Entry to the Citadel Security Service is prestigious. The success rate for applicants is barely five percent. Of those, sixty percent are cut during the gruelling training program. Prior policing or military experience isn't just preferred — it's essential.
C-SEC accepts only the best.
Robert "Bobby" Ericson never expected to pass the process. Why would C-Sec want a colony cop from Elysium? he'd thought. The Elysium Colonial Police Service operated with a very different mindset: counter-terrorism, piracy deterrence, and infrastructure protection. It couldn't have been further from C-Sec's community-oriented approach.
He'd been stunned when the Human Embassy recommended him for recruitment — the letter signed by Ambassador Udina himself.
Bobby now held that letter in his hand.
"Exemplary bravery during the Skyllian Blitz," it read.
He didn't feel exemplary. His parents were dead. His friends, gone. His community, shattered. Surviving was the only thing he'd done that day — and even that didn't feel like much of an accomplishment.
He let out a breath and pinned the letter to the cork board above his desk. The training centre had provided a relatively spacious single-occupancy room. In typical Citadel fashion, it was sterile — clinical white walls, standard-issue furniture. The only splash of colour came from the green duvet set he'd brought from home.
0930. Best get a move on, he thought. Calvus wants us on parade for 1000 hours.
Bobby opened his wardrobe, wincing as the metal clasp scraped against the floor. He took out his C-SEC dress tunic, hanging it on a nearby hook. One last inspection — any flaw, and Calvus would fail him. Even on pass-out day.
The tunic resembled an Alliance Navy uniform, but with silver trim instead of gold. He and Malik had spent all night pressing their tunics, bulling their boots, polishing every button until they gleamed.
His omni-tool chimed — a cheerful, familiar tone.
"You'll be great today. I'm so proud of you. See you on the parade square, Constable."
Bobby smiled and closed the message. He slipped on the tunic, adjusting the collar and smoothing the fabric. One last glance in the mirror. He ran a hand over his beard, checking for imperfections. The weight of the uniform settled on his shoulders.
And with it, a familiar voice whispered in his mind:
Are you sure you're good enough for this?
"Bobby!" a voice called from the other side of the door. "You ready?"
He brushed off his tunic. "Coming now."
Bobby stepped into the corridor, the door sliding shut behind him for the final time. Waiting outside was his friend Juno Malik — nine months ago they'd been strangers, but after the rigours of training, they might as well have been siblings.
"Looking sharp," she grinned. "You ready for this?"
"Have to be. Let's go."
The pair took the elevator down to the ground floor of the C-Sec Academy. As the doors opened, a familiar mix of scents filled Bobby's nose: parade gloss boot polish, Turian carapace cream, and sterile Citadel air. Eighty-eight other recruits stood in formation, dressed in their ceremonial blues. Some were grinning, others pale-faced and stiff with nerves.
A whistle blast pierced the air.
"FALLLLLLLL IN!"
The recruits snapped into motion, forming into three sharp columns. An old Turian paced in front of them, his eyes sweeping like a targeting scanner. Every twitch, every scuffed boot, every speck of dust was a threat to perfection.
C-SEC might be a civilian organisation, but most of its instructors — especially the drill sergeants — were ex-military. Turian and Asari, mostly.
Calvus stepped forward, his voice crisp and commanding.
"Well done on completing your initial training at the Citadel Security Academy. In a few short moments, you will march onto the Presidium, representing your species in front of the Asari Councillor, the Executor, government officials — and most importantly, your families.
"Remember that when you stand beneath the Citadel Tower. Be proud of this accomplishment.
"And I think it goes without saying — this is a significant day for our human recruits. This squad is the largest intake of humans in C-SEC history. Humanity should be proud of the men and women before me.
"I hope to see each and every one of you in the embassy bar later. I look forward to meeting you — not as your instructor, but as your colleague."
C-SEC officers in full dress uniform lined the stairways as an honour guard. Around them, the Academy buzzed with pride and formality — something Bobby had never experienced back home on Elysium.
The recruits marched to the Academy entrance, forming up beneath the looming shadow of the Embassy. Calvus took position at the rear of the parade.
"PARADE WILL ADVANCE IN COLUMN OF ROUTE. QUICK MARCH! LEFT! RIGHT!"
The parade began — a slow, steady tide of uniforms flowing through the Presidium's pristine walkways. Ninety recruits: human, Turian, Salarian, Asari… even a Volus, short and waddling beside a towering Elcor. They passed the Embassy, continued through the financial district, and halted outside the Citadel Tower.
A cheering crowd had gathered. Families, citizens, tourists — all pressed up against the barriers. A stage had been erected beneath the Tower, its seats occupied by dignitaries and officials.
The ceremony lasted ninety minutes. Counselor Ashial presided, flanked by Executor Pallin and representatives from the Salarian and Turian governments. The Human Prime Minister had been invited as a guest of honour, given the record number of human recruits. A Drell priest delivered a brief sermon, offering blessings of safety for the new officers.
After the inspection, the officials returned to the stage.
Calvus marched smartly up to the Asari Counsellor. "Madame Counsellor, may I have your permission to dismiss Course 08/83 to their duties, ma'am?"
"Yes, Staff. Thank you."
Calvus turned to face the recruits. He inhaled deeply, then roared:
"CONSTABLES OF COURSE 08/83 — TO YOUR DUTIES. DISMISSED!"
The crowd erupted. The new officers tossed their forage caps into the air — a tradition started by the first human intake and quickly adopted by the rest of C-SEC. Friends and families surged from the seating area, embracing their loved ones.
"There he is!"
Bobby felt a light pinch at his back. He turned and smiled as his husband, Sam, made his way through the crowd. They embraced tightly, the buzz of the parade fading around them for just a moment.
"Thanks for the message this morning," Bobby said. "I was getting the jitters."
"Bobby…" Sam pulled back, his hands resting on Ericson's shoulders. "You were made for this. C-SEC couldn't ask for better."
"Agreed."
Sergeant Calvus approached, striding with the distinct click of Turian boots. In his hand was the Turian version of a pace stick — longer than the human model to account for their stride.
"Constable Ericson," he said, voice gruff but warm. "Care to introduce me?"
"Of course, Sergeant." Bobby gestured between them. "This is my partner, Sam Ericson. Sam, this is Sergeant Calvus — C-SEC's Drill Instructor."
"A pleasure," Sam said, extending a hand.
Calvus nodded. "Your husband performed exceptionally during training. I'll be watching his career with interest."
"Thank you, Sergeant. It's lovely to meet you."
Calvus gave a respectful incline of the head and moved on, heading toward Malik's family. Around them, the crowd continued to mingle — laughter, handshakes, proud tears.
An hour later, the celebration had migrated to the Embassy Bar at Citadel Tower. Bobby and Sam found a booth tucked away in a quiet corner. The lighting was low, the music soft — a rare moment of calm in the heart of the Presidium.
"Here we go," Malik announced, arriving at the table with four glasses and a bottle of wine. "Thessia White — courtesy of the Citadel Council. Apparently it's subsidised."
"Lovely," said her husband, Daniel, taking the bottle and pouring it carefully.
Bobby lifted his glass and took a slow sip. Rich, warm — Asari wine always lived up to its reputation. Thessia White was smooth, layered with caramel and floral tones.
Malik raised her glass. "So, Sam — Colonial Development? Bit of a shift from the Marines, no? Less action, more paperwork. Fewer crayons and colouring books."
Sam gave a tight smile. "Not really. I was a Lieutenant with the 111th Logistics Regiment. Most of my time was spent helping colonies after slaver attacks."
Bobby saw the way Sam's jaw tightened — the slight scowl forming at the edges.
He interjected, placing a hand on Sam's thigh. "It's a new challenge. But if there's one man who can handle it — it's Sam. One bureaucratic disaster at a time."
"To Citadel bureaucracy," Malik said, raising her glass again.
They all toasted, the glasses clinking gently. Another round of warmth rolled over Bobby's tongue — and for a moment, everything felt right.
Then Sam's omni-tool lit up, casting an orange glow across the table.
"Excuse me," he said, already standing. "I need to take this."
"Everything alright?" Bobby asked, refilling their glasses.
"Yeah, yeah." Sam gave a small shrug. "Can't get a day off in this place."
He left the bar, heading toward a quiet corner just beyond the reach of streetlights and prying eyes. The shadows swallowed him — a safe, unseen place.
His omni-tool activated with a soft hum.
PRIORITY MESSAGE: ASSETS MOVED TO SAFEHOUSE. REQUEST FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Sam typed a response.
NEW DIRECTIVE: TERMINATE WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.