The shuttle hummed softly as it cut through the crisp mountain air, leaving the peaks behind and descending toward the city below. Skyhold was now a distant blur, replaced by the structured sprawl of Vael'Theron, its layout a seamless blend of nature and precision.

As they flew over the city, Andersson observed the residents going about their day—marketplaces bustling with traders exchanging goods, shops opening their doors, and workers preparing for the day's tasks. It wasn't the rigid order of an industrialized society, nor was it chaotic; everything moved with an unspoken rhythm, a balance of purpose and ease.

The shuttle angled toward the spaceport, a sleek, structured hub where Stonari engineers, Qunari dockworkers, and Elarin pilots moved in synchronized efficiency. The hum of trade and diplomacy filled the air, the lifeblood of a city that had long stood at the crossroads of nations.

As the shuttle began its descent, Andersson took a steady breath. Whatever awaited them here, it was time to face it.

As the hatch hisses open, Andersson, Reece, and Hale step out onto solid ground, the warmth of Thedas's suns stark against the cool metal beneath their boots. The air is thick with the scent of heated metal and engine grease, the unmistakable atmosphere of a spaceport in motion.

Waiting for them at the foot of the ramp is an Stonari engineer, her stance wide, arms crossed over her chest, boots planted firmly like she owns the very ground she stands on.

She's built compact and sturdy, her frame wrapped in a heavily stained engineer's jumpsuit that might have once been a neutral grey but is now a permanent patchwork of grease, soot, and burn marks. The reinforced fabric is scuffed and patched in places, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms crisscrossed with faint burn scars—evidence of a life spent too close to open flames and sparking machinery. A well-worn utility belt hangs low on her hips, weighed down with an assortment of tools, datapads, and a wrench so large it could probably double as a melee weapon in a pinch.

A pair of thick welding goggles rest on her forehead, pushing back the unruly mess of auburn hair that has clearly resisted every attempt to be tamed. Loose strands curl against her temples, dusted with the fine residue of metal shavings and engine soot. Her face is freckled and flushed from long hours spent in engine bays, lined with the telltale signs of someone who has never known an easy day's work. Her sharp, mismatched eyes—one a piercing blue, the other deep green—sweep over them with a mechanic's practiced efficiency, already cataloging every potential problem before anyone speaks.

When she finally does, her voice carries the sharp, clipped tone of someone who knows she's the best at what she does—and has no time to convince anyone else of it.

She doesn't bow—just nods, sharp and efficient—as she wipes her hands on a rag that only makes them dirtier.

"Cap'n Andersson," she says, sizing him up with a look that could probably disassemble a fusion coil. "I'm Branka Aeducan. Head engineer of this mess."

Her mismatched eyes flick over him again—once from boots to brow, and then, with a smirk:

"So you're the famous Shemlen I've been hearing about… cute. Well, down to business."

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder, toward the towering silhouette of the Pathfinder behind her.

"Your ship's done."

There's no ceremony in her words, no drawn-out explanation. Just the blunt confidence of someone who has worked miracles with duct tape and sheer willpower, and isn't about to waste time explaining how.

Andersson raises an eyebrow at the bluntness, crossing his arms as he takes in the grease-streaked engineer in front of him. "Done?" he repeats, skepticism laced through his tone. "That fast?"

Branka snorts, jerking a thumb toward the landing pads. "What, you wanted it to take longer? Maybe I should've thrown in a few extra delays for the sake of drama." She wipes her hands on a rag, not even bothering to check if it helped. "The ship's done, Cap'n. Better than done. It's damn near perfect. If you've got complaints, keep 'em to yourself 'til you break orbit."

Hale leans toward Reece, voice low but amused. "I like her."

Reece smirks. "Same. She doesn't hold back."

Andersson exhales sharply, shaking his head with a half-smile. "Alright, let's see it then."

Branka grins, already turning on her heel. "Now you're talking."

He follows her gesture, and his breath catches in his throat.

The Pathfinder stands before them, transformed.

It was always a sleek, cutting-edge vessel, by Earth standards. But now, it looks almost unreal—like a blade, forged anew.

Its long, narrow hull maintains its familiar shape, but the metal gleams in the sunlight with an almost unnatural smoothness. The ship's gunmetal grey plating, accented by bold white and black markings, reflects the light in a way that makes it seem like it's alive. The Systems Alliance insignia stands proudly along the sides, a stark reminder of its origins.

The ship's name, "SSV Pathfinder," and its registration, SR-1, are emblazoned in clean, white lettering along the hull—sharp, pristine, as if freshly painted.

The forward section tapers smoothly into a sharp nose, subtly curving downward, giving it an aggressive, aerodynamic profile. It almost feels faster just looking at it.

From the midsection, where there were once two engine nacelles, there are now four—two original ones extended and reinforced, while an additional, shorter nacelle sits on each side. The redesign shifts the ship's silhouette into something sharper, more angular—almost triangular in profile. It looks heavier now. Meaner. Not just sleeker, but sturdier, more imposing. The kind of vessel that doesn't just fly into battle, but dares others to stop it. The change isn't just cosmetic; it speaks to something deeper. Purpose. Power. Efficiency born from necessity.

Reece tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as he takes it in. "You added extra engines."

Branka scoffs, arms crossing over her chest. "You needed them. The new mass effect core requires an extra bleed for the run-off, and without it, you'd be lucky to hit a fraction of your old speed without cooking half your systems."

Hale frowns. "Mass effect core? What's that?"

Branka levels her with a look, like she's just been asked what air is. "Well, we had to replace that crude nuclear fission reactor you were flying around with—a ticking time bomb, by the way. You're welcome. All our ships run on mass effect cores. More efficient power distribution, faster and safer FTL, and—most importantly—it lets you use the mass relays properly."

Reece nods slowly, trying—and failing—to look like he understands completely.

Branka rolls her eyes but doesn't call him out on it. Instead, she gestures toward the ship. "Just know this—your baby? She's better. Stronger. Faster. And if you don't treat her right, I'll take it personally."

Hale lets out a low whistle, stepping forward, inspecting the hull like she needs to touch it just to confirm it's real. "I don't know what's more impressive—the fact that you fixed it in one night, or the fact that it looks like it just rolled off the assembly line."

Branka smirks, clearly enjoying their disbelief. "Aye, we're good—but this wasn't just a repair job." She plants her hands on her hips, tilting her head toward the ship with the satisfaction of someone who's already won the argument.

"Your Alliance tech? Ancient compared to ours. Obsolete. We had to rip it out and start again. Kept what we could—very little. We kept the overall feel, including your somewhat…unconventional layout. But she's a brand-new ship now. Designed to work in this galaxy."

She starts counting off on grease-streaked fingers. "Out here, we overhauled the hull plating—strengthened it with Thedan alloys you've probably never even heard of. She can handle more than a gentle breeze now without crumpling like foil."

"Upgraded the sensor array too—you should be able to detect stuff before it comes up and bites you in the ass this time."

"Inside we replaced the drive core. All new power systems. Yanked out that joke of an 'emergency bulkhead' system and swapped it with mass effect forcefields. So if your hull breaches—and let's be honest, it will—containment's instant. None of this 'wait for the big metal sheet to slowly descend' nonsense."

She gives a quick, near-silent snort at the absurdity of it all.

"Upgraded your weapons too. I don't know what damage you thought those laser pens were doing, but at least now you've got a chance of not getting your butts kicked."

She ticks another finger.

"Whole new defensive array—adaptive mass effect shielding. Brand-new comms system. Integrated translation matrix. You can say hi to all your new pals without needing to bang on the hull and hope they understand whatever ancient code you use. Honestly, I'm shocked you picked up any signals on that relic you were using when you arrived."

Branka leads them up the ramp and through the airlock. The moment they step inside—just past the gear-up bay and into the area between the CIC and the main corridor—it hits them.

The layout's familiar. The configuration hasn't changed much. But everything else?

Completely different.

The lighting is softer, richer, with a clean, ambient glow that seems to adjust as they move. The holo displays are now a crisp amber, sharper than anything they've seen before.

Even the old-style control panels—once clunky slabs of metal and flickering screens—are gone. In their place, fully holographic interfaces rise from the consoles, intuitive and fluid, responding to gestures with zero delay. Every panel is crystal clear—no lag, no static interference, just flawless precision. Console readouts hover in perfect sync with their stations, responding before fingertips even touch them. The workstations—once boxy and isolated—now blend into the surrounding structure with sleek precision, every detail engineered for cohesion and clarity.

It's still the Pathfinder, but it doesn't feel like an Alliance vessel anymore.

It feels alive. Sophisticated. Like someone took a reliable freighter and upgraded it into a flagship.

Or, as Reece mutters under his breath, "We went from budget barracks to luxury cruiser overnight."

Branka smirks, clearly hearing him. "Damn right you did," as they step into the newly revamped bridge. "So—your control interfaces have all been upgraded. No more push buttons or touch screens for you, sweetheart," she says, shooting Reece a look. "All holographic now. Bit of that adaptive crap the Elarin love, mixed with tactile feedback so you don't fly it like a ghost."

Reece eyes the setup warily. "Am I still gonna be able to fly this thing?"

Branka chuckles, wiping her hands on her jumpsuit. "Relax, darlin'. We adapted the systems to work the same way you're used to. Thought you might want to cling to your charmingly outdated way of doing things," she adds with a wink.

Andersson crosses his arms. "How very considerate of you."

For once, Hale is speechless. Her mouth is almost dragging along the floor as she stares around the bridge and CIC, trying—and failing—to reconcile what she's seeing with the ship she used to know.

Branka leads them to the stairwell, her boots clanking against the newly polished deck. She pops open the door to the briefing room with a casual flick of her wrist.

"Not much to do in here," she says, stepping aside so they can enter. "Just a refurb—better table, new chairs, upgraded lighting, holo displays that actually work."

The space looks larger somehow, as if the new furniture—sleek, angular, clearly expensive—had been designed to breathe instead of dominate. It still felt utilitarian, but there was a plushness now. Thoughtful. Efficient. Like someone had finally admitted this room was for more than just war plans and awkward silences.

They head down the stairs to the crew deck. The large gash that had once torn through the starboard side of the hull was gone—rebuilt so seamlessly it was hard to imagine it had ever been there. The deck gleamed. Pristine.

Branka jerked her chin toward the medbay as they passed. "That's had an overhaul too. New equipment you'll probably never figure out how to use. New medicines that can, you know, actually cure things. Scanners that don't beep at every shadow. Might even survive if you scrape your knee now."

She tossed a look over her shoulder, grin widening. "Just need a ship's doctor. But we'll get to that."

Andersson, now fully resigned to the relentless barrage of commentary, simply nodded. He was starting to understand—this was Branka being polite.

As they moved past the shower bays and toilets, Branka tossed a thumb toward the newly installed units.

"New shower and waste systems. Top of the line."

Reece raised an eyebrow. "Like the ones at Skyhold?"

Branka shot him a grin that could strip paint. "That's right, pretty boy. They'll clean your parts, clip your nails—hell, they'll even wipe your ass if you ask nicely."

Andersson didn't even blink. He was learning to stop reacting.

As they continued forward, Branka waved a hand toward the newly finished crew section.

"These bunks were a bloody mess," she said. "Starboard side was gone completely. Replaced the port-side racks, but seeing as there's only three of you now, we rebuilt two private units over here."

She cast a sly glance between Andersson and Reece.

"Figured it'd be nice for your pilot to have somewhere to go when you inevitably boot him out of bed."

Andersson gave her a flat look. "Does the whole planet know about my sex life?"

Branka grinned. "Pretty much, sweetheart. You're hot property. Everyone wants to know every filthy detail. Even where you put your—"

"So I have my own quarters?" Hale cut in loudly.

Branka pivoted without missing a beat. "You do, beautiful." She slid open one of the cabin doors. "Nothing fancy, but figured a girl might want her own space."

Inside, the small room was neatly outfitted with a single bed, built-in wardrobe, compact desk, and a private shower and toilet unit. Simple. Functional. Private.

Hale blinked once. "Huh. Okay. That's… actually kind of perfect."

They stepped into the galley, and Branka gestured broadly like a game show host unveiling a prize kitchen.

"Your supplies have been restocked," she said. "What little survived from your last journey, we kept—figured you might want to enjoy the dregs of that… what do you call it? Coffee? Disgusting stuff, by the way."

She gave an exaggerated shudder, then moved on before anyone could argue.

"But the galley's full now—dry goods packed to the brim, fresh stocks, proper inventory tracking. You ain't gonna starve anytime soon."

She eyed the room with mock dismay.

"If what was in here before was anything to go on, the Alliance was starving you lot." She jabbed a finger toward Hale. "No wonder this one's wasting away."

Hale raised a brow but said nothing, just crossed her arms and stared Branka down in silence.

Reece leaned toward Andersson with a smirk. "You sure she's not our new morale officer?"

Andersson didn't even blink. "She's too gentle."

As they made their way toward the rear stairwell, Branka glanced over her shoulder with a sly grin.

"Now, I'm kinda jealous you get to keep this part," she said, stepping up to a familiar door and hitting the panel.

The bar.

The layout was the same, but the feel? Entirely different. The couches had been replaced with sleek, plush upgrades that actually looked comfortable. The tables and chairs were new—solid, elegant without being pretentious. The big window behind the bar looked wider somehow, letting in more light. Recessed lighting traced the upper walls in warm gold tones, giving the space a subtle glow.

It didn't feel like a military ship lounge anymore.

It felt like somewhere you might actually want to spend time.

Branka gestured proudly to the bar, which was now fully stocked—alien bottles in wild shapes and iridescent colors gleamed beneath soft lighting.

"Whatever survived your little misadventure is still here," she said. "But we've kitted this baby out properly. Consider it... hazard pay."

Reece gave a low whistle, stepping toward the bar like a man approaching a holy site.

"This is my favorite room," he murmured.

Branka winked. "Mine too, handsome."

She finally led them down to Deck Four.

Branka's boots rang off the metal as she gestured to the newly refitted armory. "This—this is where things get fun. We've upgraded everything. Those..." she snorted, "projectile weapons you were using before? Relics. You've got pulse rifles now. Integrated recharge stations. No more scrambling to reload while someone's shooting at your damn face."

As she moved toward the forward section, her tone shifted—reverent.

"Now this..." She placed a hand on the door before it opened. "This is the power behind it all. My new baby."

The chamber lit up as the doors parted. Where a dull, reinforced metal cylinder once stood, there was now a hovering sphere—a humming, spherical core pulsing with violet energy. Tendrils of light danced across its surface, arcs of soft electricity rippling outward in mesmerizing rhythm.

Andersson blinked. "That a mass effect core?"

Branka gave him a withering smile. "Damn right it is. Honestly surprised you lot managed to invent lightbulbs without mass effect tech."

Hale frowned. "Wait, what is mass effect technology?"

Branka gave her a look over her shoulder, amused. "Dollface, I'm a mechanic, not a teacher. You'll have to figure that one out on your own."

Andersson crossed his arms. "You mentioned something earlier about a ship's doctor?"

Branka's grin widened. "Right on time." She snapped her fingers. "Okay sweetheart, showtime."

With a soft chime and a shimmer of light, EDI materialized before them—her projection sharper than ever, lines of her avatar now glinting with refined precision. The new interface shimmered faintly with Thedan influence, smoother, more organic.

"Captain," EDI said, her voice crisp. "Good to be back."

Andersson blinked at EDI's shimmering new form. "You're the ship's doctor?"

Branka smirked. "She's the ship's everything, darlin'. She was already a marvel compared to the rest of this scrap heap, but now? Her program's been upgraded to perform medical procedures. She's like a sexy auto-doc—with sass."

EDI inclined her head. "My program has been integrated with mass effect forcefields and upgraded kinetic barriers. I am now able to perform tactile operations—including surgeries."

Reece raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you already move stuff before?"

"My kinetic barriers allowed for limited object manipulation," EDI replied. "This upgrade dramatically improves dexterity, strength, and precision."

Reece squinted. "So... you could strangle us in our sleep now?"

EDI didn't miss a beat. "The most efficient method of killing the crew would be to flood the compartments with a noxious gas, Commander. That has always been within my capabilities."

Reece blinked. "Good to know."

Branka cackled. "I'm gonna miss this one." She gave EDI a nod. "I'll leave her to tell you what else she can do—I'm off to see what else I can get my hands on."

Andersson turned to her, his voice lower now, more sincere. "Branka... I don't even know what to say. I can't believe you did all this in a single night."

Branka gave him a wink. "Nothing to it, sweetheart. We know what we're doing. Just take good care of her, yeah? And next time you crack open one of those bottles of—what is it—tequila? You call me."

With that, she gave them a jaunty salute and strode off down the corridor, grease-stained and grinning.

Hale watched her go. "Can we keep her?"

Andersson exhaled through a laugh. "Who needs weapons when you're armed with that mouth?"