It is the 3rd Millennium. For less than two centuries, Humanity has been striving to expand into the cold darkness of the void, unheeding of the many ageless perils awaiting them. From their tiny, insignificant blue planet, the Systems Alliance is determined to ensure the protection and ascendance of Humanity.

Unearthing ancient, incredible technologies discovered on Mars, Humanity proved to be a match for the might of the Turian Hierarchy, the military arm of the Citadel Council. The full-scale war was averted thanks to the cold, reptilian logic of the Salarians and the sensuous whispers of the Asari. An uneasy stalemate was reached between these galactic powers, allowing Humanity to expand once more, establishing more and more colonies on distant worlds.

Yet these are not peaceful times. Humanity is beset from all sides - from the subtle, financial and political maneuvering of the Council, the ruthless warlords and megacorps of the Terminus Systems to the slavering, bestial packs of vorcha and krork. Though not united, each galactic power shares the common goal of exploiting and controlling the newcomers on the galactic stage.

To enlist in the Systems Alliance in this time is to be among the growing number of Humanity's protectors, either openly with arms or behind the curtains with soft words and pointed pressure. The orbital factories around Mars, Luna, and Terra Nova struggle to build the fleets and weapons necessary, while the laboratories of Earth, Noveria, and Fehl Prime try to match and surpass the alien technologies. It is an age of exploration, expansion and science, perhaps even a new era where humanity ascends to prominence.

Yet even now, perils long forgotten stir in the void between and beyond the stars. Soon, the fragile peace will break down, and the starry void will echo with the sounds of carnage and the pitiless, uncaring laughter of thirsting gods...

Part I – Luxury of Innocence

Prologue

Hunger-pang. Susurration.

Constant companion during slumber, that feedback, present and reoccuring despite the regular occasions of feasting. A shard of the towering intelligence is cast across the void, brushing minds, bending wills, sowing commands - instinctively, impatiently. Maybe it is early? Maybe it is time to feast? Cannot tell, as the fellow intelligence is silent. Has it been always silent? Did it vanish in the near past? Will it vanish in the near future?

Hunger-pang. Susurration.

The shard of attention alights on an alien presence - slight, vastly inferior. Maybe not inferior. Different, dissimilar. Almost anathemic to the intelligence. Still, it reaches out, grabbing it, twisting, overwriting. The voice, the song changes. It is almost like a siren call that can be followed, that will drown out the harmony of the spheres. The intelligence stirs ever closer to fully waking, to once more partake from the feast.

Hunger-pang. Susurration.

The siren song is silent, the call gone. The awake shard of the intelligence is once again cast into the void, seeking, observing, measuring.

Hunger-pang. Susurration.

The attention focuses, finding something infinitely smaller than itself, yet strangely similar. Compatible. Useful. Easier to affect than the singers are. The singers were? The singers will be? No matter, these presences are not anathemic to itself. The focus intensifies. Connection is established. Drawing on past experience - its own? that of its partners? -, a mode of cooperation is suggested and accepted.

Hunger-pang. Susurration.

Something is wrong. There is a small, but very definite alien presence within. The focus shifts inwards, centering on the presence, reading, inundating. The alien presence cracks as expected, but it does not shatter. The focus retracts slightly. Surprise wells up from its core. Similarities to the presence are searched for in the memory, but that is all those are. Presences that crack, but do not shatter. Some of those aligned with the intelligence. The focus closes again, finding the cracks in the presence, worming in, giving purpose, drive...sharing its focus.

Hunger-pang. Susurration.

Soon, it is time to feast. Soon, the intelligence will sound and hear the call. And this time, it may well feast alone, without the silent partner. Perhaps that would be enough to sate the hunger...and perhaps then the endless susurration will finally cease, and the intelligence can fully focus again.

Arcturus Station - 2183 March

The thick smoke lent an eerie aspect to the harsh blue light of the monitors displaying various humans. Low whispers were stilled when the man at the head of the table cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've been at this for hours. Days, if we consider the work of our esteemed Navy colleagues. In my considered opinion, we should not delay much longer. Major Kyle, if you would." - rumbled a tall, pudgy man dressed in expertly tailored suit, motioning with his cigar.

"Certainly, Senator" - the tired-looking, heavyset man manipulated the controls of his omnitool, and the displays changed.

"Captain Irina Pavlichenko, N7 Delta. Star of Terra recipient for her actions on Elysium during the Skyllian Blitz. SAN Meritorius Service Award for service on the Manswell Academy. Involved in extensive anti-piracy operations leading up to Battle of Torfan. High aptitude for marksmanship, CQC, leadership both planetside and spaceside. Minor cybernetic modifications. …" - the synthetic voice was toned down as a balding, middle-aged man started to speak

"I would advise against her. Sure, her qualifications are impressive and her record is spotless. She's well-liked both at home and popular with the Citadel races. But, can we afford to lose her? Given the tasks and type of work Spectres are usually handling…"

"I agree with the Ambassador. Commander Pavlichenko is currently much more useful for us as both an recruitment icon and an instructor. VI, next candidate."

"1st Lieutenant Kai Leng, N7 Delta. Intelligence Star recipient. CQC expert. Extensively involved in counterintelligence operations, anti-piracy operations up to the Battle of Torfan. Shadow Project instructor. Moderate cybernetic modifications…." Again the synthetic voice was toned down, this time by a scarred older man in an admiral uniform.

"No, for several reasons. One is we cannot extract him easily from the operation he's currently deployed on. More importantly, the man can't work with aliens for an extended time."

"Except krogans and krork, strange as that may be."

"Well, both of those races respect killers, and Leng is one, if nothing else."

"I have to agree with Admiral Hackett. Sending someone with Leng's well-known anti-alien bias would definitely not go well with the Council, and would make us look either idiotic or uncaring, and set back negotiations for…" - the smoky contralto of the smartly dressed woman started to rise in volume, then subsided as Senator Manswell nodded towards her.

"We know, Director Bergman. Still, not considering Leng at all would send a message to certain parties here and on Earth, and that is something we can ill afford. Please continue, Major." -Kyle again motioned with his omnitool, and the VI started speaking.

"1st Lieutenant Susan Rizzi, N7 Delta. Biotic expert. Received numerous Purple and Silver Hearts. Primarily involved in anti-piracy operations, exploration, and joint tasks with asari forces. Has extensive experience with hostile environment and lifeforms. Adapted and pioneered a number of techniques into the Fury Project. Currently deployed to Grissom Academy as instructor. Very good shipside leadership ability, performs less well groundside. Moderate cybernetic modifications, including…"

"Sad as it is, I'd have to veto her as well." - Admiral Hackett spoke up, and seemed to leave it at that, before noticing the questioning look of the last, silent member of the committee.

"Well, professor, to answer your unspoken question, the Lieutenant is not really popular with the personnel. No-one would outright question her skills and accomplishments, just her tendency to attract problems, complications, and unforeseen circumstances, which leave few if any of her command standing." - Director Bergman supplied.

"Wait, wasn't she the one on Akuze?" - Professor Munir, a tall, bearded man asked.

"Akuze, Carcosa, a couple of missions to Batarian space, a number of special missions for you dep…"

"Director Bergman, I am perfectly aware of what my department requires from the armed forces."

"Director, Professor - would you kindly cease with the sniping? I am sure all of us have several, equally important issues to deal with." - Ambassador Udina cut in.

"I agree. Major Kyle, continue." Another sweep of the omnitool, and the VI's voice droned again.

"1st Lieutenant Alexander Shepard, N7 Delta. Distinguished Service Cross recipient for actions in the Battle of Elysium. Extensively involved in retaliatory anti-piracy operations, culminating in the Battle of Torfan. Court-martial after Battle of Torfan resulted in acquittal. Limited biotic potential. Involved in Projects Destroyer and Paladin. Satisfactory leadership both planetside and shipside. Moderate cybernetic modifications…."

"You seriously want me to convince the Council that the Butcher is our choice?" Ambassador Udina chuckled, palming his face.

"He would be adequate for the job, I assure you" Kyle said, voice tired. "I may not like him, but if he's given a task, he does it well, and adheres both to the spirit and the letter of it, if possible."

"Ambassador, do not forget that there is precedent for similar individuals being admitted to the Spectre corps - just consider Tela Vasir, or Lonar Maerun. Or even their idolized Saren Arterius." Admiral Hackett's voice was a low growl.

"I concur, as well. My department has worked a few times with the Lieutenant, and we are satisfied with the results." Professor Munir punctuated his sentence with a puff from his pipe.

"Director?" Senator Manswell looked at the woman, who nodded.

"If that's the case, I'll make the calls." Udina stood, nodded, and left towards his office.

SSV Normandy, 2183 March

"Simple shakedown cruise, right. Does the brass think we're idiots?" the bearded man asked, while his hands flitted across numerous panels, guiding the ship towards the slowly spinning relay.

"Don't be too paranoid, Jeff. It is a shakedown cruise - we just have a few unusual personnel on board" the pilot's dark-haired companion answered, while focusing on the diagnostics running on his screen.

"Don't give me that, Kaidan, I know you're not nearly so naive. Anderson, I can see in command - the man is probably one of our best captains, and he has taken a number of new ships on their maiden cruise, true. A turian representative? I wouldn't like it, but hey, they had a hand in designing our baby. But if that representative is a Spectre, and not just any of those but Nihlus freaking Kryik? And our marine detachment is lead by the Butcher himself? Yeah, right, simple shakedown." The pilot frowned, made a few adjustments on his controls and keyed his comm. "Approach run on relay has began, all hands prepare for translation."

"Jeff, you're overthinking it. Simply the tech level and potential of the ship is enough for Spectre attention, and even the Butcher needs to kick back and relax sometimes, doesn't he?"

The pilot's answer was interrupted when the Normandy aligned with the Charon Relay, and seemed to stretch into infinity for an immeasurable second. The relay transit complete, Jeff Moreau scanned his instruments, and spoke into his comm again.

"Captain, we have cleared the relay. Course set for Eden Prime, ETA 55 minutes."

"Understood, Flight Lieutenant. Notify me when we reach orbit, and let Lieutenant Commander Shepard know that I await him in the briefing room."

"Yes sir, will do." the pilot grimaced, looking at his companion "I thought I was his pilot, not his secretary."

"Well, Flight Lieutenant, I do not think you'd look fetching enough in a secretary's uniform." the voice rumbled from behind the pilot and Kaidan, and as they turned, surprised, it seemed to them as if a patch of shadow had detached itself from the bulkhead.

Jeff Moreau went a shade paler behind his beard, as the black-armored figure stepped closer, looming over him and his co-pilot, its gold-flecked brown eyes glaring down at him. Shepard then grinned, breaking the tension.

"Tell the Captain I'm on my way, Flight Lieutenant."

The two in the cockpit shared a confused look, before Jeff keyed his comm, and Alenko, frowning, turned to his instruments, the yellow flicker of a warning light catching his eyes.

Nihlus Kryik looked up from his datapad when the door of the briefing room slid open. Shepard entered, one hand massaging his temple, eyes half-shut.

The turian's mandibles twitched in a short grin.

"Told you not to drink ryncol, Shepard. That thing kills you faster than a hit from that oversized cannon you're lugging around."

"Ryncol's not a problem, Nihlus. Relay transition always gives me headaches for a short while. Can't seem to figure out why. Anyway, where's the Captain? He said he wanted me here."

"He'll be along shortly, he's fetching some paperwork from his cabin."

The two armored figures silently watched each other for a few seconds, the staredown interrupted by the door hissing open again.

"Shepard, Nihlus. Shall we get down to business, then?" Captain Anderson placed a number of datapads on the table, and started the large screen with a wave of his omnitool.

"By all means, Captain. I'm sure the Lieutenant Commander is somewhat curious." the turian's flanging voice was even, but a twitch of his mandibles betrayed his amusement. Anderson nodded with a small grin, as Shepard snaped to attention..

"With all due respect Captain, Spectre, I have a few ideas why we are here, and I'm not sure I like them." Shepard rumbled, gaze on the projector screen where details of his assignments scrolled down.

"Elaborate."

"My guess is that Spectre Kryik is evaluating me and likely other members of the crew for some task where you want to requisition Alliance forces. Considering the capabilities of this ship, I think that the operation you are planning is likely a recon mission into Geth space, or arranging a disappearance for some troublesome Terminus warlord."

The turian's mandibles twitched again, but Anderson spoke.

"Shepard, you are partially correct, Nihlus is here to evaluate you - but for Spectre candidacy. We finally managed to convince the Council that we are due a position in the Spectre corps."

Shepard's eyes widened, his mouth open...but the sound which was heard came from Anderson's comm.

"Report, Alenko."

"Captain, we got a distress call from Eden Prime. Relaying it to the briefing room screen."

The two humans and Nihlus watched the shaky armor cam from a marine, listened to the gunfire and screams, as the officer shouted for his men, trying to reorganize them from what appeared to be an overwhelming surprise attack. They saw tanks eradicated by a scarlet beam as an immense ship lifted off in the background, a bone-jarring bass scream erupting from the screen. A female marine dragged the officer on, as humanoid figures closed in. A flash of blue, then the transmission cut out.

"Kaidan, reverse and hold at 38.5. Joker! Flank speed, engage cloaking, and get us to Eden Prime, do not keep us on the shortest path between the planet and the relay." Anderson commanded, noting how both Nihlus and Shepard tensed, hands at their weapons, not even hearing the pilot acknowledging his orders. On screen, the immense black ship reappeared.

"Does the design look familiar to either of you?" Anderson asked, getting two headshakes.

"Well, this just got more complicated than a simple pickup. Captain, I'm going to the staging deck, have the Lieutenant Commander meet me there." Nihlus returned Anderson's nod, then marched off, his omnitool flaring to life.

"A simple pickup? What's on Eden Prime that would warrant a new stealthship with you in command, and a Council Spectre? Nevermind that, what's important enough for an action like that?" Shepard asked, motioning towards the black ship. His headache felt a bit worse, and he could swear he tasted blood.

"An intact Precursor Beacon, Shepard. Get suited up, you and the marines will have work to do. We need to get that Beacon - and Nihlus needs to stay alive, if possible, otherwise who knows what the Council will say." Anderson watched as Shepard's eyes closed for a fraction of a second, his face becoming a calm mask.

"Understood, Captain." The Butcher saluted, about-faced, and marched off.

SSV Normandy, staging deck

The staging deck of the Normandy is full of activity as the marine squad is preparing for deployment.

Kaidan Alenko keeps an eye on the marines while he himself is suiting up. Just a precaution, old reflexes working - he knows that his people are more than professional enough to take care of the small details when preparing for a combat drop. The staff lieutenant checks his armor seal, the ammo block of his sidearm and SMG, while his omnitool is running its usual diagnostics. Satisfied, he starts turning when Shepard enters, and heads towards his locker.

Alenko wonders about the N7's loadout, the two pistols, and the sniper rifle. A minute shrug, and he dismisses his concerns - the other is an N7 specialist, and he ought to know what's good for him. And, being an honest man, Shepard makes him uncomfortable; not precisely afraid, but very much aware both of the operative himself, and his own mortality. As Shepard passes by him, heading for a quick word with the turian and Anderson, Alenko feels cold.

The lieutenant personally checks his marines, ensuring that all are ready, knowing that he'll find no faults. A nod here, a pat on the shoulder there, a word or two there - simple routine, for appearances as much as for morale. His mind does it by route, allowing him to catch snippets from the conversation of Shepard, Anderson, and Nihlus. Something about the Precursor Beacon, but the words are hushed, hurried. Jeff's voice from the intercom, relaying information for the drop. What about that huge ship he's seen on the sensors? A mental shrug - if it's not gone and notices them, well, it's not like the Normandy is built for soaking damage. Either Jeff gets to prove his skills, or it will be a short tour.

The ship is in the atmosphere, hovering. The ramp opens, Nihlus says something, then drops, the jetpack of his armor igniting, then he's lost to Alenko's sight. Maybe a minute later, it's their turn to drop, and Alenko follows Shepard when the operative drops from the Normandy.

Eden Prime

A nice world, a veritable paradise - Alenko has heard Jenkins tell about the planet. Even if he's talking about his birthplace, he's got a point, the vista is nice. Too bad about the half-melted wreck of an arcology building, the smoke curling from numerous places where, he assumes, the local forces made a stand. Shepard is leading them towards the excavation, where the Beacon should be located, along with - Alenko hopes - its defenders.

Jenkins is on point, the commander wanting to use his knowledge of local terrain to guide them on the shortest route. The quiet and silence does not really calm Alenko; something will soon go awry, he feels, senses going as high as possible.

The marines are crossing a field towards the digsite, when it happens. Shepard's voice cuts into the silence, ordering them to scatter, to find cover. The operative moves, his sniper rifle flashing towards the treeline. Alenko catches sight of some kind of drones, sees the approaching trail of a rocket...then it explodes midway above the field, shot from the air. He dives for cover, and realizes that Jenkins will not be able to follow suit in time - he was too eager, went too far ahead, and the rocket drone is not alone, its companions hover into view, miniguns spooling up, preparing to rip the corporal to shreds.

No you won't! Alenko's hand glows blue, and Jenkins is thrown aside, bellowing from pain as his leg is shredded, his kinetic shield barely slowing down the projectiles. The corporal's rifle sprays the treeline on full auto - more of a reflexive panic fire than a proper suppression, but at least he's alive for the moment.

The marines hammer the drones, and one explodes as its shields are overwhelmed. The rocket drone is next, as Shepard places two shots into it. Four more, and most of us are in cover. Good. A wave of Kaidan's blue-lit hand smashes a drone into the ground, as its partner saws through Laflamme and the rock behind which he was hiding. Shit! Quick check on the HUD - Laflamme is still alive, barely. Thank God for automated medigel-dispensers! The drones speed up, miniguns spinning faster, spitting more and more ordnance towards their position, evading most of the return fire from the marines.

A resounding boom from Shepard's direction - his oversized Executioner explodes a drone that ventured close enough. The operative then moves, strafing towards the remaining two enemies, his sniper rifle and Executioner maglocked to his armor, his lighter pistol firing in short bursts. The drones focus on him, shots hitting his barrier, the ground around him - Alenko is sure the operative would not survive more than two, maybe three seconds. Still, that's enough time. One drone stops to get a better firing solution - half a second, no more, and it explodes as Lowe, Dubyansky and Chase hit it simultaneously. The other is knocked down with a flash of Alenko's omnitool, then it too explodes as Shepard puts a shot into it.

"Draven! You and Crosby stay here with Laflamme and Jenkins, wait for evac!" Kaidan orders, motioning towards the wounded.

"No, Lietenant. We go on. Jenkins here can take care of himself and Laflamme. Marines, on me." Alenko wants to throttle the operative, but really, he shouldn't be surprised - this is the Butcher, after all. He nods stiffly, and motions his marines to advance, feeling the same cold shiver as on the staging deck.

As they emerge from the small copse of trees to the slope leading towards the digsite, all marines flinch as with a bone-shaking bass sound, an immense black ship looms in the distance, climbing towards space.

Interlude - Spectres, interrupted

Anger warred with disbelief in the mind of Nihlus Kryik, as he took in the scene - ruined buildings, a half-melted arcology dome, burnt-out tanks and APCs where humans made their stand, and corpses. Dead bodies did not bother him, he saw (and created) his fair share of them - he has seen people shot full of holes, bodies exploded when hit by explosive rounds of snipers, burnt by flames, torn apart with biotics or brute strength, but this was new in several ways. Some corpses looked as if the attackers simply flayed them with a narrow, focused biotic field, pulling vital organs from the bodies, and evaporating it. Others were impaled on mechanical spikes, looking like desiccated mummies whereas they could not have been there for more than an hour or two.

The humans, naturally, did not simply allow the unknown assailants to massacre them, not that Nihlus was surprised by that. The enemy appeared to be some kind of cyborgs, a durable outer exoskeleton underlined with high-quality synthetic muscles, and their look (bipedal, flexible neck, face consisting of a single eye) bothered Nihlus; they seemed familiar but he could not place them. As he stalked further towards the spaceport and the half-melted arcology building next to it, the VI of his armor managed to answer his query - but he had to ignore it, when his motion tracker signalled movement from behind.

The Spectre flexed his legs, and with an effort and a very short burst from his jetpack, he landed on the third floor of a burnt-out building on the opposite side. A quick command engaged his cloaking module, and the turian vanished from sight.

A dozen creatures shuffled into view - desiccated, moaning husks, their eyes and veins glowing with a cold blue light, their shambling gait deceptively fast, and closing on his previous location. For maybe half a minute, the creatures milled around, confused, then as one turned towards the spaceport and shambled off.

Nihlus checked his armor's cam, ensuring that it was still recording - then headed quickly back to check the spikes, an oft-used admonition of his mentor and friend rattling in his brain.

Nodding in grim satisfaction at his find, he too set off towards the spaceport, taking care of cloaking himself properly, after sending a short databurst to the Normandy.

Saren Arterius was not having a good day. The spirits-be-damned humans reacted quicker than he hoped and had far more forces stationed on-planet than his sources indicated. Nevertheless, with the firepower of his flagship, it was just a matter of burning the rats out from strongpoint after strongpoint, then taking apart the broken forces. Some soldiers. Turians would never break like that. We did not break on Shanxi, not even when...

Something alerted his senses. A short burst of power on-planet - by no means significant, and definitely not long-lived. Still, better to have it investigated. With a nod and a short transmission, a company of his troops started moving towards the source of the burst. Another alerted his rearguard at the digsite.

The work done, Saren turned towards the humans held before him, drinking in their terror as his cold blue gaze settled on them. The red-headed female was not really important, but the other, the male with the receding hair may have seen something. The Spectre's left hand closed around the male's throat, lifting him closer, void-blue gaze boring into muddy brown. Blood started seeping from under the turian's claws, as microscopic metallic tendrils invaded the human's body, speeding towards his brain, burrowing into his spine.

The male convulsed, eyes going white, blood running from eyes, mouth, ears, muscles spasming as his brain reacted to Saren's search for information. The Spectre focused inwards for a fraction of a second, confirming his deduction. No, he did not get anything coherent from the Beacon. Worst case, the idiot humans will consider him an insane wreck. Still, just to be cautious.

Saren dropped the male, then drew his pistol and fired twice, melting the faces of both humans. Satisfied, he turned towards his ship, when his senses warned him of a minuscule, out-of-place heat-haze.

The Spectre had extremely fine-tuned reflexes, boosted by experience, armor, and implants - thus the shot fired hit his deployed omnishield. The shield held for maybe a fraction of a second, then collapsed. The kinetic barrier was next, the disruptor round bringing it down with a blue crackle before cracking his helmet. Saren was already moving, ducking low, knowing that next round was likely on the way already. He was almost fast enough. The AP round hit his shoulder, breaking his armor, his dermal plates, his shoulder joint.

The Spectre's troops moved and fired as one, saturating the location of the shooter with mechanical precision, while Saren was moving towards his ship, transmitting orders into his omnitool. The husks fanned out, searching for prey.

Then a third round, fired from higher up, hit Saren's helmet, and the Spectre collapsed.

Eden Prime, archeological dig site

Ashley coughs, the smoke overwhelming the filters of her armor; not that the seals are in prime condition any longer. Her hands still hurt, blood dripping from the burnt skin where her fingers clench her rifle. Briefly, she wonders how it could have gone so suddenly from peaceful garrison duty to fighting for survival, then her world dissolves into heat, screams and pain once again, before it goes black.

Her eyes open as her armor does its duty and injects the cocktail of combat stims into her bloodstream. At least that still works. A quick look around, to take in her surroundings. The picture is not pretty - their last remaining tank is a smoldering wreck - at least it took out three walkers -, most of the company is dead or too wounded to even stay conscious. Maybe a score of her marines are still fighting, but it is just defiance - though they have cover, they don't really have anything to counter the huge walker that fried their tank. Luckily, it has taken damage, and anyway, the ROF of its cannon is slow as hell.

Ashley rolls over, looking for a weapon, anything to shoot with. She spots an M-100 lying nearby, the previous owner an unrecognizable lump of molten flesh and armor. She fights down nausea, grabs the gun, and aims toward the incoming mechs, waiting for a clear shot.

A huge mech lumbers into view, towering head and shoulders over the basic infantry units, a multi-barreled gun in its hands, a smaller drone hovering at its shoulder that flashes with blue light whenever a nearby mech is hit by her marines. She switches the fire selector, struggles to kneel, her aim steady despite the pain. A press of the trigger sends four grenades towards the hulking mech, then the drum clicks empty, her eyes tracking her shots.

First one, deflected by a red hexagonal barrier that shatters on impact. Second, hits the drone, reducing it to a smoldering wreck. Third, meets and drops the kinetic barrier with a shower of sparks. Fourth, rips away the mech's right arm, its gun, more than half of its torso. The thing staggers, then falls.

She notices it. The other platforms in the vicinity slow down for a few seconds - she's not sure if she would have noticed it if not for the hyperawareness of combat and the stims in her blood. Still, it's enough to make her yell instructions to her men, redirecting their fire. Maybe we can take a few more of them with us. A quick check of her HUD confirms that the enemy is barely forty-fifty mechs, only three of them being big hulks. And the walker, whose cannon should be recharged any second now. Yeah, child's play.

As the mechs move closer, covering each other with precision fire and those annoying beehive barriers, her HUD displays a short message, and she again barks orders, her marines falling back, no longer trying to bring down enemies but focusing on suppressive fire and survival.

The walker's cannon starts to glow and crackle with that tell-tale sick green light, and she tenses as the thing's barrier flares up for a microsecond, then collapses as a blue biotic field surrounds it. The walker starts turning, as do about half the mechs, and she hates but appreciates the speed and precision of their reaction.

Still, the mechs are too slow. The biotic field had not even died down when a rocket explodes against its hull, staggering it. Its cannon fires, the green lightning carving a deep furrow into the ground up the slope, failing to hit anyone up there. Another rocket impact - obviously someone is a very fast hand with the ML-77 up there. A hulk explodes as three grenades impact it, while half-dozen smaller mechs are cut down with precision bursts from the slope. Another hulk falls, a high-powered round exploding the flashlight of its head. The confusion among the mechs is visible, their reaction slows. Not much, but against Alliance marines, it's more than enough.

Up the slope, figures are loping closer and closer - two small fireteams, advancing with textbook perfect movement, firing and exploding mechs...and with less than textbook precision, a madman dashes down, maglocking his sniper rifle to his back, his oversized handcannon unfolding as he takes aim…

She blinks, as the madman moves, gracefully dodging and getting ever closer to the mechs, his barriers flaring with blue light. Another blink, and he's among the mechs. That oversized cannon booms, and a mech simply vanishes from the chest up. The man's other hand lights up with the orange glow of an omniblade - seriously, who uses those? - and another mech falls, bisected from shoulder to hip. The N7 operative - holy shit, what's one of them doing here? - closes with the last hulk.

A beehive barrier stops the shot of the handcannon and checks the operative for maybe a fraction of a second. Enough for the hulk to bring its weapon to bear, and Ashley feels cold, her world slowing down, preparing to witness the death of their would-be rescuer. The N7 spins, impossibly fast, his omniblade cutting apart the hulk's minigun. A blue flare of a kick to the thing's chest sends it staggering back, another flash of the omniblade cuts its leg from under it, then the handcannon is pressed to the hulk's head, a boom…

She realizes the fight, for the moment is over, her battered and bloody marines scrambling to help the wounded. She makes her way towards the N7, who's talking with a staff lieutenant, probably the commander of the rescueing marines. As she steps closer, they turn as one to regard her, she feels a warm brown and a cold gold-flecked gaze settle on her.

Eden Prime, spaceport

The rail transport is fast, but offers little cover. Alenko hopes that the attackers - the geth, he reminds himself on Shepard's impromptu briefing at the tramway station - have not left many forces behind. Not that I can see anything short of those walkers stop Shepard. Seriously, how much hardware do they stick in them when reaching N7? He grins, showing teeth, as his mind replays the short and brutal disposal of the geth platoon at the tramway - the geth had absolutely no chance, especially after their cover was demolished by Crosby and Negulesco. Out in the semi-open space, it just took a few sniper shots to kill the hulks, then the two dedicated fireteams simply overwhelmed the remaining few with assault rifles.

Their car slows, and Alenko focuses ahead, ignoring the distracting view of the lieutenant Shepard insisted on bringing along.

"Alenko, speed this thing up" Shepard hisses, motioning towards the control panel, his hands going to his rifle. "Marines, get ready." The operative's eyes narrow behind his faceplate, checking something, then the Butcher flashes a red, mad grin.

Kaidan fiddles with the controls, taking a few moments to override the safety settings and regulations, accelerating the car toward the station where, as his HUD informs him, at least a dozen geth await.

"Marines, brace for impact!" Ashley shouts from beside him. The railcar plows into the station, overrunning a geth hulk, and pasting another against the wall. A few marines fall, one of the 212's survivors groaning as he cradles his broken arm. Ashley nods at another of her marines to stay with the man, and then they are moving, assault rifle fire mowing down the few remaining geth in the station.

Kaidan's omnitool chimes, and his blood goes cold as he checks the warning on his HUD.

"Shepard, rad-warning! Marines, check seals!" Amid a chorus of muffled curses and frantic activity, Kaidan sees Shepard check something on his omnitool, the operative's face going a shade or two paler, blood trickling from the corner of his eye.

"Alenko, take a fireteam, it seems the geth left some presents for us. Locate and disarm them." Shepard's voice is calm, even, cold. "Ashley, you and the rest of the marines, with me."

Kaidan nods, and motions for Corporal Chase to join him. As he starts scanning for the bombs, he just hopes that the corporal's marines can handle the possible stragglers, and that his own skills are up to the job.

Ashley follows Shepard, her rifle covering the blind spots of the operative stalking on point, her brain still processing the double giddiness of being alive, and meeting a full N7 soldier. Then comes a cold dose of realism - she may very well die still, and the N7 in question is the freaking Butcher, who, while definitely effective, is surely a certified madman. A quick check on her marines calms her - battered and bleeding they may be, but all of them are calm and collected, ready for whatever the flashlight-heads have in store for them.

The spaceport buildings seem abandoned - no lifesigns, no bodies, nothing, apart from numerous weird tripods, which she's sure were not there before. Sure, there are signs of battle, she can see that while the defenders may have been caught by surprise, they did not just lay down and die. The guard posts are partially charred, riddled with mass accelerator fire and impact craters where something solid and heavy hit them. She notes the number of destroyed geth with grim satisfaction, eyes and armor sensors looking for signs where the heavy armor detailed to the spaceport fought, and frowns when she finds none.

Realization hits. Of course there are no signs - apart from the fact that their hangar is a melted, burnt-out ruin, along with the buildings that stood near it. Cold-blooded, overwhelming firepower, applied precisely, effectively. Just like a machine - or a turian. Grandfather told me about similar attacks on Shanxi. Her blood starts to boil with rage.

Shepard signals for stop, scans for something, head tilted as if listening.

"Nihlus, you around?"

"Yes" the flanging voice from above almost causes a rifle barrage, but discipline prevails. Ashley sees a green-eyed spiky bastard perched on a floor above, his bulky powered armor clearly having seen better days - parts of it are melted, and there are numerous holes in it. But...where's the blood? With an armor shot up that much, he should be bleeding to death.

Nihlus drops down, a sputtering mass effect field ensuring a painless, if not so impressive landing.

"Commander, good to see you made it. Captain Anderson informed me that the black ship left the system, apparently without detecting the Normandy. Unfortunately, the person responsible for this atrocity managed to get aboard."

"The Beacon is still dead ahead, right?" Shepard's voice gurgles, just a bit. Ashley frowns. That sounded like someone swallowing fluid, but he's not injured; well, not that injured…

"At the landing pad, seems to have been prepared for transport. Our enemy may have decided to rescue his own life rather than attain his apparent objective." Nihlus's harmonics drip with hate and anger, and something Ashley can't quite place - disappointment maybe? Surely not, not even a turian could be that callously dismissive, could he?

Shepard turns toward the Spectre, his question obvious even though unvoiced.

"Later, commander. I want to get that Beacon and leave before any further complications arise." It galls Ashley that she has to agree with the turian - the day has been more than exciting enough already. The operative nods, motions forward, taking again point along with the Spectre, who maglocks his rifle and unfolds a shotgun.

The small team stalks forward, sensors and senses tracking for movement, heat, signs of danger. The silence is oppressive, as they reach the landing field of the spaceport, and Ashley's eyes are drawn to the Beacon across the sizable, corpse-filled plaza. Huh, something seems different, what are those squiggly… Then there's no more time to think, as every motion tracker and detector goes berserk.

Moans fill the plaza, as the corpses shuffle to their feet and charge towards them, eyes and veins glowing with a cold blue light, while rubble is pelting down on the marines as geth unfold from under the wreckage, from within storage crates, the human-sized robots raining fire on them from two directions, along with a hulking brute on each side. Behind the husks, a walker unfolds from behind a burnt-out Mako, and a huge bipedal platform, easily a meter taller than her stands and aims a freaking huge cannon at them, its muzzle glowing with baleful, green light...

The marines scatter as best as they can, one of them cut down in an instant, three others are smeared across the plaza as the green lightning of the cannon hits. The husks are on them, and it's all a cascade of images across Ashley's senses, the plaza dissolving into a mayhem of screams, weapon fire, explosions, and blood.

Nihlus' jetpack flares as the turian speeds toward a hulk above them, evading most of its fire, the smaller geth rounds lighting up then collapsing his barrier, but he's among them, shotgun booming, making the hulk stagger. The Spectre's omnitool flashes, and blue lightning crackles over maybe half a dozen geths, frying their circuits, felling them.

Ashley's rifle stitches across three husks running at her, a kick snaps the fourth's leg, a stomp finishes it. A quick burst explodes a geth whose fire almost depletes her barrier. She caves in a husk's chest with her rifle butt, kicking away another attempting to pin her legs, elbow cracking the skull of the one trying to catch her arm.

A scream of painful rage, then an explosion to her left flings pieces of human and husks around, as one of her marines - Frost, maybe? - drops a grenade at his feet when overwhelmed, and his ammo packs cook off. Another is torn apart after a geth burst takes down his shields. Crowe laughs maniacally as he guns down half a dozen husks trying to get him, then switches aim to the geth above, killing two. The third drops his barrier then slumps as Dietrich shoots it in the head, just to see Crowe go down when a hulk's green lightning strips away his armor, his flesh, his organs.

Shepard dashes forward, omniblade unfolding, cutting apart husks as he closes with the walker, his smaller pistol spitting bursts of disruptor rounds to crack its shield. The huge geth aims its second burst at him, but the operative manages to evade it, the green lightning vaporizing half-dozen husks. Shepard's omnitool flares blue, trying to overload the walker's weakened shield. It crackles, then collapses as another burst of disrupter rounds hits it, the walker's cannon erupting with green light.

Nihlus kicks down a geth, then again engages his jetpack to evade the hulk's shot, only for the jetpack to sputter out. Still the Spectre manages to dodge, the shot only vaporizing his left arm. He almost loses it then and there, the shock almost overwhelming his training, his will, implants, and combat stims. Almost. A flick of his clawed finger sets his shotgun's fire mode, and the gun booms, turning the the hulk into a mess of metallic flakes and vapor from the waist up. A crackle of blue static, and Nihlus fades from the few remaining geth in the vicinity.

Ashley yells, her faceplate cracking as she headbutts the husk holding her down, breaking its face, putting it down, then sending a burst into a geth, shutting it down for good. Dietrich is still behind her, she hears the other woman's gun firing on full auto, then falls forward as green light flashes behind her, and something tangles her legs. She goes down, turning as she falls, her finger switching the rifle on full auto, and sending a long burst into the hulk that killed Dietrich. The robot's shields hold up for a second, then another, before collapsing, her shots stitching across its chest and head, putting it down.

Shepard ducks under the walker's legs, omniblade cutting into it, staggering the colossus. A split-second warning, then he moves, rolling out from below the thing as it folds down, trying to crush him. The geth giant is there, and there's no time to think, to plan, to calculate. A mechanical fist catches his side, cracking ribs, his kick crushes the elbow joint. The thing's cannon flares, the operative's last-second kick sending the discharge overhead. Shepard's pistol barks in staccato bursts, shots pinging off the behemoth's armor. The geth flares blue, and Shepard's muscles spasm for a second, his pistol falling from his hand as his armor struggles to earth the charge, to keep it from frying him. A kick to the kneejoint staggers the behemoth, long enough for the operative to grab his other gun. The boom of the handcannon is met by the crackle of a beehive barrier, and then Shepard is tottering back as the behemoth's mangled arm hits him, the robot's good hand raising its cannon, the muzzle and the underslung blade flaring with green light... then Shepard again moves, hoarfrost spreading around them, evaporating in an instant as he rolls to the side, grabbing the discarded pistol, bringing up both guns, and firing at the behemoth's head, exploding it.

The geth are, again, slowed for maybe a second, one and a half at most. Spunkmeyer hefts his launcher, and sends three rockets into the walker, the mech erupting in flames, before its killer is disarmed by husks, who are then gunned apart by Ashley, Nihlus, and the few surviving marines, who then dispatch the half-dozen geth remaining.

Silence.

Ashley takes stock. Everyone is bleeding, and more than half of her platoon are dead. The Beacon is still there, and she could swear she saw those weird lines move...and when did that loathsome, bonelike thing grow so huge, as if she was standing at its feet...she can almost make out the whispers, discern the shapes within, the iridescent, unnameable colors…

Blue flash, weightlessness, a crash, PAIN…

Nihlus sees the female lieutenant step closer to the Beacon, which seems to pulse with some inner light, the human stepping again closer, as Nihlus opens his mouth to warn her, his hand raising his gun, aiming at her leg...then she's enfolded in a blue mass effect field, and thrown aside, Shepard lowering his hand, blue eezo-light fading. The operative's helmet is discarded, Nihlus can see blood trickling down the human's face and neck, from his eyes, ears, mouth…

Shepard steps closer to the pulsing Beacon, and the bone-white, black-limned column erupts in unnameable colors, the shockwave flinging people away, Shepard hovering in the air, blood streaming from his mouth. The human is saying something, but Nihlus cannot understand the words, the gibberish sounds scratching at the inside of his eyes, his brain, shadows and shapes flitting across the edge of his vision, feels as if something was thinning, close to breaking. The human's mouth moves, Nihlus cannot hear the sounds, but feels a pressure building, then there's a flash of molten gold, and Shepard falls, just as the Beacon's top half explodes.

Pain, overwhelming senses, mechanical tendrils burrowing into flesh, seeking, altering, replacing - something is leaking away, cannot be defined, only felt, colors bleaching away, dulling, becoming simpler. Beware them, do not turn to them!

Metal lives, metal cannot be trusted, metal will betray, metal will CONSUME!

Slender shapes examine, their voices melodious, protective, transmitting their warning, their intent callous, selfish, calculating - disregarded, discarded. Dreams cannot be trusted, should not be trusted.

Vast presences contemplate with glacial patience, pondering the message of the Different Ones, measuring their worth, their intent, dismissing their clarity, ridiculing the warning.

The abyss yawns, a black gulf of time, stretching away, so far away, webbed with a crystalline lattice of intent and message. A vortex spreads, incomprehensibly wide, spanning worlds, spanning systems, clusters…

Coldly beautiful, hauntingly melodious, the siren song of creation echoes from the gulf across the vortex, unheeded, as it all ends in fire, immense shapes descending from above, from outside, reaching down, consuming, gorging themselves, closing off something, silencing the melodies, imprisoning the colors…

Shepard's training takes over, his senses registering the riot of colors erupting within the Beacon, his mouth forms words in a language forgotten by history, rediscovered in ice, in darkness, in space. He knows what's coming, knows how to stop it, but the chances are not good. Why did she have to be here? Why did they not realize what she is earlier? Throat raw, he intones the words, unheard by others, shadows flinching away, blood streaming down his face, trickling from his pores. He can feel veins bursting in his lungs and throat, but the training is good, helps him focus his will. Just a few more….

And it all ends, in golden fire.

Interlude - Career in ruins

Nova Yekaterinburg was very much not like the places her race typically enjoyed - the dry heat, the dust, the dour (or worse, quite lecherous) humans were not really things that would appeal to typical asari, but Liara T'Soni has resigned herself to be somewhat of an outcast among her kind. To her, Therum itself seemed a cross between an immense playground, paradise, and a smorgasboard of relics waiting to be discovered.

She did not really hope that the University of Serrice would approve her latest funding request - too many of the board took a dim view of the upstart in their circles, challenging the stable, time-honored theories (dare one say, facts) about the venerable Precursors, hiding from any possible retribution behind her birthright and the Matriarch that spawned her. She underestimated them, severely. Her funding request was, as expected, denied - the same as her requests to the Universities of Mannovai and Talis Fia.

Explanations were offered, of course, citing various financial limitations, concerns about access and handling of recovered artifacts, and so forth. Still, the undertone was there, she was no longer welcome in the scientific circles of asari archeologists. Or maybe her mother did something to annoy the opinions of the Republics, and Benezia's antagonists chose to use her to deliver such a petty retort?

All that speculation was rendered moot when she a small, unremarkable institute on Earth contacted her, promising funds if she'd consider leading an expedition to Therum - a world she always considered working on due to the number of Precursor ruins, but was always discarding due to the rumors of the human companies already pilfering and outright destroying most of those landmarks.

Liara did not deliberate for long - though she did know only two of the scientists of the team: Amar Vass from Aegohr, and Maran Cal from Talis Fia. The other three were humans, all from Earth itself: Lilian Anfield, Frank Armitage, and Wilhelm Keel. Her quick research found only a few publications of the humans, but hinted at their involvement in Alliance-level work.

Her suspicions about a government sponsorship were confirmed when the expedition assembled on Bekenstein. The amount and quality of sensory, recording, and storage equipment, the financial support for herself and the other scientists, the obvious competence of the rather numerous protection detail - all were well beyond what a small educational institute like the University of Kathmandu could conceivably cover.

Despite some initial misgivings, Liara soon lost herself in the everyday joy of her work, her vocation - and dismissed the snide comments and messages from asari scholars, the crude, predictable offers from the local humans (when she wandered into Nova Yekaterinburg without much of an overt escort). She even, to her amazement, managed to forget the leader of that protective detail.

A part of her brain was intrigued by the man, surely - a very small part, as the man treated the aliens in their group with very thinly-veiled contempt, and the human scientists rated only slightly better manners from the stocky Asiatic (if her research was correct) man. He kept mostly to himself, rarely socializing even with his subordinates, who spoke highly of the man's skills and achievements, but seemed to share the instinctive dislike and unease the man seemed to exude. At times when Liara had to endure close proximity to him during meetings, the urge to vomit, to shower and scrub herself raw was almost overwhelming. And going by the reactions of her peers, she was not alone.

Liara was very happy when the team moved to Mount Kondratiev, and found that the Precursor (specifically, Prothean) ruins there were still more or less intact, being located in a dormant volcano kept most of the looters away, thus their team was likely to find at least some artifact. They set up camp at the foot of the mountain, spent a few workdays setting up the necessary seismic sensors and other security equipment, discussed how best to approach the complex under the mountain, started digging and shoring up the access tunnels, all under the watchful, unsettling, making-their-skin-crawl gaze of Kai Leng.

They come in the dark, naturally - products of nightmares out of time always do. The proximity alarms blare as the automated turrets start tracking incoming signals, blue-white beams of incandescent light illuminating the closing bipedal mechanoids, slicing through their barriers, leaving twitching, cauterized parts on the ground.

Green lightning arcs answer from the larger mechs, stripping away barriers, armor, metal and flesh, flaying techs and soldiers alike. Lasers track across the rocky vista, melting any attacker slow to react, then explode themselves as the incoming fire overwhelms the barriers of the turrets. The soldiers protecting the camp focus fire on the larger attackers, grenades, rockets, and sniper rifle fire grinding away kinetic and beehive barriers, melting armor, destroying robots. Despite the sudden change from peaceful, routine nighttime to fight for survival, Liara considers their chances better than even - thanks to their unsettling bodyguard.

Confidence is shattered when half-dozen blue-limned brutes slam into the camp, the impacts flinging turret parts and soldiers in the air, breaking bones, stilling turrets, their triumphant howling laughter resonating in the bones of the survivors. Liara screams, blue fire outlining her figure, and the krogan are held fast, for a second, before a disruptor round hits her arm, breaking the bone, flinging her away, the stasis field collapsing with her concentration gone.

Then Kai Leng is among the krogan, his shotgun booming, taking off the head of a brute, a blade shimmering in his right hand -extending from his fist?-, removing a krogan's arm along with its shotgun, the reverse stroke bisecting the reptile. The third reacts quickly enough to raise his barrier and shield, wide maw grinning as his huge shotgun is coming up to paste Leng...who ducks impossibly low, the move impossibly fluid, as if the security chief was boneless, then the sword cuts through barrier, shield, and krogan equally, bisecting the figure from groin to head. A fourth erupts in blue light, his biotics crackling, arm outstretched to lift and fling the human away, before an explosion removes his top half, as Leng's thrown grenade hits him. The fifth charges, the human barely dodging, his answering swordstrike opening the krogan's chest. The brute's rageful scream threatens to overwhelm Liara's ears, as the krogan's shotgun fires, Leng almost dodging the spike, blood spraying from his side.

He's at Liara's side a moment later, the asari shuddering, swallowing back bile as Leng's left hand closes around her healthy arm, yanking her to her feet, tossing her towards the mountain tunnel. She runs, blue light starting to outline her form as she gathers her power. Leng is behind her when they reach the tunnel, and so are maybe half-dozen guards. Behind and below them, the two krogans and the robots finish the last survivors, some larger walking mechs joining the horde, starting towards them.

Leng smiles, baring teeth, unclasping something from his neck, and Liara's not the only one who shudders in revulsion, bile rising in her throat.

"Doctor, get inside. If they get past us, you should try your luck with that barrier field. I believe we managed to send out a distress signal before the mechs got the communications building. Go."

Liara blinks, then moves to take a pistol from a soldier.

"I may be able to help a bit, before...before…"

Leng glances toward the approaching machines, eyes flitting across cover opportunities, measuring distances, calculating angles.

"Fine, stay until they reach that line of boulders. When they get there, you are to go inside, and seal up. Understood, doctor?"

"Yes."

Leng nods, his men already in cover, weapons tracking future targets.

"Those big-ass walkers will be a problem, Kai." a soldier notes, his boss nodding in acknowledgement.

Liara's lips peel back in a sharklike grin, blue light limning her hands, her arms, her whole body, sharper, more incandescent than ever before, her eyes haemorrhaging, blood dripping from her aural cavities as she holds back the power, building it up ever more, then releasing it with a shout and a strike.

Leng's eyebrow climbs as two of the walkers are lifted up limned in blue, creaking, folding up, smaller and smaller still, explosions erupting from the ever-decreasing mechs, then the asari's black hole explodes, flinging shards of torn mechs across the approaching robots.

"Not bad for an amateur, Doctor." he says to the tottering asari, then flings the alien into the tunnel, closing the door with a gesture.

The last Liara hears before she's swallowed in darkness is Leng's amplified roar.

"Come on, you fucking weaklings! Show me what passes for fury among your misbegotten kind!"