There was a sharp knock at the door, waking Nick abruptly and sending his datapad sliding off of his lap as he jolted awake. After a few frantic moments spent trying to catch it, the young man's thrashing culminated in a failed attempt to catch it with his foot that sent the tablet sailing across the room and clattering to the floor.

With a defeated sigh, he rose from his chair and walked over to where the pad had landed near the foot of the bed. Detecting his touch as he stooped to pick it up, the screen sprang to life with a half-read document about the Turian Hierarchy.

Agent Morris' "gift", had proved to be quite informative, even if it made for rather dry reading. Still, the corpsman had seen fit to brush up on the century and a half or so that he had missed out on. In a way, it had been odd—reading what had once existed only within the realm of science fiction out of a history book. There were half a dozen major races within "Council Space", each with their own history, culture, and, in many cases, a completely unique biology. That wasn't even touching the "minor races" he hadn't gotten to reading about. To say he'd have some adjusting to do once he got out was…apt.

Stealing a glance at the tablet, Nick tossed it onto the end of the bed as the door slid open and a pair of soldiers stepped inside. To the corpsman's surprise, Senior Agent Morris entered just behind them.

The intelligence officer, wearing a charcoal suit jacket a few shades darker than his silver hair, gave a polite smile.

"Mister Vandas, while it has been a great pleasure of mine to make your acquaintance, I expect this may be the last time we see each other." The old spy said, not sounding entirely unhappy to be bidding him farewell. "I leave you in the capable hands of my associate Operations Chief Macklyn who, if you'd go with these fine gentlemen here, you'll be meeting shortly."

"Of course, sir." Nickeli replied automatically, one of the soldiers indicating for him to accompany them into the corridor He paused on the way to the door, indicating the tablet resting on the foot of his bed. "And, uh, thanks for the history lesson."

"Well, hold onto it. I expect you'll make better use of it than I did."

With an appreciative nod, Vandas collected the datapad and followed the two guards through the increasingly familiar hallways with it tucked beneath his left arm as he walked. An elevator ride and brief stroll later, the marine was ushered into a small, windowless office where he found a man sitting behind a desk.

The man, who Nick assumed was Chief Macklyn, looked to be about the same age as Morris, though he was decidedly a bit more rotund. The office he had occupied was clearly borrowed space, furnished with only an empty set of shelves against the back wall and a drab metal desk with a console and a few datapads stack on it beside his console.

The operations chief, wearing a dark-blue Navy jacket, looked up from his work as Nick entered and scrutinized the corpsman for a long moment before he spoke. "Private First Class Vandas?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have a seat," He said gruffly, more an order than an invitation. Pulling two datapads from the stack, the old soldier sat tapping the point of his stylus against the top of the desk as he waited for the enlisted man to sit. "I'm Operations Chief Mackyln with Alliance Naval Intelligence, if you weren't already aware. Since you need the right paperwork before you can be deployed, I've been called in to fabricate a personnel record for you. While a lot of it is going to have to change, I'm going to try to keep as much of it consistent with your service history as possible. Please, pay attention—it's important that you know what's in here."

"Understood."

With a nod, he turned his attention back to the corpsman's service record. "Your service medals and deployment history will have to go." Macklyn stated, producing a stylus to cross-out several lines of text. "Fortunately, the Alliance was involved in a series of peacekeeping operations in the Traverse due to anti-government factions. Pretty standard ground war—low intensity, limited fleet involvement, and only a minor Alliance troop presence, making it good for our purposes."

Browsing the record a few moments more, he abruptly paused to carefully read a section. Looking up to meet Nickeli's eye, an expression of curiosity dawned on the operation chief's face. "Silver Star in Afghanistan, huh?"

The young marine gave a faint nod. "Yes, sir."

"2010? That would've made you, what? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"A few months passed twenty, yeah."

The veteran serviceman seemed to consider this for a long moment before giving an approving grunt. "That's a pretty ballsy move for a kid your age."

"I was just doin' my job, Chief." Nick replied quietly.

The operations chief said nothing, instead nodding his understanding. Drawing another datapad from the stack, he studied it for a few moments before clearing his throat. "You were a Marine Combat Corpsman deployed with First Battalion, Four-Oh-Fifth Marine Expeditionary Unit to the colony of Dawn's Venture during Operation Sentry against anti-government guerillas. You received the Silver Star for gallantry in action and the Purple Heart for wounds sustained. You were evacuated from the theatre of operation to Earth. Following your recovery, you were assigned to the Twenty-Seventh Marine Colonial Guard. You saw no action, and your unit helped train planetary security forces. You had been granted leave to visit family on Eden Prime during the attack."

"Hang onto this," Mackyln said, pushing the tablet across the desk to Vandas. "It's your official service record and it's already been forwarded to the Normandy—Captain Anderson's ship—it would help if you knew it. From here, we'll have to get your medical records up to date. I'll leave you to the medical officer for that."

Rising from his chair, the operations chief offered his hand which the younger marine took and shook firmly. "It was nice to meet you, Private Vandas. This afternoon has been…interesting."

"Likewise, sir."

Half an hour after the medic and his escort departed, Macklyn was riding the elevator down, his portable console and collection of datapads stowed within the black messenger bag tucked under his arm.

Stealing a glance at his omni-tool he sighed, seeing several new messages waiting for him. His absence, while at the official request of the Department of Diplomatic Intelligence, was certain to have irritated a number of people, not to mention all the resources he'd tied up to resurrect a dead United States Marine. With those things in mind, George wasn't enthusiastic about returning those missed calls, knowing full well the only thing waiting on the other end was a reaming from some first lieutenant or other that he'd inconvenienced. Worse, it might be his commander trying to figure out exactly what the hell he was up to.

The elevator shifted slightly as it came to a halt and the chief dismissed his omni-tool with a flick of the wrist as the doors parted. Stepping by a pair of office workers as they got aboard the lift, he followed the meandering corridors of the Irin Center until he spotted Senior Agent Morris peering into the infirmary through the observation window.

"Collin."

"George." The old spy greeted, his gaze not leaving the window as the operations chief joined him. Inside, the privacy curtain had been pulled aside and Nickeli could be seen jogging on a treadmill, stripped to the waist with a web of sensors and wires connecting him to a computer cart beside the exercise machine. Considering the winded expression the corpsman wore behind the plastic oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, they'd been at this for some time.

"I told Krebber not to turn this into a science project." Morris grumbled, shaking his head as he watched the doctor and his staff move about inside. "I'll bet the man kept lab rats as a child."

"Kid's doing well?" Macklyn inquired, setting his bag down and tucking his hands into his pockets.

"He met all the physical fitness benchmarks, albeit marginally in some aspects." The intelligence officer informed him, sounding somewhat satisfied by the news. "Aside from that, the doc's given him a clean bill of health, so he just needs his inoculations and gene therapy injections before he's fit to be deployed to the Normandy." He gave a disparaging sniff at the activity on the other side of the observation window. "I expect most of this is for the good doctor's own diversion."

George made no reply, instead silently watching Nick as he stepped off the treadmill and an attendant stepped forward to unhook the numerous sensors on his arms and torso. He stood with his chest heaving and his fingers laced on top of his head, the sheen of sweat on his forearms and chest gleaming in the harsh white light of the medical bay.

He was a tad short—about five-ten or so compared to the typical six-foot that most spacers stood, though he had the same lean, athletic physique typical of servicemen. In armor, it'd probably be hard to tell the different. He seemed like he'd make a good fit aboard an Alliance warship—or, at least that was Macklyn's impression of the young man.

"He needs to be trained." The operations chief said suddenly, bracing himself as he caught a sideways look from Morris.

"We can leave that to Captain Anderson to handle." The spy said dismissively. Though his tone was neutral, there was the strained undertone of frustration in his voice and George knew well enough that he was running short on patience. The operations chief couldn't blame him in that regard.

What had initially seemed a simple assignment of debriefings and paperwork had ended up being a tangled mess of geth attacks and prying ambassadors, all being kicked around the political field and with a time traveler throw into the middle of it to thoroughly confuse things. For his part, George felt bad knowing that he was complicating his old friend's situation further, but that didn't change the facts of the matter.

"No, he can't." The serviceman insisted. "The kid's technical skills are a century and a half out of date. He can't field strip a rifle made in the last two hundred years, he doesn't know how to work in zero-G environment—hell, he probably doesn't even know how to put an omni-tool on. I cannot put him on a ship like this—he'd be found out in an instant, and he's liable to get himself killed. You may be satisfied with throwing onto the Normandy like this, but I am not."

Morris gave a weary sigh. "Christ, Mackyln…"

"Anderson and the Normandy are going to be tied up dealing with the Council for at least a week. Just give me until then." George pleaded.

"Three days." The agent conceded at last, his voice heavy with defeat. "You have three days. Teach him how to march, fight, wipe his ass—I don't care. But after that, I want him the hell out of my facility. Don't want to see him, don't want to hear about him. From there, you'll have to make arrangements with Anderson."

Upon being brought back to his quarters, the only thing that kept Nick from promptly casting himself onto the mattress was the thought of having to lie in bed with his own ungodly stench, and he reluctantly dragged himself into the bathroom and turned on the shower, depositing the two datapads he'd been carrying on the nightstand without a second look.

Doctor Krebber, as the man in a white lab coat had so politely introduced himself to the medic before taking his shirt and throwing him onto a treadmill, had proved himself to be a rather unorthodox physician. On the one hand, he'd given Nickeli a clean bill of health but at the same time his almost academic interest in the young marine had been…more than a little disquieting.

Still, the doctor had wished him a farewell with the assurance that'd they'd see each other in the morning. To what end, Nick didn't know, but he grimacingly anticipated more testing.

Morning.

It felt odd, calling it that. He'd been kept indoors thus far and was afforded only the occasional glance at the eternal twilight outside as he was moved between rooms or when he was returned to his quarters. To the corpsman it seemed little more than a violet haze, and it had taken a while for it to set in that he was looking into space and the nebula beyond the Citadel without a real atmosphere to obscure them.

In fact, as he stood undressing, there were only a few inches of glass between him and the lifeless vacuum. It would've seemed unthinkable to him, but it was mundane for so many millions aboard the station.

Pausing a moment as he pulled of his boot to inspect the mending wound on his ankle, he gingerly probed at the gash with is finger. He'd done away with the thick gauze dressing at some point, finding it to be more aggravation than it was worth, leaving only a fresh layer of medi-gel to cover the bloody stipe the round had left across the side of his ankle. Though it seemed to be healing nicely and no longer affected his stride, the mark still felt like fire as he inspected it.

His leg had improved as well—the jagged cut on the side of his thigh now reduced to what appeared to be little more than an ugly scrape, and the medic had similarly done away with the uncomfortable bandage.

The steamy jets of the shower felt only mildly warm against flushed, sweaty skin, prompting the medic to turn it up to a more suitably scalding temperature.

Despite his grumbling about more or less being held prisoner, Nick could certainly see himself getting used to the good food and hot showers. However, given his impending transfer to the Normandy, that seemed like somewhat of a shame.

A spaceship. He was going to be posted on an honest to God spaceship. He'd known this since earlier this evening, of course, but it occurred to the young marine that he hadn't given the matter much consideration.

How did one shower in space? Didn't microgravity cause issues? Wait—no, scratch that, he'd already been aboard the Normandy, and it'd had gravity. Still, Nick was pretty sure he'd have to figure out the zero-gravity thing sooner or later, though he had mixed feelings about hoping for either.

The food aboard had been good, as he recalled—or, at least the coffee was, which he held as a positive indication as far as dining was concerned.

Scrubbing the sweaty residue from his hair, Nickeli pondered what his position aboard the Normandy would be. Corpsman seemed the obvious choice, of course, given that it was all he really had the skillset for, but as he recalled the ship was already outfitted with an infirmary and a very capable medical officer. Still, he hoped he didn't end up a clerk or something—it'd make things a lot easier to be doing similar work as he had been.

But wait, the body armor he'd been seeing looked like pretty serious pieces of work. How were you supposed to open them up to treat a casualty? For that matter, what if you were fighting in space or on a toxic planet or something?

And come to think of it, hadn't that weird, bony-looking thing Shepard and the rest of the squad had found on that planet been an alien that was a member of their team? Was he going to have to treat them too?

Christ, Nickeli realized with a leery groan, he was going to have to learn everything again, wasn't he?

Turning off the shower and taking the light gray towel from where it hung to wrap around his waist, he ventured out of the bathroom to find that a few things had been delivered in his absence.

A meal tray and a pair of datapads had been deposited on the small table on the other side of the room and, mercifully, a fresh set of navy blue fatigues sat in a neatly folded stack on the end of his bed.

Deciding it best not to think too much about his hosts' uncanny ability to reliably make these deliveries while he was unaware, Nickeli quickly dressed, wadding his towel into a ball and throwing it toward the bathroom doorway.

Venturing over to the table and sitting down, he pushed aside dinner—a fillet of what looked to be fish of some sort and a healthy portion of a dark red hash with an enticing if peculiar aroma. Tapping at the screen of the tablet that had been left on the top of the stack, a memo appeared on the orange screen.

Private Vandas,

Tomorrow, you're to begin expedited technical training in preparation for your posting aboard the Normandy. The course will focus upon familiarizing you with modern weapon systems and skill sets, such xeno-anatomy and physiology, and will continue once you are aboard the Normandy. In the meantime, I would recommend reviewing the Alliance Navy training manuals included with this memo. – Ops. Chief Macklyn

With another tap on the screen, the tablet cycled to the cover page of a military manual, bearing the outline of a rifle in orange-yellow followed by a long designation number.

Leafing through the pages with a swipe of the finger, the medic found weapon specifications and diagrams detailing how to disassemble and clean the rifle. It was the same compact, streamlined assault rifle as he'd seen Williams and the team from the Normandy wielding, but he was beginning to realize just how alien the weapons really were.

When he'd seen them on Eden Prime, he'd initially thought they simply used caseless ammunition, but the service manual had thoroughly dispelled that notion. There was no indication of an ejection port or magazine well, and despite the labels, he struggled to make sense of the rifle's complex inner workings. After a few minutes of studying the document, he set it aside, a confounded looking lingering on his face before he moved on to the other datapad.

Fortunately, the other training guide, containing a course on casualty care, proved easier to understand despite being the more complex subject. Resting the tablet in his lap, the enlisted man kicked his feet up (a bad habit that the military had never entirely broken him of) and slowly ate as he studied the treatment manual.

It was a small comfort to the corpsman that, as far as combat trauma care was concerned, the principles remained the same, even if the technology had changed. It would make for an easier time adapting.

Gradually finishing his meal over the next hour, he eventually reached the end of the training booklet. He sat for a while longer, eventually dozing in his chair before awaking and deciding to call it a night. Pulling off his boots and setting them neatly side by side at the foot of his bed, he stripped down to his grey boxers and slid under the covers.

Lying in bed, he stared out the window for a while, watching the flying cars outside dart by in a long procession of faintly glimmering lights. A larger ship, similar to the enormous dreadnaught he'd seen from the Normandy as they approached the station, came into view, a regal spire gliding effortlessly through the void, silver starlight gleaming off of its hull. It was oddly serene to watch—a massive warship, capable of immense power and undoubtedly carrying thousands aboard, cruising soundlessly into the twilight.

That would be him soon enough, he mused, aboard a ship as it shrunk out of sight to see what the distant stars held in store. The thought conjured a tightness in his gut as exhilaration and apprehension swirled. He'd be billions of miles from Earth—possibly to places mankind had never been before.

It all felt so…momentous.

It seemed to Nickeli that destiny—if there was such a thing—awaited him aboard the Normandy.