#makes sense its n7 day in that very window!! :)

[felassan]

Mass Effect Legendary Edition is currently on-sale on Steam. sale ends November 11th 2024. game is 85% off (£7.49 down from £49.99)

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬ 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒

rating: Explicit pairing: Female Shepard x Garrus Vakarian summary: the Mako breaks down in a snowstorm on Noveria. Shepard is stuck with her turian friend after some things went sideways in one of the research labs. warnings: first time gone wrong (but then so right), sex pollen, so much kissing, just pure smut (what do you want from me??), does doing it in the Mako is considered car sex?, interspecies sex, love confessions, so much fluff, Garrus is too sweet for his own good word count: 3831  

a/n: I had Mass Effect Legendary Edition on my PC for like a year and I'm now cursing myself why I've waited for so long to play the trilogy. The Bioware brainrot took me once more under its influence so I guess I'm going back to my roots. This is almost entirely is pure smut, I guess I can't write anything else nowadays but I'm embracing it now. So have this very rusty, messy love scene I wrote in a frenzy after finishing the trilogy. <33

MASTERLIST   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

Noveria is cold and white and still beautiful in that strange way only death can be. It became the noose woven around Garrus’ own neck too, when it twirled his fate and Shepard's own together in form of a messy string. 

It only started becoming strange when Shepard started to tear her armor off of her body, but by then all common sense was out, laying dead in the relentless snowstorm. She became feverish, smelling so sweet, like summer, like sun-warmed earth, like arousal that Garrus had realized all too late. They were warned by the dangers of the labs surrounding Peak 15, the tower that was like an old pine ringed by fungi, all the rot and unethical discoveries blooming under the disguise of neat little buildings that twinkled in the darkened landscape—a constellation hiding in a thick cloud of dark matter. 

He knows she was curious. He knows she only wanted to help, but Spirits, it will be the death of her one day, N7 or not, she’s only human. And she’s fragile, a goddamn glass cannon that can blow up the whole universe and crumble from hands that grip her a bit too tight at the same time. 

Liara’s warning came too late, they had to cut to the chase and there was no time to think about the consequences of Shepard's stray shot breaking open the containment cell of an unnaturally lush, succulent little flower in one of the labs. It didn’t set in until they were in the Mako and she steered the dumb tank even more recklessly than she did it stone cold sober. A boulder came, then the half of the mountain too, raining down thick globes of fresh snow until the Mako was good and well stuck. She was sweating by then, skin hot and wet and her eyes wild and Liara offered to get help from one of the nearby labs, leaving Garrus to protect his commander with his life. From what, he didn’t know. There was nothing, only snow and wind and Shepard’s warmth all around them for miles. But time trickled by like water on a glass window after a storm, slow, sluggish, and Shepard couldn’t keep herself in line anymore. 

She pleaded for a caress she always wanted from him and he wanted to give her everything instead. 

(Maybe he loved her all along.)

And now, now Liara is gone and has been gone for hours, and Garrus pushes Shepard into the Mako's seat, his forehead meeting hers, something akin to a kiss only lovers do. Her skin is damp, her hair sticking to her face in messed up crimson ribbons and he tries to trace the constellations under her eye with a blunted talon when blood floods her cheeks, making them twinkle like stars adrift a sea of nebulae. The Mako is dark but not dark enough to hide the fire flickering in her gaze, shielded by a series of curved, dark lashes. Humans and their strange hair—eyebrows and lashes and thousands of fair fuzz that stand up as he moves his hand lover, to the vulnerable skin of her throat, swiping a thumb over her pulse that jumps wildly at the touch. 

"Kiss me," she whispers, barely audible for the translator to pick up, and it almost sounds like music like this, a series of hisses and high notes, so he nuzzles his way closer to hear it once more, now pleading, the sound buzzing in her throat. 

It's beautiful in a way.

"How?" he whispers against the side of her jaw, warm plates against cooler skin, and she puts a hand to his face, five fingers splaying over his colony markings, urging him upwards until her lips can brush over his mouth. It's strange. It's unbelievably soft. Then— wet as her tongue darts out and tries to coax his mouth plates apart. 

He takes the leap and lets her in. Even if he has all the sharp teeth, even if it's wildly different from his own experiences. And Spirits, it feels good. It's tender—even though they started to tear at each other's armor before this, even though he has to clench his fingers into a fist before he scratches her in his hurry. This has to be gentle where nothing in the world is. 

His tongue meets hers, and now he understands why humans like kissing so much. He does now too. Shepard makes a sound as he tastes the inside of her mouth, the blunt edge of her teeth and sucks in a breath when Garrus pulls back to gaze down at her and find her looking dazed. 

"Alright?," he checks, always, afraid of fucking this precious thing up and Shepard has the audacity to smile. Full of teeth and curving lips, a flash of white in the darkness. 

"I'm good," she knocks her forehead against his, nuzzling him, "really good."

Garrus kisses her again as an answer, bolder now, so much braver, and he kisses and kisses her until there's no more left to give, until there's no air in her lungs. Something new shines in her eyes, in the pool of darkness that is her pupils, dilated beyond belief, ringed by a thin strip of wild green, a black hole with a halo. Want. Need. Something more. Something unbelievable. 

Garrus rumbles deep in his chest, a sound so low she can only feel its vibration against her sternum, the crook of her neck where his face finds a home. His subvocals sing so many things at once, a confession she can't understand, not yet. Contentment. Gratefulness. Lust. Love.

(Maybe I love you.)

She drags her hand across his face again, that delicate, soft hand that is only calloused in places where wielding a gun made the skin harder. She touches his fringe, and under it, where plates turn into the most vulnerable patch of hide he has on his body. His voice grows louder, more like a growl than a purr, and she smiles again, so pretty something under his keelbone jumps and bursts and flickers—a star being born. 

"That's—," he starts and he's not proud of the way his voice trembles. "That's one way to give the night a quick start."

Shepard's fingers stop in their movement, but before she could pull away he takes a hold of her forearm and soothes a thumb over the inside of her wrist, guiding her back to that spot. 

"Am I hurting you?" 

"Spirits, no," he flicks a mandible at her, his way of smiling, and Shepard puts her mouth to his jaw as her confidence grows. Garrus can feel the plates at his sheath slowly parting and somehow he's hyperaware of her body trapped against his, her knee brushing his own, warm even through metal and ceramic plates. 

They have to strip down that damn armor, like, right now. 

But Shepard knows this, feels this too, and her hand disappears so she can grab the waist of his pants and tug on it, even though turian armor is not designed in a way that it could make it come off easily. 

"Help me, will you?" she asks against the side of his mandible, face and incredibly soft lips still so close, her eyelashes brushing his jaw as she looks down between them in the dark and Garrus desperately wishes that he could feel that fluttering. Instead, he's stripping. The rest of his undersuit that was hanging by his hips goes lower when he unfastens every little clasp and belt he has around his spurs. 

Shepard licks his mouth. He rumbles again, louder when the thin fabric of protective weave finally pools on the Mako's floor, and he's right up there against her, pressing close, so close, until his keel digs between her breasts and his side is framed by her knees and he kisses her the human way, with so much tongue and want it leaves her breathless. 

"How much time do we have?" he asks against the underside of her ear, finding a soft spot there, one that pulls a whimper from her. 

"Barely any," she hisses and lets him nibble on the curve of her neck. "Gonna make the most of it?"

"Trying to," he smiles, mandibles catching her messy hair, blood red on silver, hands going up to cradle her nape, to get lost in that soft sea of crimson. 

Shepard likes this, likes the feel of his hide on her skin and she wants more, wants no barriers in those minimal, quiet gaps the differences of their bodies create. Negative space filled with heat and some unintelligible emotion, something like summer, something like home. She melds her body to his and Garrus can't help the low resonance his subvocals start to make. 

"Am I hurting you?" she whispers as she lays tiny kisses on his neck, just beside the edge of the plates shielding his spine. "You're trembling."

"No, I just—," his breath hitches as those kisses turn into gentle nips. Right where a bondmark would go. Spirits, he's slipping. She can't know this, she can't— "You just found all the good buttons to push."

He feels her smirk on his hide. He wants to have her mark here, even though the thought terrifies him.

(Maybe I love you.)

"You know I'm good at pushing buttons."

Garrus chuckles but it comes out rasped. He doesn't care. Not when he can feel her body vibrating, shivering as his hands finally roam downwards, onto her sides, her hips, the soft of her belly that is so blessedly bare. 

He slides a talon along the muscles leading down, around the small divot in the middle, lower still where Shepard's already lifting her hips up to let him free her of her undersuit pants. There's still some fabric that remains, covering her most intimate parts but she grabs his hands and makes him grip the fabric of it in a hurry. 

"Pull this down too," she whisper-commands and he obliges, skims the tips of his blunted talons over the jut of her hipbones, a feature all too familiar on a body made of infinite curves. It traps his gaze, the small hills and valleys, freckled here too, and hairy when he gazes lower, a trail of tiny red curls disappearing between lush thighs as he reveals more of her skin. 

The undergarment only gets down one leg, dangles on the other by her knee when he pries apart her thighs, makes himself at home right in the cradle of them. This is all too fast and all too hot, but none of them complains as they meet in another heated kiss. She smells different like this, stronger, sweet and tangy and something else, pure arousal he realizes, and Garrus can't hold himself back any longer, can't will the swollen edges of his sheath to stay closed. 

"Show me how to touch you," he asks, almost pleads, because damn, he can't be selfish with her, not when he trusts her with his life and wants all the happiness the world can offer for her. That too, is a confession he's not ready to make, not for himself and not for her, but Shepard stops him in his thoughts as she puts her hand back right under his fringe, driving him wild. 

"None of that right now," she pants, breathless as his hands go bruising on her hips. "I just want you inside me."

Fuck, this was not the way Garrus thought he would die.

"I don't want to hurt—" she interrupts him with another kiss, then a hand on his stomach, low enough to almost graze the plates on his groin. 

"Please, Garrus," it's a plea. Broken and rasped. Raw, like a fresh wound. Why is she suffering? 

"Don't let me hurt you. I could not live with myself and the consequences."

"You're sweet," she smiles quietly, looking up at him from under the shadow of those long lashes, eyes burning with fire and want and that same thing that eats his heart alive, while it still beats a wild rhythm only for her. 

Garrus touches a hand between her legs, follows the trail of fascinating hair to where it parts in a seam of flesh, soft folds hiding a hot, wet warmth. It's familiar enough, so much more slick and so much smaller, but there's give in the muscle lower, where his finger finally dips inside her. Spirits, that’s—

She angles her hips, and moans, right beside his ear when his finger slips deeper, almost to the last knuckle in one go and damn if that's not something he'll remember for the rest of his life. 

"C'mon," her lips brush the word against his mandible. He puts his forehead to hers and pulls his hand away, moving her instead, three fingers splayed on the jut of a hipbone. 

It takes a little more shuffling, a little more angling and gripping for him to slot himself right at the apex of her thighs, her warmth scorching here, a sun, a red giant star, her wetness smearing on the bare hide of his stomach and then he's holding her firm and letting his sheath finally, blessedly open, his cock sliding out and into her in a slow, perfect motion. 

Shepard doesn't breathe. She can't. Garrus can feel her shuddering against his keel as he keeps filling her, making way for himself inside her even though there's barely any. He never thought she could— that she would have all of him, like this, with her leg cramping up around his hip, with her throat full to bursting with unsaid curses and whimpers. His subvocals scream, his mind fogged by the feeling of her oh so close, so perfect, so beautiful like this, with her hands bruising his neck and her lips open on some silent shout. 

"Fuck, Garrus I—," there's a hitch in her breath, then a fluttering squeeze right on his cock, her muscles clenching up. He's gonna lose his mind just like how he lost control of his voice. 

(I love you.)

“I got you,” he murmurs instead, eyes half-closed, hands still gripping her waist. “I got you sweetheart.”

Shepard squirms, pulls his face right down to her, then lower, into the crook of her neck and a deep urge surfaces in him, an instinct buried deep under centuries of civilized life and culture, yet it was never erased from his genes. He evolved like this, with the want, the need, to bite, to mark something that he wants to forever keep his own. Turians mate for life. If she leaves now, he thinks he will die. Can another soul be ripped from his own? He would gladly lay in a cold grave with her. Would follow her to the end of the universe and back, just so he can protect her. Shield the one that wants to keep the world from crumbling. Travel through all the stars and Mass Relays laying dormant, see all the wild emptiness and beauty of the galaxy and it would still be nothing compared to the way she looks up at him now. 

There’s water collecting at her pinched brows; sweat, he remembers, and he lifts a hand there to swipe it away. Her eyes are wet too, glossy, glinting in the low light like a starry night sky over home.  

“Garrus—” she presses out between her teeth, her face scrunched up in a frown of pain-pleasure he assumes, because she never makes a move to push him away, to halt this perfect joining. He hopes it’s okay. He hopes he’s not fucking this up. Losing her after this would be a killing blow. A heart-shaped bullet hole right on his heart. 

“Just tell me how,” he takes her cheek in his palm, angles her so that he can kiss her. Slowly. Softly. It’s a fleeting thing that ends with her nipping on his mouth, his tongue, just to get his attention. Like his every nerve was not focused on her anyway from the start. 

“Please move,” she murmurs against his mandible, her body squeezing him tight, making him groan. He pulls back a little, testing, careful, always so afraid of hurting her, his tough girl, but Shepard smiles and it’s enough to make him thrust shallowly into her. “Yeah, you feel so good.”

Garrus’ vision whites out for a second as her insides tug him back inside, so warm and so wet that a messy patch is already forming between their bodies, his sheath hitting her folds, the friction blinding, and the sight even more as he looks down, fringe tangled into her hair, and in the darkness he finds himself nestled deep, her cunt stretched around him, glistening in their combined want. 

He moves, spirits, he moves. And his chest rumbles and his hands shake and his mandibles twitch at her cheek and his heart aches so damn hard it makes his breaths get stuck in his lungs like trapped creatures in a bone cage. 

(I love you so damn much.)

She moves with him like a tide, like water rising on an endless black ocean alight with stars, then falling back, and even though he knows she's the most horrible dancer the galaxy has, she follows the steps of this tango by heart. Maybe because it's wanted. Maybe because it's with him. He desperately wishes that it would be true. 

"I won't last long like this," his voice is barely picked up by the translator and he knows this, hopes that she doesn't mind the sounds he makes. They're real. So perfectly clear in their meaning, so sure in expressing something he's not yet ready to say when she can understand. 

(I love you, I love you, I love you.)

She puts a palm to his stomach, just above his sheath, five lithe fingers mapping out the narrow lines of his sides, and damn, it makes his cock twitch, makes him thrust in roughly for the first time. There's a sound of delight. It comes from her, head tipped back and lips smeared with spit and red strands of hair, like fresh blood after a good brawl. 

"Yes," she breathes out, dragging him down to her, clinging to him tightly as he finally moves his hips in a hard, steady rhythm. His knees are gonna kill him later but it doesn’t matter because he’s with her, joined like lovers, like mates.

She takes his hand, leads it over her body, to the divot of her collarbones, her sternum, the dip of her stomach, then the soft of her belly where she makes him press down a little, makes him feel the distinct shape of him moving inside her. That's something entirely new. 

It makes him even more aware of the fact that this small, fragile woman would take up a krogan in a fistfight and come out alive. It makes him lose his mind. It makes some sick, posessive part of him growl and rumble and hold her so tight he's sure her hips are gonna bruise. 

"Shepard," he hisses, one hand gripping the seat behind her to find more leverage, her sounds getting louder, out of breath and high-pitched, his name a silent mantra only muttered with gaping lips. “Show me how to make you come.”

She whimpers, clutches his fingers tighter on her navel. The talons of his other hand tear the Mako’s seat behind her. She drags his palm over the mound of hairy flesh where they join, and he enjoys carding his talons through the curls, then she takes a thick finger and places the pad of it just above where he’s stretching her open with his cock, on a small bundle of swollen flesh that instantly makes her tighten around him. This is something he could never get used to—the tight warmth clinging to him like a second skin under Palaven’s unforgiving sun. He swipes his thumb over it, then draws a slow circle. The tightness becomes almost unbearable. He keens.  

“Damn clever turian,” she hiccups, grinding into his touch, into his unsteady thrusts, her hand gripping his wrist instead, not guiding but trying to steady herself. “I’m so close, Garrus.”

He nuzzles her jaw at that, forehead meeting forehead after, then lips with plates, tongue with tongue. The kiss breaks off in a series of desperate gasps, and Garrus murmurs against her, “let me come with you. Senna, please I—”

“Love you,” she pants into the crook of his neck, teeth grazing him, and then biting in when he pushes his whole length into her, the stretch unbearable, her words ringing in his ears like endless echoes in a hallway made of dark matter and stardust, and he claims her, puncturing her shoulder and filling her cunt, his tie growing, the taste of her blood bursting on his tongue. Sweet. Salty. Iron. Just like her. 

She tightens on him impossibly so, and then there’s a fluttering, her muscles spasming violently in an orgasm that makes her legs shake and her stomach jump. His thumb slowly stops moving on the bundle of flesh she showed him when her short nails dig forcefully into his forearm. 

(I love you, I love you, I love you—)

Subvocals screaming, his whole body trembling, he finally releases her flesh, knocks his nose against hers until her eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused, brimmed with tears, pupils dilated to infinity. She smiles, blunt teeth flashing white and blue in the low light, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s his own blood on her lips. 

He leans down to lick it off, to embrace her tighter, to feel the taste of her tingle in the back of his throat. She bit him. She marked him for life.

“I love you so damn much, baby.”

It’s out and it’s his own shot right through his heart, a shard of metal carved out just in the shape of her, and Garrus knows that nothing ever will be the same. The marks, the blood, his tie cradled by her fluttering warmth, his heart laying bare out in the snow, thawing in her warmth. 

Turians don’t like the cold, but Shepard scorches and it's just the right way.

“Thank you,” she whispers, weak now, entirely spent, but not influenced by the poison of want anymore. “I know this was… not how a first date should’ve happened but…” she bites the bruised swell of her bottom lip and he smooths a hand over her cheek, brushing away sticky hairs from her face. “Can we… have a next time?”

Garrus flicks out his mandibles in a smile and hugs her tighter, reassuring, eyes full of hope and wonder and her own disheveled reflection, “I want all the next times with you.”

“Good,” her grin tickles his hide, mischievous now. “I’m looking forward to it.”

(I do too. I do, I do, I do.)

[acciokaidanalenko]

The Candidate

Had some feelings about Nat & Steven's complicated relationship. So here's this 🤷‍♀️

Freshly budding trees filled the gardens below Alliance HQ. A breathtaking view by any standards. Steven knew the air would carry the scent of fresh flowers on the wind, yet he stood in a stifling conference room while others argued in the background. They’d been going for a solid ten minutes, offering their own opinions for or against his proposed candidate for the position of the first human Spectre. As far as he was concerned, she was the only option, the only one he could even consider. “There is certainly value in her having spent most of her life aboard starships and space stations. With hardly any time planet side, she’ll be prepared for months of traveling while she’s being evaluated by the Council’s chosen Spectre representative. That in itself will make her assignment on our newest warship an easy one.” Ambassador Donnel Udina’s drawling voice drew Steven away from the first signs of Spring he’d witnessed in a long time. Just like his candidate, he himself spent little time planet side. The crackle of the audio reminded him that the ambassador was still on the Citadel, claiming he’d been too busy to carve out enough time to travel back to Earth for this meeting. “You’re willfully ignoring the fact that both of her parents have served for decades. She lives, breathes, and bleeds for the Alliance. I would be honored to have her as my XO.” Steven’s gaze moved to his colleague, Captain David Anderson. They shared a sense of pride as they fought in favor of his proposed candidate. He turned away from the window and leaned his weight against the table, noticing the intricate details of the wood before looking up toward the slightly blurred picture of Udina on the QEC. “We should have confidence in our candidate for the position of the first Human Spectre. You’ve been pushing for this for a long time, Ambassador. Whoever we put forward must be capable, and adaptable. She’s the Hero of the Blitz, an N7, and one of our most powerful biotics. She’s proven herself to be invaluable not only to the Alliance, but to Humanity as a whole. You know she’s the right choice for this.” The room fell silent, neither of the other men wanting to mention Steven's personal stake in her success on Elysium. They both knew it was better not to mention that day, to either of them. "Listen, Admiral, I'm not questioning her courage or her ability to do her job. My main concern is- what I need to be certain of, is if she's really who we want as our representative for Humanity. Whoever we put forward for this simply must be able to withstand the politics of the Citadel." Udina cautioned, the wary undertone of his voice not losing its impact through the static of the QEC. "What we need is a hero. And Shepard's the best we've got, Ambassador," Anderson replied with an air of exasperation. He'd clearly reached his limit on this debate with Udina. A solemn silence fell between them as the ambassador seemed to consider everything they'd discussed since this meeting had begun. "Very well. I'll make the call to the Council, but the consequences fall to the two of you if this goes sideways." Udina's figure disappeared from the QEC, and Steven turned his gaze to Anderson. They both smiled softly at their small victory. He was confident in this decision; he knew she was the best candidate. "You'll have to be the one to tell her, David. I know she doesn't want to see me," Steven admitted as he pushed himself up from the table. He clasped his hands behind his back as he approached the window again. "Are you sure, Steven? Perhaps your history with Natasha-" Anderson began, stopping when he was given a warning glare. "It's better this way, David," Steven muttered as he looked back down at the trees in the garden below. The branches swayed delicately in the breeze. He smiled to himself before adding, "Oh, and don't forget, tomorrow's her birthday."

[senseandaccountability]

FIC: The light that shrivels a mountain, chapter 1

Pairing: eventually a slow burn Sara Ryder/Harry Carlyle story Summary:  They will need new terms for everything now, a whole new vocabulary for their existence. Sara Ryder and Harry Carlyle try to get their bearings in a new galaxy as they find themselves closer to each other than they ever expected. Read at AO3 or under the cut

Prologue: One for the ages The neon outline of the Silversun Strip almost rivals the lights inside the vast flat where the Milky Way’s best and brightest are hobnobbing tonight. It’s an impressive display put on by - among others - a handful of renowned scientists, eccentric billionaires and a few figureheads like N7 legend Alec Ryder. Big and pompous but somehow still somber enough, just the way these things are supposed to be. And Harry Carlyle isn’t a detective but even so he can spot the trail of Something Else going on behind these carefully constructed facades. Harry once knew Ryder’s wife Ellen but that seems like ages ago now, in another world entirely. She had been a Harlow then and sat beside him during lectures; her mind had been a maze of cleverness and creativity and he had felt inferior to her on several occasions - inferior and impressed because he likes to pride himself in always being able to appreciate brilliance. Now it all feels like a closed chapter. A remnant from when the galaxy had felt fresh and untraveled and people weren’t in all seriousness plotting their escape from it. “Surely there are ethical ramifications-” an elderly man - chief engineer Adams, stationed at SSV Sparta - points out but are cut off by a younger man, one of Harry’s former students. Brenner, he recalls. Morgan Brenner, with ambitions twice as high as his IQ. “That’s always been said for new discoveries!” he blurts now. “The relays, FTL, even spaceships!” “You make careful consideration sound outdated,” Jien Garson says from a few feet away. Her voice is cool, deep; when she motions herself towards them everyone watches. “But last time I checked we still live in a society that favour evidence based theories over speculation.” Harry stifles a sigh. It’s not that the concept itself - an evening of debate and speculation about everyone’s personal obsessions -  is boring, because it’s not. It’s actually mostly the individuals present that are dull. Everyone here is so imbued with greatness, wrapped in an air of arrogant successes and with such an abundance of means that it leaves them with nothing interesting to speak of. It’s an existence without friction, without resistance and it washes away everything besides these smooth, polished surfaces that rivals the facades of the buildings outside. These are men and women of the future; most of them are already halfway there, living through future glory in their own minds. The Andromeda Initiative promises to stroke the egos of the already grandiose personas of their galaxy - he has yet to learn anything about it that is aimed at the less fortunate. There are things that could tempt him when it comes to leaving the Milky Way behind, he’s not going to lie to himself about that. Things, reasons, motivations. One of the major ones is the dead-end of science as they know it. The human mind - the human sight - is ultimately a failed one, clouded by history or regret or faith. Not necessarily a spiritual faith either, which he can at least understand the outlines of, but a conservative faith in old science and outdated doctrines, as though hundreds of years of intergalactic collaborations haven’t altered their arts entirely. That kind of backwards thinking is the one extreme in medicine. The other is represented by individuals such as Alec Ryder himself and that perspective sees no limits to anyone’s reach or claim. If you can, you must. Harry can’t fall in line behind that way of reasoning either, can’t abandon that lingering sense of what’s right and wrong or what ought to be right by all sensible standards. Or wrong. Goodness knows it’s mostly when it goes badly one needs those guidelines in the first place.   He swallows a mouthful of wine. Networking has never been his favorite pastime but even if it had, this is an extreme case of it and only irritation and frustration with current events at Huerta Memorial has brought him here. Looking around this room he can spot at least four or five doctors and scientists with - he suspects, but he was always an excellent guesser - the same set of motivations. With recent discoveries and breakthroughs after the Geth invasion, Harry and his colleagues had somehow assumed their work would follow in line, open up to new schools of thought, but instead they had met heavy resistance among medical bureaucrats and human diplomats alike. Never before has it been made so abundantly clear to him that he has reached a dead end in his research. Ten years ago when he had been climbing up the apex of his career and hosted several seminars at the Citadel, he would never have imagined signing up for something that will, in every way, strip him of all his connections and reputation and spit him out on a remote colony somewhere. A lifetime of hard, dedicated medical work ending on a brave new world. “There will likely be another war here,” Adams says. “Our resources-” “Our resources?” No, Harry thinks. The centuries-old ideal of humanity as a collective certainly seems to have lost impact. “The Initiative is not unmoved by the plight of the Milky Way.” “That’s what you’d like me to believe, isn’t it?” Garson gives a little laugh that sounds sharp against the people in the crowd. “We would hardly invest our time and credits into this project if we wished for anything but prosperity for generations to come.” Adams shakes his head. “Prosperity as a measurement of success, now that is outdated.” Touché, old man. The conversation fades out and becomes soaked up in the noise of the large room and Harry turns away slightly, marking his disinterest as subtly as he possibly can. Which isn’t subtle at all. There’s something about these gatherings that strips him to the bare bones, as if the formal wear only ever serves as a reminder that he still isn’t assimilated enough for the bored exhaustion not to get to him. A simple upbringing is such a cliche but still true for many of them even up here, in the fancy apartments at the Citadel. Not that they’re on top of the hierarchy, far from it, but high enough for it to be a place where people want to spend several hours. At least the drinks are nice and strong and the food is well-suited to its purpose. Removing himself even further from the discussion, he spots a woman standing by the large panorama window; she’s alone and holds a beer bottle in on hand as she tampers a bit with her omni-tool. Oblivious to everyone else or acutely aware, he can’t say from a distance and somehow he’s intrigued enough to want to know. Around him he can hear low voices talk about black-ops, about the N7 program, about Commander Shepard and the Council; there are a large group of medical professionals too and they mainly discuss recent discoveries in xenomedicine and restrains infringed on them. Once, he met his wife at a party not too unlike this one. Wedged in between rambling old scholars and over-eager military strategists fresh out of some SpecForces program, he had spotted her: short, pink-haired, overdressed and striking in all her awkwardness. Judith Krinth, about to become one of the most prominent sociologist of the century and embark on a splendid career in the intergalactic paralegal community. Back then she hadn’t been famous for those things, of course. Back then she had just been a very clever, obscenely funny girl and Harry had fallen in love with her after one drink together. One drink and then twenty years of them. Their marriage - like so many of the marriages in their circle of friends, a quiet little epidemic - ended in a divorce but while it lasted it had continually amazed him.

He had really wanted kids, to start a family; she had really not. It’s far from the only reason but it had been the start of a waning in their marriage that they never properly managed to recover from. So many ups and downs in fifteen years and somehow they usually ended up in bed, or at a restaurant, laughing at something together. Elasticity, someone had called it once. The measurement for healthy relationships: how far you can leap in either direction and still be returned to the heart of it all. But this had been something from which they hadn’t bounced back. Some days he mourns her like he mourns the dead. Tonight, there’s no pink-haired sociologist in the crowd but there’s a woman inspecting him from a few meters away. Pretty, he thinks to himself as he crosses the floor and approaches. But likely too young. For what, Harry? “Sara.” She extends her hand; he takes it. A trace of something crosses her face as their eyes meet. “Hello, Sara. My name is Harry Carlyle.” There’s a certain look at the bottom of her gaze, he finds, a certain edge to her entire being that tells him she’s the kind of person it will turn out to be nearly impossible to establish a personal history for. A wild sort of trait, a lack of confinements that runs deep. It’s appealing and - when he encounters this among his patients - slightly infuriating. “What kind of famous and important fool are you, then?” He feels the corners of his mouth twitch at her bluntness. She really is young, no doubt about it; it’s a young person’s bravado hammering behind every word and there are days when he misses this in himself, other days when he wonders if he ever had it or if he was always intent on success and accomplishment. “I’m a medic,” he offers. “Trained surgeon. Specialized in neurosurgery.” Once, among different people, that used to be impressive. Did it now? Really? These days he doesn’t expect it to awake any kind of reaction besides the one this Sara is giving him now: a brief nod. “And you?” he asks instead, trying to come up with a qualified guess in his head. Not old enough to be anything that demands the kind of extensive education that gets you invited to these gatherings - he sees no other students here, at least - and too sharp to be nothing but a security guard in civilian clothing. “Family.” Her gaze travels over the room until it rests at a young man standing beside Alec Ryder. A young man with a striking resemblance to her own features. Of course, he reminds himself. The Ryder twins. There’s an extensive medical file on her somewhere, even. The biotic twin from Ellen Ryder’s much-chronicled pregnancy. “Ah,” he says. “You know my dad?” “That would be an exaggeration.” Harry tries to summon his most recent memory involving the man in question but fails. Their paths very rarely cross and he can’t say he’s mourning the fact. Lately, word on the street is that Ryder is on the verge of making himself a pariah in more organisations than one, keeping up his stubborn and illegal research like a man possessed. In addition to his already arrogant personality, it's definitely not a winning concept. “We’re acquaintances, at best.” A little smile tugging at her mouth. “That’s pretty much how I feel about him, too.” He wonders if that’s the truth or a comment made in order to sound like something she isn’t, something she’d rather be. Once he might have claimed the same things about his family, the strangely distant mother and the father he barely saw more than occasionally at birthday dinners and holidays. We are shaped by our early years, someone he used to work with echoes in his head and Harry wonders if that is still true, in this age of space and beyond. Maybe it never was, maybe it is now more than ever. “I suppose he’s a man who works hard,” Harry says, steering carefully along the neutral road of this conversation. “You could say that.” She smiles properly now and whatever hard traces he had spotted in her face before have completely vanished. It’s just youth, he thinks. Youth and some disappointment, most likely. Maybe sadness. There are rumors about Ellen Ryder floating about, rumors regarding her health and Harry finds himself wishing they are false, for this girl’s sake if nothing else.   There’s something about her. Something genuine, something misplaced among these people here tonight, maybe in this entire context. Harry himself can’t even begin to fathom all the hidden agendas behind the fancy words of Garson and her ilk, doesn’t even want to start deciphering it because there’s a pull in there, too, an allure in falling for their golden worlds and new frontiers. And there’s something about her that tells him she feels the same way. Or maybe she’s just young enough to still be a full-blood cynic, gods know he was at her age. Either way, she’s got a presence, a slow, steady kind of gravitas. Her dark eyes follows him, he has a sense of her even when he can tell she's watching something else. As though she leaves an imprint in the room. Decades ago Harry knows some people would have suggested it's a result of the biotic energy but common sense and science have dispersed that kind of nonsense – at least most of it, most of the time.

The reality is just that Sara Ryder is Ellen and Alec's daughter and has inherited a streak of intelligent charisma – hers – and a dominant sort of personality – his – and Harry is getting pretty damn drunk to be standing here, waxing lyrical about this kid in the first place.

Now she looks at him again, eyebrows slightly arched. “What?” “Nothing,” he says, offering a half-apologetic smile before looking out over the room again. “Quite a crowd tonight.” “Dad’s been even more obsessed with his research lately. And with this.” She makes a sweeping gesture. “What do you know about the Initiative?” Harry thinks while he sips his wine; there’s a dull headache forming around his temples, like a persistent little reminder to get more sleep. “Not much.” “Yeah.” She checks something on her wrist, possibly the time, but this entire setup reminds him of cheesy old vids and her behavior would belong to a spy in one of those, hired by someone high up in the ranks and programmed to report any Doubter to the powers that be. He nearly smiles. “I don’t, either. Scott, my brother, keeps trying to find out all sorts of things but there’s not much there.”   “Or what’s there is very protected, perhaps.” She nods. “Will you join them?” Them, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He’d have assumed Alec Ryder would make sure his family was on board with the plans before taking them further, but maybe he assumes they are. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe this is part of his elaborate exile from every unpleasant current situation he’s ensnared in. Maybe this entire thing is so damn full of complications and complexities that Harry will never be able to wrap his head around them all.   “I’m open to the idea,” he concludes after some consideration. It nearly surprises him to hear his own words, at least until he recalls his latest research project and the quest for funding. “Maybe we’ll be sharing an ark in the near future.” Sara flashes him a quick grin. In the corner of his eye he observes a trio of men his age deeply engaged in a conversation. One of them he identifies as Oleg Petrovsky, a man most people have considered long lost to dark ops and fringe groups. There’s a fleeting unrest at the idea of that kind of mark being left on this expedition, but then again why wouldn’t it be? Wherever they go they’ll carry the Milky Way with them.   “No battleplan ever survives contact with the enemy,” he overhears Petrovsky say and then one of the other men makes a disdainful noise. “We’re not planning for war, Petrovsky.” Petrovsky laughs, a quick, hard laugh laced with a lifetime of battle experience. “You should.” Harry lets a mouthful of wine be his focus for a second, pretending to enjoy the taste the way he did back when Judith would drag him with her to assorted wine tastings at the Citadel. He had never achieved the manners of someone as refined as this ideal husband his ex-wife sometimes seemed to search for, but he had at least tried. That counts for something. “You’re going then?” he asks, turning his attention back to Alec Ryder’s daughter. She nods. “Probably. Yeah. Need to make sure Scott doesn’t get himself into trouble.” At every party there are moments where the setting changes, the tone alters and the crowds morph slightly - sometimes not at all - into something barely different. A quiet gathering turns into drunk people looking to dance, a dinner party with sober intellectuals end up as a riveting chamber play and a discussion that originated as a feud transforms into actual, fair debate. Tonight, he feels, he can either remain a cautious bystander or he can finish his wine, get the two of them another set of drinks and they can continue their conversation. He’d actually very much enjoy that and the varied reasons why aren’t something he needs to delve into - not right here and not right now. He’s just about to make this suggestion to Sara when he sees they have company - her brother, by the look of things, seemingly eager to drag her away. She shoots Harry a glance - lingering, but only for a fraction of a second - before smiling. A polite smile this time. What did you expect? “See you later, Harry Carlyle,” she says. And he’s left standing by the staggering view of the Citadel by night, hoping he’ll feel certain of whatever decision for his future he’s about to make.