In the "Shepard versus Saren" battle, the Spectre predictably won. He had eaten a dog on politics, while Jane dedicated all her free time to honing her combat skills, much like I once did. This connects us in some way, but not enough for me to say it out loud.
— Saren hates humanity, that's why he attacked Eden Prime, - Shepard declared after a long discussion, stepping on a landmine.
— Your race needs to know its place, - Saren's hologram shifted its gaze to me. — Only a few stones stand out from the sand, - he then nodded toward the Councilors. — I approve Starkiller's candidacy for the Spectres. However, I am categorically against nominating Shepard for this position – she is not ready, she dishonors humanity with her existence and unfounded accusations.
— We have a witness!
— A frightened witness, I ask you to focus on that. He could have heard anything, made up anything, and distorted it however he pleased. Or as the Alliance ordered – an association mired in hypocrisy. You have no proof of my involvement, and as long as that's the case, I see no point in further participating in this farce.
The Councilors exchanged glances, conferred with gestures, and unanimously pressed the green buttons. They stood behind their podiums, and ironically enough, with a wave of their hands, they decided the fates of planets.
— All charges against Saren are dropped. Galen Marek is appointed as the new Spectre. Shepard will be suspended from duty until the investigation on Eden Prime is concluded, - they made their unanimous decision.
Immediately after this, I, exercising my rights as a Spectre, addressed Saren:
— I suggest we talk face to face.
— Suggest? I supported you only once, know your place, human, - he snorted, his mandibles moving unpleasantly.
— Then I'll have to investigate the case on Eden Prime, and we'll meet anyway, but under less rosy circumstances, - I threatened calmly, clasping my hands behind my back.
— Do... as you wish, I have nothing to hide, - with these words, he disconnected, and we, as the losing side in this dispute, went our own way: to decide what to do next. A suitable company had gathered for just this purpose: Anderson, Shepard, Samara, Donnel Udina.
— We will find proof of Saren's guilt, - a bold statement from Shepard; I won't be testing it.
— You have already found enough for humanity, act more reasonably in the future. I cannot always cover for you and your mistakes, - Ambassador Udina grimaced. — Starkiller... Not the candidate we expected for humanity. Whether you became a Spectre or not, we gain nothing from it due to your policy of isolation from the affairs of our race. But I hope that in the future, things might change. Good day, - he nodded and headed to his office.
— Asshole, - Shepard shrugged.
— Don't, - Anderson sighed. — If you can find the proof, you'll be doing a great service to the Alliance. But until then... It's better if we're not seen together, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Another one left. The team is falling apart faster than it could assemble.
Good thing it's not my team.
— I suggest we split up, - I decided, after thinking it over. — I'll go look for his subordinates, and you take care of something that is far from my sphere of interests.
— Yeah, right, maybe I should make you a coffee for the road, too?
— With two sugars, please, - I requested.
— I'm surrounded by... - she sighed. — But I'm sorry I snapped.
— No need. Squads in the Alliance are formed on the principle of brainwashing: that all its members are one big family. While I was with you, I increased the difficulty of the missions assigned, completed even suicidal ones without losses. And when I left, all the burdens fell on you without a method for their resolution, which is quite classifiable as betrayal, - I reasoned soundly. — And on top of everything, there's the defeat on Eden Prime, mass genocide of humans almost right before your eyes. It's stress upon stress, driven by stress. Many people's nerves would give out, and they'd want to blow off steam.
— Hm... glad you understand...
— Don't be glad. As I said, understanding does not equal acceptance or remorse. I have nothing to regret. If I went back to the very beginning, I would do exactly the same thing, - I shook my head. — See you later, Shepard.
— Take care, although bastards don't need luck, - she quipped at the end, setting off on her separate search.
It will be easier for me to work without her: I won't be distracted by anything emotional or nerve-wracking. Harmony is more important to us than breathing. Besides, Shepard is an elite soldier, just like me. The more territory we cover in a short period, the higher the chances of success.
I headed straight to the dark part of the Citadel, where they primarily trade in illegal goods and information. Usually, I went for the former, but now for the latter: who works for Saren and where they are.
Under different circumstances, they might have skinned me alive for such information or forced me to use Force Subjugation. However, now I had two universal levers of influence. We used them against a man with extremely weak nerves.
— A Justicar and a Spectre are politely asking you for information, and you don't want to share. What should we do? - I asked, crossing my arms.
Samara looked at me, then after a moment, walked over to the ledge, which offered a view of the beautiful streets of the Citadel, disappearing five kilometers... down.
— I've heard some people can fly; what an irresistible desire to check, - she said in a quiet but clear voice, so that her words reached the nervous guy's ears.
— His fighters are hunting some quarian right now! She tried to sell information about Saren directly to the Shadow Broker, but the data was intercepted, and now they want to eliminate the witness. I swear, that's all I know!
— Ambush coordinates?
— It's... not far...
We got everything we needed and went to catch a local-style taxi – flying, insanely maneuverable, and costing as much as a latest-generation armor set. I once paid a fortune for mine, as everything had to be custom-made.
With a couple of modifications: a translator, a motor accelerator, and excellent protection against shrapnel, albeit at the expense of weight. An ordinary person wouldn't order such a thing. The translator is built into implants. The accelerator is dangerous, it breaks the limbs of even a trained soldier. And heavy armor... An experienced infantryman wouldn't resort to it, let alone light infantry – in the era of energy shields, almost everyone runs light.
Pondering the pros and cons of my armor, I simultaneously kept an eye on the situation. We quickly arrived at the residential streets where, according to our information, the ambush on the quarian was supposed to take place.
An unusual race, rare on a universal scale. The fact is that quarians, like the volus, cannot live without protective suits outside their home planet. However, unlike the volus, they lost their planet because of the geth.
A classic story: they created artificial intelligence, improved robotics, their creations rebelled against their creators. Now the quarians are recognized as outcasts, live on their flotillas, and engage in technological development under conditions of limited resources. No one wants to deal with them – they put the galaxy under the threat of AI.
— What's our plan? - Samara asked as we approached.
— Capture someone alive and find out Saren's location. As for the quarian and her evidence, I'm not interested in them. I suspect Saren was brainwashed using the Force. Even from his hologram, I felt something vile, but at the same time, familiar. It's not in my interest to frame someone who has become a victim. That way, we won't get to the puppet master.
— Brainwashing... You know, I haven't told you, but I know one who can subjugate will with biotics. Make people do anything. I call it – "Domination."
— Definitely not biotics. It has a different color and feels different than the Force.
Samara pondered this and almost walked into a wall as we approached a rundown club in the residential sector. A lone bouncer tried to stop us, but I only had to identify myself as a Spectre and order him to impersonate furniture.
The power this special intelligence corps has is amazing. With my connection to the Dark Side – even dangerous. It tempts me to demonstrate power more and more often.
Every Sith has a weakness: Darth Sidious reveled in intellectual power, Darth Vader in anger and its outbursts. And I... mostly enjoy demonstrating pure Force, inaccessible to ordinary Jedi, Sith, or biotics.
— It's been a long time since I've been in a club, - Samara remarked, looking around.
Neon light flickered throughout the room, reflecting off glass and creating an illusion of endless motion in the almost empty hall. Music blared from the speakers, drowning out the few conversations of shady individuals of various races and spheres of activity. In the center of the dance floor, energy lasers drew geometric patterns, and a smoke machine filled the space with thick fog.
— And it's been a long time since I've been in the Citadel's residential quarters. The last time I visited a similar club, but due to certain disagreements, I had to level the building. Sad times, hunting red sand dealers, - I replied, slowly descending the steps leading to the lower tier.
Scanning the patrons, I analyzed the situation and counted potential enemies. I picked out six turians, gathered near a figure in the corner of the hall. It was unlikely that six guns were intended for a friendly chat with a girl. Hmm... Did that sound ambiguous? Perhaps, but the club atmosphere is conducive to such thoughts.
Moving closer, I made out the quarian – the target of these turians.
A purple suit, an ornate hood, an air-filtering mask. Among her virtues: an attractive figure, neat breasts, curves emphasized by the form-fitting suit. Among her flaws: three fingers instead of five, eerily bent legs with two long toes. However, the metal boots concealed this flaw quite well.
In my opinion, three points out of five.
Although, girls are judged not only by their appearance, but also by other qualities. Hmm... Have I been infected with xenophobic ideas on Earth? Each race has its own standards of beauty.
— Don't resist. You know why we're here, - the turian in a dark vest and helmet spoke, aiming his pistol at her.
— So this is how the Shadow Broker does business? - she said, and with each word, the mask's filter flashed with blue light.
Funny to encounter a speech translator of an older version than mine. Oh yes, the quarians have problems with their immune system. They can only breathe on their home planet, and any alien bacteria can kill them or cause a severe fever. Even I doubt I could restore their immunity with the Force. Although, why not? Any demonstration of power is like balm to my soul. Perhaps, with my help, it might even be possible to install implants in her without a lethal outcome, like that latest-generation translator.
— You're mistaken, we're not connected to him. And if you hand over the compromising material, you'll leave in peace. Our orders don't include a clause for your elimination, - "Saren's man" lied.
— As if I'd believe that...
— A pity. Then we'll have to retrieve the information from your corpse!
The quarian tried to pull out a grenade, one that overloads electronics in its blast radius. However, Saren's men were faster: one knocked the grenade away, the other pointed his pistol straight at the quarian's head.
A shot.
It could have hit, if I hadn't intervened: I stopped the bullet with the Force, a millimeter from her helmet. The turians, in shock, tried to continue the attack, but their shots shattered helplessly against an invisible wall I had created.
— So many misfires at once, happens to everyone, right? - I commented coldly, stepping out of the shadow. Activating my red lightsaber, I drew their more focused attention.
The turians, without attempting to take cover or regroup, opened fire directly to kill. Naive. Did they seriously decide to underestimate my power?!
You cannot simply underestimate your opponent's power. ...