Fateful Encounters
Professor Mordin Solus knew how to cope with the unexpected. His extensive training in both the medical sciences and as a member of the Salarian Special Tasks Group meant he was well-prepared for unexpected complications and deviations to an established plan. He prided himself on being highly adaptable and unfazed by any curveball that life may try to throw at him.
However, to say that he was not surprised when the Cerberus group approached him asking for his help would be untrue. Word of the group's reputation as being pro-human extremists had reached him two years ago from the Salarian homeworld, and of course they were considered highly problematic. He had heard of the ethically-questionable methods Cerberus used in their pursuit of 'safeguarding' human interests, though he knew that he was not someone who should be talking about morals. He had done things in his life that he wasn't proud of, which was one of the reasons he had become a doctor in the slums of Omega. He was a professional in a place where he was needed the most, with no activities required that were morally dubious.
When Cerberus had approached him, informing him that he was a key component in the team they were forming to fight the Collectors, he had to admit that he was more than a little intrigued. The situation had to be bad if they were looking outside the human race for help in the affair. Since the Collectors were also behind the plague that had wiped out nearly all the non-human population in the slums he had an extra motive to be facing them. He wanted answers, and he knew that his curiosity could never be satisfied if he did not join the Lazarus Cell in their mission.
Now he couldn't help looking around him and admiring the sleek, shining interior of the Normandy as he followed Jacob along the combat deck. Cerberus certainly knew how to build ships, for as impressive as the original Normandy had been this one had made a number of seamless improvements. He had expected to meet hostility on the ship, but none of the humans seemed to care that he was Salarian. Some of them even said hello as he passed them. Clearly Cerberus had picked the least xenophobic members to fill the Lazerus Cell.
Through a well-stocked armoury and down a corridor they went, until reaching the meeting room in the centre of the ship. The room was very Spartan in décor, consisting of a single large table with a hologram of the ship floating above it. That was the impression Mordin had gotten on the ship; the clean, surgical, and precise nature of the layout seemed to reflect on the group's drive for efficiency. In the room already was Commander Shepard, who Mordin noticed was the only crew member besides himself who wasn't wearing a Cerberus uniform. Instead she was wearing a set of casual brown and blue overalls with open arms and neckline; he began to wonder what sort of implications this held for Shepard's attitude towards her present employers.
"Welcome to the Normandy, Professor," said Jacob. "It's an honour to have you on board."
"Yes," said Mordin in the clipped, reedy tones that were characteristic of his species. "Very exciting. Cerberus working with aliens. Unexpected. Illusive Man branching out, maybe? Not so human-centric?"
"You're very well-informed," said Shepard.
"Salarian government well-connected," Mordin explained. "Espionage experts. Had top-level clearance once. Retired now. Still hear things. Informed of name only. No knowledge of man behind it. Anti-alien reputation listed as problematic."
"Well don't kid yourself, Professor," said Shepard, shaking her head. "Humans still come first in the Illusive Man's eyes, but this mission is too big for them to handle alone."
"The Collectors are abducting human colonists out on the fringes of Terminus Space," said Jacob.
"Not simple abductions," mused Mordin. "Wouldn't need me for simple."
"Entire colonies disappear without a trace," said Jacob. "No distress signals are sent out. There are no signs of any kind of attack. There's virtually no evidence that anything unusual happened at all... except that every man, woman and child is gone."
"Gas, maybe?" Mordin said, not looking at either Shepard or Jacob. "No. Spreads too slow. Airborne virus? No. Slower than gas. Drugged water supply? No. Effects not simultaneous." He was speaking so rapidly and constantly moving that Shepard was amazed he didn't pass out. Sensing that he was about to start speculating further, she held up a hand to silence him.
"There's no need to sit there and guess," she said. "We collected samples from one of the colonies. I'd like you to analyse them and figure out how the Collectors did this."
"Yes," said Mordin, looking at Shepard as if he'd just noticed her. "Of course. Analyse the samples. Going to need a lab." He started to walk toward the door, but paused, apparently thinking better of it.
"There's a fully-equipped lab on the combat deck, Professor Solus," a female voice with an odd electronic quality to it suddenly said from speakers in the room's ceiling. "If you find anything lacking, please place a requisition order."
"Who's that?" asked Mordin. "Pilot? No. Synthesised voice. Simulated emotional inflections. Could it be... No. Maybe. Have to ask. Is that an AI?"
Artificial Intelligence development was considered illegal in much of the civilised galaxy, due to problems with their unpredictable behaviour. The Geth were seen as a living example of what happens when AI development went too far. Mordin knew that this had caused consternation with the human United Nations Space Command, who had been led by an AI at one time and even had that same AI as their ambassador on the Citadel for five years. Of course, he reasoned that Council laws would matter little to Cerberus.
"This ship is equipped with an artificial intelligence," Shepard admitted. Her tone sounded very wary, as if she didn't fully trust this particular AI, something Mordin considered odd since humanity were the only race who had developed non-hostile AIs. He was also becoming curious as to how Cerberus had acquired this particular AI; he highly doubted that Kiryuu Knight would have loaned it to the Illusive Man.
"An AI on board?" said Mordin, thinking aloud again. "Non-human crew members? Cerberus more desperate than I thought."
"The Collectors have taken tens of thousands of colonists," said Jacob firmly. "We'll do whatever we have to do to find and stop them."
"Yes." said Mordin. "Of course. Can't risk being captured like colonists. Need to identify, neutralise technology. Need samples. Which way to the lab?"
"Follow me, Professor," said Jacob. He led the way out of the meeting room and turned right. At this side of the corridor was a door that led to a well-stocked laboratory, complete with chemistry tools, several surveillance crates, a large workbench and a terminal for storing all of his research. A quick glance around told him that, at present, he had everything he needed.
"Be sure to let us know if anything's missing," said Jacob. "All the data we acquired has already been uploaded to your terminal. Good luck finding some answers... for all our sakes." With that, he gave a quick salute and left. It seemed clear to Mordin that Jacob was ex-military; he didn't need to be particularly observant to notice that.
Moving over to the workbench, he perused the data that had been gathered by Shepard's team already. Judging from what they had already told him, it would have been impossible to gather this amount of data after the fact; there had to have been an eyewitness, someone who was both very fortunate to escape and likely very traumatised by what they witnessed. The most useful data he came across was the method the Collectors used to immobilise their victims. They used swarms of little robots, referred to as Seekers, that resembled giant mosquitoes. They stung the victims and paralysed them with some kind of nerve toxin, making them easy prey for the Collectors.
Of course, just looking at the data wasn't enough. He knew that he'd need a live sample of one of the Seeker drones to study them sufficiently before he could produce an adequate countermeasure. As he peered intently at the data, it dawned on him that he just might have enough data to construct a drone himself from scratch. It would not be an exact replica, of course, but he could certainly create one close enough to the real thing, one that would at least enable him to take a more accurate educated guess on what had to be done.
He breathed in deeply through his nostrils and immediately set to work. It would take a few days at least, working non-stop, before he would have anything to present to Shepard. This was one more challenge to overcome, and he relished a good challenge.
0
Freedom's Progress was a typical human colony that at one point had a population of almost a million people. The planet it resided on, which had never been officially named, was rocky and set in an almost-permanent winter. The colony had been built in a particularly mountainous region, parts of it built into the mountains themselves to protect the settlers from the harsh cold.
Now the colony was completely deserted. It was night-time on the planet, and only a light flurry of snow was falling on the abandoned houses, landing pads and communal areas. The UNSC investigation team had gone over the colony with a fine toothcomb and had found nothing. After consulting them, Alan and Nicole walked back to the Serenity to try and get warm, the snow crunching under their feet.
"You're right," said Alan. "There's not much left."
"It's been like this at all the other colonies we were able to check," said Nicole. "We've had to move pretty carefully out here, since people don't trust the UNSC out here. You'd think they'd be a bit more grateful, after all the crap we went through in the Covenant War." She grunted irritably as she and Alan stepped into the cargo bay. "No signs of an attack, no foreign tissue... This place is as empty as the last one. The only strange thing was that someone hacked the defence mainframe to remove the Identify-Friend-Foe programming in the security droids. They would have shot at anything that moved. Could be a survivor or a scavenger, but whoever it was they're long gone."
"That might explain the Quarian bodies that we found," said Alan. "That can't be usual."
"Dunkelzahn alone knows what they were doing here," shrugged Nicole. "They could have been making their own investigation, or they could have scavenging for supplies for all we know. Everything I've read about Quarians says they're a bunch of space gypsies."
"I prefer to think of them as Space Wombles," Alan chimed in. "They fix and use all the stuff that we throw away." Ignoring the utterly baffled look on Nicole's face, he went to the control panel to close the cargo bay door.
"Hold on a second!" Nicole suddenly called, prompting Alan to pause with his claw hovering over the panel. "We've got some deliveries due!"
"Deliveries?" Alan asked, looking perplexed. In spite of his thermal wear he was now feeling the chill from outside. His question was soon answered when several UNSC marines arrived, transporting a very large, very heavy, olive-green crate between them. The crate was big enough to fit two average-sized people inside it. With a great deal of effort they wheeled the crate up the ramp and into the cargo bay.
"Where do you want this, MC?" one of them asked, sounding exhausted.
"Just over there," said Nicole, "by the other lockers." She pointed to the row of lockers by the door that each contained the crew's combat armour and environment suits. Struggling and straining, the marines somehow managed to lift the heavy crate on its end and push it into line with the other lockers. They also brought two large bags and placed them amongst the rest of the supplies already tied down to the sides of the hold.
"Thanks, guys!" Nicole called as the marines saluted and left. When they were clear of the access ramp Alan raised it, finally sealing the ship from the elements.
"What's going on, Nicole?" he asked, thoroughly confused. "What's in that thing?"
"I requested a transfer to the Serenity while we were en-route to Freedom's Progress," Nicole answered. "It just got approved. I figure that if I'm going to find out what happened to those colonists I've got a better chance with you guys." She smiled wryly at Alan. "Everyone in the Fleet Shadow of Fury's known for pulling off the impossible, and I want to see if that luck will rub off on me."
"You may change your tune once you get a taste of our 'luck'," Alan said wryly. He crossed over to the locker and placed a hand on it. It was locked with a small palm scanner. "I take it this is your armour?"
"That's right," said Nicole. "Customised MJOLNIR armour, now a shade of blue rather than the green standard issue."
Alan knew that the MJOLNIR armour was special issue for Spartans. Nicole-458, to give her full name, was a second-generation Spartan, her body riddled with cybernetic augmentations since childhood and trained to be the ultimate soldier. It explained her abnormal height, weight and strength; no human could even lift a Spartan's armour by themselves. Alan remembered hearing the truth about the Spartan program only two years ago, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for Nicole that she had essentially been raised as a machine. He was amazed that she still had a very human personality; from their reputation, most other Spartans were little more than unquestioning, unfeeling automatons. He wondered if being raised under Malcho's wing had saved her from that fate.
"Malcho finally got his way with your armour, did he?" he asked, trying to bury his thoughts behind a smirk. "I remember how much he hated the old colour. What was it he called it before? 'Baby-puke green'?" He stepped away from the locker and looked back towards the airlock, then back to Nicole. Something had just occurred to him.
"They called you 'MC' just then," he said. "So you made Master Chief, did you?"
"That's right," said Nicole, blushing with barely-disguised pride. "I don't mind, but please; just Nicole will do."
"Well, I'm glad to have you on board, Nicole," he said, leading the way up the gantries, eventually reaching the corridor leading to the bridge. "Your cabin's the first on the left as you face the bridge. Actually, changing the subject for a moment, do you hear anything from John?"
John-117 was the codename for one of the UNSC's most respected marines. For a long time it had been thought that he was the last of the Spartans, but in spite of this he played a key role in the Covenant's defeat seven years ago.
"No, I haven't," said Nicole. "What, you thought the Spartans had their own social space on the extranet? The last I heard he'd been dispatched to the Skyllian Verge. A lot of Batarian groups are causing trouble for our interests there, so he's probably out there putting a boot up their collective ass."
"I think he'd need a damn big boot," Alan said. As he and Nicole walked to the bridge, he wondered just how much Nicole knew about Sovereign and the Reapers. She knew that he had fought to stop Saren and the Geth, but she seemed oblivious to the truth of the matter. He didn't doubt that the UNSC were as focused on concealing the truth from the public as the Council was.
As they walked onto the bridge, they found Alistair sat at the pilot's console, his large feet propped up. He was listening to some extranet radio, from which a growling voice filled with malevolent glee was speaking about 'great opportunities for pirate gangs in the Terminus Systems'.
"Never anything good on the radio, is there?" Alan said.
"I've been listening to how the disappearances have been reported," said Alistair, his expression dark. "The Batarians are just loving all this, relishing every chance to tell everyone how much humans fail at life, the universe and everything." He turned to look at Nicole; Alan had made the necessary introductions during the flight to Freedom's Progress. "I thought you were being dropped off here, love?"
"She's one of us now," said Alan. "All her stuff's just been moved on-board."
"You sure you won't turn back?" asked Alistair in mock terror. "You may not get another chance. You might want to flee while you can!"
"I think I'll stay right where I am, thanks," Nicole replied.
"Alright," said Alistair, "but don't say I didn't warn you. Anyway," he continued, turning back to the console. "I've also been looking over those files that Liara gave us. You know; the ones about the Collectors? I found this..." He pointed to one of the monitors, which now displayed a rotating diagram of a huge ship, one which looked like a gigantic termite mound growing out of the metal.
"Look familiar?" Alistair finished, his expression grim.
"That's the same ship the Normandy's black box recorded!" exclaimed Alan. "So it was the Collectors who took down Shepard?"
"I'd bet my beak on it," said Alistair. "You want me to send this bit of news to Telek?"
"You can do," Alan shrugged, "but I don't know what good it'd do. All we've done is confirmed who that ship belonged to. If anything, it just opens up the question of 'why'."
"Yeah, it makes no sense," said Alistair. "All the data Liara gave suggests they're scavengers and slave traders. They're not known for direct attacks."
"So that's yet another mystery to solve," groaned Alan. "I think we ought to start keeping a running tally. Well, there's nothing else we can do here. Alistair, you might as well take us out."
"Is it always like this with the fleet?" asked Nicole, as the ship lifted away from the ground. "Just a whole lot of mysteries and unanswered questions?"
"No," sighed Alan. "Sometimes it gets confusing."
0
Garrus Vakarian had had a very bad week. His actions as the vigilante known as Archangel had earned him something of a reputation on Omega, drawing the ire of every major criminal gang in the city. Then his team of twelve had been killed by a traitor in their midst. He had angered the three major mercenary gangs in the Terminus Systems – the Blue Suns, the Eclipse and the Blood Pack – to the point where they had even been willing to unite just to take him down. That had led to over three days of single-handedly holding them off, eventually ending with him getting a rocket-propelled grenade in the face. He was sure his old boss, Executor Pallin, would be proud of him for annoying so many criminals.
Some small part of the Turian's brain couldn't help attributing his predicament to Commander Shepard. After her death he had decided to follow her example. He had tried to go back to C-Sec, but soon tired of the stifling levels of bureaucracy on the Citadel, as well as the Council's efforts to downplay the threat posed by King Ghidorah and his Reaper spawn. In the end, he had left to try and make a real difference in this cruel and messed-up galaxy.
For his trouble, he had almost been blown up, but not before an unexpected reunion with Shepard, looking very much alive. Together they had succeeded in taking down the mercenary gangs, though he couldn't help but notice the Cerberus logo on one of her companions. Of course, that had not been a good time to question her about it.
He groaned and tried to sit upright, blinking his hawk-like eyes to try and force them to refocus. He looked around him, and as his eyes became used to the light he saw that he was now in a brightly-lit medical bay, complete with a row of beds and a lot of medical equipment. The right side of his face and upper torso felt very sore. He held a hand up to his head, feeling a bad headache coming on.
"You always were a tough one, Garrus," an elderly female voice said from somewhere to his left. He looked over to see a woman he recognised, wearing a grey doctor's uniform that matched the iron-grey curls of her hair. She looked kindly at him as Garrus swivelled round to dangle his legs over the side of the bed.
"Dr. Chakwas?" he asked. When he tried to speak he felt his right mandible ache. "What are you doing here?"
"Throwing myself into the fire with Shepard again," said Chakwas. Garrus remembered her reputation as one of the most brilliant medical minds in the UNSC. "You got hit pretty badly, but we were able to fix you up with a graft, mild cybernetic components and a lot of medi-gel. I wouldn't advise straining your facial muscles for a few days though."
Feeling his cheek, Garrus felt that it was now covered with bandages. He noticed that his armour was also damaged, with two large holes blasted through the neck protector and scorched with blast burns in other places. All things considered, he knew that he was very lucky to be alive. He jumped down off the bed and walked about a bit, making sure his legs were working properly. He looked around him and noticed the window looking out over the ship's mess hall. He saw the Cerberus logo etched into the shining metal wall, and saw various humans milling around in identical black-and-white uniforms, with the Cerberus logo stitched on the side.
"What are we doing on a Cerberus vessel?" asked Garrus darkly. "The last time I checked they weren't our allies."
"An alliance born of necessity, I'm afraid," said Chakwas. "The Council and the UNSC can't help us. Shepard's had to turn to them to get help stopping the Collectors. We've been forced into a very awkward position."
"I've heard stories about the Collectors," said Garrus. "What'd they do to piss Cerberus off so much? Not that I imagine it takes much to annoy Cerberus if you're not human."
"They've been snatching hundreds of thousands of colonists out in the Terminus Systems," Chakwas explained. "Shepard's putting a team together to stop them. You – or rather Archangel – were on the list."
"I suppose that makes some warped kind of sense," said Garrus, shaking his head in disbelief. "Though that's probably just the concussion talking. I'm surprised you're here though, Doc; I never figured you to be the Cerberus type."
"I don't work for Cerberus, Garrus," said Chakwas. "I work for Shepard. She's probably in the briefing room on the next deck up." She gave Garrus a sympathetic look. "Why don't you go speak to her? You're back on your feet, at least, and she could use some friends right now."
Garrus nodded, and staggered out of the medical bay. As he walked he changed his posture to appear in less pain than he was. Striding over to the central elevator he rode up to the next floor up; the command deck. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the deck. Now that his senses were becoming more alert he realised that this ship was an almost-exact replica of the Normandy. The colouration was different and the ship was noticeably bigger, but the layout was the same. It was as if he was now in some kind of bizarre time-warp.
Finding his way to the armoury, he walked through that and eventually reached the corridor leading to the briefing room. He stood outside the door for a moment, hearing voices coming from within.
"We've done what we could for Garrus," said a voice he recognised to be Jacob's. He had met the Cerberus operative back at his hideout along with Shepard and a Salarian he hadn't caught the name of.
"But he took a bad hit," Jacob continued. "Doctor Chakwas corrected him with some surgical procedures and cybernetics. Best we can tell, he'll have full functionality, but..."
Adjusting his posture again to make sure he was standing tall and proud, Garrus entered the room. Both Jacob and Shepard were in there, and both turned to him, grinning broadly.
"Shepard," said Garrus curtly.
"Tough son-of-a-bitch," Jacob chuckled. "Didn't think he'd be up yet."
"Nobody would give me a mirror," said Garrus, as he sauntered into the room. "How bad is it?" He pointed towards his bandaged cheek.
"Hell, Garrus," replied Shepard, smirking, "you were always ugly. Slap some face-paint on there and no-one will even notice."
Garrus started to laugh, but then winced with pain.
"Don't make me laugh, damnit," he groaned. "My face is barely holding together as it is." Quickly resuming his casual demeanour, he strode closer to Shepard. "Some women find facial scars attractive. Mind you, most of those women are Krogan."
Shepard chuckled, shaking her head. It looked like the attack hadn't affected Garrus in the slightest. Jacob gave a respectful salute to them both and headed back to the armoury. When he was gone, Garrus leaned closer to Shepard.
"Frankly, I'm more worried about you," he said, his tone now much more serious. "Cerberus, Shepard? You remember those sick experiments they were doing, not to mention that they murdered one of your most respected admirals?"
"I do," said Shepard grimly. "That's why I'm glad you're here, Garrus. If I'm walking into Hell, I want someone I trust at my side."
"You realise this plan has me walking into Hell, too," said Garrus, before allowing himself a small chuckle. "Just like old times, alright. I'm fit for duty whenever you need me, Shepard. I'll settle in and see what I can do at the forward batteries."
With that, he walked back out of the briefing room. He had faith in Shepard, but now that he was on a Cerberus vessel he couldn't shake the feeling that he should be looking over his shoulder at all times.
0
A born killer...
She had heard that so many times throughout the course of her life. It had been instilled into her from a very early stage in her life. She had made her first kill when she was less than ten years old. Everything that she had experienced had all been made with the intent of pushing her into euphoria each time she took a life. She still felt that buzz even now; every atrocity she had committed gave her nothing but pleasure when she thought about it.
Perhaps that was why she was considered psychotic even by the usual standards of the inmates on board the prison ship Purgatory. The killings she committed on the ship hadn't even been unprovoked; those guards and prisoners who had raped her had it coming. She had spent most of the last few days frozen, until she suddenly woke up to find her cryo-freezer open, and alarms sounding all over the station.
She had wasted no time in making her escape bid, of course, smashing apart any mechs, guards or inmatess dumb enough to try to stop her. She was a psion, and a very powerful one at that. She remembered all-too-well what she had suffered through to make her 'the ultimate human psion'. She knew nothing about her birth parents, or where she had been born. All she knew were the experiments, the ruthless pursuit of unlocking the full extent of ESP potential in humans. They had made her into the ultimate living weapon, and one of these days they would all die at the hands of their weapon. The irony was delicious.
She had fought her way through the ship, using her ESP capabilities to slam her opponents into the walls, empower her impressive combat abilities and even tear her opponents apart from the inside. Every drop of blood, every shattered bone and scream of pain was like a narcotic for her; she felt so much pleasure at this death and mayhem that she felt fit to burst. That was a side-effect of her conditioning, of course, though if there was one thing she had learned was that there was no time for regrets, for you might be dead tomorrow.
Eventually, as the station collapsed and burned around her, she reached the docking bay. Only two more Blue Suns guards stood between her and freedom. They tried to shout at her, tell her to stop, but she ploughed straight into them. She broke one merc's neck with a vicious, psionically-enhanced backhand before lifting the other one up psychically and sending him crashing into the pipes on the wall.
Just a few steps to go and she would be able to hijack a shuttle and get out of the station before it blew. As she was passing one of the docking cradles, however, she happened to glance out of one of the windows and spotted that a ship was still docked. That would be much better than a shuttle for her purposes, and she was on the point of breaking inside and hijacking the vessel. It was a very sleek vessel, no doubt very powerful, and it would make a fine prize, at least until she got bored with it and crashed in on the nearest Hanar moon.
However, a second glance revealed something that she really did not want to see. An outraged expression lined her face as she saw an emblem on the side of the ship, one that she had hoped she would never see again. Just the very sight of it made her blood boil. She knew exactly who this ship belong to.
"Cerberus..." she snarled. Her snarl became a frustrated roar. Cerberus was here, the one thing she hated more than anything else in this galaxy. Why were they here? Had they finally caught up to her? Well, she had no intention of ever going back with them. If any Cerberus operatives came up to her now, she would pull their heads off! It gave her all the more reason to get on that ship and wipe out everyone on it.
Hearing footsteps running towards her, she spun around to see a Blue Suns guard charging at her, his assault rifle ready. However, there were sudden gunshots from behind her, and the Batarian dropped to the floor as his brains were turned into mush by two neatly-placed bullets. Spinning round to see the shooter, she was three well-armed people stood before her; two human females and a Turian male. Much to her disgust, she saw that the dark-haired woman was wearing a Cerberus uniform. Even as the black-armoured woman relaxed her gun, she knew that these people were not to be trusted.
"What the hell do you want?" she barked, bracing herself for a fight.
"You're in a bad situation, Jack," said the armoured woman, apparently the leader of this trio. "I'm gonna get you outta here."
"Shit," the woman known as Jack muttered. "You sound like a pussy." She paced before them, peering at them with concentrated hate. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You're Cerberus."
"I'm here to ask for your help," the squad leader said.
"You show up in a Cerberus frigate to take me away somewhere," Jack argued. "You think I'm stupid?" It was clear that the squad leader was now losing her patience, as a hard frown creased her face.
"This ship is going down in flames," she hissed. "I've got the only way out. I'm offering to take you with me, and you're arguing."
"We could knock her out and take her," the Turian said.
"I'd like to see you try," Jack retorted.
"We're not gonna attack her," the squad leader said to her companion, clearly showing more sense.
"Good move," said Jack. "Look, you want me to come with you, make it worth my while." It seemed to be dawning on Jack that this wasn't a normal Cerberus operation. It was strange that two of them weren't wearing uniforms, and she couldn't recall any point where Cerberus had recruited aliens.
"Tell me what you're thinking," said the squad leader.
"I bet your ship's got lots of Cerberus databases," said Jack, a sudden idea coming to her. "I wanna look at those files, see what Cerberus has on me. You want me on your team? Then let me go through those databases."
The squad leader paused, clearly considering the conditions. Jack didn't expect anything to come of it, but it couldn't hurt to try.
"I'll give you full access," she then said. Jack had to admit that she was surprised by this, but then again she had been lied to before and wasn't entirely ready to believe her word yet.
"Shepard, you're not authorised to do that!" the dark-haired Cerberus woman barked.
"Aww, it upsets the cheerleader," Jack sneered. She figured that woman would be a full-fledged Cerberus lackey before she even opened her mouth. "Even better." She turned to look back at the woman called Shepard and glared at her. "You'd better be straight up with me."
Shepard just nodded in reply. Clearly the woman was a professional, not trying to give her any bullshit marketing speak. Jack turned to look back at the ship. Looking at it again, she saw that it was called the Normandy. It struck her as an odd name, but she wasn't going to complain if it was her only chance off the station.
"So what the hell are we standing here for?" she barked.
"Move out," said Shepard firmly, and the quartet began to move towards the docking cradle.
Jack noticed the dirty looks she was getting from the Cerberus cheerleader. Though the thought of annoying such a person gave Jack a great deal of amusement, she couldn't help but be curious about why this Shepard woman wanted her so badly, and even seemed willing to spill Cerberus' darkest secrets to her. Then again, she did arrive in a Cerberus vessel, and doubtless there would be more Cerberus crew on-board. She was fully expecting a knife in the back at any moment. Well, if all else failed she could go back to the 'kill everyone and take the ship' plan, but for the time being at least she wanted to see just how far this trap extended.
0
He knew many names. He knew the name Jarrod, the fierce warlord who tried to betray and murder his own son, even going so far as to befoul hallowed ground to do so. He knew the name Shiagur, the cunning warlord who had used her unique position as a fertile female Krogan to seize power during the Krogan Rebellions. Of course, he also knew the name of his creator, Okeer, a militant radical who was so ruthless and fanatical that even his own people turned on him. Okeer had tried to imprint all of his knowledge and values onto his subject.
What he didn't know was why he should care about all this. He knew the names of old warlords, but he didn't know why they had to be so revered. Okeer had shown him so much in the imprints, but he didn't know what purpose it all served. It was like holding a picture book up to a child, just asking them to identify what was in the pictures over and over without giving them a reason to care.
Being in this tank, suspended in the fluid in which he had been grown and was filling him with nutrients, he had a lot of time for thought. However, he now felt a new sensation, as if he was being thrown onto a hard surface. He heard a loud thud and felt impact on his knees. He no longer felt the warmth of the tank fluid, and every muscle of his body ached. All of his scales felt cold, and he coughed violently, spitting out more of the fluid that only seconds ago he had called 'home'. He also became aware of new sounds reaching his ears; the low, steady hum of a ship's engines, and a sound of footsteps from close by.
Now he felt a new sensation. A small voice in the back of his mind was telling him to get to his feet immediately. He had to be prepared to face whoever had opened his tank. He was told that was the way of the Krogan warrior, to always be ready to fight, for the Krogan had many enemies. To fight was all he knew. It was what he was created for. He knew how to kill every single alien that existed in this galaxy, including his own kin. Okeer had spent so much time obsessing over old hatreds.
Slowly, feeling his muscles begin to work, he raised himself to his full height, the last remnants of fluid dripping off him. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, trying to focus. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was already clothed in gleaming silver battle armour; he could not begin to imagine how Okeer had managed to dress him without awakening him. A quick cursory glance revealed that he was in a small storage room, with crates of various sizes and with clean metallic walls. Standing before him was a small human female, with short brown hair, green eyes and dressed in brown overalls.
His mental imprints told him about humans. He knew that they were soft, like the Asari. He knew that it would only require a finger, if that, to dig in and sever their spine. He knew that their necks were delicate, and would not take much effort to crush. Guided by instinct, he decided what to do on the spot. He needed to disable this human without killing her, and leaving her capable of speech. There was one thing he wanted, something fundamental which Okeer had failed to give him.
With a snarl, he bent his head down and dashed forward, slamming into her. His charge carried them both to the opposite wall, where he pinned her against it, his arm placed firmly on her neck. The human tried to struggle loose, but his grip was firm.
"Human. Female," he grunted, using his mouth for the first time. Okeer's imprint had taught him how to speak and had told him of the universal translators that many in the galaxy used. He knew this human would have no trouble understanding him.
"Before you die," he said in a dispassionate tone, "I need a name."
"I'm Commander Shepard," the human hissed, showing only defiance rather than fear, "and I don't take threats lightly. I suggest you relax."
"Not your name," he replied. "Mine. I am trained, I know things, but the tank... Okeer couldn't implant connection. His words are hollow." He moved his lips slowly and carefully, trying to make them fit the words that he searched his mind for.
"Warlord..." he muttered. "Legacy, grunt... grunt." He then paused for a moment, finally finding a word that seemed to fit his mouth perfectly. He remembered that words as being one of the last things Okeer said before he died.
"'Grunt' was among the last," he said. "It has no meaning. It will do." He stared this woman, this 'Shepard' in the eye, and the female returned a similar cold glare.
"I am Grunt," he said. "If you are worthy of your command, prove your strength and try to destroy me."
"You wouldn't prefer 'Okeer'?" Shepard asked sarcastically. "Or 'Legacy'?"
"It's short," Grunt explained. "It matches the training in my blood. The other words are big things I don't feel. Maybe they fit your mouth better. I feel nothing for Okeer's clan or his enemies. I will do what I am bred to do – fight and determine the strongest – but his imprint has failed. Without a reason that's mine, one fight is as good as any other. Might as well start with you."
"Is it that easy for Okeer's perfect Krogan to abandon his mission?" asked Shepard firmly. Grunt vaguely recalled the word 'perfect' mentioned by Okeer, his pursuit of the perfect Krogan. He hadn't been searching for a cure to the genophage; he had wanted to create a super-race that would ignore it and climb to dominance on top of mountains of the dead. That was all meaningless to Grunt, however; he felt nothing for Okeer's mission.
"Okeer is just a voice in the tank," he said dismissively. "If his imprints are true, then he created something stronger than him. So he's not worthy of me. And if his hatreds aren't strong enough to compel me, they've failed too. I feel nothing. I have no connection."
He wasn't sure why he was admitting all this to this human, but he had read her body language throughout this confrontation. His words had no effect on her; there was no intimidation present, no sign of fear. She was calm, collected, even in such a situation as this; something about her made him want to speak, not just able to.
"We'll help you find that connection," said Shepard. "I've a good ship and a strong crew; a strong clan. You'd make it stronger."
"If you're weak and choose weak enemies, I'll have to kill you," snorted Grunt.
"Our enemies are worthy," said Shepard, a wry smile forming on her lips. "No doubt about that."
Grunt now had to admit that his curiosity was piqued. Clearly this woman seemed sure that the enemies she spoke of were worthy of his attention, and now he wanted to see just what they were. She seemed to believe that she could help him find what he sought, even though she was not a Krogan. Okeer had tried to tell him that no aliens could be trusted, but he had not given him a reason to believe that. He wanted to find a reason to care about anything on his own, and though it sounded incredible to him this human might be the one to help him find it.
"That is... acceptable," he grunted. "I'll fight for you."
"I'm glad you saw reason," said Shepard, and he noticed her eyes flicking down towards his abdomen. Puzzled, Grunt peered down, and now saw that she was holding a pistol tightly, pointing it right at his stomach. One shot and she could have easily forced him off, and there was no telling how long she had been pointing it. Grunt relaxed his grip, chuckling as he released Shepard.
"Offer one hand, but arm the other," he said, genuinely impressed. "Wise, Shepard. If I find a clan, if I find what I... I want, I will be honoured to eventually pit them against you."
