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.
WARNING! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DETAILED AND SEMI-DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND DEATH, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO SUCH THINGS.
Repercussions:
November 19, 2300
Classified Location
The Council of Five convened in a well lit, soundproofed chamber, its walls lined with holographic displays of galactic maps, strategic plans, and classified data streams. This was not a meeting called lightly, and the air in the room was heavy with urgency. Each member of the council—the President, the Prime Minister, the Lord Commander, the Lord Admiral, and the enigmatic Illusive Man (in this case Woman)—carried expressions that ranged from grim determination to barely restrained apprehension.
The recent findings from the Prothean beacon on Eden's Alpha Site had sent shockwaves through the upper echelons of human leadership. The beacon's data, combined with classified information from Site Bravo and connections to the ancient Mars archives, painted a picture far more terrifying than anyone had anticipated. The moment the implications became clear, the entire operation was locked behind the highest security protocols with a Priority Classifed to Level 5.
"The Panic and Hysteria Would Be Catastrophic. We cannot allow this discovery to become public knowledge," the President said, her voice firm but edged with a hint of desperation. "If humanity learns about an ancient, omnicidal race of machines, it will undermine everything we've built—our confidence, our cohesion, even our relationships with our synthetic citizens. The panic alone could bring down governments."
"Agreed," Lord Commander Arcturus chimed in. "We've made extraordinary progress integrating AGIs into society. Abe's existence has paved the way for the development of the first fully sapient artificial intelligences. If word of this machine race—the 'Reapers'—gets out, it'll set us back decades, if not centuries. People will demand their destruction out of fear."
The Lord Admiral, a towering figure with a sharp gaze, leaned forward. "There's another issue at hand. Those stasis pods we recovered from Eden Site Bravo—26 of them, still active. We don't know who—or what—is inside. We should delay any awakening protocols until we have a clearer understanding of what we're dealing with. We cannot afford to take unnecessary risks right now."
The Prime Minister nodded thoughtfully. "Caution is prudent, but we cannot afford to be idle. Projects Aegis, Shiva, and Jedi must be accelerated immediately. We need scalable defensive measures, large-scale offensive capabilities, and advanced AI-based analytical tools. And the Mars beacon—if there's even a chance we can restore it to full functionality, it could provide us with critical insights."
The room fell silent for a moment before the Illusive Man spoke up. Her voice was as smooth as silk but carried an undercurrent of danger that silenced the room. She leaned back in her chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she exhaled a plume of smoke from a cigarette. "There's one more thing we need to consider. Do you all remember the Rho-class artifact we recovered in 2295? The one that turned part of the crew into cybernetic zombies and mind-controlled the rest?"
The others nodded solemnly. The incident had shaken up the Confederation brass, and the survivors of that nightmare were still housed in Blacksite Echo-01, undergoing constant observation and treatment. They had lost so many agents that glassing the immediate region of the artefact was being considered a viable option.
"Our scientists have just made a connection," The Illusive Woman continued. "Based on the data mined from the Prothean Beacon, there's an 83.67905% chance that the entity responsible for that artifact—and its effects—is the same as the one the Protheans referred to as the Reapers."
The silence in the room was deafening as the weight of her words sank in.
President Henrietta's fist slammed onto the table. "So not only are we facing an omnicidal race of machines, but there's also a chance they can mind control people? This just keeps getting better!"
Hadrian, ever the strategist, crossed his arms. "If the Rho artifact was of Reaper origin, it's likely a scouting tool or, worse, a seed. That means it's not just a relic; it's a vector for infection. Luckily we have already managed to secure and contain every individual who had come into contact with the artefact."
"More importantly..." The Prime Minister began "We need to increase our industrial output to 100%. We can't continue functioning at 40% output. If the reaper numbers are anywhere close to what the beacon suggests, our 470,000 ships might not be enough. I'm not suggesting we go into war footing, that would be unsustainable even for us. But we should activate and utilise all of our industrial capacity instead of letting it sit idly."
"I'll put forward the motion in the Parliament." President Henrietta informs.
President Henrietta's tone was steely as she addressed the others. "The motion to classify all information related to the Reapers is now on the floor. The implications of public awareness are clear. Panic. Hysteria. Widespread mistrust of our AGI programs. I believe we're unanimous on this, but we'll formalize it. All in favor of keeping this under wraps?"
One by one, the council raised their hands. The decision was unanimous.
Henrietta's nod was curt. "The knowledge of the Reapers will remain at Priority Level Five clearance. No dissemination beyond this council and its immediate operatives."
Lord Hadrian shifted in his seat, his expression grim. "Which brings us to the matter of preparation. If these Reapers are indeed a galactic-scale threat, then every moment we waste leaves us at a disadvantage. We're operating at 40% industrial capacity. We need to scale to 100%. War footing or not, it's better to be ready than scrambling when they arrive."
Prime Minister Norrington leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "Hadrian is correct. Our fleet is vast—470,000 ships strong—but the beacon's data suggests the Reapers number in the millions. This is not a fight we can win through complacency. If we fail to utilize our full industrial capacity now, it might not matter how many ships we have when the time comes."
Lord Admiral Voss raised an eyebrow, her voice measured. "And what happens when the public sees factories running at full tilt? Increased ship production doesn't go unnoticed, especially by the Council species. They'll start asking questions, and the last thing we need is drawing attention to our preparations."
Norrington countered, "We don't need to announce it. Our industrial base is decentralized enough to ramp up quietly. Focus on automated facilities. They're efficient, discreet, and can operate without drawing too much scrutiny. We have the resources; we're just not using them."
Henrietta sighed. "Even if we can ramp up production discreetly, there's another issue. Public perception. If we suddenly deploy massive resources into military buildup, people will assume we're preparing for war—and they'll demand answers."
The Illusive Woman, who had remained silent, chose this moment to speak. Her voice was a low purr, each word deliberate. "Public perception is irrelevant if humanity ceases to exist. What matters is ensuring we're ready when the Reapers come. That said…" She exhaled a plume of smoke, her lips curling into a faint smile. "It's not just about ships. We need Projects Aegis, Shiva, and Jedi operational now. Defensive systems, planetary shields, and enhanced AI predictive analysis. These will buy us time when the Reapers arrive, and time is our most valuable resource."
Hadrian's gaze hardened. "If they arrive, Illusive Woman. We still don't know their timeline. We could have centuries, or they could already be here."
"And what of the Citadel species?" Voss asked, her eyes narrowing. "Do we share our findings with them? Their fleets may be primitive compared to ours, but they're still allies—at least for now."
The Illusive Woman's smirk vanished, replaced by a look of cold calculation. "No. We already know the truth about the relays—they predate the Protheans by millions of years. If the Reapers built the relays, there's a strong likelihood they built the Citadel as well. The Prothean beacon's data strongly implies the Citadel is a trap, a central node for their invasion strategy. If the Citadel species are compromised—and we must assume they are—any leak risks exposing our knowledge. The best weapon we have is that the Reapers don't know we know of them. We must keep it that way."
Henrietta nodded grimly. "Agreed. The Citadel species will remain in the dark. If they're compromised, we can't risk it."
The President straightened, her expression resolute. "Very well. Moving to the next motion. Increased militarization. All in favor?"
Prime Minister Norrington and Lord Commander Hadrian raised their hands without hesitation.
"Opposed?" Henrietta raised her own hand, joined by Lord Admiral Voss.
The Illusive Woman leaned back in her chair, her hand remaining conspicuously still. "I abstain," she said with a small smile.
Henrietta's lips pressed into a thin line. "With two ayes, two nays, and one abstention, the motion is postponed until the next meeting. In the meantime, we'll authorize discreet preparations for Projects Aegis, Shiva, and Jedi."
The room fell silent, the weight of the decision settling over them.
"This concludes today's agenda," Henrietta said, her voice soft but firm. "We reconvene next week. Dismissed."
As the council members filed out, the holographic displays flickered off one by one, leaving the room in darkness. Only the faint glow of the Illusive Woman's cigarette remained, a solitary ember in the void.
October 28, 2300 ES
Palace of the Batarian Hegemon,
Khar'Shan
Khorok Ror'bevan paced outside the gilded double doors to the Hegemon's private chambers, sweat dripping down his ridged face. The ornate door handles, shaped like snarling batarian beasts, gleamed mockingly under the chamber's golden light. Every step he took seemed louder than it was, as though the vast marble hallway was amplifying his nervous energy. The news he carried was dire, the sort that could alter the course of a career—or a life—with the utterance of a single sentence. He clenched his fists, silently cursing fate for placing this burden on him.
He knew what awaited him within those doors: the most powerful and fearsome man in the Batarian Hegemony, surrounded by the opulent trappings of his wealth and tyranny. Khorok had heard whispered tales of the Hegemon's wrath—stories passed like ghostly warnings through the corridors of the palace.
Haunting memories of his predecessor's broken body strung up in court was a constant reminder that failure, or bad news meant death. Or worse.
But withholding the news would be a death sentence of its own, and a far more agonizing one at that. Steeling himself, he whispered a desperate prayer to Athame, to the spirits of the turians, to the forgotten Batarian Elder Gods—anything or anyone that might offer mercy where the Hegemon would not.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the intricately inlaid doors open.
The chambers within were a sensory assault of decadence and depravity. Gold and platinum filigree wove across every surface, reflecting the light of hundreds of dimly glowing incense burners hanging from the ceiling. The air was thick with the cloying scents of rare spices, exotic perfumes, and narcotic fumes. Silk drapes in ostentatious shades of red, purple, and black flowed from the ceiling like banners of conquest. Every wall was adorned with tapestries depicting the Hegemon's "glorious" campaigns, each one a lurid display of violence and domination. An immense crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, casting refracted light across the room's obscene displays of wealth—jeweled goblets, gilded furniture, and a floor inlaid with mosaics of precious stones.
Slaves of every species imaginable filled the room. Some stood still as statues, holding trays of expensive wines, steaming delicacies, or jeweled hookahs. Others danced to haunting, discordant melodies played by an enslaved salarian musician in the corner. Several were chained to walls, collars around their necks studded with sapphires and emeralds, their eyes empty and glazed over. Others lay crumpled on the floor, unconscious or drugged into compliance. The few conscious ones cowered in the corners, trembling as the Hegemon's mood shifted.
And there he was—the Hegemon himself.
The bloated ruler lounged on a massive throne of blackened steel and gold, his corpulent form spilling over its edges like melted wax. His flesh, a corpulent mountain of flesh draped in silk robes that struggled to contain his bulk, was dotted with jewels embedded directly into his skin, a grotesque display of excess that made even Khorok's stomach churn. Smoke curled from the end of an ornately carved pipe clutched in one massive, jeweled hand. His yellowed eyes glimmered with lazy malice as he surveyed his domain, a sneer perpetually etched on his face.
As Khorok entered, he caught sight of a trembling turian slave—a fresh acquisition—pour wine into the Hegemon's chalice. She was stark naked, her carapace marred with golden decorations cruelly drilled into it, and her hands shook so violently that the golden chalice rattled in her grip.
A single drop of wine spilled onto the Hegemon's hand.
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
The Hegemon's eyes narrowed into slits, and his lips curled into a snarl. With shocking speed for someone of his size, his massive hand shot out and clamped around the slave's slender neck. She let out a strangled cry, her wide eyes bulging with terror as he lifted her off the ground.
"You dare," the Hegemon hissed, his voice a venomous growl. "You dare stain me?"
He squeezed, the sound of her choking filling the room. Khorok froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. The other slaves lowered their heads, their trembling intensifying, as though trying to make themselves invisible. Finally, as Khorok took another hesitant step forward, the Hegemon dropped the girl. She crumpled to the floor, coughing and gasping for air, as she crawled away.
"Khorok," the Hegemon rumbled, his voice dripping with false warmth. "My favorite advisor. What brings you to my sanctuary? Surely you know how I detest interruptions during my private time."
Khorok dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. The marble was cool against his skin, but it did nothing to soothe his rising panic. "M-My lord, I deeply apologize for disturbing you," he stammered. "But this matter is urgent—most urgent. It requires your immediate attention."
The Hegemon exhaled a long plume of smoke, his bloated lips curling into a sneer. "Speak, then. And know that if I find your 'urgent matter' unworthy of my time, you will regret it."
Khorok's voice wavered as he spoke, still prostrate on the floor. "My lord, I bring grave news. Lord Cegar Fraggor, your blood brother and the head of our external operations in the Terminus Systems, has... cut off all contact with us. We have received no communication from him for the past two months."
For a moment, the room was silent. Then the Hegemon's pipe clattered to the floor.
"Did I hear you correctly?" the Hegemon growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Cegar has cut off all contact? Betrayed me?"
"Yes, my lord," Khorok whispered. "His last transmission was two months ago. We have no word on his location or—"
"TRAITOR!" the Hegemon roared, his voice reverberating through the chamber.
He surged to his feet, a mountain of rage and flesh. The slaves scattered like leaves in a storm, some shrieking as he overturned tables laden with priceless food and drink. He kicked the unconscious asari slave nearest to him, sending her limp body skidding across the floor. A golden statue was smashed against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. The turian girl who had spilled the wine tried to crawl away but was caught underfoot as the Hegemon stomped across the room. Her screams were cut off with a sickening crunch.
Khorok curled into a ball, trembling as the Hegemon's rampage continued. Slaves screamed and scrambled for safety, only to be dragged back and beaten mercilessly if they came too close to the doors.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Hegemon's rage began to subside. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he turned his blazing eyes on Khorok.
"Kill his family," the Hegemon snarled. "Seize every asset he owns. Strip his name from the annals of history. And if that bastard shows his face, capture him alive. I will skin him with my bare hands and feed him to a thresher maw piece by piece!"
"Y-Yes, my lord!" Khorok stammered, scrambling to his feet.
"Now get out!" the Hegemon bellowed.
Khorok fled, the sound of crashing furniture and terrified screams following him down the hallway. As Khorok stumbled through the winding corridors of the palace, the echoes of the Hegemon's rampage pursued him like a phantom. Even here, far from the chamber, the faint sounds of breaking furniture, muffled screams, and guttural roars carried through the decadent halls. He dared not look back, afraid that the Hegemon's wrath might spill beyond the confines of his lair.
The opulence of the palace, which once dazzled Khorok with its sheer arrogance and grandeur, now seemed suffocating. Every golden pillar, every silk-draped alcove, every grotesque carving of batarian supremacy reminded him of the precariousness of his position. Here, even the air felt heavy, as though laden with the weight of centuries of cruelty and indulgence.
Slaves darted out of his way as he passed, their faces pale and their eyes cast downward. They, too, had learned the art of survival in this palace of horrors—move quickly, speak softly, and never, ever draw attention to yourself.
Finally, Khorok reached his private quarters, a modest set of rooms compared to the Hegemon's lavish domain. He slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it as he tried to steady his trembling hands.
"Gods above," he whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Why did I ever accept this cursed position?"
But there was no time to linger on regrets. The Hegemon's orders were clear, and Khorok knew that failing to carry them out would result in a fate far worse than death.
*The Purge Begins*
Within hours, the Hegemon's wrath had spread like wildfire across Khar'Shan. The vast bureaucracy of the Hegemony moved with frightening efficiency, fueled by fear and the promise of blood. Entire battalions of soldiers, agents, and bounty hunters were mobilized with one purpose: to destroy Lord Cegar Fraggor's legacy.
In the glittering city of Varesh'tok, where Cegar's sprawling estate dominated the skyline, chaos erupted. Hegemony enforcers stormed the compound, dragging out Cegar's family—wives, children, and distant relatives alike. The streets filled with the cries of the terrified and the triumphant shouts of the enforcers.
Those who resisted were killed on the spot. The rest were rounded up and paraded through the city in chains, a grotesque display meant to remind the populace of the Hegemon's absolute authority.
Cegar's personal assets—his businesses, his wealth, his ships—were seized and systematically dismantled. His allies were arrested, interrogated, and executed, their names added to an ever-growing list of traitors. The once-mighty Fraggor name, a symbol of power and influence within the Hegemony, was being erased from history.
But Cegar himself remained elusive.
The Hegemon's fury only grew as days turned into weeks without any sign of his blood brother. Khorok, now tasked with overseeing the hunt, found himself walking a razor's edge. He knew that every passing moment without results brought him closer to the Hegemon's wrath.
A/N So, I really wanted to emphasize how tyrannical the Batarian hegemon actually was, and the level of decadence that he enjoys. I intentionally went for the most vile character ideas I could think of, because a society built on the suffering of others, where pedigree matters more than talent doest give rise to paragon as rulers. societies like that create Tyrants bloated with excess and debauchery beyond comprehension. really make use of the M rating you know. I am planning on expanding upon all the societies, especially the overlooked ones. And considering that the reapers are at least a decade or two away, we have plenty of time.
Anyways, Hope you have a nice day/night!