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.

5. Chapter 5

BOOK ONE: REVELATIONS
VOLUME THREE: PRECIPICE (I)

22nd of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 21, 2657 Galactic Standard)

TRANSMISSION ENCRYPTION LOCK: RELEASED
W10-2657 FROM COUNCIL
ASSIGNMENT TO FOLLOW
MAGITECHNOLOGY DEMONSTRATION PD BAY A4 APPROX 0900
S.A TO GATHER INTEL WHERE POSSIBLE
FURTHER NEGOTIATION W/ EE PERSONNEL ONGOING: CX PRIMARY MEETING DISCUSSION APPROX 1230
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 opened his eyes, and in one smooth motion swung out of bed and checked the wall-mounted clock built into the small weapons rack mounted above his pillows.

0730, Saren noted, nodding to himself. Acceptably late.

He went about his morning routine, soothing himself with the familiarity of the actions - heading straight to the kitchen, brewing a carafe of tuppossa first and pulling the breakfast he'd prepped the previous night out of the fridge and into the reheater was something he could do blindfolded, and - of course - his timing was set such that as he stepped out of the shower and put on his combat undersuit (neatly pressed, cleaned, triple-checked for wear or damage and hung on a hanger next to the shower door) his food and drink were ready. He poured himself a glass of tuppossa, fished a set of engraved cutlery from the tray on the kitchen counter, sat down, and checked his day's schedule on his omnitool.

9AM: Magic testing PD Bay A4

10:30AM: CX Meeting CT w/ Council, EE Ambassadors

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Saren growled, sighing as he rubbed at his forehead; he took a sip of his drink as he turned on the holo built into the dining table - preset to Relay Beacon News - and half-watched a morning talk show host debate callers regarding the safety of the Makron's AI modules.

I'd take anything over this, Saren thought bitterly as he ate his breakfast - dry-aged zokse and an array of exotic microgreens grown in his own custom hydroponics unit - fast enough to be quick, but slowly enough to enjoy the small fortune it had cost him. Bodyguard duty on Thessia, nonlethal recon on Omega...anything else. Spirits help me, if the Council asks me to keep playing tag-along with the Exitium's ambassadors…

He let the thought trail off as he finished his food, allowing himself a solid two minutes to drink his tuppossa and wallow in frustration before getting up and cleaning his dishes; it would have been easy to relax for the next while and simply fly down to the testing site, but Saren decided that walking at least part of the way would be for the best, if only to get a feel for how things were on the ground. Within minutes he was leaving his apartment, fully armoured, his sidearm strapped to his belt holster module and ready for anything except having to deal with the Exitum and its baggage.

Alas, it was not to be - he managed to take an aircar to a spot near the private docking bay without incident, exited the vehicle and was promptly interrupted by the sight of some sort of altercation mere metres from the entrance to the row of landing pads: a hanar and one of the Exitium's human preachers, clad in brown robes and carrying a large bag over its shoulders, were standing in the middle of a throng of civilians, and even without being able to hear them it was obvious from the human's body language, the hanar's incessant twitching and the crowd's nervous rumbling that something was happening.

"-this one will not tolerate any further of the heathen's mindless heresy," the hanar shouted - relatively speaking - as it gestured wildly at the human; Saren rolled his eyes as he pushed his way through the crowd.

"My friend, I mean no insult to you or the Enkindlers," the human replied cheerfully, placing his hands up in placation. "But just as you have faith in the Enkindlers, I, too, have faith in the Doom Slayer. I was merely asked by a concerned citizen if the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, would be capable of defeating an Enkindler with his bare hands-"

"-the very thought itself is heresy!-"

"-and, not knowing much of the Enkindlers, I simply stated the truth," the preacher continued with calm earnestness. "Regardless of their origin, it is merely a statistical likelihood given His record of defeating enemies of ungodly origin that yes, the Doom Slayer would indeed be able to soundly and rather savagely defeat anything, Enkindler or not, in a bout of fisticuffs."

"F...fisticuffs? This one is rendered speechless by your words," the Hanar screeched - relatively speaking - as it began to hover towards the preacher, tentacles raised and body flashing with what Saren recognized as unbridled rage as it prepared its venom. "The very thought - how DARE such-"

"-excuse me," Saren interrupted, placing himself between the two. "I can't help but notice the two of you are causing something of a commotion in an area that isn't a pre-approved proselytizing zone."

"Oh! My good turian sir, sincerest of apologies," the preacher replied, bowing deeply. "I meant no such offense - I was not preaching, but merely responding to a question that someone asked of me as I was on my way to a place where I would be able to carry out my spiritual duties legally."

"This one breaks no such laws," the hanar replied, backing away slightly. "This one merely defends the spiritual honour of the Enkindlers from the indignity and foul language of the human...priest," it said with nearly-audible fury.

"Freedom of speech is a protected right on the Citadel," Saren replied flatly. "You don't have to like the fact that this man claims the Doom Slayer could punch an Enkindler to death-"

"-he most certainly could not!-"

"-theoretically neither of us can give an ironclad answer to that question-"

"-but it is well within his rights to say that," Saren concluded, folding his arms; the small crowd around the group was approaching quiet, watching the proceedings with interest. "And before you continue, you can't deny that you were approaching this man with your tentacles raised and your poison ready to go."

The entire crowd fell silent, all attention on the hanar - through which the priest simply smiled serenely, though Saren thought he did look a little confused by what was going on.

"What position do you hold, honoured turian," the hanar said slowly, "that gives you a right to intrude upon our business, then?"

"Spectre Saren Arterius," Saren replied coolly, "and I interrupted your little debate because I'm fairly certain you were about to attempt to strangle a man from the Exalted Exitium during ongoing Contact negotiations."

"Oh, Slayer" the human said, eyes wide with surprise. "I had no idea."

The hanar simply turned to Saren, its body pulsing slowly through a variety of colours.

"You don't deny it, then?" Saren pressed, scowling.

"This one is bound to defend the Enkindlers," the hanar replied slowly. "It is a matter of honour - of doing what is just. Would the honoured Spectre accuse this one of violence, even when no such violence has been committed?"

"Yes," Saren replied matter-of-factly. "You were, less than a minute ago, literally about to strangle this man to death, maybe pump him full of poison. You also haven't categorically denied my accusation, and this entire crowd saw you about to do it, so yes, I would accuse you of that."

"Spectre or civilian, it matters little," the hanar answered. "This one is well within its rights to do as it pleases until the law has been violated. Is this one being detained?"

"What? No, you're - I'm not a C-Sec officer," Saren grumbled. "I'm just trying to stop you from doing something stupid."

"This one does not need help from the most honourable and great Spectre Saren Arterius," the hanar said mockingly.

Saren swore under his breath, checked the clock in his HUD - 0830 - and glared at the hanar. "Look, I have somewhere to be, and I have absolutely no patience for your pyjack-shit right now. Leave the human alone and clear out of here before I make you, got it?"

The hanar twitched, flushing a deep crimson-pink. "The honoured Spectre threatens this one?"

"I've killed men over much less," Saren said matter-of-factly. "Being a Spectre has its perks - you wouldn't believe how many times my sidearm has resolved incidents - legally - for me. Care to try your luck?"

Silence, for several moments.

"Ah...this one will be leaving without further incident," the hanar said quietly.

"Good." Saren watched as the hanar bobbed away slowly, pausing at the edge of the crowd to turn back to the human.

"This one," the hanar said angrily, "knows it is still correct."

"Okay," the human replied, shrugging. "Have a nice day!" He turned to Saren and offered his arm. "Slayer, who pissed in that thing's breakfast? It was merely a question. In any case - thank you for resolving the situation peacefully, Spectre Arterius. It would have been awfully terrible if I'd had to kill the thing in self-defense."

Saren clasped arms with the human half-heartedly and shrugged. "Just keeping the peace." He looked up at the crowd - which was still watching in silence - and scowled. "Nothing to see here! Move along!"

"BOOOOOOOOOOO," a krogan shouted from somewhere within the crowd. "SPOILSPORT!"

"I - what?" Saren glared at the krogan, who spat on the ground and lumbered off as the rest of the crowd dispersed. "Spirits. Try to do something nice for once, and this is what I get. Wonderful. Look," he continued, turning to the preacher, "I need to be somewhere soon - just...try not to start any fights, by accident or otherwise."

"Of course. I shall do my best to, as you said, keep the peace," the preacher replied, opening the massive bag he had slung over his shoulder. "Before you go, though, would you care for some reading material? I understand that proselytizing is not allowed in the area, but since I have no other gifts to offer y-"

"-I should go," Saren interjected before eagerly jogging off towards the direction of the docking bay; his mood, already terrible, was not made any better by the sight of Priority Docking Bay A4 - long, seemingly-endless lines snaked out of the bay, a handful of protesters were having heated discussions with a small group of C-Sec personnel to the side of the bay's entrance, and perhaps worst of all, Lord Protector Ryder in his full ceremonial getup - who was chatting with another group of C-Sec officers by the entrance - spotted him as he approached.

"SPECTRE ARTERIUS!" Alec bellowed, waving at Saren. "Who would have thought you would be here? Even so - how wonderful to see you!"

"It was in my schedule, which has been shared with you," Saren replied sourly as he shook hands and clasped arms with Alec. "Unless you're telling me you didn't read it?"

"Oh, no, I did," Alec replied, grinning wildly. "But you're several minutes early!"

"That's - I'm just going to go in and take a look at the exhibit," Saren said, ignoring Alec's attempt at a conversation. "We'll talk later once my touring is done, alright?"

"Oho, but of course! The thought of seeing magic and its applications up close - I won't keep you a minute longer, then. Enjoy yourself - only once in your lifetime will you see magic for the first time," Alec bellowed, gesturing grandly at the side entrance reserved for VIPs.

Saren simply nodded and made his way through the door; beyond, the hangar where theBlessings of the Lector Book Forty-Four Chapter Six Verse Twenty-two was docked now housed a massive array of Citadel Services prefab buildings, each one bearing some sort of magical exhibit; most of the hangar was reserved for the general public, and Saren could see countless numbers of small tour groups being given guided tours around the hangar. The VIP section was comparatively small, and though Saren didn't personally know all of the people in the cordoned area he did recognize several politicians, corporate magnates and heads of state.

"Spectre Arterius?" A woman's voice, familiar in its raspy, deep tones, called out, and he glanced to his side to see Abbess Hannah Shepard in her ornamented dull-green armour, nodding at him with a small smile, both hands resting atop the hilt of her chainsword; the large, boxy weapon he'd last seen her carrying on her hip had been replaced with something closer in size to his own sidearm, though it still seemed bulky and oversized by Saren's estimates for a pistol, or something equivalent to it.

"Abbess Shepard," Saren replied, his tone professional and polite. "I wasn't aware you were part of the Citadel's delegation."

"It was something of a last-minute addition," Hannah admitted with a shake of her head; the dull-gold cylinders hanging from her shoulders and belt clinked slightly as she approached him. "The order I am...attached to, for lack of a better term, thought it best to have a representative here who might be considered less threatening."

"Oh? We only spoke briefly during our last meeting," Saren replied, frowning slightly, "but I was under the impression you were a, ah… Knight-Errant, I believe? A roaming soldier of sorts? What would be threatening about that?"

Hannah barked out a laugh, and smirked. "A lie of omission, Spectre Arterius. The Order of the Knight-Errant is something not too far removed from your Spectres, if my admittedly small amount of research serves me well - we are highly trained and given the right to attach ourselves with any other organization as...assistants, of a general sort. It simply so happens that for the past while, I have been working with the Exalted Exitium's Church of the Inquisitor."

Saren stared, mouth tightening into a firm, blank expression.

"You are familiar, then?" Hannah said quietly.

"Not particularly," Saren replied flatly. "I wasn't aware that the Exalted Exitium still had an...Inquisition, if your translation magic works correctly. I'd read that there was an Inquisition during your Age of Sin, but had assumed it no longer existed - a mistake on my part, I see. Even so, Inquisitions, or organizations bearing similar names, have never been known for their kindness or restraint in the history of the Citadel's races - so you'll forgive me for being, ah, surprised to see the Exitium's modern equivalent sending a representative here during First Contact negotiations."

"True enough. Allow me to reassure you, the days of the Inquisition flaying innocent civilians in the streets is long past, and to this day the entire Exitium atones for such sins. With the Doom Slayer's guidance, blessed be His name," she said, signing the Slayer's sign over her chest, "the Inquisition has taken a more proper approach to the distribution of fury and justice to the heretic and the demon; my being here is simply to ensure that the spiritual security of the Citadel remains intact, so to speak. Matters of security are not my purview at this time."

"Lord Protector Ryder's in charge of that, no?" Saren asked.

"Indeed he is," Hannah replied, a wan smile creeping onto her face. "Personality aside, the man excels at his duties - so long as I avoid extended conversations with him, I have no issues with the man." She paused, then scoffed slightly. "A stereotype, true, but never have I met a man of his type who did not speak when he could shout."

"He is loud, I won't deny that," Saren admitted, allowing himself a small chuckle before returning to his previous, professional tone. "Of course, I'll have to inform my superiors that the Inquisition has sent someone here - nothing personal, but perhaps it would be best for you or one of the ambassadors to explain you and your organization's role to the Councilors before any, ah, misunderstandings take root?"

"That is more than fair, Spectre. Rest assured - I am, at this time, the only person attached to the Inquisition present on the Citadel, unless you count Sister Nought one of their number as well. Frankly speaking my job at this time consists mostly of writing and sending reports to my own superiors in the Exalted Exitium's hierarchy. Heresy, after all, can hardly take root when the sin itself does not exist in this blessed, virgin land," Hannah said with a wide, beaming smile. "Blessed is the Doom Slayer, for His hands have shielded the Citadel from the stench of Hell - let us pray that it remains just so, if only for a little while longer."

"Uh...right. Well. In any case, I was here to see the magictechnology displays," Saren said, eagerly cutting Hannah off from launching into an oncoming display of religious rapture.

"If you'd prefer, I could give you the tour," Hannah offered, nodding. "From one warrior to another, I imagine I could provide insights that the guides from the Church of the Lector might be unable to give."

"I'd be honoured," Saren replied in a tone that sounded entirely unconvincing to him; if she noticed it, Hannah made no mention of such.

"Wonderful! Let us away, then - the first might very well be the most useful and widely-used," Hannah said, leading Saren over to what looked like a mundane Citadel Services compact toilet cubicle - the sort that was as ubiquitous on the Citadel as it was despised for being cramped despite being, in theory, capable of holding a krogan. "This small toilet stall has been modified with a runic spatial compression framework - have you heard of them?"

"I read," Saren said slowly, taking note of the incredibly faint array of interlinked runes barely visible on the cubicle's exterior, "that the Exitium was capable of something like that - fitting bigger spaces into smaller enclosures, if I recall?"

"Just so," Hannah replied.

"It looks normal from the outside, save for the inscriptions," Saren said, his skepticism only slightly audible.

"Open the door, Spectre Arterius, and you shall see the magic at work," Hannah said with a knowing smile.

Saren did as he was told, venturing over to the door and pulling it open-

-and he stood in the doorway, mouth agape as he took in the sight.

There, before him, was a massive, luxurious bathroom as spacious as the sort he might have seen in a Thessian mansion: a bathing tub, shower, toilet, and a full-sized sauna-bath were laid out with room to spare.

That's - what? How? Saren thought, peering inside the room before taking a tentative step inside; his gaze snapped from corner to corner to corner to corner, mind churning and racing. Four? Four-fifty? No - this is pushing five hundred square feet. He stepped back outside, quickly pacing around the exterior of the cubicle before staring through the open doorway into the expansive room within before, finally, scratching at his fringe uneasily.

"It's smaller on the outside," Saren muttered at last.

Hannah said nothing as she stood next to him, smirking. "Quite nice, isn't it?"

Saren remained silent, staring through the doorway for an entire minute, before he turned to her, a smile creeping onto his face. "Material cost?"

"Next to nothing. Ninety percent of the hermetic fuel needed can be found without little effort across the entirety of the Exitium - and the Citadel's own territory, I might add - and the last ten percent is simply a matter of refining a few chalks and generic cosmic dust clusters. It's a framework, not an active enchantment - once the arrays are inscribed, charged and installed, the spatial compression is permanent, or long enough to not matter - and in the Exalted Exitium, you can rest assured that when I say long enough, I do mean that in a very real sense," Hannah explained proudly. "Even in Indomitable, Gaia's capital city, the poorest of the poorest slums boast apartments ten to fifty times their exterior size."

Saren's smile began turning into a grin. "Construction time?"

"I've seen fresh soldiers throw up basic ones - two to five time increases in space - in an hour or so. Hermetic specialists can do that twenty seconds, given the right tools and stencils."

"Stability? What does it take to disrupt the...magic...framework?"

"Quite a bit. I've seen starships crash into one another and emerge with the rooms intact - archaeologists have found spatially-expanded rooms from over twenty thousand years ago functioning without any trouble. Frankly, if something dangerous enough to destabilize spatial compression runes is anywhere near you, I believe you might have bigger problems," Hannah said, nodding sagely.

"Safety?" Saren asked, genuine excitement in his voice. "Assuming you force a collapse or disable the runes with something - someone - inside, what happens?"

"There are safety runes installed - everything in the room that doesn't fit in the original space is simply ejected into the surrounding area," Hannah noted, "though that tends to be a rather...explosive event. One does not fling the contents of an entire room into an enclosed hallway or street without some bumps occurring."

"Minimum size? Could I, say, spatially compress the space within a briefcase, and stow a vehicle inside? An artillery cannon?" Saren stared at Hannah, mind racing with infinite possibilities. "A starship?"

"You...could," Hannah said slowly, raising her hands slightly, "but it is not as simple as stuffing an entire starship into a bookbag. There is an exponential relationship between the size of the host room - or device - and the complexity of the array required. Turning a miniscule apartment into a reasonably-sized dwelling is not terribly difficult, and making room for five starships inside a docking bay meant for one is not an onerous feat, to be sure. Placing an entire starship into cubicle this size, on the other hand - especially a starship which itself is already burdened with a great deal of magic - it is possible," Hannah admitted, "but the cost in material terms and the skill needed to weave such magic would be unimaginable prohibitive."

"You didn't say it was impossible," Saren pointed out eagerly.

"No, I did not," Hannah replied, shaking her head. "Let us examine my armour, as an example." She gestured to one of the modules on her breastplate - large enough to hold a few grenades, Saren guessed - and pulled out a pair of boxy magazines identical to the one loaded into her firearm. "This ammunition carrier can hold hundreds of these magazines for my shotgun without issue, yes, and in a pinch I could empty its contents and use it to store several long firearms, to be sure - but even for a woman of my standing, this is near the limit of what I could requisition from the armourers I work with."

"But there are people - a select few, perhaps? - who would have access to the sort of technology I'm asking of?" Saren pressed.

Hannah's expression glazed over into one of awe, and she spoke in a reverent, hushed tone. "Yes, Spectre Arterius, there are a select few - less than a hundred, across the entirety of the Exalted Exitium. The finest of our warriors - the Dawn Sentinels, who themselves number exactly sixty and six - and beyond that, we speak of the travelling companions of the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, and, of course, of the Doom Slayer Himself. They say that the Doom Slayer can carry on his person ten thousand starships, ten million vehicles and ten billion firearms and still run faster than a demon can scream for mercy. Blessed are the Hands of the Wretch, for from his Hands did come the Suit of the Praetor - not armour, for He needs no protecting, but merely a vault to contain the tools and implements of slaughter He deemed and does deem worthy to grace His hands."

Saren said nothing as Hannah closed her eyes and muttered prayers beneath her breath for the next minute - but he did look back at the room and the space within, idea upon idea taking form in his mind.

"I do not mean to interrupt you," Hannah said, chuckling, "but you have been silent for nearly a minute now and I could not help but wonder if you wished to continue our tour."

"Oh. Uh…of course," Saren muttered, regaining some of his focus. "Apologies - there are so many applications of spatial compression that I want to try out, to test, that I forgot myself." He shrugged slightly, a smile creeping onto his face. "Even if the possibilities are not infinite, they are, compared to what I have at my disposal now, close enough to it. I've always prided myself on being, ah, flexible, tactically - and I imagine I'll be expanding on my toolset in the near future. "

Hannah nodded, though her expression was more sedate than Saren's. "So long as you remain cognizant of that fact that, in the end, they are merely that: tools." She paused, her expression growing rapturous, and before Saren could intercept the oncoming bout of manic preaching the Abbess had already begun. "The Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, carries many tools of war. Lucifer's Bane is his Sword, the Suit of the Praetor his Armoury, and yet, He exalts in the glory of slaughter with his hands as he walks upon mountains of the slain with his feet. Many commands He has given, yet never can we forget the first: Rip and Tear, until it is done! What weapons were His upon his birth? His fists, Spectre Arterius - His fists, and His rage. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Saren swallowed his instincts - first to push her back, second to step away - as Hannah leaned in close: so close that he could smell her zeal. A moment of silence passed as the decorative cylinder-chains on her armour clinked into his chestplate. "Of course I understand," Saren said slowly.

"So you say," Hannah replied, remaining uncomfortably close. "I know you are a great warrior, Spectre Arterius - and it is the instinct of any great warrior to become excited at the prospect of upgrading the lethality of their weapons. But I have seen too many warriors slain by virtue of overconfidence, forgetting that it is not the lethality of the weapon that makes the warrior - it is the bloodlust of the warrior who wields the weapon."

Saren's expression went flat, and only the thought of a lecture from the Council kept his voice from dropping into something colder than a professional tone. "Let me be very clear, Abbess. I am under no illusions about the nature of the threat your demonic foe presents, and in the same vein I am aware that without your magic and knowledge we - the Citadel - are at a disadvantage. That does not mean we are fools." Saren paused, took a breath, and forced himself to sound kinder. "Not to say that Citadel space has any shortage of idiots, especially idiots with guns - but given the right tools, knowledge and training I can assure you we are more than capable of...holding the line, at the very least."

Hannah looked for several moments as though she were about to debate the point, but she closed her mouth a few moments later before taking several steps back; she flushed with embarrassment and looked sheepishly at the floor. "You are correct, Spectre Arterius. I apologize - I shall admit that, at least for me, it is difficult to understand on an instinctual level that your lack of knowledge of magic, Hell and the like does not equate to a lack of history, especially with conflict. I fear I have spent too much time lecturing Sister Nought - and enforcing Inquisitorial law, perhaps. In doing so, I have allowed that to colour my treatment of you and your people. Once again - I am sorry for acting as such."

"As long as you keep that in mind, Abbess, then your apology is accepted," Saren replied halfheartedly. If Hannah had picked up what Saren thought was a patently unconvincing tone, she showed no signs of doing so, instead gesturing at the next exhibit - a larger podium split into three distinct sections, each bearing a large stone tablet and a series of holograms in front of each one.

"Well, let us continue, then. The decision was made to show you - and others - the spatial compression exhibit first," Hannah explained as she led Saren over to the display, "as it provides an easy-to-understand and impossible-to-refute display of magitechnology applied in a practical manner. Having seen that, I think an overview of the basics would be in order. Have you had time to avail yourself of the reading material the Church of the Lector provided regarding the fundamentals of magic?"

"I'm afraid I only had time to skim the introduction," Saren admitted. "There are three branches of...magic? Is that correct?" Arriving at the display, Hannah and Saren stood alongside a smaller group of individuals - a smattering of representatives from various manufacturing companies - being led by another soldier, and the two examined the display.

"You are, indeed, correct. The spatial compression framework you examined just now is an example - if not the example - of the hermetic school, which relies on the designing and activation physically-constructed magic array," Hanna confirmed, gesturing at the leftmost display; it rotated through several images showcasing buildings and rooms whose interior spaces were clearly larger than their exteriors. "Sorcery and theurgy are the other two schools of magic the Exitium wields, though ultimately all three draw from the same source - the aetheric dimension, which straddles what you might think of as 'real' space and Hell."

Saren considered this for a few moments as he watched the displays - one showing a variety of the Exitium's spellcasters throwing lightning and fire from their hands, and the other showing the same healing magic Saren had seen the day prior - before looking up suddenly. "You said that we're looking at the three schools of magic the Exitium wields. Are you implying the existence of others?"

"There are others, yes - shamanism, familiar-binding, geomancy and more -, but most have been adapted and folded into our own schools of magic," Hannah replied.

"And the ones which the Exitium hasn't?" Saren pressed.

Hannah's expression darkened, and her expression grew severe. "The Exitium wields every weapon it can safely wield, allowing for acceptable risk, Spectre Arterius. Are there more forms of magic than these three? Yes, without question. There is, of course, the sort of ritual magic that Hell's own hordes use, the use of which is cruel and inefficient, and would of course constitute heresy of the worst sort. Beyond that?" Hannah shook her head. "That line of questioning leads only to the darkest and most foul of places, Spectre. People far greater than you or I have drank from that well and returned broken and ruined at best."

"And at worst?"

Hannah regarded Saren with a pointed look. "The Inquisition does not approve of such things being discussed. I," the woman added with a scowl, "do not approve, either."

Saren folded his arms and frowned. "I'm not trying to waste your time. Consider things from my point of view. A month ago if you - or anyone - had insisted that magic was real and it had observable, practical uses I'd have called you insane. This," Saren continued, gesturing around the hangar, "is information . You may not know all the nuances of Citadel space, but I get the distinct impression that you understand my line of work - is it so hard to believe that I would want as much information as I can get on threats I might face?"

"...I suppose not," Hannah admitted. "Even so, I shall not provide the details in such a public space. Know this - there are things which are anathema to all life, holy or unholy. If you wish to continue, I would recommend focusing your attention on the Fourteenth Age - the Age of Blindness; the information provided in the Volumes of Unity regarding the matter are not comprehensive, to be sure, but with a mind as sharp as yours I am sure you will glean much from words unwritten. It will provide context for a later discussion , at which point I will be, ah, more inclined to provide details."

"That'll have to do for now. My apologies for derailing the tour," Saren conceded.

"Mmm. Let us return to the topic at hand," Hannah replied, clearly eager to change the subject. "The aetheric dimension - a space between spaces, it could be called - is composed of what we call aether; in its home dimension, it is an inert substance, providing sustenance for the few creatures which call it home. For details, you will have to consult with someone more versed in the arithmantic arts, but suffice to say that aetheric energy does not agree with the dimension you and I inhabit. Aether, here," Hannah continued, gesturing generally around herself, "becomes a powerful, charged, and most of all, incredibly volatile form of power."

Saren examined the sorcery exhibit closely, paying specific attention to the holographic sorcerers, concentration evident in their features as their hands shone with fire and lightning.

"You...open some sort of rift to this aetheric dimension? Control its output to change how it reacts to this dimension?" Saren guessed.

Hannah regarded Saren with evident approval. "Your deductive abilities are impressive, Spectre. Yes, that is more or less the underlying theory behind sorcery. We showcase fireballs and lightning here, as these are the two forms of war-sorcery first practiced by our acolytes. Lightning comes first - it is nothing more than opening, then sustaining a controlled breach into the aether. Fireballs come next - gathering, and releasing a charged mass of aether. Once an acolyte can connect to the aetheric dimension, sustain an opening, then hold - and manipulate - said power, we consider them as having mastered the fundamentals."

"This magic," Saren pondered, "is it restricted in some way? Are there limits on who can learn and wield it?"

"No, there are no such limits," Hannah replied, head tilted in momentary confusion before her expression brightened. "Ah - fear not, Spectre. Magic is most unlike the biotic witchery your kind wields, if what little research I have had the time to carry out holds true. True, it can be said that some possess an innate gift or predisposition towards magic; much in the same way that some are destined to favour the chainsword over a marksman's rifle, or in that some are born tall and some short. Even so - I have heard it said that sorcery is the most egalitarian form of slaughter. Fueled only by the integrity of the soul and as much mental strain as its wielder can bear, war-magic cares only for intellect, willpower, and cunning - nothing for the size or physical might of its wielder."

"Knowledge sharpens the dullest talon," Saren muttered, nodding slowly. "My instructors were fond of that saying - how interesting. I'll need to be a quick learner - there's a lot of catching up to do, I imagine."

"A keen mind, the will to learn and the desire to unleash pure cruelty at the demon - it is that easy, and that difficult, to learn sorcery. Yet," Hannah noted with a small smirk, "somehow I imagine you already have the first two in ample supply. The third - if your station is anything like mine, I find it unlikely that when the time comes you will find your capacity for violence lacking." She paused, gestured to the last hologram - a rotating display of various persons from the Exitium being healed as he'd seen the day before. "Theurgic magic, on the other hand, is something rather more difficult."

"I...find myself uncomfortable with the concept, at a base level," Saren admitted, shaking his head. "Though perhaps that's a product of us speaking through translation, ah, magic. The word - at least to me - would imply the acting of divine, or at least supernatural agents, to effect change, no?"

"To practice theurgy is not to invoke the power of divinity," Hannah answered, "but rather to grasp it. Hermetic rituals draw on the sacrifice of specific reagents arranged in complex arrays, and require a small aetheric charge to set off a chain reaction. Sorcerers focus their will to sustain a breach to the aetheric plane, and use their minds to shape power to manipulate the nature of that breach. Theurgic practitioners reach into the aetheric plane, and push through to its bedrock - the Source - and draw on the very flow and ebb of magic itself. With that kind of power, one gains the ability to simply ignore the rules one does not wish to abide by."

"Body and soul - the healing," Saren muttered, thinking back to the drell in the hospital. "The body is broken, but the soul and mind are whole - so...what, exactly? You simply demand the body return to its healed state, draw on enough power from the source of magic, and it happens?"

"I am no master of the practice, but as far as I understand the matter, yes," Hannah said, shrugging slightly. "It is as simple - and as dangerous - as it sounds. As my teacher explained it - imagine a battery capable of generating an infinite amount of power. Without the strictest control, it could just as easily power an entire planet's worth of machinery as it could reduce the same planet into dust. To practice theurgy, Spectre, is to chip away at the border between life and death - between reality and unreality - and to do so repeatedly. Healing the body is the most basic application of theurgy, and for most - myself included - that is the limit we shall learn."

"And for those who do learn more, what is the limit? Is there a limit," Saren pressed, "save for those imposed by a lack of control?"

Hannah shook her head, tutting disapprovingly. "I can smell your bloodlust, Spectre - a worthy trait, almost universally, but here it does not serve you. Theurgy can, in theory, accomplish anything its wielder desires - and yet, never have we simply forced the demonic hordes, in their entirety, to be slain. Even the Wretch, blessed are his Hands, who crafted the only covering the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, finds suitable to His needs, could only make a weapon capable of eliminating demons in a single sector in this plane - and in the thirty-two thousand or so years that have come and gone since that date of its use, not one soul has been capable of replicating the weapon, let alone give it the power to differentiate between the souls of the Redeemed and the demonic enemy we face." She paused, her voice quiet and dark. "And that is to say nothing of the many experiments which have had results of a most unwholesome nature. Before my time in the Inquisition - long before - it is said there were Ages when as many Inquisitors were lost to theurgic experiments as were lost in their normal duties. Understand me, Spectre Arterius - when I say you should respect, and perhaps even fear the raw power of theurgy, I do not jest."

"Abbess, as I already noted, I do understand the seriousness of the situation," Saren sighed. "I'll heed your warnings. Just remember, this is all new to me, and everyone else in Citadel space. I'm not trying to frustrate you."

"Neither do I wish for you to take my cautionary words as condescending, and I do apologize if indeed they ring of such," Hannah answered, her tone - to Saren, at least - seeming genuinely sorry. "I would say as much, though, to anyone new to these subjects - these are lessons the Exitium learned with great difficulty and no shortage of casualties."

"Well," Saren noted with a grim smile, "you'll be teaching much more of these lessons in the near future, I think."

"I should hope not," the Abbess huffed. "It is both a source of joy and frustration that I must educate Sister Nought. I am no...teacher, not formally, in any case. I am overjoyed at the thought of your peoples becoming versed in magic - so long as it is not I who is doing the teaching, it must be said."

"And dealing with politicians?" Saren pulled up his HUD's clock - 0945 - and sighed. "I'm afraid that, as much as I wish to spend more time checking out the exhibits, our meeting with the Council will be happening soon."

"Oh, it is no trouble," Hannah answered with a wave of her hand as the two began walking towards the far end of the hangar where the Blessings of the Lector Book Forty-Four Chapter Six Verse Twenty-two (which, the more Saren thought about it, was a patently ridiculous name for a ship no matter how you looked at it) was docked. "Diplomacy - though, I admit, perhaps, that such a term likely holds a different set of meanings than the kind you might be accustomed to - is one of the primary duties of an Inquisitor."

"I - actually, I was hoping you could clear that up for me before the meeting begins," Saren said. "I'm not entirely clear on what it is that you and your organization does, beyond assuming you hold the role of an intelligence agent, or the like. I know you mentioned 'spiritual security,' but that doesn't mean much to me at the moment in concrete terms. It'd go a long way to putting the minds of the Council, myself, and a lot of other people at ease if we knew more than just the name of your organization."

"The Church of the Inquisitor," Hannah began, "is itself an offshoot of the Church of the Righteous, which is charged with the dispensation of justice and law. Ours is the same duty, applied more specifically to matters of heresy."

"Right - but heresy for your people has a more specific meaning than the people of Citadel space are used to," Saren noted. "Your job, then, is to ensure that nobody 'consorts with Hell,' or something along those lines?"

Hannah beamed with pride. "Just so. Anything, and anyone, who finds themselves contributing - knowingly or otherwise - to the cause of Hell must face punishment."

"That seems...harsh," Saren mused. "What if someone misses a day of work in a factory, or something like that? Wouldn't that, technically, be heresy?"

"The Book of the Predator, Volume One, Book Two, Chapter One, Verse Ten," Hannah began, either ignoring or failing to notice Saren's muted sighs as she launched into what was evidently a well-practiced piece of religious recitation. "'Know, then, that to wage the War Eternal is to act without cessation: in attack and defense, in strategy and execution, in retreat and assault, in body and in mind, in rest and in combat - to stop is to court damnation. Know, then, that the Unholy Enemy, the Endless Damned, the Demonic Host - they are without end, infinite in both their numbers and the depths of their depravity. Know, then, that to wage the War Eternal is to live in harmony with the War Eternal. Know, then, that there can be no effort spared, no time lost, and no battle unfought. Know, then, that to act with purpose and to fight without end is to lay the foundation upon which the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, shall walk upon at the anointed time - then, and only then, when the dawn breaks and He leads us into the Final Crusade, will our salvation be found."

"I...ah...am not well-versed in religious matters in Citadel space, let alone yours," Saren admitted, barely holding back the urge to roll his eyes. "You'll have to interpret that scripture for me."

"And so I shall. If a factory worker, to use your example, were to shirk their duties - yes, that would be heresy, albeit to a degree most trivial," Hannah confirmed. "Even so, it is the duty of all citizens to act with purpose and without end, until either the body, the soul, or both fail them utterly. Of course, one does not use a Black Hole Projector to slay a single imp-"

"-you have weapons that fire black holes?" Saren interjected. "Just to be clear - literal, actual, time-and-space-deforming black hole guns."

"Oh. Oh, yes," Hannah replied, licking her lips with evident glee. "I have had the fortune to wield such weapons twice in my life. They are quite something to behold, Spectre Arterius - enough to make a woman's knees weak." She paused, flushing slightly and waving a hand dismissively; Saren fought every instinct to press for more information, and instead gestured for her to continue. "Ah! We are straying from our discussion. So - one does not use a Black Hole Projector to slay an imp, and neither does the Inquisition spend its resources on matters as trivially heretical as such. The Lawbringers of the Righteous would charge the worker in question with penance - extra work, perhaps mandatory community service - penance to fit the nature and severity of the crime. Of course, the Lawbringers must also determine the foundation of the heresy - just as it is the duty of the worker to labour, it is also the duty of the forgemaster to ensure their workers are well-rested in body and mind. A worker who does not request time for recuperation from labour is heretical, yes, but a factory-owner who overworks their labourers to the point that failing to turn up for work becomes an appealing idea? Such behaviour is a characteristic of a heretic, too."

"So what sort of heresy constitutes a matter important enough that an Inquisitor would either be called upon, or would step in? I note that you stated you're the sole representative of the Inquisition here - do you have superiors to report to? I, for example, report directly to the Council which governs Citadel space," Saren offered, "but unless otherwise directed I'm free to select my own tasks and can act without oversight."

"The Church of the Inquisitor maintains parishes on all major, and most minor planets; we coordinate with both clergy and laypeople alike, reporting on matters which might indicate possible spiritual or material threats to the Exitium's ability to wage war smoothly," Hannah clarified. "It is with the information gathered from each Inquisitorial branch that the High Inquisitors decide who is sent where and at what time. Speaking generally - a fully-trained Inquisitor is only called upon to directly intervene in situations where a major disagreement or issue is disrupting the logistics of the war effort, or a violation of spiritual security poses threat to us all - demon-worshipers, traitors, and the like," Hannah spat with evident venom.

So...not quite an intel org, not as I'd imagine one. Not much beyond passive monitoring, it sounds like? Gut says no, but she could be lying through her teeth and I'd have no way to check, Saren thought as the woman continued.

"It is, in my experience, far more common for the average Inquisitor to deal with the first - and though ensuring that the politicians, bureaucrats and other leaders of the Exitium carry out their duties in a timely fashion is very rarely exciting, it is far less dangerous to the public good. An arrogant forgemaster can be punished and their factory handed elsewhere. A single heretic - a true heretic - can, left unchecked, destroy an entire Sector with their actions."

Saren snorted a laugh. "Paperwork is boring throughout the galaxy, but it's a good sign if that's your primary concern, huh?"

"It is hard for me to remember," Hannah replied with a grin. "Sister Nought has handled my paperwork for many a year, now. One of the many perks of holding a high position - another of which is the right to select my own posting. I attached myself to Lord Admiral Grissom's Sixth Crusade Fleet two years ago - it was, and is, a chance to explore the lesser-populated Sectors of the Exalted Exitium while dispensing justice and Inquisitorial authority on worlds and outposts generally used only to the ministrations of the same few Inquisitors. It was merely the guiding will of the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, which brought our peoples together."

"I don't mean to offend you with my next question," Saren began as the pair reached the holding area next to the Blessings of the Lector; Castis, Alec and a small pack of personnel from the Exitium and C-Sec were busy escorting the three ambassadors down from a ramp located in the midsection of the ship.

"It is unlikely you will," Hannah replied, gesturing at Saren with a kind, if slightly intrigued expression. "Ask, and I shall do my best to provide answers."

Saren nodded. "Do you believe that? Truly believe that the Doom Slayer himself guided our people together, personally? Or was that an expression of faith - that you follow his teachings, and therefore it happened?" No hesitation, Saren noted as Hannah's answer came before he'd even finished speaking.

"There is no difference between the two," Hannah replied proudly. "To enact His wishes is to do His will. So it is that all peoples may find faith in Him - if ever I am blessed to be judged by Him, I can say: I submit to you my life's work, Almighty Slayer, for you commanded me to battle the unholy, and so I did, side-by-side with any who would be my kin. Blessed is His name, for His is the light that shines in the dark, and His is the shadow that looms over the wicked-"

Saren, this time, could not stop himself from rolling his eyes as Abbess Shepard began drawing on a seemingly endless font of inspired prayer; when Lord Protector Ryder finally made his way over to where he and Hannah were standing, ambassadors in tow, Saren felt genuine relief even as the enormous, shouting figure slapped him on the back so hard he felt his jaw rattle.

In short order the group boarded the convoy that would return them to the Citadel Tower. Unsure if he was capable of handling any more of Hannah's preaching - which, incredibly, had not stopped since she'd started replying to his previous question - Saren made the decision to ride with Alec. Nestled in the back of an aircar with the black-haired human, Saren found himself growing to accept, if not necessarily enjoy his company.

"So, Saren," the Lord Protector said as the convoy took off, "I have spoken at some length with Captain Vakarian and his Lawbringers. They have made it known to me that you have something of a...storied history, yes? Castis himself was uncomfortable with the line of discussion, but the Lawbringers he commands, especially Officers Sarnogar and Sharo, were quick to tell tales of your youth - that you served in a mighty order of warriors known as the 'Blackwatch,' despite being below the age of military service, even!"

Note to self, Saren thought as he felt his blood pressure spike, personally kill those two with my bare hands. "I'm afraid the details of my relationship with the Turian Blackwatch are highly classified," he said aloud with as much good cheer as he could inject into his voice. "I'd love to share some war stories from those days, but you know how it is."

Alec looked confused, then crestfallen, and he shook his head sadly. "Oh. Oh, I, ah, did not mean to pry into matters private. I do apologize if I have made you uncomfortable - I had not realized military matters might be something you would be forbidden to speak of."

Saren cocked his head. "Do you not have...covert operations? Redacted missions?"

"No? I can recall no such thing being discussed, at least not around my own person," Alec replied, raising an eye. "Perhaps that might change were you to speak to a senior member of the Inquisition, but even then the days of hiding our histories has long since passed. Such things, for us, are the hallmark of darker days."

Of course nobody said anything about operational security to you. You'd shout classified info from the rooftops if you thought it'd make for a good story, Saren thought, though out loud he simply asked "Do you speak of the Era of Sin?"

"I do. You know our histories well, Spectre," Alec answered, quieter than he'd ever spoken before. "In those days, they say that whole planets were put to the sword in total silence. Entire sectors of space, set ablaze and the ashes scattered, and all knowledge of such things burned - parchment and person alike. His name be praised," Alec continued, signing the Slayer's Sigil thrice with great vigour over his chest, "He showed us, no, forced us to acknowledge the weight of our many sins. We do not act in shadows now, Saren, or at least to my knowledge we do our best not to. It led us down a path that, without divine intervention, I fear we may never have returned from."

Saren paused, surprised at the man's sudden and unexpectedly somber mood. "If it's any consolation, I do have a hard time imagining you as the champion of a grim empire putting the rest of the galaxy to the gallows."

"Yes, I can hardly imagine myself in that position either," Alec answered, smiling slightly. "It would ill befit a man of my constitution, I think, to put innocents to the sword. I am a strong man, Saren, and I have seen no shortage of suffering and lost many friends and family to the demons - but to bear that weight, that sin, on my shoulders - I think it would be the death of me."

"I - uh, I see," Saren replied, suddenly very eager to change the subject. "Well there's no need for us to focus on the past, right? I can't share many - any, really - details about my time with the Turian Armed Forces, but even with all the blacked out parts there's plenty I've done as a Spectre that might be of interest."

"Tales of Knights-Errant always did suit me more than those of Inquisitors," Alec rumbled, cheer returning to his posture and voice. "Have you a tale, then, to share?"

"Not long before your people came to our end of the galaxy," Saren began, "I was charged with dismantling a very powerful group of criminals - pirates, slavers, that sort of thing. They had a massive base of operations located out in the Terminus - far away from the civilized parts of Citadel Space, that is - and they numbered in the hundreds."

"Pirates. Slavers. Disgusting," Alec spat. "Before you speak - no, I do not judge you. Those things, the Exitium is familiar with. A rare, almost unheard-of scourge which crops up in the places most far from Gaia - cutthroats and criminals who ply their foul trade, seeking the most vulnerable and most isolated of our communities as their prey. I hope your people show as little mercy as one can give to these scum."

"I hadn't finished my story," Saren noted, smiling. "Like I was saying - there were hundreds of these pirates, and while I could probably have killed them all in open combat it would have been, ah, difficult, to say the least. Not to mention they'd probably scatter instead of lining up to die, and I didn't exactly want to waste several years tracking these people down. So, instead, I infiltrated the group. Just some down-on-his-luck turian looking to make quick money."

Alec rumbled uneasily, but said nothing, gesturing for Saren to continue.

"First on the list was changing their targets. It wasn't hard to get them to turn their focus away from their general operations - a few explosives here, a hacked set of communications there, and suddenly instead of taking slaves, smuggling goods or extorting merchants the group was embroiled in war with other criminal groups who they'd thought had attacked them. Losses were taken, the warlord running the group grew unpopular, and talk of mutiny started to spread throughout the pirate crew. Me, I was just some nobody, one more voice championing mutiny with the rest. We had to rise up, you see, take for ourselves what was ours. Liberate ourselves from an incompetent leader, et cetera - just some feel-good tripe about how, you know, pirates are supposed to be free and all."

"And this...mutiny? I presume it was successful," Alec ventured, leaning forward with evident interest.

"Of course it was. And so, when our incompetent leader was overthrown, we all gathered in the main hangar for a big party, to celebrate our new leadership. Well - one pirate, some nobody who'd joined not too long ago wasn't there," Saren continued, a smile stretching across his face. "Two hours into the party, the hangar doors opened, and everyone who tried to escape onto the shuttles found their doors locked and their engines disabled. And, as it turns out, without air to breathe most people don't last too long."

Silence descended.

"You disapprove?" Saren asked, frowning.

"Oh, no, that is actually quite ingenious," Alec said slowly, his eyes searching Saren's. "Just, ah - well, I had figured you to be a tenacious warrior, certainly, but not one quite as ruthless as that. Did you...take pleasure in the act? In sending these men into the cold, airless death of space?"

"Not in their deaths, no," Saren lied, "but if one has a job to do the fastest, most efficient way to do it seems to me like the proper way to do it."

"Mmm," Alec rumbled with approval. "Indeed! Well, well, well. In retrospect, I do have a hard time seeing you as a warrior of my kind - I would not have thought of doing anything besides drawing my blade and slaying these foes in open combat, but that is why you are a Spectre and not a Lord Protector, I suppose. Even so - a cunning mind, they say, makes for a good blade. So I am told, anyway," the man laughed, returning to his usual cheer - and volume. "I do not try to think so hard about how to fight the unholy and the demonic. Allowing my blade to meet the head of the enemy seems to have worked well enough for me!"

"I can imagine," was all Saren could come up with. "You do strike me as very, ah, attention-drawing."

"All the better, Saren. I am - if you will permit me to boast - a fine warrior indeed. Not so skilled as our Ambassadors, perhaps, but I have defeated demons the size of buildings in single combat on numerous occasions. Alas, there is no story to tell, beyond the fact that if you apply a greatsword to the flesh of a demon enough times, it dies. And besides," Alec concluded with a wide grin, "glory for myself means protecting my comrades who cannot achieve such a feat."

"Very noble of you," Saren pointed out.

"Well, I think it is good to strive for nobility in one's actions. For those who are possessed of cunning and slyness of mind like yourself, like the Inquisitors and their ilk, that may seem rather simple," Alec admitted with a shrug, "but is a simple thing made poor by its nature? I think there is goodness to be found in having a simple ethos. I am no priest, certainly, but I do not think it unreasonable to say that the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, is as simple as an instrument of divine wrath can be. He is not possessed, so far as I am aware, of anything beyond rage and revenge, and if something is good enough for Him I am blessed to share even a miniscule part of it. His is Light and His is Rage, for in Him do we fi-"

Saren twitched and had to suppress a frustrated groan - which he did, barely - as, until the aircar arrived at Citadel Tower, Alec began preaching - with slightly less zeal than Hannah, but only slightly - about the Doom Slayer. He all but burst out of the vehicle as soon as the car touched down, finding Castis regarding him with a wide smirk.

"Thanks," Captain Vakarian muttered as he passed by. "Was getting tired of having to hang out with him."

Saren grumbled under his breath before turning to the Exitium's ambassadors; as before, he led them to the Council's meeting room and took his place in the room's corner. In short order, the group completed their introductions and began discussing the concrete details of matters which Saren half-listened to, quietly filing pertinent details away in his head as they came up - immigration, trade, knowledge-sharing, embassies, and more. It wasn't until the topic of a Citadel delegation being sent to Exitium space came up that Saren gave the matter his full attention.

"It seems only fair," Councilor Tevos said, "that some of our citizens should be given a chance to see your Exalted Exitium. Of course our earlier freeze on open travel still holds, but neither will progress be made by entirely halting the flow of trade, communications and most importantly, people. Over the course of the previous evening and earlier today, we Councilors have come to an agreement that an application-based sort of quasi-immigration would allow the people of the Citadel to...experience and come to accept your culture and its many differences in a more controlled manner."

"It would, we surmise, be a test run," Councilor Valern continued. "If this system works out well, that could perhaps allow us to lean towards are faster 'thawing' of the freezes we wish for, and if not, well - we'd have to discuss either result in the future regardless, but we hope you see our intentions."

"Yes, yes, we do," Faenmoch answered, nodding as he tapped his fingers together - in thought, amusement, or approval, Saren wasn't quite sure. "I think my peers would agree?"

"I find the idea most agreeable," the Makron of Tongues echoed. "It will allow the people of the Exitium the same, as well - we are all experiencing a, how to say, culture shock, perhaps. Everyone benefits from the agreement. We can set up application processing centres quite quickly in the hangar you have provided to us - and our many scribes are no doubt eager to put their minds to work again."

"If possible," Councilor Sparatus interjected cautiously, "we hoped to send a contingent of fighting forces as well. Military or mercenary, if we are to come to terms with this newfound 'demonic' enemy of yours - of ours - we will need expert combatants and tacticians of our own."

"Of course. It would be foolhardy for you," Ambassador Goyle mused, "to merely hope for our protection. There will come a time when we cannot protect you - not because we do not want to, but because the forces of Hell will no doubt find a way to separate or divide our ability to present a unified front. It is our belief that, with time, your warriors should - will - become as capable as our own, and indeed we are just as excited at the prospect of what your own masters of martial matters will share with us."

Faenmoch hummed with evident glee. "Yes, yes, this I have heard, from both those who support our ambassadorial delegation directly and from the soldiers who remain most aboard our ship. They, and I, wonder at the sorts of tactics and weaponry your people will devise. We are an insular people - we have had little exposure, if any, to external forces in the history of the Exitium besides Hell. What cruel weapons will your people forge? What forms of slaughter will your people imagine? And," Faenmoch added, jaws clacking with excitement, "what horrors can we unleash upon the demonic host when we put our minds together and stand shoulder-to-shoulder as comrades on the front line?"

There was silence, for a moment.

Saren coughed.

"Uh. Yes, of course," Councilor Sparatus replied uneasily. "That is the goal. Of course our requirements for these applications must necessarily be somewhat strict - we have no desire to flood the Exitium with a horde of the Citadel's people, especially not any of its darker elements. We've already drafted a basic set of rules regarding who would be forbidden from travelling to the Exitium at this time - I'm sure you can imagine that we'd be less than fine with sending wanted criminals or unsupervised children, for example." The turian Councilor paused, swiped through a few menus on his omnitool, and a series of projections appeared before the Exitium's ambassadors. "We've also drafted a quick list of things we'd hope any potential applicants to this program would be provided and what they would be allowed to do. Of course we would expect our people to do some sort of work - this is, after all, not a vacation program."

The ambassadors scanned the list for a few minutes, and ultimately it was the Makron who answered. "This is more than acceptable by our standards. In truth, we had not expected a desire for your people to labour while in the Exitium, but a hand idle is a hand wasted, it is said. While we have no such draft for you to examine at this time, our assumption was that we would treat any new arrivals to our space with the same courtesies we extend to our own citizens - food and shelter are always taken care of, for no soul should go hungry or sleep without a roof over their head. We would provide assistance to those seeking work - and training in our forms of war for the soldiers, naturally. We would give the same medical care to your people our own would receive - spiritual wards and the like - with their consent, and only after we determine the safety of such things, though our experience in Chalua Hospital would seem to imply no problems on that specific matter."

"You mention work once again," Councilor Tevos noted. "And you do not mention any trouble - which brings me to my next question. Will there be no...issue, with people from Citadel space taking work normally done by the Exitium's own citizens? Of course I imagine your...war economy, as you said previously, has great needs, but even so…" She trailed off, waving at nothing in particular.

"Oh, there is no cause to worry," Anita said, smiling widely. "Gaia is quite safe, to be sure - there are only one or two demonic incursions there per year across the whole planet, and we think it little more than a token form of spite from Hell's masters. Away from Gaia, however - especially beyond the core Sanctuary Worlds that we can protect best - death rates are quite high," she explained with no loss of cheer.

Saren's focus sharpened.

"Thus, there really is no shortage of work available for those who wish to labour, whether by hand or with their minds. The day we left, our scribes believed the total number of daily deaths not attributable to old age or some otherwise preventable accident to be around ten million - nearly a record low."

"Oh? Ten million? That is indeed something to behold," the Makron said, the cabling beneath his robes rustling slightly.

"Pardon my interruption," Saren interjected, raising a hand. "Permission to speak, Councilors?"

The councilors, wide-eyed and silent, nodded at him.

Saren cleared his throat before speaking. "You mean to say that the equivalent of the entire Citadel's population was wiped out in the Exitium two days ago, at your best estimates, correct?"

"I was not aware of the total populace which call the Citadel home, but if so, then yes, Spectre Arterius, that would be correct," the Makron confirmed.

"And this is, by your standards, a record low," Saren continued, his tone, somehow, holding together.

"Absolutely! Ah, apologies, I will avail myself of my projection-eye. A moment." The Makron withdrew his right eye once more - Saren was proud to say that this time his discomfort was only slightly less visceral - and allowed it to project a series of graphs and charts. "As you can see here, casualties and deaths attributed directly to the War Eternal have actually been quite low over the course of the past five years, with the daily average hovering somewhere around fifty million souls lost."

"It has been a good time for the Exitium," Faenmoch added, his lower jaws easing open in a smile. "Perhaps you can confirm the details, Makron, but when I was Redeemed and first took my place in the Exitium's holy ranks, the fighting was somewhat fiercer than it is today - I recall the number being around seven hundred million deaths per day?"

"A moment." The Makron's body twitched several times, and the charts were replaced with fresh ones, confirming Faenmoch's claims. "Ah. As you can see here, Faenmoch recalls his early days with a bit of exaggeration - in the 24th, the Age of Swords, our daily losses amounted to closer to six hundred eighty million per day. Even so, the past five ages have been kind to us. None of us were alive to see the previous defense of Gaia, and of course records from these eras cannot be entirely trusted."

"You - ah - I recall your provided timeline," Councilor Tevos stated slowly; Saren could see the muscles in her hands were tensed beneath the table. "The Nineteenth Age of Retreat?"

"Mmm. A dark time, indeed. I do not have the chart loaded into my current modules, so you shall have to take my word, but the death toll then was around six billion per day on average, with one day in particular during Gaia's defense hitting the twelve billion mark. In any case," the Makron said, retrieving his eye and shoving it back into its socket, "we are getting off track. Many people in the Exitium are claimed by the War Eternal, and so it is that there is never any shortage of things to do, work to be done, people to fill vacant positions! I assure you," the Makron said, beaming, "the people of the Exitium will welcome any labourers, scribes, warriors and the like with open arms."

Saren did not pay attention to the rest of the meeting.

Saren, who was no stranger to facing his own mortality, thought nothing of such things. Everyone dies someday, his mother had said at the funeral of his grandfather. Of course I want your grandfather to be here still, she'd said as she'd cried and embraced him, but we all have our time to go. All we can do is face it when it comes, smile, and think back on all the things we did when we lived.

But, Saren knew, he was not like other people - he was not other people.

Most people - turian or otherwise - had not accepted their inevitable deaths. Most of the soldiers he'd trained with had not, either; they were usually there because they had to be, because service was mandatory. Some of those soldiers, generally the ones who were looking to make a career in the Turian Armed Forces, did come to terms with their mortality, and Saren hadn't known a single one of the Blackwatch Operators who'd been his second family before becoming a Spectre who wasn't ready to lay down their lives in a moment's notice.

Death did not scare Saren.

The deaths of the people it was his duty to protect was something else entirely.

Ten million, a good number.

He clenched his hands, unclenched them, tried with all his might to imagine how he would react to the thought of the Citadel - the entire Citadel - slain in a single day, every day, for a week. For a month. For a year. A decade. A century. A millennia.

Forever.

He could not.

He could not imagine what he would think in that situation. What he would do. What he would not be willing to do to stop that from happening. It was impossible.

For a moment, he was a very young man again, knee-deep in the muck of some marsh outside a terrorist stronghold as artillery fell around them and gunfire kept their heads close to the water; his armour was torn in several places, his shielding could barely hold a charge, and his team had been cut down from two dozen operators to three - and he was, for the first time since joining the TAF - since joining Blackwatch, ready to accept his death at that moment.

"Get it together, Saren," Captain Auxios had shouted at him, tearing his carbine out of the swamp's depths and shoving it back into his hands. "We're not dead yet and neither is the enemy! Think, calculate, kill!"

Think. The Exitium faced an unspeakable number of deaths per day. It had done so for fifty thousand years, and would, in all likelihood, continue to face these numbers - at minimum - for the foreseeable future, perhaps even forever.

Calculate. The Exitium knew this, and it kept going forward. Fifty thousand years of inconceivable loss, and it kept going forward. It had not even descended permanently into madness; the Age of Sin had ended (even if it had, according to them, taken their own god's intervention to do so) and here it was, facing their impossible task with smiles on their faces.

Kill.

His mind was made up.

The meeting ended, the ambassadors went their way, and the shaken Councilors looked at him, expressions going from calm masks to horrified, empty gazes. They said nothing for a minute; they did not have to.

He unclenched his fists, breathed deeply, and - it was not a smile, but his expression returned to normal.

"Permission to join the delegation to the Exitium as a warfare specialist liaison, Councilors? If these numbers are even remotely close to the truth," Saren said with calm that he somehow felt flooding into his veins, "we're going to need experts, and I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that even as a Spectre my performance has been exemplary. We need as much expertise as is possible to learn, and we needed it yesterday."

Councilor Sparatus' expression stiffened for a moment before it cooled into something as hard as starship armour.

"Permission granted, Spectre."

29th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 28, 2657 Galactic Standard)

Greetings, citizens of the Citadel!

On behalf of the Exalted Exitium, it is my absolute honour and pleasure to pen this missive to you all. Though I have not known your culture for long and have only had the luxury of being aboard this great city-station for a short few days, I have been blessed to meet so many of you. While I know that many of you have no shortage of questions about the Exitium that have not been answered in the Volumes of Unity, rest assured that in due time answers will be made available - for while many of you have no doubt seen the Council's press releases regarding the immigration and travel freeze between our peoples, I am happy to announce an initiative supported by both the Council and my own government.

Starting on the twenty-third day of June, the Exalted Exitium will be accepting applications for those who wish to go on an extended trip into the Exitium. Please note that, due to the aforementioned travel freeze, there is a very real chance that should your application be accepted that you will be unable to return to the Citadel for an extended period of time - a time of at least six months or more - barring any extenuating circumstances. Know, too, that even for those who seek a peaceful life spent amongst our most sheltered citizens, the circumstances and realities of the Exitium can be unfathomably dangerous; if you choose to come to our Exitium, even as a civilian who merely wishes to cook, report, write, and generally live a non-martial life, there is a high chance that you will not only see a demon up close - but that it will kill you. For those who wish to join the War on Hell, your chances of being slain by demons in combat are, of course, far higher. Such is the way things are. So it shall be.

It is in keeping with this caveat in mind that we will not be accepting applications from those under the age of majority as outlined by their respective governments, nor shall we be accepting applicants who wish to bring children with them. Those amongst you who have outstanding criminal charges will not be welcome, either - we humbly request that those of you who have sinned do your penance, and visit the Exitium when your dues have been repaid. Keeping all of this in mind - for a full list of our conditions and terms I urge you to examine the list attached at the end of this document - we welcome anyone who fits the criteria who is ready to face the danger and the opportunity the Exitium offers.

To maximize the speed at which our secretaries can process your applications, please fill out one of the attached intake forms. Two forms exist: one for civilians, and one for those who wish to join one of our Churches-militant. For those of you who seek the glory of the War Eternal, note that no combat experience is required - we shall shape any and all comers into warriors as fine as our own. Furthermore, turians and quarians alike need not worry about provisions - we have already tested our purification and safe-consumption magics, and they allow peoples of both species to eat and drink the food of the Exitium. Note that failing to fill out an intake form will result in the guards outside our hangar denying you entry until you have done so - come prepared, lest you face the universal shame of not having completed your homework!

Once again, I thank you all for the privilege of meeting you - whether in person or by cultural proxy - and I hope that in less hectic times I have the chance to speak with all our successful applicants in a more intimate manner.

May the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, protect and guide us all in this joining of peoples,

Lord Ambassador Faenmoch egi Xakhal of the Exalted Exitium

TRANSMISSION ENCRYPTION LOCK: RELEASED
W10-2657 FROM COUNCIL
ASSIGNMENT TO FOLLOW
EXITIUM EXPEDITION GROUP ONE TO LEAVE FROM PD BAY A4 APPROX 0100
S.A ASSIGNED TO EEG-1 / OFFICIAL DESIGNATION "WARFARE SPECIALIST LIAISON"
S.A TO FACT-FIND AND NETWORK WITH KEY EXITIUM PERSONNEL

PRIORITY ONE: REPORT ON ALL PERTINENT DATA

Addendum - CNCL. SPARATUS - Spectre Arterius, I cannot stress enough just how critical it is that your reports be frequent and exacting. Everything, and I do mean everything, is important. We know nothing about the Exitium that hasn't been presented to us through their rather "unique" way of viewing themselves; while no less than seventy-five percent of the first wave of "immigrants" to the Exitium are members of the Exitium Expedition Group, I am of the opinion that the reports you and your fellow Spectres send back to us are without question the most important intelligence resources we can rely on at the moment.

PRIORITY TWO: ENSURE SAFETY OF EEG-1 PERSONNEL - PRIORITY AT DISCRETION OF S.A
PRIORITY THREE: NETWORK WITH EE & EE PERSONNEL
PRIORITY FOUR: ENSURE SAFETY OF CITADEL SPACE IMMIGRANTS (DISCRETIONARY)

Once Saren notified his landlord that he'd be gone for an unspecified amount of time, there had been little left to do in terms of packing. The only perishables he had to compost were a few microgreen pods; his fridge was, out of habit, entirely empty, and the various dry goods - almost entirely composed of spices and several varieties of tupossa leaves - were already vacuum packed.

Saren paused as he completed his check of the kitchen; he sighed, opened his liquor cabinet and stared longingly at the dozens of bottles within, most of which were (to his great frustration) unopened and gathering dust.

Well, he mused, alcohol is the universal social lubricant, at least on this side of the universe. Can't imagine it's different anywhere else. Saren grabbed the two open bottles - an unlabeled bottle of shard wine he'd received as a secondhand gift from Nihlus, and a two-hundred and fifty year old turian brandy he'd been working through over the course of the past few years. For good measure he grabbed the next four finest bottles of alcohol present - which, coincidentally, happened to also be the most expensive - and transferred them carefully into the portable locker which contained all his most essential and valuable possessions.

So it was, then, that an hour later Saren found himself at the Exitium's docking bay with his luggage in tow, wary of the enormous crowds of would-be-immigrants lining up to apply at the wall of mostly-human customs agents which formed an impromptu barricade around the handful of Exitium spacecraft at the far end of the hangar. Making his way over to the VIP line, Saren searched for the "travel liaison" he'd been told to meet, finding no recognizable faces save for a vaguely familiar human woman. She wore a green set of combat armour which looked not unlike Hannah's, though instead of the many trinkets and chains which hung from the Inquisitor's, the woman's was unadorned save for a long sash; a bald head covered in runic tattoos was all he could see, as her face was buried in the pages of a thickly-bound book which was fixed to her armour's waist with a bronze cord next to a well-worn chainsword.

"Ah, Sister Nought?" Saren approached and raised a hand in greetings. "Are you my escort for the day?"

The young woman let out a startled yelp, dropping the book and letting it clatter against her armour as it swung from its chain. "Yes! Yes, that's me," she said, bright-red eyes peering at Saren with an expression of alarm. "Oh, Slayer. Hello. Sister Nought, at your service," the woman replied, taking a knee and bowing her head. "My most sincere apologies for failing to observe your arrival, Spectre Arterius."

"That's, uh, quite alright," Saren answered, shutting his eyes for a moment. Spirits help me, this is a fantastic start. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes! Yes, nothing is wrong. I was simply engrossed in an excellently-crafted tale," Sister Nought answered, sheepishly standing up once more. "Ahem! If it pleases you, I am to take you aboard the Dignified, and escort you to your quarters for transit to Gaia before reconvening with Abbess Shepard," she continued, gesturing at one of the new ships - a boxy, brick-like behemoth - in the hangar.

"That is why I'm here," he noted dryly.

"Wonderful! Please, come with me." She led Saren towards the ship, twirling around to face him as she walked backwards, effortlessly dodging the various people, buildings and luggage-carts in her way. "Truth be told, the ship will be departing in two, perhaps three hours, so unless you wish to suffer my company our time together will be limited."

Saren watched as Sister Nought led him towards the ship. Odd. She's walking backwards, but keeps prematurely making way for people or trolleys behind her without having to check. Enhanced hearing? Some sort of perception-boosting magic? Sensor suite? "Suffer seems like a strong word," Saren said aloud.

"I am ill-suited to the role of guide," the young woman replied with a smirk, "despite Abbess Shepard's many attempts to instil in me a sense of propriety. Not knowing your character, I am left to assume that a man of your rank - not unlike an Inquisitor, if I recall? - would prefer to meditate on the coming journey, or the like."

"That's...not at all accurate," Saren answered with a shake of his head. "I was originally hoping to watch some of the media available on the ship's holos, and to be perfectly honest speaking with you for a while seems like an excellent idea. My superiors expressly tasked me with detailing the minutiae of your culture, and hearing it from someone of your rank and personality would be a nice change of pace."

"Ah. Ah, yes, I understand," the woman said, nodding sagely; she paused as they arrived at the boarding ramp to the Dignified's cargo bay, leaning against a towering stack of shipping containers. "Abbess Shepard and the ambassadors are exemplars of what the people of the Exitium aspire to. Even the Lord Protector, for all his volume, is a shining beacon of faith and duty." She folded her arms as they waited for a small procession of luggage carts to pass, and beamed at Saren. "You wish to learn from those of lesser station and stature!"

"Spirits," Saren muttered, rubbing at his fringe. "You make it sound like I'm insulting you, and I promise I'm not."

"No, no, no insult is taken, Spectre Arterius," Sister Nought clarified with a reassuring wave of her hands. "So as every part of the body contributes to its functioning, every soul within the Exalted Exitium is Blessed by Him - please do not be concerned," she interjected, actually taking notice - perhaps, Saren noted with alarm, the first time anyone from the Exitium had - of his frustration at their endless preaching. "I do not intend to deliver unto you a full sermon."

Saren's tone was diplomatic. "Your people do seem fond of that."

"They do. Perhaps overmuch so, especially considering your lack of familiarity with our faith."

Let's see how far we can push this. "And yet you're the first person I've spoken to who's actually picked up on this."

Sister Nought snorted a laugh. "Of course they would not notice. Their sermons are as much reflections of their own faith as they are meant to convert you to our way of thinking, but, alas, you have yet to speak with an actual preacher who would be equipped with the suitable tools to do so."

Saren frowned. "And you aren't a woman of faith?"

"Make no mistake, Spectre Arterius," Sister Nought clarified, "I am indeed one of His faithful children. I simply prefer to make prayer with my hands instead of words, for the most part, and as someone who has been the student to far more sermons and lessons than I would like, I think I can understand your position quite well. I, being but a lowly Sister - an apprentice in all but name - am in a position to resent the drudgery of these lessons and the other assorted burdens that come with being trained by an Inquisitor."

Saren nearly choked on his own spit. "Should you be telling me this?"

"No, but I should not have been reading my book instead of dutifully watching for your arrival," Sister Nought noted with a wolfish, teeth-baring grin, "and my opinions on the many tasks festooned upon me by Abbess Shepard and her ilk are well-known."

"She did say," Saren noted thoughtfully as the procession passed and Sister Nought led him up the boarding ramp, "that she does send you all her paperwork."

"She does," Sister Nought confirmed with a scowl. "When I ascend to her rank, I shall break the cycle of violence she perpetuates. My apprentices will not have to file any such nonsense save for what they themselves are duty-bound to write; in turn, we shall focus on the tasks which matter most in life."

"Slaying demons and rooting out heretics?" Saren offered.

"That, and ensuring that we are fully rested whenever possible."

Saren said nothing, considering those words as he took in the ship's interior; even after they left the cargo bay, the aesthetic was almost entirely utilitarian. Corridor after corridor was formed from an unpainted metal, devoid of decoration save for the occasional banner bearing various symbols - generally the Slayer's Sigil, though once or twice Saren did notice a few other emblems he didn't recognize emblazoned on a doorway or directional sign. Truthfully, the only thing that gave the alien nature of the craft away was the fact that there were emergency armory stations bolted onto the walls with alarming frequency; it seemed that he could go no more than fifty or so paces before running into yet another chainsword or shotgun placed in a case on the wall.

"You are silent," Sister Nought remarked several minutes later. "Have I upset you?"

"No, no, not at all," Saren mused. "I'm just wondering if you admitted to being, if not lazy, ah, fond of resting?"

"I did," Sister Nought answered with a wink. If it was intended to be a gesture of humour or cuteness, Saren thought, its effect was rather diminished by the unnaturally bright glow of her eyes. "I have two goals in life: to kill many demons, and to be as comfortable as possible while doing so." She paused, tapping her chin in thought. "Well, more than two, to be sure, but a woman must have some secrets, so I shall leave my list at that."

"Is that a common mindset for an Inquisitor to have?"

"It is hard to know for certain," Sister Nought scoffed as they at last stopped in front of a hallway marked VIP Quarters; she gestured grandly at the first doorway to the left, just one of many nestled together with barely a handful of paces between them. Your quarters, Spectre Arterius; I am aware the trip will be short, but if you would, please place your hand on the pad by the handle. It will key itself to your aetheric signature - more or less impossible to subvert."

Saren did as he was instructed, and the door hissed open a few seconds after the pad flashed green. The interior was, as he'd assumed, spatially-compressed; despite the lack of distance between the doors in the VIP Quarters the room was roughly the same size as a single-bedroom flat he'd rented in his college days, furnished with a bedroom, desk, a workbench and a holoprojector. A small kitchenette and seating area divided the bedroom and the study, and a spacious bathroom containing a bathtub, shower and toilet were set off to the side; no less than three emergency weapon cases were spread around the cabin, including a chainsword, handgun and shotgun.

Saren let out a low whistle. "I'm aware these are VIP quarters, but how much fancier are these rooms than the standard? I mean, for the regular crew," he added, stepping inside and setting his luggage case down.

"These are more or less identical to the quarters provided to senior crewmembers; Abbess Shepard, for example, calls a room like this her home abroad. Otherwise, most crew are four to a room of similar size," Sister Nought explained, leaning up against a nearby wall. "I cannot imagine that, lacking spatial compression magic, that your own peoples' spacecraft have such luxuries for the common warrior."

"They don't. Having to share a bathroom with just two other crew - that would have been nice," Saren mused with a smile as he sat down on the bed. "Not that I think the Turian Armed Forces will do so, even when they get their talons on the spatial compression magic. The communal bathrooms are a way to build camaraderie and character, or something along those lines. And a bathtub? Unthinkable."

"Baths are nice," Sister Nought grumbled, taking a seat at the desk after Saren gestured at it. "After a long day of fighting demons, stripping out of one's armor and having a nice, cool soak really is the height of refreshment. Why deny that to one of His servants?"

"The comfort of soldiers generally isn't very high up on the list of priorities for most armed forces, you know," Saren noted.

"Is that so? Our thinking is different." Sister Nought's tone shifted into what sounded like mimicry of a well-drilled lecture. "Every day could be your last. The demon does not consider the rank of its victims; it does not think of the hardships you have faced, or the comforts you have spurned. He commands that we fight and rest with the same vigour, for though we temper ourselves on the anvil of hardship our steel is brittle compared to His own." She paused, and shrugged. "I certainly do not qualify as experienced, by my own measure, but I have seen and fought enough to find myself agreeing."

Saren shook his head, an emotion he couldn't quite place creeping into him. "You're really not what I thought you'd be like, Sister Nought. We haven't even really introduced ourselves, and you're speaking far more frankly than anyone I've met from the Exitium."

"Well, allow me to rectify that. Sister Jacqueline Nought, provisional priestess of the Church of the Inquisitor," Jacqueline said with a slight nod of her head. "I am in a position to speak freely, because the contents of my speech come not from a place of diplomacy, but as a guide, or escort, or something along those lines. The only instructions Abbess Shepard gave to me were to assist you as you needed, and to watch my language, not necessarily in that order."

Saren, in return, bowed his own head slightly. "Spectre Saren Arterius, Council Spectre. And, speaking frankly, I really do appreciate your candor. It's...refreshing."

Jacqueline rolled her eyes. "Now, if you could be so kind as to note that down in an official letter of recommendation and pass that along to the Abbess, I would be in your debt."

"Are all Inquisitorial apprentices - if that's the right term - so...candid?"

Jacqueline shrugged. "One surmises that the circumstances surrounding one's training, and the matter of who is teaching whom would dictate that. The Inquisitorial Hall was strict, yes, as all forms of basic training are, I assume, but once I began my apprenticeship the matter was left to the discretion of Abbess Shepard. We already knew each other, and so she knew my character and was ready to tailor her teaching around it."

Saren looked up in surprise. "You already knew Abbess Shepard? Was she a family friend?"

Silence fell for several moments, and Saren watched as a flurry of emotions raced across Jacqueline's face as she stared deeply into the floor.

"I...did not always aspire to the calling of Inquisitor," Jacqueline said quietly.

"I can see that," Saren said softly. "From what little I know, you don't quite seem like the textbook example of one."

"No, I do not."

Saren cocked his head. "So what did you want to be?"

The runic tattoos on Sister Nought's head flared for a moment, and her gaze bore into Saren's own with such fury that he nearly flinched. "I would have settled," she seethed, "for not being made an orphan at the age of nine. I would have settled for being strong enough to fight alongside my parents, instead of letting them shield me as their flesh cooked and their bones were shattered."

"I...my...I am sorry," Saren said, unsure of how to proceed. "I wasn't aware. Even so, I can't imagine anyone would blame a child for failing to fight off the demons you face."

"I do," Jacqueline hissed. "I had the strength. When my mother- when they fell, I picked up the weapons they dropped. I did avenge my parents that day. I curse not my skill, but my cowardice, for hiding behind them instead of fighting alongside them as I should have. I curse my carelessness, for the wounds I sustained in avenging my fallen family would have left me dead, had the Abbess not passed by a day later and saved me. She may deny it, but I owe Lady Hannah a debt of blood, and so it is that I follow her. Poor a student as I may be, I recognize the teachings of the Inquisition to ring true. A soldier is a soldier, Saren. They can go where they are ordered, they can fight a host of demons - why, they may even prevail. But they can only defend a homestead, or purge a land already defiled. It is the Inquisition's - and one day, my - duty to stop such blasphemy before it can come to pass. If I can slaughter heretics before they bring demonspawn upon a house like the one I left - if I can allow one girl to follow her dreams - I will consider my debt fulfilled and my honour restored."

Silence, again.

"I wanted to be a bard," Jacqueline muttered. "I do still write verse, and though I have not had the time to practice lately I do think, should I continue to live, I will achieve some measure of mastery with the twelve-string." She sighed, and scratched her head with a gauntleted hand. "My apologies. I did not mean to change this jaunty tour into a death call."

Saren regarded the young woman with a small smile. "For what it's worth, I think having a drive like yours is something everyone can aspire to. Minus the self-deprecating bits, anyway."

"Do not mock me," Jacqueline said, getting to her feet and rather quickly looking away. "I do not require your sympathy."

"I meant it. I don't have a tragic tale to share about my childhood, and my joining the military life early was a voluntary choice - but I can recognize passion for one's work."

"I am hungry," Sister Nought grumbled, pointedly walking out into the corridor without looking back. "You are welcome to join me in my search for vittles."

Saren followed her out back into the maze of corridors - hastily loading the ship map onto his omnitool before doing so - and within minutes they'd arrived at a cavernous mess hall. A mix of ship crew and residents of the Citadel (almost entirely civilians) were alternately filling plates with food from a long table separating the kitchen from the eating area or digging into the alien cuisine with relish. Recalling the briefing documents, Saren fished the necklace carrying a trio of runic totems out of his combat armour and noticed that every other Citadel visitor was wearing them as well.

Translator. Anti-soul-absorption. Sustenance.

Two days prior Saren had watched, stunned, as a panel of individuals wearing Runes of Sustenance consumed every sample of food placed between them - dextro or levo based, without suffering so much as heartburn.

Wish I'd had one of these ages ago, Saren mused as he followed Jacqueline in line. Would have made sourcing rations infinitely easier. Unsure of what to choose, the displayed descriptions of each food and their tasting notes doing little to illuminate what, exactly, the food would taste like to him, he simply copied what Sister Nought was taking and sat down with her at an unoccupied stretch of table.

Jacqueline nodded her head in prayer. "Blessed is His name." She didn't bother waiting for Saren, grabbing her spoon and eagerly began wolfing down what she'd filled most of her bowl-tray with: a stew-like mess called podinge, composed of fried starch sticks, cubes of some sort of cheese, hunks of fried meat and enough thick, black gravy to turn the dish from 'sauced' to 'stewed.'

"You weren't joking when you said you were hungry, huh," Saren mused.

The young woman looked up, a confused expression - and no small amount of gravy - plastered across her face. "No, I was not. Go on, then. Eat. You have my word, it is good!"

Saren complied, and found himself simultaneously attempting to chew the fried sticks and meat, while his teeth worked on the squeaking cheese bits and the powerfully salty gravy stuck to every surface of his mouth. Eventually he swallowed, and frowned.

"It is not to your liking?"

"It's...very rich," Saren managed. "Not terrible, but it seems like the sort of thing my friends from my army days would have loved. Or the sort of stuff you'd find at a bar."

"Ah! Your instincts serve you well. Podinge is indeed a fine food to eat while drinking. It is a simple dish, best suited to the unrefined palettes of the uncomplicated partygoer," Jacqueline said with what Saren swore was pride. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the other two items Sister Nought had loaded up on - niugatsu, which appeared to be little more than a stick of fried meat slathered in a heavy sauce, and a small stack of assorted sausages - were little better in terms of complexity or lightness. Still, it was food, and far from the worst things he'd ever eaten, so he dug in without complaint and finished the meal, barely managing to keep pace with Jacqueline's ability to devour concerning amounts of food at high speed.

With a hearty belch and an equivalently content sigh, Sister Nought pat her stomach and grinned at Saren. "Oh, I am aware of your type. No doubt you find this fare heavy for your blood."

"It wasn't bad, honest, but I will say that I wish I'd picked a little less meat," Saren admitted.

"You shall find yourself in fine company," Jacqueline said, scowling. "Most of the High Inquisitors - the few I have met, at least - seem to disdain such richness."

"Is that so bad? Having a different taste in food?"

"Perhaps," Jacqueline offered, her tone approaching diplomacy. "Of course, it could simply be that the median age of such people trends towards the elderly."

Saren blinked.

"Now hold on a minute," he managed, scowling at Jacqueline's evident delight at his understanding. "I'm not old. I'm not old at all. Certainly not as old as your High Inquisitors."

"I said no such thing," Jacqueline replied, grinning. "If you, good sir, did take my words to imply your own age, I will insist that you reflect upon your reaction, rather than the minutiae of my own speech."

Unable to think of any sort of intelligent retort, Saren instead committed himself to asking about beverages when he was interrupted by a ringing bell; the ship-wide intercom went off a few moments later.

"Esteemed passengers, this is Lord Admiral Jon Grissom, and it is my pleasure to announce that this ship's return to the warm embrace of the Exalted Exitium will begin in thirty minutes. To all our new guests, I ask that you familiarize yourself with the safety procedures of this ship. The journey itself is estimated to take five hours; during our travel, you are invited to make use of the many amenities outlined in your maps. I only ask that you refrain from interrupting any crew who are working, or from entering restricted areas. That is all. May the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, watch over us all and guard us from unsafe passage. Amen."

"I suppose that is my cue," Sister Nought said with a sigh. "It has been...fun, Spectre Arterius. The Dignified's crew is, for the most part, composed of stalwart soldiers and sailors who would not know fun if the Slayer Himself, blessed is His name, descended from on high and demanded a party be held in His name."

"And meeting with you has been most enlightening." He stood up as Jacqueline did the same; they shook hands, clasped arms, and Jacqueline scooped up the emptied meal trays.

"I suppose," she said with a look of mild dissatisfaction, "that we shall not see one another for some time. It has been good to speak to a senior warrior who does not lecture me."

"I'll be back on the Citadel in no time, and I can't imagine you'll be stuck tagging along with Abbess Shepard for every waking hour of the day. Take a look around. There are plenty of interesting places for an aspiring Inquisitor like yourself aboard the Citadel," Saren pointed out.

"We shall see, Spectre Arterius. We shall see. Fare well, and safe travels." With a quick bow of her head, Jacqueline headed towards the mess hall's exit.

Saren, for his part, returned to his cabin, and reviewed the ship's safety protocols. Most of it was standard fare - directions to lifeboats and escape pods, safety suits, steps taken in case of fires and the like.

And there's the insanity, Saren mused as he flicked over to the next page on his omnitool; several cartoon diagrams showing how to safely open the seemingly infinite number of weapon caches were followed by how to best defend oneself in case of 'localized demonic incursions.' Most of the diagrams appeared to involve grabbing a chainsword or firearm and attacking vaguely in the direction of the torso of an incoming demon; still, even without much in the way of details the reading was engrossing enough that Saren was surprised when the ship comm went off, informing the passengers that the spacecraft had lifted off.

Saren got to his feet, frowning as he stared at the walls. There's no noise, he thought, pressing his skull against the wall of his cabin; there was no vibration, no humming - nothing. No engine whine, no landing gear retraction.

For a moment, he stood there, taking in the unfamiliar sensation of being aboard a spacecraft that was utterly silent, and found it to be unnerving enough that he turned on the room's holo, if only to have something to focus on. The ship's library was almost shockingly mundane; the endless channels of sermons, preachers and demon slaying were there, as he'd expected, but the trending category contained cooking shows, romances, aircar reviews and even an entire channel dedicated to hermetic magic used for home improvement.

Somehow, watching various humans, strogg and the occasional Redeemed demon construct homes, infrastructure, even skyscrapers out of raw materials, magic and chanting were enough to turn the five hour journey into a blur.

"The potential," Saren muttered to himself once the announcement was made that Gaia would be within sight in a few moments. "Bunkers from pre-made arrays, safehouses ready for construction and hidden underground - yes, yes…"

Ideas whirling in his head even as he grabbed his luggage and made his way over to a nearby viewing area, Saren was startled out of his reverie by the sight of a familiar face. An asari with a pronounced crest and dark skin clad in black-blue combat armour was standing by the viewing window, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder; she turned, raising an eye at his approach.

"Saren," the asari said with a polite nod. "Come to see the planetary approach?"

Saren nodded. "Something like that. I'd heard only a few Spectres were cleared to join this little expedition - didn't figure you for the type who'd even bother applying, Tela."

Tela Vasir shrugged. "Information is power, right? You know me, I like having a good handle on the intelligence community, and you'd better believe this ship is crawling with plants from the big three. Plus, you know, demons. And the madmen who worship the war god that fights them for all eternity."

"When you put it that way," Saren grumbled, "you make it sound like you're expecting this to turn into a wetwork-laden mess."

Tela regarded Saren with an incredulous shake of her head. "You don't? Since when do you play the optimist?"

"This is the Exitium we're talking about," Saren retorted. "Of course the big three are running covert operations here. I'd be disappointed if they weren't, to be honest, and I'd bet my entire armoury we have some stragglers from the Terminus skulking around, too. Even so, anyone dumb enough to start a fight here deserves what's coming."

"You're really putting faith in the sorts of people we deal with? This is a new low for you, you know."

"I'm not putting faith in anyone, except the Exitium's own," Saren clarified. "This is their home turf, and I don't know if you missed it or not, but they have magic, Tela. Honest to the Spirits magic. Somehow I feel like that, just maybe, evens out the playing field a bit?"

Tela opened her mouth, ready to argue back - and stopped, mouth hanging open as the blinders covering the viewport clicked open.

Gaia.

Saren, too, simply stared.

The world itself was unremarkable; the beating heart of the Exalted Exitium was little more than a brownish-grey blob, with a few splotches of blue ocean and even rarer patches of green. Far more imposing was the space that surrounded the planet and the ship he stood in; there were so many defensive platforms littered around the planet that Saren's conscious mind almost insisted that they were distant stars or debris, and nestled between them all were an endless number of shining silver cubes covered with runes, each - Saren estimated - the size of a small aircar. Weaving between all the defensive implements and the patrolling military craft was a labyrinth of civilian craft and transports, entering and leaving the system from hundreds of jump points marked by floating sigils which hovered in space like blood-red apparitions. The Dignified flew past all of this, cutting straight through the hundreds of lines leading towards the planet, descending into Gaia's atmosphere and down, down towards the surface.

"Esteemed guests of the Exalted Exitium," Lord Admiral Grissom said over the comm with audible elation, "welcome to Indomitable, capital city of Gaia and the shining beacon of our endless war against the abomination and the heretic. Fifty thousand years of war and conflict has not laid it low; quite the opposite. If you should want something that the Exalted Exitium can provide, somewhere within the city beneath you, I guarantee it can be found. Now, I ask that all passengers begin making their way to their designated disembarkation points in a timely fashion; we shall begin offloading everyone shortly."

Descending towards the city's central spaceport, Saren could only gaze in slack-jawed amazement and horror at the nightmarish cityscape. The urban sprawl seemed to stretch on far beyond the horizon, layered in stacks that touched the clouds and fell beneath the natural surface of the planet without end; gleaming buildings and black spires pierced the skyline, surrounded by an infinite, snaking line of aircar traffic, and as more detail became visible Saren realized that nearly every building with a sightline into the sky had some sort of cannon or artillery piece proudly displayed atop its roof.

The ship landed, and yet he and Tela stood still, unwilling to move.

"Goddess," was all Tela could manage, and for once Saren was inclined to agree with her.