The Vila – February 15, 2176, 1831 hours

Ding-ding…Ding-ding. The bell rang for the third time today. A young man had just trudged the walk of shame up to the bell and took the old rope in hand, hammering the metal ball against the brass. Soaking wet and covered in sand, he took one last look back at the diminishing ranks of ICT trainees and tried to hold his head high, but this was only the third day and he had surrendered. He had had enough. So many hopes and expectations vanished with the ringing of that bell. He swung his eyes downward towards the mud and then limped away to pack his gear and board the long shuttle flight home.

An almost imperceptible smile crossed Claire Shepard's sand covered lips. There was now one less candidate to fight with for Alpha dog. Whatever his name was, he was weak. She certainly didn't want him covering her six.

Amanda Richardson sighed. "He was a good one. I knew him from the One O Third."

"Well, not good enough," Shepard said. "I could tell from day one he wasn't going to make it."

"You know, golden girl, one of these days someone is going to come along and kick your ass. It might even be me."

"That, I'd love to see."

Amanda just shook her head as the sun set over Rio de Janeiro.

Chief Hartmann strutted by like a rooster in a barnyard. Despite the previous hours of exertion he still looked fresh, his blue t-shirt smooth and tight over his chest and his N7 cap plastered over his head, the curved bill jutting out menacingly. "You people are beginning to see the kind of effort it takes to stay here. No one gets a pass here, no one buys their way through here and," he said, looking directly at Shepard, "nobody's daddy pulls any strings here."

He walked over to the young man who was struggling on day one and slammed the man in the chest with a metal clip board. "Mister LaRosa, you are the Officer in Charge of this motley crew. Take roll call. It is now chow time. Have the class fall in at The Grinder at Nineteen Fifteen. Dismissed!"

As trainees sat heavily on the ground, exhausted from hours of running and plunging into the surf, Shepard pulled the front of her white tank top out and wrung sea water from it. She was cold and wet, but no worse for wear and she inwardly groused at LaRosa being named OIC of the class. The guy had been struggling for three days now, always lagging behind, grunting and groaning with every pushup, pullup and mile that went by. She was far more fit to lead than that guy. Nothing against him, but he was better off going back to whatever fleet or staff job that he came from. Claire, on the other hand, was committed. The Shepards were a service family, through and through and there was no way that she could face Admiral John Michael Shepard as a failure.

LaRosa came over and took the pen from the clipboard. "N Class 76-06, sound off and fall out for chow." One Hundred and Ten trainees called out their names, one by one and then lined up for dinner, many of them moaning and groaning. Many of them were reaching their limits. LaRosa waited at attention while the class mustered past him and then he slid in at the end of the line.

Water dripping from her fatigues, Shepard grabbed a plastic tray and held it up for the cook to slop a brown lump in the big slot. The man in the white apron smirked. "Bon appetite."

Shepard snorted, looking down at the gravy covered lump. "Merci beaucoup." She walked off to grab a plastic cup of red juice and moved to take a seat where she noticed the other trainees moving to other tables. By the time everyone stood at their seats, she was alone. Whatever. Being the Alpha dog meant standing ahead of the pack.

With chests puffed out, the trainees called out, "Ready to eat."

"Prepare to sit!" LaRosa shouted. "Sit!" The hall was filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and shuffling trays, followed by silence. "Prepare to eat! Eat." Silverware clinked on plastic as the trainees wolfed down the formless brown goo.

Shepard shoveled the food into her mouth as fast as she could move her hand. She was starving. Her genetic enhancement powered her to incredible strength, speed and stamina, but it meant a huge increase in calorie burn and with the skimpy meals, she was barely keeping up and was even loosing a bit of needed weight. With the last spoonful of nameless gruel, she bit down on some sand and dirt, crunching them between her teeth. If anything, it added taste. For the last three days, she was never free from being damp, being cold or covered in dirt and sand. As she brushed short locks of wet hair from her face for the next bite, she felt a presence behind her.

"Heh heh, lookit you, lookit you," whispered Chief Hartmann into her ear and she could feel his hot breath on her face. "Sitting all by your lonesome. You sure strike a popular figure, Shepard, just the kind of person who can motivate a team and lead people into battle," he continued sarcastically.

She tensed up, but didn't move or speak.

"Who you kidding, Shepard? You don't belong here. This is only day three and already nobody likes you. You're going to end up all alone, lost in space, because no one will come and save your ass. Do yourself a favor and go home. Mom will throw you a nice soiree and you can sit in the parlor and talk politics with dad. C'mon, ring that bell for me," he said almost politely.

"No, sir."

"Oh, you think you're tough, huh? With your fancy DNA?" he said as he jabbed his finger into the back of her head. "Tough…comes…from…here," he said, jabbing her head with each word. "Tough comes from teamwork and I'm here to tell you that you are not a team. Until you learn that, I guarantee you that you will ring that bell."

February 21, 2176, 0228 hours

Nine days into Selection and N Class 76-06 was down to Eighty Nine trainees. The sound of the brass bell ringing was a near constant reminder that not everyone was cut out to be one of the best. There were broken bones, torn tendons, near drownings and sobbing in the wee hours of the morning for those who couldn't hack it. This was no place for the sick, injured or weak. Here, they would separate the weak from the strong. For Claire, it was nothing but a thing. Her body ran like a well oiled machine, vaulting obstacles, climbing towers and running like a gazelle. She would check The Board often, making sure she was at or near the top of every physical contest. The only thing she could not shake was the never ending chill and the gnawing hunger. Even though it was summer down in Rio, they never had time to dry off and get warm.

In the darkness before dawn, Shepard sat up in her cot, awake before anyone else. She'd conquered every evolution that ICT had to throw at her thus far and she could feel the coveted honor graduate within her grasp. An ICT honor graduate could open doors. Pathways to the Admiralty were forged at the Vila and names like Jon Grissom and David Anderson were still spoken with deep respect. Her classmates might not like her, but she got the job done. Today would be a day in which she would draw one step closer to that goal.

When the cadre entered the barracks, she was ready. "Seventy Six O Six, fall out, fall out, fall out!"

Tired groans and the creaking of cots filled the area as twenty four women scrambled up and out the door and fall in with their male counterparts. Once the trainees left the barracks there was no gender in ICT. Strides in genetic enhancements made women the equal of men in all areas of soldiering and only a modicum of modesty gave the females some privacy and a different haircut. As trainees lined up for the next evolution, the cadre sprayed them with freezing water.

In nothing but her underwear, Claire suppressed a shiver. Chief Hartmann paced in front of them as the rest of the cadre turned the hoses on the class.

"This is it, people! This is the moment you have been waiting for. Get into your gear, get your lights and report to the range. You have five minutes! Five minutes! Fall out!"

From absolute stillness, the class erupted in the fury of running bodies, rushing to get back to lockers and throw on gear. Shepard practically dove into her fatigue pants and boots and, in another instant, she had her blouse and harness on. Far ahead of the others, she bolted for the door.

"Hey, golden girl!"

Shepard turned to see Amanda. Was the marine trying to slow Claire down? A lot of people wanted to see her taken down a notch. "What?"

"You forgot something," Amanda said as she threw a flashlight at Claire. The metal cylinder landed squarely in Shepard's palm as her lightning reflexes caught it. "You might need this," Amanda added wryly.

Shepard bit her lip for a second. She did not like having someone come to her rescue and she did not need to rely on anyone else to win this. Still, she could not help but feel a flush of heat in her cheeks. "Thanks."

Amanda pulled on her blue Systems Alliance cap and jumped in behind Shepard. "Don't mention it. I'm still gonna kick your ass one day," she said and gestured at the door. "Shall we?"

Trainees began pouring out the doors and running along the dark path up to the range. Narrow flashlight beams pierced the night, bouncing up and down with the strides of each N hopeful. The pounding of boots on gravel died down as the last stragglers filtered in, out of breath. The racking of the action of a weapon quickly got everyone's attention, but before anyone could see what was going on, the roar of a shotgun blast jolted the trainees up.

"Now that I have your attention, no one leaves the Vila unless they become a finely tuned weapon of the Alliance," Hartmann barked out. "And for you to become one you must first get past me." He held up a shotgun, pulled the action back in a crisp, clean sweep of his hand, checked the chamber and then placed the weapon on a table. Every move he made spoke of years of training and practice. Then, he motioned to a steel frame that housed dozens of assault rifles. "Behold, the Gorgon, courtesy of Cerberus Skunk Works. This is a fine killing tool, one that you will become intimately familiar with. This is ICT! You will not be getting that piece of shit Lancer that they give to grunts. But to keep the Gorgon, you have to earn it!"

One of the cadre, Gunnery Chief Grimaldi, motioned the class over and began handing out weapons as he called out names. "LaRosa, here. Richardson, here. Shepard, here…step up to the table and enter your name and the serial number of your weapon. Then, step up to a firing lane and bench the weapon and await further instructions."

Shepard took the rifle, feeling its hard plastic grips in her hands, feeling the weight and balance with her body. Those Cerberus guys did it right. This would be a fine tool for her trade. At one of the firing lanes, she put the weapon down, muzzle facing downrange. Several blocks of metal lay on a table, ammunition for the rifle. In this day and age, one just needed to slap a block into a feeding chamber and let the Mass Effect core strip away bits to form bullets. You just couldn't spray too much or it might overheat and melt the whole weapon and that might be just a bit of a downer.

Hartmann marched along the firing line, holding up one of the Gorgons. "Hold your weapon close and repeat after me! This is my rifle, there are many like it, but this one is mine!"

Claire barked out the rifleman's creed, honoring the weapon, making it part of her. She and the weapon would now be one. "I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are defenders of the Alliance. We are masters of our enemy. I will master my rifle as I master my life."

"Load and make ready!" Hartmann yelled. These were all experienced trainees and no one's hand needed to be held in the basics. Hands grabbed metal blocks and slammed them into feeding ports. Fingers powered up the eezo batteries and palms slapped the bolts, sending shaped rounds into chambers. Flashlights were mounted on foregrips. These weapons were ready for war.

"Stand ready, stand ready!" the command came and the squeal and thunk of turning targets brought everyone's attention downrange. Shepard thumbed her flashlight and the beam lit up a target that looked like a batarian. A three round burst leapt from the muzzle and hammered down right between those four beady eyes. The batarian target fell back and another one popped up, this time a turian. Yeah, they might be at peace now, but no human could trust those cold-hearted birds. Shepard pulled the rifle hard into her shoulder and leaned forward towards the target. Another press of the trigger and three rounds zipped into the target, shattering mandibles and head fringes. With her stance, the recoil was nothing but a thing and her sights never left the turian's face.

"Dammit," she heard and turned to see LaRosa struggling with his rifle. He was trying to pull the cocking lever back and seemed to have a malfunction. She put her eye back on the irons sights for a second before sighing and lowering her weapon.

"Hey, LaRosa," she said over the popping of rounds all around them. "You see that thing on the left side of the receiver? Yeah, that doo hickey. Hit it hard with your hand."

He looked at her with a what the fuck expression at first and then slammed the palm of his hand onto the lever and a loud click came from his rifle. He brought it up to his cheek and pressed the trigger sending rounds downrange. He turned back to her. "Hey, thanks. I'm Adam."

Shepard smirked. She might have just given someone a leg up on her in the fight to be the Alpha dog. "Don't mention it," she said without any enthusiasm. She glanced past him to see Amanda raising an eyebrow with a half smile.

The stomping of boots got their attention and they turned back to see Hartmann marching up. "What the fuck is going on? Do you three want to go back and lie down? Do you need a time out? Do you want some ice cream or something?"

"Sorry, sir," Adam said, "Shepard was just helping me out. I had a jam."

Hartmann spun and stared at Shepard as if a cuckoo were popping out of her forehead. "Are you fucking serious? You, golden girl Shepard, took the time to help someone in need? I might just lie down and die now. I've seen it all!" he said in amazement. He jabbed her on the nose with his finger. "You just might have a place in my beloved Vila."

The three trainees paused for a moment, unsure of what to make of this to which Hartmann exploded into another tirade. "What the fuck are you idiots looking at? There's a goddam turian out there ready to gun us down, cold hearted pricks. I strongly suggest you kill him first!"

CODEX:

Covering six – got your back

Foregrip – Plastic or wooden hand hold at the front of a weapon

Iron sights – post sight without optics

Receiver – lower part of a weapon, usually where the trigger and levers are