Something About Her

by Levi Matthews

Shepard knows that the first human Spectre can't afford any distractions, but he can't seem to get his quarian squadmate out of his thoughts. He doesn't know why, but there's just something about her.

4. Chapter 3: Presage

Presage

---

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the Mass Effect series. All credit for this story goes to Bioware.

Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to the song Sad Machine by Porter Robinson. God Bless Porter Robinson.

IMPORTANT NOTES: Made some changes to the previous chapters (3/5/2015), concerning Shepard and a few other details. Changes are listed below.

Writing for Infiltrator Shep proved... boring. He was essentially space Batman and I hated it, so we're going space Iron-Man instead. Sentinel again, sans the biotics. Powers: Tech Armor (Red Tint), Incinerate/Flamer, Cryo Blast/Snap Freeze, Shield Drain, Sabotage/Hacking, Concussive Shot. Weapons are the Indra, Valkyrie, Piranha, Eagle and Hurricane. Shepard's armor is now a prototype of the N7 Destroyer Armor (Minus Devastator Mode). I ditched the monomolecular blade/wrist gauntlet thing. Although it's based on an actual medieval weapon (Indian Pata), the idea in itself felt too Stu-ish. Gave Shepard an omni-shield and emphasized omni-tool applications. Consider Shep a cross between the N7 Destroyer and N7 Paladin. Riley is now a Vanguard instead of an Adept, fits more with the armor she's shown with in-game and the whole 'Butcher' moniker.

I will NOT be changing Shepard's class/equipment again. Apologies to anybody who's mad that I keep mucking things around. I hate myself for it too, if it's any consolation. Aside from some previous chapter cleanup and a relevant modifications, NOTHING ELSE has changed. Again, if you've read this far and don't want to re-read, just keep the above changes in mind. Sorry about the textblock.

Lastly, there was some confusion concerning the article at the end of the last chapter, so I'll clear it up here. For the purposes of SAH's universe, consider all contemporary firearms used within the story to implement the ME2/3 Thermal Clip ammunition system unless explicitly stated otherwise.

Anyway, on with the show.

---

-30 March 2183-

Unknown Cluster/Unknown System/Sovereign.

---

WE HAVE FOUND WHAT WE REQUIRE

His eyes opened slowly, mandibles twitching as something forced him back into consciousness. He slowly rose from his seat, joints aching in protest. He hadn't moved in nearly three months. Instruction blared through his skull, demanding and unceasing.

WE WILL NOT TOLERATE FURTHER DELAY

The turian stood, imposing and predatory, silent and tense. His formidable frame was slimmed and elongated by a long black cloak and hood, heavy over his shoulders. The material shimmered with a geometric weave, a subtle indication of a barrier amplifying current. The contours of the outfit masked the heavy, avian armor beneath. His eyes blazed under the shadowy mantle, unnatural blue lights that radiated cold contempt.

Claws curling into fists, he raised his right arm. Tongues of blue power surged around the limb, raw and amplified. His sheer biotic intensity dwarfed that of even the most skilled asari, a fact he could easily attest to. The Matriarch potency came from a lifetime of stud, but the turian's new alterations gave him power beyond her. Beyond anyone.

Nearby, the Matriarch's nude, curvaceous figure was sprawled quietly on the floor, her eyes glazed over while her dark lips mouthed mad nothings. The asari's acolytes were scattered around in various states of delusion and stupor. Nearly three-dozen asari commandos and their Matriarch, all rendered limp and helpless. The turian briefly considered sating himself with one of their nubile forms as he had in the past, but command struck those thoughts from his mind.

YOU WILL BE OUR INSTRUMENT

He gathered his weapons with his left arm, the flesh long since synthesized by eldritch tech. He could feel the machinery within him, improvements that had been so painfully introduced to the turian's body. It was for his benefit, that he may serve and ascend, but every movement felt off. Something was horribly wrong.

A thought, unbidden by his master, pierced the forefront of his mind.

Spirits, help me. Help us all.

Something vast and dreadful reached into his mind, a titan before an insect. Without hesitation or effort, the presence annihilated any scrap of self-determination.

YOU WILL BRING THIS CYCLE TO A CLOSE

Free from the futile notions of doomed mortals, Saren Arterius went to gather up his armies.

---

-30 March 2183-

Ismar Frontier/Aquila System Space/ITV Incorrigible.

---

Snow. Shoot. Stab. Kill.

Run. Run.

A gun in her hands. Blood. Hide.

Dead. All dead.

Salvation. Hopelessness. Pain. Fever. Failure.

Can't hear. Can't see. Can't feel.

Cradled. Lifted up.

Water. Oblivion.

---

Tali awoke with a start, hands clenched into fists.

Her breath came out in short, quick gasps, panicked enough that her suit's internal monitoring systems flashed a respiratory alert across her visor's hud. She dismissed it with a quick omni-tool override and sat up, her back pressed against a wall. In that moment, in the dark and cramp of the ship's innards, Tali felt very small. The noise of ship eased her fear, if only a little. Funny, how such a little thing could be the calm to her storm. Breathing calmed, tension deflated and hands relaxed.

Keelah, what was all that about?

Tali shook her head, cleared her thoughts and reoriented herself with reality. And reality, at the moment, was a very tiny room with bad lighting.

Her bunk aboard the Incorrigible was, if anything, at least as large as Captain Rorani's. It also happened to be a small cargo compartment, but at least the crew had cleaned it out. Mostly. Aside from having to move a few boxes to accommodate a cot, Tali had just enough room for her pack, her shotgun and other non-essentials stored in a footlocker, pistol on a small shelf within arm's reach and a tube of nutrient paste and a water canister on the floor near the cot. Not a luxury liner by any stretch of the imagination, but at least she wasn't bunking with the rest of the crew.

Better a hole in the wall than a bunk surrounded by a bunch of ship-trapped turian men.

Tali groaned aloud and looked at her omni-tool. The orange glow filled the space, cast shadows across her frame. Only been asleep three hours, she thought, groggy. She yawned loudly and spoke into the darkness. "VI, where are we?"

The ship's Virtual Intelligence responded only after a considerably delay; nearly ten seconds, clearly an aftermarket unit. "En route to Metaponto refueling station," the program stated. Its male-toned, turian-esque voice was barely audible through the room's sound projectors. "Estimated arrival time is: two hours standard. Do you have an additional query?"

Tali sat up a little straighter, the confusion on her features veiled by her visor. "VI, is Metaponto in the Tasale system?"

"Negative. The gas giant Metaponto is the fourth orbiting planet within the Aquila system, which itself resides in the Ismar Frontier cluster."

"What are we doing out here?" Tali wondered aloud as she pulled up a galaxy map on her omni-tool, keying in the system in question.

"I do not have sufficient processing capacity for general speculation. This unit is only-"

"That's enough from you, machine," Tali groaned, already fed up with the intelligence.

"Understood. Please contact this unit if you need further assistance. Logging you out."

Tali sat up a little straighter in an attempt to shake off some sleep. Creepy things, those VIs, she thought, unable to hide her unease. If people keep making them more advanced and soon the quarian's won't be alone in roaming the galaxy looking for a new world.

Cynicism turned to confusion when Tali looked over the Incorrigible's navigation data. We're a full cluster away from Illium, she realized, alarm settling in. What is going on?

Tali rose, determined to find the reason behind the ships unexpected detour. She grabbed her pistol from its shelf, holstered the weapon on her left hip and activated the access panel to the bunk's door. The metal barrier slid open with a hiss of pressurized air as she walked into the narrow, corrugated hallway that served as the ship's central hub. The entirety of the freighter could be navigated via the main corridor with the exception of the lower engine deck. In typical tramp-freighter fashion, the Incorrigible was a ship comprised of a single, central section which spanned the length of the ship and was a part of the ship's vital components: engines, life support and cockpit. The port and starboard sections housed the medbay, cargo sections and other non-critical systems. The Incorrigible wasn't a large freighter, by any means, which meant that its segments were more compact and streamlined than a bulk-load ship. In addition to the standard modules, the Incorrigible was equipped with a rather substantial gun battery on both the ship's top and bottom, likely the only thing remotely state of the art on the freighter.

A small ship like this must see its fair share of pirate attacks, Tali thought as she walked toward Rorani's bunk, the deck humming loudly beneath her feet. The lights in the ship were predictably dim, as power needed to be centered on more vital areas. It gave the corridor an eerie look, as though Tali were traversing a ghost ship.

Something ahead registered as movement and she stopped dead, a hand resting on the butt of her pistol. Her breath hitched in her throat and she realized that the hallway offered virtually no cover.

"You're a quick one, suit-rat."

Nalan stepped out of the shadows, a look of distaste clear on his narrow, amphibian features. "Wandering about already? Can't even wait a day before trying to steal from us?" The salarian crossed his arms, the poor lighting doing an even poorer job of highlighting his dull blue armor. An SMG sat quietly at his hip, a sleek gunmetal-grey model that Tali was unfamiliar with.

Tali scowled and moved her hand away from her pistol, but only slightly. The salarian couldn't be trusted, after all. "Are you finished?" she snapped, fed up with the salarian's faked antagonism. "Whatever kind of bosh'tet you are, you don't hate my people. You might not like me, but you aren't fooling this quarian with your racism act."

Silence from the salarian for a brief moment. "Perceptive, too. Not bad, for a quarian."

"Who are you?" Tali demanded.

Nalan laughed, a cruel, bitter sound. "Nobody. You don't need to worry your bucket-head about me, Tali'Zorah. We'll be Illium-bound within the next 12 hours or so and then this ship will be just a tiny part of your Pilgrimage tale."

"We're not headed to Illium," Tali stated, more suspicious than angry.

"No, we're headed to Metaponto. Fuel out here is cheaper than on Illium or any of the depots in the Tasale system. Captain always takes this route." A tinge of humor wetted the salarian's dry tone. "What, she didn't bother telling you?"

Tali stayed silent, fuming.

"There's a lot you don't know, Tali'Zorah," Nalan said, his voice suddenly very cold. "And if you're half as smart as I think you are, you'll keep it that way." The shadowy salarian turned and walked toward the cockpit.

"After all, curiosity will get you killed out here."

And then he was gone, leaving Tali more worried than ever before.

---

-30 March 2183-

Arcturus Stream/Arcturus System/SSV Kilimanjaro.

---

A salute from Admiral Hackett, fierce pride in his eyes.

"I'd offer you luck, Commander, but I know you don't need it. Make us proud."

---

Water, warm and numbing, streamed over Shepard's body and pulled him out of memory. That was only a few minutes ago, he reminded himself. His hands raised, fingers closed to cup the heated current. It pooled briefly before he splashed it across his tired face.

Shepard's quarters aboard the Kilimanjaro were fairly large by the standards of ship-bound life. Well away from the busier and noisier parts of the dreadnought, the room gave Shepard a place to meditate, rest and work without the distractions of... well, anyone. Privacy was a luxury on any ship and Shepard knew he'd miss his quarters after his departure. The transfer to the SSV Normandy meant that the space would belong to someone else before long.

Nothing I'm not used to. Been bouncing between posts for so long it's practically my job at this point. He pressed a panel and the water shut off, leaving him soaked and chilled. The only sounds in the room were the soft hum of ship, the drip of water and the soft intake and exhale of air through nostrils.

Anyone looking at the room, and that's what it was, a single room, would've seen little outside the sterile grey metals and soft blue lights that comprised the roughly rectangular space. There was a large, twin bed halfway down the lefthand wall next to an open metal footlocker and a small nightstand with an omni-lamp. A standard issue desk and chair set were positioned near a low wall near the back of the room, separating a toilet and shower from the rest of the space. Across from the bed was a personal terminal, a workbench covered in tools and weapons parts and a small kitchen space, cluttered but clean.

Clean. Fresh from the shower, Shepard could almost believe it. He stepped out of the stall, grabbed a towel and dried himself off. He looked down at his hands. They trembled, if only slightly.

Clean. What a joke. What an utter joke. Clean for what, just over two years? Gods, I hate this feeling. Hate the wanting. Hate the need. Hate myself for both. I'm weak. Too weak for-

The strong part of him pushed through, shattering his doubt and weakness in a single assertion. I am NOT my worst aspects. I exist in spite of my flaws, not because of them. I am stronger, smarter and better than the lowest parts of me. I don't overcome weakness, I annihilate it with fire and cold and bullets. I am Alliance Military, N7. Best of the best, better than the rest. I am more than myself. Better than myself. Stronger than myself.

The reassurance was just enough to pull the Black Death back into reality. He saw himself in the mirror; round of face, dark of skin, blue of eye, features all too shadowed. His face was a mask of fatigue long since over-worn. Dark hair shaved close, a shadow of stubble across his chin. The dark metal his greybox port, located on the right side of his head and just above the ear.

An old, twisted burn of scar-tissue that bloomed across his chest, courtesy of Akuze.

Pillars of flesh in the night.

Shepard turned away from his reflection with a growl. "Enough of this bullshit," he snapped, wiping his face on the towel. Nude and dried, he walked over to the bed and laid down, right hand tapping the greybox port. He laced his hands across his chest and closed his eyes.

He was elsewhere.

The Commander was 'standing', present but not present, the only light in a field of endless white. He looked down at his 'hands' and flexed his 'fingers', feeling nothing. He looked back up and willed a terminal interface into being. Hard black words appeared against the ivory backdrop, 'floating' several feet above the ground.

-Accessing Greybox Interface-

Input Authorization Code:

"Authorization: 8836-IamwisesoIchangemyself." Shepard 'said' into the terminal.

Authorization Code confirmed. Vocal Recognition confirmed. Input Command.

"Run neural diagnostic: Memory Files. Authorization Code: 1127-Salvationisastateofmind."

Authorization confirmed: Neural diagnostic complete. Stress nodes detected in memory-neuron centers. Command?

"Reconsolidate all files tagged 'REGRETS' into backlog. Re-enable mid-grade neural blocks against access and resurgence. Alter chemical balances to compensate for consolidation. Authorization Code: 5949-Wedowhatwemust."

Authorization confirmed: Consolidation complete, blocks enabled, chemical compensation altered. Command?

He hesitates for a moment.

Better if I could just delete my past and have it done with.

Can't though. Can't forget. Restrain the mind. Don't remove the self.

What good is a computerized brain if you can't dump bad files?

Not files. Memories. Things that are me.

What difference does that make?

Not doing this again.

"Close relevant files and exit greybox interface."

Confirmed. Exiting greybox interface in 3... 2... 1...

Shepard opened his eyes.

He felt... better wasn't quite the word, not for a neural overhaul, but more...

"Ordered," he said as he sat up, stretching the muscles in his neck. "I feel more ordered. Problem dealt with, for now. Time for the next problem."

Shepard opened his nightstand drawer to retrieve his clothing. Folded neatly on top of his uniform were a pair of black, under-layer compression shorts and grey military socks. He gathered the clothes and set them on the bed. The room's cool air prickled his body as Shepard pulled on the undergarments.

Outside of his armor, the N7 looked as though he'd been carved of deep earth, his skin dark brown and reflective of his Pakistani heritage. Shepard wasn't broad or overly-muscled by any means, but his physical definition told tales of hard training and vicious strength. He took a moment to stretch his shoulders, his neck, his arms.

Still sore from Pinnacle Station, he mused. Ahern didn't hold back on the holograms, that's for sure. He might just have a friendly grudge. Good training, regardless.

Shepard chuckled and stowed his hardsuit in the footlocker, slotting it between his weapons. It was a tight fit, as the Commander's arsenal was extensive and bulky. All his larger weapons: Valkyrie, Indra, Hurricane and Piranha were arranged around the edge of the footlocker, collapsed and secured. He kept his sidearm and service knife with him at all times; better to have them on-hand and ready, just in case. Couldn't be too careful, after all. Especially not with turian Spectres about.

An N7 needs to be ready for anything. That goes double for the Black Death.

A beep at the Commander's door pulled him out of his thoughts and stopped his motions short. "Come in," he said, unfolding his uniform on the bed.

The door slid open and Lieutenant Lowe walked in, armor replaced with simple undress blues. Outside of her hardsuit, Lowe was a taut build; stocky and strong but still feminine in figure. She looked more a woman than a marine in that moment, a soft gleam of intelligence in her hazel eyes, a short crop of blonde hair that offered a few loose bangs and a casual posture betraying a hint of her somewhat maverick personality. Her sidearm sat ready at her left hip and an Alliance-grade footlocker rolled behind her on a holographic drone, the transport model slaved to the Lieutenant's omni-tool.

"Commander," she said, saluting. "Just wanted to..." Lowe drifted off, gawking for a moment before directing her gaze elsewhere. "Sir, with all due respect, that's just not fair."

Shepard smiled a little as he pulled on his battle fatigues, ruining a perfectly good view. "Nothing you haven't seen before, Lieutenant," he said while his hands worked sleeves, straps and buckles.

She kept her mouth shut as the Commander finished dressing, the black fatigues only as bulky as the additional armor padding made them. Lowe's own fatigues were similar in design, though without the added shoulder padding and closed-neck collar. Sleeves rolled up and buttoned above the elbow, Shepard took a quick moment to pull on his light combat boots, completing the battle-dress uniform. His combat knife was sheathed at the small of his back, concealed and ready for action at a moment's notice.

"What did you need?" Shepard asked as he took his Eagle from off of the bed, the compact handgun expanding neatly in his hands, its lightweight frame a poor indicator of its fire-rate and sheer stopping power. He holstered the weapon on his right hip; safeties engaged, the pistol's frame quickly collapsed.

"Just wanted to say my goodbyes, sir."

The Commander hesitated only for a moment before turning to Lowe, his expression carefully neutral. "Bit premature, Lieutenant. We're both being transferred to the Normandy, after all."

Lowe shrugged in nonchalance but the look in her eyes spoke of honest sadness. "Yeah, but that's until this shakedown run goes through. I'm sure Nihlus has got some stuff planned for you. Who knows how long you'll stick with us?" A wry grin broke across her features. "Then you'll be Spectre-Commander Black Death Shepard. I think it's got a nice ring to it."

"That remains to be seen, Lieutenant."

The N4 leaned against and snorted in disbelief. "No it doesn't. Sir, you're twice the soldier half of these Spectres claim to be. How long have we been fighting alongside each other?"

"Are we counting Anhur?"

"I'm not. Half of Delta was deployed to that system."

"A little less than half, Lieutenant."

"Not important, sir. I got sent to high places with small windows. You got sent-"

"Wherever they needed me."

"And we never really worked together."

"Not true. Balaam city, May 16th, 2176. I coordinated fire teams on those outposts you tagged, remember?"

Lowe suppressed a shudder. "Commander, I don't want to remember that strike. I can still see those Na'hesit bastards just shooting people in the streets."

"Be glad your persistence of memory is fuzzier than mine, Lieutenant."

"Whatever you say, sir. But Anhur still doesn't count."

"The Theshaca raids, then?"

"Yes, the raids."

"Took up most of 2178. Hit five of the eight pirate anchorages, bombarded the last three from orbit. You got wounded in October."

Lowe made a face. "First and last time I've been counter-sniped. Sir."

"Which is why I recommended you for a promotion, Lieutenant."

"And then you ran off to R&D, leaving me as Delta's new officer scrub. They made me buy drinks for almost that entire year!"

"Every new officer in Delta pays for drinks until they're about a year in. They did the same with me back in '72. They don't call it the 'morale investment' for nothing."

"You might have deep pockets, sir, but this marine has bills to pay. Got an apartment on the Citadel that needs upkeep, have to make sure my mom's got enough to keep her afloat, my sniper rifle isn't going to upgrade itself-"

Shepard sighed and sat on his bed, his hands lacing together. "Helen, we need to talk."

Lowe stopped short, a worried expression cutting into her features. "Sir? Everything okay?"

"Have a seat, Lieutenant," he said, gesturing to the nearby desk chair.

She walked over to the desk, turned the chair to face her Commander and sat down, leaning forward slightly. "What's this about?"

Shepard rubbed a hand over the shave of his jaw, fingers pricking lightly against the stubble. "We both know this is probably going to be one of our last assignments together. If I make Spectre I'll be working alone, outside the chain of command and outside Alliance territory and jurisdiction. If I don't make Spectre... well, that's not likely to happen. Nihlus hasn't seen what I am, how I work. Alliance Command has records, has statistics, hell, they've even got some vid footage, but they can't compare to the real me."

Lowe smiled a little. "Nihlus won't know what hit him, sir."

The Commander almost returned the gesture. "Lieutenant, what I'm trying to say is that even if I don't get into the Spectres, and probability and my skill favor that outcome, I might not stay with the Alliance in any frontline capacity after this tour is up."

Helen stilled and her eyes went wide, her mouth parsed slightly in disbelief. "I... Am I hearing you right, sir? You're going to-"

"Might." Shepard emphasized, his words hanging heavy in the space between the two marines. "Haven't decided, not yet. I'll ask you to keep this to yourself. If Admiral Hackett knew I was considering leaving Delta for good..."

"He'd think you were making a bad joke. Like I am now. Sir."

The Commander shook his head, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. "The Admiral doesn't think much of jokes, Lieutenant."

"Sir, with all due respect, why? You're Delta's best, period. Everybody knows it, even if the Brass doesn't want to admit it. Nobody holds a candle to you, Shepard. Nobody."

Shepard looked into Lowe's eyes, their soft hazel the cornerstone of her concerned expression. His eyes, hard and steely-blue, didn't betray anything. Explanation was left to words.

"Helen, I don't plan on doing this forever. Hell, if it wasn't for the fact that Admiral Hackett and Captain Anderson wanted me for the position, I wouldn't have even taken Nihlus' offer."

She leaned back in her seat, a subdued but obviously surprised expression on her face. "Commander?"

"I've been working with Alliance R&D for nearly my entire career. Hahne-Kedar, Aldrin Labs, Ariake Tech, Kassa Fab, I've got clout with almost every military-grade human manufacturer in the galaxy. I got a call from the bigwigs in Vancouver a week ago. R&D wants to hire me as a contractor research consultant, somebody who works with big tech and equipment companies to make sure the Alliance gets only the best deals and the best gear. And while I haven't told them yes, I also haven't turned the offer down yet."

Lowe snorted with disdain. "Sir, with all due respect, you'd be wasted with work like that."

Shepard shrugged. "Yeah. Maybe you're right. Just think about it, that's all."

"Permission to speak freely, Commander?"

"Granted, Lieutenant."

"Sir, I joined the Navy to shoot bad guys in the face and keep people safe. In that order. I wouldn't trade all the gunshot wounds and beat-downs I've gotten in the last eight years for anything. I'm doing good work, work I'm really good at. Yeah, I know I might get killed somewhere down the line and sometimes I don't sleep well at night, but I'd sleep a lot worse knowing I'd given up along the way. I'm a sniper, sir. This is my job."

Shepard quietly thought on the N4's words before speaking again. "Helen, you joined the Alliance in 2174, right?"

Lowe nodded, still unsure as to what her Commander was getting at. "Enlisted when I turned eighteen, like you did. Went in as a private. Didn't see active duty till '75 though, because I enlisted late."

"You joined up with Delta Company around the start of '76."

A puzzled tone entered Lowe's voice. "Yes sir, got pulled right in after my first tour ended. Major Duran was impressed with my record and had me transferred, right in time for Anhur." Lowe sat back in her seat, confusion furrowing her brow. "Sir, where are you going with this? You know my service record. Hell, you probably know it better than I do, what with that computer in your brain."

Shepard idly scratched the scars on the left side of his face. "I've been Alliance military for 11 years, Lieutenant. Been an officer since I enlisted and got corralled into Delta immediately after OCS. Been fighting and gaining rank ever since. You've been doing the same for eight years now. Just wondering where it all ends."

It was Lowe's turn to shrug. "It ends whenever you want it to, sir. Like I said, you've got deep pockets. If you've got second thoughts this far down the line, at least you've got a safety net to fall back on. Hell, if I had your cash I might've retired early. But, if I'm being honest, I like this life too much to leave it for some R&D lab job. Isn't that why you came back to the front line? Because you got bored?"

Shepard said nothing at first, thoughts rolling around in his head. His self-worth, his skill, his doubt, his internal conflict, each aspect of his identity bounced off of his brain like pistol rounds pinging off the side of a tank. Eventually, he reached the only conclusion he could make with any confidence.

"I came back because I had to, Lieutenant."

She smiled, a soft gesture that didn't quite match the nervous look in her eyes. "You sure you didn't come back because you missed me, sir?" A single, warm hand reached out to rest on the Commander's knee.

The N7 didn't return the smile. "Helen, what you want from me goes against every fraternization reg in the book. Even if I wanted to, and I don't, I wouldn't jeopardize your career over an... attachment."

Lowe's smile faded as realization sunk in. She quickly pulled her hand back, as though stung.

"Lieutenant... look. You're a fantastic soldier and one of my only friends, but I've been down this road before. These things don't work out."

"Marines hook up all the time," she said quietly, very still in her seat.

"Wasn't talking about marines, Helen. Was talking about me. My... liaisons never go well, regardless of rank. Not about to make that kind of trouble your problem."

Lowe looked down at her hands, hiding the look of disappointment on her face but not the toll it took on her voice. "That's a no, Commander?"

"That's a no, Lieutenant. Not going to happen. I don't feel the same way."

Lowe was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke again, her voice held only the barest hint of strain. "Huh. Well, looks like this marine has her foot in her mouth. Sir."

"I'm sorry. I can't be what you want me to be."

The N4 stood up, her footlocker bobbing in response to her movements. "Understood, Commander. I've... got some thinking I need to do. Alone."

"Dismissed. See you on the shuttle."

Lowe passed the Commander, footlocker whirring after her. Shepard stared at the opposite wall, unmoving. Her footsteps tapped lightly against the deck for a moment before stopping just shy of the door.

"Sir... it's been an honor working with you."

His door hissed open, sealed shut and Shepard was alone again. The dull hum of ship filled the space that disappointment left in its wake. Packing took precedent as he worked to distract himself from Lowe's emotional departure. Toiletries, off-duty clothes, a single bottle of Amrut Reserve single malt whiskey, a quarter empty; all of it was quickly cached away into the footlocker. The Commander then gathered up all the loose tech on the workbench and stowed the parts in an organized manner.

The N7 hefted the locker over to his nightstand, wanting to pack his few personal effects last. A civilian grade digi-frame photo album, currently displaying a the smiling forms of a dark-skinned boy and an older, fair-skinned woman standing near the edge of the Grand Canyon in Arizona. Dressed like tourists, the pair shared eye color, a silver-blue hue that proved one of the only noticeable similarities between the two. Their happiness was genuine and the photo was a good memory, enough to prompt a small smile on the Commander's features.

The image shifted to show three young recruits in new Alliance Uniforms, grinning like idiots and saluting the camera. Shepard, Travis and Lee, fresh from Arcturus Academy and ready to take on the whole damn galaxy. Shepard's free arm was around Lee's waist, holding tightly.

Don't even know why I keep this thing, he mused as he stowed the frame in his footlocker. Brain's got every memory I've ever had stored away. Should just get rid of it.

Shepard snorted with irritation. And now that's 127 times I've told myself to throw the frame away. Didn't happen then, won't happen now.

There was a fairly large, hand-painted model of the SSV Everest, the first Alliance Dreadnought-class vessel. The model itself was old and, though well-detailed, the paint used had dulled over time and there were several chips and scratches along the ship's surface. A small treasure, something a younger Shepard had kept very close over the years. A gift when his father had forgotten-

Resurgence detected. Activating neural-block. Neural block enabled.

It wasn't forgetting, not really. It wasn't hiding from his problems either. He could override the neural-blocks at any time with just a thought. Everything was fine.

I keep telling myself that. Doesn't make it true.

He sighed heavily and opened the nightstand's top drawer, reaching in to find the book inside. He pulled it free of the drawer, its size more of a booklet than an actual book. Soft black only broken by softer white lettering, the text held a weight far greater than its actual mass suggested. The Dhammapada.

His fingers traced along the time-worn edges and corners, the book well-travelled and oft-read. The words of a man who had genuinely mastered himself. Simple words, infinitely adaptable in application, that stretched back to the some of the oldest philosophies and faiths in human history. Words on peace and happiness, righteousness and wisdom. Restraint of body and mind. Freedom from suffering.

Still working on all of it, Shepard thought, bemused. My path doesn't end until I end. Whenever that might be.

A new beep at the door narrowed the Commander's brow. Lowe wouldn't be so quick to come back. His eyes scanned the room quickly. The Lieutenant hadn't left anything behind.

"Identify yourself." Shepard said aloud.

"Just a level three threat, Commander." The speaker's flanged voice was clearly amused with little joke.

Shepard approached the door and activated the two-way holo-monitor. "What do you want, Nihlus?"

"A word, Commander. That's all."

Shepard cut the feed and the door hissed open, revealing the brown and white-faced turian. Nihlus' emerald gaze betrayed nothing, even as he surveyed the room behind Shepard.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Shepard shook his head, slightly irritated by the actual sincerity in the turian's voice. "Just finishing my packing up." Shepard at least had the decency of protocol to stand aside, gesturing for the Spectre to enter.

Nihlus nodded and walked into the room, mandibles bouncing lightly his eyes scanned over the sterile walls, the standard issue bedding, the lack of 'homeliness'. "Rather spartan decor for a man who makes more money in a year than most humans make in a lifetime," the Spectre observed.

Shepard walked over to his footlocker and placed the Dhammapada on top of the stowed kit. The footlocker closed with the press of a button; everything the N7 owned compacted away in a single box. "Not much interested in small-talk, Kryik. You have something you need to discuss?"

"Patience, Commander. You're not the first Spectre candidate I've worked with."

"Just the first human one."

Nihlus' quirked a brow-plate. "Commander, what makes you think that actually matters to me? I don't care that you're human. I only care that you can do the job."

Shepard met the Spectre's gaze. "Fair enough. Apologies."

"None needed. Regardless, I had something I wanted to show you."

The turian reached into an armor port and produced a small, hermetically-sealed vial. Through the glass could be seen a red powder, one the Commander was intimately familiar with.

Shepard's entire body tensed, though his face betrayed nothing. "Why are you showing me this?" he asked, each word slow and deliberate.

Nihlus wiggled the vial knowingly. "A peace offering, Shepard. What your people refer to as an 'olive-branch'. Animosity isn't the best way to start a working relationship. This is very high-grade stuff, quite expensive. I'm sure your... palate can appreciate the distinction. I'd hoped this would smooth things over, so to speak."

The Commander stared into Nihlus' eyes, a hostile glare burning across his features. "You're a bastard," the N7 growled.

"Hardly," the Spectre chuckled, still holding the vial. "I don't much care for my mother, but I do know who she is."

"Get that out of my face."

"Or what? You'll report me? It's not illegal for Spectres to obtain, carry or use prohibited substances."

"Red Sand doesn't work on turians," Shepard snapped. "You brought that here to goad me, to see how I'd react." The Commander's hands balled into fists and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to punch the Spectre in his condescending face. "I didn't expect your tactics to be so goddamn juvenile, Kryik. You've seen my service record, you know what I've had to deal with and you come at me with this? This is your way of seeing if I'm on the straight and narrow? You're playing with some very dangerous fire, Spectre."

The turian's eyes narrowed as the vial curled into his fist. "How long have you been clean, Commander?"

"Two years and twenty-six days," Shepard spat, unable to control the rage in his voice. "Two years and twenty-six days of telling myself I won't relapse. Do you have any idea how ashamed I was when Hackett ordered that test? How pathetic I felt when I started Sand-blasting again after three years? I do. I remember it every day because this graybox in my head makes sure every moment of weakness I've ever had is always ready to be dragged back up, in perfect detail. The drugs, the failure, the disappointment. I see what I am, Spectre. I don't need you to remind me with-"

Nihlus quietly slipped the vial back into his armor. "It's not Red Sand, Commander. Just an imitation substance. You were right, before. I wanted to see how you'd react." His brow plates quirked knowingly. "And you passed my test, Commander. The first of many."

Shepard forced his rage down but its venom still dripped onto his words. "No more head games. You hear me?"

The turian nodded in assent. "You can relax, Commander. I don't need all your... 'dirty laundry', as you humans call it, to be aired out. Admiral Hackett and Captain Anderson speak very highly of you. I just needed to make sure their confidence was founded. I'm not here to condemn you, Shepard."

Shepard just glared. "Are we done, Spectre Kryik?"

"Of course, Commander. I'll see you on the Normandy." The turian turned and walked briskly out of the room, all but silent with each step. The door hissed shut after him and Shepard, still seething, sat at the edge of his bed, left hand pinching the space between his eyes.

"Shun anger. Let go of pride. Break out of every shackle."

The verse from the Dhammapada softened his anger, quelled his rage. Gautama Buddha's words were usually enough. Usually.

Calmed considerably, the N7 composed himself as best he could and made sure that everything was accounted for in his footlocker. Leave nothing behind. This room doesn't belong to me anymore. Maybe it never belonged to me.

Satisfied with the state of his (former) quarters, Shepard gathered up the footlocker and hefted it over his right shoulder. The locker weighed heavily on his frame, but it seemed fitting. He was walking into something bigger than himself. That had weight too.

Ramesh Shepard spared one last look to the room that had been his home for over two years. It was a little strange, seeing the space as he left it and also able to see it perfectly when he'd arrived for the first time.

Both rooms, past and present, looked the same.

---

-30 March 2183-

Ismar Frontier/Aquila System/Metaponto Orbit/Metaponto Refueling Platform.

---

"Captain, I'm sorry."

It was entirely the wrong thing to say to Rorani, the woman already on the verge of an explosive episode. Tali winced as the Captain's eyes went red with rage, her mandibles twitching in anger.

Just be glad it's not you she's yelling at, Tali thought as she watched the drama unfold.

"Sorry!" Rorani roared, spitting flecks of dextro-amino spittle into Halbek's face. "You're fucking sorry? You broke my ship! But at least he's sorry! That makes everything better, doesn't it? All fucking better, huh, Chief Engineer? Worker of miracles, aren't you?"

Halbek visibly cringed and his eyes went to the floor. The entire crew was present, Nalan included, watching as their Captain tore into the hapless engineer. When Halbek finally spoke, his voice was a shattered, upset mess.

"Ma'am, I take full-"

"You're lucky I don't put my talons up your ass," Rorani snapped, clearly beyond any point of restraint. "We've been docked here fifteen minutes, Halbek, and in that time you've managed to fry most of my engine systems. What the hell were you thinking? Wait, that's right, you weren't thinking."

Tali broke her silence, dreading the implication. "Captain, with all due respect, the systems were at the point of over-stress. Halbek was trying to prevent a complete drive-core shutdown."

Rorani's fierce, avian gaze flew to Tali instantly. "And where in the Void were you when all this happened? You were supposed to fix my damned engines, quarian girl! Now we're stuck in the ass-end of nowhere with a dead ship!"

Tali, hands braced behind her back, didn't flinch. "Captain, I'm the reason you didn't have a full core-meltdown. This ship needs an overhaul, now, before we go to Illium." And you look hungover, Tali didn't add.

"Great. Wonderful. Spirits damn everything." Finally deflated, Rorani shook her head in frustration. "Metaponto is almost as bad as the Shrike Abyssal for refits," the turian mused, not really talking to anyone. "Too fucking expensive."

Nalan, back pressed against a wall, finally spoke. "The elcor here aren't in great economic shape. Might be willing to cut back on the cost if we press them. Baring that, I'm pretty sure I can cut a deal here."

Rorani nodded and swept her gaze across the crew. "Alright, looks like we're stuck here for the time being. We sell what extra cargo we have, keep the rest for Illium." Her eyes locked on Tali. "You know what parts we need, quarian girl?"

Tali nodded. "Should be quick to find, even considering the age of these systems. Might take a few hours to install, but at least we'll be space-worthy again. Provided this station has the parts we need, of course."

"The issue is cost, quarian girl. This is elcor turf. They're not big on state-of-the-art, especially out in this backwater. Should have the necessary equipment."

"Understood, Captain."

"Good." Rorani rubbed her mandibles with a thoughtful hand. "Nalan, take the quarian girl to secure what we need. Soral, Veritas, you two stay aboard and keep an eye on the ship. Everybody else, you're with me. We'll unload the extra cargo and head to the trading post. Should have something these lumbering quadrupeds want to buy."

Halbek finally looked up, fear clear in his eyes. "Ma'am... what about me?"

The captain didn't hesitate. "You're relieved of duty, Halbek. Grab your stuff and get out."

"Under... understood, ma'am." Halbek said, his shoulders slumped and his posture defeated.

Rorani turned to Nalan, her face impassive. "You and Tali are in charge of the engine systems until this gets sorted out." She tossed a credit chit to the salarian, who caught the small disk without looking. "Grab what we need and get back here fast. I want this goddamn station behind us sooner rather than later."

Hesitant as she'd ever been, Tali spoke again. "Captain Rorani, I'd like to request that Halbek come with us."

Captain and engineer turned to stare, surprise on both their features.

"And why," Rorani asked slowly, her voice very cold, "would I even begin to entertain such a ridiculous request?" Nearby, Halbek visibly stilled with apprehension.

Tali, likewise, braced herself for disappointment. "Because, ma'am, some of the parts we need to buy are rather heavy. And in all fairness, I'm not sure Nalan will be able to help me carry them back to the ship." She glanced over to the salarian, her tone dry. "His arms look pretty weak."

Silence reigned for an uncomfortably long series of seconds, but then something incredible happened. Captain Rorani started to laugh. Genuine, pealing laughter that spread her mandibles and winded her lungs. After a moment, the crew started to join in. Pretty soon nearly everyone, Halbek included, was trilling with flanged hilarity. Tali just stood at attention, eyes forward. She couldn't be certain, the lighting in the cargo bay was pretty dim, but it looked like the ghost of a smile touched Nalan's lips for a fraction of a second.

Rorani righted herself as the mirth died down, looking immeasurably less irritated than she had before the episode. She gave Tali an approving nod, something nostalgic glittering in her eyes. "Spirits... fine. Take him with you. Fix my damned ship and I'll forget about all of this. But I want it running better than new after we hit Illium, you got that?" Tali nodded in affirmation. Her Pilgrimage could wait a day or two. Captain Rorani had taken her in. It was only right that she returned the favor.

The captain walked over to Halbek and prodded his chest with a claw. "You're knocked down to scrub until I say so. You get one chance to make this right, Triar. One chance. Muck up again and I'll space you myself. Is that clear?"

Halbek did his best to mask his joy, not quite able to hide the grin that splayed his mandibles. "Yes, Captain! Thank you, Captain!"

"All right!" Rorani shouted, hands on her hips, "Hop to it everyone. Get working. I want us out of here asap!"

"Yes, Captain!" the crew chorused in unison, all hurrying to their respective tasks. Tali moved to gather up her guns, couldn't be too careful in the Terminus Systems, when a claw on her shoulder stopped her short. She turned, expecting Captain Rorani, but instead was confronted with the thankful look on Halbek's face.

The turian seemed almost overcome with emotion. "I... there aren't words-"

Tali brushed his claw off. "That's not necessary," she told him, unnerved with the reverential way he was looking at her.

"I'm in your debt," he replied, instantly adding to Tali's discomfort.

"You're really not," she stated, stepping back.

"You're both idiots," Nalan snapped as he walked by, leaving the two dextros behind. Tali quickly distanced herself from Halbek, already half-regretting her decision to help.

After this, we're done, she thought as she made to gather her pack and guns. No more fixing every trouble that comes your way. This is your Pilgrimage, girl. You need to focus on your mission, on the Fleet, on yourself. Can't save the damned galaxy and get an amazing return gift.

How wrong she would be proven.

---

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Kedar101: That was quick for a Hackett-Briefing™.

Sentinel_N7: Admiral Hackett, Travis.

Kedar101: Not a marine anymore, Ramesh. Regardless, where did you want to meet up?

Sentinel_N7: I'm off the Kilimanjaro.

K101: What? Seriously?

N7: Seriously. Lowe and I have been transferred to another ship. Already on the shuttle.

K101: Shit. They give you time to clean up, at least? Your new armor smelled like turian. Didn't want to say anything in front of your hottie.

N7: Travis...

K101: Yeah, no time for fun when the Black Death is in town. Anyway, we need to talk about the Defender Line.

N7: I'll assume things are going smoothly?

K101: ...

N7: Travis.

K101: The short answer? No. The long answer? Not even.

N7: It's been almost three months since the initial proposal. Contract negotiations are coming up soon. What exactly is the problem?

K101: Ramesh, the Alliance isn't ready to jump onboard with the new armament contracts. We've had the M-8 Avenger for so long we're practically married to the damn thing.

N7: The M-14 is clearly the superior firearm.

K101: You don't think I know that already?

N7: I'd hope so. I've been field-testing it for almost a year.

K101: Just because the Valkyrie is a better gun doesn't mean that the Brass is just gonna adopt it without a transitional period. There are a lot of longstanding contracts with Elkoss Combine that have to be accounted for.

N7: More politic and bureaucratic nonsense.

K101: Ramesh, the Alliance likes the Avenger. The requisition guys like it, the troops like it, the budget people like it. Hell, I'd like it if it wasn't in direct competition with our own rifle lines.

N7: The M-8 isn't competition, Travis. It's a relic.

K101: Tell that to Elkoss Combine. The Avenger is mediocre, sure, but it's cheap. The Valkyrie might be the superior firearm in all respects, but superiority is expensive. The average marine doesn't care what he's using so long as it works well and doesn't blow up in his face. And the budget people have responded accordingly.

N7: We've been stonewalled.

K101: More or less. Not to mention the fact that the rest of the Defender Line snags contracts from ERCS and Ariake Tech. Ugh, military bureaucracy. Such a pain in the ass. Don't know how you can still take orders from these people.

N7: So what's the plan? I assume you've got something in the works.

K101: I'm thinking of hosting a weapons showing on Bekenstein. Inviting Alliance Brass, reporters, Navy officers, prominent gun enthusiasts. Give the people who really matter a chance to test the new guns and armor for themselves. A few reviews go out, people get curious, pressure gets applied. Either way, our investors at least know we're doing something with their money.

N7: That's... not a bad idea.

K101: Thanks for the vote of confidence, lol. Probably won't get us the contracts this fiscal year, that'd take a miracle considering the stingy budget people, but it'll make them remember us. Besides, I'm pretty sure every higher-up in the Navy owns a Carnifex. Might get us some wiggle room. ;)

N7: Need me to pull some strings?

K101: Thanks, but unless you can get Hackett to do an endorsement, I think we'll manage.

N7: Admiral Hackett. The Alliance needs new equipment, Travis. Sooner rather than later. The turians have better gear. The asari have better gear. The Hegemony might be lacking in state-of-the-art, but they're miles ahead of us in innovation.

K101: Yeah, because the Kishock looks great to investors. It shoots harpoons, Ramesh.

N7: It doesn't need to be pretty or ethical, Travis. It needs to work. And batarian guns and armor are only getting better with time. The Avenger, the Predator, the old Onyx hardsuits; they aren't going to cut it for much longer.

K101: I hate it when you're right. I'll push hard, Ramesh. I can promise that much.

N7: Thanks, Travis.

K101: You can thank me by doing that interview we talked about. Got confirmation from RealArms, they're ready to have us whenever you're free.

N7: Might be off the grid for a while. New assignment.

K101: Classified?

N7: Classified as it gets.

K101: Understood. Vid me when you find some free time, yeah? We need to sort a lot of this stuff out.

N7: Will do. It was good seeing you, Travis.

K101: Gross. Think you got some feels on me.

N7: Ha ha. About to dock. Have to go.

K101: Laters. Stay alive out there.

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---

-30 March 2183-

Arcturus Stream/Arcturus System/En Route to SSV Normandy.

---

The shuttle-ride from the Kilimanjaro had proven... uncomfortable. Quiet, but uncomfortable. Shepard could tell that Lowe was doing her best to stay professional, but the N4 had visibly tensed when he'd boarded the Kodiak. The Lieutenant did offer him a smile when he entered the shuttle but the gesture was tight-lipped. Masking.

He'd nodded respectfully, of course, not wanting to widen the gap between the two. She was still his trainee. Still his friend. That mattered more to him than any potential awkwardness. Shepard quietly hoped that Lowe would see it the same way.

He closed his eyes and tried to find some measure of samatha by focusing on the sound of his breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The simple repetition comforted the N7 as the shuttle flew toward its destination. Though the trip itself was only about ten minutes in length, time seemed to slow to a crawl as the Commander breathed and only breathed. All thoughts were burned away.

"Wow," Lowe said aloud, breaking the silence. "Sir, take a look."

Shepard forcibly extricated himself from meditation and turned toward the viewport the Lieutenant was staring through. He recognized immediately that the Normandy was unlike any other frigate he'd served on. The N7's databases surged as his gaze at the Normandy, comparing, contrasting and contemplating. She barely stood out against the dotted void of space, just over 155 meters long. In contrast, the standard Alamo class frigate was a 232 meter mass of bulky metal and gun; ugly and very noticeable.

Everything a standard frigate wasn't, the Normandy was sleek; slim in profile and almost scalloped in the structure of her curved frame. The ship was clearly dock-fresh, crisp and clean in shining white, deep red and gleaming black. Shepard counted four mass-effect engines, paired on either side of the Normandy's stabilization fins. A dorsal ridge at the ship's stern was the only break in the Normandy's otherwise rounded outline. Everything about the ship was compact and streamlined; a coiled spring. While currently idle, the Normandy seemed tense with energy, primed and ready.

She does make an impression, was Shepard's verdict as the shuttle berthed alongside the frigate, the transfers gathering their equipment in preparation for boarding. Let's hope it lives up to the hype.

The Commander hadn't heard of the Normandy before his reassignment, but Admiral Hackett's briefing had referred to the ship as a prototype 'deep scout' frigate. State of the art, co-developed with the Turian Hierarchy. The future of stealth warfare.

Stealth frigate, Shepard thought, hefting his footlocker over his shoulder. Stealth corvette would've made more sense. Smaller profile, less mass-effect emissions. Here's hoping ASEC didn't just blow a bunch of taxpayer money on an expensive flub.

Even worse than his inherent doubts, the Normandy was a new ship. A new ship was always frustratingly virginal; the crews tended to be eager but inexperienced, and that went double for the sort of amenities aboard. A bare-bones gym and workout equipment. No firing range. No quiet spot for him to sit and meditate. Hell, a stint aboard the Warsaw sounded better every minute, even accounting for Mikhailovich. At least Ramesh had some idea of what to expect on a heavy cruiser. Being XO of a fresh-off-the-dock ship meant a considerable amount of effort in order to break the damn thing in.

Or not. Who know's how long I'll be sticking around. Like Lowe said, Spectre training is bound to take me somewhere even a stealth ship can't go.

Regardless, the Normandy was his new home, at least for the time being. Shepard and Lowe stepped out of the shuttle and into the Normandy's waiting airlock, the door hissing shut behind them.

"Decontamination in progress," A female-voiced VI toned as a biohazard scanner began passage over the N7 and his Lieutenant.

"Is that really necessary?" Lowe asked, wincing as the scanner whirred overhead.

"Shakedown run," Shepard replied. "They'll be putting this ship through every test in the books. The techies are gonna have their work cut out for them."

He could almost hear Lowe's smirk. "Always better to be a ground-pounder. None of this ancillary bullshit."

"And who says I won't be putting our new team through their paces, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, watching a batch of new-boat Devil Dogs try and live up to your standards sounds like a damn good time."

"You really think I'm just going to let you watch?"

"You're an ass. Sir."

Shepard chuckled as the airlock door hissed open. A figure stood in the doorway, instantly familiar to Shepard.

The man who made me what I am today.

Captain David Anderson.

---

-30 March 2183-

Ismar Frontier/Aquila System/Metaponto Orbit/Metaponto Refueling Platform.

---

"Welcome to Metaponto station, suit-rat."

"Not much of a welcome," Tali snapped at Nalan. Though she'd never left the Fleet in her life, Tali still had an idea of what constituted a good space station. Ancestors knew that the Fleet made special note of every refueling platform in the known galaxy.

The Metaponto platform was... at best, in need of some attention.

Atypically elcor in its design, (lots of open space, ceilings that were too high, big doors), the station itself was less than presentable. Trash canisters were filled to the point of overspill, the floor looked like it hadn't been cleaned in ages and what few people could be seen carried an air of disappointment around them, as if they couldn't quite figure out where their lives had taken a wrong turn.

"As ugly as ever," Halbek said, his tone sour. "You'd think the elcor would give a damn about their station."

"They do," Nalan stated, eyes scanning the area. "Money just gives more of one."

Still, at least the basic infrastructure was sound, as Tali quickly spotted and gestured to a holo-map with directions to the market. "Here's hoping that the market's a bit more lively."

"Not gonna find out just standing here," Halbek said as he adjusted the height on the low-grav cargo-lift he'd brought along.

"Let's get moving," Nalan said, leading the way. "Keep an eye out. It's a ways to the markets and I don't trust a single scum-sucker on this station." Halbek followed quickly after the salarian, pulling the cargo-lift behind him.

Tali didn't linger. Security was noticeably slim on the station and she didn't want to be caught out in the open. Nobody out here is likely to come to the aid of a quarian. Keelah, as if our people ever got any aid to begin with.

Wanting very much to hold her shotgun in-hand, Tali brought up the rear of their group, her eyes alert for any potential threats. their route was fairly open and saw a decent amount of traffic, but the Ismar Frontier wasn't known for its hospitality. The local riffraff seemed to consist of mainly batarians, vorcha, turians of the skulking variety and the occasional merc band. What few elcor could be seen were almost always part of station security or owners of the scattered kiosks and shops the trio passed on their way. Gazes followed the Nalan, Halbek and Tali wherever they walked and there were moments when Tali was sure they'd be ambushed by thugs. Nalan pressed on, undeterred, forcing the two dextros to match his pace.

Halbek was understandably nervous. His hands pushed the cargo-lift but his eyes kept darting from the locals to his pistol and back again. Tali's right hand never strayed far from the butt of her shotgun and she did her best to look intimidating. Nalan didn't show any signs of unease, but the salarian's gaze was piercing and he didn't break stride once, not even when a pair of vagrants came begging for credits. Halbek and Tali both followed his example, not wanting to stop even for a moment.

Then, in a stretch of wide alleyway about halfway to their destination, trouble finally reached its boiling point.

Tali at least had a clue as to what awaited them. During their walk she'd noticed the same scarred batarian shadowing their movements. Now he blocked their route to the markets, along with two other batarians, a vorcha, an unkempt turian and an impressively large and grizzled elcor.

It was Tali's first encounter with three species outside of a vid or picture. The quad-eyes of the batarians had always repulsed and fascinated her, their meaty and wrinkled faces a stark contrast from the slim (and infinitely more attractive) quarian facial profile. The vorcha was utterly ferocious looking, its needle-like teeth and large predatory eyes only serving to highlight the grotesque of its hunched body. The alien reminded Tali of stories her mother used to tell about the kala'yega, hateful demons that snatched up little quarian children who misbehaved.

And the elcor, keelah, it was a big one. Dark of skin, massive of form and all muscle, the elcor towered over Nalan and Tali by nearly half a meter. The bulk of its body bore scars in several places. When the elcor spoke its voice was deep, full of threat and female.

"Menacingly: this station is a dangerous place. Demandingly: a large donation can assure that such danger doesn't befall you three."

Tali almost chuckled with disbelief. We're being shaken-down by a female elcor. It's a bit early to say I've seen everything, but this is definitely on the list. She slowly reached back for her shotgun, praying she wouldn't have to use it.

A small omni-visor appeared over her left eye as she scanned the potential hostiles, noting that only the elcor and the batarians had shields. No biotics and none of the group wore armor. The vorcha was armed with a vicious spiked club, the turian and batarians with outmoded Kessler sidearms and the elcor... well the elcor was big and had a kinetic barrier. Her vicious forelimbs and pure heft were weapons enough.

Nalan spoke for the trio, hands held out in a diplomatic gesture. "Don't want any trouble, friends. Just some ship-scrubs trying to get by. Leave us on our way, yeah?"

The elcor stomped forward, her entourage moving into a half-circle around the trio. "Threateningly: no one is going anywhere until we get our credits, salarian."

Halbek's eyes went wide and his hand flew to his pistol. "Oh shit-"

Tali's military training kicked in so quickly she didn't realize what was happening until her shotgun was in-hand and aimed at the turian thug. She fired twice, the kick of shotgun heavy in her hands as gunfire roared in her auditory emulators. Unshielded, the criminal stood no chance. Blue blood shot into the air and the turian flew back, dead before he hit the ground.

Halbek, to his credit, was at least a good shot with his pistol. His Carnifex barked out a pair of rounds that cratered the shieldless batarian's face, the corpse dropping like a stone. His fellows cursed and drew their weapons. The vorcha snarled rushed at Halbek, swinging its club viciously. The turian engineer took a step back, fear getting the better of him.

Looking for cover and finding none, Tali overloaded the batarian's shields, staggering the pair as the resulting electric pulse leaped between them. Without thinking she stepped in front of Halbek, shotgun bayonet springing to life. The vorcha came at her, frothing spittle and gnashing his teeth. The sizzling omni-blade sunk deep into its hide, finding little resistance. Blood hissed as it tried in vain to escape the heat of the bayonet, the wound cauterizing instantly. The blood-eyed alien screeched, the sound so very loud in Tali's auditory emulators. She pulled the blade free, the vorcha stumbled back and she fired twice for good measure. The alien hit the metal floor, very dead.

Snapped from his fear-induced stupor, Halbek fired his pistol at the recovering batarians. The one that'd been trailing them collapsed, a trio of sucking wounds in his chest. The surviving batarian fired at Tali, three shots impacting against her shields. Her shield generators, customized beyond the strength of some military-grade hardsuits, made otherwise dangerous hits negligible; less than ten percent of her kinetic barriers had fallen.

Still, reflex was reflex and Tali was being shot at, the first time in her life. She aimed her shotgun and fired, the Katana's advanced smart-choke tightening the otherwise wide spread. The defenseless batarian took the full brunt of the blast, his torso disintegrating into a patina of meat. He flew backward, pistol flying from his grip, to lay sprawled and bleeding on the cold metal decking.

Five down in under a minute.

Tali reloaded and turned, adrenaline rushing through her head as she looked for the elcor. Not that she needed to bother. Nalan had dealt with her.

The elcor thug was struggling to right herself, shields destroyed. Parts of her dark skin hissed with rivulets of steam and horrible electrical burns covered the alien's body. The massive quadraped heaved and shuddered with pain, gasping air in huge gulps. Nalan stood nearby, his hands shrouded in omni-tool interfaces that he quickly dismissed. An expressionless face proved the salarian was utterly unconcerned by the enormous opponent he'd just annihilated without firing a shot.

How did he do that? Tali wondered as she popped the heat sink. A range of more severe thoughts crashed through her mind, thoughts that placed a great deal of emphasis on her actions.

Keelah, I just killed three people. Shot them dead right in the street. Not even a full day into Pilgrimage and I'm-

Realization slapped her into shock, breathing heavily, hands gripping tight around her shotgun. Halbek, his pistol holstered, rushed to Tali's side. "Hey, take it easy! Everything's okay. You're okay."

She shook her head and stepped away from the turian. "Not okay. Not even a little bit. I just-"

"Saved both our lives," Halbek said gently, a comforting glint in his eyes. "You defended yourself. Defended me and my worthless ass. Bravest damn thing I've ever seen." He reached out, not for her shoulder but for her weapon, his gaze imploring.

She was at a loss for words. Nodding slowly, she let Halbek take the shotgun from her fingers. Unoccupied and nervous, her hands rubbed at her upper arms, crossing over one another in a gesture of reassurance. Halbek nodded with approval, still keeping a respectful distance.

"...Please..."

Both quarian and turian turned at the sound of a deep, pained voice. The elcor female had given up on trying to right herself; instead she lay still, sucking in huge gasps of air. "Help me," she begged, no longer prefixing her speech with indicative statements.

"Waste of time begging for your worthless life," Nalan snapped, his omni-tool shrouded hands hissing with electrical discharge. The elcor flinched in fear, her eyes growing wide.

"Stop!" Tali shouted, her shock forgotten as she darted forward to grab the salarian by the arm. "Look at her! She's no threat to us! You've done enough."

With a flash of movement so quick and effortless Tali could hardly believe it possible, the salarian had broken her grip and wrenched her arm aside in a painful lock. With one hand.

Halbek moved to intervene but a sharp glare from Nalan stopped him cold. Tali used her free hand to slam a fist against the salarian's arm, a task she only succeeded at once. His grip clamped down around her other arm like a vice. He held her, untroubled, while she struggled and cursed.

"You've got a lot of nerve," the salarian muttered, his voice barely audible over Tali's protests. "Sheltered thing, not your fault. Spent your whole life flying through space and you have no idea how things work out here. How the galaxy actually is."

"Kava'yena vin mer'siot! Val'him bosh'tet vin mer'siot!"

"Yeah, I bet that's scathing. Gonna let you go now. Try that again and I'll break your arms. Promise."

Nalan, good to his word, pushed Tali away and released his vice grip. She stumbled back into Halbek, her arms sore and her eyes daggers.

Indifferent to her poisoned glare, Nalan brushed his fingers across the front of his armor, as though cleaning off some foul substance. He approached his companions slowly, a scowl clear on his amphibian features.

"Let me make things very clear," he said to Tali, radiating more menace than the elcor had. "You can talk back to me all you like, yell at me all you like. I don't give a damn what comes out of your mouth. White noise, can block it out. You touch me, get in my way or interfere with my business again and I'll do you worse than I did the elcor. Worse. You understand that, quarian girl?"

Tali, her anger seething, nodded once.

"Good." Nalan turned, casually pulled his SMG from its holster-point and fired twice into the defenseless elcor's head. Each shot was suppressed to a low buzz, doing little to underline the speed and damage they did. The massive female died with a gurgle and one last shudder while Tali stared, utterly appalled. Halbek looked away, shame clear on his face.

The salarian (murderer) holstered his weapon and looked back at the quarian and turian. "Market's just up ahead. Should get gone before security arrives. Too much mess to explain away." He began walking, aloof as he stepped over the bodies of the dead.

Tali turned to Halbek, protest and anger ready on her lips, but she saw the defeated look in the turian's eyes. He pressed the shotgun into her hands; a lament.

"You can look away," he muttered as he approached the dead turian, pawing the body over with practiced movements. Within a short time he'd produced the slain criminal's credit-chit, quickly hiding it in a pocket.

"Are you-"

"I'm sorry, Tali," Halbek said as he stole from the dead, reaching over to procure the corpse's weapon before stuffing it in his pack. "I've got to look out for myself here." He looked over his shoulder and flinched at the disgust blazing in the quarian's eyes.

"It's wrong," she spat as he moved onto the nearest batarian.

"It's the galaxy," he shot back, no longer caring if she watched.

Tali looked on a moment longer, silent. Then, when Halbek moved to search the body of the last batarian, she walked away, following after Nalan.

Maybe the salarian is right. Maybe Halbek is right. Maybe it's the galaxy. Maybe I'm only fooling myself.

Or maybe everyone I've met in the last day are just vile bosh'tets.

As she left the bodies in her wake, Tali found herself without a clear answer.

---

-30 March 2183-

Arcturus Stream/Arcturus System/SSV Normandy.

---

David Anderson, forty-five years old, no family save a pair of distant brothers back on Earth. Divorced from his wife for nearly twenty years, no children, no personal holdings save for a small apartment in Rio.

The first N7 graduate. Honorable service during the First Contact War. Decorated to the stars and back. The one of ITC's most venerable training officers. Humanity's first Spectre candidate. The man Shepard could point to and say, "There's the reason I'm as good as I am."

Captain of the SSV Normandy.

Damned if that doesn't suit him, Shepard mused as he and Helen stepped into the Normandy proper. Anderson's dress blues were commanding and pristine, disrupted only by Anderson's captain's insignia; a single star above four gold bars.

"Captain on deck!" Lowe announced, snapping into a rigid salute. Shepard followed suit, footlocker still over his shoulder, the salute all but perfect.

"Lieutenant Commander Ramesh Shepard and 2nd Lieutenant Helen M. Lowe reporting for duty, sir!"

Anderson returned the salute, his lips curling into a warm smile. Ramesh mentally berated himself. One of the few people who've had a good impact on my life and it's been over a year since we last spoke. Some friend I am.

"At ease," Anderson said, his voice deep, rich and authoritative. His gaze was both kind and fiercely intelligent, and it sparked something warm and nostalgic in Shepard. The Captain held out his hand, the same hand that had congratulated Shepard on the day of his N7 graduation.

The Black Death's handshake was strong and brisk. "Captain. Good to see you again."

"Likewise, Commander. Welcome to the Normandy."

"Lieutenant, this is Captain David Anderson," Shepard introduced, moving aside so that Anderson and Lowe could shake hands.

Lowe's handshake was eager and enthusiastic. "It's an honor, sir. Commander's never said anything but the best of you."

The Captain quirked an eyebrow as he released Lowe's hand. "That true, Commander? If you've still got good things to say about me after ITC, then I didn't do my job well enough."

"What can I say? Maybe you knocked all the sense out of me."

"We can only hope," the captain replied, still smiling.

Anderson was one of the few people who could bring out Shepard's good side. While the captain was able to command instant respect through an air of genuine authority, Shepard's respect came from tone of palpable threat. It showed in the Commander's posture, the way his eyes narrowed and how his fingers flexed with anticipation of combat. Just like my old man, Ramesh mused.

"Let me give you the tour." Anderson offered, drawing Ramesh from his thoughts. For the best. After all, I don't need another neural-block trigger today.

"Captain," Lowe began, indicating her footlocker, "I'd like to stow my kit and get settled, sir, if that's all right."

Anderson nodded and gestured down the hall to their right. "Follow the markers until you hit the doors to the crew deck. I'll have one of the security officers meet you by the elevator."

"Appreciated, sir." Lowe saluted again and proceeded down the hallway, footlocker following after her.

"You didn't tell me you had a trainee," Anderson said quietly as both he and Shepard watched the Lieutenant's departure.

"She's almost N5," the Commander replied, a note of pride in his tone. "Lowe's got a good head on her shoulders and she's a fantastic shot."

"And the Normandy's better for her presence," Anderson affirmed.

"No doubt," Shepard agreed, scratching his chin with his free hand. "Admiral Hackett had nothing but good things to say about this ship, but I'd like your opinion on the matter. I'm... unfamiliar with the Normandy's specs.

"She's state of the art," the captain declared, leading Shepard toward the Normandy's helm. "ASEC worked with the turian military on the construction. One of the best-designed ships I've ever seen, let alone served on."

The Commander glanced down long hallway from the cockpit to the CIC. The command center's location was out of place for a human ship, especially when the vast majority of Alliance ships positioned their CIC's as near the cockpit as possible. The setup felt alien, at least in comparison, but somehow it suited the ship's design.

"And the stealth system?" Shepard asked, his gaze continually shifting as he absorbed every element of the ship. Faces, design elements and general details that would be overlooked by almost anyone else. How the crew worked quickly and skillfully. How crewmen nearby stopped only for the barest moment to salute the Black Death before going back to their duties.

"First of its kind. The internal-emission-sink stealth system. Normandy's the first ship in the galaxy to have it installed."

Skepticism entered the Commander's tone. "So we co-opted the design with the turians and we're the ones who get the stealth drive."

"The Normandy was designed by both groups, but our engineers are the ones who developed the IES. We understand that the Hierarchy is in the process of installing some of their ships with similar systems, but for now, we've got the advantage."

"You're in favor of the setup?" Shepard asked as the pair approached the Normandy's helm, a pair of Alliance personnel busy at their stations.

"I'll never say I'm in favor of any ASEC gimmicks," Anderson said with a smile as he turned to face the Black Death, hands clasped behind his back. "But I am in favor of this crew and what they're capable of. Hand-picked most of them myself. Normandy's got some of the Alliance's best and brightest."

As if to highlight that fact, a figure half-turned in the pilot's chair, his fingers working swiftly on a monitor screen even as he glanced back. Red-bearded, green-eyed and a cocksure smirk on his face, the Normandy's pilot nodded at the Captain and the new arrivals.

"All green up here, Captain." The pilot's voice edged a little on the irritating side. "Nothing to worry about, unless that turian Spectre wants to plant a bomb or something. Not much good at killing bad guys inside my ship. Sir." Shepard noticed a pair of crutches nearby, aluminum and lightweight. His eyebrow quirked with interest, but he kept his mouth closed.

Anderson's brow furrowed. "We've been over this, Joker. Nihlus is here on orders."

'Joker' rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze back to the helm. "Sir, that's what he wants us to think."

Next to him, a woman huffed aloud, an eye-roll clear in her tone. "Moreau, the captain doesn't need your bullshit right now. I'm pretty sure-"

She glanced over her shoulder, spotted Shepard and quickly rose from her seat, a quick salute rising to the occasion. "Commander! Apologies sir, didn't see you there. Weapons Specialist Addison Chase."

Shepard returned the salute. "At ease, soldier." Specialist Chase was somewhat reminiscent of Lowe; similarly fair-skinned but with sharper features, soft blue eyes and cropped, rose-red hair that stopped just above her shoulders.

Joker spoke from his seat and offered Shepard a half-salute. "Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau. Everybody calls me Joker. Gotta say, feel a lot better having you with us, Commander. Black Death, a turian Spectre and me on board? Nobody sane is gonna want a piece of this ship."

The N7 folded his arms, deadly serious as he gazed down at Joker. "Then we'll just have to find someone insane, won't we?"

"You're joking, right?" He leaned back to glance at Anderson. "He's joking, right?"

Chase snickered as she sat back in her chair. "That's gold coming from you, Lieutenant."

The Captain suppressed a smirk. "Come with me, Commander. Think it's time you met the rest of the team."

Shepard and Anderson walked down the hall to the CIC, a dozen crewmen busy at their stations. Most of the foot traffic was centered around a balding man wearing a high-rank Alliance dress uniform displaying the bars of a Staff Commander. He turned from monitor stations and saluted, a face Shepard instantly recognized despite nearly seven years. What hair remained had been tinged with gray, but Charles Pressly was still the same dour face, the same meticulous beard and the same neatly-trimmed mustache.

"Captain," Staff Lieutenant Charles Pressly said as he handed Anderson a data-slate. "Ship's prepped and ready for departure at your command, sir. Green across the board, even with Moreau at the helm." Pressly noticed Shepard and his normally surly expression melted into a warm smile as he held out his hand. "Commander Shepard, good to see you again. Not sure if you remember me, I'm-"

"Charles Pressly," Shepard affirmed as he shook the older man's hand. "Served on the Agincourt under Captain Sato during the Blitz. You were senior navigator. Got our teams landed in one piece. Looks like you finally got that officer's commission you talked about."

Pressly's eyes widened in genuine astonishment. "Hell of a memory you've got there, sir."

Shepard managed a smile. "You have no idea."

"I can have someone take that to your new quarters, Commander," Pressly said, gesturing at the footlocker over Shepard's shoulder.

"I'll manage, Pressly. Appreciated."

The older man nodded. "Understood. The marines are waiting down on the staging deck, sir. Staff Lieutenant Alenko's brought them together for inspection. It's good opportunity to meet your new squad."

"Then that's where we're headed," Shepard agreed.

"It's down this way," Anderson gestured, handing the data-slate back to Pressly as he lead Shepard toward the lower decks. Pressly saluted as the pair left and was quickly swarmed by crewmen and monitor displays.

"Wasn't expecting Pressly," Shepard admitted as the door to the crew deck hissed behind them.

"Asked for him personally," Anderson replied.

"Recommended him for Lieutenant?"

"Yes I did. A decision that has paid off in the long run. He's as excellent a senior officer as he is a navigator."

Shepard smiled with good humor as they two walked down the stairs to the main elevator. "Any other familiar faces I should know about while I'm here?"

"The Agincourt's old CMO, Karin Chakwas. You recommended her for a commendation after the Blitz. Haven't done that for any other medical officers, if I recall correctly."

Shepard glanced at Anderson, a flicker of memory in his eyes. "Saved three of my ground team after the drop. I had two of those men pegged for dead on the shuttle ride up. Karin didn't give up on them, not even once. She impressed me, went above and beyond for my men. Haven't seen her equal since. Damn good choice, sir."

Anderson chuckled as they stepped into the elevator, the lift slowly descending to the Normandy's staging deck. "Your word goes a long way, Commander."

Shepard didn't comment. His eyes stared rigidly ahead, footlocker heavy on his shoulder. After a few moments of silence, a quiet question escaped the Commander's lips. "Sir, the Admiral said it was a choice between Riley and myself for the Spectre candidacy. You chose me. Why?"

Anderson half-turned, the soft smile on his face an indication that he'd had an answer ready for Shepard long before the Commander had arrived.

"Because I trust you to do what's right, Shepard."

The elevator door slid open. The Black Death said nothing.

---

-30 March 2183-

Ismar Frontier/Aquila System/Metaponto Orbit/Metaponto Refueling Platform.

---

Where the poorly-swept streets and alleys before had been empty and lonely affairs (with a single, bloody exception), Metaponto station's markets were nearly crushing in their abundance of activity. Throngs of aliens milled about; they dickered over wares, had conversations both heated and hearty and breathed life into the space. Activity turned a ghost-station into a rush of noise, movement and smell.

Ancestors, the smells. Forget the general musk of crowds and the strong smell of congealing space-station, Tali could not get enough of the food being prepared. Kiosks upon kiosks, restaurants and dives, every culture had their culinary wares on display. Catering both dextro and amino diets, meals sizzled as they grilled, percolated as they boiled and simmered as they stewed. Tali salivated despite herself. Her only meal that day had been a tube of re-heated nutrient paste, not exactly the finest of cuisines. The fare being cooked wasn't the galaxy's best or cleanest, not by a long shot, but everything was prepared as fresh as could be and made ready to-eat.

No filters, no immuno-boosters, no damned induction ports. Keelah, these people don't know how lucky they have it.

She seethed behind her visor, jealousy a viable distraction from the killing she'd done not ten minutes ago. Unable to walk in a single file any longer, Tali and Halbek walked next to each other as the turian pushed the cargo-lift. Nalan led the way, as usual, sliding through the crowds with all the effortlessness of a ghost. Tali and Halbek made do with the cargo-lift, the platform's bulk providing a buffer against the worst of the living crush.

Halbek tried twice to make small-talk, failing both times in the face of Tali's silence. She had nothing to say. Nalan was a killer, yes, but the salarian didn't degrade himself. Tali was a killer, yes, but she knew that it didn't define her. Halbek was helpless to a fault, distasteful despite any good traits he held. She wasn't sure if she could get over that fact.

Am I being too hard on him? Those thugs would've killed us, after all.

Doesn't excuse him for being a coward and a thief.

Everyone is a coward to some degree. And anyone can be a thief. He's been dealt a bad hand.

I wouldn't-

Don't assume until you've been there, Tali'Zorah. Remember what Auntie Raan said? "We are only potential until we act. What happens after is our responsibility." Just because he stole from those...

Corpses. Corpses you helped make.

Self-defense. Halbek was right on that account.

Tali's introspection was broken by Nalan's voice, his cold tone cutting through the crowded din. "We're here."

The salarian steered them through a tight alley, at the end of which was a hole in the wall shop with a sign proclaiming: T'Vala's Repairs. Best Prices Or You're A Liar. Nalan pushed his way through the dented door, leaving the two dextros outside.

"You go in," Halbek said, bringing a turian cigarette to his mouth and lighting it with his omni-tool. "I'll stay out here with the lift.

Tali nodded and followed after Nalan, the metal door groaning behind her as she entered the shop. Expecting a fairly-run down environment, she was surprised to see a fairly clean and well-maintained workplace. Five asari were in sight, working on ship parts while a large batarian sat at the front desk, a set of quad-glasses over his eyes while he diligently tapped at a work terminal. Nalan glanced at Tali and approached the counter, the quarian opting to wait by the door.

"Purchase or salvage," the batarian rumbled, not looking up.

"Purchase. Ship parts. Got creds ready."

The four-eyed alien glanced at Nalan, a pair of eyebrows quirking as he spotted Tali by the door. "Name and ship affiliation?"

"Nalan. ITV Incorrigible, under Captain Rorani."

The batarian tapped a few icons on his terminal and made a sound of acknowledgement. "Boss is out back in the prep-dock. I'll take you to her." The batarian's voice dropped an octave. "Quarian's gonna have to wait outside, though. Don't want any trouble here."

Nalan nodded and turned to dismiss Tali, but the door was already closing behind her. Fuming, the young Pilgrim clenched her hands and glared at Halbek when he raised a brow-plate in her direction.

"They need you inside," she growled as she stomped past. Halbek shrugged and rolled the cargo-lift to the side of the shop, entering through a warehouse door.

Damn everything on this blasted station, she thought as she walked out of the alley and back to the markets. Alone, a vorcha pickpocket immediately tried to steal from her pack. She grabbed his outstretched claw, twisted her grip and broke two of the alien's digits without remorse. The thief scampered off, howling. Everyone nearby gave her a wide berth after that.

Catharsis. Ancestors forgive me, I needed that.

She began browsing the nearby kiosks and storefronts, keeping an eye on the parts shop while she perused. While the vast majority of shopkeepers glared at her with suspicion, Tali did find an eager volus salesman selling barely-legal weapons and mods who put up with her presence. His speech was irregular and came out in wheezy gasps (like all volus), but his sales pitch was delivered with gusto. She stuck around partly because the mods were good, mostly to hear his hilarious patter.

"Come one... come all! Polgum's mods will make your parents... love you!"

"Buy now! Your life... is worth something after all!"

"Twenty percent discount with proof... of recent divorce!"

"Don't miss out on these great... threats!"

"Married? Stay that way! Buy some of my... insurance!"

Tali kept her laughter internal while she browsed, paying special attention to some of the higher-end shotgun and pistol mods.

Some great stuff here. Shame I can't actually buy anything. Need to keep what credits I have for emergencies and ship-fare.

Caught up in all the gleaming tech, Tali was unprepared when a massive shape appeared at her right. It bumped into her, a glancing blow strong enough to knock the quarian aside.

"Hey!" Tali snapped, eyes narrowed. "Watch where you're-" Her gaze found the rude party and she promptly went quiet.

A krogan. Ugly, growling and massive, Tali's earlier fire shrank to the size of a candle in the face of such a huge figure. His eyes were cold red pits, his brow plate was a muddy brown and he was encased in an enormous suit of black and red armor. Crude white skulls decorated the hardsuit's carapace, the markings of the feared Blood Pack mercenary band. Four cylindrical protrusions jutted from the krogan's back, pulsing softly with blue light.

Ancestors... he's a Battlemaster!

Tali knew little about krogan biotics, but if the extranet was to be believed, they were viciously powerful fighters and nigh unstoppable in combat. The one currently scowling at her certainly looked the part, all compounded muscle and gargantuan hump. The savage shotgun resting above his vestigial tail didn't hurt his intimidation factor either.

"You watch it, outcast. Won't bother me none if I accidentally step on you." The massive reptile turned to the kiosk and opened up his omni-tool radio, the quarian forgotten.

Tali immediately recognized that the krogan was a fight she didn't want to pick. He seemed indifferent to her presence, even as she huffed and dusted herself off. Quite fed up with the day's excursion, Tali turned to begin the trip back to the parts shop; wanting only to return to the Incorrigible and leave Metaponto station behind her. She began walking, stopping dead when her auditory emulators picked out the krogan's side of his conversation. A moment of chance that would change everything.

"Yeah, I'm here. No, no problems. Polgum says we can order bulk. One crate? You sure? I know the geth have their own- Yeah, sorry. No worries. Nobody heard me."

Tali forced herself to start walking again as the krogan turned from side to side, checking for prying ears. She reached the mouth of the alley to the parts shop, opened up her omni-tool and cranked her emulators up to full volume, honing in on the krogan's voice. The loudness was painful to her ears, but it was necessary in order to overhear.

"-maintenance. Sent me to hanger G-93. Yeah, made the bribes. All taken care of. In and out, nobody knows I was ever here."

I know, Tali thought as she recorded everything. And I know you're working with geth! Keelah, what could the Blood Pack and the geth be doing together?

She worked through the possibilities in her mind, each likely outcome more ridiculous than the last. The geth didn't need anything the Blood Pack had. The opposite might have been true, especially considering that the geth had very advanced technology. But the two groups cooperating, working toward some goal? Ancestors, geth outside the Perseus Veil? That was big. Bigger than anything Tali could've anticipated.

Tali's focus snapped back to the krogan as the lumbering alien finished his business with the volus and stomped off into the crowds, his armored frame cutting a large swath through the rabble.

She hesitated, unsure if she should follow. After all, she was alone and had no way of contacting the Incorrigible as she hadn't bothered acquiring the ship's communications frequency. One girl on Pilgrimage, a krogan Battlemaster and a secret plot with the geth. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. It sounded like a suicide mission.

Ancestors help her, she wanted to know what was going on, no matter the danger. The voice of her father sounded off in Tali's thoughts, Rael'Zorah's declaration clearing her fear and sharpening her resolve.

"Know that you carry with you not only your own destiny, but the destiny of all quarians. Go now, and discover that which awaits you."

She vanished into the crowd, curiosity and dread spurring every step.

---

The following is a short writing posted anonymously on the extranet, and has garnered several million page-hits since its publication on the Alliance Military's FreeForum in 2179. Though the author's identity remains unknown, we can at least surmise that the work was written by someone familiar with the service, as the perspective held does not strike one as being offered by a civilian. The piece reads as follows:

This is as much a statement as it is a reassurance.

The motto of the Alliance Marine Corps is Semper Fidelis: Always Faithful. Once you're a Marine, that's it. There is no going back. It's a part of you, whether you remain in the service until you die or serve your term and then muster out. It will always be a part of you. Always. Nothing can change that. Every Marine who reads this knows the above to be true, no matter how distant he/she may be from their time as a soldier, no matter how bitter or unhappy they were during their service. And I understand their bitterness, their unhappiness. I'm bitter sometimes, often unhappy with my lot as a soldier. Just another cog in the machine of war, a tool for the Brass and the Politic when they need meat and gun. I'll think about leaving, about taking my papers and giving the higher-ups a one-finger salute as I walk away.

But I stay, because it's not about me.

There is an obligation once one becomes a Marine, no matter the personal choice that leads one to the service. There is strength, pride, purpose to be found, sure, but these things are ancillary. No, what matters most, no matter what your Boot instructors yell into you, no matter what the Joint Chiefs order or the Politicians bawl, is one truth above all others within your service. As soon as you swear the oath, put on the uniform, take on the responsibility, the Alliance Marine no longer belongs to himself, herself.

No, the Systems Alliance Marine belongs to all of Humanity, its people and its greater meaning. We defend all men and women, all families, all peoples regardless of sex, race or political inclination. We safeguard better ideals, bigger dreams. We belong to a thing greater than ourselves and we will always belong to it, no matter our past, our rank, our belief. Everything else becomes second to this truth; that all humans rely on us, the Alliance, as their first and last line of defense against a very hostile universe. And we are always that line, from the day we take up the gun, the armor, the shield, the amp, the blade. We are the line until the day we die. Nothing changes that. Nothing can.

Once a Marine, from then on, always. Remember that, soldier. You stand on the ground others will not.

You stand between.

Semper Fidelis. Semper Vigilant.

---

LM here,

This one ended up longer than I expected. Happy with the way it turned out though, seeing as how I had to cut a lot for space. Some of you are wondering, "Why did he change Saren's appearance?" Because it looked stupid, that's why. Concept art Saren is more predatory, more villainous. Is better now, comrade.

Really enjoyed Shepard in this one, got to flesh him out something fierce and get into his head. Character-building is half the fun, my friends. The other half is torturing said character with the truly torturous backstory you've given 'em.

Tali's part in this was... interesting. I didn't want to portray her like the first game did, which, in my opinion, was fairly childish. She was over-eager, somewhat moody, never questioned anything. All the other squadmates, (with the exception of Liara) felt more complex. Hell, Kaidan felt more complex in ME1 than Tali did, which is embarrassing in its own way. ME2 Tali was assertive, got angry at things, was sometimes irrational or too judgmental. Flawed, but with endearing aspects that coupled with the negatives. She stopped being a geek-girl plot-device and started being a character. I hope I'm getting that across. When it comes to Tali'Zorah, I'll take all the constructive criticism I can get.

Next chapter should be shorter, as Shepard's role is likely just going to be meeting his new team before hitting Eden Prime. Tali's quest is gonna be the focus for the next few chapters, as there's more going on and a lot of room for some great stuff. You know: conflict, angst, death, all the fun things in life. Stay tuned.

Levi Matthews