Those Who Favor Fire

by The.A.I.1502

In a universe reeling from the Blip, Isabelle Collins is shattered by her brother's death. But humanity's intent on colonizing the stars reveals an undeniable truth - Thanos was the harbinger of something much worse. Isabelle must peel back the layers of her new reality, because this time, the stakes are much higher than half of all life.

32. Where Do Those Doors Lead?

A/N: This is the last of the seven chapters detailing my version of the First Contact War. I'm officially out of buffer.

This fic still has plenty more to go. I'm (slowly) working on the next few chapters that will bring an end to this arc. And then, I'll start penning the final arc of Those Who Favor Fire.

Even then, it'll not be an end to this story. I'm planning a sequel, and I have very vague ideas about it. But I'm proud of where I've ended up so far.

Thanks for reading. Reviews will be appreciated.

---

But once again this old dream is within me,

and I am on the threshold waiting,

wondering, pleased, and fearful.

Where do those doors lead,

what rooms lie beyond them?

I venture…

Hallucination; F. S. Flint

March 6th, 2030

Headquarters, Arcturus Station

LOCATION: The Arcturus Stream

"The UNIN isn't budging! They're going to let Ross take the fall for Shanxi - win or lose! And the Alliance can't do a damn thing without sanction!"

"And if the invasion comes to Sol?"

Glenn shakes his head in disgust. "Hawley isn't thinking that far. Too content to be an ostrich, or overestimates Ross' abilities - I can't tell. Either way, everyone's following her lead."

Phil is far too calm, and it's starting to piss him off. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Didn't think you were one for 'I told you sos', Coulson."

"I'm not. But I don't think you've really understood why the Alliance wanted S.H.I.E.L.D. dissolved, but me and my agents intact."

Glenn rubs a hand down his face. "It's because you did good work during the Decimation. People know you - if you suddenly disappeared, they'll talk."

"No, Glenn. They already had a face for the Decimation: you! The United North American States, Project Exodus, hell - you single-handedly stopped riots from tearing the continent apart and saved the President's life at least half a dozen times in the first nine months! Months I spent trying to find what remained of my team!"

"Well, then, if you're suggesting they wanted S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel for missions they can claim plausible deniability on, you're shit out of luck, 'cause that's Fury's department."

"Exactly. You follow the rules, Fury ignores them. Me? I'm the middle ground. I specialize in toeing the line while still getting things done. Without compromising our agents - and yes, I did say 'ours', or did you think I forgot you're the head of the Transhuman Subcommittee? - without compromising our morals, our integrity, our humanity! That's my job!"

Glenn stares at him. "Sounds like the toughest job in the universe."

"It is. You don't like Fury. He doesn't like you. But most days, General - especially days like today, you're gonna like me a whole lot less."

Glenn straightens. "You have something for me?"

"Someone, actually." Phil activates his omni-tool. "Send her in."

The woman who walks in through the door has Glenn swearing out loud in every language he knows. And, courtesy of the Snap, he's been forced to learn quite a few. "I liked you behind a desk," he says finally.

"I go where the story is, General," Christine Everhart says, smirking unrepentantly. Her bug-like floating camera is right beside her, recording the conversation. "And right now, my journalistic nose tells me that's with the Sokovia and the nineteen souls on board. What happened to the ship?"

He glares at Phil, who just smiles at him serenely. "Probably stopped on a colony somewhere for some much needed TLC and shore leave. There's no scoop to be found on a science vessel, Everhart. Now get out of my office."

"The fact that you, a highly respected Major General of the Systems Alliance, have cause to know that the Sokovia is a science vessel tells me a lot. My sources tell me the flight manifest put it on Eden Prime. Was it researching the Prothean ruins?"

"You don't stop, do you?" Glenn raises his omni-tool, and unleashes a Sabotage. The irritating camera sparks and tumbles to the ground. She startles, wide-eyed. "One day someone's going to put a bullet in your head for poking your nose far too deep somewhere it doesn't belong, Everhart."

"I'll take that as the well-meaning warning it was meant to be, and not the threat it sounded like." Everhart's features take on an urgency that's completely different from her usual reporting fervor. "Something is going on, General. The White House is in a tizzy, the President's distracted and government officials are jumping at shadows. And I'm not the only one who's noticed it. Whatever it is you're hiding will come out - you should know that about the media by now. We're relentless. We can smell a scoop a mile away, and the entire Alliance reeks of it."

"Is that a warning, or a threat?" He asks sardonically.

"An offer. I can control the narrative. Give me something to ease the public's mind."

Glenn folds his arms across his chest. "And how does that help me?"

"You're struggling with something; it's obvious. If you want support… or an army, there's no better place to find it than among the common people. They haven't forgotten your role in the Decimation. If I spin it right, they'll follow you."

"I don't want…!" Glenn breaks off, squeezes the bridge of his nose. Truth is, he can use this. He has no allies right now, with the exception of Fury and Coulson - which, right now isn't doing him many favors. If this backfires, he could be charged with treason for leaking classified information. But if it goes right… he could save a lot of lives.

"Fine. I'll send you all the relevant info on a secure channel. But remember, Everhart… I have veto power over every segment you file. You so much as add a single, unapproved word…"

"… and the deal's off. Got it."

"Oh, it'll be so much worse than that, trust me."

---

March 8th, 2030

Maitrum

After Benezia issues her threat, she doesn't come to see Isabelle.

There's no sign of the huntresses, either: a nearby warden tells her the entire asari delegation had left the same night Isabelle had provoked the Matriarch. Her only consolation - and doesn't that sting, that she'd allowed the asari to worm her way so deep into Isabelle's good graces? - is that the delegation is meant to return soon.

For the time being, she has free rein of the base.

For obvious reasons, she's not allowed into the Ore Processing, where they're still trying to fix the mess she made. And she quite gladly avoids the route to the Inquisition Facilities, taking the longer one every time from the mess back to solitary. But other than that, she's free as the proverbial bird.

Much like Victus' dare, this is a challenge: she has breathing room now; what is she going to do with it?

The turians aren't happy with their new orders. Every one of them shifts, their clawed fingers reaching for their guns or batons when she passes them.

If she'd been younger, such an obvious expression of fear and distrust would've made her smile. Now, it just makes her tired.

The threat of being disintegrated by antimatter warheads is more than enough to stay her hand, but that won't convince them. Not when, despite their willingness, they're all too aware that they'll be victims just as much as her if the ships above decide she's stepped out of line.

She's tired of having blood on her hands.

So, just to preserve the peace, she ropes in Victus to be her overseer for the day. The effect is minimal; both of them are treated with thinly-veiled suspicion, but at least she gets a good conversation out of it. God, has Benezia spoiled her.

"I…," Victus is saying, his mandibles splaying in the turian sign for hesitation. "I wished to thank you."

"Oh?" Isabelle asks, raising an eyebrow. "For sparing your life during the escape?"

Victus huffs out an amused breath. "Your partner caught me off-guard with that arm of his. Otherwise, we'd have had you."

"Keep telling yourself that, Victus. So if not for that, then what's the gratitude for?"

"For this." And from his utility pouch, he brings out the dog tag she'd dug out from the Plains of Maitrum for her very first scavenging mission.

It's no longer sand-scoured, but brushed and polished until it looks almost as good as new. Details that hadn't been apparent before pop out, including strange, spiky symbols running along the lower half of the tag. Identification, maybe serial number?

Isabelle looks at Victus, at those familiar facial markings. "It's valuable to you."

"It's valuable to us all. But yes, especially to me. This is a - ," and he uses a word here, guttural and sharp. "A… a unique symbol of the colony my ancestors come from."

"Oh." Not a dog tag after all. "An emblem. Or an insignia." And those spiky symbols must be a motto of some kind, or maybe the name of the colony. "Must be an ancient colony. That thing is at least centuries old."

"The colony was lost more than two thousand years ago, in a war between the Turian Hierarchy and the chieftains, who wished to remain independent. The colony lost the war, and all came under one rule. But most of us still honor our roots with these," and he gestures to the facial markings.

"Well. I'm glad I could help. Besides, you returned the favor."

His eyes grow hooded at the reminder of the Chair. "Not fast enough. Some things… just should not be done. I will petition the Hierarchy to decommission the interrogation chamber, you have my word."

"Will they listen, though?"

His face tightens. "No."

Isabelle sighs. "Well. I suppose it's the thought that counts."

---

March 9th, 2030

Alliance News Network Newsroom

"And now, perhaps," Princess Shuri says, " - for a question from one of our more-scientifically minded viewers?"

Henry Lawson smirks, lounging more comfortably against the couch. "Those are the best kind."

"Indeed. Here we go!" Shuri withdraws a card from her small pile with a flourish. Her lips purse in obvious vexation as she reads through it, but then she seems to belatedly clear her face. "Ah. The question is about the validity of the rumors of Prothean ruins on the planet Eden Prime, Hades Nexus, and if at all either of us are involved in uncovering that."

Lawson's eyes sharpen. "Not rumors; I can confirm that much," he says carefully. "There have been mentions of the ruins even in the vaults within the Mars Archives. As for our involvement…" he trails off suggestively.

Shuri crosses her legs. "Yes, that's a question that's been bothering me as well. Because, while I was preparing to send an officially sanctioned expedition, I got word that the Milky Way Foundation, with your backing, had already deployed a scientific expedition aboard the frigate Sokovia. Now, why would you go behind my back like that, Henry?"

Lawson tucks in his chin, and smiles. It's half-bashful, half-defensive, and completely artificial. "I suppose I was afraid that I would be kept out of the loop again, like I was during the discovery of the Mars Archives." The words are even more accusing for all that they don't sound it, and only those in the know of Lawson's behind-the-scenes actions on Mars recognize what a truly masterful actor he is.

Shuri sighs heavily, rolls her eyes at the cameras watching them. "With the exception of eezo and the Charon Relay, we're still only just cataloging all the artifacts within! You know this! The Foundation's expertise would be more useful when it comes to actual analysis of the data within."

A masterful rebuttal by Shuri, if she does say so herself. Not once did she actually say that their expertise would be actually wanted or even sought after when the time comes, so her words - unofficial and public as they are - would never actually be called into question. And it'll be decades before the artifacts are completely inventoried: by which time everyone would've forgotten about this little interview.

She doesn't let him get a word in edgewise, not when he has so helpfully dug his own grave. "While my expertise in successfully stabilizing the malfunctioning eezo core and my international team of successful scientists that broke the secrets of FTL from the Protheans would be more useful right about now, wouldn't it?"

Lawson hums. "It's true that non-Wakandan firewalls wouldn't have survived the initial interfacing with the Archives. But you have documented those processes quite thoroughly on the Wakandan International Outreach's official website, which are available to preview for free by anyone."

She shakes her head, tutting at him like he's a small child. "But the firewalls themselves aren't. Wakandan supercomputers aren't. Theoretical research is no substitute for practical wisdom, Henry. The Foundation rather… oh, what's that charming American phrase?" The word 'charming' comes across as though to make it clear she finds it anything but. "Ah, yes, 'jumped the gun'."

His eyebrows jump up. "You believe the Foundation acted in haste?"

"Definitely. The Prothean Archives on Mars were… relatively benign, all things considered. There were few physical threats that we needed to worry about, and the worst of it was the malfunctioning eezo core. But the Protheans had encrypted their data thoroughly, laying digital traps and cryptographical landmines for any intruder. If you'd reached out to even one of my scientists, they would've told you that Eden Prime could have something much worse."

"Surely you're exaggerating. After all, the Protheans used those sites. They'd hardly line their offices and workspaces with moats filled with acid or pressure plates linked to an ax in the ceiling."

"Let's agree to disagree." Shuri leans forward, hands clasped. "I have a brilliant idea: why don't we ask the Sokovia's crew?! They would've had first hand experience with this, right?"

Lawson smirks. "Come now, that was hardly subtle. Like I'll hand over NDA-locked company secrets on live television." His eyes narrow. "This… this isn't base jealousy, is it? Just because the Foundation managed to reach the ruins first?"

Shuri's eyes flash, and she bares her teeth in a shark's smile. "Oh, I don't mind newfound rivals, Mr. Lawson. This is a race, and we probably failed this round. But unlike those who rush towards the finish line, I prefer to take my time."

"You know what they say about the early bird."

The Princess shrugs. "I prefer cheese anyway."

—

Lawson corners her just when she's about to enter her vehicle. "That was well-done," he says with his trademark snake-oil salesman smile. "Sneaking in the mention of the Sokovia, forcing the public to investigate. The UNIN must be feeling the pressure."

Shuri arches an eyebrow. "I didn't expect you to play along as well as you did."

He shrugs. "I enjoy verbal sparring. And my advisors tell me taking an occasional hit on live television makes me appear more human."

You definitely need help there, Shuri thinks but doesn't say. "You don't seem to care much for the Systems Alliance either, though."

"At least they aren't turtling themselves. However… ineffective their methods in the long run, they're still willing to fight back. And we need a show of force."

"And the Prothean ruins?"

"Are the new space-race, Your Highness. You can hardly expect me to play fair with those odds. After all, wouldn't you do the same?"

Later, much later, when Shuri has time to consider such things, she'd wonder what exactly did Christine Everhart have on Henry Lawson that made him willing to get one upped on a real-time broadcast. And just how big of a hornet's nest the ANN anchor had poked by cashing in on her blackmail.

But in the here and now, she watches until Lawson's slipped into his own skycar and peeled off from the driveway before she enters hers. Predictably, it's empty. As the drive pulls out, the privacy screen goes up - vibranium alloy, of course; no possibility of sound escaping, and with the added benefit of cutting off all access to exterior signals. Even if someone had managed to sneak surveillance inside (highly unlikely), they'll get nothing but static.

She fiddles with her Kimoyo Beads. Then, casually, she says to the empty seat opposite her, " - do you think he knows?"

A pause, then a woman flickers into visibility. "How did you know?" Monica Rambeau demands.

Shuri smirks. "It's a secret."

"Couldn't have been tech - I wasn't using retro-reflectors. It's not like I need them."

"Plus they're less efficient than you."

Monica huffs in irritated amusement, then sinks into the comfortable leather. "Keep talking like that, and I'm gonna start to think you want to skin me alive."

"That man would definitely like that, wouldn't he?" Shuri wrinkles her nose. "Maybe he'd like to do it himself."

"Knows what?" Monica asks, referring to her first question.

"That S.W.O.R.D. has the Sokovia's blackbox, which means he's not getting a damn thing?"

Monica smiles and her head tilts back, her eyes closed. "He'll find out, but he won't suspect S.W.O.R.D. It's all aliens with him, the obsessive jackass. The birds could use a bit of his focus. Will keep him out of your way too, while you clear out Eden Prime."

Shuri hums. "And did I draw enough blood to whet your appetite?"

"More than. Thanks."

"No trouble. It was fun! We should do it again sometime! Why should only T'Challa get to play the media?"

Monica doesn't reply. Shuri shoots her a look; no, she hasn't fallen asleep. Her eyebrows are doing that thing again, where they're furrowing lines across her forehead. Lines that have been there for the past two months, ever since Jane… ah. "How did she take it?"

Monica flinches. "Not well. Doc tore me a new one for dumping such a shock on her already delicate system. But I couldn't… she was begging me, Shuri. To tell her anything. Keeping Jane in the dark wasn't working… but hearing about Selvig's death might've just made it worse."

"You had an impossible choice to make."

"And did I make the right one?"

"No such thing in a situation like this. I can only say… if it were me, I'd want to know. And Jane… she should get the chance to grieve."

Monica shudders out a breath. Her vengeful grief, unlike Jane's, has found a suitable target and she, once again unlike Jane, likes to sit and stew and feed her anger. Useful, if she doesn't let impatience win and spoil everything. "I just wish… that we could pin something on the bastard. But there's nothing! Nothing legal, nothing official anyway. Everything Fury's got would be laughed out of court."

"Lawson's day of reckoning will come. Maybe we won't be the ones to offer it to him. Maybe we won't even be alive. But one day, he will answer for every drop of blood on his hands. Never fear."

---

March 11th, 2030

Solitary Confinement, Maitrum

That sleepless night, yet again, Soren's voice echoes in Isabelle's mind. "If you don't know Xhosa and a Wakandan doesn't know any other language," she'd said, " - you can still manage to communicate with him; purely because you share a species. Dig deep enough, and you'll find context to build a foundation upon. Even if the only common understanding you find is a need for survival. But with an alien, all bets are off."

"Because with an alien," Talos had then continued, " - even survival can't be assumed as a bedrock on which to communicate." And he was right; after all, the Chitauri had no survival instincts to speak of. Whether that was their natural state - highly unlikely - or if that aspect was cybernetically extracted is anybody's guess.

But then, the Chitauri had never bothered communicating either. Benezia does. And she has enough of a pull among the turian species that she can command them to stand down.

So maybe it's not fair to compare and contrast. Maybe Isabelle should try and treat this as true first contact, however hard her instincts might rebel. It's the only way she's going to be able to bring them down from a state of active war to a state of peace-enforced-through-mutually-assured-destruction, at the very least.

Good luck convincing the rest of humanity to follow her lead, though.

But the fact that Benezia is sitting down here with her, wasting valuable time attempting to communicate - in however rudimentary manner she can afford… that matters. That makes all the difference in the world.

Why?

Because it tells her the Council races do have a survival instinct. They were wary enough that they let Barnes and the others go, even when the enemy had a clear shot at the fleeing hauler. Something had spooked them enough to behave.

It's certainly not her. Benezia's got too good a contingency measure for that. Few things will stop Isabelle cold, but the thought of a dozen antimatter warheads ready to drop on her head at a moment's notice certainly does the job. And she doubts even her ICT squad's actions during the jailbreak had made what appeared to be the proudest and perhaps the most undefeated species in the galaxy so goddamn willing to parlay.

The turians regularly patrol the Rift and the Styx Theta, and had leapt for the first thing that was out of place: the Sokovia.

A quick, cowardly attack, with no warning. A policing action? No. Policing implies that someone needs to remain alive to be policed, to have laws enforced upon, but the Sokovia was now forever out of reach. Unless their target was the entire human race, in which case, the Sokovia was disposable; nothing more than an example to be made out of.

And wouldn't such an action ensure the wrath of an entire, unknown race? If the Council's entire law about not opening dormant primaries was meant to avoid another war with monsters… then the turians gone about policing this law by triggering a war with a different monster - humanity itself!

Isabelle's head hurts with the illogic of it all.

And that thing Benezia had implied, before cutting herself. A way to, what, bring back the Sokovia? Bring all those people back from the dead?

Do they really think that humanity has the power to do that? T.A.H.I.T.I. doesn't count - T.A.H.I.T.I. is connected to Kree, which are connected to the Inhumans - and all of it is connected to the Norns. The Soul World had made perfectly clear why the treatment had failed to work on Tony.

So what had been Benezia implying?

March 12th, 2030

Alliance News Network Newsroom

"… we have with us today the esteemed Jonah Ashland, formerly the CEO of Ashland Energy Corporation and now joint CEO of Eldfell-Ashland Energy. Welcome to ANN, Mr. Ashland."

Despite the makeup, there's no hiding the sheer exhaustion on Jonah Ashland's face. It's the kind of exhaustion that having unexpected newborn twins could give you - not something that can be faked. "It's good to be out of the office, Scott. Thank you for having me. And please, it's Jonah."

Scott Examiner shifts in place, his young face bright and eager. "Not all of our viewers are as familiar with your work, Jonah. Can we give them a little background history?"

"I don't see why not. I'm the founder of Ashland Energy Corporation. Back in 2020, when humanity was still reeling from the Decimation, my company proved that extracting helium-3 from gas giants to use as a fuel source wasn't just easy, but also cheaper than anyone expected."

"You cooperated with Manswell International, yes? You provided the majority of the fuel extracting technology to Project Exodus."

"Yes." Jonah's face flickers. "Victor… was a friend."

There's a polite pause. "Your achievements launched fusion research to new heights. But you used that success to help millions of refugees across the globe. Why?"

"Because I like being able to face myself in the mirror."

Scott doesn't quite know how to take that. But he recovers with aplomb. "How's the merger going?"

"It'll go a whole lot better if we were allowed to leave Sol."

"What… what do you mean?"

"Well, Scott, I just lost an extremely lucrative deal that would've seen trillions go into helping refugees because the Alliance has seen fit to lock down the Charon Relay."

"The relay? But why? We haven't heard of this!"

In the background, Christine winces. You never admit that the media is playing catch-up on live television, Scott. Amateur. She should've had Iris in for this. But Iris had already paid back the favor she owed Christine - much to her great relief. Christine's burned through so much of her influence with this mission that she's been reduced to scraping the bottom of what was once a very deep barrel.

"I'm not surprised," Ashland is saying. "I was given the impression that it's all very hush-hush. But no one made me sign an NDA or anything, so here I am."

"They probably didn't make you sign any NDA because it's nothing serious. The relay has been seeing a bit of use lately; it's probably down for maintenance."

"You're probably right." Jonah Ashland's voice makes it clear just how much he doubts that. "I'd still like to know, though. I'm responsible for the livelihoods of quite a number of people who want answers. Maybe ANN can get them where I failed."

"We will certainly try, Mr. Ashland."

---

March 13th, 2030

Christine Everhart's Apartment, New York City

"And there's been no reason given for the tour's delay?"

"No word whatsoever," Inez Simmons, official spokesperson for Terra Firma shakes her head. Disgruntlement doesn't sit well on her features at all, Christine thinks, sharply examining the live newsfeed. "Not from General Ross… and certainly not from Shanxi."

Terra Firma hadn't merited an actual newsroom, unlike the rest of the bigwigs she'd used for Talbot's purpose. Christine has no tolerance for bigots of any sort. If she could cut them out altogether, she would, but before the war, the party's official, multiple-colony tour was the biggest news on Shanxi, and if she has to give them a platform just so the public's spotlight would shine on the colony instead, then so be it.

"Are you saying that there's a communication blackout across the whole colony?"

Simmons shrugs. "I'm not saying anything, I'm only observing. I'm in touch with the families of many Terra Firma members and alien war veterans: maybe ANN should interview them too."

"Not a bad idea at all, Ms. Simmons. Now, what is Terra Firma's stance on the UNIN-prescribed Passivity Protocol that strongly advises against returning fire if fired upon by aliens?"

Simmons' face darkens. "Well, if it were me in that situation, I wouldn't feel like getting martyred just because people who are not there think they'll do better if their asses were on fire."

---

March 15th, 2030

Command Office, Arcturus Station

Glenn stands with his back to the office staring out of the multi-paneled, room-spanning window. Unlike Fury, he doesn't much care for looking out into the emptiness of space in all of its glory, so he'd deliberately designed to have it as narrow as possible, and flooded his office with artificial light instead.

But for right now, he'd rather be spaced himself than address the argument bubbling up in his workspace.

"I need Gagarin," Everhart is saying.

"Out of the question," Phil replies.

"It's the final piece! You were the one who brought me in, Director. It's a little too late to be backing out now!"

"I told you, multiple times, not to center your entire narrative on Gagarin. I told you I wouldn't be giving you anything: I made it crystal clear. Did you think I'd break if you forced my hand?"

"You don't have a choice! I've got the public chomping at the bit trying to figure out what really happened to cause that explosion! Taxpayer dollars went into building that station, and then again to outfit it for fringe science experiments! At least tell us what was lost!"

"QECs," Glenn says quietly. "All four of them."

"Glenn."

"She's not wrong, Coulson. And you know I hate being put into a position where I have to agree with Christine Everhart."

"You sure know how to melt a girl's heart, General."

He shoots her a poisonous look. "The Alliance thinks terrorists were trying to isolate the station's communications before taking off with it. They were highly organized, but not skilled enough to destroy QECs without immense backlash."

"What terrorists? What else was on that ring? Why would they want a station with no FTL capabilities?"

"We think it might be the group calling itself Totenkopf. German word for 'skull'. They've made no secret of their intention to isolate humanity from the wider galaxy. Regardless, the plan was to pilot the Gagarin to crash into the Charon relay in a kamikaze attack. When they couldn't get the station, they went for a ship."

Phil grinds his teeth. "What are you doing?"

"Seeding the truth with the lies."

Behind the slight dusting of rouge, Everhart's face is nearly translucent. "Crashing into a… what would that do?"

"Nothing good. You're gonna need an engineer or an astrophysicist to give you the specifics. Thankfully, a team of Alliance specialists managed to board the ship and jump through the relay instead, though we lost contact with them immediately afterwards."

"And the ring?"

"You know how big a QEC setup is? There's a reason it's so expensive. You want the specs on that, ask Janet Van Dyne. She invented them."

"How much of this is true?"

"The bad parts are."

Everhart turns to Phil. "We all know there aren't any terrorists in this story. So who is it that you're protecting so fiercely?"

Phil sighs tiredly. "The dead, Miss Everhart."

"And do you think they're more important than the living?"

"Their memory is important to the living."

Everhart stares at him. "Even good men can be compromised when there are aliens involved," she says carefully. "I can spin this, I've proven that."

"We know you can. But we also know that you can't always predict the public's response. Even if you're ninety-nine point nine percent accurate, we just can't take the risk of the point-one percent going pear-shaped, got that?"

"I can be discreet."

"Tell me, Miss Everhart. Would you be able to help yourself if you believed that the information we provide could save lives?"

She sits upright. "Can it?"

"Not more than how many it'll destroy. And that… is a Decimation-level number. No matter how you spin it, it'll only be how you mean it. It won't be how they take it."

---

March 16th, 2030

Interrogation Room, Maitrum

Benezia is away for five days, but when she returns, she brings answers. Answers that in hindsight, Isabelle could've done well without.

"The turians have been sending patrols to that sector for more than a decade now," she says quietly, hands clasped over the table and eyes lowered. "It's on the fringes of explored space, but it was agreed upon unanimously by every known species, Council and otherwise, that the risk was necessary if we were to ever find what we were looking for. We almost broke our most sacred rule, but cooler heads prevailed."

"You were looking for something. No, no, you almost activated a primary relay to do so, which means it must've been important, and specific. You must've had a fairly good guess as to what it was, despite having no way of knowing what was waiting on the other side. Or who was."

Isabelle meets her eyes squarely. "You were looking for humanity. Why?"

"Every race was owed retribution from those they held responsible for a galactic event known as the Sundering."

The translator doesn't deal well with proper nouns, but this is something that has already transcended language and species barriers, so Isabelle has no problem understanding it. In so far as anyone can understand such a thing. But to maintain her sanity, she needs to keep up the illusion, if only for a few seconds longer. "What's the Sundering?"

Benezia takes a deep breath. "The population of every living species, sentient and otherwise, was halved. In an instant, across the whole galaxy."

Isabelle squeezes her eyes shut. "Universal event," she whispers.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It happened across the whole universe. It wasn't just limited to the Milky… to this galaxy. It affected every galaxy, every star system, every planet in existence."

"By the Goddess," Benezia breathes shakily. "The sheer scale of such a thing…" For the first time, Benezia no longer sounds as though she's a powerful political ambassador, but someone who's been reduced to just an individual, no different from the rest, struggling to survive.

Suddenly, everything becomes crystal clear.

"You're afraid of us," Isabelle says wonderingly. Benezia's eyes snap to hers. "You're afraid of what we will do, what we can do. The Council didn't interfere when the turians occupied Shanxi, but after my little show back there, you couldn't afford to have more like me unleashed into your ships… onto your worlds." Destroyer. "It's why you want peace… not because the turians - a Council species - were in the wrong, but because you're not confident the galaxy will win a war against humanity anymore."

Benezia says nothing.

And suddenly, Isabelle realizes what it feels like to be in a position of power.

She could spin this, she thinks, milk it for the billions out there, terrified of another alien invasion. Because humanity is owed this, after bearing the brunt of so much of the universe's revulsion. She could agree to the charges, lord it over the aliens, demand reparations and so much more. Spin the Snap into something positive for once. A reward for humanity. The Powers that Be might even thank her.

But she's not a human. And she doesn't care a whit for the rest of Earth as long as her loved ones stay safe.

Plus, taking responsibility for Thanos' actions just brings a sick sensation to her mouth.

Isabelle cradles her forehead with her fisted, cuffed hands. "It wasn't us, Matriarch Benezia."

"Pardon me?"

"It wasn't us… who caused the Sundering."

Disbelief and contempt sour the air between them. Benezia's opinion of her has sunk really low at what she must perceive as a lack of accountability. But Isabelle feels none of it. For once, righteousness is on her side, and it gives her the strength to dig up old memories.

"It happened to me, too," she whispers. "Five years, six months and nine days. I returned to a world where my husband was older, where I had a four-year-old niece who hadn't existed a day before and a brother who died half-an-hour after I came back to life."

Verisimilitude must paint the facts she lays out, because Benezia inhales a deep, shaken breath. "Fifty-percent of all living creatures…"

"… including humanity. We suffered just as much as you, Matriarch."

"Some of our best engineers tracked the source of the energy that reverberated through the relays! Three of them originated from what we suspect to be your home system - another somewhere to the eastern edge of the galaxy!"

"That's true. The source was our world. Humanity didn't cause the initial Decimation - that's what we call it - but we know who did."

"Who?!"

"An alien warlord known as Thanos. He was the last of his kind, and for the past thousand years had been looking for a… weapon that would allow him to do what he did."

"Why?! What sort of a weapon can do something like this? What sort of technology?"

"Why? He was mad, crazy. Do you need a reason more than that?"

"If you expect me to believe this outlandish tale of yours, then yes!"

Isabelle sighs and rubs her forehead. "He believed he was doing the universe a favor. His own people, the Titans, went extinct because of overpopulation. Too many mouths to feed, not enough resources. He saw it coming and suggested a solution to them. Randomly execute fifty percent of the population, and the rest will thrive. Being sane creatures, they rejected his proposal. True enough, his prophecy came to life."

"And so… it broke him." Benezia's horror is no longer held back. "Goddess. The loss of an entire species, of his own species… drove him to insanity. The kind of insanity, where such a thing - a genocide of such unimaginably catastrophic proportions began to seem sane to him." She shudders out a breath. What Isabelle had mistaken for sympathy was anything but; the horror morphs onto barely-checked rage. "Where is this Thanos?"

"Dead." Twice over. Thrice, if Commander Shepard was as good as Tony had claimed and the Ghost Rider hadn't just bailed Soul World at the first available opportunity. No amount of deaths would ever satisfy Isabelle's bloodlust though. Or truly return to the universe what had been so forcibly wrenched away.

"How? If he had such a weapon…"

"We - the survivors, that is - made our own weapon." Time travel is still a highly classified secret. The Stones, less so, because of S.H.I.E.L.D. files floating in the internet and the need for answers in the wake of the Decimation. But they're mostly out of the picture. "A group of… Avengers managed to build an equivalent technology that restored the lost and turned Thanos and his army to dust."

"Just like he did to half the universe." Benezia shudders out a breath. "If what you claim is true, then it was a well-deserved death."

Isabelle hadn't seen it happen; her eyes had been only for the figure stumbling to the premature cairn of rubble and metal, half his body charred by the might of the Infinity Stones. "One that cost far too much."

---

March 17th, 2030

UNIN Office, Vienna, Earth

"I'm telling you - we have a leak!"

'Yeah,' Glenn thinks tiredly. 'It's me.' "These aren't classified Alliance secrets, Representative. Nothing was actually revealed. It's just a series of coincidences that the media has managed to connect the dots with, nothing more."

"I don't believe in coincidences, General Talbot," Hawley says, glaring as though she suspects him. Doesn't matter - she will never find any proof because it doesn't exist. He'd covered his tracks too well. "And after these last couple of decades, neither should you."

"Unreasonable paranoia isn't the solution either!" He snaps. "Doesn't matter that the media knows something's up - something big - and is clamoring for our attention. What matters is what we're going to do about it."

"Wha… nothing! We do nothing! No comment!" She waves her hands dismissively. "It'll die down soon enough."

Glenn stares at her in disbelief. "You haven't interacted with the media much, have you?"

Hawley puffs up like an indignant balloon. "I'm perfectly aware of…"

"No. No, you're not. Because then you'd know that downplaying an issue by ignoring it never works. It just ensures its importance in the eyes of the public." You blithering idiot, goes unspoken. God, he almost wishes he was dealing with Ross instead. Hawley has an iron will… up until actual guns and bloodshed are involved.

"Well, what do you suggest then?"

"Tell the truth. The whole of it."

"That would be convenient for you, wouldn't it, General?" Hawley pounces as though his statement was the proof she was looking for all along. She probably was. "You've been petitioning the Alliance to send a relief force to Shanxi every opportunity you get. Having public approval would speed the process, wouldn't it?"

She'd hit the nail pretty much on the head. But Glenn just stares at her levelly until she shifts and blinks first, looking away, a dull flush creeping in. "It's true that having the media's backing wouldn't hurt," he admits. "But ask yourself this, Representative: why am I doing this? Am I doing this for myself? For my pride and glory?"

He leans forward. "Or am I doing this for the civilians in Shanxi who left Earth to get away from the insanity of constant alien invasions, only to find themselves in yet another one?"

"Most of those civilians are veterans of alien wars, General."

"And so they don't deserve relief? They don't deserve reinforcements, succor from constant fighting? Is that what you're saying, Representative? They can take care of themselves, so why should we bother?"

"I don't mean that. It's just that this decision cannot be rushed."

"And every day we wait, dozens, maybe hundreds of civilians die or are captured, tortured or god knows what else. That might be okay with you, Representative Hawley… but it doesn't sit right with me. So yes. If the media is what it takes to get your asses in gear, then I'm grateful for whoever or whatever was responsible for this leak you keep bleating about."

---

March 18th, 2030

Maitrum

In the aftermath of the revelations on both sides, Benezia is forced to leave again, but this time she announces her departure and her reasoning: the Council needs to hear about Thanos. The morning after, Isabelle's feeling particularly reckless after a night spent tossing and turning and mired in memories best left forgotten, so she finally ventures deeper into the facility with Victus.

"So," she says, when they're finally in the observation room looking over the interrogation chamber. The Chair is shrouded in darkness, but she finds she can still make out its harrowing silhouette. "How exactly does your… unique approach to language acquisition work?"

Victus winces. "I assure you, Operative Collins…"

"It's not a dig, Victus. We've already had that talk. I genuinely want to know."

The turian seems to stumble over the word 'dig', but either seems to get the gist of it or just ignores it. He nods to an engineer, who grimaces and turns back to his console.

"Well," he says, finally, after a vaguely mutinous pause. "It was a two-pronged approach, as you've probably guessed. We intercepted communications between various members of your species…"

"Meaning you eavesdropped on us in the mess hall."

"…essentially. Then we fed the data into a network of virtual intelligences. These VIs were programmed to isolate common words and sounds, analyze the pattern of word construction and sentence structure."

"And the Chair ensured that the language we spoke was the same one we would default to when under extreme duress," she says, nodding. Peter's analysis had been spot on.

"In part," the bird nods. "But the data acquisition was… faulty. Unorganized. We couldn't control what you would talk about, after all. So the technology had another purpose. Based on the available data, the VIs would then use their analysis to… extrapolate the rest of the language. Approximate the missing words, phrases, rules that had the greatest likelihood of being present in the language."

"Does it work?"

"The technology is… still in its experimental stages."

Isabelle stares. "You've never used it before, have you?"

"We've never had to. It's been a while since we've encountered a new race. This is a relatively new technology. It was developed by the salarians during the Sundering."

That suddenly puts everything into perspective. A lot of 'experimental tech' sprung about in the wake of the Decimation too, based on some shoddy, very questionable science. It was like thousands of Hammer Tech-lites had sprung about across the globe, offering their goods in the manner of con men offering 'protective amulets' to commoners in the Middle Ages. Even formerly excellent tech companies were desperate enough to commit to anything.

Apparently, these salarians - the only Council race she hasn't met yet - intelligent though they might've been, had fallen into the same trap.

"We still don't know if the reason the translations didn't take was because the science behind the Throne's technology was faulty, or because the VIs couldn't handle the input of several different languages that confused their processes." The turian engineer sounds accusing.

Isabelle just smiles.

---

ALLIANCE NEWS NETWORK - BATTLEREADY

War Breaks Out in Shanxi!

March 19th, 2030

By Christine Everhart

ARCTURUS STATION -

… attack by an unknown alien force on the fringe colony world of Shanxi, Pax System, Horsehead Nebula. Recently declassified reports confirm that General Thaddeus Ross, leader of the political party Terra Firma, took command of the garrison and led several campaigns against the alien occupiers until his surrender. The UNIN is under fire for refusing to send relief forces to Shanxi on the pretext of the recently-overturned Passivity Protocol…

---

March 20th, 2030

Interrogation Room, Maitrum

"Matriarch," Isabelle says, red-eyed. "This couldn't wait until the morning?"

"I apologize for disturbing your sleep cycle."

Isabelle sighs, rubs the crust out of her eyes. "I wasn't sleeping," she admits. "Too many memories, too many thoughts crowding my head." And I'm lonely, she doesn't say, swallowing the thought before it can manifest fully enough to force her to acknowledge it. "So, what happened? Did your Council decide I was full of it?"

"They are… hesitant, to believe your story."

"That's a better reaction than I was expecting. Of course, I was expecting to be vaporized after a story like that, so that's a low bar to clear. They would be fools to believe me without proof. But I can't provide any - not from here. My people however, have more than enough audio files, video footage, mission reports from various sources that will paint a very, very convincing picture."

"A picture of the truth?" Benezia sighs. "That would be ideal, and if this war is to end and our species to reach… an understanding with each other, if not peace - then we will need that evidence. However, you're the turians' prisoner, not ours - and their Councilor has unequivocally rejected any motion that leads to your freedom."

"Didn't they break the rules?"

"Yes, and as I promised, they will be punished for it. But you're still at war with the Hierarchy. It'll be strategic and tactical suicide for them to release you and give you leave to potentially destroy any of their colonies or planets."

"Makes sense." It was never gonna be that easy, of course. "Well, seems like we're in a stalemate then. I haven't lied to you, but there's no way for you to confirm that."

Benezia hesitates. "We asari have a… story," she says, apropos of nothing, " - that we tell our children, in order to encourage them to sleep. A frightening story of… a monster in the dark, who eats worlds."

Isabelle swallows hard.

"A glutton: she would pounce on a planet and begin to consume it. But, being a creature of waste, she would abandon the world halfway through after her rabid consumption had left her heavy and bloated. From the survivors, she would pluck a single individual and keep them as a trophy of her conquest." Her smile is twisted. "If the child didn't turn in to sleep on time, they would be the next trophy."

There's a long silence. "'She?'" Isabelle croaks finally.

Benezia just shrugs. "A cultural bias? Our children… unless exposed to the concept of alien male fathers early on, find it difficult to understand the concept of bigendered beings. The strangest part of this story, however, is this - I don't recall hearing this story in my childhood."

"No?"

"No. My mother told me a different story every night; I must've heard thousands. And quite a number of them were frightening. Yet this tale never crossed her lips." Her mouth is pressed in a thin line. "No one knows exactly where this story came from. I've told it to my own daughter, Liara. But I'm certain of one thing - that tale is younger than I am."

Isabelle works her jaw. "The timeline fits. Thanos was born a thousand-odd years ago. He started his genocide relatively early. And apparently, rumors of his antics caught the attention of the asari, who turned him into a scary bedtime story." She shakes her head. "Fitting," she mutters under her breath. "Thanos is everyone's monster under the bed."

"It's not proof. Nowhere close. But this is just one of many such ripples felt across the galaxy, unnoticed until your tale shone a light upon them. Another occurred on the planet Rakhana. Its native inhabitants, the drell became a victim of overpopulation, almost decimating themselves until a few thousands were rescued by the hanar - another species - fifty years ago. The remaining billions almost destroyed themselves a couple of decades later… or so we believed."

"A prime target for your bogeyman," Isabelle says softly. "Wiped out half of them, did he? Claimed it was a paradise?"

"After your tale was heard, the Council dispatched some of their elites agents to Rakhana, who reported stories from the survivors that are… frighteningly similar to what you have claimed."

"This connection wasn't made during the Sundering?"

Benezia looks away. "When the hanar reported this culling of the drell population, the Council… dismissed it."

Isabelle stares at her. "Billions of people killed… and your government never even bothered to investigate? They tossed aside the almost genocide of an entire race? And here you call humanity monsters."

"It was a miscalculation on their part. One they have attempted to correct, however late the effort might be. Regardless, these individual events - while they may portray a tragic, damning horror - are still not considered as proof."

"Like I mentioned, Matriarch: I've got nothing else to give you."

"You have your thoughts, your memories, your feelings."

"And do you have reliable tech that can extract those? Or are you planning on sticking me in that Chair again, because if that's so, then you'd better prep those antimatter bombs of yours, because I'm not getting back in that thing."

"No. No, this… the process itself is painless, though the memories it might dredge up…well. And… this is no tech."

"Don't keep me in suspense, Benezia. What is it?"

"Do you recall when I mentioned the asari's unique ability to meld?" At Isabelle's cautious nod, she continues. "It's not just for reproduction. We can also consciously attune our nervous systems with that of another, allowing us to seamlessly share memories, thoughts and feelings. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Isabelle says in a voice that doesn't sound like her own. "I understand. You're talking about mind reading."

Colors flash in her mind like strobe lights. Scarlet red, in the lightning bolts like aura that always surrounded Wanda Maximoff when she cast her magic. The bleached blue of Clint Barton's eyes, of Loki's eyes, of… of Erik Selvig's eyes when the Scepter was wreaking havoc in their minds. Glittering yellow - the hue of the Mind Stone on Vision, and on Thanos' Gauntlet. "No."

"You'll be able to control the flow of information, Isabelle. I'll be unable to see anything but what you wish me to."

"I said no."

"If you're genuine in your intent to establish trust, this is the only way the Council will accept."

"We have evidence. Back in my homeworld. Audio files, vids, billions of photographs displaying the carnage left behind by Thanos!"

"Evidence that can be doctored. Quite easily, I imagine." Benezia smiles. "We do have the concept of fiction. Technology can render the most absurd of lies as the most convincing of truths. I suspect you have an equivalent level of technology, if not more."

She isn't wrong. Hell, Hollywood could fake all that evidence easily enough. "Humanity didn't initiate this war, Benezia," she says tightly. "I don't have to prove anything to you."

"No. No, you're quite right, Isabelle Collins, that this mistake lies solely at our feet. The turians, for striking first without following the rules of war that they themselves laid out, and the rest of the Council for not intervening soon enough. Which is why," she takes a deep breath, " - this meld, if you choose to undergo it - will be a two-way process. As I'll see your memories… so will also you'll be able to see mine."

Isabelle stares at her. "And what will I see, Lady Benezia?"

"The Sundering. And how it affected the rest of the galaxy. Including myself."

Isabelle shakily leans back against her chair. "How do I even know if you're telling the truth? Or if you're hiding things? Or even if you'll keep up your end of the deal?"

"I will not lie," Benezia says simply. "I haven't lied so far, and I don't plan to start while within my own subconscious. Moreover, I can't lie. Because you'll be able to feel it if I have lied. You won't just have access to my memories, Isabelle, but my emotions - all of them. Good or bad."

"We might look similar, asari, but we're not," Isabelle snaps. "There's no guarantee that our feelings, our emotions have equivalencies that carry over! The way you feel joy and the physical and chemical reactions it invokes in your body might just be equivalent to sheer terror for me!"

"And that right there, Isabelle, is the beauty of the meld. Because you won't be experiencing my memories from your perspective; you'll be experiencing it from mine. You'll understand them as I did. It's why it's not possible to lie during a meld, because for a lie to take hold, both the partners would have to believe that lie so utterly that they're themselves convinced it's the truth."

"Biases, you mean. Those will linger, will carry over."

"Yes. But that's unavoidable. However, what you will see are events that actually happened - not just ones that I convinced myself happened." Her eyes grow shadowed. "I… despite my near-thousand years of experience, I never could've conceived of a devastation such as the Sundering. And now you tell me the scale was even bigger than we thought!"

Wretched, hopeless anger crosses her face. An old anger, unfulfilled and given no closure. A lot of the Snap's survivors have it, even after all this time. "I won't admit I wish to believe you," Benezia says. "Because I don't. I don't want what you're saying to be true, can you understand that?"

"Yes," Isabelle whispers.

"I don't want your pain, Isabelle Collins. I don't want your suffering. But if it's a choice between bearing that pain… or inflicting it on my loved ones when the war inevitably spills over…" she falls silent as Isabelle flinches violently.

But there is a choice. A choice whether to bear pain... or inflict it on your loved ones.

Words once spoken in the Soul World by a stranger wearing familiar armor to Isabelle's niece. Words primed to get Morgan moving when all she wanted to was anything but.

'Is this what you'd have done, Commander Shepard?' Isabelle thinks desperately. 'Would you have let an alien who was an enemy just a short time ago into your mind, privy to your innermost thoughts, all because the greater good demands it? Is this where it begins - for you, for me, for Morgan? Where does Benezia come into this?'

'And what if she reorders my mind, Shepard? I have no idea if this 'meld' will affect me in any way beyond what Benezia's told me! What if she changes my thoughts, my memories, makes me believe something I never would have? What if she does to me what HYDRA did to Barnes?'

The Shepard in her mind says nothing, just stares at her with those all-too knowing eyes, illuminated by the future.

'And even if you did choose to meld, how do I even know that would be the right choice? I should accept it just because you'd do it? Are you supposed to be the infallible Jiminy Cricket to my Pinocchio?'

Morgan's face flashes behind Isabelle's closed eyelids. She opens her mouth, but strangely, it's Shepard's voice that comes through - older and smoother. 'It doesn't matter, Collins,' they say. 'Because, whatever choice you make… is the one you've already made. And whatever that is… hasn't changed who you are. And what you hold most dear. And I know that… because I'm from the future.'

And suddenly, a memory of the real Shepard shatters through the morass that are her thoughts. Sprawled on her back, her hair plastered with sweat and her arms raised in surrender as Isabelle holds a staff inches from her neck. It had been the immediate aftermath of their impromptu sparring session that had rapidly devolved. Despite everything, despite the fact that Isabelle had shown her nothing but hostility, Shepard had not just saved her life while within the Leviathan, but in that moment in the training ring, she'd given her a gift. An assurance.

Even this far back, you put your family first.

It hadn't been a lie. Shepard is her future. And she hadn't meant to blurt that out - it was obvious on her face. That it lingered too close to secrets that both Shepard and Tony were keeping: secrets of the future. But there it was, in the air between them.

That Isabelle hadn't changed, from the time of the Soul World till the time of Shepard's demise. That the core of her remained unaffected. And it would remain unaffected… no matter what she chose here.

"There are things," Isabelle croaks, aware that she'd been silent long enough to alarm Benezia and all her commandos, " - that I can't show you. That I won't. Secrets, truths that would endanger my people. None of them are relevant to what you ask of me."

"You can control what you show me to me, Isabelle. Build a wall around the memories you want hidden. Conceal them in a… haven, if you will. Make it obvious. And those memories you think are relevant to what we have discussed - well, project them into my mind. Play it like a vid, if it's convenient for you. I shall do the same."

Isabelle works her jaw. "And if I still refuse? Would you force me to reveal my truths? Or have your commandos do it?"

Benezia looks disgusted and highly offended. "Certainly not! It's the greatest of taboos among our people to use this gift of ours to… to commit rape! Isabelle, have you never wondered why this table is so wide? Or why my commandos always maintain a large distance between themselves, and do so instinctively, without thinking?"

Isabelle stares at the table, then at the other asari. She had wondered. Their version of personal space was always so much bigger than Isabelle was used to, even with strangers. Every time they'd gone out, Benezia had always been in sync with her own footsteps, her own movements. Stepping back when Isabelle stepped closer, strictly maintaining a perimeter of subconscious privacy. Their voices were always raised a bit higher too, just so that they could hear each other better over that gap. "Out of reach of easy melding distance?" Isabelle guesses.

"Precisely. I will never force anything from your mind, Isabelle."

"Then if I refuse…"

Benezia sighs. "If you refuse, the war continues. The Council will accept no other evidence but this."

"Is this common among your people? Melding for the purposes of a trial, or an interrogation?"

"No. In fact, it is only used during the rarest of situations. Melding is… sacred to us. It is beautiful. And to use a thing of such beauty for a purpose like this..." Benezia closes her eyes, looking pained. "The Sundering has made many difficult demands of us."

Isabelle rubs a hand down her face. "I'll need time. I can't do this right now; I'm not ready."

"Yes, indeed, neither can I. Both of us will need to prepare our walls, hide our secrets behind them. Three days from now?"

That's generous. Benezia's exactly as enthusiastic about doing this as Isabelle. "Three days is fine."

---

March 21st, 2030

Headquarters, Arcturus Station

"How did you manage all this?" Despite himself, Glenn's question had come across as somewhat admiring.

"Favors, secrets, blackmail," Everhart grins.

He eyes her. "Sure you want to be admitting that to me?"

"Not that kind of blackmail. Just 'who ate the last of last night's pizza' kind of a thing. What do you take me for, Major?"

"A ruthless puppeteer," he drawls.

"Will it be enough? Because I'm just starting to have fun."

"No, it'll do." Glenn says, arranging his desk into some semblance of an order. "Anything more, and the idiots in the UNIN might actually start putting the pieces together. Right now, all this can be chalked off as a plausible, badly-timed coincidence. I'll take it from here."

"Shame." The word practically drips with meaningful intent.

He rolls his eyes. "What do you want, Everhart?"

"A bunk reserved on your ship, when you finally get to Shanxi," is the prompt reply.

"Christ, you reporters. Adrenaline junkies, the lot of you. That'll be dangerous."

"You'll be on the front lines, General. There will be nowhere safer, except maybe Earth, where…"

"… there's no story to be had, yeah, I get it. I can't have you underfoot during battle."

"You won't. You won't even notice me." Her face twists with desperation. "But I want to be there, Major. Somehow, despite everything, I've missed every alien engagement humanity has ever had. I've gotten second-hand accounts, blurry footages of sky portals, and more hearsay than I needed in a lifetime. For once… I want to be in the thick of things."

He shakes his head. "If you get depressurized, I'm not responsible."

"Sounds very fair to me."

---

March 22nd, 2030

Solitary Confinement, Maitrum

It's been a while since she meditated.

She used to do it regularly for the first few years after Terrigenesis, when she'd been a brand-new, uncorrupted S.H.I.E.L.D. rookie. Janet Van Dyne had tasked her with, for lack of a better term, interfacing with a nearby, still lake, until the surface of the water would reflect the tranquility of her mind. Any stray thoughts would manifest as ripples across the lake, which would mean an automatic failure.

She'd failed a lot.

Still, it helps her now, as she organizes her memories and raises a wall to hide those that are irrelevant, sensitive and/or classified. Context is essential, she finds, because the Infinity War had started long before Thanos had arrived in the picture.

As long ago as when the Asgardians had first abandoned the Tesseract in Tønsberg, Norway millennia ago. Which in turn had triggered the Red Skull's acquisition of it, and the entire HYDRA conflict of the Second World War. Captain America had gone down with the Tesseract, Howard and S.H.I.E.L.D. had fished it out, then Thanos had remotely triggered the Tesseract to open up a portal for Loki.

Speaking of Loki: first modern encounter with the Asgardians had been in Puente Antiguo, where Jane Foster and Erik Selvig had stumbled upon a de-powered Thor and his worth-locked hammer. Loki's apparent death in the subsequent conflict, only for his return with the Mind-Stone topped Scepter in hand. Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. is classified, so that goes behind the wall.

The Scepter had been instrumental in starting and stopping the Chitauri Invasion. Tony's limp body plummeting down from the portal ripples through her mind, and it takes a while for her to get back on track. But the problems with the Mind Stone had continued within HYDRA, with the creation of the Maximoffs, ULTRON, Vision and finally Sokovia.

She doesn't know much about the Aether. Jane Foster had been infected by it, which had led to the Dark Elves' Invasion in London. There's even less to know about the Power Stone - purple, had caused chaos in the Andromeda Galaxy which the Guardians had dealt with, and Thanos had already had it by the time he arrived at the Statesman, where Loki had given up the Tesseract and gotten killed for his efforts.

The Mad Titan had then gone looking for the Soul Stone, and sacrificed his daughter to get it: a soul for a soul. And then Doctor Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts and sworn safekeeper of the Time Stone, had seen fourteen millions six hundred and four lost futures and had given up his charge in lieu of his brother's continued survival… all so Tony could die at the proper time.

Ripples again. Meditate harder.

Finally, the Infinity War. Thanos snaps his fingers, Isabelle gets dusted, wakes up a moment later after a span of five years, resumes her fight, and watches her brother sacrifice himself to save an ungrateful universe from the madness of a sole survivor.

Not everything goes into the memories she will share with Benezia. There are far too many secrets: Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S., Starkium's origins, time travel and anything beyond Tony's funeral are hers and hers alone.

March 23rd, 2030

Observation Bay, Arcturus Station

Starlight unfurls around the dreadnought as it exits the hangar bay, illuminating the millions of tons of metals, ceramics and polymers that make up its hull. Besides its glory, the half-finished Arcturus Station looks like a chewed out skeletal husk, despite being several times larger.

"Just in time," Major General Glenn Talbot says, voice thick with satisfaction.

"Wouldn't have been if they hadn't pulled in the engineers working on the station," Phil Coulson says, his face inscrutable. "They can't be allowed to breach Arcturus - we won't make it."

"Just one moment, Coulson. That's all I ask for. Can't you let me enjoy just one moment to bask in the sheer glory of such a magnificent creature?"

That brings a smile to Phil's face. "You'll have a lot more than that. She's all yours."

Glenn whirls around to stare at him.

"Someone needs to lead her into her first battle, Glenn."

"I'm not a Navy Admiral!"

"And I'm not a Captain, or a Major, or even really a Director. Doesn't mean we won't be called upon to do what needs to be done. No one has the kind of experience fighting aliens that you do, General."

"Aerial and ground warfare! I don't know a damn thing about fighting in space, Coulson!"

"And that's exactly what will make you unpredictable. They'll be expecting a trained, stolid veteran commanding that dreadnought, someone straightforward. Your tactics will be based on different instincts, though, and how you'll adapt them to an environment without pesky little things like air resistance to consider. They won't know what hit them."

Glenn stares at him some more. "The Alliance is basing a whole lot on a very shoddy strategy. If this doesn't work out…"

"It will," Phil says quietly, turning to stare at the dreadnought. The name painted on its hull in bold letters is still hidden in the station's shadow.

"Fine, whatever." Glenn sighs, glancing at the ship, his ship now apparently. "They're naming them after mountains, right? Don't tell me it's Everest."

"Too cliche?" Phil smiles. "She's the SSV Krakatoa."

Glenn arches an eyebrow.

"A volcano in Indonesia. Doles out death and destruction like you wouldn't believe."

---

March 24th, 2030

Interrogation Room, Maitrum

The first thing Isabelle notices as she enters the interrogation chamber is that the air feels different. Stilling at the doorway, her head cocks to the side and her eyes flutter shut. "You increased the humidity?"

"I hoped it would be a more comfortable experience."

"It is." It's not a fact she publicizes, but she's always preferred high humidity locales. South-East Asia was a particular favorite of hers when she was still a HYDRA agent. Especially its proclivity towards tropical climes and entire seasons of monsoon. "Thank you," she says quietly as she slips into her seat and allows herself to be handcuffed.

"Are you ready?" Benezia asks.

"As ready as I can be," Isabelle says, rolling her neck to get rid of the cracks that had developed after three days of forced, tense quasi-meditation to build her mental shielding. "Let's get this over with."

"You're far too stressed, Isabelle," Benezia murmurs, her voice slipping into a velvet smooth register. "Relax your muscles. Focus on your breathing. Nothing else matters but the air that's filling your lungs, your entire being."

Benezia's voice is like the faintest of breezes on an otherwise calm day. Despite herself, Isabelle feels her mind begin to wander.

"Your body is just a vessel that holds your true essence. Your soul… is bound to mine, is bound to all beings in the universe. With every choice, you change the universe. No creature can be island. It's all connected."

Isabelle allows herself to drift, to be carried away by the river of her thoughts. She touches everything, and yet nothing. She's alone, yet at one with existence.

"We're all weaves in a tapestry. We all have a part to play. Open your inner eye, Isabelle Collins, and look upon your true purpose. Embrace eternity!"

Reality snaps back at the speed of light, leaving Isabelle gasping and retching on a smooth, glossy black floor. Her mind is spinning a hundred different directions, screaming at her, trying to make sense of this new experience. A black gown whispers into existence at the corner of her eye. "What the hell just happened?"

"You fought me off," Benezia says, almost wonderingly. "Your willpower is truly immense."

Isabelle's limbs tremble as she pushes herself to her feet. Her surroundings are pitch black, just like the floor. Only Benezia is lit by an invisible, sourceless light - her features oddly flat, as though her three-dimensional form has collapsed into a two-dimensional existence. "Where are we?"

"At the seam where our minds have met, but haven't yet connected completely. The meld is unfinished. You must relax and let me in if we're to continue, Isabelle."

"I didn't do anything. I was just… drifting. I didn't resist."

Benezia stares at her for a long moment. "Then I suspect there's another culprit involved in this." She then examines the surroundings, as though they would offer more clues. Maybe they do to her. All Isabelle sees is emptiness. It's a quite kind of emptiness, peaceful in its own way. Something tells her it would be very, very easy to get lost here. She shivers.

"You're certain you haven't melded before?" Benezia asks.

"Absolutely. Why?"

"Because your mind bears scars. Your mental landscape has changed, shifted dramatically over the past several years."

"I've lost loved ones…"

"That's not what I mean. Everyone loses someone, eventually. But grief is normal - a natural part of the recovery process. There's nothing natural about this." She waves a hand, and it's a vast, sweeping gesture, revealing just how much of Isabelle's mind is 'scarred'.

"What do you see? Describe it."

"The most recent scar is almost like… well, like an unhealed burn."

Isabelle stiffens. Your soul is scorched. Ghost Rider's Hellfire had done her no favors.

Benezia's watching her closely. "You know what I speak of."

"I do. But that's one memory that's staying behind the wall. What's next?"

"Beyond that, there's a… cleansing, of some kind. Someone had attempted to remove a… mental parasite, from your mind?"

Gabriel Reyes' exorcism. God, these mental scars are revealing more about her than she'd originally planned. "Anything else?"

"Yes." Now Benezia sounds truly troubled. "It's this next one that made me wonder if you'd melded before. Someone has forced memories upon you. Visions, meant to cut deep. They're tainted scarlet."

At first, Isabelle thinks it's the Norns, and the visions she'd seen when tumbling through the Gjöll Bridge's beam and back into the real world. But then she remembers.

The Churchhill, at the Salvage Yard, off the coast of Africa. The Avengers had gone after ULTRON, but had their asses handed to them by a slip of a girl and her really fast brother.

Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.

What had Benezia called it? Mind rape. Isabelle feels bile rising up her throat. She had felt violated at the time; her mind, her innermost thoughts having been scrambled by a creature that hated her name and her entire family with the passion of a thousand suns. Isabelle's worst fears had been yanked to the surface, leaving her feeling hollow and scraped raw in a way even the exorcism hadn't managed.

"Isabelle?"

"You'll see that one," Isabelle croaks. "It's… relevant. Those scars… are they harmful?"

"No more than scars usually are. In this case, actually - it appears they have given you a limited form of mental shielding. They will protect you from lower levels of… invasion, so to speak."

"Great." Isabelle squeezes her eyes shut. "How do I… how do we do this? How do I let you past the scars?"

"You already have," Benezia's voice is once again wondrous. "Open your eyes, Isabelle. You have created something marvelous."

She opens her eyes and turns, somehow utterly unsurprised to see the results of what she's been building, brick by brick, for the past seventy-five hours.

It's a massive wall of water. Impossibly tall and wide, it curls far above their heads, looming like the hood of a gigantic snake. Beyond it lies an infinite ocean, where each drop of water contains those memories she wants unseen. Secrets - both hers and the world's, treasured, personal moments, her buried desires and regrets and sorrows.

And protecting that haven is a tsunami of memories. Benezia's in for a surprise.

They're standing at the shores of a beach, their bare feet sinking into white sand. The sun beats down upon them, but Benezia just turns her face to it with a smile. "Wouldn't it have been easier if it were a wall of ice?" She asks. "When we sparred, I noticed it took effort for you to mold water in the paths where it was reluctant to go. Ice can maintain its shape."

Isabelle's eyebrows jump up. Not many can make the intuitive leaps that governs her use of her Terrigenesis, especially those who haven't been exposed to it so long. "In the real world, perhaps. But here, I figured what I say goes." She sweeps her gaze past the sands to the opposite horizon. "I suppose that's yours, then."

The asari laughs. "It appears we're more alike than we thought."

Benezia's wall is more straightforward. Her 'haven' is a seamless, translucent cube that looks the same as those blue balls of energy she'd tossed her way in the hangar. It wobbles faintly in the sun, but Isabelle is sure that if she tries to walk or even peer through, she'd find herself trapped in it, like an ancient fly captured and frozen inside amber for eternity.

At the very edges of her consciousness, Isabelle feels the presence of another. Vast, alien, almost unknowable, but there is something oddly familiar as well. Like a taste on her tongue that she hasn't experienced since childhood - a memory that flees when she tries to reach for it. The Inhuman and the asari stare at each other, gingerly getting the feel of each other's minds. It's a strange sort of handshake.

"I sense your concerns, Isabelle. Hear the truth in my voice when I say this - nothing you share with me, in the here and now, will ever be spoken off or shown to anyone else. This I vow to you."

She's telling the truth. Isabelle senses no lies in that mind. The melding is just about complete. "Will they believe you?" Isabelle asks, taking a step closer.

Benezia's knuckles comes up to sweep the line across her jaw. Her skin is cool and smooth as silk. "For a thousand years, I have built a vast network of influence. I'm trusted. They will take me at my word." Benezia's pupils dilate until her eyes are completely black, with not even a hint of sclera. "Let go, Isabelle. And I shall do the same."

Isabelle shudders. She's sure her own eyes have lost all color. "This will hurt," she warns.

And then she unleashes the tsunami.

The Galaxy. Every mass relay in existence activated in succession, disseminating a sudden burst of energy, tinted blue-yellow-red-purple-orange-green, across the whole galaxy. Half of the population of every sentient, sapient species turned to ash.

The immediate aftermath was identical across all worlds. Panic and chaos. Accidents consuming more lives - permanent ones. Ironically, small wars broke out over resources that were just as Sundered.

Armali, Thessia. The asari were the first to take a census, but were ultimately unable to come to a consensus on what truly happened or how to go about dealing with it. Half of the matriarchs who would've provided sorely-needed wisdom had been Sundered, and thus the Republics floundered across their homeworld and colonies.

Cipritine, Palaven. The turians mobilized rapidly. Not to prevent an attack - for their keen militaristic senses had already determined that this was the culmination of a bitter, brutal war that was long since lost - but to prevent the Hierarchy from descending into helpless chaos. Hastatim, once the turian death squads, went from house to house, city to city, across their silver world, not to offer a choice of surrender or execution, but to offer succor.

Talat, Sur'Kesh. Salarians were not sentimental. The Sundering activated a species-wide analysis mode. Was the weapon biological or chemical? Whom did it target? Could it be the krogan, and if so - vindictive attack or preemptive strike? That last question was summarily dismissed: no krogan scientists worth naming, after all, and a quick call to the Krogan DMZ proved even Tuchanka was affected.

Citadel. The Citadel was the worst off. The Keepers seem unaffected, continuing with their tasks: one of which was sweeping all the newly generated ash across the entire station. As per their hidden protocols, this ash, like any other biomass, was then recycled into protein vats deep in the Citadel's Foundations. Of the millions of the Citadel's Sundered, only a few thousand survived the Keepers' thoughtless, instinctive actions.

Migrant Fleet. The quarians always did like to blame the geth for all their problems. Their reasoning? The attack had not discriminated between organics, and had entirely skipped synthetics. Alarmingly, this theory was starting to take hold amongst the other species. But thankfully, a suspiciously well-timed anonymous analysis of the mass relay network pointed out the real culprit.

An unmapped relay that had activated at the exact moment of the Sundering, disseminating unquantifiable levels of unknown energy and triggering a cascade reaction. Not a catastrophic malfunction or a previously unknown function of the relays: this was focused, deliberate. Alien.

For the first time in galactic history, turians, batarians and krogan were on the same page: punitive retaliation. Asari, as always, wanted to debate about it. Salarians were wary and logical: if these aliens could do so much harm without even showing themselves, imagine what they would do upon direct confrontation.

No unanimous decision was reached, and so, a stalemate resulted. The Turian Hierarchy increased patrols at the edges of known space. The Return of the Sundered made no difference; far too many were lost for this to be a crime that could ever be forgiven or forgotten. Eleven years after the initial attack, a turian patrol came upon an unknown race trying to activate a dormant relay. They didn't hesitate.

Vengeance, after a long decade, was finally at hand.

Isabelle surfaces from the meld with a low groan. Her head is killing her. Someone presses a glass of cold water in her hands and she blesses them as she downs it. It takes the edge off for long enough that she can ease into opening her eyes. "Could've warned me that they weren't just your memories," she croaks.

Benezia looks shaken and lost. "Every race believed you were owed a… comprehensive picture of the truth."

Owed in either, mutually-exclusive senses of the term. If humanity was responsible, then Isabelle would know exactly what they'd wrought upon the galaxy, and presumably the guilt and the agony of so many would drive her mad. And if they were innocent, then Isabelle was owed contextual explanation for the turians' act of war. "So were they memories of those you'd melded with during the Sundering or recently, after my story came out?"

"Both. I asked for permission from the former." Benezia squeezes her eyes shut, agony streaked across every pore on that blue, and now so familiar face. "I'm so very sorry for your loss. Your brother… we owe him a great deal."

Isabelle says nothing. What can she say? That she'd rather he were here, even at the cost of half the universe? Perhaps even especially then? Benezia's been in her mind; she probably knows it all. "Does that mean you have enough proof?"

"More than. The Council will have to clear humanity of all charges. I know you won't believe it until you see it, but this war is over, Isabelle."

Isabelle sighs deeply, presses the heels of her hand to her burning eyes. "Great," she whispers quietly. "Because I'd quite like to go home now."

---

Maitrum

The morning after the meld, Victus comes for her.

"Matriarch Benezia left some specific instructions before she left," he says as he leads her towards the Inquisition Facility. Isabelle's not worried: the meld had conferred some degree of trust for the asari and those under her command - and if it turns out this is some form of subtle mental manipulation, well. It's a far sight better than anything else she has come across before.

But they stop well before the Chair, right beside the forensic lab/morgue she'd seen when the birds had dragged her from the mess hall. Her heart begins to pick up the pace as the doors whoosh open, ushering out a wealth of freezing fog. Within, illuminated by dim lights, lies only a single object.

"A gesture of goodwill. And faith." Victus murmurs, gesturing to the stasis pod in the middle of the room.

For a pod it is; sharply carved and edged in a way Alliance-issued coffins aren't. Her feet carry her dreamlike through those final few steps, and she can't help the sigh when she spots who lies beyond the viewing pane.

Erik Selvig.

She doesn't know if the sigh is because of a strange, distant grief - because she didn't know him, not really. Or if it is for a perverse relief that it's not someone else lying in the box.

"The systems in your coffin broke down," Victus is saying quietly. "So the asari commandos transferred him to a long-term stasis pod."

They did a whole lot more than that. Because there is no decay. His body is as pristine as the day he died. Even the hole in his forehead where Barnes had shot him had been cleaned up, leaving only a thin scar.

Victus shifts. Isabelle acknowledges the silent question with a low, " - his name was Dr. Erik Selvig. He is… was the foremost astrophysicist back in my homeworld. And in the end, he… he tried to save us all."

"Were you responsible for his death?"

What a way to put it. It's so much gentler, but also so much broader in scope than a simple 'Did you kill him?' would be. So many layers of meaning packed into six, simple words.

She wishes she could blame the translator for the nuance, but no… this is all Victus. She's seen firsthand that not every turian is as astute, or has managed to pick up the subtleties of alien languages quite that easily.

"Yes," Isabelle replies softly, and says no more.

Later, when Victus is walking her back to solitary, Isabelle turns to him. "Thank you for letting me see him. And for… well, not cutting him open."

His eyebrows furrow at that. "You shouldn't need to thank us for common decency," he says quietly. "Especially when it was we who erred with respect to your species. It will take a long time for us to regain our honor, if ever."

"Most things that are worth it do."

---

March 26th, 2030

Command Office, Arcturus Station

Valkyrie turns the request down flat. "I'll not make an enemy out of a race that has done us no harm," she says over the holo-communicator, making no move to sound apologetic about it. "You are our allies, and we're grateful for all the help you've provided us over the years, but that debt was repaid during the Battle of Earth. My people cannot afford another war so soon."

"Right," Glenn sighs, running a hand down his face roughly. "Of course not."

Valkyrie tilts her head. "Tell me. You've stated that you want my help. But do you need it?"

"... No," he admits reluctantly. "Our battle analysts think that, for all intents and purposes, the aliens underestimate us. They think that they took out the bulk of our forces at Shanxi. Our counter-offensive is more than enough to expel them out of that system."

"There you go."

"But I'm not sure whether what we've built will be enough if we're plunged into a full scale war with those birds."

"If that happens, General, then you'll have the backing of my fleet, along with whatever warriors I can spare. I myself will ride into battle to aid you. But the Asgardian presence in this skirmish will only serve to insult your soldiers."

"She's right," Phil says quietly, his presence at Glenn's shoulder a quiet comfort. "You don't deploy your nuclear option on the first day of the war, after all. Asgardian stand-by is the best course of action."

Glenn sighs again. "Very well, Your Majesty. I accept your terms. Thank you."

---

March 28th, 2030

Bridge, SSV Krakatoa

"Now, remember!" Major General Glenn Talbot bellows over the fleet-wide comms. Beyond the Krakatoa's viewscreen, the ships of the Second Fleet stand in formation - one that'll hopefully withstand the relay jump, regardless of the drift. "Your shells have unlimited range up here! Keep an eye on your goddamned firing solutions! This goes doubly for the lot of you, who like me, are coming from the Air Force! If I find a single projectile plowing into Shanxi, I'll throw the one responsible in so deep a hole you'll forget that the sun even exists! Is that clear?!"

A chorus of affirmatives.

The reflection of the relay's glowing eezo core on the first-wave, pristine flotillas is blinding. Frankly, he would've preferred wear and tear; a little bit of mileage if battle-testing wasn't possible. But he can't deny that state-of-the-art tech lines every inch of those vessels.

The Pax star is just behind them when they drop out of the relay. Good news and bad news, Glenn thinks grimly. Good is that the collective heat of the entire Fleet will be drowned out, which means they haven't been detected yet by enemy scanners. Bad news is that very same heat will force this into a very rushed battle.

"Steady, steady," he intones, sweat beading at his neck as the Krakatoa inches forward, toeing the shadow of the planet. Lucky that so much of Shanxi's just uncolonized oceanic territory, above which no enemy ships are stationed. That luck needs to hold on just a few seconds longer, until the skills and righteous anger of thousands of humans can take over.

A beep from the consoles. "Target acquired," his gunnery officer confirms.

"Fire!"

The main gun thumps thrice. Streaks of molten metal barely skim the planet's upper atmosphere before slamming into an enemy dreadnought's port side. Glenn doesn't hesitate. "Frigates, cruisers, engage! Break their ranks! Fighters, advance, clear the way for the ground relief teams!"

He has to give it to the birds, they scramble to readiness pretty effectively. Enemy interceptors respond to the surprise attack with torpedoes, angling themselves so any return fire would have greater potential of missing and hitting Shanxi instead. GARDIAN takes care of those, though - his fighters zigzag evasively, followed closely by the frigates who swarm an enemy once their kinetic barriers are down.

His own are taking quite the hit. The Krakatoa's doling out as good as she's getting, but she's a big girl, difficult to maneuver in the best of times. His screen is taking some of the slugs meant for him, and he feels the loss of each fighter like a blow to his chest. "Someone take out that dreadnought's shields!"

Several flotillas break away from engaging enemy cruisers - replaced by his own - to close in on the dreadnought. Enemy lasers swat away far too many ships, but just enough make it through past the main gun's range and unleash their entire armament of torpedoes. The massive ship's barriers are unable to compensate, exposing warship armor that boils away under constant GARDIAN and cleverly aimed thruster exhausts. Death by a thousand tiny cuts.

Their job done, the flotillas peel out and slip into FTL, far too overheated to be of much use. Doesn't matter. The Krakatoa's main gun barks a few more times, riddling enough holes in the ship that even turning it into scrap will be a waste.

A roar of approval goes through the comms.

With the destruction of the enemy dreadnought, it's just mop-up and shore-up duty. Cruisers become the biggest threat on the field, but broadside guns come into play. There's a moment when it seems like an enemy ship's about to extricate itself from direct line of fire. Thermals show their heat about to reach to deadly degrees.

Most likely it'll slip into FTL and shut down for heat discharge, but, judging by everything they've seen of these aliens, there's a high possibility the ship will just FTL back somewhere on their blind side and blow them all up in a kamikaze attack. "Don't let them disengage," he yells, slamming a fist on the CIC. "Show them the price of cowardice!"

When Shanxi's orbit finally clear of every last alien ship, Glenn allows himself to focus on the reports coming in from the ground teams.

---

March 29th, 2030

Interrogation Room, Maitrum

"Your colony was liberated soon after we melded," Benezia says as Isabelle looks through the vids on her omni-tool. She has already activated the tracker; F.R.I.D.A.Y. had responded with a quiet, imperceptible acknowledgement. "The Hierarchy was already mobilizing for full-scale war before my arrival allowed the Council to intervene. They want you to be the one to declare an official cessation of hostilities."

Isabelle can't find it in herself to return Benezia's gentle smile before she exits, leaving her alone in the interrogation room for the very first time. Exhaustion is weighing down her bones, but her trembling fingers manage to short out the cameras and the microphones in the vicinity before she contacts an old friend.

The call connects almost immediately, as though someone's been waiting by the receiver. Coulson's relief is guarded. "Agent Collins. Thought I might be hearing from you."

"Hoped, you mean. There was no guarantee I was even alive to pick up the phone." First rule of S.W.O.R.D. - don't compromise S.W.O.R.D. Coulson's the on-record point of contact when calling from deep within insecure territories. He'll make sure the information gets to the relevant parties.

"Clearly, I have a better understanding of your skills than you do." His gaze turns even more wary. "Made some new friends?"

Translation: did the Chair finally make you sell out? "Kind of," she replies easily, " - but I haven't forgotten my old ones. War's over, Phil. Aliens want to negotiate peace. Starting with a prisoner transfer."

The wariness doesn't go down, but she hadn't expected otherwise. "Convenient for them, considering we're winning."

"Aliens. Plural. There's an entire Council of them who have been around for a while." I wouldn't bet on our chances, goes unspoken. Not without massive casualties.

"Did they tell you why they started the war in the first place?"

"They tracked the Snap to Sol."

Coulson's expression clears in understanding. "Ah. Balor System, then, in twenty-four hours. Neutral ground. No more than a fleet each."

Isabelle fights down the snort. Skrull ships have impressive camouflaging abilities; Fury's definitely gonna cheat by bringing some along with the Alliance's official deployment. "We'll be there." She hesitates. "Coulson, my squad…"

"Safe, Collins. They're sick of being sidelined, but safe."

---

March 31st, 2030

Processing Center

On her last day in Maitrum, about an hour before ETD, Victus asks a favor of her.

Benezia's feeds hadn't quite done enough justice to the damage Isabelle had wrought upon the ore processing silo. All the machinery lies in pieces on the walkways or scattered across the alloy shielding of the eezo core above which she hovers… and which was itself inactive - courtesy of Peter's sabotage. They'd had to use a hammer to knock out those turians she'd iced up on the walls, and the remnants of those partial cocoons still lingers, even a month-and-a-half later, dripping on the floor. The rest of the facility had fared significantly better, but it was still a massive loss.

It frightens her, this devastation. Because she shouldn't have been capable of it. She certainly wasn't keeping those cocoons in place all this while. There's something else responsible for all this: something that had responded to her distress. The Norns? But why would they care?

Still, she keeps her private doubts behind a mask of concentration, and reaches out with closed eyes. Across the facility, there are entire hallways and chambers flooded or iced over from the jailbreak, and in a world such as this, every drop's precious. With the exception of a few senior members including Victus who had opted to 'observe her process' along with Benezia and her commandos, most of the wardens had barricaded themselves in out-of-the-way wings of the facility.

They needn't have bothered - her control is meticulous.

Streams of water twirl and dance through the hallways, not a drop touching the walls or the ceiling as they hurtle towards the silo. Ice cracks and melts under her gentle coaxing, sublimating and condensing playfully, finally free of their shackles. Through predetermined paths they flow, and it's hard - Isabelle no longer has access to that otherworldly will that had bolstered her during the jailbreak - but she's also not on a time crunch, so it balances out.

Surging through the jammed-open double doors, the streams split, coursing over her and under her and through her, aiming for the various conveyors that had mostly survived her initial bout of destruction. Right at the edges of the alcoves, the water swirls and solidifies into perfectly sized ice cubes, which tumble onto the conveyor belts that will finally, belatedly lead them to purification.

It takes her almost the entire hour, and by the end of it, she sinks to the eezo core, limbs trembling. Benezia telekinetically jumps from a walkway, steadies her until she can stand on her own two feet again. "Will that do?" She blinks through her tears at Victus, who'd sprinted the long way around.

He stares slack-jawed at her. "Quite," he croaks.

And then, finally, Isabelle gets to go home.

---

A/N:

GENERAL CONTEXT

MCU Summary

I do apologize for the extended summary of the MCU's first three Phases during Isabelle's meditation. I could see no way out of it - we needed to know just how much Isabelle was planning on dumping into Benezia's brain.

SSV Krakatoa

Like Talbot, I thought naming humanity's first dreadnought the SSV Everest a dreadfully boring prospect. So I looked for the most frightening sounding volcanoes I could find, and landed upon krakatoa.

Weird part is - and this will probably sound like me being wise after the fact - but I wrote this scene well before the Anak Krakatoa volcano in Indonesia erupted. It was very cool, but also very creepy.

The Chair/The Inquisition's Throne

MCU CONTEXT

The Sundering ~ The Decimation

I always wanted to explore how Thanos' actions defined the rest of the galaxy. I certainly wasn't gonna leave that stone unturned. And the canonical explanation of the First Contact War - that it was a policing action - always left a sour taste in my mouth. I remember one of the NPCs in the games talking about how the turians' actions were akin to shooting a child dead just because she dared touch a gun.

It also smelled of a gigantic cover-up.

Which is what I went for in my fic.

The name 'Sundering' was what I called the Snap in my head in the year after Infinity War and before Endgame was realized. Because half of all life was sundered. It thrills me that I finally got to use it.

MASS EFFECT CONTEXT

Major General Glenn Talbot ~ Admiral Kastanie Drescher

In canon, Admiral Kastanie Drescher led the Second Fleet against the turians and evicted them from Shanxi, securing a huge win for the Alliance and for humanity. Once again, I'm merging characters, because one - I don't know Drescher from Adam, and two - I figure Talbot has gone through a lot, fighting an uphill battle against bureaucracy. He deserves a straightforward fight, and a huge win.

Totenkopf

Totenkopf is a human terrorist organization that attacked Gagarin in canon, a short while before Mass Effect 3. Only thing is, they used biological warfare instead. I'm shifting timelines again.