"We are all alike on the inside." - Mark Twain.


Dock B2, Dyuko District, Omega - January 10, 2188 - Two weeks later.

Garrus really had thought he'd seen the last of this place. That he would never have to return to the suppurate and insalubrious pisshole that was the Terminus Systems' de facto capital. In truth, he should have known this wouldn't be the case, and that Spectre business would inevitably bring him closer and closer to the galaxy's capital for scum, malefactors and the desperate. But he had hoped it wouldn't be so soon: that he'd be spared the station's presence for at least a while longer. Unfortunately, this wasn't to be.

For Garrus, part of this was a bit of a homecoming. After all, he had spent the worst part of two years living on this station, bringing down crime rates, decimating drug smuggling operations and being a general nuisance to criminals of all colors and currency. It was during this time he had earned the moniker 'Archangel', which had become his official alias during his one-team war against Omega's gangs.

He hadn't come here out of choice: he came here because he didn't have anywhere else to go. A month after the Eden Prime War had ended in 2183, the first Normandy was destroyed by the Collectors, and Shepard killed in the process. Garrus tried to go back to working with C-Sec in the hopes of making a difference, but that proved fruitless, and he soon found himself on Omega. With none of the resources of a major political power at his back or the authority that came with being a Spectre, he had, much like the rest of the crew, given up on trying to stop the Reapers and continue Shepard's fight. Instead, he found himself on the Terminus' clumsy, dystopian parody of the Citadel, where he would earn the loyalty of a select crew, and begin waging war against every criminal he could find. Blue Suns, Blood Pack, Eclipse, Grim Skulls, Bull Sharks...it didn't matter who, so long as they were hurting the little guy.

Once upon a time, he'd have believed he had made a difference on this station. That Archangel's two year campaign to purge Omega's delinquent infestation, inspire hope in the small folk and give them their own hero to have faith in, and to eventually topple the very pillars upon which the station thrived on, would make a difference. But it had been a lie. Two years later, his team was betrayed and murdered from within, Omega's crime rate was no closer to plummeting, and he'd earned the ire of all three of its biggest players. He had tried to be Shepard on a smaller scale, and lost. He got his team killed, he suffered betrayal from someone he thought he could trust, and he would have died himself if it wasn't for Shepard's timely arrival. Even when Garrus returned with Shepard a year later to liberate the station from Cerberus, he didn't feel he had actually changed anything. Aria T'Loak was back in power, the status quo returned in force, and the only thing the station was liberated from was the only sense of order it would ever get a taste for.

A sad testament to the station's cultural and societal climate when a pro-human paramilitary group on a standard power trip brought more positive change to the station than the person who was set to 'liberate' it. In the end, Garrus didn't care. Omega would never change. The power balance would shift every once and a while, but that was it. In a few hundred years, Aria would either be toppled or killed, and somebody else would take her place and continue the cycle of violence and lawlessness that preceded it. Those who lived here would continue to suffer for it, the higher ups would continue to care less, and the mercenary gangs would continue their reign of terror and freelancing while occasionally sparking mini gang wars of their own volition, with innocent civilians carelessly caught in the crosshairs and paying the price.

In the end...Garrus wouldn't bat an eye if somebody detonated a nuke on this station. Its destruction would bring him, and probably the Council, much glee in fact. There was nothing remotely redeeming about any of it. It was culturally stagnant, lacked any form of government or defense force, had no identity, had no purpose, and lacked any form of passion. It was just...there. It existed. And as long as it did, Garrus would never cease in his hatred for it, and those who were in control. Archangel, as far as he was concerned, died here.

And he died in vain.

Of course, the only reason Garrus was here was for a favor. Shepard had requested he come here to deal with the Shepardist problem that had cropped up, fearing that if these fans of his started getting ideas regarding the people he had altercations with in the past, they would use it as justification to commit assassinations or publicly lynch people. The last thing they needed right now, with the galaxy convalescing, was for mass murders and massacres done in the name of hero laudation. This cult had to be stopped right here. And while Shepard could have done it himself, his reasons for not doing so were logical. Giving into demand and approaching those who idolized him would only fuel their adoration, not to mention he couldn't be expected to drop his entire life and come running everytime somebody brandished a knife at another. It simply wasn't doable.

Garrus and the Normandy crew were the next best thing, and so the turian had wasted no time in taking the opportunity to help his friend dispense with this issue. It had taken him much longer to get around to it than he would have liked, unfortunately: two weeks had passed since the housewarming party (with the squad hanging around a few days longer to celebrate the beginning of the new year), and he had only just arrived on Omega. In his defense, it was no small trip for the Normandy to from system to system, world by world, to drop off the many crew members who were no longer part of the crew. They'd had gone as far as the Citadel in dropping off their ex-squadmates, and by the time they'd seen the last person off, a week and a half had passed. Aria had of course gotten impatient, and even went as far to contact Garrus himself for an update, to which he had, in a roundabout way, told her to have some patience and that he'd be there soon. She didn't take that well, he imagined, but didn't force the issue. Finally, another half week later, the Normandy was docked at Omega, and he was finally investigating Aria and Shepard's joint plight as he promised.

Knowing where they were headed, Garrus had made sure to gear up fully. His new and modified Armiger-class Terminus assault armor was one of the more recent additions to his collection, and the ultra-modern battleplate was given to him courtesy of the turian government, a great, big, heavily armoured 'thank-you' gift card for all he has done for them during the Reaper War. The Armiger-class hard suit was a turian variant of the human designed Terminus assault armor, which was also considered highly advanced for its time. The original armor was designed by the Lionhead Armoury as a prototype suit for their N7 and G4 special forces units: the idea was to create a suit of armor that could be used for battles of attrition in a vacuum, while also giving the user increased situational awareness and tactical feedback, a micro VI for combat analysis and a series of heat channelling nodes that disperse body heat, making them virtually invisible to passive thermal sensors. The prototype would later give birth to the Alliance's T5-V Battlesuit, which would perfect upon the original armor's flaws, whilst also turning into a heavy weapons platform.

The Armiger-class was military intelligence's answer to the T5-V, which not only designed a near-identical suit of armor and adapted it for turian use, but also, due to its namesake, specialized it entirely for use by the lethal professionals in the Armiger Legion. Being mobile infantry and special forces, the Armiger-class was equipped with a built-in thruster pack, a micro VI of its own, two inches thick of Bellatis-B combat mesh, making the user almost impervious to small arms fire, a powerful Class VI kinetic barrier that could take a single rocket impact and survive, and an interface system for omni-tool that allowed for direct tool-to-suit uplink. And Garrus, for his service to the Turian Empire, got his very own set, despite the Armiger-class being largely exclusive to the Armiger Legion due to its expensive cost and the lack of post-war resources needed to manufacture them. Lucky him.

His own set was painted red and black, like the Normandy, with a set of notches along the back to represent each member of his team that he lost during his tenure as Archangel. Additional ammo pouches and grenade slots were added and, at EDI and some of the geth's crew suggestion, he removed the micro VI and had a QEC software link added to allow EDI to plug into his battle suit when he needed it, which would quadruple any combat effectiveness the original VI could have offered. Overall, as Garrus had slipped into the armor as easily as one slipped under bed sheets, he could find no complaint with his combat gear.

Just as he had with his armor, he made sure to stock up on ammo and weapons. He never went anywhere without his Mantis sniper rifle, so that was slung over his back as a prerequisite, with a Phaeston assault rifle joining it, and his Paladin sidearm. He probably wouldn't need his helmet, but he kept it slung at his hip just in case.

He wasn't going alone either. Of the crew that he still had, he was bringing Kasumi, Miranda, Samara, Churchill and Jacob with him. Jacob had stuck around simply to see what all the fuss about and to, quote on quote, 'get a break from Brynn and the baby for a while.' Garrus knew the man was just gunning for more action, and enjoyed rolling with the squad that made it all happen. While all discipline and professionalism, Jacob, just like the rest of them, was pining for the old days just as much as they were. Blazes of glory, and what not. So, the man had stuck around, and the spectre saw no harm in bringing him along.

Churchill was a new addition Garrus hadn't expected. The 'female' geth spectre wasn't part of the Normandy crew at all, and not one he had on his bucket list of people to recruit. Upon arriving at the Citadel to drop off Jack and Ashley, Churchill had found out about Garrus' trip to Omega and wished to assist him as a fellow Spectre. Ashley wasn't one to complain, as she had her own assignment (something about the Bull Sharks causing problems on Zorya), and wouldn't be available to help. Garrus had, of course, been obliged to report Aria's problem to the Council as soon as the issue arose, as all Council operatives and officials were given directives to report any and all Shepardist activities, and with this one likely being the first to involve open violence on behalf of the cult, Garrus knew they'd want to hear it. As such, all of OPSCOM was aware ahead of time, including Churchill. The Council authorized Garrus' detour as an official assignment they sanctioned, and the geth apparently saw no reason not to help Garrus. In the end, help was help, and he wasn't exactly going to turn it down. So the geth spectre tagged along.

Garrus had chosen his team wisely. Despite his hopes that he could resolve this peacefully, he knew that cultists, by their very nature, could get belligerent and boorish, often to the point of confrontation or threats. The demonstration, and subsequent massacre, outside Afterlife just two weeks ago (now last year), was evidence of that. Garrus had planned accordingly, making sure to bring at least two biotics, a tech expert and two heavy hitters. This way if 'shit hit the fan', as Shepard liked to say, they'd be ready. It was much more difficult to lynch a group of heavily armed specialists, especially when they're ex-Normandy crew members. Still, he was hoping their status as Shepard's sqaud would earn a few points with the cult, and hopefully avoid another unnecessary slaughter.

One could hope. Garrus was still finding it difficult getting used to taking Shepard's place as commander of both the Normandy and its ground team. Such a position took time to acclimatize to, especially when the previous imcumbent has left such a legacy in their place. Shepard was convinced Garrus was to be his successor however, hence why he had left the ship in Garrus' command once he resigned as a spectre. He was determined to make his best friend, his prelatum, proud. Regardless of how it would seem to others, Shepard was not a man of favouritism, and if he entrusted you enough to take over such a critical position, then he knew you could handle it. He'd always been a good judge of character. It was a rare trait he had mastered well, often knowing a person's qualities and whether or not he liked them simply from their initial meeting.

Garrus wished he had that gift. It would certainly help going into this confrontation.

Stepping onto Omega, it wasn't long before the team was met with their first reminder of Omega's constitution. The turian practically sighed at the predictability of it, watching as a sleezy looking salarian rushed up to them, the man's sunken eyes, dishevelled clothing and shuddering gait telling Garrus all he needed to know about him already. As he got closer, the abrasions and lesions dotting his leathery skin looked like they had been picked at, with open wounds either exposing the raw flesh underneath or oozing pus steadily. The smell that assaulted their nostrils, a mixture of ozone, grime, vomit and what seemed like the distinct, pungent stink of sewrage, did not help the image, and he could hear Kasumi's hushed snort of revulsion, and turned to find the look of absolute disdain on Miranda's face that she made no effort to hide.

The description of Omega always proved itself accurate upon repeat visits: an absolute shithole.

"Welcome to Omega!" the salarian rasped happily, right eye twitching erratically as he rubbed his shoulder roughly, itching away at his blistered tissue, "My name is Fargut! What can I-"

Spirits, I don't have time for this. "I'm a Spectre."

The salarian's smile vanished in an instant, mouth frozen open mid sentence. His eyes darted between the many members of the sextet, as if noticing them for the first time since he stumbled over to them half-dazed. As several seconds ticked by in the imbecile's brain, it finally clicked in his head that the group all had weapons on them: not only that, but he was wearing imposing combat armor, and one of them was a geth, the machine's glowing blue optic staring him down lifelessly. These combination of factors must have made for one intimidating sight, and the salarian, wordlessly, quickly ran back down the hall, giving them no further hassle. The turian couldn't help but grin a little.

Shepard must have really enjoyed abusing that. Now I know how I feel when he pulled that stunt on Officer Tammert when he was bullying that quarian pilgrim. One of the few perks. Surprised it worked on a place like Omega, but I guess the reputation proved to be more of a deterrent than the actual authority itself. Nobody wants to mess with a Spectre when they're on business.

"Well..." Jacob chuckled, the ex-Cerberus operative wearing casual clothing with a ballistic vest underneath, a kinetic barrier emitter hanging from his belt and a pistol magnetically holstered on his left hip, "...that's one way to get rid of pesky undesirables."

Samara and Kasumi offered mere nods in agreement, the stoic justicar rarely showing any emotion regardless and the thief already being used to the sorts of people found on the station. Churchill didn't even acknowledge the situation any further, the geth's optics subtlely twitching in every direction as it assessed its surroundings, moving on from the encounter in a way only a machine could. Garrus just nodded along to Jacob's point, already looking ahead to see an armoured batarian marching towards them, two equally armoured turians at his flank. The salarian drug addict slipped past the batarian, barely offering him more than a glance. The batarian's scowl of disdain told Garrus that their encounters were a frequent occurrence, and that the salarian was no friend of his. Right now, the turian was more concerned with the three armed mercs currently heading towards them.

Miranda tensed up noticeably, but did not make any motion to draw her weapon. She knew how this worked, "Speaking of undesirables...here comes Aria's welcome wagon."

The group held their position until Aria's trio finished their approach, the batarian stopping just infront of Garrus, having obviously acknowledged the turian as the squad leader. The batarian had a holstered SMG, but didn't draw it, with his two guards wielding lethal looking M-23 Katana shotguns in alert carry. Looking between the six of them, his eyes finally landed on Garrus', and he gave a brisk nod, "Aria's been expecting you for two weeks. I've been told to pass on her displeasure to you, and to insist you meet her in Afterlife."

A pity for Aria that I don't act on her beck and call. After a moment, he finally managed to recognize the batarian, and just shook his head with a modicum of disbelief, "Well Bray, I've already informed Aria why we're late. She may not like it, but I've got other things to do that don't involve solving her every problem for her. I'm doing this as a favor for a friend. She'll be happy we even came. Spectre work and all."

Bray just rolled his eyes, jabbing a thumb behind him as a motion for them to follow, "Save it, Vakarian. Just follow me to Afterlife so we can both get this over with. I've got more important duties to attend to that don't include being a glorified doorman. Come on," Bray then turned on his heel and left back down the hallway, the two guards following close behind. With a heavy sigh, he nodded to his crew and followed, Kasumi and Miranda following in behind him, with Churchill, Jacob and Samara forming up the rear. Garrus didn't like being lead around by Aria's people, but when in a foreign land, the rule of law surpasses all. And following Aria T'Loak's rules would make his job so much easier, not to mention done a whole lot faster.

Follow her lead and it'll be over sooner. Then we can leave this asinine pisshole that Aria calls her throne.

It didn't take long before they were walking across one of the main streets in the Dyuko district, where Afterlife rested on the opposite side, waiting. As per usual, a crowd of people were waiting outside to get in, a bouncer of some description denying them entrance or delaying them for one reason or another. Bright, flashing pink lights adorned the upper superstructure of the night club, the Cerberus insignia that had been there during Petrovsky's reign now gone and replaced with the familiar electronic flames of the galaxy's most notorious and frequented club. To the left, the Omega skyline could be seen, stretching onto the horizon it seemed. Endless rows of slums were perpetuated along the outer perimeter of the mined out planetoid, toxic plumes of pollution fogging up the air and reducing visibility. Skycars wizzed through the air, although not in the volumes one would find on Illium or many metropolitan worlds: after all, skycars were a privilege of the elite, and nearly 85% of Omega's population were poor and insolvent. Omega preyed on the weak, and endorsed those with delusions of strength. Just one more reason why he hated visiting this place.

The street wasn't very packed, although it usually wasn't. The marketplace to the east of Afterlife was usually where most of the civilian traffic diverted to, with the street outside the main club left empty, or most of the groupings waiting to get inside. The few people that weren't were mercenaries on a smoke break, technicians hired by Aria to fix the many faulty power systems embedded in the walls and bulkheads, or they were junkies, either lying around in puddles of their own sick, moaning pitifully as they scratch at aching and pulsing sores along their skin, or were wandering around in a daydream, so pumped up on Hallex or Creeper that they couldn't differentiate between hallucinogenic fantasy and reality. Snorts were heard as users snorted red sand, dim biotic glows temporarily lancing up their body as the element zero-laced drugs filled them with ecstasy. Other Earth-sourced drugs, such as fentanyl, heroin, morphine, methamphetamine...Omega had them in abundance. And these poor people were either hopelessly addicted or in the process of overdosing.

Bray and his men didn't care: they waltzed right past these people like they were an everyday phenomenon. The group, Garrus included, couldn't help wrinkling their noses at the intense smell of bile and blood, and they increased their pace as they tried to get away from it. There was no helping these people, he knew: they were too far gone, just one of the many victims of this station's barbaric and anarchic disregard for life.

Garrus had once believed he could save these people. Give them a better life by hitting and destroying the operations that gave them access to these narcotics. But in the end, Archangel had been a naive vigilante who had the misapprehension that he could change the world by blowing up its problems. He had failed to understand that the root cause ran deeper than simple criminal organizations, and that real change came from long-term reform, not raids and battles. Archangel had only learnt that lesson when it was too late, and it wasn't one he would make again. In the end, ironically enough, Cerberus had been the one to come close to installing some law and order on the station, and he had helped to oust them.

Perhaps one day...Omega would change. For the better.

Reaching the entrance, Garrus immediately noticed the human bouncer's bruised face, with reddened eye sockets and small, healing cuts along his cheeks and forehead. Garrus surmized these were the result of the Shepardist massacre that had happened on these very steps, and the turian couldn't help but picture the scene as if he were there. Piles of bodies, the smell of cordite filling the air, gore and viscera filling the streets, blood splattering every individual inch of steel decking, the stink of death shrouding the entire area in a blanket of-

He snapped out of the vision, and shuddered at the thought of it. Regardless of his many years in C-Sec and his special forces work on the Normandy, he would never get used to the violence one being could impose on another. Even after witnessing the horrors of Dr. Saleon's lab experiments, what Cerberus did to David Archer, the Reapers process for turning people into husks, the comprehensive slaughter of innocent people, mass graves...despite all of it, and even though he had become jaded and desensitized to most of it, he would never get used to it. And the thought of 30 people just being gunned down, their lives snuffed out with the rapidfire precision of an assault rifle's scalpel of death, was one that sent shivers up his spine. And Aria...just didn't seem to care. She seemed annoyed, more than anything else, that such carnage had inconvenienced her. No heart. No soul. Not a single shit to give.

It was no wonder that Aria T'Loak was, once upon a time, one of Archangel's planned targets for assasination. The plan was that once he had taken care of and eliminated the Blue Suns, Blood Pack, Eclipse and the Talons, he would have set his sights to Aria's syndicate. He wasn't an idiot: he knew Aria was not someone to be trifled with, so he had made sure that if he was going to kill her, he'd make sure to get it done the first time, leaving no chance for her to come back and retaliate. Of course, he had never gotten the chance, but if he had...he wouldn't have hesitated to pull that trigger and end her life.

She's a sociopath. Doesn't give a damn about people's lives. Turns the other cheek whenever it doesn't concern her. Garrus felt ashamed to have once called her an ally, to have fought by her side. In the end, everybody who wasn't a Reaper or with Cerberus was an ally during the war, but it still hadn't felt right. To know that the very person he'd fought side-by-side with was the very person he had planned to kill at one point.

It didn't take long to reach the interior of Afterlife. The music was just as obnoxious as it had always been, never failing to give him headaches as it infiltrated the deepest corners of his mind and shook it apart with its noisy dissonance. He could barely hear the sound of his own thoughts, and it didn't help that the intense strobing lights of the dance stage were enough to induce epileptic seizure: if it wasn't for turian eyes being used to the intense UV rays of their home planet, it might have hurt his eyes after a while.

Within moments, Garrus and his squad were standing before the woman herself. Her guards hovered around her like flies as they always did, one at the bottom of each stairway leading up to her little throne, while at least seven or eight of them guarded her at the top. The guards escorting Bray returned to their positions at the back, while Bray stood to the far left of the couch, hands clasped infront of him. Aria, who was usually alone, sat in the center of the couch with what looked like one of the club's female human dancers draped across her lap. The asari seemed to be enjoying her company immeasurably, a smile gracing her lips that made Garrus' stomach turn. He'd lost count of the amount of times he'd seen a similar smile on the pirate queen's face whenever she'd done something sadistic, such as unleashing civilians upon Cerberus' forces during the liberation over a year ago. Luckily, it appeared this smile was for an entirely different reason, and it seemed to have something to do with the dancer on her lap, who was also smiling.

Aria was still smirking as she turned, although it had been demoted to the corner of her lip, facing Garrus, "Garrus Vakarian...what a surprise. And here I believed you were never going to turn up. I asked for help two weeks ago: you took your sweet time."

He felt one of his mandibles twitch subconsciously, "I was busy. Hope you weren't too inconvenienced."

"Oh, not at all," Aria retorted, never one to be out done as far as sardonic quips went, "Luckily for all of us, the Shepardists have been awfully quiet ever since our little meet-and-greet. Kept to themselves, haven't bothered me since. Of course, I did have to raid a few more of their complexes to set an example: they did fuck with me, and that's one rule that can't be broken. They haven't retaliated and now they've withdrawn back to their little hideout. They're all yours...when you're ready."

Aria loved to play these games. As Shepard told him, talks with Aria were more like verbal sparring matches than actual conversational exchanges. It was a constant game of one-upping the other, lacing their words with threats, mocking reminders and bitter replies. Aria was a woman who was used to dominating her opponents, pummelling them into submission and molding them into what she wanted. Shepard had been the first man she'd met in hundreds of years who not only gave as good as he got, but actually managed to stump her once or twice. Aria would never admit it, but he had impressed her, so much so that she'd come to him for help in retaking her station, a decision that must have been difficult for her in the long run. So, as Shepard had warned him, as long as you treated her with enough respect to keep her happy, but didn't suck up to her like her own men did, she would treat you with respect. She didn't like sycophants, and she didn't listen to them either. Garrus had to put up a strong front...which he had no problem doing.

He nodded with a plain expression, offering her no satisfaction, "We're ready. Got to say Aria, Shepard is most flattered that you came to him for help with this."

Noticing his tone, Aria chuckled lightly under her breath, before a loud slap of flesh on flesh could be heard, the asari's hand having drifted down to her company's buttocks, the dancer looking completely unbothered by the action, "Shepard created this problem, he needs to fix it. He may not like it, but these people look up to him, and his actions have emboldened them. I would have preferred he deal with this personally, but as long as its dealt with, I don't really give a fuck," hand idly stroking the girl's hip, Aria turned to Garrus, motioning to her personal dancer, "You look a bit glum, Vakarian. Perhaps one of my girls would be to your taste. I know one of them has a thing for turians."

Garrus could barely hold back a guffaw. Aria's next move was fairly predictable, although only because Shepard had warned him of it. "Aria likes to be in control of the conversation: she'll redirect the topic whenever she pleases. Not out of boredom, but to yank your chain. Get you riled up. First time we met, she offered up one of her dancers to me, told me I looked like I needed a girl to warm my lap. Best way to respond? Ignore the offer. Push to the heart of the issue. Evince to her that you don't care about her control, and that will gain her respect. Its all a ruse to test your constitution. See if you're worth her time."

Just like Shepard suggested, Garrus went straight for the jugular, "Where have they withdrawn to?"

Aria's smirk only widened, although he catched the glimmer in her eye: she looked like she had expected that response. The smirk disappeared after a moment, Aria motioning for the dancer to leave. She did so without a word, standing up and leaving with haste, rushing down the stairs and out of view. With the initial pleasantries over with, Aria finally got down to business. Her lips thinned out into a placid expression, clicking her fingers at Bray wordlessly. The batarian apparently understood her intention, as he quickly produced a datapad, leaned over and presented it to Garrus. He took it gingerly, and turned away to look at it. He immediately recognized it as a layout. Specifically, the blueprints for a building.

"Suri-Kara hotel," Aria elaborated, legs crossed and hands resting in her lap, "Kima district. That's where they're hiding. They think they're hidden, but nothing goes by on Omega without me knowing, they should know that by now."

He nodded along, but couldn't contain his surprise at the location the Shepardists had chosen, "The Suri-Kara hotel? That was Archangel's old hideout, wasn't it? Why would they choose that specific spot? They couldn't possibly know about that."

Aria shrugged non-chalantly, "Not entirely unbelievable. Archangel made his last stand against the Blue Suns, Eclipse and Blood Pack at that very spot two years ago: everybody knows where it is. And if the Shepardists knew that Shepard's best friend held out there, I'm sure they'd find it very symbolic to set up their operations there." A ghost of a grin slid across her mouth, and Garrus cursed his slip up.

Of course she knows I'm Archangel. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have connected the dots eventually. Not like it matters anymore. Anybody who wanted me dead is long gone. "Right," he acknowledged, before turning and passing the datapad over to Miranda to have a look of her own, the woman curling a lock of hair behind one ear before looking over it, "Why give us this, though? We're here to confront these Shepardists. The only point to giving us a layout would be..." he locked eyes with the pirate queen, his look turning into a glare as he crossed his arms, "Are you expecting us to clear them out?"

"Of course not. Don't be so dramatic," she corrected, leaning forward as she returned with a scowl of her own, "Consider those blueprints...a contingency. Your plan B. You can't expect these zealots to just roll over and give up. These are the same people who saw I had guards and still believed they could kill me. If they perceive you as a threat, make no mistake, they will try and kill you. And if they do make that attempt, you'll want the knowledge of the land. A quick escape might be useful, wouldn't you say?"

He didn't buy her explanation for one minute. That's why she wanted Shepard here. She wanted someone with a reputation. Somebody she knew for certain would not fail to eliminate these 'pests'. Typical of her. Why negotiate if you can just destroy it? He didn't bring up his skepticism of her elucidation, knowing it would only piss her off and make his job more difficult. Instead, he went along with it, "Well, thank you for the information then: we'll take care of it. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: we are not here as your on-call pest control. We are here to talk to these people, and hopefully get them to back down and leave you alone. We only brought weapons in case things get hot. We will not be responsible for another bloodbath."

"Whatever. I don't really care," the pirate queen declared, leaning back into her couch again, straightening her leather jacket as she did, "As long as they stop intefering in my business, I don't really care what you do with them. Just make sure you do. I can only be so lenient."

With the entire group having looked over the datapad and downloaded its information their omni-tools, Kasumi finally passed it back to Garrus, who in turn passed it back to Bray, its owner, who deactivated and pocketed it. He nodded to the batarian, then to Aria, before turning and leaving. Just as he was about to descend the stairs however, he felt a small smile form, and he turned back slowly to face Aria, who was still watching him with a raised eyebrow, apparently surprised that he had more to say.

"Explain this to me Aria, because I'm a little confused," he began, sealing away his amusement behind a veil of indifference, "Why haven't you already dealt with them? They did 'fuck with you', and you know their location. Why not send your goons to shake them down?"

Aria almost looked like she had been surprised by that comment, but it didn't take long for her to clamp down on that and adopt a severe look of anger in her eyes, "The Kima district is part of Talon territory. That is Pike's jurisdiction. We have...a mutual agreement. His men leave me to my business, I leave him to his. My thanks for the Talons' help in reclaiming the station."

What's this? Aria is getting bossed around? Well...at least part of Omega has changed. Satisfied he had left Aria stewing irritably, Garrus took this as his cue to leave. Moving down the steps, he joined his team at the bottom and they followed him as they left Afterlife. Once outside, they quickly found a skycar, provided by Aria, that they could use to get to the Kima district. Once they had all piled in, they ascended into the cityscape, inputting the coordinates for the Suri-Kara hotel into the vehicle's SPS.

The Suri-Kara hotel was an old abandoned hotel complex that had been built by an old asari company in what they saw as a pre-emptive dive into Omega's future booming economy, the company believing that Omega would one day be subject to big businesses investing big in urbanizing the station, and they wanted first bite of the pie. Unfortunately for them, their premonition ran up dry, and the entire investment fell apart. Six hotels they had built were readily abandoned, Suri-Kara among them. Due to its isolated location, and the fact that the only way to enter it was through the maintenance subways (which could be locked down), and a bridge (which was very exposed), Garrus had chosen it as his headquarters during his two year campaign against crime. It had also been the place of his last stand. So suffice it to say, this place held memories for him. Good...and bad. It was not a place he wanted to return to, but had no choice.

Why there...why did they have to set up there of all places? Mordin's clinic, Aria's old bunker, the old laboratories Cerberus had set up...anywhere but there. Anywhere would have been a better choice.

They briefly passed through Talon airspace, where their car was pinged with a lock-on warning and they were contacted by a Talon officer who ordered them to identify himself. After all that was done, the lock-on was disengaged and they were allowed to continue. Finally, the skycar arrived at their destination, parking at the opposite side of the bridge, right outside the room where Tarak had been planning and coordinating attacks against Archangel's position. Walking through the now empty room, they made their way to the bridge, finding themselves subject to quite the sight.

The Shepardists had certainly been hard at work redecorating the place. Any evidence of the siege that had taken place here was gone: blackened steel plating was removed and replaced, discarded weapons taken or tossed away, and the bodies either disposed of or incinerated. There was no evidence of the battle that had taken place so many years ago, and the scene looked untouched. At the opposite end of the bridge, a group of four men and women stood guard. They wore no armor and didn't look to have shield emitters on them, although the latter could be hidden under their shirts. The only sign that they did anything but stand there was the pistols at their hips. One of them looked fairly well built, with a cap fitted over their head in Alliance black and blue. Garrus immediately knew this man had to have been ex-Alliance based on his stance, the cap and how he held himself.

Looks like the Shepardists don't just recruit civilians, but ex-military as well. That's concerning. Still, Garrus and his group didn't halt their progress, and in just a few moments, one of the guards was stepping forward (the ex-soldier), hand held out, motioning for him to stop. Garrus did so, motioning his squad to do the same, and waited for the guard to complete his approach.

"Who are you and what's your business here?" he demanded, snappy and to the point. He didn't sound all too happy at seeing them. After what Aria did to some of his people at Afterlife, Garrus couldn't say he blamed him.

Deciding to cut straight to the point, he gave the guard what he wanted, "Spectre Garrus Vakarian, CSS Normandy SR-2," the guard's eyes visibly widened, as did those of his compatriots behind him. The name drop had gotten the reaction he wanted, and he noted the sentry's posture begin to slacken, "I'm here to speak with the leader of your group. It pertains to the attack your people orchestrated on Afterlife two weeks ago."

The guard nodded, "Of...of course. We weren't expecting you to be here...we thought Aria was going to send her goons to attack us, so please forgive the rude greeting," he motioned for his men to relax, and then to Garrus and his team to follow him, "Please, come with me. I'll show you to our leader."

Seeing no reason not to comply, he did exactly that, navigating his way past the Shepardist checkpoint with no problem and into the compound itself, his friends not far behind. Aside from the odd click of a servo as Churchill moved, none of them made a sound as they were escorted inside, not knowing what to expect when they got inside or what they would do if things got violent: which they were hoping it wouldn't.

What they found inside defied all expectations.

Passing through the first few rooms wasn't a problem: most of them were locked, and those that were open only offered brief glimpses of the activities inside: the giggling of children, the ambience of conversation, the sound of a vidscreen displaying a sports game. These were all pretty harmless observations, and they didn't produce any evidence of anything that Garrus would perceive as worrying. But that was only until they got into the core of the Shepardist hideout.

To their immediate left, was what amounted to a shrine. A large vidscreen played and repeated compilations of footage showing Shepard in combat, whether it be during the Skyllian Blitz, Eden Prime War, Collector campaign or the Reaper War. Clad in armor and weapon in hand, the recorded version of Shepard battled his way through hordes of enemies, all the way the combat footage was propped on a pedestal and praised like somekind of holy temple. A few people were gathered around it, while one of them, an asari mother, had her child propped up on her lap, the toddler waving her Commander Shepard figurine through the air. Pictures of Shepard from his many years of service, either in his uniform or armor, were propped all over the walls, giving the members of the cult a constant reminder of who they worshipped. In the far corner, a preacher was giving grandiose speeches to a hushed crowd of twenty or so people, all of whom were watching her with rapt attention. Garrus couldn't make out the words of the preacher, as they were in a seperate room and the walls muted their words, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with Shepard's religious exaltation. He could have sworn the term 'Crusader' was used to.

The Crusader? Shepard's not going to be happy to hear that they're calling him that.

Walking around one corner, Miranda had to stop abruptly to let a fraternity of kids run past, all of them holding figurines of some description, whether it be of Shepard, the Normandy or even one of its crew members. One of the kids, holding a figurine of none other than Garrus himself, stopped in place as he looked up in awe, finding his idol walking past him. The kid shouted out to his friends, and within moments, the squad had a rabble of children pointing at them in reverence. Miranda, Samara and Churchill ignored it, Kasumi giggled and waved back, Jacob looked mildly perturbed, and Garrus simply pressed forward, ignoring all else. Rounding one corner, they even found a suit of N7 armor hanging on the wall, which was probably his biggest surprise. However, upon closer inspection, his eyepiece told him that the properties of the armor identified it as a replica. Shaking his head, and giving his group a passing glance, they pressed on.

All in all, as they approached the center of the Shepardist complex, the group became more and more disturbed by the imagery surrounding them. It was all too familiar to religious iconography. Shepard's armor, pictures of him on the walls, recordings of him being played, children being indoctrinated into believing exaggerated versions of the man's personality, people preaching about his deeds...while none of it was particularly violent or encouraging any attacks, the parallels to religious denominations of the past were striking.

Even Samara was picking up on it, the asari breaking silence to whisper to Garrus in passing, "Many of these images and activities remind me of the ceremonies that Athame's servants used to perform in the great Temple of Athame. They were religiously devoted to her teachings. Dedicated to learning every aspect of her being and her commandments so they could be fully committed to serving her."

The turian found her words chilling. Commandments. Committed. Serving. This...is going beyond hero worship. This is turning into a...a religion. These people aren't just fans and dedicated admirers, these people are propping Shepard up as if he's somekind of God. Like he's above the realm of mere mortals. Is that why they call him the Crusader? Are they already applying new titles to him? Is this where it begins?

Garrus could only shake his head and move on. Now I see what Shepard meant. About not wanting to endorse fandom. He was afraid this would happen. No wonder he sent me instead. If he had come, these people would have dropped everything to kiss his boots. Spirits...

Word spread around the compound fast. Whether it was from the guards or the kids they ran into earlier, rumors spread through the entire camp like wildfire, and soon everybody was watching and pointing at the entourage in awe and veneration. Kasumi waved at a few of them, but after a while, the novelty got old, and even the indomitably cheery thief began to get creeped out by the attention they were getting, with some even bowing their heads to them as they passed, or openly stopping everything they were doing and making way for them, like intruding upon their movement was sacrilegious.

"I'll admit," Kasumi whispered in his ear, "This is more than a little creepy."

Churchill, for the first time since they arrived, spoke up as well, its feminine electronic voice putting them all off with its sudden shrill, "Vakarian-Commander, we believe the Shepardist-Worshippers are demonstrating behaviour similar to how the heretics perceived and treated the Old Machines. Is this a correct assumption?"

"Yeah, Churchill," he responded worry lacing his tone, "A very correct assumption."

After what seemed like a very long walk through the structure (which Garrus could hardly recognize, it had been changed so much), the group finally arrived at their destination. The guard showed them into what looked like living quarters, with a long two rows of bunks lining both sides of the wall, most of them empty, with only a few being occupied as people slept. A single vidscreen occupied the other end of the wall, and it was displaying more silent footage of Shepard in action, with the word 'Crusader' set like a watermark at the bottom of the screen throughout all of it, confirming that 'Crusader' was a term used to identify Shepard by the cult.

At the end of the hall was a single man wearing a grey waistcoat, a white undershirt, and black pants, sitting on the end bunk, looking over his omni-tool. He had brown hair that looked to be gelled and combed to the left, with muted green eyes and a smooth complexion. The human male looked very tidy, and he dressed like a businessman. And given that the guard was currently moving towards him, Garrus could only assume this very man was the leader here.

Good. He mentally pondered. Finally going to get some answers as to what this madness is about.

Seeing the guard approach from his peripheral vision, the man turned to look, and his eyes widened as he saw the squad approaching. He quickly stood up, straightening his uniform in an attempt to look presentable, and deactivated his omni-tool. The guard tried to explain who they were, but he was quickly dismissed, the man stepping forward with wide eyes to offer a hand shake to Garrus immediately on the onset, "Why...I never thought I'd see this! Garrus Vakarian! Oh, and Kasumi Goto! Samara T'hanus, the feared justicar! Jacob Taylor, the Alliance soldier! Miranda Lawson, the woman who stole the Crusader's heart!" he shook all their hands one by one as he addressed them excitedly, but when he finally landed on Churchill, he frowned, "Uh...Legion? I thought you were dead!"

Churchill's headflaps twitched minutely, "This platform identifies as Churchill. Legion, the Progenitor, is in fact dead, as you put it."

While this was all going on, Miranda looked utterly baffled by the man's claim that she had 'stolen Shepard's heart'. Apparently his relationship with Tali still wasn't galactic news yet, and the Shepardists must have taken some tabloid a bit too seriously. Suffice to say, the woman was not happy about the claim and was about to correct him, but let it slide after she caught the look Garrus shot her. She understood and backed down.

The leader resumed his friendly demeanour, shaking the geth's hand earnestly, "Well, any friend of the Crusader is welcome here!" he took a step back, running a hand through his hair and letting off an explosive sigh. He shot the guard next to him a dirty look, but quickly wiped it from his face as he turned back to the group: not quickly enough for Garrus to fail to pick up on it, "Allow me to be the first to apologize for our behaviour. Mr. Denton here should have been more forthcoming about your arrival. We would have made preparations!"

He held up a hand to placate him, not wanting the man to become too overly thankful as he showered them with praise. After being stared at all the way in, he wasn't too enthusiastic about getting lionization in verbal form, "Its no problem, Mr...?"

"Ah, of course! Where are my manners!" he gave an overly sensational bow to them, his grin so wide that his pearly whites could be seen bared in their full form, "My name is Salvatore Mankins, and I am the leader of the Omega cell for the Faith of the Crusader. As you probably saw on your way in, we are dedicated to preserving and facilitating the spread of the Crusader's truth to all the four corners of the galaxy! To have his crew here...it is clearly an honor we have not earned yet! If only the Good Samaritan knew about this!"

By the Spirits...this really does go beyond fandom. Still, the term 'Good Samaritan' did interest Garrus a little. He hadn't heard that one before. He'd heard 'Crusader' and 'Savior' passed around more than a few times, but this was the first time 'Good Samaritan' propped up. By the way Mankins put it, it sounded like the name for a seperate person, not another nickname for Shepard. Curious, Garrus decided to ask, "Good Samaritan? Who's he?"

That seemed to surprise Mankins, who frowned in confusion, "You don't know about our leader? He is the one who leads us all to the Faith. He has met the Crusader firsthand, and spoken with him. He is the one who has strengthened our organization and made it what it is now. He had saved us from the decadent and self-indulgent perversion of Conrad Verner. He has given purpose, renewed spirit and has become our...oracle, of sorts. He believes in the Crusader like nobody else does. He's the one who passed down our mandate to preserve and spread the truth of the Crusader!"

That got Garrus' attention, and from the reactions of his group, they were just as surprised as well. So the Good Samaritan is the one who leads the entire Shepardist organization. I've head inklings of this from the Council, but by the time I left, they weren't exactly forthcoming about information, and still insisted on calling him 'unidentified leader.' Now we have a name. The way these people speak...this has to be the Samaritan's work. Calling him an oracle...and saying that he's had contact with Shepard? That's just a blatant lie! Shepard doesn't know anybody who would be willing to idolize him other than Conrad, and from what this man just said, Conrad was ousted by the Samaritan, so its not even the same person. Should definitely pass along this information when I can. OPSCOM will want to hear this, especially Bau.

For now though, he had to get to the heart of the issue, and why they were here, even if he didn't like it. Stalling Mankins before he could continue asking them questions, the spectre began his questioning.

"Mr. Mankins, we'd love to stay and chat about Shepard's adventures. We do love talking with our fans," he lied, "But unfortunately, we are here on official Spectre business. It has been brought to light that two weeks ago, your people orchestrated an attempt on Aria T'Loak's life that resulted in the deaths of 30 of your members, the death of one of Aria's, and the injury of another. Could you perhaps explain to me why your people thought this was okay?"

Mankins shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned, "Forgive me for asking Spectre Vakarian, but it hardly seems important. Aria T'Loak is a criminal and profligate. She profits from killing innocent people and shaking down others. One could be forgiven for thinking that such a thing is beneath the attention of law enforcement, especially a Spectre."

And normally it would be, "Mr. Mankins, I will be the one to decide whether or not this is beneath me. Now, like it or not, 30 of your people are dead. Pointlessly slaughtered in a shootout that could have been avoided. Now, I'd like an explanation. If you won't offer one to a spectre, then offer one to Garrus Vakarian, one of Shepard's friends, who is anxious to know why this action was apparently done in his name." He was hoping that by name dropping Shepard he'd be able to use that to squeeze an answer out of Mankins. It was a dirty way to go about it, and Garrus felt bad for doing it, but if he didn't, they'd be here forever.

Luckily for him, it paid off, as Mankins' perplexed expression informed him, "Are you saying the Crusader doesn't approve of our actions? I don't understand. Aria T'Loak is a criminal! The woman has actively admitted she despises the Crusader, and we know for a fact the Crusader doesn't like her! We thought that the Crusader would approve of us bringing justice to the heretic! We only did what we thought was right! She spurned his truth, and she must pay for it!"

He shook his head, "No, he doesn't approve. And quite frankly, neither do I. 30 people are dead as a result of your group's actions. 30 people from your group. It was an act of wanton violence that achieved nothing. Aria is still in power, she's still alive, and your people have nothing to show for it. Now I don't know or care if your Good Samaritan authorized this attack. What I do know is that actions like this reflect very badly on Shepard, and make you look even worse. Aria contacted me and was hoping I could resolve this situation without further bloodshed. She's not a forgiving woman, and you're lucky she sent me and not a death squad. The Council also sent me because they don't like the message you're sending. Did your people give any thought as to how this might make the Shepardists look? I'm damn sure this isn't how Shepard would want you to act."

"I..." Mankins stuttered, before backing down as he realized he had no retort to offer that would be good enough. After a long pause, he finally gave in, nodding his acquiescence, "...you're right. Damn it, we've been so foolish. We only wanted to make the Crusader acknowledge and be proud of us. We only follow his will. His truth, his reasonings, his teachings...we devote ourselves to following the path he's laid out for us. We took his enemies to be our enemies. We thought...we believed Aria T'Loak was his enemy, and so we acted accordingly. We didn't...perceive the error in that logic. We just acted."

"...and now 30 people are dead," Miranda deadpanned, arms crossed, "Not much to show for it, unfortunately."

Mankins nodded meekly, and in his state, he seemed almost sympathetic. It all seemed so innocent when one looked at it sympathetically. Ignore all the religious connotations and the worship, and all you had were fans trying to make their role model proud by doing what they thought he'd want. Of course, if this was something like buying a skycar for him, that would be fine. But they openly tried to murder Aria T'Loak at the footsteps of Afterlife because they believed their hero wished them to do so, and the result was a carnal bloodbath. Mankins was likely realizing the folly of his institution now, and what it had brought them to. Garrus, for one, could hardly feel sympathetic right now.

You brought this on yourself, he reasoned, just because a friend tells you to shoot up a school, doesn't mean you should do it. And in this case, he only thought Shepard would want this. His group only thought he'd want it. The audacity of these people to use Shepard's name to justify this kind of savagery is just unbelievavble. It beggars belief.

With no further response from Mankins, he crossed his arms, eying the human directly, "All I can say right now is this: do not harass or attack Aria or any of her men again. If you won't do it for me, or for Aria, then do it because Shepard requested it. He not only wants nothing to do with your group, but he doesn't authorize or sanction these actions you've committed. If you truly respect him and his wishes, then you will do this without question. If I find out that you've attacked her or her people again, then I will be forced to bring you in and make you answer for it. Am I understood?"

Mankins slowly looked up, and met Garrus' eyes. The look he found there was one of genuine regret, but it was also laced with another emotion...one the turian couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, it quickly dissipated, and the man stood straighter, giving him a firm nod, "Very well, Mr. Vakarian. I will inform my people of what you have told us, and that we are to avoid contact with Aria's people at all costs. With luck, you will not hear from us again. If the Crusader does not wish it, then we shall not act. The Crusader commands...we only follow his lead."

"The Crusader commands, we only follow his lead." Garrus really didn't know whether to feel indifferent to this or not. On one hand, Mankins was at least contrite about what had happened, and was working to fix it. On the other, his insistence on 'following the Crusader's lead', even after Garrus had dropped a blatant hint as to Shepard not wanting to be involved, grated on his nerves. He knew this organization was eating his friend up, making it seem like their every action was one on his part. But if they didn't want to drop their faith, there wasn't much Garrus could do to stop them. In the end, they're willingness to back off the Aria issue was a small victory, but the largest he would get at this point in time.

There hadn't been much else to say after that. The squad had been eager to move on after that, and Garrus had been right there with them. After saying goodbye to Mankins, they took their leave, heading out of the compound and for their skycar so they could inform Aria of their success, get a quick round of drinks at Afterlife, and then head back to the Normandy. They tried their best to ignore the creepy stares they got on their way out, but it was difficult knowing just who was watching them. In the end, they couldn't have been more eager to get out of crazy town and back to their ship.

Garrus, however, was still being eaten up by it all. What he'd seen in there, what these people were doing and how they were going about it...it rubbed him the wrong way. He'd spent many years as a detective in C-Sec, and as a result, he considered him one of the best. His father had taught him many tricks of the trade, and he'd use his expertise to his advantage during the war to draw up conclusions and evidence others would dismiss or just plainly miss.

But right now, his detective's intuition was screaming at him that something was seriously wrong with this entire mess. He had felt it walking into the compound, he'd felt it talking to Mankins, and he'd felt it on the steps of Afterlife. None of it felt right. There was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, and it made him feel uneasy. Whatever the Shepardists were doing...it was bad. Whoever the Samaritan was and what their goal was...it was bad.

The whole thing just reeked of dark and dirty. And whatever that was, Garrus was now determined to put it down. He would not allow everything Shepard and his friends had built to crumble because of overzealous fans. No, he would get to the bottom of this Samaritan, and he would end this at the source.

Because if his detective's intuition told him anything...its that cults rarely stay peaceful for long.


Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 10, 2188 - An hour and 15 minutes later.

It just...won't...budge!

Relaxing his grip on the ignition box, he lowered the spanner he was holding and let it drop to the floor next to him with a clang. Exhaling abruptly and with a measure of frustration, he grabbed the rag on his right and patted his face down, wiping it clear of the sweat that had built up there.

Two weeks on from the housewarming party, and Shepard was desperately finding things for himself to do. The first day had been spent cleaning up after the party with Tali, and they had both spent most of the next day in bed, alternating between sex, sleep and watching movies. Eventually, Tali had migrated to her new workshop to begin configuring it to her liking, and Shepard had largely been left to find his own things to do around the house. In the end, he had chosen exercise, watching movies, looking for jobs in the capital and working on his skycar. Today, it was working on his skycar...mainly upgrading his ignition box so it could run on 1 litre of liquid eezo instead of the 3 that it currently used. It was having...very little success.

In truth, despite the technical and mechanical training he was given as an N7, he wasn't a combat engineer or a mechanic. That was Tali's specialization, not his. So when it came to upgrading their skycar, he was completely useless. Dumb as a doornail. In reality, he had only really taken up the project out of boredom, and not because he thought he could actually achieve anything with it. The two of them were itching for things to do, and aside from Tali going out for Admiralty Board meetings every day, neither of them were really doing much aside from watching movies, sleeping, having sex, cuddling, eating, and repeating all of the above. They needed a semblance of purpose in their lives. And aside from getting married and going to admiralty meetings, they didn't really have one.

Of course, Shepard knew exactly what he wanted that would fix this issue. Not just a job of course, but the one thing he knew Tali wanted, but that he couldn't provide her. The one thing he wanted, but that she couldn't biologically have with him. When it came down to it, neither Tali or Shepard really had the courage to ask the other for their thoughts on this mutual issue, and none of them brought it up as a consequence. It was a question that would eternally linger between them until it was addressed. And whether they liked it or not-

His thoughts were broken by the sound of his omni-tool going off. Wandering if it was Aria again, he lifted up to find the caller ID actually belonged to that of Garrus. Scratching his beard, he grabbed his spanner and his rag and rolled himself out from under the skycar, having propped himself ontop of a trolley board, the skycar suspended in the air on a large rectangular platform that lifted the vehicle off the floor. Wiping his hands with the dirty rag, he then carelessly tossed it aside, sitting up to receive the call, leaning back enough so that he could lean against the skycar's bonnet. Satisfied that he was comfortable, he brought up the contact request, and accepted it.

The screen on his omni-tool immediately framed Garrus' face, who looked to be using the terminal in the captain's quarters on the Normandy. The turian was actually wearing a proper tunic instead of his armor, the green and blue shirt and black pants strangely looking like they fit the turian's self-image. He smiled at seeing his friend, as did the turian, "Garrus. Been a few weeks."

Garrus chuckled, the connection distorting for a brief moment, causing his the image of his friend's face, among other visual artifacts, to blur and warp for a few seconds before snapping back into focus. The galaxy still hadn't fully recovered from the war, and among many of the casualties was the comm buoy network. The Reapers had destroyed much of the subspace communication infrastructure needed for the extranet and communications, and it was taking a while for it all to return to normal. Communications between homeworlds and critical planets were reestablished pretty quickly, as that had been the priority, while the others were being restored far more slowly. Garrus must have just passed through one of these gaps in the comm nets.

Waiting for the connection quality to return to standard, the turian replied, "Been busy. Had all your guests to drop off, among other things. I may have stopped by one of the nearby geth cafes for a coffee, too. I hear the geth are great at making coffee." The sarcasm in Garrus' voice was a breath of fresh air for Shepard, who grinned in response.

"I would know a thing or too about geth coffee. I live on their homeworld," Shepard shot back. Finally, after an exchange of laughs between the two, Shepard felt the tension between them reach its peak, which the unspoken question between them hanging in the air like a loose thread, one both were eager to rectify. Finally, Shepard broke the silence, sighing as he rubbed his face, "Tell me Garrus...what's the situation? How...how bad is it?"

How far has this gone?

There was a low groan on Garrus' end, the suspiration of breath sounding resigned and malignant and tired, "I guess...I should start by asking if you want the good or bad news first."

"Does the bad outweigh the good?"

"You know it does. It always does."

A nod. Followed by a reciprocal groan, an idle finger scratching the rim of his nose, "Fine. The bad news."

"They're deranged," the spectre offered straight up, hitting home straight away with no warm up, "I went in with a small squad. I expected misguided idiots, but what we saw..." in that moment, Garrus visibly began to reconsider whether he should continue, knowing how it would affect his friend and former commander, "Shepard, you don't need to hear this. All you need to-"

"Tell me," he insisted, his tone brokering no debate or objection. He needed to hear this. He had to. What these people were doing, and why. He needed the full damage report, "Everything you saw."

Quiet filled the line long enough for Shepard to think Garrus was unwilling to go any further. Just as he was about to prompt his continuance, the turian pre-empted him, "What they had in there was...nothing less than a shrine. A...a temple. They had pictures of you all over the walls, they had a replica of your armor propped up like somekind of archaelogical discovery...they had combat footage of you playing on every available vidscreen. Children running around with figurines of you and us. Preachers calling you 'Crusader' and 'Savior'. And it gets worse...what they had going on was practically a religion. Its gone from admiration and remembrance to divinity. They even refer to their organization now as the 'Faith of the Crusader.' They don't identify you by name anymore: they just call you 'the Crusader', whatever that means."

Shepard just wordlessly listened as Garrus ticked off every single thing he saw. The more and more he heard, the fiercer the pressure in his chest, squeezing at his stomach and heart and lungs. He found he had to lick his lips nervously, and the urge to itch his beard intensified. Any attempt his body conjured up for a distraction was satisfied, because in the end, what Shepard was hearing...it was a terrifying prospect.

"Now, the good news. Sort of," Garrus continued, "From what I've seen based on reports of all the other Shepardist cells, the development into a religion seems to be isolated to Omega: all the rest are limited to cultist behaviour, and hasn't developed beyond that. From what we can tell, based on relevant statistics that EDI has analyzed, Omega's population size, combined with the lack of a police force, a proper education system, limited extranet access and the close proximity of the population itself to each other is what resulted in this cell turning into a religion. So, for now, this hasn't spread. I've also successfully talked to their leader, Mankins, and he's agreed to cease any attacks on Aria and her men: doesn't look like they had the means to mount such assaults anyway, and I think the Talons are more than equipped to put them down if they try anything. There's also another piece of information you might like to know."

While not particularly inspirited, especially considering what he had just learned, Shepard wanted to know everything he could. He'd always been a sucker for information, as knowledge was power, and the more of it he had, the better prepared he was. Being in the military, especially as special forces, being fully aware of your enemy and their capabilities was essential to survival, "What is it?"

"We've got a name for this mysterious new leader," Garrus declared, "Well, an alias for like, but its more than what we had before. He goes by the name 'Good Samaritan.' Not sure if that's supposed to a genuine attempt at sounding pious, because quite frankly I'm not sure why else anybody would choose an alias based off an act of common sense. The Council is certain this Samaritan is based on Illium, and if that's any indication, we'll be able to keep tabs on him. If things get hot, they'll send in a spectre to put a stop to it. In restrospect...there's nothing to worry about. Yes, this stuff with worship and the borderline religious doctrine is a bit worrisome, but it doesn't seem like anything that'll last. The attack at Afterlife is of some concern, but we both know Aria can handle herself. I'm going to follow up this lead on the Samaritan, and hopefully get a crack at finding out who they are. From what Mankins told me, he claims to know you...personally."

Shepard frowned deeply at that, troubled by the idea of the person behind this whole mess knowing him. Sure, there's Conrad...but his ousting by the Shepardists has been confirmed at this point, so the Samaritan can't be him. So who else? Conrad was the only fan I knew of that had met me personally. All the rest...not a single one of them would be capable of this! None of them would want to do this.

"Shepard?" he had fallen silent for a minute or so, prompting Garrus to repeat his unheard question. Blinking, he turned back to look at the turian with a weak smile.

"Its okay, Garrus...I was just thinking," he offered in reassurance, although he was fairly sure the turian wouldn't buy it. He knew him far too well, including Shepard's tendency to say he was fine when internally he was a spiralling inferno of agitation, "I'm sorry I put in the position of having to see that first hand. I just...needed to know. And now that I do, I have no idea what to do with that information. I can't do anything with it. These people are blowing this way out of proportion. I'm not looking to be deified."

"I hear you," Garrus replied understandingly, "Which is why you shouldn't worry about it. These people haven't done anything harmful or dangerous yet. You're on Rannoch, and from what I've heard, the Shepardist presence there is noticeable, but minimal. The rest is outside your purview and theirs. I wouldn't think about it too much. Let me, the spectre, deal with it. I'll chase up this lead, and see where it goes. Who knows...maybe I'll find this Samaritan and give him a firm talking to. I might even take him to the very spot where Garrus Vakarian beat 'the Crusader' in a test of marksmanship."

Shepard scoffed, feeling his spirits lifted somewhat, "Emasculation ought to bring down my reputation a notch."

"See? All sorted," came the turian's mirthful reply. After another moment or two, Garrus exhaled loudly, talons tapping his desk with a light rap, "Well...I better get knowing. Just wanted to give that update you wanted. Just relax and stay out of this, Shepard. You and Tali are getting married...that's all you should be concerned with. Nothing, not even a band of crazed fanatics, is going to put a damper on that. I'll talk down the Samaritan, swoop up all your fame and repute, lock up a few more baddies, and be back to Rannoch in time to watch two of my best friends get bonded and start a new life together. That's what we are, right? We've kicked the shit out of worse enemies before and it didn't bother us."

Shepard's smile, while diminishing ever so slightly, did find Garrus' aplomb attitude communicable, and he nodded, "You're right, Garrus. Perhaps I'm just overthinking it. I'd just be happier knowing I can marry Tali without an army of overzealous fans rushing around the galaxy killing people in my name. Nobody needs that."

"We've got a handle on it," Garrus replied calmly, smiling all the way, "I've got some reports to fill out before the Normandy reaches the Citadel, Shepard. Catch up more later."

"See you, Garrus," he stated in addendum, tapping his omni-tool once to cut off the connection, before turning off the unit completely. He sat there for a few minutes, just thinking, arms crossed as he mulled over what Garrus had told him.

These Shepardists are...completely crazy. Non compos mentis. But Garrus is right too...there's nothing I can do about it, and allowing it to interfere with my life isn't going to help me or Tali. And all I want is to give Tali my full attention now: that was the whole point of me retiring from the military. Leaving it all behind. If I just keep worrying about what these cultists might do...none of it will matter. I can't change the fact they exist. All I can do is wait them out and hope this dies off eventually. That its just a phase. That's the most I can expect.

But that constantly nagging question would never leave him be. And what if they don't?

Damn his thoughts. Constantly miring him in a pointless maelstrom of indecision and agonization. He wished they would go away. Leave him in peace.

Thankfully, one of the belligerents in his mental conflict would prove to an excellent obstruction to these thoughts, her voice coming from the doorway and derailing his unwanted train of thought, "Want to take a break?"

Turning from where he was perched against the skycar, he could see Tali standing at the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the frame. Just seeing her immediately soothed him, which was something he found equal parts comforting and confusing in a paradoxical way. He wasn't quite sure, but there was an aura about her that almost instantly made him feel better, alleviating him of worry. When she wasn't near, he was prone to agitation and temperamental swings in attitude, but when she was close to him...all of it went away. The amount of times he had snapped at doctors prodding him only for Tali to calm him down almost immediately were innumerable.

Even now, he felt his worries disappearing as he left them in the ether, a warm smile returning to his mouth, "Yeah...that'd be nice." Standing up, he patted himself down, excess dust cascading off of him like a sheet, doing so until he was positive he was clear of it. Walking up to her, he gently tapped his forehead against her faceplate before grabbing one of her hands, his fingers fidgeting with hers. His smile widened at the band tied around her wrist: the same one he had given her as a proposal for their bonding, one which Tali had gleefully accepted. A symbol of their unified strength together. One ceasing to exist without the other. And a recognition that she would soon be his wife.

"Anything you want to do?" Tali asked, head cocked at him playfully. He recognized the sultriness in her tone, and was about to respond with his usual coy remark, but remembered just how much he wanted to do something that differed from the norm. They had spent most of their days doing the same thing, so he figured they could do something a little more productive...like organizing what they wanted to do next.

Perhaps planning the next stage in their lives?

"Maybe later," he stated instead, answering her unasked question. Before the confusion in her posture could turn into a question however, he continued, "Perhaps we could take the time to begin...planning our ceremony? Go over the guest list, maybe?"

After a few seconds, Tali laughed, before nodding, "Sure. I'd like that. Let's do that."

She took his hand, and the two walked out of the garage and towards the kitchen area as both of their thoughts were filled with ideas of how their bonding ceremony would go, who they wanted there, and where it would take place. The thought filled them both with joy, surrealistic imagination and unincumbered excitement. They had a marriage to plan.


Abandoned Skycar Factory, Nos Astra, Illium - January 10, 2188 - 40 minutes later.

Sigma-Hotel 110: We received your report, Bau. Sorry it took us two weeks to process, but the shit we've been dealing with here is astronomical. We've got spectres deployed all over Council space at the moment, and personally getting time to read your report has been nothing short of hell: doesn't help Vakarian and Churchill spirited off to Omega to check up on a report of Shepardists trying to kill Aria T'Loak. Nasty business. Anyway, I've read your report...what you've noted is fairly concerning. Says here you've identified the leader?

Raptor-Indigo 004: Yes. Calls himself the Good Samaritan. Have attached recommendations on how to respond to increased Shepardist cult activity. Please advise.

Sigma-Hotel 110: Haven't had a chance to discuss this with the Council: will have to pass this up the chain and see what they think. Advise seems sound, although I do believe the response could be more toned down. Intercepting civilian transports without probable cause will put us in a world of shit, especially with how much flak the Council is getting. I know we're spectres, but look at the bigger picture. The spectres are under enough scrutiny as it is without seemingly raiding random transports and seizing bank accounts unlawfully. Unless you can come up with probable cause, its untouchable.

Raptor-Indigo 004: The evidence is there. Use it.

Sigma-Hotel 110: You and I both know this is inadmissible. This information was stolen. No judge in any court in the galaxy is going to let that fly. They'll toss it out. Let's face it, we don't have a case. Until the Shepardists do something illegal, they're untouchable. I'm sorry. We'll just have to wait and see what the Council says. Baby steps.

Raptor-Indigo 004: Understood. Advise on how to proceed?

Sigma-Hotel 110: Has further reconnaissance and observation yielded anything new?

Raptor-Indigo 004: Nothing. No new developments. Have not attempted further information gathering from the source, deemed to be too risky. Samaritan appears to have purchased an M-29 Incisor semi-automatic rifle: intent for this weapon is unknown, possibly recreational, possibly for self defense: prior hinted military service could indicate proficiency with use of the weapon, have marked down as watch-and-act.

Sigma-Hotel 110: Given the circumstances, continue observational activities and report back on a need-to-know basis. Keep your distance, and do not attempt contact unless instructed to do so. I'll inform the Council and see what they want done next. Until you here from me, as far as you are concerned, orders have not changed. Message back to confirm compliance.

Raptor-Indigo 004: Solid copy. Understood.

Deactivating his omni-tool, Jondam Bau licked his lips as he crouched behind the corrogated steel railing of the abandoned factory's ceiling, the opaque surface hiding him from the view of those below or anybody looking. He blinked twice to wet his eyes, before pulling out a datapad from his satchel and looking over his notes. As he had stated to Spectre Edorev in his communique with her, he had noted no new suspicious activity. Shepardist operations at their headquarters were already minimalistic, and with that taken into account, getting new, raw data on the goings-on inside that structure were difficult to come by without infiltrating the facility again, and he had already ruled that out on the principle that it was too risky to try again. As such, he had no new avenue from which to proceed, allowing the Samaritan to delicately camouflage his ventures.

Bau eyed his Raptor rifle one last time before grabbing his binoculars and peeking over the railing one more time, bringing the visual enhancement goggles to his eyes. He went over the many floors of the building one more time, looking for anything that might suggest an iota of dubious misdeeds going on inside. But as had been the case for him multiple times before, his recon turned up nothing, and so he was forced to lower his binoculars, crouching back down so he was hidden from sight once more, the salarian growing frustrated with his lack of progress.

Would be easier to kill the man. End the threat he poses. But orders are orders.

Bau wouldn't call himself a reckless man, or even one that was prone to random action. He didn't enjoy battle or combat nearly as such as his peers did, and he didn't revel in doing what he had to do in service to the Council and the galaxy. His work in the STG had taught him that all actions have purpose, and that so long as the action is justified and leads to a beneficial outcome, then it was worth it. STG was an organization of necessity, and thus was run and manned by men and women of marvellous intellectual quality and stature. STG didn't recruit soldiers, it recruited patriots. Those who rose above the rank and file to embrace the tactile nature of intelligence, the responsibility one had in maintaining the greater good, and in understanding that combat was a last resort, not a requirement. His STG work was what got him initiated into the Spectres to begin with.

And every fibre of his training, everything the STG had taught him, right down to the age old STG maxim of 'prepare for trouble, and failing that, create trouble for others', was telling him the Samaritan was a recognizable threat, and one that needed to be eliminated. If this was an STG operation, he'd already be dead. But unfortunately, he didn't answer to or serve the STG anymore. And the Council was a far less compromising beast than the clandestine black ops group he used to serve. He would just have to hope they made the right decision in the end.

It had been a long two weeks for Bau. In reality, every day was considered long for a salarian. As a species whose average lifespan was 40, Bau's species didn't have the gift of time that humans, turians or quarians had. They didn't get to live for centuries on end like the asari and krogan. This meant that salarians were privy to establishing themselves intellectually and academically in the world far sooner, becoming university graduates as young as nine years old, meaning salarians matured faster than any other race in the galaxy, with the exception of the vorcha. Their hyperactive metabolism is what allowed this to happen, shortening their lifespan while also making them incredibly intelligent, granting them photographic memories and one hour sleep cycles. For this very reason, days were long to a salarian. One hour sleep made sure the other 23 hours would be spent awake and active, and a constant need to be doing something meant that sitting around would grate on their patience after a while.

This was Bau's predicament. His species' metabolism was both a gift and a curse. While he sat here doing nothing, it was beginning to get fidgety, but his photographic memory meant that he remembered every single intricate detail of the Shepardist headquarters, where people were, what the Samaritan had done and was doing, and the exact time in which he received messages. In this case, ten minutes had passed since he received Edorev's reply.

Two weeks was a long time to go silent, especially for Bau. While he was used to going on radio silence for extended periods of time during high-risk ops, those were by necessity and only to be broken when crucial mission intel needed to be transmitted or passed on in some way. The information he had on the Samaritan and his operations had been of that nature, at least in his mind, and it had taken two weeks for OPSCOM to finally muster a response. And instead of seeing his point of view, he was regulated to more observational recon, thus making the two weeks he had spent waiting seem like a waste of time.

But he hadn't become a spectre for nothing. Nobody is admitted into the Spectres without a reason for being there. Even Saren Arterius and Tela Vasir, for all their faults, were lethal combatants. Saren was one of their finest operatives up until his treachery, and Tela Vasir, while a criminal, had been a renowned and feared commando of the Asari Republics' Ultramarines commando unit, which was boasted as the most elite of their special forces, next to the Serrice Guard. Every Spectre earned their title through long terms of service or by making a name for themselves. And through that title, they had learned patience. It was part of why they were so effective as a force. And Bau had learnt that lesson well...so he waited. Bided his time. Used it to catalogue and detail every single piece of information he had found, making sure to transmit to the Citadel in encrypted packages, piggy-backing them off comm buoy sub-channels to decrease the chances of detection or interception.

Discretion was key.

So he waited. Two weeks he waited for a reply, and then he got one, and it was a temporary standing order to wait a bit more. So he did, ever the spook, waiting in the shadows, eyes tracing his target and waiting for that moment when he got the order to withdraw, arrest...or kill. It was all a waiting game now.

In the two weeks he had spent waiting, the Samaritan had hardly left the building, but he hadn't remained idle. Just three weeks ago, the man had turned the Shepardists from a cult with a few cells into a interconnected, galaxy-wide network. Their organization had been rebranded into the 'Faith of the Crusader', and their faith just kept spreading, with disturbing reports arising on his own homeworld, Sur'Kesh, of their activities. And now, nearly a month onwards, they had expanded even further. Just as Bau had predicted, the Samaritan had ended the Shepardist contract with the ERCS for security and protection, and established a sub-section of the cult dedicated to that same security. Armed guards surrounded the structure at all times, ranging from humans to Bau's own people, batarians to krogan.

While a few civilians in tunics holding shotguns and a few rifles were not what the Citadel Conventions would deem to be 'militant behaviour', it was enough to irritate Bau, because the implications were obvious. How long until security turned into bullying and harassment campaigns? Shaking down businesses who didn't subscribe to their dogma. Killing people who 'strayed from the path.' Bau had heard of it before. It had happend with the League of One. It had happened with Cerberus. It happened with Tanculus' cult. In all three instances, good intentions turned into militant behaviour, which then translated into violence and death. How long would it be until the Shepardists were so well armed, that they could actually pose a threat?

Give a fanatic a weapon, and you can be sure he'll use it. Happens every single time.

It didn't end there. The Samaritan, in his effort to 'increase security', had even gone to the length of hiring supplementary RAGNAROK-series mech auxiliaries, with crates stamped with the 'HKDS' (Hahne-Kedar Defense Solutions) logo stamped on them. Crates filled with LOKI skirmish mechs, FENRIS rapid assault dogs and HEL-class security drones were delivered practically to their front door, and deployed within days of their arrival. No YMIR mechs were bought, but considering that they were incredibly effective, had a high fuel economy and were largely used for assaults rather than defense, it wasn't surprising the Samaritan hadn't wasted time buying them. Not to mention buying a few YMIR mechs would begin to arise suspicion from the NAPD, which the Shepardists no doubt wanted to avoid.

For every day the Samaritan was left to his own devices, he was building up his strength. Gathering assets. Consolidating power and spreading his influence to the vulnerable. His ascendancy was an unstoppable tsunami that was washing through the galaxy like a raging tempest, and if it wasn't interrupted soon, they could very well be looking down the sights of a bitter and empowered new cult. And the blood they will shed won't be limited to the Terminus Systems...it'll be everywhere. Every system, every homeworld.

We just defeated the Reapers over a year ago. A cultist uprising would be devastating.

Minutes ticked by like clockwork. Then an hour. Finally, four hours passed, and he was no closer to receiving his new orders. Just as he was lowering his binoculars from checking the Shepardist skyscraper for activity again, his omni-tool finally pinged. Punching on a dried snack he had brought with him, he opened the contact's ID just to confirm it was from OPSCOM. Lo and behold, it was. What caught his eye was that the message had been fast tracked from the Citadel: it had the usual encryption, but had been sent through the primary channel of the comm buoy network, which was extremely unusual behaviour for the spectres. The only time they would do this...is if the reply was of a critical nature. An emergency message.

Quickly opening up the message, he read the corresponding message. His blinked four times, wetting his eyes again and, for the first time since he had infiltrated the Samaritan's quarters and seen the information stored there, he felt an emotion other than determination.

Shock.

Sigma-Hotel 110: PRIORITY MESSAGE. REPEAT, PRIORITY. If you get this Raptor-Indigo, you have new orders. Report received of an attack on Sur'Kesh, near the capital of Talat. Minimal civilian casualties. Unidentified cultist members attempted to assassinate Dalatrass Linron during a brood ritual celebration. At least two of her guards were killed, but the rest were able to kill many of the cultists and extract the dalatrass safely. She suffered an injury to her right cranial lobe, has a fractured hernia and a broken arm. Cultist members have yet to be fully identified, but a leaked report from the STG suggests the Sur'Kesh cell of the Faith of the Crusader were behind the attack. As of 1600 hours this morning, the alert rating has been raised to WATCH AND ACT. Raptor-Indigo, by proclomation and special order of the Council, you are to apprehend and arrest the man known as the 'Good Samaritan' to be brought to the Citadel pending further investigation, where he can be questioned as to the actions of his organization. You are to do this as clandestinely as possible. Leave no trail.

Hesitating for a few seconds, he typed out his response.

Raptor-Indigo 004: Solid copy on that. PRIORITY MESSAGE received and confirmed. Subject 'Good Samaritan' to be arrested and brought back to the Citadel for questioning. Leave nothing concrete to tie his disappearance to the Council. Understood. Will update when subject is in my custody.

Sigma-Hotel 104: Understood, Raptor-Indigo. OPSCOM out.

And with that, it was done. The order was given. Bau was finally going to arrest the Samaritan and bring him in. End the threat he posed and get to the root of this sprouting evil so it may be neutralized at its origin. Whoever this...man, was...they would get to the bottom of it. And Bau felt relieved that the Council had finally done the right thing. A pity it took a brazen attack on a salarian political official to spark their interest.

Unbelievable. To attack a representative as respected as Dalatrass Linron? In public, in front of all those spectators...they're lucky she isn't dead. Very badly wounded, yes, but she'll recover. If she had died...the STG would have waged total war on their organization. I've seen what happens when the STG systematically sets out to obliterate a target...I've been part of those operations myself. They don't leave a trail, and they don't take mercy. They going until there's nothing left for the enemy to come back with. The STG ends wars before they start, and if they can't, then they'll make damn sure to end the war.

Again, the Shepardists should feel lucky Linron is alive. Mostly.

In didn't matter much now. Bau had his directive, and now a clear goal. Snatching up his rifle, knowing he wouldn't get to use it today, he holstered the weapon before using his photographic memory to recollect every last detail of the Samaritan's quarters. With this in mind, he began to mentally set up his plan for capturing him even as he packed up his stuff and made his way towards the HQ building, making sure to activate his tactical cloak as soon as he hit the ground.


Shepardist Headquarters, Nos Astra, Illium - January 10, 2188 - 23 minutes later.

Drink. I need a drink. And those damn pills.

The Good Samaritan was in a bad mood. Not because the week had gone badly: far from it. In fact, this week had seen the Shepardists perform better than any other week preceding it. Their latest shipment of security mechs and drones from Hahne-Kedar had just come in, with the last of the ERCS detachment they had hired being laid off. The Samaritan knew little of legal contracts, especially the sort that the Illium senate allowed, but the team of asari lawyers he had hired on their behalf had made short work of the ERCS contract Conrad had bound their organization too, leaving them thousands of credits in the process, more than enough to finance their new security arrangements. The Faith had four ships to their name, their organization was now legally recognized as a business (at least on Illium), Jenna and Conrad were adapting to their new roles quite comfortably and with less and less complaints, their numbers were growing and their operations were expanding. They couldn't have been doing better.

No, the Samaritan was in a bad mood because somebody...that somebody being a salarian named Amarp Tijie, leader of their relatively new Sur'Kesh cell, had jumped the gun. Had been stupid enough to miscontrue the Samaritan's intent and authorize a strike that had put the Crusader's disciples in a very perilous position.

Just two weeks ago, Mankins' Omega cell had been involved in a massacre outside Afterlife that had cost them 30 people. They had tried to kill Aria fucking T'Loak of all people. The Samaritan, knowing very little of his surroundings at the moment due to his memory loss, had been forced to do some research on this Aria, and the more he read, the more he had fumed. Attacking the pirate queen of the Terminus was a sure way to start a war. And the Omega cell, being the fastest growing of the sects, if destroyed would be an incredible loss for the Faith. So, the Samaritan, in an attempt to stall further attacks of this nature, had told Amarp explicitly to hold his position and not have any more demonstrations until he deemed it to be safe to do so. After all, on a Council homeworld, one had to be extremely careful where they stepped, lest they put their foot in a pond of eels.

And Amarp chose to do just that. Word had been circulating around that Linron, Dalatrass of the Annos Basin, had been caught in a political scandal during the Reaper War that was spreading rumors that she might be removed from political office, and possibly even as head of her bloodline. The scandal had led to a severe wedge between the government and the military, with the STG, led by the famous Major Kirrahe (now a Colonel), defying Union orders to join the UGC after the genophage was cured. The writing on the wall was obvious: Linron had, somehow, tried to obstruct the genophage cure in some way, failed, tried to deny Union aid to the UGC out of spite, and as a result, the military almost launched a coup d'etat. Amarp, noticing that the genophage cure was something the Crusader had supported, perceived this to mean that Linron was an enemy of the Crusader and, therefore, of the Faith.

Just as Mankins' group perceived Aria to be an enemy. What happened next was obvious, and the consequences disastrous.

So while the day had been great...the last hour had been precarious. A Council political leader had been attacked in a public assassination attempt. Before, the Council could do nothing to his people...but now? Now they had all the ammunition they needed, and he had to do damage control before all he built fell apart.

Idiots. Trying to destroy it all before its even started. How can I redeem myself if these imbeciles won't follow my lead?

It was taking a while, but parts of his memory were returning, however nebulous. He could remember more of his military service, principally regarding his training, some places he fought, and even his service branch. He had tried searching up his profile on the Alliance military website, but without a keyword, it would be looking for a needle in a haystack. In the end, he had given up, satisfied with what he had discovered. He was proficient with a knife, knew how to use a sniper rifle, assault rifle and pistol, and served in the marines. He had fought during the Skyllian Blitz, and one other battle he couldn't remember. His recollection went totally blank after that. The small tidbits he was learning frustrated him: he wanted to learn more, but he couldn't. His own name, what he had done in his life, who his friends were, his family...he couldn't remember any of it. Just insignificant sections that held no relevance to him.

Until he found out his own name...he was just...the 'Good Samaritan'. He had no other name. It wasn't just an alias, it was who he was. As a person. As a name.

His headache spiked again, and he growled in anger, rubbing his temple as he stepped up his pace, going from a brisk pace to a fast walk, his skull throbbing achingly as it demanded a reprieve from the building discomfort. He had, once again, neglected his medication. He had been focusing so much on expanding the Shepardists and running damage control on the Sur'Kesh situation that he had forgotten to take his daily dosage. As such, the migraine he feared would return was beginning to rear its ugly head, and he needed to get to those damn pills before it came back.

He couldn't really remember why he got these intense, crippling migraines either. Was it part of his long-term memory loss? Why his recollection was nearly non-existent? All he knew was that, just under two months ago, he had woken up in an SAAF rehab facility with severe migraine issues. Not even the doctors had known what it is until they could finally prescribe him something for it. His first thought had been L2 implants, but he neither had one, nor was he a biotic in the first place. If he was, he couldn't summon them, at least. So that was off the table.

And for all the things he could and couldn't remember...he knew Shepard. The Crusader. Somehow he knew him, and that he had to redeem himself for something. Obviously he must have done something bad in his life, and it had to do with Shepard. Did he wrong this man in some way? Perhaps he was his enemy at some point? What if he had been somekind of war criminal or Cerberus soldier in his past life? There were countless possibilities, and none of them satisifed him. In the end, it didn't matter. He felt compelled to help this man recognize his greatness, and it everything to do with redemption. Whatever the case may be, he had to do that.

He practically slammed his fist into the haptic interface of his door to get it to open, and stormed inside the moment it had. He gave a quick glance around his room, his nose picking up the faint smell of ozone, but making nothing of it. His focus was completely on getting his medication, and he made a beeline for his bed, where his bag rested, and where the aforementioned dihydroergotamine was packed inside.

He stopped just short of the doorway, sniffing again. It was that smell again: the one he smelt at the doorway. That very subtle whiff of ozone, except this time it was more intense. At that moment, he was getting the distinct feeling of his eyes watching him, like somebody else was in the room with him. With a frown, unable to help himself, he turned around slowly, his eyes tracing the room. The scent of ozone got stronger as he faced the kitchen area, so that's where he focused his attention.

Then he noticed something. A flicker. A slight distortion of the wall, like it was bent out of place, warped as the space-time continuum seemed to fracture around it. He squinted his eyes a tad harder, and saw it flicker again, but this time, more of the wall appeared to distort, forming the outline of an object. A tall, slender object that stretched up and was almost 5'9 in height, and had two-

It flickered again. His eyes focused, making out more of the object. It was bigger now. No, closer.

Another flicker. Finally, it clicked in his head. He wasn't looking at a distortion of space-time. He wasn't looking at an object. It was a person. And they were cloaked.

In confirmation of this fact, the cloak dropped in a dazzling display of sparkling electricity and flipping active camouflage plating, light going from being absorbed to being reflected as it should be, the sight like a magic trick a faux-magician would pull when somebody disappear and reappear. In a split second, the person who had been shrouded in invisibility had been revealed, the slender form of a salarian, roughly his own height, appearing before him.

The first thing the Samaritan noted was that the salarian was not only wearing combat armor, but had a Raptor sniper rifle holstered on his back, and a M-3 predator pistol at his hip. The salarian's posture, being a defensive stance, and his tactical cloak, meant he was an infiltrator of some sort...possibly ex-military. His featureless brown-greyish armor meant he wasn't part of any mercenary company or PMC he knew of.

"Samaritan," the salarian identified immediately upon dropping his cloak, holding up a hand to halt the human in case he attempted an approach. His hand came to rest on his pistol, an action that told him this salarian was expecting a fight of somekind. That couldn't have meant anything good, "Do not move. Do not attempt to call for help. I am here to place you under arrest by the power invested in me as a member of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch of the Citadel. I could read you your rights, but I'm not legally obligated to do so."

The Samaritan's eyes widened in surprise, but also in realization. A Spectre. Of course. The Sur'Kesh incident. The Council certainly didn't waste anytime coming after me and ordering my arrest. But how did he get here so-?

Ah. Now it makes sense. They've had a spectre watching me this entire time. The attack on Sur'Kesh was just an excuse. This salarian has probably been watching me and my organization for days...maybe even weeks...by now. The Council truly is desperate to shut us up. The idea made the Samaritan inwardly chuckle, amused by the reaction he was getting from the powerful governments that ran the galaxy. The group would never have received this much recognition under Verner. With his help, they were finally getting noticed. He must have been doing something right.

Then his internal levity died as he remembered what this spectre was here to do. The Council had their excuse, and now they were acting. This spectre was going to take the Samaritan away from his followers: probably lock him away in some facility in the middle of nowhere to silence the dissent he had sowed. Everything he had worked for, to exalt the Crusader and bring justice to the galaxy, would be for nought if he allowed this to happen. Without the Crusader, the Council and their members would continue to run roughshod over their citizens, silencing their voice and denying the Crusader his right to rule over them.

His truth must not be silenced. He was the Savior. The Samaritan was his voice.

"No..." he mumbled, before turning his gaze away from the hand at the salarian's hip, eyes meeting those of the amphibian creature infront of him, "Surely you know I won't allow that to happen."

The spectre nodded, totally unsurprised, almost as if he had expected this exact reaction, "Suspected such a response. Personality indicates ability to hinder arrest. No matter: you must answer for the crimes of your subordinates. The incident on Sur'Kesh shows your organization is out of control. Must be brought to answer. You will come with me. I would prefer you come peacefully, but understand that I have accepted that you most likely won't and that, as a spectre, I am authorized to use reasonable force to subdue and apprehend you. Make this easier for yourself, and your followers, and come quietly."

After a quick analysis, the Samaritan knew full well he didn't stand a chance. He was a man who could hardly remember who he was, and his limited military experience wasn't going to be enough. This was a spectre, and they were feared for a reason. The salarian's slim frame and lack of muscle was a deceptive illusion of the absence of skill. The Samaritan knew that a well-trained salarian soldier could even take down a krogan given the right tools, and this spectre was likely in possession of those exact means. And with the migraine in his head building increasingly, he knew he might be crippled by his own body before he could do any damage to the salarian.

But in the end, something in his head compelled him to fight. To resist this...injustice. He couldn't be held responsible for Amarp's mistakes. He hadn't authorized Linron's assassination. No, the Council didn't care about that.

They just want to silence me. The Linron assassination attempt is just being used as an excuse. They want me to be a scapegoat, and for the Faith to take the fall. This is a systematic endeavour to destroy my credibility and that of the entire organization, to keep us under wraps. Character assassination at its finest. Well no...I won't let the Council have me. The Crusader's truth must be heard, and I will not allow it to be kept from the public. They must know and be given the choice to decide. This man is an agent of order, and I must sow the chaos to bring down the pillars of their agency.

"Sorry," he braced himself, making sure to give no visual cues as to his intention until it was too late. He couldn't believe he was going to try this, but his mind was made up: there was no choice. He could not, and would not, be muzzled. He was the Good Samaritan! "But I'm afraid...that won't be possible!"

He lunged forward, fist soaring up into the air in a soaring uppercut.

As fluid as water, the spectre hopped back, landing delicately on his toes like a spring. The Samaritan's missed by inches, but was doomed to never hit its target. His headache throbbed angrily, enraged at this inflammation, and he groaned, wincing in pain, and therefore temporarily obscuring his eyesight. It was all the time the spectre needed.

Just as his vision returned to full focus, two straightened fingers jabbed into his throat, impacting directly underneath his adam's apple. The Samaritan felt as if an enormous amount of pressure had suddenly expunged all the air from his lungs, windpipe constrictly painfully. He collapsed to one knee, hands cradling his throat as he wheezed sickeningly, the sound like that of metal scraping against metal. He gasped for as much oxygen as possible, and cursed his luck as the salarian's single strike disabled him so easily. He coughed and sputtered as soon as enough air entered in his gaping lungs, drool leaking down his chin as he whooped.

Can't...go out...this easily...have to...fight...

"A waste of time," the spectre seemed to smugly proclaim, although from his tone it probably just sounded like a pithy statement of fact, "Are you done with this?"

The spectre was about to receive his answer. He was not going down like this. Not after one hit!

Knowing another uppercut or strike would be too predictable to the salarian, especially given the distance he was away from him, the Samaritan tried to think of something else. Gathering all the saliva he could in his mouth, he snapped his head up, looked the spectre directly in the eyes, and spat with all the force he could muster.

Human spittle flashed through the air for a brief moment before slapping the salarian in the face. The spectre was forced to blink for a few seconds to get it out of his eyes, which gave the Samaritan enough time to stand up, and back away. The spectre would recover quickly however, so he did the next thing that came to his mind: he charged.

He looked up just as the Samaritan barrelled into him, the salarian's slimmer frame easily picked up by the physically tougher human, and he was rammed into the wall behind him. The cardboard rocked barbarously, sending plates and cups inside tumbling out, either smashing on the wooden bench below or on the floor, cardboard doors swinging open as the contents were deposited. The Samaritan held him there as he reached up to poke him in the eyes, but the spectre was, once again, too quick, and had now sufficiently recovered.

Using his freed arms, which the Samaritan had failed to secure in his haste, the salarian reached up and grabbed the back of his head, three fingers grasping at his black hair and quickly yanking back. He aversely howled, the sharp tugging sensation of his hair being tugged causing him to loosen his grip somewhat. Played like a fiddle, the salarian now used this opportunity to bring his other hand down, omni-tool activated, and press it against the Samaritan's chest. The human didn't realize what was happening until it was too late.

He roared as a bolt of electricity shot through him, the agony like that of a bolt of lightning striking his chest. He seized up, vision blacking in and out, body shaking spastically as he shuddered back and forth, unable to control his inhibitions. He felt humiliation as the salarian reared up his foot and roughly kicked him in the stomach, the Samaritan, unable to defend himself as he was electrocuted, sent flying back like a ragdoll, landing in a heap on the floor. The spectre dusted himself like it hadn't been that much of a hassle, awarding his human opponent a pitiful look as his seizure-like behaviour finally stopped, falling still on the floor as the overload that was used on him finally dissipated.

He groaned, his vision still blurred but slowly being restored, and he began to stir as he tried to sit up. Instead, he found himself roughly rolled over onto his belly, the side of his head knicking a broken shard of ceramic plate in the process, missing him enough not to cut deeply, but not enough to avoid a cut. He winced slightly, but otherwise ignored the miniscule feeling of blood droplets leaking from the incision. He felt his hands roughly pulled behind his back, where a pair of cuffs were quickly fitted around his wrists. He grunted weakly, drooling on the floor as the omni-cuffs activated, the magnetic links fastening around his hands extremely uncomfortable.

"None of this was necessary," the salarian reminded him, now having fully secured his target, "Suffered injury for your own persistence. Could have easily been avoided."

He didn't hear the spectre's words, his eyes closed as a single tear dripping down his face. His migraine intensified even further, covering his entire brain in a blanket of crushing pressure that made it feel as if his eyes were going to liquify, wax was going to erupt from his ears and his nose would detonate. It was a torment that made what the salarian did to him in their brief scuffle seem like paper cuts by comparison, and he wanted nothing more than to scream. But he would not grant his enemy the satisfaction of hearing that.

I've failed...I'm sorry, Crusader...I've failed you...the Council has come to silence us, and I wasn't strong enough to resist them...should have been smarter, for your sake...

"Bet you feel real stupid now, don't you, corpy?"

He frowned. That voice wasn't coming from his head, but it definitely wasn't the spectre's...it sounded almost human. He pried one eye open, turning to look around the room, but found nobody was there. He recognized the voice...it had been the same one that visited him two weeks ago, when his migraine was also at its worst. He only heard the voice when he forgot to take his medication. Was this the result of that? And who did the voice belong to? It sounded familiar, but...

"Get on your feet, whimp! I'm sick of carrying you around! You heard me! I said up! UP!"

"Who are you?" he muttered, loud enough for the salarian to hear him.

"What?" the spectre asked, rolling the Samaritan over as he began the process of hoisting him to his feet. He cocked his head at his human prisoner, baffled by the outburst, "Who are you talking to?"

"Talk, talk, talk, talk. You've always been such a pussy, corpy," the voice mocked him, disembodied and seemingly erupting from the walls themselves, taunting him with his defeat. The voices were different everytime, yet he found them strangely familiar all the same, "If you were a real man, you'd have passed rifle training. Want to prove me wrong? Then do it!"

Then came a voice he didn't recognize. A low, rumbling voice that didn't come from the walls...but from beyond them.

"You okay in there?" came the voice, "Something wrong?"

The Samaritan knew he was no longer hearing the voices. They had become a muted haze in his head. No, this voice was real, and he could tell from the spectre's reaction, who had swiftly turned his head to address the new arrival. The door was locked, likely by the salarian himself, but the voice from beyond wasn't deterred by that. The voice didn't sound human or turian or salarian, but rather...it sounded krogan. The Samaritan felt his spirits lifted somewhat.

Crusader...I may have just been gifted a second chance.

He subtlely eyed the salarian, who now turned to face the Samaritan. He looked troubled, as if this development hadn't been part of his plan, and if that was any indicator, he was determining what he should try to do next. Waiting for him to turn back to the doorway again, the Samaritan drifted his eyes down to his omni-cuffs, and found yet another miracle had been rained down upon him.

The omni-cuffs weren't fastened completely. The salarian must have gotten distracted. Now he just needed to figure out what to do with this information.

As the salarian turned back once more to the door, he turned his eyes to search his surroundings. The first thing that came to mind were the shards of broken plate and glass that littered the floor like a vast field. Obviously the spectre hadn't thought he needed to remove them from his vicinity, likely because his hands were supposed to be tied and unable to grab any, much less use them. That was something in the Samaritan's favor.

The krogan guard queried them once more, and this time his voice was much closer: it was right outside the door. The Shepardist sentinel was obviously getting suspicious for him to get this close, and the spectre noticed this as well. Running one final check on the Samaritan to make sure he was secure, the salarian stood up and slowly, but quietly, unholstered his pistol. The red indicator that appeared on the side illustrated he had switched to incendiary rounds, which was the preferred way to bring down a krogan and circumvent their regenerative ability. As the salarian equipped this, he was moving in the direction of the bedroom, obviously hoping to surprise the krogan once he entered the room. Already, the holo interface of the door was beginning to spin as the guard tried to open it.

It was now or never.

Ignoring his splitting headache, which had effectively immobilized him, he quickly yanked his hands out of the omni-cuffs, bringing his arms out from under him and into the air. Before the salarian could look down to investigate his movement, the Samaritan used his right hand to fumble along the ground. Wrapping his hands around something, he bit through the stinging pain of it cutting into his hand, held it firmly and then swung his arm around, embedding whatever it was directly into the back of the salarian's unprotected left leg.

The spectre, to his credit, did not cry out in pain, but did flinch back, eyes examining the impromptu attack on his leg. He looked genuinely surprised, not expecting that to have happened, and winced as he grabbed the shard impaling his leg and tore it out. There was a spurt of green blood, dribbling all over the floor, and the salarian hopped away, backing against the wall, leaving a small trail of blood behind him, as he reached into his armor in an attempt to procure a packet of medi-gel to treat the wound.

He wasn't given the chance.

The guard chose at that moment to finally enter, the door parting to reveal the a civilian-clothed, red shirted krogan male wielding an M-27 Scimitar shotgun. The krogan took a brief second to notice the quarters' complete disarray, before his eyes finally landed on the Samaritan splayed out on the floor, surrounded with shards of glass and broken ceramics. He raised his shotgun in alarm, eyes widening as he scanned the room. Growling through his headache, he raised his arm and did his best to point directly at the spectre's location.

"There!" he shouted, "This heretic tried to arrest me! Careful, he's a spectre!"

The krogan nodded, spinning around, his shotgun turning with him, eyes downrange. The spectre knew enough to know he was in trouble, and ignoring the pain in his leg, quickly ducked and rolled to the right just as a blast of buckshot whistled past him, shredding the wall that had been behind him, dozens of fragments of metal showering the partition. As the spectre completed his roll, the krogan raised his other hand, omni-tool materializing in a nanosecond, "We've got a disturbance on the 47th floor, Samaritan's quarters! Send backup here now! Lock down the building! They've sent a bloody spectre!"

As he completed his request for reinforcements, the krogan guard turned and fired again, but the spectre once again narrowly dodged the blast, kinetic barrier shimmering as a few stray shavings grazed his shields. He came to rest against the wall just next to the door, breathing heavily as he eyed his opposition.

With an injury in one leg, a krogan guard harassing him with a shotgun, stopping him from reaching the Samaritan, and reinforcements inbound on his position, the Council agent finally realized he was not going to be able to complete his mission and capture the Shepardist leader. Accepting this fact, the salarian disappeared as his cloak activated, shimmering out of existence. The door then seemingly opened of its own accord, one final slug from the guard's shotgun serving as his parting gift to the intruder as he made a rapid escape.

Growling, the krogan moved to pursue, but turned back to the Samaritan out of concern, "Good Samaritan, are you-"

"I'm fine!" he snarled through clenched teeth, his head shaking as he desperately clinged onto his remaining sanity, overcome with unbearable pain, "Just...get the...intruder! Kill him...if you can! He...tried to silence...the Crusader's truth! Deliver...the justice...as he...would..."

With a solemn nod to affirm what he had heard, and to confirm his devotion, the krogan turned and made a hasty departure, moving out into the hallway in pursuit of his target, barking further orders into his comm. Whatever else he was saying was cut off abruptly as the door slammed shut, finally bathing his quarters in complete and total tranquility.

The first thought, other than that his floor was a mess and the spectre who had tried to arrest and abduct him was now on the run, was the splitting cephalalgy he was burdened with. He gripped his head, groaning futilely, and rolled over onto his chest. With that, he began to miserably crawl across the room, every inch of movement another hammer blow to his cranium. He persisted though, and after what felt like hours, he finally entered his bedroom, and swatted at his backpack, pulling it down. Ultimately, the miracle capsule that was supposed to stave off his descent into anguish, found its way into his mouth and he swallowed it down eagerly, doing so without water due to his pique, the lumb feeling like he had just swallowed an entire grape whole. While it didn't go away immediately, he could feel the dihydroergotamine leisurely taking effect, and the hot-blooded drumbeat in his head began to die down. He could now think relatively clearly again, at least.

Which left him in his current state. He clambered to his feet, leaning against the doorway as he comprehended the state of his quarters. He had to wonder just how long that spectre had been rummaging around his room, looking for evidence to warrant incarcerating him and stopping him from spreading the Crusader's truth. Why else would the Council be so quick to the scene? As soon as Linron was almost assassinated, the spectre had showed up...he had to have been deployed already. Which begged the question: how far was the Council willing to go? How many more spectres would they send?

It was a troublesome question. The answer to it was obvious, and he knew immediately that if that salarian had been poking through his things, he would know about everything. The transports, the Samaritan's thought process, the security disposition...all of it would come undone if that spectre got away and informed the Council. Then again, they'd just send more spectres, and keep doing so until the Samaritan finally gave himself up, and they'd shut down the entire Shepardist cult.

I need guidance. I need the Crusader to guide us. What would you do?

The answer seemed so axiomatic. The moment he asked the question mentally, he had been sure what needed to be done. In order to preserve what had founded, he would have to fight to keep it all standing. If the Crusader's creed was really as robust and trustworthy as he and his followers proclaimed, then they wouldn't roll over and die. Spectres or not, the Faith was not going anywhere. They would not be intimidated or oppressed.

This is not how it ended. Not this way. Not today. Let the Council send their spectres. Send as many as they want. The Samaritan and his people will be ready for them. Oh yes, they will be ready for them.

This accelerates the timetable forward a bit, but no matter. I'll adapt, just as I've adapted to my new role as the Good Samaritan. The Council thinks they can bully us...they'll soon learn who they're dealing with. But of course...they need a demonstration.

Oddly enough, a smile peeled across his lips. An idea. Ah yes...a demonstration. They shall have it.

Like a robot, he moved over to his cabinet, crouched down until he was prone, and then reached under it, hand searching for an object. Once he had a hold of it, he pulled it out from under the large piece of furniture, grasping a long rifle, wrapped in a blanket. Standing up, he dumped it on the bench, and splayed it out, revealing the shiny, blue-grey plastisteel casing of his recent purchase, an M-29 Incisor sniper rifle. He hadn't used the weapon yet, and he had largely bought it for recreational use, although another part of him also believed his ulterior motive was self-defense. Beside it were six thermal clips, and like somebody on a mission, he grabbed it, wracked the slot on the rifle, and slid the clip right into place, bringing the slot back into position with a click, and a flick of his wrist. There was a loud beep as the weapon's onboard targetting computer registered as loaded. Satisfied, he laid the weapon back down, and brought up his omni-tool, contacting Jenna.

A few seconds passed before the connection was established, "Yes, what is it? We're kind of busy trying to find your runaway spectre." Her tone indicated displeasure, which he was all too familiar with. Despite not raising many complaints, he had no illusions as to Jenna and Conrad's opinions of him. He would always be the man who usurped their leadership in the end, and nothing would change that.

"About that..." he contemplated, one hand picking up his rifle and hefting it up as if it were as easy as picking up a toolbox. He turned to the doorway, noticing a trail of light, viridescent blood leading from a large puddle at the edge of his room to the door, identifying it as belonging to the injury he had inflicted on the spectre, "...have you been tracing a trail of his blood, by any chance? He's injured and hasn't had a chance to patch it with medi-gel."

"We have," Jenna admitted, and after a short pause, "Why?"

"Where does it lead?"

"The back exit. He's probably going through the garage," she replied.

"Excellent. Thank you for the help. And before you go, I want all security personnel to return to their stations immediately, except for those at the exit."

"What? But I thought you-"

"And while you're at it," he cut her off, newfound confidence filling his very being as his headache subsided, giving way to a glacial mindset as he studied the rifle he was holding, making his way towards the door with the bare amount of haste, "Find me the krogan guard who saved me from our spectre resident. I want his name."

"Yes, Samaritan, but what of-"

"Its being taken care of as we speak," he snapped, his tone getting icier and icier. He hooked a left, heading down the corridor, towards the observation windows at the end of the hallway. Despite his frosty demeanour, he held incredibly warm, a giddy feeling that just wouldn't go away, "Those are my orders. Carry them out, McLean."

Not even waiting for a response, he cut the link as he reached the end of the corridor. Reaching forward, he unsealed the window lock and pushed it up, a gush of hot wind and air blasting him in the face as he let it through the open crack. The feeling was like a slap of cold water on his face, and it helped to equalize the warmth building up inside him, which seemed to grow more and more intense with every passing second. Lowering his rifle, he propped it up on the window, barrel poking out through the crack, and he bent down into a crouch. Using his former knowledge in weapon handling, he pressed the stock up against his shoulder firmly, his cheek braced against the side of it. Once he was comfortable, his finger reached down and flicked the safety twitch, the weapon giving another beep out of warning. He ignored it, and modified the magnification level so he could see what was down in the street below.

Forty-seven floors down, he found the garage that Jenna had mentioned, located at the rear of the building. Licking his lips, another flurry of air chilling his skin and ruffling his hair, he felt his finger slightly caress the outer trigger. He took deep, slow breaths, restraining himself as he closed his left eye, right eye deferring to the scope at its field of vision. He quietly waited.

The Council needs to know we mean business. That we're here to stay. Well...

There. It was difficult to see, but if one paid enough attention, which he very much was, small details could be picked out from all the clutter: and there, in a constantly elongating trail, was the bread crumb trail. Dots of green blood, shining with the Tasale light as it reflected off of the liquid, leading from the garage over to the courtyard, and it kept going. There was no doubt about it: he had found their spectre. Tracing the dabs of essence back to their source, he could roughly determine the location of the salarian himself despite his tactical cloak, and from what he could see, he was limping...very badly. The Samaritan must have done more damage to the ligament than he thought.

He followed the salarian, unnoticed and all seeing. A mere dot to his natural vision, the salarian was under a lethal microscope and didn't even know it. As such, he held no reservations in ducking behind a nearby power generator. Believing himself safe for the moment, he ducked down and dropped his cloak. Checking both corners to make sure he wasn't followed, he reached down into a pocket on his armor once more and procured a packet of medi-gel. And just like that, completely unaware the eyes literally on the back of his head, he ripped open the bag and began to dab the marvel ointment onto his gaping wound.

He raised the sights, moving the reticle until it was directly over the salarian's skull. He keyed in his target coordinates, and watched silently as the computer calculated trajectory, wind speed, etc. If he did this, he would be a cold-blooded killer. But he didn't care. Regardless of how much he knew about his prior life before his memory blackout, he did know that he had been a marine, and served in a campaign or two, so he'd had his fair share of kills. This shouldn't be anymore than that: just another kill. A notch to the kill count.

He steeled himself as the calculations completed. He moved the reticle to suggested angle, and inhaled through his nostrils. He licked his lips one final time, and inhaled once again. As the spectre reached forward to dab some more ointment on his leg, the Samaritan's finger feathered the trigger...and then yanked it back.

The rifle coughed once, then twice, then three more times as he pulled the trigger in rapid succession, the stench of cordite a smell he didn't flinch away from, the breeze wafting it straight into his face. The kickback was tamer than he expected, but the result was not. Even from his distance, he was able to see the salarian's shields flare once, twice, then disappear on the third shot. The spectre's head jerked backwards as green splattered the pavement behind him, the rest of his ruined skull landing in the soupy substance. Brains and viscera coated the ground around him, the upper half of his head completely missing, the remainder being a twitching lower jaw, and a stringy mess of sinew and blasted nerves. Fractured cranial bone and what's left of his brain stained the concrete, and his body lay completely limp, a growing pool of blood forming around his corpse.

The gunshots echoed throughout Nos Astra, but was likely drowned out by the clutter of the skyline, left completely unheard...except for perhaps the residents of this building.

There's your demonstration.

Lowering the sniper rifle and placing it against the wall, he brought his omni-tool up to his mouth once more, contacting Jenna, "Before you ask, those gunshots were me. Now, those men I told you to leave outside are going to find one dead looking salarian spectre outside. I want his body gathered and dropped in a dumpster somewhere."

"I...what!?" Jenna gasped incredulously, sounding genuinely shocked and disgusted, "You killed him!? What the hell are we-!?"

"Relax," he responded. His own voice sounded far too calm, and that small part of him was worried he was already far too okay with such careless killing. He had taken up the prospect of killing the spectre far too easily, "I know what I'm doing. We're sending a message to those who would try to stop the Crusader. Now they know we mean business. Now...see that my orders are passed on, McLean. Then I want a meeting in the board room in two hours. I've got to...get cleaned up."

Wiping his face, he noticed dried blood around his cheeks from the cuts he received earlier. He stiffed, the heavy copper smell causing him to wince. I need a shower. Picking up his rifle, he made his way back to his quarters, not a single regret left for what he had done. He'd committed the unthinkable: he'd gunned down a Council operative in cold-blood. There would be no forgiveness for this, he knew. The Council would find that salarian's body, connect the dots, and put a bounty on his head. A galactic manhunt would begin, most likely. Many Shepardists would likely see themselves persecuted. So be it.

The Crusader would protect them all, in the end.

The Good Samaritan was his messenger. His deliverer. And whether he knew it or not, a day of reckoning was coming. With the Reapers gone, the Council and the rest of the galaxy had returned to their old ways, proving they had learned absolutely nothing. And the Samaritan would be the one to repay their sins, to cleanse the galaxy of its criminality and filthy habits, and put the Crusader to power. The Council was corrupt. It was a weed that needed to be destroyed. And no matter how many spectres they sent...it would never be enough.

He smiled, opening the door to his quarters, and stepping inside.

The inferno couldn't be stopped now. The gate has been unlatched. And waiting for them on the other side was salvation. The Good Samaritan, the Faith, the Crusader...none of them could be stopped. None of them could be silenced.

And as he put his rifle away, declothed himself and turned on his shower, steaming hot water burning his naked skin and causing his cuts to sting, the shower itself a metaphor his mind had conjured up for the cleansing of his remaining doubts, the Good Samaritan solidified his conviction and galvanized himself for the long road ahead.

Whether they knew it or not, the war had begun.


Council Chambers, The Citadel - January 12, 2188 - Two days later.

Two days after the investigation into the Shepardist cell on Omega, the Normandy finally arrived back at the Citadel, where it was well due for refuelling and restocking of supplies. Garrus had planned to pass his report on the investigation's findings over to OPSCOM, but had found that just a few hours out from the Citadel, Councilor Sparatus had contacted the ship over QEC, ordering him to return with due haste. When told that he was only a few hours out and had a report to file, Sparatus directed him to meet with the Council in the Council Chambers as soon as the Normandy docked. Garrus had agreed without question, especially given the turian's severe tone.

Even as Garrus ascended the steps to the pedestal, he knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

The entire Council was present: Osoba, Sparatus, Tevos and Valern, in that order. Valern had a very troubled and pensive look, Sparatus looked to be arguing with Osoba, and Tevos braced against the pedestal, looking completely exhausted. From first glance, one would think they'd be like this for hours. The confusion just continued to mount.

Garrus had heard of the incident on Sur'Kesh two days ago. He knew the Shepardists were behind it. And while this definitely confirmed Shepard's worst fears, and worried Garrus personally as it told him the Shepardists were growing more confident with their predomination, he knew the Council were working on it, and that Bau had been deployed on Illium for two weeks keeping an eye on the Good Samaritan. If they ordered his arrest, he very much doubted anything would go wrong. At least then Garrus could question this Samaritan personally, and find out why he's so obsessed with making a religion around Shepard.

Stopping infront of his pedestal, he nodded to the councilors, who now turned all their attention to him, with Sparatus and Osoba ceasing their argument and straightening their outfits.

"Councilors," he greeted, hands clasped behind him, "I have with me the report on the Shepardist cell on Omega. I had to make a few changes to it to take into account the attempt on Linron's life just two days ago, but you'll find it'll alleviate most of your worries. I'll submit the full report to the OPSCOM for archiving and for you to read at your discretion, but I'll provide a basic summary: Mankins' group has agreed to cease any and all action against Aria T'Loak and her people, and we shouldn't hear from the Omega cell again. Furthermore, their religionization appears to be an isolated event, tied to Omega's cultural tendencies more so than a global development in the entire organization. Suffice to say, I don't think we need to worry much."

Silence followed his statement, and his eyes made cursory observations of each of the councilor's faces. The color had completely drained from Osoba's face, Sparatus looked as impassive as always, Tevos looked back at him gravely, and Valern still looked to be deep in thought. All four of these expressions told Garrus that not a single one of them had paid attention to anything he had said, and that they had a far more significant reason for bringing him here. He was liking this less and less.

This reeks of bad.

"While ordinarily we would find little reason to question this..." Osoba began, involuntarily becoming the voice of his cohorts as the rest remained quiet, "Recent events have...rather shattered that illusion. I'm sure you're aware of the incident on Sur'Kesh?"

Garrus nodded, "I was made aware of it thanks to Spectre Churchill, yes. She was monitoring the extranet at the time and picked up on it before OPSCOM informed me. And before you ask, I'm also aware you've unofficially charged the Good Samaritan with taking responsibility for the attack and have deployed Spectre Bau to apprehend the suspect. I don't see why that would change anything, councilors. Even as we speak, Bau should be on his way here with the Samaritan."

A pair of looks were shared between the group, except Valern. Garrus picked up on that, and felt a twitch along his spine. He didn't like this one bit. Something had happened...something really bad. Hesitance and concern preceded them, the group radiating it like heavy swaths of radiation.

In the end, it was Tevos who dealt the knocking blow, "There's...been a complication in apprehending the Good Samaritan. Spectre Bau is dead."

His eyes widened, fixated firmly on Tevos, the deliverer of the bad news, "What? That...how can that be possible?"

"Believe me spectre, we were just as shocked by this news as you were," Sparatus added, shaking his head, "Spectre Bau is one of our most experienced agents. He served us with distinction and to hear of his death...its quite the tragedy. And also quite alarming."

"Who could've killed a spectre?" Garrus answered the unspoken question, Sparatus giving a quiet nod. Internally, his mind was a cyclone of thought. This...isn't right. These people are just fanboys and a few religious nuts. By the spirits, how did they manage to take down a spectre? None of this fits. Not a single thing we know about these Shepardists has been consistent. Just when we think we've come up with a predictive model, they beat it. If they have the ability to kill spectres...

"Spectre Bau's body was found in a dumpster just four hours ago by the NAPD in Nos Astra," Tevos elaborated, shedding further light on the dire situation, "One of the Republics' intelligence operatives in the NAPD leaked to Asari High Command, who passed it on to us. They positively identified the deceased as Jondam Bau, and the report indicates that...Spectre Bau's head was blown off by a high-powered rifle. Single shot. They also found the round that killed him embedded in his skull, and their forensics ran it through their weapon database. The weapon used was a sniper rifle, possibly an M-29 Incisor."

A sniper rifle? I mean, I know the Shepardists have been recruiting ex-military members into their ranks, but if that's true...they really are forming an army. And a member of this army just killed a spectre. The implications of this...do they even know the implications?

"What's worse..." Valern finally spoke, breaking away from his train of thought to unintentionally derail Garrus', "...is that we believe Bau's death was more than deliberate...it was done with the intention of being a warning. The NAPD report also made mention that forensics didn't find enough blood or brain spatter for the victim to have died at that very spot, which means their body was moved. And upon further inspection...the letter 'C' was found...carved into his chest. With a knife."

'C'? What could that mean? Perhaps it-

Crusader. It stands for 'Crusader'. Of course...but why? Why carve a letter into his chest?

The shit pile just got higher and higher, and Garrus couldn't believe just how high it was beginning to stack. Spirits Shepard, its worse than we thought. These people have got to be taken down. This isn't a game anymore. This is no longer a cute 'let's worship the hero' type fangirling scenario. They've not only tried to kill two important figures, but they've murdered a government agent in cold blood, and carved a letter into his chest.

Then the next puzzle piece filtered into his mind, and the reason behind the attacks was made clear to him. Trying to kill Aria and Linron, killing a spectre, carving the name of their 'deity' into his chest, then leaving his corpse for somebody to find...for the Council to find...

This...is nothing short of a declaration of war. The Shepardists...they're actually daring us to come after them.

No, not the Shepardists...the Good Samaritan.

"This cannot be allowed to continue," Osoba declared firmly, "This has gone on long enough. This 'Good Samaritan' left that body there for one reason and one reason only! He's daring us to come after him! He wanted us to find that body, to link it to him...I don't know what his endgame is, but whatever it is, we can't let it continue! I think we've allowed this charade to go on long enough!"

"While I'm not usually inclined to agree..." Sparatus began, before sighing, nodding to both Tevos and Valern, "...I must. We look weak if we don't take action now, and weakness will only inspire others to take advantage. Our way of life still hasn't recovered from the Reapers...we have no possible way of waging a war with these Shepardists, or those like them."

Valern nodded, "Then we must strike fast, and pre-emptively. We sent only one spectre before to apprehend the Samaritan, and it was a mistake. We will not make the same mistake twice: this time, we will send a team of spectres, and they will not waste time trying to bring the Samaritan in. Kill orders should be distributed to all those deployed. This man is clearly insane and dangerous, which makes him a threat to our society. Today he's a holy man, tomorrow he could become a terrorist."

"Tomorrow?" Osoba asked incredulously, snorting, "I'd say he's a terrorist already! Murdering a spectre and throwing his body into a dumpster! I agree...kill order must be enforced. This man is too dangerous to be left alive."

Garrus, who had been nodding along to their words the entire time, finally felt ready to speak. While they argued, he had given some thought to what they should do next, and how they should handle this crisis, and he knew the best course of action was to deal with it before it gets any worse. The Good Samaritan was a deranged lunatic, and as Osoba and Valern pointed out, his actions could potentially lead to terrorism. And with the organization he had at his disposal, he could launch attacks on an unprecedented scale. Every planet was in danger. No homeworld was safe.

Not even Shepard and Tali, living at their home on Rannoch, were safe.

Ultimately, the decision was final, and necessary.

"I'll do it."

All eyes in the room turned to Garrus, but nobody spoke. After a moment, Valern lowered his arms, eying Garrus directly, "You're volunteering for this task?"

"I'm not just volunteering," he confirmed, straightening up his posture, gaze grevious and posture battle ready, "I'm going to lead the raid. I've got a squad, and I've got the Normandy. We're the best suited for the job. You've seen what the Normandy and her squad can do...and as the team that Shepard put together, its our obligation to put an end to this Samaritan and his rhetoric before it gets further out of control. Because of this, I'm also requesting that Spectre Williams and Churchill accompany me."

"Granted," Sparatus immediately replied, with the other three councilors nodding in affirmation, Tevos' being the least enthusiastic of the four, "You are hereby granted the authority to do whatever you see fit to handle this situation, including apprehending the Samaritan if possible, although we'd prefer if you eliminate him to neutralize the threat completely. You can also consider this assignment active immediately. Use whatever means you deem necessary to end this threat, spectre. Spirits be with you."

"Understood councilors." No further words warranted, he took that to mean that the meeting was adjourned, and pivoted on the spot and began to storm down the steps back into the Chambers' atrium. With his clarity set and a new purpose filling him with conviction and determination, he set about his new mission with a righteous rage.

This...Samaritan? He had killed one of his OPSCOM friends. He had made it personal. It was cold-blooded murder, and the carved knife wound into his stomach had only reinforced that fact.

No more games. No more beating the bush.

This piece of shit killed Bau and thinks he can get away with it. Well, not anymore. He's gotten the Normandy crew's attention...but the attention I think he's craving. We're coming for him...and so help me, he better hope I'm in a better mood when I get there. Because I might just follow up on that kill order.

Garrus was angry. Angry for the first time in a while...he hadn't felt this enraged since the final battle in London during the Reaper War. Now he was summoning that anger, and letting it fuel him.

The Samaritan was going to pay.


A/N:

I'll keep this author's note short, since the chapter is already much longer than I wanted or anticipated.

Again, please review if you're reading this: every thought counts. As per usual, I'll be doing the next Flashpoint prompt before I tackle Chapter 7, but I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Chapter 6 is where shit hits the fan, and the ball really starts to get rolling. I know I said the first ten or so chapter of this story are going to be a slow burn, and they will, but that doesn't mean you won't get action sooner rather than later. And the Samaritan has a few more tricks up his sleeve yet.

As per usual, some music suggestions:

Like a Temple: "Something To Fear" by Bear McCreary from the show The Walking Dead.

Working on the Skycar: "A Walk With Megan" by Michael McCann from the game Deus Ex: Human Revolution.

Bau attacks Samaritan/Samaritan kills Bau: "The Apartment" by John Powell from the film The Bourne Identity.

He'll Pay: "The Hand" by Bear McCreary from the show The Walking Dead.