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URPG RPs utilizing worlds already establisheded in order to further them with fan imagination and creativity.

 
 
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Old 02/01/2011   #1
Joe
Default Mass Effect: Reclamation

Reclamation

"We lost all contact with Mindoir thirty minutes ago."

"How long until we can get an updated sitrep?"

"We have a frigate heading to investigate now; we should know more within the hour." The turian councilor sounded weary, tired even. None of the four had slept in the past twenty hours.


It was a rarity for the council's meetings to stretch all the way into the evening like this and an even greater rarity for their meetings not to be oberved by dozens of the galaxy's political elite. But the Citadel tower was deserted save for the four, and the holographic sky projected out onto the space station outside was the murky purple of late dusk.


Councilor Hackett steepled his fingers in thought. "The attacks are spread all over Citadel space, without any cohesive strategy." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "They're confident."

"With all due respect Councilor Hackett - all the Krogans know is war," the salarian councilor grunted, knowing of the true respect the krogan race should be treated with.

"They have every right to be confident," the turian councilor said, every word dripping with distaste as the metallic flanging in his voice turned harsh. "We've lost contact with eight colony worlds so far, and they've pounded our forces into dust at every turn."

"Something has to be done. Now. Before they destroy any more lives to feed their bloodlust."

"And what exactly do you propose, Councilor Hackett? The krogan defeat us at every turn; our current strategies are ineffective and costing far too many lives." The asari councilor's voice was laced with frustration.

"Brute force won't get us anywhere. That's all they know, and that's what their specialty is." Hackett rubbed his temple; a headache that had been looming on the horizon had just begun to make its appearance. "We need finesse if we're to eliminate the krogan threat. Something that will give us an overwhelming tactical advantage. Like the genophage did, during the Rebellions," he said, glancing at his salarian colleague.

"Our scientists are already working on an updated genophage, but without knowing the source of this 'cure' it could take years. Many lives will have been lost by then," the salarian promptly added.

"Your scientists have done quite enough, Councilor," the turian hissed from across his podium. "I'd recommend bombing Tuchanka to glass, if the Krogan hadn't already done that themselves."

"It's far too late for that now; they have already begun recolonising. My scientists are the only group making any progress on this issue. I suppose the countless dead turian soldiers were there to slow them down?"

"This krogan, Grabacr Bragr. What do we know about him?" the asari asked, ignoring the squabbling of her two fellow councilors. "Could he not be eliminated?"

"Probably. But with their numbers swelling exponentially after years of 'oppression', they'd simply gather under another banner. Best case would be splintering into factions, the way they were - but we can't count on that. And even then, we'd still have to deal with them...just not so many, I think." Hackett took a deep breath before plunging on.

"I have an idea."


The asari inclined her head in acknowledgement towards Hackett. "By all means, Councilor, share it with us."

"A small team. Highly trained. The best. They can move around more freely than the entire fleet, and can pass through hostile territory virtually unnoticed." Hackett continued.


"And send them to find the source of this genophage cure?" the turian councilor asked, the biting tone all but gone from his voice.

"Yes." His voice hardened. "And eliminate it, if necessary."


The asari nodded. "The Fleet is commited to defending Citadel space and the mass relays. We can not spare them for such a mission. However, we have several asari commando units standing by that would be well suited for such a mission."

"An interesting idea Councilor, but I propose we send a brigade from STG. They are trained in espionage and subtlety. Their stealth systems would be most useful at a time like this," the salarian piped up, nominating his own race for such a dangerous mission.


The turian snorted derisively at this suggestion, muttering something that sounded like 'preposterous' under his breath. "Some of the best Spectres in the galaxy are turians - why not commit two or three of them to this mission? Kryik and Vakarian, for instance?"

"They're on assignment, Councilor, if you recall." Hackett's voice was smooth as ever as he continued. "And what of humanity?" asked Hackett. "We are certainly more than capable of handling this on our own."

"All the Council races could, theoretically, accomplish this mission on their own," the asari councilor said calmly. "However, would it not make the most sense to have a team of mixed race?"

"Preposterous. We aren't ready to put the joint task force objective into practice, especially not under these conditions!" objected the salarian.

"Then when? When the krogans are knocking at the front door to Citadel?" Hackett replied coolly.

"Hackett is right," the turian remarked with an almost uncomfortable reluctance, "We can't wait for the krogans to push into Citadel space. Our fleet can stall them for only so long, Councilor."

"And what of the ship? It's crew? We haven't even begun the selection process of who would make up this prototype vessel," the salarian inquired, perhaps leaning more toward this idea, but not without correcting the details.

"We could trust its commanders to select the crew, and forward them files from the best and brightest from the entire fleet," the turian fired back at the protesting salarian.

"And who would select the commanders?" the asari asked.

"I suppose that would be us, wouldn't it?" came the reply from Hackett. "The burden of protecting the galaxy lies in their capable hands. But it will ultimately be up to us to get the ball rolling. Perhaps we can take some dossiers from each of the embassies, and reconvene?"

"Commanders from different embassies. They're going to need a joint military jurisdiction to abide by. We can't expect them to go about their way as they would in their own military. I mean no disrespect, but I know for a fact that we salarians do things very differently than the asari." the salarian councillor interjected.


"They would need a broad operational capacity as well. We have no way of knowing how the krogans cured the genophage, but it's almost certain it wasn't through legal means. Perhaps we should consider making our new commanders Spectres?" the human suggested.



The asari nodded. "I agree with Councilor Hackett; making Spectres of the commanders would also give them leave to use whatever means necessary without fear of legal complications."

"You put forward an interesting idea, human. It is extreme, but also efficient," the salarian added, swallowing his pride.

"Are we agreed, then?"

"We are," the turian concluded, nodding his head in agreement.

"Shall we reconvene in...five hours, then?"




=====

"Dunno why they called me to see the Council. I'm part of the Alliance, not this turian-controlled bullshit," Commander Virgil Book grumbled to himself, still sore over the ones he'd seen whilst heading through C-sec.


Veron ignored the human's mumblings as he waited for the arrival of their third. His sources had told him that there was one other that had been called here today. He began questioning what the council had planned, especially with three individuals that seemingly were in no way connected to each other.


And so, as the two stood waiting in the Presidium Tower, human and salarian, the Council was speaking to the collected ambassadors of all races who recognized the Council's authority, preparing them for the trials that lie ahead. For three hours, the Council had poured over the collected data of all of the top operatives in Citadel space, dossiers compliled by the ambassadors and their respective military and intelligence agencies in surprisingly little time.


It was another ten minutes before the last arrived, alone. The asari had taken long enough.
"Sorry about the wait. You know how it is. Traffic and everything." She sighed, scratching at the back of her neck as she appraised the other two waiting in the gardens. Whatever reason that she was here for, it was clear that all of them were here for the same reasons.

"Well we're all here, aren't we? Let's get the fuck outta here then," Book said, darting an eye up the stairs to the Council chambers. He started off first, without another look at the other two people there, and marched up to the open room.

"-this underta- ah, there they are now. Thank you for coming. Ambassadors, meet Captains Book, Karn, and T'Lorin, respectively," came the voice of Councilor Hackett, greeting the trio as they stood before the assembly.

"Ambassador. It has been a while." Veron motioned toward the salarian ambassador, speaking for the first time since he arrived at the tower.

"It has captain. Let's hope you're not in as much trouble this time." The two exchanged a short glare before the council continued.


Book nodded at Hackett, addressing him as one would address one who was superior in rank, "Sir, any reason why I've been called here?"


Hackett returned the nod before responding. "Yes, Captain. The three of you have been summoned here for a mission."


The turian councilor spoke next. "Captains, the three of you have all been summoned here to address the recent krogan incursions on colonies throughout Citadel space." His voice was full of barely masked anger - anger which the newcomers had missed the cause of. "The three of you will be working together to deal with this threat."

"Krogans on the fritz, huh." Themys gave a small smile at hearing the news. "So... the three of us? Why would you guys want three of us?"

"The three of you symbolize some of the most ideal characteristics that represent your race. Your military histories and public renown have earned you a deserving spot on the frontlines. During dark times such as these, we want only the best captains our combined fleets have to offer," the asari councillor replied.

"I'll cut to the chase captains. The genophage has been cured. We have no idea how, and by whom. We're sending you in to investigate the problem," the salarian said, presenting the facts to the captains with an ever so slight bitter tone about his voice.

"You won't be going in alone or unprepared." Hackett spoke again, seeking to allay any doubts that they would be fully backed by the Council. "You will be placed in command of a newly completed ship - a prototype, built by the best Alliance engineers, using the most advanced technology to be found in of Citadel space."

"With all due respect councillor, you cannot expect me to command aboard an Alliance vessel. STG protocols differ greatly from that of the other races; I will be unable to work under these limitations." Veron remarked.

"You're being given joint command." The bite in the turian councilor's voice was hard enough to cut through armor plating. "The three of you will have equal amounts of input in the matter of the way in which your mission is accomplished. You will have to figure the rest out on your own."

"Well isn't that thrilling, boys and girls, the lizard told us to play nice," Book mumbled to himself, tapping his elbow with a finger.

"Woah, woah woah. Waitaminute. They gave you that too? 'Joint command'? All due respect, Councilors, but do the words 'logistics clusterfuck' mean anything to you fellas?" Themys questioned.


"The krogans, left unchecked, will decimate every military force they come up against. This affects all races equally, and so all races are expected to answer the call." Hackett spoke up quickly, before the turian councilor exploded in anger.

"In addition, each of you will be provided with Spectre status. I'm sure you'll find that it will make certain aspects of your mission significantly easier," the asari added.

"Interesting proposition. Certainly fixes a few problems. I'm guessing it takes more than just the three of us to pilot this prototype of yours?" Karn inquired thoughtfully.

"Of course," the turian councilor snapped. "We're not sending you in unprepared. We've already compiled a list of dossiers of some of the best operatives in all of the galaxy, from every race available. Who you recruit, and how, is up to you, and whatever group decision you reach. Many have already been contacted, and are simply awaiting your call to bring them along or leave them behind." He turned his head to glare at Hackett. "So you need not worry about the crew of your vessel. Though why there isn't a turian captain, when we are the superior military force of Council space, is still beyond me," he said with a snarl.

"Perhaps if you didn't have your own talons up your beauracratic ass, you'd actually have gotten a captain on board, if you don't mind me saying, Councilor." The human captain said with a smarmy grin. The human ambassador simply shook his head in embarrassment, knowing the ruffled turian feathers he would have to smooth over after that remark.

"Your best men are out there fighting this war, Councilor. We owe them a great debt already, let us not dwindle on politics while more die fighting." the words were spoken from the mouth of the salarian councilor with great respect.

"Your captains are needed to defend the mass relays and Citadel space," the asari added, hoping to soothe the turian's councilor by appealing to his pride. "Without their command of the Citadel fleet this mission would be nothing more than a final act of defiance in a war already lost."

"And you did get the final say on which dossiers were acceptable," Hackett said quietly.


The turian councilor grumbled an incoherent reply. Only two words of it could be heard - "disingenuous assertions."

"Do you have any further questions. captains?" The salarian asked.

"Yeah, honey - can we get this moving along now? We have some krogan asses to kick." Themys asked, with an enthusiastic tone.



Hackett's lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, and the turian made a sound of disapproval. Together, the four councilors input their approval of Spectre status into their respective terminals.


The asari councilor straightened slightly, looking at all three captains in turn. "Captains Book, Karn, and T'Lorin - step forward."


As the three moved forward, stepping to the forefront of the dais, the councilor's voice rang out in the chambers: "It is the decision of the Council that you be granted all the powers and privileges of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch of the Citadel."


The salarian spoke next, gazing upon each of them in turn, eyes examining them searchingly, as though he were taking the measure of their merit and valor. "Spectres are not trained, but chosen. Individuals forged in the fire of service and battle; those whose actions elevate them above the rank and file."

"Spectres are an ideal, a symbol. The embodiment of courage, determination, and self-reliance." Hackett spoke with the pride of a commander seeing a subordinate succeed. "They are the right-hand of the Council, instruments of our will."

"Spectres bear a great burden," the turian councilor said seriously. "They are protectors of galactic peace, both our first and last line of defense. The safety of the galaxy is theirs to uphold."

"And so," said the asari, "may you go forth with the blessings of the goddess, and good luck on your mission."


The final words were those of the turian councilor.

"This session of the Citadel Council is adjourned."
__________________

Reject common sense to make the impossible possible!

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Old 02/04/2011   #2
Hisako
Default

SIX HOURS EARLIER
SERPENT NEBULA, WIDOW
STARBOARD OFFICERS FLIGHT DECK, DESTINY ASCENSION

***

The corridors of the Destiny Ascension were pristine, very much the geometrical perfection that they once were before the geth attack on the Citadel. Scores of personnel rushed down these walkways every hour, orders given every minute that branched out from the wings of command to the tips of the military spear. The ship ran like clockwork, daily drills and exercises to keep the finest of the asari fleet on its toes and ready for combat. From the scores of biotic commandos to the legions of experienced fighter pilots, the Destiny Ascension was an incredibly well-oiled machine.


One particular statistical anomaly meandered through the hustle and bustle of the corridors, whistling a jaunty tune with a toothpick between her teeth. Catching the eye of a familiar face passing her by, she gave a cheeky wink, eliciting an embarrassed response. Finding her way to her destination, she thought better than to knock as she entered the office of her commanding officer. With a practiced pace in her step, every click of her heel made loud enough to make her presence known.


“Captain.”


The asari sitting at the desk looked up, paperwork strewn across the surface like a battleground of bureaucracy, noting with weariness the way the newly-arrived anomaly slid the toothpick from her mouth into a front pocket for later use. Setting her jaw, she plucked a folder from a nearby pile, and flicked through it.


“Lieutenant Themys T’Lorin.” The Lieutenant thought it best to stay silent, although her eyes sparkled with curiosity as the captain sifted through the details of her profile.


“Born and educated in Thessia. Graduated University of Serrice, a double degree in galactic commercial law and sociology. Part-time job as an assistant information broker on the Presidium in 1846. Hmmm…”

Flicking back and forward between two pages, she glanced up momentarily. “Says here you went off the grid for about a century.”


“Oh, you know how it is, ma’am.” The corners of Themys’ lips raised into a coy smile. “Did a bit of work experience, travelling here and there. Chora’s… Afterlife… that sort of thing.”


“Ah.” The tone of the asari captain’s voice was anything but surprised. “Well, commando training at the age of 250. Citadel Fleet service from then on as a marine. Several commendations in reports by superiors, two from the geth raid on the Citadel two years ago.”

She regarded Themys with raised brows. “This service record – well, it is exceptional, but more importantly, it’s consistent. Reports from commanders tell me that you work well under assistant command. You thrive best when giving advice, analyzing tactical data and employing strategies for the CO to act upon.”


“So.” Themys stressed the word, half-questioning, half-statement. “There is something important you wish to discuss, ma’am?”


“Indeed.” The asari captain closed the folder with an air of finality, bringing up a datapad to type in. “I think it is time we put those skills to better use. You’ve been promoted to Commander.”


“Oh?” The announcement was a strange surprise to Themys, who had never expected anything of the sort. In fact, she was expecting nothing less than some sort of reprimanding lecture. “I see.”


The captain lowered her head slightly, hiding the smallest of smiles. “Of the SSV Odessa.”


“Of what?”


She coughed, slightly raising her voice a notch higher, barely enough for Themys to register. “You’ve been given command – partial command, I mean – of the SSV Odessa.”


“… But that would be a Systems Alliance ship, ma’am -”


“Yes, I’ve heard it’s quite a lovely ship,” the captain jabbered hurriedly, giving her a disingenuous smile.


Themys was not one to ignore a scheme when she saw one. “Alright, babe, this isn’t just some ordinary good-bye. This is forced retirement, isn’t it?”


“We are not retiring you, far from it.” The captain’s eyes narrowed at Themys’ sudden drop of etiquette. “We’re making use of your commanding talents somewhere else, hopefully as far away from the Destiny Ascension as possible.”


“Uh-huh.” Themys folded her arms atop her chest, scrutinizing every inch the asari captain’s baleful stare. “So what gives, captain?”


“You’ve heard the rumours yourself, T’Lorin. Under the deck. You have a record of fraternization. No way to prove it since none of it has ever been admitted, as such.

“But I’m sure you know what mess hall banter sounds like to us. And I’m most certain you know what it sounds like to the chain of command, especially those of other ships even just a fraction of the reputation that the Destiny Ascension has. I wasn’t in command of this part of the fleet when you were first stationed here, but from the way I see it you only got in because of the experience and talent you had.

“If I was the one in charge, I would have spaced you out the hangar before you set foot onto this ship.”


“For the record, kid? Nothing’s on the books. Nothing will be, because I was on this ship for a damn good reason.”

The toothpick now between Themys’ fingers was wedged between her teeth as she gave the captain a cold smirk. “With all due respect, honey, I’ve kicked twice as much ass than you could ever handle in your career. I was making FTL jumps and throwing singularities while you sat in class reading up on military theory and writing essays on how eezo works. I sure as hell am glad you ain’t the one in charge of top brass, captain, because when you are, Goddess help us all. Command have enough sticks up their paranoid asses as it is.”

She threw a mockery of a salute, and sauntered out without a backwards glance.


“Your shuttle leaves in 2 hours.”


“Fuck you very much.”
__________________
死の果までも追い掛けます、 探し出し
奪われた物全て取り返して見せる

RIP in peace old sig lolol 04/2015




Don't believe your eyes? Don't be surprised.




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Old 04/04/2011   #3
Joe
Default

=== Veron Karn - The Presidium ===

Veron walked out onto the presidium, fresh out of the meeting with the council. The salarian veteran wasn't sure how to take his new position as a spectre. He was used to a high rank, due to his position within the STG; but with the enrollment as a spectre, his ties to law and regulation had been cut completely. He had freedom within his role, something he'd often sought after at certain points within his career. Laws can be so binding, so deabilitating, that they end up getting in the way of work, peace or justice.

"You're not pulling hard enough, let me try!"


"It won't budge I'm tellin ya."


As he walked along the surface of the presidium, Veron spotted two human males of a youthful disposition tugging at a rope. The rope was infact wrapped around something. The Krogan Monument. It seemed that there attempting to pull it to the ground as an act of aggression against the krogan. If any krogan had actually of seen them they would have been ground into dust within seconds, but since the uprising almost all of them had been driven out or killed during their attempt of rebellion.

"Cease, immediatly."


The pair almost jumped out of their skin at the command. It seemed like they weren't expecting any kind of resistance in this act of vandalism. There were plenty of bystanders but most didn't seem to care what the two were doing, and some had even stood nearby to watch. Everyone now considered the krogans as the enemy. They had every right to. The larger of the two males stepped towards the salarian, leaving the other a few paces behind.

"What? Why?"


The aggressive nature of the man had already irritated Veron. "Because you are damaging a reminder that should be respected."

"Hah, haven't you seen the news bug eyes? The krogan are our enemies now. They've attacked our people, stole our territory. They deserve no place here."


The salarian operative grabbed the human by the scruff. "The krogan have done more for the galaxy than almost any other race. Two millenia ago they wiped the rachni out, potentially saving trillions of lives. They made the galaxy safe again. Two millenia ago your species had barely invented paper."

An angered Veron Karn dropped the human to his knees and walked away, knowing the man had run off behind him. "This was inevitable. The genophage was merely a stall."


=== Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Citadel ===


"Captain. It has been a long time."
A young lady said.

"Eight years Ms Rose. It has been a long time."


The two shook hands before continuing along the walkway. The blonde woman had been called here by her last comanding officer, but she had been unaware she would be greeted by the same captain that greeted her eight years prior - the day she piloted the Roucoux.

"If you don't mind my asking, what is this about captain?"
Sarah asked. She hadn't actually been told anything about the meeting other than the time and location.

The old man chuckled a little. He'd expected his old friend to impart atleast some knowledge about the task planned for the young woman, but guessed it may be better this way.

"Ms Rose, your reputation has landed you one hell of a task. The council has put together a group to play an important role in this new war we find ourselves in. Councilor Hackett asked for you personally, and gave me the honour of sending you off."


"This must be pretty big if the council is directly involved,"
She stopped for a second to take in the information she had just received. She knew she had acquired some good roles during her time with the alliance, but nothing ever came direct from the top dogs. "Why did Hackett choose you to tell me?"

An old smirk spread across the man's face. "Well miss, I requested this duty myself once I'd heard about it. Truth be told I am retiring from the service. I've had a long career and it's time to live out my last decade or so on a nice settlement somewhere. I'm getting too old to be captaining ships anyway."

"What are you talking about? You don't look a day over twenty-five!"


"Ha! I wish."


The two walked on a little longer, reminiscing on events passed. Finally they reached a stop outside of the entrance to one of the larger docks. The man keyed a few buttons into the terminal attached to the wall before he begun talking again.

"Flight Lieutenant Sarah Rose. This, is the SSV Odessa."


The large hangar door opened upwards to reveal the magnificent ship. The mere sight of it excited Sarah more than a ship should.

"What is this thing? I've never seen anything like it."


"This baby was commisioned by the council a while ago now. It takes design elements from different races, keeping only the best,"
The captain paused for a breath between words "And she is all yours now Swan. Take good care of her."

"I....will."
Sarah replied, still a little perplexed by the whole encounter and just able able to contain the excitement she had for the ship.

"There is not much else to say now. Ms Rose, it has been an honour knowing you. Do your father proud out there, and good luck."
With nothing more than a shake of the hand, the captain left.

Sarah took in the sight for a few seconds before entering the hangar. She grinned slightly before approaching her new ship.
__________________

Reject common sense to make the impossible possible!

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Old 04/27/2011   #4
Rumpelstiltskin
Default

Omega


The Vorcha ran as fast as they could, the enemy was an abomination and had killed off twenty of them in less than ten minutes. Some had been lucky and had their heads removed with shots from his shotgun that had ripped through their shielding like it were nothing, others not so lucky as they were plucked from their hiding spots with biotics only for their screams to fill the air as their carcasses were thrown back turned inside out. As the remaining five Vorcha all struggled to find thermal clips in order to hold back the behemoth the sound of laughter filled the corridor. The Vorcha closest to the abomination panicked and broke cover only to have his body blown apart by close range shotgun fire. Footsteps and the sound of reloading were all that could be heard now, the Vorcha were all panicking and finding it hard to insert their thermal clips. As screams filled the air a spray of blood filled the corridor before two bodies were propelled far against the back wall smacking it so hard the bodies dismembered even more. The two remaining Vorcha had finally managed to reload, the first chose to blind fire from behind a steel girder, the second chose the easy way out and blew his brains out. Again the laughing filled the air and as the footsteps of impending doom grew louder the last remaining Vorcha fell to his knees and closed his eyes slipping into eternal darkness.



Garan Jorgal - Omega's East Block Residential Area

As Garan exited the Vorcha warehouse he scowled, another disappointing battle on a long list of disappointing battles. He had taken the job after finding a human child black and blue from excessive beatings in the lower levels of Omega, the Vorcha had killed her parents and raped her numerous times while they took over the human warehouse for their own needs. Garan didn’t consider himself a hero nor did he consider himself a human sympathiser but he did hate seeing children of any race abused. Being Krogan he knew all too well the value of a child’s life.
The warehouse had been used as a looting station, the Vorcha were ripping off stock from local merchants and hording it for their own needs. Garan had found a credit chip for a substantial amount and knew exactly what he was going to do with it.
Turning around, Garan unhooked his pistol and fired three shots into a container labelled as volatile. The resulting explosion was fierce, within minutes the contents of the warehouse were all ablaze and any proof of the Vorcha burned up along with them.

Garan made his way back to his cruiser, choosing to make a quick getaway before security arrived. Climbing inside he closed the door behind him and threw the tiny vehicle into high gear propelling itself off the platform and up through a narrow service tunnel. It took little less than twenty minutes until he had successfully hid his vehicle and made his way back to his quarters. Opening the door with his pass-code and key card he watched as a small black shape darted from the kitchen to the bathroom. The room was filled with darkness and Garan took a step inside closing the door behind him and locking it before calling out “Come out child, it is only me.” His voice echoed and it seemed for a second that it fell on deaf ears but the Krogan was patient and waited for a response. At first he only heard the soft padding of movement but after five minutes standing still he felt the tiny human girl throw her entire weight against his leg holding it tightly. Bending down, Garan picked the tiny human child with one arm and proceeded to turn the lights on with the other. As the lights flickered into being the small child covered her eyes and whimpered. “Shhh child, you cannot live in the dark forever”Garan spoke softly and smiled to the girl, her skin blotched black and blue from the beatings she had received. “A-a-are the monsters going to get me Garan?”the child stammered still physically shaking recalling the treatment by the Vorcha. “No child, the monsters will never harm you again, I have made sure of that” The child tilted her head to look at Garan and for the first time smiled.
Garan carried the girl and set her down on his bed, slipping her under the covers he smiled. “Sleep now child, tomorrow I’m taking you somewhere safe where you can live with others of your own kind. You will be safe I promise” The girl relaxed and within seconds was snoring softly.

Garan closed the door to his bedroom behind him and settled himself on the large sofa that was his makeshift bed for the time being. Though his joints ached from excessive biotic use he knew he would not sleep for a long time. Grabbing the data pad nearest to him he quickly accessed his bank and processed the transfer of funds from the credit chip he had “acquired” from the Vorcha. As the funds transferred he moved to his personal terminal and logged on to a secure network, within minutes a connection had been made to the citadel c-sec. A burly looking human appeared on the screen and smiled as Garan moved in front of viewer to speak “Joseph, I have a favour”

An hour later Garan clicked off the transmission with his old c-sec acquaintance, a transport ship would arrive early morning to pick up the child and take her to the citadel. Garan had secured her an Asari mentor to raise the child and provided enough credits for the girl to live comfortably for the rest of her life. The child would grow up happy and never want for anything and if the day came where someone dared to try and abuse the child again the Asari mentor had orders to flay them alive.
Looking back at his bedroom he wondered why it was that he would do so much for a human child he had just met yet he neglected his own clan.
As if sensing his annoyance Garan’s terminal flickered to life with a message originating from Tuchanka. Without hesitation he accepted the transmission and wasn’t surprised to see the security chief of clan Jorgal on the other end. “Greetings Jorgal Garan, I assume you know why I’m contacting you” The security chief’s voice was devoid of all emotion and Garan smirked thinking that the clan chief had put him up to this. “Yes Jorgal Brank I am fully aware of why you are contacting me, it is the same reason you always contact me and once again my answer is no. I will not return to Tuchanka, I will not lead our armies for that sorry excuse of a Krogan leader and I will not declare war on clan Urdnot!” Garan’s voice became more and more angry with every word that befell his mouth. Brank merely stared back over the viewer impassive as always “I am well aware of your childish temper tantrum regarding the clan chief’s views on clan Urdnot, however that is not the reason why I am contacting you Garan. I thought being a future battlemaster you would like to know that a cure to the genophage has been found and the Krogan are uniting against our enemies.” Brank’s voice finally showed emotion, his face was even filled with a self-satisfying grin befitting a piece of Drell excrement. Garan struggled not to punch the monitor and instead settled for crushing the metal table his monitor lay on. “What do you mean the Genophage is cured? Who is uniting the Krogan!”? Brank merely smiled then terminated the communication.
Garan roared loudly at the insult of being cut off, it was only when he heard a small shriek from the bedroom that he finally calmed down. Making his way back to his bedroom he quietened the human child and sat beside her until she drifted off.
“A united Krogan army! Why! Surely whoever cured the Genophage knew what would happen if our people continued to populate the way we once did! Grrrr, and who is pulling the strings behind that sad excuse for a father” Garan battled with these thoughts for over an hour before making his way to the only person on Omega who would know everything about what was happening on Tuchanka.

“Aria”




Merrick Asura - SSV Odessa Forward Weapons Manifold

“I’m telling you, the schematics for the forward cannons are wrong. Maximum power can be easier achieved if we re-route the main disruptor through the tertiary shield buffers on the forward manifold. This will not only increase the Odessa’s firepower by around one hundred and twenty fire percent but it will also mean that we don’t lose so much propulsion every time she fires.”Merrick wiped her grease stained cheek with the back of her hand as she dropped back down to the gantry. The slack jawed engineer standing in the gentry below her had either a bad case of Turian fever or had not managed to follow a single word she had said. “Just go to my office and find me my spare conductors and I’ll finish up here.”The engineer stood to attention and saluted her before running down the corridor leaving Merrick alone to tinker with her work.

Beads of sweat had started to form on her brow from hanging upside down trying to pry open multiple power couplings with no help and it felt good to have a few moments of peace to calm her brain. The alliance uniform still felt alien to her, it did the job and allowed her to work freely but the looks the other crew members gave her made her cheeks go red every time. Closing her eyes she steadied her breathing and tried to remember the sights of the Asari home world. The beautiful colours of the night sky had always calmed her and as a child they were the only thing that kept her steadfast in her conviction to join the Alliance following her fathers footsteps. It had only been a few years since she joined the Alliance yet she had impressed her instructors so much that she had been propelled to the position of chief on one of the most advanced ships in the entire galaxy. Merrick’s breathing hitched again at the thought of commanding others, panic began to fill her being and the beads of seat started forming on her brow again. Opening her eyes she now seen that she was not alone in the corridor, leaning against one of the power manifolds was the Drell assassin that had been hired by Alliance command to work directly under Merrick. The Drell didn’t speak much but Merrick could tell she was kind inside, she would often appear like this in front of Merrick when she felt particularly helpless and just sit with her until her panic attacks ended. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I didn’t hear you coming huh?” Merrick asked, the Drell merely smiled and shook her head before sitting down cross-legged in front of Merrick.

Even though she was practically a stranger, Merrick liked having the Drell around. Not talking much alienated her from most of the other crew members who seemed to think it was a sign of being rude, Merrick however merely seen it as the Drell was always listening and communicating in her own way through body language and facial expressions.

“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be free of inhibitions like you, sure the killing for hire thing is a extreme but at least you can walk into a room of people and not blanche every time someone stares at you”The Drell laughed out loud, her laughter beautiful as it filled the corridor. Merrick smiled as she watched the Drell, maybe this mission wouldn’t be as bad as she had first thought. Breaking her out of her daydream a beautiful voice filled the air “Shiana” the Drell spoke. Pointing to herself, Shiana smiled at Merrick before standing back up and making her way down the corridor.



Shiana Konada


Once out of sight of Merrick, Shiana disappeared into the shadows once again. Her ears could already pick up the faint sound of the elevator opening and the panicked breath of the junior ensign that Merrick had been talking to a few minutes before. As Shiana clung to the shadows she watched as the ensign ran past without incident, obviously frustrated at not knowing what he had been asked to do. Shiana couldn’t help but laugh to herself.
As the ensign left her sight she couldn’t help but ponder her own attraction to Merrick. Unlike the others onboard the Odessa, Merrick enjoyed the solitude of working alone and seemed to avoid people rather than try to stand out. Shiana could see a lot of herself in Merrick; maybe that was why she continually found herself watching the human while she worked.

The crew aboard the Odessa were all quick to be friendly, it felt more like a pleasure cruise than a military vessel at times, Shiana didn’t see the need for niceties, her contract had been paid in full and her skills were meant for killing.
On more than one occasion she had emerged from the dark to smiling human faces, each trying to hide their own personal opinions to aliens being allowed onboard. Some of the men seemed to look at Shiana as some kind of sexual objective where others saw her as a threat.
Shiana didn’t care though, she watched each human with her own brand of curiosity, picking out personal habits and quirks that could be used against them if conflict ever arose. Humans were easy to kill; they didn’t require the same amount of studying as other races and more times than not they were always keen to start up a fight themselves.

Without even noticing Shiana had made her way around the engineering level and now lay hidden atop a bunch of cables near where Merrick Asura worked. The human was talking at her usual fast pace not even caring if the ensign was following what she said. Her hands worked both fast and beautifully, making the work she done seem more like she was creating a work of art rather than manipulating power couplings.
Shiana watched with interest as the human worked, and smiled waiting to see how this one would handle combat once the real mission began.
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Old 04/28/2011   #5
Hisako
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“Mate, get a hold of yourself. Seriously, heating it up like that is only going to draw out the water, and then what? Instead of bolognaise, you’ll get dehydrated mince floating on some brine. C’mon, you have to apply the heat slowly. Put a bit of mixing into it.”

“Dude, it’s just a sauce. We’re jarheads, man. It doesn’t matter a two shits as long as it isn’t poisoned.”

“Just a sauce? Really? You’re off your rockers. And we’re Navy, remember? Do you have any idea what this thing would look like on zero-gees? This is the same sort of bolognaise we put in our combat eats. You don’t have this thing emulsifying properly, instead of something staying viscous and keeping in its tray, you’re going to have a shrivelled brick of meat with tomato and a splash of water floating around. Don’t be daft. A bloody elcor could do a better job than this-”

“Alright, alright, I get it already. Don’t need to piss your pants over it.”

“This is a science we’ve been developing for the past few hundred years. It’s a bloody science. By not regarding the degradation of, say, the lecithins, or any of your other protein-based stabilizers, by roasting this pot of Bolognese under an flame twice as hot as it should be, you are, if I may slip into the vernacular, shitting on the work of more than three centuries’ worth of human food scientists. Not to mention that it’s going to burn at the bottom, and it’s going to take me half an hour to have it all cleaned.”

The recruit next to the Mess Sergeant shrugged. “Yikes, sore topic. Forget I said anything, sir.”

“And don’t get me started on how much military funding went into figuring out how to put all this into ready-to-eat rations. The figures are light years above our pay grades, but if it wasn’t for all that money, this batch of pasta sauce could have gone off a week ago. You would all be dying of dysentery. You would all be dying of dysentery, and you would be passing stools as bloody as a beaten steak –“

“Sergeant Heston!” The voice of a commanding officer nearby brought Greg Heston to attention in an instant. Without looking to see who had called, he focused on a spot on the wall nearby and gave a crisp salute.

“Yes sir!”

“You Mess Sergeant Greg Heston?”

“Uh-h, y-yes sir!”

“At ease, Heston.” Greg spun around to see who it was, a grizzled old Navy officer who had seen his fair share of non-coms and passers-by in the ranks. He, however, seemed more thoroughly impressed than Greg would have thought, and wondered exactly for how long the officer had been standing there. “You’re going to have to come with me. You’re being transferred.”

“Right away, sir. Um, so where exactly am I head-”

SIX HOURS LATER
THE CITADEL

Greg’s jaw dropped at the sight of the SSV Odessa. The thought of simultaneously feeding nearly two hundred crew at any given time also gave him pause for thought.

It was going to be a tough assignment for him, no matter what the ship was going into. There was plenty of mouths to feed and rations to maintain. Raw supplies would have to be procured off-site eventually. And, he was told, there would be plenty of dextro-amino personnel to take care of. That in itself was going to be a logistics nightmare.

However, he was told, he was one of the few Mess Sergeants able to actually cater for both amino and dextro-amino acid food requirements, and, apparently, with enough pride in his work to stand out from the crowd in both categories.
He sighed as he slung his kit of homebrewed utensils over his shoulder. High speed tools and hands-free equipment, designed to maximize output and efficiency with the most creative of mass effect fields and motors. He would need everything.
__________________
死の果までも追い掛けます、 探し出し
奪われた物全て取り返して見せる

RIP in peace old sig lolol 04/2015




Don't believe your eyes? Don't be surprised.





Last edited by Hisako; 04/28/2011 at 02:32 PM.
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Old 05/12/2011   #6
Alessa Gillespie
Default

The battlefield left a taste in his mouth of grit floating into the air and made his tongue feel thick in his mouth. He was the sniper, he dealt with the enemy from a distance, face near the dust or greenery or whatever it was the new planet decided to throw at him. This was how he fought, with people barely knowing he even existed, and that was the way he preferred it.



Of course, sometimes he made mistakes and the enemy would realize where he had gotten to. This was the situation in one of his earliest battles, part of the First Contact War. He was always going to hate the turians, he knew this the moment he laid eyes on their disgusting chickenlike faces, with a good dose of velociraptor for good measure. Killing them was no problem: reminded him a little of when his grandpappy and his uncle Jim would haul chickens off of his old farm and kill them individually, breaking their necks and chopping their heads off. Only difference now was that he was killing these guys by a carefully placed bullet between the eyes.
Typically the rest of the unit would march onwards against the turians while he stayed behind and picked off any stragglers. No worries that anyone would sneak up behind them as the military made certain to pick terrain impossible for anyone to cross behind them: cliffs or at the beginning of a gorge was common. He would set up his own camp and protect the dropship, which was his job, after all. But evidently, they had been a little careless with choosing this spot. Others from his unit left, leaving him behind with a handful of snipers and an admittedly unskilled medic for the remote chance that someone would need medical attention before the Alliance could come by and patch them up.



They hadn’t even seen him coming.



It was a rogue turian, they later told him, one who worked on his own to kill sniper cells. Considering most relied on the safety of the other guys at their back, they generally didn’t bring another firearm as a secondary weapon. He cut their throats in only moments. It took two guys having wandered off and not come back for him to start feeling uneasy. The last two that were there didn’t seem to realize that two of the men had been gone for an inordinate amount of time, remaining calmly on the spot, as if in a trance. Book himself had to take a piss, and while he was wary of the fact that almost half the team was gone, he felt a strange sense of calm as he approached the canyon walls.



Of course, this was moments before some fucking dinosaur decided to try and snap his goddamn neck. Book was lucky that he generally didn’t do anything unarmed, or else he’d have probably been dead. A quick wrist snap and he had his knife in his hands, another twist and it was buried somewhere in what one would consider a turian ribcage. The hiss the creature emitted and the slight loosening of his grip let Virgil slip from his grip and jerk an elbow hard into the side of his head.



He wasn’t sure if the turian had, much less needed, a gun to fight, but he certainly didn’t want to wait around while he armed himself. They scuffled, wrestling in the dry, dusty earth, and it quickly became obvious that he would have to take him out lest the turian slit his neck with those terrible talons. He pulled out his side pistol, and the turian shot a clawed arm toward his neck. Book dodged it, but he got a talon slicing through his cheek instead of his neck. The pistol was buried into his eye, and with a single show, it was over.


Book always attributed this victory to many others, to other scars, to other rewards, to other medals and honors. So he even partially attributed that singular fight to his new appropriation of Spectre. He would need to build a team, he realized, flipping through the dossiers of the various operatives that the Council (more importantly, Ambassador Hackett) had compiled. It was looking increasingly like they would have to go into the Terminus systems to get people who would work for them, but this was fine with him. Nothing wrong with a little danger.


Citadel-Day of Mourning Memorial
Elodia closed her eyes and left a bouquet of flowers on the memorial. She pulled off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose: she really didn’t want to cry about this again. Looking over the memorial she found the names of her parents, and brushed her fingers over them as she said a prayer.


“You don’t see a lot of people with the Alliance over here every day.” An asari had apparently come to pay her respects while her eyes were closed, “Generally, they stick around on earth or some colony, or things like that.”


“Y-yeah, I know. My parents just happened to be part of the unlucky minority that day, I guess,” She said with a half-hearted laugh.



“I see. Well, just know that plenty of people lost their loved ones that day. I should know,” Her voice was wistful, but it seemed that she had long ago accepted the fact that they were gone and there wasn’t anything she could have done about it. Elodia nodded at her, but it didn’t do much to stop her pain. Asari, with their long lives, seemed so much better equipped to accept loss than a human like her was capable of, and it didn’t help her feel better about her situation.


But she smiled kindly toward the fellow mourner and nodded, “I know, and the only thing we can do is be strong and keep living.” She excused herself and walked back to the ship she has just been reassigned to. The SSV Odessa… it was a beautiful ship, and it was going to be manned by all sorts of aliens that lived on the Citadel. There was no way that this was going to be boring.


She smiled as she boarded it, thanking her parents in her heart for allowing her to get far enough to be there at that moment.


Omega
“Please, sir, I need to buy some turian provisions. I am certain this card should have enough credits to at least pay for it…”


“Maybe you shouldn’t have burnt out all your money buying broken computer parts, Quarian, there’s no money left on that chit.” The shopkeep dismissed the quarian, shooting a look at a rather aggressive looking turian bouncer, who promptly pushed her back into the streets.



Miral’Shii’s stomach growled, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She had run out of the food paste they had given her a week ago, and she signed up with some mercenaries to get some money or food, but neither was working out for her. She’d survived partially on scraps that she irradiated from some other quarian’s rig who had left it. Even that was making her slightly sick most of the time, and no one wanted a quarian with a cough on their mercenary team.


She wished what her mother had taught her as part of the marines was of more use than it had been. She’d been treating herself with mild antibiotics that her father had given her, but she knew it was unlikely that she’d be able to stop trying to find scraps to eat, and therefore hadn’t been aggressive in her own treatment. Why the hell was it she couldn’t be good at machines like a normal quarian?


A datapad sat precariously hidden in the side of a wall. A thought of selling it for food flashed through her head, so she carefully took it from the place it rested. It was shut off, and she wasn’t sure of the password to get the pad working again. She’d never been very good with this sort of thing, but she’d need the datapad on if she wanted to sell it. She tucked it away pondering what exactly would be on that pad for people to find it necessary to hide it, but didn’t give it much of a thought besides.
__________________

is daddy still a good man?
like a shotgun needs an outcome

don't trust the ones who shake with their left hand

ACKY: IM NOT A TURIAN I CANT MAEK BABBIES WITH GARRUS

Joe: NOT WITH THAT ATTITUDE


can you fight a legendary creature?


i was a TEENAGE CLAIRVOYANT
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Old 05/18/2011   #7
Omega
Default

"How is that? Is that any better?"

"Mmrph." The turian's grunt was decidedly noncommittal, and probably not all that helpful, so she tried again. "No; I think it's making it worse, actually. A little harder to focus, you know." She rubbed her plated forehead gently with her left hand while the right clutched the arm of the exam chair tightly - too tightly, as the chair itself was quick to vocalize with an adible groan, the strength of the taloned grip beginning to surpass what it could take.

The examiner raised an eyebrow as he looked up from whatever he was writing on his clipboard. "Headache?"

Gee, you think?! Lilatrik's talons dug a bit further into the metal arm of the chair. "You could say that."

The examiner began furiously scribbling on his clipboard again. Lilatrik sighed. It had been like this for days: nothing but tests of new configurations for the implants from morning til night. All day, every day. Lilatrik was a skilled biotic, and was used to being poked and prodded, but this was beginning to wear on even her endurance. Physically, it wasn't so bad, but it was mentally exhausting. We do what we must, I suppose.

It had been several weeks since the experimental L6 implants had been inserted, and, sometimes, it seemed like their work was no closer to being finished. She didn't mind working with the humans - not at all; she was not one of the many turians who held a grudge over the Relay 314 Incident - but she felt a bit irritated that this was still going on. They'd found what she personally thought was the perfect configuration many adjustments ago, and yet here they were, still futzing around with her head. It was enough to make anyone a bit crabby.

The comm beeped twice, and the examiner answered as Lilatrik greatfully enjoyed what was sure to be an all-too-short reprieve.

"What, now? But we're in the middle o-" The examiner was cut off mid-sentence. "Fine, fine. Just a moment." He turned to her. "It's the Council. They want to speak to you."

Lilatrik cocked her head to the side in confusion. "Me?"

"But what would they want to talk to me for?"



=====


As he slammed his glass down on the counter just a little too hard, Femi Orquiz shouted to be heard over the music. "Another!"

The volus bartender's reply couldn't quite be heard, although that may have been due more to the number of drinks Femi had had than the wheezing quality afforded by a volusian enviro-suit. The volus owned the place, after all, and had installed an amplifier for the voice controls many years ago.

But the shake of his head was unmistakeable. He was cutting Femi off.

"What?! This is an outrage! I'm not even drunk!"

The reply was lost again.

"Whatever, I'm out of here!"

Femi stormed out, shrugging his jacket on as he pushed his way out into the streets of the ward. He had never wanted this; all he wanted was to live through his enlistment and make enough money to retire comfortably with. He didn't want to risk his life on some God-forsaken mission to who the hell knew where to stop an angry krogan army.

He stopped to buy more liquor on his way back to his quarters. The asari behind the counter was, of course, very attractive, and smiled as she thanked him for his business. Maybe he was just a little drunk, but definitely sober enough to know that she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. And he told her so.

Possibly a bit too fervently.

After he managed to pick himself up up off of the ground outside (where she had thrown him in an impressive display of biotic aptitude), all he could manage to do were growl two words: "Fucking bitch."

He cracked open one of the bottles he'd just bought and took a heavy pull, breaking it off when he'd downed well over half of it. He broke off, gasping, and threw the bottle against the alley wall as hard as he could.

"Damn it."


=====


It was peaceful here. Quiet. Tranquil, even.

That's what he liked best about it. He could see the stars, and sit and think and just lose himself in the serenity. Or, at least, he used to be able to. Now, it seemed as though all it did was remind him of his failure.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the spray of the little girl's blood as it painted everything around it with its horrible ink. Heard the scream of the target as it wailed for its lost progeny.

It was no surprise that Rakesh did not like to close his eyes anymore.

He still wondered what it meant. In all his years, he'd never once failed a job, and an innocent had never been caught in the crossfire. Not once. Maybe he'd grown overconfident. Perhaps this was Amonkira punishing him for the sin of pride. Or maybe it was something else altogether.

What if the gods had abandoned him?

As he gazed up at the stars, the same thoughts ran through his mind that had been dancing around ever since it all happened all that time ago. He had never once felt any guilt for a life that he had taken, but now, everything had changed. Now he had doubts. His confidence was shaken. The girl weighed heavily on his conscience, and was never far from his mind. He was almost a willing prisoner as she tormented his mind, never trying to escape.

This is what it meant to no longer be Whole.

But he could not take his life. He owed it to his family, the hanar who had so benevolently and graciously given him a chance to serve them under the Compact. He had a duty to fulfill - to them, and, most especially, to their Taplo, who was to him as a brother. And, after all, it's not as though his death was too far away, was it? Perhaps it was strange, but he took some solace in that - that his life had already been marked for punishment. And for that, he was filled with gratitude for the mercy of Kalahira. He sprang up; it was time to go meet Taplo. A grim satisfaction spread through him.

No one can escape from Kepral's.
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Old 06/19/2011   #8
Hisako
Default

Themys leaned on a section of railing attached to the Combat Information Center's central control structure, tapping at some inane part of the GARDIAN system with her omnitool.
Of course, there was hardly anything wrong with the way it had been calibrated - the finest engineers of the Systems Alliance (and the other Citadel races, of course) had refined laser technology to a tee. What interested her, however, was that many had been fitted with focal arrays adjusted to emit wavelengths practically burgeoning on the ultraviolet end of the spectrum.
With her service in the Ascension,Themys had generally worked with all different kinds of anti-missile laser spectra and knew ultraviolet tagging to be a distinctly salarian habit. She had been informed, however, that the Odessa would be equipped to accomodate for all manner of races, and that given the multi-racial aspect of the crew in times of need, the GARDIAN system had already been modified to account for the wide range of both infrared and ultraviolet lasers. The Odessa's engineering team was also on hand to maintain and modify the arrays and mirrors, if need be.

The asari matron snorted in derision. For a highly politically-motivated mission, the Council and their respective militaries had given the layout and crewmanship of the Odessa an absurd amount of thought and consideration.

"Lieutenant Commander?" A strong voice broke her train of thought, and she glanced up, somewhat miffed by the interruption. A serviceman stood at near-attention, carrying what appeared to be a carry-case not much longer than a foot long, and a manifesto waiting for her to sign. "Your requested munitions and armament came through the C-Sec R.O, ma'am."

"Thanks, kiddo. This goes on my tab, right?" Themys picked up the stylus attached to the datapad and scribbled her rough signature onto it, trading it for the box, a rough case made of machined steel locked tight with a clasp. Tucking it under her armpit, she made her way down the CIC corridor to the elevator, pressing the button to take her down to the armory.

"Yes ma'am."

Finding her locker, she keyed in access and found two shiny new cases of weaponry, far more well-packaged than the box she held underneath. Opening them all up on the workbench nearby revealed a sniper rifle, a handgun and a mahogany case with what appeared to be two curiously-shaped dummy knives laid in velvet with the scabbards to the side.
Like a maiden finding herself a pay raise, she grinned in excitement as she plugged in the small data chip attached to the more elegant casing.

From: Chief Requisitions Officer Drallig Traniss
To: Lt. Commander Themys T'Lorin
Subject: Personal Armament Requisitions

Enclosed with this invoice should be three items purchased, two (2) HMW small-arms, HMWSR (Rosenkov) and HMWP (Rosenkov), and one (1) Armali twin Omniedges. Both Volkov and Karpov models should have been re-specified to your requirements with the custom HMW VII Kit:

HMWSR VII - Volkov refitted with M-96 "Mattock" battle rifle feed system and collapsing 'pistol' stock mechanism, additional 35% barrel length reduction
HMWP VII - Karpov refitted with Kassa Fabrication suppressor and traditional thermal venting system. N.B this system will not accept on-field thermal clip replacement without removal of the M-6 "Carnifex" frame.

Apologies are in order for the shipment of Armali twin Omniedges, as the Serrice Consortium have restricted production of all non-military products since the geth attack on the Citadel and were thus unable to process your request for Serrice Omniedges. However, the forger of these hunting blades has personally vouched for the quality of these blades in a written statement, and has noted that the blueprints used to manufacture the microframe and fabricator are identical to those used by Serrice.

Regards,
Chief Requisitions Officer Drallig Traniss
Citadel Security Services, Requisitions Office

And that was that, her personal outfit laid out for her, fine-tuned and just the way she needed it to fight the krogan. In her years as a commando, krogan were notoriously difficult to take down, even when asari huntresses were masters of assassination. To immediately disable a krogan was easier than most would imagine - after all, like any other species a krogan had weaker structures that anyone well-trained for precision could target - but to kill one quickly took a distasteful amount of brutality to ensure a krogan's absurd regenerative functions didn't revive them later. Tales of krogan warlords surviving bombardments were not unheard of; to (permanently) defeat one in close-quarters combat alone was the pinnacle of an asari commando's skill.

And, Themys thought, as she switched the two tanto-length blades' razor sharp edges on, she was going to make sure each and every one she faced stayed down and out for the count.
__________________
死の果までも追い掛けます、 探し出し
奪われた物全て取り返して見せる

RIP in peace old sig lolol 04/2015




Don't believe your eyes? Don't be surprised.




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Old 06/21/2011   #9
Dana Scully
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"Two minutes until decel."

The voice was tinny over the speaker, barely audible over the echoing clomp of Sam's heavy steel-toed boots off the metal bulkheads. The air felt cloying and vaguely stale in the tight confines of corridor, and she was sweating under her jacket; no doubt one of the air recyclers was broken again. She added it to her mental list of crap-that-needs-fixing, right behind the garbage compressor; if anything was consistent on this ship - an undersized, modified frigate constructed largely out of scraps - it was that something was always broken.

She ducked as she stepped through the doorway onto the 'bridge' - pretty much an over-glorified cockpit - straightening gratefully in the slightly larger space. Rienne was in the driver's seat, prepping the ship for the drop back to sub-FTL flight, her slender blue fingers tapping away at the controls. Mahl stood behind her, idly watching her work. Supervising, the volus like to called it. He seemed to supervise Rienne an awful lot.

Mahl turned around at the sound of Sam's entrance.

"The recluse joins us. What a treat." His voice was wheezy through his enviro-suit's rebreather.

Sam ignored the jibe. "The lock on the munitions locker is fixed."

Mahl nodded. "Good. I trust everything is ready for our drop?"

When have I ever not been ready, you idiot? She kept her irritation off her face, her voice carefully neutral. "Once we're out of FTL I'll link up to the local comm and get our final confirmation." The contact on Mindoir was a regular of Mahl's, reliable and trustworthy. Sam didn't expect any trouble on that end.

Mahl nodded again. "Where's Kregg?" he asked, referring to the krogan mercenary he'd hired to provide the heavy lifting for the job.

"Down in the hold, no doubt," Rienne answered. "It's the only place he can stand upright in this piece of shit you call a ship." Before Mahl could defend his ship's honour, Rienne thumbed the intercom. "Prep for decel."

Sam automatically widened her stance as the ship dropped out of FTL, hundreds of flights having gotten her more than used to the slight shifting of balance caused by the deceleration. Before Mahl could start pestering her again, she fired up her omnitool, starting the link-up to the local comm.

Establishing connection...

"That's weird."

Sam glanced up at Rienne, who was leaning closer to her HUD, peering at it with a puzzled expression on her face.

"What?" Mahl asked, leaning closer as well.

"I'm not picking up any traffic control broadcast."

Sam's omnitool flashed, drawing her attention. Connection established. She flicked a hand, found the unopened message from their contact -

An alarm shrilled, right in Sam's ear. She winced in pain, ducking away from the klaxon, looking up to see Rienne staring at her navigation screen in disbelief.

"What the hell is it?" Mahl yelled over the noise, taking out his own omnitool to shut the wailing alarm off, leaving an echoing ring in Sam's ears.

Rienne's hands flew over the virtual keys of her console. "I've got dozens - hundreds of contacts coming up on the scanners, all of them in Mindoir space."

Mahl said something Sam's translator couldn't translate, which meant it was a particularly exotic curse. "Alliance? Turian?" he asked, though he didn't sound like he believed it.

"They're not broadcasting any idents." Rienne squinted out the small viewport in front of her, as if hoping she could identify the ships with her bare eyes, even with them tens of thousands of kilometres away.

Sam looked down at her omnitool again, opening the message from their contact.

Krogan are here.

That was all it said. She opened her mouth to tell the others, but Mahl had already reached the same conclusion.

"It's a fucking krogan raid. Rienne, turn us the hell around and get us back into FTL." He gave another untranslatable curse.

There was a faint vibration in the deck as Rienne fired the forward thrusters, flipping the ship into a tight arc and turning them back the way they came. "I need a course to set the FTL."

"What's the nearest relay?"

"Caleston Rift."

"Head there. We're going to Omega," Mahl snapped, his eyes on the scanners, watching for any signs of pursuit or incoming ordinance. Sam's stomach clenched.

"Mahl - " she hissed, but before she could protest Rienne yelled "Course charted. Prep for a-cel!" and shunted them back into FTL flight.

As the viewport shifted into a blue haze, Rienne slumped back with a sigh of relief. "Shit. What fucking luck we have."

Mahl sighed. "I just lost one of my best businesses."

Sam didn't give a shit about Mindoir - she was more concerned with their destination. She wanted to bring it up with Mahl again, but not in front of Rienne - the asari had an annoying habit of asking too many questions about people's personal lives.

Before she could ask Mahl for a word, she heard footsteps coming up the corridor, growing louder until they practically boomed.

Nearly folded in half to fit through the doorway, Kregg stepped into the room, straightening as much as he could, making the bridge feel suddenly cramped. He was an older krogan - his skin mottled tan and brown with no trace of the green or yellow tint indicating youth - and large, both in stature and in presence, carrying himself with a brooding deadliness that suggested 'heavy lifting' was not his usual day job. Even Sam, who had spent most of her life crawling through tight spaces, couldn't help but feel claustrophobic.

"What's going on?" Kregg asked, reptilian eyes focusing on Mahl.

There was a tense, billowing silence as Mahl just stared up at the krogan. No one knew Kregg's view on the war. No one had wanted to ask when they hired him. Now Sam was kind of wishing they had. She casually shifted her stance, putting her hands behind her back, one of them wrapping around the worn grip of her combat knife. She didn't delude herself - if she had to pull the knife, she was likely already dead. Her only chance would be if Kregg went after Mahl or Rienne first - then she might be able to slip around him, make it to the munitions locker. He wouldn't be able to catch her in the tight confines of the ship's corridors.

Mahl finally found his voice, though it was distinctly weaker and wheezier than usual. "There was a, ah, complication," he stuttered. "Mindoir is...no longer viable."

Sam repressed a sigh; apparently Mahl's courage had taken flight the moment the krogans stopped being across the void of space and instead appeared in the same room as him. His fear was making him hesitant, vague, and Kregg wasn't known to like either one of those things.

Sure enough, Kregg scowled, taking a step forward. "Stop dicking around and give me a straight answer, Mahl," he growled. Mahl visibly quailed, trying to step back, but there was no where to go - his rotund form just bounced off the wall, back towards Kregg.

"The krogan razed it," Sam said blandly before Mahl's bungling cowardice pissed off Kregg even further. Kregg's eyes snapped over to hers, but otherwise he gave no reaction. Krogan were infuriatingly hard to read, and Kregg was no exception.

"Is that so." Kregg looked from Sam to Rienne and finally to Mahl, who was still cowering against the wall. "And you all think I'm going to be so inspired by my brethren's show of violence that I'll be overcome by bloodlust and kill you all, is that it?"

No one bothered answering - Sam knew a resounding yes was written all over Mahl's quavering form, in Rienne's hunched, defensive posture - even in her own casually prepared stance.

Kregg scowled at them all, then addressed Mahl. "Look, you cowardly little shit. I'm a merc first and a krogan second. You paid me, so until we finish this I'm on your team. So stop shitting yourself and get us to wherever the fuck we're going so I can get off this filthy wreck and find myself a job with some killing."

With that he turned and walked out, squeezing through the doorway to vanish down the hallway. Mahl let out a strangled, prolonged squeak that Sam could only imagine was a sob of relief.

"I think I need to lie down," he said, tottering unevenly towards the door. Rienne caught Sam's eye and rolled her eyes in Mahl's direction before settling back down in the pilot's seat. Sam followed Mahl out into the corridor.

"Mahl," she called, then repeated it again, louder, when he didn't stop. He turned in apparent surprise, causing her to nearly run him over.

"You know I don't do Omega runs," she said without preamble.

"Where else am I supposed to go with a hold full of dirty cargo, half a fuel tank, and a bloodthirsty krogan on board?" he asked her, shrugging.

"There are other locations in the Terminus Systems we can fence our cargo," Sam insisted. Ones without Eclipse and their long memory.

"Yes," Mahl conceded, "and there are also lots of pirates at those 'other locations'. I have contacts in Omega who can get us better prices, even on short notice like this."

Sam couldn't argue with that. "Mahl - " she had to stop and swallow her pride. "Please. I've done dozens of jobs for you, ran all your merchandise without a single loss. Do me this one favour."

Mahl shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sam. For whatever consolation it's worth - I don't know who you pissed off so badly on Omega, but if anyone can hide from them, it's you." He turned and walked away, leaving her standing hunched in the corridor.

"Goddammit," Sam breathed. For the first time in months she was hit by the sudden urge to dust, but she squashed the feeling with practiced ruthlessness.

That was the other problem with Omega. The damn red sand was everywhere; she knew exactly where to go to get some. She should be able to resist the temptation - she had been for clean for years now, after all. But on Omega temptation was everywhere, and she worried it might be more than she could take.

She glanced down at her right hand, flexing her fingers, picturing the scars that were covered by her gloves and jacket. The sand had cost her an arm, her friends, and her career - had cost her Omega, the city she had known like the back of her then-unmangled right hand. In a sudden burst of frustration she curled her hand into a fist and slammed it into the wall, lancing pain through her knuckles. She welcomed it - the pain helped her focus. She could - she would - survive Omega. It was only a brief visit, she reminded herself. Sell off the cargo, pick up some new goods, refuel, and they would be off again. She'd make sure that Mahl didn't dodder.

She'd make sure that she didn't fuck up again.
__________________
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Old 01/31/2012   #10
Alex
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Location: Installation 4117
Planet: Torfan


It had been four hours worth of debating, posturing and boasting and still no progress had been made.

Grabacr Bragr was beginning to grow impatient with the ebb and flow of krogan politics. The sheer length of time that the twelve warlords had spent deciding on their next move was a testament to their weakness. To the galaxy’s weakness. A weakness that spread like a cancer that contaminated the krogan ideal, poisoning them against the glorious legends of old who had carved out their fame from mountains of enemies crushed beneath their heel.

And what had taken the place of such aspiration? Vanity and democracy; a generation of krogan politicians that had more in common with the preening beureucrats on the Citadel than any true krogan, it was enough to make the old warlord sick.

Standing on a hill of dead grass, Bragr surveyed the landscape of the moon Torfan as it now stood under Krogan dominion. The sight stirred something primal in him. A sky wreathed in smoke and burnt red from a hundred towering infernos littering the horizon that stained the skyline, some of those were human settlements and refineries. Others, he knew full well, were piles of bodies that his kind had committed to be incinerated. The smell of freshly spilt blood mingled with the choking aroma of the smoke was invigorating. A welcome offset to the boiling pit of hatred and frustration that the warrior was feeling for his kin.

He noted the thirty or so krogan that stood at the foot of the hill, surveying the battlefield, but mostly keeping watch. The elite guard, the shaman warriors committed to ensuring the old rites were rigorously enforced. A hundred or so of these elite warriors, their faces and bodies mostly hidden by ancient armour far older than they were had been tasked with guarding the Twelve and protecting them whilst they met in conclave, the warlords of Tuchanka’s largest clans and those who commanded the most influence, these were the leaders of this Krogan Uprising. Most of these krogan were less than half the age of the armour that they wore. And enforced rites whose true intentions had been long forgotten.

“Warlord Bragr, recess has ended. The Twelve are meeting again.” His second in command, Grabacr Hakarr spoke up from behind him.

Hakarr was the only krogan who Bragr had taken with him to this assembly. The other eleven warlords had come with a half dozen or so of their clan’s most significant shamans and diplomats to advise them on the best course of action. Bragr had need of neither. He took his own counsel. Hakarr’s presence was a mere formality and the younger krogan was aware of it. He was scarcely more than three hundred years old, but clan Grabacr was already well aware of his favoured position as Bragr’s right hand. A fierce warrior, but one not devoid of the political savvy that the warlord privately found useful in an era dominated through warfare over the negotiating table rather than on the battlefield.

“Good.” Bragr spoke, his voice deep like cloister bells. This intermission had gone on for far too long, anyway. He dropped the weapon he had been holding it and buried it face first in the sand, a battle axe, whose twin blades had been hewn from Tuchanka’s hardest alloys and its stone handle from one of Tuchanka's most fiercesome mountains over one thousand years ago. The ceremonial weapon of Clan Grabacr, and its warlord’s first choice weapon when going into battle. Weapons were forbidden when the Twelve were in meeting, one krogan tradition that these warlords were perfectly happy to accept, if only to save their own skins and stop the meeting erupting in violence and bloodshed. Not that the prohibition of weapons was any guarantee of preventing that.

“Mind my axe.” He spoke to the smaller krogan, his smooth red and green scales cut a harsh contrast to Bragr’s weathered, craggy hide that looked as though they had been carved out of stone.

“Absolutely, my Lord.” Hakarr spoke with a formality that pleased the old kroagn.

If only all his kin were so respectful of the rigid tradition and regimented hierarchy that centuries had long since turned to dust.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“This is an outrage! Nothing but the deluded fantasies from a relic of a bygone era!”

“One more word Halcon and I’ll rip your tongue from your mouth myself,” Bragar fired back almost instantly, watching with some satisfaction at the way in which his threat made the unusually big eyes of Wregnaut Halcon bulge in fear, swiftly checking his advance.

“Pyjak got our tongue all of a sudden?” the massive krogan pressed his advantage. “Objecting to our destiny? To the destiny of all krogan? You disgrace your clan.”

“Bragr is right, if you know what is good for you Halcon, you had best show some restraint. We could not have come this far without Warlord Bragr,” the steady diplomatic voice of Forlan Rhan broke the tension.

Rhan was the second oldest member of the Twelve and a life-long diplomat, ever since he had succeeded his predecessor as head of Clan Forlan he had been committed to a more progressive and unified clan system on Tuchanka. Whilst this had often put him at odds with the bloodthirsty and fear driven loyalty inspired by Grabacr Bragr, there was no shortage of respect between the two old warriors. A respect that had mostly been developed over the course of a centuries long war between the two clans, and a titanic battle between Rhad and Bragr. The fight itself had been a stalemate, despite the fact that Bragr had taken one of the burning saffron eyes from Rhad, permanently setting his opponent at an advantage. Expecting the fight over and won, Bragr had not expected the tenacity of his rival, who had fought back despite his crippling disabiluty, and fought Bragr to a draw, when both krogan were too injured and exhaused to continue the battle.

Since that stalemate an alliance had emerged between the two clans, one not born out of diplomatic or ideological ideals, for the two were nothing alike there, but one that had come about in the purest way possible. Out of respect.

“And Bragr, you would do well to stay your temper,” Rhan rounded on him as his singular, piercing eye glaring heatedly at the assembly’s oldest member, who merely crossed his arms contemptuously. “Your call to attack one of the Council homeworlds is too rash, we would be decimated before we even penetrated their defences.”

“You lack faith in our people, One-Eye.” Bragr scolded his long time rival, refusing to back down from a gaze that would have cowed most of the assembled krogan.

“And you lack an appreciation for the strength of our enemy, Bragr.” the one eyed krogan snarled back in response.

“Too many years on Tuchanka have left you more blind than Rhan.” the Chief of Clan Jorgal growled in response and Bragr scowled at the insolent response.

“Then what is it that you suggest?” Bragr bit back at the group, his rough, scarred scales tightening in disbelief. It was his clan, and those clans who swore loyalty to him who made up the largest of any single faction of the Twelve. They were the bravest, the strongest and the most fearsome in combat, and here they were about to be made obsolete by the petty, cowardly squabbling of a collection of clan leaders so accustom to survival rather than warfare.

“We must marshal the vorcha, they will fight for us.” The Jorgal clan leader suggested. A proposal that received nods from the various krogan gathered.

“We could use their additional numbers.” Rhan admitted, his tone neutral.

“Vermin!” Bragr found himself raising his voice, which rumbled like thunder striking suddenly across a clear day. “Vermin! You will dishonour everything we fight for by recruiting them!” his voice continued to rise, cutting off any reply that the assembled krogan might have been able to muster back at him. He uncrossed his arms and drew himself up to his frame's full, massive size.

“This is our war! Our rebellion! Our reward for thousands upon thousands of years of suffering, death and humiliation! And you dare to defile the finest hour of our race by having us share the glory of battle with those who aren’t even fit to meet their death at our hands,” the oldest of the warlords breathed heavily, every syllable incensed with rage. No one, not even the older and stronger of the group dared speak out in the midst of such a tirade. "Not one among you is fit to call yourselves, krogan,"

“You are all pathetic. Cowards, squandering the destiny of our people,” when he next spoke his tone was low and dangerous, captivating the attention of all those present and making more than a few wish that they had the security of a weapon at their side to lay their hands on.

“I’m done with this, send word to my camp when we move.” The foul-tempered old krogan spat at the empty space in the centre of the eleven others and turned his back, storming away determinedly from the site of their meeting, feeling the blood boiling in his veins. He marched down the hill, allowing the sounds of distant combat and the crackling of the roaring fire that was spreading throughout this settlement to fill his ears and drown out the memories of another hour’s worth of wasted time.

“It hasn’t gone well then?” Hakarr asked his clan chief, as the gargantuan krogan stalked back down the hill towards his favoured lieutenant, a definite murderous look to his eyes.

“We’re going back to the encampment.” Bragr responded coldly, hefting his battleaxe from the ground and slinging it onto one of the magnetic strips attached to the back of his ancient, scarred armour.

“Of course, my Lord.” Hakarr responded immediately and emotionlessly, in the manner of a perfect subordinate. He fell into his Chief’s wake as the massive krogan savagely pushed his way through the circle of guards dedicated to protecting the assembled krogan leadership.

Hakarr knew better to than to speak to Bragr whilst his warlord's temper raged. So he kept quiet as he followed the elder krogan back through the battlefield. The bodies of human corpses still lay foul and bloody until the lazy red sun, the krogan had no intention of burying them. Weapons and credits had been stripped from the bodies and pocketed by the various krogan looters, who scattered like rats in the wake of Bragr's hulking, murderous form.

The Grabacr camp was a short hike outside of the settlement, what was once a small collection of boxy human buildings and what had once been a rudimentary construction built to accommodate the workers of nearby Iridium mine. It didn’t take long for the pair to encounter what remained of the miners themselves, the group had been piled up into a ditch outside of town and set alight by the Grabacr warriors, sending a massive column of foul smelling black smoke into a sky darkened by bloody crimson and ink black. There had been no prisoners taken, and no casualties on the krogan side. A scant dozen colonial marines had dared put up a fight, and by now all but a few had been killed or tortured to death in the Grabacr camp.

Rounding the next hill, which had been scorched barren so that not even grass would grow here, and feeling the crunch of the dry earth and spent shell casings beneath their large feet. Out here at least, it felt like a warzone.

The encampment for the Grabacr camp was a massive settlement in itself, enough to house twenty thousand krogan; ten thousand from his own clan, and ten thousand from smaller clans who all pledged their loyalty to Bragr. All of whom had taken up residence in this low lying valley, just beyond the recently demolished perimeter walls surrounding the settlement on Torfan. Squatting around many thousands of campfires they were recounting war stories, maintaining their weaponry and recounting the legendary exploits of their leader.

These were the best krogan, Bragr reassured himself. They were the ones that fought for him. You would find no better or no more loyal warrirors in the entire galaxy. The thought was soothing, and tempered the red-hot edge of burning fury that he felt for the rest of his race.

Bragr felt the forty thousand eyes swivel in his direction as every krogan in the valley noticed their colossal warlord and his lieutenant as he lumbered over the crest of the hill, his scales were still bristling in anger.

“My Lord?” Hakarr questioned, testing the waters of his turbulent commander, seeing whether or not it was going to be a good idea to engage him in conversation.

"We wait until they call for us," Bragr instructed, not bothering to hide the venom and resentment that he felt at the order.

"Now take me to the prisoners, I need to kill something."
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