BOOK TWO: INDOMITABLE
VOLUME ONE: GRIEF

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

Saren and Tela managed to shake themselves out of their stunned reverie when another ship-wide broadcast repeated the same request for passengers to begin heading to the disembarkation points, and together they silently made their way over to their assigned exit station - one shared with about three dozen other VIPs consisting of politicians, magnates and military leaders, some of whom nodded at Saren or Tela in greeting.

The stunned expressions on the faces of everyone present was reassuring, in a sick sort of way.

A few minutes later, the exit hatch the group was lining up in front of - itself a circular doorway big enough to accommodate at least two or three aircars stacked atop one another - whirred and clacked, external segments rotating with furious speed before locking into place and unsealing.

Before anything, a blast of thick, humid air wafted into the ship; its fragrance was almost sterile, save for a faint, lingering impression of smoke, or ash. Beyond the doorway, visible past the line, was a sight that left Saren - again - at a loss.

The spaceport was, somehow, the least incredible thing he could see; its massive, sprawling complex of landing pads, hangars and terminals, each with its own respective line of vehicles coming and going, were impressive, but nothing his mind couldn't imagine as being on Thessia City, Cipritine or Talat (with a little bit of twisting.) It was seeing Gaia - seeing Indomitable, with all its infinite sprawl and spires from the ground which was awful, in both senses of the word.

"Hello there!" A pair of humans, commandeering an open-topped vehicle, called out to the group from beyond the hatch; Saren wondered how long they'd all been standing there, overwhelmed, in silence. "Esteemed guests of the Exalted Exitium, welcome to Gaia! If you would come to us, we shall ferry you to the arrivals terminal."

Resisting the urge to push his way to the front, Saren and Tela waited patiently, stepping through the hatch last, and stepped out onto the ramp which separated them from the heart of the Exalted Exitium.

Immediately upon crossing the threshold, Saren felt a warm, enveloping heat blanket him that his mind instinctively knew had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. Like warming up my biotics, he mused, or letting the implant cool off. Clambering into the vehicle and taking a seat next to Tela, the ride from the Dignified to a nearby terminal took only a few minutes before once again they were on foot, being herded inside to pass through customs. The interior of the spaceport, Saren's first glimpse at the Exitium's interior aesthetic up close, was as bizarre as anything else he'd seen so far.

Salarian minimalism and Athamite temples mashed together, Saren mused. Sleek and seamless for furniture and foundation; banners and upholstery are rich and decorated. Runic inscriptions at regular intervals. Murals of...historical figures? As he continued his scan of the customs hall, Saren took note that off in the distance, an enormous line - perhaps a hundred strong - of would-be soldiers were being processed at the far end of the terminal building marked with the Church of the Predator's fist-and-hammer symbol, with a handful of notable persons sprinkled in amongst their number: one Justicar Aelik, who'd he'd had the (mis)fortune of sparring with during his time in the Blackwatch, and two excellent krogan mercenaries, Nackmor Drack and Urdnot Wrex, whose services he'd made use of on multiple occasions without their knowing so.

"Ah, you would be Spectres Arterius and Vasir, yes?" A young-looking, dark-skinned strogg, mostly unaugmented - at least visibly, from the slim look of his grey cassock - save for a third, mechanical arm coming out of his back approached the pair before they could enter the VIP line proper, interrupting Saren's scan of the hall.

"That'd be us, yeah," Tela responded.

"Brother Armistan Banes, Inquisitor," the man continued, nodding as he offered his left hand, palm facing up; an omnitool-esque projection appeared slightly above his palm, showing an identification card. "If it pleases you, I am authorized to allow you to bypass the usual channels of processing and bring you directly to your first set of lodgings. Patriarch Harper and Matriarch Oliwa have assumed that persons of your position would already have studied the absolute basics of our society, and that thus your time would be wasted on the customs process and the general briefing - especially considering that neither of you intend, one imagines, to take up work as janitors or educators, or the like.

Saren nodded eagerly. "I don't have any complaints - the sooner I can start my work, the better. Tela?"

"Currency is currency, I'll pick the culture up as I go, and I'm sure as shit not waiting around to learn how to be a plumber," Tela offered. "Take us away, Brother Banes."

"At once. If you will follow me, Spectres." Brother Banes led the pair through a nearby door marked with several symbols Saren assumed indicated a restricted area, past several corridors filled with various storehouses, repair bays and offices, and into a small side passage bearing a single doorway. A stylized symbol hung above the door; it resembled a simple version of the Doom Slayer's helmet, with a single eye which seemed to glare at the approaching group. 'For Inquisitorial Use Only Except In Case Of Emergencies' was written on the doorway itself, and Brother Banes waved a hand over the door's hand-reader, unlocking it with a quiet series of clicks. Beyond was a small landing pad holding a single vehicle - a matte-grey aircar, boxy and devoid of decoration.
Tela frowned. "We flying incognito? Not that I mind - just figured your Inquisition would have something a little...fancier."

"It was thought," Armistan answered with a small smile as he took their suitcases and loaded them into the trunk, "that, already overwhelmed by the rather rambunctious character of the Exalted Exitium and, more importantly, the uniquely unmatched scale of Indomitable, that the two of you would prefer to avoid any incidents, benign or otherwise, involving civilians or prying eyes."

"That's...very proactive," Saren offered diplomatically. "Not quite like what I've dealt with so far."

"It is the privilege and the curse of all who worship Him in the House Inquisitorial to live an existence that is at least somewhat removed from the experiences of the common laypeople." Armistan shrugged with all three arms. "Abbess Shepard was a...representative of sorts for Inquisitorial matters, yes, but even so her training and countenance is that of a Knight-Errant: the wandering hero, not the watchful sentinel." Tela and Saren considered this for a moment; before they could reply, Armistan raised his mechanical arm. "Please do not take that as criticism of any other outside my Church. It is an observation - fact, not insult. We all have our parts to play; even He, who dictates our very nature, is Himself subordinate to His inability to be in all places at once." He opened one of the car's doors with his mechanical arm, and gestured. "If you would."

Saren and Tela entered the vehicle; its interior was as plain as the outside, but Saren could appreciate the comfort of its upholstery all the same. Before he could comment on Armistan's line of thinking, Tela spoke up as the Inquisitor got into the driver's seat.

"Nobody's ever said anything about your Doom Slayer having weaknesses," the asari said with a thoughtful tone - and a calculating expression. "I thought that'd be blasphemy, or something."

"He is weak," Brother Banes said with a sigh; Saren flinched at the admission, and Tela's gaze flicked between the strogg and Saren with something approaching alarm. "If He were strong, then why has He not yet cast every demon into the void of the Aether, cursed to non-existence? If He is, truly, the protector of all that lives, why must so many fall in the War Eternal? These are questions the Exegeses have, and continue to grapple with; the answers one comes to are personal and varied. It is the official stance of the Inquisition that it is not His weakness which should define Him, but rather the strength of His - and, of course, our - foes. One does not, for example, call oneself weak for failing to ascend a mountain in a single attempt without preparation; rather, it could be said that the challenge of the mountain is strong, and that one is strengthened by many trials and tribulations faced in climbing to its peak."

Saren - already having activated his omnitool's recorder long ago - marked this part of his logs with a bookmark. "And yourself? What do you think, Brother Banes?"

"The mountain we are climbing grows every day," Armistan answered with a toothy grin; the inside of his mouth, Saren realized, ended not in a gullet but in a patchwork series of metal tubes. "The climb is infinite; the peak, unreachable in my lifetime. But I do not despair, Spectre Arterius, because that means simply that my potential to become stronger is just as infinite - and when I, too, inevitably die in my failed ascent, I shall become another handhold for the next climber beneath me. I think myself blessed, to be honest. I have a purpose laid out for me. I have nothing to fear. My legacy is secured. All that matters is that I do not stop climbing."

The car took off in silence.

Saren labeled the bookmark.

Armistan Banes - Inquisitor in training - tag: Zealotry.

The Inquisitor shook his head with a contented sigh. "Alas, we are not here to discuss theology, hmm? Let us be on our way."

The hangar doors opened, and the aircar took to the skies-

-though, Saren thought, skies might be stretching it. It was hard to tell where, exactly, the sky was; the spaceport had seemed to be located on the surface of the planet, but now he was realizing that it had been merely situated on a surface. Far beneath - and far above - the car, the city seemed to stretch into the expanse, layer after layer of urban sprawl stacked atop one another, and Saren lost all sense of direction and space within a matter of seconds.

"And I thought Thessia City was a varren warren," Tela murmured, echoing his thoughts aloud. "Goddess, having to chase someone through all this must be a real shitshow."

"If anything," Saren added, "it reminds me of Omega."

Tela snorted. "A Tuchanka-sized Omega. Oh, yeah. That's fantastic."

"It is a sight to behold, no?" Once again, sarcasm seemed lost on an Inquisitor; Armistan positively beamed as he glanced back at the duo. "I was born on an agri-world in Sector Destructor; the first time I laid eyes upon Indomitable, I nearly wept at its beauty."

"It's certainly something," Saren managed; despite his best efforts, he'd long since lost track of where, exactly, the spaceport was, and even though he had a map indicating the location of the hotel he was being dropped off at and a tracker indicating the car's position, the endless walls of buildings - apartments, offices, museums, restaurants, bunkers, armories, schools - all crammed in together, to say nothing of the traffic they were weaving through at breakneck speeds left him at a complete loss.

An eternity later - actually only six minutes, Saren realized with horror - Brother Banes dropped them off in the cordoned-off back alley of the Senia Hotel, itself a boxy building distinguishable from its neighbours only by a richly-woven tapestry of green and gold which snaked around the building's exterior.

Inquisition doesn't want us being spotted? Is that hospitality, or precaution against something? Instead of voicing his suspicions, Saren took his suitcase with a grateful nod and gestured at the hotel. "Anything we need to do?"

"No - simply check in with the front desk staff," Armistan clarified. "They are aware you will be arriving early. Beyond that, well - you are free to do as you wish, Spectre Vasir. You have our contact information and can reach us via any of the terminals in the hotel. As for you, Spectre Arterius, another escort will be here to fetch you in an hour, barring any exceptional circumstances. If that is all, I shall take my leave."

They watched him go; once the vehicle was out of sight, Saren shot a wary glance at Tela. "You're not coming with me to meet with the Inquisition?"

Tela stuck out her tongue at him. "No?"

"Why not? Briefing said you'd be attending," Saren said, frowning. "You're not bailing on me just to avoid being stuck in meetings again, are you?"

"What? No. I'd never," Tela said, smirking; her expression grew serious after a second. "To be frank, I've got my own orders from the Council - it was a last minute change. I've got a week or few - discretionary - to get a feel for the city. You're a Warfare Specialist, I'm in Intelligence. And besides, you know how I work. Get dirty, put out feelers, see what the vibes are like."

Saren punched her in the shoulder. "Oh, okay, I get it. You get to go on vacation while I do all the real work."

"Hey, unlike you, I don't mind rubbing shoulders with the dirty commoners," Tela retorted, grinning. "I'll leave the wining and dining to you, old man."

"I'm not the one who's about to hit three-twenty," Saren shot back. "Next thing you know, you're gonna be barking on about raising kids and buying a house."

Tela rolled her eyes. "Age is first in the mind, or something. I'm not the one with a stick jammed so far up his ass he has open wide to trim its branches." She shrugged. "For real, though, I'm due to meet with the Inquisition whenever I'm done with my preliminary...investigation, I guess you'd call it. Vacation, sure, except for all the paperwork I have to do."

"Right. I'd almost forgotten," Saren half-joked. "Maybe Abbess Shepard was onto something. Wonder if they'll let me borrow some Inquisitor-in-training to do all that for me."

"You can ask them yourself," Tela noted as she made her way into the hotel as Saren trailed behind. "I've got better things to do."

Saren parted ways with Tela not long after checking in; despite their rooms being next to one another, the asari Spectre had simply dumped her luggage inside her room before leaving to explore the city. So it was that Saren found himself in a room that was not entirely alien - decorated in a similar aesthetic to the spaceport, it had a reasonably-sized bed, a desk, and a small communal table with two chairs and a couch. A kitchenette and a roomy bathroom with both a tub and a shower were signs that the rooms were designed for long-term stays, and for a moment Saren wondered if an hour was long enough to have both a bath and a quick nap.

If only, Saren mused, staring out at the vista beyond his room's window; Saren could see a large, though not unreasonable amount of pedestrians making their way around the streets across from the hotel. A pub, three clothing stores, a "qavah" shop, whatever that is, and-

-Saren stopped.

A bookstore - advertising that they sold physical copies.

"If only," Saren thought aloud as he unpacked his suitcase. "I'll need at least a half-day for that, I suppose…" He trailed off, getting into the bathroom's shower and examining its controls - all clearly labelled - and took a long, hot shower, before putting on his dress clothes, tucking a subcompact pistol into the breast pocket of his jacket. With only another fifteen minutes before his escort was due to arrive, he re-packed his luggage, bringing it with him down to the hotel lobby. The concierge staff were, as before, quietly minding their own business, showing an incredible amount of self-control in their total disregard for his presence; instead, their attention was focused on two humans, a young man and woman, who were seated in the front lobby's far corner. Both had black hair, cut short enough to be practical but still styled - the man's in a sort of knot tied up above his head, the woman's carefully shaped in a short bob - and wore grey cossacks identical to Brother Banes' own, save for red sashes which hung around their shoulders. Noticing that both were carrying swords - not of the chain-toothed variety - and pistols, Saren felt rather unsure about his choice to attend the meeting in formal wear rather than his combat armour.

Both got up to meet him, but it was the man who approached first; he was thin, bordering on what Saren might have called wiry if an asari shared his build, and his eyes held a cautious, yet clearly excited look to them. "Spectre Arterius," he said in greeting, offering an arm. "Brother Kai Leng, and this is my colleague, Sister Miranda Lawson; on behalf of the Church of the Inquisition, and more specifically High Patriarch Harper and High Matriarch Oliwa, we bid you welcome."

Saren clasped arms and shook hands with the pair. "Thank you. It's a pleasure; I hadn't expected you'd be waiting, or I'd have met you earlier."

"Think nothing of it, sir," Miranda replied politely; she was more in line with what Saren had been expecting, sporting a muscular, thick build in line with Abbess Shepard's. "We only ourselves arrived a few moments ago. Still, if you are ready, we can bring you to the Inquisitorial Hall at once."

Saren nodded as Kai took his luggage. "I'd appreciate that."

The vehicle they would take was parked outside; unlike Brother Bane's aircar, this one was no unembellished box; it looked strikingly like an Armali Endura, if that car's curves were replaced by hard edges, and sported dark-green paint. Thanking Kai as the man opened the rear door for him, Saren got inside, noting the comparatively spacious interior, complete with what looked to be a small bar nestled between the rear passenger seats.

"There are refreshments, if it would please you," Miranda explained as she got into the driver's seat. "Otherwise, we will be on our way."

"I'm alright for now - thank you, though," Saren replied as the vehicle took off. No expenses spared, huh. Guess they're taking the whole VIP thing seriously. "I noticed that the Inquisitorial Hall was only two, ah, stacks? Levels? Up from the hotel, almost directly above - is that a long journey?"

"No, it is not," Kai answered as Miranda expertly sent the aircar directly upwards, barely squeaking through lines of traffic and cutting past what looked like toll stations without any signs of concern. "We will pass it shortly."

Saren brought up the map on his omnitool - then paused, concerned. "Pass?"

"The Inquisitorial Hall," Kai noted with evident pride, "is an important building, to be sure. Meetings are conducted there, sermons held, decisions made. But it is not the seat of our Church - it has not been so since the Ninth Age."

Ninth - the end of their Flagellants? Saren frowned. "It's...a decoy, then? There wasn't any mention in my briefing materials about any other Inquisitorial headquarters on Gaia."

Miranda's tone was thoughtful. "Decoy would imply that its purpose is sacrificial, no?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Technically I would surmise you are correct, though I feel that such a term does diminish the value the Inquisitorial Hall has," Miranda clarified. "Our newest recruits are trained there, before they are deemed worthy to be inducted into the Church of the Inquisition proper; many a decision whose effects were of great importance was ratified in its offices. But your deductions serve you well, Spectre Arterius - should it fall into enemy hands, its loss will primarily be felt in terms of morale."

"Our destination today is the Church of the Inquisition's true headquarters on Gaia," Kai continued. "Its location is not publicly advertised, though its existence - and its location - are hardly secret. See now - there is the Hall." He pointed out the window at an enormous, gilded church which the vehicle was now passing; dozens of wings of the building were clustered together in a vaguely octagonal shape, the roofs of each building coalescing into a single, smaller rectangular upper level which played host to as many landing pads as there were weapon emplacements. "We shall, instead, continue onwards towards the primary manufacturing district of the city."

District, Saren though a few minutes later, is one fucking way to put it.

They'd begun to descend into the lower stacks of the city - and then they simply kept going, falling further and further until at some point Saren realized, having passed at least a hundred stacks, that the sunlight from above was no longer filtering in, but rather being artificially projected from what looked like enormous skylights. Whole industrial parks filled with forests of skyscrapers lay beneath them; equivalents to what could have been entire cities from any populated capital planet stretched out as far as he could see, complete with parks, lakes - even what appeared to be a mountain range of some sort.

Saren marshalled himself, willed himself to ignore the madness. "How far? How - Spirits - how big is this city? I know, seeing it from orbit, that the city ends at some point, but - it hardly seems possible."

"It once did," Kai explained as they drove past whole stacks of what appeared to be filled with nothing but factories. "It is said that during the Age of Temptation, there was no city; Gaia itself was the city, an entire planet of steel and iron, scouring the earth to make way for industry and worship. Such days are beyond us, Blessed be His name; we are as much warriors as we are gardeners, I like to think. This place, gifted to us by His hands, is our new homeworld; it was heresy to think it was ours to burn and ravage without a second thought."

"So you built...down? Instead of across?" Saren shook his head, something raw churning in his gut as his mind began to accept that - nearly ten minutes later, they were still descending.

Miranda nodded matter-of-factly. "Just so. Many benefits derive from this; we may preserve the purity of the planet's image, if only slightly, and of course the closer we reach towards the beating heart of Gaia, the more we may benefit from its lifeblood. As for your earlier question - the city limits have not expanded outwards in many generations, and so, if my memory serves, Indomitable occupies roughly sixty-six thousand square kilometres across, with around five thousand or so stacks regularly seeing use."

"Regularly," Saren choked. "There are more?"

"Reserved for use in case of emergency. Gaia has faced no less than four full-scale demonic incursions, to say nothing of civil conflict or wars with heretics," Miranda offered. "It was decreed, long ago, that there must be reserves set aside as contingency."
Saren blinked.

Saren blinked several times.

"Oh," was all he could say.

Her expression grew pensieve, and she raised a finger. "Ah! Lest I forget - it is easy for us, who have called this great city home - this number does fail to account for spatial compression. Alas, I can provide no concrete figure - the rates at which modifications are made far outpaces any sort of reliable tracking, to say nothing of the many ancient structures buried deep in the reserve stacks." She shrugged. "I am aware that it is an ongoing battle that the Church of the Wretch continues to fight with all their strength - that being said, the last 'full' census, taken nearly two centuries ago, does state that the population density in stacks primarily zoned for residential purposes is, on average, about one-point-nine million souls per square kilometre of 'real' space."

Saren just focused on breathing.

They don't know.

No, they FORGOT.

Spirits fuck me with a stick, they forgot how big their homeworld's fucking capital city is, and it's too big - growing too fast - to measure anymore.

Saren just focused on breathing.

Think. Calculate.

Kill didn't quite suit the circumstances.

Think. Calculate. Accept.

"-terius? Are you alright?"

"You bored him to death with your arithmancy, Sister. Well done."

"I did no such thing! Lord Arterius asked me a perfectly valid question, and I provided the answers he sought! Perhaps he merely ruminates on important matters - something you, Brother Leng, would know nothing of."

"You wound me."

"It was my aim. Really though, Spectre, are you well?"

Saren became aware that the aircar was - had been - parked in a garage of some sort alongside hundreds of other vehicles, and that both Sister Lawson and Brother Leng were regarding him with alarm.

"Yes," he lied. "I am alright. My apologies - I was just thinking about something important. Shall we?"

"Of course! It is no trouble," Miranda said, exiting the vehicle with the other two; she gestured towards the exit at the far end of the garage. "We shall carry your luggage - that way leads to the Church proper."

"I see." Saren began walking slowly towards the door, and the moment he was out of earshot Miranda elbowed Kai in the stomach.

"You see," she whispered, "I was right!"

Kai shrugged. "What a shame. Regardless, you are carrying his luggage this time."

Miranda pouted, but did so anyhow, and the two followed after the turian with eager smiles.

You know, Saren thought as he crossed the threshold of the Inquisition's actual base of operations, I'm getting real sick and tired of being surprised.

Throwing open the double doors of the garage, Saren was greeted not with a hallway, or a corridor; if it had been an enormous church interior built to the relative scale of Indominitable's impossible size, even that would have been fine.

Saren leaned against a nearby wall, rubbed at his eyes and groaned.

Before him was a reasonably small room devoid of decoration, perhaps the size of an open office space one might see in the Citadel, with only a half-dozen doors leading to other parts of the building; people he surmised were Inquisitorial staff of all sorts passed through the area, making their way to parts unknown at leisurely speeds.

Three of the six doors, and most of the people he could see passing through the thoroughfare, were on the ceiling, separated from him by a barely-visible transparent glass - floor? Ceiling? Barrier?

Something clicked in Saren's mind, and he simply accepted the truth before him with a weary sigh. Sure? Why not? Magic? Who cares anymore? Nothing makes any Spirits-damned sense here anyways, so everything makes sense. He heard the footsteps of his escorts behind him, and turned to face them. "So, ah, I don't know how to walk on ceilings - I hope you're not going to make me."

"Ceiling?" Sister Lawson cocked her head in confusion, her tone the very definition of innocent. "I do not understand."

Saren jabbed a finger above his head. "I'm pretty sure those are people walking upside-down on top of us?"

"Ah! No, no, that is not the case - this is a unique construction, Spectre Arterius," Kai explained. "The central complex from which the rest of the building was constructed around sustained damage to its spatial compression magic in ancient times, and so its interior was...warped, or twisted, such that the spatial foundation of the building became aligned to the mausoleum at the building's centre, rather than the planet's core. It was decided that rather than changing it back, in dedication of those who fell in its defense, the building would maintain its changed shape even as it was expanded."

"So that," Saren said slowly as he worked through the imagery, "isn't people walking above us, that's just...another floor of the building, spatially warped to occupy space aligned above us. They're not perceiving any shift in gravity."

"Precisely," Sister Lawson noted. "It will become clearer once we come to the centre of the building, I assure you." Leading the way with his luggage in tow, the group passed through the centre of the three doors ahead, down a long, empty hall, and up to a much more ornate archway sealed with a hatch which, again, bore the symbol of the Inquisition.
"Welcome, Spectre, to the Martyrium of His Eyes," Miranda said with a theatrical flourish as she palmed the door's lock.

One central room sat before him, a vast cylindrical cavern tiled with a greyish-red marble that was filled with elevator tubes placed at regular intervals; spiraling stairs, platforms and walkways snaked up and down the height of the room, twisting and curling at impossible angles - and, at the centre of it all was an illuminated, transparent pillar, filled with a wide assortment of containers, ranging from sleek, steel cubes to wooden boxes gilded with inlaid gems.

Ignoring the part of his brain which told him to just leave, Saren simply folded his arms and thought, letting the echoing sounds of far-away conversation and footsteps wash over him. "Martyrium - I don't know how well that translates," he said at last, maintaining his composure somehow, "but in turian culture that would imply a temple or shrine built atop the burial site of a significant historical figure. Does that hold true here?"

Kai nodded with a solemn gaze. "That is more or less the case. The Martyrium is, indeed, that central pillar; it is our tradition that Inquisitors who reach greatness in life may, by the grace of their colleagues, find their resting place here. One can ask for no higher honour, achieve no higher victory."

That - that, I can understand, Saren thought with some relief. "I can't imagine it's easy to bring the bodies of the fallen back all the time, given what you face."

"No. There are many caskets which contain only a hand, or a leg; some, but a sprinkling of ash, or the remains of a shattered blade," Miranda continued, her tone sombre. "And many, many more, which have an Inquisitor's favoured blanket, or libation, or trinket, or nothing at all - a symbol, in place of anything concrete to be interred."

"The warrior lives forever," Saren quoted. "Bones break, flesh rots and spears shatter; only their glory is made eternal."

Both humans gazed at him with evident curiosity; Kai's tone was eager. "A saying from your history?"

"The Spirit of Fire, Verux. A divine from ancient Valluvian myth," Saren answered, recalling with some effort history lessons from his youngest days in school. "He lit the first fire - the sun - so turians could drive away the night, and placed torches in the sky - the stars - so that even in darkness turians could find their way home. He taught the turians to use flint, so that they could bring his fire wherever they went. His last lessons were how to burn resin trees to take their 'blood,' with which we could affix spearheads to staves, so that a turian could always defend his shrines, even when their talons were dull."

"I believe your ancestors were wise to worship this Verux," Miranda said with a smile as she motioned for them to continue, "and Patriarch Harper will be overjoyed to find you are a man of history as well as war."
They entered one of the elevator tubes nearby and began their ascent up through the building, stopping not at the top, as Saren had assumed, but some one-hundred-eight stories up. The corridor they exited into - marked 'Inquisitorial Command' - was, thankfully, devoid of any unnatural geometries, and after Miranda unlocked several sets of doors via the same palm-locks Saren had seen used so far they stood in a room which was, unlike the utilitarian facilities they'd passed through earlier, simply decorated with wooden walls and lit with lanterns instead of electric lights. Two armoured guards wearing black plate-like armour stood guard before a metal gate, each one resting enormous two-handed chainswords point-down on the floor.

"Brother Leng and Sister Lawson," Kai said, bending down on one knee and crossing an arm over his chest; Miranda did the same, but shook her head before Saren could follow suit. "We bring with us Spectre Saren Arterius, of the Council of Citadel Races."

Both guards slammed their blades on the floor, producing a hollow knocking noise as the metal teeth of their chainswords rattled the wood. "The Patriarch is presently occupied, but will admit Lord Arterius to his chambers regardless," the two guards said in unison; their voices were scrambled, rendered almost mechanical by some sort of filter in their helmets. "You may see to your other duties as you deem fit. The Patriarch will inform you when your services are again required."

Miranda and Kai bowed their heads. "Thank you, honoured Clerics."

"Serve with faith, and go with His blessing," the guards intoned; without waiting for confirmation or even bothering to confer with Saren, Miranda and Kai left him alone in the room with his luggage.

"Lord Arterius," the guards said once they'd left, "we do not command you. Even so, we ask that you remain respectful of the Patriarch, and allow him to conduct his duties as he sees fit."

"I'm not here to cause any trouble," Saren answered carefully. "Just here to do my job. Is my being armed going to pose a problem?"

"You do not present a threat to the Patriarch," the guards replied; Saren felt no anger at their words, but felt something in his stomach tighten all the same. "Even so, your frankness is appreciated, and speaks well of your character."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"You are welcome." They stood aside, and with neither word nor action the metal gate behind them slid open; a long hallway lay beyond, dimly lit by torch and lantern. "You may proceed."

Saren took his suitcase and slowly made his way within.

"Serve with faith, and go with His blessing," the guards said once more; the gate sealed behind him, and for a moment Saren wondered if he'd just been trapped in the hall before the far door hissed open.

First came the smell - thick, heady, and herbal; the room ahead was not so much a room as it seemed to be a narrow semi-transparent walkway hanging over an enormous sphere-shaped forest. Just as Saren was about to take a step into the room, the forest flickered - a projection? - and shifted, changing into that of another city in the Exitium: one far too small and simple to be Indomitable, surrounded by rings of groundcar highways in an endless expanse of desert.

Forging on forward, Saren pushed through wisping clouds of incense and approached the lone figure seated in an armchair at the far end of the walkway; wearing a set of blue robes and leaning over a wooden desk cluttered with incense sticks, physical parchment rolls, data-slates and a smoking ashtray, greying hair dim shining in the light of the projection, the Patriarch of the Inquisition struck Saren as looking like man slipping past the prime of his life.

His eyes - deep-set blue-upon-blue - looked up at Saren as he approached, and the almost predatory gaze immediately dispelled any such notions of senility.

"Spectre Arterius," the man said, getting to his feet; his rich, measured voice reminded Saren of Councilor Sparatus, minus the flanging. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Likewise, Patriarch Harper," Saren replied, clasping arms and shaking hands.

"Please, have a seat," the Inquisitor added, gesturing at an armchair across from the desk which most assuredly had not been there a moment ago. Saren sat down, sinking into its cushions. "And before we continue - would it be improper to dispense with the titles? I fear our discussion will stretch on for weeks if we do so."

Saren, despite himself, smiled. "I'd find that to be a very refreshing change."

"That is excellent news, Saren. So - at least in this setting, you may call me Jack," the man continued, gesturing grandly to their surroundings. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"It's not quite what I expected from an office," Saren noted as the scene shifted once more - this time, to a ruined cityscape, all crumbling buildings and burning temples. "Are these...live feeds? Projections?"

"Still projections, capturing moments in time - recent ones, usually from within a week or two ago," Jack explained, gazing down at the flaming landscape. "Matriarch Oliwa and I, despite our best efforts, see little of the world beyond our offices, and, once in a while, various meeting rooms around Indomitable. Whole weeks pass, and save for what we can see from the windows of our aircars, there is no outside to remember. These are...reminders, Saren. First amongst His commandmants is to protect the weak; shackled to these halls, and charged with the survival of my people, it is all too easy to forget the living element of our work - to reduce the common people and their lives to numbers on parchment."

Saren nodded earnestly. "That's...a very noble sentiment, for a man in your position. One that I think a lot of leaders would overlook."

"I did overlook it, Saren." Jack's face twisted into something sad for a second, before returning a jovial smile. "Ah - before I forget, my sincerest apologies for being here alone. Ramona - Matriarch Oliwa, that is - finds herself currently occupied in meeting some other members of your delegation, so for now it will just be me."

"No problem. To be perfectly honest I was surprised my request for a meeting with the Inquisition's leadership was greenlit so quickly - I hope I'm not cutting into anything important," Saren admitted.

"I assure you, Saren - there is little that would make me deem your visit as unimportant." Jack took a metal pipe from his ashtray, looked within its open chamber and scowled before snapping his fingers; a small flame leaped into life, and he waved it over the herbs within before taking a long drag on it, blowing the rich, oily smoke away from their seats. "Do you drink? Smoke? I keep a small collection of...luxuries, to help ease the passage of time - it is nice to share another's company."

"I don't smoke anything - at least not from Citadel space, although I do drink. In fact, I brought some as gifts," Saren replied, popping open his suitcase and withdrawing the vintage turian brandy. "I didn't know if it'd be suitable."

Jack's eyes lit up with evident interest. "Oh? Very interesting! And what is it?"

"Brandy - I'm not sure if you have that, or an equivalent," Saren explained, setting the bottle on the table. "A bottle of Raetania, from the Catellius distillery - one-hundred and seventy-two years old."

"A curious thing, the translatory matrix, is it not?" Jack examined the bottle's label, gingerly touching its fading paper label. "In the Exitium, brandy is made from distilling wine, which itself refers to a beverage made typically from fermenting a select few fruits."

"It's more or less the same thing for us. Actually," Saren added thoughtfully, "I've been wondering what your language really sounds like - it occurs to me that I've only ever heard you through the filter of your translation magic."

Jack nodded, and contorted his left hand into several curious shapes; it lit up with a faint green glow, and Saren watched as the same runic spiral engraved on his necklace's rune of translation appeared mid-air before unravelling into nothing. Following Jack's prompting, Saren removed his translation rune, and Jack repeated the same gestures before pointing at the rune; it, too, glowed with a faint green, and the Inquisitor nodded with evident satisfaction. "Ae-noa, eh? Lysnan a wo, jengwai yu tingwo abla speek-ahailig." The words came from Jack's mouth, now actually matching the movements of his lips; his voice retained its same tone and pitch, but the words did not flow as they had before, finding instead a barking, almost guttural rhythm which reminded Saren almost of the kind of heavily-accented Tuchak one could only hear in Tuchanka's own ruined cities.

"Well, I can't say that I understand you, but your language is certainly fascinating to listen to," Saren mused. He pointed to himself, and spoke slowly. "My name is Saren Arterius." He pointed at the ceiling and made a sort of 'that way' gesture. "I come from Citadel Space on behalf of the Council," he added, then pointed at the brandy. "I brought turian brandy as a gift."

Jack's eyes flitted about as Saren spoke; his expression hardened, and for nearly two whole minutes the Patriarch sat in silent thought, gaze blank as he clearly worked through what Saren was trying to say. Finally, he nodded, and pointed to himself in turn. "Kall wo Harpurr Jaak. Earthe-me ost Gaia, ae obslahiv jinja alta Inquasicionne." Lastly, he brought out a bottle of what Saren assumed to be liquor from a drawer on his side of the desk, and set it on the table with a grin. "Ae shose, ost kognayak, bringge wo foy mek partaje."

"Kognayak," Saren repeated. "A fine word, for a fine drink."

"Sublicarum," Jack added, slowly working through the turian word for brandy, an admirable attempt, given the man's inability to flange his words; the smile on his face suddenly vanished, and he furiously began working through the mountain of parchment on his desk. "Slaeyer! Feth, feth, noa donne hitho faang wo...hellfulge…" He trailed off, evidently unable to find what he was looking for. "Aak! Aak!" He snapped his fingers thrice, and a woman's voice came over some sort of boxy steel communicator built into his desk.

"Harpurr-Nna-ochie?"

"Coré-Musaeid! Ahailig Slaeyer, vé ost Hist kalla - ah, feth. Teng yisha." Jack repeated the same hand gesture he'd made before, this time with both hands, and the translation rune reappeared in mid-air for a moment. "My sincerest apologies, Spectre - I got ahead of myself."

The woman's voice spoke once more, cautiously concerned. "Patriarch Harper? What is the matter? Do you require assistance?"

"No, no, it is nothing, Adjutant Coré - merely that the word Spectre Arterius spoke reminded me of something familiar, though of what, exactly, I am unsure."

There was a pause, and the woman's voice took on a distinctly annoyed tone. "Will you be requiring my assistance, then? Shall I remain at the ready?"

Jack's tone was sheepish. "No! No, no, pardon the interruption. Carry on with your day."

"Of course."

Saren regarded Jack, eyes searching for some sort of tell. "Something about our word for brandy seemed familiar?"

"Yes, but, as I said, familiar to what, I am unsure," Jack grumbled, hastily reorganizing the parchment stack without any apparent order. "How damnably vexing." The man sighed, shut his eyes for a moment, and sucked in several deep, calming breaths. "I apologize - a flight of fancy, I think, nothing more. Pardon me. This is, after all, a rather exciting change of circumstances for me. Shall we partake in a short toast before proceeding to the formalities?"

"To friendship?" Saren watched as Jack pulled two crystalline tumblers from another drawer; he uncorked and poured Jack a finger of turian brandy, and the old Inquisitor did the same with his own.

"To everlasting friendship," Jack added, raising his glass.

The two men drank; Saren savoured the rich liquor, a concoction which had notes of baking spice and an almost tupossa berry aftertaste before finishing with an oddly minty note which lingered on his exhale.

"To victory."

"To eternal victory."

They finished their drinks, set down the cups, and for a long moment Jack simply looked at Saren with an appraising gaze; finally, the human's expression settled into a serious, professional look and when he spoke his tone was deadly serious.

"Let me begin, then, Saren, with a personal question. Do you hate us?"

Saren raised an eye, mind swirling in alarm. "Hate? No? You'll need to clarify - and I'd also like you to clarify why you'd ask me something like that."

"Perhaps hate is a strong word, Saren. Allow me a change of words, then - does the city of Indomitable make you feel weak? Small? Pathetic? Do you grasp, finally, the scale of our War Eternal, and how miniscule and unimportant you are in comparison? Does realizing the absolutely tiny nature of your society, and the existential threat the Exalted Exitium brings, shake you to your very core?"

Saren clamped down on his instinct to fight back and instead regarded Patriarch Harper with an angry, yet appraising look; the man's tone had been kindly, not argumentative, and so he simply folded his arms, recognizing the rhetoric for what it was. "There's no need to make this a teachable moment, not like this. What's your point, Jack?"

"You do well to control your anger," Jack said, nodding with clear approval. "I did not. Let me tell you - I did not temper myself whatsoever, Saren, when I came to understand my nature in relation to the War Eternal. I hail from the planet of Acheron - an ancient planet, far from Gaia, settled before the Exalted Exitium came to be. It was - and still is - a 'bunker' world of sorts, deep behind what would now be thought of the front line against demonic incursions. I do not exaggerate when I tell you life there was nightmarish - that it has been so, for as long, if not longer, than the Exitium has existed. I was raised on a world with no culture save for that of the War Eternal, Saren. We, the Acherites, have a saying; all the children of Acheron are born with a sword in hand, and only let go when we die so that the next child can take up arms."

Saren nodded, slowly understanding where this was going. "I...wager you found this disagreeable?"

"I wanted - needed - to get off that hellhole, literally, of a planet," Jack admitted, sombre. "I was, as a young man, talented, if you will permit my boasting - though I was not the greatest warrior or mage, I was one of the finest minds on the planet. A tactical genius. A detective without peer and a practiced theologian. Perfect Inquisitorial material. I gave everything I could to work myself into a position where I would not simply be thrown into the firing line like so many of my comrades. It worked. At the age of eighteen, I was sent here, to Indomitable, to begin my training at the Inquisitorial Hall." He paused, took a deep breath, and let it out with a sad shake of his head. "When I landed here, took my first steps out onto the surface of Gaia, and saw - this," he said, gesturing vaguely upwards, "I nearly wept, not with happiness, but impotent rage. How was it that I, and my parents, and my parent's parents, and so forth, had known nothing but an endless, infinite struggle, each day heralding nothing better than another attempt to throw your body at the unholy hordes of Hell - and yet all these people, these citizens of the holy capital, could live in luxury? Why was it that I had lived almost entirely on ration bricks, nutri-paste and caloric tinctures, and yet these, these...slovenly, undisciplined rabble could feast upon every cuisine known to the Exalted Exitium?"

"Luck of the draw. Not to the same scale or extent as yours, but it's no different for us," Saren said, shrugging. "Some people are born on the Citadel. Some people are born on Omega - out in the middle of nowhere, on a space station-sized slum of crime and hedonism. There's no reason for it. No guiding principle. No agency. All you can do is make the best of it, channel your talents into your desires and make them manifest as best you can. It's why I joined the...darker elements of military service, long before I was supposed to. I wanted to bring justice to those who deserved it. Protect those who couldn't protect themselves. And I wanted to hurt - to kill people." Saren paused for a brief moment, wondering how - why - he was being honest, openly honest, with someone he barely knew, but kept going all the same. "I had a choice between indulging myself, or actually shutting up and applying myself in a useful manner. And so I did what I could with the tools I was given."

"You were a wise child, then," Jack replied sadly, "for I played the fool for many years after. As I trained to be an Inquisitor, I was not fueled by a desire to save anyone, or a need to deliver justice, or any such noble cause. All I wanted was to change things. Make it so that these," Jack winced, "fat, lazy core-worlders could take the place of my friends and family. Make them taste the same unending pain that was my home."

"At the very least, I don't think your anger was unwarranted," Saren mused. "I lack the context to truly understand your circumstances, but I've fought against scores of individuals who were fueled by the same motives. Wanting to make the galaxy a better place - regardless of the philosophy underpinning their 'better' aside - is a universal desire. Amongst all of the idealogues I've faced, most preferred death to changing their ways - what made you come to a new understanding of things?"

"The same thing, I wager, that you are going through now, though in a rather more delayed manner. Gaia sees anywhere between one and five demonic incursions per year - usually nothing more than a token measure of spite from Hell's unholy rulers, you must understand. Demoncraft warp into orbit, drop a few hundred thousand of their filth onto the planet; generally the fighting is over within days, if not faster. People die, yes, but not in any significant numbers. It was nothing unusual, then, when in the third year of my training, I found myself out in the streets of Indomitable, up on stack four, fighting tooth and nail to defend what I thought was little more than a bastion of excess and sloth." Jack closed his eyes, lost in memory for a moment, before opening them again and matching Saren's gaze. "I nearly died, Saren - not because the demons were too much for me to handle, but because I was a Slayer-forsaken idiot. Faced up against twelve Barons of Hell, I simply charged ahead, chainsword and shotgun in hand, entirely sure of my own abilities. I was a son of Acheron! I was born with a blade in hand! I was above needing the assistance of my peers - let alone the civilians fighting alongside us in the streets."

"You lost, then?"

"Lost? Hah! Saren, I did not merely lose. I was destroyed. Those Barons, I used to imagine, were merely unnaturally powerful - but in truth, I would not be surprised if I had lost simply by missing an obvious attack, or the like. I do not recall much - just that when I came to, I was half-buried beneath a nearby office building, both of my legs shattered and one of my arms missing - with both Barons coming to finish the job. And yet, despite all my posturing and boasting not five minutes prior, I did not get up and fight back. The Slayer did not bless me with His glory. I just...laid there, whimpering like a broken animal, wishing, begging not to die."

Jack stared forlornly at his empty glass.

"I would have - except an entire horde of civilians - true civilians, you must understand! Cooks, shopkeepers, schoolteachers - all carrying emergency weaponry and armoured only in the uniforms of their jobs - threw themselves at the enemy, chainblades screaming vengeance and shotguns roaring their anger. I shall never forget her, Saren - a young woman, one arm twisted beyond recognition, wearing a painter's smock, dragging me out of my shattered armour and pulling me away from the front line with her good arm. 'Blessed Slayer, protect this Inquisitor, for I cannot. Slayer grant me strength. Slayer grant me strength to protect Your servant.' Over and over, she chanted her prayers, fighting pain unlike anything she could ever have known, all so she could drag me to the nearest bunker. The last I recall of her, the medics there healed her arm and she simply went back out into the streets to fight, grateful - grateful! - that she had managed to, at the very least, save someone 'more important' than her. When, days later, I went to pay my thanks, I found myself doing so in front of a grave."

The Inquisitor looked up, disgust etched into his features. "Can you imagine that, Saren? How utterly disgusting. How indescribably pathetic. It took the life of a good woman - a painter, who had wanted only to record the world around her - to save me, a petulant, mewling infant. But, finally, I did understand. I understood, Saren, how pitifully small my anger was. How infinitesimally small I was. That my complaints, my sacrifices, my frustrations - all nothing more than the babbling tantrums of a young man with a head as hot as it was empty. That I had achieved nothing in my life."

Silence, for several moments.

"I understand," Saren admitted through clenched teeth. "And I hate it. I hate this feeling. I hate being weak. I despise being weak. But I don't hold it against your people. It is as Ambassador egi Xakhal said - it is, was, too late to pretend that your people did not discover ours, or vice versa. Sooner or later - maybe not in ten, ten hundred, ten thousand years, but eventually, your enemies of Hell would find us and become our enemies, too. So yes - I do understand, and believe me, it is no small comfort to find that, different as we are, you understood this, too."

"It makes me glad to hear that," Jack said quietly. "I had hoped that my...openness would go some way to ensuring there would be sympathy between us. Do your...priorities change, now, having understood these things?"

Saren shook his head, tone ironclad. "No. Never. My greatest mentor from my time with the Turian Armed Forces, one Captain Auxios, was fond of a saying - 'think, calculate, kill.' Ponder a dangerous situation. Figure out possibilities. Execute the best one. Make no mistake, Jack, I have no desire to submit my peoples to the nightmare yours face on a daily basis. I have no desire to force my peoples to turn their garden cities into bastions of war."

"It is as you said, Saren," Jack noted, smiling. "Luck of the draw."

Saren grinned. "Exactly. My priorities have never changed. I will deliver justice to those who deserve it, and protect those who can't protect themselves. And if I get to engage in some violence along the way? All the better."

"Some would say that wanting to protect all who cannot shield themselves is impossible," Jack added, his tone curiously light. "Some might call that arrogance."

Saren shrugged, his tone indifferent. "So what? I recognize that the task is impossible - even before your war against demonkind, I knew that. Of course it's impossible to hunt down every criminal in the galaxy. Of course people are going to die along the way. It's basic math. That's never stopped me before. I am arrogant, Jack. Very arrogant. It's what makes me good at my job."

Jack leaned forward, refilling both their glasses. "You know, Saren, I consider myself an arrogant man as well. And I have heard that those of like character tend to find easy camaraderie with one another."

They drank.

"Do you know," Jack said suddenly, "what makes being an Inquisitor easier than any other job in the Exalted Exitium's marshal forces?"

"I dislike rhetoric as a matter of course," Saren answered, smirking.

"Spoilsport," Jack snorted, downing his drink. "Our duty, as laid down by the Slayer Himself - supposedly, in any case - is to protect the innocent against the demon and the heretic. But it is an impossible job. We are few, and the Exitium is vast. So though we do our best to fulfill our missions - in truth, we have already failed. Every day begins anew with failure - which means that we, His Eyes, the Church of the Inquisition, have nothing to lose. Our backs are always against the wall. We are always desperate. We are always the final bulwark. The Jack Harper who died up in the high stacks of Indomitable would no doubt be disgusted that I have become the very sort of man who consigns whole Sectors to an eternity of battle - but, now, I am proud, elated, even! The Exalted Exitium - and we poor Inquisitors - have already hit the bottom of the ocean. So - we can only go up, you see?"

"Unless you drown along the way," Saren pointed out, finishing his drink in turn before chuckling at the absurdity of the situation.

Jack handed Saren the bottle of Exitium-made brandy, and Saren, in turn, handed Jack the remainder of the turian vintage; the human took a long drink before replying. "And what of it? If we drown, our bodies will float to the surface even faster. Folk like us - our lives were made forfeit long ago anyhow!"

Saren raised the bottle. "To drowning, then?"

"To drowning!"

Both men roared with laughter as they drank together, long into the night.