Nine hours before the attack on Feros.
“Movement during this phase of diagnostics is discouraged. Please remain still.”
Saren grunted a quiet reply without looking at the geth platform. Without looking at what it was doing. His stare was fixed on the pulse of the power core output. Identical red strings of monospace letters indicated that Sovereign was running at optimal capacity. He could lose himself in watching it – bring forth that strange feeling of detachment that had been visiting him with an increasing frequency. As if he were watching himself from elsewhere. Perhaps from the recesses of the dark, domed ceiling, or that small opening in the wall, near Benezia’s station, that had appeared overnight. To a creature hiding there – and it would have to be some vile, spiny, wormlike atrocity, with hundreds of beady eyes and a black, gaping anus in place of a mouth, oozing some slime to help it squirm through the unclean bowels of the living ship – to a creature living in that terrifying hole, the bridge would appear shadowy and deserted, with sleeping terminals and silent lights twinkling weakly from equipment on standby. One barefaced turian, motionless, barely breathing, and a geth, examining the deeply nested circuitry in the turian’s artificial arm. Only the power core status would seem to be alive, scrolling up the holo-pillar in its infinite, unfathomable, hypnotizing rhythm: 61.32, 61.37, 61.34, 61.35, 61.37… Saren took a deep breath and held it until his own pulse started slowing down. 61.35, 61.32, 61.29, 61.25, 61.21.
Continue reading The Pulse
Note: This chapter was coauthored by Logsig and yours truly. The credit for all the good parts goes to the first author, as does my ever-growing gratitude. I also wish to thank Misfire Anon for the final touches, and for critique as well as encouragement. Couldn’t have done it without you, guys.
Nine hours before the attack on Feros.
Garrus followed Nihlus up the service stairs without another word, twitching with nervous energy. When they emerged in the starboard hallway on the crew deck, his heart started pounding. But they walked past the locked door to their shared cabin and moved on towards the mess hall. Dinner, then? His heart rate returned to normal. Almost. The mess was empty, save for a single crewman who followed their march with a suspicious stare. Nihlus took the exit at the aft end. Ah. The gym.
Continue reading Just Like Old Times
Ten hours before the attack on Feros.
“…and then she took her shirt off – just like that – and showed her breasts to me. Can you imagine? I was never so grateful for the mask in my entire life. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, right? Well, wrong. I have never seen anyone else’s breasts. Not in person, anyway. I blushed so hard I thought my mask would melt. She does have a very lovely pair of breasts, you know. Round and full, but not heavy. The bruise was really bad, though. A black patch, about the size of my hand. She started crying when she saw it. I told her she was lucky to get out of there alive, but that made her cry even more.”
Continue reading Whispers
Liara’s life flashed in front of her. Before, she had thought that no more than a convenient phrase. Something polite to say while avoiding the generally uncomfortable subject of regrets.
Continue reading Out of the Frying Pan
Daylight, reddened by the pyre, faded quickly as they descended into the mine. Nihlus kept a wary eye on Shepard. She was pulled taut. He could see it in the way she jumped at every sound, hear it in her dry voice and her clipped, monosyllabic responses. If it were anyone else, he’d write it off as edginess before a fight. But he had seen her prepare for deployment on Eden Prime. Shepard was the type to feel the pressure after a mission, not before.
Continue reading Into the Pit
Two hours before the attack on Therum.
The atmosphere in the mess hall wasn’t going to improve Shepard’s mood, that was damn sure. She wasn’t hungry, either, but she was obliged to attend because there was no telling what would happen otherwise. Following Alenko’s advice, she had ordered all the officers to sit at the same table with all the aliens who had suddenly made themselves at home on the Normandy, but she was no longer sure it had been such a brilliant idea. The several meals they had all taken together during the two days of flight from the Citadel had been a study of intercultural screw-ups on so many levels that it was difficult to keep count even without the added angle of being constrained to a seat that granted a direct line of sight into Wrex’s mouth. He was sitting at the head of the ‘alien’ side of the table, to Shepard’s far right, and when he noticed human stares, he belched so loudly that the plates shook. Then he started picking his teeth with the three-inch talon of his index finger.
Continue reading Gates of Hell