"Mr. Koenig, let us change topics for a second. I want to ask about the hiring practices that Chimera utilizes – using the Herald document as our reference, in this case. We have gone over the policies that the extranet site for your company has specifically outlined and we would like to know why Chimera seems to lack adherence to basic hiring templates from your peers. Self-discrimination forms are a mandatory inclusion, you are aware? But can you help explain to us why Chimera has a specific instance in hiring veterans that are only human?"
Sen. Dolezal, UNAS
"I… uh… Senator, I don't know where it is on our site that you've been looking, but I can assure you that we have a very open policy regarding any applicants that might wish to join our organization. Our collection of applicants being mostly human is coincidental, plain and simple. Rest assured, our policies are completely up to date with governmental standards, including the option to perform drug testing on certain subjects."
Erich Koenig, CEO – Chimera
"Mr. Koenig, did I ask you at all about drug testing?"
Sen. Dolezal, UNAS
Hourglass Nebula – Deep Space
Lieutenant Vorok Uzed was restless. More so than normal, at least.
A jumpy salarian was quite a sight to see, even if other races could not pick up on the subtle tics that indicated that Uzed was in a conflicted state of mind. But all the signs were there, as evident by his rapid pacing back and forth across the windowed upper deck, the red and green rings of the nearby nebula casting foreign hues across his mottled brown skin. The membranes in Uzed's eyelids were also blinking upward more than normal, desperate to disperse moisture across his large eyes.
Uzed shuddered. He felt too dry. The air filtration system on this ship must be going on the fritz. It was way too arid here, at least on this deck, for a salarian to remain comfortable.
This agitation was a new sensation for Uzed. This pounding of the heart, the twitching of the fingers, dryness of the eyes. Uzed wanted to make a vocal declaration that he was not at all happy, but since that would not have done anyone any good, he remained silent for now. These moments of aggravation would have been manageable for Uzed if these feelings did not crop up whenever he was off duty, but it was always when his shift was up did he get to be this way. Twitchy and spiteful. How he missed work.
After his one allotted hour of sleep – a normal amount of time for a salarian - Uzed would have another half hour to tend to himself before he started his work for the day, giving him the opportunity to eat, groom, or anything else that fell within reason on board the ship.
Unfortunately for salarians, or at least Uzed, boredom could set within minutes of having nothing to do.
Which is what Uzed was suffering from right now.
Salarians kept to a strict regimen regarding their allocated time slots for when they could start or end their work at their stations, and Uzed still had twenty more minutes to go before he could finally set down and work at blissfully crunching numbers and data. Just the thought of being exposed to all that data and plugging his brain into his console made Uzed's limbs electric with anticipation. Such eagerness for activity was natural for a species with a lifespan of only 40 or so years, and that was with cybernetic enhancements prolonging their lives.
The curse of a hyperactive metabolism. Time passed so much faster for salarians than any other species. On one hand, this allowed them to focus more on duties that were of utmost importance but it also meant that salarians left very little time for leisure.
Even though he had a tremendous memory, Uzed could not remember if he had ever taken a break from his assignments for leisure in his entire life. Hell, he probably would not know what to do with himself if he had more than three hours of free time.
As one of the crew of the Perdu, one of the Union's trademark stealth frigates, Uzed's responsibilities ran the gamut from analyzing planetary scans to detecting anomalies in the area. The data was all dependent on outside factors, always varied – Uzed loved the unpredictability. The Perdu's crew was its own little microcosm, a representation of society confined to a vacuum. The frigate itself carried its own little idiosyncrasies that the salarians on board shared between them – subtle shifts in emotion that tipped the emotional scale from one side to the other, but never to the point where the metaphorical scale was in danger of tipping completely over.
Uzed was STG, the special intelligence wing of the salarian military. Only stealth frigates were allocated to STG work, which precluded the Perdu's posting way out in the Hourglass Nebula, seemingly far away from any civilized society imaginable. The Perdu's captain had his orders: to patrol the nearby sectors in the usual manner – silent – and report back to Sur'Kesh on any anomalies at indicated transmission points. Routine work for Uzed and the rest of the crew, but there was always the tiny thrill that Uzed received, knowing that his analytical work was all part of STG's spycraft efforts.
An unofficial mantra that members of STG held was that it was always prudent to never trust anyone, even your allies.
The efforts of STG were frowned upon by most Council races, Uzed knew, but none of them raised any stink about such matters. After all, it was an open secret that similar tradecraft measures were being used amongst other races against their own allies too. All the races were inherently distrustful of everyone anyway, but it was the salarians that had popularized and had perfected the art of deceit.
Whatever the case, Uzed was proud that his work in STG could potentially save the lives of billions through the Perdu's continual monitoring efforts. He was proud that the data he was scrubbing could eventually prove to give the salarian military an edge should an upcoming conflict rear its head. He was proud—
Wait, was that tapping?
Uzed wheeled his head around, his slit eyes frantically scanning the array of stars and clouds of gas through the thickened window as he saw nothing but the window of the upper deck. Waves of ultraviolet radiation wafted in his vision, spat from clusters of nearby stars, interfering with his field of view. Immediately, Uzed stilled himself – no easy task – and fought to control his breathing, certain that he had heard something out of the ordinary.
And… yes! There was a light tapping noise… coming from…
It took a lot to throw Uzed off these days, but nevertheless, Uzed was thrown as saw a brief outline of something outside the ship. He was dumbstruck as he realized he was looking at a humanoid form that did not at all look like a salarian. He would have tried to wrack his brain if there had been an EVA scheduled for today, but since this person who was latched to the ship was not a salarian, Uzed knew that could only mean one thing.
Intruder.
Uzed barely had time to process the wide array of glowing yellow optics, and a matte gray and blue paint scheme, because that was not the most disconcerting thing about this person that captivated Uzed's attention.
It was that this person was waving to Uzed.
Five fingers. Metal glinting in the bare sunlight. Completely soundless in the void.
Had they not been helmeted, Uzed would have been easily able to imagine a cruel smile on this person's face.
But… was that even a helmet?
A dozen thoughts sheared through Uzed's mind. Was this some sort of a sick joke? What matter of craziness would drive a person to latch onto the Perdu for the ulterior motive of simply messing about with the first sap that could lay eyes on him? For that matter, how did this person even find the Perdu? Stealth systems should be running silent! Uzed knew that there was no way an ordinary person could have located this frigate so far out in deep space.
An ordinary person…
Uzed opened his mouth, his omni-tool already activated, to call for an alarm, but the waving figure outside the ship suddenly mimed a snapping motion with his fingers. An orange flash erupted near the canopy windows, right in the middle, and Uzed threw up an arm to protect his eyes from the glare. The explosion rippled through the observation deck, deafening the salarian, and caused his skin to blister.
Uzed tried to scream, but the air was forcibly ripped from his lungs, peeling the skin from his throat and causing a mass of blood and organs to exit through Uzed's mouth in a flash. He felt an invisible hand start to tug him out of the ship, right through the hole the detonator had caused in the window. Uzed's feet left the floor and the salarian splayed his limbs out desperately, trying to find purchase, but it was too late.
He had never even figured out who had been waving to him.
As Uzed shot past the jagged remains of the window, his body brushed a little too close to where some of the remaining glassy shards were still anchored into the frame. Uzed felt a sharp pain, a fire in his belly, and he had a brief glimpse of a thick, greenish mass exiting from near his body. That was when Uzed realized that the glass had completely cut him open. He had been disemboweled.
The infinite cold of space thankfully took him in moments, allowing Uzed only a singular second to process the intense pain, before ice crystals immediately formed around his eyes and skin, causing his blood to stop in his veins in seconds.
The frozen corpse of Uzed sailed into the black, never to be found again.
Heavy thuds reverberated through the deck of the Perdu as a pair of metal legs stomped down, anchoring themselves to the floor from powerful magnets embedded into the soles. Additional clomps followed the initial entrant into the salarian vessel, as red and black armored troopers furrowed in through the breached viewport, careful not to slice their bodysuits open on the jagged transparisteel.
They had already seen the effects of what scraping too close to the damaged portholes would do to a person.
The troopers all carried specialized Valkyrie rifles – powerful two-burst assault weapons colored in an urban pattern of jagged grays and blacks. The troopers swept the area with their weapons, with tiny thin lasers harmlessly beaming through the air – confirmation that the observation deck was uninhabited for now.
The breached viewport finally engaged its emergency shutters, causing the frigate to begin to normalize the pressure that it had lost from the incursion. One of the engineers in the boarding party disengaged their omni-tool, having already slaved the frigate's systems into their own subroutines.
The individual at the head of the breaching force stepped forward. At a shade over two meters tall, this person was quite the sight to behold, easily standing above his subordinates. Unlike everyone else, this man wore no bodysuit, but was covered head to toe in a matte gray metal armor that adhered to a humanoid form in segments that could easily shift around. It was not exactly armor, per se, but more of an extension of an entire chassis. Shiny fingers clicked and whirred in the silent upper deck and an automated wheeze from air vents upon the collar of the enormous metal monster indicated that whatever was inside was alive… but not entirely human either.
The cyborg carefully tilted his head around the room, as if listening for any disturbances from the rest of the crew. His head was smooth and elongated, a pair of vents near where his "jaw" would be to give voice to his words. Two cruel, red-orange slits represented the cyborg's eyes, with six smaller optics arrayed in a sequence below – eight total oculi glowing upon the machine's face. Between the optics, the central plate of the cyborg's face was slightly translucent, exposing a hint of wiring, a shiny metallic cover, and a flash of bloody flesh beneath.
The cyborg rolled his enormous shoulders, straightening his broad frame up a few inches. He then silently held his hand out, an unsaid signal for a trooper to step forward and to sling a weapon almost a meter long off his own back for his commander to take. The cyborg hefted the long barrel with ease and grasped an enormous drum filled to the brim with thermal clips before slotting it into the underside of the weapon. Then the cyborg took a long length of tubing and connected one end into the gigantic gun and the other into a port upon his chest. The tubing then glowed a bright blue and the cyborg racked a clip into the mechanism with a quick two-stroke motion.
With his custom weapon assembled, the cyborg easily held it one-handed as he made a subtle gesture for the troopers behind him to form up single-file. The cyborg then made a mere gesture towards the door that led deeper into the frigate, an over-the-air command interfacing with the door and causing it to open at a whim, revealing a very surprised-looking salarian on the other side, ostensibly a guard coming to check out the commotion that had just ensued up here less than a minute ago.
The cyborg's weapon boomed, barely jerking him back an inch, and the salarian's head vanished in a blast of green viscera.
Single shot. No need to be wasteful.
None of the boarding party seemed to be particularly concerned that they had just ruined their stealth advantage. They all then proceeded down the nearby stairwell, over the headless body of the salarian their leader had just blown away, and down to the main deck.
Here, a cadre of salarians were running about, trying to make sense of the noises that were being reported all throughout the frigate. Panic and confusion were already settling in. Salarians were used to always having the upper hand, but when their natural desire for caution had failed them, they typically struggled to hone in on a new strategy. It was like they had never considered the scenario in which they would be boarded in a hostile takeover.
That sort of disorganized chaos was what the cyborg took advantage of when he waded into a large crowd of the aliens in the midst of a packed hallway. Immediately, the cyborg fired his weapon, sending an automatic spray of shotgun rounds ricocheting off the narrow walls of the corridor. Light and noise filled the air in addition to the spattered spray of blood as the hapless salarians were practically disintegrated under the punishing onslaught. Light strobed in the dim corridor, and the noise from the firing weapon burst the eardrums of anyone who was not wearing a helmet, thanks to the punishing audible waves pulsating off the walls.
It only took five seconds for twelve salarians to be killed.
The cyborg let his finger off the trigger only once no more enemies were in sight. The recoil of his gun, despite it being particularly massive, had been negligible thanks to the cyborg's metal limbs and joints being easily able to absorb the bone-shattering blowback. The gun's heat dispersal system was also not a problem – in addition to the enormous amount of heat being stored by the gun's thermal clips, the tubing that connected the gun to the cyborg was a secondary heat bleed-off function that sent any heat to be dispersed directly by the cyborg's chassis.
Under the right circumstances, the cyborg could fire such a weapon for several minutes without even having to reload.
The troopers behind the cyborg kept their weapons aimed downward; so far they had not needed to fire at all. Not in such cramped conditions. Their commander was taking care of things handedly. If any of the salarians did manage to get a shot off, it would just ricochet off the cyborg's thick armor-plated chassis.
Besides, if the commander needed any help, all he would have to do was say the word.
The wanton slaughter continued for a couple more minutes with the cyborg going from deck to deck, clearing room after room. The troopers behind him mopped up any stragglers or if any salarians tried to flank them. The intruders stepped over a multitude of bodies in various states of dismemberment, all caused by the razor-like flechette rounds that the cyborg's gun exuded. Blood and gore stained the deck, acid-green, raising a stink.
In short order, the frigate was claimed. But there was still one room left on the command deck that the party had not covered yet, the door that they were standing in front of right now. It was locked, of course, but one of the engineers rapidly went to work on the security firewalls and had it open in less than ten seconds.
The cyborg swiftly strode into the room, which was a large cavernous space where a long platform stood suspended within the entire expanse. The walls were coated with a reflective material reminiscent of silicon, and there was a humming noise that seemed to emit from all around. At the end of the suspended platform, a lone salarian stood defiantly, but weaponless, his face unreadable as he watched the cyborg approach him.
The mechanical man had slung his customized shotgun over his back at this point and all eight of his optics were firmly fixated upon the salarian, noting the alien's insignia upon the collar of his body armor – a captain. He strode past the salarian, designating him to not be a threat, and flexed a fist over a sleek terminal, causing a holographic screen several meters long to appear out of thin air, displaying an almost incomprehensible feed of infinite lists of data and projections, all denoted by meaningless acronyms and foreign shorthand. Unreadable to anyone in the room, human or salarian. Regardless, the data all seemed to funnel directly towards the cyborg's fist, which was now open, as if all of the singular pieces of valuable information was collecting in his open palm, like rainwater falling from the sky. A complete server wipe, no longer to be used by the salarians.
Seconds later, the large holo-screen darkened, but streams of orange data flurried around the cyborg's fist in rippling trails. The cyborg flexed his fingers in admiration, finding the visualization of the information he had just copied to have a certain beauty to it.
The salarian captain, having witnessed this play out right in front of him, had a sour look on his face. Clearly, he was fuming at being beaten and also from being so carelessly disregarded. His mouth was in a pursed line and his eyes were furrowed in a helpless anger.
"You infiltrated our firewalls," he accused the cyborg, quivering in fury. "An impossibility. No one has ever been able to detect our frigates running silent, much less penetrate our security."
Now the cyborg shifted, tiny clinking noises emitting from his chest plates.
"Impossibility?" a strange voice uttered from the cyborg – like two different pitches, both low and breathy, were speaking at the same time. The machine turned to look at the salarian, head tilted in a quizzical expression. "Or perhaps you're simply refusing to accept that you've been beaten at your own game? Remain stagnant for long enough and eventually progress will overtake you, salarian."
The captain gave a tired smile. "Curious how you would associate yourself to a certain species, considering what you are now. More synthetic than organic in your case. Not much left to associate you with humanity. Chimera has certainly gotten bolder as of late."
The cyborg did not betray so much as a hint of a reaction, but the salarian swept his gaze about, making certain to look upon the red and black armored escort that stood near the doorway.
"Oh yes," the captain continued, "I am well aware of who you associate with. Chimera has always been a blunt tool rather than a precise instrument. Espionage was never their specialty. But this is bold, even for the company. So if I were to hazard a guess, considering your… unusual presence on board my ship, that would make you… the Legionnaire? Chimera's elite commander?"
The cyborg bristled stiffly, but seemed to maintain an air of arrogance. "Very good, captain. You are certainly the kind of caliber to be granted your own command, with that insight."
"I have no use for your compliments. Especially not from the… thing who stormed my vessel and murdered my crew. "
"How succinct," the Legionnaire mocked, the plates near his shoulders shifting ever so slightly. "What is your name, captain?"
"Kirrahe," the salarian offered immediately.
The Legionnaire let a quiet electronic warble escape from the twin vocabulators at his neck. "Too young to be the old man," he wheezed, stifling in a ragged cough. "The son, perchance?"
"I am of the second clutch of Admiral Kirrahe, correct," the captain lifted his head in defiance. "My lineage is not the issue here. What is the issue is why you are here in the first place?"
The orange optics of the Legionnaire briefly trailed upward, his ten metallic fingers flexing from end to end before quickly bunching into fists. Deep rumbles echoed from the cyborg's chassis and the salarian felt a twinge of fear as the Legionnaire loomed over him.
"I warn you, salarian, do not play stupid with me."
"There is nothing to hide here, Legionnaire. You don't need me to confirm what you probably already know, seeing as you would not be here if you had no idea what you were looking for. But would it be inappropriate to humor me, at least, so that I can have the knowledge that my men did not die for nothing?"
"That is certainly doable," the Legionnaire hissed. "For someone of your stature, to keep you in the dark would indeed be a shame. As to what we want out of you and this ship, it is the cargo that you have in these very holds that are of interest to us. One of which is in our custody, the databanks, as you just saw, but we know that the second item is protected in the cargo hold by a biometric security lock – your heartbeat, in particular. The very reason why you remain alive should have been an immediate giveaway that we knew of the object that we seek down below. Your comrades were disposable while you… still have some use in you."
"You're expecting me to cooperate, then?" Kirrahe said automatically, trying to find some humor from his defiance. "You're not anticipating any difficulties from that, are you?"
But the Legionnaire rumbled an ugly laugh. "I thought you might say something to that effect. But, try not to take me for a fool, salarian. You are just the quickest route to my eventual destination. There are many contingencies that I have to rip your spoils out from the dying heart of this ship… all more violent than the solution that I have just presented to you now."
"Who told you that the Perdu had what you seek now?" Kirrahe was curious. "A leak? A mole in STG?"
"Nothing so complex. There are other ways to a solution that do not revolve around espionage and trickery, salarian. Actually, the proof that I had was all thanks… to you. I have several logs worth of encrypted messages that you sent to the frigate Ixzima, logs that give a rather detailed manifest regarding the item you currently have in your hold right as we speak. Perhaps I'm looking at our mole right now?"
Kirrahe gave a start. "There is no way that you could have located the Ixzima! Even I don't know its exact location!
"Yet, apparently, I did. Yours isn't the first frigate I've boarded before, shall we say. But that is irrelevant. I have the proof and your fellow captain did a poor job of safekeeping his own cargo before he died in an ignominious fashion. I hope you can understand if I would like your particular scenario to proceed in a more… simpler fashion?"
"What if I refuse to help you? All I have to do is make you kill me and you'll be locked out of getting what you want for good."
The Legionnaire then took a step forward and leaned over, forcing Kirrahe to bend slightly backward as the cyborg towered over him. If the Legionnaire had been flesh instead of metal, Kirrahe knew that he would be able to feel his foe's hot breath from this distance.
"You'd only be entertaining a futile decision," the Legionnaire's eerie voice intoned. "I understand your loyalty to your cause, salarian. Rest assured, I sympathize. I have my own cause to pursue and it's for a privilege that reflects an uncomplicated allowance. But you should know that I'll be able to obtain what I am after, with or without your direct help. All you'd be doing with your refusal is inconvenience me for a few days. The data on your ship – it's all mine. Not to mention the entirety of the ship itself belongs to me now. Do you really think that your death will stop me completely, just because your heartbeat is linked to a simple biometric lock? If that's the route you choose, then I'll have no choice but to resort to more painful measures. But if you wish to cooperate…"
The Legionnaire turned his palm upward as he cocked his head, mimicking a grim sort of pleasure. He let the remainder of the sentence linger in the air, knowing that the entirety of his message had been delivered in full.
Kirrahe bristled, keeping his expression neutral, despite the fact that internally, he was broiling with fear and regret. Eventually, his organic disposition to avoid pain for as much as possible won out and his shoulders loosened, causing the alien to wilt in front of the cyborg – a universal expression of defeat.
"Smart man," the Legionnaire hissed triumphantly and he clapped the thin alien on the shoulder hard, causing Kirrahe to stagger, before gesturing to the hall outside the room. "Now… shall we?"
A human captain probably would have put on a more stubborn performance, but Kirrahe was a proud man and he knew when he had been dealt a crummy hand. Instead of grumbling and making a show of things, Kirrahe kept his head held high as he strode out of the frigate's data center, with the Legionnaire close behind. A quick trip down a nearby lift followed by a few more minutes of walking through a modestly sized hangar bay gave way to a large door about the size of a Mako tank, an utterly impassible face.
The scanners to the door were placed just above it. All Kirrahe had to do was step forward and invisible beams would scan his biometric signature automatically. The entire process was well-oiled and faultless, with very little delay.
With an uncharacteristic hiss of servos, the large bay door began to drop downward, running entirely silent on its magnetic rails. The Legionnaire watched this all play out, his face impassive, and his hands folded behind his back. Once the door had finally descended into the floor, the cyborg then strode past Kirrahe and into the hold, making a beeline for the lone object inside it.
It was a bulbous item, round and polished to a dark sheen, and came up to the Legionnaire's "chest." The Legionnaire carefully walked around the large object, inspecting it carefully for any defects or faults. Finding none, the cyborg placed a finger on a faded red and white insignia placed near the top of the item and rubbed a finger along it thoughtfully, tracing the foreign brush strokes.
"An unfortunate item for the turians to misplace," the Legionnaire said. "Normally this would be something they would have been keeping tabs on but… thanks to the chaos of the last war, they probably never knew they lost it to begin with. And… just as expected… the insignia here. From the Menae foundry. Tricky salarians. I don't suppose you were going to return this to the turians out of the goodness of your heart?"
Kirrahe seemed offended by the insinuation. "It was merely our prerogative to retrieve this before unsavory parties like you could get their hands on—"
The Legionnaire's hand splayed out in the blink of an eye and electromagnets in his palm called the heavily modified pistol at his holster to his hand. The cyborg caught the black and boxy weapon in a smooth and practiced maneuver and he had it up and aimed in less than a second.
The gun coughed.
Kirrahe jolted and a bright burst of greenish blood exploded from his head. The salarian collapsed on the ground in a heap, a dark puddle beginning to spread from his body. The Chimera troops looked amongst themselves for a bit before edging around the body, suddenly a little self-conscious in response to the casual violence.
"Prerogative, indeed," the Legionnaire spoke to the corpse as he moved away from the item in the cargo hold. Looking amongst the troopers, he made a series of quick gestures to gain their attention. "Load our capture into the ship and chart a course for this frigate to pay a visit to the nearest star. No evidence left behind."
The troopers did not need to be told twice. They immediately began setting to work at hefting the enormous device as the Legionnaire walked back to the observation deck alone, leaving his subordinates to do their jobs.
If the Legionnaire had any control over his lungs, he would have taken a large breath to revel in the moment.
The cyborg then lifted his enormous arm and quickly made a connection to the nearest comm buoy. His transmission was accepted immediately and the Legionnaire was quickly greeted by a blank screen with a series of meaningless white numbers being displayed upon the bottom right corner.
"Identification," a flat, robotic voice intoned.
"5907-14-33 Hotel Lima," the Legionnaire spoke into his omni-tool. The call directory processed his words before humming for a five second period. At the end of the rerouting process, a shadowy outline filtered into view of the miniature screen that the Legionnaire held in his palm. A proxy. Just another layer of the hierarchy that the cyborg had to be exposed to, yet this was his only form of communication with his superiors. He just had to roll with it, despite the fact that he hated dictating himself to a glorified messenger.
"We will proceed with confirmation dictation," the proxy asked on the other end, sounding vaguely bored.
"I acknowledge," the Legionnaire spoke clearly.
"Ineluctable modality of the visible."
"At least that if no more, thought through my eyes."
"Signatures of all things I am here to read."
"Seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot."
"Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust."
"Colored signs. Limits of the diaphane."
"But he adds?"
"In bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them colored."
"How?"
"By knocking his sconce against them."
"If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door."
"Shut your eyes and see."
The proxy gave a humph and there was the nearly inaudible sound of the shadowed man on the other end shifting in his seat. "End dictation. Please provide status, Legionnaire."
The Legionnaire found this organic need to have passages memorized from some obscure bit of fiction to be a remarkably maudlin approach to giving a one or two word status report instead. Then again, most organics would have a great deal of trouble trying to memorize these obtuse and frankly meaningless sentences. The Legionnaire had no skill in writing eloquently and he was particularly annoyed at the fact that authors of fiction in the past used such bizarre prose to overcomplicate stories to the point of them being nearly unintelligible for the modern man.
"Incursion complete," the Legionnaire drawled.
"Complications?"
"None."
"Estimated time to begin next phase?"
"Immediately."
"Very good," the proxy said as the shadowed figured nodded in approval. "You have permission to proceed."
It's not your permission, the Legionnaire was so tempted to taunt, but he just gave a curt bob of his head and cut the call unceremoniously.
The cyborg glanced out the window and lifted his palm so that he could situate the golden streams of the data that he had just acquired with the thick soup of black nothingness outside.
"Everything… and nothing," the Legionnaire whispered. "All according to plan."
Berlin, Earth
Chimera HQ Building
Europaplatz
Raynor Larsen, Alliance Senator, used both hands to push aside the double maple doors to Erich Koenig's office, ignoring the protests of the secretary outside. Koenig was chatting to someone on voice comm at his mahogany desk, an immaculate view of the European city just out the poster windows behind him. Koenig caught Larsen's eye and motioned for him to take a seat in front of the desk. Larsen ignored him; he could sit wherever he damn well pleased in this building.
"…Look, Duncan," Koenig was continuing to chat to the unseen person on his call, "I don't care if the fucker is stonewalling you. I'll rip your dick off if you don't get me that operational license." He paused for a moment to let the other person talk, but all Larsen could hear was garbled gibberish. "Let me put it another way, you useless excuse for a man, if you don't lean on that representative to get the vote out, I will personally make sure that you and that melted candle of a horse you call your wife will never have a waking moment of peace to yourselves once I leak out that you've been selling photos of your own daughter as wank-material for the inmates in your prisons. You catch my drift now, fuckstick?"
Koenig caught Larsen's eye and bumped his eyebrows at the same time that he gave a manic grin. Larsen gave no reaction – in reality, he was quite weary of Koenig's antics, especially since the man had let his newfound power go to his head as of late. Koenig might have seen Larsen as an ally, but in truth, Larsen had held a deep-seated loathing for Koenig for a long while now. For some reason, Larsen always found himself perturbed at Koenig's display of profanity. Larsen was no stranger to using bad language himself – hell, vulgarity was practically a cornerstone of the senate – but he couldn't shake the fact that whenever Koenig swore, he sounded like a twelve-year-old who had just discovered the word "fuck" and could not resist using it in every sentence.
In short, Koenig swearing just sounded wrong.
It was his squeaky voice, Larsen decided. Koenig sounded like he had not quite finished puberty yet, despite him being in his late twenties. Koenig had also lost the genetic lottery by possessing a face that Larsen thought was extremely punchable. Koenig's skin was way too smooth (was this little twerp using makeup?), his hair was too neat (too much gel), and his teeth were all arrayed in perfect rows, not to mention they a very odd shade of pure white (teeth whitener… not good).
Yet for all his faults, Larsen was able to tolerate his partnership with Koenig… barely. Whether he knew it or not, Koenig was a valuable stooge for Larsen. The usage of Chimera as Earth's defense force had been a major political victory for Larsen when he had brought it to a vote years ago, one that he had required the usage of Koenig to accomplish. And if it weren't for Larsen, Koenig would be in debtor's jail by now, lamenting the failure of his terrible entrepreneurship skills in trying to create a PMC from scratch using his daddy's money. When Larsen had first met Koenig, the latter had been so desperate for capital that he was willing to do anything and everything to keep Chimera afloat, including a lewd offer to give Larsen a blowjob in exchange for a lifeline. And after that offer had been given, Larsen knew he could hang that over Koenig's head for the rest of his life.
Of course, being a senator, Larsen could not report on his financials that he had been the primary source of capital for the PMC that the Systems Alliance was currently employing. There could not be a more clear-cut example of a conflict of interest if Larsen had been stupid enough to finance Chimera himself. Fortunately, he had the know-how and the connections to funnel his money through a bevy of shell companies and other associates to keep Chimera from going under. Larsen's colleagues held some consternation for him being too close to Koenig, but seeing as his association with Chimera was not on any public record, nothing could be done about it.
But that meant that Larsen still had to contend with Koenig.
"Duncan, I don't have any more time to listen to you audibly shit your pants," Koenig was still speaking to the unfortunate sap on the line. "You have to understand that the Prime Minister just walked in. Very important meeting. Really important." Koenig looked so pleased with himself at the white lie while Larsen rolled his eyes. "You and your jizz-mates down in who-gives-a-fuck-land are just going to have to live your lives without our services. That is, unless you can get me that sick suite over in downtown for a week. Then maybe I'll consider it. Enjoy the sodomy and incest in Tuscaloosa, dipshit."
Koenig then waved his hand, causing his omni-tool to shut off. He gave a smile and spread his hands, giving Larsen the impression of a teenager who had just figured out the secret to jacking off.
"Sorry about that, senator," Koenig said breathily. "New clients. New contracts. You know."
Larsen did not know, but he kept his snarky comment to himself.
"You asked for me, I came," Larsen tapped his fingers impatiently on the chair, his ragged and smoky voice cutting through the air. "Obviously what you have to say carries some modicum of importance, yes?"
Normally, Larsen would not talk so openly about his shady dealings, but Koenig was one of the most paranoid people that Larsen had ever known and Larsen knew that Koenig had gone to the trouble of soundproofing and debugging his office every single day. He could speak here without consequence.
"Ah, yes, that," Koenig gesticulated in excitement. "The word just came in a few hours ago. The first phase of the operation that we sanctioned was a success. Our operative is now moving to the next phase as soon as he is able."
"I'll be damned. That is good news," Larsen admitted. "And the target items in question?"
"In our custody."
Larsen gave a faint nod as he absentmindedly began to stroke his thin, black goatee. "Excellent. Excellent."
"Our patience is only starting to pay off, Raynor!"
"I wouldn't get too complacent. There's still a long way to go."
Koenig looked like he was about to jump up from his chair for he was so giddy. "But we have never been so close to this moment! In perhaps a matter of days, we can finally achieve that future that you told me about when we first met! How long has it been?"
"Too long," Larsen said, knowing that there was more truth than Koenig realized to that fact. "Ten years, I believe."
"Ten years to achieve the goal that humanity should have seized a long time ago! We will give them that opportunity once again!"
"Yes… an opportunity that I've been waiting all my life for," Larsen sighed as he steepled his hands. "Twelve long years to finally overcome the weaknesses, the self-inflicted wounds humanity inflicted upon itself. We once had the chance to reach up and take it all, the galaxy, everything, for ourselves. Yet, in our humility, we kept our arm lowered, never reaching for the stars. Fucking military morons – that Admiral Hackett, especially. If it weren't for him 'graciously declining' the political clout humanity had absorbed from everyone else, we would have the higher ground instead of being on equal footing. And everyone knows that being equal does not guarantee fairness."
Koenig took a decanter from the desk behind him and began to fill a glass with a maple-colored scotch. He offered some to Larsen, who politely declined.
"Don't worry, senator," Koenig smiled after he took a sip of his drink, smacking his lips. "We can still take it all, for the glory of our species. You will soon have everything you need to change humanity for the better. All you need is the proof."
"And I will soon have it! If the operative succeeds, I'll make sure that humanity never forgives the position we put ourselves in. Sharing power with the asari, salarians, and turians! Pah! Their hypocrisy knows no bounds. The other races have much bigger skeletons in the closet than the average dumb citizen could imagine. It's an open secret that our allies engaged in activities that nearly damned us all, Erich, but you can't make any changes based on rumors."
"Which is why the evidence will soon be placed into your lap. And Chimera will be the force to lead the charge for the new humanity."
Arrogant little shit, Larsen thought. But Koenig's cockiness had a purpose that Larsen could easily exploit. Right now, at least the two of them shared the same goals.
"The new humanity…" Larsen whispered before scratching at his chin. "Humanity is corrupt with cowardice, Erich. There is a severe lack of leadership at the highest levels. We could have pressed the advantage upon the other species for their monumental failures, yet we held back for the sake of… unity. Unity! How many billions of people died because the leaders of the other races made mistakes, Erich? Should we simply forgive and forget all that we have sacrificed?"
"Absolutely not," Koenig gestured with his glass, parroting the exact answer Larsen wanted to hear. Another reason why Larsen kept him around. "The Council made humanity vulnerable during the war. They brought us up to be the sacrificial lamb while they benefited from the delay of their own slaughter. Putting billions of lives up front while they benefitted from such a tactic. If I'm not mistaken, wouldn't that be a war crime, senator? Why should that go unpunished?"
"They shouldn't," Larsen emphasized. "No, they shouldn't. Humanity shouldn't have to kiss the hand that dealt a blow unto it. We should be the ones dealing the blows ourselves. Humanity should be a lion, not a mouse." Larsen gave a pause, catching himself in a state of greater agitation than anticipated, and said to Koenig, "Actually, I wouldn't mind a glass."
"I thought you'd see sense," Koenig smirked as he poured more scotch from the decanter. "It's an eighteen year. From Skye."
Larsen took the offered glass but did not drink just yet. "Over the next coming days, we will finally be able to destroy any misconceptions placed in the heads of all humans. The established institutions will be fraught with peril but we'll bring stability to them in short order. But that will mean tearing down the secure 'truths' that have been built up over the years. The heroics of… some individuals… will cease to exist. After we're done, humanity will be in dire need of a leader after their heroes are thoroughly deconstructed. Admirals… war heroes… Spectres… they'll all be relegated to the dustbin of history. It's time for a reevaluation, Erich. And we will be the ones revising the history books."
Koenig looked concerned for a moment. "Have we figured out how that's going to sit with the citizens? Because if they don't like how we reveal their idols to be traitors—"
"Don't worry about the citizens," Larsen interrupted callously.
"You're not at all concerned?"
"Erich, when you've spend as much time as I have among the voters, you come to learn a very valuable lesson." Larsen then gave a mock salute with his glass before he took his first sip. He tasted smoke and brine in the scotch and he let it linger in his mouth before he swallowed, causing his throat to burn all the way down.
"And… what lesson is that?"
"Simple," Larsen set his glass down on the desk in front of him. "People are sheep. They may bitch and moan if they don't like what the government is doing, but the collective mind of a crowd is pitifully small. The average voter is a moron because individually, they can't do a damn thing about what we're doing. And together, the citizens are nothing but sheep. Simple, brainless, dumb sheep."
Rannoch
Roahn rushed over to the door as soon as she heard someone knocking upon it. She palmed the touch panel to open the barrier between her and the outside and her smile broadened at the moment she saw a slew of familiar faces (or visors) huddled upon the front steps of her house.
"Been a long time since I've seen you guys," Roahn joked.
Nee, Cevni, and Zayhn all laughed at that. "Told you we'd come to your house, Ro," Nee laughed as she tilted her head playfully.
Roahn frowned slightly as she shuffled herself to the side to block her friends' view from looking past the doorway and into the house. The door slid shut behind her as Roahn stepped onto the porch, leaving her with her friends in the warm and dry air of the morning.
"How did you guys even get here?" Roahn asked as she looked back and forth.
Cevni pointed down the pathway. "Zayhn's dad lent us a couple of speeders."
Roahn saw the angular two-seater vehicles just about a hundred meters away. Hovering above the ground, the speedy hover-bikes were a cheap and efficient method of transportation to traverse quick hops on a planet. Roahn had always wanted to ride one as they looked to be such good fun, but of course her father forbade it.
Speaking of which…
"Is your dad home?" Zayhn asked as she tried to peer through the smoky translucent glass of the front door, bouncing on her toes in her excitement.
Sourly, Roahn chewed her lip. "He's… around," she said carefully. "But I don't know where he is."
That was partially a lie. Roahn knew that every morning, without fail, her father would be up at the crack of dawn to perform his usual routine of calisthenics. He would either be jogging on the beach right about now or performing some stretching exercises in the hills nearby to keep in shape. However, Roahn had no idea how far into Shepard's schedule he had gone to right now, so in some sense Roahn's statement had some truth to it.
Her friends seemed disappointed at that and Roahn saw Cevni nudge Zayhn in a dejected manner.
"You know when he's coming back?" Nee tried.
Roahn gave a curt shrug. "I don't have a clue."
Nee then spread her hands in acceptance. "Ah, well. Maybe next time."
I certainly hope not, Roahn thought. She did not particularly care for the prospect of introducing her friends to her father. She thought he could be a little too… intense for their tastes, or at least their expectations.
The chilling look on Roahn's face soon vanished as her smile returned. She crossed her arms in amusement as she beheld her friends. "Are we all waiting for anything in particular? Nee, didn't you want all of us to see something?"
"Oh, you're going to love it, Ro!" Cevni said, giddy with anticipation.
"It's so cool!" Zayhn gushed.
Somewhat bemused, Roahn arched an eyebrow as she looked straight at Nee. "Now I'm curious. But, Nee, I swear if you're all messing with me and if this is only going to be another action figure…"
Nee just gave a simple smirk and reached behind her back, drawing out an object slightly bigger than both of the girl's hand spans, wrapped in a thick and itchy blanket. Nee's delicate fingers then tugged upon the blanket, untying the knot that kept it together and revealing it right in front of Roahn.
Roahn gave a jolt. "Is… that real?" she whispered in awe.
"Yeah," Nee bobbed her head in glee. "Totally is."
Roahn gestured her hands towards the object. "May… may I?"
"Go right ahead."
Striving to control her shaking hands, Roahn gingerly lifted the Predator pistol up from Nee's offered palms. Roahn took a few seconds to feel the weight of the gun. She had never held a firearm before – this was much heavier than she would have imagined. But she had spent a countless amount of hours just poring over instructional pistol videos on the extranet, so there was some inherent familiarity to all this.
Roahn pulled the slide back on the pistol, exposing the barrel of the weapon. Empty, as Roahn had figured. If there had been a clip in there, it would have been ejected when Roahn had racked the slide all the way back. Roahn hit the tab to lock the slide back into place, creating a satisfyingly loud CLICK. Her hand was way too small in the grip, immediately evident from the amount of space remaining in the trigger guard. Roahn depressed the trigger slightly, finding it to have a pleasant amount of weight to the action. The three dot sights were also easy to utilize – tritium night optics and rather apparent to the eye.
"Wow," Roahn could only say. "Where'd you get this, Nee?"
"Took it from my dad."
Roahn zipped her head up. "You stole this?"
"What? He's not going to notice. He never uses the thing, anyway."
Nee's words did little to assuage Roahn. She was now starting to get a sensation of a dark and murky liquid pooling in her gut – the kind of dread that approaches when you know you've done something wrong and are just waiting for judgement to be rendered.
"But," Nee continued as she reached into an external pocket, "Look at this!" The girl then raised her fist to reveal several thermal clips glinting dully in the morning light. More items that Nee had stolen from her parents, evidentially. "What do you say? You want to try it out?"
Cevni and Zayhn cheered in agreement and Roahn did a quick look in all directions before she too nodded her consent. This was way more than she had bargained for, but she was still in an adventurous mood for now, so she too responded with some enthusiasm.
Nee pointed to a spot up into the hills about a quarter mile away and the four girls immediately proceeded in that direction. Roahn brought up the rear, excited but also worried. If her father had even seen her in the vague proximity of a gun, she would never see the outside of her house for months on end. Not to mention, she was technically shirking her chores by playing with her friends so early in the morning, but Roahn was definitely not in the mood to do work around the house right now, so it was easy to push that worrying inclination down.
Half an hour later and the kids had traversed so far into the rocky canyons that Roahn could not see her house from this angle. In front of her, Nee was clumsily trying to slot a few thermal clips into the pistol, not knowing how large the actual capacity of the gun was.
"Hey, Roahn," Nee called. "How many clips can the Predator hold again?"
"Should be six," Roahn recalled from memory.
"I forget, have you ever fired a gun before?"
"No," Roahn admitted after a pause. "Never even touched one before today."
Nee paused in loading the gun, her expression blank behind her visor. "Don't you think that's a bit odd? I mean, seeing that your father is…"
Roahn shrugged, cutting Nee off. Whether or not Roahn's heritage had any bearing on her being able to handle a firearm, Roahn knew she was not going to bother to bring it up in open discussion.
"You think this pistol saw action in the war?" Cevni breathily asked after Nee had finished loading it.
"Impossible," Zayhn shook her head, answering in Nee's stead. "Quarian marines were never issued Predators."
"Doesn't mean that Nee's dad could have scrounged it from somewhere and used it."
"Honestly, I have no idea," Nee said as she flicked the safety off, the large pistol wobbling unsteadily in her tiny grip. "What should I shoot first, guys?" When no one piped up, Nee nudged the barrel of the gun near the horizon. "How about seeing if I can hit that onosho tree over there?"
The tree in question was only fifteen yards away from the group – a modest distance to the untrained shooter. The tree was young in comparison to the one near Roahn's house; seven meters tall with small, pink flowers on its stubby branches.
It was as good of a target as any, so Nee lined up her arms, momentarily struggling on where to place her fingers in a passable grip, and lined the sights up as best as she could. She appeared to have some trouble pulling the trigger, finding the act itself to be more difficult than she would have imagined. Roahn was just about to step in and offer a word of advice when the gun suddenly bucked in Nee's hand and a crimson flash emitted from the barrel in less than half a second.
The report echoed through the canyon, followed by the surprised yelps from the children.
"Cool!" Cevni squealed as she jumped up and down, creating tiny dust clouds.
"So awesome," Zayhn breathed.
"That was… yeah…" Roahn breathily nodded in awe.
The fact that the onosho tree was untouched from any bullets was not immediately harped upon by the kids. The four of them were transfixed in place, a bit star-struck at feeling the power in their hands that their parents had once possessed. A potent poison, one that was simultaneously clumsy but incredibly accurate.
Nee gave a low laugh as she turned the pistol over to examine it, perhaps to reflect on her reaching a certain milestone in her life. Perhaps this very day would be one of those days that ends up defining her life from here on out. Perhaps this was one of those important moments.
"I didn't hit it," Nee stopped laughing, the mood becoming more sober as the kids' shared adrenaline began to die down. The girl then placed her feet more firmly into the dirt and straightened her arms again. "I'm going to blast the stupid thing before the day's done."
"Hey!" Zayhn said as she jerked in Nee's direction. "I want a go!"
"Wait your turn!" Nee snarled, startling her friend. "When I use up a full clip, then you can try it."
Her eyes suddenly turning sinister, Nee lowered her head as she lined up her eye to meet the pistol's sights. Adjusting her grip on the gun, Nee took a deep breath as she focused on the sights with her target blurry in the background. There was a muted thrumming in her eardrums and the sounds of Rannoch – the wildlife and the sea – were drowned out in Nee's own little bubble of introversion.
The gun jerked in Nee's hand as she clenched the trigger a second time. Again the shot went wide, sending up a plume of dirt about a dozen meters behind the tree. Nee shook her wrists in pain, unused to the bite of recoil. Growling, the determined girl shot her arms up once more and began unloading on the tree rapidly, losing patience with each missed shot.
Temporarily deafened and frustrated at her inaccuracy, Nee walked closer and closer to the tree, now holding the gun in a one-handed grip in a direct imitation of the heroes from her favorite vids. What Nee did not realize was that one-handed grips drastically reduce the amount of control one has when holding a gun and even though Nee was reducing the distance to her target all the while, her arm was being thrown all over the place with each successive shot, spoiling her accuracy.
But on the final shot, Nee paused for a second longer than normal, holding her breath ever so slightly as she lightly pulled on the trigger with the tip of her finger. The slide of the Predator slammed open, allowing the white-hot thermal clip to sail into the air, streaming trails of blistered heat and gas.
Pink petals from the tree gently floated to the ground, the edges torn and ragged.
Nee released her breath.
"You got it," Roahn just said as she stared at the frayed stump where one of the onosho's branches once remained.
Nee panted as she blankly stared at the pistol, noticing that her grip was shaking a bit. "Yeah…" she dimly nodded. "I guess I did, didn't I?" She then turned around and gestured for Roahn to come over to her. "Your turn, Ro."
For a brief second, Roahn felt like taking the gun was a tremendously bad idea. Icicles unexpectedly seemed to form all around her spine, freezing her in place. Even her joints seemed to swell and ache, a sign for her not to accept the offered weapon.
Yet… Roahn stepped forward nonetheless.
Roahn's fist looked so tiny in the pistol's grip as she lifted it from Nee's hands. She tested the weight again, trying to get herself used to the sensation.
"The tree?" Roahn asked as she lifted the gun in that direction, wanting to confirm with Nee if that was going to be the decided-upon target.
Nee cruelly shook her head as she reached out and gently nudged Roahn's aim to the left. "No. That."
Confused, Roahn was about to ask out loud what Nee was up to if she was not going to hit the tree, for there were no other obvious targets around for her to shoot.
But then she understood as she saw what her friend wanted her to aim at.
A Rannochian Long-Eared Marmot, a tiny rodent native to the planet, was on a long, flat rock just a few meters past the onosho, sunning himself in the orange light. The critter was oblivious to the girls nearby and to their sinister plans. The little marmot's nose twitched and it blinked its black eyes open for a short period before closing them again, incorrectly determining that it was not in any danger.
If only it knew that the barrel of a pistol was currently bearing down on his direction.
Wide-eyed and nervous, Roahn glanced over to Nee in confirmation, suddenly being bombarded with second thoughts about what she was getting herself into.
"You don't mean… that?" Roahn tilted her head over to the marmot.
"Oh yes, I do," Nee nearly cackled.
"But…" Roahn stammered, "I thought we were just going to shoot at… at… at things that weren't alive. You know, like trees and rocks and stuff."
"Nah, that gets boring. It's not a challenge. Besides, I want to see what you can do, Ro. See if you've picked up on anything from your dad."
Mere mention of her father, along with this change in plan, nearly caused Roahn to explode in rage. "I told you…" she said very deliberately, even though her pistol was still pointed in the direction of the marmot, "…he never taught me anything!"
And I don't want to shoot a living thing! Roahn nearly said, but refrained from doing so, a decision that would forever shame her.
"Whatever," Nee shrugged callously. "But even so, I bet you can hit it, Ro."
No, I can't! Ro thought in a panic.
"Come on, Ro," Cevni urged, further pushing her down this path of damnation. "Shoot it!"
"Yeah, Ro," Zayhn also chimed in, her glassy eyes positioned eagerly towards the rodent, seeking violence. "Shoot it."
What is wrong with you guys?! Roahn wanted to scream. All she wanted was to fire the gun at trees for fun. That was it! Unmoving targets like those should have been enough for everyone, but for some reason, her friends were greedy. They wanted more. They wanted to see bullets rip flesh apart and that marmot over there just so happened to be in the wrong place in the wrong time. Now, Roahn's friends were out for blood, hungry to see the rodent disappear in a red mist of entrails and flesh.
"Shoot it!"
"Shoot, Ro!"
"Take its head off!"
Keelah, what did I just promise to do? Roahn mournfully thought as her thumb seemed to automatically move of its own accord to flick the safety off the gun. Her hands were visibly trembling as she struggled to keep the pistol steady. Even her lungs seemed to be refusing to cooperate in taking deep breaths. Roahn hyperventilated, blood pounding in her ears as the marmot dissolved into a brownish blur as she concentrated her focus on the gun sights.
I'll just miss. I don't have to hit it. Who says I can, anyway?
But there was still the danger of hitting the creature anyway. Roahn had never fired a pistol before, so who was to say that if she botched her shot, she could do so successfully? The weight of her friends urging her to fire was getting too strong. She felt sweaty under her mask. Her knees began to tremble, struggling to support her own weight.
Roahn's finger scraped upon the trigger, fearing the detonation that was to come. Sturdy springs resisted her movement, and Roahn clenched her teeth as she put more effort into pulling the trigger tight.
"Do it, Ro," Nee whispered in her ear.
No…
Heart surging, her fingers crying out in agony, Roahn gave a small cry as she clenched her hand as tight as she could, but a static charge along her back, a hidden sense, told her that something was horribly wrong. The panicked shouts from her friends behind her confirmed that as well and Roahn lowered the gun in a daze, feeling woozy and lethargic, and proceeded to turn around to find out what had startled her friends.
Then she realized… someone was here with them.
Before she could turn around completely, though, something reached through the air, an outstretched hand with five fingers, and firmly grabbed the pistol and yanked it out of her hands in the blink of an eye. Roahn's fingers just let the weapon slip through her fingers in her paralytic state, almost too tired to notice that someone was towering over her now, the figure so tall that they were blocking the sun and casting her in a deep shadow.
It was only when the figure spoke did Roahn's blood turn to ice.
"What…"
Oh. Oh, Keelah, Roahn thought.
"…is…"
I'm dead. I'm so dead.
"…the…"
Millions of excuses ran through Roahn's head as she frantically searched for the best one to give.
"…meaning…"
None of them were good enough.
"…of…"
None of them would save her.
"…this?" the tall shadow gritted out, each furious word forced through a strained windpipe.
Trying so very hard not to burst into tears from fear, Roahn forced herself to look up at the person who had interrupted them. The person who had both given her salvation and would, at the same time, doom her.
Yet Roahn faltered underneath the glare of her angry father, finding herself afraid in the face of his unbridled rage.
"Young lady," Shepard said in a voice that was both calm yet brimming with power, his eyes saddened yet enraged as his bearded mouth tried so desperately to not twist into a snarl, "what… in the name of god… were you thinking?"
A/N: So far, I've been getting a lot of positive responses for how Roahn and Shepard's relationship has been presented - good news for you guys, because that's going to be a key issue that will be brought up continually throughout the story. As many of you no doubt have seen, Roahn and Shepard don't get along as well as you might have hoped. Whether that would be a realistic outcome in another alternate future, it's hard to say, but this is my interpretation and I'm excited to see that many of you are going along with it!
I've also been getting some questions on how "Roahn" is pronounced. You say it like "Row" (as in "row your boat") with a hard "n" consonant on the end. Hope that helps!
Playlist:
Window Breach: "Planting the Seed" by Marc Streitenfeld from the film Prometheus
The Legionnaire Cometh: "I Am Skull Face" by Ludvig Forssell from the video game Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain
The Pistol: "Spores" by Jed Kurzel from the film Alien: Covenant