Equilibrium: Crusader

by RedCenturionG

Shepard just wants to retire and live a happy life with the person he loves: he feels that he's earned that. But the galaxy is not done with him yet, and the new threat on the horizon comes from an unlikely source: Shepard himself.

10. Chapter 9: Stairway to Heaven

"We are looking for value, guidance, advice, inspiration; for someone to show us the way. When we find him, he is our hero." - Bangambiki Habyarimana.

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El'Tivv, Rannoch - January 17, 2188 - Four and a half hours after Ghethar's murder.

Conrad had never visited Rannoch before now. He probably still wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for the will of the Good Samaritan.

No...the will of the Crusader. The Samaritan was merely a conduit for the Crusader's wishes. An intermediary gifted with the powers and carte blanche to act as they see fit in the name of the Crusader, where his absence prohibits him from being able to make those same decisions himself. The Samaritan was just the middle man. The bridge connecting two people. The Crusader was their true leader.

In truth, Conrad was still finding it difficult to forfeit his problems with the Good Samaritan. The man, while not much of a braggart or investing much in the likes of pride, still had a dignity about him, and to have his entire organization, the one he had worked tirelessly to build and maintain, swept out from under his feet was a major setback. Conrad had found himself back at square one, right where he began: an admiration for his idol, his role model, and nobody to share it with. Except maybe Jenna.

If Conrad had to point out a specific time and place for when his adoration, exaltation and near-pious reverence for the galaxy's most famous commander had begun...it was probably the day he had gotten back from the completion of his last university examination. He had, for all intents and purposes, graduated from the University of Terra Nova, having finally, after years of painstaking research and staunch dedication to study, had completed his Xenotechnology degree, having submitted a doctoral dissertation on dark energy integration that left his professors stumped. He had been sitting down in his lounge room when his wife turned on the news...and there it was. Elysium had been attacked, raided by batarian slavers looking for glory and riches, only to carry the bitter taste of defeat in their mouths as one soldier, one human, single-handedly defeated their invasion force. Conrad remembered how the battle had taken the galaxy by storm: after all, it seemed like something out of fantasy. A single man taking on an army of ten thousand and coming out covered in blood but very much alive and triumphant? Not even the best of the best of special forces were thought to be capable of such a feat. Yet Commander Shepard had done it, and had humanity had grabbed the galaxy's attention because of it.

How could Conrad not admire him? He was humanity's hero...a man of principle, a skilled warrior, an accomplished professional in the art of diplomacy, and more so than anything else, a miracle worker. There had been something special about him from day one: Conrad knew it, and when Saren Arterius turned himself loose upon the galaxy just seven years later...he was proven right. And he practically had a front row seat.

Conrad considered himself lucky in that he got to meet his hero: not many got that lucky. They were forced to observe their role model's actions from afar, tracing their movements with a fine comb and keeping track of their every achievement. But Conrad, perhaps by pure chance, got his moment. He was simply walking through a market on the Citadel, and there he was...Commander Shepard, flanked by two of his marine subordinates, shopping in the store right next to him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't squeal inwardly right there. And just like that, it appeared Conrad's fate would be tied to the man for the rest of his life.

Things took a spiral from there. He did a few things that, looking back on them, weren't the brightest decisions of his life. He had first asked Shepard for an autograph, then a photo...no harm in that right? It impressed his wife (or so he thought), so that was a bonus. But then, for whatever reason, he asked Shepard to make him a spectre. Perhaps he got caught up in the moment...he became so enthralled with the man that he wanted any opportunity to talk to him, and he had gotten it into his head that he could help him in combat: a foolish gesture, given Conrad's lack of combat experience. But, at the time...it had seemed right.

Shepard of course had none of it, and rightly put him in his place...told him to set aside his weapon for his datapad, and to instead his knowledge and skills to help Shepard, instead of playing soldier. He hadn't seen it that way initially, and wouldn't for two years, leaving him bitter and humiliated. His wife gradually got tired of his behaviour, leading to arguments that Conrad just ended up surrendering to in her favor just so she'd stop yelling at him. When he got the 'bold' idea to follow in Shepard's footsteps after news of his death, even buying up weapons and fake armor for the job, she had gone silent. When he left for Illium, she put up no objections. He had foolishly believed she had accepted who he was and was finally at peace with it.

In reality, she had been waiting for him to leave, so that she could pack up her stuff and go. She'd finally had enough, and he couldn't blame her. When he ran into Shepard again on Illium, got straightened out once again, and returned home to find the house empty...he had been intelligent enough to piece together what happened. Throwing his weapons and bargain bin armor in the trash, he sold his house and moved to the Citadel, hoping to make a difference by joining Cerberus so that he could help Shepard. Again, more delusions of grandeur.

The rest was obvious: the war came around, Conrad 'helped' to recruit new Cerberus members, Shepard sorted him out again. The only difference this time was that Conrad finally did something useful. When the Cerberus mole Conrad had ratted out to Shepard pulled a gun on the commander, Conrad didn't even think about what he did next: he threw himself in front of the commander, ostensibly taking the bullet for him. In reality...the gun had misfired, and hadn't fired anything at all.

The woman behind it was Jenna McLean. And what they had from that point forward...she understood him. Completely. Accepted who he was, adopted his ideals, and even eventually helped him found the Shepardists in the end. He didn't know where he would be without her. She had the gumption and bravery to do what he couldn't, and was incredibly intelligent. Together, they were a bit of a dynamic duo. Or so he fashioned.

Jenna was the kind of woman who understood him. His wife never quite could, which is why they inevitably drifted apart. But Jenna...she not only liked what she saw, she wanted to share it with him. She went from being his friend, to his girlfriend, and then finally, to co-founding the Shepardists with him. He couldn't think of a more loyal friend to him than Jenna McLean. She was kind, smart, and ardent. She also possessed traits that he sorely lacked: Shrewdness. Pertinacious, when the time calls for it. Intrasigent in the face of bullying or unreasonable demands. These were all quirks and lineaments that Conrad wished he could have, strived to acquire, but fell short on at every corner. Conrad, at his heart, was a good man with good intentions, but lacked the resolve to see them through. Jenna was his answer and solution. And he couldn't be more thankful for her now constant presence in his life. Together, the two of them had forged the Shepardist movement into something wonderful. A place from which to conduct their admiration of the Commander in a closed environment, without bothering the man and without impinging upon his occupation. Conrad had learned his lesson. He would not repeat the mistakes of the past.

But Conrad had grown complacent. His weakness and maladroitness, the sempiternal truth that underlies the seemingly inescapable fabric of Conrad's fate, had given way to a fool's paradise. He had been living a dream. His relationship with Jenna, and the subsequent bond their shared creed had forged with the people they had brought into their inner circle had ended up creating an inadvertently optimum breeding ground for the very thing Conrad had hoped to avoid.

And just like that...what had taken Conrad and Jenna over a year to slowly build up had been snatched out from under them with one prescient speech and a snake-like exploitation of their charity. The Good Samaritan had played them like a fiddle, taken everything they had constructed, and usurped them of their own organization within just a day and a half. Conrad had, once again, screwed up. And like all the other times this had happened, he was left speechless and helpless to stop it.

He was a meek man. He knew that. When this...Good Samaritan, an alias given to a man who refused to part with his real name, showed up and took over, Conrad had hardly raised a finger to stop him. He was a pushover, and the Samaritan knew and took advantage of it. Jenna was the one who, unsurprisingly, resisted the most, but in the end, it all came to nothing. The Samaritan remained in full control, commanded the loyalty of the other Shepardists with his actions and words, and held more sway and influence than Conrad and Jenna ever did. He even has a krogan bodyguard protecting him: Conrad, in the entire year he was the leader, could never prescribe that degree of respect, let alone obtain it.

So all he could do was roll over. Roll over and play nice. That's all Conrad was good at. That, and talking up a crowd.

The dynamic duo? Now they were merely pawns in the Samaritan's game of spying and stealth. It was a game that the Samaritan, admittedly, was very good at, and had played masterfully. He had even outsmarted the Citadel Council and their spectres, killing one of them and then sneaking off under the cover of darkness to snag their ships and make a run for it, eventually situating themselves on their new headquarters of Sanctum. They didn't get much time to get comfy though, because not long after, most of the Shepardist leadership was sent off to the four corners of the galaxy to find and gather their most loyal members and bring them to Sanctum and the surrounding systems for safe harbour. It was here that Conrad and Jenna had to part ways, the latter going to Earth while the former left for Rannoch. Conrad had felt every moment of her absence, and with it, came vulnerability. He felt alone and unprotected...completely without guidance. Jenna was the rock that kept him anchored to reality, and without her, he felt like he was wading through a swamp of unknowns.

He hated how isolated he felt. But his mission was clear: bring their quarian and geth followers to Sanctum. The Samaritan had a secondary objective for him, but it would have to wait until his primary mission was complete. Conrad had promised him this, and he would see it through. Like him or not, he was loyal to the Shepardists and what they believed in, and he had come to accept the Faith of the Crusader. Shepard truly was a Crusader, he had seen it, and he would do everything in his power to make sure the prophecized return of the man to the galactic scene as their glorious dictator and liberator would be facilitated successfully.

Conrad was many things...a lot of them were failures, but of the few successes in his life he had come to enjoy...talking up a crowd was one of them. This he could do.

He just needed that extra boost of self-confidence. The source of which was currently away on the human homeworld.

"Relax, Conrad," gave her sweet, distracting voice as it passed through his omni-tool's speaker system, "You're just overthinking it."

He felt himself torn away from his self-deprecating thoughts as he turned away from the wall he had been burning holes into with his staring. He had been on Rannoch for just over a few hours, having hopped through multiple relays to get to Rannoch. The transport he had taken had no Faith-IFF, ensuring the Council could not track him, and that the quarians wouldn't arrest him the moment he stepped off onto the docking ring. Luckily, all had gone smoothly, and the quarian customs (and the marines and geth that acted as security) waved him through after a very vigorous search. Quarian customs was the strictest in the galaxy at the moment, with complaints from tourists galaxy wide regarding randomized strip searches, invasive scanning procedures, finally ending with a thorough and encyclopedically meticulous search through one's history, with everything from social security numbers through one's bloody birth date being researched and studied to the finite detail. The quarians were absolutely paranoid about attacks on their soil, and with Rannoch only recently returning to their possession, they were not about to risk terrorist attacks or allowing undesirables to contaminate their cultural enrichment. Conrad experienced one of these searches first hand...thankfully, no strip search.

"Yeah...probably," he muttered, not at all reassured. He straightened his shirt again, well aware that this was now the fiftieeth time he had done this. It was a nervous tick, and thus not an actual attempt to fix his appearance, which was already as good as it was going to get. His body was looking for any potential way to distract him from what lay ahead.

He was now at the Shepardist headquarters on Rannoch...or at least, their secret HQ. The Samaritan wasn't taking any risks with their Faith, and after the death of a spectre on Illium and likely numerous standing bounties on their heads, it was no small assumption to make that the Council would be informing every existing government to begin crackdowns on their own populations of Shepardists soon. Shepardism was becoming an underground religion, but thankfully, the Samaritan knew where the quarian sect was hiding, and Conrad found it without a problem. Their leader, Nala'Seeram, had been hesitant to allow him to speak to her people at first, but once she learnt he was speaking on behalf of the Samaritan, she had been quick to grant him that audience.

After all, the Samaritan was the conduit for the Crusader's wishes. No one dared question his authority, especially not with Grirbon Krend as his bodyguard and chief enforcer.

He was potentially minutes away from addressing these quarians. He knew failure in this mission was not an option, so he needed to do this right: for the movement. For the Samaritan. For the Crusader. Despite all the speeches he made in the past...most of them had either been written by Jenna, or he had her with him to give him strength and confidence. He could feel anxiety tightening its grip over him, compressing his heart and making his bones feel brittle and ready to snap. He needed Jenna...if not in physical presence, then in verbal accompaniment.

Having Jenna just talking to him was already lowering a blanket over his anxiety and insecurity. She had always had that effect on him: it was the same uncanny ability that had guided him away from his foolish actions of the past, and towards something greater than himself. He may no longer be leader of the Shepardists, and their creed as a whole may have been warped beyond recognition, but if there was something he did believe in, it was the promise the Crusader brought of a renewed tomorrow...a better tomorrow. That alone, with Jenna leading him across the gap, was enough to pull him through. To fail to do so would be a betrayal of everything he had worked for. All his progress so far required him to make the most of it. Not just for this mission, but the one waiting just around the corner...one that not even Jenna could help him with.

Worry about that later, his thoughts intervened. Focus on the task at hand. I was never good at multi-tasking anyway. Finish this, then I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

He offered a weak, but genuine, smile, straightening his shirt in preparation for the speech he was about to give. The cubicle the congregation was gathering in was small, but quarians obviously didn't care for such small inconveniences and petty trivialities, and were likely packed in like sardines, eager to hear what one of the Samaritan's intermediaries had to say to them. By now, all of them had to have heard about their daring escape on Illium, and the havoc they caused on their way out. They were either frightened, confused or looking for guidance. That, or disenfranchised. After all, these people joined the organizaton during the time Conrad and Jenna had control, and thus likely didn't completely subscribe to the new focus on the Crusader. This was understandable...despite the month that had passed since the mini-coup, the Samaritan's sudden appearance was still taking some getting used to. Most had fallen in line quickly, enjoying the newfound progress and efficiency that the enigmatic figure most promised and delivered. A minority were more skeptical, and needed assurances. Given the quarians and their overly analytical and cautious nature, born from centuries of ostrasization by society, they were going to be far harder to convince. Even more so with the geth, whose logical processes, despite their newfound intelligence, was going to be difficult to overcome. However, the Samaritan was confident Conrad would discover a way to bring them into the fold as well. Even machines could be manipulated.

Manipulated. Sounds...so dirty. So wrong. Like...we're con artists, not disciples.

Conrad didn't like how it sounded. It didn't sound right. No, they weren't con artists. They were true believers. Conrad just had to find a way to convince the skeptists to leave their doubts behind and follow them along the Crusader's path. And to do that, he needed to give them a reason to cash all their chips in. Such a task required superior intellect and masterful diplomacy...qualities Conrad envisioned the Crusader possessing in abundance, while he was the greater opposite.

There we go again. The self-doubt. The insecurity. I may have ceased my foolish, infantile activities of the past, but my inability to eliminate that which birthed it means I'll never be truly free of that history. I need to be moving forward, not being trapped in the past. I have a chance to do that...for the Crusader's sake, do not screw this up!

A lot rode on this. Conrad couldn't tell if his blood pressure spiking was a result of that, or simply a precursor to what lay ahead for him. Either way, he thanked the Crusader that he was granted at least the ability to consult the one person who could help him bite his tongue and force his way through this meandering tunnel of stress. She was his secret weapon. His ace of spades.

"Really Conrad, there's nothing to it. You've done this all before," Jenna stated, once again persisting in her attempts to pummel his anxiety into the furthest corner of his mind, where it wouldn't be the gigantic nuisance it was at this moment. He shot her a look, one that wasn't entirely convinced in her point, but before he could so much as rebutt what she had said, the woman beat him to the punch with a roll of her eyes, "Okay, fine, maybe you've never had to give a speech asking an entire group of people to migrate to another planet, but how hard can it really be? We've already persuaded these people to join our group as is. If they were willing to sign up as a Shepardist in the first place, then chances are they'll come around. All they need is a bit of a prodding and they'll come loose."

"You make it sound easy, Jenna. I'm no diplomat! Shepard's the diplomat!"

"Neither am I, but that's the task we've been given. Even if it is a load of bullshit."

He frowned at that, shocked by Jenna's abrasive attitude towards the topic, "We've been entrusted with an important mission, Jenna. I wouldn't call that 'bullshit'."

"Oh, save me the sermons, Conrad," she dismissively snorted, "You and I both know the Samaritan recruited us for these missions because we'd be far away and out of his way. He's completely taken over the organization. I don't know what his endgame is for us, but since it involves a dead spectre and a whole bunch of angry governments, I can't exactly say I'm assured he means well."

"The Crusader will protect us, Jenna," he returned, "We're all servants of the same person. The Samaritan has his way, we had ours. He's in control now, and we just have to...accept that."

"I know you've accepted it, but..." she sighed, shaking her head, "It doesn't matter. What matters now is that we've got a job to do, and we better do it. If not for the Samaritan, then for our people. He may have taken over, but these people were following us long before he turned up. We'll use what good will we have left to convince them to come with us to Sanctum."

"And...i-if they don't?" he stuttered, trying his best to remain composed.

Jenna couldn't help but grin. Despite how he felt, the sight of that warm, heartfelt look was always enough to push away the insecurity that would often grip Conrad like a sweeping plague, locking him down into a position of indecision, "They will. You're Conrad Verner, the Commander She-...the Crusader's biggest fan. Who will they follow, if not you?"

She has a point. He let a nervous laugh escape his lips, trying to fake confidence where he lacked it. Before Jenna could offer more advice however, a voice whispered to her from the left, and she turned back to Conrad with an apologetic look in her eyes, "Listen, Con, my ship just arrived over Cairo. We'll talk more later. Just remember...chin up, eyes up front, and just speak from the heart. I've always told you to do that. Has it ever failed you?"

This time he nodded firmly, full of conviction from the truth behind her words. She never had failed him. Her advice had always prevailed, "No. You're right. I've got this. Thanks, Jenny."

Her smile practically crossed from cheek to cheek, skin flushed bright pink from the radiance of her emotional disposition. It was a little quirk he was quite fond of, "Okay, going now. Love you, Con. Good luck."

"You too, Jenny."

He was once again left alone to the sounds of the heart thumping in his chest, the blood ringing in his ears and his insufferably desiccated lips. He could hear the seemingly distant, albeit proximate, chatter of susurrate voices leaking into the room he was in, the reputability of the quarian communal and collectivist mindset being proven with its actions. In the moment he took to straighten his shirt once more, a deafening hush fell over the crowd, extinguishing all conversation like a cloud of taciturnity was passing over them. Conrad gulped subliminally.

It's time. This is it. Here I go...

Please...oh please don't screw this up...

Just remember what Jenna said. She's never let me down before.

From behind the curtain that hid Conrad 'back stage' (it was really just an isolated chamber attached to the same cubicle that allowed for some privacy), a curtain that proudly flashed the colors of a clan he didn't recognize with its whirlwind of crimson ovals imposed on a white sheet, Nala'Seeram, doning the same pattern on her own veil, appeared, eyes shining behind her mask and motioning to outside, "They will hear what you have to say, Mr. Verner."

It was all he could do just to not scream, venting all his rage in one, shrill cry. Instead, he internalized the stress that threatened to overcome him, and straightened his shirt one final time. With a skittish smile and clasped hands, he delivered the most adamantine nod he could levy, and without even a passing glance back at Nala, he stepped through the open curtain, ready to greet his fellow cultists from Rannoch for the first time.

There had to be at least two scores of quarians squeezed into the small chamber, representing the resourceful nature of their species in their ability to cram such a large number of people into a relatively confined space. Even with the Migrant Fleet and its prohibitive conditions gone and dissolved, the quarians still found it difficult to escape old habits. The sight of this suddenly made the room seem that much more claustrophobic, but it was a detail Conrad chose not to concern himself with. Steadying his breathing, he stood on the raised platform that a captain, admiral or Conclave member would usually stand, and cleared his throat, smiling down at the large assortment of multi-coloured quarians all looking up at him, awaiting him to say something. In that moment, he noted how odd it was that there were no geth in the room, but chose, again, not to fixate on it.

Do what you came here to do. Get it over with. Don't think...just do.

"Friends," he began, staying true to his mental self-advice by not stalling to find something to say, "My name is Conrad Verner. I am...was...the leader of our great Faith. As of now, I am here before you as a gesture of good will, done at the Good Samaritan's expense."

"His expense?" one quarian, a female, refuted, offering the first obstacle to Conrad's efforts as she spoke up. She was towards the front, wearing a bright red veil and a tinted, green visor. She glared daggers at the would-be presenter, eying him like one eyed their greatest enemy: with utmost disdain. He didn't know what he had done to earn her ire, but he was sure to suffer as a result of it as the meeting went forward, "What about us? His little stunt on Illium has forced us into hiding. The Council is after us! And from what I hear, for good reason!"

He nodded, choosing to address her directly. He had seen the Samaritan do it during the numerous meetings he'd been privy to, and this appeared to be the prime strategy which he utilized in addressing his opponents. The Samaritan liked to thoroughly dress down each person's arguments, before then going in for the kill and pinpointing the flaws of their arguments and destroying them ruthlessly. He was by no means an expert conversationalist, and many of his policies and methods were crude and brutish, but what the man knew how to do was lead a cult. And if Conrad was ever going to learn how to properly lead people...he needed to take a few pointers. Even if it was from someone who, at least from a competitive standpoint, was his adversary.

He raised his hands steadily, clenching them lightly to ensure nobody noticed how shaky they were. With a lick of his lips, he somehow managed to keep his smile, unmitigated, etched into his face, almost as if the act of feigning confidence was becoming easier, "I misspoke. My apologies, miss...?"

The quarian continued to stare at him blankly, arms crossed. After a second, he realized how stupid he must look, saying 'miss' and then trailing off questioningly. Quarian social cues weren't the same as humans, and he should have known that. Instead, he compensated by rephrasing his statement, "What is your name, miss?"

"Jora'Xera vas Lelazi," she replied with a bite of snark.

"Well, Miss Xera," he continued, "I misspoke. I did not mean to suggest that this gathering was an inconvenience. Quite the opposite. The Good Samaritan sent me as a reassurance that he has not forgotten his followers, even while backed into a hole. As for the Council..." like a switch being flipped, he instantly remembered how the Samaritan had justifed his actions during that fateful final meeting on Illium, and called upon his argument to save his own, "...they are enemies of the Crusader. Their goal is to seperate us. Divide and conquer. They labelled us terrorists because they're afraid of what we can do. Not with guns or money, but with thought."

Emboldened by his first sentence, and noting the silence of the room, including the lack of refutation from Jora, he continued, pacing in an overly twitchy, but enthusiastic, manner that reminded him of his earlier days on the Citadel when he praised Shepard and his actions, just prior to meeting the man himself, "We are blessed with the knowledge that we, and we alone, are carrying on the good fight! The Samaritan only wants what we all want: to spread the Crusader's teachings, and ensure that he has an army for his inevitable return. An army of true, dedicated believers."

"You make it sound like we're going to war," another quarian in the crowd muttered, this one a young male.

He nodded, "We may very well be. The Samaritan has fired the first shot: a Council spectre is dead, yes, but let's not forget the context: the Council sent an assassin to kill the Samaritan. To silence our leader. Why would they do that, if not out of fear? I didn't realize it before, but I do now: the Samaritan was destined to lead us. Think about it: if he were not supposed to lead us, then how is it he was able to overpower one of the finest operatives in the galaxy? The Crusader himself had to earn the privilege of joining their elite echelon, and yet the Samaritan overpowered one! This can only mean one thing: it was meant to be. The Crusader, whether he knows it or not, has chosen the Samaritan to lead us."

Whispers and mutters passed through the crowd. Jora's stance grew less stubborn and more curious, arms loosening from their crossed posture to rest at her sides, head cocked in thought. Conrad's smile turned from feigned to genuine: he didn't know how, but he was getting to them. The speech he had been so worried about...it was practically flowing from his lips. It was impossible not to become jubilated! Why...why was that?

Because you actually believe what you're saying.

"Why would the Crusader choose this...Samaritan?" another asked. By now, Nala had joined Conrad on the raised podium, hands clasped behind her back and watching him with rapturous attention. It was clear he was getting to them, "You were our leader. We joined because we followed you. Who is this person and why should we follow him?"

"It is true. I once led this organization, with the help of my friend, Jenna McLean," he admitted, looking at the floor for added strength before breathing in deeply, shaking his head, "When the Samaritan came to us, he had no name, no identity of any sort. He asked to join our cult, and we allowed it. He usurped us...used us to get what he wanted. At least...that's how I initially saw it. But that's not the case. He needed, was fated, to take over. As much as I regret to say it, I was not fit to lead you. The Samaritan has brought much needed vigor, strength and power to our organization, and we have flourished. Yes, the Council is out for us, but that is only proof of our success. You ask if we're at war: the Samaritan believes we are, but its not just any war. Its a war to destroy the Crusader. And as his disciples, we must choose whether or not we allow that to happen. Remember what the Crusader has done for you...all other species can claim that he has touched or helped them in some way, but none can claim such an honor more so than you, the quarian people."

There was no answer to that: it was self-evident. The quarians, and perhaps even the krogan, owed Shepard the most. With the quarians, he helped end a three hundred year-long war in just a few minutes, ended the quarian exile, returned them to their long-awaited homeworld and formed a lasting alliance between them and the very people they once swore to destroy. A human had achieved what three centuries of conflict hadn't. The quarians owed Shepard a debt of eternal gratitude for that action, which is why Shepardism had spread so quickly on Rannoch.

But they weren't completely convinced yet. Jora spoke again, "This Samaritan...what is his name?"

Conrad sighed, shaking his head, "Nobody knows. He does not reveal it. Some believe he has forgotten it...a remnant of a past life that he has forsaken in order to dedicate his new one to the path of the Crusader. Others, like me, believe he is withholding it deliberately for some ulterior purpose. But ultimately it doesn't matter. He has donned the term 'Good Samaritan' because it suits his purpose in life: to enlighten the galaxy to the Crusader's truth, and prepare it for his return. In the end, that's all we, the people he will rule, need to know."

The quarians here were determined to prove the stereotype of their social exuberance. The meeting went on for hours more, and Conrad, despite his overbearing confidence, felt his throat getting dry and mouth sore from the non-stop talking. The quarians had no such hassle, quite content to yap away to their heart's content, their vocal cords and brain having no trouble keeping up with the progressingly contentious and composite nature of their questioning. Answering their questions was like being catechized by forty people: ceaseless probing for information, as it were. The quarian people seemed to have an insatiable curiosity that made even humans frown, their entire race appearing to be gluttons for information and knowledge. It was small wonder that the quarians had once been a principle rival of the salarians: the technological arms race between the Salarian Union and the First Quarian Republic from 500 CE through to the 1800s CE had been tense and very close. The Quarian-Salarian tech race had also produced most of the galaxy's most important inventions, not least among them being the omni-tool, developments in virtual and artificial intelligence, the emergence of the extranet, and so on. While it was ironic that the quarians' superiority in technological mass production was what ultimately led to their downfall in the Geth War (and, subsequently, losing the arms race by default of attrition), it was still something of a marvel in the galaxy today. And with the quarians no longer trapped in exile and now allied with their former synthetic enemy, it looked like they may once again be in the game...and this time, with a significant advantage over their rivals.

After all, the aftermath of any war was devastating. Wars were costly, and the economy paid for it dearly. But after a war like the one that had consumed the entire galaxy, the fate of many governments hung from a very fragile string. One wrong budgetary decision, and an entire government could collapse. A perfect breeding ground for new economies to take their place in the game, and smash their opposition. The galaxy's future was going to look very different indeed.

After six, very long hours, the quarians appeared to finally be done with their interrogation. Nala herself finally stemmed the tide of questions, noticing Conrad's very increasing exhaustion. Her look seemed almost amused, and Conrad could imagine the quarian's thoughts just by looking at the narrowed slits that represented her eyes behind the mask.

"Such a fragile human. A few hours of conversation, and he's exhausted." Must be real funny to a race that doesn't appear to understand the concept of fatigue.

Whatever the case...it was over. Nala informed her people, who were in agreeance, that they would begin to take the earliest transports back to Omega as soon as they could. Conrad directed them to see a man named 'Everest Shaw', an alias used by one of the Shepardists that the Good Samaritan had entrusted to oversee the cultists moving to make their new home on Sanctum and the surrounding planets. With his job complete, and the Rannochian cell secure and on their way to safety, Conrad took a second to take a deep breath the moment he was outside the cubicle, taking a strange comfort in the piercing blast of UV rays that assaulted him the moment he stepped out. He almost kneeled over, hands braced against his knees as he felt himself begin to shake. He knew what was coming.

His next action was involuntary, but expected. He gagged, the overwhelming amount of anxiety that he had boxed in under a veneer of confidence beginning to break through the four walls of his mental prison, surging through his body and trapping him in a somewhat catatonic state. The volume of stress made him feel ill, and his body, believing itself to be nauseous, tried to vomit up whatever he had eaten...which wasn't much. The feeling was painful, but he waited it out, and once his body got the hint, the gagging stopped, replaced by a violent amount of shaking that would have anyone else thinking Conrad was having a seizure. Annoyed by his fidgeting, he snatched the wrist of his hand, tightening his grip in an effort to stop it from shaking and to steady his breathing.

It took him a few minutes, but he finally managed to steady himself, recovering from his explosion of disquietude. Luckily, most of the quarian cultists were still inside, and their hideout was isolated from the rest of El'Tivv, allowing him to maintain a low profile and stay unseen. His episode, as such, went completely unnoticed, using his wrist to wipe his lips and chin of any dribble and flem that had been disgorged from his mouth. With a shuddering pant, he wiped his forehead of the beads of sweat that were beginning to collect there, his shirt tightly clining to his back as it became soaked.

It was done. His primary objective was complete. A part of him couldn't believe he had done it. That he had survived, and succeeded. No doubt the Samaritan would be impressed and elated by his progress, ensuring that their congregants would remain safe and would be snatched from the jaws of oppression that their governments had in store for them.

But despite his apparent urge to contact Jenna to savor this success...despite wanting to pack his things and go with them back to Sanctum, he knew his task wasn't over. The hard part was over, that much was true, but he had only succeeded in completing one objective of a larger mission. While Jenna and the other missionaries were instructed purely to advise and relocate their respective planets' Shepardist congregants, the planet Conrad was on was of special significance to the Faith. This planet held the one person who tied it all together...who galvanized their movement and energized them to rise above their station.

Rannoch was the place, for whatever reason, that the Crusader had chosen to be his home. And it was Conrad's mission to not only meet with him, but to inform him of the Faith's rejuvenated impetus. To let him know that his people, his followers, were going strong and had not been silenced or defeated, and awaited his return to the fold.

This was the objective Conrad was the most concerned about. The Samaritan had seen something in him...he didn't know what it was, but he had apparently seen enough to entrust him with the task of making this happen. It wasn't everyday a religious organization's rank-and-file peons were tasked with speaking directly to their idol of worship, but it had come to pass and now here he was. The Samaritan had somehow learned the location of the Crusader's place of residence on Rannoch, and Conrad now possessed the coordinates as well.

Conrad was lost in thought. So lost, in fact, that he lost track of all time as he somehow made it to a skycar, got in the air and began approaching the coordinates given to him. Any indication that he was focused on the present moment was gone to the wind, replaced by a lone human piloting a skycar across the recently reclaimed Rannochian savannahs, racing at over a hundred kilometers per hour through the air as he neared his destination. He had long since set the vehicle on autopilot, worried that his shaking hands could cause him to crash the aircraft. He was simply too distracted...allowing his ruminations to go off on a tangent and pull up beliefs he had long since tried to bury in an effort to accept his new position in life.

He was beginning to wonder just what angle the Good Samaritan really had in all of this. While he believed the man truly wanted to follow and obey the Crusader's wishes, it was unknown to him just how or why he was doing so. He had no name, or at least not one he wished to divulge, and his actions had been drastically aggressive, to the point of inciting conflict. The murder of a Council spectre, while justified as self defense, had seemed more like a justification for escalation, rather than a genuine attempt to protect his people. This man was planning something...what it was, he wasn't sure. Nobody was. Even Jenna was beginning to get worried. The Samaritan had won over their people through hard action and results. The Shepardists had gone from a congregation of a few hundred followers, scattered across numerous planets, and exploded into a galactic movement with thousands of believers, enough funding to crew a militia, and a fleet of ships that could be used for transport throughout the galaxy. What was all this for? Why the secrecy...why the deliberate antagonization of the Citadel Council?

There was a game being played, and Conrad, and by the same extent Jenna, were clueless as to what its goal was.

Conrad had blindly accepted the Samaritan at first. In a way, he still did follow the man with a modicum of loyalty. The resentment still lingered, but his loyalty kept it back. But now...he wasn't so sure. Big plays were being made, and finally reaching out to the Crusader seemed like a move the Samaritan had been calculating for a few weeks now...

Jenna had a theory the Samaritan had planned it all. Council retaliation. The move to Sanctum. Recalling their people. Conrad had failed to see the dots being connected, but Jenna hadn't. She knew what was happening. Consolidation of power. Deployment of assets. Outreach to key players. Eliminating threats. The pattern of decision was there, and no one was seeing it but Jenna.

What is he playing at? What's the point of this? And what's his stake in it all? Who is he and why is he doing any of this?

The Samaritan was a complete enigma. Every facet of his identity, his existence was a colossal unknown. The Faith's leader might as well have been a ghost. A disembodied essence that was commanding them from the umbra. Whatever his grand design was, the nature of his larger picture...they were not privy to it, and Conrad had a feeling they wouldn't be until the day of judgement arrived. Jenna was convinced they were being played. Conrad was beginning to see why.

But...if there was one thing they both believed, it was the Crusader. And whether or not they disliked the Samaritan, they both knew he only did it ostensibly in service to the Crusader's ordinance. The galaxy was in short supply of principled, incorruptible figures...and they desperately needed one to lead them. The Council, and the galaxy's other governments, were too weak to do so. They didn't have what it took to stop the Reapers before, and it took the Crusader's leadership to secure their crushing victory. The moment he left, chaos returned. The answer to their social and political problem was obvious: the governments needed to go, and the Crusader needed to replace them. To lead a crusade to purge the constituents of the galactic bangarang, to reverse the course of their ensuing entropy, and to place himself at the top, leader for life, to ensure corruption and deceit could never bring this galaxy to its knees ever again.

The first step was to convince the Crusader this could be done. And before this could be done, he had to be brought back to the fray. He needed to know his followers were strong and waiting for him.

In the end...Conrad's history with him might just be why he was chosen for this mission. A familiar face for a difficult task.

An hour passed, and he finally could see the house he was looking for in the distance. The large, two-storey mansion-esque building stood out like a sore thumb in the vast expanse of nothingness that surrounded it...like a slice of civilization that had been cut and taken away from the rest to maintain its vigil alone. The design was definitely human, which only served to confirm that the Crusader had taken up residence here.

There was a large patch of land right infront of the house, with barely a scrap of vegetation or other natural obstructions to make it hazardous for parking, so he saw fit to land the skycar perpendicular to the house, just fifty meters from the front, and he switched off the engines. Stepping out of the car, he felt his boots crunch the soft soil underneath, and the hard sun on the back of his neck. He had to squint as he looked up at the elephantine house, the design intricacies and apparent care put into its construction leaving him awed. Whoever built this building had put a lot of effort into it.

But why? Why would the Crusader want to build a house on a recently reclaimed, non-human world, way out in the middle of nowhere, seperated from everyone else? Was it for the peace and quiet? Buyer's market? From the sounds of it, he has a great view of the ocean. Maybe its a holiday house?

The Crusader's exact reasonings for being here were a mystery to him. In the brief snippets of time that Conrad had encountered and talked with the man, nothing of depth or meaning was ever learnt about his life or personality. After all, he had always caught the commander during important business, meaning he was never in a position of being relaxed enough to talk. Not to mention many of those predicaments ended with him being annoyed with Conrad...understandably. Its not like he hadn't noticed...he had gone out of his way to impress upon him that he wished to fix his mistakes, but he just ended up making new ones as a result. It had taken Jenna to break that cycle, but since then, he hadn't encountered him. This would be the first time since that day that Conrad would speak to him face-to-face, and he had no idea what to expect. Thus, the man's reasons for living here failed to make themselves known to Conrad. He didn't know the man anywhere near as well as he wished he could have, so this meeting was going to be...interesting, to say the least.

Nervousness wracked his frame as the exact nature of what he was about to tried to overcome him. He quelled it, forcing it back down and taking a deep breath. Avoiding the urge to bring up his omni-tool and call up Jenna for advice and emotional support, he clenched his fists and slowly, but confidently, approached the front door, his boots creaking on the wooden steps leading up to the veranda as he did so.

You've spoken with him before. It shouldn't be any surprise as to what comes next. Just...do what the Samaritan asked you to do. Tell him what he needs to know, and then leave. He knows you. I did save his life once...admittedly, I thought I was sacrificing myself when in reality I wasn't, but the thought should count over the events. I believed I was taking a bullet meant for him. If that doesn't earn at least five minutes of his time, I don't know what will. He'll listen.

Advancing up the steps cautiously, almost as if he was expecting somebody to leap out and attack him at any moment, he eventually reached the front door. Conrad was surprised by the rather rudimentary configuration of the door's lock mechanism, which looked to use the archaic manual knob over the more ultra-modern, motion sensing haptic interfaces of today's sphere. As anachronistic as it looked, Conrad found himself impressed by this choice. He was fascinated by pre-spacelight human civilization, and he had never really seen a manual swing door before in his life. Perhaps the Crusader was sentimental?

He hadn't even entered the house yet, and he felt like he was already learning new things about his hero figure just by the type of door he used.

He couldn't see much through the upper glass component of the frame itself: it was frosted glass, intentionally eliminating transparency and increasing privacy. Giving up on attempting to see if anybody was home, he took a deep breath, steeled himself as best he could, and allowed his fist to lightly tap against the wooden frame four times.

He waited patiently, not allowing himself to make too much noise as his brain, in its paranoia, believed this would compromise him. Instead, he allowed himself a silent lick of the lips, his hand to rise and scratch away an itch developing on his neck, and a chance to straighten his shirt one more time: a tick that was beginning to infuriate him with its annoying tendency to crop up at the worst of times. It seemed like a bad omen. Yet again, he hadn't screwed up so far, so perhaps his luck was holding out.

With this in mind, he held out, despite the compressing feeling of feeling trapped and alone.

And, sure enough, his patience was rewarded. The sound of footsteps, lightly gliding across a lustrous fraserwood floor, could be heard approaching the door from the inside.

Conrad straightened up upon hearing it. He could have sworn he heard a voice, but he couldn't be certain what it was saying or if he had really heard it at all. However, the footsteps were very real, and he could see the dark silhouette of a person just behind the door. He frowned, noting just how much shorter the Crusader looked in stature, and the frosted glass seemed to give the impression of a slim, petite figure. Almost as if they-

The door swings, pulled open from the inside. Conrad opens his mouth in greeting, only to find the smile he had been forming would be taking its leave, replaced by wide eyes and a baffled frown.

Standing in the door, holding the door open, was not Commander Shepard, the Crusader. In fact, they weren't even human. A quarian woman, draped in a purple veil with dazzling pattern of swirls with ivory stripes down her hood, stood before him. Her matching amethyst-coloured mask reflected the sun off of it, further obscuring the face underneath, if he could even see it to begin with. A few seconds of silence passed between the two, equally puzzled figures, until it finally clicked in Conrad's mind who this was. How could he not know? He had seen the vids often enough, come across the Crusader and his squad one too many times...

Tali'Zorah.

...only question was: what was she doing here?

Perhaps a friend visiting a friend? Yeah, that's probably all it is...all that really makes sense in this-

"Um...hello? Who are you?"

Oh, of course. Just standing here, looking dumbly at her, probably doesn't help the situation. Best to find out what's going on. The Crusader is definitely here...the Samaritan confirmed that much. Get straight to business. She probably doesn't even remember me, really.

"Oh, um...right..." he coughed, clearing his throat as the quarian war hero awaited his answer, "My...my name is Conrad Verner. You probably don't even remember me."

A few seconds passed, before the quarian's eyes widened, apparently remembering him after all, "Yes...I know you. You're one of Jo-Shepard's biggest fans." Her tone sounded less sure of itself towards the end...almost as if she was piecing together something. She lowered her head for a moment, contemplating this.

"Yes!" he nearly shouted with joyous gaiety, "And its such a privilege to finally meet you, Miss Zorah. I've always wanted to talk to one of the most famous members of the Crusader's squad!"

"Well, I...uh...thanks," she replied with a poorly contained amount of embarassment, but after a moment, the quarian seemed to recover from this, looked directly up at him, and narrowed her eyes, "Wait...Crusader?"

The blood practically drained from Conrad's face as he realized his mistake. Oh no, she didn't like that. Damn it, Shepard! His NAME is COMMANDER SHEPARD. How could I have screwed that up!?

His lack of an answer was all she needed, "Look, I don't even know how you got this address, but I think you need to leave."

The window for his opportunity was beginning to close dangerously fast. His verbal slip-up was likely going to cost him if he didn't act quickly, so act he did. Without even thinking, he reached forward and shot out his arm, hand impacting the door and stopping it as the admiral tried to close it. This action visibly shocked her, but she reacted quickly, eyes turning into dangerous slits as she eyed him with malicious intent. Any friendliness in her voice was now gone, "Mr. Verner, I'm afraid that if you don't remove your hand from that door, I'm going to be less than gracious."

He believed it. Despite her slim and relatively fragile-looking frame, Conrad had seen the vids and knew she was a deadly combatant. She could probably hack his omni-tool in the time it took for him to blink at her and turn it into a fire cracker by melting the CPU with a flash overclock program. She could probably break his arm in several different places. And if the rumors were true, quarian legs were much more powerful than they looked: like the kangarooes and horses of Earth, a kick from one of their legs could shatter ribs. One wrong move...and he was sure he'd pay for it.

He gulped, holding up his other hand placatingly, "L-l-look...I'm...I'm a friend of Shepard's! He knows me! I just want to talk to him, say hello..."

"I know who you are," she stated simply, any prior cordiality she had for him now completely gone as she assessed what was, to her, a potential threat, "You called him 'the Crusader'. Only Shepardists do that. What your people have done...how did you even get this address? Have you been stalking us?"

"Stalking us?" Conrad asked incredulously, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find an adequate response, "What...no! Why would we stalk you? We follow the Crusader, not-"

"Don't play coy," she snapped, "You found this house. I don't know how, but you did. If your cult has those kind of resources, then you most certainly know that I live here."

She...lives here? But why would she-

Ooooohhhhh...NOW it makes sense. Choosing to live on Rannoch, one of his quarian squadmates living at his house...they're not just friends...

The look of realization on his face must have been dreadfully hidden, because the look of adamant hostility in her posture loosened upon seeing it. Her eyes softened a bit, but not completely, and she shook her head. Motioning for him to move back, he did so, watching as she walked forward and out onto the porch with him, closing the front door behind her...not wanting the Crusa-for Shepard to hear what they were talking about.

"Look, listen and don't say a word," she began firmly, her arms crossed, "I don't care why you're here. I'm curious to know how you learned where this house was, but as long as you leave and tell your boss never to come here again, I won't make a fuss of it. Neither you or your people are to come near us again. We've been through enough."

Against his better judgment, despite all the alarm bells going off in his head telling him he needed to heed her wishes and leave, he stubbornly pushed on, "I just want to speak with him for a few minutes...I promise it won't be any longer than that. The Samaritan just wants me to convey-"

"You're not listening...or perhaps I'm not being clear enough," her voice took on a precariously new low, the quarian stepping forward to get closer to him, her tone a vehement hiss, "He wants nothing to do with you. He never has, and he never will. He doesn't condone or accept your little religion, he won't encourage your proselytizing, and he will not enable you or anyone else to commit crimes in his name. All he wants, all we want, is to be left alone."

He sighed heavily, scratching his chin. What she said...couldn't be true. It couldn't be. It was a lie...organized by the quarian in order to keep him away from the Crusader. That's the only thing that made sense. Why else would she say such things? To tell him that the Crusader has no interest in saving the galaxy?

Pushing on with the belief that Tali was lying to him in an effort to shield the Crusader from the truth, he crossed his own arms, "No, I don't believe that. And its true...then...y-you won't mind me speaking to him!"

"I will not allow you to waste his time with your nonsense."

"That's for him to decide, not you!" he shouted, surprised by his own audacity. Something in him had snapped, the part that refused to be fooled into believing the quarian's narrative, and he had felt the need to bludgeon past her arrogance with his own conviction. How far did the lie stretch? Perhaps the quarian wasn't living with him, or in a relationship with him...perhaps it was an elaborate story to convince Conrad to go away, to accept her word as the Crusader's. Perhaps she was, indeed, lying.

Tali didn't respond to this verbally. She simply stood there, watching him like one watches the dissection of a rodent...carefully and precisely. At first, her silence seemed deafening, a pregnant pause that dragged on without any further reaction from opposite side, thus churning up no progress. He was about ready to shout at her, to clear the air and provoke a reaction from her, when he heard a low growl.

He froze, finding himself turning to look down slowly as something edged past his leg. Cold, scaly skin brushed past the soft fabric of his pants, but was enough for him to take notice. Looking down, he watched as the huge, four-legged form of a varren stalked past him, tail whipping through the air. The varren's head never turned away from Conrad, glinting canines dripping with saliva and big, alien eyes sizing him up...whether as a meal or a threat, he couldn't be sure.

Conrad was terrified of varren. Unlike dogs on Earth, these creatures had nearly twice the mass, triple the appetite, and were infamously difficult to tame and domesticate. However, it was also a well known fact that such creatures had originated on Tuchanka. While they had spread, none had ever reached as far as the Perseus Veil, so how one ended up on Rannoch had to be a-

"No Urz, don't hurt him. Come here, Urz."

Imagine his shock when Tali, clicking her fingers invitingly, beckoned to the varren, calling it by name. He was even further stupefied when the varren actually responded to her summons, its growling giving way to what sounded like a purr, the creature marching up to where Tali stood, sitting down and closing its mouth as she reached down and began to rub the top of its head. He looked up at her, the quarian's head cocked to the side. Not in amusement, but recognition of his surprise.

"Urz won't hurt you," she elaborated, "And I won't let him. I have no intention of hurting you. But if you threaten John...if you become a threat to what we're trying to build...then, despite how demure I might seem...I will not hesitate to kill you. I will not tolerate any threats to my neh'sah, do you understand?"

"If your varren won't hurt me," he continued, holding up his hands placatingly, mostly to show he wasn't going to make any sudden moves, "Then why was he growling?"

"He can sense my irritation," she explained simply, "As far fetched as it seems, varren form bonds with their owners over time. Urz can sense my irritation, and is getting defensive. But," she scratched Urz just behind his head spike, causing the varren to perk up and lick her gloved hand in gratitude, "I think he's accepted you're not a threat. They may look stupid, but varren are incredibly intelligent. But enough about Urz, let's talk about you. You're going to leave. Now."

A few moments passed, the man considering his position. A potentially dangerous varren at arm's length, an angry quarian female who was decidedly very hostile towards him. But despite that, and his perfectly rational fear of varren, his response shocked even him.

"No, I won't go. Not until I speak to him."

"I've made it very clear-"

"I don't care!" he snapped, the sound alerting the varren and causing him to stand to attention, eyes locking onto Conrad immediately. He raised his arm, pointing directly at her, "You...y-you don't get to speak for him! I...have been chosen...to speak with the Crusader, and that...is exactly what I'll do! You can't st...stop me!"

"Conrad?"

This time, both parties were surprised as their heads whipped around to face the front door, turning to face the new addition to the conversation. Conrad felt his breath catch in his throat as he saw the man framed by the doorway. Thickset body, scars lining the sides of his face, heavy stubble beginning to build along his jaw, intimidating and authoritative presence...yes, it could only be one man.

The Crusader.

"He was just leaving, John," Tali assured him, her voice now suddenly more worried. What for, however, Conrad couldn't be sure. What exactly had her so spooked?

He waved a dismissive hand, walking through the doorway, albeit with some difficulty. He looked to have a limp in his right leg, but to what extent, he couldn't tell. Was it some kind of battlefield injury he had accrued? From the looks of how Tali was eying him, the quarian moving to help him, only to be held off by Shepard as held out his hand to hold her back. Urz immediately rushed up to Shepard, standing up on both of his back legs to excitedly bark at Shepard. The former commander grinned, rubbing Urz's head before shrugging him off and turning back to Conrad, his grin disappearing after a moment.

"Conrad...what are you doing here? How did you even find me?"

The tone sounded almost accusatory, but Conrad brushed it off for now. He concentrated on what he had: Tali had failed to keep the Crusader from him, and with him now addressing the man directly, Conrad had a chance to complete his mission...and finally get the Crusader to precipitate his own return.

"The Samaritan told me," Conrad admitted, turning to focus his full attention on Shepard, "I'm here to speak with you, personally."

"He's with the cult, John," Tali piped up, immediately grabbing Shepard's attention. He turned to her, before craning his head slowly to face Conrad again, his posture tensing up. Before Conrad could so much as speak another word, Shepard shook his head disapprovingly. Urz sensed his emotions and began to growl at him again, only for Shepard to grab him by the scruff of the neck, calming him with a few light scratches along his back, which had the effect of immediately calming the beast.

"I think I know where this is going Conrad, so let me make this simple," he began, his tone causing his blood to run cold. Clearly, Shepard wasn't in a good mood, "I don't know how you got mixed up with that crowd, but don't even think of asking me to condone it. As Tali here has probably already made clear, I do not want anything to do with you or your people. The attempted assassinations and the murder of a Council spectre are, quite frankly, unacceptable crimes. You're a decent man, Conrad. Whatever my thoughts on you, I thought you should know that. But that doesn't mean I'm going to excuse this. You've picked a side...and its the wrong one."

"Side?" Conrad queried weakly, taken aback by the Crusader's blase dismissal of him and the organization. This was not the reaction he had been expecting at all, and he found himself at a loss for words, unable to press on or form a counter-argument. He had thought Shepard might give him time to explain his position...but it was almost as if the moment he heard the term 'cult' mentioned, he had shut down and refused to give him the time of day.

"Yes, Conrad," he continued, waving a dismissive hand, "This Good Samaritan...I don't care who he is, or what authority he thinks he has to murder Council operatives and believe he can get away with it. I certainly don't like the Council or half of what they do, but if you think I'm going to side with your cult simply because of that, then the Samaritan has lost his mind. I expected better from you, of all people."

"But we need you..." he pleaded. Lost and not knowing what else to do, he could only form ragtag words together in the futile action of forming sentences, "You're the Crusader...the iron hand...you're supposed to rule the galaxy, purge it of the corrupt..."

The look Shepard had looked haunted, like he had just gazed into the devil's eyes and seen hell on the other side. Dazed, his glazzed look dissipated when he finally shook his head in disbelief, "The Samaritan has you believing a lie. I cannot abide by what you do. I refuse. I have a life outside of the military now, and I most certainly will not throw away everything I've worked for just to entertain some cult leader's religious fanaticism. I'm not a crusader, and I never will be. You need to stop this, Conrad. You need to go home and rethink what you're doing. Do you really want to be involved with these people?"

He barely heard the man's words. All he could hear, a constant echo in his mind, was that fateful dismissal of everything Conrad had come to believe about the man, "But you're supposed to save us all...you're the savior of the galaxy..."

Shepard sighed, mouth open in anticipation to form another argument, but then closed shortly afterwards, ostensibly because he realized there was no way he could reason with him. Finally, he just exhaled deeply, turned away and moved to walk back inside, "Please go, Conrad. Leave me in peace. I've had enough of war. Don't bring the promise of more to my doorstep and ask me to jump in head first."

He could only watch as the man he had come to know as the Crusader, the Savior of the Galaxy, Hero of the Citadel and Lion of Elysium, limped back inside, turning his back on his call to duty, walking out of view as he left the door ajar in his wake, barely even giving Conrad a second look. He just continued to stare at that empty space, his mind ticking over as it considered the consequences of the ultimatum he had just been given.

The Crusader...has abandoned us.

Given his catatonic state, vision becoming blurred as he zoned in and out, he barely heard nor noticed when Tali walked up to him, gripped his shoulder with one hand and looked directly at him, her tone molten steel, "Now that John has made his peace, I will too. He knows and likes you, which is the only reason he isn't going in there and having the marines come here and arrest you. The only reason I'm not going to do it is because I trust his judgment. But allow me to be perfectly clear: if I see you or any more of your cultists come to this home again, you will have me to answer to. I meant what I said about threats: ancestors know I love that man, so if I believe your presence will upset him or put him in danger...I will crack down on you like a mother tilgrap. Now leave. Leave us in peace. That's all we ask."

He had heard every word, but barely offered a rebuke. As such, he didn't even pay her one bit of attention as she moved to join Shepard inside, Urz jogging after her, the door closing behind her, the locks engaging not long afterwards.

When Conrad finally regained control of his senses after a few seconds, and walked down the steps in a nearly zombie-like fashion, making a beeline for his skycar. Once inside, all he could do was sit down and stare blankly at the dashboard, wondering just what had gone wrong.

But there hadn't been anything that went wrong. That was just it. It wasn't Conrad's fault. The problem was more grounded...in the end, it had been the Crusader himself who rejected him.

The Crusader...refuses to return. To acknowledge his disciples. He thinks we're criminals. Once he learned I followed the Samaritan's teachings, he practically couldn't look at me. He's ashamed of us. He hates us and what we do. And that quarian...Miss Zorah...she was trying to shield him from me. Is he...afraid of us? Have we erred?

He quietly started up the vehicle, lifting it off the ground as he engaged the autopilot, lounging back in his seat as the vehicle took him back to the capital city. There had been numerous outcomes Conrad had expected to emerge from that fateful meeting, but rejection...that was a brutal shock. Everything he had come to believe...was upturned in that moment. The Samaritan had promised the Crusader would rise to the challenge, accept his followers as his own brothers and sister-in-arms and lead them to a glorious tomorrow.

The Samaritan was wrong. The Crusader had seen them...and was disgusted. He would not return. He would not lead the crusade. He would not spearhead their vanguard. He would stand aside...and do nothing.

Nothing.

---

CSS Normandy SR-2, en route to the Citadel - January 18, 2188 - The next day.

The Samaritan had officially proven that there were no limits to his insanity.

The news had only come through official channels two hours ago, whilst the Normandy was on its way back to the Citadel, but scuttlebutt throughout the ship was that the information had been spreading through the extranet like wildfire. Soon, every corner of the galaxy would be aware of what happened.

Ka'hairal Balak, supreme commander of the Batarian Defense Force and spokesperson for the 'Glorious Batarian Resurgence', was dead. His adjutant, too. Both of them found murdered in a grotesque fashion: Balak's body hanging from the roof of his house, flayed down to the muscle, while the adjutant's body lay on the ground, mauled to death by a hundred or so stabbings. Only a few minutes after the brutal murder, an anonymous poster on the extranet, known only by the name of 'the Collector', took responsibility for the killings, proclaiming them to be the first strike in a great 'slave revolution' that would topple the batarian establishment and destroy the Hegemony. When asked by the Salarian Union as to what this means, the Batarian Hegemony responded in its usual fashion: mind your own business. We'll handle it.

And what a grand job they did.

Of course, the Council chose to remain neutral in what was purely a 'batarian issue', and didn't lift a finger to assist the Hegemony in finding the culprit. Behind closed doors, the Alliance's SIA and the Union's STG were probably glad to wash their hands of the matter, as both had been hunting Balak for some time, given the numerous war crimes he had committed, the colonies he had enslaved and the ceaseless organic rights violations. Knowing that some slave had taken care of it for them meant they could now put the matter to rest. One would have thought the matter ended there.

Until the next day...when the Collector popped up again, this time taking responsibility for the murder of several undercover batarian Feksogar agents in a bar in Khar'Shan's capital, Kepcedah. This time however, the Collector proudly announced that he had help from a third party, a party that supported and financed the Collector's efforts, and thus was bankrolling the very people that the Hegemony had deemed to be fugitives and enemies of the state. Imagine Garrus' surprise at who it was that had chosen to help the Collector.

The Good Samaritan.

At first, this had been a batarian problem. But once the Good Samaritan's name was dropped, it became a political quagmire. Intelligence channels lit up as the STG and SIA began inquiring with the SIU as to what they knew about the Samaritan's involvement, and to what level. A Council spectre was dispatched, at the Supreme Regent's reluctance, to Khar'Shan to coordinate with the batarian authorities. A 'purely batarian matter' became an interstellar, joint-national manhunt to find and apprehend the Collector and his Shepardist fiscal interests. The implications here were serious: before, the Good Samaritan had attempted, but failed, to have a salarian politician assassinated. This time, he not only succeeded, but was now directly financing what, according to the batarians, amounted to terrorism.

The Shepardists were now officially financiers of terrorism. And that went beyond raising red flags from the Citadel to Rannoch: it became a galactic security concern.

Garrus should have felt angry that the Council had waited so long to officially reach out to him. After all, his team had been the one tasked with apprehending the Samaritan, so it seemed only fair to keep him in the loop. Instead, the Council's insistence on keeping things hush-hush had exploded in their face, and they were now doing damage control to try and contain the situation, and hopefully mute any evidence that they had not only known about the threat, but had kept it largely secret from the public. Why they simply didn't use the QEC for mission critical intel was a puzzle to him: perhaps they were so paranoid at this point that they actually believed that the most unhacklable, unbreakable piece of communications tech the galaxy had at the moment wasn't as infallible as they suggested. Figures.

But no...Garrus wasn't angry at them. At least not as much as he should be. His anger was aimed towards an entirely different person. A person that could have stopped this from happening, but was currently choosing to do nothing. The one man who had unintentionally inspired what-was-now a terrorist organization to be created. A man he admired, respected and considered his best friend.

Which was why he was currently storming out of the war room, ignoring everybody around him, even those trying to speak to him, as he headed for his cabin, eager to get in contact with the very person who had vexxed him and give him a piece of his mind.

I've tried being patient. I've tried letting him think it through. We waited, and now it has gotten worse. I told him it would. He didn't listen, and now here we are. Well...I've had enough of it. I'm sick of this. Somebody needs to wake him up and get him to open his damn eyes. If nobody else will do it...if Tali won't...then I will. No more waiting. I'm done just sitting by and letting this happen.

Garrus didn't think he had felt this angry since he learned about his mother's death during the war. Even now, he still grieved in his own way, but kept it back. That's how he had always dealt with family matters: by repressing them. He hadn't seen much of his father or sister since his mother's funeral, and while he had promised to keep in contact, he had only sent the occasional message over extranet. He didn't have it in him to go see them...to face their frustration with him. His estranged family had always been annoyed with him for barely giving them the time of day, especially after Garrus quit C-Sec four years ago. One day he would make it up to them...but not today. Likely not even for a while.

Point was...he was pissed. Absolutely livid. Perhaps his actions were driven purely by frustration with their predicament, but the underlying anger was still there. He had tried his best to go along with it, to understand his friend's reasons for not wanting to get involved...but this was too much. Every minute he spent on the sidelines was another given to the Samaritan to continue...whatever it was the man was doing or planning. Shepard had always lectured him about needing to act...that some issues required less thought or more immediate action. Right now, those words sounded like hypocrisy.

He was simply too incensed to think about what he was about to do. He had been driven past the edge. Storming past the security post, ignoring the objections of the crewmen manning it, he rounded the corner and stepped into the elevator, tapping the selector for Deck 1. His body bristled as he waited, talons clenched and a low, vibrating growl eminating from the back of his throat, done at a pitch that only turians would be able to detect immediately. All the warning signs of a turian about to lash out could be seen on Garrus' form and in his expression.

He wasn't quite sure what he was going to say when he confronted Shepard...and that knowledge worried him. Shepard and Garrus were like brothers, but that relationship came with the recognition that in order to maintain that exceedingly high level of friendship, issues such as these would have to be dealt with harshly. The more difficult part of being friends, the part that many didn't like having to confront, was that arguments were often necessary, especially if, in order to protect your friend, you have to knock their head around a little.

It wasn't long before the elevator had reached Deck 1, and he was rushing into his cabin. He tapped the haptic interface to open the door, only to sigh in aggravation as the decontamination sequence engaged, cleansing his room of harmful bacteria and sterilizing it. The decon suite was a remnant of Shepard's time in command of the Normandy: an installation made when Tali also lived in the cabin, and needed it for...well, one can surmize on their own. Needless to say, with the two of them living on Rannoch, and Kasumi not only not trapped in a suit, but also very much not living in the cabin with him (she preferred her own private space), the decon suite was more of a nuisance now...he was annoyed that he kept forgetting to have it removed.

Or perhaps he wasn't forgetting? Perhaps it was his mind telling him to leave it there, the last momento from the people who once lived there.

Regardless, it was beginning to grate on his nerves, and if it wasn't for its timely completion, he may have punched a wall. Or wasted EDI's time in overriding it. In retrospect...he probably should have just done that. Guess he was too inflamed to think straight, the state of his ruminations so murky that comprehensive reasoning was taking the back burner at that current moment.

After what seemed like an insufferably long timespan, the decon sequence completed, the turian passing through the door before it had even finished opening. He homed in on his desk like a shatha lunging at its unsuspecting prey, dropping into his seat and starting up his terminal. In moments, he had Shepard's contact primed and ready to initiate a call, a talon hesitating to press the key. He temporarily reconsidered halting himself, the more advised part of him revising whether he should calm down first. His finger even began moving away in preparation to do just that.

But his choler would not have any of it. Plus, another motivation drove him to begin the exchange...one that he hated having to acknowledge, but was nonetheless a paramount concern of his. So, in the end, his priorities won out, and he hit the key, watching as the terminal began to hail Shepard's end. He sat there, waiting, one talon tapping quietly on his right leg, trying to calm himself. He managed to mitigate some of his temper, but not all of it...he just hoped he could rein in the urge to vent at Shepard the moment the connection was established. He needed to be better than that.

It took longer than usual for Shepard to answer the call, but he eventually did. Luckily for Garrus, he had managed to nail the time zones correctly this time around, so Shepard didn't look like he had just crawled out of bed. He looked good actually: combed hair, heavier but trimmed stubble, and an overall clean look. Certainly much better than he had seen the man in ages. Most of the time, he was used to see him covered head-to-toe in armor, caked in blood and guts, or carrying the same, anguished expression that he had throughout the entire Reaper War. Wtih the weight of managing an entire galactic war effort lifted off his shoulders, he looked good as new. It was a good look for him.

But even that wouldn't temper Garrus' frustration, although he managed to keep back from immediately biting the man's head off.

"Hey Garrus, nice to hear from you," he greeted, a wide smile ennobling his face, "You got the time zone right this time. You are capable of learning."

"Yeah," he chuckled, shaking his head. He wanted to retain his built-up anger, but found himself unable to keep it from simmering away. While still there, he was no longer as annoyed as he had started out...which was probably for the best, especially if it made this conversation a little bit less confrontational.

Shepard wasn't stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination, and he was able to figure out something was wrong almost immediately upon hearing Garrus' lackluster response. He was used to his turian friend responding with an equally witty comeback. He frowned, his smile dimming somewhat, "Something the matter, Garrus?"

Breathing in deeply, he rapped his talons along the desk's edge a few more times before nodding, "Yes, Shepard, there is. The Samaritan has struck again."

Whatever hospitable emotions had been present in their conversation now evaporated completely as Shepard adopted a serious expression, sitting up straighter at his own desk on Rannoch, "I assume his plan was foiled again?"

Garrus stared at him for a long, drawn out few seconds, "No. He was successful."

"Who..." he began, scratching his jaw, "...who was the victim?"

"Well..." he leaned forward, placing his arms firmly ontop of the desk in support of his weight, "...I'd strain to call them a victim, but since you asked...Balak. The 'victim' was Balak."

Shepard was flabbergasted, "Out of all the people to kill that son-of-a-bitch...it was the guy we've been hunting down?"

'I've'. The guy 'I've' been hunting down, Shepard. Keeping that petty comment to himself for now, he nodded sagely, "Yes. As you can imagine, the crew is having to ration tears at the moment."

Shepard chuckled bitterly at the somewhat ghastly act described to him, "If I didn't know already who had done it, I might have shook their hand. We've wanted that scumbag dead for years, and some cultist zealot gets lucky and takes him out for me?"

"I wouldn't blame you for having conflicting feelings," he retorted mirthfully, "If I find him, I'll be sure to shake his hand on your behalf."

The former commander merely offered a grunt in response, before going silent for a few moments, contemplating what he was told. Garrus had to admit that it felt a little surreal to hear this news: the Normandy crew had made many enemies, but none of them had lived to survive their wrath...except Ka'hairal Balak. They had fought and killed the Shadow Broker, wiped out the Reapers, obliterated the Collectors, killed Saren Arterius, taken down the Illusive Man and Cerberus...but the face of the batarian regime, probably the most evil of them all, had survived...even become a co-belligerent towards the end of the war. Shepard had confided in him just how much he wanted the batarian dead: how he had known him since he found out he was behind the attack on Elysium that had made him famous. Shepard had promised to kill Balak when the war was over, but for one reason or another, that personal mission was put on indefinite hiatus when he went to live on Rannoch with Tali. Mutually, Balak had wanted Shepard dead, especially after the Aratoht incident.

To learn that the leader of some cult, a man with far less resources, far less capabilities and an exceedingly below average knowledge of how the batarian operated and what his personality was, had succeeded where they had failed...you could be damn right their feelings were conflicted.

"So...Balak is dead," Shepard piped up after a long silence, shaking his head disconcertedly, "But wasn't he on Khar'Shan? I had Liara using all her intelligence resources to find that fucker...he's been hiding in batarian space since the war ended. He knew I'd be there for him the moment he stepped foot outside Hegemony space, so he hid there. So how the fuck did the Samaritan get him?"

He sighed, scratching the left side of his face. The point in the conversation he dreaded the most had arrived, "He didn't...not physically. Didn't even get his own cultists to do it. He...we're still not sure how or why, but he somehow got in touch with one of the revolting slave factions based near Rekalhafg. A former slave, a man known only by his lias 'The Collector', took responsibility for the hit. He was one of Balak's personal slave. He also killed Balak's adjutant, but he had help. We think...the Council has received actionable intel that the slaves were recruited by the Shepardists, namely the Samaritan, to kill Balak."

"That's..." Shepard trailed off, worried by the implications of such a statement.

"It sounds crazy, admittedly," he replied straightforwardly, "But it fits their profile. Everybody the Shepardists have targetted have not only had connections to you, but have been people you've knocked heads with. Aria T'Loak, Dalatrass Linron...now Balak? STG thought it was too much of a coincidence, and they were right. Batarian SIU, with a little bit of a push, gave up what they knew. They've had the Shepardists on Khar'Shan wiretapped for a while now. Just a day before the attack occurred, the Shepardists reached out to the Rekalhafg cell of the Slave Revolutionary Army. They...recorded the whole thing. The Samaritan's name was even dropped. He definitely ordered that hit."

"What the hell does he hope to gain?"

"I haven't the faintest clue," he shrugged his shoulders in exasperation, "If he's obsessed with you, and he's going after your former enemies, then the next target could be anybody. Spirits, the Council might even get paranoid and think they're next because of they treated us during those years leading up to the war. Who knows with cultists...they're crazy. Its impossible to calculate the predictability of crazies."

"Tell me about it," Shepard declared, groaning irritably, "You won't believe who paid me and Tali a visit here on Rannoch yesterday."

His eyes widened in shock, "What? How did they...? Are you alright?"

There was an amused chuckle, followed by a dismissive snort, "Yes, we're fine, Garrus. And I doubt the cultist would have survived Tali's wrath had he gotten violent. As for the cultist themself...Garrus, it was Conrad. Conrad Verner."

"What?" he asked incredulously, feeling like he had just been punched in the face. Conrad Verner? The overly excited, creepily-obsessed nerd who followed Shepard around like a lost varren? The harmless kid who was just a tad misguided? Sure, he led the Shepardists prior to the Samaritan's takeover, but that was before the organization became more militant. Hard to believe Conrad would survive that...let alone have the gall to approach Shepard at his own home, "Why was he there?"

"To speak to me, he says," Shepard revealed, waving his hand around vaguely in description of the event, "He was...pretty adamant about it. Wasn't even afraid of Urz...he's gotten ballsy. I'm fairly confident the Samaritan put him up to it, though. There's no way Conrad found us on his own...he had help. Whoever this Samaritan is, he knows a lot about us...about me. Tali's a bit concerned."

"I would be too if the creepy fanboys that were following me around turned up to my house," the turian added.

He nodded, "That's what I thought too. Either way, Tali notified the rest of the Admiralty. The quarians were apparently already in the process of screening for Shepardists anyway, and the cell based in El'Tivv has gone to ground. Suffice to say, no more Shepardists will be visiting Rannoch without Tali knowing about it. No more surprise visits, at least."

"I still don't think I can quite fathom it. Conrad...the same guy who dressed up in fake armor and was fooled into thinking he was shaking down a red sand ring on Illium? The same Conrad? Hard to see him becoming radicalized."

"I wouldn't have believed it myself, until I saw it," Shepard divulged, wiping his face down in displeasure. Giving himself a moment to get composed again, he just shook his head, hand rubbing the back of his neck like one tended to a persistent itch, "Anything else I should know? Aside from some scumbag being dead?"

Here it goes. "Yeah...about that. Shepard, its not quite that simple," he began, trying to find a delicate way to approach the coming revelation, "Normally, I wouldn't have bat an eye at someone like Balak being lynched by a former slave. I might have called it beautifully ironic. But...it goes beyond that. Shepard, there's a reason why the Collector and his slaves are working with the Shepardists. They're being financed by them."

The word 'terrorism' hardly needed to be dropped for Shepard to lean back in his chair, sigh heavily and cover his face with both of his hands in chagrin. The Slave Revolutionary Army wasn't a well kept secret by the Hegemony...neither were the slave revolts they coordinated and orchestrated. The Hegemony had been in a bad way since the war: not only had they been the first hit when the Reapers finally arrived, but the worst hit. Their navy was essentially yesterday's history, most of the professional army was gone, their civilian population was decimated, their already battered economy was shattered by the depression, and most of the hardcore, staunch supporters of the regime had died when the Supreme Regent did. Balak had been one of the few left of a dying breed. And with the Hegemony's economy essentially in open revolt, with their military in too piss poor a condition to quell it like they had in the past and their intelligence agencies in shambles, the Hegemony's collapse was a matter of 'when', not 'if'. Not even the feared Feksogar secret police were enough to keep the slaves in line now.

However, as sympathetic and heroic the SRA's cause might be...however much it seems like they deserve to achieve victory over their batarian fascist oppressors, the SRA were not entirely innocent victims. While their cause had started out noble and just, it, like all the good causes of history, eventually turned to extreme methods and violence to achieve its aims. Riots evolved into public executions and lynchings. Negotiations turned into butchery and political assassinations. War was the tool which the slaves had chosen to liberate themselves. Unfortunately for everybody else, the Hegemony weren't their only enemy they had set eyes on. As far as they were concerned, the Council and the rest of the galaxy were just as guilty for turning a blind eye to the Hegemony's illegal operations, and thus their grievances were with them as well. Garrus couldn't blame them, and could certainly see why they believed this: the Council, instead of imposing sanctions on the Hegemony when they implemented institutionalized slavery after the end of the Batarian Civil War, had turned a blind eye to the batarians. They didn't even do anything when slaver raids began on human colonies. So absent was Council intervention that the batarians even publicly contracted the Blood Pack to run third-party slaving, not even trying to keep it secret. They even named an entire branch of their military the Slaver Corps, almost like it was out of spite.

So yeah...one could understand the SRA's hatred for the Hegemony and the Council. Unfortunately however, Garrus wasn't in a position of neutrality. He was a Council agent, and thus the Council's enemies were his enemies by extension. In the end, that placed him in the unenviable position of being the Hegemony's ally. He had to help people he despised crush a rebellion by people he respected and secretly supported. Without the Council, the SRA might have succeeded in toppling the Hegemony. With the Council though...with that kind of firepower and might, the SRA didn't stand a chance.

And, loathe as he was to admit it, the SRA's tactics and calls for the deaths of all their enemies...landed them squarely as terrorists. And no matter the government...nobody liked terrorists.

And the Shepardists were funding them.

Shepard understood this too, and he sighed, "One man's terrorist, is another's freedom fighter..." he trailed off under a whisper, before shaking his head, leaning forward again, voice back to normal pitch, "The SRA was bound to drag the Council into their conflict someday. It was only a matter of whose side they'd choose to enter on. And if the SRA are in bed with the Shepardists...this rabbit role just gets fucking deeper and deeper."

He winced, trying his best to hide his discomfort. With his anger gone, all that was left was the same, importunate need to convince Shepard to do what he knew, deep down, would be something he'd never agree to. Despite this, he no longer had the patience, or the time, to do so. Events were in motion that could no longer entertain either of their wishes much longer.

But Shepard noticed. He always did. Regardless of his profession as a killer, he knew how to read expressions, even those of turians, and with all the facial cues he was giving off, his human friend couldn't ignore what he had seen, "There's something else, isn't there Garrus?"

"Yes Shepard, there is," he hissed through clenched mandibles, trying not to sound annoyed, but unable to hold back, "The Normandy...the Nos Astra Justice Department isn't cooperating with C-Sec or the Council anymore. Citadel's Justice Bureau has shut up the investigation on Illium, and the NAPD is taking point now. We're on our way back to the Citadel...with no leads on the Samaritan or where his followers are now based, the Shepardists financing slaver terrorists, Balak dead as a direct result of that, the Hegemony on the brink of a civil war, and the Council seriously concerned that this civil war could spillover into not just Alliance space, but Council space, meaning their intervention is all but certain...I'm sorry Shepard, but they won't wait any longer."

"What...?" Shepard began...his eyes widening, jaw clenched.

"Its too much," he elaborated, "The STG is already cooperating with Batarian SIU to begin crackdowns across Khar'Shan. The Council didn't care before, but now that the SRA is expanding their operations to include Council and Alliance targets, and with their recent ties to a wanted fugitive, they can no longer afford to remain on the sidelines. They're even thinking of deploying Spectre assets to contain the situation. That...also means their patience is at an end. I stalled them as best I could, but with no leads and the crisis getting worse and worse...they ordered me to contact you."

Shepard already knew what was being asked before even confirmed it, "They want me to come back."

"Its not a matter of want anymore, Shepard," Garrus affirmed, "They're making it an order."

"Of course they are..." he muttered, shaking his head slowly in stoic silence.

"I tried to convince them otherwise. Told them we didn't need you...that I could find them, given time," he felt he needed to convince Shepard that he tried, that he wasn't doing this without trying to find a better solution, even if it wasn't all that necessary in his friend's eyes, "I was getting through to them...until the SRA just had to go and kill the most infamous slaver in batarian history. Then the olive branch was extended, SIU shared their intel...and now we're at a crossroads. I'm sorry, Shepard."

"No need to apologize," he responded inscrutably, "You did all you could."

Surprised by Shepard's lack of a fight, the turian surmized that he had won the argument before it was had, and pushed through to the next stage, "Just so you know, they're not demanding that you begin active deployment. They know why you left the spectres, and they're not going to push the issue. All they want is a public statement, from you, that will disavow the Shepardists. They're hoping that by doing this you'll-"

"No," Shepard stated, simple and to the point.

For the second time in just a few seconds, Garrus found himself rendered speechless. Taken offguard, it took him a few moments to be able to respond again, "No?"

"No," he repeated, this time more harshly, his expression cold and iron-like in its conviction. He hadn't seen that face since Shepard gave his final speech to the crew prior to the Battle of London. He had looked scary...but inspiring back then. This time...Garrus could only feel a pit of dread in his stomach at seeing it, "I will not be ordered around. I've made it abundantly clear, but apparently they need a reminder, so here it goes: I'm no longer a fucking Spectre. I don't work for them, I'm no longer in the military...I was medically discharged from both. I am retired. Resigned. I don't give a fuck who they are...I saved their sorry asses. I gave them plenty of chances to listen to me...they never did. They have no fucking right to suddenly value me as their crisis manager. Some instant solution they can call up whenever they get in trouble. They have the Normandy. They will not have me."

Flabbergasted by the brazen selfishness put on display here, Garrus couldn't help but look at Shepard in a mixture of shock and disgust. This man, the same one who would have put his life on the line for a random stranger in the street, who had given a down-on-his-luck quarian pilgrim 1,000 credits out of charity, who had gone out of his way to put a campaign on hold just to help a friend get revenge or exonerate the woman he loved of a crime she didn't commit...the very same man, who against all odds, despite not needing to, had shouldered the burden of leading a gargantuan war effort, who had tortured himself with casualty reports in the twisted hope it would motivate him to do better...who had taken on the weight of his own emotions in an effort not to demoralize his crew...

...this man, who embodied all of these acts of selfless altruism...was currently turning his back on a galaxy in need.

He was so speechless that he just sat in silence as Shepard continued, "The Samaritan is their problem, not mine. I want nothing more to do with my old life...I'm done. I've absorbed my fair share of punishment. I made a promise...that the Reapers would be it. That, after all that is done, I would set aside my rifle and build a new life. I have never once strayed from that...and I refuse to allow the Council to order me to break it."

Finding his nerve again, Garrus butted in, "I think Tali would understand if you broke a promise to her to help save the galaxy from a movement of madmen intent on using her soon-to-be husband's name to pervert the course of justice and wreak havoc on the galaxy!"

"Sure she would," Shepard admitted, "Because Tali rarely ever takes a moment to think of herself. I...I don't deserve somebody like her...but for whatever reason, I'm the lucky bugger she chose to be with. I will not destroy what we have, the future I promised her...just so I can go around fixing everybody's pest problems. You have the Normandy. You have the Shadow Broker. You have the combined backing of entire governments at your disposal...you have the endless supply of allies we built up before and during the war...you don't need me. I'm not special. I put you in charge because I knew you could do just as good a job as I did. Use what you have and defeat the Shepardists. Just don't rope me into it."

"That's unfathomably selfish of you," he hissed, standing up from his chair and pointing angrily at his terminal. His cool had completely diminished, the sea wall breaking as the tidal waves of pent up anger finally broke through, nothing to stop them, "The Shepard I knew wouldn't be moping around like a lost fucking varren. He wouldn't be wallowing around in self-pity. He'd get up, slap on his armor and go kick some cultist ass! But no, you're just going to sit on Rannoch, cozy in your home, and let everybody do the work for you. That doesn't sound like the man I fought beside and respected. The man we all would have taken a bullet for."

"Oh, save me the fucking sermon, Garrus!" Shepard snarled in return, "You want to know my fucking limits? I died...nearly twice! I've watched and commanded friends and good men and women to die by their dozens! I've made shit decisions that have gotten people killed! I've wasted time and energy naively thinking all of it will eventually amount in a better tomorrow...only to watch vermin like Balak get off scot-free, running away where I can't touch him! You spend enough time trying to save every little person in the galaxy...and it will make you yearn for peace! And when you finally get it, you don't want to let go! You want to know what that feels like, Garrus? Do you? Take Kasumi, run off to somewhere quiet and peaceful, and then fucking tell me you'd give it all up at the drop of a hat because Council asked you nicely to deal with some thug and his cronies causing trouble."

"I'd do what's right..." he replied, "Which you've clearly forgotten how to do."

"Don't lie to me, Garrus," he spat back, "You and I both know that isn't true."

"Maybe it isn't," he admitted, sitting back down in his chair, "All I know is that the man I once respected...the man who I thought would always do the right thing, no matter what...is a coward."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you heard me," the turian replied acidicly, "You're afraid of returning to the fold. This isn't about wanting peace...this is about you being afraid that you might not want it as much as you thought. You're terrified that if you get one little taste of combat again...you won't want to give it up. You're running from your duty...which makes you a fucking coward."

"I expected better of you," Shepard declared, "I thought you'd understand my decision. After all we went through during the war, I thought you'd at least comprehend my reasons. You even told me you had. And now here you are, delivering orders that would have me throw it away."

"All you need to do is publicly disavow-"

"Bullshit. You and I both know that won't work. The moment they see me on a vidscreen, all they'll hear is the opposite of what I'm saying. Disavowment will become enablement. They're a cult, Garrus. That's how they fucking operate. Anything that doesn't fit into their world view gets discarded for a warped version of that view. They won't change...the only way to stop them will be intervention. Which will inevitably have me return to the fold. This is a slippery slope I refuse to embark on."

"So that's it then," the turian shrugged, defeated, "You've given up. You'll even ignore a Council order."

"They don't give me orders. I don't work for them anymore," he returned.

"I thought we were better than this," the turian hissed, "I thought you were."

"You thought wrong," Shepard blankly offered...it was a weak response, but all he had, "Goodbye, Garrus. And give the Council my answer."

The comm link turned to a black screen before the turian could respond, leaving him to sit in silence, staring at an empty link. He could barely decipher what was said...it had all happened so fast. The intensity of their argument, the futility of Garrus' words...it had all come crashing down on him with the brute force of a krogan charge. Shepard had delivered his ultimatum, his damned dedication to inaction irritating Garrus to no end. Harsh words were exchanged, far more brutal than intended, leaving both to ponder what had been said.

In the end, there was nothing Garrus could say to alleviate the pain he felt. To push aside the feeling of...betrayal. Yes, that's what it was. Shepard had betrayed what he stood for...was willing to stand idly by while the Samaritan burned a bloody path through the peace they had fought so hard for. The very peace he was now using as a justification for his passivity. His complete apathy.

No, there was no words to be said.

In that moment...Garrus vented his anger the only way he could.

His arm raised, poised to strike, and came smashing back down, straight onto his terminal.

For those outside the room...all they would hear was the sound of a very incensed turian. A turian who had felt betrayed and left behind by the commander he had considered his prelatum ostri.

---

Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 18, 2188.

Hearing nothing but silence behind the door that led into Shepard's study on the second floor, Tali figured the argument was now over. She had been downstairs making lunch for herself when she had heard the raised voices of Shepard and Garrus upstairs. Driven by curiosity, Tali couldn't help herself and had gone up to investigate. It didn't take her long to deduce what they were talking about, and she winced at some of the vitriol the two threw at each other. Garrus calling Shepard a coward...Shepard, in turn, accusing Garrus of trying to drag him back to the galactic stage. The heated exchange had ended with Shepard wistfully cutting the line, likely leaving a stunned and furious Garrus to stew on the other end.

She had waited a minute, listening for any sound, but failing to find any. Nothing but silence permeated the room, and she could only conjure up the image of her neh'sah staring blankly at his desk, annoyed at his friend, but feeling guilty about what he had said. Garrus was only doing what he thought was best for Shepard, but apparently Shepard didn't share his feelings. Tali couldn't blame either of them, and found herself not knowing who to support.

John wants us to remain here and let the cultist crisis blow over. Garrus wants to take action and defeat the cult before the situation grows out of control. Neither of them are necessarily wrong...but keelah, I don't know who I support more. John is only doing what he thinks is best for me...for us. He wants us to begin a new life free of conflict, but we can't do that if the Shepardists are constantly drawing attention to him.

UItimately, Tali knew that delaying confronting the subject was a no-go now. They had to talk about it...the amount of attention it was drawing towards them was simply becoming too much. Before, she was right along with him in believing that they could just ignore the problem and it would go away...she even encouraged him to believe that. But now...from the sounds of it, fate just wasn't having it. The Shepardists weren't going anywhere...and that was simply not something they could afford to ignore much longer.

Finally, after a long moment, she reached down and turned the door knob, swinging the door open as she entered the room. Almost immediately, Shepard was shaken from his dormant state as he looked up to address his guest. Upon seeing her he relaxed, smiling weakly before returning to his pensive state. His terminal was inactive...the display dimmed and powered down, as it had been for over a minute. He simply sat behind his desk, one hand secretly massaging his sore right leg, while the other cradled his head, supporting it while he was deep in thought.

Closing the door behind her, she quietly and delicately approached him, doing so until she stood right infront of the desk, hands braced against it as she looked right down at him. Not wanting the silence to linger between them any longer than she had to, she moved to speak up, her auditory emulator lighting up as it picked up the sound of her voice...

...only for Shepard to get there first, "I'm guessing you heard the entire argument?"

Her gentle, tactful nod was all the answer he needed, "Most of it, yes."

He remained sullen in solitude for a few more grating moments, leading Tali to almost speak up before he could. Instead, his anger came bellowing out all at once, only now realizing he had an outlet from which to vent it too, "The Council tried to order me to the Citadel. After everything I told them about retiring...they have the nerve to think they can continue to give me orders, almost as if I never left. And then Garrus...of all people...tries to guilt trip me into going!"

Her mouth snapped shut, the quarian having picked up on enough verbal cues to know that Shepard was about to have another rant, and that it was best to let him ventilate all his frustration in one go...when Shepard was in one of these foul moods, she knew better than to try and reason with him right off the bat. She knew this because many of these rants had been shared with her during the war, where Shepard would wait until he was alone with her and let all the day's stress out in one load. Sometimes it was Tali who ranted, and Shepard would pay her in kind and just...listen. The both of them, if not the entire squad, had developed the uncanny, and disturbing, ability to bottle up their emotions during important situations, only allowing themselves time to vent when the time allowed for it. In a life and death situation, unfiltered stress could be a death sentence.

So Tali would listen...just as she always had.

He stood up, waving his hands in the air as he gesticulated his point. Shepard very rarely got angry, or at least he didn't let people see it, always managing to keep his cool during diplomatic situations...only in certain situations, such as their final battle with Kai Leng on Cronos Station, had he allowed all that anger to run freely, turning it into a weapon that he could use to bludgeon his enemies to death with. However, since the war had ended, Shepard had...been more emotional. Less likely to bottle up his emotions, and more commonly allowing them to run freely. Tali had pinned it down to him not being in the military anymore: his crew were no longer his subordinates, including Tali, were no longer subordinates and he didn't need to treat them as such. He had no ship to command, no mission to complete, no enemy to eliminate...it was just him and his lover. But with the Shepardist situation, and Shepard's physical and mental state, she was beginning to wonder if there were other reasons she wasn't quite grasping yet...

"The Shepardists are not my problem," he hissed, pacing back and forth, "And the Council cannot just sick me on every bad guy that crops up. I've had enough! But no, people simply won't get the hint! And now Garrus, the one person who I thought would understand the most aside from you, agrees with them! After everything we've been through...Saren, the Collectors, the Reapers...every horror we've conquered and every foe we've vanquished...the people we've lost, and the choices we've had to make...and he has the audacity to look me in the eyes, and call me a coward for wanting nothing more to do with it. For putting down my rifle and seeking something better."

She winced, finding herself equal parts angry and sympathetic at that revelation. I can't believe Garrus would say that. That's...horrible. Unfair. Cruel. Perhaps he didn't mean it, but it doesn't change the fact that he said it...and its clear hit Shepard hard. To have his best friend equate him to the filthiest of usze'tabb miz'qec...unbelievable. I get what Garrus is trying to do...he only wants to help us, but insulting your friend is not the way to go about it.

"Everybody wants me to be omnipotent," he stood still, fists clenched so tightly that his veins were flaring angrily against his skin, "To save everyone. To solve every issue. To kill every bad guy. To save the day, everyday. They think because I saved the galaxy my fair share of times, that it must be my destined day job. But none of them know what I did it for..." his eyes panned to hers, the raw emotion there a rare sight from Shepard, but one that warmed her up inside knowing what it carried, "...who I did it for."

Then he shook his head, returning to his rant, the moment of clarity gone, "I can't be held to account everytime somebody pretending to be a supporter of mine commits an act of terror in my name. I'm not a Spectre anymore. I'm not even a soldier. I have no command. I turned down a promotion to admiral. Anybody who even bothered to look would see that, for all intents and purposes, my plan is to leave that life well behind. To start fresh. Get married, build a new life, have-" he cut himself off, but quickly continued on as if he had never stopped, "But they don't care. All they see is a threat and instead of trying to solve it, they want to jump straight to the easy solution and have me clean it up for them. My life be damned. No...I won't let them do that to me. To us. I will not allow them to wither out in complacency and turn to me as a default resolution."

I do think he's overreacting a little... she thought to herself, all the Council wants him to do is go to the Citadel to denounce the Shepardists publicly. Then we can go on with our lives, and they'll handle the rest. Not one part of that calls for deployment, at least from my understanding of it.

"I know it sounds childish. Incredibly selfish even," Shepard admitted, answering what he assumed was an unspoken question, despite the quarian's tense silence, having said less than five words since entering the room, "And hey, I'll admit, there are times I've sat and wondered if what I'm doing is right. The consequence of having so much time to myself, no missions or reports to file, is that I have inordinate amounts of time to think. I've had debates with myself...even considered giving Garrus a call, to tell him I've changed my mind. But then I realized that the only reason I'm even considering any of it is because others have pressured me to do so. That's what I don't miss about the service: the pressure. The stress. Every day may be your last, every decision a bloody outcome...I know you and the others think I'm some sort of superhuman for being able to process it all, but the truth is...I don't. I'm just better at hiding it. I'm sick of being pressured. Of politicians organizing backroom deals with me. Of being placed in impossible scenarios. Its...a horrible burden. And they want me to take it all up again. Do you remember when we reunited during the war, during that talk in our cabin...?" he sat back down, looking up at her with the most confusingly frustrated/defeated look she had ever seen on him. Almost like...he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

She nodded, and he bobbed his head in turn, ruffling his hair as he ran a hand through it, "Do you remember what you confided in me? About being an admiral, with the lives of all your people riding on your shoulders, looking to you to save them...to lead them?"

"Yes," she whispered. It was a moment of weakness she was not fond of. She must have looked so silly to him...complaining about the burdens of command to someone who knew it better than she ever could.

"That's what I felt...every day," he divulged, letting forth a shaky breath, "I punished myself with every casualty report I read. Reports of civilian death tolls...mentally, I told myself, their deaths were on my head. I wasn't fast enough. Strong enough. Smart enough. They died because I didn't save them...and that wasn't good enough. When Mordin died, Thane was killed and Legion sacrificed himself...I convinced myself that I could have saved them, but didn't because I was weak. So when you told me that day how you felt being an admiral...I knew, in that moment, that the same disease that consumed me was eating you up too. And I was scared for you. But now that I've had time to dwell on it...I also know that it will help you to understand my reasoning for not wanting to go back. You, more than anybody else, will accept my decision for what it is, but you've experienced it first hand."

The bombshell Shepard had delivered had given both of them plenty to think about. Tali mulled over what he had said quietly, saying hardly a word. Shepard watched her studiously, waiting patiently for her own take on the situation. She knew her word held weight with him...a lot of weight. So much so she had somehow convinced the most desired man in the galaxy, a galactic war hero and the champion of the human race, to toss aside his entire military career to run off to Rannoch with her, isolated from his peers, to build a house for them and to start their new life. So, suffice to say, her opinion was mattered much and more to him. Which is why she would think carefully about what she said next.

She had heard both sides of the argument. Her emotions and heart, biased as they were, sided with Shepard's mentality. While selfish, a trait any quarian would have been ashamed to have attributed to them, neither of them could say they really felt bad about it. This was something the two of them had dreamt of since they first got together...she remembered the promise he had made to her on the Alarei, when they had been searching for her doomed father, over two years ago. His promise to build her a house back then had been platonic of course: a one-way agreement he had made to a friend he cared deeply for. The idea of him living in that house with her had been...hardly considered by either of them. If only they had known what would happen only a month and a half later...

So yes, her heart told her to side with Shepard. To support his decision to remain on Rannoch, to ignore the Shepardist crisis, and let the world pass them by as they enjoyed the ripe fruit of the peace they had fought and worked so hard to see. Remembering their second promise to each other in London only reinforced her stance: the promise to come back to each other, to put an end to it all. They had been terrified...scared of facing the end. They had both entertained what-then-seemed like a delusion, both knowing they'd either both of them or one of them weren't going to come back...and when she had found Shepard's bruised, barely functioning body, she knew that promise was more important than ever. So did she oppose him returning to his old life? Yes. She most certainly did.

But, then again, nobody said Shepard had to do so. Which is what the logical part of her argued...

"John..." she began, walking around the desk until she was leaning against it, arms crossed and looking down at him, "...I think Garrus is right."

That visibly shocked him: the rapidly developing frown on his face was evidence of that. She knew he probably wasn't unreasonable enough to think she would one hundred percent agree with him, but to hear her say she agreed with the people trying to drag him back to a life she had made him promise (or, more fairly put, they had mutually agreed to) never to return to...it must have felt like a punch to the gut.

"Not...not you too," he drawled, taking the instant he had spoken to stand up and walk away from her. Stopping at the edge of the room, he whirled back towards her, shaking his head, "Why on earth would you say that?"

"I know what I said," she admitted, shrugging, "I know we both promised the Reapers would be where we ended our previous lives and began our new ones...I know you wanted out, and I respect your choice. But it doesn't have to be that way, John. They're not asking you to pick up a gun or go field a risky operation...all they want you to do is publicly denounce the Shepardists, and they'll do the rest."

"Come on, Tali," he bemoaned, shaking his head disapprovingly, "You give an inch, they take a mile. It won't end with denouncement...even if it did, I'm not going to be bossed around by the three stooges on the Citadel and treated like a pawn that they can deploy whenever the mood strikes them. No...I'll denounce the Shepardists, then they'll ask if I can be a liason to whatever anti-cultist task force they conjure up. That means accompanying them onto the field...if the cultists get violent, then that means combat. I'll probably need to defend myself. Before you know it, I'm given a personal sidearm. A week later, I'm a field agent. A week after that...I'm commanding the task force. Before you can blink...they've roped me back in. Its a slippery slope, Tali. Give too much, and they take that and then some. It doesn't end with denouncement."

She could see his point, even if it was founded on a lot of maybies...but a small part of her couldn't help agreeing with him. The very real possibility that they would slowly but surely edge him towards reinstatement existed, and Tali feared it as much as he did, but she also knew that it was equally possible that his involvement could end entirely with said public anathematization, and that he wouldn't have to intervene beyond that. Shepard knew that as well...but he was running low on options. And he was relying on Tali to provide him the best one.

He needed her to convince him. To push him to accept the reality of their situation.

"I don't know what will happen, John," she retorted finally, standing up and moving over to him slowly, meeting his intense gaze head on, "But I do know that yesterday, our house was visited by one of them. By a person you know. They found our house, the location of which is supposed to be secret. If one cultist has visited us, that means more will follow. If they continue to think you support them, that you really are their 'Crusader' as they call you, then they will not stop with a visit. They'll turn our home into a shrine. A temple. Is that what you want for us? To be followed and harassed by an entire cult of people who think you're their God? How peaceful will our life really be if we sit by and let that continue?"

For once, he didn't have a comeback. Shepard's mind consumed her words, debated them in his head, and found himself lacking a suitable counterpoint. Noting his indecision, she pressed on, stepping up until she was right infront of him, her hands reaching up to grasp the sides of his face as she gently forced him to look at her, the three fingers of each hand grazing the bristles lining his jaw. He looked so vulnerable when he was like this, the feel of her touch practically soaking up the tension in his body like a sponge, "We can't hide from this forever. We knew outside circumstances might one day force us to make a return in some capacity. Granted, its sooner than we would have liked, but perhaps its good we get this over with now, so that we can have the rest of our lives to look forward to. I'm not saying denouncing the Shepardists will eliminate the problem...but it will make it less likely for them to harass us if they hear you criticizing them. Nothing spurns a follower like being scolded by their God."

"I hate being treated like that..." he muttered, closing his eyes, "...like a man above mortals..."

"I know," she cooed, pulling his head forward so her mask bumped against his temple, hands sliding down to rest on his broad shoulders, his own hands now rising to rest on her hips, "But your silence is what's enabling them. The Council sees that, and so does Garrus. You're not a coward, neh'sah. You're the most courageous, selfless, brave man I've ever met, and Garrus knows that too. I don't agree with what he said, but he meant well. You need to face this, John. Go to the Citadel...denounce them. Show those cultist zealots that you will not allow your name to be sullied by them any longer..."

He reached up with one hand, grasping one of hers like he was holding a feather, and lightly kissed the three knuckles of her hand in tandem, "Our name..."

"Soon," she smiled, stroking his cheek lovingly, "But not yet. First...we need to settle this."

He sighed longingly, pulling away from the comforting cradle her hand offered him as he looked at her, "I know...but...I don't know if I can risk it."

She smiled reassuringly, nodding slowly, "This won't stop until you do. This is where we're at, John...your only chance to put a stop to this. Go to the Citadel, make the announcement, come home again. If you're looking for me to agree with you...I don't. Because I really do believe the only way to get them to leave us alone is to put a stop to them using the Shepard name to commit atrocities. Please...this is the only option open to us. To you. Sitting idly by just isn't going to cut it anymore."

His expression was nebulous at this point, giving no clear indication of his mental state or his opinion of her strategy. There were times where she enjoyed seeing this vulnerable side of him: whilst in this state, he didn't keep his emotions contained, and he wasn't under the burden of having to give her orders in the middle of a battle. Nothing was kept secret. But then there was times like this, where his vulnerability allowed her to see the side of him that tackled with the consequences of his decisions. This was one such time...only, he hadn't made a decision yet.

He looked away from her for a moment, looking out through the window of his study. He had confided in her how much the sight of the ocean calmed him, which is why he had made sure to place his study somewhere he had an unfiltered view of it...to help him think. It was for that very reason that he was looking out the window at that moment, his hazel eyes reflecting the blank stare that came with someone who was zoned out in cogitation. She just stood there, patiently waiting for him, searching his face for evidence that he was still determining whether or not to go forward with her suggestion.

Finally, he shook his head, tearing away from the view of the Rannochian waves to turn back to her. Still she remained silent, not wanting to pry. He smiled in appreciation, hands reaching down to grasp her arms carefully. Finally, he spoke, his voice still carrying the indecision it had before, "I'll...I need to give it some thought. Just give me some time to think."

With that, he pulled away from her, brushing past her on his way towards the door. She turned with him, frowning, "Where are you going?"

"For a walk," he replied simply, "Along the beach. Need to clear my head. Think. I'll only be an hour or two."

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he closed the door behind him, leaving Tali in the room by herself. Sighing, she pulled out his desk chair and sat down in it, eyes still locked on the door he had closed.

She was concerned...she'd be lying if she said she wasn't. All her fears about Shepard being unable to move on from the Reaper War and the injuries it left permanently left marring his body and soul...they were yet to be denied. Shepard was trying his absolute best to wriggle free of that past, but here Tali was, suggesting he go back to it...even if only for a little bit. She argued it was for their protection: defeat a developing threat so it wouldn't impinge on their new life. Perhaps she was wrong to think that...but she knew Shepard needed a solution to this issue, and this was the closest he would get to closure. Even if the denouncement only made him believe the problem was dealt with, it would be enough to calm him down...relieve the stress that was gradually beginning to build up again.

She hoped it was enough...because even she was clueless as to what else to do at this point.

---

Kepcedah, Khar'Shan - January 19, 2188 - The next day.

Good riddance.

If somebody had bothered to ask Colonel Ocroth Kes'fakk what he thought of Ka'hairal Balak's untimely demise...he'd have delivered an answer that would have the Feksogar throwing him into a deep, dark cell at Prag'pador (the top secret Hegemony military installation that definitely doesn't exist and he knows nothing about), hidden away in the Cad'gerk mountains where he would never see the light of day again.

He was glad Balak was dead.

Being a member of the Hegemony's elite Special Intervention Unit (SIU) didn't make one a devout loyalist or a staunch supporter of the state...it just meant you could hide it better than the rest. The Kes'fakk family had the esteemed honor of being one of the few families to directly trace their lineage all the way back to the royal dynasties of the Khar'Shani kingdoms...one of his ancestors even became the Venerate First Minister of the Batarian Republic, prior to its collapse at the combined efforts of fascist rebels and their quarian enemies. After all...Khar'Shan hadn't always been the epicenter of a totalitarian, authoritarian regime. It had once boasted an impressive military, a proud upper class, and lush industry and agriculture. They had been a power that the Council could both admire and fear. Then the quarians came along...with their technological prowess, and their filthy obsession with expansion. Confrontation with the Batarian Republic was all but inevitable...and the Council just sat by and watched, eager to be rid of its two biggest economic rivals.

But the batarians were betrayed from within...the Quarian-Batarian War didn't destroy the Republic. Fascist traitors, who followed the Cult of the Supreme Regent, sabotaged them from within, pushing the two powers to war in the hopes the quarians would cripple the batarian war machine...which they did, making their takeover all the more seamless. The resulting civil war was the final nail in the coffin for the Republic, and gave rise to the depiscable Hegemony that everybody knew today. The Batarian Republic, in its heyday, would never have allowed slavery...especially not in an institutionalized, government-sanctioned form.

So yes...Ocroth despised the Hegemony. To enter the SIU required rigorous devotion to the cause, of course, and a strong, incorruptible sense of patriotism...all of which Ocroth had in abundance. Not for his state though...but for his people.

One of the few institutions to survive the regimentation and homogenization of the batarian military was the SIU. While having existed under different names in the past, the SIU's brutal and utterly relentless training program was eternal. It had earned even the respect of the turian Blackwatch and asari commandos, with the most grudging of fear coming from the human N7s. Ex-SIU operatives were some of the most sought after mercenaries in the galaxy, and while infamous for their elitism, they did not have to work much to earn that self-acclaim. Ocroth wasn't the kind of man to place himself for hire, and he had no plans on retiring, but he knew if he did...he wouldn't be without a job for long.

The SIU's operations weren't as much of a closely-guarded secret as the Feksogar, and the Hegemony often deliberately publicized their actions, albeit with some dramatic flair and a touch of mythological implausibility, to maintain the fear surrounding the SIU. While Ocroth wasn't a fan of the 'facts' made up regarding the SIU (such as their supposed involvement in eliminating a squadron of Reapers during the war single-handedly, which even batarian military intelligence admitted was nothing more than proposterous rumor), he had to admit the idea of even the most battle-hardened asari commando team ruing the day they'd have to face an SIU squad was one he enjoyed picturing immensely.

But he digressed. Ocroth hated Balak for what he represented: the Hegemony's golden boy. Their poster child. The perfect, incorruptible, infallible, heroic, champion of the Hegemony, and a masterpiece of batarian mentality. The way they promoted him, one would think he was the batarian Commander Shepard. Ocroth not only resented him, he hated him. He was everything that was wrong about batarian culture. He supported a regime that exploited their own people for material gain, a government that even resorted to enslaving their lower class to supplement the lack of foreign slaves they had post-war...the same one that stripped batarians of their freedoms and rights and viewed them as nothing more than subservient cattle. The glorious cities of their ancestors...turned into glorified labor camps. Statues erected to praise the actions of traitors, murderers and war criminals. Health care and emergency services run down and severely underfunded...all because most of it goes towards a military that has lost its sense of purpose, of devotion. And Balak supported it. Reveled in it. Even helped make some of the policies that perpetuated it.

Ultimately, Ocroth could say, outside the hearing range of the Feksogar, that he was relieved Balak was dead. Happy, even. Sure, he hated Commander Shepard like most batarians for what he did to the three hundred thousand people in the Bahak system, but to have Balak condem that was sheer hypocrisy. How does a man who profits from ruining the lives of thousands have the right to find thousands more being killed rephrensible? The man lacked any form of moral compass. Or rather...had lacked one. Anyway...he despised Shepard, but even he would have shook the man's hand if it meant Balak ended up dead. Then he'd probably shoot him afterwards.

He was glad to see the Hegemony crumbling. With the loss of their best military commander, the Hegemony had suffered a final mortal blow they would never recover from. Every branch of their military was in tatters, their leadership was made of hastily promoted officers who weren't ready for their commission, and it showed, and their economy was down the toilet. The oppressive regime that had ruled over them for seven centuries was on the verge of total collapse...and when it did, Ocroth had every intention of rising to the occasion. He might even join the winning side. Reignite Kes'fakk family legacy.

Right now, his money was on the Slave Revolutionary Army. Their fight was taking the whole of Khar'Shan by storm. And while the Hegemony's 'morally friendly' censored-version of the extranet, the Heg'radaesh, had cleverly kept the SRA's influence limited to the homeworld, Ocroth had heard from his sources on Erszbat, Logasiri, Ramlat, Verush and Camala that cells of the SRA were somehow communicating with the main cell on Khar'Shan, coordinating directives and attacks on military targets. Most of SIU theorized strongly that the SRA had not only gained access to Hegemony military equipment, but that it wasn't hijacked: it was freely given to them by defecting members of the military. It was a poorly held secret that entire companies of troops had deserted their posts and joined the SRA, taking with them tanks, weapons, aircraft...just last week, the batarian frigate BRS Revenge Keeper, had disappeared...only to be reappear during an attack on a naval shipyard, oh-so-subtlely renamed Returned Favour. Perhaps the most egregious, and worst of all the military defections, was the rumoured SRA attack on the the top-secret Prag'pador installation.

The Prag'pador facility was something of a myth among the brass: named after the infamous founder of the Vekos'net (the precursor to the Feksogar) known as the 'Bloody Carver', the facility was where dissidents and traitors went to die quietly, where top secret research was conducted and where the Supreme Regent and select functionaries were rumoured to have a 'doomsday' bunker. It was also a munitions depot where most of the Hegemony's deadliest WMDs were stored and kept...everything from biological contagions to thermonuclear weapons. It was wedged in the deepest part of the Cad'gerk mountains, which the architects had determined would make it nearly impossible to target via air strike, difficult to breach via ground-based raid, and impregnable to nuclear fallout or orbital bombardment. The perfect fortress. Secret, and invulnerable.

Or so they thought. Just yesterday, the SRA not only located the Prag'pador, but practically walked through the front door: moved in like they owned the place. Before emergency protocols could kick in and SIU forces could be on site, the SRA had left just as quickly as they entered, causing significant overall damage to the facility, killing numerous key personnel and apparently leaving empty-handed. This was the belief until somebody did a check of the munitions inventory.

And found one antimatter warhead missing.

Antimatter bombs were like nuclear weapons, but a hundred times worse. Nuclear-operated bombs split the atom to create the explosive effect that devastated everything in its wake...antimatter is notoriously unwieldy because the moment it touches ordinary matter is the moment everything around it for kilometers ceases to exist. Not only are they a thousand times more expensive to produce than nuclear weapons, but they were also banned from use by the Citadel Conventions due to their devastating firepower. Very few exist, and their use against the Reapers in what is known as the 'Miracle of Palaven' is well documented. While it cost hundreds of UGC troops their lives, the cost in return was the complete destruction of an entire Reaper battlegroup (some thirty ships), millions of the monsters they called ground troops and halted the Reaper advance for a day. And that was just one bomb.

Suffice to say, the Hegemony had made retrieval of that bomb a maximum priority. SIU and Feksogar were working together to find it...SIU and Feksogar despise each other. When they start assisting one another willingly...you know you have a global emergency on your hands. Having a weapon of that magnitude in the hands of terrorists was a nightmare on a scale of a thousand.

So despite the Hegemony's best attempts at keeping the insurrection from escalating into another civil war...the SRA was growing stronger with every passing day.

And the murmurs of planned betrayal ran deep. A murmur that Ocroth was beginning to share. Many were daring to believe in a better future for the batarian people...one free of the Hegemony's suffocating grasp, and the Supreme Regent's corruption and unchecked authority. The SRA represented a final change in the tide...one that Ocroth planned to fight beside eventually. Plans were already set in motion for his speedy exit...most of his SIU subordinates were onboard with him. Those he didn't trust enough to confide his exit strategy with were left out of the loop. They just needed to complete one final mission, and then they would be free to help start a civil war to liberate Khar'Shan.

But, for now, he was on the Hegemony's side...which meant fighting their enemies. Including the SRA.

Despite the serious threat of SRA rebels having their hands on an antimatter bomb, SIU Group Eight's task today was not to raid the facility holding it: no, this moment's escapade was equal parts crisis response, and an age ol' Hegemony favourite. Sending a message. Apparently a group of SRA who had been implicated in the murder of the Feksogar agents at the bar the day after Balak's murder had been tracked down to an apartment complex on the outskirts of Kecepdah, in the Jahradi slums district. Naturally, the Feksogar had sent Ocroth's SIU strike team to the complex instead of one of their own teams, preferring the SIU do their dirty work for them. To add insult to injury, they were given shoot-to-kill orders. The Feksogar had grown sloppy, allowed their agents to be compromised, and now wanted to make up for it by utilizing the SIU as the tip of their spear. It was a revenge operation, sanctioned by the government. Typical.

Fucking Feksogar. If I ever get my hands on the Director, I'll kill that gekekt. Don't even have the balls to send their own men...so they have me do it for them. Meanwhile, they're looking for the real threat. Where do they get off making a knock-and-pop op a priority one?

Nevertheless, they had their orders and with the Hegemony giving Feksogar full clearance, normal military procedure didn't count...so they had to comply. As much as Ocroth and his men hated working them. Nobody liked working with spooks. The Feksogar were boogeymen by reputation: their work imitated that of the Bloody Carver. They never had names, their leader only went by the name 'Director', and when they turned up, it was usually to kill or arrest you. A visit by the Feksogar was the last visit one would ever have. Even high-ranking batarian governors knew they weren't safe from their claws.

But...the Feksogar's grip was slipping. The Reaper War had decimated their ranks, with many of their agents becoming indoctrinated and turning into tools to do the Reapers' bidding. The Feksogar after the war had lost much of its former strength, which is what had allowed the SRA to rise up the way it did. The Feksogar were the most effective government enforcers in the galaxy until the machines came. In a way...it was thanks to the Reapers that this revolution was even possible. How ironic.

Ocroth had lost nearly everything thanks to the Feksogar and the Reapers. The former had executed his wife on suspicion of treason (he had gotten drunk one night at a bar and told the wrong people the wrong secrets, which his wife had then covered for him), while the Reapers had forced him to kill his indoctrinated sons, killed his parents and destroyed his family home...a home that had been in his family for generations. Ocroth had lost everything...just another reason he wouldn't shed any tears when the Feksogar disintegrated. And even more justification for why he was furious that he was even doing this for them.

Bide your time. Vengeance will come. And it will be sweet. It came for Balak. If the Haliat of Elysium couldn't escape justice, no one can.

"Two minutes out," the driver called out over the thrum of the IFV's engine. The vehicle was an old AU-15 'Akralya' infantry fighting vehicle, a remnant from the days of the Hegemony's military supremacy. It sported a fully rotational 40mm chain-driven autocannon, along with outdated reactive armor on the sides and front, a cramped troop bay in the back that could seat up to ten, and used a halftrack configuration for motion. It was obsolete by at least a century and a half, but was still a mainstay of the Hegemony's ground forces, and the SIU's primary mode of transportation and ground-side deployment.

Hearing the call out, Ocroth signalled his men wordlessly to begin a final equipment check. Rifles and sidearms were loaded, comms were checked, armor straps fastened, kinetic barriers tested. Ocroth went over the plan again for safety's sake, as simple as it was: breach for both sides of the complex, go in hard and eliminate all potential targets. Secure the building, clear the house and report back to HQ. A simple op. The seasoned professionals of Unit Eight simply nodded their heads in affirmation, having already memorized the plan verbatim. A second IFV would deploy the rest of Unit Eight at the back, while Ocroth and his team would breach from the front. His men knew what they were up against, and they weren't afraid. After all, it was a few former slaves against a SpecOps unit decked in full tactical gear. They didn't stand a chance.

Running one final check on his Tactyl battle rifle to ensure it was in working order (Tactyl, while largely reliable, also had a tendency to jam up), grabbed his helmet and slipped it over his head, dimming the visor afterwards to look through his suit's onboard computer. Everything was as it should be, which came as no surprise, as SIU were expected to look after their own equipment, and Ocroth spared no expense in that department. He had even installed numerous training and aim-assist VI suites to help him better hone his skills, making him the deadliest shot in the unit. Quickshot, they called him.

Two minutes later, the IFV's wheels screeched to a halt. The vehicle jolted on its suspension for a moment, before stopping, the bay door opening. With a grunt to his men, he rushed out and took point, legs bent in a crouch and his rifle held tightly to his chest. He stood and waited for the rest of his troops to come out, before moving to join them. All seven of them converged on their target: a tall, seven storey apartment complex, listed under the name of a batarian named Rarn Bamberk. Feksogar knew it was an alias, of course.

They quickly reached the front door, piling up on each side, with Ocroth closest to it on the left. His second-in-command, Icrask Gac'davan, also known as 'Blindspot', was closest on the right. Peeking through the window, the batarian continued to defy his mocking nickname as he provided an overview of their opposition, "I count four closest to the door: two on the upper stairwell, one in the laundry and another having a smoke near the door. I can just see another one sitting on a couch in the living room, and four others moving around. None of them look armed."

"Anything else?" Ocroth asked quietly, keeping their voices down to avoid detection, "Schematics mention a basement. Do you see an entrance?"

"I see what looks like the door that leads to it. Looks locked. Wait...I can see two guards. They are armed. M-3s."

"This is team two," Brolo Serrokk, leader of the second team, announced, "We're in position. Ready to breach on your word, Op1."

"Copy, Op2," he returned. He reached down and gently plucked two flashbangs from his bandolier, an act that Icrask followed up on. Giving a singular nod of approval, he took a deep breath, grasped his rifle tightly, and growled, "Okay, all ops, move in!"

Without even hesitating, Icrask moved back and slammed his foot forward, causing the wooden door to be torn off its hinges, splinters of broken wood spraying inwards as the object was violently kicked in. Shouts of surprise could be heard throughout, but they weren't given a chance to react as both Icrask and Ocroth filled the gap, activating their flashbangs before tossing them in. They then moved back, their tinted visors providing them shielding from the blinding rays of light. On the opposite side of the structure, four more could be heard rolling into the building. Less than two seconds later, piercingly loud bangs could be heard, along with the faint motes of light that were the flashbangs doing their job. Without a moment's hesitation, they moved in, rifles raised.

Dazed and defenseless, the first man was no hassle. Eyes still glued shut, his eyes rendered temporarily useless, the first man could do nothing as Icrask turned and fire, the high velocity round from his battle rifle penetrating through his lower abdomen, the concussive force sending him flying back into the wall behind him, blood spraying from his chest. The one in the laundry had been shielded from the blast, and quickly made a run for the opposite room, only to be caught in the leg by Icrask's lightning fast second shot.

Ocroth focused on the two upstairs. One had escaped the flashbangs, while the other was flailing around like a headless animal, crying out for help. Ocroth raised his weapon and tapped the trigger once, watching the explosion of blood and gore as his head was split open like a crushed apple, body flopping to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, rolling down the stairs. The second man blinked in shock, taking too long to figure out what to do as Ocroth readied his next shot, catching him in the throat. He fell to his knees, grasping his neck in a desperate attempt to stop his blood from leaking out. It was a lost cause.

Gunfire from the other side could be heard too. One of the two guards protecting the basement door shouted out what he assumed to be a comm, "They're here! Secure the package! Secure the-!" He never got to finish as Brolo came up behind him, slitting his throat with the ejectable blade built into the wrist of his armor. The second guard fired his pistol once, pinging harmlessly off Brolo's shield, before one of Brolo's men painted his essence across the door he was protecting.

Ocroth turned to the living room on the right next. They were beginning to recover from the flashbangs now. One man, still sitting in his seat, was moving to stand up when Ocroth double tapped him, one shot piercing a lung while another went straight through his heart, killing him instantly, his body remaining where it was seated, mouth opened in shock. Moving past him, he took down two more hostiles, shooting another through an upturned desk he had been naively using as cover, not knowing that wood was no match for mass accelerator rounds. The fourth and final hostile lunged at Ocroth in a flash of courageous vanity, only for the man to pivot on the spot, using his momentum to carry him into Ocroth's grasp before wrapping his arm around his neck, and snapping it with one brutal twist, letting the corpse drop to the floor.

Ocroth lowered his weapon, satisfied the room had been secured.

"Clear!" he shouted.

The footsteps of his men going upstairs could be heard, followed by a few more lingering exchanges of gunfire and shouting...followed by silence. The footsteps returned downstairs, the soldier responsible declaring the top floor to be secure. Soon, all teams reported in, with the entire house cleared...except the basement.

"Icrask, with me," he snapped, signalling three more soldiers to join them, "Brolo, take the rest and set up a perimeter. Make sure the house is secured."

Brolo gave a firm nod before carrying out his orders, while Ocroth and Icrask, with the three men he picked, lined up at the door.

"Sir," Icrask spoke, the first word he had exchanged with him since breaching the house, "One of the guards mentioned a package. Whatever he was talking about, that confirms two things: firstly, that whatever it is is done there, and two: that there are more hostiles downstairs."

"That's what I surmized," Ocroth returned, "Watch your corners. Ready a flashbang. We'll go in fast."

Nodding, they repeated their actions at the front door and each pulled out a flashbang. Counting to three, they then wrenched open the door, tossed the grenades inside, and patiently waited. He heard what sounded like a trio of voices shouting out in alarm, before being cut off by loud bangs and blinding light. That was there signal, with Icrask taking point, Ocroth not far behind him, and the rest taking the rear. They jogged down the stairs, weapons raised, silent as the shadows.

Once downstairs, they found five men, all armed with military-issue Nectra submachine guns. Four of them were too busy trying to desperately clear their eyesight to defend themselves, but one had successfully gotten to cover in time, and opened fire. Icrask's shields took the brunt of the fire, and fired back. Unlike Icrask, the man who fired might as well have been naked, with the shot tearing through his gut and dropping him to the floor, followed by another through the sternum that put him down for good. The other four were a different story: Ocroth's team opened fire, but these ones were equipped with kinetic barriers, and took the brunt of the hits. Not that it mattered, as all the shields did was delay their deaths by a few seconds, and they soon joined their compatriot on the ground, pools of blood joining into one big lake of essence around them.

"Basement is clear, Op2," Ocroth confirmed, "Mop up the house and call it in. Get the Feksogar to send a clean up crew. We have a lot of bodies, and I'm sure they just can't wait to stick their faces on this week's propaganda reel." He could barely keep the contempt from leaking into his tone.

Brolo noticed it, but didn't comment on it. In truth, he shared his contempt, "Understood, sir."

"Sir," one of Icrask's men called out, grabbing his attention, "We've come across the fucking motherload here. I think we've raided a munitions depot."

Ocroth hadn't had much time to take in his surroundings as he was clearing it, but now that he had, his eyes widened at the amount of stock that was stashed down here: Icrask's man was right, this was a munitions depot. Moving over to where he was standing, he saw an open crate full of military-grade kinetic barriers, at least eighty of them, resting ontop of three more crates that likely had even more. Placing his rifle down ontop of the crate, he moved over and popped the seals on the rightmost crate, finding a shitload of Nectra SMGs and Tactyl battle rifles. Each crate was stamped with the Hegemony insignia, along with the words 'Property of the Regent and the Batarian State'.

Stolen military stockpiles. How many safehouses have basements filled with these? Did we just raid an SRA staging base?

Moving over and popping open another crate, he found dozens of fragmentation grenades...even some napalm and Jewek-KJ gas grenades. Jewek-KJ was a deadly gas that caused total respiratory collapse in those who inhaled it, and was banned by the Citadel Conventions: not that the Hegemony cared. At least fifty or so crates of these littered the room, within them containing any assortment of weapons.

"Holy fucking shit," Icrask exclaimed.

Ocroth turned around, and his eyes widened even further as he watched him pull out the thermal chain belt for a SE-06 Celto-Pracht general-purpose heavy machine gun, a weapon so powerful it had to be mounted, and whose .50 caliber rounds could shred a skycar's hood and tear through 30 inches of steel. Icrask looked like he was in love, but also in awe as well. Ocroth didn't blame him. How the SRA managed to nab one of these was a mystery, not to mention smuggle what looked like four of them to this hideout.

"The Feksogar made no mention of this," Icrask queried.

"They knew," Ocroth declared, shaking his head, "They absolutely fucking knew. This was a repossession op. Sent in the varren to clean up their fucking mess."

Icrask looked at him with wide eyes of realization, "You think...you think they're the ones the SRA stole it from? I did hear rumors of a Feksogar convoy being hit. You think...?"

He turned to Icrask, his glare piercing, "No, I think they're the ones who gave it to them. Feksogar has been compromised ever since the war. They know it, and they can't control it. My bet is that they have traitors in their ranks. That convoy that was hit was transferring weapons and materials from Prag'pador after it was attacked. The government knew it was compromised, and had them move the munitions to their Plan-B facility. I think the SRA was counting on exactly that."

Icrask nodded, "They hit Prag'pador to bring the convoy out into the open. They knew they wouldn't have the time to raid the facility and extract all the more materials before the military responded and cut off their escape, so they took the antimatter bomb to scare command into moving the munitions via convoy, and then had their agents in the Feksogar betray the convoy's location. Then they attacked the convoy. Feksogar knows that and sent us to get their shit back."

"Like I said," Ocroth growled, lashing out with a firm kick to one of the crates, picking up his rifle as he holstered it on his back, "Cleaning up their fucking mess."

"This isn't all of it," Icrask noted, "This basement...its too small to contain some of the bigger weapons they raided from that convoy. They must have numerous safe houses scattered across the planet. Some of it might even be off-world by now."

"They've probably got us SIU raiding houses like this one as we speak," Ocroth muttered. Finally, after a minute, he reached up to his comm, signalling Brolo, "Op2, get the Director on the horn. Tell them I want to know exactly why the fuck my men were sent out to retrieve these weapons when we've got SRA running around with their nuclear toys."

"Got it, boss."

Silence filled the room once more, Icrask's three men securing the crates while Icrask and Ocroth paced around the room. Icrask nudged one of the corpses, while Ocroth went over their revelation in his head. One thing didn't make sense to him. One detail stuck out. And he just couldn't get it out of his head.

He decided to voice his concern, "I don't get it. Why raid the convoy?"

"I thought it was obvious," Icrask offered.

"No shit," Ocroth returned sharply, crossing his arms as he leaned against the crates behind him, "That's the surface-level explanation. Think deeper. Why would the SRA, still in its infancy, risk attacking a classified Hegemony military facility that most people think is a myth, steal a WMD, and then attack a high-value convoy? The SRA is smarter than that. They know we'll retaliate, and their attacks so far have been limited to low level hit-and-runs and assassinations. They know they're not ready for full-scale war yet. They wouldn't be stupid enough to bite off more than they can chew."

"Rogue element, maybe?" Icrask returned, standing up, "Rebels have them all the time. Extremists who go too far for the cause. Perhaps a rogue cell thought it was time for an escalation."

"No, this was too coordinated for a rogue cell," Ocroth dismissed, "They knew exactly what they were looking for, where to find it and how to get it. Something simply doesn't add up. Let's back up a bit...they stole an antimatter bomb to make us believe our auxiliary arsenal was compromised..."

Icrask quickly caught on, "What have they done with the bomb? They didn't return it once they got what they wanted."

"Which means they always planned on using the bomb," Ocroth concluded, "The convoy was just a bonus. A consequence of operation."

"Wait..." Icrask piped up, frowning deeply as he eyed one of the bodies below them, whose red blood was now caking the floor around their boots. He looked back at Ocroth, "...didn't the guard upstairs mention a package?"

Ocroth nodded, eyes widening as he quickly hailed Brolo again, "Op2, stop what you're doing and run a GPS calculation for me."

"Sure thing, boss," Brolo immediately relented, "What am I looking for?"

"The Cad'gerk mountains," he replied, "Which of the safe houses being raided is closest to those mountains?"

Obviously confused by the question, but nonetheless complying with it, Brolo ran the calculations. A few seconds later, he came back with his answer, "Well...ours is, sir. We're the closest city to Cad'gerk."

By the Pillars...that means...

There was a cough, a wet, disgusting sound, followed by the sound of a click. Whirling around, he watched the head of one of the men he had killed, the one who had escaped the flashbang, fall back to the ground, eyes slowly sliding shut. His four eyes trailed down to the man's hand that lied at his side...

...and found a switch.

A beep could be heard from his right. Both he and Icrask turned to the source, finding one of the crates, by far the largest, beginning to glow a bright purple. Only one type of device glowed that kind of color, especially one that big.

Ocroth turned to Icrask, eyes widened to their greatest extent. He brought up his comms, "Brolo, get your men out of the house! Contact Supreme Command, and tell them we need to begin evacuation of-"

Khar'Shan's surface was scarred deeply. The planet was once an ideal garden world, vibrant in color. Industrialization across the planet had tainted that beauty, but only the orbital bombardment and desolation brought by the Reapers had managed to transform the garden sheen of the planet's biosphere into a sickly, muddy brown that more resembled an aging, dying world. As such, the light pollution that had once lit up the entirety of Khar'Shan, to the point of being visible from space, had been snuffed out. Only a few lights lit up the surface now, and most were barely visible from orbit.

But one light stood out. One, bright light. It was purple, and colossal in size. It lit up part of a continent in a flash so bright that its phosphorescence must have covered kilometers upon kilometers of landscape. It looked like a gigantic firework had gone off...

...but the truth was far more insidious. That great light, that beautiful purple glow...represented the instantaneous death of over one hundred and fifty thousand people. That light consumed the kilometers of land that it covered, devouring it and leaving nothing but craters behind. It was the kind of deathly radiance that left no corpses, no DNA and no fallout. It was the greatest weapon ever built by organics. It was a weapon that, so powerful in its scale, had snuffed out a hundred thousand lives in an instant, without those people even knowing they were dead.

That light was a butchery. A gunshot in the darkness. A first strike.

And with it, a civil war had begun...in more ways than one.

---

A/N:

...did I not say Balak's death would pale in comparison to what I have next?

Here I am, again, proving that I'm not dead. And neither is this story. In fact, things are just ramping up. Balak is dead, Conrad knows where Shepard stands, Shepard knows where Garrus stands, Tali knows where Garrus stands...and thousands of people on Khar'Shan simply aren't around to stand anymore. This poor galaxy just can't catch a break, can it? Well, the ball is now rolling, so it'll only get worse for the Normandy crew I'm afraid.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As per usual, I've got another Flashpoint prompt I'll be doing before I move onto Chapter 10, so please just bare with me. I hope I'm making it worth the wait.

With that said, some music suggestions, as always:

Conrad's Visit: "Throw Hell At Him" by Rupert-Gregson Williams from the film Hacksaw Ridge.

The Argument: "Interrogating Blackburn" by Johan Skugge and Jukka Rintamäki from the game Battlefield 3.

Shepard/Tali Talk: "Of Helplessness" by Elliot Goldenthal from the film Heat.

The Bombing: "Start a War" by Hildur Guðnadóttir from the film Sicario 2: Day of the Soldado.