of the corvette's hulking hull settling. They often say that the calm before the storm is the hardest part of battle, but that was a saying that Saxon had long found to be absolute bollocks. Generally the fight was the difficult part. You know, the part where you can actually die?

"Saxon." a voice suddenly pierced the void, dripping with enough sincerity to make your bladder nervous.

"Swinks." Saxon responded to the voice, recognising its pitch and tone.

After a few seconds, the Salarian spoke with a peculiar wetness to his tongue. "If we die." he swallowed, gently knocking his malformed head against his cover. "Then I am sorry." he sighed with a painful dosage of guilt. "... You are my first human friend. My longest friend. My greatest friend. My favourite friend."

He scoffed so loudly he could feel his forefathers shedding tears of respect from the heavens, from Agincourt all the way to Waterloo. "None of that Star Trek crap bloke." he mocked, racking his gun for the umpteenth time. They weren't gonna get mopey about this. He'd had his moment earlier, and he wasn't best pleased with himself. No crying or emotions or character development until it was all over, and they were out in one piece. Capiche? "I'm a Janeway man, not a Picard. Phasers set to kill."

Taking the ensuing silence as content, they continued to wait out like they were in the line to a gaming convention. The lights were dim and the hours were hard. You'd be surprised what a man could sleep on when the adrenaline cools and the fatigue steps in. Saxon fidgeted clumsily, the eagerness from before dwindling like a fading candle.

But then it came.

It didn't creep. It didn't sneak. It made the Alliance look like masters at stealth and espionage as it waltzed on in like it owned the ship, which at this point it technically did in retrospect. His limbs tightening with strength and fear, Saxon stumbled into a crouch and readied himself for combat. He could only hope that Swinks hadn't shared his urge for a snooze.

The Banshee didn't scream at first, stepping down the aisle without a groom to take its hand. It simply stood there in waiting, taking deep and struggled breaths through its oversized gob. Soulless black portals gazed out into nothingness, its teeth born in either a grin of arrogance or a grimace of agony.

Surely she knew they were here? The C-Sec officer sneaked a peek through a gap between two cargo containers, catching an appetising glimpse at her bloated bubble butt. Her clawed hands ran along her waist in an erotic fashion, accentuating her bony frame and gut wrenching flesh. Something told him that the tart hadn't checked a mirror or chick mag recently. The whole grey-flesh thing was so last year.

Its head snapped around and her empty sockets stared right at him. Saxon darted away, cursing to himself under his breath. That chilling visage of hers still gave him the damned shivers.

She knew.

The wrinkly tart knew exactly where the pair were hiding. It was toying with them, leaving them to wait forever and go mad with fear.

The nerve!

Eventually they'd break, their anxieties snapping at the seams and throwing them off kilter. And then she could really have her fun.

Saxon was piss poor at mind games. You know that one about there being no grey elephants in Denmark? He fell for it every single freakin' time back in primary school. He fell for it at family dinners with his six year old niece for crying out loud. With that in mind, take the appropriateness of his response with a pinch of salt.

"Alright sweet cheeks, come 'ere!" he screeched shrilly, swinging out of cover and using the momentum to line up his sights. As if needing someone else to act before him, Swinks pulled the exact same manoeuvre and trained his pistol on the behemoth's skull. The human's trigger finger twitched, raring to go. "Open wide!"

A volley of shots rattled through the ship as the two unloaded their arsenal, a constant stream of bullets hammering against the Reaper's body like sleet and hail for a full ten seconds. She jittered and shuddered back and forth as each shot landed, riddling her with just enough lead to get her a prescription on the NHS.

It was looking pretty damn good, the pair swiftly making to load fresh clips into their weapons.

But then the smoke cleared.

The ooga booga bitch was still standing.

She was so thin and withered that beauty models would feel like fat cows in her presence. How in the name of all that was sacred could she take so much punishment? She was taking more abuse than a celebrity guest on a prime time talk show. Appropriately worried by this turn of events, Saxon struggled to slam his next magazine in cleanly. "What the hell is she made of, stale bread?"

"Come!" Swinks summoned, having managed to make a break for the door through the whole commotion. Locked and loaded he kept his weapon arm raised, continuing to squeeze more and more rounds at the Banshee. It was hard enough maintaining suppression and trying to keep the damned thing stationary. Try doing it with a pistol. A pistol with seven rounds a clip. "Follow!"

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Saxon took the only path open to him and slid over the top of the crates like a car bonnet in an action flick. There was only one way to the entrance, to Swinks, and survival. And that was right past the hulking abomination. At arm's length, at the very least.

He sprinted like his life depended on it, because believe it or not it kind of did at this moment of time. It made no effort to lunge at him, merely keeping its eyes fixed on the tiny human that scrambled at its feet like a pissy little rat.

Saxon dodged its unsettling stare like it was his high school crush in the corridor to maths class. It must've been some of that Ardakt-Yakshi power that had left him dazed not too long ago.

Not this time.

He may've liked MILFs, but that was taking it too far.

Making it through the first trial, Saxon arrived by the Salarian's side. "Straight forward!" Swinks continued to direct, yanking a grenade from Saxon's belt - which he didn't even know was there - and lobbing it at the beast. The white collar sprinted ahead, his companion continuing to fire whilst backpedalling in pursuit. "Right behind you!"

The explosive's detonation was the starting pistol at this very macabre Sports Day line-up. Suddenly every step had become a conscious thought, as Alfred Saxon desperately tried to avoid tripping over his own feet and making a right fool of himself. His rifle swung haphazardly between his fingers like a rotary blade, becoming a significant safety risk for any passing pedestrians.

Gunshots continued to ring out close to him, letting him know that Swinks was still hot on his trail at all times. That was a blessing - looking back at this speed would probably give him a mean case of whiplash. There was a brief pause as the black marketer slid another round of bullets into place, before the racket continued to echo throughout the abandoned corvette.

Reaching the ship's loading bay, the light of the outside world casting long shadows across the room, Saxon slipped. His heel skidded across some misplaced gore like a banana skin, sending him cart wheeling forward flat onto his front and giving him an mouth-watering face full of dead person. He reeled in horror, the petrified expression of the perverted monkey staring straight through him.

He sat bolt up on the carcass, trying to regain his composure. He bet that the fat bastard always wanted him to sit on his lap. A pity he only got it when he was dead.

He was covered in his sticky stuff.

His red sticky stuff, mind.

A hand grabbed hold of his arm once again, as Swinks maintained his frightful speed. "Down!" he shouted, practically throwing the human ahead like a cricket ball. A biotic force launched by the Banshee steamed by over head, slamming into one of the ship's many bulkheads and leaving behind nothing but rust and char.

Handling him like a sock puppet, the ex-STG agent kept moving down the ramp with his friend in tow. He was strangely understanding of how to handle this situation. His expression almost looked amused; engaged by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was a once in a lifetime moment, and he was enjoying it to its fullest.

As the terrain under foot shifted into grass, Saxon shot a glance back at the corvette - and their relentless pursuer, still hot on their heels. "It ain't lettin' up!" he announced, as if this was breaking news. "It'll catch up any moment!"

Taking that as a challenge, Swinks skidded to a stop and twirled around to face the music. He raised his arm, the peculiar shape of an omni-tool forming across his palm and dying it an artificial orange colour. That smug grin grew across his lips, and for once Saxon was glad for it. It meant that the Salarian knew exactly what he was doing. He uttered a one liner to end all one liners, putting Commander Shepard himself in his place.

"Let it try."

He held out his hand like a lollipop man on a motorway, launching a biotic force straight at the corvette. Spiralling onwards with grace, the peculiar energy slammed against the ship's loading ramp and crunched it like an iron fist. After a few moments of tension it was violently pulled upwards under a shower of dirt and sparks, jamming it closed.

With that sorted, the bemused Swinks tickled at an imaginary beard in thought. "Simple. Grade B hull plating, will withstand Banshee attacks." he said, glancing at his friend as if to dare him to question the beauty of his improv. Spinning on his heel he strode off with a jaunty step. "To the ship?"

Saxon continued to stare at the makeshift barricade as the Salarian walked off, shaking his head in amusement. "You ballsy, wreckless, magnificent bastard Swinks." he exhaled, the Banshee's muffled screams and strenuous attempts to break free sweet music to his ears.

A claw, and the arm attached to it, burst straight through the hull not long after, flailing about frantically at the wrist. The pencil pusher found himself stepping backwards autonomously, and eventually decided to do himself a favour and broke out into a panicked run.

By the time he'd returned to the shuttle, Swinks was already back in the cockpit stabbing at buttons with all six of his fingers. That was that then. They'd just prep for dust off and be out of here before the Reaper even realised. Simple stuff, just how he liked it.

They could go back to the Citadel, share a few booze, and maybe try some of that new caviar junk at Purgatory. Apparently this time they were using eggs found from sludge in Tuchanka, which sounded fun. Certainly sounded better than having a hole through your gut. That tended to make buying new shirts a problem.

His knees weak and his arms heavy, Saxon flopped onto his copilot seat and exhaled loudly. The engines hacked and sputtered like a lifelong smoker before finding their tune and whirring into action. It was a grating sound, yet he couldn't help but enjoy it. Some sense of normalcy at last.

The Salarian paused mid poke, as if he was in the middle of a very badly timed game of Musical Statues. His lips began to knit the beginnings of a few words, before pushing them out in some semblance of coherence. "... Are we forgetting something?"

Saxon's eyes shot open. No one had thrown abuse at him for the past hour, had they?

"Cock, Farah!" he spat urgently, leaping out of his chair like it was covered in crisp crumbs. "We forgot Farah! How the hell did we forget Farah?!"

Swinks urgently returned to authority mode, yet somehow maintained his mysterious calm. "Get Turian. Hull will hold. Take your ti-" there was a hideous sound of whining metal that sent shivers down the pair's spine, as the Banshee's claws punctured the hull of the Turian corvette and began to slowly peel it down like a sardine can.

The two had a lovely view of this from the plexiglass window. It would be safe to say that their bowels would be jobless for a full week once this whole ordeal was over. Saxon fixed the Salarian with a bitter glare, the fool's words having jinxed it. Swinks' smile looked a lot more wobbly than usual.

"... Go on foot. Will pick up."

Stumbling as much as he was grumbling, Saxon snatched up his weapon and barged forward through the lifeless ship. Reaching the open door, he looked over the edge to find the ground - a full fifteen feet below. Gritting his teeth nervously, he leapt heroically from the chest of the shuttle and bumbled into a makeshift roll to absorb the impact of his landing.

He strained to a stand, the grass around him whipping about as the ship maintained its buoyancy above him. If that Salarian decided to abandon him at a time like this, then his arse was haunted. It'd take more than an exorcist to end his vendetta, make no mistake.

With no time to spare, the white collar took off across the landing zone and began the arduous ascent towards the mesa that Farah Servilia had set up at hours prior. The squeal of metal kept his eyes fixed on the corvette, as it was slowly forced open by a set of spindly arms. This wasn't dramatic or exciting at all. This was bloody terrifying.

And the colour of terror tended to be yellow. Piss yellow.

By the time he reached the summit, his lungs felt like the inside of an pencil case overflowing with rotting crayons and pencil shavings. Whose stupid idea was it to pick a spot so high up? Whoever made that call must've been a right idiot, that's for sure. He'd give them a piece of his mind at some point, so help him god.

Farah was right where he'd left her, flat on her back with her head against her rifle like it was a can of cola fresh from the fridge on a boiling day. The Turian's eye was shut tight, making her look very much like an infant pretending to be asleep when their parents checked up on them.

"Oi, Farah!" he called, falling to a crouch and taking a knee. Taking note of the increasingly bleak state of the barricade, he glared at the sniper furiously. "You mind gettin' your arse into gear? We got a problem!"

A single eye span to meet him, filled to the brim with spite and disdain. "Are you having second thoughts, Saxon?" she sneered, calmly ignoring the translucent liquid leaking from her sockets. "I haven't gotten what I came here for yet. We had a deal."

"A deal?" he echoed, jabbing an accusatory finger at the ever-present Banshee. "Mind dealing with that? It went through the Vorcha like they were a packet of freakin' Pringles!" Saxon leant against the butt of his rifle. "Call me a wit, but I think the deal's gone off!"

"I'm not going." she insisted, turning over onto her side like a sulking kid. "If you want to be whiny little shit, then sod off."

Who taught her to swear like that?

What would her mother think, the bitch?

A world-endingly loud noise echoed through the valley as the ramp at last buckled under the pressure, the Banshee shoving it aside and sending it flying across the ground like a skipping stone. The Reaper stood ominously as a faint silhouette within the corvette's loading bay for a moment, almost as if she was an ill intentioned spirit that needed permission to leave her home.

But then there was a flash.

And another, and another.

Every few seconds there was a flare of energy, as slowly but surely she advanced. Teleportation. Great. Just another thing to add to her list of impossible powers. The creature bellowed mightily, and as if this was a call to action Farah rolled onto the flat of her stomach and lined up her scope for another go.

She took the shot, yet surprise surprise it came wide again. A couple of sparks shot out from the corvette's canopy, a tiny scorch mark connoting where her fated bullet had met its end.

"Damn it!" she cursed, shaking her head to berate herself. Reaching for her ammo pouch she tried to chamber the next round, yet her trembling butter fingers struggled to keep a grip. It fell onto the grass, forcing her to fumble for it as she loaded. She muttered a mad mantra to herself as she worked, her eye constantly darting between the target and her weapon. "Come on, come on!"

Saxon crawled over to her side, watching on as she frantically tried to ready herself for the next attempt. You know, for such an apathetic foul mouthed badass she was a terrible shot. Was she purposefully missing? Was she trying to make the situation just a little bit more dramatic? Because he'd already said his spiel about that topic.

"You're a piss poor shot you know." he said just before she let the next bullet loose. That one flew off into the orbit, no doubt beginning a perilous journey throughout the stars as a piece of frozen space debris. In a couple of centuries it'd probably crash into a developing world, and no doubt become a symbol for a Neanderthal's budding religion. Saxon winced, "Jesus Christ. Wanna borrow my specs love?"

Gritting her teeth in anger, she readied herself for yet another try. His attempts to goad her were certainly getting under her leathery set of skin, which was fantastic. He wanted her to be frustrated. Was it not a Welsh proverb that in battle, anger is as good as courage?

Alongside "Blame everything on the English".

That was a proverb for both of the bloody Isles.

"You know which end the bullet comes out of right?" he questioned, craning his neck. After a moment, he smiled condescendingly."Just checkin'. You're a clever Turian aren't you? Well, for a girl at least."

"Reanna!" she shrieked painfully, her gunshot muted by her bestial cry. He could see the bullet as it travelled through the air, spinning about like a dreidel before slamming the Banshee square in its forehead. Pixels were in it. If you got out a compass and ruler, drew a couple of lines and did a few equations it would be absolutely dead centre.

Farah's mouth was agape as the Reaper reeled back, scrambling to a crouch whilst babbling to herself inanely. Saxon couldn't decipher most of it, but he did hear the phrase "Oh god." at least a dozen times.

With a sickening crack of bone and sinew the Banshee stood upright again, not looking that much worse for wear. The shot hadn't even left a dent. It was so insignificant it'd hardly even noticed - like the bullet was a fly splattering onto her windscreen in the pouring rain.

Following the sound of the sniper rifle, the Banshee began to hasten its movements with newfound vigour. It warped left and right in a killer zig zag, throwing off even the most skilled set of eyes. The Turian quickly returned to loading, wobbling on her knee and her stump. "I need to kill it." she muttered to no one in particular. She trained her weapon at it, its unruly weight sending the barrel waving back and forth like a wonky fishing pole. "It needs to die!"

With the percussion of a sniper rifle drilling into his ears, Saxon desperately tried to get a hold of the shuttle's comms. Static scratched at his ears as he reached the right channel. "Swinks, where the hell are you?"

"Pulling in." the Salarian announced conveniently, the shuttle cresting over the back of the mesa. This sort of emergency tactical withdrawal wasn't the easiest thing to pull off. Certainly wasn't the safest. Swinks buzzed on the comm. "Dangerous, stand back."

"If I had to pick between a zombie robot alien monster thing and a shoddy space ship, I'd go for the latter." the C-Sec officer muttered snarkily. He wasn't a daredevil, but he'd take his chances. There was another gunshot, followed by more frantic gibberish from the foul-mouthed sniper. They were running out of time. "Get down here, young man!"

Slowly but surely Swinks pulled down, awkwardly keeping the shuttle aloft by the side of the mesa whilst leaving as small as a gap as he could between them. Without a moment's hesitation Saxon turned to the peculiar form of the one-legged woman, who continued to squeeze the trigger of her empty weapon to produce a chorus of clicks. Giving subtlety the slip for a moment, Saxon made to grab her and pull her back to the shuttle whether she wanted to or not.

But he underestimated the strength of the Turian. Within an instant she clung onto his rifle and shoved him away, sending him stumbling for his feet. Balancing on her stump, Farah aimed his Avenger in the vague vicinity of the Banshee and fired full auto, scattering bullets to and fro.

The buffeting ended with that eye twitching click once again, the rifle's thermal clip bursting out with a puff of steam and a whine of overheat klaxons. Shouting with anger she threw the gun forward ineffectually, as if hoping to clobber the Reaper square in the jaw with it. "Reanna!" she shrieked once again. If the Banshee had whites in her eyes, you would've been able to see them at this distance. "Reanna!"

As if one last scream had squeezed the rest of her fury out like an overused tube of toothpaste, she finally stopped resisting Saxon's efforts to save her. Draping her arm over his shoulder the pair made a peculiar three-legged run up to the shuttle, holding onto their hearts for a few nervous moments as they leapt through the air and crashed into the ship's bay in a crumpled heap. Saxon clumsily dropped Farah onto the floor to find her own seating, clawing towards the cockpit like a bat out of hell. He shouted what they were all thinking. "Get us out of here!"

The ship settled like the shoulders of a sighing man, slowly breaking away from the summit and drifting toward the sky. The Banshee continued its chorus of biotic jumps, phasing in and out of existence until at last it reached the mesa that the pair had inhabited some twenty seconds prior. The Reaper stared up at them like a puppy at a fireworks show, almost looking forlorn on her lonesome.

Saxon turned back to the shuttle's main bay, only to spot Farah returning the abomination's gaze through the wide open door. For the briefest of moments there almost seemed to be harmony between them, both Farah and the beast's eyes neutral - their fires dampened for but a moment. The Turian raised her hand, reaching out for her as if desperate to caress the monstrosity's cheeks for wayward tears.

But then its features contorted, its bones twisted, and the peace shattered like glass in an opera house as she screamed her blood chilling scream. Farah shook like nails had been dragged down a chalkboard, as realisation began to settle in her veins. With that the doors at last hissed shut, and the shuttle shot off into outer space.

Farah mumbled to herself meekly, her arm dropping limply to her side. "Reanna..."

Silence filled the shuttle for a few minutes, the adrenaline and zeal of the moment simmering down as they caught their breaths. Mere moments ago they felt like they could shift mountains with one flex of their arms. Now they felt clumsy and heavy, their muscles begging for a five year furlough. "Entering orbit." Swinks updated formally, supposedly not sharing their state of exhaustion. "Returning to Citadel."

Leaning against the wall as he went, Saxon slowly but surely found himself a seat opposite of the Turian. Plopping himself down with a unappealing groan of discomfort, he fumbled for the release of his stuffy helmet. With a hiss of vacuum seals that would put all but the bravest housecat on the edge, he peeled the unwieldy lump of armour away.

He felt like how he looked. Like complete and utter shit. His face wasn't glistening with the heavenly glow of a post-natal woman with a beautiful baby in one arm and a bouquet of daisies in the other, but rather with generic cookie-cutter sweat. And there was nothing pleasant about a sweaty bloke who smelt like the colour yellow. That's just nasty.

Saxon shook his head like a shaggy dog, his matted hair whipping back and forth and sending juice and grime absolutely everywhere. There was enough grease on his forehead for a deep fat fry up. You could've held a barbeque on his face for all your relatives on the family tree, from siblings to your mother's father's dog's cat's previous owner twice removed.

He scowled, shooting a vicious glare to the woman opposite him. She sat on the floor in a fashion that almost looked vulnerable. As if she felt violated by the day's events. Staring at her single foot for a time, she eventually spoke - her head remaining downcast. "... Go on then." she croaked cynically. "Say it."

Oh, he'd say it alright.

"It should come as no surprise." Saxon began, broadening his posture like he was doing some sort of speech. He wove his fingers together, massaging his knuckles. He needed to release some tension. "But I'm a little bit pissed off at the moment."

Exhaling loudly Farah leant back against the seat her rear had missed, resting her head on the woeful excuse for a cushion. It did horrors to your arse, make no mistake. Her whole "I'm not bothered with anything" act was starting to get a hell of a lot more irritating. "Better to be pissed off than to be pissed on, Saxon."

"You came here for somethin'." the white collar deduced masterfully, his brow scrunched. He leant forward, piercing her personal bubble with the point of his nose. "It was that Reaper, weren't it? You knew it was here."

There was no response. After a moment she cast off her stare to the right, her eyelid fluttering with tedium. She was starting to look like that badly behaved girl at school who wore skirts that went above the knee, being berated by a teacher for smoking on the grounds. She just needed to be chewing gum and kissing her teeth to perfect the image.

"Why the hell didn't you tell us we were up against..." Saxon struggled to find an appropriate word. It was difficult enough to imagine that sickening face once again. "... That?"

Her head spun at the neck a quarter, at last turning to face him. She lay her rifle across her lap, tapping at its side rapidly. Had she recovered from that sudden burst of rage on the mesa? He wasn't in the mood to be throttled by a disabled sniper. "Because you wouldn't have taken the job then, would you?"

The way she answered that so matter-of-factly really brought his piss to a boil. Did she need reminding? "Five people are dead, Farah."

"They'll be forgotten." she answered bluntly, casually tending to her weapon. "Don't you worry."

Saxon sneered with contempt, swinging a quick glance at the open door to the cockpit. Swinks stared on ahead at the vast blackness of space, his hands floating over the controls in complete and total silence. The bastard had a free pass out of this conversation. Lucky bloke.

She'd made a fair point to be frank, as unsettling as it was. If he'd died down there, he wouldn't have been missed. No one would look for him. He'd just be another missing person on the Citadel's memorial wall. And that was being optimistic. Saxon continued his little quiz. "So you want to kill that Reaper?"

Farah made a noise. It sounded like a guttural equivalent of "yes" that you tended to get back on Earth from bored husbands, but god knows if it was an agreed upon sound between species. It could've meant "Go shove a cucumber up your arse you smelly pillock" to Turians for all he knew.

He couldn't believe he was about to say the movie-esque phrase, but there was no better option. "The game's up." he shuddered, cringing at his choice of words. "Just tell me. Gimme the full picture."

Silence.

This woman loved her awkward silences, didn't she?

Leaving him hanging for a few seconds, she painfully pulled herself up onto her chair using her rifle as leverage. Sighing heavily when she at last reached her destination, she spoke. "... Farah Servilia, widow to Reanna Servilia. A Turian and an Asari, sitting in a tree." she said bitterly. Licking her sharp fangs, her eye snapped to his viciously. "That Banshee? You're talking about my wife."

Well, that confirmed Swinks suspicions. Call it a nitpick, but did it actually count as lesbianism if it was a woman with an Asari? Regardless, that wasn't important right now. Was she aware of the implications of what she'd just said? "... Your wife was an Ardakt-Yakshi?"

Mrs Servilia scowled, knowing full well what he was thinking. He was thinking the exact same damn thing as every other person who knew about Reanna and her. Everyone was judgmental of the pair from day one. "I was aware. She was open to me about it." she fumed, her chest rising in defiance. "Don't think I tripped on my own tongue or drowned in my own drool around her. It was love. Healthy, lovely... Love."

Christ, that sounded like lyrics from a crappy valentine song. The C-Sec officer folded his arms, keeping an ear focused on the bucket of exposition she was daring to pour all over him.

So that Banshee was her wife? It seemed pretty bloody ridiculous, if you don't mind him saying. Like the sort of thing you'd see in a straight-to-datadisc film or a shoddy fanfiction. The most dramatic thing he'd ever experienced in his short and uneventful life was the midnight release of the limited edition Turian Grey Chocolate in the Citadel's upper wards before he'd gotten his job in security. You'd be surprised how nuts collectors went for Turian nuts. They just packed them in plastic bags and hid them away, forever uneaten.

"Beautiful young woman..." Farah exhaled dreamily, the foreign shape of a smile filling her non-existent lips. He honestly wished she'd stop, because it looked less pleasant and more horrifying. "So frail and vulnerable, yet... She had a fire about her." her eye twitched, before she shrugged her shoulders. She must've sounded like she was at a counselling session. "I'd never felt for someone like that before. Hell, didn't even know Asari were my thing."

The ship wobbled a bit, taking a buffeting from the forces of the great black. Swinks muttered a restrained "sorry" over the comms, just to remind everyone that he was still here. He was probably all ears, having his own reserved thoughts about the revelations at hand.

Salarians never slept after all.

"When the Reapers came, we were on Palaven." she suddenly flashed forward, skipping the juicy bits. Her fists were balled with fury, the sights and smells of her burning home world having been branded onto her retina. "They just kept coming and coming, like Apien lice out of woodwork..." she smirked with recollection, "She was always so scared and worried. It was pretty damn cute."

Them Reapers really had a knack for throwing spanners in the works, didn't they ? He'd heard a lot about the situation on Palaven from fellow members of C-Sec and idle chatter amongst the refugees he processed. The entire freakin' galaxy was in dire straits, just like Earth. Every single person in the god damn universe had been effected in some way.

Him? He was just glad that Essex was probably up to its neck with the things at the moment. Screw Essex, he hated those guys. Don't get him started on their rugby club.

"They took her from me." Farah snarled ferally, her back teeth looking a lot sharper when she was seething with anger. "Pried her right out of my arms, just like that." she looked up at Saxon right then and there, a strange sadness filling his features. It struck a chord somewhere inside him. That shared feeling of understanding that all people got when they saw something vulnerable, like a cute puppy or a failing politician. "I-I kicked and I screamed, bit and clawed, but there were just too many." she sagged in defeat. She nodded at her leg, which twitched limply as if waving hello. "They... Took a couple of souvenirs from me."

Lord knows how she managed to beat her way through a horde of Reapers and come out still living. Had she ripped off her own leg and used it as a club or something? The biggest implication he was getting from this was that she'd rehabilitated herself into life without an entire leg in at most four months. The word "impressive" didn't do her justice.

"I learnt something from that day." she said with an unsettling monotone. She wringed her rifle like it was an animal's throat. "I learnt just how easy it is to have everything taken from you. How one small slip can spell the end of it all."

She did it so quickly that he almost missed it. One of her hands, adorned with three fingers, ran along her face like she was messing with a stray bit of hair. Was she wiping a tear? "She was everything to me..." she sighed pathetically, managing to restrain her trembling mouth. "Really puts life in perspective, doesn't it? There just aren't many people worth the risk of befriending."

That explained why she was about as hostile as a Krogan warlord if you stepped in on him with his pants around his ankles masturbating to Quarian pornography. Femdom pornography. To put it simply, Farah Servilia wasn't too bothered with making friends. Was there really much point when we all die in the end?

Wow, that was freakin' dark.

"I've been tracking her down for months. Trying to hem her in." her hands ran along her rifle's body like a blind person with their cane, caressing and massaging it affectionately. She was beginning to sound a bit like that one kid at school who's obsessed with gore films, which wasn't particularly pleasant. "I want to be the one to pull the trigger. To kill her. To release her from whatever those filthy shits have done to her."

She was bloody nuts, weren't she? The weight of her loss, her refusal to seek help, her life dedicated to poxy revenge, months upon months of phantom pains. It'd all gotten to her head. Retribution was all the poor cow lived for. Didn't she know that you couldn't always be Batman? Sometimes, believe it or not, you had to be Robin. Had to have the guts and the self-control to know when the odds are too great, and the clarity to know your limits and to be able to back down.

Had she ever read DC?

"You were the bait." she revealed bluntly, catching him off guard. "She wouldn't come out unless she had something to munch on. You did quite well. I'm impressed."

Well, he couldn't say he was totally cross. She'd dampened the blow a bit with all the tedium, letting his fury subside just a bit before spilling the beans. The daft Turian had hired seven people for the express purpose of throwing their spuds into the fire. No wonder why she was so reluctant to laugh at his incredibly witty analogies. "You failed though." Saxon concluded. They'd tried to fight the Banshee, and been forced to flee with their tails between their legs. And humans, Salarian and Turians didn't even have tails. "It's over."

Farah smirked bitterly, a dry chuckle devoid of warmth crawling out of her gob. "You aren't the first, Saxon. And you aren't the last." she said unsettlingly, swinging her rifle out and resting it against the seat by her side. Just how many people had she hired in the past? How many times had she tried to finish her mission, only for her emotions to pull at her barrel and jog at her elbows? "This won't be over until one of us is dead."

She stopped talking after that, perfectly content with hanging about in her own little world.

Wow.

What a sad person, dedicating what was left of her tragic life to hunting down a dead woman. In Saxon's eyes, and his honest opinion, what was the bloody point of it? If Reanna Servilia really loved her, she'd want her to move on with her life wouldn't she? Could you truly wish for the person you love to dedicate every hour of every day to retribution?

Saxon spared her a glance. He wasn't good with ages when it came to Turians, but she was probably no more than a year or two older than him. Not that she looked it, her eyes bagged and her skin dull. The stupid bitch was killing herself with the strain and stress of her measly existence.

Did Farah's wife truly want this? Probably not.

But then who was he but a simple desk worker?

They returned to the Citadel a few hours later, having made no profit from the day's efforts whatsoever. With nothing more than a few muttered farewells, the trio parted and went their separate ways. No doubt Farah would continue her fruitless hunt, from now until the day it finally killed her.

As for Saxon and Swinks, life would go on as usual. The entire fracas was never mentioned to the bossman. For all C-Sec knew Saxon had spent the weekend laying in bed with a runny nose, eating or drinking crummy soup.

There was probably an important lesson to be learnt from the events that had transpired on that fateful day, but for Alfred Saxon it meant little. He was a layman. He wasn't meant to tell tall tales, or stand their laughing with the rest of the crew as the screen cut to credits.

In his smelly old office, the wispy draught of the broken wall continuing to fondle his bare bits, the white collar leant back in his creaky swivel chair. He had a craving at the moment, you know. And it was for Tuchankan Caviar.

After a phone call or two and a cheeky lunch break, Saxon and Swinks met at Purgatory and found themselves seats. A nice, secluded section away from the cop killers and raving drunks having a rave. Soon enough they were nibbling on eggs, doing their best to avoid touching the glowing bits.

"Do me a favour bloke." Saxon requested, wincing with distaste as the Salarian popped a pair into his mouth and chewed them loudly. He'd had his fill of adventure, he felt. There were papers to fill in.

"Remind me to never quit the day job."

X

(A/N): EXPOSITORY BANTER AT ITS FULLEST

The entire point of this fic was to build up to the revelation in this chapter about Farah's motives, but it seems I mucked that all up and completely butchered the delivery. That's a dosh gern shame, make no mistake :l

Oh well, what's done is done! With university around the corner I'm considering perhaps taking a bit of a hiatus to get my bits together. I don't see myself expanding this into a potential series any time soon, but I still have my character sheets for a bunch of other characters. And besides, I've got TES to write!

God speed, and sorry!