"Shepard's brutality was not often seen. He hid his rage well, under a polite veneer. On the other hand, what man can rationally respond to threats he deems unfair, or extremely personal? Only a monster can truly feel nothing."

Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer

Project Ragnarök Files

"Give me everything you can, Doctor." Shepard didn't bother wiping at the dried tear trails crusted to the side of his face. Talitha had suffered far worse than mere humiliation. He could see scars on her knees, at the backs of her hands. Bruises, darker than a demon's heart roiled at the edges of her garments.

My fault. Shepard ached to comfort the little girl he'd once known. Bring back the beaming smile. Can't. Failed. Remember what happened, learn from it. Her scars are yours. Remember. Don't forget. Make. Them. Pay!

The doctor's normally cheerful demeanor was nowhere to be seen. She moved swift and sure, master of her kingdom, every movement efficient. One of the monitors at the bedside spiked periodically, in time with the patient's heartbeat. Alongside it a projection of the former slave's body floated, hovering in three dimensions above a tabletop. Chakwas' hand glowed inside the projection, tapping commands faster than even Shepard's battle-honed eye could track.

She pivoted, gesturing to the far side of the room. "I've completed only the initial readings for now. I am doing my best, and she is stable, but there is a lot of damage. Preliminary readings indicate excessive malnutrition, subdermal hematoma, hairline fractures – I'm sorry, Shepard. Healing will take time. Years, if not decades."

A vicious growl rumbled in Shepard's chest, death beating an insistent tempo deep in his soul. For a handful of heartbeats, the package Kaidan had retrieved, now secured behind more protections than the vaults deep under the volusian homeworld's crust called a siren song. Destruction, chaos, payment in full for every slave ever taken from a Human colony. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, willing the fury back into its cage. It balked, fighting back, conjuring every depraved scene slavers had invoked during his career, but obeyed at last.

"Tell me what you can." He kept his eyes closed, listening, but focusing on remaining calm.

Chakwas ignored his near-lapse, bending the full focus of her will to the task at hand. "Too much solar radiation damage, but testing won't be done for a few hours. Abrasions on knees and hands, dirt embedded. I have samples, extracting RNA will take hours. I've taken hair and skin samples; abdominal microflora will be next. Please Shepard," her elderly face turned compassionate. "I understand. Give me time; I have most of what I need, and I will send samples for analysis –"

"What do you need to do it here?" Shepard cut her off. The still, small form huddled under the thin sheet captivated his eyes; she was so fragile. Would she have lasted much longer without help?

The doctor's hands kept busy, continuing their work even as she spoke. "Shepard, this is an infirmary, not a forensics lab."

"Then I'll make one." Shepard fired back. His omni-tool went up, "Give me a list of equipment, and it'll be installed within the hour."

For once, Chakwas stopped. She stared. "Commander, you are talking about millions of credits worth of equipment. Easily five million for the beta-radiation scanner alone. The Normandy is a frigate, not a carrier. You may have the resources, but we just don't have the space. Even if we did, I'd need staff, mainframe time …."

Another small growl emitted from Shepard's chest, memories not his own clawing to jump out – small figures twitching in pain. His omni-tool flickered, shutting down seconds later. "I've transferred ten times that to an operations fund. If you need experts, tell me. Equipment. Information. Tell me. Meanwhile …" his hand drifted lower, just the very ends of his fingertips brushing against Talitha's shaved head. "Help her. I failed her, Karin. I failed her family. I won't fail them. Not again."

"I'll do what I can," Chakwas closed her omni-tool. "But the Embassy should have space. I have a few friends with the qualifications, they'll help if I ask."

She waited until he finally gave a sober nod, then stalked out the door, fingers aready back on the task. A gesture summoned Pressley to his side, from where the man had waited. "Where's Wrex?"

The balding man kept pace with Shepard. "Specialist Wrex has not yet returned from his task."

Shoot, forgot about that. Next on the list. Shepard changed targets. "Sitrep."

"All away teams have reported success. Assets in ninety percent of former Spectre Arterius's recognized assets have been frozen," Pressley continued. His voice turned skeptical, just professional enough to avoid reasonable doubt. "C-Sec is cooperating; Detective Vakarian is helping in that regard. If I may say so, he appears to be gaining a great deal of amusement from the bargain."

"He would," Shepard froze; his brother. "I need to make a call. At present time, the Infirmary is on lockdown; no one inside or out except on Doctor Chakwas explicit consent. Make sure the Normandy is stocked up; weapons, food, everything for a prolonged mission. Four months minimum."

The balding man nodded; only the most martinet of officers would demand salutes at every interaction. "Understood, Commander. Should I assume you will be needing full security measures?"

Shepard gave him a cursory look, then shrugged one shoulder. "You know me too well."


The communication room walls closed in on his sight, without moving. Shepard took a deep breath, concentrating on the sensation of cold air entering his lungs. Ship-filtered air, purified of toxins, always comforted him. He could order the scrubbers to increase their rate, feeding a richer oxygen quotient into the ship – or reduce it. All of it obeyed his command, bent to his will.

Stupid Shepard. Thoughts floated past the back of his mind, ephemeral wisps from an erstwhile lifetime. It will never be enough. You failed. Again.

Snarling, Shepard shook the thoughts away. They'd intruded less and less, yet hovered in the dark recesses; lately, they'd been accompanied by monsters no human should have seen – and some not yet known. Anyone would go mad if dwelling upon it too much. "Vee-eye. Open message. Maximum encryption, one-shot file three-seven-liberty-seven-six."

The primitive processor whirred to life, acknowledging his order. Half a second later, the data screen flashed to life.

"Vee-eye, begin entry: Seven standard hours ago, a ten-five-seven was recovered on the Citadel, Dockyar – pause. Delete entry."

It was too cold; one of the greatest goals he'd ever set for himself had been achieved. A Magnum Opus deserved more. She deserved more.

Shepard took another breath, trying again. "Vee-eye, begin entry: As of thirteen-hundred hours Citadel Standard, Tabitha Hilsinger was positively identified after … pause. Delete." Too many words.

"James, I did it. I found her. Lily can relax now, I know she didn't mean what she said." Shepard pondered the tiny dots scrolling across the screen. No. Not again. Too many old wounds. Sometimes, there was such a thing as too much pain. Even if it were his. "Pause. Delete entry."

There was no simple way to say it, to adequately convey the emotion. He was no writer, he killed. Shadow-running a massive nano-technology company stretched the limits of his imagination, like red-hot metal across the anvil of his soul. Expressing the relief he felt, the sheer joy mixed with rage, discovering what had once been a vivacious little girl – how could anyone say what must be said?

Finally, Shepard lowered his head. "Vee-eye, begin entry: Found her. Vee-eye: end message. Send."

A tiny red flash blinked, the message away. Fractions of a second. Picowatts of electricity. And nearly two decades of mind-crushing effort vanished into the ether.


Once more in full armor, Shepard exited the Normandy, every inch the same man that had set foot on the Citadel four hours earlier – yet not the same. Every safety precaution he could think of, save one or two, he'd implemented. Chakwas had protested at purchasing blood-klevner drones, and outright refused to allow a full squad of turian mercenaries near the Infirmary. Not that he could blame her, after calming down.

Liara had apparently been impressed. Klevnar drones were an obscure branch of barely-legalized defense systems, created by the volus centuries before. Their status on the extreme end of Licensed Autonomous Hardware meant only criminals – or extremely wealthy – could use them.

"Sir, Teams Alpha through Delta are reporting in. Primary targets are locked in."

Shepard twiddled his fingers into the response code. Summoning an air-car at the same time took no effort at all despite the alien systems. Things had been getting easier in that regard, ever since the Beacon. "Good. Keep up the momentum. Transmit readiness status as able. Shepard out."

Travel through the twisting pipelines designated by Citadel Authority for passenger travel took … something. Not courage, Shepard mused. Perhaps sheer stupidity? Traffic patterns along congested routes forced thousands to wait in place, simultaneously directed to their own positions. He could detect patterns in the travel-lanes, routes that circumvented the more expensive towers and significant landmarks. The growing sense of – other – that had been foisted upon him agreed. Some of the changing directives appeared to have no sense whatsoever, unless the Relay statue on the Presidium had more meaning than thought. On the bright side, emergency transit received its own lane, and as a Spectre, he could requisition passage there.

The taxi hummed to a stop, door hissing open. For a moment, Shepard thought he saw one of the Keepers give a double-take at his arrival, but it was only a figment of the imagination.

Or was it?

Shepard studied the terrain. Flat metal plates covered the ground, ground he somehow knew contained tens of thousands of miles of data cables. It felt strange, like an ancient manor's walls had been raised over old hallways, staircases boarded over and pasted shut. For an even briefer moment, Shepard could detect non-standard energy seeping through the bulwarks; ghosting the locals called it. Officially it did not exist – nothing could be proven, relegating the phenomenon to urban legends and myths. Curious, he made a mental note to further investigate the matter, if he had time.

He stepped from the taxi, tipped the guidance automaton, and moved. Two blocks away, five levels down, the Citadel's proud skyline vanished from view. The Foundations, as it was known, held less savory views; walls, ceilings, and a common gray pall over everything. To a man raised under an open sky, it felt like the personal Underworld of an uninspired deity.

Heavy boots rang against the decking; Wrex poking his head out. The krogan pulled back, making no unnecessary movements. Professional.

Shepard joined him a moment later. The body of a human male, dressed in traditional Council prison colors, lay stretched on the ground.

"Good work. Your pay." Shepard held out his omni-tool, account information poised.

Wrex's oversized hand met him halfway, mini-computers sensing each other, reacting in transfer calculations. "Done. Pleasure. See you on board."

Shepard nodded his thanks. Anything the old krogan saw, could be interrogated. What Wrex suspected was inadmissible in nigh any court of law.

The tiny needle, saved for just an occasion as this, looked even smaller in his gauntlet. Its tip pricked the prone man's neck, leaving a bloodless mark on his skin. Seconds later, the figure spasmed, faint grunting noises coming from the direction of its mouth.

Shepard's boot flipped the man over, showing the still-young face. He studied the fallen man, noting every line and curve, the tinge of gray in the once-dark hair, strong signs of powerful drug usage.

"Harold Fist, also known as John Wright. You have been judged by a panel of your peers, and found guilty on the charges of: three hundred counts of slave-dealing, one-hundred and fifteen counts of prostitution, operating an illegal gambling parlor, a thousand counts on drug trafficking, four-hundred and fifty counts of human-trafficking …." Shepard read down the list, itemizing each point.

No one would care, but it was the law. Skirting the legal edges, true, but lawful all the same. Even if the man had been a contact for the Shadow Broker. Shepard was surprised that the man had survived this long.

"The sentence reached by the Human System's Alliance is: immediate execution. The Quarian Flotilla's judgement is: immediate execution. The Batarian Hegemony sentence is: a life of ease."

The prone figure almost twitched. Shepard smiled down, a cruel grin perfected by time and talent. "Fortunately, you are in the custody of an En-Seven Plus representative of the Human Systems Alliance. By the authority invested in me by the Executive Division of the Systems Alliance, and by the permission of the Mindoir Governing Council, I hereby grant you death. May God have mercy on your soul."

A quick flip of the wrist sent a motion-activated mine into a nearby Keeper tunnel. Shepard seized a handful of the criminal's tunic, and dragged the man along the floor, heels dragging. "I'd tell you I take no pleasure in this, but my mother taught me to tell the truth. Most of the time."

The paralyzed Fist crashed into the metal floor plates before the Keeper tunnel, head bouncing, out of control. "This is your method of execution, Harold Fist. The Aisalisk venom paralyzes you, but lets you feel everything. Then we have Keeper tunnels, and motion detector mines. When a Keeper comes down this way, it'll set off the mine; acid will kill you. Maybe fast, maybe slow. The next Keeper will remove you to the Vats."

He shoved, pushing the man headfirst into the waist-high tunnel. "Think on your crimes, Fist. How many women did you sell to slavers? How many cages did you lock away? This is your cage. A pity you can only die once."

A planter, filled with alien greenery and pushed with the strength of a combat-hardened back, covered the Keeper tunnel nicely. A little judicious work with a common-place turian blade, loosened a metal plate, dangling it over the side – repair-bait for a Keeper. Retaining the services of that salarian scientist had paid dividends. Sometimes Shepard wondered how much trouble Chorban and Jahleed would have gotten into with the Council, if his brother hadn't run into them first. Experimenting on Keepers was apparently one of the highest crimes on the Citadel – an evil in and of itself by Shepard's opinion.

Swift movement; speed without the appearance of haste, was his best friend. A human no longer attracted the attention they once did on the Citadel, but fear could be detected between multiple species. After Humanity had been introduced to the galaxy-at-large, it had only taken a decade or so to render them commonplace – and their body language known.

Moving, Shepard ignored an asari's attempt to gain his attention. Facial expressions he couldn't read, but the flirtatious species could send out signals a blind Keeper couldn't miss. Mostly commonplace, he amended. Full armor is not so easily ignored, perhaps.

Not three levels away, the omni-tool upon his wrist flashed. Not the demanding flares of military code, or a subtle encryption from the mysterious Emrys, but an insistent pattern that could only mean one sender: The Council.

Sighing, Shepard moved to a quieter wall, just to one side of the busy thoroughfare. Brushed poly-carbide paneling looked identical across the Citadel; only sound could give him away, and that was limited to the intake of his visor. He keyed the signal to flow through the eyepiece. "Shepard."

The visor projected an image to his open eye, creating the illusion of a fairly tall being, tridactyl hands and flexible movements immediately identifying as salarian. The iridescent blue figure barely glanced up. "The Council is issuing a summons for your presence in Conference Room Three-one-dash-seven-five-five. Report there immediately."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "I am currently engaged in an Council-approved operation a month in the making. Please clarify the urgency."

The blue-hued image paused. "The Council is summoning you. You will proceed to the Presidium immediately."

Without pause, Shepard cut the connection. In a heartbeat, he opened a new one. A passing Keeper caught his attention for a moment. Recollections of fangs, attached to the creature's underjaw pulsed through his mind. Now that he truly studied a Keeper's head, he could see faint grooves where such a thing could have once existed, similar to the indentation where cave-fish once had eyes. But now, courtesy of – something – he could easily visualize what the Keeper had once looked like, jaws and all.

The receiver clicked into action. "Shepard. I assume this is about the call I gave you. Last month."

Shepard bit back a response. "My apologies for the delay, Mister Blackstone. You received the paperwork I've sent you?"

"Indeed, or else I would have terminated our contract. Disrespectful. Rude."

He plowed onward. "I am in the middle of conducting an investigation on former Spectre—"

"Saren Arterius. Yes, yes. The entire Quadrant knows that; it's been on the news for weeks now. Pundits have been following your progress, pointing out mistakes they think you're making, making guesses on business strategies. Did you know one group has calculated your overall wealth based on how many candies you consume on camera? Creative concept, brilliant even, but stupid."

Shepard started to hold up a hand, twisting it across in the usual quarian fashion requesting silence, then stopped. Directing the feed through his visor meant only his face could be seen; a disadvantage to the omni-tool version. "I'm going after the geth."

The elder quarian didn't flinch. "Big frakking deal. Everyone's got an axe to grind for those metal bastards – pity it only took an attack on a human colony to get their collective butts in gear."

"And I wanted to contact the Admiralty, see if they wanted in on it." Shepard continued, in a dogged fashion.

"Admiral Koris is your best bet. He'll probably offer you his daughter as concubine to get a shot at the geth. I know Admiral Zorah would do the same, he's been defending you to the Ancestor's damned skies for weeks now. Improper for someone that doesn't even have a contract in place."

Shepard rocked back, surprised. "Wait – what?"

"Are humans as hard of hearing as they are disrespectful?" Blackstone's cowl shifted to a different angle. "It's an older custom, currently a bit out of fashion with the asari, but then so were arranged marriages until someone decided he didn't need legal counsel. Now that Tevos – Councilor, pardon my Batarian – is doing it, suddenly all the old ways are new again. Concubines were the latest thing about two centuries ago; just like they were five centuries before that. Very popular for quarians if the records are any indication."

Pain began to throb behind Shepard's eyes. He tried to massage it away with one gauntlet-covered hand. "Look, I'm going after Saren. He has geth with him. I also need to hire a Volus clan; can you get an introduction on Irune set up?"

Finally, the quarian seemed taken aback. His head clicked sideways, leaning forwards to examine Shepard's visage. "Volus you say … I assume you want them to examine Saren's Council holdings?"

Shepard clicked over to a large folder, setting up its encryption before sending it. "I'm on the Citadel right now, raiding his offices here. Any information I get will take a day or two to confirm, and I want volus support. They built the turian economy; heck, they built the Council economy. I need more than a few, and Saren's financial empire is getting support from a Matriarch. You know, some of the more powerful representatives of the Republics?"

"Yes, yes, Ancient of Days, Wisdom made flesh, the Goddess's Most Beloved and Attractive Gift to Males and all that." Blackstone pulled away from the lens. His arms became a blur, racing across his desk, doing something just out of Shepard's view. "I have a few contacts with the Predal clan. They're a bit on the outs with everyone else, but still have some political clout. Ambassador Din, I believe, is on the Citadel. Talk to him. But remember this: Don't. Sign. Any. Contracts."

For an aged, distant being, Blackstone could be quite intimidating. Shepard felt amused by the thought. "Alright. Any contracts I'll forward to you."

"As it should be." Blackstone sniffed. "Keelah'selai, Captain Karl Shep'ard."

"Commander." Shepard corrected absently. "Keelah Selai, Mister Blackstone."

Sighing, Shepard took a moment, just breathing. Time for pure reflection was rare, and only gaining value as it spilled through his fingers. How much more could be spent, before it all vanished?


Ambassador quarters, Shepard mused, is this the right place?

Brushed metal flooring, bare matching walls, and a pair of utilitarian desks seemed to be the room's only decorations. The Volus Embassy in Arcturus held far more cultural references, from odd statues of bulging armored warriors to intricate mosaics, installed on every wall. At the very least, the Embassy contained multiple rooms. Volus were businessmen, people that needed to encounter customers, hold meetings, store data. Perhaps the Council Volusian Embassy had outposts?

"Commander Shepard *Sst*" A small, rotund figure rose as Shepard entered the chamber. Or possibly he'd already been standing, and just straightened. Volus did not greatly change their height, standing or sitting. "*Sst* What brings you to my *Sst* humble office?"

"Patiently: Our office." A nearby elcor of dark colors, nearly four times the volus's mass, intoned.

The volus waved a hand in apology. "*Sst* Yes, apologies old friend. So, *Sst* how may we help you Commander Shepard?"

Shepard tried to not stare at the Spartan furnishings. The omni-tool on his wrist emitted a faint vibration, the result of repeated commands from the Council. He ignored them; there were more important things to accomplish. "Ambassador. May I assume you are Ambassador Din, of the Predal clan?"

The white helmet lifted proudly. "I am. *Sst* It is pleasant to see an Earth-Clan knowledgeable of Volusian heraldry. Or should I call you of Mindoir-Clan? I confess to not have much knowledge of your people's Heraldry."

"Mindoir-Clan will suffice," Shepard looked for a chair. Not finding one, he took a more relaxed stance, folding his arms behind his back. "If you do not mind, time is money. I have a business proposition for you."

The small alien's body-language shifted to a more professional manner. "*Sst* You have my attention. What profit shall we smell on the wind?"

Relaxing, or at least portraying the typical human-based symptoms of relaxation, Shepard keyed up a new program. It projected itself into the air, hovering between both of them. Technically, he should have requested the Elcor Ambassador to leave, reducing the chances of eavesdroppers. Confirming information reaching Saren's tympanic membranes would only help in the long run. The renegade turian would need to hurry, if he intended to save any of his financial empire – and yet hasty blows frequently went awry.

He focused. "I was introduced to Spectre Guerrier several days ago; he is taking an interest in former-Spectre Arterius's holdings. I wish to hire your clan to help with the investigation."

The rounded figure bobbled to one side. "A wise precaution. *Sst* Clan Predal has many quality investigators. I can send you our best within a few days."

Shepard shook his head. "You misunderstand. I wish to hire the Predal Clan. All of it. Investigators, soldiers, support. Everyone that has the clan insignia."

Respiration sounds stopped. For a full thirty seconds, Shepard could not hear the tell-tale sign of the Ambassador's breathing. Did I kill him? He's still standing, but the suit could be doing that for him. A VI program could make it fight even ….

*Sst*

Oh good. Didn't kill him; too many reports.

"Your pardon, Mindoir-Clan," the words came out tentatively. They tested the atmosphere, like spelunkers tip-toeing across a lava field under a mountain. "But I could have *Sst* sworn you asked to hire – my entire clan."

He showed his teeth; voluntary smiling still didn't work like it did for normal people. "I did."

This time the volus sank; seated on an ornate pedestal. "Impossible."

"I have precedent." Shepard extended an arm, offering the data. "Three separate Matriarchs, two Primarchs, and a number of Dalatresses have all hired a full Clan. The Council has frequently given tasks to the top five clans since the formation of the Volus Protectorate. In addition, in accordance to the Protectorate bylaws, the Volus are guaranteed the right to accept contracts, if the contract itself is in accordance to the Council Proliferation Asis, per statute C. 92-H2."

Din rocked in his chair. *Sst* "True, true. But the agreements are with Council races. The Alliance, although a respected trading partner, is not a member of the Council."

Shepard's natural wariness came into force. Haggling felt unnatural; two parties should be simple: lowest price, highest offer. Negotiating worked best when he held Mercy at the ready.

"It occurs to me," he mused aloud. "That financial opportunities are not limited to the Council. Opportunity costs would be prohibitively expensive, if such a limitation were active."

His omni-tool chimed insistently. Again. Once more Shepard ignored it.

"I have Council backing for investigating ex-Spectre Saren, and Spectre authority outside the – how shall I say it? – more civilized regions. Safety would be paramount, of course, on top of compensation for services rendered."

The little volus emanated approval. That sense of approval became an aura of nervousness, as an orange glow filled its omni-tool screen. He looked back at Shepard, cocking his head to one side as the tell-tale light continued to flare along the suit's glove. It collapsed at the touch of a metal claw.

"*Sst* Agreed." Din tapped the metal tines together, clinking pleasantly. "Unfortunately, you may have other things to do – the Council has requested I expedite our business. Perhaps if you come back later, we may *Sst* achieve mutual profit."

Shepard refrained from grinding his teeth. Barely. "Very well. I will send you my personal contact information. Please also speak with my legal representative; Blackstone vas'Mindoir.

The volus bowed, respectfully. "Thank you. A word of advice? Do not antagonize your guide. She can be – volatile."

Guide? Shepard cocked an eyebrow.

Pinging sounds came from the door, requesting immediate entrance. Who could that – the door opened.

Ah.

A statuesque asari filled the doorframe; average in height but clad in form-fitting armor. Her face wavered just out of focus, as normal. Shepard didn't need to see her face to understand her irritation; it was obvious in her arms, tense and flexed for action. Her legs too gave it away, slightly parted while straight as possible – it added height to the individual, ancient reflexes that seemed to cross species.

Shepard deliberately ignored her after his once-over, and turned to the ambassador, exposing his back to the asari. "If you have need of any further information, I will be glad to provide it. If I may further intrude on your goodwill, could you recommend a reputable medical forensics manufacturer? On the Citadel, of course."

Full-body suits hid most of the tell-tale indicators, but the constant clicking of claws betrayed innate nerves. "Indeed *Sst* I will forward my suggestions to you. If there is nothing else …?"

Shepard bobbed the human-sized equivalent to the Volusian Old-High bow, and headed for the door.

"Commander," the waiting asari slipped an arm under his elbow, exerting mild pressure. Judging by the streak of white on her otherwise blurred face, she hadn't stopped smiling. "Councilor Tevos sent me. She needs to talk to you as soon as possible."

Shepard spent a brief moment, considering yanking his arm free. Her carriage suggested multiple martial arts however, possibly one he did not know; and her face had yet to be identified via an ever-helpful program his visor used. That required consideration.

Logic dictates if she was a common visitor to the Citadel, her face should be known. They turned towards a taxi stand, less than fifty meters away. Granted, asari make up the highest volume of tourists; can't store every face. Too many variables … unless one of the remote servers has it.

That made him think. Data collection had progressed by leaps and bounds since First Contact. He had literally millions of facial patterns encoded within his visor. Most were related to the Traverse, but a short list of the most powerful asari were on file as well. Perhaps more processing power needed to be added to the standard armaments; it would improve many things exponentially. Until then, he'd have to use a secure link to check. Even if it took longer.


"Commander, we have a report for you."

Shepard gave a polite smile to the asari – whom he still didn't know, other than a potential cover – and tapped the earpiece. "Shepard here, go ahead."

Navigator Pressley's voice came through the speaker, clean and crisp. "Aye sir. That bit of debris we hit coming in to the Citadel? It's Prothean, we think. Some kind of data storage device, encrypted six ways from Sunday, if you don't mind my saying sir."

"Not at all, Ex-Oh. Is Doctor T'Soni on it?" Shepard noted the asari's almost imperceptible reaction. He pretended to ignore that too. Acting had never held any appeal to him; life held more than enough mummery for his taste. Without it though, he'd have been dead many times over.

"She was, up until about ten minutes ago, sir. Some call about the Council needed a conference."

Shepard turned his stare on to the asari at his side. "Oh really."

"Yessir. Councilor Tevos sent a message; Liara, I mean Doctor T'Soni was – she had a – she just wasn't happy, let's put it that way."

"I imagine not," Shepard murmured. Pulling Liara away from Prothean hardware, that had been active, possibly still interacted? Functional Prothean technology? It practically fell in his lap these days! But he had plans; extraction methods, now that the keys were also given. Or some of the keys; Feros had produced a windfall to end all windfalls, but archaic linguistics were obtuse no matter how thoroughly recorded. Her gratitude for what he had been able to translate bordered on – excessive.

The asari put a hand on his knee, pressing down with feather-light touch. "Is it true? That you found functioning Prothean technology?"

Her voice put Shepard on edge; it's breathless, eager tone, far too artificial. In response, he just grunted, as much of a disinterested noise possible.

An attempt at conversation resulted from that rebuttal. Stories of her no doubt perilous adventures on the Council's behalf followed, studded with frequent references to the pursuit of knowledge. While interesting, Shepard could detect withheld information of at least half of her stories, and a definite emphasis on what she seemed to believe her most prominent assets. Small motions, gestures demonstrating points in her stories, served to redirect attention – Shepard knew the game as well as anyone.

Do all asari wear so little protection? Shepard kept his eyes focused on her face –the blur where he hoped her face was – when forced to interact. A thought brought his omni-tool up, small screen glowing. Maybe if I check my messages?

Defying hints, her hand wandered onto his knee, wandering until he caught it in one gauntlet-clad hand. For an instant he caught a glimpse of excessive facial paint and an irritated expression.

"Ma'am, you are here to make sure I reach the Council. Nothing else."

Her face twisted out of sight, but the folded arms across her chest spoke volumes.

Being left to ride in silence for the rest of the happily short trip felt like heaven. Shepard didn't bother offering a helping hand. I'd do it for a lady, but she's no lady.

A tall, husky figure caught his attention. It was one of the few faces he could recognize, the old friend of his father's. The traitor that had concealed the Council's plans. "Captain."

"Shepard." The dark figure nodded a greeting to Shepard's nameless companion, and turned back to Shepard. "I need a word with you."

He turned his shoulder to the man. A fraction of a second too slow to miss the look of agony cross the older man's face. "We've already spoken, Captain."

Anderson's arm reached out, hesitating before drawing back. "I know, Shepard. You have every right to be angry with me. But you need to hear this; I promised to let you know as soon as I heard anything."

That stopped him. Shepard's head turned, a cold, reptilian motion. "Subject."

"Mindoir."

Silence tiptoed into the room, expanding to fill the emptiness while Shepard considered. Whenever he looked at Anderson's face, he felt a stabbing pain. The last time pain had registered on that level had been during the memorial service. When he'd been a newly-inducted recruit, of sorts. Emotion, both cold enough to freeze a star, yet burning like an acetylene torch.

Shepard hated feeling like that.

"All right." He tugged his armor slightly, weight from his father's weapon still pressing against the small of his back. "Now."

"Actually, the Council –" The asari placed a possessive hand on Shepard's elbow.

He shook it off. "They've waited this long, they can wait a few more minutes." He caught her eyes – or where her eyes should have been – and glared. The tiny targeting screen in his eyepiece gave direction, the rest was scowling hard enough to make the muscles ache.

She stepped back. "Very well. I will inform them of your – delay."

Anderson quick-stepped, guiding Shepard to an anteroom, its doorway nestled behind a towering column. He waited until Shepard closed the door. "Shepard, I need to say this in absolute secrecy. I know you have ways to do it, please?"

Shepard's jaw worked. After a heartbeat, his fingers dug inside the combat plating just above his hips. They returned carrying a gray tablet, which in turn became hidden within his clenched fist. The appendage began to glow with suppressed biotic power. "Close your eyes."

After waiting a moment, Shepard sent a surge of power into the biotic node of his gauntlet, creating a micro-pulse. A fine cloud burst through his fingers, vanishing as it fled. Faint sparkles frothed into view, beginning on the walls, but spreading over the ceiling before lining the floor. A faint tang of ozone, and an even more distant odor reminiscent of burning plastics met his nose.

"We have ten minutes." Shepard sighed, before looking at one of the only faces he could still see. "What do you want, Anderson?"

The older man looked mildly impressed. "Pixie dust? I knew your control in the nanotech market was significant, but this?"

"Ten thousand credits a gram," Shepard recited from memory. "The salarians buy half a metric ton every quarter. Very profitable."

"One gram?" Anderson glanced at the suspiciously clean gauntlet.

Shepard flexed his hand. "One gram's good enough for half an hour. Make its catalyst a biotic-sensitive vector, and it becomes much more – flexible. What did you need to tell me?"

The older man shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "I intercepted a report, two hours ago. They found the last Mindoir survivor: Alwein Nabor, technician from the south side of town. Dead."

Shepard closed his eyes. "I feared as much. Probable cause?"

The other man shrugged. "Undetermined. Recent. Early diagnosis suggested heart failure. He was in bad condition."

"Ah," It took a moment for the frustration to bleed off. "So close, and yet so far."

This time, the silence seemed more respectful. Shepard remained in place, eyes closed. For a moment, his lips twitched, too slight a movement to be read, but the emotion plainly visible. His eyes opened once more. "What else?"

A corner of Anderson's mouth lifted in a wry smile. "The prothean ruins on Feros; I don't know how, but the Council knows you received data from them. You see the potential issue?"

Shepard's lip curled, before resuming its stoic nature. "Alliance versus Council. Prothean data is enough to destroy a colony, probably go to war, if mishandled."

"Exactly." The older man took a pace further away, before swinging back. "I've been tracking some – unusual activity in Intelligence. Hackett asked me to go over a few reports, and it grew from there. So far as I can tell, you are the subject of some kind of investigation. Every hospital you've ever visited, each ship you've served, has received requests for your biometrics from both covert and above-board sources."

Shepard felt a smirk cross his face before he could stop it. "Aye. That's been going on for a few years. I learned from a Cerberus mole on Feros that they want my blood for something, something that my family has, apparently?"

"Cerberus?" Anderson raised a hand, then put it down. "They're connected to Intelligence?"

"Loosely, I think." The younger man glanced at the timepiece function in his visor. "Look we have only a little time left. Suffice to say that Cerberus appears to be a Humanity First style terrorist organization, only more organized, and with exponentially more resources. They managed to kill Admiral Kahokou and, destroyed his investigators. His people were looking for one Armistan Banes, must have been getting close. By the signs, Kahokou managed to get some dirt on Cerberus, and Banes was part of it."

"Banes?" Anderson jerked in surprise. "Are you serious? He – died years ago."

A growl rumbled in Shepard's chest. "He's been pretty active for a dead man. That Intel spook, the one trying to stick me with another black ops job? There was a very strong reaction to that name. This dead man is telling tales, and it sounds like a horror story. The research I've been conducting indicates Cerberus once had stronger connections to Intel, but lost favor, somehow. Banes is a key figure there, but every record I've found has been modified."

Anderson nodded, thinking. "And that connects to the Prothean data – how?"

Shepard allowed himself five seconds to consider his next move. James was going to do it for me, but if I can trust Anderson, James can move on to the next phase. But can I trust Anderson?

Variables flicked across his mental calculation, slowly coming to agreement. Even more slowly, one hand pulled a small handful of info-sticks from a zippered pocket. "Here. One for each Councilor, plus one for the Volus, Elcor and Hanar-cum-Drell. It's in your hands, so it can be given behind the scenes; don't let Udina know they're receiving it. Don't let me know if they get it."

The dark-skinned man paled, shock spreading over his stoic features. "Shepard, do you know what this is worth? This – this could cause chaos!"

Shepard smashed one fist into a chair. "Don't you think I know that? Saren tried obliterating four million people at the minimum, and pin it on the salarians. Myths from a dead race resurrect themselves, Geth pop out from behind the Veil – have the quarians given anything useful?"

Before Anderson could respond, Shepard chopped a hand through the air, cutting him off. "Never mind. No time. The Council has been stale. Static. Development of Prothean tech's been limited to a few groups in asari or salarian camps. They need to fight for it, compete. Growth only comes through pain, but if I let them dictate the pace, we'll be sitting here with our swords sheathed, armor on the floor when the next crisis arrives. It's going to be big Anderson. Reapers, Geth, whatever it is, we're going to be hammered. We need all the races to get off their collective arse and working."

A faint chiming ring emanated from Shepard's wrist. He glanced at it. "Twenty seconds. Questions?"

Anderson glanced at the data sticks. "Any particular order?"

"Salarians first. Then asari. Turians and volus as close together as possible, then hanar. Make it symbolic, they revere the Protheans, call it a gift, a message from the Enkindlers testing if they're worthy."

Eyebrows shot up. "You cunning rascal."

"Close enough."

Fine gray powder drifted from the ceiling, imperceptible, except for a prickling sensation on exposed skin. Shepard glanced at the ceiling once, his entire attitude visibly shifting, a fixed smile on his face. "And I agree, the turians have an excellent chance for solving this. I'll get them as much data as possible, can you work behind the scenes? See how many parties might be interested?"

Used to intelligence operations, Anderson fell into the pattern without hesitation. "Of course. After your meeting I'll need to brief you on hanar relations; they're up in – arms? Tentacles? They're upset that Saren tried to destroy a Prothean cache. Eden Prime notified me that there's a relief transport camped where the worst of the fighting occurred. Very solicitous."

Shepard led the way out of the room. "Good. They could use a morale boost."

The asari snaked an arm under Shepards, almost as soon as he left the room. "The Councilors are waiting, Tevos wanted to speak with you beforehand, but I'm afraid that isn't possible now."

He slowed, pulling the impatient asari to a stop, and looked back at Anderson. The conversation had been … good. Anger still surged when he saw the older man, but not nearly to the same levels as before. "Captain. I will trust you on this. Please …." Don't betray me. Not again.

Brown eyes, set in an intelligent face caught the unspoken request, dancing once to the asari escort at Shepard's side. Anderson exhaled, a deep unending breath. "All right, Shepard. We'll do it your way. Take care, Commander. Miss E'lon."

Pausing just one more moment to parse the name, Shepard gave a curt nod, this time pulling his guide alongside. "Let's go."

The asari grumbled a quiet number of uncomplimentary phrases, apparently under the impression that humans had poor hearing. Or assumed Shepard had poor hearing. A suspicious mind might even consider she knew Shepard could hear, and didn't care – or did care, attempting to throw his mental machinations?

Shepard blinked at the last thought. Clever. It worked.

A door, somehow the same as every other door he could see yet more imposing, came into view. The visor interpreted the closer examination as a desire for more information, and highlighted three stress points before he hit the override. Faint trace marks on the floor indicated a constant guard, absent for the moment. Alone, with no witnesses, if I'd been here sooner. Procrastination is a gift.

Pressure on his arm gained his attention. "If you need anything, anything, do let me know?"

Shepard ignored the proffered hand. The utter lack of professionalism was revolting. "If you wanted to make it any more obvious next time, try bringing an all-female squad in fantasy armor. Not. Interested."

Ignoring the outraged attitude given mobile form, Shepard touched the keypad set in the center of the door. Time to make an entrance.


A/N: Thanks for reading! Update is on my profile, I don't want to clutter up the page here. Thanks to Nightstride for his beta efforts, and the views/reviews that let me know what y'all think.

Story suggestion:Not a Hero, Not for Hire by Soleneus (code: 12836865). Enjoy!

~Chuck