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meggannn · 7 months

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mass effect x imperial radch fic

happy N7 day! there's still an hour left so I am NOT LATE.

I wanted to write more of this in time for today but got distracted, so have... all of what I managed to write of this fusion fic a month ago.

Summary: When Shepard fishes a half-dead turian out of Omega’s slums, she doesn’t expect to recognize him; doesn’t expect his help in her quest for answers and revenge; and certainly doesn’t imagine the galactic upheaval that will follow. Rating: T

—

Bodies are everywhere on Omega, but this one catches EDI’s attention, even with the face caved in and the markings scraped off.

Shepard, the cool voice says in her ear, this is a former servicemate.

Sometimes it tests her last nerve. EDI is technically correct, but referring to any of the Hierarchy citizens as mates—as if her tenure had been voluntary, as if they had been equals—she finds offensive in the highest degree, and EDI should have picked up on that by now. Shepard resists the urge to curl her lip as she passes by the dumpster. She is too busy mentally reviewing her notes for her upcoming meeting with Aria to also rifle through their shared memories for a turian she has happened to cross paths with again.

A member of the Eye, EDI clarifies, and Shepard pauses.

What do you mean?

EDI doesn’t reply. It’s lately been exploring relaying information through silences, whenever it’s feeling judgmental or Shepard is being particularly dense.

Every crewmember from the Eye of Menae is dead, of course. Except her and her passenger. This one shouldn’t exist. She wonders, not for the first time, if EDI is malfunctioning, and then, not for the first time, dismisses the thought because nobody could fix it if it was, anyway.

Shepard turns around and eyes the body again.

A limp, possibly broken arm is hanging out of the skip. The helmeted head is half-crushed, revealing a pulpy mass of blue blood and a cracked, dangling mandible. The markings had been notably scraped off, crudely, likely postmortem. She thinks, based on the fringe, that it might be male. Whoever left this turian in this state did not want him recognized; Omega had already declared him forgotten. Nonconsensual Scraping was a crime in the Hierarchy punishable by jail time and/or Reeducation. It was a wonder they hadn’t dumped him in the incinerator, but perhaps there was a message in that. He wasn’t even worth the trouble to bring him down to the chutes.

She can’t identify turians without their markings, of course; even with them, it’s a challenge. But EDI can. And yet EDI is keeping quiet.

A golden symbol on the bicep catches her eye, and her stomach does sink at that recognition, because she has seen it before. On the Eye of Menae; not on any official signage, but doodled on the back of datapads, scratched into terminal corners, which she had scrubbed weekly, and could have informed a superior about, but didn’t.

She’d assumed it was some turian colony symbol, or sports team logo, or perhaps even a gang symbol. She doesn’t remember the lieutenant’s name. He had been young when he served on the Eye, newly appointed in the wake of the First Contact War due to some personal connection with the Palavenian Primarch, and everyone had known it. He had been resentful of that judgment and barely interacted with any of the ancillaries—any of the humans—which had been fine with her.

“He’s dead,” Shepard says. “And it’s not as if I can give him a funeral.” Or as if she’d want to.

He is not dead, EDI says, throwing her for a loop twice in as many minutes. He has suffered multiple contusions, fractures, and what appears to be explosion trauma to the face and neck, not to mention the Scraping. But he is alive.

His name finally comes to her. She doesn’t have any particularly strong memories of the skinny lieutenant who had served with her on Engineering Deck; outside of his graffiti habits, he had been neither remarkable nor noteworthy. Most turian lieutenants hadn’t wanted to talk to their new client race anyway: Humans creeped them out, with their ugly skin and weird, confusing fringe that “leaks” everywhere.

“After Aria,” she says.

He needs medical attention if he is to survive the night.

She nearly swears at it. All her usual rejections in response to EDI drawing her attention to satisfy some curiosity about organics—We’re busy, I can’t afford it—dry up here, because they aren’t, and she can. “Fine,” she says, aware that she sounds petulant. “I’m paying for a doctor and that’s all.”

As she drags the body out of the skip, she hopes no one would ever ask her why she saved Garrus Vakarian’s life. She couldn’t rightfully say, Because the ancillary program installed in my head told me to—nobody could know about EDI, and she’s fully capable of resisting its influence now anyway, even as persistent as it could be. She hopes no one would ever ask because even as she sets his arm and lumbers off to find a doctor with his limp body hoisted onto her back, she still does not know why herself.

–

Three hours later, she has dragged Vakarian to two clinics that refused to take him for reasons they will not explain, his face slowly soaking blood on her shoulder, and she is reconsidering every decision she’s made this afternoon.

We do not have enough information, EDI replies after Shepard has called her out for their situation. I cannot determine a cause for their disinclination without more knowledge of local politics.

They have more than enough information, Shepard wants to snap. She’s been spat on or refused service nearly every hour she’s interacted with someone here. She’s a human, and the galaxy is full of bigots. But EDI is turian-made, programmed to view and treat every Citizen as equal despite racial politics, and sometimes convincing an AI of organic realities is like arguing with a wall.

Even with her implants, lugging around a two-hundred-pound turian for hours is exhausting. She is starting to wonder if he’s actually died by now, but EDI would surely say something if he had, and not achieving her goal after this long is starting to feel like a point of personal pride.

She dumps him outside of a motel for a moment while she walks in and rents a room. The bored batarian behind the counter fortunately doesn’t blink at the blood staining her clothes; it’s nothing remarkable around Omega, but on a human, it could be used as an excuse to deny entry.

Shepard thanks him, then drags the turian inside and over to the creaking elevator. As she passes, the batarian raises his brows in a way that says, If people come after you, I’m ratting you out immediately, which she supposes is fair.

She dumps Garrus Vakarian onto the single bed and observes him, prone and anonymous. Even knowing his name, having seen him daily and stood with him onboard the Eye during routine inspections, she still would not have been able to recognize him out of a lineup now. She should really learn how to tell turians apart; but then again, he wouldn’t be able to recognize her, either.

Most aliens find humans unsettling to look at: their eye contact too alarming, their smiles too rude, their hair too weird, and on and on. Salarians are forever complaining how some humans looked identical, and others too different due to some indecipherable criteria Shepard can’t understand; she supposes whatever their categorizations, they are not unlike human concepts of gender and race, which remain baffling to most aliens fifteen years post-First Contact. Asari are at least polite to one’s face, perhaps because due to the overlap of external body appearances, though Shepard never expected help from them as a Council race who had voted for humanity’s subjugation.

Operating from a weird suspicion, before she leaves the room, she strips the logo from his armor and tucks it into her pocket.

She has done what she can for him without tools or help. She mentally questions how much effort she will put into this; but she is, unfortunately, versed in turian anatomy enough to know his state is critical, and even if she had forgotten, EDI is there to supplement her knowledge with the extranet and her own database on turian biology. So she sets off to a local pharmacy—which contains a bare bones stock of medigel, painkillers, and gauze—then asks the clerk for a local, quiet doctor, and flashes some credits. They give her the address of a fellow around the corner and warn her he might not take humans.

The turian doctor is a retired vet who indeed nearly closes the door on her, claiming he cannot help aliens, before she puts her foot in the gap and explains her turian bodyguard has been attacked and needs immediate care. She blames it on clan discrimination—the Hierarchy would have Citizens believe that is not a thing, but Shepard knows organic behavior too well to believe that’s true—and explains that he has been “Scraped” as proof, something they say only gangs are barbaric enough to perform on another.

Turians can’t pale, but he does grow eerily quiet at that news. “Wait here,” he says, and disappears into his apartment for five minutes before emerging with a medical bag and a new visor, which feeds him data. “Before I go anywhere, I’ll need half up front.”

So she pays him half up front, adding it to the tab that Vakarian will owe her when all of this is done.

In the motel, Doctor Ubex looks at Garrus Vakarian for all of half a second before tsk-hissing—a turian expression of annoyance—and getting to work.

“He’ll survive,” he tells her half an hour later, after he’s stitched Vakarian’s face back together and plastered it with a bandage. “Although in what condition, I can't say. You’ll have to stay awake and apply the disinfectant and medigel to his face every other hour for the first twelve hours, then refresh until it gets bloody. I don’t have the energy to stay up all night, and it would quadruple your bill, anyway.”

Her appointment with Aria was already down the drain today. “How much medigel will that be?”

“More than whatever you have. It’s not just the side, it’s all over his mandibles and nose. Wherever the markings were—the Scraping was unprofessional, it rubbed off a protective layer of chitin. His face will be prone to infection until it grows back, which may take months. Come here.” He motions her over and she reluctantly steps up to his side, looking where he points to a clear-blue ooze coming from the side of Vakarian’s nose. “He’ll need regular medigel applications for the next several days, until the discharge stops.” He taps his visor and more information scrolls through his feed. “The rest of it is just bone-setting. They should be done in the next few days with the splints, but he should move as little as possible and be fed non-chewables until he can use his left side without pain. I managed to save the teeth, but he’s in for a painful recovery even with meds.”

He leaves her with a set of verbal instructions that she doesn’t bother writing down; EDI records everything for her anyway. With a final word of caution to avoid going planetside until the chitin grows back, she pays him his remaining fee, and he pauses in the doorway.

“If you have any more questions, ask me now,” he says. “I won’t answer my door if you come back. I don’t want to get involved in whatever this is.”

Shepard doesn't know enough about turian biology to know what else she should ask; she has already asked EDI’s questions during the initial interrogation. “That’s all. Thank you, Doctor.”

After he leaves, EDI comments, He served him without question, unlike the others.

Shepard strides over to the sagging armchair, watching Vakarian’s chest rise and fall on the bed, his bandaged face unmoving, and doesn’t reply.

I imagine your suspicion was correct. The others recognized the logo, and feared to treat him to anger his enemies. It had nothing to do with your race.

Shepard keeps her sights focused on her inexplicable new charge, and does not say, Shut the fuck up.

#fic snippets #shepard #garrus vakarian #n7 day

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katlakitty · 7 months

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N7Month Challenge - Day 16: Storm

The ice cracked dangerously as the Tempest set down on Voeld, Sara held her breath as the entire ship shifted. Kallo's worried expression didn't reassure her that their landing spot was safe or stable enough for the small ship. Sara couldn't stay and find out if they needed to return to orbit, she had to find the resistance to help them.

She put on her suit and armor and joined the rest of her crew in the loading bay. None of them looked very eager to leave the ship. Jaal, as far as Sara could tell, was tense and Peebee was mumbling something about knitted scarfs and mittens.

Sara doubted they would have helped against the raging ice storm outside, but she made a mental note to get a scarf and mittens for her. If there was any wool in Andromeda she could even knot them herself, a matching set of a Remnant hat, scarf, mittens and socks. Lexi would be happy to find she had found something to occupy herself with during her downtime.

"Oh, fuck no..." Sara cursed as they set foot into the storm.

"Or a hot water bottle, is there a sauna on the Hyperion? That would be a-awesome." Peebee said and started shivering.

There were cold warnings popping up on the display of Sara's suit too and SAM urged her to hurry.

"The resistance headquarters on Voeld are just up this way," Jaal announced and gestured into the turmoil of snowflakes up ahead.

"Right," Sara was shivering now too. "Do they have a Sauna?"

"No, but they have heaters."

"B-better than... N-nothing." Peebee said and started jumping.

Sara agreed with her and they slowly made their way through the snow. She only slipped once and Jaal caught her before she could fall down a cliff. Up until this point Sara had loved the cold season on Earth and the snow. But she had never experienced a snow storm or temperatures like this before and was tempted to change her mind about it. They arrived at the Resistance outpost before she could declare her newfound dislike though.

You can find a collection of all my N7 Month drabbles on AO3.

#n7month #mass effect #drabble #oneshot #mass effect andromeda #voeld #pathfinder ryder #sara ryder #jaal ama darav #mass effect jaal #peebee #mass effect peebee #my writing

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bagog · 7 months

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N7 Month, 2023 - Day 1: Archon

When the Archon found out the glut of new races in his cluster had come from another galaxy, he found the idea extremely tiresome. This would require an alteration to the pericopes of the Kett such as hadn’t been needed in his memory: the Kett were masters of the Universe, and as long as that universe extended only to the walls of their own galaxy, their doctrine was clear. With another galaxy across the darkness filled with new subjects, how long until the Hierarchy organized a crusade?

“You’ve come back?” The creature strapped to the table spoke, its voice higher and faster than the Kett. There were thousands more like him on their Ark. The Archon had grown to expect a certain daring from this species as they had experimented on them. Geneticists were yet to discover if this was a trait of the species’ or a character trait of these creatures as explorers. The example strapped to the table was blind after the experimentation that had been performed on him. It seemed to be listening for a moment. “Just you this time, Archon?”

The Archon didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. He looked down into the huge, bulbous eyes which stared up at him unseeing.

“When I came to this cluster,” the Archon began, slowly, reaching for the deep tones he used to preach to the newly exalted. “I had such faith that I did not question why it was I who was chosen to subjugate this sector. Why was this miserable backwater with its weak, substandard genetic offerings to be my contribution to the glory of the empire.”

“Could it be your species—your original species—was from this area? Is that the kind of thing the Kett do?” For a lab subject so starved and wasted, it nevertheless impressed the Archon with its boundless curiosity. It was a grudging kind of impressed, though: the Archon had often had the same thought, and certainly no Kett under him would insinuate such a thing.

“No. I am pure Kett.”

“I’m sure it’s in their best interest to make sure you keep thinking that way…”

“Now I know why I was sent here,” the Archon continued, ignoring the creature’s surmise. “The scourge which blankets this sector, it has tripled our estimates for exaltation of the region. The Hierarchy knew only I could bare up under the weight of this challenge.”

“So you’ve been here a long time? And… they don’t want you away for so long, do they? More time to get ideas in your head, independent ideas…”

The Archon grit his teeth.

“The scourge,” he continued, closer to the creature’s face. “The useless angara, and now the tools of some former civilization coming back online now, activated by a heretic confederation of inferior species.”

“You think you might be a member of this former species? But were exalted into the Kett? Of course you wouldn’t remember… but then, if the Kett could defeat the former civilization, then their technology wouldn’t be so interesting to you now—”

“Silence.” The Archon uttered the word thickly, put his hand around the creature’s throat. It gagged for a moment, then quieted. “I was destined to bring back this forgotten power, hidden in this accursed sector. Now, when I report your arrival to the Hierarchy, it will throw everything into chaos. And now your heretic band has somehow managed to activate the Remnant technology. It is a mockery to us.” He removed his hand from its throat and the creature immediately began speaking again.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The Archon did not have an answer, and a moment later the geneticists came back in to resume their experiments on the creature.

But the simple truth was, until the Hierarchy told him what to think of the newcomers, they were outside the Hierarchies mandate. They had declared every species in the galaxy to be unworthy of the Kett, but this was a species from outside the galaxy. They had declared that every possible prisoner be taken to ensure resources for exaltation, but the Archon could kill these with impunity. Could talk to them with impunity, too. It was more valuable to him in these days than anything his own retinue could provide. As he left the laboratory, he decided the creature on the table should be exterminated. No more testing. Independent thoughts indeed.

#n7month #n7 month #Archon #Mass Effect Andromeda #Ooof #okay let's see about this now

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drelldreams · 7 months

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N7 Month 2023 Challenge Day 7: Varren

Note: I had this dream where Samara came across Teltin facility during one of her investigation. So this fic was born.

Under the cut.

Fic Title: For Every Wicked One, There Is Someone Well Meaning Out There

Somewhere in the outer edges of the Terminus Systems, 2173.

Samara’s gaze wanders from the unconscious child in her arms to the disasterous view from the shuttle’s window. The flames have swallowed the facility whole by now, burning down the planet’s fruitless forest. Like the rest of Pragia it is grey and plain and too overgrown with poisonous, infecteous plants to ever offer any hope of terraforming it to provide a sustainable environment. It is rare that Samara has to take such measures to destroy an entire place. Normally, Samara’s job is not to commit arson, really; it generally goes against the Justicar Code. But this whole facility was build with one purpose: to torment. Thus, by the Code, Samara was compelled to destroy it.

Though the child could awaken any second, and is likely to attack Samara, the Justicar holds herself calm. She is a danger, that is certain. In her nearly a millenia of life, centuries of which she spent travelling across the galaxy as a mercenary, Samara has never come across someone with such tremendous biotic poweress. Especially not across someone as young as this girl was. Not even Samara herself, a Justicar with finely honed powers, could claim she surpassed this little human’s strength. That they have abused her in such horrific ways, all just to test the limits of human biotic potential?

Samara has faced many horrors in her long life. But this.. this was beyond all measure. Horrifying. Repulsive, on every level. Despite her conditioning, Samara felt a tinge of nausea in her stomach. Who could do this to a child so young and innocent?

She has not felt this way since she first learned what horrors her daughter had committed after her escape from Thessia.

A part of Samara thinks that shall this child awaken, perhaps she should.. perhaps she should not do anything. If this young human feels compelled to kill Samara, how can she blame her? The Justicar has read the notes left in the facility before she burned the place down. ‘Subject Zero’ has been raised in this place since she was a baby, treated as nothing but an experiment meant to be tortured solely for the sake of scientific results. Conditioned to kill. She could not tell right from wrong.

She never had someone who taught her that.

If this child— Samara refuses to dub her ‘Subject Zero’ in her mind— choose to attack her.. She was not sure if she could, or should, defend herself.

Maybe Samara was more resigned than calm, after all.

—

Samara has been correct with her assumptions. As soon as the child found consciousness, she hit Samara with a biotic blast so hard it would have killed one of the scientists back at the facility. But Samara was well armored, and the child was weakened from her earlier massacre. With a loud thud, Samara’s back hit the wall, and the asari found herself shockingly accepting of whatever this child decided she would do with her.

Samara’s Code did not compel her to kill this child. Not because of her age, no. But because she was unaware of what she was doing. The girl was scowling, but Samara had seen the heart wrenching fear in her eyes the moment she had awakened. She could tell by her stance and the tense set of her jaw how terrified she was, how horribly abused she had been.

It was allowes to act in self defense, but not obligatory. The choice was up to Samara; rarely did the Code offer such freedom.

She could feel the biotic field tearing at her when she thought of Morinth.

No. Samara had to end this. She had to take out Morinth, or she would continue to leave behind astronomical body counts; some of which were young, innocent children, like this poor human was;

She couldn’t die.

And, just like that, Samara felt the biotic field tearing at her perish.

But it wasn’t because Samara had been fighting it.

No.

"Why did you kill the scientists? Why did you take me with you?"

Samara had expected this young girl’s voice to sound different. It did not sound angry, nor could Samara detect any obvious fear. Though Samara could tell she was scared, the girl didn’t make it seem obvious. Rather, her voice sounded awfully monotonous. Weathered. In a way she reminded Samara more of herself, a ruined, broken vessel; an accomulation of centuries of hardship. A girl that young was not supposed to evoke such an aura..

"I am Justicar Samara, a servant of an ancient asari order. By my Code, I was compelled to bring justice and kill your tormentors. I was also obliged to save you.", Samara explained, her tone full of compassion and serenity.

"What.. what Code?", the young girl asked, still wary of Samara. "And why are you blue?"

The blunt question, had the circumstances been any less tragic, would have made Samara’s lips quirk up in a smile ever so slightly. But she could not smile. Not now.

"I am blue because I am an asari." Samara explained patiently. She remembered that this human child likely never had seen someone of another species. "We are one of the many space faring species; among your own race, the humans."

"Asari….", The child repeated, quietly. "Your Code made you save me?", she asked in disbelief.

"Yes", Samara confirmed without hesitation. "That is what I do. My role is to bring justice upon this galaxy; to protect innocents like you, from people like those scientists at the facility."

"But why are you different?", she asked, still as if she was not believing Samara.

"You may find it difficult to believe, young one, but there are many more people like me", Samara stated. "I will not lie to you. The galaxy can be a cruel place. There will be more people out to harm you, people like those scientists. But for every individual as wicked as that, I can assure you, there is someone well meaning out there."

The young biotic did not seem to miss that Samara had been evading her question. "But why are you not like them?"

"I could not bring it over my heart to harm someone young and innocent like you. It is as simple as that."

Samara was not sure if the child understood, given the puzzled look on her face. How shocking, that a child had been raised under such brutal conditions that it could not comprehend how someone could not be cruel.

"You have not yet killed me", Samara noted, gently.

"….You haven’t tried to hurt me yet", the child replied, quietly.

“And so it shall remain. What is your name?"

"They call me Subject Zero." Her answer was clinical, lacking any sort of inflection.

"No. I will not call you Subject Zero, dear. Those days are over. You are not a subject."

"I don’t have a name."

"Then it is time we shall give you a proper name."

---

Samara could not say that the child had ceased to see any violence that day. It was only shortly after they have arrived at the next port, that pirates had attempted to steal the girl. Much to their dismay, she was in company of a Justicar. Between the possibly powerful biotic in the galaxy— which surprisingly was not Samara, and herself, a Justicar, the pirate band stood no chance.

Samara hoped that this young human would soon finally see another part of reality; the beauty of this galaxy. She had saved children before, but never had she come across one as deprived of the beautiful parts of life such as her.

It pained Samara to know that she had to leave this child soon.

---

"Jack", the young child spoke after a long period of silence, as they ate together in the safehouse.

"Pardon me?" Samara answered.

"My name", she explained between hungry bites. She ate as if this simple meal Samara had prepared had been the most delicious in the galaxy. "My name is Jack."

"Jack?", Samara asked, a hint of surprise in her voice. She hadn’t ever come across the name before, but then again, she rarely ventured outside asari space.

"It’s an old name. I saw it.. somewhere..", Jack replied, the image of the tattoo studio they’d passed on Omega flashung through her mind. "Jack’s Killer Ink."

She hoped she could visit Omega again, one day. Jack hoped she could get one of those tattoos, cover the marks on her skin.

---

"That’s what you want, kid? A tattoo?" The asari spoke with an amused smirk on her face. "And here I thought human girls your age wish for ponies, or those lego stones or whatever you call ‘em."

"What’s a pony?" Jack asked, innocently.

"Some kinda Earth creature- really cute and human kids love ‘em, I hear- ah, never mind. I’m just.. surprised ya wanna get inked, that’s all." Aethtya spoke. "Don’t really think it’s legal. I mean, you’re like— what, ten?"

"I don’t know. No one ever told me my age."

"Ah, crap. Know what. Think I can probably find someone who’ll get you a tattoo, whether you’re ten or not." The woman smiled. "Maybe we can get you a pony tattoo."

"I want a varren."

"A varren? Oh, right. You don’t strike to me as the pony type of girl, anyway. Way too fierce to be one. Alright, a varren tattoo, it’s gonna be."

#n7month #n7 day 2023 #mass effect fanfiction #mass effect fic #fic #samara & jack #samara #jack #justicar samara #n7 fic challenge #varren #i did not edit this #no beta we die like men and women #thats my style #i really just write for fun #i hate coming up with fic titles #lmao

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