A/N: My apologies for the wait, but, as I warned you, life is busy. And, I must admit, I've been writing ahead in the timeline a bit. Although, in my defence, that will result in quicker updates later on. As ever, reviews are appreciated. Obviously. I mean, why would I put this stuff on the internet if I wasn't even remotely curious about what people thought of it? Anyway...

Moderation

The jungle was stifling; the tangled weave of plants trapped the humid air and smothered Shepard where he lay. He was decidedly frustrated by the nature of this assignment. Everything, from its location to its requirements, was infuriating. This planet, for instance, defied logic, as it was apparently covered in vegetation of a similar nature in a very similar climate from pole to pole. Pragia could very well have come from a piece of science fiction before people understood how planets worked; and yet, here it was.

What's more, he'd had to march through mile after mile of that confining environment just to reach the location from which he was to observe the compound in which the target resided, which, considering the highly lethal nature of the local fauna, had hardly been an enjoyable experience. And then, there was the maddeningly complicated, albeit necessary, nature of how the assassination had to be carried out. The only thing Shepard didn't dislike about the job was the nature of the target. He had absolutely nothing against killing the zealot leader of a militant cult; quite the opposite...

The compound was large, for a supposedly temporary haven, although Intel had informed him that the cult had been operating out of this area for at least as long as he'd been part of the division; rapidly approaching five years. What's more, for an organisation filled with people with a loose grasp on reality, they'd managed to make the place impressively secure. In the middle of nowhere, on a planet light years from civilisation that seemed to have nothing else of any significance on it. Granted, they were surrounded by vicious, invasive flora and fauna that were supposed to mask any readings given off by the base, and his own presence indicated that their paranoia wasn't entirely unjustified, but, ironically, everything they had to fear was a result of that very attitude.

The security systems, aside from the anti-air defences, were low tech, presumably due to lack of funds and the hostile environment that would rapidly wear down any equipment's resilience, but electrified fences and a constant system of patrolling guards in the midst of constantly frenzied activity on the part of the cultists, made the prospect of infiltrating the compound whilst remaining undetected a daunting one. And, regrettably, that was exactly what this particular assignment required of him.

Therefore, Shepard was lying in a rudimentary hide, surveying the area through ELE's scope, and had been doing so on shifts of 24 hours of observation to 6 hours of sleep for five cycles now. The process was excruciating. Willpower supplemented with stimulants allowed him to maintain his concentration, recording patterns and other observations on an archaic piece of paper; the glow from a datapad or an omnitool could easily give his position away to those in residence within the compound, which was as nothing compared to the risk of attracting the attention of some of the more unfriendly indigenous wildlife.

The cultists were preparing for war. Shepard didn't know the details; didn't care to, but their leader professed to have had an apocalyptic vision of the future unless the infidel was purged from the galaxy. The activity that took place almost twenty-four hours a day involved weapons training, religious services in the open air, and constant maintenance of the compound's infrastructure. Oh, and the obligatory shaving and tattooing of the occasional newcomer.

None of this really explained why Hogan and his superiors wanted the cultists' leader alone dead, however. It would be a simple enough matter to drop an incendiary bomb on the compound, without any real precision required, and watch it quite literally go up in smoke. The AA defences complicated matters, but only slightly; the Alliance had plenty of pilots with the skills to manage the operation at a reasonable level of risk.

No; the reason Thaddaeus Shepard had been sent to kill the leader of the cult, Benjamin Cohen, in a manner that had to look accidental no less, was that even taking into account their defective reasoning skills, some of these cultists were valuable. Some of them were biotics; some of the most powerful humanity had to offer. The Alliance felt that their energies would be better devoted to a more secular cause, which would require a change in dogma that would make the lunatics more moderate-less opposed to everyone in that they should be more inclined to align themselves with their own species against the other members of the galactic community. Needless to say, this required a change in leadership, a coup d'état, which was what Shepard was there to facilitate, without martyring the man.

One more cycle to collate enough data for his predictive model to be sufficiently accurate, and he'd be going in. Sweat trickled along with the pull of gravity and gradually pooled in low areas beneath his armour, saturating his clothing and being absorbed into his skin due to the unfortunate influence of keratin.

Just one more round of 24 hours of ceaseless focus and another six of fitful, restless attempts to sleep. Just thirty hours until the storm arrived. Just. It was all relative, though...

Hans Reiser had been living in a state of constant terror even before he had contacted the Systems Alliance to arrange the removal of his immediate superior. That fear, as much as ambition, was what had driven him. Neither he nor his master were religious men, true believers, not really. What had drawn them to creating a violent cult was the prospect of gaining people's loyalty and allegiances to an unquestioning degree.

At least, that was how it had once been. Until his fellow biotic had encountered the narcotic colloquially known as 'Red Sand', and begun to actually believe the absurdities that they babbled to keep their followers behind them on the warpath. His next move was to abandon the recruitment of their usual mentally deficient cast-offs from less extreme organisations, and begin recruiting people of a far more dangerous calibre. Frightening people. And worst of all was the girl. The psychopath. Still in her teens, her small body was already hard muscle and lean sinew, and as of her recruitment, was almost completely covered with tattoos. Benjamin called her Subject Zero. Everyone else, or at least those who didn't want to find themselves prematurely atomised in a warp field, either called her 'Jack', or 'Ma'am'.

The final straw, constructed from singularities as it was, was when Cohen had finally revealed his plot to his subordinates. They were going to attack the Alliance, and wrest from them authority over an entire species. The idea, so far flung from Reiser's more modest visions of coming to dominate the Terminus Systems, and challenging Aria T'Loak, was one that he would once have considered impossible. Now, having seen what Jack could do, he wasn't so sure. This didn't make the idea any less insane, however, and it had come to the point where the possibility of success had terrified Hans more than the prospect of failure.

That was when he had realised that Benjamin had to die. Then, he would be able to carefully steer his flock of rabid, telekinetic sheep away from the path to destruction and onto a more moderate one. He knew, however, that he wouldn't be able to do it alone. And so, he contacted the Systems Alliance, and found them all to accommodating. Assistance would be inbound shortly, he was told. Conform until the deed is done. It didn't prevent the perspiration that broke out all over his body every time he found himself within eyeshot of his old friend's newest favourite.

Something nudged at his leg, startling him into summoning a reflexive blue aura, suppressed just as quickly when he looked down to see one of the infants that lived in the compound, due to the cultists lacking the wherewithal to use contraception. The child stared up at him with a troubled gaze, and pointed up at the horizon, where clouds that seemed to blot out all light roiled and churned as they advanced inexorably onward.

"Storm?" The little boy asked haltingly, still not fully capable of fluent speech. Doing his best to remain calmly aloof, Hans nodded as he stared off into the distance.

"Death is on the wind." He announced, finding it appropriate in an uncomfortably large number of ways. The key question was 'For whom?'...

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain came down in torrents, and there were predators, both sentient and otherwise, in the wilderness. It was a dark night, that is, in the gaps between the constantly strobing flashes of lightning, that managed to light the miserable jungle for kilometres, as effectively as the nuclear fusion that took place in Pragia's local star. Fortunately for the assassin lurking within eyeshot, this in fact reduced visibility due to the mixture of reflection and refraction caused by the sheets of tumultuous precipitation that blanketed the area for miles around, as of course the obstinate cultists on guard duty refused to abandon their redundant posts to shelter from the elements.

In the meantime, Shepard was watching lightning bolts. Obviously, as something truly random there was no pattern to be relied upon, regardless of whether his brain believed there to be one. However, with the distance readouts on his visor and a mental count from the flash of static to the roar of thunder, he was able to accurately predict when the noise would reach him. This would, of course, be the perfect time to cover ELE's own not inconsiderable retort.

His target was the heat source that indicated the position of the compound's primary generator. Knocking it out would provide him a narrow window of a few minutes with which to circumvent the area's automated security, before the backup could be brought online. Of course, it wouldn't be sufficient to fire under the cover of thunder; there were a few amongst the cult's upper echelons that would realise that something was wrong if the device was all but destroyed for no apparent reason. No, he would have to wait for a bolt to strike directly over the compound, and then time his shot perfectly in the fragments of a second that followed so that the noise he caused would be indiscernible from that of the storm.

Fortunately, the compound being an island of metal on an organic world, Thaddaeus didn't have to wait for long.

The flash blinded him temporarily, but he had already accounted for that eventuality; his rifle was already lined up and secured into position for the shot. All he had to do was pull the trigger at the appropriate moment.

He did.

Across the compound, lights went out, and the various automated security measured went offline. Yet no alarm was raised, no outcry. Shepard, blinking away the spots in his vision, winced as he finally arose from his hide for the first time in approximately a week, and as swiftly and silently as his skills and surroundings permitted, made his way towards the compound.

Within the main structure, Reiser looked up from his administrative work as the power died, and clamped down swiftly on the paranoia that reared its ugly head within his mind. A flickering blue radiance materialised and steadied, as on the other side of the room, Jack casually continued to tinker with her shotgun under the illumination provided by the blaze of her biotic might.

Suppressing a shudder, Hans recalled his earlier words, and fervently hoped that death would come soon, regardless of whom it chose.

His prayer was answered. Thanatos had arrived.