Its designation was Foxtrot, but it would have liked to be called Fox. Not because of its red paint or because it adhered to the popular portrayal of foxes as being sneaky and cunning. No, it just liked the idea of having a nickname, something that didn't smack of being standard issue.

In fact, it didn't even understand why it had to be 'foxtrot' (and it knew it lacked the imagination to come up with something truly creative for itself) except that Legion's experience with organics hinged on those organics being primarily human and the designation for F in their military used was 'foxtrot.' It was logical, Fox supposed, but it would still have preferred something…else.

Fox had had plenty of time to think about all this before its particular dropship swooped into high atmo and released the dozen Prime units in order that they should back up one Sgt. Cavanaugh's position and extract his surviving men.

Foxtrot vaguely wondered how many of its people would join the fighting. Not that it mattered to the geth who fought and who provided support.

It, personally, had been glad to volunteer. Something about Legion had caught in Fox's neural network—the N7 armor the thing had used to patch itself. Fox thought it understood why that material rather than something, anything else: the geth had needed a Captain Shepard of their own. Legion had known it couldn't fill that role, but it had tried. And it had eventually brought the real Captain Shepard with it to the Consensus.

Something in the Shepard Filter had truck with Fox, too: namely that she was a weapon of war because she'd been made that way. A Geth Prime's platform was meant for combat, made for it. So Fox had volunteered to go off-world to fight.

And now, here it was, straightening out of its crater and assessing the field for foes and allies…assuming the allies had been made aware that they were allies. Maybe it was best to assume they had not been, since organics' communications networks suffered when disruption occurred.

And the Reapers defined disruption.

There were Reapers enough to handle the humans. There weren't enough to handle a line of Primes with something that might have been called a grudge. Fox definitely had some kind of negative feedback about the Reapers, the idea of their nasty mitts all over the geth servers and Consensus might have made it sick if it had organic entrails to feel sick with.

So, for the time being, it contented itself by fulfilling its combat duties and admiring the precision afforded by geth intelligence and engineering.

It was as it approached the organics' dug in position that Fox realized it might have wanted to broadcast some kind of declaration of intent—or maybe sacrificed efficiency of communications so as to let the organics in on what was happening.

Regardless, it and its comrades folded up as soon as the first bullet punched out its headlamp.

Finally a voice rose above the scattered pop-pop of rifle fire. "Hey, hey, hey, whoa! Have you noticed that there's ammo going out but none coming back in?!"

Fox unfolded itself, regarding the direction of the voice as it peered into the suddenly darker world. It was lucky only the headlamp had been damaged. That bullet could have taken out its primary visual suite. "We are allied assistance under the Shepard Directive." It couldn't hurt to name drop. "Please report your status."

A head poked up from behind one of the revetments, slowly followed by the rest of the organic. He was covered in a slimy-looking mixture that—as it came from a Reaper trooper of some form—was some combination of synthetic fluids and organic goo.

"I'm Sgt. Ichii," the human declared, setting his obviously-scavenged weapon down. His heartrate was too high, evidencing fear. Fox supposed it understood—the last most organics saw of the geth were the Heretics. Not the best of ambassadors.

"I am geth designation Foxtrot."

"Yeah…sure."

Then, deciding now was as good a time as any. "You may call me Fox." And, with that, it held out one hand in the humans' gesture of greeting.

Ichii walked up to Fox, looking more unnerved than ever and shook the proffered hand. "Uh, sorry about the headlamp…Fox. I guess." He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, bringing to Fox's attention just how much organics moved during the course of a conversation. They didn't seem able to hold still. Was it just nerves or were they really that…squirmy?

"The damage is noncritical, Sergeant. Please report your status."

It was something Ichii could cling to, something familiar and practical, so cling to it he did. Orders were, of course, evacuation. However, the Reapers had been very close to running this position over. Thus, there were many dead and many wounded. More than had survived. The wounded needed tending first. Then they could discuss evacuation…

…unless the Reapers pushed back. But there had been none in system. Just all over the ground.

"Kale! Surrey! Start…start collecting up dog tags. Everyone else who's able, triage! Let's go! Fox, if you could assign your…uh men…to the other NCOs…or whoever's left…" he stopped to gulp hard, then visibly pushed away the thought of how many people he knew were dead. "They'll also know what needs doing and how to go about it."

It was inefficient, this spoken word the organics liked. So, after broadcasting the directive, Fox returned its attention to the suddenly wary sergeant. Apparently, organics didn't like the sounds. Or maybe they just didn't like being out of the loop, however more efficient the loop was. "Orders are to remove survivors to a pre-specified location. Ships for transit are in orbit, pending an all-clear signal. Shall I give the all clear?" Fox asked.

"Yeah…yeah," Ichii's tone relaxed, suddenly, as if accepting that it made no sense for the geth to drive back the Reapers only to finish what the Reapers started. "I appreciate it…uh…Fox."