Victus can't help but grin wide enough to make his mandibles ache as Jane turns, squeezing herself between the front seats in the crowded skycar to holler at the lunatics in the back. "Aren't you all supposed to be strapped in?" Even though she raises her voice, he can barely hear her over the blaring music of the Garrus-led air band performance.
Zirra interupts her back up vocal and air guitar performance to say, "We are, Ama. See?" The tiny turian holds out her belt, her expression gorgeously earnest. "A seatbelt can't stop me from shredding it on my axe."
Sinking back into her seat, Shepard lets out a tremulous breath. "Sweet lord, I'm an ama."
Shepard's words disappear into the family's reaction to their smallest thrash rocker, but they resonate deep in Victus's gut. His dilan reaches out, laying a hand on his thigh. He understands. Sometimes joy proves as terrifying as the battlefield … perhaps moreso. At least they knew their place amidst the horrific reality of battle. Happiness … peace … comfort … they're all still learning to trust those foreign concepts.
Adrien covers Shepard's fingers with his talons, supporting her with a gentle squeeze. He knows that she just needs to check in, and it's his privilege to become her anchor for as long as she needs one. And she needs one more than she'll ever admit. He meets her gaze for a handful of heartbeats before the world outside the windows demands her attention. She looks away, the sun leaving him in shade.
The awe in her voice leaves no doubt as to whether or not the view inspires her as she asks, "Where have you brought us, caris? Family picnic in heaven?" Her hand slips out from under his to grip the car door.
He doesn't need to reply, because the next moment, he guides the car below the forest canopy, revealing their destination. A large log house stands in the center of a broad clearing, its windows intact, its deep, violet-silver logs free of any trace of soot or damage. It's a decidedly new addition to the vista and the answer to a great many of his hopes and dreams.
Yep, these two crazy kids are coming back this summer! I’ve been rereading Future Imperfect and Machinations to prepare, so get ready … summer 2020 is the summer of da werdzzzzz!!!!!
Hello, everyone! @excessiveturianflexing was kind enough to hand me the reins for Primarch Week 2020 and I couldn’t be more excited. I think we can all agree that this year has… sucked. But you know who doesn’t suck? Adrien Victus.
This turian captured my heart with “Ah, Commander, I know who you are. I can’t wait to find out what brings you out here.” And he held it long after finding him back on Earth, armored up, saying, “I wanted to return the favor in person.”
Of all the diplomats our poor Shepards have dealt with, he was one of the competent ones, but when I took to the fandom to sate my Victus thirst, I couldn’t find enough content to fill my cup. So, this week is all about showering this sorely underrated side character with the love he deserves.
From Sunday, July 5th to Saturday, July 11th, bring your screenshots, doodles, gifs, drabbles, macaroni art, and anything else and tag them with #PrimarchWeek!
Watch: In a powerful Congresional speech, Sandra Bland’s mother called people who think they’re woke “the walking dead” because of how little we still know
The speech included a rousing call to action before the newly formed Congressional Caucus On Black Women & Girls. And her words were incredibly resonant, even if you think you know the whole story.
Yep, these two crazy kids are coming back this summer! I’ve been rereading Future Imperfect and Machinations to prepare, so get ready ... summer 2020 is the summer of da werdzzzzz!!!!!
It came into my life during a time when I had lost something very important to me, and I was struggling to find myself creatively. Writing and fanfiction had always been important, but back in those days I had really lost myself. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t draw, I couldn’t seem to do anything artistic at all. I had no enthusiasm for anything.
And then I played Mass Effect and my world changed. Not just because it was fun and vibrant, or because it showed me a world that I could have a hand in shaping, romances I could sink me teeth into, and characters I could fall in love with, but because the story touched something inside of me.
I felt like I came alive again. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to write; to create! My Shepards were talking in my head so loudly that I began writing … and here I am - all these years later - still working away at their stories. I love all the characters, even the ones I love to hate. But most importantly, I love what the Mass Effect has given me.
It has given me a wonderful community of people who I adore - the Mass Effect Fanfiction Writers Group (MEFFW) on Facebook. A group of people who support each others writing, who build each other up, and who have created a safe and welcoming space. I won’t mention all the people by name, but they know who they are, and they know that I love them dearly.
It has given me the Mass Effect Writing Circle on discord - a group of wonderful, friendly, and accepting people who enjoy writing, who never judge each other, who laugh as they write and celebrate the act of creation. These people are my friends and my drinking buddies. They keep my sane and I adore them.
It has given me my best friend @tlcinbflo who I love and adore more than I can say, I even flew around the world to see her. It has given me my fandom mother, who taught me how to take my writing to the next level, @juleshawke. It has given me my loving sinnamon sister who never judges me and is always there when I need help, @hawkeykirsah.
I love Mass Effect, I love that this fandom gave me back my ability to write and my passion for life again, and that it gave me so many friends.
Thank you Bioware for Mass Effect.
To Celebrate I’m going to be doing a Flash Giveaway of the following:
Prize 1: A Custom Ryder Funko Pop Vinyl
Using either a Sara Ryder or Liam Kosta body, I’ll make you a custom Ryder Pop Vinyl. I’ll paint the armour and find a new head (and paint that too if needed) to suit your Ryder as best I can. These customs cost $70usd normally.
(* I will paint biotic eyes and paint some tattoos)
Prize 2: $20 of Mass Effect Fandom Tea
You pick the teas and I’ll have them shipped to you! ^_^ Though they must come from my Mass Effect Fandom collection.
Rules/Conditions
1. Like & Reblog for 1 entry. Extra reblogs will get you more entries.
2. Followers only, though new followers are more than welcome! ^_^
3. No giveaway blogs etc.
4. Winners will be chosen by random number generator. Winner #1 will get to pick their prize first. Winner #2 will get the remaining prize.
5. You must be comfortable giving me your email and physical address as I will have to communicate with you about the pop vinyl and then post it to you.
The giveaway will run for 1 Week and will end on the 14th of November - 11pm Australian Eastern Standard Time!
No one knew, really, what Shepard had to do to make N7. They talked, they guessed, in the end they just made shit up – but no one knew.
In which Yvaine Ryder meets Eliza Shepard.
Someone who didn’t know better would think Alec Ryder had never been discharged at all, the way he glad-handed across the reception hall, slapping shoulders and shaking hands like he still belonged here, with all the other Alliance types. Yvaine watched him, laughing over champagne like nothing had changed, and shoved her own glass aside before she could do something stupid or embarrassing, like shatter it with a badly-timed corona flare.
The Ryder family name could stand up to a lot, judging by how no one openly rejected her dad, but public displays of idiocy would definitely cross the line.
“I need some air,” she yelled in Scott’s ear. If he heard her over the music, he didn’t act like it. Just kept bobbing his head and making eyes at one of asari across the way.
Good luck with that, Yvaine thought, her throat hot, and headed for the door to the balcony. That’s one of Matriarch Odrade’s acolytes. You’ll have better luck getting inside that volus’ suit than her panties. Or whatever she’s wearing under that dress.
She made it outside just before the headache hit and left her reeling and dizzy and more than a little sick to her stomach. Shit. Not another migraine, not tonight.
Weakness was the one unforgivable sin in this family, she reminded herself, and forced herself to keep walking, even though the lights made her temples pound and her mouth had gone all dry and sour. Sure, she could get her amp replaced, again, but that meant surgery, and recovery time, and she still wasn’t guaranteed a fix.
Dad would tell her to work through the pain, that she could always find a way to succeed, no matter the odds, but then he didn’t have a fucked-up nervous system, did he? And even if he did, with Dad’s luck, he’d just sail through without a headache or any of the other hundred bullshit ways biotics messed with your life.
Garrus watched Sophie Hakansson through the two way mirror for over an hour before going into the interrogation room. The entire situation set his teeth grinding, and something about the girl just added to what his boss called 'the screaming willies'. She was hiding something from him, a rare enough occurrence to be noteworthy, and he needed a better read on her before going in. After what happened to her sister, cops would amount to nothing more than spurin trying to get in her way. In her world, killers played the hero roles.
Not that it mattered, but just maybe they did in his as well.
He crossed his arms and slouched in his chair, broadcasting a careless nonchalance despite her not being able to see him. Energy travelled and infected everyone around it, and he needed her calm and cooperative.
Within five minutes of arriving, when he heard her stomach growling through the recording equipment, he sent a patrolman out to bring the young woman some lunch. Fifteen minutes later, Nihlus set a burger and fries from the most popular restaurant on the Citadel in front of her. Garrus's partner smiled, nodded in answer to her thanks, then left the atmosphere in the room calm and grateful. Despite his drinking, Nihlus was the only one Garrus trusted to read the situation and not set everything back with random stulti conversation or questions.
Sophie tore into the food, shoving it in like she hadn't eaten in weeks. When the meal vanished in under two minutes, leaving her staring at the wrappers as though she wanted nothing more than to pick them up and lick them clean, he sent for another, making himself comfortable in the observation room.
"Turn on the vid screen for her," Garrus ordered, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at the tech. "Let's see where Sophie Hakansson's mind is."
"Even the porn channels?" the torin asked without looking away from his screens.
Garrus twisted in his seat, laser stare drilling through the back of the tech's head until the torin squirmed in his chair. Sneaking a peek over his shoulder, the tech shrugged—slanted and pissed off—and looked back to his computer.
"Okay, fine, no porn channels," the tech whispered, muttering under his breath as he carried out his duties. "Precor SI's, all so fucking perfect, think they know every fucking thing."
"Really? You asked if you should open the porn channels for a barely grown teenager who was arrested while trying to find her sister at a slaughter-brothel, and I'm the spurin? Dear fucking spirits." After listening to a couple more grumbles, Garrus kicked the back of the fellow's chair. "Shut the fuck up. I'm sitting less than a metre away, I can hear the names you're muttering, obluvis."
Yup, Noir detective Garrus and his partner are back for a second day in a row. :D They make me happy.
Four hours later
Garrus leaned heavily on the toilet seat, saliva running from his mouth: a veritable waterfall splashing into the fouled water in the bowl. Staring at the remains of his breakfast, he let the misery of his rolling belly and acid-burned mouth crush down the horror and stink of the hotel basement. No idea how he’d managed to keep his tarc together until he got back to the precinct, he gave himself a few minutes to wallow in weary misery.
Spirits, he needed a drink. It’d be hours yet though. He wondered if Nihlus had succumbed to the siren call of his brandy, then chuffed as jealousy wandered through, throwing a smirk at him over its shoulder. Actually wishing he allowed himself the base level of his partner’s disillusionment? Well, he supposed there was a first time for everything.
The washroom door opened, mechanism squeaking and grinding before the door slammed into the wall.
“Tarc!” He jumped, the scare tossing his stomach back into dry-heaving. Muscles tying themselves into knots, throat burning, he managed to get up a little swallowed spit before collapsing back over the toilet. They really needed to fix that fucking door. He groped for the toilet paper, but then a couple of moist cloth packets and a bottle of water appeared under the stall divider.
“You should drink some water. At the very least it’ll give you something to heave up,” Nihlus said through the metal. The toilet seat in the next stall thumped, a hollow echo through the space as Nihlus sat down. “Boss wants to see us. Figured you’d better not smell like half-digested drellak steak.” He chuffed. “Brush your teeth too. Spirits, what a reek. I can smell your breath from here.”
Yup, Noir detective Garrus and his partner are back for a second day in a row. :D They make me happy.
Four hours later
Garrus leaned heavily on the toilet seat, saliva running from his mouth: a veritable waterfall splashing into the fouled water in the bowl. Staring at the remains of his breakfast, he let the misery of his rolling belly and acid-burned mouth crush down the horror and stink of the hotel basement. No idea how he’d managed to keep his tarc together until he got back to the precinct, he gave himself a few minutes to wallow in weary misery.
Spirits, he needed a drink. It’d be hours yet though. He wondered if Nihlus had succumbed to the siren call of his brandy, then chuffed as jealousy wandered through, throwing a smirk at him over its shoulder. Actually wishing he allowed himself the base level of his partner’s disillusionment? Well, he supposed there was a first time for everything.
The washroom door opened, mechanism squeaking and grinding before the door slammed into the wall.
“Tarc!” He jumped, the scare tossing his stomach back into dry-heaving. Muscles tying themselves into knots, throat burning, he managed to get up a little swallowed spit before collapsing back over the toilet. They really needed to fix that fucking door. He groped for the toilet paper, but then a couple of moist cloth packets and a bottle of water appeared under the stall divider.
“You should drink some water. At the very least it’ll give you something to heave up,” Nihlus said through the metal. The toilet seat in the next stall thumped, a hollow echo through the space as Nihlus sat down. “Boss wants to see us. Figured you’d better not smell like half-digested drellak steak.” He chuffed. “Brush your teeth too. Spirits, what a reek. I can smell your breath from here.”
New Story! Yes, here it is, the novel version of my noir detective story starring Garrus. Originally, it was going to costar Kal’Reegar, but Nihlus decided he wanted to be a cop. :D So much intrigue awaits these crazy kids. Hope you enjoy.
The Masked Woman
On the Citadel, crime amounted to endless piles of the same thing. On the presidium, white collar formed the rule. The petty stuff stuck mostly to the wards, along with the truly horrific stuff. Sure, the odd presidium banker offed his mistress or a councillor hired someone to snuff a rival, but for true bloodsport, the real slippery, 'dear spirits, are those entrails on my talons' crime … Senior Investigator Garrus Vakarian bet on the wards every single time.
And he would have come out ahead until dispatch called him to the Crown and Dominion Hotel. The moment he crossed the threshold, all the pristine, white-tiled streets, parks, and lakes vanished into the sixth level of buratrum. Blood painted the expensive velvet-flocked wall paper three different hues and soaked the antique carpets. He looked down at the blood that seeped out of the rug to pool around his booted talons and waited for his gag reflex to respond.
When it only yawned, far too weary in the ways of slaughter, he sighed and looked up.
You've been a cop too long, Vakarian. You're officially jaded.
He held out his right hand, talons snapping. "Someone have some gloves and booties … or hip waders?" he called. He accepted a pair of rubberized booties from one of the crime scene techs and moved over to step into the antiseptic wash at the door. Boots clean, he slipped the covers over his talons. "Who was the first on the scene?"
A timid asari stepped forward, holding up her hand as if being called on in class. "I was the first here, sir. Patrolman Sirri S'tilla."
He shrugged off her name, not caring. "You don't need to sir me, patrolman," he said, snapping latex gloves on over his uniform ones. "I work for a living." He jerked his head toward the macabre scene behind him. "Walk me through it."
Garrus begins his journey down the rabbit hole, on a collision course with Jane Shepard, heiress, woman of dubious morals, and femme fatale. From what will be a co-written project with @azzydarling
The Slaughtered Brothel
Buratrum -- The turian equivalent of hell. The realm of spirits of dishonourable association.
Nais -- Asari having reached the age of maiden (40)
Senior Investigator Garrus Vakarian stepped across the threshold, moving from pristine, white tiled streets, parks, and lakes into the sixth level of buratrum. Blood washed the expensive velvet-flocked wall paper and soaked the antique carpets. He looked down at the blood that seeped out of the rug to pool around his booted talons and waited for his gag reflex to respond.
When it only yawned, far too weary in the ways of slaughter, he sighed and looked up. “Someone have some booties … or hip waders?” he called. He accepted a pair of rubberized booties from one of the crime scene techs and moved over to step into the antiseptic wash at the door. Boots clean, he slipped the covers over his talons. “Who was the first on the scene?”
A timid asari stepped forward, holding up her hand as if being called on in class. “I was the first here, sir.”
“You don’t need to sir me, patrolman,” he said, snapping latex gloves on over his uniform ones. “I work for a living.” He jerked his head toward the macabre scene behind him. “Walk me through it.”
He followed the young officer to the door, a wry flick of mandibles greeting her literal interpretation of ‘walk me through it’.
“My partner entered through the rear door while I made ingress through the front,” she said, walking the path she’d taken. She pointed toward a young human female handcuffed over by the hotel’s front desk. “I saw that human searching through the cupboards under the bar. I ordered her to freeze. She complied and I cuffed her. I proceeded into the lobby and that’s when I saw the bodies and called it in.”
Teeth clenched, Garrus tuned most of the rest of the report out, focusing most of his attention to scrutinizing the crime scene. One of the most expensive hotels on the presidium, it boasted a clientele of only the top one percent of the one percenters. What in the name of buratrum could have happened there?
“I took pictures before I pried a thumb off their … “ She cleared her throat. “... equipment and ran fingerprints,” the officer said, pointing to the staged bodies. Each posed as if killed in the act of masturbating, the bodies all boasted a clean, deep slash across their neck and a lap-full of entrails. “Every last one of these corpses is a known slaver. Two of them are near the top of the Trafficking Bureau’s most wanted list.”
Garrus’s brow plates migrated toward his nose, his practiced calm cracking for a moment. “Slavers?” He held up a talon to circle the corpses. “None of these are guests? None staying in the hotel?” Surprise faded into curiosity, then into logical process. Even the smallest measure of emotion got in the way of a solid investigation. “Their posing suggests this hotel was a front for a prostitution ring as well.”
“Yes, sir … I mean, sorry, SI Vakarian. And, no, none of these bodies are registered guests. The guests in the upper levels are all unharmed. The perpetrators locked down all the rooms prior to the attack.” The officer blushed a deeper violet. “As for prostitution … there are two sublevels accessible only by a keyed elevator in the hotel offices. In the rooms down there, we found males and females of all species, even a salarian and a hanar. All tell the same story … they were taken from their home colonies or snatched off the streets of Omega … even the Wards here. When they woke up, they were told they could work off their freedom.” The nais shuddered.
“What is it?” Garrus narrowed his eyes, studying the asari’s face. Something had her rattled, and as much as he might want to chalk it up to a disturbing crime scene, he didn’t think so.
Taking a gulping breath, the officer shrugged. “The clientele here clearly have brutal tastes, SI. The slaves down there are in rough shape.”
Silently thanking her for the chance to mentally prepare himself, he locked down the knot in his guts and turned his attention to the prisoner. “What’s her story?”
The nais changed tack with obvious gratitude, spinning to face the young human. “The prisoner’s name is Sophie Hakansson. She’s twenty-three and moved here from Earth three cycles ago. Lives alone.” She scrolled down through her notes. “Works for Shepard Industrial in the Security Mech Division as a computer tech.”
“And what was she doing here?” He eyeballed her clothing. She was too clean to have slit even one throat let alone twelve. Still, she didn’t look the slightest bit surprised or horrified by the scene. He squinted and crouched down, one forearm braced across his thigh, his visor feeding back her biometrics.
“She says that she heard that this place was a slaving hub and came to try to find her sister.” The officer checked her notes. “Apparently, her thirteen-cycle-old sister was grabbed by slavers just over a year ago.”
At the mention of the sister, Sophie’s heart rate jumped and her jaw clenched. That much was true. After another second, he stood. “Continue, Officer.”
The asari nodded and held out an arm toward the door behind the counter. “I continued through to the hotel offices, and found the owner and night clerk both … ” She led the way through the door, stalling just inside. “... like this.”
Garrus’s mandibles flicked. Two human males hung from massive wooden bookshelves. Their attackers had slit their throats and bellies, but these bodies had been nailed to the shelves with their arms outstretched, their feet pointed toward the ground. “Crucified,” he whispered, the mystery piquing the macabre part of his brain that found such brutal statements fascinating.
“Whoever did this doesn’t just hate slavers,” he said, leaning in. “No, this goes way deeper than hate.” Straightening, he glanced back at the patrolman. “Officer, do you think you could locate my partner?”
Posting for @meflashfanwork‘s July theme of beginnings.
The first chapter of a papa!Zaeed fic I’ve been playing with for years. Hopefully more to come, eventually.
Beta’d by the lovely @pixelatrix & @garruskrazykanuck. Thanks y’all :D
Thanks in advance for reading. Comments & reblogs are welcome :)
2165 - Somewhere on the edge of the Skyllian Verge
As a bullet pierced his skull with an earsplitting crack, Zaeed Massani wondered exactly where he’d gone wrong in life. He’d been no saint, that was for goddamn sure, but he hadn’t been a devil either. That title had gone to his ex-partner, who’d already begun walking away before Zaeed had hit the pavement.
He decided that had been his big mistake: partnering with Vido Santiago in the first place. Granted, they’d had a good run, five years running the Blue Suns. And then Vido had… changed.
No, that wasn’t it. He hadn’t just up and changed all of a sudden. He’d always been a greedy bastard, so Zaeed knew he really should have seen it coming long before he did. Long before Vido had walked into their shared office one morning, declaring that the Blue Suns were hiring batarians, effective immediately.
Zaeed had argued against it even though he’d known he’d lose the fight, right from the beginning. He’d been in charge of the men, but Vido was in charge of the coin and in the end, that was all that goddamn mattered, the coin. That was all that ever mattered to Vido. The bastard didn’t give a toss about who lived or died as long as he got paid.
The sound of echoing footsteps in the alley brought Zaeed sharply back to the present. He opened his one good eye just enough to see a flash of purple hurry over to where he lay.
“Oh you fucking idiot, what’d you get yourself into now?” a familiar female voice murmured as she gently poked and prodded at his head, apparently assessing the damage.
Bloody perfect, Zaeed thought. That was all he needed, completely at the mercy of that goddamn asari. If he made it out of this, he knew he’d never live down the story of how Aria T’Loak had saved his worthless hide.
Art by the fabulous Commander Hot Pants for this, my MEBB submission this year.
So, I started a thing ... a Primarch Victus/Shepard romance, and it has taken over a big part of my soul. A portion of the first chapter is below. The rest can be found here:
Menae’s thin atmosphere bites at the inside of General Adrien Victus’s nostrils, cold and metallic, bearing thin layers of smoke, spent heat sinks, and death. He draws in a deep breath, pulling that scent all the way down into his soul. The smell of battle, a stink he both hates and loves. Hates … . He doesn’t have to look far to see why he hates it. Less than a metre away, too many bodybags wait to be burned.
“General?”
He turns toward the call, but doesn’t speak. After so many days of shouting orders, his voice … well, flat and hoarse can’t begin to describe it. Instead, he raises his brow plates and nods, encouraging the young officer, Ralayis, to speak.
“Our scouts report three soldiers fighting their way down the valley,” she said, stiffening to attention. “Looks like two humans and Vakarian, sir.”
Relief in the form of three soldiers? High command’s idea of a joke, surely. Hiding his disappointment and the growing weight of disaster, he nods to dismiss her. Despite his dismissal, she remains, trembling and eager, the very picture of why he loves war as much as he hates it. Spirits, they make his heart ache behind his keel … so beautiful in their eager courage, in the purity of life distilled to its barest essence.
“I think it’s Commander Shepard, sir.” Ralayis grins, her mandibles flicking so hard it must hurt. He opens his mouth to question her, but before he speaks, she spins on her talons and bolts back to the gate, no doubt wanting to witness the famous human’s arrival.
The deep, pulsing beat of battle rolls out of the canyon to the east, the music growing clearer as it pushes through the smashed gates of the camp. Shepard? Maybe command hasn’t abandoned them after all. If Vakarian is with her—and all his wild stories can be believed—the tide can turn to their favour at a moment’s notice. Hope sparks, a low candle flame warming the back of his neck.
Anticipation murmurs through the ranks like a wind storm, gathering strength as his people strain, leaning over barricades and climbing up onto roofs of shelters to see. Victus merely watches despite their infectious enthusiasm. Behind his keel, his heart pounds just as quick and fierce as theirs, but he holds himself separate, aloof and unflappable, as is proper. Regardless of this rare breath of hope, the battle rages around them, and someone needs to keep their head in the fight while the rest snap holos and ask for autographs.
Shadows, black against the eternal grey, announce Harvesters soaring in from the west. He chuffs softly to himself at the Reapers’ timing—he didn’t need them to help emphasize the point—then bulwarks his spine, dropping his shoulders. Units drop, covering the ground in a thick layer of opposition to crush the newcomers and the hope that races in on their heels.
“Eyes and minds on the battle, quiritus!” he hollers. “Let’s show these bastards what we’re made of.” Not that the Reapers care; the units that come for them are dispassionate corpses kept moving by tech and Reaper commands. He dispatches five of the batarian cannibals, taking down one, then tossing a grenade to finish off the four that cluster around it to feast. But no sooner do those fall than three of the turian units and a brute replace them.
He finds it both telling and ironic that the Reapers should so fear the arrival of a few, or maybe just the one, new soldier. They show their hand, and their level of fear, in their dedication to halting Shepard. Still, that’s a contemplation for a time with fewer bullets whistling past his head. Within moments, his rifle grows hot in his hands, barking out the familiar, almost cherished, rhythm of war.
His old bones complain and muscles tremble as the Reaper units drop faster than his beleaguered people can kill them. It appears that the enemy intends to leave no one for Shepard to save if they can’t stop her advance. Young, promising turians crumple, dragged to medics or placed in lines and covered, and still the Harvesters come. But then he hears the incoming fight closing on the camp. Part of him reels out, straining to pull the three extra guns in to help weather the storm. If only they can hold out for a few more seconds.
“Come on, quiritus! Let’s drive these bastards straight to buratrum!”
A Marauder holds his attention when a gestellan wind roars through camp, announced by rockets detonating amidst the enemy ranks. As the C&C unit reaches over the wall, dagger-like talons grappling at Victus’s armour, a volley of rockets blow it to buratrum. Searing shrapnel slices into his exposed head and neck, pulling a hoarse bellow from raw vocal chords. The explosion leaves his head ringing and his senses dazed.
A strong, feminine voice breaks through the tinnitus.
“Garrus, push that brute back on the right.” Spirits, she’s tiny compared to her turian and human companion. At least she seems so through the blurry fog. He squints at the figure in jet-black armour races through the middle of camp, leaps over a shipping container, and springs onto the high ground on the south side of camp. Amazing him, she barely pauses as she runs over the uneven ground tapping at her omnitool to send a heavy blast of energy arcing along another C&C unit. It drops, cursing in garbled machine language as her rifle pounds two keenly aimed rounds through its head.
Victus pushes himself up off the shed floor as the soldier stops behind a half-wall of hastily piled rock, but doesn’t take cover. Despite his still-ringing head, he lifts his rifle as she hollers, “James, burn down that second brute’s armour.” Surely, he can manage to hit a target as large as a brute. He doesn’t fire, though, his attention on her. Fingers dance over her omnitool again, sending a searing incendiary blast to assist with that goal. “Don’t let them get up to the sheds. Keep them off the turians.”
“Does that include me?” Vakarian hollers back. A warm chortle rolls up Victus’s throat.
A brilliant, almost manic, smile flashes across her face. “Of course not, stop being a big baby, and get your ass up here.”
For long, dragging seconds, heart thundering and hands numb, Victus stares at the praela who fights toward his position, blowing in on a wind of fire and ash like the warrior goddesses of myth. Energy and purpose pour through flagging muscles and straining lungs. He clenches his rifle tight, his head finally clearing. They can’t lose, not with the spirit of war on their side.
