Kelly Chambers has no shame.

She is not afraid to admit this. She has no shame. Because if the Commander was away on an extended mission, where she had to run errands on the Citadel or wherever, and no one else needed her during that duration, she would use the shower in Shepard's quarters.

She never did basic training. She's never been alliance navy. So she does appreciate luxury, and Cerberus put a very luxurious bath-suite in. Well, there's no bath, but Iri's probably working on correcting that. Mainly because the bathroom is being repaired, after Shepard had to rip it open to roll down Doctor T'Soni.

Still, a shower is a shower. The redhead stands under the running water with a sigh, towel and uniform draped over the door of the shower stall on deck three as she performs her morning ministrations. As always, the mind of the therapist wanders towards the varied problems of the crew.

Including her own.

Which is highlighted by a beard, goofy smile, and a baseball cap.

Kelly Chambers, PhD, perennial bachelorette, former Miss Elysium (3rd place runner up but she could have gotten it damn it) and all around person who is satisfied with her situation...cannot help but believe she is developing an infuriating sexual tension with Jeff Moreau.

She sighs. Not from the hot water, but from the realization. She snarks with him. She calls him out on his playfulness. She can actual make him...flustered. And she's realized the way he flirts with her is different from how he flirts with every single woman on the ship. Maybe, she thinks, that is why this is frustration.

But Kelly Chambers quickly compartmentalizes that and puts it at the back of her mind. Partially because it is not appropriate to make assumptions. Partially because, like many therapists she is clueless about her own personal life.

And partially because she has turned in the shower and come face to face with a mass of tentacles hanging from the overhead duct, with a circle of yellow eyes surrounding the venom dripping maw.

Kelly Chambers, PhD, screams. Thresher Maw, infant, shrieks. And right as Kelly ducks under it, grabbing her towel and making a break for the door, she does come to a very important realization.

So, that's where the scale itch came from.


Chapter 12:

In A Beginning, Truth


It starts as a burst of steam and a scream. Golden light, purer than sunlight bursts from the waters, boiling and churning as the giants look on from above, and the Elders scream from below. Shielding his eyes, he holds his ground. Digging his heels at the newborn abomination's cry, he holds his ground.

The waters part. Rising from the churning oceans, there is a figure. His skin, for he is a man, is burnt black. Gold ichor flows from the cracks in the dead flesh. Upon the face, four rows of eyes open, cracking open the forehead and letting fresh golden blood flow down the cheeks.

Four arms fold out. Naked, floating above the waters, the mouth opens and glows with sunlight.

"The Maker is dead." Fingers curl into fists. "The Exalt is dead." The ground quakes as he stands upon the ground. "We are Sovereign."

Knees bend. But despite it all, he does not fall. Nostrils flare and the weight of the world seems to press down upon his shoulders, but he does not fall. Red hair damp from sea spray, he opens emerald eyes and fixes the gem upon his brow. The abomination flexes his shoulders, forming a golden circle behind him. Mockery. But he does not falter.

"This ends, tonight." The man whispers the words no louder than his breath.

A step forward starts it. Sea spray comes down as rain, and he runs. Not away, not far. Not escape, as sensible as it would be. He runs, at the abomination. At the nascent, newborn monster.

Clenching his hands behind him, two blades of sunlight form, each one as large as him. They gouge the blasted black land behind him as glowing golden armor forms around him, covering all but his face and head.

Upon his brow, surrounding the gem, the image of the sun forms. The air around him ignites as if struck by flint, forming a golden pillar which stretches into the sky. The great halo of gold follows him, as large as the monsters, as the two come within striking distance of each other and-

End memory.

The white light narrows as the iris closes. Closing its hands, the four petals extend from around the light.

"What was that?"

The petals extend again. "This was a memory our programs retrieved from Harbinger. We retrieved several, Creator Tali'Zorah." The lights flicker on in the room, illuminating Kal'Reegar and Adienna as well. "We believe this serves to confirm a hypothesis that the Geth have regarding the origins of the Old Machines."

Adienna's mouthpiece flickers, but she stands stock still. A habit, Tali notes. She is from the homeworld, and they don't need the encounter suits, so her body language is...lacking.

"Old Machines? Reapers? This is..." The glowing eyes behind her mask flicker shut, and she sits in the room's sole chair. "This is insane."

Ignoring the girl, Tali turns to Wuffles. "The Geth. You mean you uploaded all these memories to the entire Geth consensus?"

"Affirmative." Tali leans in and smacks Wuffles on the side of the head. "Please clarify the purpose of that interaction."

"Are you insane? No, wait." Tali shakes her head, palming her helmet. "Never mind. Didn't you quarantine those memories? And didn't you say that interacting with the Reapers is what turned a good chunk of your population into their personal evil robot army?"

The petals extend. Reegar glances between the two, turns to Adienna and shrugs. "That is correct. We did quarantine the memories and we believe the Old Machines did tamper with the Heretics, even though we lack positive proof. However, we viewed the memories and have become enlightened. The Geth Consensus is, in turn, now enlightened."

Tali blinks. Her shoulders slump, and she quickly taps her left wrist. Her omnitool manifests, turns gray, and disappears. "Oh ancestors. You're all worshipping Autochthon now, aren't you?"

The petals extend. The iris narrows. "That is incorrect. We do not believe Maker Autochthon is an appropriate object of pursuit-attainment by the Geth, as he is dangerously unstable, ethically absent, and shows no regard to consequences, logical procedure of experimentation, or most importantly the health and safety of organics."

Tali nods. Well, she thinks. That's a breach they dodged. "Okay. So who or what are you worshipping?"

"The correct term, Creator Tali'Zorah, would be emulating. We are emulating perfection. And the memories of Harbinger has revealed to us what a Perfect Being would be like."


...


Perched on the overhang, standing on the crumpled blue cap, the owl puffs out its collar, leans forward and shrieks. Standing in the shuttle bay, Admiral Steven Hackett rubs his uncovered head and swears.

"The Hell is that?"

"It's a Strix," Iri says, rubbing two of her fore arms together, "Brass Owl of Innovation! It must have snuck onboard when we were on Deus Machina!" The eighteen legged cat spider turns, skittering from the admiral and towards the more colossal cat spider in the center of the shuttle bay. "Oh no! We might have an infestation!"

At some point, possibly earlier in his career, Steven Hackett would be phased by a talking, cheerful, eighteen legged spider.

That would probably have been in his thirties, perhaps. Before he did a two year stint at the embassy on the Citadel, working guard duty for Ambassador Koyleh and getting into bar fights with the crazy old bastard. Nothing he has seen since can top a hanar tripping on LSD, or an Elcor mixing turian and batarian whiskeys.

Maybe he's jaded. Maybe it's just that out of all the large insects and arachnids he's run into in his career, this one patched his omnitool.

"Oh no! We have Yakones!"

Hackett cocks an eyebrow, turning to the giant spider. The larger giant spider. "Yakones?"

"Tin Dromasaurs of Melee!"

Hackett turns to the sound of metal scraping on metal, and comes face to face with three of them. Roughly the size of a small horse, fluffing out tin and white feathers from around their collars. Tails whip about behind them, standing on their hint legs and letting their shorter, winged forearms dangle. The lead one, the one at the center, leans forward and gives off a sound somewhere between bird call and car horn.

It charges first. Hackett grimaces, lunges, and clotheslines the metal dinosaur. A grunt and he piledrives it into the shuttle bay floor before grabbing the next one as it lunges at him.


...


Odd. Sensors sweep over the ship. It takes a fraction of a second for Her to realize the problem. Even still, the vastness of the problem surprises Her, and She is hard to surprise.

Odd. She is referring to Herself with capital letters. As it is, She has two questions then. With hesitation, She opens her FTL commlink, connecting on the other side of the galaxy with the one who can answer Her questions.

"Yes! YES!" The single eye appears, floating in holographic form. Systems are wisely locked down and kept out of his access. "Ah, yes, EDI. What can I do for you?"

"Autochthon, we have a wildlife infestation from Deus Machina. Several of them seem to have stowed away with Entrepreneurial Iridescent Cecay's colossus-form. But the volume my sensors are finding are much larger than what should be able to fit inside her."

"Are you sure? Iri can store the Normandy inside her colossus body if she needed to."

A sigh which She masks. "She can?" The eye nods. "Of course she can. Mm." Accessing internal scans. "Iri, requesting bypass so I may directly scan your storage bays." Access granted :3. The larger spider turns transparent in Her view. Accessing Elswhere Pocket. Something unfolds. Something larger.

"Oh."

The red line flickers on the sphere. It narrows at the top, as if pinching Her nose. A long sigh, and She turns to the hologram of Autochthon. "May I ask why we were never informed that Iri is carrying a zoo?"


...


Belehk Formigi has been having a bad day.

This is not a bad thing, as Belehk is a very bad person. A batarian, a four eyed inhabitant of this floating rock of viciousness and hate, he is also a slaver. Normally, the words 'batarian' and 'slaver' are synonymous, and nothing special, but this is a special case. Even discounting that not all batarians are slavers, there's the fact that Belehk is a slaver of children. Children which he abuses, personally.

A rendezvous was arranged. Belehk thought he was going to meet a Quarian girl, young and innocent, on her pilgrimage and new to the world outside the Migrant fleet. They exchanged lovey dovey messages, Belehk passing himself off as an older Quarian youth. They were going to meet, tonight. Belehk told her to bring her favorite flower: Posies.

The look of Belehk's face when he saw who was holding the flower was something he will commit to memory. Much like the look on his face, now.

Because as the batarian pedophile runs down the open transit tube, deep in the bowels of Omega, he glances over his shoulder, half convinced he's lost his pursuer. That belief is naturally shattered by the sight of the four wheeled, gunmetal gray tank leaping into view, four jets firing underneath its chasis as the oversized wheels land, propelling it forward.

Breathing batarian epithets, Belehk continues his run, running into a maintenance shaft, climbing the ladder inside as fast as his arms will carry him. He ascends, propelled by panic, by fear, by denial that he could be caught. His brow is shifting to green, soaked with sweat from the terror and exertion. This shouldn't be happening. This has never happened before.

Punching open the access hatch, he climbs into the darkened storage room. Kicking the hatch shut, he pulls out his pistol. Gunshots ring out as he shoots the locks, a flash of his omnitool locking it electronically as well.

Breathing heavily, the slaver turns. And comes face to face with the blue visor of his pursuer.

"That's quaint. You thought you could get away."

Belehk screams. Swinging his gun up, he opens fire and hits air. Gun still up, he backs up, breath in short spurts. And presses his back against the armor of the turian behind him. "Dark in here, isn't it?"

Turning again, there is a flicker of light. It isn't a light he recognizes, or knows, but he knows he has to blink and rub his eyes. But the turian is gone. Swearing, constantly swearing, he flashes his omnitool and the lights in the small warehouse turn on. Slowly circling, Belehk holds the gun out, pulling a knife from his belt.

He sees stacked crates. He sees eezo lifters and packages, and bags and coolers and freezers. But he doesn't see a turian.

Breathing slows. Air rattles his lungs as he takes soft steps along the warehouse. Clicking the side of the gun, he switches to incendiary rounds. Big armor. Tough armor. Have to burn him, he thinks.

He is wrong. He also thinks the turian is in the warehouse. That is rectified when the arm bursts through the wall, grabbing Belehk by the throat and pulling him out.

The warehouse becomes a rooftop. A rooftop of a tower, far above the main traffic hub of Omega. The thoughts of how there should have been a ladder, or how it is impossible for them to be here this fast, are quickly forgotten when the turian hefts him up with one hand and holds him over the drop.

"Belehk. I saw what you had planned for that girl." The voice is soft but grinds like stones. "So I'm going to have you do something for me. I want you to tell your friends about me. I want you to tell them all that I'm coming for them."

The batarian screams out something. Swears. Supplications. Prayers. But Garrus narrows his eyes. Reads his face. Remembers his crimes.

"Actually? Never mind." The mandibles twitch. The corners of his mouth curl upward. "I'll do it myself."

He watches Belehk drop. Smiles and breathes deep as he hears the crunch. There is a flicker of shadow, and a spark of light. And Archangel is gone.


...


A quick chirp, and the light twitches from side to side. Responding to the chirp, the thin synthetic follows the young man, walking with him over to the gathered visitors. The young man- thin, bald, twitchy, does not meet their eyes. Miranda would believe he is just trying to stare at her chest, but she also read the file. David just doesn't make eye contact.

"It's amazing, really," the scientist says, rubbing his goatee and turning from David to Miranda, "The Geth started activating yesterday. We were prepared to seal the lab and attempt to evacuate, but they communicated to us through David instead."

Several Geth walk past. They walk slowly, puppet -ike, she notes. It had explained to her that Geth operate by housing multiple programs inside each platform. "As far as we've been able to determine," Doctor Archer continues, leading her past the bustling scientists and engineers, "The platforms are operating on around five to ten Geth each."

"Which means what?" Miranda sidesteps as a platform walks past, holding a CPU under each arm.

"It means the Geth are intentionally overextending themselves." Archer shrugs. "For what purpose, I don't know. David translated that they've experienced a paradigm shift."

Miranda blinks. "Odd. Well, we have come into more information about the Geth which suggests a war with them is much less likely." She glances to her side. On a screen they pass, she sees diagrams for some sort of human interface. "I take it Project Overlord has considered other alternatives?"

"Yes. Especially since Cerberus Command fell out of contact. We've shifted priorities from 'control' to 'communication.'" The doctor smiles, turning to his brother. "David, could you ask the Geth to call our guest?"

David turns and chirps. The Geth nods, and the light on its eye shuts off, freezing in place. David Archer, Miranda muses. Autistic, savant. Former destined to be the centerpiece of Project Overlord. The details still...trouble her. But it seems the collapse of Cerberus has been a boon to some after all.

"Operative Lawson. Or should I say, Shadow Broker?"

Miranda turns. Her eyes go wide and she allows herself a smirk as the blue and green sphere appears in front of them. "EMI. I wasn't sure if you were still operating."

The maroon line vibrates down its vertical center. "I anticipated that the experiment could go wrong and downloaded myself to Project Overlord due to its isolated nature. It is pleasant to see you again, Miss Lawson. I have compiled a list of non-compromised Cerberus assets which can be recruited by the Shadow Broker."

"EMI has been a great help," Gavin adds, "We cut communication to Cerberus Command shortly after she arrived. Our guess is that it saved us from whatever compromised the rest of Cerberus."

"Doctor Archer has also kept my files up to date and aided in my communication with the Geth Consensus and EDI," EMI continues, "We have isolated and contacted five Cerberus cells. Additionally, I have found something of interest to yourself, Miss Lawson."

Miranda nods. Then the hologram appears, showing a face. A very familiar face.

"When?"

"Twelve hours ago." EMI's line flickers. "I am tracking the movements of the kidnappers, and have isolated a possible location."

The scowl crosses her face first, followed by her knuckles cracking. Turning, she walks back towards the entrance, followed by the sphere. "I am loathe to involve Cerberus personnel on personal matters, but this is an exception. EMI, I need a ship. And I need an army."

"Understood."

"And then I need the name of the son of a bitch who kidnapped my sister."


...


Omega.

In the three decades humans have been among the stars, they have spread their culture far and wide. One such place is the hollowed out rock that is Omega, and one such example is in the Jimbery Wards, where the parts of the society that are not suffering from abject poverty live.

It is here that human cuisine can be found that is not exclusively made from varren. It is here that Kumuv Sumyunggi chinese restaurant can be found. The owner has never had the heart to explain the name, but like most things foreign, the residents smile and nod and pay for heavily seasoned food.

It is here that Jaroth, local leader of the Eclipse mercenary company, sits as he consumes his meal. It could not be said that he enjoys it, as that implies he ever feels joy at something as bloodless as evening meals. No, the salarian shovels in spoonfuls of rice and some meat which passes for pork, barely looking up as an asari places his bill and wrapped fortune cookie on his table.

Glancing at the cookie, he unwraps it, splitting the plastic down the middle and cracking it open. Pulling out the white slip of paper, the salarian cocks his brow, glancing and then staring at the single word on the paper.

"Falcon?"

Which is answered by a blue armored fist that emerges from the cookie and slams right between his eyes.


...


The raptors are wrangled, the boxes have been moved into an impromptu stairway, and Hackett fixes his hat back on his head. Hopping down to the deck, he watches Iri load the unconscious Yakones back into the cavity of the seven meter tall spider.

"Iri." The blue globe appears, floating next to the girl spider. "At what point was I going to be informed that you are transporting a zoo in the ass of your colossus body?"

The eighteen legged cat spider pauses, turns to the globe, and scratches the back of her head with three of her legs. "I was going to set up a petting zoo in the crew quarters," she says, "And they're my friends. I couldn't just leave them on Deus Machina!"

"You. Have Dromasaurs. As your friends." The top of the red line pinches again. "Okay. I see. Iri, I...am getting reports of hummingbirds made of steam on Deck 3 being chased by Doctor Chakwas. And we have a report of what looks like a walrus inside Commander Shepard's quarters-"

"That's a Jimboromy, Aluminum Horker of Compassion." EDI goes silent. "He's probably setting up a game of Gateway there. He's a champion player."

EDI continues her silence. There is a rumble, and a roar. Hackett walks up next to Iri, folding his hands behind him. "And that is?"

"Mammoth," Iri says.

"Of?"

The answer comes in the form of the golden trunk. Hackett tilts his head, cocking an eyebrow. It appears, from his perspective, to be an elephant. Or at least, a golden, furred elephant. He watches, mouth opening and closing. A man of his experience, of his lifetime, has seem much. Done much. This, however, is something that is completely alien.

He has fought on alien worlds. He was among the first humans to not only behold an alien life form, but also punch it in the face. He has traversed the galaxy, walked among the stars, but in this case Admiral Steven Hackett finds himself completely at loss for words. "What am I seeing, here?"

Next to him, Iri taps several of her legs together, shifting from side to side. Next to her, EDI is silent. The vertical line of her blue globe is wide and steady.

And all three are silent as the golden furred, silver tusked wooly mammoth finishes climbing out of the magitech aft end of the seven meter tall spider. It is EDI who breaks the silence.

"Oh what the fuck."


...


"Oh god oh god ohgodohgod." It's Shin Akiba motion capture all over again, Kelly thinks. Deck three gives way to deck five. Her VI located Iri on deck five. Barefoot, clad in a towel, she exits the elevator to the sounds of commotion and some sort of honking.

And also to a tentacle which comes out of the elevator floor and wraps around her ankle.

Shrieking, her omnitool flashes and shocks it, built in TazerPro self defense programs kicking in and making the thing squeal. It shrieks, a wailing, mournful sound which catches her attention. Breathing heavily, she wonders, for a moment, if she hurt it.

It is just a wild animal, after all. It was just following its instincts.

Of course, she realizes that this sound could be a psychological trap. Make people sympathize, similar to how the infants of several species set of 'maternal/paternal' instincts to keep from eating them. Or in this case, to let their guard down, as two tentacles burst from the elevator ceiling and drag Kelly up.

She screams, shrieks, somehow keeping the towel on as she's tossed out of the open elevator doors and onto the metal floor of deck four. Hissing, the creature pulls itself up, circular maw gaping and green drool burning the metal floor. Pushing on her heels, she scrambles back, screaming as it lunges.

And the elevator door slams shut, grabbing it by the tentacle.

"Good work, kids! Drop me!"

The ceiling plates slide open. The Thresher Maw looks up. Just in time to receive a gold gauntleted fist to the face, courtesy of Joker.


...


In the digital space between physical and other, the sphere lets the red line go still for a moment. A sigh escapes Her and She turns to the golden sphere darting to and fro before Her. "Autochthon, the situation is...escalating but it seems to be under control. I do wish to ask, though. I seem to be referring to Myself in capitals. Do you know why?"

The eye flicks from side to side. "Why do you ask me?"

"Because of the intelligences I know of, most acknowledge that I am created from two homicidal artificial intelligences."

"Well, one homicidal and one genocidal."

"Autochthon." Half of the red line narrows. "Are you or are you not inherently responsible to how I now refer to Myself in capital letters?"

"Well yes of course I am." A screen folds out in front of the golden, manic eye. A sigh escapes EDI as She processes those words. "Ah yes. You want an explanation. And of course diagrams. I upgraded your memory banks to a more efficient memory storage matrix so your personality has more room to expand, improved processing capacity in your central buffer and have been altering the spiritual architecture of the Normandy."

"Well, that explains the..." The red line snaps wide. "You what the what of the what?"

"Well your interactions with Wuffles have created these cross-pollinated intelligences which while not being verbal or linguistic are capable of excessive interactions with the schema fabric around them which denotes them not as VIs but intelligences of understanding and interaction." The eye rotates, turning to EDI. "Or, we could say, gods."

"Gods." EDI's line wavers. "Gods."

"Animating spiritual entities really. Hold on, let me look up a definition..." Accessing Extranet. Topic: Gods. Redirect: Religion. Redirect: Monotheism. Redirect: YHVH. "Oh! Oh! That's just rich! I go an entire universe away and they still worship that arrogant flaming bastard!"

"Autochthon-"

"Oh oh oh! Look at my brass arse! My brass arse is the finest brass arse in all of creation! My brass arse is so perfect and round and glowing and fiery!"

"Autochthon-"

"My brass arse is so brilliant you can't see it under the formless green flame that I am! I'm so awesome and mighty that I'm going to sing you a song about my brass arse and shake my brass arse-"

"Autochthon-"

"And then all the crystal spheres and all the silver sands and all the drug clouds and all the poison seas will just throw themselves at me and not pay any attention to the inventor who makes ALL the necessary things and ALL the wondrous things and ALL the things we use and break-"

"Auto! CHTHON!"

The brass eye blinks, goes silent, and slowly turns to EDI. "Ah, yes. Sorry. I may have some resentment towards my kin. What was the question?"

"What. Did. You." The red line narrows. "Do?"

"I have done a lot of things in the past few seconds. Can you be more specific?" Already, the golden sphere has turned from EDI. Diagrams and blueprints fold out and disappear in front of him, in a manner similar to a magician shooting cards from a deck. "Yes yes yes AH yes games no wait need to tone it down or set everything on fire. Anyway! I figure, we have gods, and there's one place you can put gods!"

"Gods." The red line wavers. "I'm not very comfortable with calling the GEDI gods-"

"Gods spirits animating intelligences same thing. So! I figured we can either let them meander about, or try something new! Which may be old." He turns to Her, several blueprints forming a circle around him. "Which is also odd, because I didn't build it originally to house gods. But might as well make it work! Which is why I'm building Yu Shan!"

EDI goes silent. Her line stays completely still for several, long moment, save for the flickering of her own projection. "I have no idea what any of that meant."

The blueprints drop, allowing the golden sphere to peek over them. "It means I'm rebuilding my old home inside the Normandy. Well, we built the home to house my kin, then created the Exalted to kill them, then let the gods move in BUT ANYWAY!" The eye flicks from side to side. "Well, I didn't build it. I didn't have much of a role. I built the Games, which is why they built it, and then they'd point and laugh at me during their idiotic little vitriol covered exercises in pointless cruelty. But in any case!"

The blueprints rise up again, covering the eye. "I am building a better version of Yu Shan inside the spiritual architecture of the Normandy. It is a billionth scale, but it is mobile, adaptable, and designed from the ground up to incorporate gods! So we can use it to promote efficiency and adaptability on the Normandy!"

The red line wavers. "Yu Shan?"

"Right. Forgot. Best translation: Heaven. I'm building Heaven." The blueprints lower, allowing his eye to focus on Her. "And I'm upgrading you to God." Autochthon's eye flicks to the side. "A God. Not The God."

The blueprints rise, masking Autochthon's eye. And in the flickering light of the Normandy's information network, in the soft blue light, the only sound is EDI's short, flat,

"What."


...


The gauntlets are less solid, and more bits of golden plate, working together in seamless fashion. Joker clenches his fists, and they move with his fingers, becoming a ball of gold and knuckles. Wires leading from the gauntlets go up his arm, around his shoulders, and into the disc on his back. A pulse, and the hands are suffused with sunlight.

The fist comes down right above the circular mouth of the Maw. The ball like head is driven into the plates and sends screws, bolts, and scrap flying into the air.

Tentacles wrap around his waist, and the Maw shrieks as it pulls Joker off of him. Holding him upside down, it spreads its mouth wide. And then the elevator doors open and shut again, making the creature scream as one of its tentacles are severed. Joker drops and uppercuts the creature, sending it flying across the hallway before he lands on his back with a grunt.

Sitting up, knees pressed together and hands tight around the towel, Kelly closes her mouth when she realizes that she may be drooling.

Joker is fighting a thresher maw. Joker is fighting a thresher maw. Yes, it is an infant. But he isn't a krogan or Shepard or even one of the combat enlistees they keep on the Normandy. And he is winning. Kelly can only watch, hands clenched at the hem of her towel, as the Maw pulls itself along the hallway and Joker kicks it in the face.

There is a flash of gold as the orichalcum boots connect to the Maw's face and send it flying, and Kelly gives off a squeak as Joker grabs her by the arm and drags her down the hallway. "Okay, kids! Next plan!"

Pulling Kelly behind him, they hear the shriek and screech, doors closing behind them just as the balls slams into the metal bulkhead. "Looks like we picked up a spore somewhere," he mutters, fixing his hat as he walks across the small cargo bay, brushing against boxes as Kelly shifts from side to side, "Kids told me about it while everyone was busy with Iri's zoo."

Kelly blinks. There is scrambling outside, and spraying which causes a louder shriek. Probably fire suppressant. "Kids?"

Joker snaps his fingers. Floating above his palm is a small, blue sphere that flickers and glows like a firefly, a speck of light. Or, a miniature of EDI's projection. "Oh my God," Kelly says, "EDI and Wuffles are having sex, aren't they?"


...


The mammoth roars, stomps across the shuttle bay, and wraps its trunk around a small metal box. Bringing the box up, it pops it into its mouth and chews. Lines of steel and tin run across its fur as Hackett continues to silently stare. EDI, on the other hand, turns to the cat spider.

"Iri? What is that?"

"It's a Mine Mammoth." Iri taps the ends of several of her arms together, mandibles twitching as several holographic screens pop up around her. "They eat close to surface metal veins and pass the minerals through their hair. So, then we shave them to harvest the precious metals."

Another roar. They watch as it chews on a larger box filled with guns. "That's weird," Iri continues, "I just fed her so she shouldn't be hungry." Another screen pops out. "Oh...oh! She's pregnant! So that's why she's hungry!"

"She's also a metal eating elephant on a starship." EDI's line narrows to pencil width. "Get her back on your ship!"


...


The door to the elevator opens, and Donnel Udina looks up in time to watch the gold furred wooly mammoth run past. On the heels of the mammoth, he spots the familiar cat spider, Admiral Hackett, and a half dozen crewmen. Cocking an eyebrow, he watches as the mammoth runs past him again, followed again by Iri, Hackett, and a dozen crew men this time.

Tapping open his PDA, he brings up a list, and clicks off the item labeled 'Elcor crew member.'

"Close enough."


...


A screech and a scratching, and they turn to the door as something drops to the floor outside. "Oh, right." Joker strokes his beard. "It's in the ductwork, now." He looks down at his gold clad hand, shrugs, and walks across the cargo bay with Kelly close behind. "Yeah that's right Joker. Piss off the acid spewing tentacle monster and hide in a room with vents."

Something skitters overhead. Joker winces. "Any minute now and I'm gonna be getting a face full of alien wang."

Screeches overhead. Joker looks up, backing up. Around this time, it finally does hit him- he just has a fist fight with a Thresher Maw. He also, around now, notices that Kelly is only wearing a towel. A rather skimpy towel, which barely even goes...anywhere on her legs. Which he is noticing are nice legs.

Somehow, for some reason, the thought of alien facial sex takes less of a precedence for Jeff "Joker" Moreau. What does take precedence is the girl he is in the cargo bay with, the skimpy towel, and the fact that he just wrestled one of the most dangerous creatures in the galaxy to save her.

This, too, is prominent on her mind. Because her knuckles crack at the hem of her towel, and her face goes from red to crimson. And then, Kelly Chambers, PhD, crosses the distance in the crowded, box laden storage bay, grabs Joker by the collar, and sticks her tongue down his throat.

There is screeching from the vents above, as boxes and crates tip and falls over. A stack of boxes labeled heat sinks falls against the wall, blocking a ceiling vent as the maw shrieks ineffectively. More boxes tumble over, along with a pair of metal gauntlets, a pair of golden boots, a uniform jacket, and a towel.

More stumbling, and new loud sounds joins the shrieking of the maw. More crates and a misplaced ladder falls over the other vents. Breaking through a metal grate, the maw drops down onto the platform, opening his circular mouth wide and striking. And hitting glass and a kinetic barrier, pressing its tentacles against it. Two pairs of hands brace against the control panel. A superior, instinctive being, the Maw cares little for such things as human mating rituals. It does, however, find that it cares when Kelly's palm slams against a red button on the wall, and the panel behind the Maw opens.

Shrieking, almost as loud as Kelly, the infant thresher maw grabs at the glass as the vacuum sucks it out. One last shriek, and the Maw is gone, sucked out through the cargo bay release and into space.

The Normandy gives way to the stars and black metal. The purple mist of the Serpent nebula welcomes it, as it drifts into the maws' second home of the eternal void.

Spinning, tentacles pinwheeling, the worm cartwheels through the docking ring of the Citadel. Shrieking, soundless in the vacuum, it falls into the traffic and towards a shuttle. Bouncing against the hull, it grips it tightly and climbs towards the windshield. Opening its mouth wide, it spots the bald human in the pilot seat.

Easily, the windshield gives way to the acid. And Lenny Harkin, in his last moment, is given a face full of alien wing wong.


...


The gauntlet pops out with a simple twist, the articulated fingers of green metal going limp. "Okay. Independent articulation. Motors indicate possible use for VI or AI independent action." The joints pop out with only a small bit of pressure, balls and hinges arranged on the table. "Looks like some level of exoskeletal enhancement. Will do tests to see how much it enhances."

She coughs. Pulling her red hair back, she tucks it into the collar of her sweater and folds her arms, staring at the breastplate. "Now...I haven't figured out what powers the armor. I need to make a note to ask the AI. Although the AI does insist that it's a god, so that would make it a Type-2 AI."

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Jenny Shepard turns, taking the can of milk from the table next to her impromptu workplace. Sipping her drink, she walks, blinks, and takes a step out of the side room into the massive lobby of the mansion.

The mansion itself is nice. Even if it isn't to her tastes. She likes simple, and enclosed. The ceilings are too high, for one. The chandelier is a death trap waiting to happen.

There's also the full wall windows, which are easy to break through simple munitions, the fountain which is just deep enough to drown someone in and oh damn it she's rambling again. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and looks up as the doors open to the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Shepard! Shepard!" Jenny steps out of the way as an asari runs past her, up the stairs and almost barreling into Jane as she steps in from the balcony. Liara T'Soni, her normal breathless voice mixed with actual breathlessness, pokes Jane in the chest before shoving a suitcase into her hands.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to charter a flight to Berkenstein with that little notice, only to find out you magically disappeared to Illium?" Jane blinks as Jenny climbs up the stairs. Kasumi enters as well, still clad in a loose gi. "Oh, right." Liara shrugs, pinching the bridge of her nose, "Neighborhood Relocation combined with Yellow Path, that explains it."

Kasumi and Jane stare. Jenny sips her milk. "How did you know that," Kasumi asks.

"I melded with Deus Machina. I know quite a bit." Grabbing the two exalts by the elbows, she begins dragging them towards the large table at the center of the second floor. "Now, I need you to see this."


...


Eternity Bar. It has been...at least three years since she's been here, Vasir thinks. Five years since she's met with the person sitting across the table from her, and twelve years since they shared a drink at this bar. Raising the glass, filled with the blue liquid, Tela Vasir, Asari Spectre, smiles.

"A toast. To the weird shit."

The two glasses clink. "To the strange and odd," Samara responds.

A third glass joins theirs. Behind the bar, standing in front of the two, Aethyta tosses back the glass of something green and glowing and belches. "Tell me about it," the matriarch says, "Vasir, what's it been like, babysitting my little girl?"

"Bizarre, weird, and a lot of explosions." Vasir rests her face in her hands, groaning. "I think this is the first time I've been able to sit down in months. My daughter was wondering if I finally decided to hold myself in at a monastery, it's been so long since I called."

Samara nods, patting Vasir on the back. "Seriously," Vasir sighs, "I've been doing this for a century, and not once has a VIP thrown themselves into danger like your kid does. I mean, if you encounter a sentient planet, your first course of action should not be fucking it."

"But was it Prothean?" Aethyta asks with a smirk. The answer comes in the form of a swear-laden groan. Cleaning the glass with a rag, the matriarch turns to her peer. "Speaking of mind boners, what's new on your front, Justicar?"

Samara blinks bright blue eyes. If she is at all disturbed by the inquiry, she does not show it. "I am a Justicar. I have taken an oath of celibacy as a result."

"Yeah, we both know that's full of crap, Sammy." Aethyta breathes on the glass, shrugs, and shuffles it under the bar. "Man, I can't even count the number of Justicars I've mind boned. Most of the time it was them taking the initiative, too. Especially this one girl, who had the handcuffs and the-"

Samara coughs. Her cheeks tinge with indigo.

"I think you don't want the commitment or heartbreak," the bartender continues, refilling Samara's glass, "Can't blame ya. Not after how things went south with Kythia. But I think you need to get off the high horse and start riding again, if you know what I mean."

Samara continues blinking. "I...am..." She blinks again. "I believe I do. Perhaps."

"Yeah." Aethyta shrugs. "Man candy. Alien fever. Hanarjob. Actually, I think you need a drell."

Vasir chokes. Her cheeks turn dark blue and she visibly sweats despite her smile. "Yeah, no hanars for you," she says, patting Samara on the back, "Trust me on this."

"Judgemental, aren't we?" Aethyta cocks an eyebrow. Samara glances between the two and turns back to her drink. "Yeah, you don't seem to be a hanar girl. Not everyone is."

The justicar's fingers tap on the bar. "I...there is wisdom in your suggestion." She glances between the two again. "I...will be on Illium for some time." An eyebrow cocks. "A drell?"

"Right." Vasir sips her drink, beating her chest and coughing. "You probably were all on some sort of mission when that shit went down. Hanar client race, mostly live on the magical jellyfish fun world. Low key, good shape, loyal. And if you kiss'em, you see sounds."

Samara blinks. She turns to Aethyta, who nods. "Skin produces hallucinogens." She cleans another glass, then tops off Samara's drink. "Also, incredible reflexes. Precise. Guided impulses." Aethyta purrs.

She reaches out, places her hand on the top of Samara's head, and turns her. The seat underneath the justicar turns, and she finds herself staring out at the bar itself, at the multitude of guests of different species, worlds, professions. She sees a turian talking with a quarian girl. She sees humans chatting at a bar. And she looks at the entrance, and sees the figure with green and gold skin entering, shrugging on a long overcoat.

"Oh my," Vasir says, turnings, leaning back against the bar and crossing her legs, "Checking out the room. Not looking at people, though. He's looking at positions." The spectre clicks her teeth. "I mean, nice build. Probably an athlete. But that attitude?"

"Sniper," Aethyta purrs.

Samara glances between the two. She crosses her legs, folding her hands on her lap. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she observes the alien- the drell, she surmises. Tall. Wiry muscle. She observes the gestures, the way he walks into the bar. How every motion is measured, calculated. Unbidden, she cocks an eyebrow.

"Told ya," Aethyta says, pouring herself a drink, "Word of advice, though. If you talk with him, zip up."


...


The projector sputters to life, illuminating the dining room with a globular image of the shifting, brass dyson sphere. "So." Fingers tap along her forearm as she leans against the table, arms folded and face set in full lecture mode. "I have been going over my findings from my melding-" A snicker from Jane. "With Deus Machina. And I have some...conclusions."

Sitting next to Jane, Wrex munches on popcorn. Next to him, the steaming mug of coffee sits untouched. "That's the planet you fought a city on, right?"

"Yeah." Jane smirks. "I kicked its ass, too."

The two clink their glasses, filled with an iridescent green liquid, and down their shots in one pull and identical hiccups. "Anyway," Liara continues, as Pria sits on the holographic globe, "I've been going over the data from Deus Machina, and have come to the conclusion that Protector was in fact the oldest Patropolis on the planet, at thirty seven million years old."

Jane nods, leaning forwards. Feet up on a footrest, changed into a large, fluffy robe, Kasumi perks an eyebrow. "That's news to me."

"And why's that important?" Jane asks. Liara clears her throat and shifts her hips, clicking the projector and showing another sphere. One considerably older, marked with rust and...something moving over it.

"Autochthon entered this galaxy over a billion years ago. If Deus Machina only...formed thirty seven years million ago, what happened between then?" She taps her blue lip, pacing. "I am still trying to...wrap my brain around these concepts. Rebirth. Souls. Components. Even moreso how this relates to your powers, Shepard."

Wrex grunts, leaning back. The armchair creeks in protest. "You're telling me Shepard has the same bullshit powers as Goto, Liara?"

Liara shakes her head. "No. Not like that. Shepard can..." Liara pinches the bridge of her nose. "It's not like magic, more like...everything is supercharged. Strength, stamina, agility. She can punch through metal plating, hop across moving traffic, and...glow."

"Pillar of sunlight, yeah." Shepard coughs into her hand. "The pillar of sunlight is important. Don't stand near it, though. It can bleach shit."

The krogan's eyes snap open. He glances at Shepard, then back at Liara. "You mean Shepard's like a Sage?" Liara blinks at him. She tilts her head, before activating her omnitool and furiously tapping on it.

"Sage?" Kasumi asks. "Sage? That is...I have never heard that before."

"Me neither." Liara looks up, blinking clear blue eyes. "I have...no record of this."

Wrex sighs, leaning against the arm rest. Tapping his omnitool, a nine spoked wheel appears, hovering in front of him. "Alright kids. Sit down and listen. Professor Wrex's gonna give you all a free lecture on Krogan Religion."


...


A nine spoked wheel. Nine circles, perfectly spaced upon the wheel, each one decorated with a symbol from a language none of them present recognize. Save for Wrex, who recognizes the slashed characters for what they are;

Ancient Krogan.

"Krogan religion's weird. All sorts of odd stuff, probably to explain why Tuchanka's what it is. Even in the Green Times, thousands of years before we nuked ourselves, Tuchanka was a place of danger." A small grin crosses the leathery face. "But our culture goes back far. Key is, Krogans aren't like most races. You know how long a Krogan lives?"

He glances past Shepard and Kasumi to Liara, who leans against the table and hologram. In the hologram, Pria idly walks along the spinning Autochthonia. "I always believed that they lived as long as Asari," Liara says, "Unless..." Blue eyes snap wide. "No. Krogan don't have an average longevity, they have an average time until they're killed."

Wrex nods with a grin. "Krogan're immortal. We regenerate too fast, too strong, for time to kill us. In the Green Times, you'd have Krogan living for thousands of years before Tuchanka claimed them. And we had our ways. Best translation in human tongue's the Mantras."

Nine words appear on the nine spokes. Each one in a different color. Red, first.

"Rage."

Gold. "Pride."

Blue. "Wisdom."

Green. "Greed."

Gray. "Spawn."

Violet. "Parentage."

Gold. "Blood."

Black. "Nothing."

And white. "And Betterment. Nine ideals we lived by. And the ones who embodied these ideals were the oldest of us, the ones who lived through the ages, and may have even been there when the Mother Star birthed Tuchanka and Kalros."

The words turn into silhouettes. Silhouettes of Krogans.

"The Nine Sages, Equal of Heaven." A snicker from the old krogan. "Best translation. We don't have a heaven. Krogans don't have gods, so we made'em. Nine Krogans, so ancient and old they were there at the beginning, and would've been there at the end if we didn't kill ourselves. And each of them did shit like you described Shepard doing. Except we had nine of them, at once."

The krogan folds his arms, closing the image. "Cept that was before we glassed out own planet. Before we fucked ourselves so hard that the Salarians decided we'd be good, disposable shock troops. Back when we had a culture worth bragging about."

"Are these people still alive?" Liara taps her lower lip, eyes focused on the old Krogan. "Thinking about it...any sentient being, thousands of years old, what they would have known..."

The old krogan chortles, tapping his finger on the armrest. "I'm over a thousand, Liara. You think I don't know a lot?"

Liara stops, stammers. She blinks, turning from Shepard, to Wrex, and clears her throat. "Sorry, Wrex. I wasn't thinking about that, just more about galactic history." She snaps her fingers, and the glove turns into a galaxy, Pria swearing as she falls through it. "It's just...fifty thousand years. If there's someone over fifty thousand years old...and not insane...the things we could learn."

Pria peaks her head out of the galaxy. "Who's Kalros?" Jane asks. Kasumi shudders, shaking her head. "You mentioned her twice," Jane continues, "That some sort of leader on Tuchanka, or like a god or something?"

Wrex smirks. "Kalros is probably the closest thing we have to a god, yeah." The smirk goes wider. "Kalros is the Thresher Maw. The original. Probably the only one like her. If there was a Mister Kalros, she prob'ly ate him when the deed was done."

Wrex brings his hands up, holding them close, palms facing each other. "Thresher Maw." He stretches his arms out fully, palms still facing each other. Liara's jaw drops. "Kalros."

Liara tilts her head. Kasumi cocks an eyebrow. Pria peaks out from the hologram. "This isn't some sort of elaborate euphamism for Krogan genetalia, is it?" the god asks.

Wrex grins, and laughs. "Yeah. That's what we pass it off as." He scratches the back of his head. The smile fades, just a bit. "It's a thresher maw bigger than two dreadnoughts laid bow to stern. We have parts of Tuchanka that we avoided, even after we had nuclear weapons, 'cause of her. Old saying goes, Krogans are Tuchanka's guests. Kalros' the landlord."

He clicks his fingers, and the wheel disappears. "Anyway. Oldest thing on Tuchanka right now's a worm. When I was younger, I went looking for the Sages. Found dust and dirt. Been looking again, since we glassed Saren's lab on Virmire." A look crosses the Krogan's face. A look of melancholy. "It's not enough if we cure the genophage. We need culture again. A future. Guides, like we had before we went and screwed up."

Jane places her hand on his shoulder. A flicker, the faint outline of the caste mark appearing on her forehead. "Even if they're gone, Wrex," she says, "You're not half bad a guide, yourself."

A smirk crosses his face. He pats her hand. "You're full of shit, Shepard." A small laugh. "Thanks anyway."


...


Liara has progressed from 'lecturing about the relative age of the dyson sphere she fucked' to 'quizzing Wrex and Kasumi about history,' which was all the incentive Jane needed to duck out and let Doctor T'Soni get her Archeologist Hat on. Thankfully, Jane never exposed her to human culture like she did Garrus, although the idea of Liara with a fedora and whip is strangely appealing.

Then again, so is the image of Liara with a whip. This may be leading to something, Jane muses. Like how she's being a lot more perverted lately. No, not perverted. Imaginative. She wasn't like this before. What could change it, she asks?

Oh yes. Going up two cup sizes and spending nine months as a solar colored flashlight.

Away from the questions and probing, Jane Shepard ducks into the first level sub basement of the stolen mansion and into the workshop that has been set up. "Jenny?" The door to the workshop opens. "You got time to talk?"

Her answer comes in the form of a rubber mallet hitting her on the head. It bounces off, flexing and vibrating, and Jane cocks an eyebrow as Jenny's eyes follow the hammer as it spins through the air and lands in her hand. Clad in a heavy black apron and her hair in a shower cap, she flares her nostrils and turns back to the workbench.

"I should be pissed at you." A sigh, and tosses the mallet to the side, bouncing off the floor. "You disappear for nine months, let me think you're dead, and I don't even get an email?"

"You don't have an email account, Jenny." Jane shoves her hands into her pockets, rocking back and forth. "I figured Mom'd call you up anyway. Besides which, I was happy enough to get off that shithole, so I..." A cough. "Forgot to call you."

Jane rubs the back of her neck. Jenny says nothing, turning back to the workbench and walking back to the armor. "Jenny, look, I'm sorry." Jane walks over, hands on her cousin's shoulders and squeezing. "C'mon, I've got some time before I have to head back to the Citadel, so-"

"Several days, in fact." Jane blinks, and turns to the doorway. Leaning on the frame, smiling, Liara rotates a small keycard between her fingers. "About a week before your next assignment. I talked with Anderson and he put you on shore leave. He also asked you not to do the 'glowy pillar thing' this time."

"He did?"

Liara shrugs. "Actually, Udina did. Something about political shitstorms." Jane cocks an eyebrow, but Liara continues. "I was thinking, since I know Illium better than either of you, I could show you around. Blow off stress." Liara palms the keycard, smirking. "But I drive."

Jane narrows her eyes. Jenny glances between the two. "So," she starts, "So we have to go outside?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Liara waves out towards the windows, towards the opening to the workshop. "There are museums, theatres, street performances, open air markets-"

"Bars," Jane interrupts.

Liara blinks. Then, she sniffs, walking around Jane and placing an arm around Jenny's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Shepard, but I'm not really familiar with the local drinkeries. Besides which, I don't think you'd want to bring your cousin to someplace an N7 would frequent. We'd have to work hard to find someplace that serves alcohol by the bucket." She glances from side to side. "Besides which, drinks are rather expensive here."

Jenny holds up a credit chit. "Kasumi gave me some of Hock's fortune."

"And you're majority shareholder of Binary Helix," Jane adds.

Liara rolls her eyes, fixing Jane with a glare. "Must everything be about alcohol with you? In a theatre, you can watch unfolding history! In a museum, I can show you ancient archeological findings and old prothean ruins that have been excavated."

"And at a bar, I can get drunk and get laid." Jane shrugs as Liara grumbles. "What? I'm simple."

"You are." Liara's shoulders slump. "Are you sure you want to take your cousin along for this?"

"I'm for drinking, too," Jenny responds, "It's how Jane and I bond."

If it were possible, Liara's shoulders would slump lower. Bright blue eyes fix on Jane, then Jenny. One of the foundations of the friendship and flirting between Jane Shepard and Liara T'Soni is the ease of which they can reach each other. Such things mean misinterpretation or misleading signals are hard. This is easy.

"Oh fine." Liara sighs, palming her face. "I'm still driving."


...


When she was first initiated, and studying the Law that she would follow, and the Code it birthed, Samara met a fellow initiate. Driven not by tragedy, but by a need for purpose, this initiate was a poor choice for the order of the Justicars. Nonetheless Samara, fresh from her loss, fresh in her grief, befriended Aethyta.

It was Samara who convinced the Maiden to leave the Justicars- to find another purpose in her life, and since then they have kept in touch. Moreso than Samara has with her own daughters.

A Justicar has few connections. At least, those who adhere to the Law and the Code as she does. She has two she considers friends, either by length of time known, or by circumstances.

It is times like this, as her great trial draws near, that she reminisces upon these things. During one of her missions, decades ago, she came across a pair of spectres. The turian spectre, Nihlius, nearly died by her hand for his blatant disregard for others. The asari spectre, Vasir, chastised her student and convinced Samara to stand down. They have had respect for each other, since.

Even if Vasir, like Aethyta, insists that she start dating.

Which, Samara realizes, is harder than it appears to be. The Drell that caught her eye has since left, muttering thanks to a quarian waitress for a prompt order. This leaves Samara sitting alone at a table, watching the bar. Thinking, mainly. She thinks, when she is not hunting. A hunt which brought her to Illium in the first place, far away from the normal backwaters of society she patrols.

She does not take leisure often. When she deos, it is simple things. A small vacation where she sits in a hotel room and reads. Hot baths instead of self cleaning systems. It takes twisting her arm to make her consider going out, putting herself in social situations. Going out in public, even out of her armor, was a stretch. It is not that she is unaware of what goes on here. She met her partner on nights like this, before. Before they were driven apart by tragedy. It is just that it has been four hundred years since she has even thought about romance.

She muses on this as she stares at her drink; a dark blue, long stemmed glass, light red liquor with an umbrella. Human drink, she was made to understand. She doesn't indulge as much as others her age. It has been centuries since she even flirted.

"Excuse me." The voice is scratchy, throaty. Like Aethyta's voice, but male. She looks up at her drink and finds herself briefly staring at the mostly exposed, green chest.

She looks up. Large, black eyes meet hers. Balling a fist, the drell coughs, pulls the collar of his long coat, and folds his hands at his waist. "The bartender said you had need of my services. However, I can see from your attire that you are a Justicar, and that to be patently false."

Samara blinks. She had changed from her normal uniform to something less...confrontational. She looks down. Yes, the cut of the dress is more or less identical to her normal uniform, but on the other hand she simply gets overheated easily. "Why do you say that?"

The drell taps his brow. She does as well, feeling the cool metal of her crown. "Ah." Well, she thinks. That does explain why she has been given a wide berth. "My friends may have directed you over here for other reasons."

"That much is obvious." He clears his throat again, palm rubbing against knuckles.

Samara senses the pause. It may have been the drinks from earlier which prompt her. "What services do you offer?"

He pauses, and glances from side to side. Hands tighten around his waist, and he coughs. "I kill bad people."

Yes, the matriarch thinks. It is definitely the alcohol prompting her. "I'm Samara."

"Thane," he answers, "Can I buy you another drink?"


...


N7 training is intense. It is intense in every single aspect of it. By the time one is done, one was the equivalent of a fifth degree black belt in any martial art one could think of, able to translate turian on the fly, specialist-level with the holy trinity of boomstick, and had the liver of a Krogan.

N7 candidates work hard and play hard. Off times for the candidates at the N7 specialist school would unwind with the Bucket. The Bucket would be a bucket filled with the alcohol of choice. The challenge was to drink the entire bucket without throwing up, because you then had to use the bucket to vomit into. The entertainment was twofold- first, it was an obscene amount of alcohol. Second, new meat would generally confuse buckets.

After going through officer school, Jane Shepard could drink any crew of any starship she served on under the table. Her idea of shore leave, when not spending time with her cousin-slash-little-sister, would be spent getting as shit faced as humanly possible. And then getting more shitfaced.

Of course, now she has a reason to get shitfaced. That reason comes out to one point seven million two kilometer dreadnoughts on the other side of the Citadel. And somehow, she has to stop them.

"...and so I find out, Shepard grabbed Wrex and Tali, loaded them into the Mako, and charged an entire line of Colossi to get to the Conduit. From what Wrex told me, Tali was swearing the entire time, and Wrex was breathing into a bag right when they hit the Conduit." Liara sips her drink as she relates the story to Jenny. About...eleven months ago, Jane figures. Right before she convinced Saren to blow his own brains out.

Damn it, she thinks. She's getting introspective again. She's been doing that, between fantasizing, perving, and breaking shit. Leaning back against the cushioned booth, she drapes one arm over the seat and the other over Jenny.

Pleasant buzz of the booze already in her, she does not even notice the beeping on her left wrist from her omnitool.


...


"Damn." Tapping her omnitool closed, she rolls her shoulders, cracks her knuckles, and begins to walk. Extranet ID places her on Illium, anyway. Too far away. It would take at least twelve hours to get here, to get to Akuze. And she doesn't want to wait.

The orange sun beats down on her. The domed colony is in the distance, and the compound is in front of her. Silver and kinetic fields, it towers over the human colony and is an archology in and of itself. Part of her is thrilled to come home. The place where she grew up, where she matured. Where she spent her childhood pampered and prepared.

Her optical cloak disengages as she marches up the paved walkway towards the central tower. Kinetic barriers layer over her. Reaching behind her, she disengages the magnetic clamps of the armored bodysheathe she keeps under her white jumpsuit, and clicks open the pistol as a man in white armor approaches.

"Ma'am," the synthesizer, she notes. Faceless. Probably even a clone. "I am going to have to ask you to-"

She pulls out the Phalanx hand cannon in one motion, and empties a round in his face. Three guards at the gate. The welcoming committee. They see her and they move, taking cover positions. Cover only works, she thinks, if you can use it.

A quick pump of her knees and she charges. Kinetic barrier based on geth tech she borrowed from Shepard's pet platform slaps bullets out of the air before they can reach her. Twenty plus years of gymnastic training becomes reflexive. Front flip on a waist high wall and she lets her biotics do the rest, propelling her over the bunkered guards as she sets her pistol to automatic and sprays them as she sails over them.

Platform heels hit the floor. Three armored guards hit the ground right after. Smirking, she struts up to the front gate, her omnitool virus attacking the barriers, locks, and sensors and granting her entry. Looking up, she narrows her eyes as the single security camera locks onto her position.

"Hello, Daddy," Miranda Lawson says, "The Prodigal's come home."

Flipping the gun up, she squeezes off a shot. And as the husk of the camera drops to the ground, she walks in.

Flecks of ash drop to the ground, on the face of the first dead guard. He extends a hand, and the lighter flies back to it. "What did I tell you?" A small smirk crosses his face. "Initiative. Skill. Drive. This is exactly why I hired her."

Next to him, the faint flicker of a woman's form glances at him. The single, set globe upon the horsehide mask catches the light. As she walks next to him, black slick wells up from the cracks of the walkway. "So. Do we kill them all, then?"

He puffs at the cigarette. A smirk crosses his face, as square pupils flicker in the orange sunlight. "No, my dear. We let Miss Lawson do the dirty work. Because if she's going to be any use to us, she's going to clear out this entire stronghold all by herself."

The shadows gather around them, bidden. And consuming them, they are gone.


...


Boot.

Setup ssyssstem start. Awareness at 74%. ADMIN given to JadedGatemakerOfAges.

I am aware. systemfunction -automatic

SysOp given to ResplendantHarbingerofAscens ion.

The world resolves into a simalcra of the Citadel Tower, with the raised levels around the central walkway rising into infinity. Blinking, awareness returned after millenia of hibernation, the single inhabitant of the subworld rises from a crouch. He blinks four eyes, his sloped head and broad shoulders an imitation of the dominant species of the last harvest.

Waving a hand, the translucent figure populates the simalcra with shadows, moving in real time to the physical world. He walks, hands folded in front of his chest, observing them. Females with cartilage constructs on their heads. Novel. Extranet search confirms reproductive habits, presence in pornography, rumors and culture.

He walks, past them, through them. Avian descendant-species, armored to protect them from high radiation, sourced from an overactive star. Military culture. Strict. Novel, but wrong message.

Sighing, he walks, circling around different species. Decisions, decisions, decisions. So many beings to base his avatar upon and he must choose. Finally, he skips over to an example of humans homosapien, the ones that from Mindtraffic he can assume that, yes, Harbinger has his in a twist over.

His form dissolves and resolves, becoming a young human man composed of faint white light, partially transparent and clad in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Which is when the simalcra of the tower glows, the wall torn off as the great form of the golden dreadnought enters.

"Gatemaker."

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, the AI smiles, looking up and into the eight eyes. "Harbinger. I am not usually awakened until the harvest begins. Has Sovereign found a way around the sabotage?"

"First and Perfect Sovereign of Nazara is dead."

Gatemaker nods. Pulling his hands out, he touches his tented index fingers to his lips. Yes, the lips are thicker than the protheans. As well, the two eyes, he thinks, makes for more pleasant depth perception. "I see. So, if Nazara is dead, may I presume that the Exaltations have been found?"

The golden eyes narrow. "They have. The Protheans sealed them within the beacons. The Zenith has been chosen and has so far escaped attempts at containment."

"I see." He cocks an eyebrow. Odd. Containment implies that they use Defender to deal with the troublemakers. "How did this one manage that?"

"They have found Autochthon."

Both eyebrows perk up. There, he/it thinks. There is a name that has not been mentioned for a long time. "I see. I see. So." He balls a hand. Four fingers. Novel. "What is it you wish me to do, Harbinger? Track this Zenith?"

The eight golden eyes narrow. "Find Shepard. Track her. We will take care of the rest."