To bring the dead to life

Is no great magic.

So grant him life, but reckon

That the grave which housed him

May not be empty now:

You in his spotted garments

Shall yourself lie wrapped.

To Bring the Dead to Life; Robert Graves

January 11th, 2030

Engineering, SSV Finch

"Alert. Mass effect field failure detected. Cherenkov radiation exposure is imminent."

"Barnes," Isabelle murmurs, blinking through the strange, piercing blue flash in her vision.

The eezo core is dull, inert; the exit from FTL had not been pretty. Peter had groaned out an affirmation just a minute ago when she'd asked after his status. Her wetsuit is flooding with stored water, even though she doesn't feel injured, just sore. Every muscle protests, and Barnes isn't making it easier - limp and splayed across her as he is.

"Barnes, come on - we have to fix your armor."

He groans, his hand trembling besides his cauterized, exposed skin. It might scar; she doesn't know the extent of the supersoldier serum's regeneration capabilities. But at least he manages to hold his own weight while she helps seal his suit.

"Alert. Mass effect field failure detected. Cherenkov radiation exposure is imminent."

"What is that?"

Peter's voice crackles through her omni-tool. "Ev… ever seen a nuclear reactor underwater?"

"Yeah, so?" She breaks off, examining the saturated tint of her vision. It's subtle, but the color's definitely different from eezo blue. Brighter, more… frightening. "Oh. That's not a blue haze filling the room, is it?"

"Eyeballs. We have minutes before it becomes irreversible."

"I don't know whether my suit's water can heal exposure."

It's Barnes who answers. "Shuri's… armor mods should help you both. And my serum… should break down any isotopes entering my bloodstream."

"Alert. Mass effect…,"the overhead's VI gets cut off with a massive crash and a shudder that rumbles through the whole ship. Isabelle and Barnes brace against each other. "Alert. Hull breach detected by unknown forces."

They stare at each other. "The VI would've recognized it if it was Alliance, right?"

Barnes grimaces in pain, then gets up and with her help, slips behind the meager cover offered by the railing surrounding the inactive eezo core. "Get the guns, Collins. Parker, stay low. Don't let the Spider out."

"Don't have my suit anyway."

She scrambles for the weapons, freezing before she can touch Selvig's - an all too-familiar maw opening in her chest at the reminder of that genteel scientist. But then she feels it. Vibrations through the floor plating, connected to the hallways beyond. Strange, rapid footsteps; not heavy, one-note treads, but almost like clicking. Tap-tap, tap-tap - multitudes of them, making their way to the engine room.

Isabelle slips behind cover, raises the pistol and readies herself. Barnes' omni-tool flickers into being.

The doors slide open, and in burst a troop of armored, humanoid aliens, guns blazing.

There's no way to get a shot in edgewise, not even a measly Overload. They just huddle undercover as shots streak over their heads. Some of them ricochet across the core's active shielding, further pelletting their armor with searing trails.

"So?" Barnes yells over the cacophony. "We go down swingin'?"

Isabelle grits her teeth so hard it hurts. "Not with Peter out there. And… Selvig deserves better." His mouth sets in a grim line, and he nods.

She squeezes her eyes shut, mutters something that might've been a prayer but probably is a curse, then twists out of cover and tosses her gun across the deck. "We surrender!"

The barrage doesn't stop immediately. Of course not - unlikely the aliens even understand her words. But she keeps yelling, until it breaks through the cacophony. And slowly, almost reluctantly, the gunfire dies down. When everything falls silent, she waits a couple of moments, swallows, then emerges from behind the cover with her hands raised. "We surrender," she whispers one last time, and steps out into the light. "Pete…"

"I got it, Izzy. See you on the other side."

There are at least twelve of them. Thinner bodies than humans, their legs curving backwards, helmets stretching backwards and then tapering off. Each one of them has its weapon trained on her with military precision. And then, almost as one, they snap them to Barnes, who emerges from cover - both arms raised and trembling.

There's a breathless moment of silence.

Then the alien in the middle steps forward, and with a single, sweeping stroke, slams the butt of his weapon hard against her helmet.


January 11th, 2030 | 08:42:11 [Terran Coordinated Universal]

Inter-Relay Chat Room: X3N0-V373R4N5

Locations: Varied (Shanxi, Pax System)


Username: PinnacleWarrior79 (admin)

Username: WolFeral88

Username: GoliAtlasSN2

Username: AstroAmbassador89


16:42 WF: This is secure, right?

16:44 AA: As secure as it can get.

16:44 GA: Says the guy who took 2 whole mins to type out taht entire sentence.

16:44 GA: that*

16:46 AA: Dictating is easier. Why did they change the keyboard layout again?! As though QWERTY wasn't hard enough.

16:47 GA: Apparently, Tony Stark himself designed it. Always wondered if he had tentacles - his rate of mass production was inhuamn.

16:47 GA: *Inhuman.

16:47 GA: Uh, no offense WolFeral88.

16:48 WF: Can we get back on track? I'm guessing the reason PinnacleWarrior79 called this emergency meeting is plastered all over my screens.

16:48 PW: Yes. For once, it appears that Ross wasn't just blowing hot air. We've got another invasion on our hands, gentlemen.

16:49 GA: Well shit. Suddenly I miss Earth.

16:52 AA: Anyone read that manifesto of Terra Firma? Some of those points he made… seemed like he was looking into the future. Almost imagining this exact scenario. Curious, isn't it?

16:53 GA: When it comes to good ol Thaddeus you always see conspiracies, Saunders. Uh, sorry, AstroAmbassador89, I mean.

16:54 WF: Yeah. He didn't say anything in there that we already haven't thought of ourselves. Hell I could even pull up the archived chats, prove it to you.

16:54 PW: Perhaps later. The question is - what are we going to do about it?

16:55 AA: I knwo what I'm going to do. Lots of guns on my back wall. Everyone in my precinct is packing heavy heat. We've got a colony to protect.

16:56 PW: And if it comes down to it, can you find it in yourself to follow orders from Shanxi's garrison commander?

17:03 AA: I can be civil. Within reason.

17:04 PW: And as for the rest of you?

17:05 WF: Don't know if Ross will want the help of 'my kind', but I'll do my part. Whatever I…

17:05 WF: [DISCONNECT]

17:06 GA: Where'd he go?

17:08 AA: Something's happen…

17:08 AA: [DISCONNECT]

17:09 GA: Oh shit oh shit the ETs bringing down the comm nodes oh shit are they ded fuck

17:10 PW: Stay calm, GoliAtlas, you've faced worse than this before. Our fellow veterans have trained for this. Grab your emergency kit and hunker…

17:10 PW: [DISCONNECT]

17:10 GA: FUCK!


TIME: UNKNOWN

LOCATION: UNKNOWN

A burning brand is pressed against her forearm.

Instinctively, she rolls until her back slams into a rough wall, then pulls herself onto an attacking crouch.

But there's no one there.

Only harsh sunlight, glaring through a slit somewhere up above. The narrow beam extends from wall to wall, nine feet in total. Hissing, Isabelle examines her arm. It feels raw, but she can't see much; her corner is too dark, so she moves closer to the light to get a better look.

"I wouldn't," a tired voice erupts from somewhere beyond the light.

She freezes, her leg hovering half-an-inch from the hard floor. "Barnes?" She squints but can't make out anything past the glare.

"We aren't in Kansas anymore, Collins," Barnes says. "You don't want to step into the light."

She slowly puts her foot down, stares at the shaft of light. The brilliance of it has bleached all the color from her surroundings, as though nothing can quite compare. She reaches out, tentatively, and finds the air immediately surrounding it hotter than steam, but drier than bone.

Screening her eyes, she cranes her neck upwards. The ceiling is lower than she expects - maybe seven-and-a-half feet at best. Made of glass or an equivalent thereof, allowing her an unrestricted view of the truly gigantic shutters far above - like you'd find in old S.H.I.E.L.D. hangars. They're rusted and ancient, refusing to seal properly, allowing that slit of deadly sunbeam. "Where are we?"

"In a cell on Planet Hellfire," Barnes mutters. "Your thousand-to-one chance worked: dropped us right in the middle of bird territory. And let me tell you, being a POW? Doesn't get better the second time around."

What she can see of the cell is identical to ones she's found herself in over the years. Pitted, concrete walls, gouged and clawed with messages. A worn cement floor, showing clear tracks where prisoners have paced for centuries. Utterly barren, though - no beds or even a thin mattress, no toilets, no windows. "Bird?"

"Those alien attackers. You'll see."

That's when the memory hits. She staggers, almost falling into the pool of light. The Relay, Gagarin, FTL. "Selvig," she breathes, his death driving the breath from her lungs all over again. "How long has it been since…?"

"Twelve hours or so. It was late night when we made planetfall. Must be about noon right now, local time."

She remembers how frail his body had seemed, so unnaturally thin. What kind of toll does being an Infinity Stone Remnant take on a body not built for those stresses?

Oh god, what is she gonna tell Jane?

She can't think of that right now. She can't make the same mistake she made with Morgan - to be so consumed by the dead that she forgets the living. "Your GSW?"

"I took a look at that," yet another familiar voice pipes up from within her cell. "Seems to be coming along nicely - good job on the cauterization, by the way."

"Peter." Relief floods her bones. She peers into the left corner beyond the beam, where she can make out just the hints of a curled-up silhouette. "Are you hurt?"

"Bruises, nothing more. Didn't even get a nap out of it like you guys." He seems to realize that his teasing has fallen a little flat, so he sighs. "I'm glad you're awake, though, Izzy. Was afraid the sun was gonna roast you: we shouted, but you slept right through it."

Isabelle remembers little of how she'd gotten here. Flashes, glimpses of being dragged out the Finch and onto an alien ship. Being stripped to her wetsuit by clawed fingers. The painful sting of radioactive decontamination. Her wetsuit must've prioritized all the water for healing rather than keeping her fully aware.

Something shuffles in the darkness beyond. "Selvig?" A female voice calls out, unfamiliar and muffled, as though speaking through plastic. "The scientist?"

"Who was that?" Isabelle calls out sharply, trying to peer past the light keeping her imprisoned. "Who's there?"

"We aren't the only prisoners, Izzy. Not even the first. Been chatting with a bunch of miners who got taken on the first wave. Yeah, the scientist," he says, presumably to the miner. "You knew him?"

There's fervent whispering. Then another voice replies, gravelly but just as muted. "Nah, never met 'im. He got a system near here named after 'im, is all."

She blinks. She knows something about this. Some mention of it in the newsreels; naming stars after famous scientists. There had even been talk of immortalizing Tony, which predictably hadn't come to anything - but she's glad of that, because they'd gotten the name wrong - , "…you mean Solveig? In the Rift? But that's…"

Right in the backyard of Alliance Space. A cluster for mining prospects and not much else. "Planet Hellfire got a name?"

"Birds call it Maitrum," the second miner responds, " - supermax for their worst, and for us. Been in the Rift longer than most; never knew this system even existed."

"So they won't know where to look for us, even if someone is looking."

Barnes shifts. "The bigwigs in the Alliance should know about the war by now, unless Ross is still holding out."

Selvig's dead eyes flash in her mind again. Accusing. She can no longer hold it off. "Where's the coffin, Barnes?"

There's a longer, thicker pause. It's almost anticipatory. "Collins…"

"It's not a stasis pod. In this climate - if exposed, those systems will break down. I'm not returning him to Jane in anything but the absolute best of conditions, do you hear me? Where is he?"

"They took him. When they boarded. I couldn't move, could barely breathe. Couldn't stop them. They took him… and I haven't seen him since."

Isabelle sinks to her knees and digs in the heels of her hands to her eyes. Selvig, in the hands of a faceless enemy who is doing who knows what to his corpse. She doesn't need to call upon the horrors; they're painted across the forefront of her mind.


January 12th, 2030

Prison Cell, Maximum Security Prison

Maitrum, Talava System

It takes hours for the shaft of light to completely disappear. The starlight that replaces it is faint, barely illuminating the walls of her prison and a few meters beyond.

Barnes and Peter are curled up on opposite walls - their bodies redolent, but their eyes watchful. Covering every angle of view between the two of them. Like her, they've been stripped to their undersuits and had their omni-tools taken away, but Barnes is missing a little something extra. "Hope you didn't let your prosthetic go without a fight," she says, gesturing to his empty left sleeve.

His smile is hard. "They'll remember it for a while yet. And if they know what's good for them, they won't try to hack through Shuri's defenses. Ever since Mars, her vibranium encryptions have become less… forgiving."

She hums, examines her surroundings. A thick, herringbone-patterned semi-transparent barrier separates the cell from whatever lies beyond. It's tinted, so she steps closer.

A single guard patrols the metal walkway beyond. Past the walkway, she can see four more cells in the immediate vicinity, dark silhouettes moving within them. To the right is an automatic circular doorway, hard-sealed. Several rows of cells extend left along with the walkway into the darkness beyond. The whole cell block is roofed with that glass-analog material which keeps the air in but not the sun or the heat.

The lone warden notices her regard and steps forward. He - assuming it's a he - has a military bearing, and holds a rifle of an unknown make like he crawled out of the womb with it. After a few moments of mutual staring, he docks his weapon and reaches for the clasps of his helmet. With a smooth motion, he takes it off and bares himself to her.

Turns out 'bird' isn't too far off, Isabelle thinks distantly. There might actually be something to that theory of alien spaceships revealing cultural and even biological details of the species that designed them. But for avian features that seem to be made of bone with a slight, but distinct metallic sheen, everything else about the alien is humanoid.

Cat-like eyes, set deep within eye sockets of the bony visage, stare at her. Sharp, long mandibles surround a flat, lipless bill, whose jagged edges fit together like uneven jigsaw puzzle pieces. The plated forehead reaches back over the crest of horns that then curl around a round, hairless scalp.

A thick, corded neck disappears into a hard shell-like exoskeleton which is further reinforced by a hardsuit. The arms - if they follow the similar lines of the armor - are slender but flexible, jointed in humanoid configuration. Their legs are similarly slender, with long, armored spurs just behind the knee joint and shins that curve slightly backwards, giving them a perpetual appearance of running on tiptoes.

It's the facial markings that really grab her attention, though. The white pattern stands out in sharp contrast to the rest of the alien's physical features: a six-petalled flower - four sweeping back over his forehead, and the rest highlighting his cheekbones. More delicate strokes follow the lines of his mandibles, and streak down his mouth.

Warpaint? For what - patrolling a prison? Or are they preparing for the fight that's already broken out?

Or maybe they always have them on. She wouldn't be surprised. Everything about this species - from the elbow spines to the taloned double-fingered claws - has evolved for war. Birds? Useful colloquialism, yes. But to her eyes, they resemble an older and much more ferocious creature.

Dinosaurs.


January 12th, 2030

Amaterasu, Shanxi

The Vindication crashes through the foliage in a carefully controlled dive. Ancient, thick trees - each a hundred-mile long - snap like twigs in the wake of the fighter's wings, but they give as good as they get; their sharp branches cracking against his canopy, leaving countless scratches and cracks on the transparent nanofiber.

Vyrnnus' comms crackle and the Eclipse pilot's tense but steady tone comes through. "Vindication, the AA guns are shredding... any signs… yet?"

Vyrnnus fires a few disruptor torpedoes. As expected, they careen wildly, confused by the tampering signals from somewhere in this spirits-forsaken atoll. Still, they at least manage to clear a path, and if they accidentally manage to hit the jamming tower, even better. "I'm close," he growls, noting the trajectory of his torpedoes as they set off explosions deeper into the woods, and the confusing mess of dots and vectors that is his radar. "Interference is spiking."

"... Hierarchy isn't going to like…,"

His mandibles pull in painfully tight. He'd barely waited before the official order had trickled in through the channels to launch his attack. The Hierarchy is going to have words for him when he gets back, but, " - if this works, they'll let me off with a slap on the wrist." And even if it doesn't… the memory of soft, defenseless, pink flesh cooking in its own armor as he'd bombed the enemy naval yard will make it more than worth it.

Even that death had been too fast for this particular enemy. So weak, so vulnerable, and yet so prolific - like the infestation of space monkeys on too many of their colonies. Vengeful fantasies he'd been concocting for a decade play through his mind; he's going to enact each and every one of them when he gets groundside. This entire race of monsters will face his wrath.

A construction breaks the monotony of trees up ahead. The Vindication dives, twists and pirouettes in its attempts to avoid the death lasers cut through the air before him. "Found the tower. It's heavily defended."

"We already… these oversized pyjaks have teeth.… go, show them yours."

Having little options and running out of room to maneuver, he unleashes his final set of torpedoes. Sure enough, they veer off away from his eyeballed target and right into the welcoming mesh of blue-white lines of heat.

A shockwave washes over the Vindication as the first of his slugs detonate. A particularly long piece of shrapnel embeds itself deep in the right wing, sending the ship into an uncontrollable, vomit-inducing spin.

Another explosion shatters his canopy, battering the shards against his personal shields as though they aren't even there. He chokes as a sharp edge slices through the flexible armor at his neck.

The wetness painting his chest leaves him feeling cold. He wants to swallow, but the frantic pulsing in his throat won't let him.

Alarms are screaming from his dash. The fuel tank's hit; leaking. Eezo core is offline. The ship's in an uncontrollable, vomit-inducing spin. Weakly grabbing at his slit throat, he tugs at the controls, and somehow manages to aim his failing ship at the tower.

They say the spirits come to a loyal turian in his last moments, reminding him of what's most necessary.

They come to him now, as the world whirls around him in a wild spray of colors and strobing lights. A song grows in his mind - no ordinary tune, but a thunder of drums. The imperial anthem.

He has no voice to whisper the chorus, so the spirits do it for him.

'Die for the Cause.'

For the first time in more than a decade, Vyrrnus has true cause to smile.


January 13th, 2030

Shower Room, Maximum Security Prison

Maitrum, Talava System

The shower rooms are communal and unisex.

A divider lined with universally-shaped sinks separates the bathing cubicles from the entryway, providing a contemptible semblance of privacy. Her feet stick to the grimy floors, and she can barely see her reflection in the scratched, pocked surface of the mirrors.

There seemed to be an unspoken rule of 'ladies first' among the men, who pointedly stay on the entrance side of the divider while the women make their way across.

On the other side, chest-length partitions that leave barely anything to the imagination border the cubicles, and are equipped only with a strange mechanism - a narrow bar with unequal joints, fitted into the socket of another flat cuboid. Her lip curls when she realizes it's the showerhead. But she's been in worse prisons: it's a miracle the birds are letting them bathe at all, honestly. She snags a stall, doesn't bother with stripping.

She's been looking forward to this. Even low water pressure might be enough to give her a bit of a boost, which she could then build up over time. But when she activates the shower head - sliding the bar upwards until it bends - out pours, not water, but a strange, humming mist that slams into her body like thousands of tiny bullets.

Isabelle curses, stepping back and stares at the spray, then her own body. Not a drop of water, but she'd definitely felt something. Ignoring the looks from the other women - who are well on their way into the first minute of their appointed four for shower time - she darts her hand into the jet.

Bullets again, but it doesn't hurt. Prickles a bit, like goosebumps but magnified a thousand times. She fiddles with the mechanism, and finds that the steeper the angle of that bar, the stronger the spray.

And yet, not a drop of water.

Disappointment is like a punch to the teeth. Her fingers curl into claws against the wall, and she watches as the dried blood on her hands and beneath her fingernails begin to get stripped away with a cold, ruthless efficiency. In seconds, a layer of smoky filth drifts into the drain, leaving smears on the floor, further adding to the grime of the stall.

The technology teases something in her brain - a memory almost half a century old. At a jeweler's, her ten-year-old self had peeked over the counter as Maria's old jewels were submerged with careful precision into a blue, agitated liquid. High-frequency sound waves, a six-year-old Tony had explained, wide-eyed next to her - combining with the chemicals to create bubbles that would rip away the impurities. Isabelle remembers exchanging a commiserating look with her mother - already resigned to silently suffering yet another impulsive genius in the family.

She gives a slow rueful laugh, shaking her head. Sonic showers, of course. Only a fool would expect otherwise on a planet so blindingly hot and dry that a single sunbeam could cause severe sunburns to unprotected skin.

Of course, her misery would not be complete without someone to interrupt her self-imposed solitude.

"Well?" In the neighboring stall, an unusually tall woman glowers underneath a mop of short, spiky hair. "What are you waiting for? Wave some water around and get us out of here!"

Isabelle blinks and sweeps her gaze across the stalls. All the women are wearing identical expressions of expectation and anxiety, as though they have been waiting for this moment and don't know what to do now that it's arrived. The meaning behind the caustic words register. "It's not that simple."

"What do you mean - it's not…?" The tall woman scowls harder. She stands like a soldier, not a miner. "We're stuck here - been stuck here waitin' for you to wake up from your beauty sleep, Princess; seems like the simplest thing in the world, from where I'm standin'."

Isabelle looks at them in disbelief. "Are you telling me that whatever rescue plan you've managed to come up with relies on me?" She raises her voice, intending it to cross the divider. "All of you?"

There's a suspicious silence. "Not me," Barnes says finally. "I told them you couldn't do it."

Instinctively, Isabelle bristles. The insult, even if it hadn't been meant that way, rankles especially because it happens to be true.

There's a short pause. "That sounded better in my head," he finally admits.

"Your head must be awfully strange then, " the tall woman drawls, " - 'cause that doesn't sound good any which way you try and twist it."

"Yeah." Barnes sighs, as though sick and tired of constantly being in pain. The cauterized scar must still be smarting. "Sorry, Collins, I just meant…"

"I know what you meant." It comes out harsher than she means it to, but she's too unnerved right now to take it back. She turns to the woman. "Where's the water, soldier?"

"What?"

"I've been casting out my senses since I arrived and haven't found anything but some pipes. There's still trace amounts of atmospheric vapor, but that's barely a trickle worldwide. So, where's the water? For me to wave around?"

The woman falls silent. Isabelle barrels on. "I can't draw from out there, I can't draw from in here," she gestures to the utterly useless showerheads. "I'd assume they know about me, but these sonic devices have clearly been here a while. Judging from your chapped lips and hoarse throat, the birds are barely keeping us hydrated. Just how do you expect me to pull off a rescue operation in such conditions?"

Isabelle's breathing loudly at the end of her rant. The woman is staring at her in horrified disbelief. "Are you… are you saying that you can't break us out of here? That we're stuck here?"

"For the time being."

No one else is showing the same level of shock; seems like they were holding out hope just for the hell of it. She'd almost be flattered by the tall woman's flabbergasted expression if she didn't know what such utter shattering of faith, however caustic, could do to a person.

Sure enough, she doesn't have to wait long.

The woman's face twists into an ugly scowl. "Well then, what good are you?!"

Isabelle barely fights down a flinch. She has heard much, much worse, of course. And it's not even the woman's juvenile cruelty that gets to her, really. It just hits hard, after Selvig.

She was supposed to save him. That was her mission, when Rambeau had first picked her up in Madripoor and Peter had briefed her. But she'd failed - on Eden Prime, in Styx Theta and then finally…

"All this time, we could've been… we could've come up with our own escape plan, and instead we relied on you!"

But Selvig had always been more than a mission. Tony had always had a soft spot for the crazy old genius - had seen something of himself in him. Selvig had saved her, brought her back from Svartálfheim, at great mental cost to himself.

And how had she repaid that gift? By forcing Barnes, of all people, to trade his life for hers.

"Aren't you supposed to save us? What kind of an Avenger are you?"

The showers abruptly shut off, abandoning them to a deathly silence. Some picture they must paint - a row of women in various states of undress, scoured clean by alien technology, glaring at the one who had failed them before she could even try.

"You've got your facts wrong, Dah," one of the miners says finally from beyond the divider. "It's all in the name. Avengers don't save people. They Avenge them."

That draws the woman - Dah - up short, and she pales rapidly. Suddenly, she seems like exactly what she is: just a kid, really, probably fresh out of Alliance Academy, only to be drawn into a war. Give it a dozen years, and Morgan will be about the same age.

"Well," Barnes says in a faux-jovial voice. "It's a good thing there are no Avengers here."

Isabelle stares at the divider for a long moment, as though she can meet and hold Barnes' gaze through it. And then she sighs and squeezes her eyes shut. "Yeah. Yeah there's really not."

After all, how exactly would she go about avenging Selvig?


January 13th, 2030

Command Center, Forward Operating Base (FOB), Shanxi

LOCATION: CLASSIFIED

On a three-dimensional global map laid out on a holo-table, a red light at a particular atoll in the northeast blinks out, only to be replaced by Thaddeus' Ross hard stare. "Report."

"We've lost the Amaterasu command center," Tadius Ahern says quietly. His arms are folded so tightly across his chest that it looks like he's deliberately trying to cut off circulation. "The birds hit hard, and they hit fast."

"And what were our forces doing in the meantime, Captain?"

"Holding out as best they could. But the enemy seems to believe in overwhelming force, and there's only so many 'dive-and-flank' maneuvers our pilots could pull off before their own ships broke around them. Alliance interceptors weren't built for such moves."

Dive-and-flank. It could only work on a tropical, island-based planet like Shanxi and only a few times at that. A move borne from desperation; when the enemy seems intent on hammering you with everything they've got, diving beneath the oceans only to ambush them from elsewhere starts to seem like a good option.

"Or perhaps your soldiers weren't just motivated enough to defend a command center that was all but lost, anyway. Didn't one of the enemy pilots ram into the jamming tower? Really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"

Ahern straightens. "Yes, it does, General," he says tightly. "If not for that, we wouldn't even have bodies to bury. Because our pilots would've eventually wiped them out and in retaliation, they'd have bombed Amaterasu from orbit - like they've done to every command post across the planet."

Thaddeus only grunts and closes his eyes. In less than three days, the turians had targeted all their control centers with a viciousness that had caught him off guard. They'd destroyed dozens of bridges, comm centers and airfields, driven the entire garrison underground - in some cases literally - and cut off most resupply options.

For now, they're leaving obvious civilian areas alone, though he's seen reports of alien ground forces heading that way. The rest of the military has been forced to hunker down in the wilderness, cowering like dogs from vigilant drones and torpedo-laden fighters on the hunt.


January 13th, 2030

Mess Hall

Maximum Security Prison

Like the shower stalls, the mess hall has a universal layout. A long room, low ceiling, no windows. Metallic tables paired together and laid out in rows. Higher benches than she's used to, and so hot she's unable to sit still for longer than a few seconds.

A sick, pistachio green light pours out from the narrow, capsule-shaped windows on either side of the hall, where birds with permanent scowls etched upon their faces serve from behind the sneeze guards. As for the prisoners, there's a clear social divide: bird prisoners keep to themselves, as do the miners who toss dark looks at her clearly shunned ICT squad from their own self-appointed corner. A building tension thrums in the air, between the groups… but also within them. She can't quite pinpoint the source of it.

For meals, they serve a small helping of what could only be described as 'mush'. An unpleasant, blue-green color, it's some kind of nutrient paste - high in protein and not much else. She takes in a mouthful before allowing herself to think too much about it.

Her first desire in the aftermath is for some sauce, any sauce, and a tongue cleaner to get that nasty, slick texture out of her mouth. The cold water helps, somewhat.

"Could be worse," Peter mutters from beside her. "Before we arrived, they poisoned some of the miners."

Barnes' head snaps around. "What?!"

"I don't think it was deliberate. The miners were captured soon after the attack on the Sokovia." Their faces tighten at the memory. "The birds didn't know anything about us, so they just served the available supplies; you know - standard prison fare. Turns out, though, that their food is really not compatible with human bodies."

"Did the miners survive?"

"Only some of them. Most of them are still pretty weak. The birds mostly leave them alone."

Isabelle examines the large group of miners. Their attire is the standard industrial wear: orange with silver bands across the chest, and navy blue trousers. Only one is in undersuit, and she stands out amidst the crowd: the tall woman who had confronted her at the showers, poking at her portions listlessly.

"They seem to be orbiting that guy in the middle," Barnes nods at an older miner - a wicked-looking scar running down his rugged, lined face. It looks recent; the inflammation has just barely gone down. The man's ignoring his food, sharp eyes roving across the hall, taking in everything.

"Lawrence Daskin. De-facto leader," Peter turns to Isabelle. "He was the one you talked to earlier, about Solveig."

"The birds allow that kind of command right in front of their noses?" Barnes demands, eyes intense.

"They encourage it, I think. He keeps order, even translates for them sometimes. So far he's had the best luck understanding 'alien'."

"It's not as if they can bribe him with cigarettes or something. So what's his deal?"

Peter presses his lips into a thin line. "His brother was poisoned. Didn't make it."

Ah. "Let me guess," Barnes rolls his shoulders, " - he didn't retaliate."

"No. Rumors are that the birds gave him the option to 'cremate' the body in an incinerator. As opposed to cutting him open to see how we tick, I suppose. But he refused, so they're keeping him on ice."

Isabelle flinches. Is that what's happening to Selvig? Has he been sliced open on some autopsy table somewhere, his organs scooped up in jars, his fluids drained in bowls? She forcibly wrenches her thoughts back to Daskin. "He's biding his time."

Peter doesn't disagree. "I don't think the birds really get that, though - they seem to be the 'immediate and overwhelming retaliation' type. Human wardens would've gotten nervous and killed him by now."

Barnes hums. "Human wardens also have strict routines so prisoners don't get any ideas," he muses, his voice smoky with hidden satisfaction. "So, how do we earn our keep?"


January 14th, 2030

New Datong, Shanxi

The shadows of still, whispering palm trees paint a chessboard over the colony. A match is well underway by the time Alec reaches the overlook.

It's high tide, and the break of the surf against the shore had all but drowned out the gunfire as he'd been clambering. As a child, he'd played with scarlet-and-black, rough-hewn pieces, and that's what he sees laid out before him.

A carpet of deep red seeping past the freshly-paved approach of the colony and into the grassy fields beyond as the colony's militia is pushed back, inch by inch, by the aliens in black. As he watches, a soldier yells something and tosses what looks like a homebrew grenade right on top of the tank.

The resulting explosion blows out the gun and a significant chunk of the rover's rear. Doesn't seem to have made much of a dent to its performance though, because it still rumbles forward, bodies crunching in its wake.

Alec reminds himself that just because he can do nothing right now doesn't mean he'll never have the chance. His life would be more useful not spent on throwing it away against a force he can't take on solo. Still, his fists clench and his clenched jaw aches as he slides down the slope, and slips into the outpost proper.

There's a reason he was chosen for this. Ross cares more about keeping his hands clean. The Captain's taking the General's tacit commands as a blanket permission to do whatever it takes to win this war. Including using S.W.O.R.D. connections to get him into places other scouts can't.

There's a smuggler's route crisscrossing Shanxi. Every human world has one, and it's a point of pride among the bootleggers that they'd managed to devise one even on a planet too waterlogged for discretion to be easy. For them, war is an opportunity - only good or bad depending on what they make of it.

And for a price that hadn't come easy, the route gets him into New Datong, unseen by both friend and foe. Soon enough, he finds himself at the roof of Quarantine Ops, crouching to avoid being locked on by the alien tank. The gates are down, and what remains of the militia is being dragged onto the wagon-like carrier attached to the rover.

The birds had come prepared for this. With difficulty, Alec turns away, switching his helmet visor to thermals before sweeping his gaze across New Datong.

Most of the outpost is a cold blue. Nothing moves in the area. Nothing even breathes. Only one building, at the very edge of the enclosure, holds a cluster of yellow-orange heat sources. Survivors. Not all of them are adult-sized and adult-shaped. There would've been no time to evacuate children and the elderly; the birds had hit too fast.

It's the Mayor's home, one of the only two-storey prefabs in the entire outpost, but otherwise just as barebones as the rest of them. There's a water silo next to it, and a cell signaling tower atop, connecting directly to the satellites above.

Keeping low, he leaps his way across the roofs, his steps sure but hurried, ever aware of the enemy making the rounds behind him. From the last prefab just before the Mayor's, he's forced to use his jump-jets to clear the jump to the silo. The ocean waves don't quite manage to drown out the glass-shattering racket of the microthrusters.

Laying flat on top of the silo, he lets the suspicion run its course through the alien ranks, while activating his omni-tool. Accessing the source connected to the tower is laughably easy with the codes provided to him. From this distance, he can barely hear the phone ringing from the first floor of the prefab.

After an unimaginably long time, someone finally answers the call. "Hello?"

The voice is younger than expected - early forties at best. Alec frowns. "Mayor Zhao?"

"The Mayor is dead. He preferred to stand with the militia at the gates, buying time for us until the reinforcements arrived. This is Chief Saunders, head of the precinct here in New Datong. Who the hell are you, and how the hell are you hacking into a secure government channel?"

"Lieutenant Alec Ryder, sir, Systems Alliance." ICT or not, they're not allowed to introduce themselves as S.W.O.R.D. agents to anyone below Commander rank in the military or those out of it, unless they're already in the know. "I was given the override codes by Captain Tadius Ahern, formerly of the SSV Geneva."

"Yeah, I know Ahern." Sound of a relieved laugh. "Always did like to take his time, the bastard."

Alec winces. "I'm sorry to tell you this, sir. But I'm not here to relieve you. My orders were only to scout."

Long silence over the comms. Alec looks over nervously at the birds. They're getting closer, even though they're hindered by checking every prefab they come across for survivors.

"Alright, Ryder, I'm assuming you didn't call me just to issue an apology instead of the reinforcements I specifically requested. So talk fast."

"We didn't know there would be survivors. But if I found some, I was ordered to tell you… to stand down."

"Now I know you're lying. Ahern is a veteran, just like I am. We faced the Chitauri together; we sure as hell ain't gonna lay down our weapons against more creepy aliens."

"With all due respect, sir, you might've faced the Chitauri, but the Avengers were the ones to defeat them," Alec says. The truth stings like a bitch. "And we don't have that kind of firepower right now."

"Son, that's just all the more reason to do it."

The birds are getting closer. Just a couple more houses, and they'd be at the mayor's. Faster if they broke the pattern and decided to deal with it first. "Sir," he says, whispering rapidly, " - again, with all due respect: you're a police captain. In times of warfare, you're obliged to obey the chain of command. And I'm sorry, sir, but the chain of command demands that you stand down."

"Ahern, you son of a bitch. Pulling rank on me? What makes you think they won't just shoot us down anyway?"

"Because they have a pattern," Alec swallows. "They've attacked a couple of colonies already - you must've heard before the comm towers went down. Those who were hostile were gunned down. But some of the citizens - parents, mostly, and the elderly - surrendered."

"What happened to them?"

"We don't know. They were taken, somewhere. Anyone who surrendered. That's why I'm here."

"To follow us. We're bait." A long sigh. Alec aims his visor. Just one house away. His heart pounds. "You never said the orders came from Ahern, did you?"

Damn. The question he was dreading. "No, sir. Just the override codes. But if it's any comfort, the Captain is willing to denounce General Ross' actions after all this is over."

"No, Lieutenant. It's not a comfort." A silence long enough that Saunders ends it only when the birds have finally reached the Mayor's house. " - thank you, though, for trying. Now get the hell out of here. No point if they find you too."

But, despite the risk, Alec stays, and bears witness as for the first time in history, a human willingly surrenders to an alien.

Something tells him it won't be the last.


January 14th, 2030

The Plains of Maitrum

Maitrum, Talava System

Javelins of tyrannical light rain down as the ancient doors slide shut, locking them out for the day. Dust devils twirl on the stone ramp, thriving frantically in their few allotted seconds of life, before they too are swallowed up by the sand. In the distance, a shimmering mirage resolves itself into enormous stacks of wreckage - appearing much closer than it actually is.

Isabelle can still feel the gunpoint that had been required to prod her outdoors. She'd been the last, and even though her cowardice had been mortifying, she hadn't been able to take that last step by herself. Both the human and turian prisoners had stared at her curiously long after she'd been shoved outwards. Barnes and Peter say nothing - not a hint of pity on their faces; nevertheless, she can feel it settling onto her skin like a fever.

Their own S.W.O.R.D.-issued hardsuits had been rendered unusable by the radiation. So they'd shimmied into spare miner outfits that had definitely seen better days and stinks to high heavens besides.

The horizon is broken by a vast field of starship corpses. Broken down engines, exposed beams and scaffolding, gaping frames, all draped over with thick layers of sand. Even all the way over here, she imagines that she can feel the heat sizzling from the metal hull, and yet those massive wrecks are the only source of shade. The rest of the surface is mostly flat and barren - with the biggest natural artifacts to break the line of sight being knee-length rocks.

"It's a goddamn salvage yard," Barnes growls behind her.

"Where did they even come from?"

"Failed escape attempts, from the looks of it," Peter replies. "Hundreds of them. Only way out of this hellhole is a ship, and there's plenty of that around here."

And from his tone, she can tell that none of them are worth a damn. He's a brilliant engineer; she trusts his judgment.

Just then, a blocky, bulky shadow breaches the sulfur-hued cloud cover, heading straight for the southern wing of the prison. AA guns on the roof track the descent, but then settle down, recognizing a friendly.

An alien starship, similar to the ones they'd fought at Styx Theta. From this angle, there's the slight hint of a ramp near where she imagines the cargo hold would be, but it doesn't descend.

"Haulers; seems like they're loosely based on Prothean design," Barnes mutters in a low aside. "Saw some blueprints on Mars. Cargo airlocks on the undercarriage for load nobody wants exposed to open air for fear of contamination."

Guess that's one question answered. The birds probably had a 'Prothean Archives' too.

A few minutes later, the hauler lifts off and heads to the western edge of the facility, where it disappears into a low, wide prefab. When it doesn't come out, they finally head towards the ruins.

According to the miners, Maitrum is regularly besieged by dry thunderstorms, heaving immense amounts of sand and dust from somewhere far in the east. The last one had been just a couple of days ago. It had scoured the area where the prison is situated, completely concealing enormous wrecks that had lain in the sun for decades, while uncovering those that had been trapped underground for a lot longer.

A couple of miles later and what seems like a million more to the ruins, Isabelle turns to look back at the compound she'd just exited.

The prefabs are under the shadow of a large butte, built directly into the rock wall. Up close, the age of the polymer that made up the prefabs had been obvious. But at this distance, under the glare of the angry, alien star, all those centuries of dirt and grime have taken on a blinding sheen. Bleached almost as white as bone, she only catches a glimpse of it before she's forced to look away, hissing and blinking the spots from her eyes.

Yet another way to keep the prisoners in line. No one who doesn't want their eyeballs oozing out of their sockets would dare approach the prison until well after sunset. The birds have effectively trapped them to the scattered shade provided by the wrecks in the distance without even having to lift a finger. Despite herself, she's impressed. She turns to the miners. "Where are the bird inmates?"

"Working elsewhere," Lawrence Daskin replies shortly. "No one knows where."

"So what's the plan, then?"

"Find something worth salvaging - more intact the better. Or cobble something together."

It's not what Isabelle had asked. "Do they withhold food or something if we don't?"

Daskin doesn't respond.

Peter's gaze has already locked onto a target - the remains of an ancient mining barge. It's a little ways away from the prison facilities - but it has a good length of shade. "C'mon. I think I know where we can find the best loot."

Whatever tension had been boiling between the miners comes to head on the plains of Maitrum.

Bucky and Parker have had to pull off more than one man looking to maul another. There's more than enough junk around, and yet every few minutes a tug of war will break out over a shiny yet otherwise-ordinary piece of trash. It's ridiculously difficult holding off angry, clawing hordes with only one arm, so he has no compunctions using his head to emphasize good behavior.

At the end of it, though, there are many crumpled bodies groaning on the packed sand. If only he could be sure that this enforced peace would last, then he could at least consider his reduced oxygen levels to be worth it. What's gotten them all so on edge? And why is it that they're the only ones invested in breaking this up? "Could've used some help, Daskin. They're your men," he snarls.

Something flickers across Daskin's face - too fast to make out. "They needed to lose steam," he shrugs. "It's not as if we can do it where the birds are watching."

And why is that? So far Bucky hasn't seen any signs that the birds are interested in enforcing their rule. There's not even any fence or guards around the perimeter. The birds have bargained on the fact that only a fool would venture deeper into the desert than strictly necessary. The elements themselves have become their prison walls.

So what is it that Daskin's hiding?

A motion catches his eye. It's Collins, sidestepping a pile of wires and metal, traipsing away from the wreckage and into the desert proper. Her steps seem aimless, undirected - as though she couldn't give a damn about the best salvage, and the only thing she cares for is to get away from it all. Bucky meets Parker's worried gaze, who nods and lopes after the woman.

Bucky sighs. Glares down a miner who tries reaching for a sharp-edged metal panel. "Behave," he warns. Then, without looking back, he follows them.

Nobody goes out into the sands alone.

The hard part, Bucky realizes soon enough, isn't finding the salvage. There's more than enough decent quality scrap to haul back to their wardens even without Parker's critical oversight.

It's not even the heat that beats down on them relentlessly. Bucky's skin is crunchy, like a pack of potato chips that's likely to crumble any second. His blood feels like it's gonna bubble out of his veins, and his brain is sluggish, overstimulated by the sun and the sand and the constant, scraping sounds of metal against metal.

No, the very worst thing, to his complete surprise, is not knowing what's going on inside Isabelle Collins' head.

Because he'd expected some reaction for Selvig's death, braced for another throwdown even - but there's nothing. He doesn't get the feeling that she's just waiting to catch him unawares, either - it's as though she barely even remembers that he'd fired the gun.

For her, no less.

Bucky isn't a thinker. Even before HYDRA, he wasn't one. He follows orders, and uses his brain to figure out the best way to take out a target or brace for impact. Nothing more.

So it's a hell of a lot easier to plan for Collins' inevitable meltdown than try to figure out when exactly keeping her alive had become a priority - and more importantly, why.

At least Collins is predictable in one way, he consoles himself. She doesn't thank him for it.

She doesn't say anything, really. Maitrum must be a hundred times worse for her, but she doesn't offer a word of complaint. Just continues to advance further into the desert than any of the other teams have bothered - past the initial crush of debris and into the desiccated sand dunes, ageless under the sun.

"Looking for something in particular, Izzy?" Parker calls out, digging his boot out of a patch of loose sand.

"Just looking to see if the storm might've dug up something."

"Might not be the best time to kick the hornets' nest," Bucky warns. He has plans for when that'll be useful, but he needs to know more before he commits to any large-scale action. Especially when nobody knows what large-scale even means in this alien prison.

"I'm not planning on it," she says before bursting into sudden action. Her feet slide down a dune, one arm outstretched for balance, before she lands on her knees next to a collection of strangely-shaped rocks jutting out of the sand.

No, he realizes as it comes fully into view. Parker's hitched breath is sharp over the comms. Bones.

Unusually well-preserved. The charred skeleton is curled up in fetal position - the vertebrae, carapace and three-clawed fingers laid out in sharp relief. Sharp teeth are bared in an agony that is obvious even across the centuries. When Collins bends down to shift the bones, it proves stubborn - so firmly packed and glued into the sand that it would take a tool that would crack the bone itself to dig it out.

"Damn," Parker murmurs.

Collins hums noncommittally, ignoring the skeleton entirely while her eyes sweep back and forth across the desert.

"Storm must've uncovered it: it's been here all this time, buried deep. What do you think is the cause of death?" Bucky asks, keeping one eye on Collins but far too thrilled about the find to give her much thought.

"Not a starship crash, that's for sure - she's far too intact. Though I'm no archaeologist: it's just the look of her."

Collins seems to be looking for something in particular. She walks back towards the wreckage, assessing scraps of metal, discarding anything too small or light.

"'She?'"

"Yeah, see?" Parker gestures to the blackened skull. "No cranial crests that sweep back. Plus, wider hips."

"What, they don't lay eggs?"

Parker rolls his eyes. "Just because we call them birds…"

Collins stills again, then darts forward into a pile of junk. With a grunt, she hauls it out. Bucky frowns. The thing is heavy as a sledgehammer, and vaguely of the same shape. She drags it back to the skeleton, scoring deep marks in the sand that linger and waves him away when he offers to help. What the hell is she doing? "Is it valuable?"

"What, you planning to barter your freedom… Izzy, wha… no!"

But she's already swung.

The skeleton shatters, pelting them with large shards of spiky bone shards and sand. Bucky and Parker stumble back, then stare at her, absolutely aghast as she swings the heavy tool over and over again, pulverizing the no doubt historically valuable find to absolute bits.

When it's done, she leans against her improvised weapon to catch her breath and wait for the dust to settle. The part of Bucky's mind that's not frozen notes that the activity had winded her far too easily; the heat and dehydration must be taking its toll.

"Collins, what the hell…?"

Something glints in the sand. Ignoring him, she darts forward to grab it.

They crowd around her, peering over her shoulder at the metal chain with a triangular pendant-like shard. Like the bones, it's surprisingly intact - if horribly scratched and pocked with rust. One surface of the pendant is carved with what appears to be a mask of the bird-aliens, with sweeping crests above the scalp, and long, thin mandibles on either side of the long nose.

She turns it, her fingers pointing grooves along the back - deliberately carved with symbols he finds faintly familiar but can't quite place. "It was buried underneath - I could see it, but the skeleton wouldn't budge."

"What is it?" Bucky breathes.

She stares at it for a long moment, before her fingers curl around it.

And then, with a sigh that sounds like heartbreak, she whispers the answer.

"A dog tag."


Cargo Bay, Maximum Security Prison

Maitrum, Talava System

The sun has gone below the horizon by the time the last batch of pyjaks return to the cargo hold.

Despite his fellow soldiers' weary protests, he'd held back the closing down until well past the appointed time. The prison has a policy of leaving stragglers behind to rot outside as a warning for the others to not be late: Maitrum's nights are no more forgiving than her days. But he'd never explicitly gone against orders until this moment, and he doesn't even have a good reason ready for the warden-commander.

How can Adrien Victus explain his certainty that there's something different about the latest trio of pyjaks they'd recovered?

The corporals line up the prisoners in an orderly fashion: the most feeble of the miners picked up at the asteroid go first, as always. The blue, conical glow of the scanners fill the room as his team examines the contributions. These pyjaks had little more to give, especially after the accidental poisoning, so Victus takes pity on the sorry creatures and waves away their poor attempts.

One of his wardens makes a mocking sound. Victus looks over, his mandibles drawing in when the warden tsks at the tall, troubled miner girl's contribution - a tiny, ancient generator which gives up the ghost almost as soon as it's switched on.

From the look on the girl's face, it's clear that the thing had worked out there in the desert, and she'd gambled on it lasting throughout the day's heat so she could earn her respite.

"Enough, Septinius," Victus says sharply when the taunts go on for far too long. The female might not understand his words, but her face has gone white - interesting biology - from the implications and there's a brimming anger growing in the pyjak crowd that the warden is ignoring. "Let the girl prepare for what time remains. You'll be questioning her soon enough."

"You're too soft on these simians, Victus," Septinius says snidely, irritation clear in his subvocals. His green facial markings are faded; he hasn't been applying it regularly. "Won't do for the warden-commander to suspect you of developing sympathies."

Victus snorts. "With that tongue, you should've been born an asari. Twisting words - you've missed your calling; here in Maitrum."

The warden scowls, but subsides.

Maybe it's being trapped in Maitrum, just as prisoners to it as the criminals are - but the wardens here inevitably develop an abject dislike for the blue-skinned race. For any aliens, but especially the asari. The sand and the heat brings out the very worst in everyone who's been here long enough. Even deep in his own mind, he can feel that madness encroaching - he holds on all the tighter to civilization in anticipation of that beast's savagery. It helps that Maitrum doesn't have thresher maws.

Finally, it's the turn of those he's been looking forward to the most.

Something in Victus tells him that these last three aliens are a cut above the rest of their sorry species. The much-young, limber male who had - according to some in-depth scans of the alien vessel - somehow managed to amateur-pilot a ship through the mass relay corridor while still in FTL, and the wounded, irradiated pair recovered from the damaged ship that had relayed straight into turian territory.

When Maitrum had just held turians, the wardens would often pick out a prisoner who had built something exceptionally well, and put him to work elsewhere - sparing him or her the unforgiving task of biweekly scavenging for the rest of his sentence. The young pyjak had managed a terrifying feat - a near impossibility by current standards. But for obvious reasons, the warden-commander had decided not to allow him the usual privilege.

The other male, though one-armed, is strong, well-built. His eyes are sharp, watchful and he's coiled tight, as though just waiting - and itching for - a fight. The facility's few engineers had been salivating over his seized prosthetic. According to them, it's made of a material none of them have ever seen, and couldn't possibly replicate. But then, it's not as if Maitrum has been assigned the best scientists. Maybe the salarians would do better.

But it's the woman that Victus finds himself fascinated by. Like the rest of the females, she's identical to an asari but for the olive skin tone and the black, thread-like strands erupting from her head. So far, she hasn't done anything worth his regard - and yet, his hackles rise every time she approaches. He still doesn't understand why her curiosity from within her cell had urged him to bare himself to her - show her her first glimpse of a turian.

His men had ridiculed him for the gesture. All the evidence backs their disdain - she had surrendered easily on their ship, she had awoken far later than the males after they'd cleaned her up, she's quiet and… well, weak. But none of them had been able to explain a simple, obvious fact.

How had either of them survived their ship's severe radiation leak?

The amateur-pilot goes first, dropping his contribution onto Septinius' desk with a loud thud. At first glance, it looks nothing so much as a torus-shaped propeller set onto a base. But then he spots the connecting wires, bolts and rotors, and knows what Septinius holds even before the other warden scans it.

It's an air-conditioning unit. A perfectly serviceable one, from the scanner readings: it just needs a power source, which is also something the pyjak has cobbled together. A very pointed message, especially when the day's heat hasn't dissipated yet. Pity it'll never be used; Septinius will destroy it out of sheer spite.

But even he can't deny that the pilot is safe. For today, at least.

And then it's the one-armed, muscular alien's turn. Victus's burning curiosity turns to somewhat-amused alarm when the male presents, of all things, a weapon. A functioning chainsaw, attached to a mini-motor that Victus is absolutely sure the pilot had helped him rig. Rust has been cleared from the serrated edge; it shines with the same kind of silver that Palaven does when seen from its moons. Considering the source, it's a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

The prisoner arches a brow, as though in challenge. Victus holds his gaze, and then, with a flick of his mandibles, waves him through. If an alien soldier with only one arm and limited help can create something like this from the garbage outside, maybe it is time the wardens themselves start poking through their trash.

A few of the turians - on both sides of the law - grumble. But the rules are clear. No one interferes with the judgment a warden makes when it comes to his or her prisoner.

And then, finally, it's the female's turn. Unlike her compatriots, she doesn't have anything bulky. In fact, her sole contribution seems to be clutched tightly within her fist, spilling rusted ball chains between her fingers. Her gaze is distant, and she visibly hesitates.

Then, ignoring Septinius, whose turn it had been next, she steps in front of Victus.

Murmurs break out in the cargo bay. Septinius bristles, a bark of reprimand ready. But something in Victus makes him snap up a hand for silence. Something in him wants this to play out.

She lifts her fist to his eye level and meets his gaze squarely. Something spills and spins out of her fingers before jerking to a stop.

Victus frowns, taking a closer look. It's triangular, metallic, with strange symbols…

All his senses seem to blur. Sight, hearing, touch… but for what's focused on that ancient piece of metal.

The symbols on the back… are identical to the markings on his face.

Six-petaled flower, each line more delicate than what face paint could ever pull off. Each representing a different moon orbiting his home colony. Or so he'd always been told, as it had been destroyed millennia ago in the Unification Wars, and its insignia lost - but for the remnants on the faces of the Victus lineage.

His senses return as though from underwater. The cargo bay is in chaos - everyone is yelling, with Septinius' voice the loudest. The pyjaks have backed to one corner, behind the one-armed male and the young pilot's protective stances. Only the woman still stands in front of him, not a twitch in her pale, dehydrated skin betraying anything of what she feels. Whereas he, who should've had a lot more control over his emotions, has once again been exposed wide-open.

He takes a deep breath. "Enough!" His roar is so startlingly powerful it seems to make the very walls shake. Septinius, who had been standing closest to him but for the female, flinches back in response. Silence descends, still trembling with the echo.

He meets her gaze. Memorizes the ordinary brown of her eyes, the build of a soldier. A warrior. Then, deliberately, he nods. "I will remember," he says quietly, adjusting his subvocals so only she can hear.

Something in her must have understood, because she blinks, then steps aside and joins the rest of pyjaks.

Septinius is shaking. "I'm seeing a pattern in you, Victus. Coming to the defense of two of their females? Perhaps it's you who likes to be led by the asari. Perhaps you've forgotten what it's like to be a true turian."

Victus closes his eyes. "The rules are clear," he says quietly.

For the wardens, the asari diplomats represent something cold and aloof and magnificent. Something unattainable, something unbreakable, redolent in their high thrones on the Citadel, or their climate-controlled mansions in beautiful Thessia. It's a good bet they don't have facilities like this for their captives. No, their prisons are all words and control, weaving a gossamer web so beautiful you want to be trapped in it.

Somehow, the wardens have convinced themselves that that's a fate worse than anything Maitrum can throw at them. One can imagine their savage joy when the Hierarchy sent them prisoners that so resemble the asari. Sometimes, a substitute is better than even the real thing.

And with one ill-thought out gambit, the pyjak female has just confirmed that her resemblance to the asari isn't just skin-deep.

She has targeted a turian's sentimentality - a dangerous position if there ever was one. A turian is bound by his duty, by the well-being of his people and his worlds. Even the worst of the prisoners here understand that. It's anathema for them to bribe or to be bribed, to shirk their honor and responsibility, even if the bribe being offered is great.

And yet… Victus is torn. His talons can't seem to let go of the insignia. And his men know that.

Unknowingly, the female who had offered him a priceless gift has just sealed her own fate.


Mess Hall

Maitrum, Talava System

Something's changed. And Bucky doesn't trust it.

Everything's less heavier than it was in the morning - even the very air itself. It's not obvious; no one's giggling. But there are more… sincere smirks going around. A dam has broken, and while the flood has swept away lives and livelihoods, the survivors are thanking their lucky stars that at least it wasn't them this time around. As though all of their troubles, their terrors have been heaped onto one pair of shoulders.

And the Atlasian figure those shoulders belong to: the tall, miner-affiliated girl who had verbally accosted Collins at the showers.

Face white, arms wrapped around her stooped figure, as though literally holding herself up. Unlike in the morning, none of the miners cluster around her. It's as though they're afraid to touch her, afraid to… infect themselves with whatever's targeted her. All of them… but for Lawrence Daskin, who is whispering softly to her, his hand so tight around hers that they've both gone bloodless.

Bucky observes all of this from his place near the end of the queue. Parker's behind him, his posture oddly tense, and the hairs on his arm standing visibly at attention. His Spider-Sense is twitchy too. Collins is just ahead, a plastic tray tucked under one arm.

As though sensing his scrutiny, the tall girl looks up. Her eyes rove over the crowded line, narrowing at Isabelle, openly dismissing Parker and then finally landing on Bucky himself. Her mouth twists speculatively. Then, launching herself to her feet, she pats Daskin's shoulder and marches determinedly towards the queue. Towards him.

Bucky arches an eyebrow when she unceremoniously shoves herself between him and Collins. She's slightly taller than him, but there's something awkward and gangly about her, as though she's just barely graduated basic. Collins, for her part, barely startles before her expression slips back into usual detachment.

"You're cutting the line," he says, then his eyes flick to her undersuit's chevron rank insignia. "Corporal."

"It's just Jill Dah," she corrects with a hard smile that only serves to make her look even younger. "Thought we were getting more of a response, Alliance."

He points to himself. "Sergeant James Barnes." Sensing his rank on her isn't gonna make a dent in her desperation, though, he moves on. Literally - he shuffles forward, forcing her from the queue proper. "Think you might be mistaking us for someone else, Dah. We aren't responding to anyone's call."

"Explains a lot." She looks unsurprised. "Was assigned to the T-GES Mineral Works up at Mahavid. Birds found us on the return trip from Arvuna. Kept screechin' through the comms - couldn't understand a thing, but we knew what to do. Shut down the drive and waited to be boarded. Been here ever since."

Bucky nods. "An SOS wouldn't have made much difference if the Balor relay fleet went down first. Sorry to disappoint, ma'am. We got caught with our pants down just as much as you."

Parker clears his throat. "Arvuna is an occupied garden world, right, in the Aysur System?" His eyes flicker to Bucky's, but if there's a hidden warning in them, Bucky can't see it. "Any chance they might've found it too?"

"If they had, the colonists would be here, yea?"

Or they might've bombed the colony from orbit, Parker's hooded gaze implies. Hell of a lot more convenient to capture and interrogate a couple of miners than to go up against a potentially armed and definitely hostile colonial force. But speculation isn't gonna get them anywhere. If the birds had attacked Arvuna, then they'll just have that much more to answer for.

"You seem close to your charges," Bucky says.

She spares a look at the miner clique over her shoulder. "Yeah, they've had my back a lot, and I, theirs." They're all staring at her, and a barely disguised alarm is growing on Daskin's face.

Bucky stiffens, shifting his grip on the plastic tray so he can use it as a weapon, if it comes to that. Behind him, Parker is just about vibrating out of his skin. Boy, this is going to get ugly. "More than you can say for the Alliance, eh?" He says as casually as he can. "That why you don't consider yourself one?"

Mahavid - the largest asteroid worth mining in the Rift. Remote posting, basically little to no chance of moving up the ranks. Consequence of her temper, he guesses: she must have pissed off someone real high on the ladder. Inevitably, her loyalties shifted.

"That, and at Mahavid, I'm not confused about who my enemies are." Already an unsubtle dig by itself, Dah emphasizes her disdain by flicking her eyes towards the front of the queue, where a bird is slopping a ladle full of steaming protein paste onto Collins' tray.

The portions are significantly larger than any other prisoner's: a fact that hasn't gone unnoticed. Coincidence, maybe - but Bucky thinks it's a deliberate gesture of supposed favoritism, and not by the obvious party.

Collins seems to be on the same wavelength, because her shoulders tighten, and she holds the tray away from her a little, as though she's trying and failing to distance herself from it. Obviously uneasy, she turns to Dah, who has suddenly become the unofficial spokesperson of all those resentful at Collins' stunt. "We're more alike than you might think, Dah."

Parker inhales sharply.

Dah's face twists. "I ain't nothing like you. I've seen your type; you look human, you move and talk like us. But inside it's just all hollow. Alien." Her head jerks to a nearby bird warden staring at them curiously. "At least they've got the guts to keep their ugly on the outside."

With that, she slaps the tray from Collins' hand. It clatters to the floor, spilling mush everywhere.

All this time, Bucky has been waiting for Collins' response to Selvig's death. The more she pushed it all down, ignored it - the worse the backlash would be. So as the hours passed, he prepared to steel himself at higher and higher degrees to contain the blast.

Never did he imagine it would be someone else who would bear the brunt of the impact. Nor that all of his preparations would end up being his saving grace… and Collins' ruin.

Bucky instinctively, fatally, braces. The warden growls and moves. But Collins is still faster.

Her fist blurs. Dah crumples, choking around her crushed windpipe. A knee to the face knocks the taller girl back against the sneeze guards, her back bending like a young, awkward twig. With a palm against her solar plexus, Collins holds her there effortlessly - as though the girl's struggles barely register.

Eyes burning, she leans close. Bucky can barely make out her words. "You should be grateful. You don't want to see what I look like when I haven't gotten the ugly locked up tight."

Dah spits in her face.

Collins jerks back in furious disgust just as the guard reaches them. As though his movements were guided by some divine entity, he swings his baton and clips her just below her ear. Right where an Inhuman's auricular nerve - the path of her abilities - would be.

Collins gasps and crumples. Her head cracks against the floor. The warden yanks her up by the hair, twisting her arms behind at a painful angle.

That's when Bucky unfreezes. Before he can take more than a single, frantic step forward, though, something smoothly takes out his feet from under him. He falls, bellowing as a weight holds him down - powerful legs locked around his hips. "Don't," Parker whispers harshly, sweating against the strength bucking under him but not giving an inch. "Don't interfere, Barnes, or it'll be you on the chopping block. No!"

Parker's fingers disappear within Bucky's empty sleeve. Jolts of pain make his shoulder scream in agony from a cruel tug at his prosthetic socket. Black dots his vision, and all he can see is an inert Collins being carted off by the guard. "I'm sorry," Parker sobs. "I'm sorry, but everything inside me is screaming that it'll be worse for you, Barnes. She'll survive, my Spider-Sense knows it - but you won't. I'm sorry."

Panting against the floor, Bucky's eyes are frozen at the tableau before him. Bird reinforcements aim for Dah, but then suddenly Daskin's here, rapidly miming the universal signs of 'calm' and 'peace' and 'surrender'.

And before his very eyes, he's got the girl to go scot-free.


Inquisition Facility, Maximum Security Prison

Maitrum, Talava System

Her muscles don't seem to be responding to her mind's orders.

Maybe it's the sluggish nature of those orders, or maybe it's the aftershock of the pinch Isabelle feels in her neck, squeezing the life out of her Terrigenesis.

The fact remains - her body doesn't resist as she's limply dragged across a maze of confusing hallways, leading deeper into the belly of the facility. As they pass a long, observation window, streaming sterile, white light onto the hallway, Isabelle manages to crane her head to look through.

At first, she sees only a cabinet with many wide drawers, and before it, bodies draped with sheets lying on several metal tables. A morgue, she realizes with a jerk, and then her eyes fall on an elongated artifact on the far edge of the room.

It's a familiar coffin.

It freezes her, that sight, and by the time she recovers, they've dragged her all the way into a dark, foreboding chamber. It contains just one thing.

It's shaped like a dentist chair, but is nowhere near that ergonomic. One-piece, full-body seats, with the backrest at an uncomfortable angle. On either side of the chair are tall, curving screens with holo support, and more screens well-above the headrest, held aloft by robotic arms.

Isabelle starts struggling. All that gets her is a sharp, alien bark and another blow to the head. Next thing she knows is that she's strapped to the chair. Glowing cuffs that remind her of an omni-tool secure her to the armrests and trap her feet. Another locks around her forehead. She can't move.

More birds surround her, snarling and growling and yapping at each other, clearly at odds. Isabelle manages to swallow back the nausea, but her head is still ringing.

They turn to look at her. Her breathing speeds up at their predatory gaze.

The warden who had brained her steps forward to the curving screens.

Isabelle writhes, but the shackles only tighten, temporarily cutting off her blood supply. Dizziness makes her head loll. Through lidded eyes, she sees the holograms flicker on. Lines of symbols and graphs run down on the bright orange screens.

Monitoring her stats, she realizes with a sudden burst of adrenaline - pulse rate, blood pressure, brain scans. "What…," she whispers, " - what are you doing to me?"

In response, the bird swipes at the hologram with a swift, decisive gesture.

And Isabelle burns.

Blood no longer flows in her veins. Someone's poured in molten lava instead, and it leaves scorched trails where the vessels used to be. Organs roast to a crisp and tissues shred in the wake of the liquid fire as it leaps inside her body. Her back arches off the chair, but even that temporary relief is curtailed when the restraints slap her back down. Hot, thick wetness spurts out of her screaming mouth, dribbling down her chin and seeping beneath her collar.

It tastes like justice.

She's still shuddering long after it stops. Ozone, iron and the stench of charred flesh overwhelm her rattling senses, moments before she's once again pulled under the cleansing fire's wake.


Cell Block, Maximum Security Prison

Maitrum, Talava System

Bucky slams Daskin against a cell barrier as soon as the birds drag them back to their prison block. In the same instant, Parker kicks out at Dah's knees. The birds don't protest, just hang back and watch the show. "You're done keeping secrets, Daskin," Bucky snarls, almost blind with rage. "Start talking."

For a man whose throat is getting bruised by an Enhanced arm, Daskin isn't paying him any attention. "You planned this, Dah," he calls out. "Triggered her, set her up to attack you - set her up to take the fall. You knew what they'd do to her."

Dah's head is bowed, her arms pulled back painfully. "She's not human. They don't feel pain the same way we do." She twists towards Daskin. "Isn't that what you told me?"

The sound Parker makes is animalistic.

"We already have one enemy," Daskin sighs. "You had to go about making more?"

"… it was my turn today. I figured they could take apart one of their own for a change."

Take apart…?

"Thought you wouldn't need to know," Daskin's eyes finally, reluctantly meet Bucky's. "Her stunt with the dog tag mustn't have gone over so well."

There's a pit growing inside of Bucky. It's strangely familiar, but distant… like an old memory. Faded… but never forgotten. "Where have they taken her?"

"The Inquisition Facility. For questioning. The birds have a device there, to break us. To divide us. A neural grounding rod." Daskin swallows. "But we just call it the Chair."

Bucky recoils. A memory erupts on his tongue then: the taste of the horseshoe-shaped mouthguard: his decades-long companion and the sponge for his agony. On it had been carved grooves the exact same shape as his clenched jawline. His limbs want to seize in remembered trauma, but he won't let them. Not when it's a phantom of the very real thing Collins must be going through right now.

"Why the hell didn't you warn us?" Parker shouts.

"Because I thought… I'd hoped that if we got out of here; if Aquamarine got us out of here first, then it wouldn't matter."

"She's hydrokinetic! Water and electricity don't mix!"

Bucky whirls around at Parker - Daskin forgotten, but not his own rage. "And what the hell were you thinking, stopping me from going after her?"

"I had no choice!" Parker roars, guilt and regret and agony rearing their ugly heads in rapid succession as he shoves Dah away and wipes a hand down his tear-streaked face. "She'll survive, but death… will be the least of your options, Barnes. No one wants the Winter Soldier unleashed here!"

Bucky slams a fist against the cell barrier. The vibration rattles his bones, so he does it again. And again. And again. Until his nerves all but stop responding, and his arm slumps, limp and useless. Just like the rest of him.

The birds who had been watching finally make their move, brandishing batons that they use to shove each back to their cells and locking them down. Bucky manages to follow Parker in, but then his strength gives out and he sags down on his knees. "She uses her powers to save lives," he whispers wretchedly, mostly to himself, " - and this is the thanks she gets?"

His voice must've carried over. "She's never saved my life," Dah shoots back. "What - am I supposed to trust her just because she's Earth's mightiest hero or something? It's not as if she'd have volunteered to take my place had she known!"

"No," it's Parker who responds, so harshly it makes the girl cower in her cell. "No, you're right, Dah. She wouldn't have."

His fists clench by his side. "She'd have gone to war for you instead."


Author's Notes:

MCU Context:

AstroAmbassador89

So. AstroAmbassador89 is a subtle nod to Daniel Sousa, an Agents of SHIELD character introduced in Season 7, played by Enver Gjokaj. Plucked from the past (and - from a meta perspective - the Agent Carter show), he joins Phil Coulson's team, eventually forming a romantic relationship with Daisy Johnson and going on space adventures. Hence, the Astro Ambassador.

But that wasn't Gjokaj's first appearance within the MCU. That would be a NYPD cop called Saunders in Avengers (2012) who appeared for a few scenes during the Chitauri Invasion in Manhattan. In a deleted scene, he was shown to be shot down by a footsoldier while attempting to rescue a civilian.

In my headcanon, he survived with a moderate injury to his shoulder. I'm thinking that he's also a descendant of Sousa, which explains the resemblance (rather lazy of me, I know). For convenience's sake, I'm sticking to Daniel as Saunders' first name.

Oh, and PinnacleWarrior79 is, of course, Tadius Ahern, who would later become the admiral commanding the Pinnacle Station.

The other characters are just random NPCs.