In the training hall of the "Normandy," polymer collided with a roar. The dense substance, resembling both water and glass, produced a grinding and humming sound – a sound you wouldn't expect from a fluid yet elastic mass. The substance, obeying a will, clung to another part of itself, drawn by another mind, swirling in a vortex of combat and raising a small whirlwind dancing on the tatami.
Shep broke contact, lunging away, amplifying his movement with telekinesis. His feet slid across the synthetic floor of the hall, barely touching the heels, as if the man were suspended on a fishing line, like an acrobat.
A thin whip of polymer struck the spot where he had been a moment ago. The sharp whistling sound was replaced by a rustle, causing the operative to jump, letting the thin polymer tentacle pass beneath him.
With a circular motion of his hand, he summoned the substance under his control, raising a shield, taking the telekinetic blow on the defense. Spinning, he thrust his palm at the opponent, redirecting his attack, and creating his own blow afterward...
Miranda elegantly stepped back, almost perfectly receiving two waves of energy with a raised curtain of polymer. Almost immediately, she slid away in a lunge, going into a slide out of the attack line. A thin, barely visible polymer thread merely rustled uselessly across the tatami, crackling with current.
The operative, who had shifted in the same direction, was forced to interrupt the creation of a new attack, putting up a shield block. The girl, from her knees, tried to perform a leg sweep, extending her legs with polymer, making the substance stick to her feet.
The man grunted. His eyes sparkled with mischief in the bluish light of the training hall. His outline blurred, such was the speed of the superhuman. Like a gray lightning bolt, he rushed forward, raising his hand for a blow, but instead clenched his palm and seemed to pull something.
The CERBERUS investigator instantly understood the plan, but it was too late. The trap began to close. Two tatami mats buckled, drawn by telekinesis and polymer, resembling stone slabs or earth strata, flying towards each other. The girl almost broke free, but two greenish rectangles, rustling with their coating, met with a clap, catching her leg.
Unable to pull her limb out of the trap, she, getting into a bridge, pushed herself back and to the left with polymer, escaping a third slab of covering falling from above.
A wave of polymer gently caught Miranda, sticking to her back. In flight, clapping her hand on the glassy mass, she gave it a mental command.
The world slowed down for the operative. He knew what was coming...
The polymer shuddered, and a droplet of matter collapsed into a perfect sphere. A moment later, it trembled, transforming into a ballista. The string tightened itself...
An arrow of condensed polymer, like a crystal lightning bolt, flew at him, slicing through the air with a quiet whistle.
Only his reaction allowed Shep to see the projectile and raise his shield, but the force of the impact was so high that he was thrown back, even forced to run along the wall, dissipating inertia. Drawn by the force of his mind, a piece of polymer, growing tentacles, caught part of the next projectile, allowing him to dodge to the right. The liquid scattered like a fan, hitting the metal bulkhead, leaving a dent on the gray steel.
It was all over in a second and a half. Miranda managed to put up a shield, but the telekinesis was not aimed at her, but had captured the covering slabs that had caught her leg in a vise. The operative simply yanked them up, and then sharply lowered them, starting to move forward.
"Checkmate," the operative said.
The moment the disoriented girl met the floor after hitting the ceiling, he simply knocked her down with his foot...
For a moment, the hall's energy screen activated, catching the investigator flying backward, saving her from injury. Hovering for a second, she fell onto the soft tatami, managing to put her hands under her and not hit her face.
The captain froze in place, turning sideways, reducing the possible target area. Unlike the girl, he didn't even get out of breath, although the operative had to sweat.
"You could have been gentler, Captain. The regulations prohibit rough treatment of comrades..." she said.
Only now, seeing that the fight was truly over and the sparring partner had admitted defeat, Shep allowed himself to relax slightly.
"You asked for the training yourself," he noted and, making a slight effort, extended his hand to her, helping her up. "And don't hold back."
Although after she saved his life, he began to treat her better, even friendly, there were times when her resemblance to Vera bothered him. If not for her dark hair, she was an almost perfect copy, which once again spoke of what an amoral freak his former friend was. Shep also grieved the loss, but what her brother had done was beyond good and evil.
The captain understood that Miranda was not to blame, but it was difficult to see a ghost of the past every day. Even if they were different in content, the face was the same.
"At least she changed her hairstyle. She doesn't like being a copy herself," he noted. "Talking with Risa did her good."
"I expected something different, Captain," the girl said, pulling her black-as-space hair back with a rubber band, tying it into a ponytail. "According to the training regulations, one should first have an introductory sparring, not a full-contact training."
"I asked you to call me by my call sign or by my name," he winced, perhaps from a pulled muscle, or perhaps from the formality of her speech. "I don't like being addressed with 'vy' when it's unnecessary... An introductory sparring is good when you need to understand what a student knows. You have a different case. You just lack experience. You are too academic."
The girl, carefully stepping on her foot, tilted her head to the side, pondering what she had heard before asking:
"You... you..." she faltered, "Your personal file doesn't state that you are a master instructor."
Artyom, following her, grunted, which had become a habit in his interactions with her, carelessly throwing:
"My teachers were VERY good. They literally hammered the science into me," he said, rubbing the back of his head from phantom pain.
"I understand," Miranda replied concisely, nodding in response to the ship's crew members who had also decided to train at that hour.
It was the third shift now, and by ship time, it was deep night. By convention, the sports hall and training hall were occupied almost constantly. Knowing about the girl's socialization problems, Shep had specifically chosen this time. Her slight awkwardness would affect the results, and it's hard to think when a polymer projectile is flying at you.
Thus, talking, they reached the shower room. Quickly shedding their disposable sports clothes into a special converter, the captain stood under the warm streams with pleasure. A cruiser is a cruiser because it can afford a normal shower, not an ultrasonic one that makes your teeth ache.
Glancing at his restored arm, he once again thought about the proximity of death. Seven months ago, if not for Miranda, it would have been his last mission. Amidst the somber thoughts, he casually noted the girl's footsteps through the sound of the water. Her feet barely audibly slapped on the tiles of the communal shower room.
"I remember how aliens, former slaves, used to writhe from this at first. We, especially on a military ship, don't bother with such things. What is natural is not ugly, and excessive shame can be harmful. But it's cool, those Asari screamed about primality, although who wouldn't object. Now they probably say at home how barbaric we are. Still, life in the galaxy has changed a lot in six months. As have I. I joined the club of the augmented," Artyom mused mentally, adjusting the water with a gesture of his augmented hand, making it almost icy.
The showers on the "Normandy" had no symbolic partitions, for safety reasons. Just one large room that could be used as a shower, pool, and sauna. The tiles were not ceramic, but a complex composite that became soft under sudden load. Falling on such a surface, it was almost impossible to get hurt.
"Thank you for your time," Miranda broke the silence after about five minutes.
Feeling her gaze, Shep, turning his head, said:
"You're welcome..." he shrugged and froze.
After the modifications, he had many scars that couldn't disappear even with monstrous regeneration. And the process was, to put it mildly, unpleasant. Some manipulations had to be performed under local anesthesia, or even without it. Therefore, his scars were difficult to surprise...
"I don't like it," Miranda stated, her tone reproachful, tinged with a plea, as she shivered from the man's too-intense gaze.
"You started it," Artem said, trying to keep his voice casual, turning away instantly and squeezing his eyes shut with effort. The man tried to banish the image seared onto his retina.
Her perfect back bore too many scars, descending from her buttocks to her legs and further to her feet, forming circles on her joints. Moreover, the smooth, chalk-white skin, besides the neuro-contacts, was crisscrossed with craters of unknown origin. He had far fewer from all his modifications and injuries!
"That's from biopsies and implantations," the investigator said dryly, speaking first again. "Father took samples once a month, improving something along the way."
"So that's why she doesn't like to be touched... My guys were asking about all sorts of things. But Stas, even though he's sick, is on a different track, and wouldn't do that to his sister's clone... No matter how much of a freak he is, he loved Vera as a brother."
"Technically, he's your brother..."
"Technically, my sister isn't my sister, but my improved copy," the girl interrupted, adding coldness to her voice. "You can't explain the full subtlety and nuances of what's happening to a small child."
Even the water seemed to quiet down, as if freezing from this cold.
"I know from experience, but it's better this way than..." Miranda continued, much warmer. "They'll help her at the orphanage... And him... I don't hold a grudge against him. He got what he deserved... I hope they'll cure him at the clinic. Father is a good scientist. Thanks to his research, he made many discoveries..."
"I know, but you talk about it so calmly..."
"And who said it was easy?" she retorted. "What's done cannot be undone. He exploited a loophole in the system. It's been closed. No one else will suffer like that. To take revenge on a sick, broken man... You didn't, even though you had the right."
"It's a bit more complicated," Artem sighed, sending Miranda a mental image of the mess in his soul.
The investigator fell silent again, processing the mental message before replying: "That wasn't necessary..."
"No," the captain shook his head, interrupting her before she could finish. "Honesty for honesty. Trust must be mutual."
Sighing again, he added verbally, attaching a new image: "I won't tell anyone."
"Tactful, but it doesn't matter..." she stated.
"Don't be disingenuous," he said, turning off the water and trying not to look at the investigator. "I feel what you feel. You know yourself. That's why I only started sending images at the end. I know how to keep other people's mental cockroaches. And the mission hasn't been canceled. I'm still assigned to watch over you."
"Now you're being disingenuous," the girl said, smiling slightly, judging by the sound.
"I won't even argue," Shep conceded.
"Pain, it's like that – it brings people together," he noted to himself, tapping on the tiles, giving Miranda a moment alone. Waves of suppressed pain, anger, and something else emanated from her in the "Collective."
As soon as he approached the locker where the robot steward had delivered his uniform, the ship's AI's hologram lit up next to him, flickering slightly with movement.
"The ship's commander is summoning you to the bridge," Suzie said through the speakers, glancing at the figure of the naked man, who was drying himself with a towel, his eyes woven from light.
Making a clicking sound with her tongue, which she never had, the artificial intelligence added slyly, "Now I understand why..." – but stopped, reading in the captain's returning gaze everything he thought of her and her lewd hints. "I just wanted to make a joke to lighten the mood. Your cortisol levels are elevated!"
"Just don't say anything stupid in front of Miranda," he said dryly, without breaking visual contact. "I'll be there in five minutes."
"I'm a machine, but I have feelings!" the electronic personality exclaimed indignantly. "By the way, I sent away a couple of technicians who decided to freshen up so you could... talk."
"Don't make ambiguous pauses," Artem grumbled, pulling on his breeches. "I'm sorry, of course, but I'm not in the mood."
After this phrase, he headed for the exit, hopping into his boots and pulling on the rest of his clothes on the go.
"Organics always have everything through..." Suzie threw after his retreating back, without malice, hearing a quiet "Thank you" from the departing man...
Ferrion stood before the door of his parents' house. He hesitated slightly and was in no hurry to place his hand on the sensor. The warrior, in his brand-new Hierarchy uniform, where the Soviet "Medal for Courage" gleamed on his knee among the awards, finally exhaled and stopped.
Captivity, slave shackles, an attempt to sell his life dearly but remain free, a sudden rescue, six months of rehabilitation in the USSR, "enlightenment," returning to Citadel Space – each of these events individually changed him, and all of them together simply reforged him into a new being.
The Tessaract had been collected and serious before, but after what he had learned, what he had seen with his own eyes, he looked at the sights of Palaven anew. By revealing the truth to him, his friends from the Union had planted a war in his heart, and the Turian understood that it would be with him forever. He saw his native home, places familiar since childhood, and simultaneously heard the shots, explosions, and screams of the future.
It was shocking to learn about the timer counting down to the end, and even more shocking was to learn how much time was supposedly left until that end. Even if he might not live to see it, his children and grandchildren would. The most terrible thing was that he could not tell anyone about this burden of knowledge. The memetic encoding simply would not allow him to utter it aloud, write it, or even extract this information from his memory! The only thing he could do was hint at it with those who shared this truth with the USSR...
Therefore, he joyfully accepted the Primarch's invitation for an audience. His duty now was to prepare the Hierarchy for the coming storm... but for now, the soldier had simply returned home.
Adjusting his tunic, he resolutely placed his hand on the sensor. Today, he would allow himself to rest, because the battle for him would not end even with death!
"We are not stokers, not carpenters, but we have no bitter regrets, no regrets at all!" Grox sang with delight, trying to hum quietly (to himself), compensating for it with the clatter of the assault rifle he was assembling, specially made by Soviet gunsmiths for the hand of his new Krogan comrade. And he did it with such love and dedication, radiating such pleasure into the "Collective" that those around him couldn't help but smile when they felt it.
The Krogan had fallen in love with the modernized "Kalashnikov Assault Rifle" and its bolter cartridges at first sight. It was a brutal weapon for a real man and warrior, not like those Turian peashooters! Where their little rifle made a neat little hole, this one tore off limbs and blew chests to shreds, forcing anyone to think hard with a well-aimed shot! Perhaps that's why he didn't crush the half-asses and became a Soviet citizen without hesitation? The Krogan, with the permanently attached callsign "Shovel," didn't know this.
But he appreciated all the advantages of this decision right away, like a good hook to the head! Not only was he treated for free, even though some methods got to him, before deciding to change his environment, but upon receiving his citizen's passport and stuffing it into his wide pants, he realized: "Things are looking up." In space, as soon as a mercenary entered "civilized society," everyone they met would make a face as if they had smelled fresh shit, but here he was a "valuable specialist"!
No one talked to him through clenched teeth... Not that Shovel was against it, sometimes their minced meat flies out of their jaws quite amusingly, but how unexpectedly and pleasantly it was to just go, get some booze, and drink moderately without hearing anything addressed to him! He got enough beatings in his new job now...
He hadn't expected to get involved in the army, only with a nuance. There were no mercenaries in the USSR, but for those who preferred to feel the wind of freedom in their ass rather than the breath of a commander, there was the path of free hunters. Essentially, the same mercenaries, but under state protection. You undergo training, create an artel, officially register it, and you're given tasks, and then you hustle as best you can. Plenty of profit, but proportionally shit. Whether your ass will be saved in case of trouble is another question...
After browsing the job market, Shovel joined the free hunters' artel "Testers," under the command of Xenobyte. A solid company by hunter standards. And not bad by army unit standards either. They had enough manpower to handle a couple of dozen orders for exploring wild space. The artel followed reconnaissance coordinates, checking star systems for all sorts of things and their suitability for settlement, while also completing overtime.
The commander was bold and somewhat foolish, but his head worked well. After the conversation, he assigned him to one of the groups where a skeleton was already hanging out without their clan tattoos, as he put it, "for a trial." True, after reading the Krogan's dossier, he laughed like a madman for twenty minutes, and then whistled for a subordinate and gifted him a sapper shovel, though for some reason wrapped in barbed wire, but Shovel wouldn't have been himself if he hadn't accepted the gift.
He worked well with the team, though they all roared with laughter when they heard his now official callsign, and died laughing, pissing on the ceiling, when they learned where it came from... So what? So what! Biotics, it's all biotics! A little idiot, not only was he his kinsman. He knocked the shotgun out of his hands with a shove, and then beat him to death with a shovel, because why the hell not!
He had already managed to complete a couple of runs on orders, realizing where the USSR was heading, the thresher doesn't crawl to shit! In a seemingly verified system, they found ruins of an unknown civilization, and then some killer shit just activated, killing the army scouts. That's why they were called... The Krogan had never seen such a glorious fight in his life, and he had seen a lot of carnage.
Now, as the more experienced comrades said, they were in deep shit. Not only did the contract stipulate providing assistance to operative "Argentum," but it turned out to be the legendary Captain Shep, for whom every mission was a disaster! Therefore, the mercenary was in high spirits, because the old wounds on his leg simply signaled a battle. He simply anticipated the challenge for himself...
The door to the briefing room hissed open, and the mentioned captain strode into the room, greeting those gathered as he went. Slapping the holographic projector, activating it, he began assigning tasks:
"We've been tasked with checking and clearing the sector..." the man began, and the Krogan's smile grew wider and wider. It wasn't for nothing that he had taken a jetpack. Even he knew this area of space! Perhaps he would break more than a few heads, and it would definitely be a fun activity for a real man!