EDI's voice rang out over the comms, her tone calm and measured, cutting through the anticipation.

"Citadel atmosphere is safe. Equalizing interior pressure with external atmosphere. You may open the airlock."

Andersson gave a short nod, but as the airlock release engaged, he took a steady breath.

This was it.

Their first true step into the wider galaxy.

Reece, standing just beside him, must have sensed it.

Without a word, he reached over and gave Andersson's hand a gentle squeeze—quick, steady, reassuring.

It wasn't much, just the briefest touch, but it was exactly what Andersson needed to ground himself.

Andersson exhaled, steadying his stance, and Reece let go, his fingers lingering just a fraction longer than necessary before slipping away.

On Andersson's other side, Hale stood rigid, stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders as if warming up for battle.

Her sharp gaze stayed fixed ahead, tension visible in the tight set of her stance.

With a final breath, Andersson squared himself.

"Alright. Let's do this."

Reece activated the release.

The airlock doors hissed as they slid apart, revealing the docking bay beyond.

And standing there, waiting for them, was something none of them had ever truly seen before.

They had seen images during EDI's briefing—previews, diagrams, approximations—but reality was different.

The scale, the presence, the sheer otherness of it still hit like a punch.

Hale gasped sharply, the sound loud in the hush of the airlock.

It wasn't intentional—just pure, unfiltered shock.

The figure before them was tall—easily a head above Andersson—his presence exuding sharp, effortless authority.

His frame was lean yet sinewy, built for both agility and strength, every movement poised and deliberate, as if each shift in stance had been calculated before execution.

A carapace of deep gunmetal grey covered his body, interrupted by intricate patterns of lighter markings that traced across his face and down the ridges of his neck.

The plating caught the station's artificial light, casting subtle reflections that made him seem part machine, part living creature.

His face was strikingly angular and rigid, dominated by a sharp, beak-like mouth set beneath narrow, piercing red eyes—small, yet burning with unsettling intensity.

A set of mandibles framed his jaw, twitching slightly, their movement adding a layer of sharp, alien precision to his expression.

His hands, though humanoid in shape, bore only three digits—two long, thick fingers and an opposable thumb, each tipped with dark, curved talons.

They flexed slightly at his sides, his control effortless, his posture always measured.

But it was his legs that drew Andersson's eye the most.

Backward-jointed, angular and powerful, they suggested incredible balance and speed.

Even beneath the dark uniform, the sinewy muscle wrapped around his exoskeletal frame was unmistakable—built for endurance, efficiency, and strength.

His uniform was a seamless blend of form and function, tailored to his physique with surgical precision.

Dark blue material, reinforced with segmented plating, wrapped tightly around his chest and limbs, providing protection without sacrificing mobility.

Subtle insignia marked his rank, though Andersson couldn't decipher their meaning.

Despite the armor, his body language spoke volumes.

Every movement was deliberate, contained.

Even in stillness, he radiated the tension of a coiled spring, an unspoken readiness beneath every line of his posture.

His boots, split down the center, hinted at the formidable talons sheathed beneath—massive, predatory claws outlined subtly against the reinforced material.

Everything about him—from the measured efficiency of his motions to the precision of his attire—radiated discipline, control, and absolute authority.

His red eyes burned into the three of them, unblinking.

Studying.

Assessing.

It was clear they weren't what he had been expecting.

Andersson shifted slightly, acutely aware of the suffocating silence stretching between them.

He cleared his throat, trying to inject some levity into his voice—break the tension, set the tone.

"This is the Pathfinder," he said, forcing an easy tone.

"Feel free to take a look around."

The alien officer stopped abruptly, his gaze never leaving Andersson.

His mandibles twitched slightly, a minute flicker of motion, as if processing something unspoken.

Then, without a word, he reached for his wrist.

Andersson stiffened.

His fingers twitched at his side, ready to react.

Was he reaching for a weapon? A comm unit?

A soft hum filled the air.

A holographic device materialized around the alien's forearm, wrapping it in a glowing sheath of hard-light.

Brilliant orange panels formed intricate glyphs and symbols Andersson couldn't begin to decipher.

The alien tapped a few controls with practiced ease, then, with slow deliberation, swept the device over Andersson.

It flashed red.

Andersson tensed, uncertain what that meant—but before he could move, the omni-tool pulsed again, expanding into a new projection.

He recognized it immediately.

The same glowing document Karass had shown them before they left Thedas:

his name, his status as a citizen of Thedas, his diplomatic clearance.

The alien's mandibles flexed subtly, a small shift that could have meant irritation, skepticism, or something else entirely.

Without a word, the device moved to Reece.

Another scan.

The same result—an initial red flash, then the projection of his documentation.

Then he turned to Hale.

The orange glow reflected in her eyes as she watched it warily.

After a red flash and a brief flicker, her own documentation appeared, identical in format to the others.

The alien exhaled sharply through his nose.

Was that annoyance?

He didn't comment.

Instead, he stepped past them, onto the bridge of the Pathfinder, his movements smooth but purposeful.

The device remained active, casting an orange glow across his arm as he turned his attention to the ship itself.

Andersson exchanged a glance with Reece and Hale but said nothing.

The alien swept the device over several of the consoles, his eyes flicking over the results with unreadable precision.

The soft chirp of the scanner punctuated the silence, sharp and brief.

He lingered over the interface for a moment longer than necessary before finally turning back to face them.

The device chirped one last time.

A flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—crossed his expression before he deactivated the interface with a subtle gesture.

His gaze lingered on Andersson a heartbeat longer than it needed to before he turned sharply away.

Andersson straightened, forcing an easy tone.

"Would you like to see the rest of the ship? I can open up any systems you wish to access.

We have nothing to hide."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Damn it.

That's exactly what someone trying to hide something would say.

The command deck felt suffocatingly still—Reece and Hale tense at his sides, like travelers at an airport security checkpoint, suddenly wondering if they had somehow, impossibly, packed contraband without realizing it.

The alien didn't respond immediately.

He just stared at Andersson—eyes sharp, unblinking—then tilted his head slightly, peering down through the CIC before shifting his gaze back up to Andersson again.

Finally, he spoke.

"That will not be necessary. Wait here."

As the alien officer turned, preparing to step back out of the airlock, Andersson noticed another figure approaching hurriedly from across the docking bay.

For a split second, panic flared.

Were they about to be arrested?

Had something gone wrong already?

But the figure wasn't storming toward them with soldiers in tow.

She looked more flustered than angry—moving fast, dodging around dock workers with practiced ease.

The docking official exhaled sharply, a distinct note of annoyance in the sound, as if he recognized her—and was already bracing himself for an argument.

Despite being in a hurry, she moved with a fluid grace that was immediately noticeable, her skin a rich violet shade that caught the cold station light as she approached.

Her head was crowned by a series of smooth, organic crests—sleek ridges flowing back over her skull, folding into elegant arcs that framed her features.

They caught the light like faint sculpted lines, accentuating the effortless regality of her bearing.

Her outfit was a sleek, high-collared robe of dark, quilted fabric, trimmed with muted orange piping that traced clean, angular lines down her arms and sides.

The long fall of her coat-like garment almost brushed the deck as she moved, each step measured, deliberate.

A simple utility belt cinched at her waist, carrying a slim datapad and a few small devices clipped neatly in place.

She didn't wear rank insignia, yet there was an unmistakable authority to her bearing—the way she carried herself, as if the entire docking bay was merely an inconvenience she intended to move past.

The woman reached the docking officer just as he was turning back toward the Pathfinder team.

"I'm sorry," she said, slightly breathless. "I only just heard they had arrived."

"They're not tagged," the officer snapped, his tone flat and uncompromising.

"Of course they wouldn't be," she replied smoothly. "They've come from Thedas."

"I've never seen any Thedans that look like that," he said, shooting a narrow-eyed glance toward Andersson and his team.

"Probably because you've never seen any Thedans," she countered, her voice cool.

"I'm not letting them on," the officer growled. "Too many irregularities."

"They are cleared for entry by the Council," she said, holding her ground.

The officer clicked his mandibles in open frustration. "Not without a tag."

"I have them right here."

Andersson stiffened at the word tag.

Were they going to slap some kind of heavy tracking device around their ankles?

Some bright beacon flashing everywhere they went?

"I assure you," the woman continued smoothly, "every precaution has been taken. They are guests of the Council."

The officer sneered.

"Fine. But if they try and blow the place up—don't say I didn't warn you."

Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked away, his posture rigid with barely suppressed irritation.

The woman turned to face them fully, offering a small, professional nod.

"Please accept my apologies," she said, pausing as her gaze swept over the three of them.

"You are not what we were expecting."

Reece raised an eyebrow, smirking.

"Ears not pointy enough for you?"

Andersson shot him a warning glance before stepping forward, voice steady.

"It's going to take some explaining," he said. "But I give you my word—we are not here to mislead you."

The woman regarded him for a long moment, then gave a small nod of acceptance.

"Very well."

She produced a small, slim case from her belt.

"Please hold out your wrist. It's usually best to use the wrist on your weaker side."

Andersson stiffened slightly.

"For what purpose?" he asked, suspicion threading into his voice.

"We have procedures that must be followed," she said smoothly, gesturing for him to comply.

"Please."

Grudgingly, Andersson extended his left wrist, tugging back his sleeve with a sigh of resignation.

He half-expected her to produce a syringe—or something worse—but instead, she drew out a thin, flexible rectangle of translucent orange material, no thicker than a film.

"This," she explained, "is your omni-tool. Access to the Citadel is forbidden to anyone not fitted with one."

Andersson frowned.

"These are the tags you were referring to?"

"That is right," she confirmed.

"It contains your official documentation and will serve as your primary communication device while on the Citadel.

It also grants you access to the extranet, navigation systems, public services—"

she paused slightly, adjusting her tone,

"—and functions as your personal translator, interpreting both written and verbal language patterns in real time."

Hale's voice cut in, dry and sharp.

"As well as track our movements and monitor us."

The woman hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding.

"Correct. The devices are mandatory. Everyone on the Citadel has one.

You will not be permitted entry without it."

Andersson exhaled through his nose, offering a grim little smile.

"Well, I guess you better hurry up and 'tag' me."

She pressed the thin rectangle against his wrist.

Within seconds, it warmed gently and seemed to fuse into his skin—no pain, just a strange, tingling sensation as it disappeared.

"To activate your omni-tool," she said, "simply press your fingers against the area where it was applied."

Andersson did as instructed.

A soft pulse of light flared against his wrist, and a full holographic interface bloomed into existence—the same style of device the docking officer had used.

The woman moved on to Reece, repeating the process.

Reece flexed his fingers as the omni-tool activated, grinning.

"Woah. Fully integrated... this is amazing."

Hale, however, didn't look nearly as impressed as she complied.

Her omni-tool flickered to life, but she said nothing, her expression unreadable.

The woman stepped back once all three devices were active.

"Now," she said, "if you'll follow me, I'll lead you to the Presidium."

Fully tagged, fully exposed, the Pathfinder team stepped off their ship—

and further into the unknown.