Exitium Eternal

by MintyFeet

A turian patrol ship encounters a mass relay unlike any other. The peoples of Citadel space and the Terminus have no idea that beyond it lies one thing: Doom.

3. Chapter 3

BOOK ONE: REVELATIONS
VOLUME TWO: TERROR (I)

21st of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 20, 2657 Galactic Standard)

TRANSMISSION ENCRYPTION LOCK: RELEASED
W10-2657 FROM COUNCIL
ASSIGNMENT TO FOLLOW
DIPLOMATIC PERSONNEL FROM EE TO ARRIVE AT CITADEL APPROX 0900
S.A TO ASSIST FC SECURITY OPERATIONS AND ENSURE SMOOTH FC
PRIORITY ONE: ENSURE SAFETY OF COUNCIL
PRIORITY TWO: ENSURE SAFETY OF EE PERSONNEL
PRIORITY THREE: ENSURE CORDIAL RELATIONS WITH EE & EE PERSONNEL UNTIL NOTED OTHERWISE
PRIORITY FOUR: LIAISE WITH EE PERSONNEL FOR PASSIVE INTEL
ALL OTHER PRIORITIES SAME AS PREVIOUS

Saren arrived at the hangar reserved for the ship bringing the Exitium's diplomats an hour before they were due to arrive; a small army of Citadel Security and Citadel Port Authority personnel, all armoured and armed, were scurrying about the spacious room, conducting last-minute security checks and waiting at various staging areas. Nobody paid Saren - a single armoured man - any mind, until he'd made it about halfway towards the landing bays; he heard a vaguely-familiar voice call out to him.

"Spectre Arterius?"

He turned to find a turian C-Sec captain standing next to a cluster of small prefab buildings, flanked by several dozen other officers; seeing that Saren was approaching, the man nodded to his colleagues, sending all but two of them running off to other positions.

"Spectre Arterius, I know we've communicated via mail but let me say that it's an honour to be working with you," Captain Castis Vakarian said as he clasped Saren's arm; Castis' two assistants - a batarian and an asari - both stood at attention.

"No need to be formal," Saren replied, waving a hand dismissively. "You did an excellent job with the routing for the Exitium's convoy - it looked much the same as what I was thinking."

"Thank you, Spectre," Castis said with muted pride. "I only wish we'd had more time - two days is, ah, unusually short notice between the announcement of First Contact negotiations and, ah, it actually taking place."

Saren shrugged. "We just do our best - it's all the Council can ask for. Preparations?"

"Security along the aircar route is in place - final check-in will be in five minutes. Otherwise," Castis replied, gesturing around the hangar, "we're ready. As ready as we can be."

The batarian officer - one Staff Sergeant Kophim Sarnogar, according to Saren's HUD - tentatively raised a hand, and spoke once Saren nodded at him. "Spectre, uh, I understand if I'm digging a little too deep here, but our briefing materials really didn't say a whole lot about the Exitium's diplomats. Or the aliens who, you know, are coming here. Actually, the briefing stuff didn't say a whole lot of anything, besides the fact that they're bringing several species with them, that they speak our languages and to, ah, 'be tolerant of their religion and to keep an open mind,' which really doesn't help me do my job."

"I understand, Staff Sergeant," Saren replied with a sigh. "Much of this information is classified - at least for the next few days - simply because the Councils - especially the Lower Council - is having a difficult time determining what should and shouldn't be released to the public at this time. From my limited experience, I will note that all of the Exalted Exitium's personnel have been friendly, at the very least - and that if your briefing were to call them 'very religious' you should take that as an comically stupid understatement."

Castis, Kophim, and the asari officer - Staff Sergeant Isena Sharo - looked at one another with ill-hidden alarm; the asari spoke before Saren could continue.

"Okay, I'm just going to say it because nobody else has the quad to do it - this whole 'Eternal Crusade' thing of theirs is total pyjak-shit, right?" Isena scowled. "Because there were at least three pages dedicated to how we are absolutely not in any way, shape, or form insinuate that their thousand year war against demons or something is complete garbage - not that I'm going to do that, thank you very much," Isena said, raising a hand before Castis could open his mouth, "but I just wanted some confirmation. For myself."

"Classified," Saren replied flatly. "At least for now - and that's fifty thousand, not one. If their claims are true, the Exalted Exitium has been waging their religious war long before any of the Citadel races were capable of walking, let alone doing things like achieving spaceflight. Or using toilets. Frankly I don't care if it's true or not - they feel like it's true, which means until otherwise noted we treat them as such. Understood?"

"Yes, Spectre," Isena replied with a roll of her eyes.

"Good. Although I will say I am interested to see what their civilian - or at least non-military - personnel look like," Saren added with a smirk. "Their Volumes of Unity were a little light on pictures. I hear some of their, ah, 'honour guards' look like the turian knights of ancient Palaven - shining armour and all."

Castis let out a low whistle. "That'd be something. I mean they all already carry their - Spirits this is ridiculous - chainsaw swords, no?"

"Just the so-called Honour Guard. I imagine their role is more ceremonial than functional," Saren pointed out with a shrug.

"Knights, huh," Isena muttered, scratching her chin. "I don't buy it. Who'd send ceremonial guards to a First Contact meeting? I mean - yeah, sure, you need to look good during Contact or whatever, but you're telling me these people are going to be relying on guys with swords and plate armour to protect them?"

"I'll put creds on it," Kophim replied with a shrug. "From the briefings - and your testimony, Spectre - they sound insane enough to do it."

"I thought we all agreed to not to bet in front of our superiors?" Castis grumbled, looking up from a dataslate. "Especially a Spectre?"

"It's fine," Saren said with a smile. "So long as the two of you can carry out your duties despite the fact that one of you is going to be short on cash shortly, I fail to see the problem."

Any cheer Saren might have had drained away slowly as the countdown to the negotiations progressed; when the call came in announcing the arrival of the Exitium ship, Saren's focus was razor-sharp and his mind crystal-clear. Even so, he let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in when the alien spacecraft came into view at the far end of the hangar; unlike the imposing black box he'd seen at Relay 314, this was very clearly a less military-oriented craft; a dull-green ship, shaped not unlike a Drell-made punch-knife and covered in hundreds of runic inscriptions, slowly flew towards the hangar's landing clamps with a distressing lack of noise. All movement ceased as the ship locked into the specially-reserved ship bay, and with anticipatory silence the personnel within the hangar watched as a long, slender ramp extended from the underbelly of the alien craft.

A procession of two dozen massive warriors clad in shining silver armour with green half-cloaks stomped down onto the hangar floor, their clanking footsteps sending rhythmic echoes through the spacious room; even knowing what to expect, Saren couldn't help but shake his head in slack-jawed awe at the sight of the massive chainswords hanging from their hips, which stood out all the more given the knights' conspicuous lack of (visible) firearms .

"Holy fucknuts, you weren't joking," Isena whispered, joining the chourus of concerned muttering which was passing through the hangar. "They're knights in plate with swords! They're not even carrying guns!"

"Pay up," Kophim muttered back, extending a hand even as his eyes remained on the knights; Castis swatted his hand down.

"Shut it," Castis growled beneath his breath.

All of the knights - save for one bearing a golden sash across their chest- proceeded to take up positions beside the ramp, drawing their swords and planting them tip-down on the hangar floor; the lone knight who was not standing at attention scanned the hangar, then walked towards the command area Saren and Castis were standing by at a relaxed pace. They arrived and knelt on one knee, their armour clanking as they shifted onto the ground.

"Captain Castis Vakarian and Spectre Saren Arterius, I presume?" the human said in a deep, booming bass; they unsealed their helmet to reveal a tanned human male, black hair kept short, staring up at them with a grin on his face.

"Uh, yes, that's correct," Castis replied stiffly. "There's no need to kneel, sir."

"Nonsense! Merely a show of respect to a foreign counterpart," the man replied cheerfully as he got to his feet. "Now - if I recall correctly - I clasp arms with you, yes?"

"That's right," Castis replied, eying the man's enormous armoured arm with only the barest hesitation; they clasped arms a moment later with enough force that Saren swore Castis flinched. "And you shake hands, correct?"

"Correct, my good sir, yes! We most certainly do," the man replied, rumbling with laughter as he gently shook Castis' hand. "I'm aware my name might have been mentioned in the briefing materials you were given, but since this is our first true introduction, I feel I must stand on a little formality, if only for a moment." The man took a step back, and punched his fists together in a ringing Exitium salute. "Lord Protector Alec Ryder, at your service."

"A pleasure to meet you," Saren replied, clasping arms and shaking hands with Alec. "If you and your team are ready, all previously discussed security protocols are in place and our personnel are standing by."

"Very good, Spectre Arterius - I will fetch the ambassadors at once. If it pleases you, you can move up to the next position and await our arrival," Alec said with a smile.

"We'll do that," Saren replied, watching Alec walk back towards the ramp; with a nod to Castis, they turned and made their way out of the hangar and outside as the other security teams took up various positions in the hangar. The concourse outside was heavily fortified and barricaded; what was once an open area which connected several hangars had been reduced to a single walkway protected by several series of barricades each one manned by dozens of officers in full combat or riot gear. Far behind the C-Sec security teams, massive crowds of civilians looked on in anticipation, their murmurs a low roar which inspired both confidence and wariness in Saren.

Lots of smiles. Lots of nervous looks.

Saren, Castis and his subordinates took up positions at the far end of the walkway, where a convoy of armoured C-Sec transports and escort vehicles waited; they waited for a minute before their comms lits up with Alec's voice.

"Captain Vakarian, Spectre Arterius - the diplomats are with us. We will be out shortly - just a moment, if you please."

The hangar entrance opened once again, and the knights marched out onto the walkway to the sound of roaring cheers; as if on parade, they formed a line on each side of the walkway, twelve to a side, drew their swords and held them aloft to form a glittering archway of teeth and steel. Alec - identifiable by his gold sash, now that his visor was closed - stepped forward from the group, planted his blade into the ground and punched his breastplate so loudly that the entire crowd fell silent.

"HONOUR GUARD," Alec all but screamed, "THE FIRST PRAYER, BLESSED BE HIS NAME!"

"YES, LORD PROTECTOR," came the shouted cry. "WE HEAR AND OBEY! THE FIRST PRAYER, BLESSED BE HIS NAME!"

At once, the knights chanted:

Yours is the name that guards us from sin.
Yours is the blade that slays the demon.
Yours is the salve which seals our wounds.
Yours is the visage which grants us strength.

You are the Hell-Walker,
You are the First Sentinel,
You are the Unchained Predator,
You are the Doom Slayer.

When faced with Hell, we beseech thee:
Give us your rage so we may rip and tear,
Give us your hate so we may do so until the end of days.

So it is,
So it shall be,
Until it is done.

Amen.

Returning to the line of knights, Alec knelt and continued his shout: "PRESENTING! IN THE NAME OF THE DOOM SLAYER, BLESSED BE HIS NAME! HER EXALTED LADYSHIP, LADY AMBASSADOR ANITA GOYLE! HIS REDEEMED LORDSHIP, FAEMOCH EGI XAKHAL! HIS HIGH LORDSHIP, THE STROGG MAKRON OF TONGUES! HONOUR GUARD: KNEEL!"

"WE HEAR AND OBEY! BLESSED IS THE DOOM SLAYER! AMEN!" the warriors shouted, kneeling as the hangar doors opened, their swords planted in the ground and their heads bowed.

Three individuals emerged from the hangar to the sound of more cheering; first came a human woman, wearing a dark-blue outfit which reminded Saren of a Turian Navy dress uniform; her dark hair was styled into a bun, and two short swords (of the normal, non-toothed variety) hung from her belt. Next came something that vaguely resembled a human; its skin was a pale, sickly-looking grey, and Saren flinched as he realized that beneath its white robes and hood a cluster of wires and metal seemed crudely fused with its face. The last individual did not walk out, and Saren's jaw dropped slightly as an eyeless creature wearing robes of brilliant purple with golden trim hovered out onto the walkway, its metal-woven arms shining and sporting a golden semicircle crown which jutted out of the back of its head. Its lower legs and feet were of the same metal as its arms, and along its torso and waist ruby-red skin was visible beneath a silver carapace.

The procession made their way down the walkway, spearheaded by Alec, who nodded at Castis and Saren. "We are ready to proceed, my good sirs. At your desires," he said, stepping to the side to allow the Strogg in white to approach. It - he, Saren reminded himself - offered his arm, and Saren clasped it, suppressing his discomfort at the feel of more metal and wiring beneath the Makron's robes.

"Captain Vakarian, Spectre Arterius," the Makron said, his voice a wheezing mix of metal distortion and too-breathy flesh. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Likewise, your High Lordship," Saren replied calmly - somehow - as the Makron clasped arms with Castis. "If you are ready, we'll escort you to the Citadel Tower."

"Thank you," Faenmoch - somehow - said without opening its mouth. "We shall proceed, then."

Castis, Kophim and Isena ushered the ambassadors and knights into various vehicles in the convoy; Castis took the lead vehicle with the ambassadors, while Saren sat with several C-Sec personnel and Alec in the car directly behind. The convoy took off, and Saren exhaled deeply. "All good so far," Saren muttered, scanning the vehicle's surroundings as they flew.

"Ahh, there really is no need to worry, Spectre Arterius," Alec replied happily as his faceplate lifted. "Actually - would it be alright if I called you Saren?"

"Of course - that would be more than fine," Saren replied with a small nod. "Should I refer to you as Alec, then?"

"Oh - that would be wonderful, really," Alec replied, sighing in something that might have been relief. "Formality is so...dull, sometimes. In any case, Saren, we need not worry about the safety of our charges. Through our ambassadors are protected by fine warriors, the magic which defends them is of an ever greater sort - and to be perfectly frank, any one of the ambassadors could handily defeat the entire honour guard without assistance."

"Hmm. Really? Is that an exaggeration?" Saren asked slowly, unsure if a joke was being told.

"Not at all," Alec explained with a shrug. "Lady Goyle spent twenty years in the Church of the Slayer - an Abbess in the Order of the Long Knife, in fact. The Makron of Tongues - well, he is a Strogg - all of whom are formidable warriors in their own right - and besides his martial skill he conceals no shortage of surprises beneath his order's robes. As for Lord Faenmoch - well, I have not had the pleasure to see him perform in combat, but there are a great many rumours," Alec said, eyes shining with excitement. "Thousands upon thousands of years of experience as a warrior serving Hell, all repurposed in the service of the Doom Slayer's guiding light and hatred. His name be blessed," Alec whispered, "they say his brutality is akin to the finest of art, Saren."

Saren attempted to say something intelligent, couldn't, and nodded. "Huh."

"Even so - it is our duty to protect the ambassadors," Alec said with a shrug. "So it is, so it shall be. A warrior's fate is to do their duty, no matter the context or cost."

"Hmm. That, I can both agree and empathize with," Saren replied with a smile he couldn't help but make. "Duty - yes. That's very true, Alec. There's nothing nobler in the universe - at least, in my experience."

Alec regarded Saren with searching eyes for a moment before breaking out into a raucous fit of approving laughter. "Oh, this is a joyous day indeed. You know, Saren, I cannot help but think that today heralds the beginning of a great friendship between our peoples."

"I had hoped that'd be the case," Saren said with a smirk. "Friends make for poor enemies."

"Yes! That's the spirit! Oh, Saren, my good sir," Alec replied as his eyes glazed over in imagination, "I look forward to the day when every race from all across the stars - every species that calls the Citadel home included - can stand side by side and slaughter the Servants of Doom to their heart's content! Truly is His name a blessed one!"

Saren coughed slightly. "Uh...yes. Of course."

Despite his rapidly-increasing discomfort and inability to converse meaningfully with Alec- who'd very quickly descended into a seemingly-endless speech on the wonders of "inflicting barbarous cruelty on Hell's unworthy hordes" - the ride to the Citadel Tower passed without incident. Leaving the C-Sec officers behind, Saren personally led the ambassadors to the Council Hall and beyond into a small conference room; Herane Tevos, Fallox Sparatus and Saral Valern were waiting, and they proceeded to shake hands, clasp arms and take their seats as a single group - though, Saren noted, Faenmoch only appeared to be sitting, as he was actually floating very slightly above his seat.

"Ambassadors of the Exalted Exitium, it is a pleasure to meet you in person," Herane Tevos said, smiling widely. "Herane Tevos, Councilor of the Asari Republics; these are Councilors Fallox Sparatus of the Turian Hierarchy, and Saral Valern of the Salarian Union."

"Ah, yes - a formal greeting is indeed in order. Lord Ambassador Faenmoch egi Xakhal, at your service; these two are Lady Ambassador Anita Goyle, and the Makron of Tounges. And please, it is our pleasure," Faenmoch replied, his split-jaw opening into something akin to a smile for a brief moment before closing - and continuing to speak in a supernaturally smooth voice. "Ah - before we continue, a rather unsavoury matter must be resolved. The turian marine who was to be executed - Slayer bless his soul - Spear Corporal Aetna Druso? Was he executed in the manner we instructed?"

Councilor Sparatus nodded at Saren, and so he answered. "He was," Saren said flatly. "Knocked out by sleeping gas, shot in the head - several times - then incinerated, along with his runic drawings. The entire cell which contained him was then disposed of in the nearest sun."

"Slayer's blessings upon us," the Makron of Tongues said sadly as all three of the ambassadors signed a symbol over their chests. "I understand - distasteful indeed, to be starting with such ugly business, and yet we must. Demonic corruptions, especially on a place so populated as the Citadel - it would have been a disaster of apocalyptic proportions," he said, trailing off. "Please, Councilors - Councilor Sparatus, especially - you have my sincerest apologies and I assure you that we shall do our very best to atone for this most grave of errors."

"That's alright," Sparatus said, nodding slowly. "In any case, with that settled - shall we begin in earnest? Before we discuss matters like borders or trade, I believe Councilors Tevos and Valern would agree that we'd like to clarify the matter of the 'War on Hell.'"

"That is agreeable," the Makron of Tongues replied with a nod. "I am aware that the Volumes of Unity speak of the matter, but - ah - you must understand that they were written with a rather different audience than you in mind. The last species the Exalted Exitium came into contact with which had no experience with Hellish matters was my own, and that was roughly forty-six thousand years ago, Councilor Sparatus. Please try to understand - for you, the reality we face must seem like fiction, or madness - but it is very, very real."

"In fact," Anita Goyle continued, "there has even been an ongoing debate in the upper echelons of the Exalted Exitium's governing bodies, Councilors. Our opening ties with the Citadel and the space it governs means that we risk spreading the War on Hell to your peoples as well. There is a group - a rather sizable minority - which believes that the best course of action that we could take is to leave information on how to defend yourselves against Hell as well as a means for you to contact us, and return home. Re-lock the relay. Pretend none of this ever happened. It would be," Anita continued with a scowl, "the same way we would treat an incapable or non-powerful society."

"I think, especially given the situation with the late Spear Corporal, that it is rather late for that," Valern noted coolly.

"We are in agreement," Faenmoch replied with a click of his jaws that might have been frustration. "It is a stupid idea - an incredibly stupid one, borne of the worry that your people are not strong enough, not ready to face the servants of Hell in open combat. Now - I have no doubt that in time, if - when - Hell comes to visit its ruin upon your people, your warriors will stand ready. Until then, though, by mere virtue of your interactions with the Exalted Exitium, you do risk demonic incursions within Citadel territory, councilors. Now that we are here - we can share knowledge and best practices on how to repulse, purge and cleanse any demonic invaders or influence."

There was a short pause as the Councilors glanced at one another, and it was Councilor Tevos who managed a response.

"I, ah, understand and accept that you have been facing an enemy of incredible threat and danger, honoured ambassadors - and I accept that you have been fighting this foe for fifty-thousand years," Herane said cautiously. "But I must also inform you that, from our point of view - and I mean absolutely no offense - that without a frame of reference akin to yours, it is difficult to accept outright that you and your peoples wield holy magic to, ah, cleanse the literal demons of the fiery underworlds."

The three ambassadors looked at one another and nodded sadly; it was the Makron who replied.

"Rest assured, Councilor Tevos, we do not take offense at your words. It is merely...difficult for us to put ourselves in your position, to see things as you do. I - we - do our best to try, however, and I think that were I in your seat, untouched by magic and without the changes wrought by so many ages at war, I might think myself entirely mad. The histories of my people - the Strogg - say as much." The Makron lowered his hood, clearly revealing his head for the first time, and not even his iron will could stop Saren - let alone the Councilors - from gasping in shock.

The Volumes of Unity had shown images of the Strogg - twisted creations of flesh and machine - but the real thing, up-close, was another thing entirely. Saren had found the cybernetically-enhanced warriors shown in the Volumes to be bearable, if rather distasteful; the Makron of Tongues was far more and far worse. The metal plates and layers on the right side of his face looked to be bolted into his skin, thick bundles of wiring and cables snaked out of his head and down into his robes, and perhaps worst of all was the Makron's right eye. Without pomp or ceremony, he simply reached up with a hand and plucked it out of its socket - revealing a spherical eye attached to a long, sharpened cone - with a mechanical whir and an uncomfortably loud squelching noise. With the slightly moist eyestalk in hand, then, and only then, did he seem to realize the discomfort he was causing.

"Ah - my apologies, esteemed Councilors," the Makron said sheepishly. "This will only take a moment, I promise." He tossed the eye towards the centre of the table, and Saren flinched as it hovered above the table's surface, glowing as it projected a holographic feed around itself: a grainy, flickering projection of a conference room appeared, showing several figures wearing armour not unlike the kind Saren had seen worn by the Lord Admiral Jon Grissom and his crew; on the other side of the table, two Strogg stood with clearly violent intent, yelling incoherently at the Exitium representatives.

"The Makron at the time of our contact with the Exitium, and his assistant," the Makron of Tongues explained. "When the Exitium came to us - and quite easily swatted down our attempt to destroy what we saw as a rival force - the Strogg refused to listen. Of course they did - what sane, reasonable creature, born from an empire of steel and industry, would accept the word of a zealous crusader? By then, of course, it was already too late." The image shifted, showing hundreds of soldiers of the Strogg and Exitium alike standing atop a wall or barricade, firing down at an endless stream of demons; despite their best efforts the horde quickly overwhelmed the line, and Saren watched with a cold feeling as the foul creatures swept over the city behind the wall.

"And thus did the planet - and city - of Stroggos fall," Faenmoch sighed. "It was recaptured, of course, but only centuries later."

"In a single day," the Makron of Tongues said sadly, "the Strogg went from hating our conquerors to begging them for salvation. Had we faced a foe that was merely martially superior - we would have worshipped them as the new Makrons - the new leaders of the Strogg. But Hell, Councilors - Hell is different. Hell does not tolerate mere servants from its defeated foes - it makes slaves of them."

The projection changed; now, the image showed a view from further inside the city. Fallen Strogg, rent and torn apart by claw, tooth and blade, rose to their feet with crazed expressions and unnatural, disgusting auras, charging straight into the gunfire of their own allies; Saren thought of the Silverthread, and felt his hand twitch almost imperceptibly towards his sidearm.

"All because one Strogg soldier - just one - built a gore nest," the Makron hissed. "One! One pile of corpses, hidden somewhere in the great city of Stroggos. One gore nest became ten possessed and a hundred demons. That became ten gore nests. Then a hundred. Then - well, then we lost the planet. It took a a day, maybe two or three, if you believe the old records to exaggerate." He shrugged, raising a hand and beckoning at the eye; the projection stopped, the eyestalk angled and shot back into his head with a soft plopping sound. "I do not think it matters whether you believe that our foe is demonic - truly demonic," the Makron continued, raising his hood. "Nor does it matter if you believe that the Hell we face is the true underworld, home of the foulest, most unholy abominations. What does matter is that you prepare to fight what comes - and that you know that in the deepest pits of Hell, ruinous minds will exploit any and all weakness you show them in the name of Doom itself. To think otherwise is not mere folly - it would be the end of your civilization! If you would deny my claims, think my recordings fabricated, then look to experiences of your own warrior elite - Spectre Arterius," the Makron all but pleaded, "imagine the horror from the Silverthread spreading throughout all of Citadel Space. Madness, corruption - mere heralds of things to come - on every corner of every street of every planet."

Saren stared into the cold, synthetic eyes of the Makron and saw nothing but genuine terror.

"The Makron of Tongues speaks only truth," Faenmoch added with a vigorous nod, "and if you will permit me the boast, I think I am excellently placed to speak authoritatively on the matter."

"You're a Redeemed demon, yes?" Councilor Valern noted. "You betrayed your masters to serve the Exitium - is that correct?"

"Just so," Faenmoch answered. "Correct, Councilor. I am a summoner of Hell, and before then I was a lowly imp - naught but a common foot soldier of Hell's hosts," Faenmoch said, voice distant. "That was a long time ago - my ascension from imp to summoner took place six thousand years ago, my defection to the Exitium four thousand years ago. I have seen things, Councilors. I have done things you cannot imagine. I have watched the dead resurrected as Hell's mindless thralls more times than I can count. I have opened portals to Hell with the blood sacrifice of thousands of humans. I have used ruinous, terrible sorceries to call forth unholy creatures whose very existence warps space into an unholy abomination, Councilors. And when I say that magic and sorcery and demons are real, Councilors, know that from the bottom of my heart I speak the truth. As the Makron says - whether you accept magic and demons as real is of no consequence, so long as you take the steps to defend yourselves," Faenmoch continued, shaking his head. "The Exitium has profited - nay, survived - thanks to its wholehearted acceptance of sorcery and a life dedicated to the War Eternal - and if you will not accept that magic is real, or that Hell is the place where slain souls go to be damned, so be it. But do not bury your heads in the sand! You must face this. You must. Your lives, and the lives of everyone you swear to protect depend on it."

"I must add my assent," Anita added with a vigorous nod. "If you will explain Faenmoch's life and deeds as possible because his species has unique phsyiology - so be it. If magic is merely some sort of new science which follows rules you have yet to discover - so be it. If Hell is simply some other dimension to you, its denizens the brainwashed soldiers of a conquering army - so be it. Look to the Doom Slayer Himself for inspiration - He does not care how the demon is slain, only that it is done. But, as Faenmoch and the Makron have noted - if we maintain cordial relations, then it is only a matter of time before Hell hunts the people of the Citadel. You must be ready - if not to fight back, then to survive."

"I...we understand," Sparatus replied after a moment. "Rest assured, we're not here to pretend that your foe does not exist, not are we going to act as though matters of security are of no importance. It is difficult, however, to research magic when at least from our point of view magic doesn't exist. You say that we might explain it as some sort of new science, Lady Goyle? I would accept that - had I any proof whatsoever that your sorcery even exists, beyond what you tell me. Not that I think you, or any of your people are liars - but surely you see my point?"

"I do, Councilor Sparatus. That is why we are here," Anita said with a smile. "To help you understand. To help you broaden your horizons."

"Mmm. I believe that," Valern replied, "but do you suggest that you will offer your help without asking for anything in return? Forgive me for descending into a bout of pragmatism, but I find it difficult to imagine you'd offer all this knowledge and information without expecting at least something in return."

The ambassadors looked at one another with confused expressions; it was Faenmoch who answered a moment later.

"If the idea that the Exalted Exitium would grant you knowledge without cost sits poorly with you," Faenmoch said slowly, "then, ah, you could perhaps imagine that...we simply need more bodies for the War Eternal." He paused, snorting. "In fact, it is true. A hand which tears demons is a hand the Exitium calls a friend. But if you insist on looking at things cynically, then you could say we want you as a shield, or the like. I will say, however, that if fifty thousand years of war has taught the Exitium anything it is that cynicism only gets in the way of efficiency."

"Hope is our greatest weapon," the Makron continued, nodding in agreement. "And hope - compassion - dictates that we must give everything we can to the Citadel and its peoples. If you would offer gifts in return, then we would take them without issue. If not - neither would we complain."

The Councilors - and Saren - stared at one another with ill-concealed shock, and Saren had to work to keep a look of suspicion from making its way into view.

That's insane, Saren mused as the silence dragged on, but then again, everything about the Exitium is insane.

"That's a noble sentiment," Sparatus managed to say after a moment. "And while we appreciate it, it gets us no closer to understanding what, if anything, we can offer you. Technology? Space? Raw materials?"

"We do not want for space," Anita noted, "so you have nothing to fear in terms of the Exitium encroaching upon the Citadel's sovereign territory. It is the cruelest of ironies that the demons of Hell follow us primarily by the scent of the power we use to fuel our civilization - and so it is that any expansion on our part comes at the cost of dealing with the risk of demonic incursion. The Exitium has plenty of space to expand into when the time comes - Slayer's blessings, if your peoples wish for space to expand into and do not mind the demonic threat, there is plenty of room we do not have need of."

"That is reassuring," Tevos replied. "Imagining, for a moment, that the Exitium wanted things in return for its knowledge, though, what would you wish for?"

"Your technology is of great interest to us," Faenmoch noted. "We have only recently discovered the, ah, mass relays, and our ability to manipulate what you call 'element zero' is very limited by your standards. An exchange of knowledge would be greatly appreciated."

"That can easily be arranged," Valern replied, "though it will take time. First Contact, by our historical records, tends to be a drawn-out affair. We'll have to make arrangements."

"Of course," Faenmoch replied. "We, too, would have preferred a longer time for our peoples to learn to get to know one another, but the matter of Spear Corporal Druso forced our hand. We apologize for the inconvenience."

"It's quite alright," Councilor Tevos replied with a wave of her hand. "But the speed of this First Contact scenario has also placed us in a bit of a predicament - without the time to properly learn about your peoples, and inform our own citizens, we've had to withhold information from the public for fear of...instability, or, at the very least, a poor reception to your continued residence in Citadel space."

"Ah. I was fearing this might be the case," the Makron noted with a sigh. "I, ah, did notice your discomfort at my visage. So, too, did I leave my AI modules behind aboard our ship - and while some at home were unsure, the decision was made to ensure no artificially-intelligent personnel were on our diplomatic mission."

Didn't stop you from tearing your damn eye out, Saren thought with a suppressed snort.

"We appreciate your sensitivity to the matter," Councilor Valern said with a smile. "But if you are aware of how things stand - then you must understand how the public will react. The fusion of machine and flesh; the marriage of artificial and natural intelligences - these are not things the people of the Citadel will take kindly to."

"I have no concept of how your people will react, in all honesty, and I will not pretend that I understand much of your society or its history," the Makron admitted with a shrug. "I will simply say that the truth of my people - of myself - will be impossible to keep hidden if we are to maintain a friendly and open relationship. Nor will I look kindly upon the hiding of my culture."

"Perhaps it would be best," Councilor Tevos interjected, "if we took some time during these initial negotiations to draft a public release. Our history is not your history - obviously - and I think it will be crucial for the public to see and speak with people from the Exitium in a public, 'real' setting. The public must know that, for example, your body and mind are of...ah, a peaceful nature, Makron of Tongues; they must see proof from tests that you are indeed an old, wise being, Ambassador egi Xakhal."

"Old - I am not that old," Faenmoch muttered sourly. "You might think it so, but really - older minds persist both within and without Hell itself."

"You claim as much," Fallox countered, "and yet without proof the public will think you a liar. Even the asari - whose ages can surpass a thousand - often face unfair scrutiny or accusations from those who do not share their lifespans. How do you think such people might react when a being such as yourself claims to be well over four or five thousand years old?"

"That is a fair point - and one which we had not even bothered to consider," Faenmoch admitted with a click of his jaw. "Alas, our lack of foresight on matters external blindside us once again."

"In a similar vein, I have to express concern regarding your religion," Fallox continued. "Many members or our respective governments have expressed worry about the vigour with which your people pursue their worship. Now - I have no issue with your conviction and faith myself, but from an outside point of view I hope you can see why some would be worried. Your religion - correct me if I am wrong - is built upon the worship of a singular war-god whose every word and command exhorts you to, ah, 'rip and tear' your demonic foes with as much cruelty and anger as you can muster. For the Citadel, whose religions trend towards the, ahem, more introspective, such language inspires, at best, fear."

"I...suppose," the Makron said slowly, scratching beneath his hood with a metal finger. "Yes, I think I understand. But - perhaps it is simply my inability to put myself in their position - I, and my colleagues, worship the Doom Slayer and focus our eternal, unending hate upon Hell and its servants, nothing else. It is as He said: 'Slay the Heretic and the Demon alone.' Blessed be His name, the Doom Slayer Himself spoke clearly that we need not worship Him, and that all beneath His fist most holy can do as they like in matters of faith, so long as we continue the War Eternal."

Another pause; once again, the Councilors regarded each other with a mix of relief and alarm.

"See - you can insist, for example, that you will not commit violence, or even inconvenience, upon the people of the Citadel by means of your own scripture," Saral Valern replied, "but your words and your actions are two different things. Moving forward, I would ask that you publicly comply with, and state your compliance to, the strict regulations on the methods by which proselytizing is allowed in Citadel space. Doing so would reassure us, the Lower Council and the public at large."

"That is no problem," Anita said, nodding. "I can, off the top of my head, recall no less than two dozen scriptures in which the Doom Slayer Himself, blessed is His name, demands that those who do not worship him be treated with respect, patience and freedom. You have my word as a representative of the Church of the Slayer that any chaplains sent forth from the Exalted Exitium shall follow all laws applying to them to their fullest extent, in both intent and application."

"I will swear the same oath, on behalf of the Church of the Lector," the Makron of Tongues added. "Any and all priests that set foot on Citadel territory will be sworn to do their duties within the boundaries you set for them, Councilors."

Saren considered the words of the Makron. Just like that. No hesitation, no talk of division or disobeying of orders. Interesting.

"That puts one of my concerns at ease," Saral said with a curt nod. "Thank you."

"Of course, that only raises the issue of tourism," Anita added with a sigh. "The Citadel is a place not touched by the War Eternal; you must understand, to many of our people the Citadel and the planets which comprise its member governments, they will seem like paradise made manifest. I'm sure the idea of tourists visiting in droves is an exciting prospect, but perhaps not in the numbers we can bring, and especially tourists for whom Citadel space will not just be a place to visit, but a sacred place fit for a holy pilgrimage. If several dozen of our persons is enough to inspire as much...interest as it has, I can imagine that several hundred thousand - several hundred million - people coming each day to Citadel space may, ah, not be conducive to cordial relations."

"Then we would request a freeze on free travel and immigration between the Exitium and the boundaries of Citadel space," Fallox noted matter-of-factly. "Cordial or not, friendly or hostile - the Citadel and its members are not equipped to handle an influx on that scale. It would, of course, be a temporary measure, instated while we further hash out the details of a proper intake procedure and any limitations requested by our member governments."

"We are more than happy to accept such an order," Faenmoch replied. "Though, to be honest, I do not think any of your peoples will be quite ready for the, ah, rapture some of our citizens will experience, no matter how long it is until they arrive here."

"It'll be a learning experience," Tevos said, smiling. "Speaking of - allow me to return to the matters of Hell for a moment. You have mentioned and we are aware," she continued, smile fading into a steely expression, "that the construction of these, ah, gore nests, is well within the reach of any determined individual. If we are to have time to prepare to face the dangers of Hell, then this knowledge - and knowledge of similar threats - must be suppressed."

"Mmm. That is a good point," Faenmoch noted, split-jaw opening and closing in thought. "We had planned on linking our galnet to your extranet, but that might have to be postponed for the foreseeable future. If the Exalted Exitium demands that any visitors to the Citadel and beyond do not share such knowledge, I can say that ninety-nine percent of our peoples will follow that order even if tortured or otherwise pressed - but there is going to be a non-zero risk of information leakage," he conceded.

"Perhaps, then, we can adjust the timetable for travel restrictions based on methods of dealing with said nests?" Councilor Sparatus offered.

"Ahh, but to spot a gore nest and to know how to destroy one safely, one must know how it looks at the very least," Anita said, frowning. "True, simply procuring some corpses and throwing it into a pile usually does not result in a gore nest without the proper demonic invocations...but usually does not mean always."

"A conundrum," the Makron said, tapping the table in thought. "To be fair, anyone with a rune-knife can dispel the magics of a gore nest - and given the exceedingly potent fabrication abilities of your omni-tools I believe it would be possible for basically every citizen to have a rune-blade on hand - but that still fails eliminate the real threat behind the nests."

"Demonic incursion," Valern replied. "I see the issue - we shall have to return to it once matters of knowledge-sharing are solidified. We omitted any information on gore nests and portals from the contact package we uploaded to the public to be safe - so unless one of the isolated marines breaks confinement there's no chance of information leakage at this time. Perhaps disseminating fabrication plans of these, ah, rune-knives, can be done now, and information on their...holy properties can be released later?"

"A stopgap measure, but sufficient for the time being," the Makron said, shrugging. "In any case, as previously agreed, we intend to interview the afflicted marines to see if they possess sign of demonic corruption - and I am sure that, dutiful as they are, they will not spread knowledge of the nests if they are free of taint."

"Very well," Tevos said. "Before we move on to the concrete details of how we will facilitate information-sharing, I would, ah, like to address one more thing - economic matters."

"Ah. Yes. Numbers," Faenmoch sighed. "All of my joking aside - you have us at a disadvantage, Councilors. Ours is a - how do you say - what is the word?"

"War economy?" Saren offered.

"I believe that would be the term," Anita said with a nod. "Yes - every fibre of our being, our society, our culture - it is designed for war."

"The Exitium has not known anything besides such for fifty-thousand years, Councilors," the Makron continued. "Oh, we possess luxury goods and the like - but, ultimately, the vast majority of, well, everything in the Exalted Exitium, from the lowest municipal bureaucrat's paperwork to the largest planetary factories all work to fuel the endless, ravenous needs of our War Eternal. We have no experience or understanding of anything else."

"What the Makron of Tongues means to say, Councilors," Faenmoch said with a split-smile, "is that if you would place demands or restrictions upon us, we will do our best to abide by them simply because, in this field, your experience trumps ours."

"That - your, ahem, candor is appreciated, Ambassador," Herane replied in stark astonishment. "I'll return the honesty - your previous census listed the Exitium's three Core Sectors as having a population of just under a quadrillion individuals - and even that is a conservative estimate. I won't lie: the Exalted Exitium's industrial capabilities - as they should be, given your, ah, unique circumstances - vastly outpaces our own. That, in and of itself, is no problem - but if there would be irreparable damages to the Citadel's ability to function economically unless incredibly strict rules are put in place to regulate even the smallest amounts of trade."

"Well, without access to my AI modules or an external processing booster - or some proper arithmancers, more likely - I cannot say that I have any proposals on how to deal with the situation," the Makron replied, "save for offering a freeze similar to the one on travel and immigration, at least until some sort of proper trade negotiation can be had between your relevant authorities and representatives from the Exitium more properly-equipped to handle such matters."

"Yes - that will simply have to do until further negotiations can be had," Lady Goyle added with a shrug. "Now - you mentioned the information-sharing programs…"

Several hours later, the conference table's holoprojector displayed a thirty-six page document which outlined dozens of topics which the Exitium's ambassadors and the Council would continue to discuss over the coming days, and Saren suppressed a look of relief at the chance to stop standing at attention in near-silence.

"Well," Councilor Tevos said as she leaned forward and smiled, "I believe that concludes the drafting of our contact objective list. Unless we've missed something crucial - and I don't think we have - negotiations moving forward should proceed smoothly."

"Hah! An optimist. A politician's work is never done, Councilor," Faenmoch said with a chortle, "but I must admit I am more than happy with what we have accomplished here today."

"As am I. We'll reconvene tomorrow, then, and begin with the concrete drafting of the knowledge-sharing program at nine sharp? Is that acceptable?" Councilor Sparatus offered.

"Yes, yes, that suits us well," the Makron of Tongues replied. "That leaves us a great deal of time for our work tonight; after giving the isolated marines a clean bill of spiritual health, I believe we would like to tour the Citadel for a while, and perhaps demonstrate some practical sorcery in a safe and controlled manner."

"Will you be heading straight to the hospital in question, then?" Councilor Valern asked. "If so, Captain Vakarian's security teams await you outside the Council Hall; Spectre Arterius is also at your service for the time being."

"Thank you, and yes, I believe we shall," Anita replied. "If the soldiers in question bear the mark of Hell's corruption, then the rites of cleansing must be carried out at once. If not - well, I would not wish them to be confined without a reason, and so their freedom must be secured with haste. Ah - speaking of which - if it would not be too much of an inconvenience, I would ask, Councilors, that a channel be established by which the Exitium can begin its atonement regarding the most unfortunate sin wrought upon the Silverthread's crew and Spear Corporal Druso."

"Indeed," the Makron continued, "while I understand our currencies of cart and belt are not equalized with the Citadel Credit, it is my - our - desire that gifts of runes, physical goods and sizeable amounts of Exitium currency be sent as soon as is possible to the families of the slain."

"You don't need to worry - we will be sure to make the proper arrangements," Councilor Tevos replied with a nod. "Even if an in-person meeting cannot be arranged before your departure, we can certainly carry out the delivery of some gifts and set up a line of communication between yourselves and the families of the affected."

"Blessed is His name," the Makron sighed, signing a symbol over his chest as the other ambassadors followed suit. "I know it is little comfort for those who have lost a loved one, but upon His name I swear that the Exalted Exitium will ensure these families will never want for anything material - and if they would seek spiritual comfort, please let them know that they may have their pick of the Church of the Lector's priests. This peaceful meeting of ours has been built upon the needless deaths of so many; I fear there is nothing I can do to atone for it."

Councilor Sparatus glanced back at Saren, and the two shared a knowing look of disbelief.

Spirits take me, he's laying it on thick, Saren thought with a rumble of amusement. Can't tell if this is the best or worst acting I've seen in my life.

"I'm sure your gestures will be appreciated deeply," Sparatus managed after a moment. "Yes, these deaths were unfortunate - very unfortunate - but now that all of us are communicating clearly and working together, I'm sure something like this won't happen again."

"I - we appreciate your reassurance," Anita replied softly. "This meeting has been quite an eye-opening experience; our days of ill caution with matters external must end, and it is only with your help, Councilors, that we may move forward in a proper and safe manner. Much as magics and demons are beyond your understanding for now, so too does the Exitium not know how to react or handle a society not burdened with the War Eternal."

"Well, we all stand to profit from this partnership," Valern noted. "And if our nations become friends in the process, well, that doesn't sound all that bad to me."

"Aha! A jester in our midst," Faenmoch said, split-jaw yawning open in a toothy grin. "Very well, Councilors; I believe we shall take our leave for the evening, and take Spectre Arterius with us, unless you wish to join us?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, at least tonight," Councilor Tevos replied with a sad smile. "Even with all the work we accomplished tonight, there's no shortage of papers to file and reports to deliver to our respective governments and liaisons. I trust, of course, that Spectre Arterius will be able to represent and report to us in an adequate fashion."

The Makron shifted slightly. "Of course, of course! Whatever your protocols are, we defer to them, Councilor."

"I'd like to hold on to Spectre Arterius for just a moment, though," Sparatus interjected. "There's nothing wrong or all that serious - we'll be debriefing and ensuring our affairs are in order before dispersing to take care of our individual duties, and I'd like to have Spectre Arterius' input on a few matters."

"Of course. We shall await you outside, then, Spectre," Faenmoch said. "By your leave, Councillors."

The ambassadors all stood up, bowed, and left the room; once the doors closed behind them a long silence settled in the room for nearly a minute.

"Spirits," Fallox muttered at last, rubbing at his fringe. "I've, ah, seen a lot of weird stuff in my life and nothing's ever come close to being as bizarre as...whatever that was. I have no idea how I'm going to even start my report to the Hierarchy."

"I think I'm going to have to agree," Herane replied, sighing. "I'm almost six hundred years old, and for the first time in my life I have absolutely no idea what I should write in my next report. Where do we even start?"

"Age, perhaps?" Saral mused. "Faenmoch claims to be over six thousand years old. That, more than anything, raises my suspicion - and my curiosity. I find myself doubting him, despite his rather blasé manner of speech. I wonder if he'd submit to a full battery of, say, dating procedures…" The salarian councilor trailed off before turning his eyes on Saren. "Perhaps you could float the idea, Spectre?"

"Yes, Councilor. I'll be sure to do so," Saren replied flatly.

"Thank you." The absent look in Saral's eyes vanished, and his expression returned to its usual, calculating look. "Impressions? I'm still not convinced about their magic - and don't get me started on their religion - but Ambassador Xakhal is right, I think. It doesn't matter what threatens the Citadel - if something poses a danger, we need to be ready to face it. Now, I'm not saying we all start worshipping their Doom Slayer and carrying chainsaws instead of guns, but - I think I'm being fairly clear."

"Yes, you are," Sparatus replied, shaking his head. "As absurd as all of this is, Saral's right - a threat is a threat, no matter its origin. And no matter how much I think their overtures are suspect, I'm not going to outright turn down their generosity out of some misplaced sense of superiority."

"I think that's what struck me the most," Herane replied with a concerned frown. "How honestly generous they seemed. Lady Goyle, Lord Faenmoch and the Makron were all described to us in the Exitium's initial briefings as diplomats - and yes they certainly all are diplomats - but none of them seemed particularly adept at politics. I wasn't expecting them to obstruct and debate us at every step, but to just roll over and let us do what we want?"

Saren raised a hand, and cleared his throat as all three Councilors nodded. "I'm no diplomat, not by any stretch of the imagination, so take my words with reservations - but all of that does make sense if you take their claims at face value, no? Think about it from that perspective - they've been at war with a singular foe for fifty thousand years, maybe more. They don't practice diplomacy, not as we understand it; they don't need space, or argue about the economy, or worry about resource allocation. All they care about is the war - how to provide more soldiers, how to feed their troops, how to arm them, and so on. Their big diplomatic problems are probably like...dealing with arguments on how best to purge the demons, or something along those lines." He shrugged thoughtfully. "I don't even think they understand us - Citadel space, that is. From what little time I've spent with them, my impression is that our society not at all-encompassing war, not being engineered to maximize combat efficiency - all of that is entirely nonsensical to them."

"Just as nonsensical as they seem to us? Is that your implication?" Councilor Sparatus asked.

"It is, " Saren answered. "Now - keeping in mind I'm assuming they're not acting or lying through their teeth - all of a sudden after fifty thousand years spent fighting by themselves, they stumble upon us. Peaceful and naive and magic...less? Mundane? They probably don't care whether or not we believe their stories and whatnot - all they see is a chance to get us tooled up to join the fight, willingly or otherwise. For them? Ten, twenty years of the Citadel species getting their own way in terms of trade or immigration or whatever else you can negotiate for? That's nothing, Councilors - chump change. What's another ten or ten thousand years for the ancient Exitium?"

"Mmm. Yes, I do see your point, and I'm inclined to agree," Herane replied with a slow nod. "Of course, we'll be asking the other Spectres and many more analysts in the days to come, but what's your gut reaction in terms of a fight between the Exitium and the Citadel?"

"Hard to say," Saren replied with a frown. "Their stories of war-magic and whatnot make it hard to tell what's true, what's an embellishment and what's an outright lie; of course, I intend to verify these claims myself in a few minutes. But...gut check. Hmm. I don't think they'd be able to just steamroll over the combined resistance of all Citadel space," Saren said sourly, "but I'm all but certain that if they wanted a war with us they'd win. Even assuming that their technological claims are exaggerated and their magic is nonexistent - and they have to have some sort of advanced technology, since they're speaking to us in our own languages, I might add - I think they'd win out of sheer attrition. Their core dozen worlds or so have a population of over a quadrillion at a conservative estimate? Populated entirely by zealots, or brainwashed individuals? That's a nightmare waiting to happen if a fight breaks out."

Another long silence.

"Thank you for offering your thoughts on these matters," Councilor Sparatus said uncomfortably. "We'll keep your words in mind while we continue our work; please message us via the Spectre Office once you've finished your tour with the Exitium's ambassadors, and do try to record whatever you can. We'll eagerly await your return. Dismissed."

Saren nodded and left the conference room, joining the ambassadors outside; he lead them to Captain Vakarian's waiting convoy in the upper garages of the Council Hall.

"Ah, ambassadors, welcome back," Castis said as he waved the group over to the waiting line of vehicles. "We're ready to escort you to your next destination; will you still be travelling to Chalua Hospital?"

"That is correct, though if possible we would ask that either you or Spectre Arterius return to the Blessings of the Lector Four-Four-Six-Twenty-two to fetch our finest healer," Faenmoch replied with a split-jaw smile.

"I can do that," Castis replied. "I'll head there with a security detail and meet you at the hospital when you're ready? Is that acceptable?"

The ambassadors looked to Saren, who - after a moment of bewildered silence - nodded in turn. "That's fine, Captain. I'll send an all-clear signal when we're ready to receive the healer." He watched Castis, a dozen C-Sec personnel and half of the Exitium's Honour Guard depart the garage in short order; once they were gone, he turned back to the remaining officers. "Same procedure, same formations. Let's move, people," he ordered. Less than two minutes later, Saren and the ambassadors were sitting - or floating, in Faenmoch's case - in an aircar as their convoy drove towards Chalua Hospital at a steady, measured pace.

"Well, I believe that went quite well," Faenmoch said with a sigh as he regarded the Presidium passing beneath the car's windows. "You know, Spectre Arterius, I cannot help but wish that we had an entire age to spend here. It seems so...different, here."

"Different?" Anita snorted. "Yes, it's different, you buffoon - what, did you expect that the Citadel would be but a mirror of Gaia?"

"There is no need to be rude, milady," Faenmoch replied theatrically with a click of his jaws. "We are in the company of others at the moment, and I see no reason that your esteemed personhood should stoop to defaming my good name and visage."

"My apologies, Spectre," the Makron said with a shake of his hooded head. "The two of them are insufferable at times."

"It's alright," Saren replied with a small smile. "I find formal settings to be...stifling, at times - I'd prefer to see all of you as you are now, rather than as diplomats at the bargaining table."

The Makron twitched, his robes rustling as something moved beneath them. "Ah, yes - bargaining. I suspected before our arrival that your politics - Citadel politics - and our own would be quite different. Am I correct in assuming that unity is not the, ah, default mode of discussion here?"

"Not to the same degree that your peoples would think normal, no," Saren replied carefully. "The Citadel's socio political relations are complex at the best of times. The Council - both the one you spoke to today, and the Lower Council beneath them - juggles several mandates and interests, many of which can contradict one another in some way or form."

"That sounds terrible," Faenmoch said, tapping a finger absently on the window. "Our War Eternal is a curse, to be sure, but sometimes I think that its horrors have, in some way, been a gift. We - the Exalted Exitium - are unified in worship and zeal and desire. We were given a purpose, a goal, a duty: to rip and tear until the end of days come - and from that purpose we have built and learned so much. From each other, and from the Doom Slayer, blessed are His words and His fists."

"I cannot help but agree," Anita added eagerly. "Why, without the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, and his cleansing rage, you would not be speaking to Faenmoch today!"

"Ah - speaking of which," Saren noted, "I did have questions about that, Ambassador egi Xakhal."

"Oh? By all means, Spectre Arterius, ask away," Faenmoch answered. "Do not hesitate - you will struggle to find a question I might deem offensive or embarrassing, I think."

"You're a Redeemed demon," Saren stated matter-of-factly. "Two thousand years as a summoner, countless years before that as an imp fighting on the frontlines of the War Eternal against the Exitium. From one soldier to another - what made you leave? Was there something that drew you to turn traitor? To betray your masters, to worship the Doom Slayer? Was it one moment of recognition, one hundred tiny thoughts, or perhaps somewhere in between? Forgive me for prying, but it's not often I get to speak with a warrior with as, ah, varied and long a life as yours."

"No, no, it is no problem - I will be happy to answer. Perfectly reasonable questions, even more so considering your status as one of the Citadel's elite warriors," Faenmoch answered, the right half of his jaw easing open in what might have been a smirk or a lopsided smile. "Once, long ago - mere centuries after my ascension to summoner from imp - I was but one of thousands of Hell's countless frontline commanders. Some human settlement was to be my next target, and during the assault I faced a human boy - not old enough to be in the Church of the Slayer as an ordained warrior, but certainly old enough to carry a weapon. I killed his family, ripped his arm off as we fought in single combat, then left him for dead. I was distracted by a proper Slayer, as I recall it."

"An all-too common occurrence," Anita sighed. "Long gone are the Ages of Sin and Temptation, when we threw mere children onto the battlefield with little more than pistol and chain dagger, and yet still…" She trailed off, and shook her head. "My apologies for interrupting, Faenmoch."

"Indeed, indeed - a sacrifice which takes place by the million each day," Faenmoch said with clear distaste. "In any case, I paid no attention to the child at the time. Fifty, perhaps sixty or seventy years later, that self same child, now a man, faced me in some other far-off place - only now, he wore the armour of an ordained Slayer, prosthetic arm held aloft as he swore to tear me limb from limb."

"He did not have his arm healed? I was under the impression that your mages could regenerate wounds of that sort, according to my reading of the Volumes of Unity," Saren interjected.

"Yes, it is possible to heal such wounds," the Makron of Tongues noted, "but perhaps the child chose to bear that wound as a reminder. Or - well, I will not bore you with the intricacies of theurgic healing, but suffice to say that the boy's very soul-patterns changed with that event; perhaps the loss of that arm was so moving, so pivotal, that you might say that the child's natural, true self was without that limb."

"I would wager the latter was the case," Faenmoch replied with a small chuckle. "Oh - the drive in that child's eyes was the same I saw in him as a man - if I had taken both his arms, he would have bitten me to death if need be. Amidst a raging battle, he charged at me, screaming of vengeance and righteous, pure hate. Now, clearly, I am still here - but he was not lying when he said he would rip and tear me apart." The demon gestured at his silver arms, tapping them with a clicking noise as metal fingers touched metal forearms. "He ripped my arms from their sockets, and was about to do the same to my head when he was called elsewhere by his comrades. Me - I was unimportant, and left to die upon the floor."

"I'd assumed that the, ah, forces of Hell didn't practice medical care or casualty evacuation," Saren mused.

"Well - I most certainly was not evacuated," Faenmoch snorted. "I awoke weeks later, Spectre Arterius, deep in the depths of Hell, brought before tribunal to face torture for my crime of failure."

Saren hummed with curiosity. "Failure to take your objectives? Or failure to die in combat?"

"Both, Spectre. Hell is infinite, or is so large that it not being so matters little," Faenmoch explained. "Perhaps - hmm - think of it this way. The Exitium's non-military citizens work tirelessly each day to make its warriors fight harder, its sorcerers more powerful, its weapons more destructive. Hell, in turn, rarely innovates; rather, its entire society revolves around the powerful. The weak are killed in combat, or made to suffer; survivors are thrown back into the fray to test their might once more. So it is that Hell's disgusting, abhorrent leadership - the foul minds which no doubt lurk in places unseen, directing the unholy and the abomination - effect 'evolution.' The unworthy die. The strong survive. This has been Hell's method of war, for as long as I can recall."

Faenmoch paused, and when he spoke again his tone was no longer explanatory, but reverential; a near-whisper from his split-jaws which now worked back and forth slowly.

"But before that boy-made-man left to join his comrades, he said something that festered in the back of my mind. 'I lost everything, and my fellows made me stronger. With your failure here, demon scum, your kin will torture you more than I ever could. Rot eternally.' And so it was - the tribune I faced put me through suffering unlike any other. I entered the Black Maw without arms, and left it without my crown; I suffered more punishment than I thought possible for longer than I thought feasible. Eventually I was, as I said before, thrown into the war once again, and I will with much shame admit that it took me nearly another five hundred years of reflection to truly understand that those words were true. The boy - the man - he was right! In all ways! The evidence had been there all along," Faenmoch sputtered, tone rising into rapture. "It was so simple - let me ask you something, Spectre Arterius. Fifty thousand years of war with numbers so great that casualties mean nothing. Why, then, has Hell not defeated the Exitium? Why, Spectre Arterius, has Hell pushed the Exitium back to Gaia no less than four times, yet failed again and again to wipe out its most hated foe?"

Saren thought for a moment, searching both himself and the appraising gazes of the ambassadors sitting before him.

"Combination of factors," Saren mused, "unity of purpose-"

"-no! No, no, no, Saren, that's a soldier's answer - I speak not of tactics," Faenmoch interrupted, his jaw almost shaking with excitement. "Basic philosophy, Saren - do you see it? Do you understand?"

"You...uphold the weak where Hell rejects them?" Saren offered.

"YES," Faenmoch roared, raising his arms in excitement. "Correct, Saren, correct! Hell has superior numbers, superior resources, superior sorcery - and yet the Exitium fights on in the name of compassion. We make weak warriors strong, and those who cannot fight we protect to the death. Hell may have ever-stronger warriors, Saren, but in time they shall whittle down their number from ten million mighty champions to a hundred exemplars of unholy power. The Exitium, though? We shall raise our weak, Saren - every hand a fist, in time! At the anointed day, when the Doom Slayer Himself leads us into the Final Crusade, we shall not field a hundred, but a hundred quadrillion Sentinels ready to stamp out the unworthy stench of the demon. No numbers to replace the losses of Hell. No suffering great enough to stop our War Eternal."

"Blessed is His name, for the Doom Slayer guides our hate and our rage and makes our palms into fists," Anita continued as all three signed their curious sigil once more. "Faenmoch is right! We know he is right - and everyone, from janitor to marksman to cook to berserker, we never fear or lose hope - because victory is guaranteed, so long as we do our duty." She leaned forward, and grasped Saren's hands with such speed and force that he nearly fought back on instinct; her eyes bored into his with a look that was half-pleading and half-rapture. "Maybe it will not end tomorrow. Maybe it will not end next year. Maybe the War Eternal will last fifty, a hundred, five-hundred-thousand, or a million years more - but we cannot lose. Our War Eternal has already been won! Blessed is His name!"

"Blessed is His name," Faenmoch agreed as the Makron signed himself once again, "though I think you might wish to let go of Spectre Arterius' hands."

"Oh, Slayer," Anita muttered, flushing as she jerked backwards. "My - you - I am so very sorry, Spectre. I meant nothing of it - I was simply so enraptured, I forgot my manners. Please - accept my most sincere apologies."

"It's, ah, quite alright," Saren said calmly with a smile despite wanting to jump out the window headfirst. "So, ah, getting back to your story, Ambassador egi Xakhal - you, ah, defected? After, ah, reflecting upon the Exitium's evidently superior philosophy?"

"I did indeed, Spectre Arterius! Once I had realized my stupidity, I waited until the next battle Hell's masters charged me with leading; I waited until my forces had charged towards the Exitium's lines, then attacked from behind. This was my test - for myself, you understand," Faenmoch explained with a vigorous nod. "I would offer myself as sacrifice; I would reach the Exalted Exitium's light and atone for my sins, or die trying. Yes, I lost my legs in the process, but with fury and strength born of pure and holy conviction, I survived, hurling my battered corpse at the Exitium's battle-lines. When the battle was won by the Exitium, they took my body in, and I was subjected to the Rites of Redemption by the Church of the Redeemed - and once my probation was complete, and my penance begun in earnest, I was made whole once again."

"Your legs and crown," Saren said, nodding. "Gold, unlike the silver of your arms - I'd guessed they were of different make."

"Indeed they were. Replacements for my legs and crown. Symbols, a Wretch-Priest told me, of the Slayer's guiding Light and calming Fury."

Faenmoch paused, looking out the window; despite lacking eyes, Saren swore from his quivering head and shaking body that the summoner might have been crying, or something akin to it.

"Symbols, Saren. Symbols. The broken, made whole. The weak, made strong. The helpless, protected," Faenmoch said in a near-whisper, eyeless face pressed against the glass. "Look at me now, Spectre - a diplomat! For the Exitium!" He turned, took several breaths, and sighed contentedly. "If someone had told me upon my ascension from imp to summoner that I would find my true calling as a diplomat of the Exitium I would have gutted them on the spot. But we all have our sins to atone for, and in the stern, gentle fist of the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, I found my purpose. My calling. My destiny."

"So have we all, Faenmoch," the Makron of Tongues said soothingly. "Let His words guide you and His fist protect."

There was a long pause as the ambassadors looked to Saren; he coughed slightly and smiled as best as he could.

"That was - is - very illuminating," Saren managed. "A story like that must mean much for you to tell, especially to a, ah... newcomer to your culture like myself. In all your years you must have seen a great deal, changed a great deal - I may not speak for the Council officially, but I think that your attending the negotiations is a gift to us all. And, speaking personally - I think a lot of people, soldiers or not, could stand to learn a great deal from you, Ambassador egi Xakhal."

Faenmoch's jaws clattered and clacked in a laugh as he waved a hand. "Oh, don't flatter me just because I'm old. I might be well over six thousand years old - but believe me, most of that time was wasted. It is my understanding that your longest-lived neighbours are the krogan and the asari? They live until around, ah, a thousand-five-hundred, two thousand at the max? Let me say - personally, anyway - that in the grand scheme of things, the asari and krogan are as wise as anyone might think I am due to my age."

That'll be the day. Krogan grandfather lecturing me, Saren thought as he nodded.

"In any case, I think we can all learn much more from the lifespans of those like Councilor Valern and his salarian peoples," Faenmoch mused.

"Hmm. Care to explain? I think that's an interesting opinion coming from you - from the opposite end of lifespans," Saren said thoughtfully.

"Well, they have so little time on this mortal plane. So little time to waste on flight of fancy and idiocy! Well, I do not mean to imply that every salarian is a noble, shining beacon of virtue and genius. Every race has its poor fools - look at me! - but a short life, spent savouring each moment available? I think that," Faenmoch said with a wide smile, "is truly something to be treasured."

"You are not required to take this old, doddering fool's advice, now," Anita interjected with a snort. "Keep in mind that, in his old age, I have no doubt that the poor sap-"

"-I am capable of hearing you from my seat here, you know-"

"-bores you with his rambling. Did you know he spends whole days floating above his gardens, yelling at children to get off his property?" Anita continued, laughing.

Somehow, Saren managed to remain composed.

"That may not be a reference which resonates within the Citadel's culture," the Makron pointed out.

"Oh, it is," Saren replied as the convoy began to approach their destination. "My grandfather used to do that - sit on his balcony with an unloaded rifle, scream at us kids for playing on his yard."

"Spectre Arterius, do not encourage him any further," Anita sighed as Faenmoch's jaws clicked and clattered in laughter. "He does not need the ammunition."

"I'll say nothing further, then, besides the fact that we've arrived," Saren answered, his tone returning to flat professionalism. "If you'll follow me," he said, opening the aircar's passenger doors, "I'll escort you to the quarantined marines."

Saren exited the car first, joining six of the Exitium's Honour Guard and dozens of C-SEC officers; the convoy had stopped in a semi-closed garage built next to the secure loading bays of Chalua Hospital's restricted section. Satisfied that the area was reasonably secure, Saren gestured for the protection teams to spread out.

"Clear - ambassadors, we're ready," Saren said. The ambassadors left their vehicle, and followed Saren as he lead them to a security hatch at the rear of the garage; a pair of armed hospital security guards waited there for them, along with Doctor Moreith Serellis.

"Ambassadors of the Exalted Exitium, " the asari doctor said with a deep bow, "it is my pleasure to receive you. I am Moreith Serellis, the woman in charge of overseeing the isolation and quarantine procedures with respect to the turian marines you've come to see today. "

"The honour is ours, milady," the Makron of Tongues replied. "We understand that it must be difficult to accept our speak of magic, corruption and the like - so you have our gratitude for accepting our being here. "

Moreith opened her mouth, closed it, and looked pensive for a moment; finally, she simply shrugged and sighed. "You're right. It is difficult. I'll say that the matter of Spear Corporal Druso was rather… upsetting, to say the least, but the marines in question appear in my eyes to be doing well, especially in comparison to how Mr. Druso was before his, ah, cleansing."

"That is a good sign, " Faenmoch noted with audible relief. "Speaking generally, demonic corruption is visibly self-evident - but it never hurts to be careful."

"I agree. This way, ambassadors."

Moreith and her guards led the group past the security hatch and into the isolation wing beneath Chalua Hospital; row after row of security checkpoints waved them by, and in short order the group had taken a side corridor which placed them in front of a long series of cells.

"Well, here they are," Moreith said flatly, pointing at a nearby holoterminal mounted in the wall. "If you'd like to access any of their cell camera feeds, or pull up any scans of their brain activity, I can do so via that terminal there."

"There won't be any need for that, Doctor - we can sense their presence from here," Anita said with a bright smile. "I'll need the opinions of my esteemed colleagues, of course - but I think we'll be letting these men go free today."

"Yes - I sense a distinct lack of the demonic as well," Faenmoch said, chuckling. "Except for myself, naturally."

"Well - I can do nothing but agree. Of course, I would still suggest keeping an eye on our poor warriors here for the time being, just to be sure," the Makron added with a shrug, "but in truth I think that to be more of a formality than anything. Personally, I would recommend some form of counseling or therapy, though - records are scarce from our First Age, but they speak to the lasting trauma and terror inflicted upon those who fought against Hell's forces without the proper protection and equipment."

Moreith looked at Saren, her guards, the ambassadors, then at the cells with a concerned expression on her face. "Just like that? You simply, ah, sense that these men are of good, ahem, spiritual health?"

"Yes?" Faenmoch's jaws clicked together slightly. "I know it must seem strange to you, my good doctor, but rest assured - these men bear no cancers upon their spirits."

"I...if you're certain," Moreith said slowly. "Spectre Arterius?"

Saren frowned as the asari addressed him. "Is there a problem?"

"Ah, no, I suppose not. Never mind."

"Wonderful! In that case - well - so long as these fine soldiers remain visibly untouched by matters demonic for a day or few longer, I would see no trouble in letting them go. With that solved - Spectre Arterius, would you escort us above ground once more?" Anita asked. "With the fates of these warriors spoken for, I would very much like to show you the good even one of our healers can work."

"Of course. Doctor Serellis, you'll receive further instructions regarding the proper discharge procedures of the isolated marines within the next twelve hours," Saren said with a nod. "That will be all - we'll return topside now."

"Of course." Saren took the lead alongside Moreith, and with her guards bringing up the rear the group began walking back the way they'd came; as they waited at one of the security checkpoints, Moreith furiously keyed something into her omnitool, and a small message notification appeared in Saren's HUDspace.

Short Range Communications - M. Serellis, Dr. - Due respect - what the fuck is going on? They didn't even check the marines' vitals, and we're letting them go?

Saren snorted under his breath, eyes flicking about his HUD as he saccaded a response.

Short Range Communications - Reply - Classified.

Moreith shot a glare at Saren; he simply shrugged in return, and from that point on the doctor - rather pointedly - ignored him for the rest of the thankfully short walk. Once the group had returned to the garage on the ground floor of the hospital and reconvened with their own security teams, Moreith muttered a curt goodbye before disappearing once more.

"Well, I think that went quite well," the Makron of Tongues said happily. "If it pleases you, Spectre Arterius, I think we'd like to have our healer escorted to the hospital now."

"Of course. A moment, please." Saren tapped at his omnitool, pulling up Castis' contact tab; his call was picked up within seconds.

"Spectre Arterius," Castis said somewhat stiffly. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Captain Vakarian. We're ready to receive the Exitium's healer now."

"Ah. That was, ah, quick," Castis replied slowly.

"Castis?" Saren asked, shifting his comms into subvocals. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Spectre, just - well, that was faster than I was expecting. Also, just - their healer wasn't quite what I was expecting," Castis replied; Saren swore he could hear Alec Ryder's booming, raucous laughter in the background.

"How so?"

"Uh...she's a Redeemed demon. Just doesn't look anything like Ambassador egi Xakhal, is all."

"That shouldn't concern you, Castis. Just escort the healer and whatever tools she needs down here, please," Saren replied sourly. "Unless there's going to be an issue with that?"

"Ah - no, of course not, Spectre. We'll - I'll get on that at once."

Saren watched as Castis' icon disappeared before turning to face the ambassadors. "I've just finished speaking with Captain Vakarian; he, alongside Lord Protector Ryder, will be arriving shortly with your chosen healer. I did have a question, however - Captain Vakarian seemed...concerned about the appearance of the healer in question."

"Grahtial iut Ohvruss - she's a Redeemed Pain Elemental, if you recall their form?" Faenmoch answered, tilting his head.

Saren blinked, recalling - vaguely, at first, then clearly - the massive, floating single-eyed heads with jaws as wide as its entire body.

"Yes. Yes, I do recall." Saren sighed, wondering briefly if there might be some chance for him to give this job to someone else, before rubbing at his forehead. "Yes, this - I - well, I mean no offense, ambassadors, but - forgive me if this is out of line. I am no diplomat."

"Speak freely, Spectre," Anita said softly. "You will not wound us with your words."

Saren cleared his throat. "Okay - your healer - Lady iut Ohvruss? - she...does not resemble, even remotely, anything that the denizens of the Citadel are used to. You are familiar with the species which make their residence here?"

"Yes, we are," the Makron of Tongues replied, nodding slowly. "Go on?"

"She - Lady iut Ohvruss, that is to say - she is a floating ball of teeth. With a glowing red eye. And she floats - I'm assuming - without the assistance of any sort of technological device. Also, if I recall correctly, she maintains - I believe it was termed a 'internal bounded field' in the Volumes of Unity? - which holds something like two to three dozen familiars which appear as flaming humanoid skulls?" Saren paused, sighing. "That's all correct?"

"Yes, it is," Faenmoch noted, jaws easing open in an obvious sign of confusion. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Fairly or otherwise, Lady iut Ohvruss', well, entire appearance and manners are going to be cause for great, ahem, alarm, from most people on the Citadel," Saren explained with painful clarity. "Yes, there are non-bipedal lifeforms on the Citadel - but none which look as threatening to the average citizen as Lady iut Ohvruss. I cannot expect that the people of the Citadel will take kindly to her at first sight, let alone those who reside in a hospital."

The ambassadors exchanged glances, and then nodded slowly.

"Ohhhhh," Faenmoch groaned, shaking his head. "That - yes. That does make sense. Again - we hadn't even considered that, to be entirely honest. Damnation. Well, ah...perhaps...a covering, of sorts? Something to shield Lady iut Ohvruss from onlookers, for now?"

"I must protest," the Makron interjected. "A covering? I mean - I understand that for those who have not seen a Pain Elemental in the flesh, their appearance might be...frightening, I suppose, but surely you must consider Lady iut Ohvruss' feelings on the matter. Would that not be rather dispiriting for her? To have to cover herself, especially while administering healing upon her wards? Surely, Spectre Arterius, as one of the Council's most elite warriors, you must know that appearances do not mean everything."

"I understand, Makron, and allow me to reassure you - if it were simply my own thoughts we had to consider," Saren lied through his teeth, "we would allow all of you to roam freely across the Citadel. Alas, that isn't the case. Still - a covering might be too much. I think a simple warning to the hospital's staff, and taking care that Lady iut Ohvruss is not shown to people not in-the-know, so to speak, will be more than enough."

"An excellent idea! Again, we shall defer to you," Faenmoch said, bobbing slightly as he clapped his hands together.

"Wonderful," Saren sighed. "If you'll follow me, we'll head into the hospital proper and inform the authorities of our incoming arrival."

This time, the group and their guards took a different door which lead them through the ground floors of Chalua Hospital's restricted areas - primarily offices occupied by archivists, researchers and the odd security guard, all of whom gave the motley group a wide berth wherever possible. With a quick tap of his omnitool, Saren sent a pre-written message to the hospital's administrator, and by the time he'd lead the ambassadors to their designated waiting area inside a maintenance corridor not far from the hospital's main lobby he found a lanky, labcoat-clad salarian with a small ID-tag pinned to his chest waiting next to an elevator.

"Spectre Arterius and the Exalted Exitium's ambassadors, I presume?" the salarian said, bowing slightly.

"That would be us, yes," Saren replied flatly. How'd you figure it out?

"Director Jopol Ibam at your service," the Salarian continued, either ignoring or missing Saren's jab. "It's a pleasure to receive you. I understand that you're here to demonstrate the use of your healing magics on some of our patients?"

"Well - not us personally, Director," the Makron of Tongues said, chuckling. "Though the three of us know a bit of healing-thaumaturgy ourselves, we're not masters of the art - and, given the novel nature of magic to you and your peoples we figured it would be prudent to give the honours to someone better trained."

"Ah, I see - of course, of course," Jopol replied, nodding sagely. "I assume your healer is enroute?"

"She is being escorted her and will arrive shortly, though we'd like to issue a warning regarding her appearance," Saren noted; he pulled up a saved diagram of a Pain Elemental from his omnitool and showed it to Jopol. The salarian twitched slightly, but his expression remained unchanged as he studied it for a moment.

"Oh - I understand. I'll send a notice right away, and we'll do our best to restrict visitors both on and off the hospital grounds - we have procedures in place to deal with matters like these, in any case, so it won't be an issue for our staff," Jopol explained. "We're used to dealing with patients who want or need privacy, so the lack of notice really isn't an issue either."

Either you're the best doctor I've ever seen, Saren mused while Jopol typed away at his omnitool, or you're an enormous suck-up. Not that I'd blame you for either, I suppose.

"That is good to hear - I know these circumstances must be very unusual," Lady Goyle noted with evident relief. "And I know, from experience, that allowing a medical practitioner of foreign origin - especially one whose methods have no reference with your own - to practice in your hospital is an incredible honour and responsibility. You have our word that the healer in question - Lady Grahtial iut Ohrvuss - will do her utmost to preserve the sanctity and good name of your facility."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Jopol replied with a wide smile which quickly faded into a pensive look. "I will note that Lady iut Ohrvuss will likely be unable to fit into the room where our consenting patients will be waiting, however; the decontamination tunnel which separates the treatment room we've laid out and the viewing area is rather small. We can move the patients into a separate room, though doing so might take a while."

"I do not think you need to worry, Director Ibam," Faenmoch said with a wave of his hand. "With the assistance of her familiars, Lady iut Ohrvuss can practice her healing remotely; in truth, she could probably remain here on the ground floor and do her work unimpeded. Of course, I am sure you understand that she would prefer to be able to see her patients."

"Familiars?" Jopal blinked several times, then shrugged. "Ah - that would be the...skull, I noticed in the image. Is it...safe?"

"Perfectly so - each familiar remains under indirect control of its master. So long as the hospital - and Lady iut Ohrvuss - remain untouched by demonic incursion, there quite literally is no risk of anything untoward happening," Faenmoch said cheerfully.

Jopol remained silent in thought for several moments before finally shrugging. "So long as I have your word, then."

The next few minutes passed in relative peace, with the ambassadors and Jopal exchanging relatively simple questions; they both fell silent once Saren's comms pinged with an incoming message.

"I'm assuming that would be Lady iut Ohrvuss?" Jopol asked.

Saren nodded stiffly. "Correct. Lord Protector Ryder of the Exalted Exitium and our own Captain Vakarian will be escorting her in - you have people in place to guide them here?"

"Of course," Jopol replied. "While I've never personally overseen the treatment - or arrival - of...those foreign to Citadel space, it has happened before - and as I noted, many of our patients require measures taken to protect their privacy."

"Alright. I'm going out to meet Captain Vakarian - keep your comms open," Saren ordered, addressing the Exitium's honour guards and his own C-Sec personnel, "and if you think anything - anything - seems off, call it in."

Satisfied at the sight of the assembled bodyguards taking up defensive positions around the ambassadors and the hallway, Saren made his way through the now-deserted lobby of the hospital; the foyer, too, had been cleared, and the main entrance's doors were now covered entirely by a long blackout tent which terminated in a covered entrance which now housed no less than six armoured C-Sec transports. The back doors of the transports opened, and dozens of C-Sec personnel - with a smattering of Exitium honour guards thrown in - disembarked, taking up positions along the tent corridor. The final, central vehicle opened its doors once the other guards were ready, and Saren watched with amusement as Lord Protector Ryder and Lady iut Ohrvuss - who was, in Saren's estimation, quite possibly one of the most intimidating beings he'd ever seen up close - followed by an exhausted and frazzled-looking Castis.

"Ah, Saren," Alec bellowed in what Saren had decided was the quietest voice the man could manage, "it is good to see you once again! May I introduce Her Holiness, Lady Abbess-Chirurgeon Grahtial iut Ohrvuss." He gestured to the Pain Elemental behind him; she was, as far as Saren could tell, identical to the images he'd seen before, save for a bronze circlet ringed just above her horns from which two long white ribbons fell. She held a small satchel in one hand with its handles looped around her arm, and her other hand was festooned with bracelets and rings. She floated forward, and bobbed slightly in front of Saren with her hands clasped together.

"Sir Spectre," Grahtial growled with a voice that sounded eerily like a krogan Battlemaster ready to tear something in half, "it is an honour to meet and be protected by a warrior of your calibre. If it pleases you, I would like to be escorted to my would-be patients at this time."

Castis, Saren dimly noted, was now standing off to one side, rubbing at his fringe and doing his best to remain firmly out of mind.

"Of course, milady," Saren replied as flatly as he could. "I trust that Captain Vakarian's protection served you well?"

"Ah, indeed," Grahtial noted, her enormous jaw opening to reveal countless rows of teeth. "His acumen as a conversational partner served me well; though I availed myself of whatever resources I could lay my eye upon, I also figured that all the reading in the world would not prepare me to meet the people of your Citadel in the same way that hearing things from a living person would."

"Quite the storyteller indeed," Alec added, clapping Castis on the back as he very clearly ignored the look of exhausted desperation on Castis' face. "Shall we?"

"Please," Castis sighed. "We shouldn't linger out here."

"Onwards, then, my good sirs." With another bob - that Saren was beginning to think might be her equivalent of a bow or curtsey - she turned and waited for Saren and Castis to take the lead, with a trio of guards led by Alec taking up the rear.

"So," Saren said cheerfully as they walked briskly back towards the hospital, "you learn anything interesting?"

"How about," Castis grumbled, "we switch places after this? I'm sure you and Alec would get along real great, being soldiers and all. Oh - and I think my crew and I would have appreciated a heads-up about, ah, Lady Grahtial's...aesthetic, beforehand? Things got a little tense, if you know what I mean."

"Apologies, Captain Vakarian. I'm afraid my orders come from the Council directly," Saren replied with a smirk, "and I wasn't privy to the...information regarding the Exalted Exitium's designated healer until quite recently. My sincerest apologies."

"Pulling rank on me. Seriously? Jackass," Castis grunted, though Saren noted a faint smile on the man's face.

In short order, the group returned to the side hall where the Exitium's ambassadors and Director Ibam were waiting; the reactions from his assigned C-Sec personnel were, thankfully, minimal at the sight of Lady Grahtial, and much to Saren's surprise Jopol didn't so much as twitch.

"Ah, you must be Lady iut Ohrvuss," Jopol said, bowing deeply in greeting. "Director Jopol Ibam at your sevice - and may I say, it is, truly, an honour to have you here. If you'll follow me down the hall, I have several patients in the palliative care wing who've consented to your magic-based procedures as part of a clinical trial of sorts."

"Palliative - Slayer," Grahtial growled with a sigh, "I am blessed to be here and to be in your care at this moment, Director Ibam. Let me say this - from this day forward, you may look forward to ridding your institutions of such sad places."

"I...see. The ambassadors here informed me that your curative magics have, ah, deprecated the need for things like long-term care and palliative facilities, but you'll forgive me if I hesitate to believe that without proof," Jopol replied slowly as he led the assembled group towards a large elevator marked Elcor / Maintenance at the end of the hall. "If I also understand correctly - you will not need operating facilities, or even a sterile environment to work in?"

"That is indeed correct, Director. Unimpeded physical proximity to the patients in question, a surface to draw on and a bit of time will be all I need. Assuming a lack of magical interference or some sort of...variance in how soul mechanics work for Citadel citizens - which I highly doubt, to be frank - I should very easily be able to heal a dozen souls in less than an hour," the Pain Elemental explained as the group entered the elevator and began ascending.

Jopol - apparently dumbfounded or unable to believe what he was hearing - simply nodded dumbly and stared at the wall, and the rest of the ride passed in silence. Once they were in the ward proper, Jopol ushered the group into a small hallway lined with sealed doorways; Saren motioned for the guards to take up positions outside, and the salarian Director led the rest of the group into a small room; four individuals, two turian, an asari and a drell lay in hospital beds on the other side of a thick transparent airlock-sterilizer. "These are our patients," she said, turning to Grahtial. "I'm not sure what you require from this point on - shall I let you work?"

"That would suit me very well. May I enter the patients' chambers, then?" Grahtial asked.

"You may," Jopol answered with a curious nod.

Saren followed Jopol, the ambassadors and Grahtial through the airlock; the Pain Elemental smiled - probably - and bobbed deeply towards the ground as the patients all turned to examine the group with looks of ill-concealed unease, if not genuine terror.

"I am Grahtial iut Ohrvuss, of the Exalted Exitium," she said in something that might have been an attempt to sound comforting, though Saren couldn't help but think that, if anything, she sounded even more disturbing. "It is my understanding that the four of you have consented to receive my magic as an experimental way to cure what you believe to be terminal illnesses. Is that correct?"

There was silence for several moments, though eventually all four patients nodded rather weakly and murmured their assent with even less energy.

"Thank you - I know this is a great deal to take in," Grahtial said with another bob. "I feel it necessary to inform you, my good patients, that while our healing magics do not cause pain except in cases of demonic corruption, those not familiar with theurgic healing have mentioned that it can be a tad uncomfortable. Patients often report feeling a searing sort of heat - but I assure you, the feeling is harmless and will pass. I must also note that I will be making use of a familiar - worry not, for it bears you no ill will and will only serve to make the healing process faster and safer than it already is."

When the Pain Elemental opened her mouth next, a whirling fire appeared in her throat, and as a horned humanoid skull wreathed in white fire and projecting a sigil of some sort above its head appeared from the fire Saren had to force himself not to draw his sidearm and begin shooting; Jopol actually yelped slightly, though much to Saren's surprise the only reactions that came from the patients seemed to be muted surprise.

I suppose, Saren thought as he took several deep breaths and took his hand off his belt holster, if all you do is sit around waiting to die there's not a whole lot that'll scare you.

"This is Rakka - one of my Saved Souls, and a loyal assistant," Grahtial explained, pointing at the skull - which was now bobbing lazily around Grahtial and chattering to itself. "The fire she projects is harmless, if a little warm, and once again I assure you, besides desiring the occasional pat on the head you will quickly find her fading into the background. Now - let us begin." She floated over to the drell first, skull in tow, and smiled as she held her hands over him. "What is your name, sir?"

"H-huto," the man whispered, voice rasping with obvious effort. "Huto Shoak."

Before Jopol could explain, Grahtial simply nodded as her hands began to glow a pale white. "Ahhh, I see," she said, blinking several times. "Your organs - they are...eroded? You cannot take in oxygen - not properly, in any case."

"That's correct," Jopol said, expression flat and neutral. "It's called Kepral's Syndrome - a result of long-term exposure to what most would consider medium to high humidity, something drell physiology isn't capable of handling. Despite our best efforts, it remains incurable - condemning Mr. Shoak, and many others of his species, to a slow death by organ failure."

"I see - yes, I understand. Of course. Rakka - if you please. Mr. Shoak, my familiar will appraise your health, physical and spiritual, while I prepare my healing arrays." Grahtial floated back slightly, opening her satchel and withdrawing several items, all of which floated in front of her as if suspended by an unseen mass effect field: several sticks of chalk, dozens of vials containing bright, thick liquids and a handful of pouches which held what Saren guessed were various ores and herbs. Saren watched - recording all the while - as the Pain Elemental drew a large circle on the wall with the chalk, filling it in with a complex array of geometries and symbols using the liquids, stones and plants at her disposal.

At last, with the symbol complete, Grahtial turned around and closed her eye as Rakka's white flames shifted to a golden-yellow; the Pain Elemental spoke, her guttural voice strained as though she were concentrating. "Right - yes - I see, I see - indeed. Your organs are degenerated and failing, yes, but your noetic patterns are quite clear - even if your body is failing you, Mr. Shoak, your mind and your spirit remember what it means to be healthy. Your soul is free of corruption - and thus, I need only a moment to heal you. It will be a simple solution for a simple issue - I shall take your root image from your soul, re-apply the organ matrix to your physical body, and you will be renewed. Take a deep breath - and please, though you may feel a warmth of sorts, do tell me if anything hurts - one, two, three-"

Saren watched with concern as the array on the wall shone a brilliant red as the various items within began to pulse various colours, the chalks and liquids flowing as if being stirred. Huto's body began to glow a pale red, and the drell looked around nervously; Grahtial placed a hand on his arm.

"It's alright, Mr. Shoak. Just try and relax. There's nothing to worry about - tell me, does that hurt, my good sir?"

Huto coughed, and shook his head. "Warm, very warm, bu - but I'm okay."

"That is good to hear! Now - your physical organ matrix is returned to its proper form, your soul is bound - I will open a channel to the Source and allow a bit of aether-mana to flow through you. Rakka - mana drain on standby, if you please." The skull obliged, stopping its movement, and a jet of green shot out from Grahtial's hands, flowed into Huto's chest and out his feet into Rakka's mouth; the drell opened his eyes in confusion, though he remained still. "Regeneration theurgy is above acceptable limits, wards are stable - now, Mr. Shoak, this is going to feel rather strange for you but I ask that you remain still - three, two, one-"

Saren's jaw dropped in pure awe as a ghostly image of the drell appeared above his still body before floating down and merging with Huto's body; the drell gasped, flinching as the room flashed a blinding, brilliant green - and then Huto jolted upright, eyes wide as he breathed deep, full breaths, patting his body with a rapturous expression.

"And that shall be all, I think," Grahtial all but screeched, backing away as the light from her hands faded away. "My good sir - how do you feel?" she asked cheerfully.

"I...I can breathe," Huto said, grinning wildly as he began to cry. "I can breathe! Lusatios bring you luck and fortune, I can shout!"

"Please, restrain your voice," Grahtial growled, patting him on the arm gently. "This is a small room, and I would ask that you keep your volume low as not to disturb anyone else."

"I'm sorry - I'm just - this is amazing," Huto replied, grinning madly as he took Grahtial's hand and eased himself out of his bed. "I - how - how? I feel better than I've ever felt - I don't think I've had - I've barely been able to get myself out of bed in years! I feel like I could go for a run right this minute!"

"Now, now, Mr. Shoak - please, do calm yourself - while you are healed, I think it best that you take things easily for a while - we would not want you to injure yourself so quickly after being restored to proper health," Grahtial said, chuckling - a noise that, in Saren's opinion, sounded like an elcor being pushed through an industrial meat grinder. "In any case - I have enough theurgic fuel with me for another - ah, let us say, six, perhaps seven dozen more healings before I will need to restock from my stores on our ship. Director Ibam, shall I continue?"

There was a long, long silence; the whole room turned to face the salarian doctor, whose face was cycling through concern, astonishment, terror and joy, over and over again.

"Y-yes, milady," he said after a moment in a near-whisper. "I'd like to see that again. Please."

Two hours later, Saren Arterius returned to the Council Hall, waving his way past the various security stations, and entered the meeting room the Councilors had reserved for his debriefing with a blank stare on his face.

"Spectre Arterius? Spirits - what's the matter?" Sparatus asked, standing up. "We messaged you and you said that you would report to us directly - what happened? I've never seen you...worried before."

"They've got magic," Saren said, shrugging. "It's magic. That's it. I've got - I had a cousin who died from Lorossian Blight. Terrible luck. Nothing could have prevented it. Poor kid - his bones rotted into dust. We had to euthanize him at the age of four, and we were told it was a miracle - a miracle! - that he made it past two. And that giant, floating head of theirs - they brought her a kid with the blight and she just magicked it away. Gone! Like that. All the bones back, like nothing happened. Gone for good." Saren grumbled under his breath as he sunk into a nearby chair. "No sterile environment. No operating table. Just some chalk and some rocks and some fancy liquids - Councilors, Lady Grahtial healed everything the hospital could throw at her with a single set of tools. They had a quarantine ward, for hyper-infectious diseases - and she healed those patients from two floors away. And I watched it happen - I have the recordings. So - either they've got nanotechnology that lets them cure novel alien diseases from hundreds of metres away, or they've got magic, and I don't like either answer," Saren snapped, waving his omnitool. "You think I've been compromised, or I'm exaggerating - look, I recorded all of it."

The Councilors watched in stunned silence for nearly half an hour as Lady iut Ohrvuss and Rakka carried out ritual after ritual, an endless parade of Chalua Hospital's patients brought to her ill and leaving as if they'd never been sick in their lives. Once it began looping, Saren turned off the boardroom's holoprojector, and sighed.

"The only reason we stopped was because Lady Grahtial ran out of fuel for her magic - and she only carried a small bag with her because she wasn't sure her magic would work. Spirits - apparently, the ship the ambassadors rode in on has enough, ah, "theurgic fuel" in their medbay to heal - at least - several thousand people before they dip into the stuff they're reserving for their own personnel." Saren swallowed, hard, and scowled. "They could clear out every palliative care ward on the Citadel, and then some, and it would be nothing. An inconvenience, if that."

"Your thoughts, Spectre Arterius?" Councilor Valern said cautiously. "I get the sense that you think this is a rather negative turn of events."

"You're right, Councilor - I think this is a disaster," Saren muttered. "I mean - it's wonderful that they can heal just about anything. That's lovely. But - I mean - I thought about this, tactically. Their magic lets them heal any wound, any injury, in seconds - what does their 'war-sorcery' look like? They mentioned that their healing is 'theurgic' - based in miracles. I didn't believe them, and party of me still wants to deny what I saw - but their Volumes of Unity talk about theurgic bombs. Miracle-powered ordnance. And, what, they're still at war with this Hell of theirs?" Saren looked up, his tone - for the first time as long as he could remember - slipping into genuine distress. "I've got two conclusions. One: they're not lying about how insane their war is - even after fifty-thousand years, an arsenal powered by honest-to-the-Spirits magic hasn't been enough to beat an enemy whose only goal is the wholesale slaughter of anything not like itself. Two: their foe doesn't exist, or is a tool that keeps the civilian populace in line - which means we're facing an authoritarian theocracy, armed with literal magic, populated with zealous crusaders held together only by a constructed foe. The best part is, I can't even tell which outcome is worse."

A deafening silence filled the room.

"Alright - ah, Spectre Arterius, thank you for your input," Councilor Tevos said slowly. "I...this certainly isn't ideal, but at the moment we need to think short-term. No doubt news of this...healing magic is going to spread to the public quickly, and if we're to prevent rioting we need to have some sort of policy in place."

"I already discussed that possibility with Director Ibam, Ambassador egi Xakhal and Captain Vakarian," Saren noted quietly. "It's not an official order or the like, but we figured that while negotiations continue, Lady Grahtial and a few other healers can go to all of the other major hospitals and heal based on a triage system, staring with terminal patients and moving down from there. Ambassador Goyle will bring this up tomorrow, but they're hoping to set up some sort of permanent medical facility the next time they're aboard the Citadel in addition to a consulate. Apparently, from what little research they've done, the...fuels they need to do their healing magic can be commonly found throughout the Citadel with a few exceptions, which they can always bring themselves."

"That's - I think that's an excellent idea," Sparatus said, rubbing at his fringe. "Spirits. And I thought this day couldn't possibly get any worse - or any stranger. I think a drink is in order."

"I think a drink is in order for all of us," Tevos muttered. "Still - earlier, I asked for your preliminary thoughts on the Exitium's capabilities in terms of their standing against the Citadel races. I assume you've...updated your assessment?"

"I have," Saren said with a snort. "We're in danger. Look - I understand that they claim to be peaceful, but I'm a Spectre - I think defensively. And while I still don't think they'd win a war overnight with us, their magic being real - I have to assume that it, or something like it, is real - means that at the very minimum any casualties we inflict upon them might as well be for nothing. Their basic FTL technology is faster and more effecient than ours. Their advanced FTL lets them teleport from their home planet to the Citadel within minutes. Their industrial output? Unmatched. And their military - well, we don't have hard proof, but I'm sure you get the idea."

Valern made a groaning noise, shaking his head. "I have to basically agree with all of that, and frankly I don't even know what we could do to mount an effective defense against any of that. We're already shifting into defensive posture as fast as we can but just...throwing ourselves into war posture without hesitation would destroy the Citadel's economy. I hate to say it, but I think we're going to have to take the Exitium at it's word that it'll hold to its promises."

"At the very least, I think they'll do so," Tevos said, shrugging. "Perhaps it's reaching for a silver lining, but the Exitium's ambassadors seem to be...simple folk, at least with respect to their political acumen. Any sort of political finagling, I think, is out of the question until we can at least place ourselves in a better defensive position."

"I think what gets to me the most," Saren concluded, "is that they don't even recognize themselves as a threat to us. Everyone I've spoken to so far - from their rank-and-file to the ambassadors themselves - I don't think they, well, understand our existence, not truly. Not being at war, not fighting an existential threat for fifty-thousand-years - they can't wrap their heads around it. Ambassador egi Xakhal even mentioned that he thinks our politics are difficult, because we don't have their War Eternal to unify us. To be perfectly honest - I think we can do whatever we want, negotiate for whatever we want, and as long as we don't offend their moral sensibilities or interrupt their war, they won't care. At all. Because, Councilors, they only care about one thing - their war on Hell. And - you should know this hurts to say - that scares the absolute shit out of me."