General Andin Faldos sat at his desk in his insultingly tiny office on that filthy, godforsaken planet in the middle of nowhere, feeling even more disgruntled than usual.

He tapped a talon angrily on the table's scratched metal surface as he stared at his terminal. The holoscreen flickered feebly, the light so dim it was almost unreadable.

Spirits, what a joke.

How long had he served the Hierarchy faithfully? How hard had he worked, how much had he accomplished, how loyal was he to the virtues drilled into him - into every true turian since birth - followed, obeyed, unquestioned. For his homeworld, for his people, for the cause.

And what did he get in return? Stripped, humiliated, cast out. He - the once so-called Pride of Palaven - now an embarrassment, a blemish on the flawless facade of the Hierarchy. Stuck in this hellhole, and for what? For being the soldier they trained him to be? For making the hard calls no one else would make? Did his years of unwavering servitude truly mean nothing?

It would have been more dignified to just march him out in front of the masses and shoot him. Spare him this humiliation and show him what they really thought of him. Maybe even lock him in a room with a gun so he'd at least have the choice to take his own life in disgrace. That's probably what they hoped he would have done, solve the problem for them so they could all wash their hands of him.

Oh, they would like that, wouldn't they?

He wouldnever. He had done nothing wrong, no matter what anyone said and he certainly wouldn't give them the satisfaction of going down that easily. This wasn't the end of him. This was just a minor setback. He clawed his way to the top once, by the spirits, he would do it again.

Andin rose from his desk, marching stiffly out the door of his office and down the narrow, equally dim halls towards his quarters. His irritation grew, cinching his chest and running down his arms, taking the form of bright blue sparks. His jaw clenched and his neck muscles twitched in a rhythm that pulsed along with every dark thought that hammered into his mind. The years of training, the grueling regiments.

The oppressive horror of the cabals.

He didn't come from a high caste or a reputable bloodline or any influential money. Oh no, lowborn is how they would describe his family but when his biotics manifested he was practically a pariah. He was immediately lumped in with all the other 'freaks' and shunted away from normal society to be trained in secret. The Hierarchy's shame. But not ashamed enough to not use them to their advantage, of course.

The training was horrific but, in truth, it had molded him. Made him deadly, formidable, honed his abilities and resilience - he wouldn't be where he was without it. It was where he learned that rigorous, back-breaking work was really the only way to harness your true potential.

And his training certainly didn't go to waste. He had infiltrated pirate gangs early in his career, toppled terrorist rings from the inside, slowly climbed the ranks, earning more prestige, more responsibility by wiping out the filth that accrued in the galaxy.

It wasn't all death. He had saved lives, of course. Hundreds, thousands, his numerous medals had attested to that. He was fearless. He was relentless. They had called him a hero. And it felt good. It felt good to lead his people, to save them, to rescue them from any who would do them harm.

But it also felt good to crush his enemies. Seeing them squirm and beg for mercy before seeing the light leave their eyes, ending their wasted, worthless lives. Powerful. Triumphant. Like what he had always known he was capable of shaped into reality right before his eyes. That was how he knew, seeing their mangled bodies wretched from life. That was how he knew he had finally made it. Had made a difference.

But then came the incident and now he was here.

By the time he reached his room, his hands were two crackling fists, energy coursing through his body in a familiar way and pulsing, resonating with his own deafening heartbeat.

Andin tried to calm himself, no small feat when every single thing about this fort, this damned desert reminded him of everything that had been unjustly taken away. He unfurled his fingers, reaching a hand to unlock his door, and exhaled through his teeth in a long hiss.

The door slid open and he stepped inside and slammed a hand onto the switch on the wall. A harsh light suddenly illuminated a single cot and nightstand in an otherwise bare and tiny room. His anger flared.

He didn't know how much longer he was expected to take this. The sheer indignity of it all. The way they had reprimanded him, talked down to him, disrespected him.

'Unable to control his temper' they had said. 'A loose cannon', they had called him. And his punishment - banishment more like - informing him it was a temporary solution until they 'knew what to do with him'. Honestly he shouldn't have been too surprised this happened. The others were always spineless, afraid to go hard on their subordinates, to really show them their place in the chain of command. He'd been warned before, that he was too brutal, too tough on his recruits causing the others to judge the resulting tears, blood, and maybe a few broken bones. 'You can't lead an army to victory if they're all twisted and broken! You're supposed to build them up after you break them down'. Well, needless pampering never made strong soldiers, did it?

No, not surprising at all. Between his methods and his 'condition' - the odds had always been stacked against him. But didn't they know without him the regime would suffer? He was the only one holding this damned military together, they needed him, but apparently only he knew it.

They would find out eventually, oh yes. Even now, after all this time away, they were probably floundering under their own incompetence. Obviously, they would realize they made a mistake and when they did, they would have to beg for his forgiveness. He sat down on the bed and started to rummage violently through the drawer of the nightstand, resisting the urge to smash it to pieces.

And, oh, how they assured him his station would still be important. How this fort was in desperate need of a fearless commander. And the best they could do is throw him a few green officers as a token gesture that his expertise was still supposedly invaluable. How generous of them to grant him this mercy. So he could still play pretend. He pulled out a datapad and slammed the desk drawer shut, making it wobble on its short legs.

Andin Faldos held up the datapad and flicked through a few screens until he came upon a certain profile. A picture of a familiar and especially insufferable face looked up at him, foolish, affable expression, yellow markings along their cheek plates and mandibles. Andin sneered.

Lieutenant Fedorian was a blathering idiot sycophant riding on the coattails of his much more competent superior officer. A giant walking example of everything wrong with these young recruits. Money and family got him where he is, and there was no doubt he'd somehow blunder his way to the top.

He flicked to the next screen. Another profile and another face. Tense shoulders, serious expression, mandibles clamped tightly to his face, striped in blue.

But Vakarian…well.

Vakarian was different. Andin had told him as much during their little 'talk'. A rare moment of unabashed praise, but it was true. Vakarian was what every turian should strive for. Obedient, loyal, ready to be commanded. His temperament was perfect, no-nonsense, unwavering, unyielding. Andin had no love for children and he had never had a protégé, but he had to admit Vakarian was the closest thing to it. He had a soft spot for him.

…Even if he wasn't entirely honest.

So he was in some clandestine relationship with some vagrant - pitiful but not entirely surprising. All the kid knew was working day in and day out, naturally after a few months of isolation and no other outlet he'd snap and get his rocks off wherever he could.

Of course he was fucking her, that much was obvious, but he was either doing it off base or hiding it well enough that there was no solid proof. He had made up some story about them exchanging information, but he knew the fact that Vakarian chose to deny it was infuriating, but typical, Andin supposed. He was rather private. Technically what he did in his free time was his own business, there was no rule directly advising against it, but these kinds of 'distractions' were…generally frowned upon. And even after their talk, there wasn't any significant improvement. This girl had a stronger hold on him than he thought. It was obvious this…little problem wasn't going to go away that easily. And, interestingly enough, Andin had allowed it to continue. He had allowed Vakarian to have this shameful little secret.

And he tolerated it. He tolerated every lie, overlooked every discretion, every half-finished task. Tolerated him going AWOL. And he would continue to, for now at least, as long as he knew who was in charge. The only thing Andin Faldos didn't tolerate was dissent.

Vakarian may have been a terrible liar, but he was an obedient soldier, and that seemed more and more difficult to come by. Too many times had he held command over a cadre of incompetence idiots that was an insult to everything the Hierarchy and all turiankind stood for. Why, it was that very incident that got him here in the first place.

A planetside infiltration. Tensions were high. They had already been stranded for days and rations grew dangerously low. He had already been on edge after numerous false information, bad intel, and conflicting reports; the soldiers were getting restless, it was disorganized, unprofessional, chaotic. It seemed everyone was going to pieces and nothing Andin could say or do was keeping them in line. One soldier seemed to snap, shouting back, questioning his orders, his judgment - said he had led them astray, that he didn't know what he was doing. Called him a fool.

Andin still remembered the fear in his eyes right before he crushed his skull like an overripe melon. He had misjudged his grip. He didn't mean to kill him.

At least, not in a way that made it obvious that it was on purpose.

When questioned about the incident afterwards, the other soldiers had said nothing. Too shaken or obedient to turn him in, perhaps too cowed to admit the power they had witnessed. Still, it was more than apparent what had happened. And the Hierarchy couldn't have have a 'raving lunatic' in their command, now could you?

He didn't even remember the private's name. Some mouthy upstart - who cares? It was just some nobody who would've amounted to nothing anyway. Society as a whole is better without him. A turian that questions their command is worthless. If the Hierarchy had any spine at all, they'd cull dissenters right out of boot camp.

So, go ahead Vakarian, he thought, indulge in your little distraction - because that's all that it was. And when you've finally had your fill and come to your senses, you will follow me and be the soldier you're destined to become.

There was no doubt he would. After all, he was different. He was loyal. He wasn't like them.

When it came down to it, he would choose his general.

He better.