12-31-2174 0100 hours (Alliance standard time)

The Villa, Rio de Janeiro

Earth, Brazil

N-1 Class 117

Eighteen-year-old Senior Petty Officer John Shepard stood at parade rest clad in a full set of Aldrin Labs manufactured armor, helmet included. To his left and right stood the official hundred and twenty-three N-1 marine trainees, before their drill instructor. Each recruit – strange how the term rolled back; had they not already undergone Basic at least once? – was here in an attempt to make the awe-inspiring metamorphosis from soldier to legendary N-7 marine.

Shepard was given a rare opportunity given his young age. Tutored in the subtleties of war by his surrogate father, his path to N-7 marine had been created prior to learning the basics of a child. Such an advantage meant Shepard had met the preliminary requirements academically and was here to prove the same applied to his body.

The Villa's main camp, fabled realm of the elite, was a gigantic place, carved out of over twenty thousand acres of moist, torrid jungle. It could support nearly five full companies, let alone just over a hundred individuals. The tombstone-gray arena walls stood erect, glaring without eyes. It seemed impervious to time, it's silent watchfulness judging which would be strong enough to walk past its uncaring visage into the realm of gods, and who would remain mortal.

N-7 marines were lauded as the Systems Alliance pristine soldiers, its elite forces an answer to the Big Four's notorious vanguards. Such an honor only applied to Alliance personnel who graduated from the Interplanetary Combative Training Program. A program hardened after the events that took place nearly two decades ago: the 'The Christmas War,' the event that had shaken the pillars of humanity to its very core. The N's legendary status was cemented on Shanxi where a small group of brave marines had boarded and took down an entire enemy vessel, the first action of its kind performed on a non-human ship. The marines would go further to play a critical role in securing victory on the scarred colony and rescuing the denizens taken during the alien attack in a daring raid, an effort living in memoriam.

Despite their honors, the N's were still humans, brutally demonstrated by a thirty percent casualty rate from those stationed-on Shanxi in the conflict, his true father among them. But the heavy price paid by the Alliance paled in comparison to the grave toll extracted from the batarians in both material, troops, and intelligence. The Alliance had made mistakes, but those mistakes paved the highway for humanity's survival.

Uncharacteristically, the moon's luminescent glow hung low in the sky; unable to be covered by the sun's harsh glare. Their sodden environment weighed heavy; even through his armored boots, Shepard could feel the residual water dripping from the strips of grass. Only the footsteps of a man looking made of leather and bad attitude coming to the front of the group made it seem real.

"The Alliance's scalpel, the best of humanity, Earth's mightiest defenders!" A hoarse shout boomed from medium-height. "These are all descriptions of how humanity and the Citadel races view those lucky enough to earn the N-7 stars. Well, I can tell you all that that is nothing but a load of horseshit!"

Shepard kept himself still; the instructor held no authority in the Alliance. He didn't carry the Council regalia either unless one counted the turian-style talon strapped to one thigh. But he'd done his research, looking through candidates considered suitable for the Interplanetary Combative Training. This man serving as drill instructor was held by none other than Zaeed Massani, quite possibly the most notorious human mercenary.

"I sent an order to the Alliance to send me their best shitload of bad-asses and pillage hungry war-machines, and instead I got you cupcake ass clowns and a side order of fuck-nuggets!" His teal gaze scanned the hopefuls, promising pain and torture.

His eyes caught attention; they were the coldest, meanest set of eyes Shepard had ever seen. Zaeed glared like a hydrophobic wolf, whose sole desire was to tear prey limb from limb. Standing at a comparatively diminutive 1.84 meters tall, his bulky, muscular figure only added to his intimidating presence.

"At just one glance I can already tell half of you are scum-suckers and the other half are scum-suckers never told to believe in themselves. You all reek of desperation and failure! Every breath you inhale is an outstanding endorsement of abortion; humanity would be better off not wasting valuable resources on your wretched asses! You sludge-stains are a galactic masterpiece of shame painted by the great Picasso himself!"

"You glitter-toed, varren-wrangling, fairy-sparkle bag of ash-nuggets are gonna get your collective anal cavities stretched so far apart you'll think you're getting double fisted by a goddamn krogan! I'll make your mongoloid rock-chompin thundercunts scream harder than your mothers fourth failed guillotine chopper! After graduating from this course your sensitive little bits will be crying so many fucking tears, you'll be able to float away on Ranochen carriers," Zaeed continued; so far he hadn't repeated himself once, gaining a new level of respect from the more intellectual hopefuls.

There was no doubt in Shepard's mind that the Alliance marines standing before the mercenary had received vocabulary lessons none expected to have ever existed. Many marines stood firm; grim determination painted underneath their helmets almost glowing with defiance. Others looked as if beginning to have second thoughts, viewing the abuses as pure unadulterated insanity instead of the typical verbal jabs experienced during boot camp.

"Well I can tell you right now that if you're planning on graduating from this program at the bottom level, you better have guts, grits, and willpower or else I'll shove my foot so far and fast up your asses it will send you flying to the bloody moon itself! I'm gonna rip off your useless thumbs and feed 'em to my varren! If I am feeling bored then I'll tie you up a tree, put a sombrero on your head, and beat you like a pinata!"

The verbal hazing soon began receiving smiles from the soldiers, fortunately, concealed under their helmets. A significant portion of the marines actually seemed to believe the mercenary would follow through with his threats. Shepard could almost see images of Zaeed beating a hogtied marine with a wooden club flashing through their minds. The grim fact he would be the master of their fates emerged with stark clarity.

"I will not accept any quitters! I will reorganize the failure that you call your life, I will fuck-start your souls! In just three months I will turn you bastards into something that might be able to keep his gun when facing a god-damned batarian! Keep coming back – which I put on the same likelihood as me getting to be Primarch of Palaven – and I'll make you gutless Volusian ice-worms into cloaca-ramming masters of galactic destruction!" Zaeed bellowed so loudly, Shepard would have believed he had some sort of voice amplifier if not for the simple fact every pair of eyes focused on the mercenary saw no such thing.

"You will make five equal length rows. Twenty-five in each," he barked. "Oh, and because I know you bloody wankers lack brain capacity, I want them straight!"

Once every marine was in proper firing positions with their empty rifles, Zaeed continued his instruction. "You mangy sons of ill-repute gotta already know this! Always keep your rifles pointed at the enemy! Never aim at anything you don't plan on shooting! Check your rifle each time you pick it up to make sure it's loaded. You don't want to be caught in the middle of a fight yanking the trigger of an empty rifle, and goddamn make sure your weapons look better than whatever you brain-dead twats ever hope to be!"

The Alliance officers and Zaeed himself roamed the ranks, continuously checking every marine to make sure everything was in proper order. Every firing position and rifle handling was practiced and rehearsed over and over again. Shepard's arm soon grew sore from its contorted positions, the armor locked onto his body straining joints and digging into his muscles. He saw every single marine suffering from the same problem. They'd grow accustomed to it, and thrive as he did – or vanish.

Zaeed bellowed again. "You will learn to strike at targets in spite of interference. Right now, the VIs in your rifles are suffering from jamming and electronic warfare as any comatose mud-stomping knuckle-dragger knows to do when facing the Alliance! It is every marine's responsibility to properly hit his target at his own accord. Every marine is a what?"

"A rifleman! Sir!" The class fiercely answered.

Once Zaeed allowed grudging acceptance of their current status, he allowed the first row of marines to insert ammo blocks and heat sinks before firing on the practice targets. At six hundred meters from their targets, Shepard noticed the marines managed an average accuracy of eighty-seven percent, according to the training VI.

"You see that marines? This is why we practice and train, so you fools don't waste precious ammunition." Zaeed held a stoic expression, making it hard for the marines to determine if he was satisfied or not.

"If this is the best the Alliance has to offer then I am gravely disappointed since it still leaves a thirteen percent chance of the enemy ending your pathetic miserable lives. In war, thirteen percent is a massive risk when armies fight by the millions. Thirteen percent of a million is one hundred thirty thousand, more than the number of idjits in this class, more than the total number of N-grade marines, more than the Alliance has ships! Does this make sense to you anthropomorphic-centric fucks!?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Glad that's clear. Next row, into position!"

This continued until it was Shepard's row turn to fire. Before everything was set up, two marines accidentally stumbled, nearly falling before regaining their balance. The one closest to Shepard had the misfortune of dropping his rifle. Everything became deadly silent as every marine eyed the poor fellows as if in the presence of sacrificial meat. Zaeed was instantly on the marines fast enough for everyone to mistakenly believe the rumors of secret teleportation technologies.

"Cadet, what is your major malfunction!?' Zaeed yelled right into one of the marine's face.

"Sir?"

"Why the hell are you here?"

"To … become … a N-1 … sir."

"And do you think you're going to accomplish that with your stupidity?"

"No, sir …"

"WHAT!?"

"SIR NO SIR!" The marine shouted, eyes wide, pupils growing tiny.

"What is your rifle?"

"It is my defense, my saving grace, and holy protector!" The marine yelled, visibly clenching for his tribunal from the mercenary.

The marine's response seemed to please Zaeed as he simply crossed his arms and took a step back from the marine's face. "Your goddamn right, you git!"

"What about you shit face?" Zaeed asked the second marine.

"Sir, I want the honor of serving my species sir!"

"Headbutt!"

Before the cadet could even process the word, Zaeed cleanly smashed his bare forehead into the poor trainee's faceplate, causing him to stagger before falling to his knees. His position resembled that of a serf asking for penance from his king, though it was academic if Zaeed could ever be classified as such; it was indisputable that he certainly wielded the unrivaled power of a monarch.

"Let me tell you, something soldier, you might not know but the galaxy is home to a bunch of freaks and disgusting bastards," Zaeed shouted, his voice somehow echoing through the tree-filled, flat outdoors. "So, when you suddenly wake up to a nasty battle smelling blood from your comrades being chewed on by a goddamn varren or being decimated by batarians only to be captured and be aggressively solicited by a gaggle of the four-eyed terrorists hopped up on red sand and fuck thunder you do not have time to think! So the next time I yell 'headbutt' you either haul ass or use your rifle to defend yourself, am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now try again, headbutt."

The marine, seeming certain it would be a mistake to flee, aimed his rifle at the mercenary. Instead of praise, however, the cadet received a punch to his armored gut, followed by an uppercut that connected through the helmet's guard.

"CADET, WHAT IS THE FIRST RULE I TAUGHT YOU!?"

The marine, flat on his back, searched his memory for the correct answer only to realize his grave mistake. "Always keep the rifle pointed at the enemy."

"Am I your enemy?"

"No, sir."

"Were your planning on shooting your superior?"

"No, sir."

"Then why in godforsaken hell did you dare aim your rifle at me?" Zaeed hissed, staring through the marine's soul. The gaze was enough to terrify the row of marines behind the fallen cadet.

"Sir, it was a mistake."

"Your goddamn right it was! Now try again for the last time."

The fallen marine stood up, swaying still.

"Headbutt."

The marine turned to flee but received a kick in the ass. Tumbling face down, he couldn't get back up as Zaeed placed a foot on his back.

"Cadet, were you planning on fleeing?"

The soldier's voice was muffled; Shepard felt no pity; the faceplate blocked muddy grass. Not like what he'd been through. "Yes, sir."

"And why were you planning on abandoning your post?"

"Because I didn't know any better, sir."

"And why cadet, did you not know any better?"

"Because you haven't taught me yet, sir."

"Your damn right I haven't. In fact, I believe you are the stupidest sack of shite I've ever had the unpleasure of laying eyes on! Now cadet what is your name?" Zaeed asked, allowing the marine to get back on his feet."

"Ensign Toombs, sir!"

"That sounds like a whore's name. DO YOU SUCK DICKS FOR MONEY!?"

"No, sir!"

"Good. Now I hate your fucking name almost as much as I hate you. From now on you will be called Pyle. Am I understood, Cadet Pyle?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Following that display, no one dared move, hardly taking the liberty to breathe. If not for necessity, it was probable a number of suffocations would have occurred. Once Shepard got a chance to fire his rifle, he was slightly disappointed to have received an accuracy score less than the class average with an eighty-one percent, despite his steady practice habit.

Countless hours were spent on rifle inspection to ensure optimal performance. A marine performance depended on how well he maintained his equipment so Zaeed drilled this ancient message into their heads. Targeting VIs were properly calibrated, the projectile shavers were thoroughly cleaned, the metal blocks were inspected to certify no malformities, and even internal cooling systems and heat sinks were examined to prevent unexpected heat buildup or jamming.

Afterward, Zaeed had the class maintain their rows as he once again got in front of them. "Now I am sure all of you are excited to begin your physical training today, am I right!?"

"SIR, YES SIR!" The entire class bellowed in unison.

Zaeed only gave a sadistic smile before marching the class double-time through the rasping mountainous-forest like terrain to Rio de Janeiro's coast. The deep, sinking sand made the marching excruciatingly painful. To make matters worse, the piece of coast rented to the Alliance was well away from the commercial beaches of Rio de Janeiro, preventing the marines the opportunity to see the beautiful residents of the area.

Then the jogging came, a slow almost-walking pace, yet an excruciating test of endurance. For hours they continued running back and forth until they reached the one-hundred-kilometer mark. Everyone was breathless, but what amazed Shepard was the fact Zaeed didn't even seem to be breathing hard.

"Halt: parade stance!" A simple demand escaped the mercenary's lips, yet the mass of exhausted, sweating bodies found it difficult to follow. Ignoring the lethargy in their bodies, burning lungs, and possible dehydration, the marines tried to stand up straight.

"Since its clear you shosen-maggots haven't been taught the nature of man it seems it falls on me to teach you from the beginning." Zaeed strutted a little, highlighting an elaborate obstacle course just behind his back. "First you will learn to crawl, and then you learn to walk, and then you learn to run, but before you learn to run you must first learn how to crawl! I want you all to crawl!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Now get out there!"

The trained soldiers labored for hours, crawling through the artificial mud terrain and alloy metal barriers, already trembling limbs throbbing in pain. Zaeed would randomly halt the group while creeping and crawling, ask one for his rifle and demanded he instruct to the entire class on the proper technique for cradling the rifle while they crawled. For ordinary citizens, it would seem just another excuse to torment the training marines, however to those heaving through the obstacle flat on their bellies it was anything but.

It was natural for a marine in front of another to kick debris onto the rifle of the one behind him; even collapsed, the weapons gathered grit in the moving parts. With this training, Zaeed was making it mandatory for the class to clean their rifles several times a day. While maintenance of a rifle was a simple endeavor in these modern times, by the course's end every marine had memorized every component, every fragment, and every sensor within their rifle.

The training seemed endless, shifting from one phase to another without end. After that came hand to hand combat training, and then mock battles with rubber rounds. Appearing to have some mercy in some dark corner of his soul, Zaeed decided to let the recruits rest by running them towards an actual classroom located atop a sugar loaf mountain, nearly ten kilometers away and over four hundred meters up. The way there was interspersed with physical exercises.

"Jumping jacks!" Zaeed barked. "Count off to one thousand. Ready, go." The mercenary started the exercises before their very eyes, either demonstrating or outperforming soldiers younger than him.

Shepard had never thought he could have ever done so many jumping jacks in his existence, nor thought such a thing was possible. His arms and legs had long gone numb. Sweat trickled down his back, despite his armor's environmental controls.

"Nine-hundred ninety-nine, one thousand." Zaeed paused to inhale a deep breath. "Sit-ups!" He dropped down onto the grass. "Count off to one thousand. No slacking! The other instructors are watching you."

Shepard threw himself on the ground to continue torturing his body.

Deep squats followed that then pushups, and then lunges. Many Marines had to remove their helmets to vomit, though it didn't buy them any respite. Others simply vomited inside their helmets. Shepard only just barely avoided becoming one of their numbers.

"Leg lifts." Zaeed continued like a mechanical machine. It now occurred to every marine why Zaeed had been labeled the deadliest human mercenary in history, he never seemed to stop nor did it seem such a thing existed to make him.

Shepard couldn't continue, but he knew he had to if he desired to become an N-7. He willed his body to keep on going. His legs trembled and only sluggishly responded.

It was only after this that the marines received badly needed eight liters of water. Some gulped nearly half in one shot, more cautious marines such as Shepard merely drank one liter, preserving the rest for later.

"A great rest, recruits," Zaeed's compliment felt deadly. "Now we run. On your feet!"

They jogged towards the promised rest via a gravel path up the peak of the mountain, which seemed more and more like the stairway to heaven. The class staggered but continued on in slow movements. Their unsteady pace rocked onwards until reaching a courtyard of smooth flag tiles. At its peak stood a proud building with a chiseled dome and a dozen pillars humbly supporting it. In the center stood perhaps the most vital piece in the entire base, a pole flying the colors of the Alliance, a field of blue surrounding a dish of white with a symbol of earth displayed underneath.

A serene woman stood at the top steps, beckoning them to her like a saint would a follower. She was so life-like, so beautiful, so … perfect. The motes of light and code made it obvious she was an AI, yet the class couldn't help but be amazed by her presence like sailors staring at mermaids.

"Thank you for bringing them here, Mr. Massani," she said in a resonating voice. She turned to the recruits like a mother would her children. "Welcome. My name is Jane and I will be your instructor for today, and hopefully for the next few months to come, please follow me. We have much to learn."

"Inform me if these buggers give you any trouble," Zaeed said.

"Of course. Are you sure you wouldn't like to rest?" The AI asked.

"Nope. Got to keep up my workout," he said.

Every marine turned to face him in complete shock and bewilderment, each asking the same question, 'What the hell is he?' and more importantly 'What do they feed him?'

Sensing their emotions, he turned to address them. "What? A man of my age has to stay in shape."

Minutes passed by in silence, or in astonishment before someone asked the question everyone had on their minds. "Ma'am, are we sure he's even human?"

"Oh, I can assure you all, Mr. Massani is indeed human. A spectacular specimen of the human species to be sure. Now I believe we must begin our class, please follow me."

The air was colder inside, Shepard wasn't sure if it was because of the elevation or air-conditioning. The marines grabbed their first meal of the day and sat in the atrium. In this moment, friendships were made as the recruits began to socialize. Shepard was beyond exhaustion that he wanted to just take a nap, before Jane displayed a hologram of an alien species, one he was all too aware of.

"This is a batarian, one of the many species found in the galaxy and the sole architects of the attack on Shanxi."

The statement became a shot of adrenaline for Shepard as he began digesting every bit of information the AI gave. Of course, why wouldn't he? The alien species had altered his life in so many ways, but none more than leaving him an orphan. Though unofficially adopted by his father's best friend, who happened to be an N-7 marine, it did not change the fact Shepard was the sole living survivor of his bloodline.

Despite the grudge he held against the alien species, he had been taught not to let anger cloud his judgment or else he would make mistakes … mistakes that would cost lives. So, he made an effort to learn. Batarians were just one of the species taught and individuals were nowhere near as strong as the Yahg. Thankfully they were still quarantined to a single planet. The next on the list were krogan, the species Shepard did, in fact, speculate he would come into contact with and created notes both mental and digital. Nothing was dismissed, nothing was discarded, for information was the difference between life and death, and Shepard planned on living.

The Villa, Rio de Janeiro

Earth, Brazil

N-1 Class 117

"You should be careful not to over do it." Said a new voice, causing Shepard to switch his attention. The source came from a light tanned marine with short chocolate colored hair, sitting next to him. Somehow the marine next to Shepard managed to maintain a smile despite the obvious weariness. Shepard couldn't blame him; he felt the same discomforts.

"Oh, trust me I am well aware, but I don't know how long we'll have before we get another feast like this."

The marine gave a small chuckle. "I can imagine, but I doubt you'll want to see your meal later when we're training. By the way what's your name?"

"John. John Shepard, yours?" Shepard said, holding out a hand.

"Daniel Toombs," he said, introducing himself before reaching out to shake Shepard's hand. "Can you believe we still have six more levels to go before we reach N-7?"

Shepard snorted a little. "It's overwhelming, but I guess it's the torment we give to call ourselves the Alliance's best."

"True, that," Toombs admitted, taking a large portion of the chicken on his plate.

The following days were any more forgiving. Zaeed continued pushing the recruits to their physical limits, forcing them to relearn running, map and coordinates reading, land navigation both in sunlight and at night, and many, many classes. By just the first week, the N-1 class dropped from over a hundred to just barely eighty.

In the second week, the program put the recruits through 'mayday' course. This was designed to simulate emergency evacuates in an Alliance warship and to avoid being stranded out in a vacuum, a cruel and painful way to die. The trainees were taught to be sharp, reliant, and to make key lifesaving-decisions to the best of their abilities. The words cooperation and alliance dominated every aspect of training, it became the driving force of the program itself.

By the third week, the trainees became familiarized on every class of Alliance ship they could ever serve on. From the humble corvettes to the almighty super carriers, every recruit received hands-on training on every component of a warship. Even 'old man's' training became the center of focus such as firefighting and shipboard damage control. Everyone who wasn't already familiar became aware how to properly extinguish fires, venting targets, swift location of escape pods, how to escape battle ruptured compartments, and in operating the helmet's breathing apparatus. The training became so in-grained in their minds, one marine joked 'We know more about ships then the damn sailors do,'. This type of humor became the shining light in the hell the marines received every day.

The program taught combat lifesaver treatments in the worst of environments from the frozen tundras to the bacteria infested rainforests. When one marine inquired about the proper medical treatment for a body exposed to the vacuum, Zaeed merely responded with 'Prayer, because short of anything but God's almighty intervention, you are not surviving the seventh circle of hell.' Soon after, he taught the recruits how to activate the vacuum-hardened beacons on their armor. No one asked why.

Only the highest rated students received certifications. Shepard was not amongst them, but he received a sufficient score to continue the program. That select, continued group focused on naval customs and civilities, what few there were, as well as proper combat responses, shipboard communication, ship, and fighter identification.

"You do not want to be known as the idiot who fired on his allies," Zaeed said. "You will have a lot of angry, pissed off allies who will remember."

Of course, all this education was interspersed with continuous physical training tests. Shepard was fine with each of the exercises, but the issue was how his armor purposefully regulated the oxygen he should have been receiving, causing his body to believe he was at a high altitude. Understandably the class continued to shrink, the program swallowing bodies and crushing dreams.

Anadius, Horse Head Nebula

Cronos Station

Cerberus Headquarters

Humanity's Guardian. The purpose and motto of Cerberus. It was the sole reason for its existence, the core belief that humans deserved a greater role in the galactic community without being hamstrung by the Citadel Council and their laws and adhesion to public opinion. Public opinion which included the Hegemony.

The paramilitary organization had seen through the Council's hypocrisy, extolling their rhetoric of peace and prosperity while at the same time supporting a fellow-member that proudly proclaimed slavery as a cultural right. Then there were the standards of needing a powerful navy in order to be given a seat at the Council, regardless of the amount or extent of contributions a government could give – as seen in the case of the Volus. They had essentially created the Citadel economic model and yet weren't given a Council due to their lack of a powerful military force. Finally, they preached mutual security yet condemned the entire Quarian race to centuries of AI-creating prejudice and isolation despite the Salarians pulling the Citadel into war via the Rachni, and it could be argued, with the Krogan.

No. In order for humanity to survive and prosper, it would need to make sure to be able to survive on its own merits; for the enigmatic leader of Cerberus realized when it came down to survival instincts, each race will eventually focus on self-preservation leaving the others to contend on their own. As a result, the human-survivalist organization supports the principle of advancing humanity's ascension by any means necessary.

It was these ideals that explained why the Illusive Man, sitting on a single chair overlooking Anadius, a cold dying star 20 solar masses and with a radius 1,500 times Sol's, had built Cerberus. Its foundation was built on humanity's core belief to improve, advance, and eventually ascend. Moreover, the room in which he sat was large and expansive, offering the best sights and awareness.

Its unlisted location on combined with taking shameless advantage from a local stellar phenomenon, shielding it from any sensors; Cronos station was practically invisible. Already, The Illusive Man – nicknamed TIM by investigating branches – had built up his basic forces with a full division of foot soldiers, three air wings, and a full combat fleet of three hundred ships. While the Cerberus fleet was impressive on paper for the short time spent to acquire them, closer inspection revealed them to be mostly composed of light combat ships with destroyers and below. A single battlecruiser stood as the flagship of Cerberus's fleet. This did not bother TIM; engaging in open battle failed to follow the interests of Cerberus. Rather, his focus was on espionage, at which his troops and navy fully excelled.

A blinking light alerted TIM of an incoming message as he exhaled a puff of smoke. With a single tap, an image of Cerberus's chief military strategist Oleg Petrovsky was displayed. He gave the tiny version of Cerberus's military advisor a cordial nod.

"Sir, Project Trapdoor has been completed and is a resounding success. The O-E compound works far better than we expected, but there is risk of permanent damage. With it we can cripple the Asari's military and have a key advantage on the ground."

"That certainly is good news, but only a key to a much larger picture," The Illusive Man paused to exhale another stream of hydrocarbon-filled air. "There is still the navy we have to deal with and I hate to avoid wasting valuable resources for no gain."

"Indeed. How would you like to proceed?"

"Begin Nano surgery on all biotic personal. They're a key asset on tactical operations and I do not wish to see them be negatively affected. I'll begin increasing funds into New Dawn for further research to see if it can affect other species as well."

"What about Matriarch Arysa?" Petrovsky's grim visage looked pensive. They'd planned their steps for years; by now it was merely a matter of ascertaining the how, rather than the what.

"Our intelligence confirms she is gaining influence within the Republics and I predict she will be our first target."

"I presume we will strike when she has gathered significant political ties?" Petrovsky questioned.

"That is correct," The Illusive Man said.

"And the current dispute between the Chinese and North Americans?"

"We can't have the Big Four become fractured. Reluctant as I am to admit, they still present the biggest defense to humanity. Until we have gathered more strength, we cannot risk the two escalating the situation. I already have a plan in motion, encouraging them to … secure … closer ties." One finger glided across a panel, sending a new file across the unending stretch of space. "If you would?"

"What is this?" Petrovsky asked.

The Illusive Man gave the smallest of smiles while extinguishing his Sweet Williams cigar. "A dossier on a political dissent on Earth; a Virginian named Michael Lang. He will be instrumental in our plan. I am also forwarding a list of material and weapons that will be ideal. The scene will need to be captured in as many ways as possible."

"Very well. I'll have my operatives get to work immediately." Petrovsky gave a firm nod before cutting the link.

Left in silence once again, The Illusive Man returned to stare at the star in front of him. Admiring the flow of its molten layers, he took out another Sweet Williams cigar, lighting its fragrant bulk and inhaling its soothing corruption. He eyed the other projects currently in progress. His operative in the Cord-Hislop Aerospace corporation was on track for the executive ranks. Once in position, the agent would be able to funnel more starship components to Cerberus, assisting their navy build-up. Still, The Illusive Man would make sure to deal with his agent's competitors. Not yet, but soon; too early would tip his hand. Too late, and it would not matter.

A/N: Sorry guys for the massive wait, nearly an entire year! But fret not as I have heard the calls of updates and am here to deliver them! However, I do bear grim news, only this/first chapter leading up to the events of ME-1 is complete as on-top of school I've been planning out the events as well. Torfan has already occurred along with setting up a butterfly effect and careful editing, this is chapter is rather shorter than most, but fear not for V-rcingetorix and I have planned for the future! Also, no I have no intentions of abandoning this story no matter how long there is between updates.

Another important note is that I currently have a poll up on my profile asking you, our readers, to share your voice if you want updates on the story the moment the chapters are done (ASAP) or if you guys are willing to bear waiting for another hiatus for us to finish the arch and then release the chapters periodically with little wait time in between the chapters. Let the voice of democracy be heard!

Trivia

1. The title is a reference to Apocalypse Now. In fact this chapter has quite a number of Vietnam Hollywood movies.

2. The number of the class is a reference to Halo's Master Chief John 117.

3. The nickname for the Batarian-Alliance war came spontaneously to me somehow. I can definitely trace the inspiration for the name from ProfFartBurger's work. But seriously, I think his great writing is subconsciously leaking into my mind.

4. Also, a great thanks to V-rcingetorix for editing as both of us are away on vacation and still busy.

5. Earth's mightiest defenders is a reference to the Avengers.

6. We see the introduction of Zaeed Massani in spectacular fashion.

7. Zaeed's tirade was inspired by the youtube video, Sarge epic rant, and Full Metal Jacket. Seriously check out A Slap on Titan. It's hilarious.

8. Private Pyle is both a reference to A Slap on Titan and Full Metal Jacket.

9. Zaeed's training regime was inspired by me watching a lot of the military channel training for the various branches and Chief Petty Officer Mendez from Halo. All hail the mustache.

10. Zaeed may seem on par with a krogan, but remember all the crazy things he has done in canon.

11. Alterations were made to the N-1 training as instruction of alien species is left to the N-2 training class, which is odd as this should be common knowledge by taught for obvious reasons.

12. Project Trap Door and O-E are indeed canon. Don't you just love the how much detail I pour into this story?

13. The Sweet Williams cigar is a reference to Sergeant Avery Johnson. A badass to his core.

14. Cord-Hislop Aerospace corporation is indeed canon and for those that have read the novels, I am sure you can tell who it is I am referring to.

15. For those who have bothered to read the Codex companion piece for this fic, you will see that the Alliance had just over 6,000 ships prior to the 'Christmas War'. While the Alliance did lose some vessels and would certainly be rebuilding its fleets after both the war and introduction into the galactic community it is still too far-fetched that the Alliance could go from 6,000 ships to anywhere near close to 130,000 ships in about 20 years, so Zaeed's testimony reigns truth. Bless the holy man!