Authors Note: Hello again! I apologize for the length of time before this was ready for posting; I wanted to get it right, and circumstances have gotten fairly intense lately. On the plus side I am now a lab assistant. On the minus side, I have to work on campus over summer; it's a good/bad situation.
I put up a poll, should I write an Akuze mission? I believe I have one more N7 chapter left, then Elysium (if all goes according to my schedule).
I have thoroughly enjoyed writing this fanfic, and would like to express my appreciation to those of you whom have commented, voted and subscribed. It is a pleasure to share this world with such comrades =D
The Beginning
Flames reached skyward. Screams echoed from beyond the kiln-like heat. Coarse laughter combined with the pleas of the desperate, creating an unholy sound as if the demons from hell were rising.
Shepard glared right, rifle raised. The damned flew at him out of the inferno, screaming with glowing eyes, claws outstretched to seize him.
Shepard fired, the gun in his hands spouting flame back at the oncoming horde, cutting them down by the dozens. More filled the ranks, these looking smaller, but harder and wielding weapons of their own. Shepard moved as fast as he could even as the mud pulled at his feet as if it wished for him to fail. He reached a berm and leveled his rifle across the top of the earth, bringing its fire in a deadly arc.
An impossibly bright explosion erupted from the berm, throwing Shepard backwards into silence. Everything went black.
Even after blinking furiously, everything was dark, except for a neon green digital readout just past his right elbow, reading 06:04:34.
Another dream, nightmare rather, at least this one had the decency to attain Inferno imagery. Shepard thought. At this rate, I'll have joined Dante on all seven circles by the time I'm thirty.
A strange vibration shook the clock. Shepard realized after a few seconds of squinting that it was his own hand…he was shaking slightly. Six months of boot camp, nearly two years of advanced officer training, over a dozen firefights and he still wasn't getting over one lousy night.
Since Arvid and Karl had left on their own assignments, there was only one cure left, even if it was just temporary. Shepard got up without turning on the lights and picked his way across the room from memory, a skill that he'd used that night a long time ago, and which had come in useful a time or two since then. He could feel his hands calming down as he unlocked a drawer. Inside was the familiar oblong case that had been shipped from Mindoir, the violin the Larsons had gifted to him.
The wood felt cool and smooth, yet somehow alive, as though some magic allowed him to feel the instruments' history. How many people had set bow to this instrument? What were the stories behind their songs?
Music flowed from the strings, soothing in tone. The vibrations transmitting to Shepards' jaw felt relaxing, letting the tension waft away on the notes.
As he played, Shepard started considering his options. The psychologist had declared him fit for duty, even after Shepard had explained the nightmares. The psychologist had deemed them natural, a result from trauma but would decrease as time progressed. Personally, Shepard had an idea that one of his superiors had leaned on the psychologist, playing for time until his head was on straight.
Head on straight…a chain of thought started up…head games…challenges for the mind…what about challenging the mind and body?...N7 invitation….
The music grew louder as Shepard thought. He absently moved from a depressing Beethovan nocturne into a livelier cadenza by Nielson. The N7 program had the best of both worlds; the possibilities for failure would still be present, and he could determine whether he was fit for duty without putting any stress on his superiors.
Coming to a decision, Shepard shifted his posture. He'd make the application that very day, since he already had the invitation. What was the worst that could happen?
~o~O~o~
"You want to what?"
Shepard winced internally. This is going well. Aloud, he only stated what he had already said. "I wish to apply for N7 training, sir."
The Colonel stared at him. He was more of a middle-aged sort of individual, who strenuously denied the slightest hint of age creeping up. That is, he denied his age until someone much younger attempted to perform some task he was unable to perform at a similar age.
"No. Out of the question." The graying man put on an ingratiating smile. "You're good Shepard, but you're not that good. You're young, you have years ahead of you to take up training."
Shepard leaned back and folded his arms. It was a breach in protocol, but he had an ace up his sleeve. "Sir, I firmly believe that I would be accepted to the N7 program. I believe I have a great deal of potential, and sufficient training to date to make such an attempt feasible."
The Colonel paused to think possible comeback strategies. The young man in front of him was indeed well recommended. He even looked the part of a classic elite operative, dark blonde hair, a well filled out frame and a height advantage. He also had an air of self-confidence, very much unlike the other recruits…generally they used arrogance, thinking it was the same thing.
Shepard took advantage of the officers' silence and produced his trump. "Actually sir, I have an invitation. I want to accept it and take some time off to utilize it, sir."
The Colonel sat for a moment. Then his face seemed to shift slightly, mechanisms beneath trying to remember how to smile. "Ah…I see. May I take a look at your invitation?"
The invitation was indeed printed by the authentic Interplanetary Combatives Academy. The proper security code were woven into the fibers, and there was no evidence for tampering. The words were easily ready, but the point was that the date had been written almost two years ago. There was no doubt to its officialness.
The colonel had to ask. "You've been sitting on this for a while, Lieutenant Commander. Why bring it up now?"
Shepard smiled easily. "I do things when I'm good and ready, sir. And I'm ready for this now."
The two stared each other. After a few moments, the officer glumly signed a waiver. "Don't say I didn't warn you son. This ain't no picnic."
Shepard grinned. "I'm counting on it."
~o~O~o~
Life had been good to Shepard, relatively speaking. Sure, there had been times when he was in fear of his life, required to accomplish large quantities of mayhem and destruction and the occasional formal dinner. But, there were downsides as well. Promotions, for example. He'd been made an Ensign right out of OTS, as per normal, but had been also been promoted to the rank of lieutenant six months later. This was not what he'd been expecting; normally a second promotion took eighteen months at the earliest. The reasoning he'd been given had something to do with how he'd passed the final exam back in Basic, but was wrapped up in too much jargon for a dumb grunts full comprehension.
Unfortunately, the bad news didn't stop there. His promotion had been accompanied by a required assignment for several months on the Arcturus Station, operating with a personal guard detachment. A minor scuffle (for him, anyway) with a Terra Firma extremist party member had resulted in a gratified committee, and a commendation that lead to another promotion to being a full Lieutenant. After that he'd been assigned to a rotating Special Response Team. Somehow, he'd only had enough time to settle in before multiple emergencies required his team to be called up, generally violent that required his increasingly respected skills.
Karl and Arvid had risen in the ranks as well, albeit not as quickly as Shepard. They'd gone for N7 training immediately, and were currently rated as N3's. They'd kept in touch, but since he was no longer an equal in certain respects, they had less to talk about. Especially now that Karl and Arvid were in the N7 corps; some of their latest missions were off the official records.
Now, it was Shepards turn.
~o~O~o~
Vila Militar, "the Villa," was home of the Interplanetary Combatives Academy; located in the lush area of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The program had its origins in the early days of the Alliance, founded by an unnamed general as a back ops training regimen, and expanded by the Alliance to an official capacity.
Many arguments had been made to change the location of the center, but inertia had kept the program alive and growing. The longer it stayed, the deeper it entrenched itself until it had grown to a literal school for the elite. Acres of buildings were devoted to nothing but physical education; wide swaths of rainforest were dedicated to survival practice.
When Shepard stepped off the shuttle, he only noticed the intense humidity and heat. He didn't like humidity, it sapped motivation and tired him out far more than colder climates did, or especially the temperature controlled spaceships or armor suits. Maybe that's why they put it here, he thought. Does that mean they'll be testing us without suits? Or maybe…
Before he reached a satisfactory conclusion, he'd reached the tall pillared doorway. A veranda swept the length of the front, more in a ranch style than a military location. White pillars, Ionian in appearance, stood a dozen feet apart along the edge of the board floor. Picturesque ivy sprawled along the brick walls outside the reach of the veranda, but Shepard could see the small indentations of surveillance instruments. Farther up, along the rooftop he could see decorative scrollwork on the walls. Strangely clean scrollwork…similar in size to the cupolas around military machine-nest emplacements.
Shepard smirked and gave a little wave to the obviously non-existent observers and entered through the tall doorway to the echoing marble lined hall beyond.
~o~O~o~
One Day Later
There had been very little paperwork involved. Shepards' name and registration was already on file, all he had to do was check in and find his bunkroom. After that, he was given a full medical evaluation, and one night to sleep.
After that…well, Basic and OTC were looking like a fond memory of ease and comfort.
This wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind. Shepard thought. He was stripped to the waist, running through underbrush. A heavy pack bumped on his shoulders, filled with all the life-giving supplies thirty kilograms of rock could need.
His wrist beeped at him, the omni-tool heralding the appearance of a holographic representative. Internally, Shepard groaned, at least in Basic the sergeants had the decency to yell at you in person.
"What's with the la-di-da maneuvers Lieutenant?"
"Moving with alacrity, sir!" Shepard grunted out.
"Moving with alacrity, sir" the digitally recreated sergeant mimicked sarcastically. "What, they teach you to talk fancy up in OTC? WHAEL THIS AIN'T SPEECH CLASS! THIS IS N7 BOOT CAMP!"
Shepard took in a breath and tried to relax his legs while he could. Some things never changed.
"MOVE SOLDIER! MOVE IT MOVE IT MOVE IT!"
Shepard picked up the pace, inhaling as much oxygen as he could.
It wasn't as if Shepard was afraid of hard work. He'd worked hard all his life, first helping neighbors with the farmwork and then all the work expected of a soldier. Blast it, forget expected, he'd done more than anyone could expect of him, far more. What more can they want? He wondered.
He shook his head and bulled onwards. Trails didn't run themselves.
~o~O~o~
Two Days Later
"PULL!" A hoarse tenor bellowed. Contrary to the expectations built by the entertainment industry, carrying voices didn't have to be deep to be heard. That's why women were hired so quickly for the switchboard operator positions back in the 20th century. Higher voices cut through static much more easily.
In response to the command, small clay targets launched into the air, shots were fired; all of the targets shattered and fell in a powder. More targets launched, flinging themselves in random directions. More shots cracked out, the sharp crack of pistols echoed by the thunder of shotguns. Scattered throughout the small arms fire was the deep booming report of a sniper rifle.
Shepard tracked the red dots on his HUD. Karl had been right when he'd pointed out the advantages of the upgrades. The HUD showed all objects moving beyond a certain speed, or consisting of alloys within a certain range. The majority of Earth's population had more metal in their bodies than most asteroids, so the computer had to match the sample data to an adaptive matrix. That matrix had a limited library of all known alloy mixtures, but more importantly was able to use an onboard analysis package to project the probable density of unknown compositions. Since people didn't try killing each other with cheese, objects of such consistency were not tracked. Someone else with, say, half a gram of depleted uranium, or a sixth of a gram of Mako grade alloy would be flagged as a potential threat.
Shepard watched his HUD, noting where the red dots were moving, and their rate of travel. He counted to himself, getting the rhythm down. Quickly, he flicked the rifle to his shoulder, continuing the count and squinted. Hand-eye coordination took over, and the rifle boomed twice, then overloaded its heat sink.
Two shattered targets fell from the sky, adding their reddish clay to the mounds of earth below.
Without warning, Shepards HUD went dark, and something hijacked his systems. "Listen carefully Lieutenant. This is a test. Identify the weapons being fired, based on sound alone.
Shepard was forced to listen, his armor wasn't responding to his personal emergency override, and he couldn't see.
A ripping explosion tore into Shepards ears. He flinched slightly, "Hydra shotgun, mark six version. Black Ops."
Another similar explosion went off, forcing Shepard to listen more carefully this time. "Storm shotgun, above mark five grade. Hahne-Kedar manufacture."
A short crack was next. "Raikou, mid level grade, Ariake Technologies." Followed by "Titan, Mark one, Black Ops."
Shepard didn't know how long the sounds went on; it felt like hours. When his visor lightened into a transparent screen again, several of the other N7 candidates were gathered around him, with what looked like the contents of a dreadnoughts' armory. They didn't say anything, but their combined look of respect spoke volumes.
Shepard felt one side of his face curl up in a half-grin, and he winked at them. He turned to face the sergeant in charge of the firing range and saluted smartly. The sergeant, a stolid, scarred man if ever there was one had a meat-eating smile on his own face. He returned the salute. "Lieutenant, I know of only a few men who can do what you just did. If the rest of your skills are as good as this one, I'll be looking for you on the news someday."
The sergeant nodded a farewell, not the respectful gesture of an underling, but the action between equals. Shepard returned the movement and headed to the next task.
~o~O~o~
Three Days Later
Not all classes were outdoors, or even tested physical capabilities. Some were held indoors and tested the mind.
The classroom had air conditioning, something for which Shepard was thankful. He, along with a handful of other candidates, were sitting in comfortable chairs in a row. A grizzled veteran named Harris was droning at the front of the room, occasionally pointing out a flat-screen projector that had x's and arrows pointing in various directions.
Just before Shepard fell asleep, the instructor gave a sigh of relief and straightened. "There." He barked. "I've given you a full crash course in basic military tactics and strategies, as required by the Alliance Training Commission, back when the N7's were founded."
His body posture…changed. Formerly he was a tired old man with a limp, doing what he was paid to do. Now he looked wiry, still old, but more like aged hickory. Above all, he looked alert and intensely focused.
"Now, what do the turian, krogan, salarian and asari militaries have in common?" he asked the class at large.
Silence.
"Well? This should be easy enough, especially for the Alliances' best and brightest?"
More silence.
The aged instructor sighed and bent tiredly. "They are all alive people. They all live, and since they live, they are capable of learning."
He turned a fierce gaze upon the group. "And so should you! I can teach you every single tactic used in the Krogan Rebellions. I can make you memorize every move made in the Rachni War. But how would that help? Lots of data, no thinking?"
The chart of x's and arrows vanished, replaced by three-dimensional hologram of a charging krogan, life size. Gasps came from the chairs occupants.
The instructor narrowed his eyes. "Scared of him, eh?"
Heads shook negatively.
Harris clenched his fists. "Well you bloody well should be!" Spittle made it halfway across the floor to the nearest candidates uniform. "That's nearly a half ton of angry krogan right there!" He swept his pointer at the image. "Three people died getting that image just so that you all could sit there and tell me it's not scary? You should be scared! A scared soldier is a soldier listening to his instincts!"
Shepard raised his hand tentatively.
"Yes?" snapped the instructor.
"But sir, if we let fear control our reactions, aren't we letting whatever makes us fearful control us?" Shepard questioned. He'd been reading some of the supplemental material just before class, cramming last minute.
Harris looked pleased. "Good question. The answer is both no, and yes. No we shouldn't ignore our reactions, but yes we should rise above what our instincts tell us. Very often, our subconscious minds detect patterns the conscious mind does not. When that happens, we get what is called "instinct" or "gut feeling." The soldier that can learn the difference between wishful thinking and a gut feeling is a soldier that lives a lot longer on the battlefield."
The picture changed to another krogan. This one was carefully cradling a newborn, or at least a pile of blankets. Despite the alien nature of the krogan, a definite look of pride was on its face. "Now, this picture was in the archives on Thessia. Would you call this threatening?"
This time heads were still. Harris smiled. "Good. You learn, I am hopeful. But no holding back now, I want answers! Is this krogan such a threat?"
Heads shook, hesitantly but solidly.
Harris smiled. He had oversized canines, which made him look like a vampire. "What if I told you that the two images were of the same krogan?" He hit a switch so both could be seen. "The krogan with the baby on the left had his picture taken, then fifty years later someone took his picture again…after he found out his son had died during the Krogan Rebellions."
A pin dropped on the floor would have broken the silence.
"Krogan are the most powerful of infantry. They have strong instincts, and they use them with millennia of experience. Hurt them, and they will stop at nothing to bring the pain back on their attackers; look at the individual, see the people."
Harris waved down an upraised hand. "Yes there are outliers, cowardly krogan, undiplomatic asari. But if you interact with enough individuals, you'll have a good idea what the common alien will be like. That's why you're here, listening to me; I have experience, and you need to learn from it. Otherwise, you'll go out making mistakes and starting whole new wars on your lonsome."
"Turians are disciplined. They will follow any order given them…it's a weakness and a strength. Tell them to pull a suicide mission, they'll do it to the letter, no questions asked."
"Asari have the galaxies deadliest commandoes. They are flexible and cunning, some of them have centuries of experience. That makes them arrogant and complacent."
"Salarians are the only real competition humanity has for tactical innovation, maybe it's their lifespan I don't know. Never try to outmaneuver a salarian. Know your weaknesses, and assume that's where they'll attack."
Instructor Harris put down his stick and leaned on his desk. His dark eyes swept the room. "So where does that put us?" he asked quietly.
Shepard raised his hand. At Harris's nod he spoke: "Square in the middle, sir?"
Harris grunted. "Aye, the most dangerous place to be…and potentially the most profitable. We're stronger than asari, but weaker than krogan. We have the innovation of salarians, but the discipline of the turians. At the same time, we know exactly what can kill us, and it's on every side. If we can play the next century well, we should be in a key position. If we can't…."
Harris looked at the display of the various species, shook his head, and turned off the projector.
~o~O~o~
One Week Later
"Gentlemen, and ladies, what we have scheduled for you today is a test of your strategic and tactical planning."
Shepard and a group of eleven other candidates were standing in the shade of a single tree upon a hill. The hill looked over a series of fields, oddly separated by grass borders.
Cmdr Maria Quill, wore the stern expression that seemed to be issued to everyone in charge at the Villa. She was glaring in particular at Shepard, for what reason he didn't know.
"Today is a simulated criminal escape. You will be judged on the quantity of damage, the efficiency of your plan and how quickly you implement it. The scenario begins when the description ends."
She cleared her throat. "The scenario is this: A trained asari commando has gone rogue on a small colony world, and escaped into a nearby field. Each of you will be assigned a field and given a limited amount of resources to neutralize the commando. Go."
Candidates rushed to their assigned fields and began stalking around the edges. Shepard saw one lady race to a table filled with supplies, haul back and pitch a grenade into the middle of the field. It detonated with reduced impact, probably for non-lethal injuries. Nothing happened, and when the lady returned for another grenade, she was prevented from obtaining more than one more. "Sorry, ma'am. That cost you all you had for explosives"
Shepard sauntered around the field, looking it over carefully. Logically, the foe he had been assigned would be as still as possible….but then again, maybe not.
Whistling lightly, Shepard walked back to the table and gathered a few reflectors and a solar collector. As he started positioning them around the corners of the field, one of his neighbors tossed a firebomb into his field, setting it ablaze. Within seconds the entire field was on fire, driving out the suspect. He received applause for his plan, and several others swiftly moved to copy his plan.
Shepard, on the other hand, shifted one of the reflectors slightly, and plugged its emitter to the power supply. It gave off a faint hum, and an intense laser shone around the edge of the field.
Commander Quill stood behind him. "Nice fence Lieutenant, but how does that get your suspect out of the field?"
Shepard walked back to the supplies table, where he checked out a rifle and a thermal scope.
"It doesn't." He said simply. "It just stops her from escaping while I wait."
Commander Quill watched Shepard climb out of the fields line-of-sight behind a tree, setting his omni-tool to monitor the field. He then, ostentatiously, went to sleep.
Hours later, when the sun was setting, all the other fields were cleared, and no one except Commander Quill, her assistants and Shepard were still present.
As the sky darkened, Shepard woke up. He smiled pleasantly at the now scowling Commander and sneaked around the tree. Using the thermal scope, he slowly panned over the field…froze…fired.
An indignant shriek arose from the field, as a commando in full combat gear rose to full height, rubbing her posterior. Her expression was one of mixed rage and amusement.
Shepard handed in his rifle, nodded to the commando, and turned to leave.
"Wait just a minute." Commander Quill demanded. 'What was that all about? You could have been done hours ago!"
Shepard nodded thoughtfully. "That's true, but you said this was a test of strategic planning."
Quill looked blank. "So?"
"So, I figure that tactics would get the commando out, but strategy would keep the farmer as a friend. Barley is going for around fifteen credits a bushel in the current market, and that's a lot of barley in that field. If I torched the field, I make the farmer mad, I make the Alliance pay out damages and I risk losing the suspect in the smoke. By investing a little time, I made sure the suspect couldn't escape, refrained from damaging most of the crops, and got the suspect anyway."
The asari came out of the field now mostly grinning. "He's got you there, Commander. I used the same idea back on one of my assignments. How did he think it up?"
Shepard shrugged. "I saw a thermal scope on the supplies table, and thought it was unusual. Thermal scopes aren't much good during daylight hours. The obvious answer was that I could wait until the sun went down, if I could keep the suspect from leaving. A laser generator worked out, and if one of the reflectors was tipped over, I'd have heard the alarm and been able to take an easy shot."
Late that night, Shepard made his way over to the gyms' locker room. After sleeping in a tree, he needed to eliminate the kinks in his back.
Lights were out across the base, only the sentries seemed alert. Shepard used the Infiltrator training he'd received to make his quiet way over to the gym. Lighting was dim, but like all Alliance soldiers, he'd received gene therapy to increase his natural gifts. Once he'd specialized as a sniper, he'd received an especially thorough ocular enhancement program; 20/20 had become exceedingly better. Now he could make out the days headlines from half a biotiball stadium away, unaided.
The weights were stacked where he'd left them that morning, somewhat messily he'd have to admit. There was no spotter…but that was acceptable. Shepard knew what he was doing, and wasn't going to bother a buddy just so he could stretch.
Grunting, he set up the bench and started lifting. A quick rep of ten, a break of fifty seconds, and another set. The chrome handle bit into his palms with the honest heft of cold steel. Break for another fifty seconds, push out another set.
Five sets later, Shepard moved on to doing squats. Those were dangerous without proper form; he'd seen a young soldier bang out a fast set, then collapse in pain when he used his back instead of his legs. Even with the advancements of modern medicine, it'd been weeks before that soldier could even jog, let alone do squats again.
Outside voices were talking, the multiple metallic clanking sounds of lockers opening and closing. Late evening was one of the best times to hit the gym, allowing productive activity to combine with social interaction, just before bedtime.
As expected, a mixed group entered the gym on the far side. Several turned to the treadmills, others headed for the weight rack where Shepard was just starting a third round of chin-ups.
"Shepard, you still here?" A teasing female voice called out.
"Never left, you know I live in here Sally!" Shepard called back in his most serious of jocular tones.
One of the men wandered over doing arm curls with a stray handweight. "So when do you sleep?"
Shepard dropped off the chin-up bar, letting himself fall into the pushup position. "Infrequently. But when I do, I sleep like a bat; on my feet."
"You sure you aren't a sergeant? You sound like my old drill sarge back in New Canton." One of the women was performing a series of pushups as she talked. In an abstract way, Shepard admired her capacity to work out and hold a conversation without losing her breath. That was something he'd always found a little difficult. With an effort, he dragged his attention back to her next question: "Where did you go to basic Shepard?"
"Earth, the Great Plains Training Base. I guess it used to be an American base, back before the Alliance, but it was donated to the Alliance in the 50's. Then I had OTC over in Chicago; took the Off-Terran training package at Fort Charles on Titan, Zero-G in the Belt and Electronic Warfare over on the Pocket Base in Arcturus."
One of the other soldiers, whom was consulting a datapad looked up. "Fort Charles on Titan you say? The drill sergeant at the Macapà training camp there is doing our evals next week."
Shepard groaned. "Unarmed combat?"
"Yep."
"Multiple environments?"
"Um…yes."
Shepard hid his face in his hands. "Perfect. Just perfect. Lieutenant, when you have a moment, could you do me a favor?"
"Name it. But I don't work with kids, small animals or unattractive actors."
"Shoot me now."
~o~O~o~
The last week of N7 evaluation/training was on one subject only: combat. There were wide variations in how combat was defined, as diplomacy was a portion of the combat system on some worlds. That was part of what made the N7 training so respected; many people could shoot, many could talk. Few could both talk and shoot equally well.
Sergeant Gunny Ellison was one of the best, and oldest, the Alliance had to offer. Although he consistently refused to be officially listed as a part of the N7 program, he had a habit of turning up when extraordinary individuals were going to make an appearance.
Shepard heard his old instructor before he saw him. Even without listening, he could tell this was the room reserved for the instructor. Old-school posters of movie stars with names like Chuck Norris, and Bruce Lee adorned the walls. Newer posters from the Blasto movies and some extranet combat-thriller starring asari in melodramatic poses and skintight outfits. Actually, that last one seemed more realistic…asari tended to wear that kind of thing anyway….
"Alright you pusillanimous bunch of goldbrickers! I want all of you doing star jumps on the double!"
Shepard instinctively jerked to attention and felt his feet leave the ground. Behind him he could hear multiple combat boots leave the ground…and the chuckles of non-jumping individuals.
The room had an entry hall, a short one, but it served to allow the balding older man to make a sufficiently dramatic entrance. He knew how to work it as well, posing in the light, showing off a muscular physique.
Sharp brown eyes scanned the entire group, then dismissed them as no threat. "Quit hoppin' around like a sanctimonious band of perambulating rabbits and get in here!"
Shepard quit jumping with a growl. "They still haven't accepted your retirement Ellison?"
The older man laughed. "When will you get over that eternal penchant for referencing individuals by their cognomen? It's Gunnery Chief Ellison to you boy, Gunney to my friends."
"Whomever is unlucky enough to be one." Shepard grumbled. He had a half-smile on, though. Gunney was one of the toughest instructors he'd ever had, but also one of the most helpful.
"Well you're going to loooove what I have in store for you today my gentle novices. Today, the first of your pugnacious efforts will be directed at an old colleague of mine." Shepard had always thought that the old man had to have been trained in theatre. There was no other way to account for his sense of timing…and drama.
A deep voice that sounded as if it came from the bottom of Earths deepest oceans broke that line of thought. "And when the youngster talks about old friends, he doesn't mean just the ones he's know all his short life."
The N7 candidates came around the corner face-to-face with a krogan. Behind Shepard, someone whimpered. Shepard noticed the krogans odd pupils narrow and focus over his head. Quickly Shepard assumed a brazen body posture and put his hands on his hips, mockingly.
"Is that it Gunney? You get an overgrown Gila monster in here to teach us etiquette?"
Gunnery Chief Ellison nearly choked on his tongue. Shepard couldn't be sure, but past experience indicated that the particular state of his eyes was in approval and amusement.
The krogan was equally amused. "This that Ship-nerd you told me about Gunney? Looks like he can't lift half his weight in a week. Heh, get it? Weak."
Ellison used his cane to walk over to the krogan and slapped his shoulder affectionately. "Yeah Sam, that's the kid. Little fella actually managed to trip me up on maneuvers two years back. That's when I knew I was ready to kick back and be more indulgent to the next generation."
Shepard looked a little startled at the degree of familiarity Chief Ellison was taking with the krogan. Sam? He wondered.
Sam looked over the humans that had entered. They'd gotten over their shock and were now spread out loosely on their half. There was an invisible line between the krogan and themselves, one that Shepard realized he had crossed.
Ellison had been tracing Shepards line of thought. "Yes son, you get to practice pugilism toe-to-toe with a krogan. But don't worry, he's promised to avoid doing cloned body part-worthy damage."
"Only because I owe you," the krogan rumbled ominously. "You need the blood and pain to really learn how to fight. It's not the same."
Shepard knew enough to never back down to a krogan. "Don't hold back on me." He retorted. "If Gunney says to take you down then get ready to eat dirt."
Ellison laughed, slapping his knee. "Good boy! I wish I had the last twenty years back. Maybe I could have taken on a krogan when I was ninety…but now…" his head shook sadly.
Sam turned a shrewd eye on Ellison. "Whine when you want Gunney, but don't try tricking the pups. You had me fair and square, and it was a worthy challenge."
The candidates kept their eyes on Ellison, flicking occasionally to Sam. "What," Sam noticed their stance. "You never told them? Hah!"
Gunney tapped his cane embarrassedly. "Ah…well…I went on vacation about two years ago. Ran into trouble out on a tramp freighter…."
Sam roared out laughing again. "A little trouble? He should have been a krogan! He managed to piss off two pirate ships, then managed to get both of them to crash on the same planet he did!"
Gunney casually whipped his cane sideways catching the krogan in the eye. "Stow it lizard." He turned back as the krogan rubbed his eye, swearing. "So maybe I was somewhat over my head, but most people have heard of Rule Number One." He glared meaningfully at Shepard.
"Don't mess with little old men with no fear and a little smile." Shepard recited.
Gunney nodded emphatically. "I merely had to…adjust their perceptions somewhat."
Sam took one step to the side and took over the story. "I was hired by the pirates. After we crashed, half of us were in a blood-rage, looking for something to kill. Gunney here," Sam nodded his crest-plate at the man, "Gunney got ahold of the freighters armory…"he chuckled again. "Turns out, the freighter was smuggling weapons! So there we were, we had him holed up in his ship, and he starts throwing out everything in the shotlocker!" He collapsed to one knee, laughing.
Gunney looked a little disgruntled. "Superfluous waste of space. Half the weapons were too archaic to work, the other half contained enough power for only a dozen shots combined. Plus, the captain lied to me." Those in the squad whom knew Gunney smiled knowingly. "I don't like being lied too."
Sam recovered enough to continue. "Well, all we saw was an old man shouting at us and throwing guns at us, like he didn't care how many weapons we had. That earned him respect. Enough to get us to talking, especially after he stunned the Chief, clubbed him with an old decrepit shotgun."
Gunney looked uncomfortable. "I was out of ammo!"
"Whatever. Anyway, so that's why I respect him. That's why I'm here. What are you gonna do about it?"
One of the students, Sally, stepped forward. 'Whatever we need to, to get accepted."
Sam grunted. It sounded like a hippopotamus had discovered an edible, angry obstacle between itself and the water.
"Ya don't need acceptance," krogan tridactyl hands were remarkably well suited for air quotes, "You need to pass. Who cares what people think so long as they let you do your job?"
Shepard smiled. He believed he could see the end-goal. In addition, he noticed that the krogan wasn't carrying any weapons. So, he was ready when the massive biped lashed out, decking Sally.
Shepard ducked back, dodging low. A biotic further back launched an attack. Sam glowed lightly, instantly revealing unobvious talents.
He's a biotic. Shepard filed that fact away. That complicated things. Krogan had an incredible amount of stamina, not to mention a capability for surviving weeks without food or water. Their hump stored nutrition, and provided armor against attacks from behind; no one had ever choked a krogan to his knowledge.
A wild cry pierced the air as a truly enormous man charged the krogan. Shepard recognized him, Alan, former multi-martial arts master-turned soldier. He'd taught the other rookies in the N7 program a few tricks when they had time.
Sam evidentially read Alans' body language enough to realize this was an above average fighter. He shrugged off another soldiers' attack on his right by simply sweeping his fist like a weavers' beam and met Alan's attack.
While Alan kept the krogan busy (where had Alan gotten those brass knuckles?), Shepard got the attention of a few other candidates. With a few words he sketched an attack pattern, and they raced to the attack.
Sam saw them coming and managed to fling Alan into a wall. Fast as he was, he wasn't fast enough to dodge a half dozen of the Alliance's best and brightest. Two soldiers grabbed onto Sams' right arm and held on like grim death. Another soldier, a rather beefy specimen, rammed his full weight into the krogans' abdomen. Shepard waded in with the full training he'd received, combining efficient body shots with more powerful kicks. Every blow felt like he was punching a wall, the krogan may not have been wearing body armor but he was hard.
Sam bellowed with laughter…apparently this was fun? Shepard decided to change tactics. He dropped onto the ground and whipped both of his legs around one of the krogans, shifted up to what looked like a knee and twisted. Sam was indeed a half-ton of bad attitude, but even a straw could be driven into an oak tree with enough skill.
The giant krogan toppled, N7 operatives on top of him. One pummeled his underjaw while a second found leverage against the floor and got the krogans arm in a joint-lock.
Just as Sam was well and truly pinned…chaos erupted.
Shepard was only barely aware of a blisteringly fast form that charged out of a door. But he heard the scream as one of the men holding Sam's arms was lifted up and squeezed.
Gunney was there suddenly, bellowing at the top of his voice. His cane was upraised and sparking. Shepard could see another krogan, smaller than Sam, tossing the limp giant Alan over his shoulder contemptuously. He grabbed Gunney's cane and snapped it with one hand, then kicked the old man, sending him flying half a dozen feet backwards into a wall.
Shepard had lost complete control only twice in his life, once when he was eleven years old, and again when he was sixteen. Both times he'd lost all sense of "other," the capability to recognize abstract though; peripheral vision had vanished and fierce, unbridled power jerked his limbs. This time, however, was different, he'd been taught a dozen methods to kill with his bare hands, and the implants had helped coordinated his body. The greatest difference, however, was how he'd been trained to think. Blind aggression had become modified to a focused point, to use all available resources to accomplish one goal. In essence, what had been a blundering mess of hormones was now a rational, cold killer.
Seeing Gunney go down clarified the next task well: kill the murderer.
The genetic modifications tapped Shepards adrenaline helping him push off the floor and shoulder charge the interloper. This krogan was nowhere near 750 pounds, more like 340. By comparison Shepard weighed 210 in his bare socks, not the equal, but definitely something to cause pause. Years of weight training powered multiple hand-strikes and gave his boots what could be only described as a little more…kick. Unlike a frontline soldier, Shepard had no extensive implants for adrenaline. Snipers were trained to react faster, not just induce a heightened state. On the other hand, implanted soldiers didn't need to spend as much time training for long-distance shots, or how to move in silence. A soldiers' time was spent learning how to bring the pain to their foe.
Still, any Alliance Infiltrator graduate was no less deadly, just in different ways. Very few humans could stand up to a krogan in open melee, but an Infiltrator didn't have to. Infiltrators were trained to disable, then eliminate.
Krogan were very hard to disable.
~o~O~o~
Gunney grunted as he got up. Sam offered him a helping hand, but the old soldier batted it away. "I only passed a hundred a few years ago Sam. I'm copacetic."
The large alien looked down in confusion. "You're a child?"
Gunney laughed darkly. "Humans only live to around a hundred an' forty, if we're lucky. Most die by the time they hit their second 20's."
A look of realization came over Sam's expression. "That explains a lot…I never knew that."
Sounds from the corner drew their attention. "You train your pups well." Sam acknowledged. "I wouldn't have thought any human could stay up this long against one of my krantt."
Gunney narrowed his eyes. "I think we should stop them…Shepard's one of the best…and he means killing."
At that statement, Sam's head whipped back to look at the two brawlers. Other N7 recruits were hanging back, reluctant to get in close. Every time someone approached, the fight took an unexpected turn and the incautious had to leap for safety. However, one or two of the recruits seemed to lose control right when they approached the dueling pair and launched themselves into the fray. They didn't last long.
He growled. "That's a blood rage if I ever saw one. Didn't know humans could get them."
Gunney sighed. "We do…just not this time."
Sam looked back at the fighting pair. Shepard was using both arms to pummel the krogan he was facing directly on the point of his face, the nose for lack of a better term. The krogan was damaged, too. His arm was awkwardly thrashing, trying to clout Shepard while the other arm held Shepards leg.
The elder krogan glared at Gunney. "This one of those "need to know" things?
Gunney nodded. "There's a transmitter on that side of the room, focused on Shepard. It stimulates the aggressive portions of his brain, forcing him to take the more violent actions. It isn't pretty, but an N7 operative has to know what he's capable of when pushed to the wall."
Sam grunted in low laughter, ignoring the confused looks the soldiers were pointing in his direction. "You're giving him a Rite. Show him what a warrior is about."
Gunney didn't pretend to understand. "Something like that. It makes the next lesson all the more ingrained." He hit his omnitool and hobbled over towards the battlers.
The two were still fighting hammer and tongs, but without the viciousness they'd been exerting earlier. Neither noticed the combat expert carefully step on an insulated floor cover. Instantly arcs of electricity came alive, jolting everyone within range.
~o~O~o~
Shepard lay gasping as the power faded. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the larger krogan approaching, and the smaller one rising to his feet. For a second, he felt hopelessness, he'd been barely holding his own against the smaller krogan, how could he take on two at the same time?
Then, the larger krogan hauled back and slammed the smaller krogan with his headplate. "Don't you know how to take on a human? Pin and smash, all you need to do."
The smaller krogan was wincing, almost driven to his knees. "Battlemaster, he wouldn't be pinned."
Another blow rocked the smaller krogan. "You have arms don'tcha? How come you kept swinging? Give him an Embrace of Death."
Shepard managed to reach his feet, gamely re-assuming a ready stance.
"Stand down Lieutenant." Came a gruff voice.
Shepard relaxed and stood still. The larger krogan leaned over, sniffing at him. Shepard forced himself not to react, even when the much, much larger being glared one slit-pupil eye into his own. He smelled like charcoal and burnt meat, along with a faint sour hint of dry scales, like a rattlesnake.
The krogan nodded once. "You fight well. We'll see what happens to you after your Battlemaster is done with you."
The two krogan left the room, leaving Shepard alone with the other soldiers and Gunnery Chief Ellison. The soldiers were looking at him with something akin to awe, and the Chief had a smirk on his face. That could be good or bad.
"Well…now that the excitement is over, we get to the important part of today's activities." Gunney drawled. "We will now commence with what was not used at all: diplomacy. We just witnessed part of the krogan language. Now while krogans utilize physical mannerisms, what we just saw can be stylized as shouting, in a dominant voice."
~o~O~o~
In the end, there was still two months more of training. Additional interrogation-resistance training. Hand-to-hand combat training, with krogans, turians and even an asari, although she kept picking on Shepard for some reason and quoting obscure literature. The other recruits found it hilarious, some were envious. Shepard was just uncomfortable.
The entire process came to a close exactly five months after it began. No other training session with the N7 program would last as long, but they would all be more intense, should they pass their present stage.
Of course, Shepard passed. His beatdown of a krogan became a campus legend. Although instructors would stress his behavior on the battlefield as being completely rational, students would hear rumors that at least one of their number was capable of a Blood Rage equal to a krogan. The instructors didn't discourage the rumors, other than mild remonstrance. It was good for morale, and gave them someone of their own rank to look up to.
~o~O~o~
The awards ceremony was held in a small chapel on the south side of the Villa. Only ten candidates had passed, out of a full hundred applicants. Shepard passed with flying colors, something he attributed to luck, while others attributed to skill.
A legend was in the making.
Authors Note: I used Gunnery Chief Ellison as the combat specialist, due to his being mentioned in ME1, and because I love playing around with characters with expanded vocabularies. My comprehension of the ranking system is kinda bad, so in the Mass Effect universe I tweaked the system a little bit. After all, it's not a large stretch of the imagination to require all personnel on board a starship to have ship-operations training, especially the officers. It's not like the marines can be frozen any time they're not on a mission.
Again, thanks for reading. I have two more chapters (maybe 3 depending on the Akuze idea). So long folks, thanks for watching.