"I witnessed a curious spectacle on the world of Ozstok one year. I had come to the area to see with my own eyes what was an intense clash of principles. At one point I managed to find myself in a chapel of a long-forgotten denomination, listening to the head priest sermonize. Truthfully, I forget what the sermon was about, but I remember it was nothing particularly discourteous. No, the words were not what I took offense to. I can clearly recall my own disgust, looking at the jewelry and ostentation the priest had chosen to don himself with. He put on fine airs, a man well-groomed, who held the rapture of his audience, a congregation of about two hundred, listening in complete silence. The crowd itself was a menagerie of poverty. The people of the colony were penniless, being paid slave wages by a powerful mining company, one that was dispassionate to their woes. In their desperation for what they felt they deserved, they all turned to religion, as it allowed them to believe in a salvation of their own making. The disparity between the shepherd and his flock brought me nothing but disgust. The priest was not a man who had come to this world out of his own good will, but a company-installed puppet aimed at subjugating the people by offering reprieve from an afterlife filled with eternal damnation. I was infuriated at the lofty promises the priest was providing to his parish, promising a life of deliverance while occasionally interjecting scraps of company-decreed doctrine in between his purple-language-laden diatribes.
All of a sudden, a man in a marshal's uniform loudly entered the chamber, walking straight between the pews. Their gait never broke stride, a well-practiced routine. The priest broke off mid-speech, eying the lawman with curiosity. When the marshal reached the edge of the dais, they pulled out a pistol and shot the priest in between the eyes. Half of the congregation stood in shock. The constable then turned to the audience and announced that he had just killed the most notorious child rapist in the local sector. He went into detail as to how he had been hunting this man from Omega, proclaiming his quarry's penchant for dressing as men of the cloth, those who would otherwise be granted close proximity to children. The congregation calmed and the marshal went on his way, even stopping to shake hands with a few members of the parish. Not three minutes had passed after the shooter had left when a squad of three other lawmen arrived, none of which was the man who had shot the priest. They inquired about the sounds of gunfire and asked who committed the murder. The congregation was more than eager to detail at how the priest had been felled by one of the lawmen's own. But the expressions of the marshals never broke from their perplexed molds. They then slowly addressed the shocked crowd that they did not have anyone in the service with the sort of physical description that had just been described to them.
The churchgoers filed out of the chapel in a daze. The ones who had shaken the perpetrator's hands were now looking at their limbs, perhaps pondering if removal of such overeager appendages would suffice as penance. They never did find out if the priest had been guilty or not. I sometimes wonder if those people ever realized the gift that marshal had given them. From that momentary lift of their blinders, maybe they could finally see those chains all looped around their necks."
Final Monograph: Transcriptions of an Augury
Unknown Author, (pg. 166)
Reprinted by permission of Purdue University
Rema
New Sura Streets
The composition of the cramped and packed buildings that lined the quarters and plazas of the middle section of the city held no congruency amongst one another. The only thing of any remote similarity was the ecru color of the stones that made up their assemblage. Any other correlations were more than likely coincidences.
This lack of homogeneity was a particular point of arrant fascination to Roahn and Korridon as they strolled through the tight alleyways of New Sura, many of them too thin for even the smallest of cars to traverse. For about an hour now they had been meandering their way through the congested city, simply searching for anything to take their mind off of the coming battle. The sun created a pale orange haze that existed only as a crumpled set of block channels to the bystanders peering upwards from the chiseled canyons of the buildings. The terrain of the city was uneven and hilly. Several times the two of them ascended and descended steep staircases, with aqueducts dredged in the middle of the paths for fluid runoff. Air humidifiers bolted to the sides of apartments hummed and coughed. Springy bushels of cane and vines blasted verdigris amidst the beige-scape. There was a musty smell of carved rock in the air. Raw and chalky.
The pair gripped the handrails bolted on some of the sides of the alleys as they took yet another staircase that led to the largest presidio they had come across so far. The place was a beehive of activity. Soldiers casually patrolled the perimeter. Vendors sold wares and supplies out of shops and multicolored carts. A fountain in the center drizzled an elaborate lattice of spray. Small discs of platinum had been ground into the polished rocks that encircled the small pool. A few had already been chipped away, stolen by opportunists. Food carts hung animal skins that were filled with a dark pulque where white flames roasted their hides. Ristras of fruit from all walks of life had been colorfully arranged from hot colors to cold. Cups of chilled mountain water were filled, along with the telltale steins nearly overflowing with the amber seep of beer.
Roahn and Korridon stood at the edge of the pavilion, drinking in the sight. Watching a crowd of children play in the opposite corner. Behind her mask, the quarian could only sigh.
"I heard about how casually the people on the Citadel had behaved, even when the news started to trickle in that the Reapers had made it into the galaxy," she said. "How they entrenched themselves in the routine of their lives, doing their best to ignore the truth. From where they were, they couldn't see a war. Easy enough to disregard." Roahn gave a quiet scoff. "Was this what it was like back then, too?"
"I don't think so," Korridon said softly beside her, slowly scanning across the square. "Those people were willfully blinding themselves, doing their best to detach themselves emotionally from a fate they believed was nonsense. Here… there's a nervous energy to this place. People are wearing strained smiles. They look tired. Like they're knowingly going through the motions one last time, as sort of their own private farewell."
"It's a peaceful place, in its own way." Roahn looked up at the savage ridgeline. "You could see both the city and the dried lakebed from up on those mountains. Would be quite a view."
"Yes," the turian agreed, though his eyes helplessly lingered on the back of Roahn's sehni. "It would."
In the shadow of an archway, a blurred figure appeared to crouch amongst the adumbrations, roughened steps rising up next to it. Roahn peered in that direction and performed a few rapid blinks. The shadow turned, a reflective smear seeping like liquid in the vague shape of a teardrop. A low thrum seemed to wisp in the caverns of Roahn's ears and her breath momentarily became ice.
In the next second, the figure had vanished. A trick of the light? Roahn was quickly graced with the echoes of her own breaths within her helmet, the treble ranges coming to her in crisp detail.
It had taken only a few seconds, but Korridon had noticed the quarian give pause in her distraction.
"It's him, isn't it?" he asked.
Roahn clenched her hand into a fist and held it near her chest, tearing her eyes away from the darkened semicircle. "It's nothing. Just my imagination."
Korridon did not appear convinced. "I thought he couldn't reach you anymore. You had severed your connection."
She almost used Aleph's words as her response: There are many ways to trick a nervous system. She held off just in time, knowing that doing so would just bog the man down in unease.
"I'm sure he never stopped trying to get to me," she said around a grimace. "I've been able to hold him off this long, haven't I?"
Roahn was glad for her mask, because she knew she would not have been able to reassure Korridon with a straight face. Truth be told, cutting off her nervous system implants had done a fair amount of damage already that Aleph could not take credit for. She found that she got ill a lot easier these days from common bugs that would normally be avoidable. Headaches were a daily occurrence. She had difficulty attaining REM sleep. Her blood sugar was on a downward trend. And those were just the issues she knew about. She tried not to think about how her body was deteriorating day by day, the event horizon for her survival staved off by an intense regimen of painkillers and other drugs. The side effects from deactivating her implants threatened to be more trouble than they were worth, but as long as Aleph was continually denied a backdoor into her mind, Roahn never wavered in her determination when she replayed her decision over and over and over again in her head.
Anything to spite him, she had promised herself. Anything.
They moved around the perimeter of the presidio in a counter-clockwise fashion, looking to distract themselves from the unappealing nature of the present. They window-shopped at a couple of weapons vendors, but did not buy anything. They stopped to watch the food merchants cook their libations for salivating patrons. They did not partake as the food was not dextro and that they had already eaten before exploring the city. Finally stopping at the fountain, they stood for a few more minutes, taking in the sights and sounds of the revelry that was occurring in the direction of a bar that neighbored an arched avenue entrance. A multi-racial crowd surrounded a throng of musicians, the clink of chits discernable above the strumming of strings. A few youths in a dark alley whooped and screamed as they lit off fireworks, which detonated in crisp crackles—they bolted from the passageway, a shouting merchant hot on their heels.
"You do have a point," Roahn said as she motioned for the two of them to sit upon the fountain's lip. "Maybe there is some comfort in what's routine."
Korridon nudged a sideways glance at the woman next to him. "I didn't mean all comforts could be found in the familiar."
"Then what did you mean?"
Enduring a few seconds of silence as Korridon tapped his fingers against the edge of the fountain, the turian finally turned to face Roahn. "You know that once tomorrow finally ends, everything is going to be different, right?"
Roahn nodded, starting to see where this was going, but did not verbally acknowledge the man yet.
"What will become of us afterward? Not… not this galaxy. Just us. You and me."
The vibrancy of the square seemed to hold Roahn's attention in keener interest at this point. She stared without focus towards the thrumming of the plaza, sorrowful eyes sent hurtling through the veneer of crystal smoke.
"I want things to be the way they are now," she said.
"Just like they are now?" Korridon asked, trying not to sound hurt.
There was the minute sound of steel scraping against rock as Roahn edged her hand over to grasp Korridon's. Electro-sensors in her palm fed her brain readings of the turian's warmth and indicated every subtle twitch of his muscles that gripped her. She looked at him and smiled, making sure her eyes reflected the action.
"We'll have all the time together to find out what our lives should be like," she assured. The quarian then rose, taking the turian with her as she guided him gently in her grip. Roahn then held her arm outward, palm-up, gesturing towards the plaza and the people inhabiting it. "Look at them, Korr. They cling to their last few normal moments because every single one of them knows the feeling of an entire unremarkable day. I envy them all. For that is the luxury that I wish to have when this is all over. Just one single unexceptional day."
She stepped in close to Korridon, an arm snaking around his back while she positioned his hand up to the side of her mask. The turian's fingers edged tantalizingly close to the rightmost visor catch, and for a brief moment Roahn considered embracing the cheesiness of the opportunity by telling the man to rip the damned covering off so that she could kiss him and embrace passionately. But still she exhibited a modicum of self-restraint, and took a deep breath, her heart now loudly pounding within her chest and pulsating about her neck.
"I would like you to be a part of those days," she whispered. "If that is what you want, too."
Korridon studied Roahn with great intent, the wind lodging in his lungs like an errant rock. He then made shy glances upon both sides before he returned to his usual disposition, his body unclenching in a deep relief.
"I can promise you this," he said lowly to the quarian. "They're not going to be unexceptional. Not with you in them."
Roahn looked amused and raised an eyebrow, the motion very apparent even with her visor in the way. "You had that line on standby. How many cute girls have you used that on?"
"Hey, I'm allowed moments of inspiration from time to time. And to answer your question: only one."
"Lucky woman, then."
The natural volume of the plaza had begun to die off in diminuendo, with the faint rushes of dry desert breezes, warmed by the sun, allowed to whistle in the interim. The sky was starting to turn just the faintest shade of chartreuse, with a few grasping fingers of orange emerging out of the clouds like tender flames. Amidst the flurry of the imagined heavenly conflagration, Korridon raised a hand and cupped Roahn's helmeted chin, lightly tipping her head upward. He held her there until his eyes softened, his auric bulbs capturing her visage within them.
"She would know better than anyone," he said.
It had reached a point for Roahn where she was nearly unable to contain herself. In her head, she was already visualizing herself jumping into the turian's arms, throwing her hands upon his face, but not before ripping off this cursed piece of metal and glass that covered her face to drop it at her feet whereupon it would shatter into a thousand—
"Hey!" a small voice cried out.
A second later and she would have launched herself at the turian already, damn it. Still in the grip of the introductory passage of adrenaline, Roahn whipped her head over to face whoever had interrupted her conversation, but found that she had to alter her gaze downward. Dramatically so.
A group of five children, three humans and two turians, all jumped back in alarm, surprised at the speed with how Roahn had reacted. Guilt immediately clung to Roahn's cheeks in a warming haze and she lifted her hands to show them she meant no harm. One of the children, a human girl, slowly crept forward, a shaking finger levelled squarely at the quarian.
"You're…" she stammered, "…aren't you…?"
The other members of the children's cadre were clustered together, murmuring together in hushed voices.
"Holy shit, that's her, isn't it?" another one of the boys was whispering to their friend.
"No way!" they shot back. "I saw the vids. She's at least eight feet tall in real life!"
"But she's got the armor! And… and the hand! Of course, it's her!"
The first girl looked haltingly at her friends before she turned back towards Roahn. Her finger was still outstretched.
"A-Are you?" she could only get out as she stared up at the quarian. Although she was a far cry from eight feet tall, Roahn still towered over the children.
She rectified this by slowly descending to a knee in front of the child. The girl's hair was red and springy, and her face was dotted by sunmarked freckles. Roahn tenderly reached out and took the girl's hand in her right one.
Roahn opened her mouth to speak, but Korridon beat her to the punch. "Who else could it be?" he confirmed to the kids with a laugh. "You're looking at Commander Shepard, all right."
You fool, Roahn thought almost mournfully. What have you done?
What followed was a rapid-fire chorus of awed "Wows!" and other breathy exclamations as Roahn suddenly found herself swarmed by the children. They huddled around her, but made sure not to touch her, as if they intrinsically could sense the fearsome warrior in their midst. For they had been privy to the stories of the woman who had journeyed from legendary worlds, who had ascended from pits of steel and had ridden ancient spires to the stars, a woman who had fought upon boneplains and made ossuaries of her enemies' remains. But the respect of the kids quickly translated into wonderment and any trepidation they had possessed slowly burned away like evaporating liquid under the sun.
Looking through the horde of youngsters, Roahn caught Korridon's eye. The turian was standing afar, his arms crossed over his chest, unscathed from the attention of the children. He unleashed a few wry chuckles upon realizing that the quarian was faintly irritated with him. It was a playful terseness, though, as there was no sense in actually being mad at the man. But since it looked like Roahn was not going to rid herself of her newfound fans anytime soon, she made a minimal nod that only Korridon could discern. A sign that they would pick things up later. Just as well, seeing as they both still had duties to attend to. This was just a nice detour to lose themselves in, a mere attempt to reverse-engineer the memory of a quiet evening. The turian did not argue and took his time in departing, providing a soft wave before he turned on a heel to make the trek back down the hill and toward the hangars where the ship was parked.
At this point, the children were shooting off questions in rapid-fire fashion, far too fast for Roahn to be able to address all of them, but she made a go of it, nonetheless.
"Woah, is that arm really mechanical?"
"It is, and it works better than you might imagine," Roahn said honestly, as she held up her hand, flexing each individual finger to get her point across. The limber metallic joints clicked and servos whirred, enrapturing the children.
"Did you really take off your mask when you made that speech? You didn't get sick?"
Now Roahn laughed. "I don't really get sick from atmospheric exposures anymore. Call it… a quirk."
"How come you still wear a mask if you can't get sick, then?" the same child who asked the last question stuck his chin out, obviously quite proud of his follow-up.
Roahn made sure to level a sly grin through her visor. "Maybe I'm just self-conscious."
One of the turian children laughed heartily. "Wait, you're shy?! Come on. You blew up three dreadnoughts single-handedly with only a rifle, and you kicked the bad guys off five separate worlds! No way you can be shy!"
Keelah, are these really the kind of rumors that are going around behind my back? Roahn asked herself. I don't think I want to know what the extranet thinks of me. After what they did to the Normandy crew… ugh, no thank you.
"Actually, I didn't blow up anything larger than a destroyer," Roahn corrected after banishing the thought of the current rumor mill. "But I've had my fair share in escaping from an erupting dreadnought or two, though I can't really say I was the sole cause of their destruction. That would take away from the achievements of my crew."
"How come we don't see you in the vids more often? There aren't any interview of you on the extranet."
"I don't like giving interviews," Roahn answered.
"Why not?"
Persistent, these children. "Talking's not my greatest strength. Besides, soldiers aren't expected to jump on the news to advertise their adventures."
"Well," one boy said matter-of-factly, "I think you should show up more often. I thought your speech was good."
"Yeah," a girl agreed. "You were really pretty, too."
Okay, now she was really glad she had her visor on. A fierce blush gripped her cheeks and an uncontrollable smile spread so wide that Roahn was worried the children could detect her embarrassment from her obvious body language. A soldier, are you? She managed to keep herself poised after a few undetectable calming breaths and warmed her expression towards the little ones.
"Well, thank you for that," she said, making sure to infuse her tone with a genuine appreciation.
Someone was now tugging on Roahn's arm. It was the first girl, the redheaded one who had been the one to notice Roahn at the outset. She was pointing to a distant alleyway between two wind-etched buildings.
"Roahn," she was asking, "who was that man that was with you?"
Roahn lifted her head, able to spot the descending figure of Korridon as his body was only now halfway visible from where he was positioned on the steps. The pulsating air, hot and dry, gave a strange effect to the turian's departing form, like a vague afterimage imparted upon the eye. But Roahn swore her heartbeat stilled for those final few moments that he was visible, making tender thuds until he dropped onto that fateful step and he was lost to sight, as though the world had swallowed him up. She continued to stare out at the void that had previously offered the man to her, and although only emptiness was what she could discern, the calmness that radiated in the time long after his departure continued to linger like windstrewn sparks carried aloft down paper-dry shaleplate cliffs.
The girl's hand had still not left where it was gripping Roahn's arm, her tiny fingers locked upon the worn rubbery material of her bodysuit where it covered the quarian's muscular limb.
"Was that your boyfriend?" she looked up at the warrior.
Roahn almost laughed at the question, but caught herself. It was not because of the sincere nature in which the question had been poised, but because she realized no one had ever asked her such a thing before.
"Boyfriend." Roahn smiled, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. "If only he could hear me call him that."
Rema
Shelf Position Echo-2
The architects of the defensive quadrant had been quite thorough and rapid in their foundational expansions. A sprawl of tunnels snaked through the cliffs that acted as New Sura's rearward border, with many rectangular portals having been etched out in a grid pattern, giving the bluff the appearance of a skyscraper when all of the lunettes were backlit by the bloodred lamps that seeped a generous hue within the subsurface network.
Each windowed cranny served as a perch for a large weapons emplacement—many of them looked like they had been ripped right out of warship housings. GARDIAN laser batteries stood at attention, where a jungle of silicon-rimmed cabling spooled from each of their heat diffusion clusters, which made a root-like structure upon the ground. Racks richly bloated with spare focal mirrors produced an explosion of reflective glints in every direction, while diagnostic paneling upon each of the emplacements displayed the operational frequencies as they hovered between the IR and UV ranges.
Technicians busied themselves between the sophisticated laser ordinance and the confab of mass accelerator artillery that bolstered the defensive line. In the hollow cliffs, the crowd of machinists hustled from level to level, their omni-tools belching white sparks as they fused vital components together, performing the final round of last-minute checks in preparation for their unavoidable endurance run.
It was a forest of activity in which every single aperture had at least one moving part, creating a visual effect not unlike an elaborate storefront display. Perhaps the deadliest sort of display in the galaxy right at this moment.
Sagan certainly fit in amongst the entourage of equipment, while Sam and Liara kept up in the geth's wake like they were aides to the synthetic. The yellow-armored automaton walked up to one of the emplacements, silhouetted against the parched desert that stretched out before him. He stood there, a shadow amidst a backdrop of light, at the edge of the cliff where Rema's cracked surface extended out for miles in all directions.
Examining the GARDIAN turret closely, Sagan then appraised the pale expanse under the mercy of the weapons' bores. "The surrounding landscape provides favorable conditions for GARDIAN unit usage," he spoke to Sam and Liara. "The basin below only varies between 60 ft. and 68 ft. in elevation. The positioning of the turrets within the cliff wall at 423 ft. in elevation offers an accurate hemisphere of fire in the direction of the projected assault."
"Just goes to show that everything's about the high ground," Sam saying, unable to conceal the slight smirk in the corner of his mouth.
"The guns will give us enough of a screen to slow the Radius' advance," Liara ignored Sam. "But when they get close to the front lines, their effectiveness will decrease exponentially. We can't fire in zones where our troops are."
Sagan looked up towards the sky. "This facility houses anti-air emplacements. Additionally, GARDIAN turrets are effective in repelling airborne targets. The technicians will be able to prioritize as needed."
"In any case, we're going to have to hope that the defensive line doesn't lose the tempo. If we become unable to fire on the Radius' ground troops because of their proximity to our own forces, they'll need to redistribute the amount of effort towards the air forces that would undoubtedly try to make bombing runs."
"Your observation is shared," Sagan said. "A doctrine of all modern combat demands timely and accurate support from all aspects of a unit. Effective fire missions will need to be maintained in order to meet the needs of the divisions. I've sent out firmware packs to all the emplacements in this location—machine learning programs will indicate areas of dense target groupings, and will additionally recommend the proper projectile and velocity demanded in order to maximize enemy casualties. If a large enough number of targets is dispatched in a quick timeframe, historical evidence strongly indicates that this will lead to a demoralizing effect in the enemy."
Sam scratched at the ugly scar that lined the side of his neck before he adjusted his thick leather jacket, which made him look more along the line of a rowdy bar patron than a practitioner of medicine. "And here I thought I was the one providing the psychological advice. And… look, I know someone has to be the cynic here, but even with the fleet, these guns, you guys… I can't help but wonder—"
"—you don't know if it's going to be enough?" Liara finished.
"Someone needs to consider it. I'm not saying that I've fully fallen down that pessimistic hole, or even if I'm going to. Way I see it, it's too late for that. Que sera sera, and all that jazz."
Smiling equably, the asari took a step forward, placing herself between the human and the geth. She slowly looked about the enormous cavern, a few stray bars of light glimmering in sequence upon her face. Then she graced Sam with her full attention once more. "You would have made a good asari. The matriarchs love to think in terms of circumstance."
The man shrugged. "I could have been an asari in a past life. Who knows? But fate is an interesting concept to consider. Don't know if you'd call me a subscriber, though."
Through the gap in the wall, a series of landing craft flanked by interceptors lazily passed by, en route to the city's staging area. Liara turned her head to track the motion of the ships for a moment. "It's easy to divorce myself from thinking that all our actions are predetermined. It would seem rather insulting for it all to end here after everything that happened with fighting the Reapers."
"At the very least," Sam chuckled, "the chance to stave off an insulting death is something I'd gladly fight for."
"That all?" Liara arched what constituted an eyebrow.
"Okay, so there are a few others I'd die for to ensure their protection," the medic admitted. "Still, at least admit that inspiration can come from anyplace, Liara."
"Uh-huh," she said flatly before she surreptitiously glanced to the side, now lowering her voice an octave. "Sam, you don't need to be here simply because everyone else is. Are you sure you know what you're signing up for? This is not at all going to be anything remotely like what we've faced before. You could just stay here. Tend to the wounded in safety."
But Sam was dismissively waving a hand. "I've thought about it long and hard. My mind is made up, Liara. With you guys out on the field, having a medic close at hand just might give you the morale boost you need, eh? Besides, not much sense in me continuing to be a background player. About time I stepped up to do something… a bit bolder. Something outside my normal wheelhouse." He turned around with a sly look. "Maybe I could do something that makes a difference, this time."
Then the man raised his head, staring at something past Liara's head. The asari saw Sam's eyes widen and his body embark in a temporary paralysis.
Sam placed his hand on Liara's shoulder in a gesture of parting. "Excuse me," he quickly said to her as he hurried past the woman's frame, now jogging through the armaments bay, his gait accelerating faster and faster, until he opened his arms wide and scooped up two vibrantly suited quarians who had been similarly hurrying towards him from the opposite end of the room. The quarians elicited joyful yelps as they found themselves lifted off their feet, similarly throwing their arms about Sam as they closed their eyes in glee.
The heartfelt moment resonated in the wake of the medic's abrupt departure. A soft and uncontrollable smile came to Liara as she watched the broad-shouldered man duck his head down as he continued to heartily embrace the two women. Sagan stepped up to the asari's side, also watching the scene.
"His family?" Liara asked the geth, recognizing the two quarians.
"Yes," Sagan said. "Nyareth and Taylor. His wife and daughter."
In the middle of the chaotic throng of engineers, Sam was continuing to hold his other half—an elegantly donned woman with a visor of deep crimson, a glimmering datapad strapped to her left wrist, and shoulder pads painted with winged icons—while his daughter, Taylor, gleefully clung onto her father from behind. His burly arms encircling his wife easily, Sam peered out from behind the corner of Nya's sehni. Liara could see that his eyes were shining. With an embarrassed grin, the man buried his head in Nya's neck gratefully, hiding his face from view. At this distance, Liara could hear Sam breathily ask his family, "What are you doing here?!"
Liara took a step back, her hand on Sagan's shoulder. "We should go," she told the geth, giving a slight nod in Sam's direction.
"Yes," the geth agreed as he now followed the asari's lead, leaving Sam and his family in peace. "We should."
Rema
Hangar 3—Level 1
The cranes groaned as they shifted along the magnetic rails that hung from the ceiling. Clutched in between thick metallic clamps was a bipedal chassis about eight meters tall. The build was skeletal, with rounded armor plating around the joints, gleaming with pristine paint. The guided rail moved the mech from where it had been retrieved from its container in a crawling fashion—the thing weighed near twenty tons, so patience had to be exhibited with its handling.
It was not the first mech of its type that Roahn had seen before, but it was certainly the most streamlined one. The mech itself looked like it had been optimized for agility, as it lacked the sort of bulky plating that enabled slower-moving platforms to take a couple of hits, not to mention that several jets mounted upon its back were oriented parallel to the ground to enact short bursts of intense speed. These were rapid-strike units, meant for guerilla assaults. The remaining four sealed crates that were being rolled out from the cargo hauler were a clear indication that more of its kind had yet to be unboxed.
As the crane set the mobile prototype down upon the ground with a loud clang, Roahn was already walking around, inspecting the rigid design. The legs of the mech were digitigrade, with blocky magnetic feet. The hands were delicately fingered as opposed to the brutal claws of the comparable Atlas or Phantor. The waist area had very little armoring, the hydraulic pillars exposed. The head area featured a cylindrical camera housing, offering a 360-degree field of view for the pilot encased within. There was no glass canopy—it was just a hinge swinging a metal plate, whereupon 42 external cameras would virtually mount a digital environment to the pilot's HUD.
A frame of weaponry had also been furled out from the mech's original packaging. Upon it hung a massive arc pulsar cannon. With the ability to chain plasma arcs to multiple enemies, the pulsar was one of the most experimental kinds of ordinance offered in any military. A mech operator had the choice of semi-auto fire or to charge it to deliver burst bolts in a shotgun-like spread.
Already a trio of mechanics were hustling over to the newly deposited mech, looking to begin control diagnostics right away. The supervisor in charge of the unloading was standing a couple of meters away, typing a few notes into his datapad. He was a well-built human who wore the marks of age gracefully. A few gray strands of hair dusted his temples, but otherwise his military-regulation style was impervious in its presentation. He lifted his head and provided Roahn with a smile as she made her way over to him. She returned the grin, as the supervisor was a familiar face.
"The team who prototyped these models used to work for CarthRain at their Callisto shipyards," Kaidan Alenko was explaining to Roahn, who had just recently managed to tear herself away from her young fan-club before she made her way to the hangar to answer the Alliance commander's hail. "That is, before the Alliance announced its plans to nationalize the company. The entire engineering team defected after the Citadel attack and brought the blueprints to these mechs with them. They thought they would need bargaining chips, just in case."
Roahn looked at the towering mech that was sitting underneath the eternal stare of the halogen lighting, as though as if it were an inactive golem waiting for the right time to awake and wreak havoc.
"When will they be ready?" she asked.
"Takes six hours for diagnostics to complete. Assuming no errors, we'll have them all prepped in eight."
"They tested and certified?"
Kaidan laughed as he stowed the datapad atop a nearby tool cart. He then gestured to the mech as several coaxials were now being inserted into the circular ports like it was a gigantic fetal creature. "The tech's universal. The model is proprietary—a Generation 2 build. CarthRain supposedly signed off on two test models, but the engineers couldn't bring the test data with them to refine their prototypes any further. Apparently, there wasn't enough time."
Roahn blinked. "If it's Gen 2, then why the uncertainty?"
"Marketing gimmick. There was no Gen 1."
"You've got to be kidding me."
The man chuckled at Roahn's disbelief. "Welcome to the corporate world. But if you want to discuss naming conventions, then you'll get a kick out of this, too. The folks at CR called these things Versatile Personnel Reactionary units. ViPRs, for short."
"Great. The acronym's awful."
"I agree. It sucks. But the creativity of engineers never seems to extend into skills more literary in nature. Anyway, want to see the specs?"
The specs Kaidan had mentioned were in the form of a simple plaintext file that he sent over to Roahn's omni-tool. On her own screen, she had the ability of seeing the capabilities of the ViPRs for herself. As expected, the armoring was several points lower than a bog-standard Atlas, but the ViPR had the ability to perform sprints thanks to upgraded leg motors and dedicated fuel cell partitions that fed the advanced maneuvering systems. In addition, the rearward jets could provide quick dash bursts that allowed the ViPR to shunt twenty meters in less than two seconds. Rockets positioned at its shoulders could also carry it aloft for a height of eighty meters, depending on the weight load and fuel capabilities. It was no burly brawler, that was for certain, but a nimble scalpel that could perform wonders depending on the right pilot.
More dockers were racing over to help unload the rest of the ViPRs while Roahn and Kaidan were walking away, trying not to trip over the fueling lines that had been strewn across the ground like rigid vines.
"Who are the pilots?" Roahn asked.
"I'll be taking one," Kaidan said. "We're extending invites to four other candidates, but—"
He stopped and raised an eyebrow.
"You asking because you want one of the keygens?
Her eyes suddenly hard, the quarian stood in place, immobile. As if she could will the answer into the man's head.
Kaidan's mouth became a thin, firm line. He knew what she was asking for, far beyond a seemingly simple request. It was something he knew he could not refuse her, for his own opinion was mere bramble amongst the shadow of an onrushing wildfire. She was essentially asking to be part of the front line—the most dangerous part of the battle. And he was technically the lone obstacle that stood in the way of such danger. For a moment, he considered denying her request, just out of the idle thought that he could steer her onto a safer path. But logic soon trampled over his theory—she would just find another way to embroil herself in the skirmish with or without his help.
Roahn insistently held her hand out, palm shining amidst the surging steel lamps. Kaidan exhaled, a withering sigh, and tapped two haptic keys on his tool. A light on Roahn's wrist flashed once, indicating the receipt of the code.
Switching off his tool, Kaidan looked back in the direction of the assembled mechs. "Suppose there's no point in me asking, but do you have the certifications for walker combat?"
"I did all my hours for the SVVS-series back when I was in the Defenders."
"Ah, an older CR model. Well, the control schemes are the same. Maneuvering, shielding, weapons, none of the positions have changed."
"Which is something that I've been telling the boys at Nashan Stellar to adhere to every time they conceptualize a new design!" another voice, more nasal, joined them. "Each release, the engineers feel they need to reinvent the wheel for every single aspect, right down to the firmware. No consistency to ergonomics or basic UI design. It's all switched up every single time. I keep giving them shit for it, but they never listen to me. Gah, wish more firms actually preached the whole, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it," mantra.'"
The new arrival, another human male, hobbled into the bay, their center of gravity skewed from the titanium exo-legs that had been fastened around their waist and strapped all the way down to their thighs. Their beard was a complete ashen gray color, as was their unkempt hair, which spilled out from under the lip of the simple cap they wore. He had a lopsided grin on their face as he walked up to Roahn and Kaidan, wearing no pain on his face despite the lumbering additions to his frame.
Kaidan raised an eyebrow again but maintained a jovial disposition. "Joker," he greeted. "Our latest private sector defector."
The former pilot chuckled and sheepishly glanced away for but a moment. "Starship design and testing has its perks, but it takes a lot more than the promise of a lucrative 401k to hold me back from something like this." He then turned, the gyros in his walker mech whirring serenely, and tipped his cap to Roahn respectively. "Commander," he said, nothing but deference in his tone.
Roahn immediately held out her hand for the man to shake. Joker paused for a second, noticing the quarian's determined stance. He had seen such confidence before, he remembered. Her father had done damn near the same thing, right before the battle of Earth. Joker had saluted the man before he dropped off the Spectre on the battle-scarred world for the last time in the pilot's career. Shepard had refused to return the salute, instead opting for a handshake. That had been the first time Shepard had ever done such a thing to him before. And now Roahn was doing the same thing right off the bat. The resemblance was uncanny to the man.
Snapping back to his old personality, he took Roahn's offered hand. Roahn made sure not to squeeze too hard. Vrolik's Syndrome merely worsened one's body over time and Joker's bones had never been more brittle at this point. The quarian eyed the exo-walker again, a forlorn knot taking root in her throat.
"How are you feeling, Joker?"
The man appraised the ceiling, a bit caught off guard again from the compassion. "Meds get me through the worst of the flare-ups. Can't really walk without this stupid thing, either." He patted the side of the walker for emphasis, emitting a dull thunk. "But I'm doing well. Happy to be here."
"You're joining the fight?"
"Someone gave a call," Joker swung his head in Kaidan's direction, who gave a mocking look of bewilderment. "Turns out it was an offer I couldn't refuse."
Roahn grinned, but the feeling quickly cooled. "I… don't wish to sound insincere, but in your condition, is flying even an option?"
Joker took the question good-naturedly as he adjusted his cap. "Being at the actual helm of a ship is something I haven't been able to do for quite a while now."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Joker shrugged. "They have remote pilot avatars now that link to the controls of certain ship models. All that's needed is an unbroken QED connection, a virtual helm, and I can take control of something up there," he pointed up towards the ceiling, "while remaining on the ground here."
Huh. Drone warfare. Roahn honestly had not even considered such a thing, but it made sense. Scores of pilots these days were being replaced by virtual intelligences in their crafts, a trend which had started to make a major shift when the PMCs had been starting to come on the scene. After all, with there being no pilot whose life was on the line, fighting forces could be emboldened to embark upon more tactical strikes. And in the process, enable pilots who still had the mind and reflexes to accomplish such aerial feats, even if their bodies were failing them.
"Not wanting to be left behind, I take it?" Roahn said, all pretenses of concern now forgotten.
The pilot gave a derisive snort.
"You kidding? I'd give everything in the world just to be here."
Roahn held up a hand. Affectionate.
"And I appreciate that you're here. You were there with my father when all of this started. I… I never thanked you for sticking by his side the whole time."
The pilot dipped his head, momentarily looking morose, uncharacteristic. "Not the whole time," he softly murmured.
"You had your reasons. No one is blaming you for choosing to live a peaceful life. I'm certainly not."
"It's not all it's cracked up to be, trust me."
Now Roahn laughed. "I'll take your word for it. But, you're here now. For me, that's enough."
The man straightened, the exo-legs creaking to support the sudden uncoiling of Joker's usually-curved back. He snapped to attention and produced a quick salute, albeit with a sly wink.
"Aye-aye, commander. Anywhere you want me?"
Rema
Control Tower – Observation Deck
The view from the control tower offered an unobstructed panorama of the basin that was unsurpassed only by the mountain that towered just behind it. Standing several hundred meters off the ground, the tower was mostly free standing, with the exception of three skybridges that linked the spire to the near-vertical cliff wall less than a city block away. From this height, the occupants could easily see the paper creases of the distant mountains on the other side, where wild spurts of wind blew pale vapors of dry snow into sleeting clouds. Upon the plain that separated the two ranges, not an animal larger than a microbe could make a living in that infernal hellscape.
The observation deck was a ringed platform that was suspended over the main operations level. Within the circular war room below, a multitude of techs buzzed back and forth, relaying readiness reports, directing landing locations to incoming ships, and conversing with nearby politicians to keep them updated on the current strength of all forward and defensive positions, one of which was Cirae.
James and Jack stood at the curved window, watching the country down below. One level down, Grunt also occupied his own vantage point, pacing back and forth in excitement, murmuring to himself that his revenge on his traitorous overlord was nigh. From this height, they tracked the slowing descent of landing craft, silently bearing witness to the chalky clouds of dust that erupted underneath their flat bellies, the fire from their thrusters roasting the ground below as they touched down. The setting sun turned the evening red, reflecting the color of blood off the tanks and the armor of the men and women who filed down the landing ramps, not a one of them donning armor that was pristine, for they had all seen combat in some shape or form on a far-away world or aboard a drifting vessel. Even at this distance, James could imagine seeing the soldiers down there standing around in their dented and scratched armor, whatever paint markings that had been applied upon the coverings now reduced to a ragged veneer.
They continued to watch as more and more material and troops joined the ranks near the perimeter wall. The construction crews had finished digging out the labyrinth of trenches that would compose the most forward positions. Trapezoidal mounds of dirt ridged the sides of the battlefield, creating an hourglass shape whereupon the thinnest point was where two rocky promontories of the mountain range jutted outward, ensuring that the enemy would be forced into a bottleneck, should they make it that close to New Sura. Forests of barbed wire spirals—a rudimentary measure of slowing invading troops down—mirrored a deranged pattern, glinting wickedly in the wake of the dying light as the day turned still and cold.
Before long, the hierarchies of soldiers had been positioned in their mixed divisions. Battleworn and scared, James figured that many of them still bore the scars of the long war before this one. Now they were about to be thrust into the most fearsome battle since that point. He wondered if they felt disappointed in their situation, to think that they might have just seen the end of warfare as they knew it, only to be thrust into yet one more conflict that matched the violence of the past. With what had come to pass, James wondered if any of them could still find that optimistic fixity that had spurred the veterans those three decades ago. In his heart, he knew he would understand if they could never match that ferocity. He could not ask of everything from a man any more than he could order a star to instantaneously burn out.
James was now appraising the tac-map on his omni-tool. He gazed at the blocks of blue icons—if he zoomed in to any particular platoon, he could pull the dog tag information from every single trooper that had an active transponder. He could even pull up the health statistics for not just the men, but for the tanks and gunships, and weapon emplacements that had been bolted all over the wide valley. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly.
"I can't look at stats anymore," he said, mainly to himself, as he deactivated his tool. "It's going to drive me crazy. It's like looking at a stupidly complex video game."
"Then stop looking at them," Jack said.
James shot her a look. Real helpful. "And to think," he changed the subject as he stared back at the assemblage of troops upon the plain, their massive army, "all of this began with shadowy business transactions. Payouts and bribes to fast-track political footholds. And for the longest time, they hid their tracks well."
Jack's mouth scrunched to the side as she momentarily looked upward in thought. "Well… not exactly," she offered. "If we could find the evidence, then anyone could, really. We were just the ones who were looking in the right place. Of all the dumb fucking luck, right?"
"Right. Just a couple of poor schmucks in the wrong place at the wrong time."
He turned to pace around the upper deck, but Jack quickly caught up with him.
"For what it's worth," she said, "I don't regret a thing."
James smiled. "Neither do I. We've seen some terrible things, you, me, and everyone in the crew. But I can say that, for the past few months, my conscience has never been clearer. What is there to be regretful for?"
"Not us, I'll tell you that."
The marine threw an arm over Jack's shoulders, holding the biotic close as they lapped around the room together. "No. Certainly not us."
The two of them made three circuits of the room, locked together in their slow gait. They alternated between looking out the windows to see the army below grow greater in size and the comm center down below, where they could observe Grunt pounding his fists together in anticipation while Cirae was embedded in the middle of a holographic halo of vid-calls, directing troop traffic to several different controllers at once.
James looked down at the woman he was holding and gave a longing sigh. Jack looked up at the sound and he gazed serenely back down at her.
"A last stand surrounded by the people I care for most," he whispered. "Never thought I'd be in the same position a second time."
The marine chuckled as he brought Jack closer to him as they walked.
"You know, Huston told me once that I had to try to see the big picture. I wonder if he's ever going to see how wrong he was. This—you, me, us being here. This feels right."
Vakarian
Captain's Cabin
Roahn was exhausted by the time she made it back to the ship, a fatigue brought on from the near-constant talking in addition to the skewed orbit she had made around the city during the evening. It was now night on Rema and the tender spalls of burning matter in the upper atmosphere and the gas flares from the refinery in the distance had helped light her way back to the hangar, which was where the Vakarian had been undergoing a final technical check before it was due to join the fleet in a few hours.
She had begun the process of unsealing herself from her suit and armor even before she had left the elevator. Her helmet was already in pieces by the time she entered her cabin—she set the disassembled covering upon the desk. Roahn then crossed the room, unclasping her sehni as she went, as she approached the bed. She was halfway done with unbuckling the collar that looped around her neck when she heard a soft snoring sound. She slowly turned. Korridon was lying on the couch, feet propped up on the steel coffee table, arms crossed over his chest as he loudly dozed. His head was lolled to the side, eyes peacefully shut. Roahn smiled as she ran a hand through her newly freed hair. The man looked so at ease, so blissfully ignorant of the approaching mayhem. She wanted to leave him in his fantasies for a moment. Perhaps that was the least he deserved.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, Roahn headed back up the small staircase and treaded into the bathroom. Once inside, she sealed the door and quickly slipped off her suit, leaving it lying in a crumpled heap upon the floor. The room was soundproof, so she did not have to worry about waking Korridon from any noise she was making. She walked into the shower and flipped the switch—a white cone of piping spray descended upon her in an instant, drenching the quarian from head to toe. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound of relief, but she did have to hold onto the handrails as the muscles in her calves began to fail her, the stainless steel turning slippery as the entire room started to become choked with piping hot steam. Her pores seemed to swallow up the water, her entire body unclenched, and about a lifetime's worth of pain and regret began to seep off her like a film only to circle the drain below her feet.
When she had finished, Roahn left her suit where she had discarded it. If these were to be her final moments as well, she would want to have ensured that she spent her downtime to the fullest.
The quarian opened a few nearby cabinets and withdrew a simple robe. The fabric of the clothing was flimsy and it was quite obviously tailored for a human a couple of sizes too large for her. To hell with it, she figured. It was better than having to slip into her suit again. Besides, throwing the robe on was a stupidly simple affair compared to all the checks she did out of necessity when prepping her enviro-suit, though she felt she looked rather ridiculous with how the article loosely flapped from her thin body. It was also sort of bizarre to see her mechanical fingers poking out from the left sleeve, a rather macabre dichotomy between a life more pastoral and the cutting edge of modernity.
Roahn treaded barefoot out of the bathroom, steam billowing out in white clouds after her. Korridon was now sitting up at the coffee table, occupying himself by flipping through a few extranet pages on his datapad. He looked up as he saw her approaching, his head giving a slight tilt as he noticed her strange wardrobe, but his eyes melted into a familiar warmth that Roahn had been hoping to lose herself in.
"Did I wake you?" Roahn asked as she came over by the bed. "I'm sorry."
"No, I wasn't out long anyway," Korridon said as he shoved the datapad away, intent on focusing wholly upon the quarian. "Got in half an hour. More than I figured."
"Good."
Roahn then sat upon the bed, her toes flexing in mid-air for a moment before she planted her feet flat on the ground. She then sat forward, hands entwined, looking world-weary upon the turian. Volumes of expectant emotions ranged upon his face. All fighting to forego the inevitable that would doom them both.
"I—" she was about to say, but was cut off by Korridon.
"I was thinking—" the turian started to say right before he stopped himself. "Ah, sorry. You go."
"No, you go first. Please."
His eyelids narrowed just a tad, but he soon recovered. "There were… things that I was thinking about all during my walk back here. During my final engineering checks of this ship, too. Thinking about what you said, actually."
"What we talked about tonight?"
"No." Korridon then got to his feet and walked in front of Roahn. "A while back, you told me that once all this was over, you hoped that we would be together."
Something throbbed in Roahn's chest. She had to look away. "Korr…" she whispered, but it was a breathy rasp, not a helpless plea.
"Did you mean it?"
Slowly, Roahn raised her head. Finding nothing but curiosity reflected from the man who was standing right in front of her. A well of pressure to the right of her heart fluttered, making something in her chest ache. There was a simplicity to Korridon's question, yet it felt to Roahn that she had just been skewered. A vulnerability like she had never known before enveloped her, and it was not because she was not wearing her suit. These conversations were never easy, where she had to bare herself before another person. Lies spewing forth instead of the truth were not the issue. The truth she could speak.
It was just that the words themselves felt thick in her mouth, like speaking a foreign language, having to burst past an invisible barrier that she had erected for herself for nearly her entire life. But those walls had been built with a time limit in mind, for an opportunity when the perimeter needed to be destroyed in order to let what it had been holding escape. It was time.
Boneless, she gave a singular nod. A deep bob of her head.
"It was the easiest thing I've ever said."
Korridon tipped his head back, eyes closed, and emitted a deep sigh. As if the long light from the overhead fixtures could bask his face with their sterile warmth.
"I think it was easier for me," he whispered to the ceiling, voice low and thrumming.
Roahn's bottom lip quivered and her rightmost fingers began to shake with a nervous energy. Her eyes moistened for a fraction of a second before she blinked the tears away. She would not cry. Not in front of this man. The time for sorrow had not yet come to pass—that was a respite she had not yet earned. That was still was all locked back, a caged animal bashing its head against the bars until its skin broke and its face turned red with its own blood. What good would bawling her eyes out do anyone now?
In contrast, when Korridon finally opened his eyes, they were swimming with moisture that he tried unsuccessfully to surreptitiously dab away with his sleeve.
"I can't say goodbye to you," he croaked. "Not tonight."
"I won't say goodbye," Roahn promised as she defiantly shook her head, her fingers now anxiously clenching the edge of the bedsheets.
"But you can," he emphasized. "I can't."
"It's the same thing."
"No. No, it isn't. Do you even understand that you're the most amazing person I've ever met and there are things I still can't comprehend about you? I mean… you know how this is going to end. You've accepted every outcome, the good and the bad. You're the one with the torch in the cave and you've got my hand, leading me every clumsy step of the way. But you're the one with the light. I'm fumbling in the dark behind you. I've got my hand clenched around yours so tight I'm afraid my bones will shatter. Because I'm afraid of losing you, Roahn, and that I don't know what will happen to me if I let go."
His voice caught and he took a needed breath. Roahn simply sat on the bed, rapt with attention, just watching him.
"When you came back from Rotev and told me you wanted to stay with me, I couldn't describe how I felt in that moment. It was an antidote, in a way. A cure for the pain from just losing Garrus. But it was the first time in… what was… months, maybe… that I truly felt… happy. Happy that there was someone waiting for me at the end of the cave—no, someone that would guide me out. Whatever that feeling was, I knew I never wanted to forget it. I wanted more chances with you. For us to finally be whole. That's why I can't say goodbye, Roahn. Because if I do, then it'll just feel like I'm letting go of you."
Roahn's heart felt like it was shedding ragged sparks, barely delivering warmth beyond the cold borders of a fire. There was the stark realization that this man was clearly not the same person who had timidly scuffled onto the decks of the Menhir all those months ago. She could say the same of herself, come to think of it. Neophytes to the ways of the galaxy and of their own souls, having not yet braved the horrors for which their minds could not hope to conjure. The turian in disgrace. The quarian with a chip on her shoulder. Both smarting from wounds that extended far below the surface. Both having been dropped in that pit, left to ascend on their own devices.
Both having left that pit, having found the other on the way.
No longer hesitating, Roahn stood from the bed, the robe parted perfectly down the middle of her body, exposing a sleek line of gray skin and a tangle of shadows nested among tragic curves. Korridon did not look away—he merely kept his eyes peeled directly into Roahn's green ones. Roahn took a breath, the thudding of her heart diminishing to a confident pulsation. Slowly, she reached up and slipped the robe off her shoulders. The garment draped off her arms for one phantasmic spell, before it dropped away from her fingers and crumpled around her feet.
The two of them both inhaled at the same time, the sound like ice skipping across frozen ground.
Korridon didn't need to look. He didn't need to avert his gaze to examine Roahn's body, because he knew every arc, every muscle, all of the ambits of her bones, the innumerable scars that ambled upon her, and the tender hollow in the middle of her belly. There was nothing that could be revealed to him. But in the presence of the bared woman, he could only see the persona of the warrior set aside, allowing her true vulnerability to be glimpsed. For her to unfurl the armor that coated her heart, allowing him to touch it.
Watching as Roahn's bottom lip trembled as she took in another breath, Korridon lifted his hands and cupped the quarian's chin. His roughened palms probably felt like sandpaper against her skin, but she unleashed what she had been holding in her lungs with a longing sigh, her digits twitching like she had been jolted with an electric bolt.
His thumbs gently wisped across the gray quarian's cheeks. He studied her large eyes, the ambiguous markings that dripped from her lips and ran across her cheekbones. The atramentous streaks that curled from her eyebrows only to disappear into her forest of black hair. He held her, looking down into her needful expression, his own ribs aching from the building pressure that was burgeoning just behind the osseous boundary.
"I won't let go, Roahn," he whispered to her.
"I know," she said, her molten eyes slowly blinking. "I'll hold on. As tight as I can."
"When have you done anything less?" the turian flashed a smile before his gaze turned serious. "I love you, Roahn."
"I love you, Korr."
They could have told each other that tomorrow would change nothing. That they would defy the fate that had been arranged for them and that they would emerge from the ashes, alive and flushed with their triumph. That they would spend the rest of their lives watching the sun disappear past the infinite oceans of Rannoch, with perhaps the sounds of little ones at play drifting with the songs of the winds.
They said none of those things, for they knew they had no right to say them. Instead, Roahn came up to Korridon, wrapped his arms against his limber frame, and lifted herself up on her tip-toes so that she could rise up to kiss him.
The turian immediately lost himself in the embrace. His arms swooped around and made like they were traveling up the ridges of Roahn's bare back. He opened his mouth and let her tongue meet with his, both of them making soft groans of pleasure as they swayed on the spot as one, their breathing comingling, their heartbeats producing an erratic symphony as they warred where their chests were touching.
They stood in place for a full minute, drunk with this feeling in their blood. It was if they had been swept up with fires in crowded streets, thrown about with the intoxication of drink, of the proximity of creatures who had shed their ethnologic origins. This apocryphal eddy streamed around them, whispering of lurid scenes of charred bones and cloven skulls, leaving only the two of them in the darkly foaming waters. For all that mattered was each other. This feeling of a lover beside them. Their scent. Their taste.
Before long, Roahn's fingers groped for the clasps that bound Korridon's clothes to his body. He made no move of resistance as she peeled away the rigid layers, exposing more and more of his chitinous carapace along with the tender and striated gray lengths of muscle beneath the outer layer. Soon, he was standing as naked as she was, fully at the quarian's whim as she led him over to the bed. Backing up, his calves bumped against the edge of the bunk. He fumbled a look behind him to check where he was going. Still smiling, Roahn lifted a hand and gently pushed down on the turian's shoulder until he was sitting at the bed's edge, but now she was the one standing over him. Giving him no more time to ponder, the quarian stepped forward, swung a leg over Korridon's lap, and gently lowered herself until she was sitting atop him, all parties fully imbibed in the joys of what was shallow and carnal, and what was fathomless and intimate.
Smoked light gave way to immense joy and agony. In their own private world, Roahn and Korridon laughed and screamed and moaned and wept. They held each other close, succumbed to an ancient rhythm, their mouths finding each other's when they were not gasping into the crooks of their lover's necks. They felt the arterial throb that pummeled their minds, encircled each other in their prison of flesh. Though tiredness pressed upon them, terminal need fueled their movements. For tonight was the moment when their phantoms could finally be purged, at least for a little while. For all of the scars and the torment to count for something, even if the debt was only marginally dealt with.
The two of them found solace in the other, not one of them speaking a single word. All they needed to say was reflected in their eyes, embedded in every twitch and throb of their bodies. All open to read like a book.
Moments later, Korridon would gently grip Roahn around her waist and back, and turn his body around so that she was softly flipped upon her back onto the bed. Thick bedsheets rippled from her body as she was lowered onto the mattress. With a low cry, she reached up to touch Korridon's face. He was quickly there for her as he lowered himself down to be a part of that cherished closeness, his mouth closing around hers with a grateful groan, their hips meeting in fateful and craved thrusts, destined to bring meaning to the long and dark night and all the nights that had come before.
And when the cracks of dawn finally did arrive, when the two would wake to find themselves still entwined with one another, they would whisper their loving greetings and trade careful touches upon their faces. Roahn's three cold fingers would produce shivers from Korridon as they trailed down his mandible, but not once did he take his eyes off her.
Unable to resist performing what they perceived as the last maudlin gestures of their lives, the couple spoke of their love again, punctuating it with tender kisses. They would then rise from the bed, gather up their scattered clothes to dress themselves, sealing their bodies behind hex plates of reinforced armor, sharing their survival to the properties of metal, glass, and technology. Having finished with their immediate tasks, they then came together in a lasting embrace, an irregular pillar in the center of the room, before they broke apart and headed towards the elevator door that would spirit them down to the armory.
Hand in hand, they stepped into the lift, staring outward into nothingness as the doors shut upon them, sealing them to their fated destination, where they would meet the burgeoning dawn head-on, and the inevitable hatred that was to greet them.
Normandy
Port Observation Deck
The room was carefully poised in its assemblage, all particularized details accounted for in the presentation of its appearance. The floors were polished to a high sheen. A counter on the right side laid gleaming and threadbare, a series of mirrored shelves behind it looking similarly forlorn. At the left, a simple glass partition barred the entry to a square table with four stout chairs arranged evenly upon each of its sides. No items laid upon any flat surface, which would otherwise mar the carefully crafted guise that Huston had been so careful to employ throughout his tenure as the Normandy's captain. No loose datapads, no wayward holodiscs. Nothing.
Anyone who entered the room today would never truly be able to understand the retrospections captured within these walls. To the casual observer, they would only see an empty deck that lacked even the bare essentials to be considered as an area of relaxation. Who would be able to tell that this room once stocked a full bar, replete with selections of unique libations found from all over the galaxy? Would they also realize that the leftmost area once stocked a custom poker table crafted from original cherrywood from Earth? Huston had ensured that the answer to both was no, as he had ripped out both installations upon helming the fabled ship, perhaps rightfully seeing that having such distractions on board would prove to be more of a nuisance than an asset.
From a doctrinal standpoint, Huston may have been correct, but he was stepping into large shoes that had, until recently, yet to be filled. For the Normandy's previous commander had let such luxuries exist under his command, even partaking in a few of the extracurricular activities himself. Many a shirt had been lost during those nightly poker games and more long conversations that could be counted had embarked upon full view of the large and lonely window that offered a scant glimpse out into the tender void. And even though many of the moments this room had been privy too had been ones filled with laughter and camaraderie, it had also been beholden to the solemn act of solitude and healing. For there would be no way of knowing just how many people had simply sat in front of the window, pondering the mysteries of the universe to themselves, or had occupied a seat at the bar, their hands clasping a drink until they gained the courage to toast individuals who were on the cusp of breaching the boundaries of friendship.
The Haxan stood at the window now, peering soundlessly through the thick window that offered one of the few wide views out into cold blue space. Its hands had been folded behind its back while it peered without focus through the aperture, through the blistering blueshift streaks of FTL, and deep into the multifaceted fenestra that comprised its damaged mind. Alone, it inhabited the deck, the gargantuan presence exuding a frightfulness that provided a barrier of solitude about it. Low growls escaped its ruined throat, unintelligible and soft. It peered out into the stark blackness, its warped imagination finding connotations to give visualization to its terrible thoughts.
It thought of itself in a time nearly forgotten. When it remembered the feeling of warmth. Of opening oneself up to another. It could recall the softness of skin, the taste of passion, the electric surge of desire. But they were sensations that failed to take hold, fleeting whispers that fizzled in frustrated sparks of agonized thought, like the feeling of trying to recall a recently-forgotten fact. They were memories that left nothing but dark bitterness behind, an animus directed at none other than the sealed creature that had damned it to its fate.
For months, the Haxan had tried to reconcile the quarian's decision with itself, but repeatedly found itself frustrated and infuriated at the sole conclusion it continually found itself approaching. The quarian had shown the Haxan no loyalty. Not when it had been flesh, to be precise. What trust was left to devote to such a hideous thing now? To her? Not likely. Only Aleph had been benevolent enough to extend it a hand, to offer a reason to live. Revenge had not been the proffered determinant that Aleph had provided—that, the Haxan had composed on its own free will. Revenge on the quarian that had wronged it, that woman who had conveniently forgotten the better days when they had been together, the woman who once looked upon the Haxan without prejudice and found equality and affinity binding them together.
The amazing part was that the quarian believed she had not been the one to have broken those bonds. Such arrogance! The Haxan was itching to make that alien drown in the sorrow of her realization, to finally pry away that visor and smash her face in, to see her burst eyes, swimming in blood, make the final connection that it had been her, and not the Haxan, that had destroyed everything.
Now that, the Haxan purred, was a soothing thought.
The immense veins of ancient light shortened and warmed in hue, before the globular streaks snapped into a harsh stillness in the blink of an eye. A round dustball of a planet, one frosted with dapper swirls of dry thunderstorms, glowed in catholic elegance, its lower half thrust into a rounded shadow that intensified the grandiosity of the cosmic object.
Across the ecliptic, the Haxan could see other ships dropping out of FTL. Legions and legions of destroyers, cruisers, dreadnoughts, and one Reaper dwarfing them all. A procession of order in their assembled cavalcade, queued up to dispense Aleph's final will upon the last resistant clutch in the galaxy. Yet more ships continued to appear out of faultless space, emerging as a metallic plague concocted in alchemic malevolence. A morass so thick they punctured the light of the sun with their rimmed strength, their guns primed and brimming with godfire, eager to spill the viscera of the enemy fleet that was now roaring to meet them, their hulls bulging like pregnant bellies. Tantalizing targets.
As the first of their ships began to roar the songs of their weapons, the Haxan slowly tracked the pearls of the molten fusillade as space quickly became bisected by the streaks of molten metal. It leaned over to look out the window, at the growing world far below it.
It narrowed its unblinking gaze further and its automated breath escaped it in a seeping rasp.
"I'll be waiting on the field, commander. You won't run. We'll find each other. We always do."
A/N: All right, that's enough of the fluff (not that Cenotaph was particularly fluffy to begin with). This is now Cenotaph's endgame. There will be no going back after this. Rest assured, from this point on, I've effectively guaranteed that Mausoleum will be worked to its completion. Thank you to all my readers and I hope you've been enjoying the ride. We've still got several chapters to go, so a quick end is not in the cards!
Now... let us begin.
Playlist:
A Final Night
"The Last Man"
Clint Mansell
The Fountain (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Haxan Assembled
"Sightings"
Christopher Drake
Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)