Fate. The word itself feels like a chain around my neck, tightening, dragging me to my knees, whispering its plans like some twisted god. Fate's been my shadow since the beginning, lurking in every corner, clawing at my skin, waiting to break me. It throws me into darkness, into pain, stripping away anything that could pass as peace. It's as if every breath, every beat of this cursed heart, is some test, some trial laid out by a force that enjoys watching me crawl through the dirt.
I didn't ask for fate's mercy. I didn't ask for its tests or for the scars it's marked me with. I am not here to appease some faceless god. No. I am here because I refuse to break. I spit on fate's designs, on its plans to shred me down to nothing. Every blow it lands, I take and return with interest. Every wound, every scar—those aren't fate's marks; they're mine. I wear them like armor, forged in fire and fury, each one a reminder that I have not, and will not, submit.
You think I'm some pawn on a board, pushed and pulled wherever fate decides? Maybe it was true once, back when I believed that surviving meant something. Back when I thought there was a purpose behind all this suffering. But now? Now I see fate for what it is: empty, hollow, a cosmic sadist dressed up as destiny, feeding off the misery of those it thinks it owns.
But fate, for all its supposed wisdom, didn't see her. Didn't see my Valkyrie. It couldn't predict her, couldn't comprehend that even in this mess of blood and betrayal, she'd be here, standing beside me, challenging its hold. She's my one defiance, my spear against fate's chest. It thought it could bind me, own me with its endless trials. But I reject it. I reject its hollow promises, its threats, its endless thirst to see me crumble.
The Norns may weave their threads, whispering doom into the winds, but I'm the one who decides what I do with each breath. Let them try to break me. Let them throw all they have. I'll carve my path in blood and flame, defying them with every step, every heartbeat.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Athria slid into the skycar's driver's seat, glancing sidelong at Martin as he sat next to her, his face bathed in the pale glow of his Omni-tool. She could sense his mind churning, his fingers tapping almost unconsciously as he scrolled through it, trying to find anything. Any clue from Kol. She leaned back, waiting, her mind racing as she wondered where the hell they'd even start. Tracking down a Spectre wasn't exactly on her skillset's résumé. She'd tracked down mercs, informants, even council officials in her day, but Spectres?
After a few minutes, Martin cursed under his breath, rubbing his brow with a look of irritation.
"Nothing?" she asked, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. "Nothing," he muttered, closing the Omni-tool's display. "No pings, no comms, not a damn thing." He slouched back, looking almost lost in thought, his brow furrowed. Finally, he looked over at her, a sly smirk spreading across his face. "You think the Citadel is stupid enough to list their home addresses?"
Athria blinked at him, giving a dry chuckle. "I doubt they'd have that information just out on the extranet, genius," she replied. But then, she noticed Martin had gone still, his face twisting as though something was dawning on him. His eyes dropped down to his armrest, to his hand as he seemed to flex it, and she felt a flash of both excitement and dread ripple through her. Whatever half-baked idea he was about to say, she knew she wouldn't like it.
"Spectre's office," he said suddenly. "What?" she said, brow furrowing. Was he… serious?
"Take me to the Spectres office," he repeated, and there was that familiar, reckless glint in his eyes as he looked back up at her. Athria stared at him, not sure whether to be exasperated or furious. She didn't even wait for him to explain as she fired up the skycar's engines, steering them into the air. "What are you planning, Martin?" she asked, half expecting him to crack a joke.
He shrugged nonchalantly, glancing out the windshield as the Citadel's skyline stretched before them. "I'm a Spectre," he said with a smirk that dared her to doubt him. She let out a dry laugh, trying to piece together his meaning. "Are you serious?" She shook her head, half disbelieving. "Did… did you just lose your mind?"
"In the Archives, Kol needed a second Spectre to access some files. So he created a profile for me, put me in the system as a Spectre," he said. He held up hand slightly as if the evidence was right there in his hands. "That means I'm technically recognized in the system… at least for now. So I can get into their office."
Athria felt a pang of incredulity wash over her. "You're out of your damn mind," she muttered, fingers tightening on the controls as they neared the Presidium. She shook her head at the sheer insanity of his plan. "This is completely stupid. If we get caught, I swear I'm throwing you to the Varren," she said, though her voice held a hint of amusement that she couldn't quite mask. Martin chuckled. "I'd expect nothing less."
She pulled the skycar into a hidden alcove near the Spectres office, keeping her grip on the wheel for an extra second, trying to steady her nerves. She could almost feel the weight of this gamble on her shoulders. One slip-up here, and they'd both be facing more than just the fury of a couple of Spectres.
"Alright," she said, taking a deep breath and looking over at him. "Let's see if this insane plan of yours works."
They landed the skycar in a quiet corner of the Presidium, not far from the Spectre offices. Athria hopped out, adjusting her stance as she glanced over at Martin. He looked rough, bruises peppering his face and a few newly-cleaned but still visible cuts lining his cheek and forehead. She had to admit, seeing him like this, beaten but still focused, it was… oddly fitting. A bruised warrior to the core. She crossed her arms, studying him for a second before shaking her head. "I'm surprised no one has stopped you yet, considering how you look," she said with a faint smirk.
Martin let out a low chuckle, and brushed it off the comment. "Look in a mirror; we probably look like we beat on each other. Everyone's probably too afraid to say anything."
Her eyes widened, half in shock, half in disbelief. "Did… did you just make a domestic violence joke?"
"Yep," he said casually, not missing a beat as he started walking toward the Citadel Embassies. "Live with it."
Athria rolled her eyes, letting out a sigh as she trailed behind him. "No, damn decency," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. But as she caught her own reflection in the skycar's door window, her face lined with faded bruises and a cut along her jaw, she realized he wasn't exactly wrong. It looked like they'd been through a full-on brawl.
With a resigned shake of her head, she stepped away from the skycar, following him, the absurdity of their plan settling over her. Spectre's office, using Martin's newly-minted Spectre status. Absolutely ridiculous. But then again, ridiculous seemed to be exactly what Martin was best at.
Athria hurried to catch up with Martin as they entered the Embassy. Inside, a crowd of people stood to the left, peering through a glass wall at the offices beyond, a chaotic swirl of bureaucrats and officials. Athria kept close as Martin turned right, leading them down a quieter corridor. Halfway down, he came to a sudden halt, his gaze landing across the hallway at the Human Councilor's office.
She could almost feel the thoughts spinning in his head, and she placed a hand on his arm, her voice soft but firm. "Martin… not now. We can't start anything here." There was a subtle plea in her tone, a hope he'd let it go for now. After a beat, he dropped his eyes and nodded, seeming to brush the thought aside, if only for a moment.
He turned and opened the Spectre office door instead, stepping into the dimly lit corridor beyond. As he entered, a detached VI voice announced, "Spectre Status Recognized."
Martin shot her a quick, smug glance, his expression practically saying, "See? I told you so." She rolled her eyes but followed him deeper into the office, trailing just behind as he approached the lone computer in the back. The room was eerily silent, every step echoing slightly as they moved.
Reaching the console, he placed his hand on the biometric scanner, pressing down firmly. A green light scanned his palm, blinking to confirm the access, and the computer unlocked. He stepped aside and gave her a nod to take over.
"Me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're the Spectre…"
Martin sighed, his expression settling into a look of mock annoyance, as though her reluctance were truly inconveniencing him. She chuckled, shaking her head. "Right, barbarians and computers," she teased, slipping into place in front of the terminal.
He hovered close behind her, leaning slightly over her shoulder to watch her work. She couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all. This plan was entirely ridiculous, and yet, here they were, breaking into the Spectre office using Martin's "borrowed" credentials. Despite everything, she was struck by the contrast in him: sharp as a blade when needed and yet so simple, almost reckless, when it came to following his own instincts. There was a strange sort of brilliance to it.
"Spectre Kol, where are you…" she muttered under her breath, fingers flying over the console as she searched for his information. After a few tense seconds, she found his file and scanned through the details. Two safehouses on the Citadel. Interesting. She made a quick copy of the locations, sending them to her Omni-tool and clearing the search history before stepping back.
Martin smirked, stepping back with a nod. "Good, let's get out of here before someone figures out I'm the imposter."
They exited the office, Athria feeling a small, triumphant surge. But as they walked back down the hall, Martin stopped again, his gaze landing on the Human Councilor's office. He let out a long breath, seeming to wrestle with something before looking back at her.
"This is stupid," he muttered, but without giving her a chance to react, he strode across the hallway toward the door.
"Martin, wait!" she whispered sharply, reaching out to grab his arm, but he slipped from her grasp, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
The office was lavishly furnished, the sort of decor that spoke of power and influence, soft lighting, polished wood, and elegant sculptures and artwork adorning the walls. The Councilor's desk was at the far end, flanked by deep leather chairs and a window that looked out over the Presidium. Athria's heart skipped a beat as she realized they were alone. "Thank the goddess," she breathed, relieved, the last she she needed was Martin punching a Councilor in the face.
Martin moved to the desk, grabbing a pen and a small piece of paper from the Councilor's supplies. She could see his brow furrowing in thought as he scrawled something quickly, a note she couldn't quite read from her distance. When he was finished, he placed it neatly in the center of the desk with a hint of satisfaction on his face.
"Alright," he said, looking back at her with a faint smirk. "My impulsiveness is sated. Let's go."
With a shake of her head, she hurried him out of the office, the ridiculousness of the situation not lost on her. They slipped back through the hallways, retracing their steps out of the Embassy until they reached the skycar.
She climbed in after him, a strange sense of anticipation mingling with the worry in her chest. She'd seen Martin go up against Krogans, Geth, Spectres, C-Sec, and entire squads of mercenaries. Yet it was these quiet, impulsive moments that made her wonder how much of this was really just Martin being Martin, and how much was something else, a message only he could fully understand.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
In the dim glow of his private quarters, Spectre Vyras activated his secured vid-caller, its screen flickering to life with distorted static before settling into a strange, shadowed image. The figure on the other end remained cloaked in distortion, the voice coming through the speaker sharp yet eerily calm, each word precisely measured.
"Vyras," the voice greeted, cool and detached. "Tell me. How goes the plan?"
Vyras straightened, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the soldier at attention even in the privacy of his quarters. "The human is… more stubborn than anticipated," he admitted, his tone clipped. "It's as if he's been anticipating our moves, rejecting every influence we press upon him."
"Stubbornness alone would be of little concern," the voice replied, its tone unchanging. "But this human… he rejects influence, even when it's tailored to provoke. He is wary of manipulation, resistant. He sees the outcomes before he acts." There was a pause, then a quiet, almost detached suggestion. "Perhaps, Vyras, something closer to him must be harmed. His Valkyrie, take her from him. Alone, he will be without reason to hold back. He will act with the abandon we need."
Vyras's mandibles twitched in a half-smile, dismissive. "I've handled him once. I'll do it again. He's only human."
The voice let out a low, humorless chuckle, the sound hollow and unsettling. "You've seen his rage, felt it. The human will not yield, Vyras. If you press too hard, you will not stop what follows. You are a Spectre, but there are some fires that consume all in their path."
Vyras narrowed his eyes but stayed silent, feeling a chill snake through him at the calm certainty of the voice's warning.
"Tell me," the voice continued smoothly, "what of the others? The Salarian… the Asari?"
Vyras's posture relaxed slightly, a different topic seeming to ease his tension. "Nira is… performing as intended. She's relentless, driven. The human won't find a moment's rest with her tracking him."
"And the Salarian?"
Vyras hesitated, his mandibles tightening briefly. "Kol… Kol's loyalties have shifted. It appears he has allied with the human. I am handling it. He will be removed from the equation."
The voice paused, its silence a heavy weight on Vyras's shoulders. "Kol is unneeded for the plan as it stands," it said finally, as if dismissing Kol's existence entirely. "However, the Asari… she is valuable. Nira will play her part; she must not be lost to this game."
Vyras nodded, acknowledging the directive without question. But the voice wasn't finished.
"And remember, Vyras," it said, its words cool and cryptic, "do not kill the human. Not yet. His part is only beginning, and for the plan to work, he must live."
Vyras allowed himself a smirk. "That will be easy enough."
"Yes," the voice replied smoothly, that detached tone as chilling as ever. "I know."
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Athria's patience was wearing thin. Hours wasted on Kol's first safehouse, only to find it practically barren, just a bare bed and a small stash of bland food that no one but a Salarian could stomach. Now, as they made their way to the second safehouse, she felt her frustration bubbling just under the surface, her fists instinctively clenching and releasing as they approached the door.
They arrived at the entrance to the next residence in the small residential complex. Martin gave her a look, and she nodded back, reaching for the doorbell. Just in case, she thought. If Kol were inside, she didn't want him thinking they were breaking in. But silence met her. No answer.
She didn't wait any longer. With practiced ease, she placed her omni-tool over the door's lock, feeling Martin step close behind her to block any passersby from noticing her efforts. Seconds ticked by before the lock gave a soft click, and the door slid open. She stepped inside first, her initial steps halting as the scene before her sunk in.
The place was wrecked, evidence of a violent struggle left in every corner. Bullet impacts scarred the walls, furniture lay scattered and broken, shards of glass glittered across the floor, and the remains of fallen pictures hung at awkward angles. It looked as if someone had gone to war here.
And then there was the music. A strange, haunting melody filtered through the room, echoing through speakers in the walls. Athria couldn't place the tune; it sounded old, foreign, and filled with an eerie, somber weight. But she didn't have time to dwell on it. Martin had already drawn his pistol, tucking close to her as they stepped further inside, his posture wary and alert as he crept down the hallway, carefully checking each room.
After a tense silence, he signaled the all-clear. Athria relaxed slightly, her fists unclenching as she let out a long breath. As her adrenaline faded, the song grew louder, its haunting notes resonating in her mind, an unsettling backdrop to the scene of devastation before them. Her eyes drifted to one of the speakers, drawn in by the solemn tune, and she noticed Martin watching her with an expression she hadn't seen before.
"The Cliff," he said, voice barely above a murmur as he moved to turn off the player that lay on the floor, damaged but still playing the ancient melody.
"You know that song?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. "You can understand it?"
Martin paused, his face taking on a strangely somber look, like a distant memory was surfacing, something from a time far removed from this place. "Yeah," he replied quietly, a hint of disturbance flashing across his eyes.
Athria studied him, noting the tension in his jaw as he tossed the player aside, cutting off the song's last echoes. "It's an old Russian folklore song," he explained, as if the words were dredging up something he'd long kept buried. She couldn't help but press further. "What's it about?"
Martin kicked through the debris on the floor, his gaze cast down as he seemed to search for any hidden danger in the mess. "It's about a rebel," he said finally. "A man who died on a cliff overlooking the Volga River… He was the only one who ever reached the top during some battle, the only one the cliff couldn't defeat. And after he fell, they named it after him." His voice softened as he spoke, reciting part of the song as if he'd known it by heart for years.
"'Only one man among all others was on that cliff… Only he was able to get to the top. And the cliff didn't forget this man… And from then on, it was called by the man's name.'"
The words hung as thesong settled into her mind. There was something strangely familiar about it, as if it echoed stories she'd heard, lessons she'd learned. The kind that linger, always just out of reach but impossible to forget. She couldn't help but feel an unsettling comparison being drawn in his voice, between himself and this nameless rebel who faced an insurmountable challenge alone.
Martin's footsteps were quiet as he moved deeper into the other rooms, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She let his words sink in, feeling the chill of the melody lingering in her mind, the eerie silence in the wake of his recitation. There was something about it—about him—that felt as ancient and resolute as the song itself, as if Martin were walking his own cliff, forever fighting to reach the top.
Athria followed Martin into the side room, stepping carefully over the chaos strewn across the floor. Martin moved silently, his eyes scanning the shadows and corners as if he expected something, or someone, to jump out at any moment. But there was only the lingering stillness, the echo of violence that had left this place in ruins.
As he stepped forward, his foot caught on something, sending him stumbling slightly. Athria tensed, noticing a strange flicker at the edge of her vision. She turned slowly, watching as the flicker pulsed again, and then… faded.
Martin looked back at her, a deep breath settling in his chest, the shadow of something darker in his eyes. Athria approached the source of the flicker, her instincts prickling as she reached out.
Just as her fingers brushed the air, a cloaking device powered down with a faint hum, revealing a figure slumped against the wall. Athria took a sharp step back, eyes widening as she recognized the lifeless form of Kol, his body crumpled, head hanging low, a faint, lifeless sheen to his usually vibrant eyes.
"Goddamnit," Martin muttered, his face twisting into a scowl as he ran a hand over his jaw.
"I guess the other Spectres came after him." Athria's voice was hushed, almost a whisper, as if speaking any louder would break the somber silence pressing in around them. She looked up at Martin, catching the frustration set in his expression. "Yeah, I'd bet money it was Nira," he said. "Considering the state of this place… feels like her style."
Athria's gaze drifted past him, something catching her eye. Just behind Kol's body, half-hidden by his twisted form, was a PDA, wedged tightly between his side and the wall. She bent down carefully, reaching for it, but as her fingers grasped the device, Kol's body slumped forward, his head thudding against the floor in a final, chilling motion.
She froze, a hollow ache pressing into her chest as she stood there for a moment, staring down at the stillness of Kol's body. She'd been on battlefields before, had seen death in many forms, but there was something particularly cruel about this. Kol had been alive, vibrant, so annoyingly determined and full of questions. Now… he was nothing more than a shell, a casualty of a game that had spiraled beyond anyone's control.
Martin's voice cut through her thoughts, breaking the weight of her silence. "Definitely not faking it," he deadpanned, his attempt at a joke cutting through the eerie quiet. She glanced up at him, trying to brush off the strange mix of emotions that had settled over her.
Without giving so much as a nod, she turned and headed back into the living room, gripping the PDA tightly in her hand. Taking a steadying breath, she powered it up, scrolling through the interface as she began to sift through Kol's data. It was time to see if his sacrifice, as senseless as it felt, had left them anything they could use.
Athria stood still, the glow from the PDA casting light on her face as she read through the files, her eyes darting over the text. The cluttered chaos of Kol's apartment, the broken glass and overturned furniture, faded into the background as her focus zeroed in on what Kol had left behind. She clicked on a highlighted file titled "Artifact Retrieval," under which a note caught her eye: Spear of Palaven.
Curious, she tapped on the audio file attached to the note. Kol's voice crackled to life, his tone uncharacteristically grim and matter-of-fact.
"Ah, the Spear of Palaven. They're not just a faction; they're practically a cult of loyalists bound by one unshakable belief: that the Turians are the rightful stewards of Council security. They see themselves as defenders of Palaven's legacy, bent on elevating their Councilor's authority to something closer to a Primarch. The Spear believes the galaxy needs strong, unyielding leadership—preferably Turian leadership.
"They're subtle, though. The Spear of Palaven operates in shadows, nudging policies, forming alliances, using Spectres like pawns in a game to push the Council toward a more… Turian-centered hierarchy. A lot of Turians admire their ideals, but the Spear's vision? It's much more ambitious. They don't just want influence; they want control. And they're patient enough to make it happen."
Athria felt a shiver run down her spine, the implications settling heavily over her. A faction within the Turians, willing to manipulate to consolidate power. Martin's brow cocked as he listened, a glint of cold understanding passing over his face.
"Okay," Martin said slowly, processing. "Turian faction in their government. Fanatics, probably like Cerberus… at least in the supremacy way. Did Kol think they were involved here?"
"Maybe," Athria replied, flipping to the next file, a Turian military report from Elysium. Her eyes traced the words, every line increasing the dread building in her chest. Iron Memory.
Mission Code: Iron Memory
Objective: Recovery of Turian casualties, Elysium
Commander: Captain Tavex Jaxor
Athria continued reading through the file, her fingers gripping the PDA tighter with each line.
Turian Military Mission ReportMission Code: Iron Memory
Objective: Recovery of Turian casualties, Elysium
Commander: Captain Tavex Jaxor
The objective of Operation Iron Memory was to retrieve the remains of Colonel Dexocolus and additional Turian personnel killed in action during the Elysium engagement. The Colonel's body, alongside three other fallen soldiers, was located in a secured area of the mountainous region where final contact was reported.
Summary of FindingsPersonnel Recovery:
Remains of Colonel Dexocolus were found near the site of the last recorded transmission, remains found within a shuttle. All fallen soldiers were identified through biometrics, and all personal tags were recovered and logged. Remains were respectfully gathered for repatriation to Palaven.
Environmental Assessment:
Severe environmental degradation was noted across the site, with extensive evidence of intense explosive discharge and weapon fire.
Anomalous Object Recovery:
During the search, Recon Specialist Lenos identified a peculiar, partially-buried object approximately 15 meters from the Colonel's position.
The object appeared damaged, with fractured, semi-organic material and signs of electrical discharge across its surface.
Size and shape: Roughly 0.075 meters in length, cylindrical with integrated tech nodes and biometric locks.
Analysis suggested that it may have been subjected to weapon discharge, consistent with the combat signatures found on-site.
Preliminary Observations:
The object exhibited faint, residual energy readings inconsistent with Turian or Council technology.
Surface materials indicated a semi-organic composition, showing a complex crystalline structure within the fractures. Residue analysis returned traces of unknown compounds, possibly linked to non-citadel technologies.
Post-Mission RecommendationsObject Security:
The object was contained and transferred to a secured facility aboard the vessel Valorian's Edge.
Recommend immediate transference to Citadel Science and Technology Division for in-depth examination, with special attention to potential Prothean or Reaper-affiliated tech.
Investigation Proposal:
Further study to determine the object's origin, potential capabilities, and any link to the forces responsible for the Elysium incident.
Potential risks associated with the object, including residual energy emissions and unknown materials, warrant additional containment protocols.
ConclusionIron Memory achieved the primary objective of recovering Turian personnel with full honors. However, the discovery of the anomalous object introduces a new element of uncertainty regarding the events leading to the Colonel's death. Further analysis is essential to determine whether this item played a role in the conflict or represents an emerging threat.
She felt a chill pass over her, her breathing shallow as she read about the recovery of an anomalous object. She stopped, the realization hitting her like a punch to the gut.
"Martin…" she whispered, reaching out to pull him closer to her. She looked up at him, eyes wide, almost in panic. "Someone has the artifact."
Martin shook his head in disbelief. "There's no fucking way. I packed that case with enough explosives to blow the balls off that damn shuttle."
"Martin, look," she said urgently, shoving the PDA into his hand and pointing to the relevant lines. "This is a report from the Turians. It's the artifact."
He scanned the report quickly, his face darkening as the words sank in. He turned away from her, nearly dropping the PDA as his jaw clenched, his posture taut with fury. He began pacing, every step seeming to hold back a torrent of anger. Athria's heart raced as she watched him. Then, with a fierce growl, he grabbed a lamp from the nearby table and hurled it across the room, watching it shatter against the wall with a violent release of frustration.
The crash startled her, the raw intensity in his reaction bringing her up short. She had seen Martin's anger before, his sarcasm and cynicism, but this, this was fury laced with something else. She understood...
He wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. "Ended up in the morgue for no fucking reason," he said as he moved toward the front door, simmering with rage.. She followed him, they had to leave.
