Pirate raids were something Shepard was good at. In my experience, and access to ... um ... obscure records, he'd led more forces in engagements than any other individual. Admiral Hackett's choice was impeccable, even if his timing was less obvious to the less discerning eye. By sending the Commander so far out of communication range, he shielded the entire ship from the intense scrutiny Udina and the Council's announcement generated.

Of course, this also gave Shepard a chance to demonstrate his prowess to the neophyte specialists, and any squad-members that happened to be watching the video-link feed. Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. Testing new blood

I have made it a policy to never out-guess the admiral. The man has the highest MENSA score in the military.

Notes from Dr. Pavenmeyer's logs

~Project Ragnarök Files


Detective Vakarian

Kodiak NC17E

Garrus looked up as Shepard entered the shuttle. "What took you? We almost sent a … a …."

The commander looked – different. What had once been an average-appearing human was now … dangerous. The easy stride characterizing his movement across battlefields and ship decks alike was now a predatory strut, confidence embodied. More than that, the human was … painted. Like the decorative gilding female turians applied in – special – occasions. Or the dyes asari used at social interactions, above their own markings.

"Shepard? " he ventured. The man turned his head to look at Garrus. The single glance held an air of lazy superiority, like a vilai (1). Relaxed, but deadly.

"Detective." Even his voice was changed. Gone were the calm, businesslike tones – now it smirked.

Garrus blinked. One of the markings emblazoned on the human's forehead rotated, as if an independent eye rotating around a point just over Shepard's left eyebrow. Matching its movement, what appeared to be another ocular tattoo, spun the opposite direction, over his other eyebrow. It was … strangely hypnotic. "Shepard?" He cut himself off; explanations would come when they came.

"You look ready to dance," his companion, locked into her massive powered armor, held significantly less tact, "all painted up like that."

To Garrus's trained eye, Shepard looked amused. Humans typically looked at the lips and cheeks, but turians focused on the eyes. Edges up, pupils dilated. Happy, or unconcerned.

Shepard confirmed the diagnosis a moment later. "This close to Hegemony space, I find it helpful to wear my war-paint."

The shuttle's hull throbbed, mass adjustment fields flaring before leaving the Normandy's hanger. Her massive Menelaus armor, mag-clamped to the inner wall, barely moved while the rest of the squad shook in tandem. Dry tones came out, unaffected by the acceleration. "Don't tell me you're going to put in some feathers now?"

Feathers? Garrus wondered at the reference. Avian body parts? Wearing feathers is a human custom?

For his part, Shepard slipped another small white square from his belt, popping it into his mouth. "The Outer Colonies have come to expect a little pomp and circumstance from me, Chief. It would be rude to not oblige."

From nearby, he noticed Wrex start to sniff the air, moving his nose in small circles. Slit pupils dilated, centering on the oddly-decorated human for a moment before the krogan started chuckling. The deep, menacing noise made Garrus shiver; krogan were known to have a superlative sense of smell, equal to the turian capacity for the tactile. Whatever the mercenary had detected evidently tickled his murderous funnybone.

He shivered again, bringing the reaction under control. "Outer colonies eh?" he kept his voice bland, forcing a trace amount of levity into his words. "Would your show have something to do with the batarians? Hegemony space is fairly close here."

Shepard shot him an appreciative glance. "Yes, actually."

It was easy to deduce what was happening, especially since the entire story was written in the shifting colors around the man's face. "So, a devout follower of Bubullimë, given a penchant for extreme bouts of violence, and strong enough to earn a fifth tenga." He scanned the rest of Shepard's armor, his own eyepiece giving more information than the average eye could see. "The officer markings are pure Alliance. I don't think the miniature flags are regulation, but given the circles around them, I would have to guess they're similar to notches on a gun?"

Shepard's eyes widened, doubtless impressed with his intellect. Of course, he wouldn't ever tell the commander the beginning of his information had come via a forwarded info-dump from C-Sec.

Then, the human had the gall to grin at him, and offer a gesture. One hand tipped to the right while the head tilted left; ordinarily a sign of disrespect in the Hegemony – but rendered a more lighthearted meaning with the hand motion. Garrus responded with a tiny lift of the right shoulder, and a talon-flick on the same hand.

That the best you got? One interpretation, the most likely one, of Shepard's gesture.

Bring it. His own response stated … in the voiceless vernacular, of course.

Off to the further wall Wrex grunted at them both, a deep, booming rumble that made boots shudder. When both Garrus and Shepard looked up, the krogan raised both gauntleted fists, and slammed them together. Terminus shorthand for inviting all challengers.

Almost simultaneously, Shepard and Garrus nodded- back at him. Garrus was a little faster on the reflex however, leading to his – again in the parlance of the Terminus Systems – having priority.

"Boys," An amused Ashley spoke up, voice rendered with a buzzing sound through her suit, "Did I miss something? Tali, did I miss something?"

The quarian shrugged, "I thought they were talking about the weather."

"Stake?" Shepard asked, ignoring them.

That was a good question, Garrus realized. While Shepard never mentioned it, the records indicated he had access to billions of credits. Wrex, on the other hand, was a mercenary with centuries of experience, good quality armor, and guns. Presumably, longevity indicated resources. By comparison, an underpaid detective had little to offer … what could he use?

Then he knew. "I have a … stash, some Co'rel brandy. Aught thirty vintage. You?"

Shepard made a popping noise with the elastic material he insisted chewing before every mission. It had to be a human thing. "That's pretty good, Drell-manufacture, right?" He didn't wait for confirmation. "I'll kick in a customized set of throwing daggers. For the winner, of course."

Both Garrus and Shepard ignored the inquisitive looks from Tali's corner, waiting for Wrex's offer.

He grunted. "Got an old rifle kicking around somewhere. Old Devlon model, never used it much."

Garrus eyed the krogan's oversized shotgun, taking in the scarred gauntlets cradling the piece like a newborn child. Why would the short-range loving krogan have a rifle? It had to be good quality if he'd hung onto it. Good enough to compare with his own offering. "You have talent, Wrex. But I hope you've made your farewells to that rifle; I'd like to see how it handles."

"Hang on, what about method?" Shepard interjected, "Most hits, or percentage of hits?"

Considering, Garrus eyed both his own and Shepard's long-rifles, as well as Wrex's piece. "Percentage? Ranged only, no biotics or tech attacks."

Shepard hesitated, bringing a smile to his mandibles. He'd seen the human display an affinity for long-distance technological wizardry. Banning that increased the odds in his favor. Belatedly, he realized there were three squad-members watching. "Anyone else want in on this?"

From the front, Kaiden shook his head. "I use biotics a lot, no good for me."

"Same here, kinda," echoed Tali. One gentle hand caressed the stock of her shotgun. "Although, I would be happy to be referee the gun-cam footage when this is over."

"We'll take you up on that," Garrus said with a glance towards Shepard, and looked at the last human. "What about you, Williams? Up for a little fun?"

The blank, pitch-black plate in her helmet stared at him, turning once to glance at Shepard before she finally shook her head. "I don't really gamble, so I'll sit this one out. But good luck."

Garrus gave her a jaunty salute. "Luck makes up for lack of skill, Williams. I make my own luck on the practice range."

Shepard interrupted.

"We're coming in," his voice was more like its usual self again. "Watch your corners, and sing out if you need help." The shuttle jostled, entering a more powerful gravity field than itself. "I'm not expecting this to go quietly; but everyone's going home after this one. If it's a choice between yourself and a potential incident, take the shot. Let the diplomats handle the fallout. Agreed?"

He found himself agreeing whole-heartedly.


Commander Shepard

Plutus System – Hades Gamma Cluster

Arrival to the planetoid provided no difficulties. Ground based turrets remained motionless, and the low-grade stations in orbit had just enough firepower to discourage a minor pirate raid. Combat frigates like the Normandy carried more than enough armor to ignore such a minimal threat.

After what felt like hours – unaided by the low-gravity and tedious scenery, they received clearance for landing.

Huh, looks more than half like a pirate base. Shepard didn't need more than a cursory look. Clutter everywhere, just enough room to walk. The bane of this battlefield type lay in the surprises that could be hidden anywhere; a stray wire connected to a charged Mako generator, stray sheets of metal over IED's. Anything. Sometimes, it was just better to drop a twenty-kilogram slug from orbit, obliterating the target and traps in one fell swoop.

Closer to the center of the encampment, it looked as if more effort had been taken to clean out the rubble. Crates of expensive raw resources became visible, stacked in deceptively ramshackle piles. He could see the marks of hasty spot-welding, managing to get a thermal reading just as he walked by.

Much warmer than the ambient temperature. Maybe fifteen minutes old. That placed the activity roughly five minutes after the Normandy arrived in-system. Heads up by satellite, or someone else. A display then, distractions.

Shepard marched his squad through the more obvious ploys. The Alliance held a budget easily a thousand times greater than Darius's operation, yet they didn't leave crates of Element Zero lying around. Ammunition lockers, hardened reserve points in difficult-to-hold locations … it was as if a child had designed the layout.

Given the background data, it didn't seem a likely layout for a man of Darius's supposed experience.

The storage containers, scorched on the sides, looked more suspicious than the alleged positions, as if the original shipping labels had been lasered off. His nanotech receptors were detecting minor levels of signal output; the original owner's efforts had been thorough, but ultimately insufficient. That means nanotech scrubbers … expensive, and nominally far out of the financial range of a pirate like Darius.

Inside, the anteroom – which looked exactly like a warehouse – wasn't much better. At least there were walls and a scrubber, better than meeting out in the toxic atmosphere.

"So, the vaunted Alliance diplomat finally arrives." Arrogance practically steamed off the man's voice, emanating in a putrid stench.

Shepard didn't respond. The weight of the ancient weapon made a reassuring presence on the small of his back, under the armor plates. A similar pressure on his side, replacing his normal second handgun, kept him aware of the weapon that while newer – was of a design older than Wrex. Both had waited for him, waiting for the right time to draw blood once more. Just in case, one sample of a beautifully complex weapon existed in his belt, the rest missing, but en-route. Some things were just too valuable to have on hand.

The fool on the balcony would learn. Or perhaps not; either method would suffice.

"I'm disappointed," Darius's continued. His body language reeked of conceit; arms folded, feet solidly planted at shoulder width. "I was expecting an actual negotiator, not one of the Alliance lapdogs. Tell me boy, will you get a nice chew toy if I like what you offer?"

Shepard smiled the special grin he saved for special occasions.

"The Alliance gave me this territory years ago, boy." the man seemed intent on getting a reaction. "You see this gun? It's an Alliance gun. Your Alliance needed me, set me up with everything I needed. Now they want to forget our partnership?"

There was something wrong with the man's statement; how the shoulders quivered, and the fingers worked. The crates Shepard had passed, while entering the stronghold had looked … familiar … as well. Might as well put out a sign and say: "I'm a traitor!"

"Darius," he began.

"Lord Darius!" the other man insisted, "Treat me with the respect I deserve!"

Both of Shepard's eyebrows went up; the task was becoming more enjoyable all the time. "Lord then. King. Emperor if you wish. Let's skip the formalities; I'm here because it's been claimed you've been raiding eezo miners. In the interest of peaceful resolution, what will it take to make you stop?"

Incredulous sounds came from Wrex at his back, and Ashley's heavily armored form. He widened his grin; was he actually smiling these days? Ever since he'd picked up that asari archaeologist, it seemed as if he'd smiled more often … how odd.

"Are you accusing me of raiding human colonies?" Darius's incredulous laughter bounced off the high ceiling. "The Alliance set me up to counter Hegemony forces. Do you take me for some kind of fool?"

Shepard rolled his eyes; hiding the action. Then he stopped; why should he keep the motion secret? The face paint, what he'd worn during his campaign in the Verge, needed some publicity anyway. His fingers twitched inside the gloves; the most relevant hand signal for 'Hostiles Danger Close.' Near enough to what was about to happen.

Time to put on the drama. He stiffened, simulating an irritated stare at the highly placed man.

"The question you should be asking is: 'who am I?'" Shepard waited a heartbeat, then two, smiling as he did. Just before Darius responded, he raised one hand, depressing the seal on his helmet. The ferro-ceramic plates loosened, releasing their annoyingly tight pressure on his ears, letting the lower jaw protection hang for a moment. Lifting the top portion one-handed was tricky, and looked impressive. Red, glowing contacts in his eyes, imitations of the near-mythical crimson look batarians feared – glared up at them. The mnemonic of an old warlord he'd encountered helped solidify the image; a man, tired of small problems and willing to crush anything in his path.

It wasn't too far from the truth.

The humans on the upper floor seemed unimpressed. On the other hand, one of the two krogan was shuffling, prompting yet another evil smile on Shepard's part. Beyond that, now that his helmet was off, he could hear low cursing emanating from the back, well behind Darius.

Tipping his head to the right, Shepard smacked the side of a container with one armored boot. "I'm the one that happened to bring a krogan Battlemaster and Alliance power armor. I'm the negotiator with ten years of experience killing pirates in the Verge." He lowered his head, giving a significant look at the crates resting on either side. "I'm the one that can smell Hegemony shipping fifty parsecs away, upwind. Now, I'll ask you again," He shifted again, letting an impatient glare free in the arrogant pirate's direction. "What is your price?"

To his credit, Darius seemed entirely indifferent. "I have all the cards, Commander; you have the Dead Man's Hand. Your ship can't hurt me; there are eezo crates all over this warehouse. Take me down, and you'll lose a year's worth of product." Muscles in the pirate's forearms bulged as he leaned forwards, and placed both hands on the railing. "Attack, and any agreement with the Alliance is over. Here's my price: I want your ship. I want your crew. Give me that, and I'll be a nightmare to the Hegemony."

Shepard caught the muffled noise of outrage, either from over a comm device or in person … the tiniest amount of reverberation tilted his opinion towards the latter. That brought a smile to his face; he loved being right. "Your loyalty heartens me, Darius. My final question: which master will you serve? The Alliance, or the Hegemony?"

Even Shepard couldn't mistake the sudden cessation of movement on Darius's expression. "Choose your words carefully, little Commander. Your audience is almost over."

A faint vibration in Shepard's glove gave him the signal for which he'd been waiting. Confirmation appeared in the form of a miniscule crimson dot, appearing on Darius's forehead. Hah.

"I've changed my mind," he raised both arms across his chest. "If this is my hand, I have two good pairs. No more negotiations. No more deals. Surrender, or else."

To his pleasure, the other man started laughing, as if treating the entire experience to be a massive joke. While distracted, Shepard double-clicked his omni-tool. One second later, lightning flashed across Darius's form, erasing his shields and thunder filled the warehouse, cracking twice in rapid succession.

Slowly, almost comically, Darius fell backwards out of sight. The krogan flanking him looked down, then back to Shepard, then at each other; their human companions fading back. Before they could react further, the grenade launchers on Ashley's Menelaus platform spat their payloads in rapid-fire succession, obliterating the passive defenses in a fraction of a second.

"Shepard here: We are go. Principle is down, repeat: principle is down." Shepard took his helmet and stashed it at his waist; the performance would be much more believable if he didn't wear it. "All hear this: there is at least one batarian somewhere here, likely near the back door. Let me know when you find him."

"You want 'em alive?" He couldn't identify who it was; part of the reason radio protocols existed … but chose to let it go.

"If he falls into your laps, giftwrapped and ready for Christmas, sure. Otherwise, no. Am I understood?"

A chorus of affirmative grunts came back through. A thought came to mind, Remember to thank them. "Garrus and Tali, good work on the shock."

An amused quarian voice responded first, "Next time you want me to take down shields, you could just say please."

He shrugged, "Where's the fun in that?" Then winced. That sounded pathetic. Never mind, back to work.

To one side Wrex growled something that sounded smug. Shepard noticed the tell-tale wisps of Dark Energy building around the krogan's form. The krogan thundered forwards, smashing through a pair of human defenders as if they were weightless; then used point-blank shotgun blasts put them back down. Increased his own mass and kept running. Impressive control.

The boom of Garrus's rifle filled the warehouse, followed by the anguished scream of some unfortunate soul. A quick follow-up shot ended the noise. "Sorry, he moved. Still counts."

Shepard ignored it, hunting for the elusive man – batarian rather – that had been hiding behind Darius. His squad had most of the angles covered; Wrex and Ashley systematically combing through the ground floor, while Garrus and Kaidan covered each other in a leapfrog advance. He touched his comm; "Headed upstairs, CQC expected."

"Roger that Shepard," Ashley's voice responded. "Need backup?"

"Negative," the day he needed help taking on a band of half-rate freebooters was the day he'd hang up his guns. "I have them."

"Right Skipper. Just holler if you need help."


Upper Balcony, Plutus System

Shepard kept an eye on his visor's HUD. Three red dots marked potential foes, each angled in his direction – the head of the stairs.

A little shock and awe should do the trick. He keyed up two programs on his omni-tool, releasing them in short order. A smoke grenade popped from the underarm launcher, landing in the center of the room, past the uppermost step. Just after it left his arm, a dedicated EMP jammer started broadcasting. Nothing else on the tool could be used so long as it was active, but at the same time no external sensor suite within fifteen meters could work. Since the program's output scaled upwards at a measured rate, it had the additional benefit of making sensors fail at an equal rate. Fear worked so much better when the imagination had time to work. The only thing left was a bit of acting.

Terror. Chaos. Servants of a higher goal.

["I smell your fear."] The words came easily to him, picked up by the chin-mike his visor carried, and re-broadcasted on an almost subsonic level. The language too, was important: harking back to a more formal era, when magic was feared and demons shunned. ["You cower in the dark, praying for salvation. But the only thing coming for you – is myself."]

He ascended the last few steps, sidestepping into the smoke cloud, along the wall. ["I know you hear me djalë, your heart is calling my name."] (1)

A scoffing noise emanated from the far side of the room. ["You do not scare me, human. Your deceit will not win you this day."]

Shepard smiled; a formal response meant he was getting far deeper into the batarian's head than what would seem. He checked his peripherals, noting another human and a pair of batarians crouching towards him. ["I hear you … and your friends. Or not-friends? It matters not …."] Word play amused him, especially in multiple languages.

Silently, he drew the blade from its resting place. Its length would have reflected light within the smoke cloud, had its compressed-steel blade not been coated in a matte polymer. Two heartbeats was all he needed before the vicious point went through the human's thoracic plate. The crunching sound of breaking ceramics almost overshadowed the pained, gurgling gasp.

["One less now,"] On velvet feet, Shepard snuck to one side, evading the searchlights headed his way. ["Two more, and your soul is mine."]

A gunshot, poorly aimed, made the smoke curl around the crates on the far side of the room. Thanks to the unique properties of the wavelength Shepard was using, he couldn't be easily tracked by voice alone. It was a process derived from the feline predators in the Indian subcontinent, by men far wiser than he.

["Show yourself!"] Another shot, this time from a shotgun, scattered the remains of a small crate, likely knocked over in the earliest stages of the firefight.

His blade made the smallest of whisperings through the air as it met the first batarian's neck. It made one clean cut, placed just between the pauldron's upper portion and the helmet's lower protective surface, severing the nerve cluster connecting the spine to the cranium. The only indication was a wordless scream, and the somehow terrifying noise of a body collapsing.

["Two dead, and one soul between you and I."] Shepard –still being as quiet as possible – had to duck, infrared just barely giving him enough warning as the second batarian charged positions. The ultimate target, another batarian hidden behind the far side of a massive armored barrier, sprayed fire over the edge. None hit through the smoke, of course, but the noise blocked the sound of the last soldier choking under his garrote.

Shepard smirked. He felt no joy in killing; never had, and hopefully never would. But defeating an opponent, and protecting those who couldn't fight back … there was an addiction he could live with.

Backing up, taking short strides to minimize noise, he reached the edge of the smoke cloud, and started skirting its edge. An explosion from the cloud startled him, but didn't deter his path.

["This is the famed Nar'Sheth?"] the batarian's voice dripped condescendingly. Another explosion threw shrapnel into the cloud. ["You're just a human that kills."]

Step by step, Shepard neared his goal, the batarian's back. His dark form reared back, reflective patches glinting faintly in the poor lighting, side arming another grenade. ["Speak, damn you! Where are you?"]

The opening appealed too much to his sense of drama, despite the warning vibration on his omni-tool; the power cycle was about to deplete. He considered for a moment, before moving to the batarians left, approaching to within an arm's length. He ran his voice down to the floorboards, the rumbling sepulchral tones of the Underworld. ["Here."]

He was almost surprised by the speed with which the alien attacked. The raised gun was only a distraction, as the off-hand's omni-tool was powered up and delivering the motions for an Enforcer-style punch. Almost, but not quite. What he hadn't been expecting was the follow-up reverse swipe, delivered with the quickness of a striking snake.

Shepard lunged back, knocking the gun barrel away. It flew aside, disregarded by both of them. For the first time, he could see his opponent in full lighting; obsidian black armor, gold highlights on the shoulders, no insignia. Standard hardware for non-official Hegemony operations – no one could reliably trace a single aspect. But under both left eyes, he could see a black diamond tattoo. Each tiny shape outlined in a blue iridescent sheen. Anya and Seku, Faith and Confidence.

Rarely seen, but among the deadliest in the galaxy. Na'Hesith. Elite black-ops servicemen of the Hegemony, feared for brutality, renowned for accomplishing their goal no matter what.

He tried to bring his own gun into line, but the other man moved too quickly, black fire curling along his limbs, reducing mass, accelerating movement speed. Even better; a biotic SIU.

In a single instant, Shepard brought his own specialized armor online. The combat system activated eezo nodes buried along precision-embedded circuits. He didn't look after the gun, now on the floor some distance away. Ghostly white luminescence of his own artificial biotics flared into being. The biotic division of the Na'Hesit were the whole reason why Nightstalker armor had been developed; since forcing pregnant women to ingest lethal quantities of element zero was morally out of the question.

Ducking a flurry of blows, Shepard answered with a responding salvo, mass-effecting nodules activating to lend weight. Key flaws, inherent to both platforms held the balance of power; the immobile nature of the batarian's heavy armor, and the lesser protection Shepard's lighter set provided.

He's fast, very fast. Shepard ducked again, blocking. Each blow felt like a mass-increased hammer struck his forearms. The return blows had to feel similar, but the batarian didn't flinch.

It soon became a dance, Shepard continuing his solid attacks, alternating with lightning-quick reflex strikes. Biotics tended to conserve their power, doling it out on infrequent basis. Very powerful members of that order tended to overpower their initial attacks before fading into a more deceptive style. Less powerful biotics tended to enhance themselves, changing the battlefield at every move.

This man was overpowering every attack, delivering body shots that would stave an unprepared rib cage. And they weren't slowing down.

Shepard caught the tell-tale pseudo-motion. Reacting, he reduced his own mass, leaping skyward, dodging a powerful Shockwave. On the way down he increased his mass, sticking the landing with enough force to dent the plating; massive enough to take the point-blank Enforcer-style punch without flinching.

The shockwave continued behind him, blasting through a retaining wall before finally dissipating. A faint breeze, courtesy of the punctured barrier began wisping off the last few shreds of smoke. Its sheer destructive nature surprised him. Top line biotic … I didn't think even a Matriarch could power through a shield-wall that casually … his eyes widened fractionally. One of the Glory … Lord save me.

A second shockwave, even more powerful than the first roared into his path. This time, Shepard pushed as much power into his shields as their capacitors would allow, doubling the protection by increasing his mass.

It crashed into him with the force of a dozen krogan, shields shattering under the force, knocking him off balance. As the effects faded, Shepard exploded into action, wrist mnemonics activating a Warp emanation around his fist. At the same time he started tossing low-grade Stasis fields, tagging enemy limbs with each throw.

["Coward!"] his foe powered through the Stasis fields as if they weren't there. For the first time, Shepard started to wonder if he was outmatched. ["Foul li-tan! A year I have hunted you, and now – NOW – you show your face?"]

Another blow struck Shepard, mid-chest plate. He rocketed back, smashing into the wall segregating the rest of the warehouse from the room proper. Another biotic attack hefted him off his feet, smashing into a crate of Red Sand. It detonated, enveloping him in a cloud of chemically induced euphoria.

With a roar he blew out of the smoke, racing forwards with lowered mass for greater velocity. He met the specialist with a biotic-assisted punch, Warp-coated fist first. The mild Stasis field made contact with the unstable biotic field around his attack, resulting in an explosion distorting standard physics. The resultant detonation lowered the batarian's mass while maintaining the strength of Shepard's attack, sending the Glory into the far wall.

Taking advantaging of the respite, Shepard scanned the ground. His blade lay on the floor where it had been dropped, easily grabbed and sheathed in one motion, eyes open. Sending the batarian super-soldier across the room felt satisfying. It even looked impressive, but the end result lacked … damage. Less mass did not conserve momentum. Have to hit harder then.

The impact came from nowhere; he was lifted, frozen and then thrown within fractions of a second. ["Always you pluck the ripest fruit!"] the batarian's accent placed him as a middle-caste, one of the Fshatur. The most fanatical devotees generally came from lower stock; converts were the most devoted after all. ["Always you prey on the worthy! Enough!"]

Shepard tucked and rolled, landing on his feet. No more holding back. Once more he gave himself over to the dance, clumsiness a virtue. Stumbling hurt, but controlled awkwardness added another dimension, another level of difficulty to interpret. But, despite his years of training, he was slowly being overwhelmed. He was more efficient; using a single motion to block two, or a step to avoid a furious salvo. In time, efficiency trumped emotion – skill the ultimate answer to power – but only if time allowed.

This batarian wasn't slowing down. Each strike came full-force, every recovery accomplished as if pain were nothing.

Of course,you idiot! Shepard weaved through another pass, deflecting the worst with a forearm guard. Information returned to his mind. One of the SIU elites, the Glory division. Two or three-year lifespan after augmentation. But so much power before then ….

Somehow, the realization didn't affect him. Emotion, both not his own and yet more himself than possible. Contempt, for the four-eyed traitor. Anger, at being overwhelmed. Overall, a supreme indifference, the entire situation beneath him … and acceptance that sometimes the strongest fell to the weak. If he were honest with himself, it was the death he would have chosen.

Shepard withstood another attack to the side of his face, shrugging it off. The absurdity of it all had more impact than the hit – two insanely powerful warriors, throwing each other across the room like titans of lore. Perhaps, he thought, more like demigods, powers beyond the ken of mortal man.

A crate flew at his head, easily evaded. The follow-up exchange left him nursing a bruised face, and a stinging left hand. Or maybe, like two chimpanzees, squabbling over the same coconut. The comparison drew an involuntary guffaw; surprising him. It started again, a mocking, cruel sound of derision, completely out of character. Something he couldn't stop – somehow he approved, but had no control. He reveled in the laughter, a gleeful happiness that burned, rather than buoyed.

Without warning, the emotion suddenly shifted to rage. To think, he would die at the hands of a pedestrian threat like this?

Where did that come from? A wildly thrown haymaker came his way, met by a mass-enhanced counterpunch. Suddenly, his field of vision was filled with a demonic visage. Hellooooo ugly. No, bad. Unhelpful thought. Try something useful.

["Die."] Crushing weight connected with the side of Shepard's face. He increased his mass as much as possible, directing most of it to his head. The batarian kneeling on his chest reared back, punching again and again, energy increasing with every strike.

Shepard squirmed, bucking his hips, trying to throw off the batarian, the armor relaying mass-shifts through every capacitor available. The energy inherent in his actions would have toppled a rhinoceros, but mass-enhanced muscles were more than enough to keep him down. Worse, the power needed to protect his head drew energy from the areas currently being crushed.

Just as black dots were dancing in front of his eyes, relief came. A bellowing roar, louder than what the quarian marine had exhibited, shattered the darkness.

Just barely conscious enough to see, Shepard felt more than saw Wrex slam into the batarian. Retaining enough presence of mind to scramble out of the way, he could not take his eyes off the pair.

Wrex had enough unenhanced mass to shrug off most attacks; the biotics at his command took that power and made it exponential. When the batarian struck, fist wreathed in biotic fire, Wrex crushed the hand with his own, and hammered his armored head-plate down. It drove the batarian to his knees, recovering just before the krogan repeated the action, sending the batarian crashing to the floor. There was just enough time for an enraged scream before an overcharged blast ended the fight.

Feeling ancient, Shepard rose to his feet. He ached, not the bone-crushing pain, just a tiring malaise. He nodded at the krogan, "Thanks. I needed that."

"Yeah."

Shepard swayed once or twice, but did not ask for aid, nor did the krogan offer it. "Know who he was?"

Wrex bared his teeth. "Dead."

Rolling his eyes, he tried again. "He was SIU. Who sent him? Why he was here?"

The krogan exhaled noisily. "Typical batarian woulda' been here for negotiation. Slaves, maybe. Experienced eezo miners are valuable. This fella," One tree stump-like leg nudged the fallen body, "Probably here for the same reason you are."

The body lay sprawled without any dignity; Shepard didn't feel any urge to fix that issue. Behind him, Wrex cleared his throat. "That an eezo suit?"

Shepard sighed; it had been a foregone conclusion that at least one secret would get out. "Yes. A secret to everybody though –"

"Yeah yeah," Wrex waved him off. "I know my contract. Kinda wondered, you felt like a biotic, but not when you were on the Normandy. Answers that."

His curiosity piqued, Shepard paused from examining the body. "You've seen this kind of thing before?"

A wide toothy grin met his gaze, "It's a secret to everybody."

As good as a yes then. "I see. You think they're any good?"

Large shoulders rolled in a shrug, "Good in a pinch, uh huh. Good as natural biotics, no. Always a step behind."

Shepard nodded. "Always been a problem. React, unless attacking. If I'd known one of the Glory was here," one boot toed the fallen batarian's shoulder, "I would have suggested orbital bombardment. Eezo stockpiles or no." Reacting to an earlier thought, he started pawing at his utility pouches. A pity there had been only one ampoule. And that the subject was dead; a live carrier – an SIU Glory no less – could have given legendary results.

"Any advice for future exchanges?" Taking a blood sample would have to do. Genetic testing always yielded valuable information, even if not immediately useful.

Chuckles filled the room, "Don't go at him stupid like that again. Other than that, just like any other soldier. Bullet or knife will do it." Rust-red eyes gave him a shrewd look, catching a glint of reflective material. "What are you doing?"

Shepard stoppered the vial, tapping it to make the contents settle. Batarian blood lost oxygen in stressful situations, faster than most species. It made them dangerous assault combatants, but as they fought, they lost some of their color – this sample had certainly undergone that kind of stress. "Plans."

The ancient krogan gave him another long look, but subsided. "Right. Now what?"

"We check on the others, then head back to the Normandy." He gingerly felt the side of his head. Then … I report, and get checked out by Chakwas."

"Commander! Shepard, are you there?" A frantic voice broke the hitherto existing radio silence.

Shepard tapped his earpiece. "Shepard here. Report."

"Sir, we just found a … jail, or something. Sir, it's full of people."

He exchanged a look with Wrex. "Back to the Normandy, after this."


Now and again, Shepard was reminded of why he hated slavers. Intellectually, their trade was an extension of the fallen universe in which he resided; a symptom of a deeper underlying problem. An objective individual would also consider the nature of slavers in light of their environment, the ancient 'nature vs nurture' disagreement.

At the moment, though, he felt neither intellectual nor objective.

"Kaidan, get a medical team from the Normandy, ASAP." The younger man instantly turned away, hand to the side of his helmet. For once, there was no cheerful smile; no pithy advice, or comforting words.

Shepard understood. Underneath the warehouse, in the most secure place pirates could imagine, nearly fifty prisoners waited for medical attention. Some were too far gone, mentally or physically for his efforts. But some could be saved.

Gently, he moved to the side of an older man. Coveralls, calloused hands. Pattern of a miner, but callouses under left side of the jaw, a musician as well. Small, sure movements, calculated to minimize jostling helped move the groaning figure on his side. Bruised wrists, contusions all over side of the face … tied and beaten. Not too badly though.

The woman nearby however, was shivering violently, curled into a fetal position. Torn shirt, blood under fingernails, cold rage, the old companion, grew. Imprint of a hand on her face; she resisted. Was punished for it. Nothing I can do for her. Shepard opened one of his pouches, removing an emergency thermal blanket. Its compact folds opened more than enough to envelope her entire form, although the terrified whimpers at his touch nearly broke his heart.

Backing away, he tapped his earpiece, "Tali, could you come down and help? Some of the … prisoners … may respond to you better than me." Female, and visually similar to nuns. May be atheists, but … he gave a sober look across the entirety of the floor. No atheists in a foxhole.

Her confused voice responded with gratifying speed. "On my way Commander. We captured four of them; Garrus and Wrex are watching for now. Did you want to talk to them?"

Prisoners. He didn't realize how tightly he was clenching his hands until the biotic trigger beeped a warning. "Thank you Tali, I would very much like to speak with them."

Waiting for the quarian took only a few minutes, during which Shepard did his best to comfort the former prisoners – except for the women who screamed when he approached. When Tali did arrive, it was to see the normally stoic N7 embracing an older woman as she in turn held a crumpled body, weeping. Despite his best efforts, Shepard was unable to keep tears of his own from trickling out. Once.

He met her eyes, hidden though they were behind reflective visor. "Her son. If we'd arrived a few hours earlier …." Shaking his head, he gently released the woman. "Still too late. Do what you can; some of them have been through a very hard time."

Wordlessly, the quarian stepped aside, letting him pass. He lay one hand on her shoulder, putting as much emotion into the touch as he dared. "Thank you, Tali'Zorah. I will not forget your kindness."

Continuing, his way upwards, he fought down the urge to rampage through the floors, tearing everything apart in his anger. Cold is better than hot; the worst terror lies within. Make them feel it.

When he finally reached the door, he found the two aliens watching the door, Ashley standing further back in a watchful stance. "Vakarian, you know interrogation?"

The turian flared his mandibles, giving the spikes atop his head a brief shake. "I'm pretty good at it in C-Sec," he said. "Not that they let me do too much out in the Precinct."

Shepard took in the statement, parsing its vagueness. "You play good cop?"

Mandibles flared again, quivering, then drooped, indicative of optimism. "Good enough."

"Right," Shepard turned to the Menelaus wielding figure. "Ashley, did you see the people downstairs?"

The massive shoulders shifted, lowering like an angry bull. "Yessir. You gonna' mess them up?"

He gave her a half-smile. "I never torture, Williams." He waited a half-moment, just enough time for the gunnery-chief to begin sputtering apologies before continuing. "But, I won't shield slavers from the consequence of their actions, yes?"

Both rotary carbines under Ashley's clenching fists rattled in their housing. "I don't get it, at least right now. But I'm learning. Orders?"

Shepard smiled, showing his teeth. "Blunt honesty. Very good. I want you to stand in front of that doorway," he sketched an imaginary line two paces away from her current position, "and shoot anyone you don't recognize."

Without hesitation, Ashley stumped to the new point, and settled the armor into its lockdown mode. Ferro-ceramics rotated in place, holding a semi-crouched position that would have been extremely uncomfortable, if it weren't for the powered aspect holding everything together. Both guns lowered, focused their latent fury on the doorway. "Got it Skipper."

"Good."

Settling his shoulders, Shepard let the pressure fall away from his mind, pushing it deeper into the lesser recesses. Another bunch of punks. More fodder for the grist of war. The image of the people below, victims one and all paraded across his minds' eye. Any hesitation vanished.

Garrus was already ahead of him, tapping the glowing panel with just enough force to trigger the command. As the pre-fab materials began their slow grind, he glanced back at Shepard and shuffled to one side.

Taking the hint, Shepard barged forwards, seizing the opening frame with one hand and shoving. It shrieked in protest, the sudden movement shaking its breadth against the wall in a shuddering boom. He brushed past, letting one arm clatter, as if too hurried – or angry – to notice.

Inside, he quickly spotted four bound men lay against the far wall. Kaidan Alenko stood by the near side; an excellent position. Shepard took fast, angry steps across the polished stone floor. Three humans, one batarian, all probably ignorant, but not wasted.

Garrus hurried in behind, keeping his body language more open than Shepard's. "Commander," he called, "We agreed to do this together!"

A smile tried to escape, but he quelled it. "We're interrogating them now turian," he growled without turning. "Those fools in Command might think you're in charge here, but I'm the one pulling the trigger. Got it?"

The detective caught up with him, playing along. "There's no need to execute them, Commander. We can drop them off at Ulysses, they have a dedicated base – "

Shepard pretended to ignore him, taking advantage of the moment to do a surreptitious examination. Of the three humans, two looked damaged, likely hurt in combat. The third seemed hale and hearty, as did the batarian. The last one received a closer inspection. No sign of torture, good. Low-ranking, possibly useful. The concept of their not being useful crossed his mind; it slipped off. Slavers get the maximum penalty. Lesson to others, or information on others. No wasted resources.

The batarian was watching him very carefully, Shepard noticed. Almost surgically precise in his movements. A trait of his species.

Feigning casualness he didn't feel, Shepard reached behind his back, grasping the stock of his father's sidearm. Its weight pulled down on his hand, assuming a naturally upright position. He gave the four men a devil's grin, and placed the ancient weapon on a table. It made a dry, scraping noise as it slid. He kept his eyes on the weapon for a moment, admiring its classic lines before lifting his head.

"I am Commander Shepard, perhaps better known to you as Nar'Sheth." Of the four, only the batarian reacted. A very, very, tiny motion, but Shepard caught it. "You four, are here because I allow you to live. The slaves in the basement, the illegal drugs, the weapons … those are just the bare edge of the asteroid. I will give you one chance to answer; no second chances."

Garrus moved forward, projecting a regretful air. "Unfortunately, my partner is right. You're in Alliance Space, and that means Council Law is secondary here … although I am sure the Council would greatly appreciate anyone the Alliance is willing to hand over." He gave Shepard a friendly grin, and turned back to the prisoners. "Now, I think this might be all a big misunderstanding, so if you could help me figure this out, you can get back to your business as soon as possible. All right?"

Shepard tuned out the detective's patter. He was obviously skilled, emphasizing how sorry he was about the entire situation, deftly warping the edges of their crimes into a veneer of their current standings.

For his own part, there was another task to accomplish. Prowling.

Properly intimidating a subject required multiple variables to be met. A fearsome reputation helped, but could only work on what the subjects saw and heard. So, the slow walk around the edges of the room, only to stop in a dark corner. Stand partially in the light, what isn't seen adds fear. Should I? Or shouldn't I? Long fingers tapped the syringe still lying in his belt. Not a Glory, or even special forces … but self-controlled, well-trained. A pad-pusher then, minor combat training.

A hint of savage glee roiled in his gut. Good. All the better.

"Are you sure?" The turian stopped short, feigning remorse. "Oh, I'm sorry. Of course you're right, let me write that down."

From Shepard's vantage point, he could see Garrus give a convincingly sympathetic nod, tapping down more information. The detective had already mastered two of the four, pulling more information from their unresisting minds than he could have gotten in a week of effort – talent indeed. The batarian kept staring at him though, or more likely, at the temporary tattoos emblazoned on his forehead. Better night vision had advantages.

Stay in position. Do not move, as still as Death. Body language was almost as important to the batarians as it was to the quarians. Motionless bodies meant death. Unmoving eyes gave a psychological sensation of apex predators. Powerless … the thing no one wanted to feel, particularly slavers. Too much emotional baggage accompanied the feeling of helpless compliance; a career in kidnapping tended to do that.

"Good, I got it now … oh. I must have written it down wrong; could you repeat that second part?"

Slowly, Shepard began to show his teeth, ever so slightly tilting his head forwards. Moving again, this time around behind the restrained group, he let the soles of his boots clip against the floorplates with enough force to ensure his position was easily determined.

He came to a stop beside the batarian. One hand dipped into the hermetically sealed pouch, withdrawing a sterile needle. The other hand danced mid-air, unfolding his omni-tool into a new configuration, identical to the form it had taken earlier, with one minor addition. Not that anyone would notice.

"What … what's he doing?" One of the humans spoke up nervously.

For being unwarned, Garrus covered magnificently. "Oh, one of the blood tests we have to do on foreign nationals. You know how it is, all the innocence in the world and then the DNA test links him to a dozen murders. A pity they never thought to plead guilty beforehand, isn't it?"

There was a moment of silence, stretching as the thought bounced across various methods of thought.

Have to hand it to him, Shepard adjusted the micro-tip, locating a vein near the surface, I haven't seen the Prisoner's Dilemma worked out in a group setting. Metal sank into skin, drawing a gasp from the batarian. The sound appeared to prompt first one, then all three humans to begin talking. No one noticed a tiny stream of silver liquid trickle down the syringe's side, vanishing into the dark skin without a trace.

All at once.

Chaos.

Shepard felt a smile, an actual, legitimate smile, grow on his face. Watching orderly criminal activity fall into flames shouldn't be entertaining – their final fate would be life imprisoned at the minimum. Yet he still felt a warm euphoria flow through his veins, lightening the weight so heavy.

Looking down he found two sets of eyes, both belonging to the same person, looking up at him. They seemed resigned, as if knowing their fate already.

["You will live, djalë."] This time the word was not used in mockery. Sometimes, he just felt so much older than everyone around him … more so since Eden Prime. Since then, it felt as if he'd aged a millennia or more. ["In return for delaying my judgement, you will owe me a favor."]

Curiosity gleamed in the dark brown eyes. ["What would you have me do, Nar'Sheth?"] he asked. ["You own this base, the wealth of a dozen mines are in your hands."]

He kept his hands firm, but let a quiet edge of command slip into his voice. ["I know who sent your people here. I do not forget, Son-of-Blasfemues. You will deliver a message for me. To your family. Your superiors. Anyone who will listen."]

A chirp in his earpiece alerted Shepard to the completion of the task in hand. The needle slipped out, leaving a small pad of gauze to apply over the wound. Minute traces of medi-gel repaired the damage almost immediately. Shepard leaned still closer, watching the batarian wince at the heavy peppermint scent on his breath –alien physiology meant the race as a whole felt an almost extreme burning sensation at the scent.

["You will tell them Death is coming. Too long I have held my hand, too long did I wait for wisdom. No longer. By this time of Kar'Shan's next visit to this solar quadrant, I will have had my revenge. Entire houses will be destroyed, and could have been prevented. Do you understand?"]

All four eyes held pupils far too tiny for their size. ["I hear, and obey."]

["Good."] His honesty was conveyed through his tones. Wanting the slaver to live long enough to witness justice counted as wanting him to live. ["Rest. While you can."]

Shepard stepped back, returning the bloodied syringe to its holding place. In his own place, Garrus continued taking notes, asking questions and getting answers. But the batarian seemed incapable of speech … or at least, he never responded.

Quietly, Shepard returned to the wall, partially hidden by the shadows. His conversation, in one of the more common Hegemony dialects, likely remained unheard. No one would suspect. Few would care.

Just the way he liked it.

"Sir?" Ashley's voice caught him by surprise, just as he exited. His presence was no longer needed.

"Chief," He nodded at the woman. "You may stand down. Please inform the relief squad to prepare a shuttle for departure. One batarian pilot, no passengers."

The lockdown mode disengaged, raising her vantage point to a full half-meter above his head. "Sir? You're … letting him go?" Disbelief colored her words.

"Letting him go?" Shepard gave her the benefit of the doubt. "How little you know me. Have you read the classics? The Divine Comedy?"

The helmet nodded, an incongruous motion amidst the tools of destruction surrounding her frame. "I prefer Tennyson, but you know that from Therum, Sir."

"He believes he shall be free," Shepard made a half-turn, glancing back into the room. "I prefer the phrase: 'Hope not ever to see Heaven. I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice.' No, Chief. Sending him home is no kindness. You will understand soon enough."

"Yessir." She saluted, "You won't get in trouble for this?"

He surprised her by chuckling. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

Ashley nodded. "Alexander Pope. Glad to see the classics are still in use after all these years."

Shepard started to leave, but paused. "There's a reason they're classics. Some things never fade away. Even if forgotten."


(1) Djalë, batarian term referring to an untested youth. Sometimes used as a term of endearment of elder to younger, but never used by a lower class to a higher.


A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! Belated, yes; courtesy of a video project, the GRE and upcoming finals. To paraphrase someone I don't know: "This too shall pass, and so shall I."

Thanks to Nightstride for his tireless beta efforts.

Story suggestion: Quarian with a Shotgun, by Bofomania (Story ID: 8002657)

See ya down the lane!