When I was a young man, I enjoyed puzzle boxes. The soothing quiet of a summer evening, the clicking of a block sliding one way or another, it gave a feeling of purpose. Now those puzzles were of immense use to me in my current days, granting problem-solving skills that not only keep me alive, but grant me sanity in a world that does not make sense. The world doesn't make sense, outside of a few worldviews which are rejected as being senseless, by those who do not wish for the world to make sense. It reminds me of something my mother once taped to her wall: 'What is right will not always be popular. What is popular will not always be right.'
I believe what I am trying to say in these modern times can be phrased thusly: The world does not make sense. It never will, unless you are willing to believe in something which will make the world believe you senseless.
Dr. Arnold Pavenmeyer
~Project Ragnarok~
SR-1 Normandy
Shepard had not often considered himself an expert on interior decoration. The fact that his cabin walls boasted enough weapons to make a turian jealous proved that. But he couldn't help but yearn for something interesting to look at. A painting or aquarium perhaps; even a potted plant. There was no escaping the sheer boredom surrounding the sonic tediousness threatening to overwhelm his senses.
'Steady,' calming thoughts pushed through his mind. Ancient memories not his own offered support, tantalizing images of martial art forms he'd never learned. 'Steady. Think about the retirement home. The forge standing in a hand-dug cave. Peace and quiet.'
A feeling of bliss surpassed the ominous surroundings, washing over him like a summer rain. What dangerous currents flowed over the outer limits were incapable of penetrating his inner sanctum. A place after war, the realm of golden promise – rose tinted lenses would relax in such cacophonic settings.
Something disturbed the tranquil silence. Was it the lake full of fish in the back forty acres? No, its placid waves lapped the shoreline in the same methodical pattern they'd always had. Perhaps the summer storms, shooting over the horizon?
It had something to do with the stillness, that much he understood. Then it struck.
The silence.
Exhaling, Shepard opened his eyes. Three sets of alien ocular organs stared at him, glowing their unnatural orange color. After a brief moment of recognition, two of the three faces blurred, the third sharpening into recognition.
"Are you going to answer us?"
Councilor Tevos seemed irritated – and well she might have been, if the report from his brother was accurate. Breaching a Councilor's secure chamber was no mean feat, even for him.
Shepard canted his head to one side, aping the Batarian approach for greeting inferiors. Based on the salarian's tensing shoulders, and the almost jovial reaction on the turian's behalf, it was well made. "I heard no question."
Tevos's hands went down, folded before her. Unlike the other two Councilors, her reaction had been too controlled for his detection. If one were to practice politics for over two centuries, such a trick would be essential, he supposed.
"You ordered an orbital strike on a garden world. Is this correct?" Her tone was cool, but inquiring.
"Yes." Shepard wondered how long it had taken her to learn such a trick. "You have the report, do you not?"
"Of course," she responded. Swift as an adder's bite she continued. "An event so significant as a planet-damaging accident must be investigated carefully, of course."
"Ah." Shepard lowered his own hands to mirror her posture, as if that of a humble Maiden seeking enlightenment. "Like your investigations after the Hegemo – your pardon. I do not mean to cast aspersions on any entity. After the pirate ship somehow lost multi-megaton storage containers over Vernex? The impact caused dust clouds to block out the sun for three months as I recall. Tragic shipping accident."
The asari Councilor gave a tired sigh. "I agree that there are many incidents that can be attribute to the Council's negligence. However, the decisions made have been made with the best information available, balancing the needs of a multi-national body."
Shock fired through Shepard's perceptions. A Councilor, accepting blame? About the Batarians?
"In the subject of our mistakes," Sparatus spoke up. "Your investigation into the … artifacts … was most intriguing."
"Yes. Yes. A fascinating AAR," Valern interjected. "You found a Beacon, other – ah – artifacts, and ensured their destruction. You have the Union's thanks in rescuing those you could; Captain Kirrahe is a highly-valued member of the STG. May I ask where they are now?"
He gave the salarian a minor tilt of the head; respectful, but between equals. "For now, they are recovering in the Normandy's hold. Their own ship was too close to the target zone, and it was decided that it should not survive for the geth to recover."
"Of course, a wise decision." Valern's fingers rose and fell, tapping out a rhythm Shepard recognized as the drum solo to a popular eso-rock group. There had been multiple links sent by his sister – he winced and pushed the thought away. Thinking about family hurt.
"We must discuss the matter in somewhat greater depth," Sparatus continued. "Return to the Citadel at your earliest convenience. Your experience with Prothean technology could prove critical."
Unease stirred at the base of Shepard's mind. "Sovereign claimed that the Relays were the product of its doing. Or their doing, if there are more of them. Is the Citadel secure?"
This time Councilor Tevos answered. "Sovereign's allegations are disturbing, but the Citadel is the safest place for many reasons. There are no artifacts like you described, for example; they seem to self-destruct if ever brought close by. More than that we cannot say, even on a secure channel."
"I … see …." Shepard considered. There was no reason to not return to the Citadel. But on the other hand, every instinct he'd honed over the course of his career disliked the idea.
"Saren will not give up. Without his resources he will need to find alternative methods," Sparatus sounded irritated, yet proud. "I remember his initial assessment – even without resources he was able to pacify an entire sector in the Traverse."
"The geth can give him all the resources he needs," Valern pointed out. "He will have retained all security access codes and permissions; it's even odds if he gives them to the geth, if he hasn't handed them over already. Every agency associated with Saren is undergoing catastrophic loss in consumer confidence. Do you realize in how many markets Saren was invested? The communications portion alone is undergoing the worst crash in three centuries."
The three Councilors seemed to share a hidden glance, shifting minor movements less attuned individuals would miss. Now that Shepard thought about it, they'd seemed somewhat nervous since the meeting started.
"We have spoken with the representatives for the Alliance." Sparatus spoke up first. "They have agreed to negotiate with the Flotilla. The quarians, should they be willing, will be granted access to Council markets, which should alleviate some of the pressure. But we will need to speak of the rest in person."
Shepard's eyes sharpened. The other two councilors were not … glaring at their turian colleague, but their mien bore no friendship either. He had ideas running through his mind now, investment opportunities that might be off the table by the time they reached the Citadel. He'd have to move fast.
"I'll set course for the Citadel," he glanced at the chronometer on the wall, gauging its accuracy. Multiple time zones were displayed on its surface, giving the Council Citadel time as a centerpiece, compared to the Alliance Arcturus time zone, and the variations for other colonies throughout both entities space. "If we take the Relays, I should be there inside two days."
"Goddess be with you," Tevos intoned. A murmur of similar-sounding platitudes echoed from the other two, and the projection shut down.
Shepard closed his eyes. The meeting had been almost solitary; Garrus had been present, in his role as the official Council liaison. That meant he had a few minutes at most to plan an economic coup that could change the financial landscape for a few individuals. Important individuals, but single points in a galaxy of people nonetheless.
"I didn't catch that part," Garrus kept his voice down, in soothing dual toned vocal cords. "What did Sparatus mean about the quarians?"
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shepard took a deep breath, and let it go. "It means the Flotilla is about to become part of the galaxy-wide market again."
Understanding began to dawn on the turian detective's body language, shoulders dropping. "They've had access before, but get chased out of every system before they can do anything that matters. Aside from strip-mining a few asteroids, maybe."
"Yeah." Shepard thought hard, forcing his thoughts into parallel lines. "Quarian miners have already been working on a few systems the Alliance leased them. So far as the Alliance cares, they own a few planets in Alliance space. Have you read the fleet reports? A dozen Rilka gunships at each planet, five planets. Enough auxiliaries to service a fleet, and the Flotilla is already the largest in the galaxy."
"So the Council is trying to buy them off?" Garrus smirked. "Good luck with that. From what the marines have been telling me, the Flotilla hasn't forgiven the Council for abandoning them."
"True," Shepard pushed a few numbers through his mind. Then he nodded. "But politicians are politicians, no matter their amino chain. If they can get away with it, they'll try to play both the Council and the Alliance. Not a problem, for the most part."
"But if the Council gets the quarians on their side, then …." Garrus didn't finish.
"Then the Alliance has a foreign nation, armed to the teeth, inside its borders." Shepard completed the thought. "If you could do me a favor, and call Tali in here, quietly? I need to talk to her father. I think she is about to become the richest quarian in history."
Garrus faked a pout. "What about that handsome turian in the room, doesn't he deserve to be disgustingly wealthy?" He lifted both hands in a show of playful submission. "Kidding, kidding. Wouldn't know what to do with all that clinking stuff anyway."
"Just say the word," Shepard didn't look at him. Taken wrong, it could be perceived as bribery of the highest order. "Don't want the Council thinking I'm paying off their shiny paragon of virtue."
The turian gave a snort comparable to a certain krogan. "If the Council got after all their agents taking payouts under the table, they' run out of drones to run the hive. But yeah, I don't think I could get away with it clean. Don't think I could take it anyway. Thanks, though."
Shepard acknowledged the statement with a small nod. 'Have to set up a trust fund for him. Wrex too, but he's probably got his own nest egg tucked away somewhere. Or entire nests … he's been around a long time.'
But first things went first. He attuned his omni-tool around complex security protocols designed by minds much cleverer than his own. Commands intercepted from his omni-tool – and it was safe to assume anything outgoing from one of the most notorious figures in the Middle Colonies could be intercepted – would be meaningless without context. He'd spent years refining codes, rewriting a language that made no sense outside of a few remaining colonists of an erstwhile settlement.
Information sent, Shepard allowed himself to relax. Saren had proven himself the superior combatant, but not omnipotent. Had he gotten the drop on an opponent like Saren had, there would've been nothing left but a smoking crater. Perhaps that turian mindset remained in the deranged alien? Escalation of violence, as necessary?
"Shepard." A curious voice spoke up. "Got a minute?"
He turned to face one of the crewmen. 'Dark hair, light brown eyes. Stylus indentations on left hand - ah.'
"Rahman," he gave a courteous nod. "Of course."
The two moved to one side where a static field shimmered into view; on a military vessel room was at premium. Alcoves with sound-dampening fields provided at least the illusion of privacy.
"Sir," the navigation specialist seemed nervous, hands wringing and shoulders raised. "We're going back to the Citadel, right?"
"Yes," Shepard cocked his head to one side, ignoring the Batarian implications of such a gesture. "Resupply, new orders off the channels. That sort of thing. Is there a problem?"
"My brother is on the Citadel." Rahman shifted uneasily. "He … he said there were some strange things goings on there."
"Oh?" Shepard made a mental note to check in with his network. "Such as …?"
"Asari commandoes are on leave there. Not a big thing usually, but … my brother runs a seafood shop in the Wards? And he's never had this many stop by."
"Unusual," Shepard commented. "But not a problem. He has seen other things, I take?"
"Yessir," she nodded, fingers knotting themselves until they balled up in small fists. "He overheard two of them talking. About how they would need to work fast, pick up a high-profile VIP. It didn't sound like a hit, but … they mentioned an Alliance ship, sir. No names, just that it would be coming in soon."
"You think it's the Normandy." Shepard didn't phrase it as a question. "We have a few people that could fit that profile."
Rahman nodded again. "I pulled a list of Alliance ships scheduled to dock at the Citadel this month. Military ships, at least. The only one that has higher profile passengers is the Manifest Destiny, carrying senators and the royal family from the Kingdom of Wulfric. But sir, I'm not sure that human nobility is really that important to asari."
"It can be," Shepard stared out the blurring field. "I took a course in political structure on Thessia, two years ago? They have a group of powerful families, the Thirty, that run most of their government. After that is a sort of nobility, five hundred family lines that can be elected to the Thirty. Families can rise and fall out of favor."
The younger officer's arms crossed, then folded. "Sounds right. Scaly politics. Glad I don't have to swim with those sharks."
Shepard laughed, a deep reverberation from the depths of his chest. "Most asari aren't so bad. Heresy, I know."
Rahman snorted, disbelief clear in every point of her stance. "If you say so, sir."
Recognizing the polite phrase for what it was, Shepard drew himself up. "Talk to the salarians. They owe us a favor for the lift off Virmire. See if they're willing to stand around the dock entrance and look intimidating."
A smothered thing that could've been a laugh escaped Rahman's control. "I'll see what I can do."
He gave her a nod, and stepped out of the alcove. There were many things to do, and not enough time to accomplish them all. First he had to find the Quarian Admiral's daughter and see if she'd be amenable to serving as a go-between.
As the Normandy's airlock cycled, Shepard paused the music playing through the earpiece. The constant skip made when the Citadel's locks secured was annoying, and he needed to be at his best, if there was any accuracy to his prediction. There were few in the galaxy willing to provoke the Alliance in the middle of what could be considered a stronghold, but those few could not be underestimated.
'Why bother?' the thought crossed his mind. 'You're done. Saren's a military concern now.'
It was a liberating thought. One that might see fruition. It even brought a smile to his face; it felt unnatural, uncommon. 'Physiologically speaking, smiling releases endorphins. Psychologically, it alters moods.'
The airlock hissed open, and he exited, still smiling. The guards outside seemed surprised to see him, straightening with more alacrity than necessary. They didn't salute, which was a relief. There had been a time when every grunt that saw the rank insignia on his armor felt some absurd need to show respect in the most official way possible.
Nodding a cheerful greeting to the closest soldier, he pushed forwards. The armor felt lighter than usual, less confining. Even the weapons he carried didn't weigh him down as much as they once did.
'Liberating.' The smile broadened as he passed a pair of asari garbed in traditional Huntress paraphernalia. 'Free. Finally free.'
It felt strange to be alone once more. At the same time it felt comforting , reliant on his own skills, beholden to none. If things worked out as planned, that lovely sensation would hold for a long time.
"Commander Shepard," a new individual came into his peripheral, far enough ahead so there was time to react, yet too close for pretended ignorance. "Lieutenant Cole, Intelligence. I am your escort."
The man's face was the usual blur, but Shepard's visor was having trouble locking down its particulars. Sensor-baffling technology existed for covert operations, which either meant this was an agent of neophyte status to distract him, an expert assuming the mien of a neophyte, or a polite warning.
He chose to believe the latter.
"Good." Shepard reached out a hand. "Shepard, Alliance Navy. A pleasure."
The other man's reaction was a hair slower than his initial greeting. His handshake was firm, posture steady. Just like a con artist. "Thank you. Shall we?"
Offering another smile, Shepard allowed the other man to precede him towards the skycar loading point. A prickling between his shoulder blades gave enough warning to there being another man somewhere behind, likely with a weapon. The similarity to a prisoner being escorted to a judicial hearing did not escape his awareness. There were more subtle ways to do things, but in his experience, Intelligence organizations lacked that deft touch.
Travelling up the Presidium did nothing to reduce the feeling of danger. But if anything, it raised the sense of amusement emanating in his soul.
Within fifteen minutes the Presidium floors glided past, until the skycar came to a halt. Once more the other man took lead, ushering him to a side room a stone's throw from the Council's grand entryway. The human guards out front and stellar-studded symbol over the frame was more than a hint to Shepard.
He turned to the guide. "I suppose you're going to tell me the Council is waiting for me in an Alliance facility?"
"Above my pay grade," Cole shrugged. "All I know is what they tell me."
While such a polite nothing conveyed no hard facts, it confirmed in Shepard's mind that the man was, in fact, either Intelligence or a political hired hand. Given the man's ease in uniform, intelligence was far more probable.
Without waiting, Shepard strode up to the doorway, almost hitting the sliding doors as they opened.
Inside he found Ambassador Udina and a pair of intimidating men in dark uniforms waiting for him.
'Showtime.'
"Commander," the politician rose behind his desk, arm outstretched. "A pleasure to see you again."
Shepard considered spurning the gesture, but reconsidered. "Likewise, I'm sure."
The other man's absolute surprise was evident in every line of his body language. It made Shepard's internal mirth heighten yet again, how come he hadn't done this before? Throwing off routine, rendering the normal paradigm overturned on its head? 'War is politics in another arena. But politics is war in a tuxedo.'
"Thank you for coming. I know the Council is waiting so this will be brief." Udina resumed his composure, and his seat. "Your results have been tremendous. Just marvelous. Taking down Saren's supply chain, interrupting his efforts throughout the galaxy, it's almost what one would expect of a novel, the 'Penny Dreadfull's' didn't they call it?"
Shepard smiled politely, but did not laugh.
For his part Udina looked reassured. "The decision has been handed down from Command that the task force hunting Saren is being increased to a full fleet. Sovereign is too powerful for a single ship to apprehend, advanced though it is."
"About time," Shepard folded his arms. "He can't run much farther now."
"Indeed," Udina hesitated. "If I may ask, are you not wearing your usual armor?"
He gave the politician a point, the average civilian couldn't tell the difference between a uniform and combat armor. "Repairs."
"Ah. Of course. Your report suggested Saren bested you in melee combat."
Shepard stopped smiling. There were certain constants in the universe, and his being one of the deadliest hand-to-hand specialists was one of them. Being defeated by Saren left a bad taste in his mouth, although that should not have been the case. There were krogan who could take him down with ease, drell that had memorized entire disciplines with their eidetic gifts, and his irritation originated with a single turian.
It still felt wrong.
"That makes this easier," Udina's hands folded once more. "Following your debriefing with the Council, you are directed to report to Arcturus for your next assignment. The Normandy will be refurbished, after your recommendations are taken into account – as I understand it, a new line of stealth vessels are being developed from the successes you've demonstrated. Well done, Commander."
Shepard's smile stretched at the corner of his mouth, as real as he could manage. "What about the non-Alliance operatives?"
Udina's return smile aped his own, with far less feeling behind it. "The Council's personnel are their prerogative. They will be communicating the future activities of their agents with you in your next meeting, I believe. Oh, before I forget."
The ambassador's head tilted to one side in deliberate insult – although only one familiar with the Hegemony body language would interpret such a gesture of disrespect for what it was. In all other cultures it was a motion of curiosity. "Your weapons will need to be examined. The evidence provided with Matriarch Benezia and former SPECTRE Saren indicate that base-level brainwashing is possible. You will also need to be examined for signs of Indoctrination following your meeting with the Council. Do you have any questions?"
Shepard waited a beat, forcing his gaze to stay on the politician's eyes for two long breaths. "None."
"Thank you." Udina frowned, looking to one side. "Where is Anderson? He should have been here by now. Oh. Dismissed is the appropriate term, yes? Thank you, Commander."
There was nothing left to do but give a perfunctory salute, and leave. The guards looked as if they wanted to object, but there were no legal grounds. Given the level of respect Shepard knew many politicians had for rule of law, that didn't count for much – but kidnapping would be difficult with someone like him.
Some days it didn't pay to get out of bed. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he didn't feel so helpless.
That morning had begun well for Udina. He had managed a full night's sleep every night for the past two weeks, a marked improvement from the almost constant night-terrors plaguing his sleep every time his eyes closed before. The sensation of sitting, unmoving, incapable of doing anything was humiliating in the extreme. It had taken hours to recover, hours to reflect upon whom his actual allies were, and whom were just assets.
'Never again,' he vowed. It was almost time – Shepard was returning to the Citadel, just as his allies had predicted. On screen the Normandy was approaching the dock, massive clamps holding the frigate in place. 'I will never be so helpless again.'
In truth he'd almost expected some form of reprisal after the initial nuptial negotiations had failed. No, failed would've been an improvement. How Shepard managed to obliterate the talks for the sake of being stubborn, adhering to an obsolete moral code better suited for pre-space flight primitives was beyond him. Success required adaptiveness, an ability to reconfigure one's self to best suit the situation.
Shepard, on the other hand, seemed to adapt the situation to fit himself. An interesting technique, but one doomed to failure. One adapted, or died. That was the lesson at the heart of every biology lecture he'd ever attended, proven again and again in the political realm. Every military engagement required adaptation to the field of battle – why couldn't Shepard understand such a simple concept?
"Sir," a drone's voice spoke from a faceless speaker set in his desk. "Thirteen salarians are leaving the Normandy, carrying packages. Longscan identifies them as STG."
"Leave them be," another man, more experienced in sting operations than Udina, responded. He had a thick Russian accent and a face to match. "Do you, on the cargo, have a reading?"
A quiet noise registered a scanning device being used. "Lifter boxes. Wait, Shepard is coming out the airlock."
Udina let the two continue their dialogue. He knew little of military matters, aside from the reports crossing his desk on a seeming hourly basis. The mark of a proper superior was delegation; micromanagement lead only to miscommunication, misunderstandings, and failure. His attention was held instead, by the dock's security cameras, one of which held a focus on his former associate's face.
He took a deep breath, releasing fear. The same face had stared at him in close range, while paralyzed. Now there were strong guards, negotiated by a successful parlay after the promised funding had slipped through his fingers.
'Damn Shepard. Damn him and that sanctimonious attitude.'
Shepard's image tilted, dark eyes staring into the lens as if he could see Udina from the other side. The look almost made his heart freeze. Shepard was smiling. The man never smiled, he was infamous for the lack of jocular activity – then the man went and started chewing another damn piece of gum!
No one believed him. He'd told salarians, turians, asari, anyone who asked, that Shepard chewed mint gum. They all chuckled and complimented his loyalty, disbelief obvious. Mental stimulants were not illegal, just unadvised. Shepard's apparent usage of drugs, and apparent lack of side-effects, meant multiple agencies desired to acquire whatever he used.
On screen the first agent passed Shepard, one of the best in the business. The training undergone by that agent had left hundreds of other volunteers catatonic, or dead. Yet Shepard glanced at him, and smirked. What kind of demon was he?
Asari Huntresses were next. Twins were far rarer amongst the blue-skinned race than they were in humans, even more so than the turians. When twins were born to asari it was said the Goddess smiled upon them – which lost something in the translation; Udina understood that having the personal attention of the main Sarish deity was not always desirable.
This pair were infamous. He'd hired them for that infamy, contrary to sagacious advice. Their reputation was backed up by two centuries of effective, efficient results. There were times when scruples had to be set aside for long-range benefits.
Neutralizing a threat didn't necessarily mean killing.
Udina prided himself on being good at reading people. Politics demanded nothing less, judging a man's intent, matching it to his actions. The consequences for misjudging an opponent were harsh, and right now he was wondering how he'd misread Shepard so badly.
'There they are,' he'd spent the fees necessary for the Twins services as combative and psychological. 'What are you going to do, Shepard? Assassins in any other culture. They're here for you, Shepard. What are you going to do?'
The camera followed Shepard across the floor, past the asari. The two aliens were aware of his presence – he was the point after all – adopting casual but ready postures. Udina was no expert, but he could recognize a classic come hither invitation; after the T'Soni line had expressed such interest in a solitary human, the rest of the population had mushroomed into competition.
He smiled, then frowned as Shepard ignored the two. The asari seemed outraged, which could lead to a higher kill potential. Either outcome could work – killing Shepard would enhance his killer's reputation, bringing favor to that faction. But any asari successful in seducing him would bring new political binds into the offing. His refusal to follow through into the T'Soni line had brought many opportunities into being – not that any of them were interested in talking to Udina anymore.
'Every option must lead to success,' he closed his eyes, tapping his fingertips. 'If this succeeds, then I gain resources. If I fail, then a variable is removed. Shepard is too much of a loose cannon – he must become an asset again.'
Breathing a relaxing rhythm helped. But soon enough he was forced to open his eyes once more as the sentry program notified him of Shepard's approach. Tasking the guide with warning him was too much; Shepard was observant, and even the smallest hint might force an expensive detour. A VI system, never called an AI in Council space, was more than sufficient.
Already the Russian was retreating into a back room, still calling orders over his earpiece. The Normandy was locked in place, incapable of getting away, and the salarians were placing the last of their baggage on a cargo-loader. He didn't like that; who knew what resources they took? Alliance shipping, Alliance military and Alliance resources had pulled them out of that hell hole of a planet; Salarian resources had left them there. All resources acquired on Virmire should have belonged to the Alliance, with a suitable compensation granted to the Salarians for their efforts of course. Fairness was respected by enemies as well as allies.
But that was for later. Now Shepard was outside his door, likely becoming irritated at seeing his face once more. His unintimidated, fearless, face. The frustration Shepard would be feeling must-
The door hissed open, and Shepard strolled in. The man had a genial grin for the universe to see, relaxed as if he were entering a massage parlor where all the employees knew him by name.
'His armor. He isn't wearing his armor.' The first observation slipped through Udina's mind. That was soon followed by, 'Where are his guns? He feels naked without weapons. Why is he still smiling? This is bad. This is very, very, bad.'
The guards on either side were of the highest quality. Each were Close Quarter's Combat specialists, biotics trained by the best known to man. Each could bench press half a ton with ease, were armored with nanoprene reinforced multi-layered fabric, and carried stun-batons rated to stupefy a krogan.
Why was Shepard smiling?
After the handshake almost stunned him to his core, their conversation went halfway as well as hoped. There were no declarations of everlasting enmity – other than the consistent refusal to reciprocate cordial behavior. That was Shepard at his core, demonstrating that whatever changes had been made, they were not in complete depth.
The infuriating man departed, ignoring the obvious signals from his bodyguards. It was as if they were no threat in Shepard's eyes; an understandable view if reports held half the accuracy needed. Yet it was a foolish attitude to take, and while Shepard demonstrated foolhardy behavior on many things, foolishness on a potential battlefield was as alien to him as the asari that stalked him now.
"Ambassador," the Russian came out of hiding. "Channel seven."
Frowning, Udina turned to see the view from the provided agent, a somewhat scenic portrait of the Citadel's docks where an asari luxury transport was settling in beside a Salarian Union vessel.
The agent moved closer, but was stopped by a salarian in white armor, resembling the laboratory-hygienic garb worn by operatives in toxic research centers.
He turned the sound up, to catch his agent's last words, " – including materials removed from site."
The salarian smiled a wide grin, as only an amphibious species could, and shook its head. "Materials recovered are shielded. Additional contamination is unwise, potential dispersed materials too much a risk."
His agent pushed, perhaps unwisely, but this was material of exceeding value. "We have experts with a laboratory prepared for evaluation. Removal of these could be seen as an act of belligerence."
"Unlikely. Lifter boxes, as you call them, are preprogrammed with a destination. Any deviation will release a thermobaric sequence, problematic. All in contact with the containers have been evaluated, and are undergoing deep psychological analysis to make sure alterations are spotted prior to weaponization. You are close by … must ask." the salarian tapped the omni-tool, focusing into its microphone before turning to the agent. "Oklina, randomized field sample one zero three. Sir. How does this make you feel?"
Udina shut off the feed in disgust. Even the aliens were trying his patience today. "We won't get that material back. Proceed with the backup plan."
Without acknowledging his authority, the Russian collected his accoutrements, and left. A team followed him out, leaving Udina alone with the bodyguards, grumbling against fate, Shepard, and whatever deities provoked such improbable occurrences against his efforts.
Shepard found the Council chamber available, and entered. The turian guards on either side nodded quick signs of respect, an honor he found far better than the false accolades he'd undergone less than five minutes earlier. The respect earned by soldiers who understood the troubles he'd undergone was of infinite value – the opinion of politicians worth less than Denebian pond scum.
He entered the chamber, holding still as the scanners went over every inch of his body. They faded green, permitting entrance to the second airlock, and another set of scans. Passing this too, he proceeded through the final passageway, and found the Council waiting.
"Commander," Councilor Sparatus waved him towards a seat. "Thank you for coming. Your Ambassador is well?"
"Well enough," Shepard spun the chair around so its back faced the trio, and landed with a dull thump, eliciting a surprised look from the salarian and asari Councilors. "I have been officially removed from the Alliance task force investigating Saren. After this meeting, I'll receive notification of the powers granted being nullified, in all likelihood. I suggest you do the same; associating with me after this might become … burdensome."
Tevos stiffened. "Matriarch and Doctor T'Soni are well?"
He delivered a lopsided grin in her direction, adopting a similar level of insouciance as a supremely talented Maiden. "Don't worry, Regent. Your superior and ward are in perfect health."
Her back became straighter still, disguised by what Shepard assumed to be an expression of relieved concern. "I appreciate your candor."
"A pleasure." He looked over at the salarian representative. "Your STG team gave an admirable accounting of themselves. The survivors should have reached transit to report back, along with what supplies they were able to recover. But all of this is in the report."
"Still," Sparatus's baritone was calm, measuring. "It is good to have verbal confirmation. The Council has long learned to not trust electronic reports alone."
"Which brings us to the main topic," Tevos added. "On Virmire you described a Beacon, destroyed to prevent Saren's access. But you included images of another artifact, one that was spherical and reflective?"
"Correct," Shepard turned serious. "Saren had it hooked up to the Beacon. I was getting the same feeling off it that I do here in the Citadel, sometimes."
The Councilor's body language grew troubled, confused. At first it seemed as if the asari Councilor was the superior, how both of the others turned to face her, but then the group adjusted to focus on Sparatus. The turian froze, indecisive. Then the trio seemed to come to some sort of resolution.
"What we are about to tell you is of paramount secrecy," Sparatus hit a switch, keying soundproof fields into place. "You have demonstrated familiarity with Prothean artifacts. Do you recognize anything in this room that could betray our confidents?"
Shepard frowned. Of all the questions he'd expected, this one was on the outer limits of likelihood. "It's more of a haptic construct, to be honest. Do you mind …?"
Sparatus gestured. "Please."
Standing up, Shepard pushed the chair out of the way, and touched the control console in the center of the room. He closed his eyes, attempting to activate the listening aspect of whatever the Beacon on Eden Prime had flash-burned into his brain.
Slow seconds passed, and nothing happened. Then a minute. 'What am I doing wrong? Can't have been this hard for a Prothean. Wha …oh. Wait a minute. A prothean wouldn't have asked.'
Shepard set aside his misgivings. The mindset of an arrogant, confident, master of death was only natural to one that had become feared by batarians across the galaxy. He'd orchestrated the demise of thousands before his greatest plan came to fruition – it had taken over a decade for the careful collection of blood, skin, and other genetic repositories. Longer to establish those greatest at fault. It wasn't revenge, although it felt sweet, it was justice.
A slow feeling of awarenessseeped into his mind, as if a HUD framework opened in its sanctum. Through his eyes the Councilors looked the same, but added filters began to pick out small points on each, labels of indecipherable code running along the edges of his peripheral vision.
Countless dots of light faded into view; electronic eyes focused on Shepard. They looked different from the equipment melding with the station's hardware, cruder, less efficient to even his inexperienced eyes. Some bore the more graceful aspect of the asari design, others had a more efficient if mechanical appearance – turian if he had to make a guess.
He released his hold, coming back to a simpler view. 'Simple. Right. Simple means complexity on a level you can't see.'
"We're being watched." He paid careful attention to their body language. "You brought your own recording devices."
"We did." Tevos agreed.
Valern winced, telltale flinch showing in the singular twitch in his fingers. "I apologize for this, Commander. The record will show I sought alternative solutions, and still am."
"Nothing personal taken," Shepard relaxed, letting any sign of aggression vanish. "Business as usual for politicians. I take you are after the prothean data?"
Sparatus growled. "That is one thing. This is not what it may seem, Commander. The sphere. Did you touch it?"
Shepard frowned. "No. Didn't have a chance. Didn't want to, either. Thing looked like it came from a horror holo."
"It does," Sparatus agreed, tone going dark. "We call them Pristis. The salarians know them as Rhagflaenydd, and the asari tell no one their name."
Tevos shivered, something overcoming her impenetrable control for a moment. "There are things too evil for words. My people overcame much superstition, but this is a black evil. Some blame the Ardat Yakshi on this thing – your reports lend credence to this theory."
Shepard maintained an interested posture. "And?"
"We are traversing afield of the true purpose of this meeting. Did he lie?"
Valern shook his head, a short, sharp motion. "Poor sample size, but significant. He has not lied thus far."
"Agreed," Tevos raised her hands from behind the desk, depositing a small but deadly holdout pistol. Unlike most Council technology Shepard had seen, this one did not incorporate folding technology, devoting its entire frame to what appeared to be an oversized power cell and focus emitter. "I detect no signs of deception."
"Good." Sparatus continued. "The Pristis are artifacts of a race we don't know, do not understand, and cannot find. Every time we discover one of their remnants, it's in the company of brainwashed victims that remember nothing but deep cold and amnesia going back decades."
"Centuries," Tevos corrected. Her hands clenched once before resuming their calm demeanor. "Matriarch Aritan could not recall anything from the past three hundred and seventy-four years afterwards. She was considered one of the foremost experts in the discipline of Vivliothíki myaloú; that is to say, Mind Library in the common tongue. To overcome such a mind is staggering in its implications."
"You have no blank spots in your memory?" Valern probed. "No amnesia? All of the time in the presence of that thing is available to you?"
Shepard took a moment to think. "So far as I know, yes. I felt … cold … when I was talking to Sovereign, but everything is there."
"Astonishing," Tevos murmured. "Commander, you already understand how unlikely it was that you survived direct contact with a Beacon. There are some in the past that lived, but none that thrived as you have. Now you have been in proximity with one of the cursed artifacts, and you felt only a chill?"
"Sovereign interfering?" Valern's hands went up to his jaw. "Damaged artifact? Saren's experiments? Fascinating."
Rustling movement brought Shepard's attention to the turian in the farthest left. "Needless to say, your ability to resist this is nothing short of invaluable. It is possible you did not receive enough exposure to fall under its influence, but that does not remove the fact you were in close proximity, and maintained your identity."
"The Citadel has none of these on board," Tevos took up the thread again. "The Keepers are attuned to finding them – we believe there have been past events involving these monsters that have forced the Keepers to remove all signs of their presence. Why, we do not know. But if it can perform mental domination as we suspect, then perhaps it is a defense added to the Citadel by the Protheans or … others."
"We will warn your government, but your words will have added weight." Sparatus's voice went from dark seriousness to a shade one used when discussing events of an almost theological quality. "They may not understand the true threat of these things. We have found them on Sur'kesh, Thessia and Palaven. Colonies have been used and forgotten by the Pristis. No world is safe, and the threat Sovereign presents is almost negligible compared."
Shepard growled, deep in his chest. "Sovereign seemed to believe these," his translator worked for a proper term. "Leviathan, were a race that had survived the last Cycle. If Sovereign is a Reaper …."
"A fact of dubious origin," Sparatus muttered.
Shepard stopped, and fixed the turian with a glare. "Did the data I sent you say nothing? The Prothean Cipher, the Prothean records, fleet reports on Sovereign from five separate governments. Lie to the people if you want, Councilor. Keep things calm. But don't lie to me. Those blasted things destroyed the Protheans and made sure I lived through it."
The trio paused, once again communicating without words.
"We agree this threat is real," Sparatus began again, slower. "But we have no timetable. The Pristis artifacts appear and disappear through our histories like spirits, the Outer regions are reporting those we thought dead to be alive through unholy means, and this Sovereign is a ghost vessel of legend. Commander, the number of tales bespeaking doom to civilization are innumerable. The last two alone have evidence, but we must prioritize."
Shepard took a breath, and let it go. There was no point to debating politicians – it was clear the Reapers were moving. He'd done his best to warn. A new threat, these 'Leviathan' would need watching, but that was not his concern. None of it was.
"You've already decided," he rose, letting the chair rock on unsteady feet before resuming its four-legged stance. "Good. You'll need that backbone. I'm done."
"Commander …?"
He ignored them. They had all the data he could send; they'd shared the important information. Why he needed to be present for any of it was beyond him.
"Where are you going?" Sparatus's voice was loud, commanding. It was easy to see how he'd become a Councilor; a leader of armies did not always prove a leader of men, but when one did it was a potent combination.
"Home." Shepard didn't stop, bypassing the last sound field as it collapsed. A mental countdown began. "I resign. Quit. Forthwith give up all powers bestowed by the Council and all that. Done."
He ignored further calls to stop, ticking off the seconds in his head. The doors took ten paces and twelve seconds to reach. Another three seconds were needed to hit the override, and five for the heavy doors to swing open.
Outside his strides took a more urgent rapidity. Running would attract too much attention, especially a soldier in armor – even if it was the generic plasteel formulaic material. Perhaps it was because it was so bland? Mercenaries were not known for expensive tastes, even in lifesaving equipment; mercenaries were often linked with crimes as well.
He grinned. That would suit his purposes.
Footsteps echoed off deck plates, echoing off the space station's closer walls. Any spacer would instinctively know where that follower would be, just by the sound. Ground-born never developed that trait, no matter how much they tried. The best professional could determine an approximate position, within a dozen paces.
Shepard saw the open wall ahead, the marker separating official Council border and the more civilian portions of the Citadel. A long descent was on the other side of that wall, arresting fields preventing would-be jumpers. His pulse quickened.
A calm, professional voice broke into his observations. "Commander Shepard. We'd like a word with you."
Shaking his head, Shepard moved onwards. The voice sounded human, female, of high education. It also sounded used to getting its own way, which put the automatic disobedience circuits in his brain on high alert. 'There's nothing worse than authority figures unused to getting pushback.'
"A friend of yours wants to see you," The voice continued as he approached the low wall. Far below there was a dizzying height, filled with open air. "Do you remember someone you lost on Eden Prime?"
Atmospheric conditions only existed up to thirty feet or so above deck level, giving the illusion of a true sky. But the Presidium Tower, upon which he was standing, was set into the posterior ring of the Citadel, the vast ring from which extended the five Ward arms. Reality dictated that air would remain of equal density from the outer edge to the floor, but to Shepard it felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.
"Lost good men there." He kept walking, slowing as the short wall became a cold reality he could touch. There were cars soaring past, a few C-Sec vehicles flashing their multi-colored lights far below. A touch over two kilometers of habitation stood between the Tower's peak and where it met the connecting ring. "All of them were heroes."
"I agree." The woman's voice was closer, but her footsteps halted beyond easy close-quarters range. "But my organization managed to recover one, and restore him to health."
Shepard turned around, resting the back of his thighs on the barrier. One hand played with the omni-tool set on his wrist as the protective barrier flickered into being at his back. "Who."
She was a striking individual; that he could tell. Black hair, honed physique and a body language that assured every viewer that while she was aware of their gaze, she couldn't care less. "I do not want to speak names in the open. Would you be willing to come with us? The situation is becoming urgent as you know."
He didn't try to stare her in the eyes – it was an exercise in futility and would initiate a dominance exchange benefitting no one. Instead he watched her ears, making small darting glances to either side. Bodyguards, professional bodyguards, were standing well back. Each had the same physical properties of a trained soldier, carrying weapons in rest posture that nonetheless would not prevent their being brought into active nature in a heartbeat.
"I'm not in the habit of going alone with strangers." He might've imagined it, but a small hint of respect seemed to enter her bearing for a moment.
"Understandable." Her feet shifted back, away from the balanced combat-readiness setting. "I have been instructed to give you the invitation, nothing more. We are not your enemy, despite some misunderstandings, and we share a common opponent."
He refrained from rolling his eyes. "Appreciated. Now, go away."
Hands came around, carrying a business card. That was surprising; while still a common object in most colonies, the electronic-based commerce divisions on space platforms discouraged litter-inducing advertisements. Production estimates and cost/benefit analysis had to be made, requiring yet more resources than a simple digi-plast production made by the average salesman. The inherent benefit, of course, lay in any number of electronic secrets concealed within the paper – useful for the upper-grade organizations.
"I will leave this here. You may contact me with it, should you decide to accept. My name is-"
Shepard felt his omni-tool buzz, one of the two bare bones functions it retained. The secondary function activated after the first, emitting a short-range EMP burst. The barrier behind him vanished, leaving nothing between him and the open air. Part of that must've registered with his would-be contact, she stopped short, a blue nimbus coalescing around her fist.
"Sorry. Gotta fly." Shepard offered the woman with the odd accent a two fingered salute, and rolled backwards off the ledge into space. Divers, spacers, and aquatic wranglers knew the maneuver well. Sky jumpers practiced it in a different form, but all used it to get clear of a platform and into the open realms below.
There was a surprised shout, and he found himself falling down the side of the Presidium Tower.
Standard security measures would ordinarily trigger short-range barriers before the object fell more than a dozen feet. The small EMP burst was still active and pointed at the wall, rendering their stopping power to mere suggestions ignored with vigor.
Rolling mid-air, Shepard angled his body so the feet straightened out and behind, head forward and down. It streamlined his form, presenting the least amount of air resistance. Without artificial biotics, his highest rate of descent would be limited to terminal velocity. He tried calculating his speed, then gave it up as a distraction.
One of the C-Sec vehicles dove after him, lights flashing. In response Shepard stiffened, keeping his head down, controlling his fall to remain as close to the Tower as possible. Exiting the envelope would bring problems of an entirely different nature on his head.
The sky car caught up with minimal trouble, rushing air drowning out the vehicle's quiet engine. Its side-door opened – not the usual rising fashion of most such vehicles, but a retracting action reserved for fast-response machines that needed to have open doorways from time to time. Restraining a krogan took space as well as strong materials.
Shepard stretched, reaching out to the interior brace, and grabbed hold. The vehicle's internal sensors took that contact as permission to expand the mass-effect field to Shepard himself, reducing his mass – another feature designed into the C-Sec fleet.
A large hand reached out, grabbing the fabric loop high on his back, pulling him inside. Shepard landed on the passenger seat with a thud.
The vehicle leveled out, descending at a reduced rate. An alien with brawny arms, C-Sec blues and feathers extending from the sides and back of his head gave a brief wink, then tapped an icon. "Code Ten-Fifty Six Ey, Code Ten-Fifty Six Ey. I have a code Twenty-Three, one-five-two, over."
A moment of silence held, until another voice warbled something into the officer's earpiece. He grimaced. "Yeah, I hear yah. It's a Code Four, no assistance needed. Unless I have to clean up the cab again, hate when that happens. Yeah. Ten-four."
The light dimmed, leaving the officer free to look over. "Suicide attempt and a drunk driver. Vakarian said to say hi, by the way. You needed a lift to the docks?"
Shepard worked his legs down to the floorboards. "Appreciated. Raloi, aren't you?"
"Sharp one, you are," the alien touched his feathers. "A few of us like to travel. You might expect a few to visit your home world, so many birds and none of them intelligent? Crazy. Hey, next time you see Garrus, tell him I still owe him, aright? Lucky duckling got to ride out in the stars. Gave me a promotion."
"Will do …." Shepard managed to get his breathing back under control. The sheer rush of free-fall was exhilarating. Doing it without his usual armaments made it terrifying. He closed his eyes, willing the thumping heart rate to slow, or at least stop going as fast as a hanari beat-kick dancer.
He shuddered. 'Did not to remember that. Did not. Did not. Did not.'
"Yes sir, I know, sir." Alenko was many things. He was a biotic specialist, trained in the art of bending the laws of physics into something resembling a piece of wire in the hands of a demented public arts sculptor. He was a Canadian born and bred in the glorious wilderness of Vancouver, able to hunt down a coffee and maple syrup-flavored bagels with the elite seekers of his people. There even were days he could call himself a responsible soldier of the Alliance, loyal to the bastion of humanity.
Sometimes that role took the form of glorified tour guide. He'd been a personal bodyguard for half a dozen VIP's, and assigned to task forces and high-value rescue missions. There was a reason he'd been selected to join someone of such a high reputation as David Anderson and Karl Shepard, the duo around which more rumors scattered around than a laron had chenga fleas. Scuttlebutt put their combined abilities on par with the STG Prime team, Blackwatch 101st, and the Primacy's Special Response Mortality Division combined.
And he was a part of their company. A group including the best pilots, navigators, weaponry specialists, tech masters and the absolute cutting edge of technology. The medical clinic alone boasted a more advanced setup than most hospitals on Mars. He was respected and considered a member of the team.
What he was not, was a glorified receptacle for all spurious things spewed by officious drones. Blind obedience ran counter to the Alliance handbook. A soldier needed to obey, yes. But he needed to think as well. While a delicate line sometimes, it was not an issue here and now.
"As you can see," he kept his pace at a slow walk, forcing the guest to keep up or be left behind. Given there was a massive krogan trailing at their rear, fiddling with one of the largest knives available from the armory, such a thing would not have been a good idea. "We have offloaded the affected parties and their equipment. All of the contaminated surfaces are being deep cleaned, and will be outright replaced."
"I am sure your people are effective, Lieutenant." The condescending office drone had no discernable personality – to anyone except Shepard, perhaps. Kaidan wished the man was present. The drone had an abnormal nose, and seemed to peer down its length at everything. "But the specialists we're bringing are trained to detect and contain over ninety percent of known contagions."
"Over here," he changed direction. "Is Shep – the commanding officer's cabin. At your request we have isolated the section."
Half a dozen newcomers sporting lab coats or heavy armor milled around the cabin's door. The white-coated individuals were speaking in urgent, low tones, hands waving around like little flights of startled birds. One of the clerk-like people was waving a neon orange omni-tool in rapid circles, scowling at the readings.
"You are certain there is nothing Commander Shepard said or did that would suggest where he went?" The narrow-nosed man looked irritated. "I understand this may not be your forte, but any information could help. Even the smallest detail."
Recognizing movement in the back, Kaidan turned an innocent smile on the man. "Commander Shepard is an experienced infiltration expert. If he didn't want anyone to know where he was going, then there is no force in this galaxy that can follow him. I'd place better odds on finding El Dorado on Thessia."
The clerk frowned, drawing himself up for what would no doubt be a cutting rebuttal, but another figure drew close, distracting him. "This is an investigation, please le-"
"And this is my ship." The voice was emphatic and powerful. Captain Anderson could be a force of nature when he so desired. "Lieutenant Alenko. What is the meaning of this?"
"Sir," Kaidan saluted. "This is Inspector Javert from Alliance Intelligence. They are investigating possible malfeasance due to the artifacts influence."
Anderson's eyes narrowed, like a great cat. "Interesting. That report crossed my desk three hours ago. I am impressed by the speed of your investigation, Inspector."
The small man stuck his chest out. "The Normandy is one of the most advanced ships in the Alliance. Her crew and equipment merit the best we can offer."
"Is that so," this time the menace in Anderson's expression was unmistakable. "Is that why there was no communication to the ship's captain? An investigation into any Navy vessel goes through official channels. Your credentials check out for Naval and special investigations, but I saw nothing indicating you were taking on investigations for paranormal phenomena."
The inspector made what he likely thought was a subtle gesture. The clustered group carrying on their quiet conversation shifted away, moving in their direction.
"Captain," Javert began. "Your interest is noted. Do you have a point to make?"
Anderson's teeth shone in the dim lighting. "I have been reinstated as the Normandy's active captain. If your paperwork acknowledges that, then we have no problems. But if your orders are to investigate Commander Shepard, I suggest you look for him elsewhere. The Normandy is slated to join the main fleet in three days, and it will take a great deal of work to replace all the equipment you and your men have … removed."
There were many things Kaidan would've said about the greasy clerk, few of which would've been complimentary. But the man was intelligent, and proved it by giving a gruff nod. "Understood, Captain. Thank you for your time."
There was a circling motion, an action out of standard in typical clerks. Only then did Kaidan notice the barest outline of a combat knife in Javert's boot. Tan slacks covered part of the outline, but it was still present. 'Infiltrator. Valid credentials, double checked them with two branches myself, from separate Relays. Intelligence trained, not just a clerk.'
The man seemed to sense his realization, curling his upper lip in a knowing look. Nothing came of it, Javert electing to depart before more words could be exchanged.
Anderson waved an admonishing finger as Kaidan started to speak, adding a warning glance when another crewman started to walk inside their radius.
"How are we on fuel?" Anderson activated his omni-tool, a new model that whispered to life. It projected a cone-like illumination pattern, which he began to run over the floor and walls.
Catching on, Kaidan took even slower steps. Behind, Wrex still had his knife, running a sharpening stone over its edge with what one might've called tender care. "Ninety percent capacity, sir. Cargo bay is lightered, munitions are being restocked. Ship-based weapons are stocked, but there's been a lot of damage to small arms. Replacements are being shipped, if they haven't been stopped."
"New requisitions have been sent out," Anderson assured him. The cone made its unceasing sweep over the ceiling, making a small dot coruscate orange light. A minute adjustment of Anderson's hand caused a tiny burst of static erupt in their earpieces. "A standard order, plus the extra parts on your last request. What about health, how many are fit to fight?"
"Williams is not back yet," Kaidan winced as Anderson shot him a dirty look. "All squads are reporting readiness in full capacity. They could use a few days leave though, it's been a hard past couple weeks."
"They'll get it," the Captain's eyes focused on his omni-tool. "Two days here, then we rejoin the Fleet."
"Right." Kaidan paused, then breathed a sigh of relief as Anderson shut down his omni-tool.
"Safe here. Will need to scan the ship," Anderson glanced at the intercom setup, then dismissed it. "Shepard is fine, says hello."
"What's the plan? Kaidan took mental note of how the aged N7 kept an alert eye out despite having cleared the passageway himself. "He said the Council was-"
"Done." Anderson slipped the omni-tool's status to inactive. "Did the Matriarch …?"
"With the salarians. Liara is still on board," Kaidan answered. "Williams isn't back yet, she's with-"
This time Anderson almost clapped a hand to Kaidan's face. "No. Not here. Not anywhere. Some things should never be spoken aloud."
"Right," Kaidan had almost reacted, but kept the flickering blue light from his biotics from engaging. "Sorry. Um, just be careful if you do that again. I might go off."
"Biotics? Maybe. Static charge wasn't strong enough," Anderson turned a boyish grin in his direction. "Come on. Let's get to the mess hall. You have two months of stories about working with Shepard, and I have a ship's crew to get reacquainted with. Meal's on me."
There were times when Kaidan had wondered about Shepard, how the man's taciturn behavior and stand-offish attitude might've affected the people around him. That barrier had diminished over time, but it still engaged without warning. Now he was starting to wonder if Shepard had the right idea; spending time around Anderson was like pausing for breath by a whirlpool – there was much clarity in everything going around, but if one weren't careful, they'd be sucked down into who knew what.
"Entire colonies have been vanishing in the 'verse. Recordings are wiped, exotic weapon signatures. Saren isn't waiting around." Anderson was already moving. An unflappable Pressley was holding out a data slate, the more compact version often found in Engineering, which the grim Captain took. He checked its contents in quick eye movements. "We won't sit around either. Shepard is counting on us."
A/N: Cliffhanger? Why yes, yes it is! I normally hate to use them, but it seemed so appropriate here. Besides, we're almost at the end! Thanks for reading, stay safe out there.
