Asari are some of the most advanced people in the galaxy – and one of the most primitive. The dichotomy of that statement earns the unwary spokesman perhaps just enough time to say one more sentencebefore he is blasted into a wall by an irate member of the aforementioned species. But that only proves my point.

Shepard was uniquein ways he never knew, initially. His survival of the Beacon had piqued the interest of Prothean specialists across the galaxy. Unfortunately for them, no one was available to interrogate him about his experience; Doctor T'Soni, as he was unconscious. Not that he would have responded well to such treatment. Shepard had many good qualities: patience, cunning and compassion. But he severely disliked manipulation; separating him from his self-appointed mission would have backfired spectacularly. He'd always been a bit – hasty, in some ways.

It should be noted that Tali'Zorah, Garrus Vakarian and Urdnot Wrex joined Shepard against my recommendation. I was wrong, I freely admit … but my logic was sound:How could so many qualified individuals be found in such a short time? Think tanks have spent decades seeking the best qualified minds, and organizations can take between weeks and years to fill out their roster. Shepard managed the feat in less than ten hours.

~Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer

Project Ragnorak Files

Shepard counted to ten, waited for another set, then reversed the count back to zero. He began a breathing exercise, inhaling for a count of four, holding it, and then following through with an extended exhalation for a count of six. That helped, reducing the irritation he was feeling to tolerable levels.

To his left, Lieutenant Alenko stood at attention, not quite parade rest, but close enough to appear professionally relaxed. On his right, Chief Williams made no disguise of her frustration, her feet planted as if to withstand a charging krogan.

Shepard's eyes narrowed. It's been fifteen minutes now, ten minutes too many. How long has Vakarian spent with that Executor of his? He checked his omni-tool, Over half an hour since we left the ship, fifteen since we got here. Call it forty-five minutes, give or take. This is a potential hostage is of the essence.

The turian in question appeared, practically dragging another turian with him. Vakarian's mouth was moving, but Shepard couldn't hear what was being said. The body language was more than enough; whoever was with his associate exhibited a definite reluctance, hostility even.

Let me see, what would work best on a turian in this situation … 'orders from above?' No, he has orders of his own. 'I am your superior?' Definitely not, he's not a member of the Alliance. The thought triggered a secondary logic chain. Investigation by a foreign power, with treaties in place. Equal but separate … good enough.

Shepard waited for the two, shifting his posture to one of expectance, something turians were more likely to answer. He raised an eyebrow, adding an imperial edge to the glare as they approached. "Well?"

Vakarian looked up sharply, apparently surprised by his tone; the other stiffened, stretching to his full seven foot height. The motion apparently triggered something, causing Vakarian to straighten himself, looking Shepard straight in the eye. A touch of formality entered his voice. "Sir, this is Executor Venari Pallin, Operations Chief of Citadel Security." He turned to Pallin, "Sir, this is Commander Karl Shepard, Level Seven IST Operative, Executive Officer of the Normandy, and lead Alliance Investigator in the Spectre incident."

Let the games begin. Shepard adjusted his posture, as one welcoming an equal to a well-needed rest. He's good, so be better. Don't mess this up Shepard.

"Executor, thank you for seeing me on such short notice," he held out an arm in the traditional turian combatant grip, seizing the older turians arm in a tight grasp. "Detective Vakarian told me about the situation. We'll need C-Sec if we're going to pull this off right."

Pallin's eye ridge rose, flickering between Vakarian and Shepard. "Commander, Vakarian here was just feeding me some – "

"Understood," Shepard interrupted briskly. "I'm afraid he underestimated the situation; it's gotten worse and we do not have much time. How many officers do you have available for a hostage situation?"

The Executor was forced to turn, eye ridges falling to a threat posture, crest mantling. "Hostage? What's going on, Vakarian told me it was an investigation, with a chance of combat."

He's smart, cuts right to the important things. Shepard found himself forced to admit. But he's an officer; when something runs, he has to chase. Standard engrained behavior, even if he's more intelligent than the average donut-scarfer.

Twisting as he walked, Shepard gave Pallin his most serious expression. "It got worse. In Alliance circles, Fist is suspected to be collaborating with several underworld bosses, and it's a given he's not very friendly with the law. Now, Fist has recently received information on an engineer that was on Eden Prime … and immediately cut ties with former employers afterward. That tells me he's up to something, either about to move out or make a power play."

Pallin growled, the dual tones in his throat vibrating ominously. "Fist has been a thorn in my side ever since he arrived. If your authority can be proven, I'll help any way I can." He growled again, deeper, making an innate fear crawl down Shepard's spine. He noticed Kaiden shudder, while Williams stiffened. Don't forget; turians are predators, very capable ones.

Without pause, he nodded at the detective drifting to his back right, "There is not much time. An armed member of the Migrant Fleet has been captured, and is being held in the location known as Chora's Den."

Shepard stopped, using his wider profile to make an impression, leaning closer to the taller man, "My credentials are on file with C-Sec, we've done some work in the past. Right now, we have to move. Like you said, he has been almost untouchable, suspiciously so, wouldn't you say? This is the best opportunity we've had in a long time."

"Done. Make your preparations Commander. I'll make the call. Anything else I should know?"

Good. Now for a minor concession. "I was hoping you would be amenable to lending the Detective for the operation. I need someone who knows your people, and he's already familiar to my people."

"Fine, fine. He's on leave right now; what he chooses to do with his off time is his business." Pallin waved a hand, favoring the detective with a turian scowl. "Just, don't bother the Commander with any of your lost causes, understood Vakarian?"

The turian's mandibles fluttered in a grimace. "Yes sir."

The C-Sec Executor moved away, omni-tool glowing the ever-present orange. It had barely flared to life when he started chattering orders. Shepard couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but the words 'Zakera Ward,' 'code blue' and 'diplomatic incident' were mentioned in rapid succession.

Excellent progress, from nothing to cooperating C-Sec officials. Shepard gave his own squad a hand signal, and moved ahead. Good.

"Sir," Williams moved closer, rifle still in compact mode but ready to deploy, "SAIS sent a message, Joker routed it through."

Shepard groaned, audibly. Those pinheads. What do they want now?

"Um, sir?" Williams hesitated at his reaction.

"Continue, Chief. I've just had a lot of interaction with Intelligence." Shepard didn't finish the statement as he wanted. None of whom lived in SAIS.

"Yes, uh, they wanted you to carry something in with you, a device of some sort." Williams picked up the pace, lowering her voice as she got closer. "They've been trying to get someone into the C-Sec action teams for a while."

Shepard gave a quick look over his shoulder; fortunately, most of the C-Sec personnel were well out of range. The turian detective was currently deep in conversation with Alenko, a distraction by design if the Lieutenant's previous actions held true. He took the opportunity to scowl. "If SAIS wants to send in an agent, they can send their own. I'm not stopping them."

The gunnery chief snorted in amusement. "I don't blame you, but you might get in trouble."

"Let them howl." Shepard exited the C-Sec lobby, punching the green switch. "I've done them enough favors to justify a paycheck equal to their best agent. Lord only knows what they'd want me to do if I actually went full time for them."

That small bit of business over, Shepard moved on to the next point. Getting to the actual focus point. The route from C-Sec headquarters to the Chora's Den 'gentleman's club' was as short as before … but different.

The hall looked emptier than he'd remembered from the last visit; no one was travelling the dull metal floors at all this time. Not that he blamed them; the place looked like a dungeon from some twisted man's imagination, what with the dark colors, harsh lighting and multi-story drop-offs. Shiny streaks, remnants from the gun battle that had occurred so recently, still marred the walls.

Shepard checked his sidearm, certifying its position by touch. He had one of the fastest draws in the Alliance, but speed meant nothing if there was nothing to use.

"Have you worked for them?" Williams had her assault rifle out, lowered to a non-threatening position. "Intelligence, I mean. The stories going around don't say much either way."

"Which indicates I work for them?" Shepard commented. "That's the game they play. The story goes that those who work for SAIS are discrete, competent people while the bumbling braggarts with hundreds of supposedly successful missions are merely peripheral allies. Wait …."

A large krogan, wearing red and black armor appeared in Shepard's peripheral vision. He was lumbering with surprising speed in the very direction they were traveling. The number of weapons on his back, as well as the unlimbered shotgun in his hands, was not indicative of an amicable approach.

"Hold onto that thought." Shepard sped up. "Excuse me, sir. You don't want to go this way."

The krogan spared him a look, then took a longer moment. Then he shook his head, and kept going.

Shepard took an extra-long step, getting in front of the krogan. "Sir, you are entering a live-fire area. Please take another route."

The krogan chuffed, glaring at Shepard. "There's 'live fire' wherever a krogan goes, human. Out of my way, I have no quarrel with you."

"I might have one with you, if you're going after the same target I am." Shepard pitched his voice lower, more threatening.

That brought the krogan to a halt. The lights on his shotgun started to glow as the thick digits played over the controls. "Are you challenging me for the hunt, human?"

Shepard stepped back, letting the full weight of his armored form ring against the floor. "Commander Shepard, SSV Normandy. I have a hostage situation, and a full two squads of Alliance Marines lining up shots on Chora's Den. I don't care what you do after I get my hostage, but I want her alive."

The krogan gave him another long, slow look. Then, the shotgun's lights dimmed, and the weapon contracted into its compact form. "Wrex. Mercenary, hired to kill Fist. You try stopping me, and I'll go through you – but if you want to thin out the defenses for me, I can live with that."

"Generous." Shepard glanced at Alenko, then back at the krogan. "You want to ride shotgun? I could always use another capable hand."

A hissed breath somewhere behind his left shoulder hinted someone hadn't liked that idea. The krogan's eyes had flickered in that direction as well. Whatever he'd seen must not have scared him too much, however.

"I'll fight with you, Shepard," Wrex growled out. A tridactyl hand extended, with more muscle on the limb than some human legs.

Shepard was familiar with the gesture, and imitated it, grasping the forearm a few inches above the gauntlet, similar to the greeting he'd shared with Executor Pallin. It was an old krogan custom, usually practiced by the older members or the more formal turians. So far as Shepard knew, it had also become an intergalactic habit among certain mercenaries – although that little tidbit was solely due to a 'vacation' on Omega. A long, tiring, disgusting vacation, with few redeeming qualities.

Shaking the memory, he started for the doors again. One hand tapped his earpiece, "Alpha squad what's your position?"

A deep, hoarse voice came back, making the tiny transceiver shake in his ear. "Lieutenant Sigurd, Alpha squad here; we're inbound, sir, two minutes at full trot. We can be there in fifty seconds if you want."

"Make it so." Shepard glanced at the C-Sec regulars, gathering around the entrance to the main hall. They were loitering; he knew the signs; the half-hearted gesticulations, the meandering steps, no need to rush for an ignorant foreigner. Time to shake them up a little. "Tell Charlie squad to go the next level down, and watch our signal. No telling how far we'll have to go on this."

"Roger wilco. Alpha lead clear."

Within forty seconds, the rumble of pounding feet could be heard. Several of the C-Sec officers started looking around, obviously pinpointing the sound. One asari officer drew a side-arm, off hand poised in the mnemonic Throw gesture. She was evidently a role model for the others; as soon as her pistol cleared leather, there was a miniature storm of whirrings as over twenty C-Sec officers followed suit.

"Those are my people," Shepard spoke up hastily, "Friendlies inbound."

The officer in charge barked something foreign, and the weapons went back down. Most of them, anyway.

Alpha squad came running around the last bend, a formidable sight, even if Shepard wouldn't say it out loud. They were in an unmistakably military formation, jogging in two rows of a half-dozen each.

Most of the humans were as wide as, or wider than their C-Sec counterparts. Even the women had more mass per meter than the turians. The asari members looked svelte in comparison though, especially with armor that conformed to their figures, but the human females exuded a more stalwart presence. Whereas the asari walked with a purposeful strut, the humans nearly stomped by comparison.

Well, that's not one hundred percent true. Shepard thought. Turians often have superior shoulder breadth, but their waist ratio is way off. Like they need a sandwich or two hundred.

While he was reminiscing, Alpha squad reached his position and stood at attention. Shepard returned the salute, carefully watching the C-Sec observers. "Recon; light assault and scouts, I want eyes on a full three sixty. Everyone else, support the lead elements. Clear?"

"Crystal, sir!" The lead soldier saluted again.

Shepard had to take a step back mentally. Blond hair, six foot ten if he's an inch, over a hundred kilos … and he mentioned his name on the com. Stupid Shepard.

"Lieutenant Sigurd, good of you to make it. You and your lads watch me for the kill signal, all right?"

The big man's mustache twitched upwards. "Aye, Commander. You give the order, and we'll make it rain fire for you."

Shepard ignored the mutters, it was the nattering of small minds, and he had work to do. Without making it obvious, he checked his accompanying squad. Kaiden stood on his right, Williams to his left. Wrex and Garrus brought up the rear, shotgun and long rifle at the ready.

He hid a smirk. It sounded like a joke: an Alliance squad, a turian, and a krogan walked into a bar. There had to be a punchline somewhere.

One of the C-Sec guards froze, touching the side of his helmet. Shepard noted more hands going up and automatically sent a subvocal request for a wide-band scan. By the time it was performed, though, the officer was turning towards him.

"Sir, the main doors are closed, locked down. Looks like ship armor, too."

"Fist knows we're coming," Garrus observed. "Someone must've talked."

Shepard swallowed back an annoyed statement; the Citadel locals had probably been vying for better payment since Attila the Hun. What was a more valuable commodity than information? Speeding up, he rounded the final corner, checking for himself.

The doors loomed at the end of the hall like he'd remembered, still resplendent in their garish lighting. This time however, the brushed metal walls had an ominous tint to them, like a faint oily liquid had been applied sometime recently. It felt vaguely like a childish attempt at a haunted house, but rapidly becoming more intimidating by the moment. The doors looked different as well; more artificial than the last time he'd visited. Recent additions, most likely. A man with connections would have no trouble acquiring improvements at short notice.

"Charlie squad; Jensen, you there?" Shepard kept his voice down.

"Aye Commander, Lieutenant Jensen here. We're in position. Orders?" The return was crisp, a welcome respite from the static-filled transmissions so often heard in the field.

"Keep an eye out. Things are looking a bit heavier than normal. Watch your corners, and make sure everyone gets back to the ship today." It was a needless instruction, but needed to be said.

"Roger wilco, Commander. Charlie squad out."

Shepard glared at the doors, feeling the anger building up again. Inside those bits of metal lay a realm he'd hated ever since – a time he preferred to not remember. It was possible there were stripper joints where the workers were paid good wages, protected from assault, and allowed to go home at a reasonable time … but he hadn't encountered any. To be fair, he hadn't gone as a customer, just business. That might have been a skewed viewpoint; but even if not, the business would still rankle him.

Most were fronts for other operations. Any business that dealt in carnal human entertainment was suspect in his opinion, but the cruder solicitations were just the most blatant indicators. What he'd seen in the Den was a place that sanitized only when inspectors were near-by, not because someone actually wanted it clean. The laughing customers hadn't been genuinely amused, just desperate to get their minds off of something … and the bartenders weren't any better.

He cudgeled his memory, trying to retrieve every bit of data seen while chasing Harkin. The grimy tables were obvious, as were the somewhat disheveled servers. Their body language had been more of tiredness than fear, which was good in this case. But, there was something about how the room was built; a large circle. It had been repurposed from some unknown original function, much like everything else on the Citadel. Many recesses, hidden openings.

That … and a memory floated up from the depths of his mind. Darkened corners, faint movements hidden by shadows. Like people sneaking a quick smoke, but the eyes reflected hadn't been tinted that way. Server uniforms were worn, but the stench of terror covered their eyes.

Mentally, he snapped his fingers. You missed it, you freaking walked through the entire place and you missed it! Loud noises, people going in and out, it's the perfect front. Shepard tried thinking back, the statistics he'd memorized for one of his journeys through Council space. Standard colonies had a yearly runaway average in the low dozens; larger worlds increased that to the low hundreds. Homeworlds had thousands every day; but space stations the size of the Citadel were a different. The number of missing persons from this level is incredibly high. All the servers and bouncers at the Den, such a high turnover rate … how many came through there? Fist had more than a side business in trafficking.

Opening his eyes, he focused on the heavy gauge doors, willing them into submission. Too many witnesses, or I'd see what a full-power Warp could do. Maybe one of those asari …? No. Alternate methods, just as fast. This is an Alliance operation. We have to take the initiative. His eyes closed again. How could I have been so blind?

He knew why, though. The uncomfortable sensation of just being in the stripper joint, watching all that potential being wasted, witnessing burgeoning talent being encouraged to die shaking on a table … yet he was forced to do nothing. He had allowed emotion to override logic. It was an easy trap, inverse to the obvious temptation. One beckoned to forget the world in favor of hedonistic pleasure; the other lured you into callousness, locking everything out. Stupid, stupid Shepard!

"Right." He glared at the door. "Heavies, get a door-knocker ready. We're looking a probable count of over a dozen hostiles, krogan human mix. No asari, few turian." The Den's floorplan appeared in his mind, probabilities flickering. "Vakarian, watch for shooters on the center high rise." He swept the rest of his squad with his eyes. "Ready?"

One of the squad members raised a hand. "Can we try hacking the lock?"

The soldier received a hasty jab in the ribs, but Shepard nodded appreciation. "Good question. Fist knows we're coming, and locked the place tight. We could try an electronic attack, but it would take time, and possibly give him a head start if he's got a link set up. Any other questions?"

Mute head shaking answered him, letting him savor the anticipation before giving the next order. " Heavies, forward!"

Alpha squad shoved their way to the front, heavy weaponry at hand. Eager eyes looked at him, waiting for the command.

For one small moment, Shepard lowered his control, letting himself feel the thrill, enjoying the emotional high. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, heightening perception, slowing time, or at least speeding the perceptions. Some of the N7 had actual implants stimulating similar reactions on demand, but that was borderline drug addiction. Better to command yourself, then to allow emotion to command you. Cold is better than hot. Every time.

He nodded.

The three heavy marines took a kneeling position, and fired. Two grenades and an anti-armor rocket crossed the twenty-five meters in an eye-blink, rocket landing just ahead of the smaller explosives. The door, unlike most of its kin on the Citadel, was made of a single sheet, reinforced to withstand a rambunctious crowd. It was standard for bad neighborhoods, synonymous with the Old Earth bars and chains.

The barrage dented the main portion of the door which, while sturdy, wasn't designed for military assault. The material caved inwards, twisted inwards by the impact. One of the corners, proving the second-rate nature of the addition, curled inwards, leaving a gap.

Quick as a striking snake, one of the marines shifted targets and placed another grenade through the hole. The other two repeated their earlier action, launching a second attack on the door.

This time, though, just as the telltale hissing click of the rocket triggers sounded, the armored door slid open. It wasn't a gradual shift, opening at incremental intervals, but at a rate making the bent edges scream almost like a hurt living thing. It was unexpected, but completely in keeping with Shepard's mood.

As a side benefit, the projectiles met no resistance, leaving a vapor trail that lead into the dark interior. A moment after that, the walls vibrated under the force of the resulting explosion. A brief, fiery burst flickered and went out.

Shepard was charging, pistol drawn, before the noise faded. "Go – go – go!"

Alenko and Williams, to their credit, moved a half second after he did. He trusted their movements, pushing himself hard, harder into the opening. It was an old assault rule: hit hard and fast before anyone could react. The inverse was equally true: wait for the mindless charge and shred whatever came through before it could react.

As he entered the smoking depths of Chora's Den, he noted that the place was already filled with the shrill cries of men in pain. An odd stuttering sound emanated from deeper within its sordid depths, like a woodpecker on steroids, hammering on metal with the strength of a demon.

Shepard stopped short. There was a quarian, half-kneeling behind a dead human that had a gap in his armor large enough to fit a fist through. The quarian herself was not an unusual sight. Delta squad, still on the Normandy, was composed mostly of quarian volunteers. What was unusual in this case was that she – definitely a she – had a strange double-barreled device in her hands, and no armor. A quarian without the protective outer layer of her enviro-suit was just one sharp accident from analeptic shock.

To his somewhat less surprised eyes, the room had bodies spread around its interior. Multiple turrets hummed, swiveling in slow circles; expensive things capable of taking on waves of krogan without pausing. The scrape marks on the floor by the base of their frames betrayed haste.

"Kill zone." Shepard pointed at the turrets, "See how they're arranged? Symmetric positions, all around the room. Overlapping fire lanes, probably controlled by a central command node."

The quarian stood up, slowly lowering her shotgun. "That's right. Easy enough to override, if you have the right equipment."

Shepard holstered his side-arm. "Commander Shepard, the Normandy. You are …?"

Her body language relaxed. "Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, and very glad you are here."

Alpha squad entered behind Shepard, slowly. The lack of blatant gunfire seemed to be making them cautious. Sigurd gave the room filled with dead men a careful once over. "Sir? Is everything – ah – all right?"

"Lieutenant, this is our hostage. Former hostage." Shepard raised an eyebrow at her. "You are the quarian engineer, yes? Kidnapped?"

The quarian shivered, the action obvious in her skin-tight suit. "Yes. I managed to grab one of the guard's omni-tools. Fist stole mine, the bosh'tet. Everything I had was on it."

Shepard glanced at her weapon. It was a crude one, amateur construction, practically lashed together with bailing wire and hope. But the ends were blackened with use, and the stock was solid enough.

"Would you happen to have been on Eden Prime a few days ago?" he asked. "I'm looking for information on Saren."

The quarian's head went back. Her species body language was highly expressive, seen in their long necks and constantly moving hands. "Then maybe I can help you. I was there right after the geth attack, and got some data files from a geth unit. Audio files, with a turian voice."

"Ah." Data which was probably on the aforementioned omni-tool. Held by Fist. Servant of Saren.

Shepard glanced at the quarian's state of unreadiness. "Can you handle a pistol?"

"Certainly."

He surprised her by detaching one of the two heavy pistols on his thighs, and tossing it to her. "There. A real weapon. Don't damage it; I'll want it back after we get your things."

The woman gave him a surprised look, then nodded, unlocking the weapon. It looked enormous in her small hands, but she wielded it expertly.

"Right." Shepard turned, partially addressing the others. "Keep up, and watch for tangoes. If this is the entry, there'll be more." He focused on the qurian once more. "Which way did the rest of them go?"

"That way."

Shepard nodded to Kaiden and Ashley. "You two, with me. Quiet and quick."

He didn't wait for a response before he moved. The next door, on the opposite side of the bar, was armored, heavily so. Strangely, the programs on his omni-tool were more than capable of hacking its security. It was worrisome; excellent hardware, but poor software. Wealth appeared to be no issue for Fist, but getting intelligent people to work for him appeared to be problematic.

The doorway opened into a short hallway, leading into a dimly lit chamber. Shepard stepped carefully, watching the edges of his peripheral for movement. "Miss Zorah, what's down this way?"

"Fist's office is over here, but there's another door. I was carried down the hall into a second room. It's as large as the main room, but for more – select customers, I guess." Tali's vocoder blinked off as she stopped. "I barely made it up to here, they weren't expecting me, but I don't think they'll make the same mistake again."

Shepard let his upper teeth show. The room's walls were pushing in on him, the history of its innards screaming at his mind. "Just so long as I get to shoot first."

Smoke coiling along the ceiling blocked much of his vision, but not enough to prevent him from observing, then looting a wall-safe. Evidence could be destroyed in an explosion, or by deliberate intent; a sufficiently paranoid mind could do wonders. He snorted. Yeah, just look at me; a regular Boy Wonder.

Tali clicked the access switch on an obscured doorway; half-hidden in the shadows behind the desk. It opened into a much longer passage, sloping downwards. The far end looked almost identical to Chora's Den, compete with poles atop a bar counter, and a series of implements of questionable use hanging on the walls. The difference was a presence of restraints, high-tensile strength straps that looked deformed.

Two clubs, with two different entrances, sharing the same office space. Owned by one individual, very clever Mr. Fist. Shepard tightened his grip on the pistol. Pity I didn't take the time to sight-in the new rifle. Bigger rounds are so much better for first impressions.

Just as they reached the end, hall widening into a circular room identical to the one above, Shepard heard a tell-tale click. Turrets.

He dove for the floor, letting the whipping noise of near-misses pass over his consciousness. Like playing with snowballs. Dive for cover, then let 'em fly. Shepard peeked over his cover – something that had once been a table at a point earlier in its career – flicked his wrist, and sent a grenade with his compliments. At the same time his new omni-tool sparked to life, sabotaging the firing protocols on one of the opposing rifles. Then he switched attention to the alcoves.

A chill of foreboding ran down his spine as the sound of mechanical whirring reached his ears. The turrets were rotating in his direction, chain-gun turrets. They were twins of the upstairs examples; monstrosities that could spit a thousand rounds in a minute, yet not run out of bullets. Even the Menelaus power armor hesitated to confront such devices. And all of them were twisting in his direction.

Shepard jammed the cool-down release on his omni-tool. Overhead and a bit to the left, the grenade he'd launched detonated, shaking the main platform and enveloping two of the gunners in a white-hot plasma cloud. The shockwave made his eardrums ache, even under their protecting buffers.

A moment later, he could hear Williams curse; the heavy armor she'd chosen making the floor resonate as she dropped to one knee behind him. Her assault rifle spun the opposite direction, singing its own death-song at the opposing alcove.

Shepard coded up another sequence, jamming it into the firmware of the closest turret doing its best to turn his armor into the galaxy's most expensive cheese grater. Just before he accessed the program, the turret froze, then began the arduous task of rotating away from him. The twin rotating barrels spun up into their output mode, opening fire on one of the turrets opposite its side of the room, shredding barriers and armor alike with ease.

"Hacking another turret!" a quarian voice called out. Higher up, a second turret paused its firing sequence, and shorted out. Blue electricity sparked over its surface, illuminating the smoke cloud with scattered arcs of light.

What? How did – ah. Despite himself, Shepard felt impressed.

The bark of a long rifle caught his attention next, booming its basso thunder from next to the door frame. The report was closely followed by a hissing roar, similar to a gargantuan angry snake. One of the upper-level gunmen fell clutching his face, while a lurid crimson blast soared past into another turret.

Roaring of a different type brought Shepard back to the present. A krogan charged Shepard's position, making it within a meter.

Shepard fired, sparking off the krogan's shield, draining it. The turret, however, had a bigger repository at its disposal.

Krogan armor was strong. Krogan regeneration was stronger still. But 40-plus bits of ferro-ceramic, accelerating 16.67 pellets per second to a fraction of light speed did more damage than even krogan physiology could repair. The cuirass armor piece held out past the first burst, but the wet remnants behind the armor fell to the ground less than four seconds later.

Shepard moved on. A second sabotage pulse fried the shields of an oncoming human, rendering him defenseless. That particular fact did not apparently sink in until after half-dozen rounds did.

He smirked. Battlefield awareness. No substitute.

Taking advantage of the breather, Shepard did a quick visual check. His squad moved in good order, if pressed. The alien additions were doing well; Wrex looked as if he were strolling through a leisurely garden party instead of a death trap. Garrus's expression was frozen in a smirk; rifle extending from his shoulder like it was a part of him. Even Tali fought well, one hand playing with the omni-tool while the other made tight, accurate bursts where it counted.

Return fire was scattered, but effective. Shotguns mixed with assault rifles, all of various qualities, created a cacophony that rivaled the turret roar.

Not that there is anything wrong with the small-arms type, Shepard quickly caught himself, but the manner those weapons are being wielded practically screams 'mercenary.' Substandard targeting, below-par discipline … whomever those present was working with Fist – and therefore Saren – depended too much on technology. It was good quality, no doubt about it, but single-point defense systems encouraged lazy thinking. Turrets. The cowards. Protecting slaver scum with tin-can defenses?

"Take down the turrets!" Shepard bellowed, hot pit of anger stirring once again. This time, he could appease the sensation with action, wreaking havoc. Chaos was good, it forged stronger skills and destroyed the weak. Every fight was proof of that; an example of how random actions could never be planned. Victories turned on a random variable, or divine intervention, however you looked at it. Every hit was a study, containing subtle nuances to ponder after the effect. If you lived.

This time a pinpoint sniper shot impacted a turret threatening Shepard's position, striking just below the rotator cuff, knocking the entire device sideways. Its still-rotating top pushed the supports in a quivering circle, sending the entire device jittering across the floor, firing random bursts at the perceived hostility of barstools.

"My pleasure." A turian voice flanged over the comm frequency.

Shepard smirked, feeling a warm, laughing sensation. Apparently, Garrus had a sense of humor. Gallows humor, but humor nonetheless. We should get along well.

The moment the Alliance marines entered was obvious. The turrets were focused on his squad, whittling down their barriers in heavy increments, leaving the door exposed. The mercenaries were accustomed to the turrets taking the pressure – but by their strained expressions, likely not in having the attackers respond in such a focused manner.

To Shepard's eye, the mercenaries were fighting hard, attempting to divert the concentrated fire. While unwise in many ways, they were successful. Their main advantage was in the difference between synthetic and organic targeting. Synthetics were single-minded. Unshakable. They would pick one target and focus fire until another target became more threatening. Solid tactics, but inflexible.

A mass of heavy fire threw the mercenaries off balance. Alliance marines, not thirty seconds behind Shepard's charge, blew apart half of the remaining turrets before focusing on the organic threats. Advantage of purely organic targeting; target-switching with much greater ease. Also a disadvantage, but training removes a lot of that.

Shepard flinched back as a dark red blur charged past, bellowing at the mercenaries. The red armor gave away the identity. Has to be Wrex. One of the turrets spun in the krogan's direction, but hyper-accelerated rounds needed to be fired before they could hit. The krogan smashed into the turret, overwhelming its shields, bowling it over and crushing the delicate wiring under one massive boot.

More mercenaries appeared from one side, emerging from yet another door, but they vanished just as quickly, retreating into a passageway behind the bar. Their presence, or more accurately their disappearance, pushed at Shepard the wrong way. Their actions were too confident, too casual about so many dead.

They're planning a counter-attack, or an ambush. Or just getting out of here with – the thought went through Shepard's mind like a lightning bolt. Hardware, or prisoners. More hostages.

Snarling, he rose to his feet, ignoring the light fire pinging off his shields. "Push! Don't let up!"

Mercenaries scrambled out of the way, fighting each other for better cover. Their response barely scratched his shields; given the amount of fire Alpha squad was bringing to bear.

Get to the door, keep moving. Shepard dropped to his knees, snapping a reflex shot at an overly cautious gunman, and charged again. The door had a red circle, indicating a locked status, but the mercs had opened it easily, had they not? If it wouldn't open for him, he would get one of them to do it.

The doors hissed open as he approached, exposing an increasingly terrified man in yellow and red armor face to face with Shepard. Taking the advantage, Shepard shoulder-charged the mercenary, getting behind the doorframe well in time before it closed. The impact knocked the assault rifle from the merc's hands, prompting a deft weaving motion.

"Kill you!" The man screamed, and swung a knife at Shepard's face.

He ducked the blow, blocking its follow-up with a forearm. Peasant. Obvious distraction tactic. One blow became two, then three. Shepard used the time to study the weaknesses of the man's medium-grade armor. It was an older model, one the manufacturers attempted to create by blending the flexibility of light armor with the durability of heavy, resulting in a compromise that succeeded at neither. Onyx armor. Expensive, good, but in a general sense.

The Onyx line worn by the mercenary, was made by Aldrin Labs. It had a penchant for dramatic paint jobs, good ECM hardening, and weak points around the collar. While all space-hardened armors were required to be vacuum-sound by law, Aldrin Labs got around the expensive obligation by maintaining the density while lowering the tensile strength with cheaper alloys.

The mercenary, sent reeling by Shepard's counter jab, scrambled back, buying himself space at the cost of time. His knife shifted to a higher grip; they were too close for a risky grab for a side-arm.

Shepard took the moment, spending a portion of the time to check his surroundings. The hall was darkly lit, polished floors and lockers lining the walls. The main room still resonated with the sound of explosions, dulling to a quiet hiss as the door slid shut. The locking mechanism engaged, the sight of which was … surprising.

He turned back to the mercenary, "Interesting door. Now, why would a down home family business like the Den need a Dracon Ten Encrypt?"

The other man didn't respond, wavering back and forth on his feet as if he were off balance. Something in his eyes warned Shepard to be ready.

As anticipated, other man charged, brandishing the knife.

Typical knife fights lasted less than five minutes; normally two. In a fair fight, one slip on either side left little room for reactions, and only a highly trained salarian could recover quickly enough to compensate. Shepard was an N7: 'fair fight' meant 'win.' He was also wearing one of the most deeply kept secrets in the Alliance: Nightstalker armor.

In the time it took for the mercenary to reach him, Shepard hit the mnemonic sequence in his gauntlet. White energy glowed around his fist, wrapping around the appendage like a second glove. Energy darted forwards, licking playfully around ceramic plate. The gauntlet itself connected a fraction of a second later, shattering the armor plate like porcelain.

Without the pseudo-biotics, his blow would have merely rocked the man, and exposed his own arm to a return cut. Ceramic-alloy plates were good for many things, but could be penetrated by a hard enough blow. Typical melee combat focused on keeping limbs moving in circular motions – but one of the secrets to an N7 success was a non-conventional combat style.

Now, with the upper part of his cuirass partially destroyed, the mercenary's wiser response would be to either increase the ferocity of his attack, or retreat. Shepard slapped the knife away from another attack, and repeated his tactic, sans biotics, and on bare under-armor. It was a grim satisfaction, harking back to a more primitive time; something he felt should be taught to the lower-level N7 candidates. Collapsed tracheas were charming that way.

Sweeping the hall with a quick look, Shepard concluded there were no more soldiers approaching in the immediate future. He was just about to examine the locking mechanism, when a faint cry caught his attention. The anger he'd been holding in surged against its barriers.

Quickly, he got to work on the door. The opening mechanism was jammed, locked by one of the most esoteric codes he'd ever seen. The door itself was made of stronger stuff than the main door had been constructed, unusual. That … was logical, actually. If someone had wanted to prevent entrance, an equally paranoid mind would want to prevent escaping. Especially given the decorations festooning the lower Den.

More cries came from further behind the hall, pushing his efforts. The code resisted his attempts to hack it. Wish I had an engineer with me right now. Brute forcing the encryption will take over five minutes … that quarian might be able to do something, but what can I do?

Another brief scan told him the door was too strong for any explosives he carried, possibly even too much for what the Marines wielded. Most of his previous experiences on the Citadel had required stealth, appropriate vents and encrypted doors. The firmware on his latest omni-tool was solid, but the superior hacking software was still on the Normandy's mainframe, waiting to be downloaded. Basic programs would get the job done, but not in time.

He stepped back, touching his earpiece. "Alenko, it's Shepard. Sitrep?"

Gunfire, muted by a helmet's filters, met his ears. "Commander? Ah, we're doing good; got the tangoes backed into a corner. They're getting reinforcements though, not sure how many. Where are you? Your signal is a bit weak."

"Other side of the back door, locked tight." Shepard checked the algorithm running on his omni-tool. "It's going to take a few more minutes for my program to hack it; get that quarian on it if you can. I'll clear ahead."

An eerie feeling swept over him. I'm doing exactly what Nihlus was doing, going ahead without backup. A second scream shook him from inactivity. So be it.

A heavy rattle, from a light machine-gun blocked the Lieutenant's voice for a moment. "Roger that Commander. Nothing we can't handle. Good luck."

Shepard grimaced. By the sound of it, Fist had indeed been deep in Saren's pocket, with the manpower to prove it. Why it was on the other side of this one door was baffling, but it was probable that if there was one exit, there was another. Old rule of thumb: never have just one bolt hole.

A sobbing scream broke him from his reverie, electrifying every nerve. He spun, headed back down the hall as quietly and as quickly as possible.

Running in full armor took training. Light armor consisted of under-armor padding, a minimal quantity of automation that helped coordinate the bulky portions and seals that held it all in place. Medium grade armor added servomotors, facilitating operations in heavier gravity, and more physical strength for mobility. Heavy armor, aside from the power armor, had the most mechanical assistance; the armor itself was often over half the weight of the individual it protected.

Shepard's armor could have been classified on the heavy end of Medium, or as a low-grade Heavy armor. It's Element Zero portions were lighter than most armor mechanisms, but could be set to a mass-reduction setting that cut down on movement speed, at the cost of a minor quantity of power.

The dark color and low-mass could also be configured to allow Shepard to travel quietly. The hard edges clicked against the metal flooring, but not as loudly as a non-segmented tread would do. Another misdirection in the N7 shotlocker: should someone be listening, they would anticipate a Light armor classification.

The screaming grew louder the closer he got. There was a right turn into an office of some sort; Shepard paused for ten seconds, it contained a hard drive, commonly seen in small independent shipping. The encryption was surprisingly minimal, easily isolated. They downloaded to an OSD he kept in a pouch, safe for later perusal. Onward.

More doors opened to either side, each leading to what looked like changing rooms. Two of the doors were locked, and he wasted precious time as he forced his way into them, into what appeared to be storage rooms. Kegs lined the walls, bracketing long shelves of bottles and stasis crates full of … he lifted a lid … edibles. Of a sort.

I do not want to know who eats beetles. Shepard closed the container as gently as possible. They don't even look the right color; bluish-green. Too many legs.

The second storage room was similarly equipped, but with a number of electronics. Replacement parts for the bar, most likely. That left only a single, heavy-looking door at the end of the lowest part of the hall. Fortunately, it was jammed open, partially blocked by what looked to be a fallen pylon. In keeping with the odd Citadel technology, the door's multi-segmented slats were crumpled over each other, splayed pathetically.

As he approached, he could feel a cold draft and hear shouting. His muscles tensed; that was a very familiar kind of voice; angry, controlling. It made his temples ache with an old familiar pain.

Shepard tapped his omni-tool, changing frequencies. "Charlie squad, any movement?" Maybe he was wrong. Slavers didn't operate out of the Citadel, right?

"Jensen here. We have some large cargo transports just taking off from the back entrance, and a couple more just landed." The voice responded, rendered into a buzzing tone by the synthetic nature of the device.

Shepard's blood froze. "Take them down, repeat: Take! Take! Take!"

Not bothering to wait for a response, he switched channels to the C-Sec detective. "Vakarian, you there?"

The deafening roar of a sniper rifle boomed into his earpiece, barely reduced to safe levels. "One less to worry about! Ah, sorry Commander, I'm here."

"Several cargo carriers just took off the next level down; they're hauling slaves I think." Shepard lowered his voice slightly; he was getting closer to the hall's end. "Can you get C-Sec to track them down?"

"A human requesting Citadel intervention? I think those boys will be racing each other to get there. I'll make the call."

"Thank you, Detective." Shepard touched the comm bead. With the runners being chased, and the exit now blocked, he could do what he did best.

A small camera extended from his omni-tool; activated with a few careful commands. With it, he was close enough to the doorway so that he could extend its lens through the slats of the blocked door, sending an image to his eyepiece.

The interior of the next room struck him as large, overall, but messy. Crates were strewn all over the floor, cages stacked in one corner filled with large animals. Several of them, he could tell, were varren: reptilian beasts that resembled a cross between a penguin's colors and an alligator body. Fortunately, the cages were locked, well secured in lengths of chain.

A different corner had him seething, though. A group of people huddled on the ground, clutching at themselves or each other for security. Collars around their necks were all the evidence he needed, testing his self-control. Three were asari, two of which wore the typical dancer's apparel, next to what looked like a red drell. Finally he counted a full half dozen human women – all in various states of dress. Shepard forced his attention away from rage, back to task.

Covering the far wall was a large bay door, suitable for cargo transfers. It was half-open, closing as he watched. One of the men standing by the door was cursing; bemoaning something … he was too far for Shepard to tell exactly what was going on. The way other men in the room were watching him seemed to indicate his position … and therefore priority. One other man was joining them, rolling his shoulders as if relieved of a heavy burden. Tracing his path, Shepard noticed one of the human women struggling to free herself, red marks scattered across her upper body. Defensive placement.

Shepard darted from cover, keeping his movements smooth. Human eyes spotted patterns, jerking motions. Planning as he moved … Expendable goods can be shot, if considered capable of killing. If I go straight for the head, there's a chance to end this before it begins. Careful you thumb-fingered-idiot, don't mess up now.

A gunman was standing close to the back row, just in sight of the others, but far enough back to be missed if he were quick. Shepard felt the edge of his bracer, grasping a tab under its lip. It snapped in his grasp, trailing a monofilament wire back into the recesses of his armor.

One minor biotic pulse reduced the man's weight to almost nothing. A secondary program on Shepard's omni-tool magnetized the external plating, locking the man's armor into a single position. At the same moment, Shepard rose behind the man, flicking the garrote into place, and sank back behind the crates with his cargo. It was over before the struggling stopped.

Shepard swiped the man's omni-tool, dropping it on the ground next to himself. The weapons were all low-quality, indicating a lower ranking. Probably why he's guarding the stuff, too unimportant.

A thunderous explosion emanated from the mostly-closed bay door. Shepard froze, waiting to see the reaction.

The lead character brandished what looked like a high-quality pistol at the people surrounding him. Two broke away, headed directly for the prisoners, while another group rushed to the walls either side of the mostly-closed doorway. Some scattered, moving too fast for him to track with all of the confusion.

Blast. Shepard checked the time. More than enough to have opened that door. Where are they?

Gunfire rattled against the bay door, which closed itself the last meter. The crash of metal on metal reverberated throughout the loading bay.

Using his omni-camera once more, Shepard looked for the leading figure. He was gesticulating at the door past the crates where Shepard was hiding, and pointing at the shackled prisoners. Pinned on two flanks, and he thinks he can get away? Why … the thoughts piled past each other, flying through his mind thick and fast. Hostages, and meat shield. Use them as a mobile wall, negotiate an escape, or buy enough time for a surprise heavy assault to cover an escape. Clever.

Shepard crushed the anger rising at this man. Right. He glanced at the goodies left by the inattentive guard. One of the items lying on the floor was a key-coder, designed for securing encrypted pass-keys … like for restraint collars.

He tried activating the device. It clicked feebly in his hands, not registering on the collars. Too far. But what if … it'll take timing, but I can do that.

Moving quickly, he reconfigured the grenade launcher on his arm, adding a wad of omni-gel to its mechanism. The omni-tool itself was already humming, setting up a smoke grenade. As it formed, Shepard took aim and fired the device. The launcher hiccupped, unused to the oddly-shaped projectile, but capable of the task

Just as the key-coder left his arm, the grenade slipped into place, grating on the excess omni-gel. It required only a minor twist and he fired in one smooth motion.

He waited, counting under his breath, watching the coder arc through the air. It smacked into one of the prisoner's heads, forcing a wince out of him as it slid down her chest. Well, at least it reached the target.

The count finished almost before Shepard realized it, prompting him to fire another grenade. Its parabola matched the first two, an excellent testimonial for the launcher's designer. I should see who manufactures this thing. Mindoir would do well with that kind of quality.

Smoke billowed from the positions on either side of the bay door. Surprised shouting turned the previously unharmed interior into a panicked zone.

Shepard squeezed the trigger, felling one of the two. Brute force and pain are your allies, Fist. Let me introduce you to mine: panic and chaos.

Another shot dropped a second man, placed perfectly through the back of the head. He'd been charging the collared prisoners; his fall seemed to spook them into frantic activity. The slave that he'd hit with the key-coder was frantically pawing at herself, struggling to get the collar synced. Shepard smirked victoriously. Just a matter of time now.

He shifted focus to the smoke-filled areas, where the mercenaries were now just stumbling out, shaking their heads. Two more shots, then another grenade.

One round missed completely, exposing his position. The second was true, turning a formerly handsome individual into an unsightly mess.

Shepard ducked, queuing up the next grenade while priming another sabotage burst. He regretted not getting the overload capacitor, but there was a finite amount of space on one omni-tool after all. The memory was there, but the sheer number of physical add-ons could stretch into the absurd.

"Commander? You there?" A static-filled voice broke into his concentration.

"Gah!" Shepard mis-launched the grenade, and had to watch it detonate harmlessly over the heads of his assailants.

"Ah – you all right? This is Ashley, we're on our way."

"Good." Shepard grunted. The miss had cost him; he'd been counting on the explosion to panic Fist's group for a few seconds more. "Would you mind hurrying it up a little? I have Fist pinned down, but can't keep him from running forever."

"Roger that Commander. Double time it people!"

The connection broke off, leaving Shepard to concentrate on his current situation.

The slaves-cum-prisoners had managed to free themselves, and were taking advantage of the distraction. Already, they were hurrying to the far side, getting as far away from the guns as possible. The asari had biotic fields in place, but the iridescence shimmered uncertainly.

Shepard half-rose in an effort to keep Fist's attention on himself. A sabotage charge choked an assault rifle, overheating it to scalding temperatures in the merc's hands. A responding barrage forced Shepard back into cover, but not until he'd managed to damage another mercenary's shields.

A faint clicking noise reached his ears, just as he saw a flat disk land on a wall just above his feet. Aw shoot.

Immediately, his armor glowed white, increasing his mass exponentially. The grenade detonated, but unlike a standard explosion of intense heat and shrapnel, it emitted a white flare and a deafening sound.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Flash bang, of course they'd have flash bangs! What do you think they catch slaves with, cotton candy? The exaggerated mass of his armor prevented Shepard from covering his eyes like he wanted. He couldn't hear anything other than a dull ringing. In thought form, he allowed a mild expletive. Dammit! All right, it's all right … deep breaths, calm down.

He inhaled as long as he could, breathing out the tension as effectively as possible. You know where you are, you know where they were a few seconds ago. The only thing that's changed is you can't see, or hear. Use that misfiring hunk of hardware you call a brain!

The floor shook slightly, cuing him to other action occurring. Right, reinforcements. Charlie squad is outside, so get that door open. Alpha squad is here, so don't worry about getting hit right now. Just get the door open.

The omni-tool vibrated under his fingertips, activating to the full keyboard he used during more difficult … acquisitions. The room was distracting him by flashing like a strobe, repercussions of the flash-bang. When Shepard felt a second shudder in the floor, he paused the hack, and flicked another grenade over his cover. For a good measure, he poked the tip of his pistol over the side, rocking it back and forth while firing until the capacitor overheated.

He returned to his keyboard, but couldn't recover the pattern. Blast it all to Kar'Shan and back. Where's an engineer when you really need one?

Gradually, he started picking out voices. It was hard to make out over the persistent ringing, but was coming clearer all the time. More worryingly, his eyesight wasn't returning as quickly; the edges were fading to the normal coloration, but nothing definite could be seen.

The main door was grinding again, sending a warning thrum through his spine. A second vibration overlaid itself, the rumble of a revving skycar, pushed him back to his feet, fighting to see through the haze.

He managed to be facing the main exit, a massive cargo-bay door, when the vehicle he'd been hearing roared from behind another stack of crates, soaring to freedom. Rumbling feet charged in, Alpha squad finally making an appearance.

Shepard glanced right. His squads were standing there, pouring enough live ammunition on the vehicle to make any standard issue paneling shred under the stress. The fact that this didn't was proof it was not standard. The windows cracked, and scars appeared on the sides, but no full penetration occurred.

The car dipped sideways, presenting its undercarriage to Alpha squad while picking up the last surviving mercenaries – and Fist – and dove for the doorway.

"Rockets! Heavies, take it down!" Williams was bellowing at the marines. They were unlimbering the heavy weapons, but it was obvious they'd never fire in time. A blind shot perhaps, but that was worse than useless in a space station.

Just as the car passed through the opening, the cargo door slammed down, crushing the car's hood into the floor. The rest of the car, obeying momentum, tried to continue, breaking apart against the wall. Something exploded, sending flaming shards of debris everywhere.

Then, there was silence.

Cautiously, Shepard took a step. As he hadn't fallen, he took another, testing that security. All good. Back to normal, relatively. Still seeing haze.

"Sir! Are you all right?" Alenko jogged up, one fist pulsating blue.

"Never better." Shepard trying to blink away the last vestiges of the flash-bang. "I have to admit, good work with the door. I was too far from the controls to hack it. Safeties removed for a good measure?"

The lieutenant blinked. "I thought you did that. Who did?"

"Um, that would have been me." The quarian, Tali'Zorah, stepped around a particularly large cargo crate, one half-blasted by a flaming chunk of the skycar. "It wasn't a difficult lock, it just needed a few tweaks here and there."

"Excellent work." Shepard nodded to her, "your stuff around here?"

The quarian pointed at the back door the skycar had flown out from. "Over there, might be in the car if Fist took it with him.

Shepard waved his squad forwards after the quarian, watching her move away with rapid steps. "Check it out. Stay frosty."

"Sir, Commander, are you there? Jensen to Commander Shepard." a voice emanated from his earpiece.

Shepard reached up to touch it. "Shepard here, alive and no counting for it." He stopped, humor? In battle? Next thing you know, he'd be donning a clown's nose and squirting flowers at people. He leaned against a convenient bulkhead, relaxing.

There was an exclamation of relief. "Thank heavens; there were more hostiles than expected. Fist had a whole platoon it looks like."

"Ah." He liked the word. It covered a whole gamut of situations, so nicely vague that way. Wait. Now I'm was waxing eloquent about words? Shock. It has to be shock.

The voice continued."Where are you? We've almost got the last of those – people shut down out here. By the way, Anderson wants to talk to you, something about a message you sent him?"

Of course, the hostage. Shepard let his head thump against the wall. It rang hollowly, bringing amusement to his thoughts. Which is emptier, the walls or my head? That was a foolhardy thing to do, rushing in like that.

"I'm behind some cargo crates roughly fifteen meters from the door, maybe twenty meters from the bay door. C-Sec get the other cars?"

"That's affirmative. Pulled them down with a big magnet, looks like. Fried their drive trains something fierce."

Shepard chuckled before switching channels. "Alenko, everyone all right?"

"I think so, sir. Fist is really mad about it though, claims he has diplomatic immunity. Can you get over here?" Alenko's voice was sounding worried.

Shepard sighed. "Alright, though it might not do you any good. Caught a flash-bang to the face; hearing is back, but vision is down a bit." He pushed off the wall, testing his limbs. One muscle in his lower arm twinged. "Can you see me?"

"Yessir. I'll be over in … oh. That quarian is coming for you."

"Thank you Lieutenant." Shepard fought against the malaise. Balling up a fist, he punched the cargo crate, making a loud thumping noise. The frustration, from falling prey to such a simple thing … was strong.

His ruminations weren't allowed to last; a strange footstep approached his position. Shorter than average human, if proportions are the same. Odd heel-toe contact, so turian or quarian; where's Vakarian anyway?

"Commander Shepard?" A female voice with an odd trill spoke up, "Are you hurt?"

Shepard forced himself away from the wall, wavering slightly until he caught his balance. "Fit to fight, ma'am. Thank you for your assistance, it is much appreciated."

"Happy to help," she responded. "And please, it's Tali'Zorah, or just Tali.

A memory struck, from earlier, but repressed held back from combat. As in possible relation to Admiral Zorah? Interesting. Shepard nodded politely in the direction of the voice, not voicing his suspicions.

"Gloria figured it had to have been you, when that key hit her. Thank you for that – she was kind to me." Her speaking style reminded Shepard somewhat of Katarina, years ago. Quick, far-ranging, and an innate belief that the listener was able to follow equally well.

Fortunately, he could.

"Least I could do after what they've been through." Shepard turned so he could listen in on the rest of the room. It wouldn't do to be caught unawares after this mess.

"I know, Fist took the armor, said I wouldn't need it where I was going." Tali's hands seemed to be working in front of her, as if she were nervous. "Bosh'tet. Sorry, I'm not normally talking like this.

"Been a long day. Not a problem."

By now she had guided him closer to the center of the room. The haze had faded enough to allow almost full vision once more. He could see the armor differences again; Alliance colors and C-Sec blues predominant among them.

"You have no right to do this!" A severely annoying voice did its best to drill through Shepard's headache. "I'm an Alliance citizen, I have diplomatic immunity!"

He couldn't let that go. "You don't in my book. Book him if you want. Deepest and dankest and darkest of dungeons, if you got 'em."

One of the figures faced him; Shepard could tell by the widening of one shadowy figure. "Oh, and you're the high-and-mighty Shepard, huh? Saren sends his regards!"

The figure blurred, and quiet clicking noise caught Shepard's attention as something hit his breastplate. In the background, a scuffle pulled the black shadow away, piling it to the floor in a mass of Alliance blue armor. It looked painful.

Innocent beeping drew his attention away from the pile.

"Shoot." Shepard knew that sound, it was the arming alert for a unique line of grenade, found in the Terminus Systems. They were weaker than the normal version, but had an extended range. What made them truly unique, however, was their timer based detonation, rather than proximity. A combination of electro-static capacitors and adhesive attached the grenade to its target, preventing a quick-fingered soldier – a salarian for example – from flicking it away. Most grenades went with proximity fuses, but this model … had five seconds on its timer. Maybe four left.

With one hand, Shepard reached out and shoved the quarian engineer's shoulder, sending her flying. The other did a one-handed activation of his omni-tool; he had basically one chance at living through the encounter, and that was based on if he could activate the suit's Lockdown protocol in time.

The armor responded, upper portions of its gorget extending, protecting his lower jaw, and would have met the underside of the helmet had he been wearing one. The rest of the armor sealed itself into a stiff mass, powering up the element zero systems once more. It increased his mass once more, to a greater extent than when he'd been lying behind the crates; that had been a mild version of what he was doing right now.

The warning came in the form of a tiny clicking noise; Shepard grimaced. "This is going to smart."

Sound vanished once more, but this time it was accompanied by an overwhelming sensation against his chest, like he'd been hit by a shuttle. For a moment, Shepard felt weightless, unable to determine which direction was down. Then the deck struck his back, wrenching the breath out of him in a single agonizing gasp. Yep. I was right. That stings.

Vibrations from the locks disengaging allowed his limbs to collapse fully. Flat. I'm on the ground – again. Slowly, Shepard raised his head before letting it fall to the deck again, repeating the action multiple times. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I can't even hear anything.

He paused, listening to the shrill ringing in his ears. Not exactly situational awareness. What's next, getting tossed into the ceiling?

Something grabbed his shoulder. Out of reflex, Shepard latched onto the questing limb and started to twist before his mind took over. No, not a threat.

The hand drew away gradually, apparently surprised by his action, then tapped his shoulder.

Shepard shook his head, twirling a finger around his ear, then waving it just in front of his face. "I can't hear, and my vision is still down. Can you get Lieutenant Alenko over here please?" He could feel the vibration of his voice in his head, and winced. He was probably shouting, not exactly the calm and cool demeanor of a Commander.

He felt a reassuring squeeze on his arm, then the faint vibration of feet moving away. With nothing better to do, he began the arduous task of rising to his feet. Movement was a good way of determining a better damage assessment after all.

Gravity felt stronger this time, pushing against his efforts. It was unnerving how there was no noise of armor joints creaking as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. There was resistance, like he was pushing the Normandy off his chest.

Shepard frowned. That's wrong. Resisting something like a Mako cannon round would do something like that. Did I turn off the mass boost? The interface depressed under his fingers, and the pressure vanished. Ah. Much better.

Getting to his feet, Shepard tried once more to see through the haze. As before, there was a small amount visible around the edges, but the center was too blurry to discern, prompting a groan. I must have been looking right at it when the grenade went off.

A firm group surprised him. "Lieutenant Alenko?"

The hand slapped his shoulder gently.

"I'm afraid I am unable to maintain command at the moment. Alenko is in charge right now." He made a ninety-degree turn. "If you would be so kind as to assign me a guide back to the Normandy, I would be grateful."

Faint murmurs made it through the ringing sensation, something vaguely conciliatory. "I am perfectly capable of walking; I just need a pair of eyes." Shepard took a chance at the probable conversation topic.

Apparently, his point was carried. A hand clutched at his elbow, and he automatically lifted his hand to a resting position on his guide's inner arm. "Thank you, I appreciate it." Manners were important; being rude made people less likely to assist in the long run. It was paying off at the moment, anyway.

The blurriness was still present when he came to a stop. Shepard knew he wasn't on the Normandy, they hadn't passed through any airlocks, and there had been no elevator rides of sufficient duration. If he didn't know any better, it felt like they'd only moved a kilometer or so down the Ward.

Now, however, he was sitting in a chair. Somewhere on the Citadel, being seen to by an unknown individual. Shepard was pretty sure it was a single person; the hands had felt the same size each time they'd tilted his head.

Bright white light filled his vision; he blinked in response, frowning at the intrusion. Ah. Eye exam. Hope that means they're finished stuffing gelatin in my ears, most unpleasant.

The light changed eyes once or twice, adding spots to the blurriness. Great. At least there's a little variety.

By the time half an hour had passed, Shepard was becoming somewhat irritable, though he covered it as best as he could. The itching sensation in his ears was maddening, although he fought the urge to clear them constantly.

Finally hands touched his shoulder, warning him, before they began working. They were cool, working on his ear, until a gentle popping sound heralded the return of his hearing.

Shepard sighed in relief. "That's much better. Thank you."

"Do not mention it." An accented voice responded cheerfully. "Now that you can hear me, I will be working on the other side, yes?"

"Please." Shepard tilted his head the other way.

While the hands worked on his other side, Shepard continued. "What happened with Fist?"

Garrus's voice reached his ears. "Commander, Fist was taken to C-Sec custody. There are a lot of questions waiting for him there … or being asked right now."

Shepard's eyebrow lifted. "Detective Vakarian I presume?"

The turian gave a dry chuckle. "In the flesh. When you put Lieutenant Alenko in charge, he asked me to take you to a clinic. Doctor Michelle has one of the best clinics in the Wards, and it would have taken another hour to get you back to the Normandy. Chief Williams is outside though, keeping an eye on everything. Oh, and two of your marines are here with me."

Confirming noises made themselves known. One was the deep voice of Lieutenant Sigurd, the other a bit higher tenor. Nicholson, perhaps?

A popping sensation made Shepard wince. "Ah. Much better. What did you do, doctor?"

"I regenerated the tympanic membrane with a specialized medi-gel," Doctor Michelle's voice emanated from somewhere to his left. "Fairly simple to do, but I advise you to not listen to loud music until the regeneration has been completed. Twenty-four hours, if possible."

Shepard nodded, "I believe I can do that. Can you do anything about my eyes? I'm a little blurry – well, very blurry actually."

"Yes indeed. I wanted to fix your hearing first, before I did anything to your eyes." Michelle's voice had moved, "let's begin."

The process was much lighter than he'd anticipated. Apparently, there had been minor nerve damage, as well as minor scarring on what the doctor called the conjunctiva. Terminology Shepard had thought left behind once he'd achieved his degree.

"Now, I'm doing a mild lesion re-construction, Commander," Dr. Michelle lowered a binocular frame over Shepard's upper face, letting it sit. "These are easy to repair, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave the eye patch on your left eye for a day. Twenty-eight hours, if possible."

He found his irritation rapidly easing, now that he could both see and hear. Well, one out of two. Call it seventy-five percent, with one eye functioning. "Thank you, doctor. I really appreciate this."

She made dismissive sounds. "Well, when Garrus came in here talking about how an Alliance soldier needed emergency help fast, I couldn't say no."

First-name basis, mm? Shepard kept his mouth shut. Makes sense in a way. A cop has to know where the hospitals are, especially the smaller ones. I'll have to see if this clinic needs anything, direct a fundraiser in its direction sometime.

"Still, I highly appreciate this. You wouldn't believe how many forms I would have to fill out on the Normandy." He gave her a friendly twitch of the lips. It was the most he could do; smiling was not really possible these days.

"A friend of Garrus's is a friend of mine. Now, how is your vision now?" The device lifted from Shepard's face.

He blinked. The room was in full color; at least, the beige and white colors of the Citadel. A small effort at redecorating the room's interior had done wonders at massaging the harsh lines, as had the presence of a divider, separating the room into two. The ceiling lights were recessed, illuminating the room without taking up space, which meant the ceiling wasn't flush against the floor of the next level up; an excellent position in a space station.

Shepard looked at the doctor. She was dark-haired and of medium height, about to his jaw if he stood up. She was also watching him expectantly, arms folded, holding a digital clipboard.

"Full color, good depth perception. Don't know how good my precision is, but I'll find out at the range tomorrow."

She looked ready to protest, but stopped at his additional statement. "All right, just take care of those eyes. You only get the pair, you know."

He gave her a short, seated bow in return. "They've grown on me over the years. I think I'll keep them, if possible."

The doctor laughed, while the marines gave him a funny look. Apparently, hearing him joke was an unusual occurrence. He found himself enjoying the sensation of confounding them. Maybe I should do that more often. Don't want them to take me for granite after all. Ha.

"Well, send me the bill, and I'll make sure you get reimbursed for the cost." Shepard rose to his feet, checking his armor automatically. "And don't say it's free." He caught her mouth snapping shut. "A soldier's eyes are second in value only to his hearing; you fixed both, a gift of inestimable value to me. Thank you."

Her jaw hung slack for a moment, "Um, sure … Commander. If that's what you want? But I run a free clinic, I couldn't possibly – "

Shepard gave her a glare, possibly enhanced by the monocular form of the eye-patch. "I will pay. No arguments." He beckoned to the marines. "I better get back to the Normandy, Lord only knows what they've done to it in my absence."

The door hissed open, and a tanned face poked in. "Commander? Udina just contacted me, are you able to travel? That quarian has something. Something big."

Shepard had to think quickly. Dark hair, white-and-pink armor … Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams.

"Just finishing up here, Williams. I will be on my way in five," he called back.

Her teeth flashed white. "Right, sir. Good to see you back on your feet."

"Good to be back, Chief." Shepard responded. The door slid shut, and he got back to a small pad of paperwork. "Good to be back indeed."

A/N: My last chapter was a bit short, so I went a tad longer on this one. It needed the length to tell the story aright, anyway.

Special thanks to Nightstride, the best beta this side of the Pacific! Send cookies everyone.

A tradition I'm starting is to put up decent fics (usually Mass Effect) for your reading pleasure. Today, we have Fainmaca, who not only writes a mean Shepard/Jack (worth the second look), but also has a youtube channel ... to me, that's dedication. His work: "Mass Effect:Into the Unknown" (ID 6601801) has just breached one million words. Well done Fainmaca!

Work on the next chapter has begun. Tips or criticisms are welcome in the Review option below. Go on ... click it. You know you want to ...