Khar'shan, Hegemon's palace (05/04/2184)
Captain Balak felt somewhat apprehensive as he headed towards the Hegemon's private strategium deep within the palace complex. He considered the Battle of Hiba a blessing, as opposed to the popular opinion that painted it as a heinous failure. The captain scoffed at the notion - sure, the Hegemony practically lost the old dreadnoughts, but those were pretty much obsolete anyway, thus they could be used for parts now; especially since the new design clearly displayed some glaring problems with control, power draw and maneuvering, despite its overwhelming potential. He could not really figure out why so many within the higher strata of the warrior caste did not seem capable of grasping the significance of a single batarian dreadnought standing up to an asari task force - a smaller one, mind, but still. Once the shipwrights managed to iron out the kinks, the Imperator-class would make the Hegemony once again a force to be reckoned with. And then, his people would finally be able to repay the scorn and indignities heaped on them by a smug, vain Council, who revelled in their perceived moral superiority, always quick in demonizing the batarians. Balak scoffed at that - as if the high and mighty Council races did not have enough secrets and black sheep to make the Hegemony look positively pristine! One just had to look at Ilium or Jona Sederis' Eclipse Sisterhood to know where the asari stood in depravity. One just had to ask the krogan to know how merciless the salarians could be. One just had to read turian history with a discerning eye to spot the atrocities committed and glossed over, all in the name of honor and the greater good. The quarians created the geth, then instead of asserting their dominance and establishing a beneficial relationship, the idiot suit-rats tried to kill off their creations; and what's more, they failed catastrophically at that. And the less said about the insanity that was humanity, the better.
Balak couldn't quite suppress a grim chuckle at his thoughts. Sure, he was not fully blind to the faults of the Hegemony - yet he knew that as long as the Hegemon provided them a conduit, a graspable interpretation for the teachings recorded in the Pillars of Strength, his race would endure and prosper. The others would not, could not understand the confidence and surety that was a result of knowing one's designated tasks in life, of being part of the chosen race of the gods, of working for the good of their race - and knowing that the other castes would support and encourage it, ensuring that members of a given caste would be able to focus all their efforts towards their god-given mandate. Sure, the turians grasped some of these concepts, but ever since they forsook their spiritual guidance, they betrayed the very foundations of a viable society.
The captain shook his head briefly, dismissing his musings as irrelevant - even though the recent events and dictates made him think about such things more often lately, this was neither the time nor the place for this. He frowned, as he stopped, contemplating the dark corridor lined with yawning vaults. Something was off, but he could not point it out immediately. He brought up his omnitool, and as the orange screen flared to life, he stiffened as it hit him. There was no presence, no hint of life - and come to think of it, he has not seen any guards ever since the palace gate's checkpoints. He controlled his instinctual reaction with an effort of will, then tried to patch into the Palace Guard internal network - and could not suppress the cold shivers when he couldn't. For a brief moment, he was torn between racing back to the gate, alert the guards there, or running forward and notify the Hegemon of the danger. A small, barely noticeable sound from the distant depths decided it for him, and Balak took off towards the Hegemon's strategium, trying not to think about how he was not wearing a combat hardsuit.
At the top of the stairway leading to his destination, he stopped for a second, taking the assault rifle from the corpse of the guard, quickly checking the downed warrior - and frowning when he noticed the killing wound. His mind raced, trying to recall where he had seen such a wound patterns; then his eyes widened. Basic emotions warred with caste-mandated duties and ingrained teachings, but the outcome was never in serious doubt, and Balak grabbed the dead guard's rifle, then sprinted down the stairway, towards the now clearly audible battle, trying to stick to the scant cover available. At the bottom of the steps, he peered past the ruined barrier generator, and froze for an eternal second.
The Hegemon's Strategium has seen better days - the viewscreens and terminals were riddled with bullets, the sizabe holomap in the center flickered with errors, both sounds and light dulled by the attackers. Batarian corpses lay on the floor, the Hegemon's personal bodyguards - most of them killed at their usual sentry posts, with only three out of more than a dozen showing signs of having fought back. In the far end of the room, the Hegemon stood tall, golden eyes glowing with fury, the Collector ambassador standing in front of him, a dark biotic sphere enclosing the two, keeping the attackers at bay. Maybe a dozen remaining guards desperately fired burst after burst in the vain hopes of hitting and downing the attackers, who moved with avian grace and riposted with deadly precision, their thermoptic camouflage rendering them barely visible ghosts only outlined by their muzzle flashes or when they released a biotic field.
He was rather confident that the sounds of combat masked his approach and movements, yet Balak took extra care in suppressing his breathing and lifting his rifle, before he sighted downrange, aiming at one of the beset guards - and when a distorted, barely-perceivable shadow rammed a pair of blades through the bodyguard's shields, armor and ribcage, Balak pulled the trigger. The long burst was rewarded with the flash of a collapsing kinetic shield, the detonation of a biotic barrier, and a splatter of blue turian blood. The captain allowed himself a grim smile as he mentally saluted his dead compatriot, lamenting that he would not be able to properly honor the man's unknowing sacrifice, as he was trying to take down the wounded Cabalist. And by the Pillars, the turian was swift - while Balak could faintly perceive the minute distortions of the active cloak, the assassin was fast enough to avoid the bullets he sent towards him with almost boneless grace, and closed with terrifying speed.
Balak cursed, as he desperately parried the first knife thrust with his rifle, ignored the burning claw marks on his chest where the cabalist's other hand found its mark. The turian seemed to hesitate for a fractional second, something akin to respect in his stance, then the batarian's world narrowed into the overwhelming need to survive just one more second, utilizing every martial skill he had been taught and had encountered during his service - while keeping a part of his attention on the battle beyond his would-be killer. He cursed himself for not being strong or fast enough, not skilled enough as more and more wounds were carved into his body - and he could only take a small measure of satisfaction that those wounds were a testament of his own skills, as the cabalist was clearly not playing with his prey. The batarian captain could have laughed on any other day, free and content with reaching somewhat of an impasse in close combat against a turian assassin, while lacking any hardsuit or dedicated weapon beside the omniblade. Yet at this time, he was just coldly furious and focused, ignoring his pain and the warnings of his battered body with sheer will - he had to eliminate this assailant, he had to stand at the side of his Hegemon, he could not leave the embodiment of the Pillars, the spiritual guide of his people at the mercy of assassins, only protected by an unknown, not fully trusted being - never mind that it was considered to be a herald of the gods.
The indistinct shapes of the cabalists converged on the darkly shimmering barrier protecting the Hegemon and the Collector emissary, having dispatched the bodyguards apart from Balak. The captain smiled a bloody grin at his assailant as he saw from the corner of his eye that the barrier held, even against four turians - then his grin morphed into a disbelieving frown as he saw a blade slip past with glacial, measured slowness, before embedding itself in the emissary's chest. The barrier exploded, throwing all but the Hegemon to the ground. The wounded Collector was burning up, its body consumed by the energies running rampant, flakes of formerly-living tissue swirling around it. A scream of denial tore from Balak's throat as four barely visible shapes descended on the Hegemon, deadly blades shining with cold darkness - and then he felt a wrenching discontinuity similar to a stasis field.
The Hegemon lit up with power, green energy tracing patterns on and around him, the pouncing cabalists seemingly frozen in the moment, before coruscating arcs of energy lashed from the shining batarian, burrowed into the turians, sending cybernetics and electronics haywire, turning their own bodies against the assassins. One of them dropped dead, thin tendrils of smoke wafting from his head and chest. Another fell to the side, struggling against the contradictory impulses of the cybernetic legs, trying to keep a bionic hand from strangling him. The last two dropped their smoldering omnitools, and circled the batarian leader, their movements only obscured by shadows and cloaks, instead of thermoptic camouflage. Daggers danced around the radiant figure, seeking his death, yet every blow was parried by fists wreathed in dark biotic fields, glanced off of enhanced armor, or barely grazed the marble-hard flesh.
Balak, one hand around the throat of the cabalist, the other locked on the turian's wrist, trying to prevent her from driving the dagger deeper, shuddered when he heard the deep laughter of the Hegemon, a faint yet so wrong mechanical echo following it just slightly out of sync. A pulse of some kind of energy brushed over them, and around the ruined strategium, dead bodyguards shambled to their feet, corpse-green tendrils of light flickering and burrowing over their bodies, tracing patterns of circuitry into flesh and armor alike, reshaping both, pairing off and merging former corpses into weapons of destruction. Lightning crackled from a dozen cannon transmogrified from husks of fallen batarians, and the two surviving cabalists barely dodged the first salvo.
One of them dove for the shambling mass of husks, daggers flashing as he tore into the cybernetic zombies, weaving between their shots, carving them apart piece by piece with preternatural swiftness, sending pieces and body parts flying with his rampage, putting down a score of the beasts. Unfortunately for him, the still-ambulatory husks closed on the downed ones, and devoured the cadavers, assimilating their material, turning it into extra layers of armor and muscle in a few heartbeats. The cabalist killed six more, before the rest proved to be more than a match for his daggers - after that, it was only a matter of time until a well-placed shot hit him in the exact wrong moment, disrupting his balance, allowing the remaining half dozen cannibals to close in and tear him apart.
The last turian fared little better when he attempted to finish their task and kill the Hegemon - and while he managed to punch a dagger into the batarian's chest, it was not blood that flowed, but a dark, slow ichor similar to those in machines, before the wound closed with a faint, sickly green light, dissolving the weapon causing it, absorbing its material into the Hegemon's armor. The air distorted around the cabalist as the localised gravity increase forced him to his knees, pinning him to the ground, perfectly positioned prey for the cannibal survivors of the bodyguards - before a gesture stopped the slavering cyberzombies.
"DO not APPROACH further. THIS ONE will SERVE otherwise."
Korlus, Imir system (07/04/2184)
Despite her education, training, and personal experiences, Miranda Lawson found herself rather confused and irritated - and mostly because she had no good, valid explanation as to why they came to the prime shipbreaking system of the galaxy. Sure, already the exact method of their travelling was rather unusual, but nothing she couldn't grasp; after all, she herself has walked a similar path under Kathmandu, just as all N7 Deltas since the Leng Incursion. Most of her crewmates may have been shaken by the brief jaunt to the higher dimensional pathway taken by the two fleeing ships (Miranda made a mental note to commend Yeoman Chambers for her efforts in counseling, especially since the redhead too was affected to an extent) and the attendant disconnection from the linear flow of time, yet the only thing she marvelled at was the precise, unerring navigation conducted by Major Pieterzoon - especially since the man was, as far as she could tell, not even a biotic, much less a sorcerer. Though she ruefully supposed he did have the sorcerer-like ability to provide vague, elusive answers when she questioned him about the navigation method employed. In her considered opinion, that type of feedback was the main (if not sole) reason arcanoscience was still not considered a "proper" field in academia, despite its proven benefits, uses, and undeniable power. Honestly, would it have killed Major Pieterzoon to just give a more specific, saner hint than the need to be here?
The fact that the Normandy landed less than gracefully further irritated her, especially since she was knowledgeable enough to realize that without Lieutenant Moreau's skills, the ship would have been scattered over the surface. Still, that made the team's situation no less precarious - most of the crew were needed to conduct field repairs on the ship, ensure that the drive core did not cause problems, especially since their brief jaunt already agitated it to a considerable measure. This resulted in the ground team being considerably smaller than she would have preferred - while Miranda was reasonably certain that their trio could handle whatever insanity Korlus threw at them, she preferred to err on the side of caution and overkill, especially after the recent events at Haestrom. And of course, the three of them ran into the expected opposition - hulking, deformed, bloated krogan-things, clad in black armor sporting half-forgotten markings of Clan Ganar's distant past. A horde of biotic krogan would have been bad enough on its own, even if the beasts did not display the characteristic cunning and experience of battlemasters, but when the three humans brought down the first group, Miranda was disgusted and worried to note the marks of summoning and binding etched into both armor and protoplasmic flesh beneath. A shared glance with her companions was all it took - all of them had seen more than enough, and proceeded accordingly.
The numerous monstrosities were, alas, not entirely stupid - and with sheer numbers, along with overwhelming firepower, they managed to separate the intruding humans. Ordinarily, Miranda would not have worried too much, but against an unfamiliar foe capable of unknown arcane feats, augmented by these unholy creations, she was worried. Sure, they were still in contact over the comms, but they could no longer support each other immediately - even though the separation was partly their own plan. A part of the operative's mind laughed at the insanity of a trio of humans launching a three-pronged assault on the likely source of the modified krogan. Miranda's ruminations were rudely interrupted by a warning from the part of her mind she allocated to dealing with the combat. Her eyes widened a fraction as her instincts screamed of the danger. With a huff, she dashed to the side, before throwing herself into a new cover.
The operative risked a quick glance, her mind already calculating distances, firing angles, calling up and discarding tactics and tricks - then all rational planning went out the window in favor of a biotically-assisted dodge. With a shriek of tearing metal and the boom of displaced air, the hulking, distorted krogan-thing suddenly towered over her, the bore of its immense cannon yawning into her face, ready to turn her into red rain. Miranda tensed, time slowing as her mind raced through mnemonics, invocations, all the while rebalancing herself from the minute dizziness and nausea caused by her previous dodge. Suppurating, cancerous flesh and brackish, tainted blood geysered from beneath shattered armor plates as a high-caliber shell impacted the beast's arm, throwing off its aim, the oversized shotgun blast tearing mostly into the wreckage - while still retaining enough energy and focus to almost completely deplete Miranda's shields and barrier. Her biotics lit up around her fist, and with a control gesture, she lifted the brute in the air - then, with a snarl, slammed the krogan down with vicious force, taking care to direct its landing towards a spar of broken, jagged steel. The impaled monstrosity twitched once, then again, its regenerative abilities going into overdrive as the enhanced material of its body fought to save its existence. Miranda switched her SMG to the appropriate setting, intent on burning the creature to death - before she again was forced to dodge, four more of the hunting pack closing in on her.
The operative's lips peeled back in an eager, cold smile under her helmet. A brief gesture sent a cloud of debris towards the hunters - a mere annoyance to them, a futile gesture of a run-down prey. Or so the krogan-things might have thought, before she launched a warping field towards them. The explosion sent even the living tanks reeling for a second, and that was all she needed.
Miranda realized her mistake the moment she smeared the fourth brute all over the scarred hull plates of a long-gone ship, the remains sizzling and hissing after she sent a short burst of inferno rounds into them.
"Clever bastards."
Sure, the things were inexperienced, relied by default on traditional, typical krogan tactics and moves - but they were not mindless robots. And they had numbers on their side. Numbers that allowed the pack apparently hunting Miranda to sacrifice five of them for a distraction. And now she was surrounded by nineteen of the things. The operative huffed, angry at herself. She blink-clicked the emergency beacon of her armor, alerting Shepard and Pieterzoon (though she knew it to be futile), called up her biotics with a flash of blue, her mouth twisted as she prepared to voice the invocations necessary to at least take the creatures with her.
With a thunderous concussion, a blue comet slammed into the leftmost brute, sending bits of the thing flying from the impact. A bare instant later, the new arrival's Claymore tore off the head of a second creature as a third had its chest pulped by a blue-glowing fist. A fourth was sent reeling with a headbutt, before an almost-negligent control gesture sent it flying at breakneck speed, its trajectory impaling it on a battered console. For a brief instant, the tableau was still, the brutes and Miranda alike reassessing the situation - then from the operative's right side, a gout of flame engulfed three of the monsters. Her comm crackled to life, and the rough growl of an elderly human sounded in her ears, and her eyes widened as she recognized the voice.
"Cheer up luv, the goddamn cavalry is here."
"Shepard."
"Wrex."
"You look quite well for an officially dead Spectre." The old krogan's grin reminded Miranda of a shark, and she had to suppress a shiver. "Most would not weather being spaced that well. Benefits of a redundant nervous system and extra organs, no doubt."
"Wrex, you know humans don't have those."
"Then the pain'll perhaps teach you not to pull such insane stunts, Shepard." The warlord huffed, shook his massive head. "Really, what the hell were you thinking, going up against a dreadnought-grade weapon like that?"
Miranda tensed, her eyes narrowed as he detected a hint of something in the krogan's voice - barely there, hidden deep beyond the joking tone, but someone like her could perceive it nevertheless. And if she noticed, then so did Shepard; yet the Spectre just relaxed his posture and met the warlord's burning gaze.
"Wrex, the Collectors were firing on the escape pods. They already killed my ship along with some of the crew, and they wanted to finish the job. You of all people should know that one's crew is one's krantt - and I protect my krantt, no matter the cost."
Tension crackled between the two Spectres, as Miranda subtly began to prepare for the possible volatile confrontation, not liking their chances at all. Then the old warlord nodded, barking a gruff laugh.
"So it is you, after all, not just some flesh puppet directed by another's will." Red eyes glared at Miranda for a heartbeat. "Your kind does have an unfortunate tendency to meddle with things best left alone and forgotten." He waved a massive paw in Miranda's direction, and for some absurd reason, the operative saw a wise old king dispensing justice from his marble throne, instead of a battered old krogan warlord. "At least she seems sane and competent enough. But mark my words, Shepard - one day your kind will make a mistake and call up something which you cannot put down."
"First we have to survive the coming storm, Wrex." Shepard leaned forward a bit, grinning at the warlord. "Want to tell me why the first krogan Spectre is here, of all places?" The grin sharpened, showing teeth. "Instead of on Tuchanka, as we planned, hmm?"
Miranda tensed again, sure that Wrex would tear off the human's head for the tone of the question, yet the old krogan was still, only his eyes seemed to burn with a baleful, furious light.
"Okeer's here, Shepard." Wrex grated. "And he has been busy. You met a few of his failed experiments already; Zaeed's people" he waved at the impatient-looking, scarred mercenary "have fought them daily for about a month or so." He took a deep breath, and Miranda could practically feel the effort of will it took to keep calm. "Shepard, he's fusing some kind of primordial material to krogan DNA to find a cure for the genophage. I have no idea from where he got the tech that grows the armor on his clones, but I do not want that kind of machinery lying around."
Miranda made a mental note to herself at that - while she could agree with Wrex on the dangers of such archeotech, the armoring process and its hardware could be useful for Cerberus and humanity to jumpstart their own research using the theoretical breakthroughs such a find would indubitably yield. And even if the machinery could not be used for research, she was not sure its destruction could be entrusted to any other race.
"Goddamn crazy bastard probably got it from some half-forgotten idiots like the Collectors, or bought it from some archeotech scavenger on Omega." Zaeed's voice was rough, tired, as he spoke while cleaning a battered M7 Lancer. "I've seen some borderline-Operatic shit way back when I still ran the Suns - hell, I had front-row seats on the second Acheron drop, but compared to this, that was mere child's play."
The operative fought to control her wince at the mention of that accursed planet; it was definitely not one of humanity's best moments, all things considered. Though she could not recall Zaeed or the Blue Suns being involved, not even in the classified records. This would bear investigation later.
"If you've been tangling with them for a month, I guess you do know where Okeer's lair is?"
The grizzled mercenary nodded at Shepard's question.
"Yeah, we do know. Problem is, goddamn clones chewed my men to pieces - quite a few of them literally. Hell, Jedore, that poor dumb bitch, had rallied over a hundred of the old gang here with maybe twice the number of LOKI mechs, a couple gunships and a dozen YMIRs, all in the name of mounting that bastard Vido's head on my wall" Zaeed spat to the side, gestured towards the ragged group lounging nearby. "Those sorry lot are all that's left. If not for the old bastard here, probably not even half of us would be left, and we'd be clonefood within a week, at best."
Shepard's gaze lingered on the mercs, evaluating their equipment, then frowned at their leader.
"You planned a suicide run?"
Zaeed chuckled without mirth, his omnitool flickering as he transferred the map data to Shepard.
"Nah, not exactly. Figured no matter how crazy Okeer is, not even he can get to the ass end of nowhere without a ship. Planned to take it and get the hell out of this goddamn junkyard." The grizzled mercenary flashed them a sharklike grin. "Though I was planning to drop all our incendiaries on the goddamn maniac's head. No matter how tough, not even krogans could walk off an inferno of that magnitude."
Miranda noted the look Shepard and Wrex shared, and apparently so did Zaeed, who huffed.
"Well, that was the goddamn plan anyway. Knowing my luck, this particular bastard of a krogan would have been the first to shrug off that much fire."
"See, Butcher, even crusty old bastards like Zaeed don't really think things through. You can't send off a thing like Okeer from afar; you have to get close and personal to make sure the bastard's deader than dead."
"Well then, let's not disappoint your old friend, Wrex." Shepard's omnitool lit up, displaying the map he received from Zaeed, and the two Spectres leaned closer along with the old merc.
And despite her so-called family, her chosen profession, her personal experiences, Miranda could not suppress a shiver of dread (and excitement) as she saw the identical smile worn by both Shepard and Wrex - even as a distant, calculating part of her mind began to plan and consider how to ensure that the selfsame expression was directed towards her own father.
Okeer's lair felt alive to Miranda - a living, breathing, corrupted thing, an unholy fusion of organic and technological. Beetle-black carapace, many-jointed limbs, pulsing arteries threaded through the hull of the once-spaceworthy vessel, demented murals of sentients leered from the walls, as if the originals were simply consumed by the metal. The damp, oppressive air carried a whiff of loathsome, repulsive fecundity that clawed and wormed its way toward the operative's mind and sterile womb alike, pushing unwanted, forbidden images, deeply-hidden, soured fantasies into the forefront of her mind, dangling the impossible dream before her. Miranda smiled, a cold, vicious expression - then schooled her features, as her mind went through the lower enumerations, steeling and focusing her will, shutting out the insidious influence of the repulsive entity that was bound into the walls of the lair.
She checked on her teammates, assessing their reactions to the disturbing technorganic complex around them. Most of the still-alive mercenaries were visibly affected by the worming influence of the genius loci, with Zaeed and a turian female being the few exceptions; the old mercenary spat to the side with narrowed, furious eyes, and the turian simply relaxed with a slight amusement radiating from her posture. Miranda would not have expected the two Spectres to show any kind of reaction - yet she was mistaken. Well, to be precise, both Wrex and Shepard seemed to ignore the siren call of the complex, yet she was already familiar enough with both that she could discern their body language - and both were radiating tension, almost as if they were familiar with the place. Which was impossible; neither of them would have ventured into Okeer's lair without obliterating it thoroughly. Her mind raced as she considered other possible reasons, and her eyes widened as she realized it, and not even her will was enough to prevent blurting it out.
"Similar to Feros, right?"
The two Spectres shared a look, before turning towards her in sync. Wrex glared, but without extra heat, probably just his default expression due to the location. Shepard sported a small smile, as he nodded, but it was the krogan who answered.
"Close enough. Okeer likely made a pact with the creature that birthed the Thorian - and that thing seemingly holds a grudge against Shepard and me." Wrex grinned savagely. "Can't think why it would feel like that; do you, Butcher?"
Shepard only rolled his eyes, before he took a deep breath and turned to the old human mercenary.
"Zaeed, it'd be probably best if your men remained behind."
The merc glared, opened his mouth for a retort, then closed it. He turned towards the few remaining men of his, then nodded.
"Fine, you have a goddamn point, Shepard." Zaeed turned towards the turian female. "Severina, get this sorry lot out of here, take up positions around the mapped and likely exits. Nobody gets out apart from us. We're not back in a few hours, blow the place up, or shoot yourselves in the head." A pointed cough from Miranda resulted in the merc huffing, but he went on grudgingly. "Or you could try and shoot your way to their ship, and run like the goddamn hounds of hell were at your heels." Zaeed grinned mirthlessly. "Come to think of it, that may be literally true. Should be fun, either way. Now, get your sorry asses moving, you goddamned idiots."
Thus, only four of them descended into the dank, dark depths of Okeer's lair, following the guidance of the quiet fifth member, whose sheer normalcy was enough for Miranda to almost forget that Pieterzoon was there at all. For a moment, she mused if that was just an aspect of power in him, a conscious effort resulting in clouding the minds and senses around him, to blend into the background - and she shook the thought off with a whimsical expression. No, there was not a shred of power clinging to the ex-N7; not biotic, not esoteric, nothing. He simply was a normal human, if exceedingly skilled. And yet, the man once again managed to steer them through an eldritch labyrinth, even when their comms and automaps were glitching along with their suit sensors; when her own senses tried to convince her that they have been walking in circles for days while her armor's chronometer insisted that it had been just fifteen minutes, when it was not displaying a date four years in the future. The breathing, disturbingly alive-seeming walls did not help her mood in the slightest.
Neither did the fact that flashes sickly green corpse-light, harsh blue electric discharges, and rhytmically pulsing vein-like conduits alike seemed to guide them as well, ever deeper into the womb of Okeer's lair, towards the likely source of the fetid abomination of metal and biomass that the twisted wreck had become. Miranda was not the only one who noticed, as she could see the reactions from her comrades. As she perhaps should have expected, Wrex was the one who spoke out first.
"How nice, we are getting invited." The old krogan checked the ammo block of his Claymore, checked something on his HUD, before he flashed a savage leer at the humans. "Let's not keep him waiting."
Zaeed grinned mirthlessly as he tugged on his bandolier of grenades. Shepard sunk into an almost-trance for a moment, before nodding resolutely. Miranda herself took a deep breath, focusing her will and awareness to their immediate vicinity, her biotics surging as a predatory gleam lit up in her gaze. Pieterzoon checked on his weird compass, murmuring under his breath in an unknown language, and Miranda caught the glint of a short, bared blade at his side where before she could spot nothing of the kind. Her eyes narrowed, as her mind raced. Of course he had to come with them, as unobtrusively as possible - after all, while four was a good number, five was so much better when it came to containing the beings from Beyond. She should have guessed from the first - Professor Yildirim has likely foreseen just this, and ensured that even without his presence, they did stand a chance. She really would need to corner the professor one of these days to ask for lessons.
The tunnel widened, and the small team stepped out into what once was probably the engine room of a dreadnought-sized vessel - and was now disturbingly akin to an immense, biomechanical womb. Okeer was standing in the middle of the room, on a somewhat cleared, elevated space, studying a bank of monitors with smug satisfaction radiating off him. Behind him, on the far side, though … Miranda had to clamp down on her body's reactions to avoid vomiting.
What she saw was once a mere stasis pod, not much different from what Cerberus used to preserve Shepard's physical body while they worked on guiding him back. Pulsing conduits coated in fleshy growths plugged into the framework supporting the contraption, emitting fetid vapors, expelling biomass that moaned and writhed as it flowed into half-formed shapes before merging back into the source. Threaded through the moss, burning with corpse-green light, a complex web of circuitry shone, the intensity of the light reacting to the rhythmic pulsing of the conduits. Surrounding it all, etched into the wall and the floor, an intricate array of glyphs seared into the eyes and minds of the onlookers, and the ONI agent could not suppress a shiver as she recognized a few of them. Six broken husks that were once krogan females were arranged in a hexagon around the central pod, their bodies distorted with loathsome growths, their very flesh violated by the alien circuitry, the glyphs carved into their flesh pulsing in sync with their breathing. The seventh female was directly linked to the stasis pod, the machine acting as a perverse parody of a womb. Within the pod, a grown krogan slumbered, unaware of its surroundings, untouched by the corpse-green energies or the eldritch energies.
"Welcome, Wrex." Okeer's voice was tired but triumphant. "Finally, you can feast your eyes on the salvation of our race."
"You are mad, Okeer." Miranda startled as she heard a note of pity in the old warlord's voice. "I came to kill an old enemy, and now it seems I have to put down a rabid dog instead."
Okeer turned towards them, and something moved beneath his skin, as he smiled at them, his eyes blazing.
"You disappoint me, Wrex. Of all our self-deluding kind, I always thought you were able to look into the future, to our salvation." He stepped to the side, seemingly unaware of the cancerous growths writhing under his skin. "I have freed the krogan from the genophage, young Urdnot. The krogan descending from my last son will be perfect, free from our past mistakes. They shall be indomitable in body and will alike, untouched by disease or plague, and no sickness shall blight them. Theirs will be a power unmatched - thus is our bargain with The Prolonged of Life and the Great Mother, and the krogans of today will pay the price for the future of our race, with..."
If not for her training and willpower, Miranda may have frozen at hearing those names; even so, she took a precious second to fully assess the depth of Okeer's madness. Still, she reacted faster than Zaeed, barely a half-beat behind Shepard, her mouth forming words of power, as her corona ignited with harsh blue light - then a chunk of Okeer's torso exploded in a welter of ichor, armor shards, pulped bone, and half-melted, cancerous flesh, and Wrex pumped his shotgun, his other hand wreathed in murderous light, as a bolt of coherent light evaporated part of Okeer's skull.
The wounded krogan laughed, the sound reverberating across the higher dimensions, as Okeer's mangled body bubbled and frothed, birthing protoplasmic replacement organs, muscles, skin and armor from the non-euclidean depths, the new parts of the warlord's body rendering him partially transparent, almost as if he were intangible, invisible to normal eyes or sensors attuned to the sane, physical reality. Shepard's omniblade was deflected by a biotic pulse that threw the N7 Delta to the side, the man barely evading the writhing cables that sought to ensnare him. Wrex' shotgun boomed again, evaporating some biomass, but his follow-up biotic strike unbalanced him as his fist seemingly pulled him into the abyss that was Okeer's form, and the krogan Spectre had to pull himself back with his biotics. Zaeed fired in short, controlled bursts as he prowled closer, before lobbing an inferno grenade at the abomination, who caught it with a precise biotic field, and smirked smugly at the old human - then howled as the grenade exploded when a lasbolt hit it, and flames boiled away parts of the Okeer-thing.
Miranda cried out, a sharp, nails-on-chalkboard sound, and a barely visible blade of force cut into the unnatural mass of Okeer, sending ichor spraying. The ONI sorceress flashed a savage grin, her mind directing the construct for another strike, before she had to leap aside from a loose cable intent on choking her. Her biotics flashed as her barrier materialized, as her blade bit into the immaterial biomass once more. The temperature in the room dropped sharply for a moment, hoarfrost spreading from Shepard, before the N7 swayed, his face a mask of blood beneath his helmet, and Okeer laughed triumphantly. Miranda's eyes narrowed, her gaze tracking across the chamber - she could have sworn that certain glyphs were pulsing more intensively now, their cadence attuned to Shepard's heartbeat, drawing in his power, his essence. She took a deep breath, her mind rising through the enumerations as she focused her will to shatter the glyphs - then a quick burst of lasbolts hit the markings in precisely the correct angle to burn away their symmetry, unbalance that part of Okeer's web.
The warlord roared, a bubbling, frothing, bleating chorus. Suppurating, cancerous growths bubbled within and over his bloating form, as the wind picked up around Okeer, carrying a yet distant echo of flutes, along with the deep musk of a rotting, festering innards of an ancient forest. He seemed to collapse into himself while simultaneously bloating with muscle and biomass, as protoplasmic flesh surged beneath his torn armor, his whole body becoming more and more translucent, disappearing from eyes and sensors alike.
Wrex swapped ammo blocks, then his Claymore roared again, sending a storm of minuscule particles towards the partially phased-out Okeer, who howled in impotent fury, as the dust settled over him, outlining his form, slowly but surely eating its way into the distorted flesh.
"Old fool, you think that you're the only one who remembers the ancient ways?" Wrex snarled, his biotics surging as his free hand traced a pattern in the air, leaving burning glyphs in its wake. "You sold yourself for power, let Them use you, invited them into your own self - but you forgot that even They can be bound and banished."
Miranda's eyes widened as her mind tracked Wrex' glyphs, sought the pattern, the meaning in them, while adapting her own knowledge to fit and assist, her voice a ringing, sharp counterpoint to the deep basso growl of the krogan Spectre, as the two of them struggled to weave an arcane net fit to bind an entity of Okeer's power. The insane warlord bleated out a senseless, echoing rumble of harsh, basso syllables, entreating his patrons, pitting his will against that of Wrex and Miranda. The ONI sorceress felt her knees give way as the ancient malevolence of Okeer's mind crashed down on her, seeking ingress to make her obedient, subservient - a good, mindless little tool for forces far beyond her limited understanding. After all, her kind was only good as that, wasn't she? Maybe then her father would actually show her an amount of kindness, support both her and her sister, instead of...
For a moment, even Miranda's mind threatened to buckle under the strain, bowing to the external pressure - then her eyes blazed with power, her mind seeking the lofty peaks of the highest enumerations, as her very being rejected the insidious influence battering at her soul. Calmly, precisely, her mind put together the necessary words in four heartbeats, used another two to consider the amount of damage speaking those utterances would inflict on her, deemed it acceptable - and then she realized she was not alone in facing the beast.
Wrex slowly forced his way towards Okeer, his biotics flaring as he threw field after field at the abomination, his shotgun booming with deceptive quickness. Shepard closed as well, his handgun barking again and again as the omniblade in his other hand burned deeper and deeper into the non-euclidean flesh of the Okeer-thing. Zaeed was circling behind them, taking potshots at the abomination, but mostly focused on keeping the swaying, errant conduits from entangling the team, and Miranda had to admire the old merc's marksmanship - and of course whenever he was close enough, the scarred human used the opportunity to hit the eldritch monster with an inferno grenade. She could not see where Pieterzoon was, but the precise lasbolt hits that weakened, erased glyph after glyph spoke eloquently about his survival, as did the gleaming golden blade spinning towards the struggling trio.
Miranda flashed a savage grin at Okeer, despite her pain, as she caught the minute stumble in the old warlord's incantation as he struggled to hold back Shepard and Wrex while keeping the blade in sight. With a gurgling, phlegm-laced cry, she released her power, and what was left of Okeer's lungs filled with water. Sure, it was by no means deadly for a creature so heavily infused with eldritch protoplasmic matter, but the momentary struggle to adjust to the fluid within its bodymass was enough for another, brief lapse in concentration. And when one was facing two Spectres in close combat, those few heartbeats were more than enough.
Wrex blazed with blue-with light, as he charged Okeer from point-blank, his shotgun sending blasts of the eldritch powdery substance into the Okeer-thing, pulling the protoplasmic beast back towards the sane, comprehensible dimensions, making it visible and vulnerable. Shepard's biotics flashed as he pulled a whirling blade into his hand, and stabbed deep into the monster's biomass, golden-blue light flaring as the higher dimensions crumbled. An eye-searing bolt of lightning arced deep within the endless confines of the Okeer-thing. The being let out a bellowing, bleating sound full of the thwarted wrath of an enraged mother and defeated warlord, as the winds within and around him howled with glee, a desert-dry whisper of sound laughing maliciously at the once-proud krogan warlord falling ever deeper into its warped, protoplasmic vessel. With a dwindling wail of frustrated rage, the thing that had been Ganar Okeer collapsed into itself, vanishing into the non-euclidean depths of the higher dimensions he himself conjured.
"What now, Wrex? Any ideas what to do with Okeer's last pet project?" Shepard panted, spitting blood.
"Burn it all, right?" Zaeed's voice was hoarse, strained.
Miranda considered, struggling to to get her breathing and body back under control as she limped towards the control panel, watching Wrex from the corner of her eyes. She figured the old warlord would probably lean towards Zaeed's solution, and she could not exactly find fault in that. Still, there was a chance that something could be salvaged from this madness, so while Wrex was slowly walking towards the half-alive females, Miranda was running a decryption program on Okeer's main console, hoping that she was able to access at least some of the research data before Wrex put an end to it all.
The Urdnot chief stood before the central pod, yet his gaze was upon the mutilated, distorted females arranged around it. While his stance and visage appeared calm, the brief flashes of his biotics indicated the measure of his fury. As a counterpoint to the soft chime that indicated to Miranda that the data download has begun, the Claymore in Wrex' hand roared again and again, freeing the females from their imprisonment the only way possible. When the old warlord turned towards the humans, Miranda noticed that even Shepard took an involuntary half-step back from the immense wrath radiating from the slightly smiling krogan face.
"I guess you started messing with the data already, haven't you?" Miranda forced herself to nod and meet the warlord's smoldering gaze as calmly as she could. True, Okeer's methods were beyond insane, yet he did not have the resources of Cerberus at his disposal - with those, Miranda felt hopeful that they could adapt and improve on the work, make it more stable, more palatable to sane beings. "Quick summary, then. Is the thing in the tank stable?"
Miranda could have scoffed at that question. As if anyone could perform such an in-depth study in mere moments, or minutes at most, instead of weeks and months of dedicated work by a team of scientists; and that's not even considering the location. Still, she could somewhat understand the krogan Spectre, and honestly had no wish to antagonize him in this state. The ONI sorceress flipped rapidly through the console screens, rapid-reading the data as she scrolled, her mind rising through the enumerations to enhance her focus and cognitive abilities, looking for deviations, signs of contamination, of possible, engineered inroads for possession. She found none - not that she expected any, in such circumstances.
"Nothing obvious, Spectre Urdnot." She felt inordinately proud at how calm she sounded and that she managed to keep eye contact with the towering battlemaster. "Then again, I don't think you expected anything different - not from Okeer, insane though he was. I would recommend leaving the specimen in stasis, while a dedicated team studies Okeer's work."
"Why study it, witch? It's an abomination, and not even you should deny that!"
"I am not denying it, Spectre Urdnot." If Miranda's face was a bit paler than usual, nobody could blame her, all things considered. "I also do not want to thoughtlessly throw away the research your people paid for with their life and soul. Not to mention Mordin Solus might have some use of the data in his work."
Shepard grinned, before the krogan spoke, addressing the human Spectre.
"Why am I not surprised at her opinion, Butcher?"
"Maybe because you know her, or at least her type, old turtle?"
Wrex' eyes narrowed at Shepard, as he flashed a savage grin.
"Eh, close enough. But the next time you bring your date to work, warn me beforehand, Shepard - I'm getting too old for these stupid courtship rituals of yours."
Miranda felt torn between wanting to tear the old warlord apart, sinking into the floor, and laughing herself silly at Shepard's betrayed, poleaxed face. Zaeed and Pieterzoon had no such problems, and laughed outright.