I've seen so much, been dragged through so many fires, that you start to wonder if there's something shaping it all. Something pushing me to survive, to keep getting back up. The pain of birth, of tearing out of the void, gasping for air that my body wasn't sure it wanted—that's the first thing I remember. A raw, desperate feeling of being alive again, pulled back by something greater than my understanding. I've come to realize that maybe it was for a reason. Maybe I have a purpose that wasn't just forced into me. Maybe I'm here for something beyond fighting, beyond survival.
I've carried this burden, this weight, thinking it was all pain and punishment, but now I can see it's been more. This journey, this twisted path—it's taught me about freedom, what it truly means. Freedom isn't just about breaking chains; it's about fighting for the right to choose, to live, even when the odds are stacked, even when the galaxy itself wants you to bow down. It's about carving out a space where you can look your enemy in the eye and say, "I am still here, and I am not yours."
Somewhere along the line, I found something worth protecting. Maybe it was that damned Valkyrie of mine, maybe it was something else, but it's there, this small, fierce light. For so long, I thought all I had was my own survival, that relationships, trust, love… they were nothing but distractions. But she's shown me there's more. There's a fire in me now that burns not just for myself but for her, for the idea of something better. Something beyond the fight. And yet… even with this new light, this new purpose, I am still ready to fight, to tear down whatever stands in my way.
But I wonder… what happens when this is all over? If this goes wrong, if I fall, what legacy will I leave behind? Will anyone tell my story? Or will this galaxy burn my name to ashes, erase my saga because it's too dangerous, too real for anyone to remember? I want to believe that someone will keep it alive, that someone will see the truth in what I've done. But if not… if they wipe me from history, I hope there's still someone out there who will carry the fire, who won't bow to the powers that be, who will keep fighting even in the dark.
And if the gods are watching, if they're out there, peering down at me like they're waiting to judge… they should be worried. Because if I fall, if this ends for me, then I'm coming for them. Every last one. I'll walk into their halls, weapon in hand, and I'll make them answer for every life they've toyed with, for every path they've twisted. If I fall, it won't be the end—it'll be the beginning of a reckoning they've never dreamed of. They'll know the name Martin Winters, and it will be a name they fear.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Three hours. That was all that remained. Just three hours of this relentless waiting, this tense quiet that seeped into every breath, every measured heartbeat. The Citadel's lights seemed dimmer in Zakara Ward, casting an almost surreal glow over the cleared dock. Martin watched as the last of C-Sec moved out, officers clearing away civilians and securing the space. The usually crowded docks now stood deserted, ghostly in their silence, as the automated systems clicked and whirred to life, securing locks and reinforcing barriers until the dock was entirely sealed off, isolating him from the rest of the station.
Alone now, Martin breathed in deeply, letting the artificially circulated air fill his lungs. He took a slow, deliberate pace, each step reverberating softly off the metal flooring, the sound faint but steady, a metronome marking time in the heavy silence. Stacks of empty crates loomed like silent sentinels, scattered across the expanse of the dock, remnants of the ordinary routines that had once filled this space. But today was different. Today, he was no mere man lost in the crowd; he was the one they feared, the one they whispered about. Today, he was the predator, the hunter, death's chosen reaper.
His armor felt like a second skin, molded to him with precision and familiarity, every inch heavy and solid, grounding him in this moment. The dark metal plating wrapped around him with a comforting weight, a reminder that he was prepared, equipped. It was more than armor; it was a statement, a symbol of the path he'd chosen. And as he moved, he felt every weapon strapped to his side, each piece part of him, each one an extension of his resolve. Here, on this empty dock, Martin was ready.
But something tugged at him. There was still one last thing he needed to do. He lifted his arm, the dim blue glow of his omni-tool illuminating his face as he keyed in a sequence, watching the interface flicker as it connected. Then, he heard it—that soft, familiar voice breaking through the static, groggy and confused.
"Martin?" Athria's voice was warm, still laced with sleep, but it pulled at something deep inside him, grounding him even as he prepared for what lay ahead.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his tone remained quiet, almost reverent. "Did I wake you?" he asked softly, barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the stillness around him.
"Yeah, kind of… what's going on?" Her voice, although sleepy, carried a thread of curiosity mixed with concern.
Martin paused, his gaze lowering to the metal floor beneath his feet, suddenly weighed down by the moment. How could he put this into words? Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but thick with unspoken weight. "I'm at the docks in Zakara Ward," he said, the words hanging heavily in the air between them.
"What? Wh—" Her voice sharpened, a touch of urgency breaking through her confusion. "What's going on, Martin? I don't like the way you're talking."
He couldn't help a small, hollow laugh, the sound escaping like a sigh. "Yeah… I took a job from the Turian Councilor." He paused, as if the words themselves were a burden he hadn't been ready to carry. "The... um... Spears of Palaven's leader is coming to the Citadel."
Silence crackled over the line for a split second, then her voice shot through, filled with anger and worry. "You're an idiot, Martin. You're not seriously thinking of going after them alone, are you?" He could hear her moving on the other end, the rustle of fabric, the hurried shuffle of feet as she scrambled out of bed.
"Yeah, actually," he replied, a hint of dry humor slipping into his tone. "Had Bailey seal off the docks. I just wanted to call you—"
"Martin, you promised me, you asshole!" Her voice, raw with frustration and hurt, cut him off, and he could almost picture her, moving through the dim light of their apartment as she hastily dressed and gathered her weapons.
He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing against the thickness in his throat. "I did," he said softly, a hint of resolve in his tone. "I don't intend on dying, not today."
"Then why do you sound like that?" Her breaths came in short, urgent huffs, and he could hear the rising panic in her voice. "Why does it sound like you're saying goodbye?"
He blinked, feeling a sting behind his eyes, a rare wetness gathering there, betraying the weight he carried. "Because…" He hesitated, searching for the right words, words that wouldn't falter under the weight of what he felt. "Because I wanted to tell you that I care for you, and… I'm doing this for you."
The line went silent, as if she were processing his words, the unspoken meaning woven into them. Then her voice returned, softer, almost vulnerable. "You… you're an idiot, Martin." Her voice cracked slightly, frustration mixing with something deeper. "You should have called earlier, told me this in person… I could be there with you!"
He let out a long breath, forcing himself to stay grounded, to keep his focus. "I know," he replied, his tone carrying a quiet acceptance. "But I needed time to get ready. And you… you needed rest. Just take your time; you won't be needed for a while."
"What the hell does that mean?" she shot back, her voice laced with worry and impatience.
He looked up, his gaze falling on the sealed airlock at the far end of the dock. He took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs as he steadied himself. "You're my Valkyrie," he said, calmly, words he had never admitted before. "You'll be here when you need to be." He ended the call without another word, lowering is arm down to his side as he took another breath. As much as he needed her here by his side, he needed to delay her. She wasn't recovered from her fight with Nira, she needed time to rest, and he needed to soften up whatever awaited for them. He knew she would need to get ready, travel, and have to push her way through C-Sec. That should give him the time he needed. Martin griped the owl pendent hanging from his wrist, rubbing it between his fingers. War and wisdom.
Just three more hours…
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Athria flew out of the apartment door, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Fury, fear, frustration—all battling for dominance. Every bruise, every aching muscle from her last fight tugged at her, but the pain only fueled her determination. She tightened her grip on the straps of her commando armor, her movements fluid and practiced as she raced down the hallway.
With a quick burst of biotics, she lifted herself over the stairs, letting the blue energy carry her in a graceful descent as she descended floor by floor in seconds. Her landing was smooth, years of training letting her absorb the impact effortlessly. She barely paused, moving in a swift, focused line to where the skycar should've been.
But when she reached the docking bay, it hit her like a punch to the gut. The skycar was gone. He took it. Of course he did.
"Bastard!" she muttered under her breath, anger flaring hot in her chest.
Eyes scanning the rows of vehicles, she picked one out quickly, a sleek, unmarked model that looked fast enough. She didn't hesitate. With a flick of her wrist, she activated her omni-tool, fingers deftly hacking into the skycar's controls. The door slid open with a faint hum, and she slipped inside, immediately setting the destination to Zakara Ward's docks. The estimated arrival flashed across the console: 57 minutes.
"Not fast enough," she growled, pressing her back against the seat to catch her breath. The faint, metallic scent of her armor mixed with the cleaner scent of the skycar's interior. She was breathless but not from exertion—it was that feeling, a knot twisted tight in her chest, brought on by a reckless, insufferable human.
Martin. That barbarian.
The anger simmered hotter. She clenched her jaw, thoughts swirling as she recalled his voice over the comm. That irritating calm, that infuriating resolve—she could strangle him! Going off alone to face… whatever this was. The man was all reckless bravery and no common sense, always rushing headlong into danger without her. And for what? For some twisted sense of honor or pride?
She shook her head, her hands tight on the controls as she pressed the throttle to its limit. A quiet beep from the dashboard signaled she'd hit the vehicle's governor cap, the max speed that limited its acceleration. She glared at the controls, feeling her patience snap. Holding her omni-tool over the dashboard, she sparked a quick override, the console fizzing as the system bent to her will. The car jolted as it sped up further, engine humming with newfound power. She'd get there faster, and damn him if he thought he was leaving her behind.
The city lights of Zakara blurred past as the skycar zoomed toward the docks, her fury simmering just under the surface. She wasn't going to let him face this alone. She had a right to be there, a right to fight alongside him. If anything happened to him while he left her behind, she'd never forgive him—or herself.
But amid the storm of her anger, something else gnawed at her. It was his voice, the way he'd spoken to her. That steady, quiet calm, like he believed he'd stay alive, like he was trying to reassure her. He'd sounded so certain, yet she knew better than to trust his luck. Martin may want to stay alive, but the Turians? They'd be doing everything they could to make sure he didn't walk away from this fight. And if they had the artifact… if they had that, there'd be no telling the lengths they'd go to use it.
Her hand tightened on the throttle, her knuckles white under the gauntlet. The skycar flew faster, breaking through the air with a mechanical whine. She had to be there. She wasn't going to let him throw himself away, not like this.
Then his words echoed in her mind again. Valkyrie.
That word, one he'd said before, one she'd heard on that Turian frigate when he'd first used it to address her. She didn't know what it meant exactly—another human term with layers of meaning she hadn't fully grasped. But the way he'd said it… it had weight. To him, it had meaning. Perhaps it meant something like "a woman with blinding rage," and if that were true, he'd been spot on. She felt every bit the furious warrior that word seemed to evoke. She braced herself, ready to tear into Martin for this reckless, foolish, absurd plan the moment she laid eyes on him.
