BY MISFIRE ANON
It’s one hour and thirty minutes into the trek before Desolas realises that Saren hasn’t said anything since they left. He frowns. Usually, the silence only lasted for the hour.
The sun is directly overhead, casting the blue-violet shadows of the rich foliage like a cloak around the brothers. The trail—an old one, and their favourite—is well nigh covered by the undergrowth, a bountiful spread of waxy green and red leaves and strings of small white flowers. If he listens closely, he can still pick out the jingle of the river they crossed ten minutes ago, using the same old log that he helped place in the summer of ’39. He smiles to himself. Saren hadn’t even been born, then. And now, it was difficult to imagine life without the little ankle-biter.
Continue reading Marked
By Misfire Anon
Yes, I was the one to send him off to Relay 314. We held the ceremony in the morning, Parting of the Fleet, stiff salutes and a glass of farewell before the chorus. Pretty good for a rapid deployment, I can tell you that. I know that’s not what you came here for. Just hold on.
Continue reading Heirlooms
By Misfire Anon
There existed many descriptions for a Spectre’s protégé. Shade was apparently the term that had been historically adopted. But like everything else with the Spectres, the definition was highly fluid. Perceptions of these trainees went all the way from “comrade‐in‐arms” to “promising candidate” to “I’d‐shove‐you‐out‐of‐the‐airlock‐if‐ the‐Council‐wasn’t‐watching‐my‐every‐move”.
Continue reading Fish Out of Water
By Misfire Anon
It is done.
Saren lies quietly on the floor, listening to the hum of the machinery, the beating of that enormous and ancient heart. He feels it pulse, impossibly, in rhythm with his own organic copy. Oh, he realizes, probing the bare metal on his chest with a certain degree of absentmindedness, he is the copy now. Synthetic life forms are the originals. He is convinced of this. His hand touches the cold floor gingerly, as if he were really lying on a thick-walled chamber of Sovereign’s heart. There is a light beneath the floor, a cool blue in colour, shining through the translucent material. This material feels strange; too hard for metal, too cool for glass. The flesh of a Reaper.
Continue reading Diagnosis
By Misfire Anon
The gun in his hand is past the label of ‘outdated’ and well on its way into the category called ‘antique’. He clutches it like a lifeline nonetheless. I am almost sorry. Then I remember all the choices he must have made during the life that dyed his hair grey and I am not sorry anymore. This is how such things go. Some are armed with Carnifexes and some with museum pieces. Obtain the former at all costs, if life’s what you value. The latter look nice next to your corpse.
Continue reading Blur
This is a complete archive of Mass Effect fanfiction written by Misfire Anon, my dear friend and collaborator, who recently gave me the green light to host all their stories.
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