Hello!

Author here, thanking you (yes, you) for reading this story as it celebrates the big 20 chapter mark! Until now I've been intentionally silent on this site, instead preferring to let the story go on its own, so let me say with sincerity that I am beyond grateful for every fav and follow, every view and review. It means a lot - and has exceeded my expectations given how the story threw much at you in the beginning with little context. So thank you all for reading along and getting up to speed.

Before we launch into the 20th chapter, I feel you deserve some key information, so here goes:

- This whole story initially came about as a sideproject and a sequel to a story I wrote all the way back in the real 2013. Obviously my writing's changed a lot over the last decade - if it didn't I'd be somewhat worried - the original 'epic' was about 3,000 words altogether, to put things in perspective. Hence why it raises more questions than answers right off the bat.

- For those in the know, it may not come as a surprise to learn that this story is being crossposted to the "SpaceBattles" forum under the same username. There I've been giving fun facts for each chapter as it rolls in, so check it out if you want to know more.

- Before writing this story I knew very little about fanfiction tropes, terms et cetera. I've since done some "field research", and found some real diamonds out there. Not the best written stories, but ones I found the most entertaining to read. One of these days I'll add them to my own "favs" section - I believe they're worth sharing if you haven't read them already.

- Believe it or not, I've been uploading according to a schedule of sorts: Tuesdays at 20:13 UTC. It's been mostly every other week, but I make exceptions. For example chapter 21 will be next week. The "Parody" tag is here for a reason, and just like the real Mass Effect, the sooner you leave Feros the better.

- I've been writing these chapters in accordance with a "grand plan" that has been mostly untouched since the beginning. Keep in mind as you read that not every throwaway line is a throwaway line...

- I'm fully aware that I've probably set a record for the longest ME fanfiction to not properly involve certain alien races just yet. Stay tuned just a little longer and I'll sort that right out. If the story hits 50 follows I'll throw in another elcor, absolutely free.

- I have to admit that chapters 5-9 should probably be condensed into maybe two, three chapters. Too late now!

With all that said, don't touch that dial. There's more to come, and I hope you're going to like it.

- MM

20 – The Tiger

Arnav Chandran was having a bad day.

He woke up on the wrong side of the bunk as he always did since the 'incident'. His mind hurt to think about it – both figuratively and literally. To imagine that he was little more than a thrall for something beyond his comprehension…he never did get a chance to thank the Commander for saving his life, and the lives of all his surviving friends. So when today word spread that another Alliance team were in the neighborhood, he thought things were finally starting to come up Arnav.

Arcelia Silva Martinez was a tough boss, but she was his tough boss. After downing some heavily filtrated and decontaminated water, he had suited up in his armor and climbed the elevator up to the last geth holdouts. Commander Gorman – only from a glimpse looking either ridiculously underprepared or very overconfident – would handle a different floor while he and the rest of Arcelia's team pressed forward.

Chandran was no soldier. ExoGeni's outrageously brief firearms training session didn't prepare him for the sound and sight of the geth. Seeing a blood red laser beam being charged up and pointed in his direction, Arnav leapt out of the way – and straight into a set of cabinets. The clattering sound alone made some of his team think that the tower itself was about to collapse. All that…to realize he had narrowly avoided death at the hands of a reflection from Arcelia's rifle's laser sight. Just like that, his chance to impress her had flown away.

Buried under a heap of metal and plastic, Arnav was dug out alive with little more than bruises – and after his friends had engaged the geth in a short skirmish.

Back at colony level, he hung up his suit and retreated to the infirmary. With his pride the only thing still wounded, he received orders from the brass to head up soon to the 'penthouse' again. Something about his shift guarding a criminal crossed between his ears, but he was too tired to care. He approached the lockers for security staff, passing by where one of his fellow guards should have been. Staff stretched even thinner, he thought to himself. When he went to his locker, he cracked it open and reached inside for his helmet and armor pieces. He reached further, then opened it all the way. There was nothing inside. It really just wasn't his day.

Meanwhile, Commander Gorman stretched out his new black gauntlets.

The 'Onyx' model of armor lived up to its name, as long as you brushed a layer of dust off. Just like when he had tried on Kalu's company green set, the armor smartly adjusted itself to his form. If there was an injection he never felt it – perhaps he was getting used to something for once. The Lieutenant looked equally comfortable. He was busy twisting the bulky helmet into place, locking it on with a click. The warning they'd gotten proved true, the helmets covered a majority of one's face. He couldn't tell it was Blanc underneath at all, except for a toothy smile and the hairs on his chin. The pilot was visibly eager to go on this new mission. Gorman chalked it up to his purported spirit for 'adventure'.

The Commander couldn't say the same, his approach to any mission was the same – a sense of duty – but there was always room for something more…creative. He pulled his own helmet down until it snapped into place. Kalu and Zaz looked him up and down with convinced nods, but they were skeptical of a 'master plan' Gorman had apparently come up with to both avoid detection and alert the quarian in distress. Now was the time to unveil it. He opened his gloved palm to Kalu.

"You still have the sunscreen?" he asked.

Kalu opened his mouth as if to protest, or ask why he needed that particular item of all things, or remark how useless it would be at this time of night, but instead he reached deep into the pockets in his jumpsuit. From one he produced a white tube, placing it in the Commander's grasp. Zaz shook her head in disbelief.

Gorman thanked his crewmate before unscrewing the tube's lid and squeezing out a small white blob onto Blanc's fingertip. He then pointed at his only visible skin left.

"Any message you'd like?" Pierre joked before smearing the cream in lines and crosses on Gorman's face. The Commander took some more cream, gave it a thought, and traced the word 'Sally' as best he could on the Lieutenant.

"This is ridiculous," Zaz finally said. "If you told me yesterday that getting all of us out of here would require a makeup session…"

"It's not makeup," Blanc scoffed, wincing at the taste on his lips. "It's an improvised ultraviolet blocker. Our quarian friend will know it's us, and ExoGeni will be none the wiser. Incredible thinking, Commander."

"Assuming she can read human letters," Kalu stated a fact which would have been nice to know before they started writing. Too late now, reasoned Gorman.

"Alright, here's what's going to happen," the Commander began, taking a last look around. They were standing in a little alcove in the shadow of the Borealis, next to what must have been another entrance to the tower before an untimely collapse. Their coordination with Arcelia and Dr. Baynham to get the armor had taken just under an hour – and Gorman didn't want to wait another one to get started. "Blanc and I are heading to that elevator and taking our chances on getting Sally out of there. While that's happening, Kalu, I need you to stall anyone trying to follow us up."

"Stall them? How?" Kalu crossed his arms.

Gorman paused. It was easy for him to forget that unlike his old crew, these people weren't the best the international rules-based order's underfunded intelligence services and special forces had to offer. That, and Kalu still just wanted to go home at this point.

"How good are you with salarians?"

Kalu raised an eyebrow.

"I saw there's one here, owns the ship I think. I…also heard from Zaz that you had some, well, difficulties…"

"Ask the salarian to see the area under the ship, where the monster was. The company men are going to do anything to stop that from happening – as far as Jeong's concerned, the 'Thorian' was a fairy-tale nobody needs to know about."

"If you think it will help…" Kalu sighed. "I might be able to buy you a few seconds."

"And it will make all the difference," Gorman reassured him. He shifted his focus to the last crewmate. "Zaz, right now the best thing you can do is rest. You're going to be our getaway driver."

"Wait, what?" she spluttered in response. "You want me to fly the ship?" Blanc looked horrified at the prospect of anyone besides him filling in that role, but luckily for all of them the Commander was not speaking literally.

"You know earlier when you said you could throw me over that wall?" Gorman pointed to the tall object running the length of the colony – the Borealis. "Once we get back down, you'll lift us all onto the ship. As long as we keep a low profile, getting to the docking bay should be a piece of cake."

Zaz tilted her head in caution.

"You're crazy, you know that, right? How do you come up with this stuff?"

"I'm two hundred and one years old, Zaz. Do centuries of experience count for nothing?" Gorman smiled. "Now, can you do it or not?"

"I'll be waiting, just say the word."

The group huddle split.

The Commander and the Lieutenant emerged from the shadows to rejoin the colony. ExoGeni lab-coats and dusty colonists, night owls presumably, were still around in lesser numbers. No sign of Jeong and his associates. The two armored men were able to waltz towards the doorway into the tower without issue. Gorman finally stopped a moment to look at just how battle scarred the place was. Hundreds if not thousands of high-velocity, high-temperature rounds must have been shot here, caking the walls in soot. Perhaps there was a marvel of prothean engineering to learned from – how the load-bearing walls stayed upright after all of it.

However, stopping for a second meant stopping a second too long.

"Hey!" called out a voice from behind. Gorman and Blanc froze in their tracks, apprehensively turning around. Before them was a scrawny young man in a black jumpsuit. There was a thick bandage around his left arm, and a bruise on his temple. He wasn't looking at either of them in the eye – how could he – but at their sets of armor. "You…uh…either of you haven't seen my armor by any chance, have you?"

Gorman chose to remain silent. Blanc thought otherwise, even putting on a clearly exaggerated American accent.

"You lost your armor, dude?"

Their unarmored counterpart squinted. He might have been able to tell something was off, but the shame of losing one's armor outweighed such concerns…for now.

"I went to my locker and it was wide open. Armor, gun, just gone." Now the man was looking at the weapons stuck to their backs. Blanc doubled down.

"You lost your gun too, bro?"

"Mine's not the only one missing." Now his confidence was growing. "Parker-Pearson's locker was also empty."

Gorman was about to intervene, but Blanc tripled down.

"That's 'cause he's wearing his armor and carrying his gun," Blanc pointed with his thumb to the suit of armor next to him. The Commander shifted on the spot…but kept his mouth shut. The young fellow's own mouth fell open in confusion, giving Gorman a good look up and down.

"You don't look good, Mike. Very pale."

"Don't listen to him, 'Mike'. You look great," Blanc dismissed him with a wave of his hand. If appearances were now valid targets, it was time to start aiming. "Buddy, you better talk to Arcelia. She took your stuff, said she didn't want you in danger while your arm's like that."

"She…did?" the man's voice cracked, and he subconsciously began massaging his bandage.

"Totally. She cares about you, dude. Go find her."

Arnav Chandran's heart skipped a beat. Without another word he swerved away from the two armored men, skipping into the ship and beginning his search. He would not find her in there, but he was out of sight, and thankfully out of Gorman and Blanc's minds.

"Elevator's this way, 'dude'," said the Commander. There was an unmistakable hint of offense in his voice at the butchered accent – but also pride in a confrontation well navigated. Were the pilot's talents wasted at a starship's helm?

Into the corridors they went and up the staircases they ascended.

The elevator was waiting for them. Gorman whacked the button, its doors parted, and the two of them walked in. Another button let it loose, down a few feet before starting a climb to the highest suites. Phase one of the plan had gone swimmingly, and only hope could guide Kalu in his distraction efforts. They both readjusted their new suits. This would be their last chance for questions before cameras would be watching their every move. Naturally, Blanc had the most pertinent thing to ask.

"If you're Mike, who am I?"

Gorman hummed.

"Some Californian?"

"Nah. It needs to be something both cool and mysterious. Ooh, how about 'Hubert Bonisseur de la Bath'? My codename can be 'The Tiger'."

"I'm not calling you the Tiger."

"Good thing Mike doesn't speak, apparently. Come on, Gorman, didn't you have codenames and fake identities back in your old job?"

"…Once or twice."

The truth was more interesting. In 2013 alone agents under his command went undercover a classified yet impressive number of times. As Commander, Gorman himself was given the high-risk, high-priority assignments, posing as a Swiss Guard 'Klaus Blaumann' for the new Pope's first speech and as a metallurgist in Chelyabinsk 'Kirill Siniyev' investigating a meteor impact. A string of successes – miracles in their own right given the shoestring budget – were unfortunately cut short after the bombing in his own hometown. A necessary break from field duty was only just ending by the time the Jacobian threat reared its head. In fact, the Commander's schedule was due to have missions which could have made or broke the agency; He had to stop a ship from reaching a Lebanese port, convince the Ukrainian President to sign an economic agreement, oversee Iranian nuclear negotiations in Geneva and prevent the movie 'Frozen' from being released – all over the course of one week. After his last mission, however, there was no agency left. He now assured himself that all of those situations resolved themselves peaceably over the last century or two…but a quick search in the history books later wouldn't go amiss. Simpler times, he thought. Back then, they were anything but.

"Commander – I mean, Mike?" Blanc snapped the nostalgia away. The elevator was still, and the pilot was speaking from beyond its outstretched doors.

Gorman stepped out and into the familiar floor. Same wind through the same cracks in the walls, but there was something very much new – the sound of people. There was a conversation going on in the next room, and based on his memory of this place, to get to the rooms that resembled holding cells required passing through there. He didn't remember a closed door, but one wave from his omni-tool and Arcelia's codes did their job. Taking a deep breath, he led Blanc inside to an office space.

Someone had been busy, the bombsite state he'd first encountered was noticeably cleaned up. Debris had been pushed aside, desks were upright and chairs slotted neatly against them. Gorman didn't risk a look towards the security cameras, but a subtle red glare told him they were up and running. Two office chairs had been pulled aside and placed together. Two suits of armor, one masculine and one feminine, were sitting in them, bunched and hunched over a widescreen of sorts that came from one of their arms. Glancing over their helmets revealed a holographic display with only decent visual quality and apparent delays. Something broadcasted live, perhaps – a conversation in a neon-lit studio between a man with more hair than considered possible and a bald fellow with sunglasses indoors and a permanent look of disdain for his counterpart. The two seated were too focused on watching to notice Gorman and Blanc's arrival, but rather than give them a chance to listen in on the stream they were content to provide their own commentary.

"That's what I like about DB, he just says it like it is," the man said. "The quarians are geth in disguise, it's clear as day. Why isn't anyone else talking about it?"

"He's just saying that so you'll buy his anti-geth bath salts or something," the woman sighed. "And how can you say that after you've seen a quarian and a geth literally today? Jeong didn't tell us to throw both off the tower."

Gorman froze. So they did find the intact geth trooper up here, and worse than that, ExoGeni chose to cover up evidence again rather than admit a fault. All the more reason to get Sally out of there. The man finally turned their head over, seeing the two standing suits.

"You're early, lads," he began, checking his own omni-tool. "Next shift isn't for…thirty-five minutes."

"Bah, we can wait. Is that DB?" Blanc changed the subject, and once again, his accent. Now he was going for something aggressively French. The Tiger was on the prowl. He was pointing at the hairy man talking on the screen.

"You're a fan?" the man probed.

"But of course! Remember the episode with the N7 soldier? How about the one with Bernard Plim's roommate? Or that episode where he had that Finnish professor on? Magnifique." He performed a chef's kiss for emphasis.

"Aw man, that one was a classic. The professor's theories on xenoarchaeology are what convinced me to go to Feros in the first place."

Blanc's happiness to find a fellow enjoyer of his entertainment niche was stopped by an elbow to his ribs. Gorman knew that thirty-five minutes might be all the time they have for extraction before the actual next shift arrives.

"Well, we're early because we need to see the, uh, prisoner," Blanc explained. He gestured to the opening in the wall across the room. "That way, right?"

The two seated looked at each other and back at the two standing.

"Yeah, no problem," said the woman. "Just tell Mario that no matter what Davin says, he's not missing out on any 'truth bombs' over here."

Davin and Greta – the helmets might have concealed the faces but the Commander should have realized sooner. That he didn't say a word to them was the good news. The bad news? It was too much to hope for only two guards to be stationed up here at this time of night. Gorman, with Blanc quick to follow, approached the next clearing. The cell directly ahead, where once two geth strangely tested his reflexes, was closed by a metal door. The warning from earlier proved apt, the door having a physical lock at its side. This cell didn't contain Saal'Inor – instead it had to be the one down to the left with a man in armor dozing off in a chair beside it. Something shiny caught the Commander's eye – a keychain hooked onto his belt. Before a stealthy snatch could even be planned, the helmet tilted up and in their direction.

The man hummed stoically, likely realizing that he was not looking at the only other people meant to be on this floor.

"Mario?" Blanc started. "How's it going?"

"How's it going?" Mario laughed in defiance. Evidently things were not going well. "I'm stuck on the top of this crumbling wreck of a building with nothing to do. My only company up here are the Reynolds siblings, with their brains still scrambled by some alien monstrosity. The quarian's not much better, unfortunately. Hasn't said a word, but I can tell she's giving me a death glare under her helmet. None of this would have happened if Commander Gorman hadn't shown up."

Blanc opened his mouth to reply, but Mario was not finished. He was making great use of hand gestures to aid his colorful descriptions.

"That Commander, I gotta tell you something. Did you see him down at the colony? In his turtleneck? And aviators? Straight out of the vids. I figured, man of his rank like that, he's bound to have something on the extranet. A service record, N7 commendation or even a pixel of him in the background of some Alliance gala photo. But what did I find instead? Nothing, nada, niente. Man's a ghost. Betcha he's black ops, top secret agent. Gorman's probably not even his real name. Now, with all that considered, do you see the problem or do I need to spell it out?"

Blanc barely had a split-second to get a word in before Mario answered on his behalf. Gorman was willingly silent…and somewhat amused.

"Does that sound like a man we should piss off? Absolutely not. Did that stop that idiot Jeong from locking up one of his crew? No again. So to answer your question, I'm not having a good time. I'm on the edge of a panic attack. Any second now an untraceable commando could burst in through these halls – and Davin and Greta don't give a damn. I don't get paid enough for this."

The Commander smiled. He finally spoke up, successfully hiding his accent.

"Then I've got good news. The quarian is being moved. You've got orders to open the door, hand her over to us, and then stay here until told otherwise."

"…Really?"

"Won't be long. I promise."

Contrary to popular imagination and the 'vids', most of the time an agent in the field doesn't need to resort to extremes when convincing someone. Most people, as it turns out, are agreeable and avoid confrontations if possible. Gorman had identified Mario as one such person, and therefore it didn't surprise him to see Mario rise from his chair, fumble around at his belt, whip out the keychain and bend towards the door's lock. Blanc, on their other hand, was dumbstruck, not to mention relieved. Earlier he'd been talking to a friendly colonist when moving the supplies to the colony – who sounded exactly like the man they were speaking with right now. There was no chance he wouldn't recognize him if he started chatting, no matter how Californian or Tiger-like he tried to be.

Behind the metal door, there was a quarian sitting down against a cracked concrete wall.

This was the first time Saal'Inor had been on her own in a long time, but she could say with certainty that it was not the peace and quiet she'd been hoping for all that while. Gorman, the human who had saved her on Mavigon, had been repaid that debt when she gave herself up. The way he talked about the absolute necessity of a prothean 'beacon', it was enough to convince her that it asked too much from him to easily pass up a chance to find one. The needs of the group outweighed her own – getting locked up here on their behalf was the quarian thing to do. Gorman, despite his complete yet somehow endearing lack of knowledge about her people – and salarians, strangely – would surely understand.

However, she was finding it hard to keep such unwavering conviction. The guards assigned to keep a watch on her were kind, if misguided. She chose not to speak to them, hoping they'd grow as bored as she was, but with each passing hour it was becoming clear that such a status quo wouldn't hold. Sooner or later they'd try harder to get the data from her omni-tool – and she was willing to bet that their supply of dextro-amino acid food was in short supply. Listening to 'Mario' ramble on about everything and anything from outside the cell was torturous enough.

Without warning there was a click at the door, and it creaked open.

She lifted her head to see two humans in black armor from head to toe enter, with a third one staying in and watching from the corridor. Her instinct was to back away, but the wall she was leaning on looked ready to cave in at a moment's notice. These scary-looking men were obviously here to take her somewhere. She was tired and hungry, but ready to try anything to stop that from happening.

"On your feet, quarian," called out Mario. "Let's-a go."

Every sense was telling her not to obey, that this was some sort of trap, but the more she examined the two men in front of her, she was noticing something off about them. Gradually she rose to her feet, and her eyes latched onto the only bits of them not covered in metal, polymers and ceramic. The bottom half of their faces – there was something on them, a discoloring unlike anything on any of the other humans.

She looked left, to the shorter one with a beard. There were unnatural dark patterns on his skin, smudges of shapes ranging from squiggles to triangles, lines both straight and curved. She felt she had seen them before somewhere. They were human letters. Why would this man have letters on his face? Why were the letters blocking ultraviolet? And why was he obviously holding back a smile?

For reassurance she looked right, to the taller one who remained stoic. To her surprise he too had dark splotches, but in a different arrangement. Two dots, with a curved line underneath. She blinked and saw it for what it was. A smiley face.

"Time for a full suit diagnostic?" reminded the man on the right – and his face couldn't help but match the one drawn on him.

It was at that moment that she understood what was happening. Her breather's light finally shone.

"You can't be serious."