12:45, Presidium Time

September 11th, 2183

Aria's Ship, en route to Omega

Melding with one asari can be a good or a bad experience.

Me, for example… well, I now had a fear of the potential mind-rape that comes along with said asari melding. I would not be surprised if I ended up with some minor form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder due to the horror of having your mind suspended and open to an entity that could mulch your grey matter if she got annoyed.

I'll give a more… easy to understand example; how about rock climbing? I love rock-climbing, it's awesome to scamper up the rock and conquer a rock face. But at the same time, I hate rock-climbing. I hate the feeling of not knowing if the rope is taut and supporting or if you'll plummet to the ground and go all Humpty-Dumpty. I make for a horrible climbing buddy, because I worry so much about such a simple thing; while I know that I will slowly grow accustomed to the ropes, it is not an easy process.

With that in mind, try to imagine my mental state after I come mind-numbingly close (no pun intended) to having my consciousness shredded by an asari.

I was freaking out and shivering internally for a while afterwards; being surrounded by three very powerful asari immediately after that occurrence was not my idea of a good recovery period.

And now I was getting into a threesome with two asari that are both entirely capable of crushing me into pulp and disposing the body as if they did this daily.

Yeah.

Not my idea of a good vacation, this whole mess.

I mean, sure, any other male (from this time period, and probably a fair few from Home) would kill to be in this position right now.

Ah, it's typical of me to be annoyed to get what is popular culture's supposed 'Man's Paradise.' I don't agree with the common perception of that paradise as the ultimate reward/goal/accomplishment, and then I go and earn it anyway.

First I get stuck in a galaxy that is going to be exterminated in two years, and the corpses of every living being will become either a robo-zombie or a mecha-cthulhu that has no sentience or free will, and then I realize I can't tell the truth without getting thrown into an insane asylum.

Then I get attacked by a bunch of gun-toting batarians, join a warlord Queen of a pirate/smuggler/Blade Runner mining space station.

And after that, I get thrown into a wall and knocked out, before being interrogated via being mind-raped by a sexy middle-aged renegade cthulhoid Spectre (who has more power than all of Home with her connections) and came way too close to having my mind stripped bare in a fashion more violating than the most traumatic rape.

And now, I am going to be mind-raped by two sexy middle-aged cthulhoid alien women with more power than my entire world back Home.

So yeah, not my idea of a good vacation.

So when Aria and Tela Vasir link arms and their eyes roll back, I shiver. When their arms reach out to snag me into the third member of their mind-meld (no physical copulation required, or so they said), I gulp and start swearing under my breath.

"Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-" I mutter over and over again in a mantra of survival, as the two pairs of scary as fuck pitch black eyes look at me and mutter "Embrace Eternity" in stereo.

My brain racing at top speed, the concepts and images of my internal conversation fly faster than Aria's and Vasir's arms can stretch. The literal words are only because I haven't managed to come up with a way to transfer thoughts through touch yet (I'd need Javik to even begin developing a way to do that), so the words are simply my way of trying to remember what was communicated; albeit in a much lesser form.

A thought occurs to me as the black eyes loom in my view, and lithe blue hands remove my shirt (no physical copulation required my ass, Vasir).

Perhaps you could simply lay back and enjoy this. Perhaps you might not find it inconceivable that having mind-sex with two smoking hot asari is a good thing.

I would agree, I argue with the voice in my head (which seems to keep taking holidays…), except for the fact that I'm not enjoying this in the slightest.

Lay back and think of England, then.

Oh God… I lament, the last thought before the embracing arms of the melding asari take me.

The voice in my head is mocking me; what has this world come to?


"I wasn't expecting that." Aria reflects as she lays her head along my bare chest. Vasir chuckles and traces a line on Aria's exposed stomach (the corset had come off, but the coat stayed on) with a fingertip.

I twitch, but as much as I want to remove her tentacle-head from my chest, I'd rather not offend her. But still… the tentacles pressing down on my skin is a sensation that I am not familiar with.

Oh God, they're moving!

I jolt in surprise, and Aria joins in with Vasir's mirth. I would move away, but I already thought that process out and it doesn't end well.

Luckily for my already damaged mind, they hadn't actually required physical copulation of the human variety, so at least my pants stayed on. If they hadn't stayed on, well… then I'd probably be a babbling idiot right now, finally driven over the edge of sanity by two hot asari. Mind you, that might be one of the better ways to die.

Hmm… with my mind running more or less on sex-drive (despite the lack of physical copulation) I was much more relaxed and easy with the idea of two sexy women (alien or not) on my lap.

Of course, chimes the dark corner of my mind, I didn't feel this way after I melded with Vasir, so it might be one of them tweaking the pleasure centers of my brain. Or it could not be.

Screw it, my inhibitions are pretty much gone by this point in time, so let's ask.

"Vasir, did you mess with my paranoia or tweak my mind to feel more pleasure?" I ask, tilting my head back from where I lay so that I can glance up at Vasir, who's reclining in Aria's usual spot on the couch, reaching over to us with her arms.

"Maybe." Vasir smirks.

"Let's be honest, you needed it." Aria drawls. "You were too tense and uptight; you needed to relax, and melding alone wasn't going to accomplish it. Besides, it's no different than taking an anti-depressant, right?"

"I don't take anti-depressants." I argue, but I can't stop smiling. Perhaps they're right, I concede with a sigh.

"We might make you." Vasir says, her voice a little far-off and contemplative. "You're not used to the stress of trying to balance this weight, so you're going to need something to release it; and while this was nice, I'm not giving you pity-sex every few weeks."

"Damn." I swear theatrically in a melodramatic British accent. "There goes my hope of being mentally savaged every time I came to my wits."

"You'll crumble." Aria mentions, almost off-handedly. "You aren't used to that much stress. Blackmailing the leader of a species, stopping the Collectors, fighting the Reapers… you've never dealt with anything like that."

"…No." I admit, voice going soft as the magnitude of my self-appointed task hits me once more. "But I have to try."

"No, you don't." Vasir contradicts, making me look at her in confusion. "Isn't that one of your human quotes? 'Do or do not, there is no try', right? Commit to action with everything you have, every weapon you've got. If you hold anything back, you don't have a chance."

"Which is why you need anti-depressants if you keep up this pathetic coward act." Aria concludes, sitting up and looking right into my shaky eyes. "We need you serious and functioning, not whiney and useless. Grow a spine, boy, or we'll start with the meds."

"…Alright." I murmur, snagging my discarded crew top and pulling it back on.

The ship's interior is pretty well-lit, and the color of the walls and furniture create a bright setting; as if to contrast with Afterlife's dark walls and flame motif. To complete the image, Vasir and Aria's outfits are both a mix of dark and light, their coats and other garments – well, not blending in, but not standing out starkly from the sitting room's feel.

Me, on the other hand… dark brown pants climbing pants, a black sleeveless shirt with two stripes (one of white, one of gold), and my own dark hair and beard… I don't quite fit in with the sci-fi décor around here. Perhaps that's a good metaphor for my existence in this universe, being bluntly different from everyone else.

Okay, I'm getting far too analytical. Everyone is not Jesus in Purgatory, and all that. I can't afford to get all philosophical right now.

"Damnit, Vasir, you overdid that… whatever-you-did to my brain." I say, scowling. "Now my brain feels loopy and spacey, but not drunk spacey."

"Oh, that happens sometimes." Vasir confirms cheerily. "It's nothing to worry about, there's no real side effects from too much happiness."

"Great." I groan, lying back down on the floor as Aria tugs on her corset and begins clipping it tight with Vasir's help. "You drugged me with happiness. You drugged me with pure, naturally occurring, with no chemicals or injections or inhalants, happiness."

I pause, as both of the asari look at me, Vasir with a curious look and Aria with a straight face and an arched eyebrow.

"Your point?" Vasir asks, showing off her Aria imitation (is it a good or a bad thing that I immediately connected that with Aria?).

"Can you like, bottle that feeling? Maybe replicate it, or something? Not for selling or for drugs or anything, just so that I don't have to go through this whole thing again."

At this, they laugh again.

"You may be the only human in the galaxy who is trying to avoid melding with an asari." Aria states, chuckling. "I don't know if I find that interesting or sad."

I shrug, putting my hands behind my head and laying back on the metal deck of the ship.

Ooh, that feels good for my tense back muscles. Quickly, I toss off my shirt and lay back down, enjoying the sensation on my extraordinarily tense back muscles.

Wait, why are my back muscles tense? They haven't been this sore and tight since I was still in rowing.

"Well," I start wistfully. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

A gasp sounds loudly in the split-second of silence immediately after I say that.

"Mother?!"

Ah yes, just what I was missing.

"Howdy, Liselle." I deadpan, looking up from where Liselle is standing in the now open doorway, jaw agape at the scene of me lying shirtless on the floor, looking up while Vasir helps Aria put her corset back on.

I shrug again. Well, at least now I don't have to put any effort into stopping Liselle from getting in my pants; I really didn't want to explain to Aria why I boinked her daughter, even before the whole 'asari mind-rape PTSD' thing.

"Nick?! Explain!"

"What could I possibly say that would make this any better?" I ask rhetorically, resigned to the situation and channelling my inner Jack O'Neill.


Let's just say that Liselle was dismayed, and leave it at that.

Aria was her usual nonchalant self, and if it wasn't for her indifferent manner, I would have said that the roles of parent and child had reversed, but alas this is Aria we are talking about here, so she keeps her calm flawlessly while Liselle freaks out. I'd put my shirt back on in case Liselle decided to rip in half or something stupid (I don't know, I'm not qualified for dealing with raging women), and it didn't look like she was going to calm down anytime soon.

Vasir definitely wasn't helping things; laughing uproariously as she was.

But Aria is Aria, and all she needed to do was casually glance over at Liselle and say a few words.

"Do we need to talk about that turian again?" Aria questions; anyone else would have given it a sinister emphasis, but Aria simply asks the question plain and simple, and Liselle shuts up immediately, blushing a deeper blue. Turning on her heel, she flees the room in a huff, apparently dismayed that her own mother melded with the guy she was aiming for.

"…Turian?" I inquire curiously, sidling back over to my (and it is 'mine' by now) recliner, sighing in relief as I lay back on the soft leather.

"Just the son of some general." Aria dismisses without a care. "Liselle was very attached; almost like she hadn't heard of casual sex. It was funny for a while."

"Wow." I say, a little surprised.

"What, surprising that she found a man and got clingy?" Aria deadpans (which she's been doing a lot more of lately, I notice).

"No," I reply, slower. "Just a little surprised that her mother is mocking her about it. Mine would have never done that. Species difference?"

"Something like that." Vasir answers, stretching cat-like across the right side of Aria's Couch (yes, it warrants a capital letter). "Because we live so long and are so concerned with reproduction, asari tend to be more… loose with their parenting. It's probably part of the reason you see so many young asari working as strippers; to try to get back at their parents."

"And then they're somehow surprised to learn that their parents did the same thing when they were Maidens." Aria says derisively. "The thought that it could just be a cycle never occurred to them."

"Yeah." I grunt, her word choice bringing back my big problem again. "We'll have to do something about that cycle."

"Hmh." Aria still doesn't sound convinced, though she depresses another button on her panel of joy; luckily it turns out to deploy all of the emergency bulkheads, so as to keep any eavesdroppers out. "I don't fully believe this, evidence or not."

"Well," I sigh, having half-expected this. "At least you're honest. You'll have your proof, though, when the Collectors pop out of the Omega-4 relay."

"Oh, I don't need proof." Aria responds coolly. "If you are wrong, then I still get to the reap the benefits of this relationship with Vasir. I may have my connections, but a Spectre that's willing to work with me is a rare prize, and not one I'm willing to squander."

"Oh, but of course, Aria." I drawl sardonically. "Really, though, I wouldn't have expected anything else."

"Actually," I continue, stroking my beard and looking up at the ceiling as if in thought. "That's probably what I would do if our positions were to be switched."

"It's one thing to say that, and another to think of it on your own." Vasir points out.

"So," I say a tad loudly, ignoring Vasir's very good point and clearing my throat. "What are our priorities here?"

It's a bit of a test, that question, for both them and me. To see if they agreed with what I had already planned out, and if they didn't, why. This was my way of seeing if I was capable of planning at their level or not, to see if I was just a source of intelligence or a full Player in the Great Game.

"Eden Prime should be priority one." Vasir expresses her opinion, and I quirk an eyebrow at the choice.

"No." Aria disagrees, shaking her head. "We'd need to find the pod before we could retrieve him, and even then we need the Cipher."

"But the technological advantages of Prothean weaponry and designs could help turn the tide against the Reapers." Vasir argues.

"Heh." I chuckle, causing both of the asari to look up at my interruption. "That won't help."

"And why not, Nick?" Vasir asks, though her voice isn't one of somebody learning wisdom.

She's made up her mind on Eden Prime, and she'll fight us every step of the way for that to be our target. I'm going to have to defuse this situation carefully; otherwise we could lose her support, which would severely restrict us.

"I'm going to need to explain something here, so please don't interrupt me, okay?" I request, getting up from my recliner to explain my point. I've always argued and ranted better when standing or pacing.

"When I was Home, away from all of this, I studied things. I didn't study psychology or physics or anything you'd find in a normal school, at least during my time, but instead I studied other things, whatever caught my interest. I came up with a saying, and though the terms are probably being used wrongly, I think it fits. It was that 'there are three orders of proficiency; these being Civilian, Professional, and Hobbyist.'

"Now, when I say 'Civilian' I mean somebody who has no experience in the matter, somebody who has never been exposed to it. The 'Professional' relates to somebody studying their subject enough to make a living doing it, whatever it is. Finally, the 'Hobbyist' is somebody who lives and breathes their subject. The Hobbyist is the most complex of these, because it's hard for most people to grasp. A Hobbyist is devoted to their subject, no matter what it is, be it model train sets or nuclear bombs.

"There was a professor at Stanford University back Home by the name of Paul Kruger; he taught nuclear explosion theory for a good thirty years. At one point, there was a scandal in the newspapers when a graduate student revealed he had the knowledge to build a nuclear bomb. When they asked Kruger, he said that if the student didn't know how to build a nuclear bomb, they wouldn't pass his class.

"Now, if that's just a student, imagine what Kruger knew. Granted, technology marches on and all that jazz, but that's the epitome of a Hobbyist. Nuclear explosions were the driving force of his mind, this was a guy once told the President of the United States that he could have created the Panama Canal in a hour with a few shaped nuclear bombs."

"Not that I don't appreciate another chance to hear you chatter," Aria says, her eyes narrowed (presumably) at my inane prattle. "But am I correct in assuming that there is a point buried somewhere in your inane rambling?"

"But of course, Aria!" I reply jovially with a broad and welcoming grin, pointing my hands towards my chest. "I am a Hobbyist. My focus, the love of my life, is the study of winning. I'm nowhere near the tactical level of a lieutenant, much less a general, but I have studied enough tactics to understand the tenets, the language, so to speak, of tactics. While I may never be anywhere near becoming a qualified military leader or tactician, I understand enough tactics to play the Great Game. Similarly, I study whatever I need to so that I can make a list. In this case, the List was on the greatest armies; ever. Specifically, the greatest armies in terms of recruitment, reinforcement, and logistical replenishment, since logistics was the biggest deciding factor."

"What about troop quality? Ship capability? What about Spectres or weapons advancements?" Vasir takes the counterpoint, though I can tell she's only doing it so that she can hear my response. Or that could be my arrogance speaking up again.

"Irrelevant!" I dismiss, flinging an arm to the side to emphasize my point. "Ships and weapons can be captured and reverse engineered, Spectres can't beat whole armies when confronted directly, and troop quality can only go so far because the technology gap is almost never massive enough to dramatically change things; while the Reapers have an undeniable superiority in naval combat, their ground troops primary advantage isn't their combat skills, it's their numbers. The Reapers convert any available biomass into more husks; you saw how they turned a couple turians and krogan into a Brute despite the levo/dextro incompatibility."

"Yes, you managed to suck up to the enemy and discourage us, this is a great help." Aria retorted sarcastically.

"You aren't letting me finish!" I bark, agitated by the constant interruptions. "That's the thing; the Reapers have effectively created a ground force of zombies. Their ground forces, no matter the cybernetics, are effectively zombies, which humans have debated and discussed for years. The primary advantage is that you can use most biomass for it; though apparently it has to be an organic animal of a certain size. Hell, even the Reapers themselves are basically a ground up organic slurry that is stripped of morality and turned into a machine.

"Now, I'm a Hobbyist that studied a lot of various shit so that I could analyze the ways that armies got 'recruits', for lack of a better word. The Reapers file under the third ranked item on the List, which was to convert the enemy dead and civilians into your soldiers, because your enemy has to have an enormous kill/death ratio combined with a technological level that renders your dead into mulch, otherwise you could just pull up your casualties and use them again."

"…What's the first item on that list?" Aria asks cautiously, perhaps starting to understand the underlying concept that I'm trying to explain here.

The lesson I'm trying to impart is that With enough study, with enough applied taxonomy, you can unravel and understand anything. Or, to use the motto that the folks at the SpaceBattles Forums created for the X-Com Science Division: "If it exists, it can be touched. If it can be touched, it can be felt. If it can be felt, it can be understood. If it can be understood, it's our bitch."

"The first item on the list was an army that creates, or 'recruits' for familiarity's sake, it's troops out of raw matter, assembling individual protons neutrons and electrons into whatever element that desire to create the perfect troops. An army like that would be the most resource-efficient, and would be capable of creating the most troops out of any other idea except from my banned list."

"Banned list?" Aria asks, curious about what I would deem banned.

"There's a flaw with that-" Vasir says at the exact same time, blending both of their voices together.

Vasir cuts her sentence off and gestures for Aria to go first.

"What do you mean, a banned list? If this is supposed to be a comprehensive study of everything, then why did you create another list?" Aria interrogates, pointing out what she deems to be a flaw.

"Well, I made the banned list so that I wouldn't take forever to make the first list." I shrug, scratching my neck. "The banned list is stuff that would break the game, so to speak; things like using time-travel in a stable time-loop to send your army back in time to help yourself win in the first place, you know, the kind of bullshit that can't happen in real life. Keep in mind, even cloning is on the normal list, because it's possible. The banned list is all the things that I thought were either hilariously improbable or that I knew would take me a decade of study to properly understand. I mean, using time-travel as a method of recruitment, it's not going to happen."

"Alright, then." Aria nods, having found my explanation acceptable. "What's your complaint, Tela?"

"Nick, you can't be serious about this stuff, there's a basic flaw in it." Vasir starts lecturing, her confidant tone giving me the impression of a teacher; meaning she thought she knew for a fact something was wrong. "This model doesn't include a time-frame. The Reapers can convert a corpse into a husk in a few days at the slowest, it takes us eighteen years to replace a war casualty; or three, if you use vorcha as ground troops. Simply put, the use of a nano-forge or a raw matter assembly plant could take a day to make a unit or it could take a year. How many troops how fast is what the point of logistics is."

"You've got a point," I answer, already having a response prepared. "But I thought about that and tried to take it into account. See, the Reapers need a supply of biomass so that they can create their husks; if they allow us to whittle away their ground forces with death of a thousand cuts, then they don't have the corpses of our troops to convert into more of their troops. Similarly, an army could be laying in wait for years, even centuries, if they did a good enough job at keeping you from discovering the troop buildup; just like how you could use diversionary raids and other tricks to keep an enemy occupied. And how about how many factories were there building these troops? The matter-assembly method took first because you could create a factory or a bomb with the same step as you did to make a trooper, whereas the other methods have to used dedicated tools to make their factories."

"I still don't see how this helps us." Aria says, folding her arms. "You're correct in saying that we can't out number the Reapers, but what do you propose that we do, demolish families and society to increase the speed of our recruitment? That's not going to work, unless you – the Geth."

For the first time, I have the rare privilege of seeing Aria forced silent by something. I smile broadly, as Vasir connects my previous rants to this one.

"The Geth took number two on your list, didn't they?" Vasir demands, starting to grin as well.

"Not the Geth specifically, but Von Neumann machines did. They only need materials, and while the right materials can just as hard to acquire as biomass, the primary advantage is the whole 'one robot builds a second, two build two, four build four, and so on. Sixteen 'bots build a factory that builds bots, then it just keeps escalating. Once you get the avalanche started, it's very hard to stop it."

Aria, the only member of the trio not grinning like a madman, merely shakes her head.

"So that's why you were so crazy about the Geth." she says. She tries to make it sound dismissive, but I could swear I detect a hint of …pride? No, maybe it's happiness?

Aria's happy that I had a plan?

No…

Aria's happy that she made a good choice in hiring me.

Well, I reflect as I plop back down in my recliner, I'm happy about that too.

"Now that we've got that sorted out," I draw out, looking both Aria and Vasir in the eye. "What's next?"


When we step out the airlock to Omega, it's the same group that left. Vasir will be entering Afterlife through one of Aria's other ways, so as to avoid tipping off anybody who might be keeping surveillance on us. She'll meet with us later in the secured section of Afterlife, where we knew there weren't any bugs.

Of course, there's a fair bit of tension as Liselle keeps shooting what she no doubt thinks are subtle glances at me, though they're hilariously obvious to everyone present. Grizz, for his part, ignores them with professional distaste, while Anto quirked an eyebrow (where his eyebrow would be, anyway,) in a curious case of picking up human mannerisms from me.

Though I can't see Aria because she's ahead of me, of course, she's got a slight smirk on her face the whole time, amused by the situation.

Omega, for it's part, only welcomes us back whoever happened to be nearby at the time. The major players will be by later to pay their respect or to exchange witticisms, but for right now the crowd is just the people who happen to be within shouting distance of the airlock.

The krogan bouncer keeping the line under control nods to Aria as she passes by, and even the most unruly person in the line moves away out of fear or respect. The mood in the air is curious, like some variation of having the boss walk into the room when you're slacking off; everyone seems tense and yet reassured, in the ways that they stand and the ways that they act.

"It's good to be back." Aria declares as she strolls into the flashing neon lights and dark gyrating masses of Afterlife. The crowd gives way before her, some cheering and some just watching in awe at actually seeing Aria this close. They clear a little path for her, and those with drinks raise them in a toast while those with weapons make it obvious that their hands are away from their guns.

It's such a unique feeling, to be a part of that crowd when Aria returns. The distrust and paranoia merges with respect and recognition to create a palpable sensation, one that everyone reacts to. I'd imagine that this is similar to standing in a room full of mercs when Zaeed walks in.

There's no question, no challenge in this simple statement of power. It is simply Aria returning home to Afterlife, nothing more and nothing less. The fact that there is such a reaction to such an ordinary thing…

The floor is packed tonight, and the customers seem to be paying very nicely, given how my turian bartender friend is grinning as he chats with another drunk human; he doesn't like humans, especially drunk ones. The artificial flames dance and writhe while the asari strippers match the tempo of the flames and the pulsing music.

The heat ramps up with the mass of bodies, and I pull off my training pullover, shoving it in my bag along with my sunglasses.

Ascending the stairs to her private booth like a returning goddess, Aria strides up to her Couch and acknowledges Garka with a nod. All eyes in the club are on her as she looks out over the upper floor of Afterlife, scanning the crowd like a Queen would view her courtiers. She nods once more and sits down, and the crowd cheers once more, as the vid-screens flash: 'This round is on the House.'

I slip through the crowd, squeezing past batarians and gently pushing through asari to get back to one of the bartenders, my aforementioned turian comrade. He wasn't a friend, because as I'd mentioned before, he didn't like humans. However, he was strictly professional, and as such I'd never had any problems with him. As well, I think he was tainted by his limited interactions with humans; the only ones he talked to wanted to get drunk and find an asari stripper, so he didn't exactly have the greatest impression of human values and character. Since I'm (comparatively) a nicer guy who has a habit of making friends with the unlikeliest of people, I'm sure that I'm slowly breaking down that prejudice.

Really, I'd say something about needing as many allies as I can get, but I've got to be honest; I just like making good friends. It's engaging to see the many ways that a person can turn out, almost like studying a character for a story like I was back Home, away from this madness of extermination and cycles.

Heh. Though I am stuck in another universe, lost and mostly alone, I can't stop being a writer, being a storyteller. I'd say that it was the fundamental me, to study and learn stories and tales to break them down and understand them, but that would be so basic that it would be insulting.

"Nick. Working or passing through?" the bartender asks, leaning easily on the bar and watching the crowd rather than looking at me. Nothing but business, as I said earlier, though I do notice that his speech sounds much more natural now that the implant is translating it in my mind instead of through an earbud.

"Passing through, but I'll be back up for my shift after I drop my stuff off and get a quick shower in." I reply, giving him a respectful nod.

The turian nods, and starting reaching for bottles as a scarred batarian in Blue Suns armor gives him a signal.

Wasting no time, I move over to the side of the bar and wave my omni-tool in front of the scanner. The scanner bleeps reassuringly, and a small section of the bar slides away for a second, letting me enter. I turn my body sideways to move past the bartender as he moves to and fro, grabbing bottles and glasses and everything in between. On the other side of the bar, there's a door in the wall with another blinking scanner. I repeat the process, then move through again, making sure to pull the door shut firmly before opening the second security door just past that.

The guard on duty turns out to be Gavorn, who looks up in surprise at the noise, before grinning a savage-looking turian plate-grin and waving me through. Not exactly in line with the normal procedures, but since I'm still me, I don't really mind.

The hallways of Afterlife's secure side are a dark grey with no signs, the only exceptions to the uniformity being some splotches of paint here and there, some burns from industrial accidents back in the mining days, and even a few stops that are missing chunks from where, presumably, explosives were set off during Aria's takeover of Patriarch's operation. Personally, I kind of appreciate Aria leaving it the way it is, as a little reminder that this place isn't impenetrable, and that we need to constantly be on alert.

Or Aria could just not care if it looks nice at all. She's weird like that sometimes.

Taking the correct turns at the unmarked corners, I quickly make my way to my room, which I've marked with my mutated little mark, which looks like an X with horizontal lines extending from the ends and the center outward. It's a funny little mark that I doodled once during a boring math class, and after messing around with symbols and emblems for a while, it grew on me a little. It might not be an anagrammed version of my name a la Lord Voldemort, but it's an affection of mine. I'd write it on the corners of my notebooks, on the top of my laptop (well, on top of the duct-tape that was on top of my laptop), and when I extended the lines horizontal as well, it become an interesting geometric pattern on graph paper.

When everything else was unmarked due to either security or laziness, I used it to signify my door.

Entering my familiar by-now room, I toss my bag on my asari-made bed (way too soft, it needs to be a little more firm, or I struggle to get out of bed) and peel off my shirt, reaching back to lock the door just in case somebody wants to enter while I'm changing. Just a politeness thing, from me to them since any nudity-in-front-of-others taboo I had got stripped away (oh, God that was horrible… I swear that wasn't intentional) at boarding school.

My pants quickly follow my shirt into the dirty-launder chute (down to the laundry room that I'd later stop by to pick them up from whoever had laundry duty today), and I wrapped a towel around my waist to go shower.

Afterwards, I'd head back up to the bar and pull my shift on drunk duty, though this time I'd be in armor instead of clothes. Might as well get used to wearing it, 'cause the way things are going I'm going to be wearing it a fair bit before this mess gets done.


Slowly, carefully, I inspect my clothing.

I'd ordered a couple sets of clothing from a reliable extranet site some time back, and they'd arrived just before I had left for the Citadel. I'd worn one pair of brown climbing pants on the trip, but there were a few slight differences in the clothing than what I was used to, so I knew that I had to inspect it.

It's not like the future had changed a fundamental part of the clothing industry or anything (though it probably had), but it's just the way that clothes sit on my body, regardless of time period.

Take a… loose zip-up hoody for example, the kind that are made a little larger than the pull-on hoodies. If I were to try to spar somebody or sprint in it, it'd get in my way, slipping off my shoulder or bunching up and impairing movement, something that not only impairs my movement, but also annoys the hell out of me.

It's why I asked Adin to do a couple of modifications to the set of Marine armor – I mean, my armor – before I left for the Citadel. Something that small isn't a major worry, but I don't want to be distracted while I'm wearing armor, because it's hard enough as it is to try to move in the armor.

I mean, there's a reason that in some games like Fallout, you needed training to wear power armor; it's 'cause that shit is bulky. I mean, Mass Effect has the most simplistic power armor (that isn't at least partially magical, that is), and I still have trouble making my motions smooth. Back when I first put on the armor, I did a basic kata to test my range of movement, and the crap performance of that kata wouldn't have been acceptable for an orange belt, much less a brown.

So when I bought my clothes, I looked carefully at the pictures of people wearing them, to make sure I got stuff that would fit just the way I wanted. It took me a couple years to assemble a good set of gear back Home, and I don't have time to worry about clothes what with theapocalypse coming and all, so I want to get this stuff out of the way quickly.

I'd gotten a couple simple shirts (both V-neck and normal), a few button up work shirts (the rougher kind made for all sort of oil, grease, and paint stains that come with manual labor), and four good sets of climbing pants (because of the flexibility and mobility, not to mention comfort).

With this in mind, I pulled on a pair of light khaki climbing pants and a dark grey shirt before mag-clamping my omni-tool to the outside of my left thigh, on a spot specifically reinforced for that purpose. Checking to make sure the omni-tool was activated, I tap into the Afterlife comm. net, the chatter going directly into my head via that very handy N7 translation/comm. implant.

Everything secured, I jump in place twice to make sure nothings jostling, then I jump again, tucking my knees up into my chest, but nothing rattles or shakes, so I'm content that the stuff won't get in my way.

Stepping out into the grey corridors of Afterlife's base, I make sure to palm my door's sensor and lock it with a little program I'd bugged Vasir into giving me. The encryption on it was Spectre-quality, so my gear was safe.

I turn, walking quickly (as I have a tendency to do) down the hall to where the emergency stairs wait. As I stride through an intersection, I pass a batarian who sneers at the sight of me and tries to deliberately smash into my shoulder. I half-turn unthinkingly and the batarian only bumps my shoulder lightly, but nonetheless he growls as if I had just insulted him.

"Watch where you're going, human." the batarian spits, stomping off in a manner that seems… disgusted? Why the hell would he be disgusted?

Whatever, I shrug. I'd gotten Anto over to my side, and I hoped Grizz as well, but I was still the only human in Aria's employ, and not many were happy about that considering I was an unproven kid in their eyes.

After I descended the three floors to the armory, the incident was out of my mind. After all, it wasn't the first time, and I was sure that it wouldn't be the last time.

"Nick! Good, good, I just finished up with your armor!" Adin greets warmly, arms spread wide. I chuckle and smack one of his hands in a semi-high-five, and he smiles, already knowing what the gesture means.

"Awesome, everything?" I ask, moving over to where the noticeably different armor rests on a workbench.

"Just about. The cables are covered underneath the armor now without any negative effect on the mobility, and I fixed the shoulder pads by cutting them into two pads, as you see there, and the sides of the chest plate have been lightened, though that cuts down on a little protection, and because you're skinnier than the standard marine I managed to stuff in some extra kinetic barriers and upgraded the VI interfaced within the suit with the extra space, but you're still going to be slim and fast, so it isn't too drastic of a change, and then I-"

"Adin!" I interrupt, smiling lightly at the salarian's hyperactivity. "Relax, man, I can see for myself. I just want to know about the stuff that isn't immediately noticeable."

"Right… okay." Adin says, deliberately slow. "I tweaked the kinetic barriers and fine-tuned them, the same as any techie would do. It's a basic step, but it'll help. The VI interface will help provide a targeting crosshair by tracking eye motions, and will also optimize your omni-tool if you have the proper protocols and software."

"In addition to that," Adin continues, making eye contact (presumably to make sure that I am paying attention). "I calculated the precise amount of weight that the Mass Effect field will remove based on your weight. To put it simply, you can't make the armor entirely weightless because that drains the suit's power and complicates the maintenance. Instead, this is the best possible mixture of lightweight armor and power-use."

"Alright, sounds good." I say, running my hands down the armor, which had even had a paintjob (the usual shade of steel on the main plates, with dark tan trim, for the record) to both identify myself as not belonging to any particular gang (Aria didn't have a particular color scheme, so I went with my gut) and to make sure the armor wasn't immediately recognizable by the Alliance.

"The under-suit is over there." Adin notifies, pointing to a small covered section that will give me some privacy while I change.

Perhaps this needs some explaining. Some suits of armor can be worn nude (usually with at least underwear), but others require a specialized undersuit with attachments and connections; either because the armor is not advanced enough to allow wearing without an undersuit, or because the undersuit is used for higher performance with the armor.

Think of it like two bicyclists racing, with one in proper bike shorts and top, and the other wearing a loose muscle shirt and basketball shorts. They can both compete, and the one in baggy clothes might win, but he's not going to be as comfortable or as capable as he would in the proper gear.

So if I don't want my new clothes to get crushed/ripped in the armor, I've got to wear the undersuit.

After I get the bizarre scuba/spandex/mechwarrior-like undersuit on, I come back as the workbench descends to the floor and the armor (now chest down to the floor) opens up, splitting along the spinal cord.

"Okay, that's a little weird." I admit, before kneeling down to get into the armor. Knees first, then feet, lower the chest, then lay arms down. The actual gauntlets will come on afterwards.

"You know the command?" Adin checks, though he knows full well I do.

"Initiate." I say, and the armor swallows me whole.

It's a bizarre feeling. As the plate joins together, interweaving to lock the plates around my body. The back of the boots link together and then join to the nubs on the undersuit, transmitting data to the suit's VI about how and where I am moving. The suit seals back up perfectly, with every connector on the undersuit linking properly.

But I'm stuck on the ground, and since I haven't put on the gauntlets I don't want to put weight on my hands, simply out of 'I don't know, some I'm not going to risk it.' So I roll over, and Adin hands me the gauntlets.

I tug the right one on, wave my omni-tool and the gauntlet shivers, knobs spinning and adjusting to where the armor meets it at about halfway down the forearm. Screwing itself in place, it ceases movement and I pull the other one on, and since I can't wave my omni-tool I simply smack the small button on the inside of the forearm to start the same process.

I sit up, hopping to my feet effortlessly (to be fair, I could have done that without the armor… but not as easily) and stretching out my arms.

Lastly, I put on my bucket, and I'm armored up.

"You're on shift with Grizz, Nick." Adin says, and I nod before trooping off to Afterlife proper.

Stepping back out into the booming and bustling crowd of Afterlife is different with a helmet on. For starters, the helmet kept ID'ing mass effect generators such as those in power armor, helpfully pointing out everyone who was armed, stuff like that.

I'd uploaded the Afterlife data package from my omni-tool to the suit, and the HUD hooked up the helmet comm. to the frequency that Afterlife's guards used.

"Grizz, I'm good to go. Where do you want me?" I ask over the comm., noticing that the corner of my HUD was showing my name next to a little sideways V, showing that I was talking. Handy little feature, that.

"Come to me, we're going to see if you can spook somebody." Grizz replies distractedly.

"Aye, boss." I confirm, spotting him over by his usual spot.

It wasn't his in-game spot; instead he was one level above the main floor. The smaller levels above the main floor were mostly for the regulars and those who could shell out the cash for a reserved spot. as such, it was more calm than the hectic and unknown dance floor, where any number of random threats could lurk.

For us guards, we used the upper floors as watch posts, using them to keep a good eye on the crowd and to make sure that trouble is nipped in the bud before any major damage is done.

I'd previously thought that Aria was dumb for allowing mercs and others to keep their side-arms and armor, but with the guards posted in a position like this, we can stop most fights before they get off a second shot.

There's a reason that Blood Pack, Eclipse, and Blue Suns are all allowed into Afterlife, and why they don't start any serious fights (bar fights are expected, and only really net the 'punishment' of getting tossed out). I mean, this is Omega, bars and gambling dens get knocked over all the time; yet Afterlife is usually left alone for the same reason that no sane person argues with a krogan about the Genophage. It's simply best to avoid all the bloodshed and pain.

…I'm starting to use sayings from this universe as opposed to my own… not sure if that is a good thing or not.

Anyway, I move through the crowd a little brusquely, compensating for the unfamiliar feel of the armor by trying to not overreact. If I jerk suddenly, it'll be too obvious that I'm new to using armor, and I don't want to give any potential troublemaker more confidence than the booze does.

No need to appear unnecessarily weak, after all; at least not in the physical sense, and not yet.

Grizz is leaning on the railing overlooking the entry way and the primary dancing spot, giving him a view of most of the main floor. In particular, he looks like he's scanning the front entrance as I ascend the secondary set of stairs, the ones behind Aria's private booth.

"You want me to spook somebody?" I ask quietly, standing next to Grizz.

"I've got my eye on a batarian down there who's looking suspicious. What you're going to do is simple; walk nearby, and linger. If he's as jumpy as I think, he'll make a move. If not, then stick around so that he does."

I nod, turning to move down the stairs inelegantly when Grizz's voice stops me.

"And Nick? Set the armor's strength enhancement to standard human."

A tad puzzled, I follow his instructions with a few waves of my omni-tool.

Taking a step, the armor follows my motions much more naturally, instead of exaggerating all the motions.

"Thanks, Grizz." I acknowledge happily as Grizz shakes his head. "That was bugging me for a while there."

"Adin knows his stuff, so he custom set your armor weight, right?" Grizz asks, receiving a nod in reply. "That's what I thought. That'll help, but he forgot that this is your first time in armor; you need experience to get used to how much the armor compensates. Setting it to the standard species weight is an old soldiers trick for when the techies mess it up."

"Thanks!" I repeat gladly, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet to test the new setting.

"No problem; just remember to slowly put the settings higher as you get used to the motions and you'll get the hang of it."

Moving down the staircase is a lot easier now, since I don't have to worry about my steps going too far or pushing back too hard. Granted, I wasn't going to be using that enhanced strength that I was looking forward to having, but I'm used to being physically weaker than my opponents.

You don't really need strength, you just need to – no, I do not have time for another lecture. The precise mechanics of fighting and movement and all that jazz is more than I can explain in – well, in anything less than a couple of weeks.

Long story short, unless I was up against a krogan, I was confidant in my ability to survive. I might not win, but I'd survive.

So when my 'spooking' of the target comes off the rails, I'm ready.

It all happens in a blur; a grizzled human in yellow armor whips his drink at the batarian bartender, my target gets 'spooked' and runs into the back of the merc just as another batarian goes to smash his bottle into the human's head and my mark catches it instead, and everything goes wild.

"I've got the bastard!" I bark over the comm. link, vaulting the table between me and the bar fight and charging into the fray.

I'm light, just about one-fifty five pounds of skin and bones and stringy muscle, but as I said before, there's a lot of technique that goes into… well, everything.

I charge into the fight, dropping my shoulders and forming my back the way I'd been taught by the rugby coach at my old school. I might have been a skinny little rower, but I'd been a good friend with the Head Coach, Mr. Murdy, and Murdy made sure his friends could take care of themselves. I wasn't anywhere near good enough to play for the team, but I wasn't exactly going head to head with a prop, was I?

A few very painful rugby practices with the First XV later, and I knew how to tackle passably, at least by Murdy's standards. 'Course, I also got beaten black'n'blue, but that was nothing new for me.

So when I connect with the batarian who is trying to escape through the front door, I flatten the fucker. The armor helps, I'm sure, but the blunt force that picks up the panicking runner and drives him into the ground doesn't care where it came from.

"Nick, the batarian's down, get the brawlers!" Grizz roars. I'm sure that he was on the move, but I didn't have time to check because I was back on my feet hastily and running headlong into the heaving crowd. Fists and bottles are flying while the innocents (well, as innocent as somebody in Afterlife is) are fleeing the scene.

"Come on you goddamn bastards!" roars the human in yellow armor, his mutated British accent normal similar to the others that I'd heard; time had a way of mixing and merging accents. This one seemed familiar, though - and who the hell said goddamn like I did?

The human merc was an old grizzled badass from the way he was holding court, but when he'd attacked the bartender (why had he done that, anyway?) he'd pissed off every single batarian in the immediate vicinity. The bartender (the same batarian from earlier, in the secure section, I realized) was starting to climb over the bar but I noticed alien blood running down his face in rivulets, presumably from where the merc's glass had impacted.

But the merc was getting swarmed.

I waded in from behind, driving my open right palm into the back of a brawler's head. Before, I would have hurt the guy badly, but probably wouldn't have knocked him out. With armor on, he went down like a sack of potatoes.

"You want a piece of me?" the merc bellows, his accent really bugging me. "I'll kick your asses from here to the fucking Citadel!"

The seething group of brawlers shifts with force as the merc literally tosses a batarian over the crowd, and I catch a glimpse of the merc's heavily scarred face.

Holy shit, I think, as I duck a drunk patron's haymaker. Snapping my mind back into the necessary focus, I smash my left elbow into the xeno's kidney (or where a kidney would be on a human, at least) and follow up with a palm-heel to his chin, shattering his jaw.

That's Zaeed! That's fucking Zaeed!

I don't have time to think about Zaeed. The same instant that I recognize him, a bottle smashes against my helmet, putting a fair bit of force onto my head. The helmet does the main job of protecting my skull, but I still feel a smack as it impacts.

The blow came from my right side, so I drop my chest and skip out, my right foot launching out to plant itself in my enemy's sternum. My chest dropping parallel to the ground counterbalances my stretching leg, but while my armor is pretty accurate for my weight, it's still too much weight on my upper body.

The kick lands with about half the force it should have, and I stumble to the ground as the weight of my unbalanced armor settles on my back.

Fool! I snap at myself, recovering as quickly as I can. Instead of getting straight to my feet, I lunge forward, catching my weight on my gauntlets and pushing, my legs following.

In effect, it means that when the batarian goes to follow up with a stomp, he only hits the ground. Basic evasion, don't be where they think you're going to be, that kind of stuff.

So when the batarian's foot stomps the metal floor, I spin on my back heel (the closest to him) and twist, torso and hips powering forward my left fist directing into the codpiece of his armor. My fist hurts a little from the force of hitting such a hard object, but the armor protects it; and more importantly, the batarian recoils, grunting in pain.

I don't know if batarians feel that the same way we do, but I know that they feel jaw pain, so I follow up with a palm-heel straight into his grimacing jaw, smashing it into his upper teeth with the sound of shattering teeth lost to the booming pulse of Afterlife's music.

The batarian falls backwards, presumably unconscious; so I lean down and grab his torso, struggling to lift his weight so that I can toss him back, clear of the brawl. The other bouncers will show him the door, but I've got to get the rest of this bar fight under control before it makes Afterlife lose face.

The next batarian isn't wearing armor, so I give him a solid open handed smack upside the head with my right hand to distract him while my left foot slides firmly behind his foot and my knee behind his.

The batarian barely has time to flinch before my left hand swings over in a powerful ridge-hand strike. The blow connects with his neck and makes him gag, but I keep the pressure up throughthe 'end' of the strike, pushing the blow as far as I can.

The batarian instinctively tries to back up to keep his balance, but my foot and knee are in the way, and my ridge-hand pushes him over his point of balance, smashing him into the ground.

The batarian doesn't make a move after his head connects with ground, so I rapidly grab one of his arms and throw him a measly four feet away, but he's out of the fight.

There's only five – make that four, as Zaeed drops a howling batarian with a brutal throat punch – batarians left, but two of them are in armor. With Zaeed on my side, it should be about even, so I grit my teeth and skip forward with a lunging front kick that catches one of the armored batarian mercs in the side and pushes him a few feet back.

The batarian turns to face me, completely sober and enraged, but before he can do anything two armored talons slip around his neck. The other claw reaches down between the batarian's legs, and with a might heave Grizz lifts the batarian up and hurls him towards the entryway.

I automatically turn to the next target, but Anto has already tackled the bastard to the ground before proceeding to use the butt of his rifle like a baseball bat and smashing the drunk's head open, rendering him unconscious instantly.

I spin in time to see Zaeed grabbing the bartender by the head and yanking him downwards to meet his knee, smashing the batarian's face even bloodier and just repeating the process over and over.

The last armored batarian, seeing me as the best target, charges in for a tackle, but I quickly skip to the side with room to spare, and the batarian runs right into Kaldur, one of our krogan bouncers. I can't see the batarian's face when he realizes his fuck-up, but Kaldur's bloodthirsty grin makes up for it.

The merc tries to backpedal, but Kaldur's hand shoots out, fast as some of the masters back home, and seizes the batarian's neck. The batarian makes one last attempt to wiggle out, but Kaldur simply squeezes, and the batarian gets the hint. Reaching down, Kaldur picks up another unconscious merc and tosses him onto his shoulder, the batarian lying over Kaldur's hump.

The violence now ended, Kaldur takes a glance up at Aria's booth, where I can see her watching with veiled approval.

"Dump them out front as a message to anyone else." Aria says coldly over the comm. link, and Kaldur trudges off towards the front door.

Breathing a little harder than before, I bend down and scoop up the merc I'd thrown to the ground, slinging him over my shoulder in a crude fireman's carry as I walk. Anto also pick ups a few of the unarmored batarians by their belt loops and starts dragging them, uncaring when their heads bump the floor a couple of times.

Glancing back, I see Grizz holding a shotgun at Zaeed, who's pointing at the beaten but still conscious bartender with an accusing finger. Grizz apparently believes him, because the shotgun is only loosely pointed at Zaeed, and as I watch, Grizz holsters it, gesturing towards Aria's booth.

"Hey, get moving." Anto grunts, nudging me gently with one of the drunks.

Obligingly, I move, and we trudge towards the front door. As it opens up to the ugly gray and colorful neon of Omega, I can see a few people in the line blanch at the guards dropping unconscious bodies outside the main door.

Kaldur drops his load over the stairs and releases his hold on the still conscious merc, before rearing up and kicking him in the ass, launching him a good ten feet out. Damn, I knew that krogan were walking tanks, but it's one thing to hear it and another to see it.

"Anybody who thinks that they can start something in Afterlife, just keep these idiots in mind." Kaldur rumbles, his deep voice echoing over the crowd.

Anto hucks his load out one at a time, and I lay my cargo down on the steps before rolling him down with a nudge of my boot. Before I troop back inside the big main door, I take a glance at the numerous unconscious and bloody bodies, before noticing that the one conscious merc was giving me some kind of batarian hand gesture, presumably one that wasn't quite nice.

Chuckling a little underneath my armor, I point my hands, palms up, at the heap of unconscious bodies on the filthy ground of Omega, as if to indicate that he was free to try whenever he wanted to join the pile.

Turning back inside, I nod respectfully at the doorman, another krogan by the name of Gerav. Before I can make it through the door, though, Gerav nods back, which surprises me.

Wondering about this odd development, I ponder it up until I enter the main floor of Afterlife, where Kaldur is waiting for me, arms crossed.

"What's next?" I ask, waiting for orders.

Kaldur laughs boisterously, again surprising me.

"Already good to go for another scrap, huh?" Kaldur questions approvingly. "I'd give you clean up duty, but Aria told me to send you up to her instead."

"Eh?" I murmur in curiosity. "Well, if the boss says so, I'm not gonna argue. She'd crush me into paste with a finger if I did."

Kaldur laughs again, slapping me on the back as I walk past him and making me stumble at the casual force behind the blow.

"You fight decently, human." Kaldur responds with a rumbling tone, one that I didn't recognize.

"Uh, thanks." I reply with a little uneasiness, nodding to him before moving towards the stairs.

Unlike the first couple times, some of the crowd shifted away as I approached, giving me a few more inches of room. I guess maybe they actually saw me as a proper guard now, but what would I know about the group psychology of various alien species?

Climbing the last few stairs, the first thing I see is Zaeed leaning against the low wall of the booth, his pistol casually pointed at the kneeling bartender, whose name I finally remembered. It was Forvan, that asshole from the second game who poisoned every human he could take a chance on. Guess his luck ran out a little quicker than in canon, but oh well, that explains why Zaeed chucked his drink at him.

"Massani." I greet civilly, walking around Forvan's kneeling form. Grizz and Aria are chatting, but Aria's eyes never leave Forvan, who's no doubt shitting himself at all the attention.

"Nick." Aria tersely welcomes, tapping her head once. Getting the hint, I pull off my helmet and mag-clamp it to my belt.

Shaking her head, Aria taps the back of her head this time, and I flush a little at the annoyed response.

"What's up?" I subvocalize, my implant picking it up and sending it on a secure comm. link to Aria.

"Do you have anything on him?" Aria asks bluntly, as Grizz moves over to pat Forvan down for any weapons.

They would have already checked him before they took him to Aria, so Grizz going over there is just a gesture, but it's one that I appreciate, giving us a little privacy in the loud and pulsing noise of Afterlife.

"Zaeed?" I say quietly, abandoning the comm. as I sit in the left hand spot on Aria's couch. "He pops up in the – intel, so I know a fair bit about him, but he's got no agenda other than his money and his revenge."

"I meant the bartender." Aria corrects sardonically, rolling her head over to give me a blank look.

"If I've got this right, that's Forvan, right? He's got a grudge against humans 'cause a bunch of them killed his brother on Bekke, though I don't know how long ago that was." I inform Aria in a low voice.

Aria nods to confirm that I was right about the name, then pauses.

"I meant Zaeed." Aria remarks wryly, then she sighs before standing up.

Forvan looks up at her with a mixture of eagerness and dread, but his face turns horrified when Aria simply draws her Carnifex and blows out his brains in one smooth motion.

"Nick, care to explain why I did that?" Aria instructs, taking back her seat while Grizz and Zaeed look at me.

I don't jump at the gunshot, but the sight of batarian blood and gore across the floor make me pause for a moment before I shake my head and focus on Zaeed, who's eyes have narrowed at my visible nausea.

"That was Forvan. He held a bit of a grudge against humans after a couple of them killed his terrorist brother, so I'm guessing he tried to poison your drink." I rattle off for Zaeed.

"That's about right." Zaeed grumbles, kicking the body once. "Just when I get in for a drink after a contract, somebody tries to fucking poison me."

"Always an active life, Massani?" Grizz replies, though his tone tells me he only knows of Zaeed by reputation.

"S'about right." Zaeed answers frankly, nodding his head. "I'll just go back to my drink then."

"Wait." Aria calls, stopping the yellow-armored merc before he can take another step.

"What's this, Aria?" Zaeed asks bluntly, eyes narrowing again at her command.

"You're the best there at what you do, aren't you Zaeed?" Aria probes, her head tilted like she'd just got a good idea.

My stomach drops instinctively, and I pay close attention to what she says.

"That's right." Zaeed grunts. "If you want a bounty hunter, then I'm your man."

"I don't want a bounty hunter." Aria says brusquely. "I want somebody to show him the ropes."

To my horror, she gestures at me with a tilt of her head.

"Your boy here? And why'd you want me to do that?" Zaeed questions, giving me a good once-over, and not looking too impressed with what he sees.

"He has potential, but he needs to know how to fight, I've got no other humans in my organization to teach him, and a batarian or a turian won't do him any good." Aria lists candidly.

"You want me to be his babysitter?" Zaeed clarifies in an affronted tone. "It's your money, but it won't be cheap. Twenty thousand per day's my fee."

"How about this?" I interject in a level voice, drawing his steely gaze and meeting it. "Instead, I give you every scrap of intel on one Vido Santiago."

"How the fuck do you know that name?" Zaeed demands, angry at the mere mention of Vido. Shit, I knew he hated the bastard for shooting him in the face, but I'm taken aback at how much raw rage in Zaeed's voice.

Then again, that's perfectly normal for him; another one of those differences between seeing this much rage in a game and seeing it in real life, I guess. I remember Zaeed's rant about how he saw Vido holding that gun at him every five minutes, so he's got a point.

"I know a lot of things Zaeed, that's why Aria wants me to know how to fight. You teach me for a little while, and I'll help you find Vido and pin him to the fucking ground." I reply coolly, Aria's subtle look of approval helping me keep my calm.

"Do we have a deal, Zaeed?" Aria drawls, drawing his gaze away from me.

"Get me Vido, and I'll teach your boy." Zaeed snarls, hands tensing at the thought of Vido in his grip. It almost looks like he's throttling a mental version of Vido... well, he probably is.


16:04, Omega 'Time'

"I can shoot." I argue, sitting on my seat on the firing line. "Look, that target's got to be a good two hundred yards away, and I got a clean, tight grouping."

"There's a difference between shooting and fighting, punk." Zaeed disagrees, taking a drag of his cigarillo.

Honestly, I'd have thought him the type of guy to smoke short stubby cigars, but I guess that's just popular culture infiltrating my way of thinking after seeing too many 'macho' stereotypes.

"Yeah," I counter, annoyed. "One way involves running around like an idiot in a killzone and spraying fire everywhere, and the other involves sitting back out of the action and actually using some skill."

"An' how often are you gonna get that chance, boy?" Zaeed parries, crossing his arms as he leans against the weapons bench.

"Every single time, if I can get away with it." I shoot back without any hesitation. "I'm not a brawler, man, I just need to know how to move in armor."

"Learning how to fight up close is the next fucking step." Zaeed says heatedly. "If you're gonna be running around in full plate, you might as well know how to fight in all that armor."

"Fine, you're the boss!" I concede angrily.

Let's get this across right now: I don't want to be in any firefights. I've never been in a military or a merc group (Aria's Guard doesn't count, given how recently I joined), and there's going to be a couple billion people out there who could crush me in a head on fight, guns or no guns. My only way of surviving is to use my head and outsmart those people, preferably through use of an outside context problem.

Of course, Zaeed doesn't agree with me, so when I turn to go back to my shooting, he appears behind my shoulder and shoves my head against the bench with a loud BAM before I can even pick up my damn rifle.

"The fuck was that for?" I demand, sweeping his arm aside and standing up.

The futility of standing up is quickly revealed to me when I realize that I am one-fifty pounds, whereas Zaeed is more in the ballpark of two hundred pounds of sheer muscle.

Zaeed stares straight into my eyes with a steely gaze, unnerving me when he doesn't answer.

"You need to harden the fuck up, runt, and I'm here to do that. If you didn't want it, then why did you get Aria to hire me?"

"I had nothing to do with that." I disagree. "I only spoke up so that Aria wouldn't lose money and you would get some payback."

"And how did you know what I wanted with that goddamn bastard Vido?" Zaeed snarls, leaning his head closer and using his physical presence to unnerve me even more.

"I told you, Zaeed, I know things, things like how you have a reputation for being the sole survivor of almost every mission you went on. It's just who I am, I know a lot of stuff." I tell him, releasing an internal sigh of relief when Zaeed backs up.

Despite the fact that Zaeed and I have been using the firing range for a good hour now, I haven't seen hide or hair of Adin. Odd, considering that Zaeed keeps wandering around and picking up different weapons to teach me about.

"I don't care." Zaeed answers, handing me a Vindicator and pushing me towards the gate to the target side of the bench. "Get out there and take down every goddamn target you see, or else."

"'Or else?'" I repeat sourly, giving Zaeed an annoyed look. "Is that the best you can do old man?"

"How about, 'or I kick your ass from 'ere to the Citadel?'" Zaeed retorts, crossing his arms again.

"You used that one against the batarians, old man." I riposte as I get to the gate and slap the cease fire signal, which raises barriers in front of the bench and prepares the gate. "Going senile already?"

"After you're done with this, you're going in the ring with me." Zaeed growls as he climbs the ladder to the viewing booth.

The viewing booth rose above the barriers of the firing line, and is made for this kind of training, though I don't think it's been used in some time. Basically, the booth allows Zaeed to completely alter the range, setting up cover and enemies wherever he wants. It gives Zaeed the ability to simulate a firefight for me, minus the actual noise.

"Ready yet, punk?" Zaeed questions, his voice echoing over the loudspeaker.

"Ready when you are old man!" I call over to him as I get set, putting my bucket on.

I didn't have any training for firing on the move, so the best I could do was adapt my fighting stance from Karate to this.

My knees half-bend, giving me stability and speed, while I sight through the unfamiliar Vindicator rifle to test the ergonomics. Lastly, I check my helmet, which obligingly fires up the HUD that Adin and I had calibrated to actually work.

I test the helmet's crosshairs by swinging the rifle to and fro, and the crosshairs quickly spread out, showing how my accuracy would suffer because the butt of my rifle wasn't propped against anything. To check the fine aim, I pull the rifle in close, looking through where the scope would be, if the Vindicator wasn't a prototype model that didn't have the scope.

I'm glad it doesn't have a scope, and instead gives me the faster helmet-sights, but that won't be enough here.

One last glance at the control booth shows Zaeed that I'm ready, and Zaeed hits the signal.

The gate flies open as the metal in the range shifts and rises, some parts forming waist high cover and other parts forming other, more intricate structures.

As soon as the gate rises, I sprint through the entry and get to the closest piece of cover, though my momentum slams me into it a less gracefully than I wanted.

Quickly, I pop my head up and down, my helmet outlining the first target a good thirty feet away.

Twisting at the hip, I pop out of cover with little room to spare and snap my rifle onto the target, one squeeze of the trigger putting five bullets (I don't care for the scientific terms, I will always think of them as bullets) into the upper chest of the human-shaped target.

The Vindicator has a surprising small amount of recoil, but nonetheless my last shot strays up into the target's head; something I didn't want.

Chalking it up to inexperience with a burst-fire weapon, I glance around for other targets, then dash for the next part of cover, a dark chest high L-shaped hunk of metal that covered the forward and left parts of the next approach.

As my back slams into the metal, I raise my rifle and pan it swiftly across the exposed parts of the range, mindful for any tricks Zaeed might try to pull. Luckily for my already straining mind, I didn't have to worry about bullets going back into the armory, as kinetic barriers had snapped in place the moment I had crossed the threshold.

Nothing popped up immediately, so I turned to the front and leaned out, not noticing anything for a second, then frantically pulling my body in when my helmet ID's two targets. A thought strikes me, and I turn to look at the targets, though I keep my head in cover.

Sure enough, the helmet shows the rough outlines of where the targets were, so I quickly lean out of cover again long enough to squeeze the trigger twice, once for each target.

Unfortunately, Zaeed's starting to mess with me, so only one of the targets is there.

Cursing under my breath, I immediately move, suspecting a grenade or another trick. I'd already spotted another piece of cover directly across from this one just in case something like this happened, so I move to hop over the waist high cover and get on the other side. It's ten meters away, so I sprint for the cover like the hounds of hell were behind me.

The target couldn't physically throw a grenade, but the tink of a metal cylinder bouncing behind the spot I was just in shows that Zaeed found a way around that.

My breath starting to catch from the quick sprints, I sweep my legs over the waist high cover and go to dive behind it, but my armor makes my motions clumsy, and my left leg catches on the lip of the low wall, dumping me head first onto the ground as the grenade detonates with a bright blue/white blast.

My left leg, still caught on the cover, catches some of the grenades blast and instantly the armor's power in that section shuts off, a nasty surprise that leaves me kicking off with my other leg and pulling with one arm so that I can get it behind cover.

The grenade was a fucking EMP! I snarl in my head, eyes dancing across a damage report that flashes up in the left hand corner of my HUD. The report succinctly shows that the blast shut down the motivators and other gizmos in my left leg, but the armor's VI managed to cut the damage off before it shut down my entire suit.

But even having one leg locked hinders me drastically.

Struggling with the dead weight of my armor, I manage to get my back to the looping end of the cover, grunting as my leg twinges at being dragged around and forced straight.

A flicker of moment catches my eye, and I get just enough time to glance up and see the silhouette of a target. I whip up my Vindicator and brace it as best I can, opening fire on the target desperately before Zaeed calls me out for taking too long.

My first burst goes wide to the left, but not by much, and the last shot smacks into the shoulder of the target. My second burst connects fully, and the target goes down.

Another one pops up to the left, very close and just above the spot where I smashed my leg, and I twist my torso as best I can to bring my rifle to bear.

I get off one burst, the close range making it impossible to miss. The rounds drill into its upper chest and neck, and the target disappears.

Then another target appears, to my left.

My locked leg doesn't want to move, so I jerk my body and fall back onto the ground, squeezing off a –

The Vindicator clicks with tone of an overloaded heatsink just as I see the target's shape.

Frantically, swearing a litany of desperation and hate, I eject the spent heatsink and start pulling the trigger like a fucking madman, as the target hologram of a krogan looms above me.

I unload the entire heatsink into the krogan's neck, but the hologram doesn't even flicker.

My jerky fingers go to reload, but then the hologram winks out and the lights dim.

"You're dead, punk, it's over." Zaeed chuckles over the intercom, his voice brimming with sadistic glee.

"Fuck you old man!"I yell back.


18:30, Omega 'Time'

"Full contact, no restrictions, and it stops when I say so." Zaeed instructs as he tugs on his sparring gloves, the muscle shirt showing a lot of scars across his torso.

"Bullshit; it stops when we agree it stops." I reply as I wrap the long Velcro strap around my older gloves from Home. Zaeed chuckles, and I take that to mean agreement.

It was good, in a way, to be sparring again. It brought me back to more familiar ground, back to something I'd been doing for several years before this madness.

Of course, on the other hand, Zaeed was a powerhouse that would fight like a brawler rather than a practitioner, and those were incompatible. I'd have to adapt to Zaeed's harder, less mobile style, unless he was a less direct, more mobile fighter, in which case I'd be much better off.

After all, my whole purpose with this spar is to get Zaeed to understand that I can fight in close combat, even though I'd prefer not to.

Zaeed doesn't bow, confirming my suspicion that he didn't have any formal training, but he does extend a fist in the timeless fist-bump of sparring.

It's not a respect thing yet; it's more like a starting handshake, but without the weakness. If Zaeed extends it again after I get a good hit on him, then it's respectful.

I return the gesture, and Zaeed instantly throws out a fast left jab, going head height.

I skip to the right, my left arm smacking aside the hard strike, and my right sending a reverse-punch to his sternum.

Zaeed catches the blow with an open hand and starts pulling me into him, my lighter body giving way.

I grin savagely; he's just made a mistake.

I spin on my left heel, skipping in closer and popping up a sidekick against his side. Unlike earlier in my full armor, this time I'm clad in my familiar gi pants and crew shirt, and I know my balance intimately.

My chest counter-balances at the same moment that I twist my right hand, slipping out of Zaeed's grip and grabbing his hand instead. Zaeed starts pulling back instinctively, but it's too late; I yank him closer just as my side-kick slams into his side, just below the ribs.

A bit of dirty shot, if this was in an 'honorable' dojo (read: hidebound by tradition).

Instead, Zaeed responds by grimacing through the pain and smashing his left hand into the lower section of my knee with a hammer fist strike, jolting aside my muscle control and forcing me to back up with a yelp.

Zaeed's face has a savage grin just like mine; it's the kind of grin you see when somebody realizes that they found a good sparring partner.

Unable to stop it, I grin back at him, and the spar begins in earnest.

Sparring is beautiful, but it is too complex for description through such a limited medium. Fists fly and blows reign faster than an untrained eye can see, experience guiding us when our eyes cannot.

There are no 'strategies' or 'techniques', not for those who know what they are doing. Instead of following a named pattern of movement, we improvise and adapt, such as when Zaeed astonishes me with a butterfly kick; I back up for a second, then sneak in a jab to his kidneys when the rotation of the kick twists him slightly out of place.

Oddly enough, it's restful. The stress of the future and the present flows out and all you think about it the next immediate moment.

Of course, when Zaeed's fist smashes past my block and catches my jaw, I remember that sparring is stressful in it's own ways.

It's a challenge, because Zaeed fights more like a brawler, which basically means that he prefers to smash his blows through my blocks than to pull them back and get them past the blocks. It's a street fight vs. martial arts practitioner thing, and one that I'm familiar with, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Still, I'm thankful for Sensei David's body conditioning sessions, because otherwise I'd be on the ground crying in pain from the directed strikes to my forearms.

Though I can tank a fair number of hits, my main advantage is my speed and training, whereas Zaeed's is his power and experience. Some would say that we'd be evenly matched, but what it really means is that Zaeed is driving me across the training mat, controlling the pace of the fight without a tinge of effort.

I've got speed; he's got power.

Of course, that speed isn't so helpful when your opponent has the experience to chain his strikes in a manner that gets rid of my speed advantage.

There are points when we don't attack for long, tense seconds, and others were we slog it out with multiple hits to each other within a second at most, but the pace varies in a familiar and comfortable manner.

We spar for a long time, and Zaeed is clearly the better fighter, though I'd managed to surprise him again and again with blows that snuck past his defenses.

Unfortunately, the brute-force 'Zaeed smash!' method has a distinct advantage when your opponent out-masses you by fifty pounds of muscle, so I will concede that Zaeed had both more successful hits and more powerful hits on average.

And that means that he 'won' the spar.

When we disengage, tapping fists lightly and relaxing, neither of us are gasping for breath, through we're both breathing a little harder than normal. I'd let my training slide away from me so that I could focus on my plans, and I'll bet that Zaeed doesn't get a lot of sparring practice against a lighter, faster opponent.

"I'll give you this; you're a decent fighter." Zaeed admits, before swigging some water from a bottle off to the side of the training area.

"Thanks old man, that means a fair bit when it comes from a bitter old bastard like yourself." I tease back, draining considerably more water from my old water bottle. I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't have to work my ass off and strain some muscles to keep up with the older (but much more capable) bounty hunter.

"Still, you pull your blows back too quickly; that's a problem with all you fancy martial artists." Zaeed grumbles, rolling his neck to get the kinks out of it.

"It saves energy and stops me from getting my arms battered up too much." I contend lightly, my heart not really into it.

While Zaeed stretches to make sure he doesn't damage his body after the fight, I inspect all my various bruises with careful probing fingers, wincing at some of the dark spots where Zaeed and I clashed. Zaeed's got to have a few bruises as well (I made sure of that), but nowhere near the number I have.

But like I said before, I'm used to this kind of bruising. Having a rainbow of different bruises is the rule, not the exception at my old dojo, so this is a welcome return.

...does that make me a masochist? Or does that just mean I've gotten used to having the crap beat out of me? And what does that mean when you factor in Vasir and Aria practically raping me (granted, the second time was actually enjoyable)?

Aw, fuck it, I'm too tired to think about that kind of philosophical BS.

"Yeah, but it wastes too much fucking time." Zaeed points out. "If you're just sparring with someone, then that's fine; but if you're in the middle of some goddamn firefight you need to take a guy out fast, and your way's too slow. It doesn't matter how good of a fighter you are if another bastard shoots you in the back while you're taking your sweet time kicking his friend's arse."

"Huh…" I mumble, stroking my beard as I consider it. "I never thought of it that way."

"Most people don't." Zaeed shrugs. "Instinctive belief that everyone plays fair in fights. Too many soft movies and bullshit parents that raise their kids to be journalists, I say."

"Heh." I chuckle, as Zaeed grows more casual. "Yeah, my Dad always had a thing about not working to your full potential. He always said that it was the only way to live."

"Your Dad was right." Zaeed grunts, pulling up a fold-out chair and plopping down. "Now, let's go over everything you fucked up and how to make it better."

"Alright." I nod, as Zaeed starts raking my actions over the coals. It's not offensive; it means that he's trying to make me better.

The fact that we wandered off topic halfway through and starting swapping stories instead of focusing on business is just the cherry on top; Zaeed's starting to accept me, and that's the only thing I want right now.


19:24, Omega 'Time'

After Zaeed told me bluntly the things I need to do to get better, we split off; Zaeed went up to the bar and I went down to the 'secure' room to talk to Vasir.

I hadn't seen Vasir since we got off Aria's ship, but that was the whole point. Aria knew that there were bugs in Afterlife, so while the base was 'secure', there was always one room that was really secure. No bugs, no monitoring devices, sound-proof, jamming, the works.

Vasir had said that she would be running around Omega in a few disguises while she go started on the List, but we had arranged for a meeting at this designated time so that we could go over the possibilities of the List and what our priorities should be. Vasir had to go around to check with her contacts, to test if some items of the List were even possible.

Sealing the double-redundant (redundant squared?) airlock/blast-door behind me, I nod to Vasir as I enter the well-appointed room. Aria wasn't shy about having nice furniture, though at least there wasn't another of her Couches in here.

"We're clear." Vasir informs me from her position on a dull blue Asari couch (one of those weird Egyptian-lounger type).

"Good, I didn't want to waste time." I reply curtly, sighing in relief as the recliner takes the weight off my worn muscles. "What can we do and what can't we do?"

"We can't get in touch with Anderson. Cerberus has a lot of surveillance on him, kid. We couldfigure out a complicated way to do it, but there's still the major risk that Harper's goons will get ahold of it, which blows that plan out the airlock."

"…Why didn't that metaphor translate?" I ask, puzzled.

"Because I'm speaking English, brat." Vasir says, amused at my confusion. "But let's get back on topic, can we? Anderson's out, but I found Mordin Solus; he's on Tuchanka at the moment."

"Tuchanka?" I cough out, my last swig of water choking in my throat at the surprise of thatrevelation. "The hell is he doing there? You'd think that STG wouldn't let him anywhere near there, retired or not."

"Solus was always known for being too compassionate, and knowing what he wants…" Vasir suggests, adhering to our unsaid principle of not blatantly saying that I knew the future.

"Mordin has a heart bigger than the entire galaxy." I say softly, my chest tensing at the thought of Mordin dying again.

Not again.

Never again.

If anyone deserves to live through this apocalypse, it's Mordin. He's the soul of Shepard's crew, mad scientist leanings included.

"Viewing his work, maybe? Reflecting on what he did, necessary or not?" I guess, Vasir nodding in answer.

"Still, he's not thinking about Omega, at least not yet." Vasir says.

Damn, I wanted to get him in on this, and I can't do that until he's on Omega. It's too dangerous otherwise.

"Still, what about the other stuff?" I ask, refocusing my mind on the business at hand.

"My STG contact managed to get me a list of upgrades and improvements for a Polaris Mark X, and I took the liberty of getting those installed and calibrated while you were sparring Zaeed." Vasir informs me, handing me back my omni-tool, which to my embarrassment I had not even noticed was missing.

"How on Earth did you get that away from us when we were sparring?" I interrogate, curious and worried.

If she could do that, then she could have put a bomb in my pants and I wouldn't have noticed until it was too late. That very idea is enough to get me worried, so I don't want to grow accustomed to such close encounters with possible death.

"Another of my acquisitions." Vasir says, the coy yet knowledgeable smirk across her features again.

"No way!" I say breathlessly, my excitement practically visible. "You actually got it?"

"That's right." Vasir says, nodding.

Visual stealth capability… I lay back in the recliner, and stare up at the low ceiling of the boxy safe room, running my hands through my hair at the shock. With that stuff, I can start reallyputting my plans into order, not to mention giving me unimaginable levels of ability due the scarcity of that tech.

I'd actually get to be a proper Infiltrator…

…Nah, fuck that. Bad word, that. How about… Agent?

Why the fuck am I discussing names of a class? That shit doesn't matter right, now, focus idiot!

My right hand swings out and back in again, smacking against my head with a loud but mostly painless strike.

"It's not as good as it sounds." Vasir warns, and my mood sinks.

"What ways?" I ask, schooling my features and focusing in on the conversation again.

"Firstly, power source. Nothing short of Spectre-level armor can use it for more than half a second. Even then, I only got three seconds out of it. Second, the eezo-signature masking isn't fully working yet; an eezo-scanner can still make out enough of an outline to be suspicious. Finally, the module itself is bulky. It's a backpack on top of my armor." Vasir lists, her tone grim. "We can expect those qualities to improve massively, but in the short run the tech is too limited. Your timeline seemed to be right, the scientists think it'll take a year or more to make it possible, another year for it to be practical. Even then, it's going to be expensive and very limited."

"I don't care." I dismiss. "That tech is a game-changer. With it – no, you're a Spectre, youunderstand what it means on a tactical level. It's… big."

Which was probably the one of my bigger understatements; and I was a fan of them.

"Are you going to let me tell you what I got for your omni-tool yet?" Vasir asks, amused at my reaction.

"Right, right." I reply, waving her to continue. "Since you said omni-tool, I'm going with hacking?"

"Specifically, it's an auto-hacker." Vasir explains, tossing me back the small slim rectangle of my omni-tool. While she explains, I attach the omni-tool to it's spot on my thigh, testing to make sure nothing was drastically different.

"So I just wave it at a lock and it tries to auto-hack it?" I interrupt, calling up the main screen of my omni-tool, where a little cute lock icon sat next to a… ball of fire?

"Basically. It'll still need to be updated with the STG constant updates, but I'll handle that. It should –"

"Did you get me Incinerate?" I interject, gazing at the ball of fire icon.

"You mean the drone?" Vasir guesses, to which I nod. "Yes, it's a pre-programmed suicide drone, flash-forged to be unstable. The farther it gets, the less energy it has to detonate and burn, but that's an acceptable sacrifice for the power to shoot fireballs."

"How's the aiming work?" I ask, careful not to do anything stupid like press the icon.

"The omni-tool auto-syncs to your helmet, so the targeting lock from your eyes will do the trick in locking it onto an eezo signature. They told me there was a way to aim without a helmet, but they also said to not try it unless you were about to die."

I grimace and nod. Message received.

"And last attachment?" I question, my voice a little quieter. This one was, in many ways, the one I needed the most; the most useful one.

"You're in luck." Vasir says with a teasing tone.

She whips her hand in a cutting motion and an orange blade springs to life around her, sweeping at the air with a wickedly sharp edge.

"The edge is a single atom across, or so they bragged." Vasir informs me absentmindedly as the blade dissipates.

"What about the second part?" I demand, my mouth dry at the tension. "Is it malleable?"

"I'm not sure malleable is the right word to use, but it's supposed to be configurable for theoretically anything, so we'll see."

"Yes." I purr triumphantly, gazing at my newly improved omni-tool.

With some time and effort, this baby would be my most dangerous weapon. Oh yeah, now that's something to be happy about.


Man, this Chapter stretched out for forever. I thought I'd never find a spot to cut it off at.

Anyway, there was a productive spree over at SpaceBattles, so there's also a good four or five Omakes to go with this.

Enjoy!

x

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Inside Nick's Mind or The Little Men inside the Man (Mercsenary)

*Nicks mind*

"Intruder Detected. Intruder Detected."

"Thats the second time in so many days we've had that alarm. What have we got?" A gruff looking Nick in a old style general's outfit mutters as he peers over another Nick at the screen before them.

"Looks like the same one as last time but there's two of them now. We've lost contact with Libido and as you can see Memory Control is, if you will sir, Freaking the Fuck out."

Both Nicks look over to the side through a glass walled room with Another Nick with the tag Memory Control Officer on his chest yelling into a telephone while other Nicks are rushing about with papers trying desperately trying to file them in Cabinets.

"Sir, Long Term Memory is reporting that someone is accessing their storage. " A new Nick in a messenger's outfit speaks up from a desk further down the row.

"Time?"

"About 5 seconds ago real time."

"Damnit. Okay here's what were going to do. Shut. Down. Everything. I want Autonomous functions only. Long term Memory is to go into Autistic Mode. Short Term is take up the slack of Incoming memories. Nothing is to go to long term. Subconscious control is still trying to deal with the rampage of that first incident."

"And then after sir?"

"We go dark. Keep running in Autonomous. Asses damages. For now Lay back and think of England."

x

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What if Nick was at the Collector Base? or Why THINKING is Important (Xeno Major)

"Fuck this thing, Shepard, let's get out of here." I say to Shepard, shaking my head as I direct Legion to move the platform back to the Normandy

"Nick, we came here to stop the Reapers and rescue our people, so we have to kill this thing." Shepard says firmly, pointing her rifle at the still immobile form of the human-Reaper.

"Yeah, right there with you boss, but let's go about this intelligently, eh?" I counter, leaning against the waist-high cover at the center of the platform. "We've already rescued everyone who was still alive. I got Legion and EDI to hack into the station's controls, checking each other for counter-hacking and indoctrination, and Legion just told me that they have control."

"We can't just attack the station with the Normandy, Nick, the Thanix cannon would take far too long to destroy the station, there's just too much risk. We have to do this the hard way, for our friends!" Shepard says, her tone brooking no argument. It's her 'Commander' tone, the one she uses when Jack or Grunt get annoying, and it almost always forces people to obey.

"Yeah, no, Shepard, that's stupid. Weren't you listening? EDI's got control of this things thrusters, so I'm going to push it into a black hole."

"What." Shepard says, looking at me blankly.

"...Or a star. Whatever closer, really. Explosions are too easy for these guys, we either kill them with purifying fire or we drop their asses into oblivion." I muse, as Legion glances at the two weird organics.

"Nick, might I suggest a course that would ignite the station and thendrop it into a black hole?" EDI suggests helpfully, her little avatar popping up on the platform's holo-panel.

"Ah, excellent idea EDI! That sounds like the perfect way to get rid of this piece of shit." I reply happily, adopting a slight British accent.

"...But we have to make sure it's dead!" Shepard insists. "We have to confirm that it's dead!"

"Shepard, if this thing can survive being dropped into a black hole, the entire universe is fucked anyway. Besides, this way we get to loot all the spacehulks that are just drifting around. Who knows what kind of tech is in there?"

x

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Bonding Time or The Old and the New(SakSak)

Original Statement by maguado87:

Such bonding time. I bet when its all done. Both will become friends and dance around flowers. Truly they will become the best of friends

Response by SakSak is as follows:

"Do you still flail around haplessly in combat, like a bastard child of a Batarian and a Hanar? Or after two years, have you finally learned how to change the fucking heat-sink before a charging krogan crushes you?"

"Fuck off, old man! I can and will shoot your decrepit ass from a football field away instead of persisting in the delusion that up close and personal is of any use. Except for mind-melding with hot Asari, of course."

"Better than thinking no one ever uses EMPs."

"Go suck an Elcor."

"Such eloquence. In my day, in between taking down Krogans we-"

"-Fuck you old man!"

Yep. The best of friends. Totally can see that.

x

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Reminiscing on the Fun Times or Should Old Acquaintance be Forgot(cyko2041)

Zaeed: 'Oh Goddamn it to hell.'

Shepard: 'Something up Zaeed/'

Xeno: 'Where the Hell have you been you decrepit fuck?'

Garrus: 'Did that Human...?'

Liara: 'Should we back up?'

Zaeed: 'I'll be taking nothing from you today, you little shit.'

Xeno: 'Well come on, Aria's good will for my training seems to have stretched to an open tab in the Afterlife.'

x

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Hiring the Vigilantes or SPACE AVENGERS, GO! (Ultra Sonic 007)

STOP.

Omake time.

xxxx

/Timeframe: Mass Effect 2 - Before Horizon/
/Omega/

Commander Shephard blinked. "You what?"

"It's nothing personal Shephard," murmured Garrus Vakarian as his jury-rigged Vindicator let off a single round. Hundreds of yards away, along one of the many gaping chasms and valleys that lied between the walls and districts of Omega, a Vorcha collapsed, headless. "You were dead, and there were things to do."

"Becoming the leader of the Space Avengers is a 'thing to do'?"

The other turian - Grizz, was his name? - chuckled, his Mantis barking as another Vorcha fell. "That sounds like what I told him." He had to give Aria's little 'pet' credit; his use of old-time colloquialisms had made his translation software much more versatile with human idioms.

Garrus harrumphed. "You were practically ecstaticabout the idea when you found out about it."

"Good idea or not, crazy is crazy," retorted Grizz. "Not that I'm complaining."

Shephard watched as they continued picking off Blood Pack mercenaries from afar, bringing their operation to a screeching halt. Vorcha scattered and fled as their Krogan handlers - trying to find out where the shots were coming from - struggled to rein them in. The two turians took down one of the thundering lizards with a simultaneous headshot.

"Scoped and dropped!"

Grizz snorted. "You're like a bare-talon fresh from boot camp."

The head of the Normandy sighed; barely an hour on Omega, and she had already recruited three people on the dossier given to her by Cerberus. That was ludicrously lucky, even by her standards.

Zaeed Massani had practically been waiting for them at the airlock.

Mordin Solus had actually been at Afterlife conversing with Omega's HBIC herself, talking about Collector infiltrations of the station above all things.

Aria had directed her towards this little corner of her personal fiefdom, where she had found Garrus and Grizz waiting to halt a Blood Pack group doing some...'unauthorized gun-running'.

That last bit was the part she was still having trouble dealing with. "It's just...you? Working under someone like Aria?"

"Believe me, my team and I have debated that point to death." Pow, and down goes another Vorcha. "We were on the verge of making a name of ourselves when T'loak's little 'advisor' just up and knocked on the door of our safehouse out of the blue." That meeting had been...interesting. "I'll spare you the details of what he said, but let's just say that my team is still alive thanks to him." To put it lightly; telling him that Sidonis had been captured by the Blue Suns was one thing. Pinpointing where he was being held captive was another. Telling him that Sidonis was going to be forced to betray them was yet another. To have Sidonis confirm it when he had been rescued...was another thing entirely. "True, we're somewhat limited in that T'loak's own operations are off-limits...but everyone else is fair game." BOOMgoes the punctured flamethrower. "With Aria T'loak as a shield, we've been able to do more good than ever before." Less competition for Aria and good PR for her, while Garrus and his team actually get to help those who needed it most.

"Perhaps I should let our dear leader know you think so highly of her," murmured Grizz good-naturedly as the Krogan in his sights took a relativistic grain of metal to the knee.

Garrus continued on as if the barefaced turian hadn't spoken. "It's funny how things work out; since we had an in with T'loak, we were aware of when the Collectors' plague first hit the station. The humans on my team were loaned out to help Mordin deliver the cure, and we nipped it in the bud before it got a chance to get out of control." Aria's advisor had actually given the rough timeframe of when the plague was going to appear; the fact that the Collectors were responsible was the reason why Mordin was willing to drop everything and leave his clinic. It went unspoken that it was under Aria's protection, but then, certain things didn't have to be said.

Shephard sported an odd little smile, shaking her head at the strangeness of it all. "Huh...what ever happened to Mr. 'Black and White'? I thought 'gray' wasn't your thing."

The former C-Sec officer-turned-vigilante chuckled. "Well, I didget a little help from you in that regard."

"Still...Archangel?"

The turian seemed to smirk and...was he preening? "Heaven only wished it had angels as good-looking as me."

Grizz's mandibles twitched out of exasperation.

xxxx

Just a potential ripple of how things might go.

/Garrus and Grizz snarking at each other
/is the best
/I can just SEE Nick calling them the Space Avengers
/and I bet Garrus would roll with it