1The year is 2160. The conference room on Arcturus Station resembled something from Earth's old-world gentlemen's clubs—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and air thick with cigar smoke despite the station's advanced filtration systems. Admiral Hackett stood at the head of the polished table, his weathered face illuminated by the holographic display of trade routes and territorial markers.
Around him sat the architects of humanity's future: admirals with shoulders heavy from the weight of command pins, generals whose eyes constantly calculated threats, and corporate titans whose wealth rivaled small nations. Together, they represented the Systems Alliance's power core—the decision-makers who would guide humanity's first steps onto the galactic stage.
"Gentlemen, ladies," Hackett began, his voice commanding immediate silence, "I've just returned from our latest round of negotiations with the Citadel Council. The news is... mixed."
A businessman in an immaculate suit leaned forward. "Did they agree to the colony expansions?"
Hackett nodded. "Yes, Mr. Cordova. We've secured rights to establish colonies on three additional garden worlds in the Skyllian Verge. And," he paused for effect, "permission to construct five more dreadnoughts, bringing our total to eight."
A ripple of satisfaction moved through the room. Admiral Singh, commander of the Fifth Fleet, raised her glass of scotch.
"That's a significant concession," she noted. "The turians must have fought that tooth and talon."
"They did," Hackett confirmed, taking a sip from his own glass. The amber liquid burned pleasantly down his throat, a small comfort after weeks of diplomatic posturing. "But we had to give ground as well."
General Williams, a hard-faced veteran of the First Contact War, scowled. The scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw—a parting gift from a turian soldier on Shanxi—seemed to deepen with his frown. "What did we sacrifice this time?"
Hackett activated his omni-tool, projecting a list of agreements. The orange glow cast eerie shadows across the faces around the table. "We've agreed to officially adopt the credit as our primary currency for interstellar trade. Earth currencies will remain in local circulation, but all official Alliance business will be conducted in credits."
"That benefits our exporters," observed a woman from the Treasury Department, her fingers dancing across her datapad as she ran real-time calculations. "Eliminates exchange rate fluctuations. We could see a fifteen percent increase in profitability for our colonial exports within the first fiscal quarter."
"We've also agreed to open our markets to Citadel goods with reduced tariffs," Hackett continued. "And most significantly, we've agreed to allow Spectres to operate in Alliance space."
This announcement drew a chorus of muttered curses and concerned glances. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Spectres?" General Williams nearly spat the word, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to make the crystal decanters jump. "Those unaccountable thugs with a license to kill? After what that turian bastard did to my men on Shanxi?"
"The Council insists it's a matter of mutual security," Hackett replied calmly, though his own reservations were evident in the tightness around his eyes. "And frankly, we don't have the political capital to refuse. Not if we want those dreadnoughts."
Anderson, who had been quietly observing from the corner, finally spoke. His dark eyes reflected decades of military experience, yet held none of Williams' open hostility. "Spectres aren't all bad, General. They're selected for judgment as much as combat prowess. And having them operate openly is better than having them sneak around, which they'd do anyway."
Williams grunted but didn't argue the point. His expression suggested he'd rather shoot a Spectre on sight than welcome one aboard an Alliance vessel.
Hackett cleared his throat. "There's one more thing. The Council expressed... concern... about humanity's tendency toward isolation. Three years since wars end and they feel we're not integrating properly with the galactic community."
This elicited several derisive snorts around the table.
"Integration?" laughed a corporate executive, swirling amber liquid in his crystal tumbler. "We've barely had a chance to catch our breath since they were shooting at us! What do they expect—that we'll suddenly start vacationing on Palaven and inviting turians to Christmas dinner?"
"Or that we'll bend over and let the asari have their way with our economy?" added another businessman, his face flushed with indignation. "They've been running the galaxy for over a thousand years. They see us as upstart children who need to be put in our place."
"Nevertheless," Hackett pressed on, "they've requested that we send human personnel to join C-Sec. And not just as a token presence – they want meaningful integration at all levels."
The room erupted in debate. Voices overlapped as everyone tried to speak at once, the carefully maintained decorum dissolving into a cacophony of opinions.
"C-Sec? The glorified mall cops?" General Williams scoffed when the noise died down. "That's an insult. They want to put our people under turian command, checking IDs and writing parking tickets while they look down their mandibles at us?"
"It's an opportunity," countered a diplomatic attaché, a slender woman whose subtle accent hinted at lunar origins. "C-Sec has access to everything that happens on the Citadel. Intelligence alone would be worth the placement. We could learn more about Council operations in a month than our spies have gathered in years."
"The asari and salarians have been playing this game for millennia," observed Admiral Singh. "They smile and offer partnership while ensuring they maintain the upper hand. The Council claims to represent all species, but their decisions consistently favor founding races."
"Could we simply refuse?" asked a naval captain, tapping ash from his cigar into a crystal tray that probably cost more than a junior officer's monthly salary.
Hackett shook his head. "Not without significant diplomatic cost. Look, I don't like it either, but we need allies up there. Having humans in C-Sec means having eyes and ears where decisions are made."
Anderson nodded. "I agree with the Admiral. This is about planting seeds for the future. The War taught us that we can't afford to be reactionary. We need to be positioned to influence events, not just respond to them."
"So what's the plan?" Singh asked, her dark eyes shrewd beneath silver-streaked hair. "We can't send just anyone. The wrong personality could do more harm than good."
"We'll begin searching Earth's law enforcement databases," Hackett replied, bringing up another holographic display showing criteria and parameters. "Find officers with the right combination of skills, temperament, and discretion. People who can represent humanity's interests while appearing to simply uphold the law."
"And if they find something we need to know?" Williams pressed, leaning forward with intensity that suggested he was already planning covert operations.
Hackett's expression hardened slightly. "Then they'll know who to call."
"We'll need people who can blend in," Anderson added. "The Citadel is a melting pot of species and cultures. Anyone who shows xenophobic tendencies would be worse than useless."
"But we also need people who won't go native," countered Williams. "The last thing we want is our officers forgetting who they work for. The Council talks about galactic unity, but make no mistake – they see humanity as competition. The turians especially haven't forgotten Shanxi any more than we have."
Cordova, the businessman who had spoken earlier, steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "What about former military? They understand chain of command but have the flexibility to operate independently."
"Possible," Hackett acknowledged. "Though C-Sec might be wary of candidates with too much combat training. They'll want law enforcement experience."
"We could create it," suggested a woman at the far end of the table. Her uniform lacked insignia, but everyone knew she represented Alliance Intelligence. "Fabricated records aren't difficult."
Anderson frowned. "And when C-Sec's background checks expose those fabrications? We'd lose credibility we can't afford to sacrifice."
The debate continued, strategies proposed and dismissed, contingencies planned and refined. The smoke grew thicker as the night progressed, mirroring the cloudy future they were attempting to navigate. Outside the panoramic windows, the eternal night of space stretched endlessly, punctuated by distant stars—each potentially surrounded by worlds that humanity might one day claim, or be forced to defend.
It was nearly dawn by Earth Standard Time when the meeting finally adjourned. Hackett remained behind, studying the star charts with Anderson at his side.
"Do you think this will work, sir?" Anderson asked quietly.
Hackett sighed, suddenly looking every one of his years. "It has to, David. Humanity can't afford to be left behind. The galaxy doesn't forgive weakness."
"And these C-Sec officers we'll be sending?"
"They'll be walking a dangerous line," Hackett admitted. "Serving two masters is never easy. The Council preaches cooperation while maintaining their superiority complex. They've controlled the narrative for centuries – who gets to expand where, what technology is permitted, which species deserves a voice."
"You think they're deliberately keeping us contained?" Anderson's expression darkened.
"I think they're afraid," Hackett replied, studying a holographic representation of the Citadel slowly rotating above the table. "Humanity achieved in decades what took other species centuries. We're adaptable, ambitious, and we don't accept arbitrary limitations. The asari counselor practically admitted their concern during closed sessions – they worry we'll upset the balance of power they've carefully maintained."
"So these C-Sec positions..."
"Are both an olive branch and a chain," Hackett finished. "They want to bring us into the fold while ensuring we play by their rules. Our job is to accept the opportunity while finding ways to advance our own interests."
Neither man voiced the obvious—that they were asking these future officers to risk everything, possibly including their lives, for humanity's advancement. Such was the price of progress in a galaxy that had been dividing its power long before humans had achieved space flight.
Two days later, in a rundown apartment building in New York, Arthur Morrigan jolted awake with a violent start. His body—or rather, the body he suddenly found himself inhabiting—lurched upward from unfamiliar sheets before tumbling unceremoniously onto threadbare carpet.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!" The words tore from his throat in a voice he didn't recognize. His hands—unfamiliar hands with calluses he'd never earned—clutched at his face, feeling features that weren't his own.
A New Adventure had just Begun.... Like ReplyReport Reactions:Ser palps, Gin Loy, FusionDance357 and 586 othersTorextheDragonJul 14, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2 View contentTorextheDragonI trust you know where the happy button is?Jul 14, 2025Add bookmark#2Ian Phillips had woken up like every other day—shower, teeth brushed, heading out the door to another mundane day at his office job. The morning sun was just breaking through the clouds when he stepped onto the sidewalk, his mind already drifting to the day's meetings and deadlines. The familiar weight of his messenger bag hung from his shoulder, and the scent of fresh coffee from the corner shop mingled with the crisp morning air. It was a perfectly ordinary moment in a perfectly ordinary life.
He never saw it coming.
A truck—literally on fire, horn blaring madly—came hurtling down the street like a bat out of hell. People screamed, their voices piercing the morning calm like shattered glass. Ian turned, his coffee slipping from suddenly numb fingers. The world slowed to a crawl, each millisecond stretching into eternity. He could see every detail with horrifying clarity—the driver's panicked face, the flames licking at the engine compartment, the way the sunlight glinted off the chrome grille rushing toward him.
"Oh sh—" was all he managed before impact. The words died in his throat as metal met flesh. A blinding flash of pain exploded across his consciousness, then—mercifully—nothing.
Once more Truck-kun had mercilessly claimed another victim.
Darkness. Complete and absolute. No light, no sound, no sensation. Just a void where consciousness should be. No tunnel of light, no life flashing before his eyes—just nothingness stretching into infinity.
Then, consciousness slammed back into him like a physical force, every nerve ending firing simultaneously. Ian's eyes snapped open, but everything was wrong. The ceiling above him wasn't his familiar off-white with the water stain that resembled Australia. The bed beneath him felt different—harder, lumpier, the sheets rough against his skin. And when he stumbled to the bathroom, heart pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, the face staring back from the mirror wasn't his own.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the cracked tile walls. His hands frantically touched the unfamiliar face—younger, with sharper features, dark hair instead of his sandy brown, and piercing blue eyes where his had been hazel. The skin felt strange under his fingertips, as if he were touching someone else through his own nerves. A stranger's face responding to his touch.
He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it against his skin momentarily grounding him. He hoped this was some bizarre dream, some stress-induced hallucination that would fade with enough sensory input, but the strange reflection remained, water dripping from features that weren't his. Stumbling back to the bedroom of the small, dingy apartment, his nostrils filled with the musty scent of old carpet and stale air, he noticed a wallet on the nightstand and rifled through it with trembling hands.
The ID card inside showed the face from the mirror: "Arthur Morrigan, 25." The address matched this apartment. There was a security guard certification, a few dollars, and not much else. The plastic felt real between his fingers, the embossed lettering catching on his thumb as he ran it over the surface.
"This isn't possible," he muttered, sitting heavily on the bed, which creaked in protest. The sound was so mundane, so real, that it made the impossibility of his situation even more terrifying. "I'm... I'm Arthur now? But I remember being Ian. I remember everything..."
His mind raced like a hamster on a wheel, going nowhere but unable to stop. Was he the same Arthur from the photo but with Ian's memories transplanted? Or was he Ian's consciousness inhabiting Arthur's body? The existential implications made his head spin, a nauseating vertigo that had nothing to do with physical movement.
"Fuck, this is not the time for a philosophical crisis," he growled, pressing his palms against his temples, feeling the pulse of blood vessels beneath the skin.
First things first—did Arthur have family? He closed his eyes, trying to access memories that weren't originally his but somehow now resided in his brain, like files downloaded to a new computer.
Images flashed behind his closed eyelids, as vivid as if he were watching a movie: A stern-faced man in expensive clothes, his cologne a suffocating cloud of sandalwood and ambition. A woman with a tight smile that never reached her eyes, diamond earrings catching the light as she turned away. A modest house that became a mansion, the smell of fresh paint and new furniture. A mother and sister, both gone in an accident—the scent of burning metal and gasoline, screams that haunted nightmares. Then the uncle—James Morrigan—taking in his orphaned nephew, his large hand heavy on a young boy's shoulder.
"Uncle James," Arthur whispered, the name bitter on his tongue like a pill dissolving too slowly.
The memories turned darker, shadows stretching across his mind. James Morrigan was not a gentle man. Having made his millions in space mining, he demanded excellence from his ward—excellence Arthur could never quite deliver. The sting of disappointment hung in the air after every report card, every athletic competition, every business discussion. Good grades, a few athletic achievements, business acumen—nothing was ever enough. The constant refrain: "Is this really the best you can do?" still echoed in his ears.
When Arthur failed to get into the prestigious business program James had selected, his uncle had tried to force him into military service "to make a man of him." The argument had been explosive, words like shrapnel tearing into flesh. Arthur had run away instead, the slam of the front door still reverberating in his memory, and the last message he'd received was James washing his hands of him, sending a paltry 1,000 dollars with a note: "This is all you'll ever get from me. Make something of yourself or don't—I no longer care."
Since then, Arthur had bounced between odd jobs—security gigs, a stint in the National Guard, manual labor. Currently, he worked security at a construction site, barely making enough to afford this shabby apartment. The constant struggle of living paycheck to paycheck, the gnawing anxiety of never having enough, the loneliness of having no one to call when things got tough—all these feelings were suddenly his, memories of a life he hadn't lived until now.
But all of that paled in comparison to the other revelations bombarding his mind, cascading through his consciousness like a waterfall.
Humanity reaching for the stars. The discovery of Prothean ruins on Mars, scientists in hazmat suits reverently touching alien artifacts. Element zero, glowing blue in containment fields. Mass relays, enormous structures spinning in the void. The First Contact War with the turians, the sound of alien weapons firing, the smell of blood and fear. The Citadel Council, vast and imposing, alien faces looking down from on high.
"Holy shit," Arthur breathed, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin, the chill raising goosebumps on his arms. "I'm in the Mass Effect universe."
The implications hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.
"The Reapers. The fucking Reapers are going to make me into human soup." The words came out as a horrified whisper, his throat constricting around them.
He stumbled to the window, pulling back the blinds to confirm what his new memories already told him, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed in. The New York skyline wasn't the one he remembered from his life as Ian. Sleek skyscrapers with curved, organic designs reached higher than should be possible, their surfaces gleaming in the morning light. Flying vehicles—actual fucking flying cars—zipped between buildings in orderly lanes, the distant hum of their engines creating a constant background noise.
"What year is it?" he muttered, fumbling for the datapad on the nightstand. The device lit up at his touch, the screen cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, displaying the date: April 17, 2160.
Arthur's breath caught in his throat, a small gasp of realization. Twenty-three years before the events of the first game. Before Eden Prime. Before Shepard became a Spectre. Before the Reapers revealed themselves. The weight of future history pressed down on him, knowledge of disasters yet to come.
"I have time," he whispered, his mind racing with possibilities, heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope. "Holy shit, I have time to prepare. But fucking how? I got nothing…." His voice cracked on the last word, the enormity of his situation threatening to crush him.
Just as fresh panic threatened to overwhelm him, a translucent blue screen materialized in the air before his eyes, casting an ethereal glow across his face and illuminating the dust particles floating in the air.
Welcome to the Gamer version 2.0
Arthur froze, then nearly jumped for joy, a burst of wild laughter escaping his lips. "I'm saved!" The relief was so intense it made him dizzy, his knees nearly buckling.
Welcome user-909387938830. Loading starter Traits…
The screen expanded, displaying information in neat, organized panels, the text crisp and clear against the blue background:
Name: Arthur Morrigan
Alpha Class: The Gamer
Level: 5
TRAITS:
[Gamer's Mind]: Immunity to panic, fear, or mental interference. Cold calculation under pressure.[Gamer's Body]: Heals via rest or potions; stats govern physical and mental performance.[Interface HUD]: Sees XP gains, skill trees, threat levels, quest prompts, relationship meters.[Class System]: Can multi-class between Soldier, Vanguard, Engineer, Adept, or create hybrid builds.[Choice Echo]: Arthur's decisions ripple across the galaxy more strongly than others'. Even minor choices can diverge reality from canon.ATTRIBUTES:
Strength: 5/50 - Average physical power. You can hold your own in basic combat and carry standard gear.
Dexterity: 5/50 - Decent reflexes and agility. You can dodge incoming fire and handle firearms with acceptable accuracy.
Endurance: 5/50 - Solid stamina and health. You can sprint, fight, and take a few hits before retreating.
Intelligence: 5/50 - Quick, observant mind. You process information like a tactician and interface well with technology.
Willpower: 5/50 - Mentally steady. You can resist panic, minor psychic interference, and mental stress.
Charisma: 5/50 - Able to talk your way through most situations and persuade when needed.
Luck: 5/50 - Even fortune. Sometimes things break your way, sometimes they don't.
You have 10 free points.
"This is... incredible," Arthur murmured, scanning the information, his eyes darting across the floating display. A gamer system in the Mass Effect universe? The possibilities were staggering, stretching out before him like an unexplored galaxy.
He quickly opened the class system, revealing detailed descriptions of his options, each one accompanied by a small animated icon:
Soldier – Combat SpecialistStyle: Guns, grenades, battlefield resilience
Stat Boosts: +5 Strength, +5 Endurance
Bonus Perk: Adrenaline Rush – Briefly slows time for perfect shots
Weapon Proficiency: All standard weapons (ARs, shotguns, snipers, pistols)
Armor Proficiency: Heavy
Role: Frontline damage, durability, raw power
Adept – Biotic SpecialistStyle: Gravity manipulation, area control, mind over matter
Stat Boosts: +5 Willpower, +5 Intelligence
Bonus Perk: Warp Field – Disrupts barriers, armor, and organics
Biotic Powers: Throw, Pull, Singularity, Warp, Shockwave
Armor Proficiency: Light
Role: Biotic control, AoE damage, crowd disruption
Engineer – Tech MasterStyle: Drones, sabotage, hacking, trap setting
Stat Boosts: +5 Intelligence, +5 Dexterity
Bonus Perk: Combat Drone – Deploys an AI-controlled drone
Tech Powers: Overload, Incinerate, Cryo Blast, AI Hacking
Armor Proficiency: Light
Role: Control support, anti-shield/anti-synthetic, gadgets
Infiltrator – Stealth Sniper & HackerStyle: Stealth, sharpshooting, precision kills
Stat Boosts: +5 Dexterity, +5 Intelligence
Bonus Perk: Tactical Cloak – Grants temporary invisibility and crit bonus
Powers: Incinerate, Cryo Ammo, Tactical Cloak, Sabotage
Armor Proficiency: Medium
Role: Stealth assassin, critical strikes, recon specialist
Vanguard – Biotic BrawlerStyle: High-risk, close-range biotic shock trooper
Stat Boosts: +5 Strength, +5 Willpower
Bonus Perk: Biotic Charge – Slam into enemies at high speed
Powers: Pull, Charge, Shockwave, Nova
Armor Proficiency: Medium
Role: Melee + biotic burst, frontline duelist, disruptor
Arthur considered his options carefully, his mind weighing the pros and cons of each class, imagining himself in different combat scenarios. The Adept was tempting with its powerful biotic abilities, the purple glow of mass effect fields dancing across his imagination. The Engineer offered versatility and technical superiority that could be invaluable. But in his gut, he knew what he needed most.
"Soldier," he decided firmly, his voice steady with newfound resolve. "I need to know how to handle weapons, and I need to be tough enough to survive whatever's coming." The practicality of combat training, the reliability of guns and armor—these were foundations he could build upon.
The interface flashed with confirmation, a pleasant chime sounding as knowledge and muscle memory flooded into his mind—how to field strip an assault rifle, the weight and balance of different weapons, proper shooting stance, tactical movement patterns, grenade trajectories. His mind filled with combat scenarios, threat assessments, tactical analyses. He felt his body changing too, muscles becoming more defined, fat melting away, reflexes sharpening. His posture straightened unconsciously, shoulders squaring, chin lifting.
Arthur's attributes updated instantly as the Soldier class took effect, the numbers shifting before his eyes:
Strength: 10/50 - Noticeably stronger than most. You can handle heavier weapons, punch harder, and carry more gear.
Dexterity: 5/50 - Your reflexes and aim remain baseline. Competent, but not yet masterful.
Endurance: 10/50 - Significantly increased stamina and health. You can fight longer and take more punishment.
Intelligence: 5/50 - Your mind remains quick and alert, processing information efficiently at a basic level.
Willpower: 5/50 - Mental fortitude is stable. Biotic potential remains average.
Charisma: 5/50 - Socially functional and reasonably persuasive.
Luck: 5/50 - Standard fortune, neither blessed nor cursed.
"Five points left," Arthur muttered, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He considered his options, the possibilities branching out before him. "All into Luck. In this universe, I'm going to need every break I can get." He thought of the countless near-misses in the games, the narrow escapes, the razor-thin margins between victory and defeat.
The interface updated again with a soft ping:
Luck: 10/50 - Your luck has noticeably improved. Better loot, higher critical hit chances, and more frequent "good breaks" in various situations. The universe has started to favor you.
The blue screen suddenly glowed gold, pulsing with energy that bathed the dingy apartment in warm light, and two choices appeared:
[Gacha Trait] or [Gacha Item]
"Trait," Arthur said immediately, not even needing to think about it. A virtual wheel appeared, spinning rapidly with dozens of possible traits flashing by too quickly to read, a blur of text and colors. Finally, it slowed and stopped on:
[Singularity Core]"You are the storm. Not a wielder of biotics—but their source."
Your biotic strength surpasses even the most powerful Asari Matriarchs, Krogan Battlemasters, or Reaper-enhanced Vanguards. You are a walking black hole.
Biotic abilities scale beyond the stat cap of Willpower (can exceed 50).Your Singularity can absorb other biotic powers and evolve.Barrier generation is passive and regenerates in combat.You can eventually develop original biotic powers."Holy shit," Arthur whispered as his body began to glow—first bright blue, like the gentle radiance of element zero, then shifting to a deep, unsettling purple that cast eerie shadows across the walls. He felt power surging through him, crackling along his nervous system, threatening to explode outward. The air around him began to distort, small objects lifting from surfaces, the very atmosphere seeming to bend. With instincts he didn't know he possessed, he pulled the energy inward, containing it before it could destroy the apartment, feeling it settle into his core like a miniature star.
The glow faded, but he could still feel it thrumming beneath his skin, a constant vibration just below perception, a subtle resonance in his bones and blood, a constant reminder of the incredible power now at his disposal. Power that, without training, might be as dangerous to him as to his enemies. The air smelled faintly of ozone, and his skin tingled with residual energy.
"Okay," he breathed, trying to center himself, inhaling deeply and feeling the power respond to his breath. "I'm Arthur Morrigan. I'm in the Mass Effect universe. I have the Gamer system. And I'm apparently now a biotic powerhouse. Now what?" His thoughts whirled with possibilities, plans forming and dissolving as he considered his next move.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment.
Arthur tensed, then cautiously approached the door, his newly enhanced body moving with unconscious grace. He peered through the peephole, heart pounding against his ribs. Two people in Systems Alliance uniforms stood outside—a grizzled-looking soldier with a weathered face and a stern expression, his uniform bearing the marks of combat experience, and a woman with long dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, her posture ramrod straight, eyes scanning the hallway with professional vigilance.
Taking a deep breath, feeling the biotic energy respond to his tension, Arthur opened the door, the hinges creaking slightly.
"Arthur Morrigan?" the woman asked, her voice clipped and professional, with a subtle accent he couldn't quite place. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in every detail of his appearance.
"Yes?" He tried to keep his voice steady, conscious of the power humming just beneath his skin, wondering if they could somehow sense it.
"Lieutenant Commander Sarah Ellison, Systems Alliance Navy," she said, flashing an ID, the holographic verification glinting in the hallway light. "This is Sergeant Major Kovacs. We need you to come with us." Her tone left no room for argument.
The Only thing he could think of was one word. "Shit!"
Arthur found himself hustled into an unmarked Alliance shuttle, his hastily packed duffel bag tossed unceremoniously into a storage compartment. Lieutenant Commander Ellison sat across from him, her posture military-perfect even in the shuttle's uncomfortable seats. Sergeant Major Kovacs took position by the door, his weathered face revealing nothing as the shuttle's engines hummed to life.
"Am I in trouble?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the cabin like a heavy blanket.
Ellison glanced up from her datapad. "No, Mr. Morrigan. You're not in trouble."
That was apparently all the explanation he was going to get. Arthur nodded, settling back into his seat. Strangely, he felt no anxiety, no racing heart, no sweaty palms—just a cool, analytical calm washing over him. The Gamer's Mind trait was working overtime, keeping his emotions in check when any reasonable person would be freaking out.
If they're lying, I can always blast my way out, he thought, feeling the biotic energy humming just beneath his skin like a coiled serpent. The mental image of unleashing his newfound power—making Hiroshima look like a wet fart—brought a small smile to his face. He quickly suppressed it, not wanting to appear unhinged to his military escorts.
The shuttle ride lasted nearly an hour, taking them to what appeared to be a nondescript military compound outside the city. From the air, Arthur could see it was larger than it initially seemed, with several buildings arranged in a careful pattern and a landing pad where three other shuttles were already docked.
"This way," Ellison directed as they disembarked, leading him through a series of security checkpoints. Each one required biometric scans—fingerprints, retinal patterns, even a DNA swab. Arthur submitted to them all without complaint, his pulse remaining steady where others might have panicked.
Thank you, Gamer's Mind, he thought as a medical officer drew blood from his arm. Otherwise I'd be losing my shit right about now.
"Physical assessment next," announced a crisp-voiced doctor, leading Arthur into what looked like a high-tech gym. "Strip to your underwear, please."
For the next two hours, they put him through his paces—running on treadmills, lifting weights, flexibility tests, reaction time measurements. Arthur performed well above average on every test, his newly enhanced Soldier physique easily handling the challenges. The medical staff exchanged surprised glances when he completed the endurance run without breaking a sweat, his breathing still even and controlled.
"Remarkable cardiovascular efficiency," one doctor murmured, making notes on her datapad. "Muscle density is 18% above baseline for his demographic."
Arthur kept his expression neutral. If they only knew.
After the physical tests came cognitive assessments—pattern recognition, spatial reasoning, memory recall. Again, Arthur performed exceptionally well, though he deliberately missed a few questions to avoid appearing superhuman. The Gamer system had enhanced his mental processing without making it obvious.
Finally, they led him to a small waiting room with uncomfortable plastic chairs and told him to sit tight. Arthur settled in, watching the minutes tick by on a wall-mounted clock. Forty-three minutes later, the door opened.
A stern-faced woman in an Alliance uniform entered, carrying two thick files. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a single strand out of place, and her eyes were sharp with intelligence and suspicion.
"Mr. Morrigan," she said, taking the seat across from him. "I'm Commander Hayes. I have some questions for you."
She opened the first file—his medical results—and scanned them with a raised eyebrow.
"Your physical condition is... interesting," she began, her tone suggesting 'interesting' wasn't necessarily a compliment. "According to your financial records, you've been living paycheck to paycheck for the past three years. Your nutrition should be suboptimal. Yet your muscle mass, bone density, and overall health indicators suggest someone with access to premium nutrition and regular training."
She looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Care to explain?"
Arthur shrugged, keeping his expression casual. "I exercise. Bodyweight stuff mostly—pushups, pullups. Running in the park. You don't need fancy equipment to stay in shape."
"And your diet?"
"I'm careful with what I eat. Beans and rice are cheap and nutritious. I supplement with multivitamins when I can afford them."
Commander Hayes didn't look convinced, but she moved on, opening the second file—his background.
"You were raised by your uncle after your parents died. Military background?"
"National Guard for a year. Didn't re-up."
"Why not?"
Arthur considered his answer carefully, drawing on Arthur's memories. "Wasn't a good fit. I prefer working alone."
She made a note, then continued questioning him about his work history, his skills, his political views. Arthur answered everything truthfully—or at least, truthfully according to the memories he'd inherited from the original Arthur. The interrogation lasted nearly an hour, with Hayes probing for inconsistencies or signs of deception.
Finally, she closed both files and stood. "Follow me."
Arthur was led down a long corridor to a large briefing room. Inside, nine other people—five men and four women—were already seated. They ranged in age from mid-twenties to early forties, and all had the alert, watchful look of people accustomed to assessing threats. Law enforcement, Arthur guessed, maybe with a couple of military types mixed in.
He took an empty seat, nodding politely to the others. Some nodded back; others remained stoic, their eyes revealing nothing.
A few minutes later, a uniformed soldier stepped into the room. "Attention!" he barked, and everyone instinctively rose to their feet—everyone except Arthur, who was a half-second behind, having to consciously remind himself of military protocol.
A distinguished-looking general entered, his uniform adorned with an impressive array of medals and commendations. The insignia identified him as General Ramirez, a name Arthur didn't recognize from the games.
"At ease," Ramirez said, his voice carrying the weight of decades of command. "Please, be seated."
Once everyone had settled, the general activated a holographic display at the front of the room. The familiar shape of the Citadel materialized, slowly rotating to showcase its massive ward arms.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Ramirez began, "I'll get straight to the point. You've been selected from a worldwide pool of candidates in law enforcement, private security, civilian enforcement and military service. Some of you may be wondering why you're here."
Understatement of the century, Arthur thought.
"Three years ago, humanity made first contact with alien life. It wasn't the peaceful meeting our scientists had hoped for." The hologram shifted to show turian ships engaging with human vessels—footage from the First Contact War. "But we've since established diplomatic relations with the Citadel Council, the governing body that oversees much of the galaxy."
The image changed again, showing the Council chambers with representatives of the asari, salarians, and turians.
"As part of our ongoing integration into the galactic community, the Council has requested human personnel to join C-Sec—Citadel Security Services. This organization is responsible for maintaining law and order on the Citadel, a space station that serves as the political center of Council space."
Arthur felt a jolt of excitement. C-Sec? He was going to the Citadel? This was better than he could have hoped for—a front-row seat to the political heart of the galaxy, decades before the Reaper invasion.
"You ten have been selected as the first human C-Sec officers," Ramirez continued. "This is both an honor and a tremendous responsibility. You will be ambassadors for humanity, working alongside alien species to uphold the law in a multicultural environment unlike anything on Earth."
The general's expression grew more serious. "Make no mistake—this will be challenging. You'll face prejudice, cultural misunderstandings, and potentially dangerous situations. The Citadel is home to millions of beings from dozens of species. Some will welcome you; others will resent your presence."
He paused, looking each of them in the eye. "But this is a historic opportunity. You'll be at the forefront of humanity's integration into the galactic community. The relationships you build, the impressions you make—these will shape how other species view humanity for generations to come."
Arthur glanced around at the others. Some looked excited, others apprehensive. A woman to his right was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, while a grizzled man near the front maintained a poker face that would have impressed the most hardened gambler.
"Training begins tomorrow," Ramirez announced. "You'll spend two weeks here learning about Citadel law, alien biology, cultural protocols, and diplomatic procedures. After that, you'll ship out to the Citadel for on-site orientation with C-Sec."
He gestured to a row of datapads on a side table. "Those contain your preliminary reading materials. I suggest you start tonight. Commander Hayes will show you to your quarters."
Arthur scooped up his datapad and headed down the corridor toward his assigned quarters, passing several of his fellow recruits along the way. Some nodded in acknowledgment; others were too absorbed in their own thoughts to notice him. The reality of the situation was still sinking in for everyone—they were going to be the first humans in C-Sec, working alongside aliens on the galactic capital station.
I've hit the jackpot, Arthur thought, struggling to contain his excitement. The Citadel—years before Shepard, before Saren, before everything goes to hell. Perfect positioning to prepare for the Reapers.
His assigned room was spartan but functional—a single bed with military corners, a desk, a small bathroom, and a locker for personal effects. Standard Alliance temporary housing, designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Arthur tossed his duffel onto the bed and settled into the desk chair, powering up the datapad.
The screen illuminated with a C-Sec emblem, rotating slowly before dissolving into a welcome message:
CITADEL SECURITY SERVICES
HUMAN INTEGRATION PROGRAM
CONFIDENTIAL - SYSTEMS ALLIANCE CLEARANCE LEVEL 3
Welcome, Recruit. This datapad contains essential information for your transition to C-Sec service. Begin with Module 1: Citadel Law Fundamentals.
Arthur tapped the first module, and a torrent of information filled the screen—the history of the Citadel, its governance structure, the evolution of its legal system, and hundreds of statutes and regulations. It was dense, technical, and overwhelming—exactly what you'd expect from a law enforcement training program.
"Two weeks to cram all this," he muttered, scrolling through the massive document. "At least I've got Gamer's Mind to help with retention."
He leaned back, contemplating his situation. His plan was simple: blend in during training, avoid drawing too much attention, and use his time on the Citadel to quietly prepare for the coming Reaper invasion. With his Soldier class and biotic potential, he had the foundation for becoming incredibly powerful—but he needed to be careful. Growing too strong too quickly would raise questions he couldn't answer.
Just keep a low profile, pass the training, get to the Citadel, and then—
His thoughts were interrupted by a series of chimes as translucent blue windows materialized in the air before him, casting their ethereal glow across his face.
Congratulations! You've unlocked multiple traits based on your current activity and mission parameters!
Arthur's eyes widened as he read the notifications, his pulse quickening with each new trait that appeared.
[Galactic Scholar] – Level 1/10
"Your mind is wired into the very bones of Citadel law. You don't just follow the rules—you weaponize them."
+25% success chance on legal appeals, bureaucratic interactions, and administrative bypasses.Unlocks [Legal Exploit I]: Once per mission, you can bypass a checkpoint, arrest, or restriction using obscure law.Gain a passive bonus to reputation with legal officials, diplomats, and political agents. At max level: You could dismantle an entire government legally, turn Reaper signals into court evidence, or invoke laws no species remembers being passed.
Arthur barely had time to process this before another trait appeared:
[Xenobiologist (Advanced Trait)] – Level 1/10
"You instinctively recognize anatomy, biology, and evolutionary weaknesses of all known organic species."
Reveals weak points on most alien species in combat (e.g., Turian air sacs, Salarian neural clusters, Krogan scar tissue).Grants +10% effectiveness on first-aid, toxins, and species-specific buffs/debuffs.Unlocks [Anatomical Scan I]: When scanning a living target, view vital stats, weak zones, and current biological state. At max level: You can paralyze a Krogan with a single touch, clone an Asari's nervous system, or engineer antidotes to synthetic-organic viruses.
The traits continued to appear one after another:
[Cultural Chameleon] – Level 1/10
"You walk through alien societies like one of their own. No gesture, phrase, or nuance escapes you."
+15% diplomacy success chance with all Citadel species.Gain access to culture-specific dialogue and flirtation options (including rare or taboo ones).Immune to accidental offense in formal alien interactions. At max level: You'll be able to walk into a Krogan Rite of Passage, pray with a Hanar, and drink tea with a Batarian noble—all in the same hour without offending a soul.
[Protocol Sync] – Level 1/10
"Your speech, posture, vocabulary, and etiquette adapt on the fly to match the cultural and political standards of your company."
+10 rapport bonus in all formal interactions and first impressions.Auto-calibrates your body language and tone to match the listener's background.Unlocks [Context Filter I]: Your HUD highlights social cues, posture mistakes, and etiquette violations before you commit them. At max level: You can mimic an Asari ambassador's poise, decode Elcor poetic undertones, or bluff your way into Spectre-only events.
[Codex Archive] – Level 1/10
"Your HUD now contains a living, dynamic codex of every major Citadel race, culture, and protocol."
Access instant, voice-activated information on any major species, law, history, or cultural rule.Unlocks [Social Scan I]: Scan any NPC to receive summary data: race, status, cultural affiliations, political alignment, and taboos. At max level: You'll gain real-time counters to social manipulation, counter-lies, political scheming—and even Reaper-altered truth warping.
Arthur stared at the floating windows, a mix of excitement and alarm washing over him. The traits were incredible—game-changing advantages that would make his mission infinitely easier. But they had appeared out of nowhere, triggered simply by his assignment to C-Sec training. If the system was this generous with traits, what else might it throw at him?
"Holy shit," he whispered, glancing nervously at the door to make sure no one was watching. "This is insane."
Just as he thought things couldn't get more overwhelming, another window appeared:
MISSION: C-Sec Integration Training
STATUS: In Progress
OBJECTIVE: Successfully complete Alliance training for C-Sec assignment
REWARD: 500 XP, Increased Alliance Reputation, C-Sec Credentials
CURRENT LEVEL: 5 (1000 XP needed for next level)
"Fuck," Arthur cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. This was both amazing and terrifying. The system was turning his life into a literal video game, complete with missions, XP rewards, and specialized traits. On one hand, it gave him a clear path forward and tools to succeed. On the other, it made him feel like he was being pushed along a predetermined track.
"OP protagonist, huh?" he muttered with a humorless laugh as he began flipping through the pad. "More like 'dancing monkey for some cosmic game master.'" Like ReplyReport Reactions:Ser palps, Gin Loy, Zabrax and 608 othersTorextheDragonJul 14, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 3 View contentTorextheDragonI trust you know where the happy button is?Jul 14, 2025Add bookmark#3(Chapter 4 on patreon. This will be sporadic updates as i have three other stories but i hope to do a chapter every Monday if possible then update publicly every three chapters}
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Arthur sat cross-legged on his bunk in the Alliance training facility, datapad in hand, absorbing information at a rate that would have been impossible for a normal human. The blue glow of the screen illuminated his face in the dimly lit room, casting sharp shadows across his features as he squinted at the text. His fingers tingled slightly from holding the device for hours without a break, and the faint smell of military-grade antiseptic that permeated all Alliance facilities burned in his nostrils.
A translucent window materialized before him, displaying his latest acquired trait:
[Galactic Scholar] – Level 10/10"Your mind is wired into the very bones of Citadel law. You don't just follow the rules—you weaponize them."
+25% success chance on legal appeals, bureaucratic interactions, and administrative bypasses.Unlocks [Legal Exploit I]: Once per mission, you can bypass a checkpoint, arrest, or restriction using obscure law.Gain a passive bonus to reputation with legal officials, diplomats, and political agents. At max level: You could dismantle an entire government legally, turn Reaper signals into court evidence, or invoke laws no species remembers being passed.
The words seemed to burn themselves directly into his brain, each syllable connecting to neural pathways he hadn't even known existed. A rush of exhilaration flooded through him as knowledge settled into place – thousands of legal precedents, obscure statutes, and regulatory loopholes suddenly accessible as easily as breathing.
This is what it feels like to be a savant, he thought, heart racing with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.
Arthur barely had time to process this before another trait appeared, the interface chiming softly in his ears with a sound only he could hear:
[Xenobiologist (Advanced Trait)] – Level 10/10"You instinctively recognize anatomy, biology, and evolutionary weaknesses of all known organic species."
Reveals weak points on most alien species in combat (e.g., Turian air sacs, Salarian neural clusters, Krogan scar tissue).Grants +10% effectiveness on first-aid, toxins, and species-specific buffs/debuffs.Unlocks [Anatomical Scan I]: When scanning a living target, view vital stats, weak zones, and current biological state. At max level: You can paralyze a Krogan with a single touch, clone an Asari's nervous system, or engineer antidotes to synthetic-organic viruses.
His mind filled with anatomical diagrams, evolutionary histories, and biological vulnerabilities. He suddenly understood the exact pressure point that would incapacitate a turian, how salarian metabolism processed toxins, and the precise location of secondary and tertiary organs in krogan physiology. The knowledge settled into his consciousness with an almost physical weight.
Christ, I could be the most dangerous assassin in the galaxy with this, he realized, a cold shiver running down his spine despite the room's regulated temperature.
The traits continued to appear one after another, each notification sending a jolt of electricity through his nervous system:
[Cultural Chameleon] – Level 10/10"You walk through alien societies like one of their own. No gesture, phrase, or nuance escapes you."
+15% diplomacy success chance with all Citadel species.Gain access to culture-specific dialogue and flirtation options (including rare or taboo ones).Immune to accidental offense in formal alien interactions. At max level: You'll be able to walk into a Krogan Rite of Passage, pray with a Hanar, and drink tea with a Batarian noble—all in the same hour without offending a soul.
His mind filled with thousands of social cues – the subtle head tilt that signified respect among asari matriarchs, the specific finger positioning that differentiated a friendly salarian greeting from a territorial challenge, the precise vocal resonance that would make a turian see him as trustworthy rather than suspicious. Cultural nuances that diplomats spent decades learning were suddenly second nature to him.
I could walk through the Citadel like I've lived there my entire life, he thought, his breath catching in his throat. No one would ever suspect I'm just some human from Earth.
[Protocol Sync] – Level 10/10"Your speech, posture, vocabulary, and etiquette adapt on the fly to match the cultural and political standards of your company."
+10 rapport bonus in all formal interactions and first impressions.Auto-calibrates your body language and tone to match the listener's background.Unlocks [Context Filter I]: Your HUD highlights social cues, posture mistakes, and etiquette violations before you commit them. At max level: You can mimic an Asari ambassador's poise, decode Elcor poetic undertones, or bluff your way into Spectre-only events.
Arthur felt his posture subtly shifting, his facial expressions becoming more nuanced, his vocal cords adjusting to produce tones that could convey multiple layers of meaning. It was as if his entire physical being had been recalibrated to become the perfect social instrument.
I'm becoming something beyond human, he thought, his internal voice wavering between awe and unease. Some kind of diplomatic super-weapon.
[Codex Archive] – Level 10/10
"Your HUD now contains a living, dynamic codex of every major Citadel race, culture, and protocol."
Access instant, voice-activated information on any major species, law, history, or cultural rule.Unlocks [Social Scan I]: Scan any NPC to receive summary data: race, status, cultural affiliations, political alignment, and taboos. At max level: You'll gain real-time counters to social manipulation, counter-lies, political scheming—and even Reaper-altered truth warping.
His vision overlaid with translucent data screens, ready to provide instant analysis of anyone he looked at. He could feel the weight of countless historical events, cultural touchstones, and sociopolitical developments settling into his memory – not as dry facts but as living, interconnected knowledge.
"Fuck," Arthur cursed under his breath, glancing toward the door to make sure no one had entered. The word felt harsh in the quiet room, the sudden sound making him flinch. "This is broken as hell."
He set the datapad down with shaking hands, running his fingers through his hair as he contemplated the implications. His scalp tingled with sensitivity, every nerve ending seemingly enhanced. Just two days of studying the material on his datapad, and he had somehow maxed out these traits. It was already drawing attention—his instructors had noticed how easily he absorbed information about Citadel races and protocols, often exchanging glances when he answered questions that even they were still learning.
They're suspicious, he realized, stomach churning with anxiety despite the Gamer's Mind trait keeping his emotions in check. No human should be able to learn this quickly.
"At this rate, I'll have to pretend to struggle just to avoid suspicion," he muttered, scrolling through the other notifications that had appeared. The sound of his thumb against the screen seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Just a day ago when he had decided to see what would happen if he studied other things...he hadn't been disappointed.
[Galactic Engineer] – Level 1/30"You don't just fix things. You design the future."
You can draft, prototype, and construct advanced starships, habitats, and stations. From bulk freighters to stealth corvettes, anything you imagine, you can build—if you have the parts, the mind, and the time.
You understand Citadel, Human, and Batarian ship frameworks.You gain access to blueprint generation based on observation and wreckage analysis.Basic construction tools appear in your HUD—3D schematics, volume displacers, system graphs.At higher levels, you'll be able to build modular fleets, mobile factories, or hidden orbital stations.
His mind filled with ship designs and construction techniques, the knowledge settling like puzzle pieces clicking into place. He could suddenly visualize the precise curvature needed for optimal hull integrity, the exact power distribution systems that would maximize efficiency while minimizing heat signatures.
I could build ships that would make the Normandy look like a child's toy, he thought, his breath catching at the implications.
[Drive Architect] – Level 1/30
"Your grasp of faster-than-light propulsion borders on divine."
You can design and optimize mass effect cores, but more importantly—you're beginning to envision ships that don't need eezo at all.
You can craft custom FTL cores, tuning jump profiles, stability, and efficiency.At higher levels, you unlock access to Warp Drive design—a field-based propulsion system that compresses space ahead and expands it behind your vessel, allowing true, non-relay FTL.You'll eventually bypass element zero altogether, making you the first human capable of building ships that break Citadel FTL limitations—and evade galactic detection grids.
The principles of mass effect physics suddenly made intuitive sense, like remembering something he'd always known but temporarily forgotten. He could feel the equations forming in his mind, complex mathematical formulas that described how to bend space itself.
Travel without relays... without the Reapers' trap, he thought, his heart pounding with the magnitude of what this could mean for humanity's survival.
[Macro-Structural Vision] – Level 1/30"You see planets not as obstacles, but as canvases."
You understand how to manipulate gravity, orbit, magnetics, and ecological systems on massive scales. You can design cities that wrap around moons, ringworlds that harvest stellar energy, and orbital megastructures that span continents.
Create habitats, terraforming rigs, orbital elevators, megacities.Recognize fault lines, atmosphere thresholds, and radiation bands in real time.Lay the groundwork for Dyson swarms, rings, and hollow planetary vaults.At high levels, you can build artificial planets, Prothean-grade artifacts, or generate your own artificial starfields.
Images of massive structures flooded his mind – orbital rings encircling planets, space elevators stretching from surface to sky, habitat rings that could house millions. The scale of what he could potentially create made him dizzy, his vision momentarily swimming with possibilities.
I could build sanctuaries that even the Reapers couldn't touch, he realized, his chest tight with both hope and fear.
[Planetary Defense Architect] – Level 1/30"Your shields can stop gods—or worse."
You can design and install planetary-scale defenses: energy shields, mass cannon satellites, kinetic barriers, and interlinked orbital grids.
You can synchronize global shield patterns with weather systems and orbital rotations.Install underground reactors that power defense stations across entire continents.Link anti-ship artillery to FTL early-warning systems.At high levels, your shields can repel dreadnought bombardments, withstand solar flares, or protect cities from Reaper-level destruction.
The knowledge of defensive systems settled into his consciousness – layered shield harmonics, overlapping fields of fire, redundant power systems. He could visualize an Earth protected by barriers that would turn away even Reaper beams, the atmosphere itself becoming a weapon against invaders.
I could save them all, he thought, a lump forming in his throat. Every colony that falls in the games... I could protect them.
[Weaponsmith of the Void] – Level 1/30"Your ships don't fire guns. They unleash nightmares."
You build devastating ship-based weapons: spinal-mounted cannons, antimatter accelerators, plasma lances, and mass-effect kinetic artillery.
You can craft multi-tier turrets, torpedo racks, and fusion beam systems.Balance power draw, heat management, and firing arc optimization.Design energy-overload systems that convert incoming damage into weapon charge.At max rank, you can build black hole projectors, zero-point imploders, or reaper-scale energy scythes.Weapon designs flashed through his mind – cannons that could tear through dreadnought armor like paper, energy weapons that would make the Thanix look like a child's toy. The precise calculations for focusing destructive force, containing antimatter reactions, harnessing dark energy – all of it suddenly made perfect sense.
I could build weapons that would make even the Reapers fear humanity, he thought, a chill running down his spine at the power suddenly at his fingertips.
[Armsmith Ascendant] – Level 1/30"You don't carry weapons. You forge them."
You gain mastery over crafting handheld weapons of every kind—modern or ancient, energy-based or physical. You understand kinetic, plasma, laser, blade, and blunt-force mechanics at an instinctive level.
Craft custom pistols, rifles, sniper systems, or heavy ordnance from scratch.Forge exotic blades, monomolecular edge weapons, gravity hammers, and electroshock batons.Create hybrid weapons—like a blade that stores thermal energy, or a gun that fires biotic pulses.At max level, you can create soul-bound weaponry, programmable ammo types, and forge gear on par with Spectre or Reaper design.
The feel of weapons he'd never held became familiar – the perfect balance of a custom-crafted pistol, the precise trigger pull needed for a sniper rifle, the edge geometry of a blade that could slice through armor. His fingers twitched with muscle memory he'd never developed, his mind filling with designs for weapons that didn't yet exist.
I could arm an entire resistance with tech centuries ahead of its time, he thought, his hands curling into fists.
[Integrated Systems Mastery] – Level 1/30"You don't just design ships—you design harmony between their souls."
You specialize in bringing all systems together—reactors, weapons, sensors, shields, drives, AIs, and life support. Your ships are not machines. They are ecosystems.
Create dynamic energy redistribution that adapts to combat.Design autonomous repair protocols and predictive AI assistants.Master internal design: crew flow, emergency response, AI cores, grav-plating balance.At max level, your ships can fight, think, repair, and evolve—without ever needing a pilot.
The holistic understanding of ship systems flooded his awareness – how power distribution affected weapon performance, how life support systems could be integrated with defensive capabilities, how AI cores could be designed to enhance rather than replace human decision-making. He could see ships not as collections of components but as living entities, every system interconnected in perfect harmony.
My ships would be more than machines, he realized. They'd be extensions of their crews, responsive and intuitive.
[Reverse-Engineer] – Level 1/30"No device is unknowable. No tech is sacred."
Whenever you encounter alien or ancient technology, you can break it down, analyze it, and rebuild it in your own image.
Learn from Prothean, Geth, Quarian, Reaper, or even unknown galactic tech.Unlock crafting blueprints simply by interacting with unknown machines.Deconstruct existing weapons or gear to improve your own.At max level, you'll reverse-engineer mass relays, forge AI smarter than Reapers, or turn Reaper tech against its creators.
His mind filled with analytical frameworks, methods for breaking down unknown technologies into their component parts, understanding their functions, and recreating them with improvements. He could almost feel his perception shifting, allowing him to see beneath the surface of devices, understanding their inner workings at a glance.
Even Reaper tech would be an open book, he thought, a mixture of excitement and dread washing over him. I could understand their weaknesses, turn their own technology against them. Understand the knowledge of the advanced races they had reaped.
Arthur fell back onto his bunk, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. The sheer scope of what the system was offering him was staggering. Not just knowledge or combat skills, but the ability to reshape galactic technology itself.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, staring at the ceiling. "I could build weapons that could kill Reapers. Design ships that could outrun anything in Citadel space."
The implications were both thrilling and terrifying. With these engineering traits, he could potentially alter the entire timeline of the Mass Effect universe. Build defenses for Eden Prime before the geth attack. Design weapons that could take down Sovereign without sacrificing the Destiny Ascension. Create shields that could protect entire colonies from Collector attacks.
But first, he needed to survive C-Sec training without revealing just how abnormal he had become.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He quickly dismissed the floating windows with a mental command and called, "Come in."
Jason Hartley, one of his fellow recruits, stuck his head in. The blonde-haired man had an easy smile that belied his sharp intelligence. "Study group in the common room. Santana's threatening to quiz us on Krogan customs until we bleed."
Arthur nodded, grabbing his datapad. "On my way."
As they walked down the corridor, Jason glanced at him. "How do you do it, man? You're acing everything they throw at us. I've been staring at these Citadel laws for hours, and they still read like gibberish."
Arthur shrugged casually. "I've always had a good memory. Information just sticks."
"Bullshit," Jason laughed. "Nobody picks up alien legal codes that fast. What's your secret? Some kind of experimental Alliance memory enhancement?"
"If I had that, don't you think I'd share it?" Arthur deflected with a smile. "Especially with you, since you're about to fail the section on Krogan mating rituals."
Jason groaned. "Don't remind me. I'm tempted to just write 'fight everything' as the answer to every question."
They entered the common room where Santana Reyes was already waiting, datapads spread across the table. With her long black hair tied back in a practical ponytail and her intense brown eyes focused on her studies, she looked every bit the dedicated officer-in-training.
"About time," she said without looking up. "I was beginning to think you two had gotten lost on the way to becoming competent."
"Missed you too, Santana," Jason quipped, dropping into a chair across from her. "Arthur's agreed to help us mere mortals understand the incomprehensible mess that is galactic law."
Santana finally looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Arthur. Unlike Jason's good-natured ribbing, her scrutiny felt more calculating. "You know, it's almost suspicious how quickly you pick this stuff up. The instructors have noticed too."
Arthur maintained a neutral expression, though internally he cursed. He needed to be more careful. "I just focus well, that's all. And I've always been interested in alien cultures."
"Uh-huh," Santana replied skeptically. "Well, whatever your secret is, put it to good use. We've got a test on Citadel jurisdictional boundaries tomorrow, and I refuse to be outdone by Wilson's group."
The other seven recruits—all older, more experienced law enforcement or military personnel—had naturally formed their own clique. Led by former NYPD Detective Wilson, they tended to keep to themselves, though the division wasn't hostile. It was simply the natural grouping of like-minded individuals.
For the next hour, Arthur helped his companions prepare, deliberately holding back some information and occasionally pretending to struggle with concepts he had already mastered. His datapad beeped with a notification, followed by Jason's and Santana's.
"Great," Jason sighed, reading the message. "Five-mile run before combat training. Just what I needed after cramming legal codes all morning."
Arthur nodded, though his frustration was for a different reason—every minute spent running was a minute not spent studying and increasing his traits. Still, he knew physical training was important for maintaining his cover, if nothing else.
He mentally pulled up his normal stats.
Strength: 13/50 You possess above-average physical power. You can wield heavier weapons, strike harder in melee, and shrug off recoil. Your close-quarters combat is imposing, and your carry weight has increased.Dexterity: 10/50 Your reflexes and agility are finely tuned. You react faster in firefights, land precise shots, and navigate obstacles, traps, or cover with ease. Advanced weapon handling becomes more viable.Endurance: 10/50 Your stamina and resilience have increased. You can fight, run, and endure harsh conditions longer. You resist fatigue, poison, and environmental hazards better than average.Intelligence: 10/50 Your mental acuity is sharp. You process data quickly, spot patterns in combat, and interface with alien systems easily. Unlocks higher-tier hacking, tech creation, and scientific analysis.Willpower: 10/50 Your mental resilience is strong. You're resistant to fear, manipulation, indoctrination, and psychic attacks. Your biotic focus stabilizes under pressure, enhancing control and power.Charisma: 9/50 You're magnetic, convincing, and socially adaptable. You can sway groups, negotiate under fire, or win trust where others fail. Unlocks diplomatic traits, seduction lines, and leadership perks.Luck: 12/50 Fortune favors you. You encounter rare drops, survive situations you shouldn't, and land critical hits more often than average. Events and hidden opportunities are drawn to your presence.Within a week he had grown. As expected, repeated actions and learning had revealed to grow stats though, stat points would no doubt be still important to his quick growth.
"Let's get it over with," Santana said, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "Maybe the physical exertion will help the information sink in."
As they headed toward the locker rooms to change, Arthur mentally plotted his strategy. He'd need to be careful during physical training—perform well enough to avoid negative attention, but not so well that he stood out. His Gamer's Body trait gave him enhanced stamina and recovery, which could easily raise suspicions if he wasn't careful.
"You coming, Morrigan?" Jason called over his shoulder. "Or are you planning to levitate your way around the track using pure brainpower?"
Arthur snorted. "If I could do that, I'd be running the Alliance, not joining C-Sec."
"You'd be terrible at running the Alliance," Santana chimed in as they entered the locker room. "Too many rules to memorize."
Arthur changed quickly, the gray Alliance PT uniform feeling oddly comfortable despite his mental resistance to the training. As he laced up his running shoes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Same face he'd been wearing for weeks now—strong jawline, blue eyes that seemed to hold more knowledge than they should, dark hair cut to military precision. Yet behind those eyes was a consciousness that had lived another life entirely, one where this world was just a game.
The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the training field as the ten C-Sec recruits completed their five-mile run. Arthur paced himself meticulously, fighting his body's natural urge to surge ahead of the pack. His enhanced physique practically begged to be unleashed, but he deliberately held back, staying firmly in the middle of the group. During a water break, he even manufactured a convincing sheen of sweat by discreetly splashing water on his face and neck, feeling the coolness trickle down his skin in stark contrast to the burning heat of the sun overhead.
"Damn, Morrigan," Wilson panted beside him as they finished the final lap, his breath coming in ragged gasps that Arthur could almost feel in his own chest. "You're barely winded. What's your secret?"
Arthur shrugged, deliberately taking deeper breaths than necessary, feeling the warm air fill his lungs unnecessarily. "Regular cardio. Nothing special." The lie tasted stale on his tongue.
Their drill sergeant, a hard-faced veteran named Martinez whose weathered skin told stories of countless deployments, barked orders for them to assemble in the main training hall after a fifteen-minute break. His voice carried across the field like a whip crack, making several recruits flinch involuntarily.
"They're trying to kill us before we even get to the Citadel," Jason groaned as they trudged toward the showers, the smell of sweat and dust clinging to them. His shirt was soaked through, plastered against his skin. "Death by exhaustion—not the heroic end I had in mind." The bitterness in his voice couldn't quite mask the underlying exhaustion.
Santana rolled her eyes, her ponytail swinging with the motion. "This is nothing. You should see what they put recruits through at the police academy back in L.A." Despite her bravado, Arthur noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she unscrewed her water bottle.
I could run another twenty miles without breaking a sweat, Arthur thought to himself, the knowledge both exhilarating and isolating. This body is becoming a weapon, and nobody can know.
After quick showers—the cold water a blessed relief against their heated skin—and changing into fresh training gear that smelled of industrial detergent, the recruits assembled in the large training room. The polished floor gleamed under the harsh lights, and the air held a faint scent of disinfectant and old sweat. Sergeant Martinez stood at the front with a powerfully built man in standard Alliance PT attire, whose presence seemed to fill more space than his physical form warranted.
"Listen up," Martinez barked, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Command has arranged a special treat for you today. This is David Ronan, N5 designation. He'll be conducting hand-to-hand combat training and assessment."
A collective groan rippled through the group, the sound of impending doom. Arthur felt the vibration of it in his chest, a shared moment of dread that quickly dissipated under Martinez's withering glare.
"Oh come on," Jason muttered under his breath, close enough that only Arthur could hear. "We're going to get our asses handed to us." The resignation in his voice was palpable.
Ronan stepped forward, his movements fluid and controlled, like a predator comfortable in its skin. His voice rolled through the room, deep and commanding. "C-Sec officers often find themselves in situations where firearms aren't an option. Today, I'll be evaluating your hand-to-hand capabilities and providing some basic techniques that might save your lives one day."
The scent of anticipation—and fear—permeated the room as Ronan demonstrated several combat maneuvers. The sharp slap of flesh against the training mats punctuated his explanations. Arthur watched intently, his mind cataloging each movement, each technique, storing them away with perfect recall. The recruits paired off to practice, grunts and occasional yelps of pain filling the air as they attempted to replicate what they'd seen.
After thirty minutes, their clothes damp with fresh sweat and muscles already complaining, Ronan announced that he would spar with each recruit individually. Arthur's stomach tightened with apprehension—not fear of the combat, but fear of revealing too much.
I need to lose convincingly without looking incompetent, he thought, formulating a strategy. Middle of the pack. Average. Forgettable.
One by one, the recruits faced Ronan. The sound of bodies hitting the mat became a rhythmic accompaniment to the afternoon, along with the gasps of exertion and occasional curses. As Jason had predicted, most were quickly overwhelmed, the disparity in skill painfully obvious. Even Wilson, with his police combat experience, lasted only forty seconds before being taken down with a precise sweep to the legs. The whoosh of air leaving his lungs as he hit the mat made several recruits wince in sympathy.
Santana performed better than most, her movements quick and unpredictable. Her agility and street-fighting background allowed her to evade several of Ronan's initial attacks, the whisper of fabric as she twisted away from his grasp almost graceful. She even landed a solid strike to his midsection—the dull thud drawing appreciative murmurs from the onlookers—before he countered with a complex grappling move that left her pinned to the mat, the air heavy with tension.
"Good instincts," Ronan acknowledged as he helped her up, his voice carrying genuine approval. "With proper training, you could be formidable."
Finally, it was Arthur's turn. The mat felt springy beneath his feet as he stepped forward, the material giving slightly with each step. As he moved into position, he noticed that more observers had entered the room—several of their other instructors and what appeared to be high-ranking Alliance officers were now watching from the sidelines. Their presence added weight to the air, making it feel thicker, more consequential.
Great. An audience. Just what I needed, Arthur thought, his heart rate increasing slightly despite his Gamer's Mind keeping his anxiety in check.
"Ready when you are," Ronan said, settling into a balanced stance, his eyes alert and evaluating.
Arthur nodded, adopting a basic defensive posture. As Ronan launched his first attack—a probing jab that cut through the air with precision, followed by a feint—Arthur felt something strange happen. The world around him seemed to slow, sounds becoming muffled as if underwater. His vision sharpened, focusing with unnatural clarity on every minute movement of his opponent. A translucent blue status window materialized in his field of vision:
COMBAT INITIATED
Player: Arthur Morrigan (Level 5)
Health: 1500/1500
Opponent: David Ronan (N5 Operative)
Health: 3000/3000
Shit, Just by his health he's twice as strong as me, Arthur realized, the disparity sending a jolt of genuine concern through him. But there was no time to dwell on it. Ronan's fist was already closing in, the air whistling softly around it. Acting on instinct enhanced by his system, Arthur swayed just enough to avoid the blow, feeling it pass millimeters from his cheek, then blocked the follow-up strike that most recruits had fallen for. The impact of forearm against forearm sent a vibration up his arm, a physical reminder of the power behind Ronan's attack.
Ronan's eyebrows raised slightly, the only indication of his surprise. The subtle shift in his expression spoke volumes. He increased his tempo, launching a combination of strikes that would have overwhelmed any normal recruit. The sound of his movements became a continuous flow—fabric rustling, feet pivoting on the mat, the soft exhalation of controlled breath. But Arthur's perception was enhanced, his body responding with unnatural precision. He blocked, dodged, and countered with growing confidence, each movement flowing into the next like water.
I'm revealing too much, a distant part of his mind warned, but the thrill of the combat was taking over, pushing that caution aside.
The sparring match continued, with Ronan gradually escalating the difficulty. The N5 operative's attacks became more complex, more unpredictable, but Arthur matched him move for move. He could smell Ronan's sweat now, could hear the slight change in his breathing pattern as exertion began to take its toll.
After six minutes of increasingly intense combat, Arthur began to go on the offensive. He landed a series of precise strikes, each one accompanied by the satisfying feedback of impact—the dull thud of knuckles against muscle, the sharp exhalation of forced breath. In his HUD, he watched as each successful hit chipped away at Ronan's health bar. The N5 operative's expression shifted from professional assessment to focused concentration, his eyes narrowing slightly as he found himself genuinely challenged.
The recruits watching from the sidelines had fallen silent, their initial cheers giving way to stunned disbelief. The atmosphere in the room had transformed from routine training to something electric, charged with the unexpected. Arthur was vaguely aware that Sergeant Martinez had left and returned with additional officers, their whispered conversations creating a background hum of speculation, but he remained focused on the fight, on the rhythm of attack and defense.
Suddenly, the world around him froze completely. Sound ceased, motion stopped, even the dust motes hanging in the air became suspended in time. A blue notification window appeared before him, glowing with an inner light that cast ethereal shadows across his vision:
[Max Trait: Mixed Martial Arts] – Level 5/10"You are trained in hand-to-hand combat across multiple disciplines. Your body remembers every strike, hold, and throw—your enemies won't."
You've reached an advanced level in integrating Muay Thai, Boxing, Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga, and Wrestling into a seamless, instinctive fighting style. Your strikes are practiced, your defense reactive, and your close-quarters instincts sharp.
This trait passively improves your unarmed effectiveness, counter reflexes, and combat flow as it levels.Level 5 marks you as a dangerous hand-to-hand combatant, capable of disarming, disabling, or defeating most unarmored opponents—even some lightly armored ones—without drawing a weapon.Progresses further through real combat, sparring, training simulations, and defeating enemies without using firearms or powers.Holy shit, the system is upgrading me mid-fight! Arthur thought, a mixture of exhilaration and alarm flooding through him.
Time resumed with a rush of sound and sensation, and Arthur felt a surge of knowledge and muscle memory integrate into his consciousness. It was like suddenly remembering skills he'd practiced for years—the perfect angle of a strike, the ideal moment to shift weight, the exact pressure needed to control an opponent. Without conscious thought, his body shifted into a more advanced stance, his movements becoming even more fluid and precise, as natural as breathing.
Ronan launched a powerful combination, the air crackling with the speed of his strikes, but Arthur countered perfectly. He blocked the initial strike, the impact sending a satisfying jolt up his arm, parried the second with a flick of his wrist that seemed to know exactly where to be, and then executed a flawless spinning kick that caught Ronan square in the chest. The solid thump of impact reverberated through the room, and Arthur could feel the resistance of muscle and bone against his foot. The impact sent the N5 operative stumbling backward, momentarily off-balance, his boots squeaking against the mat as he struggled to regain his footing.
I should stop now, Arthur thought distantly, but his body was moving on its own, driven by the new skills flooding his system.
Arthur pressed his advantage, flowing through a series of strikes that felt like a dance his body had always known. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, creating a symphony of controlled violence that culminated in a sweeping leg maneuver. He felt Ronan's weight shift, felt the moment of vulnerability, and exploited it perfectly. The operative hit the mat with a solid thud that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room. Before Ronan could recover, Arthur had already assumed a perfect finishing stance, completing the demonstration with a textbook martial arts kata that his muscles executed with flawless precision.
The room fell silent—a profound, stunned silence that seemed to have physical weight. Arthur suddenly became acutely aware of every eye on him—the stunned expressions of his fellow recruits, their mouths slightly open in disbelief; the calculating gazes of the Alliance officers, sharp with speculation; and the intense scrutiny of Sergeant Martinez, whose narrowed eyes suggested he was reassessing everything he thought he knew about Arthur Morrigan.
Shit, he thought, his heart sinking as he realized the magnitude of his error. I've revealed far too much. There's no explaining this away.
He quickly extended a hand to help Ronan up, forcing a nervous smile that felt brittle on his face. "Sorry if I got carried away." His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silent room.
Ronan accepted the help, rising to his feet with a wince that suggested Arthur's strikes had done more damage than intended. "That was... unexpected," he said, studying Arthur with newfound respect, his eyes probing as if trying to see beneath the surface. "The sergeant didn't mention we had an N7 in disguise among the recruits."
"I'm not—" Arthur began, his mind racing for an explanation, any explanation that might sound remotely plausible. But Sergeant Martinez cut him off.
"He's not N7," the sergeant said firmly, though doubt colored his tone. "Just a standard C-Sec recruit." The emphasis on "standard" carried clear skepticism.
Ronan snorted in disbelief, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "With all due respect, Sergeant, I've trained with special forces from every branch. He fights at that level, minimum." The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.
The gathered officers were whispering among themselves now, the soft hiss of their conversations filling the room with speculation. Arthur could feel his carefully constructed normalcy crumbling around him like a sand castle hit by a wave. He needed to provide an explanation—fast—before the questions became too pointed, too impossible to deflect.
"I took some kung-fu lessons as a teenager," he offered with a self-deprecating chuckle that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Guess it stuck better than I thought." The excuse hung in the air, flimsy and unconvincing.
The skeptical expressions around the room confirmed that no one was buying it. Ronan's eyes narrowed slightly, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with one of the senior officers—a silent communication that spoke volumes.
"Kung-fu, huh?" Ronan said, clearly unconvinced, his tone making it clear he knew bullshit when he heard it. "Well, whatever your background, that was impressive work. You've got natural talent." The word "natural" carried heavy irony.
Sergeant Martinez cleared his throat, the sound sharp and authoritative. "Alright, that's enough for today. Hit the showers and report to the classroom at 1600 for your legal ethics session." His tone was brisk, but his eyes lingered on Arthur with newfound intensity.
As the recruits dispersed, their footsteps and murmured conversations creating a rising tide of sound, Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jason, his expression a mixture of awe and suspicion, his fingers digging in slightly as if to ensure Arthur couldn't escape the coming questions.
"Dude, what the actual fuck was that?" he whispered, his breath warm against Arthur's ear. "You moved like something out of a vid. Since when can you fight like that?" The disbelief in his voice was tinged with something else—wariness, perhaps even a hint of fear.
"I got lucky," Arthur replied lamely, knowing how inadequate the explanation was. "Adrenaline, I guess." He could feel cold sweat forming on his back, unrelated to the physical exertion.
Santana appeared at his other side, her presence like a second interrogator closing in. Her eyes were sharp with analysis, missing nothing. "That wasn't luck, Arthur. That was training. High-level training." She lowered her voice further, the words barely audible above the background noise. "Are you some kind of undercover operative? Alliance Intelligence, maybe?" The question hung between them, laden with implications.
Arthur's mind raced through possible responses, discarding each as too implausible or too revealing. "I'm just a guy trying to become a C-Sec officer," he insisted, though he could see in their eyes that neither of them believed him. The weight of their skepticism was almost tangible. "Can we drop it? Please?" He injected just enough discomfort into his voice to sound genuinely uncomfortable with the attention.
Jason raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes remained watchful. "Sure, sure. Your secret's safe with us, Ninja Man." The nickname carried a lightness that his expression didn't share.
As they headed for the showers, the smell of sweat and tension following them, Arthur caught sight of Sergeant Martinez in deep conversation with two of the Alliance officers who had observed the match. All three were looking in his direction, their expressions serious, heads bent together in what was clearly not casual conversation. The pit in Arthur's stomach deepened.
So much for keeping a low profile, Arthur thought grimly, a cold sense of foreboding washing over him. His cover story was already falling apart, shredding like tissue paper in a rainstorm, and they hadn't even left Earth yet. Every instinct told him he was now on their radar—a mystery to be solved, an anomaly to be investigated. He would need to be much more careful going forward—and perhaps develop a more convincing backstory to explain his unusual abilities. Otherwise, his mission might end before it truly began.
I've got to find a way to dial it back, he thought, feeling the weight of scrutiny settling on his shoulders like a physical burden. Before they decide I'm too useful to send to the Citadel at all. Like ReplyReport Reactions:Ser palps, Gin Loy, Cael Heres and 516 others