"Beyond the borders of the Citadel's watchful eye, wild space seemed to flourish in an expanding web that seemed to rival the rampant rise of progress. In the absence of order, chaos reigns, yes? That alone would imply that man's nature is inherently evil. That there are no bonds that tie us to what would otherwise be considered our moral selves. This also implies that our souls seek constant governance—the freedom of which ensures our retrogression. Or is it truly a retrogression? Is it truly evil? Things become more and more nebulous when there is no scale to judge them against. Evil would only be a word a civil man would use to describe someone who had been raised without order. To the lawless man, evil is merely a word. They care not for how they appear to the refined galaxy—survival is their ultimate goal, and if such methods to ensure their survival come across as less than urbane to one who can be considered formal, why would they care a whit?
I visited one of these far-away colonies to view the supposed primeval land for myself. It was a dry world, dotted with scattered villages, whose people continued to carry ancient prejudices. One such town, human-centric, had erupted into a spat with a neighboring turian village. Whatever the reason, I never found out. Relations had collapsed between the two towns—each side had resorted to attacking the other, damaging buildings and crops, tit for tat. The lawman of the human village had just reached his wits' end. In desperation, he had erected a bounty on the scalps of the raiding turians, hoping to form a militia. The corporation would sponsor the payout, he proudly proclaimed. That very night, half the town headed out to make good on the bounty. They later returned that morning with nearly all of the turian settlers' scalps in bloodstained bags. It had not been just the men the humans had murdered. They had massacred the entire town without prejudice, including the women and the children, knowing that the lawman would not discriminate. The bounty had not specified whose scalps were valid for the payout, after all. Unfortunate for all that the notice was not as specific as it could have been. Equally unfortunate was the fact that the lawman lied about the bounty—the corporation sponsoring the colony knew nothing about the reward money. The citizenry quickly discovered this fact for themselves, and soon, the lawman found himself upon the wrong end of a knife. He realized, as did everyone else, that the brutality reserved for an alien could easily be turned on one's own."
Final Monograph: Transcriptions of an Augury
Unknown Author, (pg. 38)
Reprinted by permission of Purdue University
Vanderpol
James' breath was even and calm as he stared out of the Kodiak's window once the craft's shuddering from entering Vanderpol's atmosphere had begun to decrease. Cotton swaths of clouds clipped the edges of the shuttle before they finally broke, allowing the occupants to glance outward towards this new and strange land.
The pale waters of the Iythmeir Ocean below lapped and churned in furious vortexes of foam and raw power. Far off in the distance were the thin gray ridges of rocky landmasses. Scattered storm cells lashed spits of rain upon the Kodiak, tempestuous gusts of wind threatening to knock it back and forth. Steam erupted from the craft's jets as they were battered by the rain. The distant sun tried and failed to penetrate holes in the low-hanging cloud cover. Steel curtains of monsoons fluttered over the seas to James' right. Pillars of storms supported the gray ceiling, creating an oceanic temple occasionally seared by a victorious sunray only for the clouds to push out the offending light seconds later.
Someone had moved closer to James to get a better look out the window. He shifted his body so that Jack could make her own observations.
"Maybe one day we'll get to go somewhere scenic," he muttered as he stared out onto the aquatic expanse.
"Oceans aren't really your thing?" Jack turned away from the window and arched an eyebrow in James' direction.
"Oceans are fine. I've never had the urge to plant myself in the middle of one, is all. I like having dry land be within swimming range, let's just say."
A blue-scaled hand gently applied itself to James' arm, a signal for him to step aside so that others could glance out the window. Cirae squeezed her way between James and Jack before bending down and leaning towards the opening so that she could scan the fogged horizon and the choppy waters the shuttle was currently passing over. Behind her, Avi was at the opposite end, grabbing a handrail to steady himself as he too tried to see if he could spot any defining landmass that had not been swallowed up by the sea.
James returned to his seat, resting his hand on the pistol at his side. Jack took an empty spot right next to him. He could tell that she was also having apprehensions about this mission. There were several unknowns that were natural accompaniments to the situation—trying to locate the ragged government of a supposed resistance group out in the middle of nowhere had all the hallmarks of a wild-goose chase. They had no idea whom they were going to meet, what the ship—the Atoll Stoa—looked like, whether they were heading into a trap designed to lure hopeful guerillas, and so on. Sadly, this was the only lead anyone had ever found towards creating a new network of fighters against Aleph's regime. Chances were that similar opportunities were going to be few and far between in the future, so they had to capitalize on this moment while they had the chance, to see for themselves whether there remained any hope or not.
The both of them were comfortably wreathed in their preferred level of armor. James, knowing that appearances were paramount for diplomatic missions such as this one, but savvy enough not to leave himself completely exposed, had pared himself down to a medium set of armor, one that did not bulk him up to embody a humanoid tank but would take a shotgun blast a point-blank range quite comfortably, thanks to its powerful embedded kinetic barrier. Jack had chosen to don herself with a weapon-resistant pair of pants and a jacket, her long hair neatly tied up in a ponytail, showing off the ink that wrapped around the base of her skull. James found that he was staring at the woman a bit more than usual, and it certainly was not on account of her attire.
Cirae continued to stand in the middle of the shuttle, comfortably keeping her balance as the craft slightly rocked to and fro. The politician had surprised James when she had expressed her preference to wear a set of armor as well—she wore a utilitarian set that was matte black with deep blue accents and a carbon fiber collar. Apparently, she had done time in the service and was thus used to dealing with military equipment. Avi, on the other hand, was the least armored of the quartet. The reporter had settled to wear only a gray chestplate that he threw a utilitarian coat over, simply content at protecting only his vital organs and having the ability to turn his head from side to side.
The asari checked her omni-tool after syncing it with the shuttle's systems. "We're decelerating. The Kodiak's placing us over the Atoll Stoa's last known coordinates."
"Got a visual?" James perked his head up.
There were a few bleeping sounds as Cirae cycled through various camera feeds.
"Nothing," she said.
The marine repeated the politician's efforts to confirm with his own eyes. "If we've missed the rendezvous…" he murmured to himself. "Makes no sense. We're within signal radius but have seen no friendly traffic in or around the area lately."
"Check the transportation logs from the nearest buoys," Avi offered. "They'll tell you if the Atoll Stoa got itself off the planet recently."
James took Avi's advice and accessed the local timetables through the QED link. A minute later however, he had reached no conclusion that he could deem sufficient.
"Just basic IFF pings from freight transports. A few light cruiser transponders. Nothing that corresponds to our ship."
Jack gave an icy smirk as she crossed her legs, simultaneously leaning her back flat against the shuttle wall. "Then they haven't left. They're still here."
"If they were still here, we'd have them on our scopes by now," James said.
Cirae shook her head as she flicked her omni-tool to broadcast on an open channel. "Maybe that's because we haven't said the right words yet."
With all eyes upon her, the asari lifted the warped circle of her tool as she held it close to her mouth.
"Atoll Stoa, this is Representative Cirae Idetha, acting as envoy from the C-APV Menhir. Citadel Ident Code: CI433AV. Request permission to land, over."
To everyone's surprise, the response was immediate over the comms. A rapid voice with a mechanized tone.
"Acknowledging ident code. Transferring landing sequence to your vessel. Maintain current holding pattern. Leave sector 3A-8 open."
"Acknowledged," Cirae finished with a smile. "Confirming sequence receipt. See you in a bit."
Somewhat impressed, James flashed the asari a lopsided grin.
"Citadel ident code?"
"Sort of like a universal 'Get out of jail free card,'" Cirae shrugged.
"More like a skeleton key, in this case."
Very quickly, their comms were ablaze once more with activity. Local tightbeam communiques were being spat out in all directions, feeding directly into their omni-tools. Voices began to overlap as one burst transmission after another resounded.
"—Atoll Stoa, proceed with surfacing procedures—"
"—positive feed, I repeat, we have positive feed—"
"—towers one through four responding. Propulsion jets operating at equal power—"
"—breakwater. Repeat last, breakwater. Ascension marked at two point five gain—"
"—copy that, control. 5 up, 4 L and R. Board reads green—"
"—marks one through five. Engage bay doors. Atoll Stoa, opening in—"
From below, the crew could start to see a circular section of the ocean churn an angry white. Bubbles frothed in a hyper-energetic dance, driven by something just below the surface. It was as if a whirlpool had suddenly coiled into existence, before the water upon that section started to spit out in furious geysers, acting as if it was boiling.
Then, the sea split apart as four curved pillars of steel rose from the fluidic deep, saltwater furrowing off of them in thick sheets. The ocean shockwaved and collided before it too was forced to seep off the sides of a sleek and massive mound of starship armor. A sound not dissimilar to thunder resounded as more and more of the sea poured off the sides of the rising cruiser, its tall mounted thrusters belching heat and steam as it propelled the craft through the liquid medium and up to the surface with a cacophony of salty spray. The ship was nothing like anyone in the shuttle had seen before. It was clearly salarian made, for its contours were not as curvaceous as an asari craft but not as utilitarian as a turian or even a human ship. It reminded James of pictures he had seen of shark egg sacs, which were quite lumpy on one end but rather thin on the other, like a lopsided envelope carrying an incongruent item. The four pillars he had seen ascending from below were actually individual engine thrusters. They sat on the four corners of the ship and could be moved independently, he realized. The ocean continued to broth and fizzle around the vessel, as if it was in a cauldron. From near the thinner end, he could see a section of the ship begin to open up, revealing a small landing pad inside. Indeed, for the Kodiak was already maneuvering its way toward it, commanded by the Atoll Stoa's control tower.
Back on his feet, James peered out the window towards the lit area, a circular opening that was an indent upon the hull, filled with bright warm light, where he realized the shuttle was heading towards.
"'Speak softly and carry a big stick', as they say," he let a tenor of awe creep into his tone.
"And what size stick are we carrying?" Jack asked, looking up towards the marine.
James had no answer for her.
The Kodiak's landing was barely an event for its passengers, with only a slight shudder passing through the chassis. Above them, brine dripped from the circular opening the craft had descended from. There was then a thick clanking noise as the overhead bay doors began to close shut, wasting no time after ensuring that it had swallowed up the newly arrived shuttle.
James patted himself down to ensure that he was touting all of the weaponry he had brought. The doors to the Kodiak were still closed and he waited until everyone seemed prepared before he addressed them all, his hand hovering over the hatch release button.
"Hate to admit it, but this was the easiest step of our mission," he said. "Reaching the Atoll Stoa was just the beginning. All we need to do now is ascertain just how entrenched this resistance network is and, if at all possible, convince them to be a little more proactive."
Cirae nodded in agreement. "I also read the reports that Captain Vakarian sent to us while en route. We didn't pick up any sign of confederate forces, which means that this so-called Operative Volar doesn't know where this ship is. Means that this is the first time we're ahead of our enemy. Should not let this moment go to waste."
A good point, James had to admit. Garrus' encrypted report that he had tightbeamed over to the shuttle had given James a little more consternation than he would have liked, knowing that Volar was potentially a spy in the resistance's ranks. It just meant that there was a lot more riding on his success in developing a network between the group commanding this ship and the Menhir. Even though he had not spent much time with Cirae, it seemed that the asari was quite the quick study. She may be a politician, but she lacked the insincere zeal or any sort of moral harlotry that he had seen in more customary examples of her ilk.
"Suppose you'd want to do the all talking?" he asked the asari.
Cirae took a second to think about it. "You sure? Even from the outset? It's your mission. Wouldn't want to make you feel—"
"You were asked to come because you've got a better vocabulary than half of this shuttle combined," James assured. "Call it presumptuous, but I doubt you'd be able to fuck things up any more than I could."
The asari tilted her head, looking a little unconvinced. "Maybe you never had any intentions on speaking at all. On top of that, the provocative manner you've decided to dress yourself in would suggest that either you were trying to avoid taking part in any sort of verbal negotiation or you're unaware of how politicians feel when dealing with a heavily armed soldier. The exposed assault weapons on your person would not be there for decoration, I'm assuming?"
"Shh," Jack interjected with a dry grin towards James before he could defend himself. "Let her answer her own dumb question."
Cirae's face flattened in annoyance, her expression momentarily ice, but she said nothing else.
James primed the Kodiak door to slide open, revealing a cramped hangar packed quite full of similar small craft. Parking was a luxury upon the Atoll Stoa, apparently, and it looked like their Kodiak had claimed the last space. The roof overhead was elegantly sloped, and there was a silvery metallic sheen that glossed over the expansive room, almost as if the structural supports had melted into its permanent curve. A steel skeleton of a staircase acted as the only route down to the ground floor like a coiled spine, where two salarian guards were waiting at the bottom in polished mahogany-hued armor.
"Hold still, please," one of them said as they raised an omni-tool. "Running a registry scan."
Part of James wanted to tell the guards to take a long walk off a short pier for running what was destined to become a useless scan. Then again, that would only be proving Cirae's insinuation about him to be true. In any case, he kept his jaw locked tightly shut as the salarian walked up to everyone, sweeping a bar of blue-white line across their faces. Scanning their features, their retinas. As expected, no warning flags came up and the guard returned to his original position.
"Thank you," the guard said. "Welcome on board the Atoll Stoa, flagship of the Unified Synod."
Avi scratched his head. "Unified Synod? The name of the group that commandeers this vessel, I'm assuming."
The other guard bobbed his head. "Yes, many people have similar questions upon arrival. The Unified Synod is the network of all resistance cells that have been created in the wake of the Citadel Massacre. The Atoll Stoa is its headquarters."
"Fancy. Are we looking at the only ship under the Synod's banner? Any particular guess towards the actual headcount of your group or the combative strength?"
The salarian was punctual in how it shook its head in response to the question. "A 'no' to your first question, but I'm afraid that any other information you seek is beyond our station to even hazard a hypothesis. Fortunately, there are those on this vessel that are quite keen to enlighten you all." He then pointed towards Cirae. "Representative Idetha?"
The asari straightened, almost caught off guard. "Yes?"
"Your presence was requested moments after you initiated contact with the control tower. If you will please follow us. The rest of you, feel free to circumnavigate the Atoll Stoa's interior. Any areas you would otherwise not be allowed to access will be clearly marked. This constitutes as a sufficient verbal warning. Any attempts to disobey such signage will be considered malicious disobedience."
How very hospitable, Cirae darkly thought, but she also remained silent as she became locked in step with the guards down the stark white halls. She walked through the interior of the ship, noting that the halls were quite wide, enough to allow a Mako tank to cruise through them with room to spare. The lineaments of the ship's interior, colored a blistering white, lacked the rigidity usually found in military vessels, which was unexpected. The delineated curves and irregularly sloped corridors did not possess a hint of symmetry to them. They passed by several storefronts, which Cirae found quite odd for a resistance ship like this to have, though more than half of them were empty. Something else of note that the asari honed in on was that many people of differing races were roaming the halls, each dressed in similarly painted armor. All the Council races were represented here, from what she saw, as were a few elcor, hanar, and even a couple quarians. So, this Synod was comprised of a mixed-race crew, which would make tearing down any perceived racial barriers on this ship to be a nonexistent threat. One less thing to worry about.
"The Atoll Stoa was not originally built as a military vessel, am I correct?" Cirae asked the guards as they quickly walked down a tight hallway filled with protruding fuse boxes.
"It was to be part of a new line of cruise vessels," one of the guards affirmed. "Built by the shipmaker RiX Ct. on Sur'Kesh, it was reappropriated shortly by the Synod after the Citadel was deemed lost with all hands."
"Let me guess. The ability for it to go underwater was designed as a way to give its passengers a new thrill?"
"Quite right. The intent was to take enterprising voyagers to significant points of interest on distant oceans. At the time, marine tourism was apparently hitting a new peak."
"You house former members of the Citadel militaries on the ship?"
"Yes," the guard said. "There are STG operatives, Alliance marines, asari commandos, and turian enforcers that comprise the Synod. Many different professionals. Many different focuses."
They headed through a series of gates that looked far less luxurious than the trappings Cirae had previously seen back up top. The hallways narrowed, took on more industrial tones. More pipework was exposed here, as well as more obtruding electrical systems.
"Where are we headed?" the asari asked.
"The kitchens," a guard said.
Cirae blinked. "Does this ship not have a conference room?"
"The person who requested your presence is currently located in this section of the vessel. They were not keen on relocating to another room."
"What can you tell me about them?"
One of the salarians seemed to hide a smile. It was there, but only for a brief moment.
"Only that they don't make a habit of much face-to-face contact. You should feel fortunate."
There would not be another moment for Cirae to inquire further, for the group had rounded one final corner before arriving at a set of double doors. One of the guards held out a hand, indicating that only Cirae would be proceeding through that threshold. Mind cloudy, brow furrowed, the asari tried not to let her hesitance show too much as she stepped towards the doorway before walking into the next room.
The first thing she noticed was that there was a distinct smell in the air. The smell of meat cooking. And… spices, something foreign to her palate. A delicious combination that had the primal effect of triggering her salivary glands. Her stomach simultaneously rumbled. Cirae then edged into the kitchen, somewhat allayed by the scent of the food. She had viewed her share of modern mechanicalized kitchens before in her life—this one was no different, with its stainless-steel cabinets and countertops, the loud aluminum fans that kept the airspace smoke-free, the large walk-in fridge at the corner with its thick door, and the macabre assortment of cookware that she would never have a hope of seeing outside of a place like this.
A hunched-over figure was attending to something at one of the stoves. Cirae could see wisps of smoke curl their way above a cast-iron pan, the contents within sizzling in their own juices. There was something strange about this person, Cirae noticed as she approached. They appeared to be wearing a somewhat form-fitting bodysuit, much like a quarian, but it was tauter and more angular, with clawed plates wrapping around their joints and collar. Thin, clear tubes snaked up the side of their neck and seemed to wrap towards their head, the back of which seemed to be completely coated with what could only be described as an explosion of turquoise feathers. As Cirae grew ever closer, she could now see that the hands and feet of this person were thin and clawed, reminding her very much of a turian's, but they lacked the roughened carapace, instead possessing a dry and wrinkly skin.
The figure then extended a hand out towards Cirae, who froze.
"Pass me the purple tin," a raspy, female voice intoned.
Cirae faltered, unable to place the native origin of the voice.
"The… the what, now?"
"The tin. It says 'foie gras' on it."
On the kitchen island, Cirae was now able to spy what the person was talking about. A rectangular tin with an aluminum top. She reached forward and handed it to the wizened hand. As she reached out, the person's fingers briefly brushed Cirae's. They felt like dried parchment that had been sitting out in the sun for hours.
Those thin fingers then deftly cracked open the tin, grabbed a smooth-edged knife, sliced a chunk of what looked like a peach-colored spread from within, and applied it to a piece of crumbly yellow bread nearby. Still not turning around, the figure handed the bread to Cirae.
"Thank you. Have you ever had foie gras before?"
"Can't say that I have," Cirae admitted as she took the bread, unsure if she was being made to eat it right here and now.
"It's a human dish with a rather fascinating way in how it's prepared. They take a full-fledged goose, a large bird found on the human homeworld, and force-feed it three times a day for seventeen days, causing it to fatten beyond its usual proportions. They use a machine that forces feed down the goose's esophagus, as the creature would not eat the amount of food that would enable such large quantities of fat to be deposited in its liver. And then, when the time is right, the goose is slaughtered and its liver, the foie gras, is consumed. Cruel to the animal, but it produces a flavor that supposedly cannot be replicated elsewhere. So much preparation, so much pain, all to produce a food that provides only a fleeting moment of comfort. Some would say the tradeoff is justified, though I'm curious to see what you think."
Cirae was caught staring as the figure finally turned around, a subtle and dissembling look perched upon their features. She was not prepared for what she saw. The figure was not an asari, nor turian, nor any species she had ever laid eyes on before. They were tall and thin, with large and bulbous eyes that ran from deep violet edges to a luscious indigo interior. Their craggy skin was the color of charcoal, lightly scratched and nicked in a few places. But their most defining features were the mane of turquoise feathers that spiked from their head much like hair on a human, and the curved avian beak that was their mouth, etched with red markings as if it was a bloody tattoo.
"You're…" Cirae's breath caught in her throat. "You're a raloi."
"I am Pry'cor," the raloi dipped her head graciously, wide eyes sparkling enough to act as a smile all on their own. "A vortreg of Turvess. Head of the Synod. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Representative Cirae Idetha of Thessia."
It had long been known, not just to Cirae, that the exact composition of intelligent species in the galaxy was not limited to the ones that currently inhabited embassies on the Citadel Council. There were still a few races out there that inhabited distant systems, waiting for the right moment to glimpse a larger community. The raloi were one such species, with first contact having been made right before the Reaper War had ignited in earnest. Once the fighting had started, the asari had been the ones to urge the raloi's peace envoy to withdraw from the Citadel and head back to their homeworld of Turvess, hoping that the latter race's isolation and appearance of being a pre-spaceflight race would fool the Reapers into thinking they were not uplifted enough to be assimilated into their hive consciousness. The gambit worked and the Reapers passed over them, but at the cost of having set back the raloi's technological development for centuries.
Or so the thinking had been.
Pry'cor then straightened back up, noting Cirae's flabbergasted face, though the alien did not seem to be surprised at the effect she had caused upon her guest.
"I trust this is a development you were not expecting?"
"There are so many things I want to talk about that I have no idea where to start," the asari breathily said.
"Try the foie gras, then. It'll give you a moment to process. Tell me if you can place the other ingredients I added to it."
Cirae looked down at the piece of bread she held, taking care to eye the spread of overstuffed goose liver upon it, before she took a bite. She was not prepared for the rich and buttery taste, with a soft texture that seemed to melt in her mouth. She found the confection to be quite pleasant and quickly finished off the slice.
Pry'cor watched her. "The verdict?"
"Surprised by how easy it is to like, even with its sordid preparation."
"Did you place the additional flavorings?"
"One, I think. There was a slight tinge of pepper."
"Pink peppercorn, to be precise," the raloi nodded. "Plus, a dash of white wine."
"Well, I'll be damned."
Pry'cor then swept her arm, offering a vista of the entire kitchen from all of its polished corners. "The advantage of commandeering a luxury liner such as the Atoll Stoa meant that its food stores were quite significantly better stocked than your average military ship. I've been here for a week, made meals in this room three times a day, and I don't think I've touched a tenth of the ingredients just yet. Of course, a good portion of them are indigestible to me, dextro amino acids being poisonous to raloi and what not, but I'm confident that will not hasten the conclusion to my culinary journey all that much. So many recipes to try from so many cultures. One could spend the rest of their life here eating three different meals a day and never having repeated one of them."
Cirae found that she suddenly felt the urge to lean against something. Anything. She reached forward and placed her palms flat on the kitchen island, using the emplacement as a barrier between her and Pry'cor.
"I apologize," the asari said, "but this is getting to be quite sudden for me. You are a raloi."
The feathered alien waved a hand, very much a routine reaction, for it must have experienced these sorts of first impressions for quite some time.
"Raloi. Pry'cor. Vortreg. I have been called many different things and they are all true."
"And you know who I am."
"Facial ID scans make knowing that quite easy. Cirae Idetha, former soldier for the Asari Republics, last position was acting as a representative on the Galactic Assembly, and the last ship you were on board was the C-APV Menhir, one of the last bastions leading their own resistance all over the galaxy… or at least, the most notorious."
The asari felt woefully disadvantaged. She had felt this way before during congress gatherings when she had been deliberately prohibited from reading material briefs beforehand in an attempt to make her feel impotent. This was more like she had stepped onto a landmine and had only just registered the click.
"I have not met many asari in the limited time that I've been here," Pry'cor continued, as though as she was casually discussing the weather. "But I have found your innate abilities to harness the galaxy's dark energy—biotics, as you call them—to be something so abjectly fascinating. Intuitive control over matter itself on an intrinsic molecular level. A new paradigm… for my species, at least. Perhaps I may ask you to provide a demonstration one of these days."
"But…" Cirae had to wrack her brain for a second, "…we cut off contact with your race decades ago, back in 2186. It was mutually agreed that the raloi would initiate first contact procedures again at their own pace once you had rebuilt your satellite system."
"Yes, and that certainly took a while," Pry'cor said. "Cutting off a planet in order to escape detection from the Reapers. I recall your Council made it seem that the decision was for our benefit. It certainly appears that way, given the state of affairs now."
"You 'recall'? Then you must have been part of the initial envoy team!"
The raloi nodded. "I came aboard the Citadel as part of the second integration team. This must have been… around the beginning of the year 2186, if I remember the correct galactic year conversions correctly. I still remember the station clearly in my mind. Not something I'm liable to ever forget."
"I can understand, yet sadly, it's a sight that I've now taken for granted. Five hundred years—the Citadel's always been there in my lifetime."
"Until now, it seems."
"Until now," Cirae agreed.
Pry'cor tilted her head and Cirae could now see that the trails of clear tubing she had previously seen along the side of the raloi's neck terminated at the corners of her beak, slipping underneath the bone and feeding something directly into Pry'cor's mouth.
Noticing the asari stare, Pry'cor tapped at the tubes at her neck with a clawed finger.
"You've noticed the bodysuit, I see. One unfortunate thing about being a relative new arrival is that our immune systems aren't quite as robust as yours yet. After all, our first envoy team became stricken with the avian flu because they failed to don the proper protection."
"The H7N7 virus," Cirae remembered.
"Yes, but that means that I have to have a constant stream of filtered air and medicine in my lungs, at least until my body develops the proper antibodies."
The raloi then gestured to the stove, where the burner was still glowing red with heat.
"Join me in fixing something to eat?" Pry'cor asked. "I find it much more fulfilling to talk and cook at the same time."
The asari blankly looked at all the cookware and the stove. "Afraid I'm not really the best at this sort of thing."
"That's no issue. I'll tell you what to do. You like human cuisine?"
"I do, yes."
"Excellent," Pry'cor preened in satisfaction as she rustled around for another pan. "I confess, I've tried food from all the cultures that I could and I've found that the humans offer the most eclectic mix of dishes. Part of it is all cultural, I've learned, but I'm still surprised that they aren't as homogenous of a species as the other races."
"It is a trait that has defined their uniqueness among the galactic court," Cirae admitted. "What are we making?"
"Thought I'd try something from one of the cookbooks that came with the ship. Chateaubriand steak in a dark cranberry sauce. Salt-aged. Sourced from an organic farm from an island called Ireland, if I read the package correctly."
"Just tell me how I can be of assistance."
"The closet. There should be some black truffle oil. Could you fetch it?"
Cirae headed in the direction the raloi was pointing. She was led to a room thin enough for only one person to maneuver, the walls lined head to toe with wire racks of ingredients. She felt overwhelmed again. After sifting through two rows of glass bottles, she finally found the bottle Pry'cor had been referring to and walked back out with her prize in hand.
As she approached, the raloi abruptly turned and lobbed a dark round sphere in her direction. Caught off guard, Cirae raised a hand, tiny purple nebulas radiating from her fingertips—the sphere, a kiwifruit, halted completely in midair.
"Wonderful," Pry'cor thrummed as she examined the stasis-held fruit, walking right up to it. "Apologies for catching you off guard, but I could not resist. It never fails to derive a childlike happiness whenever I see it performed."
"You know," Cirae coughed as she dropped the field, allowing the fruit to drop harmlessly into Pry'cor's hands, "you could have just asked me."
"True," the raloi shrugged as she reached out and relieved the bottle of oil from Cirae's other hand, "yet I was told that, in the moment, the results are more dramatic."
As she returned to the preparation station, Pry'cor pointed towards the large metal cabinetry.
"If you're hungry and can't wait, there are some hard-boiled quail eggs in the refrigerator," she said as she gently began to shake thin ropes of truffle oil upon the pan. "I've set out some celery salt to garnish."
Indeed there were, along with a small tin that was labeled "Beluga Caviar." Cirae sampled the caviar first, but found it too salty for her palate. The hard-boiled quail eggs were much nicer and they had a more pleasant consistency to them. They were small, so Cirae could pop one at a time in her mouth.
Pry'cor had then wandered to the walk-in freezer and exited with a long pink log of meat. She slapped it down onto a cutting board and procured a ridged knife. She then sliced the steak in two, wrapped one of the halves, and placed that one back in the freezer. The raloi then went to the closet and returned with more oil and a few spice canisters. She placed them on a nearby counter, which Cirae noted was full of jars that contained differently colored liquids and solids in many viscosities.
The asari moved to that counter and bent down, examining the contents of the jars. "Did you make all these yourself?"
"Condiments and sauces make the meal," Pry'cor said, nodding. "The meat forms the base, but the sauce is everything. It defines the taste, makes what should be routine feel like an adventure." She pointed to each one of the cans in turn. "That's a pistachio and rose butter that I made just yesterday… the one to your right is a spiced blood orange savor with additional port flavor… there should be some mint sauce around here, too… you should try this blackberry and apple chutney… and, cheese. I've grown quite fond of human cheeses—especially these truckles of truffled cheddar, not to mention these jars of stilton, though this tin of Vacherin might just be my favorite."
Cirae looked at Pry'cor with a good amount of deference, not to mention a smidge of shame for her own woeful skills in the art and knowledge of cooking.
"Yes, you have been busy," she murmured.
"Cooking is more important for a raloi than you might think," Pry'cor explained as she sprinkled lemongrass over the steak after using a brush to smear olive oil upon the meat. "One of our own traditions is that business and meals are complementary, that they demand a certain amount of deference. It comes from a centuries-old custom where we had the idea that, if everyone individually prepares their own food, they would all have a lesser chance of being poisoned by their enemies. Sort of like knowing exactly what you put in the broth, if that's a good metaphor."
The asari arched an eyebrow after moving her hands so the juice from the cut steak did not come into contact with her fingers. She watched as Pry'cor added granulated onion and garlic with a few firm shakes.
"Are poisonings routine back on Turvess?" she asked
"Only when the custom first took shape," Pry'cor assured as she raked the top of the meat with a knife, the avian alien bestowing a good amount of concentration upon her work, much like a painter at an easel. "We've adapted it to sort of define any formal gathering. Convocations typically take place around a ring-shaped stone grill, a zejaia, the diameter as wide as this room, sometimes. We would take our own ingredients from a shared station and prepare them at our own seats. Helps form a bond of kinship, seeing as everyone is participating in the same activity. It also shows a side of you that you would not normally reveal. What seasonings you would use to flavor your meat. How well done you would cook your meat. What style of meat you would prefer. If you favored any side dishes to add a new dimension or color."
"Knowing your enemy…" Cirae sagely put a hand to her chin.
"Exactly. While I'm preparing these, can you wash and cut up some figs from the refrigerator? Quarter slices would be lovely."
Fortunately, Cirae knew exactly what figs looked like and managed to easily locate the clear plastic container filled with smooth green lobes of the ripe fruit. She moved over to the faucet and rinsed a handful of the figs before she placed them out on a cutting board. Pry'cor had been courteous enough to lay out the proper knife to perform the slicing for her, which Cirae proceeded to do so carefully that she would not cut her fingers wide open.
Pry'cor had then taken the seasoned steaks and used a set of tongs to place them upon a hot cast-iron pan. The meat immediately erupted in a sizzling sound, blitzing bubbles from the oil as a tender waft of delicious smoke seeped above the meal.
"Steak from a cow is quite easy to manage," the raloi explained as she took a step back from the stove, admiring her handiwork. "The key is to get a dark char on one side. The garlic and onion will float off the steak and into the oil, which causes a little burning, but it adds to the flavor."
"It's been a long time since I had steak, so I'm excited to try it out," Cirae said, her hands slippery with fig juice, the pink seeds inside the fruit looking a lot like tender flesh.
They then watched the steaks cook, which Pry'cor had assured would not be for very long.
Cirae edged the useless fig ends towards the garbage bin with the flat end of her knife. "Twice today I heard you refer to yourself as a vortreg. What is that, exactly?"
Pry'cor afforded a laugh, which sounded rather prehistoric to the asari's ears. She ignited her own omni-tool and stared upon it with a newfound fascination, as if she had just discovered fire. "As magnificent as these universal translators are, I sometimes forget they have difficulty interpreting words that have layered meanings to them. A vortreg would probably be referred to, in as close as I can interpret, as a politician for you, but 'politician' itself has a deeper meaning for a raloi. While it seems that, for most of the galaxy, it is the politician who chooses to run for public service, a raloi does not make that decision for themselves. The population—the people—are the ones who uplift their chosen representative, their vortreg, to serve on their behalf. This way, the service chooses the person, not the other way around. If the people sense that a particular individual is deliberately jockeying to become a vortreg, they end up shunning him because they know that person would serve himself long before he would serve others."
Unseen by the raloi, Cirae wistfully shook her head with a faint smile. She wondered if there could have ever been such a time where her own people had accepted such a system. Would she have been vaulted into public service, same as Pry'cor? Would the others—the more manipulated members of the government, like Irissa—have faced the same challenges? It was difficult to say if the galaxy would have been better off from such a political theory.
"More meaning is put on your position," Cirae said, crossing her arms. "You're reminded every day that you were placed where you are because of such innate trust. Not many people in this galaxy could honestly say the same."
"Would you be one of them?" Pry'cor turned her head in the asari's direction.
Cirae's smile bashfully grew wider and she glanced down at the ground for a long moment. "I've always hoped I could state just that with authority."
The feathers on top of the raloi's head ruffled in a slow preen. Pry'cor's large eyes tenderly blinked and she raised a hand, placing it upon Cirae's shoulder. There was a tensile strength in those thin fingers, the asari was intrigued to notice. The alien's skin and claws reminded her of a large bird's zygodactyl feet perching upon her very body.
"I was about to lose hope," Pry'cor said, adopting a matronly tone. "Of all the people that could have come landing down onto this ship, it happens to be one with a modicum of modesty. Infinitely greater than what I have to deal with on a regular basis."
Inwardly, Cirae swelled from the praise but kept her gaze neutral, only narrowing her eyes.
"Something tells me that you don't make a meal for every new politician that you meet."
"The title of 'politician' would be greatly distorting the truth for many of the individuals that make up the Synod. Thirteen members… twelve of them absolute morons. No one previously elected beyond local stations. They certainly would never have made vortreg."
The steaks in the pan were sizzling louder now, cooked to a healthy brown. Pry'cor broke off to check on them. She stuck a metal rod into the center of one of the sirloins before withdrawing it and tapping the end, testing the heat. Finding it to her satisfaction, she placed the steaks on separate plates and garnished the empty space with fig slices. She also removed the cover to a pot, whose contents had been quietly simmering the whole time and dipped a spoon into it. She used the spoon to run a thin line of sauce over the top of the meat, the dark brown liquid mixing with the clear juice that exuded from the cooked steak. The raloi handed one of the plates to Cirae and they took their places standing around the kitchen island, eating as they talked.
"You make it seem like the Synod is mostly comprised of corporate lobbyists," Cirae said as she chewed a piece the succulent steak, finding it bursting with flavor.
"In a sense, that's exactly what it's like," Pry'cor said as she cut into her meat. "I'm not exactly enthused to the idea of businessmen having the authority to play with the lives of people. But, from what I understand, many of the real politicians in the galaxy were… well… killed during that whole incident with the Citadel."
"And less qualified people have stepped up to fill the void," Cirae sighed, now realizing.
"Yes, quite so. After all, the armies that have not yet surrendered to Aleph and his confederacy have either been whittled down to unsustainable levels or are in complete disarray with their leadership network torn apart. Every day, we get word of more and more worlds joining with the other side, mostly from fear of being harassed by PMCs. How's your steak?"
Cirae finished the bite she was on before answering. "Very good, actually. The sauce has more pepper than I expected."
"In a good way?"
"In a good way."
Pry'cor responded to the affirmation with a quiet grace as she resumed eating. "Last few gatherings we've had, the majority of the Synod seems to be favoring the idea that continuing to resist might just be a fool's errand. They're concerned about the longevity of such an effort."
The asari set her silverware down and picked up a fig. "Is that an opinion you share?" she asked before she used her teeth to delicately tease out the flesh of the fruit.
"I can tell that it's one that you don't," the raloi responded.
"If you're going to tell me that the Synod is planning on suing for peace—"
"You should probably stop listening, then."
It was a good thing that Cirae had set down her knife beforehand, otherwise she would have chucked it across the room in a blind rage. With her hands unoccupied, all she could do was curl them into fists and lean down upon her forearms over the counter.
"Oh… by the Goddess…" she lowly fumed, almost in a sarcastic drawl. "They're planning on cutting a deal with Aleph? Fuck. Do those idiots even know who they're dealing with?"
Pry'cor also pushed her plate aside before she spread her arms wide, almost a shrug.
"For them, fighting a losing war is a hard pill to swallow. Remember, these people were never real leaders. We're a newborn council, trying to find the strength to stand while a foot is simultaneously pressing down upon our back. They're considering all the options at their disposal that ends with their survival. No one wants to become a martyr for a lost cause, is the thinking. The Synod has a fleet strength of sixty ships, several of which are recommissioned military warships. We have thousands and thousands of lives on the line. And we're considering every single one of them in the decisions that we make."
"And I'm considering the lives of everyone else, not just the Synod," Cirae emphasized as she straightened, nearly reaching the height of the raloi. "You. Me. Humans. Asari. Raloi. Turians. I'm thinking about all of them."
There was a momentary pause as Pry'cor considered the asari's words. "Idealism is not seen as a vaccine around here, Cirae. You do realize that you'll be fighting an uphill battle on this, right?"
Now Cirae nearly barked an indignant laugh. "I've always been climbing the hill. Pry'cor… this job was never easy. I have yet to see the downward slope."
The raloi's eyes squinted and the edges of her mouth where it met her beak curled upward. A smile. She then placed her hands on the counter and gauged the asari considerately.
"Think I can convince you in becoming our fourteenth member?"
"You're not serious."
They were sitting in the food court of the Atoll Stoa, her and Avi, which was a rather commercialized area that reminded Cirae of a shopping plaza, most likely the sort of look the designers were intending to emulate. Vendors offering various foodstuffs were arranged all around the ovular room, each one blaring bright neon lights and exuding their own unique scents. If Cirae had not already eaten with Pry'cor not half an hour ago, she might have visited one of the stalls here to satiate herself.
Across the table, Avi had procured for himself a bowl of cheap noodles, a meal that looked pitiful compared to the gourmet steak that Cirae had just eaten. The human's next bite slowly dribbled from the disposable chopsticks, having halted a few inches from his open jaw.
The asari leaned back in her chair and allowed a tiny grin. "You're going to doubt me now?"
"No, it's… you're talking about a raloi. A raloi that has integrated themselves into galactic politics! Cirae… culturally, this is probably the most significant event—"
"—since humanity arrived on the scene," Cirae cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I've sat through a couple of these first-contact incidents before, you know. This one, though… it caught me off guard."
Avi finally set down his chopsticks and pushed his bowl of noodles to the side, now stroking his thin goatee in contemplation. As a reporter, he was well versed in inter-species affairs around the galaxy and, like many other humans, the study of alien life was a fascination to him. After all, contact with the Citadel and all the current Council races had been made within his lifetime, and now he had been present for the monumental discovery of the prothean and raloi races, welcoming them to the galactic fold.
"I can already rattle off a list of xeno-historians who are suddenly going to have their hands quite full in the near future," he said.
"Assuming we survive that long," Cirae pointed out.
Avi looked hurt. "O ye of little faith. So, tell me about this Pry'cor. What is she like? Visually and personality-wise."
"Ever the journalist, eh?" Cirae propped up her chin with a hand. "Visually, I don't think I can do her justice with words. She's the leader of the Synod—chances are you'll soon be able to get a glimpse for yourself. She told me she negotiated for the position due to her prior experience as a seasoned politician—a vortreg—back on her home planet. Personality-wise… she's intriguing. A bit of an enigma, but driven. Eager to see an end to the conflict, at the very least."
"Yet, even in her position, she can't convince the other members of the Synod to go along with her?"
Cirae shook her head. "Doesn't appear that way. I didn't meet any others who are on the Synod's council, but Pry'cor did say that the rest of them were not career politicians."
"Great," Avi chucked in derision. "Another board of technocrats. The Synod strikes me as a hastily put-together organization borne out of a knee-jerk reaction to this upending of the status quo. An intergovernmental agency… without the government."
"It's just as bad as you might think. According to Pry'cor, the general consensus of the Synod is to essentially surrender in an effort to quell the fighting for good. Concede on every point. In other words: total cowardice."
Avi took a moment to process this. He reached for a half-drunk bottle of beer that he had opened more than fifteen minutes ago. Finishing a swig, he set the bottle down and eyed the cheap surface of the table before he met Cirae's eyes again.
"While you were meeting with the raloi," he said. "I was asking a few questions from some of the diplomatic clerks near where I would guess a makeshift series of embassies were set up. I didn't get any straight answers from the subjects, but the mood that they all betrayed was exactly what you got from Pry'cor. That the Synod is losing steam with its resistance and is looking to do damage control."
"With the resources at the Synod's disposal in full swing, with control away from the fear-mongers, we'd be able to put up one hell of a guerilla war. We throw this away, we perhaps throw away our only shot of brute-forcing our way out of this disaster. Garrus is waging his battle out there without any backup. This is perhaps our best shot at helping him. Whatever it takes, we need to get the Synod completely on our side."
Tilting his head, Avi nursed his beer as he stared intently at Cirae.
"You're making it sound like you have some stake in the Synod."
"Didn't I mention? Pry'cor offered me a seat at the table."
The human stilled for a moment. "Pretty big thing to only mention now."
"It only became pertinent to mention now."
Avi finished the last swallow of beer and set the empty bottle to the side.
"You taking the job?"
"Haven't really decided yet," Cirae said with a shrug.
"Come on," Avi shook his head, so delicate it could have been interpreted as amusement. "You've always wanted to be on the right side of history, Cirae. All that prior stuff about you being passed over for committee after committee… expressing your frustration at your faction leader for deliberately blackballing you… not to mention other grievances. So, when the opportunity to stick it to all those that doubted you practically falls into your lap, you're hesitant?"
"If you recall," Cirae raised a finger, almost accusatorily, "my previous tenure in a governmental position was, all things considered, very much useless. I thought I had known was I was getting into then. I promised myself that I would never make such a mistake ever again."
"With all your talk about the Synod and their resources and helping out Garrus, I would have assumed that you would have accepted the offer on the spot. Speaking of resources, what did Pry'cor have to say about soliciting help from the other military forces that have not yet capitulated?"
The asari put on a guilty face. She folded her hands together and looked out to the side, towards the empty hallways that led to the sprawling mezzanine.
"You didn't discuss that yet, did you?" Avi guessed.
Cirae shook her head, intending for it to be a confirming gesture. "I should've. All that time I spent with Pry'cor and somehow it slipped my mind. Shit, I'm an idiot."
"Can't imagine it slipped Pry'cor's mind. Probably saving it for a better-timed conversation. When's your next meeting with her?"
"I was planning on setting something up at the end of the day. Her immune system takes a hit when she's talking with an unfamiliar person for a while."
Avi tapped his knuckles on the table. He then looked up. "Any objections to me trying to do some of my own investigating? I'd feel like a fifth wheel around here if I didn't have something to do."
Cirae bumped her eyebrows in interest. "You wouldn't ask unless you felt that it was for something worthwhile. What do you want to find out?"
"Legal ammunition, so to speak."
"Go on."
"It's like this," Avi leaned forward, conspiratorially. "The Atoll Stoa is a ship that is essentially commanding a loose resistance network. If that network is as large as Pry'cor says it is, then the Synod has most certainly been in contact with the other fringe military groups. The Alliance, the Hierarchy, whatever. Communication logs like that would certainly be stored on a central database—no reason to think that the server in question isn't on this ship. If we can access those logs, we can ascertain the status between the Synod and the militaries, essentially finding out the extent of how much contact has been acquired between the two."
The asari gave a lopsided grin. "And you're planning to access this server… how? With your good looks and charming personality?"
Avi mockingly brushed his jacket. "You jest, but you know that I didn't fail upwards into my occupation."
"I know. I'm just teasing." She looked up to the ceiling, a thought coming to her. "And if you don't manage to find sufficient proof that the Synod has done their due diligence?"
The human then smiled and spread his arms wide. "Their loss. Your gain."
Cirae's brow scrunched. "I don't follow."
"Think, Cirae. Look at where we are. A borderless, unrecognized coalition stuck in a proto-state. Could you point the Synod's origins to anything approaching legitimacy? Did the Synod have any authority to militarize by any known government entity? The answers to both are no, because it was formed after the Citadel was lost. The leadership of which technically resides in a legal gray zone, since no government sponsored its creation or funds its operations. Which means, in a legal sense, every member on the council of the Synod has equal power no matter their rank. Perhaps among peers in the Synod, you will be expected to follow a certain hierarchy, but to outside eyes, any outreach effort from any Synod member carries equal weight. Democratically speaking, if you join the Synod, you get access to that power, and then…"
"…that would give me free reign to initiate communications with the other resisting Council forces," Cirae realized. "I would not need anyone's approval to go ahead with such a plan! Avi, you're a fucking genius!"
"I've been known to have my moments," he playfully eyed the asari.
Cirae then reached out and touched the human's hand. Their eye contact then seemed to strengthen, borne from a deep-seated memory, that required a sensation beyond mere sight to unlock, to awaken.
"Pull this off," Cirae whispered, "and I'll find the nearest hotel so that you can do anything you want to me. Anything."
Avi flashed his white teeth. He turned his hand and interlinked Cirae's fingers with his own. "Now I have all the motivation I need. Don't worry, Cirae. I'll handle the espionage. You just get yourself a seat on that cabinet."
In the halls of the ship, James and Jack aimlessly wandered through the cavernous avenues, occasionally ambling across an armed patrol that crossed their path. Their footsteps clicked on the tile floor before rivers of thin carpet interrupted their passage. They encountered more abandoned storefronts than people—further evidence that this was supposed to be used to ferry passengers all across the galaxy in splendor rather than hoarding several platoons' worth of troops. The floor plan was shaped like an ancient animal, a design that was obviously meant to satisfy the designer's ego in achieving a symbiosis of organic contours mated with a steel construct. A far cry from a militaristic perspective on ensuring that no space was wasted on board a space-bound vessel. Holographic art pieces scaled around the dripping walls that looked like melted and unrefined silver, taking the shapes of dragons, coiled serpents of color, rockets trailing around the edges of moons, and abstract collections of symbols cataloguing themselves into far larger portraits. Dancing chandeliers of crystal and glass sparkled the tops of the innermost halls, glinting prisms in brief shatterings of light, making it look like the two had unintentionally wandered into a convention center.
A few of the unrestricted areas of the Atoll Stoa had allowed James and Jack to check in on what the ship had to offer in terms of armaments. It was no battleship, but heavy refinements had been made to its sleek profile. A complete battery of eight SB turrets—four mounted deckside and four situated on the lower hull—in addition to a front-mounted guided torpedo launcher. The shield generator had been modified to increase its overall output to the point of overclocking the components, but at a cost of it recharging slowly if compromised. Essential equipment in order to dissuade the idea away that the Atoll Stoa was toothless. It would not win in a fierce battle against an entire fleet, but it could certainly hold its own against a squad of light cruisers.
Inside, the Atoll Stoa housed five whole squadron companies of manned interceptors, fighters, and bombers. Armored walkers and tanks hung on cranes in the middle of launching bays, tubes snaking from under their chassis as technicians bustled from site to site, half of them looking at diagnostic readouts on their tools. James and Jack were able to see this chaos from their observation perch on the top floor, looking down upon the hangar floor like an attentive deity.
They now found themselves in front of one of the large windows, where ordinarily occupants would be able to get a clear view out into space. This time, all they could see was a dark filter of murky seawater—the Atoll Stoa had ostensibly begun diving procedures not long after they had boarded. They were most likely several dozen meters under the surface now. A few shadows of large fish swam through the dimly lit abyss, but few rarely ventured towards the ship, the large craft proving to be a terror to the underwater life. They were merely content to watch the pillars of bubbles froth upwards from the atmospheric vents, precious pearls of gas embarking on their long ascent to the surface.
The two just stood there for a long while, two outlines in front of the window, peering through the gloom through hard eyes in the vague hope that something new would cross their path.
Jack thoughtfully eyed James next to her. "A goddamned reverse-aquarium. That's what this is. This time, the fish get to look in on us."
James smirked as he crossed his arms. "Never got the chance to go to an aquarium. My dad was…" he faltered for a moment, "…too poor to spend money like that."
"Never been to one, either," Jack shook her head. "I've never liked the idea of looking in on something in a cage."
Now James looked over, noting that in the dark light, Jack looked strange and theatrical, with the sharp lines of her tattoos at her neck standing out in crisscross patterns like microchip circuits. Her stark eyes were nearly lost in their darkly shadowed hollows. There was something in her face—worry—which was an emotion that James had not yet seen before in the woman. A coldness crept at his skin.
"You think that we're going to accomplish anything here?" Jack craned her head. "That there's going to be something left to save after all this is over?"
"No reason not to. We've been down this road before."
"Yeah, but we weren't fighting each other back then, is what I mean."
She now twisted to face him, a silent demand for the marine's full attention. James quickly obliged her, his face lined with a sage sternness.
"Jack," he started, "for too long I've been latched to a higher authority out of a so-called sense of duty. Orders above a cause, that sort of thing. I've put all that aside now. I'm not here to help form a new council—one more government to screw things up. No… no, my faith is in individual people now. Garrus. Roahn."
He dipped his head, narrowing his eyes.
"You."
The corners of Jack's mouth edged upwards in recognition, but she did not break eye contact.
James continued, "I don't care about failing the galaxy. I care about failing the people that I care about. If this Synod does not prove to be critical to our victory, I will shed no tears, so to speak. But… if everything was contingent on the efforts of one person, well…"
He slowly oriented his body to face the window again, shoulders bobbing in a brief shrug. From outside, one of the exterior lights caught the reflective cloud of a passing pod of creatures similar to krill. The light seemed to be beamed back onto Jack's face, extending the small smile that refused to vanish from her expression.
"Easier to put your trust in someone like me, I take it?" she asked.
"Far easier," he affirmed.
Jack, for a brief moment, lowered her head to hide her smile.
"Same," she whispered, fleeting enough that even James could not tell if she had spoken.
They continued to stand far after the swarm of krill had long passed. Waiting for another sporadic occurrence to rear its head. Soon, Jack shuffled herself so that her arm was almost touching his, her eyes looking like infinite wells in the low light. She then slowly leaned to the side until her body weight was being supported by James. She tilted her head, looking up at him, before breathing out a tiny sigh through her nose and stared back down again. Comforted by her presence, James' own grin extended as he kept himself ever so still, enacting himself as an obstinate post for which Jack could always rely upon.
Two stray fish with scales like zinc timidly darted by. James tracked their expressionless eyes with their own, watching the space that they occupied, even after they had passed by the window's expanse.
"I bet aquariums are bullshit, anyway," he quietly scoffed.
A/N: With the holidays nearly upon us, I'll be taking a few more days off than normal so that I can rest and recharge my brain. The next chapter won't be uploaded until the next year, so I'll use this chance to wish you all a Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Happy New Year and all that jazz.
Don't get too complacent! Still plenty of surprises that I have left up these sleeves. I'll see you all in 2021! (Good riddance to 2020!)
Playlist:
Atoll Stoa Rising
"Sanctuary"
Ben MacDougall
Godfall (Original Video Game Soundtrack)
Reverse-Aquarium
"The Dark Crystal: End Credits"
Daniel Pemberton
The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (Volume 2) (Original Netflix Series Soundtrack)