The Blades of Aurora - Mass Effect RP

[MelonHead]

Tornak left the shuttle, pushing his way past any who were stupid enough to block his passage, and listened to the briefing. The information would all be on his omni-tool, but frankly he preferred the old fashioned way when it came to such matters. It was probably a failing of Batarians that they still clung to traditional methods so strongly, but it was not something Tornak was willing to deal with at this exact moment in time. After a few moments his face scrawled into an expression of distaste and he broke away, now knowing where the most important locations were on the level of the ship they found themselves on.

With a powerful flashback running through his mind, he paused for a moment at his door. Similar surroundings, but painted a rust red, narrow, Batarians all around him. They were arrogant, but they were friends. The ship shook and splintered, they died, not a chance to fight, Tornak sprinted to the escape pod, only one who made it. Something new had killed them, something unlike anything else seen in the known universe, when he found them he would make them pay.

The door pinged open as he walked in, surveying his simple, spartan even, surroundings. They were suitable to his tastes; he paused for a moment, half considering meeting the idiot human who had challenged him and teaching him the errors of his actions. He decided against it, already the hostility was mounting against him, as it always did, because Batarians were almost always met with constant racism. He almost grinned at the thought, bastards.

Instead he opted to test out the VR training room, it was probably worth his time to warm up and fire off a few rounds with a pistol. Although his rifle was something he never forgot how to use, the pistol could always be honed, and marksmanship was a skill which needed constant maintenance.

A few minutes later he found himself at a realistic seeming target range, training weapon in hand. The first challenge was simple, moving targets, he fired a near constant barrage faster than most humans could manage, hitting seven out of nine of his targets. The last he took down with a well-placed round to the head.

The next challenge was different, he walked forward and fired at moving targets which ducked in and out of cover, there hits on him were also measured. He walked out with every target downed; fifteen for fifteen, only one non-fatal shot had hit him. He looked at the results with displeasure; he would do better next time.

[kizubu]

Vegrull stood from his couch and carried half his pistol with him to the counter setting it down with a clink. Grabbing one of the many drinks, all standard issue, nothing intoxicating, of course Vegrull had his own supply. But as a soldier he never drank in excess amounts that would be foolish in multiple ways. One being loss of bodily control, two, lack of concentration, among many other things. Getting a simple glass cup he set it beside the bottle, popping the lid open he took an experimental whiff with his nose, picking up on some familiar smells, things that Turian's were said to enjoy. It seemed that Armstrong and his company were trying to accommodate his Turian employees in a nicely fitted place, truthfully it was quite nice and even a little flattering. Gently his mandibles twitched, two of his circular rings clinked together, not unlike that of the gun against the glass. Of course he was aware that he wasn't receiving any special treatment, but it felt like it simple because of what he had been living like for the past year.

He put the rim of the glass against his lips before tipping it down into his throat, the taste of all the old memories flushed back as it washed down his throat his mandibles twitched in a pleased and surprised manner. As he recalled the tastes he had missed, forgotten, and now thanks to Aurora, rekindled. Instinctively he smacked his lips gratefully. Rearing his head to the door as he heard the muffled movements of other members outside his door, Vegrull then gave a low growl of curiosity. How was he going to work with utterly unknown people in a place like Omega? He knew for a fact that the others would be asking the same question, which is probably why they were all avoiding one another until it came to docking with Omega. If anyone would be asking the most questions it would probably be the Salarian, they always had nimble minds. The Batarian was going to be a strange one to work with, but Vegrull knew he shouldn't judge, but thanks to the fact that he had fought for life and death against them it was hard to break out of judging his kind. Though he felt like he was a bit harsh, since Aurora had hired him for a purpose, so maybe he was to be trusted, but Vegrull would have to wait and see. He wasn't going to trust him just yet, not that it was just Tornak he didn't trust, it was basically everyone. Armstrong was a capable enough looking human, someone he didn't mind following, he just hoped the rest of his team would show the same kind of prowess as well as team work then hopefully show some camaraderie.

The elderly Turian picked the gun half up then the bottle and cup as he took them to sit them down on the table as he planted himself on the couch once more. Sighing he poured another drink, he hated this time of the mission, the waiting to arrive, mostly when there was nothing to worry about, they were still in a safe zone, so nothing was going to happen unless it happened in a civil sense with the crew members arguing among one another. Given the tense atmosphere of the meeting alone then it was possible, very possible. At the moment it felt like the ship was a hive of ticking time bombs, you have the Batarian, a Krogan and a Salarian on the same ship, and many other members who seem to prefer to keep to themselves. Not to mention on his way wandering around Vegrull noticed some strange looking people, obviously they had been hired as well, so this was truly the most unusual group of mercenaries he had ever laid eyes upon. Suddenly his mandibles flared out as he laughed, "and I am apart of them." Shaking his head still amused by that he poured another drink that soon ended up down his throat.

This was truly going to be interesting....

[Assallya]

Deep in the center of the Polaris, located as far as possible from the outer hull to preserve it against stellar radiation, lay the computer core. Banks of slurry cooled molecular memory arranged in three dimensions with each individual cell measured in mere angstroms whirred constantly, processing zettabytes of information in mere moments. Capable of calculating orbital trajectories and the complex para-relativistic, multi-dimensional mathematics required for faster-than-light travel these machines could copy and paste every book ever written on the Earth every second and still have processing power left over to beat Kasparov at a game of chess.

Deep within that computer core, Sarah cursed. Of all the most useless idiots! The morons designing some of the circuit boards had made a mistake in their math and didn't include enough throughput, bottlenecking the data stream which, in turn, caused the processors to underperform. After all, even the finest processor could only process as fast as the data and instructions were introduced to it.

"Einstein," she said to the virtual intelligence contained with her omnitool, "scan the circuit board, adjust the design to include two- no, make it four additional parallel connections. Run simulation."

An image of the circuit board appeared in Sarah's visor, lines of data moved smoothly and small flags listed the speed of each component. To her satisfaction, the processors were running at listed specifications now according to the simulation but the increased number of connections in the same space was creating to much heat.

"Adjust model. Shift processor A-37 two picometers positive X-axis and run new simulation."

The circuit board disappeared and then was reassembled and the test began anew. This time the new circuit board wasn't on the verge of melting itself.

"Perfect," she congratulated the V.I., "establish connection to Polaris mainframe and add the new circuit board to the fabrication queue and set reminder for five minutes before the fabricator finishes construction."

"Fabrication accepted," the small white haired cartoonish professor in a lab coat that only Sarah could see responded, "alarm set."

Sliding out from underneath the mainframe's chassis Sarah picked herself up from the floor. She was a magnificent slice of perfection, having spent quite a few credits on cosmetic surgery. Clicking her heels together the flat shoes she wore elevated, becoming three inch heels and the opened in the front to reveal opalescent toenails. She then proceeded to walk, heels clacking on the deck plating as she examined her Omni-tool. Apparently the non-humans being hired had arrived in the shuttlebay. One, a Salarian named- Her mind boggled at the length of the name before deciding she was going to simply call him Teepock. She was looking forward to discourse with him.

[Shiala]

It was not long before Sirun splintered off from the group, having extracted all the key points in the ship and memorizing them, passing down the hallway to enter the room assigned to him. It was spacious, at least compared to the small cots he was used to on the various frigates and dingy hole in the wall apartments he had inhabited over the years as he drifted along the currents of his current missions. The room held the same size as a compact apartment, fitted with a spacious bed, a couch, desk, dresser, nightstand, and even a compact bar which was kindly furnished with dextro-friendly beverages. He approached them, picking up the bottles and turning it slowly in his hands as he read the labels, the decent spread of drinks slightly assured him that they had a decent selection of dextro-friendly rations. He was not keen on sucking flavorless Quarian nutrient paste out of tubes and would refuse to relive such horrors. His golden eyes scanned the room, nodding his approval in a swift motion as the door shut behind him. He pulled the bag from his broad shoulders, setting it down on the couch and tugging it open to lay out his weapons, clothing, and other belongings before tucking them away in drawers, though his Carnifex remained holstered on his hip at all times.

After making short work of unpacking he took a seat on the couch, picking up his datapad off of the small table and reading the background files on each member of the team, pulling up the ship roster from the dossier provided to his omnitool. Starting with the Batarian he worked his way down the list, it was an interesting cast of characters to say the least and he was sure their history was more interesting than the minimal amount of information he could pull from the hacked quadrant of Spectre data he had smuggled off the extranet. The large Turian sighed as he leaned back onto the couch, ankle of his boot resting on the knee of his other leg as he tossed the datapad beside him. His sensitive nose could smell the faint earthy scent of humans, probably some unfortunate low ranking officer who had been advised to see to straightening up all the rooms for their crew. The scent hung in the still air mixed with the faint scent of the new recycling filter which tinged the air with a medical sterility. All this was paired with the human crew's chatter, too far off for his translator to pick up, muffled by his closed door. The guttural sounds mixed with the quick movements of their nimble tongues working against their flat teeth. Humans were strange creatures indeed, soft and fleshy and unlike the Asari they had no natural biotics to protect themselves. They were fragile compaired to his own race, the Krogans and even the Batarians. He respected them, respected them enough to sacrifice and ultimately lose his Spectre status in order to help them. They were a race that demanded respect and recognition, their Commander Shepard was a prime example of that, and their ascent to the council just further cemented their worthiness in his eyes. Shepard was a perfect example of what a Spectre should be, a model agent who took matters into their own hands and got the job done, if they saved lives good, but if it costed some it was all fair. It was a shame so many races still held a bias towards humans. He sighed as he drew his thoughts back home, remembering the position he was currently in, he ran a arm along the back of the couch, the other picking up the datapad he had recently tossed aside, as he looked at current news with passive interest.

He was aware that the current position he was in was rather odd. A foreign team assigned to a big mission, an extraction no less, which was even more delicate than tradition run and gun missions. He sighed slightly frustrated as he furrowed his brow plates and his mandibles twitched as he clenched his jaw. Such a mission, entrusted to a team with absolutely no experience working with each other and no time to build trust between them. It was a true test of their willingness to adapt, a challenging aspect of working in a team even if you are familiar with the participants. And no one seemed willing to become familiar with one another, but who could blame them. From their files the members came from all walks of life, most with the makings of dark and tragic pasts, although large portions of data were inaccessible via his inside source, he could fill in the gaps with tragedy and hardship, death and destruction. They were given no reason to trust one another and although the Batarian, Tornak, was brash he could understand his frustration, but there was always the possibility he was reading him wrong. Batarians were a hard race to read, which made them formidible criminals and traders, their bulbous velvet covered heads and human-like form was host to two set of inky eyes. They showed little to no emotion other than anger and annoyance, at least from what he had experienced. He too was feeling the walls closing around him and impatience and a nipping annoyance that would ultimately make him quick to anger. It would be a miracle if this mission would go as planned. A sharp exhale passed through his nostrils as he closed his eyes in a false meditation, breathing slowly to calm himself as he slowly opened his golden eyes and looked around the room once more. Cool, blue tinted lights illuminated the room, the light was filtered, not directly beaming down on him to create a soothing space. He drank in the room, finding comfort in a clean, well furnished place to return to after the hardship of the mission ahead. Not to mention the memories Omega would stir.
After bathing in the silence, Sirun felt foolish closing himself off in his room. If he wanted to learn more about his new team he would have to walk the halls, make himself available for inquiry and even if none occurred he wanted a better feel for the ship he would be serving on. He could quite possibly get quiet secondary observation of the crew and his new teammates, although it was rather difficult to be inconspicuous when you were an 8' tall Turian on a primarily human vessel.

He shifted, rising from his seat and moved to set the datapad on the desk. The door opened in an exhale of air, closing behind him as he looked both ways down the corridor. The light in the halls was bright in comparison to his quarters, the florescent light was sterile as his surroundings, which were no doubt military grade. A barrage of sounds assaulted him from the relative quiet of the space he had just exited, keen ears picked up the human voices, now louder and more pronounced than before. Smells of foreign foods, beverage, and human hung in the air. He caught the faint smell of expended ammunition, but thought nothing of it as he made his way to the habitation deck to quell his curiosity.

[Zacharius]

Returning Abett’s initial salute, Jonathan was otherwise content to remain silent and listen to the man’s description of the Polaris, not that it was anything new to a man whom had kept a watchful eye on the project for as long as it had been made known to him, to be truthful, with the dedication he had put in to the Blades of Aurora and the interest he had expressed in the Polaris, he had in part expected to be granted the command, something which had also won him a fair few bets with other members of the inner circle. Once their brief introduction was complete, Jonathan nodded to Abett as he saluted, the man was clearly nervous although this was to be expected, it was an unusual team that had been put together and to be the first face they saw, well, he understood.

Once the crew were on the habitation deck, they dispersed promptly, while he had hoped for a more cohesive eventuality, it was what he expected and there would be plenty of time for ‘team building’ at a later stage, for now he could do his part in meeting the general crew, while the strike team was undoubtedly the most prolific part of his command, those who ran the ship and whom would aid in its defence should they come under attack were no less deserving of his attention. The mess hall was an obvious first port of call, even outside of meal times it was usually where the largest number of crew would be, particularly as various shifts meant people could be eating at odd times, whenever they found the time. As such, he wasn’t surprised to find a good number of his new crew present.

While he didn’t announce himself, one individual whom happened to be facing the entrance took notice of him, immediately saluting, once the others had realised what their fellow crewmember was doing, they too turned and saluted, reasonably sharply considering he the circumstances. Jonathan smiled, snapping back the salute before he spoke,

“At ease, I’d ask you all how preparations are going, but I trust in our employer enough to pick people who don’t need a kick up their ass to get anything done, so, how’s the food?”

“Permission to speak honestly sir?” A rather loud human female replied, already taking to Jonathan’s rather open character.

“Granted.”

“It’s in general competition with Alliance standard for lethality, sir.”

“ Wouldn't have it any other way would we.” He smirked, before sitting down at one of the more populated tables, crew around the hall returning to their previous circles, most back to the meals they had only just received. Jonathan waved over one of the mess hall staff, ordering himself a rather simple tomato (or equivalent) soup, with bread, it wouldn’t do to show off the extended menu of the captain in the mess hall.

“So tell me, which of you have been to Omega before?”

[Synthorian]

Meditating out in the cold of the open landing pad in the Blades HQ really helped to soothe the mind, and as such, his senses were a little more acute during that moment. A sudden scraping of metal on metal and the heavy thuds of a pair of boots hit Soul's ears, as if someone was walking towards him in anger. It could be the Batarian, or the Human Biotic who tried to intimidate him earlier, but instead, the silence was broken by a female voice, "What are you? Is he...it, even listening?" Soul continued to kneel in silence for about a minute, and then stood up, not too sharply, he didn't want to scare his visitor off. He turned around, and saw a woman in her thirties, with a sniper rifle in her right hand, and replied with a distorted metallic voice, "Human."

He took a quick glance behind his guest, and saw that the rest of the team were now arriving with their things, and just in time, a dropship whirled in to greet them. There wasn't much to say to his visitor, but to climb into the ship with rest of the team. The short trip from the base and to the Polaris was made in silence. Everyone seemed to be avoiding any kind of contact.

Upon touching down within the landing bay of the Polaris, they were immediately greeted by Deck Officer Abett who seemed really nervous, it was understandable, being among a strange new team of individuals who weren't exactly your usual mix of soldiers. After Abett had escorted everyone to the habitation deck, Soul broke off, heading for his room. As the doors opened he was greeted with a pretty well decorated space. No bathroom however, which was a problem. Showering in the public restroom would be, not ideal, especially concerning his condition. He guessed he could wash during the late shift, less people need the bathroom at that time. He locked the door behind him, and sat down on a couch. There was plenty of hostility and awkwardness there for his tastes.

The skin on his face was getting itchy, and he was tempted to remove the mask. He took hold of it, and a small, barely audible hiss was heard as the miniature mass effect fields that stuck the mask to his face gave way. He placed the mask on the coffee table before him, resting it on an ashtray so that the mask's faceplate was pointing towards him. He pulled back his hood, and revealed his true face.

The flesh on his face was so thin and leathery that it retained the form of his skull and teeth, his ears were also a little deformed. The worst of all were his eyes, there were none, just empty black sockets. What puzzled people who have seen him like this is his ability to see despite him having no eyeballs, nor cybernetic eyes either, just empty sockets. The answer is in his mask. Quite an interesting piece of technology, the mask is connected wirelessly to a chip, implanted in his brain, visual receptor area. This chip receives signals from the mask's visor, which is two high definition cameras, one for each eye, and mimics the signals with electrical pulses across the nerve segment that is specialized in vision, giving him the ability to see as if the mask's cameras were his actual eyes. He was looking at himself through the mask's cameras, looking at his face and feeling it with his gloved hands. His skin was dry, and needed water soon. Scratching the initial itch, he put his mask back on, seeing from his own perspective again. He never talks about what happened to him, since there was never anyone willing to listen. But it involved slaves, Batarian slavers and Cerberus.

He decided that he has wasted enough time, he had a meeting to get to. He walked out the door and saw the batarian leave the VR room. Seeing that the VR room was no longer occupied, he headed there. After all, he had a Salarian to meet.

[OiHarkin]

"You there. Monkey." Lee's arm snapped out seemingly at random, but his accusing finger seemed to impale a deck hand, who was appropriately terrified at the fact that a potentially psychotic superior officer was speaking directly to him. "Medical bay. Now."

"Um, I-" The deck hand - human, Caucasian, male, early thirties, slight signs of jaundice likely caused by liver failure due to chronic alcoholism - indicated the crate he was carrying as if to say 'I'm a bit busy' without actually appearing to be directly contradicting someone up the food chain.

"You're carrying a set of particular valuable medical tools which you'd have realized if you weren't illiterate." Lee snapped. "That means you're going to the medical bay and as of right now I'm Chief Medical Officer aboard this ship and for the next fifteen minutes you are my bitch. Now chop chop!"

Lee and the unfortunate deck hand - who almost certainly had a name but wasn't going to get called it stomped off towards some of the other levels of the ship, to set up shop and begin wreaking some decidedly unholy terror on the crew that were stupid enough to get themselves sent down to his lair.

Once he'd gotten settled and send the deckhand off with a diagnosis, a scolding and a course of treatment explained slowly in very small words, Lee started going through the existing medical records of the crew. For the most part it was a human lot and had about the sort of health profiles you'd expect for a private military crew - generally high levels of physical condition but some old injuries, psychological syndromes.. Since most of the crew were ex-Alliance military, they came with the blanket suite of genetic enhancements that made them physically hardier. But the crew came with a few aliens that needed special care for their stupid biochemistries. Give a Turian a human aspirin and you'd likely kill them via the subsequent allergic reaction. Batarians were a little better, but only in a strictly biological sense. And Krogans basically didn't get sick, but they did have a tendency to put themselves in front of bullets, grenades, headbutts, biotic blasts and other working hazards.

"At least there's no Quarians.." He sighed as he put down the last datapad. You already had to have two of everything and be obsessively sterile just to work with a Turian but the space-migrants were even worse. On top of having the wrong amino acids, they were basically an entire species that alternated between having no immune systems and being allergic to absolutely everything. Even one on the crew would have been the work of twenty humans.

With that done, he was hungry. Biotics had a higher metabolic demand that most and he'd be spending a long time with his nose in a file and a spoon in his mouth. He sat down next to the captain, since it was pretty savvy to be on first name terms with the man who was in charge. They started talking about their destination, the Omega station. "I've passed through it a couple of times. I recommend wearing a full-body prophylactic before setting foot in Afterlife. It's the sort of place you can inhale an STI."

[GrievousKhan]

The Gunslinger

James "Cowboy" Richmen had two great loves in his life, one was his love of the feminine form, and the other was his undeniable love of firearms. Hence the nickname many within the blades had come to call him. A former employee of Aurora’s weapon and armor manufacturing division, James had proven to be a genius in weapon and armor modifications. He had even managed to build prototypes for varies war gear that had yet to hit the intergalactic market. Before his time even working with Aurora, James had been a former member of the "Clandestine", a huge network of underground gun launderers that worked primarily within the Terminus Systems. Though that was ancient history now, James still had a few contacts within the Clandestine for tech or gear one could find nowhere else. His skills and connections had been what had caught Armstrong's attention. His weapon mods and expertise would likely prove invaluable.

James had heard that the new crew were likely already on broad and making themselves at home no doubt. James might have gone down to pay them a visit, if he was not so caught up in his latest bit of "upgrades". Located in the main deck floor within the armory room, James slaved away his omni-tool casting a orange glow over his work table. Across the table several spheres littered the table, named simply haywire grenades. Haywire Grenades were used by both the Quarian and Turains for disabling enemy vehicles and Synthetics with a power surge, each one sending out a pulse of electromagnetic energy which shorted out electrical wires and disrupted many energy systems with Kinetic barriers transmitters being among them, not unlike mobile overloads. The normal run of the mill haywire grenades however had no effect on biological creatures. Thus James upgraded prototype Haywire grenades were packed with focused and unstable plasma charges, which emitted a stronger and massive pulse of electro-magnetic energy primarily designed to destroy electronic systems such as mechs, but could also affect the neural systems of nearby organisms, paralyzing them (unless of course they are Korgan).

It had been a more recent mod he had been working on, though with how unstable they tended to be now, they were just not ready for field testing...yet. With another frustrating punch into his omni-tool James sighed.

"Blasted quantum flexes destabilizers." He mumbled under his breath.

Momentarily giving up on the grenades James turned and walked over to another work bench less littered but no less packed then the last. Dissembled and organized by different parts was a M-11 Wraith shot gun. It was a favored weapon among mercenaries, pirates, and even slavers throughout Terminus systems and with good reason. It possessed high-impact damage and held a sturdy construction, allowing it to be used in numerous environments and still kept its reliability. Banned in Citadel space it was hard to come by, and James always enjoyed working on rare weapons whenever he could. It helped come his nerves and gave him something to do as a pass time. He usually smoked when stressed, but that would be most unwise given his current location. He was currently finding a way to improve the Smart Choke modification, perhaps even lighten it.

After a few minutes of tweaking James wiped his brow and gave a shrug of his shoulders. How long had he been at work in here? It was easy to lose track of time when one worked on a space ship. Yet he still wanted to run some minor test on the new jump-pack models. It was unlikely any would be ready in time for the squad to use all the same. Which brought James back to the new crew assigned to the Polaris. If he recalled correctly Captain Jonathan was one of the new additions, given command of the project officially now. James had had the opportunity to meet the man only once, competent fellow to be sure. Though he did not envoy is position as squad leader. He had heard that both a Batarians and a Krogan where among the squad members. Oh yes, he would have his hands full. It worried him slightly that the tech labs promised the Krogan were only one hallway walk across from his own working station. Oddly a room full of weapons hardly made him feel any safer.

At the very least James did have a nasty surprise for any raging Krogan or what have you. He had recently been in talk with one of his old contacts, and they had delved in some delicious specs for a top secret project by Batarian State Arms. It seemed the four eyed bastards had begun a new line of weapons even more sick and twisted then the Kishock Harpoon Gun. The Shuriken Catapult, some brand new prototype by Batarian State Arms for a new projectile weapon, which fired razor-sharp monomolecular discs capable of slicing through flesh and penetrating the considerable thickness of ceramic plating with ease. It was created solely for armor piercing and had it not been for the fact the damned things seemed to almost ignore shields all together James might have passed on the schematics. Suffice to say he had managed to micro-manufacture a few.

Cracking his knuckles James decided a quick tweak with the Jump-packs couldn't hurt, and a quick tinker one his most loved pistols. Then a trip down stairs for some R&R and perhaps even greet any of the new crewmen....or crew-women.

[Wernher]

“Shit, shit, shit…” Simbel looked at the time on the upper right of his mask’s holographic display. He was late, yet again. Keo had activated the nerve Stim Pro and blasted some of Tuchanka’s Sun latest musical hits in his ears for minutes before he was able to get up and away from the arms of the Asari prostitutes he had spent the night with but even with all of Keo’s good will, he had still missed his shuttle, and the briefing. At least the Polaris wasn’t gone, he knew that because his luggage, and thus Keo, were onboard. “Mister, erm, vas Nothing? I’m afraid you missed the briefing.” He stopped walking and turned toward the secretary. “Oh. My. God. And me who was expecting to see everyone not in the briefing room which is there but in the shuttle hangar which is over there and also where I am walking at right now. I hadn’t noticed I was late!” The sarcasm didn’t escape the secretary who took the phone. “Yeah, we’ve got a latecomer who needs transit… to the Polaris.”

Minutes later, he was in the ship, and not one too soon it seemed. As he exited the shuttle, a soldier got in his way. “Sir, commander Armstrong requested to meet you to brief you about-“ He was interrupted by Simbel who just walked pass him. “Yayaya, tell the commander that I know how to read and… right, you’re right of course. Tell the commander that I have already read, or at least that I will soon read, the briefing he sent me and that I don’t wish to disturb him while I am sure, he has much more important things to do. Keelah, where do you even come out with that stuff?” He kept walking and the soldier stopped. Who was that guy talking to anyways?

Unlike what the stereotype of the Quarian mechanic would make you believe, Simbel walked directly to his room without giving any interest to the ship, it’s architecture or its mechanism. He wasn’t an engineer, he was a pilot and he didn’t pilot bricks like this cruiser, he piloted smaller and slender crafts, also sometimes tanks, but that was not the point. He made his way to his room and the doors opened. It wasn’t bad. Not an hotel room, but at least he didn’t have to share… well, not with anyone he would mind to share. He looked at the armored cases on the ground. “Oh you are so sexy…” He was more or less obviously referring to Keo, he heard a slight giggle from his com system. “If it were any other person, I’d make a comment on how weird it would be to find a case of metal ‘sexy’… but for you, I’ll make an exception.” Simbel smiled. “Common, talk dirty to me, I love it.” His eye focused on a point in his helm screen, detecting the focus, the computer clicked on the icon to show the documents relating to the mission. First thing he did was to take a look at the other mission members and crew members. He saw the usual soldiers, veterans, heroes, all these people looked boring as hell… well, most of them. There was a Krogan and a Salarian, that could be entertaining and… a batarian! Those guys were most of the time mad dogs begging to be put down but at least they knew how to laugh, and sometimes it was more tasteful than Krogan humor. Common, he was sure he had something around for these situations.

Triumphant, Simbel took a bottle of batarian ale. Technically, it wasn’t legal for him to have this anywhere near council space… but what the hell, this was Noveria. He shoved it in one of this pockets, making it disappear with Quarian magic and left the room. “Well, if I was a Batarian, I would be… at the bar! Or… yeah, at the firing range… Does this ship have a bar? God I hope so. If it’s a bar with Asaris even more so. Meh, a male can dream my dear, a male can dream.”

He walked down to the firing range, entering the room just to watch Tornak’s score. Simbel began to clap, somewhat slowly. “Woohoo, not bad, not bad at all! Well, unless you’re a quarian like myself which would mean you died of an infection anyways, in which case very, very bad. Well, hello there, Tornak was it? I read your name in the lists, which is also why I am here, but first…” Simbel took the bottle of Batarian ale out of his pocket and putted it on the desk in front of Tornak. His voice turned stiff and rigid, as to parody formality. “Please, accept this offering to your family so we may have mutually beneficial future dealings… Isn’t that how it goes? It is? Ah, I am just so good.” This was ritually how a batarian entered someone’s home, making an offering to symbolize his peaceful intentions and his respect. Simbel had honestly no idea what he was doing, but he found with time it generally made batarians more docile. It of course took a batarian to tell him this, no one from any other race seemed to know these things. “After that is it comparing our scars, in which case I must say that I win.” He gave a little hand sign with his metal arm. “Or is it comparing our acquaintances? Yes, it’s acquaintances. Well, I worked with the Blue Suns, some other gangs on Omega, did blockade running for Jokar, you know, Jokar the impaler? I never saw someone weird a Kishok like that guy and… and I’m probably talking too much right now.”

He took a deep breath and a few seconds to have a clear idea of what to say and how to say it in his head. “I am here because I am a racist and I read a bit of every body’s bio on this sorry excuse of a ship. And as I am racist, I figured that between the turians and the humans with sticks up their asses all high an mighty, I could probably trust the one batarian on board not to be a total prick and give me an attitude about this mission being something other than a job, I think you guys, like me, just don’t give a fuck and that as such, we could actually not hate every second of the time we will be forced to spend here together. So hi, I’m Simbel, the guy piloting the gunship.” He extended his arm to give a batarian handshake, the one where it didn’t stop to the hand but to the forearm. The voice of Keo, which only Simbel could hear, spoke, mockingly. “You know what would be funny? If the guy just said ‘Piss off suit rat’ and turned away.” Well, that would be awkward… but he was still the guy piloting the gunship, so he kind of had the bigger end of the stick in a way.

[Laurenced]

Catherine hadn't quite expected the response she received.

"Human" Soul had said before he had climbed into the Shuttle but it seemed almost impossible to Catherine that Soul was human. The mask seemed mechanical, artificial, as if it didnt belong but, as the other passed by her, it began to make more sense. Though strange, All seemed to come together in her mind, like the pieces of a chess set that fell into its place on a board. Even then, All that he looked outwardly said he was something more.

Even as she watched Soul, ignoring the contemptable Batarian that sat near him, She wondered what had happened to him, what happened to make him like that. Still she watched him, a certain sense of fear growing in her but not from what he was but what had made him that way. Only when the shuttle had landed did Catherine take her gaze away from him and step down from the shuttle. Though when she finally stood upon the ground of the hanger, She realised something, she reached her hand to her nose and, with the briefest of inhalations, realised that her hand bore the smell of something unclean.

She walked on quickly but she was stopped as she was introduced to new people. All Catherine could focus on though was the smell and the feel of the filth that she realsied caked her caramel skin, wedged between the layers of her skin and her outfit, it's navy blue leather and white trim. Even her boots began to feel softly dirt-ridden, the tingle of micro-scopic amounts of mud rubbing against her foot. She hadnt washed in ages and didnt even know why. Was she busy? Was she simply distracted? Catherine didnt even know.

Only a few minutes after the introductions had been finished, Catherine broke off and followed her way to the womens shower-room, slipping small bits of clothing off herself. Her gloves and clothes bracers were first to come free from her body, a dark stain of dirt out-lining the edge of her cloth. Her jacket slipped off to reveal an stained white under shirt. As she finally entered the shower-room, Her hand ran over her omni-tool to the music player. Her finger gliding along the list that Catherine had collected in her years, She came along to a song that is older than her, older than the systems alliance and older than your average Turian by 5 fold at least. Flower Deut.

Her clothes finally all lay beneath her feet as she stood before one of the clean and soon to be steaming hot showers. Opening the door, a towel over the top of the door and the clothes before the door, she stepped in and twisted the dial to a strong heat. The water glided over her filth caked skin, dribbling down like honey upon a clean glass. Her dirt washed off in a heat, the water was washing away and letting her think clearly and warmly. The hands rubbed around her body, rubbing away the more stubborn stains until a familair scar ran beneath her fingers.

It was a long dark scar that ran across her left shoulder. Flower Deut played, it echoed into the Shower-room and was just loud enough to hear outside the shower-room. The women sung their lungs out to the glory of the tune while in her mind, Catherine sang her past.

---

The Human was at the height of his talking, his hands waved excitably, and he grinned like a child with a sugar-encrusted sweet. Icarus struck it away, slain like the great sword of damocles had slain its bearer. Her strike had struck the others frozen with fear. The four eyes held wide while the other human stood shiver and staring at the corpse whose mind had erupted and cauterised. Seconds past and the blood of the seconds human had splattered all upon the Batarians wide eyed face.

Briefly blinded by the Humans blood, The batarians had cowered away for a second only to see Catherine draw her omni-blade, the two pronged infiltrator blade, and charged to him. She was silent, quiet and Cold. There was nothing for this batarian but a sniper bullet to his wretched excuse for a brain. It was only second but in counter the Batarian had drawn his own. It was clash and clash one after another, The Dim glow of the orange as their blades clashed, Catherine felt the vibrations of each class as it continued to fuel the adrenaline rush.

A dance of words also came out as well. As strings of insult were flung back and forth. Deflections and push backs, it felt like the entire time was only seconds. The batarian beat her away onto her stomach and, with one long strike, cut her shoulder open. The wound bled slowly, painfully. The Saving grace was her armour, trimmed red like her dribbling blood.

He laughed as she kneeled down and spoke "Your kind... is always too weak for their own good.... no back.. no spines... never... you'll always be to soft..." He knelt down and to mock more. The flat of the blade patted down onto the back of her head. Pat, pat, pat. She dragged her hands in front. She said "Your empire of gangers... prostitutes... bastards... He wanted you dead... " Catherine began lifting herself up but she was swiftly backhanded down again. The batarian smirked with its blood drenched eyes and said "They should have gotten a better assassin...."

The blade raised, the glow covering her body in amber, and he mocked one last time "bye.... you could have been a good little prostitute".

The pause had been all she needed, clang of the blade as it struck into the batarians foot. He was shocked and screamed out as he fell to the ground "You bitch!.... you damned little scum...". Catherine was quiet, the calm over her again as the adrenaline slowed and her mind returned. Icarus lay on the ground in the shadows. Icarus came to her hands as the scum of the wards, the batarian she'd been hired to kill, lay pathetically crawling with a bloody foot.

Closer and closer. She came to Batarian and slowly words came from her mouth. "You are ozymandius... and we shall fear your empire till it has fallen... and you lay in the sand with nothing but the spirit of it.". Icarus stood in her hand with Catherines finger on his trigger. Slowly raising the barrel to the batarians face. Her foot stuck to the Batarians bleeding ankle. The bastard squirmed as he stared up the barrel. Catherine spoke one last thing "Be this your end.... you die with poetry... "

"I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away"

She said the final word with disgust and with equal contempt Icarus struck away. His mind painted the ground and he was dead.

---

The Last dregs of the filth that clung to her body had at last fallen off of Catherines skin, peeling like the skin of an orange, and with it her memory of that moment of her life, the kill that had given her such relief, such purpose and that one wound that refused to heal. Her fingers still stroked the wounds memory until at last she snapped from the memory. Her skin now a marge of caramel and light red. Even in the shower, Her figners still clasped the badge of her family.

Opening wide her cubicles door, Catherine was followed by a great cloud of steam spewing from behind. She dried herself with the many soft tendrils of the towel and stared, for a second, down at her clothes.They were always clean, sparkling. Did she just imagine the filth? was she dirty?. She shook her head and dressed herself again. Her clothes felt smoother, cleaner, as they clung to her body again. like they had never been dirty to begin. She pulled the tiny spike of her badge and worked it into the leather of her jacket.

The Water-drop badge of her family hung upon the left breast of her jacket like it should always do.. It was where it belonged, The last badge of the Tindal trading family, the last badge she would wear in her life. It would be clenched in her dead hand when she died, it would be held close to her heart as she lived. Her blood would flow and she would own this badge, no one would dare have it while she lived.

Catherine left the showers with the tune still play, the song still echoing through out the level of the ship, Catherine forever deaf to how loud it was. She was dressed and walked to the Observation deck, a wide open room with a view of the gloriously snow-ridden ice-tomb. Behind what may very well be her home was the cold emptiness. That endless pool of white and yellow dots that went on into the ages, whose light could wink and the knowledge would be a millenia out of date.

There was no one around, It was quiet but for the Operatic music that Catherine had since tuned out of her senses. She sat down on a seat of dark brown leather and chrome steel, which always felt cold to her, stared out into the Ocean fo stars while now a man bellowed from his ancient lungs. Lungs that reverberated throughout the room with words from a language that has only be preserved as a marvel of ancient poetry.

She heard " guardi le stelle che fremono d'amore e di speranza.". Folding her arms, She made herself comfortable on the chair, aware that it meant gaze at the stars which tremble with love and hope! and so there she sat and gazed at the stars, listening to Nessun Dorma. Hoping and loving as she listened to the man bellowing voice.

And so she sat there, listening on and on to the Famous Opera singers greatest singing triumph.

Dilegua, o notte!
Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle!
All'alba vincero!
vincero, vincero!