"Turns out grenades in the future happen to work better in a spherical form, rather than disc."
The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)
Menhir
Engineering
The timeworn artifact, encased in a purple-tinged bubble of transparent energy, looked more like a trinket meant to be spurned to the recesses of a storage locker rather than be vaunted and worshipped for its true purpose as a decisive piece of some fustian doomsday device. It floated a few inches above the desk, miniature grav-emitter right below it. Innocuous enough for people to take only a fleeting glance at in in abject fascination before dropping it from their minds. Only those who knew its true purpose let its presence darkly take up residence. They could not afford to be so oblivious.
Liara swept away some of the stray datapads that cluttered up the desk—Korridon's desk. She stacked them neatly before placing them upright in a corner. Sam, watching the asari tidy up, had to turn away for a moment. It seemed wrong to be going through the belongings of a lost crewmember. The deck here seemed remarkably empty without Korridon around—his possessions, small in number though they might be, had been left in their own esoterically organized heap like their owner was expecting to come back and bring order to the chaos in due time.
But would that owner ever return? Was that still a possibility? No one seemed willing to make the official call. KIA or MIA. An easy report to file, but hesitancy was a virus that had begun spreading like wildfire ever since Triton. Korridon had been last seen, after all, in the grip of the Cardinal, still alive. He could not be dead until his body could be ascertained. A cold truth, one that necessitated a strong and unyielding mind but everyone had still been shaken from the events of last mission. There were still lingering doubts that everyone could still be objective in their roles.
Sam had detected something was wrong ever since he had listened in on Garrus' first transmission when the turian had boarded the shuttle on the moon to head straight back to the ship. There had been a weariness in the captain's tone. Resilient but… tested. The first indication that something had transpired against the main plan. Watching from the cargo bay floor, he witnessed only three disembark from the Kodiak.
Three, when five had originally ventured out.
There had been no words for Sam to say. His vocabulary was nowhere near as prolix as what the situation required. All he could do was watch as a remorseful Roahn quickly walked past him towards the elevator, her loping steps carrying a tormented weight, one that drew her chin low to the ground. She did not even make eye contact with him. She had disappeared behind the shaft's doors, ostensibly having retreated to her cabin where no one could reach her.
Skye dead. Korridon missing. The fact that Garrus had managed to retrieve the artifact from the moon was of little comfort. Two lives had been traded for this lump of metal and no one on this ship had any idea if such a tradeoff could be remotely close to being worth it.
The doctor felt for Roahn, knowing the quarian's relationship with the lieutenant. He had tried not to be too nosy on the subject but he could at least see that there had been a steadfast and easily stoked attraction between the two. To have that all ripped away… to say that Sam knew heartbreak was an understatement. No doubt Roahn felt like the ground had just been ripped underneath her feet. She was now tumbling in the darkness, lost and disoriented.
The door to engineering suddenly opened and Garrus, followed by Shepard, filed through. They both had dark looks on their faces. Weary and battered from battle, they were barely able to stand on their own energy. Sam silently kicked out a chair for Shepard to take—the former commander was limping. Shepard accepted the offered chair with a silent nod and gave a grateful exhale upon settling into it.
"Just finished sending our casualty report to the Council," Garrus scratched at a mandible in agitation. "Took a bit longer than I anticipated."
"What'd you tell them?" Sam inquired, hand on his chin in a thoughtful manner.
"That, while successful, things on Triton devolved into a complete shit-show. Lieutenant Lorne's personal effects are to be sent to her next of kin the first chance we get. We'll… uh… have to petition the Alliance to retrieve her body from the moon. They're not going to like that we were even there to begin with."
"And Korridon?" Sam's eyes flashed to the now-neat desk that Liara had just finished organizing, spick and span except for the artifact lazily rotating on its axis in mid-air upon it.
"He's officially considered 'Missing in Action,'" was Garrus' grim reply. "But we might have to accept the fact that his status will change for the worse. We've seen how Dark Horizon treats its prisoners."
Sam shook his head, closing his eyes solemnly to hold back his distress. "Fuck it all. The guy didn't deserve a fate like that."
"He was a part of Umbra," Garrus defended. "He knew the risks when he signed up."
"Bullshit," Sam hotly objected. "He wasn't expendable. For what it's worth, he probably thought he was invincible, being around all of you. But he was onto something with these things," he gestured to the artifact, "and he was so close—so close—to figuring out the missing piece that would help solve everything. But now you're nearly about to write him off."
The turian took on an annoyed front, sapphire eyes turning frosty while long and limber fingers grew rigid in agitation.
"Don't act like I think you are all just items on a balance sheet. Like I only consider to you to be a number to me. A value. If that's how you seriously think I—"
"It doesn't matter what I think." The doctor's hands clenched tightly around nothing. "It just sounds like you're already cushioning yourself against any bad news you wouldn't want to hear."
The armored turian's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer to Sam. "If you want to say something, say it, McLeod."
A worried Liara then tried to make her way between the two, hands pushing at each other's chests, but the fueled men refused to budge.
"Come on, guys," Liara began to say as her head practically whipped back and forth, "don't do this now—"
Sam kept his gaze steadfastly locked onto the turian across from him, finding his grimaced expression eerily mirrored in Garrus'. "You really want me to say what I'm thinking? If you could even read my thoughts…"
"Why don't you humor me?"
"If you insist," Sam growled. The broad-shouldered human squared his stance, a tired violence held back in a distant stare. "Why the fuck are we even here, Vakarian? I don't mean here—on this ship, and I don't mean for you to answer that question because you already know the answer. What are we? Casual foot soldiers? No. We're certainly not mercenaries in this for a paycheck. You wanted this—wanted us—to be something special. To be not just a crew to you… but to be the Menhir crew, Umbra Team! You wanted that name to mean something! We put something in, only fair for us to get something out. Give our service to your cause… and all we might ask for is a little loyalty. Something to assure us that you will always have our back."
"I… have… always had your back," the turian growled, his frame pushing in agitation upon Liara's hand keeping him in place. "This was to be something for all of us to be proud of, not just me."
"Those two missing bunk spaces would say otherwise. One dead, another damned to the same fate. Really something for us to be proud of, there."
"I would not leave any of you behind!" Garrus uttered. A new edge had crept into his voice now, a razing coldness that burned far brighter than any inferno could hope to muster. It was a sound that instilled an intrinsic terror into those within earshot, except for Sam who was oblivious to the implication. "Don't even think that I would do something like that! I had to evacuate what was left of the squad! It was too dangerous to mount a rescue—we didn't have the personnel!"
"I'm sure that will be of a lot of comfort to Korridon," the doctor tipped his head tauntingly. "Or Skye. Words are cheap, Garrus. Think that's going to help your conscience?"
Liara now looked hopelessly to Shepard, who had been sitting in his chair the whole time, plaintively staring at the two incensed individuals. His hand was at his mouth, covering, as his calm eyes slowly swept from person to person. Studying. Absorbing. Listening.
The asari nearly cried at Shepard to do something, to say anything to dissolve this fractious discourse. But it was something in his eyes that made her hold off. A critical moment apparently had yet to transpire.
Garrus was trying to keep his temper in check as he grabbed the grav-disc that held the Reaper artifact in its weightless prison. He jabbed it at Sam, as if daring the human to pluck it from his fingers. "Then you put that doctorate to work and figure out where Dark Horizon took Korridon, Sam. Because this… thing is the only link to finding him and we don't have anyone left to decipher the code! Do you think I can just pull intel out of my ass? That I could simply make a few calls to a few admirals or councilors and suddenly figure out what our next move is going to be? That's not how this works! We all went into this knowing full well that our plan is undefined! Unfocused! Shit, we never even had a clear enemy to start with!"
Sam's eyes had been tracking the artifact in Garrus' hand, never quite paying full attention to his words.
"Do… you really think that a doctorate is somehow interchangeable between professions?" Sam asked incredulously, but there was an impish slight to his speech that ticked off the turian to no end. Mostly because Garrus knew that Sam was asking this stupid question on purpose just to get him riled up. And damn him, it was working. "Because I have some news for you that I'm the wrong—"
"I was being sarcastic!"
"Really. Which part?"
Garrus looked like he was about to strangle the doctor right here in this room. He had to rake a clawed hand across his own face after setting the artifact back down, careful not to nudge his eyepiece, to bring him back some semblance of control.
"Spirits help me," he said out loud. "I'm trying to make you see my point of view here. I mean, what do you want me to do? Make a speech? Come up with a brilliant plan all by my own? I'm not like this man here." Garrus swept a hand towards Shepard, who was still seated appraisingly, one leg casually folded on top of the other.
Sam pulled a face and looked from the former commander to Garrus. "I figured that was evident?"
The turian's rear jaw clamped together so tightly he felt that he was going to crack bone. "What did you say?" he whispered.
"I mean…" Sam maddingly gave a shrug as his eyes flicked over to Shepard. "You're right. You're not him."
But he had finally gone too far. Garrus' fist uncontrollably reared back and suddenly shot back out before anyone knew what was happening. Armored knuckles sailed past Liara's face and bashed against Sam's nose in a reactionary blow. The doctor had been completely unprepared for the attack. He was propelled completely around and toppled heavily to the ground.
Now Shepard jumped to his feet and immediately put himself between the turian and the doctor. "Easy, big guy," he said forcefully as he pushed his friend away. "That's enough from you."
Liara knelt down to help Sam up. Dark fluid spattered the ground near his head. The doctor rose, a hand clutching his nose, stemming the flow of blood that spilled past his fingertips. His eyes carried a tiredness, having been stunned at the unexpected surge of anger that he had managed to derive from the turian.
"You all right?" Liara asked him.
"Nose is broken," Sam gritted, trying hard not to wince. "I'll live."
In Shepard's grip, Garrus suddenly gave a stir as if he had just awoken from a deep trance. He relaxed his shoulders, prompting Shepard to ease off on restraining him. The turian tentatively stepped forward, arm outstretched.
"Crap, Sam… I shouldn't have—"
"Leave it," Sam hissed as he shied away from the turian's hand. "I gotta go fix this."
And then he was gone, leaving a steady red trail of scarlet drops in his wake. Liara looked like she was about to run after him but relented after seeing the pained look Garrus gave.
Defeated, the turian sagged into a nearby chair, his face numb and blank. "I'm losing control. We're all falling apart and I'm only making things worse."
He let his head rest in his hands for a few minutes while Liara and Shepard stood by, neither one of them wanting to interject on the turian's ruminations.
"The sad thing is, he was right," Garrus then said.
Shepard tilted his head. "About what?"
"Damn near everything. He knew which buttons to push and he went there. It's not like I don't want to find my crew. If I could figure out, with only the barest shred of proof to guide my path, exactly where Korridon was… I'd wheel this ship right about and head full speed in that direction. But I can't, because I have nothing. It's like Sam said. I only have words… and they aren't worth anything!"
A somber silence fell upon the room. Shepard's hand now went to Garrus' back, a few brotherly pats providing the barest semblance of reassurance. In some way, perhaps Garrus was expecting one of his friends to chime in, to offer their point of view on the matter in a way for him to begin his own process of healing. But no one offered anything. Were they as lost in the darkness as he was or were they trying to give him his own space, his own time, to figure out how to be his own man for once?
The answers would not come so easily. Garrus lifted the eyepiece away from his head, leaving both of his eyes bare for the time being. He set the device on his lap as he agonizingly scratched at his facial carapace, breath raw and torturously long in his throat.
Liara walked over to the desk and nudged at the base of the artifact's disc. She cleared her throat before speaking. "Korridon was looking for a specific radiation trail that he thought would lead us to Aleph. It isn't my area of expertise, but I'll run some tests of my own, see what I can come up with."
"Fine," Garrus said thickly. "Maybe some progress can be made there."
After Liara had left with the artifact, there was a screeching noise of metal on metal as Shepard dragged another chair over so that he could sit in front of his friend. The human gave a soft groan as tormented joints creaked to allow him to get into a comfortable position. His fingers gave tender flexes, trying to stymie the arthritic pains that would occasionally flare up now and again. Yet his face betrayed no agony, only a quiet contemplation.
Garrus folded his hands together, the sounds of clenching finger joints indicating the few cracks in the turian's usual stoicism. "You always said that if I needed an ear, you'd be there."
"That I did," Shepard agreed.
"So tell me what to do," Garrus begged, hands now upturned and empty. "What am I doing wrong, Shepard? How can I stop this ship from tearing itself apart?"
Shepard took a long moment as he glanced from Garrus' hands to his face. Then, incredibly, he shook his head. "I'm afraid this is the one time that I won't be able to help, my friend."
"What do you mean?" Garrus was dumbstruck. "What are you talking about?"
"Garrus, I'm on the same page as you. All the information I have, you have as well. Believe me when I say that there's nothing else I can give you that can somehow lead us in the right direction."
The turian erupted into a series of low chuckles as he rubbed his hands, now too overcome to look his friend in the eye. "They couldn't get you. The Council, I mean. That's what all this was about, you know? The Council knew that there was no way that they could get Commander Shepard to lead their new team, to helm their shiny new ship. No, he was retired, off on Rannoch to spend the remainder of his years. Well, you could imagine their pleasant surprise when it turned out I got him to sign up to Umbra after all, though not in the capacity that they might have initially sought. But still… Commander Shepard in the flesh. The man who saved the galaxy, returned to the forefront. That alone was enough to alleviate any scrutiny that might have come upon our team. Don't tell me you don't know what to do. You've always known! That's how you united all the species, got them to create the biggest fighting force in this galaxy's history! You won the most important war for every single species!"
Shepard flatly looked at him while Garrus proceeded to wring his wrists.
"You should know…" the turian continued to mumble. "You always had the answers."
It was only after Garrus' words trailed off with a sense of finality did Shepard finally lean forward. He gently placed a hand on his friend's armored knee, keeping his eyes firmly levelled, his touch delicate but his gaze brimming with intent. Garrus nearly recoiled to escape his friend's grasp, but he shoved the inclination down as one would when swallowing.
"What I had," Shepard said softly, "was the best people surrounding me during that time. You. Tali. Liara. Joker. A literal dream team. A crew of no other. Even then, I was never expected to come up with all the answers. Others were there to pick up where I faltered. It was simply my job to listen."
The one-eyed veteran snuck a smile through his crazed snarl of his graying beard.
"Your questions are hoping to reach the man I once was during the war," he continued. "That person doesn't exist anymore. I'm just 'Shepard' to you, my friend, and to everyone else. I'm no longer the soldier I was back in my prime. Or even during that terrible Chimera business, for that matter. I've put that all behind me." He then smiled as he tilted his head. "The 'Commander' had his time. I've ended that part of my life for good. Nothing's ever going to bring that out again. The Council knew that, which is why they never bothered asking for me. Instead, they probably got the best person they could for the job."
Garrus murmured a tired laugh. "I think you're just saying that to be nice."
"Does that have to be mutually exclusive to the truth?"
In all actuality, Garrus would have liked to have said 'yes' to that in order to secure any foothold in this little dialogue of theirs, but to do so would not accomplish anything and would only aggravate all parties further in the end.
"I just…" Garrus sighed, his own way of concession. "All I can see before me are the people who paved the way for me to be here. I'm constantly living under a shadow, one that I can't escape, Shepard. It isn't your fault. There's no one to blame for my failing. I just can't help but feel… there's a threshold that I have to reach. To live up to an untold expectation. You can understand that, can't you?"
A tender beat passed. The lights of the deck seemed to waver, accentuating the gnarled scar tissue on the side of the turian's face.
"I'm in a replica of your ship," Garrus continued. "I sleep where your cabin was. Everything this team has been was modeled on what you started. The precedent that I need to follow. And still it's not enough. I haven't even gotten close to what you've accomplished. There was always a plan with you. Always a course to take. And I've been at your side for nearly the whole time. Why can I not figure out the next step?"
Shepard had been frozen, kindly looking at his friend as he had listened to him talk. With a nearly imperceptible gesture, he waved his hand so that the lights in their corner of the deck slowly dimmed. They were now nearly completely doused in darkness. The human scooted to the edge of his chair, leaning forward so that his elbows nearly met his knees, hands folded in front of him as he brought himself in conspiratorially close to his best friend. The stray bits of light caught the fringes of Shepard's beard. It looked like the side of his face was on fire.
"Being in command is never easy," the man murmured. "I don't think I understood the ramifications of what it meant, either, even after I was handed the reins of the Normandy. At first you think you're invincible, like you and your crew have the ability to take down anything in your path. But then life throws you a few twists and turns to keep you in check. The Collectors… for instance."
"Omega for me…" Garrus said grimly.
Shepard answered with a grave nod. He remembered the aftermath of the brutal massacre that his friend was referring to. The tail end of Garrus' vigilante activities, come to a halt when every single lowlife on a lawless and godforsaken rock was out for his head. Wounded, delirious from fatigue, his teammates savagely murdered, the turian had been teetering in a torrid haze for hours as he bunkered down and killed every hapless foe that had the misfortune to stumble into the sights of his rifle while being pinned down in a warehouse. It had taken a long while for the distant look to retreat from Garrus' eyes, but every now and then, it threatened to creep up without warning.
Right now was one of those moments.
"Garrus, being in command does not mean that you have to have all the answers. It just means that you have to be confident in your decisions."
"Confidence is something I could use a little bit of right now," Garrus gave a shaky laugh. "I'm about to lose my team if I don't find more soon."
A sympathetic smile came to Shepard's face. He grasped the turian's wrist reassuringly, which was limp in his grip.
"You haven't lost them yet. They're not even close to breaking away. You've surrounded yourself by so many smart people that they would walk through fire and the cold vacuum of space for you."
"You sound so sure of yourself," Garrus grated, his tone a bit more sarcastic than he had initially intended.
"'Wise leaders generally have wise councilors because it takes a wise man to distinguish them,'" Shepard retorted with a sly grin.
Garrus blinked and raised his hand a half-inch above his knee. "That from a vid… or something?"
"No. That was Diogenes."
"Never heard of him."
"I'm not surprised. Human philosopher. He was a rather… interesting man in life."
"If you say so," Garrus shrugged.
Shepard now reclined back in his chair, relief flitting over his features as if his previous position had worked up several knots in his back and shoulders. Garrus had the fleeting notion that he should reach out and provide a reassuring touch of his own to his friend, like he had just done mere minutes ago. It would be poignant. The loop having been closed.
"Can't deny he has a point," Shepard said as he flexed his fingers absentmindedly. "You also have a gifted set of people around you, as I did. Perhaps they might lead you to the course you're seeking, as you and everyone else once did for me when I was in command. Inspiration comes in many forms… and hell, it could come from Grunt, from Liara, from Sam, from Sagan, from Roahn—"
"Roahn!" Garrus sat bolt upright in his chair, the urge to smack himself in the forehead now taking on a tangible weight. "Spirits, how could I be so stupid? I haven't talked to her since we got back—she was heartbroken after what happened to her friend. I'm an idiot. I need to see if she's—"
With a speed that managed to surprise both parties, Shepard stood to match his friend and planted both of his hands on Garrus' shoulders, keeping him in place. That brought out a fresh wince in the human—Garrus reared his head back in surprise for seeing his friend so pained.
"No," Shepard managed to get out, trying desperately to keep his voice sotto. "This is something you're better off leaving alone."
"What—I—" Garrus stammered, not understanding. "Your daughter just went through a severe emotional agony, Shepard. As her captain, I need to check on her. See that she's doing all right."
Shepard refused to let go as he shook his head. "As her captain, that is your duty, yes. But as Roahn's father, I'm telling you that she has her own way of healing. This is something that you might not understand right now, but it's important for her to grieve in her own way before we bring her back."
"Take your word for it? We need her, Shepard. If I can help her at all—"
"—Then she'll ask for it," Shepard assured through gritted teeth, beard as white as a magnesium flash. "Trust me. If she wants your help, she will ask you for it. But until then, it's best to leave her alone."
Garrus levelled his stare, not completely sold yet. "Think she's going to completely heal?"
Shepard gave a quiet scoff. "Completely? We never heal completely, Garrus. We're all just scars in the end, my friend. Just scars."
Executive's Cabin
The glow from the holoscreen emitted a thin coating of electric warbling, a marbled luminescence that smeared across the walls in dull refractions of colors. Hung by nothing, the screen floated in front of a curved and polished surface, lightly chipped after eons-old bits of jagged rock and ice had impacted upon it. The screen's glimmering was reflected endlessly upon Roahn's mask, barely overtaking the own soft intensity that her own eyes emitted from beyond the hardened veil.
She was lying upon her bed on her back, spread-eagled. All muscles loose. Her enviro-suit, still stained with dust, left a gray trail upon the wrinkled blankets under her body. Gaze locked onto the screen that she had set for herself just overhead. Playing old memories. Old stories. There was no external audio—it was all being pumped to the speakers in her helmet.
The images in the video clips were absorbed without interpretation. Impacting without lingering. In one ear and out the other. They acted as a comfort to the quarian. The entire package being presented as a snapshot of days gone by. When everything had been, for lack of a better word, more normal. The faces depicted in them had been familiar, as were the settings. They showed her times when there had been nothing evil lurking on the horizon for her. When her problems could be confined within her own narrow sphere of existence. A selfish life.
The clips were unrelated and sped by at an unforgiving pace. All from the same time period, as could be denoted from the timestamps in the lower corner.
Defender Academy. The first few years of her soldierly training. A hodgepodge of amalgamated tactics and methods hastily thrown together all for the purpose of creating a unified fighting force. The time when her camaraderie with her peers would have reached an all-time high. Surrounded by people her own age, with similar ambitions, it was hard not to make friends.
The clips she now watched had been compiled from several different accounts of that time. The angles of the footage constantly bounced and jittered—this was deliberately done by the camera wielders in order to give the whole thing a documentary-like feel even though image stabilizers were commonplace technology by then.
One of the images appeared to her in a familiar flash. The stout corridor of an armory—ribbed and sturdily constructed out of unpolished steel, it looked more like the locker room of a gym instead of a place where the recruits kept their weapons. In a sense, it technically was a locker room. Brimming with young, fresh-faced, and eager cadets of all races. The camera floated to each one of their faces in turn—some shyly smiled and turned away from the lens, others made exaggerated and graphic gesticulations for the hell of it, and some grabbed stray weapons to use as props while they mimicked gratuitous poses and raised warlike whoops.
"Get some, Defenders!" someone yelled off-camera.
"One for the memories, Ansel Adams!" another man shoved his face in as he made a "V" shape with his fingers before sticking his tongue through them.
Other voices joined the chorus.
"Git yer head outta yer ass, Ransone!"
"Lean and mean, the Defender way, eh?"
"Who the fuck took my toothbrush?! Darryl? DARRYL! I know it was you, you dickless son of a—"
The camera turned and whirled, the giveaway of an experienced avant-gardist or perhaps an unwieldy operator. Eventually, the focus settled as the holder guided its way to where a gaggle of quieter individuals were congregated upon a bench that bisected the hallway lengthwise. Five people—three of them human. The camera soaked up their features in turn. Most of them smiled, a couple waved.
The fourth person had striking eyes, a stare that could pierce from miles away. Red hair, the color of a fire underneath the bark of a tree trunk as it burned from the inside out.
A physical wrenching sensation suddenly manifested itself just beyond Roahn's ribcage. She could not take back the sob that forcefully blustered path her mouth as she looked at Skye's face once more. The human woman in the clips was younger than the mental image Roahn had built for herself, but there was still the same intensity that had enveloped the human's provoking presence. It could be discerned, even through this electronic barrier. The camera view then opened up to reveal that Skye had thrown an arm around the shoulders of the person next to her—Roahn—pulling her into frame.
The quarian looked at herself in the footage blankly. In that tiny window, she observed herself leaning into the one-armed hug the woman gave, doing her best to return the devotion in her stare that the human was now sending her way in spades. A fully-suited quarian being chummy with a supremely attractive human—if such a sight was considered odd none of the bystanders appeared to give such a concept any weight. Skye simply melded against Roahn's contours, hip against hip, while their fingers played with each other's. Sparks were clearly flying between them. It was cute reliving her antics, Roahn noted with a longing pang. It brought her back to the moment where things were simple and the future was bright. When everything lacked the veneer of destiny and one's eye could be turned inward without judgment, willing accepting of the myopia that greedily strangled all it came into contact with.
It was obvious that Skye was completely enamored with her back then, even by staring at this tiny little screen with such terrible resolution. The Roahn in the clip laughed at a jape Skye had made, the two friends both throwing their heads back slightly as they basked in the rapport and perhaps the secret trust they had for each other. For it had to be… yes, Roahn recounted that she must have been intimate with Skye by the time this footage was shot. Before the woman's misguided antics would lead her to betrayal.
"Roahn… why would—" Skye's last words lingered in Roahn's head, before the thunderclap of a rifle shot threatened to rip her from her memories.
The quarian had to turn off the feed. Her hands pressed against her mask, pressing forcefully against the barrier. Nearly enough to cave it in and to give her fingers easy access to her face. She writhed on the bed, jaw opening and closing in silent screams, boots kicking out and causing the sheets to spill in every direction.
I'll never be able to tell you what you meant to me, she thought miserably. Even her subconscious was darting around the truth, unwilling to open that particular door to her demons.
A dear friend. Gone. Abandoned. One of the most aggravating people she had ever met in her life, yet one whose love could be so fierce, so wild, that it could be overwhelming with its energy. Now Roahn would never be able to tap into that power again. To see that smile. Feel her skin.
You came so close to knowing me. Keelah, I could have loved you.
A numbness came over her. An unpleasant feeling—drunkenness without the buzz. Imagined strobes of the overhead lamps were playing havoc with her vision. Her gut felt gnarled and twisted. Her throat was still scratchy, turned raw after she had been screaming in horror the entire shuttle ride back up from Triton. The tears on her face had long dried—she could not conjure more for her reserves had been exhausted.
After a while, Roahn found the strength to sit back up, breath coming in painful sniffles. She shuffled her feet off the bed and stood, using her hands to grasp at the desk for support.
The quarian was about to head over to the bathroom, perhaps to further confine herself to her solitude, when she noticed a curious little icon begin to rapidly blink in the corner of her HUD, next to the display for her biorhythms. It was the symbol for an incoming message, keyed directly to her omni-tool's channel, and it was on a high-frequency band, the kind used by military forces.
Before she could react, a three-pronged tone resounded in her ear. An abrupt connection.
Wait, I didn't initiate—
Roahn's world then seemed to explode in the next second.
A whining pitch, an electronic scream, blasted from her speakers in a tortuous wail. Her visor filled with clogging static, a snowfall that obscured her entire vision. Lights in her helmet went haywire and filled her nearly-blinded eyes with vivid pulsations. Roahn screamed and immediately clasped her helmet's temples, grabbing at her head as though she was about to tear her covering off. The noise! The light! Blind and nearly deaf, Roahn stumbled into the bathroom, bouncing into every wall until she finally tumbled into the shower stall, collapsed and helpless. She continued to howl, for the power surge that coursed through her suit felt like it was biting at her very body. Jolts down her spine. Teeth nipping at her eyeballs. Aches generated in every strand of muscle. Pain. Pain. PAIN!
Then a familiar voice spoke from her embedded speakers, almost as if it was projected into her very head.
"Your persistence in attempting to try my patience is commendable, but shortsighted. I have had the time to cultivate every facet of my plan, account for every contingency. Did you truly think that this would be able to halt my efforts?"
Roahn was not able to voice any intelligible retort to the question. Just a scream.
"Fortunately, I also have something that you want, so I wish to propose a trade. Call it a mutually beneficial exchange. The fragment you took from the moon, for the member of your crew that I have locked up on my ship. If you care about the people under your command, I trust you to make the right decision."
Through the digital murk, the static on Roahn's visor cleared up very slightly to give way to an image. The assault on Roahn's damaged senses backed off as well, leaving the quarian transfixed, breathing hard, as she could hopelessly stare at the video feed that was now being piped directly into her visor.
The feed was translucent, making the subject look like a ghost. But Roahn would be able to recognize Korridon anywhere. Only his top half was shown, an electronic muzzle had been placed over his mouth, and a dried rivulet of blood had wept down his face from a cut he had received.
But he was alive. Alive.
Roahn mouthed his name. And again. And again. Each time she tried to give voice to her friend's name but she was so hoarse she was unable to speak.
Korridon looked to be in a bad shape. His arms looked like they were restrained over his head, like he was hanging from his wrists, suspended in midair. He was unable to look directly into the camera, too disoriented or injured to pay attention to his surroundings. A sharp hiss, like a scalding iron, crackled in the background, spewing sparks to flicker momentarily in the image's forefront.
Then Roahn could see, out of the corner of the screen, a long and crane-like arm the color of bone suddenly reach out towards Korridon's face. The Cardinal. She was there, too. The cyborg's claw splayed the razor-sharp grapplers out to gently rest upon the turian's face for a moment. Roahn silently watched, breath lodged in her throat, uncertain what was going to happen next.
In the next second, the Cardinal's talons suddenly dug into a part of Korridon's face, puncturing right through his carapace. The screech he emitted through his muzzle was far more terrible than the sounds Aleph had been pumping into Roahn's helmet beforehand. She too joined in the howls, panic and disgust seizing her in their thralls. Then the Cardinal suddenly ripped her arm away, tearing a chunk of the ridged cartilage right from Korridon's face! Deep blue blood splashed down the turian's eye, a piece missing from his forehead. He continued to bellow his strangled cries while he copiously bled. A sinister and smoothly feminine chuckle from the Cardinal wafted from the audio channel while the camera tilted and finally tipped away from the bound prisoner.
The static returned to Roahn's view. She felt like she was about to vomit, right in this room.
"Korridon!" she cried to the obscured feed. "Korridon!"
The injured turian did not rematerialize back on the screen. Rather, the cold and deathly presence slithered back in replacement, a voice taken on a tendril-like form, seeking to infect her mind.
"Your crewmember will only continue to accumulate more damage to his form the longer you linger." Aleph sounded almost remorseful, like he regretted letting such barbarism occur to Korridon.
Bastard, Roahn was able to think, not buying any of it. He could stop this with a wave of his hand. He's doing this to provoke me!
"Bring the fragment to the fifth moon of the fourth planet in the Lgwanleig system," he continued plaintively. "I will send specific coordinates to you once you are nearby. I will return your crewmember back, alive, in exchange for the piece you repatriated. Come alone, or I will have no choice but to renege on our deal."
There was a beat, and the sinister voice added, "I would be disappointed if my instincts on your character proved to be incorrect. I am looking forward to seeing you in person once more… Commander Shepard."
Like a switch being thrown, the presence receded, leaving a fetal and terrified Roahn huddling in the corner of a dry shower, convinced that there was no wall around her that could act as a safe prison for her own soul. Trembling, all she could see in her head was the scared look Korridon had in his eyes as his own skin had been pried away, the long note of his agonized roar echoing lowly in the recesses of her ears as an accompaniment.
In person… he means to meet me. Face to face.
She had to wait until her shakes receded before she could finally rise.
Roahn's gut had already formulated her answer to Aleph's challenge by the time she shuffled miserably out of her room, but there was still one last threshold to mount before her brain would be in sync with what she intrinsically knew to be the right path. Little else mattered to her now—her life had all dropped away like she had been standing on the lone point of firm ground while the façade of her duty had crumbled around her feet.
No more team. No more destiny.
Just her. And that lingering ball of flame that was her indignant anger. It flickered within her, having been fed a few drops of fuel.
It burned her fear like the cleansing of a forest floor, leaving only pure emotion behind.
Her poise and stride gradually went from meek and timid to tall and determined as she traveled throughout the ship as her enraged conviction swelled. She strode past rows of techs, ascended the small flight flight of stairs, and trod through the long neck of the Menhir before arriving at the terminal end, the lone occupant in the pilot's seat unsurprised at this intrusion.
"Creator," Sagan greeted but did not rise. The geth said nothing else. Unsurprising, as geth did not have the tendency to waste time, to clog it with unnecessary verbiage.
Roahn did not immediately answer as she crossed the room to take the copilot's seat. She touched the control to rotate the chair to face the yellow-colored geth. Sagan, detecting agitation in the quarian's body posture, also adjusted his chair to mimic Roahn's movements. Redshifting starlight made the approaching stars look blue in the looming view of FTL, creating a milky coating of azure across the geth's colored panels.
"Analysis indicates that you are experiencing extreme duress," Sagan said after Roahn faltered for a bit. "Your biometrics are residing beyond the upper quartiles. High heartbeat. Rapid brainwaves. It is recommended that you contact the Menhir's medical officer for treatment."
"That won't be necessary," Roahn hastily blurted as she leaned forward. "I… I can't see the doctor right now. I have to do something, Sagan, and… and it won't be easy. The others… they cannot know."
The geth took stock of this response for what he felt was a respectful amount of time before his synthesized voice cut in again. "Interrogative."
"Go ahead."
"What do you wish to keep confidential from the Menhir crew?"
Roahn resisted the urge to hang her head, sigh, and rub her hands frantically. She was hunched over in her chair already, clearly in a shaky state as Sagan had obviously noticed. The geth, in contrast, was sitting up in a perfunctory manner, bright and attentive. Roahn realized the pose they were adopting right now, in this cockpit, must have cut a parallel to the days of old on Rannoch, back when her people had agonized and slaved over bringing their machine creations to life. Slumped in their chairs, drained from a day's work, as they stared up in wonderment at the beings who they thought would usher in a new era for their race.
"I received a message," she began, voice halting as she was still determining how much she wanted to reveal. She finally decided just to go all in. "From Aleph."
Sagan's major lens refocused—an indication that the geth was thinking. "The Menhir has received no such transmission."
"The ship didn't receive it," Roahn's hands now turned upward, raking the air in their own plea to be believed. "It just… appeared. In my HUD. I wasn't imagining it. It was too vivid to be fake. It could have been a private quantum transmission… but that's experimental technology… or it could have been a virus that slipped through my extranet filters. Either way, he contacted me. He knew how to find me!"
Roahn was not sure if that was enough to get Sagan to believe her. Either that or the geth was smart enough to not embroil itself in an argument over semantics.
"The contents of the message?"
A fleeting halt took over as Roahn slowly closed her eyes. The constant shadow of doubt, hovering over her shoulder, giving pause to her words. The whine of space filled her ears, a low drone that pleasantly rumbled. Vague aches still plagued her bones. She flexed her fingers to ward off the lethargy.
In a spur of the moment inclination, Roahn opened her eyes and held out her hand. Her left one, palm glinting as the light fixtures shone down from the ceiling. Sagan looked down, absorbed the movement, and offered his own appendage. There was a slight click as their hands met. Metal lightly tapping against metal. But the geth's grip was gentle. Reassuring. To him, it was the most indisputable action to take, not just because he recognized it as the organic thing to do, but to contextually cognize what his presence accomplished for the quarian, his Creator.
So she told him everything. Aleph's warning. His proposed exchange. Korridon being alive. All of it. Every single sinister detail. It did not matter to the intensely personal nature—in the end, they all became data points for the geth. He was still a machine, unable to process to chemical complexities that could be translated as emotional responses. That was something that had yet to be calculated by any synthetic mind.
But that impersonality was what Roahn had been looking for in the beginning. After all, who else on this ship could truly claim to possess the capability for rationality?
"You fear your decision could be antithetical to the Menhir collective," Sagan stated after Roahn had finished, still holding the quarian's hand.
"I fear that they won't understand," Roahn whispered.
"Then if your decision has been rendered," the geth said quizzically, "for what purpose did you hope to achieve by divulging your efforts to me?"
A serene look flashed over the quarian's face underneath her mask. She looked away.
"I guess… I wanted to be sure I was… rational. I just wanted to be a good leader, Sagan. I wanted my friends to come home safe. I couldn't save one. I have a chance to save the other."
Roahn felt Sagan's hand slowly tighten over hers. Clawed fingers found purchase on the quarian's smooth prosthetic digits. Turning back, she saw the two-lensed geth still peering with the same level of intent at her from when she had walked in the room. His head dipped millimetrically, but Roahn still caught the slight movement. Through all the madness and chaos, through all the turbulence that had upended her life, the geth had found a way to peer past all that. There was at least one who understood.
"The artifacts," Sagan said, "they are consequential to Aleph-Precursor."
"I know."
"And Sidonis-Corporal is consequential to you."
He makes it sound so impactful, Roahn thought. "Yes."
A pause. "The repercussions of retrieving Sidonis-Corporal are more defined than the alternative. However, surrendering the artifacts could result in unforeseen fallout from such actions."
Roahn narrowed her eyes. "What kind of fallout?"
"Unknown. The purpose of the artifacts has not yet been deciphered. The determination of Aleph-Precursor to retrieve such artifacts is indicative that he has collected enough information to decipher their intended purpose. Such an individual carries an inherent danger."
"Is it worth the trade?"
The geth took a moment to process the question. "One organic life for one artifact. The variables to the equation have not yet been revealed—it is impossible to solve. We can only rely on interpretation now."
Roahn arched an eyebrow. "'We?'"
The flaps on Sagan's head gave a little tremor. Plaintive. A shrug?
"You and I. We."
The quarian's head tilted slightly to the left. A shaft of light from the holo-console pierced a corner of her helmet, creating a layered flare several starbursts long. The visible remnants turned every shade of color known before fading out as Roahn's eyes fixated themselves upon the geth. A trickle of blue from the outside windows dribbled down her prosthesis, almost as if the color was dripping onto Sagan's fingers, which she still held.
"Comply… and risk at least one life," Roahn mumbled through thick lips, but her eyes carried a blaze behind them. "Or don't… and risk everything?"
"You have your justification. Yet your intention was set before you stepped into this room."
Roahn nodded as her heart gave a dim pulse. A flutter of anticipation as some of her previous turmoil eroded away, crumbled into dust.
Her hand continued to clench down upon Sagan's. "I must ask you to do one thing for me, Sagan."
"I apologize, Creator," his even tone not betraying any discomfort that would typically befall an organic from the amount of force Roahn was currently exerting upon his hand, "but I am programmed to accept commands of your intended nature only from the captain of the Menhir."
Roahn sadly nodded. "I know…"
An orange disc and several long holographic straps soon appeared around the quarian's arm. Her omni-tool. It buzzed to life and immediately began auto-executing a program that had been primed to engage upon activation. Sagan looked at the tool for a moment in curiosity before it looked like he appeared to seize up—the geth suddenly raised his neck and stared straight out into space, head completely parallel to the ground. All of his synthetic muscles went rigid. Frozen. His major/minor lens apparatus locked itself mid-focus, the lights in the construction flickering dimly as new commands infiltrated his circuitry. Commands that had been lifted, long ago, from previous geth hacking interfaces. Old technology, but still viable. Still deadly.
"…which is why I'm sorry that I have to do this."
Hours later, Sam was nursing a cup of badly brewed coffee while he stalked the halls of the ship, gingerly prodding his nose every now and then. His face was contorted like he expected to wince as soon as he applied pressure to his recently acquired injury, but the precise administration of medi-gel had helped heal the torn cartilage in less than half an hour.
His duties had been completed, with no one on the ship needing his services, and he now resigned himself to stalking the length of the Menhir, making sure to keep an eye out for Garrus so he could steer clear of him. He would be on speaking terms with the turian by the next day, but it was better to let his brief anger die out completely rather than risk letting the smolder gain a sudden fueling flame.
Through tired eyes, he traversed the neck of the ship as, on a whim, he went to check on how Sagan was doing. He also wanted to check out the view from the front windows as well, just to provide him a glimpse at the cosmic magnificence just inches away through transparent steel.
Sam had to rub his eyes in confusion upon arriving when, he noticed first and foremost through the window, that the Menhir appeared to be in orbit above a planet. No… a moon. The larger axis of a purpled gas giant nearly filled the view in the rightmost window. He was not particularly good at keeping track of time while ship-bound, but Sam did have the planets in the Local cluster memorized and the one currently sitting in front of his face did not look familiar at all. Red-tinged canyons, water-pooled valleys, dry plains of white sand—not a planet that Sam could name off the top of his head.
"The hell is this?" Sam waved a hand towards the unexpected vista. "I thought we were going back to the Citadel?"
"Destination… has been… reached…" Sagan said in a halting manner, like the words were difficult for him to materialize.
"Destination?" Sam repeated. "No, no, no, this isn't our destination. Sagan, are you…"
Sam now looked to the geth and tilted his head in confusion. Sagan was sitting perfunctorily straight in his chair, arms locked in a rigid and an ironically robotic poise. Looking closer, the doctor could see that the synthetic's body was making tiny nudges from side to side, the same kind of movements a bound person would try to make to get free of their restraints.
"Helloooo? Sagan!" Sam barked. "What the fuck is going on with you?"
With what seemed like a tremendous effort, the geth rotated in his seat to face Sam.
"Operational systems… are coming back online. Full functionality is expected… to be achieved… in the next cycle. Remaining on station… awaiting commands."
"Jee-zus Christ!" Sam raised an arm in exasperation before he walked out of the cockpit in disgust. "Our resident geth has apparently decided now is the time to reboot himself!"
Well, it looked like entertaining a discussion between himself and Sagan was not going to happen. Sinking deeper into a dark mood, Sam shuffled over to the elevator after downing the last few drops from his coffee. He elbowed the button for the engineering level and leaned against the rear of the cube, one hand in a pocket, as the door closed. Upon arrival, he moseyed on over to the drive core area, hopeful that he could pick up on a few tidbits from the closest thing to a data scientist that this ship had, desperate to alleviate his boredom.
But Liara did not even look up at Sam as he entered. The asari was sitting at a desk on the left side of the core work area, leaning in towards a six-screened holo-console. Columns of data were flashing by at an unreadable rate—Sam had to blink his eyes and look away after staring at the matrix of raw information, his vision hurting a bit.
He cleared his throat to get the asari to notice him. "Making any progress with the artifact?" he asked conversationally.
Liara shook her head in a distracted manner, her fingers a blur as they swapped keyboard layouts one by one, her eyes darting from screen to screen. "Haven't delved too deeply into it yet. There's something… very strange in our files that I'm trying to pin down. I'll… I'll be working on it as soon as I'm able."
Sam absent-mindedly took a sip from his cup, only realizing that it was empty. He set the mug down on Liara's desk.
"Well, when you get to it, let me know if you need any of the slack picked up on your daily tasks."
"Thanks, Sam," Liara said, eyes still glued to the screen.
"Where is the artifact anyway?"
"Over there." Liara waved a hand in the general direction of the drive core, the hallway beyond drenched with the tender wisps of light coming from the metallic heart of the craft.
Sam glanced over towards the desk the asari was gesturing to, finding it to be filled to the brim with datapads, wired consoles, and an assortment of delicate tools. But no artifact.
"Where?" he asked again, certain that Liara was being too vague.
Annoyed, Liara leaned out of her chair and now levelled a specific finger at the desk Sam had been looking at in the first place. "Right there—"
But, as Sam had come to dreadfully expect, Liara's slender blue finger failed to bring about a sudden materialization of the object in question because, once her arm had fully settled into position, it soon dawned on her that the artifact was no longer in the place she had expected it to be. Her eyes bulged in alarm as she abruptly cut off her own words while Sam stood there, a long look on his face, as if he was expecting to be the victim of an ill-timed prank.
"Um…" Liara stammered, nearly falling out of her chair. "It was… supposed to be there."
Sam gave a slow blink. "Oh, this isn't a jape? Well, where the hell could it have gone to? It's a damn ship, there's not many places for it to hide."
"I'll bring up the security feeds," Liara said as she worryingly turned back to her screens, mind already abuzz with potential next moves. "We'll be able to find out what happened to it."
The two then spent only a couple of minutes quickly scanning through the video clips that the ship's cameras had managed to capture. Sam did note that, throughout the entire timespan of the footage, Liara had steadfastly remained in her seat, working at her desk. He had to admit, if he had not already heard of the asari's exploits, this straight doggedness and dedication to her work was testament enough to her relentless determination towards righting the galaxy from its perilous path. Admirable qualities, but dangerously well past the point of workaholic territory.
Liara's hand then slammed on the pause button as she spotted something in one of the feeds. "There!" she pointed. On one screen, a figure was portrayed at having snuck by Liara without the asari having even noticed they were there—she really must have been engrossed in whatever she was doing if foot traffic could have proceeded past her without her knowing. The person in the footage brazenly disregarded the cameras as they crept over to the desk where the artifact sat, fiddled with the wires for its grav-disc that kept it aloft, and stuffed it into a small bag that they then flung over a shoulder.
As this person left the frame, they looked upward for a split second, but this person was so inherently familiar to the both of them that neither Sam nor Liara needed to get facial recognition for them to know the truth.
"Roahn!" Sam and Liara gaped at the same time. The human frantically pointed to the quarian's image. "Where is she now? Is she still on the ship?"
"Hold on!" Liara breathed as she booted up the Menhir's security suite. She cycled through various feeds until she landed on the one she needed. The asari leaned in to confirm what she was looking for before she gave a breathy nod. "She's still here! Hangar bay, by one of the shuttles!"
But Sam was already dashing out the door, muttering "Motherfucker! Motherfucker!" to himself, not caring what anyone else would think of him. He barreled out of the engineering room at full tilt and mashed his hands upon the elevator panel. It beeped angrily at him—someone was already using the lift. Sam was not the sort of person to compartmentalize his anger all that easily and so he kicked the door in his frustration, nearly breaking a toe in the process.
With a yowl, Sam then limped towards the staircase that led one floor up, pushing aside any hapless recruit that happened to be in his way. Damn the elevator, there was more than one way to get around this ship!
With a heavy feeling weighing down his head, Sam knew that at some point today he was going to have to end up swallowing his pride, though he could not have guessed that that time had come for him so soon. The source of his trepidation was soon in his sights as he maneuvered past the cafeteria, and they had Grunt at their side as they came from inspecting the gun batteries near the front.
"Garrus," Sam breathed, thoughts momentarily jumbled as several topics clashed in an attempt to convey their importance. He had to bend over to take a breath. "I… I have to…"
The turian was staring at him, glassy-eyed. As if he was contemplating lashing out once more to indicate his disgust or to simply turn his cheek and ignore what he had to say.
Sam couldn't say he could blame Garrus, honestly. He was not ignorant, he knew how he behaved. But there was still the dangerous reservoir of annoyance that threatened to spill over the dam in his mind if Garrus did not have the capacity to be a bigger man than he let on, otherwise this was going to get real interesting quite soon. And bloody. Definitely bloody.
"I know I was an idiot," Sam pivoted, voice low and growling. "Hell, I was an asshole to you, Garrus. I won't make any excuses. I'm sorry. I was a real asshole and I—"
"Sam," the turian softly interrupted as he stepped forward to close the gap, arm outreached not to deliver a fearsome strike, but a calming clasp to the human's shoulder. "You're forgiven. You were just on edge. We all were. And I'm sorry as well. For… for breaking your nose, I mean."
"Wasn't the first time that's happened to me," Sam flippantly waved off.
Garrus narrowed his eyes. "I'm guessing it won't be the last, either."
Sam's features cracked into a smile. Garrus mandibles gave a dry twitch. The two shared a soft chuckle between them, with Grunt shifting his weight from foot to foot behind them, getting impatient.
"Now," Garrus then said, "I don't think you came over here to apologize, did you, Sam? I will admit you've made me feel a little guilty about that—as captain I should've set the example and come to you first. But perhaps… what you said earlier, maybe there was some truth to that after all."
"Forget all that," Sam shook his head, adrenaline soon seeping back into his veins as he quickly remembered why he had come here in the first place. "Garrus, I think Roahn changed the ship's course. She took the artifact and she's down in the hangar bay, prepping a shuttle! I think she's planning to go somewhere with that thing you picked up from Triton."
If a turian's carapace was not so thick, Sam would have been able to see Garrus' face pale in seconds as the blood seemed to rush from his head. "Come with me right now," he urged as he suddenly took off in a run back toward the elevator. Sam followed, with Grunt eagerly right behind him, intrigued to find out where all this would lead.
This time, the lift was empty and waiting on their floor. The three crammed themselves into it—Grunt's bulky frame squashed Sam in the corner in the ensuing melee, bringing out a surprised squawk from the man as the doors closed. The shuttle bay was soon revealed as the door opened seconds later. Garrus took off at a jog right out of a gate, Sam now coming in last after having his ribs crushed by a rather energetic krogan.
The cargo bay doors to the Menhir were already open but the glowing transparent walls of energy from the environmental shielding were keeping the chill of space back. In the distance, a chalky red and white moon slowly moved into view, the edges of the stratosphere bumpy with cumulonimbus clouds and sizzling with high-altitude lightning. That was clearly not Earth, Garrus noted, now having direct visual confirmation that they were nowhere near their planned resupply stop at that world's orbital shipyards.
"She's preparing for something, all right," Grunt rumbled as they approached.
One of the Menhir's Kodiak shuttles had already been maneuvered into position, angled and ready for engine ignition. Upon hearing the tromping of the approaching trio, Roahn walked out from the shuttle's open door, eyes patient and unsurprised, with somewhat of a tired slant to her walk.
She had no weapon attached to her body, but her enviro-suit was now packed with more armor than Garrus had seen thus far on the woman. Roahn's shins now had extended calf guards with flexible knee plates. Her right arm was sheathed with extra ammo and medi-gel slots, as did the bandolier that she had looped around her waist. She had applied a molded chestplate to her front, rigid enough to take several rounds without incident but flexible enough to sync with the movements of her breathing. The final touch had been her own sehni—Roahn had slotted an inflexible shell over the front part of the fabric that usually was pulled over her helmet. The soft but surging waves still washed their purple color, but it was more muted now that the quarian had applied black and gold accents in her new armor coloration, her attire radically altered.
The contours of the determined woman still resonated, but their configuration had been transmogrified ever so slightly. Recognizable, but now embodying a specter of retribution. The quarian looked like she could rip out the throat of anyone within arm's reach. A swipe of her fingers and blood would hit the floor in a flurry.
"I don't want you to stop me," she called across the bay, her voice powerful.
Garrus and Grunt slowed to a tender walk—the turian in particular keeping his hands open and wide in a gesture of friendship.
"I have no designs to do anything right now," Garrus assured. "I just want to know what you're doing, Roahn. What are you doing with the artifact?"
"I'm taking it with me. Trading it for Korridon."
Garrus gave a quick shake of his head, certain he had misheard her. "Korridon? How do you know where he is?"
"From the same person who told me where to pick him up," Roahn raised her chin, defiant, as she swept an arm towards the grand view just beyond the shuttle. "Aleph is torturing him. I promised myself I would stop his rampage any way I can. If I can save one person—just one—then I will not hesitate to do so."
The very notion that it had been Aleph that had made this inclination to Roahn—Roahn, of all people!—and she was going with it, was astonishing to the turian. This was the same woman who had lost an arm to the man. Who had spent her waking hours fantasizing about the many brutal ways she could take him apart.
And now she was agreeing to terms Aleph was setting?
"Aleph could be lying to you!" Garrus said. "This could all be a manipulation to have you bring the artifact to him. And what if doing so leads to many more deaths? Would it be worth it then?"
Roahn took a step forward. A tiny lunge.
"All I know for certain is that one person's life is in our hands right now. Not just one person—one of our own crew. I—I mean… we—already lost one of ours today. Someone that I cared deeply about. I'm not planning to sacrifice the galaxy for a single life… but I have no idea what consequences Aleph might intend. Confronted with that unknown… there is only one real stake at hand. Korridon. The choice is obvious to me."
Sam peeked his head out behind Grunt. "But did you really have to mess with Sagan to get what you want? The poor thing's all discombobulated now because of what you did!"
Roahn's eyes narrowed. "Sagan will be fine. The motor override was only programmed to last for thirty-six hours. More than enough time to make it here without him counteracting my commands."
"But in doing so, you've now put the whole crew at risk, Roahn!" Garrus sighed. "We're out here, in the middle of uncharted territories, following instructions from a megalomaniac."
"Which is why I intend to go there by myself. The Menhir's a stealth ship—not even a Reaper could pick us up while running hot. Everyone on the ship would be safe. I would be the only one being put at risk down there. This is my burden to bear. No one else's."
"Roahn, tell me this isn't a mission of revenge."
The quarian's helmet slowly shook back and forth. "I thought it over for a long time, Garrus. I knew that I probably had no chance of making you see my point of view. But for once, just once, I want to actually do something in my life that I'm proud of. Save a life, make a difference, anything. Just something that is actual proof that I have been trying to do the right thing all this time."
From a pouch at her side, Roahn withdrew the chipped artifact, free of its clear prison, and shook it fiercely in her hand. It glinted in the light of the planet, sparkling off its ragged edges. It appeared to hum with a divine resonance, yet Roahn handled it as if were a mere child's toy.
"We've been finding these things all over the galaxy with nothing to show for our efforts. Sure, we've had some luck in taking out a few PMCs, but for every one that we destroy, the next day one more will be incorporated to take its place. We haven't changed anything for anyone, Garrus! We've just become a part of the same old bloody cycle. And all the while, these artifacts do nothing but change hands. One after the other. We're the ephemeral and they're the perpetual. The way things are going, the artifacts will still exist in some form or another long after we're gone. And after all this time… we never truly managed to figure out their intended purpose. So yes, Aleph can have this. He can have this insignificant piece to add to his collection. But if it brings Korridon back to us… then… well…"
Unable to find a thoughtful conclusion to her rant, Roahn quietly stowed the artifact back into her pocket, well aware of how she must look to her comrades. She looked at the three people across from here, standing there in their statue-like poses. Conflicted. Confused. Roahn's heart felt like it had adopted a painful lump on its side—three spear points felt like they were jabbing at her insides whenever the organ firmly throbbed. She was about to size them up, wondering if she could risk making a break for the shuttle, until Garrus took one small step forward, his posture not at all threatening.
"Would you be willing to wait a few minutes?" he asked Roahn.
"Huh?! What the hell are you talking about?" Sam fiercely whispered to the turian.
"Spirits, would you shut up for just one second?!" Garrus tilted his head and shot back.
Suspicious, Roahn's eyes dug into slits. "Why?"
Garrus turned back from Sam and gave a shrug like it was the most natural reaction in the world.
"To get our stuff ready. So that we can come with you, obviously."
Roahn was not the sort of person to be easily struck, but this moment was an exception as she had prepared herself to engage in every single manner of protest beyond resorting to fisticuffs. Capitulation was nowhere near the top of her list of outcomes she had expected to transpire.
"You'd…" she coughed before she cleared her throat, "…you'd really want to come along? Aleph was quite clear—he said to come alone."
"Roahn," Garrus sighed, "with all due respect, I'm using this moment to pull rank. After all that's happened, you really think I would let a member of my crew go off by herself? The only way you're getting off this ship cleanly is if we all go together. That's what a team does, Roahn. That… is my obligation to you as your captain."
Roahn felt herself grow small. This is not what a good commander does, was the implication. And Garrus was right, to her everlasting shame.
There were some moments where Roahn was glad for her mask. While having other being able to freely see her face was something she would give anything in the galaxy for—a sentiment shared among her kind—in the tiniest slivers of time that required a modicum of privacy, her enviro-suit found a willing wearer. Her cheeks darkened and her gaze flashed to the ground for a split-second, abashed at being reminded of her duty. To her fellow soldiers. To her friends.
Without a sound, she nodded, the movement nearly too dim to make out, but resonated all the same.
Garrus turned and gave Grunt's shoulder blade a clap. "Grab what you need in five," he said before he began to bustle off to collect the supplies he needed. "Then we're getting on that shuttle."
"Dare I wish you guys luck on this foolish mission of yours?" Sam raised an eyebrow as Garrus walked up to him before heading off to prepare.
"Oh, you won't need to dare. You're coming too, smart-ass," Garrus abruptly leaned in, nearly butting heads with the tall human. "Grab your gear."
"I regret ever meeting you," Sam scowled, throwing his hands up to convey his displeasure. But he uttered no further words of protest and grumbled off to the armory lockers to grab a few trappings of armor and a couple of guns. "Son of a bitch. I'm a doctor from California, not John-fucking-McClane!"
Grunt stayed put where he was, ice-blue eyes watching the others gather their things in his own private amusement. Roahn walked over to the krogan's side.
"You're not getting your weapons?" she asked him.
The krogan rumbled a gravelly laugh, one that would normally be considered fearsome in any other circumstances, but for Grunt it was a genial conveyance of light-hearted expression.
"What kind of krogan would I be…" he answered as he reached behind his back and unhooked a gigantic grenade launcher that had been previously hidden from the quarian, the barrel sharpened to a razor-fine edge, with a drum magazine that held several dozen rounds of heavy ammo and glowed a fearsome crimson, "…if I didn't already have a weapon on me?"
A/N: Okay, so it turns out I lied about being able to make further edits on the last chapter. I did eventually get my computer up and running, but in the process lost my first attempt at one of the sections that I had to end up rewriting. I blame electrical gremlins. Shame, I wanted to see how the two attempts would've looked in a side-by-side comparison.
Okay, so now that we're at the 3/4ths mark of the story, I want to make a quick request for you guys. To those who are still reading and following every update, I would kindly ask if you could please take a few minutes out of your day to drop a review or some other observations to this story. Having feedback means a lot and it also helps me pinpointing any areas that I could possibly correct in my writing. You don't need to write a review the length of a newspaper article, just something that conveys your genuine thoughts. Good, bad, I want to hear it all.
In any case, thank you for bearing with me. With this outbreak going on and all, I just want to know if I'm helping to keep people entertained while they're locked up.
Be sure to stay tuned for next chapter. It's probably going to be the most important one released thus far!
Playlist:
Memories of Skye
"Cabin on a Lake"
Jed Kurzel
Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Aleph's Message
"Space Suicide"
David Buckley
Call of Duty: Ghosts (Original Video Game Soundtrack)
The Shuttle/Time to See Aleph
"Hard Target"
Sean Murray
Call of Duty: Black Ops (Original Video Game Soundtrack)