November 11th, 2182Arcturus Station

Armistice Day blanketed Arcturus Station in a murky, unreadable mood. Veterans of the First Contact War— or the Relay 314 Incident, as the turians called it— sat in neat lines at the front of the auditorium. From behind the curtains they resembled a sea of stones, battle-hardened, shells of the children they used to be, robbed of the comfortable yet ignorant belief that humans ruled the galaxy, that humanity was the sole owner of the universe— a belief violently robbed from them.

Each year, humans and turians held a tense, but usually civil ceremony in honor of the end of the war, alternating between the military base at Palaven's capital, Cipritine, and the Alliance Navy's base at Arcturus. Anderson had once told her that no one ever enjoyed these stuffy occasions but that they were necessary in order to maintain good public relations with the turians and the rest of the council species. Shepard still didn't get why it involved two hours of speeches and stale finger foods.

When the turian veterans arrived at the auditorium, an ensemble of string instruments began playing a regal, military riff, wrought with triplet rhythms, immediately accompanied by the throbbing of timpani, and the blasting of horns: measured, neat, impeccable, matching the turian's style of marching to their seats, fists over where she assumed their hearts were. And then, it ended, abruptly. She knew where this would eventually lead, and so she stepped out of the auditorium with the utmost discretion. The First Contact War may have been over, but the war of whose orchestra played the other's anthem the best was still alive and fighting. And right on cue, the turians' orchestra, along with the human chorus, began blasting the Human Systems Alliance's anthem, complete with shrill operatic crescendos. They couldn't take a cue from Japan's lower key, dignified, shorter anthem? No, no. This was far too much for Shepard. Crowds, too much noise, too much pomp and circumstance.

The young lieutenant sighed, leaning against the wall, eyes tightly shut. I can do this. I don't even have to talk this time. Her heart pounded against her tonsils so hard, she could barely breathe. A fluke on Elysium and suddenly she was the Alliance's golden child and, as such, a candidate for the Alliance-Hierarchy Task Force Project. A human and a turian, working together, learning each race's techniques and cultures— a foreign exchange program with guns. She would be stuck with some cocky turian supremacist and she would inevitably screw up, misinterpret their facial expression (they had facial expressions but what the hell did they mean with all those damn plates?), or inadvertently disrespect their ancestors' spirits and start another war and...

"This is all for show, you know," she heard a slightly nasal, tenor flanging voice say. She'd been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn't noticed a turian had sidled up next to her. "People are going to hate whomever they hate, no matter how many glorified tea parties we have together."

As did most people, especially turians, this particular turian towered over her, easily two feet taller than she was. White, zebra-like markings lined his deep cinnabar facial plates, combined with a pair of striking emerald green eyes. His arms were crossed impassively over his massive barrel chest, seemingly more nonchalant than her antsy, twitchy self.

"Aren't you supposed to sit with the rest of the veterans?" she asked.

"No. I'm here to comply with compulsory attendance. And I'd say I've done my duty already, don't you?"

Shepard didn't think that needed an answer, as she herself was ducking out on the initial ceremony on the basis of sensory overload. An exhausted sigh spilled from her full lips. Were this a battlefield, she would be fine, hyperfocused, even. But this... this was way too much for her.

"Major Nihlus Kryik, Turian Armed Forces."

The turian held out a gloved hand and she couldn't help but stare at the difference in number of fingers: turians only had two fingers and a thumb. How did they write? What instruments did they use? Oh. He wanted to shake hands, didn't he? This was always an awkward situation, especially among humans. Why humans insisted on physical contact between complete strangers, boggled her mind. Most humans wore shorter sleeves so that weapons were impossible to conceal— the whole origin of the gesture to begin with, as far as she knew. Why spread germs? Why touch? And handshakes were a human thing. Was he trying to make her feel at ease, or something? How did turians greet each other, anyway? Beads of sweat were beginning to pearl at her temples and for once, she was glad for her thick mane, as it concealed the perspiration behind her pinned back locks, a regulation-style low bun.

And so panic set in and Shepard ended up doing something between a quick, respectful bow and a curtsy... and immediately hated herself for it.

"Lieutenant Jennifer Shepard, Alliance Navy."

Instead of the annoyed scoff she'd been expecting, Nihlus snorted with something resembling amusement.

"Charmed," he purred. "Well, Lieutenant... I will see you around. I'm sure."

Her mouth had the bad habit of going dry around strangers. She found no words, so she just nodded, feeling the sub-zero chill of anxiety tugging at her gut and her knees as she watched him go back into the main auditorium. The orchestral music climaxed and ended in a triumphant tonic major, powerful, showy, something Shepard assumed was part of the whole pissing contest they had going on. The rumble of Admiral Hackett's gravelly voice echoed through the halls, somberly explaining the meaning of Armistice Day with the solemnity of a religious holiday. Her stomach sank. In just a few minutes, Hackett or Primarch Fedorian would be calling her name and she would have to stand in front of a multitude of strangers staring back at her. Or maybe a horde of krogan would come charging in and stomp her to death before that could happen.

"... Task Force Project, we would like to invite Lieutenant Jennifer Shepard."

Please kill me. Someone please just kill me now.

Shepard trudged on through the doorway and spotted Hackett at the podium through the tunnel of navy blue curtains.

Thresher maw acid sounds really good about now.

She stopped at his side and gave a formal, 45-degree angle salute before turning to the crowd, standing at attention, careful to keep her thumb against her forefinger's second knuckle. Her eyes surfed over a sea of unfamiliar faces, each of them unreadable. What if they asked her to make an improvised speech? She crossed gazes with Anderson. When he gave her a crooked smile and an approving nod, though, the overwhelming chill eased up from her limbs.

It was the Primarch's turn to speak.

"In a gesture of cooperation and goodwill, Major Nihlus Kryik, a Spectre in the Turian Army, has volunteered to participate in the Task Force."

Her face fell as she saw the green-eyed turian from before. His mandibles twitched in a smirk as he approached her. Instead of offering his hand, however, he gave a curt bow at the waist, which she reciprocated.

And that was how Shepard and Nihlus became partners.


April 3rd, 2183— Constant, Eden Prime

The shuttle landed on Eden Prime around noon, at the time civilian shuttles usually landed so that their recon mission seemed more like a tourist outing than two agents undercover. Still, a turian in an almost exclusively human colony was a bit obvious. At first, Shepard had protested wearing globs of makeup— as she never wore any —and she especially objected to pretending to be Nihlus' wife, mate, whatever turians called it. The whole idea of romance, real or imagined, made her uneasy and want to stim her skin raw. Nihlus, on the other hand, had assured her that human-turian relationships were on the rise since the end of the Relay 314 Incident and that such a thing would likely be good for P.R.

Politics. I hate politics.

Popular opinion generally dictated that Constant, Eden Prime's capital, was one of the most beautiful cities in Alliance Space. Tall buildings ripped at the sky like razor blades, a neo-industrial aesthetic so unlike the more primitive-looking prefabs dotting the outskirts of the city where the farmers lived. Monorail roads cut across its landscape, carrying masses of busy commuters to and fro. A perfect contradiction: a hectic sense of industrialization, splattered in the midst of a natural paradise world. Or, at least, it seemed like perfection until one reached the core of it all. Beneath the shadows of the great steel towers, addicts hid and waited— for their next hit, a victim, or the sweet release of death. In any case, shells of whom they once were. Constant was undoubtedly a hotspot for red sand trafficking.

"It seems pointless to ask, but can you act? Pretend?" Nihlus asked. Shepard had been reflecting on the wild look carved into the vagrants' eyes.

"Depends." Everything she knew about social interaction she'd learned from watching other people or from vids and, when there was nothing in her mental database about a particular situation, she winged it (and often failed)— so then, wasn't her entire personality an act? "What do you need me to do?"

"We need to score some red sand."

She narrowed her eyes at him for a second before it registered in her brain that he meant that, in order to find the source, they'd need to make a purchase. And who better to do that than an addict? She thumbed at her nose. Once. Twice. Thrice. A wide-eyed, bloodshot look. Twitching. An unsettled aura. What looked like stimming. Seemed easy enough.

"Shepard."

When she looked up at the turian, she felt two bare hands on her face, clawed thumbs stroking the skin on her cheeks. And suddenly he was right in her face. Panic flooded her veins and made her legs feel heavy— but not her fists. One swing and Nihlus was on his ass, on the pavement.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

A million eyes were on her, but the city's rhythm barely skipped a beat, its citizens quickly returning to their own concerns. There were whispers, murmurs about "sandheads", "sand-blasting", and being all "dusted up". The adrenaline was making her hands shake. But by the rumbling chuckle and smirk from Nihlus, this had all been part of the plan because now all of them knew— or, rather, thought — she was a sandhead. She watched him swipe a broad wrist across his mouth, dragging blue droplets with it.

"See? Nothing to it," he laughed as he stood up, dusting himself off.

"It isn't funny. Look at me!" she hissed, holding her trembling hands up.

"That's the whole point. Now let's see if we can't find someone to help us with your, ah, little problem, dear." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her outer arm firmly in place as they headed farther into the bowels of the inner city. Shepard couldn't decide whether this made her feel more anxious, or if the pressure was comforting— but it was sure making her head spin. There was one thing she was sure of: Spectres, especially Nihlus, were dangerous and reckless, and she'd be remiss to trust him too quickly. They made their way down an alley, damp with old urine, spilled beer, and the condensation drizzling from the sky-high HVAC units. The smell of ammonia, rust, and moldy decay made her dizzy and her stomach twist. How many of these people had been functional adults prior to red sand? How many of these people had been police officers, soldiers, marines? How many of these people had escaped batarian slavers who'd introduced them to the drug? How many of these people had committed atrocities to feed their addiction?

She'd just begun to catch her breath and swallow her heart back into place before Nihlus spoke again, this time to a homeless man crumpled on the ground, clutching his blanket against his form. He seemed to be the only one around in his right mind, likely starting to come down from his high.

"Let me get a dimebag."

The man snarled at him, ochre-stained teeth peeking behind his dry lips.

"The fuck I look like?"

"Someone who knows where to get red sand," he replied, patting Shepard's arm with the same even pressure. "And my darling wife here gets a little... testy... when she hasn't had her fix."

Bastard had managed to get her shaking like a junkie. It was as if he knew, as if he'd read her weaknesses in the few months they'd spent together, despite the fact that this was their first mission together. That in itself made Nihlus a terrifying yet intriguing man, in Shepard's opinion. Perhaps there was something worth learning from him, after all.

The human man rolled his eyes and sniffed, nose twitching. She wondered whether he was savoring any last grains of red sand lingering in his nasal passages. Finally, he nodded in the direction of a set of stairs descending into a basement and muttered something about a Cole. She saw Nihlus turn on his omnitool's interface and do what she assumed was a credit transfer, and... Had he just winked at the guy?

"You do an excellent impression of a junkie, Shepard," he said as he steered her toward the basement.

"I don't like working with you."

"That almost hurts my feelings," he laughed.

She'd end up dead before this mission was over. She was sure of it.

The basement led to a hotel kitchen, even more frenetic than the city itself. Line cooks and servers ran back and forth to the beck and call of a boisterous chef. Pots, pans and trays clanged over the sound of boiling liquids and the roar of flames.

"You're a bit too zen for a junkie right now. Want me to kiss you?"

Shepard's mouth flapped open with both indignation and surprise, anxiety beginning to resurface. The implied harassment, the noise, the smells, the lights.

"Can turians even kiss?"

"Is that a yes?"

"This is sexual harassment."

No, no. He was playing her weaknesses again, riling her up. And damn it, it was working. There was too much going on here. She thumbed at her nose three times and rubbed her forearm until it was red and painful. A damn panic attack was what she'd have if they didn't leave this place soon. But that was probably what he wanted.

"Call him. Call Cole."

Cole? Oh. Right. The guy.

"M— Mar... Where's Cole?" she called into the droning kitchen. "I said, Where's Cole?"

A greasy-looking blond young man with stubble looked up from his station, a toothpick pinched between his darkened teeth. Dishwasher. After drying his hands with a towel, he trod toward them, hands in his pockets.

"I wasn't expectin' no turians 'round 'ere," he said in a Londoner accent.

"Shut up and give us the sand already, asshole," Nihlus said.

"It's a hundred twenty-five creds, first of all."

"We're not giving you anything until we see it."

"Not how it works 'ere, mate. Ya give me the creds, I give you the coordinates. Thassit."

Glassy mint green eyes felt her up and down and it made her want to vomit and rub the skin off her arm and hit the top of her head with the side of her fist and if she did they'd all stare and oh, God, it was happening: a panic attack. Anxiety had become a giant, invisible demon squeezing the life out of her lungs and it would not let her go. Her body acted on its own, doubling over, hands grabbing fistfuls of her tightly combed hair from her temples, throat releasing a slur of unintelligible phrases in English, Spanish, and Interlingua... She wasn't sure anymore.

Cole yelled something. Nihlus gave him a shove before grabbing him by the collar. He yelled again. And now the turian was dragging her out of the kitchen, past the alley, away from the onlookers— oh, God they wouldn't stop staring. If they'd only stopped staring. — and into their rented skycar. As time passed and they drove on, the vice grip on her chest began to ease up, though her arms and shoulders were still locked in their protective positions near her head.

He said something about underestimating how emotional she would get. Asshole. Her lungs and throat were burning and she felt as if she'd just expended every single muscle in her body and now he had jokes. Oh, she'd get him later... Just as soon as she could process things and talk again.

An hour later, they arrived at a port. She assumed this was the spot Cole had talked about.

"You get out."

"What? I'm not ready!"

"Shepard, I'm having a hard time figuring out just why and how in the hell you became a marine. Even more so a lieutenant! If you were a turian, I'd have court-martialed you for insubordination and incompetence."

"But I'm a human." What kind of a stupid response was that? "And— And you're on a human colony. You need me for this."

"It would seem I know more about how humans think than you do."

"What the— Why would you...?" Her cheeks were heating up, hands dropping to her lap in tight fists. And then the son of a bitch started laughing. He actually had the audacity to laugh at her.

"Look, Shepard. You've got potential. But you're an open book. It's too easy." He shook his head, tossing a look at her over his carapace. "You smell like anger and vengeance, but it's muddled up with all these other fears... You have to compartmentalize. Keep it intact. Use your rage. Let it fuel your combat. Don't let it blind you. Let it feed your strength."

She soon caught on she'd been gawking at him for quite some time. A pep talk was the last thing she'd been expecting.

"Now, get out of the car and talk to that human by the dock. Powell." He tapped his headset. "I'll be listening in."

Just as he'd mentioned, there was a gangly man with a goatee by a stack of shipping crates. He wore an old drab beanie and dirty overalls. He likely was a dock worker who made a fortune on the side smuggling drugs and who-knows-what-else.

"You're not gonna rile me up again?"

"No. You look crazy enough with your fringe poking out of your head like that. Go for it."

Right. She'd been pulling at her hair before and now it stuck out in gelled-up lines parallel to her shoulders. No use in smoothing it back down now. Shepard took a breath and stepped out of the car, shutting it behind her. The human was staring at her, but the sound of ocean waves settled a calm over her, enough to allow her to think of options in case this went badly.

"Powell?"

"Who wants to know?"

Her tongue was dry again. Instead of speaking, she held out an unsteady hand, palm up.

"Shit, lady..." He grimaced. "I don't usually say this on account it's bad for business, but maybe you should lay off the sand, yeah?"

"Please."

Powell sighed, shaking his head.

"Fine, fine. Just wait here."

The worker then retreated into the warehouse, leaving Shepard standing vulnerable in a crowd of containers, several locks of frayed hair swaying in the salt breeze.

"I'm gonna have a look around," Nihlus said into the com.

"I need you at my six," she muttered in attempt to not look as if she was talking to herself, should anyone else be looking.

"You're a big girl, Lieutenant. You can handle yourself. You knocked a turian down right on his ass, if I'm remembering right."

He wasn't listening. He wouldn't listen. An inkling of imminent danger prickled at her gut.

"You're being reckless. I can't have your back if I don't know where you are."

"I've taken down an entire platoon on my own, Shepard. Just wait for your sand. I'll be in the warehouse."

The breeze caused a loose tendril of hair to slither across her line of sight when she turned toward the skycar. He was no longer in it, so she figured he had his cloaking device on and was en route to the warehouse. That hothead was going to get one of them killed.

Cold steel pressed against her temple.

"Who were you talking to... Lieutenant Shepard?" she heard Powell ask. His ar wrapped around her neck.

Shepard gasped, every muscle tensing at the unpleasant surprise. He knew her name. How did he know her name? There must have been someone on the inside. And if there was someone who knew who she was, then...

Nihlus...

Flicking her thumb against her knuckle, she called up her biotics and drove her elbow into Powell's stomach. In the microsecond his grip loosened, she twisted her torso, pulled and twisted his other arm down until he let go of the gun. He stumbled backward. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. His lips parted. He was going to yell. If anyone heard the struggle, she and Nihlus would definitely die. She lifted and dropped her leg in an axe kick, and Powell dropped to the ground. She knelt down to feel his pulse. Was he dead?

"Saren?" she heard Nihlus say, shock lifting his voice an octave.

Who the hell is Saren?

"Nihlus," responded a fainter, deeper turian voice.

Shepard made a dash for the warehouse, the foreboding dread within her overwhelming her senses. However this would end, it would not be good.

"This isn't your mission, Saren. What are you doing here?"

The way Nihlus' subvocals softened made her think he knew Saren, perhaps even trusted him.

"The Council thought you could use some help on this one."

The Council? Since when did the Council involve itself in human affairs? She vaulted over a crate. She couldn't be running fast enough.

"I didn't expect the drug situation to be this bad."

Saren wasn't working with the Council.

"Don't worry... I've got it under control."

The loud crack of a pistol echoed throughout the port, and not even the roaring waves could drown it out. Shepard stopped at the sound, horror flooding her veins. Oh, my God. Nihlus. Her joints went soft, and if it weren't for the railing she held onto, she would have fallen. The door wasn't too far. Maybe it was just a flesh wound and he was struggling with the bastard right now. Yeah, that's right, she thought as she started for the warehouse again. Maybe he had him pinned down, Saren's own pistol to his head.

And then she reached the dark interior. Stray rays of sunlight filtered in through narrow rectangular windows, cutting shapes into the darkness. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the lack of illumination. There, by an open crate, she found the body of a turian clad in red and black. A shaky sigh poured from her lips.

"Nihlus," she whispered, kneeling down next to him. A pool of navy blue expanded beneath him. This was bad. There was no way he'd survive this amount of exsanguination. Though his face was turned in the other direction, she could see his mandible quivering as if he were trying to speak. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to turn his head, to let him see her, to let him not think he was dying alone. No, not like Melissa.

"You're in the wrong place, Shepard," she heard another flanging voice say.

The reflection in the pool of blood showed a silver-skinned turian with an exaggeratedly long fringe. But just as she began to turn, she came to find he was quicker than she, feeling steel hit the back of her head.

She never did get to look at him face to face. But that was the last thing she remembered.