Chapter One: Troubles by the Score
Before the Great War, Grand Junction, Colorado was known for a few things some might have considered rustic; fruits and vineyards had once gathered sizeable crowds to its markets, and its "National Monument" had been considered, if nothing else, a younger sibling of the Grand Canyon in its own right.
The Courier might have enjoyed life here, but as it was the city, post-war, had been reduced to nothing but dust and echoes. A common theme, really, to the east – the Courier pondered this as sand and grime sifted beneath his boots, whispering shades of brown and black with step after step after step. It was a grim melody accompanied by whimpering road signs, green paint long-ago marred-grey by winds and storms, and the occasional groan of steel against steel – paltry reminders of what little remained of the once bustling city. Brick and mortar, lumber and wood had wasted away long ago.
In truth, there was a bit of the Courier that enjoyed this wandering, lonely as it was. Past recollections might have argued that dirt and mud, blanketed amongst broken, limping foundations of steel, made for better companions than the men and women who survived the west. Others might have said that the ghosts of the past provided more mirrors for introspection and reflection than brothel bathrooms could have ever thought to offer.
It was that bit of him that he'd think on often on nights by the campfire, clutching his feathered carbine like it were his lover. Reality, transposed through his mind, spoke to the truth; the west might have made better companions, had the Courier not strayed from the flock.
Veronica's last words to him, before the Courier had departed from the Old Mormon Fort, told him of the East – or rather, the Midwest, the West before the East. There was a Brotherhood there, similarly strayed from the flock. It was this Brotherhood that he now searched for, whispers in the dark and upon hissing wind as he searched for clues of their existence. And so he walked, and so he wandered.
Veronica's last words to him, before he'd departed from her life, had simply been "goodbye," a whisper upon soft, rosy lips. And so he walked, and so he wandered.
Jane Shepard sometimes mused that in another life, far simpler and far quieter, she might have personified her surname to an even more literal extent. In fact, she'd half a mind to browse the extranet for a purchase of a long and sturdy crook, and perhaps a sheepdog to accompany her. Sheep, braying and woolen-white, would have been her trade, her struggle instead the herding of them, day after day.
Instead, she found herself – much to the amusement of one Joker – herding a far less consistent flock of strays. A thief and a mercenary, somehow the least strange of the bunch thus far, and a salarian doctor who spoke too quickly for his – no, her own – good, were amongst the most recent to round out the group.
And Garrus. Couldn't forget Garrus.
Archangel's true identity had come as a surprise to Shepard, but a small part of her felt as if she'd always known – whether some bygone hope or some innate wisdom, she didn't know. But as it was, she was just glad the turian was with her again, familiarity in a sea of uncertainty.
An uncertainty that gripped her even now, early in the Normandy SR-2's "morning" cycle. A cup of coffee, unfortunately gone cold, in one hand and a slice of buttered toast in the other, Shepard lumbered out of the elevator and into the ship's command deck with all the grace of an elephant.
That was to say, none at all.
"Good morning, commander!"
The commander in question winced, bleary and tired eyes blinking away tears wrought forth by the glare of light offensive to morning sight. Of course, even without said sight Shepard knew the source of that chipper voice, knew it too well. Kelly Chambers, the Normandy's redheaded yeoman, had found her usual place smiling before Shepard, tooth and gums and all exposed to the world without care. A datapad was, also as usual, held in her dainty hands.
Shepard took a sip of her coffee, wishing it were at least warm.
"Morning, Kelly," she all but mumbled, having gulped the cold brew down. Shepard tried not to cringe from the taste and went to take a bite of her toast, but found it gone. Maybe she'd dropped it somewhere.
Kelly seemed to smile even wider, her white teeth damn near blinding. "I hope the coffee's to your liking? I hear Hadley picked it out himself." The yeoman watched as Shepard took another sip. "I've never been much of a coffee girl, but maybe I should grab myself a cup."
Shepard might have offered her own, but she wasn't sure Kelly would turn it down. "S'fine, Kelly." It wasn't fine. "Anyways, do you have a report for me?"
She stepped over towards the ship's galaxy map, Kelly hot on her tails. With a swish and a swirl of her hands the map lit up and reoriented itself, glowing with color. Kelly, for her part, raised her datapad.
"In fact I do! Let's see…" the yeoman began scrolling through the datapad, eyes scanning its contents while Shepard absentmindedly spun the galaxy about its platform. She almost felt like a goddess. Another sip of her coffee dashed that fantasy. "Well, the Illusive Man already has the next two dossiers prepared for you, but there are still some minor arrangements to be finalized."
More wayward sheep for the flock, Shepard supposed.
"Crewman Patel and Rolston have made an inquiry into replacement bedding, something about a leak on the crew deck, and Crewman Hadley has put in a request to replace our mess sergeant, something about Gardner not being able to 'tell a tomato from a rat's ass.' Goodness!"
Shepard made a mental note to look into the former – she hadn't heard of a leak on the crew deck – and disregarded the latter. She'd already promised Gardner new supplies.
Cold coffee just wasn't cutting it.
"Anything else, Kelly?" she asked the redhead, turning away from the galaxy map. Spinning had lost her interest. "I'm sure Timmy's got something up his sleeve for me."
Said redhead looked up, gazing at Shepard with wide, questioning eyes. "Timmy?"
"The Illusive Man."
"Oh!" Kelly nodded, returning to her datapad. "Oh, yes, there's something else – you should have a message from Cerberus Command on your terminal. Something about a distress transmitter from one of our operatives?"
She glanced to the side, eyeing the blinking light on her personal terminal. Kelly was right. "Alright, I'll look into it. Will that be all?"
The yeoman responded with a cheerful nod and bounded away, but Shepard had already turned her attention away to return to her thoughts, green eyes glazing over the galaxy map.
It had been weeks since her… awakening, aboard Lazarus Station, and the crew of the Normandy, alongside Kelly, had begun to become somewhat familiar to Jane. Daily hello's, salutes, and other forms of greeting had become commonplace throughout the SR-2's decks, the most consistent of which being Kelly's regular check-ins and reports.
Kelly, of course, seemed nice, her cheerful and optimistic demeanor already unique aboard the decks of a veritable warship, yet Shepard felt the sharp, prickly pain of doubt crawling along her pale skin – skin that, in some sense, she felt wasn't even hers.
Of course, the reason was right there in front of her, all over the place – even if Jane couldn't bear to think of it every day. For, as kind and jovial the SR-2's yeoman appeared to be, Shepard couldn't forget the orange insignia sat above her bosom – the same one that had, by some way of circumstance, found its way over her own as well. Even the Normandy itself saw fit to remind her hour in and hour out, its own classification a reminder in and of itself that things were not the same. SR-2.
Commander Shepard found herself in cohorts with Cerberus, and she wasn't sure she could ever forgive herself.
Grand Junction had seemed like a nice place. Dead, but nice. Quiet, empty. Lonesome enough to wander
Until Legion had come pouring out from its ruins.
Caesar's Legion.
Blood painted itself onto mud and rust, most of it not his own, yet even as the Courier slotted cartridge after cartridge into his carbine they still came. A tide of crimson on steel, battered by sand and lead yet unforgiving and relentless all the same.
A fucking swarm of them, hidden amidst the ruins east. How hadn't he known?
Red eyes, his visor glowing red as if abject with hunger, scanned the terrain below. He'd relocated from his previous perch, having found the rooftops and windows much more attractive nests than the road he'd been ambushed on – a road now swept with crimson-plume. Now, a bombed-out second-story window had become his post, decades and centuries-old sandbags his cover. The building had been, at one point, likely an office of some sort, stairwells and halls flanking either side. He'd made sure to cover them.
It was then that the Courier spotted three more, rushing out from a garage where they'd hidden themselves in search of their target. His carbine cracked once, twice, thrice, pulling his lever up and down with a steady fury, up and down and down once more. All three had fallen before they could even see him.
The Courier could almost taste the gunpowder burning-bitter in the air, feel the fire from his carbine's muzzle as he pulled what few cartridges of .45-70 he had left from his pack. He hadn't many left, only a scant few rounds before he'd have to rely on his fallbacks. A problem, since he wasn't sure 9mm nor even 5.56 rounds could penetrate the reinforced armor the Legion had begun using. Not unless they were tipped black, meant to pierce armor.
A shame his Sequoia shared ammunition with the carbine
A sharp cry, a scream of glory, alerted the Courier below again, and he cut his reload short to see two charging legionaries, machetes and spears in hand, cutting across his line of sight. He pulled the trigger once and saw a gout of blood as the first fell, clutching at his neck, but the second had turned, screamed, and pointed towards Courier Six before he too fell to the sand below.
The Courier cursed. They were bait.
He hadn't even a second to ponder this revelation before a wall some yards to his left detonated inwards, debris flung like shrapnel as the Courier was knocked onto his side. A piece of rebar nearly found its way in his chest, and he thanked his Lucky Sevens for his helmet and gas mask.
But he didn't have the time for that. Legion was coming.
Already several had poured in from the breach in the wall, bearing machetes, clubs, and even bricks. A small team, ten at the most – only so many could have found him at once, but he knew there'd be more soon. The Courier might have laughed at their haphazard equipment, but he'd seen their armor, their plumes – his foes were all decani, veterans at the least. He'd even the seen the odd centurion walking amidst their ranks. Weapons and gear scant and pitiful aside, they were all elites.
Elites of the Legion's remnants – what were they even doing in Grand Junction?
"The Profligate must die!" one cried, having spotted the Courier. A shot to the chest and he fell, a hole bored through his armor, yet even still the legionary lived, coughing blood as he sounded the attack. "Vengeance for Caesar!" His dying breath.
A round already rechambered, the Courier fell another legionary with a shot to the leg, kneecap all but gone, shattered whole. Two more times his finger squeezed, twice more his lever pulled down and up, and twice more a legionary fell screaming. A trio of decani thought themselves clever, flanking around left – the Courier paid them little attention, only smiling grimly when he heard the metallic shriek of aluminum-gold made shrapnel, detonations clinging and clanging as bloody wounds left behind adages to "zap that thirst!"
Twice more his medicine stick barked with fire, and twice more did bygone veterans of Caesar's undone ambitions fall, ripple-marked crimson painted in swathes across their chests. Yet a pair more of legionaries still remained, charging with serrated knives rusted-black, and the Courier lamented – his medicine had run out. The feathered carbine fell from his grip, empty, and his coat, worn patchwork, swept aside to reveal a portraiture of the Virgin Mary, pulled from her sheathe. An arm reached out, grabbed ahold of plate and flesh even as his foe's knife bit into cloth and hide. The Courier's finger squeezed and Maria roared, carved crimson cards deep into the legionary's visage, an ace of hearts.
The last legionary had thrust forth as his comrade collapsed, unbalanced as rage took the wild dog's heart. The Courier stepped back, guiding his foe in before he lashed out with a kick. Steel boot met bone and cartilage and the decanus screeched, leg caved inwards. Maria silenced him.
And the room fell quiet.
But not terribly so. The Courier could still hear them – beaten and battered hosts of the Legion converging for the hunt. He hadn't much time left, and the Courier knew his one chance for escape still needed more time.
Damn him, and damn his luck. He should have thought to check the Transportalponder's battery, should have thought to replace its cell. But he didn't – he'd left it to charge on its own.
A mistake that would cost him.
His medicine stick hung limp about his shoulder, and the Courier swung it around, placed aside his pack. Maria returned to her holster, replaced soon by another keepsake, its heritage Airborne, its scoped sight scratched and marked. A door to his right would be his destination, walls and rooms his brief sanctuaries to buy time for home.
The Courier grabbed the door handle, nearly pulling it off. A twist, a pull, and…
Another detonation – one that sent him flying, landing with a grunt on his back as a sharp pain lanced through his bones. The rifle he bore clattered onto the ground, feet away; his coat tore even further, a rip and a tear as light danced about his sight, ears ringing and singing. His helmet had taken the brunt of the damage, but his senses were still impaired.
Yet, he could still hear it, dimly so – the shriek of a saw, blades shearing against rust and blood. His assailant wouldn't wait, and so couldn't he. Blindly, the Courier felt for Maria, grabbing hold of her nickel finish and squeezing the trigger once, twice, a third time. Bullets, nine millimeter, screamed holy fury from her muzzle – none hit their mark, he could tell, lead ricocheting down the hall and hot brass fell beside him. More pain shot through the Courier's shooting hand, Maria kicked from his grip and sent flying.
He'd bought himself time, though; it was all he needed. His sight had returned bit by bit, and the Courier, pulling a knife from his boot, laid eyes on his assailant:
A mismatch of steel and leather armor, trophies taken from past victims – one pauldron unseemly large, wrought from T-45d. A grand, plumed helm, crimson strokes of grisly rouge. His weapon a chainsaw, miniaturized yet deadly all the same, sparking with vengeance as it plunged towards the object of its dread ire. A centurion.
The Courier could almost hear the clock ticking, time grinding to a standstill as the seconds ticked and tocked to the moment of his death. "Not now," he thought. "Not now."
The centurion's ripper fell, and the Courier lunged, aiming not for the weapon but the man wielding it – he counted on his speed, his accuracy.
He was only partially successful. The centurion hissed in pain, clutching his knee as a scarlet gash revealed itself, knife cut through worn and battered armor and still stuck there. Yet, his ripper still fell; poorly aimed as it was, the sawblade cut through the Courier's pack, tearing through its contents. Another spark, sizzling blue this time.
The Transportalponder hissed, groaned. Coordinates shifted, waves shattered. It latched on where it could, pinpricks in a midnight sky.
The Courier cursed, kicking out at his foe, who stumbled back – precious moments bought. Rolling right, he found his rifle's grip, held onto it like a child would his mother's finger: for dear life. He found its trigger; brought the rifle to bear upon the centurion, limping and swearing yet swinging all the same. The Courier's finger, aching from squeeze after pull, squeeze after pull, squeezed and pulled one more time…
Click.
Damn his luck.
Click, click, cli—
With a roar of fury and triumph, the centurion lunged with the ripper. The Courier pushed his rifle forwards, thankful for his mask as sparks flew and sheared All-American in half.
A fucking shame.
More legionaries, veterans and decani all, had poured in, watching their fight. More than he could deal with, but a moot point regardless - the centurion pressed his attack, ripper plunging again. The Courier could only grab forwards with one hand, latching for dear life as push fought against greater push.
The Transportalponder was his last chance. The Courier could only hope it was charged enough, held in his pack and easy to grab. To access. One more squeeze would do it. One more pull.
The centurion spoke, his voice gravelly, bloody. "Picus knew you'd come here." His ripper screamed and shrieked, sparks dancing across the Courier's red visor. They were hot. "You'll die today."
He probably would. But the Courier didn't intend to die without one last breath, one last push. With one hand holding for life, the other felt for his side, found the Transportalponder. Found its trigger.
"Sic Semper Profligati," the centurion spat, one last push to carve retribution across the Courier's breast.
It wasn't to be. The ripper fell from bloody grip and found naught but sand and dirt. Sparks and lights, blue and green, danced about them, a corona of white-cold energy that enveloped the Courier and the centurion. They'd disappeared.
The Transportalponder found Big Mountain. Sent them on their way.
Except, it hadn't.
A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed. Something I've debated writing for a little while now. Please leave a review with your thoughts, I'd love to hear 'em.
Until next time.