Promises, Oath. People throw them around like they mean something, like words alone can build bridges or bind souls. Hollow oaths spoken in passing, barely scratching the surface, and just as quickly tossed aside. It's a cheap trade—words for reassurance, a temporary patch to keep up appearances. They use them to feel less empty, to quiet that nagging guilt, but they break them without a second thought. No weight, no real consequence. They're just as hollow as the people who make them, looking for something real and settling for smoke.

I don't make a promise I don't intend to keep. An oath isn't just air—it's blood. It's a contract with myself, a vow I carry like a scar, a reminder of the cost of meaning. When I make a promise, it digs in, it lingers. It has weight, the kind of weight that keeps you up at night, gnaws at your bones, reminds you that there's a cost to your word. I don't expect people to understand, don't even care if they do. An oath isn't just a courtesy or an easy out. It's something I take to the end, no matter the pain it brings.

Maybe that's why I look down on those who treat their words like feathers, drifting on a whim, tossed aside when it suits them. They don't know what it is to carry an oath. They don't understand the gravity, the restraint it demands. But I'll admit, even I know there are times to break them. Sometimes, the oath isn't worth the price, or maybe it was made in ignorance, blind to what it would cost. Sometimes, you have to let it go to survive, to keep yourself from drowning in promises that can't be fulfilled, or if the world conspired against you.

Still, I hold mine close, closer than most people ever will. Because they remind me of who I am, what I stand for, when everything else is stripped away, when the world is nothing but noise. They are a purpose, one sought, one kept.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

As Martin shut the apartment door behind him, the last look he'd given Athria lingered in his mind, a subtle, unspoken understanding that neither of them could afford to voice aloud. She'd been right, as usual. Athria knew him better than he was comfortable admitting, knew he wouldn't be able to sit still with things half-finished. He was close to ending this tangled mess, close enough that he could practically smell the smoke of its burning end. Maybe he'd be free afterward. Maybe he'd still be alive to feel what freedom meant.

The Citadel's artificial lights glowed dimly above as he walked through the throughway, his footsteps echoing in the near-empty corridor. Just as he turned into a quieter, darker section, his omni-tool vibrated and blinked to life. The caller was unmarked—encrypted. That wasn't unusual, given his recent company, but it was still enough to get his guard up. He activated the audio only, instinctively glancing over his shoulder as he continued walking.

"Winters," an unfamiliar but distinctly Turian voice greeted him on the line. Crisp, polished, with an edge of bureaucratic detachment. Martin's gaze narrowed as he answered. "I'm guessing you're not a telemarketer," he muttered dryly. "What do you want?"

There was a brief, almost indiscernible hesitation on the other end. "I am…someone with a vested interest in resolving certain ongoing matters," the voice began, almost carefully. "And I believe an apology is in order. This…situation has become unnecessarily…complicated."

"Complicated, huh?" Martin's tone was sharp, every syllable carrying his disdain. "I'd say setting C-Sec and a hit squad on me and then watching from the comfort of a council seat is a little more than complicated." The Turian chuckled faintly, though there was no real humor in it. "Yes, well… That is precisely why I'm reaching out. Consider this a tentative first step in…correcting certain errors."

Martin wasn't buying the smooth tone or careful words. "Who the hell am I talking to?" he asked bluntly. There was a slight pause. "I am the Turian Councilor. I trust that grants me some authority to speak on…rectifying matters concerning the Council." Martin huffed out a breath, shaking his head. "Of course, the big man himself. Took you long enough. So what's this? Some damage control attempt?"

"Winters," the Councilor continued, "I've officially rescinded the order for your detainment. The charges…were hastily issued under poor counsel." Martin scoffed, though he could sense a strange sincerity in the Turian's words. "Don't tell me you're here to ask for my forgiveness. That'd be rich."

"I am here to ask for your cooperation," the Councilor replied. "I'm prepared to push for a full pardon on the matter of the Spectre's death on Illium, provided that you assist us. There are…undercurrents in our government that need to be dealt with. A certain faction, and—"

"The Spears of Palaven," Martin cut in sharply. He knew he'd struck a nerve when silence followed. The Councilor took a steadying breath. "Yes," he admitted. "A high-ranking General, Ardec Tiberon, leads them. This faction of loyalists sees the Turians as the sole protectors of the Council… a misguided, zealous group who believe our Councilor should hold an authority more akin to a Primarch's. Tiberon has been…quietly orchestrating this agenda. The recent order to "eliminate" you came directly from him."

"So you're telling me this has all been about his little power play," Martin said, his voice hard, "and I was just collateral. Typical."

"Tiberon has operated with dangerous autonomy for too long," the Councilor replied, voice low. "Only recently have his ties to the Spears become…definitive. He is en route to the Citadel now. His agenda is likely…dire."

Martin couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "And you expect me to deal with him for you. Sorry, but I don't run cleanup for the Hierarchy."

"Perhaps not," the Councilor said, smoothly. "But I am prepared to compensate you generously. You seem like a man who can appreciate a straightforward exchange: Destroy the General, and I will see that your record is cleared. A job, one that I'll pay handsomely to complete, simple as that."

Martin crossed his arms, thinking it over. The offer was tempting. Mutually beneficial, even. He could wrap this mess up with one clean cut. But his suspicion still simmered as he started moving again. "Fine. I take him out; I get paid. But you said you'd be straight with me," Martin replied with a deadly calm. "Let's talk about the artifact the Turians picked up on Elysium."

A slight shift in the Councilor's tone betrayed a hint of discomfort. "Yes, I've been…attempting to trace its movements. There is a possibility it's connected to Tiberon's plans. If he has it, his arrival here could pose an unprecedented threat."

"Great," Martin said. "You give me a lead, I give you a body. But understand this," he paused for a moment, weight the words on his tongue, he could taste the defiance on his breath, "if you're playing me, if this turns out to be some sick game… I will find you, Councilor… I don't care what you have to protect you."

The Councilor was silent for a beat before he answered, his tone carefully measured. "Understood. I am prepared to uphold my end. But know this, Winters," he added, his voice darkening as if adding his own threat, "Spectre Vyras has ignored my recall order. He is considered rogue, and he's still pursuing you. I expect you to…deal with him as you see fit."

Martin felt a fierce satisfaction tighten his jaw, his mouth pulling into a grim smile. "So the gloves finally come off. I can't fucking wait."

Martin smirked as he heard the Turian Councilor's carefully tempered warning.

"Let me be clear, Winters," the Councilor's voice took on a stern edge. "This does not give you free rein to create chaos on my station. Civilian lives are not to be jeopardized in the pursuit of this objective."

Martin couldn't help but let a smirk cross his face. "Relax, Councilor. I'm not planning on killing anyone who isn't a Turian," he drawled, defiance thick in his voice.

A heavy pause lingered on the line. Martin could almost imagine the Councilor's mandibles tightening in annoyance.

"Listen, if you want this done right, I need to be outfitted for it," Martin continued. "Weapons, armor, the real Spectre-grade kind. Send me in like a damn tourist, and you'll be picking pieces of Tiberon out of the walls for weeks."

The Councilor let out a resigned sigh. "Fine. Head to the Central C-Sec Academy. There's a Spectre Specialization officer stationed there who should be able to outfit you. I'll send you the necessary credentials. And Winters," his voice hardened again, "get it done cleanly. This galaxy doesn't need any more martyrs."

"Duly noted, Councilor," Martin said, his voice flat. The call clicked off abruptly, the Turian clearly in a hurry to distance himself from whatever was about to unfold.

Martin lowered his hand from his omni-tool and watched as the data packet began to download. The files included a dossier on General Ardec Tiberon, operational logs, surveillance feeds, and details on the incoming ship. Eight hours out, he noted. Plenty of time to prepare and make sure the reception would be… memorable.

He scanned through the Councilor's notes and grinned as he read about the order preventing C-Sec from engaging the vessel. Of course, they'd rather avoid the risk of civilian casualties and retaliation. The fear on the other end of the line was practically palpable.

Good. He'd put that fear to work.

With a slight swagger, Martin headed toward his skycar. Athria's words echoed in his mind—she had seen him well enough to know he wouldn't stop until he'd torn through every layer of this farce. And this final move? It would be his finest hour.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Captain Bailey took a long, exasperated bite of his sandwich, barely listening to the Turian officer going on about his wife's culinary prowess.

"Turian casserole this, Turian casserole that," Bailey muttered internally, wishing the topic would change to anything remotely more interesting. He kept chewing, nodding every so often as the Turian rambled on, and let his gaze drift across the Zakara Ward's lively midday crowd.

Just then, a shadow loomed over their table, blotting out the light. Bailey glanced up, already bracing himself for whatever fresh chaos had found him this time. Sure enough, there stood Martin Winters, smirking down at him, arms crossed, a vision of barely contained firepower. Winters was decked out in sleek, heavy combat armor, black with striking red highlights, each weapon and grenade strapped to him making it clear he'd come prepared for… well, anything.

The other officers around the table tensed immediately, leaping up from their chairs and drawing their pistols, their eyes wide and wary.

But Bailey, tired as he was, just sighed and dropped his sandwich on the table, wiping his hands as if already done with whatever circus was about to unfold. "Stand down, boys," he told his officers with a flat tone. "Weapons down, now. The order on his arrest's been pulled."

Winters' smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and amusement, as if daring them to take a shot.

The officers shared a glance before grudgingly holstering their weapons. Bailey didn't need to look twice to know they'd rather be anywhere else. He waved them off. "Leave us for a minute, alright? Me and our 'friend' here need to have a chat."

They filed off, giving Martin sidelong looks as they went. When they'd finally left the two alone, Bailey gestured at the empty chair across from him. "Take a seat, Winters, unless you plan on getting all that gear polished for free by standing around."

Martin shrugged, sliding into the chair with a casual air that belied the arsenal he was carrying. "You know me, Captain," he said, his smirk never quite fading. "I like to be prepared."

Bailey shook his head, studying Martin with a mix of annoyance and resignation. "So," he said, leaning back and folding his arms, "you drop in here looking like you're about to start World War Three, and they tell me I'm supposed to act like nothing's wrong. Call me crazy, but I don't think you're here for coffee and a friendly catch-up."

"No, can't say I am," Martin replied. His eyes gleamed with an edge of purpose. "I'm here to ask for… let's call it containment help. Specifically, with some Turians."

Bailey raised an eyebrow. "Containment?" he echoed, his tone wary. "You realize 'containment' means a whole different thing to you than it does to the rest of us?"

Martin leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, though the casual tone didn't quite vanish. "Look, I know it's an uncomfortable ask. But you've seen the way things are spinning out of control lately, right? These Turians they're making moves, pushing buttons that could throw the whole Citadel into chaos."

Bailey exhaled sharply. "What are you talking about Winters? And I assume you've got a more… colorful approach to managing them?"

"Colorful? Sure, let's go with that." Martin shrugged. "But I'd rather keep this as straightforward as possible. Some of these Turians have gone rogue, Turian Military types running their own agenda. You know how dangerous that can get. And, well, I might be able to do something about it."

Bailey shook his head, giving Martin a skeptical look. "So you're asking me to turn a blind eye while you start 'managing' a few Turians? Maybe even lend a hand?"

"Not a blind eye, Captain. Just… a little room to operate," Martin said, his voice a low murmur. "These Turians have gone rogue and I've been asked by the Turian Councilor to take care of them. They're not following any official chain of command anymore. If you've heard of the Spears of Palaven, then you know just how ugly it could get."

Bailey's eyes narrowed, recognition flashing briefly. "Spears of Palaven? Never heard of them, and I'm not putting my officers in the middle of some shooting gallery between you and a whatever it is you're planning."

Martin leaned back, nodding slowly. "I get it. Believe me, I'm not asking for backup. Just… don't want Civilians getting in my way."

Bailey studied him for a moment, his gaze shrewd. "And what's your plan here, exactly? You planning to pick them off one by one? Storm into their headquarters?"

Martin's smirk turned razor-sharp. "Something like that. Only problem is, they're not exactly hanging around with a big 'shoot me here' sign. They're coming in by ship, a Turian Cruiser, the Vigilant Ascendancy, I need the docks cleared but not enough to make it look like somethings wrong." Martin took a breath looking down at the table for a moment before resetting his gaze on him. "This is legit Bailey, I do this, we all get some well deserved vacation."

Bailey tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze shifting from wary to contemplative. "Alright," he said finally. "But hear me out, Winters. You make this more trouble than it's worth, if civilians get caught in the crossfire… I won't just turn a blind eye. And I don't want to end up explaining to anyone why you were walking around the Citadel looking like a one-man war machine."

Martin nodded, the smirk softening, though the edge remained. "I can work with that, Captain. Civilians stay out of it. Thats been the plan."

Bailey watched him for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Just… keep it clean, alright? And I mean it, Winters. One wrong move, and you'll be dealing with C-Sec too."

"Duly noted," Martin said, his voice calm, almost respectful. He nodded his thanks and rose from his seat, giving Bailey a final, knowing look. "Appreciate the chat, Captain."

Bailey sighed, watching as Martin turned and strode slowly away, his every step a reminder that all hell was about to break out, and he'd just given it permission to start. "Council blessing my ass."