I lay there in silence–a spirit came o'er me;
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw:
Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
The Rock of Cader Idris; Felicia Hemans
January 31st, 2030
Royal Palace, Terra Nova
Asgard System
King Valkyrie listens to his report without interruption. Without even blinking, Gabe is sure - her dark, heavily kohled gaze keeping him pinned to the opulent sofa. He feels unnaturally hyper-aware here, in Terra Nova. This world, though newly colonized, is already steeped in alien magic. It skitters down his skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
When he's finished, Valkyrie blinks lazily. "Tea?"
It's not an offer. A servant brings them a tray and retires. Gabe almost chokes on a mouthful when Valkyrie pulls out a flask from under her robes and pours the contents into her cup. The alcohol's fumes are strong enough to make his nose hairs curl.
She appears amused by his reaction. "I was a drunk warrior for centuries, Reyes."
Gabe just hums noncommittally.
He goes over the report in his mind, wondering if he'd missed anything. His assignment, as per Operative Rambeau's instructions, had been to report to King Valkyrie of the possibility that her weapons might be being sold under the table. But getting an appointment with the ruler of Terra Nova is no easy thing. So, in the interim, he'd sidestepped his orders a bit and conducted his own careful investigations on Jormungand Technologies for a month.
Those attempts only served to emphasize one fact: the mercs were unusually good at covering their tracks. The only data of significance he'd managed to pin down was that the shipment to Shanxi Rambeau had warned his team about having been legitimate after all.
Suddenly, Gabe stiffens, feeling a curious gaze on his prosthetics. His cheeks flush red, first in shame, then in anger.
He has dealt with this long ago; he has nothing to be ashamed of, to anyone - monarch or otherwise. But that doesn't mean he has any desire to discuss it, either, so he tries to change the subject before anyone broaches it. "You don't seem surprised at this turn of events, Your Majesty."
She chuckles. "Oh, I'm definitely surprised. Surprised it took so long, and surprised that Henry Lawson would be so unsubtle about it. Maybe he thinks he's untouchable behind bureaucracy."
Gabe's eyebrows jump up. "Lawson? You think he's the one… oh. Then why haven't you done anything?"
She shrugs. "I'm rather cavalier about these things. As long as the humans only use my weapons to kill each other and not turn them against me and mine, he can do what he likes with them. Plus, I've ensured I get a cut off from his dealings." Her eyes narrow. "Asgard has lost too much for me to worry too much about principles any longer."
The Gabe from before the accident would've been disgusted. But then he'd killed a bunch of mercs who'd kidnapped and drugged Enhanced kids, and not lost a wink of sleep. His brother shares a body with a spirit whose idea of the world is tinted a stark black-and-white. "I suppose," he says finally, " - humans wouldn't appreciate you taking care of the problem for them."
Her approving smirk takes on a playful edge. "My turn for questions."
Gabe's fingers tighten around his thigh. "Of course," he says stiffly. "That's only fair."
"Why did a Master of the Mystic Arts, a fabled cadre of sorcerers, decide to leave the Sanctum Sanctorum to join an interstellar pseudo-government?"
He blinks, then exhales, relaxing. She hadn't asked about the legs.
His reasons were no great secret, but he had never volunteered. Everyone in ICT was always too exhausted to care. "The founder of the Mystic Arts, Agamotto, is said to have traveled the galaxies, bringing home strange, magical artifacts and passing his knowledge to his disciples. I'm… attempting to trace his footsteps, so to speak." Not the whole truth, but enough. She had done the same.
Valkyrie has her eyes scrunched tight. "Agamotto. The name seems familiar, though I can't quite picture his face. Red robes? No, blue."
Gabe jerks upright. "You've met him?"
She shakes his head. "I saw him just once: storming out of Odin's court. He'd been a guest. Strange; I don't recall carrying his soul to Valhalla. Surely such a venerated battlemage would've merited that honor."
Gabe's vainly trying to suppress his excitement. This is more than he - or anyone - has ever learned about Agamotto. "Maybe one of your sisters?" He says as gently as he can.
"No, they would've talked about it." She smiles, a little soft, a little sad. "The Valkyrie were incurable gossips."
He gently tries to pry more information out of her, but it seems that's all she had to give. It doesn't disappoint him; in fact, it buoys him. Two years he'd been looking for scraps and morsels, and here, in the last place he'd have thought to look, he'd found a feast.
January 31st, 2030
Bridge, Alien Starship
Balor System
"So, are we just supposed to drift around uselessly, hoping someone picks us up?" Jill Dah snarls. She's furiously scratching at the dried blood on her hand; has been at it for the past hour. At this point, it's no longer clear if all of it is Lawrence Daskin's; she's certainly gouged deeply enough.
In the pilot's seat, Bucky closes his eyes, breathes through the pressure building behind his eyes. Damn you, Collins. "Better that than lose our remaining fuel somewhere halfway between the systems," he replies hoarsely. "It's not as if we have spare platinum lying around to burn."
"Besides, Ryder's omni-tool has maps," Parker adds, as he increases the strength of the distress signal. His eyes are hard as granite. "We're not lost."
"And what if it's the birds that catch us first?" Dah asks.
"They still just might. Something just scanned us."
Bucky looks up sharply. "Is it them?"
"It's nobody. Automated, I mean. Gimme a mo - I gotta take a closer look."
The ship shoots forward. Nobody speaks for a few minutes until an odd, vaguely cylindrical artifact blocks the stars on the starboard side. Bucky squints. "Is that a probe?" And so it is - massive, hive-patterned bulbs on either ends, connected to each other by modular elements in the middle. Recognition makes his heart skip a beat. "Armed with a demo nuke?"
"More specifically, an Alliance probe, armed with a non-regulation nuclear fusion warhead." Parker gnaws at his lip for several minutes, fingers absently scribbling equations in mid-air. Without warning, he explodes into a frenzy of motion, grabbing Alec Ryder's omni-tool, before darting into the airlock, which seals shut behind him.
Barnes pulls up a hologram to watch Parker securing his helmet and extracting a safety tether from a panel. "You're going out there?"
"I need to access the control unit. Can only do that manually."
"What'll you do with it?"
"Send a 'mission complete' burst to whoever deployed it."
Within minutes, Parker is braced on the probe with only his legs, fingers swiftly scanning the control unit and comparing what he finds within with Ryder's omni-tool. "Not just any warhead," he says. "This is from the Asgardian gear that got shipped to Shanxi. Seems like Rambeau was wrong on the illegal front."
Bucky gapes. "What the hell is it doing here? Ross didn't seem too inclined to use anything that came from aliens. Even if it was to fight other aliens."
"Doubt he'd bother sparing resources to pick us up either. But, if I'm right, the burst will ensure a signal goes to Terra Nova too."
Bucky's eyes widen. "Because it was legit. Which means it had serial numbers; and the Asgardians can track it."
"So we're trusting aliens more than our own people now?" Dah says, then barks out a bitter laugh. "There's irony for you."
January 31st, 2030
Royal Palace, Terra Nova
Asgard System
Gabe finishes his tea, lost in thought. Some things are coming together, others still remain elusive. "Your Majesty, why did you leave New Asgard?"
Valkyrie purses her lips. "Politic answer: Tønsberg was never supposed to be a permanent residence," she says finally. "We needed a home of our own so we could give back the land we'd taken from the humans."
He nods; he'd already known that. "And the real reason?"
She glances out of the balcony into the sprawling city beyond. "It was dangerous - the Asgardians being on Earth."
"For you, or for us?"
"For everyone. A long-lived race cannot live in such close proximity to a short-lived race that once worshiped them… not without dire consequences."
A shiver goes down his spine. Outside, the clouds seem to take on a more ominous edge. He suddenly remembers who he's facing. Brunnhilde, the Last of the Valkyries: warrior-maidens who carry the souls of the battle-lost to Valhalla. To the Soul World. "I don't get it."
"No, I don't suppose you do." Her gaze bores into his for a long moment, as though searching for something, then seems to come to a decision. "Tell me, Reyes… what were your impressions of Dr. Erik Selvig?"
The sudden tangent almost gives him whiplash. "Uh… I've met him only a few times, Your Majesty, so I'm not entirely comfortable…," he straightens suddenly, his eyes sharpening. Last time he'd seen Selvig was years ago, when he'd been hit by the backlash of a portal to Svartálfheim gone wrong. "Is he the one facing those 'dire consequences'?"
"From the conversation I had with him a month ago, I wouldn't be surprised. All the more disturbing is the fact that I've heard nothing from him since." Valkyrie sighs, leans back and brings out her flask again. "Terra Nova has a single Quantum Entanglement Communicator - installed in the station known as Gagarin. They're not answering my hails either. No one is."
Alarm begins to grow in Gabe's mind. "We're cut off?" He hadn't tried contacting his squad since they split. Radio silence unless absolutely necessary is the rule when it comes to separate ICT missions.
Whatever Valkyrie's response would've been gets cut off by a harsh, insistent pinging from her omni-tool. A notification.
One that erodes away everything Gabe thought he knew about the galaxy.
February 3rd, 2030
Interrogation Room, Maitrum
The bird shoves her to the chair - a normal chair, nothing torturous about it - then handcuffs her to the bolted-down, unusually wide table. She doesn't protest, just slumps down on her arms. All her energy went in just walking here as opposed to being dragged; she can't spare any for resistance. "If I have a choice," Isabelle croaks through a parched throat, " - I'd rather die of starvation than dehydration."
The bird ignores her, just strides around the unusually wide table and disappears.
She's surprised to be alive at all, let alone stuck in solitary confinement and not strapped to the Chair. Three days locked in with no visitors: solitary, unlike her previous cell, comes with precious amenities - a bed and a toilet. No food though, and obviously no water either. She hopes every cell in her old block is empty: as in 'everyone had gotten the hell out', not 'everyone had exploded in a ball of flames.'
Isabelle doesn't bother lifting her head when the door opens.
So her mind registers only the gauzy fabric sweeping the floor. The material seems rich, woven so finely it flows like water. A gust of air from the ventilation system parts the folds, revealing, just for a moment, a pair of bare feet, tinted a strange blue in the room's lighting.
Wait, bare?
Isabelle's eyebrows jump up, her head lifting slightly as she traces the hint of long, shapely legs beneath the muslin-like cloth, ending abruptly at what appears to be a leather leotard wrapped tightly around the woman's torso. A long, trailing cloak is secured around her neck.
Bewildered beyond reason, Isabelle's eyes skip the rest of her examination to land directly on her face. Shadowed, but the woman obligingly pulls back her sharp-edged headdress and bares herself.
Isabelle straightens so fast her back slams into the chair, sending a spike of pain shooting through her spine.
It isn't the lighting.
The first time she had seen a member of her creator species that weren't photographs or crude anatomy diagrams, it had been a corpse within a cylindrical tank, floating in an amniotic fluid, butchered under Fury's commands. An examination that hadn't lasted longer than a minute, because she'd been stricken with grief by the fact that T.A.H.I.T.I. had failed to work on the one person that mattered more than the world to her.
But it had been long enough for her to now consider the possibility of an offshoot colony of the Kree that had evolved quite differently. Because humanoid, female, with an ample bosom… that's where the similarity ends.
Where hair should be, curved crests emerge from her scalp, sweeping up and back from her forehead to coalesce at a point slightly behind her head. It evokes the appearance of a woman surfacing from the water with her hair swept back. Like the birds, she has facial markings, but these seem more like birthmarks than something that's painted on.
Before Isabelle can do more than stare, eight more blue aliens burst through the door. Ignoring her, they position themselves at various points in the room, equidistant from one another - with a slightly larger gap between individuals than one would see around even the most personal-space-conscious of humans. Bodyguards.
They're of the same species, but have different coloring: ranging all the way from pale blue to purple. Different facial markings too, though some don't have them at all. Each one is a woman, but looks… younger, if height and the size of one's bosom could determine age in their species.
The first alien - presumably the leader - settles gracefully in the chair opposite Isabelle's. Then, reaching back into her cloak, she pulls out something and places them on the table before her.
Two long, rectangular packs, slightly bigger than her palm, wrapped in silver.
Isabelle doesn't make a move towards it. Just stares, then turns her gaze to the steel blue alien, who is, for her part, seems to be examining her just as avidly, blatantly. Or maybe Isabelle is projecting onto a face with familiar features, and that placid but interested face actually indicates barely contained homicidal urges. How would she even know?
One minute passes, then two, then five. Then one of the bodyguards - the one nearest to the doorway - makes what sounds suspiciously like a disgusted noise. Stomping over, she tears the silver-wrapped pack with a single, swift stroke.
It's a wafer. But denser than any she has seen before, and blue to boot. Part of it has crumbled away to reveal the same kind of paste between the layers that the birds served during meals.
MREs, Isabelle realizes. Or the alien equivalent of it.
Her stomach cramps. She ignores it… and the wafer.
The bodyguard's expression twists, and her arm snaps up. Isabelle braces herself for a backhand… which never comes.
The blue leader's gesture is subtle, but obvious enough that Isabelle notices… as does the bodyguard, who retreats, her furious gaze never leaving Isabelle.
As for the leader herself, she reaches into the folds of her cloak and brings out a small, flat disk.
It's like any other OSD, with a button that projects a holographic screen in front of the viewer. The alien places it before her, but Isabelle barely notices, so arrested by the image presented on the screen.
It's her. Or rather, Aquamarine, caught on film along the hallway where she'd been defending the miners from the bird inmates unleashed on them. The vid had paused at a crucial moment - zoomed in on her face, her palms raised and thrown outward as she directs the water at the birds in pursuit. Her eyes are burning an electric blue.
She doesn't even remember the moment - it had all been such a blur.
Before she can react, the alien presses play.
She'd thought she'd imagined it. The ease with which the water had flowed that fateful day. Despite her experience and control, water has always fought her. Each time she wields it, she has to struggle to move every inch of it somewhere it doesn't want to go. During the jailbreak, it was as easy as breathing. Easier. The vid provides proof to what she'd earlier dismissed as fevered delusions.
But something had also broken that day. Maybe it was the asteroid that was the trigger - the specific cocktail of compounds polluting that water in some specific ratio had bolstered her gift, much like the red sand. Or maybe it was the torture that had come close to killing her. Regardless, it was real, and it happened.
The feed switches to that of the fueling center, honing in as everyone climbs aboard the alien hauler. Isabelle impatiently watches the frantic, pitched battle, culminating in her helplessness and immobility from the leader's stasis field. She doesn't need the reminder, after all - those memories aren't blurred. But then impatience morphs into breathless anticipation as the hauler clears the takeoff doors, and the camera tilts at a borderline-impossible angle to capture the thrusters reorienting themselves.
Superheated exhaust blanks out the feed.
Isabelle's breathing is heavy, her fingers curled into fists in the grip of the cuffs. She stares at the static on the screen, and has no idea what the emotions roiling inside her are trying to say. Before she can even attempt to find out, the woman swipes at the hologram, and another vid starts up.
This time it's an unfamiliar feed. The angle is aerial, from somewhere high in the sky. The clouds hurtle past, smeared into thin, sickly stripes of yellow, before the surface - vast expanse of desert, broken up only by shipwrecks - slams into view.
Hull-mounted telescopic cameras, Isabelle realizes. But the angle is off - for a view such as this, the cameras would have to be mounted close to the mass accelerators. The recoil from a single shot would destroy them in an instant.
But then… that's true for an Alliance ship, isn't it?
And this is most definitely not one.
Directly below and opposite the hurtling starship is the hauler, growing ever larger, swiveling awkwardly as the pilots try and figure out how to maneuver an alien vessel. But then, something must've clicked, because the hauler suddenly straightens, and with a minor shockwave that rattles the recording camera, it zooms past the arriving spaceship and out of sight.
The feeds are silent. No audio. So when a harsh click resounds in the interrogation room, and the hologram shuts off, Isabelle flinches.
She hadn't noticed when the bodyguards had switched off the lights. The room is dark and quiet, disturbed only by Isabelle's rapid breathing, and the constant rustle of that goddamned fabric across the floor. It's probably her imagination, but the freckles where the alien's forehead meets her scalp crests are glowing faintly through the cowl.
She means to say, " - don't make me watch more." But what comes out is a simple, aching, " - please." Her conscious mind might not want the evidence of her success or her failure broadcasted. But her subconscious needs to know. Needs to know if she should rejoice in her team's escape, or mourn their demise.
Something in Isabelle's face must have translated, because all the alien does is reach across the table and gently push the MRE towards her. She gestures to the wafer - her movements exaggerated, projected clearly to have no chance of miscommunication - then points to the feed.
The message is brutal in its simplicity. If Isabelle eats, she gets to watch.
Once again, it's her subconscious that acts. Hands dart out, teeth tear into the thick, crispy edible without any sense of finesse or grace. The portions are small, but very different to the meals the birds were serving, as they're almost sickeningly calorie-rich.
But finish it she does. Crumble litter her hands and her mouth, and she uncaringly uses the inner tissue-like lining of the silver wrapper to clean up as best she can. Her mouth is dry, and her head throbs in time with her heartbeat, aching for water. But she ignores it, and locks eyes with her interrogator.
In the darkness, the alien's smile is a small, pleased curve of glistening lips.
The next feed's different. Not a viewscreen visual, but the UI of a short-range scanner, if she's not mistaken. More sophisticated than Alliance technology: ships in the vicinity are presented as actual, accurate silhouettes - which makes the blocky, bulky hauler stand out from the alien blockade it's inching through.
Isabelle clenches her fists, sending prayers to all the gods she doesn't believe in. But she needn't have bothered. There's no deployment of torpedoes, no big ball of flame that winks out the hauler. Just a slow, steady crawl through the cold vacuum of space, with no suspicious movements, and as soon as it's out of range, Barnes slams the metaphorical accelerator and the hauler disappears into a burst of FTL.
She closes her eyes shut and breathes. They'd gotten away. Trembling fingers, still cuffed to the table, come up to cradle her forehead. They'd gotten away.
February 4th, 2030
Communications Room, Terra Nova
Asgard System
"An accident," Valkyrie says flatly.
Fury doesn't bat an eyelash. "An accident," he agrees.
"Was it also an accident that Dr. Erik Selvig contacted me via a highly secure QEC that he hooked up to a portable cell, in the immediate aftermath of the Gagarin Station's devastation?"
"I'm afraid the events surrounding Dr. Selvig's actions and his subsequent and…unfortunate demise are still being investigated, and as such are classified as a matter of galactic security."
A brilliantly worded evasion, Valkyrie has to admit. And nothing but the absolute truth - one that she doesn't really need to know, as the loss on her end - though expensive - was minimal compared to that of S.W.O.R.D. and the Alliance.
"Then what can you tell me, Director? Because a month ago, Asgard's Relay Security detected Dr. Selvig taking a connecting relay from Horsehead to Sol. Then, a few days later, it was one of your ships taking that same route, flying as though it had a bilgesnipe on its tail. Gabriel Reyes is a guest of mine, and he was quick to recognize it - the same that his S.W.O.R.D. comrades boarded to Eden Prime. And now, I get a 'mission complete' burst from one of our nuclear armaments we'd contracted to Shanxi, but was instead found somewhere in the Caleston Rift, in the vicinity of one of those very same comrades I mentioned."
She'd offered to send a ship, to stave off Gabe Reyes recklessly opening up a portal into the vacuum of space in an foolish attempt to save his stranded fellow operatives. But S.W.O.R.D. had sidelined her, deploying a rescue flotilla before she could even begin to mobilize her forces - and thereby denying her any chance for actual answers to this mess.
So she'd reached out directly to the source, throwing her diplomatic weight behind her insistence when it seemed Fury would try to weasel out of it. "Perhaps there is something in Horsehead Nebula that I should have my men look into."
That finally gets to Fury, who breaks her gaze, grimacing. "I would… strongly advise against it."
"Oh?"
"A month ago, one of our scientific expeditions encountered an… another hostile alien life form. My ICT recruits and Erik Selvig were the only survivors."
Valkyrie inhales sharply. 'Another', which implies foreign, unfamiliar. She's a little insulted that he's so clearly put her into the same category as himself; she's lived for thousands of years and has 'encountered' an almost uncountable number of species.
But, that was mostly in the Andromeda Galaxy, and whatever parallel dimensions Asgard and Sakaar had resided in. She knows next to nothing about the Milky Way. "Have there been more attacks?"
Fury scowls harder, but nods. "A few skirmishes in Styx Theta, where a new primary relay was found, connecting to Pax System in Horsehead. Then the aliens sent in an invasion force, destroyed the planetary garrison fleet, and… occupied Shanxi."
"I see." And he hadn't called her. She's not surprised; Thor had talked about Fury and his penchant for holding his cards so close to his chest they might as well be in his rib cage. But Shanxi is their immediate neighboring colony. She's not going to pretend to be altruistic and neighborly and offer up sugar when not asked, but being ignorant of an invasion just a jump away from her home?
Doesn't sit right with her.
And why hadn't the Alliance asked yet? "Who is the commander of the Shanxi garrison, Director?"
"General Thaddeus Ross."
"I see," Valkyrie says again, with just the right level of emphasis. All the offense drains away - if Ross was behind the wheel, then she's not the only one not in the know. And with a famous scientist dead and an explosion that took out some very expensive tech installed aboard the Gagarin… well, Fury's going to have a hell of a time explaining himself.
She almost pities him.
Almost.
February 6th, 2030
Interrogation Room, Maitrum
Next time, there's introductions.
The feed has been replaced with holograms. Just three, strange symbols laid out horizontally, projected above the alien's head - curving and looping in a lazily elegant way.
The woman then points to herself. The gesture is once again deliberately designed to capture attention. When she knows she has it, she intones clearly a single word. "Asari."
As she does so, the symbols above her head flash in response.
She says it again, slower, "-a-sa-ri.". The symbols flash one-by-one this time.
Isabelle's eyebrows rise. The symbols correspond to each syllable. Inexplicably, a dark glee bubbles up inside her. "Are you really trying to communicate? After all this time?" The sound of her laugh chills the part of her that's quailing from the bone-dry grasp of dehydration. "Why, the torture didn't do the job well enough?"
The alien's eyes tighten in confusion, perhaps irritation. No nervousness though, despite the fact that Isabelle's disdain couldn't have been clearer even with the communication barrier. She just points to one of her bodyguards, and repeats, " - asari." And then one more, just for good measure. "Asari."
"Fine, I'll play along," Isabelle says. "Asari," she says, sounding out the word. The name of their species.
Language, she thinks, eyeing the strange symbols, memorizing them.
Back in the early 2000s, when extraterrestrials were only fiction, there had been organizations set up to detect the presence of life somewhere out there in the dark. S.H.I.E.L.D. had a division too - an understaffed, underworked crew stuck in an office next to a boiler room. A cover, she'd realized later - Fury and Peggy and many others had probably been aware of aliens for generations, perhaps even well before the Red Skull.
But that crew hadn't known any of that. They were perfectly convinced they were a legitimate operation, roping in anyone caught unawares in their web. Still, their theories were surprisingly down-to-earth, so to speak.
One of which was their firm belief that if ET ever tried to contact us, it wouldn't be a saucer hovering over the lawns of the White House or anything dramatic like that. At best, they could hope for an anomalous, serendipitous radio signal from the area of space where humanity had turned their satellites. Prime numbers would be the best bet for an indication of someone who wants to communicate… and someone willing to do so. Base language of the universe, mathematics, they'd claimed sagely.
In a better universe, that would've been the case. In a safer, more boring universe, perhaps she wouldn't be chained to a desk, far too dehydrated, across from an alien trying to communicate with her at a time when it's far too late for any sort of understanding.
But this is not that universe. And the alien… asari, apparently, had reached out first. Had shown her evidence of the successful jailbreak, blackmailed her into eating. The asari isn't getting anything out of it. But it is an outreach, a hand that at least appears to be friendly, reaching out to a victim of a collapsed building. The hand might bite later, but for now, Isabelle can grasp it, pull herself out… and see where this goes.
The woman is waiting.
Isabelle hesitates one final time, then points to herself, using the same exaggerated gestures, though somewhat restricted by the cuffs. "Human," she says. She repeats it again, slower. "Human."
It's not entirely accurate. But close enough. They can hash out the differences between humanity and its sister races when things aren't so fraught with risk.
The asari swipes at the disk. Isabelle jerks in surprise when a close-up shot of Barnes pops up on the hologram. He's standing in a queue in the mess hall, with Peter just behind him and Jill Dah engaging them in conversation.
There must have been hidden cameras in the mess hall. This was the day Isabelle was dragged to the Chair.
The asari points to Barnes with one long, elegant finger. "Human?" It's undoubtedly a question, with that same, heightened pitch at the end of a sentence that indicates an inquiry of some sort. Not for the first time, Isabelle wonders at the similarities. Not only between humanity and asari, but the other species they've encountered too. Asgardians, the Skrulls (sometimes), even Thanos, despite that absurd chin of his.
The Kree, she thinks, not daring to look up.
"Human," she agrees. Then agrees again when the asari points to Peter, looking for reaffirmation. It's tedious, this approach, but far better than the birds' eavesdropping, or the Chair. Repetition and reinforcement are key to learning any language - she'd learned that at S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy.
But the asari has an ulterior motive in all of this. She flips the feed again, and Isabelle stiffens. It's another one of Aquamarine - when she'd first emerged from the icy asteroid. Another flip, and Aquamarine is in the hallway, sweeping her hands across to create a wall of water to combat a firestorm. More flips, faster this time - and they're all a montage of her abilities, because she had had no compunction at that moment to stay her hand; not when she'd believed she would be escaping along with the rest of them. Along with Selvig's body.
The asari pauses the vid, locks gazes with her. "Human?" She asks again, softly.
Isabelle licks her dry lips, then swallows. It does nothing to quench the thirst.
There is no answer she can give. It's not as if being Inhuman is a state secret or anything - no doubt every member of the asari and the bird species has been shown this vid. But it's not just that.
It's also an issue with this game of communication they're playing. They have established no rules here. Any word or gesture could trigger a return to hostilities. Could get her strapped to the Chair again. She doesn't even know if shaking her head would mean the same thing to the asari as it would to humans.
Hell, even on Earth, there are entire countries where a nod means negation, and a shake of the head indicates agreement! Caution is key. There is no room for error, even though keeping it out entirely is impossible. But here and now at least, when in doubt, silence and stillness are her responses.
But the asari doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, she must've been expecting the reaction, because all she does is look to the ceiling, gesturing to a monitoring camera.
A few minutes later, a bird walks in. A couple of birds accompany him to the doorway but no further, their eyes fixed unblinking on her, claws tight around their pulse rifles. Then an ancient sense rears to the surface, and her gaze locks onto the tray carried in by the bird.
It contains a single, tall glass of water.
The glass doesn't taper like on Earth. Instead, its sides are straight and tall - an abnormally stretched out cylinder. Filled to the brim with the most precious thing in the universe.
A low-pitched whine erupts from her scraped-raw throat before she can swallow it. Her fingers claw against the steel of the table. She can feel the asari's heavy gaze on her, but can't tear her own away from that incredibly effective bait.
He stops at the edge of the table. Just far enough away that she can't snatch it, not with the damned cuffs… but just close enough that she can smell it.
There's the strong hint of metals - iron and others - she'd tasted while within the asteroid. But above all of that, there's that fresh, clean smell that she can never quite describe. That no one else will ever be able to experience. Like the scent-version of a palate cleanser and a massage all at once: something that soothes her tensed muscles, clears her mind of the cobwebs cluttering it.
Yes, an utterly perfect bait. But where's the trap? Poison in the water? Would it even work on her? Depends, she thinks absently, on the concentration. If it's more than the water can counteract…
Her wool-gathering is interrupted by the asari lifting an arm. She gestures to the bird, and above, the hologram changes to display different symbols. "Turian," she says clearly. "Turian." She then gestures behind her, to the two aliens still lingering at the doorway. "Turian."
Well, it's always good to know the name of your enemy. Isabelle ignores the water with not a small amount of effort, and arches an eyebrow at the bird… the turian that had carried it in. And then blinks.
Six-petaled, white face paint. Of course. Those same eyes - intent and focused - had almost brought down the entire jailbreak operation. In response to her obvious surprise, the turian smirks.
There's no mistaking it. His mandibles flicker outward, and the crack that is his bony mouth widens, twists to one side.
Isabelle bristles…
… and suddenly, a blue corona envelops the glass of water, lifts it aloft and twirls it gently in mid-air.
It's a strange thing, that glow. The surface is transparent and wavy - sometimes like ripples on a lake and sometimes sharp and snapping like electricity. And identical to the stasis field that had immobilized Isabelle on the floor of the fueling center.
Her heart is somewhere in the vicinity of her boots, and she has curled her fists so tight, blood is seeping from where her nails have dug in.
Slowly, she turns to stare at the asari, who has a similar glow surrounding her body, highlighting her form in a rim of white. Her hand is raised casually, vaguely curled towards the glass. She isn't even looking at it. Her gaze bores into Isabelle's with a faintly amused expression.
And then, she telekinetically tips the glass.
Isabelle can't help it. The cuffs snap as her fingers crane forward. The water that had been about to splash down stills in mid air, amorphous blobs of liquid dancing as though in zero grav. And then it darts.
Almost in sync, the turians at the door as well as the asari bodyguards have their weapons aimed.
But Isabelle feels nothing but for the smooth softness of the water as it rushes down her throat.
It's the best thing she has ever tasted. Barely processed, with none of the minerals she has come to associate with drinking, but still. It's over far too soon, even though there must've been enough water to fill a small bottle in that one, tall glass. She savors that one last swallow with her eyes closed, then finally comes up for air to face the consequences.
If she dies now because of some trigger happy turian, she'll be okay with it.
But all she finds is the familiar turian leaving with his companions and the tray. The glass remains behind, clutched now in the asari's hand. The door closes with a thud behind them, but not before the turian gives her one last, inscrutable look.
A very, very good trap. If Isabelle weren't feeling so relieved and sickeningly grateful, she'd be impressed.
Not only has the asari now given her valuable information and helped her manage her dehydration, thus making sure Isabelle now owes her - she'd done so in a way that outed Isabelle's nature… and her weaknesses. When it comes to water, she's too instinctive. She can't abide wasting a single droplet - never has, not even when fully hydrated. There's little enough of it as it is in the universe.
Isabelle meets the asari's gaze. And then she makes a decision. She points to herself. "Isabelle," she says slowly, clearly. She pats her chest. "Isabelle Collins."
The asari blinks slowly, then tries it out, pointing at Isabelle. "Isabelle Collins." Close enough. She pronounces the 's' sound in Isabelle as a 'z', and Collins comes out as kohl-inz. But it's a decent first attempt.
Isabelle points to the asari, then raises an eyebrow. That had worked on the turian, after all.
The asari's smile seems genuine, almost friendly. She gestures overhead, and the holographic symbols change yet again. Then, pointing to herself, she utters a single word. Her name.
"Benezia."
Solitary Confinement
That evening, Isabelle finds herself feeling oddly empty. Like there's this absence of an emotion that by all rights should've been there.
Perhaps it's the fact that it's not true solitary confinement.
Not with Benezia, and the other asari, and even the bird - the turians. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taught her to retain her sanity in such situations, but so far she hasn't had to call upon that training once. She's not teetering on the edge of madness, despite the fact that - in a best-case scenario - she's the only human in this entire sector of space.
But perhaps mad people don't feel particularly mad.
It takes her a few hours of probing her own emotions for an explanation. She has nothing better to do, after all. Turns out, the core of the matter is simple.
She feels, quite simply, cheated.
When Earth encountered ETs for the very first time, there was little to no time to process the fact that Manhattan was being bombarded by actual - if cybernetic aliens - dropping out of a honest-to-god wormhole. The aftermath was little better: mopping up after the Chitauri took almost two years, and then S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, ULTRON almost wiped out humanity, the Civil War broke the Avengers, and finally Thanos ripped the universe in half.
The Avengers were forced to take for granted that they weren't alone in the universe, that there were stars and planets in the wide, open cosmos that were inhabited by people so very different from them.
But it was so much worse for her.
Because Inhumans are living proof of extraterrestrial existence.
Since Terrigenesis, even without official confirmation of the fact, she had known that everything inside her had become - or perhaps always had been - otherworldly. She'd brushed it off as her deep, sometimes inexplicable connection to water, but somewhere along the way she'd recognized that she couldn't possibly be a product of some weird - but human - supersoldier experiment. After all, wouldn't Howard have known to tell her so? He wasn't the type to hide from uncomfortable truths, and certainly not the type to shield his children from them.
So there was never a time - unless one counted the scant years before Terrigenesis - when she could've actually reveled in the huge emotional upheaval. Positive or negative - whatever humanity had felt: it was, and never could be, for her.
She was robbed of that quintessential experience, and as a result, her understanding of aliens had been shaped to an equation utterly brutal in its simplicity: alien equals danger.
There could never be feelings of awe, or surprise, or shock.
Even with Thor, that had carried over. While the rest of the Avengers, even Romanoff, had inundated the Asgardian with questions once enough time had passed after the Battle of New York, Isabelle had gotten the impression that the blond, muscled warrior was… wary of her. And her alone.
Only later on had she understood that Asgardians know just enough about Inhumans to realize the inherent dangers they posed. And he'd recognized what she was, even way back then. Thor - the almost disproportionately cheerful, optimistic, friendly alien - treated her as a threat, and never really stopped. And she couldn't help but respond in kind.
Was that programmed into her too? Like her initial, instinctual hatred of the Skrulls, was she programmed to give off an aura or pheromones that painted her as a threat? That marked as her other, distinctive, even when she wasn't actively using her powers?
February 11th, 2030
THE PEAK VII, S.W.O.R.D. HQ
LOCATION: PROXIMA CENTAURI
It's chaos in the conference room. Parker's impotent rage is so great Fury was forced to call in Maria Hill, Talos and Phil Coulson to browbeat it out of him. But even with witnesses to their shame, the Director of S.W.O.R.D. is falling short.
"Izzy's still out there!" Parker roars.
"Exactly," Fury bellows. "She's not going anywhere! If she's alive, she's clever enough to find a way to stay that way. If she's dead… then I'm not letting you go raring off on a futile suicide mission! Collins will keep, Parker. This war won't!"
Coulson clears his throat. "Sergeant Barnes. Do you understand that - with the context of your delicate history with Agent Collins - we find it hard to believe that her very last action was to… save your life?"
Bucky has been mute so long his laugh is more like a rasping bark. Gratifyingly, it makes most of them flinch. "Is that what you think happened? That what she did was some sort of a noble gesture - a sign of forgiveness towards the man who murdered her parents? Oh, no, Coulson. Isabelle Collins stayed back for one reason, and one reason only - and it had nothing to do with me."
The not-amusement flatlines. "She stayed back because she couldn't handle the guilt, and was looking for a chance at peace, at redemption. She stayed back because part of her thought she deserved getting strapped to a chair and tortured by her enemies. She stayed back, because she understood that no one, alive or dead, gets left behind."
"She stayed back for Erik Selvig."
Coulson's gaze is unblinking.
"I left her behind," Bucky murmurs, as though he's only just coming to the realization. "Me. Who knows better than anyone exactly what happens when you're a POW who gets left behind."
There's a very deep quiet around him now. Parker has his head bowed, his fists clenched against his thighs. Ten days they'd spent recuperating from long-term near-starvation and dehydration. The two of them got lucky; they're Enhanced. The miners and Jill Dah will take much longer to bounce back.
"We'll get her back," Hill says.
Bucky laughs again. "She barely survived that one round, Hill. But maybe they'll tune up that chair. Keep bringing her back forever, turn her into a vegetable or an assassin in the process. I mean, HYDRA managed it."
Talos steps forward. He's wearing the skin of that long-dead S.H.I.E.L.D. Director - Keller; salt-and-pepper-hair, thin-rimmed glasses, utterly forgettable face. "After the conclusion of your ICT training," he begins, apropos of nothing. "You were supposed to have a psych-eval and a mandatory shore leave, in that order, non-negotiable. Instead, you were thrown right in the middle of a warzone, and then into a prison."
He takes a deep breath. "From what I've heard, you've already failed your psych-eval. We might've lost one operative. And I know you're not part of ICT, Parker, but this goes for you too - if either of you think I won't knock you out for the remainder of this war to keep from losing any more, you really haven't been paying attention."
"You can't just bench us," Parker cries.
"Cooperate, and I won't have to." Talos fixes him with a gimlet eye. "Most of the people with first-hand experience of these birds and their strategy-tactics are stuck on Shanxi, and we can't get word from them. You and Barnes are the only source we've got."
"Go to Luna," Fury says. "Upload your memories to E.D.I.T.H.'s matrix; she'll use them to simulate scenarios where we can train our soldiers for when the war inevitably spills over. Bruce Banner knows the ropes just as well as Parker here, considering he helped design her."
Peter glares daggers at them all. "And I suppose Professor Hulk also makes an excellent babysitter."
A visible vein pulses in Fury's forehead, but he just gestures a clear dismissal. Talos sighs deeply, then stalks out, muttering under his breath about 'stupid, undeserved loyalty'.
Parker, slumping in defeat, moves to follow but Bucky stops him with a gesture. "Fury," he says, waiting until the trench-coated pirate turns. "When you find her, you call us."
Fury nods. "Deal."
February 13th, 2030
Interrogation Room, Maitrum
For the translations, the asari give her a pyramidal device the size of her palm, and a single, thin glove.
From what she'd understood after experimenting a bit, it functions similar to an omni-tool's inbuilt translation matrix: splitting up sounds into individual frequencies and then assigning meanings to them based on recordings. There's also a holographic screen which she can interact with only while using the glove: a dark, finely woven fabric with a netted texture. It's mostly for drawing symbols that she can then combine with the sounds to figure out equivalencies.
Understandable that they wouldn't return the omni-tool itself: what Peter had pulled off with Ryder's hadn't gone unnoticed. While the pyramid eases the process of language exchange, it doesn't override it. It's not a 'universal translator' like the Asgardian All-Speak: one still has to put in the work.
Benezia doesn't seem to need a glove, but then, neither had Tony. His alternative had been microchip technology installed subcutaneously on the pads of his fingers that had allowed him to manipulate hardlight tech. Maybe the asari had something similar?
The asari goes first. She begins with what Isabelle assumes is either an official alphabet or just a list of sounds from her language. She sounds them out, slowly, deliberately, with each symbol she draws on the hologram. The symbols themselves are large and almost excessively intricate, with loops and whorls. They remind her of the curves on the asari: Isabelle wryly suspects that that might be the point.
Benezia then combines the hieroglyphs to make words that a pronunciation software then sounds out - simple words, like her own name, and that of her bodyguards: Alestia, Shiala, Aleena.
And then, it's Isabelle's turn.
If Isabelle had harbored any doubt that Soren could be just as vicious as her husband, several months of ICT training under the Skrull's thumb had ground it to dust. Talos is obvious about his displeasure, but his wife has learned how to wait for vengeance. Worst part was, Isabelle had realized later with a chill, that Soren hadn't been taking revenge; not for all the times Isabelle had attacked her, deliberately or otherwise. Because she'd treated the other recruits just as brutally; wringing and twisting their minds like a wet cloth until they'd begged for a mission.
The module? Xenolinguistics.
"Nothing that is true of human language has to be true of an alien language," she'd said grimly. "I've morphed into species that speak in shapes, and were baffled at the thought of sound. I've met races who communicate in all five senses, switching between them effortlessly. Those of you who can speak multiple languages," and here her gimlet eye had pierced Isabelle and Barnes, " - just might have the slightest advantage in this class. But I'm expecting you all to fail terribly."
And fail they had. The entire point of that module hadn't been to make them better at learning alien languages. It had been an exercise in 'assumptions will get you killed'. The Skrull instructors had broken down every rule of languages the candidates had taken for granted, and pointed out that not only will they make mistakes; they might not even know if they had until it was far too late to backtrack.
Isabelle could say something or do something or make even a tiny gesture like flick her pinky, and it might be so culturally or even biologically offensive to her audience that it'd be considered an immediate declaration of war. And the theory works both ways.
She shakes off the paralyzing thoughts. Overthinking here will end her faster than mistakes. She has a job to do, and if she blunders somewhere along the line and inadvertently signs off on human extinction or something… well, at least she'd tried. They were both trying.
With that in mind, Isabelle takes over from Benezia: sharing the English alphabet and sounding out the consonants and vowels. Establishing analogues, equivalencies and the basis for communication.
At the end of the session, she gives up the pyramid and the glove without a fight. Mindful of what her brother had always warned her against - never let tech become a crutch - she had made certain to memorize everything she'd learned, even while the device had been recording, analyzing and breaking down the knowledge.
Isabelle herself hadn't inherited Howard's legendary recall like Tony had, but Maria had taught her to build solid memory palaces so she could keep up. Back in her cell, she dredges one up, dusts off the cobwebs, and continues long into the night.
February 15th, 2030
Arcturus Station
Major General Glenn Talbot would despise knowing that he has something in common with General Thaddeus Ross.
But when a blue, wire-framed drone spins its way into the Arcturus Station and in front of him, he feels a curl of dread in his belly that is, unbeknownst to him, identical to what his superior officer had felt back on Shanxi. All around him, the crowds stop, whispering and murmuring, aware on some level that this is important, that this is momentous.
The drone resolves into the holo of an olive-skinned man in his late thirties, with brown hair and Alliance Navy Captain stripes on his uniform. "Mayday mayday mayday. This is Captain Tadius Ahern, formerly of the SSV Geneva. This is a galaxy-wide alert for all human territories. General Thaddeus Ross has declared Threat Level Khanjar Alpha."
Glenn's spine protests as he straightens abruptly.
"Enemy presence in Pax System. Shanxi under alien attack. Repeat. Shanxi under alien attack."
A muffled shriek gets cut off abruptly. Probably one of the construction workers, Glenn thinks absently - his men would never be so unprofessional.
"All Alliance forces outside Pax theater, we require immediate assistance. Orbital defenses have been decimated. Heavy enemy resistance on the ground. We are sustaining severe casualties. Communication systems are compromised. We have no actionable information on the identity of the attacker."
There's a pause then, as Ahern's impeccable professionalism cracks, just for a second. "Please, on behalf of Shanxi… help us."
The hologram blinks out, and the drone dissipates into tiny flickering fireflies as the power maintaining it finally drains away. There's a deathly silence in the station, and everyone's gaze seems fixed, either on the spot where Ahern's hologram had pleaded for help, or on the vast expanse of space outside, where once stars dwelled and now only threats do.
Glenn bursts into action. "I want everything we have on Captain Ahern on my table, and I want it yesterday!" He bellows, striding back into his office, already anticipating the migraine he's going to be nursing for the next month. "Mobilize the fleets! And get me the UNIN and the Alliance Command on the line, now!"
February 16th, 2030
Interrogation Room, Maitrum
God bless Nick Fury's paranoia.
It's not the first time Isabelle's had that thought, nor will it be the last.
Even during peacetime, Fury's mind never stops imagining worst case scenarios, and brainstorming potential preparations and solutions. And when one has the Decimation as the upper limit, one can imagine a hell of a lot.
One of those scenarios had been identical to what Isabelle finds herself in: stuck in a hostile environment with an unknown alien species and without access to allies or technology.
ICT had constructed a mandatory simulation for them all, pairing each agent with a Skrull. Their Skrull partner would morph into an utterly unfamiliar alien species from the Andromeda Galaxy, and it would be the candidate's task to figure out everything they could about the alien in the limited time afforded to them: behavior, diet or other biological requirements, cultural quirks, fighting styles, language markers etc.
Moreover, they'd have to adapt their knowledge to successfully interact with that alien species. The added difficulty lay in the definition of 'successful interactions', as the aliens could be completely different from anything humans could conceive of, even with prior exposure. Not every alien needs to be humanoid, after all.
After the mission - which could last several weeks to months - had concluded, the Skrull would grade their candidate based on the accuracy of their report.
Talos had taken a perverse pleasure in appointing himself as her partner. Isabelle had failed the course twice before his sadism had been satisfied. At one point, she'd been absolutely sure he was cheating - borrowing characteristics from various alien species and incorporating it into the skin he wore, just to deliberately confuse her.
Now she's grateful.
All those lessons, all that incoherent, irreconcilable observations and conclusions have prepared her for this very moment, trapped as she is on an alien planet, facing not just one, but two potentially hostile aliens. It had taken Barnes voicing the Winter Soldier's instincts to bring that training to the forefront.
At least the asari have labels for things. Nouns, verbs, adjectives - too many of some, too few of others.
She doesn't restrict her learning to her sessions with Benezia either. Whether it's the walk to and from her cell, her carefully monitored showers or while in solitary, she's always eavesdropping.
Every conversation she comes across, every language - turian or asari - goes into her memory palace. Late at night, she memorizes, catalogs and if possible, translates them, then revises her entire mental database. Always good to know what a potential enemy is saying, especially if they don't know you can understand them. Funny how much information they drop when they underestimate you.
Benezia knows, probably. She gives off a vibe of omniscience.
It's not easy work, and she makes mistakes, but she knows it'll pay off down the line. One of those dividends appears early; the realization that the asari language is the 'trade tongue': the common language spoken by all species. That provides a cultural clue: the asari must be the dominant species in however many of them are out there in the galaxy.
At the end of the ICT simulations, Soren had taken pity on them and given them a few indicators to be on the lookout for. "Is the alien friendly, and does that mean the same to them as it does to us?' she'd said, ticking down her fingers. "Do they even understand the concepts of goodwill and teamwork? And above all," and here she had fixed them all with a gimlet stare, " - where do their morals and values lie - with individuals, or with the system as a whole?"
A checklist of basic conditions, but critical nonetheless if there is to be even the bare bones of understanding. Isabelle had never thought she would be in a position to use it, and here she is, putting it into action.
Is Benezia friendly? Well, she hasn't started shooting yet, which makes her stand out from almost every other alien Isabelle has encountered. Her willingness to sit down and waste valuable time to try and communicate also indicates a level of 'friendliness' or at least, reduced hostility. But maybe this species takes things slow, does things differently. Kills in a more nefarious manner. Lowers an enemy's guard, then strikes.
So the answer is a firm maybe. Further observation is necessary.
Benezia saved Isabelle from the Chair, because she has no doubt without her interruption that she'd be a vegetable by now, or worse, an assassin. Maybe she had an ulterior motive, or maybe she places some value on the lives of individuals - even if that value is only 'we've lost all other prisoners; but this one is unique, so she might be useful'.
The fact that Benezia has bodyguards - official term: commandos or huntresses - could be another indication. Judging by her interactions with others, Benezia is powerful. Her commandos seem to revere her, and the turians don't seem far behind.
Because it's awfully hard to imagine the turian blockade wouldn't have noticed the errant hauler sneaking through, straying so far from its usual route. But presumably there had been no automated IFF demands or boarding actions, just a watchful stillness.
Peter and the others were allowed to go.
Benezia can conceive of teamwork, or at least a concept of quid pro quo, considering she made a deal with Isabelle, and her species seems to work well with the turians with little to no tension between them. Goodwill? There's no telling, not without establishing stronger communication than she currently has access to. She can't be sure the asari didn't have a bigger reason for pulling strings and letting the prisoners escape without harassment.
And even if they understood the concept, would the asari value it?
February 18th, 2030
Solitary Confinement, Maitrum
The more Isabelle learns of the asari script and language, the more she finds herself incomprehensibly jealous of them.
It's not the breathtaking beauty. Isabelle is herself not unattractive; being Inhuman means she has retained a 'early-forties' appearance even at sixty-four. It's not for a lack of looks that she had rarely been sent on honeypot missions like Romanoff: she just comes off far too cold and unapproachable even in the act. She's nowhere near Pepper or even the majority of the asari, but she's not half bad.
No, it's not their beauty that makes her envious.
It's their grace.
There's something so fluid about them. They don't move, they glide; the slightest of motions has such precision that it leaves her feeling bereft. If they are the ripples on a lake, smooth and soft and elegant, then she… is sandpaper, coarse and dry. She hasn't felt dysphoria this strongly since the initial months after Terrigenesis. The understanding that they have had several centuries to perfect their poise and elegance is only slightly mollifying.
It's the dehydration, she tells herself. Nothing more. Even though that excuse no longer applies, because under Benezia's instructions, the birds keep her more or less hydrated.
The only true balm to this ridiculous condition is that she can more or less keep up with Benezia's brilliance. She's nowhere near the genius like her brother and father. But she's no slouch in the intelligence department either. It feels… oddly liberating, to be forced to really use her brain for once, instead of relying on her fists, her guns or her Terrigenesis to solve a problem.
Oddly enough, as time goes on, the lack of her omni-tool or her armor helps as well. For her, technology comes with its own set of issues. Surrounded by top-of-the-line since the day she was born has always been a sort of comfort, like a warm blanket that descends over her. As an Avenger and beyond, wearing her brother's tech had inadvertently dulled her senses, lulled her into a sense of complacency - which isn't something she can risk right now.
Plus, there's the instincts. Most of the technology she uses are weapons, finely honed and upgraded. She's too tuned to them, too used to acting before thinking. And calling up a simple Sabotage with her omni-tool here would only leave her riddled with holes by weapons that already have her in their sights.
Isabelle isn't afraid of dying, but she'd rather not die idiotically.
February 20th, 2030
Command Office, Arcturus Station
"Khanjar?" Phil asks. "What's that, some kind of weapon?"
"Ceremonial dagger, curved like a 'J', from the Middle East," Glenn replies shortly, going through his meager reports trickling in through his datafeeds. He already knows what they say but maybe another look would trigger some miraculous fix for this clusterfuck. "We were always expecting another alien invasion. Never thought I'd live to see an Alpha, though. Never even wanted to."
"Because the occupation was successful. Ross must've surrendered."
Glenn's fist crashes down on the table. "That bastard!" He yells, a swipe of his hand sweeping datapads and files off the surface. Anger pours out like a flood out of the cracked shell of his self-control. He doesn't need to hold himself back like he'd been forced to with the Command and the UNIN. Phil's seen him at his worst. "How dare he?!"
"We don't know what happened, Glenn. He's not the kind who would give up easily; you'll have to give him that. Whatever the hell broke his will… isn't something we should go raring at."
"And so I'm supposed to just sit back and let that cowardly maggot decide the fate of an entire colony? An entire planet? You've heard the rumors! Those ETs are bombing entire cities!"
"Unconfirmed rumors. Maybe that's why Ross surrendered. He's trying to save civilians."
Glenn laughs. "He's trying to save his own hide! That distress call didn't come from him. Ahern was part of the Shanxi Fleet. I've seen his file - turned down two promotions to stay with his ship and crew. He's dedicated, loyal. But if he was sending a distress message originating from the planet instead of his ship, something's gone horribly wrong with the entire fleet!"
"You're making way too many assumptions," Phil tries, though it sounds tired and half-hearted at best.
"A month, Coulson. The Sokovia was attacked a month ago. The Acheron Anomaly happened forty-eight hours later. One of Gagarin's rings blew up and some rogue ship tried to crash into the Charon Relay just a few days after that! And why is it that these reports are crossing my desk just now?!"
There's a pause. "Fury was trying to contain the situation," Phil says quietly.
"Fury was…," A vein pulses in Glenn's forehead. "You knew about this? All of this?"
There's no response.
"You…" His lungs feel tight. He suddenly regrets each and every one of the life choices that landed him here, on a half-built station with its recycled oxygen, in charge of amassing an offensive against yet another new, alien threat. "I don't have time to deal with this right now. To deal with you. I wouldn't even know… that's treason, you idiot!"
"I had my orders. The information was classified… until now."
"You're part of the Systems Alliance! Not S.H.I.E.L.D., not S.W.O.R.D. - not any other alphabetical agencies Fury concocts on a weekly basis! You report to Alliance Command and…!"
" - to you?" Phil asks, almost scornful. "That wasn't the deal. This is bigger than an alien attack, General Talbot. Bigger than Shanxi, bigger than Ross. The Alliance is young, painfully so. And events like the Acheron Anomaly and the Charon Incident is why I was brought on board! To deal with things no one else can, that no one else has any experience with!"
"And what's one human colony in the face of that?" Glenn snarls.
"Don't you dare. Doesn't matter if there are only ten marines stranded on that planet, I'm gonna do just as much to liberate them as you! It was my recommendation to bring you on-board, as much as we possibly can without compromising a whole host of other factors!"
"I don't care! You're gonna tell me everything, Coulson… and then you're gonna help me clean up this stinking pile of crap, or so help me God…"
"Why do you think I'm here?!"
February 26th, 2030
Interrogation Room
Slowly, they begin to hold actual conversations. It's awkward, halting, but like a runaway train, it picks up speed as time goes on until there's no stopping it.
The hardest thing to figure out is the subtext. Not just the underlying meaning behind words, because Benezia seems better at it than her. The facial expressions, too, are identical for the most part, even if some of the gestures and tics are vaguely unfamiliar.
No, it's the back channel of all communication that's giving her trouble. The nods, the shakes, the accompanying expressions. They don't always match up, and that has led to enough misunderstandings that it makes Isabelle want to tear her hair out.
There was one memorable instance where Benezia performed this odd head bobble that Isabelle had incorrectly assumed it to be a negation. It had required hours of backtracking and - more than once - heart-stopping alertness when misunderstandings had abounded between herself and the asari bodyguards. Benezia had retired early that evening.
The next day, for some reason, Benezia insists on taking an entire week to hammer out emotional equivalencies. Concepts like joy, fear, anger, uncertainty. Most of the vids she showed as examples had asari exaggerating specific emotions - the better for her to identify with, Isabelle supposes.
After, it was forms of government - democracy, autocracy, meritocracy and associated concepts such as diplomacy, trade, leadership etc. Benezia explains about the Citadel Council, the executive body governing a large portion of occupied galactic space, comprised of one representative from each of the member species: the long-lived, diplomatic asari, the peacekeeping, militaristic turians and finally, the lizard-like, but apparently amphibious, intelligence-pivoted salarians.
Something in the asari's gaze almost makes it seem as though all this is a test, that she was deliberately trying to trigger Isabelle into some response.
But all Isabelle feels is baffled as to why this is a necessary protocol at all at this early stage in the game. It's only later, at the end of a particularly grueling session where Isabelle had snapped more than once that Benezia explains.
"We learned the hard way that some cultures have no use for certain concepts that asari takes for granted," Benezia says. There's the faintest hint of something haunted in her dark eyes. "We encountered a race some thirty odd years ago. They were apex predators, and thrived on a pack mentality. A leader would establish dominance through might or manipulation, which was the only way a pack would ever come together."
Isabelle fiddles with the pyramid device. She's requiring it less and less these days, but she uses it conscientiously to maintain the masquerade. "I'm guessing first contact didn't go well."
Benezia's yellow gown whispers as she shifts in place. "They saw the equality between the various members of the delegation as contemptible."
"So they opened fire?"
"Worse. They ate them." Benezia is trembling faintly, with disgust or hatred or rage - Isabelle can't tell. "They might have walked and talked, Isabelle Collins, but inside, they were just animals."
"And you're worried we might turn out the same." Isabelle leans back against her chair and steeples her fingers.
"We want no more misunderstandings. If your species has certain… unique requirements, then it's best to know about it now than have it revealed in a less controlled setting and potentially cause yet another diplomatic incident."
Isabelle appreciates the usage of the words 'more' and 'another'. Benezia hasn't forgotten the turians' sins in this war, for all that she skillfully navigates her way around the elephant in the room, even with her limited vocabulary.
The closest they come to addressing it is when she's shown footage of the Acheron Anomaly. "I don't know anything about that," Isabelle says flatly. "I wasn't there for it. I heard about it, I was there for the aftermath… but I've got no idea what caused it."
Benezia seems to believe her. But she doesn't look too surprised either. A few more minutes of prodding reveals why.
The rogue disruptor hadn't been fired by the turians. Hadn't been fired by any of their allied races. It was centuries old, probably shot by a gun that missed its target. And all this time, it's been roaming around the vast endlessness of space, having lost none of its speed from when it was ejected, and finally found a home in the SSV Williwaw. "So this was a coincidence?"
"Providence. I suspect that torpedo showed us something about that region of space that would be critical to know."
February 27th, 2030
UNIN Office, Vienna, Earth
"The Passivity Protocol allows for the possibility of mistakes, of hasty, panicked first impressions," Pamela Hawley of the Union of Incorporated Nations tries to plead with her fellow representatives and the nascent Alliance Command. "It's easy to fight, easier to kill. It's a lot harder to just sit down and figure things out, which is what General Ross should've done in the first place!"
She sits back down, breathing slightly hard from her impassioned plea. Glenn just cocks his head and pins her down with a gaze he has perfected after decades of dealing with political bullshit. "As the main proponent of the Passivity Protocol, maybe you'd like to be the one to personally extend an olive branch, Representative Hawley. You know, to those aliens who fired on a blameless expedition?"
Predictably, she pales. Glenn suppresses the urge to snort. "I'm not a soldier, Major Talbot. I don't belong on a battlefield."
"It's not a soldier's job to make peace, Representative. That's what diplomats are for. You'd fit right in."
"Surely there are others… better suited for this role. Perhaps yourself…?" She trails off when he arches an eyebrow.
It's revolting that the Systems Alliance, despite having been ratified by eighteen of the Earth's largest, most influential countries, has been forced into this charade. The UNIN should have no say in how they go about things, but the fact of the matter is… there is no one else.
Calling one President or another would smack of nationalistic favoritism, which is a bonfire Glenn isn't in a hurry to leap into. More time would've given even young colonies a voice in how they wished to be governed, giving the Alliance enough pull to break off Earth's influence almost entirely. Instead, they had this.
She's been squirming long enough. "It's true that I made the choice to serve, all those years ago," Glenn says quietly. "I swore my life to the cause, and my death too, if it comes to that. As have the men who serve under me."
He leans forward. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to send them off to a slaughter, which is what will happen if we send them in to make peace at this juncture. And if I'm to be deployed, it better be for a reason more substantial than a long-held, bitter vendetta against a man who - flawed though he might be - at least doesn't shy away when the going gets tough."
February 27th, 2030
Interrogation Room
As soon as they begin actual communication, Benezia uses her influence to let Isabelle have relatively free reign of the base, as long as she's in cuffs and under heavy guard, of course.
"These hardsuits," Isabelle gestures to the armor Barnes and Peter had donned the day they ventured out into the Plains of Maitrum for the last time. The boob armor, as Jill Dah had so colorfully put it. "They are asari designs, yes?"
Benezia nods, her fingers trailing feather-light touches on the polymer. "Though they are very outdated. I must inquire about replacing them with better versions."
"Why, you planning on capturing more humans and holding them here?"
"Or asari. No matter the species, if laws are broken, there will be consequences."
"You'll let the turians hold your own people?"
"If a maiden has defied a law in turian space, then certainly. We would do the same to theirs, after all. Don't you have such systems in place? Back on your homeworld?"
"Something similar, yes. Though extradition and prisoner exchanges do occur." And then Isabelle is forced to explain the former concept, which, it turns out, does exist in the galactic charter, but has subtly different rules depending on the species, the crime and the location. It's all very messy, and by the time the equivalencies are hammered out, Isabelle's head is aching.
Benezia is amused. "Perhaps we can leave the intricacies of diplomacy to lawyers and politicians," she suggests. "And just… talk, instead? About nothing in particular?"
Translated, that basically amounts to sticking to unspecific, nebulous topics that aren't stealthily disguised minefields scattered on the ground. And the topic Benezia seems most concerned with is the resemblance between humans and asari.
"It's actually pretty common, from our perspective," Isabelle says. "Most of the alien species we've encountered resemble humans."
"Or the asari," Benezia says with a gentle smirk.
Isabelle shrugs. "Sure. Perspective might matter, but it doesn't change the facts. Honestly, that's weird for us," she says, inclining her head at a turian guard who blinks back at her impassively.
But Benezia is hung up on it. She isn't obvious, but even a blind man would be able to notice the pattern after she subtly directs many of their conversations towards their species' superficial similarity. She's bewildered by this turn of events; every asari is, apparently.
"And you've never wondered why?" Benezia insists as they're walking back to solitary for Isabelle to be locked in for the night. "The chances of such an occurrence is higher than they should be, by all natural laws."
"And yet," Isabelle says quietly, " - it happened anyway. Suggests a lot, doesn't it?"
"You suspect interference?" Benezia has a look of polite confusion on her face, but it's hiding something. Something that she won't admit to, not even under pain of death. "From whom?"
Isabelle presses her lips into a thin line. "Tell me, Lady Benezia. Have you ever heard of the Kree?"
The polite confusion morphs into a real, honest one. "No. What is that?"
"A race of blue aliens, from the Andromeda Galaxy."
"Ah… and you mistook us for them," Benezia muses. "Tell me, are these Kree bigendered?"
Isabelle blinks. "I would assume so? I've personally never encountered them, but any major biological anomaly in something like that would've been noted down." The corpse of the T.A.H.I.T.I. Guest Host had certainly looked male, despite its bottom half being just a mass of exposed intestines. No breasts, narrow hips.
"Ah. Well, there's your answer then. The skin coloration is simply a coincidence. You see, asari are monogendered."
Isabelle stumbles to a halt and stares at her. "What? How's that…?" She almost swallows her tongue before she can ask the obvious question that had popped into her head. Any doubts she can reasonably have with regards to that… interesting factoid would be all unforgivably rude, with the potential to kick off yet another round of hostilities.
Benezia looks amused, though. "Ask. It's not offensive. Every species wonders about it, when they meet us."
"So it's not… common, then, in the galaxy? Monogendered races?"
She laughs. "No! By our knowledge, asari remain unique in that aspect. Personally speaking, after almost a thousand years of interacting with bigendered races, our own biology sometimes feels odd. Ask, Isabelle."
Isabelle thinks back to the asari she'd seen so far. Not one of them had been male. "Parthenogenesis, then?"
She laughs again. "You refuse to be rude, don't you? That was a brilliant guess. Asari can meld our nervous systems with our partners' to inspire pleasure. In the case of reproduction, we explore our partner's genetic dynasty and borrow desirable traits from the partner to randomize one set of a pair of genes that we pass on to our offspring. Another unique aspect of our biology - we can mate with any race successfully, though the progeny of any such union is always an asari."
"Well," Isabelle says. "That will take some getting used to."
So, the phylogenetic factors couldn't be explained away by what is already known of human history: Prothean experimentation with Cro-Magnons, or the Kree's genetic manipulation to create Inhumans. Because humanity already existed, in some form of another, looking much the same as it does now, before that.
Someone, or something much older than recorded galactic history has used a sapient, humanoid template and just… stenciled similar looking species across galaxies.
March 2nd, 2030
Superintendent's Wing
Some turians nod respectfully as Benezia walks past, while others salute her. None of them call her by her name, instead using a term her omni-tool fails to translate. "What's that word mean?"
Benezia hums. "I have lived almost a thousand years. There's a word for those of us who have reached such an age. It could be best interpreted as… a leader, perhaps, of a community of people sharing a common culture."
"A tribal leader?" She explains the word tribe, and Benezia nods with a tiny frown - the translation isn't perfect. "A chiefess? No. Something stronger. Older." Isabelle cocks her head, eyeing Benezia. "Matriarch," she says finally. "A female leader of a community primarily governed by women. The male counterpart would be 'patriarch'."
"That will do. Though we have no such divisions, ourselves."
"Must be nice."
"It has its moments, yes." As they enter the superintendent's office, Benezia gestures with a smile. "I believe you're acquainted with Lieutenant Adrien Victus?"
Out of the shadows steps out a familiar figure. It's the same bird - turian, they're turians now; she can't afford to slip - from before; the one with the six-petaled face markings. He stops right in front of her and, to her immense surprise, knocks off what is unmistakably a salute: arm down and across his chest, claws curled in. She hesitates, then returns the gesture.
Isabelle then half-turns to Benezia, keeping one eye on Victus. "I'm sure Lieutenant Victus here is more than qualified, but I thought you were taking me to the warden-commander of the prison?"
Benezia says nothing, just continues to smile gently. Victus tilts his head slightly, as though listening to something far away - but it's just his translator, Isabelle realizes.
Then he says something, and the translated output from his mic is almost painfully out of sync with his mouth - so much so that by the time he's actually finished, the output's just halfway through being translated. "That would be me, actually. The commander, along with most of the prison staff were recalled back to our homeworld. It's a temporary status until a new staff is rotated in."
Unspoken goes the heavy implication that he's more than qualified for the job, despite his - and this is just a guess - youth. Something about his face or body language makes her eyebrows twitch: loose mandibles, relaxed posture, but wide and… amused eyes? She's no expert, not even close, but if nothing else, Barnes had taught her to pay attention to her captors, and that's definitely amusement, becoming more pronounced and obvious the longer she looks.
That, combined with the no-doubt classified information he'd just dumped on her in their very first conversation, paints a pretty clear picture.
It's a challenge. A dare. You don't tell a prisoner that the prison is half empty, not if you don't want them to stage a jailbreak… another jailbreak, in her case. A potentially inexperienced commander is no doubt just the icing on the cake.
A part of her almost wants to pick up that gauntlet, and make a break for it. And that part is not even motivated by a desire to escape. It just recognizes that the man in front of her owes her a fight. "And why exactly were you granted that temporary status?" Isabelle asks.
Again, that long pause. Then he smiles, almost triumphant, as though he was waiting for her to ask. "Because, Operative Collins… of all the ten squads on this base, mine was the only one which came closest to bringing you down."
"And if diplomatic avenues fail, you're the most likely to survive a full-scale slaughter?"
"Or win a war of attrition, if necessary."
Isabelle snorts softly.
Benezia clears her throat then. "The Hierarchy needs to supply you with better quality translators, Adrien," she says, and, perhaps by some matriarchal magic, doesn't sound at all awkward while blatantly attempting to change the subject.
Victus turns to her, mandibles drawing back in a sign of respect. "The more advanced hardware breaks down too easily in the heat, Lady Benezia. Our scientists are looking into the problem, though."
Isabelle can't resist. "Still, for snippets obtained through intense torture and eavesdropping on mess hall conversations, your translators' vocabulary is surprisingly good."
That wipes the smile off Benezia's face, and after a moment, Victus' too. An awkward pause ensues. Then, " - that was just as much of an inefficient solution as an inelegant one," he says finally. "Our translators are actually using the asari translation matrix. Hence the delay. What you're hearing now is turian filtered through asari filtered to human, and vice versa."
"English," she corrects. "'Human' isn't a language."
Victus just nods in acknowledgment. 'Inelegant' seems to be the best apology she's going to get in the meantime, unless the Alliance or the Peak press charges.
She'll take it though. She doesn't want to think about the Chair either.
March 4th, 2030
Interrogation Room, Maitrum
Victus' introduction breaks the delicate ceasefire that had settled while Isabelle and Benezia were hashing out language difficulties, because the very next day, the asari walks into the interrogation room with a solemn expression and an explanation for the entire war.
The attack on the Sokovia was nothing more than a policing action - for the sole crime of activating a dormant primary mass relay, an act prohibited by Council laws, all because of some ancient war that occurred because they dared open Pandora's Box. "The turians opened fire on us because we broke a rule that we weren't even aware of, let alone comply with?" What utter nonsense.
"Yes. It was poorly done on their part, and they will face severe penalties from the Council, I assure you."
"No penalty isn't going to bring back all those poor souls in the expeditionary group."
"That power is beyond even us, I'm afraid. But perhaps you…" Benezia breaks off, but the damage is already done. Isabelle hones in on the missing phrase, and a bridge starts to build between what was almost implied and the careful tiptoeing that's been going since she went full Aquamarine on Maitrum.
"You know what's weird?" She says conversationally. "The fact that despite our species having never encountered each other and despite our resemblance, our facial expressions and reactions still evolved to mirror the others' so closely. So much so that I've found that asari have the exact same tells as human females when they're lying."
"I haven't lied to you."
"But you've held something back. You've been dancing around the truth. Now, back in your ivory tower of galactic politics, there might be shades of gray in between. But you're here now, Matriarch. On the ground, with bullets and lasers flying at you. There's no half-measures here. You reached out to me. You owe me the whole, unfiltered truth."
She looks away, visibly uncomfortable for the first time in their acquaintance. "Yes. But not today."
And not the next day, either, apparently, Isabelle thinks bitterly, tiredly. Benezia dodges her questions, sidesteps her theories and overall evades actually giving any answers. She doesn't seem pleased to do it, at least: even she has a leash that someone's yanking. "We intervened because the turians broke a Council law."
"No, you intervened because we proved to be a match for them," Isabelle snarls. "Tell me, would you have raised a hand to stop them if our fleets hadn't shattered theirs? If I hadn't successfully broken out of their so-called unbreakable prison? Or would you've just sat back and watched while they bombed our worlds and consigned my entire species to extinction? Or worse?"
"We don't tolerate slavery. Or genocide." That last one had been almost pointed, but Isabelle is at the end of her rope and doesn't care to dig further.
"Of sentient, sapient beings, presumably. But war messes with principles. If the turians had succeeded in breaking us, I have no doubt I'd be in chains now, being sold to the highest bidder."
A look of seemingly genuine distress flickers across her face. "You're very cynical."
"No, Lady Benezia. I see the world as it is. Perhaps you should give it a go."
"Surely the fact that the Council reached out, regardless of our motives, is worthy of merit? After all, we are trying for diplomacy."
"I'm not a diplomat. I don't have the luxury of adorning my intentions with pretty words - not when I'm restricted to a thimbleful of water a day." She's only allowed water during her sessions with Benezia, and just enough to take the edge off: she's still verging on dehydration and has been for the past two months.
"Can you blame us for the precautions? We've seen what you can do with water. Forced dehydration is a necessary evil; I take no pleasure in it."
Isabelle chuckles, low and dark. The constant, chronic parched throat and raw veins is having pretty much the same effect on her that alcohol would have on baseline humans. No inhibitions worth a damn, not now, not in here when nothing but her life is left to bargain with. "Clearly you haven't really paid attention to the silo's footage. I don't need water in my body to control it."
She leans forward, as far as the table would allow. The handcuffs sting. "I could always do with the water inside yours."
The only reason she's not a smear on the wall after a statement like that is because Benezia's got her translator plugged into her inner-ear comms, and the commandos have no idea what they're talking about. They're a lot more trigger-happy, and Isabelle had forgotten that for a moment, desperate to gain the upper hand.
But Benezia isn't a slouch, either. She doesn't lash out, not with her telekinesis or with any other weapon. Just holds her gaze across the table, calm and steady until even Isabelle is starting to feel unnerved by the ancient eyes boring into hers. Then she looks down, and smiles.
It's a slow, secretive smile. As if she knows something that Isabelle doesn't. Which is par for the course for this whole mess, really, but Benezia has never smiled like that before at her ignorance.
As though an easily squashed bug has amused her greatly.
"Perhaps this is a conversation we should've had earlier," she says quietly. "But I wanted to try negotiations and diplomacy before issuing any sort of threat."
"Not too old to resist rising to a challenge?" Why, a part of Isabelle's mind screams, are you goading a thousand-year-old creature?!
Blue eyes flash white, just for a moment. "Old enough to truly understand the value of lives, even - and especially of those - willing to sacrifice their own." She takes a deep breath, then spreads her arms. "The leaders among my people didn't want me to come here. They wanted someone less… valuable - their words, not mine - in this position; someone who would nevertheless have been excellent at diplomacy. But I won't ask someone to risk what I myself won't."
"Which is what?"
"Lives, of course, Isabelle Collins. Yours, mine, and that of everyone else that's on this base. That's what I'm here to bargain with, and that is why carrying out your threat will gain you absolutely nothing." She smiles again, and this time it is harder, colder. More distant. Gone is the benevolent, wise old woman. Suddenly, Isabelle realizes all too well why Benezia didn't give her huntresses access to the translations.
Because she didn't need to.
"Right now, at this very moment, the turian dreadnought Indomitable is in orbit. It's monitoring every fragment of communication, every outbound signal on this base, and yes - that includes this conversation. It's also armed with two dozen antimatter warheads."
Isabelle stills.
"If there's even the slightest indication that you were reverting to your… delightfully destructive alter-ego, or had any plans to wreak the kind of devastation this base faced a little more than a month ago… well. The Indomitable is under strict orders to deploy a warhead to destroy this facility from orbit."
"All of that, for little old me?" Isabelle drawls.
"You are a credible threat," Benezia says frankly. "We won't underestimate you again. Which is why, even if you somehow manage to escape that first attack, then the Indomitable will have no compunctions against unleashing their entire arsenal to make sure you're destroyed. Even if that requires… Maitrum's sacrifice."
A chill goes down Isabelle's spine. Destroyer of Worlds, a heavy whisper reminds her. Somehow, she doesn't think the Norns had meant this. "The bir… the turians are willing to drop a WMD on their own planet?"
"WMD?"
"Weapon of mass destruction."
"Ah. Oh, yes. This isn't a garden world, you see. It's just, after all, a prison. There are no laws restricting the destruction of a hostile planet. All prisoners have been transferred elsewhere temporarily… with the sole exception of you. And every guard, every commando, has volunteered to stay behind and has already said farewell to their loved ones."
Benezia spreads her arms. "So. Do your worst, Isabelle Collins. Suck me dry of the last drop of water in my body. Leave me a dehydrated husk, much like this world. And condemn yourself… and perhaps your entire species, to a bloody war of which there will be no victor."
A/N:
GENERAL CONTEXT
Head Nods and Shakes
In Bulgaria and a few other countries, a nod does mean no, and a shake means yes.
MCU CONTEXT
Talos/Keller
Keller was the former director of S.H.I.E.L.D. before Fury. Played by Ben Mendelsohn, he appeared first in Captain Marvel, before being unceremoniously killed off in Secret Invasion.
I can't abide waste. And from what little I saw and heard of Secret Invasion, MCU has, as usual, utterly wasted Talos' character. Soren's too. I'm not going to. I don't know what Talos' role here is, but I feel his potential brimming through the page. I won't fridge him until he's fulfilled whatever he's supposed to, and maybe not even then.
I thought long and hard about killing Selvig, believe you me. He's an important character, and he did important things, led the other characters to important realizations, but it served him and the story as a whole for him to go when he did. So far, I've avoided killing any major characters - not because of any affection I may or may not hold for them (I do, oh so much), but because it doesn't serve the narrative.
But with Selvig's death, I emphasized that this story is not safe. That the characters will die, and while he might not have been as important as, say, if I'd killed off Collins or Peter - it still hits hard. I hope. His death was necessary, and I think he went out with a bang, doing what he thought was right, even though it very much wasn't. And he's at peace.
Neither am I gonna drop bodies at a whim, however.
MASS EFFECT CONTEXT
Benezia
I've been planning this meet for a very long time. I always thought Benezia and Isabelle would get along like a house on fire. No idea why - what little we knew of Benezia before the indoctrination came from Liara's little anecdotes and Aethyta's blatant admiration of her… er, assets.
Seems like I was right, though. Their conversations just flowed.
Apex Predators
The apex predators that Benezia tells Collins about are, of course, the yahg. I don't actually think they ate the delegation, but I added it in to highlight their savagery and trigger a new first contact protocol from the asari.
I'm sure the yahg have some redeemable features. But Benezia is, rather understandably, biased against them. Of course, sentience and sapience hardly means a species or even an individual can't be animalistic. Choice plays a heavy role in determining whether or not one wants to rise above base instincts. Operative Kechlu (old Shadow Broker) was the only one who demonstrated potential. He ran a secret galactic operation for decades without anyone figuring out who he was. Unfortunately for him, Liara was an archaeologist. Trained to be excellent at digging up secrets.
