Well, here we are again. This chapter we have more interactions between our various groups. That's one of the best and most-favorited part of crossover stories, so I hope you all enjoy! On to reviews!

gabekaykwok: I'm glad you enjoy it! We will indeed be seeing a lot more characters, including a few Primarchs later. I hope you're excited!

BonesofSmite: Thanks! We're seeing some interactions this chapter, so I hope you enjoy those!

CommunistBaboon3: Oh, don't worry, we'll see Ahriman again. I've had a lot of people wanting him back, so I'll be sure to give you more! I hope you enjoy this chapter until then.

Elkirom: Those questions were already answered, but here we go: Drake is a character created for the story for the purpose of bringing the team together. I hope you all do enjoy him; after all, Zore'Reer and Magos Natrius were probably the most requested and favorited characters of the Technophiles series, and they were also created for the story, so I don't think I have an issue with working with created characters. Secondly, Drake invited them all to that planet, which was conveniently located on the edge of several different galaxies. I hope that helps, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Madara95: I'm not entirely sure what you're asking. Is this about the description itself? The tags? Something in the story? I'd be more than happy to answer if you clarify, though if it's for the tags or description, unfortunately fanficnet is a very clunky system and doesn't really allow me to put more, which sucks. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story, and I'll be more than happy to clarify if you like!

Austin: Welcome back! I'm glad you're enjoying the story! The nightmares will be here soon enough, though the biggest threat in this story is going to be Chaos. We'll get there eventually; I can't wait. I hope you enjoy what's to come!

Lesser Bird-of-paradise: Well then, welcome back! I'm glad you enjoyed the Technophiles series. Hopefully you'll like this one too. As for the Mechanicus, they'll probably show up eventually, or we'll have a fun chapter where we introduce our non-Imperial friends to their particular brand of weirdness. Either way, I hope you enjoy what's to come!

oOo

"A great day. [Today] We sail into history." -Marko Ramius, The Hunt for Red October (film)

"I'm sure it'll be fine. After all, you take a bunch of people from literally entirely different realities, with huge variations in values, who could easily become hostile, now living side-by-side with each other. What could possibly go wrong?" -Thomas Drake to Eric Richter

oOo

Welcome Aboard

The plan was quite simple, actually. Drake had given each of his newfound compatriots a location to meet: a place on the very edge of his home galaxy, where he would subsequently disclose a mission for them to complete. It was, all things considered, actually quite a good plan. There was no sitting around, no ridiculousness of meetings nor the endless rounds of the diplomatic conferences all of them hated. All of the new team were people of action, and so they would immediately go into action.

It was also perhaps the best way of learning about one another and trusting one another, for what better way was there to fully trust someone than working and fighting by their side? It was certainly an excellent plan.

However, (and wasn't there always a however?) there were certain difficulties along the way. While the initial meeting had gone off actually quite well, with a noticeable lack of violent murder, there was still the entire voyage to this pinpointed location and whatever unknowns that might come after it.

Certainly, there was much distrust of Drake, and of each of the others. Indeed, in such a situation, there was much distrust in general. However, that distrust was part of the frightening new unknown that now made up the universe. The unknown could wait. What was important, and the only way to wade through that unknown, was a focus on the here and now.

Thus it was an interesting beginning to things. Aboard the Omen, Adam Vir sighed heavily as he tiredly rubbed his forehead within the privacy of his own cabin. The last week had been taxing. It had been even more taxing than the time he was forced to bring a civilian tour group aboard his ship. Hell, it was probably worse than the first time he made first contact with aliens, which involved miscommunications, misuse of water, and eventually him rolling over like a dog. It was…

Complicated.

But back to the matter at hand. The last two or three days (honestly, Vir couldn't remember at this point; he seemed to be losing count) were a nightmare, filled with nothing but tension and problems.

The first and by far least problematic issue was all of the alcohol aboard the ship seemed to be mysteriously vanishing. His Marines were unusually hush-hush on the issue. Vir suspected there was a silent, private war going on between a variety of various individuals and factions, doing battle for supremacy over the alcohol supply. The Admiral found the whole thing rather amusing, actually. It seemed soldiers would always be soldiers, no matter where they came from.

However, far worse and more pressing was the hostility between the Valhallan soldiers and the crew of the Omen.

The Imperial Guard was intensely xenophobic and openly belligerent to any alien aboard the ship. There were actually quite a few different races from Vir's home galaxy aboard, and it was now at the point that many members of the more non-aggressive ones would flee at the sight or sound of an Imperial infantryman. It also very much did not help that said infantrymen seemed to travel in packs, which only further served to escalate the tension.

Vir also had the subliminal headache of having to keep the more proud and aggressive races separate from the Imperials at all times, especially the ones who were much less physically powerful than humans. It wouldn't do to get anyone seriously injured. He also very much did not want diplomatic incidents happening aboard his ship, or the backlash that humans in his own galaxy might get.

The last issue was that the human members of his crew were not immune to this hatred either. The Imperials seemed to regard them as traitors of sorts, and whenever human crewmembers walked by, Valhallan mutterings of varied insults, especially the simple and favorated "heretic", could often be heard. The only ones the Imperials respected were himself as captain, some of the more no-nonsense officers, and the engineers.

A group of Guardsmen had gone to the engineering department, predictably sneering at anyone who crossed their path, only to be put in their place by the furious head of the engineering department, Nairobi. Ever since that particular incident, any members of the engineering crew were either avoided by the guardsmen or were given grudging, but respectful, nods. The Valhallans also seemed quite confused over why the engineers were actually normal humans and not something called 'Tech-Priests'. Whatever the reason, at least Vir didn't have the Guardsmen harassing the people that made the ship work, which was a bonus.

He had originally thought the Imperials might get along well with the Marines, seeing as they both shared the bond of being human combat soldiers, and so had organized a joint training exercise for both groups. It had gone… horribly. The Marines loathed the Imperials for treating the other crew members so poorly, and the Imperials despised the Marines for harboring and living alongside aliens. Both groups were now furiously competing to see which was better. Drinking contests, arm wrestling, combat training, weapon skills, you name it and there was an extremely nasty competition going on between the two rival groups of soldiers.

There were several physical fights, most notably between Maverick, the Marines chaplain, and Magot, a Corporal in the Guard. That particular fight had seen the spectators get involved, and two Omen crew members, one Marine, and three Valhallans were sent to the infirmary with injuries, several of which were particularly nasty. Fortunately, the ship had two excellent doctors, and the combatants spent their recovery period surreptitiously ignoring each other.

The only reason that no one had gotten hurt worse in that fight was because Commissar Cain had interfered, attempting to pull people off one another, and, when that didn't work, firing his las-pistol into the ceiling, which resulted in an immediate secession of hostilities. Adam didn't care much about the damage done to the mess hall ceiling, which could be repaired, but he was very much fed up with the entire situation (though he was quite eager to find out more about Imperial laser weapons; but that would unfortunately have to wait.)

In fact, all things considered, the only thing that prevented the two sides from outright trying to kill each other was the fact the Valhallans had enough respect for Cain and the two battalion commanders, Kasteen and Broklaw, to obey them no matter what, and that the Marines had enough respect for him even though the Imperials were threatening their crewmates. Cain seemed to be the most open-minded and largest arbiter of the peace among the Imperials… when he came out of his office.

At the beginning of the voyage, Adam had given Cain a personal quarters, which had been promptly transformed into a combination living quarters and Commissar's office. The problem was that Cain always seemed to be holed up inside, and to get inside, one had to cross Jurgen, the Commissar's malodorous aide. Jugen was always extremely polite and to the point, traits to be commended, but his personal hygiene was terrible, and many would rather just skip seeing the Commissar rather than wait near him. To Adam, though, there seemed to be something fundamentally wrong about Jurgen, although what he couldn't really lay a finger on. Jurgen did have terrible body odor and rather bad psoriasis, but that didn't seem to be the problem. The problem was that whenever Adam got close to Jurgen, an odd, creeping, chilling sensation would occur.

There was nothing specific about Jurgen that made Adam feel this way, which was probably the strangest thing about it. But, for whatever reason it was, Cain's callers never wanted to stay around long enough near Juren to actually get into his office. The only two people allowed to go straight inside were Adam and his first lieutenant, Simone, but they were so busy running the ship and trying to prevent the Marines from murdering the Valhallans and vice-versa.

However, the only way Vir could think of to resolve this situation was to actually go meet with the man and try to hash things out. There was simply no other alternative save letting things continue, which would be intolerable. Thus, Vir summoned Simone and the duo walked through the halls of the Omen, into Valhallan territory and the quarters of Commissar Cain.

Within the quarters themselves, Ciaphas Cain looked up from his paperwork as Jurgen ushered Vir and Simone in. Truth be told, he wasn't really doing any paperwork, but appearances had to be maintained. They were, inevitably, here to talk about the mess hall fight and the general situation. What they didn't really need to know was that instead of heroically trying to pull people apart, he had been stuck in the middle and was trying to pull people off of him.

What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He was forging a reputation with these new people, and it wouldn't do to seem cowardly. And, of course, it wouldn't do to insult the aliens, possibly treacherous xenos that they were, as, if he did, he would probably get shot in the back by one. Because above all else, Ciaphas Cain wanted to not die.

It was the hidden, most secretive central part of him: his weakness, his cowardness, his lack of what everyone thought he was. Jurgen didn't have to know about it; his aide thought the universe of him for his well-treatment. The Valhallans knew him as their respected, wise, and courageous Commissar. The crew of the Omen did not need to know anything different. His facade, his undeserving reputation, had to be maintained, if not for his sake then for theirs. He couldn't let it slip at such a critical moment.

Such thoughts left Cain's mind as Vir and Simone sat in the chairs before his desk. He found it amusing and hugely ironic that they had provided everything in this room. It had a lack of the typical style and pomp of a normal Imperial office, but it was cozy and perfectly serviceable.

"Admiral. Lieutenant," he nodded politely. "A pleasure to see you. What brings you here today?" He knew, obviously, but pleasantries had to be observed and it never hurt to be nice.

"We're here because your troops are out of line!" began Simone, indignant. "It's completely unacceptable what they're doing! The break of discipline, and insulting someone based on their species-!"

"Simone-" interjected Vir, mildly but warningly. Cain held up a placating hand.

"That's perfectly alright." He flashed a flawless, charming smile that put the two instantly at ease. He'd had plenty of practice at the subject, after all. "I believe the issue here is a lack of knowledge and communication - on both sides." Another placating hand. "Now, I'm certainly not accusing you of anything, just saying that we come from completely different realities, and don't know much about one another." Vir nodded in reply.

"Certainly. I couldn't agree more with you."

"I'm sure you understand. After all," another charming smile; Cain was trying to do his best here, "You of all people would know. Even only having met you for less than a week, your reputation precedes you. It's no small feat being the first human to make contact with other races." That much Cain did know. He had spent much of his time furiously reading every single scrap of available information on his hosts. Vir was apparently the first human to meet aliens. It was also apparently his job to go explore the galaxy and introduce newly-found species to the galaxy at large. Honestly, the amount of information his hosts had given him was staggering. All of their records were digitized and completely available to the public. It was quite interesting in its entirety, especially the information on Vir and the Omen.

Ultimately, it was a good thing Cain was dealing with an expert at meeting new peoples, even if he was a heretic.

"Yes, well, erm…" Vir squirmed slightly under the praise before figuring out where to move forward. "Tell me, Commissar, where exactly does all of this hate stem from? Are there alien races where you come from? There must be. Honestly," he shrugged, "We don't know a whole lot about your galaxy. It would help if you told us more." Cain nodded judiciously.

"Certainly," he replied. "That is a bit of a stumbling block, and a part I think we could use to move past our current issues: telling each other more about who we are and where we come from. And not just us, of course, but the soldiers too. But, anyway," he continued, "We do indeed have xenos in our home galaxy."

Cain picked and chose his words very carefully, walking the fine line between getting Vir to understand and be on his side and telling things the Imperium probably would not approve of. But that was what Cain did the best, and why he was a Commissar.

"You must understand that the aliens where we come from are quite different from the aliens you and the others seem to be familiar with: not just in species but in mindset and temperament. Where we come from, all other races believe it's their divine right to rule the galaxy and humanity can either kneel or die, or they simply enjoy killing or devouring. There is no exception. Consequently, it's part of our society to hate the alien, for they hate us, and to kill them before they can kill us. Ours is a galaxy of war, with our Imperium the only bastion of salvation for humanity, and hard pressed at every side for survival."

Vir and Simone looked at Cain, stunned.

"So… What you're telling me… Is that… Every single race where you come from… Wants to kill you?" The words tumbled out of Vir's mouth as if he almost didn't believe them. This was the inversion of everything he had ever learned, everything he had ever loved or wanted.

All his life, Vir had dreamt of seeing the stars, and the life held within. When he was young, he had been obsessed with aliens, and often scoffed at by his peers and worse for his belief. Yet, when he had grown up, humanity had indeed seen the stars, and he was the one to first meet new life.

There were some trials and tribulations: in fact, it had been Sunny who cut off his left leg above the knee during a war between humanity and the Drev. He looked down at the pant leg that hid his prosthetic. Considering it was a Drev prosthetic, he'd been keeping it a secret for the moment: he knew others might not approve.

Yet, despite the fact she cut off his leg, bygones were bygones. She was initially untrusted by the human crew, but they had made amends long ago. Indeed, she was now perhaps the person closest to him throughout the entire galaxy.

There was always room to learn, always time and opportunities to reach out and see the good in people…

Wasn't there?

Vir had to figure out whether or not Cain was spouting your typical kill 'em all authoritarian propaganda or actually telling the truth. What was worse is that he could be telling the truth as he knew it, but the truth of what he knew could be the Imperial government lying to him. Then again, he was a political officer, so he ought to know the actual truth…

Why did this have to be so damn complicated?

"Yes," replied Cain, subdued. Vir looked at him. He seemed to be honest. Plus, he was actually trying to get along with the aliens aboard the Omen, which lent more credibility to his words. Vir didn't know which was worse: Cain lying, which meant the Imperium was a full-on xenocidal government, or that he wasn't, which meant that every alien race where he came from actually did want humanity dead.

"That's… uh… Well, I'm not quite sure what to say," admitted Vir. Next to him, he could still see the gears in Simone's head turning.

"Then I'm sure you can see where the problem stems from," said Cain. Internally, the Commissar heaved a sigh of relief. So, this was working. Thank the God-Emperor. He was able to make Vir understand his home galaxy without saying something that would get him shot by the Inquisition. Always a plus. "We're raised to hate the alien, and while I do and have realized the necessity of working with xenos on occasion, many of the normal troopers don't."

That was still troubling. Cain was treating getting along with aliens as an unfortunate temporary measure; he still didn't like them. But it was a start, and hopefully Vir could change that with time.

"Yes…" trailed off Vir, lost in his thoughts. He looked back up at Cain. "Then how do we begin? How do we fix this?" Cain frowned, chin resting on a gloved hand as he considered. Before either of them could speak, they were beaten to the punch by Simone.

"I have an idea," she said, looking over from her place, slightly nervous. Both Cain and Vir looked at her in surprise. Vir made a motion for her to continue. "Both of you are good leaders. If you switch places, then you can get acquainted with the differences in groups, and you can convince them not to fight. If you're in charge of each other's groups, then you can convince them." She looked back over to Vir. "I can captain the ship if you'd like, and-" Vir held up a hand.

"Relax, Simone. You don't have to sell me on it. I think it's a good idea." Vir turned to Cain. "What about you?" Cain took a moment to consider before nodding thoughtfully.

"I agree." In truth, he most definitely did not agree. It wasn't that the idea wasn't good, it was just that Commissar Ciaphas Cain much preferred himself to be un-squished by ten-foot tall, four-armed xenos and their angry heretical human friends, thank you very much.

However, Cain realized that it was probably the best idea going forward. Yes, he might have to deal with hostility and the possibility of grievous bodily harm, but when didn't he? This was the only way he could think of that had a chance of ending this voyage without fatalities.

"Well then, it's settled," continued Vir. "You're in charge of running the ship, Simone. Cain will take charge of all of the personnel, and I'll be in charge of the Imperial-"

"Erm, excuse me, Admiral, but I believe there's a slight misunderstanding," interjected Cain. Vir looked back to him with surprise. "Just to clarify, I'm not in charge of the regiment. Kasteen's in charge. I'm the Commissar, or morale and political officer. Though I do hold some sway," he continued modestly; from what Vir saw, he held a lot of respect among the soldiers, "You'll be in charge of discipline, which is kind of the same thing in this situation." Vir nodded.

"So… before we get started, exactly what is a Commissar, and exactly what can I or can't I do?" It was best to know the full picture and the extent of his authority before jumping headlong into this situation.

"You're in charge of discipline, morale, and thus the combat effectiveness of the regiment. While you are not an officer per say, you can take any necessary steps to ensure the effectiveness of the regiment, up to and including summary execution." Vir's eyes bulged. Next to him, Simone stared open-mouthed at Cain.

"You… you… you can execute your own men? At any time?" Vir was starting to think Cain may have been lying about the aliens of his galaxy, all things considered…

"Yes," replied Cain, staring casually at the duo sitting in front of him. "It's occasionally a necessity, though you can't do it without reason, and a Commissar who starts killing off his own soldiers won't last long, whether through official investigation or a conveniently-placed lasbolt in the back…" Vir shook his head. This was getting a bit out of hand. Though Cain didn't seem like the type of person to just kill someone or abuse his power, it was still terrifying to think about.

"Anything else I should know?" he said as an attempt to get the idea of summary executions off his mind. He could muse over that issue, and the nature of the Imperium at large, later. Besides, if there were things as shocking as this, he didn't want to get tripped up or say anything he shouldn't in front of the Imperial soldiers.

"Yes, actually," mused Cain as he stood up. Crossing the room to a stack of loose data slates behind him, he rummaged through them for a moment before picking one up with a slight noise of triumph. "Here," he said, handing the pad to Vir. The admiral took it curiously. "This is the general information and briefing they give all new Commissars assigned to Valhallan regiments. Throne only knows why I've kept it so long, considering I've only served on Valhallan regiments…" He shook his head. "But I digress. Valhalla is an ice world, and the troopers are accustomed to cold temperatures, so I should warn you that if you're going to stay in their quarters for a long period, you should dress warmly. Other than that…" He shrugged. "General information, and some stuff on Imperial soldiery in general, is listed there." Vir nodded his thanks.

"Sounds good to me. Anything you need to know?" he said, mouth moving into a slight smile. Outwardly, Cain barely reacted, though Vir could tell he was slightly thrown by the question.

"Erm… yes, probably. Anything I should know, judging by our horrible lack of understanding of each other's realities?" Vir chuckled. Cain had a sense of humor, which was good.

"Well, the Drev are a warrior culture. Very honorable, high emphasis on hand-to-hand combat." Internally, Cain sighed. Great. "The human Marines are your typical soldiers, I guess… Or maybe not, considering your differences. The only real major difference in your group or mine would be their background and the fact that their loyal friends just happen to be aliens." Cain shrugged, accepting it. Soldiers were soldiers, wherever you came from. Even throughout the Imperium, from countless planets with countless backgrounds, landscapes, and cultures, soldiers would be soldiers.

It really wasn't so hard then; to understand. He was a Commissar, and this was his job. Keep order, and thus he had to know the type of people he was serving. All in a day's work, except usually the soldiers weren't heretics.

"Admiral Vir, Lieutenant Simone, I'm glad you came," said Cain with a smile as he shook their hands. They responded as they stood and bid Cain farewell. As they left, escorted by Jurgen, Vir's nose buried in the data slate, Cain sat back down and sighed.

Wonderful. Now he had to go babysit a group of xenos and heretics. He'd done it before, and would apparently be doing it again, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

oOo

Jack Cooper was actually quite baffled: an emotion he wasn't really used to feeling. Surprisingly, everything had been and was going well so far. The soldiers of the Apocalypse now saw BT as a normal fixture within the hangar, and, hilariously, were now actually using him to help move equipment and reach repairs they couldn't. The Titan was more than happy to help, cooped up with nothing to do as he was.

There wasn't necessarily anything going wrong. Cooper was just baffled by the antics of his hosts.

The first day he had been aboard, Cooper had been shown around the ship by Drake. Through the spotless and welcoming gray halls, Cooper's measured military walk had contrasted with Drake's confident stride, the taller man's black boots clicking on the deck. Cooper had been shown his quarters, near the bridge in the center of the ship, upon which Drake had led him around the rest of the vessel.

The first and perhaps most noticeable thing that Cooper had noticed about his host was that Drake always wore the same outfit: a black trench coat with black boots and gloves. What was more, the man always wore his sidearm. When the Pilot asked, Drake simply laughed and shrugged and said it was better to have a gun and not need it than need a gun and not have it, even on his own ship. In fact, Drake encouraged Cooper to wear his own weapons. It was something Cooper found strange about the man: he seemed to think it was perfectly fine, even preferred, to have everyone wear weapons. It was simply better that way in the mind of the mercenary captain.

Regardless, Drake had led him around the ship, firing off jokes, questions, and small packets of information at breakneck speeds. The entire time, Cooper was off-balance. Drake could and did go from flippant joking to semi-insanity to utterly terrifying knowledgeable intensity at the drop of a hat. The Pilot got the distinct feeling there was much more to that man than met the eye… Or perhaps that was his plan… Or, even better yet, the entire point was to keep Cooper speculating. If that was the end goal, then it was certainly working.

Today, Cooper had arrived on the bridge early in the morning. He had woken early, as soldiers often did, checked on BT, and gone to the Apocalypse's bridge to find out what the ship's routine would be for the day.

The bridge crew greeted him warmly. Cooper was actually rather surprised that he fit in so well aboard the Apocalypse. But then again, the crew must have been used to seeing various men and women of countless different backgrounds coming to serve Drake. His presence wasn't something unusual. He was grateful for that, and though the commanders and crews of the other ships were probably perfectly kind, Cooper was actually starting to prefer it here.

Of course, many of the people aboard the Apocalypse were rather… interesting. To put it mildly.

Captain Thomas Drake arrived on the bridge shortly after Cooper, and to much more fanfare. Usually, when one said the phrase 'more fanfare', they meant it in the sense that there was more chatter, more greetings, and more joy at the person's arrival. In Drake's case, it was quite literal.

As some triumphant brass march blared over the bridge's PA system, Drake strode through the room's entrance. The heavy metal doors slid open with a whoosh of compressed air. Drake's coat swirled around his figure. His head was held high, presented at a perfect dramatic tilt as the fanfare played and his boots rang crisply on the deck. He was every inch a figure of legend, a Roman conqueror returned triumphant to his seat of power.

Most of the bridge crew were desperately trying not to laugh, or alternatively playing along with mock-serious looks and postures or rolling their eyes at their captain's theatrics. Cooper stood there, baffled, until he realized they were simply having fun. It was odd to see the captain and command crew of a starship act like this, but this was Drake's Apocalypse, and the man himself invested his bizarre personality throughout.

When the music eventually died down, Drake spun towards Cooper with a grin. It was a far cry from his mock-serious look: a goofy, simple, fun-loving smile.

"Your entrance was quite impressive, Captain," remarked Cooper dryly. Drake gave a great laugh.

"Why thank you, Pilot Cooper," he replied with a low bow. He half-sat, half-jumped into the commander's chair in the center of the bridge, using his momentum to gleefully spin around a few times before finally, slowly landing back in Cooper's direction. Somehow, he managed to make the entire action look elegant. He grinned back up at Cooper cheekily. "I am quite impressive, but quite strange at the same time. Yes, yes, don't be surprised." He dismissed Cooper's surprised look with a wave of his gloved hand. "I can see it in your eyes. You find me to be quite the puzzle. Why?, you're wondering to yourself." Drake grinned again. "The answer is very simple. Why not?"

Cooper was about to interject with a question something along the lines of but why?, yet before he could, the ship was wracked by some massive force, causing the bridge to shake. A few panels popped open, sparking. Cooper whirled around.

"What was that?" he asked, nervous. Drake shrugged in his chair, apparently unconcerned.

"Something exploded. It'll be fine. Probably." Cooper's eyes bulged.

"Probably? I'm not a ship crewman, but I think that's a bit of a problem. Isn't stuff blowing up on your ship not a good thing?" He was perhaps a little too excited, but explosions aboard a vessel were something that Cooper profoundly believed to be in the category of not good.

"Eh, it's fine. If something were really bad, then the alarm would be going off." As if on cue, the ship's alarm system started flashing red and emitting an ear-piercing shriek. Drake rolled his eyes and gave the alarms a death glare. "And I just sat down," he moaned. Gesturing for Cooper to follow, Drake grabbed some sort of comms earpiece and walked briskly towards the exit. "Richter, what the hell happened?" asked the black-coated captain of the Apocalypse.

"Try and guess," came the drab reply.

"Muelka?" asked Drake, eyebrow cocked as if he were expecting something of the sort.

"What else?" replied Richter.

"I should have known," said Drake with a sigh. He rolled his eyes. "And we were doing so well, too. More than a month without any incidents." Cooper had no idea what was going on, but still followed Drake through the decks of the ship. They moved at an uncomfortable half-walk, half-job, and that, combined with the alarms, made the trip rather unpleasant.

Eventually, they reached a large open room in one of the lower decks. A few gray-jumpsuited crewmen were checking wiring and hosing down a few petty fires with foam suppressant. The area looked like a laboratory, with chemistry equipment and multiple cryogenic safes spread throughout. There were stacks of heavy objects that looked, but Cooper fervently hoped were not bombs in the corners. One of the countertops, identical to several others throughout the room, was a scorched mess with blasted and melted shards of glass scattering the floor around it.

In the middle of all the chaos stood a sheepish-looking woman with frazzled brown hair wearing some sort of heavy protective apron and gloves, and Richter, Drake's second-in-command. Cooper had only seen the man a few times, and each time Richter had been distantly polite yet slightly sour. Cooper understood, too: he had to babysit all of the… interesting personalities aboard, which apparently included this woman who most likely had a hand in whatever happened.

"Right. What the hell happened?" asked Drake briskly. Before the woman could speak, Richter spoke up.

"Muelka was mixing chemicals, again," he sighed. He looked over to the woman, who stared at the floor, and sighed. "And they exploded. Knocked some stuff loose, started a few minor fires here, and set off the alarm, but nothing too bad," he reported.

"Sorry, Captain," muttered the woman, apparently Muelka. Drake rubbed his forehead.

"We do appreciate your work, Muelka. You know I'm quite the fan, but we can't have anything dangerous."

"I know what I'm doing-" protested the woman, but she was in turn interrupted by Drake.

"With what you know. Your chemical experiments are just that: experiments. We can't risk it." Drake sighed. "You're on censure until I think up something else." He gave both Muelka and Richter a curt nod, spun on his heels, and exited the room.

Cooper looked back at the duo, then around at the destruction and now blessedly silent alarms, then hurriedly followed after Drake. He found him walking through the halls in the same brisk gait, a frown of annoyance plastered on his face.

"Uh… Does that happen… often?" queried Cooper. He didn't want to be rude, but he needed to know.

"No," sighed Drake, "But it's annoying when it does." Cooper looked at him strangely.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but this has got to be one of the strangest vessels I've ever been on," he said. Drake gave a tired smile.

"Oh, you've just gotten aboard," he grinned. "You wonder why exactly Richter is so grumpy all the time? He's got to deal with us."

Great. Cooper now found himself more concerned about the various shenanigans the Apocalypse mercenaries could get up to over aliens, which, considering aliens didn't exist in his home reality, was quite the feat.

This had the propensity to be either a very long or very fun ride. Either way, it certainly would be interesting.

oOo

Commander Jane Shepard sighed to herself as her footfalls echoed through the halls of the Normandy. She was still dressed in her 'normal' clothes instead of her armor. It was always much the same: her N7 sweatshirt and a black pair of pants. She didn't have much else, nor want much else. She snorted softly to herself as she thought of her new companions. They also seemed to be men of one taste in clothing as well, considering every time she saw them they were mostly in the same outfits.

Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she stepped into the Normandy's elevator and pressed the button. It always did take a long time. These elevators… so damn slow. Always. It annoyed her, like a lot of things annoyed her.

She died. That was annoyance number one. Two years of her life, gone with a snap of a finger. She remembered dying, perhaps the worst death imaginable. They said radioactive poisoning was the worst way to go, but suffocating in space was just as bad, if not worse. She didn't like either option, frankly.

Now she was with Cerberus, a pro-human terrorist organization that she opposed on principle and who's ethics were… morally dubious at best. She didn't like them, and she had no choice in either her resurrection or her service to them.

Then there was this. The galaxy-splitting time shenanigans. Instead of just Cerberus and the countless various eclectic individuals that made up her team aboard the Normandy, she was now serving with even more eclectic individuals, morally-dubious mercenaries, and actually really damn scary space racists.

Oh, yeah, there was Cerberus in her home galaxy, there was a political party called Terra Firma that was xenophobic and often compared to the Nazis of old, but they were nothing. The media loved to hype them up to scare people, but they were pretenders compared to the very real, very powerful, and actually quite frightening Imperium. She'd read more on them, and the more she read, the worse it got.

Miranda was spending day and night pouring over every single scrap of information she could find with EDI. The ship's A.I. was actually a boon in this situation, as much as some might be suspicious of it. Information gathering and analytics were an A.I. specialty after all.

However, even that had its issues. EDI had informed Shepard that there were two other A.I.'s within the now-fleet. One was BT-7274, Cooper's battle Titan, which she knew of, but the other was apparently a very powerful analytics A.I. that EDI actually seemed rather apprehensive of.

Then, of course, there was still Shepard's mission against the Collectors, her strained relationship with Cerberus and a few of the new add-ons aboard, the nightmares, the Council… so much stuff. She felt like she was drowning. Suffocating, just like she did in the black void of space two years ago, and she wanted out.

So she took the elevator down, trying to push all the flowing thoughts from her mind throughout the abysmally slow ride. Eventually, the elevator slowed and stopped, and the doors in front of her opened. She stepped out.

There was a lounge aboard the ship, though hardly a large or proper one. But Shepard had to get out, had to stop all of the thoughts swirling around her head, and get away from Miranda and all the problems for a while. Honestly, while the woman was good at what she did, Shepard couldn't stand being with her executive officer for all that long.

As she stepped into the 'lounge', Shepard felt herself visibly relax. Of course, such relaxation wasn't due to the place itself, but the people in it.

Tali and Garrus stood there, the former in her violet enviro-suit and tinted mask, the latter in his blue armor and ever-present visor. The Turian's mandibles quirked as he spoke to the shorter Quarian, both of them sitting comfortably, drinks in hand. Shepard smiled - an actual joyous and happy smile. She was suddenly struck by the thought that she hadn't done so in some time.

"Shepard!" Both Tali and Garrus had noticed her standing in the doorway and immediately stood. Though Tali's face was hidden behind her mask, and Garrus didn't have facial expression due to his Turian-ness, Shepard had spent long enough with both of them to tell they were utterly delighted to see her.

"Garrus. Tali," she replied, face still split into a stupidly wide smile.

"Shepard, what are you standing there for? C'mon, sit down," insisted Tali, gesturing to a nearby seat. Shepard took it gratefully. Garrus wordlessly offered her a levo drink, but she held up her hand to decline. The Turian simply shrugged and sat back down.

Both of them sipped their drinks: both Turian brandy, though in Tali's case it was triple-filtered and came in a sealed cylindrical container. Tali used a straw to idly sip it. At least, Shepard called it a straw. Tali stubbornly insisted it was an emergency induction port, but Shepard knew better. Maybe a specialized sealed and cleansed straw for Quarians, but still a straw.

Both Quarians and Turians were an entirely different protein type than humans. How that worked, Shepard didn't know; she left that to the scientists. What it practically meant was that their DNA was different and they couldn't share food or drinks.

Then of course, Tali's species, the Quarians, were renowned for their incredibly weak immune systems. That was why they always wore enviro-suits. That was why Tali had to eat and drink sterilized consumables.

It was sad, in Shepard's opinion. But there wasn't much to be done either way. She didn't dwell on it, either. These were her very best friends, her closest confidants, her shelter in the storm raging around her, and, though not official, Garrus was more her second-in-command than Miranda ever could be.

"So, what brings you down here to mingle with the plebians, Shepard?" drawled Garrus. Both Tali and Shepard chuckled at that. After the laugher dissipated, Shepard sighed and rubbed her forehead tiredly.

"I… I don't know," she groaned. "I'm just… so tired. So tired of all of this crap," she continued, vaguely gesturing around her. She looked back up at Garrus and Tali with another smile. "Thought I could spend some time, and get some insight from my friends. My actual friends, and not Cerberus pricks." That drew another mild laugh.

"Well, we're here for you no matter what," replied Garrus seriously, his dark alien eyes boring into her own. "Know that, Shepard." The Commander nodded gratefully.

"I know. I've always known." And she did. They were her closest friends. She trusted them beyond measure, beyond anyone else she knew in life. She would do anything for them… because she knew they felt the same about her. When she had recruited quite a few people to the Normandy for a mission to stop the mysterious alien race known as the Collectors, almost all had demanded payment or been suspicious of some sort. Not Garrus and Tali. No. They dropped whatever they were doing and cheerfully came to join her once more. Even with the alien-hating Cerberus in charge, even with her gone and back from the dead for two years, they still rejoined without even the slightest hint of suspicion simply because it was her.

"Good," replied Garrus, voice a melodic timbre as always. Shepard could listen to his voice for hours. It was one of his many, many qualities. "We're always behind you, Cerberus or not, Collectors or not, crazy mercenaries or not, xenophobic space empire or not. Whatever happens, we've got your back." Tali nodded in agreement.

"Always," she added. Her voice was more soft, tinged with a strange accent and the mask she always wore.

"So long as we're on the subject, what are your thoughts on our new situation?" she asked. There was more to meeting them than just the pleasure of being around them, though that was the biggest factor. She also wanted an honest, unbiased, un-sneaky opinion that she could trust. In these days, with Miranda as her first mate and a man that rubbed her the wrong way bringing this group of galaxies together, that was something sorely lacking. Not, of course, that she held it against Drake: he was in the same position as her.

Garrus and Tali both quieted, long, slender dual fingers tapping on their glasses. The Turian cocked his head, considering, as the Quarian stared down into her most-definitely-not-a-straw. Eventually, Garrus looked up to face his Commander.

"It's weird working with criminals," were the first words out of his mouth. Shepard grinned. Garrus had been a cop once, and more recently a vigilante on a space station of particularly notorious repute. He didn't like criminals, and most of the opponents they faced were (criminal) mercenaries. "Now we have two mercenaries and a smuggler. And the guy with the big mech is either a freedom fighter or terrorist, depending on your definition." Well, that quite accurately summed it up.

Garrus was always the type of person to make these sorts of things seem easy. Shepard couldn't ask for better.

"He's a freedom fighter?" asked Tali, looking over curiously to Garrus. The Turian nodded, mandibles shifting at the sides of his face.

"Apparently. He lives in a far reaches of space and the people there fight a company called the Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation. At least, that's based on the information I've seen." What information they had on everyone was rather spotty. It was all based on what they could filter through or get from the others. Concerningly, Drake gave them access to anything and everything about his reality, which didn't really bode well… But, that was another issue for another time.

"The worst ones are those Imperials," piped up Tali. She shuddered. "Bosh'tets. We don't know a lot about them, either, but they make my skin crawl." She looked up at Shepard, luminous silver eyes glowing behind her violet-tinted mask. "There's a difference between them and the average racist Citadel resident. The way they look at you is different." Tali would know; Quarians were looked down upon and seen as untrustworthy thieves by many. But she had a point.

The human-supremacist Terra Firma party or your average xenophobic Volus looked at Quarians like they were beggars. Trash; something that was an eyesore more than anything. The Imperials looked at everyone with a very scary, very specific look that Shepard hadn't really seen before: I hate you, and I can and will destroy you. It was less disgust and more wrath, and the thought process behind it honestly frightened her.

"Yeah, we're dealing with some dangerous people," interjected Garrus with a soft nod of his head. "Then there's the guy in the green armor, the super-soldier, who didn't even give us his name. Only rank: Master Chief." He sighed and shook his head, then looked back up at Shepard with a grin. "You certainly do know how to get into sticky situations," he crooned.

Some part of Shepard did a flip at Garrus's voice. She knew what it was, and had been trying to squish it down for the last few weeks. They had a mission that was supposedly suicidal, so this was not the time for… that. Well, er, distractions. Of any sort.

It was wrong, anyway. She was his commanding officer! His friend. She didn't want to push her luck. Besides, someone like Garrus deserved far better than a beat-up, scarred, technically undead human soldier…

But as Garrus stared down at her with his soft smile, she couldn't help but give one back. Tali added her own grin into the mixture; after being around her long enough, Shepard could tell what she was doing behind her mask. The young Quarian woman was like a little sister to her, after all.

Ultimately, what Shepard had to do was not only protect her crew, but also her galaxy and simply her friends in general. Hopefully the other crews who were from less… brutal galaxies would support her.

But she let the thoughts slowly and easily slide from her mind as Garrus told some ridiculous joke about a prank involving a Volus and twenty tons of imported marmalade. Tali was laughing almost to the point that she was going to spit something on the inside of her visor, and Garrus was smiling at her laughter, and Jane Shepard was happy. Truly, there wasn't much more she could have asked for.

No matter what happened, come Collecters or Reapers or Imperial soldiers or crazy mercenaries or demon gods, she would have Garrus and Tali by her side, and that was enough.

oOo

As he did every day, the mysterious figure known only to the crew as Master Chief walked into the Enterprise's cafeteria (in full armor, of course) and went directly to get his food. He did not stop to speak to anyone; in fact, he didn't even spare a glance towards the crew of the ship. He was a being of a singular purpose, and he would get in and out under the span of a minute.

From their seats, Sulu, Uhura, and Chekov glanced at each other. They were the other bridge officers, and Kirk had given them the duty to watch over the Chief's meetings with the crew to see how they went.

So far, those meetings had been non-existent. The Master Chief had a very disconcerting ability to near-instantaneously shut down an initiated conversation by ignoring the speaker and giving monosyllabic answers. The officers got the impression that the Chief wasn't rude, nor was he necessarily bad at speaking - he just didn't want to. He preferred his own privacy.

Unfortunately for him, the officers of the Enterprise had deemed it more of a priority to understand the Chief and make sure he wasn't going to kill everyone aboard.

Both Sulu and Uhura were glancing at Chekov now, silently motioning their heads towards the massive, intimidating figure of the Chief as he strolled to get the food he always ate in the privacy of his cabin. Chekov shrugged, glancing back at them desperately. A silent war waged between the officers, Chekov desperately shaking his head while Uhura glared at him. Sulu looked like he was trying not to laugh.

Eventually, Chekov sighed and gave in. The Russian security officer trudged over to the now-leaving figure of the Chief (he was fast), put on his best smile, and tapped the massive man on the shoulder. The Chief whirled around, tray still firmly in hand, golden visor gazing down at Chekov intently. He did not speak, but the security officer could see that his posture was waiting and open, as if inviting him to.

For his part, Chekov put on his best smile, trying to hide his nervousness. He glanced back briefly at Sulu and Uruha. The two were watching him smugly. He resisted the urge to shoot them a glare. Why did he have to do this? Well, they had talked it over, and he was the security officer, but still. This guy was terrifying.

"Erm, excuse me," he asked politely. The Chief merely stared at him, as if silently saying go on. Chekov sighed internally. He really wasn't making this easy, was he? "I'm Pavel Chekov, the Enterprise's security officer." Another silent go on. Chekov tried not to gulp. "I wanted to talk to you about security arrangements." Before the Chief could speak, Chekov continued. "I know you're not really one to talk, but the crew are slightly nervous about you. Perhaps if you spoke to them more, they might be put at ease. Also, as the head of the ship's security-"

"You are worried about me and what I might do to the crew," interrupted the Chief bluntly. His tone of voice gave no indication to what he might be thinking. Chekov tried his best not to blanch beneath the super-soldier's iron glare. Even through the solid gold visor, Chekov could feel the heat of the expression. Hopefully he was doing better than he felt.

"Uh, well, uh, yes, actually," continued Chekov. His accent was slipping deeper into Russian, something that usually happened when he was nervous or excited. He tried to consciously correct it and only partially succeeded. "I mean, you are a super-soldier," he said, gesturing to the massive figure of the Chief, towering above him. "We don't know exactly what you can do to us or if you'd want to. You haven't said anything at all."

"If I wanted to harm you, I would have already done so," replied the Chief, repeating Drake's words at the first meeting. Chekov blanched again. That much was true. Just due to his height, brawn, and armor, the Chief was more than a match for any of the Enterprise's security forces. But it was exactly what the Chief was and could do that Chekov desired to find out.

"Well, yes, I guess so, but it's my job to find out exactly how much of a threat you could be." The head of security stuck to his guns. "Besides, if you're on our ship, we could train together and learn from one another." He smiled. "What do you say?" The Chief tilted his head ever-so-slightly, considering for a moment before he nodded.

"Very well," he said. "Tell me what you would like done, and it will be done." Chekov heaved a huge internal sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he replied. The Chief made a motion to leave, but Chekov put a hand on his arm to stop him. The subsequent look shot his way made him grab his hand back. It wasn't menacing, simply stating don't touch me. Chekov could respect that. "Uh, one more thing, uh, Master Chief…" Another tilt of the head. Chekov was getting better at reading this guy, even from behind the armor. "It would, uh, settle the nerves of the crew a lot if you actually ate with them. I - uh, I know you don't seem to really like questions, but we don't have to ask you any, and I know you don't like taking off your helmet, so I guess you won't eat with us, but… It would just be better if you, uh… spent some time around the crew in your down time," he finished awkwardly.

The Chief looked at him. This time, Chekov had no idea what the man was thinking behind the intimidating suit of green armor. However, eventually, the Chief gave a slow, small nod. Chekov released a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Okay, yes, thank you," he said. The Chief nodded again and swiftly left the room. Chekov visibly slumped in relief. He could hear the nervous chatter of the rest of the crew sounding through the room at the Master Chief's disappearance. He hadn't been lying: the Chief truly could be a threat.

Chekov wearily walked back to Sulu and Uhura, who were getting far too much amusement from his discomfort than he would prefer. He scowled at them. They both smirked back up at him.

"See?" said Uhura. "It wasn't that bad."

"If it wasn't that bad then why didn't you do it?" muttered Chekov.

"Because you're the big, brave security officer," replied Uhura with a grin. Chekov gave her another glare.

"Besides, he'll listen to matters of security. Pretty sure he won't care about navigation or something of the sort," added Sulu. Chekov merely slumped down into his chair.

"I just hope it goes better tomorrow."

oOo

Within her place in John-117's suit of MJOLNIR armor, Cortana paced. Of course, she did not literally pace, just as she did not physically live in John's armor. She was not a physical creature: she was a computer program, and thus could not have physical form unless she chose to appear in hologram.

But countless bits and parts of data were running through Cortana's artificial mind. She was a master of hacking (without others noticing, of course; otherwise she wouldn't be a master), and what data that was stored in the digital banks of the various ships of the fleet were hers for the taking.

Drake, of course, gave everything about his reality freely. Cortana and John had been very suspicious, but from every iota of information she had analyzed, of everything she learned and saw of Drake, he was telling the truth. She puzzled over that for a long time, but eventually she came to the only singular logical conclusion: she was overthinking this, and the mercenary captain's only motive was to get his newfound comrades to trust him.

At least he was honest with his allies. Though from what she gathered, he was very brutal against his enemies.

But Drake and the various humans and aliens were the least of Cortana's concerns right now. Yes, they were interesting, but there was something far more intriguing to contemplate. Two more somethings, in fact.

Cortana was naturally curious. Perhaps it came with being a clone of Doctor Halsey's brain, perhaps it came with being an A.I., or perhaps it was something all hers. She didn't quite know for certain. But in the end, she wanted to know, wanted to find out, and had an insatiable curiosity for new information.

That, combined with the fact that Cortana had never actually talked to an A.I. of her caliber before. While she had John and a few other human friends, Cortana also longed for company of someone of her own kind.

That could be a possibility here, though it was also a massive risk. She didn't know what EDI or BT-7274 were like, how much they were shackled, or how smart they were in comparison to her. She knew John wouldn't want her to take this risk, but she was going to do it anyway. After all, how could they find out anything if not by talking, if not by trial and error? She could just let things linger, of course, but there was no fun in that. She wouldn't learn anything otherwise; they wouldn't learn anything otherwise.

But she still had to be careful. She couldn't just contact them directly. It simply wouldn't do. No… she had to be clever.

So, within her purely digital world, she shaped a box. Then she shaped layers upon layers of digital code and defenses around the box. Putting every ounce of her power, every ounce of her cleverness into the project, she made the box as nigh-impenetrable as she could. This was a vault - a digital safe. She pondered more before a brilliant idea came to mind.

She made certain that the only way in or out was a single sealed entrance. She locked the entrance, and as its lock, Cortana made something quite clever. She couldn't just trust these other A.I.'s - why should she? Thus, she couldn't make the lock simply a powerful code. No. That wouldn't do. It would perhaps prove the other A.I.'s were powerful, but not what they were. So to get in the box, she had to make them prove they understood their charges.

Within this digital safe, she placed lines of code: her reward. Cortana smiled to herself. What better way to contact the other A.I.'s than with a puzzle? She always did enjoy them.

With a snap of her fingers, she sent the digital safe to EDI and BT. She would know the reply they made to open the box: part of the security of it. She hoped that they could figure it out. With a smile, Cortana went back to analyzing data, waiting for the other A.I.s' reply.

oOo

There we have it! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and all of our various interactions throughout. There will be more next chapter, then we'll launch into the Scoundrels' first mission! As always, I do appreciate any comments, criticisms, questions, concerns, and reviews!