Patience was not something the krogan people were accustomed to, and Urdnot Wrex was no exception. He’d agreed to a meeting with the other races because he was trying to change that, and because Shepard had proven herself to be more dependable than his own family ever had. The fact that he had sat in the same room with the leaders of both the turian and salarian people for an hour was a testament to those facts.

But his patience was wearing thin.

“Where the hell are we going, Garrus?” Wrex asked as they strolled through the winding halls of this never-ending station. “There’s no point in any more meetings until the Council gets their heads out of their asses.”

“It’s not much further, Wrex,” the turian replied. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like what you see. Or at least, you’ll like what it represents.”

Anticipation was also not something krogan handled well. Before battle it could be useful to block out everything aside from the upcoming blood rage, but generally it just made you paranoid, preparing for the worst.

“If this is some symbolic gesture from the Council, save both our time.”

Garrus’s mandibles flexed slightly, suppressing a light chuckle. “It may be symbolic at first, but believe me it’s a very real, very useful gesture.”

They rounded yet another corner and found themselves in a dead-end hallway.

“I don’t like what’s implied here.”

“Why don’t you look out the window before you start making assumptions.”

Wrex turned, finding the window on his left that no one would have possibly noticed unless they knew it was there. No larger than a human’s head, it barely offered a glimpse of space beyond the rocky exterior of the asteroid the station was built into. The Charon Relay was just barely visible, emitting a faint blue glow through the void. Somewhere out there the Reapers were gliding through the star system planning their eventual conquest of the galaxy.

But what interested Wrex was the gleaming metal of what looked like a ship’s hull. It wasn’t the Normandy—he knew that because they’d retreated to a less occupied area until needed—and it couldn’t be any other standard vessel. No one else had a cloaking mechanism and the IFF to avoid the Reapers.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Garrus asked.

“It might be if I could see more of the damn thing.”

“The downside of hiding in an occupied system. The Alliance couldn’t risk someone seeing a huge chunk of glass on a deserted asteroid, so this is the best we’ve got.”

“I’m a krogan, Garrus, not an idiot.”

“Well, sometimes they go hand in hand,” the turian replied smugly. “Seeing as I’ve been made a Spectre now, the Council thought it only made sense for me to have a vessel of my own. She’s top of the line, designed using Normandy’s specs to serve as both a frontline warship and a stealth vessel capable of moving assets during Reaper occupation without attracting attention. This is our solution, Wrex. My first mission as a Spectre will be helping you cure the genophage.”

He was serious. Wrex had spent enough time with Garrus to know that he only embellished for comic effect or to manipulate someone he didn’t respect—someone who would eventually end up with a hole in their head. He knew how important this was, and that he would lose all trust if he wasn’t completely honest, which meant the Council had decided to act without salarian support and with the risk of losing it altogether.

Maybe they had started getting their heads out of their asses.

“I know it’s not exactly a fleet of dreadnoughts, but—”

“Thank you, Garrus.”

The turian blinked, taken off-guard. It wasn’t often that a krogan showed appreciation, even to the people closest to them, and it was a strange feeling. Wrex had spent the majority of his life distancing himself from everyone around him simply because his people held such resentment toward the rest of the galaxy. Maybe it was genetic.

And maybe now things could be different.

“You’re not going to hug me now, are you?” Garrus asked. Sarcastic bastard. “I would offer to do that headbutt thing you krogan do, but that probably wouldn’t end well for someone with such a pretty face.”

“Save all that emotional crap until you see the quarian,” Wrex replied. If he wasn’t mistaken, Garrus’s mandibles flexed awkwardly, and Wrex couldn’t resist a satisfied laugh. “And here I thought Shepard was the only one fraternizing with her crew.”

“I’m surprised you even noticed,” Garrus deflected. “I thought the only emotion krogan felt was rage. Anyway, we’ll be needing a crew. I assume you’ve got a few ideas for ground troops?”

More than a few, and not just ground troops. Most people thought the only thing krogan were good for was fighting, but there were a rare few that broke the mold. At one time they had been just as enlightened as any culture. Though it had taken him years to find them, Wrex now had seventeen pilots, forty-nine engineers, twelve doctors and thirty-seven maintenance workers in clan Urdnot alone. Granted it may not have been much compared to the thousands that other races had, but it was progress. Enough to help aboard a single starship, at least.

“A few,” was Wrex’s short reply. “But I’m guessing the Council doesn’t want their ship overrun with krogan.”

“Everyone’s getting in on this. Half the reason there were so many special operatives in that meeting is because they all knew we were putting together a task force for critical assignments.”

“Salarians?”

Garrus picked up on Wrex’s discontent easily enough. “Not many. The dalatrass isn’t happy with us right now, but the Councilor still has some pull and believe it or not there are some salarians who agree with you. Don’t worry, Mordin’s weeding out the ones that don’t meet his expectations.”

Mordin. Wrex wasn’t sure whether to trust the shifty bastard or kill him, but he’d done nothing to earn the latter yet. Hell, if the pipsqueak could really come through on his end of the bargain, Wrex might just have to name his firstborn after him.

“And the Alliance?” he asked. “They put all this together. I’d think they would want to see it through.”

“Well, Shepard has her hands tied at the moment,” Garrus answered. “But yeah, the Alliance is in. They’re sending some of their best with us.”

“They better be. I don’t need to tell you I’m not happy that Hackett’s sending Shepard to make nice with the geth while we drive the Reapers off Tuchanka.”

“Trust me, Wrex,” Garrus said with a smirk. “I’ve seen three of them in action. They aren’t even military and they held their own. I can only imagine what the rest are capable of.”

Through the miniscule window to the void, Wrex could just barely see a streak of light pass by, reflecting off the hull of the ship Garrus was so proud of. He’d never been superstitious and krogan hadn’t practiced religion since before they’d blown themselves to hell, but for the first time in decades he felt a spark of hope.

Krogan don’t feel hope.

“Well what are we standing here for?” he asked. “Let’s go save my people.”

After six hours of negotiations, Ella had had enough. Hell, the first six seconds of talks with the batarians had made her want to vent the room into space, herself included. She understood their hesitation, of course—whereas most of the Council races were merely bogged down in heavy fighting, Khar’shan had been completely eradicated, leaving only a few small batarian colonies and spacefarers—but she had thought that would bring more motivation to the surface than reluctance. If the batarians didn’t ally with the rest of the galactic community, they were certain to go extinct. But pride is a powerful thing when left unchecked, and Balak had enough of it to sink a dreadnought.

Luckily Ella had decided not to put a bullet in his brain when he’d tried to crash an asteroid into Terra Nova, otherwise it would’ve no doubt been a much more difficult conversation with someone who didn’t owe her one. He hadn’t seen it that way, of course, because in his mind the batarians were the ones who had been oppressed into giving up territories that they believed were theirs, and evidently that justified mass genocide. The old “woe is me” excuse.

But in the end, what really mattered was the fact that the batarians had no choice in the matter. They’d come to Sentinel under the illusion that they could say no, but Hackett had no intention of allowing them to leave until they agreed. Anyone who had seen the N7s waiting outside the door would’ve known that, but the batarians weren’t known for being the brightest.

So, six hours later, Balak finally caved. Between Ella reminding him exactly how badly it could all end for the batarians and Hackett attempting to instill some inspiration, he had to give in. Whether Balak was just a fanatic or he truly cared about his people, he was the ranking officer of the Hegemony, and the only chance he had to right the supposed wrongs done to the batarians was to live another day. As stubborn as he was, he knew the only way to do that was to go along with the Council.

Ella had never been so happy to leave a room.

“God, that man is insufferable,” Hackett breathed as soon as they left the meeting. The doors probably hadn’t even closed yet, and Ella thought Hackett didn’t really care either way.

“Do we really even need him?” Ella asked. “There aren’t many batarians left. I doubt their contribution is going to make much of a difference.”

Hackett answered by lifting a brow and heading down the hall toward central control. “It’s true the batarians don’t have much in the way of numbers, but what’s left of their armies is the upper echelon. Black ops soldiers, intelligence assets, commandos; doesn’t matter what race they are, we can always use people like that.”

“Batarians have a black ops program?”

“Honestly I was more shocked by the intel. Not much we can use against the Reapers, but damn do I know things about Councilor Tevos that I really shouldn’t know.”

Ella decided not to poke for specifics on that one. As much as it felt like the weight of the world was on her shoulders, Hackett and the Council were the ones running the show. She was just a soldier. Hackett would provide her with any intel relevant to her mission and the rest she really didn’t care to know. Life was complicated enough already.

“I’m just ready to get back in the action,” Ella commented absently. “Don’t get me wrong, everything happening here is important, but I don’t feel like I’m being useful unless I’ve got a gun in my hand.”

Hackett chuckled at that. “I’d expect nothing less of you, Shepard. Don’t worry, you’ll be back out there soon enough.”

They stopped walking—or Hackett did; Ella was just following him—only to find themselves in front of a two-way mirror looking into one of the station’s private quarters. At first Ella thought nothing of it. They had a large number of guests at Sentinel and some of them surely needed to be under watch at all times. But when she looked further and saw who they were watching, her attention and curiosity immediately snapped to life.

“You’ve been watching them since they got back?” she asked Hackett. The Admiral nodded.

“A security precaution, in case they came back indoctrinated. And once they’d agreed to undergo the gene mod process, it seemed prudent to be able to keep an eye on them without invading their illusion of privacy.”

Disappointment beat back Ella’s curiosity for a moment. She couldn’t say she had no trust for them or respect for how useful they’d been so far, but there was still that nagging voice in the back of her head. Something was off, and she’d hoped Hackett would’ve felt it too.

“That’s all?” she asked. “Watching them in case the side-effects get too severe?”

Hackett weighed her question before giving her a knowing look. Despite what some people think, to get to the position of Admiral you have to be a pretty smart person. Smart enough to know how to stay alive in insane situations and how to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit every soldier eventually goes through. And when you apply those particular intellectual abilities to reading the people around you, you get pretty damn good at it.

So he knew what Ella meant despite how hard she’d tried to make her question seem sincere.

“You still have reservations about them.”

“You don’t?” she replied in question. “They showed up out of nowhere with information no one else in the galaxy had and they’ve risked their necks too many times to prove their innocence. If you put yourself in that much danger, you’re either suicidal, or trying to convince someone you’re not.”

Hackett chuckled. “So who are you trying to convince, Shepard?”

She had to give him that one.

“If it eases your mind at all, I’m still planning to keep a close eye on them,” the admiral continued. “To be honest, I fully expected they were Reaper agents up until that meeting. When they first came to Sentinel and we still weren’t attacked, I thought to myself it must have been a fluke. That the Reapers were waiting for bigger game. But when everyone showed up for the conference, that was when they earned my trust. If they really were our enemies, they could have taken out the entire galaxy’s leadership in one fell swoop. Twelve hours later and we’re all still here.”

A good point, but Ella had never said they were indoctrinated, or even Reaper agents. All she knew was that there was some deception in the air, large enough for her to be wary of it. They didn’t have to be enemies in the common sense of the word to undo everything the Alliance and the Council were working toward.

“You’re probably right,” Ella sighed. “There’s just . . . something. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shepard. If anything goes wrong, you know you’ll be the first to get the call.”

Naturally. Anytime something went wrong she was always the first to know. Despite how often she gave advice to prevent something from going wrong, her opinion was never called for until after the fact.

But that was just her mind still focusing on its vexation over the meeting with the batarians, and she knew it. Hackett was a reasonable man, and she knew her concerns played a part in his decision-making process. If he had anything else to substantiate them with, he would do something about it, but for now he simply had to trust his better judgment and make use of the assets that had presented themselves.

“So I assume you’re not going to let the new implants go to waste,” she said, continuing the conversation despite her reservations.

“It would be foolish of me to outfit three soldiers for combat and not deploy them,” Hackett replied. “I’ll have to speak with the Council again, but seeing as humanity was really the only race to prepare for the Reaper invasion, they're deferring to our judgment on any issue that doesn’t directly involve their own battles.”

“They’re going on a joint-species operation?” That was certainly unexpected, especially considering that they hadn’t even been in a fight until a few days ago.

“The Council’s putting together a team to deal with the krogan situation while you and yours reach out to the geth and quarians. It seemed natural to include them in at least one operation.”

“Then make it mine,” Ella said rather forcefully. “Wrex isn’t going to like them if they do that thing they do.”

Hackett chuckled. “You really take issue with them, don’t you?”

“The krogan are paranoid enough already, they won’t like it when three humans show up at their door and start telling them all their darkest secrets.”

“They’ve only put on their displays to earn trust. They’re smart. Information is only divulged when it presents an opportunity, and never any more than is absolutely necessary. I don’t think there will be an issue. Besides, we’re not going to be giving them much of a chance to talk; Garrus is leading the strike team, alongside half a dozen other elite operatives. The cousins are going along for intelligence and combat purposes only.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that they’re not telling us everything?” Ella knew she was pressing the matter far beyond normal, but she couldn’t stop herself. Not a single person had stepped up to back her when she first tried to warn the galaxy about the Reapers. Same story with the Collectors. It just wasn’t logical that they would come forward now with no other motive.

“Of course it bothers me, Shepard,” Hackett replied. He was tiring of this back-and-forth and likely wouldn’t have dealt with it from anyone else, so at least Ella could take comfort in that fact. “But they probably have a lot of information that we wouldn’t find useful until precisely the right moment. When something’s relevant, they’ll let us know.”

“I just don’t think they should make that decision. They’re not military, how do they know they’re not overlooking some small detail?”

“What do you want me to do, Shepard? Beat it out of them?” If Ella wasn’t mistaken, a flash of irritation ran across Hackett’s eyes. She’d pushed too far. “If they are conspiring against us and if they have information they’re not sharing with us, we’re not going to get it by locking them in a holding cell. Their intel has been good so far, and I’m not going to risk losing it by showing mistrust. We include them in our missions and yes, I’m putting them on Garrus’s team because they’ve worked with him already. And sticking them with someone who will second-guess their every move isn’t going to do anyone any good.”

Ella wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never heard Hackett raise his voice, let alone display a full-on emotion like anger. Granted it was subtle and he was controlling it very well, but when someone manages to keep a cool head as much as Hackett did, even the smallest outburst was like watching a fireworks show.

“I understand, sir,” was all she could think to say.

Hackett sighed. “I’m sorry, Shepard, that was unprofessional.”

Honestly, I’ve done a hell of a lot worse than that in front of civilians, let alone military personnel.

“I understand what you must be going through,” he continued. “You’ve been beating your fists bloody for damn near three years about the Reapers and only now is anyone beginning to do anything about it. Given that you were the only person in the entire galaxy to receive that message from the beacon, it’s only natural that you wouldn’t trust these three. But this isn’t the time to make new enemies. We’re taking help from anyone who offers it, and if they prove unreliable, we’ll deal with it when the time comes. That’s just how we have to play this one.”

As much as she didn’t like it, Ella actually could understand that one. She’d made more than her fair share of moral compromises during the hunt for Saren and taking down the Collectors afterward. Working for Cerberus had been the right call—they were the only ones willing to operate in the Terminus and she’d needed their resources—but overall it was an ambiguous decision at best. She couldn’t very well judge anyone else for their actions.

Her gaze returned to the two-way mirror, and through it, the young man Anderson had found on earth. Adison. Ella hadn’t had much interaction with any of the three mysteries. It was entirely possible she only had reservations because she didn’t know them. Very few people had ever trusted her implicitly before they’d met her.

Regardless, Hackett’s mind was made up. There was no point questioning him other than to convey her concerns, and she’d achieved that. Now it was time to move on.

“I understand, sir,” she repeated. “No further concerns.”

“Good,” Hackett replied, taking a deep breath. “Now, there’s a lot more negotiating to be done, and God knows this war is far from over. How long has it been since you’ve spoken to your quarian and geth counterparts?”

Tali and Legion. Ella hadn’t heard from either of them in over six months. That tends to happen when you hand yourself over to go on trial for treason.

“Not since I turned myself in. Last I heard, they both went back to their people. I don’t know if either of them would be agreeable to a meeting.”

“Well we’ll soon find out. Reach out to them, see what you can do. It’ll take you a day or so to get to Rannoch, so Normandy’s been cleared for re-entry to the system. I want you and your team out there as soon as possible.”

Ella smirked and began walking down the hall. “Anything to get away from the politics.”

“Shepard,” Hackett called after her. “Try not to shoot your way through this one. We need the geth and quarians.”

“I promise,” she replied, half-jokingly. “Let’s just hope we can get there before the Reapers do.”

As if.

Six days after the implantation process, I was finally starting to feel somewhat normal. There’s not much use in attempting to describe what we all went through during that time because I’m sure no one in history has ever been through such a thing, but for the sake of entertainment I believe I can convey the general feeling in a single sentence.

It was hell.

I spent the first two days slipping in and out of consciousness while my body adapted to the changes that had forced their way into my DNA structure, and even those rare moments of lucidity were clouded by unbearable pain and sickness. Not only could I feel my bones breaking and healing over, but the sensation quickly spread to my muscles and organs as well. If you work out occasionally or have a physically demanding job, you’ll know the familiar feeling of soreness that accompanies a rough day. Now imagine instead of working out for an hour, you’d spent six weeks straight on a salmon ladder. Needless to say, my body felt like it was on fire and being crushed by an elephant at the same time.

And that was just from the standard mods. In addition to the physical enhancements, Troy, Adison, and I had all received different implants based on our individual skillsets: Troy had chosen the Hawkeyes implant, which would—as its name implied—increase his depth of field, visual range, and precision far beyond normal; Adison had taken a neural interface implant that would allow him to literally be linked to his weapons and armor via his synapses, allowing him to fire his gun or redirect power to specific armor systems with a simple thought; and I had picked the SAER package. The abbreviation stood for Situational Awareness and Enhanced Reflexes, but as Claire informed me, most Alliance soldiers commonly referred to it as the ‘Seer.’ Troy was quick to point out that he deserved the title more if we were going on a literal basis.

I suppose if I had put more thought into it, I could’ve predicted a few of my symptoms before they began to surface. Aside from the horrifying pain that racked our bodies from the common implant, we’d all experienced different side-effects due to the specialized packages. I seem to recall Troy had problems adjusting to his sight once the Hawkeyes kicked in, Adison was in his room for three days complaining about migraines, and I could barely move due to all the additional sensory input I was getting.

What Claire failed to tell us was that these weren’t just combat improvements; they were active all the time, even when we didn’t want them to be. She would come to check on each of us every day, and each time she opened my door I could see, hear, smell, taste, and feel everything within fifty meters. Yeah, I said taste and feel, too. Taste isn’t just when a solid object touches your tongue—it extends to the very molecules in the air. Same went for touch. Though I couldn’t actually tell what anything was yet, I could distinguish every different particle in the air due to all five of my senses kicking into overdrive.

Of course, that was just the first week. After four days the side-effects began wearing off, and while I could still sense the difference when I walked from one room to another, it was nowhere near as confusing as it had been immediately following the implantation.

But that wasn’t even mentioning the enhanced reflexes. The standard Alliance gene mod package contained a reflex booster, and throwing the Seer on top of it was incredible. Claire had tried to serve me lunch once, accidentally spilled a container of pasta off the side of my shelf, and before a single shell hit the ground I had them all stacked neatly next to the oven. I felt like freaking Spider-Man.

And did I mention the physical effects of the implants? Excruciating pain, yes, but the augmentation increased our bone and muscle density, which means we must have gained at least fifty pounds of sheer bone and muscle. I didn’t notice it until the third day when I was finally coherent enough to go take a shower, and upon entering I saw that the ceiling was considerably closer to my face than before. A quick bio-scan afterwards confirmed that I’d grown at least four inches. And here I’d thought puberty was well behind me.

But, after six days, it was all said and done. The implants were in, our bodies were relatively accustomed to them, and Claire had told us we were cleared to return to duty. But first, a solid meal. Or twelve.

There wasn’t exactly a cafeteria on Sentinel so much as a disinterested chef that couldn’t heat up a frozen meal without spectacularly ruining it, so we’d settled for turning Troy’s private quarters into a small banquet hall before we reported to Hackett. We didn’t have much in the way of food, seeing as we’d polished off all the good stuff (along with most of the alcohol) our first night back after Jerusalem, but we were so hungry at that point we could eat anything. As long as it wasn’t from the chef. Spaghetti, macaroni, assorted vegetables and oddly enough mashed potatoes made a decent meal for three people to celebrate to.

Well, for a few minutes, anyway.

We’d barely finished our first round of food when we each got separate omni-tool alerts telling us to grab any gear we needed and meet up at the armory. I’d thought they’d give us at least another day or so to get used to the mods, but apparently war waits for no man. Used to it or not, we were heading out on an assignment.

I returned to my quarters, leaving Troy to gather his things and Adison to head back and do the same, and quickly began grabbing anything and everything I’d need. Really there wasn’t much; my jeans, my BAAO shirt which had washed out fairly nicely all things considered, my jacket, and a few essentials were all stuffed inside a duffle within seconds, which only left Invidium and my sidearm. I holstered the pistol in my new fatigues, courtesy of the Alliance seeing as my clothes wouldn’t fit anymore, and Invidium was remarkably easier to carry even using one hand. Again, thank you, gene mods.

Troy and Adison were already standing outside their rooms when I went back into the hallway, weapons in hand. Hopefully the Alliance was going to get us some new armor, otherwise any confrontation would end quickly.

“You ready bro?” Troy asked.

I shook my head to one side. “Let’s go.”

The armory wasn’t far. While the station itself was massive considering how small the asteroid appeared on the outside, getting around was a simple matter. In addition to the existence of color-coded signs leading to the various areas of Sentinel, our omni-tools had synced with the station’s systems, ensuring we had only to look at a virtual map if we somehow got lost. Two or three minutes’ worth of walking had us in the armory.

Weapons and armor crowded the entire room, whether on display, at a workbench undergoing some kind of modification, or being fabricated by machines so complex there was no chance I’d ever understand how they worked. Sentinel was where all the Alliance’s secret projects were conceived, after all. There wasn’t a piece of hardware in the room that didn’t scream “experimental.”

Hackett was there waiting, along with a few technicians I’d seen around the station, all crowded around a group of armor displays at the far end of the room. When the door slid closed behind us, they turned to welcome us inside.

“Gentlemen,” Hackett said. “It seems that the implants went in well enough. How are the side-effects?”

There was something in his voice, something I couldn’t place. He’d said he couldn’t possibly doubt us anymore after Jerusalem, but . . . was it second thoughts? Normally talking to Hackett was like talking to a mother whose child had just been diagnosed with cancer. It was clear there were more important things on his mind but he knew he had to compartmentalize and devote his attention equally, no matter how much he wanted to focus on one thing.

This time, he was distracted.

“We’re okay for the most part,” Adison answered.

“Good. You’ve been out of commission for a while now, and a lot has changed even in that short time. We’ve managed to pull support from all the major players with a few exceptions.”

Gee, lemme guess.

“The krogan and salarians?” I asked.

“That’s who you’ll be concerning yourselves with. The Council has put together a team with the purpose of curing the genophage. They’re going to Tuchanka, and I’d like you three to accompany them.”

Now that was unexpected. Send us on a mission, sure, let us help out in some useful way, but I’d thought Hackett would have wanted us to stay close by. Easier to keep an eye on us that way.

“You’re serious?” Troy said, really more of a statement than a question.

“You’ll be under Garrus’s supervision,” Hackett continued, not skipping a beat, “accompanied by a handful of the galaxy’s best operatives. You don’t have any official rank with the Alliance or any affiliation whatsoever with the Council, so your part in this assignment will be intel and combat support. Show them what you can do out there and Garrus will put you where your skills best stand out.”

Great, so we were going into the belly of the beast as complete rookies next to a bunch of seasoned veterans. That wasn’t going to cause any problems at all.

“Sounds good, sir,” Adison replied. Of course he wouldn’t mind. Troy and I were undisciplined in that regard; neither of us much liked taking orders. Adison, on the other hand, was more used to it. He may not have liked it, but being a police officer tends to make you a bit more patient than most.

“Well now that you know what your assignment is, you’ll be needing new armor. This is top of the line military gear, hasn’t even begun mass production yet. We’ve got five suits. Three of them are going to you.”

Hackett stepped aside, allowing us a first unobstructed glimpse at the experimental armor. At first glance it didn’t look special; in fact, it looked terrible. The plating was so blindingly white it actually hurt a little to look at it. The non-armored pieces visible at the joints looked like they were made of some kind of ballistic cloth, and the helmet was reminiscent of standard N7 gear. Smoother, I suppose, probably using a more durable material, but generally the same.

“What do you think?” one of the techs asked with a way-too-obvious smile.

“It’s . . . very white,” I replied.

“Well you can change that later. The armor components are a titanium-dipped triweave nanocomposite—similar coating to the Silaris hull plating developed by the asari. It’ll stop everything short of a burst from a Capital ship. The under-layer is a cross between ballistic and expandable carbon fibers. The shield emitters are almost impossible to crack, the kinetic servos will increase your mobility, and it comes with an assistive propulsion device. You can cross large gaps in the battlefield easily or take a drop from low-atmo without needing to bend gravity with a mass effect drive.”

I didn’t understand half of what he said, and I was almost positive he was exaggerating due to how excited he was, but it still sounded impressive. Troy and Adison must have been on the same page, because no one said anything.

“You’ll essentially be ten times harder to kill,” the tech explained. “More mobility than any other soldier on the battlefield, almost as durable as a krogan.”

“And you’re giving it to us?” I asked, addressing the question to Hackett while still staring at the armor.

“The operatives we have on-site were given specific training utilizing the equipment they have now,” he replied. “It would take months to retrain them that we simply don’t have. You three present a unique opportunity in that you’ve never had any formal training. You can acclimate to the armor systems better than most, and yes—” at this point he addressed Adison “—it will work with your implant. You may have an easier go of it.”

“So we’re the test group,” Adison commented. “First in line to see if the armor will do what you think it will.”

“I’m all right with that,” Troy added. “Besides, it’s not like we can be picky since our last armor got disintegrated.”

I didn’t realize how long I’d been staring at the armor until a friendly tap on the shoulder caused me to look away. I’d heard someone enter the room of course, due to my senses being dialed to eleven thanks to the Seer, but I’d failed to give thought to who that might be.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Claire asked.

I turned back to the armor for a moment. It really did look as impressive as the tech made it sound. Solid inch-thick armor for the chest plate, shoulders, and legs, with thinner overlapping components on the arms and abdominal region for freedom of movement. If it was as indestructible as they claimed, it would make any wearer a mobile powerhouse.

“I feel like I should have killed a lot more Reapers in order to deserve something like this,” I answered honestly.

“Well what does that say about me, then?” Claire returned playfully.

It took me a moment to connect the dots. If I’m not part of the conversation I usually do pretty well picking up on implications, but not so much if I’m in the moment.

“You’re . . . wait, you’re going to Tuchanka?”

“Don’t act so surprised. I’m pretty good with a gun too, you know.”

Well, add that to the ever-growing list of shit I wasn’t expecting. Not that I didn’t want Claire to go with us, but I hadn’t expected her to want to go after what happened to Sorola. She may have been a soldier, but she hadn’t joined the Alliance to shoot a gun; she’d signed up to fix the guys who got hurt doing so. Tuchanka was going to be nothing but people getting hurt fighting the Reapers.

Maybe it was a bit selfish of me. My more protective side didn’t want her to go simply because it was going to be the most dangerous shit we’d faced yet. But I knew Shepard was out there risking her life and it didn’t bother me. The same could be said of any of the millions of individuals across the galaxy just trying to stay alive. Why should it be any different just because I had an emotional connection to Claire?

A meaningless question. Emotion always trumps logic until you can convince yourself to let logic take over. Claire had every right to accompany us and I knew there was no point trying to convince her to stay at Sentinel. She’d never sit back and twiddle her thumbs knowing we were more than likely going to need a medic’s services.

Still, why did it bother me so much?

“Well, now you know what your mission is,” Hackett said, jarring me from my thoughts. “And you have the equipment to get it done. Now I suppose you’ll need to know how you’ll be getting there.”

“Normandy isn’t dropping us off?” Troy asked before I managed to put the sentence together.

“Not quite,” Hackett replied with a bit of a gleam in his eye. “Follow me.”

Her name was the Evanescent. Although building her was a secret Council project, she was primarily funded and produced by the Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy, which meant that not only was she an absolute beauty to behold, but she was similar in almost every technical regard to the Normandy. FTL speeds capable of outrunning a Reaper, eezo core that could keep us cloaked even during atmospheric re-entry, and producing a threat equivalent to ten standard Alliance frigates. Between the cloaking device, the strengthened kinetic barriers, the reinforced hull plating, and twin Thanix cannons, she could blow holes through two or three frigates and jump to another star system before anyone knew what had hit them. It still wouldn’t be a smart idea to go head-to-head with a Reaper Capital ship, but in just about any other fight she’d at least hold her own.

Hackett had left us at the landing pad in Sentinel with the assurance that we would be informed of any crucial developments while we were gone, and that Shepard would be in contact soon seeking any intel we had on the geth or quarians. In the meantime, we just had to settle in and prepare for Tuchanka.

I didn’t speak the entire time. We left Sentinel by shuttle and entered the Evanescent via her hangar bay, and not a word escaped my mouth during the flight. My eyes were so fixated on the ship itself that I couldn’t focus on anything else. The design, like everything else, was inspired by the Normandy, but there were a few distinctions. Rather than four extendable propulsion drives, Evanescent streamlined the process by boasting two sizeable rear drives and a single central propulsion mechanism. I had no idea what exactly that meant in terms of speed or maneuverability, but it looked cool as hell.

In addition to the engines, there were also noticeably more secondary weapons than I’d ever seen on Normandy. Two modest cannons adorned both the dorsal and ventral section of the hull as well as several smaller independent turrets along the sides of the vessel, adding up to a total of eleven offensive weapons.

She wasn’t just a stealth ops vessel. We could pack one hell of a punch if need be.

I wondered how long the Council had been putting this together. It had to be a decent chunk of time, considering how long it took to build the original Normandy.

Either way, we landed in the hangar bay and, once the room had pressurized, we were greeted by Garrus and at least six more of his crew. Only one was human. We really were on a Council-sanctioned operation. Reality sank in that despite what we’d seen so far, it was about to get much, much worse.

It was easy to see that Garrus was a bit overwhelmed by the demands of his new position. He handled it all with extreme gravitas, but he’d never had his own command. That had always been Shepard’s role, and he was doing his best to be that for this crew. Shit, we hadn’t even set off yet and the stress was rearing its head.

After a minute of pleasantries Garrus excused himself to go take care of another matter, leaving us in the capable hands of Evanescent’s VI, Vigor. Humanity got to name the ship, so turians claimed the VI, I suppose. Although EDI’s existence was commonplace for Shepard and her crew, AI research was still illegal in Council space, which meant no EDI for us. Still, after seeing her in action the Council must have realized how useful it was, and a VI was the next best thing. All the processing power, none of the free will.

Vigor offered us a tour of the ship since we had thirteen hours to kill, and I was eager to dive in. In accordance with standard Alliance procedure, the hangar bay doubled as the field combat preparation area, which meant that all our weapons and armor was stored in an armory toward the stern, just behind the elevator leading to the upper decks. Once we were ready for a mission, we would gear up there, head to the cargo bay for a quick briefing, and board the shuttle. Made much more sense than the Normandy’s setup when she was still a Cerberus vessel.

Evidently we were the last to arrive, as Wrex and his brood had already staked out a section of the cargo bay near the armory. What stood out to me was that only ten lockers lined the wall of the armory, four of which had the names Daniels, Ashbrook, T. Womble, and D. Womble; if I was to assume that those ten lockers were indicative of how many combat personnel were on-board, there were only five operatives aside from us and Garrus, three of whom were modifying weapons at various workbenches throughout the cargo bay. An asari, a salarian, and a human that I swore had an N7 patch on his jacket.

I don’t fucking belong here.

The next level up was engineering. Not much to see there, what with engineers running this way and that trying to make sure systems were up to snuff before lift-off. Vigor explained that Evanescent was outfitted with a modified Tantalus-II drive core, which again meant nothing to me aside from the fact that the original Normandy used a similar core. Seeing as it was essentially a black hole under strict confinement, I wasn’t too eager to get closer.

Third floor up was where we’d be spending the majority of our time. Male and female living quarters sat at the stern on opposite sides of the ship, naturally, adjacent to their respective shower rooms. On the port and starboard sides of the ship, where the observation decks would have been on Normandy, were two personnel cabins, with two more at the bow situated on either side of the Thanix access corridor. The galley was located dead center of the deck, again similar to Normandy, but with two more cabins offset both port and starboard. It was like they’d taken the Normandy’s designs and mirrored them, utilizing the observation decks and medbay as living quarters.

All in all, it was a decent setup. The galley no longer seemed like an extended hallway you just passed through, but an actual isolated area of the ship even though it sat right in the middle of everything. Partitions surrounded the cafeteria tables, shutting them off from the rest of the deck, while the chef’s area actually was walled off with an opening barely wide enough to let a krogan through. Thankfully our chef was human, otherwise I got the feeling I wouldn’t have been eating much. I can’t even eat seafood, for fuck’s sake.

On the way back to the elevator, Vigor stopped the tour to let us know that we would be staying in the cabins toward the bow, so we decided to check them out before we headed to the command center. At first I’d thought Troy, Adison and I would be sharing a room, but evidently everyone on the field team was meant to get their own cabin. For a moment I felt bad for the rest of the crew that had to stay in the barracks, but when I stepped into my room I completely lost sight of anyone else’s discomfort. It was much bigger than I’d thought it would be, for one thing, and damn but everything was set up as if it had been designed for me. Terminal on a desk spanning at least eight feet wrapped around the far corner of the room; a lounge decked out with two L-sofas, a lounger, and a screen on the wall that I was pretty sure was a futuristic television; and a queen-sized bed separated from the lounge via partitions. Everything I needed and more.

Needless to say, it took us a minute to accept that this was really where we’d be staying, especially Daniels. She’d been used to bunks and shared rooms for years, courtesy of being a military grunt. I suppose both the Alliance and the Hierarchy thought it best to keep their ground units as happy as possible considering the kind of missions we were going on.

After we finally did get over ourselves, Vigor accompanied us to the command deck, where we once again saw Garrus conferring with the crew. Suffice it to say the CIC and cockpit were virtually exact replicas of Normandy. The stern was a different story, however. The starboard corridor led to the medbay and laboratory, both of which were occupied by half a dozen salarians, asari, and humans, Mordin among them. Vigor then took it upon himself to inform us that if we were good enough at our jobs, we would have no need to visit the infirmary. Cheeky bastard.

To end the tour, Vigor directed us to the conference room on the port side of the CIC. Nothing special there; twelve seats encircling a wooden table where we would debrief after missions and a quantum entanglement communicator linked to Normandy and Sentinel. From there we could video conference with Shepard, Hackett and the Council all at the same time if the need arose.

I was star-struck. It felt like I had just walked onto the Normandy for the first time as Commander Shepard. Only this time it was me, and I was a tangible presence in a very real world.

Damn I was glad it was Garrus in charge of this operation. Although I didn’t really know him in any meaningful sense of the word, he was the one person that I felt comfortable following into battle. And after the shitshow on earth, I knew he’d get us through this mission no matter what.

The next few hours were spent idly, settling into our cabins and eventually making our way down to the armory to modify our gear. Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t have had access to any useful equipment, but with three Spectres aboard, an N7, two asari commandoes and a salarian STG expert, we had fucking everything. I didn’t even know what a fraction of it was, but I was happy to take some advice from a turian weapons expert on how to get more accuracy out of Invidium. Then came the armor, changing it from that god-awful eggshell white to a more down-to-earth black, accented by the red undersuit. When it was all said and done, it almost looked like my previous armor, just way more bad-ass.

I’d just finished applying a second coat of paint to the armor when Garrus’s voice came over the intercom, prompting everyone in the cargo bay to stop what they were doing so they could listen.

“This is Vakarian speaking. We’ve just finished preparations for launch and will be departing Sentinel momentarily. I’d just like to take this opportunity to get everyone up to speed on our mission.”

Troy and I caught each other’s gaze and he shrugged his eyebrows. “Here we go.”

“You’ve all been selected for this team because you’re the best at what you do. With everything the Reapers are throwing our way, we need to be the best. This ship and her crew are operating under the Council’s authority. You’re not STG or Serrice or Alliance anymore—we’ve been given permission to do whatever is necessary to cure the genophage and cause as much chaos for the Reapers as possible. They think they’ve got us beaten already. Our homeworlds are under siege across the galaxy, and it’s up to us to get them the support they need to resist. But more than that, this is about undoing something that never should have happened.”

Though he might as well have been a mile away at the opposite end of the cargo bay, I could see Wrex stir. Whether that was good or bad, I had no idea.

“I can’t lie, it’s not going to be easy. Nothing that we do from this point forward will be easy. But we’re doing it because we’re some of the only ones who can. So no matter what your reasons are for being here, know that we can do this. We killed Sovereign at the battle of the Citadel, and we’ll kill any other Reaper that gets in our way. Because this galaxy has a future, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to ensure that future is what we make it to be.”

Shit. Deep stuff.

“Vakarian out.”