HOLOCAUST:
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:
THE FATHERLY PRINCIPLE
July 6, 2186
1403 hours.
The Shepards' Quarters, Normandy-Class Stealth Frigate SSV Normandy SR-2, Migrant Fleet, In Orbit over Haestrom, Dholen System, Far Rim Cluster.
Second Morning War.
Captain Marcus Lee Shepard, Junior.
Marcus Shepard was a man of many achievements. And by achievements, he didn't just mean in the military. Sure, alot of them were attributed to his combat abilities, but according to many, his deft hand in diplomacy was the envy of many politicians. Ever since Marcus was born in Israel, to when he first set foot on the late Arcturus Station as a six-year old kid, he had been curious and creative, either when annoying the hell out of his mother, or annoying the hell out of his teachers.
He remembered when his mother first showed him the bridge. He had been sixteen, and she had managed to get permission from the captain of the Einstein, Henry J. Hood (who was now the Chairman of Human and Foreign Affairs on the Citadel, funnily enough), if Marcus would be allowed to observe the bridge during a War Games exercise. Such affairs were delicate in the military, species being irrelevant. He didn't remember just which War Games it had been, but he remembered that it had been against the asari, of which the Alliance won by a score of 12-11. A tight match.
A year later, he had been taken to see the christening and launch of the SSV Orizaba. Back then, he had found it odd that they smashed a bottle of champagne over the ship's hull to bless it, as did the many Council race supervisors who were there to oversee the launch, as well as to ensure the vessel fit the requirements and restrictions laid out by the Treaty of Farixen. Even when his mother explained to him that it was an old human tradition dating back thousands of years, he still never understood it. Even to this day, he was confused at the silly gesture. Waste of perfectly good alcohol, really...It was funny, because that very ship he had watched launch would become Hannah's personal command only four months later. He couldn't remember why it had happened, but the words 'previous captain's incompetence' did come to mind.
He remembered how terrified and furious his mother had been when she found out that he went against her direct wishes and signed the papers for joining the Alliance Marine Corps behind her back. He had been of legal age, eighteen, but Hannah, naturally, was scared that he would be deployed to some colony somewhere to defend against somekind of batarian attack, and that he could get hurt or killed. Even he explained that Anderson, who Hannah had met four years before, had been training him, Hannah hadn't been reassured. It had taken Anderson's personal recommendation and reassurance to calm her down.
He remembered her pride when she dressed him up in his navy blues, having just survived basic and being enlisted in the Alliance Marines. How she had smiled and hugged him, telling him of how much he looked like his father.
He remembered the pain, sweat and blood he went through during his training for the N program, having been handpicked by Anderson himself, who was already a decorated veteran. He also remembered the stupid grin he had on his face when he received his N7 promotion.
He remembered the first girlfriend he truly cared about; Roshia. A member of his squad. The thrill of their forbidden romance. The fun times he had with Sarann, Nathan...
Then came the less than happy memories; the batarian invasion of Elysium during the Skyllian Blitz. Hordes of slavers, coming from every scum hole and trash bin in the Attican Traverse, Batarian space and Terminus Systems, looking to sell entire families for the premise of easy creds. How the death of Roshia had sent him into a fit of rage. How he had ordered his squad to retreat. How he had manned the machine gun in the face of a massive slaver army, and simply tore into the enemy ranks. After that day, he would be promoted and known as the Lion of Elysium. The man who held back 10,000 enemy soldiers with just himself, his loss and a machine gun.
He remembered being placed under Kyle's command as they charged fortified batarian positions on Torfan. He remembered losing Sarann and Nathan in the charge. He remembered slaughtering the entire batarian garrison without mercy, blinded by fury and malice, even killing those who tried to surrender. They called him the Butcher of Torfan.
He remembered Akuze, how his platoon was devoured before his eyes as they were ambushed by Thresher Maws. The smell of vomit and blood and acid, the beating drums of his heartbeat in his ears as he fled as hard as he could, terrified for his life...the Survivor of Akuze.
The attack on Eden Prime. Saving and meeting Tali. The Battle of Virmire and losing Ash. The Council's betrayal and his mutiny. Discovering his love for Tali. The race against time on Ilos and learning about the Reapers. The Battle of the Citadel. His death over Alchera. His resurrection. The destruction of the Collector Base. Killing the Shadow Broker. Marrying Tali. Peta's exile. The destruction of the Alpha Relay. His incarceration. And now...just now.
He had faced all of that, all of that. Marcus Shepard, Lion of Elysium, Butcher of Torfan, Survivor of Akuze, Hero of the Citadel, Geth Slayer, Bane of the Reapers, Foe of Saren, Destroyer of the Collectors...
...and one child was causing him more grief than all of those put together.
"God," Marcus groaned, holding up the child in his arms as he gently patted the back of his little head, "Are you trying to kill me?"
If Junior gave an answer, he did not voice it. Instead, all he heard was a choking, gurgling sound. Eyes widening, Marcus almost cried out as his hand on the back of Junior's head moved back, allowing him to see the child fully. To his relief and annoyance, Junior was not choking.
But a neat lining of nutrient paste was dribbling past his lips onto his chest, and Junior seemed to have a smug grin on his face. Oh, you little bugger...
He was about to reach over and across his desk to grab a pair of tissues, only to realize that when Junior's food had dribbled out of his mouth, it had subsequently spilled out onto his shoulder, bits of chewed up paste liquified and turned into a disgusting, brown mess, and it just continued to slip down his shirt and onto his lap, causing him to almost curse out loud. However, he remembered the child in his arms, and simply bit down on his lower lip, giving his rage within.
Retrieving the tissues he had been looking for, he quickly dabbed at Junior's lips, wiping them clean of the half-chewed paste. When Junior was cleaned up, he threw the ruined tissues into his nearby bin and retrieved a few more, using them to clean his own shoulder, and subsequently, his lap. The kid's saliva had done a number on the paste, meaning the liquid had already begun to dampen his pants and the left shoulder of his shirt. Throwing the tissues into the bin, he sighed, pulling Junior up until he was dangling in his arms, Marcus holding him under the armpits. He looked into Junior's eyes, searching for intent.
Junior just stared back, grin disappearing.
Marcus could only smile in return. You evil little bastard, you think you can best me? I'm Captain Shepard, Saviour of the-
He watched, with horror, as a single, solitary tear escaped down Junior's face. Marcus' momentary victory was left forgotten as he realized what was about to happen. Oh shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit-!
And then, a tidal wave of emotion hit him, and Junior began to wail.
Realizing his mistake, Marcus quickly came to his feet, standing up tall as he brought Junior to his chest, head on his shoulder as he began patting his back gently, pacing back and forth in a rocking movement, hoping to calm the kid down. But Junior just kept crying, tears streaming forth as the sound of its sorrow pierced his father's eardrums, sending him to the brink of mental breakdown.
I don't even have the first clue on how to be a father. Give me a rifle, I'll shoot shit. Give me an army, and I'll lead it. Give me a kid...this happens.
He was beginning to think he wasn't fatherly material. And with Tali working with the admirals in the War Room and talking with Legion and EDI, he couldn't really ask his wife for assistance. Which would have been fantastic, given that women seemed to have a vital spark that just shot up whenever they needed to be a mother. That...motherly spark. Why couldn't he have that?
Could really use that right now...
Junior was totally unaware of the grief he was causing his father, and just kept balling. And Marcus just kept pacing and pacing, patting and patting, desperately trying to calm the poor kid down. But nothing was working. Junior was intent on stirring up mayhem, and on letting his father know how discontent he was.
Discontent? What do you know of discontent? This kid is the fucking Antichrist.
When Junior just kepting crying, he rectified that thought. Nope, he's the Antichrist.
Usually, whenever something liked this happened, Tali was present and would rectify it fairly quickly. Tali just had that quality that Junior liked, apparently. Or maybe it was because he was all of a sudden in the arms of a big bearded man, and was terrified beyond its wits of why its mother had suddenly been replaced by such a terrifying monstrosity. I must look like bloody Big Foot. Or a Grizzly Bear. Whatever the case, I bet that's why Junior's crying so hard.
Since there was no crib, Junior was forced to sleep inbetween Marcus and Tali, which mostly had its downsides. Marcus liked to think he was a light sleeper, but his son was changing the entire playing field. He had woken up one night at 1 in the morning to the sound of Junior crying, and Tali had, in her sleep-induced coma, mumbled that it was his turn to 'take care' of Junior. Oh, what a fun morning call that was.
The next day, everyone in the mess had learnt why he wasn't a morning person.
Marcus quickly reached down to the small table below and retrieved Junior's milk bottle. Given that Tali, again not present, was unable to breastfeed Junior at the moment, it was up to Marcus to use this milk bottle as a final attempt to his life from destruction. Luckily for him, the bottle was almost full.
God, don't play jokes on me now. Let this be the bastion of my soul...my own personal Fredericksburg. Here we go...
Placing the nipple towards Junior's mouth, he gently eased the bottle to his lips, and to his everlasting relief, he welcomed it greedily, mouth wrapping around the nipple and sucking noisily, but contentedly.
Mimicking what he had seen Tali do many times, he rocked him back and forth, gently and soothingly, while still holding the bottle to Junior's mouth. The fact that he was already able to hold the baby with one hand and hold a bottle with the other was a feat in itself for the man who was supposed to be unable to be a father. Not bad, Marcus. Not bad at all.
But he knew that he was going to run out of milk soon, and with Tali not present, he couldn't ask her for help. There was only one person he knew who had utmost experience in that regard, one that excelled Tali by close to two decades. Funny how he'd end up calling her for advice on how to be a proper father. I wish dad was still alive right now...he'd know what to say...
Gently laying Junior ontop of his desk, he reached for his chair and quickly grabbed it, dragging it over so that he could plop himself down in it. Finding comfort in its embrace, even if it had almost no padding whatsoever, he moved forward and quickly activated his terminal with one hand, watching it switch on with a beep and a bright blast of orange light. Junior almost stopped for a moment as he watched it activate, and he grinned at him, stroking the side of his tiny face with one, big finger.
"You've never seen a terminal, have you kiddo?" Marcus grinned, smiling warmly, "You'll have one of your own, one day." One day. I'll buy it myself. It was then that he realized something. Junior...Junior...it wasn't even a proper name. Junior was more of a template...wait, a template...
Junior isn't his actual name. Tali...Tali hasn't given him a name. She waited all this time so that I could be here to name Junior with her at my side. It was thoughts like that that made him love Tali all the more. Thank you, Tali. I know we'll name him well.
Still feeding Junior, who seemed to be taking his time digesting the milky liquid, Marcus turned to his terminal as it finally booted up. He, once again one handed, typed in his password, gaining him access to his personal documents as he popped the milk bottle from Junior's mouth, allowing the baby time to breathe. This Junior did in post-haste, looking to be sucking in great mouthfuls of air as he just lay there, arms occassionally flapping around as he didn't even cry. For a moment, Marcus thought Junior had finally calmed down.
Then Junior's eyes squinted again, preparing for another onslaught. Marcus visibly sighed, selecting his contacts list before popping the bottle into Junior's mouth again, silencing the child before he could weep openly again.
I know what you're doing, Junior. I've been there and done that. I know every dirty little trick in the book. I know a scam when I see one. Well, you ain't winning, kiddo! Just wait until you're old enough to start walking! Then some discipline and I'll have you-
Shit. Did I just go full-dad there? Maybe I'm not as incompetent at this as I thought.
It took him a second to realize he had scrolled down his contacts list and already selected the one he wanted. Before he knew it, the glass covering his ship model collection dimmed, the micro-visual filters switching on as their imagery was projected onto the screen. Suddenly, his models disappeared as the entire screen turned black, the words 'Connecting...' at the top left of the screen.
Electing to tickle Junior's tummy, something the little monster seemed to like, he waited as the connection set. What normally would have taken mere moments took minutes as the connection was rerouted. Unfortunately, the war, the actual war, he reminded himself, had done quite a number on the galactic network, and a number of comm buoys in numerous systems and even entire clusters had gone offline as they were either destroyed by the Reapers or were hit due to friendly fire. Because of this, comm buoys had to reroute their connection to the nearest one, which sometimes could be entire clusters away.
Add ontop of that that they were in a cluster that hadn't had comm buoys for centuries (or did, but were ancient, obselete relics or simply not operating anymore), and the Normandy's extranet connection, at present, was slow as shit. So like he said, a process that should have taken moments, took minutes.
Eventually, six minutes later, a familiar face appeared on screen. Instead of her usual attempt at being cheery despite her hard work, the war had not been kind to Hannah Shepard. With her now being Rear Admiral of an entire battlegroup of vessels ontop of already commanding one with a very obnoxious Fleet Admiral yelling commands in her ear, and you had one Alliance officer who wasn't taking crap from anyone. Luckily for her, the remnants of the Fourth Fleet weren't seeing much action due to the severity of the damage inflicted upon it during the brief but brutal Fall of Earth, meaning that the fleet was now currently housed at the top secret location of the Crucible's construction.
"Uh, Mark," Hannah greeted, her voice sounding tired and aged beyond her years. Her hair was not unkempt however, and her cap was seated tightly on her scalp, the golden bars of a Rear Admiral seated on her left breast. However, that was the only thing tidy about her. Red rings surrounded her eyes, there was a sad quality about her usually vibrant eyes, and her shoulders were sagged. The background looked to be a singular room, and she seemed to have been holding a datapad, at least until he had contacted her, "It sure is good to see a friendly face, especially my son."
He smiled back, although it was forced, "I've interrupted something, haven't I? Sorry, I'll call ba-"
"No need for such a thing," his mother dismissively waved, dumping her datapad unceremoniously onto the desk before her, "Nothing of interest to me anyway. I was just reading fleet reports, news outlets and a few articles on how to get to sleep while there's a fucking war going-damn it. I'm ranting. Apologies, son. You shouldn't have to be subjected to this old woman's ramblings."
"You look like shit," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Do I?" Hannah replied, sighing as she nodded, rubbing the back of her neck, "I'm certainly feeling it," with a final grunt, she twisted her neck, and the sound of very audible cracks could be heard, "And how are you, my son? I doubt the war is doing you any favors."
"All things considered, its actually going fairly well," Marcus noted, smiling slightly, "Curing the genophage and repelling a Cerberus siege of the Citadel are among my list of reliefs. Lost alot of good people, but I wouldn't consider it pyrrhic."
"I heard about the celebrations on Tuchanka. The galactic network is still going crazy about it," Hannah smiled, although it was strained, he could tell it was genuine, "I also believe the footage of a Reaper getting devoured by the mother of thresher maws has gone viral. Just yesterday I caught bunch of marines watching it on repeat. It certainly did alot for morale, my boy."
"We can beat them, mum," he stated firmly, actually believing it, "If a thresher maw can kill a Reaper, you sure as hell bet we can."
"Irix Coronati proved that when the Reapers first came into the Apien Crest. You want to know how many kills he racked up before his line was overwhelmed? Ten kills. Ten. Considering our current predicament, we could use numbers like that again. You were right son; the Reapers aren't invincible, and hopefully we can hurry up and finish this damn bowling ball and end this nightmare."
He noticably perked up at that, "How is construction going? Making any progress?"
"Slowly and steadily, and that's just what I saw," she replied, coughing lightly, "But ever since the STG started sending in their techies, we've been getting alot more work done, especially technologically. And those rachni? Scared the hell out of our techs when they first popped up, but I tell you what, you give those workers something to do, and they do it. One of our architects decides to do something one way, the workers do it, but better and more efficiently. They're little miracles, I'll tell you. Still, even with them, its slow. We've only just managed to finish the infrastructure of the weapon, and we haven't even touched the weapon's core yet. And even when we do finish it, we need that catalyst."
If only we knew where it was. If only...
It's out there somewhere, we just need to find it. But building the UGC's alliances is a top priority. Even if we do find the catalyst, we can't use the Crucible unless we have a big damn fleet to defend it while it powers up. And for a weapon of that magnitude? I'll be surprised if it's ready instantly.
"We'll find it, mum. Don't worry," he replied.
"I know. Its you, I worry about. Stunts like the ones on Tuchanka? You never cease to give me a heart attack," she joked, shaking her head.
"We're in the Far Rim, if you want to know. Broiled in the middle of a damn war between the quarians and the geth. Reapers got involved, so yeah," he added.
"Sounds like you got your hands full," Hannah concluded with affirmation in her voice. She knew all too well what having your hands full was like, but at least his involved combat action. Hers involved a desk, four walls and a datapad, "But I guess quarians means you've run into Tali?"
"Certainly did. And before you ask, she's fine, mum. A little bit of a rescue mission, but otherwise, she's fine. No worse for wear." It was then that his attention was brought back to his originally intended topic and he quickly popped the bottle from Junior's mouth and picked him up, bringing him into view of the screen.
"Mum, meet my son, Junior," he then gently grabbed Junior's hand and waved it up and down slightly in a waving gesture while Junior just looked blankly at the huge face suddenly lighting up infront of him, "Junior, say high to grandma."
"You're telling me I have a grandson?" Hannah cheered, her face lighting up like a tree, "Why did...why didn't you...oh my God! When? What center did you adopt at? When did you-"
"No adoption, mum," Marcus just kept grinning as Hannah gave a disbelieving look.
"Don't try to con me, Mark," she chastised, "I know interspecies reproduction is impossible."
"Normally, yes. But Mordin..." the scientist's name still brought upon waves of sorrow, but he managed to continue regardless, "...being the brilliant SOB he was, managed to make a serum that allowed me and Tali to have a baby. And it worked, mum! What you're looking at is my own flesh and blood, and Tali's! Not adopted, and not a product of surrogacy or artificial insemination! Ours. A true Shepard."
"Come to think of it, he certainly does have that mischevious look you had when you were just a baby. You were a nightmare," Hannah groaned at the memories, trying not to remember them.
Junior was awfully quiet, Marcus noted. He hadn't made a sound since his bottle was removed, and simply sat there, looking up, completely shocked at the technology presented before him.
"Trust me, Junior's no different," he replied, "But he seems to like you. He was bawling all over me before. Now he's just quiet."
"Is this why you called me?" she asked, seeing right through his facade, "You obviously didn't call just for social hour, so you obviously called for some parently advice. And for step one, need I remind you that you're holding him wrong?"
"Grama."
For a moment, Marcus wasn't sure where the alien force had come from. When he realized just where it had come from, both Marcus and his mother remained as still as stonewalls, eyes fixated on Junior the entire time.
Junior spoke again, this time raising his arm and extending his full finger to point at the elderly woman before him.
"Grama."
He spoke. Junior...he actually spoke.
"Yes, kiddo!" Hannah replied happily, a single solitary tear dropping down her cheek as she wiped it away, "I'm your grama!"
Junior turned around, and pointed directly to Marcus, "Dada."
He smiled, kissing the child's tiny hand, "Yes, I'm your dada." How is this even possible? I was lead to believe babies took ages to develop the ability to walk, let alone speak. He shouldn't even be able to speak yet...
Apparently his mother thought the same thing, but was simply too ecstatic to care as she had been able to witness her grandson speak his first words.
"Mama?"
"Mama's downstairs, little buddy," he replied softly, rocking the child back and forth, "Mama will be up soon."
"Mama!"
Marcus had a son. One he thought he would never have. When he had chosen Tali, he had acknowledged that he was forfeiting his ability to conceive children. But now...Mordin had allowed Junior to be birthed. Allowed him to exist. Marcus and Tali owed everything to their late salarian friend, and he wished the professor could have lived long enough to see his achievement. Both of them, cure and serum. Wherever that brilliant man was in the afterlife, he saluted him.
For it was little moments like this that made Marcus truly appreciate life for what it was.
Precious, and finite. And he would not waste it.
{Loading...}
July 6, 2186
1659 hours.
Armoury, Normandy-Class Stealth Frigate CAW Deliverance SR-1, In Orbit over Benning, Euler System, Arcturus Stream Cluster.
The Reaper War, Raid on Benning.
Major Randall Ezno.
Sometimes he missed life on the Barn.
Currently, Major Randall Ezno, head of ship security and master gunnery controller onboard the Deliverance, stood over a weapons bench, his Harrier assault rifle spliced on its shiny, steely-grey metallic surface. He had gutted it to its most basic parts; everything from the barrel to the trigger mechanism, and even the heat sink, lay exposed on the bench, being inspected inch by inch by its overly meticulous user.
This was basically his source of entertainment these days; take apart his weapons, or when he didn't need to, the other weapons contained in the frigate's armoury, and just take them apart to either improve them, repair them or learn their inner workings. Randall had always had an obsession with weaponry, and that had never changed. This was only enhanced when he joined Cerberus all those years ago.
He turned back to the bench infront of him, inspecting the weapon parts intensely, nudging aside the barrel as he decided to address the heat sink. The Deliverance was currently holding orbit over Benning, its stealth drive active as to remain hidden from Reaper forces within the cluster. The Arcturus Stream had been largely left untouched by the Reapers aside from the Arcturus System, which had been the site of the brief Battle of Arcturus, leading to the destruction of the Alliance Parliament, and Arcturus Station itself. Aside from Arcturus though, the rest of the Stream was left unmolested. But that would change soon however.
The total absence of Alliance forces however left Benning ripe for the taking, allowing Cerberus to take the civilian populace by surprise. With the failure of Operation Deathstroke still hanging high over Cerberus' heads and Shepard nowhere to be found, the Illusive Man had taken to launching many restoration efforts to rebolster Cerberus' near-depleted forces. They still had thousands of troops at their disposal, but they needed more. The Citadel would have provided them many more, but due to Shepard's intervention, only a quarter of its potential for 'recruits' had been harnessed.
Which is why they were now at Benning, the last human colony still standing. Its civilian population, 2.25 million, were mostly centered around the planet's capital city of Joughin, which meant it had plenty of soldiers to conscript. So, with the Deliverance at the head, the Cerberus Sixth Fleet entered the system, and immediately launched their assault on the defenseless, unknowing world. They managed to overwhelm its miniscule militia in a matter of minutes, allowing the population to be hoarded onto the Cerberus transports. 2.25 million people, ready to be processed and turned into fresh Cerberus troops.
Kai Leng was leading the Deliverance's relatively small continegent on the surface, as the Illusive Man wanted him to personally oversee the operation. Leng had emphasized that Randall wasn't needed on the surface, leaving the man on the Deliverance. Which led to Randall's current position in the armoury.
With an irritated sigh, he reached a hand up and scratched at his cheek, where one of his implants poked out. Cerberus had implanted him with the standard issue implants that all Cerberus soldiers currently got, improving his capabilities in combat. He was also given powerful cybernetics, allowing him to pull off feats many normal humans, even if heavily-built, could not hope to achieve. Most of the time, Randall was grateful for the upgrades. His reflexes improved drastically, and he was an overall more impressive combatant. But if only he could have those upgrades without this damn itch.
Randall wasn't a very comely man, even with his implants. He had initially reacted badly to them, which meant his once brown, combed hair was almost ghostly white, only a few strands of his original, natural color left. His skin had even darked slightly, taking on a more tanned quality than before. He now had cobalt blue eyes in place of his originally hazel ones, and lines covered his face in almost every crevice, glowing bright red due to his implantations. And they all caused so much damn itching.
Randall just kept itching in irritation, convinced he would end up having to scratch them raw before they stopped, and even then they'd persist. He would keep itching until his skin started peeling off, and then he would rip out the source of his irritation, and finally sigh as it was removed...before dying of intense blood loss.
He elected to ignore the flaring discomfort, trying his best to exile the itch from his thought process, instead focusing on the rifle infront of him. The M-97 Mattock Auto, known by most of the military as the Harrier, was the spiritual successor to the formidable Mattock. Taking the semi-automatic heavy rifle, which featured one-round burst mechanics, but was able to deal a massive amount of force in momentum in one strike, and upgrading it to make it automatic. Sacrificing magazine size for more damage, the Harrier's upgrade to automatic firing allowed it to decimate its enemies much more quickly, its heavy rounds chewing up armor much more efficiently, and with ease. His kind of weapon.
He thought back to the events that had led to him being on the Deliverance. He had originally been a manhunter for Cerberus, a position that did not come with a light paycheck or a peaceful runtime. His job largely involved abducting high value targets, whether it be well-known politicians, military leaders, corporate managers or special test subjects. Randall was good at what he did, and he had clocked up an impressive list of abductees. His last one had been that of a retired turian general named Septimus Oraka, on the ice world of Altaaya. After that, the Illusive Man had contacted the Director of the Barn, his home station, and told him that he was being transferred to the Deliverance. And so here he was.
He returned to examining his weapon, ignoring the incessant itch on his face. It called to him, demanding for the discomfort to be relieved, but he would not give in this time. He had to learn to control it. The itches are only a minor mishap compared to the power I now wield thanks to them.
Unfortunately, he could not use that power to focus, which meant that he was in no mood to fix his harrier. In the end, he gave up and began to rapidly reassemble it. He didn't understand why he was so distracted. He usually took mere minutes to analyze and apply a solution when he was building or assembling weapons, but today he was just out of it. Almost as if he was bored of the task.
Once his harrier was back in one place, its casing reattached and covering it once more like a layer of skin, he slotted the heat sink back into its original place, making the rifle operable again with a loud beep. Picking up, he made his way over to the nearby storage locker, and placed it firmly inside, hearing it click into place as it was clutched by the magnetic clamps inside. Contained within were many other rifles, like Revenant LMGs, Mattocks, Valkyries, Avengers, Usurpers, Sabers and many others. All thanks to Cerberus. They certainly did get the best equipment.
After having stowed his rifle away, he closed the locker, keying in his personal code to make sure it was locked. Cracking his neck with a weary sigh, he turned from the now secure locker and leaned back, letting his back connect with the cool, metal surface of the locker as he crossed his arms and appraised his surroundings with disinterested observation.
The Deliverance, by all meanings of the word, was the sister ship to the Normandy SR-2. A direct copy, or at least, a direct copy of the vessel long before the Alliance got their hands on it and likely made changes. There was the five decks, and each deck was the same as the Normandy's had been. Same stealth drive, same weaponry, same color scheme, same engines, same everything. Only thing they couldn't copy was the crew, but that was unavoidable.
The armoury, for instance, was a prime example of this consistency. Located on the CIC Deck, the armoury was located at the back of the deck, on the port side of the frigate. It was quite a large room, stretching across the deck so far that an observation window at the back allowed a view of the drive core down below.
The room had a sterile feel to it, with grey-silver metal bulkheads and support beams lining the room, with the odd Cerberus golden hexagon painting the wall, or 'Deliverance' or 'SR-1' accompanying it or standing alone. Across the room were numerous lockers, for both weapons and armor, as well as benches that could be used for tinkering with equipment or modifying weapons like he had just attempted to do.
A door to the left of the room let to a miniture T-shaped junction, connecting the Tech Lab, Conference Room and Armoury respectively. At current, Inali Renata, the doctor he worked with on the Barn, was working in the Tech Lab, and the captain of the ship, Armistan Banes, was in the Conference Room, having a nice little chat with the Illusive Man's pet assistant, Geoff Dielheart. Apparently the Illusive Man was still coming to terms with the failure to take the Citadel.
It was a seemingly insurmountable goal. You can't just stroll onto the Citadel and take it. The place is fucking huge. TIM thought taking it would be like Omega all over again, but he forgot to account for many things: 1, the Citadel has proper military forces to defend it and 2, Petrovsky wasn't there. The man's tactical brilliance is what won him Omega, not his troop numbers and technology. Taking the Citadel was a strategy doomed to fail.
Randall's shift currently coincided with Hal McCann's, who was the actual chief armourer; Randall just helped out. His official position was chief gunnery controller, which meant the main guns, especially the bulky Thanix Cannons, were his priority to maintain. McCann was on break in the mess hall, which was a good thing; he hated talking to the man. He never shut up about his damn headaches.
Keeps telling everyone like they should give a shit. We all get the headaches; its just a side effect of the implantations and the cybernetics. Why can't he just suck it up like everyone else and quit bitching?
Times like this made him wish he was on Benning. Hunting down and capturing people was what Randall did best. Instead, Leng had been sent, which was the exact opposite of the assassin's skill set. Leng killed people, Randall captured them. Why they were swapping roles was totally unknown to Randall, but he didn't make a habit of questioning the Illusive Man's decisions. Especially since the man seemed to be developing a harsher attitude ever since the war started. He had been ruthless before, but never on such a scale.
Yet again, it's war. I'd be surprised if he remained the way he was. As he always says 'everybody is expendable, even me.' But it still made Randall wonder just what kind of expendability TIM was talking about. Cerberus headquarters was only known by name, but noone had ever visited it and come back remembering where it was. They could vividly remember what they did there, just not how they got there, or how they got back. Almost as if certain sections of memory had just been...dissected.
If so, that's some advanced technology. I know they brought a man back from the dead, but to be able to choose which memories to erase? Cerberus never fails to impress in the technology department. All for humanity.
All for humanity. Is that why they were abducting their own people? For the betterment of-
The itch increased, and his head began to throb, painfully.
His headache was so sudden and brutal that he almost cried out and doubled over. Instead, he bit down painfully on his lower lip, so hard that he drew blood. As it trickled down his chin from his ruptured lip, he cradled his temple, trying to coax the headache from his brain. As soon as it had built up, it was gone, as had the itch. Confused, he stood up, trying to remember what he was thinking of beforehand.
Nothing came to mind.
A few moments later, he was still unable to think of what he said, and simply shrugged, retreating into the pit of disinterest. Whenever Randall was bored, he adopted this stance. It wasn't as if a manhunter had alot to do on a ship like this, especially when he wasn't actually helping the operation in any fashion. What else could he think of to do?
Just as he began to stare aimlessly into the deck plating however, the door from the corridor opened with a swish of air being released, the door's multi-surface splitting apart to click into place within the walls around it.
He looked up to see who was coming through at the exact same time said person walked through it. He was wearing a firm, ironed Cerberus officer's uniform, which was basically the Alliance uniform with white and gold instead of navy blue and black, with the gold bars of a captain on his right breast. He did not wear his cap, choosing to keep it off. The man had a very light goatee going on, but aside from that, he had no facial hair whatsoever. Even his scalp was barren, the man having chosen the bald side of life.
Armistan Banes' eyes almost immediately locked onto Randall as he walked into the armoury, giving a brisk nod, "Randall, the Illusive Man apparently has a mission for you and your men."
That peaked Randall's interest and he immediately uncrossed his arms, moving forward to brace against the bench, fixing Banes' with all the focus he could give, "I assume it isn't just a herding operation?" Give me something to capture. Someone important. Fuck, something to kill. Anything is better than being stuck on this ship, doing nothing. I need a reprieve.
Banes nodded, coming to stand on the opposite side of the weapons bench that Randall was leaning against, "The Illusive Man doesn't want Leng to lead this mission. Says he's far too prone to anger and that his recent failure on the Citadel will drive him to do...irrational things. Things that could potentially ruin the assigned task. No, he wants you to do this. According to your service record, you're calm, patient, good at ambushes and almost always successfully grab the target. 1-20 failure to grab, ratio, correct?"
Randall nodded, taking no smugness out of his task. He was a machine, a war tool, and there was no point in admitting that he was good at what he did, "That's correct. My list includes retired or active generals, politicians, would-be assassins, you name it, I'll nab it."
That caused Banes to perk up an eyebrow, "What about famous, heavily-armed and active, soldiers?"
Now Randall was definitely interested, "...not so much. But I did manage to capture the great Septimus Oraka, so how's that? Does that count, sir?"
Banes creased his lips, looking to be deep in thought. He just stood there, thinking over his decision, as if the mission he was about to give to Randall could decide the course of the war, or the very fate of Cerberus itself. Besides, what did the Illusive Man deem so important?
Famous, heavily-armed and active, soldier. Why is that ringing bells?
And then it clicked. It was quite clear who Banes meant. Randall mentally slapped himself for not realizing it before. Who else would the Illusive Man want that was a great soldier and galactically renowned, and had been causing untold amounts of trouble for Cerberus for years?
"Captain Shepard," Randall blurted out, breaking Banes' thoughts as his CO's attention was drawn back to him instantly at the two words. Confident that's what Banes meant, he continued, "You want me to capture Shepard." Hard, but not impossible. Hard to attain, but he's not invisible. Still, the man's service and track record certainly are impressive, and worrying. His kill count is in the hundreds of thousands, and that's not over years. He killed seven thousand slavers with just a machine gun turret and pieces of concrete as cover on Elysium, and held off the other three thousand long enough for reinforcements to arrive. He survived a Thresher Maw ambush. He's thwarted our invasions of Eden Prime and the Citadel, wiped out the Collectors, and killed Saren Arterius. The man's a walking legend, and I'm supposed to nab him?
Still, nobody's invincible. After all, Shepard did die at one point and had to be brought back. If I can catch him off guard...
Banes shook his head, sighing as he rubbed the back of his head, "Not exactly. You see, the target you need to abduct is not Shepard."
Randall frowned, "But you said it was a soldier who was famous and heavily-armed."
"Never said that. I merely hinted at it. That, and what I was going to say is that the person your nabbing just happens to be very important to that heavily-armed soldier," Banes reiterated, visibly grinding his teeth. Obviously, the meer thoughts running through his head were enough to be sending the man into a indecisive mental frenzy, leaving him unable to decide whether what he was about to order was ethical or not.
Just makes me more curious.
"Who, sir?" Randall asked. Seeing as Banes didn't respond and simply looked at him, Randall decided to take a few shots in the dark, gathering what information he remembered from the man's service record.
"His mother, Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard? Do you want me to capture her?"
Banes didn't answer.
"His pilot? He's extremely important to the Normandy's operation, and his capture would potentially cripple Shepard's war effort. Is that who you're talking about?"
Silence.
"...the turian? Archangel, was it? Or was it Vakarian? Yeah, that sounds right. Those two seem pretty close, so he must be the target, right?"
Still no answer. Banes just looked at him, urging him on.
"...the quarian? Tali'Zorah would be pretty-" then he saw it. Banes' eyes changed. The way he looked at him, it was as if his body was tensing up. He just froze in position, taking a deeper breath than usual through his nostrils. Randall just nodded, ceasing his assessment.
The quarian. That's who he wants me to capture.
"Why?"
Banes cleared his throat, his adam's apple bulging as he swallowed, sighing heavily as he responded, "Because Tali'Shepard is his wife. They've been married over a year now, and due to her high importance on the Migrant Fleet and overall status in Shepard's life, capturing her and holding her for ransom would hopefully bring Shepard over to the Illusive Man's point of view. Or so he believes."
Randall just scoffed, in complete disbelief. Not at Shepard's choice of women, but at the Illusive Man's rationale.
How could he possibly think capturing the man's wife will achieve anything? Noone who is devoted to destroying an organization like ours could possibly be swayed by his wife being held at ransom. If anything, that gives him further motivation to destroy us faster.
"How..." he gulped, trying to find the right words. One wrong word, and he would be thrown out an airlock. Insulting the Illusive Man or his image now was akin to sin within Cerberus' ranks. Almost as if the guy was some kind of diety, "...that doesn't even make any sense, sir."
Another heavy sigh, "As I'm well aware of, Ezno," Banes stated, looking almost...tired, "I do not pretend to understand the Illusive Man's decisions all the time, but our course is set. There can be no going back. This is your assigned task, and you must follow through with it. Its not up to people like us to question the big wigs upstairs."
Randall gave a crisp nod, understanding his mission, "So you want me to somehow capture Tali'Shepard. Any idea on how to do this?"
"You'll be given a small squad of men. Its not much, but its the best I can give you at the moment," Banes declared, bracing against the table, almost as if he needed to whisper the task, "At current, one of our informants on the Veil's order recently reported that the Normandy was spotted with the Migrant Fleet in the Perseus Veil. We can assume he is currently helping the quarians with their war against the geth, which would explain his sudden disappearance from the frontlines."
Randall just snorted at that, "The quarians...attacked the geth?" What a unbelievably stupid move. We're in the middle of a war with the greatest enemy this galaxy has known, and they waste their valuable resources fighting a vastly inferior enemy. Talk about pathetic timing.
Banes nodded, clearly agreeing with him. Who wouldn't? "What's done is done, and I don't really care who the quarians go to war with. The less allies Shepard possesses, the more we can be left alone and work towards controlling the Reapers as the Illusive Man so desires," Banes declared, "Anyway, we can now assume that Tali'Shepard will either be in the Perseus Veil or the Far Rim. How you capture her is now up to you. The Illusive Man doesn't mind if she is injured, as long as it isn't life threatening and she's alive. Not much use to us if she's dead."
"It'll be done," Randall firmly declared, turning away as he rekeyed his code to open the weapons' locker. Now this is what I do. This is what I'm good at.
"The Deliverance will be leaving with the Sixth Fleet for Project Assimilation. Sixth Fleet will dispatch the new subjects to Director Lawson, and then we'll be heading for Bonaparte Station for refuel and refit. Where we go from that is unknown. I'll give you our communication code; ping us when you're ready for pickup, and we'll move in. You'll be getting a small shuttle, as the Illusive Man didn't want to risk even a corvette for such a delicate task such as this. You heard what happened to the Tajikistan."
"I did," Randall affirmed, "But Captain Nepal was a fuckup. I am not. Tell the Illusive Man he will have his hostage." Everyone in the higher ranking Cerberus officer structure knew the Tajikistan incident. Captain Nepal had tried to ambush and capture the Normandy crew upon their return from the Omega 4 Relay. Not only was their ambush counterambushed and the entire team killed save for Jonathan Sand, but the Tajikistan ended up being destroyed. So much for the 'potential of Nepal.' And he was supposed to be one of his best.
Randall knew of what happened to Sand. Shepard had handed him over to C-Sec on the Citadel, but the Illusive Man's reach was everywhere, and within a day, one of the 'C-Sec officers' arranged for Sand to 'choke on his own food.' Such was the end to that particular threat. But rest assured, Randall intended not to be another Tajikistan. He would complete his task, as he always did.
I'm a Cerberus manhunter. I've captured politicians, generals, assassins, diplomats, ambassadors, bankers, corporate managers, wannabe rebel commanders, the lot. Randall did not know failure because he had never experienced it. I wonder if that's how Shepard feels? All victories, no defeats? Is this what being a legend feels like? If so, it feels great. The invincibility. The assurity of victory.
"Good," Banes declared, giving a nod before motioning towards the CIC, "You'll be leaving in four hours; that's once we've gathered all the colonists from Benning and left and before we hit the relay. Pick your team and be gone by then. Choose your team well, because you'll be going in with a small team; four men each. This needs to be low scale and stealthy."
"I understand," Randall declared, with utmost clarity in his voice, "She won't know what hit her until she's already in the Illusive Man's hands."
And then Shepard will be undone.
"So I guess this is when you went to save Admiral Koris? Records show he didn't die in the Second Morning War."
- Reia'Inas pav Earth.
"We saved him alright. But at great cost."
- Marcus Shepard.
A/N:
I've been slammed (rather inconveniently) with a cold, hence my writing near the end got slightly shittier. I eventually gave up trying to write Javik's section, knowing I'd never get it done at the rate I'm going. Perhaps the next interim I'll do one. Just not this one.
The next chapter will be the rescue of Koris. After that, it all depends. First off though, I've got to get over this fucking cold, which is really starting to piss me off.
Keelah Se'lai, troopers!
AND SUCK IT RED!
