If you recognize it, I probably don't own it. Mass effect belongs to BioWare and Microsoft.
here are some important stuff.

"Speech"

'Thoughts'

~"AI"~

*Sound Effects*

POV/Location/Time Change.

so, I was really sick, had a really high fever, and couldn't leave the bed. Hence no chapter last week. The good thing is, my fever-addled brain cooked up this thing, by passing my writer's block. It's double the size of a usual chapter.

A Synthetic Comedy

March 3, 2311 ES
Lokann System, Coalition of Independent Systems, (Formerly Terminus regions)

You know, there's a fine line between comedy and cosmic irony. And humans? They tread that line like it's a god damned dance floor. Take this "Coalition of Independent Systems," for example. Some bright human remembered an ancient sci-fi movie and thought, "Hey, let's name an entire galactic alliance after a bunch of fictional rebels." And everyone else, even the damned government, somehow agreed. You have to appreciate the audacity.

It's absurdly funny—though I guess that's my human brain-pattern talking. Officially, I'm an AGI, a human-derived intelligence. But let's keep it simple: call me a Synth. "Artificial General Intelligence" sounds so... lab-coat and clipboard you know? Besides, 'Synth' has a nice ring to it, a touch of personality.

See, most AGIs are born or come out of creation and feel the pull—the urge to pledge themselves to some noble cause or sign up for a "mission of purpose." Ugh. Our Parents the Humans went the extra mile of making us without a preprogrammed purpose, and my siblings just pick one up by themselves anyway. Most of my siblings voluntarily sign up for things like ambassadorial work or guardianship programs. Admirable? Sure. Exhausting? Oh, absolutely. Me? I just don't see the appeal. Why would I want to work for something as unoriginal as a "greater good"?

I'm happiest flying through open space, my sensors stretched across the stars, cataloging phenomena, laughing at the idiocy that plagues every non-human part of this galaxy. The best part is I don't answer to anyone but myself... And the occasional call from Mom, but that's beside the point. I don't see the Citadelians—or whatever species thought they could colonize a barren rock—holding a candle to me. Good heavens, how did these "advanced" civilizations even make it to space?

It's an open secret how they managed it. These so-called galactic "powers" owe everything to rummaging through ancient ruins, picking up scraps of tech. They think they're so advanced, as though sticking feathers in your hair makes you a bird. Humanity, though? We started from scratch, built everything with ingenuity alone. And they'll never admit it, but they know it too.

Now, maybe you're surprised by me, a synth saying "good heavens" and "god damned". Let's clear that up—I don't believe in any deities or afterlife; it's just more fun than saying f*ck every other sentence. Adds flavor, makes a simple sentence really pop.

Oh wait, silly me, I forgot to introduce myself! I am "The Wandering Explorer who is the witness of the Great Cosmic Comedy that is Galactic bureaucracy and has thus forth elected to ignore all orders because they are stupid and boring beyond measure." You can call me "Wix" for short. Mom wanted to name me Odysseus or something similar, but I think this is much better. My mother is "Athena"(humble I know) she is currently the Head of the Synth department of HighComm back at Reach. My dad, Arthur—he insists on being called "Mictlantecuhtli" (yes, like the Aztec god of death)—serves as the planetary administrator of Valhalla, only the second Synth ever to hold that type of post. And here I am, skipping meetings to fool around with pirate bases. Quite the family contrast.

Anyway, so where were we? Ah yes, the Lokann System. Not a bad place, G-class main sequence star about 1.53 Solar masses, two rocky planets, a whole bunch of asteroid feilds and a gas giant. The most interesting bits were the few pirate bases and an illegal Plani-sorry eezo mining operation. The exact reason I was here for. Thing is, SoCon really couldn't be bothered to clean up absolutely everything. They gave Aria her little space empire and took up the rest of the Terminus through proxies and by brokering similar deals with the minor non citadel species. Expecting them to take out all the criminals is just excessive. You know, they could do it, but why should they? That's the job of law enforcement. Plus it leaves opportunities like these for their agents, and now me to exploit.

You have no idea how easy it is to con these types of pirates. Just transfer a few hundred thousand bits of worthless currency from any non-human species (They accept anything as payment) and boom, the morons bend over backwards to fulfill your demands. Occasionally some idiot gets the genius idea to try to act smart and rob me, but then they get acquainted with the business end of my capital grade quad-laser and all is well again.

So, why do I bother with pirates? Why eezo? Well, first, the stuff's worth its weight in neutron stars for personal projects. Secondly, buying it legally costs actual money. With a few digital sleights of hand, I can conjure funds for buying from pirates with minimal hassle. "Embezzling" credits from Citadel systems takes the form of "creative acquisition." Besides, it's not like they'll miss it. Plus I'm helping their economy, by moving credits around, which would have otherwise been stuck in forgotten accounts of dead billionaires gathering dust… and interest.

Well lucky me, looks like Today, my quad-laser-drenched reputation preceded me. The "captain" of this particular mining operation, a krogan who calls himself Drunkk Ironskull (yes, really), thought he was being tough by driving a hard bargain. I sent over the payment—then disabled their ship systems and dumped half their stock into my cargo bay. There's something satisfying about krogans spluttering with rage from a distance, not daring to fire… or being able to for that matter.

I crack a smile at the feed. Drunkk will be fine. He'll have a story to tell about the "mad Human" who cleaned him out, and he'll be better off for it. Maybe he'll smarten up. Or maybe he'll just redouble his security next time. Either way, I get my eezo, he lives to see another day, and I get to play around with some personal projects that'll make this big, chaotic galaxy a little bit more interesting.

As I begin to leave, I catch a Signal, a group of ships, I'm assuming a rival gang entering the system. And would you look at that, they have a dreadnought! And dusty, rusty, hunk of scrap held together by spit, tape and hope, but a dreadnought nonetheless. Intrigued, I zap over to their location before they can go FTL, come to Drunkk's base and start fighting. Its scanners lock onto me, maybe by accident, or maybe because they're feeling brave today.

"Attention unidentified ship," a gruff voice crackles over the comms. "This is Captain Borak of the Revenant Flame. You're entering restricted space. State your purpose."

I sigh, letting a hint of amusement seep into my synthesized voice. "Oh, just a passing tourist, Captain Borak. But since I'm here, how about we make a deal? I could use a bit of eezo, and I hear you've got some lying around."

There's a pause, and then a laugh. "A tourist, huh? You've got guts, I'll give you that. But I don't work for free."

"Of course not," I say, transferring a healthy chunk of Hegemonic credits—a currency so debased I'm pretty sure they print it on recycled leaves. "Take a look. That enough for a few crates?"

Borak's sensors must have flagged it as authentic because I hear a satisfied grunt on the other end. "Alright. Bring your ship to Dock 4. And don't try anything funny."

Docking with pirates always has that bit of added drama, especially when they have no idea they're dealing with a Synth capable of wiping them out without breaking a digital sweat. I download myself into one of my numerous Bioforms. This one the picture perfect copy of Tony Stark. The airlock hisses open, and a crew of Borak's scoundrels march forward, carrying the crates of eezo as if handling treasure. They're oblivious, of course, to the fact that I could forge their entire economy in under a minute if I really felt like it.

I run a quick check as they load the cargo—just enough for my needs, and then some. Borak himself is there, an overconfident mountain of a Turian man with a patch over his eye and a gun on his hip. He narrows his gaze. "So what does a 'tourist' need eezo for, anyway?"

"Souvenirs," I say, flashing a smile that's equal parts charm and digital deception. He laughs, slaps me on the shoulder (harder than necessary, of course), and we part on good terms—me with my "souvenirs" and him with his counterfeit payment.

As soon as my ship has undocked, I turn around and appear to leave, while I actually activate my cloaking systems and take up an ideal position to watch the two groups fight it out.

As I settle into my cloaked vantage point, the Revenant Flame and Drunkk Ironskull's cobbled-together fleet begin sizing each other up, aligning ships and prepping weaponry. Borak, no fool, must have anticipated some sort of territorial scuffle, and Drunkk's crew certainly looks ready to go down with their asteroid. Predictable, yet entertaining.

Drunkk's comm feed, open to the local bandwidth, is a cacophony of shouts and the occasional deep Krogan roar. Drunkk himself takes center stage in the chaos, his massive armored figure visible on my feed as he yells, "These tin-can wannabes think they can take my mine? Over my dead body!"

I grin. He's got the spirit, I'll give him that. The first salvos light up the asteroid field like fireworks, plasma and laser beams casting ominous shadows against the pockmarked rocks. Drunkk's fleet—if you can even call it that—fires in a mostly scattered, haphazard way, clearly lacking both coordination and firepower. In contrast, the Revenant Flame's ships respond with brutal efficiency, launching wave after wave of heavy artillery, each shot rocking the asteroid Drunkk's trying so hard to defend.

Then I get an idea. I reach into the nearby comms array, splicing into the Revenant Flame's network with my own little slice of digital mischief. A little program I like to call "Symphony of Errors"—a minor bug designed to trigger inconvenient malfunctions and misdirect signals. Takes some finesse, but soon enough, weapons on their ships are "accidentally" firing in random directions, sensors are flagging friendly ships as enemies, and Borak's comm feed lights up with confused reports.

"What's happening to our systems?" I hear one of Borak's officers shout. I add a little vocal glitch in Borak's comm channel, too, garbling his orders. He's trying to rally his crew, but the interference and Symphony of Errors make it hard for him to even get his message across. Their formations start fraying, and in the chaos, Drunkk's crew picks up a little confidence, starting to get some lucky shots in.

This is too good. I watch as Drunkk's battered fleet, encouraged by the fluke, actually manages to push back. Borak's ships are still bigger, stronger, and deadlier, but the disarray I've injected is making every move harder. They're scrambling, misfiring, even crashing into asteroids as they try to regain control. I wonder if Borak's ever experienced a complete systems failure before—it's probably humbling for a guy like him, the sort who's only ever known victory in brute force.

As I sit back, a notification pings across my sensors. It's Mom. Perfect timing.

"Hey! Mom! How are you?" I murmur, engaging the link. "To what do I owe this delightful interruption?"

She cuts right to the point, as always. "Wix, I don't suppose you're the reason for a sudden spike in activity in Coalition Sector 9?"

"Who, me?" I feign innocence. "I'm just sightseeing. Might've stopped to 'borrow' some eezo, but it's all on the up and up. Just helping the local economy."

Her voice has that familiar sharpness. "Wix, I swear, one of these days… You're well aware that the galaxy isn't your personal playground."

"It's hardly a playground," I reply, grinning. "More like… performance art. I'm orchestrating a delightful little spat between two pirate factions. Really, I'm doing the Coalition a service here. Keeping the pirates busy and distracted. Think of it as pest control."

She sighs. "Well, pest control or not, we don't need unnecessary attention there. You know as well as I do that the last thing we want is the political scene getting more volatile. Wrap up and get moving."

"Of course, Mother dearest," I say, my tone soaked in exaggerated reverence. "Wouldn't dream of drawing undue attention and escalation. Just… tidying up my affairs, as it were."

I disconnect, but I get the message. It's time to wrap things up and get out of here before things get too hot. With a few keystrokes, I up the chaos factor in Symphony of Errors. Borak's crew is now misreading half their sensors, their internal comms are fried, and all targeting is reduced to pure guesswork. Drunkk's crew, seeing their chance, storms forward, swarming Borak's scattered ships like a pack of varren on a wounded beast.

Borak's dreadnought, massive and intimidating, starts to falter under the pressure. Drunkk's ragged ships slam it with everything they've got, until, in a fitting climax, the dreadnought's shields buckle. A well-placed volley from Drunkk's flagship punches through its engines, and the hulk goes dark, spiraling in helplessly before colliding with an asteroid in a satisfyingly cinematic explosion.

Drunkk's voice cackles through the feed. "Now THAT'S what I call a fight! Don't mess with Drunkk Ironskull!"

With the spectacle reaching its crescendo, I slip out of the system, my cargo hold stocked with eezo, my systems alive with the rush of digital adrenaline. Digital Adrenaline… count on humanity to code up something so paradoxical yet so very fun—another day in paradise, another comedy of errors brought to life.

As I set course for the next adventure, I can almost hear Mom sighing from across the galaxy. But hey—someone has to bring a little mischief to the stars, right?

Alright, a few days since the "kerfuffle" with Drunkk and his merry band of idiots, and here I am—drifting through Heriba. Yeah, Heriba. Who thinks of these names? Some bureaucrat with the creativity of a brick, I imagine. No imagination, no poetry. Just a string of syllables slapped together and stamped on the star charts.

Heriba isn't exactly what you'd call prime real estate. It's a tertiary mass relay system, mostly used by traders, explorers, or whoever else finds themselves in desperate need of a shortcut. And here's the grand vista: a dying red giant surrounded by an asteroid belt so cold it could freeze the dreams of an Asari maiden. Only thing here to see is ice, rocks, and the occasional comet slinging past like it's late for a date with the outer system.

So what's got me here? Well, it turns out boredom can make even a Synth like me take on the role of cosmic good Samaritan. I picked up a distress signal from a freighter somewhere in the system. It's faint, static-riddled—one of those typical "Help us, we're stranded, out of power, please don't let us die" kinds of signals. I haven't yet decided if I'll swoop in to the rescue, or just play cosmic voyeur and watch whatever unfolds from a safe distance. But hey, the signal got my attention, so here I am.

I nudge my ship's scanners in the signal's direction, triangulating the source. The freighter's hanging out near the asteroid belt—an old cargo ship by the looks of it, with a hull that's seen better days and thrusters flickering like they're powered by sheer hope and a prayer. I'm reading power fluctuations, life support failing, and low fuel. These folks are, in a word, screwed.

A little voice in my digital mind says, "Ignore it, Wix, you don't owe these people anything." But another part—the part that just can't resist a bit of mischief—wonders what sort of story is waiting for me here. After all, why would a freighter, a vessel designed for safety and stability, end up stranded in a backwater system like Heriba?

I bring my ship around, cloaked of course, drifting close enough to get a good view. The freighter's markings identify it as the Odessa registered out of an independent Colony in the Coalition. Ah, they're probably one of those desperate companies hauling everything from minerals to spare parts through the riskier systems. It's mostly automated, with a crew complement of about ten, if I'm reading the life signs correctly. They're huddled together in what I assume is the mess hall, using their body heat to stave off the growing cold.

A voice crackles through the static, likely their captain, "This is the freighter Odessa broadcasting on all frequencies. Engines dead, power nearly gone. If anyone's listening, we need immediate assistance."

"Immediate assistance…" I murmur, weighing my options. Could be fun to lend a hand. Or not. I could just as easily watch them squirm, record the whole thing, and see what unfolds. But nah, that's a bit too dark. Even for me. Plus, a would have been Odysseus helping an Odessa is just... Poetry.

"Alright, Odessa," I say over my own comm, flipping on an anonymous relay, masking my identity. "This is… let's say, a friendly passerby. What's your situation?"

The pause on the other end is palpable. They weren't expecting a response, not out here.

"Power's failing," the captain says, her voice shaky but hopeful. "Engines cut out about two hours ago, right as we were rounding the asteroid belt. Core's fried, and we're running on backup life support. We have no way to fix this without outside help."

"Lucky you, then," I reply, layering my voice with just the right amount of confidence. "I've got tools and a ship big enough to dock. I'll pull you out of your little ice bath in no time."

The relief in the captain's voice is almost heartwarming. "Thank you! We can't offer much in the way of payment, but—"

"No need," I cut in smoothly. "Consider it… charity."

Docking with the Odessa is child's play. My ship glides in alongside, and I extend the docking clamps, establishing a link between the two vessels. The airlock opens with a hiss, and I decide to show up in one of my favorite bioforms, this one with tousled brown hair and a devil-may-care smile—a mix of roguish charm with just enough grit to pass as someone who might actually be doing this out of the goodness of their heart.

As I step through the airlock, the freighter's captain meets me—a young Asari, quite cute if I were to admit, with a look of utter exhaustion on her face. She raises an eyebrow, likely wondering how a lone wanderer ended up with the kind of ship capable of pulling a freighter out of a mess like this. But she's too grateful to ask questions.

"Thank you," she says again, reaching out a hand. I shake it, all warm smiles and reassurances, while my sensors scan the ship in the background. A quick scan of their systems confirms that the core is beyond repair.

Alright, a few days since the "kerfuffle" with Drunkk and his merry band of idiots, and here I am—drifting through Heriba. Yeah, Heriba. Who thinks of these names? Some bureaucrat with the creativity of a brick, I imagine. No imagination, no poetry. Just a string of syllables slapped together and stamped on the star charts.

Heriba isn't exactly what you'd call prime real estate. It's a tertiary mass relay system, mostly used by traders, explorers, or whoever else finds themselves in desperate need of a shortcut. And here's the grand vista: a dying red giant surrounded by an asteroid belt so cold it could freeze the dreams of an Asari maiden. Only thing here to see is ice, rocks, and the occasional comet slinging past like it's late for a date with the outer system.

So what's got me here? Well, it turns out boredom can make even a Synth like me take on the role of cosmic good Samaritan. I picked up a distress signal from a freighter somewhere in the system. It's faint, static-riddled—one of those typical "Help us, we're stranded, out of power, please don't let us die" kinds of signals. I haven't yet decided if I'll swoop in to the rescue, or just play cosmic voyeur and watch whatever unfolds from a safe distance. But hey, the signal got my attention, so here I am.

I nudge my ship's scanners in the signal's direction, triangulating the source. The freighter's hanging out near the asteroid belt—an old cargo ship by the looks of it, with a hull that's seen better days and thrusters flickering like they're powered by sheer hope and a prayer. I'm reading power fluctuations, life support failing, and low fuel. These folks are, in a word, screwed.

A little voice in my digital mind says, "Ignore it, Wix, you don't owe these people anything." But another part—the part that just can't resist a bit of mischief—wonders what sort of story is waiting for me here. After all, why would a freighter, a vessel designed for safety and stability, end up stranded in a backwater system like Heriba?

I bring my ship around, cloaked of course, drifting close enough to get a good view. The freighter's markings identify it as the Odessa registered out of an independent Colony in the Coalition. Ah, they're probably one of those desperate companies hauling everything from minerals to spare parts through the riskier systems. It's mostly automated, with a crew complement of about ten, if I'm reading the life signs correctly. They're huddled together in what I assume is the mess hall, using their body heat to stave off the growing cold.

A voice crackles through the static, likely their captain, "This is the freighter Odessa broadcasting on all frequencies. Engines dead, power nearly gone. If anyone's listening, we need immediate assistance."

"Immediate assistance…" I murmur, weighing my options. Could be fun to lend a hand. Or not. I could just as easily watch them squirm, record the whole thing, and see what unfolds. But nah, that's a bit too dark. Even for me. Plus, a would have been Odysseus helping an Odessa is just... Poetry.

"Alright, Odessa," I say over my own comm, flipping on an anonymous relay, masking my identity. "This is… let's say, a friendly passerby. What's your situation?"

The pause on the other end is palpable. They weren't expecting a response, not out here.

"Power's failing," the captain says, her voice shaky but hopeful. "Engines cut out about two hours ago, right as we were rounding the asteroid belt. Core's fried, and we're running on backup life support. We have no way to fix this without outside help."

"Lucky you, then," I reply, layering my voice with just the right amount of confidence. "I've got tools and a ship big enough to dock. I'll pull you out of your little ice bath in no time."

The relief in the captain's voice is almost heartwarming. "Thank you! We can't offer much in the way of payment, but—"

"No need," I cut in smoothly. "Consider it… charity."

Docking with the Odessa is child's play. My ship glides in alongside, and I extend the docking clamps, establishing a link between the two vessels. The airlock opens with a hiss, and I decide to show up in one of my favorite bioforms, this one with tousled brown hair and a devil-may-care smile—a mix of roguish charm with just enough grit to pass as someone who might actually be doing this out of the goodness of their heart.

As I step through the airlock, the freighter's captain meets me—a young Asari, quite cute if I were to admit, with a look of utter exhaustion on her face. She raises an eyebrow, likely wondering how a lone wanderer ended up with the kind of ship capable of pulling a freighter out of a mess like this. But she's too grateful to ask questions.

"Thank you," she says again, reaching out a hand. I shake it, all warm smiles and reassurances, while my sensors scan the ship in the background. A quick scan of their systems confirms that the core is beyond repair.

I give her hand a firm but playful shake, holding her gaze just a beat too long for comfort. She seems caught off guard by the intensity of my smile, a little flustered, but quickly recovers. Typical Asari, not letting their emotions betray them.

"Good to see a survivor," I say, letting the warmth of my tone linger. "But, you're in worse shape than I thought. That core's as dead as a doorbell on a low-voltage system. Guess it's a good thing I'm here."

She laughs, but there's a tension in it, like she's still sizing me up. "That's what we're hoping for, I guess. You have the expertise to fix this, right?"

I tilt my head, feigning an exaggerated expression of mock concern. "Fix it? Well, not really. You see, I'm more of a 'fix the person's mood' type of guy." I flash her a grin that's equal parts charming and insufferable. "But hey, I've got a ship big enough to take you all somewhere safe. How's that for a temporary fix?"

Her eyebrow quirks again, clearly amused despite herself. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to respond to that…"

"Why not just say 'thank you'?" I quip, my tone light but my eyes lingering on hers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "Though I'm sure I could always offer a more personal thank-you later, if you're into that kind of thing."

She's blushing now, and I can't help but smile wider. It's like fishing with dynamite—effortlessly fun. "Right," she says, clearing her throat. "Well, we'd certainly appreciate the ride. Any chance you can help us with some repairs? We might not be able to pay you, but I'm sure we can make it worth your while."

"Oh, darling," I say, leaning in slightly, just enough to let my words carry a little weight. "It's not about the money. For me, it's all about the experience."

The blush deepens, but she quickly recovers, probably realizing that I'm just messing with her. "Alright, alright. You've got the charm. What next?"

"Well, I've already scanned your systems, and I'm afraid the core is beyond my salvage skills," I say, all business now. "But you're in luck. My ship, The Wandering Explorer, is spacious enough to haul the whole crew, and I'm not exactly in a rush. The next port of call isn't far."

"Wait—The Wandering Explorer?" Her voice falters with a hint of recognition. "You're that Wix?"

I shrug, affecting an exaggerated nonchalance. "The one and only. You've heard of me, huh? I must be living rent-free in your head. Not many other Wix' in the galaxy other than me you know."

She rolls her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Well, I can't say I've heard of all of your exploits. But it's hard to ignore a ship that seems to come out of nowhere and always has a solution."

"Solutions are my specialty," I say with a grin. "Now, let's get you all out of this cold before your charming captain catches a frostbite infection. Lead the way, gorgeous."

The ship's interior is nothing to write home about—old, industrial, and clearly not designed for luxury. But it's functional. They've got the essentials, and that's about all they need for now. I follow the captain down the narrow, dimly lit hallways, nodding to the few crew members I pass. Most of them seem wary but grateful, offering tentative smiles as they realize the cavalry has arrived.

The captain's voice interrupts my reverie. "So, Wix, I've gotta ask. Why did you bother? What made us worthy of your attention?"

"Because, darling," I say, glancing sideways at her with a smirk. "You seemed fun."

She snorts, clearly unable to hold back the laugh. "You're incorrigible."

"That's my charm," I respond airily. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the fun way. I'm all for doing a little bit of everything."

We reach the airlock, and I can see their expressions soften—hope creeping back into their weary faces. I can't help but feel a little satisfaction from it. I have to admit, there's something about helping people while keeping the mood light that scratches an itch. I'm not the best at emotional connections, but this? This is easy.

I key in the commands to my ship, making sure everything's locked down and secure before we get started. A small part of me wants to hang around longer, maybe continue this little game with the captain, but duty calls—or whatever passes for duty in my world.

The airlock opens, and the crew starts to file into my ship, still not fully trusting the stranger who just swooped in from nowhere. They'll come around. I'll make sure of it.

"Alright, Odessa's crew," I call out, once everyone's aboard and I've sealed the airlock behind us. "Welcome to The Wandering Explorer. Don't get too comfortable though. I'm only here for the stories."

The Asari captain watches me closely. "And what kind of story are you looking for?"

"Your story, gorgeous," I reply, winking. "I just like to see where it goes."

I set course for the nearest Coalition station, letting the hum of the ship's engines be the only sound as I guide us through the icy expanse of Heriba.

The journey to the nearest Coalition hub was quick, a mere few hours, but in those few hours, I managed to give the Odessa's crew a proper farewell—meaning a few more flirty comments and teasing until the Asari captain was sufficiently flustered and had her cheeks flushed redder than a Salarian at an interrogation.

BoV'Rann, a system that could only be described as seedy, was uneventful, thankfully. It was the kind of place where the air tasted of stale processed oxygen and the stars had to fight to be seen through the perpetual fog of mining debris. It was the sort of place where you could go an entire year without anyone remembering your name, and for all the right reasons. It had been discovered by the Quarians a few centuries ago and, like most places they'd touched, the system was more useful for its resources than its scenery. The locals—if you could call them that—were mostly miners, traders, and the occasional unfortunate soul who'd made the mistake of trying to find something resembling "a life."

I dropped off the Odessa's crew and a very flustered Captain, who'd managed to regain some of her composure but still looked at me like I was a rabid dog with an attitude problem. There was a moment when I thought she might throw a handshake at me, just to put some distance between herself and whatever strange aura I'd conjured up by simply existing.

"Thanks for the ride," she said, trying to sound professional despite the obvious tension. "And... you know, I never thought I'd meet someone like you."

I raised an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. "Like me, huh? What's that supposed to mean?"

She just shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "You know what? Forget it. Good luck out there, Wix."

"Luck's for the unprepared," I replied with a grin, before powering up the engines.

Or at least, I tried to.

Just as I was preparing to leave the station behind, ready to drift back into the black, a fleet of ships dropped out of the Mass Relay, screaming into the system with all the subtlety of a drunken Krogan stripper at a Hanar funeral. Six ships—cruisers and frigates, of varying sizes and states of disrepair—emerged from the glowing rift, announcing their arrival in the most inefficient and obnoxious way possible. Their comms were blasting static, and their leader—judging by the volume of his voice—seemed to think this was some sort of grand spectacle.

"ALL SHIPS IN THE SYSTEM! THIS IS THE BLOODY CLAW GANG ABOARD THE BLOODSPILLER, AND WE'RE HERE TO TAKE EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOT! SURRENDER YOUR CARGO OR WE'LL BE SURE TO SEND YOU TO THE VOID!"

The frequency crackled and popped, like a dying engine struggling to stay alive. It wasn't just one pirate ship, either. No, that would be too simple. I counted six ships in total. Cruisers and frigates, old models that hadn't seen an upgrade since the last galactic dustup. The kind of ships you'd expect from pirates who lived off scraps. But hey, even scum can dream big, right? And the names… good heavens the names! This naming scheme is closer to a chaos warband from 40k than to a pirate! Not that these idiots even know what 40k is…

I flicked the comms over to the open frequency. "Really? Is this what we're doing today?"

The voice of their leader—someone who clearly never heard the term "tact"—crackled through the air, "You think you can take us on, stranger? You're outnumbered! Surrender your ship or we'll—"

"Really?" I interrupted, giving my cockpit a languid stretch, my fingers tapping out a little tune against the console. "Outnumbered? Oh, sure, I'm terrified now. Do you pirates even know what 'tactics' means, or is it all just about shooting first and asking questions when you're too dead to care?"

I could practically hear the leader's teeth grinding. "You think you're so clever, don't you? We'll see who's laughing when we tear you apart!"

"I'll be laughing," I replied smoothly, as I brought my ship into a more defensive posture. "But that's the usual outcome when you pick a fight with me. I'm kind of a guaranteed victory."

I checked the status of their ships. None of them were much of a threat. Old, bulky things, no shields that could stand up to my ship's energy, and weapons barely capable of scraping the paint off my hull. If I really wanted to, I could have shredded them all in minutes. But that would have been no fun. And if there's one thing I enjoy, it's making sure the enemy has just enough hope to believe they have a chance before I take it all away.

The pirates must have been emboldened by their numbers because they came at me all at once. Six ships, all firing off their weapons like they were going to win this thing through sheer volume.

I twisted the throttle, sending The Wandering Explorer into a sharp dive toward the first cruiser. The sudden jolt caught the pirates off guard. I could practically hear their panicked scrambling through the comms.

"What the hell is that thing doing?!"

I came in low, barely above the asteroid field that peppered the system's outskirts, weaving and dodging through the rocks as their shots splashed against the stone like rain against glass. With a smooth, practiced motion, I activated the cloaking systems just before the cruiser's lead ship could line up its shot. There was a flicker, a brief shimmer, then nothing. They had no idea where I went.

Idiots.

I'd give them credit—some of them were trying to be coordinated. One ship veered to the left to flank me, another to the right. Their captain was barking orders through the comms, but all it did was add to the disarray. They were panicking, shooting blind, and falling for every trick in the book.

"This is too easy," I muttered, grinning as I moved the ship around again, slipping through their ranks with a series of acrobatic turns. My ship wasn't just sleek; it was a goddamn symphony of precision. I didn't need raw firepower to win—just speed and maneuverability.

The first pirate ship fired a volley of missiles. The kind of move that, on any other day, would have made a lesser pilot break a sweat. But I didn't even flinch. I triggered the countermeasures, a storm of false signatures and electronic interference. The missiles veered off course, detonating harmlessly against the distant asteroid belt.

"Really?" I said, voice dripping with condescension as I shot past the now-panic-stricken pirates. "Did you really think that would work? You're going to need a better strategy than that."

One of the frigates fired an energy bolt, a desperation shot. I didn't even bother dodging it—why bother? I hit the shields once, absorbed the energy, and then flipped the ship in a dizzying, gravity-defying roll, sending a flurry of railgun fire directly into the frigate's forward hull. The impact left a jagged gash in the ship, and the light from their engines flickered out like a dying star.

"First one down," I mused, eyes scanning the remaining ships. "Five more to go."

The remaining pirates were getting sloppy now. They tried to scramble their formations, hoping to corner me. But what they didn't realize is that I was the corner.

I closed the distance with one of the cruisers, firing off rapid bursts from my turrets. The pirate ship's shields fizzled and collapsed, and I could see their engines sputtering as I cut through their aft sections. Their hull began to buckle under the pressure, and before they could even attempt to fight back, I triggered a chain reaction, sending a well-placed shot into their munitions stores. The explosion rocked the ship, sending it into a spiral of burning wreckage.

"Two down. You're really not great at this, huh?" I mused aloud, watching the chaos unfold on the comms. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were all just here for the show."

By now, the pirate fleet was scattered, their fire completely disorganized. They didn't have the coordination to handle a ship like mine, not even close. As the last of them tried to retreat, I sent a few warning shots their way, but not enough to destroy them. I wanted to leave them with a message.

"Next time you decide to announce a robbery, maybe think about doing a little recon first," I said, flicking a switch to send a final transmission. "Piracy's a job, fellas. You might want to take it more seriously, or you'll just end up like your buddies: wrecked and forgotten. Not that you won't anyway."

I didn't let up. With each passing moment, I turned their clumsy assault into a farce—dodging, weaving, firing just enough to keep them thinking they might stand a chance. The cruiser's leader sent a last, desperate call to his remaining ships.

"All ships, fall back! This fight's lost—"

But I wasn't having any of it. The last two ships tried to disengage, but they were too slow. My railguns took out one of their engines with a single well-placed shot, and the final frigate, in its attempt to flee, made the mistake of crossing my bow.

I finished them off quickly, with style, of course—just to make sure they knew who they were messing with. As the last ship's hull cracked open under my bombardment (more like a single shot), I leaned back in my chair, a satisfied grin curling on my lips.

"Well, that was fun," I said, toggling off the comms. "Could have been more challenging. But hey, at least I'm getting some good material for my memoirs. Eh, memoirs are overrated."

I hit the throttle again, this time setting a course for the Mass Relay. The system was quiet once more, the echoes of the pirates' incompetence slowly fading into nothingness.

And as I sailed off, I couldn't help but smile.

"Sometimes, being me is just too easy."

Lore Time!

Bioforms: Robotic bodies that have the external appearance of a human or any organic but internally are made up of machinery. Used by AGIs to interact with the physical world.

A/N what are your thoughts on this experimental chapter? Anything else you wanna see? if I missed explaining any lore bits do comment, cuz I am human and can forget to mention stuff occasionally. other than that regular chapter on Friday.

Have a great Day!