Mass Effect


The old human leaned back in his chair. “A nice touch. Saying that you knew they wouldn’t go for it. All but guarantees that they will.”

The old Turian took a long sip out of his glass before responding. “You don’t know my daughter. Going against my beliefs is practically a hobby for her.”

The human nodded slowly as he shifted in his chair. His face twisted slightly. He righted himself and rubbed his shoulder. The Turian tilted his head.

“Pain?” he asked.

“Just an old wound,” replied the human.

“I have my share of those,” the Turian gave something approximating a smile. He leaned to the side of his chair and produced a datapad. He placed it on the polished surface of the small table separating the two chairs and pushed it forward. “Everything we have on the crew of the Outlander. Assassins, soldiers, an erstwhile mogul, a scientist and even royalty of a fashion. A strange mix.”

“If history has taught us anything,” said the old man as he picked up the datapad, “it’s that strange crews get results.”

“The Normandy is gone, Admiral. And this… I still don’t like this,” said the Turian. “They’re criminals, known associates of the Shadow Broker.”

“Former associates,” corrected the human. “And it looks like their relationship soured with the death of their contact on Illium. And if our mutual informant can be trusted-“

“-which she can’t-”

“-they’ve been giving Cerberus a bloody nose up and down the verse,” continued the Human. “Bringing them in by making them work for the Council is far better than chasing them down while the real threat builds momentum.”

“By making them honouree Spectres? They’re going to see through this play. At the first sign of command or accountability, they’ll bolt,” said the Turian.

“Don’t be too sure, old friend,” replied the Human holding up the datapad as he flicked through the files, “There’s something here, something that the galaxy is in desperate need of at this time.”

“Please don’t say heroes,” groaned the Turian.

The Human simply smiled as he read the dockets but then raised an eyebrow. “Really, General?”

The old Turian steepled his hands together. “Whatever do you mean, Admiral?”

“Half of B’tah’s file has been redacted and even more so for Nymeria,” the Human’s voice came out flat.

“Turian intelligence. Need to know only. Most of the blanks can be filled in by your Alliance spies.” The Turian gave the Human a side-long stare.

The Human returned his gaze. “Indeed, like all those hush-hush counter-Cerberus operations. Or should I say, eliminations.”

The Turain said nothing but the Human noticed his jaw tighten.

“Pain?” he asked.

“Just an old wound.”


Oalin Oalin

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