"The cynicism that regards hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority." - Yukio Mishima.
"Ground Zero", Kepcedah, Khar'Shan - January 20, 2188 - The day after the Kepcedah Incident.
The joint Hegemony-Council task force was off to a great start.
To James Vega, the idea of the Systems Alliance, a government whose principles and ideology he strongly believed in, teaming up with its arch nemesis, its morally rephrensible counterpart...it disgusted him. Since the Alliance first revealed itself and stepped onto the galactic scene, the Batarian Hegemony had made a mission out of destroying humanity's chances at interstellar influence and having a say in galactic politics. The batarians had viewed them as the new kids on the block...as such, they thought the infant Alliance would be vulnerable, fragmented, unsure of itself...and as a result, ripe for slaver raids. They might have been right...but they picked the wrong species to fuck with. Humans don't just roll over...when they want something, they'll do anything to get it. Their selfishness as a species is mostly a weakness, but in times such as those, it was a strength.
The Alliance's war with the turians had been a blessing in disguise. They had gone toe-to-toe with the most professional, well-supplied and powerful military force the galaxy had ever seen before the Reapers. While their eventual defeat had been inevitable, they had held out for over a month against superior numbers and manpower. That encounter had prepared the Alliance for what was to come, and as a result of the First Contact War and the lessons learnt from the humiliating defeat on Shanxi, their military was significantly overhauled, taking lessons from the United States of America of the 21st century. What formed in the next few years was a highly regimented and experienced fighting force. So when the batarians decided to take a bite out of the human pie, they were met with surprise.
The Skyllian Blitz was a decisive blow to the Hegemony, and discomfitured them before the galactic scene. Not only had they lost battle after battle to a fresh, relatively new power, but they had even been forced to ask for an armistice when the Alliance pushed them so far back that they were beginning to lay siege to batarian worlds: the fall of Torfan, the Hegemony's signature military shipyard and key strategic base for the sector, had forced the Supreme Regent to beg the Prime Minister for a cessation of hostilities. The Alliance had not only proved their ability to defend their colonies, but demonstrated to those who were ready to strike that they would not take a beating lying down, and that when they struck back, they'd do so hard, fast and without mercy. The Blitz was a defining moment in human history: the first decisive human victory against an alien power since the First Contact War. They had wiped clean the embarassment that was Shanxi. Now they were dictating terms of surrender. Not only that, but to a power that was centuries older than them. A power that had been at the height of its power and waging wars while Europe was still fighting amongst itself, the New World had only just been discovered, and the Ming dynasty ruled over China.
It was hard for humans not to develop an ego over that. It was empowering. They weren't just new kids anymore: they were kids who had proven their mettle. Even the turians took notice, and despite the anomosity that still existed between humans and turians for the First Contact War, nothing united them together more than their shared hatred of the Batarian Hegemony. The turians respected humanity's will and spirit to keep fighting no matter the odds, which meant a lot coming from such a disciplined, jaded and stoic society such as theirs. Humanity benefitted greatly, while the batarian reputation descended into the toilet. Ever since then...human-batarian diplomatic relations were so tense that one could cut through it with a knife. Alliance Command was positive that another war with the Hegemony, this one far more devastating, was ineludible. The batarians were a proud people, and they would demand vengeance. Since then, their military had only gotten stronger, and with it, the batarians only smarter. Command believed that a batarian attack was taking place on June 2, 2186 when the Hegemony suddenly went silent and Alliance colonies along its border started going dark. Torfan, one of the worlds surrendered to the Alliance as part of the Treaty of Torfan that ended the Blitz, was the final straw...confirming in Parliament's eyes that an invasion was underway, and the Prime Minister was to announce a declaration of war that day.
The rest, of course, is history. Only two hours later would they realize it wasn't an Hegemony invasion: it was the Reapers. The Hegemony had been decimated, and then the Reapers came for them. The war consumed the galaxy, enemies became begrudging allies overnight in the name of survival, and Hegemony soldiers and Alliance marines fought side by side for the first, and what James thought to be, the last time. Shepard knew it, Ashley knew it, James knew it...once the Reapers were defeated, if they were, and anything remained of batarian and human civilization, they would become enemies again...there was simply no escaping that truth.
But that day wasn't today. And, most importantly, Alliance marines would once again be deploying onto a batarian world not to fight its inhabitants, but to help them. It was a truly baffling, uncompromisingly outlandish situation, and yet here they were.
The M41B Smoothhound APC jerked back and forth violently, and the sensation was like being grabbed by the arms and shaken back into reality by an angry mother whose lecture he had zoned out from. He blinked, wiping away what he initially thought was condensation gathering on the exterior of his helmet's visor. Quickly growing irritated when it wouldn't go away, he reached down to the clasps at the base of his jaw and popped them, allowing him to remove his helmet. It was from this action alone that allowed him to realize that a) it wasn't condensation, it was sweat and b) it was coming from the inside of his helmet, not the outside. All of this he realized as he wiped his soaking wet face down with an armoured glove, while more of the lukewarm, salty substance dripped from his helmet. It would appear his internal airconditioning was malfunctioning, or the ninety percent humidity on this hellish planet was overwhelming its ability to cool him down. Suits like these were designed to operate in environments similar to Earth, after all. Guess that's what you get when heavy overeliance on industrialization has basically fucked your atmosphere centuries ago, allowing pure, nearly unfiltered UV light to boil the surface. The batarians may have adapted to it, but James Vega just couldn't wait to get out of here. Sure, he had grown up along the Pacific coast in California, but that was acceptable levels of calefaction. This was on a whole different level, that's for sure.
The APC shook again, James reaching down to grab the edge of his seat to stop himself from falling off. The terrain their vehicle was traversing was less than ideal: the road was littered with pot holes, some of them several inches deep, dust and grit chewed up by the war machine's massive tires and shot up into the air in suffocating, blinding plumes. This road was supposed to be a rural road, but it looked about as poorly maintained as a slums' driveway. It wasn't even properly concreted, or at the very least the government could have filled in the pot holes. Instead, whoever used this road, if they weren't using skycars, wasn't going to have an enjoyable time. The only reason they were able to traverse it with barely any trouble was because the Smoothhound was designed to surmount obstacles such as this.
The Smoothhound was much like James himself: big and bulky, decked in thick reactive armor for protection, and armed with an M47-J Redfox autocannon mounted towards the front. Its massive eight tires, four at the front and four at the back, could flatten a skycar under their monstrous weight. It was an instrument of death such as this that made James feel right at home. It was no M35 Mako, but its heavy armor plating and pinpoint accurate autocannon that could tear a krogan warlord into bloody ribbons would be a welcome place for any marine. It also came equipped with two Mark VII vehicle-grade kinetic barriers, which could withstand the salvo of six gunships before buckling. Most of these were improvements made over the older M41A model, which the Alliance had sold in excess to the asari and hanar. The M41B was designed for crew survivability, ensuring that its passenger complement would live to see the battlefield they were being transported to, and from.
James prided himself on being just that: a hulking mechanism of death and destruction. The Systems Alliance Marine Corps ideal, inspired heavily by its spiritual predecessor of the United States Marine Corps, was that marines were ministers of death, their rifles their spouses, and their gear an extension of their spirit, soul and body. James had spent almost every single second of his career living up to that very concept. His weapon of choice was the M-76 Revenant light machine gun because of its high rate of fire. His armor was that of the Defender family: a Lionhead experiment on the standard issue HYPERION-87 combat armor that all marines were issued with that slapped a whole bunch of thick metal plating onto, was slotted with a larger and more powerful kinetic barrier, and had an array of extra real-time combat suites modelled after equivalent krogan protection systems that would allow the user to complete tasks the standard marine couldn't. The Defender rarely saw use outside of the 202nd Frontier Division (to the point that it was mockingly called the "202nd's Beer Belly"), but James was lucky in that it got it specially ordered for him following his actions on Fehl Prime that earned him minor celebrity status among the military.
He must have looked like a fish out of water. The Smoothhound he was seated in had a passenger complement of forty if maxed to capacity, but currently seated twenty: a quarter of his unit. Most of them were seated quite comfortably at the back, their helmets resting in their laps, Avenger assault rifles standing up and tucked between their legs, either engaged in conversation or staying completely quiet, minding their own business. One marine was playing around on his omni-tool, while another was emulating James in wiping the sweat from the back of her neck. All of them wore HYPERION-87 armor, while their commanding officer, Captain James Vega, sat towards the loading hatch in (quite frankly) massive blue-and-black Defender armor, his equally enormous LMG neatly against his left leg, held in place by one firm, gauntleted hand. He must have looked like a medieval knight; decked in thick plate, elongated broadsword resting beside him, featureless helmet looking to convey the narrative of a man who was permanently resting in thirsty-for-blood mode.
However, upon closer inspection, one could see that the marines' expressions weren't that of exasperation, mirth or disgust. No, they were curious, awed or honored. James felt he knew why. He wasn't just any marine, after all...he was the marine who had served with Commander Shepard, hero of the Alliance and poster child for the Marine Corps. The man every marine aspired to be when they signed up. It really was a soldier's dream: sign up to travel the galaxy, meet cool aliens and shoot the shit out of the bad guys. It was the kind of romanticism that even James had been caught up in admittedly. When he had been told nearly two years ago, after what he had then-seen as the disastrous mission on Fehl Prime, that he would be assigned as Shepard's guard during his house arrest on Earth after the Bahak incident...he had been flabbergasted. Here he was, some nobody, a random jarhead, and he was chosen to protect and guard humanity's champion. He didn't know what to expect.
But from that point on, it had nothing but one ride after the next. Six months later, the Reapers came, James went from Shepard's guard to his subordinate, and he was living the very same dream that every marine in the service had wanted a taste of so badly. There had been some rough patches, for sure. James and Shepard didn't start off on the right foot, butting heads occasionally over operational decisions and Shepard's overly curious nature. James had wanted to stay and fight on Earth, and, ashamedly, had viewed Shepard leaving as cowardice and desertion. But as time went on, the war furthered and he got to know Shepard and his crew better...James knew he was beginning to see why his crew were so devoutly loyal. Why none of his crew had ever betrayed him, or why they were so willing to drop everything at the drop of a hat to rush to his aid. If Shepard asked them to jump off a bridge...the typical response would be 'how high, where from and what should I do afterwards.' James not only came to see it, but became a part of it. He wasn't exaclty part of the inner circle...Shepard's most trusted of friends. But he liked to think he was not only a member of the famed Normandy squad, but a part of the larger family as a whole.
Leaving the Normandy after the war had been difficult. But with the Alliance surrendering the Normandy to the Council as a good will gesture, and James being an Alliance military member, he had no choice. However, what hadn't been as difficult was to pursue what Shepard had encouraged him to do during the war, and that was to follow up on his N7 commendation. To be asked to join the elite special forces of the Alliance military, a prestigious group that Shepard was a part of, was not something every marine was afforded, and that meant that the Interplanetary Combatives Academy had seen something special in him. He hadn't wasted anytime in enlisting, and over a year later, he had been promoted to Captain, given command of his own company, and had reached N4 in his training. Entering the program hadn't been hard: once it was noticed that Shepard himself had given a personal recommendation, and a quick read over of his service record during the war was seen, James was admitted almost immediately.
James hadn't thought he'd ever recover from Fehl Prime. Losing his entire squad, sacrificing civilians for intel that ultimately proved to be worthless...it was an enlisted officer's nightmare. But he had recovered...not only that, he had excelled well and beyond. He was determined to make Shepard and his uncle, Emilio Vega, proud. He was going to show the brass that he had earned his place among Shepard's squad for a reason, and that he would do whatever it took to prove himself worthy of his commendations. He refused to allow the people he trusted, and who trusted him in return, to be let down.
Not sure what Shepard saw in a jarhead like me, but here I am. Best to make use of it. No use searching for answers to a question I don't need answered. If it helps me become the man I need and want to be, then fuck the rest. 'Por siempre lo mejor, solo lo mejor', that's what my uncle always used to say.
The APC rocked hard again, this time far more severely, the vehicle seemingly collapsing to the left side for a moment before righting itself again. The movement jostled the entire vehicle, forcing the passengers to stop whatever they were doing to grab hold of something until it stopped. A few seconds later, it did, and the squad returned to their conversations. James had to think that the rest of the company, separated into three more APCs bringing up the center and rear, weren't having much luck either, with their occupants being tossed around like food inside a blender. Of course, they wouldn't be in this situation if they had simply flown here via gunship...but that's what happens when the Alliance wants to avoid a diplomatic incident and has to appease batarian paranoia to ward off suspicion.
Just because the Hegemony and Alliance were currently working together doesn't mean they were friends by any stretch of the imagination. The patriotic constituents of both sides' governments were driven by extreme hatred for one another, which went hand-in-hand with humanity and the batarians exchanging obloquys, derision, contempt, and many other negatively associated emotions. It wasn't hard to see why: they couldn't have been more polar opposites. The Alliance was a biparistan parliamentary democracy with a bill of rights, while the Hegemony was a totalitarian unitary state bordering on military junta whose ruler, the Supreme Regent, had absolute supremacy over his people. The Alliance military was a well organized, compartmentalized and well-oiled war machine, while the Hegemony Defense Force was disorganized fight club where commanders fought for dominance over their subordinates, usually engaged in slave grabs and was designed to maintain an empire and suppress rebellions. The Alliance fought for freedom, liberty, justice and a quality of life. The Hegemony fought for self-interest, political advancement of ideology and influence, oppression and maintenance of the status quo. There was hardly a single thing either side fought for that they could agree upon.
So could they ever be friends? With the Hegemony in the picture, not a chance. James had heard that the batarians were once governed under a constitutional monarchy: a Republic created at the beginning of batarian spaceflight and at the end of a period where Khar'Shan was dominated by global monarchies. The batarian kingdoms were dissolved, with the King of Khar'Shan sharing power with the senate. The batarians were a respected, valued member of society with a powerful empire, a mighty military and a strong economy and rich culture. But then they foolishly went to war with the quarians. That, combined with a massive civil war between the republicans and the ultranationalists, brought an end to the Republic. The ultranationalists were victorious, and the Hegemony replaced the Republic: and since then, the batarians had been ruled under a degenerative, ailing government ever since. He felt sorry for the people ruled under the Hegemony; the same people who had never known a better life. Perhaps one day they would.
It was that distinct lack of a friendship that made it extremely difficult for the batarians to make allies. Their institutionalized, state-supported isolationism and xenophobia made them a troublesome conversationalist at best, and having a military that openly participated in slave grab operations and regular planetary sacking was not something the Council wanted in charge of peacekeeping duties and participating in galactic governance. The Hegemony was also a bit of a sore loser: prior to being forced to surrender, the Hegemony had sent envoys to practically beg them to intervene, even demanding military support from the turians. When the Council flat out told them to fix their own problems, the batarians surrendered, then closed their embassy on the Citadel, severed all further diplomatic ties to the Citadel and retreated back behind their borders: the first time any government had done so since the Renegade Crisis between the Council and the Krogan Empire. Suffice to say, the batarians were not content with losing, and were outwardly suspicious of all aliens. They never asked for help...not even when the Reapers essentially obliterated their civilization. They even refused help in reconstruction efforts, keeping to themselves.
The Hegemony allowing Council military intervention inside their space was a warning sign that the government was nearing collapse. Everyone knew it: the Reapers had wiped out the parts of the government and military leadership that posed any threat, and the Collector had taken care of the last remaining one. The Hegemony was on its last legs, and it knew that, in order to survive, it would need help. Devastated by the war or not, the other galactic powers were still in better shape than they were, and they knew it. They were setting aside their pride and reluctantly asking for assistance.
James wouldn't pretend it was an olive branch. This was an act of desperation, not a change of heart. The proof was in the pudding from the moment the Hegemony military laid down the ground rules. The Council forces weren't allowed to establish their own base of operations from which to conduct counterinsurgency activities, and would have to base them from an existing HDF installation. They also wouldn't be allowed to transport troops across the planet via aircraft, as the batarians wanted to limit the Council presence there as much as possible, and didn't want to give them access to Khar'Shani air space. James and his men had learned this in abundance: they had been transported via kodiak shuttle from the SSV Tobruk straight to Fort Behj. Their commander had wanted to take the shuttle straight to the bomb site, but the Hegemony forces there insisted on ground transport. So they'd been forced to call down a few M41 Smoothhounds, and had gone from there.
His men weren't happy about it: it was bad enough that they'd all rather be somewhere else than this shithole, but now they were being bossed around by their enemies when it should have been them calling the shots. Most of them, the veterans didn't comment on it...they were used to being kicked around and tossed in the shitter. Most of those were veterans of the Reaper War, and James could bet at least one or two of them fought in the Battle of London. The rest were likely raw recruits: FNGs from across the colonies filling in for the depleted manpower the Alliance was left with post-war. The Alliance were behind the Hierarchy and Hegemony in terms of military personnel lost, but were only just behind. In total, they had lost 12 million troops...just a little over three quarters of their total forces. It came as no surprise most Alliance servicemen nowadays were replacements.
Of course...the Hierarchy's own tremendous loss of manpower and servicemen was why James was even here to begin with. The Turian Hierarchy had gotten around for centuries as the galaxy's sole peacekeeping power, because its military was the largest and most powerful out of any species. The Reaper War had changed that, and while they were still a power to be reckoned with, they could no longer shoulder the burden of enforcing interstellar peace any longer. The Alliance had been more than willing to step up to the plate, leading to the signing of the Pact of Iron: a joint agreement between the Commune of the Hierarchs, and the Parliament of Earth, to share peacekeeping duties. And as peacekeepers, they were the first the Council went to to deal with the developing situation on Khar'Shan. And a development it was.
With the assassination of Ka'hairal Balak (the Alliance's public enemy number one, so no love lost there) and the confirmation of Shepardist ties to the Slave Revolutionary Army, the Council was given no choice but to intervene. The Council's crackdown on the Faith of the Crusader was no secret at this point: the media had been quick to publicize the attacks on cult facilities across Council-held space. Even the massacre outside Aria's Afterlife on Omega had made headlines. The Shepardists were becoming the Council's first enemy post-Reaper War, and with their financing of the SRA, it was a chance to do damage that they simply couldn't ignore.
Regardless though, when it came to the Shepardist situation, there was no one James was more concerned for than the organization's namesake. He knew the man personally, and by virtue of that alone, he knew the former commander likely wasn't responding well to his name being dragged through the dirt like that. Nobody but delusional psychopaths liked having their name brought into the cultist sphere, and even less when its attached to terms like 'terrorism' and 'massacre'. He found it funny just how much he missed the Normandy and having Shepard in command. If the Shepardists had been around then...oh boy, they wouldn't have survived.
But, alas, the team was largely broken up. Shepard and Tali were on Rannoch, Garrus and Kasumi were left to continue the fight with what few crew stayed, and the rest were scattered across the galaxy, putting the pieces back together. Winning the war had been difficult, but rebuilding was an entirely different hurdle for them to leap. James had to admit that peacekeeping duties had been somewhat boring. While being posted on a ship meant he saw more excitement than the typical Colonial Guard grunt, it still wasn't the thick of the action. It was times like that, where he had time to contemplate, that he wished things hadn't changed. That he had gotten to know the Normandy crew a little while longer. To have a few more adventures.
"All adventures come to an end, Vega. I plan to be there for the end. Because the end is worth all the adventuring." He had remembered Shepard saying that to him just before the final battle. James hadn't agreed with him, but he understood why Shepard believed it. James had incorrectly surmized that he and Shepard were cut from the same cloth. Soldiers whose only devotion was to the marines, whose only goal was to hone their craft, and whose only destiny was death on the battlefield. And while he was partly right, he had failed to figure out Shepard's endgame. The reason why he insisted on being the best he could be. Why he strived for excellence in everything. Why every battle wasn't allowed to be his last...he was fighting for a future. He had a woman he loved...someone to see him through to the end. Shepard's priorities had changed. James saw that now. So while he didn't agree with Shepard's motivations...he did understand. Even if James had no intention of retiring anytime soon.
So he felt sorry for Shepard. He believed his time had come, and was ready for peace...but the galaxy wasn't. They weren't prepared to accept their hero quietly disappearing from the lime light. Everybody wanted an icon to look up to, to remind them that safety was within their reach. They had chosen Shepard to be that icon, and wouldn't accept him turning that down. Those people created a cult. Those people promoted violence to further their goals. They were deluded, despicable people. And Shepard had indirectly created them, willingly or not. That man had enough to keep him awake at night, no doubt...he didn't need nightmares of shopping centers being blown up by people claiming to be his disciples to haunt him as well.
Don't worry, Loco. We'll find those hijos de putas and put a stop to them. The Good Samaritan can't hide forever, and with the entire Council out looking for him...not even a bunch of crazies can stand up to the combined power of four Council militaries, right?
James had never been more certain in his life. He was going to do what he did best: blow up his problems. He shared that with Shepard, at least. And once he finished his N7 training, he would be one step closer to finding more bad guys to blow up. He just hoped one of them was the Good Samaritan.
But, for now, he was here helping the bad guys. At first, he had thought it was for all the wrong reasons. After all, their enemies were the Shepardists, not the slaves. The Alliance should have been giving them weapons and material to help them overthrow the Regent, but instead, they were putting boots on the ground alongside Hegemony troops to crush a rebellion that was no concern of theirs. At least, that's how he had seen it. But then he had been debriefed by the battalion commander before deployment, and that entire opinion had changed. James had never seen Lieutenant Jing's, Vega's second-in-command, face turn so pale before.
In truth, James had felt the specter of that revelation hang drearily over his head ever since that debrief as well. The magnitude of what they were going to be walking into simply couldn't be described with words. It was a horror that had to be witnessed for its scale to be truly appreciated. James liked to think he had seen the worst war had to offer...he hadn't.
The APC rocked to a halt, The vehicle jerking, this time in a forward motion, one final time before resting in place, the low hum of its engine the only sound echoing through the cabin. A few seconds later, a loud bang could be heard coming from the driver's compartment, and James knew that they had reached their destination. With a sigh, he turned to his men, fastening his helmet back over his head, ignoring the fresh sweat dripping down his face, "Okay boys, you know the dance. Fall out and group up with your company. Let's go, let's go, let's go!"
The loading bay door lowered as he uttered these words, landing with a crunch as he finished. Grabbing his LMG and holstering it on his back, he was the first out of the vehicle, the rest of his men following not far behind. Rocks and gravel crunched beneath his boots, the overwhelmigly strong smell of sulfur nearly making him gag, if not for the air filter in his helmet. The sky was the color of canted rust: a depressing sheet of brown and orange that shrouded the planet in a bleak blanket of foreboding. James felt claustrophobic just standing there, almost like the planet was closing around him oppressively, squeezing him of his last breath. Seeing it from behind the walls of a military fortress was one thing...seeing it beyond four walls, in an open plain, was another.
The last three APCs parked next to theirs, loading bays opening to deposit their own passenger loads. As the company gathered around him, he continued to survey the landscape: the Hegemony had set up fences around the entire site, with checkpoints at every road leading in here. Hegemony troops patrolled the perimeter fence, with 'keep out' and 'trespassers will be shot' signs written in Khar (the batarian language) stuck in the ground. Some of the guards looked thoroughly disinterested in what was going on: as if the melancholy atmosphere of the planet was having the same demoralizing effect on them as it did on foreigners.
Or perhaps it was the gargantuan site itself that they were forced to so meticulously guard.
As James turned around to take it all in, he had to remind himself of where he stood. To the average visitor, all one would see is a gigantic crater, one that was kilometers in width, and at least a kilometer in depth. It looked as if an asteroid had slammed into it, vaporizing the point of impact entirely of anything that had previously existed there. It looked as much a part of the landscape and as ancient as the Chicxulub crater in Mexico on Earth. The only amazement would stem from the sheer size of it...so big that over a dozen Sovereign-class Reapers could lie inside it and barely fill it. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until one realized that, up until yesterday, the crater used to be a city.
It was horrifying to put into perspective...James had never seen anything quite like it. On the horizon, the unaffected parts of the city could be seen dotting the perimeter of the crater. The zone around the crater's edge was dangerously close to collapse: skyscrapers, their sides blackened by the intense antimatter flash, teetering over the side as they threatened to fall in. Some buildings that survived the blast already had, their wreckage littered across the sides of the man-made formation before coming to rest at the very bottom. The rest of the city was abandoned: no lights could be seen, and much of it looked like a ghost town. No doubt the Hegemony had evacuated it for fear the rest of the city, what little of it remained, would suffer from sinkholes due to their close proximity to the site.
This is what the Hegemony was calling the 'Ground Zero' for the Kepcedah Bombing. This was where the SRA had detonated an antimatter bomb...and killed one hundred and fifty thousand people. This city, Kepcedah, was the capital of Khar'Shan. Or, at least, it had been until yesterday. Now it was as silent and haunted as the crypt. The batarians had been forced to relocate their capital to Rekalhafg, although many already considered that the capital because that was where the Supreme Regent's Palace was actually located in the first place. So, in a way, all they had done was make Rekalhafg the official capital.
James would have remained his helmet out of respect had it been safe to do so. Antimatter radiation was notoriously deadly, being a hundred times more harmful than any nuclear equivalent. As a result, the entire site had been cordoned off for kilometers around and quarantined, while the city was evacuated. While extremely dangerous however, antimatter radiation didn't last anywhere near long enough to produce fallout, and usually dissipated anywhere between a few minutes to a few hours after any explosion, no matter the size. Still, the batarians were taking no chances, and wouldn't lift any quarantine until they were one hundred percent certain any radiation had been eliminated. James couldn't really blame them. Better overly cautious than completely dead.
"Holy shit, sir," came the voice of one marine, Private Myers, from behind him, his voice sounding just as horrified as James, and likely the rest of G company, felt, "An antimatter bomb did that?"
"Scary, eh?" came the voice of a female marine, Corporal Heimann, "If it wasn't for our presence here, I'd have thought we dropped it. Fucking blinks deserve it."
As much as he might have agreed with the marine's sentiment, their location and the fact they were surrounded by those same 'blinks' she was referring to derogatorily meant that now wasn't the time for insults, and it wasn't time for loud mouths, "Stow it, corporal. Form up with the rest of the company, now."
James liked to be an open book. While he had always been gungho and full of the typical high-on-post-combat-adrenaline that marines were usually filled with, Shepard had changed that into something more. He made an effort to talk with the troops under his command, to get to know them the best way he could, and relate with them. As a result, most of G company saw him as a friend of sorts: a commander who would look out for them. But when he had to be stern, as all commanders needed to do sometimes, they knew their place was as subordinates, not equals. At the end of the day, he was their ranking officer, and opinions had to be set aside when he gave orders.
Heimann and Myers understood this thankfully, and immediately snapped salutes, "Yes, captain! Sorry, captain!" They then rushed to join the rest of the eighty or so marines gathering around the transports, with James following not far behind. The battalion commander had made it clear this was his show, and he would run it as tightly as he could. With batarians all around them, he had to be on his guard. After all, this alliance was a tenuous one at best.
They're not our friends. Keep them at arm's length, and trust them only as far as I can throw them. Task force or no task force, no Hegemony soldier is our friend. Vigilance is key. Those pendejos fuck with my men, I'll fuck them up.
Suffice it to say, James would be watching his back judiciously.
It didn't take long for the men to get into formation, rifles on their backs and standing firmly at parade rest, heads held up high. Normally, protocol would have them to remove any helmets they were wearing to tuck under their arm, but given where they were, such protocols were given a miss, so the helmets stayed on. Regardless of this exemption however, the marines of this company had been so well trained that, helmet or no helmet, they assumed the appropriate stance without a hint of hesitation. It was drilled into them. It was as natural as breathing. These soldiers could stand in parade rest for hours on end had James been inclined to order them to do so. Luckily for them, that would not be necessary.
Arriving infront of them, arms at his side, he addressed the company, making sure to raise his voice so he could be heard by the entire company, "G company, as you see before you today, we're in one hell of a crazy place. When we all signed up for the service, I doubt we had guarding craters in mind, but that's our duty today. The Alliance has decided its in our best interests to help the Hegemony of Khar'Shan, and so we will. You may not like it. Some, if not all of you, might even hold some resentment for the soldiers you'll be working with. I'm asking you, as your commander, to shelve that hatred for now and think about the present. A big fucking bomb has killed one hundred and fifty thousand people," he pivoted to allow the men to focus on the full scope of what they would be patrolling before turning back to them, allowing enough of a glimpse to paint an ugly picture, "The SRA are responsible and, with them, the Shepardists who funded them. Say what you will about Commander Shepard, but I can tell you this: I know the man. He does not support the Faith, so neither should you. They are terrorists, and therefore our enemy. Those are the facts. So I say we do our job, and the faster we get on with it, the sooner we can return to our posting, or get some well deserved R'n'R. How does that sound, marines?"
"Mighty fucking fine, sir," Lieutenant Jing responded appropriately, the deceptively small asian man standing infront of the rest of the men.
"Come on now," James tsked, shaking his head as all he heard was silence from the rest of the company. He turned back to them, thumping his chest with bravado, something he enjoyed doing to rile up his troops, "I don't think the dead heard you. You need to speak louder. Now, how does that sound marines!?"
"MIGHTY FUCKING FINE, SIR!" they roared, and this time, their voices could be heard travelling across the empty abyss behind them, the small dots that represented gunships and other aircraft likely having heard it quite clearly from their end. Batarian troopers all around them turned to the source of the sound, some of them growling in discontent, while others simply turned away in disgust. James had to remember that his marines weren't the only ones who would find it difficult working with their arch rivals. After all, they were still enemies. Their hatred was just put on ice for a common foe.
"Glad to hear it," James replied, turning to his second-in-command, who immediately took notice and turned his head to look him directly in the eyes, "Lieutenant Jing, you're in charge of duty detail. Coordinate with the commander of the Hegemony garrison and coordinate patrol shifts. I recommend two-man teams spread out across the perimeter. Make sure you run everything by their commander: these batarians don't need more than one excuse to start getting violent. Create no problems, receive none. Got it?"
"Yes sir," Jing reciprocated, nodding with a salute before shouting to the rest of the company for them to move out. The formation dissipated, all eighty men following closely behind Jing as he led them to the west of the quarantine zone, where the batarian field headquarters would be. James just stood there and watched them go, knowing that he had another meeting to tend to.
Normally, James, being G company's CO, would be the one in charge of assigning duty detail and talking with the batarian commander. But before heading down to the surface, the captain of the Tobruk, Antonia Valenker, informed him that word had come down directly from FLEETCOM that a high-ranking military official from the Admiralty would be visiting the site personally. She explained that their presence there would be purely for presentation, to reassure the batarians they were taking the Kepcedah Bombing very seriously. Apparently this same high-ranking official had asked for James directly, wanting him to escort them to the field HQ once they arrived. James hadn't really asked any questions, not just because he'd find out anyway, but because those were his orders and they had come down from the top. Still, he found it odd how they asked for James by name. Not just a marine, but a specific one. Was it because of his ties to Shepard, or the fact he was in the N7 program? Either way, he was sure to find out, and turned to face the crater as he waited at the checkpoint, finding himself still taken back by the sight before him.
The scale. The horrifying expanse that stretched to the horizon, it seemed like. He felt like an insect just standing beside it. To think that entire city blocks, buildings filled with people, had once existed where this crater rested. Their lives and the infrastructure blinked out of existence in just one, brilliant flash of light. An earth-shattering boom that sent tremors across the landscape, but otherwise left no indication that life ever existed where the blast originated. It truly was a ground zero.
The Hegemony wouldn't let this slide. Killing one person, even someone as high-ranking as Balak, was one thing. But detonating a bomb that killed over a hundred thousand civilians, and obliterated their capital city...there would be blood. Military intervention would turn into full-scale war. The civil war had probably begun already...at this very moment, government forces could be clashing with the SRA, and he wouldn't even know it. Would the Council support the Hegemony then? Would they really side with their regime in a civil conflict?
"Must be a pretty sight for you, human."
He gritted his teeth heavily as he heard the unmistakably raspy voice of a batarian from behind him. He didn't bother giving the unwanted guest the decency of facing him, so the batarian deliberately placed himself in James' view, coming to stand beside him with arms crossed, joining him in mutual awe of the ground zero site. He was clad in full combat armor, save the helmet, with a holographic visor, similar to the one he saw Garrus use, positioned vertically over the two eyes on the right side of his face. He had a disgusted, loathful look about him: the very idea of a human, let alone a soldier of the Alliance, being on his homeworld and within his presence without being shot dead on the spot revolted him. The amount of contempt batarians had for humans was staggering, and the tale of how Alliance POWs were treated during the Blitz, and the human slaves they acquired in their raids, was appalling. Lashings, genital mutilations, rapings, indiscriminate killings, flaying...every malignant atrocity imaginable had been committed by the personnel of the HDF. James couldn't pretend his own species were angels, and he had seen his fair share of reports where Alliance marines were found toying and torturing batarian prisoners, but compared to the HDF...they were almost on a completely different spectrum.
"Over a hundred thousand civilians died here," he retorted angrily, ignoring the scatching look of his agitator, "Believe me, I'm not smiling."
The batarian just shrugged, "Can't trust the word of a human. Not even your expression. You're a species of liars. Self-interested bullies who don't stop until you get what you want. Your facial features can speak a thousand different narratives. I don't believe a word you say."
"You come over here looking for a fight, puta?" he asked, finally turning to face the soldier as he poised his question directly to his target.
"No. I came here with questions," he admitted, arms clasping behind his back as he regarded the armoured human before him, "My commanders keep telling me I'm supposed to work with you. They hate you as much as the average batarian, but they believe stopping the SRA is more important. The unfortunate fact here is that need your help. My question to you is why the Alliance is really here. I'll be frank, you hate us. We hate you. There are no words or arguments you can use to convince me that you're helping us out of the kindess of your heart."
"Orders," he stated bluntly, a non-chalant shrug of his shoulders, "Same as you. I don't want to be here anymore than you do."
"Not you," he hissed, sounding agitated at James' dodging of his question. He couldn't help but smile at that small victory. He had riled up the smug prick, "Your leadership. Your Parliament. Your brass. Why are they here? You can't seriously believe they care about our slave revolt."
"Oh, I don't. In fact, if we're being frank?" he poised his reply as a question, but in reality, he wasn't making a request, and continued regardless of the soldier's opinion, "I'd love nothing more than to sit back and watch those slaves obtain their freedom. I'd love nothing more than to watch your government suffer from all the ill will its gathered over the centuries, and watch your planet descend into civil war. I'd love to watch your Supreme Regent and his senate of war criminals be tried and executed at a war crimes tribunal. But, in the end, this is about more than a slave revolution. I think you know what I'm talking about."
The batarian just scoffed, chuckling lightly under his breath, "Yes...the cultists. Shepard's loyal attack dogs. The man wasn't enough of a profligate...now he has his minions running around detonating antimatter bombs in population centers. Does he enjoy genocide? First the three hundred thousand he massacred at Aratoht, now the one hundred fifty here in Kepcedah. Its a pity Ka'hairal Balak didn't achieve vengeance when he had the chance."
He had no choice, you piece of shit.
He kept that thought to himself. There was enough hostile tension in this conversation already without blows being exchanged. No doubt his own marines were currently being stretched to the absolute limits of their discipline, taunts and hateful language exchanged between the batarian and human soldiers in unhealthy amounts as both sides tried to stop each other from clawing out the throat of the other. Putting Hegemony and Alliance personnel in the same room was a volatile mix, and James was surprised that it hadn't escalated to brawling already.
"Yeah, well he didn't," James drawled, waving a dismissive hand at the soldier, "And there's no use bickering about it. You and I have a mutual enemy now. The cultists are supplying and financially supporting the SRA, which puts them in your crosshairs as much as it places it in ours. You may not like it, I may not like it, but all that matters is that we've got a common enemy at this very moment. So how about you stop trying to pick a fucking fight with me, and go do something useful, you pendejo fuck."
That was exactly the wrong thing to say, apparently. The batarian's lips parted in formation of a vicious sneer, canine teeth bared with a hiss. His top two eyes frowned in unrestrained anger, and he stepped forward aggressively, face moving inches from James' visor. The batarian was roughly James' height, and rippled with muscle, although not as thick as James' own package. Batarians were physically stronger than humans, but James was pretty well built for a marine, and could easily match his opponent if it came down to a brawl. He could already feel himself tensing, his training kicking in as the batarian became actively hostile.
Instead of punching him though, the batarian gurgled and than spat onto the dirt between them, a pool of his saliva practically melting into the blackened earth immediately. He looked back at him now, his eyes trying to bore holes through James' visor, "Shepard is responsible for this!" he pointed angrily in the crater's direction, "These cultists only do what he wants! He hates the batarian people, which is why he had his people detonate that bomb! A human did this, Captain Vega. Don't you fucking stand there and try and tell me you're innocent. Shepard is a criminal. And he will pay for his sins: the Supreme Regent will make sure of it! We don't have a common enemy...because the enemy is Shepard."
That caused his blood to boil: even now, he felt the nigh uncontrollable urge to lash out and deck the batarian then and there begin its struggle for control of his senses. His reason was only just keeping it chained. He narrowed his eyes at the batarian, voice full of the same venom he wished he could call upon to destroy this man on the spot, "Shepard is a damn hero. And you want to know something else? I served with him. I was on his squad. I can tell you right now that did not derive joy from the deaths at Aratoht, nor does he have any semblance of control over the Faith. He detests them as much as we do. So how about you show a little more respect to the man who saved your worthless ass from being stomped to the curb by the Reapers, and stop throwing around baseless accusations."
The batarian just snorted, his laugh sounding more like a bark than a sound of amusement, "Human soldier defending the human murderer. Typical. Believe me, the batarian people will ensure Shepard sees the full measure of our retribution, and we'll start by ripping out the parasites that are his followers, root and stem. We won't suffer his judgement any further. The Pillars will judge him next."
"Believe what you want," James snapped, shaking his head, "I just want the Shepardists defeated so I can go home. Shepard isn't a murderer, and he sure as hell doesn't support whatever it is the Good Samaritan is playing at here. So how about you take your opinion and shove it."
The batarian wasn't amused, and he wasn't budging, "I think you have an attitude problem." He was so close that his breath was fogging up his visor now.
"I think you need a breath mint."
Now he really wanted to punch the marine, and James could see it. He braced himself for the soldier to make his move, but otherwise didn't so much as flinch. He wouldn't allow himself to be framed as the aggressor, although he doubted any fellow batarian would really care about that small detail. The batarian got closer, breath hitching in his throat, body framed and poised to strike as he-
"Sergeant Gokcarah, I sincerely hope what I'm seeing is an attempt at a hand shake."
The belligerent batarian, who James now knew by name as Gokcarah, seemed startled by the new voice on the scene, and for good reason. As James turned, he could see an approaching batarian not wearing armor, but instead outfitted with a red and brown military uniform adorned with what looked to be numerous commendations, and his insignia on his shoulders. His hands were clasped behind his back, his composure was dominant yet prideful, and the reaction he sparked in the sergeant was all too telling. With a surprised, but respectful tone, Gokcarah saluted his superior officer: the gesture was nothing like its human analogue, with the batarian lowering his head to look at the ground while crossing his arms across his chest in an X-shape, "General Dhorrepos, sir!"
General Dhorrepos barely even acknowledged Gokcarah's gesticulation, his eyes and focus completely on James as he approached, his four eyes analyzing the human marine's every movement and mannerism. Walking past Gokcarah without so much as a word, the batarian remaining unmoving, he stopped infront of James, looked him up and down, and scoffed, "So you're the marine your human admiral has chosen as his personal escort. You certainly look strong enough...for a human. Your conduct is lacking, however."
This batarian was a full head taller than James, and he could feel every bit of the man's height. The air of superiority about him was fairly imposing, the general's attitude less the product of typical, jingoistic and racist arrogance, but the result of decades of experience, military discipline and veterancy. This man's face told many stories: he had fought and survived many battles, clawed his way to the top, and had been ruthless in doing so. He was a member of the batarian military elite, a man whose stature and prestige had earned him the right to sit at the same table and break bread with men such as the Supreme Regent himself. James wasn't afraid of anybody, but him...he wouldn't want to be the general facing him in battle. This man reeked of unfair play. The kind of man who would sacrifice thousands of his own men simply to spite the enemy, or deny them a critical target.
James didn't reply, simply staring back. He wasn't talking to some soldier anymore: he was talking to a high-ranking member of the Hegemony's brass. One wrong word could reflect badly on the Alliance, and he really did not want to earn the ire of his battalion commander and the rest of Command. Instead, he simply breathed in, offering what he couldn't in words, but through countenance alone.
"Captain James Vega," Dhorrepos continued, his character assessment continuing willfully, "I hear you served with Commander Shepard. Ka'hairal Balak confided in me just how much he wanted that man dead, and how it physically hurt him to have to work with that war criminal during the war. Balak was an honorable man, and a true patriot. Few men of his caliber exist anymore, and all of Khar'Shan grieved for his loss. Knowing he never got to finish his mission of bringing Shepard to justice saddens me...but one day, Shepard will get what he deserves. You humans have a saying that I find very fitting...revenge is a dish best served cold. I agree. Which is why the Hegemony will take up Balak's mission, and we won't rest until your former commander answers for his crimes and is executed on the extranet for all the galaxy to see. How ironic that the Shepardists choose to attack this planet...my people...its almost like the great Pillars of Strength have brought my enemy's peons to my doorstep."
Still, he didn't speak. He could feel vexation at his inability to refute the slander this general was committing against Shepard's name, but he would not risk insulting the batarian functionary, so he kept his mouth shut. James had learnt early on in his time fighting with Shepard when and where it was appropriate to express his opinion, and when it was necessary to follow orders without questions. He remembered how he had berated Shepard about leaving Earth on the first day of the Reaper War, and how he had gone too far and tipped Shepard over the edge, the commander chewing him out infront of the crew. He had felt like an idiot after that...a stupid hothead who was too gungho and self-interested to understand how Shepard ran his ship or did things. He liked to think he had improved since then. That Shepard had taught him the importance of picking one's battles.
"Nothing to say?" Dhoreppos asked, cocking his head disappointingly. Eventually, he just sighed, shaking his head, "I suppose there is nothing to really be said in his defense, is there? You probably know he's a criminal, and you're only defending him because it gets you dead batarians. Well, mark my words...this task force won't last. And when this is over, and we defeat the SRA rebels, the Hegemony will finish the job we started."
"Focus on the present, general. I believe your government, as well as mine, has insisted we work together. So how about you start by ceasing to try and provoke the captain. I think you'll find it impossible."
James immediately recognized that voice: anybody who had served on the Normandy would. Looking away from Dhoreppos, who was already stepping back and looking back at the source as well, James watched as Fleet Admiral Steven Hackett walked towards them. Just like Dhoreppos, he walked with a measure of professionalism and stoicism, hands hands at his sides but chiseled and expressionless face all-business and seemingly made from the toughest steel. His cold blue eyes seemed to see right through you, while the goatee that was dominated by the greys of age added to his wise and knowledgeable look. As always, he was immaculately clad in his blue and black Alliance uniform, officer's bars on his shoulderpads and left breast, with an admiral's cap fitted tightly over his head. Each step he took was urgent and purposeful, viewing every moment as vitally important and refusing to waste even a single second of his time, taking his work extremely seriously. It was no wonder this man was seen as the Alliance Navy's prodigy: the man had made admiral in just nine years of service, which didn't include his previous service in the groundside North American States Navy on Earth, where he served on a series of postings operating in the Pacific and Bering Strait. The man was military through-and-through...and something of a role model to Shepard. Someone he had deeply respected, and who deeply respected him back.
Now James knew exactly who had chosen James as his bodyguard. He had probably requested James' presence personally because of his affiliation with Shepard.
Dhoreppos seemed to sense the aura of authority that surrounded Hackett too, because the browbeating that he had attempted with James before was gone, replaced with a careful and cautious level of deference, "Admiral Hackett. I was just assessing the worthiness of your chosen escort here. I have to say, I'm baffled."
"Then its a good thing I'm not asking for your opinion, general," Hackett stated simply, sparing no time for bullshit. Unlike James, Hackett had the liberty of addressing his military equals bluntly and without censor, "I suggest you keep your men in line, so that I can better do the same with mine. I suggest you see to your sergeant while I see to Captain Vega here. We'll meet at your field HQ later to discuss where to go from here."
In just a manner of a few sentences, Hackett had verbally dismissed a high-ranking batarian general...and received no reprisal for it. Dhoreppos, to his credit, didn't deflate like a popped balloon. Clearly his pride wasn't all he had, and he simply nodded at Hackett in acknowledgement before grunting at Gokcarah to follow him. One the two men had wandered out of sight, Hackett motioned with his head for James to follow him, and he did. He stopped once they reached the edge of the crater, the marine standing beside him, both of them with their hands clasped behind their backs. Finally, after a moment, the admiral spoke.
"You composed yourself well," Hackett noted with a certain note of approbation, "You held your ground despite what Dhoreppos threw at you. He didn't think you could handle it, but you did. Well done. I think even he was impressed. Believe me, that means a lot. He's a stubborn, high-expectations type of war horse."
That confused James, who turned to Hackett with a frown, "Sorry to have to ask sir, but...you knew what the general was going to say to me?"
Hackett nodded, having expected the question, "I'm the one who suggested it. Dhoreppos is a friend of mine. I've known him since the Blitz: he was captured when Torfan fell and I personally oversaw his transfer back to Khar'Shan after the surrender when I learned that he offered himself up to the SIA in exchange for his troops being treated fairly. He doesn't love the Hegemony anymore than we do, captain. He fights because he loves his people, not the regime. We've kept our friendship under lock and key because Dhoreppos knew the Feksogar would crackdown on it if they found out. A human on Khar'Shan is dangerous, even for a man of my position, and he just wanted to make sure I have good men at my side to protect me. He taunted you to test your resolve. You passed. You should take pride in that."
Well, James certainly hadn't expected that from the admiral. To learn he had a secret friend in the batarian leadership was surprising, to say the least, "Well, I have to say sir, he's not the first person today I've heard slander Shepard's name in that way. He may not have meant it, but that sergeant did. They blame Shepard for the cultists helping to blow up Kepcedah."
"And he won't be the last," Hackett revealed, reaching up to clasp the giant human's shoulder tightly, "We're not among friends here, captain. That's why I chose you to escort me: my name carries weight in the Alliance, and many Hegemony chest thumpers will want to take advantage of my presence here. Dhoreppos being in charge of this operation has ensured our safety here for a while, but it won't last. Dhoreppos knows a civil war is only a matter of time now. You need to remain vigilant...and stay alert."
"I will be, sir," James promised, turning around to snap a salute, "Nobody will get past me."
"You served with the Commander. Not just anybody can do that," the admiral stated simply before sighing, hand reaching up to scratch his goatee, "That's why you're here. Unfortunately however, I think Shepard's decisions are exactly why we're here now, and why the galaxy is now one hundred and fifty thousand batarians shorter."
That shocked James, "Are you suggesting...?"
"I suggest nothing, I simply look at the facts, captain," he emphasized sternly, "I look at this, and I see what could have been. I don't fault Shepard for wanting a peaceful new life on the galactic rim...away from all the chaos and war. But as much as he may wish to ignore it, I know the man well enough to know that he can't turn his back on this. The Council will want answers. And even a man who has made it his life's mission to flee from conflict can't willingly ignore this any longer. We've got a civil war brewing here, and if that's not bad enough, the people calling themselves his disciples may have bankrolled it. If not to clear his name, then Shepard will act because he no longer has a choice."
As James looked out across the site, eyes lost in the abyssal maw of the crater before them, and trying to imagine the city and the people that once were...
...he realized Hackett may be right.
Loco...what are you doing?
Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 20, 2188 - Three and a half hours later.
What was he doing?
This question had been lingering on his mind for the two days that had passed since his heated argument with Garrus that had ended with slammed desks and fuming tensions. Neither of them had been caught in such a tempestuous dissension since Shepard had verbally scolded him for his brash, reckless actions during the Fedele raid four years ago. Even then, that argument had been tame compared to this, with Shepard starting out furious, but quickly becoming more gentle with his chastizement. This exchange had been...chaotic at best. A vicious beating of words that both sides likely regretted, but had failed to take back since then. Garrus hadn't contacted him since, and Shepard's thoughts were too indecisive and muddied to even attempt reconciliation with his friend. So silence reigned between the two.
Shepard could tell Tali was fed up with it all: they were her friends as well, and to see them embroiling themselves in such a pointless conflict hurt her more than she was prepared to admit to either of them. She hadn't been afraid to make her disappointment known to him however, and he could tell which side she stood on. She would support whatever choice he made, but it was obvious at this point which one she truly agreed with. And that was the query that loitered in his mind. Was Garrus ultimately right?
It was really coming down outside. Breathing heavily from his isometrics earlier, a carefully placed towel hanging around his neck and drenched in sweat, he gently craned his head from where he sat on the couch in his living room to see the downpour that was bombarding the Rannochian landscape outside. Sheets of rain came down in an opaque mist that obscured long distance viewing of the horizon, the dirt and dust of the ground coalescing into a syrupy, black tar that quickly began to run down to the cliff in a flood. The torrential rain was unlike anything he had seen on Rannoch thus far: but, according to Tali, it was perfectly normal for this time of year. In ancient times, before the agricultural age began on Rannoch, quarian tribes would often build their homes on high ground to avoid what they called ise'ples, or the 'great flooding'. Advances in technology had followed that trend since then.
The rain boomed as it impacted the steel roof of the house, the sound a thunderous cacophony that made it nearly impossible to hear his own breathing. It had been going like this since the morning, but due to his military training, he had been able to sleep through most of it. Now, a few hours into the afternoon, the cloudburst was finally beginning to ease off, although it would be several minutes before it lifted away altogether. Despite the noise and the miserable display that the weather impressed upon him, he found that an odd sense of coziness and security filled him at the sight. There were one too many times where, during his N7 training, he had been dumped into mud caked rainstorms such as these, soaked to the bone and freezing as he was slammed by severe winds and icy cold rain. To be dry, warm and safe inside his own home, watching the rain from inside his own four walls, was a small comfort he took pleasure in. He had earned his right to be here, and that knowledge felt good.
Raising his hand, he sunk his teeth deeply into the apple that he had procured from their limited levo supplies, enjoying the rich flavor of the juicy fruit as it practically melted in his mouth. He sighed, raising his other arm to activate his omni-tool at the same time, turning on the vidscreen in front of him. He wasn't even really interested in watching anything at the moment, but it would do well for his mind to have something in the background to distract him. The rain outside immediately made it difficult to hear anything however, and he practically had to crank the volume up to maximum to even hear anything. With that done, he lay back, zoning out as whatever program played on the screen. It looked like somekind of kitchen management show, and involved a salarian and a...pyjak? A strange combination, to be sure.
Despite the attempt to disrupt his debilitating self-critique of himself for just a few minutes, the inane and strange adventures of a salarian chef named Gardan Ranze and his pet pyjak and their attempts to fix up debt-riddled and mismanaged restaurants just weren't enough to keep his demons at bay, especially when they were so persistent.
Am I doing the right thing by sitting this out? I used to think I was, but now I'm not so sure...not even Tali is entirely convinced anymore. I thought when I left that hospital on Earth that I was leaving the past behind and marching onto the future...Tali and I had been so optimistic. Were we naive? Am I slipping? Is it perhaps my own complacency that's led me into this mess?
The answer had seemed so clear before: but shifting tides and now the assassination of a well-regarded batarian politician were beginning to change that perspective. The future now seemed nebulous and murky, the path forward unclear and subject to tangent. He was rolling a dice and constantly coming up with low numbers. Shepard had allowed himself to believe he had it all figured out, but recent events were clearly trying to warn him, as transparently as possible, that he couldn't have been further from the truth.
He took another bite of his apple, chewing on it quietly as he listened for the sound of Tali tinkering around in her workshop on the other side of the house. What time she didn't spend with him were spent in what he had playfully dubbed her 'toy room', the quarian completely enamoured with the amount of equipment, machinery and other assorted technology she got to play around with. She had spent most of the time making a few minor tweaks to Chatika in an attempt to switch her role from purely combat-based to possessing limited domestic functions. What other projects she had engaged with at that time was a secret only she knew the answer to. It was her little world...he had his firing range and gym in the basement, she had her workshop.
But, at the moment, she used it as an escape. She wasn't angry with him...she was simply disappointed, and fed up. Looks had been exchanged over breakfast, lunch and dinner...the same looks. She saw his and understood. The look of desperation. The look of someone who, finally, didn't have the answer or any sort of game plan. He saw hers and lamented. He saw frustration. She was annoyed at their entire situation...but also annoyed at him for, what she perceived, as him running away from the only solution. She understood why he was doing it, and a part of her even yearned to continue believing it could work, but ultimately...not even she could continue to support his behaviour much longer.
She knew he needed time to think...and, sadly, that often meant they spent more time away from each other than together. After going through their daily routine of trying to keep Shepard's strength up, she had retreated to her workshop, secretly giving him so solitary time to contemplate and think. Back during the war, she'd often allow him to destress after a mission or stressful negotiation by lying his head in her lap and letting him rant until he could no longer muster the strength to do so. Then she'd talk to him, figure out the problem in the adorable and lovable way she always did, and inadverently solve his woes with a few unintentionally pithy statements and a laugh.
But this wasn't that sort of problem, and Tali knew this was something he needed to figure out on his own. She couldn't push, prod or encourage him to see in one direction: he needed to reach that conclusion on his own. He was sure Tali had noticed this, and that's why she had let him be, but whether that was the case or not...here he was, watching a salarian chef and a pyjak solve financial problems in the typical 'reality TV' fashion that exasperated him, while he tried to dig deep and find an answer to the question he needed resolved before he could even think of moving forward.
The question didn't bare repeating. He had exhausted all his answers and excuses...and, ultimately, that's what they were. Excuses. Attempts to vindicate his dogged refusal to play into the Samaritan's game. To get involved in what he viewed as a purely political matter. Ever since this cultist crisis had taken the galaxy by storm, he had delivered argument after argument for why he shouldn't continue to stick his neck out for the Citadel Council. At the beginning, he may have been in the right. But as people began to die and lives were ruined, his justifications had morphed into excuses. He was Commander Shepard, and he was sitting by and watching as the Samaritan and his cult of hero worship twisted and corrupted the galaxy one planet at a time. The slaughter outside Afterlife. The attempted assassination of Linron, and the successful attempt on Balak. Each one had a new excuse for why he shouldn't do what was right.
He was both wrong and right. Yes, he had earned the right to rest. No one in the galaxy had argued when he quietly retreated into retirement: who would dare have the audacity to ask someone who had seen the shit he'd seen to continue their service? But heroes became heroes in the first place because they were unable to sit by and watch injustice take place. Promises of retirement one day turn into oaths of allegiance the moment an innocent is hurt or an unforgivable crime by a madman is committed. Shepard had always seen himself as the man who wouldn't lie down and willingly allow civilians die without even attempting to save them. It was the same attitude that had nearly driven him off the deep end in terms of sanity during the Reaper War. Every civilian that died was a personal failing that he wore like a mark of shame.
So who the fuck was he to suddenly switch off his moral compass and sip a beer as the galaxy burned because it was no longer convenient? Was he not Commander fucking Shepard? Savior of the Galaxy?
Garrus wasn't right. He wasn't a coward. But Garrus wasn't wrong either. The solemn duty to protect the innocent and vanquish the guilty wasn't one that came with an expiry date. It didn't conclude the moment one shed their uniform, said their goodbyes and retired. It was an eternal duty that every marine, every soldier, every public servant took up and held onto for life. The saying 'once a marine, always a marine' wasn't simply some to-live-by statement the US marines made up to make themselves sound more righteous. It was an axiom. The essence of a marine never truly dies or retires: it lives on forever.
It was a self-evident truth that Shepard had forgotten. That he had neglected. And that, more than anything, was a personal failing.
Even when one considered his inhibited physical capabilities, and the effect that has had on his mental state, he still wasn't in the clear. He may not be fit for combat operations anymore, but the Council wasn't asking him to take charge of any raids or personally take command of the war against the Samaritan (or the 'Council-Shepardist conflict', as headlines are now calling it). All they had ordered him to do was to come to the Citadel for a simple press release that would absolve him of any involvement in the Samaritan's organization, exonerate him from any wrongdoing on their part, and effectively give the Council his blessing in commencing a full-scale galactic manhunt for the Faith. After all, their cause looked more just in the eyes of the public if the man who saved them all from extinction gave it his approval.
It was that simple. But Shepard, wanting nothing to do with it at all, had conjured up more excuses. Was he wrong in suggesting the Council would use this to reel him in? Squeeze a few more missions out of him? It was a very real possibility. But he could always say no, just as he had before. Any doctor in the galaxy could prove to the Council that he simply wasn't fit for continuing the way he used to. He'd give his speech, and go back home. His involvement would be less than a few hours long, at best. All up, the whole trip, there and back, would take little more than a week.
So why the fuck was he so damn scared to do it?
His thoughts kept coming back to Tali: what she wanted. He kept trying to convince himself that all of this was in service to her. Yes, she had confided in him just how badly she wanted a life with him that didn't involve the fear of dying or being shot all the time. He had gone out of his way to make that dream a reality because he wanted it too. She deserved everything he could give her and more...and he had done everything he did in service of that goal. She was to be his wife...her opinion mattered then, and now it mattered magnitudes more now. He had thought she was completely onboard with his decision, but recent events had made it abundantly clear that wasn't the case anymore. Even she was beginning to see through the cracks to the inevitable choice that lay ahead. It stared him in the face...he simply wasn't willing to acknowledge it. He was too damn afraid that the illusion would be shattered.
The illusion that he could finally set aside his duty and rest. His eternal duty to everlasting vigilance. No, there was always one more mission. One more task. His habits always caught up with him, no matter how much he tried to run from it. Not even on Rannoch, on the very fringes of civilization, could he hope to escape it. It was this same fact that was constantly rearing its ugly head, and each time, he thought he could ignore it. So much for that idea.
Garrus had been trying to tell him early on. The common theme here was that those who had supported his policy of non-interference in the initial stages of the crisis were no longer as accepting of it. Garrus had practically begged him to take heed of his advice and come to the Citadel, and now Tali. All the indicators pointed in one direction. He didn't like it. He hated the idea of even becoming marginally involved. But, as was now crystal clear, non-interference as a policy simply wasn't working. People were dying left and right, the Samaritan's power was growing everyday, his rhetoric and religious dogma was spreading without end, and now they had literally reached his doorstep. Conrad Verner's arrival had been a wake-up call. The first true indicator to him that he had colossally fucked up. That his blissful ignorance and turning of the other cheek had achieved nothing but to create the very circumstances that he, ironically, feared his interference would create. Set aside the fact that Conrad, a man that Shepard personally knew and thought to be one of the meekest, harmless people in the galaxy had been radicalized and turned into one of the Samaritan's lackeys, but the Shepardists had grown so bold as to come to his fucking house.
They knew where he and Tali lived. Somehow they knew. The Samaritan knew enough about Shepard to be a threat, but he knew nothing about his enemy in turn. These two facts were enough to put him on edge. To make him rethink what he was doing. But it was Garrus' call, and Tali's subsequent discussion with him, that really left him pondering his doubts. His walk along the beach had done nothing to answer any of his personal ponderances on how to proceed, and the two days that followed had yielded little results either. He was, as of yet, a tempest of confusion. He had never felt this way before.
He always knew what to do. Every situation had a strategy he could exploit, and orders he could dole out. No objective was impossible, and nothing was unsalvageable. He was a master of his own destiny. He held all the cards, and the power to act. Giving all of that up had hurt him, but he knew there was no place for it where he was headed. But now he felt as vulnerable and helpless as ever. The way forward was a one-way street, and he could either walk down it or stay put. His options were limited. He had no control over what happened next.
So that was probably why he was so scared to do it. Before retirement, the uncertainty of the future didn't worry him because he had the tools to at least fight back. Now, he was a broken shell of a man with no resources to call upon as his own, no rank or title, and little political power. The only help he had to call upon was his team, who were scattered and off doing their own thing...and his quarian fiance. She was his anchor, his comfort, his security. He needed her to show him the right way. And she had rarely led him astray.
The rain outside finally mellowed out, turning into a light drizzle. He turned down the volume on the vidscreen to compensate before it became overbearing, and returned to his ruminations. The whir of power tools and electronics being used in the workshop was a distant sound he hardly took notice of. He took another bite of his apple, only now noticing that he had subconsciously been biting into it during his mental self-interrogation when he pulled it up for another bite, finding scarcely any part of the fruit left to eat. Taking one final chunk from the side, he placed its devoured remnant on the table infront of him, finding that the show he had turned on as a distraction had cut to an ad break, and was now advertising the latest in some type of asari perfume.
I have to make a decision soon. And its becoming clearer and clearer to me that I can't continue down the path I've been following. At some point, something's got to give. Whether it be me, or the people in my life trying to convince me. But somebody has got to put a stop to the Samaritan. Will it really hurt me that much to go to the Citadel and throw his cult under the bus? To finally let the galaxy know, on the official record, that I disavow their actions and publicly condemn their actions? In may not amount to much, but at least I'll deny the cultists their main weapon: my name.
Wasn't it at least worth a shot? Even if it was just a drop in the bucket, the premium he'd get out of it would be for the Council to leave him alone. The Shepardists, having been called out by their idol and their 'Crusader', would become disillusioned with him and think twice about coming near him again. Their ability to use his name to justify acts of terrorism would be stripped from them, leaving the Samaritan without leverage or his main propaganda tool from which he uses to convert emotionally and psychologically vulnerable people by the masses. After a few short hours of Shepard dismantling the corrupted, sophistic image the Shepardists had created of him, he could potentially do the same amount of damage to them that he would commit if he had gone to war with them directly. Perhaps that would be the key to ending this nightmare, and returning back to his perfectly ordinary, utterly normal new life.
Or it may not. Maybe it'll open a whole new can of worms that he won't be able to close again. A pandora's box of new nightmares, these ones fresh and undaunted by his attempts to quickly seal the haemorrhaging, gaping wound. Perhaps his very actions would be the ones to finally unleash the blood hounds from Hell, the Samaritan taking his words and using them to rally an entirely new army and creed of supporters. Perhaps they'd become even more radicalized. Pious followers turn into extremists. Willing, well-meaning believers turn into next week's suicide bombers. Any word he says, taken even slightly out of context, could be the dawn of a new era of hatred, apartheid or even genocide. He could be the one that turns this crisis into a full blown galactic Shepardist uprising.
Those same psychosomatic worries plagued his mind, refusing him the slightest bit of respite or clarity. It was little wonder why he couldn't make his mind up: for every reason he conjured up for why he should, there was an equally persuasive reason for why he shouldn't. He was at war with himself. His own worst enemy.
It was a maddening affair.
Bloody hell. This is going to take more time to think about than I thought. I just wish I could give a straight answer. Why am I making this so difficult for myself?
Having finally begun to cool down from his exercises half an hour before, he pulled the towel from his neck and placed it on the sofa, standing up to get another apple and throw his old one in the bin. Before he could do that however, something on the vidscreen caught his eye, and he turned to find a GMO (Galactic Media Outlet) 'breaking news' headline covering the screen. The voice on the screen announced that they were interrupting the current program to deliver a breaking news story, and Shepard felt himself intrigued enough to sit back down, placing the used apple core back on the table as he did. The swirl of blue ribbons and purple flashes on the screen continued, the words 'BREAKING NEWS' remaining on screen, as if taunting him with their knowledge of what was to come.
Must be pretty damn important if they're interrupting a galaxy-wide broadcast.
His attention completely enraptured in the screen, he sat and waited for the report to begin. A few minutes passed, the voice regularly reminding the viewer of the breaking news situation, and urging them to standby. Finally, after what felt like an hour, the screen cut away to a news station, where an immaculately clean asari news reporter with purple lipstick and what looked to be tribal tattooes reminiscent of what a huntress adorned sat, a datapad in one hand and her eyes fixed on the camera infront of her.
"We interrupt this program to bring you some breaking news here at GMO," the asari began, glancing down at her datapad with what looked to be a moment of hesitation. She bit her lower lip nervously, before clearing all emotion from her face, "We have received word from the Hegemony on Khar'Shan that at exactly 4:00pm Galactic Standard Time yesterday, an antimatter bomb was...detonated within the city limits of Kepcedah. Council and Hegemony officials have refused to comment thus far, except that they believe the bombing was a deliberate incident, and likely the work of the same people behind the assassination of Supreme Commander Ka'hairal Balak just three days prior. We warn viewers that the following footage can be distressing in nature."
Shepard watched with unfolding horror as said video footage was propped up on the screen in place of the asari news anchor. The news reporter could be heard talking over it, but he had zoned out the sound of her voice as he watched the content itself. The first video appeared to have been taken by a satellite in orbit over Khar'Shan, but upon closer inspection, a line of text in the top right corner identified it as the side observation camera of a batarian battlecruiser, the BRS Aurora. He could only watch with one hand covering his mouth, eyes wide, as a bright purple flash could be seen on Khar'Shan's surface, the vessel's recording interface immediately dictating the heat signature and calculating its diameter to be nine kilometers in width, and 8.3 kilometers in length. The explosion itself was magnitudes more in height. A second angle of the explosion, this one from an orbitting satellite, zoomed in to the site, giving as clearer view of the city in question. The same purple flash occurred again, temporarily overloading the satellite's visual telemetry until it cleared up, revealing the spot where entire city blocks, structures full of people, streets of urban civilization and bustling city life had once existed...only to be replaced by a gaping hole.
Oh my god...
"...images are truly horrifying to behold," the reporter's words zoned back into his ears, his auditory functions seemingly switching back on as they seemed ready to hear the rest, "At current, the Hegemony estimates casualties to be numbering in the millions. However, Council commanders on the ground have called out the Hegemony for their gross inflation of those numbers, stating that the number of people killed is more accurately represented at one hundred and fifty thousand, with several thousands more wounded or exposed to lethal doses of radiation. Regardless of who is telling the truth, the numbers here are unbelievable. Such mass casualties haven't been observed since the end of the Reaper War."
More footage rolled on screen. Crumbling skyscrapers, their sides blackened by the sheer heat produced by the blast: some even had their paint liquified, the liquid not so much peeling off as it was sliding off the side. Exposed pipe and sewrage lines were snapped off at the point of detonation, draining dirty water and excrement into the crater below. The crater itself was large enough to fit a fleet of Reapers, with the patrolling Alliance gunships looking like insects when compared to the monolithic formation. The true size of it simply wasn't quantifiable in the human mind. It was too much for one person to process all at once. So much destruction and death, all caused in one instant by the most devastating weapon created by organic hands since the invention of the nuclear bomb.
What would J. Robert Oppenheimer say now, knowing that his brain child had now been eclipsed by a weapon so devastating that most governments, even the implacable Turian Hierarchy, feared to possess it?
Undeterred by the turmoil of his internal terror, the asari news anchor returned to the screen, footage continuing to play behind her, "Forces from the newly established Hegemony-Council Task Force are on site at what is now known as the ground zero for the 'Kepcedah Bombing'. It is the deadliest act of terrorism on Khar'Shan soil in batarian history, and both Hegemony and Council forces have quarantined the area, pending further decontamination procedures. The exact circumstances of the attack remain unclear, although the Hegemony government holds onto the belief that Slave Revolutionary Army forces were ultimately responsible for the attack. SRA officials have not yet claimed responsibility, but if found to be accountable, this could highlight further problems with the Shepardist cult, which the Council has already declared to be a terrorist organization due to its financial ties to the SRA. Hegemony authorities have declared that every action to bring those responsible to justice is being put into action, and that a declaration of war on the SRA can be expected within-"
His stunned silence continued for the rest of the news report, and he remained as such long after it finished. He found himself unable to move, even as normal programming continued following the breaking news story. What he had seen, what he had heard, shook him to the very core. It was a new development in a saga he hadn't wanted to see continue, especially not this...gruesomely. Every fear that he had regarding his non-intervention...had now come true. The dread he had felt...the kind of feeling that was almost like a premonition...the same one that had told him this was only going to get worse had now been confirmed to be right. It had gotten worse. Much worse. Leaps and bounds.
I...can't believe...I can't believe they'd escalate to something like this. Another attempted assassination maybe...but detonating WMDs in major population centers?
He tried to convince himself that it was the SRA who committed the atrocity, but the connection between them and the cultists simply couldn't be ignored. The Samaritan supported the slave army, and now the slave army had the blood of a hundred and fifty thousand people on their hands.
Shepard's name was now forever tied to mass murder.
At least he could justify Aratoht. He tried to save them, but his actions aimed to buy the galaxy another six months from the Reaper threat. Here...there was no justification. This was a massacre based on a senseless pretense. No reason was given. Perhaps the SRA wanted to send a message...perhaps it was a twisted act of defiance against the Hegemony. Whatever the case, nothing could excuse the slaughter they had perpetrated.
But, most importantly, this was a final nail in the coffin for any argument Shepard could conjure up not to get involved. No, they were past that line now. Things were officially out of hand. He could no longer just sit by and watch this take place around. How long until the Shepardists started detonating their own bombs? Perhaps next time would be a Thessian city...or even one right here on Rannoch. They had to be stopped. The Samaritan and his army were out of control.
This was his fault. He had an opportunity to stop this earlier on, but he had turned it down. He may not have lit the fuse, but he was just as guilty for allowing it. And as worried as he may have been that the situation would drag him back to the fold, that was nothing compared to his fear of what might come next.
Finally snapping out of his paralytic state, he reached to his arm and used his omni-tool to switch off the vidscreen, cutting off the source of noise that was distracting him. He moved to stand up, finding himself swelling with a sense of purpose that he hadn't felt since...since he resolved to retake Earth from the Reapers. Since he chose Tali and Garrus to be with him for the final battle. Since he charged the Beam, and since he activated the Crucible.
But another feeling halted him, causing him to turn around, unable to ignore the sensation of being watched. Lo and behold, standing in the doorway to the living room, was Tali, body leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and looking at him with concern. She must have heard the news report from her workshop, which meant she had likely heard everything. However, her solicitous posture gave way when she saw the horrified look in his eyes dissolve, replaced only by the solidarity he now felt. Replacing it was hope...hope that he had finally seen the error of his ways, corrected his course, and was now ready to do the right thing.
She read him like a book...like she was a few pages ahead of where she was supposed to be. She knew him too well.
He was wrong. Silence was not the answer. Action was. And the Samaritan needed to be stopped.
So, finally, his decision was made.
"Gather what you need. We're going to the Citadel."
Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - January 20, 2188 - A few minutes later.
The shadows were whispering.
He stood amongst a sea of monochrome, unable to accumulate an understanding of his surroundings, why he was here or what he was doing. His memory, the defective circuit that it was, struggled to force a reaction from most of his five senses, sight being his only freed up mechanism. His vestibular was all screwed up, and he felt himself passing through phases of nausea and vertigo that left him reeling and dizzy. He wanted to speak, but he could hardly move his mouth: even his eyelids refused his commands, remaining open even though he ordered them to close. Upon closer inspection, he found himself naked: his body stripped of all clothing, his privates on display for anyone to see. His mind was able to subconsciously notice this, but was not helpful in providing an explanation for why. He strained to remember, but as usual, relying on his memory as a crutch simply wasn't possible.
His dubiety continued, while the shadows whispered on.
He couldn't hear what they were saying. Their voices were just loud enough to hear, but low enough to be unintelligible. He spun, searching for the voices, the people behind them...but he saw nothing. For...miles? Kilometers? AUs? His depth perception was another casualty of this nonsensical mare's nest. For all he knew, he could be trapped in a box, or in the middle of a void. Non-descript grey was all the color he could extract from his transcendental environment, the result being a pestilential prison that he could find no meaning in. Nothing about where he was belonged to any rule of rational thought, and despite his delirious, ill-gotten state...he was able to discern that he was not belonging to any reality he knew of or could perceive accurately.
Yet...it felt real. Parts of this, the nakedness, the whispers...something about them seemed memorable. Tangible. As broken as his memory might be, there were aspects of this that triggered flashes in his mind. But what those flashes were and what meaning were tied to them was left teasingly out of reach, torturing him with the promise of comprehension and clarity, but ultimately dangling it beyond his grasp like yarn withheld from a cat. The answers were there, but denied to him. He wanted to scream, to pound his chest and yell, hoping these acts of frustration would yield something of value, but all it did was aggravate him further.
The whispers never stopped. They were unperturbed. He was a specimen, being observed from all angles...all of a sudden, the void around him felt like a glass prison. Like he was an animal in a zoo being pointed at and laughed at and talked about by all the visitors. His exposure felt more real upon that realization, a hand instictively reaching down to cover his genitals as he continued to growl in growing vexation.
Where was he? What was this? Why was he here? Was this real or not? What were the whispers! WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT!?
The human mind was an object that demanded knowledge and curiosity to satiate its enormous power. It was an organic supercomputer, processing information in a way that the brain dictated. This is what granted them sentience and sapience in abundance...what had made humanity, and the other intelligent species of the galaxy, so unique on their worlds. In a world teaming with exotic lifeforms, megafauna and endless wildlands...only one species would come out ontop, to rise above the rest and conquer the planet. Humanity had been that species on Earth. Their brains granted them that power. It was their most useful tool.
But, it was also a curse. Curiosity could kill. The quest to obtain knowledge could bring one to the brink of insanity, and when one is informed of the existence of a certain kind of knowledge, but is denied access to it, that only makes them want it more...the Streisand effect. History has proven that to be a dangerous mindset. Humans are not supposed to know everything, but they wish to do all the same. That quest can be beneficial, but most of the time, its counter-productive. And, at this very moment, it was proving to be his greatest burden.
He must know what the whispers are saying. He wants to know. To be teased with the promise of what they speak and yet kept in the dark was a cruel prank the mind played upon their vessel. But the whisperers were not cooperative. They did not reveal themselves, or speak louder. They kept to the penumbra of the void's circumference, beyond his touch and beyond his comprehension. This knowledge made him feel weak, vulnerable...unstable. He felt like he was being watched, yet he saw noone. That kind of paranoia consumed him. Mentally tearing him to shreds like so many claws.
His nakedness was made all the more discernable.
His anguished screeching stopped. He realized now he could hear himself. He could smell the stench of cordite, wood smoke, freshly cut grass and airborne pollen that hung in the air. The sound of distant war cries, barking COs, thundering artillery in the distance, roaring fighter jets as they flew overhead...However, these were elements of another world. Of reality. They couldn't exist in a realm such as the one he was in...so the only explanation was that these smells and sounds were memories. Conjured remembrances triggered by some unforeseen event...or perhaps his brain attempting to contact him. But what were these sounds and smells? They suggested a battlefield...but if that was the case, what battle? What war?
And why was he naked?
He thought he had been thrown a cognitive bone. That his angry shouting had finally provoked a reaction, and the whisperers had given in. But then...one of them laughed. No...guffawed.
Then another. And another. More and more joined the chorus until a whole bunch were joining in. Then a wave of humiliation rolled over him...he felt belittled, worthless...the sensation was so overwhelming that he felt the need to run. To turn and sprint as fast as he could...but he didn't. He stood still, and took it. That strangely felt right. Like it was...historically correct.
Then, finally, the unintelligible mumbles stripped away their peace and finally uttered words he could understand. He could practically hear the deafness being lifted away...
"...pull...your dick...fucking idiot...not worth...rookie."
The voices were getting louder, disjointed sentences slowly forming stories of their own. If he squinted his eyes, he swore he could see faces emerging in the mirky mist before him, but they weren't granting him much more than that.
"utterly...without a doubt, the worst...couldn't tell his ass from...not convinced."
Suddenly, he felt somebody's breath on his face, and he instinctively winced from it. It was almost like they were right there.
"You going to...keep standing there...limp dick?"
Just as abruptly as before, four of his senses were assaulted at once: he spat and sputtered as the taste of what must have been dirt slid across his tongue, the bitter and rough texture immediately instilling disgust and revulsion in him. His ears popped, pain shot up the front of his face, and he felt the rough, grainy sensation of levelled grass and dirty mud caking his face. Humiliation set in once more, this time joined by...anger.
The voice could be heard again, and this time his eyes widened as he heard it, "You're not fit to be a marine, rookie."
That voice! He recognized it. It was...he was a fellow marine...yes, he had been a marine! And the voice belonged to...belonged to...
The name remained just outside his interpretative capabilities...but he had definitely heard that voice more recently. But who was it? It sounded gruff, cynical, sure of itself...as a marine would. Damn it, why couldn't he remember?
The answers would remain beyond his grasp. As soon as he heard the voice utter its last, mocking addendum, the grey void evaporated, blinding him with a bright white light. All focus was tarnished and destroyed with that bright light, which seemed to devour him within its celestial totality as all thought of his nakedness, the voice, the memory he had accessed and the featureless expanse he had been dumped in were washed away, leaving him feeling as empty as he had before the eldritch experience.
Empty. That's how he felt. An empty vessel full of grief, regret and deceit, and left with only one last mission: the search for redemption, and retribution.
As he came to, he felt his slip back into reality progressing at a rather lethargic, ponderous pace. It wasn't at all like a movie where one jolted awake after a horrifying nightmare, drenched in innumerable liters of sweat, breathing heavily and seeking respite from the confusing cesspool of a mental maelstrom that was their unwanted dream state. His return was relatively passive by comparison, warranting no sudden movement. Instead of moving quickly, he simply lay where he was, eyes peering up at the dark ceiling above him. The hand he used to support his head above his pillow tapped the side of the sofa mindlessly, while his other hand tried to rub the blurry myopia from his sight, trying to alleviate him of the tunnel vision impairing him at present due to his sudden awakening.
Like with all dreams, he wasn't able to extract anything worthwhile from the clusterfuck of a nightmare he'd just experienced. Attempting to think hard and remember the experience was a pointless waste of cognitive muscles, and it just seemed the more he tried to recall, the less he actually did. All he knew was that this anamnesithic episode had involved more questions than answers, and was simply pouring fuel of a fire he thought he had doused.
My only priority is to exalt and bring the Crusader's creed into the light. To ensure his galactic hegemony over us all...my past is irrelevant. Who I was and why I'm here is not important. I promised I would stop chasing after that. So why is my mind so fixated with learning the truth of my former life? If it doesn't help me better complete my task, then whatever information I gather is useless.
I need to stop this. Focus on the task at hand. My mission. That's all that matters now. I will live for, serve and die for the Crusader. If my search for answers hinders, in any way, my ability to see that through...then I will gladly sacrifice it for the greater good. For the galaxy. For the Faith. And for the Crusader.
Bringing up his omni-tool, he noticed the time was well into the night on Sanctum. From what he could see on his chronometer, he had only succeeded in acquiring, at best, forty winks. Nowhere near a good rest, but it was more than nothing he supposed: far better than he usually got. Poor sleep patterns were the norm with him ever since he woke up in that SAAF facility. His mind just would not shut down...thoughts and processes running on repeat for the better part of a night, refusing him even the most basic of siestas. If he was lucky, he'd get six hours sleep. There were some nights where he didn't sleep at all.
His body paid for it...but his mind seemed entirely unaffected. And that's something he could handle. He needed his wits more than he needed his body in peak condition. As long as his more strategic comprehensions were undeterred, he would soldier on. It's all he had.
Figuring he could either lay here and attempt to get back to sleep, or get up and get some work done, he decided on the latter and gently pushed himself up and off the couch, standing up and stretching until enough bones popped for him to feel satisfied. He walked over to the wall and fumbled around in the dark until he found the appropriate haptic switch, watching (or, at least, trying to watch) as the lights came on. He squinted to see past the blinding burn of their luminescence for a few cold seconds, but once he finally broke past that threshold, he made his way over to the sink in his room and blasted cold water over his face to finalize the wakening process. Taking a moment for further composure, he looked up from the discoloured basin and took note of the stubble that was beginning to grow along the sides of his jaw. His reflected eyes met his corporeal ones within the mirror, and he found himself, for a brief moment, being interrogated by his own reflection.
Who am I?
The Good Samaritan.
Yes, and a name that fits me well...but it was not my given name.
It does not matter. All that does matter is that they know me as the Good Samaritan.
An identity forged to cover up the real one. To sweep it aside. I'm not the Good Samaritan: I've merely adopted the disguise it offers me. A safe name that protects me from the secrets posed by my real identity. A pandora's box, indeed.
Yes, well, that box will remain shut if I have anything to say about it. Some secrets best remain that way.
Who decides that, however?
He growled, slapping the side of his head meteorically as he churlishly banished his unwanted self-doubt to the deeper recesses of his mind. He splashed some more water on his face, breathing deeply as he shook and flinched from the icy liquid, before washing his hands and using a nearby hand dryer to dry his hands again. Now at least partially awake, he turned to the desk that rested at the front of the room and studiously stalked towards it.
The facilities on Sanctum were really coming along now, and the ever increasing flow of loyal followers streaming through their gates was making the formerly abandoned, claustrophobic and deafeningly silent ruin of a camp back to life. The place had been a wreck when they arrived: rotting and mummified Blue Suns corpses everywhere, limited or no power throughout the facility, little food, sections reclaimed by nature...and, to make it all worse, no orbital facilities to properly dock their ships, forcing them to use shuttles. All in all, their new beginning on Sanctum hadn't been met with a positive response, and many had been demoralized or dissatisfied with their organization's newest accomodations.
But six days had passed since then. What had been a complete desolation, a write off in every sense of the word, had been turned into a haven. To make up for a lack of orbital docks, the two landing pads the Blue Suns had built when they took over the facility over two years ago were put into use once more, and they had developed a more expedient method from which to transport supplies. Areas reclaimed by nature were themselves recaptured: trees were cut down, vines and plantation removed, with the most affected areas retrofitted by those in their group qualified to do so. New power generators were purchased through the black market on Omega at cheap prices, restoring power to most of the base and, most significantly, to the critical sections needed. Food was restocked, and the bodies placed in a mass grave ten kilometers away and buried. The dilapidated camp that had suffered years of neglect was practically uninhabitable had been made into the opposite, and it was all thanks to the perserverence of his people, and their loyalty to the cause.
His 'office', if one could have called it that, had seen better days when he first entered it. At first, it had seemed fine: an overturned desk, flaking paint on the walls...the rest of it was in good condition. But once he dug further into the fine print, the more glaring issues began to form: moss growing on the walls, barely one light working, and water running along the floor due to a nearby water table being breached. All of these issues had been mopped up and dealt with the next day, and now he could confidently call this place home. Or, at least, as close to home as he was going to get for now.
This place was never meant to be permanent. This is nothing more than a staging base. Illium was compromised: staying there was no longer an option. At least from here, we can maintain secrecy. They won't find us here...and by the time they do, it'll be too late. Our movement will swarm the galaxy, and not even the Council will be able to stop us then.
He practically dumped himself in his seat, rubbing his eyes of the few fragments of aching exhaustion that still hung onto them, and activated his terminal, the holographic interface shooting up with a beep and quickly displaying the last screen of information he had been looking at before he fell asleep, along with a pending notification from a GMO news update. After the debacle involving Amarp's misguided attempt to assassinate Dalatrass Linron, he made sure to watch the news with the attention of a hawk. He had enough issues to worry about without adding incompetent and disorderly cell leaders to the mix. The uncoordinated actions of independent cell leaders had ended when he took over...the Samaritan had thought he put an end to that.
But, as it turned out, such things were now the least of his worries.
As he clicked and read the article, he found himself flabbergasted. What he was reading...it was like something out of an alternative history novel regarding armageddon. The details of it were grotesque and horrific, painting a picture of absolute, senseless brutality and collective suffering that made the Shepardist plight seem trifling by comparison.
The SRA have certainly proven that they understand the meaning of psychological and terrorist warfare. And that they'll go to any lengths to secure their independence from the suffocating sovereignty of the Batarian Hegemony. Many of our own members are former SRA and Hegemony civilians turned refugee.
The alliance between the cultists and the SRA was one of brotherhood. Unlike some of the smaller coalitions the Samaritan was looking to found with potential shell companies, military advocacy groups and postreaperist lobbyists (Postreaperism or 'Post-Reaperism' being the newly developed political ideology sweeping through the galaxy that focuses on post-Reaper War policies of rebuilding, recuperation, reparation, reconstruction and recovery, and is considered to go hand-in-hand with ideals of Postreaperist revisionism, pluralism and post-war ethnic diversity), the SRA wasn't just an ally, but a friend with not too dissimilar, if not blatantly mutual, goals. Both fought for concepts of justice and restoring order: however, the SRA's scope was narrower than the FAICRU's (FAIth of the CRUsader's official acronym), focusing on one specific area rather than the entire galaxy. Their overall goals differed as well: whereas the SRA's primary objective was the dissolution of the Batarian Hegemony, the abdication of the Supreme Regent, the establishment of a republic and the emancipation of all slaves, the FAICRU were far more religious, and were committed to the exaltation of the Crusader, his placement as dictator of the galaxy (in the classical Roman sense of the word, not the pejorative modern-day revisionist view of it), and their purpose as his disciples and followers.
As much as he hated to admit it, the SRA's own principles would eventually clash with the FAICRU. The Crusader's destiny was to rule over the galaxy with an iron fist in order to save it, but to do that, the governments had to surrender their authority and certain freedoms in order to facilitate this transition. A galactic dictatorship of this caliber had never been seen before, and while the krogan had come close to conquering the Milky Way millenia ago, they had never succeeded. This kind of dictatorship, supported by a powerful military apparatus that the Crusader could command personally (the FAICRU providing this force), would not clash well with concepts of freedom and democracy...values held in high esteem by the humanity's Alliance government, the Asari Republics and, mostly importantly, the SRA and their republican advocates.
But, he had known this. The SRA were a means to an end...an ally at the moment, but an enemy of tomorrow. So long as they kept the Council's attentions focused elsewhere, he could expand Shepardist operations far more easily. And while one could classify the SRA's antimatter bombing of Kepcedah 'extreme measures', he couldn't argue with the results. The Council had been dividing its attentions before...but now most of their focus was on the SRA. No doubt they had also discovered the FAICRU's connection to the SRA as well, but knowing their bureaucracy and their history with less-than-stellar responses to escalating threats, he'd expect the Council to hold from making any major plays against him for at least another month while they contain the civil war brewing on Khar'Shan and throughout batarian space. That left his organization to make their next few moves in peace. Sure, one hundred and fifty thousand lives lost was a tragedy...and certainly not one had planned on. But many more would die before the end of this great revolution, and it was better to get used to it now before the real losses started to mount.
Thus far, as far as this report went, the Council were falling for his umbriferous machinations and were still totally oblivious. Even with the limited resources he had, and having taken several steps back to escape their grasp, he was still managing to secure more wins. There was only one variable left, one that was absolutely required before they could move on.
They needed the Crusader to take his rightful place. Which is exactly the task he had entrusted to one Conrad Verner: to go to Rannoch and inspire their hero to take flight and adopt his consecrated title with amour propre. It was not a task he had assigned lightly, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was the most wanted man in the galaxy at the moment, he'd have trusted no one but himself to complete the task. But he had been left little choice, and all he had was the faith in his followers to do the right thing. Besides...if Conrad wasn't loyal to the Samaritan, he certainly was to the Crusader...and that's ultimately all that really mattered, when it came down to it.
The man in question was scheduled to arrive back today. He could have informed him via the extranet mail the success or failure of his task, but as the Samaritan had directed, all such exchanges were to be conducted face-to-face to avoid being compromised or intercepted. The Council most certainly had eyes-and-ears everywhere, so keeping everything internalized and compartmentalized was the best way to avoid the enemy being alerted to their actions.
Right on time, a knock on his door could be heard, followed by the distinct, gravelly tone of a krogan that had to be Krend. His krogan bodyguard had taken to his new duty to the nth degree, to the point where he began to wonder if the old soldier ever slept. Whatever the armourer's secret, he did not divulge it to him, and he was not one to complain: having a krogan dedicated to your protection nearly 24/7 was a luxury one with a paranoia as strong as his could only hope for, especially after an encounter like the one he had with a salarian spectre, "Good Samaritan, Mr. Verner has returned. He is outside and waiting to see you."
"Very good. Send him in," he ordered loudly enough to be heard through the door, but not enough to be shouting. He straightened his shirt and quickly retrieved his cap from his desk to cover up his messy and unkempt hair, not wanting any evidence of his inconsistent sleep schedule to be noticeable. The low lighting of the room, as well as the cover his hat offered, would hopefully hide the red rings developing beneath the brim.
Moments later, the door slid open, Krend barely visible in the corridor outside as he returned to his post, enormous red and brown armor making him look even more gargantuan than he already was. He had a claymore shotgun holstered on his back, and the heavy, absurdly large warhammer he carried on his back looked large enough to pancake steel and liquify bone. He was a fearsome sight, which made his position as a bodyguard all the more useful. Conrad Verner stepped out from infront of him, entering the room and coming to stand infront of the Samaritan's desk as the door behind him slid shut, leaving the two men alone.
"I have returned from my mission, Mr. Samaritan," Conrad announced. It was a time like this that he noticed Conrad's lack of a military background was obvious in his posture: he simply stood there, hands at his sides and carrying an all-around casual and comfortable demeanour. That would be one of the many things the Crusader changed in his organization once he finally took over.
And, if Conrad's presence was any indication, that was going to happen very soon.
He nodded, offering his hand to his lieutenant. Conrad seemed surprised by this but reached down and gradually shook it, before stepping back. Noticing the Samaritan was still looking at him, Conrad must have realized his mistake and shook his head, hitting his temple in an attempt at a facepalm, "Oh, damn it. Sorry. You wanted my report."
"Yes," he replied simply, betraying none of his emotions in regards to Conrad's mistake. It was better to allow the doubt to linger, especially if it made the man think twice about how he composed himself in further briefings and debriefings.
Wasting no further time, he stepped forward again, offering his hand once more: this time, however, a datapad was rested in it, and he took it readily from the man's outstretched appendage, leaning back in his chair to read it, which gave a groan of protest at the sudden action. Ignoring the awful sound, his eyes ran over the report in earnest, feeling a slight smile wanting to tug at his lips as he read the first glimpses of success within its contents.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes...very good. Just like most of the other missionary leaders, we seem to have struck a cord. With our Rannochian cell secured, pressing on with further operations will be made much easier, and we'll have ensured the safety of our members. Prove you can protect your people, and they will eat from your hands. Yes, this is very good indeed. People are our power base, so the more of them we have, especially from a large cross-section of species, will make this that much more easier. And quarians and geth too...their technical and analytical expertise will prove most opportune to the Faith. Might even be able to crack a few Council transmissions and networks to see what they're saying about us. Could prove helpful in planning our next moves moving forward.
The report made mention that the quarian and geth congregation, led by cell leader Nala'Seeram pav Rannoch, would arrive on Sanctum within the next few days: this matched up perfectly with the reports of the other missionaries from Palaven, Thessia, Khar'Shan, Sur'Kesh, and the rest. By then, the Shepardist Sanctuary would be fully operational, and would increase their total numbers from just a few hundred to just over two thousand, at least on Sanctum. This news made him very happy.
What he read next...dimmed that happiness significantly. Conrad's secret secondary objective had been to convince the Crusader to come out of the shadows, and to keep him apprised of his new army. Verner had seemed confident he could accomplish this task, as he knew the man personally and had run into him during his travels, and thus would be the easiest to get in the same room as him and get the word out. The Samaritan had thought this would be foolproof enterprise, but as it turned out, the entire thing had been botched from the start.
He had initially wanted to blame Conrad for disappointing the Crusader. His initial analysis of the Crusader's response to Conrad's arrival, which had been described as belligerent, annoyed and insulted, had been that Verner's meek personality and inability to take charge of a room or demand another's attention by presence alone was what dissuaded him. Or, perhaps, that the Samaritan had failed to show up himself, and that the Crusader had perceived sending one of his lieutenants in his stead as a slight against his character. His first instinct was to entirely blame Conrad.
But the other pieces of the puzzle simply didn't fit in. The quarian's presence was expected, but the hostility was an unknown variable the Samaritan, admittedly, had failed to account for, and that failure in intelligence was on him. He had known about the quarian from his visit to the Shepard estate last year, before meeting and taking over the cult. From what he remembered, she seemed to hold some importance to the Crusader, and what research he had done later had revealed her name to be Tali'Zorah, and that she was a member of the Crusader's squad from the Eden Prime conflict, all the way to the Reaper War. What little information he had gathered after that had led him to assume the quarian was just a friend of his, and that he had stumbled upon one of her visits, and that it was nothing more than that. However, that explanation hadn't really set well with him, especially when one considered the question of why Shepard had gone to all the trouble to build a house on a foreign world that had only just been reclaimed.
Conrad's report, if anything, shed further light on this issue. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. The quarian was not only present again, but her behaviour and attitude seemed to suggest she wasn't just visiting...she lived there. She also had a varren, which she seemed to know quite well, and given the domesticated nature of the animal, this lent more credence to the theory she was more than just a friend. What happened afterwards, with her caring and gentle behavioural change when the Crusader exited the house, confirmed what was now far more evident.
This quarian, Tali'Zorah, was the Crusader's lover. An unexpected turn of events, but one that now made sense within the scope of what the Samaritan had learnt from the encounters he had observed and read about. This didn't entirely flip their understanding of the Crusader's personality upside down, but it certainly presented an obstacle. From the looks of things, the Crusader's reluctance to accept Conrad's words, and Tali'Zorah's support of that stance, had thrown a wrench into their operations. Everything the Samaritan wanted to do from this point forward, plus his ability to take advantage of the Council's distracted state, hinged on the Crusader finally beginning his reawakening to eventual ascendancy.
Now it couldn't happen. The Crusader had rejected them, their beliefs, and their ideals. He had said as such, according to Conrad's report. Now, he could call the man a liar, but that was unlikely. As he said, Conrad was at least devoted to the cause, if not to the Samaritan, so he had no reason to lie in affairs that had nothing to do with him directly. No, what he said was the God's honest truth, and what this truth revealed was shocking. He had assumed many things about the Crusader's reaction, and all of them had been misses.
His developing satisfaction gone, replaced with a cold pit in his stomach, he placed the datapad back on his desk, and remained stoically quiet for a moment. He silence got to the moment where even Conrad was becoming comfortable with it, shifting back and forth impatiently as he deigned to know the Samaritan's thoughts on his debrief. Finally, just as he was about to ask, the Samaritan spoke, looking up at him, "Before I say anything...I want you to know that I do not condemn you, or hold you responsible, for the Crusader has unveiled to you in this report. It has shocked me, angered me, disappointed me...but none of it is your fault. Part of it is my own failure."
"Your failure, Mr. Samaritan?" Conrad asked, cocking his head. He clearly had expected many responses from his mysterious leader, but none of them had involved self-accountability.
"I knew of the quarian," he admitted, standing up from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back as he paced across the room, Conrad's eyes watching him dutifully for any changes in behaviour, "I didn't think she would be an issue, and as such, I failed to inform you of her existence in the Crusader's life. I erred in that regard, and I apologize. Its become obvious to me that I've underestimated her, and in some ways, overestimated the Crusader's devoutness. I had believed this mission to be presciently determined. I was wrong."
How could I have failed so miserably? I supposedly knew the Crusader in my previous life, yet I wasn't able to account for this or the importance of this Tali'Zorah in his life. These are two very important factors to take into account, and I failed to account for either. Foolish. Irresponsible. The Crusader is a hero, a martyr for freedom and righteousness...I thought we shared that. All the evidence seemed to point to that. But the quarian and her involvement in-
He stopped pacing, eyes going wide as he looked up suddenly. Licking his lips, he stutter stepped as he pivoted to face Conrad directly, who finally took notice of the Samaritan's sudden change in mood. He opened his mouth to form a question, but the Samaritan simply held up a finger to silence him, doing so as he returned to his desk industriously, snatching up his datapad and scrolling back down to the bottom, to the part where Tali'Zorah and her actions were mentioned by Conrad. Finally, after a few moments, he found the part he was looking for, and read over it a few more times, running it through his head.
"...she seemed to approach me aggressively..."
"...didn't want me speaking to the Crusader, went to great lengths to keep me away, and even summoned a varren she called 'Urz', which I assumed to be her pet, to try and scare me away..."
"...the Crusader seemed tamed, almost emotionally cradled, by her whenever she spoke. Seems to hold great sway over..."
"...after the Crusader left, she whispered to me something that seemed overtly threatening. Doesn't seem to like me or our organization very much..."
Those four lines, and the descriptions they entailed, painted a very specific picture in her mind. From the get go, her actions seemed to direct the Crusader's responses and his boorish orientation towards Conrad. She was the first to greet him, and the last to speak with him. Her voice seemed to guide and direct the Crusader's emotions, almost like an emotional chain. She tugged, he yielded. Her temperamental and harsh bearing towards Verner seemed desperate and staged, like she was trying to prove something...like she was trying to keep the Crusader safe from-
From Conrad. From the Samaritan. From us.
When he thought of Shepard, he thought of a Crusader. A man willing to fight for justice, and to liberate civilization from the jaws of barbarity, decimation and corruption. He was a warrior. A hero.
But when he thought of the quarian, after everything he had read...only one word came to mind. One title, above all others, seemed fitting.
The Herald.
"Mr. Samaritan?" Conrad asked, his concern growing to a level that was now begging to be assuaged. He had his head lowered, trying to gain the Samaritan's attention. He got it, with the man looking up from the datapad, allowing it to slip from his grasp and back onto the desk. He looked at Conrad directly, gulping as he formulated an appropriate answer that would salvage Conrad's confidence.
"Another player in the game has made themselves known, Mr. Verner," he declared, walking around the desk and grabbing Conrad by the shoulders and holding him there firmly. Conrad didn't dare move, simply looking back at him with wide eyes and a curious expression that screamed shock and confusion. He wasn't going to keep him guessing, "This wasn't a failure...this was a success. If I hadn't sent you to Rannoch to inform the Crusader of his true calling, we may never have come across this information."
"...a success?" Conrad asked bafflingly, looking at the Samaritan as if he was a madman, "Good Samaritan, the Crusader hates us!"
"Yes, but now we know why," he elaborated, his look anguished and troubled as he explained his revelation, "We were such fools. We were so focused on bringing about the Advocation, that we didn't bother to think about the first step: the enlightenment. The revelation. We've misunderstood his destiny: the enlightenment isn't meant for the galaxy. Its meant for him. He must be enlightened."
"I'm...so confused," Conrad groaned, looking like his head was about to explode from the lack of answers.
"The Crusader is trapped," he continued, "He has been manipulated. Tricked. The war has weakened him, and one person has taken advantage of that vacuum to keep him under lock and key. To keep him on a tight leash, and ignorant of his power. The Crusader needs us to save him. From himself, but most importantly, from the Herald. The Crusader's arch nemesis."
"So...like a supervillain?" Conrad asked dumbly, trying to explain the situation away in a layman's version that he could understand in its entirety, "You've never mentioned this Herald before. I thought the Crusader's enemies were the Council. Are they the Herald?"
"No, we only thought they were. They are only an obstacle...the true test comes from the Crusader's need to defeat the Herald. They are the last obstacle to the Crusader's duty. He cannot rise to power and wage his campaign of unification and galactic liberation until he has slain his nemesis, the Herald. We didn't know about the Herald because they, she, has been hiding under our noses all along. She's been there since the beginning. Plotting, scheming, destroying everything. She's his confidant, his companion, his best friend...but all along, she has been his enemy."
"Who?" Conrad asked, practically begging for an answer at this point, "Who is the Herald?"
He released Conrad and scrambled for the desk, grabbing the datapad before practically shoving it in his face, "She is. The quarian. Tali'Zorah. The woman who pretends to love the Crusader. The evidence is there: she tried to keep him from you, and got hostile when you wouldn't leave. The way he acts when she's around him: he acts the way she wants. The threat she delivered afterwards? The contempt the Crusader, a man of virtue and high morality, has for his valued followers? Its staring us right in the face! Tali'Zorah is the Herald!"
It finally clicked, and Conrad's posture slouched, all tension releasing from his body as it finally sunk in what the Samaritan was getting at. He looked down at the datapad being shoved in his face, eyes drifting down to find the single solitary picture of Tali'Zorah, an image he had grabbed off the extranet Codex article about her, "Oh..."
"We've been fighting the wrong enemies the wrong way, looking for them in the wrong place, and waiting for them at the wrong time...the Council can wait. The galaxy can wait. Our mission, our purpose, our mission...rests here. The Crusader must be rescued. He must be shown the light. He must be released from his manipulation. The same corruption he is destined to fight, that we are all destined to fight, is the same one that is keeping him tethered. The Herald, his enemy of the prophecy, resides in his home, under his roof, disguised as his lover. We must act fast, Mr. Verner. Our new task is ever so clear."
He dumped the datapad, and the two men's eyes remained locked on the still, holographic image of Tali'Zorah. A woman who was no longer just a periphery concern. She was now the enemy. The enemy.
The Herald.
CSS Normandy SR-2, en route to Rannoch - January 20, 2188 - Ten minutes later.
"You don't need to apologize, Shepard. Least of all to me."
"I was wrong, and you deserve to know that. We've been through too much together for us to continue bickering like this."
Garrus just sat and listened. The past few days had been very stressful for the turian, with him having to deal with an array of problems that had cropped up. Returning to the Citadel without the Samaritan in his custody was bad enough in the Council's eyes, but to tell them that Shepard had blatantly told them to take their order and shove it hadn't sat well with them either. Sparatus, in his anger, had suggested sending a Spectre unit to arrest him and bring him in, but the other Council members had quickly shot that down, highlighting the obvious in that bringing in Shepard would a) anger the public, as they wouldn't like seeing their war hero in cuffs and being dragged around by government thugs and b) it would achieve nothing, as arresting Shepard for simply not giving a speech would be foolhardy, and wouldn't convince him to say anything. Not to mention that Shepard himself had defeated threats far more dangerous than a Spectre team. He'd killed two spectres already, in fact. Dirty, seditious spectres, for sure, but killed architects of death nonetheless. Not to mention that Shepard was now the new favourite Spectre, even if he was retired. No one in OPSCOM would lift a finger to follow that order.
Suffice to say, the Council had chewed him out for that. His first major operations as a spectre weren't turning out all that well. He'd failed to apprehend the Samaritan and end the threat he posed, and now he hadn't even been able to convince Shepard to give a speech. He must have seemed pretty incompetent to them, and that to him had only fueled his anger towards Shepard, however irrational it was. He had been bitter for days following that argument, completely convinced that Shepard's blissful ignorance and non-interventionist policy was only fanning the flames. Only yesterday, further proof in the pudding arrived in the form of the Kepcedah Bombing. The death toll was staggering, and the Samaritan was a part of it. To know that Shepard was willfully ignoring such enormities had rubbed him the wrong way before, but then it had been tenfold.
But a part of him, deep down, knew Shepard wouldn't look past this. He wasn't that far gone...he was still a good man, with a strong moral compass, and no matter how badly he wanted to sit in rhapsodic harmony, his code, his warrior ethos, would not allow him to sit idle for long. An event would occur that would spur him to action once more. And, unfortunately, that very action had occurred.
And now Shepard was contacting him. Once he had received word from EDI of the intercepted communique, he had known what it was for, and had ordered they depart from dock and immediately set a course for Rannoch. It was simply no coincidence that just after the bombing was made public, and the media had reported on it, that Shepard was now trying to contact him. It could only mean he had finally come around.
His old terminal was...a bit of a shambles. After their last argument and Shepard's abrupt disconnect, Garrus had, in a fit of shock and frustration, turned his discontent on his helpless computer, and the device had paid the price. Afterwards, after he had cleaned up what was left of it, he had gone to the Citadel and bought a new one...good thing the solid state drive was salvageable.
Shepard had spent a good part of the conversation apologizing for his actions. Apparently Garrus wasn't the first to berate him with this reality: he had been doing that to himself long before the turian had begun wording it. And with Tali having begun to agree with him, a nice good wake up call had been delivered to Shepard's front door. He knew he had been in the wrong, and he was determined to make amends for it. And while he was adamant his involvement remain purely diplomatic, with zero combat operations, he was willing to make a difference and come make this speech. Garrus couldn't contain his gratitude.
The tide is finally turning. Once their 'Crusader' disavows them, they'll be left without allies. Shepard will make more of a difference than he could know with just one speech.
"Well, I'm just glad you've changed your mind, Shepard," Garrus assured him, leaning forward with a nod, "And if we're doing apologies, then its my turn. I shouldn't have called you a coward. You're not. And while your actions might be selfish, I totally understand and accept them. I can't expect you to play hero forever, and neither can the rest of the galaxy. Spirits, let's just hope this is the last time you even have to talk to the Council ever again."
Shepard just scoffed, "That'll be the day. Tali's packing up her stuff while I quickly find a hotel suite to rent while we're on the Citadel. When do you think you'll be here?"
"Two, three days, maximum. Your fault for being so damn far away," the turian chuckled, clearly intending for that last part to be a joke. Shepard saw it as such, laughing right along with him. With a sigh exchanged between the two of them, Garrus couldn't help but express his gratitude to the human in a far less vague manner, "Shepard, I just want you to know that I think you're doing the right thing. You didn't have to do this."
"At this point, I don't think I have a choice," was the human's sincere response, "I told you this before Garrus, but there comes a time in everybody's lives where we reach a crossroads. Make a decision, or don't. Choose the right path, the wrong one, or head back home. I've reached that crossroads again, Garrus. And no matter how badly I wanted to hold onto my decision, I just couldn't ignore it. Something has to be done. And if my help can further us along the path to a greater solution, then I'll gladly do my part."
The turian just smiled. That part sounded very familiar, "Sounds like the commander I know."
"Yeah..." he trailed off wistfully, before shaking his head to clear his thoughts, "Anyway, I better get back to it...I'll see you in a few days, okay?"
"We'll be there, Shepard," Garrus said in farewell, "Say hello to Tali for me. Talk again soon."
"Will do," was the last word the former commander and spectre offered in parting before cutting the connection. Laying back in his seat with an exhale of breath, he took a moment to think about what to do next before finally deciding on something. Looking up, he addressed his ship's AI directly, "EDI, whereabouts on Ashley and Churchill?"
"They are currently located in the shuttle bay," she replied instantly. Being a part of the ship, if not the ship itself, EDI knew everything that went on within its hull, including the locations of every individual crew member at any given time, "Churchill appears to be running checks on weapon inventory."
Garrus frowned at that, "I thought Ashley had claimed the armoury. She's allowing Churchill to run the show?"
"It appears so."
Garrus just sniggered at that, standing up and heading out of his cabin into the elevator as he hit the button for Deck 5. Who would have thought...Ashley, the Alliance marine who was suspicious of aliens, was stuck permanently at shitty postings with a shitty rank and whose hatred of the geth for killing her squad was only eclipsed by that of Tali...who end up calling aliens her best friends, would become the second human Spectre and obtain Shepard's former rank, and allow a geth to run her armoury. Ashley is like a living example of how much we've all come, and how much we've all changed.
Technically speaking, Ashley didn't run the armoury on the Normandy...she wasn't even an active member of the crew anymore. Back during the SR-1 days, she'd run the armoury alongside Kaidan, but during the Reaper War, she'd practically taken over it the moment she rejoined the crew, with Cortez and James just somewhat rolling over and letting her take charge (probably had a whole lot to do with her being part of Shepard's inner circle of friends, and thus her experience topped theirs). Once the war was over, Ashley returned to the Alliance, but was indefinitely placed on 'special assignment', which was just Hackett's military speak for allowing her to focus on her duties as a spectre. And given that spectres usually worked alone, that meant she no longer served on the Normandy as much as she would have liked to.
But, the hunt for the Samaritan was anything but a standard spectre operation. Hence why three spectres were working on the same ship together. Himself, Ashley and Churchill.
As the elevator descended, he temporarily thought about what Kasumi was up to. He hadn't seen the thief as of late, and from what he remembered EDI telling him, she'd spent most of her time on the Citadel since they got there. No doubt the crew recall would summon her back, allowing him to find out why she was avoiding him. He wouldn't call their relationship exactly by-the-books, and it was certainly nothing like what Shepard and Tali had. A few sporadic moments of passion, interspersed between longer gaps of beating around the bush. Kasumi was certainly the most eccentric woman he'd been with, but he couldn't really find much fault in that. For a turian, she was exotic. Different.
He initially believed their relationship was stress relief...after all, they only came to each other before the final battle on Earth, and even Kasumi had seemed to clarify that this was just to lay off some stress. But ever since the war ended, they seemed to grow closer, and Kasumi seemed to express no interest in breaking it off anytime soon. Perhaps there was more to it?
The elevator arrives on the fifth deck, derailing his train of thought. Looking up, he walked through the parting doors as he approached the armoury, where Ashley and Churchill were located. The shuttle pilot was nowhere to be seen, but that was no surprise: Cortez's consistent presence in the shuttle bay had been due to his array of skills, not because he was a pilot. As it was, their two UT-47A stealth shuttles were currently hanging from the ceiling, supported by cranes that latched around the heavy, cumbersome aircraft that the Normandy possessed. Apparently a newer model, the UT-47B, was currently in production that would fix the UT-47A's setbacks, which included its excessive weight, allowing it to further capitalize on its stealth capabilities. The UT-47A was somewhat rushed into production due to the Reaper War, and so what should have been a prototype turned into an active field model. It was a good thing that was being rectified, and Garrus hoped they'd be able to replace their 47A models with the 47B models once they were put into service.
He found Ashley and Churchill not far from the elevator. Ashley was on the far left, seated upon a crate she had pulled out. As per usual, she was wearing a light blue and black singlet around her torso, the Alliance Marine Corps logo (the Alliance insignia with a sword facing downwards striking through the middle, with two thunderbolts flanking it) along the front with 'Systems Alliance Marine Corps' along the bottom, with the Latin words 'Per astra, fortiter' ('Across the Stars, Bravely', according to his translator) along the top. She wore blue camo fatigues, with a belt holding them firmly to her waist, while her raven black hair was tied back in the usual ponytail that she seemed to favor (and which was apparently an Alliance marine regulation for human females). She sat with her legs spread out in front of her, the breastplate from her armor laid out across them, the marine holding a cloth that she was using to scrub and polish it.
The armor was a unique combination of Ashley's creation: being a spectre, she was now in charge of providing and maintaining her own equipment, which included her body armor. She had chosen to keep her standard issue HYPERION-87 combat armor, but had made various additions to it. The blue and black finish was replaced with custom paint job of light red and dark black, with a Spectre logo replacing the Alliance one along her front and the shoulderplates. The breastplate was largely upgraded with the frontal plate taken from a female variant of the HYPERION-107 special forces kit (otherwise known as N7 armor), and swapped out the old kinetic barrier for a stronger one. She added a larger faceguard shoulderplate on the left side, and removed most of the more burdensome parts of the armor. Ultimately, the modifications were made to suit Ashley's modus operandi as a spectre, which involved going in fast, brutally and precisely. She thought like a marine, and that ideology had passed on into her work as a shadow operative.
Churchill, as EDI had told him, was at the armoury, currently disassembling, analyzing and reassembling their weapons at a mind-spinningly intense rate. Churchill was an odd sort when it came to geth, and that said a lot coming from someone who had spoken to Legion: the most peculiar geth he had ever met up until this point. Not only were they the only geth spectre in existence at the moment, but they were also the only geth he knew of that had adopted a 'female' persona. Everything from the voice and how the geth interacted was attempting to emulate feminine emotions, interactions and actions. No doubt this was part of a larger geth social experiment surrounding organics...another attempt at trying to understand how they worked and how best to develop their newly found intelligence. For this, Churchill was a unique sort. She was a standard trooper platform, but was unique in that she used a different color scheme to most other geth. Most used uniform colors, such as red, blue, yellow, etc. But Churchill had a sort of blue camo scheme going on, with numerous dots all over that covered most blue color ranges. He had no idea what the aim of it was, as the age of tactical cloaks made painted camoflauge largely irrelevant, but it only served to add to the geth's list of idiosyncracies. Unique was too light a word to accurately describe her.
She fits right in, though. Eccentricity is the game on the Normandy.
Churchill must have heard the door opening, because the moment Garrus began approaching them, the geth was already turning around to address him. Ashley, seeing this, looked up, and upon seeing him, placed the cloth beside her and nodded in his direction. Neither of them saluted, although that was understandable: Garrus was not their superior officer, and even if he was, all three of them were spectres...the only people of authority they answered to was the Council.
"Garrus," Ashley greeted, removing the breastplate sitting on her legs and placing it with the rest of the dismantled pieces of armor resting at her feet, "Got an update for us?"
"I do," he replied succintly, motioning for Churchill to come over. The geth did as suggested, and once he knew he had both their collective attentions, he continued, "Shepard just contacted me. He's come around. I've just had Joker set a course for Rannoch. We're wheels up in a few minutes, and it'll take us around two/three days to get there."
Ashley seemed happy with that outcome, "I knew skipper would come around eventually. He's a marine. Can never stray far from the action for too long."
"I assume Shepard-Commander was convinced to get involved due to the events of the Kepcedah Bombing?" Churchill asked.
"Yeah. Saw it on the news. Says he can't simply wait around and allow the Samaritan to continue doing what he's doing any longer," the turian elaborated, providing further context behind Shepard's final decision, "We all knew this would happen. The Samaritan has gone too far this time. I just hope we can end this quickly so we can all get our happy endings."
Ashley just laughed, "We've fought skyscraper-sized machines, taken down spectres, crippled an information empire, and systematically obliterated the most effective and brutal supremacist terorist organization in the last four centuries of galactic history. Are we really going to start getting concerned about a bunch of religious zealots? We've dealt with worse, and come out cleaner than we thought. At least the stakes aren't as high."
No, taking down a few of Shepard's trigger-happy fanboys is a massive step down from putting an end to billion-year-old cycles of galactic genocide. This should be a cake walk. Even if the Samaritan has eluded us, he won't be able to much longer. We have a Shadow Broker, and eventually, he'll make a mistake, slip up and we'll be there waiting for him. Then we can all finally move on.
"I find this fixation on personal hubris and severe underestimation of one's belligerents to be puzzling," Churchill admitted, with Ashley and Garrus turning to face the geth, "It would be prudent to better respect and properly assess the actions and capabilities of your adversary, thus accounting for possible situations in which the underestimated opponent could potentially outmanoeuvre you. We believed this to be the foundation from which human and turian militaries have developed their operational philosophy. Sun Tzu for humans, Adeplius for turians. Sun Tzu stated, and I quote, 'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know-'"
Ashley and Garrus just laughed, holding up hands to signal the geth to stop. Garrus then reached forward and gripped the geth's shoulder, watching her optics turn to look at the hand, and then turn to look at him, headflaps twitching as she processed how to react, "We know that, Churchill. We were joking. Its an organic emotion called banter. We overestimate our skills to emphasize how jaded we are, and our experience. We have no intention of underestimating the Samaritan. I did that once, and it won't happen again."
"I see," was the simple reply, the geth nodding in emulation of the organic trait, "Legion made mention of this. He found it puzzling, but later tried to join this ritual. He was not successful, but I shall endeavour to make further attempts. Legion taught us much about organics, but it appears we have much more to learn."
Hearing about Legion hurt Garrus, but only because of how much he, admittedly, missed the geth. But knowing that a part of him lived on in all geth, fragments of his personality and collective knowledge had been scattered and implanted in all geth from that point forward, was reassuring. In a way, Legion was now the geth. The geth were now Legion.
He did not die in vain.
"Don't worry, Churchill," Ashley added, retrieving her breastplate, "Stick with us, and you'll learn a life's worth of interesting content."
"Understood, Williams-Commander."
Garrus took his leave then. He had informed Ashley and Churchill of their mission deviation, and now it was time to inform the crew. Even as he entered the elevator and hit the button for Deck 3, simultaneously ordering EDI to have the crew gather in the mess hall, he felt a massive amount of stress leaking from his form, spilling out and leaving him feeling more relaxed than he had been when he started. Things were finally going their way. The crisis the Shepardists had spun up had been spiralling out of control, and it still was, but now with Shepard returning temporarily to condemn their actions, it looked like the tide was finally going to turn in their favor.
The Samaritan's days were numbered.
A/N:
And the plot escalates! The Samaritan has a new target, Shepard is finally getting involved...you guys wanted the plot to go somewhere, so I delivered. Not saying it'll start speeding up now plot-wise, as we've still got quite a few chapters before that happens (around 9), but we're getting there. The first ten chapters were what I call the 'build-up' phase. Roughly the next fifteen will be the 'crisis' phase.
For those who may have noticed...yes, Ashley's armor is her Spectre armor variant in the Alliance Warpack mod.
Anyway, I'll be doing a Flashpoint prompt next before moving onto Chapter 11. Rest assured, things are falling into place! And I hope I'm keeping you guys on your toes in regards to the Samaritan! Let me know what your theories are on his identity, and what you think his next move will be. ;)
Until next time,
Keelah se'lai, troopers!
Music suggestions:
Shock at Ground Zero: "Shadow of Chernobyl" by Stephen Barton from the game Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare.
On the News: "Raven Rock" by Anthony Gonzalez and Susanne Sundfør from the film Oblivion.
The Samaritan and the Herald: "Properties of Explosive Materials" by Jóhann Jóhannsson from the film Arrival.
Garrus Is Relieved: "Dodged a Bullet" by Greg Laswell.