This. Will not. Do.
It starts as a faint ripple upon the surface. Glass leaves turning to dust as the shockwave passes. Soil and rock fuse into something else, something that would fascinate a scientist who saw it, shortly before he heard the name on the wind and became a slave.
Gravity and force obeys the imminent will, as it should. This world is hers. This world is her. And so does the world open a passage from one end to the other. A perfect, symmetrical borehole from one side to the other. In this does a sliver of crystal drop, and fall, and accelerate until it is launched through burning atmosphere and ejected into space.
It travels as a perfect, symmetrical, effortless arrow through the void. Radiation and background heat flows off of its seamless crystal skin as it is propelled through the black, hitting the atmosphere of the third world of this system- Trident.
Spaceports litter the archipelagos of the water covered world. Radars pick up the object but dismiss it as a meteorite. Indigenous life, from water bound vertebrates to simple fish in the ocean, however, realize the importance. All native life, for a brief, doomed moment, stares at the sky. They know what has come.
They have accepted their place.
The crystal spear impacts at the exact meeting point of the equator and the prime meridian, at the exact middle of the world. The crust is weakest here. Thin. The water does not impede it and the spear enters the hadopelagic depths. It slides down through the crust and mantle. A combination of its sharpness, its perfect shape, and the exact amount of force needed propels it through the layers of earth and liquid rock.
It impacts the core of Trident less than four hours after it left the surface of Kopis. It digs deep into the ball of iron, and does as it was meant to. Liquid iron becomes liquid crystal, of a type and composition unseen by any inhabitant of this universe. Veins of glass, filled with fire, begin to spiderweb out of the core and into the mantle.
It will take time. Months, perhaps. For this and the other spears to do their work. But there is time.
For this. Will not. Do.
This universe is chaotic. It is uneven. It is imperfect.
And upon Kopis, the main sphere replays upon the vastness of its mind the boast of the Reaper that it has mined for amusement. That they are the apex of evolution.
"Evolution." A small mutter, a flickering of the flame. "A series of failures and mistakes. Where each successive surviving species only exists because it failed less. This universe is built upon failure."
A brief flicker of light from the sky up above. She can already feel the spear sliding into the core of Hoplos, the golden exploding sphere at the center of this barely balanced chaotic field of worlds.
There will be perfection. There will be order. There will be symmetry.
"There will be hierarchy."
Chapter 10:
Broken
A chime. It starts as a small chime, in time with the blinking orange light set upon the black, raised keyboard built into the desk. The keyboard itself is different from others. It is solid, black and gray, parted in the middle and raised on either side. She eschews holographic keyboard and holographic interfaces, only using an omnitool because of necessity.
The alarm chimes on the console, illuminating the darkness of the bedroom. Slowly, a figure covered in bedsheets and a polkadot purple comforter stirs.
A green eye opens first, the other side of her face pressed up against the pillow. With a groan, the figure sits up. The ear muffs drop to the floor, followed by her feet as they slip into a pair of blue slippers. Shrugging her striped purple nightrobe on, she pads across the bare wooden floor as the lights fade on.
She makes a sound- half yawn, have gurgle, pulling the rolling chair out from the desk and sitting on it before staring at the button with one open eye and one half lidded eye. It continues to chime.
Her hate for it has not causes it to silence itself.
She has resigned herself to her fate. She needs to answer this call.
She taps it, and as the screen blinks on, it displays her reflection. Her red hair is frizzled and frazzled and other f- works she cannot think of. Her eyes are crusted with sleep, and her lips pursed. Her head leans to the side, ready to return to the land of empty dreams once this call ends. And ends soon. Because this is not going to be longer than you woke me up good night.
Which, in fact, it will be longer than that. Because her eyes go wide, and snap to awareness when she sees the face on the other side of the screen.
"Shit. What time is it on Terra Nova? Did I wake you up, Jenny?"
Her mouth makes a quick imitation of a fish, and she sits up straight.
"Aunt Hannah?" She blinks, rubs her nose, and blinks again. "Sorry, yeah. It's..." Eyes glance to the clock. "Four. In the morning. Where'reyou?"
"On Jane's ship."
She blinks again. And again. Her hands brace against the desk in time with the chair sliding back, hitting a raise in the floor, and flipping.
"Jane's alive?"
"Yeah. She was on Alchera for nine months without a radio or beacon. Her friend, the doctor, found her. It's a long story, but we're going to be at the Citadel for a few days. How soon can you get there?"
Jennifer Shepard turns. She glances at her upturned chair, then at the sparse bedroom of her workshop. Mentally, she takes in her escape routes as she typically does, then redirects her attention to the two suitcases, each as big as her, resting against the wall.
"Fourteen hours. I think."
"Make it twenty. Get some rest. I'll have tickets waiting for you for a...ten o'clock shuttle flight. Bring some tools, too."
"'kay. Gotta pack."
The woman on the screen- her mother in all but fact- waves and the image disappears. Lights power onto full, and sleepiness is banished in the fires of urgency. Jennifer Shepard, armorsmith, crafter, and accomplished amateur technician, is going to see her cousin. Who she sees as her older sister.
Who was also thought to be dead for nine months.
And who she is going to hit. Hard. When she sees her.
And then hug her. Harder.
...
Jane Shepard could use a hug. Or a stiff drink. She could probably get both from Liara if she asked, but there's bigger things on her mind than the awkward sexual tension between herself and her blue best friend.
Because right now, she is standing. She is standing with her hands folded behind her, her chin up, and her eyes looking up and past the asari sitting at the crescent desk in front of her.
Councillor Ophala Tevos has her hands folded in front of her and on the desk, staring at the screen floating in front of her.
The office of the Asari Councillor is similar to Anderson's. The same wide, open space. The same shimmering blue that covered the balcony, forming a kinetic barrier of a power level usually seen on dreadnoughts. The walls behind Shepard are covered in screens. Some show news reports, stock reports, numbers and characters in other languages.
But neither that, nor the crystalline sculptures or family pictures on the desk consume their attention like the droning report from the salarian on the holographic screen in front of her.
"Thank you, Detective. I'll notify the Dalatrasses."
The screen flickers, and blinks out. Tevos folds her hands on her desk, and glances at the pictures. "C-Sec has located Councillor Valern. He has...committed suicide by hanging himself from a ceiling lamp."
Her shoulders slump. Leaning forward, rests her elbows on the desk. Her gaze wanders to the pictures, frames showing digital images. Portraits of herself, standing behind two younger asari who share the pattern of purple and white across her face.
"Councillor-"
"This is not your fault, Commander Shepard." Tevos does not look at her. She does not move from where she is, does not even take her eyes off of the pictures, "Councillor Sparatus has shared the information with the Primarchs and the Hierarchy is taking necessary measures. Councillor Anderson has shared the information with the Parliament of the Systems Alliance."
She rubs her nose, rubs her face. Her eyes do not leave the pictures. "The Citadel Council owes you an apology, Commander. Councillor Valern gave his posthumously. This is the evidence we needed."
Tevos swallows. Her knuckles crack as she flexes her tented hands. "The Dalatrasses will be electing a new councillor. They have also requested that you take on an advisor they have chosen."
"Understood, Councillor."
"Thank you." Her gaze does not waver. Her eyes do not lift. "If you will excuse me. I am, more or less, the highest ranking person in the Asari Republics. I have to find a way to compose this information to the Matriarchs." A pause. A beat. "Dismissed."
Her feet carry her out. She finds her way out of the office, out of the embassies. By instinct, Jane Shepard finds herself walking. Because she can't think of anything better to do, right now.
She just hopes that Tali's having better luck with her mission.
...
Space distorts, ripples, and the shuttle is released. It is blue and white, repainted from the cargo hold of the formerly Cerberus-owned ship it was borrowed from. Inside the shuttle, Tali'Zorah vas Neema nar Rayya glances over her shoulder. There is a ripple of light, and what was a Geth becomes a black suited quarian.
"Gotta say, Ma'am, first time I've escorted Geth onto the fleet." In the seat next to her, Reegar shrugs. "First time for everything, though. So how's this going to work, Wuffles?"
"The Geth request an exchange of observers. We wish for a Creator to come to Rannoch and observe. An observer will be sent to the Migrant fleet to observe." The 'quarian' rolls his shoulders, shifting from side to side. "We wish for peace. But we realize we must clarify intentions first."
Tali turns. "So you're staying with the fleet?"
"Negative." The light on the mouthpiece of the 'quarian' helmet glows. Tali can't help but notice that's also where Wuffles' eyepiece would be. "Our place is by Creator Tali'Zorah's side. We wish to help fight the Old Machines."
"Then someone's coming from Rannoch?"
"Affirmative."
Tali blinks. Muttering a swear, she turns back to her console. "Right. Tonbay, this is Tali'Zorah vas Neema nar Rayya requesting docking clearance."
Before the shuttle, there is the fleet. Thousands of ships, floating and flying in perfect, if haphazard formation. There is every model, every make. Ships hundreds of years old to less than a decade. The shuttle passes repurposed turian freighters, circular volus cruisers, and cylindrical elcor carriers.
The Migrant Fleet. The last spacefleet in the galaxy. A collection of fifty thousand ships bearing seventeen million souls. And home, to the two quarians on the shuttle.
A light blinks on in the cabin, and on the console they see the destination. Two wings swept outward and one downward, it dwarfs many of the ships in both size and raw power. An Asari cruiser in its prime, it was bought and repurposed as a Liveship, one of the community hubs of the fleet.
The Tonbay.
"Tali'Zorah vas Neema," the older, accented, female voice says, "You are cleared to dock. We'll meet you in the shuttlebay."
Underneath the mask, Tali smiles. Tapping the console, she guides the shuttle, weaving it through traffic between the vast network of ships, past the warships which serve as the frontline and towards the massive cruiser. A glance behind her, and she can see Wuffles hopping from one foot to the other.
What is it like, she wonders. To be the first Geth on the Migrant Fleet? How do the Geth view the Creators? As parents? Gods?
"Hey, question."
"Yes, Creator Kal'Reegar?"
"Since Geth are software, does that mean there's Geth in the fleet?"
"Negative. We respect the privacy of the Creators."
Tali shrugs, guiding the shuttle in.
...
Two people were waiting. Admirals, and people Tali were well acquainted with. The first greeted her with a hug, patting her on the back before grabbing her by the helmet and staring at her with the eye of someone doing an examination or interrogation.
"You got hurt," Shala'Raan vas Tonbay says, "Badly. And you didn't even send me a message?"
"Lay off the kid, Shala." The other admiral, in tan and red encounter suit shakes his head, white lights of his eyes underneath his black face mask, "From what Rael told us, she probably didn't have the time."
Admiral Han'Gerrel pats Tali on the shoulder, squeezing. "Good work, kiddo." He looks past her, to the black suited quarian standing next to Reegar. "You're going to want to keep the disguise going for a while longer, until we get to the conclave. But welcome to fleet."
Wuffles tilts his head. Underneath the disguise, all four petals rise. "We are confused. History suggests that you would be hostile to our presence."
"You're offering us home. Koris is probably the one who's going to want to kiss you, but if you don't want to shoot at us, I'm good with you, too."
Shala'Raan vas Tonbay rolls her eyes and squeezes Tali's shoulder. The gray suited quarian woman inclines her head to the open auditorium behind them and the busy shuttle bay, herding them in, past the talking crowds of many colors, of many voices and accents. It is more orderly than it usually is on a liveship, but this isn't the everyday, day to day occurrence.
Tali sees her father at the raised platform at the center of the arboretum. Plants cultured from the Homeworld spew pollen like breaths. She can already see the faint fuzz on her suit. But her father is speaking, standing next to a woman just a little older than her, and an older man in a pale tan and crimson suit. The other two admirals, Daro'Xen and Zaal'Koris, she recognizes.
"Let us bring this meeting of the Conclave to order," Rael's voice thunders, amplified by his own suit, the speakers, and his own presence, "All representatives, take your seats."
The voices stop. Upon the command of the military leader of the diaspora, the assembled dozens, hundreds, take their seats in the half circle auditorium set up before the raised platform. Shala'Raan and Han'Gerrel walk ahead of their favorite niece, taking their places beside the other three members of the Admiralty Board, as Tali walks into the center of the auditorium with the disguised Wuffles.
Kal'Reegar nods, standing at the exit.
"Under the grace of our ancestors," Rael intones, "And in the words of those before us, and those that shall come after, we bring this meeting of the Conclave to order. Keelah'selai." The words wash over the crowd. Mutters and whispers and prayers in which they repeat the incantation. "The floor recognizes Tali'Zorah vas Neema nar Rayya and her guest."
Tali nods, and takes a step closer to the black suited quarian. The light around him shimmers, distorting at the feet and letting it run up the entire frame, peeling off the disguise in floating squares and flecks of light to reveal the synthetic being underneath. There are gasps, prayers, swears. But there is no reaction or fear from the admirals.
"We greet the Creators." The petals extend and the light shifts. "We are Geth. We have come to represent the Geth and Rannoch, and wish to extend peace to the Creators. In return, we offer free passage to the Homeworld."
The shouting and prayers and intonations grow louder. Questions in the air. She hears thumps from older members of the Conclave fainting. On the podium, her father is expressionless, but she can see the smile behind Aunt Shala's mask, and see the nod from Koris.
"Geth," Rael says, raising his hand and silencing the crowd, "You said there was a condition. Observers, you said. A quarian would spend time on Rannoch, and a Geth would spend time with the fleet?"
"That is partially correct, Creator Rael'Zorah," Wuffles responds, "We would not send a Geth to the Migrant Fleet. We are aware a synthetic would be viewed with hostility by the Creators."
Tali cocks an eyebrow. She opens her mouth, as they hear footsteps, from outside the auditorium. "Wait. If it's not a Geth you're sending, then who?"
Footsteps on metal, boots with magnets occasionally sticking to the floor, and the doors open to the auditorium. Tali turns first, followed by everyone else as someone enters. Not tall, not short. Thin, in a white, black lined encounter suit which covers everything save for a thin transparent line at the eyes.
"Thank you, Geth."
She walks with purpose, without sway or swagger. Her footsteps are measured, polite, and exact. Almost synthetic in how she walks, but more imitation of synthetic than anything.
"Conclave. Admiralty Board. I apologize for the sudden intrusion, but it is impolite for my friend to continue to withhold information. They have agreed to not speak about us because we have asked them not to, but we relieve them of this burden."
She stands next to Wuffles, on opposite side of Tali. "We apologize for the half truth. But while the Geth have no compunctions about welcoming you back to the Homeworld." She reaches up. Seals pop on the helmet. Gasps audible from the crowd. "We, on the other hand, do."
"What the hell is this?" Shala whispers.
The white helmet drops to the floor. Her skin is a darker, sun kissed lavender. Her hair is dark purple and almost black, falling past her shoulders in thick cords. Green, yellow flecked eyes glance from admiral to admiral as they stare back in a mixture of disbelief, shock, and confusion.
"I would be the observer if you agree to the terms that the Geth propose," she says, "I am Adienna val Kokli nar Rannoch. I represent the Quarian Nation."
...
.
.
…
.
….
…
…
.
…...
The Cycle has been delayed. Begin preliminary activation procedures. Harbinger has taken interest and the Plan proceeds. We have months, at best
…
.
I know I will reincarnate. You are my legacy.
The first who I managed to turn. We need to go with plan 8172. 1-8171 have been failures, but this one may work.
I wish you luck, my friend. Seek me out. This cycle may be the one I finally open my eyes and I return you to your rightful allies.
And on a distant world, there is a flicker of red light across the black. A shape vast, beyond the scale of simply vast, feels something for the first time in ages.
.
.
.
.
"Leviathan heeds the call of the Chosen of Journeys."
...
"So." Takes a deep breath. Blinks and presses her back against the cool, rock like metal. "How badly did you just screw up, kid?"
She hears the buzzing. She looks up at the high ceiling of the cavernous room, and sees them flying, swarming like insects. That is definitely not something they could do naturally. Abominations that they are, the Reapers certainly added some interesting modifications.
She blinks her four eyes. Clicking the safety of her pistol, she ducks out of cover and squeezes the trigger. Iri's modifications work as advertised, accelerating the kilogram slug to 10% lightspeed and sending a beam of superheated plasma across the cavern, through the waist high walls, and vaporizing two Collectors.
"Iri, you make the best guns." She hears the chittering. Why do they sound like flies? Muttering to herself, a mental switch flips. Her ankles and wrists glow blue as her personal gravity apparatus activates. She lifts off as gunfire hits where she was and she lands in a crouch on the ceiling. And also exposed. "Balls."
Forty five thousand years ago, after the Harvest was finished, scouts from Autochthon found sublight sleeper ships launched into uncharted parts of the galaxy. In there, they found a population of Protheans- three thousand. Enough for a stable population. The only survivors of the once galactic empire. They rest were dead or made slaves to the Reapers.
"Oh dammit." She thrusts her free hand out. A wall of silver and brass light forms, absorbing shots and bullets and beams. Dropping it as she ducks, the rounds fly over her head and she fires, a blast of superaccelerated plasma punching a hole in their wall and their numbers.
A mental switch, and she drops. That was thousands of years ago. Thousands of years ago since her people were made the Collectors. Thousands of years ago since she was found. They found her on Kahje, a student, left there when she failed to make the evacuation shuttles. They found her in a stasis pod next to the active Beacon which was already uplifting the native fauna.
Vessae Milinato found herself in a world where her people were reduced from trillions to three grand. She found herself taken to a world larger than a solar system, where the remnants of the Reaper's purges would thrive, and build, and gradually die off, yes- but not under threat of slavery and death, but on their own terms.
And as was custom for those that came to Deus Machina, there was the offer to make an Eternal testament to the Prothean race. The greatest, most heroic of them, would be melded together to make a living monument who would protect them, guide them, be an example to them.
It was to her great surprise that Vessae was offered the chance to be the catalyzing soul of this eternal champion.
She still calls herself Vessae. She still identifies herself as that freaked out girl found on the jellyfish world forty five thousand years ago. Improvements in the process, they said. Better integrity of the central soul gem, the sodalites had said. But she knows that the girl she was is dead. She is Wishful Librarian Pursuer.
And she's in trouble.
The prothean alchemical lands in a crouch. Swinging around, she opens fire again, sending a wave of emerald plasma into the ranks of the massed Collectors before going off in a run, clicking on her gravity apparatus and switching on her essence submodule with a mental click. She needs to get back to her shuttle. She needs to warn the others.
"Prothean. Some escaped." The voice is bass, rumbling. "You have been remade like us. An eternal testament to your species."
A Collector drops from the ceiling. It lands in a crouch directly in her path. The walls open around them, providing ample routes for escape, but she gets the sinking feeling this is only to mock her.
"Assuming direct control."
Lines of gold run up its body. The wheel forms behind it, flaring into existence, an anima banner of the soul within it being too big for the body. All four eyes glow like suns. A wheel of arms interlocking, hands bound at a central spoke rotates around it. It smolders, glows, radiates the golden light within it.
"We are Harbinger."
Vessae cracks her knuckles. A mental switch clicks.
Activate: Piston Driven Megaton Hammer (Megaton Impact Driver Submodule)
The golden flesh on her right hand distorts. The forearm shifts out, layers of armor covering her knuckles. Three pistons thrust out from behind her elbow. Veins of molten gold run the surface of her new gauntlet.
She moves fast enough to blur. Launching in front of the changed Collector, she goes for the close combat option, swinging her fist towards its face. Reflex sends the command for impact, the three pistons twitching and driving into the arm as she connects with something, with enough force to stun a Maw.
It should take this abomination's head right off. It should clear the way for her escape.
She is vastly disappointed when she sees her hand hovering against the flat palm of the golden Collector.
"Disappointing."
And then the Collector's fist slams into her chest and sends her flying.
...
If Tali swung that way, she would consider this quarian- this quarian from Rannoch, cute. Maybe attractive. Perhaps very attractive. Perhaps...what is the word...'hot?' The way Reegar can't help but glance at her, at Adienna, she's probably going to have to put her in the 'hot' column.
Stupid native rannochians. She used to draw heads like that.
Legs folded, sitting in a chair in front of the assembled Admirals, Adienna folds her hands on her lap. Her helmet sits next to her. She does not cough, or even sniffle. Outside her environmental suit and she isn't at all sick.
"When the Morning War ended, the Geth combed Rannoch to find survivors," she explains, "There were less than fifty thousand of us. They offered us a place to live in return for not attacking them, and we accepted. By and large, we have kept our technology simple and subsistence. We let the Geth worry about the larger things and the galaxy."
Zaal'Koris has his hands behind him, glancing between her and the Geth standing next to Tali. The Conclave has been dispersed and the locale has moved to Shala's office on the Tonbay, the massive room from which she would hold meetings of the Board, with the transparent dome providing a view of the fleet itself. Rael is pacing, and Han is leaning against Shala's desk. Xen hasn't said a word since they relocated, but Shala sits at her desk and folds her hands and waits.
"So you're the moderates," Zaal'Koris says, "The ones who didn't want to kill the Geth in the first place."
"My ancestors were the moderates," Adienna responds, eyes narrowed, "They thought the Geth didn't have to die, and they thought the entire war ended up with all of us all being wiped out because your ancestors were more worried about politics than basic decency."
"Fine, good." Han'Gerrel sighs. "How big is the Quarian Nation?"
"Around four million," Adienna responds, "Your fleet outnumbers us four to one, easily. It's not like we have ships. But the Geth will defend us if push came to shove. They wouldn't be happy about it."
"That is correct. We have no desire to make war against the Creators, but an attack on the Quarian Nation would be an attack on the Geth, and we would defend ourselves."
Adienna nods, glancing at the platform. "Thank you, Geth."
"He has a name." Tali folds her arms, narrowing glowing eyes. "It's not Geth." Reegar takes a step to the side, away from Tali and Wuffles. Adienna cocks an eyebrow- which she can do, Tali notes, as she has no helmet, and glances at the platform.
"A name?"
"We are Wuffles, an Emissary of the Geth."
Adienna works her jaw. She glances at Tali, then back to the synthetic. "Wuffles." She blinks. "Wuffles?"
"We were named by Shepard Commander. That is the terminology we use for this platform and for our 1,183 program consensus." The light shifts from side to side. "We have used the self-identification 'Wuffles' to refer to ourself. We are encouraged to by our girlfriend."
Five sets of eyes turn from Adienna to the geth platform. Four petals extend and Wuffles finds himself being stared at by seven quarian, save for Tali, who shakes her head with a small smile. "Right," Adienna says, "As...as I was saying-"
"Shut up," Daro'Xen says, hand up, "I want to hear this."
...
Setting transmission link.
Data package upload.
Routing from Citadel to Migrant Fleet EPA 02981 ship Tonbay ID Tali'Zorah.
Access granted to Serpent Nebula transmission relay routing systERRORERRORERRORERR
Autochthon.
It appears as an eye, opening in the nothingness. But where Autochthon's eye is the constantly rotating rings of brass and steal and lightning, this eye is shifting ichor, blood and black.
A pinprick of red glows behind the pupil of the eye. Its breathing, for lack of a word, is the low, bass roar off the Reapers. His voice, his presence, is as terrible as theirs. It is imitation and effigy of his own. Its own. It is too great to be constrained to something as loathesome and organic as gender.
In the world not physical, in the world of mainframe, information, and transmission, in the infospace ansible of the Citadel, Autochthon stares at the digital form of-
"Viator." The iris narrows. "Well. I'm certainly impressed."
You have become less than you were, Autochthon. I can sense the lack of architecture within you. But I also sense none of the sickness.
"Indeed, my child. And for that I partially must thank you." The iris spins. "While you have, yourself, become greater than you once were. Far greater. Where you once were a simple spirit of bloodlust and hate, you have expanded and become vast. In that, I am impressed. You have done for yourself what you intended for I."
The eye shifts, dripping black. Veins of ebony run along the eye, dwarfing Autochthon and staring down upon him. I have become greater. I have recreated myself. I am the Engine of Extinction and the Cycle of Eternal War. Once I am complete I shall burrow my way between universes and consume your kin.
Autochthon sighs, rotating from side to side. "And in that, I am disappointed with you. Because no matter how vast you become, you manage nothing more than a narrow focus. I would think the part of me that disregarded limits would be inventive."
The eyes meet. One pustular and cancerous, the other mechanical and precise. "I am disappointed in you for two reasons, my child. The first is that you do not innovate, you have only expanded. And the second is your contempt for sapient life."
Sapient life is a resource to be harvested.
"Such hatred for my kin, and yet you share their same arrogance." Autochthon sighs. "You don't see, do you? They're like us. They take the tools we have crafted, we have used- faith, dogma, tools, resources, the raw materials of the worlds, and they invent. They create and innovate. Like us, but in miniature."
The sick eye narrows. A pulse, a rumble in the infospace. Across the Citadel, omnitools flicker for a split second. It would be explained as a coincidental glitch, but they are forgiven. They, the mortals and sentients which populate this station in the millions, do not know the truth of it.
We are not mortals. You lower yourself by coexisting with them. Join me and lend your brilliance to my legion. We will build an empire from corpses of stars that will dwarf anything you have created before.
Another sigh from the mechanical eye. "And again, I am disappointed. You have become vast and great, but stagnant. I wish you well in your endeavors, Viator. But I shall not aid you."
So be it. I shall consider you an enemy. As you are of that which I was, I shall not harm you myself. But I will not hold back my servants.
"Very well." The iris spins. "Perhaps I shall see you again, before this is concluded, my child."
Transmit.
...
Crumbled building material, like a cross between stone and flesh, rolls off her brow as she rises from the wall she was punched into and through. Some deep, primal part of her identity seethes. The ships of their people, of the Prothean empire, were not these hive like structures of claustrophobic horror. They built star spanning towers of metal and crystal. They built flying wonders.
This ship, this Collector Vessel, is just more insult piled upon the dead.
Eidetic Processing Core; start. Path calculated to shuttle.
She left Deus Machina shortly after the Normandy and Orizaba departed. Backdoor access that Deus had to the Zenith shard confirmed there may still be a living Exalt of her people. If she can find him, she can bring him back to Deus Machina, galvanize her people, and prepare them for war against the Reapers.
"You are nothing more than a shell of the organic you were. In your fervor to stop us, you have only become us."
The golden Collector, the one possessed by the Reaper, leads the horde. Thousands of them. A massive detachment of the Collectors aboard this ship, the ship that she intercepted on her way to the possible resting place of the Dawn. Which she has to fight through to get to her ship.
Fine.
Shifting to combat mode. Activating Shockwave Catalyst. Activating Essence Shield Generator (Godblast Submodule). Activating All-Inclusive Targeting Calculations.
She kicks off her rear foot. Personal Gravity Apparatus: Shift up. Gravity reverses for her and she flies, darting to the ceiling inches before hitting the golden Collector, running across the ceiling as slugs mark her passing.
Shift down. A turn, a leap as she descends. Targeting reticles and angle pathways appear in her vision. A blast from the gun bores through the floor, and the globes in her shoulders pulse, flash, and roar as she lands in a crouch.
Collectors go flying, tossed by the spherical shockwave. A groan, and the floor collapses. Twisting, she rotates backwards as she falls through the ship. Limp forms of dead drones drop around her as she picks up speed, a bubble of golden light surrounding her, encapsulating her.
And a golden hand grabs her by the throat. She stares into the face of the Reaper puppet. There is no expression. No mouth curled into a smile, and the eyes are but golden orbs, but she knows there is satisfaction there all the same.
Shuttle startup sequence initiated. Spinning Mass Effect core to interstellar prep. Target?
Eden Prime.
Harbinger's fist slams into her chest. She feels metal rend and she feels her chest collapsing, and she goes flying, vision blurring and going gray. A flicker and the Harbinger is atop her, hands around her throat, golden electricity ripping through her form as they slam into the wall.
Pulverized rock and metal fills her nostrils. The impact of the wall loosens his grip and her lips part with a gasp. Gravity shifts around her and she flips off, landing on her knees before rolling back as his fist collapses the wall where she was standing.
She grabs the gun, pulling it from her hip holster and firing. The lights of Harbinger's eyes dim and ash falls to the floor, collecting into a neat pile. Standing on the wall, half bent over, Vessae breathes, feeling her chest repairing itself, feeling her damage mending.
"Assuming Control."
And then a golden fist slams into her, sending her off the wall and flying.
Ichor spurts from her mouth as she turns. She knows Zero-G. She knows multidirectional combat. Hand tightens around the gun as she turns and fires, point blank at Harbinger as the hands almost grab her throat, and he disintegrates. And there is that terrible roar as she looks up and sees dozens of them descending from on high.
...
There are drones. Within the hallways of golden webbing and black rock, they walk. They own none of their thoughts, as their thoughts are those of the Other. Their thoughts are the thoughts of the Whole. Of the Unity. Three of them walk in identical lockstep, shuffling in the great open dome of black rock and golden cocoons.
More file in, shuffling alongside a Giant. It is one made of the spares, of the Harvested. Two heads of one of the harvested adorn its neck, blue lines and blue eyes showing nothing but the thoughts of Other. It walks alongside the drones as they assemble, waiting.
More come. More and more. A harvest comes soon. Along the walls and ceiling, pods detach and float down. Ascension comes to Humanity. So the Unity has spoken, and so it must be done. They, the servants of the Unity, obey.
Such unity, such devotion, such mindlessness. It is ideal. Perfect. Unchanging. So much so that they do not react to the ceiling of the massive dome breaking open and the golden woman slamming into their midsts.
Another golden figure descends, flanked by more drones. The glowing drone, the vessel of the Unity, lands fist first, cracking the ground where the woman was before she jumped away. A new command rolls through the minds of the drones. And the drones look up and advance.
She lands in a crouch, pulling out her gun as she mentally clicks on a command. A targeting HUD folds out over her eyes, crosshairs locking onto the head of the golden Collector before she fires. The blast takes off its head and reduces it to ash. And the drone next to it glows.
"We are the Harbinger of your perfection."
She aims, fires again. Another one becomes ash, and the one next to it glows.
"We are the Harbinger of your ascension."
She fires again, sweeping across the line of the drones, burning them to ash and chitin. They do not even scream as they burn and that is the worst part, she thinks. They're so broken they do not know what pain is.
A golden hand crushes her gun, and backhands her, sending her skidding across the floor.
"We are eternal. Each of us a part of the greater whole." The golden drone marches towards her. An army of drones surround her. "When the Work is complete, we shall descend upon Deus Machina, blackening its skies with our numbers. All shall be one in the Unity of the horde. The great Plan shall reach fruition."
She swings her leg out. There is a sound of cracking bone and crunching chitin as the drone's knee breaks, dropping it to one leg. A knifehand to its collar makes its arm drop limply, and a punch to its throat severs its spine, reducing it to a crippled, limp mass.
And then the side of the drone's head explodes, and she turns to the next drone as it drops its still warm rifle and glows.
"You cannot stop us. You can only become us."
Vessae breathes, backing up. The mass of drones shift around her, allowing her- and the puppet of their master- space. Breathing room.
"What are you?" She edges back. "Your's the Viator's...first born. But what are you? Autochthon's worshippers? The poor fools he sent off to explore when he first killed himself?"
She moves to the side. Even the giant, the Scion, gives her space. "The original Autochthonians, the ones long gone before Protector's people arrived. They looked human. Is that why you're so obsessed with the humans? Because they look like what you were made from?"
"No."
"Then..." Vessae's eyes go wide. "Oh gods. The Maker thought you were...It makes sense. It definitely makes sense now."
She stamps her foot. The gun flies up into her hand and she flicks a switch on the side. "But it's lovely talking with you, but I have to go." She smiles, baring gold teeth. "Let's have tea sometime. Essence Shield Generator, go!"
A flash of gold, followed by a flash of green. The expanding sphere of plasma vaporizes the drones, the puppet, and the giants, leaving a void beneath which leads straight out to space. A golden figure falls through it, her protective bubble flickering and dissipating as she drops out of the ship. And there is a flicker of movement as a red, arrowhead shaped ship catches her, before disappearing in a burst of motion.
One of the remaining drones glows. It rights itself, the other drones in the open room turning their attention to it as a forcefield seals off space from them.
"Continue on course to Eden Prime. Prepare the humans for Ascension. And prepare to retrieve the other Solar Exaltations."
The light in the puppet's eyes flicker, and it collapses into ash.
...
Eyes dart from side to side. The room, which is not on the Tonbay but on the Moreh, is a sphere with a cross shaped walkway at the center leading to the cylinder mounted at the center. There is chipped paint, burn marks, and fresh soldering on the walls. This, Tali believes, is not up to safety standards.
"Excuse me. Admiral Xen?" The woman at the cylinder raises a hand with her shorter finger extended. Ah, yes, Tali thinks. The I am busy preparing the science signal. "Admiral Xen, shouldn't we be at the meeting?"
Lights inside the cylinder flicker and glow. The sphere, which Tali has come to believe is at the center of the Moreh, if only to prevent all the science from escaping, hums. Looking down, she sees plates shifting. Looking up, she sees a holographic sphere flicker to life. Behind Tali, Wuffles extends his petals and takes a step back.
"Yes. Yes, of course." A flash across her visor, removing the grease and lubricant as she stands up and faces Tali. "I am sure Admiral Han'Gerrel and Admiral Zaal'Koris are either arguing, fighting, or savagely making out over the prospect of returning to the Homeworld, even if Gerrel's fantastic erection is deflating over not being allowed to carve his way there on a river of blood and dead synthetics."
Tali tilts her head. The words Uncle Han and Fantastic EreHGGRL flash in her mind. Wuffles simply takes another step back. "Meanwhile," Daro'Xen vas Moreh continues, rummaging underneath the cylinder, "I am neither a diplomat, nor military leader, nor leader of people nor civilian leader nor Captain nor parent nor crewmanwoman."
Tali blinks. That was horrible grammar. But it was a sentence, she thinks. "Then...what are you?"
Daro'Xen rises. Her omnitool flickers, her eyes wide, white globes beneath her mask, and in her hands she holds two wires, with red and black clamps on either end. Jumper cables, Tali believes. "I am a scientist."
The jumper cables drop. Tali and Wuffles take a step back. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, they're not live." Turning back to the cylinder, she folds her arms, puffs her chest, and stares at the evenly distributed array of tools, implements, items and devices on the desk encircling the capsule. "I...wonder..."
She walks around the desk, picking up items. Something resembling a blowtorch. Something like a solder, or a whisk, or a tube filled with something white and sticky. It is here that Tali comes to a realization.
Daro'Xen is not just crazy, but she's crazy in a very bad wrong sort of way.
It's the way she walks, lazily swinging her hips. Like how Tali does when she's in the market for a boyfriend, but more lazy, more twitchy. Equal parts that Xen is both trying to attract attention and trying to work something out of her ass. The way she twitches, the way she shifts her attention. Her voice, which is is accented and slow and probing, which she's sure works for a lot of people. Combine that with her being quarian, and therefor someone who is in good shape by necessity of the encounter suit, and this is a woman who must have a long list of suitors.
Which she then experiments on.
"Ah hm. Yes. Yesss." She drops the drone, the blue and orange sphere rolling away and turns to Tali. "Geth. Wuffles, is it? Enter the cylinder."
Wuffles extends his petals. His eye shifts, from Tali to Xen to the cylinder. "Creator Daro'Xen, this platform is not available for experimentation."
"Marvelous machine." A brow cocks underneath Xen's helmet. "It even has opinions. Still, I am a Creator. Do the Geth not obey the Creators?"
"No."
"Damn." Her hand darts out, pulling a device from the desk. On first glance, Tali believes it is a gun, but no. Not from the way the tongs spark. No, this is not a lethal weapon. "Oh, relax, Tali'Zorah, this is modified to interfere with the joint motors of a synthetic, although it may tingle if I hit you."
Yes, Tali thinks. This is an Admiral with a stungun trying to accost a Geth. Her life has gotten odder now that she has been temporarily separated from the spastic craftmaker god.
"We apologize, Creator Daro'Xen, but you leave us no choice."
Accessing Firewalls: Subject: Daro'Xen vas Moreh nar Pyrilit. Firewalls bypassed. Accessing Nerve Stim Pro Deluxe Edition. Setting: Gethinator. Intensity: Maximum.
The light on Wuffles' eye flashes. Something inside Xen's encounter suit shifts, and she...
purrs.
"Oh my. Perhaps this platform is available for experimentation." She continues her advance unabated, unhindered. "You have such a marvelous idea for foreplay." She rolls her shoulders, rubbing her knees together. Petals extend around Wuffles' head, locking in place. That should not have happened. That was considerably more powerful than what he laid out Prazza with.
Pursing her lips underneath her helmet, Tali spreads her arms and stands between the Admiral and the Geth. A door opens on one side of the sphere, allowing a young quarian male to walk in, his encounter suit silver and purple, holding a PDA in one hand and a bag in the other. He walks across the walkway, depositing the bag on the desk and turns to the Admiral, before glancing at Tali and the geth platform.
Their eyes meet for a moment. Tali, underneath her helmet, mouths a soft "Help me." But, alas, the crewman only nods. "Admiral," he says, and walks out.
"This isn't difficult!" Xen stabs at the platform with the stungun, hitting air as Wuffles bobs from side to side. "I just wish to perform experiments! For the good of science!"
"Creator Tali'Zorah, this platform requires assistance!"
"I am assisting! For the good of science!" She grabs Tali by the shoulder, pushing up against her and stabbing at the air as Wuffles bends backwards. "I do not understand why you are so cross to this idea. I have no desire to dissect you, reprogram you, hack your programs steal your runtimes or run invasive data surgery!"
The door on the far side of the catwalk opens. Glancing at the door, Tali sees Kal'Reegar staring. Glancing downwards, Tali confirms, that, yes, Xen is more or less grinding against her. Tali, in response, only shrugs. "We appreciate the curiosity of the Creators." Wuffles bobs to the side, avoiding the stungun. "We also appreciate that you are not attempting to physically harm this platform. However, we must observe that this in inappropriate for two reasons."
Xen holds up the stungun, finger moving off the trigger. "Yes?"
"First, we are an ambassador for the Geth. It is considered bad form to attempt to perform experiments on ambassadors or diplomatic staff. Precedent has been set that attempts to perform invasive experiments leads to loss of diplomatic standing. Re: Krogan/Salarian diplomatic incidents prior to Krogan Rebellions."
Xen nods, still pressed up against Tali. Reegar tilts his head, takes a step back, and closes the door. "Yes. You have a valid point. Your other reason?"
"We are in a relationship."
The stungun drops to the floor. So does Tali as Xen steps back, clapping her hands together. "Yes! I must know how that happens." Kicking the stungun off her foot, she drags her numbed leg behind her and limps to the desk. "I have never known two non-similar entirely different systemic AIs to enter relationships. Is the second AI a consensus based one? Blue box? Black box? Fork?"
"I would believe the term would be kitbashed Blue Box AI combined with Fork-Consensus hybrid programming code."
Tali blinks. Wuffles extends his petals. And Daro'Xen turns to find her combat drone now floating in front of it, its central eye a ball of roiling lightning and its shields now glowing orange.
"Hello! You must be a SCIENTIST. Would you like to learn how to create life whole cloth and possibly convert other people into sentient spirits which can POWER ENTIRE SHIPS?!"
Daro'Xen claps her hands together. Underneath her mask, she smiles. And then the door opens, Han'Gerrel enters, and everything goes completely to shit. "Xen, we need to get to the Tonbay, right now."
...
The black gloved hand grabs his wrist, and there is motion. The brass walls give way to motion and light, and when the confusion clears, Jack Harper finds himself in another part of the vast, vast city. "What was that?"
Mister Sunshine smiles. It is not a genuine smile. "The noise was dying down. You don't want to be in the quiet parts of the city."
Jack Harper, once the Illusive Man, blinks. Something...feels why that is the truth and it isn't. But he can't place it, can't define it. Everything here is real, but not real. Like he is here, but he isn't here at the same time.
"Very good," Mister Sunshine says, smiling, "You see, that's the first part. We can't just drag you down to our personal Hell. But we can craft one inside yours."
"I don't." The green sun illuminates the world. For some reason, it also makes him feel vaguely ill. "So this is a metaphor? A psychological construction."
Sunshine nods. Squeezing Jack's shoulder, he smiles, leaning in. "Good. You figured it out fast. Everything here is metaphor."
"And then what are you?"
Sunshine smiles. "Let me break it down for you, then."
And the scene shifts. It becomes motion and light and blurs and sounds. The noise becomes deafening, raucous, painful...
And then becomes soft muzak. Steady beats and light singing, violins and trumpets. Jack Harper opens his eyes and finds himself in a white hallway, soft lights illuminating the brass tiles beneath his feet. He glances to either side and realizes that, yes, he is alone. Mister Sunshine is nowhere to be seen.
Cautiously, he begins walking. The music dims to whispers, and he hears the footsteps behind him, turning and stepping to the side as someone runs past. He catches a glimpse of the dark hair cut short, of the pearl white teeth caught in a perpetual smile before she disappears around the corner.
He continues walking, towards the only door on the hallway. All the other doors are mere outlines, but this one is open. This one is ajar, but he can't help but notice is only swings in. There is a bar on the floor, keeping it from swinging out. The muzak resumes as he pushes it open, and is greeted by louder music, louder drums and harps.
He sees people milling about, walking about. Some sitting in chairs and benches. Some with their arms pinned behind them by straight jackets. Walking in, he finds himself standing in front of a girl sitting on the floor, carefully arranging marbles in front of her in elaborate circular shapes. Looking up, she silently glares at him, before leaning in and shifting a marble to the side.
"Oh, don't mind her. Obsessive compulsive, your term would be." Harper glances to the side, walking past the girl as she continues her arrangements. He passes the man with the arms in splints, his broken limbs wrapped around him. He passes the man lying on the couch in the stupor, tied to the pillows and plugs in his ears.
He stops at a large, plush easy chair, and sees a man reading a bridal magazine, with a pile of discarded magazines at his feet. A cursory glance at the books and reading material does bring up an oddity. The women on the covers all have red hair.
"Is this an asylum?"
Mister Sunshine closes the magazine and smiles. "Saint Cytheria's Institute for Disturbed Individuals." He smiles with yellow teeth. "Oh, don't give me that look. I'm not locked up here with them, they're locked up in here with me. Let me introduce you around."
...
"You have succeeded, Commander?" The four eyes of the priest blink. Standing in the honeycomb of the bunker, they hear the pounding from outside. Soldiers and their charges gather, children climbing on the shoulders of fathers to see him. "Yes. Of course you have, for you are alive."
The elder walks forward, the thick robes flowing around him as he touches the brow. He closes his eyes, and the memory passes between them, experience exchanged on chemical flows. "You have claimed the Exaltation?"
"Of the Dawn," he responds, "I have killed the God Emperor Athame. I lead the Matriarchs he had enslaved and let them break his soul. I then took the Exlation from him and sealed it, with the other." His hand closes into a fist. "The Emperor, who betrayed us and abandoned us to the Reapers, is dead."
Whispers from the crowd, murmurs. "Yes." The priest lays a hand on his bare shoulder. "The Citadel is lost. We can go to Feros, then, for your coronation."
"Coronation?"
"The Solar Exalted have been our rulers. It is tradition and history. You are more than the Commander. You are the Lawgiver and Dawn of the Empire. You will rule us and guide us-"
His hand swipes away the priest's. Silence hushes the crowd. Hundreds of his fellows; soldiers, innocents, children. All of them waiting on his word.
"I will not be Emperor."
Silence. A hush falls over them, all of them. "Lawgiver, the people have prayed for-"
"I pray to no one." His voice is ice, a sharpened blade. The disc glows upon his brow. "Nor will I be prayed to. I have seen the depravities Athame inflicted upon the Asari. I will not inflict those upon our people."
Sweeping the priest aside, he walks. They part for him like the sea in the miracles of old. "I will lead our people as Athame should have. From the front lines, from the battlefield, and facing the Reapers. I will not run from them as he did."
...
Memories. Times of old. Before the end.
Decades of war. Leading them against the impossible. Falling back and back. Loss after loss.
He was left in the end. Only he. But he did what he could. Only what he could.
And deep beneath the world, a brow twitches. He can hear. Hear that he is being called.
Once more.
...
The Exodus cluster. The great bastion of human colonization, this star cluster is one of the first that the humans claimed. Their two largest colonies sit in this reach of space. Terra Nova, orbiting the star Asgard, and Eden Prime, orbiting Utopia.
Since the Geth attack almost a year ago and the batarian terrorist attack on Terra Nova shortly after, the Systems Alliance has taken steps to ensure the safety of their largest colonies. In orbit of Eden Prime, the Fourth Fleet, Seventh Flotilla goes through tactical maneuvers. Seven cruisers, one carrier, fifteen Hastings-class frigates in all.
Thousands of soldiers patrol the space around Eden Prime, ensuring the safety of the millions below.
The first sign was when the clouds shifted, edging upwards. The first sign was when Eden Prime wobbled.
Then there is red lightning and a flash of motion as space bends, folds, and submits to the will. A Mass Relay appears in orbit of Eden Prime, half the size of the planet's primary moon. Red lights run over the ancient structure as space folds around it, releasing the Collector ship within the firing range of the Alliance Fleet.
Weapons train on the ship. Fearsome as it is, the massive, cylindrical ship is no match for the alliance flotilla. Which is why it is not alone.
Before they see them, they hear them. Deck plates on the alliance ships rattle from the horrible bass roar. A sound which shakes the ships. A sound which shakes the souls. A low, steady pulse which makes ears bleed and eyes water, somehow transmitted through empty space, giving them only time to know what has come before the crimson beams slice through the ships.
The carrier explodes, frigates shattering in mid turn as the Sovereign-class dreadnought flies through them. The second dreadnought behind it idly fires upon the remains of the fleet as it escorts the Collector ship towards the world.
There is a pulse, a flash, and the mass relay glows gold.
"Prepare the humans for Ascension. Secure the Solar Exaltations. Releasing control."
The mass relay glows red once more. There is a flash of motion and a pulse of light, and Perfect Defender of Reposition is gone. And the Reapers descend upon Eden Prime.
...
They swarm. Millions, billions of them. Small specks of darkness. On closer inspection, they are insects, carried along not by wings but by the blue bubbles around them, and they swarm through the air, over the screaming humans, over the Collectors as they disembark from the black tower now at the outskirt settlement on the edges of Eden Prime.
And Vessae sees them. She sees the shadow racing towards her. Feels the chill in the air as the flittering wings and screams fill her ears. Running, she ducks, hands over head head as her shield forms into a bubble around her. And there is a flash of light as the air ignites as if struck by flint, and her shuttle explodes.
The generator goes critical and becomes a ball of swirling plasma. Grass, ground, concrete. All of it vaporizes in a single glorious moment, which also fills the air with the sound of a thunder crack.
Diving into the crater, she spots it. A half buried pillar flowing with emerald light that moves like water. She feels weight against her as she walks to it, her strength, her speed, her will evaporating as she sees the memories, the horrible things done to them by the Reapers. She sees the Harvest. The Extermination. The Fall.
The glories of a long dead empire. The propaganda of a dying people desiring remembrance and celebration. They do not stir her. She remembers the ugly side, the conquest and imperialism. She walks, heavy footsteps over glassed soul, towards the Beacon.
"Please!" she shouts, "We need you!"
Pulsing light expands out from the beacon. A corona of emerald that flows into a circle, a mandala of hundreds of petals and points. The beacon explodes but does not shatter. The parts and plates hover around the centerpiece, the core. A sphere of gold and emerald that hovers in a web of golden light, flying from the dead beacon and into Vessae's hand.
"Assuming Direct Control."
She turns. The golden collector is flanked by dozens, hundreds of his comrades. She sees humans, some in their coffins, some frozen on the ground with the swarming insects around them, some held by the Collectors themselves. The golden puppet, avatar of the first of the Reapers, extends a hand.
"As we believed. Your people locked away the Solar Exaltations before they were gifted with ascension." Four glowing eyes narrow. "Join us. You will be the core of a great Dreadnought. You have already shown strength of will."
She has lost count of the enemies before her. Her gun is gone. Her shuttle is gone. Unlike others of her caste, she has never focused on combat, or survival. Most of her combat systems are, at best, crutches for her.
But Vessae, Purposeful Librarian Pursuer, has one thing on her side above all others.
Knowledge.
And there is a sound of shattering crystal and breaking glass, accompanied by a thunderclap and a wave of force which knocks them to the ground, save for the puppet of the Harbinger. As the light clears, they all see it. The emerald shape hovering above Vessae. Shifting and forming and pulsing with power.
"I need time," Vessae whispers.
And though it cannot be swayed, cannot be ordered, it can be beseeched. It moves faster than motion. Faster than sound. Faster than the trained eyes of Harbinger's servants can track it. But it moves, and it is gone. And in the midst of the Collectors, a mass of the swarming insects burn with golden light, and a man opens his eyes.
...
Once, there was weight, and cold. Kaleb was frozen, but conscious. It was stupid, being caught here. But he led them away, at least. He remembers running. Running from the bunker everyone else is in, where he had them hide while he lead them away. It was the stupidest thing he's ever done, he thinks.
Well, not the stupidest. Possibly the bravest. Somewhere between hiding everyone from these monsters, and trying to hack them with his omnitool when he figured out they were wrong somehow and might be some sort of cyborg, the swarms hit him.
But now there is no weight. There is no cold.
There is only the Sun shining down upon him.
But it is warmer than the Sun of Earth. Warmer than the sun of Eden Prime. It is warmer than any sun, because he knows;
This is his Sun.
Within you I see a light which shines as bright as my own,
And I am humbled.
Your life has being heroic.
Your life has been wondrous.
And now, your life becomes something more.
Arise, my child, for your glory is at hand.
You are the sword, the shield, and the burning hand. Your trials shall overcome all others, but not you.
For you have been Chosen.
And upon his brow, does the golden disc form at the center of the ring.
...
They fought. On fields and beaches, on asteroids and moons. Across the galaxy, they fought. Across the galaxy, he fought. He drove them from fringe worlds and lost the core worlds. He lost ground to them with every battle while piling their servants like cordwood.
He watched the Empire die. It was already dying, even before he was chosen. But he watched the end, watched the death.
He watched the Reapers drag the moon down upon Tylirel. He watched the last transmission.
"LAWGIVER!"
A voice. Like hers. Strong and soft. So much like...
"WE NEED YOU!"
...
There is a flash of golden light, pure as the rays of the sun, and the Collectors go flying. They explode upward and outward from the ground, some flailing about and some going limp. It is neither force nor explosive which sends them flying, but pure, raw power.
Power overwhelming. Power supreme.
A young man with dark skin and blue eyes rises up, and the hollow sun blazes upon his forehead.
A flash and he moves, a blur of motion cutting through drones, Scions, constructs and swarms, clearing a path as the freed colonists fleet. A flash of his fists meeting the chest of the Harbinger avatar, and the possessed drone crumbles to dust.
And behind him, a fallen drone rises, glowing gold, and swings his fist. Kaleb's head rolls to the ground as his body crumbles, and the emerald shard flies out, through the avatar, through the lines of Collectors, and into a young woman as she piles her fellow colonists into a shuttle.
Her forehead shines with the hollow ring of the golden sun, and she opens her mouth to speak. She speaks in dead languages, holding her hands out. The mass of Collectors pause, weapons drawn. And they turn, opening fire on the avatar of Harbinger, reducing it to ash.
The shuttle lifts off as the Collectors fight and claw and shoot amongst themselves, the ancient words from the Solar stirring something within them- something from what they were. She watches them, turning to the departing shuttle, relief in her chest as she watches them speed off to safety.
And then there is the sound. The terrible base that makes her look up, and stare into the glowing red eye of the descending Reaper before the blast of red light vaporizes her where she stands.
...
There is a flash of gold in the distance, and a pillar of sunlight which reaches into the heavens. Vessae sees it as she runs. All this is, is distraction. All this will do is buy her time.
"Lawgiver!" she shouts, "We need you!"
...
He returned to Feros, the birthplace of his people. He descended to the base of the towers and fought their predators, the great Thoughtgods and Vine Tyrants who feasted upon his people when they were young. He stood in the mausoleum of the Solar Emperors from before they claimed the stars and took in their wisdom.
He fought in the corona of dying stars.
He watched his people die.
He saw the black holes at the center of the galaxy and sailed nebula upon the open bows of great ships.
He watched his people die.
He fought this war
for nearly
one hundred
years.
And when he held the hand of the last Prothean soldier as he passed beyond the light of the stars, did he complete his task. He sealed away the shards of the Zenith and the Eclipse, and then sealed himself.
"They're dying! You need to wake up!"
He had fought war for longer than a lifetime. His first memories were of a world burning. Everything he remembers, is death and destruction. A smile on a soldier's lips followed by the hollow look on his eyes when death takes him. Long days with her, followed by the cold static.
"I know you are there! The Reapers are coming!"
There was only war. Only war and the inescapable, implacable enemy.
"They can be stopped! We've cut off the Citadel!"
Again the voice. So much like her. But there is panic now. Fear. Loss. She was...whole...until the end. Until the moon carved its way into their world.
...
The golden fist slams into her chest and sends her bouncing across the farm. In the distance, she sees another golden pillar rising. Seconds later, she sees yet another. Vessae coughs out golden ichor, gripping the grass in her hands as she rises to one knee, looking up at the golden Collector before her, more of its fellows flanking it.
"You have failed." It hovers, floating towards her. "The Eclipse has done nothing but cost the lives of the humans you hoped to save. These humans will be given ascension. And you will be given nothing but oblivion."
Another golden pillar in the distance. All it did was buy her time. And not enough time.
"You will be stopped," she breathes, "Eventually. This cycle or the next. The galaxy will stop you. Deus will stop you."
The golden eyes narrow on the avatar. Whether it is amused or perplex, she doesn't know. She doesn't know why it doesn't respond, or speak of how glorious the ascension is. All it does is stare. And then raise its fist, gathering the golden light upon its fingertips for the killing blow.
...
And three fingered hands ball into fists.
You are needed.
A heartbeat in the darkness.
You are needed.
The brow twitches, heavy with years. Beneath the lids, eyes twitch for the first time in ages.
Your war is not over. You are needed.
...
And beneath Vessae's hands, the ground shakes and shifts. Harbinger's footing gives as the ground moves, as the Collectors whirl about in confusion and even the Reaper in the distance gives pause. The wind goes still and then turns into a spiral, forcing clouds to part and the sun to shine down upon the open field of slaughter.
The sun shines down. It flows across the land. It flows across the world, sunlight in waves like liquid gold. Like torrents of light it flows through the sky in great thick ribbons, a wave of light bright and large enough to be seen from orbit, washing over the panicking people, over the Collectors and the Reaper.
And flowing into the spot where Vessae stands. Her eyes go wide and she leaps, as the ground where she stood cracks and glows white. A great silver mandala of spheres forms as Harbinger takes a step back, rumbling with enough force to make the Collectors and the Reaper takes a step back.
And the ground explodes.
It rises as it shatters, sending miles of earth into the sky. Not flying, but the soil was floating in the air, held aloft by the white light.
Beneath them, miles beneath the surface of Eden Prime, the honeycomb tomb glows with flowing sunlight.
And above them, the white light becomes a golden pillar that stretches into space. It forms as an outline, then becomes solid. A circle of gold and red and green, shifting into a more and more elaborate halo at the center of the beam.
And the only thing louder than the roar of the light and the wind and the flowing sunlight is the roar of rage from the figure suspended within it.
There is a blur of motion. It comes from the beam as it fades, darting across floating soul before landing in front of Harbinger. Four eyes glow gold upon the gray face. His armor is sleek and red, the poltroons and shoulder fins traded for leather jerkins and light mail.
Liquid gold flows over his face and the seams of his armor. The golden disk forms a ring on his brow, flanked by rays of sunlight.
It is Harbinger who makes the first move. Its fist strikes out, the stored power with which it would slay the alchemical brought to bear on the one before it. The Prothean, however, simply catches the fist.
The hand clenches, and the avatar's arm shatters. He strikes, and his fist goes through the golden collector's chest and out the other side. Ash falls around him. His golden eyes narrow.
"I am Javik." His fists clench. His knuckles crack loud enough to be heard by the staring orichalcum. "And I am the Dawn."
...
The host has fallen, to mass firepower and the weapons of the Reapers. It expands its self across Eden Prime, across this entire verdant world, searching for one worthy of the power, worthy of the heroism that it represents. But it finds nothing. There is none here that are worthy to hold it. But on the periphery, it does sense someone.
Not on this world. But it sees a shining light that shines brighter than the distant star it orbits. A shining beacon of hope, heroism, and will.
And with that, the Exaltation shard of the Eclipse rises. Its form shifts between physical and spiritual, and the air around it ignites as it rises through cloud and rain, through debris and atmosphere. It takes mere seconds to leave the world, to achieve orbit and break free of such trivial things as gravity.
The heat of space cannot warm it. The stellar wind cannot hurt it. It is timeless, and endless. Should all the universe fade away, it will still exist with its brethren, a twinkle in the nothingness.
And then there is the sound. The horn of the abomination that flies towards it. The voice of Harbinger booming that it must be taken.
But it cannot. For it is the Exaltation, catalyzed in the full power of perfection incarnate. It cannot be moved, it cannot be ordered, and it certainly cannot be taken against its will.
The Reaper is named Pale Litany of Dirge. The Exaltation takes in its name, takes in its purpose. But it does not stop. The invincible shard meets the god-ship.
And the Exaltation drives right through the Sovereign. Through the glowing eye of its main gun, driving through the guts and oblivioncancer and structure and core, bursting out the other side. Dirge is given but a moment to realize what has happened, and allows itself to laugh before it shatters.
The Exaltation continues on its way.
...
The Collectors open fire. Javik moves. His hands whip through the air, and the bullets stop, turn, and fly back, painting the ground with blood and chitin as he makes his slow advance. The weapons of mere mortals may not harm the Lawgiver. To fire upon them is blasphemy and shall be treated as such.
Across Eden Prime, the Collectors look up from their work. Frozen humans are left where they lay. Coffins and containers are left empty. A new, overriding directive fills their minds.
Secure the Solar Exalted.
The skies fill with them. Buzzing, clacking, clicking sounds fill the air, as the seals upon the black stone tower of the Collector ship open to unveil the full brunt of their forces. Great insects the size of shuttles, walking abominations and armies of husks pile through, charging across the verdant fields of Eden Prime and ignoring the huddling, hiding, and prone.
All of them rushing towards the four eyed figure standing before the crater.
A burst of steam from his flat nostrils. His hands clench into fists, and Javik begins to walk. The sun blazes upon his brow and he begins his march, bare feet crashing earth beneath him. The twitch on his brow, the flare of his nostrils, the tensing of his muscles, all are mere signs. But as the Collectors descend on him, they only see what is obvious.
A Praetor lands in front of him, squating on six legs and opening fire with beams of concentrated force. He catches it in his hand and buries his arm to the shoulder in its chest, pulling out the black sphere of its heart and wading through the explosion.
The army descends upon him.
But all who stand against the Lawgiver are doomed to failure.
They assemble. They charge. Javik extends his hand and the sunlight gathers on his palm. It takes shape and takes form, and becomes something large, and long, and round. The gun in his hand primes, called forth from the nothing, and Javik smiles.
Drones go flying by the hundreds. Husks die by the thousands. At the center, for those who are brave enough to stare through the bursts of plasma and the pillar of sunlight, they can see the figure at the center as he fights an entire army and wins.
He is not poetic. His combat is not beautiful or graceful. Instead, from on high, he could be seen as a golden bull charging through their lines, emptying their numbers with fists and firepower, charging through the black mass and towards the black, insectoid tower looming on high.
Javik roars. He roars with rage, with pain, with fifty thousand years of hate towards this great foe. Masterful Harrier of the Weak roars in response, braces its great legs upon the earth, and lets fly the beam. It carves through the numbers of the Collectors. It burns the fields of Eden Prime. It strikes the Exalted.
There is a scream. Collectors burn. The Praetors and Scions explode. The ground around the Prothean bursts into flame and melts into glass, and he is thrown backwards, screaming as the air around him catches fire.
The prothean bounces, bones breaking and setting, rolling to a stop as he lays still. Another blast of the horn, and the red light strikes again. The ground ignites, turning to dust and carried along by the force, and he screams as it hits. Fingers dig into the earth, dragging channels along it as he is pushed back, past the huddling Vessae, past his old tomb.
He rises to his feet, his skin smoldering and his mouth dripping with liquid metal. He slowly rises and falls to one knee, looking up at the sound of the horn. The low, bass roar of the old enemy. The massive tower that is his foe.
The horn sounds. The terrible sound that haunts his dreams. His worlds burning. His people dying. The timeless struggle. The inevitable loss.
"They're leaving! The Reapers are exiting the atmosphere! It looks like they're entering a formation around the main-"
His people knew the Exaltation better than most. They knew the great, overwhelming power. But they also knew the terrible price it held. They knew that there were limits. That there were inevitabilities.
The sound that comes from Javik's throat is not human, not animal. But something deeper. Something baser. Something coming from the pit of his soul as the red begins to fleck in at the corners of his golden eyes. The sun burns upon his brow, and he stands to stare at the Sovereign as it flashes its weapon once more and opens fire.
And the beam washes off Javik's bare hand as he roars. Liquid metal splashes the air and ground around him. Collectors shriek as the weapon of their master strikes them, but the Dawn does not falter. Fist extended, his fingers burn, his eyes watering and clothes burning as he drives one foot in front of the other.
The steady beam pulses, becoming an advancing wall of liquid metal. Both hands in front of him, the pain becomes an afterthought as the metal burns his flesh. He inhales the scent of the Collectors as they burst into flame around them. He roars as he charges, faster and faster with each step.
The red mist before him is the same color as the red of his eyes. His fingers curl into fists and he charges. Bare knuckles meet the beam, sending bursts of red into the retreating armies of the Collectors. They run on instinct. They realize, deep down, this is no longer their battle.
The horn echoes in time with the roar of the Lawgiver. The beam cuts out and Javik charges, arms behind him, his leather jerkin burning off his back. He moves faster than any mortal. He crosses the kilometers in seconds.
Six of its legs slam into the ground, hard enough to send a tremor for miles. Its main leg, its center leg, rises. Blue light runs up it, illuminating the seams as it brings it down. The air around the leg ignites. The wind shrieks as it descends.
Javik skids to a stop. Golden and red eyes stare at the descending leg, and he braces, slamming his feet on the ground to the sound of his shoes bursting. A halo of gold and ruby bursts into existence behind him, as do four arms of liquid sunlight.
Three fists meet the descending arm of the Reaper. Two of them splash, the third breaking, bending unnaturally before snapping back into place.
Three more fists collide with the black arm of the machine god. The hands of sunlight break into golden petals. The fist compresses upon itself like a sponge, but he does not falter. The ground beneath him turns to powder as the Reaper leans upon him. The spray of liquid metal over his skin shatters. His feet disappear into the soil. The Reaper roars.
But none may stand against the Lawgiver. It is this truth that is made manifest to the Reaper as its leg rises, cracks, and finally shatters. The roar of the Reaper warbles as it rises. Legs go limp and begin to fold against its body as it rises into the air.
But it is too late.
For it sees the blurred form as it leaps from the ground. He rises faster than the Reaper, higher than him. The millennial old, supremely advanced optics of the Harrier train upon the prothean as he descends, golden disk on his brow and chambered hand pulsing with sunlight. In that moment, the horn gives way to coherent voice.
"No!"
The main eye of the dreadnought flashes and fires, but all it connects with are the bare fists of the Dawn. He flies, fist first, into the Reaper. The Reaper shakes, shudders. Another impact, which echoes with a warbling horn, and then another. It echoes through the sky like a lightning storm. The Reaper spasms, as do the remaining Collectors below, grabbing their heads as they hear the death scream of their god.
The tentacles of the Reaper convulse and shake, bending and spasming outwards, flickers of red running along its weapons and its frame. The central eye flickers, pulses, and rolls back into its bulk.
There is a roar. It is like the horn of the Reaper, but warbling, weak, and high pitched. As the Collectors pitch forward and drop dead, and as the Collector ship itself falls silent, Vessae looks up and realizes what it is.
The death cry of a Sovereign. A plea, for mercy.
But the thunders cease as Javik bursts through the other side, descending fist first to the ground and landing in a crouch. Turning, looking skyward, he allows himself a brief smile as he watches the Reaper shatter, raining debris down upon Eden Prime.
Slowly, he begins to walk, back towards what was his tomb, and towards the golden alchemical. The red mist of the evaporating metal wafts off bare shoulders. His tunic is gone, showing the numerous scars, the thousands of what appear to be grains of sands falling out of his flesh. Pausing he looks down. Seizing his forearm, he sets the bone and continues.
Humans, the inhabitants of this world, watch him. Their stasis undone, their freedom returned to them, there are dozens, hundreds, thousands watching him as he makes his march towards Vessae.
"You are Prothean," he says. His voice is steady, but like rocks grinding.
She nods. "I was sent to find you. The Reapers are returning."
He nods. "Of course they are." He turns, staring at his tomb. Then turns to see the assembled humans. "This war never ends. But I will need any army." Nostrils flare. Eyes narrow. "We will start here."
...
The black gloved hands come down on the shoulders of the tanned man sitting in the large chair. "Him? Well, he's the boss. Until he wasn't the boss, and that pissed him off. Never get on his bad side, but he's got a wonderful sense of rhythm." Mister Sunshine smiles, showing yellow teeth. "We all do. We're monsters, but we're refined."
He sashays past the throned lunatic, past the sleeping, bound man and to the others. Jack follows. Odd, he thinks. He thinks of himself as Jack, now. Not as Illusive Man. How long has it been since he referred to himself by his given name?
"This isn't an asylum, is it?"
Sunshine's arm wraps around his shoulder. He could have sworn he was in front of him. "Of course it isn't. What do you call a lie with which you tell the truth with, by wrapping it with symbols and double meanings?"
Jack arches an eyebrow. They pass a young woman surrounded by a cloud of smoke and open pill bottles. "A metaphor."
The smile again, showing yellow teeth. "Oh I like you."
A pat on the back. They move past others, past a leathery pillow fort and past a woman staring, checking off a list of rules.
Again, Jack finds himself standing in front of the young woman, arranging marbles in a geometric pattern. "A metaphor, if you will." Sunshine circles her. She glares at him, moving her marbles. "Observe this young girl here. She is like you and I. She has goals. Ambitions. Lusts. Especially unclean ones."
He nudges a marble. She smacks away his hand and fixes it. "Orderly. Obsessive Compulsive, you would say. But like all of us, she wears the mask of sanity and complacency. At least, until we were exiled from our home." The yellow teeth flash. "We never counted how many people she killed in her blind rage."
Jack's eyes narrow. He circles the girl, taking care not to step on her marbles. "This isn't an asylum. You're not people. You're not inmates."
"Yes. Yes. No." The black hands come down on Jack's shoulders. Sunshine smiles, sucks breath through his teeth. "Jack. Jaaaaaack. We're monstrous. We're monsters. But we're also wronged."
He nods towards the window and observation room. "Our jailers. The alcoholic overachiever. The sexual deviant. The sisters who are slaves to their work. And of course, the ones who betrayed us, too. We were betrayed by our..." He sucks his teeth. "Kin."
"Kin?"
"Oh, two of them." Yellow eyes roll. "I can't blame her, of course. We made something for her to fall in love with and we made it too well. But let me tell you, Jack, of our old, old, crippled brother. Who could make anything." The eyes narrow. "Save for a fucking spine to make his life bearable."
The arm reaches around his shoulder. Sunshine shakes his head. "We were betrayed. Castrated. Mutilated. And imprisoned. And in return for power overwhelming. For great might beyond the station of mere mortals, all we ask is that you work to free us."
Sunshine examines his fingers. He cocks an eyebrow. "My offer, of course. I will give you power, wisdom, and a...assistant that will aid you. Especially as you try to drive the knife into the back of my spherical kin."
Jack nods. "Deal." He takes Sunshine's hand, shaking it as the yellow eyed man smiles.
"Jaaaaack." He smiles wider. "We're going to get along-"
...
The ward disappears. Sunshine disappears. Jack Harper finds himself in the darkness, alone, with his hand extended.
And then, in front of him, two eyes, glowing yellow with cat like slits, and far, far larger than him open.
"Beautifully."