Mass Effect Andromeda: Broken Monolith
Hi! A reader on my ME: Andromeda Fanfic continuation suggested that I post my work here on Tumblr for #meaweek2026! Hopefully some of you will get a kick out of it.
It's an OC centric plot following the events of the main game + tie-in novels (with some flashbacks in the OT timeline). Following APEX Operative Cheyenne Grayson, who is forced to confront sins she thought were left in the Milky Way when a Remnant Monolith is obliterated before her very eyes.
--- Chapter 1 is below with a link to the first five chapters on AO3 (See AO3 tags for content warnings)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 1 - The White Lance
Andromeda had offered a bold new horizon. A new beginning. From what Grayson had seen, it looked a hell of a lot like the old, just as alien and safer down the barrel of a gun. Out of all the planets in Heleus, Kadara represented the very worst.
There was a haze in the air as they touched down at Kadara Port. Had it been any other sun in any other sky, one might deem it a glorious summer afternoon. Here, it just made the smell worse.
Having grown up on the Citadel, the heat didn’t suit her; seasons were as foreign to her as Heleus itself. Should she ever meet Pathfinder Ryder, she’d have a word with them about adjusting the climate controls. Her black hair hung shapeless, slick with sweat, on each side of her face. Her fair skin would be red raw by the time dusk fell.
The locals didn’t seem bothered. In the short walk from the dock to Kralla’s Song Bar, the people she’d seen were just as unchained and desperate as ever. Every corner and shadowed recess carried its own hostility; behind each lurked someone destitute. Grayson couldn’t help but consider how each one of these people had embraced the promise of a new beginning; instead of exploration, they had found new gutters to die in. Exile security roamed like the gangs that once plagued her in the depths of Bachjret Ward. They may well have hounded her if not for her APEX badge on her armour and the Carnifex on her hip.
Kralla’s Song was the premier bar at the port. Most likely, people were too afraid to say differently lest they face the wrath of the asari working the bar. Judging by the noise from within, she was having a busy afternoon.
A turian merc manned the front door. Leaning against the wall, she toyed with her weapon as if on break. On the ground next to her, there was a dark puddle rendered sticky in the heat. Her head turned in Grayson’s direction; beneath her eyes of vibrant gold lay a cold, sharp intensity. Grayson didn’t let it penetrate her guard. As the turian eyed Grayson, Grayson eyed her right back. In her experience, blinking was as good as cowering with turians. After a brief moment, the woman’s facial plates shifted and the skin under her eyes softened. If turians could smirk, she supposed that was it. The turian looked her up and down once more, slower, too.
Grayson let her look but brushed right by, stepping over the dubious liquid and inside. An assorted mix of bodies filled the bar: turian, angara, asari, human, all warm-blooded and compounding the humidity. A little AC was probably out of the question.
She pushed through the crowd and down the stairs. Only one patron took exception. A dark-skinned man who turned around with his fist clenched and ready, his drink half spilt.
“Bitch.”
More hot air. Just what the room needed. Grayson scanned the crowd for her contact. An angara and local Remnant expert, male, purple-skinned, with a pale face and crimson markings under the eyes, according to his last official picture. There was plenty of angara around. A green-skinned gambler stood hunched over a quasar machine, trying to puzzle out the alien game in his half-drunken state. Beyond him was an older man with features etched with deep scarring; he held a blade towards a salarian as if threatening to fillet him. He didn’t look like an expert in anything; no red markings either. Lastly, she spotted two angara guys sitting near the bar; her eyes didn’t linger as they set about devouring each other’s faces with the hunger of two starved varren.
Grayson touched down at the bar; the asari bartender was busy with a cocktail shaker. Her vigil remained constant over the bar even as she chatted to another salarian patron. Even with so much on her plate, she noted Grayson’s arrival with a subtle nod.
After two minutes or thereabouts, she finally made it to Grayson’s end of the bar.
“APEX? Need a liquid painkiller or what?”
“Information.”
The woman’s face dropped from neutral to pissed. She pointed back over her shoulder at the various bottles awaiting drinkers.
“Fresh out, got plenty of whisky though.”
“I’m looking for an angara.”
“Aren’t we all, honey?”
“He’s a doctor. Name of Foahl.”
“Foahl, huh? I know him. Doesn’t drink much. Been taking up table space all day. Take him.”
The asari pointed beyond a cluster of buzzing marauder types. Before Grayson could ask anything else, the bartender had honed in on a krogan dinosaur and greeted him like an old regular.
Foahl was just as described. A little larger in the shoulders than she expected, and his face had signs of battle damage speckled over it. He was dressed in an outfit of purple cracked leather and, in typical angaran style, a dusty orange cloak draped over his shoulders. The top half of his face was half concealed by a holo-visor displaying a blue stream of data reeling by his eye. She could see points of his red facial markings poking from beneath it.
He sat alone. Upon the round table in front of him, there was a purple drink with sparkling bubbles dancing on the surface. Images of angular symbols were displayed on his datapad. She recognised some from Remnant sites, although their meanings were lost on her. Grayson approached, stopping just short of the table as if to sit down.
“Dr Foahl?”
“Yes,” he said, a remarkable firmness in his voice, “APEX?”
“That’s right. My name is Operative Cheyenne Grayson.”
“I don’t need your name, human.”
Babysitting her team was bad enough; a VIP with attitude problems was the last thing she needed.
“The Initiative has assigned my gun to you. My name comes with it.”
He looked up from his datapad, his eyes following half a second later. They narrowed, his top lip curling as if she’d thrown a drink in his face.
“Fine. Understand this: I did not ask for the Initiative’s assistance. Consider it a joke by my people.”
She folded her arms, not fancying the idea of being a punchline.
“I’ve yet to meet a funny angara,” she said, “the Resistance lacks a significant presence on Kadara. The Initiative has settlements and a working relationship with the locals. So here we are. We have a shuttle ready to get you to Thanax Outpost.”
The angara did not move. Instead, he raised his drink to his lips and took a long, but far from plentiful, sip. His gaze didn’t drop.
“Is your Pathfinder coming?”
“No.”
“Do you have a SAM?”
“No.”
He slammed the glass down hard enough that it rattled the table and had every patron within a ten-metre radius looking to see what the fuss was about.
“Then your Initiative plays a joke on me as well.”
Grayson turned to the onlookers. In any other bar, in any other port, she’d have told them to mind their own damned business. She looked back at the doctor, who was assessing her with his dark eyes.
“Maybe it is a joke,” she said. “If it is, I’m not in on it. What is your problem?”
He took one last drink, three heavy gulps, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Foahl blinked at her; his mouth opened, but words took a moment to form.
“I think you know.”
“You’re a Roekaar. Was a Roekaar. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
She had read his dossier. He had studied the Remnant all his life. First, for the Resistance, then the Roekaar, and now with the Resistance once again.
“Yes. How does that make you feel?”
Grayson shrugged; everyone had their skeletons. Not everyone had the means to escape theirs by travelling two and a half million light-years away.
“It doesn’t.”
“It does, Operative Grayson. I can see it in you.”
“You’re mistaken,” she said, without the confidence she had been aiming for. “My squad’s assignment is to keep you safe. The background check was the Initiative doing its due diligence.”
The angara spluttered out something resembling a laugh. People were looking now, and she started to feel like a punchline. Or maybe he was; that would mean the joke was on her. That was a familiar feeling.
“Due diligence!?” he said. “You people landed blind in a hostile galaxy. Straight into the scourge.”
Frankly, he had a point. However, she would not concede such a thing aloud. Only when he had finished laughing did she speak.
“We’re still here.”
The mirth faded, as did his smile. He nodded.
“This mission is of grave importance,” he said, “from what my contact has told me, the Builders are not acting unpredictably as your report outlined; they are acting defensively. It is imperative that we find out why.”
Grayson shrugged; she wouldn’t argue with that. Nothing could be solved in Kralla’s Song, though.
“Then drink up, Doctor. Sooner we leave, sooner you can be rid of me and The Initiative. You can go back to quiet living after that.”
“I somehow doubt that,” he said.
***
The inertia dampeners were on the fritz. The shuttle rattled up, down, then side to side. It was enough to get Grayson’s stomach churning as they left port. Thankfully, Caevea was quick to compensate and put the thrusters into overdrive. Whether it was her flight training or turian constitution, Caevea seemed to be immune to the nausea of motion sickness.
In the back, Grayson sat between her squad mates like an icy wedge. T’Vara, the asari engineer, and Stephens, a fellow human. Stephens was a wiry man, boyish in the face, with quick green eyes. To look at his build alone, one might think he would struggle to fight off a cold. He was a complete contrast to T’Vara. Serving alongside her was like teaming with a krogan. Perhaps T’Vara’s father was one, but Grayson wasn’t entirely sure how asari inheritance worked. Whatever her genetic makeup, she still had plenty of blue in those microscales. Like all asari, her face was almost annoyingly flawless in complexion and contoured by purple markings.
Across from them sat the doctor. Whenever turbulence hit, he looked around as though it were a personal affront. On the last bump, he scowled first at the ceiling and then over his shoulder towards Caevea.
“You know, we Milky Way travellers aren’t so bad, Doc,” Stephens said.
The fibres in Grayson’s gloves creaked under pressure as her hands balled into fists. Stephens let out a self-satisfied chuckle, seemingly spurred onward by T’Vara’s anticipatory smile. A Foahl looked ready to bail out the door and face the drop.
“Have you met a batarian yet? Arrived on the last ark, real friendly.”
“Be a professional for once in your life,” Grayson said.
The young man shot her a quick look and stroked his jaw; his mouth stayed open but he wisely kept the words in. As Grayson sat back, her shoulder sank as Foahl looked ready to take the bait.
“The four-eyed species?” Foahl asked.
“That’s them,” Stephens nodded.
“I have heard them described as beasts. Did your people drag all their baggage across dark space?”
Stephens cackled and clapped his hands together, triumphant. The boy was so fresh out of cryo that he still had frost behind his ears. Since then, he had been inescapable. To him, Heleus was a laugh riot, and APEX was a chance to relive his Grissom Academy fraternity days.
“Why’d you leave the Roekaar?”
“Stephens, shut the hell up!” Grayson snapped.
“Roger that, CO! No more questions.”
The young operative kept his smile; he leaned forward and shone it at T’Vara. A proper boot camp and drill sergeant would do him good. In truth, she too wanted to know about the doctor’s Roekaar connection. But, when you start to ask questions, you begin owing answers. A quiet shuttle ride would be better for all of them.
The angara sat silent through the interaction, choosing to look at the space between their heads rather than anyone else aboard. However, she noticed his shoulders sink a little once Stephens’s chatter stopped. The peace lasted but a moment.
“What’s wrong with the Remnant, Doctor?” T’Vara said.
She looked at Grayson with defiance, as if awaiting an incoming reprimand. Since Stephens had joined the team, his playful and sometimes dangerous attitude had rubbed off on her. He was only one hundred years her junior.
If the entire mission were to be like this, Grayson might consider putting her name forward for a transfer. Failing that, a resignation. APEX was supposed to be the best the Initiative offered; no wonder the whole thing had been a fucking disaster. Had they not lucked upon a green-as-grass Pathfinder, they’d all be starving out in space.
“Remtech is your people’s term,” Foahl said.
“Sure. Remnant technology then. Why do you think they are acting out?” T’Vara asked.
The doctor huffed and blinked twice at her.
“They are not ‘acting out’ as you put it, asari. The protocols within each individual unit do not extend to personal expression of displeasure.”
“Yeah, I got that,” T’Vara said, looking ready to bite back but holding her tongue. “Put it this way: why are they attacking people? Every Initiative drone has IFF protocols to make sure it doesn’t act out and shoot a friendly.”
“Remnants are far more advanced than your machines. Each individual unit can and will defend itself from—”
There was a distinct crackle from outside, the unmistakable sound of gunfire. In the cockpit, Caevea’s head snapped left and right. The moment it stopped, the drumming of another began. This one was more distant.
Grayson unbuckled from her seat and clambered toward the cockpit. She held tight and pressed her boots to the floor as the ship swooped upwards.
“Y’know, I hear that on Kadara, they’re thinking of making the sound of Mattock fire the planetary anthem,” T’Vara said.
Grayson shot a stern look backward. T’Vara’s lips were curled as if about to speak again. She didn’t. Instead, she and Stephens exchanged a look. Even low-risk assignments on Kadara could quickly become complicated with marauders around. This wasn’t the time for jokes.
“What’s going on down there?” Grayson asked.
She continued into the cockpit. From over the Turian’s shoulder, she could see the jagged landscape of Kadara. Sheer-faced canyons, rocky spires punctuated with a remnant monolith peeking up on the horizon like a black dagger.
“Below us,” Caevea said quickly, “marauders, I think.”
“They’re shooting at us?”
“Negative.”
She fucking hated Kadara. Grayson drummed the back of the copilot’s chair with her fingers.
“Fly a little higher, maybe? Only takes one psycho with a lucky shot.”
“Negative. Marauder gangs out here have started intercepting shuttles outside of Kadara Port’s airspace. I discussed with Kandros the best approach for navigating the Kadaran landscape; Low and fast, if you have the skill to pull it off.”
Being outnumbered by turians was the story of Grayson’s existence. Even with Kandros on the other side of the cluster, a debate with Caevea felt as if he were in the room.
“It was just a suggestion.”
There was another thud, as if they were in a ground car and hit a bump at speed. Grayson jolted forward, planted a foot forward, and threw a hand out to steady herself. She would have fallen face-flat had her hand not found Foahl’s angular shoulder under it.
“I will be grateful to land,” he said, “this shuttle is most uncomfortable.”
“It’s not a leisure cruiser, that’s for sure,” Stephens said.
“T’Vara, did you look at those inertia dampeners?” Grayson asked.
The asari’s blue cheeks flushed a shade darker. Her eyes flashed over to Stephens, who was conspicuously looking out the window. Repairing or, failing that, securing new dampeners had been T’Vara’s one job while Grayson fetched the VIP.
“We angara have had little opportunity for leisure cruises, unlike the people from the Milky Way.”
Caevea, with renewed focus, looked at her monitor and then back at Grayson. With the thin veneer of command, she bellowed her answer back to the T’Vara and Stephens.
“Look alive; we’ll be landing in ten minutes,” Caevea said.
“You heard her,” Grayson said as she headed through to the back, “LZ is friendly territory. Still, be ready.”
“Sure,” Stephens said, “we know the drill.”
Knowing the drill wasn’t the problem; the easygoing look on his face was. For him, this was date night with his hot new asari girlfriend. Meanwhile, T’Vara holstered her disciple shotgun on her back and began performing final checks on her grenade launcher. Her purple lips curled into a smile.
“Locked and loaded,” T’Vara said.
Stephens couldn’t help himself, “heavy and hot.”
Before Stephens uttered another word, Grayson slammed her helmet and weapon case down on the seat between them. Both her teammates jumped, as did Foahl. She should probably apologise to the VIP, but so should—
A flash of pale light painted the shuttle white. Just a half-second later, there was a harsh boom. The shuttle reeled against the coming shockwave. Grayson stumbled back, smacking hard against the wall. She grabbed hold of a rail and held firm as the shuttle tilted forward. Loose ammo boxes hurled by her. Her helmet tumbled between her feet and through to the cockpit, where it cracked hard against the internal layer of tempered glass. She looked out the front again and saw mountainside whizzing past. Caevea was diving low.
“The fuck was that!?”
Caevea didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. As the shuttle came up level, a horrific smear greyed the summer sky. The great remnant monolith that had stood steadfastly against the landscape for generations had a great wound two-thirds up. Toxic smoke and lightning billowed up, and glowing ferrofluid seeped downward.
“By the goddess.”
Grayson felt both T’Vara and Stephens on either side of her. Both had looks of shock and awe on their faces.
“The firepower necessary to achieve such a thing…”
The Angara’s wide eyes were enough; he didn’t need to finish the thought. Grayson pulled herself through to the cockpit.
“Where did the shot come from?” Grayson asked.
She bowed down level with the Caevea’s eyeline, scouring the middle distance and beyond. While the immediate blast had already disappeared into a grey haze, the lightning storm from the monolith still rumbled.
“Northwest of the tower.”
“Can you scan for a location?”
Caevea shot Grayson a brief glance, too quick to read. After tapping at the holo-console, the sensor readout came back as a garbled mess. The Turian shook her head.
“Already trying to triangulate. Atmospheric interference is already spiking.”
T’Vara barged by her and swooped into the seat next to Caevea. The copilot’s console lit up, and the asari immediately began trying to combat the interference. She didn’t need to.
A jagged lance of colourless energy cut the landscape. A crackling line of energy sliced through the growing storm; there was a second flash of light. This one was brighter than the first and was again followed by an apocalyptic boom. Grayson bent her knees and gripped the back of Caevea’s chair. Feeble preparation for the powerful force that struck.
The blast sent the shuttle spinning, her body flung backward. She hit the wall at dizzying speed and then was in the air. She landed hard before being thrown about once again. Up and down didn’t matter. Left and right mattered less. Her ears rang with the sound of screaming metal. Darkness hit with bone-rattling impact.