Chapter 29: Apocalypse Now

The first thing that greeted Nator when he came to was a voice. It seemed to be reciting something, but his hazy mind wasn't yet able to make sense of them. Slowly, Nator opened his eyes, blinking as light filtered in through his visor, and took stock of his surroundings.

He was in a med bay, and a very well-furnished one at that. The room was a bright, sterile white with several beds arrayed on both sides. Nator was lying on one such bed, with several machines set up nearby, their purposes unknown to him. His suit was still in place, so that likely meant he hadn't suffered any physical injuries. A quick diagnostic from the internal monitors told him that everything was working properly and that he was germ-free.

He wasn't the only occupant, either. On some of the other beds were a few Turian marines; two of them were unconscious, each hooked up to a device that monitored their vital signs, and one still awake. He was curled up into a ball, feverish eyes staring straight ahead. He wasn't in a state of shock, though. Rather, it looked like he was just... broken.

"There is no greater virtue than discipline, for without it there is no order," the Turian muttered, rocking back and forth. "The chain of command is what unites us and we must not let it break, or everything will fall into chaos."

He didn't seem to notice Nator, or anything else. He just kept repeating that mantra over and over in a low, trembling voice like a computer program trapped in an infinite loop.

What happened? Nator gingerly sat up and wracked his brain for the reason why he was here. Then, he remembered. Ah, that's right. I passed out.

It had been the first time he'd ever done so, in fact. Weirdly enough, he found that he was able to recall that moment with perfect clarity. There had been no dramatic moan or flailing of arms; he had simply grown horrendously dizzy and pitched forward, his mind falling into silent darkness.

The cause of that blackout, however, remained a blank. Not simply a lack of memory, but a literal blank. It was as if his mind had deleted the whole event, refusing to acknowledge that it had even happened. All that Nator could recall was that he had witnessed something terrible on Menae, something that had shaken him to his very core.

Nator glanced back over at the Turian, who was still babbling. It was good odds that whatever had caused him to faint was the same thing that had reduced the poor soul to this sorry state. If that was true, then it was better that he never remembered.

"Ah, good. You're awake."

Nator turned towards the door, and saw that a doctor had walked in. A human, with pale skin and greying brown hair. look, and he moved about with a heavy gait. This was someone who had seen a lot, and very little had been good.

The human strode up to Nator and gave him a quick once-over. "Well, you seem to be in working order. Any nausea or lightheadedness?"

"No," Nator answered.

"What about migraines or hallucinations?" the doctor asked. "Inexplicable anxiety? The feeling of being watched? Maybe a lingering sense of oncoming doom?"

"No, nothing," Nator answered. "I'm just... curious as to what happened."

"You don't remember?"

"It's all a complete blank, honestly. The last thing I recall was standing on the bridge, watching footage from your people's drones and then..." he gestured around at the med bay. "I woke up here."

"Well, consider yourself lucky," the doctor declared soberly. "You and those other aliens all got a nice eyeful of whatever it is that's made its home on that moon. When a mind gets hit with something like that, it often doesn't end nearly so well."

He glanced over at the Turian, now on what had to be his twelfth recitation since Nator had woken up, completely oblivious to the world around him. While he could be mistaken, the Quarian was almost certain that he hadn't blinked once. The human shook his head in a pitying manner.

"Poor bastard. He's going to need some serious psychic treatment to fix him up. Probably have to go in and give his memories a pruning."

Nator had no idea what the doctor meant by "pruning," but it certainly didn't sound pleasant. "Since this med bay appears to not be overflowing with patients," he said, changing the subject, "I assume that the others are up and about?"

The doctor nodded. "For the most part. A couple of those Turian marines became hysterical and had to be sedated. And you've already seen that poor soul." He jerked a thumb at the mumbling Turian. "There were some other fainting spells among them as well, but nothing serious. Had a few of our own conk out too."

Nator's disbelief must have somehow shone through, because the human gave him a thin smile and said, "Oh, don't look so surprised, son. We might give the impression that we're all immune to shit like that, but believe me, it gets to us too. We're just better at coping with it. Relatively speaking, that is."

"So, what happens now?" Nator asked. "Am I free to go?"

The doctor nodded again. "I don't see any reason to keep you here. There's nothing wrong with you physically, and your mental faculties seem to be intact." He fixed Nator with the stare that all medical professionals seemed to be equipped with. "However, if you start experiencing any of the symptoms I mentioned earlier—especially the hallucinations—come back here immediately."

"But of course," said Nator, some of his natural charm returning to his voice.

The doctor frowned at him. "I mean it, son. Don't play the tough guy and try to power through. I guarantee that you'll just make things worse."

"Doctor, I'm a Quarian," said Nator. "The very last thing I would do is ignore medical advice."

With that, he hopped off the bed and exited the med bay. He was not ashamed to admit that he was glad to be out of there. That mumbling, broken Turian had not been a pleasant sight, and Nator didn't care for being reminded that he could have ended up just like him.

As he walked, Nator suddenly realized that he had no idea where he was going. This ship was immense and unfamiliar to him. He could wander these corridors for hours, and that wasn't a very appealing thought.

Just then, Nator spied a human crewman going about his duties. He briskly strode after the man, putting his trademark "affable salesman" persona on in full force.

"Excuse me!" he called. "You there! Could you perhaps direct me to wherever Admiral Slade is? I'm fairly certain he's expecting me."

The crewman turned around, favoring Nator with a disinterested air. "The Admiral is in the war room. Second level, down the hall from the CIC. You can't miss it. Elevator's down that way, on your left." He pointed down the corridor.

"Thank you most kindly," said Nator.

The human turned away and resumed his trek without another word.

A few minutes later, Nator had arrived at his destination. The door leading into the war room slid open, and Nator walked past the guards inside. The interior was spacious, with a large, circular table at the center. Slade and the members of Nator's fellow diplomats were already seated around it. Slade looked as stern and unshakable as always, his two frightening bodyguards looming at his shoulders, but the other ambassadors were seriously rattled.

The two Turians—Quentius and Jorus if he recalled correctly—both looked as though they'd been through hell. They were trying to keep up the stiff-backed discipline their kind was famous for, but were failing miserably. Their mandibles were clenched and their hands were trembling like leaves in a storm.

Poor Din the Volus looked even worse. He was hunched over and wheezing hard, the optics of his pressure suit blinking in rapid flutters. His hands were squeezing the armrests of his chair so tightly that it was a wonder they hadn't started to tear.

Slade looked up when he heard Nator enter and favored him with a slightly surprised expression. "Ah, Mister vas Hupal. I wasn't expecting to see you."

Nator gave an elegant shrug. "Well, I have been known to surprise people, myself included."

"Well, take a seat then," Slade said, indicating the free chairs around the table. "I was just explaining to Primarch Quentius and Captain Jorus what their options are for dealing with this, ah, problem."

It was Nator's immensely charitable opinion that calling what was happening on Menae a "problem" was perhaps the greatest understatement in the long, unfortunate history of understatements. But then again, he didn't have the human's expertise on the matter, so he simply decided to keep his thoughts to himself and took a seat next to Din. He looked like he needed the company.

"Now, as I was saying, gentlemen," Slade said, turning his attention back to the two Turians, "your situation is a grave one, without question. However, it is not unsalvageable. Indeed, we should consider ourselves fortunate that the situation is as favorable as it is."

"Fortunate? Favorable!?" Jorus spluttered in incredulity. "How can you possibly say that? Our moon is infested with a...a..." He struggled to find an appropriate word, and when he failed, settled on a helpless handwave. "It's likely overrun all the facilities, wiped out the personnel staffing them, and is probably building more of itself as we speak." He fixed Slade with a look that was a cross between disbelief and frantic anger. "What in the name of the Spirits is fortunate or favorable about that, exactly?"

Slade met the Turian captain's gaze and held it. "Because, for one, the entity is contained. It hasn't managed to get off Menae and spread to any of the other moons, or your homeworld. For another, this appears to be a relatively minor incursion. There is only the entity itself and yes, while it seems to be growing in size and likely strength, there are no signs that there are any other creatures like it, nor has it demonstrated any abilities of note. For now, we have one isolated and confined problem to deal with instead of multiple rampant problems."

Nator almost couldn't believe his ears when Slade said that the thing nestling down on Menae was "minor." While he still couldn't recall exactly what it had looked like, he knew that it had been something he couldn't have dreamed up in his worst nightmares. If that thing was minor, then what the hell did the Federation consider disastrous?

"And how do you propose we 'deal with it'?" asked Quentius.

Slade folded his hands primly together. "There are several ways in which we handle metaterrestrial incursions. In most cases, they are small enough to either destroy with conventional means, or sent back via arcane banishment. In this instance, however, I'm afraid those options are not viable, and I am confident that the agents sent by Task Force Gemini will agree with me."

"You mentioned this organization before." This time, it was Din who spoke up. Nator was surprised at how steady his voice was; he'd honestly expected the Volus to be a blubbering mess. "What exactly is Task Force Gemini?"

Slade pursed his lips, seeming to be working out the best way to explain. "I suppose it would be best to describe them as analogous to your Council Spectres, though a bit more limited in the scope of their duties. Members of TFG are deployed to tackle the very worst eldritch and occult threats that spring up, and they are afforded broad discretionary powers to eliminate them. The Federation has dispatched a contingent of operatives to counter this entity."

"And how long will it take for them to get here?" Quentius pressed.

"They are enroute to the Trebia System as we speak," said Slade. "We should receive them within the hour, if not sooner. In the meantime, there are a few more details I need from you."

"Details?" said Jorus.

"Yes, regarding the layout of the facilities on Menae; how far down they go beneath its surface and the extent of the tunnel networks connecting them. I need to know just how big they are in order to ensure that nothing gets missed in the purge."

Quentius's throat spasmed with an audible gulp. "Then…you intend to go forward with Code Skyfall?"

Slade nodded. "I do. And depending on how extensive these facilities are, I may be forced to extend the radius."

Nator, now feeling rather lost in the conversation, politely cleared his throat and asked, "Um, pardon me, but what exactly is 'Code Skyfall?' I'm afraid that my recent bout of unconsciousness has left me a bit out of the loop."

Slade turned his hard gray eyes on him. While he didn't appear annoyed—or appear to be anything really—Nator had a gut feeling that the Admiral was not fond of being interrupted.

"Code Skyfall," Slade said, answering Nator's question, "is a contingency measure designed for cases where an incursion becomes too large and widespread to safely handle by normal means. It involves sustained orbital bombardment of the target zone and everything within a hundred miles to utterly annihilate every last scrap of the infestation and everything beneath it."

Nator was silent for a long moment. He had no idea how to respond to that.

"Well... isn't there a more surgical approach?" he finally asked.

"That is the more surgical approach," Slade explained. "The only other alternative would be to enact Code Ragnarök, which would result in the complete destruction of the moon itself."

That statement, delivered in the same calm and matter-of-fact manner that the Admiral had used the whole conversation, sent a shiver down Nator's spine.

"Ah," he said in a very soft voice. Really, what else could he say?

"Would such a drastic action truly be necessary?" Quentius interjected. There was a note of badly-suppressed panic in his voice.

"Let us hope not, Primarch," said Slade. "I certainly don't want to put Ragnarök into effect. However, if the TFG operatives feel it is necessary, then I will have no choice but to do so."

Quentius slumped down into his chair, staring down at the table with eyes glazed over in the manner of one who has suddenly realized some terrible truth. "Titans' blood..." he murmured in a low voice.

Beside him, Jorus spoke up. "How exactly is Ragnarök carried out?" He sounded as if he really didn't want to know, but morbid curiosity wouldn't let him remain ignorant.

In response, Slade tapped a key on the table and a holographic display rose up in the center. Bluish-white light flickered and the image of a missile appeared. It was a bulky, ugly thing, a cylinder roughly twenty feet long. The head was a bulbous dome, and it appeared to have some sort of drill at the end.

"This," Slade began with the grave tone of someone introducing a very unpleasant subject, "is the X31-K 'Crown of Midnight' warhead. As you can see, the nose cone is actually a high-grade drill with nanite self-repair systems, capable of going through even the most durable materials. It will burrow through the surface of a planet until it reaches the outer layer of the mantle. Then the payload is released and detonated.

"The payload itself consists of three pounds of what we have termed 'dark matter.' The exact composition of dark matter is top secret; even I don't know what it's made of. Suffice to say, it is an incredibly powerful and destructive substance. Upon detonation, a localized black hole will be created and the resulting gravity well will draw in everything around it. The hole will remain in existence for roughly five minutes before the dark matter is completely consumed and it dissipates. By that time, there will be nothing left of the celestial body."

Nobody said a word. Nator was stunned, both by the sheer scale of destruction described and the fact that the Federation could build such a weapon. It was terrifying, but then again, Nator was becoming more and more aware of just how terrifying the Federation could be.

"Well, that sounds perfectly... horrible," he said weakly.

Slade gave a noncommittal shrug. "Indeed. But when all other methods have been exhausted, desperate measures must be taken."

"Have...your people ever used this weapon?" asked Quentius, his own voice equally faint.

Slade paused, his eyes going distant. "Just once," he said, and his words seemed to carry a heavy weight with them. He said nothing more.

Nator was about to speak up and change the subject to something less horrifying, when a chime sounded, followed by a feminine voice from an overhead speaker.

"Bridge to Admiral Slade, there is an incoming message for you. Clearance codes are confirmed as TFG. Flagged urgent."

"Patch it through to the war room," said Slade.

The missile's picture faded away and in its place was the holographic image of a human. Now, Nator would not claim to be an expert on human fashion or aesthetics, but even he could tell that the man in front of him was absolutely bizarre. His clothing consisted of a pair of dark pants, a long, dark trenchcoat and a pair of sunglasses with lenses so dark, Nator couldn't tell where his eyes were. Around his neck hung a startling array of fetishes, amulets and charms; some were simple pendants, while others were intricate, alien designs that looked more like the work of a madman than anything else.

One thing was perfectly obvious about this man: he was dangerous. Nator could sense the aura of peril wafting off him, even though he was a hologram.

"Admiral Slade," the human said, his voice deep and rich, "Damian Gareau, Senior Operational Officer of Task Force Gemini." He offered Slade a curt nod of his head.

"Agent Gareau," said Slade, inclining his own head. "I trust that this isn't a courtesy call?"

"You would be correct, Admiral," Gareau agreed. "It's about the situation on Menae. I'm afraid it's out of our hands as of right now."

"'Out of our hands'?" repeated Slade, a trace of incredulous anger creeping into his voice. "What are you talking about?"

Gareau's face was as blank as a stone wall. "It seems that whatever it is that's manifested on that moon has gotten the attention of our big-leaguers, and they've decided to intervene."

For the first time since Nator had laid eyes on him, Slade looked completely caught off-guard. His normally stony visage broke apart into a look of pure, utter shock, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead and his mouth falling open. He quickly regained his composure, however.

"You mean...them? They're coming?"

Gareau gave a single nod. "Yes, Admiral."

"How many?"

"Two: Adar and Ammit. So far, that is."

Slade was silent for a moment, as if digesting this information.

"How long until they arrive?"

The barest hint of a smile cracked Gareau's face. "Right now, most likely."

Nator had absolutely no idea what was going on. They had gone from discussing total planetary destruction via black hole missile, to something involving "big leaguers," whatever the hell that meant.

"Excuse me," Nator said, holding up a hand. "But I believe I speak for us non-humans here when I say that we are a bit lost. Who exactly are Adar and Ammit, and why is their arrival cause for concern?"

Gareau's image turned to look at him, the smile still on his lips, now with a bit of a mocking edge.

"You'll see for yourself, Quarian. It'll be quite the show, I'm sure." He focused back on Slade. "Admiral, I would advise that you and your fleet keep their distance. Things are about to get very messy."

"Understood, Agent," said Slade, and the hologram shut off.

Well, thought Nator. That wasn't ominous. Not ominous at all.

#

Quentius was convinced that the universe hated him.

That was the only logical reason he could see for having this cavalcade of madness thrust upon him. He was just a Primarch from a modestly-populated world, hardly anyone of any true consequence. So why him? Why did he have to be at the forefront of this horror show?

That question reverberated around in his head as he watched the feed from the same drones launched earlier—thankfully without any visuals of that abomination infesting the underground complexes on Menae. An involuntary shudder passed through him at the memory, or rather the hazy remnants thereof; his mind had blocked out most of the details, leaving him only a vague impression of pure terror.

What was being shown through the drones' cameras, however, wasn't much better.

A little while ago, a Federation ship had warped into the system and entered orbit around Menae: a massive super-carrier, as long as their dreadnoughts, but more than twice as broad. Like all their other vessels, it was a bulky, armored monster of a ship that looked like it could tank a direct hit from a mass accelerator cannon and not even get scratched. Unlike its peers, however, the ship was painted a deep black. It had no name, no markings, nothing. Just a dark silhouette against the void of space.

All around him, the humans had tensed up and fallen silent. Even now, Quentius could practically feel the anxiety hanging thick in the air, the knowledge that whatever was about to happen, it would not be pleasant.

The drones had retreated high up into the air just as two massive objects impacted on Menae's surface like a pair of meteors, kicking up a great cloud of dust. A few seconds later, the dust cleared and Quentius found himself staring at a twin set of brand-new horrors.

Both of them were monstrously huge. While there wasn't much around to serve as a reference, they had to be at least three hundred feet tall. Through the drones' audio feed, Quentius could hear the rumbling thuds of their footsteps as they moved about on the moon. He couldn't tell their gender; he wasn't even sure if the concept could be applied to them.

Their size was the least unsettling thing about them. One of the beings had a sinewy, almost serpentine form with skin the color of molten lava and was radiating enough heat that the ground beneath it had turned red-hot. Flames flickered along its torso, releasing great wisps of black smoke that seemed to coalesce around it like a cloak. The thing glowed so brightly that it illuminated the whole area, giving the landscape a hellish red glow. Its head was an eyeless, elongated snout from which a long, whip-like tongue darted out, lashing at the air.

In spite of its unnatural appearance, there was a kind of elegance and grace to it. The creature's every movement was fluid and precise, a dance of predatory purpose.

There was nothing elegant or graceful about the other creature. Its body was a travesty of gangrenous flesh, the skin a rotting greenish-black and so grotesquely muscled that it shouldn't have been able to move properly. It lumbered about on four limbs, like some kind of sick mockery of a quadruped, the front pair ending in clawed, grasping hands. A great mane of oily black hair, tangled and matted, hung down around its head, obscuring its features.

Quentius considered that a mercy, because what he could make out from behind those greasy locks was not something he wanted to see in its entirety: shimmering, pus-yellow eyes stared out with a feverish intensity from the dark bangs, and there was the barest glimpse of a maw full of jagged teeth, slavering and snapping like a ravenous beast.

He glanced over at Slade, who was standing to his left. The human's expression was the textbook definition of grim; the corners of his mouth had been drawn tight, his hands were clasped behind his back, and he had his eyes fixed on the screen.

"Admiral," Quentius said in a hushed tone, "what are those things?"

Slade didn't answer, but his brow furrowed in a way that said he was trying to work out the best way to explain this to Quentius. Finally, after a long moment, he answered.

"Primarch Quentius," he began, "how much do you know about the Aeon War?"

Quentius was surprised at the sudden turn in conversation. "Not much," he admitted. "Just that it was perhaps the most devastating and brutal war your people ever faced."

"Not 'perhaps,' Primarch," said Slade icily. "It was. The human race has never before, nor since, experienced anything close to the sheer devastation of that time. This little war between us? A lover's spat by comparison. On one side were the Migou, a race that was ancient before our ancestors had even started swinging from the trees and so advanced that they made us look like stone-banging primitives. On the other side stood the forces of the Great Old Ones, with their hordes of monsters and madmen, for whom there were no atrocities too vile to commit. The Aeon War was a bloody, chaotic free-for-all, where there were no rules, no morals, and no mercy.

"And we were losing," Slade went on. "Even though our enemies fought each other as much as they did us, our situation was deteriorating. We would win a few battles here and there, but never enough to make a difference. Year after year, we lost ground and lives; it wasn't long before our population was cut down to a quarter of what it had been and we controlled less than half of Earth itself. Our most optimistic estimates gave us only a few generations before suffering a final and total defeat. We worked feverishly to create a miracle to somehow turn the tide. And the end result was them."

Slade paused and gestured at the screen, where the two gigantic figures were lumbering towards the entrance of one of the facilities. Even through the speakers, Quentius could hear their thunderous footfalls; he could almost feel them, in fact.

"Those, Primarch Quentius, are Demigods; Adar and Ammit." He pointed first at the burning creature, and then at the hulking grotesquery. "Once, they were like us: mortal men and women who had volunteered to undergo a mystic rite with the intention of ascending to a higher level of being. Most did not survive, but those that did became the things you see before you. It was thanks to them that we won the Aeon War. With their power, we were able to turn the tide and eventually destroy our enemies."

Quentius was silent for a long moment, processing this new information. "If they are so powerful, how do you control them?"

"We don't," was Slade's simple answer. "You must understand, Primarch, that the Demigods are not mortal by any measurement. They have their own agendas and motivations, and we do not have the means to curtail them. So far, those agendas include defending us against things like the entity on Menae." He stared pointedly at Quentius. "To put more succinctly, the Demigods' creation was the greatest act of desperation in our entire history, and we dearly hope that it won't come back to bite us."

With that, Slade went silent once more and turned his attention back to the vid feed. Quentius was left to contemplate this information in stunned silence. The idea that this race, who had been solidly beating the Hierarchy like a drum for the past two years, had once been at such a low point that they'd resorted to creating monsters that they had no control over, was both sobering and terrifying.

He glanced over to his left, where Jorus was. His friend had clearly heard the entire conversation, as his mandibles were clamped tightly to his face in distress. Quentius didn't blame him; they were dealing with things well outside of their scope of expertise.

The Quarian, Nator, was right behind them, and his reaction was much the same. While his visor kept most of his face hidden, the luminous orbs of his eyes within were wide with shock and his posture suggested that he was trying very hard to keep his composure.

Din wasn't with them at all. The moment the call from the TFG operative had ended, the Volus ambassador had left the war room and barricaded himself in the nearest quarters, refusing to come out. Quentius didn't blame him, either. He was sorely tempted to join him.

Back on the screen, the two Demigods had reached their destination. Adar and Ammit stood around the facility entrance where the drones had first gone through, studying it like hungry predators trying to find the best way to get at their prey. They looked at each other, seeming to have a silent conversation. After a short time, they appeared to reach an agreement; Ammit lumbered back, giving Adar plenty of room.

With a graceful motion, Adar held out one hand and a fireball appeared above its palm, crackling and spitting embers. Then, the Demigod thrust its hand outwards, and great pillar of fire exploded from the palm in a blistering shriek. The flames blasted through the facility doors, melting them like wax, and surged down into the tunnel network.

Adar kept up the onslaught of flame for several seconds, then stopped and let its hand fall back to its side. Both Demigods stood in front of the entrance, now a blackened, glassy ruin, and waited.

Then, there came a loud rumble from the ground, like a massive avalanche in the distance, so low that Quentius could almost feel the tremors in his bones. The rumbling gave way to a chorus of loud cracking noises and deep fissures spread across the moon's surface like a spiderweb, undulating like the waves of an ocean being fueled by a storm.

Suddenly, the earth itself erupted like an exploding volcano. Massive chunks of debris burst into the air as the monster that had infested the facility tore its way up onto the surface. Dozens upon dozens of mouths reached into the air on serpentine necks, the smallest the size of a full-grown Thresher Maw, and all originating from a single, bloated, amorphous mass. It was a disgusting thing, covered in slime-coated flesh and writhing masses of appendages, from clawed hands to sinuous tentacles. The whole thing was almost a thousand feet in length and at least half that width. A symphony of horrid screeches of pain and rage burst forth from it.

"Spirits..." Jorus whimpered.

Quentius couldn't bring himself to respond. He could only watch in silent horror.

As one, Adar and Ammit charged the abomination. Adar threw another barrage of fire at the creature, the heat so intense that the drones were barely able to capture it. It burned straight through the monster's flesh, leaving smoldering craters where the fire struck, and elicited another chorus of agonized shrieks. Adar danced around the behemoth, moving like a graceful whirlwind of flames despite its size, unleashing bolt after bolt of fire.

Ammit, meanwhile, was much more direct and savage. Diving headlong onto the creature's flank, the Demigod sank its fangs into the slimy flesh and began tearing off huge, ragged chunks of meat and gulping them down with a ravenous enthusiasm. Blood fountained up from the terrible wounds like crimson geysers.

The creature lashed out at its attackers, elongated maws twisting and biting furiously. One wrapped around Adar like a colossal serpent, attempting to crush the fiery Demigod in its coils. The instant it touched Adar's burning skin, its own flesh bubbled and sloughed off in sizzling strips, releasing a fresh wail of torment. The Demigod casually shrugged out of the ruined appendage and resumed its attack.

Two other terrible mouths attempted to seize Ammit with their teeth, but the brutish Demigod simply grabbed hold of them and proceeded to gnaw off their tips. The creature shrieked and flailed about, trying to dislodge its enemy, but Ammit hung on like a tenacious parasite. It kept right on biting and eating, its appetite seemingly bottomless.

But though Adar and Ammit inflicted terrible injuries upon the creature, it was quick to heal. Burned and gouged flesh mended at an astonishing rate, leaving the creature as fresh and unmarred as when it had first emerged. And far from becoming weaker, the creature matched its opponents' tenacity and rage. It lashed out at the two Demigods with an increasingly frenzied vigor.

For several long, excruciating minutes, the battle raged on, seemingly reduced to a stalemate. Adar and Ammit would hurt the creature, but not enough to cause it lasting damage. The creature would hurt them back, and they would regenerate just as quickly. It appeared to be an endless cycle of fruitless violence, and Quentius could not see an end in sight.

Then, the Demigods stepped up their assault.

Incinerating a trio of heads that were converging on it, Adar leapt back and reached up to the sky. There came a tremendous crack, like the greatest peal of thunder ever heard, and the heavens rained down a deluge of fire and brimstone. Meteors the size of houses streaked down and smashed into the creature, blowing great chunks of flesh and viscera off in splatters of burning gore. It wailed and thrashed as the meteors pelted it.

At the same time, Ammit leapt back and reared up onto its hind legs. Quentius watched in horrified fascination as the Demigod plunged both hands into its massive torso and ripped off two huge chunks of its own flesh. Ammit opened its maw and gulped the dripping mass of muscle and fat down. Quentius felt his stomach turn violently, and just barely managed to keep himself from throwing up.

Having consumed its own flesh, Ammit stood there for a brief moment, appearing to gather its strength for something. Then, its stomach convulsed with violent heaves, and its jaws distended impossibly wide. There was a horrible retching sound, and it vomited up a revolting, frothing torrent of what looked like half-digested meat. The substance splattered on the ground, and Ammit continued vomiting until there was a veritable lake of the vile morass spreading out.

Eventually, Ammit's body stopped heaving, and its jaw snapped shut with a resounding clack. The Demigod wiped away some lingering droplets of the disgusting mess from its mouth and stepped back, looking down at the pool expectantly.

To Quentius's fresh revulsion, the putrid liquid began to writhe and squirm in vigorous throes, like a pot of water set to a full boil. Then, like a hideous mockery of birth, a horde of creatures rose from the slime, each one a unique grotesquery in a cavalcade of horrors. Some had far too many limbs, or were covered in eyes, or had faces with multiple sets of mouths. There were things that resembled enormous malformed insects, others that looked like giant worms with mammalian features, still more that were a nightmarish amalgamation of both, and there were some that defied any kind of description. They tore their way through the putrid morass in a frenzy, gibbering and snarling with insane eagerness.

Quentius wasn't able to keep the contents of his stomach down this time. He bent over and was noisily sick, coughing and gagging on the acrid taste of bile. Behind him, he heard the sounds of Jorus having his own retching fit. Some humans joined in as well, and there were more than a few shrieks of horror.

Once Quentius had nothing left to throw up, he spat out the last bits of puke and looked back at the screen. The horde of monsters had swarmed upon the monstrosity and were ripping it apart. Ammit was in their center, its own teeth and claws flashing in the light of Adar's firestorm, and was laughing like a mad thing the entire time.

"F̶̖̽E̷̮̋Ă̴͔S̸͛T̴̚͜!̵͎̃ ̷͉̓G̵̟͠O̸̡̿R̶͈͘Ǵ̶͉Ê̴̤!̷̫̽ ̸̖̅D̶̟̀Ẽ̴̯V̷̩͝O̵̩̾U̴̯͐R̶̲͗!̴͇̈́" the Demigod's terrible voice roared out, sending a fresh wave of nausea through Quentius. Absurdly, he could swear that there was a feminine tenor to its speech.

The spawned minions obeyed their creator's orders diligently. Though only a quarter the size of Ammit, they were no less ravenous in their consumption of the monstrosity; it was like watching a feeding frenzy of carnivorous fish. Blood and pieces of flesh flew everywhere, coating the landscape. It was a sickening, gory spectacle, and one that Quentius knew would haunt his nightmares for years to come. Possibly even for the rest of his life.

And yet, despite the sheer brutality of the scene before him, he began to feel a sense of triumph swell up inside him. Even as he watched, the abomination gradually began to weaken under the Demigods' relentless onslaught. The wailing grew steadily fainter, and its attempts to retaliate became ever feebler. Its wounds healed slower and slower, until they stopped healing altogether.

"I think it's dying," said Jorus in a voice of hushed awe.

Quentius nodded slowly, hardly daring to believe it. Maybe this whole ordeal was finally coming to an end. Relief washed through him like the warmth from a good shot of brandy.

It was then that everything went to hell.

The shrill blare of an alarm rang out through the bridge, shattering Quentius's hopes. From one of the consoles, a human male turned around in his seat, his face stricken with a mixture of confusion and panic.

"Admiral!" he called out. "Ship sensors are detecting a spacecraft coming up from the moon!"

"Onscreen! Now!" ordered Slade.

The video feed vanished, replaced with an image of the local space around Menae. Sure enough, there was a red dot coming up from the surface and closing fast on the vessels orbiting the moon. It was headed for the Turian fleet, aiming its trajectory at one of their dreadnoughts and closing fast.

There was no need to guess what was piloting it.

"Get me a line to the Turians!" said Slade, turning his attention to one of his subordinates. "Tell them to shoot that craft down before it can reach them!"

The subordinate nodded and got to work. In the background, Quentius could hear the human man shouting orders to the other bridge crew.

"We have a visual!" another subordinate called out.

The image shifted again, this time showing a live feed from a nearby Federation cruiser. The Turian dreadnought was still in view, but the focus was now on a smaller vessel, a frigate-sized craft that was hurtling its way. It was a sleek, predatory-looking ship with a sharp-angled hull and a pair of forward-swept wings, painted black and bearing no insignia. A prototype of some sort, no doubt.

Quentius didn't care. The only thing that concerned him was the fact that the frigate was headed straight towards one of their ships, and nobody was doing anything to stop it. He felt extremely helpless, unable to do anything more than watch and hope.

His prayers went unanswered.

Before Slade could issue any more orders, before the crew of the targeted ship could even get their weapons hot, before anyone could do anything, the frigate crashed straight into the dreadnought's hull, punching clean through the armor. Then, Quentius watched in dismay as tendrils of flesh erupted from the frigate and began spreading across the dreadnought like an oil slick. Within moments, the whole ship was infested.

"Shit!" swore Slade, and for the first time, his calm, collected demeanor had cracked. "Target that ship! Take it out!"

But it was too late. The infested ship suddenly wrenched hard to the side and then fired up its engines. There was a brief flash and the dreadnought, now fused with the experimental frigate, took off at full sub-light speed.

Quentius didn't need to ask where it was going. He already knew, and despair settled into his soul like a leaden weight.

Palaven. It was headed for Palaven.

#

As the single-most important world in the Hierarchy, for obvious reasons, Palaven was incredibly well-protected. Orbital defense stations ran all around it, with a complement of fighters, bombers and gunships ready to scramble at a moment's notice. Each station also had powerful gun batteries and point-defense lasers, more than enough to ward off all but the heaviest of assaults.

And if you somehow managed to get past them, you still had to contend with those on the planet itself. All major cities had mass effect barriers to shield them from potential enemy bombardment, strong enough to shrug off a bombardment from an enemy fleet. Anti-orbital cannons were placed all across the planet, creating a network of hypervelocity death that could shred any invading ships within minutes.

But, formidable as those defenses were, they were designed to fight against conventional enemies. They were not designed to fend off a dreadnought fused with an eldritch monstrosity hurtling towards Palaven at just-below light speed.

The result was being shown to Quentius on a screen in the Federation's war room, footage from hastily-gathered news crews and livestreaming citizens. The sight made him sick to his very soul.

By sheer bad luck, the infested dreadnought had crashed down in a major city: Meldonis, a bustling metropolis of over thirty million people. The dreadnought had punched straight through its mass effect barrier and plowed into a residential district, tearing a gaping wound straight through the middle. Whole swathes of buildings were crushed to rubble by the impact, while fires were raging on in the areas not covered by the ship's bulk. Tens of thousands were surely dead.

But they were the lucky ones.

No sooner had the dreadnought's impact halted, when tendrils capped with gnashing mouths spread out from the crash site and quickly consumed every living thing around them, whether animal, plant or Turian. As it ate, it grew. And it kept growing.

Within the span of mere minutes, the center of Meldonis had been reduced to a nightmare realm. The infestation had spread through the streets, buildings and parks, consuming everything in its path. Quentius saw people fleeing in terror, screaming for help, only to be snapped up and devoured by the hungry appendages.

He saw cars crushed under tentacles like tree trunks. He saw mangled bodies hanging limp in the mouths, and the remains of those that had been devoured strewn all over the ground. The citizens who were able tried to mount a resistance, as all good Turians would; they might as well not have bothered. Their bullets and missiles had no effect on the monster, and all they did was call attention to themselves. They were torn apart and swallowed just like the others.

It was a horror show beyond anything Quentius could have ever conceived. His heart felt like a heavy block of ice in his chest, and his mind was paralyzed with the shock of the situation. All he could do was stand there and stare at the screen.

Then, the screen abruptly and mercifully went dark. Quentius blinked, giving his head a quick, bleary shake as though he had just woken up from a dream.

"Primarch," a voice said, "are you with me?"

Quentius turned to his left and saw Admiral Slade standing next to him. The human's expression was stony, but there was a glimmer of pity in his eyes.

"Yes," he said, his voice soft and wavering. He cleared his throat and spoke again, this time stronger. "Yes, Admiral. I'm with you."

"Good." Slade folded his hands behind his back. "I don't think I have to state the obvious here, but the situation has become very dire. There's only one course of action that can be taken."

"Code Skyfall," Quentius said in a hoarse whisper.

Slade gave a nod. "Yes. And I'm afraid I must ask that you inform your leaders of the necessity for such a step. We cannot afford any misunderstandings at this point."

Quentius swallowed, his mouth feeling very dry. "I know." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I will require the use of your communication equipment, then."

"Of course." Slade punched a few buttons on the table, bringing up the holographic communications pad. "Just type in the address of the intended recipient and press 'Transmit.'"

Quentius eyed the pad warily. "And this will go straight to them? There won't be any issues connecting?"

"None at all," Slade assured him. "Our communication systems are based on reverse-engineered Migou technology. It's essentially a sort of artificial telepathy, capable of transmitting both sound and images instantly to any receiver almost instantly and as long as the recipient is active, the signal will find them. As a bonus, it's all but impossible to intercept." The barest hint of a grin quirked his lips. "The Migou made our lives quite miserable with it."

A snort of laughter came unbidden to Quentius's mandibles. Of course, the humans wouldn't have something normal, like tight-beam lasers for sending messages. No, it had to be bizarre and esoteric, because why not?

The tiny burst of good humor was welcome, but it quickly faded away in the face of his current task. Quentius turned his attention back to the console, which had brought up a screen, waiting for him to type in the necessary address.

With a shaking hand, he reached out and did so.

An instant later, the holographic image of Draxon flickered into existence. The Primarch of Palaven had the look of someone who had just received some very bad news. His eyes were bulging in their sockets, and his mandibles were clenched to his face so tightly that his jaw looked like a slab of carved stone.

"Quentius, what the hell's going on?" he demanded, his voice crackling slightly. "I'm getting reports that something crashed down in Meldonis and it's attacking the whole damn city! What happened up there?!"

Quentius opened his mouth, then closed it. How was he supposed to break the news? How could he even put this into words? He struggled to formulate a reply, his thoughts swirling like a storm, trying to think of the best way to answer.

"Your Eminence," he said, his tone subdued, "the entity is loose."

For a long moment, Draxon didn't answer. He merely stared at Quentius with a confused expression, as though he didn't understand the words.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked, his tone quiet and measured.

"Exactly that," Quentius said. "The entity somehow managed to hijack a ship prototype in one of the facilities and used it to escape. It broke through the blockade by ramming one of our dreadnoughts and took it over. We weren't able to destroy it in time."

The consequences of that did not need to be said; they were already witnessing them. Quentius watched the Primarch's mandibles drop open, the expression of disbelief slowly morphing into one of horrified understanding.

"Then...what do we do now?" Draxon asked. He sounded so lost, like a child looking for guidance.

Quentius hesitated for a long, painful moment. Then, he answered.

"There is only one option. The humans call it 'Code Skyfall.'"

Draxon's countenance took on a sardonic edge. "I get the feeling that I won't like it."

"You won't," Quentius agreed. "It involves a sustained orbital bombardment of no less than a hundred-mile radius."

"A hundred..." Draxon trailed off, staring at Quentius in abject shock. "There are over a dozen other cities within that radius! That's over a hundred million dead!"

"I know," Quentius said in an almost inaudible voice. "Believe me, I know."

Draxon swayed where he stood, rocked by the sheer magnitude of this revelation. "There has to be another way. There has to be."

"I'm afraid there isn't, Your Eminence," said Slade, entering the conversation.

Draxon's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"I'm Grand Admiral Slade, the supreme commander of the Federation's Astral Navy. And the person who wishes to prevent this disaster from becoming a planetary catastrophe." He fixed Draxon with a hard look. "Regretful as it may be, Code Skyfall is the least destructive option we can take right now."

"Kill millions to save billions?" Draxon asked softly, the words dripping with bitterness.

"Is that not in accordance with your people's own principles?" Slade remarked, cool but not harsh. "If just one Turian is left standing in the end, it is a victory; that's what you preach, isn't it? A hundred million lives lost is an appalling tragedy, I won't deny that, but it's nothing compared to losing the whole planet."

Draxon looked as though he couldn't decide whether Slade was being honest or exaggerating. Quentius, having seen firsthand what that thing was capable of, knew that the Admiral's words were nothing less than absolute truth, and it fell to him to make Draxon see this.

"He's right, Your Eminence," Quentius said, inserting himself back into the conversation. "This thing isn't just a threat to one city; it's a threat to all of Palaven. We need to contain it, and right now, while we have the chance. Delaying action will only make the price we pay even steeper."

Draxon seemed to consider that for a moment, his expression pained and conflicted.

"What about evacuations?" he asked, almost pleadingly. "If you must go through with this, at least let us get our people out first."

Slade's face took on a regretful cast. "That's not possible. By the time the order was given and the people actually evacuated, the entity could potentially become too powerful for Skyfall to destroy it."

"You don't know that!" Draxon insisted.

"You're correct; I don't. But it's not a risk I'm willing to take. This creature is far too dangerous."

Draxon's face became ever more strained, his mandibles quivering. He looked ready to scream, and Quentius couldn't blame him. This was a horrible, gut-wrenching decision that was being forced upon them, and there was no way around it.

"Does the radius have to be a hundred miles?" the Primarch finally asked with increasing desperation in his voice. "Only Meldonis itself is under attack. Surely, you could limit the bombardment to just encompass the city and some of the surrounding area?"

To Quentius's surprise, Slade actually paused and seemed to think about that. After a short, tense silence, he replied.

"The hundred-mile radius is the mandated requirement for Code Skyfall. However, a smaller area can be targeted if it is deemed to be acceptable."

Hope suddenly flared in Quentius. "Then, you'll do it?"

Slade's mouth was set in a hard line. "I can't. It's not my call to make."

The spark of hope began to fade rapidly within Quentius. "Then, whose is it?"

"Mine."

Qeuntius whipped around to see who had spoken. He saw the human from the call earlier striding towards them, with the same, calm demeanor as before.

Damian Gareau looked even more imposing in person than he had in the hologram, which was saying a lot. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his body built like a professional fighter, and moved with a fluidity and confidence that would put an Asari dancer to shame. The fetishes around his neck jangled and clacked with every movement. He had the kind of presence that dominated the space around him, but it was more than simple authority; an aura of something deeper, darker, and altogether uncanny surrounded him like a billowing wind that made Quentius's skin prickle with anxiety.

He was flanked by two other individuals and Quentius couldn't tell if they were human, Nazzadi, or something else entirely. The man on his right was completely white. Not pale, not albino, but literally white. His skin, his hair, even his eyes, were like the purest, cleanest polished marble Quentius had ever seen. Only the faintest hints of gray around his eyes and at the roots of his hair marred the otherwise flawless hue. He stared out with a gaze that was both intensely focused, yet distant, as though he were observing both the present and something far beyond the here and now. Like Gareau, he wore a long, black coat over some sort of body armor.

The one on the left was even stranger. For a start, Quentius couldn't even tell the gender of the operative. Their face was concealed behind a metal gas mask with a skull-like shape and eye lenses as black as empty pits, attached to a helmet that encased the whole head. They, too, were covered head-to-toe in dark, body-hugging body armor under a black coat. The agent was painfully thin and sinewy, as though suffering from severe malnourishment, and the breath that rasped out from behind the mask came in irregular intervals, almost as if they had to consciously remember to breathe. A cloying chemical scent emanated from the agent that conjured up images of hospital wards where sickly patients slowly perished.

As the group neared the table, Quentius could feel an unsettling sense of disquiet and wrongness emanating from them, the same aura that was clinging to Gareau. He found himself backing away without thinking, forced by a primal instinct telling him that these were not people that he wanted to provoke.

Gareau stopped in front of Slade and offered him a nod.

"Admiral Slade," he said.

"Agent Gareau," Slade replied, his voice betraying none of the discomfort he had to be feeling. "I wasn't expecting you so soon." He glanced around at the two agents behind him. "And with company, no less."

"Yes, well, from what I was able to gather, the situation called for haste." Gareau gestured at his companions. "This is Agent Zecora and Agent Lucius Kain. They will be assisting me in handling this...issue."

Slade gave each of the new arrivals a wary, measuring look, then nodded. "Understood. I'll defer the decision to you."

Gareau inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. "Thank you, Admiral," he said, though his tone conveyed that Slade's acceptance was purely a formality. His head turned to peer at Quentius, the lenses of his sunglasses glinting coldly.

"And you must be Primarch Quentius," he said, and Quentius fought to keep a shudder from passing through him at the sound of that smooth, unassuming voice. This close up, he noticed that Gareau had some physical aberrations of his own. Black veins ran all along his visible skin, standing out in stark contrast against the pale hue. And while Quentius couldn't be sure, he was almost certain that he could see a faint gleam of red behind those darkened lenses.

"I am," he managed, doing his best not to show any of his fear. "Pleasure to meet you, Agent Gareau," he said in a voice that betrayed a complete lack of pleasure in meeting the human.

"Indeed," was all Gareau said. He turned back to the holographic pad and addressed the image of Draxon.

"Primarch Draxon," he began, "exactly how much do you want Code Skyfall's radius to be reduced?"

Draxon, still clearly unnerved by the sudden appearance of Gareau, straightened his posture and adopted a more formal stance.

"Meldonis itself is lost. I won't deny that. All I ask is for you to limit the bombardment to a radius of ten miles. That will spare all major unaffected population centers." His eyes held a desperate hopefulness. "Is that acceptable?"

Gareau cocked his head to look at the white man. "Zecora, what do you see?"

Before Quentius could ask what he meant by that, the black pinpricks of Zecora's pupils dilated until the irises of both eyes were engulfed by them. He stared up at the ceiling, his body completely still, entering some sort of trance.

"I see death," Zecora spoke, his voice a soft monotone. His head suddenly snapped down with such force that Quentius could hear the tendons of his neck crack. "I see an ocean of flesh spreading across the land." Another sharp jerk wrenched his head into what was surely a painful angle, but if Zecora felt any discomfort, he gave no sign. "I see an endless swarm of gaping, ravenous jaws consuming all in their path."

The trance abruptly ended and Zecora resumed his former position, his irises shrinking down to pinpricks once again and looking as though nothing had happened.

Gareau now turned to the masked agent. "Kain, what about you?"

Kain reached into their coat and pulled out a handful of cards. They were thick and black, with strange images and symbols inscribed on them. For some reason, Quentius found that he didn't want to look at the cards too closely. Kain shuffled them around, gloved hands moving with an ease that spoke of years of experience, then drew them one by one. Each time, Quentius felt a cold chill pass over him, as if he was standing in front of an open freezer.

"The Hanged Man. The Wheel of Fortune," Kain's raspy voice intoned, holding them up. "The Devil. The World. The Tower. Death. Judgement."

A few seconds passed, during which Gareau and Kain shared a silent, meaningful glance. Then, the masked agent replaced the cards and bowed his head.

"My findings are the same," he said, his words little more than a wheeze.

Quentius had no idea what had just happened, but it was clear that whatever they had done, it had rendered Draxon's request unacceptable. He felt a surge of panic rising up in him, and was on the verge of pleading with Gareau when the human seemed to anticipate his thoughts and cut him off with a raised hand.

"How far must we go for a successful Skyfall, then?" he asked his companions.

Once more, the two agents performed their respective rituals, Zecora with his head jerking about and Kain with his cards. Once they had finished, the three humans looked at each other in silence. Quentius had no idea what was being communicated between them, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

Finally, Gareau broke the silence.

"Twenty-five miles," he declared. "That is the absolute minimum I will allow. Not an inch less."

Quentius's mandibles dropped open. Twenty-five miles? That would still leave three other cities in the blast radius, each one with a sizable population of their own. Tens of millions would still die.

Draxon looked like he was about to be sick. Quentius could sympathize; if he hadn't already emptied his stomach, he'd be doing so right now.

"There's no other way?" he asked.

"No," Gareau answered simply.

Draxon looked like he wanted to protest, but he kept his mouth shut. In the end, he could only nod.

"Very well," he said, sounding like a man who had just lost everything he had ever loved. "I will inform my people of what is about to happen and ensure that your efforts aren't hindered. Just…promise me that you'll make it quick."

"It will be," Gareau assured him. "That much at least I can promise you."

With a heavy sigh, Draxon's image flickered and vanished.

"Make the necessary preparations," Gareau ordered Slade. "Have the fleet assemble and get ready for the attack. We will join you on the command bridge shortly."

Slade saluted, his face an expressionless mask. He once more spoke into his communicator, and his voice was as solemn as a funeral dirge.

"Attention, all ships. This is Grand Admiral Slade. Set course for Palaven and make ready for orbital assault. Code Skyfall is now in effect."

#

Above Palaven, the Federation fleet took position and readied itself. Orders were handed down and crewmen all went about their assigned duties; targeting coordinates were entered into computers, engineers did last-minute checks to ensure all weapon systems were working properly, and everyone braced themselves for the command to fire. Everyone knew what they were about to unleash, and the grim knowledge was evident on every face. Some offered up silent prayers for the Turians down on the surface who would never again see another day, but most didn't even bother. For so many, faith had been broken long ago.

The command came, and the fleet opened fire.

The Volcano-class dreadnoughts and destroyers let loose with their arcanowave cannons. Crimson, eldritch energy tore through Palaven's atmosphere, searing the skies with a brilliant red glow. These were followed by the direct energy batteries of the other ships; blue plasma bolts like miniature suns and laser beams green as jade streaked downwards in a blazing shower of annihilation.

Mere moments later, this terrible hail of destructive energies struck the target area. Anything caught within the blasts was instantly vaporized in a pyroclastic fury. The three cities condemned by their proximity to Meldonis were wiped from existence almost instantaneously. The sole mercy for those living within them was that they never knew what happened. Meldonis itself soon followed as the bombardment moved inwards.

Four cities. Tens of millions of souls. All gone.

The salvos did not stop. For ten minutes, the Federation ships rained down destruction. The devastating power unleashed birthed a towering fireball that reached high into the air, turning the sky into a lurid picture of bloody flames. Scarlet lightning bolts arced through the billowing clouds, crackling and thundering like the wrath of some forgotten storm god. It was a sight that could be seen from orbit, and which could be witnessed from the surface in places far beyond the twenty-five-mile radius.

The resulting shockwave reached even further. Trees were uprooted and tossed aside like matchsticks, and in the cities far enough away to be spared from the destruction, windows shattered and cars were sent tumbling like toys. Anyone unfortunate enough to have been caught outside of the shelters was swept away. Even those in the depths of underground tunnels were rocked by the force of the explosion, as the sheer strength of it vibrated the earth like the beating of a drum.

Then, finally, it was over. The fires faded and the dust began to settle. A few lingering bolts of scarlet energy sputtered across the sky, and the only sound was the rumbling aftershocks from the blast.

When the smoke and haze cleared, where once there had been four cities, all that remained was a wasteland of blackness. The landscape was scorched bare, devoid of any living thing. In its place, only a vast crater remained, carved into the very bones of the world. It was a scar that would forever mar the planet's surface.

Terrible as the sight was, however, there was no eldritch horror awaiting them. There was no massive blob of flesh, no army of abominations, and no monstrous entity that had consumed a dreadnought and the whole city of Meldonis.

The entity was no more.

OFFICIAL CASUALTY REPORT, CURRENTLY ONGOING

Affected city: Meldonis

Population: 30,640,250

Status: Total destruction, no survivors

Affected city: Kaeso

Population: 5,070,800

Status: Total destruction, no survivors

Affected city: Vendrix

Population: 6,950,031

Status: Total destruction, no survivors

Affected city: Synnoda

Population: 10,420,110

Status: Total destruction, no survivors

Current total: 53,081,191 fatalities

Note: This report has not been made official; updates to casualties remain in effect.

Quentius looked over the report, his mandibles tight against his face. He had seen the results firsthand, but the reality of the situation was only just sinking in now. So many lives. Tens of millions of his people. Gone. All because of one stupid, careless act of hubris.

He supposed that he should be thankful. After all, it could have been so much worse. Had the Federation not limited their bombardment, the number of dead would have been at least double what it was. By both human and Turian estimates, Palaven had gotten off absurdly easy.

But seeing that number on the report was like a knife in his gut. More than fifty million dead, and the figure would probably grow higher before it was all done. Not even the most callous of Turian commanders would have been able to remain unmoved by that, and Quentius was far from heartless.

A chime came from his omni-tool. He glanced down and saw that Draxon was calling him. With a sigh, he brought up the holoscreen and answered the call. This required a face-to-face conversation, even if it was virtual.

Draxon looked the very picture of exhausted and forlorn. No doubt he'd also seen the casualty report. By outward appearance, he looked as though he'd aged twenty years in the span of the few hours since Code Skyfall.

"Your Eminence," Quentius greeted him.

Draxon looked back at him with despondent eyes. "Quentius," he said in voice so weak that it threatened to fade into silence. "Inform the Federation that I am willing to engage in peace talks. An honest and true negotiation between peers." Resolve crept into his voice, strengthening it. "I'm ending this war now."