Deleted Fic Archive

by book lover reader

This is an archive of deleted fics of other creators that I liked that were unfortunately deleted.

51. Exitum

Exitium

Story: Exitium
Storylink: s/12571931/1/
Category: Doom + Mass Effect Crossover
Genre: Chapters: 9
Author: MintyFeet
Authorlink: u/2819496/
Last updated:
Words: 70355
Rating: M
Status: In Progress
Content: Chapter 1 to 9 of 9 chapters
Source:

Summary: As humanity stands on the brink of total extinction, Samuel Hayden, Director of the Unified Argent Corporation, enacts a desperate last-ditch plan to ensure mankind's survival. In another time, and in other place, a turian patrol ship encounters a mass relay unlike any other. The peoples of Citadel space and the Terminus have no idea that beyond it lies one thing: Doom.

*Chapter 1*: Prologue

June 9th, 2207
Unified Argent Corporation - Mars Facility
Estimated human population: 103

---

Samuel Hayden sighed.

He'd specifically ensured that his office would be spared from the demonic invasion alarms which had been blaring throughout the entire facility for the past two weeks, and yet he could hear them ringing - even through the blast doors separating him from the rest of the sprawling complex.

He sighed again as his desk lit up with an incoming call. He looked at the detonator built into his chassis, then at the shutters which had sealed away the view of Mars days before.

He took the call.

"Director Hayden, I'm sorry, we can't hold o-" a voice shouted, interrupted by a long pop-pop-pop burst of plasma-gunfire. "Can't hold out any longer!"

"That is acceptable," he replied.

"We'll delay the demons for as long as we can, Dire - squad, archviles, left side! Sir, it's now or never! Ortega out!"

He knew that his (probably ex) Chief of Security was right. Part of him indulged in the fantasy of calling him back, and he knew he would certainly have no trouble eradicating the hellspawn which had pushed humanity to extinction. But it would be a pointless victory - yes, he would live, but humanity would gain nothing. Humanity had already lost.

This round, at least.

He chuckled to himself, and looked at the dimensional-tether device sitting in the corner of his office, and walked over to it.

"I don't know if you can hear me. I doubt it. But, with things having gotten this...out of hand, I'll permit myself the indulgence," Samuel said. "I suppose, if you were to look at all this, you would believe yourself to have been proven correct. Because, for all your martial skill, you were always short-sighted. Never could see the bigger picture." He stepped into the device, called up a portal that would deposit him into the hidden room behind the tether device; moments later, he was deposited into a small chamber containing a stone column, four feet high and bearing an indentation. Samuel pulled the Crucible out of a compartment in his chassis, and activated it, watching as the blood-red blade flared to life out of the artifact's hilt. He slid it blade-down into the column and laughed as the room's walls lit up with endless rows of neon-blue synthetic rune-patterns.

If Samuel Hayden could have smiled, he would have.

He activated the detonator and laughed as the room folded in on itself, reality itself ripping apart as the concentrated blast of refined Argent energy began to work, corrupting time and space - for humanity's benefit.

Yes, Samuel thought as his chassis began to flicker out of existence. This time, we will not simply steal from Hell, like petty thieves in the night. No, we shall conquer it like gods, as you never could, warrior.

---

Yours is the shield that guards us from sin.
Yours is the blade that cuts down the enemy.
Yours is the name that seals my wounds.
Yours is the visage that grants me strength.

When I am faced with Hell, I beseech thee:
Grant me but a mote of your anger,
Grant me but a fraction of your hate,
Grant me but an inkling of your rage.

For you are the HELLWALKER,
the FIRST SENTINEL,
the UNCHAINED PREDATOR.
And above all, you are the DOOM SLAYER.

AMEN.

The First Prayer of The Slayer's Gospel

---

10th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 9th, 2157 Council Era)

Councillors Tevos and Valern arrived at the same time, and both nodded at Tevos as they sat down across from Sparatus.

"So? What's the emergency?" Tevos asked, yawning. "Last I checked, the Council doesn't meet at three in the morning to celebrate."

"This," Fallox Sparatus said, pulling up a galaxy map and zooming in, "is System 314. Uninhabited system with only one other planet nearby, and the mass relay here is dormant. That was until a few hours ago. I was informed a few hours ago that one of our routine border patrols picked up something - this is footage sent from the patrol ship."

The hologram shifted, and both Tevos and Valern flinched.

It was a mass relay - that was undeniable - but its body, which should have been a metallic blue, was grey and covered in pulsing, fleshy tendrils which emanated from its core. What should have been the calm, soft, blue centre of the relay was an angry blood-red fire which beat like the heart of some great beast, and every so often the core would project a spherical array of strange runes around the relay.

"Goddess," Councilor Herane Tevos whispered, leaning back in her chair. "I've never even heard of a mass relay...malfunctioning, for a better word." She studied the hologram in the centre of the conference table intently, her mind racing for something, anything she'd read or heard in her lifetime that would lend sense to what she was seeing; the very sight of those unnatural runes made her skin crawl.

"Do we know that it's malfunctioning?" Saral Valern asked, his voice unusually uncomfortable. "Believe me, nothing in our files mentions anything like this - but it's not as though we are aware of how the mass relays function on a fundamental level."

"I was hoping one of you could answer that question," Sparatus said, shaking his head. "Captain Cantus Lucidas of the Stalwart - the ship which found the relay - says in his report that he and his crew considered sending a probe through to see what would happen, but decided to wait until higher authorities considered the matter."

"We'll have to contain this information for now," Valern noted, "while we put together some sort of response. The last thing we need is a panicked civilian response when we ourselves don't even know what's going on."

"I've already had my aides begin putting together Citadel Fleet elements to shore up security in the area," Sparatus replied, "but we'll also need researchers, scientists, experts and the like. Can we do that - quickly - without causing a panic?"

"I'll work on it. For the moment, I think it's fair to say that security and safety are our primary concerns," Tevos said, "and I guarantee we can put together a list of cleared individuals for a small science team rather quickly."

"Alright. Let's get to work then," Valern said. "I can arrange to have a list of individuals ready in the next hour or so - let me send a quick message to my secretary. I suppose we ought to start drafting a press release just in case this news leaks to the public somehow."

Sparatus nodded, sighing, and braced himself for a long day.

*Chapter 2*: Chapter 1

15th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 14th, 2157 Council Era)

---

It is six in the morning, on the thirteenth of the second umbral waters. Loyal warriors, scholars and children of humanity, awaken, and prepare for your morning rites. Today's reading is from The Book of the Hellwalker, chapter two, verse six:

"Despite their courage and their tenacity, the Young Sentinels found themselves pushed by the hellspawn to the outer gates of New Corrax, and they began to despair - for if their dwindling numbers were to fall, Hell itself would bring slaughter and blood upon the city. It is recorded, then, that as the last three dozen of the Young Sentinels prepared one last, holy stand, the skies split and the hosts of Hell itself cried out in terror, and from the skies

HE emerged from a hell-portal, ever-clad in the PRAETOR and carrying an instrument of judgement in each hand. In HIS left hand, he carried Flesh-Ripper, the chainsaw-blade of purity; in HIS right, he carried Bone-Tearer, the holy double-barreled shotgun."

"The DOOM SLAYER tore himself from this portal and fell to the grounds, and it is known that the forces of Hell cried out in terror, sputtering curses and begging for mercy. But this only infuriated the DOOM SLAYER, for the very concept of mercy upon Hell was impossible to even comprehend. That day, New Corrax did not fall, for the Young Sentinels were reminded of their duty, and they followed the DOOM SLAYER into glorious, holy, carnage. They killed demon and hellspawn and heretic for many days, and on the dawn of the fifth day after HIS arrival they stood atop a mountain of corpses and an ocean of blood."

Loyal humans, do not forget your sacred duty. Do not hesitate in your daily work, and do not falter as the Young Sentinels did in that early age. Know that you represent the holy and the righteous, and that it is better to die standing than to fear like a coward.

Now, loyal humans, join me in the first recital of the day: yours is the shield that guards us from sin...

---

Saren Arterius snapped awake in his bunk, and pulled his clock up in his HUD as he swung out of bed. Not good, Saren thought, as the readout noted it was oh-six-oh-five. Slept in five minutes. Getting rusty. He grumbled to himself as he put his armour back on, and made his way out of the small private room and into the corridors of the Stalwart; a minute later, he entered the ship's bridge and walked over to Captain Lucidus.

"Spectre Arterius," Cantus said with a small nod, glancing away from his command console. "You're up early."

"I didn't want to miss any of the day's work, Captain."

"Hmm. You know, there isn't any work to be done quite yet," Cantus replied with a smile. "Not until the research teams finish their little test."

"Which they will be doing today, correct?"

"Yes, they will - it's scheduled to start in about an hour, Spectre Arterius. I'm assured by the science teams that they've cracked whatever it is that's blocked our previous attempts at using the relay."

"I apologize if I came off as...brusque," Saren said, looking out of the cockpit at the seemingly-infested relay. "That...thing, out there. It makes my carapace itchy just looking at it, and there's a small part of me that keeps saying we ought to just leave the damned thing alone."

"Ignoring the relay won't make it go away."

"I know that, Captain," Saren replied, sighing.

"You're not the only one with doubts - but I wouldn't worry. You get used to it after a while," Cantus said, shrugging. "I'm not saying it isn't unbelievably disturbing, mind you, just that after a while you kind of forget how gross it is."

"That doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, it makes me even more ill-at-ease," Saren grumbled. He stood in silence for the next while, unable to tear his eyes away from the fleshy, pulsing tendrils which covered the mass relay. They pulsed in time with the blood-red heart of the relay, sigils and runes flashing brightly in the black of space-

"-Spectre Arterius? Saren?" Saren snapped away from the mass relay to find Captain Lucidus looking at him with a concerned expression. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes - just lost in my thoughts."

"Well, the test is about to start, if you'd like to observe."

Saren nodded and leaned up against a nearby section of hull; the ship's speakers flared as a message came through.

"Citadel Fleet Cruiser Stalwart, this is Research Vessel Silverthread," an asari voice said. "We're about to launch the probe."

"Silverthread," Captain Lucidus replied, "this is Stalwart. Our signals teams are standing by."

"Understood. Test probe number six, launching in three, two, one, launched."

Saren watched as one of the vessels to the right of the Stalwart fired a small pod, little more than an engine and thrusters wrapped in a metal casing, towards the mass relay. It streaked towards its target, and as it neared the relay flickering tendrils of red and brown licked out of the relay core and wrapped around the pod.

"Test probe interfacing with the relay, stand by - goddess," the asari shouted, "it's working!"

The relay flashed a bright neon-red and for a moment Saren swore he could see a rip in space appear in front of the pod; seconds later, the pod winked out of sight, and a white shockwave burst out of the relay.

"BRACE POSITIONS!" Captain Lucidus shouted, and Saren clenched his teeth as he mag-clamped himself to a nearby handhold. The wave passed through the ship with a shuddering groan, and Saren felt an overwhelming sense of dread puncture his calm for a split second. The feeling passed, though, and he looked around.

"Report," Cantus said.

"We're all in the clear," one of the bridge crew said. "Whatever the wave did, it was - spirits, look at the relay!"

Saren looked up and had to remember to close his mouth as he saw the mass relay - the tendrils and fiery-red core were gone, and in their place was the natural metallic-blue body and a glowing green core. The projected runes, too, were different; they no longer flashed, and instead shone solid.

"Green?" Lucidus asked, tone cautious. "Are mass relays supposed to be green?"

"No, but they're not supposed to be on fire and covered in tentacles either," Saren said slowly.

"Hmph. Is that humour I detect?" Lucidus asked, before turning on his comm unit. "Silverthread, status report." He waited for a few moments, then frowned. "Silverthread, status report."

"No response, Captain," one of the bridge crew said nervously. "They're not broadcasting an emergency signal - maybe the shockwave damaged their comms?"

"We're fine. Doesn't make any sense," Lucidus muttered under his breath. "Keep trying to raise them," he said, before activating the shipwide comm. "Away team one, stand by for possible intel-rescue mission."

"Rescue?" Saren asked.

"Plan for the worst, right? You wanted work, and now you have it," Cantus said, staring at the relay.

Saren grunted in response and jogged back to his quarters. He pulled open his weapons locker and clamped his trusty shotgun and assault rifle to his back, then stuffed his chest rig with shock grenades and flashbangs; after a quick weapons check he sealed his lockers, put on his helmet and made his way into the Stalwart's hangar. The hangar was unusually crowded, with engineers prepping shuttles and marines forming up in staging areas. He walked over to the shuttle closest to the airlock loading bay, where a dozen marines in full combat gear were checking each other's equipment. They glanced up as Saren approached, and one walked over to him.

"Spectre Arterius," the marine said, standing at attention. "Thanks for the assist."

"You can thank me if I actually end up assisting you," Saren noted, offering his arm. They clasped arms, and Saren nodded. "Name and rank?"

"Sergeant Plitus Merinian, Spectre."

"Any experience with boarding action?"

"My squad's done several tours dedicated to anti-pirate operations, Spectre. More breach-and-clears than I can count."

"Excellent. Let's get loaded up and prepare for launch." Saren followed Sergeant Merinian onto the shuttle with the rest of the marines and buckled himself in as the shuttle's pilot began the pre-flight checks.

"Hey," one of the marines said, looking at Saren, "you're a Spectre, right? We expectin' trouble?"

"I'm just here in case anything happens, marine."

"Brass talk for shit's going down!" another said, laughing as he mimed firing a rifle. "Been cooped up on this damn ship for weeks. Be nice to shoot at something."

"Stow it, Albinus," Sergeant Merinian said, sighing. "Alright. This is supposed to be a simple check-up - Silverthread's gone dark after that shockwave and we're here to figure out why. If anything this is search and rescue, not a varren hunt. Last thing I need is the Captain ripping me a new one because one of you idiots shot a civ. Clear?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" the marines barked back.

"Alright. Ship's a standard three-decker and you've got the maps, folks. Stay cool and we'll be fine. Pilot, we good to go?" Plitus shouted towards the cockpit.

"Yessir, just got cleared for launch. Stand by. Launch Control, this is SM-one-twenty, requesting transfer to launch bay...understood," the pilot said. "Buckle in, folks, we're off."

The shuttle rumbled as the rear hatch sealed and the ship was transferred into the airlock; Saren craned his head and watched as the shuttle left the Stalwart. The other ships in the convoy were now moving away from the Silverthread, a research vessel of asari make and styling. By the time the shuttle arrived at the sealed landing bay of the Silverthread the fleet had assumed a loose spherical formation around the now-dark science ship.

"Lights are out," the pilot said, "but we'll try anyways. Silverthread, this is Stalwart shuttle M-one-two-zero, requesting you open your landing bay and grant docking permission." The pilot waited for several moments, and frowned as there was no response. "Silverthread, this is Stalwartshuttle M-one-two-zero, requesting your open your landing bay and grant docking permission."

"Don't think they're going to respond," Saren said.

"Alright, plan B," the pilot muttered. "Silverthread, you have another minute to respond to our request. After that this shuttle will breach the landing bay doors using an entry charge. Any personnel in the hangar are advised to stay well clear of the landing bay."

The minute passed in silence.

"Silverthread, we have received no response and will now proceed to breach the landing bay doors. Final warning to anyone inside that hangar - stay way from the doors."

The shuttle moved up towards the landing bay doors and rumbled as its underbelly opened; a manipulator extended from beneath the cockpit and planted a gunmetal-grey pyramid on the landing bay doors, flat-side down.

"Charge is set," the pilot said. "Here we go - detonating in three, two, one, breach." The pyramid's tip lit up for a split second before exploding inwards in a white-hot flash; the shuttle rammed through the weakened section of hull immediately afterwards and spun as it screeched through the landing bay doors, the rear hatch slamming into the hangar floor. "We're clear, move!"

Saren and the marines all unbuckled themselves and sprinted out of the shuttle, weapons at a low-ready, and fanned out into the hangar - which was, as far as Saren could tell, entirely empty and running on emergency lighting.

"Clear right!"

"Clear left!"

"Clear!" Sergeant Merinian looked over at Saren, and then scanned the dimly-lit hangar again. "No crew."

"Perhaps," Saren noted, moving over to one of the Silverthread's shuttles, "they got the message about the breach." He looked inside, found it empty, and shrugged as he moved onto the next shuttle.

A thorough sweep of the hangar revealed nothing, and the group stacked up by the main door out of the hangar as Sergeant Merinian gestured to one of the marines. "Lavus, terminal."

"On it, sarge." The marine jogged over to a nearby maintenance terminal, and his omnitool lit up; Lavus looked over his shoulder a few moments later and shook his head. "Shockwave must have screwed with the network or something - I'm locked into the hangar network and getting nothing but error messages."

"Damn. Alright, back here. Saren?" Plitus asked.

"I'll take point," Saren said, hitting the manual door release. The hatch hissed open, and Saren sliced the doorway, moving into the corridor beyond with his shotgun raised. The marines followed closely behind, and they stopped at the lone room between the hangar and the elevator - a small door marked as storage. Saren once again led the way, and looked around the room, which was full of crates, lockers and racks of various scientific equipment. He paused, crouching over a small collection of spilled drink canisters and half-eaten snacks which were on the floor. "Odd," he said aloud, standing back up.

"What, a bunch of the crew just...decided to drop their food on the floor?" Lavus asked.

"Hey," Albinus said, "if the Stalwart got all fucked up by a relay going haywire I'd probably drop my food too."

"Everyone, all at once, though?" Saren noted. "And that still doesn't explain where all the crew are. Let's keep moving."

The marines followed Saren out of the room and into the main elevator; Saren hit the button for the second deck, and frowned as an error message flashed on the terminal.

"Error," a synthesized voice said. "Research deck remains in lockdown due to hazardous condition: fuel leak, coolant leak, life support failure. Deck lockdown will be lifted upon all-clear from bridge."

"Fuel leak?" one of the marines said nervously. "Spirits, sarge, nobody said anything about a fuel leak."

"Well, we'd better get to the bridge and figure out what the hell's going on then," Plitus said, nodding at Saren.

Thankfully, the elevator controls had no issue with bringing the boarding party to the top deck, and Sergeant Merinian looked at his rifle as the doors closed. "So. Fuel leak. You know the drill, folks - low-yield concs, omni-batons. Getting cooked or spaced isn't on my agenda."

The marines all grumbled as they activated their rifles' concussive shot modes and activated their omnitools; several tested flash-fabricating blunt batons from their omnitools. Saren, on the other hand, simply unholstered his shotgun and let his biotics flare to life around him. Several of the marines flinched or tried to step away.

"Shit, you're a biotic?" Lavus asked.

"Is that a problem?"

"No," the marine replied in a tone that was entirely unconvincing. Saren snorted a laugh in response, took a deep breath, and twirled his knife around as the elevator ascended. A few moments later, the doors opened.

The corridor outside was full of corpses; some were so badly mutilated that it was hard to tell what species they originally were. The bodies had been shoved to the sides of the corridor and stacked to the ceiling, forming a a tunnel of meat leading to the next door. Saren slowly glanced up, not moving out of the elevator, and shuddered as he noticed the thick smears of blood dripping from the ceiling, and strange symbols that resembled the mass relay's runes drawn on exposed inch of wall using a mixture of crushed organs and viscera. The floor itself was barely visible beneath an ankle-high pool of grey-blue blood, which was now seeping into the elevator.

Saren pushed his disgust into the back of his mind and continued into the corridor, his boots squelching as they hit the floor, and he paused as he heard something - a mumbling, gasping groan. He spun to the side to find that, half-buried into the pile of bodies, someone's head was sticking out. It was a quarian, he realized, who appeared to have been torn out of his suit; the quarian's eyes were barely open.

"Please," the quarian managed to groan.

"What in the hell happened here?" Saren asked. The quarian simply shut his eyes, and Saren knelt down to pull the quarian out the pile of bodies. There was a squelch and a crunching noise, and Saren watched in horror as the quarian came free - missing the entire lower half of his naked body, his torso covered in massive gashes. "How - how the fuck are you still alive?"

"Please."

"Answers, now," Saren growled. "Answer me, damn you!"

The quarian closed his eyes, mouth opening and closing as he gasped for air.

Saren slit the quarian's throat and dumped his corpse into the ever-growing pool of blood on the floor, then stood back up to walk over to the security hatch. He looked back at the marines, all of whom were still in the elevator. "You guys gonna sit in that elevator all day, or are you coming with me?"

The marines followed behind Saren as he opened the hatch; the group was greeted with a similar sight as they entered the next corridor: bodies everywhere and more of those strange symbols painted on every exposed surface. They cleared several crew cabins, a lounge, and a small kitchen, all in the same state of horrifying chaos - but no other survivors. At last, they arrived at the door to the bridge, and with a deep breath Saren led the way through.

It was as though Saren had stepped into hell itself: the remaining crew, about two dozen, were all naked and gathered together in the CIC, and a small pile of bodies had been heaped onto the main holo-board. The crew were busy chanting in a tongue his translator didn't know, painting those horrid symbols on walls and mutilating themselves with kitchen knives, scalpels and various other sharp implements; the crew were so consumed in their work that they failed to notice Saren and the marines taking up firing positions.

"What in the actual fuck," one of the marines whispered.

"We're here to rescue these people? We should kill 'em all," Lavus hissed.

"Nonlethals only," Sergeant Merinian said. "Saren, you have the honours."

Saren shouldered his shotgun, and let off a burst of concussive shots; three of the crew were knocked to the ground, and Saren's eyes widened in disbelief as they simply got back up and screamed so loudly that his helmet's aural dampeners kicked in. The entire crew, as if posessed, all turned, screamed together, and rushed towards the firing line.

"Fire at will," Saren said, letting the familiar rush of battle soothe his nerves. The group opened fire, launching barrage after barrage of concussive blasts, yet the crew kept getting back up when anyone sane and not a krogan would have stopped from the pain.

"Medium yields," Plitus shouted, "and go for the legs!"

The marines all began firing concussive shots that were far louder, the bridge filling with the crack-thoom of their fire. The attacking crew were no longer being knocked to the ground; instead, they were being flung backwards into the walls with bone-crunching force. Still, they continued to rise, sprinting back towards the marines even as their twisted and shattered limbs gave out under them. Saren grit his teeth, set his shotgun's concussive force to lethal, and opened fire - and took a step back as an asari crewmember's head exploded and yet -

"She's still alive?" he shouted in horror, as the headless asari corpse continued to sprint at him. Focus, he thought, firing another shot at her legs; the asari's body from the waist down crumped from the blast's force, and even still the body continued to claw its way along the floor with its hands.

"What the FUCK IS GOING ON? Nobody said we were fighting the undead!" one of the marines screamed, turning to run to the elevator with another marine close behind.

"HOLD THE LINE," Saren barked. "LETHAL CONCS! DISMEMBER THE LEGS FIRST AND DON'T STOP SHOOTING UNTIL THEY STOP MOVING!"

The battle raged on for what felt like an eternity, and when the last of the crew was little more than a twitching pile of paste smeared across the bridge's walls, Saren let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Clear," Plitus said in a shaky voice. "Sound off."

Eight of the marines checked in, breathing heavily; four didn't respond, and Saren looked back to find one marine on the ground by the elevator rocking back in forth on the ground, and two standing ramrod-still, unmoving.

"Tanis! Druso! Wake the fuck up!" Plitus said, shaking both marines. One of them shook his head and looked around at the carnage before him, stammering incoherently, when the other screamed and raised his shotgun, firing a concussive shot that blasted Sergeant Merinian into the wall.

"Stay back! STAY BACK! DON'T TOUCH ME!" Druso shouted, waving his rifle around wildly. "DON'T TOUCH ME YOU SPIRI-"

Saren slammed Druso into the wall, knocked his rifle away, and held him in place with a biotic field. "Druso! What the FUCK are you doing?"

The marine simply began to sob, shaking his head furiously and struggling under Saren's grip; Saren growled, swore, and punched the marine in the head with a biotic punch.

"Spirits' shit," Plitus groaned, getting off the ground. "You knock him out?"

"Yeah," Saren said, panting.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Saren replied, staring into the bridge. "We have to explain all of this shit to someone."

"Alright. We're missing Faussius," Plitus said. "Anyone know where he is?"

"He got into the elevator, I think," Albinus replied.

"Alright. Albinus, Lauritian, go back to the hangar, figure out where he is, tell Santux to prep the shuttle. Lavus, with Saren - go figure out what the fuck happened up here. Rest of you with me - we're keeping an eye on Tanis and Druso," Plitus said, nodding at Saren.

"Lavus - you check the CIC boards, and I'll see if I can pull anything off the command consoles." Saren made his way into the bridge proper and attempted to activate the command console; his omnitool linked up with it, but he recieved nothing but error messages and garbled data. Saren logged the data he received, and returned to find Lavus cursing as he pried open the base of the main holo-board.

"Doesn't make any spirits-damned sense. It's running on aux power and it lights up, but it keeps spitting errors at me," Lavus muttered. "You get anything, Spectre?"

"No - same as you."

"Wiring seems fine, and my scans are all clear," Lavus said, checking his omnitool. "Maybe it's got something to do with the second deck being all fucked up?"

"Plausible," Saren noted. "We're not going to get anything at this rate - we might as well leave."

"More than happy to get the hell off this deathtrap," Lavus agreed.

The group returned to the elevator - with one marine carrying Druso - and descended back to the bottom deck. Making their way into the hangar, the group found Albinus and Lauritian standing over the missing marine, Faussius, who was curled up in the corner of landing bay.

"Sarge! He won't move," Albinus shouted, waving the group over. "I tried to get him up and he threw his rifle at me," he said, gesturing at the second rifle on Lauritian's back.

"So? Pick him up and get him on the damn shuttle. We're leaving," Plitus barked.

Albninus and Lauritian both knelt down and grabbed Faussius and wrenched him to his feet; Faussius fought back for a moment before muttering something and going limp. Plitus sighed as the full group returned to the shuttle - the ramp already lowered - and buckled themselves in as the pilot, Santux, leaned out of his seat and looked at the group.

"Spirits, and I thought Albinus looked like shit. You guys alright?"

"Just get us off this ship," Plitus said, rubbing at his helmet.

"You got it."

The trip back to the Stalwart passed in silence, save for Santux's request that the convoy move away from the Silverthread and prep a hazard tent; Captain Lucidus was already waiting once the ship docked in the Stalwart's hangar. The second the ramp lowered, he nearly doubled over, and several of the engineers and hangar crew nearby covered their faces; two actually vomited.

"Is there a reason you people are covered in gore and smell like a mountain of rotting corpses?" Lucidus asked, clearly doing his best to remain stoic.

"Crew of the Silverthread went crazy, Captain," Plitus said, remaining on the dropship. "Best for you to see the footage directly, sir."

"Right. Get cleaned up, and we'll do debrief. Any wounded?"

"PFC Aetna here is unconcious. Needs to be restrained just in case - he attacked me before Spectre Arterius knocked him out. Got a few guys in shock, too."

"Alright. I'll be waiting in my quarters when you're ready, Sergeant."

A group of deckhands - these ones wearing hazard suits - pushed several crates over to the back of the dropship, and deployed a temporary quarantine tent; Saren went first and was ushered into a decon tube. A few moments later, he stepped out, his armour free of the gory paste that had built up on it, and waited outside for Sergeant Plitus. After another five minutes, the Sergeant emerged, and after glancing back at his men who were being escorted towards the hangar's medbay for a moment the two walked over to the main elevator and emerged at the top deck. They exited, walked down the corridor to the captain's quarters and entered the already-open doorway to find Cantus sitting at his desk. Both men removed their helmets; Saren stood at attention as Plitus saluted.

"Please, come in," the Captain said, gesturing at the seats opposite him. Saren and Plitus sat down, and Captain Lucidus rubbed at his fringe. "So, would either of you like to explain why the Silverthread - which was working just fine up until the relay fired that wave - is apparently in danger of exploding, and why you people walked out of your shuttle covered in gore?" He tapped at his console, and nodded at Plitus. "Helmet footage, please," he said. Sergeant Merinian nodded in return and tapped at his omnitool; the projector in Cantus' desk lit up and the Captain watched the footage intently. Once it finished, he looked at the two sitting opposite him and pointed at the looping footage. "Explain. Now. And don't leave anything out, because I'm the one who has to write a spirits-damned report as to what the hell all this is."

"There's not much to explain, Captain," Saren said, shaking his head. "No crew in the hangar deck, second deck suffered some sort of catastrophic failure, and...the crew appeared to have turned completely insane?"

"I...I don't know what to say, sir," Plitus said after a moment. "The...the crew, they fought like animals. Would be bad enough, but then Saren blew off the head of that asari and she just kept coming. Same with the rest of them. And the...runes? Glyphs? They were all painting the walls and ceilings with blood and whatnot." Plitus shuddered and closed his eyes. "It's not, well, natural, Captain. And my men - bunch of them broke rank. Druso - PFC Aetna - even shot me with a concussion blast, Captain. I've watched all of these men fight against overwhelming odds, and they've all seen some heinous shi - stuff on pirate vessels, but they just...broke. Sir."

There was a long pause.

"I'm not a superstitious man," Saren said, breaking the silence, "but if I were, I would probably say that this...situation was distinctly of the occult." Saren shrugged. "It doesn't make any sense, and I doubt any research team is going to want to go back onto that ship, given the likelihood that the Silverthread is going to explode soon."

"Alright. Alright, for the sake of simplicity let's just forget about the why behind the crew's insanity and the gore paint and the corpse piles. Why did this not affect the rest of the convoy?" Cantus asked. "The Silverthread's shielding isn't as powerful as the security vessels in our group, yes, but none of the other research vessels suffered this...breakdown."

"Perhaps it's because the Silverthread was the one that launched the probe?" Plitus offered. "I mean, that's not really a reason, but given how little spirits-damned sense any of this makes..."

More silence.

Captain Lucidus sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "Why don't you two go and get some food and some rest. I need to somehow write a report about this madness and kick this up the chain."

---

16th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 15th, 2157 Council Era)

---

It is six in the morning, on the fourteenth of the second umbral waters. Loyal warriors, scholars and children of humanity, awaken, and prepare for your morning rites. Today's reading is from The Book of Doom, chapter four, verse six.

"And so the wise folk of the city-state of Oxacas gathered beyond the gates, and they fell to their knees before the DOOM SLAYER, and they begged of him: O Great One, who walks amongst the Hells and knows no fear; O Great One, who kills without need of blade, what would you have us do? In our time of need, if you cannot come to our aid, what shall we do?"

"But the DOOM SLAYER said nothing, and simply pointed at the burning corpse of the Daemon Imperator which lay behind HIM, a mountain of flesh which blocked out the very sun. Then the DOOM SLAYER walked over to the dead beast, whose mighty head lay upon the earth, and with HIS hands he tore open the skull of the foul creature. HE lead the wise folk into the body of the demon, ripping and tearing with HIS hands to create tunnels of flesh and blood which could be trod open without trouble."

"HE spent many days with the wise folk within the Daemon Imperator, and without words HE taught the wise folk many things. How to carve runes of bloodlust and war from the bones of the enemy. How to draw wards of healing and protection with the steaming blood of the demon. How to purify hell-flesh to eat in times of need. This, and many things more, which the wise folk would take to heart."

"Many suns later, the DOOM SLAYER carved the way to the hindquarters of the Daemon Imperator, and the wise folk fell to their knees again. O Great One, who has taught us the ways of the HELLWALKER and BLOOD-DRINKER and FLESH-TEARER, how can we ever thank you for the countless blessings you have bestowed upon us?

"Then the wise folk wept tears of joy, for they were the lucky few who had the chance to hear the UNCHAINED PREDATOR speak aloud! Glory to them, for they were touched by HIS words. HE ripped open the behind of the Daemon Imperator, leading the wise folk into the light of the sun once more, and HE gestured at the many miles they had walked through the dead demon, and the command HE gave was the most sacred and important of all, spoken with such hate and ferocity that the entire planet shook from HIS mighty speech:"

"RIP AND TEAR. UNTIL IT IS DONE."

So it was spoken, and so it is obeyed. We, who are HIS servants; we, who are the bulwark against the heretic and the demon and the unclean, must carry out HIS order."

Loyal humans, do not forget your sacred duty. Know that the work of humanity shall not end and that humanity cannot rest. Not until every demon, every heretic, every denizen of hell has been ripped to pieces, the flesh torn from their bones and their bones ground to dust and the dust burned in the fires of purity.

Now, loyal humans, join me in the first recital of the day: yours is the shield that guards us from sin...

---

The Councilors sat.

They sat in silence, watching the footage again, and again, and again.

It was Tevos who broke the quiet.

"Goddess protect, how are we going to explain this - any of this - to the general public, when I can barely explain what happened to begin with?"

"Have you even read all of the reports?" Valern asked quietly, shaking his head.

"No - my aide gave them to me only moments before the meeting," Herane replied. "Do they...elucidate the situation at all?"

"They don't," Sparatus grumbled. "Not in the slightest. Nothing makes any spirits-damned sense. One of the reports - document sixteen, I believe - points out that, even assuming that this shockwave could magically cause the crew of the Silverthread to succumb to insanity, there are still problems. The blood, for example - the footage shows Spectre Arterius and the marines being nearly ankle-deep in blood once they arrive on the top deck of the ship. There wouldn't have been that much blood if you combined all of the fluids of every crew-member on the ship - you'd need nearly triple the number of crew to achieve that. Or the quarian. How was he still alive and talking, despite being removed - forcibly - from his suit and ripped in half for more than fifteen minutes? How-"

"-I understand, Fallox," Tevos snapped. "The fact that none of this is possible, let alone plausible, is not lost on me."

More silence.

"Let's put aside how we break this to the public for a moment," Valern noted. "That, frankly, is less important than deciding what we do now.

"Well, I think security is the top priority," Sparatus replied. "Whatever is beyond that relay is clearly dangerous - nobody is going to debate that. We shore up defensive posture around that relay, and then we try and figure out what's beyond it, in order to ascertain the nature of this threat."

"And if...this," Valern said, gesturing to the looping footage, "happens again?"

"An unfortunate, but necessary loss," Sparatus said quietly. "Imagine if this madness inflicted any major city in Citadel space - the casualties would be enormous, the repercussions impossible to handle. I'm exaggerating a little, sure, but we have no reference for how this event happened and no knowledge about the mechanics behind it. Besides, the mass relay in question was already active when we arrived at the scene - which means that something on the other side activated it. If - when - the people who turned the relay on come into contact with us, we have to be ready, whether that means asking them questions or gunning them down."

Herane looked thoughtful, and she took a deep breath before speaking. "Alright. We'll start by prepping the Citadel Fleet transfers, then - we'll need to call in Fleet Admiral Juturna..."

---

Plitus sighed as he returned, once again, to the Chalua Hospital entrance; after several more debriefings and meetings, he and the rest of his squad had been sworn to secrecy and transferred back to the Citadel for "temporary stress-related leave," whatever that meant. By rote, he made his way into the psychiatric ward, signed in at the front desk and was ushered into the depths of the hospital past several guarded secure checkpoints. He met with the usual doctor, and looked inside to find Druso watching a sitcom with a bored expression. "Is he doing any better?" Plitus asked.

"I'm afraid not," the asari psychologist said, shaking her head. "Druso seems normal enough most of the time, but there are...incongruities in his behaviour. He keeps drawing those runes we saw in the helmet-cam footage, and if pressed as to why he gets violent. He also refuses to admit that he attacked you, even when presented with evidence. The worst of it, though, happens in the evenings." The asari frowned. "Almost every night, in the middle of his sleep cycle, he just sits up in bed, and he starts mimicking those gibberish chants he heard from those cultists..."

*Chapter 3*: Chapter 2

Jon Grissom snapped awake as his door chimed, threw off his bedsheets, pulled his shirt off his nightstand and put it on as he walked over to his desk. "Enter!"

The doors slid open to reveal a girl in her late teens wearing heavy green armour kneeling in front of the doorway; with her helmet tucked beneath her arm, her bald, pale head was barely visible beneath the faintly-glowing runes carved into her skin. "Lord Admiral Grissom, my apologies for waking you," the woman said in a courteous tone.

"Sister Nought, nobody on this ship needs to apologize for waking me, let alone a member of the Chaplaincy. Please, come in," Jon said, nodding at his desk."

"I'm afraid I will be unable to sit with you to speak, Lord Admiral," the woman said; her red eyes flashed as she opened them, and her belt-cape swished on the floor as she stood up.

"What's the matter, Jennifer?" Jon asked, pulling his armour out of his locker and strapping himself in. "Do we have demonsign?"

"The alarum is not ringing, so I imagine not," Jennifer said with a smirk. "Abbess Shepard simply stated that you must see her at once," she continued, her expression returning to its usual frown. "She would not tell me the details - she says it would be best to tell you in person."

"Hrrmph. A bad sign, I'd say." Jon finished sealing himself into his armour, letting the sharp jolt of heat wash over him as the suit's runes linked with his own, then clamped the helmet to his belt. He holstered his handgun on his waist, and stretched his arms for a moment. "Well then," Jon said with a grin, "I suppose we ought to be off."

The two walked at a steady pace through the corridors of the Bloodlust towards the bridge, passing by crew who greeted Lord Admiral Grissom with quick nods. Once they arrived at the bridge access hatch, the black-robed adjutant bowed deeply before pressing his fists together in salute and opening the doors.

"ADMIRAL ON THE BRIDGE," the adjutant shouted. All of the personnel on the bridge who were not busy left their seats, knelt at attention and slammed their fists together; Jon took his seat in the captain's throne at the raised centre of the bridge, with Jennifer at his side, gazing out of the windows at the rune-locked spatial tunneler which floated not far from the ship.

"At ease," he said with a wave of his hand. The bridge crew returned to their stations, save for a middle-aged woman with a shaved head clad in thick, hulking armour which was a faded shade of grey and covered in scorch-marks; the dozens of scripture-chains which hung from her armour clinked as she approached Jon.

"Lord Admiral," Abbess Hannah Shepard said in a raspy voice, signing the Slayer's Sigil before slamming her fists together with a loud clang.

"Abbess," Jon replied, signing the Sigil in turn before leaning into the throne. "Is there an emergency?"

"We are unsure, my Lord." Hannah turned and gestured at one of the crew in the communications pit, her tone curious. "Midshipman Justinian detected that the spatial tunneler linked on the other end was activated at some point in the recent past; our rune-lock detected a foreign object attempting to break through to our side of the tunneler."

"Hmm. And the lock is holding?"

"Yes, my Lord. Wretch-Ensign Khufu's team completed their work an hour ago - should you desire it, we could send the object back, let it through. Or, of course, annihilate it. At your desire, Lord Admiral Grissom."

"Do we know what the object is?"

"The Wretches say that they, ah, do not recognize the make of the device. If it is demon-born - which they doubt, given the apparent lack of demonic corruption within this sector - then it is a novel construction. The object itself is no larger than, say, an average-sized truck - it is, as far as we can tell, little more than a metal cube with some machine-components within."

"Concerning," Jon said thoughtfully after a moment. "I would not wish to bear the news to anyone that the demons have learned to break any of our rune-locks, let alone innovate."

"A troubling conundrum indeed, my Lord. It is why I sent Sister Nought to wake you," Hannah noted with a turn of her head.

"Well, we shall have to face this threat at some point. I would not have it known that I fled from a threat for fear of danger, rather than illuminate the circumstances surrounding the threat. Midshipman Justinian, you have the honours - please compile a report and transit it back to Sanctuary Cathedral at once, top priority."

"Yes, Lord Admiral," a young man shouted back from the comm pit.

"Crew, this is the Lord Admiral," Jon said into his throne's comm a moment later. "A foreign object appears to have broken through the rune-lock on the other end of the spatial tunneler. We are going to let it through and ascertain its nature - and if it poses a threat, we will purge it. All crew to battle posture, condition two." He looked up to find Abbess Shepard grinning wildly, and he smiled back.

"Well then, Abbess Shepard, I'll grant you leave - marshal your warriors, if you would. I would not expect a shipboard fight, but if it comes I know you will be glad to do battle."

"Of course, Lord Admiral," Hannah replied with a toothy grin. "It will be good for the Slayers, even if we do not fight, to rattle the chainsaws and prepare for combat." Hannah bowed slightly, then turned to Jennifer. "Come, Sister Nought - let us leave the Lord Admiral to his preperations."

"Yes, Abbess," Jennifer said with a nod.

The two women left the bridge, and Jon returned his full attention to his command terminal and the spatial tunneler before him. He closed his eyes for a split second, said a quick prayer, then opened his eyes, refreshed. "Alright!" he shouted, tone upbeat. "Bring the Bloodlust back two firing sectors from the tunneler and deploy hardpoints! Wretch-Engineers, argent reactors to seventy percent output, stand by to load tertiary capture munitions. Slayers stand by to repel boarders. Crew, stand fast and prepare for the worst, and join me in the recital of war!"

The entire bridge crew began to chant, and the corrdiros filled as the prayer which was sounded over comm and spoken by all echoed through the ship.

Jon smiled, letting the familiar words soothe him. "Yours is the shield that guards us from sin..."

After several rounds of prayer, all sections of the Bloodlust reported the ready signal, and Jon watched intently as the ship aligned with the spatial tunneler.

"Signals report all clear. Lord Admiral, we are ready to fire the rune-key on your mark," one of the bridge crew said.

Jon sealed his helmet's visor, raised a hand, and swept it forward. "Fire!"

"Firing rune-key!"

A blue-white blur streaked towards the spatial tunneler, hitting it directly in its fiery-red core; moments later, the core flashed several confirmation runes, and the red core suspended within the tunneler's spinning rings dimmed into a soft blue; the grey body of the tunneler gradually regained its metallic-blue sheen, and the fleshy tendrils which covered the tunneler receded into nothing. The rings surrounding the core began to spin at their normal speed once again, and Jon watched intently as the spatial tunneler flared to life.

"Spatial tunneler resuming regular operations," one of the bridge crew shouted. "Sending pull signal - unidentified object drops into realspace in three, two, one mark."

The spatial tunneler flashed for several moments, and a small metallic box popped into space near the tunneler; it floated around for a moment before coming to a halt.

"Unidentified object pull complete. Wretches, sending you scan data," one of the signals crew said.

"Receiving," replied one of the Wretch-Engineers over comms. "Matches our previous scans - it is indeed a metal casing with what appears to be...perhaps an engine or some sort of propulsion unit with-"

"-Lord Admiral, this is Vicar Kenson," a woman said coolly over the bridge comms. "We've confirmed residue from the overload trap we placed on the linked tunneler on our scanners. Whatever activated the tunneler on the other side set off the Lazarus Thorns, sir."

"Slayer's shit," Jon cursed. "That means either demons opened our rune-lock or innocents were just hit with a Lazarus wave - all crew," Jon said into his comms, "condition one! We are going through the spatial tunneler! Midshipman Justinian, update Sanctuary Cathedral. Wretch teams, retrieve the unknown object and get the analysis teams working. Ready check in ten minutes. Helmsman, take us in by the tunneler."

The Bloodlust eased towards the tunneler, and Jon watched intently as a trio of shuttles departed from the Bloodlust and towed the unknown device into an isolation cage; the minutes passed slowly and Jon did his best to curb his excitement. Probably just innocents wondering what our rune-lock was, he thought to himself. Just because you haven't slain any demons in the past week, doesn't mean that you will today. He sighed, took a deep breath, and began reciting prayers of calm to pass the time. Soon enough, the ready check passed with an all-clear, and Jon signed the Slayer's Sigil before standing up. "Helmsman! Bring us through the tunneler!"

"Yes, my Lord!" the helmsman shouted, flipping a set of levers; there was a loud screeching noise as the the Bloodlust was catapulted into faster-than-light. Seconds later, the ship was dumped into realspace again, and Jon's eyes widened in excitement as he saw several dozen ships he didn't recognize waiting not far from the spatial tunneler. He had to sit himself down, mentally chanting calming mantras and taking deep breaths before he sighed.

"Signals?" he asked after a moment, his tone far less excited.

"Looks like alien ships," one of the bridge crew said, sighing. The bridge echoed with disgruntled muttering, and Jon cut them off by clearing his throat loudly.

"Crew, it's not demons, it's aliens. I know this isn't what we'd hoped for, but we'll make do. Vicar Kenson, please have your personnel fetch some runes of cognizance and the Volumes of Unity. Abbess Shepard, I will join you on the departure deck shortly," Jon said into his comms. He turned to the dark-skinned man sitting to his left and nodded. "Vice-Lord Admiral Anderson, you have command." Jon got up and strode out of the bridge as the crew behind him began chattering as they worked; he jogged towards one of the ship's elevators and descended from the top of the ship down to the hangar bay on the eighty-sixth deck. The elevator doors opened, and Jon was greeted with the rousing sight and roaring echo of the entire ship's contingent of Slayers - nearly a hundred warriors all wearing hulking armour - lined up in their formations, banging on the floor with their chainswords and singing battle-hymns; at the far end of the formations, Abbess Shepard and Sister Nought both knelt on one knee, hands clasped in prayer. Hannah glanced up as Jon approached, and got to her feet.

"SLAYERS! LORD ADMIRAL ON DECK," Hannah screamed, punching her gauntlet-clad fists together in salute. "THE DOOM SLAYER PROTECTS."

"LORD ADMIRAL," Jennifer and the warriors responded, saluting in turn. "THE DOOM SLAYER PROTECTS."

"The Doom Slayer protects," Jon replied, signing the Slayer's Sigil with the rest of the warriors. "I'm afraid that unless we're very lucky there will be no demon-slaying today. No, we're contacting some aliens who may have tripped our rune-lock by accident."

"Damnation," Jennifer hissed; Hannah punched her in the shoulder with a loud clang.

"Respect, Sister Nought," Hannah replied coolly. "Diplomacy is the Lord Admiral's duty, and protecting him is ours."

"It's quite alright - there's no need to punish Sister Nought for having a bit of war-deprivation," Jon said with a smile.

"You are too merciful, Lord Admiral," Jennifer said quietly.

"Hah! Soft in your old age," Hannah said; several of the Slayers nearby chortled and beneath his helmet Jon smirked.

"Enough with the insults, you lot. Abbess Shepard, please select four of your finest to accompany us on our diplomatic mission. We'll depart as soon as Vicar Kenson arri- ah, speak of the angel," Jon said, turning to watch the elevator doors open. A woman wearing a long set of robes over her hardsuit jogged over, and deposited a small case on the ground.

"Apologies for the delay, Lord Admiral," the woman said, saluting. "This is the first time we've had to dig out the Volumes of Unity since training."

"Mmm. How many runes, Vicar Kenson?"

"Two dozen cognizance runes, and three runes of illumination - gifts for you to give as you see fit," the woman replied, nodding at the case.

"Perfect. You may return to your post," Jon said; Kenson bowed, and took off at a sprint towards the elevator. "Now then - let us depart! We may not be slaying any demons yet, but we can at least spread the word of the Doom Slayer," Jon said.

"Massani, Ryder, Dah, Ahern, with me. The rest of you are dismissed!" Hannah shouted. Four Slayers stepped forward, clipping their chainswords to their belts, and Jon led the group over to his personal shuttle. The Slayers clamped themselves into the shuttle, and Jon was about to follow Hannah into the cockpit when Sister Nought cleared her throat.

"Ah, Lord Admiral, would it be acceptable for me to fly the shuttle?" she asked in a polite tone.

"But of course, Sister. Be my guest," Jon said with a wide smile.

---

"Ma'am, we've got incoming!" Signals Captain Tadius Bellsis shouted. "Signature's huge!"

Juturna Atruus narrowed her eyes as the mass relay which had been, save for the runes and the green core, more or less normal flared blue; she cleared her throat, and when she spoke her tone was iron.

"This is Rear Admiral Atruus to the Relay 314 Defensive Line. We have incoming First Contact. All ships standby on battle stations, condition red, second positions," Juturna said into her comm. She was about to make some sort of rallying cry when the incoming ship popped into normal space, and any words she had been preparing failed her.

The ship - if it could even be called that - was a gargantuan black rectangle covered in pulsating red runes, similar in style to the ones the relay had been projecting. Juturna's mind raced as she attempted to comprehend just how impossibly large the ship was; she'd had the pleasure of seeing the Destiny Ascension up close about a month prior, and she estimated - conservatively - that this floating box was at least six or seven times larger. The ship drifted away slowly from the relay, and as she watched it approach Juturna cursed her sister for convincing her to accept Relay 314 posting.

Focus, Juturna. Calm.

"Stay cool, people! Hardpoints stand by to deploy. Signal teams, prepare to broadcast First Contact Packet One." Juturna ordered, her voice somehow calm.

"Understood, ma'am," Tadia replied. "Prepa- hold on, they're launching something!"

"Weapons?"

"No, ma'am, looks like some sort of shuttle or dropship - it's heading towards us," Tadia said nervously. "Should I go ahead and broadcast the FCP?"

"Do it."

The projectors placed at the front of the Vigilant lit up and began to display various sequences of shapes, numbers and colours, followed by holograms of the many Citadel races and then of the Citadel itself. Juturna watched with held breath as the shuttle which had been approaching suddenly stopped. Moments later, the shuttle projected projected sequences back using the same shapes; then, an image of various two-legged aliens which resembled asari with fur on their heads and a variety of skin colours, all garbed in simple tunics. The shuttle's message repeated twice, and Juturna watched as Tadius leaned out of his seat to face her.

"They're broadcasting on open frequencies, ma'am," the turian man said. "Should I bring it up?"

"Do it."

The bridge's main holo lit up, and Juturna had to focus on keeping her mouth shut; the feed showed the bridge of the incoming shuttle, walls decorated with runic inscriptions and festooned with what appeared to be cloth banners which bore images she couldn't quite make out. Two figures stood in front of the camera, both wearing plain grey cloaks over massive suits of armour. The man - Juturna guessed - had a small patch of black fur running along the middle of his olive-skinned head, and he wore a sidearm and some sort of toothed blade at his waist. Next to him, a woman - who, with her shaved head, looked shockingly like a pale asari minus the fringe - appeared to be quite a bit taller. Her grey armour was covered in small scratches and scorch marks; dozens of small, golden-coloured cylinders hung from her armour on the shoulders and waist. She, too, carried one a strange many-toothed blade at her waist, but the weapon attached on the other side was far too large to be a sidearm. A third figure - perhaps a younger female - knelt at the woman's side, and Juturna shuddered as she noticed the glowing runes carved into the younger woman's bald skull; her armour was a dull green, as was the sash she wore instead of a cloak.

All three spoke together; their tone seemed to be polite, though of course she had no way of understanding them. A few moments later, the feed was replaced with an image of their shuttle moving towards the Vigilant, then going inside of it, followed by a simple diagram of the aliens leaving their ship to meet with symbols aboard the Vigilant which she assumed to stand in for her crew. Juturna replied in the affirmative, smiling, and she followed her message with a diagram of a hatch opening on the underbelly of the Vigilant. All three of the aliens nodded, and their feed cut out.

The bridge was silent for several moments.

"What in the actual fuck," someone whispered.

"Language," Juturna said, getting out of her seat. "XO Maela, you have command. I need an escort and the contact team with me to the secondary hangar," she said into her comm as she left the bridge. She was joined in the corridor by a smartly-dressed salarian man, who shot her an inquisitive look as the pair entered the main elevator.

"You ready, Wehun?" Juturna asked, closing her eyes as the elevator descended.

"Is that a joke? Okay, first of all, this is going far too well to be normal. We just, what, show each other symbols and everything's good?" the salarian said, tone incredulous. "And did you see how fuck-off huge their damn ship is? Don't even get me started on the...classified information regarding the inscriptions," he continued, shaking his head.

"Language," Juturna said, before sighing and opening her eyes. "Look, everyone's on edge and I know things look bad-"

"-because they are-"

"-but that doesn't mean we don't assume these aliens come in good faith."

Wehun snorted, and the rest of the elevator ride passed in silence; Juturna simply did her best to remember the contact training she'd received, running over lectures and rules in her head. The elevator arrived at the secondary hangar not long after, and she exited to find engineering teams prepping the airlocks and security teams taking up defensive formations all around the hangar. As she and Wehun walked towards the airlock controls, they were joined by Saren Arterius, who was in full combat gear.

"Spectre," Juturna said, nodding at the turian.

"Rear Admiral, Lieutenant." Saren stood at attention as the engineers went about their work at a frantic, almost frenzied pace. "You're not armed besides your sidearm, Rear Admiral," Saren said after a moment.

"Contact protocol, Spectre Arterius."

Saren growled something Juturna couldn't hear and shook his head. "If those aliens come out running, you sprint to the elevator and don't look back. Understand?"

"Spectre, there's no need to be rude," Wehun said.

"I'm not being rude. Just cautious."

The three stood in silence for several more minutes before one of the engineers turned to face them. "They're here, Rear Admiral."

"Let them in," Juturna said, adopting as dignified a stance and expression as she could. Seconds later, the hangar-side of the airlock hissed open, and the shuttle - a boxy, black brick, not unlike the larger ship it had launched from - descended before slamming into the hangar floor without so much as lowering a landing strut. The side of the craft opened, and four of the aliens, fully encased in their grey armour and wearing their toothed-blades and sidearms, marched out; Juturna guessed they were maybe on the closer side to eight feet tall, and their armour thudded and clanked as they flanked the shuttle's entrance. All four aliens slammed their fists together and shouted as the three aliens from the feed, all wearing helmets, marched out of the ship. The older woman in the grey armour turned and slammed her fists together as well, and the four escorts fell into formation behind the trio, who now approached Juturna as she stepped forward to greet them.

"It is an honour to receive you," Juturna said as they approached.

The man paused before removing his helmet, and he grinned.

"No, milady, it is my honour," the man said in perfect Thesserit, a wide, warm smile on his face as he and the other aliens knelt before her. "I am Lord Admiral Jon Grissom, and I speak to you now as a representative of humanity and the Exalted Exitium; as an ally who shall stand with you against the tides of Hell and as a preacher who spreads the name of the Doom Slayer! Glory to him, blessed is he. Amen!"

Juturna simply stared at the man for a moment before blinking several times. "Uh, yes. Um. Thank you. I am Rear Admiral Juturna Atruus, representing the Citadel and its many member races. I, ah, see that you are able to understand me and you already speak Thesserit - may I ask how?"

Jon stood up, clipping his helmet to his waist. "I am wearing a rune of cognizance, Rear Admiral," he replied, head cocked slightly. "I figured your peoples would also be carrying them, but that it wouldn't hurt to bring my own. Is that not the case?"

"Rune?" Juturna asked. "Like the ones on your ship?"

"No, those are inscriptions," Jon replied, his expression inquisitive. "I'll reach into my armour, if that's alright."

"Go ahead."

A small compartment on the side of Jon's armour hissed open, and he withdrew a small disc that seemed tiny in his massive gauntlets. He held it in an open hand; the disc itself was a polished beige, engraved with a complex series of glowing blue symbols arrayed in a spiral. "It's not the most up-to-date of our runic technology, but certainly reliable."

"But how does it allow you to comprehend my speech, and grant you knowledge of Thesserit?" Juturna asked, her tone level.

"I don't understand the question," Jon replied, confused. "Do the peoples of your Citadel not have rune magic?"

There was a long pause; Juturna glanced at Saren, who simply stared back in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, did you say magic?" Juturna said slowly.

"Rune magic, to be precise," Jon said.

"It is possible," the woman next to Jon noted in a rasping voice, "that they do not posses runic magic, Lord Admiral. It is, after all, only one of many branches of sorcery."

"Yes, that's true, Abbess Shepard," Jon replied, tapping the rune-disc against his chin thoughtfully. "Ah, forgive me - this is Abbess Hannah Shepard, milady."

"When you say magic and sorcery," Juturna said, "you do mean - you are referring to...miracle making? Effecting change in a non-scientific manner?"

"Well, no," Jon replied in a tone that suggested concern. "Miracle making, that would be theurgy, and magic is certainly scientifically and logically consistent, as is sorcery. Do you mean to suggest that you and your peoples are not familiar with magic?"

"We are," Juturna replied, "but for us magic occupies the realm of myth, legend and the charlatan."

The alien delegation all exchanged glances, and the expression on Jon's face darkened. "Slayer protect," he said slowly. "You mean to say you have been fighting the forces of Hell without the assistance of sorcery? It's certainly possible, but I would be lying to say that I would not miss its absence in combat."

"Ah. Right. That was the other matter I wanted to discuss before we moved on," Juturna said with ill-concealed disbelief. "When you mentioned the 'tides of Hell,' you were speaking in metaphorical terms, co-"

"-you jest!" the young woman standing at Abbess Shepard's side said in an incredulous tone.

"Sister Nought!" Hannah hissed; the young woman flinched and made a curious sign with her right hand over her chest. "Please, forgive her - she is but an acolyte, concerned more with duty than with diplomacy."

"It's, uh, alright," Juturna replied. "But my question still stands."

"Rudely as Sister Nought may have put it," Jon said carefully, "I must echo her sentiments. You know nothing of Hell and its demonic spawn? You and your peoples have not, do not face the minions of Doom, foul servants of sin and evil, in open combat?"

"I'm afraid not," Juturna said, doing her best to not laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "The peoples of the Citadel certainly don't live in world free of evil but I can say with one-hundred-percent surety that we have never had to fight the...ahem, spawn of the underworld?" She flinched as Abbess Shepard fell to her knees with enough weight to send and echoing clang through the hangar, eyes wide and expression one of pure awe.

"His will, his strength, his shield," Hannah said in rapturous tones. "The Doom Slayer protects! A land untainted by Hell and its corruption - Slayer bless us, this is joyous news!" She signed the symbol Sister Nought had made, and the rest of the humans followed suit.

"The Doom Slayer protects," Jon agreed, nodding.

"Ah...very well. In any case, why don't we move to somewhere better suited to continue our discussion, rather than standing around in this hangar?"

"I find the idea agreeable," Jon replied. "Come, Abbess, there will be time for prayer later."

"The conference room is just at the end of the hall past this hangar - please, follow me and the escorts," Juturna said. She nodded at her escort detail and Saren, and led the motley group out of the hangar; they made a right at the corridor and walked over to a large conference room at the end of the hall. Juturna hoped with all her might that the chairs - which were designed to handle krogan - would withstand the bulk of the humans, and she inwardly sighed in relief as she sat across from Jon and Hannah; the other humans remained standing at attention.

"Ah, before we begin, milady," Jon said, "I would hand over some materials for you and your peoples. I shall seek to illuminate our society - and I assume you will do so in kind - but I figure the giving of hard-copy information and gifts is acceptable?"

"It is, though of course we will have to subject the items in question to security checks."

"Of course. Sister Nought, if you please." Jon turned as Sister Nought pulled a slim, wooden case from her chestpiece and proffered it to the Lord Admiral with both hands; he took it, and set it on the table. "This case contains the Volumes of Unity, an abridged physical tome containing the most pertinent elements of our history, religion, culture, and language as well as an unabridged copy on a datastick. Also contained within are several runes of cognizance, as well as some runes of illumination - gifts, for those who wish them."

"Thank you," Juturna replied; Jon slid the case across the table, and she passed it to Wehun. "Lieutenant Aral, please take this to the hangar and have it undergo the proper checks."

"Yes ma'am," the salarian said, clearly happy to be leaving the room. He grabbed the case and walked out at a brisk speed; Juturna returned her attention to the humans before her.

"Before we continue," Juturna said, her tone grave, "I do have some pressing concerns regarding your...ahem, magic."

"Oh? In what way?" Jon replied thoughtfully.

"A few days ago, we discovered the mass relay you emerged from - covered in tendrils and its core red instead of blue. We attempted to send a probe through the relay, but in doing so activated some sort of shockwave."

"Oh, goodness, yes, that would be our rune-lock," Jon said, nodding. "The Lazarus wave - did it happen to affect some of your people adversely?"

"Adversely? Yes. Yes, you could say that," Juturna replied. "Shortly after the mass relay fired the shockwave, the crew of the ship which launched the probe suffered a catastrophic...breakdown."

"Oh, no," Jon said softly. "Do you have footage?"

"I do. It is the opinion of some of my superiors that having you shed some light on exactly what happened to the crew of the ship in question, the Silverthread, holds just as much import as establishing formal relations with your Exalted Exitium." Juturna pulled several helmet-cam recordings and photos taken from the Stalwart's expedition into the Silverthread, and pulled them up on the table's holoprojector; she shuddered as the footage of the blood-rivers, corpse-piles and insane crew began to play. The room fell silent as the humans watched, and a few minutes later Jon sighed.

"I am sorry for the losses inflicted upon the crew of the Silverthread," Jon said, his face steeped in sorrow. "The systems we use to prevent the forces of Hell from utilizing mass relays, both the rune-lock that seals the relay and the Lazarus Thorns which either kill or cause madness in any would-be demonic trespassers were not designed with non-humans in mind. We...we simply never considered it seriously, and now we must face the consequences. Am I correct in noticing that the corrupting influence of the proto-Gore Nests and the unholy inscriptions within the Silverthread caused some of the soldiers tasked with clearing the ship to suffer breakdowns?"

Saren cleared his throat, and Juturna nodded at him. "That's correct, Lord Admiral. Spectre Saren Arterius - I led the team into the Silverthread. Not only were the crew of the ship unnaturally" - he refused to say supernaturally - "hard to kill and ferally violent, several of the marines who fought with me either broke down, and one even broke rank. These are men who were no stranger to combat or its dangers, Lord Admiral, and I admit even I, an elite warrior, was unusually nervous during the fight."

"The dangers of exposure to Lazarus waves, unholy artifacts and demonic inscriptions without proper innoculation are well-documented - we will be sure to pass that along," Jon noted. "The Exalted Exitium will be happy to provide recompense for this...tragedy borne of our own ignorance. This ship, the Silverthread, did you cleanse it?"

"The reactor went critical due to multiple fuel leaks and points of failure not long after the expedition returned," Juturna replied. "Nothing remains of the ship."

"Thank the Slayer. And the marines who suffered breakdowns from their exposure?"

"Back on the Citadel. As far as I'm aware the one who broke ranks and ran continues to suffer from some sort of psychosis - copying the runes he saw and mimicking the speaking-in-tongues of the Silverthread's crew - but the other marines are simply recuperating mentally," Juturna noted.

Jon's eyes went wide, and he glanced over at Hannah with a terrified expression. "Slayer's shit," Jon whispered. "The Citadel. Is it a densely packed mega-station? And am I correct in understand that it houses critical aspects of the Citadel races' governments?

"Yes, it is heavily populated, and it does hold important functions of governance," Juturna said.

"Listen carefully to me. You need to send a message back to the Citadel, now, and you MUST order the immediate isolation of the soldiers who suffered breakdowns. As for the poor sap who has been inflicted with corruption, he must be executed at once." Jon leaned forward, eyes wild. "This is not up for negotiation, Rear Admiral. If you do not do this, you place of all the Citadel and its peoples at risk of demonic incursion, and without the resources or know-how to fight the unholy there will be catastrophic losses."

"I...excuse me," Juturna replied, "I understand that we're - the Citadel - is clearly dealing with an outside-context problem, but we're not in the buisness of jailing men for undergoing trauma, let alone executing the mentally ill without cause."

"Without cause?" Hannah half-shouted. "Milady, if the condition of the marines worsen or the isolated one breaks free, you will have a literal invasion from Hell on your hands in less than a day. Unless your people are spontaneously able to learn the methods and modes of anti-demonic warfare-"

"-there it is again," Saren said coolly. "Demons. Literal invasions from Hell. You mean it, don't you?"

"Why would I lie about a matter as grave as this?" Hannah snapped back.

"Abbess," Jon said in a cautioning tone.

"I'm not accusing you of lying, Abbess - just making sure we're clear. Most - if not all all - of my superiors and our society at large does not believe in the supernatural, at least not in a literal, day-to-day sense," Saren explained.

"Sister Nought, the projector, please," Jon said, watching as Jennifer pulled a disc from her sash and placed it on the desk. It lit up a few moments later with what appeared to be helmet-cam footage; the recorder was one of many warriors clad in armour that resembled Abbess Shepard's, and all carried enormous firearms. The dozen or so human warriors were marching through a dust-swept valley of some sort, a midday sun beating down on them.

"There," one of the warriors shouted. "The map indicates that the nest is in that cave."

The warriors marched towards the mouth of a small cave; the interior was lit by glowing runes which hung from the ceiling and the walls were smeared with blood. The group descended into the cave, following the only available passage, and as they walked the grey rock walls began to shift into a bloody red that was indistinguishable from the blood which covered it. Moments later, the descending, winding tunnel gave way to a large chamber, the ground impossible to see beneath a knee-high pool of shining red blood, and at the very centre of the chamber Jutuarna could see a massive pile of corpses surrounded by a variety of strange creatures; some were brown-skinned, naked and had long, three-clawed hands, while the others resembled humans with rotting flesh and exposed bone, their faces twisted into disgusting, stretched horrors. The creatures were chanting and dragging more corpses out of the bloody muck beneath their feet, and the warrior at the front of the group drew a weapon like the one on Abbess Shepard's hip in his right hand, and one of the toothed-blades in his left.

"KILL THE DEMONS BEFORE THEY OPEN THE PORTAL!" the warrior shouted, as the blade whirred to life with a sputtering, angry buzz, the teeth whirring into a furious blur. "IN HIS NAME, KILL!"

The warriors charged forward and Juturna could only watch in awe as they leapt headlong into melee range of the foul creatures as they fired their guns; most turned to engage the humans, though some remained, furiously screeching and chanting over the corpse-pile. The human warriors fought like nothing Juturna had seen before - and she'd once watched a dozen krogan kill a thresher maw in person. The brown-skinned monsters threw orbs of fire and rent great tears in the armour of the humans, but to no avail; the humans slashed gaping, spraying wounds with their chainswords, blasted limbs from the demons with point-blank shots from their firearms. Suddenly, the cave - dimly lit by the ceiling runes - burst with a blinding red light; there was an awful screeching noise, and in an instant all of the blood was sucked into the corpse pile. The pile - the nest - twisted and pulsed as the corpses fused into a great mountain of meat; dagger-like teeth sprouted at the top of the pile and an angry red orb ripped out of nothingness above it.

"The gore portal opens! Hold fast, and kill faster! The Slayer demands it!" someone shouted.

The battle raged on, the recording warrior barely paying notice to the demons - and they must be demons, a small voice in the back of Juturna's mind whispered - now pouring out of the gaping red hole above the gore nest. Rather, the warrior simply continued to fight, killing dozens of the brown-skinned monsters, when a massive thud knocked the warriors to their feet; the recorder looked up, and there stood behind a literal wall of demons one that towered above the rest: a great eyeless biped beast which howled and screamed before charging the warriors. The recorder screamed in fury, tossing his gun and blade away before drawing a glowing red orb from his chest rig; he smashed it into his helmet, and an ominous red glow enveloped his fists.

"SLAYER! GRANT ME YOUR HATE! RIP AND TEAR!" he shouted, before charging forward.

"BERSERK! BERSERK! BERSERK!" the warriors shouted, their voices a mix of joy and excitement. "RIP AND TEAR!"

Juturna watched, as the recording warrior screamed, running directly towards the wall of demons standing before him with his left arm wound back; the brown-skinned creatures formed a wall in front of the great beast and threw a wall of fire which the warrior simply ran through as though it was simply not there. He emerged from the fire within melee distance of the demonic horde and Juturna's jaw dropped as the warrior punched the demon and it exploded with enough force that its limbs rocketed off its body like shrapnel, punching through the foul beasts standing nearby. The recording warrior tore through the demon ranks like a rocket-powered blender, every punch and kick smearing its target into chunks of gore and fountains of blood. The fight - slaughter, really - lasted less than a minute, and soon enough the warrior was standing before the giant demon atop a pile of demon meat. The giant demon hunched over and screamed, stomping the ground as if to challenge the warrior which had just slain its minions, and the warrior roared in response.

"RIP AND TEAR," the warrior shouted, looking up at the monster which towered over him. "RIP AND TEAR YOUR GUTS! YOU ARE HUGE! THAT MEANS YOU HAVE HUGE GUTS!"

"HUGE GUTS!" his comrades screamed in agreement.

The great beast charged the warrior at blinding speed, grabbing the warrior in a massive, crushing grip, and in a split second the warrior headbutted the demon so hard that its chest caved inwards, then tore his way through the demon. Both halves of the now-dead creature thudded into the ground with a sickly thump. The warrior turned as his the red glow which had enveloped him began to fade; his comrades joined him, and one of them returned the recorder's chainsword and firearm.

"Brother Izunami! An excellent showing," a female voice said, clapping the recorder on the shoulder as he checked his chainsword. "More like that and you'll do just fine on your next round of testing."

"You flatter me, Lady Durand," Izunami said, falling to one knee.

"Bah! Enough nonsense, boy, to your feet!" The woman strode forward towards the gore nest and pulled a long, rune-covered knife from her belt, before plunging it into the pulsating heart of the nest; there was a horrific screaming noise, and the nest suddenly exploded into a wild spray of meat-paste.

The projection began to loop, and Jon waved a hand over the projection disk, the display winking out before he returned the device to Sister Nought.

"So you see - if any of the afflicted soldiers manages to gather a pile of bodies, he will be able to open a portal to Hell without any trouble," Jon said, shaking his head. "Your Citadel, if it is as large as I am thinking, will have no shortage of nooks and crannies that will allow a skilled warrior to do such a thing without detection. And without the martial skill or enchanted weapons those warriors possessed..."

There was a long silence, and when Juturna spoke it was in a slow, cautious tone.

"Alright. I see your point, much as I wish I didn't believe what you're showing me. I'll forward my recommendation, then, that the marines be placed under isolation for medical reasons, and that the afflicted soldier be placed under permanent confinement for the forseeable future."

"I did not say confinement, Rear Admiral. I said execution," Jon replied. "No person of moral standing enjoys the execution of a corrupted soul, an innocent lost to Hell - but it is a necessary duty, milady. I have been burdened with the duty of cleansing more times than I wish to count, and yet I have rest easy each time knowing that I have saved many more lives by taking a single one."

"Surely if Druso - the man in question - is confined, he poses no threat?"

"I have watched children - children, you must understand - who have been granted the power to tear men limb from limb after their corruption went unchecked," Jon said, eyes frantic. "I am begging you to make the right decision, for all our sakes."

"I'll recommend his immediate execution," Saren said after a moment. "Spectre's orders."

"Spectre Arteriu-"

"-please, let me finish, Rear Admiral. It makes no sense for these people to lie to us - and I'll agree with the Lord Admiral. I'll gladly kill one man to save two, let alone the entire Citadel," Saren said coolly.

"Your reasoning and candor is appreciated, Spectre Arterius," Jon said with a bow of his head.

"Let me note, though, that this death is on the hands of the Exitium," Saren continued, shrugging. "You've stated that you will compensate for the losses your security system inflicted, and I will hold you to that - especially in Private First Class Druso Aetna's case."

"Of course. I cannot purify the poor soul, nor can I return the life of PFC Aetna which is now forfeit," Jon said, expression sorrowful, "but you have my and the Exitium's word that the families and friends of those afflicted by our lack of foresight will never want for care and comfort. I swear this upon the Doom Slayer's name and on the honour of my soul."

"Thank you," Saren replied.

"It is no trouble. Would it be fair, then, to adjourn for a while, such that you may contact your peoples and we our own?" Jon asked. "Some time for you to read and transmit the contents of the Volume of Unity and run the physical copy back to the Citadel - in addition to the judgements on the corrupted, of course."

"That is fair - we have detailed information on the langauges and cultures of the Citadel available here," Juturna replied, pulling a stack of dataslates from her pocket. "One of my men will instruct you on the use of data-slates - will your, ah, runes allow you to read the information without trouble?"

"Yes, they will," Jon replied, "and in turn simply wearing one of the runes of cognizance we have provided near the body will allow an individual to comprehend our texts. Such measures will have to suffice until we can formulate a runic translation matrix."

The group exchanged several more items and soon Juturna was watching the humans board their shuttle, having agreed upon reconvening in a few hours; before they'd even left she'd pulled Saren aside to the corner of the hangar in a private office.

"You do NOT get to overrule my authority, Saren," Juturna hissed. "Not on my ship, and not without permission, do you understand?"

"I made a judgement call," the turian replied, shrugging.

"And one I was going to agree with - and yet you stood there and obliterated the unified front we'd presented up until now."

"I didn't want to take any chances. But I'm sorry, for what it's worth."

"Sorry." Juturna sighed, and shook her head. "Fine. Look, I'm not going to hold this against you, and I know you are above the law and regulation I abide by."

"If you'd prefer, next time I'll run things by you," Saren said slowly. "If possible."

Juturna nodded and stormed out of the room.

*Chapter 4*: Interlude 1

17th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 16th, 2157 Council Era)

---

...Now, loyal humans, join me in the first recital of the day: yours is the shield that guards us from sin...

...Amen. Thus concludes today's morning rites, and may the Doom Slayer guide us all. With the cessation of this broadcast, your device will now default to your previously-tuned channel...

---

"Good morning folks, and welcome to the Revelation Network - just before we start, can I say that today's morning rites, read to us by none other than Exalted-High Priestess Meklit Lyon, was really quite something. Her voice always fills me with the energy I need to start the day! For those of you who've switched channels or have somehow forgotten, I'm Emily Wong, and this is the morning news for Holysteele, covering the sanctuary cities of Genesis, Vendetta and Scythe. If you're listening from a smaller settlement, worry not - local editions broadcast after this.

"The daily war report starts with our home sector; light skirmishing continues along the Adamantine Line, with casualties yesterday totalling roughly ninety-six, bringing the weekly sector death toll to just shy of sixty-two thousand. Sector Commander Anderson has stated the current incursion into Sector Ironclad appears to be tapering off, though he does expect that portal-sealing operations along the frontlines could take as long as another two or three months to complete. Sadly, things are not going so well in Sector Foretold; late last night, the sanctuary cities of Saturn-One and Bloodstain on Brutality both fell to sustained demonic incursion. Sector Commander Kahoku was able to evacuate many of the cities' civilians, and estimates that only four million casualties were sustained during the retreat. Experts are unsure if the cities on Brutality will be evacuated for a total regroup. Sector Lithium has also fallen, with the general retreat to Sector Arsenal sounded only three hours ago. This marks the third total sector loss this year, an improvement over last year's time-equivalent figure of sixteen; the Church of the Slayer and the Church of the Predator attribute this success to recent innovations in theurgic combat magic. That's all for the daily war report; for a full breakdown you can visit Revelation Network's war analysis page on the galnet for live updates."

"The weather today looks good so far; Genesis and Vendetta both have a high of fifty-six and a low of twenty-eight with sun all day until ten in the evening. Scythians, grab your coats - it's going to be a high of eighteen and a low of minus two, with up to thirty-two milimetres of rain and scattered hellstorms, yikes. Next we'll have major inter-city traffic, but first thanks to today's sponsors, Chagar-Purgefyre. If you want that authentic imp-plasma sear on your pinkie steak tonight, you're only going to get it one way, and that's with a Chagar-Purgfyre Plasmatic SearTorch. For a limited time only at your local Bastion Depot, get a Plasmatic SearTorch and two plasma fuel cylinders for the low low price of three-thousand six-hundred cartrdiges! While supplies last..."

---

THIS DOCUMENT IS MARKED: CLASSIFIED, STG-2.
PRE-FIRST CONTACT REPORT / PRELIMINARY ANALYSIS RE: 'EXALTED EXITIUM' & HUMANS
SPECIAL TASKS GROUP
DATE: JUNE 16TH / 2157

FIRST CONTACT DIVISION, SUBDIVISION EE-FC-1
LAST REVISION: N/A

Contact with the self-styled "Exalted Exitium," the unified society of the race known as humans, has raised several questions that many members of the FCD have felt great concern over. Never before has the Special Tasks Group encountered a civilization who claims to wield "magic" and also posses technology that does not appear to follow known rules of physics. Initially, members of the FCD expressed skepticism at analyzing a document in an alien language without the assistance of a translation module with attached software, and many of us scoffed at the so-called "runes of cognizance" given to the division as a means to analyze the attached Volumes of Unity. To our surprise, these runes appear to work as advertised, granting the wearer knowledge of the human language despite there being no evidence that the engraved necklace is anything more than an engraved piece of titanium.

This incident, we feel, illustrates the degree to which your likely assumptions will be challenged during your reading of this report. Of course it would be foolish to accept everything the Exitium claims about itself at face value at this point in time - and yet the idea that this society would go through the trouble of manufacturing thousands of hours of video evidence and thousands of pages of history, all of which we have found to be at the very least internally consistent, simply to sell its claim that magic exists? It would be as ridiculous as the claim itself. We urge readers to keep an open mind while reading these reports and the Volumes themselves; even if these claims of magic and sorcery are entirely manufactured hoaxes, evidence suggests that these things are all very real to the humans who make up the Exitium. Discounting their feelings may be the instinctual response any sane reader would jump to - but it is, as the great tactician Oman Gajik once said, "impossible to know your enemy without knowing how his peoples live."

To the humans who live in the Exitium, magic is a part of daily life, and their eternal "War against Hell" is a literal struggle against an infinitely evil demonic enemy. The deity they worship, the so-called Doom Slayer, is (apparently) a real figure, elevated to mythical status by means of his martial feats. The Exitium claims to suffer losses on what would be a catastrophic scale for any other race on a daily basis; the Exitium gifts their children firearms as a rite of passage; the Exitium's most popular televised event is the slaughter of "demons."

Here is a species which is clearly capable of aggression and, unchecked, could pose a threat to the Citadel unlike any other - and yet by all accounts our initial meeting has been friendly. For the sake of continued friendly relations, please do your best to understand these humans as they see themselves, and not as they seem to us.

We hope that this preliminary report will serve as a base from which further intelligence-gathering operations can continue. This entry will continue to be updated as new information and insights are acquired.

- EE-FC-1

---

VOLUMES OF UNITY

Overview & History (Abridged)

The Exalted Exitium is a unified, semi-democratic theo-magitetechnocracy which spans many upon many systems, all of which host the human race and a number of Redeemed demons. The capital planet Gaia, of the Sanctuary Sector, acts as the central hub of the Exitium; the rest of the Exitium is divided into a dozen loose Sectors, which work in concert to continue the Age-long War on Hell - the sacred duty of all humans and Redeemed to fight, cleanse and purge all reality of Hell and its foul servants.

The Exalted Exitium, both as society and as government, traces its roots directly into human societies before the days of dimensional travel and the holy War on Hell. Records are scarce from the Age of Peace, before even the First Age, when it is said that the forces of Hell were sealed in combat against Heaven, and humanity lived in the Great Ignorance, unaware of the terrors of Hell. Knowledge of the First Age is limited in scope; it is known that the Great Ignorance was shattered, and that humanity was driven from its homeworld, forced to resettle unknown space using experimental faster-than-light travel derived from demonic portal magics. It is during this time, known as the Age of Terror, that humanity was blessed with the presence of the Doom Slayer, a great warrior blessed with divine power by Heaven itself and self-charged with a sacred duty to defeat Hell itself.

Once settled on a number of other planets, the Second Age, the Age of Instruction, began in earnest. It is here that reliable recordings of history truly begin, and it during this time that the Doom Slayer was most seen amongst ordinary men. He set humanity on the road to learning the magics which had up until this point eluded them, and passed down his considerable knowledge on the art of demon-slaying. Here, too, did he charge humanity with their most sacred command, so important that the Doom Slayer - who almost never speaks to mortal men - spoke aloud:

"Rip and tear, until it is done."

So it was, and so it shall be. Humanity has since then turned away from mere survival as a goal, for the Exitium has a clear purpose and a defined goal: to destroy all of Hell and to purge any demon who would serve the servants of Doom. Many Ages have passed since that ancient time; it has been more than fifty thousand of our standard years since the Second Age. In the interim, humanity has spread throughout the stars and been beaten back to Gaia more than once; we have even come across the odd alien race, so primitive as to not even have considered the lands beyond their worlds - worlds which we protect like any other. We have slain the forces of Hell for countless years, fighting side-by-side with the few Redeemed demons who have seen the light of the Slayer, working tirelessly construct greater weapons of war and to seek greater forms of magic with which to wield against the Enemy. Now, we find ourselves in the Twenty-Sixth Age. The War on Hell continues, and so long as there stands before us the hosts of Hell to slay, we shall do our duty with pride and honour. Blessed is the Doom Slayer!

Religion (Abridged)

The Exalted Exitium is a society with one religion - one without name, for its glory and magnificence is beyond the limitation of a single identifier! For we have been touched by the wisdom and hatred of the Doom Slayer, and we shall do our duty to spread his name, his glory and his teachings wherever we go. We shall not do so by force - for it was the stern lesson of the Doom Slayer that the fist and the sword and the gun must be saved for the demon and the heretic; that it is no crime to not have been blessed with His light and His rage.

The Doom Slayer! He is the warrior who has fought against Hell since the time of Heaven! He whose rage is unending! He who rips and tears! Bless his name! Amen!

The Eternal Crusade with which He charged humanity with carrying out has informed the lives of every citizen within the Exitium, and in His name do we sculpt our many Churches. Not every institution is a Church unto itself, but the orders charged with the most sacred of our duties are our greatest religious organizations. Many exist, but the largest and most important are as follows:

The Church of the Lector, which is charged with the instruction of children, the teaching of our religion and the spiritual upkeep of the citizenry,

The Church of the Slayer, which gathers, trains and fields the greatest of our warriors in the image of the Doom Slayer Himself,

The Church of the Predator, which handles matters of crusading and warmaking from the lowliest warriors to the tactics of fleets,

The Church of the Seraphim, which is dedicated to the development of the magics and sorcery of both utility and war, to which we owe so much,

The Church of the Wretch, which is charged with research and development of the latest magitechnology,

The Church of the Saviour, which feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, and shelters the homeless.

Magic: Sorcery, Hermetics and Theurgy

It was known even during the time of the Great Ignorance that magics were a powerful force that could be harnessed for the good of all. Of course, the inverse was true, and humanity would learn quickly that the foul servants of Hell wielded power that far dwarfed the simple play-magic of early humanity. Attempts to gain this power were generally unsuccessful, for humanity sought to control magic as though it was a part of the regular universe, to be studied and known through the same patterns that turn water to ice or air to breath. It was the Doom Slayer who showed humanity that magic has its own rules - and that true power would come from the incorporation of magic and technology. Since the Second Age, the Exitium has lavished great focus on the magic arts, and the rewards have been fruitful indeed.

Magic may be used as a catch-all term for all of these mystic arts, but the Exitium practices three primary classes of magic. Sorcery refers to the manipulation of reality via the imposition of the aether - the space between the planes of Hell and the Real - through the metaphysical reconstruction of spiritual pattern and fueled by sheer force of will; here lies the battlemage, who wields purge-fire and holy lightning. Hermetics is a broad field which deals with the preparation of magic by ritual means, often fueled by the sacrificing of souls and the construction of magi-geometry - encompassing everything from rune magic to faster-than-light travel via astral warping and even instant-construction. Theurgy is the last and most powerful class of magic, which seeks to unite the user with the Source; the very essence of power which surges through the aether made one with the caster. Alas, theurgy - the power to make miracles - is a skill that can be as much danger as boon, and so its mechanics will not be found here. Theurgy's applications can be achieved by even the common folk, though, and blood-wards of healing and protection are known by all in the Exitium.

Economy

The economy of the Exitium finds its roots in the early Ages of humanity, where continued survival was not a goal to be fought for, but rather a hope kept alive only by daily sacrifice. During these dark times, no formal, unified currency existed, and yet a common unit of barter was still in demand amongst the many bastions of humanity - and one was found in the form of ammunition. After all, even today we are eternally besieged by the demonic hordes of Hell, and in those early days there was always a need for the bullet and the energy-cell. Nowadays the Exitium has the luxury of an electronic currency that spans the many systems of humanity: the cart, short for cartridge. In its physical form, it is shaped like miniature, flattened bullet, with a hole through which one may thread a ring or string. There are six carts in a cylinder (a seven-spoked disc), thirty carts in a magazine (a curved rectangle), sixty carts in a box (a cube) and one-hundred carts in a belt (two linked and open rings.) Most transactions are counted in carts and belts, simply for ease of use, though travellers to the Exitium who wish to carry some change may adopt the custom of carrying a few loose carts and perhaps a cylinder or two.

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"...and that was 'Infinity of Slaughter' by the Serrated Blade! The SB is going on tour next month and the Revelation Network has, that's right, VIP tickets to their concerts in all three major sanctuary cities on Holysteele. For listeners offworld, worry not - the SB is also touring throughout Sector Ironclad and they're also making a quick stop in Sector Trailblazer - you can check any of the SB's social media pages or the Revelation Network's frontpage on the galnet for the full list of touring stops. If you're not from Ironclad or Trailblazer, fret not - you'll get the chance to speak with the band's members via astral projection, plus a recording of the concerts and all the VIP swag you'd normally get will be shipped to you, free of charge! Now, to enter you'll need to be our ninth caller after the mid-day prayer broadcast - so get your phones and comms ready!

It's 12:50 which means it's traffic time! It's looking pretty good on all of the major inter-city transitways, no major congestion or blockages anywhere. There's major construction in downtown Vendetta due to ongoing building-summoning which is scheduled to be finished later today, affecting stops from ICT-17 through ICT-19. We are getting reports that there is an accident which has caused some delays for those of you transiting into the main transit-port in Scythe from the downtown core as well..."

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It is one in the afternoon. Loyal warriors, scholars and children of humanity, I hope you have had a productive and wonderful day so far. If you can, please join me in your daily second round of prayer.

Yours is the shield that guards us from sin...

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This document has been specially prepared for individuals possessing clearance of OUTER CIRCLE or higher.
Persons without authorization caught reading, distributing or possessing this document will face the full extent of the law.

HIGH CIRCLE OF THE ASARI REPUBLICS (OUTER CIRCLE AND ABOVE)
EMERGENCY WORKING SESSION SUMMARY RE: FC W/ THE 'EXALTED EXITIUM'
2157 - JUNE THE SIXTEENTH

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Moderator Presiding: Rilayana Makani

Individuals in attendance:

Sanaze Irissa, Senior Aide to Councilor Tevos

Leora, Justicar
Aelik, Justicar
Nyxunne, Justicar

Benezia, Matriarch
Seyina, Matriarch
Maarata, Matriarch
Vienti, Matriarch

Liunir T'nalas, Diplomat
Nassana Dantius, Diplomat
Nyxunne M'taqua, Diplomat

Sha'ira Diris, Consort

BLACK DAGGER [Redacted]
BLACK SHOTGUN [Redacted]
CRIMSON PISTOL [Redacted]
GOLD FANG [Redacted]
WHITE YAKSHAL [Redacted]

EMPRESS [Redacted]

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First Contact is always a time of tumult and chaos, and yet it is this working group's belief that the situation - as it stands - has the potential to quickly outpace both the Rachni Invasion and the Krogan Rebellions in the scale of catastrophe that could follow in its wake. The Exalted Exitium, the society which we now face, is one which claims to have been at war without pause for fifty thousand years - from a species which, without the assistance of their so-called "magictechnology," has a lifespan of around one-hundred-fifty years. Their society, by their own gleeful admission, is one which venerates compassion just as much as it does carnage; they list a religious order of charity on the same level as they do their churches-militant.

This is a society which is, to this group, a walking contradiction, forged out of what must seem to the humans like a truly eternal conflict. Understanding an alien species is always difficult during First Contact, but this group cannot begin to grasp the mindset of humanity as a whole. Here is a society which truly, fervently believes with every fibre of its being that they wage war on demonic servants of Hell; that magic and sorcery are an everyday part of life; that the highest and most noble of callings is that of the "Slayer," who lives only for bloodshed. Here is a society for whom the science of cloning exists alongside the literal "science" of miracle-making.

Our point is that any and all negotiations with the Exitium must take into account their unusual and warlike nature - and so too must we admit that while the exact nature of this "Hell" and its "demons" may not be divine, several pieces of evidence from both the Exitium and our own experiences (see Special Emergency Report RE: Citadel Fleet Research Vessel Silverthread) lead us to conclude that this "Hell" of the Exitium's is an all-too-real-threat. Our primary concern must, as always, be the safekeeping of the Asari Republics and of Citadel space, and this means that until the precise nature of the threat that "Hell" poses to us is ascertained the exchange of knowledge between the Exitium and the Citadel are of paramount importance. Specifically, the potential for hostiles to use what the Exitium refers to as "dimensional portal-based warping" to invade Citadel space without the need for logistical support across distances means that, theoretically speaking we could be under immediate threat and not even realize it. (Instructions provided by Spectre Saren Arterius immediately following initial First Contact would appear to support that claim; the construction of one of the so-called "gore nests" is well within the reach of a determined civilian, let a lone a turian marine who has apparently suffered some sort of Hell-induced psychotic break.)

The Justicars present have also raised a concerning point - that if we are to, for the purposes of argument, take the Exitium's claims of Hell and its demonic denizens at face value, then we should also consider the very real possibility that the races of Citadel space may have come into contact with this dimension in the past without realizing it. In particular, Justicars Nyxunne and Aelik - both of whom are particularly well-versed in ancient Justicar history - noted that of the few written records which can be traced back to the ancient orders of warriors which gave rise to the Justicars of today, several make reference to fighting "demons" and "hellspawn." Previously, these references were dismissed as the affectations of primitive asari society or explained away as being contact with new forms of wildlife; while it is the opinion of this group that such is probably the case, preparations have been made to re-examine these records.

Several agents also raised the point that it is entirely possible that the Exitium is exaggerating the scale and nature of the conflict; while, of course, it is impossible to determine the truth without firsthand knowledge, we are ill-inclined to believe that the Exitium has not exaggerated the scale of the war they are in. Furthermore, given the zealotry and religious language used, it is the opinion of this working group that there is a non-zero chance that these so-called "demons" are not, in fact, the uniformly evil society that the humans make them out to be; rather, it is certainly within the realm of possibility that these "demons" may just as much be the victims of a religious crusade fueled by an expansionist Exitium. Priority efforts must dedicated to ascertaining the truth, lest the Asari Republics be placed at a grave disadvantage during further negotiations.

Lastly, we must recommend that any offers of a consulate or diplomatic mission aboard the Citadel be postponed until the points raised in the previous section can be, at minimum, cleared up. if it does turn out that the Exitium is the aggressor in a religious war then in doing so we avoid losing face as having supported the "wrong" side, even if we can claim ignorance; if our fears turn out to be unfounded then we simply explain that matters of security are important to us (or that preparations must be made, etc, etc.)

The full, unedited transcript of the meeting can be found attached to this message...

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Demons (Types, Abridged, Part One)

There are a great number of creatures which can be said to be hellspawn, and since the First Age countless variations of the many species of demon which call Hell home have been counted. A larger compendium can be found in the unabridged digital copy of the Volumes of Unity, but the following creatures are amongst the most common.

Possessed and Gore Nests

The ranks of the possessed are composed of those unlucky enough to be exposed to Lazarus waves, Hell energy or corrupting runes without the benefits of inoculation or protection; the result is a transformation from the base species into a mindless servant of Hell, responding only to the infernal commands of some unknown higher power. Supporting the "higher-power" theory is the fact that records from the early Ages indicate some would simply perish when overwhelmed with any of the listed carriers of possession. Since the Tenth Age, all afflicted individuals have been forced into the ranks of the possessed. Possessed individuals will immediately begin to transform into ghastly abominations; over the course of several hours, individuals will be afflicted with necrosis of the skin and all organs save for the brain, a process only made worse by a tendency towards self-mutilation. As the twenty-hour mark approaches, facial features begin to rot and the skull begins to twist and deform; any clothes or equipment not removed by this point will begin to fuse into the body of the possessed. At the twenty-four-hour mark, the process is completed, and the once living individual will be a faceless demon - a true servant of Hell. Some possessed who have fused with their weaponry can continue to utilize their tools of war, but do not mistake this for sentience; once turned the only mercy one can grant is a swift, clean, death.

Even before the transformation process begins, afflicted individuals will carry out behaviours on instinct - or command. Primary of the possessed's functions is to construct gore nests - piles of corpses ritually enhanced to form small portals into Hell, allowing demons to enter our plane unhindered. If multiple possessed individuals are present during the construction of a gore nest, some will begin inscribing runes of corruption around the nest, allowing Hellish corruption to leak into normal space and accelerating the gore nest's growth. While an incomplete gore nest can be destroyed with simple munitions, the only way to destroy a mature nest is to either tear its heart out and face an onslaught of demons who will attempt to defend the nest as the portal fades, or use a holy weapon or spell to seal the portal and overload the gore nest with the power of the Light.

Imps

Imps are by far the most common demon encountered on the battlefields of Hell; it is not uncommon for an unchecked incursion into our plane to begin with hordes of imps thrown at defensive positions, in waves of fifty thousand or more. Despite their status as cannon fodder in the view of the Lords of Hell, one should not assume that the common imp is an easy kill. With razor-sharp claws, plasma-fire generation capabilities and the ability to traverse nearly any surface, imps have been able to slay even the most seasoned of warriors due to a simple underestimation of their lethality. Their true danger, however, comes from their cunning - imps have been known to camouflage themselves, hide in nooks and crannies, set up ambushes, play dead amongst their fellows and even lay plasma-mines beneath slain Exitium warriors.

Though the imps of today may look nearly identical to those encountered as far back as the First Age, they are exponentially more dangerous. The average imp's claws are supernaturally sharp, easily capable of slashing deep into all but the most magically-reinforced armour, and the plasmatic-hellfire has been noted to instantly reduce unarmoured flesh to cinders. The greatest "improvement" to the imp, however, has been reinforcements to its sturdiness; during the Fourth Age the forces of Hell adopted the Exitium's practice of runic inscription within the bodies of their warriors, and recent autopsies have shown skillful use of structural reinforcement, hellfire-boosters and even mild theurgic regeneration. The modern imp is fully capable of sustaining damage well beyond what its simple flesh would indicate, and imps have been known to continue fighting despite losing limbs, or even their heads. While a well-aimed salvo of two three-shot bursts from a standard-issue Penance T.26.1 shotgun is capable of downing an imp, do not mistake a downed imp for a dead imp - many a warrior has been lost to a "dead" imp returning to life for one last furious barrage of claw, tooth and fire.

As the most numerous demon of Hell, so too does the imp have the most variants - ranging from the invisibility-capable prowlers and winged azazels to the "medically" inclined sacrificials, which can use their own souls to restore and resurrect greater demons upon their deaths. Imps are also somewhat unique amongst the denizens of Hell - for they possess the ability to perform the Rites of Ascension upon absorbing enough power, be that through accumulation of Hell energy over time or the gathering of souls. Once they perform the Rites, imps can transcend their forms and emerge from the Hellfire as greater beings - summoners, harvesters or archviles.

Redeemed

The Redeemed are demons who have renounced their former allegiances to Hell, and now serve the Exitium like any other human in service of the War Eternal, fighting in His name against their previous allies. Demons of higher intelligence from all of the major species have turned on Hell after seeing the Light of the Slayer, though it is true that generally speaking the Exitium has seen more defections from the more intelligent and from those who would have been placed in the higher echelons of Hell's abhorrent society. All Redeemed, once they are thoroughly questioned and examined by the Church of the Redeemed's finest agents, are placed on probation and inscribed with the Mark of the Redeemed, a yellow sigil worn in plain sight which will turn red if the demon in question attacks humans. After they have been observed for a period of time, and are deemed to be genuine in their intention to serve the Light, the demon is free to join the ranks of the Redeemed and make their way through the Exitium's society as they please.

While there are not many Redeemed, plenty have eschewed the simple life available to them and have rise to prominence in a variety of fields ranging from celebrity chef (Chagar, an imp), diplomat (Faenmoch egi Xakhal, a summoner), warrior (Balam-Assilan, a cyberdemon) and even a healer (Ceihar egi Veridan, a mixed-race harvester-archvile). Even those who choose a simple life of labour or service, however, are deeply revered and respected - for what greater proof is there of the Doom Slayer's guiding fist than to see a former enemy stand with the Exitium against the hosts of Hell? Exalted is the Doom Slayer, blessings upon His name. Amen!

Furthermore, there are examples of quasi-Redeemed amongst the less intelligence denizens of Hell, though given their limited intelligence these creatures cannot be said to truly be Redeemed. For example, it is possible to capture Lost Souls if they are contained just after spawning, and imprinted upon with holy magic before their infernal flames appear. Such creatures, known as Saved Souls, fetch a high price and are both a status symbol and a well-beloved pet by their owners. Some breeds of Pinky have also been domesticated, and while certainly not as popular as bloodsport the practice of betting on Pinky racing remains common.

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TURIAN HIERARCHY EXECUTIVE SUMMIT PRIORITY ONE
EMERGENCY SESSION: FIRST CONTACT WITH EE [JUNE 16 - 2157]
DOCUMENT TYPE: SUMMARY, FOR IMMEDIATE DISSEMINATION TO DIVISION ONE PERSONNEL
MAXIMUM SECURITY / SUB-CLEARANCE DIVISION TWO FC-TYPE / EYES ONLY

First Contact establishment with the Exalted Exitium represents the largest potential upheaval in the security balance of the Citadel since the Krogan Rebellions, and even with the limited intelligence available to the Hierarchy at this time there is no question that the citizens of the Exitium, whether they realize it or not, pose a grave threat to galactic stability as we know it. Putting aside the matters of the supernatural and magical, the mere fact that a civilization that numbers in (at minimum) the trillions appears to be entirely composed of religious zealots is supremely concerning. Thankfully, ties have remained cordial with Spectre Saren Arterius, who was happy to give his impressions so far - and though his overall time with the representatives of the Exitium has been limited, his preliminary reports indicate that the Exitium's ambassadors (at this time) have been friendly. The problem remains however that the members of Citadel space are ill-equipped to handle an influx of citizens who are violently zealous about their "War Eternal" against the literal demonic forces of Hell, not even counting the ramifications of a society whose industrial output supposedly dwarfs the combined economic power of the Turian Hierarchy, the Asari Republics and the Salarian Union combined. We can express our hopes that the situation remains optimal - that the Exitium's citizens will take no offense at the Citadel's lack of religion - but we must face the very real threat that the optimal situation is not the one we will be met with.

Even assuming that the Exitium has grossly exaggerated the size and scope of their civilization (which, in the opinion of this session, it most likely has not) the Citadel's members are not in any way, shape or form prepared for an extended conflict against a numerically-superior foe operating from an alternate base of technology. Defensive posture orders have already been issued, but this session remains worried about the possibility that if friendly negotiations are not rapidly achieved with the Exitium, that it may attempt to exert pressure - hard or soft - on the Citadel's members to assist it in its religious crusade. While the Citadel's members thankfully have resolved the vast majority of its geopolitical tensions, on a socioeconomic level defenses are not in place to handle matters on this scale. The Department of Finance is currently working in their own session to discuss possible ramifications of contact with the Exitium as well as estimations of their industrial output; future meetings with include involved members once their preliminary reports are finished.

Regarding the Exitium's claims of magic and supernatural power, while it is our immediate reaction to doubt said claims the testimony and footage obtained from Spectre Saren Arterius are hard to discount; regardless of the degree to which the Exitium's claims of "magitechnology" are true, one cannot dispute the fact that they possess technology that is derived from a base wildly different to anything we are familiar with. Spectre Arterius has noted that the Exitium is, at least according to its representatives, fully willing to share this information without hesitation because (as stated by Lord Admiral Jon Grissom of the Exitium) "Hell does not discriminate against what species it corrupts and kills, only that its victims can be corrupted and their souls harvested to fuel their demonic affronts to the Slayer's will." Whether that statement is an implicit understanding that the gifting of this technology comes with an assurance that the Citadel's members and by extension the Hierarchy will join the Exitium's "War on Hell" has yet to be determined; the possibility that the Hierarchy may very well not be in any position to refuse an offer of such value also remains to be determined.

Spectre Arterius has also expressed concern with the "demonic runes" found aboard the Silverthread prior to its destruction, as well as the apparent ability of anyone corrupted by this "demonic" power to open portals to Hell. (Orders are already being carried out to isolate the afflicted marines in question, as well as the execution of the one soldier who the Exitium has stated to be beyond saving.) The fact that any civilian with enough drive could construct one of these so-called "gore nests" and easily get away with it thanks to the vastness of Citadel Space is not a threat to be taken lightly, and while we are fully capable of keeping this information under lockdown for the immediate future once relations are solidified with the Exitium (who apparently have been dealing with gore nests for long enough that information regarding their construction is public knowledge) keeping that information under wraps will be nigh-impossible without obvious media blackouts.

Also of note is the fact that, in a less formal conversation between Spectre Arterius and Abbess Hannah Shepard of the Exitium's Church of the Slayer (an elite religious military order), Abbess Shepard stated that "it is entirely possible that your peoples did indeed encounter the forces of Hell in its infancy; many of the primitive pre-industrial races the Exitium has come across faced limited incursions from Hell. As a matter of course...many of the ancient records that we have from our own times pre-First Age speak of demons and Hell, and...while it is just as likely that those records are the simple fears of primitive turian society you should not discount the very real chance that in those texts you will find a sliver of truth." While none of the individuals at this session are well-versed enough in ancient turian history to speak officially on the matter, Agent [REDACTED] did note during their university studies in anceint history that some experts believe the origins of the Spiritus Legatos can be found in religious warrior organizations which, based on the Agent's (admittedly far from perfect) recollection, at least superficially resemble those of the Exitium's. The matter has been deemed a matter of national interest and the Department of Defense has contacted several individuals in order to look into the matter, if only to get a better understanding of how the Exitium sees itself.

The working goals produced by this session are threefold. One, facilitate and maintain friendly relations with the Exitium for as long as possible while intelligence-gathering operations to verify the Exitium's claims are carried out. Two, accelerate defensive posture shifts both in the fields of military materiel and on an economic front (brainstorming sessions are ongoing amongst the Department of Finance.) Three, continue development of wargaming scenarios emulating worst-possible outcomes.

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Demons (Types, Abridged, Part Two)

Hell Knights

If imps and their variants can be said to be the common foot-soldiers of Hell, Hell Knights are the first steps into Hell's elite warriors. They, like the rest of the more numerous of the demonic hosts of Hell, pre-date the First Age; today, they form what is believed to be the lowest rung of Hell's nobility. To the demonic overlords which rule the armies of Hell, an imp is little more than a number to be thrown at humanity - and though the Hell Knights are nearly as numerous as imps, they are not left to organize into hordes on their own. As their name implies, they are guardians of Hell, charged with the safekeeping of its relics and its fortresses, with defending their superiors and protecting their sacred icons.

The modern Hell Knight is a towering beast, averaging roughly fourteen feet in height; they are rust-skinned, possess a thick protective shell which covers their torso, arms and lower legs, and have powerful legs which allow the Hell Knight to leap long distances without effort. A Hell Knight without weapons should not be mistaken for an unarmed foe; they have been known to crush armoured foes with a mighty stomp, and their fists, enchanted with incredible Hell-magic, have been known to occasionally punch through even reinforced tank armour. Their eyeless faces mask their keen, magically-imbued senses; Hell Knights have excellent visual acuity, able to pick out foes not masked by both psychic and physical camouflage systems in total darkness. All this alone makes them a formidable foe - and though our ancestors were blessed that the Hell Knights refused the luxury of armament, since the Third Age the Hell Knights have accepted that survival and martial power comes before honour. Today the average Hell Knight is equipped with heavily enchanted and heavily layered full-body armour, and while most continue to refuse the dishonour of carrying a dedicated long-range weapon the most commonly seen combination of melee weapon, shield and magic means that at all but the longest ranges a Hell Knight can be extraordinarily lethal.

Hell Knights appear to prefer sorcerous magics in combat, the most common application of which is a medium-range ball of concentrated Hellfire. These Hellfire orbs are a step above the plasma-fire of the common imp; while the average armoured warrior can shrug off maybe a dozen imp projectiles before their runic shielding begins to fail, Hell Knights can achieve the same effect with two or three blasts of well-aimed Hellfire. Up close, Hell Knights can spray gouts of Hellfire, enchant their weapons to burn with unholy flames and even project their abhorrent fire in an aura around them. Their unarmoured bodies take six to seven three-shot bursts from a standard-issue Penance T.26.1 shotgun; depending on its quality, an armoured Hell Knight might take anywhere between twelve to twenty. Of course, variants of Hell Knights might pose any number of alternative threats - be sure to consult the unabridged version of this guide for more information.

Thus, when faced with a horde of imps and a handful of Hell Knights, one must take care to eliminate the Hell Knights first - imps may be fast, but they are easy to slay, while a Hell Knight is a formidable foe. Given their propensity to survive attacks from standard-issue firearms, doctrine states that the best way to eliminate the threat they pose is to charge into battle with blades drawn and magic at the ready! Remember the most holy of commands passed down by the Slayer: rip and tear, until it is done! Where bullet and plasma-charge and holy-shot fail you, your fists and your blades cannot! Even the most heavily-armoured of Hell Knights is no match for the whirling hatred of a rune-enhanced and properly-blessed chainsword or chainaxe - and all but the mightiest Hell Knights will scream in terror at the destructive force of a well-aimed gout of blessed purge-fire or blast of holy lightning. And if you are without blade, simply activate a Berserk charge and finish the job with your fists.

Barons of Hell

A Hell Knight who has survived many battles, slain many thousands of enemies and consumed their souls may find themselves lucky enough to be brought before their demonic overlords and given the right to become a Baron of Hell; such a demon undergoes a number of horrific rites and tests. Once they pass, the Hell Knight undergoes a disgusting transformation and emerges many days later from their flesh-cocoon as a Baron of Hell. (Alternatively, a demon might have the "fortune" of simply being born as a Baron of Hell.) Averaging roughly twenty-five feet in height, a Baron is a much rarer sight on the battlefield than the Hell Knight (though still a common presence in any large battle); while they do not possess any inherent abilities that the Hell Knight does not have, the Baron's larger size and massive horns pose an equivalently larger threat. Similarily, the weapons they carry and the magic they weild is generally more powerwful than that of the Hell Knights, and it is from the Barons of Hell that the demonic hosts draw upon to create some of their mightiest warriors - Cyber-barons, Cardinals, Afrits, and more. Barons, as their name implies, also occupy a higher standing within Hell's hierarchy of demons; for more information you may consult the unabridged Volumes of Unity on demonic society.

Faster-Than-Light Travel

The Exitium possesses three methods of faster-than-light travel. The most popular - and safest - form of FTL is via an Aether Rending Drive (ARD), which utilizes various sorceries, complex hermetic rituals and a small amount of rare conventional fuels to slice open a ship-sized portal into the aether (the term for the plane from which sorcery and theurgy are drawn, which occupies the gap between normal space and Hell.) From there, the ship aims itself towards the exit destination and sets the ARD to discharge at the exit point, allowing the user to travel at an approximate maximum speed of ten thousand light-years per hour; it should be noted that the maximum speed requires an incredibly large ARD charged with a wide variety of rare magic fuels, and that the average ARD travel speed is closer to roughly two thousand light-years per hour with diminishing returns as one gets closer to the maximum. Any failures with the ARD will simply result in the ship being spit back into normal space - which, while inconvenient, is a relatively safe proposition.

The Theurgic Hellcutter Drive (THD), on the other hand, occupies the other end of the spectrum in terms of speed and safety, for with a fully-charged THD, one can travel upwards of a hundred thousand lightyears in less than a microsecond. However, the fuel costs here are calculated by distance, and where the ARD uses both magic and common fuels the THD requires souls to function. Activation of the THD utilizes these souls to power an incredibly complex and arcane set of theurgic magics which require both perfect operation of the mechanics of a THD as well as intense focus by several dozen theurgy-trained mages. When operating properly, the THD uses Hell as a shortcut, forming a theurgic barrier between the ship and Hell-space while riding the astral energy planes of Hell - the source, experts believe, of Hell's ever-expanding and spatially anomalous behaviour. While speaking generally there is no shortage of demonic souls available for general fuel use within the Exitium, distances over a thousand light-years begin to experience exponential increases in both the number of souls required and the spiritual force required of each soul. Travel costs from one Sector to another might require thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of souls on par with that of a Spider Mastermind or Cyberdemon to perform properly - let alone travelling across the entire Exitium. Furthermore, a single error within the drive or a momentary lapse in focus by one of the mages powering the drive can result in catastrophe, as any interruption of the theurgic magic powering the THD will result in the ship being deposited deep in the heart of Hell. Records kept since the THD's introduction in the Twelfth Age show that only five ships which have suffered a THD failure have ever made it back into real space, and of those five only one did so without losing a majority of its crew.

The Spatial Tunnelers were discovered in year 62 of the Twenty-Sixth Age, remnants of a civilization which utilized a far different technological base than the Exitium's. (N.B: For readers originating from the Citadel who are examining this Volume as part of First Contact protocols, Spatial Tunnelers are referring to what you have called "mass relays.") Spatial Tunnelers work, as their name implies, by forming a zero-mass "tunnel" between it and a linked spatial tunneler; while the Exitium has only found eight tunnelers experts believe that an entire network of these may exist. However, given the dangers of establishing colonies due to the threat of demonic incursion wherever the Exitium establishes long-term settlements, all but two of the tunnelers have been locked down and are only opened in case of emergency or for scientific research. The Church of the Wretch has expressed interest in the construction of its own STs, and some have even floated the idea of mounting STs to our own ships and stations to create our own travel network. The future is bright, and in the name of the Slayer we shall march forward, ever-innovating to spread His word! Amen!

Demoncraft

While demons (thankfully) tend to remain within Hell to plot their foul incursions into normal space, it is not beyond the reach of the hosts of Hell to construct their own machinery. While the forces of Hell tend to shun the use of tanks and other vehicles in favour of either corrupting the Exitium's or utilizing one of their many enormous demons as equivalents, Hell lacks demons capable of spaceflight - and so it is that, on rare occasions, Hell will assemble its own demoncraft to take the fight to the forces of good in space itself. Slayer's blessings upon us, the servants of Doom tend to ignore this ability as it tends to be less practical than simply marshalling resources for incursions, but on rare occasions - usually only for the most serious of invasions - Hell will devote some of its incalculable resources to the construction of these unholy machines. Demoncraft are too rare to have any sort of rigorous standardization applied to them, but they all share common characteristics: they are generally aesthetically modelled like large, floating shrines, unenclosed and maintaining atmosphere by some manner of disgusting Hell-magic. Historically, each one has been capable of carrying a crew numbering in the hundreds of thousands, and demoncraft are covered in all manner of weaponry. They are, Slayer protect, not equipped with FTL devices; rather, they are simply spat into space via portal near a conflict zone where they are free to fire upon the Exitium's vessels and disgorge their foul contents onto a battlefield via short-range warp teleportation.

Any visitor to the Exitium who spots a demoncraft is advised to record the location of the sighting and flee the area immediately, for where a demoncraft goes a full-scale invasion is not far behind. Your report will be immediately escalated to the Church of the Predator and a hunter-killer team will be dispatched in short order to cleanse the threat.

*Chapter 5*: Chapter 3

18th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 17th, 2157 Council Era)

---

"Spirits damn the man," Plitus said, tossing the dataslate onto the table. "He just thinks he can, just, can sit there, and order my friend to die?"

"He's well within his rights," Doctor Arullia Merelis said, shaking her head. "And to be perfectly honest with you? Druso isn't getting any better, Mr. Merinian. It's been less than a week and he's gotten far worse than any of us in the ward could have imagined."

"How so?"

The asari sighed. "Even when he looks normal, sitting in his room watching shows or ostensibly relaxing his brain scans are a nightmare. Aggression centres are running at full blast every minute of the day - even when he's asleep. He's been getting violent with the staff - sure, if I'd been locked up without much of a reason I'd be furious, but not enough to stab the orderly bringing me food in the face with a fork without any provocation. He tries to hide it, but we've heard him chanting that weird language when he thinks he's out of earshot, and in the absence of paper or slates he'll make those runes in his food, trace it with his fingers, even scratch it onto the underside of his bed with his utensils."

Plitus shook his head. "Okay, that's not good, but surely that's not grounds to just kill him, is it?"

"You're not cleared to exact reason behind Druso's execution," Arullia said slowly, "but you're not stupid. There's only one reasonable place I can see this going and frankly I think we're going to be doing Druso a mercy."

"I...damn it all, I know," Plitus said, sighing. "Can I at least see him one last time?"

"Of course."

Plitus followed the doctor towards Druso's room, and as they approached the turian guard outside shook his head.

"I'd be careful if I was you," the guard said, expression uncomfortable. "He's doing the chanting thing again."

Plitus leaned towards the one-way observation slot and his insides clenched as he saw Druso, eyes wild, furiously scribbling those horrid runes on pieces of paper and chanting that infernal tongue under his breath.

"Whenever you're ready," Arullia said softly, "I'll turn on the comms and set the slot to two-way."

"Do it," Plitus replied.

The door chimed and Druso stuffed the papers into a wastebasket next to the desk. "Hello? Doctor Merelis? Is that you?"

Plitus glanced over as Arullia nodded at him, and he put on his best smile. "Hey! Druso, it's me! Plitus!"

"Oh, spirits bless, are you here to get me out?" Druso said happily, walking over to the slot. "They've got to let me out - I know I was scared during the expedition but I didn't do anything wrong."

"I know, I know," Plitus said reassuringly. "Still, they just want to make sure you're okay."

"Okay? Fuck you, man, I'm fine," Druso shouted, his eyes wild. "I'm FINE! Fine, I'm fine, I'm fine."

"Well, I'm sure they'll release you soon, Dru, you just gotta wait a bit."

"They'd better," Druso growled, staring off into the space beyond Plitus. "I've got so much work to do, you have no idea!"

"Work, huh?"

"Busy, yeah. Got a lot of stuff I wanted to do on the Citadel," Druso said, smiling.

"What about going back to the marines?"

"Oh, uh...yeah, right, like going back to the...the marines, to serve the...Hierarchy," Druso said, nodding. "You'll put in a good word for me, right? Get me out of here real quick?"

Plitus didn't respond for a moment.

"Well? Are you? ARE YOU?" Druso shouted.

"Yeah, buddy, I'll speak to the brass."

"Good. I mean, thanks," Druso replied, nodding vigorously. "Sorry, being cooped up in here's making me antsy, especially when I've got so much to do, you know?"

"I know," Plitus said. "Look, I gotta go. Nice seeing you."

Druso simply grinned in response as the slot returned to one-way observation only, and Plitus closed his eyes.

"So?" Arullia asked quietly.

"Spirits," Plitus replied. "I didn't want - didn't think he'd be this far gone already."

"Nobody wants to see him dead," Arullia replied, "but at this point I don't think there's really much left of him in there. And soon? I don't think much of Druso is going to be in there at all." She peered inside the room again; Druso had fished his papers out of the wastebasket and was once again drawing runes.

"I...fuck. Spirits, I have to tell his family," Plitus whispered, doing his best to remain stoic. "What the fuck am I gonna tell his lil' sis?"

"Nothing," Arullia said. "Not if you don't want to. The matter's being handled - and you're under secrecy until the orders come in and say otherwise, right?"

A long pause.

"I am," Plitus said sadly. "I am. Damn it all. I suppose I should be glad I'm not in isolation like the others?"

"You should." Arullia smiled warmly and touched him on the shoulder. "Look, you've been through a lot and so have your friends. I know it's tough, but I recommend you try and relax as best you can - and if you need to talk the hospital has counselors waiting to help you."

"I know, I know," Plitus replied, shaking his head. "You know if Druso had just been shot or something I'd be a lot more okay with all of this. Just...don't know how to deal with what's happening to him, you know?"

"I understand how you're feeling," Arullia replied. "In any case, why not try and take your mind off things?"

"I...can I be present? For..."

"I'm afraid not," Arullia said softly. "There are specific protocols that we have to follow, apparently. Classified."

Plitus opened his mouth before pausing, then closed it. "Alright. I...I don't like it, but I understand." He nodded and walked with the doctor back to the entrance of the ward before exiting the hospital; he checked the time in his HUD and sighed. One in the afternoon. It's past noon, and fuck it, I deserve a drink. He hailed a cab and made his way to the Zakera Ward; as he got at the Ajax Crossing he noticed that there were several crowds of pedestrians gathered around the various Avina terminals. He walked past the crowds and made his way to his usual haunt, Sancti. He walked through the faux-wood doors and sat down at the main counter as a young turian waitress he didn't recognize walked over.

"Can I get you anything to drink, sir?"

"Yeah, I'll take a horosk - do you have Discretion?"

"We do!"

"Yeah, I'll take that and a two novia, classic," he said, glancing up at the holoscreen above the counter. "What in the hell?" he half-shouted, reading the ticker underneath the asari reading the news.

First Contact! "Humans" from the Exalted Exitium to arrive on Citadel tonight!

"Oh, you didn't hear about that? News broke an hour ago," the waitress said, hands on her hips. "I turned the volume down since it was getting all rowdy in here."

"Could...could you turn it up?"

"Sure thing!"

---

"...for those of us joining now this is Adaria Motari with the stunning news that's shocked the Citadel - we have confirmation from the Council and Lower Council that contact was made on the fifteenth with the Exalted Exitium, the home of a race of aliens called "humans." The Council has uploaded a contact package to both the Citadel Services network and to local Avina terminals; representatives from the Council have stated that the Exitium is a religious nation which claims to have been at war with, ahem, literal demons from Hell for the past fifty thousand years, and that while preliminary contact with the Exitium's ambassadors have shown them to be more than tolerant of disbelief in their claims that any citizens who are granted the honour of speaking to the ambassadors of the Exitium during their initial visit be as respectful as possible. Our news teams at Relay Beacon News are going over the contact packages as we speak and we'll have round-the-clock coverage as information comes in...

---

Captain Castis Vakarian watched as the enormous black brick of a ship finished docking; a hatch on the side unsealed and one of the bay's ramps extended up to the hatch. A procession of massive warriors clad in shining silver armour stomped out, their footsteps echoing throughout the hangar, and his eyes widened at the massive chainswords hanging from their hips as they descended the ramp.

"Holy fucknuts," Kophim Sarnogar, one of his batarian partners said, shaking his head in awe. "They weren't joking, man, they're honest-to-god knights! With swords! Can you believe this shit? Isena, cash, now, pay up!"

The asari officer behind him grumbled and handed over a credit chit, her expression incredulous. "Okay, fine, you win this one. What the shit, Cap?"

"Language," Castis grumbled.

"Sorry," both officers muttered.

The silver-clad warriors stopped at the bottom of the ramp, scanning the hangar; one of them, maybe seven feet tall, approached Castis and knelt, their armour clanking as they hit the ground.

"Captain Castis Vakarian, I presume?" the human said in a deep, bassy voice.

"Uh, yes, that's me. No need to kneel," Castis replied.

"Merely a show of respect to a foreign counterpart," the human said, getting to his feet. "I understand you clasp arms as a show of greeting?"

"We do," Castis said, clasping arms with the man. "And, if I remember correctly, you shake hands?"

The man rumbled with laughter. "Yes, yes, that we do," he said, shaking hands with Castis, taking care to be gentle with his massive gauntlet-clad hand. "I know we've been introduced remotely, but I must, for formality's sake, introduce myself once again. Lord Protector Alec Ryder, at your service."

"Well, Lord Protector, the protocols we sent previously are in place," Castis said, gesturing to the hangar's entrance. "We've got full security teams, overwatch positions and a secure convoy waiting for your ambassadors."

"Wonderful! I'm sure things will be just fine, good sir. Hold a moment while I contact the ambassadors to give the go-ahead. If you'd like you can move to the next position," Alec said.

"We'll do that." Castis nodded, and gestured at both Kophim and Isena; they followed him out of the hangar and onto the platform. The main walkway was flanked on both sides by officers manning barricades separating the walkway from two massive throngs of crowds; most looked excited and more than a little nervous, and Castis couldn't help but feel the same. He and his two subordinates took up positions further down the walkway near the end, where a series of aircars were waiting. His comms lit up, and he activated it to hear Alec's deep voice in his headset. "Captain, we'll be out shortly. Just a moment now."

"Understood. We're all in position - whenever you're ready."

The hangar entrance hissed open, and the procession of two dozen silver-clad warriors stomped out into the walkway, their deep-green cloaks swishing on the ground, to the sound of roaring cheers; they all took up positions on either side of the walkway, drew their swords and formed an archway of glittering teeth and steel. Alec stepped forward, recognizable by the golden sash worn across his chest, and stomped so loudly that the crowd fell silent in an instant.

"PRESENTING! IN THE NAME OF THE DOOM SLAYER, BLESSED BE HIS NAME! HER HOLINESS, EXALTED HIGH MATRIARCH YEKATERINA ALENKO! HER LADYSHIP, LADY AMBASSADOR ANITA GOYLE! HIS LORDSHIP, LORD AMBASSADOR FAENMOCH EGI XAKHAL! HONOR GUARD: KNEEL!"

"WE HEAR AND OBEY! BLESSED IS THE DOOM SLAYER! AMEN!" the warriors shouted, kneeling as the hangar doors opened, their swords planted in the ground and their heads bowed.

Three individuals appeared and walked into the walkway to cheering once more; two women emerged first, one wearing bright red robes with a lowered hood exposing a bald head and a curious red necklace which shone brilliantly but otherwise unarmed, one wearing a dark-blue tunic and pants and wearing a sword, her short black hair tied into a small bun. The last individual did not walk out, and Castis' jaw dropped slightly as an eyeless creature wearing robes of brilliant white hovered out onto the walkway, metallic arms shining and sporting a golden semicircle crown which jutted out of the back of its head. Its lower legs and feet were exposed, ruby-red skin visible beneath a silver carapace.

The procession made their way down the walkway, spearheaded by Alec, who nodded at Castis. "We are ready to proceed, Captain Vakarian. At your desire," he said, stepping to the side to allow the woman in red to approach. She offered her arm, and Castis clasped it.

"Captain Vakarian," the woman said, a wide smile on her face. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, your holiness. If you are ready, the cars are ready to take you to the Citadel Tower."

"Thank you. We shall proceed, then."

Castis ushered the ambassadors into a waiting car; Alec got into the lead vehicle with Castis, and the warriors followed in neat order into the others. The convoy took off, Castis sighed in relief. "All good so far, Spirits bless."

"Ahh, there's no need to worry - may I call you Castis?"

"Of course. In turn, may I call you Alec?"

"Yes, yes, there's no need for formality amongst us - not now. In any case, there's no need to worry, Castis," Alec said, grinning as the visor of his helmet slid open. "Believe me - our charges, as they were, are protected by the finest magics of the Exitium and to be perfectly frank any three of our ambassadors could handily defeat the entire honour guard in single combat."

"Oh? Really?" Castis said, not quite sure if Alec was joking.

"Indeed! High Matriarch Alenko is one of the finest mages of her generation - I have seen her obliterate hordes of demons with but a thought and a wave of her hand. Lady Goyle, well, twenty years in the Church of the Slayer is no mean feat. And Lord Faenmoch...well, I have not had the pleasure to see him in combat, but I have heard the rumours," Alec said, eyes shining. "They say his brutality is a work of art, Castis."

Castis, unable to muster any sort of meaningful response, simply nodded. "Huh."

"Ahhh, but it is our duty to protect the ambassadors! So it is, and so it shall be. The fate of the lower ranked is to do their duty, is it not, Captain?" Alec said, grinning.

"True enough," Castis said, unable to help himself from smiling. "That's true enough."

"Then I shall," Alec replied, nodding to himself. "You know, Castis, I can't help but think that today will be the beginning of a great friendship between our peoples."

"I have to admit, this is all kind of exciting," Castis noted.

"Yes! That's the spirit. What can I say? I look forward to the day when human, Redeemed, and every species which calls the Citadel home can stand side-by-side and slaughter the forces of Hell to their heart's content!"

"Uh...yeah," Castis said, "for sure."

The ride to the Citadel Tower passed without incident, and the ambassadors were escorted the Council Hall and beyond into a meeting room. Herane, Fallox and Saral, all waiting in the conference room, shook hands and clasped arms with the three ambassadors, and the group sat down.

"Ambassadors of the Exalted Exitium, it is a pleasure to meet you in person," Herane said, smiling.

"It is our honour," Faenmoch said, his split-jaw opening in a wide smile for a brief moment before returning to normal. "Ah, before we continue, a matter must be resolved," he said, his voice supernaturally smooth. "The turian marine who was to be executed - Slayer bless his soul - Private First Class Druso Aetna. Was he executed in the manner we instructed?"

"He was," Sapartus said, tone flat. "He was knocked out in his cell by sleeping gas, shot in the head, then cremated, as instructed. All of his runic drawings were incinerated as well."

"Slayer's blessings upon us," Yekaterina said softly, signing the Slayer's sigil. Anita and Faenmoch did the same, and Faenmoch sighed.

"I know it's ugly business to be starting with, but it's an important issue. Demonic corruption, especially on the Citadel...it would have been a disaster," he said, trailing off. "Please, Councilor Sparatus, you have my sincerest apologies and I assure you that we shall do our very best to atone for this grave error."

"That's alright," Saparatus said, nodding slowly. "In any case, with that settled - shall we begin in earnest? I believe we'd like to start with the matter of this, ah, "War on Hell."

"Indeed," Anita replied. "I'm aware that the issue was written of in the Volumes of Unity, but, well, I know of no other way to put it. There's a bit of a debate going on in the upper echelons of the Exitium's government, Councilors."

"Oh? How so?" Herane asked.

"Well, our opening ties with the Citadel and its general space means that we risk spreading the War on Hell to your peoples as well. There are people - not a majority, but a sizable minority - within the government who believe that the best course of action that the Exitium could take at this moment is to leave information on how to defend yourselves against Hell, leave a method for you to contact us and just, well, leave. Re-lock the relay. Pretend we never met you."

"I believe it's a little late for that," Valern noted.

"We are in agreement," Faenmoch replied. "Frankly, it's a stupid idea, and one borne of misplaced worry that your peoples are not strong enough to withstand the hosts of Hell. But it does raise an important point - by interacting with the Exitium, Councilors, you do risk demonic incursion within Citadel space. Now that we are here, we can share knowledge and best practices on how to repulse any demonic invaders."

There was a short pause as the Councilors glanced at one another, and it was Tevos who managed a response.

"I see. You must understand, honoured ambassadors, that...your references to demons and Hell are slightly lost upon us. I mean no offense when I say this, but while we are willing to accept that the Exitium has been locked in war for fifty-thousand years against a foe of great danger and strength, without a frame of reference it is difficult to simply accept outright that your peoples face literal demons from the fiery underworld itself."

The three ambassadors looked at each other and nodded, and it was Alenko who replied. "No offense is taken, Councilors. Though it is...difficult, I admit, to put myself in your shoes, I see where you are coming from and we appreciate your willingness to be frank about such matters. Were I in your position, untouched by magic and bereft of the knowledge that fifty thousand years of war have given us, I might think the person claiming such things to be mad. But the fact of the matter is that, from our position, to think otherwise would not be folly - it would be the end of our civilization."

"High Matriarch Alenko speaks the truth," Faenmoch continued, "and I am in an excellent position to speak authoritatively on the matter. As you may have noticed," he said with a chortle, gesturing at himself, "I'm not human by any stretch of the imagination."

"Yes," Valern said, "you are one of the, ah, Redeemed, yes?"

"Correct, Councilor. I am a summoner of Hell, and before then I was a lowly imp - naught but a common foot soldier of Hell's hosts," Faenmoch said, voice distant. "That was a long time ago - my ascension from imp to summoner took place six thousand years ago, my defection to the Exitium four thousand years ago. I have seen things, Councilors. I have done things you cannot imagine. I have watched the dead resurrected as Hell's mindless thralls more times than I can count. I have opened portals to Hell with the blood sacrifice of thousands of humans. I have used ruinous, terrible sorceries to call forth unholy creatures whose very existence warps space into an unholy abomination, Councilors. And when I say that magic and sorcery and demons are real, Councilors, know that from the bottom of my heart I speak the truth."

"In any case, whether you accept magic and demons as real is of no consequence, so long as you take the steps to defend yourselves," Faenmoch continued, shaking his head. "The Exitium has profited - nay, survived - thanks to its wholehearted acceptance of sorcery and a life dedicated to the War Eternal - and if you will not accept that magic is real, or that Hell is the place where slain souls go to be damned, so be it. But do not bury your heads in the sand! You must face this. You must. Your lives depend on it."

"Faenmoch is correct," Anita said. "If you would wish to explain away Faenmoch's life and deeds as, say, the work of some mighty species, his magics as the mere manipulation of spatial stability then we will not stop you. A Slayer does not care how the demon is slain, only that the demon is slain. But, as Faenmoch says, you must prepare to face the reality of the situation, and the reality is that when, not if, Hell comes you must be ready to survive."

"I...we understand," Sparatus replied after a moment. "Rest assured, we're not here to pretend that your foe does not exist, not are we going to act as though matters of security are of no importance. It is difficult, however, to research magic when at least from our point of view magic doesn't exist."

"That is why we are here," Yekaterina said with a smile. "To help."

"Mmm. I believe that," Valern replied, "but do you suggest that you will offer your help without asking for anything in return?"

"If you are ill-inclined to believe that we would grant you knowledge of sorcery and the ways of anti-demonic warfare without cost," Faenmoch said, "then you can imagine that we are using you as a shield. Extra bodies for the War Eternal. But that would be the belief of a cynic, and if fifty thousand years of war has taught the Exitium anything it is that cynicism only gets in the way of efficiency."

"Hope is our greatest weapon," Yekaterina continued. "And hope - compassion - dictates that we must give everything we can to the Citadel and its peoples. If you would offer gifts in return, then we would take them."

"That's a noble sentiment," Sparatus replied after a moment. "And while we appreciate it, it gets us no closer to understanding what, if anything, we can offer you. Does the Exitium want for space?"

"We do not want for space," Anita noted, "so you have nothing to fear in terms of the Exitium encroaching upon the Citadel's sovereign territory. It is the cruelest of ironies that the demons of Hell follow us primarily by the scent of the power we use to fuel our civilization - and so it is that any expansion on our part comes at the cost of dealing with the risk of demonic incursion. The Exitium has plenty of space to expand into when the time comes - Slayer's blessings, if your peoples wish for space to expand into and do not mind the demonic threat, there is plenty of room we do not have need of."

"That is reassuring," Tevos replied. "Imagining, for a moment, that the Exitium wanted things in return for its knowledge, though, what would you wish for?"

"Your technology is of great interest to us," Faenmoch noted. "We have only recently discovered the, ah, mass relays, and our ability to manipulate what you call 'element zero' is very limited by your standards. An exchange of knowledge would be greatly appreciated."

"That can easily be arranged," Valern replied, "though it will take time. First Contact, by our historical records, tends to be a drawn-out affair. We'll have to make arrangements."

"Of course," Faenmoch replied. "We, too, would have preferred a longer time for our peoples to learn to get to know one another, but the matter of Private First Class Aetna forced our hand. We apologize for the inconvenience."

"There's no need. On the matter of contact speed, however, we have noted that the Exitium appears to have tremendous economic output due to its perpetual war economy," Tevos said. "The Council finds the matter non-negotiable; we must have a slow integration of trade, lest our economies be wildly disrupted."

"That is a fair point - and one which we had not truly considered," Anita admitted. "Alas, our lack of foresight on matters external blindside us once again."

"The Exitium has survived on its own for many upon many years without economic issue," Faenmoch said, shrugging. "We are more than happy to ensure a proper trade integration over time; if, at a point in the near future, the specifics of trade and tarrifs must be discussed we will be happy to submit. For the immediate future, however, we will not bring our goods into Citadel space for the purpose of sale, though. Is that fair?"

"Exceedingly so," Valern replied. "Moving on, some members of our respective governments have expressed worry about the, ah, vigour with which your people pursue their religion. I understand that the Exitium's religion forbids forced conversion, but the Citadel and, speaking generally, it's member governments have strict regulations on the methods by which proselytizing is allowed."

"That is no problem," Yekaterina said, nodding. "The Doom Slayer Himself, blessed is his name, spoke of the need to be peaceful and patient when dealing with any besides the heretic and the demon. You have my word as a representative of the Church of the Lector that any priests sent forth from the Exitium shall follow all laws applying to them to their full extent."

"Thank you," Herane said.

"Of course, tourism might be an issue," Anita noted. "The idea of visiting a place not touched by the War Eternal - you must understand, to many of our people the Citadel and the planets which comprise its member governments, they will seem like paradise made manifest. I'm sure the idea of tourists visiting in droves is an exciting prospect, but perhaps not in the numbers we can bring, and especially tourists for whom this will be like a pilgrimage, not just a place to sightsee.

"Would a freeze similar to the one we discussed regarding imported goods be in order?" Sparatus asked. "A temporary measure while we further hash out the details of a proper intake procedure and any limitations requested by our member governments."

"We are more than happy to accept such an order," Faenmoch replied. "Though, to be honest, I do not think any of your peoples will be quite ready for the, ah, rapture some of our citizens will experience once they arrive here."

"It'll be a learning experience," Tevos said, smiling. "Speaking of - allow me to return to the matters of Hell for a moment. You have mentioned and we are aware," she continued, smile fading into a steely expression, "that the construction of these, ah, gore nests, is well within the reach of any determined individual. If we are to have time to prepare to face the dangers of Hell, then this knowledge - and knowledge of similar threats - must be suppressed."

"Mmm. That is a good point," Faenmoch noted, split-jaw opening and closing in thought. "We had planned on linking our galnet to your extranet, but that might have to be postponed for the foreseeable future. If the Exalted Exitium demands that any visitors to the Citadel and beyond do not share such knowledge, I can say that ninety-nine percent of our peoples will follow that order even if tortured or otherwise pressed - but there is going to be a non-zero risk of information leakage," he conceded.

"Perhaps, then, we can adjust the timetable for travel restrictions based on methods of dealing with said nests?" Sparatus offered.

"Ahh, but to spot a gore nest and to know how to destroy one safely, one must know how it looks at the very least," Anita said, frowning. "True, simply procuring some corpses and throwing it into a pile usually does not result in a gore nest without the proper demonic invocations...but usually does not mean always."

"A conundrum," Yekaterina said, shaking her head. "To be fair, anyone with a rune-knife can dispel the magics of a gore nest - and given the exceedingly potent fabrication abilities of your omni-tools I believe it'd be possible for basically every citizen to have a rune-blade on hand - but that doesn't eliminate the real threat behind the nests."

"Demonic incursion," Valern replied. "I see the issue - we shall have to return to it once matters of knowledge-sharing are solidified. We omitted any information on gore nests and portals from the contact package we uploaded to the public to be safe - so unless one of the isolated marines breaks confinement there's no chance of information leakage at this time. Perhaps disseminating fabrication plans of these, ah, rune-knives, can be done now, and information on their...holy properties can be released later?"

"A stopgap measure, but sufficient for the time being," Yekaterina said, shrugging. "In any case, as previously agreed, we intend to interview the afflicted marines to see if they possess sign of demonic corruption - and I am sure that, dutiful as they are, they will not spread knowledge of the nests if they are free of taint."

"Very well," Tevos said. "Perhaps we ought to move on, then, to knowledge-sharing systems, particularly how we will facilitate the movement and gathering of scientists and researchers..."

Several hours later, Herane leaned forward and smiled. "Well, I believe that concludes everything on the priority list," she said.

"Bah. The work of a politician is never finished," Faenmoch said with a chortle, "but I will admit that I am happy with what we have accomplished here today."

"Mmm. We'll reconvene tomorrow, then, to go over the finer points of the knowledge-sharing program at 9AM? Is that acceptable?" Sparatus offered.

"Yes, yes, that suits us well," Yekaterina replied. "It leaves us plenty of time to do a little exploring of our own this evening after we visit the isolated marines to give them a clear bill of spiritual health."

"Will you be wanting to head straight to the hospital, then? Captain Vakarian will be at your service, for the time being," Sparatus noted.

"We will. If the soldiers in question are afflicted with corruption then the rites of cleansing must be done quickly," Anita said, "and if they are clean, we must endevour to release them from confinement and return the freedom which they deserve. Ah, speaking of which - if it is no trouble, we would like to set up a channel by which we can begin the reparations towards the affected soldiers and families."

"Indeed. While our currencies of cart and belt are not currently equalized with the Citadel Credit, we can at least give gifts of runes, physical goods, and sizable amounts of currency as a sign of our sorrow at the events which have transpired," Faenmoch noted.

"I'll make the proper arrangements," Sparatus replied, nodding. "I'm certain we can, if not have an in-person meeting, at least a chance for the persons in question to respond to your gifts."

"I - we appreciate it," Yekaterina said, sighing. "Hopefully this will be the last of any such incidents. This meeting - our eyes opening to the Citadel - has been quite an experience. Our days of ill caution with matters external must end, and we must ask for your assistance in doing so. Much as magics and demons are an out of context problem for the Citadel, dealing with societies which have not been burdened with the War Eternal is an out of context probelm for us."

"Well, we all stand to profit from this partnership," Valern noted. "And if our nations become friends in the process, well, that doesn't sound all that bad to me."

"Ah! A jester in our midst," Faenmoch said, split-jaw wide in a toothy grin. "Very well, Councilors, we shall take our leave for the evening - unless you wish to join us? I believe that we shall be making a stop in the hospital - if we are permitted - to see if one the theurgic healers we brough can't work a bit of their magic amongst some of the most ill in the hospital's care."

"Perhaps," Valern said, nodding at the other Councilors, "I'll join just to see if I can't kickstart the learning process a little."

"That would be an excellent idea, I think," Tevos replied slowly. "If we might have just a moment before we disperse to discuss our own matters? Nothing serious - just ensuring that our affairs are in order."

"Of course," Faenmoch replied. "We shall await you, Councilor Valern, out in the Council Hall. By your leave, then."

The ambassadors stood up, bowed, and left the room, and once the doors closed behind them Sparatus rubbed at his fringe.

"Spirits. I've seen a lot of weird stuff in my life and I have to say that nothing's been as...bizarre as that."

"Six thousand," Tevos said, eyes focused on the door. "Faenmoch claims to be six thousand?"

"Over six thousand," Valern corrected. "I...find myself doubting that claim despite the way he spoke of it, as if it were nothing special. I wonder if he'll submit to testing - a full battery of dating procedures, perhaps..."

"If you can float the idea, I'd appreciate it," Tevos said, tone one of curious interest. "We'll reconvene later tonight, but initial thoughts?"

"I'm still not convinced on the whole magic front," Valern replied, "but Ambassador Xakhal is right. If there's a threat to the Citadel we need to face it - mind you, I'm not saying we should convert to their mad religion and swap our guns for chainsaws," he said.

"I still can't believe they use chainsaw swords," Sparatus said, shaking his head. "Utter insanity is what it is. But I agree with Saral - a threat to the Citadel is a threat, no matter its origin. And while I'm still suspicious of how...amicable they are, I'm not going to turn down their generosity out of some misplaced sense of superiority."

"Suspicious, yes, but I almost got the feeling that they're...how to put it, politically naive?" Tevos said. "Faenmoch, for example, was described to us in protocol documents as a diplomat, and he most certainly is one, but even he seemed more than ready to just roll over. I wasn't expecting them to be obstructionist but to entirely ignore playing hardball?"

"It does make a sort of sense if you take their claims at face value, though," Saparatus mused. "I mean, think about it. They've been at war for fifty thousand years against a singular foe, and any matters of diplomacy would primarily be amongst their own society, clearing up disputes about how to, I don't know, best go out there and purge the demons or something along those lines, right? I don't think Matriatch Alenko was exaggerating that this truly is an out-of-context problem for the Exitium - I don't even know if they're fully capable of understanding a society that's not like theirs, not at all-encompassing war with every facet of society engineered to fight harder."

"Lucky for us, then," Valern said sourly. "I don't think they'd be able to just steamroll over the Citadel species, mind you, but if they wanted a war with us I'm almost certain they'd win, if only out of sheer attrition." He sighed, and shrugged. "In any case, I'll head out with the ambassadors now - I'm wearing my contacts, so with their permission I'll record what I see."

"Thank you for offering, Saral," Herane said, nodding slightly. "We'll get to work and await your return."

Saral got out of his seat at joined ambassadors outside in the Council Hall; they returned to Captain Vakarian's waiting convoy, and Valern got into the vehicle with the ambassadors.

"If it's alright, Councilor, we shall return to our ship first to fetch one of our healers," Yekaterina said with a smile.

"Of course, of course," Valern said, nodding. "One of your, ah, theurgic mages?"

"That's correct. Another Redeemed, actually," Faenmoch said with a jovial tone. "And, of course, her Holiness here," he continued, gesturing at Matriarch Alenko, "is an accomplished healer as well."

Yekaterina made an sound of dismissal and waved her hand. "Flattery will get you nowhere, scoundrel. I'm far better at war-sorcery than healing."

Faenmoch feigned a swoon, hands clasped around his chest in mock injury. "Milady! You wound my pride," he said dramatically; Valern couldn't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

---

It was odd, Valern noted, watching the ambassadors speak to one another in a less guarded setting; despite his presence, much of the formality that had been present in the ambassadors' speech had been dropped. Though the religious zeal which informed their every word was more than a little disconcerting a part of him was relieved to find that the Exitium's ambassadors were, even if only vaguely, capable of joking amongst themselves.

He waited for a lull in the conversation and leaned forward in his seat before clearing his throat. "Ah, I don't mean to interrupt, ambassadors, but I did have a question for you, Faenmoch."

"Oh? By all means, Councilor, ask away," Faenmoch said, nodding.

"Forgive me if this is an...uncomfortable line of questioning, but I saw the images of your species, the summoners and I cannot help but notice that your arms and your crown are, well, I'm not sure if they're prosthetics, replacements..." he trailed off, waving a hand.

"Mmm. A perfectly reasonable question," Faenmoch said, one of his split jaws easing open in a small smile. "Once - I don't remember - during an attack on a human settlement I killed the family of a young warrior and took his arm in combat. I paid no attention to it at the time, for it was just another human that I had slain. Fifty, maybe it was sixty years later, that same warrior returned to the battlefield and faced me in single combat. He said to me that he recognized me by sight and by my the signature of my soul, and that with his prosthetic arm he would defeat me." Faenmoch laughed, and gestured at the aircar and the streets beyond. "Clearly, he won - but he did not kill me. No, I recall it clear as I know what I ate for breakfast this morning. He lopped my left arm off and said to me, 'once you took my arm and made me weak. Now I return the favour.' I laughed, told him that I would return to take his other arm - told him he was stupid for not killing me."

"I mean, the warrior in question did go against protocol," Anita said with a wry smile. "By right and propriety he should have killed you."

"If you want to be rid of me, milady, you will have to do it yourself," Faenmoch shot back, chuckling. "In any case, the warrior laughed, and he said something that would change me. 'I lost everything and my fellows made me stronger. With your failure upon this field of battle, your fellows will torture more than I ever could - and that is why we shall prevail. May you rot eternally.' True enough, I was brought back to Hell and made to suffer for my failures - my crown was torn from my head, and I suffered for longer than I care to recount. Eventually, though, I was given a chance to lead Hell's demons back into war against the Exitium - and, after much reflection, I realized that the warrior was right. The evidence had been there all along," Faenmoch said, tone rapturous. "It was so simple - why, in over fifty thousand years, had Hell not defeated the Exitium despite its superior numbers, resources and sorcery? Simple, Councilor Valern - it is because the Exitium fights in the name of compassion, of protecting the helpless, of making the weak strong. Hell may be host to countless strong, but in time, the strong will fall and there will not be numbers enough to replace them, and the weaker of Hell's forces shall not have the drive to continue."

"Blessed is the Slayer's name," Yekaterina said, signing the Slayer's Sigil. "Faenmoch is right - it is why we know that the War Eternal will end one day in victory. Maybe not for another fifty, hundred, five-hundred thousand years - but our victory is assured, so long as we do our duty."

"Blessed is the Slayer's name," Faenmoch agreed.

"So? Did you defect then?" Valern asked.

"I did. With my forces arrayed at the next battle, I waited until they had charged towards the Exitium's warriors, and then I attacked from behind. This would be my test," Faenmoch said, shrugging. "I would reach the Exitium's light and work to atone for my sins, or I would die trying. I lost my other arm, yes, but with fury and strength born of a newfound conviction, I survived, hurling my battered corpse at the Exitium's battle-lines. When I awoke, I was inducted into the Church of the Redeemed - and once my probation was complete and my penance begun in earnest, I was offered replacements for my arms and crown. A symbol, the Wretch-Priest told me, of the Slayer's guiding Light. The broken, made whole. The weak, made strong," Faenmoch said in a near-whisper, his jaw opening and closing slowly. "And here I am today, Councilor - a diplomat, of all things." Faenmoch snorted a laugh, and shook his head. "If someone had told me upon my ascension from imp to summoner that I would find my true calling as a diplomat of the Exitium I would have gutted them on the spot. But we all have our sins to atone for, and in the stern, gentle fist of the Doom Slayer, blessed is He, I found my purpose and true self."

"That is...illuminating," Saral said after a moment. "I imagine, then, that in all your years you've seen a great deal, changed a great deal. The Council thanks you for your attendance and, speaking personally, I think we could stand to learn a great deal from you, Ambassador egi Xahal."

"Oh, don't start flattering me just because I'm old," Faenmoch said dismissively. "Over six thousand I may be, but I wasted a good deal of that time. It is my understanding that krogan and asari live to around a thousand five-hundred, two thousand at the max? In the grand scheme of things, I guarantee they're as wise as people think I am. We have more to learn from your peoples, Councilor."

"You think so?" Valern said thoughtfully. "Care to explain?"

"Your peoples have so little time on this mortal plane," Faenmoch said, shrugging. "You have no time to waste on flights of fancy and idiocy. Not that mean to imply that every salarian is some sort of noble genius. Every race has its poor fools - look at me! - but a short life lived savouring every moment available to you? I think that is a unique thing indeed. A point of view to be treasured. Perhaps that sounds...condescending, Councilor, and I do not mean it to," he continued; Valern almost swore his tone was that of a tired, old, man. "Ah, and here I am rambling again like some old madman," Faenmoch said, tone lightening as he waggled an arm around. "Get off my property!"

"I don't think that's a thing in the Citadel's culture," Anita interjected.

"It certainly is," Valern said, chuckling. "The old folk who sits at the front of their house? Yelling at the children?"

"Aha! For once, someone who takes my side," Faenmoch said, patting Valern on the shoulder. "We'll get along just fine, I think. In any case, we're almost back at the hangar - ah, just a warning. Our healer is a bit of an...odd character," the Redeemed said. "Just...well, you'll see."

The convoy flew past the walkway where it had departed previously, swinging around a corner to touch down back inside the hangar that housed the Dignified, the ship the ambassadors had arrived in. The hangar itself was full of the ship's crew, who were mostly in unarmoured uniform and milling about, chatting amongst themselves; Saral did notice a small group of a half-dozen people in the far corner of the hangar who appeared to be seated in meditation or prayer. The convoy's members left their vehicles, and the ambassadors greeted Castis and Alec as they approached.

"It should just be a moment," Alec said, his expression dour. "The healer in question that we are here to pick up is supposed to be waiting for us here."

"It's, uh, no problem," Castis replied; Valern swore he looked like he was both supremely relieved to be out of the vehicle and more than a little exhausted. "Perhaps you'd like to go fetch him or her?"

"That sounds like a grand idea," Faenmoch said, nodding. "Please, Lord Protector, go find what Malaphus is up to - and make sure he leaves behind that damned pet of his. Slayer protect, the last thing we need is that idiot skull of his getting loose on the Citadel and causing a scare."

Alec rumbled with laughter before punching his fists together and bowing slightly. "By your leave, ambassadors. I'll be right back," he said, sprinting off towards the Dignified at ludicrous speed.

The group watched him go, and Anita sighed. "My apologies if the Lord Protector has been, ah, draining to be with," she said, shaking her head with a smile. "He's a naturally, how to put it, boisterous man."

Castis scatched at his fringe uneasily. "I'll admit, I didn't quite expect your Lord Protector - your chief of security - to be that full of energy."

"Ha! Did he talk his throat dry about guns and demon slaying?" Yekaterina asked, grinning as she saw the look on Castis' face. "Oh, don't be so worried about formality, Captain Vakarian. The Exitium's citizens may all thirst for the killing of demons, but Lord Ryder's got the fire of zealotry in him. Sixteen years as one of the Berserkers - that's a man with drive, there."

"Ah, I saw the name mentioned in the Volumes of Unity," Valern noted. "A sub-section of the Church of the Slayer, if I recall?"

"That's correct," Anita replied. "The Order of the Berserk is where the most zealous - not the most elite, mind you - of the Slayer's warriors go. There's not much to describe, to be honest. Our commanders find a nice, big crowd of demons somewhere and sort of just point a bunch of Berserkers in their general direction." She snorted a laugh. "Certainly not the most efficient of tactics, but one cannot argue with the end results, I suppose."

"Pay Lady Goyle no attention," Faenmoch said with a wave of his hand. "The friendly rivalries between the Church of the Slayer's many orders are legendary, and her previous station in the Order of the Long-Knife placed her in direct competition with the Lord Protector's in terms of tracked-kills and whatnot."

Anita punched Faenmoch in the shoulder hard enough that he briefly had to touch down on the ground to reorient himself, and he turned to her as he began hovering with his split-jaws wide open. "She attacks me because it is true! Better, Councilor Valern, to be a diplomat like me. Ours is a job with a prestige and legacy all its own, wouldn't you agree?"

Valern laughed as Anita shot both him and Faenmoch a dirty look. "I think I'll withhold any comments to protect myself."

"A smart man, you are," Anita said crossly. "When the Lord Protector returns - not a word to him, you hear? Slayer protect, the last time we got into a boasting competition about this the argument lasted for days. And - oh, Slayer's shit," she said, trailing off as she turned towards the ship.

Off in the distance, Alec Ryder could be seen shouting at a towering red-skinned Baron of Hell who wore khaki pants and a bandolier covered in pouches in place of a shirt; Valern couldn't make out their words over the general din of the hangar, but the Baron was clearly displeased with something. After another minute, the pair stomped over towards the ambassadors, and Alec stepped aside, his expression one of frustration.

"Presenting," he said, rolling his eyes, "Master Theurgy-Chirurgeon Malaphus Aipos, Baron of Light."

The baron, whose left horn was chipped in half, knelt with a smile on his face. "Ahh, Councilor Saral Valern, yes?" He offered one of his massive hands to Saral, and Valern gingerly let the baron shake his arm. "It is an honour to meet you. And my thanks to you as well, Captain Vakarian."

"The honour is mine, Master Aipos," Valern said; Castis simply nodded.

"Now, before we leave - what was your little spat all about?" Faenmoch said.

"What do you think?" Lord Ryder replied, shaking his head.

"Oh, for the - open your right fist, please," Faenmoch said in an exasperated tone. Malaphus did so, and a horned skull wreathed in white fire and projecting a sigil of some sort above its head appeared, chattering and screeching. "I thought I specifically said not to bring your stupid pet with you today."

"Well there's no need to be rude," Malaphus rumbled, patting the skull on the head. "Her name is Rakka and she is not stupid. More talk like that and I'll toss you all the way back aboard the ship."

"Toss me ba - you know, I don't care anymore," Faenmoch said, rubbing his head. "You keep that damned pet-"

"-her name is Rakka -"

"-on a tight tether and let me tell you, if I find out you've lost her..."

"Well, I won't. Now, I think I'm only going to fit in that one over there," Malaphus said, gesturing to the large supply-wagon at the end of the convoy. "Is it occupied?"

"There's a bit of gear in there, but you'll fit. It may not be the most comfortable of rides, though," Castis said. "Here, I'll help you get settled. Lord Protector, feel free to ride in the lead vehicle - Lieutenant Madii, Kophim, that is, will take charge while we move to the hospital."

"Wonderful," Alec said happily, stomping off to the car at the front of the convoy. Castis and Malaphus made their way to the supply vehicle at the end of the convoy, the bizarre flaming skull following in their wake; the ambassadors returned to their vehicle and buckled themselves in.

"Now, I am wearing a device that lets me record what I see," Saral explained. "Given the...magic which Malaphus uses to heal the wounded, the other Councilors have expressed interest in seeing firsthand footage of his powers. Is that acceptable?"

"Oh, of course," Yekaterina said, nodding. "I see no issue with that."

The ride to Chalua hospital was a quick one, and the assembled convoy got out to the sight of massed crowds; the ambassadors waved as their bodyguards and the C-Sec officers took up positions around the convoy, and the crowds cheered back, though Valern was certain that they sounded more than a little uneasy. There was a loud thud behind him, and as he turned the assembled crowds fell totally silent as Malaphus gingerly eased himself out of the supply wagon. Many in the crowd looked up as Malaphus stretched his arms; Valern guessed that he was easily four or five times as tall as a krogan, and the crowd's silence gave way to nervous muttering as Malaphus stomped over to the ambassadors as Rakka floated along behind him, chattering away happily.

"They're staring at me," Malaphus half-whispered, leaning over Faenmoch.

"I wonder why," Faenmoch hissed back. "Maybe it's the twenty-five foot tall baron of light and his Slayer-damned flaming skull?"

"What do I say to them?"

"Smile, wave, introduce yourself," Yekaterina said gently. "Just like we practiced yesterday."

"Alright," Malaphus said, clearly unsure. He turned to face the crowd as he plucked Rakka out of the air and set her on his shoulder, took a visibly deep breath and waved. "Hullo everyone! I'm Theurgy-Chirurgeon Malaphus Aipon, and this is Rakka, my assistant. We're here on behalf of the Exalted Exitium to see if we can't help any of the poor souls who lay injured in Chalua Hospital using our theurgic magic. I hope this marks the beginning of an era of friendship and camaraderie between our peoples, and may the Slayer's light bless us all this evening."

There was a long pause as the crowds looked at one another, muttering amongst themselves; Faenmoch sighed and pat Malaphus on the waist when the crowds erupted in a sudden bought of cheering, and Malaphus blinked several times before grinning wildly and turning to face the gathered ambassadors.

"Well, what do you know? It worked," he said proudly as Rakka floated off his shoulder, flying in a lazy circle around the group. "Perhaps I've a future in the field of oration?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, old friend," Faenmoch said, smiling. "Come then."

The group was escorted towards the hospital's entrance, and Castis swore as they passed the gardens flanking the front doors. "Spirits, I can't believe I didn't think of this. I'm sorry," he said, turning to Malaphus, "I, uh, don't think you're going to fit through the front doors."

Malaphus made a curious rumbling noise, and squinted before shaking his head. "I might fit if I crawl, Captain, but I get the distinct feeling that once inside I'd have a hard time moving around."

"It'll be alright - we'll work this out. Isena, Kophim, head inside, let the staff know we're here. We'll head to the freight entrance around the back." Castis' subordinates took off at a jog into the hospital, and the rest of the group circled around the building towards the rear entrances; once they arrived a few minutes later, one of about a half-dozen loading doors was open, revealing a large garage. A small group of nurses, doctors and hospital staff waited at the far end of the garage near the exit, and they waved once the ambassadors' group entered the garage.

"Councilor Valern, ambassadors of the Exalted Exitium, it is a pleasure to have you at our hospital," an smartly-dressed asari said, stepping forward.

"Administrator Ledaro," Valern said, stepping up to the loading platform with the other ambassadors. He clasped arms with her before stepping aside; Faenmoch stepped forward first, and bowed deeply before clasping arms as well.

"Thank you, administrator, for accommodating our unusual request on such short notice," Faenmoch said with a smile.

"It's quite alright, Ambassador egi Xakhal. It is an honour to have you and your colleagues here today," Nirella Ledaro replied. She clasped arms and shook hands with the Exitium's ambassadors, then paused, standing before Malaphus - who, despite standing on the lower ground of the loading bay, still towered over the asari, his horns nearly touching the garage's ceiling. "And you must be Master Aipos, the, ahem, 'theurgic chirurgeon' mentioned in our correspondence?"

"That I am," Malaphus replied, falling to one knee. "I know from experience that allowing a medical practitioner of foreign origin - especially one whose methods have no reference with your own - to practice in your hospital is an incredible honour and responsibility. You have my word that I shall do my utmost to preserve the sanctity and good name of your facility."

"Well, there is one problem I see already," Nirella said, crossing her arms. "I'm afraid our building was not designed for individuals of your stature, and short of bringing our patients down here one by one I don't see how we'll be able to get you close, let alone into an operating room."

"Oh, there'll be no need for that," Malaphus replied with a shake of his head. "I can use Rakka here as a...how to say, magic signal extender, so long as she remains in range," he said, patting the flaming skull which was floating around his head.

"If the, ah, flaming skull is a tad much, I can be used for the same function," Yekaterina offered, "albeit with far less efficacy. In any case, I am also capable of medical theurgy, though my skills as a healer pale in comparison to Master Aipos."

Nirella looked at her staff, then back at Malaphus, her look one of measured skepticism. "Very well, then. We can escort, ah, your familiar? Is that accurate?"

"It is," Malaphus replied. "Captain Vakarian here gave me a temporary omnitool," he said, pulling a black cube from one of his pouches, "so I can remain in contact with you, Councilor, if you'd like to speak with me."

Valern nodded. "Very well, then. I'd appreciate you, ah, walking me through your work as you do it. Administrator, shall we go?"

"Mmm. We'll escort Malaphus' familiar with us to the pallative care wing; we've several of the individuals there who have consented to your 'magic' based procedures moved into one area. You're capable of, ah, remaining here, then, to do your work?"

"That's the case. Now, Rakka," Malaphus said, addressing the skull, "I'm handing your tether to Lady Alenko, alright? We're going to do the totemic signal boost. Can you do that for me?" The skull chattered, her white flames flickering, and Malaphus smiled, patting the skull gently. "There's a good girl. Hold still a moment while I affix the runes, alright?" The baron drew a rune roughly the size of small medal out of one of his bandolier's pouches and held it next to the small sigil which floated above Rakka's head; it wobbled in mid-air for a moment as Malaphus withdrew his hand before there was an audible clicking noise as the disc stabilized. Malaphus chanted something under his breath before a small blue mote of light appeared in his hands, and he tossed the glowing ball over to Yekaterina, who snatched it out of the air. A few moments later, the glowing ball disappeared with a flash of light, and Malaphus pushed Rakka towards Yekaterina. "Go on, then! And don't cause any trouble!"

The skull screeched at Malaphus, its jaws clicking, before it turned and floated off towards Lady Alenko. Castis and a few bodyguards remained behind in the garage as the doors sealed while Alec joined the ambassadors as they left the room, and Malaphus grinned.

"So, Captain Vakarian - ready to see some magic?"

Valern activated his recorder, then followed the ambassadors and the gathered hospital staff out of the basement and up to the Palliative Care ward; as they neared the ward's entrance, the corner of his HUD lit up with a video feed from one of Castis' helmet-cam.

"Councilor, is the feed stable? Any issues with the audio?" Captain Vakarian asked.

"No, everything looks good," Saral subvocalized. The view shifted slightly, and Valern could now see Malaphus kneeling in the centre of the garage; he had pulled several dozen boxes and vials out of his bandolier and placed various piles of what appeared to be leaves, metals and runes in front of him in a loose triange. Now, Malaphus was in the process of drawing a complex geometric array with a thick, blood-red, chalk-like stick; once complete, he crushed the stick into dust, sprinkled it over the array and began carefully pouring vials of silver, red and gold liquids into specific sections of the array.

Once in the ward proper, Nirella ushered the group into a small room; four individuals, two turian, an asari and a drell lay in hospital beds on the other side of a thick transparent airlock-sterilizer. "These are our patients," she said, turning to Yekaterina. "I'm not sure what you require from this point on - you mentioned that you do not require sterile operating facilities?"

"That is correct," Yekaterina replied with a smile. "Come, Rakka! We have work - may I enter the patients' chambers?"

"You may," the asari replied, tone skeptical. "

A half-dozen or so nurses and doctors followed Yekaterina, Saral and Nirella through the airlock and emerged on the other side; Yekaterina smiled and bowed deeply as the patients all turned to examine the group.

"I am Yekaterina Alenko, of the Exalted Exitium," she said warmly. "It is my understanding that the four of you consented to experimental magic-based treatments. Is that correct?"

The four patients all nodded - weakly, Yekaterina noted - and murmured their assent.

"Thank you. Now, while our healing magics do not cause pain except in cases of demonic corruption, I must note that for those not familiar with theurgic healing it can be a tad uncomfortable. Patients often report feeling a searing sort of heat - but I assure you, the feeling is harmless and will pass." She walked over to the drell first, skull in tow, and held her hands over the man; she frowned as she closed her eyes, shaking her head. "What is your name, sir?"

"H-huto," the man whispered, voice rasping. "Huto Shoak. Kerpal's."

Before Nirella could explain, Yekaterina simply nodded as her hands began to glow a pale white. "Ahhh, I see," she said, opening her eyes. "Your organs - they are...eroded? You cannot take in oxygen. Not properly."

"That's correct," Nirella said, expression flat and neutral. "There's no cure, as far as we know - it's a result of long-term exposure to what most would consider medium to high humidity, something drell physiology isn't capable of handling."

"I see, I see." Yekaterina took a step back, and pat Rakka lightly. "Go ahead, girl, it's time to get to work."

The skull chattered and wobbled for a moment before the white fires around her head shifted to a golden-yellow; Rakka opened her mouth, and Malphus' voice spoke through the skull. "Right, I see it, I see it," the baron said, his voice oddly tinny through Rakka's fiery mouth. "Hmmm. Organ degeneration, but Mr. Shoak's noetic patterns are clear - there's no sign of soul corruption. This ought to only take a moment."

Valern concentrated on both the scene before him and Captain Vakarian's feed as Malaphus, in the garage, began to chant in a language his translator didn't know; the geometric array before him shone a brilliant red as the various items within began to pulse various colours, the chalks and liquids flowing as if being stirred. Huto's body began to glow a pale red, and the drell looked around nervously; Yekaterina placed a hand on his arm.

"It's alright, Mr. Shoak. Just try and relax. There's nothing to worry about."

"A simple fix indeed. I'll take the base image from your soul-pattern, reapply the organ matrix to your physical body - please take a deep breath, Mr. Shoak, as you'll feel a bit of heat," Malaphus said, voice one of pure concentration. "Here we go. Three, two, one."

Huto flinched and closed his eyes as the pale red flared bright enough to fill the room with its light, but continued breathing as best as he could. "Sir? Does that hurt at all?" Malaphus asked.

Huto coughed, and shook his head. "Warm, very warm, bu - but I'm okay."

"Wonderful. Organ matrix is back to normal and the soulbond is good - now I'm going to open a channel to the Source and let a bit of that aether-magic flow into you. Rakka, hold still a moment." The skull obliged, and a jet of green shot out of the Rakka's mouth and into Huto's chest; the drell opened his eyes in confusion. "Regeneration theurgy is good, wards are stable - okay, Mr. Shoak, this is going to feel, uh, very strange, for a lack of a better way to put it. Just take another deep breath, okay? And three, two, one-"

Saral Valern's jaw dropped in awe as a ghostly image of Huto appeared above the drell, then slowly floated down, merging with Huto's body; the drell gasped and the room flashed a blinding, brilliant green for a split second before Huto gasped, flinched, then jolted upright. He breathed deeply and patted his body, expression rapturous.

"And there we go! Organs are returned to normal," Malaphus said, his tone one of joy. "Mr. Shoak, you ought to be fine. How do you feel?"

"I...I can breathe," Huto said, grinning wildly as he began to cry. "I can breathe! Lusatios bring you luck and fortune, I can even shout!"

"Please don't shout," Yekaterina said, patting him on the arm. "That'd be rude, considering the small size of the room."

"Ha, sorry, I'm just getting carried away," Huto replied, smirking. "How? How can this be? I feel better than I've ever felt - I don't think I've had this much energy in years! Irima, my love, I'm coming home and I- oh, okay, right. In public. In front of a Councilor. Oh, gods." He looked around, aghast, and lay back down. "I'm just going to, uh, die of embarrassment now."

"I'm afraid there's no cure for that," Malaphus said, chortling. "Now, who's next? I've got enough theurgic fuel with me for another, hmm, I'd say six or seven healings before I need to go back to the ship to fetch more material. Administrator Nirella, at your permission, may I continue with the next patient?"

There was a long pause, and both Rakka and Yekaterina turned to face the asari, whose face was one of both concern and astonishment.

"Y-yes, Master Aipos," she said after a moment in a near-whisper. "I'd like to see that again. Please."

---

Two hours later, Saral Valern entered the Council Hall, made his way to the usual meeting room and entered without even greeting Herane or Fallox; he slumped into one of the chairs, expression blank.

"Saral? Spirits, what happened?" Sparatus asked, tone one of worry. "We messaged you and you just said that you were okay - where were you? What happened, Saral?"

"I...they have magic," Valern said quietly, shaking his head. "My brother died because he had Lorossian blight. His bones eroded into nothing and we had to euthanize him at the age of four. We were told it was a miracle - a miracle - that he survived past two. And - and they brought up this child with the blight and Malaphus just magicked it away! A swish of his hands and some magic circles, and the blight was just gone. Gone. For good." Valern shook his head. "They didn't even need a sterile environment. Malaphus didn't even need to be in the same room! And I watched! I watched it happen! Unless they all posess some sort of...of incredible nanotechnology that lets them cure diseases that they've never encountered amongst five different species ten floors away I don't see a way to explain it."

Tevos and Sparatus both looked at one another, and Valern snorted.

"You think I've gone mad, or they've compromised me somehow. I can see it. Here! Look," he said, activating his omnitool. "I recorded it. I recorded all of it."

The Councilors watched as the main table lit up, and they viewed combined footage of both Malaphus' rituals and Valern's recordings; they sat for nearly half an hour in complete silence before Valern turned it off.

"Do you get it? Do you understand?" Valern said, shaking his head. "The only reason why Malaphus stopped was because he ran out of materials - and he only carried enough for a few healings because he didn't want to bring his gear with him. He says the Dignified has enough theurgic fuel in their medical stocks to heal at least several thousand people before they'd dip into the stuff they reserve for their own people." Valern swallowed, hard, and rubbed at his face. "They could very well clear out every single palliative care ward on the Citadel before they leave, and it would be nothing to them. A minor inconvenience, at best."

"Spirits," Sparatus whispered. "That's...incredible."

"No, Sparatus, it's not. It's a damn nightmare. Think about it. Disease is no problem for them. Can you even begin to imagine what their 'war-sorcery' looks like? They mentioned that they have theurgy-bombs, Fallox. Ordinance literally powered by miracles. And they still cannot defeat their enemy. What sort of foe have they faced, for fifty-thousand years, that cannot be beat with honest-to-goodness magic?" Valern threw up his arms in frustration. "What's the alternative, hmm? Let's say their demonic foe is an exaggeration used to keep their populace in line. Fantastic! Then we're faced with an authoritarian theocracy full of indoctrinated zealots who are being held together by a constructed foe? I don't even know which one would be worse!"

There was a long, long silence.

"Goddess," Tevos said slowly. "Okay. This isn't ideal," she said, shooting Saral a dirty look when he snorted in disbelief. "It's not ideal, not in the slightest, but the more we know the better we can deal with this situation. For now, we think short-term. Damage control. News is going to get out about this healing...thing, fast. We're going to have to do something to prevent rioting."

"Ambassador Xakhal already proposed an idea to me," Valern said quietly. "Malaphus and a few other mages can go to all of the major hospitals while our negotiations with the Exitium continue over the course of the next few days and heal based on a triage system, starting first with terminal patients and then move down from there. The next time their ambassadors return they'll see if they can't establish a permanent medical facility of some sort in addition to a consulate. Apparently, based on simple...magic scanning, or something along those lines, Malaphus says that many of the common theurgic fuels he and his mages use have equivalents that can be sourced without issue aboard the Citadel."

"Alright. That's...that's fair enough," Sparatus said, rubbing at his fringe. "Spirits. Okay. I need a drink."

"We all do, I think," Tevos said slowly. "Before that, though, we need to do a proper debrief about today's events."

The salarian shrugged and in all her years of knowing him Herane saw what the inklings of - admittedly well-hidden - fear in his eyes. "We are in danger. Serious danger, on every front. Let's just ignore the supposed threat that this Hell of theirs poses - we're still in trouble. Geopolitically, they claim to have plenty of space, yes, but their faster-than-light tech is far faster and far more efficient than ours. Their advanced drives, the ones they tend to reserve for emergencies lets them teleport from Gaia to the Citadel in less than a minute. Economically, the Financial Ministry estimates their industrial output is absolutely staggering - fifty thousand years of perpetual war-economy stance? I'm sure you can draw your own conclusions. And militarily, well, we've not yet seen firsthand footage of their claimed capabilities, but tonight's show has been...illuminating, to say the least."

Sparatus made a groaning noise, shaking his head. "I have to basically agree with all of that, and frankly I don't even know what we could do to mount an effective defense against any of that. We're already shifting into defensive posture as fast as we can but just...throwing ourselves into war posture without hesitation would destroy the Citadel's economy. I hate to say it, but I think we're going to have to take the Exitium at it's word that it'll hold to its promises."

"At the very least, I think they'll do so," Tevos said, shrugging. "Perhaps it's reaching for a silver lining, but the Exitium's ambassadors seem to be...simple folk, at least with respect to their political acumen. Any sort of political finagling, I think, is out of the question until we can at least place ourselves in a better defensive position."

"That's the worst part," Valern grumbled. "I don't even think they see this as an offense-defense situation in terms of, well, anything. I've spoken with the ambassadors and a few other of the Exitium's personnel while I was with them - recording all of it, of course - and I honestly don't think they're even capable of fully comprehending our existence. To not be at war, to not have fought against these...demons of theirs for fifty-thousand-years, that's nigh-impossible for them to understand. They talk of protecting us, not of politicking." Valern shrugged. "I'm certain that our continued negotiations are going to continue in that vein - so long as we don't interrupt their 'War Eternal' or trod on their morals they'll happily do whatever we want them to do. Because, in their eyes, only one thing matters - their War on Hell. And that, that drive, that singular focus? It scares the absolute shit out of me."

*Chapter 6*: Interlude 1-2

THE KROGAN

"Good morning. It is six in the morning. The date is June the twenty-first, 2157. Today's schedul-"

"Snooze," Wrex growled.

"Snooze mode activated. Please set next alarm interval."

"Fuck off."

"Voice command shortcut: 'fuck off,' accepted. Alarm set to noon."

Wrex grumbled something and went back to sleep.

"Good afternoon. It is-"

The alarm shut off abruptly as Wrex pounded the button next to his bed; he got up, lumbered over to the nearby closet and strapped on his armour. He walked over to the fridge, opened it, and sighed as he took inventory: a half-finished two-four of Tuchankan Fist sovak, three cans of no-name brand elasa and a half-eaten fish sausage. He considered his options, muttered something to himself and took the sausage out, tossing it into his mouth on the way to his weapon locker.

"Messages," he said aloud as he opened the locker and began pulling out his weapons.

"You have two messages," his apartment VI said. "First message."

"Hi there," a turian voice said, "I'm calling from First Relay bank to discuss your portfolio-"

"-delete," Wrex grunted.

"Deleting message. Second message."

"Wrexie! It's Viiste - I'm telling you, if you want work we're still looking for a bodyguard. Now, I know you've been struck with the wanderlust lately, but hey, the pay's good, you get to sit around with some old friends and we'll even throw in some free guns. How 'bout it? If you're interested, just give us a call! Bye!"

"End of message. You have no new messages. Returning to standby."

A few moments later, he was as prepared for the day as he would be - armoured, armed, and looking for (good) work. Opening his door, he strode out and bumped into something; he looked down to find a salarian C-Sec officer.

"Afternoon, Jorlan," Wrex said.

"Afternoon, Wrex."

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, I was just wondering. Bunch of guys were walking the beat last night, found a dead turian about two blocks away from here with his neck snapped. You, uh, know anything about that?"

"No."

"Okay. Cool. That's great. You, uh, working?"

"Haven't found anything good, Jorlan. Last gig ended a few weeks ago - been skulking around the Citadel ever since."

"Oh! Oh. Well, uh, best of luck," Jorlan said, nodding as he hurried off towards a waiting patrol car at the end of the apartment complex's walkway.

Wrex grunted in response, and instead made his way out of the complex and ambled towards the Zakera Ward, stopping at the corner store to get himself a can of gada and a bag of fish jerky; he finished the gada before exiting the store, tossing it into a wastebin on the way out, and the jerky lasted him all of two minutes. Still, it would tide him over on the way to his usual breakfast spot, and with his hunger slightly assuaged his mood improved considerably. The fact that the C-Sec officers he passed all gave him a wide berth made him even happier, and by the time he arrived at Riga's Cafe for breakfast - lunch, really - he was almost happy.

The lineup snaking out of the restaurant destroyed his good mood in an instant.

He was about to line up when one of the waiters - some turian kid, maybe in his late teens, that he didn't recognize - popped out of the restaurant and waved at him. Wrex walked over, and the turian waiter looked at him nervously. "You're Wrex, right?"

"Who's asking?"

"Riga says you don't need to line up."

Wrex snorted a laugh. "Alright. Lead the way, kid." The waiter led him inside, and Wrex chuckled as some of the patrons lining up outside the diner clearly thought of complaining before seeing the small armoury on Wrex's back; the inside of the restaurant was packed, but a large stool sat empty at the far corner of the bar. Wrex walked over and sat down as an older asari woman set some glasses into a cleaning unit and made her way over.

"Riga."

"Wrex."

"Thanks for letting me skip the line," Wrex said.

"Ha! Thanks from Urdnot Wrex himself. I suppose I should be honoured. You hungry?"

"The usual, please."

Riga tapped at her omnitool without even looking down before filling a pint glass to the brim with a frothy green liquid and passed it to him. "You should really stop buying that no-name garbage, you know."

He drained half the glass in a single draw before setting it down, and shaking his head. "Okay, fine. It's pretty good."

"Craft elasa almost always beats the big-name stuff, Wrex."

"Yuppie scum."

"You're the one who keeps coming here - and while we can't all be walking corpses like you, I'm no newborn babe," Riga shot back. "So - you still looking for work?"

"Yeah," Wrex said, finishing the elasa. "Why, you find anything good?"

"Good for anyone else, sure. Your standards are too high - but there is the Exitium."

Wrex snorted. "What, you want me to sign onto their crazy-train express trip to the land of fire and brimstone?"

"I think you'd be a perfect fit. Chance to see new places, met new people, chainsaw some demons..."

"You can't be serious."

"Well, maybe if you read the pamphlet I gave you the idea would be more attractive."

"Who says I didn't read it?"

Riga shot Wrex a look; he sighed, and slid his empty glass back across the bartop. "I'll have another, please. And no, I didn't. Look, I'm not a religious guy and those nutcases down in the Presidium weird me out. Have you actually gone down there and listened to them?"

"No, I haven't. I have a diner to run."

"Okay, well, I did, and they're insane. Getting people to go on a probably one-way-trip into their shithole side of space to learn how to fight, ahem, 'demons,' with chainsaw swords and magic? You can't seriously listen to that," Wrex said, chuckling, "and think they're all there in the head."

"Hey, the magic's real," Riga replied.

"Order up," a voice said from behind Riga; she turned as a section of the wall behind her slid open, revealing a steaming bowl full of varren stew with a fried motak stick on the side. She passed it over to Wrex and tossed him a spoon, shrugging.

"Okay, I know their magic works or whatever. Doesn't mean I relish living with a bunch of chainsaw - fuck's sake, Riga, they use chainsaw swords - wielding nutcases until they decide to open immigration."

"Really? Because I feel like grabbing a whirring blade of many-toothed death and fighting a noble war against an infinite, evil enemy would be right up your alley," Riga countered. Wrex said nothing and instead began shovelling stew into his mouth; Riga smirked as she turned to deal with another customer. "Think about it, Wrex. Sounds like a good gig to me. What're you gonna do instead, work for Viiste, stand around all day as a bodyguard?"

"Piss off," Wrex grumbled, poking at his stew.

---

Greetings, citizens of the Citadel!

On behalf of the Exalted Exitium, it is my absolute honour and pleasure to pen this missive to you all. Though I have not known your culture for long and have only had the luxury of being aboard this great city-station for a short few days, I have been blessed to meet so many of you. While I know that many of you have no shortage of questions about the Exitium that have not been answered in the Volumes of Unity, rest assured that in due time answers will be made available - for while many of you have no doubt seen the Council's press release regarding the immigration & travel freeze between our peoples, I am happy to announce an initiative supported by both the Council and my own government.

Starting on June 18th, the Exalted Exitium will be accepting applications for those who wish to go on an extended trip into the Exitium. Please note that, due to the aforementioned travel freeze, there is a very real chance that should your application be accepted that you will be unable to return to the Citadel for an extended period of time (with our most optimistic estimates placing the time until the freeze's lifting being around four to five years, with a possible maximum of around ten years.) Know, too, that even for the most action-free life spent amongst our most sheltered citizens, life in the Exitium can be unfathomably dangerous; if you choose to come to our Exitium, even as a civilian who merely wishes to cook, report, write, and generally live a non-martial life, there is a high chance that you will not only see a demon up close - but that it will kill you. For those who wish to join the War on Hell, your chances of being slain by demons in combat are, of course, far higher. Such is the way things are. So it shall be.

Thus, we will not be accepting applications from those under the age of majority as outlined by respective governments, nor will we be accepting applicants who have children. Those amongst you who have outstanding criminal charges will not be welcome, either - for the noble thing to do would be to do your penance, and visit the Exitium later. Keeping all of this in mind - for a full list of our conditions and terms feel free to examine the list attached at the end of this document - we welcome anyone who fits the criteria who is ready to face the danger and the opportunity the Exitium offers to apply on the morning of the 18th at Docking Bay 12-AOX-9.

To maximize the speed at which our secretaries can process your applications, please fill out one of the attached intake forms. Two forms exist: one for civilians, and one for those who wish to join one of our Churches-militant. For those of you who seek the glory of the War Eternal, note that no combat experience is required - we shall shape any and all comers into warriors as fine as our own. Furthermore, turians and quarians alike need not worry about provisions - we have already tested our purification and safe-consumption magics, and they allow peoples of both species to eat and drink the food of the Exitium. Note that failing to fill out an intake form will result in the guards outside our hangar denying you entry until you have done so - come prepared, lest you face the universal shame of not having completed your homework!

Once again, I thank you all for the privilege of meeting you - whether in person or by cultural proxy - and I hope that in less hectic times I have the chance to speak with all our successful applicants one-on-one.

May the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, protect and guide us all in our time of need,

Lord Ambassador Faenmoch egi Xakhal of the Exalted Exitium

---

Two hours later, Wrex looked down at the dataslate, which was displaying a fully filled-out intake form for the "Church of the Predator."

This is so stupid, he thought to himself as he stuffed another handful of fish jerky into his mouth. He sighed, leaned back on the park bench, and glared at a bunch of teens who were eyeing the few empty spaces left on the bench; they scurried away.

This is the worst damn decision you've ever made in your stupid, mistake-filled life.

He cursed - quietly - there were a bunch of kids within earshot playing in a sandpit - and activated his comm. It rang for a few moments, then kicked him to the answering machine.

"Hello! You've reached Edote and Keli, Bespoke Gunsmiths. We're currently unable to take your call - please leave your name and message, and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Hey. It's Wrex. I found a job - you'll have to get yourselves another bodyguard. Best of luck." He hung up, tipped the rest of the jerky out of the bag and into his mouth before tossing the emptied container into a nearby wastebin; a quick shuttle ride later, he was at the Exitium's hangar. Stepping out of his shuttle, Wrex was surprised to see that there was a reasonably long line snaking out of the hangar; the assembled crowd was a fairly interesting mix of people who looked like they came from all walks of life. Grumbling to himself, he lined up and did his best to tune out the chatter around him when he felt someone tapping on his armour. He turned around to find an asari - a fairly young one - looking up at him.

"You're, uh, Urdnot Wrex, right?" the asari asked, looking at him with a curious expression.

"Who's asking?"

"Kerri T'vessa, freelance writer and former editor of Undercurrent."

"Oh, for fu- isn't that the thing all the edgy kids watch? Gritty news for kids that think they're badass but are actually scum-breathing idiots?"

"Well that's not how I'd describe it," Kerri replied with a displeased expression. "But sure. If you want to be that way."

"I don't know if anything pisses me off more than yuppies, but hipster filth comes pretty damn close," Wrex growled before turning around.

"Well I'm not going to interview you or anything - was just wondering what, like, the badassest merc around is doing going to the Exitium?"

"Piss off."

"Can't, I'm lining up."

Wrex tried to think of something pithy to say, but couldn't, and instead face her once more as the line shuffled forward again. "Exitium's hiring, I'm a merc. Seems pretty cut-and-dry to me, kid."

Kerri made an odd expression that Wrex couldn't quite place, then nodded. "Hmm. I'd guess you're...dissatisfied? With the Citadel and its culture. How close?" She grinned, and put her hands on her hips. "Eh?"

For a moment, Wrex considered punching her unconcious, but thought better of it. Barely. "Well, I can't be the only one. You're here."

Kerri nodded and made a thoughtful humming noise. "I suppose. Scoop of a lifetime, chance to do a bit of on-the-ground journalism in the freshest market there is. But that's probably my equivalent to your 'cut-and-dry' answer."

"Don't go getting all philosophical on me, T'vessa. Too early for that."

Despite the number of people in the line, Wrex found himself at the hangar's entrance in just under an hour; the security guard, a human as tall as Wrex with black skin, a partially shaved head and wearing clad in heavyset robes, examined the dataslate Wrex handed over.

"Mmm. Urdnot Wrex, Church of the Predator applicant, all checks out," the human said, nodding. "Please feel free to head to any of tents on the right displaying the sword-and-fist symbol; one of the secretaries there will assist you."

Wrex grunted in acknowledgement, and made his way into the hangar and towards the tents; compared to the generic Citadel Services pre-fab buildings on the opposite end of the hangar, which Wrex guessed was for non-combat applicants, there were at most a quarter of the people around the tents. Most had the generic mercenary look, but there were a few who didn't fit the mold - a couple green-looking folk, and even a quarian or two. Wrex scanned the area and sauntered over the tent that appeared to have the fewest people waiting; he lined up, and a few minutes later was in front of a robe-clad secretary.

"Urdnot Wrex, krogan, one-thousand two-hundred fifty. Career mercenary - looks like you've got quite the record - and self-styled as having "excellent combat efficiency," the woman said in a neutral tone. "Hmm. We'll have to see. Go on in," she said, pointing to the flap behind her. Wrex thought better of defending his reputation, got up, and pushed his way past the flap; as he crossed the threshold into the next room he felt an odd twinge in his ears and touched them by reflex.

"No need to worry," a man's voice said as Wrex entered a spartan room whose only visible furnishing was a metal desk and an orb hanging from the ceiling. Sitting there was a man with a shaved head and a face like a gaping chest wound clad in heavy armour, chainsword hanging from his hip and helmet buckled to his armour's chest rig. "Side-effect of the orb of silence we've got hanging up there, see. Come on, have a seat."

Wrex sat down across from the man, who proceeded to offer an arm. "Lord Zaeed Massani, Church of the Slayer, Senior Knight in the Order of the Knights-Errant."

"Urdnot Wrex," Wrex replied, clasping Zaeed's arm. "Don't have a fancy title."

"Hmph. An affectation of rank - you can just call me Zaeed, if you'd prefer."

"I would."

"We'll get along famously, then. Now, I've read your paperwork - once you submitted your application via the extranet it was flagged moments later by one our scribes. Apparently you're a mercenary with quite the reputation, eh?"

"I like to think my professional reputation and standards precede me," Wrex said, smiling thinly.

"Mmm. Well, I'm not in any position to comment on the matter - not yet, at least. In any case, I'm to inform you that this conversation will be recorded for our - the Exitium's - keeping, and that you are free to leave at any time or refuse to answer a question. Is that clear?"

"Yeah."

"Wonderful. Now, as I understand it, you're here to join the Church of the Predator as a member of our first Foreign Legion - and you've also indicated that if possible you'd like to join the Church of the Slayer. That's correct?"

"Yeah."

"May I ask why?" Zaeed's eyes bored into Wrex's and the human made an odd humming noise. "Now, I'm not here to dissuade you - Slayer bless us all, more swords for the War is never a bad thing - but I must wonder. Surely, if your records are accurate, you must not have any trouble finding work on the Citadel or its space?"

"Trouble finding work, no. Finding good work, yeah," Wrex replied, not breaking eye contact. "I'm good at my job, Zaeed. Really good."

"Mhmm."

"But lately it's just not been very...professionally fulfilling."

"Ahh. Yes, I understand the feeling - I was once a mercenary myself, you know."

"Right. Well, your Exitium seems like a good change of pace. I get to kill stuff for a good cause and get paid for it - and it's off in a new land, against a new enemy, not to mention I get taught a bunch of stuff that nobody in Citadel space knows. Good to be ahead of the curve when it comes to lethal matters."

"It is, it is. I agree."

"Marketable, too. Looks good if I come back whenever this tour ends - Urdnot Wrex gets me work enough. Exitium training means even more leverage."

"I see," Zaeed said, finally looking away. He stared off into space for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, it's good enough for the documents, but in the future if a superior in the Exitium asks you a question I'd prefer you not lie."

"Excuse me?" Wrex growled.

"It's plain - at least to me - that your reasoning, while not entirely false, isn't why you're here," Zaeed said casually. "Mind you, it's not a formal charge or crime to not speak the truth of your mind - or heart, I suppose - but I find it's...bad practice to lie to someone who is nominally in charge of you. Generally."

A long pause; Wrex glared at Zaeed.

"So, what? You want me to sit here, have a heart-to-heart with you?"

"No. But someone further down the line will, I'm sure. Something to think about. We'll leave that behind, though. So, you've not got any children or dependents."

"No."

"And while your criminal record is far from spotless, everything appears to have been resolved with the proper authorities. So, given that you meet all of the conditions, I must ask: are you ready to suffer?"

"Pardon?"

"Urdnot Wrex, are you prepared to die? Horribly? Screaming in pain, as demons rend you limb from limb, dragging you into the pits of Hell to feast upon your flesh and use your soul to fuel their sorcery?"

"Zaeed, if you're asking me whether or not I'm okay with dying the answer is yes. I'm a merc. I've been one for a long time. Dying comes with the job."

"That's not what I asked, Wrex. I asked if you were ready to suffer."

Wrex stared at Zaeed; the human smiled.

"Sure."

"Wonderful. Because, statistically speaking, as a soldier of the Exitium you will suffer. At best, you can hope for a clean death - trampled on by a Baron of Hell, or perhaps blown apart by a gout of plasma-fire from an arachnotron. The numbers, however, would have you be torn apart, cooked and eaten alive by imps. Or something along those lines. And, believe me, as a krogan - strong, powerful, possessed of great resilience - Hell's forces will be very, very interested in making your pain unimaginable."

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't fine with the risks," Wrex countered. "And I've come back from supposedly being dead more than a few times. I'm not looking to die, not by any stretch, but it's not as though I haven't come to peace with it. Besides, any demon that wants to, I dunno, torture me, is going to pay dearly for the honour."

"A good answer. Yes. A very good answer," Zaeed said, eyes lighting up with glee. "You'll make a fine Slayer, I think."

"So, what, I pass muster?"

"That remains to be seen, but I get the feeling that you'll do well, Urdnot Wrex. I sense a fire in you - and the Exitium will use it to forge you into an even greater warrior. Should you accept the offer, you'd leave with the Dignified, our flagship, once we leave on the twenty-fourth of June by your calendar; there'd be no chance for you to return to Citadel space for quite some time. During the interim, you'll be inoculated against the corruption of Hell with the standard sorts of runic protections and enhancements that all of our citizens receive. From there, you'll undergo the same sorts of training a new recruit into the Church of the Predator would receive - fine-tuned, of course, to account for the more experienced of your colleagues."

"And do I get to keep my weapons?"

"Not at the beginning, no. You'll be trained in chainsword and shotgun, martial combat and marksmanship. And, if you show the talent for it, perhaps a bit of sorcery, too. Once you've graduated from basic training and pass your probationary period, you'll be afforded the right to carry whatever weapons you want into battle - the same honour any graduated warrior of the Exitium receives."

"Same goes for armour, I imagine?"

"It does."

"And if I want out - what then?"

"Well, there's no requirement for you to stay in anything," Zaeed noted, shrugging again. "So long as you uphold the Exitium's laws you're free to do as you like. To answer your question, though, there are no rules saying that you have to stay in training or fight with our warriors - if, during training, you'd like to strike out on your own, you're welcome to do so. Though," Zaeed said, frowning, "I think it'd be a waste of talent, to be frank."

"Heh. Well, I don't think I'll be bailing out of any training - I'm a professional, remember?"

"Yes! Yes, I get the sense that you are. Well, Urdnot Wrex, you are free to go - we'll contact with you with instructions on where to be and when. This is normally the part where I advise people to pack light and whatnot, but I think a man of your calibre and stature understands."

"I do."

"Hah! Well, I hope to see you again soon - and maybe have the chance to do a little sparring, eh?"

"Am I free to go?" Wrex asked, getting out of his seat.

"You are! You are. I won't keep you - I'm sure you have arrangements to make."

"Zaeed."

"Wrex."

---

THE ASARI

Hi there.

Some of you might recognize my name. For those of you who don't, I'm Kerri T'Vessa, former editor of Undercurrent, former host of Citadel Grit and currently a freelance journalist, author and filmmaker. I've spent four decades reporting the way things are on the ground - mostly on the Citadel, far away from the shining glitz of the Presidium - and when the Exitium opened its proverbial gates I knew this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. Yesterday, I arrived at the Exitium's hangar, paperwork in hand. Less than an hour later I was speaking to honest-to-goodness command crew from the Exitium's visiting ship, the Dignified.

I was ushered into a small Citadel Services pre-fab room, and moments later two humans walked in. Lord Jon Grissom, recently-appointed captain of the Dignified. Abbess Hannah Shepard, of the Church of the Slayer - as far as I can figure out, she acts as the head of the ship's security. The two of them were imposing - both clearly of military stock, though I suppose that applies to basically everyone from the Exitium I've met so far - but polite, helpful. Cheerful, even. Two things stood out to them that they wanted both me and anyone reading my work to know:

1. Going to the Exitium is dangerous, because the threat of demons eating your face is ever-present. (Not their words.)

I was okay with this. Sure, I can't say that I've ever had to run from evil magic-wielding demons from the literal underworld, but when you boil it down running from danger, whether that's slavers, criminals, or demons, is basically the same across the galaxy. (Even if the stakes smell, this time around, a little more of fire and brimstone with a pinch of being eaten alive.)

2. They agreed to transmit my writing and videos as part of the information packets that would be shared between the Citadel and Exitium during the immigration-trade-information freeze, censored only in case of dangerous knowledge.

I was slightly less okay with this. Both humans promised that the only information they'd cut out would be stuff that would pose a direct threat to any readers on the Citadel side of things - and they would, of course, inform me if censorship was required. "We're not here to forbid the flow of opinion or free speech," Lord Grissom said. "We're sure you are a woman of honour and professionalism, but even if your works praised us to a foolish degree or denounced us as no better than the demons we face, we would allow you to transmit your work. If information you wish to include does not pass our information security testing and you are unwilling to modify your work, we will append a note that certain information was redacted." Still, I know a hard limit when I see one. In any case, I've included that information because I don't want any readers of my work to feel like they're not getting all the information they can.

I accepted the risks, agreed to their terms - and asked if I could start right away. They shrugged, looked at one another, then nodded in unison, grinning.

So here I am. The Dignified isn't due to leave the Citadel for another two days, but I figured I might as well start now.

Welcome to what will be a regular feature, updated at least once a week and hopefully more often than that. My goal is the same as it always has been: to show the truth of matters. I'll strive to interview, film and document every part of the Exitium: from its lowliest workers to its most elite warriors. What they eat. What they do for fun. What passes for music. Et cetera. I hope you'll stick around.

Kerri T'Vessa

---

THE EXITIUM JOURNALS
ENTRY ONE: THE SHIP
JUNE 23RD, 2157
The Citadel, Citadel Space

Docking Bay 12-AOX-9.

The name is unremarkable, but for the past five days it's played host to the Exitium's ambassadorial ship, the Dignified. The holos and stills have done the rounds: it's a big ship. A black brick. It's one thing to know that, and another thing entirely to experience it. The Dignified is enormous. Unbelievably enormous. When you enter the hangar itself, you see a row of pre-fab buildings on the left, the Exitium's tents on the right. Down the middle is a clear, unobstructed pathway and view to the ship itself, which lays still like some sort of mythical, slumbering machine-beast.

I arrive at the hangar in the morning, duffel bag loaded and slung over my shoulder, just past seven. The usual lines of people applying to head into the Exitium are there, not yet quite at peak rush numbers, but it's empty enough that the liaison I'd been told to expect has no trouble finding me. I see her running up to greet me; it's a human woman - not quite an adult - wearing thick, dark-green armour which clanks as she runs, a similarly-coloured sash swishing as its long tail touches the ground. She's bald, pale-skinned, taller than I am, with an expression that I place between determination, concentration and genuine happiness. Despite her smile, the runes tattooed into her head (which pulse faintly) and her unnaturally bright red eyes are honestly a tad unnerving. She walks up to me, chainsword and sidearm clinking on her hip, and kneels on one knee with fists punched together in salute.

"Kerri T'Vessa," the woman says, head lowered. "I'm here to show your to your quarters and, at least for the time being, act as your guide."

I tell her there's no need to kneel.

"Apologies, ma'am," she says, getting to her feet. "I was unsure of protocol and judged it best to err on the side of caution." She offers an arm, which I clasp; I shake her hand in return.

"No need to apologize," I respond. "And I'm a reporter - a freelance one - not a dignitary."

"A freelance reporter is the most honourable and most dangerous kind," the woman says with an impish grin. "Sister Jennifer Nought. I serve under Abbess Hannah Shepard - you met her yesterday?"

"I did."

"Mmm. Well, if you're in no rush, we can adopt a leisurely pace," Sister Nought says, her expression returning to what I'll learn is a natural frown. "Showing you around, according to Abbess Shepard, is meant to be a relaxing day."

"I'm in no hurry," I explain. "And I don't want to ruin your day off by making you wait on me like some sort of princess."

Jennifer snorts a laugh, grins. We amble through the hangar towards the Dignified; the two of us chat, introduce ourselves. I ask her if I can record our conversation for later, and she obliges.

"Of course, Kerri," Jennifer says. "Though I can't obviously answer every question you could ask."

Sister Nought reminds me of a well-disciplined asari maiden. She's loyal to the Exitium's military and to Abbess Shepard especially for rescuing her after her family was killed during a demonic attack on her homeworld. She's deeply devout, even more than the average Exitium citizen - hours spent every day in prayer, scripture-writing, devotionals, rituals, all on top of her martial training. She speaks like any number of young women I've spoken to over the years, but instead of career prospects or rent she speaks of chainswords and crusading. (She does inform me, later, that there is someone aboard the Dignified that she "fancies more than a little bit," but that if put onto record who that person is she will personally gut me with her chainsword. I am inclined to keep her secret.)

She escorts me, a few minutes later, onto the ship proper; its interiors are a clash of designs. Spartan, utilitarian hallways made of a flat, silver-matte metal; nothing out of place, crew walking here and there with focus, purpose. But the corridor walls, floors and ceiling themselves are richly decorated with runic inscriptions, every inch covered save for computer terminals and navigation aids. Jennifer notices me slowing down to take everything in as we pass through a cargo bay and towards a door my HUD's translator says is a "moving walkway" (the Exitium calls them travelators.)

"Rune magic," she explains, nodding to herself. "They serve a plethora of functions - reinforcing the ship's integrity, acting as anti-demonic traps, and in some parts of the ship expanding the internal space of rooms."

"Wait. The last one," I ask. "Making the insides of rooms bigger than they are on the outside?"

Sister Nought nods.

"How?"

"Magic," she responds, as if it's the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

The "moving walkway" corridor is a wide, long tubular hallway with a dozen lanes separated by (for me) chest-high transparent barriers; ship crew float in each line at blinding speed away from us, while others decelerate before stepping off and heading towards the cargo bay. Sister Nought escorts me to the one on the far right, labeled "Passenger Quarters," instructs me to place my hand on a pad placed in front of the lane. I do so, and the pad lights up before flashing green.

"Go ahead," Jennifer instructs. "Simply step into the lane itself past the yellow warning line, and you'll be suspended in mid-air as the others are before being whisked to your destination." She smirks. "It's an odd sensation at first, but perfectly safe. Far better than walking the length of the ship, I assure you."

I do as I'm told; the sensation of being damn-near catapulted through the ship in mid-air is both exhilarating and more than a little terrifying. The tubular corridor passes in a blur and seconds later I'm (gently) deposited at the other end, falling to the floor; I scramble to get out of the way of Sister Nought who lands gracefully on her feet, walking along the floor with the momentum of the travelator's push.

"Fun, no?" she says, grinning.

"Sure."

"It's okay. I nearly wet myself the first time I used one." She nods to herself, gesturing to my duffel bag. "I also let go of my bag, and was hit in the back of the head when I landed. Very embarrassing. Well done on maintaining your composure."

I'm not sure how to reply - still catching my breath - and she shrugs. "Apologies, Kerri. That wasn't meant to be condescending," Sister Nought says, actually frowning. "I meant it."

"It's alright," I say, getting to my feet. "I don't think much of anything could have prepared me for that. What happens if you don't, you know, get out of the way of the next person?"

"The repulsion field will push you to the side, where you moved to," Jennifer replies. "Not very gently, mind you. No injuries save for one's pride."

We continue into the heart of the ship; Sister Nought is evidently well-known throughout the ship, and as we pass by crew and officers alike, she salutes (and in a few cases is saluted to.) Part of her duty as Abbess Shepard's adjutant, she explains, is running errands, goods and the occasional message through the ship when a personal touch is required.

"Do you enjoy your secretarial duties?" I ask as we head towards the habitation area.

"No," she replies, expression one of resignation. "I'm more of a swords-and-shooting sort of person; if I'm to have time away from combat training or my education I'd prefer to laze around, snack on something, get some actual rest."

"Does Abbess Shepard, ah, know about your outlook on matters?"

Sister Nought shrugs. "I mean, I'm more than happy to do confessionals, speak to my superiors and colleagues alike. But running coffee (a stimulant drink that is, I will learn, the equivalent of tuppossa or gada - consumed like water by damn near every working citizen) to people is far less exciting than learning from my elders, for example."

"And I can record that?"

She snorts. "The Abbess is well aware of my nature - far too late for her to remove that part of my character, and I'm stubborn enough that I'd fight back if she tried. Record that if you like." (I do. A few days later, Abbess Shepard reads Sister Nought's thoughts on the less important of her secretarial duties, and punishes her with "extra coffee runs until you at least learn to accept that not everything in life involves stabbing things with swords or lounging about.")

We arrive in the passenger quarters a few minutes later; the deck splits into three tiers, with endless rows of doors as far as the eye can see. Jennifer brings me to one of the doors, has me tap my hand on the pad.

"Soulbound," Jennifer notes. "For the admittedly short duration of our trip, this room will be yours and yours alone."

The door hisses open a few seconds later after the pad flashes green, and we both step inside. The room's not a luxury cruise-liner cabin, but it's furnished with a bed, desk, some sort of combination locker-workbench, and a holoprojector. There's a bathroom - larger than I imagined - with a bathtub, shower and toilet. And, of course, weapons.

I don't notice it at first, but next to the bed, tucked into a transparent case, is a chainsword and a sidearm - smaller and sleeker than the kind Sister Nought is carrying - with the sentence Emergency Weaponry In Case Of Demonic Incursion emblazoned on it. It's a lot to take in when something strikes me as being off; I step back outside into the corridor, examine the length between this room and the doors nearby, then re-enter.

"The inside's bigger," I say slowly. "The doors next door - they're too close." I pause, chew my lip for a moment. "Magic?"

"Magic," Jennifer replies, smiling. "Handy for war, yes, but a after a long shift a there's nothing quite like a nice hot bath."

"Are all the rooms like this?" I ask, setting my bag down on the workbench. "I mean, for the regular crew."

"Some," she replies, nodding. "Most crew are three to a room - bigger than this, obviously, but with their own bathroom. More senior crew - Abbess Shepard, for example - have their own private rooms."

"And, uh, the weapons?"

She blinks, gestures to the case. "For demonic incursions, of course."

"I'm not trained to use, the, uh, chainsword. And I have no idea how your firearms function, now that I think about it."

"You have experience with handguns?"

"I'm not a soldier," I reply, "but I have used firearms before. Sometimes being a journalist puts you in...bad spots. But the chainsword? No. I haven't the faintest idea how to wield that thing."

Sister Nought's eyes literally begin to shine, her face lighting up with a red glow.

She licks her lips.

"I can show you," she says, a grin stretching across her face. "Do you want to learn?"

Against my better judgement, I agree.

The grin widens. "Take a minute to unpack. Use the bathroom. Then, we can have a crash course in the basics of the chainsword."

---

25th of the Third Umbral Wind, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(June 24th, 2157 Council Era)

"It has been a pleasure," Faenmoch said, descending from a hover to stand on the ground before bowing deeply before the Councilors. "While I cannot promise with one-hundred percent certainty that I personally will return in the next round of diplomatic progressions, I will most likely be in attendance."

"As will I," Anita continued. "I think we've come a long way in a short time - and on our return I only hope that our ties will be strengthened."

"I'm sure they will," Herane replied, shaking hands with the three ambassadors. "Matriarch Alenko, will you be returning to the Citadel?"

"Not any time soon, I'm afraid," Yekaterina replied with a sad smile. "I was whisked away from my duties at the Church of the Lector - no doubt there's a mountain of paperwork to file through and a dozen fires awaiting me in my office. As best I can, though, I would like to come back."

"I'm sure we shall continue our correspondence - but if at all possible, I do have a personal request," Faenmoch noted quietly.

"Oh? What's that?" Sparatus asked.

"I know we gave the surviving marines a clean bill of health and sent a message to PFC Druso Aetna's kin," Faenmoch said slowly, "but personally, I still feel as though I owe them all an apology in person. Councilor Sparatus, I would be in your debt if you were to arrange a meeting in person for me - if only to set my mind at ease."

"I'll see what I can do," Fallox replied, nodding.

"Thank you. Well, then, we must be off, Councilors - blessings of the Doom Slayer be upon you," Yekaterina said, signing the Slayer's Sigil. "Prosperity and good fortune upon us all."

The ambassadors all bowed and left, passing the last of the Dignified's crew who were still packing gear and stowing tents; they ascended the boarding ramp and made good time. A few minutes later, they were at the debriefing room near the heart of the ship, and the trio entered to find Lord Grissom and Abbess Shepard, along with a few other senior officers, already seated. They all stood, saluting, before taking their seats again.

A pause.

Anita sighed. "We have our work cut out for us, it seems. Lord Grissom, word from Predator command on the joint venture staff?"

"Ah, yes, we received that earlier today," Jon said, nodding. "We're already putting together whatever advisory personnel are available for tasking. Liaisons with the Church of the Wretch also report that the contact packages for assembling basic rune-kits are already on the production lines, and researchers are being pulled in for the Mass Effect Integration Board."

"Malaphus also spoke with some of his contacts within the Church of the Saviour - we already have more than enough volunteers for establishing a reasonably large test-hospital for when the second round of negotiations are opened," Hannah continued. "Initial estimates indicate that roughly ninety percent of theurgic fuels can be sourced easily within Citadel space - the rest can be shipped in on an as-necessary basis."

Faenmoch made a sort of grumbling noise and tapped his long, metal fingers on the table. "Hmm. Well, so long as our information security remains tight, I think we'll not have to worry about a demonic incursion within Citadel space."

"Bad thing to assume," Hannah countered. "We can't keep the public in the dark about it forever. We owe it to the Citadel's peoples, milord."

The summoner gnashed his teeth for a moment. "We can't win this one either way, Abbess. The second we begin the information-sharing program we place ourselves at risk of leaks - not that I mean to impugn the Citadel Council's information security, but even if we had the supervision of the Church of the Righteous' Inquisitors - which I'm sure the Citadel's people would not look favourably upon - there's always going to a chance of...improper knowledge spreading."

"And the rune-knife blueprints aren't enough, for the time being?" Yekaterina mused.

"Well it's pointless to give them the knife and then not explain what it's for," Faenmoch said, chuckling. "At that rate we might as well hand them a blueprint for spoons, for all the good it'll do."

"Perhaps, then, information security shall be a part of the...initial debriefings our personnel give when they return to the Citadel," Jon said, tone inquisitive. "And, so long as we disclose it, I'm sure the Council would not mind, say, someone with Inquisitorial training being present if they're not explicitly there as representatives of the Righteous."

"Hmm. Perhaps that'll have to do. In any case we have a day or so to continue thinking of solutions to our quandary," Faenmoch said, shaking his head. "I'm still worried, though. Even if we assume the best case scenario - which I'm not," he said, nodding at Hannah before she could say anything, "Hell's foul stench is going to hit the Citadel sooner or later. We have much to learn from them - and they need to be brought up to speed, fast. There's so much for them to learn, and I fear that we won't have enough time."

"I think they'll adapt well," Yekaterina said, smiling. "They're intelligent peoples, all of them - they've already witnessed magic's efficacy firsthand. From there, it's not terribly difficult to branch out."

"Honestly," Hannah continued, "I'm quite excited to see the applications of sorcery and magitechnology the Citadel can come up with. Imagine - we've had fifty-thousand years of insular development. Who knows what incredible cruelty and lethality they could fashion?"

The room filled with excited murmurs of assent, and Faenmoch nodded slowly.

"I suppose my worries, while not unfounded, are a tad exaggerated by my fears," Faenmoch conceded. He raised his hands in supplication. "Let's not linger on my failures of character - Abbess Shepard, have you had a chance to examine the recruits who join us for the ride home?"

"I have, if only briefly," Hannah replied. "I paid little attention to those who say they have no combat experience - they'll be molded like any other - but I believe that the more veteran of our Foreign Legion's first applicants are already being shown their quarters. By the time we activate the Aether Rending Drive, their initial testing will probably be underway."

"Ahh, wonderful," Anita said with a grin. "Who's testing them?"

"As of now, Lord Protector Ryder, Lord Massani and Sister Nought are currently slated to be present. You're more then welcome to join, Lady Goyle," Hannah noted with a grin. "Why, perhaps I'll put in an appearance!"

"Ooh," Jon said, grinning. "A chance to see Hannah in action? Perhaps I'll fetch the cameras."

*Chapter 7*: Interlude 1-3

Wrex was happy.

Actually, Void be damned, he was feeling fantastic.

A real breath of fresh air, he thought.

This morning, he'd packed what little gear he carried besides his firearms and armour, stowed it into a hard case, and mag-locked it to his back before drinking the last of the alcohol in his fridge. Satisfied that there was no food left to rot and no booze to go off, he left his apartment, locked up, and took off for the Exitium's hangar. When he arrived, the hangar guard - a different one from last time - ushered him in and pointed him towards a large crowd, maybe just over one-hundred-fifty people, of mostly mercenary-looking folk standing in a loose square in front of an open cargo bay door by the Dignified. Otherwise, the hangar was mostly empty; the pre-fab buildings were gone and the tents all packed away, the remaining Exitium personnel almost all heading back towards the ship. Wrex stood around the rear of the crowd, trying to see if he recognized anyone - mostly mercs he'd run into here and there, but there were several unexpected faces. A few minutes later, a man in bulky armour, face covered with a sealed helmet, lumbered out of the ship's cargo bay, made his way in front of the loosely-assembled group, and stomped the floor hard enough that Wrex was actually annoyed.

"Oi! Lord Zaeed Massani, Church of the Slayer, Order of the Knights-Errant. First! You people are all here to join the Foreign Legion, yes? Anyone who isn't - or hasn't done the paperwork, step to the left side of the hangar, please. Don't lie - our scribes and secretaries are very, very good at their jobs, and I really don't want to have to hit someone with my chainsword," the man said, patting the massive many-toothed blade hanging from his hip. It was Zaeed - even after only a single meeting Wrex found himself recognizing that odd, raspy voice - and Wrex snorted in amusement as a dozen or so people, mostly krogan with a few turians thrown in for good measure, sheepishly left the group. "Alright, you people who moved, stay there and a secretary will be with you to process your applications. Everyone else, follow me into the cargo bay."

Wrex followed the group inside; the cargo bay was massive, even larger than Wrex assumed it had been from the way it looked on the outside, and the fact that almost all of the storage crates were packed and locked into recessed areas in the bay's walls meant that the entire group fit inside without issue.

"Okay! Now, those of you who received muster orders type one through three, please head through the corridor there," Zaeed said, gesturing a gauntlet-clad fist towards one of the many doors at the far end of the hangar. "There's only one door you can enter from there - you'll go through processing there."

Roughly three-quarters of the group left, leaving, by Wrex's estimation, forty people in the cargo bay. With much of the crowd dispersed, Wrex frowned as he recognized - for certain, now - some of the faces around him.

Tasawn Raeka, Spectre. A salarian woman - Wrex had known the pleasure of working with her back in her STG days on a few deniable operations. Slim for even a salarian - and fast. Wrex harboured suspicious that the wetware in her head wasn't strictly legal, though with spies and Spectres, ex-STG especially, that was a given, he supposed.

Aelik, Justicar. She'd punched him so hard that he'd actually blacked out, once. Apparently their feud, or whatever it was, had been resolved by the Code's terms, but Wrex was in no hurry to repeat the fight.

Nakmor Drack, asshole. Just an asshole. Wonder if I can get him back for Palaven.

Others, but those were the ones that stood out to him. Zaeed rapped a nearby section of hull, and Wrex grumbled to himself as he pushed his plans to piss off Drack out of his mind.

"Wonderful. Now, you people are the ones our scribes and interviewers flagged as not requiring the from-scratch regimen of basic training. Still, I - and my superiors - need to confirm exactly how skilled you are. Please follow me - we'll head to the Testing Arena to being your first trials," Zaeed said. Minutes later, they arrived at their destination: a large, square room, this one not only decorated like the rest of the ship with runes and inscriptions on the walls, ceiling and floor; a banner bearing the Slayer's Sigil, that omnipresent red rune on seemingly everything the Exitium owned, hung from the ceiling, and a mural depicting a armoured figure killing a demon with its fists adorned one of the walls. There was a second tier of deck with seats running along the wall of the room, and at the far end, above the mural, there was a small viewing platform. Zaeed marched into the centre of the room, gestured to one of the corners were a bunch of benches sat, and nodded.

"Go on," Zaeed said. "You can drop your bags and luggage there for the moment," he continued, pulling his helmet off his head and clipping it to the armour's back. Zaeed proceeded to strip out of his armour, armour plates hissing as they slid and shifted to allow him to simply walk out of it, revealing a bare torso covered in scars, tattoos and runes; Zaeed wore a pair of form-fitting leggings and his lack of shoes exposed feet as scarred and rune-covered as his torso. Grunting, Zaeed picked up the armour and carried it one-handed over to one side of the arena, setting it down gently before returning to the group. "Alright. You're welcome to keep your armour on, for those of you who're wearing it. Our first exercise is as much about learning about each others' temperament and fighting style as it is a test to see what baseline our Churches-Militant are working with. Here's the deal. There's a fabricator built into that wall over there," he said, gesturing at a small protrustion sticking out of a nearby wall. "You lot are going to pick any melee weapon you want - nonlethal, of course, and fabricated to your standards - and then we are going to spar. Questions?"

"What're the rules?" Wrex asked, shrugging. "Besides, say I like to use a hammer. Thing's blunt. No such thing as a nonlethal hammer."

"Our fabricator will work its magic," Zaeed replied. "You go through the templates, select a weapon that's close to what you have in mind, place your hands on the mental-matrix-scanners and you'll usually get what you're looking for. More questions?"

Someone raised a hand slightly; it was a turian merc that Wrex had worked with a few times, though he couldn't recall his name. "Lord Massani," the turian said, "what happens if we fail this...test?"

"Depends how badly you fail. I'm not expecting any of you to trounce me in single combat - not because you people are not skilled warriors, mind you, but because I possess the unfair advantage of magic enhancement. I'm more concerned with evidence of skill, technique, thinking on your feet," Zaeed replied, stretching his arms. "Rules are simple. First solid hit wins. The fabricated weapons will decide."

"And are we allowed to use biotics?" Aelik said, her gaze intent.

"I...I'm not sure. I'm not, for example, going to use my active sorcery abilities - I'm not going to be throwing fire at you lot," Zaeed said, scratching at his chin. "But, well, I am magically enhanced to have better reflexes, and as I noted that's already a tip in my favour. How about this. If your biotics assist your mobility or your speed or whatnot, then yes, they're allowed. No projectiles, no crowd-control. Stuns - you know what, sure, if you can stun me on touch-contact, then yes, that's fine too. Anyone else?"

"What happens if we injure you, or you injure us?" another krogan Wrex didn't know asked.

"We've got healers on - ah, speak of the angel." Zaeed gestured to the second deck; a bunch of the Dignified's crew had entered, and a few of them waved. "We have healers on tap - I'm sure you've all heard the power of our magic. Besides, the worst that'll happen is a broken bone or something - literally an instant fix. And I see we also have Lord Protector Alec Ryder with us," Zaeed said, his tone turning far less excited.

"Yes! Hello there, Lord Massani. Recruits, it's a pleasure to meet you all," the silver-armoured human on the upper deck said in a cheery tone. "Perhaps I'll join the sparring, should Lord Massani grant me the honour."

"Right," Zaeed said, blinking a few times. "Sure. Lord Ryder was in charge of ambassadorial security during the diplomatic process, for those of you who don't recognize his shining armour and gold sash," he said, nodding. "And we have Sister Jennifer Nought, personal adjutant to Abbess Hannah Shepard, who represents the Church of the Slayer," he said, gesturing to the human child kneeling next to Alec.

"Blessed is His name," Jennifer said, standing back up. "Though I am still in training, I would be honoured to have the chance to see and participate in armed combat."

"Mmph. Well, let's get on with it," Zaeed said. "Here, follow me to the fabricator. I'll show you how to get it to work..."

Several minutes later, Wrex was standing with the other recruits; he was carrying a replica of an old warhammer he'd been rather fond of (before losing it during a rather unexpected car chase through the Presidium.) The replica lacked the pistons and mass-effect fields that his old hammer had used, but the heft, balance and general feel seemed to be almost identical; how exactly the fabricator was able to read his intent and mind, Wrex wasn't entirely sure of. Not that it mattered, he supposed. The other recruits had selected a variety of weaponry; swords, staves, spears, hammers, and in Drack's case, a thick knife in the style of the classic Tuchankan hunter's blade.

Zaeed had selected a chainsword replica - it only stuns, he'd assured the recruits - and twirled it around before clearing his throat. "Alright! Any of you are free to come at me."

The recruits looked at one another; the turian who'd asked the question about failing stepped forward, a old-fashioned spear in his hands. "Well," the turian said, "might as well."

"It is customary, when in the arena, to present yourself," Zaeed said, holding the chainsword vertically in front of his face.

"Caelus Achalin," the turian said, banging the spear's haft on the ground.

"Well met, Caelus. Come!"

Caelus raised his spear slightly and began circling Zaeed, who simply held his sword at his side, not even adopting a battle stance. Wrex watched as Caelus began inching closer, lashing out quick strikes with the spear at Zaeed, who simply bobbed and weaved out of the way, only moving his feet when absolutely necessary. Caelus began to intensify his barrages, striking from odd angles and at a stuttering pace, clearly trying to get Zaeed to leave an opening when the human simply caught a spear-thrust aimed at his face with his free hand and dashed forward in a blur - not as fast as a biotic charge, but close - and at the same time pulled the spear back, throwing Caelus forward. With a simple backhand punch, never raising his chainsword, Zaeed sent Caelus flying into the far wall with a crumple; the turian groaned before rolling onto his side; Zaeed rushed forward and helped him to his feet.

"Caelus! Are you alright?"

"Oh, spirits, yeah, I'm alright. Man, that hurts, though," Caelus said, wincing as he leaned against the wall. "So that's not a pass, I guess?"

"You pass," Zaeed said, shaking his head. "Not inventive, but good enough. You have experience with the spear?"

"A bit," Caelus said, rubbing at his fringe. "Did a bit of spear-work as a hobby while I was enlisted."

"Mmm. Alright - grab your weapon, head back, talk to the healer. Next!"

Wrex watched as another turian, this one carrying a sword and shield, stepped forward.

"Present!" Zaeed shouted, returning his sword to the ceremonial pose.

"Hena Tercolus."

"Well met, Hena! Come!"

This time the battle lasted less than ten seconds; Hena simply rushed towards Zaeed, shield raised with sword extended, when Zaeed abruptly crumpled to the floor, kicked Hena's feet out from under him and knelt beside him, chainsword-replica's tip at the back of his head. "Dead, Hena. Good aggression, not enough thinking. Pass. Next!"

The simulated massacre continued; Zaeed was, Wrex grudgingly admitted, good. Very good. He was blindingly fast, seemingly capable of standing statue-still for ages before accelerating to furious speeds in the blink of an eye; of the next thirty or so people who went, Zaeed handily defeated all of them without so much as a single hit on himself. All but one passed, though; Zaeed told a dejected krogan to leave to join the newer recruits and to reconsider his "lack of spirit and conviction." Wrex watched the young man lumber out of the arena when he saw that Drack was moving forward, twirling his massive knife around.

"Present!"

"Nakmor Drack," the ancient krogan growled.

"Well met, Drack! Come!"

Neither warrior moved for a few moments; Drack hunched over in a ready stance that Wrex had seen him use before, but remained still.

A moment passed.

Drack roared and charged at the same time; Zaeed sidestepped the charge and was about to swing the chainsword into Drack's back when the krogan spun slightly and headbutt Zaeed hard enough to stop his swing, stabbing with his knife at a furious yet calculated place; chainsword and hunting knife bounced off one another, each warrior disengaging, charging, smashing into one another, disengaging, charging again.

Thirty seconds. Fuck you, Drack, you can do this.

Zaeed blocked a strike, aimed a punch at Drack, who caught the punch; there was a loud crunching noise, and Drack roared before smashing the bottom of his knife into Zaeed's head at blinding speed.

"Halt! Dead, but a good hit! Very good, a well-earned pass," Zaeed said, grinning for a second before his expression became one of worry. "Your hand - are you alright?"

"Hurts like shit," Drack said, examining his right hand, which was bleeding in several places. "Hmm. You're fast. Hit like a tank, too."

Zaeed shrugged, but the smile returned to his face. "Go on - back to the healers. Next!"

Wrex watched in amusement as Drack finally realized Wrex had been skulking around in the back of the group; he waved at the older krogan, a wide, smarmy grin on his face.

"Drack."

"Oh, for the - you're here?"

"Yup."

"Great." Drack lumbered off, grumbling and cursing to himself, walking over to the corner where the healers had set up; Wrex's attention was firmly placed on the arena once again as Tasawn stepped forward with two long, slender swords. She salarian grasped a long - by her standards - slender blade in each hand, and she twirled them in a flourish before walking up to Zaeed - who, in comparison, towered over Taswan, his chainsword seeming enormous by comparison.

"Present!"

"Tasawn Raeka," the salarian said, smiling. "Pahurpak an-doalik ne-doalik saad," Taswan said in some dialect he didn't understand. She raised her swords, making a cross with them before taking a ready stance.

Zaeed's face broke out into a grin. "Zaeed Massani. Rip and tear."

The two launched at each other in a flurry of clanging metal and whirling blades; Wrex was certain that a single solid hit from Zaeed would probably send Tasawn flying across the room, but seconds dragged on and the comparatively diminutive salarian continued to expertly dodge his every strike.

She's faster than I remember her being.

Zaeed grunted - in frustration, Wrex imagined - as the fight dragged on.

Forty-five seconds.

One minute. Nobody's made it this far.

Tasawn's blades were a constant whirlwind of movement; the salarian couldn't hope to bear the full brunt of one of Zaeed's attacks, and so her blades were always subtly angled such that Zaeed's chainsword would be deflected, bouncing away just long enough for her to reposition and prepare for the next strike. Her eyes were flitting about, as fast as Wrex had ever seen. Finally, though, Zaeed's speed was too much; a quick sweep of his arm forced Tasawn to duck underneath the oncoming blow when the human lunged forward with a headbutt. Tasawn tried to block the attack with her swords, but an incoming chainsword swipe forced her to deflect - and Zaeed used the opportunity to sweep her off her feet, chainsword tip planted firmly on her stomach.

"Incredible. Absolutely excellent. Flying colours," Zaeed said helping Tasawn to her feet. "With the right runes and enhancements you are going to be a Slayer-damned blender on the battlefield. Oh, the Order of the Long-Knife is going to like you."

"I can't wait," Tasawn said, expression joyous. "Your reaction times - I underestimated them."

"Hmph. Rectifiable with training. And before the next person comes - what did you say?"

"Ritual duelling challenge," Tasawn said, panting as she picked up her swords. "May your blades shatter before mine."

"Hah! Too long for me," Zaeed replied, barking a laugh. "Next!"

Two others went up next - both defeated in an instant, and Zaeed turned his attention on Wrex and Aelik.

"Justicar," Wrex said, nodding.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Urdnot Wrex. Would you like to go first?"

"Heh. Sure." Wrex hefted his warhammer, stepped forward, and grinned at Zaeed. "Heya."

"Ah! Wrex, it is good to see you once more. Present!"

Wrex beat his armour's chest plate with his hammer several times, losing himself in the fun of the duel. "Urdnot Wrex!"

"Well met, Wrex! Come!"

Wrex inhaled; he'd watched Zaeed closely for the past while, studying his tells, his speed, his instinct.

Is naturally aggressive. Playing the defensive game - playing the role of a teacher. Judge. Natural instinct is to push, hard. Likes to force opponents off-balance to finish with the chainsword. See how he likes a push from a krogan.

The split-second Wrex exhaled he launched himself into a biotic charge, coiling himself tightly as he aimed for a spot just to the left of Zaeed. The human spun, attempting to score a hit with his chainsword, but Wrex ended the charge early, spun, uncoiled and transitioned smoothly into a headbutt aimed at Zaeed's face. Zaeed rolled out of the way at the last minute, grunting in exertion as Wrex swung his warhammer down upon his head; the chainsword-replica hissed and screeched from the impact. Undaunted, Zaeed expertly flipped the chainsword around, thrusting it towards Wrex before launching off the ground into a kick, then rolled backwards out of the way of an oncoming swing.

Heh. Got you now.

Before Zaeed had even started his roll backwards Wrex roared and launched into another biotic charge, slamming Zaeed into one of the far walls, warhammer hovering above Zaeed's head.

"Pass?" Wrex grunted, panting from the back-to-back charges.

"Chainsword in your gut, Wrex," Zaeed said, prodding Wrex's stomach armour with his weapon. "We're both dead."

"Shame," Wrex groused, pulling away. "You've been holding back - a lot."

"I have," Zaeed admitted, shrugging. "But you pass! That aggression, that drive - it'll serve you well as a Slayer, I think."

The two returned to the arena proper, and Wrex made his way back to the rest of the recruits while Zaeed faced Aelik. "Well, Justicar, it's just you remaining."

"So it is," Aelik replied with a small nod. She was carrying a simple asari-style sword, and she sauntered forward to meet Zaeed in the middle of the arena.

"Present!"

"Justicar Aelik," the asari said flatly.

"Well met, Justicar! Come!"

Wrex watched, shaking his head in amazement as Aelik sprinted forward towards Zaeed and seemingly teleported past him before spinning around in a whirling cloud of blue-black biotic fury, sword flashing and flaring as Aelik began a relentless assault on Zaeed; the Justicar was not as strong as Wrex and perhaps not quite as dextrous with blade as Tasawn - but whatever she lacked in swordplay or strength Aelik made up for with the sheer speed of her biotic dashes and blinks, darting around Zaeed, attacking from every conceivable angle. Her dashes left afterimages that merged with her as she moved, turning Aelik into a blue blur that terminated in swordpoint. Zaeed simply held his ground, fending off attacks, occasionally striking in an attempt to trip up Aelik - or get her to overextend, but to no avail.

Thirty seconds passed, the arena dead silent save for Zaeed's grunts and the clash of weapons.

One minute.

One minute, thirty seconds.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

The duel continued, showing no signs of slowing down; if anything, it was getting faster, both warriors locked in combat so furious that even Wrex was starting to have trouble keeping up with it. There was a sudden clang, and Wrex blinked as Aelik's sword flew past him and bounced off the wall. The asari stopped, frowning, as Zaeed panted, eyes wide in astonishment as he noticed his chainsword several feet away from him - behind Aelik. He was about to make a roll towards it when Aelik extended both her arms, fell into a ready stance and smiled as the blue-black biotic cloud around her seethed, rippling slightly.

"You, Lady Justicar," Zaeed said, not taking his eyes off his dropped sword, "fight like a woman possessed by the Doom Slayer himself."

"That is a compliment, I imagine?"

"It is."

"Is our duel over, Lord Massani?"

"Would you like it to be?"

"I will admit, that I am enjoying this," Aelik said, shifting between several stances, some of which Wrex remembered from his fight with her. "If you're not inconvenienced by it, I wouldn't mind continuing. Neither of us has, after all, struck the other."

"True enough!" Zaeed shouted, raising both his arms in front of his head; he charged towards Aelik, throwing lightning-speed jabs and attempting to push her away from his sword; Aelik pursed her lips as she counterattacked with a barrage of furious biotic punches and snapping kicks, darting once more all around the human and peppering him with assaults from above, below, and every side.

Four minutes and five seconds into the duel, Aelik stood, panting slightly with both fists outstretched, touching the back of Zaeed's head; he blinked, and shook his head.

"You, Justicar Aelik, I...how do you move like that?" Zaeed asked, gasping for breath.

"Biotics," Aelik replied, doing her best to stop her legs from shaking. "And over a thousand years of both practice and...practical application of my skills."

"Slayer's blessings, Justicar - if you already can fight like that I'm almost afraid on the demons' behalf to see what our martial power our magics and training will give you," Zaeed said, shaking his head. "Alright," he said, after a moment, "you've all passed! Congratulations. Clearly not all of you are on Lady Aelik's level - but we all have things to learn, myself included. Oh, Slayer. That was a lot more tiring than I thought it'd be," Zaeed said, slumping to the floor. "Who's hungry?"

The room filled with murmurs of assent, and Zaeed sighed before he got back to his feet. "Okay. Well, recruits, I'm proud to say that the lot of you have all done very well. Before I start boring you with procedure and the like, though, how about I show you lot to your rooms and we debrief over some food?" Zaeed stumbled over to his armour, sealed himself in, and returned to the group with a warm smile on his scarred face. "Oh, and I almost forgot: welcome to the Foreign Legion, recruits."

*Chapter 8*: Chapter 4

THE EXITIUM JOURNALS
ENTRY TWO: THE CITY
JUNE 24TH, 2157
The Citadel, Citadel Space / Gaia, Sector Prime, The Exalted Exitium

Day Two.

I'm aboard the Dignified again - having left in the morning for one last non-Exitium-style meal in a diner not far from the hangar - and seated in my cabin, editing some footage when the ship-wide comm goes off. Not from a speaker, though there is one mounted in the cabin's ceiling - but from a "rune of vocal projection" that's embedded next to the speaker. It's a small, metal disc, engraved with an odd sigil that glows red as the Lord Grissom's voice comes through so clearly that I have to remind myself he's not actually in the room.

"Esteemed passengers, this is Acting Captain Jon Grissom, and it is my pleasure to say that we are returning to the Exitium. We will be launching in ten minutes; I ask that you familiarize yourself with the safety procedures of this ship which were provided to all of you. The journey itself is estimated to take five hours; during our travel, feel free to visit any of the ameneties outlined in the guide. I only ask that you refrain from interrupting any crew who are working, or from entering restricted areas. That is all, and may He watch over us all and grant us safe passage. Amen."

The pamphlet containing the ship's safety protocols are, like so many things Exitium-related, bewildering. It starts out normal - escape pods, safety suits, what to do in case of a fire, et cetera. That's the first half. The second half is about what to do in case of "catastrophic theurgy failure" or "localized demonic incursion." There are small, cute little diagrams showing how to open the weapons cases which are in every cabin and every room, even the bathrooms, on the off chance that "you find yourself without a weapon, fists non-withstanding," followed by more pictures of how to fight off some of the smaller types of demons. (Incidentally, most of the diagrams involve taking a chainsword and introducing it to the torso of whatever's attacking you.)

Exactly ten minutes later, the ship comms go off again and we're informed that the Dignified has launched, and without the notice I don't think I'd have realized it. There's no hum or whine of an engine in the background, no rumble of landing gears being retracted. Nothing. It's just a little thing, such an innocuous detail - besides, who likes having a ship be noisy? The fact that my cabin is silent should be relaxing, right? It isn't. Next time you're on a ship that isn't some sort of sound-proofed luxury cruise-liner just sit and listen, and suddenly you'll realize how disturbing it is to be in total silence aboard a spaceship, of all things.

I push that thought out of my mind, and instead make my way to the passenger area's cafeteria. It's crowded, filled with a wide variety of passengers who are mostly chatting amongst themselves; introductions amongst people making new travel-buddies, friends wondering about what their new life in the Exitium's going to be like. I grab a cup of coffee - taken with extra milk from a common Exitium animal called the sheep and cane-sugar sweetener, the way Sister Nought says she likes it - from a vending machine and am about to sit down to take things in when I see a turian and an asari sitting together not far from me. I watch as they two pass a sort of sandwich between them - eating the same food, courtesy of a small rune secured to the turian's neck. Both are smiling, excited to be sharing - truly sharing - a meal together.

The rest of the trip is uneventful; I spend the rest of the travel time watching some shows in the Dignified's library. The Exitium, I start to think, might not be so different after all; the holo library has a lot of demon slaying and , both real and simulated, and no shortage of religious footage that'd put the best (or worst, depending on your opinion) of the hanar's 24/7 enkindlers channels to shame. But here's also cooking shows. Bad romance dramas. Vehicle and aircar shows. Comedy (with a lot of jokes I don't understand.) "Easy Magic for Home Improvement" is what I end up watching to pass the time; hours of watching humans construct buildings, railways, infrastructure out of raw materials with little more than magic circles and chanting. The five hours are over before I know it and the comms go off.

I grab my bags and head over to one of the viewing windows in a nearby lounge area and there it is.

Gaia.

It's not a remarkable looking world, not from orbit. Brownish-grey with a few splotches of blue ocean and the rare patch of green. Far more imposing is the space around Gaia: gun platforms as far as the eye can see. Shining silver cubes covered in runes, each roughly the size of a compact aircar, strewn everywhere. (I learn, later, that these are "theurgic purification mines" used to detect and destroy demons that approach Gaia from space.) Orbital defense stations. And, weaving between all of the defensive implements are endless lines of civilian craft and logistical transports, entering and leaving the system from hundreds of jump points marked by floating sigils which simply hover in space like blood-red apparitions. The Dignified glides past all of this, descending into Gaia's atmosphere and down, down towards the surface. If there's a singular thing which encapsulates everything you need to know about the Exalted Exitium, it's their capital city.

Indomitable.

"Impossible to subdue or defeat."

For a city which has survived for nearly fifty thousand years, weathered no less than four full-scale demonic invasions and been through incredible social and religious upheaval, Indomitable looks like the very image of prosperity, at least from above. The city stretches deep underground; above ground, the city stretches into the skies, split into no less than three dozen "levels" stacked on top of one another. Gleaming buildings and massive black spires jut into the air, as we descend towards Aegis Spaceport the city streets, crowded with citizens, ground vehicles, aircars and public transit come into view. Perhaps it is because the Exitium's been through so much that the city is the way it is; sprawling, stretching for almost two-thousand square kilometres and boasting an estimated population density of one-hundred-ninety-seven thousand persons per square kilometre, Indomitable is a heavily crowded city that is even more heavily defended; every building that has a view of the surface and sky has some sort of large weapons emplacement tucked away in case of an emergency. Bunkers and safehouses every ten city blocks at minimum. Massive armouries and emergency shelters underground. If the Exitium is the concept of survival in super-national form, then Indomitable is the living incarnation of that concept in city form.

I grab my bags and join the rest of the passengers in disembarking; we exit directly off a ramp in one of the cargo bays and out into the open air of Gaia. Midday during the summer season on Indomitable means a thick, humid air and a wave of heat as we step into the sunlight. It sounds ridiculous as I write this down, but you can feel the magic in the air. It's an odd sensation. The air is full of a softness that envelops you, as though you're being swathed in a comfortable blanket; there's a faint energy that seems to hum in the back of my head in a pleasant, almost energizing sort of way.

We're ushered onto the tarmac and into Aegis Spaceport - a massive complex of landing pads both open and sheltered, vehicle bays and hangars - by several dozen of the spaceport's robe-clad personnel. Compared to the mostly military crew of the Dignified, the staff are shorter, leaner, less muscular, a trait that I'll find extends to most citizens who aren't explicitly soldiers in the military churches. As we make the short walk into one of the spaceport's terminals, I can see the military recruits from the Citadel boarding a large transport shuttle bearing the Church of the Predator's fist-and-sword symbol, no doubt being ferried to their new training grounds. There's a lot of people boarding that shuttle, but even at the distance and through the crowds I recognize some of them - mostly mercenaries, but I'm fairly certain that there's a Spectre or two among them and someone I think is a Justicar.

The interior of the spaceport is my first glimpse at the Exitium's interior aesthetic up close and it's an odd thing to behold. The only way I can really describe it is as the unholy offspring of modern salarian minimalism and the preserved prehistoric Athamite temples of ancient Thessia. Sleek, seamless lines for the walls, ceilings, counters and benches, covered with regal carpet, richly decorated banners, painted murals depicting famous historical figures and important events of the Exitium's past and the ever-present runes. We tourists are made to line up at a customs-immigration line that's been reserved for us; a few minutes later I'm at the front of the line, called forward to meet a secretary who is wearing the same robe uniform as the rest of the staff. A small nameplate sits on his desk: "Iokua Reis, Customs & Immigration Services;" there's a yellow smiley-face sticker after his name. He looks me up and down, smiles widely.

"Good afternoon! If I could have your name and the ID stick you were provided?" Iokua asks politely.

I tell him who I am, pass along the cylinder Sister Nought gave me the day prior.

"Excellent. Kerri T'Vessa, journalist, is that correct?"

I nod.

"Wonderful. You've been assigned to group four, which will be departing for your temporary accommodations from departures bay seventeen. Once you're past customs just make your way to the hall on the right and when your group is assembled you'll be given further instructions." He puts my ID stick into a small slot, waits for a light on the slot to flash, hands it back to me. "Slayer's blessings be upon you, ma'am, and welcome to the Exalted Exitium."

"Thanks." I'm not sure what else to say.

I make my way to the departure bay, make small-talk with the others in my group. We're an odd bunch; I recognize a few other journalists and artists I've worked with before, but I don't know the other six dozen or so people who are waiting with me in the departures area. It's an odd mix; I estimate that my group's maybe a quarter people who are looking to develop business contacts, a quarter people here for educational, research or artistic purpose. The other half are, well, tourists - willing to leave behind everything they know, if only for a decade, and forge a new life. There's even a few quarians on Pilgrimage - lured by the temptation of what the Exitium offers and the rumours that the Exitium can magically enhance their immune systems, freeing them from the confines of their suits. Once our full group, numbering exactly one-hundred, is assembled, a guide leads us out of the spaceport and onto a shuttle; we're being taken to a hotel where we'll have a chance to unwind as we learn, over the course of a week, about how to integrate into the Exitium's culture and get on with our daily lives now that we're more or less citizens of the Exitium. We're even welcome to stay in the hotel permanently if we'd like to avoid the hassle of living on our own, though we're told that'll incur a small reduction in the size of our government issued-stipend.

We fly at a leisurely pace through midday traffic, leaving the spaceport and entering the downtown core of Indomitable. Our arrival from the Citadel is apparently public knowledge; wherever we go there are citizens greeting us as we fly by, waving signs and, from what I can see, dancing in the streets. If not for the religious architecture, the small Doom Slayer shrines visible in the windows of businesses, the massive signs for bunkers and safehouses every few blocks, it'd be easy to imagine Indomitable just being some heavily-populated world like any other, full of ordinary folk. We fly for fifteen minutes, more or less, descending from the top "stack" Aegis spaceport sits atop and down to the "fifth" stack, and pull onto one of several landing pads sticking out of a massive, gunmetal-grey tower that stretches from its base through several stacks of the city. Our tour guide brings us off the shuttle and into the hotel; the interior is furnished similarly to the spaceport, though it's more subdued in its ornamentation. We're all given instructions on where to go, told to head to one of the auditoriums in two hours - we're welcome to explore around the hotel if we'd like - and I make my way to my own private room.

The room is secured with a soulbond lock like the one I had on the Dignified. It's a simple room as far as hotels go but certainly spacious - twin bed, desk, coffee table with two chairs and a couch. The bathroom's roomy with a tub and shower, and there's even a small kitchenette. I test the bed - comfy, with panel controls to adjust its settings - and briefly consider napping when I think better of it.

I've got a whole city to see and at least several years to sleep. Two hours, I decide, is best spent looking around the hotel and seeing what's around.

I decide to unpack later and make my way to street-level; citizens in the street who see me wave, smile, greet me, but leave me alone otherwise. I'm stuck by how similar humans look to asari and how remarkably familiar the city's streets are. Across the hotel, a pub; a few clothing stores, a cafe and a store selling physical books round out the shops on the block. There's a young, dark-skinned woman with short-cut hair wearing a tunic and shorts standing next to a small, portable food-cart at the end of the block, and she waves me over.

"Hungry, miss?" she shouts.

I haven't eaten since morning and figure I might as well not be hungry during the briefing later; I walk over, and when I offer an arm she frowns for a moment, then nervously clasps arms with me.

"Am I doing this right?" she asks, grinning.

"Perfect," I reply. "You seem awfully calm about meeting an alien," I say.

"Oh, I'm not calm. I'm very nervous," she says, "but the fact that I get to serve a visitor from the Citadel her first meal is overriding all of that." She ushers me to one of the portable seats nearby.

"So, what do you serve? I'm not at all familiar with the Exitium's food. I've had coffee, and a burrito (a sort of wrap filled with uncooked fish and rice, a small, staple grain of the Exitium) so far."

"Oh, cool! I just do ramen - a sort of noodle - you have those, right? - in soup."

The young woman - who asks that I not say her name for fear of "giving my cart an unfair boost in interest" - serves me a bowl of hot noodles in a thick, unctuous meat-based broth, topped with a fatty chunk of pork - pig meat, another commonly vat-farmed animal. The utensils are a pair of sticks, and the woman laughs as she watches me try to use them to pick up the noodles; after a minute or so she passes me a fork like the ones on the Dignified.

It's good. Very good. Ramen will become a staple of my diet as I make my way through the Exitium; it's a popular dish, I find out, eaten by office worker, soldier and clergy alike, in countless variations and occupying every price point imaginable. The young woman's version of it, I realize with some degree of sadness, is also astoundingly atrocious nutrition-wise: very filling and excellent fuel for the working citizen, but the fact that the soup has chunks of fat floating in it bodes poorly for my arteries.

We chat for a while.

The young woman - she asks that I put her name down as "Miri," sniggering as she does so - is a clone, she explains. Born and raised like any other girl, on a fast-track to being a skilled warrior-witch when she decided she preferred cooking than killing. "Not that I don't mind a bit of bloodsport," she's quick to add, gesturing wildly with her hands. "But this is my life - so until I'm called personally to the War Eternal or some scum-sucking hellspawn decide to come knocking, I'll happily stay here and sling noodle bowls."

Eventually it's my time to go; Miri gives me the info for her cart's Unity (the most common social media site on the Exitium's GalNet) page, waves as I return to the hotel for the briefing.

Thankfully, today's briefing in the auditorium is fairly short. First come the basics - how to make sure our omnitools sync with Exitium tech. Currency and its worth (our Citadel Credits will be valued in the future, we're told.) Who to call in case of emergency. Then we're given the itinerary for the week; most of the described lessons involve what to do in the Exitium since their perpetual war economy makes things a little odd. For starters, everybody is provided for in the Exitium, at least on all of the core "Sanctuary Worlds" that the government can fully protect. That means food, shelter, a bit of cash and help finding work. For us visitors from the Citadel, we're being given a stipend and an adjutant-officer (one per every five people) who is meant to ease our transition into life here. We're not expected to work, per se, but there's no shortage of our group who do want to be employed, and as our guide explains there's no shortage of jobs.

Someone asks what sorts of jobs we could expect to be hired in, and the guide smiles. Spreads his arms out. "Why, almost anything, really. After all, if you count all of the Exitium's sectors, an unbelievable amount of people die every day. Sometimes the daily death toll breaks the billion mark and moves into one-to-five billion count," the guide says happily with a shrug. "Yesterday," he continues, cheerful as ever, "was quite good, all things considered. Only ten million dead."

Ten million people in the Exalted Exitium - estimated - died the day before we arrived.

Quite good.

"Even with cloning and automation and magic, there are plenty of jobs to be filled, and every worker provides a noble service to the War Eternal," our guide continues, as if he hasn't just waved away ten million deaths. "Really, there are openings in every sector of our economy. Whether you want to be a cook or a janitor, a priest or a lawyer, it's all available. Mind, some jobs might require education - but schooling is free, so time's really the only thing you have to worry about."

After that, we do a crash course on culture - religion in particular - though we're told the full lecture is tomorrow. None of us are expected to convert to the religion of the Doom Slayer, the (generally accepted) divinely-charged war-demigod who symbolizes the pure, seething hate that every citizen of the Exitium has for Hell and its demons, but we're made aware that most of the city stops in the afternoon and in the evening for prayer breaks. We're even told that since the Doom Slayer is a warrior, not a creator, plenty of people on the Exitium hold more than one religious belief in tandem with that of the Doom Slayer.

Quite good.

Before we're allowed to leave, we're told that our "anti-demonic soul treatments" will be taking place tomorrow morning; the meeting ends not long after. I go upstairs, try to work on my notes before going out to explore some more, maybe take a nap, but I can't. It echoes in my head, and as I turn my room's holo to watch the news it hits me. It clicks.

Quite good.

It's one thing to know, to be told, that the Exalted Exitium is at war. That their war has lasted for fifty thousand years, it's the War Eternal, etc. It's another thing for that to truly, utterly sink in; that the Exitium's chief concern is not prosperity, it's survival.

What, for example, do the citizens of the Citadel fear back home? Politicking, maybe some fighting over territory in the Terminus? Dealing with mercs, pirates, slavers? Those are all important issues, and I don't want to demean the suffering that happens in Citadel space because it would be awful to forget that everyone's life is worth something; but nobody goes to bed thinking to themselves that, say, the entire Citadel's population might be wiped out the next day.

And that if the Citadel were to be wiped out every day for a week, that'd be, all things considered, "quite good."

I decide that dinner and drinking is in order.

I find a few of my colleagues who I know from my days as a hired journalist; we ask the hotel concierge if the pub across the street is any good. She shrugs, says it's not bad but that there's better, offers up a place that's not too far from the hotel.

So we set out, our little group, into Indomitable as the sun begins to set. We're halfway to the pub in question when an upbeat, rousing song begins to play from street speakers, comms, radios. As soon as it starts people stop; cars are pulled over where possible, street vendors finish what they're doing and pull prayer mats out of their workspaces, civilians kneel on sidewalks. For five minutes, the city, as far we can see, freezes in place, every person in sight kneeling, hands clenched in fists and pressed together. As the song begins to end, everything returns to normal; conversations that were interrupted continue, radios resume their music, vendors sell their wares.

We arrive at our destination several minutes later; Taggart's is a small pub with a neighbourhood feel, and we make our way inside to raucous cheering and laughter.

The drinks are free, the bartenders say; after all, making this our first real stop means that the pub gets to lord this over every other drinking establishment in the area.

We drink late into the night, though I'm quiet for most of it. So are my friends. Not silent; there are too many questions to ask and too many stories to tell on both sides of the equation; still, the drink of choice - beer, not unlike the batarian kind - is good, cheap, and comes in no shortage of locally made varieties. We snack on things I don't remember the name of, and are treated to the best that the locals can offer in poorly rendered but earnestly sung renditions of local drinking-songs.

I remember little of it.

---

As Wrex stepped off the Dignifiedand walked out into the open air of Indomitable, something clicked. The air, warm, thick, humid. His senses flared with a feeling he hadn't had in a long time, and he felt a sense of calm wash over him. Even the scent of the outdoors on Gaia: clean, yet faintly smoky.

It was so similar to Tuchanka, not as it was, but as Wrex could remember it in his fondest memories - of which there were few, sure, but there were some.

If this was to be his home for the next few years, Wrex thought, he didn't think he'd mind.

"Enough loafing around, you lot!" Zaeed shouted as he walked off theDignified's lowered cargo ramp backwards, beckoning to the few recruits who were still exiting the elevator. "Come on, we've got a schedule to keep and if we're late it's not just me who gets a boot in the ass!"

The last stragglers - two turians, a quarian and a salarian, all "neophytes," to use the Exitium's term - sprinted out to join the rest of the Foreign Legion, and Zaeed marched the group over to a large dropship. He gestured for them to get inside, and he followed them in, walking to the front of the massive passenger hold, strapping himself into a seat which faced the group.

"Alright, people, we're headed straight to your new home for the next while, Fortress Valiant." Zaeed paused as the dropship's ramp shut and the vehicle took off; Wrex could see the unbelievably massive city sprawl out beneath them, seemingly stretching beyond the horizon and its stacks layering all the way into the planet's depths. "All of you are going to the base's medbay first thing to get your first round of enhancements. Neophytes, that'll be the last I see of you - from there you'll be passed on to instructors from the Church of the Predator to get you started in the basics of warmaking. Those of you who passed my testing, you'll be suffering alongside me for a little longer."

"What do you mean, alongside?" Tasawn asked.

"Youlot have to go through the training.I have been told that, rather than going demon-hunting on my monthly slaughter-vacation into Hell," Zaeed groused, "I have to run the basic courses alongside you to provide, ahem, 'a proper model of what an Exitium warrior should aspire to.'"

"Babysitting," Wrex said, snorting.

"Another word out of you like that, Wrex, and I'll headbutt you into the ground. Babysitting. Slayer's piss, I'm not old enough for that," Zaeed grumbled.

The recruits made small talk amongst themselves; Wrex, instead, simply stared out the window of the dropship, taking in the sight of the city beneath.

"You seem both troubled and content," Aelik said quietly, looking out the window next to her.

Wrex didn't dignify the asari with a response.

"You know, the last time we fought, I told you that you ought to talk to someone about your problems," Aelik continued.

"The last time wetalkedyou punched me so hard that I was out for six hours," Wrex replied.

"You're avoiding my questioning."

"I am."

Wrex shut his eyes and ignored the few people who tried to talk to him on the rest of the journey; thankfully, half an hour later they touched down at their destination and Wrex happily unbuckled himself, retrieved his duffel bag and clambered out of his seat. Wrex followed the rest of the recruits off the ship as the ramp lowered, and he stopped to take in the view. Fortress Valiant was an enormous stretch of flattened land pockmarked with buildings and entrances leading underground; all across the flats Wrex could see gun emplacements and warriors running obstacle courses, practicing at firing ranges and mock-duelling with all manner of weaponry. Zaeed jogged ahead, and the group followed him towards a large, two-storey building nearby; as they approached, Wrex noticed that the building, which appeared to be made out of a concrete of some sort, sported a strange symbol above its main doors - a red cross with an arrow coming out of the top spoke.

The interior was spartan compared to theDignified, with no furnishings save for some metal benches, and beyond the entrance was a lone corridor. A few humans in red robes were waiting for the new recruits at the end of the hallway; one, an older woman with white hair tied into a bun, stepped forward.

"Greetings, recruits, and welcome to the Church of the Predator! I'm Combat Chirurgeon Karina Chakwas and I'll be overseeing your basic enhancements. First, I'll need to have the quarians among you stay back for a little longer - we have separate sterile facilities which we'll need to use in order to ensure one-hundred-percent safety during the enhancement procedures."

"Is it true," one of the quarians shouted from the middle of the group, "that we won't have to wear our suits anymore?"

"It is," Karina replied with a grin. "Tested on the Citadel - though, of course, that was a case of healing the wounded. We'll be doing a lot more than getting you out of a hospital bed."

The group began muttering amongst themselves; Karin cut them off with a chop of her hand. "Alright, single file down the corridor, please. We'll take you in groups of twenty-four; please sort yourselves by group number and muster."

A few minutes passed as the crowd of recruits sorted themselves out; Wrex simply re-shouldered his bag and found several of the other more experienced warriors amongst the veterans' group - Tasawn, Aelik, Drack - and lined up with them as the first group, consisting of the most inexperienced of the applicants followed Karina and her assistants beyond the doors. About twenty minutes later, their group moved to the front, with only the quarians behind them. Karina smiled, and beckoned.

"Come," she said, as Zaeed joined her at the end of the corridor.

Wrex's face lit up in ill-hidden glee as he followed the other experienced soldiers, Zaeed, and Chirurgeon Chakwas into a medical bay, all chrome and metal instruments spread amongst several reclining chairs.

"Alright, then - there's no need to strip out of your armour," Karin said, nodding at Tasawn, who was removing her jacket. "We'll be keeping things simple for today; if you could each take a seat in one of the chairs we'll begin the process."

Wrex lumbered over to one of the chairs and sat in it, surprised that its width and make supported him without so much as a creak; he lay back as several medical staff began pulling modules done from ceiling-mounted hubs and socketing cylinders filled with various fluids all around the chair.

"Now, today's enhancements are the most basic," Karina said as she worked on Aelik's chair. "We'll be infusing your souls with basic wards designed to prevent corruption and stop demonic possession from occurring in the event that you experience a wave of Hell-afflicted energy. It'll also lessen the demoralizing effects of demonic runes, though on the off chance that you do see them before tomorrow morning you'll notice that it's not a perfect protection -that'll come with the second round."

"Are there any effects directly applicable to combat?" Tasawn asked from her seat.

"There are, though they're minimal," Zaeed replied before Karina could answer. "Faster recovery from mental and physical exhaustion, very slight increase in wound recovery time. This is the sort of stuff that we give to children on birth; the good stuff, as it is, comes later."

"Alright, are we all good?" Karina asked; the various medical staff in the room all nodded and spoke their assent, and Karina smiled warmly. "Alright then! We'll begin shortly. It'll take a few minutes; please try to remain still. The process isn't painful, but you'll notice a bit of warmth - if you do feel any pain whatsoever, please stop us. alright? Okay, here we go - and three, two, one..."

Wrex felt good.

Really good.

The medical procedures had finished about an hour ago and they'd been whisked away by airtruck to a set of barracks a few minutes drive away; as he sat, Wrex breathed and felt clear in mind and body. Aches in his right leg that had been there for as long as he could remember were gone; he felt more alert, even if he had no way of actually testing it.

Shortly, the ride was over, and Zaeed ushered them into the building. "Your home for the next year," Zaeed said as the group of forty veterans filed into the barracks proper - gun-metal grey and sharply utilitarian in focus. The living quarters were an odd arrangement, at least to Wrex; a long central room with a several circular tables and a small recessed semicircular pit at the far end, with fifty (small) individual rooms with their own doors.

"We're not in shared quarters?" Caelus asked, setting his bag on the floor.

"Yes and no," Zaeed said. "Recruits! As you can see, each room is, while small, for personal use. You each have a bed, a desk, a dresser and a weapons locker. Bathrooms are shared at the far end of the hall. During physical training, you'll be outside. During lectures, you'll be at the pit over there. Free study time's another story," Zaeed said, walking over to one of the walls; he pressed his palm on a small pad, and the recruits turned to watch as all of the walls surrounding each individual room retracted into the floor, causing the living quarters to resemble more classic military bunks. "When you're left to your own time, walls go down, you study and relax together. In the evening, the walls go up," Zaeed noted, reversing the walls. "There are no lights out - you sleep as you need, as the schedule permits. First lesson: why do we do things like this?"

There was a momentary pause; it was Hena, one of the turian veterans, who answered. "Uh, promotes unit cohesion while affording us privacy?"

"Partial marks, Hena. Didn't answer the why, though. Hmm. Let me rephrase that. Why does the Exitium want its warriors to have both worlds - communal training and private time? Keep in mind, these arrangements apply for even our greenest recruits."

"I would surmise," Aelik said in the same gentle tone that seemed to be her only manner of speech, "that it promotes a sort of, how to say, division of self. Camradarie with the walls down. Internal meditation, self-improvement with the walls up."

"Go on."

"Unit cohesion, like Hena says. Warriors train together; that much seems to be the same across nearly every species. But...you also want your warriors to be singularly exemplary. Time alone for rest, self-reflection, to martial focus, drive, will."

"Yes!" Zaeed shouted, grinning. "Justicar Aelik has the right of it. You lot have all read the basic primers I handed out - demons are not like the enemies any of you have faced. Your foe is relentless, incalculable, nigh-impossible to rout. You will rely on your comrades in battle, yes - but I see in all of you the potential to be elite - and to be elite in the Exitium's churches militant means being able to rely on yourself. Whether you are ten against a thousand, or one against ten thousand, it matters not. Survival is the key - and self-reflection, the drive to surpass the impossible is the cornerstone of how we survive. Pick a room, all of you, and meet me in the pit - we start our first lessons now."

Wrex walked over to the room behind him; it was, as Zaeed had said, rather small; the bed was large enough that he could fit comfortably on it, as were the rest of the furnishings. Still, by far the largest furnishing in the small room was the weapons locker; spanned the entire length of the room, its front panel retracting into the walls to allow storage of at least two dozen firearms with plenty of room for melee weapons. Wrex stored his trusted guns in the locker, and returned to the barracks proper, taking his place in the lecture pit. The other recruits filed in, and Zaeed popped himself out of his armour before making his way to the front of the semicircle. With a wave of his hand, a holoboard lit up in front of the group displaying a blank field, and Zaeed pulled up a chair, turned to face the recruits.

"I've studied a bit of what combat in Citadel space is like," Zaeed began, sitting down. "You have, if you'll let me generalize, medium-range engagement distances. Correct me if I'm wrong, but your mass effect shields have, speaking generally, outpaced the firepower of the average soldier. Imagine that you and an enemy that you're used to facing - I don't know, a merc, or something - are at a decent distance between each other. You can both take potshots at each other, but so long as your shields remain charged you'll both functionally be there forever."

The group nodded, murmured in assent.

"So, barring long-range contact, combat in Citadel space generally boils down to whittling shields away before pushing in for the kill?"

"I'd say it depends on the firefight," Caelus said. "Your description applies to, say, open urban combat without closely-spaced buildings. I don't know about the rest of us," he said, glancing at the others, "but there's a lot of close-quarters firefights that end with close-up kills - breaching, boardings, room clearing."

"Mmm. I see, I see. That's good - very good," Zaeed said, "because ninety-nine percent of engagement ranges for the Exitium are at knife range. I'm sure you noticed that damn near every soldier aboard the Dignified, myself included, carried a melee weapon and a firearm. That's because the singular use of long arms is almost always inefficient." He shrugged. "When fifty thousand imps are bearing down on you - don't you raise an eyebrow at me, Sarissa," he said, jabbing a finger at an asari commando a few people down from Wrex. "I'm not exaggerating - if anything, I'm lowballing the number." He waved a hand at the board, which began playing footage: it was the edge of a city wall, where several hundred of the Exitium's warriors clad in heavy armour waited, guns raised. Seconds later, blood-red portals ripped open several hundred meters away from the walls, and a tide of brown imps spewed forth, filling the entire board's view.

"That is footage from not long ago. Demonic incursion at the city of Bloodstain - this is the opening wave the defenders faced. We had to pull back - lost the city entirely - but our tacticians estimate that the opening wave consisted of more than six-hundred thousand imps. Six hundred thousand, people, and while they're far from the toughest that Hell's overlords can throw at us, the most common imp is more than capable of killing a veteran who drops their guard."

Silence.

"So don't think I'm exaggerating when I say this: lethality of combat in the Exitium far exceeds anything you people are used to. Like I was saying, when you're faced with a horde of demons, firing into that mass is only going to knock a few of the weaker ones out unless you're carrying heavy ordnance."

"Is heavy stuff standard-issue?" Wrex asked.

"It is, but you can't carry unlimited ammo. If there's one thing Hell has, it's numbers, Wrex. Doesn't matter how many black hole projector charges or BFG cells you have-"

"-I'm sorry, did you say black hole gun?" Drack said in disbelief.

"Yes."

"What." Drack - joined by many others - shook his head. "I'm sorry, that's - what? I mean, I want one, but that makes no sense."

"Details come later - we're talking basic lessons for now, alright?" Zaeed raised his hands. "My point is, sooner rather than later, you're going to be out of rounds for the big guns, and when that happens you're going to need to learn how to fight - learn how to excel - at melee combat." He nodded at Wrex and the others sitting near him. "Top five of you in melee are Tasawn, Wrex, Aelik, Sarissa and Drack. Even out of you five, I'd say the only ones remotely close to having the right mindset and having the correct skillset you need to be at to survive a protracted engagement are Tasawn and Aelik. Why?"

The recruits murmured amongst themselves for a few moments; it was Caelus who answered.

"Speed, I think," Caelus said, scratching at his fringe. "Wrex, Drack and Sarissa tanked hits from you - I'm guessing demons are a lot more lethal than we're used to?"

"Precisely. Not getting hit is far, far more important that being able to take them when it comes to fighting demons," Zaeed said, gesturing at his bare torso. "That's not to say that you shouldn't be tough, or that our enhancements won't make you tough - but, speaking from experience, and I'm sure some of you will agree, not being hit in the face is a lot better than being hit in the face." Scattered laughter; Zaeed cut them off with a wave of his hand. "Here's the deal. You all worked in the marksmanship simulator aboard the Dignified and you all did very well. I don't want you to get the wrong idea- marksmanship is still important, and firearms of all sorts are still more than useful in a fight. There's an order in my church called the Order of the Hunter that focuses on melee-range gunfighting, Slayer bless the madmen - and you'll all be welcome to carry big guns, trust me." He sighed. "I trust all of you to be able to operate our guns pretty well. I don't trust you people - Aelik excluded - to operative effectively with melee weapons. So! All of you out of your armour, put on some workout clothes, and join me back here - because we're going to moving on to lesson two."

"Swords?" Drack asked.

"Chainswords," Zaeed replied, a wild grin on his face.

Zaeed led them out of the barracks, past an empty canteen, bathrooms, and walked down two flights of stairs below the ground floor; beyond a set of double doors was a massive arena, maybe double the size of the one on the Dignfied with a similar two-deck layout. Fabricators stood at each corner of the room, and several handles protruded from the arena's walls. Medical orderlies and uniformed personnel that Wrex assumed were officers of some sort were standing on the upper decks; Zaeed jogged into the middle of the arena and knelt, punching his fists in salute.

"Cardinal-Militant Hackett! Your eminence, you grace us with your presence," Zaeed said in reverential tones, head bowed deep."

Wrex watched as one of the uniformed men - tall, with wrinkled skin, a healthy head of white hair and a thin yet muscular frame compared to Zaeed's hulking body - stepped forward from the officers up top, and leapt down from the deck.

"Please, I've told you before, Zaeed, you don't need to grovel in front of me like some sort of neophyte," Hackett said, chuckling.

"My apologies, Stephen," Zaeed said, standing up and embracing Cardinal Hackett. "I figured I might stand on formality today since, as you can see," Zaeed said, gesturing to the gathered recruits, "our group of veteran warriors from the Citadel are here."

"Hmm." Stephen looked at the recruits, eyes flitting about as he examined each individual for a few moments, then grinned. "Well met, recruits. My name is Stephen Hackett and I am one of the Cardinals-Militant in the Church of the Predator - responsible for the continued survival of the Exitium."

Several of the turian recruits looked at one another; without a word, they all stood at attention in unison, saluting stiffly with the salarians. Asari - Justicar Aelik included - in the group saluted and knelt on one knee.

The younger krogans, on the other hand, looked at Wrex and Drack for guidance; Wrex simply punched his fists together in the traditional sign of excitement - handily enough being the same as the Exitium's salute, he thought. The other krogan did the same, and Stephen laughed as he saw the arrayed warriors.

"Slayer's piss, there's no need to be so formal! Today's not a funeral or something - though I do appreciate the intent," Stephen said, nodding. "At ease, warriors of the Foreign Legion." He paced around for a moment, then nodded. "You've all accepted an enormous responsibility; not only as warriors of the Exitium, but as the first amongst the Citadel's peoples to learn the art of warmaking as we teach it." Stephen's tone became somber, and the smile on his face disappeared. "We have much to learn from each other - and, though I pray that our worst fears shall not come to pass, I cannot help but feel like the union between Citadel and Exitium must be forged with haste. Whether your choose to take your new talents back to the Citadel to teach others, or remain with us to carry on the War Eternal, I hope you all remember that it is for the good of the common folk that we fight. Never forget that your bloodlust and hatred must be aimed at the demon and the heretic. Slayer's blessings upon you all. Amen."

"Amen," Zaeed agreed, bowing his head. "With your blessings, Stephen, we'll begin our training."

"Very good. Do not mind my presence - I'm here on my own time, for fun." Stephen bowed slightly, then leapt back up to the deck above without showing any sign of exertion.

Zaeed walked over to a small console on one of the walls, placed his palm on it and waited for a moment as the pad lit up green; it beeped, and Zaeed stood aside as a rack of massive chainswords of varying size slid out of the wall, ending right by the edge of the arena's dueling circle. Zaeed placed his hand one of the larger models, and Wrex watched intently as the chainsword's grip - far too big to be held with Zaeed's bare hands - retracted in on itself until Zaeed could wield it. He plucked the sword off the wrack, twirling it as he returned to the recruits; he lay it gently on the ground, and beckoned.

"Come on over, and take a look."

Up-close, Wrex examined the massive multi-toothed gunmetal-grey blade; it was covered in markings and bore an odd symbol near the hilt. It seemed more than a little unwieldy, and though Zaeed had shown the recruits video footage of one sawing through a demon nearly five times Wrex's height with ease a part of his mind still refused to accept that a chainsaw-sword was practical.

"This, recruits," Zaeed said with obvious pride, "is a chainsword. It is the chainsword. The Sermon, Type Forty-One, Mod Zero. This is the first weapon you will train with, before all others; it is the first weapon all recruits in the Church of the Predator train with. The chainsword forms the backbone of our doctrine - for when you are knee-deep in demons and somehow out of ammunition, it is a blade like this one which will ensure your survival." Zaeed looked up, saw Tasawn's inquisitive expression, and nodded at her.

"The handle," she asked, "it retracted. Is this not designed to be used out of power armour?"

"It isn't," Zaeed replied. "The standard-issue Sermon can retract so I can, for example, hold it without any problems, but it's designed to be used with power assistance. The Sermon's twenty-five pounds-"

"-doesn't sound so heavy to me," a Krogan in the back of the group said.

"I heard that," Zaeed grumbled. "Look, I get that you krogan are a tough lot. Keep in mind - you might have to be swinging this thing around in combat for a dozen or more hours straight. Any of you tried keeping a rifle shouldered for twelve hours?"

Aelik and Drack raised their hands, and Zaeed snorted.

"Anyone besides these two?." He paused, shrugged. "Look, I'm sure all of you could lift this thing, maybe fight with it for a bit. Doing that for a long time isn't nearly as easy at it sounds - you folk are used to omniblades and lightweight gear, and the Sermon isn't light."

"What about your sword?" Hena asked. "Your chainsword didn't look like this one," he noted.

"Sermon's fully modular - but I'll get to that later. My Sermon's custom fitted just the way I like it; you folk will probably start to do the same once you're comfortable working on our tech. Mine Sermon's got no stock parts and is fifty pounds."

"I saw you twirl that thing around your finger," Tasawn said, expression curious. "How?"

"I am eighty-six years old," Zaeed replied. "Every nanometre of my bones and internal organs have been inscribed with runes designed to enhance my strength, speed, resilience, and so on. Decades of magic enhancements. Countless demonic souls purified, refined, and absorbed fuel my soul-output. I am strong, Hena. Very strong." He shrugged. "Anyways, we're getting off topic. The Sermon's designed to be used with armour that'll help negate its weight. Discounting that fact, though, there's a simple truth - for ninety-nine percent of our soldiers, being caught outside of armour in a melee battle with demons is a death sentence. Even I'd be wary of going into combat without even our lightest power armour. In any case, this here's a model designed for humans and asari; there are similarly-sized models with different grips designed for turian and quarian hands. For the krogan and salarians here, we have models with modified grips which are a bit larger and a bit smaller, respectively."

"How're we gonna train if we can't pick'em up ourselves?" Caelus asked. "Do we use training models or something?"

"Yes and no. Out of your armour, we have training Sermons which are light enough to be handled without power-assist and designed to mimic the feel, heft, and details of how a regular Sermon would feel in-armour," Zaeed said, picking the sword back up off the ground. "Now, head over to the rack by the far end of the wall, and pick out a training Sermon - it'll be marked with a series of yellow stripes up and down the body of the blade."

Wrex followed the others over to the rack, found a training Sermon marked as being a "Krogan Variant Template," and pulled the blade off the rack; he returned to the middle of the arena, examined it closely, gave it a few swings.

"Alright, recruits," Zaeed said as the group reconvened. "First things first: your training blades are blunt, and currently unpowered. That doesn't mean that you should go hitting one another with 'em - they're still heavy, and Slayer knows we've had recruits require healing for bludgeoning injuries. Before I get into your first lesson regarding the operation of the blade, who here has experience wielding swords?"

About twenty-five hands went up in the audience; Zaeed frowned, and shook his head.

"Mmm. Let me rephrase that. Who here has combat experience with swords? I'm talking multiple kills."

Hands dropped, and Wrex looked around to find that, himself included, there were about fifteen raised hands now. Asari commandos like Sarissa made up most of the numbers now; a few krogan - Drack, Wrex and two others - and two salarians, Tasawn and another he didn't know rounded the numbers out. Zaeed nodded this time, and made an thoughtful expression.

"Alright. Hands down, all of you. Next, those of you who didn't have combat experience with swords, who has combat experience with melee weapons? Not omniblades, I'm talking separate physical ones. Sword, mace, spear, anything goes."

A smattering of hands; Zaeed nodded, a pleased expression on his face. "Alright. That's not too bad. We'll have tutors for all of you, but I'd ask that the more experienced among you take charge, lend a hand during free time if anyone wants to train. We'll do a little primer on the chainsword today - nothing serious, and you'll all be receiving manuals so don't freak out about not being to take notes or anything. So! All of you get comfy - take a seat, stand, whatever - just make sure you've got enough room to examine your weapons without hitting each other."

Wrex sat down and rested the training chainsword across his lap, watching as Zaeed knelt on both knees and lay the (real) chainsword he'd taken from the rack on the ground in front of him.

"Before I get into the details of the Sermon, how it works, and whatnot, you'll notice that there isn't a rev trigger or activation switch on the physical body of the weapon," Zaeed said, lifting his blade and rotating it for the recruits.

"Magic?" Drack ventured, poking at his sword.

"Correct. There are manual switches on the interior, but they're for maintenance or emergencies. During training and combat, the onboard arcano-electronic systems read your intentions and thoughts, scanning for specific - and customizable - thought-process activation triggers." Zaeed tapped the pommel of the weapon. "Once you activate the power source, the sensors work via grip and proximity detection, perform a quick soulbond process to ensure only your thoughts will be read."

"It reads our minds?" Tasawn asked. "Like the fabricator on the Dignfiied - we just stuck our hands on the plate and the machine did the rest of the work."

"It's not exactly the same, but the base idea's similar enough, yes," Zaeed replied. "Anyways, it's still possible to open an manual link channel that'll work via wireless signal or manual cable to your armour - but that's for emergencies or maintenance only. With the intention-sensors you don't need to worry about switches or settings - you think, the blade listens."

"How smart is the sensor?" Hena said cautiously. "I mean, I can see how useful the intention sensor system is, but, you know, I'm not sure I want an AI or something poking around in my head."

"It's not invasive," Zaeed noted, "but it does read quite a bit of info from you mind via soul connection. Blade's got two settings - manual and auto. Right, hold up, I gotta back up a second to explain this. The blade's reconfigurable on the fly - hold on, Aelik, I'll get to the details in a second," he said, nodding at the Justicar's raised hand - "but basically, on auto, the blade will use a combination of onboard scanners and 'dumb' AI to process surroundings, tactical data, enemy integrity information, and so on to configure the weapon for optimal use. Most new soldiers just leave their Sermons on auto, but any accomplished swordsman is going to want manual control, thus the manual setting."

Hena looked at Caelus and a few other recruits nearby, his expression one of consideration; Zaeed shrugged. "Anyway, moving on. Obviously the weapon needs a power supply to run all the sensors and moving parts, and the Sermon runs on an Argent Energy cell stored inside the pommel." Zaeed flipped his blade around to show the bottom of the pommel; a split-second later the pommel's bottom slid open, revealing a space with a battery connector inside. "Switching the battery's easy - combination tension-lock and magnetic charge. You ever run dry, just activate the swap thought-process or manually open the chamber, eject the old cell and throw in a new one."

Wrex frowned, raise his hand. "We gonna have to reload our damn swords on the field? Not exactly a fan of having to watch ammo for my sword."

"Not likely," Zaeed replied. "Standard issue cell's output is one-hundred kilowatts that can actively run the chainsword for a long damn time ; there's also a sophisticated accumulator core on board that lets you leech recharge energy from just about anything. If you're near a recharge station, in a magic-heavy atmosphere, the battery'll fill itself up automatically. Blade'll also recharge automatically off field batteries, power armour reserves and even, if you're in a pinch, your own soul-energy. Slayer's piss, longest I managed to use a Sermon without needing to swap batteries was probably three, four weeks, and that's with the blade running almost the entire time. Plus, if you kill a demon and are fine with not absorbing its soul for power, you can also funnel that energy into the blade."

There was a moment of silence.

"You don't mean that in a metaphorical sense, do you," Aelik said slowly.

"What? No, I don't," Zaeed said, expression confused. "We'll go over that tomorrow, but I mean, it's perfectly safe." The recruits looked at one another; Zaeed sighed. "Look, I know some of you aren't quite on board with the reality of the situation here but we're gonna have to work on that. In the mean time, let's just keep things moving, alright?"

Aelik's expression - and many other recruits'- , Wrex noted, was of extreme discomfort; personally, he thought the idea of killing a twenty-five foot demon and stealing it's soul to power his sword or soul was pretty cool.

"Wait," Tasawn said. "So that battery's got more than a little juice in it." Zaeed nodded, and Tasawn cleared her throat. "Uh, what happens if the battery gets breached? I'm guessing it's not pretty."

"Well, the cell's made out of sturdy stuff - holy Dominionite ore - that's basically impossible to destroy via non-magical means, and the pommel interior's a blessed magi-metal, ultra-dense carbon nanotube weave-shell. Exterior's made of basically the same material, with a secondary energy-containment system. Some demon manages to pop your battery open or something, the alarms will go off, and you've got about five to ten seconds to throw the sword away before it explodes. Preferably in the face of the demon that thought it'd be a good idea to bust your sword open," Zaeed said, grinning. He paused, then frowned. "Sadly I've never actually seen that happen in person - Slayer knows I'd love to watch some demon scum get blown to pieces after he's all smug about ruining a good blade."

"I've done it before," Cardinal Hackett shouted from the top deck. "Work of fucking art, let me tell you."

"What? Oh, come on, please tell me you have a recording of that," Zaeed replied.

"Nope. Was out of my armour at the time," Hackett replied, shrugging. "Damn shame. Probably could have gotten rich off that footage."

Zaeed cackled to himself for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Ahem. Man, what I wouldn't give to see that in person. Anyways, the base blade as a whole's made out of similar stuff as the pommel - dominionite, blessed metals, CNT, plenty sturdy. Both during and after the forging process the weapon as a whole is treated with six rounds of hermetic and theurgic reinforcement, followed by internal runic inscriptions of integrity and self-repair. Basically, the Sermon's more or less impossible to destroy via conventional means. Church of the Seraph - our mage's church - actually uses the Sermon to test their elite special forces. Order of the Malakhim - that's, like, tier one warmage operators, folks who can melt the minds of thousands of demons with a wave of their hand - are given a Sermon, told to bust the thing open with their magic. I think the record's seven hours of one of these people attacking a Sermon, and she couldn't even destroy the blade, only split it in half."

"Why not make your armour outta the damn things, if they're so tough?" Drack asked.

" We do, to a degree. Hermetic forging, theurgic alloy integration - the weapon's imbued with the very concept of indestructibility; I'm not an engineer-mage but there are limits to how far you can take that stability and what you can treat with that process. I skimmed a journal once - don't laugh - and it said something along the lines of how the link between armour and soul interferes with the magic processes used to boost the sword's integrity. Same reason why you can't just enchant your body with this stuff - unless you want your shit to tear its way through your body, literally, because it's indestructible."

"Is that a joke?" Wrex asked, laughing with the other recruits.

"Am I laughing? You ever watch someone shit themselves apart? Slayer's blessings, it was tested on an blank clone body - and I nearly threw up watching it." Zaeed shuddered and made the Slayer's Sigil. "Eugh. Right. Swords. Blade's tough, designed t o block other chainswords and just about any demonic fist, claw, or blade. There are also argent-hermetic seals as well as theurgic wards also power reinforcement fields and active magic countermeasure to stop unholy weapons from damaging the blade, too. As for the blade itself, first thing - the Sermon doesn't always have to be used in chainsword mode." Zaeed pulled an argent cell from his legging pockets and slotted it into the blade; a few moments later, there was an audible click as the chainsaw teeth retracted to sit flush with the main blade.

"Hmm," Aelik mused. "Capable of being used as a sword alone?"

"Yup. The blade, like the teeth, is self-sharpening and, when the teeth are retracted, forms a flush, near-monomolecular line. You won't really find anyone wielding Sermons as just swords - sure, it's fully capable of being wielded as a very, very deadly blade, but there are purpose-built swords that serve the specific role better. The design's made so that if you drive the Sermon deep into a demon, there's no worry about stoppages. You get nice, deep wound channels, and the sword's own sharpness allows for good penetration. But the real star of the show, recruits, are the teeth. Can't have a chainsword without the teeth," Zaeed said with an expression approaching rapture. "Every Sermon costs well over five thousand belts - I think they're estimating that to be about six thousand, five-hundred Citadel Credits. Just under half of the cost goes towards the teeth and the drive unit which powers them. The chainsaw part of the chainsword is guided and powered by a motor channel hidden under the outer edge of the blade itself; one hundred percent made out of virtue-grade holy dominionite-CNT alloy. Superconductive magnets inwide the guide walls react with magnets which sit within the chainblades, meaning that the entire unit's powered. Less risk of stoppage, even more power."

"Are there protections in place to stop the blade from harming the user?" Tasawn said.

"Mmm, we're getting there - it's actually a buit-in part of the teeth." Zaeed lifted the blade, and the teeth extended out of the blade. "They're...okay, bear with me here, if you weren't on board with the magic before this is probably going to sound odd. The teeth are a arcano-metallurgic memory alloy that is harvested from a type of quasi-living supernatural rock formation. Malakhite, it's called - the metals themselves aren't native to our dimension and actually exist primarily in the aether - the space between Hell and real space. You can't see it, but the teeth are twisting, undulating, occupying thousands of shapes at once, with only one configuration visibly manifested in our dimension at once. The blades can shift configuration on the fly - but they're not actually changing so much as shifting which part of the metals are in our reality."

One of the salarians, Ridarth Irji, sputtered in disbelief. "What."

"What do you mean, what?"

"That's-"

"-as insane as magic? Or theurgy? Or absorbing souls to fuel your power?" Zaeed asked.

"...well, yeah," Ridarth replied sheepishly.

"Whether your believe it or not doesn't change how it works," Zaeed countered. He stood up, blade in hand, and stepped several paces away from the recruits; they watched in stunned silence as the chainsaw teeth began changing shape, form, and length. "Intention sensors produce teeth configuration just the way you want - or automatically, if you'd prefer. Configuration is communicated by segment, meaning you can, if you want, custom-tool every single tooth to a specific shape; you can also save teeth profiles, covering things like tooth spacing and whatnot. You can even make blunt teeth with sharpened 'tenderizers' if you want. The sorcery-field around the teeth prevents you from slicing yourself open when the blade's active - but even if you master the soul-control systems and have the blades set to deflect both yourself and friendlies I'd still urge you to be careful."

"And, uh, the 'blast caution' warning signs?" Tasawn continued.

"Oh, those are the argent plasma compression discharge thrusters," Zaeed said, nodding. "You get magnetic thrust vectoring to help you with blade mobility and attack vectors - whether you need to augment your attack speed, get the blade out of a wound with a thruster-assisted pull or even pull off maneuvers that would be impossible with the grip alone." He looked off into space for a moment, eyes glazing over. "Also, in a pinch, you can cook food on it. If you're very, very careful. That's against regulations, though." He looked back at the recruits, smiling. "But it does let you get a very, very nice char on a steak."

The lesson didn't last much longer; the group spent roughly half an hour going over the absolute basics of how to properly hold and maintain a sword-specific combat stance, with much of the focus on helping the recruits without experience wielding physical melee weapons. Once finished, Zaeed returned his borrowed chainsword to the weapon rack and returned the rack into the wall panels, then called the recruits together in the middle of the arena.

"Alright, that's enough for today. Tomorrow's going to be a long day and I know you folk haven't gotten any breaks, so head back upstairs, stow your training Sermons, and we'll debrief in the canteen," Zaeed said. "I know we didn't really work out or anything, but you're also more than welcome to nip off to have a shower if you want. You lot all clear on how our toilets work?" The recruits all nodded or replied in the affirmative, and Zaeed gestured for the group to get moving. "Go on ahead - I have to meet with Cardinal Hackett for a moment. Won't be long, so don't any of you start eating without me."

Wrex made his way back upstairs with the other recruits, tossed his training Sermon on his bed and made his way back out to the canteen. The barrack's cafeteria was a simple dining hall with a staffed counter, behind which several kitchen staff were busy loading various trays and pots with food. Otherwise, the room was plain; a single long, metal table cut through the middle of the room, and the only other adornment was a simple, stylized image of a green gauntlet-clad fist on one of the walls. Wrex took a seat as the other recruits began to file in, and in a few minutes almost all the seats were taken. Zaeed jogged into the canteen not long after, took a seat at the far end of the table and rapped his knuckles on the table surface.

"Okay! Quiet down, you lot, I know you're all hungry - well, I'm hungry, anyways - but we've got some housekeeping to take care of first. Number one, tomorrow's itinerary. You're all going to finish off the base magic reinforcements that'll bring you to the Exitium's baseline - today you got what kids get, tomorrow you get what the preteens are cleared for. After that we start your first round of combat enhancements; all in all it'll probably take until the late afternoon. After that, you'll be getting regular combat enhancements every day, though it'll usually only be an hour or two in the morning instead of being full-day affairs. Exceptions! A few of you have pretty major internal prosthetics. That in and of itself isn't a problem right now but it'll interfere with some of the late-stage enhancements you'll need; I'll go around tonight and pass along the medical info for those of you who'll need extra surgery prep.

Drack raised a hand and looked around uncomfortably. "Got a load-bearing thread that's keeping my spine from falling apart. That's not getting removed, is it?"

"I think it is. I'm not one hundred percent sure on the mechanics - I'm not a doctor - but I think you'll be placed into spatial stasis so that all of your bits stay where they're supposed to," Zaeed said, rubbing his chin, "then they pull your metal pieces out. After that, it's as simple as regenerating you from your soul's organ matrix. Might take a little longer, but I think it'll be, like, an hour more, tops."

Drack didn't look terribly convinced, but he grumbled something in response and shrugged.

"What if we've got prosthetics in our brains?" one of the asari asked.

"Same as before, probably," Zaeed replied. "Look, if you've got specific questions you can ask the docs tomorrow, and if you're not totally comfortable with things they're not gonna force you to do anything." He looked around; satisfied that nobody else had questions, he nodded, smiling. "Alright. Two! After your surgeries you'll be moving into some lectures on Exitium culture and whatnot; unlike the tourists who came here you don't have to worry about housing or work since you're training to be warriors, but cultural exchange is still important." Zaeed thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Honestly it's going to be half lecture, half questions from the professors, since I'm sure they'll want to ask you folks questions about the Citadel. You know, one thing to read it, another to hear it from the people living there, et cetera."

"Are we allowed off-base?" Caelus asked.

"Yeah. Not quite yet, but you'll get one day off per week - sometimes two, depending on the schedule. You'll be free to spend your stipend - you're all receiving one - but the brass wants you people going through a couple days of cultural training first, plus rules on what you're allowed to bring back to base and the like."

"Booze allowed on base?" Wrex asked.

"Yup. Once you've got your enhanced toxin filtration and rapid metabolism enhancements hangovers will be a thing of the past, at least with respect to regular alcohol," Zaeed said, grinning. "Still, if you people show up to training drunk or something, you'd better believe I'll have you in a world of shit." Zaeed looked around, frowned, and made a sort of displeased noise. "No clock in here. Huh. Dunno why they got rid of it. Anyways, wake-up calls are always the same - the call to prayer's always at six in the morning sharp and I expect you to be up around then. We leave for the infirmary at seven."

"I do have a question about that," Justicar Aelik said. "It is my assumption that our group is composed of multiple beliefs and faiths. Is there are facility for meditation or prayer in the barracks?"

"Oh, of course," Zaeed replied happily. "The shrine's downstairs past the arena and next to some of the offices; obviously it wasn't designed with non-Exitium religions in mind but if there's anything you need for rites or the like, just talk to any of the priests, staff, hell, even me. Can't promise we can fetch everything but the Church of the Lector's the biggest church in the Exitium and we'll do our best to source stuff for you."

Some of the recruits looked at one another; after a moment, Zaeed rapped the table again. "Okay, if there aren't any more questions, let's eat. A soldier's first meal in the Exitium's kind of a big deal. Food and ritual alike," Zaeed said, expression nostalgic. "I hope you people enjoy it - if it's not to your liking, the cooks have some other stuff on hand. We've got runes of sustenance purification for the turians amongst you, so head on up, grab a tray and we'll eat!"

Wrex happily lumbered over to the counter, grabbed a metal tray and lined up; the kitchen staff passed him a set of spoons, a plate loaded with a small mountain of white-coloured grains (rice) topped with a roughly-chopped mix of lightly-cooked and heavily spiced meats (lamb, pork). One the side, a bowl filled with cubed pieces of uncooked fish; another with some sort of fermented vegetable. A pint of thick, brown sauce (gravy) meant to be poured on the rice, as well as a small mug of a thin, black liquid that the kitchen staff refused to name.

The recruits all returned to the table; once they were all seated, Zaeed set his tray of food down on the table, stood up, and beat his chest with his left fist.

"Recruits of the Exitium! Today, you are dead! Your life is forfeit and you are transubstantiated; your flesh is aegis and your bone is blade, wielded in His name, held in His honour. You will kill in His name. You will be reborn in the forge of hate! You will be sharpened on the stone of suffering! You are one of the armoury, a tool to be used to destroy the unholy and the hell-borne; when you are spent and destroyed you shall be tossed aside, crushed beneath the feet of your comrades. When your body is no more, you will be pressed into the stairs on which your children will climb until, on the blessed day of glory, we reach the holy summit where we are free of the War Eternal."

Zaeed's eyes were wild. Rapturous. Devoid of hesitation and entirely convinced of purpose.

He raised his mug - the one with the black liquid - and drained it in a single take; he gestured to the recruits with the empty mug, and the all did the same.

It was an odd flavour, Wrex thought; slightly bitter, slightly sweet, and it tingled - almost burnt, but not quite - as he swallowed.

"But until that day, do not count the demons you slay! No end! No quarter! Blessed is the Doom Slayer and holy is his command! Rip and tear, until it is done!"

Zaeed slammed his mug down. "Amen!"

There was a long silence; Zaeed sat back down, and sighed. "Ahh, I haven't had the honour of the Rites of Entry in decades. Sill, that's the last pomp you're going to get out of me for a while. Dig in!"

*Chapter 9*: Chapter 5

THE EXITIUM JOURNALS
ENTRY THREE: IN THE SHADOW OF GIANTS
JUNE 25TH, 2157
(26TH OF THE THIRD UMBRAL WIND, YEAR 1157 OF THE TWENTY-SIXTH AGE)
Indomitable, Gaia

---

It is six in the morning, on the twenty-sixth of the third umbral winds. Loyal warriors, scholars and children of humanity, awaken, and prepare for your morning rites. Today's reading is from The Book of Penance, chapter ninety, verse one.

"The self-styled Flagellants - the bringers of sword and fire to those ignorant of the DOOM SLAYER's glory, the executioners of the weak and helpless - had been gathered in the centre of Indomitable, herded before the Steps of Faith leading to the Cathedral Prime. They were silent, for at the summit of the Steps stood the DOOM SLAYER, and the Group of Nine: the most radical and most powerful of the Flagellants, who themselves now occupied the seats of power within the Exitium.

All stood in rapture and awe, for the DOOM SLAYER deigned to pause his endless campaign of slaughter most holy to speak to them; as He stepped forward, all fell to their knees to await his command.

"THESE ARE YOUR LEADERS."

All trembled, for in this statement none could deny the seething, barely-controlled fury in His voice. When He spoke, so terrible was His wrath and His hatred that many in the audience could not help but lose control of their bodily functions.

"I ASKED FOR LITTLE. RESPECT ONE ANOTHER. SHIELD THE HELPLESS. STRENGTHEN THE WEAK. TEACH THE IGNORANT."

With furious speed, He grabbed the Ninth of the Group of Nine and held the squealing man aloft. Then, with naught but His hands, He tore him in half from legs to head, and threw his body down the steps.

"MY COMMAND WAS SIMPLE. KILL ONLY THE DEMON AND THE HERETIC."

Now he took two more of the Group of Nine and with hands alone, rent them, tossing their twitching parts down the steps once more. One of the Nine meant to fled, but she could not, for her mind and soul were paralyzed by the weight of sin.

"YOU HAVE NOT FAILED ME. YOU HAVE FAILED YOURSELVES."

Two more did he tear in half. Now the Group of Nine was only four, and yet His fury did not abate.

"THESE," He said, gesturing at the four remaining, "ARE WORSE THAN THE DEMON. THESE ARE BENEATH THE HERETIC."

Two more bodies torn asunder. The Group of Nine was reduced to two; the blood and gore he tossed to the steps below was now a small pile.

"I DO NOT KILL THESE SCUM. THEIR SOULS WERE FORFEIT WHEN THEY TURNED THEIR HAND ON THE INNOCENT."

He took the Second of the Group of Nine. May we never forget the name of Harriet Medev, cursed be her name, for the greed and murder and sin she wrought in His name. From her, He took her arms and her legs, and kicked her body down the Steps of Faith.

"I JUDGE ALL OF YOU. I FIND YOU WANTING IN ALL WAYS."

Then, He took the First of the Group of Nine. May we never forget the name of Donato Lao, a million curses upon his soul, for he was the Architect of Sin and the Hubris of Man made manifest. The Doom Slayer removed Donato's jaw, so that no soul could be corrupted again. The Doom Slayer removed Donato's eyes, so that none would be afraid of his gaze. The

DOOM SLAYER removed his stomach, so no food would fatten him while the poor starved. The DOOM SLAYER removed his genitals, so that none would suffer from his foul desires. The DOOM SLAYERremoved his legs, so that no ground would be soiled by his steps.

"HAVE YOU NO DEFENSE FOR YOUR CRIMES? SPEAK, DONATO, OR CAN YOU NOT FIND THE WORDS?"

Donato could not respond, and thus the DOOM SLAYER tore him in half too.

"REMEMBER YOUR PURPOSE. DO NOT ALLOW ME TO FIND YOU WANTING AGAIN."

Loyal humans, do not forget the lessons taught by the suffering of the Group of Nine. Ours is the War Eternal and the Crusade Most Holy, and it is there that our hate and fury and rage must be directed. Know that just as it is your duty to kill the demon and purge the heretic, you must feed the hungry and clothe the naked. The Left Hand helps the weak. The Right Hand slays the demon. So it is, and so it shall be.

Now, loyal humans, join me in the first recital of the day: yours is the shield that guards us from sin...

---

There's nothing quite like waking up with a blistering hangover as the rousing call to prayer goes out, followed by a soft-spoken woman talking about the Doom Slayer ripping some historical figure's nuts off with his bare hands.

It's hard to describe just how weird the Exitium is.

In any case, I check my omnitool and find that I've left myself a note from the previous night's festivities - apparently, someone told me that the Exitium's most common painkiller is fully capable of removing the ill effects of a night filled with drinking. It is my luck that an entire bottle of the stuff - Stimpills, they're called, is sitting in my bathroom cabinet. I down a few of them, wash them down with a bit of water, and to my surprise and relief less than five minutes later I'm feeling refreshed and energized (though still more than a little disturbed by the morning sermon.) Doing my best to ignore the lurid details of today's wake-up call, I instead head down to the hotel's restaurant to secure some sort of snack before my meeting with my adjutant-officer. It's more or less empty in the restaurant save for the staff behind the counter and a few regular citizens who've chosen to take their breakfast here.

The young man who helps me grins when he sees me. "Had a night out, eh?"

I ask him how he knows.

"Something about the way folk walk after a stimpill in the morning. You'll learn to recognize the signs soon enough," he says, with a goofy look on his face.

Twenty minutes later, I'm upstairs in one of the hotel's offices sitting across from my adjutant-officer with a coffee and a popular snack, the merg-injerapan, a wrap containing a mashed, spicy sausage wrapped in a thick, slightly sour flatbread. My adjutant introduces herself as Sofia Chambers; she's a young woman with fiery red hair and a permanently cheerful expression - but her eyes are piercing. Focused.

We make small talk for a few moments before coming to the question of why I'm here and what I'm looking to do. Upon hearing that I'd like to capture daily life in the Exitium from every conceivable point of view, she whips out a dataslate from her desk and begins scribbling furiously with a stylus.

"Okay, wow, that's perfect," she says, looking at me while she writes. "I absolutely love the idea and honestly I know a lot of people who'd be more than happy to let you shadow them, maybe even live with them for a while. Real question's not if you can do this, but where you'd like to start."

I ask what my options are.

"Well, I'd need to ask around, obviously, but, well, I'm pretty sure you've got the whole Exitium to choose from. Think about it - who wouldn't want to have the honour of being the first thing you write about?" She grins. "Pick anything and we'll go from there, Kerri."

We eventually reduce the countless avenues open to me down to a handful of choices.

"Personally," Sofia says, "I would go with the Church of the Lector. If you're looking to get a sense of the Exitium, why not start where every child does? You can learn as the children do, see what we're taught and how we're instructed - and besides, out of all the Churches and private-sector businesses you'd have the least amount of tape to deal with. After all, the Church of the Lector more or less already operates with an open-door policy; the only real work we'll have to do is figuring out precisely how you want to go about your work."

I'm inclined to agree. I've only had a few days to take in information about the Exitium, and almost all of the documents I've been reading originate from the Church of the Lector. Where better to start than the place where the Exitium stores and disseminates their knowledge?

Sofia nods vigorously as I explain my thinking and shoos me out of her office. "You just go do whatever you'd like to do - I'll take care of things from here," she says warmly. "I'll have what you need by this evening!"

The rest of the day passes by quickly; a crash course lesson on Exitium culture. Magic medical procedures designed to protect me from demonic possession or unholy corruption. The quarians in our group are whisked away to a hospital to see if they can't be "healed" so that they'll be free from the confines of their quarantine suits; some of my colleagues leave the hotel to start filming things at street level. Right before I'm finally free for dinner, though, Sofia calls me back into her office and hands me a dataslate.

"All done," she says, grinning madly. "All of these people have expressed overwhelming interest in having you shadow them; you'd be free to sort out living arrangements with their help and more or less do as you like."

The list, though long, places all of what Sofia deems "people working in jobs of artistic and cultural importance" at the top. My eyes are immediately drawn to a last name that I recognize.

Lord Amin Shepard / Church of the Lector, Professor. / Open to shadowing, recording. Capable of providing accommodation.

"Amin Shepard," I ask, "wouldn't happen to be related to Abbess Hannah Shepard of the Church of the Slayer?"

"Oh, right, you've met Abbess Hannah in person," Sofia says thoughtfully. "Yes, Amin's her husband - when I called he was very excited at the prospect of meeting you. Abbess Shepard herself is on leave, so you'd be staying with - or at least interacting with - the Shepard family as a whole on a daily basis for as long as you'd like."

I think for a minute, then accept - I figure this is a chance I'd be stupid to ignore.

"Well, really, the only question's when you want to start," Sofia replies. "You should probably still do the rest of the week's cultural lessons, but those won't take up all of your time. If you'd like, I can contact the Shepard family - Slayer, you could even be there tonight if you'd like."

"Really? I don't want to intrude on family matters, especially if Abbess Shepard's just returned from a tour of duty."

"No, no - what better way to show the human side of the Exitium? I know you expressed concern that people might only see the Exitium as a civilization of zealots and violence - not that any of us are opposed to worship or demon-slaying," Sofia adds, an impish smile plastered on her face. "But if there's anything more universal than a family united I'm not sure what is."

"I still feel like I'd be imposing."

"Amin explicitly said you wouldn't be."

"You're sure?"

"Of course," Sofia says, frowning. "Why would he not be alright with that?"

The Exitium's citizens, I have to remind myself, find discomfort in different places than the people of the Citadel. Privacy, while still important to the Exitium's peoples, doesn't quite occupy the same level of importance that it does in Citadel space. That's not to say that anyone wants to use the bathroom in public or anything like that, but people in the streets and in their homes are remarkably open to the idea of being recorded, shadowed, interviewed. They pray in the middle of the sidewalk; they dance in the streets when they feel like it. So it is that, an hour later, I'm in an auto-taxi (since the Exitium's citizens will actually pay extra to ride with a driver) on the way to the Shepard residence. The vehicle weaves up and down through Indomitable's various stacks; I pass all manner of buildings and even see what looks like another impromptu dance party outside an office building. The drive ends with an ascent to the very top stack of the city, where the sunset frames the sprawling megacity in a dim haze; the vehicle touches down at a landing pad shared by several buildings.

The Shepards' house is, I learn, typical of the style currently in vogue. They're a Noble family - a title which, in the Exitium, is more than a title of status; it's a burden and a responsibility that I'll learn much about in the future. In the moment, though, what strikes me is how small and normal-looking the house is compared to the mansions of Thessia's oldest lineages, or the grand estates of the salarian dynasts. It's a compact metal-wood house, three stories tall, on a decidedly average looking plot of land; taller than it is wide, with a tiny garden flanking the door and several flower baskets hanging from each front-facing window. And, of course, there are guns on the building. Bylaws and zoning regulations state that every building which can see the sky must have a weapons emplacement on the top ready to be deployed in case of emergency. The Shepard residence does not have their emplacement hidden; a massive triple-barreled cannon pokes into the sky, and a gun turret sits at every corner of the roof.

As I cross over from sidewalk to the pathway which snakes through the garden, I feel a warm, tingling sensation - stronger than the omnipresent feeling of warmth present in Indomitable - wash over me, and somehow I feel like my mind is being focused, any vestige of tiredness pushed out of my body. The flowers in the garden seem to sway as I pass, and I make my way up the short steps to the wooden front door. There's no doorbell, just a circular metal knocker sticking out of the door; I strike the door twice with it.

The door opens a few seconds later and I'm greeted with a very, very odd sight.

There's a girl - a young girl - standing before me, reaching up to my chest; her black hair is tied into a short ponytail and she's wearing what I think is a school uniform - a vest, a collared shirt and dress pants. Her face is covered in glowing blood-red runes, and pupils shift shape and colour every few seconds.

Also, she's holding a very small chainsword, which makes a noise that sounds like a blunt, broken blender trying to crush a mountain of rocks as it whirrs.

"Hi," the girl says, turning her chainsword off.

"Hi." I'm not sure how to respond; the girl's eyes are almost hypnotic as they pulse, her pupils rotating and shifting from sigil to rune to sigil.

"You look pretty funny," she says, blinking. "You're not here to sell anything, are you?"

"No?"

"Hmmmm." The girl tucks the chainblade into a sheath on her back and steps aside. "Oh! You're here for dinner, aren't you?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"Sorry. Mom told me we had someone coming over but, uh." She looks around conspiratorially and leans forward, a hand over her mouth as she whispers. "I totally wasn't listening."

I step through the doorway into a landing; the girl motions for me to take off my shoes when I hear stomping from a set of nearby stairs and a very, very cross voice that I recognize.

"Anastasia! Oh, so help me Slayer, did you ambush Miss T'vessa with your damn chainknife?"

The girl - Anastasia - twitches, stares at me, and shakes her head furiously. "Slayer's blessings upon you, milady, please, please, do not say anything about the chainsword." She blinks several times, mutters something under her breath, and I watch in astonishment as the blade and sheath strapped to her back just vanishes.

"No, mom, I just made sure she was who we invited," Anastasia replies, a cheeky grin plastered on her face. "Ah, Miss T'vessa, you can remove your shoes here," Anastasia says in a formal tone a world removed from the flippant, casual voice she used a second ago.

Hannah Shepard descends from the stairwell just as I finish removing my shoes and place them on a small rack in front of the door; out of armour, the Abbess still cuts an imposing figure. In her armour, she's probably just under eight feet tall; now, she still towers over me, easily reaching seven and a half feet in height. Her shaved head and rugged features are even more imposing; clad in a simple tank top and shorts, her lean, pure-muscle build and the runic tattoos which cover her bare arms and legs make her quite the sight to behold. She smiles, bows slightly and clasps my arms.

"Kerri T'vessa, it is a pleasure to have you here," Hannah says, warmth and happiness audible past her characteristically raspy voice. "I apologize if my daughter, ah, attempted to ambush you with her weapon."

"No, no, it's quite alright," I reply. "She just wanted to answer the door, I think. I rememebring being the same growing up."

Hannah frowns, looks at her daughter, and groans. "Young lady, I may not be a witch, but you're being stupid if you think that party trick of yours is going to fool me."

"What?" Anasatasia replies, her face the very picture of innocence (save for the pulsing runes and shifting pupils - I cannot stress how creepy it is to watch.)

"Anastasia Shanti Shepard, Slayer help me if you do not unveil your chainknife this instant I'm confiscating it for a month."

Anastasia grumbles something under her breath.

"Pardon me, young lady?" Hannah replies. "Care to repeat that out loud?"

"No," Anastasia says gruffly; her face stops pulsing for a moment, her eyes remain still for a second, and the weapon strapped to her back comes into view.

"Thank you," Hannah says in an exasperated voice. "I swear, one day you're going to try and ambush someone with that damn knife of yours and they're going to panic and kick your teeth in or something."

"I'm too fast for that," Anastasia shoots back.

"Like piss you are," Hannah replies, grinning.

"Lady Ryder says I'm real fast," Anastasia says with a grin. "Fastest in the class!"

"Your class, miss, is full of wizards and witches. You think you could beat any of the Young Sentinels in a footrace?"

"Of course!"

"Without blowing their legs up or setting them on fire?"

Anastasia is about to reply, stops, sighs. "Uugh. Come on, mom, you're making me look bad."

Hannah snorts. "Nothing you didn't do to yourself. Go on, get upstairs and get changed for dinner - your father's going to be home and he's going to have a fit if he finds out you ambushed someone at the front door again."

"Fine," Anastasia replies, heading into the stairwell. "You two are probably gonna start making out or something. I don't wanna be here for that."

Hannah watches the young girl go, and shakes her head with a smile. "She's a handful."

"Most kids are, I think. Babysitting was hard enough for me - I can't imagine being a mother." I shrug. "And really, she was having fun with me - there's no trouble."

Hannah sighs. "I know, I know. I'm sure she'll grow out of her permanent sarcasm and infinite reserves of snark - Slayer protect me, it can't come soon enough." She smiles at me, gestures at my coat. "I'll take your jacket, if you like - come in, take a seat." She gestures towards a living room beyond the stairwell; I make my way over to a set of comfortable armchairs and couches arranged around a small table with a holoprojector mounted in the middle. There's a small kitchen past the living room, and in the corner by the open door leading to the kitchen a cabinet full of various liquors and fancy glasses. Hannah all but glides into the room, smiles as she walks over to the cabinet and grins at me.

"Fancy a drink?" she asks.

"Well I'm in no position to turn my host down if one's being offered," I reply.

Hannah barks a laugh, grins. "How very ladylike of you! What sorts of drinking do you enjoy? Flavours, preferences?"

A few minutes later, Hannah selects a bottle of tej-isuki, a sort of honey-infused, fermented grain alcohol. She pours us both a bit, and she takes a seat in the armchair across from mine.

"Well," she says, after draining her glass in a single draw, "I must say I was surprised to get a call from Adjutant Traynor saying that you, of all people, wanted to shadow my husband."

"I figured it was an opportunity I didn't want to pass on."

"True, true enough - personally, I'd have recommended you start with someone in the military, but that's just the grousing of an old soldier." Hannah smiles, refills her glass (this time to the top) and sips at it. "Really, the only question is whether you'd like to stay with us or not."

"If I wouldn't be imposing on the family, I think it'd be a good chance to see how people live in the Exitium."

Hannah nods slowly, expression thoughtful. "Yes, yes. I see. Well, we've got a spare room - two, actually - and our family dynamic is simple enough. There'd be little for your to intrude on and we'd welcome a guest in the house."

"What do you mean by simple?"

"Well, I have some time off - I just finished a four month tour of duty. I'll be involved with training some of the soldiers who came from the Citadel with you, but it's not full-time work; Amin doesn't work on the weekends and is usually home in the afternoon," Hannah says, shrugging. "At worst, he might stay a bit late if he's got extra work."

"And Anastasia?"

Hannah shakes her head with a warm smile. "Rambunctious and has too much energy - but she has lessons five days a week, and usually spends the weekend out in the city gallivanting about with her friends," she says, rolling her eyes. "Having a guest - especially one that's a journalist - might get the rascal to learn a bit of formality."

I tell Abbess Shepard that I'm honoured by the offer; she grins.

"The honour is mine, Miss T'Vessa. If you're accepting, let me say that I can't wait to see what you think of the how the Exitium's peoples live their daily life."

Later that evening, Amin Shepard - an ex-warmage and university professor with a degree in "Applied Hermetic Logistics" - joins the family for dinner - after he and Hannah share a long embrace and a kiss that makes Anastasia complain - and we chat over a meal of roasted pork, a fermented seafood-vegetable mix called kimchi and plenty of rice. We figure our living arrangements which will kick in at the end of the week - I'm going to be living in one a guestroom that the family's been storing odds and ends in - and begin working on a shadowing schedule. The only person I'll have to speak to directly to see if I'm allowed to shadow is Anastasia's sorcery teacher; apparently there are parts of sorcery training for young wizards and witches which are something of a closed, if not private affair that's only open to outsiders upon request.

Anastasia is told to get ready for bed, and once she's out of earshot I pause, wonder if I should ask what I want to, when Amin nods at me with a knowing look.

"You can ask," he says, his expression one of something I think resembles consternation.

"Are you sure?"

"I saw your face when we mentioned the empty room - not the guestroom," he replies.

"I don't want to presume the right."

"You have every right," Hannah says slowly. "Inquistive thought is not a sin, Kerri."

Amin sighs, and Hannah takes a deep breath.

"And don't be sorry," Amin says, shaking his head. "It's important. People should know about our what we - the Exitium - go through on a daily basis."

"You have a good sense for things," Hannah says, smiling sadly. "I imagine you figured out the truth of the matter. Anastasia's twin, Rahmi. He was slain during a vacation, when he and Anastasia were only six." Hannah's eyes water a bit, but her expression is one of incredible, fierce pride. "He died saving Anastasia - tackled her out of the way of an imp, and in his dying breath managed to stab the cursed creature in the neck with a rune-knife he'd taken off someone else's dead body. Six years old and he had the fire and the anger of the Slayer in him," she says, shaking her head.

"Slayer's blessings upon him - what an incredible boy. Even for an adult, that would have been an honourable way to die," Amin says in a distant voice, holding his wife tightly. "Anastasia - Slayer protect her - she says he died without much pain. And Anastasia, without even knowing how, absorbed both the imp and Rahmi's souls." He pauses. "You should record this," he continues. "We were lucky to have one of our children survive, Kerri. For many - too many - in the Exitium, there is no such luck. Children taken from parents; parents taken from children."

"Sister Nought," I say.

Hannah nods. "I like to think Sister Nought exceptional in character - but in circumstance, she's hardly alone. I did not know my parents for more than a handful of years - and while Amin knew his, he lost more than his fair share of relatives to the unholy filth of Hell." Hannah shrugs. "The Church of the Lector says that suffering of the individual must be mourned - but the suffering of the many is a necessary evil. In all the years of the Exalted Exitium - and even before, if the records are be believed - we have all sacrificed so much."

Amin nods, expression sombre. "This is our life, Miss T'Vessa. We die in countless numbers every day so that the children may one day, far, far into the future, awake one morning and find themselves free of the War Eternal."

I ask them what they'd do if, by magic, the War on Hell were to end tomorrow.

Both adults - their expressions both tired and full of conviction - look at me, then each other, shaking their heads.

"I...I don't know," Hannah admits.

"The War Eternal, over," Amin said slowly, eyes closed. "You must understand, Kerri, that talk of such things is...hard for us."

"Emotionally?"

"Perhaps," Amin says with a wave of his hand. "It's...how can I put it. The War Eternal not being all-consuming and ever-enduring is just how our world is. Oh, we know it will end one day in victory, but - in our lifetime, let alone tomorrow? Conceptually, intellectually, I know it is possible. Here," he says, touching his chest, "I do not feel it to be possible."

There's a long silence.

"I think," Hannah says solemnly, "I should like to be a poet. I never had the talent for the pen - not in poetry or writing in general, for that matter, but if I had all the time in the galaxy? I could, if not be exceptional at wordsmithing, at least devote more than a token amount of time to it."

"And I would still teach," Amin continues, "but the logistics would be of pleasure and design for its own sake. Not for war." He looks off into the distance, eyes trailing up to the ceiling and his daughter above. "I would like to create, for creation's sake. Not for the War Eternal, if such a thing can be said to exist."

"But in the mean time," Hannah says, taking hold of her husband's hand, "we will simply make do with our current stations." She smiles, this time without any trace of sorrow or hesitation. "If there is one thing that the Exitium's good at, it's being patient, Kerri."

Amin smirks. "Not that you'd ever know it from watching my wife or my daughter."

I stay for another hour or so; we chat about lesser topics, enjoy drink and each others company. Before long, I'm hailing another auto-taxi to return to the hotel, a small, old piece of parchment in my pocket. A gift from Hannah, relinquished only after her husband and I ply her with both drink and reassurance.

It's a poem she wrote a few years ago, not long after Anastasia was accepted into the Church of the Seraph - right around when the higher-ups in the Church of the Seraph informed her that Anastasia had the power to become a witch of incredible power and prowess.

"If you're going to let everyone read my drivel," Hannah says, clearly both happy for the praise and frustrated by our conviction to have her pass this token along, "the least you can do is explain to them that I'm not all that fond of the work, at least mechanically."

I don't think the quality of it matters, in the end.

It's a little thing written by a mother who, despite all her love of war and demon-slaying and reverence for the Doom Slayer religion, just wants what's best for her surviving child.

---

Untitled, by Hannah Shepard

My child is to be a witch;

in the annals they are to call her sorceress-exalt, She

who wades knee-deep in the dead with hands raised

like shadowed fists in the sky.

Sometimes I dream that we will grow old,

dare I hope

(together)

But dreams are for the tired and

the call comes not for a tired mother

but for the Abbess who does not dream of peace.

---

THE EXITIUM JOURNALS
ENTRY FOUR: MATRIARCH
JUNE 30TH, 2157
(32ND OF THE THIRD UMBRAL WIND, YEAR 1157 OF THE TWENTY-SIXTH AGE)
Indomitable, Gaia

Rather than immediately barge into an elementary or high school, I figure it'd be best to start with something a little less intrusive. I spend the next few days shadowing Professor Amin Shepard around his place of work, the University Central of Indomitable - the premier educational institute of the entire Exitium.

It's actually a lot more boring than I expect it to be. Yes, the magic Amin uses and designs is astounding; with little more than two assistants. magic blueprints and a small satchel full of common supplies (metal ingots, chalk, plant leaves and liquids) he's able to summon buildings, shelters and all manner of objects out of thin air - but to be honest most of his day is spent lecturing undergraduate students, marking papers and meeting with his teaching assistants. His colleagues are far too busy to express much interest in my presence - especially when they learn that my grasp of biotics is actually rather limited. The finer points of Amin's magitechnology and arcane rituals are lost on me; he is, first and foremost, an expert, and while his own work is interesting it's far from my level of comprehension.

I'd be capable of learning it, he explains. All I have to do is take the eight to ten years of relentless studying, like the other undergraduates who sit through endless days of horrifyingly complex lectures on magic arrays, aetherflow, mana-willpower conversion tables and arithmancy.

I politely decline. The sciences were never my strong suit, and somehow I don't imagine I'll have the knack for this, either.

It also worries me that, less than a week into my possibly ten-year stay into the Exitium, magic - literal magic - is becoming boring to me. Maybe it's because the results of magic are incredible, but now that I've gotten a behind-the-scenes look at the work going into it the, ahem, magic, if you'll excuse the phrase, is gone. It's clear that sorcery in the Exitium isn't a wave of the hand and some magic words - there's long hours of dedicated practice and science that goes into the casting of even the simplest spell.

So it is that I find myself ready to follow Anastasia Shepard, witch-in-training, around for a day - not just her in particular, but at the life of children in the Exitium.

The day starts like any other; I wake up with the rest of the Shepard family at six in the morning when the call to prayer goes out. Amin and Hannah are devout followers of the Doom Slayer religion, though Amin also follows a religion called "zensufism," itself a combination of two pre-First Age religions that can trace a lineage all the way back to the lost human homeworld. Anastasia joins her parents at the shrine on the ground floor, though like any adolescent made to sit still for more than a few minutes she's noticeably twitchy during the morning's readings, which last about six minutes today. After that, it's a furious scramble as Anastasia looks for a clean uniform to wear - she has "forgotten" to do her laundry, which is apparently a common occurrence - and manages to devour a small pile of sliced, heavily-spiced lamb for breakfast. (The fruits her mother insists that she eats is tucked into her satchel; Anastasia insists that she eats the fruits every day during lunch. (Given my own behaviour as a child and the entirely unconvincing look on Anastasia's face, neither I nor her parents are terribly inclined to believe that she doesn't just trade the fruits away for something else.)

A school transport arrives, and in short order Anastasia - book-bag slung over her shoulder - sprints out the door and is promptly whisked away. I hail an auto-taxi, and set the destination not for Anastasia's school, but rather the sub-division school board. I arrive about fifteen minutes later at a massive ten-storey complex nestled between Idomitable's second and third stacks, plain and unadorned in its stark metal glory save for the Slayer's Sigil emblazoned above the door. The Church of the Lector has several hundred such complexes spread throughout the city; each school board, I'm told, is responsible for anywhere between six to twenty schools ranging from preschool-daycare all the way to the fourteenth grade. I spend most of the working / schooling day in meetings with administrators who go over rules and regulations regarding what footage I'm allowed to record (basically none, which I'm more than okay with) and what I'm allowed to write about (anything that doesn't violate the privacy of a child with the caveat that guardians of said children hold final say over anything I intend to publish.) The meetings finish about an hour before the school day's over; one of the administrators passes along a preschool-to-fourteen syllabus which, while not exhaustive, covers all of the desired learning outcomes of the Exitium.

Even just flipping through the physical book is an experience, to say the least. I'll probably end up dedicating part of, if not an entire entry at some point to dissecting the almost bizarrely wide amount of topics the Exitium's children are expected to have, at minimum, a passing familiarity with. Suffice to say that it's a curriculum where "introduction to classic literature" and "elements of poetry" sit next to "rudimentary rune magic," "basic anti-demonic survival warfare tactics" and "house-care skills."

Soon it's four in the afternoon, which means primary schooling time is over and secondary training begins; for those who are eleven years of age, one year away from graduating to being a "young adult" in the eyes of the Exitium, the day is far from over. Children who desire a life outside the military head to job-shadowing positions, mandatory extracurricular activities, government-sponsored field trips and more; for Anastasia and others who already hear the call of the War Eternal, there's only one thing to do: combat training. Anastasia and several of her classmates are headed to the Cathedral of the Winged, the largest complex owned by the Church of the Seraph within city limits; I make my way there by taxi after grabbing a late lunch at a cafe. (Coffee, as it turns out, is much like any other stimulant drink - available in a myriad of forms, from somewhat palatable instant powder to wallet-shatteringly expensive. I settle for something in the middle.)

The building is a world, an entire reality apart from the comparatively small and featureless school board building. It's massive, occupying almost a quarter of the city's fifth stack; the architecture is classic Exitium - spires, stained glass, and liquid metal insets that flow all around the building exterior in a mesmerizing pattern. I step out of the taxi and step onto the Cathedral grounds proper; orderlies go about, working in the gardens without tools. Robed mages prune hedges and revitalize flowers with nothing but their bare hands. The magic here is so thick that, walking through the gardens, it almost feels like I'm wading through knee-deep water, or fighting my way through an invisible storm of warm, all-encompassing heat. The air here smells different - almost like a blown-out wax candle - and I can't tell if I'm refreshed or perturbed by the atmosphere.

None of the orderlies pays me any mind - until a gaunt woman in robes of pure white with pale skin and short, black hair in a bob cut glides out of the church, her bare feet hovering several inches off the ground. She floats to me, bows, clasps my arms in a gentle, firm grasp.

"Miss T'Vessa," the woman says in a voice that is so smooth and silky that I almost lose track of my thoughts for a moment.

"Uh. Exalted Matriarch Ryder?"

She smiles. "Yes. Please. Come. I have so much to show you."

The interior of the cathedral is breathtaking; the interior is made of wood and various black ores polished to a sheen. There are emergency lights in the ceiling, but they're turned off; illumination comes from floating white cubes which are strewn around the ceiling. Along the walls and ceiling, runic inscriptions are weaved together with carved wall murals and integrated into banners and tapestries; as we walk down the main corridor there's an unbroken picture depicted in liquid metal "paint" that depicts both human and Redeemed wizards and witches throughout the Exitium's history from all the way back to the Second Age (around 45,000 Before Council Era). Clergy and warmages-in-training, old and young alike, scurry through the corridors.

"This is the Church of the Seraph's largest cathedral within the city of Indomitable," Ellen Ryder says as she floats down the long, winding corridor of the main hall; she waves, bows at many of the adults we pass. "Where the Lectors teach and educate, we concern ourselves with the practices of magic and ritual."

"Right," I say. "I was here to see your sorcery training class, but as I understand it you also function as a museum and a repository for all things magical."

"Yes," Ellen says, turning to face me as she floats backwards into the depths of the cathedral; we begin to pass by classrooms filled with young adults. Flashes of bright lights sometimes flare, visible briefly beyond the classroom doors. "We train the young in the ways of sorcery; we teach hermetic rituals to anyone with the time."

"And thaumaturgy?"

Ellen's face becomes tight - not upset, but firm. "Theurgy is a powerful thing, Miss T'Vessa. The power to wield sorcery and perform hermetics is a great burden already - and the power to make miracles? It is an order of magnitude more dangerous once you pass beyond the absolute basics of healing wards."

"It's not taught on-site?"

"The basics are. How to heal physical and spiritual injuries - we work with the Church of the Saviour to teach magical aids, yes. But applied theurgics, as some will call it, no. Not here. That is done in safer, more remote grounds, under closer supervision." Ellen lifts up the right sleeve of her robe as we come to a stop before an incredible set of double doors; the doors themselves are wooden, but are intricately decorated with a complex carved magic array. I glance over and flinch as I take in the sight.

Exalted High Matriarch Ellen Ryder, who floats above the ground and speaks with supernatural smoothness, has...something on her right arm. Her pale skin, from her upper arm to the middle of her forearm, is barely visible beneath a black, pulsating mass of seething tendrils which flow in and out of her skin.

I can't respond.

She shrugs. "The result of an accident made in my youth," she says with a weak smile. "Back when I was Sorceress-Major Ryder. I thought myself a prodigy, thought that I stood above my peers in ability and power. My teachers said to me that some magics are beyond all but the most powerful; I disregarded them, and this corruption has been the price."

"Does it hurt? Are you in danger?"

"It doesn't hurt, not any more," Matriarch Ryder replies. "Nearly five years, however, of incredible, unceasing pain - I vowed to get it under control. Now it simply itches sometimes - and it acts as both a limiter on my power and a reminder of the dangers of hubris. And, if I wanted it, I could purge my soul of this...stain, at any time. But it serves as a lesson to me and to my students, and so I keep it," she says, rolling her sleeve back over her arm.

She pushes the double doors open, then descends to the ground. Beyond is another hall, this one silent save for the quiet praying of a few priests and preistesses; spread amongst the prayer cushions and seats, the room is full of several glass cases, each one housing some sort of figure. Ellen beckons for me to follow her, and I realize that the walls themselves house hundreds of these figures. I stop, take a closer look, and, as is common, am bewildered once more.

They're action figures and plush toys.

There's absolutely no denying the fact that, housed behind thick protective shielding and prayed to like the totems of a great god, these are still toys.

"Totems," Ellen says with hushed reverence. "Sometimes, maybe once an Age, or once every few Ages, when the Doom Slayer, blessed be His name, graces us with His presence, he leaves behind one of his prized totems." She glides over to one of the cases, strokes the glass with a finger. "This one was always my favourite," she says.

It looks like a child's stuffed toy; the animal is a small, white, furry creature with long ears and a small bob tail.

"It resembles a child's plush," I say carefully.

"Mmm. He has gifted us with many of these animals," Ellen says, shaking her head. "It is said in the Book of the Sorrows that the Doom Slayer Himself once had such an animals as his companion. Rabbit, he calls these animals." Her expression is both whimsical and sad. "In all our years, though, we have no record of them. Perhaps they were native to our lost homeworld - who can say? Now, this is the only reminder of what He must once have known and cherished."

"So, the Doom Slayer - he carried, or carries around this collection of...figurines and toys with him?" I walk over to a case containing several stylized figurines of a humanoid soldier in some sort of armour; the figures are old, scratched and their paint is losing its luster, but I can tell that they were once all coloured in different schemes. A small plaque indicates that these totems bear faded markings; based on them, these are named "FKO-P" totems, for the only legible lettering on them.

"We believe so," Ellen responds. "The Exitium's possessed spatial compression magic - I'm sure you're familiar with it by now - for a long, long time, but we have never reached the level of power the Doom Slayer's blessed armour has. We have seen Him store hundreds of weapons and many month's worth of provision in his armour. In his hand one moment, gone the next. He has granted us so many of his totems," she says, gesturing to the various items in the room. "We are blessed, Miss T'Vessa. Very blessed indeed."

"Do you have a hard number?"

"Eighty seven. We have lost a few to demonic incursion, but it's been around that number now for an entire Age - two thousand years." Ellen sighs. "They say that in the Third Age, He bestowed a grand room of thousands of his prized totems upon humanity. Whether that's true or not, I'm in no position to say, but I sometimes think of the majesty such a collection would no doubt possess."

Have I mentioned how Goddess-damned weird the Exitium is?

I'm talking to a woman who, from what I've read, can literally melt the minds and souls of thousands of demons with a swish of her hand, and she's approaching rapture over a collection of plush toys and action figurines - which are apparently the prized possessions of a divinely-charged war-demigod.

We stay in the room for a little longer; Ellen does a loop of the entire room, stopping several times to pray in front of specific totems - I feel like I'm somehow belittling these people if I call them toys - before she circles back around to me.

"Well, Miss T'Vessa, we're not here just to pray and look at old relics," she says with a wan smile. "If it takes your fancy, would you like to observe some sorcery?"

Matriarch Ryder leads me through several corridors and down six flights of stairs; thinking about it afterwards, I don't recall seeing the Cathedral of the Winged stretching beneath the stack it sits on but figure that it's either an efficient use of space - or spatial-compression magic. Maybe both. In the moment, I forget to ask.

The first five basements are a mix of storage, kitchens, living quarters and classrooms, but basement six has only one function: training. Beyond the stairwell is a long corridor with transparent windows overlooking about a dozen gymnasiums. Each one is filled with three two four dozen people - from young children to those in their late teens - either waiting for lessons to start or hard at work practicing magic. The first gym we pass on the left is composed of children who Matriarch Ryder tells me are all between the ages of six and nine; they are, like their instructors, clad in white robes and sitting in various meditative positions.

"Becoming a full-time mage is a long, arduous process - but children do not see that. No, they see a church full of witches, warlocks, wizards and sorceresses - and they sacrifice time elsewhere to learn magic," Ellen said with a smile.

"How many of these children will go on to study in the Church of the Seraph?"

"Most stick around, at least until they near graduation from school - though they might take less lessons, split their time between other ventures. We encourage it; it's best for a child to have options, room to grow and learn. But full time?" Ellen cocks her head, thinks. "I'd say that, if you had a theoretical class of one hundred high school graduates, only ten or so would go on to be full-time Seraphs."

"Is that a result of strict requirements? Is life in this church difficult?"

"Mmm. Yes. You saw the, ah, rigors of university-level magic studies with Professor Shepard - so I know you're not under any illusions about the complexity that magic can pose," Ellen affirms, nodding. "We have very exacting requirements to full-time applicants, but any soldier or citizen can study magic, even combat magic. But to devote one's life to the Seraphic orders, to focus on honing the mind into a weapon is...difficult, to say the least."

I ask when she made the decision to join; she smirks.

"I was one of those children who knew I was going to be a witch," she replies with a confident tone. "When my classmates were dueling with swords, cooking meals, studying the sciences or penning song, I cared only about power. Mastery over magic." She taps her corrupted arm. "A little too driven for my own good, but I think it's worked out all the same."

We walk down the hall to the second-last gymnasium; Anastasia and several other children around her age, some in school uniform and others in white mage-robes are chatting, eating snacks and relaxing. We take a small stairway down from the overlook and the children all get to their feet; Anastasia grins, waves, and I wave back. Ellen stops walking and begins floating once more, and when she speaks she's no longer the Matriarch who has given me a tour of the Cathedral she calls home. Her voice, now, is that of the Exalted Matriarch - the one whose magic carves terrible, bloody swaths through the hordes of Hell.

"Good afternoon, children," she says, silk-smooth voice now an iron wall.

"Good afternoon, Exalted Matriarch," the children respond.

"I see we're all here - wonderful. I trust you've all done your homework?"

The children nod solemnly.

"Excellent. We'll begin with some warm-ups, as usual."

One of the boys raises his hand and speaks when Ellen nods at him. "Miss Ryder, who's the blue lady?"

"A visitor from the Citadel," Ellen said with a smile and a nod at me. "She's a journalist - so best behaviour, please." The children all look at one another, muttering; Ellen gives them a moment before snapping her fingers so loudly that it echoes off the walls of the gymnasium. "Please take up a comforatble position, and we'll start with purge-fire. Three fireballs, controlled, small size, aimed at the targets on the wall." Ellen waves her left hand slightly, and a series of imp-shaped targets materializes on the far wall; the children line up in a row and the gym's air seems to take on a slightly smoky smell.

Anastasia - and the other children - light up as their faces began to flicker with flashing runes; some of their eyes began to shift colours as their pupils take on odd sigil-shaped forms. The children all raise a hand, and there's a stunning crack-thoom noise as bright-blue fireballs suddenly shoot out from their hands, slamming into the targets.

None of them miss.

Ellen snaps her fingers again. "Halt! No misses - well done, all of you." She floats forward, scanning the children. "Castillo," she says, standing in front of the dark-skinned boy on the far left.

"Ma'am."

"Not bad, but you need to work on your mana-tap speed. Your fire itself is fine, but your draw time's a tad slow. Try and see if you can't open your channels a bit faster - and remember, don't yank, pull."

"Got it," the boy says, flexing his hands; small motes of fire dance around his fingers as he adopts a thoughtful expression.

"Shepard," Ellen continues, stopping in front of Anastasia. "Stop trying to get fancy with your mana recycling."

Anastasia looks confused, and Ellen rolls her eyes.

"You can work on shutting your mana channels down and absorbing excess energy once you learn how to consistently seal your channels properly. You're not letting your residuals burn out before you shut your channel - keep that up and one day you're going to blowback and burn your arm off. If you're lucky."

"Sorry, ma'am," Anastasia says sheepishly.

"Don't be sorry - just take things one step at a time. Nobody wants to have to carry your smoking corpse upstairs to the healers."

Ellen continues down the line, dispensing information and guidance in a way that reminds me of a schoolteacher that is both stern and caring. Once she's finished, she floats back to her original spot closer to me and snaps her fingers; the scorched imp targets on the wall flicker, and suddenly look pristine. "Three fireballs, and remember - slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Again!"

The next hour passes in a whirlwind of fireballs and lightning; these, apparently, are the two basic combat spells that every would-be combat mage starts with. As I'm lead to understand it, each represents a different style of sorcery, laying a specific lesson and groundwork for more complicated spellcasting. Sorcery, if I'm not mistaken, involves tapping into the magic channels that every living creature possesses, forcing the "aether" that sits between normal space and Hell into the body through force of will and soul-stamina. Fireballs force the children to manipulate "aetherflow" into a mass of energy before launching it away from them with an almost explosive sort of force. Lightning, on the other hand, is a way to teach the children to keep a sustained "breach" between the aether and real space open as they direct a steady stream of sorcerous power out of their fingers.

It's incredible to watch and powerful to the senses; every time the children open their magic channels and draw on their power the air silently crackles with a heavy, skin-tingling shock.

After the hour is up, the children - who are all panting, exhausted and drained of stamina both physical and magical - slump over into the corner of the gym by the bleachers and eagerly begin tearing into snacks. (Anastasia makes eye contact with me, pulls the fruit from this morning out of her bag and eats it.) Ellen smiles as she floats over to me, and pats me on the shoulder.

"Was that fun to watch, Miss T'Vessa?"

"It was."

"I did wonder," Ellen says, "if it resembles the way your asari peoples train in biotics."

I frown, explain that I never really nurtured the talent or paid much attention to it beyond the absolute basics; Ellen nods after a moment and is about to say something when one of the kids, Jacob, jumps to his feet.

"Exalted Matriarch, can we see the chain lightning today?" he asks, grinning. The kids all begin to shout in agreement, and Ellen grins.

"Only because you've all been good today," the Matriarch replies. "You're not in any danger, Kerri, but you might want to stand back a little."

I step back.

Ellen breathes and the entire room seems to shudder.

I've watched powerful asari commandos let loose with their biotics; I've watched their bodies flare with the blue-black swirl of their power. This is different. Biotics are cool. Calm. When you watch a skilled biotic operator pull out all the stops, it's like watching a floodgate being opened.

This is more like setting fire to a pool full of gas.

Ellen's body begins to pulse and flicker with an angry, black-red aura that audibly hisses, spits and crackles. She raises a hand, twitches a finger - and the entire gym lights up and fills with a terrifying screech as a dozen white-red lances of light blast into the wall's imp targets. Satisfied, Ellen's aura dissipates, and the children cheer.

I let out the breath I was holding.