Sorry for the delay, dear readers. I had some pressing non-fiction that needed to be addressed. But I'm happy to have the quill in my hand once again. I hope it's worth the wait.

Garrus pointed his rifle down the dark tunnel, clearing each nook, then motioned for Hera to move forward. She took point with her pistol, holding it with her hand left hand while the right dangled uselessly at her side. Then it was his turn again, always covering her weakened flank. They moved smoothly, as if they were reading each other's minds – when to move, when to hold.

The walls were the color of old mustard, and the light within them faded in and out. Their boots clung to the floor, sticky with secreted ooze. The air was damp and heavy and feverishly hot.

"I have a bad feeling about this," said Garrus. "Hera, I think this ship is sick."

"Yeah. Me too," said Hera. "And where is everybody?"

"Somebody brought us on board . . . which reminds me – the fighters that attacked us? Collectors?"

"No," Hera said immediately. "Too . . . artificial. Too clean." She nodded at the tunnel walls. There was a pulsing liquid running through - "Are those veins?"

"Yeesh," said Garrus. "Yeah. That's what I thought, too." He sighed. "Why do we always have the whole galaxy against us?"

"It's because we're so pretty. They hate us because we're beautiful."

"Well, that explains me, but . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Turian of the Year."

"Hey, that was a very respectable magazine – wait."

Hera stopped.

Around a bend in the tunnel, a group of cocoons leaned against the wall. Their translucent membranes glistened with a honey-colored gel. Garrus crouched, looking inside. He could see shadows . . . moving. He felt a shiver go up his spine.

"I really don't want to see what's in these," he muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at Hera, then froze.

"Hera, don't turn around."

Hera turned around.

Seven Collectors stood silently right behind them, blocking their return to the ship. Hera and Garrus brought their guns up, but the Collectors didn't move.

Hera tilted her head to one side. "Okay. Keep going. Eyes wide."

The tunnel sloped upwards as strange, cancerous growths the color of bruises had started to appear here and there on the walls and ceiling. Eventually, the corridor emptied out into an open, cavernous area. Hera and Garrus stepped out into a Collector control station.

But the honeycomb pattern, so precise and predictable, was gone. In its place was an abomination. The floor and walls looked almost melted, the colors faded to a splotchy grey. The primary console was engulfed in a swarm of tiny insects, lazily buzzing and crawling about. Tentacle-like appendages rippled around the edge. Hundreds of Collectors stood silently around the perimeter of the station. The seven behind followed Hera and Garrus up the tunnel. None of them had their weapons drawn.

"Well, this is just getting creepier by the minute," said Garrus.

"Yeah. I almost wish they were shooting at us."

"I'm just glad the rebreather doesn't allow odors in. I'm pretty sure I'd vomit in my hardsuit."

The two of them made their way across the control platform to the only area not populated by the silent, watching Collectors.

"I feel like I'm being herded," said Garrus.

"Like a Pyjack."

As soon as they stepped onto the far section, it detached from the rest of the platform with a slow sucking sound and rose into the air. The two soldiers rocked with the motion.

"Hmm. The plot thickens."

"I do love a good mystery," said Hera as the platform carried them further into the Collector ship. Suddenly, she froze. "Hang on. Do you hear that?"

Garrus cocked his head to one side. He could hear something. It was faint, but . . .

"Shepard, what is that?"

"It's music, dumbass."

"I know it's music, Commander Smartypants," he retorted as the faint strains grew louder. "What's the tune?"

"I don't know, but I don't feel like dancing. Stay frosty."

"I always feel like dancing, and I'm always . . . frosty."

The music filled the air around them, the rhythm pulsing louder and louder as the platform began to descend.

The platform attached itself to a new control station, this time surrounded by . . . Hanar?

"Well, that's a surprise," said Garrus as they stepped off the platform.

"These ones welcome you," said one of the Hanar. They parted to allow a path forward.

"Why are there jellyfish on a Collector – oh. Of course."

"Of course what?"

"Who do the Hanar worship, Garrus?"

"The Enkindlers . . . meaning the Protheans. Ah." Garrus stopped and looked at Hera. "Yes."

She nodded. "The Collectors are all that's left of the Protheans. So it makes sense that –"

" – they'd worship them. Got it."

They continued further, following the corridor as it led down into the bowels of the ship. The engines thrummed, out of sync, through the deck under their feet.

"But how did they ever meet? " Garrus wondered aloud.

Hera shrugged. "Got me. Does it matter?"

"Well, yeah, it does. There's something else going on here. It doesn't add up."

They entered a low, dark chamber. A long desk, almost looking as if it was constructed of alien bones, reached across the width of the room. An oversized chair – almost a throne – of the same material was turned away from them on the other side of it.

"Now what?" said Garrus.

"Now," a voice rumbled. "We will discuss how you will help me restore the Prothean Empire."

The chair turned around and Hera and Garrus found themselves staring into two pairs of yellow eyes.

"Javik!"

"My old friends. Welcome." The last Prothean stood and spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the future."

"What the hell's going on here, Javik?" Hera demanded. "What future?"

"It will be a future that looks much like my past," Javik said. "I have built an army that will help me begin the process of bringing an honorable culture to your galaxy. Once again, my people will rise."

Garrus regarded Javik for a moment, then cast a sidelong glance at Hera. "Um –"

"You think me insane, Garrus," said Javik with a smile that nearly confirmed it in Garrus's eyes. "But I promise you, I am not mad. I am merely trying to find my home in this strange world."

"As are we all," said Hera. "But rebuilding the Prothean Empire –"

"There's no place for me here in the future. And with no war to fight, there is no honor to be had. But then I recalled the Collectors – they were once Protheans, until the Reapers," he spat the word, "defiled them. And I began to wonder, perhaps there were still some Prothean souls that the Reapers could not touch, buried under their manipulations, their corruption. And perhaps, only I, the last Prothean, could reach them, could make them into what they – what we – once were."

Garrus cast his eye back up the hallway. "But you needed help."

"Indeed. The Hanar revered my people as Gods. It was quite simple to convince them that, with their help, I could make their Gods flesh again."

"It can't be done, Javik," said Hera. "I sympathize – I do. But there's nothing Prothean left in these creatures."

"There will be. I am working on several . . . projects . . . to restore their true natures."

"Like the music?" asked Garrus.

"No, but it soothes both the Hanar and the Collectors," Javik explained. "They become more . . . pliable. Easier to . . ."

"Control?" said Hera. "You want to rebuild the Empire, but you're using beings with no free will! How can you possibly think that they could be even a shadow of what your people were without their own minds?"

"It is a process. Like the ship. This . . . inelegant . . . vessel is changing, becoming more like those of my forefathers."

"Uh, I hate to break it to you," said Garrus, "but your ship is seriously diseased. It's basically breaking down."

"It's a metamorphosis," said Javik. "Like a caterpillar to a butterfly, on your Earth, Commander."

Garrus and Hera exchanged a look. "Javik," said Hera slowly, "how long have you been out here?"

"A great many years now. But not long enough."

"It's just that, well, sometimes, when people are isolated for a long time, they can kind of lose their, um, perspective a bit."

"More than a bit," said Garrus. "Maybe it would be a good idea to get a second opinion on all this. Think it through after hearing what someone else has to say."

"Oh, but I have. I have made entreaties. I have other sources of help. Even the Shadow Broker has provided me with resources, contacts. Scientists who feel, as I do –"

"Wait. Stop," Hera interrupted. "Liara is helping you?"

Javik paused. "I am surprised you did not know. Yes. We have maintained a correspondence regarding these matters. We did not see eye to eyes when we first met, it is true, but we do respect each other. We have had many long conversations on the subject. Her knowledge of my people in some ways outstrips my own. She has been very helpful with my plan."

Hera had stopped listening and could now only hear her pulse rushing hot throughout her body. There was a roaring in her ears and her vision had become very focused and hard.

Garrus saw the change in her and stepped forward. "Javik, I think you'd better stop –"

But that was as far as he got.