"- for them to see it firsthand," Shepard said.

Anderson, setting a brisk pace through the ship and expecting her to match it, gave her a sidelong glance. "I recall your original argument, Commander," he told her, "and I recall giving you grudging permission so long as you met three criteria."

"Of course, sir," Shepard said, nodding briskly, her hands clasped behind her back as she matched his pace.

"One: No alcohol is involved. Two: Dr. Chakwas gives her blessing. And three, I get to take three inches of your skin for every nick you or your idiot marines put in my ship." He glanced at her again. "I expect these conditions have been met, Commander?"

"Of course, sir," she said again and managed not to grin. He seemed to see the hidden grin anyway if the flash of weariness across his face was any indication. She handed him a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka, an odd batarian brand that was no doubt somewhere around the quality levels of engine room swill, and gestured for him to board the lift before her. "Contraband, confiscated as per Criteria Number One. Should take the edge off, sir. Enjoy."

Anderson looked at the bottle in distaste. "Hardly Serrice ice brandy, Commander," he said. He started to hand the bottle back to her... then seemed to reconsider and kept it, tucking it firmly under his arm.

"About that, sir," Shepard said, falling alongside him in the elevator with her gaze firmly forward. "I broke into your quarters and... repatriated... your last bottle of Serrice ice. This was a key component of meeting Criteria Number Two. I'm happy to report though, sir, that Dr. Chakwas has given her blessing and will be attending all sparring sessions as a matter of professional courtesy and interest."

Anderson heaved a sigh. "Is now the time to mention that that is a significant violation of the behavioral standards of an officer and a gentlewoman?" he asked her wearily.

"I don't believe so, sir, no," she replied with a shake of her head. "I'm not sure if you're speaking about the blatant theft or the open bribery, sir, but it is my professional opinion that both can wait until after you've seen the sessions and their benefits firsthand." She handed him a potato peeler, handle first as if it were a loaded gun. "From the mess, sir. For the three inches of skin. Criteria Number Three."

Anderson accepted the potato peeler gravely. "Per nick, Commander," he reminded her.

"Sir, yes, sir," she replied. "Three inches per nick. Mess sergeant assures me this is up to the task. This is his finest potato peeler, sir."

"Good to know, Commander," Anderson said.

The doors to the lift thrummed open and they were immediately accosted by a semi-conscious body that landed just outside the doors with a heavy thud and a muffled groan.

Shepard stepped daintily over it then leaned over to pull it out of the Captain's way, hooking her hands under its arms and dragging it a few feet to the left.

"Sorry, sirs," the body grunted.

Shepard finished hauling him out of the way then reached over and perfunctorily grasped his chin between a thumb and forefinger, turning his head from side to side. His jawline was already purpling but his eyes were clear. Chakwas, seated with several other spectators along the crate-lined walls, didn't seem overly concerned.

"Next time, keep your guard up," Shepard advised him sagely. She patted his shoulder then stepped daintily over him again, saying briskly to Anderson, "This way, sir."

Alliance frigates were light, maneuverable little beasts. As such, space was at a premium... more so than even other vessel classes and those had, for hundreds of years, had to tackle the problem of minimizing the space needed and maximizing the use of what could not be reduced further. The Normandy was not designed for crew comfort and did not have even the few amenities other, larger vessels in the Alliance fleet had. This was fair since their deep-space deployments, assignments that prevented them from really accessing anything off-ship, tended to be shorter than dreadnoughts or carriers. On the other hand, it meant that every room on the ship had a number of different functions beyond just the normal medbay-doubling-as-the-drunk-tank thing: the habitation deck doubled as a running track... the briefing room doubled as a tech design center or a medical diagnostics lab, depending on whether it was a what or a who that was broken...

The storage bay, home to the M35 Mako and the tech nerds who took care of her - Alenko and Vakarian hated it when she called them that but their protests lasted only up until one of her offhand comments made one or both of them reach some kind of critical epiphany regarding the problem-of-the-moment and they started wearing those fidgety 'Sure, ma'am, whatever you want, ma'am, of course, ma'am, can we get back to the Mako please now, ma'am' expressions - was one of the few places on the ship that didn't normally have to accommodate functional changes. That fact made the recent changes quite obvious.

The Mako was parked at an odd angle on the far end of the bay, surrounded by, filled with, and at least in the case of three of its wheels, perched precariously upon a large assortment of supply crates. The requisitions officer was painstakingly clambering over the pile with a data pad, clearly trying to figure out where the hell a bunch of overly exuberant marines had moved his things and attempting to restore some kind of order. The center of the storage bay was clear - save for Lieutenant Alenko, his data pad, and the sweat-drenched marine that had tossed his comrade toward the elevator - and spectators, a surprising number of them, were lining the room, some standing and some sitting on the haphazard piles of crates that had been pushed up against the walls.

Shepard escorted Anderson to the best crates in the so-called Mezzanine, gesturing for him to first clamber up the available crates then take a seat next to Chakwas. She had planned for the two of them to have the front-row seats in the Orchestra section but that had been before Wallace and Rodriguez had drawn blood earlier. She hadn't yet had a chance to re-purpose one of the environmental hazard sheets into a splash zone tarp. The Captain hadn't said anything about blood - only about having the doctor's approval and not nicking the ship - but there was a good chance he wasn't expecting a faceful of blood either. Shepard had every intention of pushing her luck... but only when it was either necessary or fun. The Mezzanine would have to do. Chakwas seemed comfortable enough after she'd clambered up there. The Captain would be fine too.

Anderson gave Shepard a look. She gave him her best 'Don't worry, sir; I've got this under control' nod and then politely held his bottle of bottom-shelf vodka for him as he climbed up besides Chakwas. She handed it back to him, noting that he deliberately placed it on the side opposite of Chakwas.

She then situated herself just to the left of the Orchestra, not sitting down but rather standing comfortably just ahead and to the side of them. Just in case she needed to act as a barricade. One of her many jobs was to keep the Captain safe, after all.

Alenko, finishing up the recap of the last match with the two participants, gesturing to indicate several aspects of the fight that needed work, clapped both men on the shoulder. They limped off toward the sidelines and Alenko strode over to the Captain and came to attention. "Captain, Commander, Doctor," he said in greeting.

"At ease, Lieutenant," said Anderson. "Commander Shepard tells me you've been working them hard."

Alenko relaxed to an easy parade rest, the data pad clasped behind his back. "Yes, sir," he replied, "though not as hard as the Commander has." His eyes flicked toward Shepard oh-so-briefly then back to Anderson's.

"Yes," said Chakwas a little ominously, tearing her expert gaze from the limping forms of the last two participants and planting it firmly on Anderson. "Not nearly as hard as the Commander has. Captain, you were asking earlier today about my latest inventory report and requisitions form." She looked pointedly at Shepard.

"Mmm," said Anderson noncommittally.

"Worth it, sir," Shepard assured him. She ticked off her fingers. "One: Leadership. No one's going to question me or the Lieutenant in the field once they know what we're made of. Means we have to work harder but saving a half second of indecision at crunch time is worth it. Two: Team-building. Haven't seen the guys hanging out like this sober since... well, never. They'll know each other's strengths and each other's weaknesses; it will help us keep them all alive. Three: Ability to rupture a guy's kidney quick-like. Well worth it, sir."

"I'll be the judge of that, Commander," Anderson said. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Impress me, Lieutenant."

"Preferences, sir?" Alenko asked.

Shepard answered before Anderson could. "Bladed close quarters," she said, folding her arms over her chest.

"Bladed?" repeated Chakwas, horrified. "You didn't say anything about -"

"Sparring knives only, Doctor," Shepard replied cheerfully. "Hard plastic, blunted edges. Each marine's required to pass a Level Three certification before even being cleared to train with full metal... and after that, they have to wait for me to personally clear them before they're authorized for live practice. No one's gotten that far yet except for the Lieutenant. I'm afraid you'll have to be satisfied with only a few bruises today, Doctor."

Shepard waited for Anderson's response. He merely leaned forward and reminded her quietly, "Three inches for every nick, Commander," before sitting back.

"Shaw and McPherson?" Alenko asked Shepard in an undertone, leaning in slightly closer to her so she could hear.

"Yeah," she replied. She could feel the heat radiating off of him but didn't move back. Biotics. They ran hot. "They've been bugging me for another shot at getting auth-ed. Might as well give them another shot."

Alenko glanced down at his data pad then at Anderson then back at Shepard. "Sure it's fair to test them out in front of the Captain, Commander? They only get three shots at it."

Shepard, leaning a little closer to peek at the data pad he held, flicked her eyes upward to his. He had nice eyes, she noticed... a warm, chocolate brown... though now that she thought about it, they were a little too wide. Not too widely spaced. That was, as near as she could tell, fairly close to perfect in many regards, that one included. They were too wide, however, in the sense that... as if she were... scaring him? Was she scaring him? Was she too close?

He flushed red as if he knew exactly what she was wondering.

Hah. That was almost as good as the look he'd shot her when he'd noticed the butterfly bandages on her knuckles. Almost. Not quite. She could help but quirk a faint smile at him, agreeing, "Not remotely fair."

He blinked at her.

Her lips twitched. "Testing out in front of the Captain," she reminded him. "But better they discover the unfairness of it all here rather than dirtside." She straightened up, tapping the pad perfunctorily. "I'll take Shaw. Here's hoping they don't embarrass us." She pointed at Shaw and crooked a finger at him.

"Yes, because that would be the most embarrassing thing that's happened to me today," Alenko muttered to the pad, waving McPherson over.

Shepard glanced over her shoulder. "Sorry, Lieutenant, what was that?"

"Nothing, Commander," Alenko replied.

"Commander."

Shepard turned immediately. "Sir?"

He crooked a finger at her in almost the exact same way she'd crooked one at Shaw and she immediately walked back to him, looking at him expectantly. He didn't say anything and instead jerked a nod toward Chakwas. Shepard's gaze moved obediently over.

"Doctor?" she prompted.

The doctor looked remarkably disgruntled for a woman who had made a career out of dealing with busted-up soldiers who at least a quarter of the time had done the busting-up themselves. "Commander," said Chakwas sternly, "I was not aware that this exercise would involve actual weapons." She held a hand up, interrupting the protest she obviously knew would fly from Shepard's mouth. "Yes. Training weapons. I understand the distinction though I'd like to state for the record that with enough force, a plasticized pseudo-blade will do far more damage than a normal one." She held the hand up again and once again, Shepard lapsed into silence before she could even start her protest. "Yes. Control. I understand that your entire program is designed to ensure control, that by having a certification program in the first place, you are ensuring that the sparring partners have enough self-control to avoid inflicting significant damage. However." She lowered her hand and folded it with the other in her lap. "I can't condone this."

Shepard frowned at her. "Did you already drink the brandy?" she asked suspiciously.

"I did," Chakwas said, "but -"

"Commander," Anderson interrupted smoothly, "you will recall Criteria Number Two."

Shepard heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, sir, Criteria Number Two, sir," she said grudgingly.

Chakwas smiled sympathetically at her. "I know this breaks your heart, Commander," she said dryly. "Perhaps you could just... run one of your normal training sessions for us instead?"

"Uh -" Alenko started to say.

"Doctor -" Anderson started to say.

"Of course, Doctor," Shepard interrupted them both quickly, beaming at the medical officer. "If that would make you more comfortable, then by all means." She turned around quickly before Anderson could tell Chakwas exactly what she'd suggested, striding toward the weapons lockers and calling over her shoulder, "Shaw, McPherson... take your seats. Lieutenant..."

Alenko appeared over her shoulder. She could feel the heat from his body not only before he entered her field of vision but also before his presence raised the hairs on the back of her neck. That was new. People didn't just sneak up on her. She'd never dealt with powerful biotics before... and that was probably a good thing if they all proved as distracting.

"Commander..." Alenko cleared his throat. "I don't think the doctor realizes how you normally run trainings."

"She most certainly does not," Shepard agreed cheerfully. "We'd better get started before the Captain fills her in."

She hopped up over a few of the crates blocking her way and then spidered her way over to a specific locker at the rear. She dug through it for a moment then emerged with her prizes: two different but remarkably grotesque-looking knives and a package wrapped in oiled paper. She handed the latter to Alenko over her shoulder.

"Uh, Commander, maybe -" he started to say. He took it.

"Trust me, Lieutenant," said Shepard, hopping lithely back down. She clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder - thankfully without the knives puncturing anything. "We do this now and we'll be able to honestly reassure the good doctor that nothing will ever be as bad."

Alenko gave her that look again. She decided that she would henceforth call it The Look... the one that was part panic, part realization, part resignation... and that she would cherish it forever.

She marched into the center of the 'ring', whirling the dual blades idly in her hands as she walked. She was in her uniform which was too bad... but it had been hard enough for Anderson to get away for this; she wasn't going to waste his time - or his patience - changing. The man missed being just another soldier, she could tell, and despite all the protests leading up to his, she'd known he was looking forwward to it... but that didn't mean he wanted to waste his time or would tolerate her doing it for him.

She whistled sharply and the room, filled with both sweaty marines and their observers, quieted immediately.

"You want to know how to kill someone," Shepard said without preamble, "then take a minute and figure out how he's been killing his neighbors for the last few thousand years. I guarantee he made it an art form before we figured out how to stand upright and he's done nothing but work on it since."

She walked around the room. "You watch a vorcha fight a vorcha and you'll see him coat his weapon beforehand," she continued. "Why? Non-differentiated cells. Neoblasts. Those bastards regenerate. When you see a vorcha fight a vorcha, he knows that better than we do. He's coating his weapon in an acid that will denature the surrounding DNA. Stop the regeneration. Win the fight."

She held the two knives up in front of her, the light of the storage bay glinting off of their blades, and slowly walked in a small circle, allowing everyone a clear view of the weapons. "Hegemony Mark III," she said, holding up her right hand, "and the Assimilation E-X," with the left. "Tactical knives. Both standard issue in the Hierarchy active military, with minor modifications over time, since the Unification War."

A turian would approach a knife fight the same way the Hierarchy at large would approach a direct threat to the very existence of the turian people: total war. No skirmishes. No minor entanglements. Nothing so polite, nothing so ineffective. Every ship, every soldier, every available resource would be dedicated to a destruction so complete that the fight would not only be over but that it could never start anew.

It took a bit to rile the turians... but once they were roused, they played to win... and they won at all costs. Total war.

It was something that showed up in their bladesmithing. The Hegemony and Assimilation series were all horrific little beasts. Shepard loved them. Total war.

She slipped the Hegemony into her belt with practiced ease and held the Assimilation E-X up. The handle was too large for even a male human's hand - almost laughably so for Shepard's - but it was exceptionally well balanced and with enough practice, a human hand could become accustomed to the odd proportions.

It was longer and heavier than the Hegemony with a six-inch handle and a curved, serrated blade erupting another ten inches past. It wouldn't do the same kind of damage the Hegemony would against turian targets... but it was a deliciously ugly weapon.

"Assimilation E-X," she said. "Primarily a slashing weapon with secondary thrust capability." She pointed with her free hand to the handle of the knife. "Front bolster, rear bolster. Obviously specced for turian hands. Rear bolster weighted for weapon balance. Trailing point here" - she gestured - "as you can see the point is higher than the generalized axis of the spine. As with all trailing points, the structurally weakest area is here, at the point; the Assimilation is reinforced with an inlaid set of microfilaments capable of redistributing shock from this point down and across the spine.

"The swage" - and she pointed once again - "is kept sharpened, typically with a single tapered bevel. The swage exists to reduce the cross-sectional area of the point without sacrificing the thickness we need; this improves the weapon thrust which, as we'll see with the Hegemony, is important against turian targets. The serrations may or may not be present, depending on the model, but are typically placed near the handle for the best application of force.

"Most turians will keep the Assimilation in their off-hand." She gripped it in hers, deftly spinning it around and lashing out with a quick, downward slice. "They are starting to wield them main-hand against non-turian targets. It is a more balanced knife than the Hegemony and, against soft-skinned species like us, just as effective. Against turian targets, however..."

She slipped the Assimilation into her belt and in the same, smooth motion pulled the Hegemony free.

At first glance, the primary blade looked disarmingly simple, especially when compared to the grotesque Assimilation... but its relatively simple, brutally effective design belied the underlying bladesmithing required. The primary blade was relatively slim nearest the hilt, right where two slightly curved secondary blades erupted, then widened to a near diamond at the tip. It glinted in the light.

"Hegemony Mark III," she said. She spun it deftly in her hand. "Unlike the Assimilation, it is primarily a thrusting weapon. Full differential heat treating for superior edge retention as well as maximum shock absorption. Perfect distal tapering for lightness and responsiveness. Again, a microfilament network... but in this case not for reinforcement - this is an incredibly durable blade without the structural flaws of the Assimilation - but rather..."

She whirled around and as she dropped to the ground in a defensive posture as if avoiding an attack, thrust the knife outwards, easily piercing the nearest crate... and then with a sharp *CRACK*, the surrounding metal of the crate splintered. A few of the marines jumped.

"For reinforcement of the hinged tertiary blades," she finished. She pulled the knife free. "Tertiary blades are deployed once the armor has been penetrated in the initial thrust. The result is the destruction of either armor or, as in the case with our turian friends, their carapace." She tapped the ruined crate. "You watch a turian fight another turian and this" - she tapped the crate again - "is what it'll come down to. Getting past the metallic carapace and destroying what it's protecting."

She idly flipped the Hegemony around in her hand, continuing, "Asari, on the other hand, have an entirely different sort of problem. Lieutenant?"

He had unwrapped the sword Shepard had given him, carefully folding the oiled paper that would house it once the demonstration was done, and at her gesture, strode into the center of the 'ring', stopping at her side. He held the blade up.

Unlike the turian models Shepard was idly and expertly twirling around her hands, the asari weapon, a sword, was slim, elegant, and had been imbued with deliberate beauty beyond simple effectiveness. The hilt was engraved and the pommel inlaid with a series of small, glittering gems, though some were missing. The cross-guard shared the same intricate engraving as the tang and the engraving extended seemingly seamlessly into the body of the blade itself, the detailing winding partially up the delicately curved metal. The blade was longer than that of the turian models but slim, simple, with a katana-like curve. Despite the unmistakable grace of the blade and what was obviously a dangerously sharp edge, it looked oddly thick.

"Asari sword," Shepard said, watching as Alenko made the course around the room to make sure everyone got a look. "Ansu-Uhn. Fixed blade. Flat grind. Optimized for speed, agility, and massive soft target damage. Asari were using this sword design five thousand years before they arrived at the Citadel. They are no longer in active, pervasive use. Of course, if you find an asari wielding one of these, you are unlikely to survive long enough to appreciate it; the only current-generation asari known to use the Ansu-Uhn are justicars. But beside that... they're ancient blades. No significant design changes in thousands of years. No microfilament networks. No modern shock absorption or edge retention. Antiquated."

"No wonder," said one of the marines. "Looks like the Hegemony could eat it for breakfast."

Shepard smirked slightly. "Lieutenant," she said, gesturing for him to take the center of the ring. She walked a bit farther out, though she stayed at the edge of the ring, and sheathed the Hegemony at her waist. "The asari use the blades in a series of specialized sword forms. An entire subdiscipline is dedicated to simple drawing of the blade, similar to the Japanese iaido. After a few hundred years of study, the novice will move on to actual combat forms. Lieutenant Alenko has understandably undergone an accelerated course.

"Form One," she said. "Way of the Sun."

Alenko, the sword held in front of him along the plane of his body, abruptly drew it back in his right hand, his right elbow pulling back, his forearm even with his shoulder, the blade parallel to the ground. His left arm extended before him, parallel to the blade.

"Basic attack, parry, identification of body targets," Shepard continued, as Alenko moved through a series of well-practiced motions, light glinting off the blade as it moved at times lightly, almost artfully, and at others with dangerous, whistling, deadly speed. In some ways, it was odd to see a modern marine executing finely honed, clearly practiced movements with a sword as he was; in others ways - the discipline, the body control, the rigorously maintained muscles, the precise, methodical motions - it seemed perfectly normal.

"Similar to most standard light blade combat techniques, emphasizing control, speed, and balance," she continued. "An asari novice will spend roughly fifty years practicing this form to such a point that the second form can be attempted. Perfection of this primary form will continue throughout her lifetime."

Shepard watched him for a long moment and when he came back to the initial pose, the blade held in perfect stillness in front of his face, said, "Form Two. Way of the Maid, the Matron, and the Matriarch." A pause. "Lieutenant?"

Alenko opened up as he had with the first form by drawing his right elbow back... but instead of then returning his left hand to the hilt and moving to a series of slices... the blade flashed a brilliant, startling blue. When Alenko finally did bring his left hand back to the hilt and start the movements anew, the blade no longer looked oddly thick; it was slim, deadly... and its motion was parroted by two, blue-glowing swords moving freely at its side.

The reaction from the assembled group was enough to make Shepard smirk but Alenko didn't seem to notice. His dark eyes were focused, glittering, and the blue light of the secondary swords he controlled glimmered in the brown depths.

"Oh my word," said Chakwas.

"The Ansu-Uhn," Shepard said lightly, "is traditionally crafted from three types of metal: a low-carbon steel, a high-carbon-steel... and a very specific asari alloy compromised primarily of element zero. The bladesmithing process involves the folding of these metals to improve strength and remove impurities... and the end result is a lightweight, balanced, relatively durable blade..." - she smiled slightly - "... that really likes biotics."

Alenko moved smoothly around the ring, executing the same motions he had before though this time, controlling the mass effect fields around the pair of glowing sister blades.

"An asari will spent upwards of a hundred years working on this form," Shepard said quietly. "Once she has successfully mastered the art of blade cohesion... she will move on to the trinity."

Here, the two blades suddenly took on behaviors of their own rather than mimicking the movements of the primary. The sword in Alenko's hands moved with his body as it had in the first form. The second blade moved in front of him, seemingly of its own volition, blocking imaginary attacks. The third blade darted around the edges of the imaginary opponent, slashing and slicing with quick, dagger-like strikes.

"Blade independence," Shepard explained, eyes on Alenko. "The Maid, all recklessness and uninhibited impulse, attacking from the edges. The Matron, all caution and conservativeness, protecting the core. And the Matriarch, wise and powerful, at the center of the three."

It looked magical to Shepard. She had seen it before and she still found herself subject to a twinge of awe. She could only imagine the reactions of those who had never seen it before.

Alenko settled back into his original stance, the primary blade held in front of him, the two secondary blades hovering alongside it.

Shepard realized she was staring at him - oops? - and continued, "Few asari move beyond the second form. For those that do, the third form is -"

Once again, Alenko reached back, pulling his right elbow behind him and drawing the blade with it. The two secondary blades followed suit... and then each burst into duplicates, leaving four thinner, more delicate, blue-encased blades hovering in a diamond around the primary.

Shepard looked at him in surprise. "You didn't tell me you'd gotten up to the third form," she said, unable to hide the shock from her voice.

"Working off frustrations," said Alenko. His voice sounded tight... a reasonable reaction, given the sheer amount of concentration required to perform the feat he was performing. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Third form, then," Shepard said. She watched him once again enter the same sequence of movements, the now four blades moving around him in perfect synchronicity. "If an asari ever reaches this form, she will spent the next one to two hundred years or so perfecting it. Full isolation of all four secondary blades is considered the epitome of biotic control. Lightweight. Sharp. Unlike the turian approach, the asari is one of speed and control, rather than sheer power. Both require discipline."

She watched as Alenko slowly pulled himself back into the original stance, the primary blade held before him, the four glowing secondary blades drawing in to form a diamond around the primary. He held the pose for a long moment... then drew the four blades back in to rejoin with the Ansu-Uhn. Sweat dripped from his brow... but when he finally lowered the sword, he raised an eyebrow at her.

She raised her own back, slowly pulling the two turian blades from her belt.

She smiled at him, twirling the Hegemony around in her hand before settling into an offensive posture, the Hegemony extended before her and the Assimilation held in an arc over her head. "En garde, Lieutenant."