The crowd was raging, but the shouts were far from adoring or respectful. Yevik expected everything when he went into cryosleep, but not such a reception. To be fair, few people expect to be stunned by a pink stock, encrusted with rhinestones, in the first seconds after waking up. Moreover, the warrior of the fallen empire did not expect to become a participant in such a thing!
Before the warrior could spit out the cheap glitter, he was dragged out of his sarcophagus and began to be beaten with his feet, doused with filth. He miraculously managed to inhale air, which he exhaled in a scream when stun batons came into play. All Yevik could do was writhe on the metal floor in a fetal position to somehow protect himself.
It would seem, what could be worse, but a whip and clubs came into play... Time for the prothean stretched out very slowly. If you consider the ability to read information on contact, which literally went mad when he was doused with filth, then hell began for the last representative of his species.
He came to only when he was fastened to shackles and hung from the ceiling. With some abnormal malicious glee, the asari, whose face was smeared with paint, slowly turned the switch, sending current through the restraints. Yevik arched his back, and a muffled scream escaped his throat. Enjoying the pain of the last prothean, the tormentor reduced the current to a level where biotics could not be used. After watching for another second as sweat with a slight smoke emanated from the prisoner, and inhaling the smell of burnt flesh, the tormentor left, closing the cell.
Coughing and spitting blood on the floor, Yevik somehow caught his breath, rejoicing in the absence of new beatings and flickering images in his head.
"I wish the Reapers had killed me in battle," was his first, well-formulated thought after waking up...
***
"Sisters, today our vengeance will take place!" announced a pale asari with almost black eyes, clutching a long, flexible artifact in her hand, on which traces of prothean blood still glowed.
The crowd met her words with a chant:
"Morinth! Morinth! Morinth!" their faces, illuminated by fanatical delight, were turned towards her.
The Ardat-Yakshi scanned her flock with a cold gaze, her chin haughtily raised.
With a sharp gesture, she called for silence from the semi-naked women of all races gathered before the improvised stage. Morinth reveled in these moments of universal attention, feeling how her words shaped reality for these beings. She felt not so much intellectual superiority as power – the power of a puppeteer over obedient puppets.
"We will shed the blood of the last prothean!" her voice was low and commanding.
"For their race is a symbol. A symbol of the system that has tried to break us for centuries, to impose its will, to deprive us of our strength! With its fall, the last pillar of the false order will crumble!"
The assembly erupted in deafening shouts of approval. Faces distorted by ecstasy were turned towards her as the sole source of truth. Morinth watched this transformation with cold satisfaction.
She had long since learned: to control intelligent beings, you need to give them a simple enemy and a beautiful goal. How easy it was to declare complex social structures a "prison," and other girls "adaptives," turning once sensible women into an obedient army. The crowd craved action, and she gave them that opportunity, directing their suppressed rage in the direction she needed.
They had already crossed the line, eliminating those they considered weak or unworthy. But behind the loud slogans of freedom lay her personal will, her calculation. It was she, the Ardat-Yakshi, who turned them from victims of circumstances into a formidable weapon! And from this, her inner, sucking emptiness was filled, if only slightly, with glory and adoration.
Like a skilled conductor, Morinth controlled the mood of the crowd. From an asari rejected by her homeworld, she became a brilliant manipulator for whom other people's lives were just a bargaining chip. She reveled in their adoration, feeling her own significance grow along with their readiness to do anything.
"We will enact justice with the instrument of their own pride!" she continued, and metallic notes sounded in her voice.
"Our sisters have already delivered specially bred vorks with modernized genitalia. Under the influence of pheromones and aphrodisiacs, the elusive target will become their only object of desire. Thus, the last of the prothean race will fall from the very power that gave birth to their empire!"
In these moments, she felt not like a goddess, but like an architect of a new reality. They didn't need to know that behind the rhetoric of freedom lay ordinary, age-old revenge. Revenge on the system in which she had no place. But soon everything would change.
Her more intelligent and pragmatic supporters were already carrying out subversive work at key points of the Citadel. And these fanatics... well, any ascension requires sacrifices. And who, if not them, would become the fuel that would burn the old world to ashes? And who could stop her from satisfying her sadism to the fullest?
***
Silence fell in the briefing room of the "Normandy." Shep finished setting the task, feeling his throat scratch from too much said. The assault on the station, where not only Liara but possibly a living prothean was located, was almost a done deal, with everyone's role just described.
"Do you have anything to add, Garrus?" the human's voice had a clearly audible hoarseness.
It was precisely because of the turian, who was not connected to the "Collective," that the lieutenant colonel had to speak too much, rather than limit himself to sending a few mental images and a couple of words. Basic politeness.
"Only that the criminals at the facility have nothing to do with feminism or human rights movements. Spirits see, their activities have only complicated the work of others. They have not protected a single woman, not prevented a single act of violence. This is a gathering of terrorists and sadists!"
"I agree," Miranda nodded, confirming every word spoken.
As a CERBERUS investigator and having studied the evidence, she was ready to sign under each of them.
"Words are so easy when deeds are needed," her mental message sounded in the neural network, and the other women responded only with approving agreement.
She had much more understanding for victims of domestic violence who found the strength for reciprocal cruelty. Even approval, because everyone knows: the Druzhina arrests rapists primarily to prevent them from being lynched by ordinary citizens. A society that almost became slaves to a deranged AI reacted sharply to any act of violence against a person. Killing was considered a less serious offense. The killed could be reborn, but with a broken psyche – not. At least, it was like that in the USSR, unlike in Citadel Space.
"Then why weren't they arrested?" one of the Red Army soldiers decided to clarify.
He was bewildered by the system's inaction, accustomed to the fact that in the Union, such things were suppressed, if not immediately, then steadily. The emergence of such openly extremist organizations seemed impossible to him in principle. Even fanatics who deified scientific achievements remained peaceful in the USSR as long as they didn't decide to impose their point of view by force. Who, if not him, who participated in detaining such people, should ask about such a thing.
"There are plenty of daughters of prominent intelligent beings there," the turian remarked acidly.
"The cases were closed almost immediately, without publicity. High society does not tolerate noise in its backyard. Another question is who patronizes such people in the Republic. Most of them are young asari, and they used to react very sharply to such things, the justicars. Here, a whole detachment of them went over to the fanatics, breaking their oath. I can never understand that."
The turian just shrugged, unconsciously imitating the citizens of the Union. His entire posture was an embodiment of indignation, and it was unknown what was more in him: incomprehension of how a rational being could break an oath, or why such horror was happening in Space.
"Politics," Shep replied, reinforcing the word with an image of a mountain of gold, hinting that they needed to look for someone who benefited from all this.
Although Garrus could not see the mental message, he correctly interpreted the human's mimicry.
"Politics," the turian could only agree, grimacing at the coincidence of opinions with the communist.
It was very difficult for a patriot of the Hierarchy to come to terms with this fact.
"If no one has any questions, everyone is dismissed," the lieutenant colonel commanded, ending the briefing.
Leaving the room last, Shep involuntarily thought, recalling his conversation with the commander. Sergey had dumped too much on him last night, but he could understand his friend and commander. It's not every day you learn that a prominent scientist, who has done so much for the country, whose name is inscribed not only in textbooks but also in history itself, is actually insane...
Decades ago, Academician Lebedev saw a possible future. As a scientist, he tried to predict another outcome, but each time he got the same result. The head of the Academy of Consequences discarded one probability after another before what he thought was the only viable, monstrous path for the country's survival.
"Struggle is pointless. Only voluntary submission can save us. By losing vigilance, we can stop the true enemy from within," the academician's words echoed what his friend had told Shep.
"Almost as if Lebedev wanted the Union to voluntarily become an instrument of the Reapers, so that he could then try to hack and reprogram these ancient machines! A mad and monstrous plan! We will never agree to such a thing!" the lieutenant colonel mused, trying to digest what he had heard.
An officer who had fought with the Collectors understood the full depth of the scientist's delusion.
"There will be no attempt. The Reapers have carried out the Harvest cycle after cycle with impunity, crushing any resistance. If it were possible to reprogram them, another race would have done it, or found the off button for this conveyor of horror."
Even more monstrous was only the correction, as Lebedev himself innocently called it. The probability he had found was unstable, and to achieve the desired parameters, he had to correct reality. Many problems of Soviet society were the result of his activities.
"As usual, the human factor turned out to be stronger than a well-ordered system when one freak decided everything for others. It's right that the basic laws are adopted by universal suffrage, taking all positions into account." Shep burned with righteous indignation.
The lieutenant colonel could not accept either this or the fact that his life had also been distorted because of this scientist, as he had seen the tragedy of the "Collective" activation, but did not change anything, fearing to miss the probability.
The officer perfectly understood the academician's motives and why he was not caught. The collective mind was not a deus ex machina.
"Although the Motherland's authorities had the ability to scan memory or connect directly, they did not do so, respecting freedom of choice. Rational beings saw Lebedev as an idol, a role model, a mysterious scientist, and an eccentric lover of sweets. Moreover, he had covered his tracks even before the activation of the 'Collective,' planning everything years ago. He simply did not arouse suspicion, only sympathy. As usual, good intentions... How many times have I seen this?" Shep replayed the entire conversation in his head.
"Even if he is right, and there is no other way out, it does not mean that he could decide for us! Most citizens would prefer to perish in an attempt to create a different ending to this story than to exist as a silent instrument, completely subject to ancient machines. This cage is worse than death."
This was the case for the USSR. Now, looking at what was happening in Citadel Space, Shep wondered: is this not the Reapers' plan?
"It doesn't matter anymore. In a couple of hours, we'll get some answers..."
***
The assault on the Salarian-built station began as standard. Using cloaking systems, the "Normandy," led by an ace, approached the void object almost closely, as if during exercises. From the open hangar, the "Argentum" operatives slid out, merely pushing off. Flying by inertia, covering several hundred kilometers, they secured themselves to the hull with magnetic boots, beginning the preparatory phase.
While Shep, as the most experienced in this regard, connected to the station's systems, cautiously taking them under his control, his comrades began sabotaging the defense systems to neutralize even manual control.
Having planted explosives, the operatives began the assault. Explosions shook the not-so-small station. Hangar doors and shield projectors were instantly blown up. The "Normandy," hovering over the upper projection of the object, began firing at the gun systems, which were silent due to sabotage.
The "Argentum" fighters instantly penetrated the hangar, killing everyone who had a weapon in their hands. Acting as a single mechanism, they left no chance for the poorly trained fanatical women.
No matter how much the operatives wanted to work cleanly, taking everyone down, it was impossible. Not only were there fighters among the station's crew who were not inferior to them, but the presence of a possible hostage and the target of the operation among the defenders made many tactics impossible.
Neuroparalytic gas could not be used, nor could the station be simply de-energized, isolating the fanatics in compartments to slowly suppress scattered pockets of resistance. Realizing the inevitability of defeat, the feminists could kill the prothean. They had to rely only on speed and the force of the onslaught.
Having captured a foothold, Shep gave the order to disembark the landing party. Landing shuttles rushed from the depths of the cruiser, but before that, the "Normandy" fired assault torpedoes...
The station's hull was melted by the plasma cutters of the ramming part of the torpedoes. Having reached the required depth and welding the breach behind them, the automation gave the command to fire the hatches, releasing stormtrooper-skaven outside.
The intelligent rats immediately entered the battle. Considering their lives insignificant, the soldiers of the gray host rushed at the feminists.
Minutes later, landing shuttles reached the station, from which infantry disembarked...
***
Rex and Garrus finished off a group of vorks, grinding them like a meat grinder. The SBC officer and the former mercenary had never worked together, but thanks to their experience, they quickly adapted to each other. If the krogan played the role of tank and biotic support, then the turian acted from behind him, accurately taking down terrorists.
"I wouldn't want to be here without a gun," the ancient warrior remarked, finishing off a tenacious work by stepping on its head.
"Likewise," the turian agreed dryly.
They were "lucky." Their group landed in the prison block of the station, so they were the first to witness all the atrocities that were happening here.
"It's like a thresher maw chewed it up and spat it out," Rex grimaced disgustedly, looking at a female corpse stretched on a rack, which was already indicative.
The quarian was literally flayed with a brutality that the krogan had rarely seen in his long life.
"She was a Companion..." a quiet voice came from a pile of broken bodies.
"And she refused to join... A girl who wanted to save others... Morinth personally cut the skin off her."
The turian gestured in the direction from which the voice was heard. The krogan nodded, and they parted, flanking the speaker.
"Fuck," Rex drawled, while the less accustomed Garrus tried not to gag.
"Now I can say I've seen some real shit. May a pyjak gore me..."
And there was a reason. The asari, looking at them with a cloudy gaze, looked much, much worse than the quarian on the rack, while still being alive.
"Got any smokes?" the stump without arms and legs quietly asked.
After receiving an affirmative nod, the asari rasped.
"Give me a light..."
The krogan took a cigar from his armor, lit it, and brought it to the woman's lips, or rather, to what was left of them. She, grimacing from pain, took a puff.
"I should have strangled this creature with her own umbilical cord as soon as she was born, but who knew..." the asari said, coughing, with little time left to live.
"But I hoped until the last that my girl would come to her senses, even when they smashed my legs..."
"Are you Samara?" the turian asked her, having regained his composure.
"Was... Now I'm just food for varrens..." the justicar rasped with laughter.
"I haven't been this upset, not even when others betrayed me... Can I ask? Shoot this underage creature... I understand that they made her like this... The Matriarchs... Now they get rid of unwanted ones like this... They don't want to clean up their own shit themselves... pacifists..."
Samara laughed. Blood flowed from her mouth again.
"I thought I'd talk... Reason with her... I was wrong. Maybe if I had caught her alone, I could have gotten through to her... Now it doesn't matter... Even if she understands, living with this... Won't you help? I'd love to, but I have nothing to press the trigger with..."
Garrus nodded, raising his pistol, about to fulfill the warrior and mother's last request...
***
An invisible wave scattered the fanatics like bowling pins. Only a couple of asari, skilled in biotics, managed to withstand the power of telekinesis, which greatly displeased Shep.
His rifle clicked satedly, sending a reactive bullet on its swift flight. Piercing the barrier, it decapitated one of the blue-skinned girls. The second, distracted by the death of her friend, immediately paid the price. Miranda unleashed a stream of polymer blades on her, which did not kill but inflicted many small wounds. Another telekinetic blow knocked the opponent out.
Firing a burst from the hip with his pistol, the lieutenant colonel riddled the woman who flew out of an inconspicuous niche. Plasma burned holes in the unfortunate, crippling her, making the victim writhe in pain.
A mental message, and a polymer film reliably protected them from the large-caliber machine gun firing at them. With a wave of her hand, Miranda sent the sand grains stuck in the defense back. The projectiles, having lost their colossal stopping power, could not penetrate the heavy suit, but they managed to dent its armor, reliably neutralizing the shooter.
Shep stepped over the bodies writhing in pain, not hurrying to advance to the next line of defense, hastily erected in their path. Recalling his rifle and arming himself with a sword and shield, he activated additional generators, strengthening his plasma curtain.
"Fire! Kill him!" shouted the commander of the defense, her voice betraying panic.
A new hail of shots struck the glowing red defense, causing it to hiss and shine, but not slowing the operative at all. Under his cover, the investigator struck the barricade with a stream of invisible energy. Scattering the obstacle, she threw a polymer blob, which immediately picked up the weapons of the wounded.
The construct itself chose targets, beginning to shoot from trophy weapons, not allowing the defenders to retreat to the next junction of the station corridor. The screams and moans of the wounded terrorists occasionally drowned out the gunfire.
Suddenly, the operative's curtain flared up, bursting from biotic deformation. The man, on pure reflexes, retreated to the side, letting the wave of devastation pass.
"Justicar!" Shep thought, intercepting another Warp with telekinesis.
With a movement of his hand, he switched the sword to whip mode, lengthening the weapon and sending a stream of electricity through it, forcing the opponent to break concentration.
Having protected herself from the lightning with a barrier, the asari rushed into close combat, preventing Miranda from aiming for a shot. The mass-effect-padded hands fell on the lieutenant colonel's shield, but he repelled them with a counter-strike. Not bothering to be polite, Shep struck the justicar's nose with his head.
The asari recoiled, momentarily disoriented, but the broken nose did not take her out of the fight. The biotic again used devastation, this time partially covering the operative. The energy stream damaged the nervous system in his supporting leg, now forcing him to stagger. If not for the shield in his hands, the biotic-enveloped leg strike would have broken his rib cage.
Stepping back a pace under the onslaught, the lieutenant colonel threw his sword, firing his pistol. Distracted by the fiercely buzzing weapon, the asari could only erect a barrier at the last second, but even so, the plasma bit into her flesh.
The pain disrupted her concentration, making her defense flimsy, which Miranda took advantage of, tripping her legs with a polymer mass, forcing her to retreat in the desired direction. The weapon, obedient to its master's will, swished through the air, and the sword plunged between the judicator's shoulder blades, emerging through her sternum.
An invisible telekinetic grip tore the blade from the flesh's embrace, splitting the worthy opponent in two.
"Behind you," the investigator caught the lieutenant colonel's mental message, elegantly dodging a biotic-infused knife. Intercepting the hand with the weapon, she pulled it towards herself, slamming the very young asari into the bulkhead, hitting her head against the obstacle a couple of times for good measure, until she was completely unconscious.
"Target," she recognized Liara as the attacker, and reported it. Checking her pulse, the girl pricked the girl with an analyzer, which squealed from the off-the-charts concentration of psychotropics in her body, which had clouded the young asari's mind to insanity. Seeing the readings, Miranda instantly injected a universal antidote, which helped little, only stabilizing the condition of a potential source of information...
The lieutenant colonel peered intently into the darkness of the corridor. Catching movement in the pitch blackness, he directed a wave of polymer forward with sheer force of will. A moment later, a quiet crunch and a loud scream echoed.
The helmet's electronics signaled that the wounded voice had been identified. Estimating the distance at a glance, the lieutenant colonel used telekinesis on the area. Helping himself with a hand movement, he pulled the wounded woman towards him.
Another scream, full of pain, rang out. An invisible force dragged Morinth across the metal floor, her leg broken in several places by the polymer mass.
"Human," she spat with all her might, overcoming the pain, aiming for the helmet's visor.
"And to you as well," replied Shep, dodging the saliva, and simultaneously stepping on the asari's wounded leg. "Where is the prothean?"
"If it were up to me, I'd make a smoothie out of your eyes!" groaned the wounded woman. "Come on, dick-bearer, kill me! Show me what a beast you are..."
"Even if your mother asked for it, I'm too stingy to waste a bullet on you," was the last thing Morinth heard before a steel sole extinguished her consciousness. "Such a creature needs a public trial, as a lesson to others..."
Nodding to Miranda, the lieutenant colonel figured that this asari was unlikely to have left such a coveted trophy in the circumstances, so he decided to check the nearest chambers. At the fifth open door, a frayed chain tried to fly at the man without any fuss.
Chuckling, Shep almost gently "caressed" the prothean with his fist, sending him to the land of dreams...