Magnificent Scoundrels

by thelordofdarkreunion

When galaxies collide, the greatest heroes from each team up. The question is not if they can survive this strange new reality, but rather if this new universe can survive them. Featuring Ciaphas Cain, Jane Shepard, Peter Quill, Jack Cooper, Han Solo, James Kirk, and Master Chief John 117.

10. A Day In The Life Of

Here we are! I am so sorry this took so long to get out. As an apology, I have written a Bloodborne/Mass Effect crossover for your viewing pleasure, and a 'Things the Scoundrels Are No Longer Allowed to Do' comedy is in the works. Again, I really do apologize for getting this out so late.

I do think you'll all like this chapter. It's a first-person POV for the Scoundrels, each told in their own style. I should therefore mention that if there are things that aren't my usual 'style', that's the reason. I'm trying to write each character in their own style. So, hopefully this chapter is worth the wait.

The last point of business is in regards to the larger elements of the story at play and several of the reviews. Everyone has their own ideas for who is the most powerful being(s)/faction(s) at play in the story. That's fine. Everyone also has their own options on whether or not some of them should be included for a myriad of factors. That's also fine. In fact, I encourage you to tell me your opinions: that's how I write a better story. What I will say is that there is a larger story at play, and the larger-scope villains will be the major, extremely powerful groups of each universe. For those of you asking, no this is not a 'Chaos-wank'. They will be nuanced but powerful, something that Warhammer usually fails at (Chaos is either the end-all galaxy-destroying unstoppable villains or almost cartoon villains). We won't be seeing a whole lot of them now, and their main point in this phase of the story is simply to move some things forward. Hopefully that works. As always, in regards to every faction, I will portray them to the best of my ability, taking everything (including your reviews) into account. So please, do trust me on that. According to you guys, I'm one of the better ones at doing that on this site. So, speaking to which, on to reviews!

hunter 139: There is no Chaos wank. They are an extremely powerful group and must be taken into account. Plus, they make an excellent large-scope villain. Also, they are literally the primordial entities that make up existence: i.e. they are the Infinity Stones of their universe. They are equals to the Stones, which will be taken into account. Besides, Tzeentch is the god of lies, so nothing he says is truthful. Or is it?

Heart of Shepard: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it! I'm also looking forward to those character, so hopefully I can write faster going forward!

Communist Baboon 3: Thank you! Yes, it is a bit of work, but hopefully it all turns out well, and hopefully you enjoy it!

BonesofSmite: Thank you! I hope you enjoy!

Ravenguard0009: I will try to blend everything as best I can. As for your question of faith, yes, I do think faith will protect against Chaos.

Guest: As you mentioned, Marvel cannon is extraordinarily convoluted. At least Warhammer and Star Trek remain consistent when going into alternate dimensions/realities. I'm trying to portray it as best as possible, both with the Stones and the Gods of Chaos. I'll try to remain consistent either way.

Clare Prime of Ultra: Oh, I am very much looking forward to the Scoundrels meeting a few very interesting Marines in the future. Yes, Luke did meet Revan. Thanks for noticing! As for meeting the Emperor, I don't think he'll show up until crunch time. He usually doesn't. Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Madara95: Oh, yeah. It should be quite fun.

michaelwilber2022: Thank you! I appreciate your comments (even if did eat them), and hope you enjoy the story!

JawsOnYou67: I'm not exactly sure the Flood and Primordial's relationship with 'magic'. I'll have to look further into it. Thanks for the heads-up, though. The Old Ones from Warhammer will not be coming back (but, slight spoiler, we will be seeing a certain ancient collector of fine antiquities sometime in the future, which will be rather fun). Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoy!

FinnTheHumanMC: Thanks! I hope you enjoy it.

Guest: I don't think the Slayer will be showing up, because he's just way too powerful, and I already have enough universes on my hands. Sorry about that. He's a fun character, and maybe I'll do something with him in another story down the road.

Guest: Ha! That would be great. But I couldn't write it. Someone else would have to. I'm flattered that you think my story is good enough for it, though.

bree: I will be keeping them limited to 'shenanigans', as you say. This won't be turning into a Chaos-central plot. Their main point is to move the plot forward, which they excel at. Hopefully that's good enough for you guys. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

oOo

A Day In The Life Of

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." -Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mockingbird

oOo

Thomas Drake

The sweet, yet somber and breathtaking wondrous serenade that was Lacrimosa by Mozart filtered its way through the speakers within my room, mellifluous and distinct, utterly sublime in its dramatic entirety. In my own humble opinion, it was perhaps one of the greatest of musical pieces for silent drama, to simply be within oneself and think of things around you. And yet to think: this was the last composition of Mozart! It most certainly added a flair of drama and finality to the piece.

Ironically enough, (and most people don't know this) Lacrimosa is merely one part of a larger piece, titled the Requiem in D minor, K. 626. It was commissioned by Count Franz von Walsegg as Requiem Mass music for the first anniversary of the death of his wife. How incredibly ironic that the music commissioned for a Catholic Funeral Mass would be the last thing that Mozart ever wrote. I, for one, am a great connoisseur and appreciator of irony, and this is perhaps one of the most savory morsels I've come across. The finality and drama of death, which would turn out to be Mozart's last work. Breathtaking.

Of course, perhaps one of the best uses for Lacrimosa is to add an air of drama and gravitas to nearly any mundane situation. It's why I have it on my 'playlist', as it were. I rather enjoyed its accompaniment for what I was doing now.

I stood in my bathroom before my mirror, bare chested, as I went about finishing my morning routine. Some people wonder what the routine of a mercenary captain might be: allow me to put to rest any such fanciful notions of intrigue, drama, or pleasure you might conjure up from watching too many movies. My routine is the same as anyone else's.

I wore only a pair of black pants, held in place by a combat-proof, elegant black belt. My boots, naturally the same color, were already on my feet. Personally, I quite enjoyed the look. Much like Lacrimosa playing in the background, it gave everything an air of drama. One's routine could be quite normal, yet still extraordinary if one is willing to make it so.

At the present moment, I was shaving. Barbasol cream (first in the business and still in business after a millennia: they make a good product. What more can one want?) and a straight razor. I never shave with anything but a straight razor. Call me old fashioned (my men do), but I enjoy it. It's a closer shave, there's no need to ever replace or swap blades, and it feels better. It was one of the few things my father was ever right about.

Regardless, such thoughts did not matter at the present moment. My face flecked with white foam, I stood shaving before the mirror. I was half-dressed, my pants and boots on. Both black, of course - I've never had a need for anything flashy, merely practical. Simple, dark colors are my forte. Besides, I look good in black. It's a uniform of sorts, something eminently comfortable and exceptionally memorable. For purposes of knowing who I am, for purposes of practicality, comfort, and style, this is my uniform. Powerful, knee-length shining black boots, stark pants, and a simple, strong, military-grade belt made up my lower limbs.

I was not wearing a shirt, of course, as previously mentioned. Instead, my torso was bare, and I stared at myself in the mirror as I shaved.

Scars and burns, livid and ruinous, streaked across my body. My flesh was patchmarked and pocketed, a quilt of varying marks and colors. All of it together was a horror upon a human body.

This was the inevitable result of more than a decade of war. Every injury imaginable belonged to me; marred my body. I have been shot, caught in explosions, burned by fire, napalm, and chemicals, stabbed, slashed, hit by plasma blasts, been crushed, smashed, beaten, tortured, and impaled. Such is the life of a soldier and a mercenary.

By far the worst mark is the huge, livid mass of discolored and burned flesh that makes up the left side of my body. Though hidden beneath my boots and pants, it travels from my left ankle, up the left side of my leg, curls around my chest and back, and wraps around my arm and hand. This is the legacy of my time in the Army, and the terrible power of IEDs. I try to keep my expression neutral when my gaze slips from my face to the burns on my chest. Try. Fail.

I remember once an argument between two fresh crewmen. Neither were soldiers; I hired them for their technical skills aboard the ship. One was a man, one a woman, and they sat down and went through the age-old classic: which hurts more, giving birth or being kicked in the testicles?

I did not interfere, but silently, humourlessly, I laughed to myself and went on my way. They have no idea what pain is like. No idea how it feels to burn alive, how it feels to cough up bits of your lungs, how it feels to survive that which should have killed you through sheer spite and fury.

With one last slow, smooth motion, I glide the razor over the last bit of shaving cream and overnight stubble. A flick and the blade is clean. I splash lukewarm water over my face, washing away the remaining detritus of miscellaneous flecks of white. This is followed by a dry towel, warm and soft, patting away any moisture that remains on my face. With a sigh, I put the towel back upon its rack and turn back to the mirror.

The edge of the shaving cream and towel had traced their way beside a long slashing scar on my neck above the collarbone. That had been a gift from a man who tried to cut my throat in a close-quarters brawl. He missed anything vital - a mistake. A deadly mistake. His last.

I can't help but bring my left hand up, turning it and gazing upon it in the direct light of the bathroom. The burns were, of course, on the left side of my hand, twisting around the palm and back about halfway. The skin was dark and leathery on the pinky and ring fingers; the other two and thumb untouched. Such an interesting sight. It was deeply intriguing, in a very macabre way. Only too often I find myself staring at my burns from all that time ago. The dichotomy between the healthy, hale flesh and the long-destroyed mess of burns was morbidly fascinating.

"What do you think you see? The smashed body of a wretched animal," I intone, enunciating each word pristinely, trying not to sneer. The words are from Ben-Hur, the American 1959 film epic. I am alive, I am outwardly handsome, I have no marrings, and frankly I do not really care about my scars, but sometimes I relate more to the shattered Messala on a primitive operating table than I do other men.

I do not care about my scars - at least that's what I tell myself. I do not care about my past - at least that's what I tell myself. But such things do not matter now.

Turning from the mirror, I walk into my cabin, turning the bathroom lights off behind me. My bedroom, my cabin, is an extraordinarily elegant space, decorated to my own personal tastes. It is a mix of old-fashioned stonework and wooden mahogany furniture blended to ultimate perfection with modern, state-of-the-art technology and containers. All one room (I enjoy my style, but I need nothing more), my bed is in the upper right corner, leaving space free for everything else.

There is a fireplace of stone upon the right wall. A fake fire resides within. I rarely use it. On the left wall in the center is the bathroom entrance. Before it, closer to the door, is my desk, complete with a weapons locker. Behind the bathroom door, closer to the far wall, is an ornate liquor cabinet, complete with mahogany base and ornate glass above. I rarely use it for its intended purpose; mostly it's a decorative piece. Of course, liquor, especially the rarities I've collected throughout my years as a mercenary, is a highly effective and near-universal currency and bribe.

There are bookshelves, low and wooden, on the far wall, holding a variety of tomes. The adventure novels of my youth mix with massive history books, big enough to bludgeon people to death with, and the classic writings of human literature for countless millennia.

But I digress. The rest of my clothes are laid out on my bed, and it's to these I walk to. A long-sleeved black shirt, built custom, is the first thing I slip on, tucking it in beneath my belt. Its thin material is stab-proof (for a shirt) and fireproof. It's also designed to cool my body, something my ruined sweat glands and skin have a hard time keeping up with.

My coat, my famous coat, is next. Black and powerful, it too is custom-tailored to me. Bulletproof, it has a temperature control system and a variety of pockets within.

The coat slides neatly over my body. I fix the cuffs and pull the high collar snugly around my neck. The collar reaches above my Adam's apple to nearly my chin, both to protect my neck and to hide the scars lower beneath it. Finished with my coat, adjusting it to seamless perfection, I take my gloves and slide them over my hands. Black covers burns and hale flesh alike in uniformity.

The last step in this routine is to walk to my desk. There, my belt and sidearm stand in a container beside it. My outer belt is a heavy thing made of black reinforced plastoid. It is made of more pouches than actual belt, designed to hold whatever gear a soldier might need. This I slip over my coat and tighten around my waist. The empty holster feels odd against my right hip.

Now I take the final, and perhaps most important piece to rest upon my person. Melktric Armories 465 Charger, matte black, .44 caliber, six shots. Top-break cylinder, takes a pre-loaded central block of ammunition inserted into the main housing. The gun lies inert and unloaded before me as I take it from its secure container of shining steel. In a practiced motion, I take a pre-loaded revolver cartridge of six shots and insert it into the housing with a flourish. I close the break with a nearly noiseless click. Loaded and ready to fire, I set the safety on and holster it with flawless ease.

Lacrimosa ends, and a new song comes across my room's speaker. I smile in amusement, both at the fittingness of the song, and how eclectically bizarre my tastes are. Somber funeral masses in classical styles are replaced by cheery pop music espousing the wonders of arrogant self-confidence.

"Who's that sexy thing standing over there? That's me, standing in the mirror..."

My taste in things of culture is incredibly varied, it would seem. Mozart, Ben-Hur, American pop… I've got it all. Of course, I could go into the countless centuries of history and culture that have surpassed humanity being only on Earth, but that wouldn't make much sense for a 21st century audience, now would it?

(Richter says I should stop breaking the fourth wall, but both you and I disagree, don't we?)

I smile to myself and give one last adjustment to my collar. Another day in the office, though my office is a starship and my job is that of an adventurer and mercenary. Today, though, we're slated to switch commands, which ought to be interesting at the very least. I walk out of the door, the last song to grace my ears replaying through my mind.

"If I was you, I'd wanna be me, too. I'd wanna be me, too. I'd wanna be me, too."

oOo

Jack Cooper

I've always been an early riser. It comes with being a farm boy, I guess. The habit was bred into me from birth, and continued throughout my military career. Farmers and soldiers are the early risers.

My borrowed quarters aboard the Apocalypse are very nice for a farmer or soldier. They aren't luxurious by any means, but they're still much larger than any bedroom I've ever owned. In fact, the only bedroom I had was my tiny childhood bedroom. Soldiers sleep in barracks together.

It was still odd to be all alone. At least, the feeling I have was that I am alone, despite the hustle and bustle of the ship around me. There were a great deal of people who crewed the Apocalypse. How many, I have no idea. But they were something different, a crew of people, invisible, like janitors and other workers, nameless and faceless, who simply existed to serve the ship.

It was also odd not to have human company from my home reality. Yes, I've been in that situation before. On Typhon, it was just me and BT for long stretches of the mission. But we still met other soldiers, both Militia and IMC. Other people from the place I knew, the place I called and still call home, existed. They were in front of me and behind me, all over the planet and on the radio even if I couldn't see them.

Here there was no one who shared that same background. Oh, yes, there were a great many people here. In fact, I got along very well with a lot of them. It was pretty ironic (and pretty funny) that soldiers from all of these new realities were almost alike in a lot of regards. I smile as visions of the Apocalypse's armsmen in drinking games, card games, and heated debates over ridiculous subjects go through my mind. Yeah, soldiers are very similar in many regards. Very similar.

But none of them know anything about the Frontier. None of them know our history. None of them are from my galaxy. While I'm surrounded by people, people who do like me and care for me, I still feel like an outsider, in a way. It's a weird feeling, one that I don't really know how to put into words.

At least I have BT. The thought of my Titan makes me smile. He's been by my side… well, ever since Captain Lastimosa. Ever since we both lost a great friend.

BT used to belong to Captain Lastimosa, back when I was just an infantryman. I had always wanted to become a Pilot, and for whatever reason, Lastimosa took it upon himself to train me. He was both a mentor and a friend, slain by Kuben Blisk on Typhon.

BT had become my best friend throughout the Typhon campaign. To some it might seem strange, having an A.I. as your closest friend, but that's what a link between a Pilot and Titan is. It's as close as you can get to someone. Some say it's more intimate and trusting than marriage, with sharing your minds and lives as one. I couldn't say. I'm not married. Hell, I can't find a girl to look more than once at me.

My reminiscing of Typhon over, I finish the short shower and step out. My showers are always short and room-temperature through sheer force of habit. Leading a farming and military life will do that to you.

I shave with the towel around my waist, frowning in concentration as I look in the mirror. All my toiletries are Militia standard-issue (or as close as you can get to standard-issue in the Militia). The razor, the shaving cream, the soap I use… it's all the same. Drake and his quartermaster offered to outfit me with anything I need, but I don't need anything else. I already have toiletries, guns, and BT and all work just fine.

Finishining, I gaze in the mirror one last time as I clean the last of the shaving cream from my face. A familiar face gazes back. Black hair, cut short enough to not be a problem but not really styled into anything, covers a plain face. Listen, there are a lot of people in the galaxy (well, now the universe), with a lot of different variations. But me… Well, I'm really just unremarkable.

My hair is black (the most common color). My skin tone is that typical perfect blend of tones so common on the Frontier that people can't really tell where your family was originally from on Earth. I'm well-muscled, as all Pilots are (and have to be), but that's usually hidden behind my gear. Also, like most Pilots, I'm very much on the short side. 5'8" is not tall for guys. No wonder none of the girls look twice at me. That's simply an unwritten rule for them.

Ah, well. I'm not one to complain. Much.

Walking into my borrowed bedroom, I swiftly shuck the towel and put on my clothes. Nothing special: simple tight-fitting pants and a t-shirt. However, over those go my Pilot's gear. A heavy jumpsuit, crimson in color, is zipped over my body, comfortable and snug. This is followed by my armor vest with the jump jets at the back.

I pick up my helmet from where it rests on the nightstand beside my borrowed bed. This is the last piece of my armor. In my own humble opinion, it's what makes a Pilot look cool. I grin to myself. Sometimes, I still can't believe I actually became a Pilot. Making the jump from sparsely-educated farm boy to Militia grunt was something a lot of sons and daughters of the Frontier did. Making the jump from grunt to Pilot, though… that was something almost unheard of. But a guy can still dream, and sometimes it seems those dreams come true.

Before leaving, I pick up my Wingman revolver and holster it on my belt. Sometimes I still boggle at the fact Drake allowed a stranger to walk around armed to the teeth on his ship. But, through experience, I've found that's how the Apocalypse mercenaries work. If everyone's armed, you know where you stand. No tricks, no hidden weapons. Soldiers were soldiers.

I liked them. That was my kind of thinking.

Exiting my room (it wasn't really my room. It wasn't decorated, wasn't personalized, and to me it held to significance), I walked to the Apocalypse's main hangar. On the way, I passed a few crewmen. I nodded politely and greeted them all cheerfully. Already, I was becoming a fixture in life aboard the ship. I liked it. Despite being the only person from my galaxy here, it was still nice to feel welcomed.

Speaking of which, it was so incredibly… new, seeing all of the people from all of the various galaxies that made up the fleet. The thought would hit me at random times, usually in a situation like this one, when I was going to meet my now-comrades.

There were aliens. Aliens. They were real. They existed. (Well, not where I was from. But from other places… which were now connected to my place. I try not to think too deep on those things.)

It's weird seeing it firsthand. There are people, living, breathing, talking, loving, hating, fearing people that are not human. The very concept is stunning to me. Unlike Shepard and her tall spiky friend, or Vir and his tall, four-armed friend, or Han and his large, hairy friend (honestly, why are all of the aliens so big?) who get along so well, or even Cain and the Imperials whose policy towards aliens is apparently 'shoot first, ask questions later', I really don't know what to think. How do you even go about constructing the concept of another species? One that is entirely different from you? The cultural misconceptions alone must be horrible.

It was just all so confusing. But from what I've seen, at least aboard the Apocalypse, aliens seem to be like everyone else. I smile to myself. Soldiers are soldiers, no matter where they're from or what species they are.

My destination was the hangar, to see BT and meet up with the rest of the Apocalypse's crewmen and soldiers. Today we would be switching things up. Exactly what that entailed for me, I had no idea. I'm just a soldier: I'm not in command of anyone or anything. But just so, that wasn't my area of expertise.

Whatever Drake decided or will decide, I guess that's how I'll go. He seems trustworthy enough. I smile to myself as I walk. The idea is a good one. It will be quite interesting, if nothing else, to meet some new people.

oOo

Jane Shepard

I groan as I roll out of bed, alarm blaring beside my ear. Standing groggily, I somehow manage to bash the off button of my alarm clock. My hands run through my long red hair and I sigh heavily. The chill of my empty, dark, too-large cabin greets me. I sigh again, rubbing my face tiredly, and blearily trek to the bathroom, trying to force myself to shake off my tiredness.

My bathroom is also far larger, far emptier, than what I'm used to. It's done up in a very sleek, elegant, modern style to fit both the current architectural tastes of the era and the rest of the Normandy. There's a toilet, cabinets that seem to fit in with everything else, a mirror, and a large, open shower. Like the rest of my cabin, I can't help but think it's too big for me by far. Too empty. Too lonely.

As I flick on the bathroom lights, I trek to the shower and flip it on to its hottest setting. While I wait for it to warm up, I walk over to the mirror and slowly strip off my clothes, still tired. The tiredness annoys me, and I try to conjure up a surge of adrenaline to shake it off, but I just can't manage it. Sighing to myself again, I toss my t-shirt, shorts, and underwear aside and test the water.

Still cold. I stare back at the mirror. My form greets me, though I'm not entirely sure I want to greet it back.

The great Commander Jane Shepard, Hero of the Skyllian Blitz, First Human Spectre, and Savior of the Citadel isn't really the face that stares back at me. Commander Shepard is bright and awake, her eyes alert and commanding. Sure, sometimes she might look dirty or tired from the grime of the battlefield, but she was always in command. She always wore an aura of confidence around her like a well-fitted cloak.

The woman that stared back at me was… well, me. Jane. Jane Shepard. At least, I'm fairly certain I'm the same person. I think I'm Jane Shepard. Sometimes I wonder, though, and the fact that sometimes I can't be certain makes me sick to my stomach.

My red hair spills over my green eyes and eyes lined with slight bags. I give a small, sardonic laugh to the mirror. I used to be a morning person. Used to be. Nowadays, with so much work, so much stress, so little time (so much emptiness), I hardly have the time for sleep, and even when I do, it always feels like I can never fall asleep.

But here I am, in all my glory, nothing like the holonews would have you believe. I suppose billions of people would love to have a picture of a naked Commander Shepard, but to me, this is simply normal. Or, as some dark part of my mind whispers, less-than normal. Disgusting. Untrustworthy.

Faint scars, continually fading away, criss-cross my body. I try not to look at them, and when I do, wince and look away.

The scars were caused when I was rebuilt by Cerberus. Yes. Rebuilt. Like… like a thing. Like a machine, a galaxy-saving machine to be used or discarded at the pleasure of others. Sometimes that's what I feel like I am.

I turn myself away from the mirror, trying not to look back at my marred back, and enter the shower.

Gloriously hot water awaits me. I'm sure my skin will be a bit red after I'm done, but this is what I need. Listen, there are a lot of pleasures in life, like a beer with good friends, or watching a good movie, or testing out new guns on the firing range, but a soldier quickly learns that there is one, and only one ultimate pleasure: a nice, hot shower.

Cracking my back and finally relaxing, I throw off the last visages of sleep beneath the scalding water. After a moment of simple relaxing and stretching tense muscles back into line, I look up to the rack of soaps in the shower.

I always feel a little… weird using these soaps, conditioners, and shampoos, but hey, no one else needs to know. Again, Commander Shepard is a commander. She's a soldier first and foremost. She can command anyone from Krogan to Turian, drink the boys under, and is a strong, independent woman who doesn't (who desperately does) need a man. Using very girly scented soaps is certainly something no one thinks Commander Shepard would even think of.

But the scent of jasmine and lavender soothes me as I wash my body, trying not to think of anything in particular. That's an impossibility, unfortunately, especially in a shower. Thoughts tend to creep up on you here.

First and foremost, always present, worming away at the back of my mind, was my death and resurrection. It always seemed to come roaring to the front of my consciousness whenever I was in the dark trying to sleep or was naked and could see and feel the countless scars the Lazarus Project imposed on me.

But, yes, I died. The previous iteration of the Normandy had been destroyed by a Collector ship. I was ejected into space and asphyxiated there. Even against the warmth of the shower water and the comforting smells of my soaps, I shiver. The memory of cold and a horrible, horrible death floats through my head, and it takes nearly all I have to push it away.

They say death by asphyxiation in space is one of the worst ways to die. I can confirm.

I was brought back from a frozen sack of lifeless meat by the human supremacist terrorist organization Cerberus. How they did this, I still have no idea. Dead was dead was dead, right? Coming back from death was impossible. Yeah, sure, someone might be declared clinically dead and be revived after a few minutes or even hours, but two years? That just couldn't be done.

A rotting corpse of blood and brains couldn't just be fired up to its previous specifications. How could I even know I was the same person? I must admit, I don't particularly like Cerberus. At all. I don't trust them on anything else, so why this? Was I even the same person I was before? Was this even the same body I had? Or was I someone else entirely, their memories erased, programmed to be Commander Shepard? Or maybe I was just stitched together, like Frankenstein's monster.

I know for a fact Cerberus has done some utterly unspeakable things with their 'science'. Was I another one? Did I really want to know how I was returned to life? Honestly, at this point, I try not to think about it. But memories of dying, scared and alone, in the cold darkness of space always seem to rise to the forefront of my mind when I'm least prepared and at my weakest.

Even if I wanted to think about that, I couldn't. I didn't have the time or energy to dwell on it. Cerberus did not spend two years and untold trillions of credits on bringing me back from the dead for no reason.

The Reapers were coming. They were a race of sentient machines, millions of years old, that wiped out all sentient life in the galaxy every fifty thousand years. And fifty thousand years were nearly up…

The Reapers were using a mysterious race called the Collectors to kidnap human colonists throughout the galaxy for an unknown purpose. Cerberus wanted it stopped, and figured I was the best candidate for the job.

Too bad they never asked me. At least I got a remade Normandy and a lot of my old crew back, which was nice. Garrus and Tali in particular were extraordinarily helpful and grounding. Garrus was my solid, always loyal, extremely constant (super hot, brave, handsome - stop) best friend. Tali was just as close, my excited, intelligent, fun-loving little sister.

But, of course, even with them here, there were problems, now more than ever. With the convergence of galaxies, there were a few groups who were rather xenophobic. Really, just one in particular that was really xenophobic.

The Imperium of Man worried me. Scared me sometimes, too. Oh, yes, xenophobes were nothing new where I come from. Humanity had Cerberus and their own little hated xenophobic party called Terra Firma. A few other species, especially Batarians, Krogan, and Turians, were either pretty xenophobic or had elements of it in their societies. However, good old-fashioned 'you stay in your area and do what you want while I stay in mine' racism or the occasional sneering and speech were completely different from suffer not the alien to live. It was the difference between talking to your grandma who disliked Turians over the First Contact War and facing a division of SS Stormtroopers.

They did scare me, deep down somewhere. Cain seemed calm and poised enough, but you never really knew. It was just one more thing to add to the list. What if they decided they didn't like us? What if this was just a front? They'd come gunning for me and my best friends, and that just couldn't happen, but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

Finally finishing washing myself, I sigh and stare at the showerhead, part of me unwilling to leave the warm water and face the day. Today we were switching up commands, or at least changing around personnel. Or something like that. Drake was a big enigma, and while he seemed perfectly fine, there was an air of mystery around the man. Maybe that was just me being suspicious, though.

Okay. Focus. I take a deep breath. Gotta get ready to face the day, and provide the confidence and level-headed strategy that Commander Shepard always does. I've always found the best way to organize things, especially huge issues like the ones at hand, is to make simple lists.

One: try to warn everyone about the Reapers and prepare for their coming without worrying myself to death. Easier said than done. Maybe my new comrades could help? Food for thought.

Two: figure out what to do about the Collectors. Recent events have thrown everything into a tizzy. With everything going on, the Collectors have been put on the backburner, something that should not be happening. Then again, I haven't heard anything from the Illusive Man, Cerberus's enigmatic leader. He usually shows up to be annoying quite frequently to tell me what to do. Lately, he hasn't been around. Hopefully whatever reality-warping issues went on threw the Collectors for a loop as well. One can only hope. But if not… maybe enlist my new friends to fight them.

Three: find out more about the Imperium of Man. Something few people seem to realize is that hate is usually bred out of ignorance. That's certainly true about my own galaxy. On the first Normandy, when everyone actually got to know each other, all of the pre-held notions members of different species had for each other disappeared. Maybe if we got to know more about each other, or if I could figure out where their mindset came from, things would lessen.

Kind of like what we're doing today, actually. I suppose they're smarter than I gave them credit for.

Four (slightly in conjunction with three): ignore the growing attraction to your best friend who happens to be an alien. I'm a human commander, and he's my Turian subordinate, not to mention my best friend. The sheer amount of issues that could arrive from that combination is staggering. Plus there's a suicide mission against Collectors and a nine-galaxy convergence to focus on. Plus the fact I'm a scarred, beat-up, undead human Marine, and he's a very suave, funny, kind-hearted Turian, so he probably wouldn't even look twice at me anyway.

Five: do this all while ignoring the constant nightmares of suffocating to death in the cold, dark void of space. Ha. Ha. Easier said than done. But that was what I had to do, right? Throw any nightmares and suspicious thoughts about my resurrection to the back of my mind and keep on soldiering. The galaxy and my friends need me, and I can't let them down because of a few stupid dreams.

Six: actually find it in yourself to get out of the shower and go face the day. I grin to myself humorlessly. The last was first, and right now seemed to be the hardest. Sighing to myself, I force my hand to reach the shower handle and turn off the water. The water dissipates, and I try not to sigh again in dejection.

I step out from the shower and grab a nearby towel to dry myself off. Again, I avert my eyes as I walk past the mirror. Reminders of my suspiciously miraculous resurrection are to be avoided at all costs.

Putting on a pair of black sweatpants, a black t-shirt, and my trusty, comfortable, ever-present N7 sweatshirt, I crack my neck in the privacy of my own room. Here we go. Commander Shepard, enter stage right. Time to go face the day. Again. And again. And again.

oOo

Han Solo

Morning finds me tinkering in the Falcon's hyperdrive. This is where I usually find myself after getting up. There is something soothing about the familiar motions of fixing things that need to be fixed. 'Course, there's always something that needs to be fixed on the Falcon. I never said she was perfect, just that she's perfect for me.

Right now I'm working on loose wiring. There's no tools needed, no greater technical expertise required. It's not that I don't have those things, because I do, but there's just something satisfying about working with just your hands and your hands alone.

The hyperdrive needed constant maintenance, and by extension, the rest of the ship.

So that's where I was, deep in the bowels of my baby, the Falcon. My quarters were higher above. Thankfully, I didn't share with Chewie. Oh, yeah, he was a great first mate and great friend, but Wookie hair is not exactly something that's easy to clean. This I know from bitter experience.

Chewie was also probably up by now, and probably also going about fixing something or another. Hopefully he didn't screw anything up. I mean, it's not like he doesn't know what he's doing, but I know more and the Falcon's my ship, so… Eh. It'll be fine. I trust Chewie. We've been through far too much for me not to trust him. He's more brother than… well, I don't actually have a brother, but he's the closest thing I've got. Maybe Luke fills that gap, but he's somewhere in-between a brother, cousin, and brother-in-law, which is a very strange and occasionally awkward situation to have.

Thinking more of Luke and Chewie makes me think more of home. It's weird to be thinking about a home for me, but at least it gives my brain something to do while my hands move of their own accord over familiar, tangled systems.

Home is the Falcon, I guess. But, and I hate, oh-so hate, this phrase and would never be caught dead ever saying it aloud, home is also where the heart is. Ugh. There. Thinking it just once makes me want to recoil.

But there is a bit of truth to it. Home is with Chewie. Home is with Luke. Home is with those idiotic cocky Rebel hotshots he (and I) call friends.

Then there's Leia. It's times like these, sitting (or, really, wedged in between the floor and a wall) alone, that I think of her. Sometimes I dream of her, smiling in that powerful, knowing, beautiful way in her elegant dress gowns.

I miss her, though I'll never tell anyone. Not even Chewie. Especially not her. But the thoughts still linger, prying on the edge of my mind.

Home was with Luke and Leia, with their smiling faces and wisecracks I pretend to be annoyed about. And it seems I'm a long way from home.

I'm also literally a long way from home. This isn't even my galaxy. We're now floating somewhere on the edge of a few of them. Honestly, it's a great experience, with exploring new areas and finding out routes, maps, and data about places that recently didn't even really exist. Or, at least exist where I came from. Hey, I'm a pilot. I don't know and don't care about any of this reality-converge nonsense.

But yeah, even though I'm a long way from home, this is what I live for. Exploring the stars. There's nothing out here but the Falcon and the void, with me at the helm and Chewie by my side. Sometimes I wonder to myself if I'd actually be happier here, living the life of an adventurer, or with Luke and Leia and the ex-Rebels living on some Core World planet somewhere. But that's not a choice I ever want to be forced to make.

But, yeah, here I am. On the edge of nowhere, in my baby, trying to figure out what to do. As per usual.

I find all of the navigation and the starships of these new galaxies most interesting. The people… well, people are people. I've been from Tatooine to Coroscaunt to Hoth to Yavin to Mimban and everywhere in between. You've seen one, you've seen 'em all.

I know the type of people my new allies are. All of them. You spend enough time in bars, with scum, with heroes and rebels and imperials and admirals and you see it all. There's nothing new here for me.

Imperials don't like Wookies or aliens in general? Yeah, same thing in my galaxy. Soldiers are soldiers. Special forces are special forces. Kids eager to see the universe, mercenaries, and pilots are all the same. There's nothing new here in terms of people. I don't want to say I don't need them, because I do, but I don't get why some of them are so flummoxed over each other. People are people, no matter where you go.

But the ships, on the other hand, and the makeup of the galaxies themselves, are something entirely new.

I got a bunch of maps and other navigational data from the various other commanders throughout our little fleet. It was a little interesting to see their reactions to my asking (or looking up, in some cases). That'll tell you more about someone's personality than any small talk conversation ever will.

Drake gave me a full map and a complete program of navigational data from where he was from. It gave it gladly, and told me to ask if I needed anything else. A little suspicious? Maybe. I still can't decide if he's up to something or if he's legitimately trying to gain our trust. Either way, I'm keeping my blaster close. That's just good business.

Shepard was cordial, but slightly suspicious and nervous of me asking. Well, she's just natural. That's just human. I still found the death glares her aide threw at me pretty funny. Especially the wink I threw her in return, which off-balanced her in spite of her attempts to the contrary.

Cooper was nice enough. The data from his galaxy was partially incomplete. How interesting is it that some of our galaxies are explored from front to back, while in others they only have a few sections. Where Cooper was from, they only had humanity's homeworld and its surrounding areas plus a sector of space called the Frontier mapped out.

Vir was enthusiastic. He asked about spaceships and navigational data from back home, and we exchanged everything equally. He's an admiral, but somehow he reminds me of a farm kid from back home getting on his first space flight.

The Chief… I didn't talk to the Chief. Besides, he wasn't a spacer, so there was that.

Kirk was a goody-two-shoes, as was his entire crew. Got the data, got a lecture on peace and prosperity and all sorts of things that Leia would love but I don't have enough brains for. Still, I got it. I got it because of their values, which was a bit different from everyone else, but I got it.

The Imperials were a different story. They didn't like aliens, and since my first mate was a Wookie, that meant they didn't like me. But Cain smoothed things over, in the name of cooperation.

What they gave me though, was a map. Not a digital map, a literal, physical parchment map. Which wasn't very helpful. Cain, at least, had the good grace to realize it wasn't helpful, but stated (correctly) that an infantry regiment doesn't know or need to know anything about space travel. Their brains were on the ground, mine are in the air. At least the map is a bit helpful in learning more about them, including the fact that they still make maps out of parchment.

And Quill… Well, I got the navigational data from him, but I'm not entirely sure it's correct. Not because he's trying to deceive me, but because I wonder if he actually knows what he's talking about.

Data's done and plugged into the Falcon's navacomputer. I can now navigate any galaxy save the Imperials'. And most of Cooper's. And possibly parts of Quill's (I'll have to be careful there either way).

Then there were the ships. Listen, the Falcon is my baby. No one can compare to her in my opinion. But still, it was interesting to see what the others flew.

Most of 'em were capital ships. The Apocalypse was a nice one, a light cruiser, sleek with a good amount of firepower. The Normandy was apparently a stealth frigate: I couldn't get the details. That was one thing they wouldn't share with me. But still, it seemed quite maneuverable. We would have loved those two back in the Rebellion days, I'm sure.

The Enterprise was a bit odd. Its shape was bizarre, its function seemed up in the air to me. Still, it did its job well, which was the best thing for a ship, I guess. (It was still ugly. Nowhere near as beautiful as the Falcon.)

The Omen was much bigger - a real, proper capital ship. It had a very large crew, a full ground and fighter contingent, and a powerful capital ship's array of firepower aboard. It wasn't built for the same specifications as the Falcon, so… eh, not something I'm that interested in.

The Milano was the only one approaching the Falcon's size and classification. Though, it had an entirely different layout and form. Its engines were on the side, and swiveled, which was also ugly in my own humble opinion.

So… yeah, nothing came close to the Falcon, even if it was quite interesting to see starships from other realities.

I groan as I finally pull the remaining wires in their correct positions and ease myself from where I was wedged. Sighing, I look down at the grease staining my familiar bloodstripe pants and jacket.

Oh. I'm supposed to be meeting with everyone today to discuss getting to know everyone better. I sigh again. I'd much prefer to be here, working on the Falcon. She certainly needs it. There's a thousand things to do, but now I'm part of this bizarre little band. A shake my head. It reminds me of the Rebellion a bit.

Well, maybe I can come back to this later today. Idly wiping my hands on my pants, I go look for Chewie. I don't think anyone's going to mind grease stains for the meeting.

oOo

Adam Vir

I honestly have no idea what I'm doing sometimes. Oh, sure, my crew looks up to me as the fearless leader, the man who knows it all, but a lot of the time I'm just winging it.

Take today, for instance. I was woken up early by a very frantic crewman informing me there was an issue with the temperature controls of the ship. So, naturally, I had to roll out of bed, strap on my prosthetic leg, and go to engineering to figure out what was going on from someone who knew what they were talking about.

As it turned out, there was a stress and faulty part within the temperature control area for the ship. Combined with a technician who hadn't been doing her job entirely properly, plus, apparently, an overstress caused by the visiting Valhallans' preference for cold, caused some sort of short. I'm still not entirely sure of the exact details. That's a better question for Narobi, the chief engineer.

But it seems those on my crew don't necessarily hold the same views. I always am the one they're looking up to. Always the one who knows the answers to everything. I'm Admiral freakin' Vir. I was the first human to make contact with aliens. I've been featured on everything, from news to movie bioptics to even playing cards. I'm the Admiral, and I always know what's best, without question.

But do I really? The only too-truthful answer is no, no I don't. I just wing it, and somehow it always works out. Or sometimes it doesn't. Which also happens.

But, yeah, another day, another dollar. I laugh dryly to myself and think about all of the crazy things I've gone through. Why shouldn't a bunch of people from literally different realities be any different?

I sigh and look down at my prosthetic leg, musing things over. It's of Drev make, a meeting and make-up gift from Sunny. I've made sure to hide it from the Imperials beneath heavy pants: for some reason, I don't think they'll take highly to me wearing an alien-made prosthetic.

Funnily enough, Sunny was actually the one to cut off my real leg, back during the Drev War. Strange, how that works out. Who was a soldier on an opposing side, who was met in the mud and the blood, is now… something far more.

I'm now caught in the middle between two (really, quite a few more than two) opposing factions, all with different ideas of what should and should not happen in the universe.

I don't really like the Imperials. Within the privacy of my own mind, I don't make any secret of it. Out in the open, though… well, I have to keep up diplomacy. I am not them. I won't stoop to their level.

They hate aliens. I've talked to them, and one of the mottos of their empire is literally suffer not the xeno to live. That's… frightening, to say the least.

I know people who hate aliens back where I come from. Hell, for a time, I was afraid of Drev due to the war in the mud and choking ash, where one cut off my leg and haunted my nightmares forever more. But that was up until I actually faced my fears and met another Drev in person. As it turned out, that particular Drev was suffering from the same I things I was: PTSD, a fear of humans, a general feeling of failure. But he lost far more than I did: his mate, his prestige, and his bond with his younger sister.

He was in a bad state. We both were. War is hell. There are only too many of us that can tell you that from firsthand experience. It broke and destroyed, forced good people to do things they never would have done and brought out the worst in evil people.

But eventually we both healed, more or less. And eventually, I met that Drev's younger sister, Sunny, who actually sought me out. Funny how that worked. The woman who cut off my leg in the Drev war (who I remembered from my nightmares) actually came to me and apologized, wanted to join my crew, and offered me a finely made prosthetic in recompense.

She was my most faithful companion and best friend ever since. And recently… we'd developed… well, er, feelings for each other.

Let it be known that I was a complete and utter sniveling coward when it came to women, both of and not of my own species. My first date was when I was in the naval academy, far beyond my peers who started in high school. I was so nervous that date I actually threw up. In front of her.

It's a memory I try not to remember a whole lot.

But me and Sunny were different. I knew her well, and she knew me. We were best friends for years. And, well… she had to come to me first, while I was actively avoiding her to try and escape the feelings. It worked out in the end, though.

Now… now we had an entire regiment of crack veteran planetary assault troopers with a motto of suffer not the alien to live aboard. That changed things. Honestly, I was terrified. Terrified and a little mad.

What if the Imperials found out? I was already on slightly thin ice (hopefully getting thicker as time went on). I was the heretic captain, the one who commanded aliens. Simon's idea for me to switch commands with Cain had borne fruit, but there was still a lack of trust between us, and a massive sense of xenophobia on the part of the Imperials.

If they ever found out about us… They'd kill us. That was a forgone conclusion.

I didn't know what to do. The Imperials were (at least for them, I guess) being very tolerant and trying their best to get acclimated without killing anyone. I did appreciate and admire that to a certain extent, but the fact remained, they did not like aliens at all. I had the sneaking, sinking suspicion that they would view a human/alien relationship with incredible hatred. Enough hatred, in fact, that it would probably override any goodwill already established and lead to a war aboard the ship.

I sigh. The thoughts of my friends and girlfriend being hurt by crazy zealots from another universe made my blood boil when I thought about it too much. But there was nothing to do except keep it a secret and keep soldiering on. That was how it always worked, wasn't it?

As I look around my quarter, I run my hand through my mop of blonde hair. The strap of my eyepatch catches my finger, and fiddle with it idly. That was another part of me missing, though it was due to an accident rather than war. There was a rod blown through my head in a shipboard incident back when I was a captain, taking my eye out with it. There is a fully functioning mechanical eye, looking remarkably like a real one, beneath the patch, but I still like the look. Besides, the differences between the mechanical eye and my real one sometimes make my head hurt when I use them both in tandem.

Either way, back to the present situation. There were eight more galaxies, filled with all sorts of new people, species, ships, technology, and anything else imaginable. That was exciting.

All my life I've loved aliens and the stars. I grew up always believing aliens to be real. Yeah, there was some bullying and contention about that when I was young, but I always knew, somehow. I couldn't be more delighted when we found actual aliens and a galactic government called the Galactic Assembly.

Now there were eight other galaxies. All of them were utterly unique. I'd spent a great deal of time trying to scour every single bit of information I could on each of them, mostly about alien races. What can I say? I've always had a thing for aliens. I guess that's now a lot more literally true as well…

But yeah. Anyway. I find it pretty funny that I'm just some normal guy with the greatest job in the world, seeing the stars like I've always wanted to. I was an admiral. A hero.

And I didn't really have any idea what to do in this situation.

I can't wait to see where this all goes, but at the same time, I'm terrified to see where this all goes. The future is both an exciting and scary thing. I guess the only thing I can keep doing is to trust my friends aboard the ship and keep on trying to make peace between everyone.

oOo

Ciaphas Cain

If you were to tell me I would find myself on a ship full of xenos allowed to roam free at the command of a heretical captain from another galaxy two months ago, I would have laughed in your face. Yes, yes, of course, the great Commissar Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium, Savior of Perlia, etc. etc. etc., had quite the reputation for being a fair and just Commissar, yet this was an entirely different situation altogether. I should have realized exactly how bad things were going to be at that first meeting, when xenos started showing up in droves and ran out of there like the coward I am, but alas, I decided to stick with it for the sake of my regiment and the dignity of my office, so here I am.

My borrowed quarters on the Omen are a rather typical affair for what I'm used to, minus the grime and ever-present cabbage smell of centuries-old recycled air on an Imperial troopship. Admiral Vir offered me something much more luxurious, and though I very much did want to take them, I merely gave a small smile and laugh and told him I was a humble Commissar. A small, spartan quarters would do just fine for me. The legend of Cain didn't need anything more.

The quarters are really quite perfect for a Commissar. There are two rooms, one inner, one outer, both rather on the small side, one used as an outer office to stop unwanted guests from barging in through the power of Jurgen, the other used as my own office and sleeping area.

I did have a bed, which was a plus, especially since it was exceptionally more comfortable than even what Commissars normally got on deployment. Apart from that, the walls were bare, the only furniture in my room being a desk for any Commissarial activities I needed, which was mostly quietly drinking and playing cards with myself until someone important enough to get past Jurgen came along and I had to pretend to be doing paperwork.

It was remarkably odd being on this ship, for more reasons than just the xenos allowed to freely wander the halls. For one thing, it was brand new. As I've previously mentioned, it was remarkably odd to wander through a ship without the ever-present smell of rancid recycled air, grimy gothic architecture, or patrolling bands of servitors. According to the Admiral, the vessel was built within the last decade. That was almost obscenely new, though, then again, I'm merely a humble ground-pounder myself with little to no experience in naval matters.

Of course, the strangest thing about this ship (and all of these other realities), was the xenos. It was simply baffling to an old hand like myself.

Oh, yes, there was that whole incident on Gravalax with the Tau. I supported Tau diplomats, and even fought with a few Kroot and Fire Warrior soldiers in the tunnels beneath the main city against a cadre of genestealers.

The news, or what news isn't classified by His Holy Majesty's Inquisition, will tell you I acted to further Imperial interests in a glorious and acceptable way so that we might eventually take back Gravalax when we had the strength. The truth is I really didn't want to get eaten by genestealers or shot by one of those very nasty-looking Tau Battlesuits.

That is, of course, what I am. A self-serving coward. No one knows this but me. Not my regiment, not my companions, not the Imperium at large, not even Jurgen, brave, reliable, loyal Jurgen.

But yes, regardless, I can't describe the sheer nerve-wracking shakes I got when trying to face down a horde of those angry Drev, much less fight one of them in personal combat. Chainsword combat is one of the things I am quite good at naturally, but still: who wants to face a rampaging alien with more arms and more muscle than you? Certainly not me. I'd rather be back in my boring office, sipping recaf and pretending to do work. But the legend of Cain and myself do not agree on that particularity, and so I do what I must.

This morning I awake as I usually do, with no fanfare and quite a bit of private grumbling. I slid from my bed, shaved and got ready all in quick order. My black pants and Commissarial shirt go over my undershirt and the red sash, badge of my office, beneath my voluminous black greatcoat.

Today was supposed to be like any other, which usually meant I was probably going to be simply sitting there doing inane tasks while pretending to be incredibly, undisturbable-y busy. However, unlike most days, the good Captain Drake had the inanely idiotic idea to switch up commands.

While I do appreciate the thought in theory, in practice it's something else entirely. To command a group of people is merely a challenge in and of itself. I should know; even my Valhallans were once a group fractured and nearly too rowdy to control. It's not easy being a Commissar. However, to take that, then add not only people from an entirely different reality to the equation, but xenos as well? It had the propensity to cause problems.

The xenos were the main catch here. I simply did not understand it. The humans of the other realities said that xenos were trustworthy. Friends, even. It simply did not make any sense. Did they not realize? Xenos would look out for xenos interests first, and would betray you the first chance they got. That was simply the way of things. I did not begrudge the aliens for this, because I thought much the same way. There was no shame in looking out for number one, but one also had to realize others were going to do the same thing.

Then, of course, xenos would naturally see us as a threat. We were not them, they were not us. If hairy situations arose like the one on Gravalax, or perhaps some of the missions the humans from the other realities were on, it made perfect sense to fight beside xenos. However, this state of cooperation would naturally end when the situation was resolved.

But there was nothing I could do about this problem. My fraudulent reputation ensured I would be trapped taking a command role in the entire sordid affair. Sometimes I wonder why I ever keep up the grand charade, but my regiment, not to mention myself, would horribly suffer if the truth ever came out. The Emperor only knows what would happen to me, and I couldn't stand the looks of revulsion and disappointment cast my way if I were ever to let my mask slip.

Sighing to myself, I pull up the collar of my coat. Another day, another throne, as the saying goes. Though today, it's likely I'll have to interact with gaggles of xenos and heretics, which is never a pleasant thought. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Commissar?" came the muffled voice of Jurgen. I sigh to myself and fit my Commissar's cap on my head.

"Yes, Jurgen?" I reply, walking forward and opening the door smoothly, my demeanor changed from aggravated and slightly mopey to calm, collected, and confident.

"Admiral Vir wanted you to review these forms," said my aid, holding out a data slate in a grubby hand. I took it and gave it a cursory glance.

"Very good, Jurgen. Thank you for telling me," I reply with a nod. With the same gesture in reply, my aid closes the door and regulates himself to the outer office to stubbornly defer any unwelcome visitors with both his scent and obstinance.

As for me… well, I would have to be meeting with the rest of my compatriots in due time. I sigh to myself. There's nothing I can do, though. Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium, is expected to be there, and to be his typical voice of reason and authority. While I'm certainly not him, at least I can pretend to be. Though I may not exactly like it, such is my duty as a Commissar. So be it.

oOo

James Kirk

I hum to myself as I finish adjusting my yellow captain's uniform in the mirror. It's far less elaborate than the clothing any of my new colleagues wear, something that I'm quite grateful for. Honestly, I don't get how they can wear all that stuff, especially with the coats and belts and all the gear. Especially the Imperials. With the lace. Far too much gold lace.

Shoving such thoughts aside for the present moment, I finish adjusting my uniform and take a look around the room.

My quarters are fairly typical of those aboard the Enterprise, with an open space surrounded by easy-colored walls and sleek furniture. Everything aboard the ship is neat and new, in tip-top shape and well-maintained. Both the Starfleet and myself wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, I think Spock would have an aneurysm if it wasn't. If Vulcans can actually get aneurysms.

"Computer, remind me to ask Dr. McCoy if Vulcans can get aneurysms," I state aloud. I grin to myself. Me and McCoy are presently behind Spock in our little trio's Vulcan vs. Humans needling game. If there's anything I can do to even the odds, it's my duty to do so.

We have an excellent rapport here on the Enterprise, I'd like to say. Everyone, no matter their race, religion, skin color, where they're from, what their job or background they are, or even what species they are gets along. That's what I love about it. That's what the ship, the Federation, myself and all of us stand for.

Unfortunately, a few of my companions don't seem to think that way. Shepard, Vir, Quill, and Solo weren't problems. Drake was a problem for another reason, but the largest and most opposing faction to ours was the Imperium of Man.

It was even in the name: Imperium of Man. I frowned to myself as I finished tidying up my quarters. They were everything we were not; everything we opposed. Fascist, xenophobic, militaristic, intolerant, brutal, crude… I did not like them, and they did not like us. The Federation with its enlightenment and the Imperium in its hate were diametrically opposed to each other.

I had no idea what to do about them. Vir seemed to be getting along with them well enough, but you never knew. I suppose I should give them the benefit of the doubt like I've given so many other races and groups, but something about them rubs me the wrong way. Perhaps they remind me a bit too much of my 'mirror reality', where the Federation took a very radical and dark turn from what it is today.

Then there was also our passenger, the Master Chief. I sigh to myself. He wasn't a problem, per say, but he was certainly strange and had the ability to be a problem. He was a super-soldier, modified somehow. At least, that was what we could get out of him.

He certainly looked the part, with a height above seven feet and a frame to match. He had what amounted to an arsenal of weapons with him, a few of which looked exceptionally nasty. He said nothing and kept to himself, and treated everyone exactly the same: with precisely zero emotion. Sometimes I'm sure that there isn't even a man beneath that green armor and golden faceplate, but some sort of robot. Stranger things had happened; stranger things I've been a part of.

The Chief hadn't even taken off his helmet. We had no idea what he looked like beneath. When Dr. McCoy absolutely insisted that he submit for a physical in case he was carrying anything or there were any issues, the Chief just handed him his latest government physical and went on his way.

He was perfectly healthy. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him, but the physical merely mentioned his health, not what was done to him. He was a human male, but what he looked like and his personality beneath the armor wasn't stated in the physical.

Putting thoughts of what exactly our guest was behind me, I finish the final touches on making sure my cabin looks like a captain's cabin and walk out, the door sliding open noiselessly in front of me.

The halls of the Enterprise are as stark and comforting as always. I smile. This is home, this ship, with its clean halls and magnificent crew. I'm proud to be her captain, on her voyage of discovery and exploration.

And discover we have. We've probably discovered more than anyone else, especially now with the galactic convergence situation. That's what we live to do. That's what we love to do. We go boldly where no one has ever gone before, for the good of humanity and all peoples.

As I near the bridge, the form of Dr. McCoy, staring down intensely at a pad in his hand, greets my eyes. I grin at the sight of my friend and walk up to him.

"Bones." I say his nickname in greeting. McCoy looks up with a nod.

"Jim," comes the reply. "I was just looking over our guest's physical again. Trying to see if there's anything there I missed the first time, you know." I nod in reply.

"Excellent," I say for lack of anything else. We both fall into step, heading towards the bridge, yellow and blue uniforms gaudy against the plainness of the ship's halls. "I have been meaning to ask: can Vulcan get aneurysms?" Bones stops short, a curious but rather smug expression coming onto his face.

"You know, I'm not sure," he replied in that voice he got whenever he either got interested in something medical or found something to one-up Spock. In this case I'm pretty sure it was for both reasons. "I'd have to look further into it. The Vulcan brain is truly an extraordinary thing. I'm not sure if they can get aneurysms, but I'm sure there are all sorts of issues that could flair up with a mind that complicated…" We share a grin. If there was something related to Vulcan biology or psychology we could use against Spock's 'humans are inferior' ribbing, then we would most certainly take it. It was our little competition, all in good fun.

The doors of the bridge parted in front of us, revealing the room beyond. I try to keep the grin from my face, but fail to keep the twinkle from my eye as I enter the bridge. This is my true home. If I were to pick a single greatest place in the universe, this is it.

Everyone grins or nods at me when I enter. With his own nod, McCoy takes his leave, heading back to the infirmary, his duty station. T step forward.

"All is in order, captain," stated Spock in his smooth, unemotional tone as he greeted me.

"Excellent, Mr. Spock," I reply with my own friendly nod. I look around the room. "Well, everyone, I believe we're to meet with the others to discuss a possible switching of commands." That freaked out everyone, myself included, though everyone was carefully hiding it. You never know how this sort of thing might end up. It's gone pretty badly in the past on a few occasions.

"I trust you'll be alright, captain?" asked Sulu, looking up from his station. I gave a smile in reply, though I honestly had no idea how this would turn out.

"I'm sure it will all be fine," I reply. It was an interesting idea, and might get us to know each other better, which was always a plus. I give a wry grin. "We are going boldly where no one has gone before, after all," I continue. There are a few smiles from that.

"Well, I'm sure it will all end up well, so long as you humans can keep your… emotions in check," said Spock bluntly. There were a few snickers. I sigh.

"One can only hope, Mr. Spock. One can only hope."

oOo

John-117

One hundred and ninety five… One hundred and ninety six… One hundred and ninety seven… One hundred and ninety eight… One hundred and ninety nine… Two hundred.

I stand. There is a small trickle of sweat sliding down my brow. I wipe it away.

My quarters aboard the Enterprise are luxury. They say they are not, but they are. They say the quarters are normal for a guest or officer, but I disagree. What I am used to are cramped barracks and pods, overflowing with soldiers ready to go at a moment's notice. This is far different. The space, the luxury of it, the fact that there is nothing to be ready for… It disquiets me.

This is not the life I am used to. When in space, like everything else, I train. I am focused. I am disciplined. There is no other life I know. I am a soldier, born and bred. Nothing else matters.

I do miss my brothers and sisters. Their silent company and strength would be a boon here. If they were here, I would have a better handle on the situation. But they weren't here. No use in worrying over things that could not be.

Still, I miss my siblings. The other Spartans were a quiet, constant presence by my side. They understood me, and I them. Normal humans were strange to me. Humans from another universe were even stranger. Aliens… well, that was something else.

I do not necessarily trust aliens. I do not really like aliens. I still make do.

I am not like the Imperials, who hate and sneer at anything different. If some of my comrades knew my thoughts, they might hate me. Nevertheless, I am different.

I have no love for aliens out of bitter experience. My main enemy is the Covenant. A conglomeration of various alien species all falsely worshiping an ancient alien race as gods, they despise us. I have been on the battlefields. I am seen as humanity's savior against them. They hate us, and they will do everything in their power to destroy us.

This is not a figure of speech. Every world they come to they destroy. Every human they come across they kill. They hate us, and they will kill us all if given the chance.

Aliens are not to be trusted. That is not due to them simply being aliens, but simply a fact of life. No one is to be trusted until they earn your trust. This is a fact I have always known. Perhaps my new comrades who know aliens would call me xenophobic for this, but that is not the case. The same principles apply to everyone equally. Them. Me. Cortana. Everyone. Trust is something to be earned, not freely given.

Perhaps they are right. Perhaps those aliens in their crews have indeed earned their trust. Perhaps the Imperials are right. It does not matter. I do not care. None of them have yet to prove their trust to me. Human, alien, A.I., it matters not.

Sometimes I worry about Cortana. She is too trusting for her own good. Take, for instance, her contacting BT-7274 and EDI. She had no way of knowing who they were or what they were capable of. She did not know if they could harm her or anyone else. Though I do not know how A.I.s fully work or communicate, I think she still does not fully know.

As for me, I was aboard the Enterprise. I was here to observe and learn on the orders of the Office of Naval Intelligence. I did not know why I was chosen. I am not a diplomat. I am not good with words. Silence and violence are my domains. This combination is not ideal for a diplomatic mission. Yet I was chosen nevertheless.

I was to find out everything that went on here, assess it, and report back to the UNSC. I am sure Dr. Halsey and Admiral Parangovsky are behind my being here. I still question why me. I do not like it. I'm sure it's because they consider me to be their best operative. I do not have to like it.

Sighing to myself, I dismiss my thoughts. They flow away like water. I have more important things to focus on. A well-structured mind remains in the present, unburdened by thoughts of other things. The mind of a good soldier is much the same, always focusing on the mission.

I step from my exercise area to where I store my weapons and armor. There is no designated armory within my borrowed quarters. I still make do.

I exercised in my armor. Without it would be pointless. MJOLNIR is my second skin, as comfortable and knowable as my first. To be without it for a long period would be unthinkable. It augments me even further beyond what a Spartan can normally do. It protects me in battle. It is my life, and I its. Intrinsic. Symbiotic.

My weapons and helmet lay carefully placed upon a borrowed desk. I came to this mission with a full array of weaponry. I smile humorlessly to myself at memories of when I first came upon this ship. The captain and crew were shocked, and even somewhat frightened, at the vast array of firepower I wielded. They said no one needed that many weapons. What could anyone possibly use it all for?

They do not know. They have not seen what I have seen.

Besides, only foolish men go unarmed into unknown situations. The more firepower, the better.

My MA5B assault rifle lays front and center. It is the standard weapon of the UNSC infantry. Reliable. Powerful. It does its job, does it well, and that is good enough for anyone.

Beside it lies my M6D pistol. It is a standard weapon, sized to fit the hands of a MJOLNIR-armored man or woman. It is but a sidearm, but a sidearm has saved my life and the lives of countless others many times. Therefore, it is nothing to scoff at.

Next comes the more powerful weapons. The ones the crew of the Enterprise are more leery of.

The long, heavy black form of an M392 DMR is next. It lies to the side of the desk, away from the center. A heavy battle rifle, its purpose is to kill at range. I find it odd that in the universe of my hosts, there are no weapons like it. At least, not that I've seen. They have small pistol-like weapons called 'phasers'. While it seems they can pack a punch, I prefer bullets. Bullets are simpler.

Beside the M392 was its opposite counterpart, the M45 shotgun. For close quarters, there is no human weapon better. Some Covenant systems can beat it out, though. This is in case I should need something for cramped, close quarters. We've yet to go on such a mission, but it's still there, just in case.

More sinisterly, it would prove to be an ideal weapon for clearing the halls of the Enterprise should the need arise. I highly doubt it will come to that, but the contingency is still there.

Last, and by far the most potent, is the M6/E, commonly known as the Spartan Laser. It is a man-portable direct-energy anti-vehicle weapon. Due to its rarity and power, only Spartans and Orbital Drop Shock Troopers are allowed to carry and use it. Its destructive power is extreme. I doubt I'll use this save in a full-scale battle, which I do not foresee. However, again, it is better to be prepared than to not be prepared.

The final item on the table is my helmet. Green, like the rest of my armor, it has a visor allowing a full field of vision. The visor is tinted gold. It is made of titanium and features a specialized, scan-capable heads-up display that links to the brain and hands. It comes with an environmental control unit that filters out toxins and a rebreather to automatically supply oxygen to its wearer if necessary. It also has thermal and motion sensors, communications, solar-powered lighting, and imaging and video gear.

However, most importantly, it is the helmet that connects to my neural implants and allows me to interface with the rest of my suit. There are two core processor chips implanted within the back of my skull. When linked to the helmet, it creates the neural link allowing me to move the suit.

I take the helmet and place it on my head. Instantly, the familiar HUD augments my vision. I smile.

"Well, well, well." The familiar voice of Cortana fills my ears. At this I smile as well. My friend is nice enough not to point it out. "Good morning, Chief," she continues jauntily.

"Good morning," I reply softly.

"Anything interesting planned for today?" continues my companion. I try not to sigh. She knows what today entails. She probably knows my schedule better than I do. She also knows my dislike for conversation. While I do appreciate her concern for my social life and lack of friends now that most of my siblings are gone, it is still aggravating.

"The meetings," I manage to get out. I can hear her amused sigh and laugh. Blessedly, she doesn't pursue further.

"Well then, I think I'll go find out more from EDI and BT." This time, I sigh.

"Cortana…"

"Don't Cortana me," she replies, voice still amused. We were good enough friends to talk this through without being offended. "I'm perfectly safe and I know what I'm doing."

"I know," I reply. "You think I should talk to more sentients, I think you should be more careful. We are both concerned for each other, but we both continue either way." There was a small pause.

"I know that too," she replied. I nod within my helmet. I know she can see the gesture. "Well then, Chief. Let's get to it."

"Indeed," I reply. Cortana, I'm sure, has disappeared to who-knows-where to talk to her A.I. friends. This was one of the reasons I did not want her to speak to them. But it was a selfish, subconscious reason, so I kept my peace.

I did not understand why she needed to talk to them. Yes, I knew the reason. They were smart A.I.s, just like her. She wanted to speak to people of her own kind. I understood this. I missed my brothers and sisters.

But she was my closest, really only, friend. I did not need anyone else. I did not need the normal humans or the aliens. They were difficult to talk to. They did not understand how I was raised and why. They did not understand the mission. I did not need them.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself. Maybe she was right.

But in the end, it did not matter. I had a mission to complete. So I picked up my assault rifle, checked it over, and walked out the door. Today would mean more mix-ups with the crews of the various starships. I did not like this. But it did not matter. It did not matter that I missed my siblings. It did not matter that I was all alone. It did not matter that I did not understand nor like the crew of the Enterprise. It did not matter if I didn't think I was best suited for this mission. I had my orders.

I was a soldier, and that's what good soldiers do. Good soldiers follow orders.

oOo

Peter Quill

"Groot, I swear, you're more of a problem as a growth than you ever were as a sapling or as a full-grown tree," I say in exasperation at the scene before me.

"I am Groot," replies Groot. I roll my eyes, thinking of all the times I'd said similar things to Yondu when I was a teenager.

How the heck were you supposed to raise a tree-teenager (treenager?) anyway? Honestly, I wasn't and am not Groot's parent, but sometimes I feel like I am, and I don't really have any idea what I'm doing, especially considering he's a tree. Honestly, I don't know what I'm doing a whole lot of the time. I usually just start going, and somehow it always works out, or it doesn't, but even then it usually does, even if it's not necessarily me doing the doing.

What was I doing?

"I am Groot." Ah. Yes.

"Groot, I have told you to clean up your things a hundred times, and I expect that everything here will be cleaned up when I get back from the meeting or I'm sending Gamora to deal with you."

"I am Groot," replied Groot sullenly. I nod in satisfaction and turn away, nothing more needing to be said. Threatening to throw Gamora at people usually had that reaction, myself included.

As I walk out of the mess that is Groot's room, with items and branches discarded everywhere (which looks a bit too much like my own, honestly; I need to clean up too), I step into the halls of the Milano. These were cleaner than any of the crew quarters, but still a bit grimy in parts. Still, it was comfortable, clean enough, and more importantly, it was home.

I suppose that we all kinda found a home here, even though it was also kinda sorta not really home home. But then again, home was where the heart was, and my heart was here, with my crew, seeing the galaxy, with my… some unspoken thing partner. The heart, for what it was worth, wasn't back in Missouri on Earth and certainly not with Ego on his stupid planet. I'm actually quite glad my so-called father is dead. My family is who I chose it to be, even if they can get to be a little or more than a little annoying. But I guess that's how family is.

But today is gonna be a bit different. All of us captains and leaders are meeting up to figure out how to get to know each other better. Drake suggested that we swap commands, which might be an interesting idea, but I'm not entirely sure how that might end up.

"Hey, Peter." I'm snapped out of my thoughts by a beautiful voice calling my name. I turn with what I really hope is a suave but is in reality probably a bit of a sappy grin on my face.

"Gamora," I reply with a nod, trying not to have my face break out into a full-on smile. In front of me stood Gamora, in all her beauty and glory, miraculously returned from death at her father's hand by the weirdness of time shenanigans. I had no idea how exactly it worked, but somehow it ended up like this, and honestly I couldn't ask for it any other way. Yes, Thanos killed half of all life in our galaxy (universe? I didn't know), myself and Gamora and most of the team included, but that was undone, and here we were. "Nice to see you."

"How's Groot doing?" she asked, smirking in that oh-so endearing way, crossing her arms and leaned against the bulkhead. I snap out of looking at her for a moment.

"Oh, he's…" I shrug for the lack of anything better to say. "Fine. I didn't know plants went through a grumpy teenager stage." She laughed at that, and I couldn't help smiling. She had a wonderful laugh, a laugh she used far too little.

"Yeah, neither did I," she replied. We fell into step. It was quite comfortable. I enjoyed her being here, and tried not to remember that she (and I, really, a lot of us) had died to get here. But we got better. Weird space gems and time shenanigans led to complicated results. I tried not to think about it too much. "The meeting is coming up." We stopped. She turned to stare at me with a frown, deep in thought. "I hope this goes well," she looked back up to me, "Especially considering a few of these guys."

"Eh, it always goes well enough," I say with a shrug. It usually does. I know Gamora likes being much more realistic (read: pessimistic), but I enjoy being positive about such things. I always have a plan, though. Most people underestimate me, because I never seem like a guy with a plan.

Well, plus, they can never know what you're doing if you don't know what you're doing.

"It might," replied Gamora, "But with some of these people…" She trails off with a frown.

"Yeah," I say shortly. "I know what you mean."

The Imperium was an issue. Sometimes I wondered if it was worse to be half egomaniacal star god or half human. At least there was only one of the former, and he was now dead. The others…

Eh, well, I guess they were like any other species. Humans had their goods and bads, their ups and downs. However, the Imperium was a human empire whose goal was to control their galaxy, plus wipe out anyone who was in their way. They hated aliens. And out of my crew, my chosen family, none of them were human.

I had to be very careful. I did, admittedly, have a tendency to have my big mouth and emotions get in the way of things. So, if I were to say something… divisive, say, that I was in love with Gamora, in front of the Imperials… that might not go so well. So I had to be very careful, and very in-control of myself, which admittedly was not my strong suit.

Plus there was the Master Chief, who honestly scared me, though I'd never admit it to anyone. He was a massive seven foot suit of armor that very much looked like he could throw Drax around like it was nothing. I didn't even know what he was like underneath it. Hell, I've heard him say all of like two sentences in total. That only added to the creepy factor.

"I'll try to make sure I don't do anything stupid," I say mock seriously, trying again for another laugh. I don't get one, but the smile is good enough. It turns serious after a moment.

"Peter…" She looks at me, trying to find something to say. I'm merely content with looking at her. "Try not to do anything stupid," she settles on. I grin.

"Of course," I reply as I give her a wink and turn away. My long red-brown Ravager greatcoat trails around me as I head through the halls of the ship to take our smaller pod craft to meet with the other commanders.

I hope I don't do or say anything that would put my friends in jeopardy. I hope it all ends well. I hope I'm not switched out by anyone.

Eh. It'll work out. Probably.

oOo

Well, there we have it! I hope you enjoyed this rather unique chapter. Again, I'm really sorry I couldn't get this out sooner. I will do my utmost to keep up a better schedule going forward. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and will enjoy what's to come! As always, if you have any questions, comments, criticisms, concerns, or reviews, I appreciate them!